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kinkfest2011-02-07 11:42 am
arizonaicerose.livejournal.com) wrote in kinkfest2011-02-07 11:42 am
Entry tags:
A Bed Of Roses [Hetalia Axis Powers, France/Canada, R]
Title: A Bed of Roses
Author/Artist: Arizonaicerose (Sakurasango)
Rating: R
Warnings: One semxy scene, otherwise just a cut away scene. Just look at the prompt for complete warnings.
Prompt: Axis Powers Hetalia - France/Canada: narcissism - France never mistook Canada for his brother, but he had on more than one occasion, yelled out his own name in bed. It took a whole lot of roses to get Canada out of his passive-aggression after that.
Word count: 2413
A/N: Sorry this is a little late, I figured it was better late and done how I wanted it and not just rushed. Also I don't know French, so I hope I got it right.
x-x-x-
“Wenn du mich fragen willst, (If you want to ask me,)
ob ich noch sauer bin, (if I'm still mad,)
ob wir uns treffen können, (if we can meet,)
von wegen Neubeginn (to start over)
oder wer weiss was (or who knows what)
sonst für eine Heuchelei, (other hypocrisy,)
drück die Zwei. (press two.)”
~ ‘Drück die Eins’ by Annett Louisan
x-x-x-
Canada moved slowly, his hips rolling smoothly. Hands slide along his chest and neck as the blond nation finds the ecstasy fills his body. Broken whimpers fall from parted lips as his head falls back. Eyes clench shut tightly as he feels the nation below him start thrusting up faster. Crying out Canada arches his back, hands fisting his hair.
The elegant voice under him brings Canada faster to his end. Panting Canada falls over his partner, arms on either side of the French nation’s head. Gasping he continues to thrust, his body loving just how his partner always knew how to touch him the right way. France always knew the right places to touch, or just how to move to let Canada feel the highest he ever had been.
France moans as his back arches and Canada can only bite on his hand as he feels France push deep inside him- deeper then he ever had been. Elegant, plush ruby lips part as France gasps for breath.
“Ohh,” he cries out as heels plant harder into the soft mattress under him. Canada can only gasp as he feels his lover thrust harder into him. “Ohh yes,” France mutters, breathlessly.
The Canadian smiles as he leans his head on the sweaty shoulder under him. He wants to hear the nation under him cry out his name. For once he wants to hear Canada and not America when someone is thinking about him. Wants to know that someone remembers him. Knows him. Loves him.
France wraps arms around the thin nation above him as he moans deeply. Hips push up as he buries deep inside his lover. “Ohh yes.” Ecstasy fills his veins as nails rake down the smooth back. His end comes rushing forward and toes curl as he feels it build up. “Ohh France!” He cries out, back arching.
Canada suddenly pauses his movements, eyes widening and breath freezing in his lungs. As quickly as a popped balloon he deflates. Eyes widen as his jaw silently falls open. For a second he is certain that he misheard. It had to be the blood rushing from his head that made him hear his lover shout something else then what he had wanted to hear. (After all a different head was currently stealing all of his blood.)
Surely France, the only nation who seemed to remember that he was not America, had not just done something as stupid as scream out his own name.
Blinking he stares at the nation below him who was still thrusting shallowly trying to engage Canada again. Certainly he could not be that stupid. That…that… Ah hell, who was he kidding! Of course France would do something like that.
Left eye twitching- the same eye that twitched every time someone called him America- Canada slowly pulled France out of him as he crawls to the edge of the bed. Silently he begins gathering all of his clothing. Wrinkled faded jeans are harshly tugged on as he tries to keep from smacking the other nation.
A hand slides along the comforter as France rolls onto his stomach. Fingers ghost along the waistband of Canada’s jeans. Perfectly, manicured nails curl around the harsh fabric as France tugs on the jeans.
“Mon cheri, what’s wrong?” He asks, his voice still ragged from the previous (and unfinished) activities. His hips slide along the mattress as France, stares up at the mussed, short blond hair.
‘You screamed out your name! That’s what’s wrong idiot.’
Canada tries hard to swallow the lump that builds in his throat. He wants to reach out behind him and slap the annoying hand away. He certainly was not in the mood any longer. Instead he takes a deep, refreshing breath in. Allows the calming breath fill him to his core. Equally deep breath out.
Teeth grit, sliding against each other as he turns to his lover. Corners of his mouth begin to twist as he slowly moves. Curling they move to a convincingly, innocent expression by the time he faces his lover.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Canada whispers, his voice calm and even. The anger that he feels brewing inside of him is never expressed as he finally swallows it away. “I just saw the time and realized that I was going to be late for a meeting with…” Pausing Canada wracks his mind as he tries to think of a semi-convincing nation.
Greece? No he was with Japan for the evening.
England? No, that would cause more problems. A horny France was best not a hundred feet next to England, he certainly did not need his two fathers locked in another fruitless war.
“…America,” he finishes while wincing.
Chin on his hand France pouts, looking up from under his long lashes. “You are going to leave me in this state,” France thrusts into the mattress to enforce his meaning, “just so you can meet up with your brother.”
A red, baggy sweatshirt is tugged on as Canada toes on his old, worn down sneakers. Silently he stands, never looking back at his lover. “I’m sure you can finish yourself. You seem to be entranced in only you it would seem.” Canada mutters as he walks away.
“What do you mean?” France calls out from the bed, he rolls onto his side cheek resting on the soft pillows.
“Nothing,” is the sickingly sweet answer as Canada leaves.
x-x-x-
World meetings are never exciting, especially when fronted by Germany. The tall, muscular nation demands order at all times. Even Italy is kept in line (as much as he possibly can be kept) as they talk over budgets and crisis’s. Even America is stopped before he can get too wild with his far fetched ideas.
Normally France is able to let the time pass by letting his passions secretly torment his timid lover. It is easy, with the large plush chairs and over sized table, to slip a hand into another nation’s chair secretly. And it was always pleasurable to watch how the younger nation would blush and gasp as he felt hands sliding up his leg until they reached the pesky zipper.
But today France notices that Canada kept his legs tightly crossed, making it impossible for him to proceed any further then his lover’s knee. Secondly he notices how close Canada’s chair is to Japan’s. Also- though he rather not notice it- he notices how Japan blushes and tries to slide away from Greece, while slinking back closer.
“Hey what’s wrong?” France breathes, his voice only loud enough for the Canadian to notice.
“Shh,” Canada shushes the older nation while carefully taking notes of the proposed budget cuts Germany suggests. “I told you before nothing is wrong honey.”
France can tell from that sickingly sweet tone that something is wrong. Something bad. And he feels lost. “Ok, how about you come over tonight? I mean, we still have to finish what we started last Sunday.” Smirking, France rests his head on his chin, tongue sliding along his lower lip.
Canada barely glances up from his notes as he whispers, “I’m sure you can do it on your own. You seemed perfectly able last time.”
Shot down France lets his head fall to the table with a loud thunk. Somehow he feels that his bed will remain lonely and empty for a little while longer.
x-x-x-
A blood red rose appears into his line of sight practically out of no where. America cries out in surprise as he leans back in the chair, toppling it over. Canada however, pays no heed to it as he continues to look over the notes from the most recent talks.
“Mon cheri,” France practically whines as he hands the single bud rose to his blond lover. He pointedly decides to ignore the other nation, as he falls onto a knee. “I’m sorry for what I did. Will you at least look at me?”
The same sickingly sweet smile that has plagued France for almost a week now appears as Canada reaches out for the rose. Fingers wrap around the small stem and Canada sniffs at the small flower before sitting it on the table. “Aw, there’s no need to apologize France I’m just busy that’s all.”
America stares from his new position on the floor confused, nose peeking just over the table top. He wisely- England was teaching him about when to just shut up- decided to stay quiet and hide on the floor,
After France leaves dejectedly Canada smiles at his brother on the floor. “Eh, do I even want to ask why you are down there?” He drowns out the energetic explanation that his brother gives, instead focusing on the single rose in his hands. “Here,” he cuts off America’s rant about poorly made chairs by handing over the rose. “I’m sure it will die on the way back home. You keep it.”
x-x-x-
The beautiful sunset is blocked out by blond tresses. Sighing a couple strands up shift out of the way; Canada looks up under the wavy hair to stare at the flashy blue boots that he could pick out from a crowd.
Smiling he reaches and pulls away a wreath of roses. Each bud is a different color, making a beautiful rainbow. The dainty stems had been carefully braided and baby’s breath embedded into the stems. It was a perfect craftsmanship, something that had taken time and effort.
Standing Canada smiles as he fingers an icy pink flower. “It’s beautiful.”
“Please come home with me tonight,” France holds out a hand, fingers curled slightly. “It’s so cold and lonely at my house with just me there.”
The other nation steps back, his finger switching to a canary yellow rose. “Sorry,” he answers quietly, “I’m too tired tonight. And I have to wake up early. So I’m just going to go home for now.” Fingers carefully wrap around the wreath, careful to not ruin a single flower as he raises up on tiptoes to kiss France’s cheek. Slowly he turns away.
“Wait,” France calls out as he reaches for the wreath. More carefully this time, he places it neatly on Canada’s head. Fingers brush the thin hair back so that his face is framed perfectly with the flowers. “Wear it home, it makes you look more beautiful then ever before.”
He does wear it, at least until the nation turns the corner and is out of France’s sight. Then the wreath is placed on a lone water fountain.
x-x-x-
It is a surprise when he opens his mailbox only to watch several small bundles of roses fall out. Attached to one that hangs from the door’s hinge has a small note attached to it. The dainty script is recognizable, even before Canada reaches for it.
Je suis désolé.
Blinking Canada walks away from the mailbox, decided that it was not worth the effort to reach inside.
The small bundle sways in the afternoon breeze before slipping silently to the ground with the others.
x-x-x
Every day is a different scenario, though only one thing remains consistent. Roses. The amount increases each time. He has lost count of the number of roses that France is up to leaving for him. And by now he really is not surprised at where they are.
That is why when he puts the key into the door, Canada is not shocked when he finds that the front door easily opens without ever being unlocked. Instead he walks in calmly, toeing off his shoes and dropping the keys on the small table near his front door.
Slowly he walks towards his living room, only to pause at a small pile of rose petals that lead towards his bedroom. For a second he wants to step over them and continue onto his kitchen, but something stops him. Sighing he glances at the clock before deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to at least follow the trail.
The rose petals slowly travel down his long hallway and up the stairs. They turned and led to the second door on the left. His bedroom.
Canada feels his heart quicken as he places a hand on the cool knob. Part of him wants to walk away, ignore the roses and stay mad at his lover. While the other part of him wants to see what is on the other side. Holding his breath he weighs both options before making up his mind.
The dark wooden door slides open. Hinges squeak in protest as they are opened. The hallway light is the only light as the door opens completely.
Canada can only stare as he looks around his bedroom. Roses are wrapped around the posts of his bed, their long stems braided and curled around the columns. His bed, which usually holds a couple extra pillows is covered in small, delicate rose petals. His black comforter is hidden by the petals.
Lying in the middle of the petal covered bed France holds a single rose. The stem is bent at an odd angle, though the flower itself is perfect. Slowly he brings the flower up to his lips as he ghosts a kiss on the bud. Seductively he crawls to the edge, a finger bent summoning his lover to come closer.
Canada wants to turn away and leave France alone. However he finds himself unable to as he walks closer. Stocking feet step on the soft petals. Raising up to knees, France wraps an arm around the younger nation. Foreheads brush as France lets his lips ghost Canada’s.
“I’m sorry Love,” France whispers as he pulls away. “I only hope you will let me show you how sorry I am.”
Canada finds himself losing the hold of his anger to his lover’s tenderness. His head rests on France’s shoulder as he reaches out for the soft rose. Fingers curl around the bottom of the bud as he brings it up to his nose.
“Let me,” France carefully turns and lies Canada on the petal filled bed, “show you just how sorry I am.” A leg slides over the blond’s stomach. Lowering himself he brushes fingers over the nation’s eyes; lips soon follow as they trail over the soft face. Fingers slide down the blond’s neck and over his shirt.
Canada sighs as he finds himself falling back into France’s arms. Reaching up he wraps arms around and captures his lover in a deep, loving kiss that takes both of their breaths away.
Author/Artist: Arizonaicerose (Sakurasango)
Rating: R
Warnings: One semxy scene, otherwise just a cut away scene. Just look at the prompt for complete warnings.
Prompt: Axis Powers Hetalia - France/Canada: narcissism - France never mistook Canada for his brother, but he had on more than one occasion, yelled out his own name in bed. It took a whole lot of roses to get Canada out of his passive-aggression after that.
Word count: 2413
A/N: Sorry this is a little late, I figured it was better late and done how I wanted it and not just rushed. Also I don't know French, so I hope I got it right.
“Wenn du mich fragen willst, (If you want to ask me,)
ob ich noch sauer bin, (if I'm still mad,)
ob wir uns treffen können, (if we can meet,)
von wegen Neubeginn (to start over)
oder wer weiss was (or who knows what)
sonst für eine Heuchelei, (other hypocrisy,)
drück die Zwei. (press two.)”
~ ‘Drück die Eins’ by Annett Louisan
x-x-x-
Canada moved slowly, his hips rolling smoothly. Hands slide along his chest and neck as the blond nation finds the ecstasy fills his body. Broken whimpers fall from parted lips as his head falls back. Eyes clench shut tightly as he feels the nation below him start thrusting up faster. Crying out Canada arches his back, hands fisting his hair.
The elegant voice under him brings Canada faster to his end. Panting Canada falls over his partner, arms on either side of the French nation’s head. Gasping he continues to thrust, his body loving just how his partner always knew how to touch him the right way. France always knew the right places to touch, or just how to move to let Canada feel the highest he ever had been.
France moans as his back arches and Canada can only bite on his hand as he feels France push deep inside him- deeper then he ever had been. Elegant, plush ruby lips part as France gasps for breath.
“Ohh,” he cries out as heels plant harder into the soft mattress under him. Canada can only gasp as he feels his lover thrust harder into him. “Ohh yes,” France mutters, breathlessly.
The Canadian smiles as he leans his head on the sweaty shoulder under him. He wants to hear the nation under him cry out his name. For once he wants to hear Canada and not America when someone is thinking about him. Wants to know that someone remembers him. Knows him. Loves him.
France wraps arms around the thin nation above him as he moans deeply. Hips push up as he buries deep inside his lover. “Ohh yes.” Ecstasy fills his veins as nails rake down the smooth back. His end comes rushing forward and toes curl as he feels it build up. “Ohh France!” He cries out, back arching.
Canada suddenly pauses his movements, eyes widening and breath freezing in his lungs. As quickly as a popped balloon he deflates. Eyes widen as his jaw silently falls open. For a second he is certain that he misheard. It had to be the blood rushing from his head that made him hear his lover shout something else then what he had wanted to hear. (After all a different head was currently stealing all of his blood.)
Surely France, the only nation who seemed to remember that he was not America, had not just done something as stupid as scream out his own name.
Blinking he stares at the nation below him who was still thrusting shallowly trying to engage Canada again. Certainly he could not be that stupid. That…that… Ah hell, who was he kidding! Of course France would do something like that.
Left eye twitching- the same eye that twitched every time someone called him America- Canada slowly pulled France out of him as he crawls to the edge of the bed. Silently he begins gathering all of his clothing. Wrinkled faded jeans are harshly tugged on as he tries to keep from smacking the other nation.
A hand slides along the comforter as France rolls onto his stomach. Fingers ghost along the waistband of Canada’s jeans. Perfectly, manicured nails curl around the harsh fabric as France tugs on the jeans.
“Mon cheri, what’s wrong?” He asks, his voice still ragged from the previous (and unfinished) activities. His hips slide along the mattress as France, stares up at the mussed, short blond hair.
‘You screamed out your name! That’s what’s wrong idiot.’
Canada tries hard to swallow the lump that builds in his throat. He wants to reach out behind him and slap the annoying hand away. He certainly was not in the mood any longer. Instead he takes a deep, refreshing breath in. Allows the calming breath fill him to his core. Equally deep breath out.
Teeth grit, sliding against each other as he turns to his lover. Corners of his mouth begin to twist as he slowly moves. Curling they move to a convincingly, innocent expression by the time he faces his lover.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Canada whispers, his voice calm and even. The anger that he feels brewing inside of him is never expressed as he finally swallows it away. “I just saw the time and realized that I was going to be late for a meeting with…” Pausing Canada wracks his mind as he tries to think of a semi-convincing nation.
Greece? No he was with Japan for the evening.
England? No, that would cause more problems. A horny France was best not a hundred feet next to England, he certainly did not need his two fathers locked in another fruitless war.
“…America,” he finishes while wincing.
Chin on his hand France pouts, looking up from under his long lashes. “You are going to leave me in this state,” France thrusts into the mattress to enforce his meaning, “just so you can meet up with your brother.”
A red, baggy sweatshirt is tugged on as Canada toes on his old, worn down sneakers. Silently he stands, never looking back at his lover. “I’m sure you can finish yourself. You seem to be entranced in only you it would seem.” Canada mutters as he walks away.
“What do you mean?” France calls out from the bed, he rolls onto his side cheek resting on the soft pillows.
“Nothing,” is the sickingly sweet answer as Canada leaves.
World meetings are never exciting, especially when fronted by Germany. The tall, muscular nation demands order at all times. Even Italy is kept in line (as much as he possibly can be kept) as they talk over budgets and crisis’s. Even America is stopped before he can get too wild with his far fetched ideas.
Normally France is able to let the time pass by letting his passions secretly torment his timid lover. It is easy, with the large plush chairs and over sized table, to slip a hand into another nation’s chair secretly. And it was always pleasurable to watch how the younger nation would blush and gasp as he felt hands sliding up his leg until they reached the pesky zipper.
But today France notices that Canada kept his legs tightly crossed, making it impossible for him to proceed any further then his lover’s knee. Secondly he notices how close Canada’s chair is to Japan’s. Also- though he rather not notice it- he notices how Japan blushes and tries to slide away from Greece, while slinking back closer.
“Hey what’s wrong?” France breathes, his voice only loud enough for the Canadian to notice.
“Shh,” Canada shushes the older nation while carefully taking notes of the proposed budget cuts Germany suggests. “I told you before nothing is wrong honey.”
France can tell from that sickingly sweet tone that something is wrong. Something bad. And he feels lost. “Ok, how about you come over tonight? I mean, we still have to finish what we started last Sunday.” Smirking, France rests his head on his chin, tongue sliding along his lower lip.
Canada barely glances up from his notes as he whispers, “I’m sure you can do it on your own. You seemed perfectly able last time.”
Shot down France lets his head fall to the table with a loud thunk. Somehow he feels that his bed will remain lonely and empty for a little while longer.
A blood red rose appears into his line of sight practically out of no where. America cries out in surprise as he leans back in the chair, toppling it over. Canada however, pays no heed to it as he continues to look over the notes from the most recent talks.
“Mon cheri,” France practically whines as he hands the single bud rose to his blond lover. He pointedly decides to ignore the other nation, as he falls onto a knee. “I’m sorry for what I did. Will you at least look at me?”
The same sickingly sweet smile that has plagued France for almost a week now appears as Canada reaches out for the rose. Fingers wrap around the small stem and Canada sniffs at the small flower before sitting it on the table. “Aw, there’s no need to apologize France I’m just busy that’s all.”
America stares from his new position on the floor confused, nose peeking just over the table top. He wisely- England was teaching him about when to just shut up- decided to stay quiet and hide on the floor,
After France leaves dejectedly Canada smiles at his brother on the floor. “Eh, do I even want to ask why you are down there?” He drowns out the energetic explanation that his brother gives, instead focusing on the single rose in his hands. “Here,” he cuts off America’s rant about poorly made chairs by handing over the rose. “I’m sure it will die on the way back home. You keep it.”
The beautiful sunset is blocked out by blond tresses. Sighing a couple strands up shift out of the way; Canada looks up under the wavy hair to stare at the flashy blue boots that he could pick out from a crowd.
Smiling he reaches and pulls away a wreath of roses. Each bud is a different color, making a beautiful rainbow. The dainty stems had been carefully braided and baby’s breath embedded into the stems. It was a perfect craftsmanship, something that had taken time and effort.
Standing Canada smiles as he fingers an icy pink flower. “It’s beautiful.”
“Please come home with me tonight,” France holds out a hand, fingers curled slightly. “It’s so cold and lonely at my house with just me there.”
The other nation steps back, his finger switching to a canary yellow rose. “Sorry,” he answers quietly, “I’m too tired tonight. And I have to wake up early. So I’m just going to go home for now.” Fingers carefully wrap around the wreath, careful to not ruin a single flower as he raises up on tiptoes to kiss France’s cheek. Slowly he turns away.
“Wait,” France calls out as he reaches for the wreath. More carefully this time, he places it neatly on Canada’s head. Fingers brush the thin hair back so that his face is framed perfectly with the flowers. “Wear it home, it makes you look more beautiful then ever before.”
He does wear it, at least until the nation turns the corner and is out of France’s sight. Then the wreath is placed on a lone water fountain.
It is a surprise when he opens his mailbox only to watch several small bundles of roses fall out. Attached to one that hangs from the door’s hinge has a small note attached to it. The dainty script is recognizable, even before Canada reaches for it.
Je suis désolé.
Blinking Canada walks away from the mailbox, decided that it was not worth the effort to reach inside.
The small bundle sways in the afternoon breeze before slipping silently to the ground with the others.
Every day is a different scenario, though only one thing remains consistent. Roses. The amount increases each time. He has lost count of the number of roses that France is up to leaving for him. And by now he really is not surprised at where they are.
That is why when he puts the key into the door, Canada is not shocked when he finds that the front door easily opens without ever being unlocked. Instead he walks in calmly, toeing off his shoes and dropping the keys on the small table near his front door.
Slowly he walks towards his living room, only to pause at a small pile of rose petals that lead towards his bedroom. For a second he wants to step over them and continue onto his kitchen, but something stops him. Sighing he glances at the clock before deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to at least follow the trail.
The rose petals slowly travel down his long hallway and up the stairs. They turned and led to the second door on the left. His bedroom.
Canada feels his heart quicken as he places a hand on the cool knob. Part of him wants to walk away, ignore the roses and stay mad at his lover. While the other part of him wants to see what is on the other side. Holding his breath he weighs both options before making up his mind.
The dark wooden door slides open. Hinges squeak in protest as they are opened. The hallway light is the only light as the door opens completely.
Canada can only stare as he looks around his bedroom. Roses are wrapped around the posts of his bed, their long stems braided and curled around the columns. His bed, which usually holds a couple extra pillows is covered in small, delicate rose petals. His black comforter is hidden by the petals.
Lying in the middle of the petal covered bed France holds a single rose. The stem is bent at an odd angle, though the flower itself is perfect. Slowly he brings the flower up to his lips as he ghosts a kiss on the bud. Seductively he crawls to the edge, a finger bent summoning his lover to come closer.
Canada wants to turn away and leave France alone. However he finds himself unable to as he walks closer. Stocking feet step on the soft petals. Raising up to knees, France wraps an arm around the younger nation. Foreheads brush as France lets his lips ghost Canada’s.
“I’m sorry Love,” France whispers as he pulls away. “I only hope you will let me show you how sorry I am.”
Canada finds himself losing the hold of his anger to his lover’s tenderness. His head rests on France’s shoulder as he reaches out for the soft rose. Fingers curl around the bottom of the bud as he brings it up to his nose.
“Let me,” France carefully turns and lies Canada on the petal filled bed, “show you just how sorry I am.” A leg slides over the blond’s stomach. Lowering himself he brushes fingers over the nation’s eyes; lips soon follow as they trail over the soft face. Fingers slide down the blond’s neck and over his shirt.
Canada sighs as he finds himself falling back into France’s arms. Reaching up he wraps arms around and captures his lover in a deep, loving kiss that takes both of their breaths away.