[fic] Damn Good Times
Title: Damn Good Times
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: France/America
Warnings: language, sex
Wordcount: 2,077
Author's Notes: Reposted from the kink meme with a few edits. For the prompt - America inviting France over for Mardi Gras and showing him a good time. Finally, a Mardi Gras France/America fic, for a certain someone(s), you know who you are. I am pretty sure I got a lot of details wrong regarding setting and language, hope it isn't too distracting, I did my best. Now time to see if anyone else is swayed to the amazing hotness that is France/America... *waits patiently*
Let the good times roll, let the good times roll, in English and French, or America’s version of something like French, anyway, until his ears rang with the joyfully slurred syllables. The previous nights of dining and dancing (and subsequent debauchery) seem practically modest compared to the full-out onslaught of music and laughter and colors that batter one’s senses on Mardi Gras. Everywhere there are elaborate costumes and masks, stilts and harlequin patterns and feather boas and face paint, purple, green and gold among a myriad of other hues. Even America wanted to dress up, and of course France could never resist the opportunity to wear a costume, and they join the parade-watchers as laurel-wreathed Apollo and the beloved young Adonis.
America shouts something, a question perhaps, grinning madly, and France can only nod in answer, knowing he could not be heard over the deafening cheers of the crowd surrounding them. They look up as the next float rolls by, a fantastical recreation of a pirate ship floating on green waves, a tribute to Lafitte. Perched near the front of the ship, a glittering mermaid queen blows kisses to the crowd, and behind the float a marching band plays jazz tunes that have everyone, young and old, clapping their hands and stamping their feet.
Now the people scream even louder - throw me something mister - their hands raised as a treasure trove of beads and golden doubloons rain down upon them, tossed by masked krewe members in glorious buccaneer finery. America catches the necklaces, and France manages to grab a few trinkets out of the air, not even aware of how widely he is grinning as he examines the cheap plastic charms in his hands.
Like this, they weave in and out of the crowded streets, catching sight of as many floats and performers and musicians as they can until their shoulders are covered with beads, drinking in the giddy, infectious excitement of the people thronging the streets of New Orleans. There is hardly time to stop at a restaurant to find beignets to eat or coffee to drink before they are thrust out into the streets again, swept away by the flow of bodies.
Using his super strength, America forces a path out of the crowd, dragging France along behind him so they can catch their breath. France takes the opportunity to kiss the powdered sugar off of America’s lips, and nearly gets the air squeezed out of his lungs as America embraces him tightly.
“You having fun?” America murmurs into his ear, voice already slightly hoarse from all of his yelling.
“Oui, of course,” France answers happily, brushing sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. “And to where are we going next?”
“The French Quarter, where else?! Allons-y! Let’s go!” America’s eyes are sparkling so brightly without his glasses, making him appear younger than ever, and absolutely enchanted, France has to kiss him again before they continue.
The February air cools their bodies quickly, and so the two of them intertwine their fingers together to feel each other’s heat. Every now and then a wide-eyed tourist stops them and takes a picture, and they pose audaciously in front of the camera, not caring which other nation might see. In fact, France hopes England might stumble upon the photos, but England is not the type to snoop around the internet. Or maybe he is, who knew.
“Wait up, France, I wanna take our picture with my camera.” He has to take the picture twice because France accidentally knocks his arm while planting a kiss on his cheek, but the second picture meets America’s standards. The sun paints their faces with a perfect golden glow, their smiles more human than divine, though the expression in nearly identical blue eyes could hardly be mistaken for mere mortal.
“How do I look?” France asks, standing on the tiptoes of his sandaled feet to see better.
“Perfect, as usual,” America replies cheekily, handing France the camera, who coos over the shot despite the awkward angle. Maybe one day he’ll ask him how he avoids looking ten pounds fatter in a photo, but for now, America will set the picture as his background.
Strains of loud brassy tunes and the dull roar of a crowd reach their ears, and the number of people increases exponentially as they near Bourbon Street and the festivities. Already a large portion of party goers seem to be feeling the effects of too much alcohol too fast, and the sun has just barely started its molasses-slow journey towards the horizon. France watches in amusement as a cluster of young women wave towards them, and as they shout for beads and lift their shirts up, America laughs and throws them a handful of the necklaces he had collected.
“I must admit, that surprised me. Not that I disapprove,” France comments as the girls scramble for the beads, and while America flushes just a little, he shrugs unashamedly.
“Well, it’s just for fun, right? I wouldn’t be doing that, entrement que… Hey, what are you doing?!! K-keep your clothes on!”
There is a brief struggle as America attempts to keep France from doing what he does best, and frowning, France points out he was not so skittish last night when they came back from the masquerade.
“But this is in public!” America hisses, cheeks burning bright red as a few sober people nearby turn to stare at them. “You can’t be stripping here!”
“Then what are those two men doing?” America follows France’s line of sight and sighs.
“They are going to get arrested, and I would rather we not spend the entire night in jail with them.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad,” France murmurs, his hand already creeping down to the small of America’s back, “they seem to know how to have a good time. And that is what today is all about, is it not?”
And America has to agree. "Ouais, you're right, but let's get some drinks first!"
The drinks flow as freely as the Mississippi River, and they visit the best bars and clubs that the French Quarter has to offer, until the streets move under their feet like ocean swells and they are laughing and singing along with the crowd in one uproarious, never-ending party. America insists that he isn’t drunk yet, but France knows it will catch up to him soon, if not already, judging by the way his eyes look the slightest bit unfocussed, the way he squints at the flashing neon signs.
Every now and then, someone, most often female but sometimes male and sometimes he couldn’t tell, kisses France’s cheek or hugs him, and he has to relinquish a necklace, until he is left with only a few of the strands of colorful beads wrapped around his neck. America’s expression, caught halfway between envy and delight, turns into something absolutely priceless when a pretty Creole girl mashes their mouths together, and he stammers and blushes until Francis gallantly whips off a necklace for her.
It is the most fun he had in a long time, but he could think of a way to make it even better. All he has to do now is wait until America come up with the same idea. Because it has to be his idea, it would not do otherwise.
Grinning suddenly, America twirls France around and catches him by the waist, dipping the giggling nation towards the sidewalk before pulling him up into another kiss. Their bodies press close, their lips and tongues meet, and when they finally part for breath, America can not help but notice the heavy lust glimmering within France’s half-lidded eyes, and he suppresses a shudder of desire in response. This, this is the seductive wild magic that only France possesses, that America knows and yet succumbs to, ever since he was an adolescent, and has never really regretted, even though a part of him knows he should. He can not resist it, doesn’t want to, not when the rush of humans celebrating all around him makes his blood thrum and sing in joy so pure and boundless, he has to share it.
So America says nothing as he moves away from the crowd, knowing France will understand and will follow. Just a few minutes later, they turn the corner and dip into the shadowed doorway of a building, lit only by the glow of a streetlamp and a few brave fireflies in the night. France curls up against his chest with a happy sigh, and America chuckles and rests against the doorframe for support, his hand cradling the back of the other’s skull gently.
“Leve-toi, pops, we still have another party to attend, you know.”
“It is not for a while yet,” France almost whines into America’s shoulder, and that shouldn’t turn him on, but it does. He takes a deep breath of the scent of whatever fancy shampoo that France uses, roses or something girly like that, and makes up his mind.
The door just happens to be unlocked, and they nearly tumble into the empty building before realizing that one of the parade floats is being stored here until it gets dismantled. America shakes his head no, but France eagerly pulls him towards the float, a fitting representation of Bacchus, the ancient Greek god of wine and debauchery, surrounded by grape vines and amphorae. The two sprawl out among the piles of silk leaves and wilted flowers, and France is gratified to see America much less inhibited with the help of alcohol and a sense of privacy. “Tiens-moi serré,” he whispers huskily, and France sighs and simply melts as they resume their previous activity, kissing until their breaths are stolen away.
America continues mumbling in the garbled not-French that they had tried to teach him, and France forgives the distorted sounds in favor of touching as much of his protégé as possible, letting his hands skate over the tunic before slipping under the obstructing material. With a shaky laugh, America puts a hand over his eyes as France fondles him skillfully, bringing him to full hardness just with the movement of his fingers.
“There is no need to be embarrassed, America. Never around me,” France murmurs into his ear, even as he begins to move his curled fingers up and down the younger nation’s erection in lazy strokes. He is answered with a stifled groan, a bucking of the hips straining for more, and France moves down with a pleased smile. Placing a kiss at the base of the shaft, France licks all the way up to the tip, sucking at the salty wetness collecting there and causing America to gasp his name in a high-pitched voice. France hums in approval and then spreads his lips and takes the engorged cock fully into his mouth, working his tongue over the entirety of the hot, thick flesh until America is hissing and grabbing at France’s hair frantically.
“Oh God, France… Fuck…” and he repeats that over and over as the older nation uses his mouth and lips and throat in the wickedest ways he knows how, putting his hands to work over whatever part of America he could reach, stroking the long legs spread wide open, caressing the curve of the tight ass, pinching the hint of belly fat around the waist and earning an adorable yelp for his impudence.
America pushes once more into the tight suction of France’s mouth, coming with a sharp cry when the scorching tension deep inside suddenly snaps and releases. He sees white glittering stars burst across his vision, and as France gently sucks him off, the orgasm gradually, slowly dies away, leaving him aching but utterly satisfied. His head lolls to the side as America gasps for much-needed oxygen, and France lets the softening cock fall from his lips with a throaty chuckle.
“You seem to be getting into the spirit of things,” France comments, rather unnecessarily.
“What the hell, France,” America groans, his embarrassment catching up to him. “I can’t believe we just did that.” At least it wasn’t in public, he keeps telling himself.
“But it’s not over yet,” France says soothingly as he guides one of America’s hands to his groin. Suddenly grinning, America starts returning the favor with typical full-blown enthusiasm, and purring in practically illegal pleasure, France takes a moment to consider himself very lucky to have caught America in this mood.
They probably won’t make it to ball on time... But there is always next year.
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: France/America
Warnings: language, sex
Wordcount: 2,077
Author's Notes: Reposted from the kink meme with a few edits. For the prompt - America inviting France over for Mardi Gras and showing him a good time. Finally, a Mardi Gras France/America fic, for a certain someone(s), you know who you are. I am pretty sure I got a lot of details wrong regarding setting and language, hope it isn't too distracting, I did my best. Now time to see if anyone else is swayed to the amazing hotness that is France/America... *waits patiently*
Let the good times roll, let the good times roll, in English and French, or America’s version of something like French, anyway, until his ears rang with the joyfully slurred syllables. The previous nights of dining and dancing (and subsequent debauchery) seem practically modest compared to the full-out onslaught of music and laughter and colors that batter one’s senses on Mardi Gras. Everywhere there are elaborate costumes and masks, stilts and harlequin patterns and feather boas and face paint, purple, green and gold among a myriad of other hues. Even America wanted to dress up, and of course France could never resist the opportunity to wear a costume, and they join the parade-watchers as laurel-wreathed Apollo and the beloved young Adonis.
America shouts something, a question perhaps, grinning madly, and France can only nod in answer, knowing he could not be heard over the deafening cheers of the crowd surrounding them. They look up as the next float rolls by, a fantastical recreation of a pirate ship floating on green waves, a tribute to Lafitte. Perched near the front of the ship, a glittering mermaid queen blows kisses to the crowd, and behind the float a marching band plays jazz tunes that have everyone, young and old, clapping their hands and stamping their feet.
Now the people scream even louder - throw me something mister - their hands raised as a treasure trove of beads and golden doubloons rain down upon them, tossed by masked krewe members in glorious buccaneer finery. America catches the necklaces, and France manages to grab a few trinkets out of the air, not even aware of how widely he is grinning as he examines the cheap plastic charms in his hands.
Like this, they weave in and out of the crowded streets, catching sight of as many floats and performers and musicians as they can until their shoulders are covered with beads, drinking in the giddy, infectious excitement of the people thronging the streets of New Orleans. There is hardly time to stop at a restaurant to find beignets to eat or coffee to drink before they are thrust out into the streets again, swept away by the flow of bodies.
Using his super strength, America forces a path out of the crowd, dragging France along behind him so they can catch their breath. France takes the opportunity to kiss the powdered sugar off of America’s lips, and nearly gets the air squeezed out of his lungs as America embraces him tightly.
“You having fun?” America murmurs into his ear, voice already slightly hoarse from all of his yelling.
“Oui, of course,” France answers happily, brushing sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. “And to where are we going next?”
“The French Quarter, where else?! Allons-y! Let’s go!” America’s eyes are sparkling so brightly without his glasses, making him appear younger than ever, and absolutely enchanted, France has to kiss him again before they continue.
The February air cools their bodies quickly, and so the two of them intertwine their fingers together to feel each other’s heat. Every now and then a wide-eyed tourist stops them and takes a picture, and they pose audaciously in front of the camera, not caring which other nation might see. In fact, France hopes England might stumble upon the photos, but England is not the type to snoop around the internet. Or maybe he is, who knew.
“Wait up, France, I wanna take our picture with my camera.” He has to take the picture twice because France accidentally knocks his arm while planting a kiss on his cheek, but the second picture meets America’s standards. The sun paints their faces with a perfect golden glow, their smiles more human than divine, though the expression in nearly identical blue eyes could hardly be mistaken for mere mortal.
“How do I look?” France asks, standing on the tiptoes of his sandaled feet to see better.
“Perfect, as usual,” America replies cheekily, handing France the camera, who coos over the shot despite the awkward angle. Maybe one day he’ll ask him how he avoids looking ten pounds fatter in a photo, but for now, America will set the picture as his background.
Strains of loud brassy tunes and the dull roar of a crowd reach their ears, and the number of people increases exponentially as they near Bourbon Street and the festivities. Already a large portion of party goers seem to be feeling the effects of too much alcohol too fast, and the sun has just barely started its molasses-slow journey towards the horizon. France watches in amusement as a cluster of young women wave towards them, and as they shout for beads and lift their shirts up, America laughs and throws them a handful of the necklaces he had collected.
“I must admit, that surprised me. Not that I disapprove,” France comments as the girls scramble for the beads, and while America flushes just a little, he shrugs unashamedly.
“Well, it’s just for fun, right? I wouldn’t be doing that, entrement que… Hey, what are you doing?!! K-keep your clothes on!”
There is a brief struggle as America attempts to keep France from doing what he does best, and frowning, France points out he was not so skittish last night when they came back from the masquerade.
“But this is in public!” America hisses, cheeks burning bright red as a few sober people nearby turn to stare at them. “You can’t be stripping here!”
“Then what are those two men doing?” America follows France’s line of sight and sighs.
“They are going to get arrested, and I would rather we not spend the entire night in jail with them.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad,” France murmurs, his hand already creeping down to the small of America’s back, “they seem to know how to have a good time. And that is what today is all about, is it not?”
And America has to agree. "Ouais, you're right, but let's get some drinks first!"
The drinks flow as freely as the Mississippi River, and they visit the best bars and clubs that the French Quarter has to offer, until the streets move under their feet like ocean swells and they are laughing and singing along with the crowd in one uproarious, never-ending party. America insists that he isn’t drunk yet, but France knows it will catch up to him soon, if not already, judging by the way his eyes look the slightest bit unfocussed, the way he squints at the flashing neon signs.
Every now and then, someone, most often female but sometimes male and sometimes he couldn’t tell, kisses France’s cheek or hugs him, and he has to relinquish a necklace, until he is left with only a few of the strands of colorful beads wrapped around his neck. America’s expression, caught halfway between envy and delight, turns into something absolutely priceless when a pretty Creole girl mashes their mouths together, and he stammers and blushes until Francis gallantly whips off a necklace for her.
It is the most fun he had in a long time, but he could think of a way to make it even better. All he has to do now is wait until America come up with the same idea. Because it has to be his idea, it would not do otherwise.
Grinning suddenly, America twirls France around and catches him by the waist, dipping the giggling nation towards the sidewalk before pulling him up into another kiss. Their bodies press close, their lips and tongues meet, and when they finally part for breath, America can not help but notice the heavy lust glimmering within France’s half-lidded eyes, and he suppresses a shudder of desire in response. This, this is the seductive wild magic that only France possesses, that America knows and yet succumbs to, ever since he was an adolescent, and has never really regretted, even though a part of him knows he should. He can not resist it, doesn’t want to, not when the rush of humans celebrating all around him makes his blood thrum and sing in joy so pure and boundless, he has to share it.
So America says nothing as he moves away from the crowd, knowing France will understand and will follow. Just a few minutes later, they turn the corner and dip into the shadowed doorway of a building, lit only by the glow of a streetlamp and a few brave fireflies in the night. France curls up against his chest with a happy sigh, and America chuckles and rests against the doorframe for support, his hand cradling the back of the other’s skull gently.
“Leve-toi, pops, we still have another party to attend, you know.”
“It is not for a while yet,” France almost whines into America’s shoulder, and that shouldn’t turn him on, but it does. He takes a deep breath of the scent of whatever fancy shampoo that France uses, roses or something girly like that, and makes up his mind.
The door just happens to be unlocked, and they nearly tumble into the empty building before realizing that one of the parade floats is being stored here until it gets dismantled. America shakes his head no, but France eagerly pulls him towards the float, a fitting representation of Bacchus, the ancient Greek god of wine and debauchery, surrounded by grape vines and amphorae. The two sprawl out among the piles of silk leaves and wilted flowers, and France is gratified to see America much less inhibited with the help of alcohol and a sense of privacy. “Tiens-moi serré,” he whispers huskily, and France sighs and simply melts as they resume their previous activity, kissing until their breaths are stolen away.
America continues mumbling in the garbled not-French that they had tried to teach him, and France forgives the distorted sounds in favor of touching as much of his protégé as possible, letting his hands skate over the tunic before slipping under the obstructing material. With a shaky laugh, America puts a hand over his eyes as France fondles him skillfully, bringing him to full hardness just with the movement of his fingers.
“There is no need to be embarrassed, America. Never around me,” France murmurs into his ear, even as he begins to move his curled fingers up and down the younger nation’s erection in lazy strokes. He is answered with a stifled groan, a bucking of the hips straining for more, and France moves down with a pleased smile. Placing a kiss at the base of the shaft, France licks all the way up to the tip, sucking at the salty wetness collecting there and causing America to gasp his name in a high-pitched voice. France hums in approval and then spreads his lips and takes the engorged cock fully into his mouth, working his tongue over the entirety of the hot, thick flesh until America is hissing and grabbing at France’s hair frantically.
“Oh God, France… Fuck…” and he repeats that over and over as the older nation uses his mouth and lips and throat in the wickedest ways he knows how, putting his hands to work over whatever part of America he could reach, stroking the long legs spread wide open, caressing the curve of the tight ass, pinching the hint of belly fat around the waist and earning an adorable yelp for his impudence.
America pushes once more into the tight suction of France’s mouth, coming with a sharp cry when the scorching tension deep inside suddenly snaps and releases. He sees white glittering stars burst across his vision, and as France gently sucks him off, the orgasm gradually, slowly dies away, leaving him aching but utterly satisfied. His head lolls to the side as America gasps for much-needed oxygen, and France lets the softening cock fall from his lips with a throaty chuckle.
“You seem to be getting into the spirit of things,” France comments, rather unnecessarily.
“What the hell, France,” America groans, his embarrassment catching up to him. “I can’t believe we just did that.” At least it wasn’t in public, he keeps telling himself.
“But it’s not over yet,” France says soothingly as he guides one of America’s hands to his groin. Suddenly grinning, America starts returning the favor with typical full-blown enthusiasm, and purring in practically illegal pleasure, France takes a moment to consider himself very lucky to have caught America in this mood.
They probably won’t make it to ball on time... But there is always next year.