Sexual Gratification (France, England, America, Canada) - Pt 2
Title: Sexual Gratification
Characters: France, England, America, Canada
Summary: England and France have had a long time to experiment with each other in bed; America and Canada are a little concerned with what they've come up with.
Warnings: Kissing, mild kink, kink!meme-inspired plot devices
Year: Modern
Pt 1
Oh, no. No, no. He wouldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t.
“Very well. But if you do not like it, don't infer that we do not.”
Of course he would. If there was anything that he had learned in centuries of association with this man, it was that he would never turn down sex. Arthur had, at some point in the nineteenth century, begun to suspect that it was at least to some degree a calculated choice of battle ground rather than a simple acquiescence to the passions of the moment, but since the knowledge had always made him deeply uncomfortable, he chose to dwell on it as little as possible. As such, he took the opportunity to voice his own reservations. “Francis, are you out of your fucking mind?”
Francis ignored him. “Alfred,” he began. The boy looked suspicious. “There are many who do this sort of thing independently of love-making. I am not one of those people. Do you understand?” The look of suspicion deepened, but he nodded. “And you consent?”
“Can we just get on with this?”
“And you consent, Alfred?”
“Francis, I really think-“
“Yes, ok? Yes, I consent.” There was a pause. “I'm totally not letting you fuck me, though.” Arthur understood the sentiment, even if in reality he had not lived up to his own standards in this regard since the eleventh century. And what was he doing dwelling on that memory, when everything about what was about to take place was ill-advised to the point of idiocy.
Francis shrugged. “Very well. But, we will kiss.” Alfred looked less than thrilled. “We will kiss, or I will not do it.”
“Alfred, this is really all quite unnecessary. Matthew, take your brother-“ he’d given up on arguing semantics with them centuries ago, “-and go play that strange game with the little balls in the box, or whatever it is you do on these evenings-“
Alfred's eyebrows furrowed, and again, Arthur was ignored. Cretins. “Who says I'm giving you a choice?”
Matthew elbowed the other boy. “Al-- Al, I'm not sure we--”
But Francis had stood. Arthur was reliably surprised how menacing he could look when he really tried; one moment, he would be the goofy fool, the next, looking as if his generals were about to overrun your capital. “America,” he said, and Alfred startled at the use of his formal name. “Your armies and economy mean nothing here. I will not be bullied. We will do this my way, or not at all.” The boy looked strangely cowed. Arthur huffed-- internally. “Now. You are sure you want to go through with this?”
Alfred looked uncertain-- but he looked over at Arthur, and his expression cleared. “Yes.”
Arthur said “Really, we could all just-“ but then Francis leaned in to kiss his col-- his ex-colony, and he felt a shock of heat, and a certain pounding-ah, his heart. Sitting catty-corner to them, he could identify the moment Francis deepened their kiss-French kissing, he thought to himself, and had to suppress what might have been a nervous giggle-by the way Alfred’s eyes popped open. Watching the boy’s lower lip disappear briefly into Francis’ mouth, he realized with a certain degree of surprise that it was one of the hottest things he’d seen in his life. A potent cocktail of shame and self-recrimination accompanied that thought, and he looked away, wondering-not for the first time-if it would be possible to simply excuse himself from his own hotel room and find someone else to stay with. Perhaps Ludwig would be understanding.
Something kept him from standing, and even later he wouldn’t be sure if it had been cowardice or bravery.
The child was nervous, Arthur could tell by the way he fidgeted. He didn’t have the look of one kissing Francis for the first time, a man who-faults aside-deserved certain elements of his reputation. Alfred shot a quick glance at Matthew, who had characteristically said little thus far, but Francis turned his face gently back towards himself. “We are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”
Al shook his head, expression mulish. “No. We're doing it here.”
Arthur sighed. It would have been such an easy way out. Francis shrugged, in that elegant, totally queer way, and slipped a hand behind the boy’s head, tilting it back for another kiss. Alfred cooperated with, Arthur could not help but feeling, reluctance, and jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb.
Arthur-- Arthur was torn. He watched his oldest lover coaxing the boy to relax, watched him slowly start to kiss back, and-- the jealousy he felt was burning, but undirected. The arousal, equally so. He glanced over at Matthew, and was surprised to see that the boy had been looking at him, nervous, twisting his hands together. In the next moment, Arthur noticed the light flush on his cheeks, the way his body was angled carefully away from him. He wasn't quite sure what to do about that.
Francis sat down on the couch, guiding Alfred after him; Arthur could see immediately what he was going for, but Al, flustered and nervous, clearly could not. The poor buffoon stumbled, and Arthur would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so intent on pretending he wasn’t there. It took several moments of awkward negotiation before Francis had positioned the other man, kneeling, legs on either side of his lap; Arthur was ready to cover his eyes in second-degree embarrassment. But then they were kissing again, slow and intense. Arthur knew that kind of kiss. By the time he slid a hand under Alfred's shirt, the boy's hair was mussed, and Arthur could see from his profile that he was breathing quickly. He shook his head. Francis, that bastard.
Then there was a quick movement, a scraping sound, a gasp. Arthur processed a moment later that Francis had begun. Fingernails, of course. Well, it was at least traditional. He looked away from the look that passed between the two of them-one shocked, the other impassive. “You are sure?” he heard Francis ask.
Alfred’s “Yeah” (the abominable slang) was shaky. Arthur thought about interrupting, but wasn’t… Well. What on earth would he have said?
---
Al didn't-- he didn't want this. He'd thought about it, he really had, kissing France-- he, uh, he might have jerked off to it once or twice, before he started fantasizing about dirtier stuff. But not this way, not angry and scared and in front of an audience; he looked over at Matt, terrified that he'd see revulsion, but France turned his face gently back towards him. “We are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”
Al shook his head. He didn't want to be alone with his old mentor right now. “No. We're doing it here.”
France shrugged, and put a hand on the back of his neck, tilting Al’s head up like a chick in a black-and-white movie. Fucking weird, man. He jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb, and despite himself, Al began to relax. This was France they were talking about; he wouldn't really hurt any of them, would he? Then he remembered France in his military uniform at Fort Necessity, stained with blood and laughing.
Al barely noticed when France moved them to the couch, and except to kinda stumble (he’d forget about that part later). There was another awkward moment, like that time that England had tried to teach him to waltz; he knew he was being cued to do something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He thought he detected a hint of exasperation in France’s face, and he was simply picked up and positioned, kneeling, legs on either side of France’s. He put his hands uncertainly on the older man's shoulders for balance, and then France was kissing him again. Against his inclinations, he found himself closing his eyes, kissing back, responding to the firm hand on the back of his neck in a way he wasn’t, uh, totally comfortable with. He didn’t even jump when France’s hand slid under his shirt; he might’ve, uh, shuddered a little.
Al had almost, almost forgotten why they'd started this, when the gentle hand on his back turned to sharp fingernails, dragged up his spine. He gasped, mostly out of surprise, and met France's eyes. The man's face was expressionless. “You are sure?”
A low pounding had started in the pit of his stomach-- nerves, and maybe a little anticipation? “Yeah,” he said, trying to inject his voice with all the confidence he didn't feel.
“Very well,” said France, and the fingernails on his back turned cruel, leaving stinging trails behind them on their way up, gaining speed and pressure on their way down. Al gasped again, his grip on France's shoulders tightening, until he was sure it was going to bruise. If it hurt, France didn't show it-- he leaned in, and kissed a tender spot right above his collarbone; Al shivered. Then, instead of kissing, he was sucking, and Al's breathing was uncomfortably close to panting. By the time he felt the teeth in his neck, he was fighting the simultaneous urges to squirm closer and pull away. He cried out, and he heard an intake of breath from one of the men behind him.
“That's-- that doesn't feel bad,” he said to France.
“No,” the man responded.
“And that's what he was doing to you?” Al looked over his shoulder at England for confirmation.
England coughed. “The-- ah-- the premise is the same.”
Al's eyes narrowed, and he turned back to France. “You were hitting him. He was bleeding.”
France nodded, eyes serious. “Yes, he was.”
Al's expression became set. “Do it to me.”
France shook his head. “I will hit you, Alfred, if you ask me to, but I will not make you bleed. Not the first time.”
Al narrowed his eyes, but before he had a chance to reply, England spoke up. “You will not be able to convince him. He has that look.” And indeed, France's face was blank-- abnormal enough for him-- and serious.
Al couldn't quite-- he didn't quite know what to do. “It's-- France? Do you like doing stuff like that to him? To, uh, to me?”
France's expression stayed guarded. “Sometimes,” he said. “What my partner enjoys, I enjoy. There are moments when I enjoy this sort of thing for its own sake, but a true sadist, I am not.”
Al struggled with that. “So,” he said, slowly, “so you were doing it because he wanted you to.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England put his face in his hands.
“Yes,” said France, still with that unnervingly serious expression on his face.
“And you weren't-- you weren't hurting him, in a bad way.”
“No,” answered France, without a hint of humor or exasperation.
Al thought. He turned to England. “So-- so the hitting, and the bleeding, that's-- that's what you like?”
England's “not exclusively” was muffled by his hands.
Al was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I guess he'd kick your ass if you were fucking with him.” France looked mildly offended by that, but said nothing.
“Damn straight, I would,” said England, looking up. “Now. Are we done talking about this yet?”
Al hesitated. “Um, France?”
“Yes?”
“Would you-- would you do it to me anyway? It's-- I want-- I mean,” he stuttered, not quite sure what he wanted to say; all he knew was that he couldn't just go home after this.
“Al,” whispered Matt, “maybe they want to, you know, finish what they were doing--”
But France interrupted him. “Yes, Alfred. If that is what you want.”
NOTES
*Ahaha! You didn’t think you’d get history notes during this fic, of all things, DID you.
*Fort Necessity was where George Washington surrendered after the Battle of Jumonville Glen at the beginning of the French and Indian War. According to wiki, “The terms of Washington's surrender included a statement (written in French, a language Washington did not read) admitting that Jumonville [who was killed in the battle] was assassinated."
*Thanks for reading!
Characters: France, England, America, Canada
Summary: England and France have had a long time to experiment with each other in bed; America and Canada are a little concerned with what they've come up with.
Warnings: Kissing, mild kink, kink!meme-inspired plot devices
Year: Modern
Pt 1
Oh, no. No, no. He wouldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t.
“Very well. But if you do not like it, don't infer that we do not.”
Of course he would. If there was anything that he had learned in centuries of association with this man, it was that he would never turn down sex. Arthur had, at some point in the nineteenth century, begun to suspect that it was at least to some degree a calculated choice of battle ground rather than a simple acquiescence to the passions of the moment, but since the knowledge had always made him deeply uncomfortable, he chose to dwell on it as little as possible. As such, he took the opportunity to voice his own reservations. “Francis, are you out of your fucking mind?”
Francis ignored him. “Alfred,” he began. The boy looked suspicious. “There are many who do this sort of thing independently of love-making. I am not one of those people. Do you understand?” The look of suspicion deepened, but he nodded. “And you consent?”
“Can we just get on with this?”
“And you consent, Alfred?”
“Francis, I really think-“
“Yes, ok? Yes, I consent.” There was a pause. “I'm totally not letting you fuck me, though.” Arthur understood the sentiment, even if in reality he had not lived up to his own standards in this regard since the eleventh century. And what was he doing dwelling on that memory, when everything about what was about to take place was ill-advised to the point of idiocy.
Francis shrugged. “Very well. But, we will kiss.” Alfred looked less than thrilled. “We will kiss, or I will not do it.”
“Alfred, this is really all quite unnecessary. Matthew, take your brother-“ he’d given up on arguing semantics with them centuries ago, “-and go play that strange game with the little balls in the box, or whatever it is you do on these evenings-“
Alfred's eyebrows furrowed, and again, Arthur was ignored. Cretins. “Who says I'm giving you a choice?”
Matthew elbowed the other boy. “Al-- Al, I'm not sure we--”
But Francis had stood. Arthur was reliably surprised how menacing he could look when he really tried; one moment, he would be the goofy fool, the next, looking as if his generals were about to overrun your capital. “America,” he said, and Alfred startled at the use of his formal name. “Your armies and economy mean nothing here. I will not be bullied. We will do this my way, or not at all.” The boy looked strangely cowed. Arthur huffed-- internally. “Now. You are sure you want to go through with this?”
Alfred looked uncertain-- but he looked over at Arthur, and his expression cleared. “Yes.”
Arthur said “Really, we could all just-“ but then Francis leaned in to kiss his col-- his ex-colony, and he felt a shock of heat, and a certain pounding-ah, his heart. Sitting catty-corner to them, he could identify the moment Francis deepened their kiss-French kissing, he thought to himself, and had to suppress what might have been a nervous giggle-by the way Alfred’s eyes popped open. Watching the boy’s lower lip disappear briefly into Francis’ mouth, he realized with a certain degree of surprise that it was one of the hottest things he’d seen in his life. A potent cocktail of shame and self-recrimination accompanied that thought, and he looked away, wondering-not for the first time-if it would be possible to simply excuse himself from his own hotel room and find someone else to stay with. Perhaps Ludwig would be understanding.
Something kept him from standing, and even later he wouldn’t be sure if it had been cowardice or bravery.
The child was nervous, Arthur could tell by the way he fidgeted. He didn’t have the look of one kissing Francis for the first time, a man who-faults aside-deserved certain elements of his reputation. Alfred shot a quick glance at Matthew, who had characteristically said little thus far, but Francis turned his face gently back towards himself. “We are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”
Al shook his head, expression mulish. “No. We're doing it here.”
Arthur sighed. It would have been such an easy way out. Francis shrugged, in that elegant, totally queer way, and slipped a hand behind the boy’s head, tilting it back for another kiss. Alfred cooperated with, Arthur could not help but feeling, reluctance, and jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb.
Arthur-- Arthur was torn. He watched his oldest lover coaxing the boy to relax, watched him slowly start to kiss back, and-- the jealousy he felt was burning, but undirected. The arousal, equally so. He glanced over at Matthew, and was surprised to see that the boy had been looking at him, nervous, twisting his hands together. In the next moment, Arthur noticed the light flush on his cheeks, the way his body was angled carefully away from him. He wasn't quite sure what to do about that.
Francis sat down on the couch, guiding Alfred after him; Arthur could see immediately what he was going for, but Al, flustered and nervous, clearly could not. The poor buffoon stumbled, and Arthur would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so intent on pretending he wasn’t there. It took several moments of awkward negotiation before Francis had positioned the other man, kneeling, legs on either side of his lap; Arthur was ready to cover his eyes in second-degree embarrassment. But then they were kissing again, slow and intense. Arthur knew that kind of kiss. By the time he slid a hand under Alfred's shirt, the boy's hair was mussed, and Arthur could see from his profile that he was breathing quickly. He shook his head. Francis, that bastard.
Then there was a quick movement, a scraping sound, a gasp. Arthur processed a moment later that Francis had begun. Fingernails, of course. Well, it was at least traditional. He looked away from the look that passed between the two of them-one shocked, the other impassive. “You are sure?” he heard Francis ask.
Alfred’s “Yeah” (the abominable slang) was shaky. Arthur thought about interrupting, but wasn’t… Well. What on earth would he have said?
---
Al didn't-- he didn't want this. He'd thought about it, he really had, kissing France-- he, uh, he might have jerked off to it once or twice, before he started fantasizing about dirtier stuff. But not this way, not angry and scared and in front of an audience; he looked over at Matt, terrified that he'd see revulsion, but France turned his face gently back towards him. “We are doing this, you and I. If you want to go someplace more private--”
Al shook his head. He didn't want to be alone with his old mentor right now. “No. We're doing it here.”
France shrugged, and put a hand on the back of his neck, tilting Al’s head up like a chick in a black-and-white movie. Fucking weird, man. He jumped when France's other hand moved to rest on his shoulder. The man rubbed soothing circles on his neck with his thumb, and despite himself, Al began to relax. This was France they were talking about; he wouldn't really hurt any of them, would he? Then he remembered France in his military uniform at Fort Necessity, stained with blood and laughing.
Al barely noticed when France moved them to the couch, and except to kinda stumble (he’d forget about that part later). There was another awkward moment, like that time that England had tried to teach him to waltz; he knew he was being cued to do something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He thought he detected a hint of exasperation in France’s face, and he was simply picked up and positioned, kneeling, legs on either side of France’s. He put his hands uncertainly on the older man's shoulders for balance, and then France was kissing him again. Against his inclinations, he found himself closing his eyes, kissing back, responding to the firm hand on the back of his neck in a way he wasn’t, uh, totally comfortable with. He didn’t even jump when France’s hand slid under his shirt; he might’ve, uh, shuddered a little.
Al had almost, almost forgotten why they'd started this, when the gentle hand on his back turned to sharp fingernails, dragged up his spine. He gasped, mostly out of surprise, and met France's eyes. The man's face was expressionless. “You are sure?”
A low pounding had started in the pit of his stomach-- nerves, and maybe a little anticipation? “Yeah,” he said, trying to inject his voice with all the confidence he didn't feel.
“Very well,” said France, and the fingernails on his back turned cruel, leaving stinging trails behind them on their way up, gaining speed and pressure on their way down. Al gasped again, his grip on France's shoulders tightening, until he was sure it was going to bruise. If it hurt, France didn't show it-- he leaned in, and kissed a tender spot right above his collarbone; Al shivered. Then, instead of kissing, he was sucking, and Al's breathing was uncomfortably close to panting. By the time he felt the teeth in his neck, he was fighting the simultaneous urges to squirm closer and pull away. He cried out, and he heard an intake of breath from one of the men behind him.
“That's-- that doesn't feel bad,” he said to France.
“No,” the man responded.
“And that's what he was doing to you?” Al looked over his shoulder at England for confirmation.
England coughed. “The-- ah-- the premise is the same.”
Al's eyes narrowed, and he turned back to France. “You were hitting him. He was bleeding.”
France nodded, eyes serious. “Yes, he was.”
Al's expression became set. “Do it to me.”
France shook his head. “I will hit you, Alfred, if you ask me to, but I will not make you bleed. Not the first time.”
Al narrowed his eyes, but before he had a chance to reply, England spoke up. “You will not be able to convince him. He has that look.” And indeed, France's face was blank-- abnormal enough for him-- and serious.
Al couldn't quite-- he didn't quite know what to do. “It's-- France? Do you like doing stuff like that to him? To, uh, to me?”
France's expression stayed guarded. “Sometimes,” he said. “What my partner enjoys, I enjoy. There are moments when I enjoy this sort of thing for its own sake, but a true sadist, I am not.”
Al struggled with that. “So,” he said, slowly, “so you were doing it because he wanted you to.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw England put his face in his hands.
“Yes,” said France, still with that unnervingly serious expression on his face.
“And you weren't-- you weren't hurting him, in a bad way.”
“No,” answered France, without a hint of humor or exasperation.
Al thought. He turned to England. “So-- so the hitting, and the bleeding, that's-- that's what you like?”
England's “not exclusively” was muffled by his hands.
Al was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I guess he'd kick your ass if you were fucking with him.” France looked mildly offended by that, but said nothing.
“Damn straight, I would,” said England, looking up. “Now. Are we done talking about this yet?”
Al hesitated. “Um, France?”
“Yes?”
“Would you-- would you do it to me anyway? It's-- I want-- I mean,” he stuttered, not quite sure what he wanted to say; all he knew was that he couldn't just go home after this.
“Al,” whispered Matt, “maybe they want to, you know, finish what they were doing--”
But France interrupted him. “Yes, Alfred. If that is what you want.”
NOTES
*Ahaha! You didn’t think you’d get history notes during this fic, of all things, DID you.
*Fort Necessity was where George Washington surrendered after the Battle of Jumonville Glen at the beginning of the French and Indian War. According to wiki, “The terms of Washington's surrender included a statement (written in French, a language Washington did not read) admitting that Jumonville [who was killed in the battle] was assassinated."
*Thanks for reading!