[Axis Powers Hetalia] Conquest [France/Various]
Title: Closer
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Various. First chapter is France/England.
Rating: MA
Warnings: Unbeta'd, noncon, mental/physical torture, YMMV characterization, disturbing images
Summary: He wants the world so much, too much--and like others of his ilk, sees nothing wrong with taking without asking. Written for this Kink Meme prompt.
___
i.
The first time he took Arthur was when the Normans flowed over his land in a great rush, bringing with them swords and screams, the blood and women of a thousand innocent villages.
Arthur is beautiful against the fires, beautiful and glaring and there are tears in his eyes. Francis smiles, groping himself as Arthur sprawls himself on the blood-soaked grass, red in his hair, dripping from his clothes, stinging the corners if his eyes. He’s still so thin, too little muscle to be a man, and--
Ah. Francis feels his smile grow as he falls to his knees, fishing his hardening cock from his pants. This will be wonderful.
“Don’t move,” he snaps, a dagger at Arthur’s throat. Arthur grits his teeth, those disgusting brows still furrowed. “You’re almost cute,” he says, his right hand working at unlacing the boy’s trousers. “I suppose you’ll--”
He almost misses the boy’s hand twitching towards his belt, and France feels his smile freeze into a thin, hard line. “I said stay still!” he snaps. It’s almost satisfying, how he drives the blade down hard enough into Arthur’s hand that it pierces the ground below it, dripping more blood, blood into the grass.
Albion’s screams are ravaged and defiled mothers and daughters. Francis shuts his eyes to better savor the sound mingling with crackling fires and collapsing huts.
He takes one of Arthur’s arrows, driving it down into soft, tender flesh with a quick jerk. “Perhaps someday I’ll do it nice and slow,” Francis muses, breath hitching as he strokes himself to twitching, aching good with a handful of oil from his flask. “Perhaps I’ll savor your screams.”
The boy doesn’t look so defiant now, all coltish limbs and hairless chest as Francis flicks the buttons off his tacky shirt. “Mmm, yes, this will do.”
His blade makes even quicker work of the rest of Arthur’s pants. He cups those thighs in his hands, parting those trembling legs. His tears are beautiful, so beautiful in the firelight.
All his.
He slides in with a hiss and a clench, and Arthur screeches again, thrashes in his grasp. And it’s pointless and stupid, so Francis just grabs his sword again and whacks Arthur across the temple. “Will you shut up,” he hisses, and doesn’t quite care when Arthur doesn’t look him in the eyes.
There’s plenty of time to break him, after all.
He starts fucking Arthur--nothing slow, nothing good and easy, but quick, fast, and dirty. Blood-smeared mud cakes their thighs, makes Francis’s blood sing. Arthur’s body opens to him--perhaps not of its own will, but the blood eases the way a little, makes everything slicker and hotter and wet, and fuck, all he needs to do is stop screaming.
He raises his fist this time, bringing it across Arthur’s jaw one, two, three times. For Francis is stronger, so much stronger, and Albion’s jaw shatters beneath the impact. The screams turn to whines. Much better.
“Not even the whores scream as loud as you do,” Francis snarls in Arthur’s ear, biting, leaving marks all over that pretty pale not-quite-grown-up skin. “We’ll change that, though, won’t we?”
Arthur sobs once, jerk of the Adam’s apple against Francis’s lips. His vision fractures, breaks into tiny little pieces as he floods into Arthur, spills himself, becomes part of him.
Conquering.
Dominating.
Francis leans back, sighing, and wipes his brow. Arthur’s blank beneath him, blank and limp and perhaps a bit more flexible now. A bit more willing.
Francis tilts Arthur’s mouth towards his; kisses Arthur amongst smoldering ash, burnt flesh, and charred bone.
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Various. First chapter is France/England.
Rating: MA
Warnings: Unbeta'd, noncon, mental/physical torture, YMMV characterization, disturbing images
Summary: He wants the world so much, too much--and like others of his ilk, sees nothing wrong with taking without asking. Written for this Kink Meme prompt.
___
i.
The first time he took Arthur was when the Normans flowed over his land in a great rush, bringing with them swords and screams, the blood and women of a thousand innocent villages.
Arthur is beautiful against the fires, beautiful and glaring and there are tears in his eyes. Francis smiles, groping himself as Arthur sprawls himself on the blood-soaked grass, red in his hair, dripping from his clothes, stinging the corners if his eyes. He’s still so thin, too little muscle to be a man, and--
Ah. Francis feels his smile grow as he falls to his knees, fishing his hardening cock from his pants. This will be wonderful.
“Don’t move,” he snaps, a dagger at Arthur’s throat. Arthur grits his teeth, those disgusting brows still furrowed. “You’re almost cute,” he says, his right hand working at unlacing the boy’s trousers. “I suppose you’ll--”
He almost misses the boy’s hand twitching towards his belt, and France feels his smile freeze into a thin, hard line. “I said stay still!” he snaps. It’s almost satisfying, how he drives the blade down hard enough into Arthur’s hand that it pierces the ground below it, dripping more blood, blood into the grass.
Albion’s screams are ravaged and defiled mothers and daughters. Francis shuts his eyes to better savor the sound mingling with crackling fires and collapsing huts.
He takes one of Arthur’s arrows, driving it down into soft, tender flesh with a quick jerk. “Perhaps someday I’ll do it nice and slow,” Francis muses, breath hitching as he strokes himself to twitching, aching good with a handful of oil from his flask. “Perhaps I’ll savor your screams.”
The boy doesn’t look so defiant now, all coltish limbs and hairless chest as Francis flicks the buttons off his tacky shirt. “Mmm, yes, this will do.”
His blade makes even quicker work of the rest of Arthur’s pants. He cups those thighs in his hands, parting those trembling legs. His tears are beautiful, so beautiful in the firelight.
All his.
He slides in with a hiss and a clench, and Arthur screeches again, thrashes in his grasp. And it’s pointless and stupid, so Francis just grabs his sword again and whacks Arthur across the temple. “Will you shut up,” he hisses, and doesn’t quite care when Arthur doesn’t look him in the eyes.
There’s plenty of time to break him, after all.
He starts fucking Arthur--nothing slow, nothing good and easy, but quick, fast, and dirty. Blood-smeared mud cakes their thighs, makes Francis’s blood sing. Arthur’s body opens to him--perhaps not of its own will, but the blood eases the way a little, makes everything slicker and hotter and wet, and fuck, all he needs to do is stop screaming.
He raises his fist this time, bringing it across Arthur’s jaw one, two, three times. For Francis is stronger, so much stronger, and Albion’s jaw shatters beneath the impact. The screams turn to whines. Much better.
“Not even the whores scream as loud as you do,” Francis snarls in Arthur’s ear, biting, leaving marks all over that pretty pale not-quite-grown-up skin. “We’ll change that, though, won’t we?”
Arthur sobs once, jerk of the Adam’s apple against Francis’s lips. His vision fractures, breaks into tiny little pieces as he floods into Arthur, spills himself, becomes part of him.
Conquering.
Dominating.
Francis leans back, sighing, and wipes his brow. Arthur’s blank beneath him, blank and limp and perhaps a bit more flexible now. A bit more willing.
Francis tilts Arthur’s mouth towards his; kisses Arthur amongst smoldering ash, burnt flesh, and charred bone.