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Breakfast's Ready

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France could tell the second Germany walked down the stairs—head lowered, not meeting his eyes—that he’d been having the dreams again. “Rough night, love?” he asked.

 

Germany looked up at the endearment, cautiously. Then back down. “I didn’t sleep well,” he said, finally.

 

France waved him over; Germany came to stand next to him at the stove. He slipped an arm around the other man’s waist. “Would you like to tell me about it?” Germany shook his head. France sighed. “As you wish.” He twirled the wooden instrument around the middle of the crepe pan. “Breakfast will be done soon.” Germany didn’t respond. France wasn’t overly surprised; he rarely took breakfast when he woke like this.

 

After a moment, Germany spoke up. “France?” he asked hesitantly.

 

France sighed. He knew what came next. It wasn’t one of his favorite things about living with Germany, but if this was the only sacrifice he had to make for the sake of the new EU, he was getting off easy. Resigned, he said, “The crepes will burn.” Germany looked down, hands twisting together. Another sigh. “It’s alright, dearest. If this is what you want.”

 

Expression turning hard, France smacked his lover hard across the face. “You slept in,” he said, voice cool. It was the only infringement he could think of.

 

Germany looked down, and to the side. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

“I’m sorry isn’t good enough, you lazy, worthless bitch.” France snuck a glance at the crepe on the pan; nearly done. He made sure Germany was looking away, and gave it another twirl.

 

Germany took a deep breath. “Please, let me make it better,” he whispered. France’s heart ached.

 

France slapped him again. “You think you can make it better, just like that? You are an entitled, selfish brat.” With each word, Germany shrank in on himself a little more.

 

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” he whispered.

 

France gave him an appraising look. “This once, I will let you suck me.” Germany looked up, and the hope in his eyes was painful.

 

“And if I suck you,” France was always shocked at how easily the words came out of his mouth. It was hardly a surprise, really—he knew Germany had had his share of love-making, during war and otherwise—but he could never help but do a little mental double take. Some days, it was hot. Today, it was sad. “If I suck you,” he whispered, “will I be good?”

 

France put on a show of thinking about it. “Yes,” he said, finally. “If you suck me—so nicely, like your whore of a brother taught you—“ he was toeing the line here; they both knew that Prussia had never touched him, “—then you will be good. Very good,” he added, and Germany’s eyes closed. His body went still, and relaxed. France shifted his first crepe off the stove and onto a plate, and poured the batter for the second. Then he unzipped himself. “Kneel.”

 

Germany got down on his knees, looking up at him, eyes wide with trust and fear. France slid his trousers just far enough to pull out his cock. He wasn't all that hard, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. “Suck,” he instructed.

 

Germany leaned in to take him in his mouth, expression serious and hair neat as ever, and France couldn’t help a sigh. He wanted him laughing, moaning, gasping with surprise and pleasure. He wanted the shy, startled look in his eyes when France found a new spot; he wanted those rare moments when he could convince Germany to climb on top of him, the grimace of pleasure held in check as the other man slid inside him. But that Germany wasn’t here this morning; instead there was this scared, broken creature. And France… France had no choice but to do what he could.

 

On days like this, Germany was rarely creative with his mouth. He concentrated on keeping the suction steady, his throat relaxed, his teeth tucked away, and bobbed his head steadily. France fisted a hand in his hair, pushing him up and down; Germany mewled around his cock. A little spin for the second crepe.

 

Now the hard part. This sort of game, it was nothing to France; he wouldn’t come from this. So he closed his eyes, and imagined. Anyone but the man at his feet-- Spain, naked and laughing in the ocean, mouth hot and hands cold, when they’d finally made up after Waterloo. Austria, fussy and neat, coming undone as he made love to him slowly to the tune of his precious Chopin. Arthur, silly Arthur, finally allowing himself to push into France, the first time he'd done so without being furious. Arthur, centuries before, commanding and terrifying at Crecy, coldly smug at Leipzig, fucking him face first into the dirt.

 

It was this last image that he came to, fucking Germany’s face now, pumping into him rhythmically. He came down his throat, and then held him there for a moment, until he could feel the man’s breathing starting to slow, his shoulders relax. Slowly, slowly, he released him, mind still full of Arthur's cold laughter. Germany looked up, eyes still full of hope, fear. France ran a thumb along his cheek, over his lips. “Very good, little one.” Germany’s eyes slid closed at the endearment. Not for the first time, France wondered why. “You are so good, have been so good for me today.” He petted the man’s hair, reaching over him to turn the heat on the stove off—he had gotten distracted. The second crepe was burnt beyond what was edible.

 

“Is everything alright now?” Germany asked, tone plaintive. France took some comfort in knowing that there was no one else in the world who would hear this tone from him. Not anymore.

 

“Everything’s alright,” said France, voice soothing. Germany’s eyes slid closed, and France ran his fingers through his hair. “Everything’s fine. Now go sit at the table, won’t you? I’ll be done with breakfast in a moment.”

 

Germany went to sit, face still downcast, but calm now. He would eat, drink a cup of coffee, take a shower, and come out his normal self. France would stand at the counter, washing the burnt batter out of his favorite pan, wondering if this would ever end.