Hi! This little one-shot is a gift for serene528moon for her artwork for my other story "Not Brothers". She is a great artist and I wanted to thank her for the artwork. She requested some FrUk and here is my best shot~ I hope you enjoy it! *3*
Warnings: boys kissing, somewhat historical setting, OC (Scotland, yo), OOCness
Pairing: FrUk
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership.
If France was surprised to see England standing there on the jagged coastline of Scotland, busy eyebrows knitted together and a vicious scowl on his face, he didn't show it.
"Does your brother know you're here too?" He asked casually, flicking back a strand of golden hair that fell into his eyes. His sharp blue eyes regard the sandy-haired man with amusement and a faint smirk appears when England visibly bristles. "He doesn't." France tsks and adds flippantly. "Sometimes I think you enjoy the abuse, mon lapin. And that is not healthy."
"Oh go back to your swamp, frog." England sneers, swiftly stepping to block France's way when he tries to side step the younger country. France sighs and tries to side step the other man again and again. England just continues to block his way.
The two men continue like this for a while until France huffs and glares at the other man who returns the look with pure malice.
"Mon Dieu." France mumbles, rolling his eyes heavenward and pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead in exasperation. "Your jealousy is adorable, cher, but I am not in the mood."
"I am not jealous!" England snapped, bright green eyes narrowing even as a pale pink blush rose on his cheeks.
France cooed and patted the other on the cheek. When England slapped his hand away, he chuckled. "Adorable."
"Don't patronize me, git." The other country snapped lowly. "And I am not jealous."
"Your brother and I might be close and, yes, we did enjoy each other's company. Repeatedly." France said cheerfully, a lascivious grin on his lips as he thought of barrel-chested Scotland, hair the color of Satan's flames and piercing eyes, with his battle-scarred body and deft hands. Oh what fun they had, blood thrumming with wine. He almost loses himself to his memories, but he catches the way England's face falls and something in him softens a tad. "But you, mon cauchemar adoré, will always have my heart." He purrs, reaching out and tracing the curve of England's face with his fingertip, eyes darkening. "Always and forever."
England says nothing, but doesn't move away from the other's touch. Instead he thinks about why he's here, now, in the home of his brother who hates him and hates the thought of uniting with him (because Scotland has fought and fought England for so long and the younger nation thinks their relationship is beyond repair). He wonders why Scotland keeps fighting and would rather align his self with France instead of family (but he knows its because Scotland knows it would anger him).
But he and France have always fought. And the enemy of your enemy is your friend.
And, yes, perhaps he is a bit bitter that France continues to fight him, even using his own brother as a weapon to strike at him. That France doesn't even treat him like a threat even though he's crushed France before, pressed his face against the unforgiving dirt and tore out his beloved hair and murdered his beautiful savior and held his face to the fire and laughed even as France struggled and spat and scratched. France, even when he's bested, comes back, sword poised with poisonous endearments and honeyed lies.
England thinks he and France may fight forever.
And that thought does most definitely not upset him. Not one bit.
The fae twinkling around him, unseen by France, giggle and twitter.
Liar.
"Your meddling is not appreciated." England sniffs haughtily. "There is a treaty."
"So?" France murmurs. "Alliances, treaties, agreements. They are not always followed." He smirks, his teeth glinting like the edge of a dagger.
England thinks France is the most beautiful when his mask cracks and England is given a rare chance to see the monster lurking inside.
He withholds a shudder but doesn't stop himself from tangling his hands in the other's ridiculous collar and pulling him forward for a brutal kiss.
They kiss like they fight—teeth clashing and biting. It is less pretty and more vicious. It is not intended to be pleasurable because it is just like war because there is blood (England tastes the sharpness when France's tender lip gives way under his teeth) and pain and a victor.
(But they enjoy it nonetheless)
England finds himself sprawled on the ground, lip torn and blood dribbling down his chin, after France shoves him away. The Frenchman touches his lip thoughtfully and smiles—affectionate and eyes hooded—down at England.
"Adorable."
Omake:
"Just fuck him already." Scotland snapped. "Or let him fuck you. It's been centuries and the brat needs a good romp."
"You have no sense of romance." France mumbled, thinking he probably should've gotten in a good squeeze during the kiss. "And neither does your uncouth barbarian of a brother. He cut my lip." France pouted, gesturing at his puffy lip.
"You liked it." The red-haired man said dismissively.
France didn't deny it.
Okay, that was my first attempt at something FrUk centered. I hope it was enjoyable. And because I'm incapable of not incorporating history, here is some historical info: This takes place during the 'Rough Wooing War' (best name of a war ever) between Scotland and England and makes mention of the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland.
France and England like it rough. I don't see their sexual interactions as very sweet and loving during this time. But they like what they get. XD
Translations:
mon lapin: my rabbit
Mon Dieu: My God
cher: dear
mon cauchemar adore: my beloved nightmare (I can imagine France saying this, really)