neuvillette

[neuvillette]

Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

During the industrial boom in England, someone in particular has been working himself to the bone.

Fuck... There it was again, that near-painful pang in his ribs from thinking about that bastard. That arrogant prick had whispered to him so closely that day so long ago that the memory of the hot breath from his lips still seemed to be lingering on his ears-- or was that just his own fiery blush? Either way, it wasn't going anywhere. Whenever he was alone his thoughts would instantly crack back to that insufferable shit. How his lips were so plush and too naturally red to be decent... How those blue eyes drifted lazily along wherever they pleased, often up and down his body. How he hoped that they one day would look back at him so pleadingly, begging for something almost too shameful to fulfill. He knew approximately how the man looked under his clothes, since he was prone to low cut shirts, high hems, translucent fabric. He had a tight waist and broad shoulders, he had hips that almost could be considered too wide, ones that would probably be good to hold onto tightly and grip red marks into. His chest, like much of his body, was soft, not flabby exactly, but plush enough to squeeze and nibble at. Fuck, FUCK, that pang came again, searing through his chest as he battled to think of something else. He had work to get done, and a lot of it. These kinds of thoughts were not only immoral but incredibly inconvenient, and the toll they took on his body meant he had to go through an arduous process to relieve himself, if only for a little while. His teeth all pressed down together as his jaw clenched, he could feel the pressure all throughout his face as he tried to just get on with it. There wasn't that much paperwork left, right? Just a bit more. A small distraction would do him some good. He only realised he was tapping his mostly-dry dip pen against his desk when he noticed how the rhythm was starting to seep elsewhere into his mind; tap tap tap, thrusts against a document, against something soft, warm, moans echoing in arches over the staccato beat, and--- He dropped the pen unceremoniously onto his desk, caked-on ink splattering down as he pressed his forehead into his hand. He had been slipping too hard recently. His bosses hadn’t been pleased with his work as of late; though he had been toiling during similar hours and put in the same effort he always had, they said he needed to rise up to meet changing standards. He used to do work with his hands, but that wasn’t needed anymore. He used to be their guard dog, or at least their work horse. For everything it was, at least the action of his youth was invigorating. At least he wasn’t monitored, and had time to do things for himself, instead of being their tool all hours of the day. He had time to work with his hands, his hands. To create things that were valuable, that were helpful to the, to his, people around him. Now he was… well. He was expendable. But not so expendable that they would waste his capacity to do paperwork. Industry was booming, one couldn’t just expect to stand by with what had been accepted in the past. Labour was becoming more standardised, more efficient, more impersonal… Not that he had ever been the most personable chap. While he enjoyed working with his hands, making things one by one, the gritty way, the difficult way, he made efforts to internalise what they had said to him. They needed his mind, his edge, to work on this stuff. That’s what he was for, after all; not forging swords, not stringing bows, not tilling soil or growing things; but intellectual, gentlemanly, removed work. Detached, necessary, proper. It suited him, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t one easily inclined to the personable, nor to saccharine slop… Not when communicating with others, anyhow. Buried and smeared while being hidden amongst mounds of paperwork were brief scribbles of poetry, of sketches of mistily reimagined silhouettes, flowing romantic prose incapable of coming out through his own halting speech, of faintly grasped memories of torrid expressions he needed to recall through flowing strokes of a figure, but those all were secrets even he wasn’t meant to have access to. Shameful, that’s what it was. Inefficient, ineffective, and shameful. An outlet for his needs to make something, perhaps, but… Certainly they sated other desires as well.

The distance between them should have helped; should have given him time to correct and corral his feelings, mold them back into form briskly, scaldingly, sharply--as one does when shaping copper. Instead he had gone too soft, too half-hearted, and his self-inflicted blows to his psyche had been too gentle. The metal of his desire had set and crisped up before he could steer himself back on track, and now he had to re-anneal, to subject himself back to fiery disavowal and guilt before the exacting measures of self-restraint would be effective. Yes, he quite liked that idea. He couldn’t have his metallurgy back but he could certainly think of his rehabilitation as such. He had forged many a sword, an arrow tip, an axe, before. His personality would be the same. Scalded and quenched and hammered into shape. And with his skill he could tap incessantly, exactingly, forcefully thrusting against the teasingly giving metal and-- blast it, again! It was achingly difficult to ignore. The distance only seemed to make his delinquent misgivings have more courage to rise up again out of turn. When he was face to face with those capricious blue eyes long enough to remember the wretched personality that tagged along with them it was easier to keep his goal in mind, but the longer he went without a glimpse of the sour man himself, the more alluring the rest of it seemed. Had they even written letters? Well, he hadn’t sent any. He had received a fair handful until they had run dry. He had almost convinced himself that he was glad of it. A few lines in the others flowery script were too laden with implications to be safe; he had already resigned himself to the idea of his correspondence being read at his supervisor’s discretion, so it was best if the letters wasted away entirely rather than risk the uncovery by his betters of whatever hintingly depraved thing would find itself penned inside a perfumed envelope. Near the end of their dispatchment, the notes had gotten quite irritated it seemed, demanding reply. His excuse for his silence was that he simply didn’t have time to dally on such things, but in truth he wanted to show himself that he could deny the temptation. It was easy to tell himself that he had enough to worry about with dozens of signatures to scrawl, appeals and drafts to write, documents and proposals to uncritically approve. With considerable effort, he plucked the intricately carved ivory dip pen off of the desk before blotting it back into his blue-glass inkwell. Just a few more of these documents and he’d be able to wallow in his own home instead of his suffocating office. The half-hearted, half-present signatures left a streaky trail of black as his newly inkstained hand trailed across the page, though the final few letters were jaggedly interrupted with a rapping at the office door.

“Yes, sir, I’ve already said I would finish them by today,” his calling tone was harsh but clearly deferent; he was a lively one, but part of being a man was knowing his duty and thusly his place. Even so, he didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts to correct the broken signing at the tail end of the page as the door slowly opened, creaking unceremoniously.

“If it’s really necessary I can work past my contractual hour, though I must note that your well-intentioned checkings-in aren’t conducive to getting any actual work done.” This comment was much more pointed, though not so much so as to be crossing a line. Still, the silent presence above his desk, looming, made him rethink his words for a slight moment before he got the better of himself. No need to look up as if they can dole out some sort of punishment! To you, of all people! No, you’re working together under the same sense of duty… Right? Keep your head down and show them your dedication and vigour. If they’ve got a problem they can bloody well deal with it, that’s not something that’s important enough to interrupt this work.

« Ah. Scribbling pen names has stopped you from writing back ? You are a much more petulant boy than before, their puppy-dog training is not working on you. » The two sentences were connected not in theme but in the rolling, keen tone they were carried by. The former was a lazy observation and the latter was crafted solely to rile him up. The door quietly shut behind, and there was a graceful and soundless moment afterwards. In a second of skillful self-control, he did not drop the pen but instead cooly placed its nib back into its proper receptacle, as much as he was inclined to throw it at his guest. For a flitting pause, a scorching rage surged through him. What about no reply hadn’t gotten through that dense skull, and what made him think, after it all, that he could flicker back in, no doubt impermanently, just to ruin all his progress, and--

God he needed to see him.

He would not ever, never, let him know that.

“As spineless and will-less as ever, then, Bonnefoy. Resolute enough to travel across the channel to be a nuisance but not enough to do any work or get any admirable aims in life.” Fuck, that hadn’t enough venom, it was transparent and flimsy. Traceable. He made sure his glower was deep enough to offset what he was certain was too-soft a rebuttal. It hadn’t done enough, though.

« So you have missed me ! Yes, you know, I do enjoy to come here and to anger you. » A quick beat passed.

« You know I had to come and-- mmm… scorn you for ungentlemanly not replying to my letters. » Well, it seemed he was being equally as transparent. He almost shivered. It was one thing to have his feelings discovered, but if they both were in agreement over what was happening, it was much more difficult to steer away from what was coming.

“Scold. You mean scold.” He added curtly, taking his pen back up as he glanced back down at his paperwork. He had been staring at his face up until then, he just realised. Blue eyes as infuriating as ever, that new obnoxious french hairstyle, the unneeded tightness in the waist and legs of the waistcoat and trousers, the volatile expression of something genuine.

“Your english still hasn’t improved.” He continued with a comment he knew would be ignored, but he needed to get it out there. Keep up the guise of nagging conversation.

« Your office is so away from the rest in here. Isolated like always. And no windows, a prison ! Poor little sad Englishman, and of course no time to write letters, not one bit. » They were talking by, not to, each other, though they were saying the same things. He had decided to sit upon the edge of the bureau, clearly an excuse to stir up some fabricated bile for their equally as convincing argument.

“I’m working upon this desk, thank you! And I’ve been working for months now. You were not invited and are not wanted; you’ve found your way in and can find your way out. Good day, Bonnefoy.” His pulse was hammering now, if only he could direct it at that copper-- beat his will into place, keep it straight and unmarred, stay determined. The Frenchman was simply smiling away with that look of acute, cutting, though well-intended observation. He was not going to leave on his own. With a return of the pen to its place, he stood, making an attempt to usher his unwelcome guest out. Francis rose as well, and as he did so the Englishman made no further attempt to get to his office door. Instead they stood together, steadfast.

« Say hello to me. It’s been so long, and I want to hear it and you want to say it. Just hello. » It was a tender plea as much as it was a command. The fool really thought he was entitled to it, but only in the way two who have known each other a long time are entitled to hear the news of someone’s workday or what dreams filled their last night’s sleep. They weren’t touching, but they could. His own face was beet red as he decided whether or not he should deny the request, angry and upset at more than the situation and himself. It was boiling over, the tapping beats in his chest and throat weren’t subsiding. He had to do something. He wished he had a bloody window so he could toss the intruder out of it, grasp him by his ruffled collar and throw him out the door, or against a wall, or over his desk, or--

“You-- I can’t believe you--” He was cut off by a look, and maybe Francis had moved forward slightly with his deep gaze, bridged the gap a little to make it easier, but maybe he hadn’t, and maybe he had grabbed at the nicely pressed wool jacket of his own accord, pulled at the stupidly styled french coif to reach for a kiss, to stumble into the wall behind them all on his own. He certainly was the one pressing them together, at least preliminarily. Bonnefoy, having planned something along these lines, was quick to fill in the needed friction after a blink.

« That’s-- hmm… one way to say hello. » The teasing tone was almost enough to make him stop entirely and snap him out of it, possibly stear himself back onto a more proper path, but Francis was smiling again and it was just too earnest as he craned his neck back in anticipation to be kissed there. They both knew this was the only hello he’d be able to manage. Any further acknowledgement of a budding warmth between them beyond the physical was more than he could honestly bear. For now, the more openly flagrant refusal of the two to meet gentlemanly expectations would have to be their letters that were few and far between, punctuated by occasional tysts like this, though the sentiment always lingered, and he was afraid it was growing. He had a period in his youth, with no supervision on open seas, when he didn’t hold himself to such a high standard in these matters. It had taken a fair amount of diligence to push himself back on track, but now--... Well, he could feel himself slipping again, but this time he knew better. Somehow the refutation of his desires of it all made it all the more difficult to deny. But Francis wasn’t giving him much pause to think more deeply about these things, and the wretched glint in his eye made it seem like he knew just what was on his mind. Why did he always know!? It hurt, to be so well understood in a shame the other refused to acknowledge. When had Francis ever been shameful of anything? He pretended to be, but only to be irritating. Every so often when they’d do this, he’d resort to saying such horrible things about how he relished his sanctity being soiled when they both knew perfectly well that no such thing was ever there in the first place. Francis made no signs to do so tonight, not as impatient hands were fiddling with buttons and edging him over to sit back on top of the desk. That pansy French fashion was great for enticing the eye but by god, the buttons! Warm, manicured hands met his and Bonneyfoy grinned.

« You do not need to open my shirt. » What a stupid assumption.

“Just because I don’t-- stop that! I can do it on my own, you’re not making it any easier. I could just rip the damn thing if you prefer-- I don’t have to but. Well, I get to,” His huff was met with an expression that looked sickeningly soft. Was this not injustice enough? To acquiesce to desire, but now his carnal lusts were being interpreted as tenderness! Maybe it was a bit of that, but blast it, Francis could at least pretend he didn’t know. It wasn’t like this was something special for him, anyway. That fop was getting it on with anything that moved and looked his way, and now Francis was lording it over him that he liked him! He was probably smug, pleased that he had ordained to come down and give him the pleasure of a single, solitary fuck while he was off cavorting with--

« Please, let me. You’re tense, I can help. » There he went with that tenderness again, too visceral to be faked. The beat in time of the two sharing a glance was raw and it shut him up quite well. Francis kept chatting as he placed the Englishman’s hands under his shirt as he nimbly undid his own buttons. The other was content to grab about underneath as he waited.

« You need to learn to say no to them. Get more time away. They make you feel worse inside, and that is not very handsome at all. » And there he went with the sap. It was easy to slide his hands around to the small of Francis’s back and hold him steady as he kissed him to shut the man up. Surprisingly, Francis pushed him away to finish opening his buttons. The Englishman did not appreciate that.

« Despair is becoming on you, but even you need to be patient. I’m not going anywhere. » They both knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t complaining when Francis plucked his own cold hands out of the back of the Frenchman’s trousers and placed them on the man's freshly revealed chest. He could feel Francis shiver under him, his own hands were much colder than the other’s hot skin. A moment of impulse made him squeeze possibly a bit more roughly than he should have, and Francis did that little gasping moan of his he always did. It had  been so long that he hardly remembered it anymore, but it was quite the experience to hear it again. The more he groped the chest, the tighter the legs around his waist would get. Oh, his poor paperwork, it was only slightly out of the way of being crushed and pushed about… Maybe he could move it before they got on with it all, it would only take a--

That familiar warm hand grabbed his jaw tightly and pulled his gaze back away from the documents on his desk, the both of them pausing only for a moment before they kissed again and all thought of paperwork was forgotten in favour of instant gratification. He could feel Francis smile triumphantly as he kept up his slightly desperate grabbing and squeezing, his hips starting to move up against the open legs resting on his desk. It was rather ungraceful, Francis’s legs snaked tight around him as he pressed their bodies together. In the one moment before he would no longer be able to resist himself, a clutching shock of guilt crackled through his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his face contorted slightly, a grimace of pain and reconsideration. Francis didn’t see, or, at least, didn’t pause. Instead, the hot, slender fingers that still held his jaw were keeping the pair kissing as a rhythm not dissimilar to one that the Englishman was familiar with was hammered out against the solid office desk. If only he could say he forgot the expectations of his bosses and the world at large for those moments, but he couldn’t. His will was stronger, however. At least, his will when combined with his desires. Besides, it was difficult to pause when his pervasive nuisance was sitting its fat arse on his desk, when they were clutched and and hugging together as tightly as his wax seals pressed to his paperwork that was currently watching the display. His hands were suddenly disordered-- after months, years even, of writing when told to, shaking hands properly, adjusting ties, now they had free reign to fly wherever they fancied. Tangled in bouncing blond locks one moment, then back squeezing his partner’s chest, then slipped down the back of the loosened trousers upon his bureau. There wasn’t much time until the nonsensical French interjections fizzled into dripping moans, and even less of a beat until a quicker, tense breath of air joined in. Chests still together, their hearts raced. He was the first to pull away and face the wall with a few curses as Francis was left sitting. Realising the fruitlessness of any attempt to clean himself there, he circled around to tend to the ever-patient papers awaiting his return as he dutifully stacked them in his carrying case.

“I should be going, then. These need finishing. Ta.” Miraculously, he found the coldness he had been attempting to muster up upon his companion’s arrival, though it was a tad too late. Francis wasn’t altogether pleased with the change in tone, although he understood the haste required after their torrid encounter.

« But I need a-- Angleterre, you-- ! » His shirt unbuttoned and tousled, and his trousers hanging off of his hips, Francis slipped to place himself in front of the door.

« You are bringing me to your flat, or your kennel, or wherever it is they keep you when you aren’t here. »

“Not if you’re going to speak French, I won’t.” A raised eyebrow came with the easy, chilled reply.

« Do not get smart with me. » Francis shot back, deft fingers working to button his shirt and press down his clothing as swiftly and naturally as bird preening itself. The other’s stern expression and eyes looking elsewhere told him as much as he needed to know. He softened, if only slightly.

« Look, I’m just as presentable as you. It’s a business trip, would that make you feel better ? I won’t bother you as you do your paperwork. I’ll even make you tea and something real to eat as you finish up. Hein ? »

Another few beats between them, and, ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Francis after giving them both a once-over.

“We’ll need to be quick, alright? These pants are already uncomf--... Go.” He gestured briskly out the door, and followed after the other man who seemed far more pleased with himself and the situation. What was he doing? Why was he-- well, that didn’t matter. All he had to worry about was getting back to his own room and not being seen by anyone in so disheveled a state… Besides, Francis seemed to be making no effort to be inconspicuous-- loudly asking for directions to his living arrangements because it had just been so long since he had seen them, and in French, no less. Though determined not to look at him, what made it worse was that he could just sense that sickening grin creeping up Francis’s face, spreading more and more by the minute. If only he had just remembered how irritating and inconvenient, unprofessional and repulsive the Frenchman was… Being apart for so long made him more alluring when he really knew what the bastard was like. If he had been prepared, why, he wouldn’t be bounding after him, through dirty, smoggy streets; his heart racing, his stern glare only slightly beating out the flutter in his chest and the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Incorrigible.

[neuvillette]

I just watched Booksmart again and the one song that plays when they're in the pool really made me want to draw college freshman England seeing Francis snuggling up with someone else in a pool at a university party right after they had just made out together and England was already smitten... And he just stumbles backwards in painful shock 😌 He's in his kex cause he was gonna jump in the pool like in the film-- it makes sense okay

Francis may come in the future

[neuvillette]

I'm in the process of writting a fic and there's a moment where England has a wet dream, wakes up pressed against France and gets a blowjob, so when I read the exact same thing happenning in yours I was blown away- your fic gave me LIFE! Anyway, I like this blog so far, I have the same headcanons and you put them into words so perfectly. Have a great day!

Wait seriously???? XD great minds think alike!!!! That's so cool!!! Please link it if you post anything anywhere, I'd love to read! If it's on Tumblr I'd totally reblog too! :0 I'm so glad we have similar headcanons too! FrUK/UKFr lovers unite lmao!

[neuvillette]

Body headcanons for France and England!

England

Decently tall, slightly above average but not by much. His strict posture helps with this a lot and makes him look larger than he actually is sometimes.

He has quite a lean build, but is decently top heavy. Not quite so much as to be so obviously noticeable, but his shoulders are fairly broad and certainly wider than his hips. His waist is trim but not pinched. He's just quite a lean guy

He fits very well into an English cut suit! American suits make him look horrifically boxy (as they do everyone) and Italian cut is too tight and makes him look kind of cartoonish.

His legs are pretty slim, but like most of his body he's just pretty toned! He doesn't have muscles that are too obvious, no six-pack or things near it, but he has a good amount of muscle definition. More on the lean or lithe side of toned, but not incredibly lanky. In Nationverse, he probably was lanky until the 1600s and then began to fill out

He's not necessarily lacking in the pec department but he's not jacked there either

His body hair matches his eyebrows in it's colour, and he has a fair amount of it? Not much, it's mostly concentrated below his kneecaps and, of course, his happy trail, which stands out more than it would on someone else due to its colour not matching his hair colour. It's kind of course but no moreso than normal body hair. He obviously has armpit hair (why does... No one in the Hetalia fandom(s) realise that... Men generally have... armpit hair?)

In general, he wants to be fitter with more defined muscle mass, but besides that he wouldn't really want to change much of anything.

France

He's the soft kind of muscley which makes him perfect for hugs and other things, which he couldn't be happier about!

He has broad shoulders, quite a tight waist, and broader hips. He has fuller thighs than England, and is more filled out than him in general. Even his arms are slightly bigger, muscle covered by a good layer of insulation. He's still quite lean though, and his shoulders are slightly more broad than average

His muscles also aren't hyper defined, though this has to do with his small layer of fat he has around him. It's not a lot but it makes him not quite as angular as England and smooths out parts of him that may look dramatic on other people, like his hourglass-ish figure. You can see his abs but it's hard to tell what's full muscle and what's soft. He's still rather trim, though!

He's got some big-ish pecs, and as with the rest of him, some is muscle, some isn't!

He has a good amount of body hair all over him. It's tawny blondish-brown and really soft! It covers him basically everywhere and he is totally fine with that. Sometimes he might shave it off to try something new since he does love fashions and beauty things, and I could see him being the type to manscape, but he's pretty secure in his body image regardless of what he does with his body hair.

He's also kind of tall, but doesn't have quite the same rigid posture as England's, though he's naturally quite graceful and has strong poise

He's really happy with how he is! He probably experiments a lot with his look, especially since he's not one to be strict with gender conformity, but he's really secure and pleased with how he looks

[neuvillette]

A Quick Surprise - UKFr/FrUK Fanfic

This is quite an 18+ work, so be aware of that if NSFW isn’t your cup of tea!

"Ah! There...mm..more!" Hearing Francis call out like that was something to see. It wasn't often that Francis was face down when they did this sort of thing, but this time he was gripping the sheets with both hands, chest flat on the mattress as he struggled to keep pace with the hips pressing into him from behind. His hands were clasped atop Francis’s, holding them down to make sure Francis wasn't tempted to jerk himself off in the process. While he could tell Francis was getting some odd pleasure out of not being able to touch himself as he was fucked, he himself was satisfied to keep his quick rhythm pressing hard against his lover’s soft ass, biting down along his shoulder and getting little gasps and moans in response. He loved how desperate Francis always seemed to sound when they went at it like this, his voice was always so breathy and lilting as he would beg for him, really and truly beg! It always made him feel so... Special. Francis honestly wanted him, wanted to please him and make him feel that rush of power again. In turn, he knew just what Francis needed physically and was awfully good at taking care of those needs... Those sorts of mushy, but coherent, thoughts only really happened once they were finished, of course, as he was often too preoccupied with getting his rocks off in the actual moment to focus on the intricacies of sex. "Nnn...je t'aime...plus fort! Oui, comme-- ah!" Oh, so he had switched to French now? That always meant things were getting a bit much for him. He could tell by how his pace was gradually becoming more sporadic underneath him that he was almost done, but the tumbling of his hair around him as he pressed his face into the bedsheets, his hand clenching, his toes curling were all easy to read signs. Quite the queue to start moving faster himself, not going especially gentle with his hips or his teeth, even as his fingers laced with the hands below him. It felt rushed and desperate, but oddly slow all at once, kind of in a confusing manner. He didn't really care. It felt so good, and right now some instant gratification was on the mind. He had to fuck, he couldn’t help it, his mind was set on a singular desire and it was raw and made him feel wild and unkept, but he just couldn’t help it. He didn't truly realise once he had finished, he was solely focused on keeping his hips moving, the way Francis felt on his chest below him, the way he was still wriggling like he had been on the verge of finishing for hours. He hadn't noticed his hands moving down to squeeze at Francis's ass, but that was just what he was doing, and not being incredibly tame with it either. He just felt that he had to keep moving, keep thrusting, keep feeling so good. How much time had passed, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He didn’t really feel much of the need to stop. It was just warm, so warm and maddening and- « Vraiment ? Je dois dormir plus, mon coeur. » There was a slight pause. That didn’t seem like the moaning of pleasure, more like the all-too-familiar croaks of an annoyed and tired frog. Maybe just a few more attempts for good measure? « Bien, je vois que tu ne quitteras pas. » A swat to his leg was not what he expected, nor was the increasingly uncomfortable dampness in his pants. A sharp intake of breath, and he was met with gritty reality of morning, his hips pressed tight against his lover’s backside under the covers, a handful of blond hair in his face. Brilliant. Sun was already pouring in, he had an uncomfortable tightness in one side, and his underpants were most certainly full of the remnants of his fading passionate fantasy. He hadn’t had one of these dreams in ages. Was now really the time? He winced. Cleaning this off wasn’t something he wanted to do so early in the morning, especially considering he’d have to move out of such a lovely morning position and his body was still not quite behaving. The dream must had been a while ago considering he somehow was still hard, but it had seemed like he had just awoken from it. Francis didn’t seem to mind the force up against his ass, as he had done nothing to break their sleepy spooning or remove himself from the wood pressed between the two. « Veux-tu un pipe, cher ? Je suis un peu chaud moi-même ...  » The mattress shifted, and with the locks of golden hair no longer clinging to his face, he was met with a quick kiss instead. He responded with one a bit more languid. “Stop with the French so early in the morning, dear...” His voice was rough and it was slightly shocking to hear it rumble in his own head, especially as it clashed with the moans still echoing in there. « Je pense que c'est l'anglais qui casse l'ambiance. Me laisses aider ... » Not having much time to retort, another kiss was happily accepted as two nimble hands worked to pull down his boxers. Air hissed out of his teeth in anticipation as the covers rose and sank. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Tu n'as pas à faire ça dans les draps, tu sais.” He awkwardly tripped over his French so early in the morning, but the reaction was immediate: a pleasant gasp pressed against his inner thigh, a little sneaky giggle from under the covers, and a hot pressure on the tip of his cock. It was easy to turn Francis on in a pinch with a bit of French, but considering how fast he was on it this morning he must have been a tad desperate already. “Quelqu'un semble désespéré aujourd’h--...” He attempted to tease back, speaking loud enough with a chuckle to be heard by the man under the sheets, but was cut off as Francis leaned in, taking in as much of his lover’s dick as he could in one go, his hands gently holding the base as well as groping elsewhere. He struggled to not make a sound in response. Instantly he pulled the covers back, looking down at that French idiot’s prideful eyes. This didn’t seem to deter Francis from keeping on, moaning and humming as he sucked, occasionally pulling off completely to lick up and down the length of it all. Gripping the sheets and watching Francis work didn’t really relieve as much of the tension as he may as hoped. He never liked being loud in bed, but each time he got with Francis it was rather difficult not to express at least one sound or another. Besides, it was hard knowing Francis could look up at him, see his face, look at him. It was scary to think someone else could just look at him and understand him, and it was almost scarier to think that person could be France. France, who he was inexplicably enamoured with... His heart would always race, not only from the sex, and this time wasn’t different. Something as inconsequential and as messy as a morning blowy was made unnecessarily special because of the way Francis would just look at him. God, it made him angry. That bastard just had to be romantic about everything, he couldn’t just get a quick fuck like he wanted. Not that he should complain when such a handsome, flushed face was graciously sucking him off before either of them had gotten out of bed. Francis... He’d have to make it up to him later somehow... Maybe finally hand over the newest poetry he had locked away... Francis did love that sort of thing... Reluctantly, his hand trailed forward to stroke the blond ringlets bouncing on his lap, his teeth gritting, leg muscles tight. It didn’t take long before he received the fruits of this sappy gesture, a somehow more determined Francis growing louder and more desperate with his movements. The subject of his praise wasted no time to blush and tighten his grip on the hair, rather embarrassed by his own sentimentality of the moment and deciding to resolve it by finishing this all off quickly. A few more bobs of the head by Francis, though he was slightly more restrained with his hair being tugged at, and the sweet tingling wave of release came at last. Quite quickly after, a few groans from down below let him know Francis had his fill as well. Letting himself fall back against the bed, he watched as Francis fetched a tissue as he grinned like a sly cat. « Good morning, dear. » “And to you, Francis.” He sighed, not-so-subtly staring at his partner’s behind. Francis didn’t seem to notice, as he looked away as he turned around. « I know you like me, cher, but pulling my hair like some flustered schoolboy doesn’t deter me, you know. I rather like it. » Francis’s warm body lay down next to him once more, slipping atop sheets and covers naturally. This resulted with his lover tossing his side of the blankets on top as he pulled off his sullied clothes all the way and instantly getting dressed, leaving Francis alone in the sheets. “You really ought to start wearing clothes to bed,” Came a non-answer. Francis simply rolled his eyes. « And deprave you of the subject of such exciting dreams ? I would never. » Francis purred. His partner approached, still pulling up trousers and pulling on socks, and after a decent amount of mental debating, gave him a gentle peck on the cheek. "You can be such a nuisance. Let’s see if you still want to tease me after I treat you so nicely today.” « Ah, but surely you seem to love me enough to feature me in you deepest desires. What were we up to, might I ask ? It was us, wasn’t it ? » Francis rolled around to lay on his stomach, looking up as his lover dressed. After a long pause, he finally spoke up, making sure to keep his back to the bed. “If you truly want to know so much, I might just have to show you later today.”

[neuvillette]

England is Perfect for Francis

Francis is a confident person. He's confident in his style, his body, his cooking, his language, his opinions, everything. He's elegant, and he knows it. He knows people admire him, and while he isn't immune to letting that get to his head (and it does), he also understands it's a privilege one earns with kindness, respect, and patience, so that's what he always tries to give out. He can be a bit of a prima donna, especially with his appearance, since he knows he's beautiful and he doesn't appreciate that being taken for granted or being sullied! He can be prone to crying as a reaction to strong emotional stimuli but that doesn't mean he's weak, he's quite the force to be reckoned with when he's angry or feeling fierce. Still, he can be a bit of a crybaby, and gets very into romantic media or the tales of real-life romances, so if they end in tears (happy or sad), he'll be the first to cry along with them. Crying during arguments he's particularly invested in isn't out of the question, either. He gets frightened very easily and can be inclined to superstition. He doesn't mind getting dirty and doing hard labour, especially garden work, but he's not a fan of creepy-crawlies of any sort and doesn't want to chip nails, get bruises, etc. He can be a bit of a gossip, but is never purposefully malicious unless he's in a really nasty state of mind or in a deep rivalry.  That's good for everyone else, as due to his emotional intelligence he's very good at hitting others where it hurts, if he's so inclined. However, in modern times especially, he's not one to badmouth anyone. His love of the arts and his flowery way of speech can make him seem like a snob to some, but he's quite earnest in the way he discusses things so over-the-top romantically and his pretension is never intentional. His love of the detailed and ornate makes him seem materialistic to some, but he truly just loves things he finds beautiful, even if that means he can be slightly shopaholic. Being considered "feminine" isn't anything he has a problem with, he doesn't bat an eye if someone mistakes him for a woman, he doesn't think there's anything strange about wearing whatever clothes he pleases and thinks suits him, and he doesn't care about if other people think he's strange if he does things society deems "womanly" at the time, he's confident in who he is and what he likes, and he likes beautiful things! He gets frustrated when people don't listen to his feelings or try to outweigh them with reasoning, especially if it's reasoning he doesn't understand. He generally acts on instinct more than logic and is a real people-pleaser. He gets genuine joy from knowing he made someone happy or filled their hearts with love, it makes him feel satisfied and fulfilled. Still, if he strongly disagrees with someone, he has no restraints giving them a piece of his mind, often in a way that seems dramatic to others. He can be stubborn and impish, but is quick to listen to someone else if they say he's hurt them or if they're disagreeing with him from a genuine or heartfelt position. If he makes someone cry, he is heartbroken. Devastated. Maybe if he feels they deserve it in the heat of the moment, he won't feel so bad, but if he was to really think about it, when he gets so argumentative it's only because he wants to explain how he feels and get the other person to understand. He's not shy to tell someone he loves them or to compliment people when they deserve it or need it. He knows that some think this undervalues the praise, but he thinks that's utterly foolish and pays it no mind. Love is to be spread, in his mind, isn't that part of the definition of it? He has periods of profound melancholy, but in general he has a positive outlook on life since he likes to focus on the small things he and others do to make the world a better place. He's sensitive to others feelings and is fluent in others emotions, but his ability to sense situations and emotions sometimes works against him, since it can make him believe he is always right about how someone else feels even if he isn't, which can lead to many misunderstandings...

Francis can get very queen-bee like about drama, and with his emotional nature, England is a good anchor to keep him level headed. As Francis makes sure England knows people weren't intentionally trying to hurt him, England does the same whenever Francis has one of his drama-filled evenings. Whenever Francis is in one of his utterly melancholy funks, England is able to pull him out because he knows exactly what Francis needs to do so. Sometimes he's a cold sense of reason for him, others he's able to lay down his pride and hold him, and tell him that things will be alright. Francis always appreciates affection, but since England is so reserved giving it out in most cases, he knows it really does mean all the more when he does it. However, if he needs to really get snapped out of something, England is always willing to do it if he knows he'll get Francis back to feeling normal. Something he likes about England is that he always does seem so surprised by his praise, even if he vocalises that as scorn or says Francis compliments people too much. England makes him feel genuinely needed and wanted in ways that are satisfying for someone as enraptured by love as he is. He likes that he can spar with England verbally (and sometimes physically too) because where that might be a relationship breaker for some, it's a way for them both to flex their argumentative skills that they both find pretty exhilarating. As much as both of them can be perceived as haughty, arrogant, or know-it-all-ish by others, they both view each other as equals and go into any argument, agreement, anything with that perspective.  They really are equals, something foundational to them and their entire history. Their history plays a lot into their relationship. Many see England as a pirate, or lackey to the crown when it was in power, or washed up and pathetic now that he's no longer part of an empire. Francis was there when he was the little scruffy boy crying alone because he was being bullied, pushing Francis away and then clinging to him so he would have a friend, and that's something he always sees. He has a deeper insight into England that's really endeared him to him and he really just understands where he's coming from. Even when he was top of the world, Francis never saw England as something so special. He was just as emotionally wounded as he always had been. England kind of knows Francis knows all of this, and that means he's generally also more comfortable being sweet to him in private, Francis knows what he's feeling most of the time anyway so why bother, right? England finds him to be a bit of a snob, yes, but just as France has known him forever, England does the same. He’s seen France at his worst, in near-catatonic depressive states, in power hungry episodes, and as the little boy who would do his hair and help him clean cuts when he’d scrape his knee. He knows Francis can act superior or over-the-top, but he also knows how not too far below the surface, he’s just someone who wants to help everyone smile. Besides, Francis really does love that England is so absolutely smitten over him. He loves being loved, but being so known while loved is a different experience. He's had a roll in the hay probably hundreds of times in his lifetime if not more, but there's a spark there with England that's unmatched that he really likes to treasure. That's not to say they don't have their moments, their fights can get out of hand. But they always come back to one another because that spark is addictive, and they know each other well enough to sort things out. England is too stubborn to let things go with him just because something got tough, which Francis doesn't always get from one off encounters. England also isn't the only one that can make someone annoyed with him from his argumentativeness. Francis can be just as aggressive when he's opinionated, and that can even turn others away, though he's more quick to become level-headed afterwards than England. Still, England is always there, even if sometimes its only to have another round of arguments. To Francis, England always makes him feel appreciated, and any love he gives him he gets back just as much, if not more. He's reserved when things start, but imagine being on the receiving end of one of England's poems! He really is a lot like a cat that Francis can tame, but when he does it, Francis absolutely adores the appreciation that comes afterwards. Both of them are independent and strong enough to go on their own (to varying degrees of success on England's part lmao) but they really just appreciate each other enough to stick together, and Francis loves being able to unabashedly shower someone with praise and pure love who will just eat it right up!

On that note, now's the spicy section, and I think the previous point plays into it a lot. France is, in essence, the country of love. He loves giving love, he loves making others feel loved, and, of course, he loves making love! And since England feels insecure when he's not in control, Francis is comfortable and incredibly satiated by being on the receiving end of all that...er...love. When England is in a sappy mood during sex, Francis feels like absolute love-royalty. He can give all of the tender, sweet moments right back, but he's also ready to feel great as England just takes care of both of them so perfectly. When he's not feeling so sentimental, however, England makes Francis feel appreciated in...other ways. Hey, having been a raging punk means he has some good rhythm and a lot of power, and Francis is most certainly appreciative of that lmao. He can be just as passionate and desperate as England but he likes that he’s able to make him feel more secure and confident when he lets England take the lead. To France, that sort of thing really is about a connection between two people and enjoying making others feel loved (as well as getting quite a lot of physical enjoyment too), and those needs of his are always gratified with England. Same as the previous post too, its good that they both have unmatched libidos and similar tastes, and that England has something quite good between his legs.

Check out the previous post on why Francis is perfect for England too!

[neuvillette]

Francis is perfect for England.

England is self-critical to the point of almost self-hatred in some regards, but he's also unrivaled in his pride. Much of this is a facade, of course, but some of it is actually a genuine expression of his attempts to like himself. Being constantly denigrated/neglected as he was growing up made him much more vocal about his self-praise (even if it's ingenuine praise he doesn’t think he deserves) to make up for the fact that he wasn't really getting it from elsewhere. I think most people around him just see this as arrogance (which it is sometimes, to be fair, especially during his adventuring days). His incredibly opinionated nature means that he comes of as aggressive to others, which he is when he believes he’s being more logical or correct (which is often). He loves physical labour, walks, anything to stay active, but a good mental challenge is incredibly fulfilling to him as well. He also has a strong tendency to overwork himself, he is prone to melancholy, and dwells too much on how and why he's alone, often to the point that he overlooks the smaller ways he makes others happy. He doesn’t really realise that he has much, if any, positive impact on others, which leads him to believe that he’s a worse person than he is. He is incredibly stubborn, but his sense of duty often makes him cave in to doing things he would prefer not to, which generally is work or war. He is almost defined by this strong pull of duty, of being a gentleman, of Englishness to a harsh degree. This impossible standard also makes him ashamed when he obviously can't live up to it, and this shame is something he believes others feel about him as well. To him, when he cannot fulfill an expectation, it's not only himself that feels regret, it's that everyone is looking down on him. This also makes his responses to other people less than friendly, often incredibly defensive (which for him looks like outright vitriol to others sometimes) which isn't doing him any favours when he's trying to not push people away. He's a hard nut to crack, so it's understandable why some people just choose not to even attempt to deal with it at all. He is, however, irredeemably sentimental deep down, and such a softie that he's actually quite ashamed of himself over it. He’ll buy sweeties for kids that can’t afford it, help people across the street, spend time he should be working on paperwork helping out anyone in need (which occasionally gets him scolded for being late, only leading to more self-doubt as to how good he actually is). He’s a quite masculine person, being a drinker and pub-frequenter. While he does hobbies traditionally considered “feminine”, he tries not to think about how this “brings him down” in other people’s eyes, though he does have layers of toxic masculinity to him. This often is worsened by his “stiff upper lip” mentality. No whinging about anything, from physical pain to emotional anguish, a lot of which he considers pathetic if he does it, but natural if someone else does. His double standard for behavior and tolerance of pain is something really clear in his relationship to other people, especially kids, the elderly, and strangers in general. If he caught a kid, or anyone else, spouting the mentality he enforces on himself, he’d instantly rebuke it! Sentimentality is a very, very difficult layer to find within him, though, and it usually only surfaces when he's in massive amounts of emotional anguish. That's when he gets quite retaliatory, like with Alfred when he was breaking away. A lot of this also has to deal with his absolute emotional ineptitude. If he's writing alone, or talking to someone he's not especially close to, how eloquent he is! His poetry is almost unrivaled and he's decently good at reading the room, so to speak. He also can be quite the flirt (though never in a real romantic sense)! Old women love him over that, they think he’s the sweetest young lad they know. This demeanor goes out the door the moment he feels "attacked" in any way, though, which most often is when he's feeling insecure. If that's the case, watch him try to struggle to get a compliment out, or to say anything other than a nasty insult meant to express an entirely different (often more favourable) message to the recipient. What he means to say as “you’re looking nice today” often comes out as “you don’t look as crap as usual”. The reverse is true too, when he means to say “I’m glad you’re spending time with me”, what comes out is “Wow, you’re wasting your time talking to me?” What a mess...

That's just why Francis is perfect, though. His stubbornness is most certainly a match for England's in most regards, and in some cases even trumps it, generally with things like his determination to weasel England's genuine emotions out of him. Francis is self-confident, too, and why wouldn't he be? Harsh comments can effect him, of course, and he is also sentimental, but the fact that he's much more open and honest about his emotions makes him generally easy to talk to and communicate with, as well as more impervious to critique. Unlike England, he's not ashamed of who he is or how he feels in practically every regard. He's unabashedly himself. He takes no shit because he knows what he wants and deserves, so if his bosses or anyone else tries to overwork him? Nope. He wants a coffee break because that's what's good for him, so he's going to do it. This makes him distressed when people he cares about aren't as rigorous with their own self-care, appreciation, and praise. This doesn't come up too often with Gilbert or Antonio, though Gilbert is quite similar to England in many regards, but boy does he have a field day with England. Often times he gets frustrated with him, though, since he just doesn't understand why he let's himself get pushed around, ignored, etc, and this only gets worse when England responds with "well maybe you should work harder?" Francis usually throws back a "You wouldn't expect others to do this, why do you do it to yourself?" The answer is obvious and Francis knows it. Many people can't see past the rough exterior, and Francis has had his fair share of "fuck it, I'm done with you" moments too, which are entirely understandable. But then he remembers the little kid crying over being abandoned again, and he understands how that's led to how England reacts to things now, and he wants to show him that the world isn’t out to get him and that the viewpoint on life of his that has been reinforced is a lie. Francis is just emotionally fluent, and that means for basically everyone. A lot of it is just intuition, or just some weird ability of his, but since he holds real love for everything in his heart, he also has an odd and immediate understanding of things on a level England can't feel immediately. This means basically every tactic England generally uses to evade other people, their judgement, or even his own feelings, is completely transparent to France. Other people think England is honestly boasting and degrading others after someone else does a good job? Francis finds it kind of sad how hard England is trying to hide his own embarrassment or feelings of ineptitude. England is leaving meetings early and says he has better company to look forward to, and everyone thinks he's haughty? Francis is surprised England feels so left out and alone that he has to pretend to have better friends. This goes the other way as well! When England feels snubbed by someone, Francis is there to reassure him that it’s a misunderstanding. Alfred’s being himself again? It’s alright, that’s just his way of expressing himself, he’s not trying to be hurtful. Francis is good with interpreting between England’s emotions and other people’s, which is something England REALLY needs. Is this intuition of his always functioning, however? Nope! Francis can be quite the drama queen, and that primarily shows up when England genuinely rebukes his earnest attempts to make him feel better, or when other people are really caught up in whatever (admittedly) idiotic thing England's done most recently. This has gotten the pair into a history of misunderstandings that even a language barrier can't hope to achieve! Still, once he's able to have a one-on-one again when their both in a better frame of mind, it's not difficult for him to sort things out again. England hasn't felt heard most of his life, and Francis is a great listener and a master at emotional intelligence. Francis doesn't really hold much shame about himself or shame others (unless their clothing is just TOO atrocious), so he's a natural at working through those problems with England. From England's perspective, though, he's just... fascinating. He finds Francis arrogant, not because he thinks Francis doesn't live up to the standards Francis espouses, but because he DOES find Francis that great for the most part and thinks it rude to show off so much! He thinks Francis is too blunt about things to the point of rudeness (in a VERY distinct way from America since Alfred typically does this without the tact Francis has), but that bluntness makes Francis open and accessible to him in ways that others aren't. He can be far too silly and frivolous, but England needs that so he’s not such a hardass, which Francis often reminds him of. Francis is also impeccably charming and is one of the only people who give England the precise praise that makes him feel so unequivocally good and appreciated...But he sees France be just as kind to everyone else and he feels like he's been used. The thing is, though, that they both get under each other's skin. That makes them so quick to bicker, of course, but England needs someone he can be quick and witty and his own Austen-like figure with that can stand up to the challenge. He goes easy (or what he thinks of as easy) with people he cares about, but that's often still too much for most people, but not for Francis. Francis is as quick as a whip, too, and he's not one to shy away from many challenges, even if he is still a bit of a scardey-cat with some things.

Not to mention that England finds Francis so dumbfoundingly attractive and is his best partner in bed as well... England's feelings of inferiority means he needs reinforcement, but not so much that he feels he's being pitied or looked down upon, and Francis does this naturally. England often feels he no longer has control of the direction of his life, that he's not as strong, as dutiful, as capable as he once was. I feel like that's why he'd not really ever bottom in bed, he already feels that he doesn't have that power in his day to day life and he wants a place to find it during sex, and that fits perfectly into what Francis needs as well. It's also a trust thing, I think, where when England is able to take charge, he's given real trust from Francis that he can't really find anywhere else. When England needs to feel like a powerful king, Francis gets gratification from helping him fulfill it. On the rare occasion that England just wants something caring, a place to feel that he's in control and can express love and tenderness for someone, Francis makes sure he's in charge and comfortable with how he does it it, which is key to him not being ashamed. They both also have equally ravenous libidos so that's a plus, too. Also Francis has a phat ass and his moans are really hot in bed.

Check out this link for a look at Francis, and why England is Francis's perfect match as well!

[neuvillette]

Cringey Hetalia Star Trek AU... England Edition

His dad was Vulcan, his mum was mostly human, but his nana’s mum was a Klingon so he’s rational but still very fiesty! I couldn’t decide if he would be medical, command, security, or engineering, but medical means he can be closer to a certain counselor in the crew...

[neuvillette]

Something I really like about one perspective of the fruk dynamic is how strongly self-critical England is and how strongly that must seep into his relationships. I don't think it's absurd to say he would have some strong internalised homophobia, even, which is a fascinating aspect of his personality as well as his view towards his interactions with Francis. Him having an immediate reaction of shame when he's viscerally attracted to Francis could certainly factor into how strongly he rebukes his advances, but obviously I don't think that would ever really he able to overturn his desire to be with him. Still, he'd probably have some very guilt-ridden Catholic style wank sessions thinking of that french bastard he keeps trying to avoid.

[neuvillette]

Hello!

This is a FrUK/UKfr blog that I’ve just made. It’s mostly going to be headcanons and maybe fics or ficlets until I get better at art. A decent amount of it is going to be 18+ content so please only follow if you’re an adult!