Title: I Think You Know What I'm Thinking (If You Know What I Mean)
Pairing: England/France
Rating: R-18
Genre: Romance/PWP
Warning: Shaving kink
Original Prompt:
England really, really hates France's beard. One day during a tiff England grumbles/shouts something like, "If you don't shave your damn beard I'll shave it for you."
France consents. England is surprised but won't miss his chance!
A lot of focus on the sensuality of the whole affair, please? And afterwards, sex against the bathroom counter. (However, smut isn't required, if you fill it without smut I'd be just as happy!)
Bonus: England doesn't cut France at all, but he threatens to, and France hints that he might be turned on by that.
Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are not mine. Title was borrowed from a Heywood Banks song.
I Think You Know What I'm Thinking (If You Know What I Mean)
There are many things in this world that England loves. The way the red petals of his garden roses contrast against the green stems and cloudy skies, the way the rain and wind sound as they patter against the windows of his old home, the way the smooth delicate china feels against his skin as he presses the rim of his tea cup to his lips, and, on occasion, the rustic smell of tobacco wafting from the cigarette laced between two of his fingers. However, as many things there are that he loves, his lover is not one of them (as contradictory as that sounds, but there are some things in this world that he would die before admitting to), more specifically, his lover's body and facial hair. He can put up with the haughty attitude and that annoying laugh. He can even force himself to endure the crude remarks and stolen touches to his rear. Neither of them desires a sexless relationship, but if they want to take things further…then that hair will have to go. Immediately.
England's fingers, gently gripping the handle of the delicate china, carefully placed the cup back down onto the saucer resting on the oak coffee table. He leaned back, letting out a puff of his cigarette as he glanced from the window, sporting the view of his rain drenched rose garden framed by white lace curtains, to the kitchen where he could smell the pastries that a certain Frenchman was baking.
He debated the pros and cons of marching in there and making demands of the frog. Chances are, no matter what he demanded, the frog would ignore him and continue with his baking, resulting in some nice pastries. England would scowl at being ignored, but at least he'd get something nice to go with his tea. In the chance that the frog did indeed listen and leave his work to be shooed into the bathroom upstairs, there was the possibility that they'd completely forget about the items in the oven and his poor kitchen would be filled with the smell of burnt dough (no, it was not used to that smell. England did not burn the things he baked, he browned them to a healthy black and damn anyone who says otherwise).
He sighed and crushed one end of his cigarette into the ash tray…the demands would have to wait awhile longer. He supposed it wasn't too much of a loss to hold off until the git was finished baking.
After a few moments of further debate and waiting for the ding of the timer to go off, he sank the rest of his tea and stood up; slowly making his way to the kitchen and leaning against the arched doorway, masking his features with an uninterested expression.
An emerald glare bore into the back of the humming Frenchman stationed in front of the dish filled sink, the smell of dish soap and freshly baked Paris Brest wafting in the air.
The man paused, his blonde pony tail flipping over one shoulder as he turned toward the glowering Englishman, "Are you finished with your tea?" he grinned, eyeing the empty cup and holding out his hand to take and wash it.
England scoffed, handing the cup over but not dropping his glare.
He waited as France continued to hum, lightly scrubbing the cup before setting it to the side to dry with the rest of the dishes. After the dish was safely placed on the counter top, England's right hand stretched out, snatching at the other man's chin and pulling his face forward.
"If you don't get rid of that garbage," he ran his thumb over the dark blonde scruff, "then I will." England's eyes narrowed threateningly, right brow twitching slightly as he watched the Frenchman's lips arch up.
"Be my guest, Angleterre." The Brit forced back his bile at the wink those blue spheres threw his way, but despite his repulsion at the wink, he found himself feeling surprisingly intrigued by the idea.
And that's how they ended up in the Englishman's loo, France leaning back against the sink as England lathered his face with gel, fingertips gently massaging the skin of his cheeks and chin. After he felt that the area was sufficiently covered, he moved to the other man's chest (his shirt decorating the tiled floor), rubbing the gel over the blonde curls. His nails scrapped lightly against a lightly tanned collar bone. Emerald orbs flickered up, gaze trailing from where his hands rested to a slender neck, up toward the gel covered chin, plump pink lips, a slanted nose, and finally stopped their trail at a pair of closed eye lids, blonde lashes grazing pale cheeks.
His breath hitched.
God, France was gorgeous when his trap was shut, not that England would ever actually tell him that.
Gripping the razor, he ran it under the running water of the sink, shaking it off briefly before placing it over the Frenchman's cheek and carefully (despite the treats he mumbled out about skinning the other nation, ignoring the playful taunting retorts he received in response) ran the blade lightly across the flesh, scrapping away the gel and small hairs, tapping the razor against the edge of the sink to knock the build up off before continuing.
France did his best to stay still, he did not truly believe that his partner would ever intentionally cut him, but the more he shifted about the more likely it was for an accident to occur. He peeked his eyes open, curiosity overwhelming him. He fought to keep the smirk off of his face. The look of concentration the other wore would almost be comical, if not for the hint of intrigue underlying his strong features.
While he tried to keep the smirk from his lips (really he did), he still could not help but tease. As he felt the cool blade leave his chin, replaced by calloused fingers that gently smoothed away the remaining gel with a soft pink (yes, pink) towel, the Frenchman tilted his head ever so slightly to one side and let a soft sigh that one may, in the right mindset, mistake for a moan intentionally slip past his throat.
England's hands paused in their movements, his green eyes widening, and the shiver that passed over him was not lost on France. He hungrily devoured every reaction. Cobalt irises roamed the form looming in front of him; he felt the sink dig into his spine as he leaned backward, his tongue wetting his lower lip as he allowed his lids to droop to half mast. He watched as stunning leaves, illuminated by the sun that was really the bathroom light, bore into his lips, fluttering over the pink muscle that vanished back inside as quickly as it came. Listened as the wind picked up, storm brewing as the other man's breath quickened. Clearing his throat, a rumble of thunder. Sunset tinting his cheeks as he averted his eyes and tried to pretend that nothing had just happened. Ah, but France was feeling poetic, and he was determined to make it rain.
He let the smirk he'd been holding back surface as England gripped the razor, carefully running it down his lightly tanned chest. Working quietly, as though the storm had passed, unsuspecting of the typhoon waiting at end of their session.
England did his best to focus on the task at hand. Grasping the handle of the razor and dragging it slowly, carefully, across the span of skin. Feeling as the blade ran over the hairs, smoothing the space. He shuddered at the thought of how silky the skin was sure to feel once this ordeal was over, shuddered at the recent memory of how France's chin had felt. His eyes flickered up briefly, ignoring the smug smirk pasted on that face, and took in the sight of what was left, how much younger a simple shave made the other man look. He swallowed thickly, bringing his attention back to the expanse before him, using his other hand to grip at France's side, as though trying to hold his already still form even steadier as he finished off the last bits remaining covered by unscrapped gel.
He let out an exhale of breath, moving cautiously away from his spot in front of France. Turning on the faucet, he ran the blade under the steady stream of water, washing away the remainder of the gel.
France, however, did not seem keen to leave his perch, his back still firmly leaning against the sink's counter. A bit of an annoyance really, since this meant that England hand to stand to the side and lean behind him to properly wash the blade. Setting the razor down, he moved for the towel once more, stepping back into his previous position in front of the Frenchman.
France watched tentatively as England gently brought the cloth to his chest, wiping away the excess gel. He played up a groan when the fibers momentarily brushed over one of his nipples, delighting in the flush that sparked on the other's cheeks in response. He listened as England cleared his throat, watched his Adam's apple bob with the act, he leaned forward abruptly, catching those wheat locks at the back of England's head to hold him in place as he began to retreat backward, and latched his lips to that bobbing apple. He grinned internally as he felt it move beneath his lips, bouncing in time with the surprised hiss seeping out through the former empire's clenched teeth.
He did not have much time to savor the sound and the taste of his lover's skin, however, as the sensation was quickly replaced with two hands pressing against his newly smoothed chest, slamming him back against the sink. He winced, vaguely thinking that he'd be sure to have a bruise in the morning, before all of his thoughts ceased. A wild look in those forest eyes, darkened by what he hoped was lust and not anger (what he knew was lust, his anger was usually a farce anyway). He only caught a glimpse of those eager orbs before all he was able to concentrate on was the tongue in his mouth, the slightly chapped lips moving against his own, and rough hands groping, clawing, and massaging at his chest in a frenzy.
He was not sure at first where to place his hands, at England's hips or around his shoulders? Perhaps tangle his fingers in the other's unruly hair? He did not need to think on it, though. England had decided for him. As the Englishman's slick tongue probed around his mouth, licking at his teeth and rubbing at his palate, his calloused fingers were wrapping around France's own, dragging them towards the belt that held England's pants to his frame.
Knowing right away what was wanted and expected from him, France's slender digits hooked at the belt's clasp, pulling it loose and removing it fluidly from the loops of his trousers, sliding immediately to the button and zip afterward. Tooth by tooth, he edged the zip down, distracted only momentarily as he allowed his own tongue to slip and push against the one invading his mouth, a groan mingling between their mouths as rough fingers grasped and rubbed at his chest, flicking the hardening nubs. As soon as his fingers finished their task, he delved them into the black and silver pinstripe boxers, wrapping them around the hardening warmth hidden beneath them.
He felt more than he heard the accompanying moan, the shuddered breath against his lips, and the vibration against his tongue. The hands on his chest trekked downward, stopping their attentiveness to his nipples and newly smoothed sternum, and moving across his ribs, his abs, fiddling absently with his happy trail before divesting him of his pants, tugging the fabric down roughly as that sinful mouth moved to suck at the junction at his neck and shoulder.
He arched backward, ignoring the dig of the sink's edge into his tailbone, as the Brit's mouth followed soon after his hands, his own slipping away from their grip on the cock that they'd been kneading at seconds before, moving instead to grip at the counter as tongue and lips slid across his neck, his silk chest, stopping only momentarily to teethe playfully at his already abused nipples before continuing over his lightly convulsing stomach, lapping into his naval and meeting with his finger tips at the base of the Frenchman's shaft, growing steadily with every movement against his skin. He watched as his lover's eyes glanced up at him from his spot couching in front of his crotch, a sly smirk tugging at those thin lips as they slowly, torturously took in France's head, skilled tongue flicking over his urethral opening before swirling around his corona. He could not stop the whimper that passed his throat, he grit his teeth, not wishing to repeat the noise, not yet.
His grip on the sink's edge tightened as England began a steady pace of bobbing and sucking, all the while his wet tongue massaging the sensitive flesh of his cock, playing with both the head and the foreskin. He grit his teeth at the noises, he knew that England was purposefully slurping because he knew how much the sounds turned him on. The sound of his mouth on him, the feel of his tongue, and his masculine scent, usually hidden beneath the stench of cigarettes and tea, they all turned him on in ways he wouldn't be able to coherently describe if asked.
He groaned as he felt the other's fingers probing at his ass, stroking the puckered flush teasingly.
As his short pony tail flopped from one of his shoulders, he felt the fingers retreat and heard a click. A bottle being uncapped. Could he possibly keep lube somewhere in his bathroom? He wouldn't have expected that of England. He glanced down at the sound of the thick liquid being eased out of the tube, only to see that it was not lube, but hair conditioner. Of course. He shouldn't have expected anything more from England. He skillfully refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead he clenched them shut, his head lulling backward as one of the now coated fingers made its way back to his ass, slowly delving in. While hair conditioner was not his first choice of lubricant, he was not going to complain (until they were done). It got the job done, if nothing else. Keeping his eyes closed, he did his best to focus on the way everything felt. The way the digit moved in and out, slowly stretching him, the way England's mouth latched back onto his cock, lips closing around him, tongue lapping at his head, he focused on the sounds, the squelch provided by the conditioner, the slurping from England's mouth, his purposefully over played groans. If he were not France, country of love, it may have been too much stimulation, as it were, he was France and thus, he could take it and more. He grunted before letting out a contented sigh, England had added another finger, using them both to stretch him open and lightly massage his prostate.
The texture of the dick his mouth was pleasant on his tongue. He pressed himself further onto it, taking it into his throat before swallowing around it, relishing in the broken moan and the shudder from the other man. He tried to glance up to see France's face, but from his angle he didn't see much beyond his stomach and chest. He gently nudged a third finger into his lover; as much as he threatened and bickered with France, it wasn't sincerely his desire to harm him. He received much more pleasure in pleasuring France than he did in hurting him. Knowing he could make the other nation moan and tremble was a rush, perhaps he really was a power hungry control freak, but he was, at least, one that got off on giving pleasure rather than pain. He was sure that France appreciated that, or would if he knew (the bastard probably did, he always seemed to know what England was thinking).
He pulled his mouth away, giving a long lick down the length and lapping at France's sac before pulling his fingers away and standing up. "Push up," a simple command that he was quite glad to see France following.
France pushed himself up onto the sink's edge, glad to no longer have it digging into his back. He huffed, watching England as he finished his preparations.
He pushed his trousers and boxers carefully out of the away as he slicked himself up with the conditioner. His right hand pressed against France's thigh, forcing the other man's weight to rest on one side of his body. England ran his tongue over his upper lip as he drank in the sight, France splayed up on the bathroom sink in his Folkestone home, clean shaven and legs spread, his face flushed…he was practically begging to be fucked and England was all too happy to oblige. He leaned in, pushing the leg he held captive up slightly as he pressed his head against France's stretched entrance, "Ready?" he asked softly, tone belying his lust.
France could only give a nod and a small smirk, continuing to grip the sink's edge with one hand and hooking the other around England's neck, pulling the other closer and giving him a surprisingly caste peck on the lips, his small smirk morphing into a fond smile at the blush that darkened England's adorably freckled cheeks. He almost laughed as the proud nation tried to cover up his embarrassment by attacking France's mouth, his tongue flicking at his lips and licking at his gums. He couldn't laugh, however. He only moaned, England's thickness beginning to fill him to the brim. He felt both amused and moved when England paused after completely sheathing himself in France's heat. He could feel the Englishman's shoulders shaking, whether in pleasure or restraint he wasn't sure, and was warmed knowing that he was refraining from pounding into him in an attempt to keep from harming him.
He pressed into him, pressing the hand steadied on his shoulder into his hair and forcing his head forward, languidly pressing his tongue against the one that had been so vigorously licking at his own, he pressed his body forward, his hips meeting up and grinding into England's. The resulting moan vibrating between their mouths was a new level of deliciousness, a thousand times better than Paris Brest would ever be.
England took the hint, proving himself to be not quite as oblivious as France would tease. He rocked into the body beneath him. Giving slow and powerful thrusts against him, he was intensely aware of the sound of their skin slapping and hoarse panting echoing off of the bathroom's walls. Keeping his hand firmly on France's thigh, holding him open, he let the other roam across the span of France's chest, still delighting in the clean feel of it. He dragged his finger tips against the flesh, lightly scratching before grasping the other man's cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts. He didn't miss the whimper that slipped past France's tongue, he could hear it just as well as he could everything else, he could feel it just as well as he felt his plump lips, he lapped his own tongue against them, nipping lightly, smirking lazily as France returned the favor before hurriedly pressing back for more. He didn't think he'd ever be able to get enough of France's tongue mingling with his own, his beautiful mouth locked against his own, ocean gaze hazed in arousal.
He could feel liquid running down his chin, but couldn't bring himself to care. There was only England, pressing so wonderfully against him, in him, around him. He wanted to throw his head back and scream, he didn't want to stop kissing England; it was quite the dilemma indeed. Suffice to say, kissing won out.
His hips bucked involuntarily as he felt his peak approaching. England's tongue in his mouth, his hand wrapped around his member, his dick buried in his ass, it was too much all at once. He moaned his lover's name as he came hard, staining the fingers still pumping him, draining him of every drop, staining his stomach and, probably, his smoothed chest. He panted, catching his breath as his body continued to quiver with the aftermath, as well as with the movement of England who still pushed on, burrowing into his body with a quickened pace. He forced his own walls to contract; feeling pleased with himself when he heard England whine and felt him shudder.
They stilled, staring half lidded into each other's eyes, breathing against each other's lips. France wasn't sure if England had closed his eyes, but he had as he leaned in, his lips meeting England's once more, slowly drawing out another oral embrace, pulling away hesitantly when he felt his copain's shaft moving out of him, softened.
Parting from one another, France carefully slipped himself down from the sink, his heart fluttering strangely when England had held onto his shoulders, steadying him. He couldn't stop the grin that filtered across his lips as the Englishman covered his own mouth with a fist while clearing his throat, his eyes shifting to the side awkwardly, flush still distinctly evident. He looked like a teenager who had just had his first kiss and didn't quite know where to look or what to do. The Frenchman graciously took pity on him, placing a hand to the small of his back, the other cupping his cheek, he leaned in pressing a final peck to his nose, running the back of his fingers against the reddened skin as he pulled back, "Shall we have those pastries now, mon cœur?"
The fond smile that he received in return was worth losing his beard over, "Put some trousers on first, Luv."
*A Paris Brest is a French dessert, made of choux pastry and a praline flavored cream.
*Copain – Boyfriend. I thought about using "amant" but that seems to be for extramarital relationships.
*mon cœur – Literally: My heart, but it can be translated into things like "sweetheart" or "darling." I always see "mon cher" and "petit lapin" being used, so I wanted to use something different.