Tuesday, February 3, 2015

A France Lemon -- 50,000 ft.

Character: France

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: Melissa Days, Represents Paris, is afraid of heights

Inspiration: OC is afraid of heights/flying so France decides that a healthy helping of kinkiness is just what she needs to combat her fear.  ;3

Fifty thousand feet above the earth is no place for intimacy.  Especially not in a tin can that could easily explode, or lose momentum or drop right out of the sky –
“Relax,” Francis whispers in her hair, half amused and half concerned.  Perhaps Melissa doesn’t blame him for finding it funny.  She’s got one strong phobia after all.  But she smacks him on the shoulder in annoyance anyway, because laughing at her fear of heights is not going to make it any better, that’s for sure.  Anyway –
Intimacy at fifty thousand feet is not exactly stellar, no matter how much closer they are to outer space.  And had they not been on France’s private jet (just them, an attendant, and the pilot) then Melissa would have told him to go throw himself out of the airplane door, she’s not fucking with him just so he can add it to his list of amazing places he’s had sex.  But…well, she does have to (reluctantly) admit that his presence is making her feel much better about flying. 
“Stop laughing at me and just put it in already,” she mutters with a glare.  She’s not usually this moody.  In fact she’s often very cheerful, but the circumstances of the day have made her anything but.  And to have her lover taking his time in such a cruel way makes her more than annoyed. 
He chuckles and kisses her inner thigh, his nose tickling the hem of her pushed up skirt.  “So impatient…” he says, his words muffled.  When he raises his eyes to look at hers, the cheekiness in his gaze makes her narrow her eyes.  Her fingers thread through his hair and she jerks him closer, glancing around the empty cabin to make sure they’re alone.  It’s such a small space, after all, and the thought of being seen horrifies her.
“Don’t worry, amante,” [1] he says, curling his hands around her hips and dragging her down a little.  The position gives him more access to her core, which he immediately takes advantage of.  While the edge of his knuckle brushes over her, he casually tells her, “True pleasure is liberation.  Let yourself go.”
She only huffs and rubs her eye, her heart jolting for several reasons.  One, because no matter what he does to her or how he touches her, she can’t seem to forget that they are in a plane miles above safety.  Two, because she finds something very cliché in his words that make her roll her eyes.  As the city of Paris, she’s rather aware of taking pleasure in liberation.  But that doesn’t mean she’s willing to do so now.
She hooks a leg over his shoulder and scoots down a bit more, much to his delight.  His eyes are practically sparkling when he peers up at her.  His smile is more of a leering smirk than anything else, not that she can really blame him.  Apparently this sort of thing has been on his sexual bucket list for ages.  That they are working out his fantasy in such a dire situation (for her at least) makes her feel more than a little contradictory.
He chuckles again and peels the fabric of her panties back, just enough to slide the little bullet-shaped vibrator inside.  She closes her eyes as he does, tipping her head back as she feels him push it gently inside of her.  She’s not entirely prepared for the kinkiness of it all, but then again it hasn’t even started yet.  When it does, when Francis flicks the vibrator on at the lowest setting, she finds that her surprise has doubled.  Because she had not anticipated that it would feel so wonderful, that the reminder of her fear would almost vanish.
But it doesn’t vanish entirely.  She is still aware of the fact that they are on a plane.  But she is also aware of the way Francis pulls her skirt down, his large hands smoothing over her thighs.  The way he leans down to press a reverent kiss against the side of her knee.  The way he smiles up at her as he stands, and returns to his seat opposite her.  And the way he doesn’t stop watching her, doesn’t stop the arousing sight from taking a hold of him.  The raw edge of time shreds through them and his eyes only get hotter, like burning apocalyptic skies raining fire.
Melissa isn’t sure what to expect from him now.  She sits in the chair and clutches the armrest and tries not to let the vibrations overcome her.  But then again she’d also like to fall into the pleasure they induce and forget all about her fear and find liberation in it.  And she’s got a feeling that Francis would like that, too.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, his eyes dipping over her body like he’s trying to take her in all at once.  His gaze is a smoldering dark flame of desire that makes her even hotter.  Because she knows it wouldn’t be the same without him watching her like this.  Her arousal wouldn’t be nearly as intense had he not been sitting before her, studying her every shiver.
His hand creeps to the slight bulge in his trousers and he slowly strokes over it.  It is a casual touch, a shameless touch.  It is a touch that affects her much more than she could have expected.  She watches him through slivered eyes, and when she peers up to meet his gaze, Francis is smiling.  She thinks he looks like the ultimate predator, sitting there with the fading sun flaming over his eyes.
But that’s where the pleasure starts and ends, at least in the private sense.  Because a moment passes and then the door at the front of the cabin clicks open.  France’s hands are immediately holding a newspaper over his lap as if he’d been reading it the whole time, and Melissa sits up and tries her best to smooth the wrinkles from her knee-length skirt.  She shoots Francis a furtive look but he only smirks and raises his eyebrow at her, as if wondering what she could possibly want.  Her response is a tight lipped, silent snarl, which is followed almost immediately by a melting-frowning-desperate expression as he flips the vibrator up to a higher level.
Her shock (and fury) at his audacity clashes with strong relief.  The vibrator is surprisingly silent.  The slight noise of it is easily overcome by the sounds in the cabin and the turbulence of flight.  Unfortunately, she herself is not so resilient.  She has to bite down hard on her inner cheek in order to reign in any hint of her pleasure.
The flight attendant does not appear to notice that anything is amiss, but perhaps that’s only because she’s used to things going amiss wherever France is concerned.  Her smile is paste-and-cut when she wonders, “Is there anything you’d like to eat or drink?”  Her eyes flicker to Melissa in order to include her in the question, and the woman takes a moment to curiously stare at the rigid way she’s sitting.  Francis watches with something akin to lustful amusement pooling in his gaze.
Melissa smiles, a surprisingly adept smile that hardly holds a trace of the grimace she’s feeling.  She tries her very best to loosen her body, well aware of the stiff way she’s drawing attention to herself.  It works, to an extent, and soon she’s saying in a perfectly clear voice, “No thank you.”  And, as if to punish her for handling the situation so well, the vibrator suddenly flares up to an even faster pitch.  She holds her breath but doesn’t drop her smile, even as her eyes flash dangerous at her lover, who is sitting looking rather smug.
“Perhaps later,” he tells the attendant, who nods graciously and moves away.  As soon as the cabin door has shut, the cultivated atmosphere shatters like glass and Melissa is pushing herself out of her seat – and right into Francis’s.
She’s kissing him wildly, straddling his thighs and ripping the newspaper out of his grip.  She tosses it to the floor and returns her hands to his face, tilting his head back against the seat and dragging a luxurious moan from his lips.  The say that he is surprised isn’t even the half of it, but Francis is quick to accept the transition.  He brings her closer, cupping his hands around her rear.  She crushes their hips together and watches the ragged, desperate way he shudders, for the vibrations that have propelled her lust are now spinning crazily over his erection.
“Mon Dieu,” [2] he chuckles, though there is little amusement in his voice.  No, his voice is a shredded mass of desire, threaded with desperation and hoarse need.  The vibrations edge over him quickly and mercilessly.  He bucks his hips up against hers, trying to crush more and more pleasure into every frenzied motion.  And in return, she rocks and circles and crushes her hips against his, enjoying the wilderness in his reaction to her.
Her skirt is being dragged up to her waist in seconds and his hands are brazenly exploring every inch of her lower body.  They slip beneath her panties to grasp at her rear, snake down the crevice of it to feel her desire.  When he notes at how wet she is, he moans and whispers roughly, “You’re soaking, mon coeur [3].” 
His tongue flicks out to trace the shell of her ear and she whimpers, partly because of his lustful words and partly because of his actions.  His fingers delve against her core, pressing into her and touching the vibrator near her entrance.  His breathing has turned hot and unsteady, and into her ear he pants, “Je veux vas te faire encule dans ce siège.  Avez-vous me voulez?” 
She moans and clutches him hard, shifting her hips against his hand and nearly losing herself right then and there.  How can she be so aroused?  She’s never had such a fast orgasm before, though she’s also never had an experience quite like this one.  His words make her ache, and in lilted French she whispers a desperate, “Oui, putain oui,” [5] because Christ, she thinks she’s never wanted anything so badly in her entire life.  It’s not desire anymore; it’s need.  Blistering callous treacherous need.
And then suddenly he’s standing, and her legs are wrapping tight around his waist as he moves stiffly through the cabin.  It takes her a dreary moment to realize where their destination is, and while the tiny little bathroom isn’t exactly the most sanitary or romantic place, it will just have to do.  It definitely beats being found out by the attendant anyway.
The door slides closed and immediately, Francis lowers her to the floor.  His fingers are hot and fast as they undress her, hooking around her panties and dragging them down.  He’s kneeling in front of her, wrestling them off her ankles when suddenly he stops, then looks up at her in a contemplating manner.  The look almost makes Melissa wary, and rightfully so, because that look is his “I’m-thinking-about-something-even-kinkier” expression.  And usually when he wears it, he’s got something new in store for her.
She frowns and asks, “Francis, what are you planning?”  Her tone is guarded, thoughtful.  Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t think there’s any real need to worry.  They are, after all, in a tiny little cubicle.  What could he possibly do?  The answer comes quickly, with a sort of electric surprise, when Francis smirks and removes the vibrator…only to nudge her legs further apart and ease it into her ass.
She jerks in shock and grips his shoulders hard, eyes wide.  But she doesn’t complain.  She might have if the vibrator had been bigger, but the small little bullet fits snugly inside her and barely hurts.  And besides, the vibrations of it in that area of her anatomy are, well, nothing short of mesmerizing. 
“Francis,” she breathes.  Her head is pressed back against the door and her chest is heaving.  He looks up at her through dark eyes that scream out all his passion at once, holding nothing back.  And when he slowly stands, his fingers are already at work, tugging his trousers down, freeing himself of his briefs, then quickly reaching for her skirt and removing it as well. 
“Tu es belle,” [6] he whispers, his voice a mix of reverence and hard desire.  His fingers slide to her dress shirt to work at the buttons, but he only undoes the first half of it.  There’s no time for anything else, and he’s always been impatient.  She’s obviously impatient as well, if her eyes have anything to say on the matter.  She looks at his body, at the stiff way his cock stands ready, and she pulls him closer.  He chuckles but there is nothing humorous in the cadence of his voice.  No, there is nothing but rough passion; the promise of a brutal finish.
Her hips are trembling from the pleasure of the vibrator, and Francis is quick to lift her legs up.  Melissa immediately clenches them around his waist and moans, feeling his cock burning against her core.  He breathes hard and fast in her ear, and warns, “I can’t be gentle, amante.”  The threat only makes her nod, dragging her hips against his again in silent demand.  This time, he reacts to her the way she wants him to.  He slides easily into her moments later.
No, he’s not gentle.  From the very first thrust he heaves her against the wall and slams her hips down.  His thrusts rattle her.  She’s left gasping quietly, hanging suspended against him as he roughly takes her.  She finds herself reveling in that dominance, and also in the desperate way he clings to her.  As if this lovemaking is not simply dominant or submissive, but has long surpassed the mundane thoughtless qualities of human definition.
His hips bruise hers.  The force of his movements is crippling but beautiful, in an almost twisted way.  Francis presses his forehead against the wall and inhales the scent of her.  It is musky sex mingled with the heady fragrance she often wears, and the combination makes him groan softly and move ever faster.  His cock scrapes over her inner walls and hits her hard and deep.  Each thrust is harder, deeper, until Melissa is digging her nails into his shoulders and mumbling, “Francis, oh God!” 
Her hips are shooting forward but he’s quickly intercepting them, forcing them roughly back and thrusting faster.  The vibrations that are still clinging to her are easily making him crazy.  He can feel them with every thrust, every tilt of his hips, and while he’s very much like to draw the moment out for as long as possible, he can’t allow himself to.  Not when she is clenching down on him and coming.  It is simply too much for him to handle and so he gives in.
The fall is peppered with murmurings that he’s barely conscious of, because he’s too busy focusing on the numb brilliance of his orgasm drilling through him.  Melissa watches him, eyes wide as his expression fades to delicious passion, the likes of which takes her breath away.  But Francis hardly notices her admiration, either, because he’s bursting and burying his face into her neck and muffling his moan and sinking as deeply as he can into her wet core.
He stays like that for several drawn out seconds and doesn’t appear to have any inclination to move.  But the vibrator is still on high and Melissa is squirming at the shades of discomfort that it brings, and so she says a little breathlessly, “Francis, take it out.”  Because it’s almost painful at this point; a feat that only tells her just how good she was just fucked.
He pulls back and looks down at her.  His cock is still buried in her core and the sight they make is rather lovely, in an exhausted-messy-erotic way.  He hums and helps her lower her feet to the floor, and as she stands he pulls out of her.  But her movements are shaky and, when she stumbles a little, Francis draws her up against his chest with a chuckle.
“Spread your legs for me, mon coeur,” he murmurs, kneeling down in front of her.  She sighs but obeys, and moments later Francis is pulling out the still vibrating bullet, then digging in his trousers for the remote control.  He tosses the vibrator into the sink to free his hands, and pulls her against him once more.  She comes easily, snuggling to his side with a hum and tipping her head back for him to kiss her.  He does, moments later, and the depth of the kiss has a beauty all its own, and her breath is once more pulled rather forcefully from her chest.
“How much longer is this flight?” she moans, her voice contorting into a whine.  Francis chuckles and threads his fingers through her hair, his eyes sparkling down at her.  “You do not sound afraid of being in the air anymore.  Have I fixed your problem?” there is something almost proud in the way he speaks, like he’s happy to prove that sex really is the answer to all of the world’s questions.  Melissa rolls her eyes at him and scoffs.
“More like started a whole new kind of problem,” she mutters, referring of course to the fact that having sex at fifty thousand feet is oddly addicting. 
“Ohonhonhon, will this new problem also include other modes of transportation?  Like trains?” his eyes shine and Melissa finds herself laughing, even though she knows that at least part of his question is completely serious.
She stretches up to cup his face, her lips drawing close to his as she whispers, “Maybe it will…”  And the delighted way her lover returns her kiss tells her that she’s undoubtedly just dug herself a hole and she’ll probably never hear the end of this conversation.  But then again she can’t really bring herself to care.

[1] Amante … lover
[2] Mon Dieu … My God
[3] Mon coeur … My heart
[4] Je veux vas te faire encule dans ce siège.  Avez-vous me voulez? … I want to fuck you in this seat.  Do you want me to?
[5] Oui, putain oui … Yes, fuck yes
[6] Tu es belle … You’re lovely


  1. I never fail to be amazed at your work. Each piece you make gets better and better and I'm instantly in love with everything you make. Keep up the good work!

  2. Hey, I was just wondering why you used "Vous êtes..." rather than "Tu est". The 'vous' form is more formal and not really used between couples or people that close. So, the whole thing would be "Tu est belle".
    I hope I'm not being too picky about this >_<

  3. That's called the MILE HIGH CLUB having sex on the plane so HOT!