Kissing Traitors
Title: Kissing Traitors
Status: One Shot
Pairing: France/UK
Rating: M
Summary: "W'ere iz 'e?" France repeated in a voice suggesting that this was an act of interrogation, not affection.
England sat at his desk and stared out the window at his dingy little city. The sun had just set and wisps of steam rose from the man's teacup. A silver tray with a porcelain teapot and sugar bowl rested on the corner of the desk. Recent troubles had him a bit on edge; America had declared independence only a few years earlier and was causing a handful of problems, Russia was slowly gaining power out east, and France. England's shoulder's tensed at the mere thought; France was in shambles. His wealthy and powerful were being killed in the chaos, including his own boss; England couldn't help feeling that the same could happen to him. But he'd heard rumors recently that someone from his own island had been saving the poor French bastards and bringing them to London. England wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this, certainly he admired the courage of his own people, but at the same time, he didn't like the added stench of French people in his pie shops. No one knew who this man was, but he called himself the Scarlet Pimpernel.
There was a thundering knock on the door of England's apartment. He rose, abandoning his tea, to answer the door. Upon opening it, England was greeted with an eyeful of a disheveled, half dressed (luckily), wild-eyed France leaning heavily on the door frame. "W'ere iz 'e?" The Frenchman slurred, advancing over the threshold. England retreated several steps to keep a safe distance between himself and the revolutionary, afraid he'd catch the disease of free thought and equal rights.
"W-Who?" England asked as France began surveying the room. There was a desk by one of the large windows, many bookshelves, chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa. The bearded nation strode to the books and began removing them one by one and throwing them to the floor. Shakespeare, Marlowe, Austin, Spenser, Shakespeare, Blake, Malory, Shakespeare, Gray, Keats, Gray, Shakespeare. The nation scrambled to pick up his literature, glaring at France as he moved on to England's desk and began rifling through it, throwing papers, maps, and assorted other things everywhere. "Dunno who yo'r lookin' fo' but he's no' in my desk." England growled as he slipped the books back into their proper places on the shelves.
France didn't answer but continued to search, flipping over the small couch and the coffee table and wrenching doors open at random, finding only coats, the water closet, and the kitchen (which even in his present state, he didn't dare enter) "Yoo 'ide veery well, Angland." He growled, standing in the middle of the room as England sorted out his desk.
"I'm no' hiding anyone." England tried to explain, piking up a drawer that France had thrown; it fell apart in his hands.
"Eembecile," France hissed, stalking across to stand mere feet from England, "Do no' play stupeed with me!" England gave a sharp cry of pain as the back of France's hand hit his cheek. The struck nation recoiled with tears picking the corners of his green eyes, rubbing his cheek. France took this moment of shock to knee England in the stomach. The UK fell on the carpet with a grunt and a groan. "Weell you teell me w'ere ze Scarlet Peemperel iz?" France hissed in England's ear; the other nation panted and gasped, shuffling away until he backed into the desk.
"I-I know 'smuch as you do." England stammered to the Frenchman crouched before him, "The Pimpernel's got nothin' t'do with me. I don't know who he is." He couldn't help growling as France snickered at his answer.
"Lying Anglish scum." France cooed as he crept over to settle between England's legs and put his hands on the nation's thighs. "I 'ave ways ov making you talk, mon cherie." Before England could think, France slammed their lips together with enough force to thud the back of England's head into the side of the desk. The UK groaned, though whether in pain or pleasure even he couldn't tell. Involuntarily, his lips had parted a centimeter, that was all the space the Frenchman needed to slip his tongue inside and explore. England slowly began to lose the battle between what was between his ears and what was between his legs. He wrapped his arms around France's neck. When England looked back on this, which he would only do late at night, in bed, by himself, he would wonder how France expected him to confess anything with their tongues in each others mouths.
Meanwhile France's busy hands made quick work of England's long jacket and the puffy shirt underneath, parting them away. England felt his white wig be torn from his head and France's fingers tangled in his scraggly commonplace hair. "W'ere iz 'e?" France repeated in a voice suggesting that this was an act of interrogation, not affection.
"I-I don't kn-ah!" England cried as France twisted one of his soft nipples. "F-France," England's face began to go red as the revolutionary's hand left his chest and traveled downward to the hem of his tightening trousers. "'M not joking," England gasped, finding air hard to come by somehow.
"You lie zo I must keep going," France slipped his hand into England's tights, "Veery clev'r, cherie, veery, veery clev'r." The Frenchman mumbled into England's neck as he nibbled and kissed his skin. England was frozen, but his heart thundered against his chest as France took hold of him and did what England knew was the only thing Frenchmen could do right.
France's strokes began agonizingly slow. England bit his bottom lip until a small stream of scarlet trickled down his chin. "F-F-F.." England couldn't push a word past his teeth.
"What iz eet, darleeng?" France whispered before lapping up the Englishman's blood, "Somesing to say?"
"F-F-Faster," The word stumbled from England's bruised and bleeding lips as he stared at the ceiling, cheeks blazing, all dignity gone.
"Who iz ze Pimpernel?" France hissed against England's collarbone, applying enough pressure to his grip to make England moan before slowly increasing his speed. England's hips matched the speed as his right hand held tight to the edge of his desk, trying to retain control.
"A-A bishop," England moaned eventually, "P-Pirate." He was only spewing the rumors that drifted through the streets like the miserable city workers. England's other hand came to cling to the tray on the edge of the desk; he was nearing the brink. France mumbled something into his shoulder which England didn't hear as he bucked and shouted, "George the Third!" England clung to the desk above him as he shook, yet his grip on the tray pulled it down.
The teapot fell with a crack onto the unfortunate Frenchman in its path. Hot tea poured over both countries. France's hands abruptly left England to hold his head and shout in pain. It took England a good thirty seconds to realize what had happened and why his shoulder and chest were burning. When he frantically looked around for France, he caught sight of the nation staggering back out the door, shouting curses until England couldn't hear him anymore.
Breathing heavily, England slowly pulled himself up with the desk; his knees shaking and traces of a burn began showing on his torso. He glanced down at his shattered teapot and sugar bowl, then bent to pick up the tray. It reflected back a very tired, worried man with thick raised eyebrows and a slowly dying flush. The world was changing far too fast, England decided as he slowly put the tray on his desk and went to change out of his soaking clothes.
Status: One Shot
Pairing: France/UK
Rating: M
Summary: "W'ere iz 'e?" France repeated in a voice suggesting that this was an act of interrogation, not affection.
England sat at his desk and stared out the window at his dingy little city. The sun had just set and wisps of steam rose from the man's teacup. A silver tray with a porcelain teapot and sugar bowl rested on the corner of the desk. Recent troubles had him a bit on edge; America had declared independence only a few years earlier and was causing a handful of problems, Russia was slowly gaining power out east, and France. England's shoulder's tensed at the mere thought; France was in shambles. His wealthy and powerful were being killed in the chaos, including his own boss; England couldn't help feeling that the same could happen to him. But he'd heard rumors recently that someone from his own island had been saving the poor French bastards and bringing them to London. England wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this, certainly he admired the courage of his own people, but at the same time, he didn't like the added stench of French people in his pie shops. No one knew who this man was, but he called himself the Scarlet Pimpernel.
There was a thundering knock on the door of England's apartment. He rose, abandoning his tea, to answer the door. Upon opening it, England was greeted with an eyeful of a disheveled, half dressed (luckily), wild-eyed France leaning heavily on the door frame. "W'ere iz 'e?" The Frenchman slurred, advancing over the threshold. England retreated several steps to keep a safe distance between himself and the revolutionary, afraid he'd catch the disease of free thought and equal rights.
"W-Who?" England asked as France began surveying the room. There was a desk by one of the large windows, many bookshelves, chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa. The bearded nation strode to the books and began removing them one by one and throwing them to the floor. Shakespeare, Marlowe, Austin, Spenser, Shakespeare, Blake, Malory, Shakespeare, Gray, Keats, Gray, Shakespeare. The nation scrambled to pick up his literature, glaring at France as he moved on to England's desk and began rifling through it, throwing papers, maps, and assorted other things everywhere. "Dunno who yo'r lookin' fo' but he's no' in my desk." England growled as he slipped the books back into their proper places on the shelves.
France didn't answer but continued to search, flipping over the small couch and the coffee table and wrenching doors open at random, finding only coats, the water closet, and the kitchen (which even in his present state, he didn't dare enter) "Yoo 'ide veery well, Angland." He growled, standing in the middle of the room as England sorted out his desk.
"I'm no' hiding anyone." England tried to explain, piking up a drawer that France had thrown; it fell apart in his hands.
"Eembecile," France hissed, stalking across to stand mere feet from England, "Do no' play stupeed with me!" England gave a sharp cry of pain as the back of France's hand hit his cheek. The struck nation recoiled with tears picking the corners of his green eyes, rubbing his cheek. France took this moment of shock to knee England in the stomach. The UK fell on the carpet with a grunt and a groan. "Weell you teell me w'ere ze Scarlet Peemperel iz?" France hissed in England's ear; the other nation panted and gasped, shuffling away until he backed into the desk.
"I-I know 'smuch as you do." England stammered to the Frenchman crouched before him, "The Pimpernel's got nothin' t'do with me. I don't know who he is." He couldn't help growling as France snickered at his answer.
"Lying Anglish scum." France cooed as he crept over to settle between England's legs and put his hands on the nation's thighs. "I 'ave ways ov making you talk, mon cherie." Before England could think, France slammed their lips together with enough force to thud the back of England's head into the side of the desk. The UK groaned, though whether in pain or pleasure even he couldn't tell. Involuntarily, his lips had parted a centimeter, that was all the space the Frenchman needed to slip his tongue inside and explore. England slowly began to lose the battle between what was between his ears and what was between his legs. He wrapped his arms around France's neck. When England looked back on this, which he would only do late at night, in bed, by himself, he would wonder how France expected him to confess anything with their tongues in each others mouths.
Meanwhile France's busy hands made quick work of England's long jacket and the puffy shirt underneath, parting them away. England felt his white wig be torn from his head and France's fingers tangled in his scraggly commonplace hair. "W'ere iz 'e?" France repeated in a voice suggesting that this was an act of interrogation, not affection.
"I-I don't kn-ah!" England cried as France twisted one of his soft nipples. "F-France," England's face began to go red as the revolutionary's hand left his chest and traveled downward to the hem of his tightening trousers. "'M not joking," England gasped, finding air hard to come by somehow.
"You lie zo I must keep going," France slipped his hand into England's tights, "Veery clev'r, cherie, veery, veery clev'r." The Frenchman mumbled into England's neck as he nibbled and kissed his skin. England was frozen, but his heart thundered against his chest as France took hold of him and did what England knew was the only thing Frenchmen could do right.
France's strokes began agonizingly slow. England bit his bottom lip until a small stream of scarlet trickled down his chin. "F-F-F.." England couldn't push a word past his teeth.
"What iz eet, darleeng?" France whispered before lapping up the Englishman's blood, "Somesing to say?"
"F-F-Faster," The word stumbled from England's bruised and bleeding lips as he stared at the ceiling, cheeks blazing, all dignity gone.
"Who iz ze Pimpernel?" France hissed against England's collarbone, applying enough pressure to his grip to make England moan before slowly increasing his speed. England's hips matched the speed as his right hand held tight to the edge of his desk, trying to retain control.
"A-A bishop," England moaned eventually, "P-Pirate." He was only spewing the rumors that drifted through the streets like the miserable city workers. England's other hand came to cling to the tray on the edge of the desk; he was nearing the brink. France mumbled something into his shoulder which England didn't hear as he bucked and shouted, "George the Third!" England clung to the desk above him as he shook, yet his grip on the tray pulled it down.
The teapot fell with a crack onto the unfortunate Frenchman in its path. Hot tea poured over both countries. France's hands abruptly left England to hold his head and shout in pain. It took England a good thirty seconds to realize what had happened and why his shoulder and chest were burning. When he frantically looked around for France, he caught sight of the nation staggering back out the door, shouting curses until England couldn't hear him anymore.
Breathing heavily, England slowly pulled himself up with the desk; his knees shaking and traces of a burn began showing on his torso. He glanced down at his shattered teapot and sugar bowl, then bent to pick up the tray. It reflected back a very tired, worried man with thick raised eyebrows and a slowly dying flush. The world was changing far too fast, England decided as he slowly put the tray on his desk and went to change out of his soaking clothes.