we're tearing it apart-part-part;

[wingborne]

Prompt

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY OZLOSER

1.

France flung out his arm and broke a vase. But it was England’s own vase, and he never liked it very much, anyway. He was a little more irritated when they crashed wildly into his spare suit of armor that he kept in the hallway, but they had already kicked over a potted plant, which had spilled soil all over his nice red carpet.

“Be careful,” England managed to say, breaking apart from the kiss enough to shove France a little. But France only smiled, the curling smile that started from his eyes then to his lips, the smarmy fucking smile that made England want to punch him and then shove him onto his bed. They were trying to make their way inside his house, but since France decided that he needed to shove his tongue down his throat every second of the way, it was slow going. Not that England particularly minded, even if France had just eaten caviar.

“Why?” France shoved his hand down England’s pants, and England groaned into France’s neck. He gasped and clawed at his bare back, shoving his hips against France. He ran his own hands down France’s smooth skin, over the jutting of the back blades, down to his ass and prying even deeper until his fingers felt moist and he felt hard.

“It’s my fucking house, twat.” England felt his own back slam against a painting. He reached back to shove the painting away from jabbing into his spine, and felt the entire portrait fall away from the nail and crash onto the floor. But France continued to stroke his cock, breathing into his neck, and didn’t seem to care at all.

“I’ll repay you,” France murmured, eyes gleaming in the way that made England want to fuck him and then punch him. “Magnificently.”

He never liked that portrait, anyway.

2.

England breathlessly pinned France against the wall, fingers rough and searching. France smirked, running his fingers through Angleterre’s short hair and leaned back. He could see a line of cat plates staring eerily back at him, their eyes bright blue and sharp from their painted stances. It was a strange sort of hotel, but England had wanted it. No, needed it, and now he was nipping at France’s jaws, fingers running down his straight shoulders.

“Hurry up,” England hissed insistently, fingers yanking at France’s shirt. He splayed one hand against the placid yellow wallpaper and continued to kiss along his neck, burying his nose in the thin wisps of France’s beard.

To be so impatient and so young. France patiently sighed as he began to unbutton his suit, languishing like a stretching cat. His eyes flickered from the cat plates to England, even as he felt England frantically trying to unbutton France’s suit from the bottom, fingers curling and resting against his stomach and rubbing insistently against his cock through the thinness of his shirt.

“Come on, fucking frog, come on,” and with one swift move, England had ripped off France’s suit and shoved it to the ground, frays sticking out wildly.

“That was Dior!” France looked on with dismay, even as England licked his chest throatily, now on his knees and shoving away the rest of his dress shirt with swift, brutal movements of a child. “Do you know how many euros that cost? And it was the winter—“

“Oh, fuck off,” England said, and he used his teeth against the thin line of hair underneath France’s belly button, breathing heavily as his swift fingers fumbling around his belt.

“Not to mention the white color, and even if you have no taste in fashion, then at least you should respect mine and—“

England slammed France against the wall, harder this time, so that his collarbone ached and still felt damp from the kisses. And then England leaned forward, so close that France could feel the faint smell of scones roll over his face, smell the bitter scent of tea, feel his hair being pulled back until his head was tilted so that he could see the openness of balcony by the staring cats.

“Are you going to fuck me,” England breathed, “or not.”

France decided that the suit could wait. As for the paintings of the staring cats, he always did enjoy an audience for his performances.

3.

“Fuck,” England said, “fuck.” He scrambled for support against the desk in his hallway, the small one with the knobby feet and had been his for seventy years and now was being violently rocked back and forth and France thrusted into him, kissing the taut line of his neck. His feet knocked against the legs of the desk, and the knob of the drawer banged against his calf. Still, he gripped France’s back and rocked into him desperately, gasping in short breaths. He felt the warmness coil in his stomach, felt France’s bristles brush against his shoulder.

He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into France’s back, as he felt France’s cock thrust into him, into his tightness and heat and need. It felt good, and all his muscles were tensing up in his shoulders and arms, but still, he gripped at France, like clinging to a rose-scented lifeline. He breathed in deeply, trying not to groan and give France any satisfaction, even as he rocked violently onto the cold desk.

And then the desk broke.

His pens and papers went flying out from the cracked drawer, and he grunted as he felt the main body of the desk ram itself into his spine. France was sprawled out on top of him, still inside him, but now hot and messy and sweaty and his sticky perfumed hair was all in his face and he felt bruises on his ass and back and legs and he grunted as he shoved away the sharper ends of the wood desk.

“Are you all right?” France was panting above him, beginning to draw back.

England caught him by the ear, pulling him back until he was an inch away from his face and he could see the bitten parts of France’s lips where he had sunk his teeth into viciously earlier that day.

“I didn’t say you could leave yet,” he breathed. He rubbed his hard cock against France’s stomach for emphasis, and then began to kiss him, open-mouthed kisses so he could lick the skin that tasted faintly like body lotion.

“But what if you’re hurt?” France placed his hands onto the wall and tried to left himself out, already staggering onto his knees, when England pulled him back into the pile of broken desk, wincing as a blunt edge dug into his rib. But he never broke his gaze with France.

“And when has that ever stopped you?” After another moment, France seemed to agree, and began to kiss him again.

4.

France sat on the headboard, the lighted end of his cigarette glowing like a firefly. He stared dismally at the clothes strewn across the floor. Angleterre’s clothes were no matter to him. They were in bad taste, anyway. An ugly shade of green, clunky belts, carefully chosen yet equally as tragic boxers that sat like a crown on the lamp on the other side of the room.

“Go back to sleep,” England grumbled, lying on his stomach next to him. His hand grasped onto the dresser until he found his watch, and he rolled over to get a better glance at the ticking hands. Frustrated, he finally tossed the watch off the bed, where it fell with a clunk. His breath still stank slightly of alcohol, the ales he knocked back earlier.

“You ruined my suit,” France said, intoning in the same voice he had used at certain funerals. Mournfully, he blew out another long breath of smoke, just to see it rise to the ceiling. If he wasn’t so drunk, he would have thought of some romantic philosophy to go along with it. Or maybe he was so drunk, he would make up some romantic philosophy to go along with it. Either way, he felt England’s hand jab at him from beneath the covers.

“Then get another one, twat,” England mumbled into the pillow. He rolled over to lean further into France, nose sloppily bunching against France’s arm.

“It was expensive.” France tried to grasp the words floating in the air, making open-handed motions in the dark smoke. “It was nice. You wouldn’t understand. You never understand anything about nice suits.”

“Just sew it back together,” England mumbled. “Got some damn sewing scissors… somewhere…”

France decided to ignore the sheer ignorance and horror of the sentence, instead reveling in the appropriate self-pity at the funeral of his nice suit. A good cut, slimming to his figure, a flattering color to his skin and eyes, trimmed perfectly to his height so the cuffs would fall just right on his wrists, just the way he liked it. And ripped in a quick tryst with England.

“Don’t be such an idiot.” England grabbed onto his arm and pulled him back under the covers, where he lightly wrapped his arm around France’s chest.

“Yes, yes,” France said patiently, and he buried one hand loosely into the tufts of England’s hair before he fell back to sleep.

5.

“France, we have to talk.”

“Ah, my thoughts exactly.”

“What? If you want to talk, I don’t want to talk.”

“It’s about our sex, if you may.”

“Oh, bollocks.”

“Bollocks? Well, I do like to touch your bollocks, playing with them in my hands—“

“Stop that! No, you twat. Just… just go on.”

“Why did you curse, then?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s just… If you want to stop because I’ve ruined all your suits, then it’s a petty reason and you’re stupid. Or if it’s some other reason, then you’re also stupid. But I don’t care either way. So I still hate you, yeah?”

“You misunderstand completely. Like always, your little mind cannot comprehend—“

“Oh, cut the crap. If you want to stop it, then just—“

“I don’t want to stop it.”

“… Oh.”

“But my suits are getting ruined. And your house, it is always filled with those furniture people, replacing this and that and this and that.”

“What’s your point?”

“That it’s inconvenient, that’s all. It’s a reasonable price to pay, would you not say? Especially for your tight ass—“

“But it’s still inconvenient.”

“For your furniture and my suits, yes. Pounds and euros. Money matters. Insignificant.”

“Bloody hell, I just can’t think of any solution. Unless you’re going to always wait naked at a hotel or something like that.”

“… I am currently staying a hotel, you know.”

“I… What?”

“And you didn’t ask me what I was wearing.”

“… I’ll be right over. If I’m stay overnight, then I guess we’ll… I guess we’ll split the bill. Like we always do.”