|In Which France is a Prick and Scotland is Gagging
Author: LolaJude164 PM
...for it. Or if France wasn't such a cocktease, maybe Scotland might be nice to someone for a change. Ficlet. Warnings: Language, human names, foreplay.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Humor - France & Scotland - Words: 791 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 27 - Follows: 3 - Published: 01-18-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6665902
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Sometimes, they don't fuck.
Strange, and, as his brother would say, wildly out of character for the both of them, but true. Admittedly, it is a rare occurrence, but once in a while, when they arrive at one of their houses, Francis giggling, and James laughing in an extremely manly way, they just sit back in the bed, and... don't fuck. Instead, a pale, slightly delicate hand blocks James' own en route to pants, and drifts down his chest, caressing every inch of his body, in a way that makes him gasp in a distinctly un-masculine way. James just wants to take him down to Greyfriar's and grind him up against the headstones, sweat beading down his forehead, Francis' moans mixing in with the howl of the wind.
But he doesn't. Because an attempt at something like that could be badly misconstrued, and he rather likes his testicles the way they are thankyouverymuch.
Instead, he bites back a groan, thanking whoever the hell thought of the kilt, and lets Francis do his own work for a change. His boyfriend pushes him down onto the bed, an almost feral grin on his face, and James wants to be thinking all these beautiful metaphors, wants to be waxing poetically about how the sunlight dances across Francis' flaxen locks, but the only word that comes to mind is fuck, and that seems to be doing nicely, so he goes with that. He ain't no Rabbie Burns, anyone could tell you that.
And Francis' hand is still clawing at his chest, and James thinks that his boyfriend can be such a bitch sometimes, a bitch who knew full well exactly what buttons to press to mould him into a quivering lump of goo. A lump of goo with a raging hard-on, at that.
Francis is full on smirking by this point, hands drifting low, only to dance back up as soon as James starts to feel a glimmer of hope that this god-awful foreplay will end soon, so they can actually start with the shagging. He's wearing a kilt, for God's sake; it just proves he's gagging for something- anything at all.
He's licking now, tongue tickling his stomach, and, fuck, he is seriously going to die if he doesn't come soon; he wonders if there's any record of someone dying from a lack of sex. He tries anything, anything at all to keep himself from exploding; he tries counting sheep, but all he can see is Wales, and he starts snickering helplessly, and thank fuck, it's working, he can feel it, but Francis bites down hard, and James bites down a howl, because he knows, dammit; he knows how hard this is, because he's a cutthroat little bitch, and dammit, he likes to see him squirm like a baby, instead of a fully grown man.
But all of a sudden Francis' magic fingers are moving up his thigh, and James feels like he's going to scream, he wants it so bad; he's practically thrusting his cock into Francis hand, he needs it far, far too much. Francis' free hand lifts away the kilt, delicately, like an artist unveiling his prize painting, and he moves up James' body, stroking his hair gently, hand now caressing his groin. And James looks straight into his boyfriends eyes as Francis gives him a predatory leer and...
And if James wasn't so such a manly bastard, he would seriously start crying about now.
It's always the same the next morning; Francis wakes him with a sleepy grin, and a tender peck on the cheek, as if nothing even happened the night before. And he supposes nothing had. James simply glares back, legs like lead, and libido now well and truly crushed. And as he climbs from the bed, and moves to the small kitchen to make breakfast, because Francis claims to have refined his pallet too much to enjoy anything deep fried, Francis' hips sway seductively, in a way that just screams out the truth; that this was some weird-arse cosmic test of wills, and that Francis has just proved to himself that they can be a completely normal couple, who are perfectly capable of going without sex for just one night. And of course, he's France, he just has to make matters worse, so as he brings James his completely organic croissant, with low fat butter, he reaches down for a kiss, face shining with pride, and his hand just barely brushes over James' cock.
And James thinks that if he has to go through this one more time he's gonna castrate himself.