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Buried to the hilt, his cock deep and squeezed by the eager English Channel and earning moans and whines more delicious than any French cooking with every thrust. Pinned beneath him, Arthur’s legs spread and trembling. Pale body flushed and marked by France’s eager lips. His neck, his nipples, his thighs, all love-bruised from suckling the sensitive flesh. Gorgeous. Perfect. Pleasure, heat, amour…or at least that’s how France would be spending tonight if his bosses hadn’t made him return to Paris!!!!!

‘Mon dieu!’ France huffed, collapsing melodramatically into bed. Alone.

He should be indulging in his favourite English muffin right now and not tired from a stressful day of meetings!

He was truly saddened, he had so much planned and this weekend was supposed to have been, well, he had hoped—

Damn. 

With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his own silky hair and breathed, staring at the ornate ceiling and trying to ease the jumbled up feelings in his soul, but it was of little use. He wanted Arthur. Wanted him here, by his side, under him, in his bed, in his arms. God, when did he become such a lovesick fool? He was always passionate but such tender despair had never clawed around his heart like this before. Pain, yes, restlessness, of course. But want? This desire was on another level and so sweetly agonising every second he wasn’t with him.

He and England had made great strides in their relationship over the last few decades. The world wars had helped them become better allies and even friends, deep down they had always cared about each other, but it wasn’t so out in the open before. Not something to wrestle with quite like this. Since then, France had finally been able to get closer to him. Slowly, obviously, and he was never known to be a patient man. But England’s repressed world of subtext and tsundere silliness was a tussle he was ready to fight with his bare teeth and then kiss it better if he had to. 

Some of it was tense or downright bickering, but then there were the late night conversations, gushing compliments that made the Brit go scarlet and not know how to handle his feelings, holding his hand and playing footsie when he had the chance, gifts and sweet nothings, flirty whispers and, eventually, a kiss. It had been so small and yet it had meant the world to France when England had, without pressure other than his own turbulent feelings, decided to kiss him on the cheek. 

Blue eyes could see how uncomfortable Arthur was with showing emotion, being vulnerable, but he had done it anyway with a blush across his boyish face. Maybe it was easier than saying the words.

France was a man of pleasure and indulgence, centuries spent near drowning (happily) in men and women, beautiful bodies, their mouths, between heir legs, moans, hands, everything. But he had never felt so intensely adored as he had from that little English kiss.

Ever since, admittedly, he was rather whipped. Anything at all the Englishman would give him, he lapped up. It was fun really. When they were walking in a heatwave and England brushed France’s hair from his face - how tender. When he dropped something and Arthur picked it up for him and even flashed a smile - how kind. When France had placed a hand to the small of England’s back and the smaller nation had leaned in just a little, so shy, so cute!

England was still England, calling him frog and cheesy monkey, and France was still France, poking fun at the Brit's cooking. But their teasing eased as they looked to this other part of their relationship. France had thought he knew how it would go. Escalating touch until they fell into bed together. But no. They hadn’t even kissed on the lips before England had, perhaps a little vulnerably on wine and ale, asked France to be honest with him. 

What was on the table here? Was this all a laugh? Was it cheap? Is this another one of your French fancies? Is that all that this is…? 

He wasn’t asking what he really meant. Do you love me? Do you want me? Will we be happy together? He doesn’t know how to ask those, even now. Green eyes had been holding back tears in a British stiff upper lip manner though the booze and dam of emotions were shining through those green eyes. Because he does feel, so very much, for such a little thing. Afraid his love which was not so secretly thundering about in his prideful chest was worthless…and Francis just surrendered on the spot.

France hadn’t expected to confess that night, and certainly not to argue in circles for hours to convince him he was telling the truth, but he had. 

‘Je t’aime, Arthur’ and tears had pricked his own eyes. 

Suddenly in the fray with something so precious in his arms, Francis didn’t want to ruin it. 

Every droplet of adoration sparkled as he spilled his heart out, how no one in the whole world had ever riled him like England, no one hurt him like he could, no one mattered like he did, not to France. How beautiful he was, how cute and funnily grumpy he could be. He wants him, completely and Arthur needs to believe him. 

Shakily, Arthurs own confession came but not in so many words. It came in how wary he was to believe it. The caution told of how easily France could hurt him. So many centuries at each other's throats, putting the other down. France being the love capital of the world for so long and how he’s spoken of England in the past. In their childhoods. France could see their history of cruelty had never truly faded and it was taking retribution now in how easily they could destroy each other when it was the last thing they wanted to do. 

It took time, but England’s heart and head would eventually accept every part of the confession as truth.

It required dates where he was closed off or awkward. It took late night calls between them where they plucked apart old wounds to stitch them together. More bickering, of course. It took time. Even just to see that France didn’t grow bored and fall into the arms of another in the meantime. Instead, half of Europe could tell Francis was madly, sickeningly in love. He sighed how those in sonnets did over balconies waiting for their lover to return from war. He daydreamed like he breathed. He always knew he loved love…it inspired him so greatly, but he had never studied to these depths before and he had no desire to be studious anywhere else. 

And England’s own defensiveness could be quite troublesome, easily embarrassed and bratty…but, eventually, more relaxed and steady, the touches started. Leaning on the other, a head on his shoulder—so adorable—a heated kiss by the door, hands wandering up or fingertips to thread through silky hair…

God, he felt perfect in France’s arms. They ached, empty as he lay in his bed without him. Tears escaping to the silk sheets below. 

Enough. It was a wonder France had remembered to eat with all this pining. 

This weekend was supposed to be when he finally made love to him after all these centuries, but no. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out that way, but he had felt they were on the right track, something so needy and clinging lately. England much preferred to use subtext where he could and gestures where he couldn’t. Anything but saying the words. 

Much like insults, England’s mastery of language could crumble under pressure. One minute he was a brilliant wordsmith and the next - ‘stupid frenchie French stupid face’ was as much as he could muster. The same went for their romantic or more heated conversations. French love songs poured into his mind by Francis only for England to freeze from intensity and whine ‘shut up!’ with a blush so deep. Precious…but often unhelpful. 

Just call him, France decided. It wasn’t too late in the day, so the number was dialled and he hoped his Angleterre was still up. As it rang, he got up off the bed and poured himself a small glass of wine and headed to the balcony. Eventually, he was answered.

‘Evening, Francis.’

Unlike England’s collected greeting, Francis’ lack of self control allowed him to gush ‘oh, mon petit lapin, I have missed you so very much. Have you eaten, how was your day? I hope it was splendid and you thought of me as I have had you in my daydreams all day, I cannot wait to see your face and kiss-’

‘Bloody hell, you ninny’ England interrupted at the intense hello, and Francis could just tell he was blushing like crazy, not used to such unabashed affection. ‘Firstly, yes, I have eaten, my day was fine though remind me to limit Sealand’s sweets, rather hyper, and…I suppose, I did, sort of…miss you too.’

Well, if Francis’ heart wasn’t just ba-dum, ba-dumming so happily in his chest, Arthur was trying at least to say the sweeter things even if difficult for him. He was great with gestures, gift giving and manners - just the words. But France smiled and took a sip of his wine before apologising ‘I am so sorry our weekend was cancelled, my bosses were adama-’

‘It’s not your fault’ the brit cut him off for the hundredth time since France was called away so suddenly, ‘we can try again another time.’ 

‘Oh, oui, we most certain will. I had such lovely things planned for us but I shall save them for then’ he cooed, looking out into the city of amour ‘I wish you were here, the lights in Paris look so very beautiful tonight…’ 

‘London’s better.’ 

About to argue with the brat, Francis held his tongue. England’s in his city flat tonight rather than the U.K. share house and, on Arthur’s street, they’ll have the Christmas lights and decorations up already. Usually first thing in November. Paris transforms into Christmas much more suddenly and as a whole while London is not far behind but it is a bit staggered in comparison…but his flat has the perfect view of one of the first streets to look so festive. 

Feeling warm at the thought, France had to admit he would trade the view of Paris for it so long as he could wrap his arms around his little Angleterre.

‘My darling, how about we spend this noel together, hm?’ He asked, suddenly inspired. 

‘Um—‘ He could tell that surprised England but he waited patiently, taking another sip, ’well, I….where would we spend it?’ There he goes again, not saying what he meant. Much easier to pick apart the plans than say yes, I want to. 

‘So long as I or my chef prepare the Christmas dinner…I will spend it wherever you prefer.’

‘But you think my Christmas’ are less fabulous than yours’ Arthur argued.

‘Oui’ France didn’t deny it.

‘And you do most of your weird celebration on Christmas Eve…I'm not doing that.’

‘That is how it is done…usually, exceptions can be made’ France sighed.

‘Francis? Why aren’t you fighting me?’

‘Because your Christmas’ are still lovely, certainly cozy…and I desire nothing more this year than to cozy up with you.’

‘You’re ridiculous, you know that?’

France grinned as he finished his wine and, feeling the chill, he headed back tot he bedroom and put the glass down. ‘Christmas at yours then? We can keep each other warm…’

Oh, wouldn’t that be fun? The Christmas lights, a little hot cocoa, some mulled wine…making love by the fireplace…

As France sat on the edge of his bed, he felt a little pressure in his slacks. Looking down, he was half hard, the tent in the fabric hiding nothing. When did that happen? Bringing a hand to the front of his stylish pants, he rubbed just so, gently and teasing with an idea.

‘Right, I guess…I’ll….I’ll make the arrangements. You sure you’re alright spending Christmas at mine?’

‘Oui, thank you, Arthur…oh, I do wish we could have had this weekend, I would have been spoiling you rotten, I want you in my arms…so badly…’

‘Well, it’s nice to be wanted’ England said awkwardly; he really didn’t know what to do with himself.

Francis was undeterred.

‘God, I miss your kisses, how your body feels next to mine…’ 

‘Indeed. Um, well—‘

‘Darling, do you know how hard I am for you, just thinking about you?’

‘…’

Maybe he went to far, but he was desperate and wanton and, damn, he wanted to be balls deep in the little gentleman punk right now!! 

‘Will you stay on the phone with me, talk with me?’ He asked, chancing his luck.

‘Francis, I don’t…um….this isn’t my….forte…’ 

‘Oh, how cute, I can teach you if you are willing. A firm, guiding hand, hm?’

’N-no, really, I’m all….god, this is embarrassing.’

‘No need to be embarrassed, my sweet. Will you try for me? I want to hear your voice, my imagination has been going all day just wanting you here with me…anything you have to give, it will do.’

‘But Francis, I’ve never…that is—I…talking is….’

‘Words are hard?’

‘Yes!’

‘So am I’ France teased playfully, his erection straining inside of clothing with an eager throb. ‘So very hard, if I don’t touch it soon it will hurt I’m so inspired by you…’

‘Blimey, Francis’ England sighed, torn between his curiosity and nerves, 'I don’t know what I’m doing and we, we haven’t…it’s not like we’ve had regular sex yet.’

‘Oh, Arthur, when we have sex it will be so far beyond regular, it will be heavenly.’ 

‘What I’m saying is, isn’t this a leap?’

‘You would rather speak with your body than your words?’ France near hummed, ’you think it’s more intimate to talk to me than to let me fuck you?’

‘God, you…how do you…’

‘Darling, you do not have to…but I would very much like for you to talk to me, please…’ Frances said sincerely, a softness in his tone, ‘it’s okay if you are bad at it, not that much can go wrong anyway since I find you so exciting…and I think I will only think it more endearing.’ 

‘But…I…damn, just give me a minute.’ 

He had likely been in the middle of something, burning food or embroidery, then he heard what he deciphered were curtains being drawn and Francis smiled, even alone in his London flat at night, he was trying to feel more private.

He’ll remember that. When he does bed the Englishman, he’ll make It feel like they’re the only two in the entire world. 

Straining inside his pants, France tensed there and kept his hands idle other than holding the phone. Excited but he didn’t know how far England would be willing to go with this. Hopefully England will do some of the talking at least, even a little, and Arthur will hear him…ooh, yes, that’s fun.

‘My Anglaterre…I am in bed, on top of the covers…fully dressed…I won't touch myself unless you tell me to…’ 

‘I…well that seems like entirely too much responsibility.’ 

He couldn’t contain the laugh at that one, ‘I'm sure you can handle it, are you comfortable?’

‘Ish’ England answered ‘not really…but…as I’ll ever be’ 

‘I won't make you-‘

‘You can’t make me and I'm still here…just, trying not to be absolutely mortified.’ 

France rolled his eyes and lightly bit his bottom lip a moment, considering how to start this. ’Where are you in the flat?’

‘The bedroom…’ 

‘On the bed?’

‘Yes’

‘Lying?’

‘I’m not lying—’ 

‘I meant are you lying on the bed?’

‘Oh, no, sitting’ Arthur flustered, thoroughly out of his comfort zone, ’sh-should I?’

‘No, no, stay exactly where you are’ France eased warmly, imagining his little English muffin all wound up and shy, ‘and your clothes?’

‘…Pyjamas.’ 

How adorable. ‘Button ones or…?’

‘T-shirt and bottoms, not sexy I know.’

‘Absolutely perfect, mon chéri.’ Indeed, he likely looks so cozy and ready for bed. He could just imagine sneaking his own eager hands up to feel his flat stomach, his chest… ‘Are you wearing slippers?’

‘You’re taking the mick now!’

‘Please, slippers?’

‘Yes, what about it?’

‘Take…the left one off…kick it away’ France instructed slowly, thinking about how they might slide from his feet. Unsurprisingly, England felt France was teasing, he couldn’t possibly be interested in something as silly as a slipper?

‘You’re making a fool of m-’

‘There isn’t an inch of you I will not kiss when given the chance…I mean that’ the frenchman interrupted firmly, thoroughly interested. ‘I will lick you from your head to your toes, touch by touch…so please…the left one.’

Patiently, France listened as Arthur processed his words, the sincerity and, eventually, humoured him with a playful little flick and the slipper landing elsewhere in the room.

‘There.’

Francis smiled hearing the faint little thud, the silly little action vivid in his mind. He also knew England takes care of his feet, it came from being hardy and, for such a little thing, he was so enduring. The brit has good habits, tootsies cared for and clean. 

‘Francis? You’re not talking.’

‘Just thinking about you…’

‘From a…slipper?’

‘No, from your feet’ France chuckled fondly ‘I have never given you a massage, I would like to…’ 

‘Pervert.’

‘There is no part of you which does not excite me, at the risk of bigging up your ego…I will prove it to you with time.’

‘Can’t say feet are my thing’ England answered honestly, knowing Francis’ interests would be something to navigate as they explored more of their physical relationship going forward. Who knows what else the man was into.

‘That's alright, my Angleterre, but you will let me massage you, yes?’

There was a beat of quiet before England replied ‘I-I mean, yes, sorry, forgot you couldn’t see me nodding.’ He really is a novice with this but France only found himself enjoying it more with every slip and fumble.  

Tracing his fingers over the bulge in his pants, France gave himself a slight squeeze as he instructed further. ‘The other slipper, I want you to slowly take it off with your hands for me and then place it aside…’

‘This is all rather particular’ England noted ‘are you really…at attention…by all this?’

‘Oh, at attention, full mast, the Eiffel Tower is grand, big ben is—‘

‘Got it, got it’ and England slowly did as asked.

‘Did you do it?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘Hmm. You have nice hands, Angleterre’ France hummed, thinking about how he have handled the slipper, England has pretty hands, gentlemanly and good at fine things like his needlework. ’I imagine them sometimes, in my hair…your nails down my back…on my chest, with your weight on top of me—’

‘Calling me heavy? The cheek.’

‘Not in the slightest,’ France replied with a smile, though he held his tongue on how England had parts of him which were a little softer rather than muscular, a little bit to pinch on his slender frame. ‘I’m saying I want you to ride me.’

‘I…’

‘Ride my fingers, my dick…my face, and put your weight on me, smother me, mon amour.’ 

‘How did we go from a slipper to THAT?!’

‘There is not one speed, Arthur’ he aroused nation sighed, his fingers pressing just so over his throbbing erection craving more but he was dedicated to taking his time. ‘My desires are all at once and over time, do you understand?’

‘I…I think so.’ 

Taking his hand away from his crotch, France switched things up a little ‘talk to me, what should I do?’

‘Francis, I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I dont know’ England struggled, ‘I…’

‘Well, I am aching for you, it hurts a little, should I touch it…or do you want me to endure it, both are pleasing in their own ways?’

Arthur took a beat to think, shy btut not running away. ‘…Touch it’ 

‘Touch what?’

‘You know what!’

‘Say it.’

‘Why do I have to-?’

‘I want to hear you say it, and how will I know what you want me to touch if you don’t say the words?’ France teased, he knew full well want “it” was but he could just imagine Arthur squirming on the bed considering how to summon the nerve. England could be direct when he wanted to be but this sudden dive into phone sex was something else…

‘Touch…yourself.’

‘Where?’

‘Francis-’

‘My arms? My ears…my chest…where?’

‘Your…’ France waited with a smirk until England’s mind clearly hit a wall, ‘…privates.’

‘Wow, you are bad at this.’

‘You’re not supposed to say that! And I told you so! Never mind, this was a poor idea, I’ll just-‘

‘Calm down, Arthur’ he comforted, feeling a little guilty he blurted such a thing out but he had simply found it amusing. He was certainly still aroused, just a little funny joy was added to the jumble in his heart. ’Stay exactly where you were for me, alright? Now…my cock. You want me to touch my cock, right?’

After a stubborn pause, England eventually accepted the help with a clipped ’yes’ and added ‘though I am rethinking the letting you stew option.’

‘Say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘Say, Francis…touch your cock for me…those exact words’ the request came through guidance ‘please, I am getting desperate here, my darling.’

‘Touch y…I…’

‘Please.’

‘Francis…touch your…cock…for me.’

‘How?’

‘Don’t be stupi-‘

‘Over my pants or inside?’

‘O..over’

‘Oui, yes, thank you, thank you, Angleterre’ France sighed, his palm over his aching dick once more and a little firmer, finding the head through the fabric and giving it some friction with his fingers. Something seemed to change then, England’s tone much softer from there.

‘You really were pent up, weren’t you?’

‘It’s alright, this is good…merci, hmm….are you excited too or?’

‘I…y-yes.’

‘When? What did it?’

‘Just now…the…the…talking and the...thank yous.’

‘Oh, you like that?’ The older nation grinned ‘I’m going to be thanking you so very much tonight, I need your permission to do anything, how about that? Whatever you give me, I am so grateful.’

‘Since when are you so willing to surrender, what’s happened?’

It was a genuine question. France was indulgent but this was something else, so easy, so adoring and needy.

France didn’t hold back, knowing exactly how to appease his proud little Englishman, 

’Oh, amour, you won.’

He…won?

England won?

‘You claimed and conquered my heart and now I am your spoils of war…your loyal little French territory whom adores you…’ and the smirk was obvious even without being able to see each other, laced through his voice, as he asked ‘that excites you, non?’

‘God, Francis’ England’s own voice a touch heavier. 

‘You can touch yourself as you please, but just tell me…tell me what your are doing, I need to know.’

‘I…n-nothing so far…but I’m…this is getting to me.’

‘Good, perfect…’ 

Palming his erection, his cock a teasing squeeze, France let out a quiet breathy moan over the call. ‘Angleterre…you do not have to follow my instructions at all, but I would so very much like to make requests…’ 

‘R-right…go on?’

‘If I were with you right now, I’d be kissing you, feeling you…I'd be playing with your nipples through your shirt…please…touch them. I want you to put the phone on speaker and touch them both.’

‘This—you—God, you’re such a pervert’ England stammered.

‘I’d be sucking them, getting your shirt all wet with my mouth…’

‘Fucking hell.’

The brit hesitated but then France heard him put the phone to the side, on speaker, and a pause. ‘Are you doing it?’

‘Not quite sure how to…begin…’

‘Nice and slow to start, a hand on each breast…your thumbs…play just a little, rub just so, and keep going.’

‘O-okay…yeah, I…doing it’ he confessed the last part, clearly red in the face and Francis felt the swell of pride at their progress. 

His Arthur, at home in his little London flat, touching his chest and hard for him, letting him talk through it, cheeks scarlet and words so hard for him. Gorgeous. 

Francis too put his phone on speaker and next to his head on the pillow.

‘Can you spread your legs for me, like I am there with you, where I’d fit between them?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘You like that, yes?’

‘It’s…pleasant’. 

Tempted but he didn’t make fun, enjoying the struggled word choice. ‘What would you like me to do?’

‘Um….t-take off your shirt?’

‘Slowly or rip it off?’

‘Slow…but don’t be silly about it.’ 

Counting each button as he undid them, ‘one, two…three…some décolletage for you, hm?’ 

‘Surprised it took that many buttons given how you usually dress…’

‘I was at stuffy meetings allay, normally I want to be appealing for you.’

‘Four,’ he continued and counted until the last one allowed him to open the shirt and reveal his torso, the low lamplight flirting over his masculine form and trailing, flattering hair. ‘Do you like my body, Arthur?’ He asked deviously, knowing England’s face would be on fire to have to answer such a thing. 

‘Of…of course I bloody do, we’re dating, what kind of question is that?’

‘You like my chest?’

‘…yes’

‘My muscles?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Anything else?’

Francis expected to hear his arms, his face…

‘…your hair…’

‘My hair?’ France smiled, pleased immensely by the little truth his love shared, ’well it is silky and gorgeous…of course you do.’ 

‘Not just, umm…never mind.’

‘Not just…the hair on my head? You like it all, don’t you?’

The teasing was fun, especially as a shy admission came from the other side of the call ‘I….I sort of do.’

‘Oh, that is interesting, I didn’t know that…what about it?’ Before England could grow defensive he continued, ‘please, you are doing so well, indulge me, please?’

‘Vain thing, you are. It, umm...makes you…look…mature’ England slowly found the words, each one tippling from his lips unsure but honest, ‘manly, I think.’

Manly? Masculine in a way England isn’t as well. Arthur has a boyish charm, smooth and slight, and, frankly, he was a bratty little twink that France had spent centuries attempting to tame. His latest attempts the most fruitful apparently. 

‘You like manly? Hmm, where else will you like then…my arms, shoulders?’

‘Yes, I do…like those.’

‘My back?’

‘Quite.’

‘I bet you like my….chin, my jaw, oui?’

‘Yes, yeah…I do’ a little eagerness was laced through that time. 

Feeling like he could cum despite hardly touching himself, France gripped his shaft through his pants and asked ‘your nipples, pinch them, mon cheri?’ 

‘Pinch?!’

‘Oui, please, as hard or soft as you like, just pinch them since I cannot for you.’

‘I…f-fine.’ 

‘Are you still hard?’

‘Yes, I am—’

‘Good, perfect. Oh, I know you look absolutely gorgeous’ France cooed, ’lift your shirt, just high enough, above your chest…’

‘It’ll fall.’

Ah, right. England is sat up on edge of the bed. ‘Lay back for me, feet up on the bed and keep your legs spread…now, touch them directly, please.’

‘Alright, yes…I’m…I’m doing it.’

‘Perfect, perfect’ he sighed, imagining England on his queen sized bed, knees apart and so cute in his pyjamas, erect and blushing with his shirt pushed up, his pretty hands playing with those little nubs and getting so sensitive. All because of France…

‘Touch yours, your…nipples…too.’ 

‘Both, I’ll have to stop touching my dick?’ 

‘Uh huh’ England confirmed and, obediently, Francis brought his hand away and taking the relief with it. 

‘Soft, hard?’

‘How you…how you like…what pleases you most.’

Okay, somehow that was deliciously worded.

‘Hmm, how generous of you. I am touching them’ France said, his fingers working over his chest and playing with a slight roughness. ‘I…I want you to tell me how you feel…’

‘Francis…’

‘Anything, I don’t care how it’s worded…how do you feel?’

‘…intense.’ 

‘Good. More.’

‘Warm’ England confessed, his voice a little raspy over the line ‘and…a-a little…exposed…’

‘You are in private, you aren’t even fully undressed…’

‘But…’ England protested, then the most whiny sexy little thing was confessed ‘but I’m on my own and hard, thighs spread and touching my nipples talking to a horny frenchman, so, yes, I feel exposed.’ 

Mon dieu. 

’When you say it all together, my, yes, I suppose you are’ the older country agreed slyly, ‘I bet you’re all blushing too, your expression, I can imagine…I want you to imagine I’m there with you, on top…between your legs…I’m sucking your nipple, pinch there, please, do it.’

A tiny moan, a near whimper.

God, yes, he’s perfect.

‘Feel good?’

‘Yes, Francis…please, something…more.’

‘Since you ask so nicely. Take off your bottoms, let them fall wherever…the important part is you. Slowly, I want you to stroke your cock…gently…a little squeeze…’

‘Francis.’

‘I love how you say my name, darling, I want to make you scream it before tonight is over.’

‘Oh god’ England gasped, no doubt stroking himself just as asked. It would be ungentlemanly to not follow proper instruction. ’T-touch yourself.’ 

‘But I am…’

‘Your cock, you idiot.’ 

‘My pants.’

‘Take them o-no, um…open, open them and…’ 

‘And?’

‘Th-the same, stroke yourself how I am…s-slow.’

Better. England’s in the swing of things. Who knows, maybe France should be whisked off to Paris more so he can build his skills. How filthy could he get the brit to speak? 

He wasted no time before unbuttoning his pants, opening the fly and he pushed his underwear down to release his member, the thick rod hot in his hands and he felt his own mind swimming with arousal. 

‘Feels sublime,’ France whispered ‘I can only imagine if it is your hand, your feisty mouth…inside you.’ 

‘God, fuck…this…this is…’

‘Are you going to last, mon amour?’

‘Yes—yes, I can…just…it gets so intense’ England stuttered, the tension in his body audible over the phone.

‘It should, my love for you burns so hot…I want you in my mouth, I want to make you cum. I want to feel you squeeze my fingers, my cock, ah, I'm…you’ll feel divine, I know your body will take it, take everything I have to give…’

He’s leaking. The glistening tip beading in the amber glow of the lamplight and his fingers spread it around, his shaft gradually easier in his grasp and the sound shifting to a slick rhythm.

‘Francis, I….I want that too.’

‘Ah, you do? Tell me, tell me right now…’ Francis’ own pleasure unhidden, breathy and deep, he urged his shy lover to speak.

‘I want….y-you’re such a famous lover…I…I know it’ll be good’ England spoke with a broken mewl, one hand working his flushed cock and the other still toying with one nipple. ‘I….want, I-I want to know what all the fuss is about. You’ll feel…you’ll make me…you’ll make me feel like no one else has…’

‘Fuck’ France cursed. It lacked his usual finesse but, damn, that worked. That got him. ‘You’re right, my Angleterre, and you already, ah, you already make me feel so many new things…you’re special, so special…we…we're perfect together, and yes, I will….no one can please you like I can.’ 

‘No, just…just you.’

‘No one will make you cum like me’ France’s voice grew deeper, rougher and more possessive with ever stroke of his throbbing dick, wet sound soft flesh in hand filling the room with his own broken moans. ’No one knows you like I do, no one can fuck you like I will…and I will, Arthur. If we were in bed together, I’d have you stretched on my cock and screaming right now.’

‘Fuck—F-Francis, h-harder.’

Harder strokes, harder squeeze; just harder. 

‘England, do you…do you have any…lube?’

‘I…’ Arthur paused—caught—and eventually answered bashfully ‘I do.’

‘For this weekend?’

‘Just…just in case’ he confessed with a twinge in his moan and France felt his own thrum of pleasure heighten imagining England getting slowly closer to climax. 

‘Have you ever…fingered yourself?’

‘God, Francis…’

‘I want to know, h-have you?’ Francis’ voice growing unsteady, strokes quickening just a little and his thumb further teasing the head. A twist as he fisted his own cock and imagined his darling Angleterre was in bed with him.

‘…yes…’ 

God, the image. When? To who? Maybe to France, but anyone else? A flare of jealousy came but he could play with that later, he was far too busy guiding his lover to great satisfaction. 

‘It’s been a long time…since I last—’ 

‘Can you get it, the lube?’ 

‘Francis, I’m not going to last too much longer if we—’

‘That’s fine’ France’s finesse slipping even further, his mind baser, his hand moving more firmly from root to tip. ‘Please.’ 

He heard England opening a drawer and getting back onto the bed. The slight dip of springs under his lean body the only clue before Francis requested more. ‘Lay back, Angleterre, spread your legs…I’m sure you’re better than anything I can imagine and you look gorgeous in my mind. We don’t need much, just use it on your fingers…’

‘R-right….’

Thinking aloud to himself, Francis had little filter left. ‘I wonder what inspired you to do this before? The haughty British gentleman, fingering himself in private?’

‘Don’t make fun…’ came an embarrassed whine.

‘I’m not, the idea is so sexy…Maybe you were thinking of me, maybe you weren’t…regardless…it will only be me from now on.’ France’s tone was undeniably possessive then. The same kind he used to harness in his old days. Even a hint of cruelty there. Selfish, surely. Only this time it wasn’t about domination, it was about having England’s attention to himself. 

‘You cannot touch your dick until you’re two fingers deep, Arthur…’ France said suddenly, the most firm demand he’s set and a change from earlier. ‘Can you do that for me?’

‘Can you…talk me through it?’

‘Oh, of course! Mon petit lapin, are your fingers wet?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘Gently, for me, just rub there for me…don’t press inside.’ 

Maybe it was a growing confidence or, more likely, a sex drunk whim but, to Francis’ surprise, and utter delight, England’s bratty side asked ‘where?’

‘Huh?’

‘How will I know where…where you want me to touch if…if you don’t say the word.’

‘You little punk!’ France exclaimed despite his growing grin at the other’s behaviour, what a playful turn, and he quickly rose to the occasion. ‘Your hole, your chatte.’

‘I don’t have a chatte!’ Arthur suddenly squeaked, too horny to be mad but completely scandalised. 

France, the menace he was, didn’t miss a beat.

‘Your tight, cute, needy boy-chatte…your fingers, rub it.’

‘What an absurd man you are…’ 

‘Are you doing it?’

Mortified and desperate, England eventually said ‘…yes.’

‘I do wish it were me playing with your body, I’d tease you with my hands, my tongue…’ 

‘Fuck, hn—’ England’s voice was quiet, he had tried to keep it in.

‘Let me hear you…don’t hold back, I adore your sounds’ France peladed, his own hand speeding up just a touch but that was a dangerous game. ‘A first fingertip, inside, in and out.’ The delicate whimper over the line was music to France’s ears. ‘Does it hurt?’

’N-no, I just….I wish it was you as well’ England confessed, this weekend likely being when France would have used his own fingers to tease him and it just wasn’t the same on his own, but whatever guards he had held up before were clearly lowering with every needy little breath and gasp over the call. ‘A-are you still touching yourself?’

‘Oui, slower again though’ France answered, voice gruff and, while the strokes were slow, the squeeze and firm hold was rougher. ‘With your other hand, touch your nipple again…’

‘Y-yeah…do you need anything else Francis, or—?’

‘I’ve been hard for so long, mon amour, I’ll finish with ease. Just let me enjoy you.’ He meant it, he’ll easily finish in his own hand soon enough, and he wanted nothing more than to hear more of England’s moans. ‘When you’re ready, slide the rest of your finger inside.’

A pinched noise escaped the small nation it made Francis’ swollen cock throb in his grip ‘perfect, you sound so lovely, don’t stop…’

‘Francis, c-can…can I touch…’

‘Can you touch what, my Angleterre?’

‘My dick, can I—’

Ooh, he’s getting desperate. Francis’ own body thrummed with pleasure at the idea of the Brit writhing in bed, maybe he’s leaking too, neglected cock hard against his flat stomach and…no, stay focused. 

‘Are you two fingers deep?’

’N-no, god, this is maddening’ England huffed breathlessly, a whine to it which made France almost feel guilty. Almost. 

‘You are doing so well for me’ the olde nation comforted. ‘Thrust that finger for me, deep as it can go.’’ 

‘You’re such a prick’ the insult feel entirely flat, England so wound up there was no bite to it, just a desperate want for release, cock hard and France’ mind swam with just what he’d be like under him given the chance. Arthur always has been reactive, responsive, and he couldn’t wait to be pressing the feisty little nation to the mattress, chasing each moan with his lips and thrust of his fingers.

Frances own leaking cock, precum making each stroke slick and audible, pulsed in his hand. Getting an idea, he picked up the phone with his other hand and asked ’can you hear me, mon cheri?’ before holding the device towards his crotch, deliberately seeking out each wet and loud sound he could possibly make. 

‘Ah, F-Francis…you…you’re such a pervert…’

‘Thinking of you, darling’ he teased once the phone was back to his pillow. He shifted his hips in the silk sheets, meeting his hand with a slight buck and a low moan escaped as he felt that familiar tightness in his groin. ’Your prostate, softly, touch it.’

The trailing mewls and huffs were effortless now, he’s so cute, and no longer hidden in British shyness over the call. ‘Rub it, where it feels good, just focus there with your finger…’

‘Francis, please…’

Stay strong, Francis thought to himself. He knew he could push England a little bit further and he did. ‘How does it feel, mon amour? Tell me.’

‘Good, s—so good’ England gasped, ‘…but…’

‘But what?’

‘But your fingers are bigger.’

‘Ah, oui, they are…’ Francis smirked though his expression was faltering, the bliss of fisting around his dick pushing him closer. ‘Perhaps I should up it to three fingers?’

’N-no, I just…fuck—’

‘The second finger, can you add that?’

‘I-I can’ Arthur’s voice was strained, a slight hiss as he entered another finger and stretching his hole further.  

‘Okay there, darling?’

‘Yeah, just…burns a little…’

‘You really haven't done this in a long time…’ France mused. Splendid isolation, indeed. ‘When we are together, I’ll make sure to take my time…you know I have a huge—’

‘I fucking know!’

The chuckle couldn’t be helped, ‘I’ll make it slow, I’ll open you up, stretch you…’ and France heard the other cursing and fighting a struggled whimper. ‘Maybe I’ll make you cum first so you’re nice and relaxed…I’ll use my tongue…’

‘C-complete pervert, ruddy menace, F-Francis…’

‘Oh, to have you under me, blushing and pretending you don’t love it, too shy to admit you want me to eat out your chatte.’

‘Fuck, Francis…’

Speeding his own hand up, France couldn’t stop the loose moan as he continued ’don’t let up. If I were there, that spot inside your that feels so good, I’d play with it until you couldn’t take it any more. Thrust your fingers, hit right there…’

‘-fuck, I…please, can…can…’

‘Not quite yet’ Francis said as he brought the hand that wasn’t on his dick to clutch at the fabric of his pillow, strong elegant hands tightly buried in the plush bedding as he bit his bottom lip ‘You’re so close’ he gasped, they both were. ‘Tell me when they’re deep, deep as they can go, when you’re thrusting them harder.’

The combined sounds over the call and bouncing around the walls of his own Paris apartment were so gorgeous, a symphony of pleasure and so debauched.

‘Yes, yes, there, doing it…please-’ England nearly cried, his body so oversensitive as he fingered himself, feeling the stretch and doing his best to chase the friction, no not let up in how his own fingers were abusing his prostate despite its own torturous teasing. 

Then, of course, France found new depths of indulgence. 

‘Hold the phone there.’

‘What?! No!’

‘C’mon, let me hear, how will I know you’re doing it’ France near begged, ’let me hear it, please?’

England found himself at an impasse. He could ignore France’s instruction, just let his hand touch his dick and bypass the randy fop, but he wanted to see it through and there was an excitement to the whole thing. He’d never had a relationship or a sexual encounter like this, trust France to push boundaries from the get go, but the desperate throb of his neglected cock was enough to make him push the shame aside. Panting, he did as asked and brought the phone to his lower half. 

Over the phone, the sound was quiet but lewd, slight wet sounds and hint of friction, the telling squelch of lube in his tight hole as obedient fingers rammed inside, how his greedy little chatte was sucking his fingers in…

France’s mind nearly whited out, a dangerous spike of pleasure coursing through his body and he kept his climax narrowly at bay with a tight and forceful squeeze at the base of his girthy rod. The phone was brought away and a feisty ‘there, done, you lech’ on its tail.

’N-now, my Angleterre, you can touch your cock now, however you like. I’m not going to last much longer’ Francis breathily confessed. 

A high pitched little moan, broken apart by pleasure, released from the other end of the call as England was finally able to touch himself.

‘Fuck, a-ah, me neither…Fra—f-fuck, Francis…’ 

‘Oui, oui, more’ he encouraged, hearing the tightening tension of his new lover through his gorgeous moans and whimpers. 'Arthur, are you going to cum? Talk, tell me.’

‘Yes, yes, fuck, I’m…I’m…fuck, I’m gonna-‘ 

Since when did England sound like that? So obscene and undeniably fucked. An expert whore couldn’t sound so genuinely wanton, wracked with bliss spilling over and threatening to burst. 

The dam was broken, England’s voice an orchestra of pleasure and delicious moans. ‘Cu—I’m cumming, fuck, fuck! I’m—ah—!!’

The most strangled, beautiful noise washed over the call as England came, the tension in his body reaching crescendo and finishing with a heady and heavy flourish torn from his throat. France was close behind, climax imminent and he could feel his own blood pulsing around his body at the intensity. 

‘Close, so close…I…ah, Angleterre…’ was what Francis managed before his mind completely gave way, lovestruck confessions tippling from his soul as his cock spilled over at the same time. ‘Je t’aime, je t’aime…mon amour, so good, so—’ 

Such a force, his own cum shot up over his abs and chest, the climax strong and much of it, hot and dizzying, Francis was dreamily aware of perhaps the single most powerful orgasm he’s ever had. 

Both breathless and riding the orgasmic high, any self consciousness well dissolved and both waiting to return to earth. A stunned silence was shared between them. England most of all, he had gone from minding his damn business and embroidering at home on a cozy evening alone to fingers deep and jerking to a wordy frenchman over the phone. Francis too, he was in some shock the whole thing had gone so very well. The silly start was adorable and made his heart happy while the rest, god, the rest…

He could only hope Arthur feels satiated, excited, adored, sexy and all those things. This was very much out of the brits comfort zone and he had adjusted spectacularly (with France’s expert guidance of course).

‘My love,’ Francis panted ‘when I’m back, I will show you just how much I love you.’ His own romantic heart thumping in his chest, he hadn’t spent centuries with the man to be bashful about it and, if anything, he took great pride in being the one nation able to tame the brat that was England so well after so long. ‘No part unkissed, un—’

‘I get it, I get it…’ Arthur hushed him, though his voice was hazy and happy, finding the man’s gushing about them sweet despite his own awkwardness not here things. If there was one thing they had proven, it was that as a pair they were extremely enduring. And those heartfelt, albeit flowery admissions, did mean something to him. ‘Um, Francis?’

‘Yes, Arthur?’ France replied, his own silky hair strewn over the pillow as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Taking stock of himself, messy and spent with a joyful and tired grin. 

Then…

‘I love you too.’ 

Like cupid’s arrow hit him squarely in the heart, his chest became awash with affection all over again. Words. Arthur used his words.

Dramatic as always, Francis grew a little teary at hearing it as he lay in awe at the whole endeavour. Only for the silence to stretch on just a beat too long. 

‘Don’t get all quiet on me now!’ England exclaimed, voice a little raspy from their passions but that old shyness creeping in only for France to chuckle lovingly.

‘I love you with everything I have, darling’ he comforted, saying it without the pressure of his climax and with a much clearer head, ‘and thank you for using your words…I know that is not easy.’

‘Too right it's not.’ 

‘But that felt good, yes?’

‘Obviously.’ 

Such a brat, Francis rolled his eyes, but animosity had been thoroughly replaced as of late and the unwieldy little nation only served to make him melt more. ‘I really do love you, my Angleterre…so much.’

‘…you big sap.’