Read the warning. Seriously, guys, I don't wanna be flamed if you forgo it and take a trip unknowingly into twisted town.

Warning: Angst, threats, tension, insults surrounding France and the French, various innuendos, references to necrophilia, and rape. I think you know where I'm going with this.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Take

Matthew was crying and he couldn't stop. Alfred was hugging him and murmuring that it would be all right. But the Canadian knew it wouldn't.

His papa was gone.

"Shh, Mattie," Alfred said softly. "It's okay…"

Matthew shoved his brother away from him. "No, it's not!" he shouted, half sobbing. "How can you say that when Francis is being held hostage?"

Alfred blinked at him and sighed. "Mattie… I know it's bad, but crying over it is not going to solve anything."

Matthew was so distraught at losing Francis and so angry at Alfred for not understanding his fear, that he didn't bother to check his words before they flew out of his mouth. "Who are you to criticize me over crying when you did the same when Marge died?!"

Alfred's eyes went round and a little wet before Matthew realized what he'd said. "Al… Al, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No," Alfred muttered. "I know what you mean. I shouldn't have said that." He picked at a loose fiber on the cushion of the couch they were both sitting on.

Matthew wanted to say more, but Gilbert asked, "What are we going to do about this?"

"Wait here, dumbass," Lovino replied. "Didn't you hear that fucker say if we try anything they'll kill the wine bastard?"

Matthew glared. "I bet you would be pissed too if we called Antonio a bastard."

Lovino gave him an equally powerful glare but muttered, "Only I can call the stupid tomato a bastard…" His eyes glazed over and he was quiet.

"We can't let Francis die." Feliciano said, tearing up. "We'll be sad. And I don't like being sad…"

"We're not going to let them kill him, Feli." Ludwig assured, but the Italian sniffled.

"We need to do something." Yao urged.

"Hai," Kiku agreed. He felt extremely guilty for this. Maybe if he hadn't led the convicts to the back of the house… "They are still criminals. They cannot be trusted no matter what they say. Francis may be dead whether we follow their instructions or not."

Ivan looked over at Arthur, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall. "Arthur, you have been quiet. What is your say in all of this?"

Arthur blinked as if emerging from a reverie. "Eh? Oh, yes, the frog… we should plan on saving him, even though he is annoying."

"And how do we do that?" Sadiq asked. "I can't move yet and neither can Matthew. Gilbert is still too weak to fight—"

"I can fight!" Gilbert protested, but Ludwig hissed at him to shut up.

"And we also don't have Francis. Counting out the two Italies, that leaves us with seven able-bodied men. And who knows how many more convicts are hiding out?"

"Where are they hidin'?" Wynston asked. "Can't be no rinky-dink little shack. It has ta be a big place where they can house prisoners an' weapons… a fortress, like."

"We'll have to scout." Alfred said, standing up from the couch. He checked over his ammo and looked at everyone else. "I'm loaded. Who's coming with?"

"You know I am." Ivan said, slipping his pipe out of his coat.

Everyone flinched at the sight of it.

"I can't let you get into trouble." Arthur said. "I'll be coming as well."

"I'll stay here to guard the place." Ludwig said. "But I need a partner."

"I will join you." Yao volunteered, then flashed a stern glance in Kiku's direction. "Stay safe and give them hell."

Kiku nodded, knowing Yao knew full well Kiku's responsibility over the whole situation. "Of course, aniki."

Yao blinked in shock, but before he could say anything, Kiku turned around and led the group toward the back door. The screen was sheared in two by Ludwig's bullet. They were just about to file out, when Matthew yelled, "Al!"

Alfred turned around to see Matthew stretching his arms out to him. "Al,"

Alfred smiled softly and went over to him, embracing him again. Matthew's voice was raspy with tears. "I don't want to lose you, Alfred. Kill those bastards and bring Francis back, okay? I don't want to see you in pieces." He cried a little at the thought of it.

"Don't worry, Mattie." Alfred soothed, ruffling his brother's hair. It was always so soft, no matter if it was dirty or not. The feel of it comforted him, reminded him of when they slept together as children (mostly because of Alfred's nightmares, but Matthew liked the company no matter how much he complained about Alfred squirming and talking in his sleep). "I'll bring back Francis. That's a promise."

Matthew sniffed and looked up at him. Oh God, how he wished he could go as well. He would feel so much better if he could keep Alfred in sight. "Can you promise me that you won't die?"

"No," Alfred said. "But I'll fight like all hell to make sure I don't."

Matthew laughed a bit and wiped at his eyes. "You're such an idiot when you're dramatic."

"Whatever makes you feel better, bro." He kissed Matthew's brow and walked back over to join the group.

No one spoke as he headed outside.

"It's about to rain." Kiku observed, peering up at the slate-gray sky. A dark mass of thunderheads was rolling in from the south.

"That doesn't look good." Arthur muttered. "If I were still a captain, I would say it was time for us to make port."

"Well, we don't have time for that." Alfred said, cocking his shotgun. "We've been hanging around here for too long. We should have known we'd run into trouble. Every goddamn town, man…"

"Dad?" Wynston stepped outside. "I wanna come, too."

"No, son." Alfred said sternly. "Back inside. I don't want you anywhere near those men. We should never have come here."

"But, Dad, I—"

"No," And that was all it took to send Wynston back inside, the state slamming the frame of the screen door behind him along with the solid wooden door behind it. They waited until they heard the lock click.

"I hope the frog is as resilient as he was fighting me." Arthur muttered.

"There is no time for hoping." Ivan stated. "Let us be off."

Francis yelped as his hair was pulled again, shivering as his clothes were soaked through and through with the pouring rain.

"Pick up the slack." the other convict Francis had come to hatefully know as Pete said, giving him a harsh shove. Francis stumbled and grunted as he just barely caught himself, shoes slipping in the gathering puddles.

They had been walking through town for hours, going seemingly nowhere, all the while with the rain pounding down on their backs. But the two convicts didn't seem to mind; actually, they appeared to enjoy pushing Francis around. Already, the Frenchman had fallen twice into the mud or asphalt and they had laughed, yanking him up again and shoving him forward.

"So, you're French?" Jamal had asked him, smiling wickedly. "Didn't even need to ask with that faggish hair and chicken-shit behavior. They grow 'em pussies over there." And he had spat a big glob of phlegm right on Francis's shoe.

Pete had guffawed and Francis had fumed. If it wasn't for the two men's guns he would show them just how much of a 'pussy' he was.

People really underestimated him at times.

And finally, when Francis had gotten a chill, they reached a school. It was small, but outdated; the bricks were faded with age and some of the shingles had chipped off.

They pushed him forward and he nearly ran smack into the glass front doors.

"In," Pete ordered simply, and Francis fumbled with the lock in his wet hands before pulling the door open and stepping inside.

At least he was out of the rain. But that was all Francis found good about this situation. Pete and Jamal entered behind him.

Francis stiffened as footsteps echoed off the walls and a man appeared around the corner. He smiled at them—with teeth as brown and chipped as any Francis had ever seen in the modern age of hygiene. "Back so soon, eh? Any loot…?" He quieted as he spotted Francis, standing cold and dripping before him.

His smile turned sinister. "Oh, another slut?"

Pete laughed and patted Francis roughly on the back. "Ha! No, just a French fag. But he'll work just as well."

"French, eh?" The man narrowed his eyes. "I don't like them Frenchies. Pretentious as hell."

"You don't hafta like 'im." Pete said. "Just his ass."

The man's eyes flashed. "Even better,"

Francis stiffened and Jamal huffed. "Just be careful with this one, Harley. You tore that woman up. And I'm not looking forward to being without a fuck."

Harley snorted. "It wasn't just me. Sure, I ride 'em often, but your big dick was the sole contributor."

Jamal chuckled. "Yeah, well, now she's loose. And since all the other broads have scattered, fag ass will hafta do." He tugged at Francis's hair again and made the Frenchman look at him. "You clean, pussy boy?"

Francis glared. "No," He was lying, of course. He always took good care of himself. But these men didn't need to know that.

Jamal smiled wickedly. "Liar. I know one when I see one. Twenty years a drug dealin' does that to ya. Now tell me," He pulled so that Francis was crying out in pain, feeling some of his hair rip out by the roots. "Are you clean?"

"N-no, I am not." Francis said defiantly, and Jamal frowned. He growled as he let go of Francis's hair, pushing him onto the floor. Francis slipped and fell, barely catching himself. His chin bounced off the linoleum.

Francis rolled onto his side, and Jamal's shoe pressed into his neck. He glowered down at him. "Enough a your lies. Tell me the truth or I'll kill ya."

Francis grunted at the feel of Jamal's grit-covered shoe applying pressure to his windpipe and looked him directly in the eyes. "I. Said. No." he enunciated.

Jamal's shoe was beginning to cut off Francis's airway. "Don't think I'll uphold my promise to your pals just 'cause I said so. They're all huddled up in that 'safehouse' a yours. Just waiting to be seized and sent to the Organization. And if they're ballsy enough to come and getcha, well," He laughed. "All they'll find is your corpse. So… your answer, faggot?"

Francis was scared out of his mind, but he did not let that show. "I already gave it."

This time, Jamal didn't say a word. He just pressed his shoe down on Francis's throat, on his Adam's apple. Francis gasped, cold overcoming his limbs, his head throbbing with lack of air, and his throat pulsing frantically, as if his heart knew its work would soon be over and was determined to deal out a lifetime's worth of beats in a few moments. Francis's vision flickered, and he wanted it to be over. The running, the worrying, the hurt. It was all going to be gone. He could already feel the pain lessening…

And then he remembered Matthew. He remembered Lovino, and Feliciano, and Kiku, and Alfred. And he remembered Arthur.

He couldn't leave them.

So, gathering up whatever breath was left in his lungs, Francis gasped, "Y-yes,"

Jamal stopped, his shoe letting up a little. "What was that, pussy boy? Had enough?"

Francis glared up at him as much as his dizziness allowed and took a deep, sweet breath. "Yes… I am clean." And humiliation flooded him along with dread.

Defeated. Again. He was so useless. How could he ever have thought he could be anything more?

Jamal and Pete helped him stand, and Francis felt all the blood rush down from his head. He swayed, feeling faint, but the convicts caught him.

"Ready for some cock, pussy boy?" Pete muttered. "But I bet you French like that."

They handcuffed him and took him deeper into the school. The rest of the group—five other men—were all gathered in the cafeteria. They all looked up as they entered.

"Look at what we found!" Harley shouted in excitement, pulling Francis's head up by his hair so the others could see his face. "Another piece of ass!"

Some of the men cheered, but the others groaned. One, who was sharpening a knife, grumbled, "A fag? Hell no, man. I'm a pussy man. I don't swing that way."

Francis felt relieved. At least one man was out, maybe the rest would follow.

Harley snorted. "I'll take any that I can. Any tight hole'll be good enough for me. 'Sides, he looks like a girl from behind."

"And who says you can only use his ass?" Pete said, smiling wickedly as he looked at Francis. "I bet the French love sucking cock, huh? Taught from a young age, I expect."

"How's our other little slave doing?" Jamal asked, leading Francis over to a corner of the room and stopping before a woman, her back to them, nude and scarred, lying on the floor. A metal collar was wrapped around her neck, angry red marks from it standing out on her pale neck. A rusty chain led from it to a hook hammered into the floor.

Francis felt his heart jump into his throat. He didn't see her moving. At all.

"The bitch is dead." the one sharpening his knife growled angrily. "Got all we could outta her, though. Ricky took her after she died—said she was still tight, but I ain't goin' that far. Still, at least she don't bitch and scream no more."

Oh my God. Francis thought with horror. They're going to kill me. I'm going to die here, with that thing wrapped around my neck. And then after I'm gone, they'll… they…

Francis was grateful when Pete brought him out of the dark thought. He pushed him to his knees and Francis was leaning over the dead woman. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. It might be what he would look like soon.

"That's a good pussy boy." Pete crooned. Francis felt disgusted as the man stroked his hair. "Now we'll have to put this collar on you so you know you belong to us."

Jamal scoffed, standing over them with his arms folded. "Stop creepin', Pete. The fag'll whine more."

Pete glared, but shut up and finished fastening the collar. Francis's throat convulsed; this collar had been around a dead woman's neck.

His clothes were cut or stripped away. Francis tried to keep composed, looking down at the floor, ignoring all the dirty jibes coming from across the room.

So, this was the price he had to pay to keep Matthew and Arthur safe?

… Then he would gladly pay it a million times over.

He was ordered onto his hands and knees, and Francis complied without a sound. He was ordered to spread his legs. He did so.

"Look at that, boys," Jamal laughed. "A nice little fag cunt. All for you. Who's first?"

"Me," Harley said and walked over to Francis. The Frenchman could hear the man unbuckling his belt and his heart began to pound. The man chuckled and pressed on the back of Francis's head so that his face was pushed uncomfortably against the filthy linoleum floor—inches away from the dead woman.

"Ha, I ain't ever done it with a man before." he said in a low voice. Francis squinted his eyes closed and clenched his fists as he felt greasy hands pull his cheeks apart and a heated cock brush against his thigh. "But I guess you don't count as a man, do ya?"

Francis buried his head in his arms. He didn't want the others to see his tears. It would hurt. It would scar him in many more ways than just physically. And the only thought that comforted him was that Matthew was safe and Arthur was as well.

The man thrust into him and Francis withdrew into himself, to a better place.

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Well, there it is, folks. Someone had to take the short end of the stick when it comes to the sick-ass men working with the Organization and I just happened to choose France. Why? Think about it. To him sex equals love. His sexual view will be permanently warped by this, I can tell you that. I know, I'm cruel, but more issues means more drama and I need to feed the beast that is this fic and all it will eat is twisted fucking drama. O_O

At this point I think this fic has possessed me. I am totally pulling the plot out of my ass, y'all. So if things seem random, just know that they most likely are. But I like spontaneity. Makes writing fun~ The most important thing, though, is that I know how this will all end-and not all of our nations will make it.

Anywho, what will happen to France? Will they find him in time? Will the criminals kill him? I'm using my announcer voice again, but fuck it, you guys are probably gonna be paranoid anyway even without it, hehe.

Btw, I know this is long commentary, but all this drama made me wanna write a really cracky fic. Like, all crack. And smut. So I did. Tomorrow I will be posting a one-shot: No, Just No. Until then, keep a lookout! :D