Am totally in love with FrUK at the moment- so here's some more. Idea and italics starting every section from Florence + the Machine, 'Kiss With A Fist'. I think that might just be their theme tune.
Disclaimer- heh, I wish.
Warnings- language (English and French, a tiny bit of German). Gleefully loose and light interpretation of Hastings, Agincourt and (slightly more dramatic) WWII, though factually accurate as far as I'm aware. Implied sex, racy situations.
Anyway, enjoy and drop a line at the end ;D
You hit me once- (1066)
The littler nation was fuming, France could tell. Green eyes blazed, but their sword was lost and their monarch was dead.
The day was his.
He roughly pulled the conquered nation up and secured him with leather thongs before the boy had any bright ideas about running off and starting a revolution.
"Isn't it odd," he thought out loud, "that despite there being thousands of men on this battlefield- and your uncanny resemblance to a boy of twelve summers at the most, still too young to hold a sword for your country- we ended up face-to-face, fighting out on a smaller scale what the larger battle was about?" He studied the captive, noticing the incomprehension not quite hidden by the sheer loathing in his expression. "Such a backwards, uncultured country. Too young to properly lord it over either; there is no pride in beating somebody who had no business on the field in the first place." France sighed dramatically, "Why did I even bother?"
The boyish nation let out a brutal torrent of words, tugging at his bonds and glaring at his captor. They were Germanic, harsh and spiky, and France had no care to listen to them. "Stop that," he ordered, hitting his captive over the head.
The young blond looked stunned for a moment, then started up with the presumed swearing again, only louder. France grimaced, and looked around for help.
At least the noise was drawing some attention, he mused, as the victorious now-king of the miserable land strode over, mainly recognisable by his personalised armour and shield.
"Caught a lively one, did we?" Guillaume asked with a smirk. He looked the captive over again, sounding less certain in his next question. "Is he even meant to be here? He just looks... so-"
"Young, yes," France agreed. "I think it best that you take him with you, to the royal residence. Keep him by your side, before and after your coronation. But until you're crowned, keep a sharp eye on him, as well."
Guillaume looked at his former nation shrewdly. "He's like you, then?"
France shouldn't have been surprised the monarch worked it out so easily, but he felt stirrings of unease all the same. They were hidden for a reason, after all; France hadn't yet forgotten his being convicted as a witch a mere century ago, when he'd lingered in a superstitious village a few years too long.
"Yes," he answered heavily. "He's your nation, now."
Guillaume was the one to sigh this time, before picking up the brat- who was kicking and still screaming- and slinging him over one heavily armoured shoulder.
"There is much work to be done," he concluded soberly.
France privately agreed. But out loud- "Good luck, my friend," was all the nation said, before turning and moving towards the group of soldiers who were returning home- a smaller number than he would have liked, but he conceded that with the successful conquest, many of them would not count as Frenchmen anymore.
He mused on the glare the small nation had given him. "Perhaps this will provide the catalyst for him to grow."
Because there was such strength of will in those eyes already- now all they needed was the strength of body to back it up.
And when that happened, be it decades or centuries even, France would enjoy the rematch, and the worthy victory he was sure would follow.
-I hit you back- (1415)
England smirked down at the pansy-haired bastard. Four centuries, and they'd finally met on the battlefield again. "You don't have to prostrate yourself before me; I'll settle for a declaration of subservience."
He used English and his opponent snarled back at him in French; so it had been for the entire battle. Both knew enough of the other language for it not to matter which they spoke in.
France glared and spat at his feet. "Jamais!" He'd been disarmed and fallen to his hands and knees, completely worn out from the fight. He didn't understand how they'd lost; he'd had the superior numbers- and his enemy personification still looked only sixteen. How had he lost to a brat with the body of a small sixteen year-old?
Green eyes narrowed in outrage at the offensive gesture. Their sword was dropped to the side as England knelt down to the same level as the beaten nation, and punched France on the nose.
"Merde! Quel était cela pour, marmot?"
"Brat? You French bastard; that was revenge," England stated darkly. "I may have been a brat when we first faced each other, but I promise you that time has passed. You will bow to me in earnest one day, and the rest of the world will follow." He drew back his fist to hit the nation again, and only the intervention of his king saved the other nation getting a beating.
"England! The day is ours; come now, we have matters to discuss!" Henry was striding over the fallen bodies to reach the two nations, who had managed to find each other at the side of the ravine- just beyond the thick of the fighting. The monarch gave no heed to the mud splattering him with every step, obscuring the bright pattern on his clothing.
England sighed, and rose to his feet. "You will bow to me," he repeated, picking up his sword and turning away from his defeated opponent.
France was in no state to reply physically, but he managed to get up off his hands at least and shouted after the brat as he walked away. "You come when he call? Guillaume train you well, non?" He yelled in mostly broken English to make the French name stand out more.
The insult had the desired impact: the brat froze for a second, then spun on his heel and marched straight back to the downed nation. France didn't get another word out before England leapt and slammed his back into the muddy ground.
"You-!" Eyes blazing, England straddled the bastard and laid into his pansy face with both fists.
"England!" Henry finally arrived within arm's reach and dragged his nation away. "Don't kill him, he looks rich enough to be ransomed-" the king paused and studied both of them carefully. Then- "He is your counterpart? The one you were so dead-set on finding?"
"Oui, mon roi d'Angleterre," France answered for them, smirking despite his new bruises; he'd made quite the impact on the younger nation.
"Your king?" Possessive anger dripped from the words before England blinked, and let out an unexpected snort. "Though I can't say I'm surprised. Of course you'd prefer my King to the sickly imbecile you serve."
"Imbéc-"
Henry waved some of his retainers over and ordered them to restrain France. "If we can ransom their nobles, we can ransom their nation," the monarch stated. Furious blue eyes glared up at him; he looked away with effort. He stared over at the group of French commoners, rounded up in the aftermath and added grimly, "Kill the others. We can't chance that they'll counter-attack the moment we let our guard down to rest."
Fury changed to horror as Henry strode away, England at his side. The victorious nation glanced back only once with a vicious smirk, clearly saying The last laugh is mine, bastard. And I'm enjoying every second of it.
Bound and gagged, France could only glare back and mourn for his soldiers and the victory he felt should have been his.
-You give a kick- (1944)
France caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and grimaced; he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked that terrible. Three months since the Resistance had been approved and absolutely nothing had been achieved. Where had his power gone- was he so weak that he had to rely on le piqûre anglaise to gain his own country back?
Nearly four years of occupation had taken its toll on him: his eyes were glassy and lacked focus; his hair lank and greasy; his skin was covered in bruises and scrapes that had no time to heal before he gained more.
All his grand Resistance had to show for itself were two coded messages from England, promising that tomorrow his land would be invaded once again- this time by allies. Just earlier, he'd felt the preparatory bombing of Normandy, and had a line of bruises up his back to prove it.
And he could do nothing to stop it, or help.
That was the thought that caused him to lose it; hands gripped at his hair as he bent double and screamed out his pain and rage.
He didn't hear the footsteps in the corridor, but he heard the door open behind him. Having no wish for company, and maybe wanting to cause a little of the pain he was feeling, he spun and lashed out with a brutal kick.
He felt the pressure of the kick connecting; heard the gasp of air as lungs expelled their contents in a rush; recognised through blurred vision the green eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected attack.
"Angleterre?" he murmured, lowering his hands and blinking to clear the haze he was seeing through. "Why- when did you-"
-I'll give a slap. (1944)
England slapped him, hard enough that a handprint was visible on his cheek only moments after.
"Are you done with your little pity-party now?" England snarled at his startled counterpart. "We're in this together now, bastard- Operation Overlord is tomorrow and you don't get to roll over and surrender, you don't get to indulge in petty hysteria and we will not lose to this German wanker!"
France cupped his stinging cheek, looking amazed and a little afraid. England got right up in his face, and gripped the lapels of his coat to bring them mere inches apart. "And do you know why?" he whispered hoarsely. "Do you know why I absolutely refuse to let this fucker get away with it?"
France shook his head once, blue eyes locked with green.
"Because we are the only ones who have the right to make each other bleed," his counterpart hissed. There wasn't a lot of sanity left in that gaze, although France supposed he'd lost most of his own four years ago. "You are mine to fight, mine to hurt and mine to defeat- no one else's." England abruptly let go and stepped back, adding awkwardly, "As I might be yours, I suppose. If you- that is, I mean to say- if you share my opinion." He muttered the last part, casting his eyes away.
Hysteria had given way to shock, which gave way to understanding and recognition of something that hadn't yet been admitted between them. Francis laughed, a little disbelievingly because this was coming up now of all times-
-but then, it was as England had said: they were now in this together-
-and would there ever be a better time (would there ever be another time) to say it?
Arthur looked up at the laughter and opened his mouth to speak again. Francis pre-empted him.
"You could 'ave said something simpler, mon Angleterre."
Arthur blinked, words forgotten. Francis grabbed him this time, and pulled him back to being inches away only. "Je t'aime aussi," he added lightly, before kissing the struggling Englishman.
Arthur got out an, "I know what that means, you- mpf!" before accepting the Frenchman's kiss.
So France had made the first move, but England refused to be passive in this. He bit Francis's lower lip, hard enough to taste blood.
Francis pulled back, startled, and Arthur growled, "Mine to hurt, wine bastard," before pulling him in again.
This time, France bit back.
You smashed a plate over my head- (2007)
"Mon amour," Francis began cautiously when Arthur put down a plate in front of him, "I thought we had agreed to go out for dinner tonight?" He glanced around Arthur's kitchen as though expecting English food to leap out of its containers and attack him at any moment.
Arthur hummed and sat down at the table with the second plate of home-cooked dinner. "Well, I thought we never have a nice evening in when you come over here," he said. "I just wanted to do something nice for you."
Francis studied his plate dubiously. "You could have got the cheque," he muttered, poking the blackened meat on his plate.
"Excuse me?"
He hadn't been quiet enough. The Frenchman tried to head off the coming explosion, but Arthur got there first.
"What is it you have against my cooking? It's perfectly edible and very tasty! I know it might not be snails or frogs' legs or God only knows what else you're used to, but you have no right to be disparaging about my cooking when I have never complained about yours!"
"Arthur!" Francis managed to get a word in. "Arthur, I may love you, but the only thing this could possibly be used as," and he gingerly picked up a lump of what he presumed was rosbif, "is a weapon."
Arthur looked ready to argue some more, so Francis decided to prove himself right.
He launched the food across the table at England's face.
Considering the amount of (lack of) thinking time this took, it was hard to say who was more surprised.
England reached up to pick the grimy substance off of his cheek; it left a black mark behind. France got over the surprise first and committed the cardinal sin of laughing.
He abruptly shut up when he heard a soft 'splat' and felt the impact on his collarbone.
"Arthur..." France looked down and confirmed it. English gravy all over his lace-collared shirt. "Mon amour, je vous tuerai!"
England only smirked and threw the empty gravy boat at him. "Not if I kill you first, love!"
XXXXXXXXXX
The meeting started off relatively calm- for the way it turned out, Germany blamed America alone.
The first round commenced with an off-hand remark from America about how great these pastries are, huh?, and devolved from there. France with a pointed look made the necessary comparison to English food; England with a pointed glare gave the necessary retort; Francis replied he didn't need a second outfit wrecked by food in as many days, and Arthur of course had to take it too far and launched the nearest plate of delicacies at his lover's head.
Amazingly, France managed to catch the plate, although the much admired pastries tumbled off and showered him in crumbly flakes and icing sugar. Looking unimpressed yet somehow casual, Francis stood up, brushed the powder from his jacket, reached across the table and smashed the plate over Arthur's head. Every other nation in the room was holding their breath, waiting for the explosion.
Equally casual despite the tense atmosphere, England stood up and brushed the glass fragments from the folds in his clothing. Then he looked up at France, grinned with bright eyes, jumped over the table and punched him on the cheekbone.
And thus the obligatory Franco-British fight began.
Germany palmed his forehead and yelled, "Outside, Gott verdammt es!" during a lull in the fighting. Arthur took that as an invitation to pin Francis up against the door, steal a kiss and then kick him through it.
Francis grabbed Arthur's foot as he fell backwards, bringing the Englishman down with him. He stole a quick grope before rolling them out of sight of the rest of the nations.
Silence reigned supreme, finally broken by Austria's fit of coughing. Soon, everyone was talking over each other again.
At the head of the table, two oft-enemies-normally-leaders-sometimes-even-friends watched over the others, making their own conversation.
"I really don't get those two," America said, confused. There was no need to clarify who 'those two' were.
Germany looked over at the broken door, then back to the other nation. "I see no change between them," he stated. They'd argued for centuries- why change the habits of a lifetime?
America glanced over, disbelieving. "Yeah, but they're together now- ain't that the problem?"
-and I set fire to our bed! (2007)
Arthur shoved Francis back onto the mattress and quickly climbed up over him. "Satisfied yet, love?" He punctuated the question with a sharp bite to the Frenchman's collarbone, tasting the sweat from activities they hadn't made it to the bed for.
Francis groaned and grabbed Arthur's hips, grinding upwards to enjoy both the pain and the pleasure. "Jamais, mon amour," he gasped in reply.
England gave the new bruise one last lick and sat up, staring down at his lover seriously. "Je t'aime, France," he said, the words gentler than most of the actions between them.
France propped himself up on his elbows and planted a quick, chaste kiss on his lover's lips. "I love you too, England," he replied, as softly as his kiss had been.
Then he bucked up and dislodged the Englishman; he rolled over to pin the slighter nation beneath him. "My turn," he whispered, holding Arthur's hands down and teasing a nipple with his tongue.
Arthur let out a sigh and caught Francis's eyes as he glanced up. "Promise?" he asked huskily.
They grinned at each other until Francis bit down, leaving a mark of his own, and Arthur's head fell back as he arched into his lover's touch.
The heat between them built slowly. England was the first to let go and feel the fire course through him- though he made sure he brought his French bastard over the brink only seconds later.
He'd never let France think he'd won this round.
France smirked down at him even as they both regained their breath; "You are still counting, mon amour? Don't you realise, it's the taking part that counts, in this if nothing else?"
England glared weakly before summoning the last of his energy and rolling them over again. He pressed a kiss to France's lips, stealing the breath from them and holding it until his own lungs were burning.
When he finally pulled back, Francis looked up at him dazedly. Arthur grinned and leant down so their foreheads touched.
"If it's the taking part that counts, my love- why do we still keep score?"
Blue eyes locked with green, and a matching grin was his answer.