[English/anglais] Let's ruck
Title: Let's ruck
Author :
bottleinmyboot
Rating/Warning(s): NC17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): England/fem!France
Summary: as usual, France and England watch the Crunch together.
Notes : beta-ed by the lovely d_riderkohaku
They had a tradition amongst the countless traditions they still respected: Always spend the Crunch at home. Together. At first, they would always go to England’s flat, listening to the match on the radio or watching it on TV when Arthur finally decided to install one in his living room. Sometimes, they’d go to Southern France where rugby was more of a big deal than elsewhere in the country and where the sun was brighter. But as time moved on and things evolved, rugby grew popular to the point where even France could air it in direct now. They didn’t go to England’s as much as before and this year was no exception.
England had travelled to Paris. The game was in Twickenham. He’d spend the afternoon at France as she had spent the previous year as his guest, and as always, she’ll be welcomed the next season when she hosts the Crunch again. But this time he went only to get his arm crushed by France’s fingers as her grip tightened from stress and excitation. A few seconds before the end of the period the score was even but, England had felt his rival’s knee upon his own, and the rest of her pressed against him, for at least a good twenty minutes.
He couldn’t win on every field and he started to have cramps, concentrating far too hard on the match in front of him to forget the rest. France tended to grab the closest thing next to her to strangle when watching a rugby match; her new victim was his arm. He had complained, she hasn’t let him go, and England had got distracted.
Ranting didn’t work. Insults didn’t either. It was happening every damn year and he still couldn’t get used to it. He had to react.
“I need tea.”
He aimed for harshness but France’s answer sounded like a whip.
“Shut the fuck up England. You can restrain yourself for a few seconds, can’t you?”
“I am the guest; I’m in my right when I ask to be correctly treated.”
“Serve yourself then! You know where the tea is! Stop talking!”
“Please.”
The referee magically whistled for the pause at that moment and France let England go almost immediately with a sigh of contentment. She was a mess, a delicate and proud mess. The fear of the first minutes had disappeared from her eyes along with England’s hope for a quick and hard victory. For whatever reason, a reason that wasn’t very difficult to guess, the French team had decided to play well. To defy. To threaten.
Even if humiliation was probably out of the order now, England couldn’t complain. Rugby was better when the opponent resisted - the Crunch then had a special taste. The victory was exhilarating, like an intense make out session with him blindfolded, attached to a bed, and a lady between his legs.
But his way to deal with it, fairplay and courtesy tended to make France pout and say that he was too much of a gentleman (at least before he drank the hell out of it, pissed in a street and ended his evening in a French police station). A quick glance at her trying to put her hair back in order and her sweaty skin made him worry about how he was going to survive the next forty minutes. With the sloppy field, the wet grass and the increase of testosterone, the players were nearly making love in front of them and there was no way she could have missed it.
Bugger.
“And don’t you dare touch anything else in my kitchen, you moron!” was the last thing he heard from France as he left the living room.
France obviously knew him by heart and had placed the usual Twinning portions in reach in the cupboard; just in front of her coffee box and her other tea bags. If he hadn’t been curious of the other perfumes she owned, England wouldn’t have noticed that there was more than only one brand displayed in front of him and that he surprisingly had never heard of some of the teas.
Le Palais des Thés, Damman Frères, Mariage Frères… There may have been more, but those were the first he encountered and his language fail wouldn’t have suffered more. Every name was in French and one could assume they were all French. Though in this globalized world, some doubts may arise. But how crazy it was to discover a forest of French tea hiding behind some Twinnings.
Something was off. Puzzled, England took one box out after the other, putting them on the counter.
He had been to France’s countless time, far too much for his taste, but he couldn’t remember a single time where the damn Nation had treated him with anything but Twinnings. Not even some Russian tea. She was always the one cooking for him when he had been invited; at those occasions the tea was already warm and ready for him next to a slice of chocolate cake; he had taken her courtesy for far too granted.
Her collection of boxes was too big to be that recent; at least fifteen packages from all size and colours - yes, even a flashy blue thin tube that could be put in other use, but no way had she bought it for that purpose, had she?
England had the nagging suspicion he wasn’t supposed to have discovered it. Why? Good question. He knew France drank tea from time to time; she even had a reserve to treat her visitors, there was no tasty blackmail potential there. Randomly choosing a box, one in the shape of a black urn, he decided to give it a try and opened the screwtop. He gulped.
“What the hell, ‘Saint Valentin’, damn expected from a frog!”
Throwing a quick look toward the door, he guessed he still had a few minutes before the match started again. He wouldn’t dare be late, and it was not part of his habit to get surprised by his favourite enemy sniffing every tea in her kitchen. His cheeks reddened at that prospect. In any case he would blame it on his addiction.
The Valentine tea smelled good; simple but original, earl grey with a hint of mallow. But the box he took next was violet and made his loin burned.
France hadn’t moved from her place and when England got back to the living-room, she was frowning at him, her arms spread wide on the sofa and her hair back to where it was supposed to be. It took England a few seconds to realize she was not glaring at him but at the tray in his hands and at the two cups he was bringing with him. So what, mismatched cups. That wasn’t Hell. Hell was he hadn’t realized he had served two cups. France smirked.
“I didn’t ask for tea,” she mused.
Both teams had entered the field and England sat on the sofa despite France’s hand ending right behind his neck. He would have sat elsewhere but there wasn’t any other spot in the damn room…
“It’s not for you.”
“Two cups. You like living dangerously.”
“I’m in the same room as you; it’s enough to be considered as suicidal. I’ll wash the dishes anyway, so don’t bother…”
“So flamboyant,” she cut him, “You dealing with my kitchen.”
England felt her hand moving, fingers brushing his neck. It was as light as a feather and uncomfortably soothing; he shuddered and coiled back.
“I wasn’t cooking!”
“It’s always about cooking. Do you have something to hide? The icing of the cake?”
“Why would you want me to hide anything? It’s your bloody damn kitchen, and no, I’ve not found the dildo you hide there.”
Then England remembered the blue tea box, and his blush spread. The English team scored.
It had been unexpected, a quick charge the French team would have usually averted. Lack of concentration, tiredness mostly - England had heard France complained about the shitty schedule of her players and their overbooked agenda, but who cared? It was done, and no excuse would make up for it.
He had hoped to see disgust or scorn on France’s face but she was only shocked, her eyes filled with stupor and questions and wonders. She stopped breathing from the shock, her mouth slowly gaping, and her movement stilled for a few seconds. She wasn't hurt in anyway, but England could say she was aching for her boys, from the sadness of knowing when a battle was about to be lost and when the fighters didn't deserve it. England had never expected the French team to put up such a challenge. His pride flared, and he smiled. He was winning. His own boys scored a try. After damn forty minutes they found a hole in the defense, and now they were at it again.
England felt his voice ring into his head from joy, that exhilarating feeling relishing the whole tension of his body in one movement, and from hope, and France's hand tightening around his own, gripping him, as he was about to rise, jump and sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”. He had no flag to wave so instead he took France's hand and kissed it in a conquering move, then her wrist, and then he took her face, and he kissed her.
"Britannia, tea of the crown?"
"Oh, so you found that tea. And you're going to make me drink some."
"Victory is sweet."
He kissed her to make her shut up. She only smirked. Her arms went around him, loosely at first, before pressing her closer. He played fair, he would triumph today and she admitted it because it was rugby and rugby was all about being a gentleman: Drinking and fucking each other with consent, no wounded pride, because revenge would be sweeter the next match and that match couldn’t come soon enough. Last year she had won and he had loved her as if there was no tomorrow. She was a worthy opponent and she would force him to make love to her, because she was as strong as he.
France disentangled herself from him and took off her dress over her head. She wore no bra, and his hard-on was obvious as he proceeded in muffling his head between her breasts. He admitted he liked them quite a lot. The television zoomed on Wilkinson's crotch, on Wilkinson playing with his shorts. France straddled England, only smiling at the bias of her commentators.
"Nice butt, isn't it?"
"You prefer mine, anyway," England grumbled, removing his tie. France pouted. She loved ties; how she could grab them to pull him towards her. It was only fair, he could only touch her skin, not even undress her from his gaze. He took off his shirt as well.
"I can have it, it's different."
"Be happy, I am about to kick yours."
France laughed. "Your team played so good. And mine did so well."
She bowed and kissed him chastely on his lips, waiting for him to open. Instead he pulled her close, her chest against him, his arm around her and the cheers of the crowd in the air. He would have thought he'd be rough and harsh but she was right: What was important was the game.
She twisted and rumbled, fighting over his belt, and his trousers. They both squirmed to get rid of their underwear, half moaning from touching inadvertently, half laughing at the ridiculous of the situation. A bit more to the right, France in equilibrium above him and her panties refusing to leave her leg, his skin loudly fritting against the sofa. In the end, he chuckled as he entered her, and she was hot and wet, like the field on the screen. He was good, she spasmed against him, gripping him more and more and after a while, it didn’t matter anymore that the French team missed a try from a scratch and that England was about to win because it was about them now before everything turned white, sweaty and breathless.
England remembered that when he had left that night, a little tipsy, France had kissed him on the mouth, her hand on his beloved butt as she nicely told him goodbye. See you not next year, assbutt, with a bit of hope.
He couldn’t wait for the World Cup to come.
Notes :
- The Crunch is the match between France and England during the Six Nations tournament, a European rugby championship. England was the favourite, but France played better than expected. England won in the end, but only managed to score tries during the second period.
- Jonny Wilkinson is an English rugby player. When he entered the field, the French camera did focus on his hands playing his short, while the commentators were shamelessly biased about how great he is.
- Mariage Frères, le Palais des Thés and Damman Frères are French brands of tea.
- Mariage Frères released a serie of tea about ‘calligraphy’. Each tea had a name from different countries, written differently. The one about France was the Tea of Enlightenment while the one about Great Britain was Britannia, Tea of the Crown.
- France and England are going to meet during the Rugby World Cup 2011.
Author :
bottleinmyboot
Rating/Warning(s): NC17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): England/fem!France
Summary: as usual, France and England watch the Crunch together.
Notes : beta-ed by the lovely d_riderkohaku
They had a tradition amongst the countless traditions they still respected: Always spend the Crunch at home. Together. At first, they would always go to England’s flat, listening to the match on the radio or watching it on TV when Arthur finally decided to install one in his living room. Sometimes, they’d go to Southern France where rugby was more of a big deal than elsewhere in the country and where the sun was brighter. But as time moved on and things evolved, rugby grew popular to the point where even France could air it in direct now. They didn’t go to England’s as much as before and this year was no exception.
England had travelled to Paris. The game was in Twickenham. He’d spend the afternoon at France as she had spent the previous year as his guest, and as always, she’ll be welcomed the next season when she hosts the Crunch again. But this time he went only to get his arm crushed by France’s fingers as her grip tightened from stress and excitation. A few seconds before the end of the period the score was even but, England had felt his rival’s knee upon his own, and the rest of her pressed against him, for at least a good twenty minutes.
He couldn’t win on every field and he started to have cramps, concentrating far too hard on the match in front of him to forget the rest. France tended to grab the closest thing next to her to strangle when watching a rugby match; her new victim was his arm. He had complained, she hasn’t let him go, and England had got distracted.
Ranting didn’t work. Insults didn’t either. It was happening every damn year and he still couldn’t get used to it. He had to react.
“I need tea.”
He aimed for harshness but France’s answer sounded like a whip.
“Shut the fuck up England. You can restrain yourself for a few seconds, can’t you?”
“I am the guest; I’m in my right when I ask to be correctly treated.”
“Serve yourself then! You know where the tea is! Stop talking!”
“Please.”
The referee magically whistled for the pause at that moment and France let England go almost immediately with a sigh of contentment. She was a mess, a delicate and proud mess. The fear of the first minutes had disappeared from her eyes along with England’s hope for a quick and hard victory. For whatever reason, a reason that wasn’t very difficult to guess, the French team had decided to play well. To defy. To threaten.
Even if humiliation was probably out of the order now, England couldn’t complain. Rugby was better when the opponent resisted - the Crunch then had a special taste. The victory was exhilarating, like an intense make out session with him blindfolded, attached to a bed, and a lady between his legs.
But his way to deal with it, fairplay and courtesy tended to make France pout and say that he was too much of a gentleman (at least before he drank the hell out of it, pissed in a street and ended his evening in a French police station). A quick glance at her trying to put her hair back in order and her sweaty skin made him worry about how he was going to survive the next forty minutes. With the sloppy field, the wet grass and the increase of testosterone, the players were nearly making love in front of them and there was no way she could have missed it.
Bugger.
“And don’t you dare touch anything else in my kitchen, you moron!” was the last thing he heard from France as he left the living room.
France obviously knew him by heart and had placed the usual Twinning portions in reach in the cupboard; just in front of her coffee box and her other tea bags. If he hadn’t been curious of the other perfumes she owned, England wouldn’t have noticed that there was more than only one brand displayed in front of him and that he surprisingly had never heard of some of the teas.
Le Palais des Thés, Damman Frères, Mariage Frères… There may have been more, but those were the first he encountered and his language fail wouldn’t have suffered more. Every name was in French and one could assume they were all French. Though in this globalized world, some doubts may arise. But how crazy it was to discover a forest of French tea hiding behind some Twinnings.
Something was off. Puzzled, England took one box out after the other, putting them on the counter.
He had been to France’s countless time, far too much for his taste, but he couldn’t remember a single time where the damn Nation had treated him with anything but Twinnings. Not even some Russian tea. She was always the one cooking for him when he had been invited; at those occasions the tea was already warm and ready for him next to a slice of chocolate cake; he had taken her courtesy for far too granted.
Her collection of boxes was too big to be that recent; at least fifteen packages from all size and colours - yes, even a flashy blue thin tube that could be put in other use, but no way had she bought it for that purpose, had she?
England had the nagging suspicion he wasn’t supposed to have discovered it. Why? Good question. He knew France drank tea from time to time; she even had a reserve to treat her visitors, there was no tasty blackmail potential there. Randomly choosing a box, one in the shape of a black urn, he decided to give it a try and opened the screwtop. He gulped.
“What the hell, ‘Saint Valentin’, damn expected from a frog!”
Throwing a quick look toward the door, he guessed he still had a few minutes before the match started again. He wouldn’t dare be late, and it was not part of his habit to get surprised by his favourite enemy sniffing every tea in her kitchen. His cheeks reddened at that prospect. In any case he would blame it on his addiction.
The Valentine tea smelled good; simple but original, earl grey with a hint of mallow. But the box he took next was violet and made his loin burned.
France hadn’t moved from her place and when England got back to the living-room, she was frowning at him, her arms spread wide on the sofa and her hair back to where it was supposed to be. It took England a few seconds to realize she was not glaring at him but at the tray in his hands and at the two cups he was bringing with him. So what, mismatched cups. That wasn’t Hell. Hell was he hadn’t realized he had served two cups. France smirked.
“I didn’t ask for tea,” she mused.
Both teams had entered the field and England sat on the sofa despite France’s hand ending right behind his neck. He would have sat elsewhere but there wasn’t any other spot in the damn room…
“It’s not for you.”
“Two cups. You like living dangerously.”
“I’m in the same room as you; it’s enough to be considered as suicidal. I’ll wash the dishes anyway, so don’t bother…”
“So flamboyant,” she cut him, “You dealing with my kitchen.”
England felt her hand moving, fingers brushing his neck. It was as light as a feather and uncomfortably soothing; he shuddered and coiled back.
“I wasn’t cooking!”
“It’s always about cooking. Do you have something to hide? The icing of the cake?”
“Why would you want me to hide anything? It’s your bloody damn kitchen, and no, I’ve not found the dildo you hide there.”
Then England remembered the blue tea box, and his blush spread. The English team scored.
It had been unexpected, a quick charge the French team would have usually averted. Lack of concentration, tiredness mostly - England had heard France complained about the shitty schedule of her players and their overbooked agenda, but who cared? It was done, and no excuse would make up for it.
He had hoped to see disgust or scorn on France’s face but she was only shocked, her eyes filled with stupor and questions and wonders. She stopped breathing from the shock, her mouth slowly gaping, and her movement stilled for a few seconds. She wasn't hurt in anyway, but England could say she was aching for her boys, from the sadness of knowing when a battle was about to be lost and when the fighters didn't deserve it. England had never expected the French team to put up such a challenge. His pride flared, and he smiled. He was winning. His own boys scored a try. After damn forty minutes they found a hole in the defense, and now they were at it again.
England felt his voice ring into his head from joy, that exhilarating feeling relishing the whole tension of his body in one movement, and from hope, and France's hand tightening around his own, gripping him, as he was about to rise, jump and sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”. He had no flag to wave so instead he took France's hand and kissed it in a conquering move, then her wrist, and then he took her face, and he kissed her.
"Britannia, tea of the crown?"
"Oh, so you found that tea. And you're going to make me drink some."
"Victory is sweet."
He kissed her to make her shut up. She only smirked. Her arms went around him, loosely at first, before pressing her closer. He played fair, he would triumph today and she admitted it because it was rugby and rugby was all about being a gentleman: Drinking and fucking each other with consent, no wounded pride, because revenge would be sweeter the next match and that match couldn’t come soon enough. Last year she had won and he had loved her as if there was no tomorrow. She was a worthy opponent and she would force him to make love to her, because she was as strong as he.
France disentangled herself from him and took off her dress over her head. She wore no bra, and his hard-on was obvious as he proceeded in muffling his head between her breasts. He admitted he liked them quite a lot. The television zoomed on Wilkinson's crotch, on Wilkinson playing with his shorts. France straddled England, only smiling at the bias of her commentators.
"Nice butt, isn't it?"
"You prefer mine, anyway," England grumbled, removing his tie. France pouted. She loved ties; how she could grab them to pull him towards her. It was only fair, he could only touch her skin, not even undress her from his gaze. He took off his shirt as well.
"I can have it, it's different."
"Be happy, I am about to kick yours."
France laughed. "Your team played so good. And mine did so well."
She bowed and kissed him chastely on his lips, waiting for him to open. Instead he pulled her close, her chest against him, his arm around her and the cheers of the crowd in the air. He would have thought he'd be rough and harsh but she was right: What was important was the game.
She twisted and rumbled, fighting over his belt, and his trousers. They both squirmed to get rid of their underwear, half moaning from touching inadvertently, half laughing at the ridiculous of the situation. A bit more to the right, France in equilibrium above him and her panties refusing to leave her leg, his skin loudly fritting against the sofa. In the end, he chuckled as he entered her, and she was hot and wet, like the field on the screen. He was good, she spasmed against him, gripping him more and more and after a while, it didn’t matter anymore that the French team missed a try from a scratch and that England was about to win because it was about them now before everything turned white, sweaty and breathless.
England remembered that when he had left that night, a little tipsy, France had kissed him on the mouth, her hand on his beloved butt as she nicely told him goodbye. See you not next year, assbutt, with a bit of hope.
He couldn’t wait for the World Cup to come.
Notes :
- The Crunch is the match between France and England during the Six Nations tournament, a European rugby championship. England was the favourite, but France played better than expected. England won in the end, but only managed to score tries during the second period.
- Jonny Wilkinson is an English rugby player. When he entered the field, the French camera did focus on his hands playing his short, while the commentators were shamelessly biased about how great he is.
- Mariage Frères, le Palais des Thés and Damman Frères are French brands of tea.
- Mariage Frères released a serie of tea about ‘calligraphy’. Each tea had a name from different countries, written differently. The one about France was the Tea of Enlightenment while the one about Great Britain was Britannia, Tea of the Crown.
- France and England are going to meet during the Rugby World Cup 2011.