[Seeing France losing his composure like this had not ceased to be magical to Austria, and he wondered if it ever would. Certainly, tonight, after having missed him for months, it's a breath of fresh air. And it would almost be tempting to say he didn't realize the need was there, that the longing was there, but he did, and he knew how painful it had gotten. For once, he hadn't tried to deny it. But it has a way of still catching him off guard.
More than the power, more than the forbidden feeling of it all, it's the trust. That tremor, that hint of vulnerability in France's voice leaves him torn between the prospects of ruthlessly kissing him and of watching him. And when France does cry out like that, he can't bear to stifle it with his lips, not yet. Only to respond with a similar sound of his own.
He'd worry about who heard later. He'd worry too much, probably, but it doesn't matter now.
It's only when he knows he's going to go harder that he covers France's mouth. Then, perhaps, it is a little bit about the power, as he favors the sound of muffled pleading according to that particular whim. The mere fact no matter what Austria does, France is clinging to it all, both in the literal sense and otherwise, is enough to make him curse under his breath. He's gasping and tears are coming from his eyes too, which isn't new to them, but perhaps it's new in this arrangement. It's confirmation that when he has cried in the past, it hasn't always been about the beauty of the pain, or the sensation of being penetrated. It's the feeling of being torn open emotionally, of forcefully having his most guarded self suddenly exposed, and the feeling of that being perfect.
He's using his whole weight now; a few more incoherent comments about being buried in the other man and he comes again. His back will surely ache tomorrow. There are feathers everywhere.
He isn't done, but this time it does take a moment for his eyes to come back into focus. He's still twitching inside of him, and his eyes zero in hungrily on France's cock, and the mess it's leaving on his abdomen, and he whispers.] You have to tell me when you can't bear it anymore, before I touch you... I couldn't bear to end it too soon. God what I wouldn't give for you to have just an ounce of this affliction, I want to see what it would do to you, being in such a constant state of mindless need that it doesn't matter when or how many times, what I could do with you then-- [and as if to accentuate the point his hand gropes around for France's wrist on his back, guiding them down to coax him towards slipping his fingers inside while he continues the next round. He's soaked. Completely.
What comes from his next is a combination of a moan and dissolving into laughter at what he's about to say. The irony, that he wasn't even intending to continue the power trip when he searched for the words, but that it's what feels right, is another beautiful assurance that this is perfect for them, and he's beaming.]
uh, surprise
More than the power, more than the forbidden feeling of it all, it's the trust. That tremor, that hint of vulnerability in France's voice leaves him torn between the prospects of ruthlessly kissing him and of watching him. And when France does cry out like that, he can't bear to stifle it with his lips, not yet. Only to respond with a similar sound of his own.
He'd worry about who heard later. He'd worry too much, probably, but it doesn't matter now.
It's only when he knows he's going to go harder that he covers France's mouth. Then, perhaps, it is a little bit about the power, as he favors the sound of muffled pleading according to that particular whim. The mere fact no matter what Austria does, France is clinging to it all, both in the literal sense and otherwise, is enough to make him curse under his breath. He's gasping and tears are coming from his eyes too, which isn't new to them, but perhaps it's new in this arrangement. It's confirmation that when he has cried in the past, it hasn't always been about the beauty of the pain, or the sensation of being penetrated. It's the feeling of being torn open emotionally, of forcefully having his most guarded self suddenly exposed, and the feeling of that being perfect.
He's using his whole weight now; a few more incoherent comments about being buried in the other man and he comes again. His back will surely ache tomorrow. There are feathers everywhere.
He isn't done, but this time it does take a moment for his eyes to come back into focus. He's still twitching inside of him, and his eyes zero in hungrily on France's cock, and the mess it's leaving on his abdomen, and he whispers.] You have to tell me when you can't bear it anymore, before I touch you... I couldn't bear to end it too soon. God what I wouldn't give for you to have just an ounce of this affliction, I want to see what it would do to you, being in such a constant state of mindless need that it doesn't matter when or how many times, what I could do with you then-- [and as if to accentuate the point his hand gropes around for France's wrist on his back, guiding them down to coax him towards slipping his fingers inside while he continues the next round. He's soaked. Completely.
What comes from his next is a combination of a moan and dissolving into laughter at what he's about to say. The irony, that he wasn't even intending to continue the power trip when he searched for the words, but that it's what feels right, is another beautiful assurance that this is perfect for them, and he's beaming.]
I think you'll just have to beg for it...