Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. I do own, however, whatever European mix is in me, thanks to my ancestors.
A/N: So…I'm not even going to begin to try and excuse myself for my absence on this site any further than what I did in my profile. If you haven't read it, and are still horribly mad at me, I can't say I blame you, but if you're looking to hear me out, then that'd be the best thing to read.
Warnings: Yaoi, smut, England's potty mouth.
The Sweets of Evening
~.*.~.*.~.*.~
It isn't often that England manages to swallow his pride and call upon the wine bastard he's known and hated for centuries on end for something as menial as help in the kitchen—hell, he's had to deal with the bloody prick's taunting and general mockery over the subject for nearly as long he's known him. It took a true life-or-death situation for the British Isle to even consider doing such.
But then again, where America was involved, it always had been such in England's book.
It had taken years upon years for England to come to terms with the fact that he loved America—that he wanted America, and not in the way one was supposed to want one's former colony. But no matter how he looked at it, things had always been different with the superpower of a nation.
America had managed to effortlessly worm his way through the cracks in the stone wall of isolation whose construction England had thought he had perfected over the years: he had shown him what it was like to have a child of his own to love and to cherish; what it was like to have a brother who really loved him; what it was like to have an ally who was young enough to come running with reinforcements in the World Wars because he truly cared about the personification of the United Kingdom and not the consequences of his own country if it should fall.
It was only recently, though, that he was able to really accept that he wanted the cheery, loudmouthed blond, and that he had accepted that he wanted to do something about it before some other country did. Because honestly? It was only a matter of time before the nation was claimed by another nation; England was honestly shocked that the younger power hadn't been taken before this point. After all, he'd seen the way Lithuania cast shy smiles in America's direction—the way Japan opened up in earnest when they were chatting away about the island nation's latest video game and console– the way Russia's dark, chilling eyes grew the slightest shade brighter when the two were exchanging insults, curses, and threats.
And so here he was grumbling to himself as he dialed the frog's number at precisely one o' clock in the afternoon (two o' clock in France), his fingers drumming loudly on the kitchen counter as he listened to the dial tone, impatience and relief warring with each other as the first ring sounded, then the second, followed by the thir—
Click
"Allô?"
England's eyes narrowed as his impressive eyebrows twitched in irritation at the French greeting, before he replied.
"Sorry, I don't speak frog, you bloody prick." His right eye twitched at the resulting chuckle that sounded over the phone.
"Sacre Bleu! Mon cherant rosbif, is that you? To what occasion do I owe the pleasure of one of your ever rare calls?"
"Shut up, wino, I just—er…I might…well, that is to say…" England sputtered, trailing off uncertainly; because really, even if France was nothing more than a perverted bastard, a true British gentleman was always perfectly polite when requesting a favor. It wouldn't do to soil his perfect record of manners because of that moron—he didn't deserve the satisfaction he would undoubtedly gain from ruining the island nation's perfect reputation.
"Yes, Angleterre, what is it? I was just about to head out to gather ingredients pour le dîner, you know."
"A-actually, France—y-yes, I did know," England coughs, inwardly cringing at the stammer that slips into his voice, trying to make up for it with a properly snarky comment. "You always start getting ready for dinner much too early; your routine hasn't changed in centuries, wineface!" Mannersmannersmanners "Er…yes…so I was wondering, if you might…"
"Oui, Angleterre, what is it? I don't have all day, you know."
"I-I'm getting to it, gitface, just...! A-hem…if you might…might be willing t-to—"
"Whatever is it, mon lapin?"
"?"
"Oh? What was that, Angleterre? I'm afraid I didn't quite hear you—could you repeat that, s'il te plait?"
Arthur grit his teeth at the tone of delighted amusement that France didn't even bother trying to hide that quickly told him that France had heard every word, but knowing the Frenchman, he knew he wouldn't ever receive his help unless he played his game.
"I said…I was wondering if you might…be willing…to help me…" He hesitated before finishing in a mumble barely anything more than a breath: "Cook."
"Sacre Bleu, est-ce que c'est un rêve? Can it really be that mon cherant rosbif has finally come to the conclusion that the monstrosity he calls food is really nothing more than a particularly deadly sort of toxic waste—?"
"Shut your bloody trap, would you? There is nothing wrong for my cooking, you twat, it's just—it's not for me, it's—special...it's...it'sforAmerica!"
Pause
"Excusez-moi?"
"I…that is…" England lifted his free hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose as his brows furrowed, letting out a loud exhale before continuing in a lower tone. "I really…I want to do something… special for him…so will you help me or not, frog face?"
Arthur's frown deepened at the few seconds of silence that followed, pulling the phone away from his ear briefly to cock an eyebrow at, briefly wondering if the line had gone dead before bringing it back up to listen to again, his mouth parting to ask if the man was still there before he got a peculiar sensation that he couldn't immediately place at first before realization dawned upon him and then—
"You fucking frog, stop smirking this instant!"
"Ahh, mais Angleterre, c'est l'amour!~ Tu sais comment je sens au sujet de l'amour!~ Oui, oui—bien sur, je viendrai tout de suite, tu peux es sur-!"
"Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit, that's all I'm hearing you say!"
XxX
"Passes-moi de beurre, s'il te plait?"
"God, as if that brat needs any more fat in his diet," England replied with a scoff, but handed the stick of butter over to the Frenchman, a small smirk quirking the corners of his mouth up at the mock gasp of horror France gave in response, though he never took his eyes away from the assortment of vegetables he was busy chopping (it had been the one task France had trusted him enough not to screw up, much to the Briton's chagrin, though he didn't do much more than retort with a rather crude hand gesture in order to let his indignation be known).
"Ces mots si forts, Angleterre! La beurre, it is almost always the secret to delicious food," France said, pausing where he had started busying himself melting the butter in a saucepan over a high flame in order to grace the Englishman with as serious a look as he could muster, earning a roll of green eyes in response.
"Yes, yes, whatever you say, wine face," England replied nonchalantly, reaching for another carrot to peel (it had been the only task France had trusted him not to somehow mess up), taking the opportunity to steal a glimpse of the Frenchman multitasking tirelessly beside him over the stove, somehow managing to simultaneously keep track of the four separate pots either simmering, boiling or only-God-knows-what-ing on all four burners.
The older nation's hair was tied back in the messy ponytail it often ended up in when the country was busy in the kitchen… he was clad in an apron he'd brought along with him that had England smacking a hand over his eyes with a long-suffering groan when he'd seen the words Kiss the chef blazing across the chest, making him realize it was the very same one Canada had bought him decades ago… a small smile constantly played on his lips as one often did while he was indulging in his favorite (non perverted, mind you) pastime.
It was, even England had to admit, quite a becoming look for the Frenchman—the domestic scene, that was. It rather brought back memories of an older, simpler time, when a young Gaul would come calling after an even younger Albion to come back to camp to eat the fish they'd caught earlier before it got cold or he'd eat it all himself—
"-gleterre? Angleterre!"
England was jolted out of his reverie with a rather unrefined squawk when he felt something flick him right between the eyebrows, and his full attention snapped to a now-smirking France whose hand was still raised in an incriminating fashion, his palm still full of the topmost bits of carrot that had been previously gathered into a neat pile until they were to be disposed. His gaze flickered between the Frenchman's triumphant expression and the refuse vegetables before slowly being drawn to the floor where a sliver of orange sat innocently at his feet, before his eyes snapped to France's once more.
"Oh, you are going to bloody regret that, you twat," England breathed before promptly snatching up the similarly unused bits of celery to chuck into France's face—the completely taken aback look was completely worth the indignity of another piece of vegetable hitting him directly on the nose.
Emerald and sapphire met each other with matching, dangerous gleams of a smirk for a fraction of second before mayhem descended on the previously spotless English kitchen as the two scrambled to start flinging whatever scraps they could salvage from the carefully planned meal at each other, insults and curses exchanged mercilessly between breathless gasps and laughter.
"Idiot! Moron! Wanker!"
"Tu fou bête d'un rosbif!"
"Bloody frog!"
"Tu crétin Anglais!"
They continued their banter back and forth along with the occasional moments taken to aim and fling whatever their hands scrambled across at one another, until they ran out and began to swat at each other instead, good humored threats and curses escaping each other as they each fought to trap the other's wrists to draw the other closer to try and get in a good hit—
And then they were kissing passionately, England's back pressed up against the counter as France pressed up against him as close as he could get, both of his hands dropping both of England's previously captured wrist in favor of tangling one hand in the Briton's short, blond messy locks while the other blindly scrambled to turn all the burners off along with the oven before joining the other in England's hair to tug him closer, their teeth clacking loudly as both moved too abruptly to deepen the kiss.
Both pulled back within the same instant to catch their breath, their gazes clashing much like before, though with completely different emotions flickering in their eyes, and England had just enough time to suck in a sharp, shuddering breath of surprise before France's mouth descended upon his once more, the kiss slower this time and more deliberate though there was no less passion, the taller nation taking the lead and tilting his head and slowly running his tongue over the Englishman's lips before plunging between them into the warm, moist cavern of his mouth, both nations moaning lowly in approval at the feeling, his own hands rising to grasp at France's shoulders tightly for support.
One kiss lead to two, which lead to three, which lead to the point where both stopped counting in favor of turning their attention towards stumbling their way to England's bedroom while simultaneously working each other's clothes off in a frenzy to touch as much skin as possible.
"A-ah…ngh, bloody he-ehhll," England groaned as his fingers stumbled where they were frantically trying to undo France's shirt buttons when the other nation pressed their hips together, drawing a hiss of "putin!" from his lips, the unusual curse slipping from the fair-tempered country combined with that tone of voice going straight to the same place all the blood was rushing except for whatever was left to make his face flush.
"Angleterre," France breathed into the slender nation's ear, making him shudder and wrap his arms tight around the taller country's neck to pull him closer, his knees threatening to go weak beneath him as the breath of an adulation was followed by an equally, if not more reverent, murmur of "Arthur."
"France…Francis—God," England moaned in return as his eyes slid shut with a hitch of breath in response to a sharp nip to his earlobe promptly followed with a soothing lick that made his toes curl, his breathing quickening in time to his racing heart, which was pounding away in his chest.
A short eternity later (which in reality couldn't have possibly lasted more than three minutes) the two finally made it to the bedroom, where they immediately made a beeline for the bed. England had somehow wound up in France's arms along the way up the stairwell, his legs wrapped tight around the Frenchman's middle while his hands continued working on divesting the man of his silk shirt while they continued to kiss madly, both struggling to claim dominance the entire way upstairs.
"Un bête, tu es un bête, arêtes-toi, idiote rosbif, j'aime ce chemise!" France admonished breathlessly when he felt England give a particularly frustrated tug at the final, bottom button, swatting his hands away halfheartedly as he set the island nation down on the bed, promptly straddling him and leaning in to nip and lick his way along England's jaw as he effortlessly worked open the last button, pulling back slowly as he did so to meet England's eyes, offering a sultry smirk as he pulled further back, the smirk widening at the sound of something akin to a whine of protest as England leant in after him, obviously not pleased with the sudden distance put between them.
The smaller nation's narrowed green eyes widened a fraction, however, his blush returning full force as he watched France shed the shirt with deliberate slowness, arching his body just so to show off his sinewy muscles, cocking his head the slightest bit while that devilish smile he'd sworn he'd never fall for spread across his spit shiny lips and ohfuck…
"French bastard," England retorted belatedly, though his words lacked venom and were more of a purr than anything, reaching forward to run his hands down the other's toned chest admiringly before settling at his shoulders to jerk him back in to a proximity the Briton deemed acceptable, tugging him back with him until he felt his weight supported against the pillows piled one on top of the other at the head of his bed, and promptly initiated another messy kiss.
His hands found their way back to France's hair once more, his brow furrowing slightly when he couldn't quite bury his fingers into the silken locks, before nimbly undoing the ribbon France had salvaged from one of his still-unfinished embroidery projects, a satisfied smile tugging at England's mouth as he felt more than saw the flaxen strands of hair fall about France's neck like liquid gold.
"Merde, Arthur," France groaned as he felt England's fingers sift through his hair, leaning into the touch almost unconsciously, his blue eyes darkened with desire fluttering a little at the gentle touch; and England remembered again, remembered the days when France had been the best of his older brothers, how he would allow his self-declared petit frère play with his hair for hours on end, how it was one of the only times they could spend an extended amount of time around each other in peaceful company—
"—at is it, Arthur?"
England was snapped out of his tattered memories of grass and sun and innocent smiles for the second time at the insistent tone, blinking quickly and frowning a little at France's expression, his eyes flickering between the look the Frenchman his sending him and the hand that's frozen in a tight grip on a lock of France's hair.
"I—sorry, what?" England murmured, a sheepish look replacing his frown as he drops the strands of hair as if they'd burnt him—the change in expression only making France's frown deepen into one of almost concern.
"I asked you what was wrong. You seemed to forget yourself for a moment, Angleterre."
(An awkward pause; he feels his stomach flop at his words not only because of the underlying hint of worry but because shit—they're back to nation names)
"Est-ce que tu es sur que tu veux—" And England suddenly felt his gut clench at France's suddenly much too wary tone, at the sound of those words spoken in his mother tongue, at the way the older nation suddenly seemed on the verge of trying to distance himself a little from the way their bodies were tangled comfortably together, and he couldn't quite manage to keep his hands from flying to grasp France's arms tightly.
"I'm sure. I'm sure, Francis," England repeats himself, because he doesn't know if he can explain to France exactly why he keeps getting lost in thought without sounding like he's in l—like he cares for the idiot for some reason, and—fuck he probably thinks he's thinking about how he's probably nothing more than a replacement for America, why wouldn't he, after he'd practically begged him over to cook for him—
(He quickly derails himself from that train of though not only because America but because he really isn't using France either and he doesn't even know what to think about that)
He decides to tell him as best he can through actions rather than words, because honestly, actions always had spoken louder than words for nations. With Serbia starting with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand because really, no words could have hurt so many as acutely as the death of that man—and he really did not need to be thinking about the wars right now when France's mouth was right there.
Without a second thought he crashes their mouths together in a kiss nearly as searing as their first, thinking only of thisherenow, smirking triumphantly against France's lips when he felt France's breath hitch in his mouth, his hands trailing down France's bare slides. His lips quirked again briefly at the feeling of muscle spasming slightly beneath smooth skin at the tickling touch before jerking sharply in reflex with a gasp as England's fingers and palms found and rubbed at his dusky nipples until they were peaked and he was shuddering over him, his fingers curling into the bed sheets beneath him as he moaned loudly into the kiss, the sound going straight to England's cock.
"Mon Dieu, Arthur," France murmured as they finally broke the kiss with a wet sound, a thin silver strand of saliva stringing between them before England licks his lips and it snaps back to spatter over his lower lip, already red and swollen from their kissing; and it's all France can do not to throw England down and start having his way with him right then and there. However, he is not called la paye d'amour for nothing, however, and so instead he merely laps at the English nation's lower lip tenderly before sucking it into his mouth with a pleasant hum, smirking at the breathy sound akin to a whimper the island nation gives in response.
The two nations finally slow down from their initial frenzy, and France sets about methodically stripping them of the rest of their clothes, worshipping each bit of skin as it is exposed, until he had England squirming and panting shallowly beneath him, his short blond hair ruffled and his increasingly hazy green eyes peering down at him through dark lashes where he was planting teasing, chaste kisses along the top of England's plaid boxers and thoroughly enjoying the soft gasps he elicits with each teasing brush of his lips against the sensitive, heavily scarred pale skin of his abdomen.
"Francis—mmhn, just…" England began before trailing off with a shudder as France nipped at the skin just below his navel, before soothing the bite with languid swipes of the flat of his tongue over the spot over and over again, making him writhe a little in his impatience.
"Mm, what's that, Arthur? Si tu voudrais quelque chose, tu vraiment as besoin me demander," France lilted, his eyes meeting England's green ones with a sly smile as he nuzzled each love bite, unable to bite back a smirk as England hissed a curse through gritted teeth and undoubtedly jerked at the sensation of his stubble dragging over the sensitive, lavished skin.
"Oh—! Fuck, bloody get on with it already, would you?" he choked out at last in a high, breathy gasp with obvious reluctance when France finally dragged his tongue roughly over the other nation's arousal through the strained fabric of his boxers, his eyes snapping shut and his head jerking back with a thin cry as France paused to smirk up at him as he lap at the wet stain where precome had seeped through the thin fabric, enjoying the way England's hips quivered beneath him with the strain of refraining from bucking up into the touch.
"Why, Arthur, mon cher, you really ought to have just said so," France replied coyly, only just managing to bite back a laugh at the heated glower that England sent him didn't even begin to compare with the heat of his burning face, flush with arousal. With one last, brief wink that France prided himself on for eliciting a splutter from the British nation, he dipped his head back down to catch the elastic of the Briton's underwear between his teeth, grinning wickedly to himself at the sound of a muttered a before the mumble trailed into a shuddering sigh as the material of his boxers brushed over the tip of his erection as he worked the boxers down with his teeth until they were drawn down to his knees, only then pulling back to pull them down the rest of the way, tugging them off of his feet and letting them drop easily aside to join the growing pile of discarded clothes at their bedside.
France shifted back so he was hovering over England's fidgeting form, his blue eyes roaming admiringly over the slender nation's flushed form sprawled beneath him, before reaching out a hand to lightly ghost his fingertips over the scars mapped across his chest, reveling in the shivers the light touches caused.
His fingertips paused over the faded mark of a ghastly burn directly over England's heart, pressing just long enough to feel the flutter of England's rapid heartbeat beneath his fingers. Out of the blue a sudden memory flashed across his mind, of roaring redorangeyellow flames licking their way across the streets of London and illuminating a crippled but determined figure of the island nation on the brink of demolition standing defiantly as he gazed up at one of the bombed planes zigzagging over his capital, his one still good arm wrapped around the shoulders of an injured citizen, the blazing flames illuminating the country's green eyes which burned with a seething rage that smoldered hotter than any earthly fire and he had never seen England look quite so…
A hand grasped his wrist and France startled, glancing up with wide eyes to meet England's and oh, putin, there was that same dangerously enticing glow in his eyes right now but there was no fire—
"I thought you were going to fuck me, Francis," England purred in a voice that promptly sent whatever traces of blood remained elsewhere in his body south, and France groaned as he lifted the hand the Briton had grasped to raise his hand to his mouth to clasp their hands together to press kisses to each of England's knuckles, offering his most seductive smile over their twined fingers, the smile darkening as he watched England's cheeks flush brighter at the expression.
"J'ai tout intension faire ca, Arthur," France countered playfully in an equally smoldering lilt, brushing one last kiss to the inside of England's palm and laughing lowly when the island nation's fingers involuntarily curled against his cheek before he set his hand back down; an action that France was torn between regretting and rejoicing for when he felt the Briton's hand travel down his front to palm roughly between his legs directly over his own neglected arousal, making his hips buck forward with a heady moan.
"Now, Francis," England replied sweetly with a coy tilt of his head as his lashes lowered to half mast, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth upward as he nimbly undid France's pants button and zipper to snake his hand beneath the front of France's pants and boxers to grope him firmly in a mock display of encouragement. And then he twisted his fingers just so and oh Sacre Bleu—
"Arthur! Arthur, merdre, tu crétin si tu voudrais moi te baiser, arrêt—I'm going to come if you d-don't—oh, putin," France managed to half gasp, half groan, one hand flying to grab England's wrist this time to draw his hand back with extreme reluctance, shudders racking his body at the unexpected but not at all unwelcome touch, biting his tongue hard to keep another slew of colorful French curses from escaping at the sudden lack of contact, taking a slow, deliberate breath in before shifting to lean over England to hastily search the bedside table.
His eyes darted over the numerous books stacked there and even more numerous unfinished embroidery projects, a frown just starting to pinch between his brows—and then England is propping himself up onto his side to rustle within the drawer before impatiently thrusting a small, silver tube of…hand lotion? Vraiment? Qui en l'Enfer utilise lotion pour les mains pour faire l'amour—oh, to hell with it.
France gratefully grabbed the small tube, squeezing out a generous amount onto his fingers and tossing the nearly empty container aside in favor of rubbing the lotion together to warm it, blinking a few times as the scent finally registered and a smile spread over his lips.
"And here I thought you said you hated rosewater lotion, and planned on burning it the instant you got home when I gave this to you année dernière, mon petit lapin," France teased, grinning widely when he saw confusion-realization-utter mortification flash over the Englishman's features with comical speed
"S-shut up you frog, I—just hadn't gotten around to it, yet!" England insisted, though not as ardently as one might expect when it was France of all nations that he was arguing with; but then again, it was clear that his attention was fixed on the Frenchman's now slickened fingers, his green eyes unwavering from the slender digits that had never been particularly good for war but—
Oh. Ohh, this. This was what they'd always been good for.
"Fucking hell, Francis," Arthur moaned as France's clever fingers trailed up the insides of his thighs, leaving rose-scented trails that promptly cooled in his fingers' wake, making goosebumps appear all over his body at the dramatic chill in comparison to the rest of his body that felt as though it on fire with need. He tensed briefly in anticipation as France's fingertip circled his entrance, unconsciously spreading his legs wider and lifting his hips to give the experienced nation better access, his breath hitching in expectation as he felt the probing finger press against him…
And his eyes snapped open when it didn't push that little bit more into him, hazy emerald green meeting sultry cobalt blue.
"Francis, what the fuck—?" England demanded furiously, before France's lips descended upon his, silencing whatever impatient remark had been forthcoming, only pulling back when he was absolutely certain the island nation was not about to start again.
"Arthur, mon cher, je suis vraiment serieux—est-ce que c'est quoi tu voudrais?"
England's only answer was to slide one hand into France's silky, golden hair, tousled out of its usual pristine state by England's fingers having run through it over and over again throughout this entire time, tangling his fingers for a firm grip to bring him down into a demanding kiss, and France couldn't help but shudder in pure arousal at the way he felt more than hears England mouth a silent, insistant "fuck me" against his lips.
Despite his insistent requests (or, rather demands) for it, England couldn't quite keep from inhaling sharply and brace himself against the initial intrusion as France pushes the first finger into him. The foreign sensation made him shudder beneath France's body, his mouth parting in a silent sound before breaking into a soft moan as France carefully hooked his finger and began to slide it smoothly in and out, keeping his motions smooth but never fully stopping. He hissed loudly immediately in pain, though, once a second digit was added to the first, stretching him open even wider.
"Bloody fuck," England groaned, his head tipping back as his eyes clenched shut as he bit back a pained hiss when France began to scissor his fingers apart, his lips trailing up and down the side of England's neck, his tongue flicking out every so often to taste England's sweat slick skin, his lashes fluttering and tickling England's skin each time he blinked, making England squirm even more despite his best efforts to remain still.
"Une moment plus, juste un autre moment plus, cher," France murmured against his neck, adding a final finger and splaying all three apart widely, trailing his lips up from where he had been lavishing attention just behind the Briton's ear in favor of hushing him quietly with a chaste, lingering kiss, muffling and pretending not to have heard the barely swallowed sound akin to a whimper of pain at the abrupt action.
"Voila, c'est tout," Francis soothed as he worked his fingers slowly out, bringing his hand back to wipe some of the excess lotion over the breathless nation's entrance with his thumb before slicking up his own arousal with the remainder smeared across his palm, his eyes fluttering in pleasure as a breath of a curse escaped at the contact before quickly grasping the backs of England's thighs to hook his legs around his waist before settling comfortably between England's legs once more, pressing the tip of his arousal to England's entrance, only then meeting his eyes.
A flicker of something neither of them can quite name (or is it that they're too afraid to so soon, so suddenly) passed over each of their faces at the same moment, reflected in the other's eyes for both to see.
The same flicker of something that darted over their faces after the initial shock the first time they found they had something in common other than their both being nations when realized the other could see the fae, too; the same flicker of something that flashed over their faces in the moment after France had pressed their lips together in a first chaste, innocent kiss; the same flicker of something that raced over their expressions when they were in these very same positions for the very first time years upon years ago.
And then oh—
Heat; tight; pleasure. Burn; open; pain.
"Ohhfuck," England breathed out hoarsely through the hurt, nails dragging down France's back, leaving searing red trails in their wake, making the Frenchman groan. The pain was insignificant, however, in comparison to the pleasure of the warmth that crashed over him in waves each time England made even the slightest movement, and it was all France could do not to throw all precaution to the wind and pound into the tight warmth that England offers him—but of course he managed, because that would be completely unbecoming of the nation who prides himself on his expertise in the art of lovemaking more than any other country.
So he kissed England instead; poured all that want, all that need, all those words he (they) can't (won't) say (confess) about that flicker of something into it and rocked his hips forward the slightest bit to push in the rest of the way and—
And England gasped his name as their hips finally met, his arms moving to snake around France's neck to tug him closer even as he turned his head away to the side to press his face into the pillows in a vain attempt to smother the high, breathless mantra of "God, ohGod, oh God…"
"Not exactly, mon coeur, though I do like to believe I'm close," France murmured before he even realized the words were out of his mouth, and his eyes dart up to see England's reaction.
"Oh shut the bloody hell up and fuck me, bastard," England groaned as his head tipped back a fraction to crack a hazy, green eye open to meet France's—but that was a breathless smirk touching the corners of his mouth and that flicker lingered over his features for the longest moment yet, and so France slowly inched back before rolling his hips into England's once more, making the both of them moan loudly and arch; England on the verge between pain and pleasure, and France in bliss.
"Nghh, still bloody hurts you kno—oh…ohh…God…good…! T-there…there, again, Francis, now, please," England gasped, because honestly, loose lover or not, France never forgot what felt good for anyone, ever, and he knew it.
France pulled out a little further this time before rocking back into the British nation at the same angle, his eyes never wavering from England's face as he watched him grow increasingly undone beneath him with each thrust; because truth be told, England had always fascinated him the most in bed—watching the Englishman gradually lose his perfect composure, watching the pleasure creep over his face until he was flushed and gasping as he tossed his head from side to side, watching his lips quiver silently as he mouthed nonsense words even when he had screamed himself to the point of being hoarse three rounds ago…
Both England's arms and legs tightened around France's neck and middle respectively to draw him in ever closer as he began to eagerly lift his hips in time to France's thrusts, meeting his hips dead on and pulling him in deeperharderfaster, and France watched through his lashes as England threw his head back and cried out as he arched up as France, his voice breaking into a scream as his previously neglected erection was rubbed roughly between their bodies, and he began bucking for more.
France felt his climax begin to approach faster and faster the longer he gazed at England, but he couldn't bring himself to tear his gaze away, not when England's bangs were plastered to his forehead like that; not when he was moaning in abandon and making the most delightfully wanton expressions; not when his lips were parted in a vain attempt to try and regain the breath that kept being stolen in the form of his shameless moans, the thinnest trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth; not when his eyes were almost completely shut except for the hazy sliver of green peering out from beneath dark lashes, starting back up at him almost unseeingly.
One of France's hands finally released England's hip – and oh, those bruises were going to stay for days – and slid his hand down the Briton's front to wrap firmly around England's cock without warning, pressing the tip of his thumb up against the tip to smear the bead of precome over the head and swirling the pad of his finger over the slit again and again—
And England's mouth fell open into a silent scream as he came hard all over their stomachs, his hips continuing to buck jerkily a few more times in time with France's to ride out his orgasm, and he was so tight and hot and warm around him France thought he might die; and then he was coming, too, pleasure wiping his mind blank as he continued to rock fervently into the quivering, welcoming body beneath his before they finally came to a slow, gradual stop, the sudden silence broken only by the sound of their heavy gasps and then soft, wet sounds as France claimed England's swollen lips in one last, slow kiss before pulling carefully out and away.
Bits and pieces of reality broke through the pleasant haze of England's afterglow as he zoned in and out; a warm, smooth hand gently brushing his bangs back from his face before the softest kiss was brushed over his forehead; a damp towel gingerly wiping the sticky mess from his stomach; and finally, an image of France on the verge of nodding off himself beside him as he came back to bed, one of his hands resting on England's cheek as he faced him, his lips moving, though England can't quite bring himself to awareness quite fast enough to register what he's saying.
(The flicker roared into a flame)
XxX
It's four o' eight in the morning when England wakes with a start with the revelation that he's in love with France.
XxX
When England finally awoke without the intention of dozing right back off into the inviting warmth in France's arms, it was to the soothing sound of the English rain pitter-pattering against the windowpane.
England didn't dare move yet, for he was still enveloped in France's arms, and France had never been a morning person like he had.
Besides, he still had to sort out his terribly jumbled feelings.
America. He had been planning on pursuing America at last, hadn't he? Last night… it… it hadn't been all about replacing America, had it?
No. Those memories had resurfaced without him even trying to recall them. And all it had taken each time was a look on France's part.
But the way he'd looked at him last night…
Fuck, he needed time to think.
"Angleterre?"
England nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected murmur, but his initial irritation at being startled quickly melted away at the concerned look France was sending him because shit, England didn't think he'd ever seen France look quite so open before.
"Angleterre… Amerique… nous lui adorons."
"I know."
"Tu l'aimes."
"I do."
"Mais nous avons—"
"We did."
"Qu'est-ce que tu feras?"
England decided to show him by rolling on top of France despite the aching protests of his body to kiss him deeply to get him to shut the bloody fuck up.
He's only satisfied that France understand the true extent of his confusion when the nation below him reaches up to tangle his fingers in his short hair and kisses back, his lips moving against his in a whispered confession he feels more than hears against his mouth.
"Je me souvenais. Je me souvenais tous."
"Me too."
(The flame glimmered brighter)
XxX
Though America is admittedly a pretty awesome superpower, it isn't exactly common for someone even as heroic as he is to get visitors at eight 'o clock at night on a Thursday night when the next World Summit isn't even until next month.
That isn't to say he isn't delighted to have the unexpected company come knocking.
And so it was with great enthusiasm that America hollered a "be right there!" in response to the chime of the first line of the Star-Spangled Banner. He continued humming the rest of it to himself as he practically bounded to the front door to greet his surprise guest, hands tucked into his pockets.
America flung the door dramatically open at last, his lips already parted, having long ago prepared a heroic speech in the case of some damsel in distress who came knocking on his door for help from the most super heroic nation on the face of the planet—but the breath he'd been holding in rushed out in a surprised laugh.
"Iggy? What're you doin' here across the pond so late?"
"America…Alfred…I need to talk to you…"
And what kind of hero would America be if he didn't actually catch the sheer importance of the situation England had come to him with when he used his human name for the first time since he could remember?
"C'mon in, Ig'—I'm sure I've gotta have some tea crammed into a cupboard around here, somewhere—even if it is nasty—I was your colony, after all, and Mattie always liked it—which I'll never understand—so what'sa matter?" America somehow manages to say all in one breath, and England only just manages to keep from cringing at the way America mangles his prided language, but he steels himself against it and settles down in the chair America gestures towards.
And England takes a deep breath and forces the words out of his throat before it tightens too much for him to speak, because he knows if he doesn't say it outright now, he'll never say it at all, so—
"America…what would you say if I told you I was in love with you?"
England had to admit, he truly admired the way America didn't even fumble with the mug he just retrieved from the cupboard; wheras England is sure that he would have promptly dropped the porcelain cup on the floor had the American bluntly said the same to him, the tall, bespeckled blond merely cocked his head seemingly to himself (and he wishes so badly that America wasn't turned the opposite way so he could see his expression) before setting the cup down on the kitchen counter before snagging a recently cleaned pot from the drain board to fill with water, only speaking again once he's turned around from where he set it onto the stove to boil, looking at England with genuine curiosity as he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms and—wait. No. That can't be a smile twitching on the corners of his mouth.
"Well, I'd say you're a few centuries late, don'tcha think?" America replied easily, eyes curious and earnest—making the Englishman sputter in acute confusion.
"What the bloody fuck is that supposed to mean, you dimwit?" England demands angrily, inwardly furious not at America, but at himself for losing his gentlemanly composure while America stands there looking positively unruffled.
"Well, far as I know, it usually suggests that someone's taken, but maybe the meaning's lost in translation with your weird British-speak; I only speak American, y'know—"
"'Taken?'" England repeated dumbly, his eyebrows twitching when America merely shrugged as if it were something England should have known, the bloody little git. "Taken by whom? I think I'd have noticed if my former colony was in a relationship, thank you kindly!" England demanded.
The smile of amusement dropped off of America's face to be replaced with a look that England had long ago learned to roughly translate as the equivalent to saying "are-you-kidding."
"Iggy, I've been dating Canada for ages."
England was sure his brain shuddered to a stop for a good full ten seconds.
"…You've been seeing-"
"Canada."
"For-"
"Centuries."
"…You-"
"Yup."
"…Define 'seeing.'"
England didn't really think it was quite fair for America to be giving him that look when the superpower was telling him that he was an item with his twin brother.
"Y'know, seeing? As in, dating? As in we hold hands, know how to order each other's coffee just the way we like it, and fuck in that janitor's closet everyone uses on breaks during the World Summits?"
England's mouth moved wordlessly, much to America's amusement, and on a whim he jokingly added (curious if England's face could turn any darker) "His cum tastes like maple syrup."
"Belt up, for the love of God, won't you for once shut your bloody trap? That's disgusting, America, I really don't need the mental imagery of you boys doing…doing that when I was the one who bloody raised you two from the time you were practically in diapers and fuck that's even worse!" England's hollers trailed off into a miserable moan as he covered his burning face which was now quickly draining of color in horror with his hands, trying desperately to shake off the two images that were threatening to merge into just one very disturbing mental image.
England jumped a little when something clacked in front of him, and he stared down into his perfectly prepared tea what the bloody hell? and he looked up to see a flushed (but trying desperately not to laugh)—
"Canda?" England yelped in surprise, jerking straight up so fast he very nearly knocked over his tea, and would have had Canada not quickly reached out to steady the steaming beverage. "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough," the other nation replied in that gentle tone—though England knew as horror dawned over him again from experience that that meant he'd been there close to if not the entire time.
"O-oh, lad, I'm—I'm so sorry," England spluttered, but Canada quickly shook his head with a smile, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"It's okay, England—we've gotten pretty good at hiding it. Al's just messing with you," Canada said, his tone turning lightly reprimanding as he narrowed his eyes a little in his twin's direction, though his expression faltered a little at the perfected "it-wasn't-me" look America had waiting for him as soon as their eyes met.
England, meanwhile, cradled his head in his hands as he stared down unseeingly into his mug of tea, because—it made sense, damnit, it made perfect sense and why hadn't he caught on sooner?
It made sense, so why did his chest feel so fucking tight?
Two hands landed on his shoulder and back, but he didn't bother to look up; he didn't need to see two identical faces looking at him apologetically.
"We were made for each other, Iggy—" Shut up, you bloody twit, I know that— "And you always had someone made for you, too."
And England slowly lowered his hands to his mug to bring the beverage up to his lips to nurse silently as their words sank in.
(Because he couldn't—wouldn't—ignore the flickerglimmerflame anymore)
XxX
Three individual glasses of wine hadn't done anything to make the ache in his chest lessen any, so France had forgone the glass in favor of drinking directly from the bottle itself—a vintage Cabernet Sauvignon because he wanted a strong, bold flavor to wash the disgusting taste of remorse away.
Because France adored America, loved him as much as he loved Canada—they were like his own sons. And yet he'd had the gall to allow his moment of selfish neglect to get the better of him, and he'd gone and thrown any cares about America to the wind and had taken Angleterre and they belonged together, had the right to be together after finally, finally managing to put their rockier history behind them and—
Green eyes, flushed cheeks, his name on those tempting, swollen lips
—And what did he do, but send them two steps backwards just because he—
Looked into his face and saw the same emotion he wouldn't name flicker over his expression and—
—How the country of love had fallen…
France was jerked out of his guilty stupor at the sound of three short raps on the front door. Letting out a long, low sigh, France forced himself up off of his loveseat and onto his feet to drag himself to the front door, an irate French warning to foutre le camp ready on his lips as he swung the door open, only for the curse to be smothered back down as England tugged him down into a passionate kiss, with tongue and teeth and France could care less when the bottle dangling in his grasp dropped from his fingers in his surprise, because they were so much better suited at the moment in England's hair to grab at his short sandy locks to draw him closer…
They broke away only after a good full minute of kissing, only when the need for air overcame their determination not to end the steamy kiss, and France stared breathlessly down into England's equally flushed face.
"Arthur, what—?" France began, but was cut off as England pressed his face into the crook of his neck and shoulder, clinging tightly to him.
"Canada." France opened his mouth at the muffled murmur before slowly shutting it once more and arching an eyebrow in a silent inquiry before he realized the Briton couldn't see him and rephrased his question vocally.
"What about Canada, cher, I thought you went to see Ameri—"
"America. He's seeing Canada."
"…Define 'seeing.'"
"That's exactly what I said."
"That…actually makes quite a bit of sense, tu sais, what with their geogra—"
"Yes, yes, I know. Geography."
"Ainsi… maintenant?"
"Hmm…well," England drawled, tipping his head back and tilting it as he leant in so their lips brushed with each word he spoke against his lips, and France felt a smile curl against his lips.
"I do believe we have a dinner to finish before we have dessert."
~.*.~.*.~.*.~
A/N: So! Betcha ya'll didn't know I was bilingual before now, huh? Never had to use French in my writing before I met and fell in love with France~ And-translations, anyone?
Translations: (In order of appearance in the story)
Allô – A casual French greeting used over the phone
Mon cherant rosbif – My dearest roastbeef
S'il te plait – Please (Casual)
Est-ce que c'est un rêve – Is this a dream?
Excusez-moi? – Excuse me/Beg your pardon?
Ahh, mais Angleterre, c'est l'amour!~ Tu sais comment je sens au sujet de l'amour!~ Oui, oui—bien sur, je viendrai tout de suite, tu peux es sur – Ahh, but England, it's love! ~ You know how I feel about love! Yes, yes, of course, I will come right away, you can be sure
Passes-moi de beurre, s'il te plait? – Pass the butter, please?
Ces mots si forts! – Such strong words!
Tu fou bête d'un rosbif! – Beast of a roastbeef!
Tu crétin Anglais! – Idiot Englishman!
Un bête, tu es un bête, arêtes-toi, idiote rosbif, j'aime ce chemise – Beast, you're a beast, stop it, idiot roastbeef, I like this shirt!
Merde – Shit
Est-ce que tu es sur que tu veux – Are you sure that you want…?
Mon Dieu – My God
La paye d'amour – The country of love
Si tu voudrais quelque chose, tu vraiment as besoin me demander – If you would like something, you really need to ask
J'ai tout intension faire ca – I have every intention of doing so
Merdre, tu crétin/i si tu voudrais moi te baiser, arrêt – Shit, you idiot, if you want me to fuck you, stop!
Putin – Fuck!
Vraiment? Qui en l'Enfer utilise lotion pour les mains pour faire l'amour – Really? Who in hell uses hand lotion when making love?
Année dernière – Last year
Je suis vraiment serieux—est-ce que c'est quoi tu voudrais? – I'm very serious—is this what you want?
Une moment plus, juste un autre moment plus, cher – One moment more, just another moment more, dear
Voila, c'est tous – There we are, that's all
Mon coeur – My heart
Nous lui adorons – We love him
Tu l'aimes – You love him
Mais nous avons- – But we-
Qu'est-ce que tu feras? – What will you do?
Je me souvenais. Je me souvenais tous – I remembered. I remembered everything
Foutre le camp – Fuck off
Ainsi… maintenant? – And so…now?
A/N: Alright, so I hope you enjoyed, and expect a bit more activity from me as I start to get myself back into writing for real. And if anyone is reading this who used to follow my writing (which would surprise the heck outta me, I gotta say)…I apologize a million times over for the hiatus. Love to you all~
Please review