Deep, Deep Down: A FrUK Fanfic
*Warning: yaoi*
England sat through the World Meeting, letting his mind(and gaze) wander over to the Frenchman sitting across from him. He blushed whenever France looked back, and quickly averted his gaze to the papers in front of him, or looked over at America and pretended to be concentrating on whatever useless nonsense he was going on about.
The meeting finally ended, and England was the first out of the door. He had to get away: from that room, from those feelings, from that damn frog, Francis. He dashed down the halls, but no matter how far he went, he could never outrun his emotions.
Bloody hell.
He finally emerged into the fresh, sunlit air at the front of the building. He breathed it in, and slowed his pace. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned, expecting to see America hurrying after him. Rather, it was France, panting slightly from the run.
"What do you want, Frog?" England demanded, crossing his arms. France stopped, taking a moment to catch his breath.
"Zhere is somezhing zhat I need to talk to you about, mon amour," France explained. "In private."
England's face became bright red. "Well, out with it then."
"No, not 'ere," the Frenchman replied, grabbing England's elbow and leading him away. "Zhere are too many countries leaving zhe meeting. Zhey vill overhear us."
France led him down the pathway, turning into the building's garden, which was overflowing with flowers and plants from around the world. He stopped behind a patch of rosebushes, where no one would see them, leaning over so their faces were almost touching. England's face grew even more red, if that were even possible.
"Now, now, old chap," he said. "No need to get so close."
France didn't back away. He stared into England's dark green eyes, his own blue one's shining with concern.
"Are you okay, mon amour?"
"W-what?" England demanded. "O-of course I'm okay, you bloody frog!"
France sighed. "I am not so sure, Angleterre," he replied. "You're face been so red lately, and you seem distracted all zhe time. Are you sure zhat somezhing is not bothering you?"
England looked away. Of course something was bothering him! Every time he looked at France, his heart would beat so fast that he thought it would burst out of his chest. His face would get so red that he would have to cover it for fear of someone noticing. But he couldn't tell him that. He just couldn't.
"N-nothing's wrong, you wanker!" he shouted. "Just go away and leave me alone!"
France looked hurt for a moment before walking away. England watched him go, and immediately felt guilty. He shouldn't have lashed out at France like that. Sure, they argued all the time, but it had never felt... real. They had always been childish arguments that had never really meant anything. But now...
England shook his head. He shouldn't be concerning himself over France. He wasn't supposed to care about that bastard. He left the garden, repeating it over and over in his head: I don't care, I don't care, I don't care...
But the little twinge of regret in his stomach still remained.
France paced his bedroom, running his hands through his hair nervously. He couldn't figure out what was up with England, or why he didn't seem to be able to discuss it with him. They were friends, after all, if not for the fact that they argued a little too much. But still! Just because they fought so much didn't mean that France didn't care!
He slammed his fists against his desk angrily. What in the hell was going on with the Englishman?
Someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," France said, sitting on his desk just as that very Englishman walked into his office, his face redder than the roses that dotted his garden. "Angleterre!"
England wasn't meeting his eyes. "F-France..." he began. "I... I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. It was rude and-"
He was cut off by France's arms being wrapped around him. He blushed even more. "W-what are you doing, Frog?"
"I am hugging you, duh," the Frenchman replied, pecking his friend on the cheek. "You have nozhing to be apologizing for, mon amour."
England stood there for a second, his head resting on France's shoulder. He felt something in his pants start to stiffen, but pulled away before France could notice. Or at least what he thought was before France could notice.
"I-I've got to go, old chap," he said, turning to the door. "Just realized I might've left the stove on."
He reached for the doorknob, and France wrapped his arms around his stomach, his hands slipping up the Englishman's shirt. "Don't expect me to believe," he whispered in England's ear. "Zhat all you came for vas to apologize, mon amour."
England was frozen in place, his pants getting stiffer and stiffer as the moments passed by. "F-France," he managed to say. "W-what're you gettin' at?"
France's lips were close to his ear now. Far too close, his breath ruffling the sandy-blonde strands that fell past it. "Don't try to hide it," he whispered. "You're in love vith me."
Everything came crashing down on him at once. The struggle he'd gone through to hide it, the emotions he'd tried so hard to stifle. And yet, at the same time, he felt as if an enormous weight was being lifted off of his shoulders. He reached down and took France's hands in his, squeezing them gently.
He didn't need to say anything; France got the message before the words could form. He swung England around, pressing his lips to his. They wasted no time at all, stripping eachother down until they were wearing nothing but their boxers. France pinned England against the floor, sliding his tounge into the Brit's mouth.
"Rnngh," England moaned, wrapping his arms around France's neck. "Frns~"
France pulled away, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against his. "Shh, mon amour," he whispered, touching a finger to England's lips. "My maid vill hear you and come running."
"Does it matter?" England replied, his green eyes ablaze with lust. "Who cares if she walks in and sees us? It'll all be worth it in the end."
France smiled and continued kissing England, his lips travelng down the Brit's body and leaving tiny marks along it's length. He paused at England's underwear. His eyes met his no-longer-friend's, asking a silent question. England hesitated, swallowing nervously, and nodded. France pulled down both their boxers, turning England over so he was lying on his stomach. He positioned himself in front of the Englishman's entrance.
"Are you sure about zhis, ma chere?" he asked. "We don't have to go zhis far, if you don't vhant to."
England's eyes were squeezed shut. He gritted his teeth. "Do it."
France smiled and entered, slowly. Tears appeared at England's eyes. "Agh - d-damn it, France!" he moaned, his fingers digging into the shaggy carpet. France paused.
"It hurts, oui?" he asked. "Do you vhant me to-"
"No, you bloody idiot!" England cut him off. "Keep going!"
France obeyed, slowly at first, but getting gradually faster as England got used to him. As he got used to England. Until, finally, they both went over the edge, soiling the carpet. France pulled out, flopping down onto the damp carpeting next to England.
"Zhat vas nice, mon amour," he purred, twirling England's sandy blonde hair around his finger. "Let's do it again sometime~"
England smiled, wrapping his arms around the Frenchman and leaning his head against his chest. "Yes, let's."
France and England are often caught bickering for bickering's sake. But, deep, deep down, they really love each other. Sexually.
This was the first yaoi fanfiction that I ever wrote... I was just going through my library and decided to edit this and post it here. It was actually pretty good... There's more to it, though. I just posted it on another website before. I'll post it here too, though.
Please review! I hope you liked it!