Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme:
In the wake of a long period of political and military rivalry, two nations who previously couldn't stand each other now have to have sex to seal a treaty. Neither of them want it, but it's necessary to assure peace in the future.
I want this awkward, snarky, claustrophobic and ultimately a little passionate.
This story is sort of PWP (or maybe not sort of); sex, in detail.
I do not own anything Hetaliaish beyond these words.
France/England
Invariably Intertwined I : Dieu et Mon Driot
Paris, the 10th of February, 1763.
Frances' first thought is that he is dressed too well for this: all silk and lace ruffles, blues and yellows, pearl buttons and silver buckles.
It is a mockery, truly. All dressed up and paraded about; a peacock, such as nobles keep to decorate their lives like fine furniture. And it isn't as if he is here because his presence is required for sign or seal. No, that would be something worth dressing for. He is a pawn to be positioned accordingly. Well, to be fair, more like a bishop, or maybe a knight, but still-
Hair tied up, he sits peacefully, face pinched into something fierce.
Because he is sitting across from him.
England.
Done up in velvet, navy blue and whites, black boots, but no cravat and some ridiculous hat. At least his own has feathers. But their hats are on their knees now anyways, so it doesn't truly matter.
Broad, unyielding French being spoken beside them, unconcerned with their presence, brings his mind back to center. Oh yes, it is about time, isn't it? Time for these birds to display their feathers.
The papers were already signed before the other had even arrived. Their Britannick, Most Christian and Catholick Majesties having already affixed their seals. Now, under the watch of their Ministers Plenipotentiary, Ambassadors Extraordinary, the true negotiations were to forcibly take place.
France thinks of horse breeding and goes cold. He also realizes that the conversation in the room has quieted considerably and looks up to see England, head held high, pointedly staring in the opposite direction of the other occupants. Turning he find seven sets of eyes regarding them.
Well, no time like the present and, regardless of situation, one must always act the gentleman.
A soft clearing of his throat, "Ahem-"
England's eyes jerk up to his. They hold apprehension, that much is certain, he thinks disgust maybe, but mostly pride. Ah, because what would you be without it my friend, he thinks pleasantly. At least some things never change.
One of the Ministers approaches.
"This way gentlemen, if you please."
Relatively good English, if not a bit stiff. He doesn't smile, but rather gives a curt nod in the direction he wishes them to follow. The others watch the pair as they fall in line, trailing the man in soft cream colored dress. Eyes entranced, watching the peacocks show their colors.
Not a word has been spoken, certainly not between the two, and nothing from the Ministers, except where to sit and when to follow. Silence, worn like a shroud, makes the whole event feel akin to a funeral. However, oddly, it lends a sense of stubborn dignity to those who have no say in the matter.
The room is one of the kings own, saved for the most favored of his Majesty. Why is the only thought that comes to France's mind. So much pomp and circumstance is not serving to ease the awkwardness of the situation. Not at all.
The minister pauses at the door, "I will return in an hour."
Spoken in soft French, to which England replies with a not too quiet snort of frog. After the door shuts, the tumble of a lock follows.
"Nice to see that your people do not trust us."
"I am certain it is for our own privacy."
England scoffs predictably.
"At least someone thought to start a fire."
He stalks over to the flames and paces, oddly reaching out to straighten objects on the mantle until he comes across what looks to be a jar of melted wax, warming in front the fire. Hesitating, he dips in two fingers, rubbing them together.
"Animal fat? Decided to spring for something fancy?"
"It's an excellent lubricant. Oil tends to dry out too quickly. Soaks into the skin."
This isn't the first time at least, for either of them. Though the last time they shared a bed it was the mid-eleventh century and a remarkably similar situation to this one.
France thinks about navy velvet and blue and yellow silks. They don't complement each other.
Sighing he follows England to the fire. He's about a foot a way when England turns abruptly and startles.
"Good god! Why are you so close?"
"Why else?"
England balks, stuttering slightly, an old nervous habit.
"Well, don't just sneak up on a person! Ugh, you French and your amour."
"Oui, what about it?"
"Simply put-" France wonders if anything England ever said was put simply "no wait, we don't have time for this."
"Quoi? A Briton not have time to lecture someone? Why ever not?"
"Because, fool, we have a little under an hour, now to do... this." England jerks his hand between them.
"Time is not a problem, Angleterre. When all is said and done we only need maybe... ten minutes." He shrugs a little; no need to romanticize anything.
"Ten minutes."
"Maybe less. Five is probably enough, if you don't mind it a little rough."
Fingering the thread of the embroidery on the back of a chair, he meets England's gaze with a smirk. England rises to the challenge beautifully, lifting his chin,
"Then what are we waiting for? Lets get this done with."
and promptly begins to undo the thick metal buttons on his coat.
Perfect.
And because he doesn't believe in wasting an opportunity, France watches, acknowledging England's fine frame, a mix of nobility and wilderness.
England pauses mid button to give France a look: well?
He rolls his eyes and pulls at his cravat.
"Pardon me for trying to... get into the mood. Always in a rush, mon petit diable de mer?"
"First," England begins, jerking his waistcoat off "no more French if you expect me to be able to go through with this. Second, it was you that said five minutes. So prove to me,"
now England's shirt follows his jacket, as France fingers the buttons at his own throat,
"that your people are capable of following through with at least one of your boasts. Especially as it concerns the one thing to which you claim ultimate superiority."
To this England gives a particularly challenging glare, meeting France's eyes with all the fire that fuels the British Empire. It's something that he won't admit for another two hundred years, but he likes this England; hard and biting, a fighter. Something he admires from when they both lived under the rule of Rome.
Still, their both stripped to breeches and stockings and neither one making a move to get nearer to the other. So France decides to bridge the gap, despite the fact that it's him who's making the most concessions.
"If I'm the one with the time restraint, then it's you on your back."
He motions to the rug at the foot of the hearth.
"Oh good, well, at least I get the easier part."
"Oh? I do believe that is all in how you look at it."
The innuendo, at least, is not lost on England, who sniffs haughtily and, like the gentleman he is, manages to look dignified half naked and lowering himself to lie spread eagle on the floor.
"Alright git, get to it."
"Ah, the romance of the British never ceases to amaze me."
With some effort France unbuttons the double button set on England's brits and yanks them unceremoniously to his knees. England glares up at him, but if he's embarrassed he doesn't show it.
"I thought we'd already decided this. Thats your claim to fame. We're a good fuck, you're a good lay."
"Poetic as always. Besides, they seem to me to be one and the same."
Dipping his fingers into the lubricant, France scoots closer to England putting one hand between his legs, coaxing him to spread himself open.
"Hah! Only to an uncultured, inherently lazy, utterly cowardly-"
France abruptly pushes his index finger fully into England.
"Oh sweet fornicating fairies! A little warning, if you please?"
"Oh, I am sorry, cher. Did I hurt you? Or is it because I pushed that stick further up your ass?"
"You French twit. Even out your strokes, would you? Lord, I thought you knew what you were doing."
"I have a time limit, no? We agreed it would be rough."
"Rough doesn't mean shitty. I'll never get it up at this rate."
"Trust me, you will not be the one to worry about."
France sighs, trying not to focus on his own flaccid cock. Normally he would get excited at the mere sight of someone getting naked. But with England-
"How do you manage to take the fun out of even this, England?"
"What? I'll not be blamed for your impotence you wine swilling son of a cow!"
The second finger is pushed in just as roughly as the first. This time England manages to reign in his anger and surprise to a hissed bloody hell. France begins to twist and work his fingers, allowing himself to focus. It's a few minutes before he realizes their newest problem.
It is silent.
Absolutely silent, save for the crack of fire. Even their breathing has stilled to barely perceptible. He is knuckle deep in England and all France can think about is how his feet are cold.
And England-
England is completely still beneath him, eyes closed, face screwed up in concentration.
Well, France thinks, at least sex doesn't get anymore boring than this.
No! Focus now! You are the goddamned country of love! If you cannot do this then what hope is there for the rest of the world?
France has a sudden vision of a world wherein all people behave as uptight as England. It steals his resolve. Shifting his weight, France moves up and over the others body. Now they are nearly face to face, England's breath tracing his lips.
France murmurs into the quiet "Say something sexy."
And, although he has been naked with France's fingers up his ass, it's now that England blushes bright red.
"Like what?"
"Je ne seis pas. Something, anything. Tell me what you want to do to me."
"I want to have you drawn and quartered. And no French."
"That is not sexy."
"Neither is French."
France looks directly into England's eyes, pleading: work with me.
And then he has an idea.
"So you do not think French is sexy, musaraigne peu?" he growls "Then why when I speak it does your whole body shiver? Why do I think you want me to fuck you into this floor?"
He holds England's eyes and speaks low and quiet and close.
"Ne vous voulez que je vas te faire encule?"
England's whole body vibrates. He gives one short nod.
Another finger, slow and teasing this time and England groans, spreading his knees. Well, thats a start, he thinks, because finally he feels the tingle of arousal thats almost drowned out by the feeling of relief.
For that France is willing to give a little too. Smoother, firmer strokes until-
"Oh-nng!"
"Ah, Oui. There?"
He grins, because its some sort of personal victory that England is now breathing heavy enough to push a steady pulse of noise into the room. Something to work with. Now if only he can get himself there.
France decides to take liberties, seeing as how he's on the clock. Fingers working a steady pace, he leans in, England watching him, wary, and touches their foreheads, gently sliding the skin together. The tactile sensation does wonders, stirring up the small flame in France's belly. Seems to affect England too, because he turns his face up, letting their noses brush, and sighs. He traces his nose along France's jaw, grating against stubble and France leans his cheek against sandy hair and breaths.
He is at once assaulted with the memory of shorelines and sea air.
It is potent.
He adjusts himself, moving his weight back onto his knees, dragging his fingers up England's bare arm, taught from pulling lines and rigging, lingering over baby smooth scars. It is oddly slow and sensual for how far they've come. France presses his face into the messy hair he once tried so hard to tame and allows himself to inhale again, eyes closed, catching too fleeting memories of a man shouting orders aboard his ship, of a boy running wild along green coasts.
There is something fragile here and it prompts France to lean down give light kisses from England's shoulder into the hairs at his nape.
"Mmm." England sighs and opens to him, tilting his jaw up, asking.
France gives, kissing his lips, sliding his fingers out from inside him to kneed firmly at the skin behind his balls, stroking him lazily with the other hand. England arch's up at that, seeking contact with a soft oh.
He must say something though because, without opening his eyes, England asks "What now, frog?"
It's meant to be a sneer, but his heavy breathing is ruining the effect.
"Its nothing. I was just thinking how I could get used to you like this."
He tightens his grip on England's cock, setting a steady rhythm.
"Ah- don't get your hopes up."
With a pained look, England's head falls lightly to his chest, hips rocking gently against France's fingers. Gathered at his hair line, sweat glistens in firelight like so many jewels. Needy fingers press and grip into thick fur beneath them.
France finally finds himself aroused. It's as sudden as it is demanding.
He wonders if England has always looked this fuckable; pants around his knees, spread open wide considering the restraint, panting, straining, moaning his name – and oh god, if that doesn't go straight to his cock. Breathing shallow and heavy, he presses himself against England's leg and grinds like an animal in heat.
England produces high pitched and stunted sounds, needy little things that grip France by the balls and squeeze. His excitement is pumping them too hard, too fast, if England's pleasepleaseplease are anything to go by. It takes a great effort to put a stop to their actions, but they have a duty to fulfill.
"Merde. We need to-"
"-fuck. Yes, I am aware."
"As eloquent as ever."
"Shut it, you."
With sure easy movements England removes all but his stockings and is quick onto his knees, kissing France, light and immediate. It surprises France, but in the best of ways. England rarely offers such intimacy and it serves to make France hyper aware of the situation; fingers on skin, the softness of another's mouth. He turns his head and opens himself.
Too quickly they loose focus again, erections pressing, so pleasantly slick, against one another. This time it is England who pulls away and stands. France would really like to care about his dignity, his pride, in a moment like this-
but he doesn't and really he can't; after all, he is not England.
He grips England's hips, pulling him close and, slicking his lips, swallows England until his nose meets curly blond hairs.
"Oh holy Christ. France!"
The shock in his voice sends fingers of pleasure tingling down his spine. England bends over, both hands in his France's hair, kneading lightly.
"There. Fffuck, please, like that."
Like an erotic dance, England rocks his hips gently. France cups his ass cheeks, squeezing, sliding fingers back into tight warmth-
"Stop. Stop! I'm too close."
Perhaps his reluctance to stop shows in his face, because England gives him a look that has idiot written in it and pulls himself out. France sucks harder with each inch that's removed; it's spiteful, but France likes the look of pained lust on England.
Moving to the fire place, England puts both hands on the mantle, resting his weight, legs open, inviting. He smirks at France over his shoulder -a knowing smile, a conquerors smile.
There's an ache throughout his lower body, a demand that makes France press himself flush against England's back. One arm wrapped tight across a narrow chest, he pumps his dick through the slicked crack of England's ass; France humps him, whispering moans into damp hair.
England arc's his lower back, pushing up onto his toes, spreading himself, so all it takes is a few more rocking thrusts to start France pushing into him.
And, oh god, England is tight. So tight still, after all that work.
He briefly considers commenting on him being a tight-ass, but chooses rather to focus on the sight of England's back, the look of skin moving over muscle as he flexes his shoulders.
If I were a god of sex, France muses, then you, England, you would be my bane: the one thing to tyingme to earth, buryingme in mortality.
It's a very dramatic thought and France likes it.
He laughs "You make me poetic."
"You make me impatient. How long are we going to be standing here?"
France just smiles, enjoying the gentle thwap of skin against skin, the feel of hips against soft buttocks. He sets a slow, all too pleasant grind, hardly pulling out enough to disconnect their skin.
It's too much.
France stills and presses his face into England's shoulder moaning.
"God, you are so tight."
"It's too hot in front of the fire."
It's not the response he's expecting, but he won't deny it's the truth.
"Kneel on the couch."
England looks incredulous at the order, but moves nevertheless, grumbling under his breath about frogs. He grips the wood along the spine of the couch, fingering the fluer de lis carved there, and pulls his knees onto the cushions.
France can't help it really, not with England's ass presented so perfectly. The slap resounds through the room.
"YOU SLIMYaahhnng!"
France loves how easy it is to push back in, fingers fitting nicely over hip bones and one foot propped up near England's knees.
"Your ass, beyond those writhing pubic hair monstrosities you call eyebrows, is your single most defining feature."
He slaps it again for good measure.
"It deserves appropriate attention."
"One more comment... about my eyebrows and I will flip you over and fuck you raw."
France chuckles lowly against England's skin.
"Ah, but I may talk about your ass, yes?"
He squeezes a cheek to accent his point. and mouths the arc of a shoulder blade, tasting the salt of sweat.
"Oh god you pretentious, overstuffed piece of French ass-fffuuck harder!"
Yes, this position is much preferred.
France's mind now offers another vision of the world. One in which England is often submissive like this: head hung between his arms, knees slipping sideways, opening, offering. He cannot help but to take, to slam into England, feeding off of the slapping sound their movement makes, the groans that punctuate each thrust.
"Mon dieu, Angleterre. How is it you make me want to fuck you like this?Si j'avais su... dieu, if I had known it could be like this..."
France grips the back of the couch and pusheshard, till he's on the balls of feet.
"Oh god, god France! There, please, there!"
England's knees have long since slid to nearly parallel with the floor. Its strikes France, only as he is literally fucking England into the couch, that his friend is quite flexible.
"Oh what I could do with you, pet."
England moans at France's voice "H-harder, you-you..." but then as France complies, "...more, France. Say more..."
"Ah, but you s-said no more French. Mais vous êtes un sale petit bâtard ne sont pas vous? A-all your ...poise and prétexte... when you just like to, hah, take it like the whore you are? Doux Jésus!"
When their slow decent finally brings them to the floor, England is rocking on top of his erection with a vengeance, using his forearms as leverage against the couch to pull himself up, before falling back into France's lap. He is rolling his hips and moaning, fisting himself furiously. It's all France can do to brace himself and meet each thrust. He manages to lean forward and cover England's hand with his own.
"You are beautiful like this."
England's response is a sharp cry, as his whole body shudders his orgasm. He drinks in air, mangling the noise into a sob, a sound of desperation.
Slowly England's motions fade to nothing, leaving only his harsh breathing and France's anticipation.
"My feet are going numb."
England looks back at him, taking in his position, knees bent sharply beneath him.
"Huh? Oh, sorry."
He moves up off of France, ignoring the pool of semen in front of them, and drops lazily onto the rug before the fire. He looks like a person who is about to sleep, peaceful and sated. And when France kneels down to rest in the cradle of England's thighs, he takes note of the warmth of affection he is feeling towards him.
"Hurry up or I might need another round."
France cannot help but laugh. "Enjoying yourself too much I see."
England scrunches up his nose and sticks out his tongue. The petulance.
"I liked you better when you were younger-"
"Clinging to your skirts?"
France doesn't correct him, hoping to kill the mood, to calm the pool of warmth growing in his gut. But when he pushes back into England, it only intensifies. Something is screaming at him and it's not just lust. But, oh god, he wishes it was. England unties the ribbon in his hair and stares, eyes wandering over France's face, lazy fingers trailing through his hair.
It's all becoming too much for France: the intimacy, the tight warmth, those eyes. His hands fall to either side of England's head, touching, caressing, reciprocating. He keeps his thrusts languid and thorough, appreciating how it has become slippery and oh so easy to move between them. How, now that England is finished, he just lies there and takes it.
France comes gripping the rug and England's shoulder, groaning, jerking his hips in the remains of his orgasm.
Giving himself a moment after he stills, he pulls out and rolls onto his back. Shoulder to shoulder they lie, taking in ornate fixtures and fire heat.
"France."
"Mm?"
"That was not five minutes." France smiles, slow and pleased.
"No. It was a lifetime."
"You are ridiculous, you know that?"
There is a stretch of silence where France contemplates sleeping.
"When do you leave for Spain?"
"Within the hour, I should think... Will you go to Portugal?"
He turns his head lazily to England, studying his profile, eying the slight tension between his brows.
"He will arrive here tomorrow."
"Oh."
"Hm."
There is too much, France thinks. Too much distance between them and not just what can be measured, quantified. All the times they argued, fought, negotiated, schemed -all the times they almost tore each other apart -days spent laughing in Briton's green fields, weaving flower garlands -all the times that might have ended like this night is meant to, but never did.
"You will be good to him, right?"
"I think Spain can take care of himself."
France stares at the ceiling in silence.
He notices the shake in his own breathing. "I miss him already you know?"
"He's with his brother. They... they are always together now. That is... I know they met up before, but I-I keep them together now. They will look out for each other."
With this England is up and moving, gathering himself together. France watches, as he is known to do, and makes no move except to put his arms under his head.
"In less than a fortnight," England starts, already at the door "the thirty-first to be precise, I leave for the new world again. London Port, The Henrietta. I can hold them until noon if need be."
France closes his eyes and gives a brief nod. He will be there.
To this day the coat of arms of the United Kingdom reads 'Dieu et mon Droit' (God and my right) –
By virtue of this being my first ever fanfiction, this is also my first Hetalia story and my first smut! Huzzah ^.^ I know I posted the other one first, but in actuality this one was written before, just not edited.
Translations:
mon petit diable de mer - my little sea devil
Je ne seis pas - I don't know
musaraigne peu - little shrew
Ne vous voulez que je vas te faire encule - Do you want me to fuck you
Si j'avais su - If I had known
Mais vous êtes un sale petit bâtard ne sont pas vous - But you are a filthy little mongrel aren't you
prétexte - pretense
Doux Jésus - Sweet Jesus