[fic] An English City Garden
Title: An English City Garden
Author: tiger_azul
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: France/England
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff / Humour
Word Count: around 1560
Notes: a pressie for puffitheinsane as part of the FrUK gift exchange on what_the_fruk. I hope you like it! Merry Chrimble :D
Disclaimer: I own nada *sigh*
Summary: Much to France’s delight, he discovers England has a dirty little secret.
An English City Garden
Squinting in the dazzling sunlight, France smiled when he saw what England was doing. It had been no shock to him that England had not returned his calls, as he rarely did unless he wanted something in return. But this was a surprise.
He crept beneath the ample canopy of weeping willow to get a better view. His old rival’s shirtless torso gleamed with perspiration as he repeatedly plunged his spade into the soil, rivulets of sweat sliding down his back, the knots of muscle forming mesmerising patterns with each thrust. It was one of the hottest British summers on record, and as France fingered his collar, he was sure that the temperature had risen by a few more degrees.
Ramming the spade hard into the earth so that it stood upright, England paused for a few moments to survey his handiwork, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He grabbed a nearby bottle of water and gulped it with relish. It was at this moment that France decided to spring out of the pendulous willow branches, causing England to choke and splutter as he lurched towards a t-shirt slung on a bench.
“Dieu,” France laughed as England hurriedly pulled the t-shirt over his head. “Why are you even bothering? It is not as if you are concealing anything I haven’t had before.”
“Bugger off!” England retorted, eliciting another chuckle from his visitor.
“You are as charming as ever, Angleterre.” France wore an expression not unlike the cat who caught the canary. “Oh, and planting geraniums, are we? You would have made a great wife!"
"Sh-shut up."
"I, on the other hand,” France said, laying a hand on England’s arm, “would have just sent you a bouquet and we could have skipped straight to the sex."
England quickly swatted the errant hand away. "Get out of my house! What the hell are you even doing here, anyway?"
France ran his fingers through his long, blond waves.
“I was just wondering what you had been up to,” he answered with an eloquent shrug. “I had no idea you had been amusing yourself with…” France picked up one of the many gardening implements scattered around. “…hoes.”
“That,” England advised him dryly, “is a rake, not a hoe. And the garden was in a bit of a state, so I decided to clear it up a little.”
As France glanced around him, it was obvious that England had been doing more than a spot of tidying, even to his untrained eye. The garden was a modest plot in the darkest depths of London, but England had transformed it into an urban oasis, blazing with sunburnt and indigo pansies, milky-white irises, powdery purple lavender and other plants France didn’t know the names of, but which were all incredibly pretty. Not that he was going to admit that to England, of course.
“Really, you should employ someone to do this sort of thing. It cannot be any good for your hands.”
“Not everyone is obsessed with manicures, France.”
“No,” France agreed with a wistful sigh as he regarded his immaculate fingernails. “More’s the pity.”
Simply tutting in response, England turned away from him and took another swig of water.
“And may I ask what is going on with the balls?”
“coughcoughcough What…?” England managed as he wiped away the water he had spat down his chin and onto his t-shirt.
France nodded at an assortment of balls of varying colours and sizes at the far corner of the garden. “You seem to have quite a collection over there.”
“Oh,” England breathed, his relief almost palpable. “Yes. The balls. They’re one of those inexplicable inevitabilities of life - you always find them in overgrown gardens. And no-one ever knows where they’ve come from.”
“Fascinating…” murmured France in a tone that suggested it was anything but. “Well, in any case, I must compliment you on your nice, big hose, Angleterre.” He paused to leer. “The sprinkler is très impressive.”
The lack of comment from England and the cerise glow to his ears indicated to France that he was succeeding in really annoying him. He paced around the garden watching the butterflies lazily drift from flower to flower, all the while feeling England’s death glare on the back of his head.
“You’re growing fruit?” France asked, making his way towards the tree at the centre of the lawn. He removed one of the dark plums from a lower branch.
“Yes, but unfortunately the plums aren’t so great this year,” England replied, jumping at the chance to distract France from further insinuations. “They’re juicy, but they bruise so easily. And don’t even get me started on the problems I’ve been having with aphids.”
France took a slow, sensual bite, his perfect white teeth piercing the fruit’s dusky skin. England marvelled at his perverted ability to make even the simple act of eating look downright obscene.
“Oui, they are luscious and very sweet,” France said, licking the amber liquid staining his lips. He winked at England. “But do not worry, I will be sure to handle your succulent plums with care.”
Tossing the stone into the bushes, France licked the remainder of the juice from his fingers and tried not to laugh at England’s tight look of barely repressed outrage. Clearly hoping that France would eventually get bored and leave him alone if he continued working, England seized a hand-trowel and with grim determination began to bed out the geraniums.
But France was not that easily dissuaded.
“I see you have been busy playing with wood.”
England nearly dropped his hand-trowel.
“Ex-excuse me?”
France motioned towards the partially-constructed shed next to England’s newly-acquired ball collection.
“Errr… Yes, it isn’t quite finished yet,” England explained. “I haven’t had time.”
“Well, if you need any assistance with it’s erection, please let me know.”
This time, England did lose hold of the hand-trowel, but he quickly picked it up and resumed planting as if nothing had happened.
“That’s… unusually kind of you. Thanks,” England said, his voice taut.
“Ce n’est pas grave, I would be happy to. Or, perhaps you need me to help spread fertiliser on your growths? Or with planting seeds?”
England froze and France knelt beside him to whisper in his ear.
“I could plough your furrow, if you like…”
With a roar, England leapt to his feet and flung his trowel down in red-faced fury. He could feel a vein throb unpleasantly on his forehead.
“That is it! I’ve had it with you! Is this why you came here, frog? To torment me with bad horticultural innuendos?”
“Calm yourself, s'il vous plaît,” France said, snickering. “You look as if you are about to give yourself a stroke.”
Perhaps he’s right, England thought, attempting to steady his breathing. If I carry on at this rate, I’m going to have a sodding aneurysm.
“And where is the fun in that when I am more than willing to oblige?” France asked, raising an elegant eyebrow.
Firing a violent torrent of curses that would have made a sailor on ship leave blush, England forcibly grasped France by the shoulders and propelled him down the garden path.
“Getoutgetout GET THE HELL OUT!”
France was laughing so hard he ached, but his laughter drew to an abrupt halt when something by the arbour caught his attention.
“Ohhh!” Breaking free from England, France bounded over to the carmine-petalled flowers with dark, glossy leaves.
“Oh, these roses are simply magnifique.”
England scanned the apparently innocent compliment for sarcasm and/or double entendre, and was momentarily taken aback when it actually seemed to be genuine and smut-free.
“Umm… thanks…”
France bent closer to the roses and closed his eyes as he breathed in their perfume.
“And of course they are for me… You know how much I adore them.”
“No!” England replied a little too quickly and a little too loudly. “I hate to break it to you, frog, but you are not, in fact, the centre of the universe. No English garden would be complete without roses.”
“I must admit, they are one of the few things you do best, rosbif. Along with binge drinking, teenage pregnancy and queuing…”
France did not need to look up to know that the look England was aiming at him could have frozen hell itself. He chuckled and brushed his fingers along the velvet petals admiringly.
“Truly beautiful, but thorny all over. If you do not know how to pluck them, it may all end in blood and pain. But, it is worth the risk to inhale the sweetness within.” He was not looking at the roses any longer, but directly at England, his sky blue eyes shining. “And I am always wiling to take that risk.”
“You do talk bollocks sometimes,” England told him, but there wasn’t any real venom in his words. He looked faintly embarrassed.
“May I take some home?”
“If you want,” England said, shrugging non-committally. However, anyone perceptible to such things would have noticed a slight quirk of his lips.
“Merci. And of course you should have a gift in return.”
The kiss was a heady mix of sugar-sweet plum juice and rich earthy soil with smooth undertones of rose. Soft yet rough, demanding yet giving.
“But I’m all sweaty,” England protested, pulling away.
“Oui,” said France, smiling a searing smile. “And so hot.”
Notes
The second part of puffitheinsane's request was:
I will love you forever/marry you/have your babies if this exchange (or any variation thereof) is used:
"Oh, Angleterre, planting geraniums, are we? You would have made a great wife!"
"SH-SHUT UP."
"I would've just sent you a bouquet and we could have skipped straight
to the make up sex."
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Just in case you may be wondering why this fic and evokers's have different versions of these same lines ^_^
Author: tiger_azul
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: France/England
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff / Humour
Word Count: around 1560
Notes: a pressie for puffitheinsane as part of the FrUK gift exchange on what_the_fruk. I hope you like it! Merry Chrimble :D
Disclaimer: I own nada *sigh*
Summary: Much to France’s delight, he discovers England has a dirty little secret.
An English City Garden
Squinting in the dazzling sunlight, France smiled when he saw what England was doing. It had been no shock to him that England had not returned his calls, as he rarely did unless he wanted something in return. But this was a surprise.
He crept beneath the ample canopy of weeping willow to get a better view. His old rival’s shirtless torso gleamed with perspiration as he repeatedly plunged his spade into the soil, rivulets of sweat sliding down his back, the knots of muscle forming mesmerising patterns with each thrust. It was one of the hottest British summers on record, and as France fingered his collar, he was sure that the temperature had risen by a few more degrees.
Ramming the spade hard into the earth so that it stood upright, England paused for a few moments to survey his handiwork, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He grabbed a nearby bottle of water and gulped it with relish. It was at this moment that France decided to spring out of the pendulous willow branches, causing England to choke and splutter as he lurched towards a t-shirt slung on a bench.
“Dieu,” France laughed as England hurriedly pulled the t-shirt over his head. “Why are you even bothering? It is not as if you are concealing anything I haven’t had before.”
“Bugger off!” England retorted, eliciting another chuckle from his visitor.
“You are as charming as ever, Angleterre.” France wore an expression not unlike the cat who caught the canary. “Oh, and planting geraniums, are we? You would have made a great wife!"
"Sh-shut up."
"I, on the other hand,” France said, laying a hand on England’s arm, “would have just sent you a bouquet and we could have skipped straight to the sex."
England quickly swatted the errant hand away. "Get out of my house! What the hell are you even doing here, anyway?"
France ran his fingers through his long, blond waves.
“I was just wondering what you had been up to,” he answered with an eloquent shrug. “I had no idea you had been amusing yourself with…” France picked up one of the many gardening implements scattered around. “…hoes.”
“That,” England advised him dryly, “is a rake, not a hoe. And the garden was in a bit of a state, so I decided to clear it up a little.”
As France glanced around him, it was obvious that England had been doing more than a spot of tidying, even to his untrained eye. The garden was a modest plot in the darkest depths of London, but England had transformed it into an urban oasis, blazing with sunburnt and indigo pansies, milky-white irises, powdery purple lavender and other plants France didn’t know the names of, but which were all incredibly pretty. Not that he was going to admit that to England, of course.
“Really, you should employ someone to do this sort of thing. It cannot be any good for your hands.”
“Not everyone is obsessed with manicures, France.”
“No,” France agreed with a wistful sigh as he regarded his immaculate fingernails. “More’s the pity.”
Simply tutting in response, England turned away from him and took another swig of water.
“And may I ask what is going on with the balls?”
“coughcoughcough What…?” England managed as he wiped away the water he had spat down his chin and onto his t-shirt.
France nodded at an assortment of balls of varying colours and sizes at the far corner of the garden. “You seem to have quite a collection over there.”
“Oh,” England breathed, his relief almost palpable. “Yes. The balls. They’re one of those inexplicable inevitabilities of life - you always find them in overgrown gardens. And no-one ever knows where they’ve come from.”
“Fascinating…” murmured France in a tone that suggested it was anything but. “Well, in any case, I must compliment you on your nice, big hose, Angleterre.” He paused to leer. “The sprinkler is très impressive.”
The lack of comment from England and the cerise glow to his ears indicated to France that he was succeeding in really annoying him. He paced around the garden watching the butterflies lazily drift from flower to flower, all the while feeling England’s death glare on the back of his head.
“You’re growing fruit?” France asked, making his way towards the tree at the centre of the lawn. He removed one of the dark plums from a lower branch.
“Yes, but unfortunately the plums aren’t so great this year,” England replied, jumping at the chance to distract France from further insinuations. “They’re juicy, but they bruise so easily. And don’t even get me started on the problems I’ve been having with aphids.”
France took a slow, sensual bite, his perfect white teeth piercing the fruit’s dusky skin. England marvelled at his perverted ability to make even the simple act of eating look downright obscene.
“Oui, they are luscious and very sweet,” France said, licking the amber liquid staining his lips. He winked at England. “But do not worry, I will be sure to handle your succulent plums with care.”
Tossing the stone into the bushes, France licked the remainder of the juice from his fingers and tried not to laugh at England’s tight look of barely repressed outrage. Clearly hoping that France would eventually get bored and leave him alone if he continued working, England seized a hand-trowel and with grim determination began to bed out the geraniums.
But France was not that easily dissuaded.
“I see you have been busy playing with wood.”
England nearly dropped his hand-trowel.
“Ex-excuse me?”
France motioned towards the partially-constructed shed next to England’s newly-acquired ball collection.
“Errr… Yes, it isn’t quite finished yet,” England explained. “I haven’t had time.”
“Well, if you need any assistance with it’s erection, please let me know.”
This time, England did lose hold of the hand-trowel, but he quickly picked it up and resumed planting as if nothing had happened.
“That’s… unusually kind of you. Thanks,” England said, his voice taut.
“Ce n’est pas grave, I would be happy to. Or, perhaps you need me to help spread fertiliser on your growths? Or with planting seeds?”
England froze and France knelt beside him to whisper in his ear.
“I could plough your furrow, if you like…”
With a roar, England leapt to his feet and flung his trowel down in red-faced fury. He could feel a vein throb unpleasantly on his forehead.
“That is it! I’ve had it with you! Is this why you came here, frog? To torment me with bad horticultural innuendos?”
“Calm yourself, s'il vous plaît,” France said, snickering. “You look as if you are about to give yourself a stroke.”
Perhaps he’s right, England thought, attempting to steady his breathing. If I carry on at this rate, I’m going to have a sodding aneurysm.
“And where is the fun in that when I am more than willing to oblige?” France asked, raising an elegant eyebrow.
Firing a violent torrent of curses that would have made a sailor on ship leave blush, England forcibly grasped France by the shoulders and propelled him down the garden path.
“Getoutgetout GET THE HELL OUT!”
France was laughing so hard he ached, but his laughter drew to an abrupt halt when something by the arbour caught his attention.
“Ohhh!” Breaking free from England, France bounded over to the carmine-petalled flowers with dark, glossy leaves.
“Oh, these roses are simply magnifique.”
England scanned the apparently innocent compliment for sarcasm and/or double entendre, and was momentarily taken aback when it actually seemed to be genuine and smut-free.
“Umm… thanks…”
France bent closer to the roses and closed his eyes as he breathed in their perfume.
“And of course they are for me… You know how much I adore them.”
“No!” England replied a little too quickly and a little too loudly. “I hate to break it to you, frog, but you are not, in fact, the centre of the universe. No English garden would be complete without roses.”
“I must admit, they are one of the few things you do best, rosbif. Along with binge drinking, teenage pregnancy and queuing…”
France did not need to look up to know that the look England was aiming at him could have frozen hell itself. He chuckled and brushed his fingers along the velvet petals admiringly.
“Truly beautiful, but thorny all over. If you do not know how to pluck them, it may all end in blood and pain. But, it is worth the risk to inhale the sweetness within.” He was not looking at the roses any longer, but directly at England, his sky blue eyes shining. “And I am always wiling to take that risk.”
“You do talk bollocks sometimes,” England told him, but there wasn’t any real venom in his words. He looked faintly embarrassed.
“May I take some home?”
“If you want,” England said, shrugging non-committally. However, anyone perceptible to such things would have noticed a slight quirk of his lips.
“Merci. And of course you should have a gift in return.”
The kiss was a heady mix of sugar-sweet plum juice and rich earthy soil with smooth undertones of rose. Soft yet rough, demanding yet giving.
“But I’m all sweaty,” England protested, pulling away.
“Oui,” said France, smiling a searing smile. “And so hot.”
Notes
The second part of puffitheinsane's request was:
I will love you forever/marry you/have your babies if this exchange (or any variation thereof) is used:
"Oh, Angleterre, planting geraniums, are we? You would have made a great wife!"
"SH-SHUT UP."
"I would've just sent you a bouquet and we could have skipped straight
to the make up sex."
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Just in case you may be wondering why this fic and evokers's have different versions of these same lines ^_^