America & France(?)
anonymous
June 24 2009, 07:55:46 UTC
Sorry, a weird request but I have to ask:
I want to see America hitting, or better yet, SLEEPING with France! If you look at all the fanfic's, you'll relies that America and Russia are bigger whores then France (who just goes around, groping people anyway)! So I want him trying to get into France's pants, just cause he's a pervert!!!
PLUS: France has to be the UKE! And NO American Revolution fics. All I've seen of these two is the Revolution. Even if you have to go AU to do this!
Savon de Marseille (1/?)
anonymous
June 30 2009, 04:35:30 UTC
Oh, anon, forgive me if this wasn't what you had in mind. It got a bit angsty... The good news is that France still bottomed?
---
"The world," France begins softly, tipping his head back so that damp tendrils of his hair stick to the lip of the cracked bath tub and he slips down a few inches with barely a ripple on the warm water. Warm rather than piping hot because he's been stewing in there for a good hour, like bread crusts in panade, cheeks glowing a healthy shade of red with blood, from wine and damp heat. He shuts his eyes with a long, quiet sigh, and completes the picture of decadence by sucking on a soggy cigarette. Ash flakes off around him. "The world is too big for love to be real, mon petit garçon."
Well, France always has been known to wax poetic when he's gotten a substantial amount of alcohol down his gullet
( ... )
Savon de Marseille (2/?)
anonymous
June 30 2009, 04:49:53 UTC
"That's not..." he trails off as France's mouth envelopes the neck of the bottle with a soft wet noise that feels not unlike a sucker punch to his loins. France's wet fingers close around America's wrist, lightly stroking the delta of thin blue veins and sensitive skin there, and no doubt America's pulse is thrumming quickly and wildly beneath his surreptitious touch.
"That's not true, Francis."
Thickly, mouth preoccupied: "Seventeen ninety-four was not a good year."
America isn't sure if his hand slips or not, but the bottle suddenly shifts up and this time France winces - glass ungentle against his teeth and uninvited in the back of his mouth. He gags ever so slightly and promptly pulls away with a wet and undignified slurp, two of his fingers now lightly massaging circles over his throat.
"I don't want to talk about that," America hisses, flicking the cigarette into the bathwater and upending the last of their champagne in the bath. He leans over the tub, mouth hot and insistent over those fingers, tongue slipping into the
( ... )
Savon de Marseille (3/?)
anonymous
June 30 2009, 05:01:53 UTC
Clumsily, shamelessly, his fingers slide down France's porpoise-slick spine, smelling his soap and cigarettes, the underlay of his sweat. He kisses down to his neck and suckles roughly on the soaked through flesh there. A whimper escapes France as he bites deeply and pushes two fingers inside him all at once, pulsing and unbelievably soft, and France squirms against him, panting breathlessly in a way that makes America's insides twist and burn.
And he wants him, he wants him, but the guilt's still there, a couple hundred years worth of self-nagging and beating his head against the same goddamn wall. The keening, worried loss... He crooks his finger and finds that concentrated lump of nerves, and France gasps, naked hips jerking into America's at the burst of heat
( ... )
Savon de Marseille (4/4)
anonymous
June 30 2009, 05:13:05 UTC
He rolls France's nipple roughly between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it until its tight and pebbled, and then latches on with his mouth, suuucking and closing his teeth around the little nub. At this, France cries out softly, his hips buck up, blistering insides contracting in a way that makes his cock ache and the blood beat a fierce tattoo. That flushed look of pink pleasure glides over him as France takes himself in his hand, squeezing and gently rubbing, trembling at the warmth enveloping him, that haziness expanding inside him as they push each other closer and closer and...
All the while France whispers feverishly, hands whiteknuckling on his flesh, "Please, Alfred, s'il te plaît, please, fuck me-" and America swears it's like the burn of alcohol fire, blue-white hot and quick searing him inside out, the mouth on him, and what a lovely way to burn - "fuck me, je t'aime beaucoup, baise-moi
( ... )
Re: Savon de Marseille (4/4)
anonymous
July 1 2009, 01:46:07 UTC
I do adore this. You write so well, thanks for sharing and composing such elegant and aggressively sexy times... (Words fail me, obviously. But recaptcha says athletic crunch?)
Re: Savon de Marseille (4/4)
anonymous
July 1 2009, 16:17:07 UTC
My, my. This is quite something. Whew. *_* The words to describe the brilliance behind this piece escape me and I apologize. This is all kinds of lovely, anon. ♥ The world needs more sexy, aggressive US/France. Thank you for this!
I want to see America hitting, or better yet, SLEEPING with France! If you look at all the fanfic's, you'll relies that America and Russia are bigger whores then France (who just goes around, groping people anyway)! So I want him trying to get into France's pants, just cause he's a pervert!!!
PLUS: France has to be the UKE! And NO American Revolution fics. All I've seen of these two is the Revolution. Even if you have to go AU to do this!
PLEASE Author!Anon, I know you can do it!!!!!
Reply
---
"The world," France begins softly, tipping his head back so that damp tendrils of his hair stick to the lip of the cracked bath tub and he slips down a few inches with barely a ripple on the warm water. Warm rather than piping hot because he's been stewing in there for a good hour, like bread crusts in panade, cheeks glowing a healthy shade of red with blood, from wine and damp heat. He shuts his eyes with a long, quiet sigh, and completes the picture of decadence by sucking on a soggy cigarette. Ash flakes off around him. "The world is too big for love to be real, mon petit garçon."
Well, France always has been known to wax poetic when he's gotten a substantial amount of alcohol down his gullet ( ... )
Reply
"That's not..." he trails off as France's mouth envelopes the neck of the bottle with a soft wet noise that feels not unlike a sucker punch to his loins. France's wet fingers close around America's wrist, lightly stroking the delta of thin blue veins and sensitive skin there, and no doubt America's pulse is thrumming quickly and wildly beneath his surreptitious touch.
"That's not true, Francis."
Thickly, mouth preoccupied: "Seventeen ninety-four was not a good year."
America isn't sure if his hand slips or not, but the bottle suddenly shifts up and this time France winces - glass ungentle against his teeth and uninvited in the back of his mouth. He gags ever so slightly and promptly pulls away with a wet and undignified slurp, two of his fingers now lightly massaging circles over his throat.
"I don't want to talk about that," America hisses, flicking the cigarette into the bathwater and upending the last of their champagne in the bath. He leans over the tub, mouth hot and insistent over those fingers, tongue slipping into the ( ... )
Reply
Clumsily, shamelessly, his fingers slide down France's porpoise-slick spine, smelling his soap and cigarettes, the underlay of his sweat. He kisses down to his neck and suckles roughly on the soaked through flesh there. A whimper escapes France as he bites deeply and pushes two fingers inside him all at once, pulsing and unbelievably soft, and France squirms against him, panting breathlessly in a way that makes America's insides twist and burn.
And he wants him, he wants him, but the guilt's still there, a couple hundred years worth of self-nagging and beating his head against the same goddamn wall. The keening, worried loss... He crooks his finger and finds that concentrated lump of nerves, and France gasps, naked hips jerking into America's at the burst of heat ( ... )
Reply
He rolls France's nipple roughly between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it until its tight and pebbled, and then latches on with his mouth, suuucking and closing his teeth around the little nub. At this, France cries out softly, his hips buck up, blistering insides contracting in a way that makes his cock ache and the blood beat a fierce tattoo. That flushed look of pink pleasure glides over him as France takes himself in his hand, squeezing and gently rubbing, trembling at the warmth enveloping him, that haziness expanding inside him as they push each other closer and closer and...
All the while France whispers feverishly, hands whiteknuckling on his flesh, "Please, Alfred, s'il te plaît, please, fuck me-" and America swears it's like the burn of alcohol fire, blue-white hot and quick searing him inside out, the mouth on him, and what a lovely way to burn - "fuck me, je t'aime beaucoup, baise-moi ( ... )
Reply
*cough* Seriously, that was like an orgasmic roller coaster ride, and I'm only just calmed down from it. Gawd that sounded so damn wrong.
But yea. MAN!!! This pairing (regardless of top/bottom) is starting to get to me because of the angst! D8 It's like delicious angst.
*slight incoherent babbles*
THIS! Mon dieu! Gah! I'm left speechless by it!!! m(_ _)m
Do you have other fills here? Would love to read them all! ;A; I'm entranced by your writing skills and styles already...
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