In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME

[hetalia_kink]

axis powers
hetalia kink meme

Masterlist of kink memes | Masterlist of Kinks
Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?


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[(Anonymous)]

YES FIRST-

Russia/America - Gunplay. Bonus points if mentions of America's CONTAINMENT policy can be worked in.

[(Anonymous)]

Alfred wasn't sure what made his heart pump faster: the cold, hard steel pressing against his forehead, or the hot, hard flesh pressing against his thigh. Either way, he wasn't sure if his blood was rushing out of thrill or out of fear.

Nonetheless, he scowled deeply, his expression clear and mostly sincere, making perfect contrast with the taller man's unsettling smile. Alfred struggled, writhed against his grip, but Ivan's hand was squeezing his arm tightly, so it wasn't particularly productive. Not to mention the squirming was making Ivan smile widen.

"You're-so-silly!" said Ivan, while he arched further over the smaller man. He kept his gun-totting arm flexed over them, making sure it was coming at Alfred from above, if for no other reason that any other direction was boring and didn't feel right at the time. "Why are you trying to get away? You like this, don't you. It's fun!" Ivan said with child-like mirth. "Our little game..."

"This is not a game," Alfred growled, struggling again because damn it if he didn't hate it! More than the powerless feeling, more than the way he could smell his own fear on his sweat while it drenched his clothes, and made him uncomfortable in places where he'd rather not be, he hated how the other man never got it through his thick, vodka-riddled head. "You are a villain!" he hissed, in the self-convinced tone he always mustered when flinging such accusations about. "And this is not a game!"

"Ooh?" the tall man cooed, a deep and unhealthy light flickering behind his purple eyes. He shoved himself further against Alfred-- pressing him firmly against the wall where the other man was cornered. "I think it is. It's our very fun game. I like it, you like it... I like it because you like it," the words flowed out of his mouth, in unsteady, shifting pitches. His smile remained, but it was a bit harder, and his eyes narrowed. (There they were! Alfred thought... Those evil eyes...) "You like feeling threatened..."

"I--do--no--"

Ivan snarled, ramming his hips against the smaller man, pushing the gun against his forehead until he scraped some skin. His voice dropped from a roar into a high, toxic sing-song. "You LIKE feeling threatened, don't lie, don't lie..." Ivan intoned, before dropping his voice to a low growl, "Don't lie... Liars get punished..."

Alfred winced and hissed. He could feel the blood, warm, hot, trailing from the small cut on his face, down to his cheeks. He could smell the coppery scent--

"You like it..." Ivan's voice wavered while his body rocked in a obscene, drunken movements, "because it makes you feel... like the victim... and like the good guy..." he added, before smiling brightly. "See? It's a game...!"

Click!

Alfred's gun was under his chin, and the smaller man was smiling too. Grinning, smirking, panting with triumph. "Bet you regret talking so much? Bet you regret not keeping both of my hands down?" came his breathless taunt... but his edge faded, and so did his smile.

Ivan hadn't stopped smiling. He didn't even look a tiny bit frightened. "Not really. Isn't that part of the game? You threaten me, and I threaten you... and that way, when you don't pull the trigger..." Bubbling laughter came then... bubbling, corrosive laughter, like acid. "Then you'll see it's a little game we have going on together... then you won't be able to deny..."

Another thrust, and the smell of fear mixed with the scent of musk and excitement... and not just Ivan's, for that matter. Of course, that only meant his smile grew brighter... blinding.

"...that you love playing games with me, my friend."

[(Anonymous)]

DAMMIT SECOND.

This is hard. I've read most kinks perverted minds can think up in the Japanese fandom, so I shall revert to Westernisms. Uh...

France/England, Eurotunnel pr0n. Bonus points if history of France's many attemped Channel crossings are used.

[(Anonymous)]

Arthur hated the whisperings in his ear, the soft sounds of random French babble that Francis always seemed to spout, even as his hands moved across Arthur’s chest, undoing buttons, loosening his tie. And as always, to shut him up, Arthur turned the larger man’s face to him, capturing those lips with his. Despite his initiating the kiss, he was the first to break away.

“We probably shouldn’t be doing this here,” he said, his voice a little too breathless to sound as stern as he wanted. As if to contradict his words, however, his hands were quickly dispensing with the already loosened tie, and undoing the top buttons of the Frenchman’s shirt to expose his smooth neck. “The attendant might return.”

“I’ve locked the door, cher,” Francis smiled against the other man’s chin. He pulled the smaller man in closer, pulling him onto the oversized seat. He slid a hand up Arthur’s shirt, delighting in the tremors the Englishman tried to suppress.

He pressed his lips to the crook of Arthur’s neck, sucking gently as he pushed the shirt off the rounded shoulders.

Arthur bit his lower lip with a soft moan as Francis dragged his tongue over his collarbone. The soft scent of lilacs assaulted his nose as the Frenchmen’s long blond locks fell out of the ribbon he had them tied back in, in long swaths that caressed his skin like silken scarves. He curled his fingers in them, tugging gently.

A reflection caught his attention. He turned his head, not wanting to see. They were already in the chunnel, so the only thing that could that they could see outside the window was the regular orange light flashing by. However, it wasn’t the sight through the window, it was the sight in the window.

He could see their reflection, their intertwined bodies. But most embarrassing of all, he could see his own face. His normally calm expression was completely gone, replaced by a flushed face. A lustful face. A needful face.

Francis’ hand slid down Arthur’s back, underneath his pants.

At that, however, Arthur stiffened with an outraged squawk.

“I think not,” Arthur protested, grabbing the Frenchman’s wrist.

“I thought maybe today we could imitate reality, chou,” Francis cooed with a mischievous smile.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Arthur attempted to suppress another shiver as the other blond brushed the front of his pants with the hand not still gripping his ass underneath the cloth.

“We’re on the French train,” he continued, nibbling on the lobe of the Arthur’s ear. “Heading into the English tunnel.”

Arthur smiled, then moved forward to lick the throat of the other man, delighting in the groan that came from him, his hands also sliding south. “The French haven’t been able to invade England since William the Conqueror.”

“À cœur vaillant rien d’impossible, mon cher,” Francis replied in a husky tone, his breath tickling Arthur’s ear, making his chest swell, and his body tighten even higher with need. Only his words could make Arthur melt, lose his composure, even make him consider doing that.

Arthur hated those French whisperings.

[(Anonymous)]

Germany getting topped, much to his despair! Perhaps by Russia, or America? Or, for laughs, how about North Italy? Be as smutty as you want. Fic or art is good!

[(Anonymous)]

He'd swear-

He'd swear if he could, but there's a gag in his mouth and he can't speak, not now, not that he'd give his captor the pleasure of that. So it's with cold, dead eyes that he views the situation he's in, it's with bitterness that he listens to what he's hearing.

It should have never been like this.

"And it's too late to go back, isn't it?" Ivan's whispering, Ivan's patting him oh-so-gently on the shoulders, Ivan's smiling as if everything's fine, everything's over. There's a faint hint of alcohol about the other man, Ludwig can smell it off his breath because Ivan's that close, with his hands moving from his shoulders to the buttons on his shirt, pulling it open one by one by one.

(And his movements are too steady for a drunkard.)

Ludwig bites back a snarl and twists, trying to prolong what he knows is inevitable. It's to no avail, of course- the ropes that bind him have been tied well, and he can't help but wince at the pain as they cut further into his already raw skin.

"Ah. No, must you-?"

And then Ivan's laughing, cheerfully and blithely. He's laughing, and he's leaning forward- he's warm, from the palms of his hands to his breath on Ludwig's neck and he won't stop- he won't stop talking, not even when Ludwig's eyes widen in shock when one hand slips down his back, trailing small circles onto cold skin.

"Just think, you and me. We have such history, and you've had you're fun, time and time again- do you know? Some of the others think that it'll be so much better to have you recovered, to bring you back to your former glory, but we know better, don't we?"

Yes, Ludwig thinks- because he does. This much is obvious: that he's no longer the power he once was, that he's just a pawn in someone else's game, but pawn or not he'll be damned if he'll give Ivan the satisfaction he's looking for.

But it's not long that he can hold on to those thoughts, because Ivan's kissing him gently, almost lovingly, almost but not quite, almost but never.

"Do you know," Ivan comments, and there is something undeniably bright in his eyes, and they remind Ludwig of nothing so much as stained glass saints. "Do you know-"

It's then that Ludwig moves, trying to pull out and pull away and failing as Ivan slams him back. There's a brief moment where his face twists with pain, but he'll not beg for mercy.

Not yet.

"Do you know," Ivan's saying again, his hands now on Ludwig's neck, choking him as he fights for breath, "that face of yours-"

He can't breath any more, but he won't (he can't-) speak. There's an edge of black starting to tint his vision, and it's Ivan's face he's looking at in the very centre.

"-Whenever I see it, I can't help but smile."

I'll kill you, I swear that once I'm able to, I'll kill you- is the last thing Ludwig can think, and then-

It comes as a relief, when he finally slips into unconsciousness.

There's only so long he can stand to face a smile that's so empty of anything.

[(Anonymous)]

OH GOD How do I do this without making myself totally TOTALLY transparent??

Russia/Lithuania, psychological abuse, almost Marathon Man-like?

Extremely rusty, but here goes! I is bad@writing

[(Anonymous)]

1/2

Pain and Toris were not strangers to each other, not by far. For the past nine-hundred odd years, Toris had seen his lands ravaged by war and invasion, and was there to fight it.

But this, this was a different issue. Waking up in a beige bathrobe that looked and smelled increasing like the jacket that Ivan donned (gunpowder, smoke, blood) and being strapped to a chair was reminiscent of days of the KGB. Walls a shoddy gray, three blinding white lights illuminated the room and yet provided very little light at all except on himself, the wooden office chair with fresh towels to his left, and a table to his right. He struggled against his restraints, head down and not noticing his captor until he saw a shift in the shadows.

"Is it safe?"

Ah, how could he have missed the hint of vodka that drifted in the air.

"What is?" Toris asked, peering at the man. The man's face broke into a smile and a laugh escaped his lips.

"Do they teach you to answer questions with a question in grammar school, Toris?" Ivan asked, contradicting his own statement as he advanced towards the seat. A gloved finger traced, lightly, down Toris' chest where the thick robe did not reach.

This time, the voice was dulled down to a whisper, light, like the touch, but nevertheless dangerous and venomnous. Violet eyes, washed near-white by the lights in the room, grew heavy, serious.

"Is it safe?"

"I need to know what 'it' is, Ivan," Toris answered, not even entirely sure of trying to reason with Ivan was even logical. One reasoned with another person with reason; one tried to tame a neglected dog that still wagged its tail. This one, no, this was a rabid dog. A rabid dog that was now laughing again, bubbling laughter. Wood creaked and groaned under Ivan's weight as he climbed onto the chair with Toris, snuggling into the space that Toris did not occupy, now transforming from a rabid dog into some sort of content housecat. His hand was on Toris' skin again, and the coarse sensation from the fatigued leather gloves was hot, like it was applying so much friction to him. The hand crawled up his chest to trace along his exposed collarbone, his jawline, and finally stopped and hovered just by his cheek. There was a scientific fact somewhere that only cats were capable of purring, but that scientist has obviously never met Ivan.

Being in such close proximity seemed to hyperbolize the shower of heat from the light, and yet Ivan's hot breath next to his ear sent a chill down his spine.

[(Anonymous)]

I kinda want England/America with use of the phrase "ride it cowboy" BONUS POINTS IF ONE/BOTH ARE WEARING COWBOY HATS OR ONE OF THEM IS WEARING ASSLESS PANTS

[(Anonymous)]

He sputtered. It was utterly, and totally... totally... totally...!
Well, damn it if Alfred was going to let him finish his thoughts!

"T...this is," Arthur sputtered, shaking his head and trying not to look, tempting as it was. "It's crude...! It's, it's..."

And Alfred grinned at him. That was one of the hardest things to ignore-- that smile. Broad, handsome, and shameless. "I know," he said, between heavy, heated breaths, "isn't it great?"

Great? The concept was so preposterous that Arthur's mind reeled back to looking at the situation as it was. Alfred, on his lap, riding him wearing that bloody ridiculous hat, pair of boots, and chaps. Just the chaps. Had he no sense of decency?!

Alfred could see the question clear in Arthur's eyes, beneath his thick, expressive eyebrows, and he laughed again at the same time that be pushed himself down, cushioning his bottom against Arthur's hard cock. "Well, you DID raise me... I'd say if I don't have one... that'd be your own darn fault, dad--"

Arthur choked back a squeak. "Hush your mouth, and don't you talk like that!"

Only a second after he'd spoken he'd realized he'd just treated Alfred to a little victory. And Alfred sure did love to win: he laughed, reeling back with a sort of elegance born from the rawness of it all.

"Loosen up, old man~!" Alfred purred at him, bringing his hands down on Arthur's shoulders and lifting himself up with a light - and purposeful - moan. "You've gotten so damn uptight this century..."

Arthur could only groan and wince. Oh for crying out loud! He groaned and brought his hands on Alfred's hips, to... to... well, he wasn't sure if he was pushing away or not. All he did was grab on, while grumbling between this moan and another. "You've lost it... you're completly..."

A groan, a squelchy, wet sound...

"utterly..."

Flesh against flesh. The sound of Arthur's chair creaking-- and a laugh.

"totally..."

And Alfred came down for a kiss, purring, growling as he wildly savored it without the slightest bit of remorse or refrain, no shame, no restraint... parting from it with a heated hiss, licking his lips, purring hoarsely before letting the words ride his breath just like he rode Arthur's lap: "Free."

[(Anonymous)]

Switzerland finding himself trapped with his worst enemy in an elevator (lol, does that make sense?) or in a cabin during a snowstorm.

[(Anonymous)]

Fuck!

Suspended in what seems like a bottomless pit, the cabin rocks gently in the snowstorm.

Nothing to be worried about. Happens all the time. Yeah.

Only that usually, he is alone, or in tolerable company. And usually, it isn't already dark and why did he ever agree to this? And the cold. He is used to cold. To some extent. But it is getting really cold.

It's not helping that Francis doesn't seem unphased at the least: calmly leaning against the window, peering into the dark outside. And grinning, as if getting caught at some 100m above the ground in a bloody snowstorm is nothing to be alarmed of.

We'll go on any second now. Any second. Now. COME ON!

Nothing happens. He is still stuck in this tiny cabin, in the middle of a snowstorm.
The cabin isn't even big enough for seats. Just enough for two or three people, because it wasn't supposed to be a long ride, just five minutes, no need for seats or fancyness. Like heaters.

So. Cold.

He begins to blow on his fingers, because that's just what you do when you feel the cold, even through the thickest gloves. For a second, he's so self-absorbed with his frozen fingers that he doesn't notice Francis leaving his spot and taking the three steps in his direction, invading his own personal space. Fucker.

Sometimes, Vash regrets vowing to be eternally neutral. It keeps him out of trouble, of course, but it also means that he can't go around and place well deserved bullets between leering eyes.

„'S getting cold, eh? You know, it's best to huddle together for warmth in these kinds of situations.“
With that, Francis is finally completely pressed against the smaller man, looming over him, still grinning his shameless grin. Vash can smell the faint scent of wine in the other's breath, and finds it nauseating. He deesn't want this kind of close contact anymore. Ever again.

So, he does what he always does. Pulling out the gun, he places it under the other's chin, snarling some kind of insult and hoping it's enough.
And, of course, it's not.
And, of course, the trigger is frozen by now and won't bulge.

Fuck!

[(Anonymous)]

Oh damn it. I REALLY REALLY WANT THIS.

UK/Hong Kong. Shorts. Milk. English-brand racism of the Victorian Era.

[(Anonymous)]

Trying his best to hide his discomfort, he watched the older man's hands climbing up his vest, carefully, neatly doing his buttons one by one. It appeared like such a mundane little routine, but it was more than that... it was part of a transformation.

Just as the world around him had lost its ancient dignity, and had been replaced with opulence and elegance, so would he lose it... the man dressing him had made sure of it. He wouldn't be a little carbon copy of him, ever flawed by the fact he could never be as Arthur was, and therein the twisted fun he found in doing this sort of thing to him, he guessed. Therein the perverse pleasure.

"All done," Arthur said in a kind tone.

Kind? Condescending, you just don't know it is. Or maybe you do, but you think it's fine. The boy just nodded and looked up at the man dressing him. "Thank you, sir," he recited as he'd been taught.

And Arthur Kirkland smiled at him with satisfaction, because it was such a nice sight...

No longer the barbarian, no longer the little chinaman. Neat, clean... or at least... cleaner. He could never be like him, but he was almost free of the blemish of his origins... and that was good enough, right?

Right.

Long gone, the palaces, the red rooms, the lutes and the endless skies. Here he was, a son of the immortal land, born again into small, paneled rooms rooms that smelled like tobacco and tea, with strange furniture and strange customs...

And of course...

"Well, you know what to do next," said Arthur, as he sat down on his throne. It was just a chair, expensive by all means, and richly cushioned, but any chair he sat on was a throne, specially with the way he carried himself.

There is a point, after all, where blind arrogance can confuse even the unclouded mind, and turn them to believe in the lie.

The lie that made the boy step closer, and, after a moment of contemplation, kneel down between the older man's legs, with no expression on his face other than that of obedience, while shifting his bare knees to make them as least uncomfortable as he could on the bare, wooden floor. He would not-- he would never give Arthur Kirland the satisfaction of knowing that, sometimes, he almost made him believe... that he was truly superior...

Almost, almost, nagging at him from the back of his head, eating away at his pride...

The older man reached to his side in a practiced motion, and picked up the elegant little porcelain cup, filling it suit... "Since you've been so well-behaved, I'll give it to you just like you like it..." he said, as he poured the tea and the milk, before calmly reaching to spill it over the young boy's head.

The boy just closed his eyes and endured. He knew of course, that Arthur could see the dragon, raging behind his eyes whenever he said that. That's why he closed his eyes. Because the boy knew that Arthur loved it.

"With plenty of milk..."

And while he heard the sound of the shuffling clothes before him, of fingers pulling pants open and readying his next duty, all he could say... all he allowed himself to say, from the many words of wounded pride that burned in his mind, was:

"Yes, sir... Thank you sir... I do like it just like that."

[(Anonymous)]

Germany and Italy in a bath tub. i've seen pictures of it. why not in written form?

[(Anonymous)]

The only reason he let him in was because he felt it wasn't as bad as having him standing there, stark naked, with that stupid look on his face. Much less have him nagging, nagging, and nagging, over and over, that he let him in.

At first, Ludwig said no. Or rather, a loud, roared "NO!" followed by "get the hell out!" but it was as if the language barrier DID apply, and Feliciano hadn't gotten the message. First he thought Ludwig was joking and tried to force himself in-- sticking his foot into the tub even when Ludwig's vast physical superiority warranted him a fierce resistance. He then kept asking "why not", followed by whining why not, all while standing there, naked.

Naked. DANGLING.

"Gott! Fine, get in and shut up!!!" he'd roared at long last.

"Yayyy!" squealed the Italian, yabbering some cheerful nonsense in his native tongue before he got in, in the most impossibly cumbersome, clumsy manner possible. ("So, I just stick my foot here--" he'd said before nearly crushing Ludwig's hopes of birthing a future nation.) After much slipping and wriggling about--

Wriggling... shuffling about...

--he was in, and immediately began BASKING in the fact he was sitting between Ludwig's legs, grinning over his shoulder at him like an idiot. "See? And you made such a big fuss about it!"

Homicidal urges rising. Ludwig wondered why he hadn't bombed the little pissant when he had the chance. Of course, the circumstances - nudity, moisture, and that horribly annoying smile - made him mind waver. Bomb him, stuff him silly and make his toes curl, bomb him, bomb him, get that stupid smile off his face and put a much more appropriate expression on it...

"...Can you wash my hair? I'll wash yours if you wash mine!" Feliciano boldly asked.

"Are you testing your luck?" Ludwig growled, though at the time he sounded more groggy than ferocious. Often, prolonged exposure to the idiot made him rapidly jaded to his stupidity.

"Come on. Wash my hair! You have biiig hands!"

Ludwig had his eyes fixed on an empty point in space. He wondered, sometimes, if Feliciano was an idiot, or if he was well aware that he was asking for it. Sometimes, he just had this sneaking suspicion...

"Oh, I see. You won't do it because you know that I know about that spot behind your ear that makes you kick like a dog. Okay! I'll just wash my--"

"THAT'S IT," Ludwig roared, right before he lunged.

[(Anonymous)]

Sealand catching his Scandinavian Mommy and Daddy in an *unfortunate* situation

[(Anonymous)]

Here's my shot at it, hope you like.

Peter yawned and lay awake in his bed. He’d woken up and it was the middle of the night and he couldn’t sleep. He’d already tried counting sheep like Mamma had told him to, and it just wasn’t working. Maybe he could sleep in the bed with Mamma and Papa, they let him do that sometimes and it always made it easier to fall asleep. Yes, that was a good idea.

Silent in his stocking feet, Peter padded down the hall towards his Mamma and Papa’s bedroom. He paused outside the door, listening for a moment. What was that sound, grunting? And it sounded like the bed was creaking? Why would they be moving the bed in the middle of the night? He opened the door and stopped, his mouth dropping open at what he saw.

Mamma Tino was on his hands and knees, was he crawling, and why? And Papa Bernard wasn’t helping, he, he was pushing at Mamma’s bottom with his hips, but Mamma didn’t seem to mind. And why weren’t they wearing any clothes? Peter just stood there staring, trying to wrap his young mind around what was going on. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he must have made a sound because suddenly Mamma’s head came up, a startled look on his face.

“P,p,peter! What are you doing up so late?!” he said, sitting down and quickly pulling a blanket over his lap.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Peter mumbled. “’M fine, ‘m going.” He backed out the door and ran down the hall to his room, diving under the covers. He had trouble falling asleep for the rest of the night, replaying everything over and over in his head until he finally fell asleep near dawn.

Author's note: Peter is a little younger in this, I think of him as being 6 or 7 instead of his usual 12.

[(Anonymous)]

Switzerland, getting 'caught' while crossdressing.

[(Anonymous)]

Vash stood in front of the mirror and twirled, feeling the dirndl twirl with him, the skirt swishing against his legs. He stopped with his back to the mirror, looked over his shoulder and smiled. He liked wearing his uniform, but there was just something about a nice dress that made him feel so pretty. He’d probably have to kill anyone who saw him like this, but now it was just him. He did a little curtsy in front of the mirror and then heard a sound that made his stomach sink, the sound of a door knob being turned.

“Fuck!” he thought “I was sure I locked that door!” But whether he had or not, the door still opened and the last person he wanted to see stood in the doorway staring at him. “U, u, uncle, I can explain, this, this isn’t what it looks like....”

Roderich’s eyebrows flew up and his mouth curved ever so slightly. “Is that so Vash? Because what it looks like is you dressing up in a dirndl. A very nice one, though a bit... short for the traditional variant? I must say it does show off your legs nicely.”

Vash’s face grew redder and redder as his uncle walked around him, as he felt a hand reach out to tug at a pleat or touch his waist. He wanted nothing more than for one his guns right then, to use it to wipe the smug look off of Roderich’s face, but it was across the room with his uniform.

“Oh the others are going to love hearing about this.” Roderich said, mostly to himself, but loud enough so his nephew could hear.

A look of panic crossed Vash’s face, the others couldn’t find out about this, it would ruin him, they would never respect him again. He wasn’t Felix, he couldn’t have them thinking less of him for this. He hadn’t even realized he’d been saying all this out loud until he looked up at Roderich and saw how wide his smile had gotten. It wasn’t even a smile anymore, but a blatant leer.

Roderich circled back around Vash and stopped behind him, placing one hand on his tight ass and bending over to whisper in his ear. “I think we can reach some sort of... agreement. I would hate to see your reputation ruined after all.” The hand began to pull the skirt up, fingers rubbing against his thigh.
Vash turned around, scowling at Roderich “Spit it out, old man. Stop hiding behind being polite you pervert.” He was about to say more when a slap rocked his face back, making him stagger. Roderich frowned at him disapprovingly.
“I was quite certain I taught you about being polite to your elders Vash. It’s a shame the lesson didn’t seem to stick.” Roderich smiled at him again. “Now nephew, if you would please,” he said, pushing down on the smaller man’s shoulder until he complied, sinking to his knees. Roderich took his coat off, draping it over the chair, hiding Vash’s gun from sight. He quickly undid his belt and pants, letting Vash see exactly what he was going to have to do to earn Roderich’s silence. He felt his uncle’s smooth hand twist through his hair as he set to work.

[Oh god, I can't believe I just turned my favorite character into "that" uncle. >_< Hope you enjoy it.]

[(Anonymous)]

America/Canada, playing with maple syrup.

Maple Syrup 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

It's that season again. The leaves are turning all sorts of colors: burnished gold, burning copper, a flare of red here and a drift of pink there and a curl of yellow that catches fire under the cold autumn sunlight. America watches as Canada beams, wrapped up in a beaver-fur scarf, and dances around like a moron underneath the falling leaves. It's the one time of the year when America is feeling smug and happy, what with the influx of fall-tourists; while Canada is just high on maple sugar.

For a moment, watching Canada catch leaves because every falling leaf caught is the promise of one perfect day in the new year, America can make believe that all that history, all that rubbish, that permanent triangle between him and Canada and Britain never happened. He and Canada are still good friends, melded together by a sense of discovery and a joy in the new and unexplored, untouched by any sort of resentment or complication. And now their relationship is nothing but complications. Who's copying who; an insistence of separation. America knows that it infuriates Canada ridiculously to be compared to him, he knows Canada hates to be lumped in with him and that actually kinda hurts.

But today isn't a day for such thoughts, today is a day when he follows Canada through the woods for a picnic.

It's a custom they both share, bound by the maple trees. In winter, they'll get together for a sugar on snow day, for maple taffy; but in autumn, it's time for a wild whirl amidst the leaves. It's a personal time, untouched by politics, unsullied by any identity crisis.

"Whatja bring?" With trademark bombast, America tosses down his hastily packed basket, impatiently unkicks the thick blanket. "I brought real Laura Ingalls Wilder stuff, man! Parched corn, and turkey sandwiches and salt pork and everything."

"You don't have a monopoly on pioneers on the prairie," Canada reminds me, not a little snootily. "But I brought maple syrup - I know it's a bit early for it but I thought-"

There's a whoomph and the crackle of leaves as Canada crashes to the ground, America on top of him. "You thought right!"

"You're moving a bit fast, aren't you?" Canada blinks up at him, their spectacles are almost touching.

"That's what we come here for anyway. Just this one day a year," America tells him flatly. There's bitterness in the way he kisses Canada.

"I come here to spend time with you," Canada informs him.

America sprays maple syrup on his face. "Rubbishhhh~" he teases, as Canada sputters and then whimpers as he leans down to clean off the sweet, brown stuff.

[(Anonymous)]

Switzerland and guns.

This probably got a little tl;dr-ish. Sorry

[(Anonymous)]

He enters the dim-lit room and locks the door behind him. Only then does he allow himself to relax a little.
Carefully, he begins to strip his fingers from the gloves and puts them on the commode that is standing right next to the door. His beret soon joins them, as well as his vest.
A uniform is just another form of barrier, something between him and whomever he has to deal with. And he likes to have as much barriers between him and the rest of the world. It's simpler like this, divided into 'me' and 'them'.
But he doesn't need that in this room. This is his special room, and he'd strip down completely if he didn't suspect that it would make him feel slightly silly. Maybe one day... but not now, not today. Today, he is comfortable like he is.

The wooden floor gently creaks below him as he walks to the big cabinet at the far end of the room. He takes it slowly, and on his way he runs his fingers over the antique crossbow, the musquet and it's bayonet, the colt. He likes feeling them under his fingertips, the different textures, materials, remembering how they feel in his hands. Most of them are his, some few presents from the others. He prefers his own, obviously.

He opens the cabinet and takes out all that is necessary for his next task. Brushes, cleaning patches, chemicals, lubrication, whatever. He stacks it all neatly on the round table in the center of the room, going back and forth, slowly, as if he was performing some sort of a ritual.

Only when he is sure he as everything he'll need is right next to him, he places the holster and the gun on the table and sits down. The chair is old and probably a little pompous, but it's comfortable and that's all that counts.
Next, he takes the gun out of the holster and examines it. It's a good old SIG P210, one of those he used for years. It looks a little old, so it's probably one of the earlier ones, just after the big war he wasn't really involved in. He found it the other day, under some old junk he had intended to throw out.
Of course, the gun was to stay.

With skilled fingers, he begins to dissemble the main parts. Even for its age, the gun is still in perfect condition, which gives him just the slightest pang of pride. If there's something he can take care of, it's guns.
Slowly, with meticulous motions, he begins to clean the parts, takes away the filth of all those years and makes them shine again, smooth and black and beautiful. Some parts would need replacement, but that would only be in case he wanted to use the gun again, which he doesn't. He just wants it to be beautiful, a shine of black against his pale hands.

Would he have let anyone witness this, they would have been surprised by the calmness. Outside, where the others are, where he oh so often doesn't want to be, he has to be harsh. He yells at people, he - kind of - shoots at them, he interacts without relying on anyone, all alone, and that is just how he wants it.
But here, this room is different. Here, he is silent, calm, concentrated. There is nobody to interrupt him. Nobody who needs to be shouted at.
Would he have let anyone witness this, they would have been surprised at the faint smile that creeps on his lips as he is reassembling the gun, giving it its past beauty back.

After he is done, he weights the gun in the palm of his hand. It feels right, just perfect.
He doesn't give them names, because that's just a silly thing to do and because he actually likes that they're not 'alive'. That makes them less complicated. More reliable.


There is one thing he does, though. Every time.


Bringing the gun back to his face, he licks the barrel. Slowly, begining at the rear, in one smooth motion, leaving a thin trail of saliva.


Then he gets up, licking his lips and enjoying the metallic aftertaste, and goes over to a display cabinet where there is still a free spot. He carefully places the pistol next to the others and shuts the door.
Leaning his head against the cool glass of the display, he still smiles. Because everything is alright in his room, and even if he will have to leave in a few minutes and deal with all the idiots outside again, he knows that this room is just for him and his guns.
And that is all he really needs.




Well, maybe a fresh pair of pants, too.

♥

[(Anonymous)]

Austria/Prussia, Hungary voyeur - Prussia wants some attention~

Pre-Occupied

[(Anonymous)]

"Do you know what's most pathetic about Austria?" says Prussia, apparently to the air (although he's leaning over Austria's wingchair with his lips almost against Austria's cheek, and his breath smells of wine--cheap or expensive; it smells alike on a drunk man's tongue).

Austria shuffles the pages of the score on his lap, making a sound like harrumph. "I'm sure I don't need to hear it."

"It's that Austria lacks balls. Not to say he doesn't have courage--because he can be a real pain in the ass when he wants to be--but I mean he is physically without testicles. You know?" He slips a hand between his own legs, like a gesture (although his fingers linger far too long there, massaging, re-mapping flesh). "Balls."

"I wasn't aware that you were a medical examiner," snaps Austria, reaching up to push Prussia away--and then he finds both of his hands caught and pressed against the back of the chair, and Prussia is leaning over him with the same easy malevolence as always.

His free hand twitches away the score and settles between Austria's legs.

Neither of them is particularly surprised to find that Austria is hard.

"Hmm," says Prussia, as he tightens his grip on Austria's hands and continues his southerly explorations (just as they have done a dozen times before; they know the game well). "So it looks like you do have balls after all. In that case, your balls are mine."

The curtain blows in, over the fine carpet. A little chill runs down Austria's spine, and it has very little to do with the breeze. "Must you use such a vulgar term?" he demands (because making demands mitigates the humiliation of being used).

"What, you've got a better one? Balls, nuts, testicles ..."

"Testes is a--God--a p-perfectly serviceable--"

"Testy, aren't you?" He has undone Austria's trousers and slipped his hand inside, all the while holding Austria's gaze. "You never give me any attention. I have to practically kill you to get you to notice me."

Austria gulps. "You can hardly call me inattentive."

"How about you suck me off, since you're paying so much attention?" Prussia smirks, teeth sharp and white and even. "How about it--your mouth, my dick."

"If you insist upon being vulgar--"

"How about this." Prussia rests his knee upon the chair cushion, hauling himself into Austria's lap. "I want you to make love to me with your mouth," he whispers. His breath is hot and wet against Austria's ear. "I want you to caress my arousal with your tongue, draw me into the cavern of your--fuck, sweet talk is for sissies. Just get on your knees and suck me already."

He lets Austria go, hands and crotch (and they'll never need to articulate which one holds him more); Prussia is already undoing his own trousers as Austria sinks to his knees.

There are elements of making love to it; there are elements of caressing; mostly, though, it is Austria whimpering low in his throat as Prussia fucks his mouth hard, gripping him at the nape of his neck and forcing those lips down and down and down again. Austria is stroking himself feverishly, eyes closed, reveling in the sensation of being used (destroyed)--and then Prussia is groaning, cursing, coming heavy over Austria's face.

From behind the curtain, there is a sound like a stifled cry.

They look at each other, long and slow, in perfect understanding. "Be seeing you," says Prussia, doing up his trousers and giving a perfunctory wave.

When he is gone, Austria climbs slowly to his feet and then goes to the window. His wife is there, perched on the window-ledge, her hands gripping the edge of that ledge and her skirt hiked up around her hips. She smells heavily, erotically female; her cheeks are flushed, her skin hot with exertion. "Thank you," she whispers, raising her hands to his cheeks where the semen still stains his skin. "Thank you ..."

She parts her legs for him, and he slides into her on the slickness of her own orgasm.

Through the window behind her, he catches Prussia's eyes.

[(Anonymous)]

Austria, bent over a piano/his piano. Whoever does it is up to you! Let's see serious, stern Austria brought to the point where his knees shake and his breath tatters!

Interruption (Part 1 of 2)

[(Anonymous)]

He's pushed onto the piano in front of him, body jerking as his chest is pressed onto the cold surface. He struggles, but there's nothing to do as his wrists were pulled onto his back, tied up. He tries to lift his head but a gloved hand reaches up to his neck, slamming him onto the piano.

“I believe I already told you to not move,” Ludwig says, making a sound of relish as he licks his lips. “And I believe you are not one to break the rules, right?”

Roderich whimpers, but the sound is muffled by his own scarf, forced onto his mouth the moment Ludwig grabbed him from behind, before he managed to notice someone else had been on the room while he played on the piano. His reaction had been to throw a fist at the other man, but it had been easily caught and twisted, to the point he feared it would break.

“Like I said, just be quiet and your virtuous hands will remain intact.”

Fingers reach up to his belt, skillfully opening it and pulling down his pants, cold breeze caressing his skin. Ludwig breathes, hot and uneven, right next to his ear and when he shuts his eyes, he can feel him smirk, lips hovering right under his earlobe.

“Let's enjoy this, shall we?” The words come out slow, calm but threatening. It's not an offer. It's the only option.

Ludwig pushes his knee between his legs, pushing them apart, and slowly raises it, until he reaches the point when Roderich's muffled gasp reaches him.

“Right here, then?” Ludwig asks, lying down on top of him, hands at each side of the piano, as he shifts his knee. Roderich obliges himself to be still, to not waver, but the slow and careful rub on his lower parts, and the fingers that crawl up his chest are enough for him to throw his head up, saliva running down his chin.

“Ah, it is right here then.” Ludwig grins and straightens up, running his fingers through the other man's hair, messing the last remains of order on Roderich. The space he gives is enough for Roderich to struggle once more, but this time Ludwig wraps his arms around his chest and bites him on his neck, tongue running up the skin until he reaches the other's mouth. He pulls the tie away and forces him into a kiss before Roderich manages to catch a breath.

Roderich loses his balance and he falls onto the piano's keys, the sudden sound too distant for any of the two to stop. There's a hand sliding down his chest, caressing his nipples, rubbing the skin around his navel, that doesn't stop until it reaches the border of his underwear. He opens his eyes, only to meet Ludwig's stare, the hunger in it enough to remind him that stopping had never been an option.

The grip is sudden, rough, as fingers rub the tip, before going down the length so slow that he almost asks for more. He bites down on his lip, but another hand goes down the underwear, testing the more sensitive skin on his back and below, are enough for him to let go, overwhelmed by the heat and the scent and the voice, deep and controlled, that breathes into his ear to enjoy it.

So caught in the moment, he can only let out a soft whine when the hands leave him, and he hears a laugh, mixed with the sounds of movement in front of him. He takes the moment to catch his breath, but he's interrupted by the sensation of the last part of his body that was covered being exposed, followed by rough skin on his own.

“Mm,” Ludwig mutters and buries his face between Roderich's neck and shoulder. “I will need your help next.”

[(Anonymous)]

Union!America/UK/Confederacy!America
Civil war, identity crisis, lolthreesome?

A House Divided [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

He is different every time Arthur speaks to him--now clipped and harsh and pragmatic in a dark suit with tails, now soft-spoken and paternalistic (and just as coldly pragmatic) in a grey double-breasted uniform. "Some internal difficulties," Matthew says tersely, when Arthur asks after the American. "Give him time to work them out for himself."

"Don't involve yourself in his troubles," Francis agrees, although Arthur has seen him hanging on Alfred's arm more than once when the American is wearing grey. He has seen them with their heads close together, whispering something inaudible about (him) cotton or (him) grain or (him) some such matter.

Francis, Arthur thinks, has troubles enough of his own without meddling further in Alfred's.

"I want to be called Aaron," says Alfred once, on a sunset-drenched veranda, when he is wearing his grey uniform. Arthur's lips draw back in a grimace when he sees blood crusted on that grey sleeve. "I shan't recognize you as Aaron," Arthur answers crisply; "You'll always be Alfred to me."

"Your Alfred," says his stranger-lover-son, in that placid accent that betrays not the least touch of sarcasm. He has brought a dried stem of cotton with him, the boll broken open to spill out soft fibers like a flower's petals; he offers Arthur that stem, and they both know what he is truly offering.

Arthur bids him goodnight, then, and tosses the cotton stem by the side of the shell drive. It makes his fingers itch, and whether it is an acquisitive itch or a disgusted one, he can't say.

In Washington, Alfred is tense and grim. He snaps at Arthur when he enters without knocking--"You ran my damn blockade!" he shouts, pounding his fist on the desk (so that he won't be tempted to smash it against Arthur's face; the Briton knows this with a strange, primal clarity). "And your damn ship had two of his agents on it. What am I supposed to do?"

"You've captured my ship, then."

"What the hell was I supposed to do with your ship!" Alfred steps closer. His eyes are blazing, although his posture is ever-so-erect.

"This is unacceptable," hisses Arthur. "You have no authority over how I choose to conduct diplomacy." He turns on his heel and stalks right back out again, and he thinks to himself that he is damned well going to join up with Matthew and take fucking New York City by force of arms--

He doesn't realize it until he's ensconced in his coach, and then it is too late to take anything back.

He had treated Alfred and Aaron as two separate entities.

[(Anonymous)]

Russia/Lithuania, Russia forcing Liet to top him. Because anon has a kink for dominant ukes - and for big-boned ukes. ♥

[Also, OMG the PW kink meme is awesome. I don't know if any fandom will be able to produce a kink meme quite as epic as that one, but we can sure as hell try!]

Tears of Sorrow Part One

[(Anonymous)]

Toris knocked on the door, staring at the ground and waiting to be bade into the room. This was normal routine by now, and he knew what to expect.

“Come in!” The voice behind the door sounded giggly and giddy, and Ivan smiled widely when Toris entered.
He was already nude, unlike Lithuania, and was taking a healthy sip from a bottle of vodka.

“You called?”

A nod, and a cheerful giggle, and then the Russian pulled Liet to his chest. “I missed you.” He said.

Toris grunted, and allowed himself to be crushed against that bear chest. He'd given up resistance ages ago.

“Did you miss me?”

He was silent, until he felt a heavy hand around his throat, and then he coughed, “Yes.... yes I did, Ivan.”

He grinned happily, and then slipped his hands down over the Lithuanian's clothed body, and smiled when he saw Toris' eyes closed as he endured.
“Strip.” he ordered him.

He sighed and stood up, and then started to undo his clothes quickly, but a large pale hand stopped him.

“Not like that, I mean STRIP.” He wanted to be teased...

[(Anonymous)]

Masturbation as a performance. Any male pairing, I just love that kink...

Let the show begin (1/2)

[(Anonymous)]

"And that's my proposal for the amendment. If you take a look at your copy you’ll realize it involves the points we discussed last week." Being in charge once again had meant a new improvement in Ludwig’s already good mood ever since the turning point. Needless to say, he was aware all the process was a challenge, and one of a considerable magnitude at that, but there was something about the word ‘impossible’ that made him turn his head and get down to work to prove all the contrary. “Well, do you have any objections?”

“Ah...” Gilbert said staring into space. “Sounds... good enough.”

Ludwig’s eyebrow twitched. He didn’t expect Gilbert to share his excitement, but he certainly could do better than that! It seemed as if the euphoria after their reunion had waned considerably. Ludwig even had doubts Gilbert was listening at all.

“Then we could do something about that dire matter of pigs flying over Bonn, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sounds... just right.”

“Are you even listening to what am I saying?!” Ludwig’s fist hit the table in an attempt to gain Gilbert’s attention.

“Too noisy,” Gilbert replied, a little too flushed for being mildly annoyed as he seemed to be. “You... should... Mm... relax a little.”

“Just exactly what’s wrong with-” Ludwig walked in long strides to the other side of the large, rectangular table, facing Gilbert as he came into his gloved hand.

With a mix of shock, anger and interest thrown all together into a cocktail of sensations, Ludwig stared at the other for what must have been less than a minute and yet it felt like an eternity.

“Your walking over my side so fast made it all the more exciting,” he said with his cheeks tainted a vivid pink and, Ludwig was sure, not in the least abashed. Gilbert smiled, his breathing only now returning to normal. “I’d say sorry, Ludwig. Really. If by any chance I was.” His smile became a grin, and that Ludwig couldn’t simple overlook.

[(Anonymous)]

America/His Cheeseburgers

[(Anonymous)]

Written in about five minutes in a state of insomnia, so sorry for any grammatical/spelling stuff.

...

A soft sigh escaped his lips.

Heavenly.

Alfred paused for only a second to admire the sight before him before shifting forward slightly. He tried not to appear too eager, but it was taking most of his self control. It was so warm in his hands, the very sight of it a delicious temptation that defied all odds. Even the smell was affecting the blond’s head in a way nothing else had ever done.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been goaded into it.

But he couldn’t deny the sinful pleasure that pooled warm and low in his belly. That rush of ecstasy that raced to his brain and made him feel completely sated every time.

Besides. Arthur had been the one to initiate it. And Alfred would be damned before he would admit defeat to the uppity Brit.

His tongue flicked his lower lip, his eyelids falling to half-mast as if to block out all the other sensations except those of his mouth. He finally slid his lips over the warmth, flavour exploding on his tongue in a succulent dance. Unable to contain it any longer, Alfred worked his mouth, faster and faster, until Arthur’s jaw became slack, his eyes huge, a strangled sound coming from his mouth.

Alfred swallowed. Looking the Brit straight in the eye, he wiped his chin with the back of his finger before licking it.

“T-that’s quite enough,” Arthur stuttered.

“I don’t think so,” the American replied with a grin. “You said ‘all of it,’ right?”

With a casual flick of his wrist, Alfred undid the button on his pants. As he watched the adam’s apple in Arthur’s neck bob as he swallowed, he couldn’t stop the satisfied smile creeping across his lips. He was going to win for sure.

Grasping with both hands, he started slowly, just a little bit at a time, but eventually the sensations overcame him and he thrust it in faster and faster, more and more with each passing second. His stomach began to cramp, and he could barely breathe, but the look on the Englishman’s face was all that was needed to spur him on.

He was close, so close. He forged ahead, gaining momentum until he finally couldn’t hold it in anymore, and a cry flew from his throat.

“Haha! I told you I could eat all five!” he crowed, shoving the last bite of cheeseburger into his mouth and swallowing.

Arthur glared at him, looking positively green. “I never said you couldn’t eat all five, I said you shouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so stingy and pay the man, Arthur,” Alfred said, patting his full stomach and sitting back, a huge smile on his face.

Arthur grumbled, his eyebrows drawn so far down that a crease appeared between them, but pulled out his wallet. “I knew I should have invited Bonnefoy instead.”

[(Anonymous)]

Seychelles/Hungary, tattooing

Liberté (Seychelles/Hungary) [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Sorry this took so long, and thank you so much for being so patient. Page one, and this still hadn't been filled! Hopefully, this makes up for that just a little.

---

“Hungary-chan.”

Gunfire, a hail of it. The blast of tanks, hideous and rumbling through her lands, silenced and reclaimed. People, her people, screaming in victory, protest, rebellion. Crying for freedom and thrusting their fists toward the sun, and she joined them, feeling like the warrior she had always been. The warrior she still was, deep down, and she could finally feel it again, after all these years.

Then the victory was gone, the courage mixing with pain and death and blast, blast, blast. She couldn't see for the blood in her eyes, and she swung like a madman, screaming in rage and They have him, they have the prime minister!

“Hungary-chan, are you asleep?”

And there was Russia, atop his tank, the prime minister's throat clasped tight in his fist and he smiled, smiled, smiled. Her arm was slashed now and she couldn't swing it, was not even sure it was there anymore as she crawled through the mud, reached out and Hungary-chan, Hungary-chan, what is all this? Why are you being bad?

“Hungary-chan!”

Then everything dissolved away, Russia and the minister and Budapest all disappearing before her eyes. After that, she was met with absolute darkness and a wave of confusion; it took a moment for her to focus in on the feel of slim fingers pawing at her shoulder. “Hungary-chan, you can't be asleep already!”

“Sey-chan?” Hungary said to the nothingness, and with a quiet sigh, remembered where she was. Turning over in her bedroll (and jeez, the floor was so hard; she'd have to remember to get carpet before she invited people to sleep over again) she took hold of the forearm being presented to her, anchoring herself to the present. “What is it?”

“Do you wanna do me a favor?” Seychelles singsonged, and Hungary was just the slightest bit taken aback. It was almost unnerving, how much this girl sounded like her older brother.

“What kind of favor?” she whispered back, and over the sound of the others sleeping around them (that was certainly Poland over in the corner, snoring something awful, and the body even now curling into her back just had to be Estonia, or maybe Italy), she most definitely heard Seychelles giggle.

A few minutes later, Hungary stood, blinking in the dim light of her kitchen, and feeling thoroughly confused.

“You want”—she paused, turning over the clumsily drawn reference picture in her hand (it didn't help)—“this Sey-chan?”

“Yep!” answered the girl, turning in one of Hungary's kitchen chairs, resting her chin on the back, and gesturing toward her shoulder blades. “Toward the top.”

“A-all right,” Hungary answered, raising an eyebrow before slowly setting the page on the table beside her, picking up the markers that lay there.

“This is all I have,” she apologized as she uncapped the black one and, as best she could by the dusky light, started to draw on the dark plain of the girl's back. “You'll have to get it done with real ink if you want it to stay.”

“Oh, I know,” Seychelles answered flippantly (and she most certainly did, Hungary noticed, catching a glimpse of a few simple designs peeking around the girl's ribs—she had a feeling that if England knew about them, they were most certainly a point of contention). “I just want to see what it looks like.”

“Why this?” Hungary asked, carefully finishing the third bit of black that the drawing required. It looked odd, the straight lines bending at the dip of Seychelles' spine, but there really wasn't much to be done about it.

[(Anonymous)]

Turkey/Greece, somehow involving Greece's cross-stick whose name I can't remember

Conquest (pt1)

[(Anonymous)]

The loud, metallic clang left his ears ringing. That surely went straight through the cushion springs and probably all the way down to the ground under the bed.

And yet, even after such a titanic display of force, the younger man couldn't help but stare, dryly, up at his "conqueror."

"Do... you really have to be so dramatic?" asked the tanned youth.

He wriggled a bit-- his wrists, bound together in silk, testing the resistance of the metallic shaft that had been thrust right through the fabric, exactly between both hands, mere millimeters from his skin. Of course, the whole thing had been done as violently as possible, without hesitation... one single thrust brought the shaft down between the flesh and--

Heracles wrinkled his nose and stared up at the Turk, accusingly. (Oh yes, ha, ha, I got it... very funny...), his words seemed to say. The wryness of his features only grew as the man on top of him flashed him with his trademark, feral grin.

"Well, I like being dramatic," purred the stubbly, large man, pressing his body down onto the younger one's smooth, gold-tanned, graceful frame, pining him... conquering him. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Heracles restrained a moan, but he couldn't hold back his shaking breath. He rolled his eyes nonetheless, and tilted his head to the side-- whether or not he meant to bare his throat to the other man was irrelevant, as his older "friend" would lunge for it nevertheless. Rough lips came down on it, suckling and biting on dangerous places while the larger man's rough features rubbed against him, scratching, scrubbing-- leaving his skin sensitive to his hot, moist breath, and the heat of his low, masculine laughter. "No... I don't have a problem," Heracles said, at long last, with a shiver. Of course, the larger man chuckled, and that made him want to hiss, but it was hard when his hands were roaming all over, touching him, pawing in places that made him feel so hot...

"Of course you don't," was the arrogant remark.

If that jerk hadn't been using his callous fingers to squeeze his nipples, Heracles would have stopped right then and there. But no, he was too busy howling and moaning with a delicious, velvet voice, writhing and struggling helplessly... trying both to escape the touch, and pursuing it with desperate intent. Once he was no longer arching off the bed on his head and curled toes, he fell back to pant, and managed a hiss. "Must you be... such a jerk?"

(continued)

[(Anonymous)]

Seychelles/Greece, nailtrimming as foreplay

Concrete Island [1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

Seychelles found him curled up on the couch, face resting on his shoulder, lips slightly parted, and the top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, his chest exposed. At first she approached with light steps, worried she would startle him otherwise, but once she was near, she heard the young man's calm and rhythmic breathing and realized he was fast asleep.

It called her attention to see someone else, someone like her, outside of the conference room. She herself had not been invited to the reunion, but France had dragged her along, with the excuse that her dear girl should spend more time with him.

Without much to do until the adults finished their work, she had wandered without aim through the immense building. The walls, the crowd and the noise, such a stark contrast of the peace and quietness of her island, had suffocated her, so once she felt she had seen enough, she decided to go to a lounge next to the conference room. She had planned to sit down there and wait by herself, but to her surprise, someone had already occupied the couch there.

Seychelles stared at the face of the young man and it felt familiar, but she couldn't associate it with a name. She closed her eyes, made a mental lists of the names she knew, and beamed once she remembered.

“Greece...?” she said to herself, and though it had been a whisper, the young man stirred. He stretched and stared at her, bleary-eyed, and Seychelles wondered for a second if he was still sleeping.

Greece blinked a few times and looked around. After his eyes had scanned the entire lounge, his gaze settled again on the young girl in front of him.

“I- I apologize!” Seychelles exclaimed, her head bowed. “I did not mean to wake you up.”

He shook his head. “I had to wake up.”

“I see...” she replied. “I am Seychelles. You are Greece, right? Did you come for the meeting, too?” The question had been obvious, but she always felt a bit less at ease whenever she was around the older ones, so she raked her mind to come up with a way to start a small talk.

A frown appeared on Greece's face, disturbing the absolute relaxation that had been his expression until then. “I did.”

She nodded and waited for the other man to continue, but he simply stared at her in response. She looked at the couch where he was sitting, at the empty space next to him, and wondered if it would be proper to sit just like that. All that walking had made her tired, enough for her to want to just flop down onto the furniture, but she reminded herself to behave. One never knew when France would show up, and she could already imagine the reprimands she would get if he found out she wasn't following the etiquette he always babbled about.

Greece didn't say anything as he moved his body further to the side of the couch, to widen the empty space next to him. With an appreciative nod she sat down, carefully folding her light, white dress under her legs as she did so. Then she realized that Greece himself didn't show much care about being proper, with the way his body was spread on the couch. After a nod to encourage herself she brought her naked feet up and pressed her legs against her chest.

“Why aren't you in the meeting?”

Greece stared at the ceiling and the peaceful expression on his face once again vanished under the shadow of a frown of annoyance. In a mumble, he answered. “Turkey is there.”

“I see...” she whispered. Though she didn't meet France's colleagues very often, she could imagine that some of them could be rather overbearing. But she found the Greek to be a very pleasant company. He spoke without hurry and without an ounce of the boisterousness she had to bear from time to time. She appreciated the fact that his presence was so relaxed, it made the cold, unfamiliar lounge much more pleasant to be in.

“Are you not going in?” he asked, surprising Seychelles. It wasn't forbidden to her to go to one of their meetings, but she had always assumed it really wasn't her place to do so. She shook her head and he nodded. The look on his face told her that he understood what she felt.

[(Anonymous)]

Russia/France in prison with breathplay

[(Anonymous)]

Francis’s hair was matted and straggly, his beard scruffy and unkempt. He stank and was quite certain he had forgotten what three decent meals a day and a clean bath felt like. He knew where he was, even if he couldn’t see outside, the cold was enough to tell him. But the discomforts were standard enough for a prison, they weren’t the reason Francis was sweating and shaking more than he liked to think about. He knew Ivan was there, had seen the big man as he was brought in, the empty smiling eyes staring at him from across the prison yard. That was what made his mouth dry and his hands shake.
Francis looked up at the sound of a lock being undone and a cell door being open, but having done so he hastily looked down again, his heart hammering in his throat.
“Heeeelloooooooo Fraaaaancis~~” Ivan said, giggling. The giggle was the worst part, high and tittering, without the slightest hint of sanity. “I’m so glad you came to play with me. Everyone else left me, but you’re still here, right Francis? Right?”
Francis nods, not trusting his voice at the moment. But Ivan comes in closer anyway, but the room is too small to maneuver in and soon he finds himself against a wall with Ivan’s smiling face mere inches away, the smell of vodka strong on his breath.
“Came to play...” Ivan repeats, almost to himself and, so fast that Francis has no time to react he feels the large hands close around his throat. He tries desperately to pull at them, but they’re like vice grips and he can’t do a thing as they tighten. His vision starts to collapse into a black tunnel and then suddenly it’s bright again, he’s inhaling in the sweet slightly stale air. But then he feels Ivan’s mouth on his, the tongue worming it’s way into his mouth. He tries to push the much larger man away, but when he does, Ivan’s face clouds dangerously.
“What’s wrong Francis, don’t you like me?” his voice is dangerously quiet, though Ivan is still smiling “don’t you want to play? Don’t you?” And then the hands are squeezing again and again Francis tries to fight it but it’s useless as last time and once again his vision narrows down to a tunnel where all he can see is Ivan’s smiling face. Then at the last second the pressure eases and Francis gulps down lungfuls of air.
“Why?” he manages to gasp out, followed by “Please stop.” He thinks for a moment it will be alright when one of Ivan’s hands lets go, but he is quickly shown to be wrong.
“You, should, be NICE!” Ludwig says, yelling the last word as he turns Francis around, pushing him against the wall and painfully squeezing the back of his neck with one hand. With the other hand he pulls down on Francis’s pants, easily ripping the too flimsy fabric and bends him down over the dank and smelly cot bed. The hand on his throat curls around Francis’s neck like a lover’s and he hears the shifting of cloth seconds before feeling himself roughly penetrated. He tries to cry out, to scream, hoping someone in this miserable hell hole will hear him, but the hands are back, choking away his screams and tears. His face is pushed further down into the cot blankets and he feels the blackness creeping back around his vision as his lungs scream for air. He waits, hoping Ivan will let go again, but this time the waiting is in vain. Eventually the darkness claims him and he collapses, nothing more than a limp doll for Ivan to play with.

[(Anonymous)]

Seychelles/Hon Kong. body-swapping

Warm Whispers [1/?]

[(Anonymous)]

England was keeping them on a little estate in Yorkshire, out of the way except when he thought they were well enough behaved to be brought down to London to be shown off like dolls. She was a pretty thing, younger than him, lightly bronzed with long black hair, speaking with a lilt and with words from France passed around like candy throughout her speech. He, though older, was newer to the Western world, an almond-skin colored oriental who shared her distaste for the man that owned them, taking them from the men that had made them.

For the most part, they kept to themselves—other ends of the house, seeing each other only when one left a communal room when the other entered. It was a requirement, as long as they were refusing England’s language. But when the silence got too hard, and England’s language became too persistent, there was nothing for it.

The first time they sat and ate together, she said, “My name is Leone. What is your name?”

“Chaojing,” he said. She wrinkled her nose at him, and he sighed. “Michael.”

It was the most auspicious start to their friendship that could be had, that quiet not-quite meeting in the bright kitchen, staring across the table at each other as they ate and speaking in broken English. They became each others tutors, keeping to each other because they were younger than any other Colony that came through the estate in Yorkshire. As time went on, they became each others confidants, whispering in the late night as they stood on their balconies, talking of far away places and hard green eyes.

It was on one of those late night meetings, staring off into the distance rather than at each other, backs warm except where the bars of the balcony separated them, that he speculated, “I think Arthur’s a bit mad.”

“A bit?” she snorted, and he felt the cascade of her hair against his arms as she shook her head. It reminded him of his bastard sister back in Asia. “He’d have to be. Locking us all up like this.”

He stared at his hands. “They’re all doing it. Your Francis did it—.”

“Don’t talk about him,” she snapped, but it wasn’t her tone of defeated hatred. He hung his chin to his chest, and felt her stand up. The door to her balcony opened and shut loudly in the night, and he sat a while more in the cool night, until his back had lost her warmth and he could not longer feel the tingle of her hair on the back of his arms.

When his eyelids were dragging heavily downward, he hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the soft murmuring he thought he could hear. No doubt it was one of the Africans, someone else in the house, speaking to themselves as they drunkenly raided England’s things.

He went to bed, groggy and listening to the murmuring, and that night he dreamed of thick opium smoke and China’s soft, sibilant accent, and moaning through the walls in the night—Korea and Japan and Taiwan and Vietnam, and England and Russia and France and Portugal, men and women coming in and out of rooms.

He rose from a dream of white sand beaches and soft, warm breezes and France’s smiling face tipped up to the brightness of the sun, and spent a moment blinking at the ceiling, the slant of light through the curtains on the balcony door.

It wasn’t until he stretched that he noticed the difference.

Shrieking did nothing to help his discovery, only made him shriek louder and longer and flail about until he fell out of the bed.

There was a likewise thump on the other side of the wall, and if he had been listening, he would have heard her coming. Rather, he was moving away from the bed and toward the wall, staring at his hands and the feminine length of his legs and the long fingers of his hands and the swell of his breasts—good heaven, breasts—under the rather indecent nightshirt.

He yelped when the balcony door burst in, and goggled for a moment at seeing her—himself, really, tall and broad shouldered, chest heaving, and dressed nearly as indecently as she was.

He wrenched pillows and blankets from the floor, where they’d fallen with him, and bellowed at her—except her voice was higher than his, by far, more shrill than his had ever been—“Get out of here!”

[(Anonymous)]

UK/China, opium. Feel free to toss France in there too~

Opium War Rhapsody (part1)

[(Anonymous)]

Wang awoke on his lavish silk bed, his eyes half open and a feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through his entire body from the night before, he had given into his craving and made use of his pipe. Yet his body still hadnt slept off the effects.

"Good Morning." Arthur said smiling as he walked into Wang's room. "This place smells something awful." Arthur said as he sat on Wang's bed taking his time to make himself comfortable. Wang glared at him until finally Arthur ran his hand through Wang's silky straight hair. Any pleasure Wang was entranced in suddenly crashed, however his body was still insubordinate...still limp. Wang's eyes widened as he made several attempts to force his body to move coherently...to no avail.

"Ahh haha so you are conscious? good boy" Arthur said as he propped Wang's body upright against the jade walls.

"stop... dont.. touch.. me" Wang struggled to mutter as Arthur began to unbutton Wang's royal silk tunic, Arthur scowled, he was unfamiliar with the long buttons of the orient...but slowly each was undone.

Arthur laughed calmly, "your helpless...just try to resist" Wang did, but to no avail, his body and mind were miles apart. "Barbarian!...how..how.. dare you...approach ME...like-" Arthur sharply slapped him across the face. Tears welted in Wang's eyes, Arthur seeing this paused and gently kissed Wang's cheek, and began to work his way to Wang's mouth.Wang felt the warm tongue enter his mouth and message his own before Arthur lifted his head and stared softly into Wang's eyes.

"Doing such uncivilized things to me...filthy Barbarian!" Wang said
in one breath, this time without slurring or pausing. Arthur scowled, but made no other effort to chastise the him.

[(Anonymous)]

Lithuania/Russia mpreg