Hetalia kink meme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hetalia_kink) wrote2012-06-03 02:47 pm
hetalia_kink) wrote2012-06-03 02:47 pm
Hetalia Kink meme part 15
axis powers
hetalia kink meme
part 15
hetalia kink meme
part 15
Ahh yeah that is the super duper delayed Christmas reveal for 2009 LOL...just found the time to finish it now...
clean wallpaper version HERE
clean wallpaper version HERE
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-20 09:02 pm (UTC)(link)/Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require./
Will set down his pen with a dejected sigh. His first two days with Francis had been heaven on Earth. Apparently his sexual orientation was more accepted in France than back home in England, or perhaps that was just his present company – and Francis was bloody fantastic company. He was bright, charming, charismatic and beautiful – everything Will had ever wanted to be. And Francis, his wonderful, perfect Francis, loved him too.
He had briefly entertained the idea of staying here in France forever. A contact of his, a prominent noble by the name of Arthur Kirkland, had been enthusiastic about acquiring a job for him writing for the queen, but while that promised prestige, it did not promise happiness. Francis, he thought, could give him the happiness he so desperately sought.
That is, until he realised that he wasn’t special to Francis at all. He’d thought that the way the Frenchman kissed him, the way he touched him, the way he held him and caressed him and made love to him and treated him to wine, that all of that meant mutual love, but now it seemed that the flirtatious Frenchman just… acted that way with everyone. When Francis took him out to bars and led him to parties, he had flirted shamelessly with the males and females alike, hardly spoken to his young date – was he a date? – and even had the gaul to disappear into a back room with one of the promiscuous female dancers.
After the latest episode, Will had stormed angrily out of the bar, hoping that Francis would take notice and follow. When he did not, the young writer determined to find his way back to Francis’s apartment, sulking all the way and wiping his not-tears on the inside collar of his coat.
And now here he was, back at Francis’s neat little marble desk, crying onto his parchment and smudging his ink. How was it that no matter what he felt towards Francis, the Frenchman somehow always inspired him to write?
/Nor dare I chide the world without end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu./
He shook his head at himself. He was going to sleep with Francis again tonight, he knew, for the third time, but at this point he had to wonder if Francis had a different idea of love than he did. If Francis only wanted the pleasure, while Will wanted… wanted… lov – more than a cheap dancer, perhaps. No, no, he could not let his jealousy cloud his judgement. He scratched out his next line, and rewrote,
/Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those./
He suppressed a pathetic snivel. It seemed that though Francis could give him happiness, he couldn’t give happiness to Francis.
/So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill./
He woke up later that night, or rather early morning, with Francis leaning over him, gently wiping away his tears with his soft, slender fingers. And Will followed him willingly into bed.
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-20 09:59 pm (UTC)(link)England glanced idly at his calendar for what must have been the tenth time in as many seconds. He had expected Mr Shakespeare’s much anticipated return three days past, but still there was no sign of the young writer. Had he no concept of respect, and maybe a shred of compassion? England was going to get grilled for this, he knew. This was the last time he would advocate a favourite writer of his to the queen, he mused, because clearly Shakespeare did not value his recommendation and was content to let him burn.
Well, England was not content to burn. He slammed his pen down with much more force than necessary and made a spur of the moment decision. He was going to retrieve the Shakespeare brat, and drag him back to England by the collar of his fancy government-financed shirt if he had to. And, if he had been met with trouble which hampered his return, then England could deal with that as well. He was only a few years removed from his pirate days, after all, and though he was giving the gentleman shtick a go at the queen’s request, he could still take anyone any day.
France, he’d said? Port Salut? Why the little twat would want to go to that frog country was beyond him, but Port Salut it was. He made arrangements for transport, gathered up some belongings – a cutlass and a pistol slipped into the side of his favourite belt, some proper gentlemanly clothing, and a crimson, gold-trimmed coat that would have made him look like a fearsome pirate but also served him well as an elegant nobleman.
England checked himself in the mirror, nodded to his reflection in satisfaction, and set off for Port Salut.
--
Like a true pirate, the first thing he did upon arriving was stop at a tavern for a bottle of rum. Well, what was to be expected of him? He’d been rum free for a good month or so, and he absolutely hated sailing to France. He deserved something a of reward, he reasoned.
He hadn’t expected his craving for rum to lead him straight to the man he sought.
William Shakespeare himself sat alone at a rickety old table in the corner of the restaurant, dolefully nursing a glass of French wine. Rum forgotten, England stood up sharply and marched over the the little upstart, determined to give the brat a piece of his mind.
“Oi, Shakespeare!” England slammed a black-gloved palm down on the table to get his attention, splintering the wood and spilling a drop of the dark red wine.
The young writer looked up with a start. “M-Mr Kirkland!” he stammered, “I –”
“I hope you have a damn good excuse for being in this bloody hellhole and not back in London right now,” England hissed. “I’ll have you know the queen’s got her knickers in a knot over your absense, and it’s my neck on the line –”
“Ah, cher Arthur, good to see you.” A calm voice from behind cut him off, and England snapped his head around. “Oh, Arthur, what are you doing to cheri Guillaume? You seem to have upset him.”
“Frog.” Arthur narrowed his gaze venomously. “I should have known you were behind this.”
Francis smiled lightly. “I hide behind nothing, Arthur. You of all people should know that.” He winked at that last bit, sending a chill down Will’s spine.
“H-hey,” he interrupted nervously, “You two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Arthur grumbled, at the same time Francis gave a cheeky, “Oui!”
“And I also know what Franc—is must have been up to if he’s kept you trapped here in France for so long,” Arthur went on. “You should have called the police, Shakespeare. But worry not, I’ve come to rescue you.”
“Ah, mon cher, you’ve got it all wrong!” Francis held the back of his hand to his forehead in a mock-offended faint. “Guillaume stayed with me /quite/ willingly. It seems he’s developed a plus fine taste for culture and amour, non?”
Arthur rounded on the young writer with horror. “Shakespeare, is this true?”
“I – no!” Will squeaked, hiding his bright red cheeks behind his glass of wine.
“Aww, mon petit is just embarassed,” Francis cooed. “He loves me.”
“He does not!”
“I –”
“Oh, he does too,” Francis cut them both off. “He even writes his magnifique sonnets for me.”
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (6/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-20 10:00 pm (UTC)(link)Arthur stepped up onto the rickety chair beside Will’s and straightened his cloak – more pirate-like, he decided. He cleared his throat and announced to the entire tavern, “This one’s for this here bastard.”
A series of gasps and catcalls echoed across the bar, effectively securing him an audience, a nasty glare from Francis and a mortified gape from Will.
“/Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust/.”
He spat out the last line with intense hatred, earning snickers and aghast whispers from the crowd.
“/Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight –/”
“/Past reason hunted, and no sooner had/,” France interrupted hotly.
“/Past reason hated as a swallowed bait/,” England shot back. “/On purpose laid to make the taker mad./”
France stepped up onto a chair of his own, much to the loud amusement of the crowd.
“/Mad in pursuit, and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof –/”
“/–and proved, a very woe/,” England cut in. “/Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream./”
France stepped a foot up onto the table with a sneer. “/All this the world well knows./”
“/But none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell./”
They locked eyes, emerald versus sapphire, each on the verge of snapping with anger and reaching out to wring the other’s neck. They were only stopped when the stunned audience burst into a round of applause, and they remembered they were being watched. Slowly, carefully, and each never taking their eyes off the other they stepped down from their chairs.
“Come on, Shakespeare. We’re leaving.” England pulled the writer to his feet roughly, knocking the empty glass of wine from his trembling hands.
“Non, you can’t force him,” Francis protested over the dying applause. “Give him a choice, rosbif.”
“A choice? What are you on about? Obviously he wants to leave this wretched country and return to England.”
“I don’t know.” Francis smiled coyly. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Will blinked and looked from one to the other, then back again. There was Mr Kirkland, his boss, the surly, gruff gentleman, who had the talent to conjure a sonnet on the spot and had offered him a position in the court – and then there was Francis, the beautiful Frenchman, who had offered him a kind of empty love. He looked back and forth again, then –
“I-I’d actually prefer to stay here with Francis, Mr Kirkland.”
England, shocked into silence, looked the young man up and down with suspicion and disbelief. “I don’t know what you’ve done to him, frog, but I won’t let it continue.” He buttoned the top of his coat, whipped it around for effect, and faced the both of them with bitter determination. “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
Francis only continued to smirk triumphantly, leaning casually against the table. “Is that a threat, monsieur?”
“You bet your sorry arse it is.”
And with that, England stormed out of the tavern, slamming the door in his wake.
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (6/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-20 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)Grinning hugely because holy freakin hand grenades batman! Wonderful, wonderful Shakespeare, freakin' badass England, and amazing debonair France? YES!
And an epic poetry battle? Made of win.
England as a pirate gentleman made me laugh so hard. Because with Elizabeth, English pirates all had letter of marque or whatnot, so they were technically legal, and therefore, not pirates. So Spain just gets to yell at Francis Drake as he merrily gallavantes off with all the treasure...
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (6/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-22 02:38 am (UTC)(link)Ah, this fill brings a smile to my day.
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 06:50 am (UTC)(link)Why the hell would the naked Frenchman leave his bedside in the middle of the night just to expose himself to the empty streets of Port Salut? Will didn’t remember him being particularly drunk the night before, just slightly put off by Mr Kirkland. With a suspicious, hollow pit in his stomach, he cautiously rolled out of bed and crept up along the wall to the window.
Just as he turned his eyes back out onto the balcony, he saw a figure emerging over the top. He pressed himself out of sight against the wall just in time to see a scarlet-cloaked figure pull his way up over the railing, only to have Francis pounce on him and send him falling back to the ground. At the last minute the debonair Frenchman reached out and grabbed the black-gloved hand, holding him out casually over the two-story drop.
“Bonjour, Angleterre~” Will could barely make out Francis’s voice through the open crack in the glass-paned door, followed by a loud string of curses. “Please, if you’re going to be so vulgar, do keep your voice down. There are children sleeping nearby.”
In the silence that followed, Will saw the gloved hand not gripping Francis’s flip him off sharply, English-archer style.
“That’s not very nice, Angleterre,” Francis chided lightly. “Peut-etre I should just drop you…?”
“Fucking wine-sucking gitface –”
“But I won’t, to spare the innocent children from your des mots grossiers.”
With a grunt, he hefted the other man over the railing, and the two of them collapsed into a heap on the cold stone floor. The crimson-cloaked man stood up abruptly, and Will got a glimpse of his face – unruly blond hair, striking green eyes, and unmistakably thick eyebrows. Mr Kirkland…!
“Good god, frog, put some fucking clothes on!”
Yes, definitely Mr Kirkland.
Francis chuckled airily. “That’s not what Guillaume said –”
Kirkland grabbed Francis by his bare shoulders and shoved him back against the door, nearly cracking the glass. Will, startled, instinctively jumped back a step, then crouched deeper in the shadows of the moonlight, blushing deeply.
“You are going to stop – stop… disrespecting Mr Shakespeare this instant,” Kirkland hissed.
Francis quirked an eyebrow. “Disrespecting? Oh, Angleterre, I am doing much more than disrespecting him –”
Kirkland slammed his head into the glass pane for emphasis. “I said shove it, France!”
“Duly noted, mon cheri – oww, that hurts,” he complained as Kirkland dug his fingernails into his skin.
What was going on? Will’s sleep-weary yet sharp mind was working overtime. Why did Mr Kirkland call Francis France? And why did Francis call Mr Kirkland Angleterre…was that not England in French? Perhaps they called each other by their country names because of their opposed nationalities? But how and why did their rivalry develop? Will sat crosslegged on the ground, back pressed against the wall, head cupped in his hands in thought.
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (8/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 06:52 am (UTC)(link)“You’re hurting me, Angleterre,” Francis pouted. “You – merde, that’s not any better!”
“What. Did. You. Do.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Francis grit out with a wince. “I just captured his affections with my natural beauty and charm. Is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Yes. Yes it is.” Kirkland maintained his iron grip on his shoulders. “How much did you pay him?”
“You wound me, cheri! I paid him nothing but amour~”
Kirkland responded with a not-so-gentle knee straight to the balls that made Will cringe in sympathy.
“MERDE!” France doubled over in pain, and Kirkland released him, allowing him to bend over and clutch his knees. “Merde, putain. What was that for?”
“You know what!”
“Non, I do not! I was telling nothing but the truth!”
“No, you were not! And you’re not wearing and bloody clothing, so you deserved that!”
For a moment Will was afraid they were going to break into an all-out brawl, as both raised their fists and charged at one another. But Kirkland seemed much better prepared, plus Francis was still reeling from that last… sensitive attack, and the cutlass the former pirate produced from his belt gave him more than a slight advantage. Within seconds Francis was pinned to the ground with the cutlass at his throat.
Will tensed. He didn’t want to have to act, but was a murder occuring right before his eyes? No, Kirkland wouldn’t…would he?
“I swear, prat, I’ll give you another Hundred Years War if you don’t let the poor lad go.” Kirkland held the cutlass steady at his throat.
“I already told you, there is nothing to release him from.” Francis smirked confidently up at his rival from beneath the blade. “You’re just jealous because you and your country don’t hold the same… appeal, shall we say?”
Instead of slicing his throat open, Kirkland pulled his other hand back into a fist and shoved it straight into the Frenchman’s eye.
“Merde!” Francis yelped. “That’s going to leave a black eye, you idiot!”
“Oh, that’s what you should be worried about,” Kirkland snorted.
“Yes, it is!” Francis protested. “Were we not just discussing the value of le sexual appeal? Perhaps you find it acceptable to waltz around with ugly eyes – I mean really, those sourcils of yours – but I, the country of amour –”
“Do you want another black eye, then?” Kirkland threatened, fist at the ready.
“Non,” the Frenchman whimpered. “I’m just not sure what else you want from me.”
They remained frozen there for a moment, and Will was frozen as well, shocked and confused into a state of paralysis. Finally Kirkland moved, standing up off of the Frenchman and sheathing the cutlass at his side.
“Please, Francis,” he implored softly, leaning back against the railing the naked blonde staggered back to his feet. “I don’t think you understand what kind of potential that boy has. He’s the best I’ve seen in decades – no, centuries. He could be the best writer England’s ever seen, frog.”
France smoothed his ruffled hair with a huff. “Don’t get carried away now, Angleterre. And please refrain from mocking me with baseless exaggerations.”
“I’m not kidding!” England shouted indignantly, hand flying instinctively back to his cutlass hilt.
“Volume, Angleterre,” Francis tutted. “And please, no more violence tonight.”
Will could have sworn he saw steam coming from the English pirate-turned-gentleman’s ears. “I’m not letting you get away with this, frog,” he snarled in a low growl. “I’ll be back to speak with Shakespeare tomorrow.”
“Aww, mon amour, if you want to see me so badly you should just say so,” Francis cooed.
England drew the cutlass and raised it to strike him, then sheathed it again with a loud sigh out through his nose. “Watch yourself, frog.” And he leapt away out over the balcony.
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (9/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 06:54 am (UTC)(link)“You’re so cold, Guillaume,” Francis whispered, more to himself than his presumably sleeping lover. “But worry not, I’ll keep you warm…”
And his state of confusion, shock, surprise, fear, and utter sense of of loss of direction, Will wondered what the bloody hell he would do when Kirkland came knocking on the morrow.
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (9/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 03:55 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (9/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)Other than that, I think you're doing well, authoranon :) I admit I was rather apprehensive because I was going through a "Oh no, they're going to defile my country's most famous person! D:" [with that bloody wine-freak's debauchery, etc. etc.] crisis, but I'm pleased I clicked on the link :D Am looking forward to reading more!
author!anon
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 07:17 pm (UTC)(link)and thank you to everyone for comments~!
Re: author!anon
(Anonymous) 2010-11-27 08:02 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (9/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-26 11:49 am (UTC)(link)OH.MY.GOD. The scene at the tavern with the spontaneous sonnets was so...god. GOD. England, France, cool your heads and libido, because you're pouring UST all over the floor, guys ♥
Poor Will! I udnerstand his confusion. I wonder how he'll decide to interpret the country names, the references to the Hundred Years War, to having seen centuries past...man, the FrUK is all over this fic, too. It makes me so happy ^^
and there's badass!England and smirky!France. I'm very glad you capture them so well
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-28 06:49 pm (UTC)(link)He shook his head fondly at the sleeping blonde. Sure, he was unfaithful, but what was there to be faithful to? And yes, he was an incurable flirt, but he was Will’s incurable flirt, for did he not come back here to sleep with him each night? There were many flaws with this relationship, one being the fact that Will had barely known him for five days and was already madly in love, another being that they barely knew anything about each other, other than they enjoyed the mutual company in bed, and yet another being that he hadn’t even begun to consider how he would support himself here in France.
But, Will thought, as he readied his quill and the mere sight of the sleeping Frenchman shot a thrill of inspiration into his fingers… he could get used to this.
He didn’t realise how long he’d been writing or that the sun was now well up into the sky until a pair of gentle hands began massaging his shoulders from behind. “Good morning, mon ami.” Francis leaned over his shoulder, silky hair tickling against his neck and pooling around his collar. “What sorts of poemes belles are you writing now?”
Will felt his cheeks warming, and he looked away with a blush as Francis’s head snaked around his side. “N-nothing…”
“May I see?”
“It’s actually not finished…” Will smiled. “But it is for you.”
“How sweet, cher Guillaume!” Francis pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be inside preparing breakfast, bien? Come in when you’re ready.”
Will agonised over the last couplet of his sonnet for another good hour before he retreated inside, satisfied with himself and more than happy to treat himself to a plateful of Francis’s pastries as a reward. French food, he thought as a croissont melted blissfully in his mouth, was something else he could easily get used to.
“Are you ready to read me your poeme, mon cher?” Francis leaned his head casually on his elbow, and Will took note that he was half-dressed, only wearing a pair of loose-fitting pants that hung attractively around his hip bones. Whether the glass was half empty or half full Will did not know, but he did know that his Frenchman was beautiful, and a genuine smile lit his cheeks.
“Yes, I am. I think you’ll like it.” He took a sip of water to clear his throat, and read:
/Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee./
Francis looked absolutely elated, his eyes alight as he gave a slow, hearty round of applause. “Tres beau, cheri! Trop beau pour décrire en anglais!”
“Um…” Will blushed. “I don’t speak French.”
Francis leaned forward across the table to cup the young writer’s chin in his slender fingers. “I said your poem was too beautiful to describe in English,” he whispered. “Non, your language defiles it. It is worthy of the highest praise in la langue de amour.”
“I…thank you…”
“Non, I should be thanking you!” Francis stood up to kiss him passionately, full on the lips. “Angleterre wasn’t joking about your skill,” he added, nearly inaudibly under his breath.
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (11/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-28 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)The Frenchman stiffened. “Ah, you weren’t meant to hear that, cheri! Don’t worry about it.”
“Doesn’t Angleterre mean England in French?” Will persisted, attempting to preserve an air of innocence in his tone. “I’m confused.”
“Ah…” Francis sat back down across from Will, resting his head in his hands so as to smush his cheek up into his eyes. “It’s really nothing…”
Will put on his best little puppy face. “Don’t you trust me, Francis?”
“Mon petit Guillaume, you wouldn’t understand –”
“No, I understand.” Will stood up abruptly, his face shadowed by genuine hurt. “You like me enough to fuck me, but not enough to trust me.”
Francis stood up quickly as well, his palms pressed white into the table. “That’s not what I meant, mon ami!” he cried, then took a breath to calm himself. “Come.” He put a hand on Will’s shoulder, guiding him over to the couch. “Come sit. I will explain.”
Will sat down cautiously, unconsciously gripping his mug of water tightly between his hands. Francis took a chair from his kitchen table and pulled it up to sit across from him, crossing his legs tensely and resting his head on an uncomfortable hand. “Ah, where to begin…”
“How about with who this Angleterre is,” Will attempted to sound demanding, perhaps as a jealous boyfriend. Yes, that would work –
“Non, non, it’s not like that at all!” Francis waved his hands defensively. Ah, his change in tone did work – he’d have to keep that in mind for future writings. “It’s not like that at all,” Francis repeated hastily. “In fact, I actually detest him.”
“So who is he?”
“He’s an old friend. Or rather, an old enemy. Depends on the day.” Francis smiled, momentarily lost in thought. “If you asked him, he’d likely insist it was only the latter, but we know differently, non? Cher Angleterre is just… guarded about his emotions, shall we say.”
“Francis, you still haven’t answered the question,” Will pointed out impatiently. “Who is he?”
“I just did answer the question!” Francis protested, then shrank under Will’s sharp gaze. “D’accord, just stop looking at me like that. Do you know how féroce you look? It’s actually quite appealing –”
“Francis!”
“D’accord, d’accord,” he apologised. “You may know cher Angleterre as an aide to the queen back home in England by the name of Arthur Kirkland.”
“Yes, I do, and you know that I do.” Will waved his hand impatiently.
“Bien. Alors, you know then that he’s regarded very highly amongst English noblemen and by the queen herself?” Will nodded. “Well see, Guillaume, I’m in a … similar position amongst the French nobility, I just don’t take myself as seriously as that cretin Anglais. And the two of us have been in these similar position for… a very long time, for much of which our two nations have been at war.”
“How much time?” Will pressed.
“Ah…” Francis averted his gaze and scratched his stubble. “Thirty years, perhaps?”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “Did you make that up?”
“Non! Would I lie to you, Guillaume?”
“I don’t know. How old are you?”
“Alors, euhm…” Francis looked down at his hands. “Twenty-three?”
A blink.
“…Really, Francis?”
It took Francis a moment, then his eyes widened at the realisation. “Ah, Guillaume, I simply miscounted!” he cried. “Did I say thirty? I meant to say thirteen! Désolé, you know my Anglais isn’t exactly parfait.”
So Francis was going to be evasive. Now will knew for sure that something wasn’t right here, but what exactly, even his bright mind couldn’t pinpoint. So he decided to go on the offensive.
“Where’d you get that black eye, Francis?”
Francis’s hand flew to his left eye. “Oh, this?”
“Yes, that.”
“I – well, you know, bar fight –”
“I was with you last night, Francis,” Will said slowly, as though to a child. “There was no bar fight.”
“You must have accidentally kicked me, then. When we were engaging in our acts of amour –”
“Don’t you dare put any of this on me,” Will hissed through barred teeth. “Tell me. You said you would.”
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (12/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-28 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)“Yes,” Will ground out impatiently, “Yes you should.”
“D’accord. Alors… Angleterre – Monsieur Kirkland – was here last night.” He waited for Will’s outburst of indignation, but when he responded with just a steely glare, he continued, “He sought your company, of course, though why he would do so in the middle of the night by climbing up over a balcony dressed like a silly rosbif is beyond me…”
“Francis.” Will shot him a warning glare.
“Right, right.” The Frenchman cleared his throat. “It was simple, really. He wanted to see you, I said no. We fought like we always do, the little punk had a knife on him which gave him an unfair advantage, we yelled some more and he broke my delicate ears with his vile profanity, then he left. And somewhere along the way he punched me in the eye. Does that satisfy your morbid curiousity, cheri?”
No, actually, it did not. It left so many of Will’s questions unanswered, but he wasn’t sure how to ask them without giving his eavesdropping away. Besides, he was nearly certain the elusive Frenchman wouldn’t tell him anyway. But he was spared from an answer by a hard pounding at the door, angry knocks which could only belong to one person.
“Quick, put a shirt on, Francis!”
Francis gave a thin, tired yet ever-cheeky smile. “Non, I think I’m fine the way I am, mon ami.”
He opened the door calmly. “Ah, cher Arthur! Do come in.”
((Note: the above sonnet is Sonnet 18))
OP
(Anonymous) 2010-11-28 08:23 pm (UTC)(link)How wonderful that Sonnet XVIII was for Francis. God, that must rankle Arthur later on. :D I love how this is going so far. I brighten up a little every time I see an update. :D Thanks so much for filling.
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (12/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-29 07:13 am (UTC)(link)(and your Will is so cute)
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (12/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-11-29 08:50 pm (UTC)(link)Actually, your France as a whole! <3<3<3
And Will is becoming more interesting as we go, now trying to put on a show to get the truth...and let me tell you, this was an excellent scene about the "human suspects the nation secret" thing; one of the best I've ever read, in fact, because Will isn't annoyingly pushy and obsessed with getting the truth, and his suspicions are vague and not really sure what to think about the whole deal...
And the sonnet! You keep making excellent use of Will's works! (that poem fits France to a tee xD)
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (13/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-12-12 07:29 am (UTC)(link)“Hmm, non.” Francis guided him over towards the table nonchalantly, pouring him a cup of tea as he gave a nod of greeting to Will. “So rude, cheri. If you’re not going to thank me for the tea, perhaps I should take it back?”
Arthur snatched away the tea as Francis reached out his hand for it, skillfully balancing it up and away without spilling a drop, then setting it back down on the table as he sat down opposite Will. “I’d really rather you not play games with me now, Francis,” he intoned over his steaming tea. “I have some important matters to discuss with Mr Shakespeare.”
“Cher Guillaume’s already given you his answer, mon ami.” France sat down next to Will, his cheery voice edged with an undertone of tension. “If you have nothing further to discuss and your only purpose here is to bother me, then I think you should… how do you Anglais say it? Piss off?”
England impulsively reached out and grabbed Francis by his bare shoulder, his other hand pulled backwards into a fist, but let him go as he saw Will watching in horror out of the corner of his eye.
“William.” He turned back to his young charge, desperation in his eyes. “You have such great opportunities for you back home in England. The Queen is looking for someone to chronicle the story of Henry IV in play format, and I went ahead and recommended you in lieu of your absence because I thought… I thought that you might try your hand at playwriting?”
Francis stiffled a mocking chuckle. “Using French words and begging, Arthur? I didn’t think you so pathetique.”
“Shut up, frog,” England hissed through clenched teeth. “I happen to think Mr Shakespeare would make an excellent playwrite, and the opportunity is his for the taking. In the Queen’s service, no less. What do you say, Mr Shakespeare?” He proffered his hand. “Come home with me.”
Will turned a brilliant shade of red, his eyes fixed on his feet. “I… I…”
“Angleterre, do stop pressuring the poor boy,” Francis chided.
England’s eyes went wide at the mention of his country name, and gave a frantic glance at Will. “Francis, you bloody idiot –”
“Ah, cher Guillaume knows about my little pet name for you, Angleterre,” Francis purred, though England could tell his smugness was laced with the anxiety of his mistake.
“You – you obnoxious git!” England seethed.
“Non, Angleterre, I think you’re being the obnoxious one.”
“Me, obnoxious?” England scoffed. “I’m a gentleman!” France mimicked the scoff, but England ignored him. “Besides, I’m offering Mr Shakespeare the opportunity of his life –”
“Do shut up.” Francis waved a bored hand. “If you want that play written so badly, cheri, why don’t you just write it? You knew Monsieur Henri yourself, after all.”
“By that token you could write it, then.” A malicious spark rose to the emerald eyes. “But I suppose you were better acquainted with his son, correct? I believe you and he met at Agincourt –”
Francis’s eyes took on a fierce, furious quality that Will had never before witnessed in the carefree, sauve, collected Frenchman before. He dove forward at Arthur, throwing him back against the wall and holding him against the stone by his shoulders, his knuckles white with the iron grip.
“Do /not/ mention Agincourt,” he snarled, his breath hot in the Englishman’s face.
“Oh? You’d prefer we discuss dear Joan, then –”
Before Will could even blink, Francis had curled his slender fingers into a fist and slammed it straight into Arthur’s jaw. The Englishman’s head flew back against the wall with a crack and he was dazed for a moment, then regained himself and lunged full force at his attacker.
The force of his leap threw Francis to the floor, and the two went flying to the ground in a tangle of frenzied fists and limbs. England grabbed a fistfull of France’s hair but France got a hand on the locket around England’s neck, twisting it tightly and forcing him to let go, but not before England got in a solid knee to his groin. The two would probably have fought all day, all month, all year, till one of them was dead –
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-12-12 07:30 am (UTC)(link)Francis froze in his position straddled on top of England, who still had a hand clenched in his hair and another at his throat. The simultaneously paused, blinked, and looked up at Will, who stood over them with half-terrified, half-utterly awed eyes and a horrified expression written all over his dark, youthful face.
England quickly scrambled out from under Francis, stood up and straightened himself in embarrassment. The Frenchman followed suit, pulling up his pants by the waistband and at least having the courtesy to look ashamed.
“I’m terrible sorry about that, Mr Shakespeare…” England began.
“I think it’s time for you to go, Angleterre,” Francis said quietly, his voice still laced with anger.
“If William comes with me,” England countered, and turned to the young writer with wide, impassioned eyes. “Please, William. Francis is just using to get to me, you know. But back home in England, there are so many opportunities –”
“OUT, Angleterre.” France grabbed him by the collar and manhandled him towards the door.
England flailed in his grasp. “Ow, you dumb frog, you can’t just –” France threw him out the door and in the time it took him to stagger back and retain his balance, the Frenchman slammed it shut and secured the lock.
England proceeded to pound furiously on the poor wooden door for a solid minute before his bootsteps echoed off down the path. “Suit yourself, William!” his voice echoed suddenly through the door. “Through your life away to that lecherous, dirty little frog, and see if your country cares!”
And then he was gone.
Francis collapsed onto the couch with a tired smile. “Well, now that the cretin is gone…”
“Francis.” Will composed himself and glared down at him with hard yet lost, confused dark eyes. “What… what are you?”
It took a moment for Francis to register the question. Then, “I-I’m not sure what you mean, cheri…”
“You must know what I mean.” Will’s voice raised an octave. “You – you – you discussed events that happened over a century ago, as if you were there! As if both you and Mr Kirkland were there! Don’t deny it, I was right here and I heard you!” Tears of frustration and confusion stung at the corners of his eyes. “You call each other by country names, you speak as if you’ve known each other for hundreds of years…” Will’s entire body trembled. “So answer me, Francis Bonnefoy. What are you?”
Francis stood, approached him slowly, and wrapped him in a loose, gentle hug. Will tried to swat his arms away but eventually succumbed, burying his wet eyes in the bare, golden chest.
“Why can’t you tell me?” he whispered.
“It’s not for humans such as yourself to know,” Francis mumbled into his soft, chocolate brown locks.
“Humans…?”
Francis sighed again, and Will couldn’t tell if it was guilt, depression, disappointment, none or all of the above in his sapphire eyes as he released him and held him at arm’s length.
“Go back to England, Guillaume.”
Will blinked blearily. “But I – Francis, I’ve already abandoned Mr Kirkland, and you fought him for me –”
“I was wrong, cheri.”
Will suppressed a quiet sob. “Wrong…?”
Francis shook his head. “Wrong reasons, wrong ideals, just very, very mauvais, mon ange.”
“You… git…”
Francis just continued to smile sadly at him. “You remind me so much of Angleterre, mon cher. Perhaps that was my problem,” he added, almost inaudibly.
“Francis –”
“Go, Guillaume. Forget about me and everything you heard between Monsieur Kirkland and myself. I assure you, you’re better off without knowing.”
On an impulsive whim, Will grabbed him and pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss, full of fiery and anguished emotion but yet so brief – almost the second their lips met they parted again, leaving the two to gaze at each other with half-lidded eyes.
“Ah, you truly do remind me of Angleterre…”
Will chose not to dwell on the statement, instead drinking in the Frenchman, his Frenchman, for what he suddenly realised was the last time.
“Pack your things, cheri, and try and catch up with Monsieur Kirkland.” Francis said finally, after a pregnant moment of silence. “You can ride without fee on his ship back to Angleterre…”
--
Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (15/15)
(Anonymous) 2010-12-12 07:32 am (UTC)(link)The next morning, Francis found a small piece of parchment lying on his kitchen table.
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this pow'rful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these conténts
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire, shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Francis collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
--
--
England collapsed onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.
He couldn’t believe he was being forced to deal with the fucking frog as an ally. Entente Cordiale his fucking arse, he hated the damn wine-freak with all his heart and soul and the stupid flirt, for all his idiotic, hollow professions of love, felt just as deep a hatred, England knew.
He started going through his male with much more force than necessary, tearing open each letter and tossing the shreds to the floor, when he picked up a letter postmarked from France.
Goddamn frog, as if he wanted to think about him any more than he had to at a time like this. He opened the letter and tugged out a piece of - yellowed parchment? Torn around the edges yet very much intact. The date at the top was August 15th, 1592, but the last number was scatched out in pen and replaced with a 1904.
And at the bottom, in newer, non-faded black ink, was a familiar signature.
Damn frog…
England tucked the letter away into his jacket pocket, and made a mental note to tell France he’d burned it.
--
--
“Would you like to go to a play tonight, frog?”
France blinked. “Are you feeling alright, Angleterre?”
“I-I’m feeling fine, you bloody git!” England stammered. “It’s just – I’m the host of this world meeting, and I happened to have an extra ticket, so I thought I’d be a good host but if you’re going to be so obnoxious about it –”
“Calm down, cheri!” France held up his palms in surrender. “What play?”
“Henry IV.”
France stared. “I hope this isn’t some sort of sick joke on your part.”
“I-it’s not. I just wanted to go see the play, honest.”
France scrutinised him sharply, then decided that after knowing the cretin for a thousand years, he knew when he was lying, and that in this particular case, he surprisingly wasn’t.
“Though I was right about him, you know.” Oh, the stupid Anglais just had to add on, didn’t he. “You thought he’d amount to nothing. You thought –”
“Do you want me to join you or not?”
“No, I don’t,” England grumbled, but stopped throwing insults at him.
The evening was actually fairly pleasant and each nation thoroughly enjoyed themselves, despite their usual bickering and facades of irritability. On the way out, a poster caught France’s eye, and he motioned to it casually.
“That was actually quite enjoyable, Angleterre,” he admitted with a grin. “Perhaps we should do it again sometime?”
England followed his gaze to the poster on the wall. “Hamlet? Yes, that is quite a brilliant play. Next time you’re in London, perhaps.” He held a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Though I do wonder where Mr Shakespeare found the inspiration for that one…”
“Same place he found the inspiration for Henry IV and Romeo and Juliet, I’d assume.”
“Can it, frog.”
--
Notes:
That was sonnet 55 above; all the sonnets here are Shakespeares, by the way. LikeIcouldwritesonnetslikethatlol
Henry IV is likely, but not for certain, one of Shakespeare’s very first plays.
Battle of Agincourt – a massive English victory in the Hundred Years War
Joan – Joan of Arc
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (15/15)
(Anonymous) 2010-12-12 09:21 am (UTC)(link)I usually don't like love triangles but you managed to make them all incredibly in character and their actions believable. Wonderful work, anon.
Re: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (15/15)
(Anonymous) 2010-12-12 09:24 am (UTC)(link)That was brilliant anon! I can't even begin to describe how much I loved this. And the ending, that was great!
OP
(Anonymous) - 2010-12-12 14:46 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Is Lust in Action, and Till Action, Lust (15/15)
(Anonymous) - 2010-12-12 16:14 (UTC) - ExpandOP
(Anonymous) 2010-11-25 12:19 pm (UTC)(link)Please keep going