Hetalia Fic

[moe81]

Title: In Your Own Words

Rating: PG

Pairing: France/England

Fandom: Hetalia

A/N: There was a comment somewhere on the kink meme about Arthur speaking French. So I wrote fluffy bits. I’m going to go hide in my hole now. I bow before the effervescent Sybile for the French translations and beta. *Trans at the end.


 

It was bright. Really bright. Behind his eyelids Francis could feel the heat of the early morning sun trying to fry his eyeballs. Maybe he’d finally overdone it. Maybe someone had slipped him something last night and decided that, once pliable, they would take complete and utter advantage of him. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

 

His eyebrows rose and a smirk appeared as he remembered the deliciousness of another succumbing to him. Smooth skin, the smell of freshness overlaid with alcohol - although that was pretty much a given - soft lips parting under his, hot breath and low moans, rough hands grabbing at his hips and fingers touching…

 

His eyes shot open and immediately squeezed them shut against the blinding light. He wasn’t hung over, really and the soft drone in his ears was normal. He was sure of it. It was the words being muttered from the other side of the bed that seemed out of place.

 

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

 

Was that any way to greet someone after a night like that?

 

“Wanking idiot.”

 

Quite literally, if memory served.

 

“Bloody frog.”

 

Well that was rude.

 

“Why couldn’t you have gone home? Why couldn’t you have just…just…” Francis twitched and he tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach at the disappointed tone.

 

More muffled curses and he tried to block them out, tried to force himself back to sleep. He didn’t need to hear it. He didn’t need reminding that, while his prowess as a lover was unmatched, his companionship meant nothing.

 

“…go back home and just leave me for long enough that I can forget your touch.” Francis could feel eyes trying to burn a hole in his skull.

 

“Ne me laisse pas.” His heart stopped. What the hell?

 

“Dammit.” There was a heavy sigh and Francis thought he could feel it gusting over his neck, over his cheek, tickling his ear. “The moment I can find it… ton coeur m’appartient.”

 

Words lodged in his throat. The mattress shifted, soft thumps on the carpet and the quiet rustling of clothes being donned. A shadow fell across his face and fingertips ghosted over his lips. Whispered words so quiet that, had his heart been pounding any louder, he would have missed them.

 

“Tu as déjà le miens.”

 

His eyes popped open and Arthur backpeddled, almost falling on his ass. Francis threw himself out the bed and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist, plastering himself to the others legs. Arthur stammered and Francis watched in delighted amusement as the Englishman turned bright red. His mind replayed those last words over, knowing he would never tire of them.

 

His was the language of love but it was just that much better when it had an English accent.

 

 

~~~~~

Ne me laisse pas = Don’t leave me

Ton coeur m’appartient = Your heart belongs to me

Tu as déjà le miens = You already have mine