fic: Coeur
Mar. 21st, 2010 09:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisgetting to the last of the needing-to-be-archived stuff~!
Title: Coeur
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/Canada
Rating: R
Word count: 1200
Author's note: Hetalia kink meme: France/Canada: "You make me feel like a whore." Present tense, set mid Fly, Canada Fly! Strips.
It's been happening lately. France looks at him from across a room, just looks and Canada feels a blush come on and turns his gaze away. France always waits for when England is occupied with America. By the time the meeting is over, he'll pass by, oh so casual and subtle to lean in some destination. Sometimes it's his hotel address, other times it's a closer local, like stockroom or once, even under the conference room table when everyone had left for lunch.
Although lately for a country like himself means 'it started sometime about 1970'. In the end, forty years is nothing compared to five-hundred years of history. In the end, it passes into an instant.
It's the second day after England mistakes Canada for America again. It's one thing for the rest of the world to confuse him, but he's been England's colony for so long that by now, he should be able to tell them apart.
His heart had soared at France's attention, then crashed at the biting comment to follow. France is always like this, as cruel as he is kind. Canada can barely remember a time spent with him where he didn't have harsh words for someone, or something. Any culture but French culture is automatically lesser. Anything tainted by England's influence is suspect.
Today, France drops his handkerchief – which is such an outdated thing, and probably only used for an excuse to look up women's skirts and whisper tryst locations. Whether this is entirely true or not, it works. Canada stares ahead as he hears the room number. By the time England looks back (looks through him ) France has already gone back to his seat.
*
France waits in the room he chose. It's one of the meeting rooms, unused on the upper floors. A sunny, yet essentially plain place. There are large windows, to make it look more inviting, Canada supposes.
Canada almost didn't come here, almost left France hanging – perhaps with a cute smile and a oh, I didn't hear you when France called later. But he didn't want to talk to America, who was clueless as ever or England, who couldn't even remember his name half the time.
"Nice to know you think me so unremarkable," Canada says bitterly.
He kisses Canada's forehead. "You know I don't."
"Then why did you say that at the conference?" Canada says. "I was really humiliated."
"Because, mon chéri, I do not like competition."
He kisses the side of Canada's mouth. "If anyone knew how cute you were, I'd have to be fighting the entire world for your affections, and I do not have that kind of military strength."
Canada flushes under his attention. England hasn't called him cute since he was a young thing. America of course, doesn't either. It is only France who notices, France who compliments him in stolen moments in backrooms.
"I'll give you the love of two, no three countries. Then what does it matter if they don't notice you? In the end, I'll be all you need."
"Maybe," Canada relents. He's still a little pissed. Unlike America, who simply explodes and forgets about it, Canada holds his anger in. He lets his anger simmer beneath the surface. But he's always a little too nice for his own good, too nice to really hold grudges. Resentment at being slighted, however, is something he can keep for a very long time.
"Merde," France laughs. "You know how to make a man beg! Perhaps I can convince you to relent in other ways?"
France gets on his knees, his head rests against Canada's abdomen. He takes Canada's hands and kisses his fingertips, each one. Canada strokes his hair, and it is a quiet admission of forgiveness. France is not one to so easily give up possession of his colony. Even if he is England's, and has been for so long, France is stealing him bit by bit. He pushes up Canada's shirt and licks at his navel. Canada squirms, shifting from the attentions. He undoes the zipper and takes Canada in his mouth. Canada is glad for a wall to lean against, because more often than not, France makes his knees buckle. It's a quick blowjob this time, with France using all of his considerable skill to get him off in the least amount of time possible. Of course, there is always the chance of getting caught, which is what draws France to public areas in the first place. It's more a sense of control, in assurance that knowing he can get Canada off in minutes and make him into an incoherent, mewling, gasping mess.
And oh, he does. France didn't get his reputation as the country of love for nothing. He takes him so deep that Canada expects him to gag, but he doesn't. It's exquisite, feeling France's tongue flick over his shaft. His mind goes numb with pleasure, and it doesn't take long for him to reach climax.
France brushes white come from the side of his mouth. He is as casual and shameless as ever here, in all things.
"You make me feel like a whore," France says. "And yet, I can't get enough."
Canada hopes he never gets enough, that years and years down the road he's still finding something compelling about a country which everyone else has deemed forgettable. He knows that as long as Canada is still England's, France probably will have an interest in him. Should he ever manage to get Canada entirely, the thrill of stealing him away would be gone and his attention would surely turn elsewhere.
Then again, France chose him first. He fought for him, Canada thinks, even as he has many a time when he was alone and needed some well of comfort to draw from. He leaves out the part where he was passed to England, or where France was all too happy to turn his attentions to America, even as a fellow alliance and not colony. He always pushes those details aside to a tiny part of himself where they are rough, an unfiled edge he brushes against. Scratchy memories, painful memories one and all. And all these years after being France's colony, France is claiming him again. Not for furs, or resources, but for sheer desire of his body.
Quebec was the first landing, the first place to be civilized in his country, and what France has always referred to as the heart of Canada. Even if it did not secede, it is still undeniably French.
He may pay fealty to England, but it is France who will always have a hold on Quebec.
--
Some assorted notes:
Some people are born without gag reflexes. Apparently in my head canon, France is one of them. Fun!
'About 1970' means post-October Crisis. So while Quebec might not have seceded, that didn't stop France from sleeping with Canada behind England's back.
The title means "heart" in French.
Title: Coeur
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/Canada
Rating: R
Word count: 1200
Author's note: Hetalia kink meme: France/Canada: "You make me feel like a whore." Present tense, set mid Fly, Canada Fly! Strips.
It's been happening lately. France looks at him from across a room, just looks and Canada feels a blush come on and turns his gaze away. France always waits for when England is occupied with America. By the time the meeting is over, he'll pass by, oh so casual and subtle to lean in some destination. Sometimes it's his hotel address, other times it's a closer local, like stockroom or once, even under the conference room table when everyone had left for lunch.
Although lately for a country like himself means 'it started sometime about 1970'. In the end, forty years is nothing compared to five-hundred years of history. In the end, it passes into an instant.
It's the second day after England mistakes Canada for America again. It's one thing for the rest of the world to confuse him, but he's been England's colony for so long that by now, he should be able to tell them apart.
His heart had soared at France's attention, then crashed at the biting comment to follow. France is always like this, as cruel as he is kind. Canada can barely remember a time spent with him where he didn't have harsh words for someone, or something. Any culture but French culture is automatically lesser. Anything tainted by England's influence is suspect.
Today, France drops his handkerchief – which is such an outdated thing, and probably only used for an excuse to look up women's skirts and whisper tryst locations. Whether this is entirely true or not, it works. Canada stares ahead as he hears the room number. By the time England looks back (looks through him ) France has already gone back to his seat.
*
France waits in the room he chose. It's one of the meeting rooms, unused on the upper floors. A sunny, yet essentially plain place. There are large windows, to make it look more inviting, Canada supposes.
Canada almost didn't come here, almost left France hanging – perhaps with a cute smile and a oh, I didn't hear you when France called later. But he didn't want to talk to America, who was clueless as ever or England, who couldn't even remember his name half the time.
"Nice to know you think me so unremarkable," Canada says bitterly.
He kisses Canada's forehead. "You know I don't."
"Then why did you say that at the conference?" Canada says. "I was really humiliated."
"Because, mon chéri, I do not like competition."
He kisses the side of Canada's mouth. "If anyone knew how cute you were, I'd have to be fighting the entire world for your affections, and I do not have that kind of military strength."
Canada flushes under his attention. England hasn't called him cute since he was a young thing. America of course, doesn't either. It is only France who notices, France who compliments him in stolen moments in backrooms.
"I'll give you the love of two, no three countries. Then what does it matter if they don't notice you? In the end, I'll be all you need."
"Maybe," Canada relents. He's still a little pissed. Unlike America, who simply explodes and forgets about it, Canada holds his anger in. He lets his anger simmer beneath the surface. But he's always a little too nice for his own good, too nice to really hold grudges. Resentment at being slighted, however, is something he can keep for a very long time.
"Merde," France laughs. "You know how to make a man beg! Perhaps I can convince you to relent in other ways?"
France gets on his knees, his head rests against Canada's abdomen. He takes Canada's hands and kisses his fingertips, each one. Canada strokes his hair, and it is a quiet admission of forgiveness. France is not one to so easily give up possession of his colony. Even if he is England's, and has been for so long, France is stealing him bit by bit. He pushes up Canada's shirt and licks at his navel. Canada squirms, shifting from the attentions. He undoes the zipper and takes Canada in his mouth. Canada is glad for a wall to lean against, because more often than not, France makes his knees buckle. It's a quick blowjob this time, with France using all of his considerable skill to get him off in the least amount of time possible. Of course, there is always the chance of getting caught, which is what draws France to public areas in the first place. It's more a sense of control, in assurance that knowing he can get Canada off in minutes and make him into an incoherent, mewling, gasping mess.
And oh, he does. France didn't get his reputation as the country of love for nothing. He takes him so deep that Canada expects him to gag, but he doesn't. It's exquisite, feeling France's tongue flick over his shaft. His mind goes numb with pleasure, and it doesn't take long for him to reach climax.
France brushes white come from the side of his mouth. He is as casual and shameless as ever here, in all things.
"You make me feel like a whore," France says. "And yet, I can't get enough."
Canada hopes he never gets enough, that years and years down the road he's still finding something compelling about a country which everyone else has deemed forgettable. He knows that as long as Canada is still England's, France probably will have an interest in him. Should he ever manage to get Canada entirely, the thrill of stealing him away would be gone and his attention would surely turn elsewhere.
Then again, France chose him first. He fought for him, Canada thinks, even as he has many a time when he was alone and needed some well of comfort to draw from. He leaves out the part where he was passed to England, or where France was all too happy to turn his attentions to America, even as a fellow alliance and not colony. He always pushes those details aside to a tiny part of himself where they are rough, an unfiled edge he brushes against. Scratchy memories, painful memories one and all. And all these years after being France's colony, France is claiming him again. Not for furs, or resources, but for sheer desire of his body.
Quebec was the first landing, the first place to be civilized in his country, and what France has always referred to as the heart of Canada. Even if it did not secede, it is still undeniably French.
He may pay fealty to England, but it is France who will always have a hold on Quebec.
--
Some assorted notes:
Some people are born without gag reflexes. Apparently in my head canon, France is one of them. Fun!
'About 1970' means post-October Crisis. So while Quebec might not have seceded, that didn't stop France from sleeping with Canada behind England's back.
The title means "heart" in French.
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Date: 2010-03-26 02:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-29 10:59 pm (UTC)