Everybody Loves Me [1/?]
anonymous
October 23 2010, 22:11:49 UTC
This is author!anon's first attempt at Hetalia fic. My apology in advance for any fail! Updates may be slow since I have midterms. OTL ;;
The bed is empty, again.
Morning light streams through Venetian blinds as the European sprawls out, hand feeling for the mold in the mattress left by last night's lover. He feels the bleached white sheets pulled tightly, tucked in, instead. That side of the bed is made-England always had an OCD quality to him, France muses-which was considerate of him. They tend to leave hurriedly, purposely forgetting to wake him, and conveniently leaving their side of the bed crumpled and messy. For a bed that supported them through moans, gasps and drawn out cries of pleasure, you'd think they'd be thoughtful enough to at least make it look somewhat presentable.
But, France decides, now is not the time to nitpick at the past conditions of his bed. He sits up, groggily, licking his lips to savor the remainder of the previous night's wine. It was cheap. “Just like you!” America once said, jokingly of course. The boy was so used to the Englishman's thick skin and snide remarks that he did not realize his playful comments could be mean. That's how he interacted with his uptight lover. There was no reason to act any other way with the Frenchman. The hero was too dimwitted and light-hearted to insult him on purpose. The comparison still stung, though.
France leans over, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and hastily searches for a lighter. He finds it, thank God, and lights the cigarette quickly before taking a drag slowly. Empty boxes decorate his nightstand, spilling over onto the floor as well. Looking into the box at hand, tired eyes notice that he's smoking his last cigarette. He frowns. Reaching under the bed, he pulls out a wine bottle. It's practically empty. He sighs. When the boxes stack to unusual heights and there's not a drop left of his finest wine France knows that a world meeting is coming up. The calendar is set to the first of the month. He's correct. As he stands to get dressed, he wonders if he can bum a cigarette off of Turkey and vodka off of Russia.
Everybody Loves Me [2/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 05:45:46 UTC
Oh wow. I got sudden inspiration and I did not expect to write this much. Damn character limits! OTL ;; I should have a count on how many parts this is soon! <3
The meeting room was filled with the chatter of each country. Conversation ranged from the current condition of the Swiss economy to how Romano needed to get laid, big time. The Italian brother scolded the pompous Prussian for his statement, yelling numerous inappropriate phrases before throwing his hands up in frustration. Spain laughed, assured Gilbert that him and his lover had a perfectly fine sex life then kissed the blushing South Italy on the cheek. Of course, Francis Bonnefoy could have argued that their sex life was far from satisfying since he had seen Romano in his bed, but he kept his mouth shut. And no, the self proclaimed romanticist thought, getting laid did not help his attitude.
While flashing an artificial smile to the left and right-and occasionally blowing a kiss here and there-France takes his seat. The volume of the room is loud and overwhelming. He closes his eyes and begins to match voice to moan to experience. North Italy is cheerfully running his mouth about something insignificant. The Frenchman found it odd that, for such an energetic person, he was relatively silent in bed. Pants and whines and soft murmurs of approval would pass his lips but nothing noisy enough to require a gag. Surprisingly, Japan was the opposite. Violet eyes darted to the conservative country who was politely nodding his head and keeping the amount of words he said to a minimum. In bed, he was unrestrained; his voice resonated. He would moan long sentences in Japanese. France couldn't understand the language but the undertone was crystal clear; he knew what he wanted. To Japan's left there was America, who spoke like a naive child. However, he was unrelenting in bed and had a sort of animal like passion to him, which made sense because England, to the right of him, loved rough sex. Fast and hard with no mercy whatsoever. Finland spoke innocently but liked blindfolds. Sweden looked intimidating but enjoyed the more sensual kind of sex. Austria acted dignified but had no boundaries when he was needy. Vietnam hated him in public and private, but during acts of intimacy she was more obedient. Each one of them was two-faced and they didn't know it. Only France had the privilege-yes, he forced himself to believe, it was a privilege-to see their hidden sides.
None of them would admit they had been with him, though. No one would dare stoop so low as to say they've slept with the country of France. They could joke about him, ridicule him and reprimand him for being incredibly “loose” but they'd never admit the number of times they've approached him, begging for some relief. Everyone has a reputation to uphold. No one wants to be accused of contracting Crabs or Syphilis or whatever STD the world says France has today.
Everybody Loves Me [3/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 05:50:51 UTC
A commanding voice emerged, cutting conversation short and leaving the room silent. Eyes opened to see the notoriously serious Germany gathering the attention of the room. France never slept with him. At first, he thought that it was normal; Ludwig was a man who kept to himself, similar to many other nations. But when Hong Kong started to lay his hands upon him, when Iceland broke his silence and entered his home, when all of those other nations arched their backs for France and Germany didn't, he became curious. He did attempt to seduce him once only for it to fail. Germany was caught up in some piece of nonsense document from the last European Union meeting and wasn't paying too much attention. Annoyed, France was about ready to scream, “Sleep with me, connard!” but Feliciano managed to wiggle his way into their conversation and end Francis Bonnefoy's 247th seduction.
Still, when the blond playboy had a moment of time to himself he liked to think about what Germany would be like. Awkward, obviously, but in a cute way. He'd fidget and apologize in advance for any mistake he might make but France would laugh and rub his back, telling him to simply enjoy himself. It would be in a bed, that was a given. Perhaps if they had been dating for a while the German could be coaxed into having sex in odd places but the first time would definitely be on a bed. Gloved hands would caress France's face, chest, thighs carefully, fearful of being too demanding. Germany would kiss him methodically, having researched it beforehand in a book. Again, France would laugh and stroke his hair, telling him to give into the passion and to forget the mechanics of the act. He'd be gentle and slow and his mouth would taste like those God awful wursts the German was fond of but the Frenchman wouldn't care. France would run a hand down the other's chest, lower and lower, playing with the trail of golden, coarse hairs that-
“Oi! Frenchy!”
Blinking a few times, he snapped out of his daydream and checked his location. Boring white walls and the sound of a husky Germanic voice going over carbon emission standards reminded France that he was still at the meeting. He was nudged one more time, turning to his left to see just who had woken him up from his fantasy.
“West is going to get pissed off if he sees you staring at his package,” Prussia laughed in jest, folding his arms. The silver haired ex-country obviously hadn't been paying attention to his brother's speech either but since when was Gilbert expected to listen to anything? France plastered on a smile and winked.
“My, my, my, don't be ridiculous, ami. That's unprofessional, non~?” He hadn't planned to sound that flirty but, then again, he never plans to sound that flirty, it just comes out that way.
“You can never keep it in your pants, huh Francis?” Antonio comments, eliciting another chuckle from the other member of their bad friends group. They're both laughing now, France observes, and he forces himself to join in. England puts a finger over his lips, chiding them for their rude behavior. Prussia flips him off, Spain allows his laughter to die down and, for once, France is thankful that his rival was his usual stick-in-the-mud self.
“Quiet, quiet amis. See? Being mean to me gets us in trouble~”
“Mean? Tch! Not our fault you want to hump everything in sight.”
“E-Eh? Non, non-”
“Don't worry, amigo, we're used to this by now.”
“Yeah! And, besides, we can't just let our dear pal stay needy, now can we?”
They're both looking at him now, grinning. By this point, the Frenchman is usually grinning as well; it means they've devised a scheme to make a dreadful meeting exciting. But this time wasn't the same. Their expressions were predatory, evaluating every inch of their blond companion. The smile France attempted to maintain died on his lips. Eyes darted to England, hoping he was mid “quiet down” gesture but to no avail.
Everybody Loves Me [4/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 05:52:53 UTC
America had an arm protectively around his lover and the European briefly wondered how the two of them could ignore the obvious flaws in their relationship. Maybe it would have been better if they panted each other's names while France was bobbing his head between their thighs, but they didn't. If that had happened, he could at least try to believe that they did indeed love each other. They didn't moan his name either but that was a different story altogether. You sleep with whoever but you cry out for the one you love. What a shame; they actually did look cute together.
He's drifting off again and sometimes he wish he could stay in a permanent daydream but the hands on his thighs reel him back to reality. Gilbert on the left, Antonio on the right. Everyone expected them to have slept with each other at one point. Hell, Francis had even considered it himself but these were his friends. These were the two people he didn't expect to pull a vanishing act on him the morning after a one night stand. Word of mouth is quick, though. Of course they would have known of this reputation France carried. He was tempted to push their hands away but the warmth was incredibly inviting. It always happened like this. The rare times where France didn't want anything sexual, and those times did exist, he couldn't resist. Each touch, whether light or demanding, felt like an electric shock, sending shivers down his spine. Each puff of breath against his lips, against his shoulder and now Gilbert's puff of breath against his neck made his body melt. A tongue massaging his own, a hand massaging his back or Antonio's hand now massaging his thigh extracted an involuntary moan.
“I'll let you call me 'boss.'” He kept his voice low, whispering in his ear.
“And you can call me 'the most awesome mother fucker in existence!'” He murmured against his neck, giving it a teasing bite.
And, damn it, no one was looking at them. No one was scolding them. No one was telling France that he didn't have to do it and that he could resist his urges. No one was saving him from moving under the table, away from everyone's eyesight. He tries to qualify what he's doing and what he does. He doesn't feel empty, oh Heaven no, he can't feel empty. Everyone is good at something. France is good at sex. He told himself that he should except that; embrace it.
At this point, he is. France is quickly making work of their pants, undoing each button and tugging the legs down so he can get this over with. He hates himself because he lacks control. He hates them because they have the control. Instead of speaking with the Frenchman and asking him why he allows himself to be the world's slut they just lean back and smirk, waiting for a climax. There's a cock in each hand and he could laugh over the fact that they're probably not as big as they think they are but he'd rather not have a vengeful Prussia bucking relentlessly into his mouth. Leaning forward, he gives each one a tentative lick, then stroke, then suck. It's become automatic now. Just a series of actions.
There's a loud clap! above him and then Germany's voice telling two of the bad friends to stop being a distraction. France pictures them high-fiving above the table and it makes him feel sick; dirty. Disgusting. Perhaps he is as immoral as everyone claims. He is the one mouthing at Prussia's cock shamelessly while squeezing and jerking off Spain. He is the one who takes Antonio in his mouth, swirling his tongue along the head of his erection while allowing Gilbert to thrust into his hand as much as he pleases. He is-
Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 05:54:20 UTC
If the Spaniard wasn't gripping his hair so tightly-to a point where his roots would probably be damaged, France inwardly sighed-then he would have turned around to look. No, that was a lie. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to have to face someone with pre-cum smeared around his mouth and remorse in his eyes. Most importantly, he didn't want someone else to ask for a blow job too. But Russia says nothing. With that eerie smile donning his face, he merely grabs his pen and sits up straight again. Once he stops feeling the pair of eyes burning their gaze onto his back, the Frenchman gives a sigh of relief. The Prussian doesn't care though; he's impatient. A swift kick to France's stomach reminds him that his friends are far from willing to wait. He winces, although Francis was sure Gilbert did not mean to kick him that hard. He probably meant to kick him harder. Pulling away from Spain, he lets his hands do the rest of the work. If they both climax at the same time then France will not have to worry about one of them getting enough energy for a second round. Violent orbs focus themselves on the floor. The European's mind is elsewhere. Prussia and Spain knot their hands into his hair, tugging him forward. Their thighs tremble then tighten. He opens his mouth as wide as he can when Prussia cums. He does the same for Antonio. It's not because he wants to but because he's hoping to limit clean up. Even if everyone expects France to wear a face full of cum each day that doesn't mean he wants to. Or maybe he does. France gave up trying to figure that out a long time ago. Their cocks stop pulsating, falling limp. Despite his efforts, the cum ends up on his face and mon Dieu this will take forever to get out of my hair. He wipes his face as best as he can and then wipes his hand on the floor to dispose of the evidence.
When he comes up from under the table, he feels that there is still a remainder of their mess in his hair. France smooths his hair back, praying that if he can't get the cum out that he can at least conceal it. Canada stares at him and he tries not to stare back. It ends with darling Matthieu turning his head away, finding Ludwig's presentation a lot more interesting now. Unbeknownst to him, the Russian is watching him as well with strange fascination. France doesn't stop the embarrassment from settling in.
“We will now adjourn for an hour lunch break. You are dismissed!”
Papers begin to be shuffled and France rushes out of the room before his friends can congratulate him on a job well done.
Re: Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 06:07:25 UTC
Oh gosh authornon, this is such a different portrayal of France. My heart truly aches for him. I do hope you will continue this fill. I'm excited to see the next few parts.
(Is it wrong that I'm hopping that Canada will play a part? And that Russia won't take advantage of France.)
Re: Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 07:47:24 UTC
Very very interesting take on another angle. I am thinking that part about Prussia and Spain is actually the most upsetting for France, they are his friends after all. But it is kind of messed up, huh?
Would it be possible that this ends with a France/Germany? Germany seems like the right guy to break France out of this vicious cycle, somehow.
I shouldn't be as happy as I am because I'm so sad for France, but asldkfjas;lj
God, this is everything I asked for and more. My heart broke at,
"And, damn it, no one was looking at them. No one was scolding them. No one was telling France that he didn't have to do it and that he could resist his urges."
Just his panic at those thoughts. :( Even though I requested it, I kind of want to kick Prussia and Spain right now. And I have a feeling that Russia is only going to make matters worse.
Re: Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 15:28:51 UTC
Very interesting, I like it so far. Poor France though, it's really sad to see him like this. I hope that Canada will get a part in this, too (since he was mentioned already). I'm curious to see what's going to happen next (and I definitely hope there will be a happy ending for France). Good work, anon! <3
Re: Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 24 2010, 18:57:48 UTC
ouch, this hurts so bad, poor France! It's ten times worse when it's revealed as a physical illness and he can't control it, not that the namecalling wasn't bad enough. Fascinating portrayal of the BTT, for once not as caring and supportive as they're usually portrayed, but fully IC with Antonio's cluelessness about everything (not relaising there's something wrong with France) and Prussia's selfishness.
I hope Russia plays a part, a good part for once instead of the rapetruck. He is innocent and lonely enough to be fascinated but not sure what to do with this. I also hope, as another reviewer said, that this ends France/Germany, because it seems perfect for it <3 Finally, I hope that France realises the immense power he has over everybody: he can out them as unfaithful, out their sexual problems, lacking performances, relationship deficiencies. He does it in his head here acussing most character's hypocrisy, and with Spamano and USUK (major points to you for doing that to such popular couples, no matter how much I love them), why can't he say it out loud and give them a kick in the balls for being such insensitive jerks? >.<
He hadn't planned to sound that flirty but, then again, he never plans to sound that flirty, it just comes out that way.
Re: Everybody Loves Me [5/?]
anonymous
October 25 2010, 01:16:53 UTC
This didnt come off as a physical illness to me anon. It was more a mental one. France is so lonely for affection and for a real partner, so depressed over how hypocritical the world is and how he is called loose so much over something he cant control because his illness (up there)...so sad.
Everybody Loves Me [6/?]
anonymous
October 25 2010, 02:20:54 UTC
Thank you everyone for the kind reviews! I'm glad you guys like it! <3
It's crowded and small with paint peeling off of the beige walls and lamps providing poor lighting. The patio is filled with incredibly small metal tables and chairs, the kind that make an irritable sound every time you scoot your seat back. But it's a French bistro. “Or, at least, it tries to be,” France smugly mutters to himself. Despite how much France believes his cooking is better than any restaurant's, he's glad to have some familiarity and comfort near the meeting location. He believes Canada is as appreciative since the nation hadn't complained of anything yet. It was practically tradition now. Whenever there was a lunch break during the meeting, the two of them would quickly pair off and enjoy a peaceful meal together. Usually France did all the talking-“Mon ange, mon ange, did you see that terrible tie Angleterre was wearing? Appalling!”-and Canada would quietly contribute a comment or two, smiling and softly laughing. The voices of the other patrons filled their conversation today. Neither of them spoke and France usually wasn't one to expect Canada to speak or say much at all but even in his silence, something seemed off. Maybe he was smiling but the Frenchman couldn't tell; Matthew wouldn't look up from his plate. The older of the two blonds cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing himself to make conversation.
“ … I'm relieved you didn't order poutine.” A misplaced chuckle. “I thought Quebec might have had a horrible influence on you~ First you eat his food and then, before you know it, you are acting like him too!” He laughs, albeit it's dry and hangs in the air in precisely the way France did not want it to but that was as good as an effort he could currently give.
Canada lifts his head, trying to smile but it ends up looking crooked and melancholy. “A-Ah. Oui, I thought you would not like it if I did...” he trails off, eyes returning to the plate. One set of fingers drum against the table, the other set tapping against a glass. The atmosphere was thick and it was killing France.
“So, Matthieu, how are-”
“You were under the table?”
He's caught off guard, so he blinks as if he doesn't instantly understand what Matthew is referring to then gives another one of those fake laughs. “Silly me, I dropped my pen under the table. I can be so clumsy at times~”
“You were gone for a while,” the reserved country notes, refusing to remove his gaze from the plate. He's trying his best not to bite his lip or show any sign that he's upset but France can tell. Canada can't even bear to look at him; can't even bear to speak to such a despicable man. France wishes for a stroke right then and there because that would feel ten times better than the pangs of guilt that tug and pull at his heart.
“It's a long table.” A pen shouldn't be that hard to find.
“Spain and Prussia looked rather satisfied...” Their heads were tilted back, mouths open just enough to mutter near silent moans of approval.
“Well, maybe I...” It was no use trying to hide it from the former colony anymore. Innocent eyes had finally decided to stare up at him; they were all-knowing.
Everybody Loves Me [7/?]
anonymous
October 25 2010, 02:22:16 UTC
Opening his mouth slightly, he's about to speak but has nothing to say in response. Syllables hang at the tip of his tongue but France cannot form words. And he's not sure why he's trying to defend himself. He shouldn't have to defend himself. Being sexually active, being flirty, being playful, it was normal; it was apart of human nature. Canada of all people should know to expect this type of behavior from France but, no, instead he's sitting across from him, arms crossed and judgmental. But even France can't get himself to believe his sorry excuses. Giving blow jobs in public was pathetic, not admirable.
Might as well continue to play it off. Superficial smiles and hollow laughs had become so integrated into the Frenchman's behavior that they came naturally now. Maybe he really was the shameless slut everyone had known and physically loved.
He raises the wine glass to his lips, buying some time, hoping the Canadian would decide to drop the subject. Matthew remains quiet, but his arms remain sternly tucked into his sides and his stare is concerned but persistent. Placing the glass down, France speaks with a carefree tone. “Matthieu, it is just sex~ Intimacy is an important part of l'amour-”
Any hint of softness or understanding was gone. The innocent nation maintained his calm but he straightened his posture, unwilling to keep his eyes off of France. “They don't love you, they don't respect you, they don't even care about you! And you don't love any of them, do you Papa?”
A bold claim to make against the country of love. His words held an undertone of bitterness that France has never been able to detect.
--- Clothes were haphazardly thrown on the floor that night, leaving a trail to the bedroom. The Canadian was nervous and shaking but the European took care of him. Setting him down on the bed, France eased the wide-eyed nation with soothing sweet nothings and whispered “I love you”s. He treated Matthew like a China doll, touching him with delicate and feather light strokes. And when he climaxed, Canada realized that he was probably just another notch on his papa's bedpost. France didn't care about him. He meant nothing. Silence accompanied the afterglow. They slept on the opposite edges of the bed, refusing to face each other. Matthew couldn't even rest his head against the other's chest. What Canada would never know was that France had forgotten what cuddling was like after sex. Cuddling occurred with love making, not with lust filled activities. The Frenchman had figured out after his tenth encounter with Hungary that what he did was have sex, not make love. There was no true intimacy involved. Matthew made sure his one night lover was asleep before he buried his face in the pillow. He left in the middle of the night. If he was going to weep, he'd prefer to do it in his own bed. The tears didn't dry by the morning but France hadn't notice. He was busy wondering where Canada went then, a minute later, getting ready to pay Denmark a requested visit. ---
Matthew instantly realized how harsh he might have come off as. “J-Je suis desole, Papa, I...” The words came out strained and France couldn't help but smile. The Canada he knew and loved-and who loved him more than he could imagine-had not turned into a cold prude.
“... You're cute when you're angry, mon ange.” My love, my sweetheart, my darling, they were all interchangeable pet names but “my angel” was special. It was reserved solely for Matthew.
The bed is empty, again.
Morning light streams through Venetian blinds as the European sprawls out, hand feeling for the mold in the mattress left by last night's lover. He feels the bleached white sheets pulled tightly, tucked in, instead. That side of the bed is made-England always had an OCD quality to him, France muses-which was considerate of him. They tend to leave hurriedly, purposely forgetting to wake him, and conveniently leaving their side of the bed crumpled and messy. For a bed that supported them through moans, gasps and drawn out cries of pleasure, you'd think they'd be thoughtful enough to at least make it look somewhat presentable.
But, France decides, now is not the time to nitpick at the past conditions of his bed. He sits up, groggily, licking his lips to savor the remainder of the previous night's wine. It was cheap. “Just like you!” America once said, jokingly of course. The boy was so used to the Englishman's thick skin and snide remarks that he did not realize his playful comments could be mean. That's how he interacted with his uptight lover. There was no reason to act any other way with the Frenchman. The hero was too dimwitted and light-hearted to insult him on purpose. The comparison still stung, though.
France leans over, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and hastily searches for a lighter. He finds it, thank God, and lights the cigarette quickly before taking a drag slowly. Empty boxes decorate his nightstand, spilling over onto the floor as well. Looking into the box at hand, tired eyes notice that he's smoking his last cigarette. He frowns. Reaching under the bed, he pulls out a wine bottle. It's practically empty. He sighs. When the boxes stack to unusual heights and there's not a drop left of his finest wine France knows that a world meeting is coming up. The calendar is set to the first of the month. He's correct. As he stands to get dressed, he wonders if he can bum a cigarette off of Turkey and vodka off of Russia.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
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Great start so far, this looks really promising! <3
Don't forget to link it on the fills list. :3
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The meeting room was filled with the chatter of each country. Conversation ranged from the current condition of the Swiss economy to how Romano needed to get laid, big time. The Italian brother scolded the pompous Prussian for his statement, yelling numerous inappropriate phrases before throwing his hands up in frustration. Spain laughed, assured Gilbert that him and his lover had a perfectly fine sex life then kissed the blushing South Italy on the cheek. Of course, Francis Bonnefoy could have argued that their sex life was far from satisfying since he had seen Romano in his bed, but he kept his mouth shut. And no, the self proclaimed romanticist thought, getting laid did not help his attitude.
While flashing an artificial smile to the left and right-and occasionally blowing a kiss here and there-France takes his seat. The volume of the room is loud and overwhelming. He closes his eyes and begins to match voice to moan to experience. North Italy is cheerfully running his mouth about something insignificant. The Frenchman found it odd that, for such an energetic person, he was relatively silent in bed. Pants and whines and soft murmurs of approval would pass his lips but nothing noisy enough to require a gag. Surprisingly, Japan was the opposite. Violet eyes darted to the conservative country who was politely nodding his head and keeping the amount of words he said to a minimum. In bed, he was unrestrained; his voice resonated. He would moan long sentences in Japanese. France couldn't understand the language but the undertone was crystal clear; he knew what he wanted. To Japan's left there was America, who spoke like a naive child. However, he was unrelenting in bed and had a sort of animal like passion to him, which made sense because England, to the right of him, loved rough sex. Fast and hard with no mercy whatsoever. Finland spoke innocently but liked blindfolds. Sweden looked intimidating but enjoyed the more sensual kind of sex. Austria acted dignified but had no boundaries when he was needy. Vietnam hated him in public and private, but during acts of intimacy she was more obedient. Each one of them was two-faced and they didn't know it. Only France had the privilege-yes, he forced himself to believe, it was a privilege-to see their hidden sides.
None of them would admit they had been with him, though. No one would dare stoop so low as to say they've slept with the country of France. They could joke about him, ridicule him and reprimand him for being incredibly “loose” but they'd never admit the number of times they've approached him, begging for some relief. Everyone has a reputation to uphold. No one wants to be accused of contracting Crabs or Syphilis or whatever STD the world says France has today.
And they call me the bad example. Bastards.
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Still, when the blond playboy had a moment of time to himself he liked to think about what Germany would be like. Awkward, obviously, but in a cute way. He'd fidget and apologize in advance for any mistake he might make but France would laugh and rub his back, telling him to simply enjoy himself. It would be in a bed, that was a given. Perhaps if they had been dating for a while the German could be coaxed into having sex in odd places but the first time would definitely be on a bed. Gloved hands would caress France's face, chest, thighs carefully, fearful of being too demanding. Germany would kiss him methodically, having researched it beforehand in a book. Again, France would laugh and stroke his hair, telling him to give into the passion and to forget the mechanics of the act. He'd be gentle and slow and his mouth would taste like those God awful wursts the German was fond of but the Frenchman wouldn't care. France would run a hand down the other's chest, lower and lower, playing with the trail of golden, coarse hairs that-
“Oi! Frenchy!”
Blinking a few times, he snapped out of his daydream and checked his location. Boring white walls and the sound of a husky Germanic voice going over carbon emission standards reminded France that he was still at the meeting. He was nudged one more time, turning to his left to see just who had woken him up from his fantasy.
“West is going to get pissed off if he sees you staring at his package,” Prussia laughed in jest, folding his arms. The silver haired ex-country obviously hadn't been paying attention to his brother's speech either but since when was Gilbert expected to listen to anything? France plastered on a smile and winked.
“My, my, my, don't be ridiculous, ami. That's unprofessional, non~?” He hadn't planned to sound that flirty but, then again, he never plans to sound that flirty, it just comes out that way.
“You can never keep it in your pants, huh Francis?” Antonio comments, eliciting another chuckle from the other member of their bad friends group. They're both laughing now, France observes, and he forces himself to join in. England puts a finger over his lips, chiding them for their rude behavior. Prussia flips him off, Spain allows his laughter to die down and, for once, France is thankful that his rival was his usual stick-in-the-mud self.
“Quiet, quiet amis. See? Being mean to me gets us in trouble~”
“Mean? Tch! Not our fault you want to hump everything in sight.”
“E-Eh? Non, non-”
“Don't worry, amigo, we're used to this by now.”
“Yeah! And, besides, we can't just let our dear pal stay needy, now can we?”
They're both looking at him now, grinning. By this point, the Frenchman is usually grinning as well; it means they've devised a scheme to make a dreadful meeting exciting. But this time wasn't the same. Their expressions were predatory, evaluating every inch of their blond companion. The smile France attempted to maintain died on his lips. Eyes darted to England, hoping he was mid “quiet down” gesture but to no avail.
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He's drifting off again and sometimes he wish he could stay in a permanent daydream but the hands on his thighs reel him back to reality. Gilbert on the left, Antonio on the right. Everyone expected them to have slept with each other at one point. Hell, Francis had even considered it himself but these were his friends. These were the two people he didn't expect to pull a vanishing act on him the morning after a one night stand. Word of mouth is quick, though. Of course they would have known of this reputation France carried. He was tempted to push their hands away but the warmth was incredibly inviting. It always happened like this. The rare times where France didn't want anything sexual, and those times did exist, he couldn't resist. Each touch, whether light or demanding, felt like an electric shock, sending shivers down his spine. Each puff of breath against his lips, against his shoulder and now Gilbert's puff of breath against his neck made his body melt. A tongue massaging his own, a hand massaging his back or Antonio's hand now massaging his thigh extracted an involuntary moan.
“I'll let you call me 'boss.'” He kept his voice low, whispering in his ear.
“And you can call me 'the most awesome mother fucker in existence!'” He murmured against his neck, giving it a teasing bite.
And, damn it, no one was looking at them. No one was scolding them. No one was telling France that he didn't have to do it and that he could resist his urges. No one was saving him from moving under the table, away from everyone's eyesight. He tries to qualify what he's doing and what he does. He doesn't feel empty, oh Heaven no, he can't feel empty. Everyone is good at something. France is good at sex. He told himself that he should except that; embrace it.
At this point, he is. France is quickly making work of their pants, undoing each button and tugging the legs down so he can get this over with. He hates himself because he lacks control. He hates them because they have the control. Instead of speaking with the Frenchman and asking him why he allows himself to be the world's slut they just lean back and smirk, waiting for a climax. There's a cock in each hand and he could laugh over the fact that they're probably not as big as they think they are but he'd rather not have a vengeful Prussia bucking relentlessly into his mouth. Leaning forward, he gives each one a tentative lick, then stroke, then suck. It's become automatic now. Just a series of actions.
There's a loud clap! above him and then Germany's voice telling two of the bad friends to stop being a distraction. France pictures them high-fiving above the table and it makes him feel sick; dirty. Disgusting. Perhaps he is as immoral as everyone claims. He is the one mouthing at Prussia's cock shamelessly while squeezing and jerking off Spain. He is the one who takes Antonio in his mouth, swirling his tongue along the head of his erection while allowing Gilbert to thrust into his hand as much as he pleases. He is-
Clink!
A pen dropped.
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When he comes up from under the table, he feels that there is still a remainder of their mess in his hair. France smooths his hair back, praying that if he can't get the cum out that he can at least conceal it. Canada stares at him and he tries not to stare back. It ends with darling Matthieu turning his head away, finding Ludwig's presentation a lot more interesting now. Unbeknownst to him, the Russian is watching him as well with strange fascination. France doesn't stop the embarrassment from settling in.
“We will now adjourn for an hour lunch break. You are dismissed!”
Papers begin to be shuffled and France rushes out of the room before his friends can congratulate him on a job well done.
---
And anon is done for the night! OTL
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(Is it wrong that I'm hopping that Canada will play a part? And that Russia won't take advantage of France.)
-wibbles-
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Would it be possible that this ends with a France/Germany? Germany seems like the right guy to break France out of this vicious cycle, somehow.
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God, this is everything I asked for and more. My heart broke at,
"And, damn it, no one was looking at them. No one was scolding them. No one was telling France that he didn't have to do it and that he could resist his urges."
Just his panic at those thoughts. :( Even though I requested it, I kind of want to kick Prussia and Spain right now. And I have a feeling that Russia is only going to make matters worse.
Good job, anon, I can't wait for more.
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I hope Russia plays a part, a good part for once instead of the rapetruck. He is innocent and lonely enough to be fascinated but not sure what to do with this.
I also hope, as another reviewer said, that this ends France/Germany, because it seems perfect for it <3
Finally, I hope that France realises the immense power he has over everybody: he can out them as unfaithful, out their sexual problems, lacking performances, relationship deficiencies. He does it in his head here acussing most character's hypocrisy, and with Spamano and USUK (major points to you for doing that to such popular couples, no matter how much I love them), why can't he say it out loud and give them a kick in the balls for being such insensitive jerks? >.<
He hadn't planned to sound that flirty but, then again, he never plans to sound that flirty, it just comes out that way.
Dude, this was so damn sad ;_;
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It's crowded and small with paint peeling off of the beige walls and lamps providing poor lighting. The patio is filled with incredibly small metal tables and chairs, the kind that make an irritable sound every time you scoot your seat back. But it's a French bistro. “Or, at least, it tries to be,” France smugly mutters to himself. Despite how much France believes his cooking is better than any restaurant's, he's glad to have some familiarity and comfort near the meeting location. He believes Canada is as appreciative since the nation hadn't complained of anything yet. It was practically tradition now. Whenever there was a lunch break during the meeting, the two of them would quickly pair off and enjoy a peaceful meal together. Usually France did all the talking-“Mon ange, mon ange, did you see that terrible tie Angleterre was wearing? Appalling!”-and Canada would quietly contribute a comment or two, smiling and softly laughing. The voices of the other patrons filled their conversation today. Neither of them spoke and France usually wasn't one to expect Canada to speak or say much at all but even in his silence, something seemed off. Maybe he was smiling but the Frenchman couldn't tell; Matthew wouldn't look up from his plate. The older of the two blonds cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing himself to make conversation.
“ … I'm relieved you didn't order poutine.” A misplaced chuckle. “I thought Quebec might have had a horrible influence on you~ First you eat his food and then, before you know it, you are acting like him too!” He laughs, albeit it's dry and hangs in the air in precisely the way France did not want it to but that was as good as an effort he could currently give.
Canada lifts his head, trying to smile but it ends up looking crooked and melancholy. “A-Ah. Oui, I thought you would not like it if I did...” he trails off, eyes returning to the plate. One set of fingers drum against the table, the other set tapping against a glass. The atmosphere was thick and it was killing France.
“So, Matthieu, how are-”
“You were under the table?”
He's caught off guard, so he blinks as if he doesn't instantly understand what Matthew is referring to then gives another one of those fake laughs. “Silly me, I dropped my pen under the table. I can be so clumsy at times~”
“You were gone for a while,” the reserved country notes, refusing to remove his gaze from the plate. He's trying his best not to bite his lip or show any sign that he's upset but France can tell. Canada can't even bear to look at him; can't even bear to speak to such a despicable man. France wishes for a stroke right then and there because that would feel ten times better than the pangs of guilt that tug and pull at his heart.
“It's a long table.” A pen shouldn't be that hard to find.
“Spain and Prussia looked rather satisfied...” Their heads were tilted back, mouths open just enough to mutter near silent moans of approval.
“Well, maybe I...” It was no use trying to hide it from the former colony anymore. Innocent eyes had finally decided to stare up at him; they were all-knowing.
“Do you have no shame, Papa?”
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Might as well continue to play it off. Superficial smiles and hollow laughs had become so integrated into the Frenchman's behavior that they came naturally now. Maybe he really was the shameless slut everyone had known and physically loved.
He raises the wine glass to his lips, buying some time, hoping the Canadian would decide to drop the subject. Matthew remains quiet, but his arms remain sternly tucked into his sides and his stare is concerned but persistent. Placing the glass down, France speaks with a carefree tone. “Matthieu, it is just sex~ Intimacy is an important part of l'amour-”
Any hint of softness or understanding was gone. The innocent nation maintained his calm but he straightened his posture, unwilling to keep his eyes off of France. “They don't love you, they don't respect you, they don't even care about you! And you don't love any of them, do you Papa?”
A bold claim to make against the country of love. His words held an undertone of bitterness that France has never been able to detect.
---
Clothes were haphazardly thrown on the floor that night, leaving a trail to the bedroom. The Canadian was nervous and shaking but the European took care of him. Setting him down on the bed, France eased the wide-eyed nation with soothing sweet nothings and whispered “I love you”s. He treated Matthew like a China doll, touching him with delicate and feather light strokes. And when he climaxed, Canada realized that he was probably just another notch on his papa's bedpost. France didn't care about him. He meant nothing. Silence accompanied the afterglow. They slept on the opposite edges of the bed, refusing to face each other. Matthew couldn't even rest his head against the other's chest. What Canada would never know was that France had forgotten what cuddling was like after sex. Cuddling occurred with love making, not with lust filled activities. The Frenchman had figured out after his tenth encounter with Hungary that what he did was have sex, not make love. There was no true intimacy involved. Matthew made sure his one night lover was asleep before he buried his face in the pillow. He left in the middle of the night. If he was going to weep, he'd prefer to do it in his own bed. The tears didn't dry by the morning but France hadn't notice. He was busy wondering where Canada went then, a minute later, getting ready to pay Denmark a requested visit.
---
Matthew instantly realized how harsh he might have come off as. “J-Je suis desole, Papa, I...” The words came out strained and France couldn't help but smile. The Canada he knew and loved-and who loved him more than he could imagine-had not turned into a cold prude.
“... You're cute when you're angry, mon ange.” My love, my sweetheart, my darling, they were all interchangeable pet names but “my angel” was special. It was reserved solely for Matthew.
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