Hetalia kink meme ([personal profile] hetalia_kink) wrote2011-02-27 12:31 pm

Past-Part Fills Part 7

Past-Part Fills Part Seven

Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part MUST go in that part's post until it is full.

Include a link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
The 'Anything Goes' request is here if you need it.
Then, don't forget to link your new fill at the
fill index and under the original request.

Keep yourself up to date: check out the
Comments and Suggestions go

Past-Part Fills 1 | Past-Part Fills 2 | Past-Part Fills 3 | Past-Part Fills 4 | Past-Part Fills 5 | Past-Part Fills 6

[Part 8] Anything Goes - Greece/Japan, Crime-AU

(Anonymous) 2012-03-04 10:02 am (UTC)(link)
A/N: Original prompt was for Yakuza!Japan meeting Shipping Empire Heir!Greece.

I started working on this for an event (which I unfortunately missed the deadline for OTL). And now, I’m a little nervous about posting it to the main comm, because it doesn’t seem very romantic/fluffy at all >_>

So I decided to test it out here. I’m not quite done with it yet, so I will post up what I have so far. I do have a pretty good idea of the plot though, so I will try to finish up the other parts as soon as I can. Critique/feedback on plot and characterizations are most welcomed and appreciated.

the beginning of all commotions [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-04 10:08 am (UTC)(link)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Greece/Japan, Turkey, mentions of China and Ancient Rome. More implied pairings and characters to come in later parts.
Warnings: Crime-AU, language, booze & smokes, slight crack and general WTFkery. I must be smoking the same thing Himaruya-sensei has been lately.
Music that inspired all of this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDHXZ4Fjqr8



February 14, 2kXX. 08:10 AM

He couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten himself into this situation.

One moment it was all cars and high-speed chasing, and then Sadiq’s obnoxious face was pushing its way into his line of view and–

“Bet ya wouldna have the guts to break it, brat. Bet ya’ll always be stuck toe-ing the line and kissing yer Daddy’s arse ‘till ya’re a washed-up good-fer-nuthin.”

To be quite frank, Herakles had never been very keen in business of any sorts, let alone in the shipping industry. So it was always to his utter distaste whenever Sadiq had the gall to insinuate that Herakles got a kick out of being a possible heir to his father’s shipping empire – especially when he cared nothing of the sort. If anyone were to ask what he truly wanted to be in life, he would happily comply and say–

“A vet.”

Sadiq made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a cough. “A what?

“A vet.” Herakles repeated again, glancing down to where a tiny black and white kitten had taken to pouncing at his shoes, caught in a deadly battle with a stray shoelace.

“It’s not such a bad job, looking after animals and helping them get better.” He reached over to pat ithe kitten softly over the head. “And I really like cats.”

Sadiq only rolled his eyes. “Ya kiddin’ right? Stop tryin’ pull my leg.”

“Kidding? No, no, I’m being totally honest – if you understood what that word even means. In fact...”

Here, Herakles shifted his gaze and gave the other man a sneer – a small, contemptuous curl playing at the corner of his lips, but one which was not lacking in any derision for its receiver – before continuing, “Sometimes I wish I was a cat. Then, I would spend the whole day pissing all over your smelly carpets and maybe just ripping up some upholstery, for good measure.”

Fuck ya!” Sadiq growled, a vein twitching at the side of his temple. “And leave my carpets out of this!”

“No thanks,” Herakles snarled back, “I do still have my standards, and you didn’t meet any of them.”

“And fuck yer stupid cats too, they leave fur all over the fuckin’ place!”

“So says the buffoon who sheds hair over the coffee table while attempting to sign business deals. Would you like an electric shaver for your chest as a gift next time?”

“Why ya cocky, little piece of shit, just wait till I sock ya in the face.”

“Come at me then, stinky bastard.”

And so it was the day had begun with the usual arguments over nothing and everything, and before Herakles realised it, he and Sadiq had ended up wrestling each other from outside of Sadiq’ fancy establishment (authentic Turkish carpets for all occasions all year round!) all the way down to the back alley of Baker Street (three blocks down off Haggleton Avenue and a right turn just around the corner of Moriarty Florist & Gift Shoppe).

Things would have gone back to normal once the two eventually grew weary (or bored) of throwing punches at each other – they usually always did. Today was not a normal day however, as Herakles and Sadiq made one of the biggest mistakes of their lives, and that was to run down the alley and right into the middle of a gang fight.

It was only about the get much worse from here.

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[Part 20] Prussia/Romano - Romano is secretly kinky

(Anonymous) 2012-03-04 06:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20749.html?thread=82041869#t82041869

Long story short, Romano writes kinky stories about himself and nation A who then finds these stories. I'm the Prumano anon who commented on the request. I'm so, so sorry that it took me over half a year to get this up. I hope OP is still around.

Nobody Fulfils a Fantasy Like Prussia 1a/?

(Anonymous) 2012-03-04 06:33 pm (UTC)(link)
Prussia opened the door to Romano's room and poked his head in. Based on how Italy kept berating his brother for being untidy and not taking out the trash often enough, he was expecting something resembling a junk yard.

Instead, the room looked perfectly normal, even clean in his eyes. One shirt was hastily thrown on the bed, and Romano hadn't replaced all the books he had been reading on the shelf, but other than that, the room was practically shining in comparison to Prussia's den in the basement of Germany's house.

“Haha, let's see what he's got here,” he said to himself as stepped in and closed the door behind him.

He and Germany were on a weekend visit to Italy's house in Venice. Italy had invited them over to enjoy some small, local festival with them, but Prussia wasn't too updated on all the details. All he cared about was getting to see that cute Italy again. Maybe he'd manage to steal him from Germany's grasp for a moment or two.

However, he'd have to be really lucky for that to happen. Not only was Germany aware of his constant attempts to get Italy's attention, but Romano was against him as well. Prussia had no idea if the southern half of Italy was just being an over-protective big brother or if his behaviour was motivated by his “utter disgust for potato-sucking bastards”, as he had put it earlier that day. Either way, Romano was doing his damnest to make sure Prussia didn't get his hands on Italy.

Right now, Prussia was the only one at the house. Germany and Italy had left earlier to buy some groceries for the dinner that Italy wanted to cook that evening. Romano had stayed with Prussia for a while, but it hadn't taken long before his awesome company had become too much for him to handle. He had declared how he hated him and then marched out, his fists clenched and face so red that he resembled a tomato.

Prussia had quickly grown bored of having nobody but Gilbird to talk to. It wasn't that he didn't like being alone (he loved it!), but usually he had at least some comic books or his computer for entertainment. Now he had nothing, so he had decided that he was perfectly within his rights to take a peek into Romano's room. After all, Romano was being a terrible host by dumping him like that, so who could blame Prussia for seeking out his own fun?

Now, where should he look first? Maybe Romano had some interesting music or movies he could watch? Or maybe he'd end up finding some embarrassing secrets, like love letters to Spain. Romano and Spain weren't officially together, but they had been so close for so many years that everyone was just waiting for Spain to finally get a clue and make the first move.

Prussia pulled open one of the drawers on the night stand. Hmm, just a comb, some coins and a bottle opener of all things. He closed the drawer and opened the next one. In that one, there was nothing but a notebook with a blank cover.

Intrigued, Prussia took it out. Maybe it was a diary. He of all people knew that diary writing was serious business, and for a moment he felt a stab of guilt about what he was going to do. But then he reasoned that it was Romano's own fault for not hiding the notebook better.

He smirked and greedily turned the first page. Romano's handwriting was a little messy, he noted before he started reading.

I couldn't see anything. The blindfold over my eyes didn't let me even make out the difference between light and shadow.

The leather straps binding my wrists to the bedpost were biting painfully into my skin, not enough to draw blood but certainly enough to bruise. I shifted in discomfort, but there was no getting out of the kneeling position I had been forced into on the bed. My hands were bound high enough so that I couldn't rest on my legs but had to remain on my knees and with my ass in the air.

A rough hand came down on my buttocks, circling the flesh with the thumb and threatening to dip into the crack between my cheeks. I had been told to remain absolutely still, but I couldn't stop myself from pushing into the touch.

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[Part 17] Denmark/Norway - Behind Closed Doors Update

(Anonymous) 2012-03-05 07:51 am (UTC)(link)
Request and Fill: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/19013.html?thread=71124549#t71124549

[Part 13] RusCan - stuck in an elevator

(Anonymous) 2012-03-06 04:17 am (UTC)(link)
Original Request here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=47842653#t47842653

Late for a meeting Canada dashes for the elevator, slams the button and tries to catch his breath at the sound of girl of ipanema. Until he realizes he's sharing the ride with his brother's past archenemy (now friend), Russia. Awkward ensues. But it would've been okay, if the power hadn't gone out and they were now stuck in the elevator for god know how long.

The twist? They had had an affair during the Cold War, and Ivan had broken Matt's heart when he called it off for no apparent reason. (It can be for whatever reason, but I'd like something along the lines that Ivan did it to protect Matthew)

Sex is optional, but very much appreciated. ♥

Notes: A friend and I decided to challenge ourselves to fill the exact same request with a word limit of 1500 words.

As you can tell, I failed miserably! orz NUMBERS, WHAT ARE THEY. WHAT IS COUNTING. Dear kink meme, have some verbose fail! :'D

My friend's fill (and it managed to be 1500 words exactly - I marvel at this kind of talent, which I clearly lack) is the first one for this prompt and is located here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=89246690#t89246690
I think it's amazing and you should all go read it too :3

Unfinished Business - [1/8]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-06 04:20 am (UTC)(link)
Mouse-over the language words for a translation!

Canada knew, even as he'd set the alarm last night (far too late!) that getting up so early was ambitious and possibly out of the realm of possibility. He also knew that the after-dinner coffee he'd ordered was a bad idea because he wouldn't fall asleep until the blue hours of the night. And it was decently cold in Oslo; he hadn't wanted to get out of bed --

And excuses, excuses, nagged a voice that felt suspiciously like England, we said nine am and we meant nine am!

And now it was nearly eleven-thirty and he was over two hours late for the working group on domestic security issues that the Netherlands had so kindly set up for them to begin discussing something relevant and derail somehow into the war on terror.

With any luck, he thought, as he rounded the corner and spotted an open set of elevator doors, marked above with a red arrow pointing down - he panicked and put in an extra effort for that added burst of speed, c'mon legs, don't fail me now! - that was where they'd be at this moment: America trying to convince England how the latest threat to the Western World needed particular monitoring, and England attempting to calm him down and explain to him that he couldn't just operate on hearsay from the CIA. With any luck, the only one who noticed his slipping in would be France, who noticed many things but could be persuaded to keep them secret.

"Wait!" he called, and ducked into the elevator cabin just before the doors shut.

Safe. He relaxed and bent slightly, his hands on his knees, panting.

It wasn't until he straightened that he realised he was not alone in the cabin.

Russia leaned against the back wall, attempting to look casual and dismissive even though his height would have the guardrail poking into his tailbone.

Delightful. He fidgeted, rubbed the nape of his neck and huffed.

Ordinarily Canada would think, better late than later. But ... tardiness be damned, he really didn't want to share an elevator with Russia, even if it'd only be for some thirty seconds. "I, uh," Canada said, and coughed, feeling uncomfortable. "Y'know... I can take the next one." He caught the floor they were on - fourteenth, descending - and pressed the button for the twelfth.

"Da, mozhesh'. That would be nice," Russia replied, quietly, and to his feet.

But the elevator neither dinged at the twelfth, nor opened its doors. Instead, it gave an ominous lurch down, knocking Russia off his balance and sending Canada to his knees, followed by a short stop and a screech, like a train derailment in elevator form.

Canada looked up at Russia, pale and gripping the guardrail. "Are you -"

Another deafening screech interrupted him. He felt the cabin wobble under his feet before the lights cut entirely and the cabin dropped - for a split second he was weightless -

Until another screech, and it stopped, slamming Canada painfully into the floor. "Ow," he grumbled, out of the side of his mouth that wasn't connected with the tile. But at least the emergency lighting system was up and running, and he could see his hands in front of his face. Gingerly, he lifted himself up onto his haunches and sat back. "Are you alright?" he asked.

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[part 7] UKUS America is secretly a Famous singer

(Anonymous) 2012-03-07 06:47 am (UTC)(link)
link to request:http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10960.html?thread=21936336#t21936336
Prompt:I've seen requests where it involves nations having to hide their identities from humans and such. Well, this OP wants to see Alfred, the political representative of America by World Meetings to-insert whatever famous name anon comes up with-, the Pop Idol/Rock Star of America!
Yeah, think of it as like another Hannah Montana theme going on.*shot*
also America's character CD influenced me :P
Bonus:Pop Idol/Rock Star!America wears a great disguise
Bonus 2:UKxUS pairing about to happen (Of course Arthur doesn't know about America's double-life)
Bonus 3:An unexpected nation finds out America's secret and he/she promises not to tell(LOL if its Norway or South Italy)
Bonus 4:Pop Idol/Rock Star!America has an international fanbase, meaning other nations really like his songs
Bonus 5:Pop Idol/Rock Star!America can dance
A/N:I am going to have Pop Idol!America have his own name as the songs I thought that he might sing come from several stars(And most of them are sung by female stars as well)I hope that OP will not mind that.

America really had not expected this. After all, who liked listening to other’s sing in the shower? Particularly in a hotel that (apparently) had thin walls. Alfred had expected the person next to him to yell at him for making a racket. What he hadn’t expected was one of the most prestigious American music talent people to knock on his door and offer to help him in a singing career. He truly hadn’t expected that his boss had been behind it because according to his boss “You have a lovely voice and the songs you create are catchy.”

But apparently his boss was right as he was putting on a concert for a couple thousand screaming fans. He had originally posted a few of his songs (with prodding) on yo*tu*e and the videos went viral. Checking to make sure that his disguise was firmly in place(he had told his manager that he didn’t want people to know who he really was as he didn’t want to deal with the paparazzi. In truth he was terrified of the mocking he was sure to get from his fellow nations.Not that his manager knew what he was). His hair was a plain brown, and spiked in every which way, Nantucket safely hidden by the rest of his wild hair. He wore colored contact lenses (also brown and he’d gotten Tony to get his prescription so he didn’t need to wear Texas) and wore cosmetics on his face and other exposed skin so he looked several shades darker than he usually did. Additionally the young nation had decided to use a slight Northwestern accent that changed his voice enough to make it unrecognizable from the flat Midwestern accent he used when speaking with fellow nations.

He decided to sing one of his yo*tu*e songs as his opener. America had written the lyrics after a long series of arguments with.Someone and had been feeling rather vulnerable and dejected at the time. He said the name of the song and started to sing on autopilot, reflecting about the reasons why he had written the song and how it sadly, still applied. Alfred mentally shook himself and concentrated on the lyrics “~can’t swallow our pride, neither one of us want to raise that flag,mhm, if we can’t surrender we both gonna lose what we had, oh no both hands tied behind my back for nothing~” why did they have to fight so much? And the other countries who had loved and fought and lost one another.Like how China and Russia danced around one another “~I never meant to start a war, you know I never wanna hurt you, don’t know what we’re fighting for, why does love always feel like a battlefield~” How South Italy fought for Spain’s attention “~Cause baby we don’t have to fight and I don’t want this love to feel like~” and how Greece and Turkey fought (though if they loved one another or simply hated each other America wasn’t sure). He’d written this song partially because of his own love troubles but also for what he’d seen of the other’s trials and tribulations in love. He woke himself out of his morose daydreaming to finish the song not on autopilot “~Get your armor, get your armor, Why does love always feel like a battlefield?A battlefield, I never meant to start a war, don’t even know what we’re fighting for~”

[part 7] UKUS America is secretly a Famous singer part 2

(Anonymous) 2012-03-07 06:51 am (UTC)(link)
Alfred was happy that the song was well liked, even if no one would know why he had written it. He sung the next few songs, trying valiantly not to think on the reasons why he had written them (and succeeding, he didn’t know them well enough to zone out like he had Battlefield).


America’s agent was nonplussed “Why are you declining to go on stage a week from now?”

“I have an extremely important meeting I have to go to on that day. I did enjoy singing on stage, but this cannot interfere with what I am already doing. And no I can’t tell you why it’s classified. You were told I worked in the government, which was why you cannot release what I actually look like ever and that my singing schedule was going to have to fit around what I do, or I am going to have to quit singing.” Alfred stated flatly. He had to go to a world meeting all that week “Can it be scheduled either the week before or the week after, but I am going to be unavailable all next week.” He had gone through this argument several times as during the next few months as a singer he’d been eagerly requested. Alfred had been surprised at how popular he’d become.

After that had been successfully sorted out, Alfred prepared for the world meeting. It was likely to be a loud, unproductive affair (they always were) but if he didn’t show up he’d get yelled at by at least five different members of the G8 so he had to go. It was being hosted in his lands as well. He walked into the meeting room, early for once, and heard Germany of all nations humming a pop song from his people… Specifically it was one of his songs and looking fondly at North Italy “~You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine cause baby you’re a firework~”

Before the German could get further, Alfred stammered “H-hey Germany what are you singing?”

Ludwig jerked around in surprise, and remembered that Firework was one of America’s songs and answered “I like that song it… It has a lovely sentiment behind it.” And continued to hum it under his breath, moving towards his seat.

Mildly panicking, until Alfred reminded himself that Ludwig couldn’t possibly know that he had written and sung that song, America went to his seat. The meeting lasted a whole ten minutes without an argument breaking out, but France had set off England (again) and Alfred tried to break them apart, and somehow that sent most of western Europe into a loud screaming match, Russia trying to creep on China (which had set off half of Asia… And Korea claiming China’s ‘breasts’ again). The next six days preceded in much the same manner except… Except that Arthur, though the Brit had yelled at him, hadn’t strangled him and wanted to speak with him after the others left.

“What is it England?” Alfred asked curiously, noticing the other moving rather… Awkwardly around.

“I was wondering if you would like to… As you call it ‘hang out’ sometime.” Arthur asked.

America perked up he always enjoyed spending time with the older nation (not that the North American would ever admit it) “That would be awesome Iggy! When and where do you wanna hang out?” he responded happily.

“One do not call me Iggy, and two when do you have some free time?” England answered.

“Uhm I have the weekend free a couple weeks from now (I also should be caught up on paperwork that I deal with on the weekends by then).” Alfred answered cheerfully.

“I have some free time during that weekend as well. How about we meet in New York either Friday afternoon or Saturday morning?” Arthur proposed.

“Sounds great Ig-England.” America responded brightly, mentally taking note of the dates specified.


The music tour was an absolute blast, and though he wanted to continue touring for another week (as did his manager and fans… As far as he could tell on that last score) America needed to do his nation duties and there was only so much he could accomplish in the times between concerts on the road.


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[Part 14] Sexual Gratification (Kinky FACE fill), New Placeholder

(Anonymous) 2012-03-07 01:19 pm (UTC)(link)
This is the continuation of the first "S&M FrUK, American twins horrified" fill. America and Canada walk in on England and France beating each other up (in a sexy way), and want to know what it's all about. Smut and Talking About Feelings ensue.

Parts 12 and above: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=56301881#t56301881
Parts 1-12: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17337.html?thread=52842425#t52842425
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17337.html?thread=50644409#t50644409

Sexual Gratification [20a/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-07 01:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Thanks for the love, guys! Your reviews are the best <3. Also. Captcha for this entry is "clergy thhooom," which sounds like the name of a really niche superhero comic.

Matthew was quiet for a long moment. “A lot of reasons,” he said, finally.

“Oh,” said Al, dully.

“For one thing, you've never asked,” Matthew said, placidly.

Al's expression cautiously brightened, and he looked up carefully. Matthew hoped he'd never realize how much like a puppy he looked when he did that.

“For another,” he continued, and he could feel the sudden wariness and worry off his brother like a tidal wave. Al had always been about as hard to read as a billboard sign. “You disliked me for a long time because Quebec was Catholic.”

“Hey, I'm totally over that!” he insisted. “Jack was a Catholic, and he was great, man,”

Matthew looked at Al closely. He'd always wondered about his brother's relationship with certain of his leaders, but now wasn't the time to ask. “And,” he finished, pausing for a long moment, “I've always thought of you as...” Al, killing all his buffalo just because it was fun. Al, refusing petulantly to enter the world wars for so long, despite the fact that England clearly needed him desperately. Al, plunging into England's kitchen, making loud conversation with no consideration for the atmosphere. “...as kind of like a little brother.”

Al's face changed again, and too late Matthew realized there was no way they weren't going to argue about this. “I'm totally older,” Al insisted. “I was colonized first, and I got my independence first. I'm totally older.”

Maturity has nothing to do with independence dates, thought Matthew with a sigh, but he didn't argue. “It was just a metaphor,” he explained, smoothly.

“Oh,” said Al, and Matthew could see his brain working. “So... You don't want to do me because I'm immature? Because like, I could be more mature.”

Matthew allowed himself a second to picture what that would look like in Al's mind, and then spoke quickly, to keep himself from ever having to find out. “You asked why we don't sleep together, not whether I'd be willing to.”

Al frowned, cautiously. “So... Would you?”

Matthew sighed. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. “Maybe,” he said, sipping his beer. “Do you want to?”

Al thought about that, like it was a new question. “I, uh... I just thought...”

“Think about it some more,” Matthew advised. “You know sex makes things complicated. Think about whether you want that.”

Al was quiet, frowning, for nearly twenty seconds.

“Ok, I've thought about it,” he announced. Matthew sighed. “We should totally screw.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Because,” said Al, speaking more quietly now. “Sex usually kind of freaks me out a little, you know? Like... Like it feels really good, but then later...” He trailed off, looking a little lost, and Matthew immediately wanted to hold him. “And I think with you, it wouldn't be like that.” And he looked up and Matthew with an expression so open and nervous and hopeful that he had no choice but to scoot across the distance between them on the couch, and pull Al's head onto his shoulder.

“No, it wouldn't,” he said, in a tone of voice he never used with anyone else.

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[Part 19] America – Tentacle rape fetish

(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 01:15 am (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20236.html?thread=79262732#t79262732

After discovering hentai, America has ended up with a huge tentacle rape fetish. He fantasizes all the time about various scenarios in which he is raped by a freaky monster with tentacles. Or even by guys he knows who have grown super-long penises or tongues, to mix the fantasies up a bit. He goes so far as to try and find ways of acting out the fantasy, like sleeping with guys rumored to have huge dicks, creating looong squishy dildos (and trying to figure out how to fuck himself with one while being tied up by the rest), etc.

Bonus 1: Another nation walks in on one of his elaborate fantasy-reenactment-scenarios, with interesting reactions.

Bonus 2: In the end, his fantasy actually comes to life when a
friggin' real tentacle monster finds and attacks him, much to his great surprise (since, y'know, they're supposed to be fictional and all). He loves it more than he'd even imagined.

Fill will contain Russia/America, Canada/America, and of course tentacles/America.

Hentai Will Ruin Your Life 1a/5?

(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 01:17 am (UTC)(link)
America doodled, because the edges of his notes looked like they needed some decoration. The notes themselves weren't very exciting, either, but there wasn't much he could do about that. Once it was his turn to speak, he would say some very interesting things to liven up everyone else's notes; for now, he busied himself in his artwork.

To his right sat Italy. He might have been listening to the current speaker, or he might have been dozing, hard to tell. But then he leaned over and glanced down at America's papers. “What's that?”

“Nothing.” America pulled them closer to himself, trying to shield the drawings from view.

“It looked like someone fighting a giant squid.”

America grinned at him, laughing nervously. “Heh. Yeah! Sorta.”

“Aww, I want calamari...” With a long sigh, Italy resumed listening.

England took the floor. America listened to him long enough to get the gist, taking a few notes, then let his mind wander again.

He imagined the floor turning to water, their chairs and tables bobbing and the nations struggling to stay afloat. But what was that in the water with them? Giant sea snakes? There were screams as nations scrambled onto the floating desks to get away from the creatures. But no, they weren't snakes! It could have been the world's largest octopus, but the tentacles lacked suckers. Nations were ensnared, screams growing louder, accompanied by the sound of ripping clothes. America did not scream, of course, he was a hero! He hopped from desk to desk, pulling nations free from the tentacles' grasp, unconcerned for his own safety. And so all of the grateful would-be victims gasped in dismay when the tentacles coiled around America's leg, pulling him into the water, grasping at his pants-


“Huh?” He looked up. To his relief, the entire room wasn't staring at him this time. He looked to his left, where Canada was watching him.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Of course I am.” America turned to stare at England. Oh, no, it was already Japan's turn.

Damn Japan! This was all his fault. America hadn't been so preoccupied with such weird fantasies before that deceptively polite little man had introduced him to hentai. Once, America had been blissfully ignorant, partaking in a fairly vanilla sex life and believing cartoons were all family-friendly. Those had been simpler times. Afterward, Japan had explained some gobbledygook about a ban on drawn penises leading to the use of tentacles as a substitute, which gained popularity and stuck around. (America couldn't help but wonder, sometimes, what they would have come up with in the case of a ban on female genitalia.)

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Fem!Australia Skinny Dipping

(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 05:03 am (UTC)(link)
This is a fill to the request: From Part 19

I would love to read some Female!Australia :D

Australia goes for a dip in a lake (or billabong or whatever) and the best way, of course, is to be completely naked. Another nation happens across her like this.

Bonus 1: Would love if the pairing is Denmark, but doesn’t have to be.
Bonus 2: Australia had been hiding her gender, so the nation of choice gets a surprise of his life.
Bonus 3: Smut under a waterfall.

Under the Australian Sun Part 1

(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 05:05 am (UTC)(link)
Well when I first posted this i wasn't watching what I was doing and posted it in the wrong section “Alfred you drongo,” muttered Australia. He marched through the bushland intent on getting to his destination quickly. It'd been very stressful year for Australia, given what had happened in January. In spite of this he couldn't have been prouder of his people, they'd stuck together and much had been returned to the way it was before.

Finally making it to a clearing, Australia sighed as he took in the beauty of the sight around him. Australia didn't see why England's people had originally thought that his land would be a terrible place to live. Sure there was the fact his land held most of the deadliest snakes on earth, then there was the spiders. Not to mention even the mammals were out to kill you it seemed. Okay Australia could see why America had said 'Only in Australia is everything trying to kill you.' Then he'd started naming off creatures in Australia capable of killing a person; Australia remembered with a slightly vindictive glee how he had set his Koala on America whist saying 'you forgot to add drop bears in that list!' Hearing America squeal when Koala landed on him had been entertaining to say the least.

Stepping forward he walked with a purpose towards the great towering falls in front of him. Mindful of where he stepped; he wasn't stupid he knew the dangers of his land better then anyone else, he made his way to the waterfall.

On a rock formation leading into the waterfall he sat down and took off his bush-walking shoes as well as his socks. Standing up he stretched and began to remove his shirt but not before taking off his hat which kept the flies away, the only one of his animals he couldn't stand. Underneath the Khaki shirt was a singlet. Forgoing removing the singlet he instead opted to remove his pants. Soon enough he was in nothing but his singlet and boxers. Taking a look around him to make sure that there was no uninvited guest because this was as undressed as any one had seen him and any more off and his secret would be revealed. So he had always been careful never to change in front of anyone; although he had his suspicions that New Zealand knew. After all how many times had they slept in the same bed?

Removing his singlet revealed large bandages wrapped around his chest. They were too large to be bandages however and instead were specially ordered binding tape. Why did he need binding tape? Well that's an interesting question. Which was answered when Australia removed the bandages and two small lumps on Australia's chest announcing now that they were free Australia's true sex. They were only an A cup but never the less they spoke volumes. Before England had invaded and yes she considered him dumping his prisoners on her land invading; she'd never had to disguise who she was.

The aboriginals had no problem's with being naked but she'd always preferred pants maybe it was a quirk she had left over from when her mother was alive. Her mother had told her of how a strange man; more pale than she was had come and they'd shared the same bed. Her mother told her she'd seen no fault with this and knew her time was short. The Dream-Time the legends of her people had shown her that when one thing ended something else came. So even if she'd disappeared and she had, all Australia could do was watch as her mother grew weaker and weaker from all the attacks made on her people; their ways would remain. Australia would never forget who she was.

Shaking her head slightly she put the tape with the rest of her clothes and stripped everything else off. Her boxer's and then her underwear, leaving her as naked as the day she was first born into this world. Putting her foot into the river's water she shivered slightly; it was cool perfect for this weather. She made her way further into the river and walked towards the waterfall; she'd had to move a bit down river from the water fall because there was no easy access.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Well there's the first part and I'm working on the second part. I might even do a art-fill for this; who knows. Australian Slang: Drongo: Stupid person

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Under the Australian Sun Artfill

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Under the Australian Sun Part 5

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Wit Of The Staircase placeholder

(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 12:30 pm (UTC)(link)
Part 1-14: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11813.html?thread=37408293#t37408293

Part 13-14 (edited), 15-65: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=41192345#t41192345

66-76: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=52116793#t52116793

77-85: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=65442132#t65442132


New parts start here. (Next update is coming, guys! I've had it almost done for a while, but been swamped with RL stuff.)

Wit Of The Staircase 96/?

(Anonymous) 2012-04-15 09:10 am (UTC)(link)
Hey guys, I'm not dead, I just always get super busy around the holidays so I can't really update as much as I want while I'm buried under holiday stuff and Yuletide and Nano... But now that this is past, I hope to be on a more regular updating schedule now. :) I have a big chunk to update this time around, and another big chunk coming up! Thanks for all your patience in waiting~

Actually, I've been trying to update for a while, but my connection keeps dying on me. Whoopsie.


Gilbert was nursing a hangover and a pretty nasty sunburn, given the fact that he'd considered himself 'too manly' for such trivial things as sunblock. Meanwhile, Lizzie fanned him with a little fan, and leaned against Roderich. They were all huddled under an umbrella, as Roderich's umbrella had been captured by hostile five year olds. He sort of wished he'd had a chance to grab his paperback before he got kidnapped. It'd dropped away there on the porch, and he hadn't a chance to even put it inside. Here was hoping Al took it in and it didn't get rained on.

Matthew had been researching hangover cures online after that first time he'd nursed Francis's hangover, so he'd borrowed his cash and come back with some Reece's pieces, and it really had helped. Francis still took advantage of the chance to lay his head in Matthew's lap, anyways, but he wasn't puking all over the place and moaning huddled in a corner, like Gilbert.

Antonio was asleep, curled up to Lovino who was (surprise, surprise) showing even something as a softer side as he let Antonio stay cuddled up to him. Or maybe he was just hungover too, Matthew wasn't too sure on his point. He wanted to believe that Lovino was as cute as Antonio claimed, but Lovino kinda hated him for some reason. Matthew still wasn't clear on why.

Matthew had a feeling that day two would be more laid back, a day of resting after the activities of last night, so he settled in. It would've been relaxing with the sound of the seagulls, the waves. There wasn't even a lot of screaming from the hostile five year olds who had decided to settle in their victory of Roderich's umbrella and take a nap.

Or it would've been, hadn't it been for Gilbert's occasional groans of agony and occasional dry heaving. Still, Matthew found himself drifting to sleep, lulled by the sound of the waves and Francis's even breathing. His hands were half buried in sand, but before he fell asleep, he felt his hand encircled, entwined, and the faint brush of Francis's fingers laced into his own.


here's Lizzie's shirt: http://6dollarshirts.com/product.php?productid=11385
aaand here's Gilbert's: http://6dollarshirts.com/product.php?productid=11323&blog=tessa_ridethecock


Matthew still wasn't quite sure what everyone was up to. Granted, he was still groggy from waking up and had sand in his mouth. When people said you got sand everywhere when you were at the beach, they were so not kidding. He grimaced and searched for the bottles of water he'd gotten and shoved in the coooler for post-hangover purposes. It was half buried under sand, but it looked like the hostile tribe of five year olds hadn't gotten it. Maybe Gilbert had guarded their treasure after all. The beer was long gone, but there were still two bottles of water left. He took one and threw the other to Francis, who caught it and lifted it to his lips, the dewy condensation dripping down his fingers and chin. He looked like something out of an ad, if that ad was "buy our water and this sexy French guy will deepthroat you." Matthew would've thought that Francis was playing the 'act sexy so Matthew pops a boner in public' when he realized...yes, it was Francis, that was exactly what he was doing.

He licked over the rim of the bottle, slowly savoring every last drop, licked his lips, and gave Matthew a smile so suggestive that 'sultry' didn't even begin to cut it.

"Thank you, Matthieu," he said.

Thank God for loose pants.

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[Part 16] USUK - Witches as Slaves

(Anonymous) 2012-03-11 02:27 am (UTC)(link)
Original Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18439.html?thread=61474823#t61474823

I would like an AU in which witches are slaves that are trained to be sex slaves so they can use their magic to make their owners have the best sex possible or make their sex fantasies come true. England is a newly trained witch and was just bought by America and so smut happens. I would very much enjoy uke England in this case (which I know a lot of people try to avoid) make him as squeaky and cute as you can. Also, please no Fem!England.

This is a place holder for a fill to this request. There are other fills for it, at least two, and I've been on a kick for the general feel of this type of request, and thought I'd throw my own version out there. It is a bit different then the others though, just a head's up on that.

As You Wish, Miss Jones - Chapter 1 [1a]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-11 02:36 am (UTC)(link)
Arthur was born in England, the bastard child of a human and a witch. His mother wasn’t a witch in the sense the humans knew, though. No, Avalia was a true witch, the result of a high fae and a foolish mortal, her magic was powerful, true and beyond human measure. He wished she was capable of loving him in a way that would make her stand against the humans. She wouldn’t though. Not for one child when she had four others.

Witches, true witches, were powerful, but short in number. So, despite their great power, they often feared humanity, and did their best to stay hidden from the catchers. They told horror stories to their own young, the ‘witches’ that humans actually caught, children born from affairs with humans.

Hybrids like Arthur had just enough magic to keep them isolated from humanity. Electricity and magic didn’t work well together. But, their magic was too wild to control, spells were hard to command, potions could work but not easily. Hybrids were the ones that humans heard stories of, witches that needed wands and familiars, outside tools were the only way for a hybrid to control their magic- more often then not, even those couldn’t help.
Most hybrids and witches lived in the wild, hidden away in forests or mountains. Since humans had first found hybrids, somewhere in the late 1850s, they’d been trained and kept as slaves. Depending on their level of magic they could be placed as anything from manual labor to sex slave.

Arthur’s magic placed him as the later.

Before the catchers had shown up in his forest, Arthur had never seen a human before. At first, he had thought they were an illusion. His brother, Angus, was oddly skilled with illusions and liked to scare Arthur. But no matter how skilled Angus was, he couldn’t mimic the smell, and his illusions rode horses, not these strange roaring metal devices.

Arthur had tried to run, but was unable to get away. He knew the forest, but he could not outrun these. He tried, made it all the way to the river before something wrapped around his ankles and he found himself on the ground. The roaring got closer, then came to an abrupt halt.

“Ya sure he’s one of ‘em?”

Arthur struggled to get up. He yelled, twisted and turned, but rough hands grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his face into the ground.

Something made an odd beeping sound, and someone whistled, “Damn, he’s pretty high leveled.”

“Better get the collar on him b’fore he uses it, then.”

He couldn’t understand them. Their language wasn’t like his, it was all nonsense. The hand on his neck disappeared, was replaced by a heavy boot on his back. He lifted his head to breathe in something other than dirt, and began to weave a spell immediately. It would likely blow up in his face, but Arthur was desperate.
Something cold and tight locked around his throat, the magic he’d begun to feel disappeared, and a cold fear struck him. He struggled, kicked, screamed, even pleaded, as the men dragged him back to their metal horses, they ignored him completely, just laughed and spoke to each other in that odd language of theirs.

The trip out of the forest was long and frightening. Arthur had never left the forest before, had never had reason or want too. He didn’t want to now. But there was no choice to be had as they dragged him, pushing their metal horses until they came to a large metal cart and a bigger metal thing. They shoved him inside the covered hole in the thing, in the back, loaded the metal horses into the cart, then got in. There was an iron link wall between them, the humans continued to talk, the machine turned on and it lurched into movement. Arthur let out a panicked sound, and braced himself. The humans just laughed.

Arthur’s life changed immensely. He couldn’t even tell how it happened. After a while, he’d gotten used to the feel of moving so quickly, though he couldn’t help the nausea, or throwing up when they came to a sudden stop outside the forest. The humans looked back at him for that, made disgusted sounds and put down the glass panes, letting wind hit them all hard. Arthur laid himself down on the backseat, trying not to cry, as he pulled at the collar around his throat.

As You Wish, Miss Jones - Chapter 1 [1b]

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[Part 18]- I Think I Need A New Heart FACE AU

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 01:53 am (UTC)(link)
Original Request:http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20026.html?thread=71806010#t71806010

America is head over heels in love with France; Canada is similarly smitten with England. Both agree to help each other conquer the object of their affections.
Thing is, America totally fails every time at the sophistication that France likes, even with all his twin's attempts to train him. Canada fails to call England's attention to himself, even while his brother generously tries to fade into the background.
Bonus. It could be interesting to see this prompt with FrUK going on secretly, seeking in each other the twin they're in love with.

Parts 1-7: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=77200724#t77200724

Parts 8-23:http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=78961378#t78961378

I Think I Need A New Heart [24a/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 01:56 am (UTC)(link)
Alfred knocked on the door, three quick raps. He forced himself to breathe normally.

He heard Francis behind the door, heard the pause that meant he was peering through the peephole. A longer pause followed and Alfred wondered if Francis would just pretend he wasn’t home. It was a thought both hopeful and depressing.

Then the door opened. Francis was wearing slacks and a sweater, hair pulled in a ponytail. Alfred wanted to tug it, use it to pull Francis closer. He struggled with his urges by shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“Hey, Francis,” Alfred said, trying to smile.

Francis twisted his lips and moved aside to let Alfred in. The apartment was still creepily clean but a half eaten bowl of soup was on the counter, proof of habitation.

“Have a seat,” Francis said, cordial but not warm.

“I’d rather not,” said Alfred, awkwardly. The idea of being confined to a seat caused his nerves to itch. He wanted to be free to pace, to run.

Francis shrugged as though to say ‘suit yourself.’ He picked up the soup and, leaning against the counter, continued eating.

Between bites he asked, “To what to I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Alfred cleared his throat. “I…uh, wanted to talk, I guess.”


“Yeah,” Alfred said, firmer this time. “We’re going to talk. I know you don’t like talking about your feelings and that sort of thing but that’s what we’re going to do.”

Francis froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. After a moment, he slowly lowered his bowl. “What interest do you have in my feelings, Alfred?”

And then suddenly Alfred knew. He wasn’t exactly the world’s most subtle person and Francis was sensitive to that sort of thing. He knew that Alfred cared about him. He had probably known for a while. And, even then, he still had the nerve to string him along like this.

“I love you!” said Alfred, hurt and fury waging a war in his voice.

“Oh please,” said Francis, “don’t be melodramatic.”

Alfred made a noise that was a cross between a croak and a choking sound. It took him a moment to recover himself. “Melodramatic?”

Francis looked calm, way too calm. Alfred had expected a reaction from his confession, probably one of disgust, but he hadn’t expected Francis to take it in stride. It was unbalancing.

“Look, Alfred, I know you think you have these feelings for me but you’re young. And if you think that two people as different as us could possibly work together then you are more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

Alfred gaped like a guppy. The only thing he could think to say was not particularly eloquent. “What the hell?”

Francis unfurled his mouth in a satisfied smile. His eyes were not kind. “You cherish your little crush for me but it isn’t real. It isn’t love.”

“How would you know?” Alfred said angrily.

Francis gave him a condescending look. “I am much more experienced than you, dear Alfred.”

Alfred had been annoyed at Francis before, he had been angry at him before, and he had certainly been hurt by him before; but he had never before wanted to shake Francis until his teeth rattled.

“I am not a child!” yelled Alfred. “I may not be as…as experienced as you or as old as you but I know what I feel. You can’t tell me what I’m feeling. You can’t just pretend like it’s nothing. You know it’s not nothing.”

All of this did no good in wiping that little smile off Francis’ face.

I Think I Need A New Heart [24b/?]

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[Part 18] - Ducktalia - Russia

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 05:40 am (UTC)(link)

This first bit's more of a prologue than anything.


The wild ducks of Hetalia Lake were not normal, not by any measure. But the strangest of them all was one that the other ducks knew simply as “Russia”. Whether his egg had cracked before the hatching or he had merely been born different for some reason or perhaps the humans had broken his mind, no one knew.

But the ducks would tell their hatchlings stories of the odd duck who lived in a nest beneath an old rusted water pump by the abandoned farm house. The duck who had lived as a pet (they would cluck to each other in horrified tones) for so long – who still wore the fraying braid of yarn that had been his leash and collar before the humans had vanished, trailing behind him as he waddled down the hill. The egg thief (though if he couldn't steal an egg from the nest, he might take a newly-hatched duckling instead).

And no tale was complete without a warning.

“Take care, little ones,” was the usual ending. “If given the chance, Russia might come to take you away with him. ”

And the ducklings would shiver in the nest, their downy feathers puffed with fright; as they swore to stay away from the strange Russia duck.

More to come when I have the time.

Re: [Part 18] - Ducktalia - Russia

(Anonymous) 2012-03-16 04:24 am (UTC)(link)
Oooh, I'm now intrigued by this. I want more.

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[Part 18] - Ducktalia - Part 3

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(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 01:42 pm (UTC)(link)
This was a little sad and painful to read - but you wrote it all so nicely! Well done. I really like the tack you are taking with this. It adds depth and dramatic tension. Alfred has moved on, and I imagine this will drive Francis CRAZY. Has this even happened to him before- being the rejected one? I also imagine the reason he didn't want to sleep with Alfred was because he did have feelings for him, even if they were so deep down they were not in his surface mind, so he couldn't be business as usual. So. You have a great set up now- Arthur and Matt being lovey dovey, Alfred likely being cool and stand-offish - but likely getting loads of TLC from Matt and Arthur because they feel sorry for him-and Francis watching all of this while being kinda the odd man out. Heh heh. This is going to be awesome. Annnd,I imagine that Alfred has really moved on and if Francis decided he wants to be with Alfred, he will have his work cut out for him. Oh boy! Can't wait! Start writing noooooooooowwww! ;-)

Re: Awesome.

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 01:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Mods- please delete I posted this in the wrong section. Sorry!

[Part 21] America/Any or No Pairing: America is a Troper

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Original Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21125.html?thread=86922885

The request was for an America that gets addicted to TV Tropes, in summary.

Uh, here's hoping the OP is satisfied. @_@

TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life [1/3]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-15 11:45 pm (UTC)(link)
“I’m home!” cried America as he waltzed through the front door of his house, carrying a bag of McDonalds. Slamming the door shut behind him, he placed the bag of fast food on a nearby side table, reaching inside to pull out a burger. Tearing the wrapper open noisily and taking a large chomp, America wandered through his house, looking for his fellow alien inhabitant. “Hey, Tony! Where are you?”

After a few minutes of searching his house, he finally located Tony in his living room, sitting on an armchair and using one of his laptops. America poked his head over the top of the chair, trying to get a look at what his alien friend was up to.

Eagleland?” America read off the tab in the browser. “What is this site, and why does it have an American flag on the page? It’s a page about me, isn’t it? This is awesome!

“Fucking TV Tropes, bubu,” replied Tony, not looking away from the monitor.

America read along with Tony for a while, genuinely interested, soaking up the knowledge of which characters from what comic books and video games were examples of this Eagleland… thing, and whined when Tony scrolled down to the bottom of the page, because what the hell do you mean there are no more examples that was actually really interesting I want to read more.

He poked Tony in the side. “Hey, dude, can I use the computer?” he asked.

“Suit yourself, bubu,” replied Tony. He put down the laptop and stood up, walking towards the general direction of the TV. America took his place on the couch, clicking a random link on the screen. He didn’t notice Tony’s comment as he got himself comfortable, reading away.

“You’re fucked, bubu.”

TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life [2/3]

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[Part 16] Ensemble - Night of 1000 Ghost Stories

(Anonymous) 2012-03-16 01:04 pm (UTC)(link)
In which Japan invites the nations (should be a group of preferrably 5+, anon picks who) over for this festival/tradition of story-telling. Each nation tells a ghost story from their homeland, casting hetalia characters in the roles ;0 and trying to out-scare each other.

Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18439.html?thread=62674183#t62674183

now would be a good time to point out that I am so so with ghost stories and I am sorry for my impending fail.

Are You Afraid of the Dark? - Introduction [1/16]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-16 01:12 pm (UTC)(link)
It was becoming something of a tradition, getting stuck on That Fucking Island. No matter what, a handful of nations would always have some sort of transportation malfunction on their way to the meeting and end up crashed or marooned or otherwise stranded on that fucking island, forced to spend the night there until help could reach them the following morning.

Needless to say, it was also tradition to have a ghost story marathon to pass the time.

It was Japan’s idea, a tradition from his home of telling scary stories in a dark room lit with candles, extinguishing one every time a story was completed until the participants were in a completely dark room. America, however, insisted on having the traditional campfire from his house lit in addition to the candles. The result ended up being an eerie glow over the surrounding area by the end of the night and several nations too frightened to leave the safety of the firelight.

It had developed into a competition. The nations present would go back and forth around the campfire, telling the scariest story they could think of from their home, and the one who told what the consensus deemed the scariest would win. A nation could “chicken out” and leave the campfire if they got too scared, forfeiting the competition, although America and Germany were the only ones to consistently take this option.

This year, America, Japan, England, Canada, Germany, Australia, Italy, and Russia were stuck on That Fucking Island for the night. Preparations for the candles and campfire were undertaken immediately and by nightfall everyone was ready for the ghost stories.

“Alright mates,” Australia grinned as he lit his candle and held it out to pass the flame, “Anyone want to start us off?”

“I believe America-san should go first,” Japan put his candle wick in Australia’s flame, lighting it before passing it along, “He usually chickens-out early, so it is best to get his story out of the way.”

“What? No way!” America took Japan’s candle, lit his own, and held his out, “I’m definitely not chickening out this year. I’m so confident about it that I’ll even go last.”

“You say that every year,” England sighed, lighting his candle on America’s before he passed it back to its owner, “And yet every year you’re out by the second or third story.”

“Let him go last if he wants to,” Germany lit his candle on England’s, “The sooner we get this over with the better…”

“Oh! That’s right!” Russia smiled as he lit his candle on Germany’s and passed it along, “Germany’s afraid of ghosts too isn’t he?”

“It’s alright Germany!” Italy lit his candle on Russia’s and held out his own for the next person to light, “I’ll make my story extra-scary so you and America can leave sooner!”

Canada sighed and lit his candle on Itay’s, completing the circle of burning candles.

Italy pulled it away, scattering the melting wax as he bobbed around in his seat in excitement, “Can I go first? Please? I’ve got a really good one!”

“How about we let Australia go first?” America suggested with a shaky laugh, “Since, you know, he brought it up and everything, and his stories aren’t usually that scary anyway!”

“Eh? My stories aren’t scary you say?” Australia grinned and raised an eyebrow, “Well then do I have one for you. This is a story from back when I was still a kid, but it’s a classic…”

Are You Afraid of the Dark? - Waltzing Matilda [2a/16]

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[Part 4] fem!Greece/Japan - death of a pet

(Anonymous) 2012-03-17 07:23 pm (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/6850.html?thread=10791362#t10791362

A/N: Original prompt was for any character or pairing dealing with dead/dying pets. I wasn't sure if OP meant it as the characters being specifically only the nations, but as a heads-up, this is filled with Human-AU. Hope that's still okay.

Also, fem!Greece = Artemis, and her father is male!Ancient Greece.

Title comes from a Múm song, which also fits the overall mood of the fill: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56_AsRECKeA

finally we are no one [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-17 07:32 pm (UTC)(link)
The rain fell as quickly as the clouds had gathered.

It seemed strange now, when she thought about it, running her fingers through the still-warm fur (a palette of black, white and orange, mixed as if he’d rolled in paint). It had only been two… no, three weeks ago when she’d found him, matted fur sticking up in odd tufts, back arched, and a tiny, pink mouth curled into a hiss of fear. A fighter this one was, she remembered thinking as she picked him up, sheltering him away from the cold and from splashing raindrops.

Raindrops like the ones pit-a-pattering against the window now, the mark of their brevity streaked across the panes.

It seemed strange now, none of his feline-fierce will and then-ferocity present as he lay splayed out on his side; tail limp, the tips of his paw pads and nose slowly growing cold.

It seemed strange now, when it had only been two… no, three months ago when he had been pouncing mischievously at her feet, whiskers tickling her ankles and she was smiling, laughing and–

And now, he was still.

“Do you... need a little more time?”

The voice was not unkind, not uncaring. But all she felt in her was a dullness, an empty ache. She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking (remembering) before opening them once more to meet the pitying gaze of the vet.

“No, it’s all right.” She said softly, offering a half-smile, the best she could muster Beside her, she felt Kiku fidgeting slightly (as if he was holding back, uncertain… he’s still holding back).

She looked back to the cat’s limp form on the cold, metal table, her hand stroking his fur. Leaning closer, she kissed his forehead gently; a farewell.

Antío, fíle mou.”


As they cut across the parking lot, sharing an umbrella, she tried to think of something to say. But her mind only drew a blank; the sound of rain in her ears, the kiss of a chilly breeze stinging her cheeks.

Kiku held the door open, fumbling a little with the umbrella as he did best to shield her from the rain. When she was finally in her seat, she continued to watch the rain, lost in thoughtful melancholy, even when Kiku started the engine and began to drive down the street.

He looked as if he’d wanted to reach out, wanted to touch her hand gently.

“Are you okay?” He asked instead.

“Yes.” It was probably a lie, and he could probably tell it was a lie.

But they said nothing more and Kiku drove on in silence.


In the end, her father once said, his fingers treading gently through wavy, brown strands of her hair. In the end, we’re all alone.

He would read to her each night, retelling the stories of brave young heroes, of tragic and forbidden love, of the rise and fall of ancient empires.

We came to the world alone, and when we leave it, we leave it alone. Down the spiralling path to Erebus, to the plains of Asphodel; the chosen, the righteous to Elysium, and the wicked, the foul to Tartarus.

But what about twins, or triplets? She’d asked then, too curious, too young to understand. They are born into the world at the same time They are not alone.

Not like that, no. He'd replied, a knowing smile still painted across his lips. But even conjoined twins are born as separate entities, as two beings, two selves. When they die, when we die, we are alone. When we die, finally we are no one. We are free.

Her father had always been sort of a dreamer, one with an immense love for books, for stories. A self-professed scholar of cultures and the things people eventually take for granted or just forget. Perhaps it was why he’d chosen to name her Artemis, after a Greek hero (she was anything but heroic though). Perhaps it was his way of remembering their ancestry, their homeland.

It probably rubbed off her a little.

finally we are no one [2/?]

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Part 7 America the Biker

(Anonymous) 2012-03-17 10:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10960.html?thread=19609040#t19609040

"America+motorcycle=awesomeness. Has to be a Harley.

Bonus if you can squeeze England in somehow, but I'm not picky.


Because I suck at writing, I decided to try a poem fill instead. I managed to sneak England in there, right at the end, but he isn't getting turned on like the bonus asked for (sorry OP if you're still around). America isn't exactly cleaning the motorcycle either. I hope this is satisfactory anyway.

How to Promote World Peace, America Style

(Anonymous) 2012-03-17 10:23 pm (UTC)(link)
It would start with a hum, and then with a bang
Everyone would think it was the motorcycle gang
But criminals would scatter
And it really would matter
Who rode on the most bad-ass motorcycle today.

He would come around the corner all in a whirl
Waving a flag that had just been unfurled
“The hero is here!” he would exclaim
And all the good citizens would cry out his name
Because he will keep all of the bad guys at bay.

The hero would capture all the thieves in the town
And knock all the robbers and burglars down
He would smack up drug dealers
And send them to healers
The hero’s not an unfair guy, no way!

He’ll give them a chance to find redemption
Not a single one will get an exemption
They’ll all turn good
Promote safe neighborhoods
And not steal others’ pay.

Then when the hero sees his job is done
One more town having fun
No more worries
No more hurries
Freedom and justice hip hip hooray!

But his job isn’t really over now
He won’t stop there, no way no how
On to the next place waving goodbye
Eating a slice of cold apple pie
Battling new bad guys the very next day.

And all these things would happen if America brought his motorcycle to town
So you gotta give him the best one around
It will turn bad guys into good guys
And the hero never lies!
So what do all the nations say?


“…..Thank you for your, um, interesting proposal, America. But I think, and I believe I speak for everyone else as well, that using international funds to buy you a motorcycle will not do anything to improve world peace.”

“But England! It’s a Harley. A HARLEY! How could you do this to me?”

“I vote ‘no’, America. And that’s final. Now, who’s next? If I don’t hear a suggestion better than this, I’m going to lock you all in a privy somewheres. I can’t believe that America had the best proposal so far.”

“I know you loved it, England.”

“Oh, shut up you twat.”

Re: How to Promote World Peace, America Style

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Lilac (1/?) - EngCan

(Anonymous) 2012-03-18 02:08 am (UTC)(link)
Usually Vanilla Couple: Rough BDSM. A couple that is usually portrayed as very vanilla has some rough BDSM: spanking/caning, oral irrumatio, forced rimming, brutal verbal humiliation...and it's 100% consensual.

Bonus: The one who tops is the one who's usually the uke.

Bonus 2: The top!uke never penetrates the bottom, instead preferring to ride him.

Err, this isn't as rough as OP probably would've liked. I'm terribly sorry and I hope that you all find this enjoyable anyway. OTL

Canada didn’t think that there was anything wrong with their sex life. It was perfectly tame, sure, and maybe not all that spontaneous, but he thought that was how England liked it. England with his knitting and sweat vests; everything about him was tame and domestic. Canada had kinks, sure (particularly one involving a recurring dream he had, that England would punish him like he never did as a colony), but he was afraid that the other would be weirded out by some of them, so he was perfectly content to be vanilla, if it made England happy.

So color him shocked, one warm afternoon, when they were making out on the couch and England had confessed to him. Canada had had his arms wrapped around that lithe body in his lap, and he was sucking on a flush collar bone when England gasped from above,

“M-Matthew…I have something to…to tell you.”

Canada stopped and looked up. The other’s face was red, but it seemed not so much because of arousal but because of embarrassment.


“….I would like to try something new.”

That itself surprised Canada, but he rubbed England’s thighs appreciatively and asked, “Like what?”

England looked at him. There was such a longing and desire in those green eyes, it almost made Canada shiver. The other’s eyes seemed to plough right through him.

“I want to dominate you.”

Canada sucked in a breath, but it felt like his lungs stopped working. He definitely wasn’t expecting that, but good god, that tone. Those words seemed to go straight to his cock and enveloped him in warmth. He thought back to that recurring dream, England tying him down and—oh god. Canada flushed, a lot more excited by the proposal than he would have liked to admit. After long a pause, he licked his lips and nodded.

“Okay. Y-yeah, we can do that.”

England’s smile was so triumphant Canada couldn’t help but wonder what he had gotten himself into.

They spent a whole two weeks talking about it. They outlined what was okay and what wasn’t okay, how the session to go, their safe word system (This had made Canada’s heart beat rapidly in his chest; they had never needed safe words before) and a few days before, Canada flew to England’s house to see what they would be using (Canada was especially shocked to learn that England had already owned the majority of the stuff and felt kind of silly for assuming that he would only have vanilla kinks).

Then the day came.

Canada sat nervously in a chair in one of England’s bedrooms, alone. The room seemed too pretty for what they were about to do, with its embroidery and lightly-colored bed sheets. The whole place smelled sweet and old, like nostalgia, and it was startling compared to what was going to happen. Just thinking about it made his stomach flip. He knew what generally was supposed to happen, but his roleplaying experiences were few and far between. This left him fidgeting with the silence in the room.

His hands were placed neatly on his lap and he was wearing a version of his old colonial clothing and his back was to the door, which bothered him far more than it should have. His face felt light, strange, because of his lack of glasses (he was wearing contacts to keep the illusion) and the minutes were ticking away, but he knew that he had to stay where he was sitting and the more he sat, the more unnerved he became. The anticipation seemed to claw at his skin and he must have dozed off, because the next thing he heard was a stern,

Canada,” coming from somewhere behind him.

He started and tried to turn around, but gloved hands were immediately in his hair, yanking it, making him keep still.

“You’ll stay still, boy, and not move unless I tell you to, got it?” The other hissed.

Lilac (2/?)

(Anonymous) 2012-03-18 02:11 am (UTC)(link)

Canada swallowed harshly (his heart was beating too quickly in his chest for moment as he realized that this was happening) and said shakily,

“Y-yes, sir,” and mentally berated himself for stuttering.

The squeak of the floorboards as England walked around him was so excruciatingly slow it made Canada even more anxious. When England finally got in front of him, he was wearing his old military uniform, the one he wore to fight America. His expression was one of disdain and he held a riding crop in his hand.

“Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

Canada shivered with undeniable pleasure and shook his head. “No, sir.”

To Canada’s credit, he was expecting to be hit, just with the crop and not the full force of England’s hand. His cheek stung at the impact as he felt heat worm its way through his body (and not necessarily from the hit itself, but from England, seeing him so coolly reserved, so in control, it did something to Canada’s pants).

“For treason” England spat, and grabbed Canada’s chin with a bruising hold.

“For helping your brother in his infernal war against the crown. If you were a human I’d have executed you a long time ago, but we both know that would be completely pointless. You are here for punishment.”

Canada swallowed and nodded, feeling his pants shrink a little more.

England scowled and pointed towards the bed with his crop and ordered, “Get over there and strip. Lay face down on the bed,” and then,

“I should have done this much more when you were a lad.”

Canada managed to squeak out a “Yes, sir,” before doing what England said.

Nervously, he fumbled with the laces on his breeches and stepped out of them before undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. He toed off his shoes, trying to make haste of the whole affair. He could feel England’s gaze on him as he slid off his shirt and felt his cheeks heat up. It was ridiculous, England had seen him naked before plenty of times, he didn’t know why he was being so embarrassed (but part of his mind said that this wasn’t his lover—his England was someone else right now). After some brief hesitation, he slid down his stockings, leaving him totally bare in front of the other, and then he lay down on the bed.

The comforter was cool on his face and he could smell its sweet scent of lilac. It was almost a distraction from how exposed and vulnerable he felt. But it was also a good feeling, and when he felt leather straps wrap too tight around his wrists behind him, it made his face burn. As he lay there, he wondered what England was doing to take so long. He tried to crane his neck to see him, but the other had escaped his field of vision. But he knew England was still there and would likely hit him at any moment.

The minutes seemed to tick by (it was probably just his imagination) as Canada grew more and more worried. He squirmed, restless, and his mind wandered to the events that were about to unfold.

He held his breath in anticipation, suddenly nervous, not sure if he really wanted this or not. But England wouldn’t seriously hurt him, he thought. He hoped. Right? But even then, this wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Yeah, he tried to reassure the sudden part of his mind that wanted to take flight, he would be fine. He trusted England. This would be okay.

Then he felt the first lash against his skin.

It stung horribly; he felt heat spread throughout his bottom, and his face heated up more.

“Count the lashes,” England ordered, and hit him harder.

“Two,” he gasped, okay that really fucking hurt, arching his back, “three.”

The initial blow turned into hot pain all across his backside, and his cock throbbed with each count upwards. It hurt, it hurt so much, but each hit made him grow warmer and he could feel the sweat on his forehead and lower back as his skin burned and his legs grew weak with ecstasy and pain. He tried to measure his breaths, to keep from getting so excited, but then England would change the position of the crop, the strength at which he hit Canada, and Canada would gasp, feeling his heartbeat quicken, feeling his nipples harden a little more. His bottom was probably fire red, tender and sore.

Lilac (3/?)

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[Part 21] England/?(France) Britannia Angel's erogonous zone is his wings

(Anonymous) 2012-03-18 07:54 pm (UTC)(link)
original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21125.html?thread=84569477#t84569477

For some reason England is in his Britannia angel form, his partner sees him and is fasinated by the large, white and very soft looking angel wings and just wants to touch them. The wings are Englands Brittania Angel forms ero-zone.

Im up for most pairings, (OP really loves USUK and FrUK though but really doesn't mind others) just no UK brothers please?

Mon Ange [1/4]

(Anonymous) 2012-03-18 07:57 pm (UTC)(link)
A/N: In which England's spells go wrong, he randomly turns himself into an angel and France randomly shows up. This was way too fun to write. Hopefully OP and anyone else who reads will enjoy. :D

… Now that I think about it, the request didn’t even ask for smut. Oh well. XD Enjoy anyway?


Something was seriously off when France arrived at England’s house. On the outside, nothing was wrong, but as France unlocked the door (England had given him a key many years ago, for reasons unknown to the world) and was faced with the inside, boy, was he stunned.

What used to be a dull, dim mansion, with little to no interior design to speak of – only greens and browns and blah, had now undergone some sort of transformation. All around him were white drapes and marble flooring and while it was strangely beautiful, it was also a bit unsettling.

Calling out England’s name to the strange room, only to be met with silence, France huffed. Stranger things have happened to them and France was set on finding out what kind of spell England had gotten wrong this time. He took long, deliberate steps up the marble stairs and headed down the hallway to England’s study, where he would most likely be if his house looked like something ripped out of a fairytale.

The study, like the rest of the mansion was no longer in a state of irreparable passé, the wooden interior gone and replaced with pristine white.

In there, he found England, sitting on the floor, dressed in what resembled a white dress, draped over one shoulder and around his body, going down to the middle of his thighs. This entire thing wouldn’t have been so bizarre (as previously stated, stranger things had happened in the time France had known England) if it weren’t for the huge wings that sprouted from the Brit’s back.

Angleterre?” France asked, while stepping closer to the man, admiring the huge span of his wings, ivory white feathers looking so very delicate and soft.

“Hello France.” England turned his head towards France, and he smiled slightly, “For what do I owe the honor?”

France ignored the question and sank down on his knees next to England. “What happened here?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Really?” France raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Then I suppose you always have wings and your house is always a marble paradise. Tell me, how have I missed this in all the years we’ve been acquainted?”

He let his hands run over England’s body as he spoke, starting at his calf and the strings there serving as some king of shoes, up over his thigh and his fabric-covered waist – and at last ended up on England’s back, right at the base of his wings. He ran his fingers through the feathers, as if to prove his point.

He didn’t exactly expect that instead of England shooting an insult France’s way, his eyes went wide, his jaw dropped and a small, choked sound escaped his lips seemingly without the Englishman’s consent.

Mon Ange [2/4]

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[Part 6] "Addicted to the Knife" (England/China blood-drinking), 1/2.

(Anonymous) 2012-03-22 01:39 am (UTC)(link)
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=18314274#t18314274 Request was for "England feeding on China. Blood, flesh, cum, breastmilk- whatever." Filled mostly with blood and a little flesh and semen. Warnings for knifeplay, blood-drinking, biting, drug use, and a brief mention of breastfeeding which some may or may not find offputting. Also contains nipple-play and frot, hope that's okay. Written while listening to Genitorturer's "One Who Feeds" and Repo!'s "Zydrate Anatomy".

England is the one with the knife in his hand, the one pinning his partner to the silk-hung bed, but as he looks at China's enigmatic smirk he's unsure which one of them is really in control. Both of them are a little drunk, but England's hand doesn't tremble. China's hair is loose and his robe is open, black silk exposing his white flesh, and the knife opens up little nicks here and there, red smeared on silver. China murmurs appreciatively, and England strokes the flat of the blade against his throat.

"I could kill you, you know," he says; not threateningly, just musing.

"I know. But you won't." China runs his fingers through the blood rising on his ribcage, and dips them into his mouth. "Mm. Try some?" He reaches up, and England takes China's index finger between his lips. Just a faint tang of blood lingers, leaving him hungry for more. Nations are born from blood, destined to spill blood. A taste for it is normal for them.

England draws the knife lightly across China's chest, just above his left nipple, eliciting a gasp, and bends down to lick up the rising fluid. China's fingers entwine in his hair, and he groans and grinds up against England's hip.

"Oh! K-keep doing that ..."

England smirks against China's nipple. "You know, if you react this strongly, it's probably a good thing you never had to nurse any of your kids." China pulls his hair sharply in retaliation, and England gasps in pain.

"I don't recall giving you permission to talk," China purrs, every inch Imperial despite his position near-naked under his knife-wielding rival. England gets the point and resumes licking, running the tip of his tongue around the nipple, then driving it into the cut, causing China to cry out. "Ah! Shit ... You're still dressed. Why?"

England puts the knife on the bedside table, sits up and tugs off his white shirt, ruined now with little dabs and smears of blood. China looks on appreciatively, the long nails of his left hand playing with his own nipple while the other hand rests on England's hip. His sleeve slides down to his elbow, exposing the untouched flesh of his arm, begging for marks. England's right hand joins China's left, while he clumsily unfastens his trousers and shoves them off.

"You like this, then?" England says, pinching sharply.

"Ah! Y-yes ... Korea likes t-to grab me there 'cause he knows I react. Little bastard."

"Yes, well, don't waste time thinking about him now." England lies back down on top of China and resumes his attentions, pressing the flat of his tongue over the nipple, licking gently around it again, then sucking hard. Blood fills his mouth as he sucks on the fresh cut.

"Mm ... bite it," China instructs. "Hard as you like." England is only too happy to oblige.

By now China's erection is jabbing insistently into his stomach, and his own is resting between China's spread thighs. He grinds down experimentally. China rolls his hips upwards and moans approvingly. England's left hand slides under China's head and strokes the nape of his neck. Another cry from China, and England grins; another sensitive spot found.

Without warning, he snatches up the knife again, and leaves a long slice along China's bare forearm. Not into the vein - he won't cut their game short. China yells in surprise, and England takes advantage and shoves his tongue into his partner's mouth. When he pulls away, China's lips are smeared with sticky red as well. China's face settles into a wicked smile.

"Good, very good," China coos, entwining his fingers in England's hair again. "Now finish what you started." He keeps up a steady tug on England's hair. England groans. He might not have a curl like the Italy boys, but hair-pulling is still a weakness of his.

[Part 6] "Addicted to the Knife" (England/China blood-drinking), 2/2.

(Anonymous) 2012-03-22 01:39 am (UTC)(link)
England gets bolder, cutting deeper, licking up the resulting gore as he goes. China's cries become higher and louder as he does, China shoving his head down harder. England's teeth meet his flesh, and China screams. England looks up, worried, and China gasps "Stop now and I'll fucking gut you with that knife!"

England complies, jabbing the short blade into his partner's body in random patterns now. As he grinds his hips down, China grips his shoulders and pushes up, clawing lines of red into England's flesh in turn. Pleas and profanity spill from his lips. Unable to restrain himself, England drops the knife on the floor and tears in with his teeth instead, leaving puncture marks in China's shoulder. China's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. Their erections slide together, pressed tightly between their bodies.

"Ah! Yes, like that! Harder, hurt me, tear me up, hard as you like, I don't give a fuck - oh, oh yes - aiyahhh!"

China's skin gives way fully, and England finds himself with shreds of flesh in his mouth and China crying out in pain and bliss beneath him, driving his hips upwards and sending England over the edge in turn. Their fluids land in China's wounds, adding to the sting. England swallows the sticky redness in his mouth and watches China shudder and relax. Smirking, England ducks down and starts to lick the semen from China's stomach, tongue dipping into the cuts.

"Mm, hey, easy there," China hisses, still hypersensitive. England mumbles an apology and avoids the wounds while he cleans up the rest of the mess with tongue and fingers. He rolls off China with a sigh, and stares at the carvings on the ceiling.

Something is pushed into his hand. He looks back to see it's an opium pipe. China is already lighting up. England holds his over the lamp on the table at his own side of the bed, and inhales.


"Mm," China mumbles, nodding and breathing out smoke. England's not sure whether China thinks he meant the sex or the drug. China reaches out and traces the smoke swirls with a finger, already slightly dizzy. His tolerance is sadly low.

England puffs again on his own pipe and looks at the wounds on China's body. The cuts are already slowly closing up, even the bitten-out piece. "Do you want me to patch those up?"

"It's okay," China says, lying back and waving his hand lazily amid the drifts of smoke. "It doesn't hurt. Nothing does now." He looks at the ceiling and giggles. "I feel nothing at all."


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[Part 21] Austria + Prussia - Lusting from afar

(Anonymous) 2012-03-22 04:25 am (UTC)(link)
Anon would like to see Austria quietly admiring Prussia's body from afar-ish. Need not lead to smut. In fact, I'd prefer for poor Austria to be too proud to actually admit anything to Prussia.

Original Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21125.html?thread=86483589

A Quick Note

(Anonymous) 2012-03-22 04:37 am (UTC)(link)
Okay, funny story. This particular prompt actually inspired three stories. One is comedic, one angsty, and then . . . this one.

The reason why I am sharing it here is because this one most closely follows the prompt as given. The other two do adhere, but I don't like them as much, honestly. I may never actually finish them. This one is a bit angsty, but it's more contemplative, and it's one of my first real attempts to write in first person. It's also pretty stream-of-conscious, so it's a bit disconnected in spots, but I didn't polish it up from the original because I wanted it to read like a diary entry.

I hope you enjoy.


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Part 21 - UK,US - America is half a cat

(Anonymous) 2012-03-23 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)

America tampers with England’s magic and turns himself into half a cat. The spell isn’t reversible and England ends up taking care of America until the magic wears off.

Curiosity Kills (1a/?)

(Anonymous) 2012-03-23 09:01 pm (UTC)(link)
I’ve never owned a cat, which may become obvious in my attempt to write this request despite research and an insane number of disturbing cat videos. This story has yet to see the light of a beta: watch out for grammatical and spelling failures. I plan to keep this short to lessen the likelihood that it will be abandoned like a stray. I’m rating this ‘T’ for now because I don’t think I’m capable of writing smut. *nervously fidgets* Please enjoy!


It’s sometime in the early afternoon when he arrives at the quaint little house for a surprise visit. He’s so excited to be here this spring (after slogging away the winter heaped in work, snow, and crippling hockey games with Mattie) that he barely has the vehicle in park before jumping out.

Dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a Xmen Wolverine shirt, Alfred proceeds to bound through the wrought iron gate, down the flagstone path, and up to the front door set in the cobble stone wall. He knocks with his customary rhythm of “Shave and a haircut...two bits” to let Arthur know it is him and not some salesman, paparazzi, or Russia with his usual promises of pain.

As he waits, he casually surveys his surroundings. The greenery and flowers engulf the entire residence to the point where it seems as if the very house has sprouted from the ground as well. Arthur’s mini cooper (complete with offensive bumper sticker) and his luxury Jaguar (for those dignified/midlife crises moments) are idly sitting in the driveway.

After an eternity (10 seconds) of no response, Alfred begins to suspect he is being deliberately ignored. Slightly annoyed, he makes his way to the backyard.

When he and Matthew where children, Arthur used to tell them stories of fairy rings which magically transported people to mythical kingdoms. Nostalgic old man that Arthur is, it didn’t take much effort for Alfred to find the spare key located at the center of a little mushroom circle.

The rear door opens into a tile floored kitchen. The house has a fairly open floor plan. Alfred can see the entire living room to his right with its mix of old and modern furniture, various souvenirs from Arthur’s travels, and a good sized fireplace on the opposite wall. It’s somewhat dark in here: Arthur having drawn nearly all the curtains and drapes closed.

“Hello~? Anyone home?”

There is no answer.

Alfred reluctantly closes the door but only halfway. The atmosphere of the place feels like one of those creepy horror movies where a raging madman is going to pop out with a chainsaw, and no one will be able to hear his screams. They’ll find bits and pieces of him scattered in the woods twenty years from now.

Alfred frantically finds the light switch and flips it on only to discover the electricity is out too. He calls out again to the man who should be living here, trying to keep the terrified quiver out of his voice.

“A-Arthur? Artie? Did you forget to pay the bills again? You haven’t fallen and broken a hip have you?”

Once again there is no response. He’s about to go back outside to wait when something odd catches his eye. There is a ceramic calico cat sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. He immediately recognizes it as one of Kiku’s Maneki Nekos with an upraised paw to beckon him over with promises of good luck and fortune.

Upon closer scrutiny, he discovers Arthur has clearly ruined his table. Alfred is used to the oddball chalking his symbols about the house, but this time the man had literally carved it into the beautiful wood. Alfred traces the pattern on the table with an index finger. By the look of how intricate the design is, he concludes the Brit desperately needs to get out more often and make some friends. There’s no way Arthur will ever be able to sell it if he wished to now. Then again, maybe Arthur’s people will like this sort of thing: an odd man for an odd country.

Curiosity Kills (1b/?)

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[Part 16] FrUK - Harrying of the North continuation

(Anonymous) 2012-03-24 07:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Original Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18439.html?thread=63614983#t63614983

Back in 1069-1070, William the Conqueror (newly King of England as of 1066), ordered for the destruction of pretty much the entirety of the North of England. His men slaughtered people, destroyed livestock and farms so that people would starve, and set whole villages on fire. Over 100,000 people were said to have died... and back in those days, that was a lot.

So... for my request, I would like to see England being forced to see and feel his lands being purged. Whether the anon wants to have the ill treatment happen directly to England, or to let him watch his actual land and people perish before his eyes, is up to them.

First part: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=72116052&#t72116052

Warnings: child abuse and allusions to starvation, burning and slaughter. Angst out the wazoo.

I had originally hoped to take less than a year to get the second part out, but that didn't happen. In short, this took me far too long.

Wasta Est (2a/2v)

(Anonymous) 2012-03-24 08:22 pm (UTC)(link)
The camp rose early the next morning. England was not at all rested. France, too, complained, but there was nothing they could do when the tents were being packed up and moved on.

It made sense, England thought grimly: everyone within reasonable distance had been slaughtered so the camp had to move.

England, to his wary and subdued relief, was not going with the camp. He was going with France, the Bastard and his entourage to a castle. So, while the flames burned incessantly across his back, England at least wouldn't have to watch it happen again.

It was, to be quite honest, a small mercy when he was going to be trapped with the Bastard, under his constant surveillance and control.

France wasn't doing much to make England feel better, for all that he obviously thought he was. England just wanted to be left alone to his misery. He didn't want to be cheered up when such terrible things were happening. He wanted to go somewhere alone and curl up with the fairies – his real friends – but that would never happen if France refused to leave his side. Not to mention that France's clothes were too big for him. And they stank.

England didn't want to hear what France thought he should do. He didn't want to hear what France's plans for the future were. He didn't want to hear how sure France was that everything would get better if he just behaved. He didn't want to hear France's instruction on his stupid, floaty, nimby-pimby language.

He didn't want to have to put up with France's smug self-satisfaction. France had helped him. Wasn't England lucky that France had helped him? Oh yes, France was practically a saint. England should be on his knees, thanking France for clearing up after his own people. Really, what was England's problem?

No, England didn't want to listen to all this, but under the Bastard's watchful eye, he had no choice.

They arrived at their destination well after nightfall. They couldn't see more than what flaming torches showed them, but it was a hastily constructed thing. England had seen the like before; great wooden constructions on artificial hills that ruined the skyline. It was fitting that something so showy would come from France. Nothing like the great ditches England had favoured before now.

Despite his deep disapproval of the surroundings, England was more than ready to end their journey. A bone-deep ache had settled on him hours before and vied for attention with all his other hurts. Even France saw not to complain of his own stiffness as he practically fell from his horse after a day in the saddle.

France's attempt to help England off his pony was about as successful as his own dismount. England appreciated it all the same and he kept his muttered insults to himself, settling for a scowl. France seemed buoyed enough by the prospect of an actual ceiling that he grinned as he handed their steeds off and ushered England inside with promises of warmth and food and floors that didn't squelch underfoot.

England pointed out in slightly unkind tones that he had, in fact, been indoors before. France paid him very little heed.

England settled into his bed that night with a heavy sigh and more comfortable than he had been for a number of days. That the Bastard had been too busy with other matters to deal with him played no small part in this.

It was easy to tell by France's smile that he thought his part in it was far larger than England was willing to give him credit for. England let it go, though. He was too tired for arguments and the bed was too soft for him to be concerned with anything else. The full-body ache seeped out of him as his muscles let go of their tension and his bones creaked into their rightful places, no longer bowing under the pressure of the Bastard's glare.

England's eyes had drifted shut before France had even left the room.


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[Part 18] The Mirror [Norway/Denmark] 1/1

(Anonymous) 2012-03-25 04:50 am (UTC)(link)
Req: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20026.html?thread=72923706#t72923706
Denmark on a angsty rant of angstyness. Bonus is Norway getting him to stop with a kiss resulting in a cute ending.
This turned into more of a mutual angst fest. And I feel Den may be slightly OOC.

“W-what if you tell him – no, shut up, he's never gonna listen to you–”

“Den. What are you on about now?” Norway slinks into the bathroom, watching as Denmark rants at the mirror. The other man doesn't notice.

“Why are you even bothering?” Denmark sighs, hanging his head. Norway comes up behind him. “He doesn't... You should just move on; this is...”

“Denmark.” He puts a hand on Denmark's shoulder, pauses, then takes it back. “What is this?”

Denmark starts to laugh. “God, I don't even know what I did.” He's looking at the mirror again, and he raises his hand to it. “Maybe there are shards in his heart – no, no fairytales. What did he say?”

Norway cringes. He remembers when they were young and cold and together. It was Christmas Eve. Denmark struck a match to keep them warm, told him to look at the flame, and in it he'd see a feast laid out for them, for both of them.

The wind blew out the flame in thirty seconds, and Norway told him all he saw was a fire – and a puny one from a damp match at that.

Denmark is still laughing, and Norway feels like praying Den won't cry. Denmark always has been the emotional sort. “He – he's not worth it. He hates me...”

“I don't hate you,” Norway says aloud, but it won't help. Now Norway feels like praying he won't cry. “I mean – argh, I am not meant to care this much!”

Denmark, of course, doesn't hear him. “C-c'mon, man,” he tries to tell himself, smiling weakly. “Whaddaya even see in him anyway?”

“I have no idea,” says Norway. Really, with how he acts – how cruel and silent, and unfair – Denmark should be the one to hate him. It would make things a lot easier.

(He hates the pain in his heart that thought brings.)

“Right. From now on. Over him.” Denmark grins as wide as he can, and Norway starts thinking about the story with the mirror as well – it only reflects what is hateful and pained.

“Den, please–”

I need you to love me.

Norway's own mind lashes out at him for that thought. No you don't; that's why we're here! You don't need him. You don't need people, but Norway is much better at lying to others than himself. He wishes he didn't need Denmark. He brings himself here out of masochism more than anything. He watches Denmark suffer, and he suffers with him.

And Denmark never knows.

“...Fuck.” And now Denmark is crying, and Norway should really go before he does something he'll regret, but since when does he use common sense in regards to all this? Someone using common sense would admit to loving Denmark, as Denmark loves him, and shockingly they may actually become happy.

That is far out of Norway's area of expertise.

“This isn't fair. You hear me, Norge? It's not fucking fair!”

He's trying to scream, but he's whispering too, just in case Norway actually hears him – after all, even if Norway hates him, best keep that to as little hate as possible. Norway has to chuckle slightly.

“Just not fair...” Denmark whispers, and Norway just stares.

Of course it's not fair. Norway is selfish and he is perfectly aware of it. He needs Denmark to love him, but he can't love Denmark back at all. He has to go on, alone, disconnected; for if he decides he needs someone he may as well say he belongs to that someone, and he will not be a slave. He is a proud, irrational man. Perhaps it's because, no matter how much he loves him, he does not trust Denmark – for he is foolish, and could hurt them both without thinking. And Norway is not the kind to go down with a sinking ship.

“Denmark...?” He's stopped talking and just cries, and Norway gives into instinct. He wraps his arms around the man, holds him close, kisses him on the neck to comfort him.

Denmark sobs. “Stop it, moron. He's not here. If he was, he wouldn't...”

Norway's not here. His spell will keep him silent and invisible, and Denmark shouldn't even be able to feel his touch. Denmark is crying, all by himself in a bathroom; because he is in love with Norway, and Norway does not love him back.

Re: [Part 18] The Mirror [Norway/Denmark] 1/1

(Anonymous) 2012-03-28 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, wow, I did not expect the ending! I thought Norway was "there" the whole time and Denmark just was blind to it through his distress, but I guess not! Come on Norway, I'm sure you guys can figure it out.... Don't let Denmark emotionally kill himself.

"Norway starts thinking about the story with the mirror as well – it only reflects what is hateful and pained." This is an allusion to The Snow Queen, right?


(Anonymous) - 2012-03-29 04:44 (UTC) - Expand

[Part 8] Anything goes - untitled random Nyotalia stuff.

(Anonymous) 2012-03-25 05:01 pm (UTC)(link)
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=23682451#t23682451From a discussion with a friend. We thought this was funny. Currently trying to come up with some other Nyo scenarios along similar lines.

"Hey hey mama, could I have some wine? Hey hey papa, hey hey papa ..."

Austria smiled as the little scullery boy sang, bobbing his head gently in tune as he swept the floor. His voice hadn't broken, and so his singing was smooth and high-pitched.

"Isn't that just precious?"

Austria turned to see Hungary leaning against the wall, tapping one foot in time to Italy's song.

"I thought I told you not to scuff my floors with those ghastly boots," Austria said, frowning at the stablehand's muddy hobnailed boots.

"Oh, Miss Austria, lighten up! A face so pretty shouldn't be scowling!"

Austria tutted and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, concealing a smile. Hungary was quite the charmer, she had to admit. "So Italy's feeling better? I believe you mentioned he's not been well. Stomachache, wasn't it?"

"Ah, yes, he was a bit achey this morning, but he says he's fine now. I think he slept badly."

"Poor boy. Good to know he's feeling better." Austria smiled. She really had grown attached to the little one. He'd come to her home as a servant, but she liked to think of him as one of the family now.

Italy spun around, arms spread, song reaching a crescendo. "Ahhhh, this world around us can be seen with the stroke of a single brush ..."

Hungary and Austria caught sight of something odd. Their eyes moved downwards, and they blinked.

"... and now we give a toast with our boots ..."

Hungary and Austria stared at the sight before them, knowing they should look away but unable to.

"Itaaa-liiii-aaaaaaaa!" Italy dropped into a bow, beaming at an imaginary audience, then looked up to see his real audience staring. "Oh! I'm sorry, Miss Austria, I'm sorry! I finished sweeping and- why are you looking at me like that?"

Austria blinked behind her glasses, eyes still fixed on the spreading red stain in the front of the servant boy's breeches.


"And you never mentioned to me that Italy is a girl, why?" Austria snapped, helping the shuddering Italy into a borrowed dress. "There, there, dear, I know it's a shock but it'll stop in a couple of days, I promise ..."

Hungary shrugged, snickering. "I don't know. It was funny?"

Re: [Part 8] Anything goes - untitled random Nyotalia stuff.

(Anonymous) 2012-03-28 07:01 pm (UTC)(link)
haha, nice take on this scene with the opposite genders!

....I can't believe Italy didn't even notice something was wrong. I thought I had peed myself the first time. But then again, it is Italy...


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