England and France fear they may be losing the spark in their relationship. Then they overhear their neighbors in the hotel room next door... fighting... De-anon from the kink meme. Smut three-parter of equal parts RusAme and FrUK.

Hehe, I finally decided to de-anon some of the other smut I have written... ^^;

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.

It was a long and boring meeting. Nations yelled at each other, other nations yelled at those nations to shut up, Germany yelled at everybody to shut up. Everyone scoffed at America's stupid ideas, groaned at France's ideas, didn't notice Canada's ideas, fell asleep from Germany's ideas, remained asleep during the rest of the presentations...

In other words, it was a pretty typical meeting.

England, face resting in his hand, was only dimly aware of the announcement that ended the meeting. He was snapped out of his daze by the sound of the entire world cheering and rushing for freedom. He lifted his head, eyes meeting another pair across the room. He and France grinned at each other. It was over! Time for some good old quality time in their hotel room!

The pair dashed from their seats, pausing only long enough to work the kinks out of their legs in the mad dash toward the outside world. The mob awaiting taxis was frightening, to say the least, but France had been smart enough to bring a rental. A quick ride to the vast hotel where the nations were staying, a quicker ride on the lift while unconsciously tapping toes to some horrible tune, and then they were there. The lovely suite with the big bed and comfy chairs that awaited them.

With a happy sigh, France settled back onto the bed, snuggling back into the pile of cushions. He grinned, winked toward England, then picked up the nearby newspaper.

England dropped onto one of the plush chairs with a pleased groan, enjoying the change from the hard chair he had been inflicted with all day. He picked up his embroidery and got to work.

It was almost an hour later when they glanced up, eyes meeting again.

"Hey..." England said, needle poised in mid-air. "Do you think our relationship has lost a bit of its... spark?"

France set his newspaper, with its half-finished crossword aside. "Of course not," he scoffed. "Lots of couples simply enjoy spending time together."

England blinked. "Wha...?"

"Did I just say that?" France asked, paling a little. "Mon dieu. I think we may have lost some spark."

England thought back. Their evenings, nights, and mornings used to be spent in bed. They would attend meetings with heavy limps and claw-marks down their backs, wearing turtlenecks to hide the bites and bruises. Yeah... they might have lost a bit of the spark. "What do we do?"

"There's plenty of things we can do to add a little zing!" France said. "I can do this. I'm France!" He was looking a little hysterical.

England started ticking ideas off on his fingers. "There's role play, threesomes, bondage, food play..."

"We've done all that!" France wailed.

"Will you stop getting so worked up! Just-"

"Shh!" France perked up, ear tilted toward one wall.


"Hear that?"

England listened. He heard a door slam, and a pair of voices raised in argument. "It's just a fight. Who's got that room?"

France looked worried. "The boys."

"Really?" England scooted closer. He couldn't remember the last time America and Canada had had a fight that bad. "No, only one of them sounds like the boys."

"America," France said, and England wondered for the millionth time how he kept track of who was whom so easily. "The other is-"

"Stop calling me a commie," the second voice snapped.

"Russia," France groaned. "Great."

England nodded in miserable agreement. Their night was ruined. More than twenty years after the damn Cold War had ended, and those two still hated each others' guts. Everyone was very careful to make sure their hotel rooms were as far apart as possible, for many mini-wars had started due to those two inhabiting space too close together.

"Once a commie always a commie!" came America's loud voice.

"Disgusting pig. I wish we were human so I could just kill you with no consequences."

"Ha! No consequences! You'd end up in jail, as someone's bitch!"

"I'm no one's bitch. You're the bitch."


England massaged his temples. "Let's find out where Canada ran off to and stay with him."

"I'm about ready to go sleep in the gutter," France said. They both winced at the bang of an object hitting the wall.

"Ha!" said America. "Missed! Just like if we ever did go to war! You'd end up blowing up half of South America!"

"You don't even know where that is."

"Of course I do! It's... to the south..."

"Ignorant yeblan."

"What did you call me?"

Another sound of something smashing into the wall. France looked mournfully at some of the lovely trinkets that decorated their room. "I hope that wasn't anything nice..."

"Goddammit, you bastard!" Sound of scuffle, body hitting the floor.

"We are immortal, right?" England picked his embroidery back up.

France nodded. "Pretty sure." He grimaced at the sound of choking from the other side of the wall. "Oh dear." They both yelped and ducked at the violent thud of a body slamming into the wall with a cry of pain. More furniture was thrown, with more violent insults in various languages. Every so often, one of the thuds had the more organic sound of something hitting flesh rather than a wall, with colorful cursing and pained grunts.

"I think we may find out for sure..." England said. They heard the sound of a body hitting the table, chairs flung to the side. A yell, a slap, a groan, a grunt, a moan.

Wait, what?

Another moan, longer than the first.

"What are they doing now?" England whispered.

"Hush," France said.

"Svinya," Russia said. "Filthy pig." His tone seemed to have changed, though. Just slightly. It was still filled with loathing and contempt, but... huskier.

America gave a cry of... pain? They weren't really sure anymore. "Sick fuck."

"I hate you."

"Fuck off and die."

England's eyes widened, and he gaped at France. The grunts and moans were definitely picking up a familiar rhythm. "It... can't be..."

Then a louder grunt, and sound of a body hitting the floor.

"Oh." France looked a little disappointed. "Maybe not."

Scuffling, objects thrown, then a body hitting the wall so hard they heard cracking. Looking around in surprise, England realized a hole had been punched in the wall that separated them. He and France exchanged a knowing look. They waited until the sounds of struggle moved away from that wall, then scurried over to the new peephole, able to both peep in with one eye. They gasped.

Russia already had America pinned face-first against the far wall, both of them missing their pants. Russia had one hand on America's shoulder, the other was pinning both of the smaller nation's wrists behind him. Russia was using his own feet to keep the other's legs spread, and was viciously thrusting into him at a brutal pace.

England swallowed, hand unconsciously trailing down to the straining bulge that had abruptly appeared in his pants. His wrist was caught and pushed aside, and England didn't even break his gaze from the peephole as he felt France unzip his pants and push them down. Still not wanting to look away from the violent scene in the next room, England reached over, groping blindly along France until he located the zipper, and returned the favor, shoving his pants down (unsurprisingly, France had opted to go commando. Did he even own underwear?) England let out a long sigh when France's hand curled around his erection.

Meanwhile, America managed to shove Russia off of himself. The pair vanished from the limited view the hole provided, and the disappointed voyeurs were left to their imagination at the sound of thuds and crashes and swearing and flesh hitting flesh.

Until America was flung back into the picture, landing face-first on the floor with a grunt. He was completely naked by then, divested of even his glasses, and he was already sporting a black eye and split lip. England wilted a little in France's grip when he wondered if he was getting off to his little brother's rape... But no. America could pick a bus up and fling it across the road. If he didn't want this, it wouldn't be happening. And though they insulted each other, neither had actually said any variation of 'no' or 'stop'...

Russia's laughter drew closer, until he came partly into view, still mostly dressed and brandishing his faucet pipe. England swallowed, quickly returning to full rock hardness at the sight. Was Russia going to beat him? That seemed to be going a bit too far, maybe he should sto-

England's train of thought derailed into the ocean when the end of the pipe was shoved into America. Who groaned and thrashed, but... didn't quite seem to be not liking it... France's hand tightened around England, thumb caressing the tip, and he gave a groan of his own. England reached into France's lap to return the favor. They pumped each other in unison as they watched America being violated.

Then Russia jerked the pipe out and tossed it aside, reaching down to flip America onto his back. He removed the rest of his clothing before practically collapsing atop him, and America welcomed him almost hungrily. Pressed together, they kissed, and it could only be described as a war between mouths, biting and fighting for dominance. England stroked France a little harder, biting back a whine when America wrapped his legs around Russia and Russia pounded into him.

"Fucking... bastard..." America snarled, after one particularly harsh thrust made his head slam into the floor.

"Pizda," Russia said.

"Sweet mercy," England said, stroking harder, moaning when France did the same.

And then... oh god... America came, and he screamed so fucking loud he probably woke up whoever was on the other side of the hotel. Where Russia was supposed to be.

But Russia was not ready. Oh no. He simply thrust harder, snapping out rapid angry-sounding Russian. And abruptly, Russia was gone, kicked away and across the room by America. England swallowed hard at the display of sheer brute strength. America got to his feet and stalked out of view. They heard the sound of a slap. Another, harder. And another. England's grip tightened and France yelped.

More tantalizing sounds of abuse. Smacks, bodies hitting furniture, furniture hitting bodies. The watching pair strained desperately to see something. Mercifully, Russia came stumbling back into view. His ass was considerably redder than it had been. And America stepped closer, now wearing only— "Mon dieu!"—his black gloves. He grabbed Russia by the hair, both of them snarling heated insults at each other. And America picked Russia up, slamming him against the wall, lifting one leg and shoving into him. Russia threw his head back, into the wall, orgasming with a low cry. England could have sworn he saw a crack in the wall where the nation's head had struck.

Russia pushed America away, reaching for his pipe. They disappeared from view again. England stroked with a frenzied pace, pumping his hips into France's hand. So close...

Good lord, the pair on the other side weren't done yet? There were more violent noises and crashes and sounds they couldn't even hazard a guess as to the origin, and then a loud scream as America came again, and they had missed it, but soon England himself was overtaken by orgasm and he cried out. He felt France spasm, felt sticky warmth coat his hand, and France was moaning, too.

And silence fell on the other side of the wall.

England flopped forward, resting against the wall, body still trembling as he fought for breath.

Nobody said anything, on either side. After a while, shuffling of bodies getting dressed, footsteps, the door slammed shut. The bed creaked as the remaining person lay down.

England and France exchanged a look. They finally backed away from the hole in the wall, returning to their own bed. They lay still, hoping for the sound of somebody returning to the room next door. They perked up in excitement when the door opened and shut again, but sagged in disappointment when it wasn't an angry Russian voice that spoke up.

"What the hell did you do to our room this time?" Canada demanded.

Oh well. England soon fell into an exhausted sleep.

It was an awkward breakfast in the hotel dining room the next day. America stayed far away from England and avoided eye contact. England was more than happy to follow suit. In the light of day, seeing America be his usual doofy self, it was hard to believe what he had witnessed last night. It was even harder to believe he had gotten off on it. Images of a sweet little baby in a nightgown saying "Come pway wiff me, Engwand!" invaded his brain on more than one occasion.

France and Russia didn't seem anywhere near as awkward. In fact, they seemed to be smirking at each other.

As soon as they finished eating, England quickly left the room, not wanting to run into anybody. But he was brought to a screeching halt by France's voice.

"So what are you doing this evening?"

Russia. He was talking to Russia. Oh dear lord he was talking to Russia.

"I will probably just go back to my room," Russia said, voice calm yet deadly.

"Well I was thinking," France said, sounding much too cheerful. England looked around for a weapon to kill him with. "I'm sure everyone is sick to death of you and America fighting all the time..."


"Oh yes. Fifty-some years of not-even-a-real war is nothing to fight about." He nodded toward England, who was trying to borrow some of Canada's disappearing power. "Once you've spent centuries at war with each other, then you'll have something to fight over."

Russia cleared his throat. "Are you saying that you and England are better at fighting?"

"France," England groaned.

"Maybe tonight we'll find out," France said, cheerful tone taking on a darker edge.

"Maybe so," Russia said coldly.

"If our fights get out of hand and become an all out war between all of us, well..."

England exchanged a horrified look with America, who was hovering nearby. This was going to be... this was... um... yeah. England swallowed.

At this rate he would never finish his embroidery.

Translation of Russian:

Yeblan – Fucker
Svinya – Pig
Pizda - Cunt