(no subject)
Because we all own up to our failures ONE DAY. Looking back at everything I've written, it's like - it's like thinking you look pretty damn snazzy in your favorite pair of jeans, then looking in the mirror and noticing that - WOW YOU LOOK FAT. But at least you USED to look good, right?
But then you look at some old pictures of you in those fucking pants, and it's like. Oh. I - I've looked like this all along?!?! FUCK, SHITCOCK.
Title: Fuck, I don't know.
Author: anasyrma
Rating: PG-15?
Series/Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: France(Francis)/Colonial!America(Alfred)
Warnings: Vague molestings or someshit. Also, violence. SEXY VIOLENCE!!!!
Summary: Francis, Alfred, and time spent alone during the French-Indian War.
Dedications: To some mysterious kink meme anon from the September of 2008 (DO YOU REMEMBER).
Alfred scowled at the five fingered warmth that creeped up his shirt, at the grip around his throat that pressed just hard enough to make breathing a bothersome chore -- a pity to experience in the crisp afternoon air of his very own land. He hissed through his teeth and tried not to tremble, choosing instead to stare up at the serene New England forest canopy. Think of the happiest things he could think of (the sun, the farm, his people), think of Arthur (but where was he, now?). Anything to calm the obnoxious roaring of his heart.
In a casual tone, Francis exclaimed, "Why, haven't you grown!", while he twisted Alfred's arm by a few more margins in inches just so. "You were such a tiny thing before, were you not?"
The young man spat on the ground in reply, anger and pain and humiliation burning perhaps all coherent thought into nothingness. Defenseless, weaponless -- he didn't even know where his own rifle was. Pathetic.
"You've turned into a troublesome handful!" pestered Francis, turning them both to grate Alfred's face onto the splinters a nearby tree offered. Buttons of his shirt somehow failed against the fleeting skill of the the enemy's fingers, and yet more smooth planes of skin were subject to little pricks and prods of hellish discomfort. "Still naive, however. Not to mention rude."
Alfred found himself laughing, hollow yet strong with defiance. "Too much for you, old man?"
"Oh, no, you're such an enthusiastic little puppy." A kiss on his ear, a pull of his hair and a generous adjustment on Alfred's arm that elicited a muffled scream between cracked lips. There was only a short silence following that, a brief yet significant addition to the confirmation of the utter one sidedness of the situation, before there came click that resounded in a tiny pocket of space - a dainty, almost pleasant disruption compared to the morning's previous bout of gunfire and screams of men. A moment later, the sound was followed by the rustle of his simple farmer's trousers falling around his ankles.
"Wouldn't you love to be mine?"
Alfred thrashed, but to no avail. "Wh-what the bloody hell do you think you're doing, you ancient pervert!" he scolded, and would rather have liked to ask more if it weren't for Francis slamming his skull into that poor old oak again, this time breaking his nose.
"Oh, mauvais garçon, I seemed to have forgotten your young age," cooed Francis, crotch hot against his bare back, that one hand still acting as a binding for Alfred's wrists that threatened to bruise, to bleed, to puncture. "My apologies. I'm about to do one of my most favorite activities, you see -- intercourse."
Alfred stiffened, and the older man took that as an opportunity to lick the back of his neck.
"You do it with people you like."
Through his brains seemingly flowing out his nostrils in thick, red gushes, Alfred politely informed him, "But I hate you."
"Now, mon amour," Francis laughed and pecked him innocently on his blemished cheek. "I never said that you had to like me back, now did I?"
Another click.
But then you look at some old pictures of you in those fucking pants, and it's like. Oh. I - I've looked like this all along?!?! FUCK, SHITCOCK.
Title: Fuck, I don't know.
Author: anasyrma
Rating: PG-15?
Series/Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: France(Francis)/Colonial!America(Alfred)
Warnings: Vague molestings or someshit. Also, violence. SEXY VIOLENCE!!!!
Summary: Francis, Alfred, and time spent alone during the French-Indian War.
Dedications: To some mysterious kink meme anon from the September of 2008 (DO YOU REMEMBER).
Alfred scowled at the five fingered warmth that creeped up his shirt, at the grip around his throat that pressed just hard enough to make breathing a bothersome chore -- a pity to experience in the crisp afternoon air of his very own land. He hissed through his teeth and tried not to tremble, choosing instead to stare up at the serene New England forest canopy. Think of the happiest things he could think of (the sun, the farm, his people), think of Arthur (but where was he, now?). Anything to calm the obnoxious roaring of his heart.
In a casual tone, Francis exclaimed, "Why, haven't you grown!", while he twisted Alfred's arm by a few more margins in inches just so. "You were such a tiny thing before, were you not?"
The young man spat on the ground in reply, anger and pain and humiliation burning perhaps all coherent thought into nothingness. Defenseless, weaponless -- he didn't even know where his own rifle was. Pathetic.
"You've turned into a troublesome handful!" pestered Francis, turning them both to grate Alfred's face onto the splinters a nearby tree offered. Buttons of his shirt somehow failed against the fleeting skill of the the enemy's fingers, and yet more smooth planes of skin were subject to little pricks and prods of hellish discomfort. "Still naive, however. Not to mention rude."
Alfred found himself laughing, hollow yet strong with defiance. "Too much for you, old man?"
"Oh, no, you're such an enthusiastic little puppy." A kiss on his ear, a pull of his hair and a generous adjustment on Alfred's arm that elicited a muffled scream between cracked lips. There was only a short silence following that, a brief yet significant addition to the confirmation of the utter one sidedness of the situation, before there came click that resounded in a tiny pocket of space - a dainty, almost pleasant disruption compared to the morning's previous bout of gunfire and screams of men. A moment later, the sound was followed by the rustle of his simple farmer's trousers falling around his ankles.
"Wouldn't you love to be mine?"
Alfred thrashed, but to no avail. "Wh-what the bloody hell do you think you're doing, you ancient pervert!" he scolded, and would rather have liked to ask more if it weren't for Francis slamming his skull into that poor old oak again, this time breaking his nose.
"Oh, mauvais garçon, I seemed to have forgotten your young age," cooed Francis, crotch hot against his bare back, that one hand still acting as a binding for Alfred's wrists that threatened to bruise, to bleed, to puncture. "My apologies. I'm about to do one of my most favorite activities, you see -- intercourse."
Alfred stiffened, and the older man took that as an opportunity to lick the back of his neck.
"You do it with people you like."
Through his brains seemingly flowing out his nostrils in thick, red gushes, Alfred politely informed him, "But I hate you."
"Now, mon amour," Francis laughed and pecked him innocently on his blemished cheek. "I never said that you had to like me back, now did I?"
Another click.