[Axis Powers Hetalia] Take (France/England)
Title: Take
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: MA
Warnings: Graphic Noncon, Your Mileage May Vary characterization
Summary: France gets revenge on England for what he did. Sequel to " Dare."
___________________
Hate crawls in France’s belly as he stares across the table at England. And England, oblivious--no, pretending to be oblivious--doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are fixed on Italy, who’s blathering on about pasta and the world economy like he’s discovered how to turn dogshit to gold.
The scar on his cheek is bandaged. No one’s bothered to ask about it--well, not that he’s seen. He remembers, now, the knife arching through the air in front of him, florescent light dancing on its edge.
So.
England had courted him on a dare, had he? A dare that France would just take what he wanted, consequences be damned, that he would just shove England up against the wall and--
His cock twitches in his pants, and he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep. His fingers curl around the two ties and the sock in his pocket--an unwashed one, with a subtle but obvious stench. Well worth the fact no one will come within five meters of him.
Patience.
France opens his eyes and smiles. England, of course, doesn’t see.
________
On the way to lunch, France catches England’s elbow. England jumps, jerking away from him. His eyes are wide, but his face settles into a frown fast enough. “Oh,” England says, crossing his arms.
“England--”
“Look, I don’t want to listen to this rot. The others are going, we’re going to miss the--”
“I’m sorry.”
England blinks. “I...beg pardon?”
France shrugs, casting his eyes outside. It’s sunny out, and light plays on the green leaves. “It was just a dare, wasn’t it? Given my...reputation, it’s entirely reasonable.” He looks at England at the corner of his eye--the brows, at least, seem unfurrowed. Good. “So I’m sorry.”
He looks back at England and flashes his most charming smile, a hint of glinting white teeth and deep blue eyes. He stays the hatred clawing at his stomach as England considers, then shrugs. He doesn’t smile, but he uncross his arms and relaxes, falling into step beside France as they make their way to the lunchroom. “Well, I...it was stupid of me,” England says. “It’s all right. I was unreasonable too.”
We'll see soon enough. France takes a left, and England, the idiot, follows right after him, seeming to forget the way to the banquet hall is to keep going straight. “Bygones, then?”
“Bygones.”
“Good.” France flashes another smile at him, letting his gaze linger on England. Waiting until the frame of the broom closet falls into their line of sight--
And France strikes.
He reaches up, one hand a claw, and grabs England’s face; he feels a slimy tongue against his palm as England’s mouth opens in surprise. His muffled yell gets cut short when the back of his head hits the wall, and the resounding thunk is so loud France feels it vibrate on his skin.
France acts quick, with deft fingers and swift movements; he grabs England’s collar, throws him into the broom closet, and slams it shut behind him. England, he throws into the wall, ignoring his gasps and cries as France sets about propping a broken, wooden chair up against the door so that no one can come in.
“France, what the fuck are you--”
“Shut up,” France snaps back, and punches England across the face, hard enough to make blood burst from his nose. The red bruise that blossoms across England’s cheekbone is beautiful, but France has no time to admire it as he straddles England, pinning his arms and waist, pulling a sock out of his pocket.
“So,” France says, pinching England’s nose when England presses his lips together so hard they go white. “About those five pounds America owes you...”
England’s mouth parts to take in air, and France leans in and shoves the sock into England’s mouth. He follows it up with the tie. He’s in a particularly good mood, so he even ties it in a tight little bow behind England’s head.
And then he leans forward and grins, letting England feel his erection against his stomach. It twitches when England’s eyes widen, and oh, he’s so beautiful when he’s scared.
“I hope they were worth it.”
England’s body starts trembling beneath his, his eyes going blank--France almost feels sorry for him. Almost. As it is, though, every muscle in England’s body seems to have gone limp, limp enough that when Francis starts to stand, England’s attempts to fight back remind him of a flopping fish.
“I can’t truly believe Napoleon lost to you,” Francis says, his tone musing and wondering as he plants his boot on England’s back and catches his wrists. “The way you’re fighting now would make Sealand look poised and graceful.”
England starts screaming through his gag as France binds his wrists together and pulls. “That can’t be comfortable,” France says, watching the way England’s shoulders bend, forcing him to his knees and then his feet. Francis pins him to the wall with his chest, fumbling with his fly and a pocket with his hands.
“Is this like you wanted it, England? Is this what you dreamed of when you kissed me that night?” France says, and hates himself for the little bit of bitterness that snakes into his voice as he palms his erection and slicks himself up.
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
England thrashes and sobs as France undoes his pants, shoving them down and spreading his legs. He lines himself up and presses up and in and--
Oh.
England’s wails sound far away as France immerses himself inside him. Tight warmth squeezes his cock, pulling him in further, and--
Well.
He'd be inconsiderate not to oblige.
He uses one hand to steady himself on England’s hip and knots the other in England’s shaggy hair. “You’re exactly as I imagined,” France whispers, nipping at England’s ear. “Maybe next time I take you I’ll experiment with other lubes. More...organic ones, shall we say.”
England screams as France slams into him again, harder this time, faster. “Or maybe I’ll take sweet Canada,” France muses, and laughs when England dry heaves and chokes on his own sobs. “I’ll let you watch, of course. America...well, he might be a tad hard to coax, but maybe if I call in some Revolutionary War favors...or promise to help him out with his economy...”
France starts panting, feeling his entire body growing hot, orgasm tugging at his belly. He sneers as England whimpers, now limp. “Don’t act--so disappointed,” France pants, his voice breathy. “I thought--ah--this was what you wanted--”
And then he shoves himself up and in as he climaxes, depositing his seed as deep inside England as he can.
Just as a reminder.
He does nothing, when the aftershocks fade; he lies there, pressing England against his chest almost tenderly. England is like a doll in his arms, so limp and boneless.
Once his breathing returns to normal, he steps back, pulls out. He lets go of England, who drops to the floor. His knees thunk, and his head droops. France tends to his pants first; once he’s tucked in and zipped up, France leans down and unties England’s hands. England suddenly finds his strength and starts away from him, whimpering into the gag, back pressed against the wall.
In the split-second before England’s knees curl up, France sees England’s stiff, dripping cock. He snorts, shaking his head, and turns to the door.
“I’m going to eat,” he says. “For God’s sake, take care of yourself before you join us.”
His hand pauses on the knob, when he hears England hiccough. He looks over at him, at the gag tossed into the corner, at England’s open, gaping mouth. Their eyes meet.
And France flashes him his most charming smile.
“I hope it was everything you dreamed of.”
And then he slides out of the closet.
(When the others ask where he’s been--and where England is--France will shrug and give them a little smile, and say they took a wrong turn down a certain hall. And the other Nations will understand--some will wink and grin, others will roll their eyes and go back for seconds on the salad.
France, for his own part, will feel utter contentment when England stumbles in--and when America walks up to him, slings an arm over his shoulder, and offers him enthusiastic congrats for finally getting laid.)
_____________________
Notes: So I was on TV Tropes this weekend, and one thing led to another. I saw myself reading France's character bio and found something very interesting:
Sure, he’ll hit on anyone no matter gender and age, but he also believes that love shouldn’t be forced on people and will, according to Word of God, stop trying to touch or strip people if it’s made clear that what he’s doing isn’t enjoyed.
Honestly, if there was any evidence that he actually did this in the manga (and saying it doesn't really count in my book, he has to physically stop when someone asks him to), I'd feel a bit more comfortable with him as a character again. As it is, though...this is honestly how I see him in canon now, all humor and "laughs" removed. And for all the good he may do otherwise, THAT will always overshadow everything else.
(If something has changed since I stopped reading and he's actually shown stopping when someone freaks out and says no, I will ecstatically and with great enthusiasm stand corrected.)
So, remember What the Heart Forgets? Good times. Pretentious and overwrought and badly written times, but still good times.
Comments and concrit, harsh or otherwise, are welcomed. Thanks for reading.
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: MA
Warnings: Graphic Noncon, Your Mileage May Vary characterization
Summary: France gets revenge on England for what he did. Sequel to " Dare."
___________________
Hate crawls in France’s belly as he stares across the table at England. And England, oblivious--no, pretending to be oblivious--doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are fixed on Italy, who’s blathering on about pasta and the world economy like he’s discovered how to turn dogshit to gold.
The scar on his cheek is bandaged. No one’s bothered to ask about it--well, not that he’s seen. He remembers, now, the knife arching through the air in front of him, florescent light dancing on its edge.
So.
England had courted him on a dare, had he? A dare that France would just take what he wanted, consequences be damned, that he would just shove England up against the wall and--
His cock twitches in his pants, and he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep. His fingers curl around the two ties and the sock in his pocket--an unwashed one, with a subtle but obvious stench. Well worth the fact no one will come within five meters of him.
Patience.
France opens his eyes and smiles. England, of course, doesn’t see.
________
On the way to lunch, France catches England’s elbow. England jumps, jerking away from him. His eyes are wide, but his face settles into a frown fast enough. “Oh,” England says, crossing his arms.
“England--”
“Look, I don’t want to listen to this rot. The others are going, we’re going to miss the--”
“I’m sorry.”
England blinks. “I...beg pardon?”
France shrugs, casting his eyes outside. It’s sunny out, and light plays on the green leaves. “It was just a dare, wasn’t it? Given my...reputation, it’s entirely reasonable.” He looks at England at the corner of his eye--the brows, at least, seem unfurrowed. Good. “So I’m sorry.”
He looks back at England and flashes his most charming smile, a hint of glinting white teeth and deep blue eyes. He stays the hatred clawing at his stomach as England considers, then shrugs. He doesn’t smile, but he uncross his arms and relaxes, falling into step beside France as they make their way to the lunchroom. “Well, I...it was stupid of me,” England says. “It’s all right. I was unreasonable too.”
We'll see soon enough. France takes a left, and England, the idiot, follows right after him, seeming to forget the way to the banquet hall is to keep going straight. “Bygones, then?”
“Bygones.”
“Good.” France flashes another smile at him, letting his gaze linger on England. Waiting until the frame of the broom closet falls into their line of sight--
And France strikes.
He reaches up, one hand a claw, and grabs England’s face; he feels a slimy tongue against his palm as England’s mouth opens in surprise. His muffled yell gets cut short when the back of his head hits the wall, and the resounding thunk is so loud France feels it vibrate on his skin.
France acts quick, with deft fingers and swift movements; he grabs England’s collar, throws him into the broom closet, and slams it shut behind him. England, he throws into the wall, ignoring his gasps and cries as France sets about propping a broken, wooden chair up against the door so that no one can come in.
“France, what the fuck are you--”
“Shut up,” France snaps back, and punches England across the face, hard enough to make blood burst from his nose. The red bruise that blossoms across England’s cheekbone is beautiful, but France has no time to admire it as he straddles England, pinning his arms and waist, pulling a sock out of his pocket.
“So,” France says, pinching England’s nose when England presses his lips together so hard they go white. “About those five pounds America owes you...”
England’s mouth parts to take in air, and France leans in and shoves the sock into England’s mouth. He follows it up with the tie. He’s in a particularly good mood, so he even ties it in a tight little bow behind England’s head.
And then he leans forward and grins, letting England feel his erection against his stomach. It twitches when England’s eyes widen, and oh, he’s so beautiful when he’s scared.
“I hope they were worth it.”
England’s body starts trembling beneath his, his eyes going blank--France almost feels sorry for him. Almost. As it is, though, every muscle in England’s body seems to have gone limp, limp enough that when Francis starts to stand, England’s attempts to fight back remind him of a flopping fish.
“I can’t truly believe Napoleon lost to you,” Francis says, his tone musing and wondering as he plants his boot on England’s back and catches his wrists. “The way you’re fighting now would make Sealand look poised and graceful.”
England starts screaming through his gag as France binds his wrists together and pulls. “That can’t be comfortable,” France says, watching the way England’s shoulders bend, forcing him to his knees and then his feet. Francis pins him to the wall with his chest, fumbling with his fly and a pocket with his hands.
“Is this like you wanted it, England? Is this what you dreamed of when you kissed me that night?” France says, and hates himself for the little bit of bitterness that snakes into his voice as he palms his erection and slicks himself up.
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
England thrashes and sobs as France undoes his pants, shoving them down and spreading his legs. He lines himself up and presses up and in and--
Oh.
England’s wails sound far away as France immerses himself inside him. Tight warmth squeezes his cock, pulling him in further, and--
Well.
He'd be inconsiderate not to oblige.
He uses one hand to steady himself on England’s hip and knots the other in England’s shaggy hair. “You’re exactly as I imagined,” France whispers, nipping at England’s ear. “Maybe next time I take you I’ll experiment with other lubes. More...organic ones, shall we say.”
England screams as France slams into him again, harder this time, faster. “Or maybe I’ll take sweet Canada,” France muses, and laughs when England dry heaves and chokes on his own sobs. “I’ll let you watch, of course. America...well, he might be a tad hard to coax, but maybe if I call in some Revolutionary War favors...or promise to help him out with his economy...”
France starts panting, feeling his entire body growing hot, orgasm tugging at his belly. He sneers as England whimpers, now limp. “Don’t act--so disappointed,” France pants, his voice breathy. “I thought--ah--this was what you wanted--”
And then he shoves himself up and in as he climaxes, depositing his seed as deep inside England as he can.
Just as a reminder.
He does nothing, when the aftershocks fade; he lies there, pressing England against his chest almost tenderly. England is like a doll in his arms, so limp and boneless.
Once his breathing returns to normal, he steps back, pulls out. He lets go of England, who drops to the floor. His knees thunk, and his head droops. France tends to his pants first; once he’s tucked in and zipped up, France leans down and unties England’s hands. England suddenly finds his strength and starts away from him, whimpering into the gag, back pressed against the wall.
In the split-second before England’s knees curl up, France sees England’s stiff, dripping cock. He snorts, shaking his head, and turns to the door.
“I’m going to eat,” he says. “For God’s sake, take care of yourself before you join us.”
His hand pauses on the knob, when he hears England hiccough. He looks over at him, at the gag tossed into the corner, at England’s open, gaping mouth. Their eyes meet.
And France flashes him his most charming smile.
“I hope it was everything you dreamed of.”
And then he slides out of the closet.
(When the others ask where he’s been--and where England is--France will shrug and give them a little smile, and say they took a wrong turn down a certain hall. And the other Nations will understand--some will wink and grin, others will roll their eyes and go back for seconds on the salad.
France, for his own part, will feel utter contentment when England stumbles in--and when America walks up to him, slings an arm over his shoulder, and offers him enthusiastic congrats for finally getting laid.)
_____________________
Notes: So I was on TV Tropes this weekend, and one thing led to another. I saw myself reading France's character bio and found something very interesting:
Sure, he’ll hit on anyone no matter gender and age, but he also believes that love shouldn’t be forced on people and will, according to Word of God, stop trying to touch or strip people if it’s made clear that what he’s doing isn’t enjoyed.
Honestly, if there was any evidence that he actually did this in the manga (and saying it doesn't really count in my book, he has to physically stop when someone asks him to), I'd feel a bit more comfortable with him as a character again. As it is, though...this is honestly how I see him in canon now, all humor and "laughs" removed. And for all the good he may do otherwise, THAT will always overshadow everything else.
(If something has changed since I stopped reading and he's actually shown stopping when someone freaks out and says no, I will ecstatically and with great enthusiasm stand corrected.)
So, remember What the Heart Forgets? Good times. Pretentious and overwrought and badly written times, but still good times.
Comments and concrit, harsh or otherwise, are welcomed. Thanks for reading.