[Axis Powers Hetalia] Bioluminescence [France/Canada/Prussia, mentions of others]
Title: Bioluminescence
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Prussia and France/Canada is the main one. Also cameos USUK, Spamano, GerIta, Russia/Ukraine, and a few others.
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, sensuality, drunken revelry
Summary: It’s his birthday, and France glows. Deanon from the Kink Meme.
_________________
bioluminescence
France stares at the bottle in his hand, the rich green of the glass, the deep notes of the remaining red. His third bottle--perhaps his fourth. Enough wine to make the lights around him soften and expand, enough to pad the voices around his head.
His cheeks are warm, and his blood pulses with alcohol. He feels as though he is a candle’s flame--is that the right way to think of it?
He pulls down another gulp of wine, chasing the thought away as warmth courses through his blood.
It must never be said that France is a bad host--never at all, and on his own birthday, at that. With a smirk, he leans back on the couch and surveys the room. His wandering, floating eyes catch Spain, tan hands around Lovino’s hips. England and America, in that corner--America’s eyes slightly unfocused, his smile softened at the edges.
France notes America’s eyes, the way they’re fixed on England’s lips rather than his brimstone words, and feels a smile in his belly.
And over there--the corner of his eye snags on Russia’s pipe, as he sits out on the veranda, with a vodka glass in his hand and his eyes on the stars. He frowns, almost thinks about sitting up and going out there with him--
But a gentle white hand comes from the side, fingertips lighting on Russia’s shoulder like a rose petal. And France relaxes as Ukraine comes into view, the light just catching her golden hair as she sits next to him, taking one of his gloved hands in hers. France’s shoulders ease up, and the left side of his mouth quirks up because he can’t quite feel productive enough to muster up an entire grin.
“Hey.” France frowns at the voice, and lifts his bottle just as pale fingers try to snatch it from his grasp. Red eyes glare up when France looks down at Prussia, his lips pressing together. “Gimme,” Prussia says. “C’mon, you’ve been hogging all the chardonnay. S’not fair.”
“There are more bottles in the cellar and there are beer taps outside,” France adds, his frown deepening. “Would it kill you to walk over there?”
Prussia’s whine isn’t even a word--it’s an air raid siren that rises in his throat, except far more pathetic and drunk-sounding. “But it’s far away and my legs are tired and besides, West and Veneziano will give me fuckin’ cooties.”
France glances up, and--ah, there they are. Dear sweet Veneziano, drinking from the wine glass proper, his cheeks the color of a fine blush wine. France tries to feel jealous of Germany’s own rosy cheeks and glass of beer, the foam spilling over the edge a little as he leans down to nuzzle at Feliciano’s neck.
Beside him, Canada shifts and moans in his ear a little, the sound a low, croaking croon that France knows well to mean he’s waking up.
“--ance. Hey. Hey. Fraaaaance.”
“What?” France snaps in response, more on principle than genuine anger, and nudges Prussia’s hip with his foot. “No, you cannot have my wine, Prussia. Go get your own.”
“‘You sure?”
“I’m as sure as you are drunk, dear Prussie.” France takes another pull of wine, frowns as he lowers the bottle. It’s not quite enough. Perhaps it’s time to go fetch the little paper slips he has hidden in his room, encourage everyone to take a slip and place it on their tongue, and take a little trip out of his house.
“What if I blew you for it?”
France blinks. Twice, one right after the other. “Ah...pardon?”
“C’mon, let me suck you off.” Prussia rolls around, his hands sneaking between France’s clenched thighs. “If I make you scream, you let me have what’s left.” France’s thighs slide apart, a bit like two halves of butter cut by a stove-warmed knife.
“I will point out that I did not exactly agree to this yet,” France says, but his voice is warm and he slides down the sofa a little, thighs spreading under Prussia’s fingertips. “This is a good year, and I intend to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me be the judge of that.”
England’s head lifts at that, his eyes misty with whiskey. “What’s the the judge--oh, bloody fuck, France, have some shame, will you?”
And this is the point where France feels everyone’s eyes on him. Because Prussia’s fingers fumble at his zipper, and the blush on his cheeks isn’t quite from drink, and Seychelles’s fingers are at work on the buttons on her dress, and even Romano and Spain have stopped what they’re doing to glare at him--
And then France jumps as a wet, warm stripe slides up his neck and as teeth bite his earlobe. “Lay off ‘im, eh,” Canada says, resting his forehead against France’s cheek. “It’s his birthday. Let the birthday boy have his goddamned blowjob.” France smells the alcohol wafting from Canada’s breath and recalls the beer can he was holding earlier--something from his own land, perhaps.
America drops his beer, and France opens his mouth to snap at him to mind the carpets, those are antiques--
And that’s just when Prussia’s hand wraps around his cock, and he all but melts into the sofa cushions. He pulses, soft and pliant in their grasps, and the word comes closer.
Canada’s hand is there to take one of his, to sling an arm around his shoulder as Prussia fishes France’s cock from his pants and runs his fingertips along the bottom. And France can’t quite bring himself to care, suddenly, about bedrooms and living rooms and white stains on the nice carpets.
“Let me know when you’re done,” Canada says, sweet as anything, and France swears he feels those precious, huge eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “I’ll go next.”
“Yeah, sure, you can have him once he screams,” Prussia says back, wrapping a fist around France’s cock and squeezing. “Just give me the bottle before you blow him, will you?”
“Hmm,” Canada says, but doesn’t really answer, instead opting to kiss at the corner of France’s mouth. France feels a whine slipping from his throat, trying to turn into the kiss. But Canada--Canada, the dear, sweet boy, will have none of that. His fingertips push France’s eyes back down to Prussia’s tongue running up his cock, his lips opening to start sucking at the slit. “I’m not where the action is,” Canada whispers. “Don’t look at me.”
And as France turns his gaze back to Prussia and those reddening, swelling lips, he feels Canada’s fingers trail down his back. They tease the edge of his shirt out from his pants, sliding lower--past the edge of his jeans, past his thong. Down to where the cleft of his ass begins.
France glows, feels his skin shining from the inside out, and turns to meet Canada’s lips with a searing kiss.
_________________
End Notes: Thanks for reading. This is a personal journal as well as a fic journal, so...here are just some thoughts.
This was...a failed experiment from the Kink Meme. I wanted to see if I could write France having consensual sex with other adults.
...I can’t do it. Not anymore. Not for lack of trying and wanting, to, though. He’s not a good character or person, not after the behavior he exhibits towards characters in the manga that do not want him to touch them or have sex with him. I have tried. I hate this, and honest to God, I’ve tried.
If any of you have any bright ideas on how to fix this? I’m all ears. Because I WANT to like this character again and I want to believe in him. I want to love this character and love writing him having sex and being in monogamous, healthy relationships and loving again. Because honestly, I can’t write any other characters. Not anymore.
If you’re looking for an in-depth discussion, feel free to PM me.
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/Prussia and France/Canada is the main one. Also cameos USUK, Spamano, GerIta, Russia/Ukraine, and a few others.
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, sensuality, drunken revelry
Summary: It’s his birthday, and France glows. Deanon from the Kink Meme.
_________________
bioluminescence
France stares at the bottle in his hand, the rich green of the glass, the deep notes of the remaining red. His third bottle--perhaps his fourth. Enough wine to make the lights around him soften and expand, enough to pad the voices around his head.
His cheeks are warm, and his blood pulses with alcohol. He feels as though he is a candle’s flame--is that the right way to think of it?
He pulls down another gulp of wine, chasing the thought away as warmth courses through his blood.
It must never be said that France is a bad host--never at all, and on his own birthday, at that. With a smirk, he leans back on the couch and surveys the room. His wandering, floating eyes catch Spain, tan hands around Lovino’s hips. England and America, in that corner--America’s eyes slightly unfocused, his smile softened at the edges.
France notes America’s eyes, the way they’re fixed on England’s lips rather than his brimstone words, and feels a smile in his belly.
And over there--the corner of his eye snags on Russia’s pipe, as he sits out on the veranda, with a vodka glass in his hand and his eyes on the stars. He frowns, almost thinks about sitting up and going out there with him--
But a gentle white hand comes from the side, fingertips lighting on Russia’s shoulder like a rose petal. And France relaxes as Ukraine comes into view, the light just catching her golden hair as she sits next to him, taking one of his gloved hands in hers. France’s shoulders ease up, and the left side of his mouth quirks up because he can’t quite feel productive enough to muster up an entire grin.
“Hey.” France frowns at the voice, and lifts his bottle just as pale fingers try to snatch it from his grasp. Red eyes glare up when France looks down at Prussia, his lips pressing together. “Gimme,” Prussia says. “C’mon, you’ve been hogging all the chardonnay. S’not fair.”
“There are more bottles in the cellar and there are beer taps outside,” France adds, his frown deepening. “Would it kill you to walk over there?”
Prussia’s whine isn’t even a word--it’s an air raid siren that rises in his throat, except far more pathetic and drunk-sounding. “But it’s far away and my legs are tired and besides, West and Veneziano will give me fuckin’ cooties.”
France glances up, and--ah, there they are. Dear sweet Veneziano, drinking from the wine glass proper, his cheeks the color of a fine blush wine. France tries to feel jealous of Germany’s own rosy cheeks and glass of beer, the foam spilling over the edge a little as he leans down to nuzzle at Feliciano’s neck.
Beside him, Canada shifts and moans in his ear a little, the sound a low, croaking croon that France knows well to mean he’s waking up.
“--ance. Hey. Hey. Fraaaaance.”
“What?” France snaps in response, more on principle than genuine anger, and nudges Prussia’s hip with his foot. “No, you cannot have my wine, Prussia. Go get your own.”
“‘You sure?”
“I’m as sure as you are drunk, dear Prussie.” France takes another pull of wine, frowns as he lowers the bottle. It’s not quite enough. Perhaps it’s time to go fetch the little paper slips he has hidden in his room, encourage everyone to take a slip and place it on their tongue, and take a little trip out of his house.
“What if I blew you for it?”
France blinks. Twice, one right after the other. “Ah...pardon?”
“C’mon, let me suck you off.” Prussia rolls around, his hands sneaking between France’s clenched thighs. “If I make you scream, you let me have what’s left.” France’s thighs slide apart, a bit like two halves of butter cut by a stove-warmed knife.
“I will point out that I did not exactly agree to this yet,” France says, but his voice is warm and he slides down the sofa a little, thighs spreading under Prussia’s fingertips. “This is a good year, and I intend to enjoy it.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me be the judge of that.”
England’s head lifts at that, his eyes misty with whiskey. “What’s the the judge--oh, bloody fuck, France, have some shame, will you?”
And this is the point where France feels everyone’s eyes on him. Because Prussia’s fingers fumble at his zipper, and the blush on his cheeks isn’t quite from drink, and Seychelles’s fingers are at work on the buttons on her dress, and even Romano and Spain have stopped what they’re doing to glare at him--
And then France jumps as a wet, warm stripe slides up his neck and as teeth bite his earlobe. “Lay off ‘im, eh,” Canada says, resting his forehead against France’s cheek. “It’s his birthday. Let the birthday boy have his goddamned blowjob.” France smells the alcohol wafting from Canada’s breath and recalls the beer can he was holding earlier--something from his own land, perhaps.
America drops his beer, and France opens his mouth to snap at him to mind the carpets, those are antiques--
And that’s just when Prussia’s hand wraps around his cock, and he all but melts into the sofa cushions. He pulses, soft and pliant in their grasps, and the word comes closer.
Canada’s hand is there to take one of his, to sling an arm around his shoulder as Prussia fishes France’s cock from his pants and runs his fingertips along the bottom. And France can’t quite bring himself to care, suddenly, about bedrooms and living rooms and white stains on the nice carpets.
“Let me know when you’re done,” Canada says, sweet as anything, and France swears he feels those precious, huge eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “I’ll go next.”
“Yeah, sure, you can have him once he screams,” Prussia says back, wrapping a fist around France’s cock and squeezing. “Just give me the bottle before you blow him, will you?”
“Hmm,” Canada says, but doesn’t really answer, instead opting to kiss at the corner of France’s mouth. France feels a whine slipping from his throat, trying to turn into the kiss. But Canada--Canada, the dear, sweet boy, will have none of that. His fingertips push France’s eyes back down to Prussia’s tongue running up his cock, his lips opening to start sucking at the slit. “I’m not where the action is,” Canada whispers. “Don’t look at me.”
And as France turns his gaze back to Prussia and those reddening, swelling lips, he feels Canada’s fingers trail down his back. They tease the edge of his shirt out from his pants, sliding lower--past the edge of his jeans, past his thong. Down to where the cleft of his ass begins.
France glows, feels his skin shining from the inside out, and turns to meet Canada’s lips with a searing kiss.
_________________
End Notes: Thanks for reading. This is a personal journal as well as a fic journal, so...here are just some thoughts.
This was...a failed experiment from the Kink Meme. I wanted to see if I could write France having consensual sex with other adults.
...I can’t do it. Not anymore. Not for lack of trying and wanting, to, though. He’s not a good character or person, not after the behavior he exhibits towards characters in the manga that do not want him to touch them or have sex with him. I have tried. I hate this, and honest to God, I’ve tried.
If any of you have any bright ideas on how to fix this? I’m all ears. Because I WANT to like this character again and I want to believe in him. I want to love this character and love writing him having sex and being in monogamous, healthy relationships and loving again. Because honestly, I can’t write any other characters. Not anymore.
If you’re looking for an in-depth discussion, feel free to PM me.