[fic] Sweet Uncertainty
Title: Sweet Uncertainty
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: PG-15/soft R
Warnings: language, fail!sex
Wordcount: 1,634
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - hard and fast versus slow and tender. WHO WILL WIN?!
[crossposted to usaxcanada]
From the sound of Alfred’s steady breathing, he was probably fast asleep. Matthew sighed and rolled to his side, wincing a little. Not that there was anything technically wrong with how Alfred did things, but sometimes he wished that he could wake up in the mornings with the ability to walk, sit or even stand for extended periods of time.
“Why am I even thinking this?” he thought to himself mournfully. He should be grateful, thoroughly so, that he got any attention from his much more important brother and that their meetings should sometimes end in something other than a disagreement. (Sadly, they argued a lot more these days, or rather, Matthew secretly disagreed and then ignored further communication from Alfred until the Americans forgot about whatever it was and things went back to normal.)
Alfred turned over and snuck his arm underneath his brother’s, so that he was nestled close against Matthew’s back, his breath warm against the other’s hair.
“Why are you crying?” the older brother murmured sleepily, contentedly. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
Matthew froze in embarrassment. “N-no, of course not!” he stammered, rubbing at his burning eyes defensively. He felt a throaty chuckle from the back of his neck all the way down to his toes.
“You wouldn’t say I was bad even if I was! Come on, Matt, tell me what’s up, I know you’ve been wanting to.” From the amusement in his voice, it sounded as if he was still trying to keep in his laughter.
Matthew silently cursed himself for being so easy to read, so that even the completely oblivious Alfred could tell, and wriggled in his brother’s embrace until he was lying flat on his back.
“I was just thinking of how… we could do things differently.”
”Do what differently?”
He gritted his teeth; Alfred must surely know how much he disliked saying it, that jerk. “You know… making love.”
“Hah, that’s not what you called it last time.”
“There, that is exactly what I’m talking about,” he huffed, shifting away and then kicking at Alfred’s leg in irritation. Not an ounce of romance or sensitivity in that empty head.
“Fine, you want to do it differently. Probably the French way or something sissy like that.” His brother pouted spectacularly, a pout worthy of a movie-star and probably learned from them as well. Matthew began to feel just a little guilty despite himself.
“But only if you want to.” When Alfred refused to answer, he leaned over and put his head against his brother’s chest. Should he apologize? “Alfred?”
Alfred’s only response was to wrap his arms around Matthew and roll him over, so that they were lying face to face with Matthew on top.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” he protested, feeling that traitorous flush color his face again.
“Show me your way.”
“Sh-show you?” Matthew did not even want to know what was going on, although his body certainly got the idea.
“You heard me the first time, Matt. Show me how you want to make love.” Emphasis on the last two words. He smiled wickedly at his brother’s growing consternation. “With you on top, of course.”
“But I don’t know…”
“Bullshit!” Alfred interrupted merrily. “I know you know, there's no need to be so shy."
Matthew stared in absolute mortification down at Alfred, who grinned back so smugly, it threatened to fall off his face.
“Just one thing… I want you to speak to me in French,” he added, as an afterthought.
“What?” That was unusual to come from Alfred, seeing how much he currently disliked Francis and anything Francis-related. “But… you don’t know any French.” Did he? Well, he had to assume his brother did not know French; after all, he barely knew proper English. Not that he knew French that well, either.
Alfred shrugged, as if understanding what was being said was no big concern. (Which it wasn't, and which caused no end of trouble for the Western hemisphere.) Impatiently, he ran his fingers down the other’s spine, a feather-soft touch, and Matthew jolted upright with a nervous gasp.
“All right, ok, but you’re not allowed to interrupt! Unless… unless it’s to say my name.”
“That’s more like it,” Alfred whispered, pleased.
Now that he was supposed to lead, Matthew bit his lower lip in apprehension, wondering how he could demonstrate the finer points of seduction without his glasses, which lay abandoned on the nightstand or possibly on the floor after Alfred practically threw him into bed. Then again, he thought, as he brought his mouth towards Alfred’s for a slow, lingering and distinctively un-American kiss, they knew each other well enough by now.
Not permitting Alfred to speak definitely made things a lot easier, Matthew noticed, and he began to feel a lot more optimistic about the whole business.
“Je suis a toi,” he murmured happily into Alfred’s shoulder, while the other leaned in an unusually restrained movement to kiss the locks of tousled ginger hair. “Mon âme, mon couer.”
“Mon couer,” Alfred repeated softly, so that even he could barely hear it.
Carefully, Matthew brought his brother’s left wrist up to his lips, lightly brushing the heavily scarred skin there. “I did this to you,” he thought, with a pang of regret that made his heart flutter. Whether or not Alfred remembered it as well, he only put his hand against Matthew’s face, looking up with barely smothered passion in cerulean-blue eyes.
Thus encouraged, Matthew kissed him tenderly, on his neck and down his chest, sometimes licking, other times lightly nibbling, tickled by the vibrations of the pleased throaty noises Alfred was making in lieu of actual words.
“Je t’aime… et tu?” he paused once to ask, but of course, Alfred was not in a position to phrase a reply in English, much less any other language. He did, however, tangle his fingers into Matthew’s hair and followed that with an insistent little tug, which was duly ignored.
And perhaps it was just his undependable sight, but from this new angle, Alfred seemed much younger, as if the cares and scars and damage of recent years had faded away to leave behind only the core of his brilliant soul. And like the sun, he was so beautiful, too beautiful, so much that it hurt to look at him for too long. Comme l'étoile filante. This must be how England felt, he could not help but think, with the guilty ache in his heart that always accompanied that name. No wonder, then, no wonder they were all going mad…
“Matthew, Matthew…” Alfred moaned at last, and he was surprised he did not leave ashy handprints on the mattress at the sound of his name being uttered like that, as if his body wasn’t already hotter than the inside of a star. Unable to stop trembling, Matthew placed light kisses down the inside of long lean legs, the muscles there already tensed from arousal, lifting one leg up so that he could kiss the ankle right there, so that his brother clenched his hands into the tangled bedsheets, barely able to keep from crying out.
But before he could reach over for the lube or whatever (if he could find it in time), Alfred got up on one elbow and with the other arm he pulled Matthew down to him quite enthusiastically, nearly resulting in an extremely un-sexy double concussion.
“Mo… mo laime toi,” Alfred whispered, breathily, shakily, into his ear.
Silence.
“…Eh?”
They stared at each other for a moment, Alfred looking much too innocent for him to be, well, innocent.
“What?” If the mood had not been ruined yet, it certainly was now.
“What did you say?” The phrase sounded vaguely familiar, something that could possibly be related to the French language, but Alfred’s horrendous drawl managed to distort even plain English, so one could never be too sure.
His brother’s face turned bright red, with anger or embarrassment or both, and Matthew instinctively opened his mouth to apologize despite the fact that he did nothing wrong.
Then Alfred started laughing hysterically.
Matthew promptly hit him on the forehead with the heel of his palm as hard as he could to hide the fact that he was going to burst into tears at any moment.
Not one to take a hit without fighting back, Alfred kneed him in the stomach just hard enough to knock the breath out of him. A scuffle ensued, during which both of them fell off the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and yes, there was his pair of glasses, right underneath Al’s shoulder, perfect.
“You dumbass, who said you could talk, huh?!” Matthew seethed as he tested the frames to make sure they weren’t broken.
“I was just answering your question,” Alfred replied, smiling sheepishly while rubbing his scraped chin.
“Oh…” He bit his lower lip again as memories of when they were young rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind, bright and sweet and painful at the same time. “I guess… that’s all right then.”
“Are… you going to cry again?” The voice sounded very nearly concerned.
Matthew made one half-hearted elbow jab to his brother’s side. “No. But I think you need to apologize for abusing his so-called language of love like that.”
“Mo chagren, but that’s how we say it,” he answered, still amused, and Matthew had to grin.
As Alfred pushed him gently back onto the mattress and showed him what a good (no, excellent) student he could be, even if he was rubbish at learning anything else, Matthew supposed it was worth it after all. And Alfred did learn something useful, so that for the rest of the night, the two of them mangled their French loud enough for even Francis to hear.
Mo laime toi = I love you
Mo chagren = I'm sorry
The rest should be self-explanatory. Damn, this is so bad, I'm glad I write better now.
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: PG-15/soft R
Warnings: language, fail!sex
Wordcount: 1,634
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - hard and fast versus slow and tender. WHO WILL WIN?!
[crossposted to usaxcanada]
From the sound of Alfred’s steady breathing, he was probably fast asleep. Matthew sighed and rolled to his side, wincing a little. Not that there was anything technically wrong with how Alfred did things, but sometimes he wished that he could wake up in the mornings with the ability to walk, sit or even stand for extended periods of time.
“Why am I even thinking this?” he thought to himself mournfully. He should be grateful, thoroughly so, that he got any attention from his much more important brother and that their meetings should sometimes end in something other than a disagreement. (Sadly, they argued a lot more these days, or rather, Matthew secretly disagreed and then ignored further communication from Alfred until the Americans forgot about whatever it was and things went back to normal.)
Alfred turned over and snuck his arm underneath his brother’s, so that he was nestled close against Matthew’s back, his breath warm against the other’s hair.
“Why are you crying?” the older brother murmured sleepily, contentedly. “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
Matthew froze in embarrassment. “N-no, of course not!” he stammered, rubbing at his burning eyes defensively. He felt a throaty chuckle from the back of his neck all the way down to his toes.
“You wouldn’t say I was bad even if I was! Come on, Matt, tell me what’s up, I know you’ve been wanting to.” From the amusement in his voice, it sounded as if he was still trying to keep in his laughter.
Matthew silently cursed himself for being so easy to read, so that even the completely oblivious Alfred could tell, and wriggled in his brother’s embrace until he was lying flat on his back.
“I was just thinking of how… we could do things differently.”
”Do what differently?”
He gritted his teeth; Alfred must surely know how much he disliked saying it, that jerk. “You know… making love.”
“Hah, that’s not what you called it last time.”
“There, that is exactly what I’m talking about,” he huffed, shifting away and then kicking at Alfred’s leg in irritation. Not an ounce of romance or sensitivity in that empty head.
“Fine, you want to do it differently. Probably the French way or something sissy like that.” His brother pouted spectacularly, a pout worthy of a movie-star and probably learned from them as well. Matthew began to feel just a little guilty despite himself.
“But only if you want to.” When Alfred refused to answer, he leaned over and put his head against his brother’s chest. Should he apologize? “Alfred?”
Alfred’s only response was to wrap his arms around Matthew and roll him over, so that they were lying face to face with Matthew on top.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” he protested, feeling that traitorous flush color his face again.
“Show me your way.”
“Sh-show you?” Matthew did not even want to know what was going on, although his body certainly got the idea.
“You heard me the first time, Matt. Show me how you want to make love.” Emphasis on the last two words. He smiled wickedly at his brother’s growing consternation. “With you on top, of course.”
“But I don’t know…”
“Bullshit!” Alfred interrupted merrily. “I know you know, there's no need to be so shy."
Matthew stared in absolute mortification down at Alfred, who grinned back so smugly, it threatened to fall off his face.
“Just one thing… I want you to speak to me in French,” he added, as an afterthought.
“What?” That was unusual to come from Alfred, seeing how much he currently disliked Francis and anything Francis-related. “But… you don’t know any French.” Did he? Well, he had to assume his brother did not know French; after all, he barely knew proper English. Not that he knew French that well, either.
Alfred shrugged, as if understanding what was being said was no big concern. (Which it wasn't, and which caused no end of trouble for the Western hemisphere.) Impatiently, he ran his fingers down the other’s spine, a feather-soft touch, and Matthew jolted upright with a nervous gasp.
“All right, ok, but you’re not allowed to interrupt! Unless… unless it’s to say my name.”
“That’s more like it,” Alfred whispered, pleased.
Now that he was supposed to lead, Matthew bit his lower lip in apprehension, wondering how he could demonstrate the finer points of seduction without his glasses, which lay abandoned on the nightstand or possibly on the floor after Alfred practically threw him into bed. Then again, he thought, as he brought his mouth towards Alfred’s for a slow, lingering and distinctively un-American kiss, they knew each other well enough by now.
Not permitting Alfred to speak definitely made things a lot easier, Matthew noticed, and he began to feel a lot more optimistic about the whole business.
“Je suis a toi,” he murmured happily into Alfred’s shoulder, while the other leaned in an unusually restrained movement to kiss the locks of tousled ginger hair. “Mon âme, mon couer.”
“Mon couer,” Alfred repeated softly, so that even he could barely hear it.
Carefully, Matthew brought his brother’s left wrist up to his lips, lightly brushing the heavily scarred skin there. “I did this to you,” he thought, with a pang of regret that made his heart flutter. Whether or not Alfred remembered it as well, he only put his hand against Matthew’s face, looking up with barely smothered passion in cerulean-blue eyes.
Thus encouraged, Matthew kissed him tenderly, on his neck and down his chest, sometimes licking, other times lightly nibbling, tickled by the vibrations of the pleased throaty noises Alfred was making in lieu of actual words.
“Je t’aime… et tu?” he paused once to ask, but of course, Alfred was not in a position to phrase a reply in English, much less any other language. He did, however, tangle his fingers into Matthew’s hair and followed that with an insistent little tug, which was duly ignored.
And perhaps it was just his undependable sight, but from this new angle, Alfred seemed much younger, as if the cares and scars and damage of recent years had faded away to leave behind only the core of his brilliant soul. And like the sun, he was so beautiful, too beautiful, so much that it hurt to look at him for too long. Comme l'étoile filante. This must be how England felt, he could not help but think, with the guilty ache in his heart that always accompanied that name. No wonder, then, no wonder they were all going mad…
“Matthew, Matthew…” Alfred moaned at last, and he was surprised he did not leave ashy handprints on the mattress at the sound of his name being uttered like that, as if his body wasn’t already hotter than the inside of a star. Unable to stop trembling, Matthew placed light kisses down the inside of long lean legs, the muscles there already tensed from arousal, lifting one leg up so that he could kiss the ankle right there, so that his brother clenched his hands into the tangled bedsheets, barely able to keep from crying out.
But before he could reach over for the lube or whatever (if he could find it in time), Alfred got up on one elbow and with the other arm he pulled Matthew down to him quite enthusiastically, nearly resulting in an extremely un-sexy double concussion.
“Mo… mo laime toi,” Alfred whispered, breathily, shakily, into his ear.
Silence.
“…Eh?”
They stared at each other for a moment, Alfred looking much too innocent for him to be, well, innocent.
“What?” If the mood had not been ruined yet, it certainly was now.
“What did you say?” The phrase sounded vaguely familiar, something that could possibly be related to the French language, but Alfred’s horrendous drawl managed to distort even plain English, so one could never be too sure.
His brother’s face turned bright red, with anger or embarrassment or both, and Matthew instinctively opened his mouth to apologize despite the fact that he did nothing wrong.
Then Alfred started laughing hysterically.
Matthew promptly hit him on the forehead with the heel of his palm as hard as he could to hide the fact that he was going to burst into tears at any moment.
Not one to take a hit without fighting back, Alfred kneed him in the stomach just hard enough to knock the breath out of him. A scuffle ensued, during which both of them fell off the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and yes, there was his pair of glasses, right underneath Al’s shoulder, perfect.
“You dumbass, who said you could talk, huh?!” Matthew seethed as he tested the frames to make sure they weren’t broken.
“I was just answering your question,” Alfred replied, smiling sheepishly while rubbing his scraped chin.
“Oh…” He bit his lower lip again as memories of when they were young rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind, bright and sweet and painful at the same time. “I guess… that’s all right then.”
“Are… you going to cry again?” The voice sounded very nearly concerned.
Matthew made one half-hearted elbow jab to his brother’s side. “No. But I think you need to apologize for abusing his so-called language of love like that.”
“Mo chagren, but that’s how we say it,” he answered, still amused, and Matthew had to grin.
As Alfred pushed him gently back onto the mattress and showed him what a good (no, excellent) student he could be, even if he was rubbish at learning anything else, Matthew supposed it was worth it after all. And Alfred did learn something useful, so that for the rest of the night, the two of them mangled their French loud enough for even Francis to hear.
Mo laime toi = I love you
Mo chagren = I'm sorry
The rest should be self-explanatory. Damn, this is so bad, I'm glad I write better now.