Loose Ends / Part 15 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:41:31 UTC
America opened his eyes and stared at the headboard. Then he turned his head to stare at France over his shoulder. France was busy spreading oil on his fingers and working on loosening America up, in order to enter him. America bit his lip a moment before giving a tiny snort.
“I’m not going to break.”
“You have never done this before,” France disagreed with a small shake of his head. He glanced up at America and dropped a haphazard kiss at the base of his spine.
“What did you say?” America repeated, insisted.
“You really are a beautiful creature, aren’t you?” France purred as his hand slipped over America’s back. “I cannot fully blame him, for wanting to keep you.”
America clenched his eyes shut, grit his teeth. “He doesn’t want me for something like this.”
France chuckled, but said nothing. His fingers returned to their task. America stifled more gasps and moans and grunts.
“I hate him.”
“You don’t need to convince me,” France reminded him.
But America just shook his head, gripping the headboard of the bed as France spread his fingers inside him and he stifled a cry. “I hate him. For everything that he’s done, everything… he hasn’t done. I hate him for not listening to me, for not caring about me like he said he does. I hate him, I hate him.”
“He does care for you, America,” France said.
“I don’t want what he wants to give me,” America muttered. “And he won’t give me what I want, unless I take it.”
“Of course,” France agreed. “That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for America’s reply. “But, tell me, America,” France purred. “When England learns what I have done to you-how will he react?”
“He’ll-”
“Do you truly believe his anger will only be because of your disobedience, that you would form a treaty with his enemy?”
“Because I’m ‘his,’” America said with a roll of his eyes. “He’ll be angry that I’m doing things on my own, as if I’m already independent.”
Loose Ends / Part 16 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:42:24 UTC
America shook his head, staring up at the ceiling. “France. Stop. To him, I am only his little brother, and his colony. That’s all I am.” He lifted his chin, trying to be confident. “I’ll make him see me as an independent nation-even if that means we’ll be enemies. I’ll be his equal. No, I’ll be better than him.”
America nodded his head and pressed his forehead against a pillow, burying his face. He mumbled, into the pillow, wondering if France could even hear him:
“And I hate him the most for making me hate him.”
France removed his fingers and America waited, felt France pull him apart and push his cockhead into America. America stiffened up but forced himself to relax around the pain. He bit into the pillow to keep from crying out, gripping the headboard until he felt that it did splinter under his hold. His breathing came out shallow. A hand pressed over his hair and America tried to ignore it-he didn’t want affection, never any affection not if it wasn’t-
France pushed into him completely and waited. It burned, it was painful. But America kept still, biting into the pillow until he felt his shoulders relax and his body sink slightly. France gripped his hips, keeping him pushed up to France’s hilt. America felt stretched, filled-it lingered, it stayed.
America lifted his head from the pillow, staring at the broken headboard, his hands gripping broken wood. He bit his lip and straightened up, arching his back slightly. He felt the scrape of France’s stubble over his shoulder as he kissed the back of his neck. America clenched his eyes shut. He swallowed a whine bubbling in his throat, replaced it with a tiny moan. He swallowed thickly a few times more.
And then France moved, with a subtle jerk of his hips. America staggered slightly, unused to the feel, and clenched his hands in the pillows now, finally letting go of the headboard. The mattress creaked beneath them as France moved. France was talented-America can feel it in his body, how easily France moved and searched and stretched him, filling him and stretching him. America had never felt this way before, and yet-
So quickly, as soon as his mind settled on it, the guilt washed over him. He bit his lip and perhaps for the first time that day listened to France’s words-what would England do when he learned about this? He didn’t want to think about it but already he saw a flicker of England in his mind’s eye, face closed off, eyes angry, expression scathing and dismissive-“So this is the kind of thing you’ve resorted to, America? Whoring yourself out to France of all people?”-and it filled America with the guilt, with the shame. Then the anger came, hot and fresh, churning in his gut, forcing the rising bile back down his throat. Yes, he told the England he saw there, with disgusted eyes staring straight at America, This is what I choose.
Loose Ends / Part 17 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:43:09 UTC
“Harder, you French frog,” America snapped out, wondering if that was how England would say it, if he were in this situation. Don’t look at me like that, England, if you would and probably do things like this for your own benefit.
France pounded into him harder. His body burned and he cried out. France’s hands left his hips, pressing against his stomach to push him closer, while the other lifted to cup his chin, tipping America’s face back.
Eyes hooded, America flickered his gaze over to France, who was smiling at him coyly. The way he smiled, for a brief moment, it almost looked like an expression England might have-but quickly it was gone, and it was France pounding into him. America wet his dry lips, felt the fingers brushing over his adam’s apple. “I’m so disappointed in you, my lad,” England would tell him as he moved against France, thrusting back to meet France’s upwards thrusts, crying out in pleasure as he clenched his eyes shut and stared at England, angry green eyes, face pale. “How could you do this to me?”
“I…” America began, before realizing that he was speaking out loud and quieted down, his body quivering. France’s hand found America’s cock and pumped it in time with his thrusting. America’s body burned.
He was falling down, he was falling. He’d built everything up-he would jump, he would dive, he would… he would just fall down.
France held him up, even as America’s body shook.
“You are mine, and don’t you forget that,” he heard England hissing in the corners of his mind.
“No,” America gasped out and France paused. America shook his head, almost shoving himself against France. He felt France’s legs shake. “Keep going.”
“You think this would make me happy, America?”
“There,” America gasped when France’s body found a proper rhythm, pushing in and out of him, hand strumming along his cock-fingertips light while pulling downwards, and then dragging up almost painfully.
France whispered something in America’s ear but America did not hear-it was in French, and his mind was filled with English:
“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, America. I hope you’re happy about what you’ve done. After everything I’ve done for you how could-”
“Ah,” America cried out as France’s cock inside him dragged across his insides and struck the bundle of nerves with the tip of his cock. He cried out again as France paused and then shoved in again to hit him again there. He angled his body to strike it each time, and America’s cries punctuated the torture.
Loose Ends / Part 18 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:43:48 UTC
“Only I’m allowed to touch you-no one can be near you. You think you’re so clever, doing something so rebellious as this? You foolish boy, you foolish, foolish boy-”
“Mmm,” America gasped out, the fingers on his throat stroking, gripping his chin and tilting his head back again.
“Perhaps if I’ve given you more discipline when you were younger... you doing as you pleased couldn’t have done any good for you. I should have struck you-”
“Harder!” America cried out. France obeyed.
“Are you content to act so rashly, America? How dare you let him touch you like that, begging for-”
“More,” America gasped. France obeyed.
“You can’t possibly have wanted this-”
“Yes,” America gasped into the pillow. I do. France pounded into him, their bodies only loud slaps in the afternoon. America opened his eyes, refused to listen to this hypothetical England again-but it was just as well, as he was silent now.
America’s body shifted, arched, head thrown back and body shuddering. He could feel France lean against him, kissing his neck-his pulse-and he swallowed thickly, tried to swallow the small moans pushing out from the base of his throat. It was too much and not enough. The hands touching him, the cock pounding into him, the body pushed up against him-
He was nearing the end. His body shuddered and France purposefully slowed his pace down, feeling the shift in America. His hand over his cock moved agonizingly slow, and each stroke of his cock inside America was a slow cadence building to a crescendo. America jerked, refused to beg because he was stronger than that.
And then the flood of pleasure filled him and his cock twitched in France’s hand as he milked him dry. Low, quiet, as if he hadn’t said it at all, America whispered, his voice broken: “England…”
France’s movements stilled for a half a moment and America didn’t know if it was shock or acceptance. He didn’t say anything as he smeared his hands through the seed splattered on America’s stomach. America’s head was bowed, pressed against the pillow as his entire body dulled down-
He felt the fiery heat leave, the pleasure and the hatred, felt nothing but the icy coldness left. France kept jerking into him, working towards his own climax, but America’s mind was elsewhere, far, far away from this room. The shame filled him, cursing himself for daring to say the name of the man he was meant to hate, who he did hate.
Loose Ends / Part 19 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:44:30 UTC
France stilled inside him and America felt the warmth return as France spilled his seed inside of him, but it was a small victory. He didn’t move, slumped slightly. Then, slowly, France pulled out of him and his lands left America. America collapsed onto his stomach immediately afterwards, refusing to lift his face-bright red with shame-from the pillow.
He felt France get off the bed and the world felt a little colder. He stayed still. But soon enough, he felt the mattress dip as France sat back down and pressed something against his backside. America started, jerking his head up and staring at France in wide-eyed surprise. France gave him a small smile, taking his hand away but leaving the towel there.
“It’ll spill out of you, once you sit up,” he explained.
“Oh,” America said, looking away. He fisted the towel in his hand and stayed there, not moving. Slowly, his face dropped back down into the pillow.
“America,” France said at last, “If I may so bold as to say that I think-”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” America mumbled into the pillow.
“Yes, I suppose you don’t…” France said with a small shrug. His tone suggested something else entirely and America rolled over onto his back. He glared at France. France merely smiled back.
“I don’t…”
“So it’s true, then,” France purred. “You were thinking of him.”
It seemed France didn’t know how to listen. America’s glare intensified. “No.”
“Really?” France said, leaning in closer, but not touching America. “But it was his name that you called for, when it really mattered.”
“What about you?” America shot back. “Who did you call for?”
“We are not discussing me,” France said with a shrug. “And you know the answer, anyway. I,” he said smoothly, “am not in denial of what it is I want.”
“Are you saying I’m in denial?”
France raised his eyebrows at him. America felt his hackles raise and he sat up. He felt France’s seed move in him, start to slide out into the towel beneath him. America’s cheeks burned-from anger, he hoped.
Loose Ends / Part 20 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:45:24 UTC
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want him.”
Still, France said nothing.
America laughed, to try and make his shoulders loosen. “You say the weirdest things, France! Me, want him! Ha, ha, ha…”
France smiled.
America looked away. “I don’t-”
He cut himself off. He fell into silence. He swallowed thickly, a few times, to try and ignore the way his heart had lodged in his throat. It did nothing.
“You truly don’t want England, America?”
America stared down at the bed sheets, rumpled from their excursion. The daylight was beginning to fade, but the wind still rustled the white curtains. Outside, beyond, Paris was moving-and beyond that, beyond the miles of French soil was England. England…
America shook his head. “There’s one thing I want.”
“Oh?”
“I want him to leave me alone and leave me be and to stop with-” he began. France gave him a disbelieving look, all too knowing, and America knew he couldn’t deny it-couldn’t deny that it was England that he saw, England that he called out for. Even now, even now when he hated him, when he couldn’t stand the sight of him, he wanted to-he wanted-“I want him to… I want him…”
“Sweet America,” France said, and this time did sound sympathetic as he cupped America’s cheek. America pulled his face away, eyes wide and wild, feeling as if he were a cornered animal. “Sweet America,” France said again, “You needn’t have pretense with me. You are not the first one, nor will you be the last, to not get what it is you want from dear England.”
“I’m going to get what I want,” America shouted, hands shaking as he planted them on the bed, eyes narrowed. “I’ll become independent. And you’ll help me, won’t you?”
France smiled, almost sad, and pushed up to kiss the thumping pulse in America’s neck. France pulled away, letting his fingers tangle in America’s hair. He chuckled, low in his throat. “That is all you want?”
“Yes,” America said firmly.
France smiled at him, and it was clear that he did not believe America.
Loose Ends / Part 21 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 05:47:00 UTC
“Then…” France began, stroking the hair from America’s face. “I’ll help you.”
America closed his eyes, focusing on the way the hand against him felt distinctly different from anyone else he’d ever known-France’s hands, only. He pulled the older nation close, tangled his fingers in the hair, soft, silkier than any hair he’d ever known. He focused on the smell of France’s sheets, the smell of the flowers in his hair-
He closed his eyes and kissed France. France.
He focused on everything that wasn’t what he wanted.
---
P-phew. *goes to hide in a corner now* I hope that everyone likes it. OP, I'm sorry that it ended up focusing so strongly on the USUK vibe instead of FRUK or even France/America... since it was written from America's POV, it was hard to put in more of France.
I hope you lovely anons out there like this alsdhgad; *ducks away from flying tomatoes*
Re: Loose Ends / Part 21 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 06:09:16 UTC
Wow, you're really fast at writing, and writing well, to boot. This was, I don't know, just so sad and painful yet also hot, all rolled up into one big pile of emotions.
I'm sure OP will love this, don't you worry, writer!anon~!
Re: Loose Ends / Part 21 of 21
anonymous
May 11 2010, 06:17:39 UTC
Wow that was fast. And so hot too. Oh poor boys, both of them so in love with England (or at least want him very much.) I think this is the first ever fic that acknowledges France and America's mutual wanting of England in one way or the other.
(Don't worry boys, years later you'll have your threesome /shot)
...Also I can't help bit wonder, who IS Iggy sleeping with all this time then? His long-time ally Portugal?
ANON. Let me have your babies, because seriously. Not only did you write this quickly, you wrote it so well and it was so hot and so emotional and g-guh when America was envisioning what England would say to him... fffff. Oh England, you hot cockblock, you. I loved him in this fill and he wasn't even technically there.
“I’m not going to break.”
“You have never done this before,” France disagreed with a small shake of his head. He glanced up at America and dropped a haphazard kiss at the base of his spine.
“What did you say?” America repeated, insisted.
“You really are a beautiful creature, aren’t you?” France purred as his hand slipped over America’s back. “I cannot fully blame him, for wanting to keep you.”
America clenched his eyes shut, grit his teeth. “He doesn’t want me for something like this.”
France chuckled, but said nothing. His fingers returned to their task. America stifled more gasps and moans and grunts.
“I hate him.”
“You don’t need to convince me,” France reminded him.
But America just shook his head, gripping the headboard of the bed as France spread his fingers inside him and he stifled a cry. “I hate him. For everything that he’s done, everything… he hasn’t done. I hate him for not listening to me, for not caring about me like he said he does. I hate him, I hate him.”
“He does care for you, America,” France said.
“I don’t want what he wants to give me,” America muttered. “And he won’t give me what I want, unless I take it.”
“Of course,” France agreed. “That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for America’s reply. “But, tell me, America,” France purred. “When England learns what I have done to you-how will he react?”
“He’ll-”
“Do you truly believe his anger will only be because of your disobedience, that you would form a treaty with his enemy?”
“Because I’m ‘his,’” America said with a roll of his eyes. “He’ll be angry that I’m doing things on my own, as if I’m already independent.”
“Perhaps,” France said. “But…”
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America nodded his head and pressed his forehead against a pillow, burying his face. He mumbled, into the pillow, wondering if France could even hear him:
“And I hate him the most for making me hate him.”
France removed his fingers and America waited, felt France pull him apart and push his cockhead into America. America stiffened up but forced himself to relax around the pain. He bit into the pillow to keep from crying out, gripping the headboard until he felt that it did splinter under his hold. His breathing came out shallow. A hand pressed over his hair and America tried to ignore it-he didn’t want affection, never any affection not if it wasn’t-
France pushed into him completely and waited. It burned, it was painful. But America kept still, biting into the pillow until he felt his shoulders relax and his body sink slightly. France gripped his hips, keeping him pushed up to France’s hilt. America felt stretched, filled-it lingered, it stayed.
America lifted his head from the pillow, staring at the broken headboard, his hands gripping broken wood. He bit his lip and straightened up, arching his back slightly. He felt the scrape of France’s stubble over his shoulder as he kissed the back of his neck. America clenched his eyes shut. He swallowed a whine bubbling in his throat, replaced it with a tiny moan. He swallowed thickly a few times more.
And then France moved, with a subtle jerk of his hips. America staggered slightly, unused to the feel, and clenched his hands in the pillows now, finally letting go of the headboard. The mattress creaked beneath them as France moved. France was talented-America can feel it in his body, how easily France moved and searched and stretched him, filling him and stretching him. America had never felt this way before, and yet-
So quickly, as soon as his mind settled on it, the guilt washed over him. He bit his lip and perhaps for the first time that day listened to France’s words-what would England do when he learned about this? He didn’t want to think about it but already he saw a flicker of England in his mind’s eye, face closed off, eyes angry, expression scathing and dismissive-“So this is the kind of thing you’ve resorted to, America? Whoring yourself out to France of all people?”-and it filled America with the guilt, with the shame. Then the anger came, hot and fresh, churning in his gut, forcing the rising bile back down his throat. Yes, he told the England he saw there, with disgusted eyes staring straight at America, This is what I choose.
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France pounded into him harder. His body burned and he cried out. France’s hands left his hips, pressing against his stomach to push him closer, while the other lifted to cup his chin, tipping America’s face back.
Eyes hooded, America flickered his gaze over to France, who was smiling at him coyly. The way he smiled, for a brief moment, it almost looked like an expression England might have-but quickly it was gone, and it was France pounding into him. America wet his dry lips, felt the fingers brushing over his adam’s apple. “I’m so disappointed in you, my lad,” England would tell him as he moved against France, thrusting back to meet France’s upwards thrusts, crying out in pleasure as he clenched his eyes shut and stared at England, angry green eyes, face pale. “How could you do this to me?”
“I…” America began, before realizing that he was speaking out loud and quieted down, his body quivering. France’s hand found America’s cock and pumped it in time with his thrusting. America’s body burned.
He was falling down, he was falling. He’d built everything up-he would jump, he would dive, he would… he would just fall down.
France held him up, even as America’s body shook.
“You are mine, and don’t you forget that,” he heard England hissing in the corners of his mind.
“No,” America gasped out and France paused. America shook his head, almost shoving himself against France. He felt France’s legs shake. “Keep going.”
“You think this would make me happy, America?”
“There,” America gasped when France’s body found a proper rhythm, pushing in and out of him, hand strumming along his cock-fingertips light while pulling downwards, and then dragging up almost painfully.
France whispered something in America’s ear but America did not hear-it was in French, and his mind was filled with English:
“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, America. I hope you’re happy about what you’ve done. After everything I’ve done for you how could-”
“Ah,” America cried out as France’s cock inside him dragged across his insides and struck the bundle of nerves with the tip of his cock. He cried out again as France paused and then shoved in again to hit him again there. He angled his body to strike it each time, and America’s cries punctuated the torture.
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“Mmm,” America gasped out, the fingers on his throat stroking, gripping his chin and tilting his head back again.
“Perhaps if I’ve given you more discipline when you were younger... you doing as you pleased couldn’t have done any good for you. I should have struck you-”
“Harder!” America cried out. France obeyed.
“Are you content to act so rashly, America? How dare you let him touch you like that, begging for-”
“More,” America gasped. France obeyed.
“You can’t possibly have wanted this-”
“Yes,” America gasped into the pillow. I do. France pounded into him, their bodies only loud slaps in the afternoon. America opened his eyes, refused to listen to this hypothetical England again-but it was just as well, as he was silent now.
America’s body shifted, arched, head thrown back and body shuddering. He could feel France lean against him, kissing his neck-his pulse-and he swallowed thickly, tried to swallow the small moans pushing out from the base of his throat. It was too much and not enough. The hands touching him, the cock pounding into him, the body pushed up against him-
He was nearing the end. His body shuddered and France purposefully slowed his pace down, feeling the shift in America. His hand over his cock moved agonizingly slow, and each stroke of his cock inside America was a slow cadence building to a crescendo. America jerked, refused to beg because he was stronger than that.
And then the flood of pleasure filled him and his cock twitched in France’s hand as he milked him dry. Low, quiet, as if he hadn’t said it at all, America whispered, his voice broken: “England…”
France’s movements stilled for a half a moment and America didn’t know if it was shock or acceptance. He didn’t say anything as he smeared his hands through the seed splattered on America’s stomach. America’s head was bowed, pressed against the pillow as his entire body dulled down-
He felt the fiery heat leave, the pleasure and the hatred, felt nothing but the icy coldness left. France kept jerking into him, working towards his own climax, but America’s mind was elsewhere, far, far away from this room. The shame filled him, cursing himself for daring to say the name of the man he was meant to hate, who he did hate.
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He felt France get off the bed and the world felt a little colder. He stayed still. But soon enough, he felt the mattress dip as France sat back down and pressed something against his backside. America started, jerking his head up and staring at France in wide-eyed surprise. France gave him a small smile, taking his hand away but leaving the towel there.
“It’ll spill out of you, once you sit up,” he explained.
“Oh,” America said, looking away. He fisted the towel in his hand and stayed there, not moving. Slowly, his face dropped back down into the pillow.
“America,” France said at last, “If I may so bold as to say that I think-”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” America mumbled into the pillow.
“Yes, I suppose you don’t…” France said with a small shrug. His tone suggested something else entirely and America rolled over onto his back. He glared at France. France merely smiled back.
“I don’t…”
“So it’s true, then,” France purred. “You were thinking of him.”
It seemed France didn’t know how to listen. America’s glare intensified. “No.”
“Really?” France said, leaning in closer, but not touching America. “But it was his name that you called for, when it really mattered.”
“What about you?” America shot back. “Who did you call for?”
“We are not discussing me,” France said with a shrug. “And you know the answer, anyway. I,” he said smoothly, “am not in denial of what it is I want.”
“Are you saying I’m in denial?”
France raised his eyebrows at him. America felt his hackles raise and he sat up. He felt France’s seed move in him, start to slide out into the towel beneath him. America’s cheeks burned-from anger, he hoped.
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Still, France said nothing.
America laughed, to try and make his shoulders loosen. “You say the weirdest things, France! Me, want him! Ha, ha, ha…”
France smiled.
America looked away. “I don’t-”
He cut himself off. He fell into silence. He swallowed thickly, a few times, to try and ignore the way his heart had lodged in his throat. It did nothing.
“You truly don’t want England, America?”
America stared down at the bed sheets, rumpled from their excursion. The daylight was beginning to fade, but the wind still rustled the white curtains. Outside, beyond, Paris was moving-and beyond that, beyond the miles of French soil was England. England…
America shook his head. “There’s one thing I want.”
“Oh?”
“I want him to leave me alone and leave me be and to stop with-” he began. France gave him a disbelieving look, all too knowing, and America knew he couldn’t deny it-couldn’t deny that it was England that he saw, England that he called out for. Even now, even now when he hated him, when he couldn’t stand the sight of him, he wanted to-he wanted-“I want him to… I want him…”
“Sweet America,” France said, and this time did sound sympathetic as he cupped America’s cheek. America pulled his face away, eyes wide and wild, feeling as if he were a cornered animal. “Sweet America,” France said again, “You needn’t have pretense with me. You are not the first one, nor will you be the last, to not get what it is you want from dear England.”
“I’m going to get what I want,” America shouted, hands shaking as he planted them on the bed, eyes narrowed. “I’ll become independent. And you’ll help me, won’t you?”
France smiled, almost sad, and pushed up to kiss the thumping pulse in America’s neck. France pulled away, letting his fingers tangle in America’s hair. He chuckled, low in his throat. “That is all you want?”
“Yes,” America said firmly.
France smiled at him, and it was clear that he did not believe America.
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America closed his eyes, focusing on the way the hand against him felt distinctly different from anyone else he’d ever known-France’s hands, only. He pulled the older nation close, tangled his fingers in the hair, soft, silkier than any hair he’d ever known. He focused on the smell of France’s sheets, the smell of the flowers in his hair-
He closed his eyes and kissed France. France.
He focused on everything that wasn’t what he wanted.
---
P-phew. *goes to hide in a corner now*
I hope that everyone likes it. OP, I'm sorry that it ended up focusing so strongly on the USUK vibe instead of FRUK or even France/America... since it was written from America's POV, it was hard to put in more of France.
I hope you lovely anons out there like this alsdhgad; *ducks away from flying tomatoes*
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I'm sure OP will love this, don't you worry, writer!anon~!
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(Don't worry boys, years later you'll have your threesome /shot)
...Also I can't help bit wonder, who IS Iggy sleeping with all this time then? His long-time ally Portugal?
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my
god
ANON. Let me have your babies, because seriously. Not only did you write this quickly, you wrote it so well and it was so hot and so emotional and g-guh when America was envisioning what England would say to him... fffff. Oh England, you hot cockblock, you. I loved him in this fill and he wasn't even technically there.
Thank yoooou so much, anon.
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YOU ARE AMAZING, ANON.
How do you complete all this in less than a day?????????
You're brilliant.
(showers you with cookies and internets) Consider these a bribe for a sequel, yes? ;D
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