[fic] Au Naturel part one [France/America]
Title: Au Naturel
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R, eventual NC-17
Characters: France/America
Warnings: proto-smut
Wordcount: 1,664/??
Author's Notes: Reposted from the kink meme with edits. For the prompt - smutty France/America that glorifies in France's gorgeous, manly body hair. Requester specified smut and non-crack.
I love France's body hair. His hair, his beard, his chest hair, his arm hair, his leg hair, even his armpit hair. This is my fic about all of that. Except the armpit hair. I tried to make this sensual and not funny, but that was really, super difficult, and I'm sure this everyone will agree that this is more hilarious than sexy. Oh well, I tried.
They don’t really get along now, too much mutual scorn over the years souring what had once been a very stimulating relationship, but sometimes, like this time, things just click between them, and then it’s like nothing has changed since Franklin and Jefferson. These are the best days for them, and probably the worst possible days for England.
America accepts France’s invitation to linger a few days before flying home after a conference, but he asks if they could visit a vineyard instead of staying at the apartment in Paris. He actually doesn’t want to see France in Paris, where the buildings crowd out the sun and exhaust from vehicles dirty the air, but France only remembers a particularly galling defeat of some international wine-tasting contest decades ago, and he frowns a little at this request. America kisses the side of his mouth to make the frown go away, puts on his best puppy-dog eyes, and smiling at him indulgently, France relents and says he might know of a place they could stay.
The little countryside estate is as charming as one could possibly imagine, the romantic chateau nestled in the rolling green hills amid stately rows of vines. There is sunlight everywhere, the smell of things growing, and after the tedium of the last few months, America feels truly liberated out here. France proudly shows him around his house - the dining area with an antique wooden table, the ridiculously quaint old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a fluffy white cat that stares at the intruder disdainfully. But America doesn’t move on once they reach the bedroom, and he pulls France in, closing the door behind him.
“It’s been a long drive, so why don’t we rest here for a bit? That bed sure looks comfy, and we both deserve a break,” America says, as casually as he could manage, which was pretty darn casual. He flashes one of his irresistible grins at France, and France is only too happy to agree.
“That is the best idea you’ve thought up so far, darling,” he murmurs, looking pleased. “A nap first, and then dinner?”
“Yeah, or, you know, whatever’s cool!”
“Oh?” France asks, one eyebrow elegantly raised. “And what would this… whatever involve?”
“You know, whatever,” America replies, winking as if his life depended on it.
France’s answering smirk confirms his understanding.
America slides his jacket off his shoulders and is in the process of taking off his t-shirt, but gets horribly distracted by watching France disrobe. He does it very quickly, of course, his motions practiced and smooth as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his trousers, and America is not surprised to see that France does not bother with wearing underwear. But wouldn’t it chafe, he wonders, sitting all day without anything protecting your private parts from the inside of your pants. Maybe he’s developed immunity to the pain after centuries of not wearing underwear…
France glances up at him, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. “If you require assistance taking off your clothes, I am an expert.”
“No, no, I’m good!” And before America could stop blushing and struggle out of his t-shirt, France has already glided over, fingers deftly working at his belt.
“I begin to think you are compensating for something with this,” France tells him, tapping at America’s overly large and flashy buckle, then whipping the belt out and dropping it on the floor.
“Wha-?! I’m not compensating for anything, th-that’s just the latest fashion!” America protests, finally having taken off his t-shirt and trying to not look anywhere below his waist, or below France’s waist for that matter, but finding it difficult as France was now tugging his jeans down. Dammit, he had been trying so hard to act smooth and seductive, and France has completely shown him up without even trying. The nerve.
“Your choice of undergarments says otherwise,” France says as he divests him of his jeans. “Really, America, what have you to worry about? You are exceptionally well-endowed, if you ask my opinion.”
“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion!” he sputters, sidling away from France before he thinks to pull down his boxers as well.
France chuckles at his half-embarrassed, half-flattered expression, and watches fondly as America flops onto the bed with a relieved sigh. He joins the younger nation, lying sprawled out on top of the sheets and just admiring the sight of the one beside him, not realizing America was doing the same until he looks right into those wide summer blue eyes and sees the unwavering adoration there.
There isn’t any way America could have stopped himself from staring, not with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows unimpeded, lighting up the room with an amber glow. Under the sunbeams, France seems to shimmer softly, like the dust motes floating in the air around them. His fingers itch to take a photo of this, but he wouldn’t dare risk anyone else seeing what he sees because he wants to keep this moment all to himself. Canada would say he’s selfish, and well, he’d be right.
A light breeze ruffles at France’s tousled waves, and he reaches out to touch a thin curl of golden hair, pulling it lightly and watching it spring back into place. France is smiling at him so warmly, so encouragingly, and America grins and shyly trails his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, savoring the rough, masculine texture. The sunlight glints off the deep gold hair on France’s chest, and he suddenly needs to touch that, too, to feel those silky curls under his fingertips, because just looking is never enough.
“What is it, dear?” France breathes, his voice all honey and dark chocolate. “Are you not ready to sleep?”
Blushing, America mumbles something along the lines of “maybe not now, I guess,” not really knowing how to express what he wants for once, but France somehow understands, or maybe he got the hint from a rather responsive Deep South. France whispers something in French, the sound rippling through America’s bloodstream and sparking nerves all along the way, even if he doesn’t exactly remember what the words means. But he can guess, and reflexively, his fingers curl into the thick chest hair, and he nearly groans aloud in sudden want. It doesn’t matter how many Hollywood movie stars with smooth waxed bodies he adores, it’s this raw and natural sensation that almost undoes him. He wants so desperately to rub his cheek against that glorious hair, bury his nose into those curls and breathe in France’s potent musky scent, and he would have done so if France hadn’t stopped him and gently taken off his glasses to set them safely aside.
Now France laughs under his breath, a decadent, knowing sound, and America drinks in the sight of his sculpted body highlighted by sun, his hands now brushing against France’s arms, reveling in the coarseness there. Then his fingers drift downward, almost of their own accord, to the trail of blond hair leading south, tangling in a nest of darker gold. But before he could actually touch anything, France grasps his hands and pulls them away.
Pouting, America glares at him. “Why are we stopping now?”
“Because we need to take care of you first,” France answers calmly, and America looks down to where he is looking.
“Oh, err… Right, yes.”
He hadn’t even noticed how much this has already turned him on, and the front of his boxers displays the evidence of his arousal clearly. But France does not tease him for his exuberance and simply guides him onto his back, touching his lips to America’s with effortless confidence. America stutters a question, endearingly self-conscious as always when around him, though he is not quite able to finish due to France’s efforts to silence him with kisses.
Giving in, opening himself up, America breathes contentedly into the next kiss, letting it deepen as their tongues slide lazily over the other. He shivers in delight once he feels France pressed on top of his body, heavy and comfortable, and almost instinctively moves his legs along France’s lean calves, scraping against the coarse wiry hair there, loving the sensation.
From the way France is keep constant full-length contact, he seems to be aware of the effect his body has on America, and he is enjoying the worship too much to stop. America’s fingers curling into his hair, the little throaty noises of happiness he makes, the very obvious hardness trapped between their stomachs… of course it pleases France to see his partner so pleased.
The continual tactile stimulation all across his chest and belly drives America crazy for more, and France’s kisses, the stubble on his chin scratching his skin like sandpaper, contrasting with the smoothness of his tongue and teeth and lips, are making it impossible to think of anything else.
“Please, France,” America whimpers between each frantic kiss, “please, God, I need you, France, now…”
“You will have me, mon petit, very soon,” France replies, smiling in amusement. He arches back a little, supporting himself on his forearms, and America’s pleased groan turns into a surprised gurgle halfway through due to the mind-melting weight on his groin. Unable to resist the urge, America ruts against him, trying to get the pressure, the friction he needs to get off, his palms cupping France’s ass to hold him down. He is so close, almost there, and that’s why he nearly cries out in frustration when France grins and slides out from underneath the sweaty grip.
But then France starts to kiss down his chest, tendrils of his long hair trailing whisper-soft over America’s collarbones. America keens aloud in appreciation with France’s jaw rubbing against his nipples as he slowly laps at each one, his warm wet tongue moving back and forth and around and across the aroused flesh until both are hard and tender.
It takes every last bit of his self-control to not come right then.
[ part two]
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R, eventual NC-17
Characters: France/America
Warnings: proto-smut
Wordcount: 1,664/??
Author's Notes: Reposted from the kink meme with edits. For the prompt - smutty France/America that glorifies in France's gorgeous, manly body hair. Requester specified smut and non-crack.
I love France's body hair. His hair, his beard, his chest hair, his arm hair, his leg hair, even his armpit hair. This is my fic about all of that. Except the armpit hair. I tried to make this sensual and not funny, but that was really, super difficult, and I'm sure this everyone will agree that this is more hilarious than sexy. Oh well, I tried.
They don’t really get along now, too much mutual scorn over the years souring what had once been a very stimulating relationship, but sometimes, like this time, things just click between them, and then it’s like nothing has changed since Franklin and Jefferson. These are the best days for them, and probably the worst possible days for England.
America accepts France’s invitation to linger a few days before flying home after a conference, but he asks if they could visit a vineyard instead of staying at the apartment in Paris. He actually doesn’t want to see France in Paris, where the buildings crowd out the sun and exhaust from vehicles dirty the air, but France only remembers a particularly galling defeat of some international wine-tasting contest decades ago, and he frowns a little at this request. America kisses the side of his mouth to make the frown go away, puts on his best puppy-dog eyes, and smiling at him indulgently, France relents and says he might know of a place they could stay.
The little countryside estate is as charming as one could possibly imagine, the romantic chateau nestled in the rolling green hills amid stately rows of vines. There is sunlight everywhere, the smell of things growing, and after the tedium of the last few months, America feels truly liberated out here. France proudly shows him around his house - the dining area with an antique wooden table, the ridiculously quaint old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a fluffy white cat that stares at the intruder disdainfully. But America doesn’t move on once they reach the bedroom, and he pulls France in, closing the door behind him.
“It’s been a long drive, so why don’t we rest here for a bit? That bed sure looks comfy, and we both deserve a break,” America says, as casually as he could manage, which was pretty darn casual. He flashes one of his irresistible grins at France, and France is only too happy to agree.
“That is the best idea you’ve thought up so far, darling,” he murmurs, looking pleased. “A nap first, and then dinner?”
“Yeah, or, you know, whatever’s cool!”
“Oh?” France asks, one eyebrow elegantly raised. “And what would this… whatever involve?”
“You know, whatever,” America replies, winking as if his life depended on it.
France’s answering smirk confirms his understanding.
America slides his jacket off his shoulders and is in the process of taking off his t-shirt, but gets horribly distracted by watching France disrobe. He does it very quickly, of course, his motions practiced and smooth as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his trousers, and America is not surprised to see that France does not bother with wearing underwear. But wouldn’t it chafe, he wonders, sitting all day without anything protecting your private parts from the inside of your pants. Maybe he’s developed immunity to the pain after centuries of not wearing underwear…
France glances up at him, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. “If you require assistance taking off your clothes, I am an expert.”
“No, no, I’m good!” And before America could stop blushing and struggle out of his t-shirt, France has already glided over, fingers deftly working at his belt.
“I begin to think you are compensating for something with this,” France tells him, tapping at America’s overly large and flashy buckle, then whipping the belt out and dropping it on the floor.
“Wha-?! I’m not compensating for anything, th-that’s just the latest fashion!” America protests, finally having taken off his t-shirt and trying to not look anywhere below his waist, or below France’s waist for that matter, but finding it difficult as France was now tugging his jeans down. Dammit, he had been trying so hard to act smooth and seductive, and France has completely shown him up without even trying. The nerve.
“Your choice of undergarments says otherwise,” France says as he divests him of his jeans. “Really, America, what have you to worry about? You are exceptionally well-endowed, if you ask my opinion.”
“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion!” he sputters, sidling away from France before he thinks to pull down his boxers as well.
France chuckles at his half-embarrassed, half-flattered expression, and watches fondly as America flops onto the bed with a relieved sigh. He joins the younger nation, lying sprawled out on top of the sheets and just admiring the sight of the one beside him, not realizing America was doing the same until he looks right into those wide summer blue eyes and sees the unwavering adoration there.
There isn’t any way America could have stopped himself from staring, not with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows unimpeded, lighting up the room with an amber glow. Under the sunbeams, France seems to shimmer softly, like the dust motes floating in the air around them. His fingers itch to take a photo of this, but he wouldn’t dare risk anyone else seeing what he sees because he wants to keep this moment all to himself. Canada would say he’s selfish, and well, he’d be right.
A light breeze ruffles at France’s tousled waves, and he reaches out to touch a thin curl of golden hair, pulling it lightly and watching it spring back into place. France is smiling at him so warmly, so encouragingly, and America grins and shyly trails his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, savoring the rough, masculine texture. The sunlight glints off the deep gold hair on France’s chest, and he suddenly needs to touch that, too, to feel those silky curls under his fingertips, because just looking is never enough.
“What is it, dear?” France breathes, his voice all honey and dark chocolate. “Are you not ready to sleep?”
Blushing, America mumbles something along the lines of “maybe not now, I guess,” not really knowing how to express what he wants for once, but France somehow understands, or maybe he got the hint from a rather responsive Deep South. France whispers something in French, the sound rippling through America’s bloodstream and sparking nerves all along the way, even if he doesn’t exactly remember what the words means. But he can guess, and reflexively, his fingers curl into the thick chest hair, and he nearly groans aloud in sudden want. It doesn’t matter how many Hollywood movie stars with smooth waxed bodies he adores, it’s this raw and natural sensation that almost undoes him. He wants so desperately to rub his cheek against that glorious hair, bury his nose into those curls and breathe in France’s potent musky scent, and he would have done so if France hadn’t stopped him and gently taken off his glasses to set them safely aside.
Now France laughs under his breath, a decadent, knowing sound, and America drinks in the sight of his sculpted body highlighted by sun, his hands now brushing against France’s arms, reveling in the coarseness there. Then his fingers drift downward, almost of their own accord, to the trail of blond hair leading south, tangling in a nest of darker gold. But before he could actually touch anything, France grasps his hands and pulls them away.
Pouting, America glares at him. “Why are we stopping now?”
“Because we need to take care of you first,” France answers calmly, and America looks down to where he is looking.
“Oh, err… Right, yes.”
He hadn’t even noticed how much this has already turned him on, and the front of his boxers displays the evidence of his arousal clearly. But France does not tease him for his exuberance and simply guides him onto his back, touching his lips to America’s with effortless confidence. America stutters a question, endearingly self-conscious as always when around him, though he is not quite able to finish due to France’s efforts to silence him with kisses.
Giving in, opening himself up, America breathes contentedly into the next kiss, letting it deepen as their tongues slide lazily over the other. He shivers in delight once he feels France pressed on top of his body, heavy and comfortable, and almost instinctively moves his legs along France’s lean calves, scraping against the coarse wiry hair there, loving the sensation.
From the way France is keep constant full-length contact, he seems to be aware of the effect his body has on America, and he is enjoying the worship too much to stop. America’s fingers curling into his hair, the little throaty noises of happiness he makes, the very obvious hardness trapped between their stomachs… of course it pleases France to see his partner so pleased.
The continual tactile stimulation all across his chest and belly drives America crazy for more, and France’s kisses, the stubble on his chin scratching his skin like sandpaper, contrasting with the smoothness of his tongue and teeth and lips, are making it impossible to think of anything else.
“Please, France,” America whimpers between each frantic kiss, “please, God, I need you, France, now…”
“You will have me, mon petit, very soon,” France replies, smiling in amusement. He arches back a little, supporting himself on his forearms, and America’s pleased groan turns into a surprised gurgle halfway through due to the mind-melting weight on his groin. Unable to resist the urge, America ruts against him, trying to get the pressure, the friction he needs to get off, his palms cupping France’s ass to hold him down. He is so close, almost there, and that’s why he nearly cries out in frustration when France grins and slides out from underneath the sweaty grip.
But then France starts to kiss down his chest, tendrils of his long hair trailing whisper-soft over America’s collarbones. America keens aloud in appreciation with France’s jaw rubbing against his nipples as he slowly laps at each one, his warm wet tongue moving back and forth and around and across the aroused flesh until both are hard and tender.
It takes every last bit of his self-control to not come right then.
[ part two]