[Fanfiction] Lioness Rampant
Title: Lioness Rampant
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!Pirate!UK/Spain
Rating/Warning(s): R, explicit sexual content, dub-con, violence, also apparently causes certain individuals to question sexuality…?
Word Count: 2,344
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - Spain finds himself a prisoner to a most dangerous, bewitching pirate- who technically isn’t a pirate…
The damn problem was, Antonio reflected to himself, that he forgot that England was an island kingdom.
Spain made his fortune, his steady rise, in ships, yes. But he forgot, oh Dios, he forgot that he was not the only one with ships.
He wanted to laugh and he did, a steady trail of sharp chuckles that erupted from his bloody, cracked mouth. His hands went up to his face and caused the chains of his manacles to clink against each other, so gently. Dios…
He was in her personal cabin, sparse, clean, and oddly elegant. This didn’t do at all but she was always such a damnably grim sort of individual. Dour and matter-of-fact and lacking any sort of real spirituality or sensuality. It was a pity, because he could see the beauty in her, waiting, stunted, hibernating-
The door opened and booted feet stomped upon the creaking floorboards. He turned his head around and managed a smile for her as he got to his feet shakily and made his bow.
“Doña Alana,” he said pleasantly, as the chains clinked and weighed down his weary worn wrists.
“Always a gentlemen, Antonio,” came the rich, strong, clear voice from that singularly infuriating, singularly dour and- antagonistic woman. She was dressed brazenly in scarlet, a bloody red that made no pretense at all of being anything but military wear. But she wore it not with military bearing, only her own arrogance and assurance in her own power.
It was almost attractive.
He smiled still, because it was all he could really do, raising his manacled wrists in a quiet plea. “If you could be so kind?”
“I am not that stupid, Antonio.” She went over to plain cabinet bolted to the floor, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He watched her hips sway and her powerful, exposed legs move in those scandalous trousers. His eyes followed her red mouth and her strong white teeth as she bit into the cork, tugging it out far too easily. She poured the Madeira wine carelessly before shoving a glass into his hands and settling in a chair right in front of him.
The sun was setting outside and it cast the cabin in bloody light as they drank silently. He watched her for signs of inebriation but she seemed positively steady. Out of necessity and practicality, she tied back her leonine gold mane of hair with a striking blue and red ribbon; it still glowed in a meandering, curly stream down her back and her green, green eyes (poisonous eyes, hissed his Catholic blood) glowed like finest beryls. She still wore her hat, a massive monstrosity of a thing in black felt trimmed with obscene amounts of gold braid, trimmed with pale, fluffy plumes from some foreign bird and decorated with a brooch fastened from gold and an enormous blue carbuncle.
“Are you to ransom me, señorita?” he asked pleasantly.
“In due time. And kindly don’t call me that.”
“I must commend you on your… cunning.” He canted his head. “And what am I to call you then?”
She grinned at him, a wicked expression that seemed madness and lasciviousness and cruelty incarnate. “I am evil bitch and you know it, Spain.” She sipped from her glass almost daintily; he tried not to think of a lioness drinking from a pool of blood. “And my name is just fine, thank you.” Her grin then became that much more… perverse. “Or Mistress.”
His lips tightened slightly and he swallowed the rest of his wine, setting the glass down carefully. “My King will not stand for this,” he began.
“As far as your King knows, you have been intercepted by a pirate ship, outgunned and outmanned,” she finished smoothly. “Your safe return will be assured with the proper ransom and you will be delivered by England.”
He stared at her in something like horror. “You- You cannot possibly expect him to believe that!” he burst out, losing all composure.
“But he will,” she said, with a content cat’s smile. “There’s no other way.”
He lunged at her, infuriated by this evil- this evil demon of a woman, a country. If only he could startle her for one moment, catch her off guard enough to wrap the chains around her neck- He froze as he felt the chill touch of a pistol muzzle at his throat.
“Enough,” she said simply, but her voice was like ice. Her eyes glittered coldly. In the scuffle, she had lost her hat and trailing curly strands of golden hair framed her elegant, imperious sun-gilded face.
His head jerked up by the positioning of the pistol, he was forced off her and she guided him backwards, to her enormous bed, spread with a royal violet coverlet embroidered richly in gold and blue and white. He could see the damn unicorn and lion of her country’s emblem before he was shoved onto there. She worked swiftly, somehow fastening his manacles to the headboard (did she have an installed iron hook or ring there?) but also creating some odd loop of cloth from what was likely a scarf or a neckcloth, tying it around his neck and attaching it to the headboard as well. When he struggled, the cloth tightened around his throat, choking his breath.
She stood back to examine her handiwork with something like a smile.
“Do you do this to all men you capture?” he asked breathlessly.
“It depends on whether you are a man, Spain,” she replied jovially. She shrugged off her coat, leaving her in shirt, neckcloth, obscenely revealing trousers and her massive red boots. Her calloused hands hung up her sword belt (and pistol) respectfully and she loosened the lace trimmed cloth at her throat, starting to show the tempting hollow and length of her neck.
She knelt partially and pulled out a thin knife from the side of her boot and went to him. A prickle of something like fear started to make a slow, inexorable trail down his spine.
“My dear señorita,” he said, hoping to keep the shiver from his voice. “If you wanted me to disrobe, you should have only said so earlier…”
She slapped him, full across the face. “I thought I told you not to call me that.” She placed the knife blade across his throat and he could feel its keen edge against the pulsating vein at his neck. “Remember,” she purred. “I’m not one of your Spanish maids.” The knife traveled downwards, showing just how sharp it was as it slit through the cloth of his shirt far too easily.
“Oh, you are not a maid then,” he grinned at her and she backhanded him. An emerald ring on that hand scratched his cheek and bruised his eye.
Nonetheless, she grinned back at him quite disturbingly as she reached his trousers. “Your trouble simply is, Spain, that you have a… complex when it comes to women,” she said quite casually. Giving no regard for fastenings, she slit the cloth where it was and he froze quite still as he could see (and definitely feel!) the blade very close to his tender parts. She continued, despite the fact that he had no real contributions to the current conversations.
“Mary, Mother of God,” she said casually, slitting down his left leg. “And Mary Magdelene, the whore.” She slit up the right, pulling away the ruins of his trousers and yanking off his boots without much ceremony.
Her expression took on a thoughtful cast though as she slowly undid her neckcloth, tossing it aside. “A position taken in mine own nation,” she said after a moment. She placed the knife between her teeth and bent over to also take off her boots. Her nails slowly raked across his thigh before her fingers gripped hard enough to bruise as he yelped.
His teeth gritted audibly as he glared up at her. Damn woman. Damn whore.
The hand at his thigh traveled upwards, to his groin. Her roughened fingertips touched all over his thighs, his abdomen, with knowing touches that he would not have expected from her. She brought her head back up, sliding the knife from between her teeth and lips delicately. Somehow, it vanished before his very eyes (to his profound, secret relief) and soon it was two hands that started to torment him. He wanted to close his eyes but he could not deny the goddess with the poisonous green eyes that had bound him here. Unwillingly, oh so very unwillingly, he began to respond to her ministrations. Cruelly, she stopped, catching in the middle of a soft, soft keening moan.
Her red lips smirked. “We do not have to let this be between us, Antonio,” she purred. He gazed at her in frustration. Her nails flicked and caught him on the head and he yelled.
Her laughter, golden and rich and maddening, filled the cabin like warped music. “Puta,” he hissed.
She only gripped his shaft cruelly and he howled. “I do know what that means,” she said, dangerously pleasant.
He cursed again and it felt like she would actually go through with it and just rip it off- Panting and shivering and still hard as iron, he let his head loll to the side, his eyes half closed.
“Are you ready to be a gentleman?” he heard her ask. A warm, hard hand turned his face around and he drowned in her evil, evil eyes, even as her mouth devoured his. Despite the Madeira wine she had drunk, she tasted of rum, sweet and hot and cloying, and blood, bitter and metallic. Or was that the taste of the steel she had held so carelessly in her mouth? He tried to bite her but her hand remained locked on his cheeks, forcing his mouth to him and her other hand remained holding that particularly vulnerable part of him hostage.
Once they parted, after an exchange of saliva and bruises and teeth marks, he managed to quip, “If you are a lady.”
She threw back her head and laughed again. Her head shook and a mere ribbon was not enough to tame her hair; the masses broke free and surrounded her face in a glorious halo of light gold. She smiled wickedly at him.
“Oh, Antonio,” she growled. “Let me show you something better than heaven.”
She undid her trousers and daintily stepped out of them, throwing off her loose, smock-like shirt as well. Gloriously naked, without even stays or shift to give her any sense of modesty, she stood before him clad only in her jewelry and her own skin, her flesh colored gold and red by the light of the dying sun. He drank in the sight of her, unable to look away from her.
France was lovelier, he thought. Frances’s hair was more golden, her eyes a lively and sparkling blue, her lips rose pink and parted in a perpetually enticing smile, her cheeks soft and rosy and her face exquisitely doll-like and her body a tempting and fertile landscape. Alana had smaller breasts, a less lush figure, her eyebrows astonishingly dark and heavy on her sterner, harder face, her eyes like green glass and sea ice. But faced with this war goddess, surely the avatar of some savage Celtic deity, he could only stare in blatant admiration and utter frustration.
She took the heavy gold chain with his crucifix from his neck, admiring the weight of the chain, the intricacy of the cross with its figure of Christ in agony. He bit back a curse, his head and neck oddly lighter now. Her powerful fingers fastened it around her own throat and the crucifix hung between her high, shapely breasts. It hung there heavily, swinging in slow movements against her nipples, which had become peaked upon exposure to air.
Her smile remained wicked and enticing and mad still as she climbed upon the bed. She reached out lazily and gripped him again, pumping him up and down teasingly. He groaned at her touch, her calloused and capable touch. She was no idle captain, he knew. She knew her ships as well as every one of her sailors, fought at their sides with her saber and pistol at hand. Weaponry was her second love. Violence was her first.
Her hand continued to grip him as she straddled his thighs. She slowly raised herself, guiding him to between her lips (and he could feel her heat- so much that he wondered if he would be burned-) and soon he could feel her, all around him, wet and tight and- He gasped, his blood roaring in his ears. Someone was whimpering- it was him, it was his mouth parted and gasping and praying all at once. She slowly, inexorably descended, and he could feel more and more heat surround him, bliss and agony at once. His eyes did not roll back to his head, he kept them fixed forwards, seeing her breasts, her magnificent breasts, with his jeweled crucifix hanging between them, the eyes of Christ searing him-
And she rode him, long and hard. Her breathing became erratic too as she let her head loll back, her eyes partially closed in ecstasy. He bucked upwards too, straining to meet her harder, faster. His mouth formed prayers and curses and blessings, calling her puta and Maria and bruja and- Too soon it was over as he yelled, desperately bucking up one more time and coming deep into her. The pale-haired succubus screamed too, writhing atop him. She remained atop him as he felt the world drop out from under him, starbursts still popping before his dazed eyes.
Disturbingly, she recovered far faster than he did, leaning over to steal an almost affectionate kiss from his lips.
“Witch,” he still muttered. “Damned English witch.”
She laughed throatily. “You only replaced one letter, Antonio.” Her nails trailed along his chest like claws, soft but terrible in the promised cruelty.
He wondered how it was possible to love and hate a woman this much.
Spanish translations:
Doña: a respectful term for a woman, rather like “Lady”
Puta: whore
Bruja: witch
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!Pirate!UK/Spain
Rating/Warning(s): R, explicit sexual content, dub-con, violence, also apparently causes certain individuals to question sexuality…?
Word Count: 2,344
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - Spain finds himself a prisoner to a most dangerous, bewitching pirate- who technically isn’t a pirate…
The damn problem was, Antonio reflected to himself, that he forgot that England was an island kingdom.
Spain made his fortune, his steady rise, in ships, yes. But he forgot, oh Dios, he forgot that he was not the only one with ships.
He wanted to laugh and he did, a steady trail of sharp chuckles that erupted from his bloody, cracked mouth. His hands went up to his face and caused the chains of his manacles to clink against each other, so gently. Dios…
He was in her personal cabin, sparse, clean, and oddly elegant. This didn’t do at all but she was always such a damnably grim sort of individual. Dour and matter-of-fact and lacking any sort of real spirituality or sensuality. It was a pity, because he could see the beauty in her, waiting, stunted, hibernating-
The door opened and booted feet stomped upon the creaking floorboards. He turned his head around and managed a smile for her as he got to his feet shakily and made his bow.
“Doña Alana,” he said pleasantly, as the chains clinked and weighed down his weary worn wrists.
“Always a gentlemen, Antonio,” came the rich, strong, clear voice from that singularly infuriating, singularly dour and- antagonistic woman. She was dressed brazenly in scarlet, a bloody red that made no pretense at all of being anything but military wear. But she wore it not with military bearing, only her own arrogance and assurance in her own power.
It was almost attractive.
He smiled still, because it was all he could really do, raising his manacled wrists in a quiet plea. “If you could be so kind?”
“I am not that stupid, Antonio.” She went over to plain cabinet bolted to the floor, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He watched her hips sway and her powerful, exposed legs move in those scandalous trousers. His eyes followed her red mouth and her strong white teeth as she bit into the cork, tugging it out far too easily. She poured the Madeira wine carelessly before shoving a glass into his hands and settling in a chair right in front of him.
The sun was setting outside and it cast the cabin in bloody light as they drank silently. He watched her for signs of inebriation but she seemed positively steady. Out of necessity and practicality, she tied back her leonine gold mane of hair with a striking blue and red ribbon; it still glowed in a meandering, curly stream down her back and her green, green eyes (poisonous eyes, hissed his Catholic blood) glowed like finest beryls. She still wore her hat, a massive monstrosity of a thing in black felt trimmed with obscene amounts of gold braid, trimmed with pale, fluffy plumes from some foreign bird and decorated with a brooch fastened from gold and an enormous blue carbuncle.
“Are you to ransom me, señorita?” he asked pleasantly.
“In due time. And kindly don’t call me that.”
“I must commend you on your… cunning.” He canted his head. “And what am I to call you then?”
She grinned at him, a wicked expression that seemed madness and lasciviousness and cruelty incarnate. “I am evil bitch and you know it, Spain.” She sipped from her glass almost daintily; he tried not to think of a lioness drinking from a pool of blood. “And my name is just fine, thank you.” Her grin then became that much more… perverse. “Or Mistress.”
His lips tightened slightly and he swallowed the rest of his wine, setting the glass down carefully. “My King will not stand for this,” he began.
“As far as your King knows, you have been intercepted by a pirate ship, outgunned and outmanned,” she finished smoothly. “Your safe return will be assured with the proper ransom and you will be delivered by England.”
He stared at her in something like horror. “You- You cannot possibly expect him to believe that!” he burst out, losing all composure.
“But he will,” she said, with a content cat’s smile. “There’s no other way.”
He lunged at her, infuriated by this evil- this evil demon of a woman, a country. If only he could startle her for one moment, catch her off guard enough to wrap the chains around her neck- He froze as he felt the chill touch of a pistol muzzle at his throat.
“Enough,” she said simply, but her voice was like ice. Her eyes glittered coldly. In the scuffle, she had lost her hat and trailing curly strands of golden hair framed her elegant, imperious sun-gilded face.
His head jerked up by the positioning of the pistol, he was forced off her and she guided him backwards, to her enormous bed, spread with a royal violet coverlet embroidered richly in gold and blue and white. He could see the damn unicorn and lion of her country’s emblem before he was shoved onto there. She worked swiftly, somehow fastening his manacles to the headboard (did she have an installed iron hook or ring there?) but also creating some odd loop of cloth from what was likely a scarf or a neckcloth, tying it around his neck and attaching it to the headboard as well. When he struggled, the cloth tightened around his throat, choking his breath.
She stood back to examine her handiwork with something like a smile.
“Do you do this to all men you capture?” he asked breathlessly.
“It depends on whether you are a man, Spain,” she replied jovially. She shrugged off her coat, leaving her in shirt, neckcloth, obscenely revealing trousers and her massive red boots. Her calloused hands hung up her sword belt (and pistol) respectfully and she loosened the lace trimmed cloth at her throat, starting to show the tempting hollow and length of her neck.
She knelt partially and pulled out a thin knife from the side of her boot and went to him. A prickle of something like fear started to make a slow, inexorable trail down his spine.
“My dear señorita,” he said, hoping to keep the shiver from his voice. “If you wanted me to disrobe, you should have only said so earlier…”
She slapped him, full across the face. “I thought I told you not to call me that.” She placed the knife blade across his throat and he could feel its keen edge against the pulsating vein at his neck. “Remember,” she purred. “I’m not one of your Spanish maids.” The knife traveled downwards, showing just how sharp it was as it slit through the cloth of his shirt far too easily.
“Oh, you are not a maid then,” he grinned at her and she backhanded him. An emerald ring on that hand scratched his cheek and bruised his eye.
Nonetheless, she grinned back at him quite disturbingly as she reached his trousers. “Your trouble simply is, Spain, that you have a… complex when it comes to women,” she said quite casually. Giving no regard for fastenings, she slit the cloth where it was and he froze quite still as he could see (and definitely feel!) the blade very close to his tender parts. She continued, despite the fact that he had no real contributions to the current conversations.
“Mary, Mother of God,” she said casually, slitting down his left leg. “And Mary Magdelene, the whore.” She slit up the right, pulling away the ruins of his trousers and yanking off his boots without much ceremony.
Her expression took on a thoughtful cast though as she slowly undid her neckcloth, tossing it aside. “A position taken in mine own nation,” she said after a moment. She placed the knife between her teeth and bent over to also take off her boots. Her nails slowly raked across his thigh before her fingers gripped hard enough to bruise as he yelped.
His teeth gritted audibly as he glared up at her. Damn woman. Damn whore.
The hand at his thigh traveled upwards, to his groin. Her roughened fingertips touched all over his thighs, his abdomen, with knowing touches that he would not have expected from her. She brought her head back up, sliding the knife from between her teeth and lips delicately. Somehow, it vanished before his very eyes (to his profound, secret relief) and soon it was two hands that started to torment him. He wanted to close his eyes but he could not deny the goddess with the poisonous green eyes that had bound him here. Unwillingly, oh so very unwillingly, he began to respond to her ministrations. Cruelly, she stopped, catching in the middle of a soft, soft keening moan.
Her red lips smirked. “We do not have to let this be between us, Antonio,” she purred. He gazed at her in frustration. Her nails flicked and caught him on the head and he yelled.
Her laughter, golden and rich and maddening, filled the cabin like warped music. “Puta,” he hissed.
She only gripped his shaft cruelly and he howled. “I do know what that means,” she said, dangerously pleasant.
He cursed again and it felt like she would actually go through with it and just rip it off- Panting and shivering and still hard as iron, he let his head loll to the side, his eyes half closed.
“Are you ready to be a gentleman?” he heard her ask. A warm, hard hand turned his face around and he drowned in her evil, evil eyes, even as her mouth devoured his. Despite the Madeira wine she had drunk, she tasted of rum, sweet and hot and cloying, and blood, bitter and metallic. Or was that the taste of the steel she had held so carelessly in her mouth? He tried to bite her but her hand remained locked on his cheeks, forcing his mouth to him and her other hand remained holding that particularly vulnerable part of him hostage.
Once they parted, after an exchange of saliva and bruises and teeth marks, he managed to quip, “If you are a lady.”
She threw back her head and laughed again. Her head shook and a mere ribbon was not enough to tame her hair; the masses broke free and surrounded her face in a glorious halo of light gold. She smiled wickedly at him.
“Oh, Antonio,” she growled. “Let me show you something better than heaven.”
She undid her trousers and daintily stepped out of them, throwing off her loose, smock-like shirt as well. Gloriously naked, without even stays or shift to give her any sense of modesty, she stood before him clad only in her jewelry and her own skin, her flesh colored gold and red by the light of the dying sun. He drank in the sight of her, unable to look away from her.
France was lovelier, he thought. Frances’s hair was more golden, her eyes a lively and sparkling blue, her lips rose pink and parted in a perpetually enticing smile, her cheeks soft and rosy and her face exquisitely doll-like and her body a tempting and fertile landscape. Alana had smaller breasts, a less lush figure, her eyebrows astonishingly dark and heavy on her sterner, harder face, her eyes like green glass and sea ice. But faced with this war goddess, surely the avatar of some savage Celtic deity, he could only stare in blatant admiration and utter frustration.
She took the heavy gold chain with his crucifix from his neck, admiring the weight of the chain, the intricacy of the cross with its figure of Christ in agony. He bit back a curse, his head and neck oddly lighter now. Her powerful fingers fastened it around her own throat and the crucifix hung between her high, shapely breasts. It hung there heavily, swinging in slow movements against her nipples, which had become peaked upon exposure to air.
Her smile remained wicked and enticing and mad still as she climbed upon the bed. She reached out lazily and gripped him again, pumping him up and down teasingly. He groaned at her touch, her calloused and capable touch. She was no idle captain, he knew. She knew her ships as well as every one of her sailors, fought at their sides with her saber and pistol at hand. Weaponry was her second love. Violence was her first.
Her hand continued to grip him as she straddled his thighs. She slowly raised herself, guiding him to between her lips (and he could feel her heat- so much that he wondered if he would be burned-) and soon he could feel her, all around him, wet and tight and- He gasped, his blood roaring in his ears. Someone was whimpering- it was him, it was his mouth parted and gasping and praying all at once. She slowly, inexorably descended, and he could feel more and more heat surround him, bliss and agony at once. His eyes did not roll back to his head, he kept them fixed forwards, seeing her breasts, her magnificent breasts, with his jeweled crucifix hanging between them, the eyes of Christ searing him-
And she rode him, long and hard. Her breathing became erratic too as she let her head loll back, her eyes partially closed in ecstasy. He bucked upwards too, straining to meet her harder, faster. His mouth formed prayers and curses and blessings, calling her puta and Maria and bruja and- Too soon it was over as he yelled, desperately bucking up one more time and coming deep into her. The pale-haired succubus screamed too, writhing atop him. She remained atop him as he felt the world drop out from under him, starbursts still popping before his dazed eyes.
Disturbingly, she recovered far faster than he did, leaning over to steal an almost affectionate kiss from his lips.
“Witch,” he still muttered. “Damned English witch.”
She laughed throatily. “You only replaced one letter, Antonio.” Her nails trailed along his chest like claws, soft but terrible in the promised cruelty.
He wondered how it was possible to love and hate a woman this much.
Spanish translations:
Doña: a respectful term for a woman, rather like “Lady”
Puta: whore
Bruja: witch