I’ve decided that I want to try and fill this, based off the occupation of France by Nazi Germany during WWII. I don’t know if this is exactly what you wanted, and I’m horrible with rape scenes/non-con, but I hope the readers enjoy nonetheless. ___
Francis wakes slowly, moving from sleep to a heavy confusion. He groans, tries to pull his arms; they won’t move. He tries to open his eyes; he sees only darkness.
He tries to open his eyes; but his eyelids brush against coarse cloth. He suddenly realizes that he’s blindfolded, and a shock jolts through his brain, down his spine and into his body.
He notices things quickly after that; how his wrists and ankles are tied, how there are sheets that rustle against his back when he struggles, how the air around him feels too cold against his skin -
He freezes when he realizes he’s naked, spread-eagled, in a bed.
Somewhere to his left, a door creaks open.
“Here he is.” His boss, Francis thinks, thank God, it’s his boss. He opens his mouth to call out to him -
“Excellent. Thank you.”
Something cold spreads through Francis’ body, starting somewhere in his belly. Ludwig’s voice sounds clipped, efficient - a little too cold.
“I take it you will uphold your end of the deal, non?
“Ja. The north and west are ours - you may rule the rest as you will, Herr Pétain.”
Francis remembers everything in a sickening rush. How Pétain had invited him over for a drink the night before he left to join his army on the field; how they’d talked of French victory in low, hushed voices as they sipped wine. The last thing Francis remembered was saying he felt tired as he sat down on one of the loveseats and set his glass down.
He realizes there must have been something in his drink. “You bastard,” he snarls towards Pétain.
“…Do not worry yourself. I shall take care of him.” Ludwig’s voice. His stomach jerks and he starts to quiver as he hears the door shut. Silence, save for the sound of boots on the floor.
“That was very rude before, Herr Bonnefoy.”
He hears something thin whoosh through the air about a second before something sharp and thin - a riding crop - smacks down on his belly. Francis cries out; his limbs jerk against the restraints.
“You are ours now,” Ludwig says, sliding the crop off of Francis’ stomach. “You were a gift to us from Herr Pétain. It wouldn’t be good to make us complain about our present, ja?”
“Wh -”
The crop cracked back down again, lower, on his hips.
“You will not talk.” Crack. “You will not resist.” Crack. “You will not fight back.” Francis flinched, expecting another lash; when it didn’t come, he cocked his head, curious.
“You will not be gagged,” Ludwig says. Francis can hear the smarmy grin in that voice. His blood runs cold.
“Do you understand?”
“….”
Something slams into his side; Francis jerks and swears. “Do. You. Understand?” Ludwig asks.
“Oui, oui! Stop, please!”
Ludwig does. Francis sighs in relief when he hears Ludwig’s boots clicking their way across the room, to the door. He hears the hinges creak.
“Do what you will with him.”
Francis’ body goes numb. The door closes; he hears footsteps making their way to his bed.
A hand yanks his hair and a tongue forces its way into his mouth; Francis screams, bucks against the restraints. Hands grab and knead at his body and he feels filthy, disgusting, and he wants it to stop -
“Francis? Francis!”
Francis’ entire body jolts as he wakes. His eyes flutter; as his vision focuses, he finds himself looking into Arthur’s green eyes. He flails in Arthur’s grip, still disoriented, still panicking.
“Stop, s'il vous plait, stop -”
“Francis, wake up!”
Francis’ breathing slows along with his heartbeat. He blinks, and the dream dissipates as he wakes so that he can’t really remember why he’s crying.
“Francis?”
Francis finds himself looking into Arthur’s face, looking at those thick eyebrows crease in worry. “Qu…quoi?” His voice still sounds thick with sleep and confusion.
Arthur sighs and runs his hand run through Francis’ hair, trails fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “Bloody hell, Francis,” Arthur murmurs, “don’t scare me like that again.”
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 04:02:12 UTC
“I’m…sorry?” Francis says, but shuts his eyes and leans into Arthur’s touch with a sigh.
“You were crying. And shaking. Like you were going to shatter into pieces.” Arthur’s voice sounds thin, frightened. “You started flailing when I tried to shake you awake.”
“Did I hurt you?” Francis pulls back a bit, looks over Arthur’s body for bruises.
“No, no, I’m all right. It’s just…you sounded so frightened.” Arthur threads his fingers into Francis’ hair.
Francis feels his face split into a grin. “Ah, were you worried, mon Angleterre?”
It’s always amusing to watch Arthur blush so red. “N - no! It’s just that you woke me up!” Arthur frowns at Francis, glaring at his grin. “And I was having a perfectly good dream, too, one that didn’t have you in it -”
Francis shuts him up with a quick peck on the lips. “What time is it?”
Arthur lifts his head, looking over Francis to his portable alarm clock on the bedside table. “About 9:10.”
“And the UN meeting about the Georgia incident is at 11, oui?” He puts a purr into his voice, knocking one of his feet into Arthur’s.
“You are insatiable,” Arthur mutters, but presses back when Francis leans in to kiss his mouth.
It’s not long until Arthur has Francis pressed into the mattress, their lips and tongues sliding together. “Really,” Arthur says. “Such a slut.” His tone is hot and lust-filled and approving.
But Francis still freezes and his eyes travel far away. Things whisper and dance along the side of his memory, gray, just beyond reach.
Hands all over his body, pulling at him.
Something being poured down his throat, mingling with the wine.
Becoming too hot and aroused, begging, not wanting to but not being able to help it.
“Francis?”
Francis blinks and comes back to himself; Arthur is staring down at him, brows furrowed and lips frowning.
“Ah…I…mes excuses.” He looks away and shuts his eyes. He realizes he is trembling, tense and slight.
Arthur rolls off of him and huffs, one hand running through that sandy hair in frustration. “Bloody hell, Francis, stop sending me mixed signals.”
Francis doesn’t reply, instead opting to steal Arthur’s pillow and wrap his arms around it while he hides his face.
“I’m going to go shower.” Arthur stands and walks around the bed, grabbing a towel off the armchair as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Do you want to join me?”
Francis only shifts deeper down into the bed and hugs the pillow tighter.
“…All right, then. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” The bathroom door shuts, and then Francis is alone, save for the muted sound of running water.
Francis presses his face into the pillow and gives himself over to shaking, to the raw feeling in his throat. “Mon Dieu,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “Why? Why?”
He hasn’t thought about that in years. He’s been happy and stable. He’s been working things out between himself and Arthur, and they’ve tangling together their snark and their lust and their jabs to a point where they might actually have something. They’ve been allies since before World War I, and Arthur helped save him from the blood of Nazi Germany during World War II.
And then Ivan had to go and ruin things by invading Georgia and dredging up these memories.
“I’m fine,” he tells the pillow, squeezing its downy softness and relishing the give. “I’m fine. Go away, go away.”
But of course they don’t. They settle like bile into the fissures and cracks of his mind. They haunt him and make him sick and make him tremble.
He refocuses this by thinking of Georgia - of Russia, moving in with his tanks and weapons and saccharine smile. And then his terror turns into anger, raw and sharp. This is good. This is what he needs. This is the weapon that will keep him sane as he and the rest of the Nations confront Ivan on his actions later.
He takes hold of that fury and bottles it up. When Arthur comes out of the bathroom, he looks over his shoulder and leers as he combs the kinks out of his hair.
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 04:11:51 UTC
Yes. This... this is pretty much exactly what I wanted out of this prompt. *shaking a little herself* Raw and vicious, and Nazi occupation and Georgia. I'll definitely be around to see how this one turns out. *mashes F5*
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 04:29:39 UTC
Let the F5-fest begin!
Author anon, how I love your Francis and Arthur and their interaction. Please continue ASAP! (And your angst is so delicious! More non-con descriptions would also be so very appreciated *is shot)
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 10:07:16 UTC
omg o____o YES.
I somehow hate Pétain even more, now... And I also really love how this talks about long after the facts; it's rather rare in rapefics. Change is nice ^o^
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 17:47:14 UTC
This is exactly why I still bother with the kink meme. And I'm not even OP.
Your writing, Anon! Descriptive but not over the top. The characterization is believable, and the fall of France~ I'm a sucker for historical references.
I'm... speechless! I think "...D: ♥" describes how I feel perfectly right now.
Re: Trigger [2/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 21:34:09 UTC
I love this for a number of reasons, the first probably being my love of serious!France and the tenderness between him and England here. Also for the setting of this within real historical events, and Germany's not-quite-direct involvement with it. Ow ow ow, but I badly want to see more~
Re: Trigger [3/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 21:33:27 UTC
___
(God, Anon’s research-fu is made of FAIL. I apologize. If I ever out myself, I will make sure to fix it.) ___
Francis is calm again by the time he settles back into his seat, watching in amusement as Alfred attempts to calm down 192 loud nations.
“Order! If everyone would calm down, we can get started…”
Francis smirks and crosses his fingers as the nations settle down into silence.
“Thank you.” Alfred clears his throat once more. “As most of you know, we’ve called this emergency meeting to discuss recent events in Eastern Europe. On August 7 during the night, Russia invaded the Georgia-held region of South. They have since expanded their attacks into bombing raids and further ground assaults on the country.” Alfred shuffles his papers and looks up at the assembly.
“He’s pretty serious today,” Antonio whispers.
Francis nods. “I wonder why.”
“Now, aside from the various human rights violations,” Alfred continues, “this is also a violation of the Olympic truce used during the Ancient Olympic Games.
“Our bosses are handling the crisis right now, and an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council is happening as I speak. However, we as nations need to come together and discuss this together, as well as what to do about it. The quicker we get to an understanding and an agreement, the quicker we can all go home and watch Michael Phelps make history.”
“Ah, there we are,” Francis murmurs with a grin. Arthur joins the collective groan of the other nations.
“All right. Mister Braginski has prepared a statement to justify his actions, so I’m going to give him the floor and let him begin discussion.” Alfred gathers his papers and walks away from the podium even as Ivan ascends the stairs and takes the podium, adjusting the microphone so that he’s able to speak into it.
Francis narrows his eyes. He knows that his boss and his diplomats are trying to urge Russia to reach a ceasefire without casting blame on either side. And that’s fine. He’ll eventually have to discuss this entire affair with Ivan himself.
But for right now, the incident boils and bubbles in his mind. It brings back poisonous memories that lay festering just beneath the surface.
It reminds him too much of what he once went through.
“Members of the UN,” Ivan says, and Francis shakes his head and focuses, “I believe there is a misunderstanding here. I am aware of all of your concerns. However, you must remember that Georgia is not innocent in this either.”
“And how do you justify your invasion of Georgia, Ivan?” Eduard is unsmiling and serious, pressing the tips of his fingers together while he glares down at Ivan.
“It refuses to recognize the autonomy of the Ossetia and Abkhazia regions, of course.” Ivan smiles up at Estonia, who flinches a little. “They were given autonomy after the Soviet Union dissolved, and the Ossetians had the full support of my government. It is Georgia’s fault for having reclaimed the region, da?”
“Isn’t that the same argument that Nazi Germany used when it invaded Poland?”
“Agreed,” Toris adds, leaning forward. “Ivan, your actions here are not that of one simply protecting Ossetia or Abkhazia. You invaded Georgia itself as well, and I am afraid of what this means for your reliability as a partner and neighboring country.”
“I, for one, applaud my brother’s actions.” Belarus stands and flicks her hair; from across the room, Francis thinks he sees something metallic flash underneath her gloved hands. “He acted with grace and wisdom, and both of us will do our best to open our borders to aid the Ossetian victims in the coming months.”
“Again, though, that doesn’t respond to the fact that there have been casualties on Georgia’s side as well.” Francis smiles at that, at his Mattieu speaking as the voice of reason in the room. “That’s not peacekeeping. That’s expanding the conflict well out of where it needs to be.”
“The Georgians did have it coming,” Cuba says, taking the cigar out of his mouth to speak. “They refused to recognize the autonomy that Ivan’s country granted the Ossetian people. They are not defending their sovereignty.”
Re: Trigger [4/?]
anonymous
May 3 2009, 23:11:11 UTC
“These are all very interesting arguments.” The murmuring quiets as Francis stands, though it doesn’t completely go away. “However, that is not the issue here, oui? I do not think it is in anyone’s best interest to take sides or point fingers. Right now, our focus should be on creating and agreeing on a ceasefire between the two nations.”
Silence, and then gentle murmurings; out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Francis nod. He smiles and congratulates himself as Ivan stares up at him, mouth open and eyes blinking.
“Heh…it’s funny that you’d say that, Bonnefoy.”
Francis blinks and looks up. Lovino stares straight at him, and Francis doesn’t like the look in those brown eyes.
“I’m wondering why you’re even speaking out in the first place - isn’t molestation the thing you’re best at, signior?
Fury spikes through Francis, but he keeps his back straight, though he narrows his eyes. “You will remember, Monsieur Vargas, that I was invaded once. I have every right to speak my mind on -”
Lovino snorts. “You were invaded because you asked for it,” he says. “You got your ass whipped by the kraut bastard and now you’re whining about it because you can’t take what you dish out.”
Every muscle in Francis’ body goes cold; the world flattens and falls away from him. The hall falls into dead silence.
“I find I must agree with him.” Roderich’s voice is rational and calm. “You send incredibly mixed signals - it’s only natural for a nation to misread them. You have no one to blame but yourself for that invasion, Bonnefoy.”
“No.” The word feels thick on his tongue. “No…I….”
“You want this, don’t you? You whore. Why are you crying?”
“Maybe he’s sobbing in gratitude that someone’s finally willing to do him.”
“It is true, Bonnefoy-san.” Kiku’s voice is calm, rational, and dagger-sharp. “In my country, your behavior would be completely inexcusable - especially if you were a girl. You are only inviting yourself to be violated.”
Voices murmur through the room; some agreeing, some debating.
None outright object.
“Francis?” Antonio sounds concerned, too far away for Francis to care about.
“No. Don’t gag him; no one will come, anyway. I want to hear him scream.”
Francis sobs and trembles as someone pulls him apart and pushes in. And then he’s screaming and thrashing and bleeding, his hands jerking against the ropes as he begs for them to stop.
“That’s right. Scream. Scream to me in gratitude.”
“You are, like, totally out of line!” Feliks stands, frowning, his arms crossed. “This isn’t about World War II! We are, like, totes off topic to the max!”
“I agree,” Alfred manages to say as he grabs Canada in a full nelson to keep him from mauling Ivan. “This isn’t World War II, and we’re getting derailed from -”
“But of course we aren’t.”
Oh God.
Francis lets his gaze drop to Ivan, who is smiling back up at him with violet eyes - with a childlike cruelty and triumph.
“See, Georgia is very much playing hard-to-get with me, da? Just as Bonnefoy here was with Ludwig.”
“Don’t bring me into this,” Francis hears Ludwig say, his voice high and tense. “Don’t do this, don’t do this -”
“Ah, but we should not forget the past, da? It is very important, in case we repeat our mistakes.” Ivan grins up at Ludwig, and Francis sees him shaking out of the corner of his eye.
“Now then. Surely you’ve all seen how Bonnefoy acts; ergo, Ludwig’s acts against him could be construed as asking for it, da? It’s the same way with Georgia, I assure you. What with her annexing those two poor nations and playing hard-to-get even when I tried to convince her to let them go….” Ivan sighs, dramatic, and shoots Francis a pitiful look with a grin underneath. “How else was I to construe his acts?”
“He’s not responding anymore.”
“Give him more beer. We’ll have him begging in no time.”
Someone forces a bottle down Francis’ throat, and he chokes and cries and tries not to vomit as warm, bad alcohol is poured into his belly.
Francis starts trembling. It only worsens when he feels a hand touch his arm, warm and gripping in comfort.
Re: Trigger [4/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 00:07:08 UTC
Ow. And what just takes it to that extra level of awful is Germany's reaction to the turn of the debate. Way to be digging open old scars there, Nations :/
Re: Trigger [5/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 00:02:41 UTC
“That’s wrong!” Feliciano stands, glaring down at Ivan. “No means no! ‘Mixed signals’ aren’t an excuse!”
“Feliciano!” Lovino tugs at his brother’s sleeve. “Sit the fuck down, we do not want an issue with Rus -” Feliciano shuts his brother up with a flat palm against the back of his head.
The room starts devolving into chaos, voices growing louder with each moment.
Francis looks around the room, feeling vacant and empty. By accident, his eyes lock with Ludwig’s for a moment.
Ludwig squeezes his eyes shut and looks away.
Something hard and hot presses against and through Francis’ lips.
“Suck him off,” Ludwig says.
Francis considers biting the soldier’s dick off - he still has his teeth, and they are his power in this situation -
Behind him, he hears someone cock a gun. Francis feels something slender and cold being pressed to the back of his head.
“Don’t try anything funny.”
Francis freezes, then shuts his eyes as the soldier starts to fuck his mouth, choking as something pummels the back of his throat.
He holds back his bile, but he cannot stop the tears that soak his blindfold.
Francis breaks.
“Francis!” Arthur. “Francis, wai -”
He pulls away from the fingers that restrain his arms and claw at him; in darkness he stumbles through the aisles, ignoring the way people call his name in alarm and indignation.
He screams and flails as hands grab at his shirt, trying to make him stay; they are gone in almost the same instant, allowing Francis to bolt up the stairs and out of the meeting room. There’s a knot tightening in his stomach, making him lurch and hold his hand over his mouth. He holds the bile in as he stumbles through the halls.
He remembers the first time they forced him to give head, he vomited all over the Nazi uniform because of his poor gag reflex. And then they punched him and slapped him and made him clean it -
Francis barely makes it to the bathroom; he only manages to collapse against one of the urinals, stick his head in, and vomit. He tastes orange juice and croissants and puke, and his stomach heaves as his vision spots.
He senses someone crouch down behind him and almost flinches away; but they only reach out to pull his hair back, tuck it behind his ears. Then he feels soft fingers stroke his hair, rub his back, and he shuts his eyes and nearly cries in gratitude.
His vomit tapers off into dry heaves, and then into coughs as he spits out the last of the offensive taste. He feels fingertips on the back of his neck as his companion stands and flushes the toilet. Then they kneel again and scratch his scalp, brush his cheek.
Francis blinks, bleary and disoriented, and turns to look at the person.
Arthur stares back, running his knuckles across Francis’ cheekbone. The look in those green eyes is so tender and unlike him that it makes Francis tremble and feel a little afraid.
“Ar…Arthur.” He fights his trembles and grins. “Ah…I do not think le croissants agreed with me this morning….”
“Shh.”
Arthur presses a finger to his lips.
“The meeting’s been adjourned for now,” Arthur whispers. “Alfred’s treating the other Nations to a…rather four-lettered rant on how to behave and speak at UN meetings.”
“Then…then shouldn’t you be -”
“Alfred excused me,” Arthur says. “But…even if he hadn’t…I’d have taken the punishment anyway. I can’t stand watching you like that. It’s not….”
“Arthur.” Francis’ voice trembles as he shakes. Arthur stops talking and looks up at him, and Francis thinks he sees something glint in those eyes. Or maybe that’s just because the room’s gone blurry.
“I know, Francis. I know.”
They move at the same time; Francis launching himself into England’s arms, England opening them and pulling Francis in, holding him tight and together.
Francis feels his breath hitch, and releases it in one loud, anguished cry as his tears start to flow.
Re: Trigger [5/?]
anonymous
May 4 2009, 00:08:44 UTC
Feliciano being the one standing up, Ludwig getting caught up in it, Alfred and his four-lettered ranting and Canada launching himself at Ivan sdlajls;jdlsj;akj;sj
Fucking pitch-perfect, anon. This hurts so good, and the ending to this part practically had me bawling. Fuck, why am I such a loser for these two. *sits down and breathes*
___
Francis wakes slowly, moving from sleep to a heavy confusion. He groans, tries to pull his arms; they won’t move. He tries to open his eyes; he sees only darkness.
He tries to open his eyes; but his eyelids brush against coarse cloth. He suddenly realizes that he’s blindfolded, and a shock jolts through his brain, down his spine and into his body.
He notices things quickly after that; how his wrists and ankles are tied, how there are sheets that rustle against his back when he struggles, how the air around him feels too cold against his skin -
He freezes when he realizes he’s naked, spread-eagled, in a bed.
Somewhere to his left, a door creaks open.
“Here he is.” His boss, Francis thinks, thank God, it’s his boss. He opens his mouth to call out to him -
“Excellent. Thank you.”
Something cold spreads through Francis’ body, starting somewhere in his belly. Ludwig’s voice sounds clipped, efficient - a little too cold.
“I take it you will uphold your end of the deal, non?
“Ja. The north and west are ours - you may rule the rest as you will, Herr Pétain.”
Francis remembers everything in a sickening rush. How Pétain had invited him over for a drink the night before he left to join his army on the field; how they’d talked of French victory in low, hushed voices as they sipped wine. The last thing Francis remembered was saying he felt tired as he sat down on one of the loveseats and set his glass down.
He realizes there must have been something in his drink. “You bastard,” he snarls towards Pétain.
“…Do not worry yourself. I shall take care of him.” Ludwig’s voice. His stomach jerks and he starts to quiver as he hears the door shut. Silence, save for the sound of boots on the floor.
“That was very rude before, Herr Bonnefoy.”
He hears something thin whoosh through the air about a second before something sharp and thin - a riding crop - smacks down on his belly. Francis cries out; his limbs jerk against the restraints.
“You are ours now,” Ludwig says, sliding the crop off of Francis’ stomach. “You were a gift to us from Herr Pétain. It wouldn’t be good to make us complain about our present, ja?”
“Wh -”
The crop cracked back down again, lower, on his hips.
“You will not talk.” Crack. “You will not resist.” Crack. “You will not fight back.” Francis flinched, expecting another lash; when it didn’t come, he cocked his head, curious.
“You will not be gagged,” Ludwig says. Francis can hear the smarmy grin in that voice. His blood runs cold.
“Do you understand?”
“….”
Something slams into his side; Francis jerks and swears. “Do. You. Understand?” Ludwig asks.
“Oui, oui! Stop, please!”
Ludwig does. Francis sighs in relief when he hears Ludwig’s boots clicking their way across the room, to the door. He hears the hinges creak.
“Do what you will with him.”
Francis’ body goes numb. The door closes; he hears footsteps making their way to his bed.
A hand yanks his hair and a tongue forces its way into his mouth; Francis screams, bucks against the restraints. Hands grab and knead at his body and he feels filthy, disgusting, and he wants it to stop -
“Francis? Francis!”
Francis’ entire body jolts as he wakes. His eyes flutter; as his vision focuses, he finds himself looking into Arthur’s green eyes. He flails in Arthur’s grip, still disoriented, still panicking.
“Stop, s'il vous plait, stop -”
“Francis, wake up!”
Francis’ breathing slows along with his heartbeat. He blinks, and the dream dissipates as he wakes so that he can’t really remember why he’s crying.
“Francis?”
Francis finds himself looking into Arthur’s face, looking at those thick eyebrows crease in worry. “Qu…quoi?” His voice still sounds thick with sleep and confusion.
Arthur sighs and runs his hand run through Francis’ hair, trails fingertips over Francis’ cheek. “Bloody hell, Francis,” Arthur murmurs, “don’t scare me like that again.”
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“You were crying. And shaking. Like you were going to shatter into pieces.” Arthur’s voice sounds thin, frightened. “You started flailing when I tried to shake you awake.”
“Did I hurt you?” Francis pulls back a bit, looks over Arthur’s body for bruises.
“No, no, I’m all right. It’s just…you sounded so frightened.” Arthur threads his fingers into Francis’ hair.
Francis feels his face split into a grin. “Ah, were you worried, mon Angleterre?”
It’s always amusing to watch Arthur blush so red. “N - no! It’s just that you woke me up!” Arthur frowns at Francis, glaring at his grin. “And I was having a perfectly good dream, too, one that didn’t have you in it -”
Francis shuts him up with a quick peck on the lips. “What time is it?”
Arthur lifts his head, looking over Francis to his portable alarm clock on the bedside table. “About 9:10.”
“And the UN meeting about the Georgia incident is at 11, oui?” He puts a purr into his voice, knocking one of his feet into Arthur’s.
“You are insatiable,” Arthur mutters, but presses back when Francis leans in to kiss his mouth.
It’s not long until Arthur has Francis pressed into the mattress, their lips and tongues sliding together. “Really,” Arthur says. “Such a slut.” His tone is hot and lust-filled and approving.
But Francis still freezes and his eyes travel far away. Things whisper and dance along the side of his memory, gray, just beyond reach.
Hands all over his body, pulling at him.
Something being poured down his throat, mingling with the wine.
Becoming too hot and aroused, begging, not wanting to but not being able to help it.
“Francis?”
Francis blinks and comes back to himself; Arthur is staring down at him, brows furrowed and lips frowning.
“Ah…I…mes excuses.” He looks away and shuts his eyes. He realizes he is trembling, tense and slight.
Arthur rolls off of him and huffs, one hand running through that sandy hair in frustration. “Bloody hell, Francis, stop sending me mixed signals.”
Francis doesn’t reply, instead opting to steal Arthur’s pillow and wrap his arms around it while he hides his face.
“I’m going to go shower.” Arthur stands and walks around the bed, grabbing a towel off the armchair as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Do you want to join me?”
Francis only shifts deeper down into the bed and hugs the pillow tighter.
“…All right, then. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” The bathroom door shuts, and then Francis is alone, save for the muted sound of running water.
Francis presses his face into the pillow and gives himself over to shaking, to the raw feeling in his throat. “Mon Dieu,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “Why? Why?”
He hasn’t thought about that in years. He’s been happy and stable. He’s been working things out between himself and Arthur, and they’ve tangling together their snark and their lust and their jabs to a point where they might actually have something. They’ve been allies since before World War I, and Arthur helped save him from the blood of Nazi Germany during World War II.
And then Ivan had to go and ruin things by invading Georgia and dredging up these memories.
“I’m fine,” he tells the pillow, squeezing its downy softness and relishing the give. “I’m fine. Go away, go away.”
But of course they don’t. They settle like bile into the fissures and cracks of his mind. They haunt him and make him sick and make him tremble.
He refocuses this by thinking of Georgia - of Russia, moving in with his tanks and weapons and saccharine smile. And then his terror turns into anger, raw and sharp. This is good. This is what he needs. This is the weapon that will keep him sane as he and the rest of the Nations confront Ivan on his actions later.
He takes hold of that fury and bottles it up. When Arthur comes out of the bathroom, he looks over his shoulder and leers as he combs the kinks out of his hair.
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Author anon, how I love your Francis and Arthur and their interaction. Please continue ASAP! (And your angst is so delicious! More non-con descriptions would also be so very appreciated *is shot)
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I somehow hate Pétain even more, now... And I also really love how this talks about long after the facts; it's rather rare in rapefics. Change is nice ^o^
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And I'm not even OP.
Your writing, Anon! Descriptive but not over the top. The characterization is believable, and the fall of France~ I'm a sucker for historical references.
I'm... speechless! I think "...D: ♥" describes how I feel perfectly right now.
Looking forward to more!
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(God, Anon’s research-fu is made of FAIL. I apologize. If I ever out myself, I will make sure to fix it.)
___
Francis is calm again by the time he settles back into his seat, watching in amusement as Alfred attempts to calm down 192 loud nations.
“Order! If everyone would calm down, we can get started…”
Francis smirks and crosses his fingers as the nations settle down into silence.
“Thank you.” Alfred clears his throat once more. “As most of you know, we’ve called this emergency meeting to discuss recent events in Eastern Europe. On August 7 during the night, Russia invaded the Georgia-held region of South. They have since expanded their attacks into bombing raids and further ground assaults on the country.” Alfred shuffles his papers and looks up at the assembly.
“He’s pretty serious today,” Antonio whispers.
Francis nods. “I wonder why.”
“Now, aside from the various human rights violations,” Alfred continues, “this is also a violation of the Olympic truce used during the Ancient Olympic Games.
“Our bosses are handling the crisis right now, and an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council is happening as I speak. However, we as nations need to come together and discuss this together, as well as what to do about it. The quicker we get to an understanding and an agreement, the quicker we can all go home and watch Michael Phelps make history.”
“Ah, there we are,” Francis murmurs with a grin. Arthur joins the collective groan of the other nations.
“All right. Mister Braginski has prepared a statement to justify his actions, so I’m going to give him the floor and let him begin discussion.” Alfred gathers his papers and walks away from the podium even as Ivan ascends the stairs and takes the podium, adjusting the microphone so that he’s able to speak into it.
Francis narrows his eyes. He knows that his boss and his diplomats are trying to urge Russia to reach a ceasefire without casting blame on either side. And that’s fine. He’ll eventually have to discuss this entire affair with Ivan himself.
But for right now, the incident boils and bubbles in his mind. It brings back poisonous memories that lay festering just beneath the surface.
It reminds him too much of what he once went through.
“Members of the UN,” Ivan says, and Francis shakes his head and focuses, “I believe there is a misunderstanding here. I am aware of all of your concerns. However, you must remember that Georgia is not innocent in this either.”
“And how do you justify your invasion of Georgia, Ivan?” Eduard is unsmiling and serious, pressing the tips of his fingers together while he glares down at Ivan.
“It refuses to recognize the autonomy of the Ossetia and Abkhazia regions, of course.” Ivan smiles up at Estonia, who flinches a little. “They were given autonomy after the Soviet Union dissolved, and the Ossetians had the full support of my government. It is Georgia’s fault for having reclaimed the region, da?”
“Isn’t that the same argument that Nazi Germany used when it invaded Poland?”
“Agreed,” Toris adds, leaning forward. “Ivan, your actions here are not that of one simply protecting Ossetia or Abkhazia. You invaded Georgia itself as well, and I am afraid of what this means for your reliability as a partner and neighboring country.”
“I, for one, applaud my brother’s actions.” Belarus stands and flicks her hair; from across the room, Francis thinks he sees something metallic flash underneath her gloved hands. “He acted with grace and wisdom, and both of us will do our best to open our borders to aid the Ossetian victims in the coming months.”
“Again, though, that doesn’t respond to the fact that there have been casualties on Georgia’s side as well.” Francis smiles at that, at his Mattieu speaking as the voice of reason in the room. “That’s not peacekeeping. That’s expanding the conflict well out of where it needs to be.”
“The Georgians did have it coming,” Cuba says, taking the cigar out of his mouth to speak. “They refused to recognize the autonomy that Ivan’s country granted the Ossetian people. They are not defending their sovereignty.”
Francis thinks that maybe it’s time to speak up.
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Silence, and then gentle murmurings; out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Francis nod. He smiles and congratulates himself as Ivan stares up at him, mouth open and eyes blinking.
“Heh…it’s funny that you’d say that, Bonnefoy.”
Francis blinks and looks up. Lovino stares straight at him, and Francis doesn’t like the look in those brown eyes.
“I’m wondering why you’re even speaking out in the first place - isn’t molestation the thing you’re best at, signior?
Fury spikes through Francis, but he keeps his back straight, though he narrows his eyes. “You will remember, Monsieur Vargas, that I was invaded once. I have every right to speak my mind on -”
Lovino snorts. “You were invaded because you asked for it,” he says. “You got your ass whipped by the kraut bastard and now you’re whining about it because you can’t take what you dish out.”
Every muscle in Francis’ body goes cold; the world flattens and falls away from him. The hall falls into dead silence.
“I find I must agree with him.” Roderich’s voice is rational and calm. “You send incredibly mixed signals - it’s only natural for a nation to misread them. You have no one to blame but yourself for that invasion, Bonnefoy.”
“No.” The word feels thick on his tongue. “No…I….”
“You want this, don’t you? You whore. Why are you crying?”
“Maybe he’s sobbing in gratitude that someone’s finally willing to do him.”
“It is true, Bonnefoy-san.” Kiku’s voice is calm, rational, and dagger-sharp. “In my country, your behavior would be completely inexcusable - especially if you were a girl. You are only inviting yourself to be violated.”
Voices murmur through the room; some agreeing, some debating.
None outright object.
“Francis?” Antonio sounds concerned, too far away for Francis to care about.
“No. Don’t gag him; no one will come, anyway. I want to hear him scream.”
Francis sobs and trembles as someone pulls him apart and pushes in. And then he’s screaming and thrashing and bleeding, his hands jerking against the ropes as he begs for them to stop.
“That’s right. Scream. Scream to me in gratitude.”
“You are, like, totally out of line!” Feliks stands, frowning, his arms crossed. “This isn’t about World War II! We are, like, totes off topic to the max!”
“I agree,” Alfred manages to say as he grabs Canada in a full nelson to keep him from mauling Ivan. “This isn’t World War II, and we’re getting derailed from -”
“But of course we aren’t.”
Oh God.
Francis lets his gaze drop to Ivan, who is smiling back up at him with violet eyes - with a childlike cruelty and triumph.
“See, Georgia is very much playing hard-to-get with me, da? Just as Bonnefoy here was with Ludwig.”
“Don’t bring me into this,” Francis hears Ludwig say, his voice high and tense. “Don’t do this, don’t do this -”
“Ah, but we should not forget the past, da? It is very important, in case we repeat our mistakes.” Ivan grins up at Ludwig, and Francis sees him shaking out of the corner of his eye.
“Now then. Surely you’ve all seen how Bonnefoy acts; ergo, Ludwig’s acts against him could be construed as asking for it, da? It’s the same way with Georgia, I assure you. What with her annexing those two poor nations and playing hard-to-get even when I tried to convince her to let them go….” Ivan sighs, dramatic, and shoots Francis a pitiful look with a grin underneath. “How else was I to construe his acts?”
“He’s not responding anymore.”
“Give him more beer. We’ll have him begging in no time.”
Someone forces a bottle down Francis’ throat, and he chokes and cries and tries not to vomit as warm, bad alcohol is poured into his belly.
Francis starts trembling. It only worsens when he feels a hand touch his arm, warm and gripping in comfort.
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OH GOD.
I...poor France. ;3;
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“Feliciano!” Lovino tugs at his brother’s sleeve. “Sit the fuck down, we do not want an issue with Rus -” Feliciano shuts his brother up with a flat palm against the back of his head.
The room starts devolving into chaos, voices growing louder with each moment.
Francis looks around the room, feeling vacant and empty. By accident, his eyes lock with Ludwig’s for a moment.
Ludwig squeezes his eyes shut and looks away.
Something hard and hot presses against and through Francis’ lips.
“Suck him off,” Ludwig says.
Francis considers biting the soldier’s dick off - he still has his teeth, and they are his power in this situation -
Behind him, he hears someone cock a gun. Francis feels something slender and cold being pressed to the back of his head.
“Don’t try anything funny.”
Francis freezes, then shuts his eyes as the soldier starts to fuck his mouth, choking as something pummels the back of his throat.
He holds back his bile, but he cannot stop the tears that soak his blindfold.
Francis breaks.
“Francis!” Arthur. “Francis, wai -”
He pulls away from the fingers that restrain his arms and claw at him; in darkness he stumbles through the aisles, ignoring the way people call his name in alarm and indignation.
He screams and flails as hands grab at his shirt, trying to make him stay; they are gone in almost the same instant, allowing Francis to bolt up the stairs and out of the meeting room. There’s a knot tightening in his stomach, making him lurch and hold his hand over his mouth. He holds the bile in as he stumbles through the halls.
He remembers the first time they forced him to give head, he vomited all over the Nazi uniform because of his poor gag reflex. And then they punched him and slapped him and made him clean it -
Francis barely makes it to the bathroom; he only manages to collapse against one of the urinals, stick his head in, and vomit. He tastes orange juice and croissants and puke, and his stomach heaves as his vision spots.
He senses someone crouch down behind him and almost flinches away; but they only reach out to pull his hair back, tuck it behind his ears. Then he feels soft fingers stroke his hair, rub his back, and he shuts his eyes and nearly cries in gratitude.
His vomit tapers off into dry heaves, and then into coughs as he spits out the last of the offensive taste. He feels fingertips on the back of his neck as his companion stands and flushes the toilet. Then they kneel again and scratch his scalp, brush his cheek.
Francis blinks, bleary and disoriented, and turns to look at the person.
Arthur stares back, running his knuckles across Francis’ cheekbone. The look in those green eyes is so tender and unlike him that it makes Francis tremble and feel a little afraid.
“Ar…Arthur.” He fights his trembles and grins. “Ah…I do not think le croissants agreed with me this morning….”
“Shh.”
Arthur presses a finger to his lips.
“The meeting’s been adjourned for now,” Arthur whispers. “Alfred’s treating the other Nations to a…rather four-lettered rant on how to behave and speak at UN meetings.”
“Then…then shouldn’t you be -”
“Alfred excused me,” Arthur says. “But…even if he hadn’t…I’d have taken the punishment anyway. I can’t stand watching you like that. It’s not….”
“Arthur.” Francis’ voice trembles as he shakes. Arthur stops talking and looks up at him, and Francis thinks he sees something glint in those eyes. Or maybe that’s just because the room’s gone blurry.
“I know, Francis. I know.”
They move at the same time; Francis launching himself into England’s arms, England opening them and pulling Francis in, holding him tight and together.
Francis feels his breath hitch, and releases it in one loud, anguished cry as his tears start to flow.
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Fucking pitch-perfect, anon. This hurts so good, and the ending to this part practically had me bawling. Fuck, why am I such a loser for these two. *sits down and breathes*
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