blink and you'll miss it (1a/?)
anonymous
August 14 2010, 04:41:19 UTC
This turned out different from what the OP asked for, I think, so I apologize in advance for any dissatisfaction that results, and hope the OP will forgive me. At the same time, though, I preferred this story to the one I was planning, so…thank you for providing the prompt, at least. <3
Trigger Warnings: The following fill will include, but not be limited to: non-con, headcanon for Nations and psychological trauma, dissociation, exploring self-injury disorder/cutting and its relationship to sexual abuse, Your Mileage May Vary characterization, and examination of Nationhood and the noncon/revenge dynamic.
All right. Here we go.
In Paris, in a cluster of suburbs within driving distance of the Élysée Palace, there is a street where the houses stand close, like baby birds huddling together for warmth on a cool summer morning. Tourists admire the vibrant colors and architecture; at night, the streets fill with the soft glow from inside as families wind down from a long day
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (2a/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:34:12 UTC
In Paris, in a cluster of suburbs within driving distance of the Élysée Palace, there is a house huddled close together with the others.
Just past the front door lies the entrance hall. The shale tile is faded, cracks appearing in the cement that holds it together. The mirror to the left needs polishing, and one could gather a handful from dust that collects in the glass ashtray.
To the left, there is a coat closet, the off-white paint chipped and peeling in places. At shoulder-height, there is a single smear of rusty, ugly red almost faded to brown. If one squints, they might be able to make out fingerprints.
But nobody is there to see. No one knocks on the door, and no one answers.
deux.When the elevator doors slide closed, Francis allows himself a moment to breathe and press the back of his head against the elevator. “You made it, Francis,” he tells himself, and chuckles
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (2b/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:36:04 UTC
His eyes fly open when he feels Alfred’s hands move fast, pinning his wrists to the bed. Francis opens his mouth, but Alfred gobbles up his half-formed words, opening his own lips and shoving his tongue against Francis’s.
A drawing flashes in front of his eyes of Arthur looking into Alfred’s eyes, leaning in, kissing him even as he violates the nation he raised.
(And something else presses its way into Francis’s mouth, hard and bitter and all the way to his throat and he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shut his eyes and go far away -)
Francis’s body spasms, arches, reacts. He blinks, only to find Alfred on his back, staring up with big, bemused eyes, lips parted and eyebrows arching up in confusion and hurt. Francis wonders when he started panting, but finds he can’t stop sucking air down.
“Francis?” Alfred asks, and Francis’s gut twists at the hurt in that voice. “Francis are you -”
I hurt him, Francis thinks, he’s hurting because of me - I can’t - I’m so sorry I’ll kiss it better Alfred just don’t look so hurt -Fog
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (2c/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:40:40 UTC
Fuck me tenderly. Here's the actual 2c.Fingers writhe beneath his shirt, and Francis starts back with a yelp. For a split-second he senses blue eyes on him, hurt and confused. “…The shirt stays on,” Francis says. “That hasn’t changed
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (2d/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:42:31 UTC
His heart rate skyrockets when he hears footsteps. No, not footsteps. Boots walking around the room, on concrete. Clothes rustling and falling to the ground. More walking.
The soldier is taking his time, Francis realizes with a jolt. He knows Francis is helpless, immobile, and he’s enjoying it.
Francis tries to move again, his heart slamming fists against his ribcage. His mouth. An eyelid. Anything get me out of here get me out -
Leather hands fist in his hair, and a voice speaks from somewhere just below his sternum as something presses against his mouth:
“Stop crying, stand straight, and act like the Nation you are for your people’s sake.”
And then he feels his mouth filling, his throat closing, he can’t breathe, can’t -
“NO -His body releases him; Francis sits up with a yelp and widened eyes, looking around the room with an arm raised. Oxygen flows to his brain, and he realizes he’s in a room with a plush carpet and desks and bright afternoon sunlight filtering in. There are no fingers in his hair, nothing
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (2e/?)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 03:43:23 UTC
Francis swallows as his mind starts to race. When did I - how - what - he thinks, but his body seems to move on its own, drawing one, and then two more cuts across the Milice’s precious coat of arms. Just one more cut, he promises himself, just one more -
A glint of light against the sink catches his attention. Francis blinks, lowering his arm and razor as he tears his eyes away from his reflection to get a better.
It’s a chain, he realizes. A thin, slinky thing that winds around in a haphazard circle towards a pendant. Francis sets aside his razor and picks it up, his eyes drawn down towards the pendant. A cross, he realizes after a moment. A cross, with one smaller vertical line just above a longer one.
“This is your coat of arms,” he hears de Gaulle tell him through layers and layers of decades. “This is proof that you will always be free.”
And beneath that voice, Francis glimpses a sunny day and the back of a girl’s head with long, tied-back brown hair. God told me what you are, he hears her say, so do not despair,
( ... )
Re: blink and you'll miss it (chapter 2 notes)
anonymous
August 16 2010, 05:19:58 UTC
I'm already loving this fill too much for my own good. But you do portray Francis' confused mind so well... It's perfect. How it all gets mixed up in his head and he's telling himself he's trying to take care of Alfred when the gangbang never even happened and he himself is actually the one who needs help. And how he still manages to keep up the illusion that everything's alright... or well, almost manages to.
To be honest, I kind of hate it when people link to sources when it comes to mental problems. I know, it's irrational. I even find psychology interesting myself. It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
I hit myself when I want to punish myself. With a brush handle. It hurts more and leaves less marks for others to see. Cutting is more like what I do when nothing else gives me pleasure or when I need to calm myself (because it's so easy to concentrate on the knife and the skin and forget the
( ... )
Ah, thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it. <3
It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry that it came out that way! It's just that I am very used to showing my research and sources when I write - that way, if someone says something like, "You're an idiot, that could never happen," I can counter with at least a little research. My headcanon tells me that Francis has a lot of baggage that I think helped serve as a catalyst for his current behavior, because you're right, this isn't simple. And it's not going to get any simpler from here on in.
Oh, anon. *hugs* Please believe me when I say that I know. I know what it's like. I've been cutting since tenth grade, and while I've gotten better...there's always that little trigger, that something that makes me panic - cutting's how I calmed myself down. I've been trying to move on to rubber bands - it's not the
( ... )
Writernon is delighted!
anonymous
August 17 2010, 03:18:44 UTC
Oh, that's wonderful! I was a little worried at first, since it focuses more on Francis than Alfred, but I'm glad that it's worked out for the best, and that you're enjoying the history!
blink and you'll miss it (3a/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:39:07 UTC
In Paris, there is a tired, worn-down house covered with graffiti and ravaged by rain. There is a bloody, smeared handprint in the entrance hall, and the floor is in disrepair.
If one ventures into the hall a few steps more, they’d find a sitting room to their right. The room bloats with the smell of mildew and smoke; there are cards sprawled out over a coffee table. Mice have nibbled at the loveseat cushions to make their nests; the paintings hanging on the wall are faded and cracked. On a chest just beneath a window, there’s a small bowl of potpourri. The years have browned everything in it, and one must have a good imagination to catch the scent of rose oil on the petals and leaves.
No one replaces it, because no one ever comes in.
trois.
“BOO!Francis’s muscles tense, his eyes flying open to look up into big blue eyes and a pair of glasses backlit by the evening sun. Alfred grins so wide and big that Francis can see almost every single on of his white teeth
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (3b/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:41:35 UTC
Alfred beams at him, and Francis feels the afternoon sunshine in that smile as he rolls onto his back and lets Alfred slide in beside him. Francis shuts his eyes and just enjoys the comfortable warmth of a cooling day. The lake must be liquid gold by now, the grass waving in the wind, the clouds touched on the edges by gold.
“Francis? What’cha thinking about?”
Francis feels wriggling beside him, and he turns his head and opens his eyes to find his nose an inch away from Alfred’s. Alfred lies on his belly, his chin resting on his crossed forearms and his eyes half-mast and twinkling behind his glasses. Evening light glints off his sunglasses and eyes, even glimmering on the edges of Alfred’s grin.
Francis remembers that he should be breathing, should be thinking about what he’s doing. But in this evening towards the end of summer, he cannot help himself. “Nothing in particular,” Francis sighs out, his eyelids fluttering slowly as he moves his head and dovetails his mouth into a soft kiss
( ... )
blink and you'll miss it (3c/?)
anonymous
August 22 2010, 19:42:58 UTC
Francis’s breath catches on the lump in his throat, and his hand stutters but doesn’t stop. Strong arms cradle his shoulders as they would a child, and sunshine spreads spots of warmth on his back. The air drapes him in a blanket woven of late summer, and the heat makes scents seem stronger as he breathes in Alfred’s musk, breathes AlfredEvery muscle in Francis’s body tenses. He gasps in a shuddering breath as his fingers clench and he comes all over Alfred’s stomach. His hand spasms in a few last, violent jerks that make Alfred grunt and curl fingers into Francis’s hair, jerking Francis’s head down into the crook of his neck as they shudder together, anchored against one another. Francis pants and forces his breathing even as the shivers slither off their bodies in easy, loose waves
( ... )
Trigger Warnings: The following fill will include, but not be limited to: non-con, headcanon for Nations and psychological trauma, dissociation, exploring self-injury disorder/cutting and its relationship to sexual abuse, Your Mileage May Vary characterization, and examination of Nationhood and the noncon/revenge dynamic.
All right. Here we go.
In Paris, in a cluster of suburbs within driving distance of the Élysée Palace, there is a street where the houses stand close, like baby birds huddling together for warmth on a cool summer morning. Tourists admire the vibrant colors and architecture; at night, the streets fill with the soft glow from inside as families wind down from a long day ( ... )
Reply
Just past the front door lies the entrance hall. The shale tile is faded, cracks appearing in the cement that holds it together. The mirror to the left needs polishing, and one could gather a handful from dust that collects in the glass ashtray.
To the left, there is a coat closet, the off-white paint chipped and peeling in places. At shoulder-height, there is a single smear of rusty, ugly red almost faded to brown. If one squints, they might be able to make out fingerprints.
But nobody is there to see. No one knocks on the door, and no one answers.
deux.When the elevator doors slide closed, Francis allows himself a moment to breathe and press the back of his head against the elevator. “You made it, Francis,” he tells himself, and chuckles ( ... )
Reply
A drawing flashes in front of his eyes of Arthur looking into Alfred’s eyes, leaning in, kissing him even as he violates the nation he raised.
(And something else presses its way into Francis’s mouth, hard and bitter and all the way to his throat and he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shut his eyes and go far away -)
Francis’s body spasms, arches, reacts. He blinks, only to find Alfred on his back, staring up with big, bemused eyes, lips parted and eyebrows arching up in confusion and hurt. Francis wonders when he started panting, but finds he can’t stop sucking air down.
“Francis?” Alfred asks, and Francis’s gut twists at the hurt in that voice. “Francis are you -”
I hurt him, Francis thinks, he’s hurting because of me - I can’t - I’m so sorry I’ll kiss it better Alfred just don’t look so hurt -Fog ( ... )
Reply
Reply
The soldier is taking his time, Francis realizes with a jolt. He knows Francis is helpless, immobile, and he’s enjoying it.
Francis tries to move again, his heart slamming fists against his ribcage. His mouth. An eyelid. Anything get me out of here get me out -
Leather hands fist in his hair, and a voice speaks from somewhere just below his sternum as something presses against his mouth:
“Stop crying, stand straight, and act like the Nation you are for your people’s sake.”
And then he feels his mouth filling, his throat closing, he can’t breathe, can’t -
“NO -His body releases him; Francis sits up with a yelp and widened eyes, looking around the room with an arm raised. Oxygen flows to his brain, and he realizes he’s in a room with a plush carpet and desks and bright afternoon sunlight filtering in. There are no fingers in his hair, nothing ( ... )
Reply
A glint of light against the sink catches his attention. Francis blinks, lowering his arm and razor as he tears his eyes away from his reflection to get a better.
It’s a chain, he realizes. A thin, slinky thing that winds around in a haphazard circle towards a pendant. Francis sets aside his razor and picks it up, his eyes drawn down towards the pendant. A cross, he realizes after a moment. A cross, with one smaller vertical line just above a longer one.
“This is your coat of arms,” he hears de Gaulle tell him through layers and layers of decades. “This is proof that you will always be free.”
And beneath that voice, Francis glimpses a sunny day and the back of a girl’s head with long, tied-back brown hair. God told me what you are, he hears her say, so do not despair, ( ... )
Reply
- Song Alfred was singing was “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.
- One of the possible symptoms of Rape Trauma Syndrome (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rape_Trauma_Syndrome) is hypersexuality, where a survivor attempts to reassert control over their sexuality. Since it is Wikipedia, please do not quote me on that - but I’ve read in other books that victims with a history of sexual abuse will often seek out sexual experiences similar to what they went through. The book Cutting (http://www.amazon.com/Cutting-Understanding-Self-Mutilation-Steven-Levenkron/dp/0393319385) had a few interesting anecdotes about it ( ... )
Reply
To be honest, I kind of hate it when people link to sources when it comes to mental problems. I know, it's irrational. I even find psychology interesting myself. It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
I hit myself when I want to punish myself. With a brush handle. It hurts more and leaves less marks for others to see. Cutting is more like what I do when nothing else gives me pleasure or when I need to calm myself (because it's so easy to concentrate on the knife and the skin and forget the ( ... )
Reply
It's just that... I don't like it when people use it on individual cases. You can't just pull out a book and point at a diagnosis like it explains everything... I don't know.
Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry that it came out that way! It's just that I am very used to showing my research and sources when I write - that way, if someone says something like, "You're an idiot, that could never happen," I can counter with at least a little research. My headcanon tells me that Francis has a lot of baggage that I think helped serve as a catalyst for his current behavior, because you're right, this isn't simple. And it's not going to get any simpler from here on in.
Oh, anon. *hugs* Please believe me when I say that I know. I know what it's like. I've been cutting since tenth grade, and while I've gotten better...there's always that little trigger, that something that makes me panic - cutting's how I calmed myself down. I've been trying to move on to rubber bands - it's not the ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Reply
WHAT A WONDERFUL SURPRISE YOU HAVE GIVEN<3<3
AND IT'S BETTER THAN I THOUGHT, ANON SHOULD KNOW OP IS A HISTORY WHORE.
MARRY ME OP.
Reply
Reply
If one ventures into the hall a few steps more, they’d find a sitting room to their right. The room bloats with the smell of mildew and smoke; there are cards sprawled out over a coffee table. Mice have nibbled at the loveseat cushions to make their nests; the paintings hanging on the wall are faded and cracked. On a chest just beneath a window, there’s a small bowl of potpourri. The years have browned everything in it, and one must have a good imagination to catch the scent of rose oil on the petals and leaves.
No one replaces it, because no one ever comes in.
trois.
“BOO!Francis’s muscles tense, his eyes flying open to look up into big blue eyes and a pair of glasses backlit by the evening sun. Alfred grins so wide and big that Francis can see almost every single on of his white teeth ( ... )
Reply
“Francis? What’cha thinking about?”
Francis feels wriggling beside him, and he turns his head and opens his eyes to find his nose an inch away from Alfred’s. Alfred lies on his belly, his chin resting on his crossed forearms and his eyes half-mast and twinkling behind his glasses. Evening light glints off his sunglasses and eyes, even glimmering on the edges of Alfred’s grin.
Francis remembers that he should be breathing, should be thinking about what he’s doing. But in this evening towards the end of summer, he cannot help himself. “Nothing in particular,” Francis sighs out, his eyelids fluttering slowly as he moves his head and dovetails his mouth into a soft kiss ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment