Oh my god an update.
Hi~ SRG is here with a story. I rarely write sequeals to other people's stories, but this one just had to be done. I tried THRICE to put int eh link but hates links=n= Just search regret vore france/england and it should pop up on google as a deviantart story. Please go and take a look. it would help the author so much~
=w= I'm never reading another vore story ever again.
Enjoy Revenge. I also apologise for any other typos or misconceptions.
Any person that has anything against these kind of stories, please do not therefore take the effort to click the link, scroll down without reading the story or author notes and then type me a flaming review=n= because that's just plain stupid. Had it happen to me once.
France, though he will not admit to it, has eaten many strange foods and ingredients. Snails and frogs legs are a common example if you were to think of the guy, and if asked, you were almost certain to hear of other ingredients from his list that is just as diverse. However, the Frenchman would be sure to omit one little detail from the list of things he had eaten.
He would never say that he had eaten England.
Long story short, England had shrunk himself, and on a dark whim, France had swallowed him whole as revenge for all the trouble the Brit had put him through. France could still remember feeling the Englishman in his belly his stomach trying to get out, and the sound of his little voice growing fainter and fainter as his stomach acids did its job.
He didn't regret it all too much. All he wished was that the Englishman tasted better. But it is England. He always expected too much from him.
England's absence was noted in the next Allies meeting. America noticed the lack of retort, China noticed the lack of the readily brewed tea England usually made and Russia noticed the lack of the exploding Busby's chair he would always sit in. There was another, a ghost that tried to voice that England wasn't there, but everyone, as usual, ignored it. (A.N: CANADAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)
But that was all that was to come from England's absence. No one actually missed him. So France listened to the American's usual boisterous suggestions with a dark smirk on his lips, hidden behind gracefully folded hands.
Had he known this would be the result, maybe he should've done it sooner.
So, France gallivanted throughout his life, innocent, and carefree.
Well, France wished this dark little tale ended that way. That was far from the case, however.
It was subtle at first. But things began to occur in his house. Though maybe occur wouldn't be accurate. The gourmet country wasn't sure if occur would be the right word if there was no proof of it happening without explanation.
First would be his cooking utensils. France was used to leaving his pots and pans on the stove or in the sink. His kitchen would always be a litter of silver pots and pans arranged in a way only the Frenchman could understand. However, he began to notice how sometimes there would be a saucepan or pot left on the stove, when it wasn't meant to be there. He knows, because the surface would always be sparkling clean of any oil or grease from whatever he might've cooked. What would a clean pan be doing on the stove?
But that was manageable. No harm.
Next would be his kitchen drawers. They would always be open in the morning. What was slightly worrying was that the drawer that was always open was the knife drawer. Wide open for the entire world to see. Thankfully, though France was never sure why he felt such relief, none of the knives inside were moved. He'd close the drawer and be on his merry way.
Again, manageable and harmless; and most importantly, able to be written off by a theory of his own forgetfulness.
This continued for about a week, and France, while perturbed, decided to ignore it. Then it began to involve things he loved, and it grew out of control.
France likes to have a glass of wine at the end of the week, to let the stress of work (and idiots) out of his system. Sitting his stylish lounge, he poured himself a glass of sparkling ruby wine, swirling it for a moment in the crystal glass, savouring the moment, its colour and scent before putting the cup to his lips.
The liquid ran over his taste buds, fruity and sharp (A.N: I don't know…is that what alcohol tastes like?) and already that little familiarity melted all the tension from his shoulders. For that one moment, it was another perfect night of his life.
Then he swallowed; and the wine became thick and salty.
His ice blue eyes snapped open and he chokes on the taste as he pulls back to gaze at the offending glass of 'wine'. The liquid in the glass was still a deep rich dark red, but the liquid stained the crystal edges with a sickening almost congealing thickness and a coppery scent reached his nostrils.
Blood.
France dropped the glass with a yelp and fought the urge to retch as he paled, slapping a hand over his mouth. He could still taste it deep in his throat, warm and sticky, and he could almost feel it settle in his stomach. He heard the glass clink on his glass coffee table and the liquid spill onto carpet. A small part of his mind screamed at how the stains would be a pain to remove. Another part chanted fervently how he wasn't mad as he whipped his head to gaze at the red liquid spilling over the table.
It was wine again, the usual fruity tang scenting the air as the liquid dripped slowly onto his carpet, the wine glass rolling innocently towards him. Picking it up with a shaky hand, France was ready to accept the theory that maybe the bottle he opened had perhaps spoiled, though France knew he had just purchased the bottle from his usual wine store around the corner three days ago and the bottle is as fresh as it could be.
The bloody aftertaste in his throat begged to disagree.
France tossed the whole bottle away and spent the rest of his day scrubbing the red stain out of his carpet before going to bed.
Disturbed of the happenings around his house, the next day, he invited Spain and Prussia over for dinner, hoping that maybe some company would dispel whatever it was that was affecting his life. The duo thought this odd, as usually France cooks for no one and dinner from him is usually forced out. Nonetheless, they received their invitation graciously and travelled to his place. Dinner from France is just worth it.
"How rare! For you to cook for us without asking!" Spain trilled as he bounced into his chair.
"Kesesesese. You must be in a good mood then!" Prussia remarked as he placed himself down at the table. France gave a wry smile as he served his friends a plate of seasoned steak and vegetables, topped with gravy. His skin had a slightly more pale tone, and his eyes had very faint bags under them, but if they didn't notice, he wasn't going to comment, and just convince himself nothing was wrong.
"Oui." France said almost grimly, as he turned his back to serve his own plate. "I'm in a good mood." However, despite his subdued outlook on his evening so far, he felt a sense of relief. In cooking his dinner that night, there had been no disturbances, no opening or closing drawers or doors, no hallucinations. Overall, it seemed that company really was the cure-
SQUELCH!
A sicking sound of a fork being speared through something raw and fleshy pierced France's calming thoughts followed a knife being dragged through something thick and sinewy. France's fought off the familiar feeling of disgust and nausea as he whipped around to see the cause of the noise. He gazed at his two friends and promptly dropped his plate in shock, not registering the sound of shattering china or the looks of surprise and slight worry on his startled friends' faces.
"What's wrong amigo?" Spain asked with his mouth full, as his fork stabbed another morsel of bloody, raw, disturbingly humane looking flesh.
"Yeah!" Prussia said, with his mouth full and blood dribbling down his chin. He smeared a piece of flesh around his plate, trying to coat the peeling skin with the dark red congealing sauce. "You just dropped your own plate, man! You always yell at us for waste of food and messy eating and here you are-"
"DON'T EAT THAT!" France screamed, darting forward and fiercely grabbing the Prussian's wrist, pulling a cry of surprise from the albino.
"France! Fuck! What now?!" He demanded, trying to break his wrist out of his grip.
"Si amigo. I mean, you made this for us; it should be safe to eat! It's just steak!" The Spaniard added, waving his fork in his face. "See?" Sure enough, pulling back to get a double take, the grotesque bloody mess on their plate was gone; steak and vegetables once more, the gory mess on Prussia's face and plate once again just gravy. The Spanish brunette stood up, a look of worry and, an answer to France's fear, wariness on his face as he slowly approached the Frenchman and ran his fingers gently across his brow. "Are you really ok? You don't look so great." France pulled away from his touch as if it was fire, turning away to avoid his stare.
"I'm fine." He answered in a shaky voice, ripping off his apron and leaving it messily on the bench. "You two keep eating, sil vous plait. As much as you like."
"What about you?" Prussia asked, already getting seconds.
"I lost my appetite." He replied curtly and rushed out of the kitchen. He was panting for breath as he climbed his stairs and leaned against the wall by a mirror in the hallway, trying to calm his rushing heart and ease his jumbled mind.
I'm not going mad. I am not going mad. I would never have conjured up such…!
Straightening himself, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and for a moment couldn't recognise himself. His complexion was waxy and white, his skin having lines of stress and broken out in a cold sweat, his eyes wild dull blue orbs. What was happening to him?! He dashed into his room and didn't come out for the rest of the afternoon, even when his friends came up to check on him.
When he finally had the courage to come down and enter his kitchen, he found that his friends had eaten everything (pigs that they were, or that was just how good France's food was) and were kind enough to clean their dishes and his shattered plate, leaving a note on the table saying thank you and how they hoped he'd feel better and invite them again. His heart tugged fondly at the act of kindness, but after what happened that night, he wasn't going to invite people over again for a while.
Company wasn't the answer, and he still had no idea what the cause of all this was.
He didn't have to look for it though. The answer was provided when he once again had the courage to step into his kitchen and cook.
He was cooking some pea soup, having no craving for meat after his trauma with his friends. He stirred the thick pale green liquid in the saucepan, trying his best to savour the delicious scent. The soup bubbled over the heat and France was sure he wouldn't have a hallucination over something as diverse as pea soup.
Then he could've sworn he saw something move in his soup. He halted, slowly removing his ladle. A familiar feeling of anxiety set off the alarm in his head, telling him to just leave it, and order take out again like he had for the past two weeks, but curiosity gnawed at him and he gingerly leaned in to peer into the pot.
Two eyes peered back at him.
France positively shrieked with fear, dropped his ladle, turned off the heat and fled into his living room. He crumpled onto the couch, screaming into a cushion so that his neighbours wouldn't think he was crazy. Then again, after that, France himself was starting to think he was. Even against the pale green colour of the soup, France recognised the colour of those eyes anywhere.
Of course, he thought. Whenever there is something going wrong in my life, it's always going to be HIS fault! France would almost laugh at how he didn't realise it sooner, if he didn't have that heavy lump of fear in his stomach.
The eyes were gone, but France tipped the perfectly good soup out anyway and ordered take out again, not even caring if he was going to get fat from doing so for another day after a fortnight.
However, France clung to a small grain of hope. Everything always happened in the kitchen. He couldn't continue to terrorise him as long as he stayed out of the kitchen. Sure, the kitchen was a large portion of France's life, but under these circumstances, he was willing to give it to him. Better than letting him have all of it. With that small sense of security, he settled in his vast plush bed and closed his eyes intent in falling into the peaceful world of dreams.
Fall into it, he did; and there was nothing to cushion the impact.
A fiery pain ignited in his gut, wrenching France to consciousness, gasping and clinging to the sheets. There was something inside him, something that seemed to be killing him from the inside. It nearly robbed him of breath as he writhed and screamed in agony, his vision fading in and out. Then there was a pressure in his stomach, like something wanted to get out. France glanced down at his stomach, flinging the blanket off and begged for it not to be so, his hands flying to clutch his gut, as if trying to hold it back. Then searing pain rocketed up his spine as his gut split open, arching his back as all he saw was red bursts painting his bedroom walls in a gory display.
He woke up again, whole and untouched. A dream, a nightmare, a premonition. He was getting close.
A dull burning pain still in his stomach, he got up and dashed out of bed, not even bothering to put on his soft slippers. He had to leave. Where? Anywhere. Anywhere but here. He rushed down the stairs and would reached out to grab the door knob and dash to freedom had he not stepped on something methodically placed at the bottom of the steps and slipped, falling flat on his face.
Now of all times for this gag…?
He got up rubbing his red nose, noticing it wasn't bleeding and turned to see what he slipped on. If he had been expecting a banana peel, he was wrong. Somehow, he wished it was, because it held fewer implications.
A shiny silver pan lay silently on the ground, toppled over from his fall.
A clanging from his kitchen, directly to the right of the door out, caught his attention. He made a choice to look at what it was. He made the wrong choice.
The pots and pans swung back and forth on their hooks, clanging into each other into an ear deafening symphony. They swung higher and harder until suddenly a smaller pan flung off its hook with gravity defying force and aimed straight for France's head.
France yelped and fell to the floor, the pan flying over his head and into the living room. A large heavy pot landed a hair's breadth from his arm and he stumbled back, desperately crawling away from the projectiles he spent his whole life cooking with. As he crawled past the cabinet, the knife drawer opened again with such strength it broke out of its socket and fell to the floor at his feet, the knives spilling across the tiles. They trembled ominously, and France, fearing now for his very life, scrambled up and darted for the living room.
A knife whizzed past his shoulder and buried itself up to the hilt in the wall.
Adrenaline coursing through his veins, France dodged the knives and attempted to open the front door. It wouldn't budge and the door knob wouldn't even turn. Another deadly blade whizzed past, cutting his arms and he cried out in pain, having to abandon he front door. He jumped out of the knives' path and dashed down the front hallway, away from where the knives could make him a target though he could hear the remaining knives tremble and rattle after him. He ran for the back door, which he was sure was going to be unlocked, when the door to the back room suddenly slammed in his face and his head made contact with the hard, unforgiving wood.
Fighting off the stars in his vision, he desperately tried the door knob. Like the front door, it wouldn't even turn. Something, or someone, didn't want him to leave his house. France didn't even have time to curse as a knife whistled towards him. He dodged, the knife lodging itself into the door. They had caught up to him.
He had no choice but to run through the sheet of knives. He grabbed a nearby umbrella and opened it, using it as a shield. It didn't do much to deflect the deadly projectiles, one of them making a mark in his leg. France yelled in pain and yanked the blade out, limping towards the other end of the hall as another got him in the right shoulder. He dropped the umbrella in pain and yanked out the other blade. The blood flowed, warm and sticky. France was going to run out of options if all he did was run.
Getting frustrated, as another knife flew for his head, he used the one he pulled out to deflect it, the offending utensil flung to the side and wedging itself into the wall harmlessly next to him.
And he called me prissy for taking fencing lessons.
France slowly fought his way to the end of the hall, hoping to God that the knives would eventually run out. For the first time that month, his one little wish was answered, every knife that he had in his possession embedded in the walls of the first floor of his house. Panting and hoping the nightmare was over, he carelessly flung the two knives he had on the floor. He still needed to leave his home and he considered breaking down his door. Or he could take the less drastic measure and hope there was another door open or an unlocked window.
He read his thoughts.
The door to the kitchen and the sliding door to the living room suddenly slammed shut, leaving him in the linear hallway. France was on instant panic mode, wondering what was going on when he heard the tell-tale rattle on the floor near his feet. He should never have let those knives out of his hands.
The Frenchman had a few precious seconds to think of where else to run; he couldn't run into a different room, all his doors were closed shut by some mysterious force. As the knives rattled louder, his time running short, his eyes landed on the stair case. Up it was.
He dashed up as fast as his pierced leg would allow him. The first knife just nicked his heel and he nearly tumbled down the steps. He glanced back just in time to see the last knife levitation above the wall, bobbing back and forth as if being held by someone like it was a spear, calmly and methodically aiming at his turned back like he was prey.
France managed to climb the top just in time to turn the corner, the thrown knife whizzing past him a split second later.
The haunted blonde sprinted to his room and slammed the door shut, pulling the antique mahogany chair from his desk and slipping it under the doorknob. He stood back, nursing his wounds, and his mind want into overdrive as to what to do next. He could jump from the window. Even if it was locked, he could smash it open. He might be blinding from the rose bush waiting below and possibly be crippled from the impact but it was definitely a better fate than if he stayed. But what if that presence followed him out into the street? He was injured, and it was dark. He wouldn't last long outside in his condition.
Suddenly there was a cold malicious presence in the air, and a soft mocking whisper with a distinctive accent.
Run, run, run, my little French rabbit.
France whipped around his room, suddenly feel cornered and claustrophobic. Everywhere he looked, he could've sworn he saw glowing eyes in the dark corners of his room. They advanced closer and close, but always residing in the shadows. When had his own bed room, his sanctuary, been this dark?!
"S-Stay back! Stay away! Leave me alone!" France screeched, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin as he felt a hopeless dread settling, heavy and cold, in the pit of his belly, where the ache used to be. He would've sprinted for his barricaded door, but a creak caught his attention. He turned, his eyes widened, and he stumbled back in terror, begging and pleading in French and English for his life, and for forgiveness.
The owner of the glowing eyes sat in the chair, and snickered darkly as he viewed his captured prey. He looked pathetic and small and terrified, and he relished it as he lazily rose from the chair. It had taken him so much time to get this close, to finish his final curse, and now that it was here, it just seemed too soon. He wanted more begging, more tears, more blood. He stalked towards the trembling man as he fell over onto his bed in a panic. France's legs wouldn't work for him. They wouldn't listen to him, having been paralysed and turned to jelly. His body jerked in and out of control as he tried to make as much space between him and the other as possible, but his back met with the wall. No escape.
Time's up.
The other smirked widely, devilishly, as they slowly climbed onto the bed. As he did so, his skin and clothes suddenly began to char and eat away at itself. The stench of rotting burnt flesh and rancid blood rose into the air, so thick you could almost see it. France couldn't even scream as he watched that horrible face melt and peel away, the blood from the burst vessels pouring down in congealing near black clumps onto the fine thread sheets, revealing the muscle and bone of the skull underneath. It was only when those hands, the rotted skin and thin dead muscle dropping off to leave his skeletal bloody hands wrapped around his neck, and his skin burned with an acid like effect, that a scream of pain was finally ripped from his throat, the skin charring as he struggled. The green eyes, still in the sockets of the decomposing skull, glittered with cruel laughter as he watched his captured target writhe and claw at his thin wrists, which only caused his own fingers to burn away.
Downstairs, the stove clicked to life, and in no time flat, the flames were already dancing across the bench top as the screams upstairs morphed in a sickening choking gurgle. After all, England always ends up burning something whenever he enters the kitchen.
By the time the fire was put out the same night, the house was just a burnt black frame. Neighbours wondered how the fire spread so quickly, since it was a still night with no trace of wind. When searching for the cause of the fire, they found the burnt out stove with a single pan on top, as if someone was about to cook something. Oddly, there was no food inside the pan, not even any oil to signal any preparations of a meal. With confusion over the odd circumstances, as well as the knives still embedded in the walls, they searched for the house owner and found him still in the bedroom, just a charred black skeleton, his jaw still wide open in a scream and his hands still clawing at his neck.
No evidence of the horror he faced in his final moments, they simply wrote it off as an act of forgetfulness and possible mental illness, being informed by Spain and Prussia of his recent behaviour. The same mistake France did.
So the world kept turning on its merry way. Meetings were still being held by the remaining Allies. Spain and Prussia continued to be friends, though their trio was degraded into a duo. France's country stayed the same, unaware of the significance that one person played in their history.
The Allies noticed the lack of lewd comments and complaints of clothing, and the Bad Touch Duo (which clicked even faster than the two remaining members thought it would) mourned the lack of delicious meals France cooked.
But that was it. Noticed. The actual person himself was hardly missed.