In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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hetalia kink meme
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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England had been the last one to touch him, a press of rough, warm lips against his forehead and a ruffle of fingers through his hair, always teasing him, even then.
France was something entirely different. More warmth than America thought possible, strong and bright and alive. He feasted on it, turning up France's chin so that he could capture his lips, letting their tongues mingle through the thick taste of cream and red wine.
He twisted his fingers through France's uniform, unbuttoning his jacket in stumbling motions, only to have those same fingers caught and kissed, one by one, as France murmured to him, words that America struggled to understand. "Darling rebel, so impatient."
"France," he protests, impatient, yes, but he has no choice, "You know how long I've waited."
"So minutes now will not hurt you, non?" France laughs.
He sucks one of America's fingers playfully, and America groans, seeing only the glow of France's blue eyes, and the shine of his teeth through the golden waves of his hair.
France moves America's hands, splaying them out at his sides, and carefully, tortuously slow, unfastens his necktie and collar, removes his cuffs and drops them to the floor beside the bed lovingly. "Pleasing a man cannot be rushed. Tell me, America, do I count as first?"
He feels his face flame, and wants to protest with a thousand defensive words, but the warmth of France's hands and breath, the curl of pleasure tightening in the pit of his stomach, and the uncomfortable pull of his penis are all too insistent, bleeding away his embarrassment.
"This treaty," America says, his breathing steadier than he feels it should be, "Is so important. I will be independent now." His voice his strong when he says that word, the master key that has driven him for what feels like centuries but is only years. He loves the way it tastes on his lips, everything it implies, the rightness of it.
France laughs again, delightedly, and for a second America can almost see the unrest, the tension in his shoulders, and he knows he isn't the only one being seduced. France's people mirror his own in their beliefs.
Royalty upsets them.
But of course he is forbidden from saying this. It is the royals' money that now feeds his rebellious war.
France leans closer, and America's body jerks upward to meet his, but France merely kisses him, right cheek, left, and then a quick kiss, barely allowing America to taste him once again.
"So vibrant! This delights me, little rebel. England doesn't know the spirit he fights!" France leans back up, smiling down at America in a way that makes him uncomfortably conscious of the fact that his upper body is clad only in his shirt now, everything else stripped away by France's clever hands.
He laughs though, his voice sharper and higher, the sound carrying through the lavish room. "England is too caught up in his bloody tea and Parliament to see his imminent defeat."
"Always," France sighs, and grinds his hips lightly over America's erection.
He groans, and his breath catches in his throat.
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He moves his arms up to steady his hands on France's hips, and guides him back and down, firmly placing him exactly where he should be.
France is naked already, of course, he had stripped off his clothing piece by piece as they walked to his bedroom, forcing America to trail behind and watch, never touching, merely the tease that has been going on for years during their negotiations.
His skin is a plain of blushed gold, marred only by the scars of past battles. He wonders how many of them come from England, and if they could lay beside each other, matching scar for scar.
America thinks he is too young to wear the marks he does, and his hands are more calloused than either England's or France's. He was a child such a short time ago, and now here he lays, ready and willing to be debauched by this country England once lead him firmly away from.
He groans again as France's tongue dips into his navel, and his fingers hesitate on the last button. His body strains against France's. "Please, oh please," he begs, "No longer."
"Impatient!" France sing-songs against his skin, and America shakes his head in protest.
"Eager."
"Young and impatient," France teases, and presses their groins together more fiercely, finally unbuttoning America's shirt completely, and sliding it up to his shoulders.
He pushes himself up helpfully, and France keeps him there even after his shirt falls onto the bed. His erection twitches at France's kiss, and finesse is shifting fluidly into even more passion, giving way to the growing sense of urgency America is sure that they share.
France's penis is nearly touching his stomach, and staining America's breeches with fluid. He can't open his eyes to see now, though, with France's lips sucking at his tongue, drawing it into his mouth as if it were another organ entirely.
He moans, chokes, biting France's lower lip, tilting his head to the side and nipping his neck. He sucks, willing his red marks to become purple bruises.
France slides his hands all over America's body, rocking into him, murmuring again in French.
"Have I waited long enough?" America struggles to say, and France answers him in that beautiful language, the one America can only understand tangentially, with the outermost parts of himself.
He doesn't even try to now, and only begs for an answer. France cups his chin, forcing their eyes to meet, blue on blue. "You shall have me now, darling rebel."
He wants to laugh at the nickname, but his breath is gone.
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Have to get off the computer now, but will be around to post more in a few hours, maybe. It's my first time writing France, so if he's totally ooc I'm sorry!
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France slides down his body, and he almost cries out at the loss of contact at his groin, but France is working more quickly now, pulling off America's shoes, and rubbing a foot affectionately.
America growls warningly.
France laughs.
He peaks at America through the veil of his hair, and America has time to focus on his handsome face, the curl of his cherry-red lips before France is thumbing his fingers under America's stockings and rolling them down.
He does cry out at the glorious taste of the air, and the freeness, but he isn't truly satisfied until France works his way back up the bed and pulls off his final piece of clothing, his undergarments, and now they are both naked. He can almost taste his expectation, and launches himself onto France as soon as he is within range.
France laughs, and then they're both groaning, lovingly soaking up the feeling of having each other as they should. "Don't keep me waiting now," America pleads, his voice cracking.
He receives a shake of France's head in reply, and then he's being crawled over so that France can produce a vial of honey-coloured oil from the underside of the bed.
"The honour should go to me, cher," France declares, swirling the liquid around so that it catches the light, sparkling.
"You've gave me everything," America swallows, nervous and excited, "Everything I should ever want."
"Oui," France nods.
He falls back on the bed, splaying his legs, and receiving for that words of appreciation that he understands no matter the language. France is pouring the oil onto his fingers now, heedless of the excess that slips from them onto the bed sheets below. America's breath hitches in his throat.
France looks at him, face unreadable and almost frightening. "Do not be scared, darling rebel. This will be no more painful than a slap, and much more rewarding."
"Fear isn't something I can afford," America replies, but the bravado feels false.
France is all glowing eyes and skin, telling him pleasantly, "With me, you can afford anything."
"Yes," he agrees, and France slides up to him, so that all of him is positioned between America's spread thighs, his fingers are glistening with oil now, and he cups America's thigh with his right hand, and his left slides place America doesn't want to imagine.
He tenses at the first brush of France's fingers, before he shudders and relaxes. France coaxes him along, and America can’t tell if his murmured words are helpful or merely distracting.
France rubs circles into his anus, and it gets to be a tease, winding him up more so than the minutes it took France to stop kissing and start moving.
His hips jerk, wanting to feel more, wanting it, and France steadies him. "Ready?"
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"Such language. In that you have not changed from England, have you?" France bites off the insults, the protests building up in America's throat by finally, finally pressing that first finger inside of him.
He doesn't expect the burn, even through the oil, but then France crooks his finger, searching, and hits something that makes white stars burst it streams of fire behind America's eyes.
"Bloody hell," he swears, and catches his breath inexpertly as France grins mischievously at him. "What in the world did you just do?"
"Such a delightful virgin," France twitters, and America wants to hit him, and shoot him, and mostly just make him do that again because his penis is straining so hard it hurts.
France crooks his finger, and rubs that spot over and over.
America gives up on talking, moaning soundlessly into the sheets. His face is hotter than it's ever been, and his eyes are bleary slits, the only thing he can see is white.
He sees, feels, his chest rising and falling, and that now-familiar burn return and spread as France slides his fingers deeper inside of him. He's being stretched now, pushed open.
This is what he has been yearning for, this power and vulnerability mixed up in the twist of his gut. France is humming something else he can't quite hear, but it's soothing and infuriating all at once.
He bucks again, slowly and undone.
France clucks his tongue, and moves his fingers faster inside of him. America looses his rhythm and finds his voice, cursing low and violent.
"Patience," France blows on a kiss.
"F-fuck you," America chokes. His face is a haze of red, and through it he can only just make out France winking at him.
He slips his fingers out, and America shouts, growls, France cutting him off yet again with a playful, "This is what we're already doing, non?"
"Not at the rate you're going!"
France blows him another kiss, and begins to slick himself with oil, to the sound of America's relieved shout, triumphant as he's ever been on the field.
He watches France, bucking at air without the grounding of France's hand to steady him.
He wants this so badly that he can't control himself, and France is still as calm as ever, the only hint of his passion the state of his arousal and the burn of his eyes. He seems to take forever, but America appreciates it at the first feel of his erection bumping America's already stretched hole.
He flushes even redder, but manages to stave off any needlessly stupid questions.
France winks at him anyway, "Oh, it will fit, darling rebel," and America buries his face in the sheets.
"Shut it!"
"With that request we will get nowhere," France teases, but begins to push into him nevertheless. America groans in mixed pleasure and discomfort, and hears France hitch his breath in the same moment.
It seems tortuously long, and America feels for a moment as though he's being impaled, but France finally encases himself, panting, and then he begins to move.
America garbles incoherently, and slides his arms around France's back. He claws his fingers into the muscular flesh there, and pants against France's neck.
"Please, please," he pants, choking.
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He lets his eyes close, unseeing and bright. France slides in and out of him, rubbing that hidden spot again and sending America bucking, loosing pace.
Mere minutes pass before he's finally brought to the point of completion, and his seed spills out onto both of their stomachs, sticky and warm.
He continues to move his hips, letting his exhausted hands rub at France's arse.
His eyes slide open, unfocused at first, before he zooms in on the pleasure of France's face, all hardened jaw and soft, spent lips. His hair is almost curling at his throat, and his eyes are shut.
America leans forward, pushing himself up on his elbows, and takes his mouth. France moans, shocked, into his tongue, and his thrusts become more erratic, closer to the edge.
"Please, please," America chants into his mouth, licking at his lips enticingly. "Now."
France shouts, sobs almost, and America can feel him suddenly swelling and spitting inside of him. His body shudders above him, and America falls, his arms collapsing, overwhelmed by the strange sensations.
He pants, and France shakes and catches his breath in time. His face is all aglow, his eyes sleeping, basking in the lingering pleasure of orgasm.
America falls deeper into the sheets, and not so long after France pulls out of him, making America hiss uncomfortably. "Apologies, cher," France mutters, curling into America's side.
"That was wonderful," America tells him, feeling stupid and happy and uncaring.
"Oui."
France is like a sleeping cat, all sedated warmth and limbs tangling into America's own. He pets his fingers through France's waves, and smiles, suddenly sleepy himself.
He thinks, this is a wonderful price to pay for everything France is doing for him.
In the dimming light of the bedroom, with the smell of sex and the pleasure and new pain of the afterglow, America can almost forget that this is more than just warfare and alliance negotiations.
He can forget, just for a moment, that tomorrow he will be on a ship back to his homeland, where he is truly needed, leaving France to fight England here in Europe until the end of the war. He wishes differently, maybe, but this is the way it is for countries, especially new ones such as himself.
His fingers curl tighter into France's hair, and he finally sleeps.
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*hides face* I really hope that was okay and everyone enjoys it. Haha, being anon is nerve-wrecking.
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France winks at him anyway, "Oh, it will fit, darling rebel," and America buries his face in the sheets.
"Shut it!"
Your characterization was what made it sogood ♥
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BRAVO, ANON! Wonderful all around!
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YES.
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