Retribution by Mist Over Water

Hetalia © Hidekaz Himaruya
AU. Mpreg. USxUK. Non-con FrUK. GerIta.

Chapter Warnings
Rape, bitching out feminists and Thomas Hardy and fucking with the male reproductive system (goes into detail, y'all). The usual.

Chapter One
Between a Frenchman

"No…"

From a society of about two hundred years ago, or so the history books tell one our faithful protagonists, a group of women once formed together to create a group: 'Feminism'; a large group of women of whom agreed the social policies subjugated women, made women worth no more than the dirt that the men owned. Every part of society from religion to the family was created for the sole purpose of keeping the fairer sex in their place. Religion would scorn them for their menstruation and pregnancy, whilst within the family, the women served very little purpose. They would stay home, supposedly happy in their expressive role. Childcare and housework, childcare and housework, day in, day out. Week after week. Month after month. Sexual gratification one of their main duties for their husbands; with only one solution.

"Francis, please, stop!"

Marilyn Frye suggested, the Radical Feminists ate her words in an animalist hunger with the need of freedom. Separatism and political lesbianism. The two ideologies that broke a nation, then two, then three, and before the world could stop the raging oestrogen making its way around the world, the deed was done. The revolution that Marxism had promised, taken place for a cause far greater than that of Communism—. Effecting the world over, and would break every norm and value that had been thousands of years in creating. Men and women forever separated, to never be heard from again. Political lesbianism encouraged, with no way of reproducing.

"No, please, Francis, you're hurting me!"

Two hundred years ago, the revolution ended. The human race nearly found its end with the selfish want of freedom from the female race. Its beliefs a reality, would they be happy now? No longer would they interact with the enemy, with the sex that would often refer to itself as the 'better' or 'stronger'. Science (a higher being? Magic?) took hold of the desperate mammals, as the numbers began to dwindle, and in the last attempt of saving the highest of the food chain, their systems began changing. Would it be worth it? The men could only ask. Was Andrea Dwarkin telling the truth in that "all sex was rape"? Now would the sweeter sex be free of the subordination, of which they were sure they never forced upon them? Would they be free to roam the streets, free from the fear of being forced into sexual intercourse?

If that was the case, then why is it so that our main protagonist had found himself pinned between the Frenchman and a hard place? The rain of the island nation pouring over the two figures, both fully clothed, save for their trousers barely hanging around their legs. The heroine of our tale, Arthur Kirkland, wrapping his legs around Francis Bonnefoy, involuntary movements as he felt himself being stretched far too much. He groaned out in pain, throwing his head back as he lost what he had been savouring for the night of his wedding. The thrusting soft and gentle in an almost mock love as Arthur gripped onto his shoulders; bitten nails desperately attempting to dig in, trying to stop him. "Mon cheri…" The voice now husky, lips rubbing against the ears of the Briton, the barely post-adolescent hairs that were upon his chin tickling his cheek slightly, "You… Are… So tight…" The words were punctuated with thrusts, getting ever deeper, ever quicker.

"Francis—ngh…" Any thought of protest from the boy instantly pushed aside as the taller hit the prostate deep inside of him; flashes of pleasure overwhelmed the horror of what was happening. He could feel his tight ring of muscle bleed; the crimson liquid rolling gently down his thighs, while he barely felt the back of his once white shirt against the wall each time Francis would move the two of them in perfect harmony. "Francis—AH!" The Frenchman had pulled him down onto his cock, now fully sheathed, he continued to pound mercilessly into the virgin hole. "Why? Why? Why?…" He continued asking to air as the rain created a hybrid liquid with his tears; a concoction of which Francis was eager to lick away.

He cackled, allowing hi s tongue to travel over the smaller boys lips, but not asking for entrance, "You are very wet, mon ami. Wet… Tight… Hot." He took his hands from the other boys' backside, and reached down to the others throbbing member; flushed with arousal, and leaking as a way of begging for attention. He wrapped his hands around tightly, pumping harshly in time to his thrusts, "Crier mon nom… Venez pour moi!" The speed of both his motions grew rapid, and primeval instincts coursing through all of his veins, as the pleasure led his mind into an almost shut down, and through the darkness of his clenched eyes, his simplistic state of mind which fulfilled one of his natural urges led him to the light of pure bliss. So close, so close…

Arthur screamed. No longer caring if he bled or done damage to himself as he threw his head into the wall over and over, he screamed in hope that someone in the all-male society would hear him, and rescue him from this horrid reverie of which he was sure he was stuck, where the poet and novelist would write down in his wanton wisdom "where was Arthur's guardian angel?". His muscles spasmed and clenched, knowing of some foreign object that was tearing him apart from the inside; but he cursed his body for the lateness of the reaction. He had already spilled out onto the hands of his attacker, and screamed in the horror of feeling him do the same deep inside of him; filling him to the brim. The softening cock deep inside making him whimper in fear. The two looked at each other, panting as their afterglow took hold, "Francis," The eyes of the English countryside looking empty with fear, as the Frenchman smirked, pushing away the bangs of hair that was stuck to his face through the sweat and rain, "Francis, please. Let me go."

He kissed the flushed face, taking his hands from his cold skin, and watching as he slowly slid to the floor. The boy winced as his abused backside made contact with the wet pavement, barely even noticing the Frenchman pulling himself back into his clothing and leaving. Arthur sat in the barely formed puddle of water, watching his pathetic reflection cry, trying to fathom the events that had taken place in the night. Had not the revolution the teachers told him so much of stopped this? Or would Thomas Hardy's imaginative characters of a society long ago console him a warm fatalistic embrace of "it was meant to be"? He did not move; he ached, the white liquid that was coming from him was burning his very flesh where the taller boy had held him close.

He stood; redressing himself and limping with the fresh, burning pain behind him, he could only make his way to his house, making sure that he did not look behind him for fear of the memories haunting him through the dark streets of which he once called his safe haven: home.

Our second protagonist's family had moved to the United Kingdom from the United States generations before; after the March of Progresses revolution had proclaimed victory throughout the world, and the two societies were being filtered into which land masses would play host to which of the sexes. Whilst the country once known as USA would house part of the female population, the formerly UK would hold a part of the male population. Unfortunately, however, it had become apparent throughout the ages that the enthusiastic accent had not left. It was not rare, and one may say that the work of Caxton's fifteenth century printing press and Sir Samuel Johnson's first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary in seventeen-fifty-five had gone to waste in the way of standardising the English language; while a lot of people spoke the tongue, many kept the language that had been passed down through the generations—much as Francis took pride in the French connections of his family.

Our heroes name is Alfred F. Jones. Who, while on his eighteenth year to heaven—much like Briton and the Frenchman—enjoyed unknowingly conforming to the stereotypes that citizens of the world had placed upon Americans two hundred years prior. However, as much as he loved to play video games (despite the fact that spending hours staring at a television set had caused him to constantly wear glasses that he despised), and to spend most of the money he made working at the local movie theatre during his lunch hours at school, at the local McDonalds, there was one thing he loved more—although thing being a rather incorrect noun; person. The same person whom he was waiting for in class; a last minute seminar for those sitting a Health exam that same afternoon. The final exam before they had to wait for graduation, and deciding what to do thereafter.

"We are unsure as to what caused it," The monotonous voice droned on—although, to his shrill American accent, any British accent was a slight bore. "But when the numbers decreased to an amount that nearly put us extinct, our bodies adapted to help the survival of our race. While once we needed females to reproduce, this is no longer the case." The professor at the front of the class pulled out the chart, showing two different versions of a person's insides. "All men have the ability to carry children. At the same time, all men have the ability to create children. Although we do not… Hm, 'menstruate' like women used to, whenever penetrated, man can take the sperm of another man, and create a baby! Now—"

The door swung open, and Arthur limped in, taking his seat next to Alfred, of whom was excitedly fidgeting in his seat. "Sorry I'm late," He almost mumbled to the professor, before looking to his lover of eighteen months, "Sorry. I must have slept through my alarm." There was no signs of affection in his words like Alfred was used to, which increased his worry for the shorter boy. Wanting to ask why he was limping as badly as he was; needless to say, Arthur was happy to be in the middle of a lecture, ensuring that his boyfriend would not be able to question the suspicious limp he was sporting. Instead, he looked to the teacher and began taking notes.

"Where was I?" Mr. Van Dis paused for a moment, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose in concentration, "Ah! Yes. There are many tell-tale signs that show that you have conceived; morning sickness, of course, although inappropriately named. When I was expecting, I was vomiting left, right and centre! Ah, but it's worth it—Damn. Digressed again. Tell me when I do that, won't you? Anyway, other symptoms of pregnancy are weight gain, and particularly the widening of the hips; women had particularly wide hips centuries ago to ensure that they could safely carry babies, and this trait has been passed down to expecting males. It is also said to be done to accommodate the changing of the reproductive system, but we'll get to that a bit later."

Arthur looked to the teacher as he shuffled papers; probably notes of what the class had wanted to go over before they entered their exam, however, as he looked down, he saw a note written in the chicken like scratching. The barely knowledgeable handwriting of his boyfriend, reading: 'i saw u limpin u k'. Kirkland managed to push through the infuriating homophonic representation and use of non-standard grammar to smile at the care Jones showed him, just shook his head and held hands with the honey-blonde under the table, squeezing and stroking it in hopes to silently convey his meaning of being fine. The guilt took hold somewhat, however, and he silently asked himself if Alfred should ever find out about Francis. He mentally scolded himself. No. Nothing was to come of it, and if Alfred and he ever did sleep together, and the other boy questioned why he was not as tight as he would imagined, then the truth would come out.

"Other symptoms include increasing appetite, particularly craving foods of which you did not have an interest in before. Mood swings are another big give away; one moment you may be clinically depressed and the next out of control horny. If you—somehow—miss these symptoms, then very late in the pregnancy, you will notice an increase in the size of your chest, and darkening of the nipples. Why? The body begins creating milk, and also starts readying these 'breasts' for feeding." He walked around the front of his class, noticing the agitated shuffling in their seats; particularly that of Arthur Kirkland—although, he always did get nervous before an examination. "I see that we're running out of time, is there any questions?"

"Ve~!" The Italian student raised his hand, and with the permission granted to speak, he continued, "Yeah, um, how do we birthing?"

Mr. Van Dis chuckled, seeing more moving around within the seats. Students always hated the explanation; whether it be due to them imagining it, or just because of the charts and pictures he liked to show them—you know, just for them to get the real effect of what birthing was like, not because he was incredibly proud of himself for putting up with such pain. He motioned to the diagrams of the human bodies, "Digestive [he pointed to the large intestines] and reproductive [he pointed to the womb]. Two elements of the body which end in the same place [after watching the squirming of pain from his students, he pointed to the rectum]. About a week before birth, the body begins preparing for the main event. Everything is cleared, you'll lose your appetite—nice fun fact, if you do force yourself to eat, your body will just reject it, and no one wants that. The nesting stage begins, where constant baby-proofing and laying about. Then labour. The waters breaks, waiting to dilate, and finally, the walls of muscle contract, you push and you have your baby!"

'at least we dont c a pic 2day huh artie'.

Arthur chuckled, looking to his boyfriend, and could not help but smile. As the class was being dismissed to the examination hall, he kissed those chapped lips, taking in the feel and scent of being so close to the American. "Good luck," He murmured, holding his hands tightly, they stood, and followed the crowd of adolescents to the room in which their fate would be decided, just before entering, they exchanged an embrace. The sound of Alfred's beating heart soothing any worries about the night before in almost an instant—and any worries about having to sit on his sore arse for two hours straight. They pulled away, and shared a quick kiss, "You're still taking me to prom this weekend, right?"

Alfred winked, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Authors Note

I felt kind of blasphemous while writing this watching the Diamond Jubilee celebrations… Heh. Also I'm unsure as to whether or not I'm continuing this. I've got final exams until the 20th of June, so don't expect an update before then.
Also, before I get any hate mail, no. I'm not against feminism (hell, if it wasn't for them, I probably wouldn't be able to do this!), I am however against a branch of feminism called the Radical Feminists! 'Kay?

Completed 6/6/2012