It's Really A Threesome
Title: It's Really A Threesome
Originally posted: 1/31/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,000 words.
Characters/Pairings: France/US, implied UK/US.
Premise: The Louisiana Purchase. Also, England cockblocks France and America without ever appearing in the story.
Time period: 1803
Smuttiness: 7/10
Funnyness: 4/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 7/10 - if you're confused about anything America and France are talking about in the beginning, check out the XYZ Affair and Jay's Treaty.
Violence: 3/10
Would I like it?: It's revolutionary era America, and France is a bitch.
He brought flowers, but France had tossed them carelessly on the sideboard to wilt, and America didn't care. They had shut themselves up in France's private apartments, and America had no impression of the last several hours except for one of small talk that neither of them had enjoyed but both had pretended to, and a sour aftertaste from too much wine. But the first bottle was empty, now, and the second as well, and once America finished what was in his glass, they would have no choice but to say what was on their minds.
He swirled the last of the pinot and watched the reflected lights from the candles scatter and converge. "What happened to your nice glasses?" he asked absently.
France flicked his fingers disparagingly and lounged deeper into his chair. "Revolutionaries," he replied.
"Oh…" France's house did look very different from the last time he had visited, at the end of his own revolution. Most of the tapestries had been torn down, and all of the nice antiques were gone, even the ones that had been on their shelves for so long that condensation had raised halos on the wood where their bases used to be. There were a lot of sabers and rifles mounted on the walls where he remembered lush old portraits--and everything was a mess.
I guess I should get this over with, he thought, and tossed back the last of the wine.
If there was one thing he could count on France for, it was never to miss his cue. The older nation sat up as he set his glass down, tossed his hair, and rubbed his hands together. "So, what does bring you here, America? You have been so neglectful of your dear friend! And after I thought what we had had such meaning for us both."
America grimaced and scratched the bridge of his nose with the side of his thumb. "Well, I tried to drop by in 1797, if you remember, but I forgot my wallet." It had been a humiliating spectacle; he had come to make amends for…something…and France had flatly refused to see him without a…well, he called it a gift. To America, it had sounded a lot like tribute.
They hadn't spoken for a while after that.
France made a moue. He tipped his chin in and down in a way that made his hair fall fetchingly over one eye. "Such a cruel boy, to always bring up past mistakes. I thought we had put all of that behind us."
He sighed. "Yes, we have." Putting it behind them had involved a great deal of wine and yet another unsatisfying tryst, in a closet somewhere. They'd had a string of them, ever since France had joined in on his revolution. He didn't know why they kept bothering.
"You've become so prickly! You were such a joyful child, always quick to forgive…England has been rubbing off on you, non? In more ways than one," he added with a smirk.
America felt a blush crawl up the back of his neck. "I told you, there's nothing like that going on. Jay's Treaty--with England--that business--it was just business. It was arranged by our bosses. We didn't--there wasn't--"
"Of course there wasn't," France soothed--and then the corner of his mouth curled up. He was rewarded when America's blush spread to his cheeks. "I know my dear, closest friend wouldn't do such a heartless thing to his loyal companion…"
"Absolutely not," he agreed through grit teeth. And it's over anyway, he added silently.
France watched him, still smiling like a shark. "So, I ask again. What brings you to my doorstep?"
He cleared his throat and looked up again. "New Orleans."
"New Orleans! Ah, of course, Louisiana. You've heard that I just acquired it from Spain, then? What about it?" he kicked back in his chair and toyed with the stem of his wine glass.
No easy way to say it. "I want to buy it."
"Louisiana?"
"No, just New Orleans."
"Not Louisiana?" he cocked his head to a spill of golden hair.
"Uh…" America blinked.
France made a graceful gesture with one long-fingered hand. "The First Consul has had some, ah, difficulties in the New World lately--"
America mentally translated that to brutal slave uprising--
"--Which resulted in my soldiers withdrawing from one of our little holdings--"
That one meant our single most profitable colony outside Europe--
"And he has decided he's fed up with the whole idea of an empire in the New World," he finished airily. "Actually, I'd be willing to let the whole territory go for a song." He reached across the table and caressed the underside of America's chin. "Only for you, of course, because I hold our love so dearly."
America swatted his hand away with a slightly dazed expression. "I--ah--well--" he floundered. It was a ridiculous suggestion, one he had never considered. How would he administrate over so much new land? It would double the size of his territory! Shouldn't he check with the president first? …But what if France changed his mind? "O-okay," he heard himself say.
France rose and swept his chair around the table. He sat with his knees and America's intermeshing like the teeth of two gears. He leaned forward and gave a heavy-lidded, languorous smile. "I hope you remembered your wallet this time."
America gripped the other man's collar and pulled him into the expected kiss. France pushed his jacket off his shoulders and began unsticking buttons down his shirt. "I was only authorized to spend ten million--for the city--" America managed between hungry kisses. He flung France's cravat aside and kissed down the side of his neck. The European purred. "But for the whole territory, I--"
"We'll let the whole thing go for fifteen million," France interrupted him, his nails skidding down America's sides. America flushed under the candlelight. "In addition to the--mmmm--" he nuzzled the side of his head against the younger man's when America bit the join of his neck and shoulder. "--The forgiveness of our outstanding debts from--" his hand slid over America's lap.
"Done," he gasped. France stood fluidly, caught America's hand, and pulled him towards the bed. America stumbled after him. France drew America in close, one arm around his waist, then spun them around and swept his feet out from under him in a way that was almost balletic. America bounced and scrambled towards the middle of the mattress. France crawled over him like a hungry cat. "Would--would bonds be--"
"Pour toi, naturellement, mon chouchou," he agreed. "Provided we settle on a--careful!--a reputable bank." Next came the awkward process of unfastening and shedding pants, buckles, stockings, and boots, always an embarrassing struggle on those occasions when he crept into that other nation's home to spend a few hours neither of them would ever acknowledge--but France even managed to make that look good.
Ambivalent as he was about their relationship, these interludes with France were always--instructive.
Not that he could find much to be ambivalent about in that moment; he looked down the length of his body to see France peeling off his stocking with his teeth, a filthy smirk on those generous lips, and then the European reached between America's legs and did something that made him forget the next several seconds of his life.
Then he was on his stomach, and both their hands were coated in oil--and a not inconsiderable percentage of the rest of them, as well. Toned muscles gleamed and flexed in the candlelight as France thrust into him, and America knotted his fingers in the pillowcase and groaned. Now and then France leaned forward, and America could see the ends of ash blond hair dancing in the corner of his eye. The European applied his fingertips and mouth and tongue continuously, everywhere, and America didn't even know what France was doing anymore, he just knew he didn't want it to stop--
And then France leaned forward and, with the devil in his voice, whispered against his ear, "You can scream his name when you come, if you want. I don't mind."
America's eyes widened. A flare of rage rose in his throat. He twisted at once and cracked his elbow into France's face. France fell off to his side with a wet "Ghugh."
America scrambled upright. He jerked the sheet into his lap. "You really know how to spoil a mood," he spluttered.
France rolled onto his back, his hand cupped over his bloody nose, but he was laughing. "Ah--mon cœur--" he gurgled, his chest shaking.
"You--!" America couldn't think of another word to say.
"Ahh--mon minet, it was only a joke! Always, you take everything so personally." France was speechless himself for several seconds as he crowed with laughter. "But--but I didn't think you would get so angry; I must have struck a nerve, oui?"
America's mouth opened and closed silently. He felt a terrible urge to smother the other man to death under his own blood-spattered pillow. He slid off the edge of the bed and began jerking his clothes on.
France rolled onto his stomach after him, one hand still cupped over his nose. Red dripped down his wrist, and he grinned wickedly. "It's nothing to be so embarrassed about, you know? How are we truly so different? Sometimes it seems like everything we do is just in reaction to that infuriating man. Even this, n'est pas?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" America snapped, and didn't look at him. He stuffed his shirt tails into his pants.
" Sérieusement! Ah, come now, America, don't be so angry." France pulled himself up on to his elbows. "Can you honestly tell me that you're not sleeping with me because you know that England hates it? Je suis sans voix! I thought we both knew--I thought that was the game! Don't scowl so, you look just like him when you do--"
"I--I--" America felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. He rubbed his face with both hands, then shot back, "So why are you sleeping with me?"
"Oh, I'm also in it because I know England hates it," France replied merrily, "But for somewhat different reasons than you, I think." He collapsed onto his back on the pillows, wiped the last trickle of blood from his lower lip, and folded his hands under his head. He grinned at the ceiling. "Just the thought of him laying awake, and telling himself that it's not because of thoughts of his oldest enemy tonguing his former pet's balls, what a ridiculous idea!--It's enough to assure that I will never have cold nights again." He glanced sidelong at America, and gave him a wide-angled smirk. "Come on back to bed? I'll be good this time--so good."
For some reason, America didn't feel angry anymore, and the sudden release from rage left him a touch weak in the knees. He shook his head and snapped his collar into place. "I'm going to bed. My own bed."
"Ah, quelle dommage."
He rucked his hand through his hair and glanced back at France. No matter how candid the moment, France always looked posed. "About the Louisiana Territory…?"
A theatrical sigh and a dismissive wave. "Oui, bien sur, send someone around with the paperwork tomorrow. Mmm--bring me another bottle of wine off the rack before you go…?"
The door shut firmly behind America. France smiled to himself.
Originally posted: 1/31/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,000 words.
Characters/Pairings: France/US, implied UK/US.
Premise: The Louisiana Purchase. Also, England cockblocks France and America without ever appearing in the story.
Time period: 1803
Smuttiness: 7/10
Funnyness: 4/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 7/10 - if you're confused about anything America and France are talking about in the beginning, check out the XYZ Affair and Jay's Treaty.
Violence: 3/10
Would I like it?: It's revolutionary era America, and France is a bitch.
He brought flowers, but France had tossed them carelessly on the sideboard to wilt, and America didn't care. They had shut themselves up in France's private apartments, and America had no impression of the last several hours except for one of small talk that neither of them had enjoyed but both had pretended to, and a sour aftertaste from too much wine. But the first bottle was empty, now, and the second as well, and once America finished what was in his glass, they would have no choice but to say what was on their minds.
He swirled the last of the pinot and watched the reflected lights from the candles scatter and converge. "What happened to your nice glasses?" he asked absently.
France flicked his fingers disparagingly and lounged deeper into his chair. "Revolutionaries," he replied.
"Oh…" France's house did look very different from the last time he had visited, at the end of his own revolution. Most of the tapestries had been torn down, and all of the nice antiques were gone, even the ones that had been on their shelves for so long that condensation had raised halos on the wood where their bases used to be. There were a lot of sabers and rifles mounted on the walls where he remembered lush old portraits--and everything was a mess.
I guess I should get this over with, he thought, and tossed back the last of the wine.
If there was one thing he could count on France for, it was never to miss his cue. The older nation sat up as he set his glass down, tossed his hair, and rubbed his hands together. "So, what does bring you here, America? You have been so neglectful of your dear friend! And after I thought what we had had such meaning for us both."
America grimaced and scratched the bridge of his nose with the side of his thumb. "Well, I tried to drop by in 1797, if you remember, but I forgot my wallet." It had been a humiliating spectacle; he had come to make amends for…something…and France had flatly refused to see him without a…well, he called it a gift. To America, it had sounded a lot like tribute.
They hadn't spoken for a while after that.
France made a moue. He tipped his chin in and down in a way that made his hair fall fetchingly over one eye. "Such a cruel boy, to always bring up past mistakes. I thought we had put all of that behind us."
He sighed. "Yes, we have." Putting it behind them had involved a great deal of wine and yet another unsatisfying tryst, in a closet somewhere. They'd had a string of them, ever since France had joined in on his revolution. He didn't know why they kept bothering.
"You've become so prickly! You were such a joyful child, always quick to forgive…England has been rubbing off on you, non? In more ways than one," he added with a smirk.
America felt a blush crawl up the back of his neck. "I told you, there's nothing like that going on. Jay's Treaty--with England--that business--it was just business. It was arranged by our bosses. We didn't--there wasn't--"
"Of course there wasn't," France soothed--and then the corner of his mouth curled up. He was rewarded when America's blush spread to his cheeks. "I know my dear, closest friend wouldn't do such a heartless thing to his loyal companion…"
"Absolutely not," he agreed through grit teeth. And it's over anyway, he added silently.
France watched him, still smiling like a shark. "So, I ask again. What brings you to my doorstep?"
He cleared his throat and looked up again. "New Orleans."
"New Orleans! Ah, of course, Louisiana. You've heard that I just acquired it from Spain, then? What about it?" he kicked back in his chair and toyed with the stem of his wine glass.
No easy way to say it. "I want to buy it."
"Louisiana?"
"No, just New Orleans."
"Not Louisiana?" he cocked his head to a spill of golden hair.
"Uh…" America blinked.
France made a graceful gesture with one long-fingered hand. "The First Consul has had some, ah, difficulties in the New World lately--"
America mentally translated that to brutal slave uprising--
"--Which resulted in my soldiers withdrawing from one of our little holdings--"
That one meant our single most profitable colony outside Europe--
"And he has decided he's fed up with the whole idea of an empire in the New World," he finished airily. "Actually, I'd be willing to let the whole territory go for a song." He reached across the table and caressed the underside of America's chin. "Only for you, of course, because I hold our love so dearly."
America swatted his hand away with a slightly dazed expression. "I--ah--well--" he floundered. It was a ridiculous suggestion, one he had never considered. How would he administrate over so much new land? It would double the size of his territory! Shouldn't he check with the president first? …But what if France changed his mind? "O-okay," he heard himself say.
France rose and swept his chair around the table. He sat with his knees and America's intermeshing like the teeth of two gears. He leaned forward and gave a heavy-lidded, languorous smile. "I hope you remembered your wallet this time."
America gripped the other man's collar and pulled him into the expected kiss. France pushed his jacket off his shoulders and began unsticking buttons down his shirt. "I was only authorized to spend ten million--for the city--" America managed between hungry kisses. He flung France's cravat aside and kissed down the side of his neck. The European purred. "But for the whole territory, I--"
"We'll let the whole thing go for fifteen million," France interrupted him, his nails skidding down America's sides. America flushed under the candlelight. "In addition to the--mmmm--" he nuzzled the side of his head against the younger man's when America bit the join of his neck and shoulder. "--The forgiveness of our outstanding debts from--" his hand slid over America's lap.
"Done," he gasped. France stood fluidly, caught America's hand, and pulled him towards the bed. America stumbled after him. France drew America in close, one arm around his waist, then spun them around and swept his feet out from under him in a way that was almost balletic. America bounced and scrambled towards the middle of the mattress. France crawled over him like a hungry cat. "Would--would bonds be--"
"Pour toi, naturellement, mon chouchou," he agreed. "Provided we settle on a--careful!--a reputable bank." Next came the awkward process of unfastening and shedding pants, buckles, stockings, and boots, always an embarrassing struggle on those occasions when he crept into that other nation's home to spend a few hours neither of them would ever acknowledge--but France even managed to make that look good.
Ambivalent as he was about their relationship, these interludes with France were always--instructive.
Not that he could find much to be ambivalent about in that moment; he looked down the length of his body to see France peeling off his stocking with his teeth, a filthy smirk on those generous lips, and then the European reached between America's legs and did something that made him forget the next several seconds of his life.
Then he was on his stomach, and both their hands were coated in oil--and a not inconsiderable percentage of the rest of them, as well. Toned muscles gleamed and flexed in the candlelight as France thrust into him, and America knotted his fingers in the pillowcase and groaned. Now and then France leaned forward, and America could see the ends of ash blond hair dancing in the corner of his eye. The European applied his fingertips and mouth and tongue continuously, everywhere, and America didn't even know what France was doing anymore, he just knew he didn't want it to stop--
And then France leaned forward and, with the devil in his voice, whispered against his ear, "You can scream his name when you come, if you want. I don't mind."
America's eyes widened. A flare of rage rose in his throat. He twisted at once and cracked his elbow into France's face. France fell off to his side with a wet "Ghugh."
America scrambled upright. He jerked the sheet into his lap. "You really know how to spoil a mood," he spluttered.
France rolled onto his back, his hand cupped over his bloody nose, but he was laughing. "Ah--mon cœur--" he gurgled, his chest shaking.
"You--!" America couldn't think of another word to say.
"Ahh--mon minet, it was only a joke! Always, you take everything so personally." France was speechless himself for several seconds as he crowed with laughter. "But--but I didn't think you would get so angry; I must have struck a nerve, oui?"
America's mouth opened and closed silently. He felt a terrible urge to smother the other man to death under his own blood-spattered pillow. He slid off the edge of the bed and began jerking his clothes on.
France rolled onto his stomach after him, one hand still cupped over his nose. Red dripped down his wrist, and he grinned wickedly. "It's nothing to be so embarrassed about, you know? How are we truly so different? Sometimes it seems like everything we do is just in reaction to that infuriating man. Even this, n'est pas?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" America snapped, and didn't look at him. He stuffed his shirt tails into his pants.
" Sérieusement! Ah, come now, America, don't be so angry." France pulled himself up on to his elbows. "Can you honestly tell me that you're not sleeping with me because you know that England hates it? Je suis sans voix! I thought we both knew--I thought that was the game! Don't scowl so, you look just like him when you do--"
"I--I--" America felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. He rubbed his face with both hands, then shot back, "So why are you sleeping with me?"
"Oh, I'm also in it because I know England hates it," France replied merrily, "But for somewhat different reasons than you, I think." He collapsed onto his back on the pillows, wiped the last trickle of blood from his lower lip, and folded his hands under his head. He grinned at the ceiling. "Just the thought of him laying awake, and telling himself that it's not because of thoughts of his oldest enemy tonguing his former pet's balls, what a ridiculous idea!--It's enough to assure that I will never have cold nights again." He glanced sidelong at America, and gave him a wide-angled smirk. "Come on back to bed? I'll be good this time--so good."
For some reason, America didn't feel angry anymore, and the sudden release from rage left him a touch weak in the knees. He shook his head and snapped his collar into place. "I'm going to bed. My own bed."
"Ah, quelle dommage."
He rucked his hand through his hair and glanced back at France. No matter how candid the moment, France always looked posed. "About the Louisiana Territory…?"
A theatrical sigh and a dismissive wave. "Oui, bien sur, send someone around with the paperwork tomorrow. Mmm--bring me another bottle of wine off the rack before you go…?"
The door shut firmly behind America. France smiled to himself.