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Droit de Seigneur

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1778

"Is it supposed to fizz like that?"

Ah, America, France sighs or sings, but only in his mind—his mouth is curled still in a smile, reflected green in the bottle of champagne and correct but unclear in both of the crystal flutes into which he is pouring it. That's not all that's reflected in this light; the richness of this salon and its plush draperies parted for the view, the numerous bone buttons on America's waistcoat which are, alas, not parted for the view…but America is truly growing into himself, up rapidly, so that France can see the seams of his shirtsleeves under the cut of the vest. Broad, or beginning to be broad, and attractive, and warped in the curve of the glass; France considers himself privileged to behold it.

"It is indeed," France answers, about the champagne. "It feels very good going down." As will you.

When America pouts, there still aren't enough lines on his face to make it look much older. "I guess so. I've never had anything bubbly before. It is all right if I have some, right?"

"Why of course," France tells him, setting down the bottle on the table and handing the younger Nation a glass. "Drink it slowly. Sips. Like medicine."

America holds it quite incorrectly, raises it to his lips to tilt it back rather daringly. He does appear to try to sip, though a gulp is more what he actually does. "—Ow," he says, sputtering. "I think it went up my nose."

France chuckles, reaches around and rubs America's back with the heel of his palm. Did he weave this cloth himself, or is it England's? "Careful," France says nurturingly in his ear. "Do you like the taste, though?"

America nods, plausibly. "Yeah. It's, well, it's not like beer or wine, but it's nice. Warm."

Part of that warmth, France is assured, is the fact that America is being touched, he has always liked that, and so France continues to stroke his back. "It is a romantic drink—not only because of how much love goes into making it, but because of the feelings it induces. Beer will make you rowdy, and wine will make you maudlin—but champagne, it teases the sides of your head, the parts that make you celebrate."

"Mm. America certainly seems to agree, as he leans back into the touch, a little. "It—it feels happy. Like the bubbles are in my head."

"That is what the bards say, that it 'goes to your head'."

"I guess they were right, huh?" America's smile is bright; he turns over his shoulder to show it to France, to where France is near enough to perhaps do more than caress him. "I don't think we've had many bards over at my house, not yet. Or at least we don't call them bards. Are bards still around?"

"Not very many," France concedes, and it is truly a pity.

America is still holding the champagne flute incorrectly, in a full fist, but that is easily and pleasurably remedied; even as he caresses America's back, France brings his other hand around front to cover America's hand and correct it. "Not like a sword, mon cher. It is the glass that will break, not the enemy."

"Oh," America says, in that voice that is not quite broken yet. "Right. Um."

Dieu, but England has lost something beautiful.

"So how, uh, how are you supposed to hold it?"

"Between your forefinger and thumb," France explains. He traces between America's other fingers to remove them from the curl of the fist, and America's ungloved hand, while young, is rough to the touch, like a servant's. "Like you would hold a painting that has not yet dried."

America's already tanned, healthy cheeks flush red—so France's magic is working, is it not? "Almost like you're pinching it?"

"Yes, but not so hard." France cups America's hand. "You have to trust that the glass will not spill itself."

Under his, America's fingers tighten—just an appreciative moment—but then he relaxes, learns, and his knuckles aren't shaking when they nestle into France's palm. His face, reflected in the glass, is in honest scrutiny, innocent scrutiny… "Is that okay?"

"Much better," France tells him truly, and spreads his other palm just above America's seat. Intimation, reward, encouragement. "Now drink."

America tilts the flute back and does; France watches, and perhaps feels a little, as the boy-Nation's spine reacts to the drink. "It's—I think I like it."

You react as if you do, France thinks, smirking.

France pulls up and down with his fingers, gathering America's waistcoat at the base, just a bit—leans forward, presses his brow to the side of America's neck— "You are as tall as I, now," France says, in a thin whisper, and just because it is true does not mean it is not flattery.

America makes an endearing little sound, endearing and uncertain and France can feel it against his cheek. "Um, I—I grew up pretty fast, huh?"

"And in some ways that is so unfortunate," France agrees, accompanying it with a slight nuzzle, a slip of his fingers a little lower, a pat of his hand on America's. "And in other ways, not unfortunate at all."

America—twitches, at that, the champagne skips and clings along the inside of the flute. "I mean," he says, "I don't think it's so bad—"

"You wouldn't." France smirks, lets his lower lip catch on America's cravat—the boy is keeping himself clean but the smell of the colonies is—quaint, France decides, rustic, like the past that people hope will become the future. "But there are those who would much rather you be young, compact," and he interlaces their fingers, "tractable." England, France thinks, derisively, competitively—and admits to a little wistfulness that America is growing but then again:

That little swallow of America's pushes his throat closer to France's mouth, doesn't it. "Well, I've never really been, um, tractable or anything, you know..."

"I know. And that is part of your charm." France pulls back, enough to start turning America around and seducing him properly. "I shall treat with you like an adult, and ask your consent."

The play of emotions across America's face is so entertaining; France can identify all of them in sequence, simple sequence. He truly is England's creature, from the sparkling eyes to the incoherent shape of his mouth to the evident ease of all this flattery. Treat with him like an adult, indeed; that is because he is not one, as childish as his steward.

And as libidinous. Though perhaps not as perverted or repressed.

"Oh," America says, and "oh" again, and "right, yeah, oh. Well. Ah. Yeah," little words that are no doubt a preview for the sounds he'll make when he capitulates to this. "No, that—that makes sense, that's—ah. Um. You can. I mean. Um. We can."

And as for France, France doesn't believe he has smiled this particular way in years. He lifts America's glass of champagne in their joined hands, and takes a sip of it—America is watching his mouth with obvious innocence, and that makes the champagne taste a smattering less like happiness and more like outright victory. And America's knuckles, when France starts kissing them one by one, lingering a bit more each time, taste less like victory and more like utter conquest.

America is evidently trying to retain the pinch of his hand—the other fingers are shaking under France's lips, just a little, and then more so when France pushes back the cuff of America's shirt and kisses his wrist, with a smile that America can probably feel, if his gasp is any indication. "So you, uh—do this a lot, huh?"

"Yes," France sees no shame in admitting, "though not indiscriminately."

"Well yeah, I didn't mean—you know, that. —but no, that's—"

France lowers their joined hands to pull America nearer, and it is, so the boy would say, self-evident that their lips are going to touch soon—and blessedly, the boy does shut up. France can tell—he ascertains with his tongue, moistening both of their lips before they're kissing.

Under France's mouth, America reacts much the same way he had to the champagne; he squeezes his eyes closed and nudges back against France's lips, and when France opens his mouth America endeavors the same. But his teeth scrape France's chin, and France laughs, just quick sounds and a little breath from his nose, hot against America's cheek—he presses his hand that's still on America's back, pushes him closer, and demonstrates with the distance between his fingers and the motions they make just by America's spine, sliding together but never quite touching.

—a quick study, evidently, when the boy modifies the motions of his lips and settles his arms across France's back, and so France aligns their bodies, arches into this perhaps-slightly-too-fervent embrace and kisses him almost nurturingly, savoring the act of education (and the thought of precisely what colors England will turn when he finds out). America sighs a little, right into France's mouth; he keeps his teeth from closing on France's tongue but does seem to be pressing France for more.

Ah.

This is far too simple, no?

Well then, if the boy is going to be so insistent—France stretches out their hands on the champagne flute and sets it on the table, loud enough for America to hear and hopefully let go of his own—with his other hand, he tugs America's shirt and waistcoat up and slides his hand along the skin he's bared just above America's breeches—ah, for that to be his, his and not England's. America takes the hint and puts the champagne flute down on the table—France takes note of that through the corner of his eye, and follows the trajectory of America's moans down, to cup his backside.

The boy's reaction to that is really quite enticing. And it tastes youthfully delectable.

That America did not protest that at all is very encouraging, very—France thumbs at the cleft of it, reassured and stirred by how the muscles beneath it are gathering, flexing. He slides his other hand up America's arm to his cheek, traces the fold of his ear, very gently—gently, this, gently everything, there will be time for carnality later, he thinks.

America squirms a little when France rubs him there—did he just bit France's lip? Ah, England, what have you unlocked in this poor child? That was surprising, harsher than France would have preferred but nevertheless, very good instincts. France breaks away, smiling, and does not give America a chance to think about precisely why before he turns up and aside America's chin and kisses him on the apple of his throat.

And now those sounds commence, the ones that the boy made when he was flustered from implication, ahs and nns and confused, aroused little not-quite whimpers. America totters, grips France around the back and hips (so strong!), and as France kisses a warm trail along the frame of America;s cravat and pulls it down with his curled fingers, he taps America's rump in time with those kisses. "You like this, no?"

America is rocking his hips forward—too powerful to be entirely accident. "—yeah, it feels—it feels good."

Oh, America is eager. France wonders if the boy is aware of what he is implying, and decides he does not care.

France slides his hand around front and cups America through his breeches, makes him aware if he was not before. Ah, a Developing Nation indeed, and France smirks against America's collar. "And that?"

He shudders and gasps as if France has burned him, but does not pull away. "—yeah, that too—"

France strokes with the heel of his palm, up, down. "You are growing up, America."

As America's sole response to that is a high, cracked moan and a thrust of those captured hips, France keeps stroking, sucking under America's chin, and lets slip his other hand to the cravat to undo it. With a glint of humor to his touch, he makes sure that his fingertips play like champagne bubbles on the boy's neck and chin and collar. "I would like to be a part of that, you know. You have grown into a fetching, beautiful thing, America..."

"Th-thanks," America stutters, fisting his hand at the base of France's hair as he grinds into the touch—

And then, ah, then, the realization hits, and France can distinctly hear America whispering, thank you Franklin thank you thank you thank you, "Do you—France, do you mean it? Ah—All of it?"

"Every word." France backs his hand up with his thigh, lets America thrust against that—such strength, such want, so promising—and pulls the knot out of his cravat, tugs it down to look America in the eyes. "I could ally with you."

"You—ah, you would? Really?"

"That's what this is, is it not?" With a flip of his hair over the other shoulder, France starts undoing America's waistcoat as well, trails his fingers lightly down until he can start gathering America's shirt and assuring that it rubs against the boy through his underclothes as he tugs it out. "This benefits the both of us."

"Yeah, yeah, definitely," America starts to say—but then the cloth of his shirt catches him and that admission dissolves on a moan. France hums approvingly at the sound, at the pulsing through the cloth beneath his palm. His other hand curls on America's waist, starts thumbing at the button of his breeches on that side—the cloth's straining, it's been let out, Dieu but someone has to make this boy proper clothes.

"Then let us settle this," France says, and makes sure he—almost—has America's eyes. "I will help you grow."

America curls his fingers in France's hair, digs in his heels, shifts around in ways that help him wriggle out of his clothes. "Okay," he says. "Let's."

—hairpulling, ah, perhaps he is more like England than he wants to think. France unseats the button on that side of the boy's breeches, grips not-as-tightly but firmly enough there to express his—not approval but surprise. "What do you want? How much do you know?"

"I—know how it works. And, and stuff like that."

France undoes the other side's button and slides America's breeches down, slowly, lingering, and guiding the waistband to stroke down America's faint trail of hair—pale, there, ah, darkening and thickening against his flushed skin but still gold, like him. "Oh? It is I allying with you—tell me what you want of me, America."

"I, um," he says, evidently stalling or perhaps his mind is merely elsewhere, "I mean, I guess we should, um."

"Mm?" And now France bares America's shaft, looks down and clucks approvingly before tapping his fingers along it, again, the same touch as champagne, and that wrenches another startled moan out of America, makes him buck into those searing points of contact. "Yes?"

"—you know," America chokes out, "Have, um. Have sex."

France smiles, and coaxes America into hand, not that he has to do much coaxing. "Ah, but there are so many ways we could do that." He circles his thumb with every insinuation. "I could have you...I could take your mouth, or take you with mine..."

"I—I guess," America starts to say, and cannot finish.

This truly is a pleasure; France encircles him fully, and reaches around to grab his rump as well and push him close—to show America that he is not the only one who is excited by the prospect. "Such a strong body you have," France goads, and he slips his fingers into America's crevasse again, "so taut..."

America says something, one of those endearing sounds like mph or nn, and he is rutting against France's hip now but that little shiver did not escape France's notice—discouraging, a touch, but he does not stop.

"Or, America," he prods, pausing to kiss him briefly on the lips, so swollen now, "would you prefer to have me?"

And if anything could make his grinding halt it would be that, but it does not, because America just somehow managed to get harder in France's grasp. "Would you," the boy chokes out, voice cracking, "is that—is it okay if I—"

"Ah, perhaps it is even better," France says, leadingly, tightening his fist and withdrawing his other hand to start undoing his own clothing, "—to let you prove your might." Not to mention, there are...risks, shall France neglect to say, not now.

America flushes red again, but with pride this time, pride and humor. "I can get behind that," he says, grinning.

—Ah, the innocence of it. France laughs as well, and withdraws completely to say, "And you will." Now that he has the space to, France actually takes a look over what he's unleashed—pleasure blossoms in him, beholding that. "Then take the lead," France says. "Be a dear and help me out of my clothing, will you?"

"Sure," America says, though he keeps expecting the buttonholes to be on the other side and fumbles, though he eventually works all of them free. He kisses the laces holding France's shirt together before he undoes those as well.

"Mmm, a good instinct." France pets him on the cheek, exposes more of his neck to that exploration. "You will make a fine man, America."

"Thanks," America stammers out before he brushes his lips against France's next. A little experimentation never did a burgeoning Nation harm, it seems; he attempts to kiss a little harder, slip a little tongue in, suck... A sigh rumbles beneath France's throat, deep, like a cat's purr, and he arches into America's ministrations.

"Very good, very good," he says with a rougher edge to his voice, and gets to work on shucking his shirt and coat. And so America keeps doing just that, covers France's neck with open-mouthed kisses and swipes his tongue over the exposed skin in this insensate abstract patterns. With all that clothing gone—tight cuffs, ah, must emend those in later fashion—and his chest exposed, France cups the back of America's head and guides him lower, directs him to the greater expanse that he has to explore and whet himself on. "Use me as you like," France whispers—America is so like England, so predictably invigorated by his own pride.

And America groans at that, grips France's shoulders and grinds into him—grinds too hard, because France buckles under him and then they both topple to the floor but apparently America believes that kissing him enough times will make up for the insult. The floor. How gauche. France can't suppress a cry at that and does hope that America does not confuse that for arousal—not that his has diminished, nor America's, rutting against him so eagerly.

"—shoes and stockings off," France warns him between hastened breaths—my, but the boy is a quick study, "unless you haven't the mind for it."

America pauses, looking slightly confused. "Right," he says, and scrunches up to reach down and fumble with his and all but tear them off. "Do you need—can you get everything off?"

France does not need to be asked twice—he sits up enough to have off with those and his jodhpurs, folds them legwise and spreads them out to protect his knees and palms from the rug, if this is where America wants to do this. He permits America a moment to look him over, bent on fours like this, to evaluate the differences, and then looks over his shoulder with a smirk. "I do have a chaise in here for this purpose, among others—shall we to that, instead of coupling on the floor like dogs?"

"Yeah," America says when it occurs to him to talk again, "That sounds, um, good."

France offers his hand, palm up, the gesture worldly and almost artistic, and smiles. "Let us make a man of you, then."

America takes his hand and nods, he cannot do much more than that letting France lead him to the draped green chaise in the corner farthest from the windows in this salon. Whereupon he proceeds to stare at the furniture as if it is a rustling bush in which cats are yowling and he knows not if they're out to fight or fuck each other. So who goes where? France can read in those earnest blue eyes as he looks up at France expectantly.

France leans over to a lace-patterned table beside the chaise on which there are several little bottles, and he selects one, uncaps it, and passes it toward America. "Slick," he says, taking America's right hand and kissing the palm of it, licking the fingers before he leaves him with the bottle. "You would not want to cause me pain, no?"

"No," America says, "no," and stares down at the bottle, pours some of the oil into his palm. And then when the knowledge of precisely where it's meant to go overwhelms him, that considering expression flushes about as red as the roses on the table.

France is so undeniably lucky.

"How do you want me?" he asks America.

"...whatever's good for you?" America ventures, with what he probably thinks is an alluring smile.

"Ah, but this is to be about you," France declares, leaning forward with his palms on America's thighs, gripping, kneading toward their juncture with his thumbs. "Should I face you? Offer my back? Stand, kneel, bend...?" Oh it is such fun to tease him like this.

"I don't know, they all sound—they all sound good," America says, grinding as he sits on the chaise and spreads his legs as France draws nearer. "I'm, I mean, I'm open to, um, negotiations..."

"So glib," France murmurs approvingly, sinking down to kiss America's chest down to his navel. "Well," he offers, between, "if it is no matter to you, I think I would like to watch you." To take all that is England's supposed right.

"That's—" America shivers, arches up into the kisses. "That's fine."

France swerves, then, to perch on the chaise, sit beside him, and pull America's attention between his legs. "Then you will prove your strength, and I my flexibility."

America clears his throat, gazes up at France through lidded eyes. "All right," he says, and clearing his throat did no good at all, as his voice palpably cracks.

And France, smiling, gestures as to where America should spread the oil. "Then please, mon cher."

America works the oil over his fingers, grips France's thigh with his free hand to steady himself, and hesitates, adorably. His fingers search along France's crevasse until they find, and stall against, the crucial place, and at that touch France tautens, rocks up at the air, but still—chides America, a touch, "Now is no time to be timid. Courteous, yes, but not shy, that is unlike you."

"I'm not shy," America says, and the force of that retort impels his finger in— "Um, it's better to go—to go slower, right?"

"—yes," France says, cannot keep the dark tone out of that, not with the intimation of what will happen soon clouding his tact. "Also—ah, come closer, I will find yours, and then you will know what I mean."

America does, settles himself closer, almost so they are touching. He could slide in right now, though he does not, traces his finger in invasive circles with the indelicacy of one who oils wagon wheels rather than taut muscle. France's fingers are a touch more unsteady than he would prefer, but still sufficiently so when he reaches around and eases one into America's rear—Dieu but he is tight and hot, it is a pity that France is still afflicted—and he searches, delicately but deeply, for—

—if America's reaction is any indication, Eureka.

America's fingers—plural, now—plunge in as he shivers, groans. "What—"

"It is the—gland that regulates your—" ah, France is fed up with this language, with that faltering touch inside him, seeking that out—on his part, he offers himself lower, thrusts down along the chaise onto those fingers to help him find it, kneading America's with his fingertip in an all-too-distracting fashion. But America's fingers stutter and shake, and he grinds relentlessly against France's hip, whets himself on whatever he can, tries, tries.

—ah. Ah, yes, there, and France lets the moan at that blissful touch escape him, lets the evidence of his hardened shaft push up against America's stomach. "—there," he heaves, "you will want to aim there, I am—nearly ready for you—"

America's voice cracks more prominently than it has since he arrived; he slips the third finger in and angles it towards the same spot, it takes a little searching because he dislodged the first two, but France is vocal in his approval when he finds it again. And with France thrusting up so brazenly and throwing a leg over America's shoulder, drawing him nearer, it is not as if the boy can hold on for much longer at all. Indeed, it is impressive that he's lasted. He will be good to whomever else he does this with in the future, France thinks. "S—spread the rest on yourself," France instructs, as much as he can, "before you—"

America nods, quickly, cannot let go of France's shoulder and snatch the bottle up and spread the slick over himself fast enough, and ah, the sight of the boy touching himself and thinking only of what is at hand is perhaps better than his actual hand. "Like that?"

"Yes," France pants, and parts his legs even more, raises his rump from the cushions. "Now—as you want."

He scrambles closer, grabs France's hip with adorable incredulity as he plunges in. The sight of his pleasure is pleasure itself, those senseless ohs from earlier forming soundless on his lips. He leans forward and that makes him thrust, and he buries his face somewhere in France's chest and whimpers, oh, oh.

"—fast," France laughs, fondly, riposting perhaps not as quick but with near-matching force—or perhaps not near matching, the boy is so—so—sure, so enthusiastic, so wanting that how often he misses his mark matters little, the aesthetic pleasure is almost enough to account for the physical shortcomings—that it is France to whom the boy has turned, to strip his manhood away—

America braces his arms and keeps thrusting as if he could never dream to cease, screws his eyes shut and bucks forward and buries himself almost to the hilt this time and shudders, shudders through all of him. France strokes America's strong spine, kisses his shoulder, murmurs, encourages, guides—takes what pleasure from this he can, he does not think he should ask that America dislodge one of those brutally gripping hands but it is not his need that matters now. America is gasping, "France, France, you—" and he loses whatever he was about to say, his hips circle and swerve and stutter and move in ways he has probably never considered, and he covers France with quick dry kisses and grinds, writhes, bites his lip and almost bites through it, that is how much he wants France to make him come.

And France half-expected America to be seeing someone else and that he is not is more arousing than it has any right to be. "Oh?"

"I'm—I'm so close, I—are you—?"

The answer is I can be if you want that, but France uses a deep grind, a thrust of his own, a tenting, sharper press of his hand to say that—ah—ah, and—perhaps, "You can—make me closer," will suffice to contribute to America's education.

"How?" America stutters, breath hitching, thighs clenching, thrusting without rhythm or finesse.

"It is—very simple," France gasps between those, louder than he means to. "Touch me—like I did you."

"Right," right, oh does America sound like what he is—he lets go of France's hip and curls an unsteady fist around France's shaft and his hand jerks up when he thrusts forward and that's about all the control he has. His hand skips, stumbles over the tip but the boy does have sense, aligns the strokes with his thrusts and correlates.

"Yes," France groans, more at the act than the sensation, but it is enough, it is good, if not close he is certainly closer and he rocks up against America's length and hand, clamps his leg and arms tighter around America's back and spurs him, "yes, mon cher, that—"

America's head bobs into a nod—oh yes, another thing that France must instruct him in, later, when they are clean; he bucks into France with abandon and the terries in the rug scrape audibly under the foot he has braced on the floor. His eyes glass over briefly and he sees—something that France cannot, but whatever it is it impels him to thrust fiercely, as if to push that thought out, to push it far far away, and he seizes France's shaft and works him furiously.

France's lips and teeth close on his throat, catch him at the plunge of that terrifying thrust— "Chere America," he moans into that sweating skin, clenching around him with abandon, with drive, "bel homme—"

And evidently that closing, that clamping, is what will do this; his throat is scratched raw by the sound he makes when he shudders and clenches and comes, and the sensation of America coming, so hard, shivering and not stilling but rocking, riding it out—that is almost enough on its own to bring France off.

Almost, though, and France is hard, is close enough perhaps, but he pets America's back and flank and hip until it can join America's hand, cover it, stroke himself in tandem—soon, soon, perhaps with America still inside and shivering. "Do I—does it feel good, America?"

"Y-yes," America stutters out in his half-changed voice, and he does not pull out, still shaking all over from his orgasm, "so good..."

And again France—purrs, really, until that shudder becomes a quaking in his hips, and he tightens his hand over America's, reshapes the position of his fingers—thinks of the color England's face will turn when he hears of this, and France comes, laughing.

Oh, Doctor Franklin, France thinks through the heat of climax and victory, you do not know what you have offered me.

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