Instances
Title : Instances
Pairing(s) : France/America, France/UK, France/America/Canada, France/Belarus
Rating : M for one sex scene. One.
Fandom : Axis Powers Hetalia
Word Count : 1, 349
Frustration
Nothing was this hard to get to work. Nothing was this infuriating. In fact, trying to give Arthur a hard-on was most likely easier than assembling a bed frame (his last one had broke, and he had grown tired of sleeping on the floor). After a few more minutes of fruitless labor, Francis finally threw his hands in the air, let out a stream of French curses, and kicked the bed frame without any mercy. The bed frame, not understanding the concept of cruelty from the once-great-empire of France, proceeded to injure France. For some reason or another, France had not been expecting this course of action, and slammed the door on the offensive piece of sleeping equipment. In the way that he always cooled himself off, he poured a glass of wine, called up Mathieu for his regulated dose of Canadian loveliness, and read the newspaper. Tonight, the floor seemed more comfortable than the warmest, most well-accompanied bed. If he continued his course of action (one glass of wine had turned into three) he would be sleeping on the floor regardless. He should have some company over, they could enjoy his lovely floor together. He shook his head, that sounded like England’s idea of romantic. Maybe he should just return the bedframe to Sweden and order it from a nice French maker, and deal with the wait.
Persuasion
“Please, please, please, Francis?” Alfred and Mathieu looked at him with pleading eyes, so alike that he himself could not tell them apart (he could tell them apart more often than that tea-guzzling bastard, though) on certain occasions.
“Brother, we really want to go! And Arthur said we have a UN meeting and we couldn’t and, and-“
“Say no more, mon fils, I will arrange something for you and Alfred,” He assured his former colony, feeling a bubbly sensation as Mathieu blushed from his gentle pat on the cheek.
“But…I will need to be persuaded.” Alfred kept staring at France in naivety; whereas Mathieu’s emotional trauma level went from ‘Relatively Pleased’ to ‘England’.
“Damnit, Al, I told you this would happen.” Alfred shrugged.
“It’s not like you don’t like it.” Due to this comment, Alfred was forced to attend the UN meeting because he could not attend the hockey game with a head wound, England and France agreed (grudgingly).
Spontaneity
“How the hell did you get smashed so quickly? You rapist Frog, you planned this, didn’t you? I wouldn’t put it past you…” England continued on like this for some time, much to a very sloshed France’s dismay. He furrowed his brows in contemplation, opening his mouth to speak but every time being stopped by England’s housewife nagging.
“…and furthermore, if you had just stayed away from Lithuania, that whole situation with the concussion and Ivan having to go to prison would have never happened, and couldn’t you have put someone right in the head in prison, you git? Ivan just fucked over the entire prison, including the guards, damnit,” England slurred, more than a little tipsy himself but much better than France. And France stared at his mouth. It was so red. And it was moving so quickly, and it was bothering him, so he put his finger on England’s lips and stared at him incredulously, moreso than he should be allowed to while drunk. Then he kissed him.
England bit his tongue much harder than was appropriate.
Appreciation
Hands sliding down a toned chest, lips kissing all over a lean, beautiful body. This was what art was, this writhing, divine creature beneath him, whimpering at his every move. So young, fragile, hurt, innocent. He was so fiery, passionate, and he wondered where he had gotten it from.
“France…” He wriggled again, snapping France back into focus. He sucked at a dark brown nub of skin, running a hand across a taut stomach, navel dipping perfectly, light hair leading downward. France hummed his appreciation for the whole scene as he felt his guest tug at his long hair.
“Hurry the hell up,” the young man (barely a man) said in a husky voice, blue jacket carelessly open, boots still on, trousers at his knees.
“Be more patient, S'il te plaît, petit lapin,” France mumbled against his thigh, biting lightly, eliciting a gasp his partner surely did not want heard from his tensing afterwords. He thought about how well this whole operation was going, especially since he became involved, and as he slowly pleasured the young America, and maybe he could try it too. Realising that he had done this to stop America from talking about revolution, he set his body back to work where it belonged. America came into his mouth, digging his hands through France’s long blonde hair, and he sighed.
“France, I…” France put a finger to his lips, smiling at him, blue eyes shining.
“Do not worry, mon cher, about anything else tonight. Let me show you all the interesting things you can do with your body I am sure Angleterre has not shown you.”
Victorious
He smiled, smug, proud, righteously accomplished. He stood up, taping the piece of paper on his refrigerator. He wanted to see it every single day. To most, it would just look like a long piece of paper with senseless names crossed out. To France, it was so much, much more. He stood back, admiring his handiwork again before getting to work on breakfast, looking back over at the fridge every few minutes, grinning like a fool and humming a tune. He was just finishing up crepes when his bedmate from the night before shuffled into his kitchen.
“Ah, bonjour ma belle. You were woken up by the food, oui?” She blinked at him for a moment, before rubbing her eyes and frowning, looking at her left hand.
“You are not…” France whistled as he transferred her meal from his pan to the plate, setting it down.
“Dressed? I’m wearing an apron, aren’t I?”
“No…that’s not…”
“Tell me later, ma princesse, eat now.” She scowled at him, blonde hair a mess.
“Where is brother? You are not brother, I wanted to marry brother.” France laughed, bracing himself. It was worth it, he decided, looking at his list one last time. Every country, every single one. The entire world had slept in his bed, and a few broken bones didn’t matter as long as he had his list and his vital regions to do it all again. He realized his plate had been thrown against the wall. Oh dear.
“How did this happen?” It had been simple. France only had to visit when Russia had tried getting her drunk into unconsciousness, but failed because the girl was surprisingly hardy, and be wearing his favorite scarf. It honestly was a coincidence, but definitely a lucky one. When France tied his hair, making it look shorter, and ordered some vodka, she had been all over him. Who was he to resist? The last name on his list, he wouldn’t dare miss this opportunity… and that had led him to this morning, trying to guard his vital regions as best as possible.
“Belarus…we can settle this like adults, reasonable adults…”
“I would rather settle it with this knife, France.” For a moment, he thought it might not be worth it, having his list…and then he looked at it. He might be about to lose a finger or four, but the feeling right now was victory.
Pairing(s) : France/America, France/UK, France/America/Canada, France/Belarus
Rating : M for one sex scene. One.
Fandom : Axis Powers Hetalia
Word Count : 1, 349
Frustration
Nothing was this hard to get to work. Nothing was this infuriating. In fact, trying to give Arthur a hard-on was most likely easier than assembling a bed frame (his last one had broke, and he had grown tired of sleeping on the floor). After a few more minutes of fruitless labor, Francis finally threw his hands in the air, let out a stream of French curses, and kicked the bed frame without any mercy. The bed frame, not understanding the concept of cruelty from the once-great-empire of France, proceeded to injure France. For some reason or another, France had not been expecting this course of action, and slammed the door on the offensive piece of sleeping equipment. In the way that he always cooled himself off, he poured a glass of wine, called up Mathieu for his regulated dose of Canadian loveliness, and read the newspaper. Tonight, the floor seemed more comfortable than the warmest, most well-accompanied bed. If he continued his course of action (one glass of wine had turned into three) he would be sleeping on the floor regardless. He should have some company over, they could enjoy his lovely floor together. He shook his head, that sounded like England’s idea of romantic. Maybe he should just return the bedframe to Sweden and order it from a nice French maker, and deal with the wait.
Persuasion
“Please, please, please, Francis?” Alfred and Mathieu looked at him with pleading eyes, so alike that he himself could not tell them apart (he could tell them apart more often than that tea-guzzling bastard, though) on certain occasions.
“Brother, we really want to go! And Arthur said we have a UN meeting and we couldn’t and, and-“
“Say no more, mon fils, I will arrange something for you and Alfred,” He assured his former colony, feeling a bubbly sensation as Mathieu blushed from his gentle pat on the cheek.
“But…I will need to be persuaded.” Alfred kept staring at France in naivety; whereas Mathieu’s emotional trauma level went from ‘Relatively Pleased’ to ‘England’.
“Damnit, Al, I told you this would happen.” Alfred shrugged.
“It’s not like you don’t like it.” Due to this comment, Alfred was forced to attend the UN meeting because he could not attend the hockey game with a head wound, England and France agreed (grudgingly).
Spontaneity
“How the hell did you get smashed so quickly? You rapist Frog, you planned this, didn’t you? I wouldn’t put it past you…” England continued on like this for some time, much to a very sloshed France’s dismay. He furrowed his brows in contemplation, opening his mouth to speak but every time being stopped by England’s housewife nagging.
“…and furthermore, if you had just stayed away from Lithuania, that whole situation with the concussion and Ivan having to go to prison would have never happened, and couldn’t you have put someone right in the head in prison, you git? Ivan just fucked over the entire prison, including the guards, damnit,” England slurred, more than a little tipsy himself but much better than France. And France stared at his mouth. It was so red. And it was moving so quickly, and it was bothering him, so he put his finger on England’s lips and stared at him incredulously, moreso than he should be allowed to while drunk. Then he kissed him.
England bit his tongue much harder than was appropriate.
Appreciation
Hands sliding down a toned chest, lips kissing all over a lean, beautiful body. This was what art was, this writhing, divine creature beneath him, whimpering at his every move. So young, fragile, hurt, innocent. He was so fiery, passionate, and he wondered where he had gotten it from.
“France…” He wriggled again, snapping France back into focus. He sucked at a dark brown nub of skin, running a hand across a taut stomach, navel dipping perfectly, light hair leading downward. France hummed his appreciation for the whole scene as he felt his guest tug at his long hair.
“Hurry the hell up,” the young man (barely a man) said in a husky voice, blue jacket carelessly open, boots still on, trousers at his knees.
“Be more patient, S'il te plaît, petit lapin,” France mumbled against his thigh, biting lightly, eliciting a gasp his partner surely did not want heard from his tensing afterwords. He thought about how well this whole operation was going, especially since he became involved, and as he slowly pleasured the young America, and maybe he could try it too. Realising that he had done this to stop America from talking about revolution, he set his body back to work where it belonged. America came into his mouth, digging his hands through France’s long blonde hair, and he sighed.
“France, I…” France put a finger to his lips, smiling at him, blue eyes shining.
“Do not worry, mon cher, about anything else tonight. Let me show you all the interesting things you can do with your body I am sure Angleterre has not shown you.”
Victorious
He smiled, smug, proud, righteously accomplished. He stood up, taping the piece of paper on his refrigerator. He wanted to see it every single day. To most, it would just look like a long piece of paper with senseless names crossed out. To France, it was so much, much more. He stood back, admiring his handiwork again before getting to work on breakfast, looking back over at the fridge every few minutes, grinning like a fool and humming a tune. He was just finishing up crepes when his bedmate from the night before shuffled into his kitchen.
“Ah, bonjour ma belle. You were woken up by the food, oui?” She blinked at him for a moment, before rubbing her eyes and frowning, looking at her left hand.
“You are not…” France whistled as he transferred her meal from his pan to the plate, setting it down.
“Dressed? I’m wearing an apron, aren’t I?”
“No…that’s not…”
“Tell me later, ma princesse, eat now.” She scowled at him, blonde hair a mess.
“Where is brother? You are not brother, I wanted to marry brother.” France laughed, bracing himself. It was worth it, he decided, looking at his list one last time. Every country, every single one. The entire world had slept in his bed, and a few broken bones didn’t matter as long as he had his list and his vital regions to do it all again. He realized his plate had been thrown against the wall. Oh dear.
“How did this happen?” It had been simple. France only had to visit when Russia had tried getting her drunk into unconsciousness, but failed because the girl was surprisingly hardy, and be wearing his favorite scarf. It honestly was a coincidence, but definitely a lucky one. When France tied his hair, making it look shorter, and ordered some vodka, she had been all over him. Who was he to resist? The last name on his list, he wouldn’t dare miss this opportunity… and that had led him to this morning, trying to guard his vital regions as best as possible.
“Belarus…we can settle this like adults, reasonable adults…”
“I would rather settle it with this knife, France.” For a moment, he thought it might not be worth it, having his list…and then he looked at it. He might be about to lose a finger or four, but the feeling right now was victory.