prismatica | 001 | ( VIDEO. )

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001 | ( VIDEO. ) | APRIL 9th

_{[ It's a little unlike him to put off making an appearance, vaporwave furry alien world or not, but finally, America makes his introduction on the network with a couple of very urgent and important questions. Nevermind the fact he's already sprouted a pair of fox ears. He looks a little something like this.

Nevertheless, he acts as if nothing is amiss: ]}

HEYA GUYS!! Alfred here!! Dude, I know this shit is totes whack and all, but I've got to ask you all a few things really quick, okay!? LISTEN UP!!

1. Have any of you been probed in the ass yet?
2. Where the fuck is the Denny's?

Hit me up, okay! These things are important!! Hahaha, okay, seeya--!!

_{[ With that, he's gone as quick as he appeared. ]}

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He doesn't remember the last time America has found any joy in curling into him. France would wager well over a century had passed and truthfully it was probably even longer than that since he's sought him out for so much as a hug and those were considerably more innocent than what seems to be brewing between them -- intended or not. Definitely not.

There's nothing like a lungful of pheromones to remind France that America is definitely not a cherub-faced colony. He's also not the young teen that he supported for liberty. There isn't a great deal of innocent intent behind his stare when he pulls away from France; he looks dazed off of gross French fumes.

Some of the urge to react in a huffy manner is forgotten while he tries to make sense of America's demands. Really, one step back hardly puts any distance between them at all, but he does release his hold at the slaps, brow furrowing at the sharp sting that blossoms over the backs. ]

America, you grabbed me first...

[ Excuse him while he goes to slam his dick in a door. Or at least, heavily contemplates it. Instead, his gross, autopilot hands go to stroke America's temporarily gained fox ears. ]

Ah! They're so...cute! They fit you.

[ Unintended puns and flirting, go. ]

Have you touched them? They feel like silk.

_{[ Several things are happening here. Mostly, America is quite unaware of just how heated France might feel right now. He's a little too busy with how his own body warms, especially between the legs. It doesn't help that the Frenchman goes forth and caresses his sensitive ears without permission. Red looks mighty fine on the younger nation, and it spreads all the way across his face from embarrassment, frustration and arousal.

The sound he makes is a squeak, but he can't help but allow France to caress him because it does feel nice, but after a few seconds, he stammers out: ]}

D-Dude..!

_{[ Oh, he's batting at those hands again and this time taking a few other steps backwards. ]}

Just--! I don't know!! Go cook something!!
_{[ He's mad he likes it. ]}

[ He's admiring the fox ears in an almost trance-like state. A brief, mildly thoughtful trance that seems to be broken when America startles and swats at him again. To his credit, the older nation seems apologetic and lets his hands drop. Two steps backward become five and so on until he's put enough distance between them that there's no chance of accidentally touching. ]

I apologize... I don't know what came over me. Why don't you go sit on the couch and I'll make us lunch?

[ LIKE HE OFFERED TO BEFORE YOU HAD TO GRAB HIM, AMERICA! ]

I could always pretend that I am a line cook and make you pancakes, but it's a bit late in the day...

[ He tears his eyes off of the blond to open his refrigerator, peering inside. Honestly, it's a good place to take a few nice, deep 'don't fuck your ally who is significantly younger and packed enough baggage to tour the planet' breaths. Oof. ]

Or we could just order take out because I've been a bit tense lately and stayed inside the past few days and don't have much that I think you would enjoy. I really should probably fix that...

_{[ By the time France invites him to the couch, America is already there, hiding behind the back of the sofa, fox ears poking up, completely not hidden. Eventually, he peers over once he feels like the red has died down off of his face. He observes France. He's fairly certain this is observing and not letting his eyes graze over the older nation's body. Jesus. He's never observed France of all people this way.

I mean, sure, they got along rather well enough, but it's just a little weird when France as just a kid and he was a baby.

And yet, he doesn't seem to be looking away. It's very obvious he is.. observing. His ears fall flat against his scalp at the conclusion, though, and he pushes himself up on the couch so he's more visible. ]}

The fuck?! Why not!?

_{[ Weren't you just complaining about his cooking earlier? ]}

Pancakes are just fine! Don't you make crepes or something too?!
_{[ Seems like he's getting some drive out of ordering France around-- indulging in the fact that somebody would put so much effort into something especially for him sounds more pleasing than just ordering something now. ]}

You're France! All you do is cook and go on strikes! Why don't you have anything here?

[ They hang out fairly often. They've even experienced feelings of friction throughout the years. What's transpiring between the two of them is foreign to them, but France is thankfully more experienced trying to gracefully navigate the rocky terrain.

The abrupt response makes him straighten and shoot the younger nation a confused look, complete with a nose scrunch. Clearly, he hadn't expected such a strong reaction from the American. ]

Excuse me? I didn't think you of all people would be offended with ordering in. How many pizzas have you made me eat? What was it? Papa John's? [ He makes a face and clucks lightly, the urge to seduce his guest temporarily set aside. ] I would hate to be that man's child!

[ The set of his lips doesn't necessarily loosen but he does open the cabinet that had his beloved baking ingredients. As he is France, it is a rather organized process. Flour fears the idea of spraying everywhere under the nation's critical eye. He feels like he owes the blond an answer but it doesn't come sans sass. ]

I do many things, America. It's true that I spend a great deal of time in the kitchen but... I don't know. These moon blessings have strange consequences. [ He can see the fox ears out of his peripheral and shrugs, dividing his ingredients as he talks. ] I may have gotten short with a complete stranger and was later informed that while you are only given one moon that there are some residual mood swings tied to the other two you may experience.

So. I stayed in...

[ Huffing, he takes a pause and gets the first crepe out of the way. Always ugly. ]

I must say that I'm mildly curious to see what happens the next time around. It's a relief that it is only temporary. Did you know that?

[ France only approaches the couch when he's armed with two plates filled with savory crepes. It as a creative (which is the polite term for 'cobbled and rustic') blend of ham and cheese. This is more of a distraction, in truth, but he'll make sure to be better prepared for any future visits. If that happens. For the boy's sake, he settles beside him with a cushion's worth of personal space. ]

_{[ While France makes him crepes-- it seems to be crepes-- it's hard for him to tell and he's too nervous to venture any further-- he's as a typical hormonal teenager would be, his mind fogged with distracting thoughts that actually make him cringe in disgust. Fortunately, the smell of food has him sniffing the air-- again, very animal-like-- but he is patient and crumbles back down in his seat to continue to be angry. France won't see it from where he's at, but he's tucked his hands in between his legs.. it's only briefly to adjust himself.

He doesn't respond to the string of words that France gives him, but he does respond to the question. He whirls around to sit properly when the plate is delivered to him and hesitates no longer to dig in. Before his mouth is completely full, though, he does answer: ]}

Mm! Yeah! My bro Klaus said it would be temporary, so whatever, I'm cute like this so it doesn't bother me anymore.

_{[ He seems a lot less mad in such a small amount of time. ]}

[ He's found that feeding America -- for how much he complains and jokes about the snails -- is the easiest way to get him into a more agreeable state. It is probably one of his more noteworthy observations regarding the younger blond. His manners are still regrettable, but there's no changing that now. France gives him a look of mild reprimand but doesn't voice it. The name he mentioned was oddly enough one he'd heard since coming here.

Although he'd been flirting with Klaus -- which France also chooses not to speak of. ]

Well, I'm glad that someone informed you. I'm sure that it was quite alarming even if the ears are quite charming in their own way...

[ Even now his fingers itch to stroke them. If he was being honest it didn't just stop at the ears. He busies himself with cutting into his own crepes, stubbornly eating them. He then mourns that he barely notices the taste because he's too focused on how disarmingly cute he finds the younger nation beside him. Was a couch cushion really enough space. Swallowing, he rolled his shoulders and tried to glance at ANYTHING else.

God, he needed to redecorate...]

How are they? Did you want anything else?

'Course they're charming! They're on me!

_{[ It doesn't take him very long to devour the pile of crepes he was given. He's always had quite the appetite, but he's finding himself especially hungry during this phase of the moon. It should be a compliment that he eats them wordlessly without complaint-- France probably hears some pleased sounds rumbling from him too.

Just when France asks that question, America presents him with an empty plate. He taps his fork on the empty plate in a more demanding manner much like he was a few minutes ago. ]}

Yeah! Make me some more! Maybe some sweet ones.. throw some Nutella on that bitch!

_{[ There's a brief pause, and then, something very surprising comes out of his mouth. ]}

Please?
_{[ There's remnants of the once-crepes on the corner of his mouth, but he seems almost pleading in the eyes about this. ]}

[ France's mouth twitched in a faint, somewhat amused acknowledgment to America's comment regarding his newly acquired animal magnetism but he chooses to actually reassure the boy that it was about time something made him charming. He often teased the younger nation, not because he disliked him but due to an actual affection for his enthusiasm. He was the self-appointed brother to all. It was in the job description. Right now he's struggling in reigning in the less than familial desires just being this close to him causes. France has been so focused on not trying to molest his guest that he's not only lost the taste of his crepes but how far along he was in polishing off the plate.

It's not until America hands over his own empty dinnerware that he looks down, an eyebrow and unspoken question obviously very present on his mind. What the fuck? only you know, eloquent. And French! ]

It seems as if we are both going to need some more. I really don't know why I am so hungry; it has got to be C---

[ France's attention drifts to America's face, with those big, pleading eyes and the morsel of food clinging for dear life, probably praying to get past those lips. Never has the Frenchman identified with a crumb so hard. Clearing his throat, suddenly a bit too warm, he leans in. He manages to stop himself before his fingertips graze the boy's skin, remembering how shy he'd been when he'd gone in to touch his ears.

Ears or lips; which flusters America more?

Quickly, he just...waves a finger at the corner of the nation's mouth as if that would explain Everything. ]

You've got a little something just... there. The corner. Of your mouth that is.

[ Guess who is pushing himself off of the couch, trying to excuse himself to help both of them out. He does manage to reassure America that there will be more crepes soon from over his shoulder but. You know. ]

_{[ It's good food. Honestly, if he had to pick between France or England's, France's always won by a long shot. The guy knew how to bake even if some of his entrees were questionable for America's taste. He notes the shift in position-- the way France edges closer to him. It makes his posture stiffen, a brief and short gasp huffing from his mouth just as soon as he feels the light brush from the other male.

He's speechless.. for probably once in his life.

France gets up out of his seat and hurries to the kitchen, and if France dares to look over at him, he'll see him return to his previous position, peering over the sofa once more, ears drawing flat as pink rises to his cheeks. He's watching France, and not aware of how obvious it is.

Strangely, he doesn't seem mad that he was touched so intimately by the other nation. ]}

[ Part of him wants to tell America that it would be best if he went back to his apartment, to put a little distance between them where they could wait out the worst of whatever urges they're experiencing, but the other part enjoys the company. So, he ignores sending America back to his apartment which is literally down the hall --- not offensive at all (or well, he knows the younger nation well enough to understand that might be touchy so YES OFFENSIVE), instead pleading with whatever force that would listen to him to knock this shit off.

He's halfway through making another round of crepe batter when he finally acknowledges the fact that he's felt America's stare this entire time, tipping his head slightly to the side to give him a sidelong stare. ]

Were you thirsty, too?

[ Yes, he sees you. ]

Despite my talents in providing service to people, I don't think I can balance plates and glasses.

[ That's a bold-ass lie. ]

_{[ By the time France has finally felt his lingering gaze, America has gotten more comfortable, propping his arms up on top of the couch cushions, his eyelids fallen halfway over his blue eyes. Throughout all of this, he's been indulging himself by mentally undressing the other man-- not like he hasn't seen what he has to offer before. He sort of thinks it would be nice if France stripped right now, but that's kind of a weird thought, isn't it? He's never really thought of that before.

Whatever he says, it goes out his ears. ]}

I'm sorry, what? Were you doing the speaking thingy?

[ God, is he... are those bedroom eyes? His hand holding the whisk stops mid-motion for a moment while he tries to reason that he's grossly overthinking the whole matter. It was a trick of Texas obscuring the boy's eyes. It was fatigue bourne of a mid-afternoon snack.

The body language, however, does a good job at setting off a few warning lights in his mind. How many times has he casually sprawled across a couch in an effort to present himself in the most appealing manner for whichever poor soul had fallen into his affections? The older nation was hardly shy. There's something about how intently he's watching and how distracted he is that makes him feel... hot.

Again with the manners! His hand resumes its whisking while he turns a bit to face the younger nation, the lines in his brow unique to whenever he's only mildly frustrated. It's not the blond's fault... at least, that's what he keeps telling himself. ]

Are you thirsty? These are going to be sweet so you might need a drink.

[ He tips his head a bit to beckon him over. ]

Come here and help me out a little.

I'll help myself to something, don't worry!

_{[ Then, France asks for assistance, and after a brief moment of silence: ]}

'Kay.

_{[ No complaining whatsoever— a first. America was always willing to help, but with that came his desire to dominate the entire scenario and take things in his direction. France might actually expect him to take the whisk from his hand and do whatever he thinks is needed.

He stands next to him-- extremely close to him, letting their shoulders mesh together. There's a smile curved on his lips, and then, a true sign of the end times: ]}

What'cha need? I'll do what you need.

_{[ The fuck. ]}

[ France is beyond weirded out. He can probably count on one hand where America has been so well-mannered. Logically he knows that it's a fluke, some weird space thing that has the younger nation behaving, but... maybe he kinda likes it??? He needs to send out an S.O.S. ]

You know, if you continue to be this agreeable I might have to actually let you cook with me.

[ What is he saying? He isn't really the kind of man to shun people from his kitchen (okay, sometimes), but he certainly doesn't make a habit of inviting someone with America's culinary aspirations, either. It might help that it feels very nice to just brush shoulders.

His mouth opens and shuts at the offer and he stares at America for a second. And then he decides to give him a task he won't feel like he's going to hell for. ]

Why don't you grab the nutella for me? It's in the cabinet. Oh, and the powdered sugar.

[ France will enjoy himself just fine over here, making the first of the new batch. And the second, third... eighth. They're growing boys. ]

_{[ America isn’t sure what’s gotten into him, or France either, but he doesn’t see it as a problem like France might. Usually, they agree to disagree with things, but yeah. They’re both hungry and horny and feeling the same thing, but maybe America is a little oblivious as to what could be the issue. He very obviously takes in another deep breath through his nose, taking in France’s scent once more before he does what he is told— stepping away and turning his back to the older nation as he raids his pantry for the Nutella. Thank god space has Nutella. Something normal and something good. ]}

Hahaha! Not on your life, buddy. I’d rather you do all the hard work.

_{[ He stands on his tiptoes to reach a higher shelf for the jar of Nutella. ]}

I don’t know whose pastries are better between you and Italy. There’s really no way to know unless you both feed me and I can decide.

_{[ When he turns around, all horrors upon horrors have happened. He’s taken the liberty of sticking his index finger in the pristine, untouched Nutella and gotten a gracious scoop of the sweet spread all over his digit. He proceeds to stick his finger in his mouth, smooth lips curving over his finger as he sucks on it. The other hand holds the jar out to France as if nothing was amiss. He makes a small grunt noise to get his attention before sliding his finger out of his mouth, slowly and surely to remove any Nutella residue. Absolutely clean. ]}

Here ya go!

[ He wonders what the hell he actually smells like if America seems to be unable to stop being so obvious about it; the answer he'd gotten had surely been a joke. Oh, America; he's more than cheese and surrender. He's crepes too. The younger nation has never been so happily agreeable and it's kind of nice to not feel like he has to plead with him. It's short-lived when America responds. ]

Ah, that's the answer I expected from you...

[ Since it's expected, France also takes comfort in the predictable, comfortable habit of rolling his eyes at America's back. For the life of him, he can't find any actual frustration behind the gesture. It's simply there. The mild irritation slips from his expression when he turns his head to glance to the side to make sure the blond is looking in the correct place. He watches him just as he stretches and France's breath catches. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck with a side of fuck!

He narrows his eyes and tries to think of less pleasant things than sneaking up behind the blond. France barely manages to flip over the current crepe he was working on and curses under his breath. He will not be ruined in the kitchen, damn it. ]

We certainly are both very goo---- od, no! America!

[ The internal fuckfuckfucks are raging war with his proper sense of etiquette. France should not be thinking of smearing his dick in Nutella and telling America to go ham (which he is. shame.). He also wants to smack his hands for STICKING HIS FINGERS IN HIS NEW JAR. America isn't even in a rush to pull his finger free from his mouth. God, the grunt. Oh he's mad. Also...kind of impressed. ]

I would have let you use a spoon, you deviant.

[ But he's visibly hard now and kind of just. Stuck. With his hips facing the range in the off-chance that America doesn't notice and he can urge this thing down. His grip on the jar is a little firm but he sets it beside him on the counter, taking a nice slow calming breath. He looks a little jittery, but overall he's gotten good at hiding the need to pound one out in his long history of wanting to bang everything. RIP. ]

This is a delicate process. You can't leave them unattended for long or they burn. Did you see the sugar anywhere?

_{[ Eating Nutella out of a jar is common etiquette for him. It's just what you do when you see a brand spanking new jar so he feels like he's done nothing wrong. America merely tips his head when he's scolded and pops his lips together, enjoying the lingering sweetness on his mouth. The tip of his tongue pokes out, searching for any dribbles he might have left behind, though, looks like he's got it, but not without fully licking his own lips. ]}

Chillax, brah. This way I didn't have to a dirty up a spoon for ya, see? It's fine!

_{[ Though, he posture stiffens when he's reminded of the sugar. Looks like he'll have to turn around, stretch up nice and easy yet again. ]}

Oh, shit. Oops, sorry, hang on.

_{[ Thankfully, he's unaware of France's situation so he turns, once again bringing himself to the cabinet, rolling up on the balls of his feet again and swaying back and forth absentmindedly. He finds the powder sugar in its bag, safely rolled and secured with a clip. Pulling it from it's shelf, though, he does drop it with a slight gasp, only small bits of sugar spilling to the floor. He's good enough to pick it up, but he bends over, taking his precious time. Was his ass always that big? Did his pants always hang that low on his hips and show that much skin when his shirt rolls up in the slightest? Hmm.

The answer is yes, but France is probably just noticing that now.

America straightens up, brushing any stray bits of sugar and turning to France, handing it to him with a jovial smile. ]}

Sorry, dude. I should have gotten it the first time! Haha. So, are you done yet?

[ He loves you. Really, he does. That does not stop the irresistible urge to gently choke the younger blond. He hates that his eyes are drawn to America's lips yet again and absolutely loathes the little thrill of desire that surges downward when the tip of a pink tongue pokes out. America just had to do that. His reassurance brings France absolutely no calm. None. Not a damned LICK of it.

Now he's thinking about America's tongue again...

Resolutely, he goes back to his crepes, trying to make a decent amount for both of them. He is hungrier than usual, so it isn't unlikely that if he stares at them long enough his hunger for America's damned everything will turn back to feeling famished for food. So, he's dutiful in how he pours, twists the pan, and watches until he hears a rather soft-sounding thud, his powdered sugar hitting the floor in an undignified splat. ]

What did you do?!

[ There is a soft, strangled sounding 'oh' that kind of takes any accusatory wind from France's sails when he turns to look off to his side and is presented with the younger nation's backside and tanned skin where his shirt didn't cover his lower back. The part of his mind that wasn't screaming mayday wants to lick it and there's an angry flush that creeps up his neck at such a shameless thought. That stupid smile was cute too, and little puffs of sugar escape when he grabs the bag away hastily. ]

Am I done yet? Why are you so...shit.

[ Mmm-noooo. And that's when his final crepe decides to start smoking because it's two seconds from catching flame, but luckily France is distracted from how good America smells (honestly this kitchen is too small) by said smoke and lifts the pan and twists to dump it in the sink with a frustrated huff. It's just enough to make him return to his disbelief, point the now empty pan in America's direction. ]

You need to go. I don't know what is going on, but I think it might just be safer for both of our dignities if there is space put between us. Whatever this moon phase is doing, I do not like it.

[ His grip tightens on the pan but he lowers it, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. It's not that he wants to scare the younger nation off. They hung out on their own whim back home but he's never been interested in licking a path along his spine, either. There's a guilty flush that he tries to hide.

Yeah, you're not hiding anything, France. ]

Come back later.

[ Or you know, be stubborn and smooch him because he is a thirsty, thirsty man. Your choice. ]

_{[ Everything happens so quickly, and he's accustomed to seeing France act dramatic, but this was a different kind of dramatic. Not the typical "sacré bleu, I've burnt my crepe!" but more like "sacré bleu, I've got a hard on for my not-nephew!" Kind of dramatic.. whatever that is. His hands go up in defense, any remnants of his smile disappearing and a look of confusion crossing his face as France waves the pan at him. He's puzzled, still hungry and perhaps a little startled by France's reaction. ]}

Dude, chillax! I said I was sorry for dropping your sugar, calm your Frenchy tits.

_{[ The more France rambles off and is rightfully kicking him out, the more his lower lip wobbles. ]}

But I-- I don't really want to go either! The sweet crepes are my favorite. What are you talking about, safer? I'm not going to hurt you, bro. Here, let's just..

_{[ He advances to France, taking him by the wrist, the one that is holding the pan, and lifting it back onto the stove. His touch is warm as is the rest of his body; France is probably close enough to feel it radiating off of him as he shifts closer-- actually, behind him, hand slipping upward to clasp over France's. He's totally fucking Ghosting these crepes. Unchained Melody is definitely playing in the background ]}

Let's finish these, but show me how you do it, 'kay? I can be more helpful. I can make the rest of them. We have plenty of batter still!

Edited 2019-05-11 00:24 (UTC)

[ Of course he thinks it's about the sugar. Even if France had explained that this was a moon-blessing thing -- a needing to keep their dignity thing -- America thinks it's about the sugar. It isn't that he didn't catch the quivering lip; he'd felt terrible, but sacrifices had to be made. ]

I know. I understand that you do not want to leave but --

[ What he wanted to say is that he needed a little space, but it's like for once America can read his mind and chooses to do the exact opposite. He tries again, this time backing up a step. ]

I can finish making them and bring them over to your apartment. It's not even like you're staying that far from me!

[ These are all solid options, but the younger nation in all of his efforts to amend the slight he thought he was guilty of is determined to make things right. It's cute, or would have been, if not for that whole sacré bleu, I've got a hard-on for my not-nephew thing. He watches in mild fascination (and horror) as the pan is guided back to the stove -- and since he's attached to the pan he is also guided back.

If he could close his eyes and pretend, this would be nice. It kind of hit him right in the domestic kink to have someone sneak up behind him and just do exactly what America is unintentionally doing. His fingers are folding over France's hand and his skin is warm and inviting... but then America speaks up and breaks the spell, but not without a guilty shudder of pleasure at having his voice so close to his ear.

He is a dramatic man, yes, but he's really looking out for the both of them. If America was close pressed against his back he's worse off in the awkward twist France does to try and get away. At least he somehow managed to get the counter digging against his lower back and not the stove. France forces himself to look sterner and a little less deer in headlights. ]

Do you not know the meaning of distance, America? I can hardly breathe!

_{[ It all seems like a plausible and more convenient idea to cope with their struggles, but also, America isn't having any of it. He's distracted by the way France feels-- the hair traced down his arm something he had noticed plenty of times in the past, but just even more curious about where else. Yes, this is the same hair he typically criticizes. Maybe it's because he's so young and impulsive, but he has little restraint, especially right now.

France scolds and twists out of his nestled position and America can only let out a surprised squeak when he feels the older nation turn to give him a look. America's expression is one France might know too well-- something a bit hungry, and not just for sweet crepes. He takes this moment to settle his hands on either side of France, fingers curling and gripping onto the safe part of the stove. He's locked in, neighbored by a pair of bulky biceps. ]}

Hey, hey. It's fine, okay? I don't want to be distant from you.

_{[ Some nervous laughter escapes him, but his voice is actually quiet if not a bit soothing; something very different than he usually projects. His little fox ears indicate interest, perking up slightly. ]}

I wanna be closer to you. We have more freedom to do that here since we don't have bosses ordering us around, yeah?

_{[ DANGER. ]}

You're so good at cooking, France. What else are you good at?

_{[ MAYDAY.
It's just then he dips down, speaking softly and allowing their lips to brush slightly. ]}

Why is it called a French kiss?

_{[ CALL THE POLICE. ]}

[ France is too occupied by his own running thoughts to even try to imagine where America's have gone. Since he'd stepped foot in the kitchen to help, he hadn't acted as bothered to be near France as France was. Maybe he'd even kicked himself for his lack of self-restraint. Everything is an effort to distance himself from the young blond but he's failed. The squeak had been satisfying to his own ego but the look in America's eyes stopped him cold.

It didn't matter that he was trapped by strong arms. France wasn't thumping him on the chest or scolding him (and boy did he have a scathing arsenal), the words dying when America tries to soothe him.

First of all, France was absolutely shocked by America having an indoor voice, let alone a soft one. His eyes narrow in a blend of curiosity and warning when he confesses to wanting closeness. The exchange has thrown France into silence, which is his own damned fault because it allows for DANGER to slip directly into MAYDAY. ]

Stop that...!

[ Stop what? France's hands go to push against America's chest in a latch ditch effort to put space between them but the only thing that happens is that his palms rest there, and he's mad. He's mad that his libido is the one thing that's making it impossible to completely ignore America, even though he knows better. He's mad that the blond won't listen to him.

He's absolutely seething that the first thing he does when America asks him about the kiss isn't telling him off for being an insufferable ass. No, France's lips are tingling from the warm breath fanning over them and the light brushing of skin on skin. His libido wins, if just for the time being. He'll show him exactly why it's called a French kiss, but not until he gets a jab in for his trouble. ]

Wouldn't you want to know? Maybe I'm just the best at this.

[ WE'RE GOING TO NEED A BODY BAG. ]

Doubt it!

_{[ Soothing voice and smooth demeanor out the window already, America basically laughs in his face, but it's a conflicting feeling of shut up and why. It only gets more strained when he rubs the round of his nose against France's, because it's nice, but he's so insufferable. A lot is happening.

Finally, though, he teases no longer, allowing this to simply happen, meshing his mouth against France's. His lips are like velvet, youthful and lacking traces of experience. The kiss isn't as rough as it could have been, gentle, but also lackluster.

He does at least tip his head slightly to fit their mouths together better, his face beginning to grow hot. It's fine, it's just a kiss. You know. As bros. ]}

[ It's almost a blessing for France's sanity that America's demeanor shifted back to the obnoxious youth he is. For a split second, you know, beyond the haze of lust and guilt, he might have debated to himself if America were really a shapeshifter in disguise trying to seduce him. No. No, it's just America... trying to seduce him. Okay, still weird.

France can be drawn to weird when he's this far gone off of pheromones and hunger -- and while he bristles at the nose brushing his (cute--that was cute), he's fast to sigh the moment their lips meet in an actual kiss. The first observation is how soft America is. It's surprisingly gentle, enough to draw in the older blond's interest but---

Well, he's not surprised that America hasn't gone around kissing half the globe yet (literally give him a month though and this will change). France gives him points for at least tipping his head so he doesn't smash his glasses against his face. His eyes are closed but he feels the blush and feels a flutter of vindication for putting him through this mental torture. It was only fair that France continues and possibly show America how it's done.

His hands slide up slowly over America's chest and collar to rest on his neck, wondering if he's half as warm as the younger nation. He's found his space heater, he guesses... Tentatively (because he does think America would spook easily), he pushes back with the kiss, his own efforts moving it past lackluster to involved, adjusting the pressure. Maybe even going to far as to be bold and let his tongue say hello to that velvety bottom lip because he needs to know if it's his imagination or if he can still detect a bit of sweetness left behind. Why yes, he's going to hell but if he's going he might as well enjoy the act that put him there (please France, you were destined the moment you cropped up in some Bronze Age field). He pulls back just enough to offer a suggestion. ]

Do you usually keep your hands to yourself when kissing someone, America?

[ Ah yes. Why did that sound almost cheeky? The point is, with how his body is reacting, it's almost as if he has little control over actually telling America off in a way to keep him away, and now that he's had a taste he doesn't want to. He'll regret this later, but his mind is steadily focusing in on getting a little closer. A hand snakes its way down, over America's bicep ( internally sobbing that it's a good bicep ), and down to where he was gripping the stove. Is he trying to guide the boy's hand over to his hip instead? Yep. ]

001 | ( VIDEO. ) | APRIL 9th

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that icon is suspicious.

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