De-anoning kink meme-fills like a boss. :D

Warnings for rough sex and just a teensy bit of angst.


Sometimes when Francis takes Arthur, it's soft and gentle.

Sometimes he lays him down on a bed covered by rose petals and loves him tenderly until night turns into day again.

Sometimes kisses so very soft skate over Arthur's skin, pulling gentle sighs from red lips.

Sometimes they hold each other close, run hands over warm skin, making nerve endings sing with electricity until they're comfortably numb.

Some nights, they make love. Some nights, it's beautiful.

Tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight, when the dark is heavy and the smell of sweat and sex is present in the air, when England is drunk enough to not really care and France is ruthless and angry, is not the evening for tenderness.

It's not the night for love, nor is it the night for beauty.

It's the night for bared fangs, breaths tinted with alcohol and cigarette smoke, broken laughter, bittersweet pleasure and emotions that were better left forgotten six feet under the surface.

It begins with England's thick breath on his face, as he is a bit too close and smells a bit too much like cheap whiskey and nicotine.

"Hey frog," he whispers, suddenly close when he was across the room only moments ago. He is warm and smells filthy but still his being creeps up close to France, who grimaces but doesn't turn away. Instead, he chooses to face England fully, lip quirking upwards in the left corner in that broken, bitter smirk that's reserved for England and no one else.

"Watch it, rosbif," he answers sharply, swiftly, as if he's disgusted by talking to the Brit. England's teeth, white, but slightly crooked, glints in the dim light as he grins, that drunken grin that France knows all too well. A light hum escapes his lips, he sings along to the music played in the bar, and soon France can distinguish the words of the song that displays all of England's intentions.

"And there will be no tenderness, no tenderness."

The first kiss of the evening is as hard as the last one will be, and it's on France's initiative. He pulls England close by the collar. Biting England's lip, he can taste blood, mixed with the tinge of whiskey, and as he pulls away, he murmurs against abused lips, low and between teeth. He knows the words all too well; "I will show no mercy for you, you have no mercy for me."

England's grin is as present as it always is. France never quite manages to kiss it all away.

Dirty alleyways and filthy street corners, unashamed kisses and groping, and soon they are in the Brit's small apartment in London's suburbs. France slams the door shut and presses England up against it, swallowing his moans in a harsh and brutal kiss. Taking the man's wrists in his hands, he traps him there.

"You want it rough, huh?" he whisperers, voice dripping with sex. When England doesn't answer, he grins, a bitter and pitying grin.

Biting kisses litter England's neck, and France gathers both of the Brit's hands in one of his own, using the other to rip the Brit's shirt to expose the pale expanse of his skinny chest. His skin is already slightly damp, and he smells of booze and sweat, like a cheap whore after a long night doing what he does best. France can never deny that he likes it after all and he presses the hard bulge in his pants against England, moaning into his neck.

"Lay it off, frog," England growls, "And fuck me."

Bitter, so bittersweet. France chuckles.

"What would he say?" he murmurs into England's neck as his hands rip at his jeans, tearing them down his legs. England sticks his ass out, like a common harlot. "What would your sweet, golden boy say if he saw you now?"

"Don't talk about him," the Brit snaps and reaches a hand back to pull at France's hair. France forces it back to the wall, pinning it there. He knows that England is right. America has no place here. In this sullied, stinking place, there is only room for England and France and their regrets, their pain, their pleasure.

Still, France continues, for this evening is turning out to be more pain than pleasure. He runs a clever hand over England's back before he smacks his ass, drawing a choked moan from the man. "Would he look at you in disgust? In horror? Would he-"

"Shut the fuck up." England is in pain too, France has known him long enough to be able to tell. So he gives to England what he wants, pressing into him, dry. The ragged cry that tears from the Brit's throat is mostly pain, but France doesn't cease his actions. He continues to fuck England into the door, one hand pressing his face into the heavy wood and the other pinning his hand.

Pushing limits, testing waters, he lets his fingers intertwine with England's, holding his hand as intimate as he did ages ago, when the world was a bit younger, when Europe had not yet become a battleground, and when dirty sodomy like this had never crossed neither of their minds. When England just moans again and squeezes his hand until it's painful, France loses what little clue he had of what they are, what this is.

They never last long on nights like this one. It's never very good but the desperation overcomes them, drives them to new heights.

Or new lows, really.

France finishes inside of England and presses the man against the door so hard that France wonders if it will break. It doesn't. It wouldn't be the first time something broke though. When England cries out and splatters the dark wood with white, France wonders how he can get off so easily on the roughness and the pain.

When England's knees buckle a moment later, France catches him and carries him to the ratty futon; lets him lay there in silence while the Frenchman lights a cigarette.

"He would kick your ass," England murmurs, into the mattress, his voice muffled and hoarse.

"Hm?"

"America. He would kick your ass for even coming on to me."

France laughs. It's funny that England thinks that he cares about America's affectionate nature and it's funny how America thinks that he can have England in the end.

This filthy apartment is proof enough that he can't. This night, when the one occupying England's mind has been France, is enough to convince France that England is his – that no matter what, England can't live without him.

He is certain that no matter what happens; if England becomes America's freaking colony; if Germany proposes to France; if the entire EU collapses – that France will still be a regular guest in England's mind (and bed).

They have always had one another, always. France has always known that the one to love England, to fuck him, to fight him, to eventually destroy him, would be France. No one can take the place that France has burned into the Englishman's heart, just like the hole in his own heart belongs to England.

No one can crush England and build him back together again like this, never have, never will.

He remembers the song from the bar, and leans down, lips next to England's ear, singing the last words; "The only thing that I ask, love me mercilessly."

Then he continues to laugh and grabs England by the hair, pulling him up harshly into a hard kiss as he presses the butt of his cigarette into England's skin, effectively snuffing it out.