
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1059099.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      OCs/France
  Character:
      France_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), OC!Nations
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Shota, Historical, Original_Character(s), previous_Rome/Gaul,
      barbarian, Conquest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-26 Words: 1729
****** 406 A.D. ******
by lovelessly
Summary
     (extremely old kink meme fill reposted here for archive purpose)
     For the prompt - The time is set during the Barbarian Invasions. I'd
     like to have a Young!France (still quite Gallic and related to the
     Roman Empire) raped by the barbarians (Vandals and/or Franks).
     Warning again for rape of underage character and numerous triggery
     images, not for the faint of heart.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Gallia feels the onslaught of their arrival in his bones, and helplessly, he
watches from the shelter of the woods as the battle rages over the frozen
river. Even after losing countless numbers of their warriors, enough to feed
the ravens until they fatten from their feast, the Vandals continue to push
through the defenses of the Frankish fighters. Their king’s death does not
deter them, and when the Vandals draw back and regroup with the Alans, this
last bloody surge carries them over the Rhine and into Roman territory. Into
Gaul…
He flees the battlefield, the sickening feeling of invasion causing his stomach
to roil. But he knows he cannot run fast or far enough. They will catch him in
the end, and with Rome weakened and rotting from the inside, barely able to
support his own people, Gallia has no chance of fending off the barbarian
forces.
For weeks, the Vandals and their allies ravage the cities and villages of Gaul,
murdering, burning, pillaging, raping. His people, Rome’s people now, having
nowhere to go, they must endure this, and so he suffers with them. As the days
pass, Gallia never stops feeling the fields burning on his skin, the senseless
slaughter ripping through his chest, the rape and plunder weakening him,
chipping away at his spirit until he can barely stand or walk and all he can do
is huddle into himself, praying for the barbarians to get out, just hurry and
get out.
The legion stationed at Durocorter hold their lines for as long as they can,
but the garrison is too inadequately manned to stand against the vast horde
hollering and bellowing in blood-rage as they stream through the trees. The
crash of axes and swords against shields rings out harshly in the grey light,
and the defenders, seeing defeat, eventually break under the attack. Soon the
barbarians are free to raid the doomed city, carrying off whatever they can -
food, wine, gold and silver, women and girls, setting fire to the rest. Above
the screams of the dying, the bishop’s calm prayer continues to drift upward
even after his bloody head rolls down the steps of the altar. The holy men and
women are dispatched to their creator, but it seems the Vandals have had enough
for now, and they withdraw from Durocorter with their spoils.
A lone young warrior detaches from the invasion force, approaching Gallia with
long strides, implacably calm. There is no mistaking who he is, for those ice-
blue eyes are as pale and unforgiving as his predecessor’s, the one who, with
Rome, brought down the pride of Gaul centuries before. Standing in an open
field with no cover nearby, Gallia freezes, short sword in hand, and at the
last second, he turns and runs. But he is easily outpaced and overpowered, the
sword knocked aside as if it were a toy, and he is thrown to the ground face
first. His arms are pulled back sharply, and he catches his breath, writhing in
agony.
He just barely understands the barbarian’s rough Latin muttered into his ear,
but the intention is clear. Gallia struggles to his knees as commanded,
offering no resistance as his breeches are yanked down and his woolen tunic
pulled up and out of the way. A callused hand palms at his groin, and he makes
a whimpering sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“No woman… but pretty enough,” Vandal says coolly.
He has heard those words before, and has yet to become used to what comes next.
The taste of fingers shoved into his mouth, the feeling of being forced open by
another, the searing pain of the first thrust into his unprepared body. Gallia
strains to yield, spreading his legs apart, arching his back, anything to
lessen the torment, but the barbarian only wrenches his arms even harder,
almost tearing them out of their sockets. Despite his resolve, Gallia screams,
hoarse, desperate cries. His arms are released long enough for Vandal to grab
him by his hair and push his face into the earth, silencing him effectively
before resuming the assault.
At least it is quick, though it feels more like an eternity. Still riding the
blood-rage, Vandal shudders and comes with a grunt, emptying himself into the
small body in his grip, then pulling out, satisfied at last. Trembling
violently, Gallia slumps to the earth, the insides of his bruised thighs
stained with blood and semen, too wracked by pain and humiliation to think of
covering himself. He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him
over.
The barbarian stares down at him emotionlessly, and in the light of the burning
city, amidst the wails of the suffering and the laughter of the triumphant, it
is like a glimpse into hell.
“He won’t come for you, Gallia. I’ve made you mine.”
 
He is covered with a cloak, being carried away from the city, and exhausted, he
soon loses consciousness. When Gallia next wakes, he has been bound hand and
foot and left lying alone in a tent, from the sound of it, close to the edge of
the enemy camp. Painfully, he slithers to the flap of the tent, peers through
the opening and immediately regrets doing so. Outside, a warrior is claiming
his prize, a dark-haired girl only a few years older than Gallia, long past the
point of screaming or fighting back. With a disgusted curse, the barbarian
shakes the girl by the shoulders, but her eyes roll back in her head, and he
abandons her ravaged lifeless body when two other tribesmen arrive. There is
the sound of argument among the three, obviously the girl’s unusable condition
angers the higher ranking men, and the disgraced warrior stalks away. Gallia
curls into a ball, heart thumping rapidly in his chest as he shuts his eyes
tightly, but he cannot block the sight of the girl being raped, nor could he
completely ignore the lingering soreness between his legs. Footsteps approach
the tent, and he stifles a gasp when the two barbarians enter. His pretense
does not fool them. Someone grabs him by one arm and pulls him to a sitting
position.
The men glance at each other in surprise, apparently expecting someone else.
Unsurprised, Gallia recognizes them despite having never seen them before.
Suebii, with his long yellow hair tied into an high elaborate knot, Alanii,
dark-haired and fearsomely scarred, these are the two tribes that followed
Vandal into Gaul.
He is sure they know who he is, or at least suspect his true identity.
Curiously, Alanii touches his hair, and Suebii says something in their language
that causes both to laugh.
“You were one of us before?” Alanii asks in crude Latin, his knife cutting
through the ropes tying Gallia’s wrists together.
Rubbing his hands, Gallia refuses to answer, but they can tell, for he is still
blond-haired and blue-eyed like the barbarians of the east, long after his
people have married into the empire and adopted its ways.
“But look, now you are one of them,” Suebii says while Alanii’s knife slides in
between Gallia’s thighs and flicks the hem of his Roman-styled tunic up,
exposing him. “Bad for you.”
“Good for us.” They strip him of his tunic and cloak until he kneels before
them, shivering and naked. Gallia shuts his eyes again, tries to not cry when a
hand force his mouth open.
“Don’t think of biting.”
It takes everything Gallia has left to not recoil in horror when something
thick and blunt thrusts in between his lips. Fingers curl into his hair,
holding him steady as he tries to accommodate the large organ mercilessly
pummeling his throat, and he must swallow the thick salty cum that suddenly
fills his mouth or risk suffocating.
Alanii withdraws, exhaling slowly, pleased. “He’s good,” he rumbles lazily to
his partner, and passes Gallia over to Suebii as if he were nothing more than a
skin of wine, meant to be enjoyed among friends.
Suebii is already hard from watching, his pale cheeks flushed, heavy leather
armor unbuckled haphazardly. Only a little while after Gallia takes him into
his mouth, he jerks and comes, almost urgently. They crave more, he can sense
that, because everyone always wanted more from him, the Romans, the Franks, but
Suebii and Alanii dare not risk playing any further with their leader’s war
spoil. Reluctantly, Suebii dresses him, fumbling with the pin of his cloak,
Alanii reties his bonds securely, and they depart without a further word.
 
Later that evening, Vandal finds him drowsing off in a corner of the tent. He
kneels down before Gallia, holding a plate a roast meat, a piece speared on the
end of his knife.
“Eat.”
But Gallia does not open his mouth, and when pressed, he makes a pitiful
gagging noise. He turns his head, coughing and then vomiting up what he has
swallowed. Vandal watches him grimly, and when Gallia has stopped heaving, uses
a rag to wipe away the foul whitish fluid from his mouth and chin.
Now Gallia breaks, and he starts to cry, sobbing miserably, humiliated and
violated. He weeps uncontrollably, not caring anymore because even after all he
has seen and experienced, he is still a child struggling to survive on his own.
It is not fair that he has to be treated like this, but when has anything in
his life ever been fair.
Finally, the sobbing subsides into pathetic little sniffs and hiccups, and
Vandal gathers the exhausted boy in his arms, lying down with him on the furs
spread over the floor of the tent. In the following silence, all he says is,
“You are not the only one who suffers.”
 
Perhaps those words were meant to be comforting, but Gallia would never know.
Vandal releases him the next day, only to hunt him down later as the barbarians
continue their plunder of Gaul, as a cat toys with a mouse. When they catch him
for the last time, three years after the crossing of the Rhine, they drag him
with them to the foot of the Pyrenaei mountains. Gallia watches helplessly as
the ever-hungry horde leaves his lands, exactly as he had prayed for, and then
he cries bitter tears for his sweet brother, whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I’m so sorry” into the wind blowing south.
End Notes
     [The crossing of the Rhine river, which marks the invasion of the
     Roman Empire by the Vandals and their allies the Germanic Suebii and
     the Alans of Eurasia, occurred in winter of 406 AD. In 409, the
     tribes head to Hispania and later the Vandals cross the Mediterranean
     Sea to invade Carthage in North Africa. Here I included the story of
     the bishop of Reims (Durocorter), who predicted the invasion of Gaul
     by the Vandals. The "brother" in this case is a fellow Roman
     territory, young Spain.]
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