Sunday, February 14, 2016

A France Lemon -- Roses Red

Character: France

OC: [Name]

Fandom: Hetalia

Inspiration: Because Valentine’s Day is the day of clichés, which makes France the perfect candidate.  And because I thought I should post something since it's the holiday of love and all that crap :)  

You’ve been dreading this day, expecting the absolute worst.  But oddly enough, there is no bouquet of roses waiting for you in the kitchen when you wake up.  No mushy note near the coffee pot.  Francis barely glances your way as he rushes out to his car, giving you only a brief peck before disappearing.  You go to work feeling wary, but he doesn’t appear outside the building during your lunch break, and no flowers are sent to your office at all.  It’s glorious.
You’re in a good mood when you drive home from work.  Francis must be extremely stressed out if he actually forgot about Valentine’s Day.  So – because you’re not heartless, usually – you make a quick stop at the grocery store and buy a box of chocolates.  It’s not exactly the most extraordinary gift, but you have a feeling France won’t mind.  He’s very gracious when it comes to accepting such things, and anything cliché is his forte.  Which is why you also end up buying one of the red roses that are displayed near the registers.  It’s a little bit wilted but just cliché enough to have an effect, you’re sure.
You’re grinning when you open the door to your apartment.  You absolutely loathe Valentine’s Day, and Francis seems to have forgotten about its existence entirely, which makes the sun a little brighter and your smile a little softer.  He usually drags you out to some fancy restaurant every year.  You enjoy dressing up for it, but the idea of not making a big deal out of the frankly ridiculous holiday has you sighing with happiness as your kick your shoes off and meander into the kitchen. 
You don’t see him at first, though you know he’s home.  There’s some kind of movie playing in the living room.  Soft, old fashioned voices lilt their way through the doorway.  You don’t think much of it.  Francis likes his black and white movies.
With a soft hum, you put your purse down and take your gifts, wandering into the living room in your search for him.  But when you step into said room, all thoughts flee.
It is transformed.  The television is playing some romantic old movie and the couch is strewn with pillows and even the quilt from your bed.  There are little fairy lights hung up by the windows, which are drawn just enough to shed only the barest rays of evening light.  Dimmed and beautiful, the dull light gleams on a bottle of champagne, which is set up by the couch on the small table along with two flutes.  It looks like the expensive sort.  And then there’s the fact that Francis has strewn the entire room with roses.  Literally every inch of it.  A large bouquet stands ready by the television, and the couch is littered with petals.  It’s so cliché you that actually choke.
“Ah, mon amour.  There you are,” his low voice sounds behind you.  Before you can turn, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him, resting his chin on your shoulder with a smirk.  He chuckles and you’re stuck between excitement and drowning in all the clichés that you think are ridiculous.
“…Rose petals?  Really?” you hear yourself ask.  Damn.  He hadn’t forgotten after all, he’s just been bidding his time to surprise you. 
He chuckles again, “You should see the bed.”  He smirks when you groan, and peppers your exposed neck with a fluttering of kisses to appease you. 
“But what’s this?” he wonders idly, wrapping his fingers around the wrist that’s holding the rose you bought.  “For me?  How romantic of you, amour.”  You let him extricate it from your grasp and you sigh, turning in his arms and thrusting the chocolates at him too, without preamble. 
“I thought you forgot, so I felt bad, which made me buy you this crap to make you feel better, and now obviously I regret it because you didn’t forget after all – “ you ramble, thinking to make him understand.  But Francis only smiles down at you, looking gleefully pleased that you’d gone out of your way.  He takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, soft and gentle and so cliché and romantic –
“Forget about Valentine’s Day?  How on earth could I?” he asks with a laugh.  Then he brings you closer to quietly say, “Thank you, ma chérie.” [2] And presses a kiss to your mouth.
He pulls away to lift the slightly wilted rose to his face, inhaling the soft scent of it as he sends you a smile.  For some abhorrent reason, a blush actually creeps over your face at the sight.  You’re sure it’s because you’re a tiny bit embarrassed that he seems to like your gifts so much when his gifts are so much…more.  He had obviously put a lot more time in this than you, and yet here he is, holding your cheap rose with gentle fingers and looking at you as if you’re a Goddess proving your love through metaphoric gestures.
“Ah – your jacket,” he suddenly says, realizing that you’re still wearing it.  You pause, then start unbuttoning the coat.  Of course you should’ve known that Francis wouldn’t let you do something so mundane on the day he sets aside to practically worship you.  (Sarcasm aside, you suppose you could have it worse.)
He folds the jacket over his arm and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with twinkling eyes.  “Now how shall I seduce you tonight?” he wonders, clearly enjoying the scrunched expression you send him as the words reach you.
You mumble something incoherent beneath your breath and then say louder, “You can do whatever you want, Francis, but I’m going to take a shower first.”  And then you start off for the bedroom.  Behind you, Francis exclaims something about how the two people on the television screen are about to have the most romantic kiss in the history of movie kisses and that you’re being a spoil sport – but you’ve already disappeared and he huffs.  He thinks about joining you (of course) but pushes the hot-blooded desire down.  That can come later, he promises himself.
Ma fille têtue…” [3] shakes his head and grins to himself, tapping his chin idly.  “I think I’ll enjoy making her break.”  His eyes flicker as he watches the historically romantic kiss, and he smiles to himself.
Meanwhile you’ve become an incredulous sentinel in the bedroom doorway because you’re too busy staring at the rose petals on the bed to remember the shower you were going to take.  Seriously.  Rose petals everywhere.  You shake your head with a sigh and an image randomly springs to mind – of Francis below you, sprawled out amongst those petals and peering up at you with smoky eyes, made all the more lovely with the luxurious setting – but you toss it away as soon as it emerges. 
The shower makes you feel refreshed and ready to face the evening that awaits.  You take your time drying off and even wonder, for a moment, what Francis’s reaction to you would be if you wore your most hideous pair of pajamas.  Would he laugh at the obvious move and mention how you can’t get out of his plans so easily?  Or will he make a face and abandon his seduction plans?  The thought makes you make a face – you might not be a huge fan of rose petals or champagne or Valentine Day, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy being intimate with Francis.  In fact, the very thought of ignoring all his cliché décor and going right to sex makes you smirk.  Perhaps he won’t be the one doing the seducing after all.  Perhaps you should turn the tables on him.
So you select the sexiest pair of lingerie you can find and sit down at your vanity, drawing your fingers through your tangled, damp hair.  He likes the little details, the little, unnecessary things that you sometimes do just because.  You put in earrings, little ones that match the black lingerie.  Slip a delicate black robe over your shoulders.  Then after a moment’s hesitation, you clasp on the simple silver pendant Francis had gotten you decades before.  The heart shaped pendant rests just below the hollow of your throat; noticeable enough for him to see it on first glance.  You have a feeling he will very much like to see it there.
You stalk out of the bedroom like you’re going to battle.
Francis idly glances over at you from the couch, where he’s got the bottle of champagne propped between his legs as he wrestles with the cork.  His fingers pause immediately upon sight, eyes hungrily scanning the length of your body before landing on the necklace around your neck.  His gaze softens just a touch, but only just.  He’s clearly got other things on his mind now, besides gentle romance. 
You stand between his knees and smirk, reaching out to curl your fingers around the neck of the champagne.  Then on a whim, you mischievously move said fingers over the neck in an action rather similar to when you touch him.  He notices, of course.  His eyes flash dangerously, as if he’s asking you when kind of game you’re playing, and what the rules of it are.
But there are no rules.  You pull the champagne away from him and deposit it back onto the side table, then kneel down between his legs.  You’ve barely even done anything and you can already detect the slightest hint of hardness tenting up his trousers. 
“I see you’re more interested in getting right to it,” he murmurs with a chuckle, reaching out to touch the necklace you’re wearing with a fond smile.  “Tempting,” he admits, “but I would rather be the one between your legs.”
You can’t help the shiver that catches you, can’t stop it from shaking down your spine.  You have a feeling he notices, but you just smile.  “Isn’t Valentine’s Day about love?  Why do I have to be the only one on the receiving end?”  Your hands creep up, and he watches carefully as your fingertips tap against his thighs.  His resolve is breaking.  Of course it is.  He’s got a woman between his legs, suggesting in so many words to suck him off.  What man could refuse?
“Amour, I – “ he interrupts himself with a hiss that makes you smirk in amusement.  Your fingers have found that hardness, and you’re rubbing him through his trousers while your free hand works on the button.  Despite his complaints, Francis shifts his legs apart a little.  He obviously wants you to continue, no matter what he says.
You pull the zipper down and he pauses for only a moment before lifting his hips a bit and helping you pull the trousers away.  He sighs, “You aren’t making this easy, are you?”  But you barely hear him.
With the trousers gone, his cock stands ready, curling up into the air.  He’s half hard, but you’ll fix that soon enough.  The prospect is exciting enough to make your eyes gleam as you glance at the rest of him.  His button up shirt is splayed out over his lower abdomen, hiding the muscles of his chest away.  But – you’re getting ahead of yourself.  First things first: make Francis so aroused that he abandons all this cliché shit.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and his eyelids flutter.  A lilt of French escapes him as you start to pump him gently, but it’s an incoherent string of words.  A good sign, that.  When you lower your mouth to suck at the tip of him, he curls his fingers into your damp hair and chuckles.
“You are a minx,” he tells you, watching as you slowly take his cock into your mouth.  It’s rather lovely, the sight of him disappearing between your lips.  He decides to allow you your fun, though he knows it’s only because he can’t possibly deny you anything when you’re kneeling between his legs pleasuring him.
Fire shoots through his veins, sparked by the delicious feeling of your tongue as it rushes over the underside of his shaft.  Your fingers add to the heat by pumping the rest of him, and soon you’re setting a teasing pace that has him holding his breath and shifting his legs apart for easier access.  All his carefully thought out plans are slowly diminishing into the back of his mind, replaced by the abrupt desire to turn to more primal instincts.  He can revisit his more romantic strategy later, when he can actually string together a rational thought.
You pull your mouth away to pepper him with kisses, fluttery touches that make the muscles of his legs tense.  You drag your mouth down, down, down, until your tongue is licking over his balls and you’re sucking at them while your hand pumps him and up and down.  The combined sensations make Francis crumble, and this time the stream of French is very coherent to you.  You smile at the curses you hear him mutter.
There’s nothing quite like the empowered feeling of having him right where you want him, knowing that he’s going half insane because of you.  With one last lick, you flatten your hands over his thighs and devour his cock, pulling it back into your mouth with the intent to make him utterly crazy – and it only takes a moment for it to work.  He hisses, clutches at your hair and bucks his hips up into your mouth, letting loose a moan that makes you wet and eager.  But you ignore your own needs for now, because the sight of him is too beautiful and you don’t want to distract yourself from it.
You bury him into your mouth, so deep that your nose brushes against the blond hair that litters his pelvis, and then you swallow.  The feel of your throat convulsing around his cock is enough to make him moan loudly, his body transforming into an inferno of heat that laps at his skin and makes him feel flushed.  He’s so aroused that he can’t even breathe properly, only pant in shallow gasps.  And then you raise your eyes to meet his, and the sight of your peering up at him with his cock buried to the hilt in your mouth makes him grit his teeth and shakily murmur, “If you keep that up, I won’t be of much use to you later.” 
His orgasm feels imminent.  He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been anticipating his intimacy all day, or if it’s just you and the extraordinary way you make him feel.  Whichever, his words do have some impact on you because you slowly, slowly drag his member out of your mouth.  Your eyes never leave his as he watches more and more of him reappear from between reddened lips.
Your hand replaces your mouth.  “We can’t have that,” you say with a wicked smile, and he practically groans all over again just at the sight of it.  Still, despite your words, your tongue darts out and flicks at his tip, and the movement breaks him.
As shivers dart through him, Francis clenches his jaw and shoots forward, making a split second decision as he heaves you onto your feet.  “No, we can’t,” he growls, and drags you off to the bedroom with all the determination of a man bereft of love.
You let him, laughing giddily when he lifts you up and tosses you onto the bed.  The movement causes your robe to flutter open, revealing pale thighs and more of your lacy back lingerie.  His eyes darken at the sight, and Francis takes a brief moment to look you over like you’re a present he’s about to unwrap.  It’s not an idle sentiment, because the next moment he’s crawling after you and untying the robe, shifting a hand over your leg and tracing the line of your panties.  Your breath catches as you watch him pull his shirt off, muscles roiling as they follow his movements.
“My turn,” he murmurs with a sinful smile, and abruptly ducks his head down to press his tongue over the cloth that covers your core.  It’s already wet from your arousal.
His teeth sink into the fabric, gently nipping and teasing and suckling.  You arch your back with a moan, thighs trembling.  It’s such an impromptu touch that you’re taken completely off guard despite the fact that you really should have anticipated it.  Francis is nothing if not thorough, especially when it comes to reciprocating affection.  And this sort of affection happens to be his favorite.
“Francis – “ you start, fingers grappling toward him.  But he intercepts them, curling his own fingers around your wrists and pinning them against your stomach in a fit of dominant passion.  He laps at you and it’s not nearly enough, because you can’t feel him properly with the panties still covering you.  You writhe and pant and try to shift yourself from his grasp, but his fingers only tighten around your wrists and he doesn’t let you gain the upper hand.
He chuckles against you, eyes dancing as he glances up at your form.  To say that he likes the outfit would be an understatement, and the fact that he can make you so crazy when you’re not even fully naked sends a pulse of male pride through him.  He’d like nothing more than to just tear the lingerie off of you and fill you with his cock, which is pressing diligently and maybe even a little painfully into the mattress as he hovers above you.  But he wants to make you as crazy as you make him, and besides, he loves seeing you flushed and breathless from his teasing.
His tongue darts out and firmly circles your core, tasting you through the thin layer of cloth.  The move is calculated: he makes sure to make the circle wide enough to encompass the bundle of nerves at the top of your clit.  His reward comes in the form of a stunning gasp.  Your fingers clench around his, tight and clinging as your hips roll up to his face. 
“Francis!” you cry again, both a complaint and a plea.  It’s a lovely sound that goes straight to his cock, which twitches greedily.  It takes all his self control not to just rut into the mattress to take away some of the strangling desire.
He smirks wickedly and grasps both your wrists in one hand, moving the other down to hook his finger into the edge of the panties to drag the cloth that cover your core to the side.  Then his tongue is lapping at your bare skin, wet and wanting for more of his touches, and you let out a sharp keening moan that makes him abandon your wrists to lift your hips closer to his face. 
The moment you’re free, you clench your fingers into his hair and push your hips up, pressing your clit to his face with all the wanton desire you can muster.  It must make quite the sight, because he doesn’t last long in that position before Francis is muttering a swift curse and letting your hips fall back to the mattress.  You’re aching and throbbing so much that you barely even notice the way he jerks your panties down your legs and starts on your bra.  A quick press of fingers and it’s gone, bringing the robe with it.  Then he’s nestling between your thighs, rubbing his cock against the wet seam of your entrance, and leaning down to press his lips against yours.
You moan, wrapping your arms around his shoulders with a soft cry.  Your hips wriggle against him, demanding him to finally take you – and he does, because he probably wants to fuck you more than you want to fuck him, and that’s saying quite a lot.
He slides in easily, smoothly.  You’re so wet that you barely feel the strain at all, and you just moan all the louder because it feels so good to be filled with him.  The moment Francis is hilted inside you, he lets out a breathy moan that makes you all the crazier, and immediately starts off at a pace that threatens to make you come much faster than you thought possible.
“Oh yes, yes,” you mumble, nonsense streaming from your lips as his hips pin you down again and again.  He stretches you, delves deep and then rushes back in, and it isn’t until the immediate ache of his desire is quenched that he even thinks about slowing down.  But it’s impossible.  As much as he enjoys slow lovemaking, his need for you is insatiable.  He can’t slow down.  He can only go faster, writhing against you and soaking up your moans.
Your nails bite into his back, wrack over his skin.  He barely feels it.  He can only feel the immense pleasure that comes from the way you wrap around him, the way he fits so snugly inside you and slides so easily against your inner walls.  It’s glorious, beautiful.  He loses himself in you.
“Francis,” you moan, low and breathy in his ear, and he thinks he’s seconds away from breaking entirely when you gasp and arch and come – and the rush of desire that rises up within him at the sight makes him groan.  He follows immediately.  You pull him down into the shade of your love and he forgets what it is to be one person, separate from you.  He forgets everything except the way you hold him, yearn for him, sigh out when you feel him fill you with the heat of his release.  His thrusts stumble, his pace shatters, and he lowers his head to your chest and sighs out too, floating between emotions he cannot name as calm tranquility replaces the burn of his passion.
It takes a few minutes for him to acknowledge anything besides that peace.  Your fingers card through his hair, massaging over his scalp as you lay beneath him in satiated exhaustion.  Loving him takes a lot of energy but you doubt you’ll ever be able to stop. 
“You know this is only round one,” he mumbles, raising his head to give you a lazy smirk.  You raise an eyebrow and he shifts his body up over you before laying back down at your side.  You fit yourself against him, hooking one leg over his hips and reaching up to pluck a rose petal from his hair.  How it got there, you’ve no idea, but suddenly you find the situation very amusing.
A gentle, playful scoff, and you say, “Rose petals.  You are aware that you don’t need to do all this, right?” 
It’s his turn to arch his brow.  He looks at you carefully, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a smile as his eyes glimmer with warmth.  His fingers trace your cheekbone as he murmurs, “It’s Valentine’s Day.  Would you prefer I ignore you entirely like an utter brute?”  You laugh.
“I love you,” you say instead, because suddenly you don’t care about his clichés.  The tired happiness that creeps over you makes you find it endearing instead of annoying, and you lift yourself up to kiss him slowly.
“Mmmm…” he sighs, kissing you back with all the slow passion he’s been waiting to use.  Round two is equally as sentimental.

Extended Ending

“More champagne?” Francis asks, lifting the half empty bottle to your glass.  You hum in agreement and he fills it with the sparkling liquid.  An arm wraps around your bare shoulders and pulls you closer to his chest.  He gently taps the rim of your glass to his with an idle smile.  In the background, the black and white movie is replaying, serenading you with the softly lilting voices of decades prior.
It’s late, past midnight probably, but time seems to pass silently between you.  You tug your quilt closer and press your bare skin against his beneath it, sending Francis a little smile as you do.  He chuckles lowly and kisses your cheek.
“This is nice,” you admit, and it is.  The romantic movie, the flowers and the lights – it all adds to the gentle ambiance of the room.  But the nicest part is him, him and his love for you and the way it makes your heart warm and happy and anchored.
He hums, another soft chuckle escaping him, “I liked your methods just as much.”  A teasing, mischievous glint creases his eyes and you fail to fight back a grin.
“I’ll remember that for next year,” you say, and press your mouth to his with soft intent.  He quickly makes it more, burning that softness away and replacing it with passion as easily as if he were breathing.  It shouldn’t surprise you – Francis exudes passion if everything he does, even if said things have no romantic potential at all.  But it still makes you drown against him, and you laugh when he takes your champagne flute and deposits it onto the table without preamble. 
You don’t sleep in your rose strewn bed that night; the couch happens to be infinitely more comfortable as it is.


[1] Mon amour … My love
[2] Ma chérie … My dear
[3] Ma fille têtue … My stubborn girl


  1. Oh my god! Author-san I just have to let you know how extremely delicious and wonderful your lemons are. Never have I ever read anything this good. Its so hard to find decent lemons so when I found yours it was like striking gold! :D Please keep the awesome work! France is just adorable BTW (= ̄▽ ̄=)V

  2. Oh my, please don't EVER stop writing your novel worthy works of art <3 I would absolutely die without them inspiring my own crappy work when I do find the time to write. I wish I knew where you got your heated and breathtaking stories from! I wish I could share in the well of your knowledge because you are a Goddess of a writer and I shall forever worship the words you write. You make me believe in fairy tales again :)

    1. I love you. Haha. Thank you, really! I couldn't even tell you where I get my inspiration. I guess I'm just a sappy romantic at heart. At least I have a (slightly) healthy outlet for it :) <3

  3. Wow. They get better and better every time. I really love your writing, and it honestly is one of the best out there. Keep up the good work, girl!

  4. I need more tissues...and more lemons XD
    I really liked this one,its definitely my favorite Valentine's fanfiction!

  5. As a grammar fanatic, I congratulate you on using têtue and fille correctly. So many people use it like it's English and put the adjective before the noun. Good job.