[Hetalia] "Disdainful Peace"
Title: "Disdainful Peace"
Author: shuriken7
Claim: England
Character(s): England/France
Table/Prompt: Romance/4. Touch @ hetachallenge, 60. Ravish @ hentai_contest
Word Count: 2099
Rating: M
Summary: Tudor Era. They said they would have everlasting peace... England wondered how long that means this time... The party is beautiful... as is the Frenchman across the room...
A/N: So... I've been dying to write Tudor Era fic because of all of the European drama. Decided to start with France and England. xD I probably take extreme liberties with history, I'm an American historian not an English one, but I do want to play. :)
The party was decadent. It was filled with beautiful flowers, beautiful tapestries and beautiful women. Everyone had gathered to celebrate here in the Palace of Illusion. England had to grudgingly give France credit for the work. It was beautiful, merely painted canvas covering boards, the interior magnificent tents. An entire facade of a castle that could be transported at will. A smirk crossed his face as he glanced around the room, it would hardly stand up to a true assault.
Not that they would do that again, so it would seem. Their kings had signed a treaty of perpetual peace, and had sworn never to draw swords against each other. He wondered how long it would last. Their kings were young, and young men were prone to change their minds. Young men were prone to taking risks.
Not that he could speak. His teenaged limbs felt filled with power as he had aged out of his baby fat. He knew he would be great. It was a heady feeling, the knowledge that your people had the ambitions to rule the world. He would have it, and France would not stand in his way, even if their royals may be joined in marriage once again.
England's eyes swept the room, looking for a certain feminine-masculine head amongst so many others. Why must the French have such fashion! It was even worse when his people decided to follow it, although he had to, again, begrudgingly acknowledge that France knew how to dress his women, even if he had no clue about the men. The gowns were gorgeous, and he was distracted in his search for France by quite a few young maidens. They were his of course, and although he acknowledged it, he did not want to dwell on how pretty they looked in the French fashion. He shook his head and gulped more of his wine. This party was going to require a lot more alcohol.
Finally he spotted him. He was on the other side of the room, dressed as a nobleman, as England was. The blue brocade fabric of his tunic complimented his blue eyes. The silver Fleur de Lis, stood out against it over his heart. England considered for a moment running a dagger right through it... or running his hand over it, feeling the smooth muscle beneath... he shook his head before that thought went any further. The wine must be getting to him if he was finding France of all people attractive. He wasn't planning on going there... not again.
He looked up as the kings called for some entertainment. A shout rang out that there should be a competition between French and English valor.
"A wrestling match!" a man called out. Cheers went up and with a competitive look at each other the leaders agreed. England sat his wine glass down, if English valor was at stake he would compete. He caught France's eye from across the room. He was in. England smirked, he would win this.
Grooms were called as the men removed their shirts. He rolled his eyes as France blew a kiss to a young woman who looked about to swoon. "Eyes on me, Frog."
France looked back at him, and had the audacity to give him a raunchy wink, scanning his torso, "Always, Angleterre."
England flushed. He had grown a lot in the past decades and he was not unaware that the looks France gave him had changed. Scotland had had quite the laugh when he realized the predicament his little brother was in. They had fought for days over the truth of France's amorous behavior. He had never expected the admission after he had thoroughly pummeled France in a battle.
England stood over him, his armor stained with soil and blood. France lay on the ground beneath him, an arrow sticking through the seam of his armor. He winced with pain with every breath. England's blood still sang with adrenaline, and now they sang even great with victory. He knelt down over him, the better to rub his victory in France's face.
He jumped as France put a hand to his face, smearing his blood across his pale cheek. "Victory is beautiful on you, Angleterre." He slid his hand down his neck and grabbed the collar of his shirt and before he could protest pressed his lips against his. England had been too shocked to pull away. He had been stunned, and could do nothing but walk away. He had avoided him all throughout the peace ceremony, where he had been given some of France's lands.
However, France cornered him outside his chambers. He had pressed another kiss to England's mouth and his teenage body couldn't resist...
England shook his head to clear it as he sank into the best stance he could think of to throw France to the ground and declare victory in a much less bloody fight. The signal was given to begin and they made a grab for each other. As soon as France's body was pressed against his, he lost sense of his surroundings. No more cheering onlookers, none of the grunts of the other men as they fought for dominance, none of the smells of food, wine, and human bodies. It was just France and that smell that England could never describe, and could never decide if he found pleasant or foul.
He was waiting for France to try and sneak in an illicit touch or some other way of cheating, but he played fair. He didn't even speak. England did his best, but France managed to trip him up and he fell flat on his back on the floor. He ignored the hand France offered to help him up, and stormed off towards the outer gate. He didn't want to see the same smug face on France as he was seeing on his king. The English would always have more honor than they could ever have. As he walked he threw on his shirt and tunic that he had snatched from the groom on his way out. He knew he was being childish but he couldn't help it. He should have known better... why did they have to be at peace, he would love to strike at him with a sword...
He needed to breathe. England headed straight for the woods, to the quiet. Even though it wasn't nearly as quiet as he would like. Every so often he could hear the sigh of lovers who had snuck away for a liaison away from prying eyes. He grumbled and kept going, ignoring the footsteps he heard behind him. Finally, it was only the sound of birds, and the infuriating sound of someone following him. He whirled, the dagger out of its sheath before he even thought about it. He stopped just as quickly, the cold steel touching France's chin.
The older man raised an eyebrow. "You can hurt someone with that."
"That is indeed its purpose."
"Perhaps you should put it away."
"Perhaps you should go back to the party." France made a quick grab for his wrist and England tried to twist away, but he caught him. He twisted his arm until the knife fell from his limp fingers and he had no more weapon than his glare. Curse France for having more power than him. France used the leverage he had to pull him against his chest.
"Do not be so cross, my dear little one. We are friends now."
"How long do you think that will last? We have been friends before."
France's eyes twinkled and he chuckled, "Only our kings know that. I heard yours is already tired of it and it has only been an hour."
"Henry is spirited."
"And Francois is clever. And your king is not the only one that is spirited." He leaned forward and placed his mouth against England's. He smelt of wine and something flowery, and England didn't know if he wanted to melt or be disgusted. He didn't end up with a choice, as France pressed his clever tongue against his lips until he parted them. Fire coursed through his veins as their tongues brushed together. Friendship chasing rivalry chasing respect chasing annoyance chasing hundreds of other emotions in England's mind until he was certain he could not think anymore. The only feeling he could grasp for any period of time was pure lust.
The hand that was not held in France's tight fingers, curled into his tunic as though to rip away the symbol of the French monarchy that France had emblazoned on his chest. It was all the incentive France needed to have him sprawling in the grass, as they pulled at clothing, tasting the skin that was revealed in their haste. Their young bodies both desiring the touch.
England stretched his arms above his head as France attacked his chest with open-mouth biting kisses, causing him to groan and stretch his body, desiring more. France slid between his knees, his fingers dancing on the inside of England's thighs, sending shivers up his spine. His mouth went lower and lower, across his chest, down his stomach, his breath on... England grabbed for his hair and pulled his head up roughly before he could put his mouth on him.
He took in France's appearance between his knees. His face was flushed and his hair mussed by England's fingers in it. He looked confused, especially when England twisted his fingers a little tighter. "I don't trust you down there."
"You wound me that you think I would do such a thing."
"You deserve a few more wounds than this one." He fingered the scar from the arrow from decades ago.
France smirked and slid on of his long fingers down England's shaft and across his balls, around even further until England squirmed away from his touch. He clenched his thighs around France's body and pushed himself up to flip their positions. Sitting astride France's bare stomach he looked down at him, "In your dreams."
"You'll have to keep dreaming as well, if you think you'll be able to satisfy me."
England's brow furrowed and he shifted so that he could press his member against France's. They both hissed at the touch, their bodies craving release. He leaned over him, one hand still in his hair. "We shall see."
He rutted against him, pressing them between their hard stomachs. He watched as France's face screwed up in pleasure. He continued to brush and slide, the friction of their bodies feeding sparks up and down, especially as France began to match his movements. It wasn't long before they spilled against each other's stomach and England collapsed on top of him.
They lay there panting, the sounds of birds the only other thing breaking the silence. His fingers had loosened in France's hair and he allowed himself the luxury of pressing his nose into France's neck. He still couldn't decide if he smelled pleasant or repulsive... France threaded his fingers through his short hair and stroked his head. He whispered endearments to him in French.
You are so beautiful... I want you... the words told him. England tolerated it for a minute before he rolled off of him and began reaching for his clothes. He knew it was false, France just trying to manipulate him. Why would it be any different from years ago? They all wanted something, and they knew how to get it. France stared at him as he dressed, not making a move for his clothing.
Once England finished fastening his belt, he tossed France's shirt at him. "Put something on you are indecent."
"So English." he sighed, "You do not appreciate being ravished enough. So quick to leave, I could have you begging for me if you stayed but a little while longer..."
"No." he said curtly and walked off, back towards the party. He tried not to think of the tingling that still coursed through his veins at the memory of having France writhing beneath him. Upon his return to the cacophony of the main room he grabbed for a goblet of wine and downed it, heading towards his king's side.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" the man asked, laughing at the antics of a jester that was juggling goblets. "Spilling some English seed on French soil?"
The man laughed louder as England colored slightly, if only he knew... "Some French territory has been thoroughly vanquished your Majesty." he quipped back, telling himself that it was the last time.
Author: shuriken7
Claim: England
Character(s): England/France
Table/Prompt: Romance/4. Touch @ hetachallenge, 60. Ravish @ hentai_contest
Word Count: 2099
Rating: M
Summary: Tudor Era. They said they would have everlasting peace... England wondered how long that means this time... The party is beautiful... as is the Frenchman across the room...
A/N: So... I've been dying to write Tudor Era fic because of all of the European drama. Decided to start with France and England. xD I probably take extreme liberties with history, I'm an American historian not an English one, but I do want to play. :)
The party was decadent. It was filled with beautiful flowers, beautiful tapestries and beautiful women. Everyone had gathered to celebrate here in the Palace of Illusion. England had to grudgingly give France credit for the work. It was beautiful, merely painted canvas covering boards, the interior magnificent tents. An entire facade of a castle that could be transported at will. A smirk crossed his face as he glanced around the room, it would hardly stand up to a true assault.
Not that they would do that again, so it would seem. Their kings had signed a treaty of perpetual peace, and had sworn never to draw swords against each other. He wondered how long it would last. Their kings were young, and young men were prone to change their minds. Young men were prone to taking risks.
Not that he could speak. His teenaged limbs felt filled with power as he had aged out of his baby fat. He knew he would be great. It was a heady feeling, the knowledge that your people had the ambitions to rule the world. He would have it, and France would not stand in his way, even if their royals may be joined in marriage once again.
England's eyes swept the room, looking for a certain feminine-masculine head amongst so many others. Why must the French have such fashion! It was even worse when his people decided to follow it, although he had to, again, begrudgingly acknowledge that France knew how to dress his women, even if he had no clue about the men. The gowns were gorgeous, and he was distracted in his search for France by quite a few young maidens. They were his of course, and although he acknowledged it, he did not want to dwell on how pretty they looked in the French fashion. He shook his head and gulped more of his wine. This party was going to require a lot more alcohol.
Finally he spotted him. He was on the other side of the room, dressed as a nobleman, as England was. The blue brocade fabric of his tunic complimented his blue eyes. The silver Fleur de Lis, stood out against it over his heart. England considered for a moment running a dagger right through it... or running his hand over it, feeling the smooth muscle beneath... he shook his head before that thought went any further. The wine must be getting to him if he was finding France of all people attractive. He wasn't planning on going there... not again.
He looked up as the kings called for some entertainment. A shout rang out that there should be a competition between French and English valor.
"A wrestling match!" a man called out. Cheers went up and with a competitive look at each other the leaders agreed. England sat his wine glass down, if English valor was at stake he would compete. He caught France's eye from across the room. He was in. England smirked, he would win this.
Grooms were called as the men removed their shirts. He rolled his eyes as France blew a kiss to a young woman who looked about to swoon. "Eyes on me, Frog."
France looked back at him, and had the audacity to give him a raunchy wink, scanning his torso, "Always, Angleterre."
England flushed. He had grown a lot in the past decades and he was not unaware that the looks France gave him had changed. Scotland had had quite the laugh when he realized the predicament his little brother was in. They had fought for days over the truth of France's amorous behavior. He had never expected the admission after he had thoroughly pummeled France in a battle.
England stood over him, his armor stained with soil and blood. France lay on the ground beneath him, an arrow sticking through the seam of his armor. He winced with pain with every breath. England's blood still sang with adrenaline, and now they sang even great with victory. He knelt down over him, the better to rub his victory in France's face.
He jumped as France put a hand to his face, smearing his blood across his pale cheek. "Victory is beautiful on you, Angleterre." He slid his hand down his neck and grabbed the collar of his shirt and before he could protest pressed his lips against his. England had been too shocked to pull away. He had been stunned, and could do nothing but walk away. He had avoided him all throughout the peace ceremony, where he had been given some of France's lands.
However, France cornered him outside his chambers. He had pressed another kiss to England's mouth and his teenage body couldn't resist...
England shook his head to clear it as he sank into the best stance he could think of to throw France to the ground and declare victory in a much less bloody fight. The signal was given to begin and they made a grab for each other. As soon as France's body was pressed against his, he lost sense of his surroundings. No more cheering onlookers, none of the grunts of the other men as they fought for dominance, none of the smells of food, wine, and human bodies. It was just France and that smell that England could never describe, and could never decide if he found pleasant or foul.
He was waiting for France to try and sneak in an illicit touch or some other way of cheating, but he played fair. He didn't even speak. England did his best, but France managed to trip him up and he fell flat on his back on the floor. He ignored the hand France offered to help him up, and stormed off towards the outer gate. He didn't want to see the same smug face on France as he was seeing on his king. The English would always have more honor than they could ever have. As he walked he threw on his shirt and tunic that he had snatched from the groom on his way out. He knew he was being childish but he couldn't help it. He should have known better... why did they have to be at peace, he would love to strike at him with a sword...
He needed to breathe. England headed straight for the woods, to the quiet. Even though it wasn't nearly as quiet as he would like. Every so often he could hear the sigh of lovers who had snuck away for a liaison away from prying eyes. He grumbled and kept going, ignoring the footsteps he heard behind him. Finally, it was only the sound of birds, and the infuriating sound of someone following him. He whirled, the dagger out of its sheath before he even thought about it. He stopped just as quickly, the cold steel touching France's chin.
The older man raised an eyebrow. "You can hurt someone with that."
"That is indeed its purpose."
"Perhaps you should put it away."
"Perhaps you should go back to the party." France made a quick grab for his wrist and England tried to twist away, but he caught him. He twisted his arm until the knife fell from his limp fingers and he had no more weapon than his glare. Curse France for having more power than him. France used the leverage he had to pull him against his chest.
"Do not be so cross, my dear little one. We are friends now."
"How long do you think that will last? We have been friends before."
France's eyes twinkled and he chuckled, "Only our kings know that. I heard yours is already tired of it and it has only been an hour."
"Henry is spirited."
"And Francois is clever. And your king is not the only one that is spirited." He leaned forward and placed his mouth against England's. He smelt of wine and something flowery, and England didn't know if he wanted to melt or be disgusted. He didn't end up with a choice, as France pressed his clever tongue against his lips until he parted them. Fire coursed through his veins as their tongues brushed together. Friendship chasing rivalry chasing respect chasing annoyance chasing hundreds of other emotions in England's mind until he was certain he could not think anymore. The only feeling he could grasp for any period of time was pure lust.
The hand that was not held in France's tight fingers, curled into his tunic as though to rip away the symbol of the French monarchy that France had emblazoned on his chest. It was all the incentive France needed to have him sprawling in the grass, as they pulled at clothing, tasting the skin that was revealed in their haste. Their young bodies both desiring the touch.
England stretched his arms above his head as France attacked his chest with open-mouth biting kisses, causing him to groan and stretch his body, desiring more. France slid between his knees, his fingers dancing on the inside of England's thighs, sending shivers up his spine. His mouth went lower and lower, across his chest, down his stomach, his breath on... England grabbed for his hair and pulled his head up roughly before he could put his mouth on him.
He took in France's appearance between his knees. His face was flushed and his hair mussed by England's fingers in it. He looked confused, especially when England twisted his fingers a little tighter. "I don't trust you down there."
"You wound me that you think I would do such a thing."
"You deserve a few more wounds than this one." He fingered the scar from the arrow from decades ago.
France smirked and slid on of his long fingers down England's shaft and across his balls, around even further until England squirmed away from his touch. He clenched his thighs around France's body and pushed himself up to flip their positions. Sitting astride France's bare stomach he looked down at him, "In your dreams."
"You'll have to keep dreaming as well, if you think you'll be able to satisfy me."
England's brow furrowed and he shifted so that he could press his member against France's. They both hissed at the touch, their bodies craving release. He leaned over him, one hand still in his hair. "We shall see."
He rutted against him, pressing them between their hard stomachs. He watched as France's face screwed up in pleasure. He continued to brush and slide, the friction of their bodies feeding sparks up and down, especially as France began to match his movements. It wasn't long before they spilled against each other's stomach and England collapsed on top of him.
They lay there panting, the sounds of birds the only other thing breaking the silence. His fingers had loosened in France's hair and he allowed himself the luxury of pressing his nose into France's neck. He still couldn't decide if he smelled pleasant or repulsive... France threaded his fingers through his short hair and stroked his head. He whispered endearments to him in French.
You are so beautiful... I want you... the words told him. England tolerated it for a minute before he rolled off of him and began reaching for his clothes. He knew it was false, France just trying to manipulate him. Why would it be any different from years ago? They all wanted something, and they knew how to get it. France stared at him as he dressed, not making a move for his clothing.
Once England finished fastening his belt, he tossed France's shirt at him. "Put something on you are indecent."
"So English." he sighed, "You do not appreciate being ravished enough. So quick to leave, I could have you begging for me if you stayed but a little while longer..."
"No." he said curtly and walked off, back towards the party. He tried not to think of the tingling that still coursed through his veins at the memory of having France writhing beneath him. Upon his return to the cacophony of the main room he grabbed for a goblet of wine and downed it, heading towards his king's side.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" the man asked, laughing at the antics of a jester that was juggling goblets. "Spilling some English seed on French soil?"
The man laughed louder as England colored slightly, if only he knew... "Some French territory has been thoroughly vanquished your Majesty." he quipped back, telling himself that it was the last time.