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UK/US, some hate!sex taking place right after America declared his independence. England snaps and tops the hell out of him.
Not sure if you want it like this but prepare for some “ohshit angst” before anything hot and just “well fuck you too”.
--
They smell like rain.
England doesn’t hear the door shut behind him as America pulls him through into their- (America’s is that what he should be saying now?) home. Once the battle was won, there was no need for them to hold their weapons against each other, no- America had said, not any more.
Because now they aren’t anything.
If America is not his little brother, is not his friend, is not his ally, is not his anything any longer than what is he now? He is his enemy.
To be told that now he was no longer that either-
England jerks out of his thoughts, mind torn like his insides feel, wretched and burning. When America takes his hands (he won’t ask if he’s alright) his eyes moisten with that question and England- England hates him for it. How dare he.
How dare he once be his- how dare he- “Didn’t you say we’d be together forever?”
England whispers, even though he knows, ages old, centuries gone, that such a question sounds naïve, especially all that has gone between them. His hand finds and twists into the cold damp of America’s coat. Darker blue, darker than before because of the moisture. Mud still clings to his boots and though England has always told America not to trail mud into the house he cannot help but do so now as he walks, stumbles forward, making America take uneasy steps back. Inching ever closer, green eyes bright, if only they could burn though America, leave a mark. That’s what he never did, that’s what England never did, not to his boy his little boy but-
“Say America-” his hand, the other finds the other side of America’s coat, both twist and grip, America knocks back against a table neither remember was there before and England’s breath is hot against his face.
“-earlier you said it didn’t you, you’re no longer my little brother. You’re-”
--
They smell like rain.
England doesn’t hear the door shut behind him as America pulls him through into their- (America’s is that what he should be saying now?) home. Once the battle was won, there was no need for them to hold their weapons against each other, no- America had said, not any more.
Because now they aren’t anything.
If America is not his little brother, is not his friend, is not his ally, is not his anything any longer than what is he now? He is his enemy.
To be told that now he was no longer that either-
England jerks out of his thoughts, mind torn like his insides feel, wretched and burning. When America takes his hands (he won’t ask if he’s alright) his eyes moisten with that question and England- England hates him for it. How dare he.
How dare he once be his- how dare he- “Didn’t you say we’d be together forever?”
England whispers, even though he knows, ages old, centuries gone, that such a question sounds naïve, especially all that has gone between them. His hand finds and twists into the cold damp of America’s coat. Darker blue, darker than before because of the moisture. Mud still clings to his boots and though England has always told America not to trail mud into the house he cannot help but do so now as he walks, stumbles forward, making America take uneasy steps back. Inching ever closer, green eyes bright, if only they could burn though America, leave a mark. That’s what he never did, that’s what England never did, not to his boy his little boy but-
“Say America-” his hand, the other finds the other side of America’s coat, both twist and grip, America knocks back against a table neither remember was there before and England’s breath is hot against his face.
“-earlier you said it didn’t you, you’re no longer my little brother. You’re-”
France/Lovino, diamonds are forever
GO FOR IT.
GO FOR IT.
France had just gotten to his knees and pulled out a diamond ring when Romano spoke, cutting off the self-proclaimed Nation of love.
"What the hell is that?"
The kneeling Nation looked briefly taken aback but quickly schooled his face into a smile.
"It's a diamond ring pour toi. Romano, will you marry me?"
Rolling his eyes, Romano resisted the urge to punch the other Nation.
"Why?"
"Well, diamonds are forever. And marriage is for forever, so a diamond ring is the perfect ring to propose with," France told him, not wavering in his position at all.
Romano gave in to the urge to punch France.
"No, you bastard. I meant why do you want to marry me. Did England say no, again? You know what? Forget it!" He shouted, storming off, leaving a bleeding France behind.
"Romano! Wait!" France called, trying, and failing, to pick himself off the floor.
"Go die in a ditch, bastard!"
"Romano..." France trailed off, watching as the curl disappeared around a corner, taking the angry Italian out of his life forever (well, not as forever as a diamond. They'd probably end up seeing each other at the G8 meeting next week, actually).
"Wow, France. What is that, your sixth rejection today? Did you really think anyone would agree to marry you?" Prussia laughed, popping out of the bushes.
Suddenly clean and fresh as a daisy, France jumped up, turning to his friend. "Prussia!"
Prussia, sensing that France wasn't going to give up at six marriage proposals, laughed before fleeing. Diamonds are forever...and who wants to be stuck with someone forever?
--
"What the hell is that?"
The kneeling Nation looked briefly taken aback but quickly schooled his face into a smile.
"It's a diamond ring pour toi. Romano, will you marry me?"
Rolling his eyes, Romano resisted the urge to punch the other Nation.
"Why?"
"Well, diamonds are forever. And marriage is for forever, so a diamond ring is the perfect ring to propose with," France told him, not wavering in his position at all.
Romano gave in to the urge to punch France.
"No, you bastard. I meant why do you want to marry me. Did England say no, again? You know what? Forget it!" He shouted, storming off, leaving a bleeding France behind.
"Romano! Wait!" France called, trying, and failing, to pick himself off the floor.
"Go die in a ditch, bastard!"
"Romano..." France trailed off, watching as the curl disappeared around a corner, taking the angry Italian out of his life forever (well, not as forever as a diamond. They'd probably end up seeing each other at the G8 meeting next week, actually).
"Wow, France. What is that, your sixth rejection today? Did you really think anyone would agree to marry you?" Prussia laughed, popping out of the bushes.
Suddenly clean and fresh as a daisy, France jumped up, turning to his friend. "Prussia!"
Prussia, sensing that France wasn't going to give up at six marriage proposals, laughed before fleeing. Diamonds are forever...and who wants to be stuck with someone forever?
--
Re: Diamonds are a Girl's (...or France's) Best Friend!
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-05 11:40 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Diamonds are a Girl's (...or France's) Best Friend!
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-05 23:25 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Diamonds are a Girl's (...or France's) Best Friend!
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-05 23:40 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Diamonds are a Girl's (...or France's) Best Friend!
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-07 02:13 (UTC) - ExpandHetalia characters getting on Omegle and trolling it...
Only to find each other randomly
Bonus for America/England~
Only to find each other randomly
Bonus for America/England~
America was in a good mood. Far too good of a mood, in fact. His whole body was jittering with pent up energy, and he had to let it out now. Usually when the self proclaimed Hero was in such high spirits, he would log onto his faithful computer, Liberty Bell, or Libby for short, and troll the ever loving Hell out of his fellow nations over one instant messenger service or another.
Tonight though, as he eagerly clicked on a spare account he had set aside for occasions such as this, already chortling to himself as he thought of the conversations he would be having, he was shocked to find no one online. Oh his friends list. Dammit, he was America, even if no one knew that he and Fidel Castronaut were one in the same. Nor did they know he was also the one behind Panic at Nabisco, HE ON THE TOILET, and Large Hardon Collider. In America's defense, he had been quite drunk when he made that last username. Once Canada had even joined in, using the screen name Big Bong Theory. If America hadn't known any better, he could have sworn the person behind a certain troll named Chairman Meow was in fact China. But China was such an old fogey, so completely computer illiterate.
On this night though, there was no one. This meant he would have to resort to his trusty steed of Trollitude, Omegle. It was always a risky way to get his kicks, very hit and miss, but oh the fruits of rage that could be reaped! They were more delicious than any mana man had ever tasted in his time on the Earth.
America made a mental note about to ask The Boss Man if they could add a fifth horseman to the Bible, one for Trolling.
Omegle is a brand-new service for meeting new friends. When you use Omegle, we pick another user at random and let you have a one-on-one chat with each other. America felt laughter stirring in his gut once more as he saw those all too familiar words written across his screen. He cracked his fingers while his face bore an over the top smirk that only villains were seen to sport. If only he had an exotic cat to stroke while he worked his magic, then it would be like one his his multi million dollar movies.
Start a Chat. America held his breath as he clicked the blue button that would make or break his night.
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
A word of advice: "asl" is boring. Please find something more interesting to talk about!
Stranger: gay?
You: ONLY FOR UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
Start a new conversation or save this log or send us feedback.
15 - Love.
Maybe the caps lock, or as America had relabeled it in memoriam, the Billy Mays key had been too much to start with. He wasn't too bothered by his initial loss, there were only so many responses you could give to a stranger on the internet wanting to know if you were gay or not. Most of them started with something along the lines of, "Hi, I'm Chris Hansen. Why don't you take a seat?"
Yet the night was young, and America would rather go hunting with Dick Cheney than give up. He crossed his middle and index finger of his left hand for luck as he clicked the option to start a new conversation, closing his eyes tightly for a moment in anticipation.
---
A/N: Due to the fact it would make this fill has ridiculous amount of extra characters, I'm going to leave out italics/bolding/color changes for text between people. When I de-anon and post it on the com though, it was have all the visual bells and whistles though.
Tonight though, as he eagerly clicked on a spare account he had set aside for occasions such as this, already chortling to himself as he thought of the conversations he would be having, he was shocked to find no one online. Oh his friends list. Dammit, he was America, even if no one knew that he and Fidel Castronaut were one in the same. Nor did they know he was also the one behind Panic at Nabisco, HE ON THE TOILET, and Large Hardon Collider. In America's defense, he had been quite drunk when he made that last username. Once Canada had even joined in, using the screen name Big Bong Theory. If America hadn't known any better, he could have sworn the person behind a certain troll named Chairman Meow was in fact China. But China was such an old fogey, so completely computer illiterate.
On this night though, there was no one. This meant he would have to resort to his trusty steed of Trollitude, Omegle. It was always a risky way to get his kicks, very hit and miss, but oh the fruits of rage that could be reaped! They were more delicious than any mana man had ever tasted in his time on the Earth.
America made a mental note about to ask The Boss Man if they could add a fifth horseman to the Bible, one for Trolling.
Omegle is a brand-new service for meeting new friends. When you use Omegle, we pick another user at random and let you have a one-on-one chat with each other. America felt laughter stirring in his gut once more as he saw those all too familiar words written across his screen. He cracked his fingers while his face bore an over the top smirk that only villains were seen to sport. If only he had an exotic cat to stroke while he worked his magic, then it would be like one his his multi million dollar movies.
Start a Chat. America held his breath as he clicked the blue button that would make or break his night.
Connecting to server...
Looking for someone you can chat with. Hang on.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
A word of advice: "asl" is boring. Please find something more interesting to talk about!
Stranger: gay?
You: ONLY FOR UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE.
Your conversational partner has disconnected.
Start a new conversation or save this log or send us feedback.
15 - Love.
Maybe the caps lock, or as America had relabeled it in memoriam, the Billy Mays key had been too much to start with. He wasn't too bothered by his initial loss, there were only so many responses you could give to a stranger on the internet wanting to know if you were gay or not. Most of them started with something along the lines of, "Hi, I'm Chris Hansen. Why don't you take a seat?"
Yet the night was young, and America would rather go hunting with Dick Cheney than give up. He crossed his middle and index finger of his left hand for luck as he clicked the option to start a new conversation, closing his eyes tightly for a moment in anticipation.
---
A/N: Due to the fact it would make this fill has ridiculous amount of extra characters, I'm going to leave out italics/bolding/color changes for text between people. When I de-anon and post it on the com though, it was have all the visual bells and whistles though.
England x England
Showersex~
No Fem!England plz
:D
Showersex~
No Fem!England plz
:D
This technically fits the prompt, although England/nationalist!England would be a bit more accurate... yeah.
Tongue against his ear, breath across his neck, hands ghost up and down his body. He's shaking with the effort of keeping still. Of not reacting. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but they don't need to be open.
A chuckle, a pinch, and a kiss pressed absurdly to the nape of his neck. The water streams down. He has soap in his eyes and he concentrates on the sting.
Can't run away.
He gasps, his body jolts. His eyes are torn open and he stares desperately at the water running down the plughole.
I won't leave you.
Teeth graze his shoulder, he can feel the easy grin around them. Fingers skitter over his skin, playing him like a well-practiced instrument. His throat clogs with all the noises trying to make their way out.
I'm always with you.
He shakes his head, but he can't shut his ears and the chuckle worms its way in and settles in his mind, replaying over and over. The fingers dig in, nails sharp and bruising. He is spun suddenly and pushed up against the cold tile. He refuses to meet those piercing green eyes but he can feel them mapping him out, all his failings and inadequacies.
He is pressed up against the wall, warm body and water at his front, the chill of stone at his back. He looks pointedly beyond the shower they're crammed into. Teeth are working at his shoulder once more and hands have taken his body beyond his control. He tries to ignore the breathless noises that are drawn out of him and his hands clutch and clench at thin air.
“I. Don't. Need. You,” he bites out around the gasps.
The laughter is full and loud and rings in his ears. A hand turns his head. A mouth covers his own.
Where would you be without me?
He breathes heavily through his nose. A tongue slides between his lips when they unwittingly part. It twines around his own, caresses and coaxes it out. His own tentative explorations are cut short when teeth snap down. He's caught, though they both know he was caught long before this.
Stuck on your island. The play-thing of Europe.
He lets out a yell that dissolves into pitiful whimpers. He can't pull away and his mouth is invaded again. The taste of blood floods in.
I gave you prestige.
A hand jerks,
Respect.
twists,
Power.
He wants to respond but his mouth is too full of flesh and blood and his brain is being overrun by the carnal desires of his body.
You'd be nothing without me.
His mind is starting to go blank, drift off where he can't be reached.
A tiny, pitiful nation, owned and ruled by others.
You. Need.
“Oi!” There's banging on the bathroom door and he snaps back to himself. “The fuck are you doing in there? I need the fucking loo!” He spits blood down the drain and watches it swirl with the water.
“Then go in the fucking garden, I'm not done.” The silence that follows is tense and he hopes the waver in his voice wasn't heard.
“You're an obnoxious little shit, you know that?” He lets out a relieved sigh. “I should knock you six ways from Sunday.”
He waits until there's no more sound from outside the door and rinses his mouth out. He turns the water as cold as it'll go and stands there, shivering, until he's too numb to think anymore.
Tongue against his ear, breath across his neck, hands ghost up and down his body. He's shaking with the effort of keeping still. Of not reacting. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but they don't need to be open.
A chuckle, a pinch, and a kiss pressed absurdly to the nape of his neck. The water streams down. He has soap in his eyes and he concentrates on the sting.
Can't run away.
He gasps, his body jolts. His eyes are torn open and he stares desperately at the water running down the plughole.
I won't leave you.
Teeth graze his shoulder, he can feel the easy grin around them. Fingers skitter over his skin, playing him like a well-practiced instrument. His throat clogs with all the noises trying to make their way out.
I'm always with you.
He shakes his head, but he can't shut his ears and the chuckle worms its way in and settles in his mind, replaying over and over. The fingers dig in, nails sharp and bruising. He is spun suddenly and pushed up against the cold tile. He refuses to meet those piercing green eyes but he can feel them mapping him out, all his failings and inadequacies.
He is pressed up against the wall, warm body and water at his front, the chill of stone at his back. He looks pointedly beyond the shower they're crammed into. Teeth are working at his shoulder once more and hands have taken his body beyond his control. He tries to ignore the breathless noises that are drawn out of him and his hands clutch and clench at thin air.
“I. Don't. Need. You,” he bites out around the gasps.
The laughter is full and loud and rings in his ears. A hand turns his head. A mouth covers his own.
Where would you be without me?
He breathes heavily through his nose. A tongue slides between his lips when they unwittingly part. It twines around his own, caresses and coaxes it out. His own tentative explorations are cut short when teeth snap down. He's caught, though they both know he was caught long before this.
Stuck on your island. The play-thing of Europe.
He lets out a yell that dissolves into pitiful whimpers. He can't pull away and his mouth is invaded again. The taste of blood floods in.
I gave you prestige.
A hand jerks,
Respect.
twists,
Power.
He wants to respond but his mouth is too full of flesh and blood and his brain is being overrun by the carnal desires of his body.
You'd be nothing without me.
His mind is starting to go blank, drift off where he can't be reached.
A tiny, pitiful nation, owned and ruled by others.
You. Need.
“Oi!” There's banging on the bathroom door and he snaps back to himself. “The fuck are you doing in there? I need the fucking loo!” He spits blood down the drain and watches it swirl with the water.
“Then go in the fucking garden, I'm not done.” The silence that follows is tense and he hopes the waver in his voice wasn't heard.
“You're an obnoxious little shit, you know that?” He lets out a relieved sigh. “I should knock you six ways from Sunday.”
He waits until there's no more sound from outside the door and rinses his mouth out. He turns the water as cold as it'll go and stands there, shivering, until he's too numb to think anymore.
We've had fic about Japan apologizing to China, America apologizing to Japan, Germany apologizing to Poland, etc for various horrible things said countries did during WWII...now anon would like to see Russia apologize to Poland.
I'd like Russia to honestly feel remorse about what's he's done and want to try to make things right....but Poland isn't the most receptive and frankly thinks that Russia is either trying to manipulate him or that it's all some kind of sick joke...basically thinking that Russia's apology is entirely insincere. So Russia keeps trying to get through to Poland in his own awkward way while Poland just gets more and more angry until he finally snaps and yells at Russia for everything he's done, really dredging up the past and how much Poland has suffered...which makes Russia feel so terrible and guilty that he starts crying, which finally convinced Poland that he IS serious and feels horrible about what he did.
Bonus: Poland either forgives him at the end or at least is moving in the direction that he could one day come to forgive him.
I'd like Russia to honestly feel remorse about what's he's done and want to try to make things right....but Poland isn't the most receptive and frankly thinks that Russia is either trying to manipulate him or that it's all some kind of sick joke...basically thinking that Russia's apology is entirely insincere. So Russia keeps trying to get through to Poland in his own awkward way while Poland just gets more and more angry until he finally snaps and yells at Russia for everything he's done, really dredging up the past and how much Poland has suffered...which makes Russia feel so terrible and guilty that he starts crying, which finally convinced Poland that he IS serious and feels horrible about what he did.
Bonus: Poland either forgives him at the end or at least is moving in the direction that he could one day come to forgive him.
(screened comment)
S.Italy/N.Italy "TASTE THE RAINBOW"
You know you want to.
You know you want to.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11813.html?thread=30125349#t30125349
Posted here a long while ago. OOPS. I didn't realize there was still comment space on this part. ^^;
If OP hasn't seen yet? Um, sorry~
Posted here a long while ago. OOPS. I didn't realize there was still comment space on this part. ^^;
If OP hasn't seen yet? Um, sorry~
Spain finds out, upon visiting Romano's house for the first time (when Romano's grown up), that Romano likes to walk around his house while only wearing boxers.
Make of it what you will, anon. :D
Make of it what you will, anon. :D
A/N: Okay so first time writing for Hetalia, sorry if this sucks!!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Spain walked to Romano's house, humming to himself. The Spaniard had not seen the young Italian, man in a few weeks since he moved out. Truthfully, Spain missed him, it seemed a little too quiet without Romano around.
Antonio smiled when he saw Romano's house in the distance and picked up the pace of his steps, wanting to see the other as quickly as possible. 'I can't wat to see my Lovi after all this time!' Spain thought happily, his already bright smile getting even brighter.
Lost in his thoughts, Spain hadn't been paying very much attention to how fast he had been approaching the house, and walked right into the door. Antonio jumped back a bit, rubbing his head from the collision, his smile turning into a small pout until he realized what he had crashed into the door.
The smile returned full force and the Spanish man crashed through the door, knowing that the Italian almost never bothered to lock it. "LOVIIII~! I'm here!!!" Spain announced happily and was about to break into his usual habit of non-stop chatter, that is until he saw Romano in the middle of the room, only in his boxers.....
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Part 2 coming soon, I hope at least this part for now doesn't disappoint!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Spain walked to Romano's house, humming to himself. The Spaniard had not seen the young Italian, man in a few weeks since he moved out. Truthfully, Spain missed him, it seemed a little too quiet without Romano around.
Antonio smiled when he saw Romano's house in the distance and picked up the pace of his steps, wanting to see the other as quickly as possible. 'I can't wat to see my Lovi after all this time!' Spain thought happily, his already bright smile getting even brighter.
Lost in his thoughts, Spain hadn't been paying very much attention to how fast he had been approaching the house, and walked right into the door. Antonio jumped back a bit, rubbing his head from the collision, his smile turning into a small pout until he realized what he had crashed into the door.
The smile returned full force and the Spanish man crashed through the door, knowing that the Italian almost never bothered to lock it. "LOVIIII~! I'm here!!!" Spain announced happily and was about to break into his usual habit of non-stop chatter, that is until he saw Romano in the middle of the room, only in his boxers.....
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Part 2 coming soon, I hope at least this part for now doesn't disappoint!
America/England making out in the rain while drunk~
(Not the anon above, but just had to try D: )
The night is made of neon and prostitutes and beer and rain. People dance, sing, tumble out of the crowded pubs, fuck in an alley, fall asleep, fall into unconsciousness. Wake up. Memories deleted, return to the daily life with yet another venereal disease slumbering in the body.
Arthur is made of alcohol and dizziness and lust and need. As he orders his thirteenth glass of beer, he’s so drunk he could actually consider sleeping with Francis if the guy decided to show up. Yes, the thought is appealing, but when he gazes upon the door, all he sees is the head of a blonde he knows too well.
“Alfred, go home. This is no place for a teen.” Arthur’s body sinks in the seat as if boneless. Alfred takes the seat next to him grabbing the glass of beer ‘fore the Englishman can get to it.
“No more alcohol for you.”
“You’re starting to sound like Matthew.”
“Be nice.” A chuckle. Arthur joins in, tilts his head backwards and lets out a maniac laughter.
“But it’s true! He’s worrying all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk. You love Matthew.”
“Well, he speaks French.” End of discussion. A blonde-haired quickly leaves the pub. No one notice. “So..” Arthur starts out as he leans across the desk, glaring at Alfred from the corner of the eye, “are you here to teach me better drinking habits or do you have a good reason to invade Dublin?” Pause. “And hand over that beer.” He gets his glass. Sips. Nods approving. Shoves the liquid down the throat in one big gulp. Alfred’s lips curve in to a grimace of disgust, but he decides not to bring up the elder’s drinking-problem once again – he always loses that discussion anyway.
“Do ‘I just wanted to see you’ count for a reason?” Arthur seems to ponder for a second, maybe two, then smiles brightly as he states:
“No.” With a smug look he orders two glasses of beer ( - no way he’ll be the only one drinking!) ‘fore he continues: “This is no romantic Hollywood-movie, Alfred, this is reality.”
“I think I am allowed to miss you anyway,” Alfred shrugs the shoulders, “you want me to leave?”
“I just ordered beer for you, so you better stay and drink it.”
“Fine.” Smile. Arthur returns it, looks into the empty glass, ponders: ‘When did I get this softheaded?’
Two glasses of beer. Drink, drink. Arthur with happy sighs, Alfred with swearing and force. The background music accompanies them. A lady sings: “I will die, die, die before I give you up.” Arthur smiles every time she repeats that line. Alfred thinks he’s got alcohol on his mind. Arthur knows he’s got some airheaded kid haunting his thoughts.
“I will die, die, die before I give you up.”
--
Two hours later. Down the street. Arthur has got his troubles walking a straight line. Alfred tries to show him the way to do it. It’s still raining. Arthur complains (“water makes me sober”), Alfred ignores (“I really doubt that”).
“How far, how far?” Arthur wants to know and leans against Alfred’s shoulder. He’s such a kid when drunk. “How far, how far?”
“Further, further,” Alfred answers, for he doesn’t really know. How far? That depends – is he to dump Arthur at his doorstep? – or take him with him back to the hotel? Last one sounds most appealing, but he doubts Arthur would be able to forgive him in the morning, if they were to wake up next to one another. He’s tried that a thousands time before. It’s tiring getting yelled at for being an irresistible American.
“Alfred?” Alfred’s ripped from his thoughts.
“Mhmm?”
“I’m going to puke.”
--
The night is made of neon and prostitutes and beer and rain. People dance, sing, tumble out of the crowded pubs, fuck in an alley, fall asleep, fall into unconsciousness. Wake up. Memories deleted, return to the daily life with yet another venereal disease slumbering in the body.
Arthur is made of alcohol and dizziness and lust and need. As he orders his thirteenth glass of beer, he’s so drunk he could actually consider sleeping with Francis if the guy decided to show up. Yes, the thought is appealing, but when he gazes upon the door, all he sees is the head of a blonde he knows too well.
“Alfred, go home. This is no place for a teen.” Arthur’s body sinks in the seat as if boneless. Alfred takes the seat next to him grabbing the glass of beer ‘fore the Englishman can get to it.
“No more alcohol for you.”
“You’re starting to sound like Matthew.”
“Be nice.” A chuckle. Arthur joins in, tilts his head backwards and lets out a maniac laughter.
“But it’s true! He’s worrying all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk. You love Matthew.”
“Well, he speaks French.” End of discussion. A blonde-haired quickly leaves the pub. No one notice. “So..” Arthur starts out as he leans across the desk, glaring at Alfred from the corner of the eye, “are you here to teach me better drinking habits or do you have a good reason to invade Dublin?” Pause. “And hand over that beer.” He gets his glass. Sips. Nods approving. Shoves the liquid down the throat in one big gulp. Alfred’s lips curve in to a grimace of disgust, but he decides not to bring up the elder’s drinking-problem once again – he always loses that discussion anyway.
“Do ‘I just wanted to see you’ count for a reason?” Arthur seems to ponder for a second, maybe two, then smiles brightly as he states:
“No.” With a smug look he orders two glasses of beer ( - no way he’ll be the only one drinking!) ‘fore he continues: “This is no romantic Hollywood-movie, Alfred, this is reality.”
“I think I am allowed to miss you anyway,” Alfred shrugs the shoulders, “you want me to leave?”
“I just ordered beer for you, so you better stay and drink it.”
“Fine.” Smile. Arthur returns it, looks into the empty glass, ponders: ‘When did I get this softheaded?’
Two glasses of beer. Drink, drink. Arthur with happy sighs, Alfred with swearing and force. The background music accompanies them. A lady sings: “I will die, die, die before I give you up.” Arthur smiles every time she repeats that line. Alfred thinks he’s got alcohol on his mind. Arthur knows he’s got some airheaded kid haunting his thoughts.
“I will die, die, die before I give you up.”
--
Two hours later. Down the street. Arthur has got his troubles walking a straight line. Alfred tries to show him the way to do it. It’s still raining. Arthur complains (“water makes me sober”), Alfred ignores (“I really doubt that”).
“How far, how far?” Arthur wants to know and leans against Alfred’s shoulder. He’s such a kid when drunk. “How far, how far?”
“Further, further,” Alfred answers, for he doesn’t really know. How far? That depends – is he to dump Arthur at his doorstep? – or take him with him back to the hotel? Last one sounds most appealing, but he doubts Arthur would be able to forgive him in the morning, if they were to wake up next to one another. He’s tried that a thousands time before. It’s tiring getting yelled at for being an irresistible American.
“Alfred?” Alfred’s ripped from his thoughts.
“Mhmm?”
“I’m going to puke.”
--
Everyone knows that England is a terrible cook, but what if his food was literally lethal? Anons, I want to see the world discover the potential of England's killer cooking as a weapon of mass destruction and race to get their hands on as much as possible.
Bonus: Only one recipe is actually killer, but no one is such which one.
Bonus 2: England doesn't realize the truth behind why his cooking is suddenly so popular.
Bonus 3: He brags about it anyway.
Bonus: Only one recipe is actually killer, but no one is such which one.
Bonus 2: England doesn't realize the truth behind why his cooking is suddenly so popular.
Bonus 3: He brags about it anyway.
Just a short fill until someone more awesome writes something :)
___________
The smell of something burning had already reached the doorstep, wafting out in a putrid cloud the moment Alfred opened the door.
Even a certain familiarity with it did not stop him from stepping back, retching, momentarily overcome with nausea. Clearly, Arthur still hadn’t lost his touch.
Over the years, Alfred had learned to treat the older man’s culinary creations much as he did natural disasters: you avoided those which you could, and bore the rest with stoicism and a dash of heroic courage. Another similarity: both usually involved hospital trips.
Today, however, was different. Today, Alfred had willingly ventured into the lion’s den, jumped up into the hurricane. Usually, England’s cooking… well, the smell of it alone would give visitors ample warning to turn right around and avoid him for the next few hours. But today was special.
Today, Alfred was here on a mission (of justice and liberty and awesomeness, or so he liked to think).
“Arthur?”, he called, in the most friendly tone he could given the squeamish feeling in his stomach.
When England didn’t answer, he felt it safe to covertly shpritz the air around him with air freshener. Mmm, lemons.
“Arthur?”
“’M in the kitchen!”
So he was. Alfred stepped into the kitchen gingerly, watching his feet to avoid the scattered eggshells and splatters of … something. The something had made its way onto the ceiling, he noticed, and was dripping down in measured drops. What looked like liquid mustard ran down the window in lazy streams, adding a sharp, spicy smell to the mix of odors already suffocating him.
Alfred squinted at his reflection, blurred from the char and hazy through the cloud of smoke that seemed to hover in the room. He couldn’t see it he looked as sick as he felt, but he hoped Arthur wouldn’t notice if he did.
He shouldn’t have worried though, because the Englishman was entirely occupied by a giant metallic pot standing atop the stove, boiling over. Armed with oven mitts, a bright red apron and a ladle that looked partially melted, Arthur was cursing and attempting to reach over the pot to turn the heat down. So far, his efforts had earned him a burnt hand and an ugly brown stain on his front.
“Do you need any help?”, Alfred offered, knowing full well that the only help he could offer consisted of removing Arthur from the kitchen and ensuring the two never crossed paths again. Could one file restraining orders on behalf of kitchens? He would have to look into that.
“No, no, I’m fine”, muttered Arthur, finally managing to reach the stove control with the ladle and turn the knob.
Slowly, the bubbling mixture in the pot settled, continuing to seethe but no longer splattering everything within a three meter radius with brown gunk. Examining it more closely, Alfred noticed that the mud colored mixture had a sheen to it much like gasoline (or was it more of an inner glow? It was hard to tell). Above the mixture, yellowish steam and smoke swirled together; for a moment, Alfred was sure he saw a skull form out of the wisps, but it dissolved just as fast.
Plastering a smile on his face and trying not to breathe too deeply – now that it was done, the thing gave off a strong smell of rotten eggs and fish left out in the sun too long, among other things – Alfred looked at Arthur and said, “Thanks, Arthur! It’s… exactly what I wanted!”
Apparently, his honesty had moved Arthur, who was now beaming at him for all the wrong reasons.
“Oh. Good then. I have to admit, I was a little worried when I lost my stirring spoon in there, but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference at all.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, you’re quite right about it making no difference”, Alfred laughed weakly, eyeing the creation again. Did normal food move like that?
“Oh, I shan’t. Of course, there was also the matter of the sugar - I was running short, but, somehow, I managed.”
“You sure did.”, Alfred began to feel his smile grow painfully strained, “What else did you put in there, huh?”. He didn’t want to chance someone making an antidote.
___________
The smell of something burning had already reached the doorstep, wafting out in a putrid cloud the moment Alfred opened the door.
Even a certain familiarity with it did not stop him from stepping back, retching, momentarily overcome with nausea. Clearly, Arthur still hadn’t lost his touch.
Over the years, Alfred had learned to treat the older man’s culinary creations much as he did natural disasters: you avoided those which you could, and bore the rest with stoicism and a dash of heroic courage. Another similarity: both usually involved hospital trips.
Today, however, was different. Today, Alfred had willingly ventured into the lion’s den, jumped up into the hurricane. Usually, England’s cooking… well, the smell of it alone would give visitors ample warning to turn right around and avoid him for the next few hours. But today was special.
Today, Alfred was here on a mission (of justice and liberty and awesomeness, or so he liked to think).
“Arthur?”, he called, in the most friendly tone he could given the squeamish feeling in his stomach.
When England didn’t answer, he felt it safe to covertly shpritz the air around him with air freshener. Mmm, lemons.
“Arthur?”
“’M in the kitchen!”
So he was. Alfred stepped into the kitchen gingerly, watching his feet to avoid the scattered eggshells and splatters of … something. The something had made its way onto the ceiling, he noticed, and was dripping down in measured drops. What looked like liquid mustard ran down the window in lazy streams, adding a sharp, spicy smell to the mix of odors already suffocating him.
Alfred squinted at his reflection, blurred from the char and hazy through the cloud of smoke that seemed to hover in the room. He couldn’t see it he looked as sick as he felt, but he hoped Arthur wouldn’t notice if he did.
He shouldn’t have worried though, because the Englishman was entirely occupied by a giant metallic pot standing atop the stove, boiling over. Armed with oven mitts, a bright red apron and a ladle that looked partially melted, Arthur was cursing and attempting to reach over the pot to turn the heat down. So far, his efforts had earned him a burnt hand and an ugly brown stain on his front.
“Do you need any help?”, Alfred offered, knowing full well that the only help he could offer consisted of removing Arthur from the kitchen and ensuring the two never crossed paths again. Could one file restraining orders on behalf of kitchens? He would have to look into that.
“No, no, I’m fine”, muttered Arthur, finally managing to reach the stove control with the ladle and turn the knob.
Slowly, the bubbling mixture in the pot settled, continuing to seethe but no longer splattering everything within a three meter radius with brown gunk. Examining it more closely, Alfred noticed that the mud colored mixture had a sheen to it much like gasoline (or was it more of an inner glow? It was hard to tell). Above the mixture, yellowish steam and smoke swirled together; for a moment, Alfred was sure he saw a skull form out of the wisps, but it dissolved just as fast.
Plastering a smile on his face and trying not to breathe too deeply – now that it was done, the thing gave off a strong smell of rotten eggs and fish left out in the sun too long, among other things – Alfred looked at Arthur and said, “Thanks, Arthur! It’s… exactly what I wanted!”
Apparently, his honesty had moved Arthur, who was now beaming at him for all the wrong reasons.
“Oh. Good then. I have to admit, I was a little worried when I lost my stirring spoon in there, but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference at all.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, you’re quite right about it making no difference”, Alfred laughed weakly, eyeing the creation again. Did normal food move like that?
“Oh, I shan’t. Of course, there was also the matter of the sugar - I was running short, but, somehow, I managed.”
“You sure did.”, Alfred began to feel his smile grow painfully strained, “What else did you put in there, huh?”. He didn’t want to chance someone making an antidote.
http://0kinkelly.deviantart.com/art/belarusXukraine-birthday-party-136979533
I think the party hats really make the image. LOL
I think the party hats really make the image. LOL
Romano x Romano
I don't care how you do it. Just make it have alot of pronz
I don't care how you do it. Just make it have alot of pronz
I want to see how a nation would react to meeting one of their citizens who hates their country.
Can be any nation and I would prefer that the hater does not realize that they have met their country.
I hope this hasn't been requested already.
Can be any nation and I would prefer that the hater does not realize that they have met their country.
I hope this hasn't been requested already.
Quick one, because I'm stuck on my other fill. ORL I guess this isn't really hate, sorry!
It's nothing new, of course, even though it still makes his brother rant and rave about ungrateful and unawesome bastards for hours every time he sees the numbers. He himself trusts that they made the framework more solid this time, that it can't simply slide away, although if he looks too closely at the edges now, something in his gut lurches. So he doesn't.
He's taking a break. Most of the flyers (“Inform yourself! It's your decision.”) are gone, because his people have trouble brushing past someone that steps into their path and thrusts something at their face. He wonders whether they're going to be read, though. He wonders whether they're going to be taken to heart.
He wishes he could smile when he hands them out, but that's not how he works.
Someone sits down on the bench next to him. It's a school child – no, an adult by age at least, he realises with a glance at the book she pulls out, 13th Grade advanced placement informatics. That brings a smile to his face, and she shoots him a small glare and scoots further away, snapping up the right half of the book so he can't see what she's reading.
He clears his throat, and she looks up again. He holds one of the last flyers out to her, but she scoffs.
“Inform yourself,” she reads, “it's your decision – your decision which label to put on the same bullshit all of them will do anyway?”
“Isn't there anyone you prefer?”
“And who?” She snaps her book shut and glares at him. “I'm not about to vote for the nazis or commies,” she ticks the parties off on her fingers, “the greens don't care how they pay for any of the many nice things they're promising, the liberals don't seem to think we need a review of the system at all because you know, the crisis so totally shouldn't or couldn't have been prevented, the union doesn't even know how to spell protection of privacy, and labour can't decide if they want to be nazis or commies.”
She reddens a little, although he's not sure if that's embarrassment about her outburst or agitation.
“Pirates?” He offers. They're popular with students, now.
“Yeah, right. And what am I going to live off when they abolish copyright? It doesn't matter anyway, Germany's fucked.” She runs a hand through her hair, rummages for a cigarette and lights it, and takes a deep drag.
“Shouldn't you do something about that, then?”
“My fucking grandparents should have done something about it.” There's so much compressed anger in her voice. She stares at him. “My grandpa was a nazi, what the hell can I say to that?”
“But you're not.”
“Of course not, do I look like an idiot?!” She shakes the book at him. “History's compulsory, you know?”
“Wouldn't you say that's good?”
Her face softens a little, but then pulls into a frown again. “Yeah,” she mutters, “real fucking good showing 8-year-olds pictures from the concentration camps. God, that shit makes me so sick.”
“It should.” Me, too. Never again.
She stares up at him. “Yeah. You're right. Still, that's so fucked up. We're the fucking Bundesrepublik, and all I hear at school is nazinazinazi. Can you believe that people are voting for them?”
“I don't understand it either,” he says, and wishes, wishes so badly, that he really didn't how easy it is not to question. “Especially since history is compulsory.”
“As I said, Germany's fucked.” She takes another deep drag, leans over to flick the ashes into the sand at the top of the trash can next to them. “Only nazis and football fans like it.”
“The president, too.”
“Yeah right, so nazis, football fans, and the president. You, too, I guess.”
He shrugs. He can't really say that much for himself. “You've done a lot of reading for not liking it.”
“Yeah well,” she says. She puts her book back into her bag, takes another drag, “I'm stuck here. Can't afford going abroad.”
She puts out her half-smoked cigarette and stands. “Good luck with your flyers. With any luck, they'll merge us into the EU soon anyway, then all this crap won't matter. Bye!”
Ludwig closes his eyes. He feels so tired, sometimes, that he thinks that really wouldn't be too bad.
It's nothing new, of course, even though it still makes his brother rant and rave about ungrateful and unawesome bastards for hours every time he sees the numbers. He himself trusts that they made the framework more solid this time, that it can't simply slide away, although if he looks too closely at the edges now, something in his gut lurches. So he doesn't.
He's taking a break. Most of the flyers (“Inform yourself! It's your decision.”) are gone, because his people have trouble brushing past someone that steps into their path and thrusts something at their face. He wonders whether they're going to be read, though. He wonders whether they're going to be taken to heart.
He wishes he could smile when he hands them out, but that's not how he works.
Someone sits down on the bench next to him. It's a school child – no, an adult by age at least, he realises with a glance at the book she pulls out, 13th Grade advanced placement informatics. That brings a smile to his face, and she shoots him a small glare and scoots further away, snapping up the right half of the book so he can't see what she's reading.
He clears his throat, and she looks up again. He holds one of the last flyers out to her, but she scoffs.
“Inform yourself,” she reads, “it's your decision – your decision which label to put on the same bullshit all of them will do anyway?”
“Isn't there anyone you prefer?”
“And who?” She snaps her book shut and glares at him. “I'm not about to vote for the nazis or commies,” she ticks the parties off on her fingers, “the greens don't care how they pay for any of the many nice things they're promising, the liberals don't seem to think we need a review of the system at all because you know, the crisis so totally shouldn't or couldn't have been prevented, the union doesn't even know how to spell protection of privacy, and labour can't decide if they want to be nazis or commies.”
She reddens a little, although he's not sure if that's embarrassment about her outburst or agitation.
“Pirates?” He offers. They're popular with students, now.
“Yeah, right. And what am I going to live off when they abolish copyright? It doesn't matter anyway, Germany's fucked.” She runs a hand through her hair, rummages for a cigarette and lights it, and takes a deep drag.
“Shouldn't you do something about that, then?”
“My fucking grandparents should have done something about it.” There's so much compressed anger in her voice. She stares at him. “My grandpa was a nazi, what the hell can I say to that?”
“But you're not.”
“Of course not, do I look like an idiot?!” She shakes the book at him. “History's compulsory, you know?”
“Wouldn't you say that's good?”
Her face softens a little, but then pulls into a frown again. “Yeah,” she mutters, “real fucking good showing 8-year-olds pictures from the concentration camps. God, that shit makes me so sick.”
“It should.” Me, too. Never again.
She stares up at him. “Yeah. You're right. Still, that's so fucked up. We're the fucking Bundesrepublik, and all I hear at school is nazinazinazi. Can you believe that people are voting for them?”
“I don't understand it either,” he says, and wishes, wishes so badly, that he really didn't how easy it is not to question. “Especially since history is compulsory.”
“As I said, Germany's fucked.” She takes another deep drag, leans over to flick the ashes into the sand at the top of the trash can next to them. “Only nazis and football fans like it.”
“The president, too.”
“Yeah right, so nazis, football fans, and the president. You, too, I guess.”
He shrugs. He can't really say that much for himself. “You've done a lot of reading for not liking it.”
“Yeah well,” she says. She puts her book back into her bag, takes another drag, “I'm stuck here. Can't afford going abroad.”
She puts out her half-smoked cigarette and stands. “Good luck with your flyers. With any luck, they'll merge us into the EU soon anyway, then all this crap won't matter. Bye!”
Ludwig closes his eyes. He feels so tired, sometimes, that he thinks that really wouldn't be too bad.
Latvia/Italy
Lativia topping the fuck out of Feli >:D
Lativia topping the fuck out of Feli >:D
Ok, here goes! this is the first time this anon is attempting to write something, so, i'm sorry in advance if anything goes wrong >_< Also, English is not my mother tongue, but i'm trying, but if you see any stupid mistakes, please excuse them >/////<
p.s. Detka = "baby" in Russian.
--------
It all started with an argument. As usual, it was a daily meeting in the conference room, and this time the nations had nothing to do but brag about whose food was better. France, N. Italy, Spain and Japan were already almost shouting in the heat of discussion, and the loudest voice was that of Spain, boasting about the fact that his cuisine was definitely the best, the most delicious, the most refined and versatile, trying to convince those stupid, stupid other nations...
Suddenly, a large hand landed on his shoulder. Antonio unwillingly turned his head from the opponents and jumped in surprise, for it was none other than Ivan, who, as it turned out, had been sitting and listening to their discussion the whole time. There was a curious half-smile playing on his face as he leaned down closer to Antonio's ear:
-Say, Spain, you've never tried Russian cuisine before, yes?
-No, I haven't.. Why? - Antonio blinked in surprise.
-Then, maybe, you would like to get accustomed to some of my culinary traditions, da? - Ivan's hand was clenching the shoulder tighter and tighter, his eyes becoming a dark, deep shade of purple, - Come and visit me in three days. I will be waiting.
Looking into Russia's eyes and being unable to avert his own, being frozen with fear, Antonio gave a weak nod, squeezing a faint smile out of himself, and there he was....
...As it had been decided, standing in front of Ivan's door three days later. Antonio was just about to raise his hand to knock when the door flew open and there was Ivan, with the same smile on his face, the same look in his eyes and even wearing the same scarf,which looked a bit ridiculous with a shirt....
-Ah, Spain, you're here! Come now, - Ivan grabbed Antonio's hand into his large palm and swiftly started walking further into the depths of his house. Spain coudn't helf but shudder at the thought of what was happening, what was GOING TO happen: 'Why am I even here?? With this vodka-addicted, crazy, giant, rude, posessive...', - but he also couldn't help but notice the broad shoulders in front or him, a strong back, with some muscled quite visible even under the shirt, not slender, but proportionally thin waistline...well, if he said he didn't find all that attractive, he would definitely be lying, he thought to himself.
p.s. Detka = "baby" in Russian.
--------
It all started with an argument. As usual, it was a daily meeting in the conference room, and this time the nations had nothing to do but brag about whose food was better. France, N. Italy, Spain and Japan were already almost shouting in the heat of discussion, and the loudest voice was that of Spain, boasting about the fact that his cuisine was definitely the best, the most delicious, the most refined and versatile, trying to convince those stupid, stupid other nations...
Suddenly, a large hand landed on his shoulder. Antonio unwillingly turned his head from the opponents and jumped in surprise, for it was none other than Ivan, who, as it turned out, had been sitting and listening to their discussion the whole time. There was a curious half-smile playing on his face as he leaned down closer to Antonio's ear:
-Say, Spain, you've never tried Russian cuisine before, yes?
-No, I haven't.. Why? - Antonio blinked in surprise.
-Then, maybe, you would like to get accustomed to some of my culinary traditions, da? - Ivan's hand was clenching the shoulder tighter and tighter, his eyes becoming a dark, deep shade of purple, - Come and visit me in three days. I will be waiting.
Looking into Russia's eyes and being unable to avert his own, being frozen with fear, Antonio gave a weak nod, squeezing a faint smile out of himself, and there he was....
...As it had been decided, standing in front of Ivan's door three days later. Antonio was just about to raise his hand to knock when the door flew open and there was Ivan, with the same smile on his face, the same look in his eyes and even wearing the same scarf,which looked a bit ridiculous with a shirt....
-Ah, Spain, you're here! Come now, - Ivan grabbed Antonio's hand into his large palm and swiftly started walking further into the depths of his house. Spain coudn't helf but shudder at the thought of what was happening, what was GOING TO happen: 'Why am I even here?? With this vodka-addicted, crazy, giant, rude, posessive...', - but he also couldn't help but notice the broad shoulders in front or him, a strong back, with some muscled quite visible even under the shirt, not slender, but proportionally thin waistline...well, if he said he didn't find all that attractive, he would definitely be lying, he thought to himself.
Sealand/Taiwan/Romano with bloodplay.
Lots and lots of bloodplay
<3
Lots and lots of bloodplay
<3
Specific request is specific but here it goes! I would love to read something where Alfred comes up with some sort of excuse to go on a simple, relaxing date with Arthur. The date can take place at somewhere such as a festival, beach, or maybe even just to see a movie. They end up having a fun time for once, after Arthur complains for a little bit, like usual, he begins to enjoy himself. I would also love it if this time Alfred is the one that confesses his feelings first, leaving Arthur all flustered and yet really really happy. You may add smut if you would like to, but don't feel like you have to! A lot of fluff would be loved by me.
I decided to go with the movie idea. Hope you like this, OP! :3 *might bump it up to three parts, depending on how nice LJ is*
~*~*~*
“Arthur! You, me, at my house watching a movie! Tony’s going to be out for today. And I’m not taking no for an answer!” Click!
That was pretty much the entire conversation that went on between Alfred and Arthur that morning. The blond American had been preparing for that night a few weeks in advanced, even taking into consideration that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to have Tony around while Arthur was over. In fact, his alien friend wasn’t coming back until Monday, which made Friday the ideal day to have the Briton visit. It hadn’t helped that it had taken most of the week to get the guts to call Arthur.
Honestly, the last couple months had been nerve-wracking for the American. It was only three months ago that Alfred had finally realized that he was in love with Arthur. Actually, he had figured out that he had been in love with the blond Briton ever since he had hit his “teenaged” years. Alfred blushed as he realized that he had always loved Arthur and he hoped that he would never stop loving the Brit.
At four in the afternoon, Alfred picked up the Englishman from the airport and drove him back to his Virginia house. Nowadays, he wasn’t able to visit the other state homes he had. Not with the current crises he was facing. Alfred mentally shook himself; now was not the time to even think about his work. He was just going to have a nice, relaxing, semi-dinner-date with Arthur. Said Briton shifted a little in his seat, a Billy Joel song playing softly from the speakers.
“So…America. What movie will we be watching tonight?” Arthur asked, facing away from the blond American. Alfred grinned, expecting that question. He had a movie already picked out and in the DVD player at home, but he wanted to surprise his date with his choice. So, he was going to lie a little, just to tease the Briton for old times sake.
“The first Indiana Jones movie,” the sky blue-eyed American replied in a singsong voice. His grin widened when he heard Arthur’s groan of displeasure. The Briton wouldn’t know that Alfred had merely been teasing him until they got home and the American pressed play. “C’mon, Artie! It’s not that bad.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arthur retorted with a snort. They were silent during the rest of the drive. It made Alfred a little nervous and sorely tempted to up the volume, but he knew that would annoy Arthur more than he already was. So, the blond resisted the temptation and focused on driving back home.
The two got back to Alfred’s house at around five and had decided that the American would be the one cooking. Arthur had put emphasis on the “no hamburgers while I’m around” rule before they stepped into the kitchen. The blond American rolled his eyes, ignoring the statement as he washed his hands. That night, Alfred was going to serve a light dinner, namely lightly seasoned grilled chicken and some salad on the side.
It took a little under an hour for dinner to be ready. Arthur had grudgingly given Alfred praise on his culinary skills. The American merely grinned with a light blush dusting his cheeks. His former colonizer’s praises were few and far between, so Alfred always treasured what he got from the other man.
After dinner, the two migrated to the living room and got comfortable on the couch, sitting relatively far apart. Hopefully, that would change during the movie. Alfred was all for cuddling with the Briton, although he doubted that would happen right then. He smiled a little as he swung his left arm across the back of the couch, using it as an armrest while he turned on the TV with the remote in his other hand. Alfred pressed play and made himself comfortable. It was about thirty seconds into the movie before he felt emerald eyes boring into the side of his head.
~*~*~*
“Arthur! You, me, at my house watching a movie! Tony’s going to be out for today. And I’m not taking no for an answer!” Click!
That was pretty much the entire conversation that went on between Alfred and Arthur that morning. The blond American had been preparing for that night a few weeks in advanced, even taking into consideration that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to have Tony around while Arthur was over. In fact, his alien friend wasn’t coming back until Monday, which made Friday the ideal day to have the Briton visit. It hadn’t helped that it had taken most of the week to get the guts to call Arthur.
Honestly, the last couple months had been nerve-wracking for the American. It was only three months ago that Alfred had finally realized that he was in love with Arthur. Actually, he had figured out that he had been in love with the blond Briton ever since he had hit his “teenaged” years. Alfred blushed as he realized that he had always loved Arthur and he hoped that he would never stop loving the Brit.
At four in the afternoon, Alfred picked up the Englishman from the airport and drove him back to his Virginia house. Nowadays, he wasn’t able to visit the other state homes he had. Not with the current crises he was facing. Alfred mentally shook himself; now was not the time to even think about his work. He was just going to have a nice, relaxing, semi-dinner-date with Arthur. Said Briton shifted a little in his seat, a Billy Joel song playing softly from the speakers.
“So…America. What movie will we be watching tonight?” Arthur asked, facing away from the blond American. Alfred grinned, expecting that question. He had a movie already picked out and in the DVD player at home, but he wanted to surprise his date with his choice. So, he was going to lie a little, just to tease the Briton for old times sake.
“The first Indiana Jones movie,” the sky blue-eyed American replied in a singsong voice. His grin widened when he heard Arthur’s groan of displeasure. The Briton wouldn’t know that Alfred had merely been teasing him until they got home and the American pressed play. “C’mon, Artie! It’s not that bad.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arthur retorted with a snort. They were silent during the rest of the drive. It made Alfred a little nervous and sorely tempted to up the volume, but he knew that would annoy Arthur more than he already was. So, the blond resisted the temptation and focused on driving back home.
The two got back to Alfred’s house at around five and had decided that the American would be the one cooking. Arthur had put emphasis on the “no hamburgers while I’m around” rule before they stepped into the kitchen. The blond American rolled his eyes, ignoring the statement as he washed his hands. That night, Alfred was going to serve a light dinner, namely lightly seasoned grilled chicken and some salad on the side.
It took a little under an hour for dinner to be ready. Arthur had grudgingly given Alfred praise on his culinary skills. The American merely grinned with a light blush dusting his cheeks. His former colonizer’s praises were few and far between, so Alfred always treasured what he got from the other man.
After dinner, the two migrated to the living room and got comfortable on the couch, sitting relatively far apart. Hopefully, that would change during the movie. Alfred was all for cuddling with the Briton, although he doubted that would happen right then. He smiled a little as he swung his left arm across the back of the couch, using it as an armrest while he turned on the TV with the remote in his other hand. Alfred pressed play and made himself comfortable. It was about thirty seconds into the movie before he felt emerald eyes boring into the side of his head.
Bloody hell, she's gorgeous.
Arthur was sitting languidly in a small easy chair, sipping occasionally at a glass of wine. He was on the back porch of an old Virginia house, and was extremely comfortable. One of the pluses of visiting America in the summer was that the nights were usually pleasantly warm, and almost earthy; although they were hardly staying out in the wilderness, the sounds of crickets filled the air.
The door to the entertainment room from the patio was open, spilling soft, golden light onto the porch. There was a woman standing in the doorway. She had soft golden hair cut short and feminine, styled gently and molded to follow the lines of her face. Her bright, clear blue eyes were half-closed, long lashes pointed seductively at Arthur. She'd applied make up skilfully, her skill with light and shadow making her face look soft and notably feminine. The one splash of color was the bright red lipstick, currently modeled into a wry smile.
She was tall, and if her figure was perhaps not as curvy as it could have been, her long, gorgeous legs accentuated by sharp black stilettos, smooth and hairless, as gorgeous and toned as a leg had no right to be. She was wearing a short, strapless black dress, a pair of glasses hanging off of them carelessly. The dress had been carefully designed to accentuate her small, proud bust.
She smiled kindly at Arthur and said, in a soft Southern accent, “Dinner's ready, honey.”
Arthur smiled widely and stood, taking her in. “Oh my god. I mean oh. My. God. You're absolutely gorgeous... Alice?” He tested the name out carefully, rolling it off his tongue. Alice winked at him, grabbed his hand, and led him inside.
They ate in a small, private dining room, and as the main course was brought in Alice commented in her soft Southern accent, “The chef studied in France, you know. He's absolutely fabulous.” She sat straight yet relaxed in her ornate chair, the perfect example of a lady. Arthur couldn't look away from her. She was absolutely gorgeous. Then the main dish was set out in front of them, and Arthur looked down with distaste.
“Hamburgers?”
She laughed. “I never said the food was French.”
They made conversation as they ate, Arthur all too eager to learn about his new companion. “So... Alice... Have you been living here long?”
“Since I was born. It's a lovely old place, isn't it?” she said in a proprietorial fashion. “Virginia's one of my favorite places, you know. I've got such a... Connection with it.” She toyed with her fork and leaned in on the table, looking up at Arthur amusedly. Arthur blushed, and she laughed. “You're such a sweetie. Just look at you. I wish all my guests had your kind of table manners. Where'd you come from?”
“Oh, here and there,” said Arthur. “I'm more interested in you. It's been a while since I've met someone quite so... Charming.” He still seemed dumbstruck by the mere sight of her, taking in every inch of her gorgeous body with massive appreciation.
The waiter removed the parfait glasses- every time Alice had slipped her spoon in between those perfect lips, Arthur had been dumbstruck- and Alice smiled sweetly at him, her blue eyes never leaving his green ones. “Could I get you to come upstairs for some coffee?”
Arthur was sitting languidly in a small easy chair, sipping occasionally at a glass of wine. He was on the back porch of an old Virginia house, and was extremely comfortable. One of the pluses of visiting America in the summer was that the nights were usually pleasantly warm, and almost earthy; although they were hardly staying out in the wilderness, the sounds of crickets filled the air.
The door to the entertainment room from the patio was open, spilling soft, golden light onto the porch. There was a woman standing in the doorway. She had soft golden hair cut short and feminine, styled gently and molded to follow the lines of her face. Her bright, clear blue eyes were half-closed, long lashes pointed seductively at Arthur. She'd applied make up skilfully, her skill with light and shadow making her face look soft and notably feminine. The one splash of color was the bright red lipstick, currently modeled into a wry smile.
She was tall, and if her figure was perhaps not as curvy as it could have been, her long, gorgeous legs accentuated by sharp black stilettos, smooth and hairless, as gorgeous and toned as a leg had no right to be. She was wearing a short, strapless black dress, a pair of glasses hanging off of them carelessly. The dress had been carefully designed to accentuate her small, proud bust.
She smiled kindly at Arthur and said, in a soft Southern accent, “Dinner's ready, honey.”
Arthur smiled widely and stood, taking her in. “Oh my god. I mean oh. My. God. You're absolutely gorgeous... Alice?” He tested the name out carefully, rolling it off his tongue. Alice winked at him, grabbed his hand, and led him inside.
They ate in a small, private dining room, and as the main course was brought in Alice commented in her soft Southern accent, “The chef studied in France, you know. He's absolutely fabulous.” She sat straight yet relaxed in her ornate chair, the perfect example of a lady. Arthur couldn't look away from her. She was absolutely gorgeous. Then the main dish was set out in front of them, and Arthur looked down with distaste.
“Hamburgers?”
She laughed. “I never said the food was French.”
They made conversation as they ate, Arthur all too eager to learn about his new companion. “So... Alice... Have you been living here long?”
“Since I was born. It's a lovely old place, isn't it?” she said in a proprietorial fashion. “Virginia's one of my favorite places, you know. I've got such a... Connection with it.” She toyed with her fork and leaned in on the table, looking up at Arthur amusedly. Arthur blushed, and she laughed. “You're such a sweetie. Just look at you. I wish all my guests had your kind of table manners. Where'd you come from?”
“Oh, here and there,” said Arthur. “I'm more interested in you. It's been a while since I've met someone quite so... Charming.” He still seemed dumbstruck by the mere sight of her, taking in every inch of her gorgeous body with massive appreciation.
The waiter removed the parfait glasses- every time Alice had slipped her spoon in between those perfect lips, Arthur had been dumbstruck- and Alice smiled sweetly at him, her blue eyes never leaving his green ones. “Could I get you to come upstairs for some coffee?”
Japan asking a bunch of the others out...
but gets rejected
every
single
time
<3
but gets rejected
every
single
time
<3
Poor Japan... ;A;
But, seconded. So very seconded.
But, seconded. So very seconded.
Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-22 21:51 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-22 21:52 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-23 20:27 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-27 14:54 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-28 04:54 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-10-01 18:03 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Japan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 4/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2011-06-07 01:22 (UTC) - ExpandJapan Can't Get a Date (Creative Title) 3/4 (I lied, it's 4.)
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-22 21:51 (UTC) - ExpandInspired by the "texts from last night" fill.
Anon would like to see something with New Zealand, even though NZ isn't canon. Gen is acceptable as well.
Anon would like to see something with New Zealand, even though NZ isn't canon. Gen is acceptable as well.
I very much seconded! Because every nation needs some love, even if it isn't canon yet!
So... I believe I've read comments before on other requests that the character for NZ would have a bit of a Canada complex... constantly being overshadowed by his/her brother, possibly being ignored, invisible... Did OP have any thoughts on this?
And if OP is NZ!anon from the 'text from last night' fill thread... this anon would like to apologize that she hasn't written anything referencing or including NZ as promised yet...
So... I believe I've read comments before on other requests that the character for NZ would have a bit of a Canada complex... constantly being overshadowed by his/her brother, possibly being ignored, invisible... Did OP have any thoughts on this?
And if OP is NZ!anon from the 'text from last night' fill thread... this anon would like to apologize that she hasn't written anything referencing or including NZ as promised yet...
Prussia/Prussia
Awesome used as a fetish word~
BONUS: Awesome is writeen at least 30 times
^^
Awesome used as a fetish word~
BONUS: Awesome is writeen at least 30 times
^^
[ 2389 CE ]
Awesome.
That was honestly the only word that came to mind when a certain Kiku Honda had taken a theory from 1994 and expanded on it. Not just expanded on it, built it. Now, this was-- mind you, only because the Japanese had decided to take a short break on mass production of mechas for his militia. He had plenty, and now was a time of peace anyway, so Kiku really had no purpose in building more for as little space as he had. Exactly why he'd chosen this particular thing to work on was beyond him, but given that Japan had the highest level of technology at the time, he was probably the only one who could do something as incredibly awesome as this.
The Alcubierre Drive.
It'd been such a long time go that anyone had thought of it, and most concept like this kept to science fiction. Japan was testing the Alcubierre Drive out for the first time today. A warp drive had long been thought impossible by the large majority of the population, but Kiku had done it, and invited Ludwig to the launch. They had long since been good friends. (Gilbert thought there might've been something more-- but he tended to get in trouble whenever he pestered either of them about it. Not that it stopped him, but it didn't get him anywhere so he only brought it up once and a while now. Besides, he teased Ludwig about Feliciano too, so it's not like they took him seriously and supposedly claimed to never even think about trying some of his suggestions, no matter how incredibly awesome or kinky his ideas for them were.)
Gilbert, on the other hand, was not invited.
Gilbert did not care.
Gilbert got his awesome self past the security somehow anyway, without letting Kiku or Ludwig know he was there. A feat in and of itself, if he did say so himself.
"The great and awesome me strikes again."
Kiku and Ludwig were still exploring some of the rooms, and the flight crew in the ship that was equipped with the drive hadn't arrived yet. It was only luck that the Prussian had found his way onto the bridge. The completely empty, crew-free bridge, with the controls just sitting there, begging for him to come sit at them.
He was never one to deny someone begging for his awesomeness to come on over and play with something that he totally shouldn't play with, so that's probably why within a matter of seconds, he'd sat down in front of some holographic keyboards and what appeared to be a joystick. Leave it to Kiku to design the controls like a video game. Leave it to Prussia to be fucking awesome at video games.
---
"This is the cantine. We do not have enough power to make entire trips using the Alcubierre Warp Drive, so some travel may take a few days during the time that the drive is not fully charged, so I thought it would be necessary to provide some form of restaurant on board," Kiku explained to Ludwig.
He was giving him the full tour, in case he needed anything, before lift-off. The smaller man headed over toward a humanoid robot who, quite frankly, if it had not been wearing the uniform required by all androids to identify them as non-human in order to avoid confusion, would have easily been mistaken for a real human being.
"I--"
Kiku was cut off from demonstrating the android's capabilities in tea preparation by the sudden shaking of the ship and falling against the German, who had only managed to remain standing due to being right next to a wall. It was obvious that whoever had just started up the ship was not fully trained in lift-off. And obviously hadn't bothered to turn the gravitational equalizer on, since the entire ship was rattling at that point and even Ludwig was having trouble keeping on his feet.
Someone was hijacking the ship.
---
Now, Gilbert had no idea about the lack of sufficient energy to hold the drive on for a long period of time. He also had no idea how to properly drive it. He also had no idea that it would probably have been a better idea to wait until he was finished launching and away from the earth to start it up.
Awesome.
That was honestly the only word that came to mind when a certain Kiku Honda had taken a theory from 1994 and expanded on it. Not just expanded on it, built it. Now, this was-- mind you, only because the Japanese had decided to take a short break on mass production of mechas for his militia. He had plenty, and now was a time of peace anyway, so Kiku really had no purpose in building more for as little space as he had. Exactly why he'd chosen this particular thing to work on was beyond him, but given that Japan had the highest level of technology at the time, he was probably the only one who could do something as incredibly awesome as this.
The Alcubierre Drive.
It'd been such a long time go that anyone had thought of it, and most concept like this kept to science fiction. Japan was testing the Alcubierre Drive out for the first time today. A warp drive had long been thought impossible by the large majority of the population, but Kiku had done it, and invited Ludwig to the launch. They had long since been good friends. (Gilbert thought there might've been something more-- but he tended to get in trouble whenever he pestered either of them about it. Not that it stopped him, but it didn't get him anywhere so he only brought it up once and a while now. Besides, he teased Ludwig about Feliciano too, so it's not like they took him seriously and supposedly claimed to never even think about trying some of his suggestions, no matter how incredibly awesome or kinky his ideas for them were.)
Gilbert, on the other hand, was not invited.
Gilbert did not care.
Gilbert got his awesome self past the security somehow anyway, without letting Kiku or Ludwig know he was there. A feat in and of itself, if he did say so himself.
"The great and awesome me strikes again."
Kiku and Ludwig were still exploring some of the rooms, and the flight crew in the ship that was equipped with the drive hadn't arrived yet. It was only luck that the Prussian had found his way onto the bridge. The completely empty, crew-free bridge, with the controls just sitting there, begging for him to come sit at them.
He was never one to deny someone begging for his awesomeness to come on over and play with something that he totally shouldn't play with, so that's probably why within a matter of seconds, he'd sat down in front of some holographic keyboards and what appeared to be a joystick. Leave it to Kiku to design the controls like a video game. Leave it to Prussia to be fucking awesome at video games.
---
"This is the cantine. We do not have enough power to make entire trips using the Alcubierre Warp Drive, so some travel may take a few days during the time that the drive is not fully charged, so I thought it would be necessary to provide some form of restaurant on board," Kiku explained to Ludwig.
He was giving him the full tour, in case he needed anything, before lift-off. The smaller man headed over toward a humanoid robot who, quite frankly, if it had not been wearing the uniform required by all androids to identify them as non-human in order to avoid confusion, would have easily been mistaken for a real human being.
"I--"
Kiku was cut off from demonstrating the android's capabilities in tea preparation by the sudden shaking of the ship and falling against the German, who had only managed to remain standing due to being right next to a wall. It was obvious that whoever had just started up the ship was not fully trained in lift-off. And obviously hadn't bothered to turn the gravitational equalizer on, since the entire ship was rattling at that point and even Ludwig was having trouble keeping on his feet.
Someone was hijacking the ship.
---
Now, Gilbert had no idea about the lack of sufficient energy to hold the drive on for a long period of time. He also had no idea how to properly drive it. He also had no idea that it would probably have been a better idea to wait until he was finished launching and away from the earth to start it up.
Awesomegasm. [3/4 ..and I meant 2/3 on the last one, but I just changed it to 4. XD;]
(Anonymous) - 2009-09-19 08:38 (UTC) - ExpandN. Italy/Chibitalia...
I really don't care how you make it happen. :D
I really don't care how you make it happen. :D
Japan annoying everyone with desu.
Bonus if Ukraine slaps him.
~_~
Bonus if Ukraine slaps him.
~_~
It happened while Lovino Vargas was working in the fields. Most of his peers would gawk at this fact alone if no one added that he was picking tomatoes. As if that would explain everything. (It did.)
Lovino was studying a particularly juicy looking tomato, trying to decide if he should eat it now or put it in his basket, when he heard it.
"Jiiiig~ ga~ llly~ puuuff~ ... jig~ ga~ llllllyy~ ... puuff~!"
The most beautiful voice in the world.
A normal human being would have fallen asleep at that moment. However, Lovino was neither human or normal.
Letting the tomato drop to the ground, Lovino staggered towards the singing, that glorious, heavenly singing. His eyes half-closed in ecstasy at hearing music straight from the soul.
"Jiiiig~ ga~ llly~ puuuff~ ... jig~ ga~ llllllllyyy~!"
Time was hazy, the same as everything around him. Everything but the singing. Lovino eventually reached the neighbouring meadow, taking in the sight of the perfect pink roundness in front of him. This was who the voice was coming from! Lovino sat on the grass and listened, a dopey grin on his face that was more suited for his brother's.
"... Jigglypuff?"
Lovino frowned. The voice had stopped singing ... "Please, bella signorina! Don't stop on my account! I would love to hear more of your song!"
The figure studied him for a moment, as if gauging the truth of his words, before she smiled. Its brilliance took Lovino's breath away.
"Jiggly!"
She began to sing her lullaby again and the pleasant daze returned. He was immersed in the beautiful song, never noticing the mysterious being coming closer until she was practically in his lap. Lovino was thrilled with this new contact and held her close to him as she continued singing. He sighed as she touched his face, as she ran the limb that was not holding her microphone lower and lower down his torso ...
When she grabbed hold of his nether regions, Lovino's mind went blank with desire.
----
"I can't remember anything after that! When I woke up, I was freezing and it was night and my clothes were everywhere and ... and I was ..." Lovino broke off, unable to continue as the shuddering claimed his body.
"You must say it, my son."
"... I was covered in my ... in my own seed. Forgive me, father." he whispered.
"There is nothing you have done that needs forgiveness, as this sin is not your own," the priest said. After hearing the choked sob from the young man who came to him every day, he felt a stirring of pity for him. "This is the work of one of the vile succubus that have plagued our lands for centuries. You are the victim, my son, and you must remember this. She has taken something precious from you and you must forgive yourself before your shame destroys you."
The silence was deafening. The old priest knew he could not heal a man that felt he deserved it.
"... I absolve you from the sins you create in your mind. Pray for us all, young Vargas."
When his youngest/oldest charge left, the priest began to prepare. He was duty bound to inform the Catholic church that a Temptress had once again crossed the Veil that separated all worlds. He loaded his .44 Magnum, his face grim.
Soon, the hunt would begin.
Lovino was studying a particularly juicy looking tomato, trying to decide if he should eat it now or put it in his basket, when he heard it.
"Jiiiig~ ga~ llly~ puuuff~ ... jig~ ga~ llllllyy~ ... puuff~!"
The most beautiful voice in the world.
A normal human being would have fallen asleep at that moment. However, Lovino was neither human or normal.
Letting the tomato drop to the ground, Lovino staggered towards the singing, that glorious, heavenly singing. His eyes half-closed in ecstasy at hearing music straight from the soul.
"Jiiiig~ ga~ llly~ puuuff~ ... jig~ ga~ llllllllyyy~!"
Time was hazy, the same as everything around him. Everything but the singing. Lovino eventually reached the neighbouring meadow, taking in the sight of the perfect pink roundness in front of him. This was who the voice was coming from! Lovino sat on the grass and listened, a dopey grin on his face that was more suited for his brother's.
"... Jigglypuff?"
Lovino frowned. The voice had stopped singing ... "Please, bella signorina! Don't stop on my account! I would love to hear more of your song!"
The figure studied him for a moment, as if gauging the truth of his words, before she smiled. Its brilliance took Lovino's breath away.
"Jiggly!"
She began to sing her lullaby again and the pleasant daze returned. He was immersed in the beautiful song, never noticing the mysterious being coming closer until she was practically in his lap. Lovino was thrilled with this new contact and held her close to him as she continued singing. He sighed as she touched his face, as she ran the limb that was not holding her microphone lower and lower down his torso ...
When she grabbed hold of his nether regions, Lovino's mind went blank with desire.
----
"I can't remember anything after that! When I woke up, I was freezing and it was night and my clothes were everywhere and ... and I was ..." Lovino broke off, unable to continue as the shuddering claimed his body.
"You must say it, my son."
"... I was covered in my ... in my own seed. Forgive me, father." he whispered.
"There is nothing you have done that needs forgiveness, as this sin is not your own," the priest said. After hearing the choked sob from the young man who came to him every day, he felt a stirring of pity for him. "This is the work of one of the vile succubus that have plagued our lands for centuries. You are the victim, my son, and you must remember this. She has taken something precious from you and you must forgive yourself before your shame destroys you."
The silence was deafening. The old priest knew he could not heal a man that felt he deserved it.
"... I absolve you from the sins you create in your mind. Pray for us all, young Vargas."
When his youngest/oldest charge left, the priest began to prepare. He was duty bound to inform the Catholic church that a Temptress had once again crossed the Veil that separated all worlds. He loaded his .44 Magnum, his face grim.
Soon, the hunt would begin.
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