Archive of Our Own

“Like this?”

“Yes, just like that. Put your hands on my shoulders.”

England sheepishly rested his hands against the broad shoulders of the older nation who sat on the seat before him, sitting atop his lap and looking into his eyes with a light behind his glance, as  he uttered, “Now what? What do you want me to do next?”

France licked his lips as he took in the sight before him. He watched England’s soft thighs tremble while sitting in the short, blue, pleated skirt, accented with a white, long sleeved sailor uniform with an adorned red ribbon tied around the striped collar. His hands fit right around exposed hips, as he whispered, “Now I want you to sit pretty for me. Your neck looks immaculate..let me taste it.”

He pressed his lips into a soft throat, receiving a small whimper as he snuck a bite into his flesh. His hands tightened around the hips he held onto and pulled England closer, so that their clothed bulges touched. The man on top of him gasped, before uttering, “Francis…you’re moving so fast with everything. Can’t we take our time?”

“Non.” France murmured against the skin he kissed, “I’m craving you. I must have you. Your body in this uniform is decadent. Please…let me have you.”

“If…if you insist, Mr. France…”

Mr. France??

He pulled from England’s throat and stared into a flustered gaze, as he repeated, “Mr….Mr. France??”

England looked back at him with a deep red flush against his cheeks as he sighed, “Yes…if you insist on having me, you can have me, Mr. France….”

“Mr. France….”

“Mr. France!!”

************************************

“Mr. France!”

France tore his eyes away from the piece of paper he had been fixated on for half of the meeting, slamming his folder shut and turning to Japan, who had leaned in to whisper to him. 

His heart pounded heavily, and now he forced his fantasies to the back of his head so that he could focus on the current conversation. 

“Ah…Japan…” he greeted quietly, careful not to speak over Estonia, who was currently talking about whatever topic the other countries were focused on, “What…what can I do for you??”

Japan lowered his eyes at him and uttered, “Are you looking at that um…drawing you asked me to make? Because…I have another one for you.”

France’s chest seared with pain from a sudden bubble of excitement in his stomach, as he murmured back, “Ah…you do?? Let’s…let’s discuss it after the meeting.”

The other nation nodded, with the smallest, sneakiest smile, before averting his attention back to the meeting. 

Unfortunately for the Frenchman, it wasn’t as easy for him to just focus on whatever useless information Estonia was sharing with everyone, and he instead picked his folder up, opened it just a tad, and peeped at the detailed drawing he had been daydreaming about since earlier. 

It was a cutely drawn piece of his…rival…dressed in a schoolgirl uniform. It wasn’t modest in the slightest either, and France liked it that way. 

The two of them hadn’t been fighting as much lately. There wasn’t any magical transformation for their relationship, and they were far from being friendly, but there had been improvements recently. In fact, they talked about meeting together at some point for tea…

He still couldn’t get past that bossy little attitude England had most of the time. It was hard to deal with on a regular basis, but he grew to understand that that was just one of those traits the poor Englishman couldn’t seem to get past. 

Besides…France was starting to find it a bit attractive. 

“Oi, frog.”

He pushed his thoughts to the back of his head once again at the hiss of a not so friendly name that he’d grown accustomed to hearing, and turned to see the very man he’d been fantasizing about nonstop. 

His rival, England, who stared back at him with a scowl as he growled, “You realize you’re supposed to actually pay attention in these meetings, yes??”

France warded off the embarrassment from someone possibly seeing the little drawing in his folder (Which literally would only happen if he actively left it out in the open. The poor guy was just paranoid.), and greeted his comrade with a smile as he spoke, “Ah, Angleterre…hello.”

England furrowed his brows, and mumbled, “Don’t forget…we’re supposed to have tea next week. Be there on time…and none of that fashionably late nonsense you always go on about.”

As he spoke, his eyes slowly peered to another part of the conference room, warmth glowing across his cheeks. 

France raised his brows at him, and cooed, “So…is it a date then??”

“Hmph.”

England didn't say much else. He turned from him and back to the rest of the other countries at the oval shaped table. 

Fuck, France felt like he was fumbling a bit with that man. 

He had to do something about these…perversions he kept having for England. Perhaps it was that sexual tension that was always there between them since the start of their adulthood. They’d always been at odds, fighting, be it at war or just a simple tussle for petty reasons. 

What was the harm in asking him to put on the uniform Japan had drawn him in, and maybe asking to touch him while he wore it? 

Ah…now that he thought about it, he was sure that if he even tried to bring that up he’d be pummeled where he stood. 

A violent little man, England was. An unfortunately really cute, rebellious little fellow too. France could count on more than one hand the amount of times he’d pleased himself at the thought of having that man in a room, in his lap, on a chair, with nothing but time on their hands and a constant desire for one another. 

If they were to ever end up in such a scenario, for any reason, under any circumstances, he’d for sure make it worth the time for both of them. 

It wasn’t something that happened overnight. France had been feeling this way for a while. He only recently started trying to bring it to life in his head. Japan just happened to be drawing after a meeting one day, and one of the characters looked an awful lot like England…things went downhill after Japan also caught onto the resemblance. 

These other countries may think that Japan is not the type to engage in perverted indulgences, and that was where many were fooled. If France hadn’t known any better, he would have assumed the Asian nation had been drawing the two feuding nations..together…for quite some time…with how close in detail he was able to draw England. Of course, it had its own little flair to it due to a distinguished art style, but there were a lot of elements that gave it a unique likeness to the country France couldn’t stop thinking about. 

The meeting was finally wrapping up, and several nations appeared to be either impatiently waiting to leave, aggravated with how pointless the conversation had become, or seconds away from falling asleep.

France began gathering his belongings, and as he did, he was once again greeted by England, who stood by his side and called to him, “Hey, France…about next week.”

He turned to him with a thump in his heart that he begged internally to still, and blurted, “Y-yes, Angleterre??”

The other man stood before him with his arms folded as his eyes turned from him and his cheeks grew rosy again, and he murmured, “You…you can bring whatever pastries you want…I suppose mine are suited for more of a…distinguished taste.”

By distinguished, he meant more appealing than a straight up bowl of donkey shit…the man couldn’t cook to save his life. That was one thing France knew was an unfortunate fact. 

Maybe he was a little more aware of that without actually saying his cooking was quite literally some of the worst concoctions anyone has ever seen or tasted.

He looked more flustered than usual, too. Something was up with him today. 

Maybe he was starting to notice the growing fondness between them?

Ah, England was a lot more oblivious than France. Maybe that wasn’t the case. 

“So…you want me to bring my own pastries for our tea time next week?” France asked him, “That’s doable. I can do that.”

“Hey, you two! You guys making out yet??”

France and England flinched at the loud, obnoxious shout that rang from the other side of the room as Prussia came running over, waving to his close friend as he added, “You’re not tearing each others’ throats out yet…that’s a first!”

“Ah…Prussia…” France sighed, “You…you scared me just now.”

“Hah!?” the albino nation laughed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder now that he had made it to his side, “You were quiet for like, the entire meeting, so I had to come check on ya. How’re you feeling?”

England looked away, lips pursed. He let out a small grunt as he said, “Hello, Gilbert.”

“Hey hey, Arthur!” Prussia called to him, despite being directly next to him, “You give Francis a little kiss yet? You guys haven’t argued in a while, it’s like a dream the way these meetings have been going!”

Good god, Prussia was so unbearable right now. Normally France could deal with him being so unhinged and saying whatever the hell he wanted to say, but today he was being unusually loud mouthed. 

He honestly felt a little bad reacting negatively to such an outburst, because it genuinely was a milestone for he and England to sit and have a civilized conversation without them having to force anything cordial due to wartime or that desperation to keep connections with each other for materialistic purposes. 

“Ooooo, what’s this, Mein freund? What’s England doing in this skimpy little outfit~?”

France snapped out of his thoughts to find Prussia had begun plundering through his folder, and found…

Oh God, he found the fucking picture.

“What are you talking about??” England grumbled, then immediately stopped talking as his eyes fell upon the piece of paper held out from the opened folder. 

His eyes couldn’t have gotten any wider in that moment, and an immediate blush grew against his cheeks. His mouth parted, as if he were going to say something, but all he could do was continue to stare directly at it.

Good GOD, he SAW IT.

“Wow, Arthur, whoever drew this did a good job! They even gave you child bearing hips-”

“GILBERT-!” France suddenly hollered, snatching the piece of paper from him and holding it close to his side as he stared back at him with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows, “What the fuck is wrong with you!? Why would you open that folder-!”

“....Francis….”

France didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to look in that direction where he’d heard his name hissed like a serpent from a tight jaw. 

But he did it anyway. 

Prussia’s face had frozen, his mouth in a twisted grin as he watched anger slowly take over the Englishman, face redder than a tomato, lips pursed, eyes vast with either bewilderment, shock, or some third, flustered blend of frustration or rage.

Shit.

SHIT.

France fought to find his words. He stuttered over every attempt, eventually stopping himself to simply whisper, “It’s…not what you think…”

“Gilbert.” England finally spoke firmly, not facing the Prussian, hands curled into fists at his sides, “I think you should leave us to talk.”

Of course, there was no time wasted on his part. 

“Yup. Leaving. Gone,” Prussia responded swiftly before filing out of the office to find his brother and head home. 

France realized that the office was empty. The air was thick. England had fallen silent again. 

“Ah…Britain…I…I, uh…”

Fuck, he couldn’t talk. It was unbearable trying to speak with their atmosphere suddenly developing such a tense cloud between one another. 

England finally sighed, closing his eyes and releasing his hands from having them clenched into fists, and asked in an annoyed, restrained tightness to his voice, “How long…how long have you had that drawing…?”

France figured it was best to answer truthfully, and muttered, “D…don’t be mad at Japan…I…I asked him to draw it for me a few weeks ago.”

“So Japan did this for you?” England asked, finally meeting an uneasy man through eyes that burned hot enough to melt titanium. 

Jesus. He seemed to be fuming.

“Arthur, you honestly weren’t meant to see it..I don’t know what got into Prussia earlier-”

“What do you….do…with that drawing?” He interrupted to ask, a sudden lace of what could be interpreted as either curiosity or disgust (depending on how the poor Frenchman decides to answer) detected somewhere within the inflection of his question. 

There was already enough shame on the line with his…perverted little drawing being exposed. 

“I…”

“And be honest.” England added, hands placed on his hips as he interrupted for the second time, “I at least deserve an explanation.”

Well. Lying was no longer on the table. Something told France England would know if he wasn’t telling the truth. 

“I..perhaps I may or may not have…entertained some…suggestive thoughts??” 

“Why do you sound so unsure?” England chided, “Are you lying??”

“No!” France blurted, “I..I…like to think about…us…”

The younger nation sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes as he spat, “So you asked Japan to draw…that thing, of me wearing…that…so you could wank yourself to it? Did I get that right?”

“...Yes.”

That was about as much detail that he was willing to provide. But even now as he tried to talk to him, images of the scenarios he’d fantasized about them being in with him wearing that sexy little uniform ran rabid through his brain and he couldn’t stop them. It made the situation so much harder to deal with, especially since that bastard just kept staring back at him.

“What…what exactly do you want me to do in that…?” England pointed to the crinkled paper in France’s hand, “How long have you felt that way about me?? Is that….is that why you’ve been quiet today? Have you been sitting in this room daydreaming about me??”

Too many questions at once. It was frying his brain. 

“Arthur, I…” he finally stated, face just as red and hot as the other man’s, “I…you weren’t meant to see it. It was supposed to stay between me and Japan…I’m…I’m sorry.”

For a moment, England didn’t respond. He kept his face frozen in that same cross between confusion and distaste, but France could have sworn he saw some kind of spark within jade eyes as the man sat in silence, fingers still curled into the belt of his pants and feet parted. His stare remained fixed onto the piece of paper being held in a trembling, sweaty hand. 

He subtly bit his bottom lip while still staring, and suddenly shifted his gaze to France, whose heart shrieked in pain against his chest from their eyes meeting. 

“Hm.” England finally grunted, “Don’t be late for tea next week.”

With that being said, he turned and walked away, and like that, France was alone. 

His shoulders heaved, watching the man he fawned over departing from the conference room. 

He wasn’t even sure what to do with himself right now. His fucked up brain kept sending him very vivid scenes that he’d put together in his head during times of leisure, and it made dealing with that entire conversation a thousand times worse. 

He didn’t want to know what was going to happen next week. 

Most likely, it would be awkward. He at least hoped the other nation would try not to let it get between them and their path to repairing their relationship. They were finally getting to a point where they could carry casual conversations together. Hell, they were finally able to go to each others’ homes and have tea. He almost convinced England to indulge in wine a few times. Almost.

There was nothing he could do about it now. He decided it was time to just leave. There was already enough stress he had to somehow deal with before next week. 

***************************************

A week later, after a few awkward text messages over the next seven days, England sent him one specifically asking for him to show up earlier than they’d agreed. 

It was strange, but France was grateful that he hadn’t tarnished their relationship too badly. All he could think about before seeing him was how angry he’d become, then that questionable look he made right before leaving the conference room that day came to him. 

Still, he was honestly looking forward to seeing him in person again…which was foreign to him, because normally he hated the very sight of him. 

France sat against the sofa of England’s livingroom, staring down at the tea that had been set out for him. He focused on the detail of the porcelain teapot, where steam sailed from it and into the space of the area they sat in.

The man across from him sat in a beige and brown plaid cardigan with a pair of khakis and brown loafers, legs crossed, as he spoke, “I wanted to invite you over and formally apologize for my rather unruly reaction from last week…”

France’s eyes scrolled to a part of the room where he could focus on without looking at him, as he muttered, "This is…very considerate of you. But…it was truly a mistake and I never intended for you to see any of that.”

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, England sighed, “I suppose things would get to this point in our relationship, anyway. It really is no harm, Francis, I assure you.”

His voice was welcoming and calm, smooth like silk, a tone France wasn’t quite accustomed to him using when it was the two of them. He was usually quite crotchety and moody. It was…a treat. He actually sounded quite nice. 

“There’s something I’d like to show you, I’ll just need a moment to get it together. Come to my bedroom within the next 20 minutes if I haven’t returned.”

France’s eyes widened. What did that entail? What kind of “something” was it?? 

“Er…yes, of course.” France answered with an uncertain nod, his eyebrow raised. 

England stood now, flashing one of those charming little smiles he greeted others with, and stepped away, down the hall and into his room. 

While he was away, France looked down at his hands as he rested them in his lap.

This was different. He wasn’t used to England being so calm, this was all so foreign to him. Normally he’s seen him at least act cordial when around government officials and during world conferences, but this was different from those times. He was much more poised and polite, with a nice smile and lowered eyes. He wasn’t snappy or sharp at the mouth with his comments this time either. It was scary how differently he was acting right now. 

Now he wondered about this thing he wanted to show off. What could it be? Was it something to get back at him?? Was he going to regret coming over here?

Maybe he shouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet. It was best to just wait and see what happens. 

The drawing he had asked Japan to make for him…France would be ashamed to tell anyone else the amount of times he’d looked at it. It was all drawn so well. He felt that England was depicted nicely. 

He wondered if the other nation would consider actually discussing what he had seen that day…

Twenty minutes had passed, and because his nerves were so shaken and stirred, he waited an additional five minutes before getting up, finding his way down the hall, and raising a hand to knock his knuckle against the door. 

“Angleterre…it’s been twenty minutes.” He stated, “Are you alright??”

There was silence, and the ambience of it left France’s heart thumping into his chest and his forehead slightly clammy from beads of sweat. 

Maybe he should have just stayed in the living room.

“Come in.” England called from inside. 

France closed his eyes, swallowing, and turned the knob to enter.

When he did, the sight before him left his face burning red almost immediately.

Standing before him was England, wearing a long sleeved white and blue sailor uniform, a red ribbon tied against his chest to accent the outfit. The navy blue pleated skirt he wore barely covered his thighs, and he wore black knee socks along his slender legs. 

His eyes were narrowed sneakily at France, as he rested a hand on his hip with a devious grin splayed across his lips. 

France was speechless.

It looked very similar to the uniform he was shown wearing….in the drawing.

A thousand thoughts a minute rushed through his pretty French head. When did he take the time to have this tailored? It fit him perfectly. He had the perfect amount of skin showing from the skimpy uniform he wore. 

Did he…shave his legs??

Good lord. His milky thighs and flushed knees had France’s mouth watering at the thought of his lips against them, laying soft kisses along his flesh and spreading his legs apart to get to his…

“Close the door behind you.”

France snapped out of his thoughts and blinked as he swiftly turned and slammed the door shut behind himself. He turned to England, taking in every detail of what he wore, and he uttered, “Britain…you…the uniform…”

“Looks nice, right?” England bragged, his smile growing wider, “Had it specially tailored. Does it not fit me nicely??”

France’s brain was scrambled. It was England in one of his fantasy outfits, one he had daydreamed about when he wasn’t able to view  to marvel at artistic depictions of it being worn. 

He kept his eyes specifically on those soft legs as England stood with his feet apart. 

There was another article of clothing he internally begged to see an appearance of as he continued to stare silently…

It was revealed just before things got really heated in the manga.

“Why don’t you sit in that chair right there??”

England pointed to a polished, pine wood chair adorned with a deep green cushion, sitting right next to the bed. 

Oh good lord. 

What was he putting together?? This was very similar to what he would daydream about…he never told England too much about it that day.

France’s chest wouldn’t stop pounding. His face felt like it was on fire, and his throat was dry as he managed to speak, “B-Britain…if I sit in that seat…”

He just couldn’t believe how all of this was playing off. It was almost perfectly replicated. 

England smirked at him, folding his arms as he repeated, “Go on. Take your seat.”

France complied, planting himself in the chair and staring back at England, still in disbelief that he had that cute uniform on. It actually suited him really well, but he couldn’t help noticing his attitude had changed. He looked…sneaky. Like someone waiting for a prank to unfold. It left France with an uneasiness in his stomach, but it was shortly taken over by the constant brewing excitement felt from everything going on around him. 

England allowed him another moment to get comfortable, then approached him slowly, stopping as their kneecaps were about to touch. 

“Francis…I have to admit.” He finally spoke, a surprising flush glowing against his face, his smile remaining the same, “I gave everything some thought…and I have to say, you have very creative perversions.”

France watched England slide even closer, his hands unfolding to reach out and find their place against tense shoulders, and his face leaned in within a few inches from him. His emerald eyes glowed with what France could have sworn was mischief. 

England was warm…and he smelled of vanilla. France’s heart thumped endlessly at the warmth emanating from the man above him, feeling the heat in his palms against his shoulders. 

Jesus. He looked cute in that damn uniform. A watering mouth troubled France now as he attempted to keep himself composed while fixating helplessly onto the pair of soft lips in front of him.

“Yes…well…” France finally spoke, “I…you look…Britain, you look…”

“Hm?” England hummed with curiosity, bare thighs brushing against a clothed pair as he spread his legs further apart before perching himself onto France’s lap, their chests just a short distance from one another, and their lips even shorter.

Oh, god. There was even more of that heat coming from England’s backside. Their crotches might as well have been touching at this point. It created a dull burn in France’s abdomen, and his own body had begun heating up. 

England’s face was even closer to his now, enough for the older nation to get a more detailed look at his soft lips, his short lashes as the man blinked, and his deeply rosy cheeks. His smile had shrunken just a tad, most likely due to his nerves, and he looked back at France while gently reaching to hook his arms behind the other man’s neck. 

They didn’t speak for a moment. The two were silent. 

France felt himself losing control, and his hands instinctively wrapped themselves around England’s waist, just under the cut of his sailor uniform shirt where part of his flat stomach had been visible. Gracious, it felt so right for his palms to fit right along his figure. He was warm. His legs encased him with a heat he wasn’t accustomed to. 

“Angleterre…” he spoke softly, just above a whisper, to the other nation who had suddenly become quiet, “This outfit…you look perfect in it. It looks just like….”

“Yes?” England responded hushedly, “It looks just like it, doesn’t it?”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes fell shut at France’s hands gliding up his chest, lifting the shirt along his path, his thumbs brushing along silky skin. 

Shit. It was hard to control himself. France wanted to see his nipples. 

As he continued to lift, he stopped once the shirt bundled up to England’s collarbone upon the sight of pink heart shaped nipple covers. 

Oh. That…was different. France wouldn’t have thought of that. 

“Are these…?” France gasped. He could barely speak at this point. 

England nodded, eyes half lidded, and he uttered, “You can touch them.”

France gulped, before reaching to peel back the cover so he could see those delicate little buds, and suddenly England slapped his hand away.

“No.” He blurted, “D-don’t take them off.”

France was confused. Why the hell did he do that?? 

England rolled down his shirt, and grabbed each of France’s wrists, pressing the palms of the older nation’s hands against his clothed chest. He whispered while staring back with slit eyes, “Rub them like this.”

Christ. England was bossy, yet it was obvious he craved to be touched a certain way. Normally France preferred his suitors to be a little less demanding, but he let it slide for that British idiot. 

Besides…he’d hate himself if he ruined this fantasy coming to life all because he didn’t appreciate being told what to do. 

France’s thumbs brushed against where he was anticipating those taped down ducts to be located, and as he traced a certain area a few times, he felt soft peaks forming under the covers and the cloth of the shirt the other man wore.

England kept his fingers curled around France’s wrists. He winced from his nipples being grazed, and he bit down on his lip to stay quiet. 

He hid his warm face into France’s shoulder, murmuring quietly, “Like that…”

His voice was low and velvety, and France could feel his thighs starting to tremble the more he rubbed on England’s clothed nipples, whimpers slowly teetering out from pursed lips. The soft feathered breaths that brushed France’s neck further excited him upon receiving all the signs that England was feeling really good from being stimulated. 

“Does it…does it feel good?” France asked him in a delicate purr, his lips hovering over England’s ear, as he listened to the other man gasp and hiss under his breath from skilled fingers circling his areola and caressing his ducts. 

England’s voice escaped him as a choked whimper as he gripped France’s shoulders, and he uttered, “It…it feels really good…”

Well, some of that bossiness could be forgiven with how cute he was starting to sound. His voice was unusually light, and France could feel heat growing from the entire body that clung to him, feeding his excitement and arousal. 

A peak suddenly pressed into his own, and he couldn’t control the gruff moan that escaped him. 

The material that bunted into his own erection felt thin, like cotton or satin. 

“Angleterre,” he sighed, breath heavy and face hot, “I’m…I’m quite hard right now.”

“Oh…?”

France paused as he felt England’s grip on his wrists grow tight. 

A little too tight. 

He hadn’t reacted fast enough to the jingle of handcuffs, until the click of them being fastened around his hands rose into the room (somehow just as quickly being bound behind him and the chair), and he was suddenly rendered immobile. 

When did England cuff him to this chair??

And where had he been hiding these handcuffs?

France looked into the deviously dark grin of the man he thought he was supposed to be pleasing, eyes slit once again mischievously.

Oh, fuck.

His initial instinct was to move his wrists, wriggling against the metal cuffs that kept him bound to the chair, and when the cold metal brought on a strangely flustered agitation to a quickly beating heart, he stared directly into England’s eyes to hiss at him, “Wh-what is this!? Remove these right now!”

England shot him a look of pity as his eyebrows raised and he pouted his lips sweetly, cooing, “Aww, you poor thing…poor, poor Francis couldn’t finish what he started hmm?”

He hooked his arms around France’s neck, tilting his head at him and leaving his crotch just a centimeter from the other man’s, as he whispered, “You really think I’m going to give you what you want, just like that?? Tsk tsk tsk….I have other plans for how I want this fantasy of yours to play out.”

He focused his attention now on unbuttoning France’s shirt, unfastening each one with swift fingers, and the Frenchman almost melted from their current position. 

England’s legs remained sitting atop France’s, body heat radiating from his center and from where a peak poked through his blue skirt, their faces just a hair from each other. 

Once the shirt had been fully undone, those same hands pushed it apart to reveal a fuzzy chest and stomach, and England’s fingertips brushed a path through patches of body hair leading from thin slivers just above his belt, a surprisingly firm build, and up to a glistening collarbone. He licked his lips before muttering, “You should be grateful that I fancy body types like yours. It’s…immaculate.”

France’s cheeks burned. His erection couldn’t have given him away at a more crucial moment than it did right now, and he could feel himself scraping against the zipper of his pants. If England could just unzip it so it could breathe…

He was not aware that his lower body had been rolling against the mass on top of him, and those hands from earlier clamped down on his shoulders to keep him still. 

“Francis…calm down.” England whispered seductively, staring back into the eyes of a man in a sexual crisis, “I’m not going to hurt you. I have no interest in that right now…”

France couldn’t concentrate the way he intended to. England’s voice, the way he toyed with him verbally and physically, and how obvious it was that they were both hard from all of this, kept eating at him. Not to mention the fact that he was in fucking handcuffs and couldn’t pull that ridiculous man into a kiss or grab him by his waist and grind on him in their current position. It was torture.

England had lifted his skirt, and France almost fainted from the sight.

A hard, flushed and girthy cock poked above the opening of blue striped panties, his tip bubbling with precum, and twitching with need from their previous foreplay. 

“I’m just going to continue where we left off since you can’t.” England chuckled menacingly, “You can always just watch…but I guess you don’t have a choice, do you??”

“B-Britain,” France begged breathlessly, squirming in his restraints, “Please…this is torture. L-let me touch you, please.”

“No.” England suddenly deadpanned, “Don’t think for a minute that I’m just going to let you touch me. You have your fantasies, I have mine.”

France pouted. He was right….in a way, he guessed. They both had their own ideas of how something like this would play out. He should have known. England was the type to like being in control, being able to bring his own cognitive creations to life. His bossy attitude should have been a dead giveaway to that. Shit. 

Besides…when would France ever get another chance to see England dressed up like this? There were more pros than cons to allowing him control at this point.

“F…fine.” France finally sighed, “Just…please…don’t leave me locked up like this. I’d like to be able to touch you-“

“Stop being so whiny!” England interrupted, “Just sit still.”

Without another word, the Englishman had lowered his panties to fully reveal his cock, and motioned to wrap his hand around it tenderly, but shortly paused. Before he continued, he held the palm of his hand out and uttered, “I…want you to spit on my hand.”

Good lord Britain. So damn lewd.

France stared down at the soft palm, puckered his lips, and spat directly into it. He felt a wave of excitement surge through his body from the idea of England using his spit to lube himself up. It was…oddly hot.

Despite that though, France looked away immediately after doing so, wrists briefly swaying against his metal restraints and bumping against the chair.

England smiled with a condescending sweetness, before reaching back down and stroking himself with a hand that was now wet, brushing his thumb across the opening of his tip for added slickness from his precum, swirling it around the head and stifling a small noise while doing so. 

Christ. Christ. France was able to see everything. He had a girthy one. It was uncut, and he watched foreskin slip upwards and downwards to expose the pink flesh underneath as the man fisted the length of himself. He then felt the warmth of England’s feverish cheek resting against his neck as his chin laid on his shoulder, thighs tensing up from touching himself. 

France closed his eyes tightly, groaning deeply from the tremors of England’s body that resonated against his own mass. He needed him to make a little more noise. With him not being able to reach out and help him, it was practical torture. 

“Angleterre,” he whispered softly, “J…just take these off of me. Let me…help you feel good.”

“N-no,” England sighed, his strokes growing faster and tighter, “Y-you’re such a pervert…always wanting to touch.”

“How can I help it?? You…you keep trying not to make noise, but I can hear you. And you feel warm…”

England responded with only a thin whimper as he stroked himself. The hand he kept against France’s shoulder curled into the material of the unbuttoned shirt still being worn, his legs quivering and his breaths growing heavy with lust.

When France noticed their crotches practically touching, he listened to the softest, most sensual moan escape the man on top, and he heard flesh against flesh as his strokes grew more fervent. 

Watching him do this was already enough for France to fight back his temptations, but hearing the way England’s voice would crumble to a level just above a whisper, and suddenly be let out broken and helpless, something he’d never heard from him, left France aching. All those sultry sounds were sailing directly into the canal of his ear, and his concealed cock had begun dampening his underwear the longer he had to sit and endure everything.  

France couldn’t contain his voice at this point, and he let a low groan escape his throat from the feeling of friction casually brushing against the peak in his own pants. He closed his eyes tightly, and the heat from England’s body only made it even more challenging to remain composed.

But how was he supposed to stay civil and maintain his posture when England was practically pressed against him, his voice melting France as he only grew harder and how each silky stroke that invaded his ears made his abdomen squirm with a boiling desire to feel up on the man on top of him?

Touch. Touch. He wanted to touch and he couldn’t. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Without an ounce of restraint, France’s lips craned along England’s neck, and he nibbled on it gently while the other man mewled helplessly from the way he was being teased with no hands.

Suddenly, the younger nation’s voice hitched, and he choked, “N-no…you don’t…get to touch.”

France sucked his teeth, and disobediently bit at the patch of skin he had been teasing subtly, receiving a pitiful little moan in response. 

Shit. If he was going to be restrained, he was going to take advantage of each opportunity to tease the Englishman in his own way. Fuck what that pompous asshole was trying to do. 

England’s strokes began to sound slicker and harder as he pumped himself with heavy breaths leaving his lungs, his face still buried into the shoulder of the man he had unknowingly begun rolling his hips against, his noises becoming more vulnerable and rising an octave the closer he got to his orgasm. 

Oh, shit. He was coming rather quickly.

“F…fuck…oh, fuck, I..I’m cumming…!” England gasped, his hand moving more feverishly and the friction of a hot palm against a hotter cock boiling his abdomen, moans surging directly into the opening of France’s ear and sending an electric bolt through the Frenchman’s lower body. 

“Th…then just cum…!” France hissed, his hands growing numb from being bound but itching to touch. Red rings glowed against his wrists as he moved wantonly with the handcuffs that kept him bound. 

If only he had been able to feel those sweet, sexy movements as the palms of his hands glued to a moving waist…his very being seared with the frustration of not being able to lay his hands against such a body. 

Each time England’s waist collided into France’s crotch, it wrenched a gut curling heat inducing noise from the man on top, who barely held himself together with each dry hump into another warm body. Their hips met with each tempered thrust, and England had uncontrollably shifted his tip against the bare stomach of a deprived, starving Frenchman, with their voices mixed into the ambience of the bedroom. The soft, warm and slick head of his cock left France dizzy with desire as he hissed through clenched teeth, “putain….!!”

“Mm…mmh…cumming…cumming…!”

If France had known England would sound this fucking hot, he wouldn’t have held himself back all these years. An uncontrollably rough groan escaped France as he had no choice but to feel every wave of movement surging into his still clothed erection, accepting every inch of England that bunted against his bulge, up until he heard such a smooth, melted whine from finally releasing, hot cum spurting into a bare chest, translucent trails dribbling down small peaks of muscle, into tangles of hair, and down towards a patch that laid just before the still zipped erection begging to be released at this point. 

France kept his eyes closed and released a guttural moan as England’s thighs trembled against him, accepting every single wave of ecstasy that escaped the other man and rolled against his own mass. A trembling whimper left England’s winded lungs upon his movements slowing, his thighs clinging to the man he sat upon, riding out his orgasm as his eyes remained closed tightly.

The pressure between them stilled, but remained alive due to accumulated, unresolved sexual tension, as they gasped against each other, England’s arms draping over France’s shoulders, and they hadn’t made eye contact at this point. 

France, still hard, having almost reached his own climax just from the younger nation's voice, kept his eyes closed and his forehead pressing into England’s, shoulders heaving. 

The Englishman fought to catch his breath from an intense climax, and as he focused on his breathing, he also focused on the persistent bulge protruding through France’s pants. His eyes also latched onto the ropes of cum glistening against France’s bare chest in the sunlight that passed through his curtained windows, and he whispered softly, “Sorry…looks like I’ll have to clean the mess I made.”

France, struggling to regain himself, had also looked down, feeling the warmth of England’s seed against his skin, and the fact that they both stared at his stubborn erection created a whole new situation as he still could not catch his breath. 

England’s gaze had softened as he met the azure eyes of the man he sat on, uttering to him, “Since you were so good…I’ll reward you.”

Reward him?? As if he were some puppy being trained? What kind of demented little shit was this man?? 

Well…France supposed that despite the idiot’s constant bickering back and the fact that he liked things to go his way, his behavior was still insanely attractive…he supposed.  

His thoughts slowly sank to the back of his head as soft lips lingered close to his torso, and a hot tongue glided along his feverish skin, lapping up the cum that had spilled onto him.

It was only making things worse as France squirmed desperately now, his handcuffs scratching into his wrists with each movement and his arms growing sore from remaining restrained through their time together. 

He needed to touch him. He needed to feel his skin underneath greedy palms, to grab onto clumps of flesh, to lift that skirt up and pound him. He’d push those panties back in place as soon as he was done. 

England suckled a trail downwards, now sinking to his knees. Once his hands caressed clothed thighs, fingers splaying a path before his palms reached just above kneecaps, France parted them instinctively. 

His bulge was in full view now that England had finished cleaning him. 

“My…you’re quite hard, aren’t you??” England teased in an alluring murmur, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

France bit his lip in anticipation and closed his eyes, his heart practically jumping into his throat at the sound of his belt being unfastened by sneaky hands, before he muttered, “You…you have no idea how angry I am with you right now.”

“Hm?? Angry?” England asked with feigned innocence as he looked upwards at the other man, “Why are you angry? I’m making up for what I did, no??”

France scoffed. What a fucking asshole. He could strangle him right now. This kind of foreplay was ridiculous….but it was also really hot seeing England like this. How he tried to play innocent after pulling such a devious move, and how he managed to conjure this whole thing, was a mystery to France. He wasn’t complaining though…to an extent. 

England leaned forward, hands still planted on each thigh, and clamped his teeth down on the zipper of France’s pants. He dragged it downwards, being greeted with the wet spot of precum in red and blue boxers. 

His breath feathered against the heat of that spot in the center of France’s underwear, and England sighed, “Poor thing’s been leaking since we started. Did you really get this hard when I wasn’t even touching you?”

France didn’t answer. He kept his eyes averted elsewhere and shifted his elbows, once again creating a jingling sound from the handcuffs shuffling against detained wrists. 

England chuckled at his silence and finally hooked his fingers into the band of his boxers, sliding them down and watching a stiff, lengthy and jerking cock spring free. 

He stared at it with glistening eyes as his mouth parted slightly, lids low and cheeks rosy. 

“So much heat…” he gasped, looking up at France through his lashes briefly before closing in on it and laying a light, wet kiss against the head of it. 

“Ngh…!” France grunted from such soft lips teasing him, bucking his hips without thinking. 

England’s hands traveled to France’s hips to pin his lower body against the chair. “Be good.” He demanded, “Hold still so I can help you cum.”

France showed no restraint, reaching a limit of frustration with England, and he spat back, “Stop telling me what to do-“

He was cut off by the sudden hot wetness that sealed around the head of his dick, and immediately his tone melted to a shuddered moan. 

“Oh…m..merde,”

England had begun suckling his tip, fingers clasped around the base, tangles of hair lightly tickling his hand before he started stroking what wasn’t in his mouth. As he sank lower,  and it twitched against his inner cheeks, he couldn’t hold back a small noise from his throat. 

The sounds he made thrummed against France’s cock, and the older nation gasped from the way it made him feel like liquid within such a warm and wet canal. 

“Mm…Arthur…!” He sighed, hanging his head back with his eyes tightly closed from his cock being devoured and the way England moaned lowly while taking him to the back of his throat. 

The sopping wet suction from a thoroughly salivated mouth and the soft hot tongue that lathered his cock with saliva practically had France in a daze. Had he known that jackass was this good at sucking dick, he would’ve initiated something like this ages ago. 

England parted from a twitching cock, stroking it tenderly as he lowered his head and tugged on France's taint with flushed lips. His drool dribbled onto it whilst he continued dragging his tongue all over the sensitive area, wrenching a guttural groan from the man he pleasured. His own moans escaped him in response. 

“Angl…Angleterre- putain~! I…it…you’re really good at…!” 

France could barely form words as England began twisting his wrist with each stroke, finally returning to the length of his cock to continue sucking him off, tightening his lips around it and tucking his teeth under his lips to further stimulate him. He lapped up precum as it continued to seep from France’s opening, whimpering quietly from the feverish heat that emanated from it. 

He pulled away for a moment, still pumping him, and he whispered, “Are you trying to say I’m good at what I do??” 

Pausing from putting his mouth to work, and not waiting for an answer, England nuzzled his cheek against the cock he was slowly growing affectionate towards, and France felt his heart flutter. It wasn’t fair for him to suck him off so good and then suddenly show him an act of kindness (or some degree of sexual mercy by not letting him cum just yet). 

With a parting kiss at the tip, England once again took the other man into his mouth, suckling more fervently this time as he intended to suck an orgasm out of him now that he was a little rested. 

France felt the intensity behind each movement, the palm that brushed against his balls left him unable to speak as pleasure built up in his muscles to a point where he could tell he was about to cum. 

Shit. Shit. 

He kept his eyes closed tight, and that urge to pull on England’s hair and hold him in place so he could face fuck him into releasing bit into him hard. He moved against his handcuffs as his hands itched to latch onto the scalp of that pretty little British head. 

England must have been able to feel all of that desperation for his climax, as his moans grew sluttier and louder with each time France’s cock reached further into his mouth. The furrow in his eyebrows softened as his own eyes remained shut from the growing heat of a building and building orgasm. 

“A-Arthur…Arthur…Arthur~!”

At the sound of France’s voice growing shakier and breathless, England grasped onto a hot sac gently, fingers tightening firmly onto it. He found it challenging to maintain his movements while trying to keep his voice under control, but with how France had begun impulsively thrusting his hips against his mouth, the Englishman released an unrestrained whimper from such behavior. 

After finally reaching his limit, France jutted his lower body against England’s face and came hard into his mouth, his voice escaping through firmly closed lips as he felt himself spasm against a hot tongue. 

England swallowed, a few beads of cum dribbling from the corners of his lips, down his chin and seeping into his skirt, as he slurped up what spilled against France’s cock, still gripping his balls firmly. 

Once all movement ceased, and France could only stare up at the ceiling with half lidded eyes, brain scrambled to hell and scattered like chicken feed, England stood to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back or his hand, staring at the man he sucked off so well. His eyes glowed with a sexual haze, admiring the heavily breathing, sweaty mess he made of his comrade with just his hands and mouth. 

France lowered his head now, facing England, who leaned towards him, cupping his face with trembling hands, and pulling him into a slick, wet kiss. 

It lasted for a few seconds, allowing France to taste his seed on a tender tongue, before they parted and stared into each other, trading looks of bewilderment within one another. The spent older nation scanned the dark stains of either his cum or England's saliva (most likely both), in the skimpy little skirt worn so flawlessly. The fact that it could have very well been their fluids in his clothing brought a sense of vulgarity to the already sexual aura from such a uniform.

“Britain….” France uttered, speaking first, “take them off…please…”

England nodded gently, reaching into the pocket of his skirt to pull out a silver key, and stepped to the back of the chair to unlock the handcuffs and slide them off of sore wrists.

Once freed, France rubbed his arms to encourage circulation in his hands after being restrained for so long. As he did so, he looked over at England, who wouldn’t return his gaze.

“So…” England tittered, “I…I suppose you and I-“

France lost all control now that he was waking back up from his orgasm and finally freed from the handcuffs. He grabbed a handful of England’s shirt, yanking him close and hissing to him, “You are in so much trouble the next time I see you.”

England smirked, and taunted, “But didn’t I do you a favor and play out your strange fantasies? Did you not enjoy it, Francis??”

France grew agitated. He did enjoy it. That was the problem. 

He swore in his head right then and there…he was definitely going to get back at that bastard. He wasn’t sure how yet. But he knew somewhere in his brain he’d be able to conjure up a good comeback.