Just a couple of punks
FrUk – WARNINGS:
soft-core smut (well, you know, soft-core because it's not all that graphic)
undeniable drug-use
defying authorities (no violence, though)
Because people don't always remember that France is as it is because of revolutions, and that under that English gentleman appearance, there is the man who pukes blood at the mention of trying to be civil (towards America).
A/N: Hello, it's time to be FrUK'd for the third time.
(Okay, I might or might not have a dozen of these fics hidden in my computer, but...)
This is just a short oneshot. Just because punk!FrUK is a blessing we do not bow to often enough.
It's a kind of AU, where these two civilized nations would of had their umpteenth adolescent-rebel faze in the 80's - with the punks.
This is for my lil' Bouddha (Televa). One can never be FrUK'd enough, eh?
When people looked at them, what did they see? A pair of angry youngsters, sneering at passer-by's and being indecent.
They only came out at night, it seemed. Thin, pale creatures, like two characters from a Victorian novel, except the other one had a face full of piercings, whilst the other had a mere golden nose ring.
They both looked spectacular, though: the other's temper was in his eyebrows; the other had it on his curling lips. Their long limbs moved with contempt and they slouched as if to say they didn't care.
These two disappeared into clubs with loud, angry music, which ridiculed everything safe and known. They'd tumble into small bathroom stalls and make out, sharing the ecstasy on their tongues.
They didn't need a bathroom stall to make out in, though, not at all. They chose a streetlamp, a different one every time, walked straight into the spotlight and started making out, as stated before, being indecent.
No one could know that these two were the impersonations of two powerful nations: England and France, and many nights, they didn't seem to know either. It was the middle of the 80's and they were re-living their pirate years.
Their bosses would come and drag them off of the streets whenever they could find them and push them into stuffy meeting rooms, where these two would sit in silence, not participating in the system in any way. Well, the Brit had sarcasm for every occasion and the frog could spare a wink and a pick-up line in every situation possible.
"We might have expected this from Arthur", the others would say, "but Francis of all people?" That was because people forgot with time. People and nations and governments forgot because of appearances. But in the end, what had moulded France into the nation he is now? Revolutions. A whole lot of noise and rebellion. Francis had loved every second of it, even if it had made him weak, since his body might have taken damage but his mind? Oh, his mind was with the people, with the revolution, even at the cost of his own life.
(In case you're wondering, yes, Iggy most certainly did slap him silly after the revolutions had ended. "That's for making me worry to death you bloody twat!" he'd shouted. Then they had had the hottest sex in national history.)
Truth to be told, they weren't always like this: in their private life they could be the most docile of creatures, whenever there was nothing to fight for, against or with. Those were the moments when they had civilized bickering and tea with excellent, homemade French pastries.
They'd smile and Francis would wear his fancy, expensive shirts and Arthur his comfy sweaters. They'd work in their little balcony-garden, with their roses and lilies, and share sweet kisses between gentle arguments (gentle compared to the rest of them), which ended in confessions of love.
They just didn't deem the rest of the world worthy of their best behaviour.
One night, when they were out clubbing, Francis said to Iggy, matter-of-factly: "Perks in being a punk. You", and Arthur would smirk and say: "Perks in being a punk. Sex with you." Francis laughed in turn and purred: "That, mon amour, you could have even without the punk", to which Arthur responded: "Like you couldn't have me without it, but isn't the point that this makes it all so much more… exciting", emphasizing the last word by trailing a long finger across the Frenchman's exposed lower abdomen. It was all a big game. A huge, sexy game.
Those weren't the nights for making sweet love – that they had when the sun was pale and beautiful on the cloudless sky – nor for meaningless sex: those were the nights for ravishing each other's bodies in smoky acts of passion.
There'd be a lot of tongue: licking, kissing and whispering and using all the magic of a tongue piercing. There'd be teeth: grazing and teasing and biting, even to the point of drawing blood in a surprisingly pleasurable way.
Then there'd be hands, skilful and teasing, and those hands would always lead to the main event: all of them clashing and rubbing together in enticing movements until they both reached an explosive climax in pants and grunts.
"It's so beautiful", England sighed once. "What is, cheri?" "Your pale cock, especially after it's been fully pleasured."
Francis let out a small laugh and pulled Arthur up for a kiss. "You are very beautiful too, Arthur." Said man huffed: "What, time to go soft now, is it?" "Oh hon hon hon, Arthur", Francis said sarcastically, "I might be punk but I can't stop being French, black lamb of Europe. Besides, what I mean is, even if you'd wake up one morning, and not be the… bad boy you are night, I might still love you."
"I know, frog. But in the meanwhile, while we wait for the magical day we'll grow up after all these centuries; let's just have fun, shan't we?" "Oui, mon amant", Francis whispered emphasizing his last word by grinding his hips against Arthur's.
There was a drug-raid in their apartment last night. They did nothing but stood there, leaning against a wall without shirts, laughing.
They never brought anything else home except for each other. And they did all they ever got right away.
But it was funny, watching those cops rummage their rooms and yell at them without the slightest clue about their true identities. And you should've been there to see them as they opened the glass door, which led to the balcony, to their garden. Both blonds could see that they expected to find a whole forest of Norwegian wood in there, and their expressions were priceless when they realized that they were looking at a bush of the finest English roses and the purest French lilies.
Tears gathered in the eyes of those two, presumably young men as their laughed their uncivilized arses off.
And yes, there came a time when the 80's were over, and much later there came a time when France and England got over it and started drinking tea and wearing nice shirts in public.
Everyone forgot about their punk faze, since that sort of thing simply isn't done if born a nation. But France and England did it (time and time again it seems).
Now they get drunk on the best red wine and expensive ale and are completely… the same at heart. They both know that one day they'll start again. They knew it the day Arthur walked in on Francis, who was wearing too tight jeans and a ripped shirt along with a provocative and seductive smirk. They know it because time may pass and they are may be supposed to get older… but they simply don't seem capable of that.
Ask their sex life.
/ So yeah, kind of a few, blurry moments from their punk life. In my opinion they are the best punks one could imagine.
Translations:
mon amour = my love
cheri = darling
Oh hon hon hon = sarcastic frog laugh
Oui, mon amant = Yes, my lover
Written while listening to Greenday and SOAD. And maybe a little bit of Mozart.
Comments,
je les aime.