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. ]}

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_{[ 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. ]

_{[ The moment he feels those sneaky hands slide up his chest and around his neck, America's body visibly shivers. France will feel his chest is firm beneath the skin, but he's well rounded and squishy there. He's a bit too vocal when he feels the tongue skirt against his lower lip and he forces himself tighter against France, now keenly aware of the other man's arousal-- France will probably feel tightness in his pants as well with how close he has bright them together. Their kiss is broken and he feels a little hazy, half lidded eyes regarding France silently when he's asked a question.

He's.. actually quiet for a change. It's hard to know what he's thinking.

His hands take control, both taking France by the hips and squeezing him, dipping in hastily for another kiss. It's rough, but my God, he's forcing himself on the other male. ]}

[ Does America even have enough free time back home to eagerly makeout with anyone? He's sure he would have heard rumors of the younger nation smooching one of their own and a pin drop could have been heard over the lack of juicy gossip. His lack of response makes him raise a brow, contemplating if he'd overstepped some unknown sensitive topic.

Luckily for his boner and conscience, it seems as if his efforts pay off. The huff is a strange little mix between indignation and arousal, but of which are snuffed out by the return of America's lips. Here's a good place to note that while France would be more than happy to scold America for being so rough, the eagerness and inexperience might be ...cute. He doesn't mind it, though France is very quick to reposition his hands, one going to curl at his nape while the other settles lightly on the younger blond's smooth jaw.

This is him, trying to sort out the momentum (and honestly, maybe failing) before he gets knocked back in the cabinets. He leans in until they're chest to chest and pushes, teeth nipping lightly at the first chance he can get. The other blond can control whatever he wants after they find a place on the couch.

Where France will inevitably come to his senses in that unpleasant way most things must. But, that's the inevitable future, not the present. Cordis has him appreciating this side of America and kissing him is a relief from all of the denial. Sorry, buddy. ]

_{[ His eagerness is cute, to the point where it might be easier for France to ignore any second thoughts about what they're doing. He's young; France shown a different kind of admiration for him when he was a child besides now-- the way his lips felt and the energy he was showing.

His fox-like ears twitch, a small squeak coming from him at the nips to his lip. France might enjoy the fact he tries to imitate what he does, nipping back at the oldernation's upper lip with a bit too much vigor.. it's probably more like a bite. His entire body shivers as he pulls away enough to try and catch his breath, heavy lidded eyes locking with France's. ]}

Hey, France..

_{[ His voice sounds thick if not a little desperate. ]}

You can touch me where ever you want to, you know..

_{[ DANGER. ]}

[ Imitation is the best way to learn how to properly behave granted the original source knows what they're doing. France does. France also doesn't seem to mind that America's zeal made his mirroring nip sharp enough to sting and draw out a groan. Sure he likes being bitten if the mood fits it.

Never had he anticipated it fitting in here but... here we are. Breathless, stupidly aroused and adding to his list of bad decisions. France's ears burn at the tone America's voice takes on and for a moment he stares, unsure if he'd heard correctly. The hand that had lingered on the boy's jaw went to move to the slope of his shoulder instead, squeezing gently. ]

I don't think you know what you're saying...

[ It isn't a criticism but... god help him. He motions to the living room. ]

Not in here. I don't need to burn anything else, thank you.

Yeah.

_{[ His voice is soft, but full of want. It's a little awkward exchange as America slowly untangles himself from the older man, but what he does next is a but unexpected. He dips down and scoops France into his arms, gingerly taking him over to the couch without giving him a chance to protest. Here is where he places France down on the cushions with a slightly ungraceful plop. He proceeds to take the position on top, eyes meeting the other's. However, his expression seems.. reluctant, if not nervous, maybe scared? Hmm. ]}

Hahaha, yeah, okay! So this is better! So I'll just--

_{[ --dip down and kiss France with the same enthusiasm as before. That tongue of his is already trying to wiggle its way into France's mouth, dear god. ]}

[ France might not have time to protest, but damn it if he doesn't try. His innate ability to squawk and writhe stubbornly are fruitless in America's strong arms, but from how Pierre chimes in he probably cursed in bird. Who said he didn't accept other languages into his heart?

Being released is indeed a graceless event that has his face heating and eyes narrowing marginally up at the younger nation. It's clear by now that this isn't his usual bag but France knows that he can learn if he's properly taught. Sure, he'd never anticipated doing it -- but now that they're here, with France somewhat haphazardly strewn across his own couch and America straddling him -- he may just have to delve deeper. Multitask a little. His nerves are a little ruffled but the almost uncertain look in America's eyes forces him silent on his critique, nodding at how this was indeed a better alternative.

His libido isn't helping, either. At first, the kiss earns an appreciative sigh that deepens into a groan. Hell, the tongue isn't immediately shunned, either. That bravado ends up catching him off guard and a moan mutates into an alarmed sounding grumble when younger nation's zest becomes overbearing. His hands go to the boy's cheeks and he holds him steady but disengages for two seconds, unable to stop from sounding a bit flabbergasted ]

America, slower please. I do not mind enthusiasm but I do not want a broken nose in the process!

_{[ America makes a small noise akin to a foxy yip when he's pried away after trying to get into it too quickly. He absolutely whines, ears folding back as his spine curves inward, his hips crushing down upon the older male's as he is held away from his face. ]}

I don't wannaaaaaa. Who cares about your nose, it'll be fine. C'mon, old timer, keep up with me!

_{[ He rolls his head out of France's grip and goes straight for the neck, raising his hips off of France again and sticking his back end completely in the air. His teeth scrape and nip hastily, pleased noises rumbling from him as he laps against France's skin, seeming to enjoy a quicker pace. This only happens for a couple of seconds before he does as he was instructed, slowing down considerably as the attention on his neck turns into slower, more tantalizing kisses that seem surprisingly gentle and sweet, warm lips sealing and sucking carefully on various places across slope of his skin. ]}

[ There is a confused and somewhat offended mutter that isn't covered up with America's whining, France shooting the ceiling of his living room a "why me?" sort of stare that quickly ends when he feels teeth against his neck and he's forced to close his eyes and shudder. Lack of skill and timing be damned, he likes the subtle drag of teeth against his skin.

...don't get the wrong idea (okay do. please get the wrong idea).

France's hands find a nice home on America's sides, gripping at his ~~love handles~~ waist and the cloth covering them. What's that? The genuine countdown to him going what am I doing starting? Ah yes, and the tic-tock stacatto is loud and clear when he raises his knees to kind of just nestle the younger nation between them.

God help him. The pressure of America's lips on his skin makes his pulse flutter shamelessly. It is sweet and he's struggling to not ask him for more. ]

Bring that smart mouth of yours back up here, hm? I'm not done telling you how to use it.

[ There are nicer ways to ask for a kiss, France. Jesus. ]

I don't wanna!

_{[ WOW. Didn't he just ask France how to kiss him just a few minutes ago? America remains where he is near France's collar bone, blue eyes looking up at France innocently, his pointed ears folded backwards. He takes in another smell of his Cordis companion. ]}

You taste and smell good right here, so I wanna be here.

_{[ And so, he continues to kiss France along his neck and the parts of his collarbone that aren't obscured by his shirt. Every once in awhile, France may feel a playful nip or drag of his teeth, simply experimenting on the older nation. ]}

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001 | ( VIDEO. ) | APRIL 9th

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