(no subject)
Title: Lambrusco
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada --> France
Rating: MA
Warnings: Trigger warnings for dubcon that turns into noncon, BDSM gone terribly wrong, slut-shaming, forced enema, violence, and YMMV!characterization.
Summary: They issue him a challenge, and France doesn’t back down. It ends very, very badly for him. Kink meme deanon asking for a wine enema in a non-con, kinky, or consensual BDSM context.
__________________________________________
England’s expression doesn’t change when he finishes his proposal. His hands stay folded, his expression sedate even as America snaps bubblegum and turns the next page in his comic.
Eventually, laughter escapes him, a small huff of air. “You...you are not joking.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that I was, poppet?” England leans back, dropping one elbow to the chair.
“I--for one, that is a perfectly good waste of fine wine. We can all just drink and go to bed and--”
“And yes, you can do whatever you want to us. Exactly like you did with me last Christmas,” England snaps. His eye might have twitched. France tells himself it’s a trick of the light. “No thank you.”
America snorts. “He’s chicken,” he says, not bothering to look up from his Batman comic. “Told you. I guess there’s some sex even the French treat like war.”
“I’m surprised at you,” a small voice says, and France turns to look at Canada, guilt churning in his stomach along with surprise. “I guess you’re not as brave as I thought you were when you were little.”
France’s brow furrows at this, at blood-soaked earth beneath his fingertips, trenches and travels through the sewers during the World Wars.
Cowardly, is he?
“You have my word that I will be able to back out?”
England grins, just a quick quirk of the lips. “Safeword. Just croak it if you want to stop, frog.”
Well.
That’s all right, then. France lets out a breath.
“...Very well. I will give it a try.”
“Pay up,” America says, glancing up at Canada before blowing another bubble.
____________________________
It may be daylight outside. It might be night, filled with its neon tubes and flashing lights. It does not matter.
It is always night in the catacombs.
France watches England work, and his teeth worry his bottom lip.
He shifts his hands in the cuffs, and his shoulders sing with cramps and strained muscles. A breeze whistles down the catacomb’s hallways, playing light fingers over his bare back and ass. He shudders, eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to curl in on himself.
A chuckle curls the air. France cracks an eye open and finds himself looking at America’s boots, his faded and torn camouflage pants. His eye slides up America’s body and lands on his sneering mouth, the riding crop.
“Hey, Canada,” America says, and his blue eyes glow in the candlelight as he jerks his head back. “C’mere a minute, France looks like he’s going to fucking piss himself.”
“In a moment, America,” England says, his voice a measured drone as he holds the stainless steel nozzle up to the candlelight, inspects it, and lowers it again for more polishing. “Once he’s finished uncorking the wine, he can come over there.”
France shivers again. Alouette, he chants in his head, alouette, alouette, alouette. He clings to that word like a lifeline, thinking it in his head even as America bends his body down, lifting France’s chin with the crop.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you really did piss yourself,” America drawls, and his smile skews crooked over his face. “You gonna use it, you yellow-striped bitch? You gonna roll over and wave your little white dick in surrender? You gonna--”
“That’s enough, Alfred,” Canada says. He lays down the last cork and carries the bottle over, and France’s face flickers over to Alfred’s--the sudden flash of white as blood drains from his face and the way his eyes narrow.
“Don’t call me that,” America says, and his voice is a cracking, splintering plank on a hanging bridge. “Don’t you dare fucking call me that.”
“Says the superpower whose mansion I burned to the ground. Or did you forget that?”
“Why you--”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” England cups his forehead in his hands, heaving a deep sigh as he stands and makes his way over. “You’d think you both were five years old with the way you carry on.”
“But he--”
“I didn’t--”
“Shut up, both of you,” England snaps, and both boys fall silent even as they glare at one another over England’s head. “Help me get the harness on our bitch-in-heat.”
The boys pause for a moment, glaring at one another, before nodding and converging on him. France yelps when nails dig into his legs, as a hand slaps his ass. “Oh, shut up,” Canada mumbles, digging his nails in even harder. “Bet everyone you’ve ever touched have gone through worse.”
France opens his mouth, then, opens his mouth--but alouette will not slip past his throat, his trembling lips as the boys tighten the harness hard enough. The skin around his harness tingles and he knows he will have circulation problems later.
“Well, then,” England murmurs, bowing his head down and breathing a hot, wet huff over France’s ear. “I see no reason not to start.”
France’s spine stiffens when he feels the metal press against his ass, cool and hard and dry. “Ah,” he says, his voice cracking into a whimper when the metal starts sliding in, “A--aaaaahstop--”
“You know what to say if you want it to stop,” England says, and France wants to scream, clings to his safeword in his mind and opens his mouth to say it again--
The metal slides up and in, and France forgets what he wants to say as his body tightens around it, as his ass burns and flames and get it out get it out getitoutgetitoutgetitout--
“Would one of you be a dear and get the bucket and some more wine for me?” Arthur asks, resting his chin on France’s shoulder and watching with France as Canada marches over to retrieve it.
Alfred laughs, the sound light and airy through the catacombs. “You were always Dad’s little bitch, Matthew,” he says. Canada doesn’t even bother looking at him as he hands the bucket--and the hand pump--to Arthur.
“At least I didn’t go down in history as a nation of idiots,” Canada says in response, upending a bottle and letting the liquid slosh in. France’s eyes flicker up to America’s face--Canada will be feeling that later, for certain.
“When you’re quite done--” England starts, but Canada silences him by shoving the half-filled bucket in his face and marching over to get another bottle of wine. “Thank you. America, go help your brother.”
“But--”
“Go, or so help me God I will string you up, give Canada a hockey stick, and let him go wild.”
America opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but then Canada snickers and America turns on his heel, hissing out a swear as he goes to help his brother.
“They’re such good boys, aren’t they?” England whispers, and licks the shell of France’s ear. “Have to do something about that antagonism, though--maybe have one of them give a good, hard, lubeless fuck to the other. Show them who’s boss.” France feels the nozzle inside of him shift, move, as England’s fingers do something behind his back. France almost turns his head to look--
And England’s free hand comes up to force him to look ahead, down the catacombs, into the deep and fathomless darkness.
“No peeking,” Arthur says, and Francis feels something rubbery against his thigh as England drops it. More shifting--and the tube becomes stiffer, fuller all of a sudden.
France knows what’s coming. His eyes widen.
And the safe word--finally--slips out.
“Alouette.”
The air goes still for a moment. France can hear himself breathe, the forced gasps of air going in, out, in.
“What was that?” England purrs, as America and Canada stand up, a bottle of wine in each hand. “I don’t think I heard you.”
Wetness splashes against France’s insides, and when he speaks, his voice goes higher, more desperate. “Alouette,” he says again, and his stomach begins to churn as his innards start to sear. “Alouette, England, alouette, alouette--”
“Louder, France, you really must speak up--”
“Alouette, Angleterre, for the love of God, ALOUE--”
“SHUT UP!”
Something hard smacks him in the back of the head; the world explodes into bright little lights, and around him, France hears glass tinkling against the stone. France’s head sinks forward, and he watches bloated purple blots bloom against the stone. Footsteps, and then gentle fingers lift his chin.
France finds himself staring into green eyes, and for the first time he has no idea what to expect.
“Alouette,” he whimpers, and his voice is as shattered as the glass shards littered around his legs. “You--you promised, England. I say the safeword, and you--”
“Yes, yes, I let you free,” England says. His half-lidded, tight-jawed gaze doesn’t change, even as his fingers tighten on France’s mandible.
“I said you could say it if you wanted to stop. I never said we’d let you go.”
France’s entire body goes numb with fear, and England’s lips quirk up--just a brief little tic. And then France winces, grunts and curls in on himself because his stomach hurts, the slightest little move will send it all sloshing about inside of him and his innards ache with cramps and cheap red wine.
England drops his chin and walks behind France again. “America,” he says, and France shuts his eyes and pants. “Stop staring at your brother like you’re going to throttle him.”
“Why am I getting yelled at when he’s the pussy who’s--”
“Fuck’s sake, America, if it will shut you up and relax you, go fuck France’s mouth.”
More silence. France’s fingertips go cold, curl in towards his palms.
“I can?” America asks, and he sounds so tiny, so innocent. “I--you’ll really let me?”
“Yes, God, just shut yourself up and stop glaring at Canada. Knock yourself out--it’s not like France hasn’t done that on anyone we know.”
America lets out a whoop. France cannot even lift his head to look at him as he stampedes over, wine-bottle glass crunching underfoot. For a brief second, France sees America bend down, pluck something off the ground.
And then France feels his ears get squeezed between two clenched hands, his head lifted up to see the bulge protruding from his jeans.
“I didn’t wear underwear today,” America says, and France hears the smile in that voice, all too-wide and too much teeth. “Just like you. It’s for easy access, right? Easier that way. You just unzip and fuck your flavor of the week.”
France yelps as another cramp wracks his gut, as America reaches up to fist his hair between steel-hewn fingers. America’s free hand comes up to unzip his jeans and--yes, he was telling the truth, France thinks, as America’s cock smacks him in the cheek.
“You better suck my dick as good as I did yours during the Revolution, you pervert,” America grits out, trying to shove his dick between France’s clenched teeth. “It’s only fair--”
America’s fist collides with France’s jaw--a pained holler makes him open his mouth, allowing America to jam his cock all the way, into the throat, and France chokes and squirms and can’t fucking breathe.
“Be careful,” England says over France’s shoulder, and France knows England’s still pumping because he can feel the skin of his belly expanding. “His body’s absorbing alcohol at a much faster rate. Better keep those shoes clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man,” America says, grabbing the back of France’s skull and starting to fuck his mouth, hard and fast. Each jab sends a ripple down to France’s stomach, stirring up the wine and his drugged dinner in his belly. “He won’t puke on my fucking shoes, because if he does he won’t have any fucking teeth afterwards!” He punctuates this by pausing at the back of France’s throat, cutting off his air again and pulling one hand back, hard, still clenched.
The alcohol in his bloodstream numbs the pain. But France still knows that if he looks up, tries not to focus on how Alfred’s sour, foul-smelling cock fucks his mouth like it’s one of his ridiculous sex contraptions.
France’s mind starts to loosen, let go. The alcohol, he thinks, it’s the alcohol. His eyelids start growing heavy; his mind strains, strains and twists as it tries to understand what’s happening to him--
And as America pulls back, a faint chuckle escapes his throat.
It’s not until the rest of them are silent that France understands what he’s doing.
“Oh, bloody fuck,” England whispers. “Why is that so hot?”
“You were right, England!” America laughs, and France laughs with him because (because why not, because they said they would stop and they didn’t and he fell for it isn’t that fucking hysterical?) “He’s totally into this!”
“He’s also drunk,” Canada points out, nudging France with his foot.
“Don’t be such a spoil sport. And look, he’s not even fighting back! Which means I can do this--”
Slam in his throat, can’t breathe, can’t breathe--
“And this--”
America’s foot comes up, slamming against his half-hard cock and he should be screaming but he’s not--
“And this!!”
America’s hand rests on his windpipe and squeezes. Hard. France hears something crack, and as he opens his mouth, tries to pull away from Alfred’s prick--
America pulls away first and comes all over France’s face. Some of it lands in his eyes.
And still, he can’t stop giggling so hard that tears start falling from his eyes.
“Told you,” America whispers, all grins and wide blue eyes. “Told you he gets off on this kind of treatment, why does he do it to everyone else?”
“Thank you, Doctor America, for your insight,” Canada says. “Right, so do you want me to let him down now, England, or--”
“Just a moment, Canada.”
Fingers make quick work of the tight straps holding the harness in place, and after a pause, the nozzle is removed--and replaced by something else. And France recognizes what it is in an instant, has housed it countless times in his own body for his own games.
A plug.
“All right, Canada. He’s all yours. I get to remove the plug, though.”
“Yes, England.”
France’s spine has an instant to shiver, and then the flat end of a hockey stick hits him in the face.
“You must really be a glutton for punishment, right, Papa?” Another hit, this one across the other cheek, rough enough to send him sprawling on his side.
France pants, his arms chained behind his back. “Or maybe I’m thinking wrong. Maybe you have the daddy kink. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
“...Ah...” France whimpers, and his hips twitch against the ground.
“So that’s it,” Canada muses. France’s eyes are swelling shut, so he can’t quite see where the next hit will land--
Until it cracks across the side of his ribs. “So is that why you always brought me treats?” Canada asks, a shadow in the corner of France’s eye.
Crack. “Is that the only reason you read me bedtime stories?”
“Whack. “Is that why you insisted on kissing me on the lips whenever I said hello or goodbye??”
Snap. “Is that why the only reason you see me these days is to tweak my nipples or grab my ass in front of the entire world?”
Silence.
“ANSWER ME!”
France is yanked up by his hair, only mildly surprised when something fleshy and hot and somewhat less hard smacks him across the face. Again. And again. Until Canada grunts and a sticky, thick wetness engulfs his face again.
Panting. Footsteps. At least France’s ears still work, if nothing else, and he hears someone walking over. “It’s all right, lad,” he murmurs, and as Canada lets him go to slump to the ground, France hears a quiet sob. “It’s all right, I’m here, boy.”
“Daddy....”
“Shhh. I’ll finish this.”
France’s gut clenches in fear, and a high whine slips free from his throat as he tries to scramble backwards on his legs, his ass, just get out of here--and hands grab his ankles.
“No,” he breathes, as those hands crawl up his body and flip him over, “no!”
A twist, and the butt plug is out; a thrust, and France is filled with flesh and heat and no, no, this isn’t happening, they said they wouldn’t do this!
Arthur fucks him, and France tries to go away. Tell himself it’s someone else screaming, that he’s rubbing his cheek in someone else’s puke. Tries to ignore how his balls and legs itch as wine leaks out with each thrust, pooling around his knees.
“You are a waste of flesh,” England says. “You don’t realize it, do you? That what you’re feeling now is what everyone feels when you touch them, molest them, keep doing it when they say no.” Each word is punctuated by a slap of flesh on flesh. “Will you do it anymore, now that you know what it feels like?”
“I--”
“Will you?”
“NO!”
England’s pace picks up, his panting increasing. “Again.”
“Non, non, I’m sorry! I won’t do it anymore, I won’t--”
France’s screams trail off into an anguished moan as England reaches around, yanking at France’s cock. Unwanted pleasure pools with the sick and sticky feeling in France’s stomach, the wine that his body absorbs, and he comes all over the cobblestones, his mind spinning, his entire body aching and numb.
“Yes,” England hisses, his pants quickening, quickening, “--yes.”
England’s hips still, his fingertips tightening on France’s hips, and France knows that England’s emptying himself into his wine-laden body. He only gets to slump to the ground when England pulls out, when the wine starts gushing out of his body and all over the floor.
“Oh man,” America says, then laughs. “Fuckin’ nasty.”
“Save it, America. Let’s go.”
“What about France?” Canada’s voice, quiet and shy, always mistaken for concern.
Silence.
“His body will heal itself. It aways does. Let him claw his way back to the surface before the spirits get him.”
“Spirits don’t exist, old man.”
“And what would you know about the supernatural, Alfred?”
“I know my fist to your face if you call me by that filthy human name again!”
Their voices--and the lights--fade down the hall.
France curls on his side, smelling of bile and cheap wine and sweat, and waits for himself to sober up.
__________________________________________
Notes:
Lambrusco is an Italian wine that comes in dry, slightly sweet, and sweet flavors. The sweet-flavored wine was very popular in the United States in the 1960s and 70’s. It also happens to be my favorite flavor of wine.
This is the first thing I’ve managed to actually complete since January. I have attempted to write original fiction with no success, I have tried plottier, lighter things with very little success. I’ve also come to realize that, excluding things I’ve co-written, there is exactly one thing I’ve written for this fandom that I do not regret writing in some way, shape, or form. I’m deeply ashamed of the rest (yes, that includes exactly what you think it does). Regardless of what you think of this, the characterization, and the writing itself, it is the only reason I wrote at all. You don’t have to like this or even think it’s good. I just ask that you respect what that means to me.
Anon comments are on. Abusing that will result in me disabling them. Do not abuse the anonymous commenting system, please.
To everyone who supported me on the meme, or offered criticism: Thank you.
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada --> France
Rating: MA
Warnings: Trigger warnings for dubcon that turns into noncon, BDSM gone terribly wrong, slut-shaming, forced enema, violence, and YMMV!characterization.
Summary: They issue him a challenge, and France doesn’t back down. It ends very, very badly for him. Kink meme deanon asking for a wine enema in a non-con, kinky, or consensual BDSM context.
__________________________________________
England’s expression doesn’t change when he finishes his proposal. His hands stay folded, his expression sedate even as America snaps bubblegum and turns the next page in his comic.
Eventually, laughter escapes him, a small huff of air. “You...you are not joking.”
“Whatever gave you the idea that I was, poppet?” England leans back, dropping one elbow to the chair.
“I--for one, that is a perfectly good waste of fine wine. We can all just drink and go to bed and--”
“And yes, you can do whatever you want to us. Exactly like you did with me last Christmas,” England snaps. His eye might have twitched. France tells himself it’s a trick of the light. “No thank you.”
America snorts. “He’s chicken,” he says, not bothering to look up from his Batman comic. “Told you. I guess there’s some sex even the French treat like war.”
“I’m surprised at you,” a small voice says, and France turns to look at Canada, guilt churning in his stomach along with surprise. “I guess you’re not as brave as I thought you were when you were little.”
France’s brow furrows at this, at blood-soaked earth beneath his fingertips, trenches and travels through the sewers during the World Wars.
Cowardly, is he?
“You have my word that I will be able to back out?”
England grins, just a quick quirk of the lips. “Safeword. Just croak it if you want to stop, frog.”
Well.
That’s all right, then. France lets out a breath.
“...Very well. I will give it a try.”
“Pay up,” America says, glancing up at Canada before blowing another bubble.
____________________________
It may be daylight outside. It might be night, filled with its neon tubes and flashing lights. It does not matter.
It is always night in the catacombs.
France watches England work, and his teeth worry his bottom lip.
He shifts his hands in the cuffs, and his shoulders sing with cramps and strained muscles. A breeze whistles down the catacomb’s hallways, playing light fingers over his bare back and ass. He shudders, eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to curl in on himself.
A chuckle curls the air. France cracks an eye open and finds himself looking at America’s boots, his faded and torn camouflage pants. His eye slides up America’s body and lands on his sneering mouth, the riding crop.
“Hey, Canada,” America says, and his blue eyes glow in the candlelight as he jerks his head back. “C’mere a minute, France looks like he’s going to fucking piss himself.”
“In a moment, America,” England says, his voice a measured drone as he holds the stainless steel nozzle up to the candlelight, inspects it, and lowers it again for more polishing. “Once he’s finished uncorking the wine, he can come over there.”
France shivers again. Alouette, he chants in his head, alouette, alouette, alouette. He clings to that word like a lifeline, thinking it in his head even as America bends his body down, lifting France’s chin with the crop.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you really did piss yourself,” America drawls, and his smile skews crooked over his face. “You gonna use it, you yellow-striped bitch? You gonna roll over and wave your little white dick in surrender? You gonna--”
“That’s enough, Alfred,” Canada says. He lays down the last cork and carries the bottle over, and France’s face flickers over to Alfred’s--the sudden flash of white as blood drains from his face and the way his eyes narrow.
“Don’t call me that,” America says, and his voice is a cracking, splintering plank on a hanging bridge. “Don’t you dare fucking call me that.”
“Says the superpower whose mansion I burned to the ground. Or did you forget that?”
“Why you--”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” England cups his forehead in his hands, heaving a deep sigh as he stands and makes his way over. “You’d think you both were five years old with the way you carry on.”
“But he--”
“I didn’t--”
“Shut up, both of you,” England snaps, and both boys fall silent even as they glare at one another over England’s head. “Help me get the harness on our bitch-in-heat.”
The boys pause for a moment, glaring at one another, before nodding and converging on him. France yelps when nails dig into his legs, as a hand slaps his ass. “Oh, shut up,” Canada mumbles, digging his nails in even harder. “Bet everyone you’ve ever touched have gone through worse.”
France opens his mouth, then, opens his mouth--but alouette will not slip past his throat, his trembling lips as the boys tighten the harness hard enough. The skin around his harness tingles and he knows he will have circulation problems later.
“Well, then,” England murmurs, bowing his head down and breathing a hot, wet huff over France’s ear. “I see no reason not to start.”
France’s spine stiffens when he feels the metal press against his ass, cool and hard and dry. “Ah,” he says, his voice cracking into a whimper when the metal starts sliding in, “A--aaaaahstop--”
“You know what to say if you want it to stop,” England says, and France wants to scream, clings to his safeword in his mind and opens his mouth to say it again--
The metal slides up and in, and France forgets what he wants to say as his body tightens around it, as his ass burns and flames and get it out get it out getitoutgetitoutgetitout--
“Would one of you be a dear and get the bucket and some more wine for me?” Arthur asks, resting his chin on France’s shoulder and watching with France as Canada marches over to retrieve it.
Alfred laughs, the sound light and airy through the catacombs. “You were always Dad’s little bitch, Matthew,” he says. Canada doesn’t even bother looking at him as he hands the bucket--and the hand pump--to Arthur.
“At least I didn’t go down in history as a nation of idiots,” Canada says in response, upending a bottle and letting the liquid slosh in. France’s eyes flicker up to America’s face--Canada will be feeling that later, for certain.
“When you’re quite done--” England starts, but Canada silences him by shoving the half-filled bucket in his face and marching over to get another bottle of wine. “Thank you. America, go help your brother.”
“But--”
“Go, or so help me God I will string you up, give Canada a hockey stick, and let him go wild.”
America opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but then Canada snickers and America turns on his heel, hissing out a swear as he goes to help his brother.
“They’re such good boys, aren’t they?” England whispers, and licks the shell of France’s ear. “Have to do something about that antagonism, though--maybe have one of them give a good, hard, lubeless fuck to the other. Show them who’s boss.” France feels the nozzle inside of him shift, move, as England’s fingers do something behind his back. France almost turns his head to look--
And England’s free hand comes up to force him to look ahead, down the catacombs, into the deep and fathomless darkness.
“No peeking,” Arthur says, and Francis feels something rubbery against his thigh as England drops it. More shifting--and the tube becomes stiffer, fuller all of a sudden.
France knows what’s coming. His eyes widen.
And the safe word--finally--slips out.
“Alouette.”
The air goes still for a moment. France can hear himself breathe, the forced gasps of air going in, out, in.
“What was that?” England purrs, as America and Canada stand up, a bottle of wine in each hand. “I don’t think I heard you.”
Wetness splashes against France’s insides, and when he speaks, his voice goes higher, more desperate. “Alouette,” he says again, and his stomach begins to churn as his innards start to sear. “Alouette, England, alouette, alouette--”
“Louder, France, you really must speak up--”
“Alouette, Angleterre, for the love of God, ALOUE--”
“SHUT UP!”
Something hard smacks him in the back of the head; the world explodes into bright little lights, and around him, France hears glass tinkling against the stone. France’s head sinks forward, and he watches bloated purple blots bloom against the stone. Footsteps, and then gentle fingers lift his chin.
France finds himself staring into green eyes, and for the first time he has no idea what to expect.
“Alouette,” he whimpers, and his voice is as shattered as the glass shards littered around his legs. “You--you promised, England. I say the safeword, and you--”
“Yes, yes, I let you free,” England says. His half-lidded, tight-jawed gaze doesn’t change, even as his fingers tighten on France’s mandible.
“I said you could say it if you wanted to stop. I never said we’d let you go.”
France’s entire body goes numb with fear, and England’s lips quirk up--just a brief little tic. And then France winces, grunts and curls in on himself because his stomach hurts, the slightest little move will send it all sloshing about inside of him and his innards ache with cramps and cheap red wine.
England drops his chin and walks behind France again. “America,” he says, and France shuts his eyes and pants. “Stop staring at your brother like you’re going to throttle him.”
“Why am I getting yelled at when he’s the pussy who’s--”
“Fuck’s sake, America, if it will shut you up and relax you, go fuck France’s mouth.”
More silence. France’s fingertips go cold, curl in towards his palms.
“I can?” America asks, and he sounds so tiny, so innocent. “I--you’ll really let me?”
“Yes, God, just shut yourself up and stop glaring at Canada. Knock yourself out--it’s not like France hasn’t done that on anyone we know.”
America lets out a whoop. France cannot even lift his head to look at him as he stampedes over, wine-bottle glass crunching underfoot. For a brief second, France sees America bend down, pluck something off the ground.
And then France feels his ears get squeezed between two clenched hands, his head lifted up to see the bulge protruding from his jeans.
“I didn’t wear underwear today,” America says, and France hears the smile in that voice, all too-wide and too much teeth. “Just like you. It’s for easy access, right? Easier that way. You just unzip and fuck your flavor of the week.”
France yelps as another cramp wracks his gut, as America reaches up to fist his hair between steel-hewn fingers. America’s free hand comes up to unzip his jeans and--yes, he was telling the truth, France thinks, as America’s cock smacks him in the cheek.
“You better suck my dick as good as I did yours during the Revolution, you pervert,” America grits out, trying to shove his dick between France’s clenched teeth. “It’s only fair--”
America’s fist collides with France’s jaw--a pained holler makes him open his mouth, allowing America to jam his cock all the way, into the throat, and France chokes and squirms and can’t fucking breathe.
“Be careful,” England says over France’s shoulder, and France knows England’s still pumping because he can feel the skin of his belly expanding. “His body’s absorbing alcohol at a much faster rate. Better keep those shoes clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, old man,” America says, grabbing the back of France’s skull and starting to fuck his mouth, hard and fast. Each jab sends a ripple down to France’s stomach, stirring up the wine and his drugged dinner in his belly. “He won’t puke on my fucking shoes, because if he does he won’t have any fucking teeth afterwards!” He punctuates this by pausing at the back of France’s throat, cutting off his air again and pulling one hand back, hard, still clenched.
The alcohol in his bloodstream numbs the pain. But France still knows that if he looks up, tries not to focus on how Alfred’s sour, foul-smelling cock fucks his mouth like it’s one of his ridiculous sex contraptions.
France’s mind starts to loosen, let go. The alcohol, he thinks, it’s the alcohol. His eyelids start growing heavy; his mind strains, strains and twists as it tries to understand what’s happening to him--
And as America pulls back, a faint chuckle escapes his throat.
It’s not until the rest of them are silent that France understands what he’s doing.
“Oh, bloody fuck,” England whispers. “Why is that so hot?”
“You were right, England!” America laughs, and France laughs with him because (because why not, because they said they would stop and they didn’t and he fell for it isn’t that fucking hysterical?) “He’s totally into this!”
“He’s also drunk,” Canada points out, nudging France with his foot.
“Don’t be such a spoil sport. And look, he’s not even fighting back! Which means I can do this--”
Slam in his throat, can’t breathe, can’t breathe--
“And this--”
America’s foot comes up, slamming against his half-hard cock and he should be screaming but he’s not--
“And this!!”
America’s hand rests on his windpipe and squeezes. Hard. France hears something crack, and as he opens his mouth, tries to pull away from Alfred’s prick--
America pulls away first and comes all over France’s face. Some of it lands in his eyes.
And still, he can’t stop giggling so hard that tears start falling from his eyes.
“Told you,” America whispers, all grins and wide blue eyes. “Told you he gets off on this kind of treatment, why does he do it to everyone else?”
“Thank you, Doctor America, for your insight,” Canada says. “Right, so do you want me to let him down now, England, or--”
“Just a moment, Canada.”
Fingers make quick work of the tight straps holding the harness in place, and after a pause, the nozzle is removed--and replaced by something else. And France recognizes what it is in an instant, has housed it countless times in his own body for his own games.
A plug.
“All right, Canada. He’s all yours. I get to remove the plug, though.”
“Yes, England.”
France’s spine has an instant to shiver, and then the flat end of a hockey stick hits him in the face.
“You must really be a glutton for punishment, right, Papa?” Another hit, this one across the other cheek, rough enough to send him sprawling on his side.
France pants, his arms chained behind his back. “Or maybe I’m thinking wrong. Maybe you have the daddy kink. Isn’t that right, Papa?”
“...Ah...” France whimpers, and his hips twitch against the ground.
“So that’s it,” Canada muses. France’s eyes are swelling shut, so he can’t quite see where the next hit will land--
Until it cracks across the side of his ribs. “So is that why you always brought me treats?” Canada asks, a shadow in the corner of France’s eye.
Crack. “Is that the only reason you read me bedtime stories?”
“Whack. “Is that why you insisted on kissing me on the lips whenever I said hello or goodbye??”
Snap. “Is that why the only reason you see me these days is to tweak my nipples or grab my ass in front of the entire world?”
Silence.
“ANSWER ME!”
France is yanked up by his hair, only mildly surprised when something fleshy and hot and somewhat less hard smacks him across the face. Again. And again. Until Canada grunts and a sticky, thick wetness engulfs his face again.
Panting. Footsteps. At least France’s ears still work, if nothing else, and he hears someone walking over. “It’s all right, lad,” he murmurs, and as Canada lets him go to slump to the ground, France hears a quiet sob. “It’s all right, I’m here, boy.”
“Daddy....”
“Shhh. I’ll finish this.”
France’s gut clenches in fear, and a high whine slips free from his throat as he tries to scramble backwards on his legs, his ass, just get out of here--and hands grab his ankles.
“No,” he breathes, as those hands crawl up his body and flip him over, “no!”
A twist, and the butt plug is out; a thrust, and France is filled with flesh and heat and no, no, this isn’t happening, they said they wouldn’t do this!
Arthur fucks him, and France tries to go away. Tell himself it’s someone else screaming, that he’s rubbing his cheek in someone else’s puke. Tries to ignore how his balls and legs itch as wine leaks out with each thrust, pooling around his knees.
“You are a waste of flesh,” England says. “You don’t realize it, do you? That what you’re feeling now is what everyone feels when you touch them, molest them, keep doing it when they say no.” Each word is punctuated by a slap of flesh on flesh. “Will you do it anymore, now that you know what it feels like?”
“I--”
“Will you?”
“NO!”
England’s pace picks up, his panting increasing. “Again.”
“Non, non, I’m sorry! I won’t do it anymore, I won’t--”
France’s screams trail off into an anguished moan as England reaches around, yanking at France’s cock. Unwanted pleasure pools with the sick and sticky feeling in France’s stomach, the wine that his body absorbs, and he comes all over the cobblestones, his mind spinning, his entire body aching and numb.
“Yes,” England hisses, his pants quickening, quickening, “--yes.”
England’s hips still, his fingertips tightening on France’s hips, and France knows that England’s emptying himself into his wine-laden body. He only gets to slump to the ground when England pulls out, when the wine starts gushing out of his body and all over the floor.
“Oh man,” America says, then laughs. “Fuckin’ nasty.”
“Save it, America. Let’s go.”
“What about France?” Canada’s voice, quiet and shy, always mistaken for concern.
Silence.
“His body will heal itself. It aways does. Let him claw his way back to the surface before the spirits get him.”
“Spirits don’t exist, old man.”
“And what would you know about the supernatural, Alfred?”
“I know my fist to your face if you call me by that filthy human name again!”
Their voices--and the lights--fade down the hall.
France curls on his side, smelling of bile and cheap wine and sweat, and waits for himself to sober up.
__________________________________________
Notes:
Lambrusco is an Italian wine that comes in dry, slightly sweet, and sweet flavors. The sweet-flavored wine was very popular in the United States in the 1960s and 70’s. It also happens to be my favorite flavor of wine.
This is the first thing I’ve managed to actually complete since January. I have attempted to write original fiction with no success, I have tried plottier, lighter things with very little success. I’ve also come to realize that, excluding things I’ve co-written, there is exactly one thing I’ve written for this fandom that I do not regret writing in some way, shape, or form. I’m deeply ashamed of the rest (yes, that includes exactly what you think it does). Regardless of what you think of this, the characterization, and the writing itself, it is the only reason I wrote at all. You don’t have to like this or even think it’s good. I just ask that you respect what that means to me.
Anon comments are on. Abusing that will result in me disabling them. Do not abuse the anonymous commenting system, please.
To everyone who supported me on the meme, or offered criticism: Thank you.