Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia
Author's Notes
Thoughts/ Flashbacks
Notes/ Letters
"Talking"
Simple enough, no?
Hm, this is dedicated to Cookies. No, not those kind of cookies. Cookies4, who asked for me to write a sequel fic. So I am. Eh, why not? I kind of feel bad for the ending I did last time. And despite the lack of reviews, Absence Doesn't Really Help Relationships did fairly well on the view scale (about three hundred views, which isn't bad). And hey, it feels weird only having one story to work on FFN. This is something of a side-fic to my main (and shittier) Hot as Ice fic.
This one isn't going to be very long. The first one wasn't very long either, so really, no shocker there.
Let the sequel fic begin.
Francis Bonnefoy's Inbox
Inbox (1)
Starred
Important
Sent Mail
Drafts (23)
Subject:(none)
To:FranBonnefoy95
Francia? You okay, amigo? I heard about... you know. You wanna talk about it?
Subject:RE:(none)
To:FranBonnefoy95
Francis, it's been a week. Please call me or email me or something.
Subject:RE:RE:(none)
To:FranBonnefoy95
Come on, we're still los amigos mejor, no? Talk to Uncle Tonio. Fu-so-so-so.
Subject:RE:RE:RE:(none)
To:FranBonnefoy95
Alright, seriously, now I am worried. I know being famoso es muy concurrida, but you didn't forget me, surely? You know? Your best friend? No one has heard from you in a while, man. Not since... you know. Plllllllease, email me or call me or SOMETHING.
Subject:RE:RE:RE:(none)
From:FranBonnefoy95
I am fine, Tony. I just don't want to talk about it. Thanks for your concern, my friend, but I really just need some time to think.
~Amour, Votre meilleur ami pour toujours, Francia.
Matthew Williams' Answering Machine
"Yo, Mattie, just checking in. I've been kind of lonely. We should meet up later. Anyyywaaayyyy, the main reason I'm calling is to make sure you didn't, uh, you know fall for a certain pair of caterpillars stuck to someone's face. And by that I mean Mr. Posh-British-Gentleman douche. You didn't right? I'm sure you didn't-I mean I'm sure you listened to old Alfie. Right? Right. Call me back, buddy, no pressure though. I'm sure you didn't fall for fuzzy brows."
Sex between dudes. If you can't handle it, skip down to First Person POV: Arthur Kirkland
Note: In this sex scene, Arthur isn't wearing a condom. Let it be known that if you are going to have sex, WEAR A CONDOM. It's not hard, it's not expensive, and it helps prevent STDs.
The reason he's not wearing a condom is because they're friends and they trust each other and probably get checked and...
and I didn't care for adding that extra detail since condoms are for real life and this is a work of fiction. Duh.
First Person POV: Matthew Williams
I rocked back and forth, grinding down and bucking like a horse. Sounds sexy, but honestly it was tiring. Worth it, though. You should've seen Arthur's face. He looked like he was trying to squeeze out a shit. So, more amusing than arousing. I would've laughed at him, but I was too turned on to really be laughing. That would've really ruined the mood. I would definitely jazz him about it later though.
The great thing about just being buddies is laughing at the things you couldn't laugh at or even comment on to your girlfriend, boyfriend. You know, embarrassing stuff. You can just laugh it off rather than your partner getting himself/herself in a huff. Like Arthur's orgasm face, snicker. I hadn't teased him about it yet, but I would. It was just too funny not to.
"Oh fuck, you are so fucking hot," Arthur grunted. In any other situation, it would've been annoying to hear, especially given just how many times he'd said it in the past… what, twenty minutes? Doesn't sound long actually, now that I'm thinking of it.
But fuck, I so didn't care. In the moment, it was awesome to hear him say it. I grinned at him, Cheshire-Cat style. I felt him thrust up into me, a little uncoordinated but forcing a gasp out of me nonetheless. I'd found in the past few weeks that Arthur was good at finding my "special" place, if you get my meaning. If you don't, you haven't been reading enough yaoi. Really. He doesn't always hit it or any of that dumb romance novel crap, but damn, when he's this enthusiastic and humping me like a dog in heat, then he's bound to hit something.
Oh, that was mean. And uncharitable. And he wasn't like a dog-oooh fuck.
"Fuck, right there," I moaned rather embarrassingly. He smirked, his fingernails digging marks into my hips as he pushed me down hard onto his dick. Damn. My eyes practically rolled back and I began pressing down on him more violently, wildly than a second ago. I was starting to get close, I could tell, and so was he. Usually he outlasted me, but not by very long. That was fine with me. Better than the other way around.
I was surprised when he suddenly sat up, pushing himself in even deeper than before. His arms wrapped around me and he grinned at me, the both of us suddenly nose to nose. I glared at him, annoyed that he seemed to be laughing at me. He was still thrusting into me, but it was more relaxed, more sedate. I was a little annoyed, but it didn't last too long. He pulled out of me quickly, too quickly for me to whine or complain and pushed me down in his place. Soon he was diving back into me again. And I take back that dog comment from earlier because with this position, he was in control. And I completely felt like his bitch.
And damn, was he crazy. I think he really likes missionary because damn, he does not "hump like a dog," he fucks like-oh fuck, I can't even think of an analogy. Fuck it; he's just pretty damn good in this position.
He thrusts into me, practically tearing me in half but it feels so damn good, since he's slamming and pounding at a pressure point. It hurts but why would I care? He's hitting one of my most sensitive places, a bundle of nerves, tearing and slamming into my skin and hurting butdamn it's such an amazing feeling, too amazing to describe. And who gives a fuck about the English language at that point anyway?
I'm moaning, meeting his every thrust and bucking, creating glorious friction, spreading my legs like a whore and screaming like one too, I'm sure. Not that Arthur noticed. As I've noticed from many times before, he can be incredibly loud during sex. Very vocal. I've been called "beautiful," "sexy," "fine," "tight," "hot," "perfect," and sometimes even "fit" when he gets really excited. He rarely says "fit" unless he's really in the moment, probably because the first time he said it I just laughed at him. I mean it's hard to take someone who uses "fit" seriously. No offense, British people, just that it sounds kind of goofy to us across the pond.
Oh wait, did I say that he "said?" I meant he screams.
But hey, right now I'm hardly one to talk.
I cum with a scream, as per usual, a cussword ("Fuck!") and I tremble with the powerful, overwhelming pleasure. Arthur keeps moving, searching for his own end and I ride along on the after-shock, feeling smaller waves of pleasure carrying me back down from my sex "high." Soon, though, he cums and I wince a little, never really liking the feeling of him ejaculating inside me. It's kind of gross. Warm, but gross. I don't know, though. Maybe it's just me. He seems to like it, though, so whatever.
"Care-careful, big boy," I gasp breathlessly as he collapses on top of me, his elbows jabbing into my chest a little. I push him to the side, smiling tiredly. "No cuddling," I said in a mock stern tone. He glanced at me, then let out a breathless-sounding chuckle. "No worries."
"Did you know when you orgasm you sound like you're trying to stab me to death?"
"And when you orgasm you sound like the New York Giants lost the Super Bowl against the New England Patriots."
"They aren't going to lose."
"You know what I meant."
"I-whoo-can't-" I huffed, smiling and relaxing against the soft sheets for the night. "Believeyoufollow-football."
"American," he asserted. "Football. It's American football. You know bloody well what football is."
I rolled my eyes. "Sure. Football is soccer. Whatever."
"Football is football."
"Whatever!"
First Person POV: Arthur Kirkland
"And then Canada sat in America's lap. He said, 'Why don't you lick the maple syrup off my body?' And America-"
I blushed furiously, slamming my laptop shut. We were seated in one of those free-internet cafes. I'd been trying to covertly read in peace while Matthew attempted to finish off some homework, but at one point I guess he got bored because he started to read aloud over my shoulder. I guess I didn't see him get up. Honestly when my computer screen is in front of my face, not much passes on my radar.
Matthew started laughing like a loon, his pretty face tense with laughter, his eyes shut, his mouth unabashedly wide open as he laughed like a hyena.
"How dignified," I said icily as he clutched his stomach, almost kneeling with the pressure of the laughter.
"Y-you didn't-didn't write that, did you?" he spluttered.
"No!" I exclaimed, offended. "You seriously thought-?"
"No, of course not," he said, finally calming down after his laughing fit. "I know your writing. I'm just wondering why you're reading...?"
"I'm just-just doing research," I stammered, feeling a blush rising on my face. Damn my physical reactions. And damn my face! Not that it wasn't handsome or anything, just that it always was an open book. And I hated that more than anything about my face. Well. Beside the eyebrows that is. But that's my secret. I've found that if I pretend they don't bother me then the teasing means nothing. Also the open-bpok thing. I hate it when people study my face because I know that just one glance is enough, so an entire stare is like a freaking psychological analysis. Which is why I don't stare at anyone longer than ten seconds. The point is that my face is readable.
That and my blush kind of give it away.
"B-bu-why are-are you looking at slash?" Matthew choked. "And why was that dude named 'America'? Some kind of patriot fetish?"
"He-he's named America because they-they-I mean his series is this thing about anthropomorphized countries. So like countries are people, like there's an Italy and he likes pasta and he's this stereotypical Italian and there's an America and he's obnoxious and loud-"
"Wait, wait. You... are looking at fan... fiction. For... a tv show," Matthew paused for effect. I stared at him.
"Well it's not a TV show, but yeah-?"
He started laughing again.
"You read fanfiction. And not only that, but fan slash about countries? Oh my country and your country should totally fuck," Matthew dissolved into a fit of giggles. "So tell me. Is Canada hot?"
I bopped him over the head with an open palm.
"It's not funny. This is... serious research."
"About America. And Canada. Getting it on. Come on, admit it, that's awkward in context and out of context. In fact, let me read the rest. I wanna see if Canada tops-"
"He doesn't."
"Damnit."
"But he does get laid a lot."
"Ah, he does? Why?"
"He's very... shippable."
Then I had to beat him repeatedly over the head with my paperback book as he wouldn't quit laughing. All the while spluttering something about me being such a huge dork.
"And you actually read porn! Of two countries! Fucking!"
"What so hard to understand about research?"
"Hmm-hmm. Research. Right."
"I'm-I'm looking for inspiration okay-?"
"Hey do something for me."
"Grrr. What?"
"Help me find one England, one Canada, and a bottle of maple syrup..."
Really short. Sorry. I just wanted to get the story out there. Hi guys. Sequel to Absence Really Doesn't Help Relationships, which will get a different name so... yeah, that's kind of your problem if you liked it and want to find it again. Anyway. Yeah. Hope you enjoyed. Rock on. This is pretty much just an introduction and a starter up. We'll get things really kicking soon. I don't expect this one to be a long runner, at least, not as long as I usually have.
-Witchdoctr