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neuvillette · 3 years

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Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

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

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

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

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

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

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

God he needed to see him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#fruk #ukfr #england/france #france/england #hetalia fic #hetalia fanfiction

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