[fic] The Art of Negotiation
Title: The Art of Negotiation
Author: tiger_azul
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/France
Rating: R
Genre: Smut Romance
Word Count: 1880 (excluding notes)
Warnings: bad language, slash (duh!), 16th century smut, et cetera and so forth. Also contains codpieces (and the contents thereof). Forsooth!
Disclaimer: APH belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, the lucky thing!
Summary: It is 1526 and France is worried about the rising power of the Holy Roman Empire. He calls on his old rival England for help, but will he be able to persuade him?
The Art of Negotiation
1526, England
Advancing down one of the sandy paths along the terrace, France had to grudgingly acknowledge that the castle grounds were really quite superb. It was a golden May afternoon and the gardens were awash with jewel-bright reds, yellows and purples. Spheres and sculptures decorated the verdant lawns and looming pointed obelisks formed a square around the magnificent fountain of white marble at the centre. At the middle of the pool, rising from the water lilies, was a dolphin-tailed sea god, and perched at the fountain’s edge with his back to France, was England, dressed in sable and burgundy velvet. He appeared to be reading and had either not heard France’s approach, or was simply ignoring him. As he noisily cleared his throat, France suspected it was the latter.
“Ah, good day, France. I would say this is a pleasant surprise, though, of course, it is neither,” said England, snapping his book shut. He placed it to the side and gave France a wide, cattish grin. France did not return the smile.
“You were expecting me?” he asked, his eyes not quite meeting England’s own.
“Oh yes. Ever since Spain joined the Holy Roman Empire, I knew it was only a matter of time before you would grace me with your presence,” England replied with a slight sneer as he rose to his feet.
France’s fingers itched to slap that self-satisfied look from his face. The little island nation was truly insufferable! But he had known that England was going to be this way, because that is how it had always been between them. Often they were evenly matched, but now and again, the balance would shift, and whenever it did, no matter how slightly, the other nation would scent the blood in the air and pounce.
“Perhaps you would care to take a stroll through the garden? The orchard is particularly charming at this time of the year and it would be a shame to not take advantage of this glorious sunshine.”
France bit back a derisive remark about how England always had to comment on the weather. This was surely going to kill him, but he was going to have to be nice.
“That sounds… lovely,” he said instead. Mon Dieu, he thought, how I hate diplomacy!
England whistled a jaunty folk tune as they walked. France stole occasional glances at him and glowered. It was his godforsaken overstated cheeriness that peeved France more than anything. On reaching the orchard, France finally could bear it no longer and decided to get to the crux of the matter.
“Italy and I are forming a League opposing the Holy Roman Empire,” he announced, the words spilling out in a tumbling rush, as if the quicker he said them, the less painful it would be. “We would like you to join.”
“Do you not think that the apple trees are delightful at this season?” England asked, pointing to the pale blossoms.
His nostrils flared slightly, but France managed to keep his voice level. “Perhaps you did not hear me. I said that I am creating a League with Italy against the Holy Roman Empire and that we would like you to join us.”
“Of course you would,” said England, rubbing a hand against his blond beard. There was mischief in his green eyes. “But, pray tell, why should I?”
Forgetting his resolution to remain calm, France snapped, “Because the Empire is getting far too powerful! No-one has had this much territory since Charlemagne! Can you not see how dangerous it is? How explosive?”
“That as may be, but you have the might of Italy on your side,” England smirked. “Why must I join this League?”
“Because…” France swallowed and closed his eyes. He did not want to see England’s smug expression. The expression he himself would be wearing had their roles had been reversed. France’s face burned a furious crimson. “…Because, I need you. And you know it, damn you.”
“Quite,” said England, crossing his arms and languorously leaning against an apple tree. “But the question is, France, do I need you? Holy Roman Empire is fairly amicable towards me at the moment and I would rather that state of affairs continue.”
“I am not going to beg, you Angleterre!” France shouted, his eyes narrowed. “Do you think I would be here, asking you, of all nations, if I could possibly help it? You, who declare war on me whenever my back is turned? You, whose monarch has the sheer audacity to claim that he is my king also?”
England made a coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like ‘Agincourt ’.
“That was over one hundred years ago! Are you really so pathetic that you need to cling on to these past glories?”
England shrugged. “At least the Empire isn’t holding any of my royal family hostage right now.”
France glared at him. The Battle of Pavia had been a catastrophe; he had been cast out of Italy, his king had been captured by the cursed Empire and the two princes were still prisoners. His troops had been annihilated on earth slippery with blood, surrounded by stinking, stinging fog from the thundering cannons and guns. And yet England stood before him, savouring his humiliation as he would a sweet pastry. France’s irresistible urge to slap the other nation resurfaced threefold.
“Look, France, I’m not unreasonable. In fact, you may consider me to be…” England licked his lips, his pause heavy with suggestion, “…open to negotiations if you like.”
France had clenched his fists so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms. Oh, how he hated that stupid, obnoxious nation. He was infuriating, maddening! As he lunged towards him, England was not sure if France was going to hit him or kiss him. In truth, neither was France himself. Though there did seem to be more hitting than kissing when they met these days, as could only be expected when they both had young, overconfident kings at the helm.
France thrust his full body weight against the other nation, pinning him to the tree, fiercely bringing his mouth down on England’s. “Why…” he managed between repeated, violent kisses, enjoying the coarseness of England’s beard chafing slightly against his clean-shaven cheeks, “…must I fuck you before you agree to anything I ask for?”
“Why…” murmured England as he started to wrench off the sleeves from France’s midnight blue doublet without bothering to undo the fastenings first, “…must you ask the most stupid questions?”
“Dieu! Be careful with that!” France shrieked as England tore at his clothing. “It is made from the finest silk and sewn with pearls!”
“Idiot. You are France, it is not as if you cannot get yourself another bloody doublet!”
A distasteful sound left France’s lips. “That,” he said, tilting up his chin haughtily and breaking away from England’s arms, “est sans rapport avec le sujet. It is beside the point. I do not destroy beautiful things for no good reason! Though I do not expect you, with your sartorial ignorance, to even begin to understand!”
England chuckled throatily. “Oho France, do not play coy with me. I know you like it rough.”
With slow deliberation, he ripped one of France’s sleeves. Hatred flashed in France’s face as he slammed England against the tree again, causing stray petals to flutter from the branches and land in England’s sandy hair like snowflakes. He bit England’s lower lip harshly in castigation, forced open his mouth with his tongue. England gave a low growl of pleasure as their tongues slid over each other, again and again, each trying to exert their dominance over the other, their lips wet with their shared desire.
Hurriedly, hungrily, they peeled away each other’s clothes, dropping them into the grass in heaps, France quickly forgetting about taking care of his exquisite doublet. Soon they were only clad in their hose. France roughly caressed the clean lines of England’s slight yet muscular chest as if he were attempting to devour him with his hands, delighting in sensing England’s grateful shudder as he yielded to the bliss of France’s embrace.
Oh, how France hated him! But how he longed for him, too…
France pulled England’s hips towards him. He grabbed the decorated pouch around the crotch of England’s hose, his deft fingers making light work of the string ties holding it closed, aching to touch the hardness that lay within. Judging from England’s quick, shallow pants, the feeling was mutual. It had been too long for the both of them.
“Sacré bleu, Angleterre! How much stuffing does this thing contain?” France laughed as he held up the oversized codpiece and inspected it’s contents.
“And what are these?” he asked, pulling out a small dagger and a drawstring bag. “The family jewels?”
A deep blush suffused England’s pale cheeks. France considered it was fortunate that England was no longer wearing the burgundy velvet at that moment, or else it would have clashed horribly with his face. “I-I… I will have you know that it is presently the fashion at court for codpieces to excessively padded. It is not because I am in need of it!”
France smiled devilishly at him, causing England to turn a more brilliant shade of scarlet.
“That I know,” he purred, taking England into his hand.
“Ohhh…” England’s eyelids fluttered at France’s delicious, soft, slow strokes. The fingers of France’s free hand danced along England’s inner thigh, travelling tantalisingly upwards and squeezing gently.
“Are you convinced yet, Angleterre?” France whispered into his ear, nipping at the lobe. “Or must I negotiate further with you?”
Drunk on desperate pleasure, England had lost the power of lucid speech. He groaned in reply. France smiled at that. He was the one in control now. France trailed hot kisses lower, lower and lower still down his chest. England shivered and gasped at the sensation of sudden wetness, twisting his fingers in France’s long hair.
“Slower… Please…” he breathed.
Obligingly, France started off gently then quickened the pace. From the frequency of England’s moans and the increasing intensity of his movements, France knew that he was on the verge of ecstasy. More than anything, France wanted to tip him over the edge. He wanted to see for himself how much power he had over his old rival.
Then, with a final buck of the hips, he came. In the moment of that shattering, surging wave, France heard England sigh his name, his real name, before collapsing into his arms, damp with sweat.
For some time afterwards, they lay under the blossom laden branches until the darkening dusk; their bodies pressed together, skin on skin, their fingers interlaced. Goosebumps trailed along France’s flesh as England traced a thumb along the scars scything across his back.
“Most of these are from me. I remember each one…” he said quietly.
“Mm.”
“But not this…”
England brushed a lurid, purplish wound at France’s left shoulder blade that had just started to scab over. France sucked the air through his teeth and winced.
“Pavia?”
“Oui,” France replied icily. He had not forgiven England for mocking him about it earlier. “Je te déteste, you do know that?”
England chuckled faintly into the crook of France's neck. “Oh yes. I hate you, too.”
Notes
In 1519, Charles I of Spain was elected Holy Roman Emperor, and with the land acquired in the Americas by his grandparents, Spain/the Holy Roman Empire was arguably the first European superpower. This upset both England and France (especially France) and as a result, Charles was forced to
fight very expensive and time consuming conflicts with France at the start of his reign.
Francis I didn’t do too well in his skirmishes with the HRE, his lowest point probably being captured by Charles’ army at the Battle of Pavia then being kicked out of the Italian states he’d recently conquered. In retaliation, the League of Cognac was formed between France, Italy and the Pope in 1526. England was asked to join, but was rather sneaky about it and helped to finance the group but not actually become part of the League. Plus, England had the naughty habit of invading France whenever the latter was distracted by the shiny things in Italy (Henry VIII liked to style himself as the King of England and France).
In summary, for a sizeable chunk of the sixteenth century, European politics were dominated by three power-hungry young kings engaging in a great deal of hyper-macho posturing.
Oh, and all that stuff about codpieces is true.
Author: tiger_azul
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/France
Rating: R
Genre: Smut Romance
Word Count: 1880 (excluding notes)
Warnings: bad language, slash (duh!), 16th century smut, et cetera and so forth. Also contains codpieces (and the contents thereof). Forsooth!
Disclaimer: APH belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, the lucky thing!
Summary: It is 1526 and France is worried about the rising power of the Holy Roman Empire. He calls on his old rival England for help, but will he be able to persuade him?
The Art of Negotiation
1526, England
Advancing down one of the sandy paths along the terrace, France had to grudgingly acknowledge that the castle grounds were really quite superb. It was a golden May afternoon and the gardens were awash with jewel-bright reds, yellows and purples. Spheres and sculptures decorated the verdant lawns and looming pointed obelisks formed a square around the magnificent fountain of white marble at the centre. At the middle of the pool, rising from the water lilies, was a dolphin-tailed sea god, and perched at the fountain’s edge with his back to France, was England, dressed in sable and burgundy velvet. He appeared to be reading and had either not heard France’s approach, or was simply ignoring him. As he noisily cleared his throat, France suspected it was the latter.
“Ah, good day, France. I would say this is a pleasant surprise, though, of course, it is neither,” said England, snapping his book shut. He placed it to the side and gave France a wide, cattish grin. France did not return the smile.
“You were expecting me?” he asked, his eyes not quite meeting England’s own.
“Oh yes. Ever since Spain joined the Holy Roman Empire, I knew it was only a matter of time before you would grace me with your presence,” England replied with a slight sneer as he rose to his feet.
France’s fingers itched to slap that self-satisfied look from his face. The little island nation was truly insufferable! But he had known that England was going to be this way, because that is how it had always been between them. Often they were evenly matched, but now and again, the balance would shift, and whenever it did, no matter how slightly, the other nation would scent the blood in the air and pounce.
“Perhaps you would care to take a stroll through the garden? The orchard is particularly charming at this time of the year and it would be a shame to not take advantage of this glorious sunshine.”
France bit back a derisive remark about how England always had to comment on the weather. This was surely going to kill him, but he was going to have to be nice.
“That sounds… lovely,” he said instead. Mon Dieu, he thought, how I hate diplomacy!
England whistled a jaunty folk tune as they walked. France stole occasional glances at him and glowered. It was his godforsaken overstated cheeriness that peeved France more than anything. On reaching the orchard, France finally could bear it no longer and decided to get to the crux of the matter.
“Italy and I are forming a League opposing the Holy Roman Empire,” he announced, the words spilling out in a tumbling rush, as if the quicker he said them, the less painful it would be. “We would like you to join.”
“Do you not think that the apple trees are delightful at this season?” England asked, pointing to the pale blossoms.
His nostrils flared slightly, but France managed to keep his voice level. “Perhaps you did not hear me. I said that I am creating a League with Italy against the Holy Roman Empire and that we would like you to join us.”
“Of course you would,” said England, rubbing a hand against his blond beard. There was mischief in his green eyes. “But, pray tell, why should I?”
Forgetting his resolution to remain calm, France snapped, “Because the Empire is getting far too powerful! No-one has had this much territory since Charlemagne! Can you not see how dangerous it is? How explosive?”
“That as may be, but you have the might of Italy on your side,” England smirked. “Why must I join this League?”
“Because…” France swallowed and closed his eyes. He did not want to see England’s smug expression. The expression he himself would be wearing had their roles had been reversed. France’s face burned a furious crimson. “…Because, I need you. And you know it, damn you.”
“Quite,” said England, crossing his arms and languorously leaning against an apple tree. “But the question is, France, do I need you? Holy Roman Empire is fairly amicable towards me at the moment and I would rather that state of affairs continue.”
“I am not going to beg, you Angleterre!” France shouted, his eyes narrowed. “Do you think I would be here, asking you, of all nations, if I could possibly help it? You, who declare war on me whenever my back is turned? You, whose monarch has the sheer audacity to claim that he is my king also?”
England made a coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like ‘Agincourt ’.
“That was over one hundred years ago! Are you really so pathetic that you need to cling on to these past glories?”
England shrugged. “At least the Empire isn’t holding any of my royal family hostage right now.”
France glared at him. The Battle of Pavia had been a catastrophe; he had been cast out of Italy, his king had been captured by the cursed Empire and the two princes were still prisoners. His troops had been annihilated on earth slippery with blood, surrounded by stinking, stinging fog from the thundering cannons and guns. And yet England stood before him, savouring his humiliation as he would a sweet pastry. France’s irresistible urge to slap the other nation resurfaced threefold.
“Look, France, I’m not unreasonable. In fact, you may consider me to be…” England licked his lips, his pause heavy with suggestion, “…open to negotiations if you like.”
France had clenched his fists so tightly that his nails were digging into his palms. Oh, how he hated that stupid, obnoxious nation. He was infuriating, maddening! As he lunged towards him, England was not sure if France was going to hit him or kiss him. In truth, neither was France himself. Though there did seem to be more hitting than kissing when they met these days, as could only be expected when they both had young, overconfident kings at the helm.
France thrust his full body weight against the other nation, pinning him to the tree, fiercely bringing his mouth down on England’s. “Why…” he managed between repeated, violent kisses, enjoying the coarseness of England’s beard chafing slightly against his clean-shaven cheeks, “…must I fuck you before you agree to anything I ask for?”
“Why…” murmured England as he started to wrench off the sleeves from France’s midnight blue doublet without bothering to undo the fastenings first, “…must you ask the most stupid questions?”
“Dieu! Be careful with that!” France shrieked as England tore at his clothing. “It is made from the finest silk and sewn with pearls!”
“Idiot. You are France, it is not as if you cannot get yourself another bloody doublet!”
A distasteful sound left France’s lips. “That,” he said, tilting up his chin haughtily and breaking away from England’s arms, “est sans rapport avec le sujet. It is beside the point. I do not destroy beautiful things for no good reason! Though I do not expect you, with your sartorial ignorance, to even begin to understand!”
England chuckled throatily. “Oho France, do not play coy with me. I know you like it rough.”
With slow deliberation, he ripped one of France’s sleeves. Hatred flashed in France’s face as he slammed England against the tree again, causing stray petals to flutter from the branches and land in England’s sandy hair like snowflakes. He bit England’s lower lip harshly in castigation, forced open his mouth with his tongue. England gave a low growl of pleasure as their tongues slid over each other, again and again, each trying to exert their dominance over the other, their lips wet with their shared desire.
Hurriedly, hungrily, they peeled away each other’s clothes, dropping them into the grass in heaps, France quickly forgetting about taking care of his exquisite doublet. Soon they were only clad in their hose. France roughly caressed the clean lines of England’s slight yet muscular chest as if he were attempting to devour him with his hands, delighting in sensing England’s grateful shudder as he yielded to the bliss of France’s embrace.
Oh, how France hated him! But how he longed for him, too…
France pulled England’s hips towards him. He grabbed the decorated pouch around the crotch of England’s hose, his deft fingers making light work of the string ties holding it closed, aching to touch the hardness that lay within. Judging from England’s quick, shallow pants, the feeling was mutual. It had been too long for the both of them.
“Sacré bleu, Angleterre! How much stuffing does this thing contain?” France laughed as he held up the oversized codpiece and inspected it’s contents.
“And what are these?” he asked, pulling out a small dagger and a drawstring bag. “The family jewels?”
A deep blush suffused England’s pale cheeks. France considered it was fortunate that England was no longer wearing the burgundy velvet at that moment, or else it would have clashed horribly with his face. “I-I… I will have you know that it is presently the fashion at court for codpieces to excessively padded. It is not because I am in need of it!”
France smiled devilishly at him, causing England to turn a more brilliant shade of scarlet.
“That I know,” he purred, taking England into his hand.
“Ohhh…” England’s eyelids fluttered at France’s delicious, soft, slow strokes. The fingers of France’s free hand danced along England’s inner thigh, travelling tantalisingly upwards and squeezing gently.
“Are you convinced yet, Angleterre?” France whispered into his ear, nipping at the lobe. “Or must I negotiate further with you?”
Drunk on desperate pleasure, England had lost the power of lucid speech. He groaned in reply. France smiled at that. He was the one in control now. France trailed hot kisses lower, lower and lower still down his chest. England shivered and gasped at the sensation of sudden wetness, twisting his fingers in France’s long hair.
“Slower… Please…” he breathed.
Obligingly, France started off gently then quickened the pace. From the frequency of England’s moans and the increasing intensity of his movements, France knew that he was on the verge of ecstasy. More than anything, France wanted to tip him over the edge. He wanted to see for himself how much power he had over his old rival.
Then, with a final buck of the hips, he came. In the moment of that shattering, surging wave, France heard England sigh his name, his real name, before collapsing into his arms, damp with sweat.
For some time afterwards, they lay under the blossom laden branches until the darkening dusk; their bodies pressed together, skin on skin, their fingers interlaced. Goosebumps trailed along France’s flesh as England traced a thumb along the scars scything across his back.
“Most of these are from me. I remember each one…” he said quietly.
“Mm.”
“But not this…”
England brushed a lurid, purplish wound at France’s left shoulder blade that had just started to scab over. France sucked the air through his teeth and winced.
“Pavia?”
“Oui,” France replied icily. He had not forgiven England for mocking him about it earlier. “Je te déteste, you do know that?”
England chuckled faintly into the crook of France's neck. “Oh yes. I hate you, too.”
Notes
In 1519, Charles I of Spain was elected Holy Roman Emperor, and with the land acquired in the Americas by his grandparents, Spain/the Holy Roman Empire was arguably the first European superpower. This upset both England and France (especially France) and as a result, Charles was forced to
fight very expensive and time consuming conflicts with France at the start of his reign.
Francis I didn’t do too well in his skirmishes with the HRE, his lowest point probably being captured by Charles’ army at the Battle of Pavia then being kicked out of the Italian states he’d recently conquered. In retaliation, the League of Cognac was formed between France, Italy and the Pope in 1526. England was asked to join, but was rather sneaky about it and helped to finance the group but not actually become part of the League. Plus, England had the naughty habit of invading France whenever the latter was distracted by the shiny things in Italy (Henry VIII liked to style himself as the King of England and France).
In summary, for a sizeable chunk of the sixteenth century, European politics were dominated by three power-hungry young kings engaging in a great deal of hyper-macho posturing.
Oh, and all that stuff about codpieces is true.