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Be Careful What You Wish For	By : cdreaiton Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 2205 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters, nor do I make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Confession
- 1
As he sits at the large conference table, watching England lecture America about eating too many hamburgers, France wonders if perhaps it is only his imagination. But his many years of honing his listening and observation skills make the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind extremely insistent. And so he watches and listens during the entirety of the meeting, keeping a close eye on England to see if his responses seem off. He even going so far as to agree with the island nation on a minor point of contention. England responds characteristically, yelling his head off at France about ‘not needing the support of a Frog’, and the matter is quickly settled, and France’s suspicions put to rest. Although Italy does lean over and ask if France is feeling ill, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the younger country.
Later, when the meeting is over and he’s sitting in his living room reading a fascinating book on the construction of erotic prose he’s borrowed from Spain, he is unsurprised to hear a knock at his door. He doesn’t bother with going to open it or shouting to let the person know to come inside. They both know the knock is only a formality. Sure enough, mere seconds after knocking, England bursts through France’s front door, cursing up a storm.
“What the bloody hell was that about, France?! I thought we agreed not to agree when we’re around the others! If we start acting as though we like each other, someone is bound to figure it out!”
France finishes his paragraph before calming setting it to the side and looking up at England, who is attempting to loom but looks far more like an upset hedgehog and France can’t help but find it adorable although he’d never admit so aloud.
“It was about reining in Russia’s latest power grab,” sighs France, standing and going to the stove to start the water for tea, “and I agreed with you because you made a valid point and we are supposed to be allies, not because I wish to undermine your desire to keep our relationship a secret. And although I still do not understand why you insist upon the charade, I will continue to perpetuate the idea that we are sworn rivals so long as it continues to make you happy. Earl Grey or Lady?”
“Lady,” replies England, unphased by the question but undeterred from his rant, “and you know damn well why I don’t want anyone finding out about us. The last thing we need, especially considering all the madness going on right now, is for those sops to start thinking we’ve gone soft.” England pauses a moment to take a sip of the Lady Grey tea France holds out to him, smiling softly at the familiar fragrance. “And I really don’t want to have to deal with America’s constant ribbing about whether my arse hurts or not.”
“How do you know he will? Perhaps he will believe you are the one who tops,” says France, smiling around his own cup of chamomile and lavender.
England glares at him pointedly and lets his eyes rove the length of France’s exceptionally beautiful, and rather well built body before they snap back up to meet his striking blue eyes. He lifts one absurd eyebrow in a silent remark of ’Really?’. France shrugs a shoulder and smirks, relinquishing the point.
“Fair enough,” he says with a soft chuckle, gesturing towards the sofa.
They sit, and England leans his head against France’s shoulder. This causes France to quirk an eyebrow, but he wisely doesn’t say anything. England is prickly on the best of days and rarely shows any outward signs of affection, so France savors them when they happen. The room is silent for several minutes as they finish their tea.
“It doesn’t, you know,” England mutters almost under his breath, catching France off-guard.
“What doesn’t?” ask France, wondering if he’s missed the first part of this conversation.
“My ass,” supplies England helpfully, “It doesn’t hurt.”
“That’s...good?” France sets his now empty cup on the end table, and gives England a questioning look.
England places his own cup on the coffee table, and in a swift motion straddles France’s legs, sitting himself directly over the other man’s groin and grinding his hips slightly. He grips France’s shoulders with both hands, leans in, and licks along the shell of France’s ear, feeling France’s cock twitch beneath him.
“We could fix that,” he whispers, running his hands down France’s arms with an almost feather soft touch.
France manages not to groan at the sensation of England’s hot breath in his ear, or the slow grinding into his rapidly hardening cock. He smiles lasciviously.
“We could indeed,” agrees France, sliding his hand down the front of England’s shirt. “Is that what you want, mon cher?” His fingers make quick work of the buttons and he slips his hands inside, ghosting his fingers over England’s exquisitely sensitive nipples.
“Yes,” gasps England, gripping onto France’s arms tightly.
“Very well,” France smirks, “It’s your ass.”
They barely make it to the bedroom. England’s ass is very sore the next day.
***
A few weeks later, the thought pops up again when they are sitting out on Spain’s terrace enjoying the warm, late spring air. Spain is regaling them with a story his boss heard from one of their vintners, (an unfortunate tale about a man whose wife was so infuriated over her husband’s infidelity she replaced all of his wine barrels with vinegar and ruined his reputation amongst his colleagues) when Romano interrupts, complaining that Spain’s story is making him thirsty.
“Oh! England, mon ami,” says France brightly, turning to face the man sitting next to him. “Why don’t you make some of that new tea you brought for Spain, the one with the lemongrass? It’s so refreshing!”
England slams his hands down on the table and stands so abruptly it knocks his chair over behind him and Romano jumps a little in his seat.
“I am not your friend, you insufferable wanker! Make your own damned tea!” England shouts, and storms out the door, slamming it closed behind him.
“What is wrong with friend England?” inquires Spain, staring at the door with a worried frown on his face.
“It’s probably all that bland food,” sighs France theatrically, painting his best charismatic smile across his face, “It has clogged his digestion and made him testier than normal.”
Romano humphs and sits back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest.
“Don’t know what you two fogies are so freaking out about. England is just being as dickish as normal.”
Spain and France raise an eyebrow at Romano, whose own dickishness makes everyone else’s pale in comparison, and hide their smiles by retreating into the house to fetch one of Spain’s newest vintages.
That night, France barely makes it through the door before England is pawing at his shirt and pants and dragging him into the bedroom. And the nagging thought in the back of his mind starts to inch its way closer to the forefront.
***
“Is there something bothering you?” asks France a few days later, setting down his fork and looking worriedly at his lover.
England has always been a rather prickly person, this is something France has always known and accepted. But lately it seems as if England is taking offense at every word that leaves France’s mouth. During their lunch with America and Japan the previous day, England had snapped at his lover when France had asked him to pass the salt. It isn’t so much that what England says or does is actually hurtful to France, but the frequency of it is troublesome. And every time England throws one of these little fits, he is extremelyaffectionate once they return home. Although France certainly isn’t complaining about that part.
“What do you mean?” England pauses, a forkful of tartiflette halfway to his mouth.
France takes a sip of his bourgueil to give himself a moment to phrase his words carefully. He knows how easily a misspoken word can put an end to a pleasant conversation, and he desperately wants England to open up to him, even just a little. He offers up a brief and silent prayer that this night doesn’t end poorly, and takes a steadying breath.
“Lately you seem...out of sorts,” says France, keeping his voice low and soft, as though he is speaking to a frightened animal, “Is there perhaps something happening at work which is troubling you?”
“No. Nothing I can think of. My Boss is being a bit of a twat, but it’s not like that’s anything new,” answers England with a shrug, reaching for a slice of bread from the basket in the middle of the table.
“I see,” France frowns a little and lets some of his worry show in his eyes. “Angleterre, have I done something or said something which has offended you?”
England jerks his head up in surprise and stares at France, his mouth open slightly in shock.
“Wh-what the devil are you on about?! Why would you think that?” he asks incredulously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” retorts France, glaring at his lover sternly over the rim of his wine glass and quickly losing his grasp on his temper, “perhaps it is because recently it seems that everything I do or say when we’re around our friends makes you angry! You snapped at me when I asked you to pass the salt at lunch yesterday, you swatted a pen out of my hand when I tried to hand it to you during our meeting with Germany last week, you complained for nearly 20 minutes about the food I made for the UN Summit two weeks ago...I could go on but we’d be sitting here until dawn. Is it any wonder I believe something to be wrong?”
England stares slightly open-mouthed at France for several excruciatingly long seconds. When the seconds turn into a full minute, France sighs heavily and sets his wine glass on the table before pushing his chair back and rising, plate in hand. He steps into the kitchen, his back to the doorway, and begins the arduous task of washing the dishes.
“I apologize, but I haven’t prepared any dessert for the evening,” he calls out to the dining room, “Although if you’d like, I could run down to the market and pick up some mille-feuille. The local bakery has a beautiful and talented new pâtissier. She is quite lovely and her work is equally so. Or if you prefer, I believe there are still some strawberries in the fridge. I could whip up some whipped cream and…”
A lean, lithe body presses against France’s back, and he feels England’s arms wrap around his waist and pull him tight against the other man’s chest. France sets down the dish in his hand and places a hand on England’s arm with a soft sigh.
“Please, Angleterre,” whispers France, and feels the arms around him tighten further and England’s cheek rest against his shoulder, “talk to me. If there is something wrong...I would like to help you deal with it. But I can’t...I can’t do anything if you don’t talk to me.”
“I...I didn’t...mean to make you think I was...upset at you or anything,” mutters England into France’s shirt, the loose white linen muffling the sound slightly, “It’s just...when we’re around other people you put that...that fake smile on, like everything’s sunshine and roses all the time, and I hate it. And I know that...well, that part of the reason...okay, most of the reason you do it is because it helps make people think that you and I are the same as we’ve always been and that we aren’t...you know...together. Gah! I suck at this emotional crap.”
France smiles softly and rubs tiny circles into the back of England’s hand with his fingers. He knows how much his lover struggles with discussing feelings of any kind, and he is more than willing to continue standing in front of his sink for hours if it means England will finally confide in him. After a brief moment and several deep breaths, England continues.
“I’m just...I’m not ready for everyone one to know about...about us,” he says with a soft sigh tinged with regret.
“I know, mon cher. And it doesn’t bother me that you…”
“It bothers me!” blurts England suddenly, tightening his grip almost painfully on France’s waist. “I hate pretending like we hate each other. And then I see you sitting there, that stupid bloody smile on your face, and I just get so...so furious! With me for being so in...insecure about how I f-feel, and with you for just...going along with it!” France can hear the barely controlled tears in England’s voice and hugs his lover’s arms in silent support. England takes a shuddering breath to try and calm himself. “So I just snap. And I know it’s not fair, and it makes me feel like a right bastard once I’ve calmed down a bit, because I know you’re only doing it because I asked you, and you’re too goddamned nice to tell me to piss off or punch me in the nose, even when I’m acting like a total wanker.” Sighing, England buries his face in France’s collar and speaks so softly France almost isn’t sure he hears him. “Sometimes I wish you would stop being so nice all the damned time.”
France pulls gently on England’s arms, giving himself enough room to turn around and wrap his arms around England’s shoulders, pulling him in close.
“I understand your reservations in revealing the nature of our relationship to the others, mon cher,” he whispers soothingly, touching his lips to England’s for the barest of moments, “but I cannot stand to see you so distraught over your own feelings. Tell me,” France leans in and kisses a line down England’s jaw until he reaches his ear and the feel of France’s breath in his ear causes England to shiver slightly, “what can I do to make you see just how much you mean to me?”
“France, please,” gasps England, grinding his hips lightly into France’s own, feeling his arousal through the fabric of his pants.
“What would you have of me, mon cœur?” France licks around the shell of England’s ear, his deep voice full of sin and promise.
“T-take...take me to bed...please,” pleads England, arching his back and gripping the fabric of France’s shirt until his knuckles are nearly white as France begins to nip lightly at the sensitive flesh of his ear. “I want...I want to feel you.”
France pauses his torturous teasing of his lover’s ear and presses his lips against England’s. The kiss is filled with desire and passion, yet is somehow tender and gentle. France nibbles softly on England’s bottom lip, slipping his tongue inside when his lover groans in appreciation and parts his lips. He slips a hand into England’s hair and tightens his fingers around the strands, pulling just hard enough for England to feel it, but not enough for it to hurt. He slides his tongue around the silky inside of his lover’s mouth, drinking him in as though he is an oasis in a parched and scorching desert, smiling almost ferally and swallowing down the little moans and whimpers England makes as France lovingly ravishes his mouth. When France finally breaks the kiss, England’s head is spinning with need and his knees threaten to buckle beneath him.
“I wish to feel you as well, mon cher,” France purrs deliciously, “push my hard cock into that tight little asshole of yours, take you so slowly you shall nearly weep from the pleasure, love you until you are spent entirely and collapse from the intensity of it.”
“W-Why,” pants England, voice nearly horse with need, “Why are we s-still in the k-kitchen then? And...and why are you still w-w-wearing clothes?”
“Such an impatient little lutin you are,” chuckles France darkly, his own voice heavy with desire, “Come, mon cher, I shall take you to bed as you’ve asked, and I shall love you until that love is the only thought in your heart.”
France pulls away reluctantly and takes England’s hand, leading him into the large master bedroom and laying him down ever so gently on the soft silk covers. Just as France has promised, there is no pain, only tenderness, and they keep their gazes firmly locked together through their release, then fall asleep curled against each other’s bodies, warm and satiated and whole.
***
“Dude! Stop hogging all the pizza!” says America loudly, shoving at England, who’s standing in front of the large buffet table where all the countries set the food they’ve brought to their meeting.
“I’m not hogging anything you ridiculous bottomless pit!” England shouts back, refusing to budge from his spot and pushing back against America’s attempts to displace him, “If we let you have first go at the food, there won’t be enough left to feed the rest of us!”
“Come on, man! I haven’t eaten in like six hours. I’m dying here!” wails America, trying to reach around England’s torso to try and snag a slice of the pizza Italy brought.
“Oh no you don’t! You just wait your turn like everyone else!”
England grabs the younger country’s wrist with ease, and the yelling quickly dissolves into a physical scuffle. And while England has impressive reflexes and manages to thwart every attempt America makes at snatching a piece of food, America is quite a bit stronger and England is obviously struggling.
“P-please don’t fight,” stammers Italy, peeking out from behind Germany’s bulky frame.
“Oi! Knock it off you jerkfaces! You are a scaring my little brother!” yells Romano, though he is also hiding behind Germany.
“Do you think we should stop them, Mr. France?” asks Japan when America shoves England back into the table, jostling its contents, “I fear if we do not, that their argument will ruin the meal for everyone.”
France takes a deep breath and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache starts to set in. Things have been so good between England and himself the last few weeks and he knows that if he jumps into this fight now, England will be irritated with his interference. But he is also aware that Japan is right. If they don’t do something soon, their lunch is going to wind up decorating the floor.
“I believe you are right, my dear Japan,” replies France, raising his head and smiling kindly at the other country, “I would hate to see all this magnificent food go to waste simply because those two are acting like spoiled children.”
Japan nods tersely in agreement and heads for the table, not bothering with speaking on it further. France shakes his head a little in awe at Japan’s assurance in his own decisions and heads towards England. He dodges around a flying fist, although whose it is evades his notice, and slides in behind England, watching out of the corner of his eye as Japan does nearly the same with America. He scoops his arms underneath England’s, almost putting him in a Nelson hold, and drags him away from America while England yells curses and various profanities at him. Once they are a decent distance away, France releases him, gamely returning the angry glare in England’s green eyes with one of his own. But before England can say anything, Germany’s booming voice interrupts their thoughts.
“That is enough of the fighting for one day,” he says, his deep voice rumbling softly, daring someone to oppose him, “We have many things still to discuss, and we will only argue more if we try to do so on empty stomachs. Now, everyone form a line and get your food in an organized manner. Don’t be greedy!”
Everyone hurriedly follows Germany’s lead and in short order, everyone is sitting at their places munching away amiably at their lunch. The room is mostly silent as everyone eats, and the meal is quickly over allowing the meeting to resume.
After a few minor debates over international banking laws and different ecologically responsible practices that can be used in various markets, the topic of discussion turns to a group of pirates that have been plaguing both the North Sea and the Bay of Biscay, making it very difficult for ships of any kind to travel safely in and out of Western Europe.
“I say we block their access. Cordon off the English Channel with a naval blockade. It’ll drive the buggers out into the Atlantic and cut off their travel route. Once we do that, America can pick them off with one of those absurdly enormous battleships of his,” proposes England, grinning widely at the brilliance of his idea.
“Hey, any plan where I get to take out the bad guys is a good plan in my book,” agrees America almost instantly.
“Are you out of your mind?!” France exclaims, turning to where England sits in the chair next to him, a look of appalled shock on his face, “You cannot just blockade the entire Channel! That would prevent any ships from getting in at all! Half of my ports are along the Channel, not to mention several of The Netherland’s, and all of Belgium’s! Not to mention all of the ports you yourself have along there! I understand that these pirates are a serious threat, but closing down the Channel would not only be an incredible waste of resources, but would nearly cripple the import and export routes for the four of us for as long as the blockade remained in place! You have had some ridiculous ideas before England, but this one is just absurd!”
“Why you...it’s not absurd at all!” England practically screams at France, his face turning bright red with rage, “I know that it would make importing and exporting goods a bit difficult for awhile, but the majority of the ships that have been attacked have belong to me, and I am tired of losing good sailors to these monsters! The plan might be a bit extreme, but it’s the best idea anyone’s had so far, and it’s not like the blockade would last forever. These pirates are costing everyone and we need to put a stop to them!”
“I am just as distressed as you by the amount of men these pirates have killed!” retorts France heatedly, his own anger rising, “But just because they are a violent menace that must be put down, does not mean that the entirety of our countries must suffer the consequences! It would be much simpler, and far more economic, to station a few more naval patrols in the Channel and set an ambush. Lure them out so that when they go to attack again, there are already ships in the vicinity who can chase them down, or at the very least chase them out into the Atlantic, and then America...”
“You want to...to sacrifice even more lives just to prevent a few weeks of discomfort at the most?” England nearly screeches in outrage, rising out of his chair to loom over France, “You mankey little gannet!”
The entire room falls silent, all eyes on France. Nobody moves as France stands wordlessly and slaps England across the face with the back of his hand.
“Quel culot, salope,” he hisses venomously, blue eyes dark with anger and pain, then turns on his heel and stalks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
England gapes wide eyed at the door for what seems to him like an eternity before a voice interrupts his thoughts.
“England, I must ask you to return to your seat,” orders Germany brusquely, “We still need to resolve the problem of these pirates. I believe...that what France was trying to suggest...is that we use a decoy ship, most likely manned with soldiers, and lure the pirates into attacking it. This would give the naval ships an actual target, and give us a better idea of what sort of operation we are dealing with.”
“A decoy?” England’s head jerks up and he stares at Germany incredulously, “That’s what he…”
All the color drains from England’s face as the realization of what France had meant hits him like a bucket of ice water. His skin goes cold as his mind replays what he’d said, and the look of betrayal and hurt in France’s eyes. He feels his stomach clench as a wave of nausea nearly overwhelms him. Oh God, he thinks, his mind reeling, What have I done?
***
France stands in front of the large bay window in his living room looking down at the lights of Paris below him, a glass of wine on the table next to him, untouched. He thinks about the hurtful words his lover hurled in his face and sighs, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
It isn’t the fact that England insulted him that bothers him. He and England have exchanged verbal blows before, with much harsher words and crueller intent than the ones used today. No, it is the entirety of the situation that has lead them to this point that pains and worries France’s heart. England’s outbursts have been increasing in number and ferocity for several months, and although France has tried to accept his lover’s reasoning for them...he can tell that there is something England is not telling him. And that something is what worries France.
Over the many, many years of his life, France has had many lovers. Men, women, and every flavor in between. Each one had their allures and their drawbacks, but each one was nothing more than a fleeting romance, a passionate tumble between the sheets and a quick kiss at dawn with the promise to write. But none of them ever did. And the loneliness he felt lying in his empty bed, with the smell of lust and sweat surrounding him, left a taste in his mouth far more sour than just the loneliness of simply being alone ever had. In the end, the empty sex had been just that. Empty.
He had continued to keep up appearances though, flirting with nearly every person who crossed his path, treating them to extravagant dinners and expensive wines, even taking a few of them to hotels afterwards. But he never slept with them. Once they had imbibed enough wine, he would lay them on the bed and regretfully tell them they were far too drunk for intimate activities, and then he would leave, returning to his own bedroom to sleep alone.
One night, he had been out drinking with England, America, Germany, and Italy, and hit it off with the waitress at the pub they were patronizing. Naturally, he had done what his friends expected of him and left them to their own devices, taking the waitress across the street to a small hotel. Several hours and more than a few glasses of wine later, he had returned to his home, exhausted from the charade and ready to collapse into bed.
Just as he’d taken off his jacket and thrown it haphazardly over the back of a chair, there had been a knock at his door. Surprised and a bit worried because he hadn’t been expecting company, he had opened the door with no small amount of trepidation. The face that had greeted him on the other side was so unexpected it rendered him momentarily speechless.
“I thought I’d find you here,” England had said, folding his arms over his chest with a small huff.
“England, mon ami,” France had replied, recovering himself quickly and painting his most charming smile on his lips, “I am afraid I have a guest at the moment, so I am rather...indisposed. You understand. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow for lunch. Italy told me about this exquisite new restaurant…”
“Save it Frog. I know you didn’t do anything with that woman earlier.” England’s voice had been accusatory, but not angry, “And I know there isn’t anyone else here.”
Before France could stop him, England had forced his way inside and taken a seat in a large armchair in the living room. With a heavy sigh France had closed the door and joined him, letting the fake smile fall away from his face. He had nearly flopped onto the sofa, and had dropped his head into his hands. After an extremely awkward and tense silence, France had finally spoken.
“How long have you known?” he had asked, tired voice muffled by his hands.
“About as long as you’ve been doing it I’d guess,” England had answered, with none of his usual mocking in his tone. “Fairly certain the others don’t know though. And before you ask, no, I’m not going to tell them.”
This revelation had shocked France. England was constantly looking for new ways to humiliate his long time rival. Now he had the perfect blackmail material, and he was just going to throw it away? France had lifted his head slightly and glared at England unbelievingly through his bangs. England’s only response had been to sigh and wave a hand dismissively at him.
“I’m still going to beat you France,” England had assured him, “and when I do, I’m not going to do it by cheating. Besides,” he had stopped for a moment then and looked at France thoughtfully, “it’s not as much fun to rib you when you look at me like a kicked puppy.”
France had chuckled ruefully at that. Kicked puppy indeed. Then England had done something that had been even more unexpected than anything else he had done that evening. He had stood from his chair and padded over to France. He had held out his hand, and when France had placed his own atop his rival’s outstretched one, he had found himself pulled rather unceremoniously from the sofa and dragged into his bedroom.
It had been almost surreal, and time had seemed to slow around them. England had pulled him close and kissed him. Hard. There had been no further conversation, no stopping to make sure the other was alright. It had been quick, and dirty, and...amazing. When he had awakened the next morning to find England still in his bed, the evidence of their intense encounter visible all over his neck and shoulders, France had actually pinched himself to prove that he hadn’t dreamed the entire thing.
At first, he had believed England had only slept with him out of pity. An idea that had begun to seem less likely when his, now former, rival had rolled out of bed and proceeded to make the two of them breakfast. After not only one, but three repeats of the previous night’s events, France had firmly shoved any thoughts of being pitied out of his mind. And it hadn’t bothered him in the least when England had insisted they keep their relationship a secret.
France pushes himself away from the window and feels his tired body protest the motion. He stares at his untouched wine glass, letting the memories of his first night with England wash over him and buoy his spirits a bit. A soft, tentative knock at his door breaks him out of his reverie and he straightens his shoulders, hoping and praying to any God that will listen that England will finally, finally tell him what’s really wrong.
The door opens and closes almost silently and after a moment, France hears soft footfalls enter the room. He takes a deep breath and turns. England is standing in the doorway of the living room, flicking his gaze between France’s face and the floor, and wringing his hands in front of him. The air is thick with tension as the two of them stand there, unspeaking, for several minutes. Finally, the silence is too much.
“I didn’t mean it! France, please...you must believe me!” cries England, rushing forward to grip one of France’s hands between his own, “I thought...I didn’t...I…”
“Hush, Angleterre,” whispers France, placing his free hand on England’s cheek and leaning in to softly brush his lips against England’s, “I know. It was a misunderstanding, nothing more. I forgive you, mon cher. Do you think you can forgive me for hitting you?”
Green eyes meet blue and England hesitates for just a fraction of second too long before answering. But there isn’t a single flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
“Of course, France,” he says, and France lets out the breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding, “But...you know...you could do it again...if you want.” England’s voice is hoarse with emotion and barely audible as he says the words.
France yanks his hand away from England’s face as though he’s been burned, and tugs the other out of England’s grasp.
“I could…what?” asks France in a whisper, wondering if perhaps he has finally lost his mind and this is some bizarre alternate reality he’s happened into by mistake, “Angleterre...you...you want me to hit you?”
“I…well...” replies England, gulping visibly and running a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, his gaze sliding down to the floor at his feet, “I...I don’t really think I’d like it if you slapped me again, and I really don’t want you to p-punch me, but…” he pauses for a moment and takes a deep, shaky breath, “But you could always h-hit me...in...o-other ways…” England’s tongue darts out to wet his dry lips and he swallows thickly, his mouth practically dry. His hands are shaking and his nerve has almost completely deserted him, but he knows there’s no way he can stop now. He closes his eyes, asks the heavens for the courage to make it through this, and whispers, “L-like with y-your b-b-belt...on my...m-mymy a-arse…”
France has been alive for a very long time. And in that time, he has visited nearly every corner of the globe, experienced more varieties of food, participated in more cultural practices, and seen stranger and more wondrous sights than almost anyone else. He has seduced nobles and peasants alike, and fought in more wars than he cares to count. But nothing, nothing, in his vast repertoire of experiences has prepared him for what he has just heard. England, Great Britain, the country whose empire was once so vast the sun truly never set on it, his arch rival since before either can remember, his friend, his lover, and the proudest, most stubborn country that has ever lived...has just asked France to spank him.
He stands there, mouth hanging open in shock and mind reeling at the idea of what England has just proposed, for an inordinate amount of time with no idea of how to respond. Well, his brain has no idea how to respond. His dick on the other hand has already made its opinion known and France has to stifle a wince as his pants quickly become almost painfully tight. He had never, not even in his most wild of dreams, thought that his lover would suffer from le vice Anglais. France has thought about this sort of thing before, about dominating another person, holding or tying them down and beating them until they cry and beg for a mercy that will never come...and well...he’s not even sure ‘oh dear God please yes now’ covers exactly how much he wants that.
Because of his interest, back when he had still been quite the playboy, France had spent many an enjoyable evening at a BDSM club or leather bar. He’d even spent an extremely pleasurable several weeks with a friendly Domme who had offered to teach him the proper ways to use all of the vast number of toys and implements in her arsenal. Her pet had been a beautiful young man with impeccable manners, who had graciously allowed France to practice on him, and France had learned a great many things from the pair. It was one of those memories he would pull out late at night when he was alone in his bed and found himself unable to sleep. But he had never had the opportunity to use what he had learned, as none of his partners had ever expressed or even hinted at having any desires of that nature. Until, apparently, now.
Suddenly, all the pieces fall into place, and England’s strange and prickly behavior over the last several months makes complete and perfect sense. He reaches out and tilts England’s chin up, forcing his lover to meet his gaze. There is fear in England’s eyes. Fear of rejection, fear of ridicule, and fear that by revealing this side of him and asking for what he wants, that France will think him a depraved freak and leave him. But there is hope in those eyes as well. Hope, and desire...and need. A need France is only too willing to fulfill. He grins wickedly and tightens his grip on England’s jaw, smiling even wider when a small pained gasp escapes England’s lips.
“I see,” purrs France dangerously, “It seems to me, my cute little Angleterre, that you have been exceptionally naughty the last several weeks, haven’t you?”
“Y-yes,” gasps England in reply.
“Yes what?”
“Y-yes, S-s-sir,” England whispers, his cheeks flushing as he uses the title.
“Much better,” says France, thrilling at the sight of England’s blush darkening at the praise, “And what happens to little boys who are naughty, Angleterre?” he asks, voice soft and silky.
England’s eyes dilate at what France is offering. When he had first managed to gather enough courage to just think about talking to France about his fantasy, he had thought for sure that France would laugh at him, tease him for being weak. Even in his more optimistic fantasies he hadn’t dared hope for more than just a few playful smacks on the ass. But this...this is a side of France he has never seen, a side he never could have dreamed existed. His gut clenches in mild panic because it’s more than he’d imagined...but everything that he wants. His now achingly erect cock presses against the tight confines of his pants and he whimpers with need. France’s gaze becomes nearly feral at the sound and his hand slips from England’s jaw into his hair, his fingers brushing gently at the pale strands before making a fist and yanking England’s head back, exposing his throat. Tears well in England’s eyes at the pain before rolling back as he moans in pleasure.
“I believe I asked you a question,” growls France in mock irritation, “Do you really think disobedience is the right course of action when you are already in so very much trouble, mon petit?”
“No, S-sir. I’m sorry,” stammers England.
“Then tell me, what happens to little boys when they are naughty, Angelterre?” asks France for the second time.
“Th-they...they get...p-p-punished...Sir,” whispers England, desperately hoping that France isn’t playing him for a fool just to humiliate him.
“That’s right,” France whispers right into his ear in that delightfully sinful tone that makes England’s knees feel weak, “They have to push their pants and underwear down to their knees and bend over with their legs spread and their hands on the back of the couch, and they have to stay there while their poor little bottom gets spanked and spanked until it is red and sore.”
England very nearly loses himself and comes in his pants at the filthy picture France’s words paint in his mind. But he closes his eyes and steadies himself, not wanting...whatever this is...to end before they can even begin. France lets go of his hair and takes a step back, pointing at the couch.
“Take off your coat and get into position, mon petit, exactly the way I told you. I am going to punish you now,” orders France, unbuckling his belt and slowly sliding it off his waist.
The sight of it makes England’s tummy do flips in anticipation. He quickly sheds his coat and unfastens his pants, then he slides both his pants and his boxers over his hips and drops them to his knees, spreading his legs slightly to keep them there. The cool air of the room feels wonderful on his already leaking cock. He leans over and grips the back of the couch, arching his back to present his naked backside to France for punishment. He hears the soft hissing sound of leather sliding against leather behind him, and then France’s warm hand rests gently in the small of his back.
“Alright, Angleterre,” says France firmly, “I want you to tell me why you’re being punished.”
“I...I y-yelled at you...and I in-insulted you...and was rude to you in front of our friends,” England confesses quietly, and France can feel him trembling slightly beneath his hand, “and I tried to goad you into spanking me.”
France grips the belt in his hand tightly as a wave of pain and anguish nearly overwhelms him.
“Why did you not simply tell me that this is what you wished for, mon cher?” France asks softly, his voice tinged with sorrow, “Did you really think I would strike at you out of anger? Do you...do you trust me so little, mon cœur?”
“No!” shouts England vehemently, digging his fingers into the fabric of the couch until his knuckles turn white, “I knew you wouldn’t do it. I knew! But I couldn’t...I was so afraid that if I told you…” England’s voice drops to a whisper and a tear rolls down his cheek, “that you would tell me I was a freak...and leave me...and I...I couldn’t even bear to think about it. So, I was just going to keep it to myself, but then...then I thought that maybe...if I made you mad enough...you’d want to punish me for it. That’s why...that’s why I said all those horrible things to you. But...after I said them...I knew it was wrong and...and cruel to do that to you...so I’d come over to see you...and you’d just stand there with that smile on your face and tell me you loved me...and it would make me feel like a right tosser for acting that way, so...so I’d seduce you to try and take your mind off of it. But then...every time we were together...I couldn’t help thinking, ‘maybe this time’...and I’d do it all over again. I...I’m sorry, France.”
France’s heart aches in his chest as he listens to England’s revelation and his mind whirls. Why hadn’t he realized what his lover was doing sooner? How can he punish England for the things he’s done when all his lover was trying to do was express his wants and needs? Even if he was going about it in the completely wrong way. He looks down at the belt in his hand and seriously considers throwing it into the nearest wall and pulling England into his arms and just holding him until the sun comes up, whispering to him over and over how much he loves him. But then he remembers the look of fear in England’s eyes when he’d finally told France what he wanted. He had expected to be turned down and mocked for his desires, and France knows that if he doesn’t follow through with his threat of a spanking, he’ll be doing just that, and it will break England. And just the thought of losing England threatens to crush France’s heart.
He closes his eyes and takes several slow, deep breaths, rubbing his hand along England’s back as he does so hoping to calm and reassure him. He knows the wait is agonizing for his lover and he hates to cause him distress, but France refuses to strike anyone, no matter how much they may want it or need it, if his head isn’t completely clear. Once he has calmed his mind, France opens his eyes.
“I forgive you, mon cher,” he assures his lover, keeping up the light rubbing on England’s lower back, “but I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say, do you understand?” When England nods, France continues. “I know you feel bad about the way you went about trying to tell me what it was you wanted, and I know you understand that doing things that way was wrong, and now that I know what you were trying to say I am fairly certain you will not be doing it again, so I am not going to punish you for it. You have been punishing yourself for months now, and you have been far harsher on yourself than I could ever be,” England squirms underneath his hand and makes a small noise of dismay. France chuckles softly, “Oh, I’m still going to punish you, mon petit, but not for this.” He takes his hand from England’s back and wraps his belt around his fist until a length only six inches long remains. “I am punishing you for lying to me when I asked you what was wrong that day after dinner. You could have told me what it was you wanted then, but you chose to lie to me instead of trust me. I do not have many rules Angleterre, and I will never punish you for things which are out of your control, but I will not tolerate you lying to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m so sorry…” whispers England, half choking on a sob.
“I do not need you to be sorry, mon cher, I need you to learn from your mistake,” France chastises gently, “You have already told me you are sorry, and I believe you and have forgiven you. This punishment is so that you will remember the consequences of your actions and so that the memory of those consequences will keep you from doing it again. Now,” France squares his shoulders and stands by England’s hip, placing his hand in the middle of his lover’s back again, both to keep England from moving and to maintain physical contact, “I’m going to give you twenty five strokes with my belt. And once they’re over, the slate will be clean, and this won’t ever be brought up again. Forgiven and forgotten. Are you ready?”
England shifts his hands a little, bracing himself against the back of the couch a little better, then grits his teeth and nods. France rubs the tip of the belt over the pale skin of England’s behind and takes a deep breath.
“I’m not going to make you count them. I just want you to focus on learning the lesson I’m teaching you,” explains France, lifting the belt about two feet above England’s presented bottom.
England tenses in anticipation and jumps a little when the short length of leather snaps against his flesh. But it isn’t at all what he was expecting. The strike is so light it barely stings, and even that fades after only an instant. He blinks his eyes rapidly in confusion, but figures it was only a test strike. When he feels France pull back for the next strike, he tenses again. But again it is the same light, painless smack. Three more of the same follow and England begins to squirm, trying to figure out what France is doing.
“Be still, mon petit,” scolds France, pressing a little firmer against England’s back.
“But...France,” whines England, looking over his shoulder at his lover and wiggling his hips a little.
“If you do not stop squirming, then I will have to stop until you can be still,” France meets England’s gaze with a stern glare, “I cannot aim properly if my target keeps moving around, and I do not want to damage you by hitting you somewhere I’m not aiming for.”
“Even if you did hit me somewhere else it wouldn’t hurt,” mutters England under his breath.
France drops his arm down to his side and slides his other hand up England’s back until it rests on his head.
“Angleterre,” France inquires tenderly, “are you not enjoying your punishment?”
“No, I’m not! You’re barely doing anything!” cries England, barely able to contain his tears of frustration that France is mocking one of his deepest held desires in such a horrible fashion.
“Does that make you feel awful?” The hand on England’s head begins to lightly stroke his hair.
“Of course it does!” sobs England, losing his tenuous grasp on his control and flushing red with shame as his tears begin to fall slowly down his cheeks.
France cups his hand beneath England’s face and forces him to look back and meet his lover’s eyes.
“That is the point of punishment, mon cher. You are not supposed to enjoy it,” admonishes France softly, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “Neither do you get to dictate the manner in which you are punished. That is for me to decide,” he pulls his hand away from England’s face and returns it to the middle of his back. Then he raises his belt, “Only twenty more to go, mon cher, and then it will be over.”
England bows his head and begins to sob in earnest when France resumes his torturously gentle punishment. He’s right, he thinks, this is my punishment. I lied to him. He was worried about me and I returned that kindness by lying, right to his face. I should have just trusted him. Oh, France...I’m so sorry!
By the time the twenty-fifth strike falls, England is a sobbing, snotty, hiccupy mess. France drops his belt on the floor and gently pulls England’s pants back up over his barely pinked behind. He takes his lover’s hand and leads him to the front of the couch, sits down and pulls England into his lap, wrapping his arms around him. England turns into the embrace, fisting his hands into the fabric of France’s soft silk shirt and laying the side of his face against the collar, tears still streaming down his face.
“Hush, mon cœur,” murmurs France, softly stroking England’s hair, “It’s all over now. Forgiven and forgotten. You did so well bearing you punishment. You are so beautiful. I love you, Angleterre.”
France continues to whisper tender words of affection and praise until England’s sobs finally start to quiet. A clean, white handkerchief enters England’s field of vision and he takes it gratefully, wiping away the last of his tears and blowing his nose.
“Better now, mon cher?” asks France, leaning back a bit to look at England’s face.
“That was horrible, you arsemonger,” accuses England, though there is no heat in his words.
“Careful, Angleterre,” warns France, chuckling softly at the insult, knowing perfectly well his lover doesn’t mean it, “Do you really want me to punish you again while you are still recovering from the first one?” England nuzzles further into France’s neck, shaking his head. “And it was suppose to be horrible. It’s not a punishment if you enjoy it.”
England sits up and quickly straddles France’s legs. He kisses him gently, but pulls away before France can deep the kiss.
“I’m sorry, France,” says England almost timidly, “I shouldn’t have lied to you…”
England’s apology is cut off abruptly when France places a finger over his lips.
“None of that,” chides France with a stern glare, “I forgave you and you’ve been punished. It’s over. That’s how it works.”
“What exactly is this?” asks England, laying his head against France’s shoulder.
“Well,” France replies, a bit tentatively, “what would you like it to be?”
“Well for one thing, the spankings better be a lot harder than that or I’m leaving.” England huffs with a pout.
France throws back his head and laughs.
“Don’t worry, my little lutin,” he says, once he recovers himself enough to speak, “I promise you I will spank you much harder next time.”
“Well that’s good,” mumbles England, blushing deeply at the promise, “But other than that...I...don’t really know. I mean...I’ve never...done this before,” he sits up again and looks into France’s eyes, “Have you?”
“I have spent time with people for whom this type of...relationship is an everyday part of their lives, and they taught me many things,” France replies, a small wistful smile on his lips, “But no...I have never had an actual relationship of this nature with another person. You are the first. Although, to be fair, you are the first person I’ve ever had any kind of meaningful relationship with.” France cups England’s cheek in his hand and pulls him close, kissing him firmly.
The kiss continues for several minutes, each of them trying to devour the other as though they haven’t eaten for days and their partner is a feast. As a result, England’s lips are red and swollen from being nipped and sucked when France finally pulls back, and they are both a bit out of breath.
“You said that you had...that there were rules,” gasps England, gripping France’s shoulders to keep himself steady. His erection, which had flagged slightly during his unorthodox punishment, is back in full force thanks to France’s mind numbing kisses.
“Ah...yes,” says France, hesitantly. England raises an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic behavior, but France hurries on before he can say anything. “Before I answer that, I must ask you a question Angleterre, and you must promise to answer me truthfully, even if you think the answer will hurt me. Do you understand?” England nods and makes an affirmative sound in his throat. France takes a deep breath. “What would you say...if I said that...that I want to own you. Not your land, or your people, or anything of that nature...but you. What would you say if I wanted this soul, this body…” France runs his hands down the front of England’s chest over his shirt, causing England to shiver, “all of you...to belong to me.”
England places his hands on either side of France’s face, and stares at him intently, green eyes dark with lust.
“I would say you are a fool,” replies England. He ignores the flash of pain that crosses his lover’s face and leans in to brush his lips against France’s own with agonizing softness before whispering, “because I already do.”
With a possessive growl, France crushes his lips into England’s with an almost savage ferocity, all teeth and tongue as he plunders his lover’s mouth. He reaches up and yanks on England’s hair, deepening the ruthless kiss when England gasps. The little whimpers England makes as France attempts to devour him whole and his fists gripping the front of France’s shirt, not to try and push him away, but simply because he needs something to hold on to, send a powerful bolt of sheer desire straight to France’s cock.
France’s head spins with the weight and meaning of England’s words. The fact that his lover, his former rival, would be willing to give him so much...power over him...the headiness of it is intoxicating. England’s grip on his shirt tightens as he whimpers a bit louder, and the tangy coppery taste of blood touches France’s tongue, breaking him out of his thoughts. He pulls his head back and smiles a little sassily.
“Forgive me, mon cher,” breaths France, panting slightly, “I did not mean to hurt you.”
“Not...not complaining,” assures England, breathing in huge gulps of air and resting his forehead against France’s while he tries to catch his breath. France chuckles gently. England licks a small drop of blood from his lip, “You said...rules…”
“I did,” agrees France, “I have four rules. And if...if you are to be mine…” The word feels wonderful as it slides over his tongue, and France has to take a deep breath and marshal his self-control to keep from bending England over the coffee table before they’re done talking. “If you are to be mine...then you will follow them, always, or I will punish you. Can you accept that?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” says England, sitting back so he can see France’s face.
“Alright then,” nods France seriously, “You already know the first one. You must never lie to me. This goes hand in hand with the second one. You must always communicate with me if something is wrong or makes you uncomfortable. This can normally be accomplished just by talking to me. I will always listen to you when you have something to say. Now, if we are playing and something is wrong or you want me to stop, this rule also means you are promising to use your safeword during those times if you need to. Have you heard of a safeword before, Angleterre?” France asks, cocking his head to the side in curiosity.
“Of course I have,” says England, a bit surprised by the question, “If I need you to stop while you’re...doing things to me...I use some predetermined word to let you know. Because seriously, if you stop to check on me every time I scream or cry or beg you to stop, we’re both going to get mad, and you’re not going to get laid.”
France has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. England’s threats hold about as much water as damp paper and he knows it. But he finds it immensely adorable when England makes them, although he’d never tell his lover that.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” chuckles France, “But you’re correct. I have found that it’s easiest to use the traffic signal method. Green for everything is good, Yellow if you need me to slow down or pause for a moment, and Red if something has gone very wrong and the scene needs to stop altogether. Will that work for you?”
“Sounds fine to me,” agrees England amiably.
“Good. I will always respect your safeword, mon cher. Always. You must trust me to do so. Just as I must trust you to use if it’s needed. If you don’t want me stopping to check if you’re still alright, and believe me when I say that it would make the scene just as unenjoyable for me as it would for you if I were to do so, then you must communicate with me if something is wrong. I cannot fix a problem I don’t know about. My job is to make sure you are safe and that we have fun, but I cannot do that if you hide things from me.”
“I really am sorry, France. I didn’t mean to…”
In a flash, England finds himself flipped around and lying over France’s lap, pants yanked down over his hips. France uses his hand to deliver ten hard smacks to England’s naked bottom, finishing while England is still crying out from the first one. He helps England pull his pants back up and right himself.
“I told you it was done, and it is,” scolds France sternly, “You are not allowed to punish yourself. That is for me to do. And once I have decided you have been punished enough, you will accept that and you will not bring it up again. Is that perfectly clear?” England nods quickly and give France a contrite apologetic look. France kisses him gently before continuing. “Now, the third rule is that you will never allow yourself to be in a dangerous situation that could have been avoided. I won’t punish you for something that was out of your control, but I will not have you risking what’s mine. And lastly…” France sighs heavily and a small shadow darkens his eyes. “We have never talked about this Angleterre, because I truly do not believe it will ever happen, but I cannot insist upon openness and honesty from you if I do not give you the same. If you are ever unfaithful to me...we will be through.”
“I won’t,” whispers England, cupping the side of France’s face in his hand. “You are the only one I will ever want.” They kiss again, but it is soft and tender this time. England gently grinds his hips into France’s groin, eliciting a deep groan of pleasure from his lover, “Can we...will you...will you spank me now, Sir?” England whispers in between kisses.
France reaches behind England and grips his cheeks in both hands, squeezing firmly and smirking when England moans with pleasure.
“You know, I think I will,” growls France, standing suddenly.
England wraps his legs around France’s waist and holds on to his shoulders to keep himself from falling to the ground, while France continues to support him from below. France somehow manages to navigate them to the bedroom and make-out with a now extremely enthusiastic England. When they reach the bed, he taps gently on England’s hips, urging him to let go. England ignores him. With an evil smile, he pinches the soft flesh of his lover’s bottom, causing England to pull away from the kiss and yelp in pain.
“Come now, mon petit,” says France, rubbing away the sting from his pinch, “I can’t very well spank you if you insist on clinging to me like a monkey.” Reluctantly, England drops to the floor. “That’s better. Now, I want you to take off your clothes...all of them...and put them on the dresser. Then take two of the pillows, put them in the center of the bed, and lay down on top of them so that they support your hips. I’m going to go get something from the other room, and if you aren’t exactly where I told you to be, you will not be getting a spanking today.”
France turns on his heel and walks out the door, not bothering make sure he’s being obeyed. He can see how much England wants this. The way his eyes had practically sparkled when France had asked him if he’d been naughty...well, that and the veryobvious erection that had been tenting the front of his lover’s pants...had made England’s desire abundantly clear. Smiling, France wonders what he’s ever done to deserve someone as beautifully filthy as England. He shakes his head in awed disbelief and pulls a large black duffel bag out of his hall closet.
When he returns to his bedroom, bag in hand, the sight that greets him makes his breath catch in his throat. England is exactly where France told him to be. France has seen England naked more times than he can count, and fucked him in more positions than he had ever thought existed, (he makes a mental note in the back of his mind to thank India for the book), but he has never seen England submit or follow an order just because he was told to. And certainly not one given by France.
He sets the bag down on a chair near the door, and stalks to the bed. England has his face buried in the blankets, so he flinches slightly when France runs the tips of his fingers down England’s shoulders, over the rise of his behind, and down the lean muscle of his legs, the soft touch raising gooseflesh in its wake.
“Oh, comme je t'adore, mon belle Angleterre,” whispers France so softly he’s not even sure England hears him.
But the sight of England spread out like a feast before a King is more than France can ignore for long, so he gives in to the temptation. He kneels up on the bed next to England, and begins swatting him softly with his hand, starting slowly and gently, building the heat in England’s flesh, occasionally going a bit lower to strike at the tender sit spots just below the curve of his bottom. England moans and whimpers a bit when France starts to increase the intensity of the spanks, wriggling his hips and rubbing his aching erection against the pillows. France laughs quietly under his breath.
“Look at you, mon petit,” teases France, spreading England’s legs and moving to kneel between them, “such a wanton little thing, rutting against my pillows like that,” He peppers spanks down the backs of England’s thighs, then up along the inside, drawing exquisite little yelps of pain from his lover’s mouth that quickly turn to moans of pleasure, “your legs spread so wide, so vulnerable and helpless. I could do anything I want with you, spank you for hours and hours and never let you come, or fuck you until you think you’ll nearly pass out from the pleasure of it. You are mine, mon petit. Mine to punish. Mine to pleasure. Mine.”
“Yours,” whispers England, looking back over his shoulder to meet France’s eyes, his eyes dark and glossy with desire, “Always, yours.”
The sensation is incredible, like nothing he has ever felt before, and England lets his mind soar with the feeling. The slaps are sharp, but the sting of them is only momentary, and the heat from his punished behind is going straight to his groin and causing his painfully hard cock to leak onto the covers beneath him. He presses his hips back as far as he can, silently pleading for more. But instead of getting what he’s asking for, England whimpers in mild protest when France stops the spanking and leaves the bed.
But he isn’t absent for long. England jumps when he feels a large flat surface crack against his backside, and a far sharper sting, as though he’s been stung by a hundred angry bees, sings through his blood. He cries out at the pain even as he revels in it. His mind flies even higher than before as the leather paddle smacks against the tender, reddened flesh of his bottom, and he can’t stop himself from begging for more.
“P-please! Oh, France...please…harder!” pleads England, thanking every star under the heavens when he hears France chuckle behind him.
“My goodness but you are a little slut, aren’t you?” says France teasingly, but he puts a little more force behind his strokes anyway, and thrills at the sound of England’s cries and murmured litany of ‘thank you’ in between smacks.
France continues with the paddle until he hears England’s cries start to take on a different tone. He stops then, because while he would certainly love to watch England break down into tears and sob and beg him for mercy, that isn’t what he wants tonight. He sets the leather paddle on the night table and pulls the bottle of lube out of its drawer. He kneels back up on the bed between England’s spread legs and brushes his fingers across the heated, bright red skin of his lover’s ass. England winces and whimpers at the touch.
“Does it hurt, mon petit?” asks France, letting his smile show through his voice, “Your cute little ass is so red and hot from being spanked. It’s going to feel wonderful against my skin while I fuck you in that tight little hole of yours.”
He flips the lid on the bottle in his hand and drizzles it into the cleft between England’s cheeks, the sudden appearance of the cold liquid causing his lover to jump. He slides his finger down and gently massages a small circle around the tiny whorled pucker of England’s hole, spreading the slick lube around. When he feels the flesh begin to soften beneath his touch, he gently presses his finger inside as far as it will go.
England has never needed or really wanted much in the way of preparation, and now France understands why. And while France might not be a monster, his cock is by no means small, so he still takes a decent amount of time to ensure he doesn’t damageEngland. Although that amount of time is frequently more than England would like and less than France would prefer. But tonight is different. He still has no desire to actually harm England, but now that he understands England’s love of pain...the thought of pushing into his lover’s tight hole while he cries from the burn of it doesn’t bother him nearly as much.
He pushes a second finger in beside the first and barely gives England enough time to adjust to the additional intrusion before he scissors his fingers apart roughly. England arches up off the bed with a guttural, sobbing moan and presses his hips back, impaling himself further on France’s fingers. The sight and sounds are delicious, and France drinks them in, berating himself for never thinking of bringing up the idea to England before. But it’s done now, and any thoughts about what could have been fall painfully short of what actually is. He yanks his fingers from England’s hole, reveling in the bereft sound his lover makes at being left empty. He quickly slicks his own aching erection before lifting England’s hips a bit and lining himself up with his lover’s tight pucker.
“Are you ready, mon cher?” asks France, gritting his teeth at the monumental effort it takes to not simply thrust into England without warning, “This will not be gentle.”
“It’s about...bloody time,” pants England, raising himself up onto his forearms and rocking his hips back enticingly, “Just...just fuck me already...please…”
France doesn’t waste another second. He thrusts his hips forward and buries himself to the root in one movement. England digs his fingers into the blankets and throws his head back in a silent scream of pain. The tight, silky sheath of England’s body surrounding France’s cock, combined with the heat radiating from his punished behind is blissfully maddening, and it is all France can do to pause just long enough for England to catch his breath and adjust a little to the intrusion in his ass. Then he pulls out until just the head of his cock is inside. When he hears England’s breathing level a little further, he snaps his hips forward again and begins fucking his lover hard.
The pain is exquisite. England feels like every nerve in his body is on fire as France pounds him ruthlessly into the mattress. His vision goes nearly white with pleasure when France angles himself perfectly, hitting the sensitive nub inside him with perfect accuracy on every thrust. He can feel the pressure at the base of his cock building quickly and knows he isn’t going to last much longer.
“F-france...I’m going to...p-please…” begs England, his mind rapidly turning to mush.
“Do it,” says France, not pausing his brutal fucking of England’s hole for even second, “Just let go. Come for me, Angleterre.”
France’s words break the dam of England’s self control and he screams his release, toes curling at the intensity of his pleasure as he spurts thick white ropes of seed onto the bed beneath him. The tight clenching of England’s hole around France’s cock as he comes pulls France over the edge with him. He digs his fingers into England’s hips hard enough to bruise and thrusts roughly one final time, roaring as his own climax overtakes him.
England collapses to the bed, his limbs limp but filled with a pleasant lassitude. He winces a little as France slips out of him before collapsing himself onto the blankets by his side. France pulls him close and England nuzzles contentedly into the hollow of his lovers throat while France throws a spare blanket over them. They lie there for some time, basking in the warmth of each other’s bodies. Sleep nags at the corners of England’s mind, and he knows he won’t be able to resist its allure for long. A soft rumbling laugh in France’s chest causes him to look up at his lover and blink at him owlishly in confusion.
“What are you going to tell America when your ass is too sore to sit properly tomorrow?” asks France with a poorly contained chuckle.
England stares at France for a moment with a strange mixture of irritation and horror. When France’s face breaks and a huge grin crosses his face, England glares and thumps his head against France’s shoulder.
“You,” says England feelingly, “are a horrible person.”
France places a hand under England’s chin and lifts, kissing him gently on the lips.
“You have no idea,” he purrs.
And for the first time, and certainly not the last, England wonders if he’s just poked a very large tiger...with a very large stick.

Notes:
mon cher - My dear
mon ami - My friend
tartiflette - A French dish made with potatoes, cheese, and onions
bourgueil - A French red wine
mille-feuille - A French pastry
pâtissier - A specialized pastry chef
Angleterre - England
mon cœur - My heart
lutin - pixie or imp
You mankey little gannet - England is calling France a disgusting, greedy person.
Quel culot, salope - You’ve got some nerve, you bitch! (approximately)
le vice Anglais - The English vice. A French turn of phrase meaning a person who derives sexual pleasure from beating or being beaten.
mon petit - boy/little boy
Oh, comme je t'adore, mon belle Angleterre - Oh, how I do love you, my beautiful England (approximately) ((Yes, he says ‘beautiful’ not ‘handsome’. Yes, I did that on purpose.)
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Be Careful What You Wish For