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On 16 June 1940, during World War II with French military collapse imminent in the Battle of France, Prime Minister Winston Churchill offered a solemn Union to France in which the proposed constitution would establish joint organs of defense, foreign, financial and economic policies. The government of France, under Philippe Petain, did not respond before accepting an armistice from Germany. (from Franco-British Unions (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Kingdom_of_France_and_Great_Britain#Modern_concepts), Wikipedia)
U.K. asks France to marry him. During this time, French-English relations were at a high point so I doubt the result of the offer would turn out the same way as the Suez Canal Crisis strips (http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/994430.html#cutid1). Is it too much to ask that the story would be bittersweet? Like with Germany interrupting France's response in the end or a reference to the fall of France afterward.
U.K. asks France to marry him. During this time, French-English relations were at a high point so I doubt the result of the offer would turn out the same way as the Suez Canal Crisis strips (http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/994430.html#cutid1). Is it too much to ask that the story would be bittersweet? Like with Germany interrupting France's response in the end or a reference to the fall of France afterward.
(Anon would like OP and other readers to be gentle as this is her first attempt at writing a fanfiction in years. Not too mention, this is anon’s first foray into the world of Hetalia fandom. As long as OP is happy, this anon doesn't care!)
Normally, the sight of France in such a battered state would have left Arthur with a smug expression, however neither of them was fairing well. Germany and his boss were giving them many sleepless nights and now Italy had declared himself allied to Germany. He could only thank the good Lord above his troops hadn't been prepared.
"Ma chérie, times could not be worse for a reunion. Perhaps we could schedule this for another time?" The blond man offered only the stiffest of bows, before turning to leave.
"You wanker, I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you can bloody well wait for me to finish, before walking off!" Could he do this? Churchill was asking a lot, but, then again, there was more at stake here than just pride. His cheeks were still burning, rather from anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess. Thank goodness the gloves were covering his sweaty palms; otherwise he wouldn't be able to look blond in the face.
To his astonishment, the Frenchman once more faced him, his interest piqued by the Englishman's strange behavior. "Oui, mon petit Angleterre, Time is of the essence and I dare not dawdle while my countrymen die."
"You bastard, I've lost my own countrymen defending your sorry arse! The least you could do is respect their efforts to keep the enemy out of your lands!" The burning was definitely anger now, how could one being completely captivate his senses. He took a deep breath as he calmed himself. "I have a proposal to make..."
Arthur watched the Frenchman offer one of the lewdest smirks the poor Brit had ever seen. "Mon ange sauvage, if I'd only known this was your intent, I may have been able to bring proper refreshment."
"Blasted frog, I’m trying to be serious! My prime minster has already approved. Oh bollocks, I'm no good at this. Damn it, will you give me the honor of uniting with me?"
"Excusez-moi?" Arthur only wished he'd had a camera to save this moment.
"Marry me, please, we- I can't afford to lose you." The English man gave the other blond his most sincere look, hoping that it conveyed half, if not all, his true feelings. He felt his blush deepening as he pulled out a neatly folded document. "I just need your signature and, of course, your Parliament's approval. We can win this, if our union is strengthened. This marriage will strengthen our countries relations and force Germany to see that together we can overcome their… mmmph!"
Lips clashed as Francis pulled the startled country closer. Perhaps to the casual observer, these times were not the best for making out with another man. Then again, neither was human nor did they care what others thought. Eventually, despite protests by a surprisingly eager Brit, both had to separate to catch stolen breaths.
"England," Francis murmured before kneeling to one knee, "I had always hoped to be the one doing the proposing, not the other way around. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised and…"
"Save the long-winded speech Francis, we're both running a bit short on time." The Englishman watched as bare knuckles were brought up to inviting lips. Just when did that sly devil remove his glove? "Well? What is your reply?"
Normally, the sight of France in such a battered state would have left Arthur with a smug expression, however neither of them was fairing well. Germany and his boss were giving them many sleepless nights and now Italy had declared himself allied to Germany. He could only thank the good Lord above his troops hadn't been prepared.
"Ma chérie, times could not be worse for a reunion. Perhaps we could schedule this for another time?" The blond man offered only the stiffest of bows, before turning to leave.
"You wanker, I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you can bloody well wait for me to finish, before walking off!" Could he do this? Churchill was asking a lot, but, then again, there was more at stake here than just pride. His cheeks were still burning, rather from anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess. Thank goodness the gloves were covering his sweaty palms; otherwise he wouldn't be able to look blond in the face.
To his astonishment, the Frenchman once more faced him, his interest piqued by the Englishman's strange behavior. "Oui, mon petit Angleterre, Time is of the essence and I dare not dawdle while my countrymen die."
"You bastard, I've lost my own countrymen defending your sorry arse! The least you could do is respect their efforts to keep the enemy out of your lands!" The burning was definitely anger now, how could one being completely captivate his senses. He took a deep breath as he calmed himself. "I have a proposal to make..."
Arthur watched the Frenchman offer one of the lewdest smirks the poor Brit had ever seen. "Mon ange sauvage, if I'd only known this was your intent, I may have been able to bring proper refreshment."
"Blasted frog, I’m trying to be serious! My prime minster has already approved. Oh bollocks, I'm no good at this. Damn it, will you give me the honor of uniting with me?"
"Excusez-moi?" Arthur only wished he'd had a camera to save this moment.
"Marry me, please, we- I can't afford to lose you." The English man gave the other blond his most sincere look, hoping that it conveyed half, if not all, his true feelings. He felt his blush deepening as he pulled out a neatly folded document. "I just need your signature and, of course, your Parliament's approval. We can win this, if our union is strengthened. This marriage will strengthen our countries relations and force Germany to see that together we can overcome their… mmmph!"
Lips clashed as Francis pulled the startled country closer. Perhaps to the casual observer, these times were not the best for making out with another man. Then again, neither was human nor did they care what others thought. Eventually, despite protests by a surprisingly eager Brit, both had to separate to catch stolen breaths.
"England," Francis murmured before kneeling to one knee, "I had always hoped to be the one doing the proposing, not the other way around. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised and…"
"Save the long-winded speech Francis, we're both running a bit short on time." The Englishman watched as bare knuckles were brought up to inviting lips. Just when did that sly devil remove his glove? "Well? What is your reply?"
"Mon amour, I would be…" The Frenchman's eyes widened at the familiar click of a gun behind him. Sweat began to bead across his forehead, as cold feel of a barrel pressed against the back of his skull. He dared not move nor part his gaze from Arthur's eyes in case they were the last visage he would ever gaze upon.
"I fear your union will be unacceptable and irrelevant at this point. Marshal Pétain has just accepted an armistice with Mein Führer. I'm afraid, you've lost." The ice blue gaze of Germany pierced both men, causing visible tremble of rage from the kneeling blond.
"Don't think for a moment you krauts have won. France will be free, again"
"Nein, you are now German conquest. Get up! I have orders to keep an eye on you." Ludwig turned his gaze towards the shocked Englishman, "bruder, take care of our other guest."
"No problem, West, old Iggy and I go way back," the red eyed Prussian placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Leave him to me and drag the Frenchie back to camp."
The only response was a grunt from the younger blond, as he shoved Francis ahead of him. Arthur could only stare as Francis was forced away from him. Ever instinct was telling him to get away, but his heart felt as though it'd been ripped from his chest.
Even as he felt those firm hands upon his shoulders, he jerked away cupping his hands to his mouth. "I'll be back for you! I promise I won't give up, until France is free!" Arthur thought he saw Francis glance back, but he couldn't be sure with the tears blurring his vision.
"Ballsy move, Iggy, I see you still have that fire. How about joining the winning team? You know we've worked well together in the past." Gilbert smirked, as he leaned in to whisper in the shorter male's ear, "it'd make those nights a little livelier."
Arthur bristled, before elbowing the Prussian behind him. "Leave it for the history books, bastard." He stomped off, leaving Gilbert wheezing. First things first, he needed to talk to his Prime Minister, make a few calls and take a shower to remove the stench of German on him. Then he had a promise to keep.
"I fear your union will be unacceptable and irrelevant at this point. Marshal Pétain has just accepted an armistice with Mein Führer. I'm afraid, you've lost." The ice blue gaze of Germany pierced both men, causing visible tremble of rage from the kneeling blond.
"Don't think for a moment you krauts have won. France will be free, again"
"Nein, you are now German conquest. Get up! I have orders to keep an eye on you." Ludwig turned his gaze towards the shocked Englishman, "bruder, take care of our other guest."
"No problem, West, old Iggy and I go way back," the red eyed Prussian placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "Leave him to me and drag the Frenchie back to camp."
The only response was a grunt from the younger blond, as he shoved Francis ahead of him. Arthur could only stare as Francis was forced away from him. Ever instinct was telling him to get away, but his heart felt as though it'd been ripped from his chest.
Even as he felt those firm hands upon his shoulders, he jerked away cupping his hands to his mouth. "I'll be back for you! I promise I won't give up, until France is free!" Arthur thought he saw Francis glance back, but he couldn't be sure with the tears blurring his vision.
"Ballsy move, Iggy, I see you still have that fire. How about joining the winning team? You know we've worked well together in the past." Gilbert smirked, as he leaned in to whisper in the shorter male's ear, "it'd make those nights a little livelier."
Arthur bristled, before elbowing the Prussian behind him. "Leave it for the history books, bastard." He stomped off, leaving Gilbert wheezing. First things first, he needed to talk to his Prime Minister, make a few calls and take a shower to remove the stench of German on him. Then he had a promise to keep.
D--D'aw... Not OP, but that was fantastic! You wrote beautifully! It couldn't tell that you hadn't written in a while, so no worries <3
I'm relieved. If one person likes it, I'm happy. *anon!snugs*
Perfect. Perfect Perfect. Everything was absolutely perfect!
I didn't think it'd be possible to keep England & France in-character for this request, but you pulled that off wonderfully, especially for the proposal scene. And I also got the bittersweet ending I asked for:
"He dared not move nor part his gaze from Arthur's eyes in case they were the last visage he would ever gaze upon."
I loved this line in particular. It just broke my heart~
And oddly enough, I also liked the interaction with Ludwig and Gilbert. They were wonderfully in-character too (Oh, Gilbert. You sooo deserved that.)
Anyway, thanks so much for the amazing fill, author!anon. You just made my night.
I didn't think it'd be possible to keep England & France in-character for this request, but you pulled that off wonderfully, especially for the proposal scene. And I also got the bittersweet ending I asked for:
"He dared not move nor part his gaze from Arthur's eyes in case they were the last visage he would ever gaze upon."
I loved this line in particular. It just broke my heart~
And oddly enough, I also liked the interaction with Ludwig and Gilbert. They were wonderfully in-character too (Oh, Gilbert. You sooo deserved that.)
Anyway, thanks so much for the amazing fill, author!anon. You just made my night.
I'm so glad you liked it! The ending needed Gilbert. He wrote himself in, honest.
Oh fuck this rocked (would love to see like a sequel once he does save him and stuff)
witty, bittersweet, and overall awesome, ver nais work anon~
captcha: adventure schindler
captcha: adventure schindler
I have to admit to being one of those who doubted if it was possible to keep the characters while doing this, but you managed quiiite well :) d'aww, Francis.
Hungary/Prussia
Hungary topping (as in topping from the bottom controlling everything not as in strap on) Prussia and angry sex.
Hungary topping (as in topping from the bottom controlling everything not as in strap on) Prussia and angry sex.
First time requester here!
SealandxLatvia or LatviaxSealand involving one or both of them wearing the infamous sailor fuku. Smut is optional.
SealandxLatvia or LatviaxSealand involving one or both of them wearing the infamous sailor fuku. Smut is optional.
Wasn't sure whether you meant a girl's uniform or the one Sealand has so...hope this is ok. >//>;
1.
http://s556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/?action=view¤t=fukuness.jpg
2.
http://s556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/?action=view¤t=trauma.jpg
Cue Latvia snapping -> violence which he feels really bad about later. :'3
Talking of which, I have a continuation of this in fic form in my head, but Sweden and Finland insist being in it (starring as the Worried Parents)...do you still want it? =3=;
Also, how smutty did you prfer this again? :)
So much cuteness! I'm not the OP, but so much love- there's never enoug Raivis/Peter on this meme.
You should totally continue it with fic :D <3
You should totally continue it with fic :D <3
I don't usually do this, but...
KYAAAAAAAAAAA~~~~ >3<
*ahem* I mean, that's so adorable, anon! Thank you for suck a cuteness overload!
And a big YES to the fic!
KYAAAAAAAAAAA~~~~ >3<
*ahem* I mean, that's so adorable, anon! Thank you for suck a cuteness overload!
And a big YES to the fic!
*such
URGH spelling/Freudian slip fail OTL
URGH spelling/Freudian slip fail OTL
n-no one saw that de-anon'd post *crawls into hole*
Totally-not-OP here, saying that she regretfully cannot see the pictures D: The links don't work for me...
Totally-not-OP here, saying that she regretfully cannot see the pictures D: The links don't work for me...
Sorry to hear that! :/
Aa...do you have problems with photobucket in general or just with these pics? (the links have apparently worked for others/before) This might be a really stupid guestion, but you did copy and paste the links to the toolbar/wte it's called, right. Um. >//>
...actually, I'll try making actual clickable links, not sure if it'll work :'3
http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/fukuness.jpg
http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/trauma.jpg
Aa...do you have problems with photobucket in general or just with these pics? (the links have apparently worked for others/before) This might be a really stupid guestion, but you did copy and paste the links to the toolbar/wte it's called, right. Um. >//>
...actually, I'll try making actual clickable links, not sure if it'll work :'3
http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/fukuness.jpg
http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss8/anoncount/trauma.jpg
Oh, it's fine! Thanks so much for the relinks! Awwww, they're so cute... I love that Latvia's was a girl's uniform xD Yeah, I copy/pasted, but there was a weird format to the links for some reason, so they led me to a broken link page D:
And I might as well post my response to the fic here instead of making two comments, so... I loved it! Totally adorable and I loved mama!Finland and papa!Su-san xD And-and Raivis was sooo cute~ Baw, great job, artingauthor!anon ♥
And I might as well post my response to the fic here instead of making two comments, so... I loved it! Totally adorable and I loved mama!Finland and papa!Su-san xD And-and Raivis was sooo cute~ Baw, great job, artingauthor!anon ♥
This seems very much overly long and meandery to me, sorry. =_=;
Stupid Latvia, why'd he go and get mad all of a sudden like that? It had been just a joke, he couldn't have thought Sealand was serious. Maybe...maybe he'd been scared, Latvia got scared pretty easily.
Hana Tamago yipped and danced around Peter as he pushed the front door open, but he was too busy holding onto his bleeding nose to greet the little dog properly. Hana-Tamago seemed to realize something wasn't right as well, because it's welcome-home-dance changed into a more subdued circling, before it yipped sharply and ran into the kitchen.
Finland was washing dishes, and had his back turned to the door.
"Sealand, is it? I'll start making dinner just after...herranjumala!"
The last was because he'd turned his head and seen Peter in the doorway, and from his dad's expression Peter guessed he must have looked pretty bad.
"What happened? Did you have an accident again...here, sit down and lean your head back."
Peter did as told, and blinked at the white ceiling. Finland pushed a wad of paper towels over his nose, and started to prod at Peter's face gently.
"Ow," Peter mumbled.
"I'm sorry, but I need to know that there's nothing broken."
There was the sound of footsteps, and a small sound of surprise. probably his father, thought Peter could still only see the ceiling.
"Oh, Su-san, there you are...get the medikit, will you?"
"Wh't?"
Finland finally stopped prodding at the sore places on Peter's face.
"There, nothing broken I think," he said in a relieved voice. "Are you hurt anywhere else...or does your head hurt? Feeling dizzy?"
Peter shook his head. His left ankle was a bit sore, but only a little.
"Now lean forward, that's better for your nose I think...Su-san, why are you still standing there? I told you..." There was a moment's silence, as Finland took a deep breath and continued more gently. "It's okay, just a few bruises and one small cut, nothing a few plasters won't fix."
The footstep went away again, and Finland sighed as he gave Peter a new papertowel and threw the one soaked in blood away.
"Must have been all that blood, Sweden doesn't like seeing it. I think we'll have to throw this shirt away...'" Finland mused.
Stupid Latvia, why'd he go and get mad all of a sudden like that? It had been just a joke, he couldn't have thought Sealand was serious. Maybe...maybe he'd been scared, Latvia got scared pretty easily.
Hana Tamago yipped and danced around Peter as he pushed the front door open, but he was too busy holding onto his bleeding nose to greet the little dog properly. Hana-Tamago seemed to realize something wasn't right as well, because it's welcome-home-dance changed into a more subdued circling, before it yipped sharply and ran into the kitchen.
Finland was washing dishes, and had his back turned to the door.
"Sealand, is it? I'll start making dinner just after...herranjumala!"
The last was because he'd turned his head and seen Peter in the doorway, and from his dad's expression Peter guessed he must have looked pretty bad.
"What happened? Did you have an accident again...here, sit down and lean your head back."
Peter did as told, and blinked at the white ceiling. Finland pushed a wad of paper towels over his nose, and started to prod at Peter's face gently.
"Ow," Peter mumbled.
"I'm sorry, but I need to know that there's nothing broken."
There was the sound of footsteps, and a small sound of surprise. probably his father, thought Peter could still only see the ceiling.
"Oh, Su-san, there you are...get the medikit, will you?"
"Wh't?"
Finland finally stopped prodding at the sore places on Peter's face.
"There, nothing broken I think," he said in a relieved voice. "Are you hurt anywhere else...or does your head hurt? Feeling dizzy?"
Peter shook his head. His left ankle was a bit sore, but only a little.
"Now lean forward, that's better for your nose I think...Su-san, why are you still standing there? I told you..." There was a moment's silence, as Finland took a deep breath and continued more gently. "It's okay, just a few bruises and one small cut, nothing a few plasters won't fix."
The footstep went away again, and Finland sighed as he gave Peter a new papertowel and threw the one soaked in blood away.
"Must have been all that blood, Sweden doesn't like seeing it. I think we'll have to throw this shirt away...'" Finland mused.
After Sweden had returned with the first-aid kit and Finland had prodded at Peter's face more, this time armed with a wad of cotton and something that stinged but was apparently necessary, he drew out a chair and sat on it opposite Peter, arm leaning onto the backboard. Sweden was in the room as well, leaning onto the wall. He looked even graver that usual and was a bit pale.
"Su-san, sit down before you fall down." Finland said calmly, not even turning around. Sweden frowned, but did, after a moment.
"So, Sealand, what happened?" Finland asked calmly.
"Had a fight with Latvia." Peter said a bit muffled behind the towel. At least the bleeding was apparently slowly stopping.
Finland just blinked, but Sweden sat up straighter and his face grew thunderous. Peter wondered if Latvia would get in trouble now...but then he shouldn't have hit him!
"About what?" Finland asked.
Peter explained, thought he omitted the fact the other uniform had been meant for a girl. It's not like Latvia had seemed to mind that anyway...
"--and then he suddenly went all weird and hit me," he finished the story.
Finland stared at him for a moment, and then he hung his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
"Damn, I can't believe you said that..." he mumbled.
"But it was just a joke!" Peter protested, and his dad gave him a serious, sort of sad look.
"Do you know anything about Latvia's history, Sealand?"
Peter crossed his arms and shook his head.
"Well, he's...actually, Latvia has been through a lot, but not too long ago, just a few decades, he iwas invaded, thrice in a short time, and then in the end he had to live with Russia until about ten years ago."
Peter wriggled on his seat. He didn't much like history, because hearing about things that happened hundreds and hundreds years ago made him feel so...young. It was like everyone had been there but him. He'd heard about Russia, thought.
"It still doesn't make any sense! I..." but it galled a bit too much to admit he was too weak to really hurt anyone. "He should have know I didn't mean it," Sealand mumbled.
Finland sighed.
"Yes, he should have. It's just that Latvia, because of living all that time with someone who scared him to death, he..."
"Is crazy." Sweden said darkly.
Finland glared at him, and got one in return.
"Stop defen'ing th' guy. Hurt 'r kid." Sweden almost growled.
"I know! And I'll definitely have some words with him about that."
Finland snapped, and then turned towards Peter, but before he had time to say anything, the doorbell rang.
The sound was soon followed by that of Hana-Tamago's barking. Finland stepped to the kitchen window. The house had been designed so that there was a view to the doorstep from the window, which was good for avoiding door-to-door salesmen, among other things.
"It's Latvia," Finland said, and Sweden stood up so suddenly his chair fell over.
"I'll talk to him." Finland said.
" neither o' ya ain't gonna go near that guy. Just gonna tell him to leave." Sweden said stubbornly, crossing his arms.
"No, you will damn well sit here and be neutral." Peter looked at his dad, surprised at his steely tone. He'd never heard him like that. Apparently his father was likewise impressed, because he blanched and looked away.
"Su-san, sit down before you fall down." Finland said calmly, not even turning around. Sweden frowned, but did, after a moment.
"So, Sealand, what happened?" Finland asked calmly.
"Had a fight with Latvia." Peter said a bit muffled behind the towel. At least the bleeding was apparently slowly stopping.
Finland just blinked, but Sweden sat up straighter and his face grew thunderous. Peter wondered if Latvia would get in trouble now...but then he shouldn't have hit him!
"About what?" Finland asked.
Peter explained, thought he omitted the fact the other uniform had been meant for a girl. It's not like Latvia had seemed to mind that anyway...
"--and then he suddenly went all weird and hit me," he finished the story.
Finland stared at him for a moment, and then he hung his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
"Damn, I can't believe you said that..." he mumbled.
"But it was just a joke!" Peter protested, and his dad gave him a serious, sort of sad look.
"Do you know anything about Latvia's history, Sealand?"
Peter crossed his arms and shook his head.
"Well, he's...actually, Latvia has been through a lot, but not too long ago, just a few decades, he iwas invaded, thrice in a short time, and then in the end he had to live with Russia until about ten years ago."
Peter wriggled on his seat. He didn't much like history, because hearing about things that happened hundreds and hundreds years ago made him feel so...young. It was like everyone had been there but him. He'd heard about Russia, thought.
"It still doesn't make any sense! I..." but it galled a bit too much to admit he was too weak to really hurt anyone. "He should have know I didn't mean it," Sealand mumbled.
Finland sighed.
"Yes, he should have. It's just that Latvia, because of living all that time with someone who scared him to death, he..."
"Is crazy." Sweden said darkly.
Finland glared at him, and got one in return.
"Stop defen'ing th' guy. Hurt 'r kid." Sweden almost growled.
"I know! And I'll definitely have some words with him about that."
Finland snapped, and then turned towards Peter, but before he had time to say anything, the doorbell rang.
The sound was soon followed by that of Hana-Tamago's barking. Finland stepped to the kitchen window. The house had been designed so that there was a view to the doorstep from the window, which was good for avoiding door-to-door salesmen, among other things.
"It's Latvia," Finland said, and Sweden stood up so suddenly his chair fell over.
"I'll talk to him." Finland said.
" neither o' ya ain't gonna go near that guy. Just gonna tell him to leave." Sweden said stubbornly, crossing his arms.
"No, you will damn well sit here and be neutral." Peter looked at his dad, surprised at his steely tone. He'd never heard him like that. Apparently his father was likewise impressed, because he blanched and looked away.
As Finland stepped out of the room, Sealand hurried after him.
Wait, I...I want to talk to him too," Peter said.
Finland hesitated.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yeah." Peter answered decisively.
He still stood slightly behind Finland when he opened the front door. Latvia looked anything but scary, thought. There were tear tracks on his downturned face, and he was trembling all over. When the door opened, he raised his face, and it was so sorrowful Sealand wanted to say right away all was okay and forgotten.
He didn't, thought.
"Latvia." Finland said, calmly, but with some measure of coolness.
Latvia's eyes strayed to Peter, and he fliched before hanging his head again.
"I-I'm sorry. I know it's not enough but..." Latvia whispered hoarsely.
"One thing. Can you promise me this won't happen again?"
Latvia wrung his hands and shook his head.
"I don't know, I...I really don't know anything." he had raised his hands over his eyes and was shaking all over again.
Finland sighed, and then he, to the surprise of all, tapped Latvia gently on the forehead.
"Raivis," he said, and when the other looked up in surprise, Finland looked him in the eyes and smiled. "You'll be okay. You have friends, me and Estonia and even Sealand, even if he's an idiotic brat sometimes. Just try not to hurt him for it, he doesn't deserve that. And, um, you should probably get going now, because I can see Su-san frowning at us from the kitchen window..."
Latvia smiled wanely, and then his face turned serious once more as he looked at Sealand.
"Wait, can I...Sealand? Will you...Can you ever forgive me? I promise...I will do my very best to get better, so this doesn't ever happen again."
Peter thought about it. Then he straightened up, and gave Latvia his best smile.
"Okay! I'll help you with it too, so don't worry!" he wasn't quite sure how, but he'd think of something. Definitely.
Latvia smiled, and if it was a bit shaky, no one present could really blame him.
*
A few days later when Peter stepped out, he found Latvia sitting on the doorstep. In fact, Peter almost tripped on him.
He was wearing the uniform.
"Uh, hey," Peter said, feeling uncommonly awkward.
"I don't know if you wanted to see me so soon. If not I'll just...go." Latvia said, in a small voice.
"No! I mean yes, I mean...I did want to see you. Of course I did!" Sealand answered quickly.
They sat on the porch for a while, but then Peter noticed Latvia was shivering, probably because the wind was pretty cold, and he was wearing a skirt and everything.
"Hey, wanna go to my room instead?" Sealand asked.
"What about Sweden?" Latvia asked, and Peter shook his head.
"Not at home, and won't be in a while. Finland neither, they've got some work stuff to do. Um, Latvia?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you wearing...that."
Latvia shrugged and smiled shyly. "Just felt like it. Do you mind?"
"No, you look really good in it. I mean..um."
*
Wait, I...I want to talk to him too," Peter said.
Finland hesitated.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yeah." Peter answered decisively.
He still stood slightly behind Finland when he opened the front door. Latvia looked anything but scary, thought. There were tear tracks on his downturned face, and he was trembling all over. When the door opened, he raised his face, and it was so sorrowful Sealand wanted to say right away all was okay and forgotten.
He didn't, thought.
"Latvia." Finland said, calmly, but with some measure of coolness.
Latvia's eyes strayed to Peter, and he fliched before hanging his head again.
"I-I'm sorry. I know it's not enough but..." Latvia whispered hoarsely.
"One thing. Can you promise me this won't happen again?"
Latvia wrung his hands and shook his head.
"I don't know, I...I really don't know anything." he had raised his hands over his eyes and was shaking all over again.
Finland sighed, and then he, to the surprise of all, tapped Latvia gently on the forehead.
"Raivis," he said, and when the other looked up in surprise, Finland looked him in the eyes and smiled. "You'll be okay. You have friends, me and Estonia and even Sealand, even if he's an idiotic brat sometimes. Just try not to hurt him for it, he doesn't deserve that. And, um, you should probably get going now, because I can see Su-san frowning at us from the kitchen window..."
Latvia smiled wanely, and then his face turned serious once more as he looked at Sealand.
"Wait, can I...Sealand? Will you...Can you ever forgive me? I promise...I will do my very best to get better, so this doesn't ever happen again."
Peter thought about it. Then he straightened up, and gave Latvia his best smile.
"Okay! I'll help you with it too, so don't worry!" he wasn't quite sure how, but he'd think of something. Definitely.
Latvia smiled, and if it was a bit shaky, no one present could really blame him.
*
A few days later when Peter stepped out, he found Latvia sitting on the doorstep. In fact, Peter almost tripped on him.
He was wearing the uniform.
"Uh, hey," Peter said, feeling uncommonly awkward.
"I don't know if you wanted to see me so soon. If not I'll just...go." Latvia said, in a small voice.
"No! I mean yes, I mean...I did want to see you. Of course I did!" Sealand answered quickly.
They sat on the porch for a while, but then Peter noticed Latvia was shivering, probably because the wind was pretty cold, and he was wearing a skirt and everything.
"Hey, wanna go to my room instead?" Sealand asked.
"What about Sweden?" Latvia asked, and Peter shook his head.
"Not at home, and won't be in a while. Finland neither, they've got some work stuff to do. Um, Latvia?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you wearing...that."
Latvia shrugged and smiled shyly. "Just felt like it. Do you mind?"
"No, you look really good in it. I mean..um."
*
Later, when they were sitting on his bed, watching television, when Peter suddenly realized Latvia was looking at him and not the program. Peter gave him a guestioning look.
Latvia inched closer and seemed to hesitate a moment. Then he leaned towards Peter, ever so carefully, and brushed his lips against the corner of Peter's blackened eye.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, one kiss and one apology for each bruise and cut. Peter sat still, feeling his face heat up. It was nevertheless a nice feeling, with Latvia so close and warm.
When Latvia was finished with his apologies, he drew back and sat still, head down.
Peter reached out a hand, touching Latvia's shoulder.
"I hurt you too, thought, didn't I? I didn't mean it...but I did, just like you."
Latvia nodded, smiling a bit sadly. Peter wanted to see him lauch properly, some day.
"Where," Peter blushed faintly. "does it hurt? I need to know so can pay back, right?"
Latvia's smile widened, just a little.
"...oh, everywhere. "
*
Epilogue:
"Oh, Su-san, do stop pouting. I'm sorry for bringing up the whole neutrality this, t'was a low blow."
"I 'n't pouting."
"Sure you aren't. And don't glare at me either."
"'n m' own house! An' 'im being only thirty..."
"Well, not everyone can wait for hundreds of years like we did."
Latvia inched closer and seemed to hesitate a moment. Then he leaned towards Peter, ever so carefully, and brushed his lips against the corner of Peter's blackened eye.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, one kiss and one apology for each bruise and cut. Peter sat still, feeling his face heat up. It was nevertheless a nice feeling, with Latvia so close and warm.
When Latvia was finished with his apologies, he drew back and sat still, head down.
Peter reached out a hand, touching Latvia's shoulder.
"I hurt you too, thought, didn't I? I didn't mean it...but I did, just like you."
Latvia nodded, smiling a bit sadly. Peter wanted to see him lauch properly, some day.
"Where," Peter blushed faintly. "does it hurt? I need to know so can pay back, right?"
Latvia's smile widened, just a little.
"...oh, everywhere. "
*
Epilogue:
"Oh, Su-san, do stop pouting. I'm sorry for bringing up the whole neutrality this, t'was a low blow."
"I 'n't pouting."
"Sure you aren't. And don't glare at me either."
"'n m' own house! An' 'im being only thirty..."
"Well, not everyone can wait for hundreds of years like we did."
Yay!! Thank you for the fill!
Poor Su-papa, being shoved out. And at the end... is that Latvia's devilish side coming out?
Poor Su-papa, being shoved out. And at the end... is that Latvia's devilish side coming out?
I kinda feel sorry for him as well :'3
Whereas for Latvia...maybe just a little ;9 <3
Whereas for Latvia...maybe just a little ;9 <3
loved this. you rock :)
That was cute. And the pictures are adorable.
The epilogue killed me though, I'm still giggling at it. XD
The epilogue killed me though, I'm still giggling at it. XD
Two nations have sex pretending to be other nations. But please only hint at their real identities.
it isn't desperation! when you’re wearing a wig it’s called role-play, hurhur.
So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
--------
The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”
So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
--------
The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”
It wouldn’t be overly theatrical to say his mouth waters at those words. Those words, as issued by… America. “I can be forceful,” he says at last, wetting his lips. He moves toward America so they touch, although he keeps his eyes lowered. “I can be quite a bastard, you know.”
“Show me.”
America watches him carefully, still unconvinced of the arrangement. The next few moments are critical, and Russia takes a deep breath. He molds his hands around America’s neck, tightening his hold just enough to feel the blood beat under his hands—he’s rewarded by America opening his mouth in a gasp, when he moves to remove the spectacles from behind. “You won’t be needing these. Release your shirt,” he says, with quiet authority, setting America’s glasses somewhere behind him.
America’s arms lower submissively to his sides and the shirt loosens. As though with a mind of their own, Russia’s hands reach for the back of the collar and pull it down the rest of the way, revealing the curve of a slender white back, delicate shoulders. America gasps again. “Russia—”
He pounces, holding America down by a wrist into the blankets. It thrills him to the core as, looking behind him, America’s eyes move from surprise to unadulterated happiness and desire. The scarf (just some old scarf) slides off his shoulder when he leans down, sucks a kiss from the back America’s neck. “Mine, you say,” he says.
The body beneath him shivers. “Yours.”
“Show me.”
Russia takes a moment to leisurely remove the coat (damned heavy thing), holding down the half-naked body with his knee and luxuriating in the needy mewling coming from it. With his hands free again, he continues mouthing the back of America’s spine, the exposed shoulders, and he works America’s pants loose. Every centimeter of skin he can reach quivers under his competent caresses. “Are you cold?” he says.
“N-no.” America breathes heavily, his mouth open, and arches back against the hand. His eyes pop when Russia’s kisses turn to nips, then bites. He really regrets not being able to move his hand between America’s legs—any other time it wouldn’t bother him, but now he’s afraid of being pulled out of this fragile head-space. But he compensates, moving over America so he can feel Russia’s body, the textures of the scarf and other clothing running over his skin.
“Oh, please.” America makes a sound and Russia almost doesn’t hear the plea, muffled into the blankets. “Touch me, please.”
The sound is like lightning in his blood, but he says, carefully holding back: “Are you ordering me?” Frighteningly enough, this Russia thing isn’t so hard to get into after all. If he’s doing it right, that is. His America seems convinced.
“I would never—I meant only—”
“No,” he growls in the sweetest way. He moves, sliding his erection against the cleft of America’s ass. Letting him feel the weight of it. “Just from this,” he says into America’s ear. “From me only.”
America moans. “God, yes, marry me—”
All his world is just the feeling of pressing against America. Eyes closed, he lowers his face against America’s back, tasting the sweat. “Yes,” he answers without thought.
Suddenly America stops. He looks around. “What?”
It makes Russia blink, the change in pace, like flipping on a light switch. And then he realizes what’s changed. America isn’t even trying to alter his voice now, and it’s gone all high. “Well, not really really, no,” he says, trying to understand the emotions he’s seeing in his partner’s face, trying to get a grip on the situation. His dick is still doing most of the thinking. “I thought it was just more pretending—bloody hell, what are you doing,” he says, throwing up the bed sheets to cover America’s upper torso as America unexpectedly sits up.
“Marry me,” America says, completely serious. “Now. We can do it now, we’ll find a priest and our bosses and we’ll do it right now.”
“I—no, I’m not going to marry you,” Russia says, looking between his fingers and delicately pulling up the sheet as it begins to slip. His cock adds, “And if at all possible could we get back to, ah, where we were just now?”
He has an uneasy feeling the not-really-America hasn’t heard him. “You said yes,” America says dazedly. “You said yes you would marry me!”
“Show me.”
America watches him carefully, still unconvinced of the arrangement. The next few moments are critical, and Russia takes a deep breath. He molds his hands around America’s neck, tightening his hold just enough to feel the blood beat under his hands—he’s rewarded by America opening his mouth in a gasp, when he moves to remove the spectacles from behind. “You won’t be needing these. Release your shirt,” he says, with quiet authority, setting America’s glasses somewhere behind him.
America’s arms lower submissively to his sides and the shirt loosens. As though with a mind of their own, Russia’s hands reach for the back of the collar and pull it down the rest of the way, revealing the curve of a slender white back, delicate shoulders. America gasps again. “Russia—”
He pounces, holding America down by a wrist into the blankets. It thrills him to the core as, looking behind him, America’s eyes move from surprise to unadulterated happiness and desire. The scarf (just some old scarf) slides off his shoulder when he leans down, sucks a kiss from the back America’s neck. “Mine, you say,” he says.
The body beneath him shivers. “Yours.”
“Show me.”
Russia takes a moment to leisurely remove the coat (damned heavy thing), holding down the half-naked body with his knee and luxuriating in the needy mewling coming from it. With his hands free again, he continues mouthing the back of America’s spine, the exposed shoulders, and he works America’s pants loose. Every centimeter of skin he can reach quivers under his competent caresses. “Are you cold?” he says.
“N-no.” America breathes heavily, his mouth open, and arches back against the hand. His eyes pop when Russia’s kisses turn to nips, then bites. He really regrets not being able to move his hand between America’s legs—any other time it wouldn’t bother him, but now he’s afraid of being pulled out of this fragile head-space. But he compensates, moving over America so he can feel Russia’s body, the textures of the scarf and other clothing running over his skin.
“Oh, please.” America makes a sound and Russia almost doesn’t hear the plea, muffled into the blankets. “Touch me, please.”
The sound is like lightning in his blood, but he says, carefully holding back: “Are you ordering me?” Frighteningly enough, this Russia thing isn’t so hard to get into after all. If he’s doing it right, that is. His America seems convinced.
“I would never—I meant only—”
“No,” he growls in the sweetest way. He moves, sliding his erection against the cleft of America’s ass. Letting him feel the weight of it. “Just from this,” he says into America’s ear. “From me only.”
America moans. “God, yes, marry me—”
All his world is just the feeling of pressing against America. Eyes closed, he lowers his face against America’s back, tasting the sweat. “Yes,” he answers without thought.
Suddenly America stops. He looks around. “What?”
It makes Russia blink, the change in pace, like flipping on a light switch. And then he realizes what’s changed. America isn’t even trying to alter his voice now, and it’s gone all high. “Well, not really really, no,” he says, trying to understand the emotions he’s seeing in his partner’s face, trying to get a grip on the situation. His dick is still doing most of the thinking. “I thought it was just more pretending—bloody hell, what are you doing,” he says, throwing up the bed sheets to cover America’s upper torso as America unexpectedly sits up.
“Marry me,” America says, completely serious. “Now. We can do it now, we’ll find a priest and our bosses and we’ll do it right now.”
“I—no, I’m not going to marry you,” Russia says, looking between his fingers and delicately pulling up the sheet as it begins to slip. His cock adds, “And if at all possible could we get back to, ah, where we were just now?”
He has an uneasy feeling the not-really-America hasn’t heard him. “You said yes,” America says dazedly. “You said yes you would marry me!”
Russia laughs. Nervously. With a grimace he zips himself back in his pants and starts to climb off the bed. “It was in the moment, I thought we were still… you know. In-character. Look, I’m so sorry, but I’m out of the mind set, and I really don’t think I can continue—”
A hand lashes out and seizes his wrist, the nails digging in like teeth. America’s face is predatory. “No take-backs,” he says with a manic grin. “You said yes!”
“No, I didn’t. This isn’t funny, now, let go—”
“But we’re going to be married!”
Russia screams a little and wrenches his arm free. “No we’re not! Leave me alone!”
“Wait…!” America calls out, but Russia—fuck this Russia shit! he thinks to himself—is already running out of the room in nothing but his pants and a scarf, not bothering to grab his shoes or other clothes. He redoubles his speed when he hears America wrapping the sheets around himself to give chase.
In the hallway all the doors he tries are locked, and he can hear his America gaining on him by the time he finds one that will open. So, half naked and panting from the exertion, his zipper half down, he opens the double doors.
Unfortunately, he opens them to find himself in an office face-to-face with the actual America and Russia.
There is a pause.
“Oh, this is rich.” Slowly, the real America turns to glare at the real Russia. “Don’t worry, he says. I’ll cut back on the nuclear testing, he says. Yeah, right! Let’s see you explain this one!”
“I… I cannot explain it,” Russia answers, his eyes wide.
America smirks, generally not paying attention as the not-Russia runs around the room, locking doors. “Ha, see, if you were like me and didn’t do things like that behind everyone’s backs, little mutant mini yous running around wouldn’t be a problem—”
“I see,” the real Russia says solemnly. “I will have to amend this.”
They all stop when they hear the scratching at the door, and the doorknobs rattle. “These are new,” says the voice the not-Russia recognizes quite well.
To his surprise, the real Russia’s outline goes rigid as well. “What…?”
“Not to worry, I’ve found another way in!” the not-America says, popping out of what not-Russia thought was a closet. The real Russia and America stare as the shorter, noticeably curvier America steps out of the closet, barely concealed behind a trailing bed sheet.
The real Russia clears his throat. “America, you were saying something about nuclear testing?” But the real America can only stare as his double drops to his knees on the floor and yanks the not-Russia’s hand to his breast.
“I’ve found you at last, and now we shall be together until the end of time. Oh, touch me, fuck me, love me, only let me be yours!” he says, tears of happiness in his eyes. “Can you feel my heart? It beats only for you!”
“No, no, no! Go away, and leave me be! You, real Russia!” the not-Russia says suddenly. He grabs the real Russia’s coat and attempts to throttle him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you keep things like that just lying around?” Not-Russia flings himself away, grabbing the stunned real Russia’s shoulders and hiding behind him. “Look, here—here’s Russia, the real one. You like him, don’t you? Marry him, instead.”
The not-America stands, clasping the sheets over his chest, and looks at the new Russia, who is quick to shake his head and point around his waist to indicate the scapegoat. He gets out of the way before the not-America lunges.
“Why are you hiding from me? I thought we were past this.”
“Bloody hell, I said go hang yourself!”
The room spins in a flurry of half-off clothes and bed sheets before the not-Russia runs out the door, slamming it behind him. The not-America wrenches it open so forcefully the knob breaks off, and he throws it away before sprinting out into the hallway.
“Why are you running so fast, darling?” he sings in a curiously high-pitched voice--at least high-pitched for America. “Let’s get maaarrried!”
“NOOOO!”
A hand lashes out and seizes his wrist, the nails digging in like teeth. America’s face is predatory. “No take-backs,” he says with a manic grin. “You said yes!”
“No, I didn’t. This isn’t funny, now, let go—”
“But we’re going to be married!”
Russia screams a little and wrenches his arm free. “No we’re not! Leave me alone!”
“Wait…!” America calls out, but Russia—fuck this Russia shit! he thinks to himself—is already running out of the room in nothing but his pants and a scarf, not bothering to grab his shoes or other clothes. He redoubles his speed when he hears America wrapping the sheets around himself to give chase.
In the hallway all the doors he tries are locked, and he can hear his America gaining on him by the time he finds one that will open. So, half naked and panting from the exertion, his zipper half down, he opens the double doors.
Unfortunately, he opens them to find himself in an office face-to-face with the actual America and Russia.
There is a pause.
“Oh, this is rich.” Slowly, the real America turns to glare at the real Russia. “Don’t worry, he says. I’ll cut back on the nuclear testing, he says. Yeah, right! Let’s see you explain this one!”
“I… I cannot explain it,” Russia answers, his eyes wide.
America smirks, generally not paying attention as the not-Russia runs around the room, locking doors. “Ha, see, if you were like me and didn’t do things like that behind everyone’s backs, little mutant mini yous running around wouldn’t be a problem—”
“I see,” the real Russia says solemnly. “I will have to amend this.”
They all stop when they hear the scratching at the door, and the doorknobs rattle. “These are new,” says the voice the not-Russia recognizes quite well.
To his surprise, the real Russia’s outline goes rigid as well. “What…?”
“Not to worry, I’ve found another way in!” the not-America says, popping out of what not-Russia thought was a closet. The real Russia and America stare as the shorter, noticeably curvier America steps out of the closet, barely concealed behind a trailing bed sheet.
The real Russia clears his throat. “America, you were saying something about nuclear testing?” But the real America can only stare as his double drops to his knees on the floor and yanks the not-Russia’s hand to his breast.
“I’ve found you at last, and now we shall be together until the end of time. Oh, touch me, fuck me, love me, only let me be yours!” he says, tears of happiness in his eyes. “Can you feel my heart? It beats only for you!”
“No, no, no! Go away, and leave me be! You, real Russia!” the not-Russia says suddenly. He grabs the real Russia’s coat and attempts to throttle him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you keep things like that just lying around?” Not-Russia flings himself away, grabbing the stunned real Russia’s shoulders and hiding behind him. “Look, here—here’s Russia, the real one. You like him, don’t you? Marry him, instead.”
The not-America stands, clasping the sheets over his chest, and looks at the new Russia, who is quick to shake his head and point around his waist to indicate the scapegoat. He gets out of the way before the not-America lunges.
“Why are you hiding from me? I thought we were past this.”
“Bloody hell, I said go hang yourself!”
The room spins in a flurry of half-off clothes and bed sheets before the not-Russia runs out the door, slamming it behind him. The not-America wrenches it open so forcefully the knob breaks off, and he throws it away before sprinting out into the hallway.
“Why are you running so fast, darling?” he sings in a curiously high-pitched voice--at least high-pitched for America. “Let’s get maaarrried!”
“NOOOO!”
The real America and real Russia are frozen and quiet in shock. Neither of them move, not daring to until the sounds of screaming have faded completely into the depths of the house.
“Just to clarify, I would never ask you to marry me,” America says. “And I’m not nuclear testing.”
“Neither am I.”
“Well, good.”
“At least that’s settled.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
America says carefully, “You seemed… shorter than usual.” They stare out the window, at the wall, at the carpet, the sad broken doorknob, anything but directly into each other’s faces. America being America, he risks a sideways glance. “You’d really let your eyebrows go, too.”
Russia’s expression is serenely blank, his eyes drifting upwards as though scanning cloud patterns. “I personally was surprised by your exquisite breasts. If only I had known, America.”
“Oh, ha,” America sneers. Russia begins to laugh. “Ha fucking ha.”
--
Short last part. …Obvious anon-nations are obvious rofl. Thanks for reading!
“Just to clarify, I would never ask you to marry me,” America says. “And I’m not nuclear testing.”
“Neither am I.”
“Well, good.”
“At least that’s settled.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
America says carefully, “You seemed… shorter than usual.” They stare out the window, at the wall, at the carpet, the sad broken doorknob, anything but directly into each other’s faces. America being America, he risks a sideways glance. “You’d really let your eyebrows go, too.”
Russia’s expression is serenely blank, his eyes drifting upwards as though scanning cloud patterns. “I personally was surprised by your exquisite breasts. If only I had known, America.”
“Oh, ha,” America sneers. Russia begins to laugh. “Ha fucking ha.”
--
Short last part. …Obvious anon-nations are obvious rofl. Thanks for reading!
O AMAZING
I generally don't click on fic links which don't involve my OTPs (and Russia + US is, sadly, not one of them), but I am SO GLAD I DID for this one.
You win, anon ♥
I generally don't click on fic links which don't involve my OTPs (and Russia + US is, sadly, not one of them), but I am SO GLAD I DID for this one.
You win, anon ♥
Haaaahahaha, that last conversation between America and Russia is *priceless*.
So...Would LOVE to read/see a Hungary/Austria/Prussia threesome, in which Prussia to his surprise gets totally topped by the (married) couple, especially Hungary (interpret that as you wish :3)
Preferably not noncon but dubcon is okay. ^__^
Preferably not noncon but dubcon is okay. ^__^
*you didn't see my anon!fail there.* Obligatory "new to teh pronz* warning goes here. Hope Op enjoys. ^_~
--
Elizaveta is going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. Preferably by ripping out his jugular, or his balls; she hasn’t quite picked yet.
Stalking across the ruined kitchen, she tosses the broken pie plate into the sink and slams her hands down on the edge of it, her knuckles going white as she clenches its metal frame. She doesn’t want to think about the cracked plate, or the ruined crust crumbling inside.
“Hey, are you gaining weight?” Elizaveta spun, rage in her eyes at the feeling of Gilbert’s hand gripping her ass. The Prussian laughed, ducking as she swung the nearest thing she could find, her lovely half-finished pie, at his head. It missed, sort of, clipping him in the shoulder as he ducked rather then in the head, and she was glad he’d at least suffered that much.
“Get! Out!” she screeched. He dodged out the door, still laughing as she started to run after him, and she was left with the broken pie plate on the floor. Damn it, that was supposed to be a surprise for Roderich!
Long fingered hands, so gentle she knows who it was before he speaks, sweep her hair back from her neck and run through the locks idly. She sighs, relaxing a fraction, though the soothing feeling doesn’t quell her anger much. “I believe the sink is not at fault for this mess.”
Her shoulders slump. “Why won’t he just leave us alone?” Roderich doesn’t answer. He lets his fingers drift to her neck, kneading the tense muscles there until she actually does relax and lean back against him. He’s warm, she thinks. She tucks her head under his chin and sighs. “Why doesn’t he just get sick of it already? He’s been doing this since we were kids.”
Roderich frowns at her, his hands still moving along her neck. “He paid me a visit earlier,” he tells her. His fingers tighten slightly, though not painfully, in her hair. “I would think he has better things to do then comment on the effeminate nature of my hands.”
Elizaveta snorts indignantly. “Your hands are not effeminate.”
“Gilbert believes otherwise, but he has never been one for delicate matters.”
Gilbert can stuff it, Elizaveta thinks, though she doesn’t say it. Something catches her eye, a small slip of white paper crumpled in the closed door. She steps out of Roderich’s arms, ignoring the confused frown she knows is on his face from it, and steps up to the door, sliding the thing out of it. She frowns when she sees what it is.
It isn’t a piece of paper, as she thought it was. It’s a photo. It’s an old photo, one she doesn’t even really remember being taken. It’s of her, and of Roderich. She’s leaning over Roderich’s piano and he looks so happy playing it. The photo is worn, crinkled and smudged at the edges. “What is it?” Roderich asks her, sliding up behind her.
“Have you seen this before?” Elizaveta asks him, handing him the photo.
Roderich takes it and stares at it for a moment, before he flips it over. His scowl deepens, and he hands it back to her. “Another one of his games,” he scoffs. For once Elizaveta doesn’t think so. The anger in her is draining, as she stares at the picture. It was taken from a window; she remembers the room they’re in, in the photo, and there was a window just at this angle. It was taken in secret, and it looks like something that has been held onto for a very, very long time.
“A game, or a clue?” she wonders aloud. She thinks about it, and thinks about it, until Roderich places a hand on her shoulder and a few tiny little things, silly comments, gestures, teases that used to send her into a mad rage begin to fall slowly into place. A smile begins to touch her face. “I think it might be time we figured out exactly what his problem with us is.
“And how do you intend to do that?”
Elizaveta’s smile becomes a smirk. “We should stage a little invasion of our own.”
~*~
--
Elizaveta is going to kill him. Slowly and painfully. Preferably by ripping out his jugular, or his balls; she hasn’t quite picked yet.
Stalking across the ruined kitchen, she tosses the broken pie plate into the sink and slams her hands down on the edge of it, her knuckles going white as she clenches its metal frame. She doesn’t want to think about the cracked plate, or the ruined crust crumbling inside.
“Hey, are you gaining weight?” Elizaveta spun, rage in her eyes at the feeling of Gilbert’s hand gripping her ass. The Prussian laughed, ducking as she swung the nearest thing she could find, her lovely half-finished pie, at his head. It missed, sort of, clipping him in the shoulder as he ducked rather then in the head, and she was glad he’d at least suffered that much.
“Get! Out!” she screeched. He dodged out the door, still laughing as she started to run after him, and she was left with the broken pie plate on the floor. Damn it, that was supposed to be a surprise for Roderich!
Long fingered hands, so gentle she knows who it was before he speaks, sweep her hair back from her neck and run through the locks idly. She sighs, relaxing a fraction, though the soothing feeling doesn’t quell her anger much. “I believe the sink is not at fault for this mess.”
Her shoulders slump. “Why won’t he just leave us alone?” Roderich doesn’t answer. He lets his fingers drift to her neck, kneading the tense muscles there until she actually does relax and lean back against him. He’s warm, she thinks. She tucks her head under his chin and sighs. “Why doesn’t he just get sick of it already? He’s been doing this since we were kids.”
Roderich frowns at her, his hands still moving along her neck. “He paid me a visit earlier,” he tells her. His fingers tighten slightly, though not painfully, in her hair. “I would think he has better things to do then comment on the effeminate nature of my hands.”
Elizaveta snorts indignantly. “Your hands are not effeminate.”
“Gilbert believes otherwise, but he has never been one for delicate matters.”
Gilbert can stuff it, Elizaveta thinks, though she doesn’t say it. Something catches her eye, a small slip of white paper crumpled in the closed door. She steps out of Roderich’s arms, ignoring the confused frown she knows is on his face from it, and steps up to the door, sliding the thing out of it. She frowns when she sees what it is.
It isn’t a piece of paper, as she thought it was. It’s a photo. It’s an old photo, one she doesn’t even really remember being taken. It’s of her, and of Roderich. She’s leaning over Roderich’s piano and he looks so happy playing it. The photo is worn, crinkled and smudged at the edges. “What is it?” Roderich asks her, sliding up behind her.
“Have you seen this before?” Elizaveta asks him, handing him the photo.
Roderich takes it and stares at it for a moment, before he flips it over. His scowl deepens, and he hands it back to her. “Another one of his games,” he scoffs. For once Elizaveta doesn’t think so. The anger in her is draining, as she stares at the picture. It was taken from a window; she remembers the room they’re in, in the photo, and there was a window just at this angle. It was taken in secret, and it looks like something that has been held onto for a very, very long time.
“A game, or a clue?” she wonders aloud. She thinks about it, and thinks about it, until Roderich places a hand on her shoulder and a few tiny little things, silly comments, gestures, teases that used to send her into a mad rage begin to fall slowly into place. A smile begins to touch her face. “I think it might be time we figured out exactly what his problem with us is.
“And how do you intend to do that?”
Elizaveta’s smile becomes a smirk. “We should stage a little invasion of our own.”
~*~
The house is dark when Gilbert gets home the next day, which is strange really because his brother should be home by now. Bare traces of the streetlights filter through the closed curtains, and Gilbert thinks the house feels just a little to bare all dark like this. He grits his teeth. At his age he shouldn’t be bothered by the dark, though really it isn’t the dark that bothers him. His brother is far too neat; Spartan, one might call it. Tidiness never bothered him before the war, before the wall. Now it just reminds him of bare floors and bleached walls and cement that seemed to stretch on forever. Old Fritz would be ashamed of him.
His photo is missing; he’d realized that about half-way home, and he has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly where it is. If he’s really lucky Elizaveta was so angry she never noticed it. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he wasn’t that lucky.
There’s a note for him on the bare kitchen counter. Gilbert finds himself grinning as he reads it, laughing at Feliciano’s little sketches and the curls of his y’s. So that’s where his brother has gone. It’s just as well, Ludwig’s been working far to hard lately. Not that its anything new.
Distracted as he is, and relaxed in the safety of his own home, Gilbert doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. There is a creak in the floorboards, and he freezes, the note dropping from his hands. He doesn’t have time to spin around before something heavy crashes into his head and the world goes dark.
~*~
Gilbert’s head is pounding when he finally awakens. The first thing he notices is that he’s on his back, on something soft. The smell of bed clothes and down tickles his nose and he knows he’s on a bed of some sort. His brother’s bed, from the smell of it; he doesn’t know anyone else who uses that detergent, not off hand anyway.
The second thing he notices is that his arms are above his head, and something tight is wrapped around his wrists. He tugs at it carefully, slowly, just to see how tight it really is. Whatever it is, it’s soft and it’s not rubbing his wrists raw at least. Whatever is going on here, it can’t be intend to hurt him too badly. Or someone is just trying to lure him into a deceptive sense of safety.
The bed dips, and his eyes flash open, red-framed pupils darting towards the moment. He snarls when his eyes alight on the cause. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Elizaveta grins devilishly at him and taps her cheek with one long finger. “Well, you keep harassing us,” she tells him. “We thought we might return the favor.”
Gilbert can see Roderich against the wall behind her, watching him with that damned aloof look that just pisses him off every time he sees it and he snarls, tugging at his tied wrists. “Let me go,” he hisses. His voice is a warning, a warning that, much to his dismay, Elizaveta cheerfully ignores. Instead she’s sweeping her eyes down his body like he’s some sort of prize she’s won. It’s about this time that Gilbert realizes he’s not only tied to his brothers (far too big, it’s Feliciano’s fault anyway) bed, he’s also naked. Very naked.
He refuses to shiver, even though he’s cold, damn it (who turned down the thermostat, it wasn’t this cold earlier was it?), and the way Elizaveta is looking at him is, frankly, disturbing. She reaches a hand out to trace his hip with her calloused fingers and it takes more willpower then Gilbert wants to admit to keep from flinching.
Then her hand starts wandering south.
Gilbert jerks his head towards Roderich, who is still just standing there watching as if his ex-wife is not touching him like she’s about too… He gasps, his back arching as Elizaveta fondles his softened cock. The touch sends shivers down his spine and his head goes fuzzy with them. This is not happening. The thought flashes through his mind for just an instant and he clings to it. This has to be some sort of crazed dream.
His photo is missing; he’d realized that about half-way home, and he has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly where it is. If he’s really lucky Elizaveta was so angry she never noticed it. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he wasn’t that lucky.
There’s a note for him on the bare kitchen counter. Gilbert finds himself grinning as he reads it, laughing at Feliciano’s little sketches and the curls of his y’s. So that’s where his brother has gone. It’s just as well, Ludwig’s been working far to hard lately. Not that its anything new.
Distracted as he is, and relaxed in the safety of his own home, Gilbert doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him. There is a creak in the floorboards, and he freezes, the note dropping from his hands. He doesn’t have time to spin around before something heavy crashes into his head and the world goes dark.
~*~
Gilbert’s head is pounding when he finally awakens. The first thing he notices is that he’s on his back, on something soft. The smell of bed clothes and down tickles his nose and he knows he’s on a bed of some sort. His brother’s bed, from the smell of it; he doesn’t know anyone else who uses that detergent, not off hand anyway.
The second thing he notices is that his arms are above his head, and something tight is wrapped around his wrists. He tugs at it carefully, slowly, just to see how tight it really is. Whatever it is, it’s soft and it’s not rubbing his wrists raw at least. Whatever is going on here, it can’t be intend to hurt him too badly. Or someone is just trying to lure him into a deceptive sense of safety.
The bed dips, and his eyes flash open, red-framed pupils darting towards the moment. He snarls when his eyes alight on the cause. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Elizaveta grins devilishly at him and taps her cheek with one long finger. “Well, you keep harassing us,” she tells him. “We thought we might return the favor.”
Gilbert can see Roderich against the wall behind her, watching him with that damned aloof look that just pisses him off every time he sees it and he snarls, tugging at his tied wrists. “Let me go,” he hisses. His voice is a warning, a warning that, much to his dismay, Elizaveta cheerfully ignores. Instead she’s sweeping her eyes down his body like he’s some sort of prize she’s won. It’s about this time that Gilbert realizes he’s not only tied to his brothers (far too big, it’s Feliciano’s fault anyway) bed, he’s also naked. Very naked.
He refuses to shiver, even though he’s cold, damn it (who turned down the thermostat, it wasn’t this cold earlier was it?), and the way Elizaveta is looking at him is, frankly, disturbing. She reaches a hand out to trace his hip with her calloused fingers and it takes more willpower then Gilbert wants to admit to keep from flinching.
Then her hand starts wandering south.
Gilbert jerks his head towards Roderich, who is still just standing there watching as if his ex-wife is not touching him like she’s about too… He gasps, his back arching as Elizaveta fondles his softened cock. The touch sends shivers down his spine and his head goes fuzzy with them. This is not happening. The thought flashes through his mind for just an instant and he clings to it. This has to be some sort of crazed dream.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growls at Elizaveta through clenched teeth. His voice catches as Elizaveta’s touch becomes less a brush of his sensitive skin and more a stroke. She laughs, stroking her thumb down his flesh, amused by the way its hardening under her light touches. Gilbert bites back a moan, because damn does that feel good, even if he’s pretty damn sure this is a dream, and he’s imagining it, because there’s no possible way Elizaveta would ever touch him this way, or invade his house, or knock him out (because now he’s pretty sure that’s what happened), tie him down and (as it appears she intends to, from the devious glint in her eye) fuck him senseless. And even on the off chance she did do all of the above, there was no possible way Roderich would sit by and watch and (if the blush spreading across the Austrian’s pale face, and the way he’s shifting uncomfortably against the wall is any indication) enjoy it.
“Roderich dear,” Elizaveta says, her voice a cheerful hum that belays the utter mischief in her eyes, “would you like to join us?”
This is definitely not happening; Gilbert thinks when Roderich silently pushes himself off the wall and approaches. He sits down on the other side of the bed, dipping the mattress the other direction and causing Gilbert to shift under Elizaveta’s continuing (and by this point far, far to soft) touches. Gilbert grits his teeth and groans in frustration. Elizaveta ignores him and takes her former husband’s hand. She twines her hand with his, guiding his long fingers (god those fingers, they really are too girly for a guy. I mean most girls don’t have fingers that long and delicate and oh shit they’re touching him) onto Gilbert’s cock.
“’haven’t had a dream this interesting in awhile,” he mutters through a gasp. God Roderich’s fingers are incredible, and far, far too soft. Elizaveta’s are rougher, they scrape on his skin, but Roderich’s feel like silk. “Alright.” Enough of this, if neither of them are going to talk he can damn well do it for them. “Give a guy something to work with there. I mean, as invasions go this is pretty tame and—” Gilbert throws his head back, a groan catching and dying in his throat as the light touches on him become a tight pull. Roderich is working him with a skill that makes Gilbert wonder how often he’s done this before (a few late nights all alone Specs? he thinks, biting back a smirk).
Elizaveta leans over him, her hand brushing up his chest, tickling his ribs and flicking his nipple until she’s rubbing her thumb around his collarbone and along his neck. He can see down her shirt, he realizes, and when she doesn’t hit him for staring he sighs into her touches as he enjoys the view. Yep, this is a dream. There’s no possible way this could ever actually happen, with Elizaveta leaning down to kiss him of her own volition (god her tongue in his mouth is gorgeous) and Roderich’s hands touching him just like that. He wishes his hands were free, so he could join in, touch them both. If this is a dream he might as well enjoy it. It’ll never happen again. Hell he’s awesome enough to have this kind of dream in the first place, why shouldn’t he take advantage?
“Gonna let me go?” he asks as Elizaveta pulls back from the kiss. She looks confused for a moment, her forehead furrows and her eyes sharpen through the flush of her skin. She’s enjoying this, he realizes, and it makes him grin. Roderich is pumping him now, skillfully pressing those fingers into his hot flesh, though its still so slow it’s more of a tease then any sort of relief.
Elizaveta leans down to lick his ear, tracing the shell of it with her tongue. “If you’re good,” she whispers in his ear.
Gilbert grins. “Never.”
“Roderich dear,” Elizaveta says, her voice a cheerful hum that belays the utter mischief in her eyes, “would you like to join us?”
This is definitely not happening; Gilbert thinks when Roderich silently pushes himself off the wall and approaches. He sits down on the other side of the bed, dipping the mattress the other direction and causing Gilbert to shift under Elizaveta’s continuing (and by this point far, far to soft) touches. Gilbert grits his teeth and groans in frustration. Elizaveta ignores him and takes her former husband’s hand. She twines her hand with his, guiding his long fingers (god those fingers, they really are too girly for a guy. I mean most girls don’t have fingers that long and delicate and oh shit they’re touching him) onto Gilbert’s cock.
“’haven’t had a dream this interesting in awhile,” he mutters through a gasp. God Roderich’s fingers are incredible, and far, far too soft. Elizaveta’s are rougher, they scrape on his skin, but Roderich’s feel like silk. “Alright.” Enough of this, if neither of them are going to talk he can damn well do it for them. “Give a guy something to work with there. I mean, as invasions go this is pretty tame and—” Gilbert throws his head back, a groan catching and dying in his throat as the light touches on him become a tight pull. Roderich is working him with a skill that makes Gilbert wonder how often he’s done this before (a few late nights all alone Specs? he thinks, biting back a smirk).
Elizaveta leans over him, her hand brushing up his chest, tickling his ribs and flicking his nipple until she’s rubbing her thumb around his collarbone and along his neck. He can see down her shirt, he realizes, and when she doesn’t hit him for staring he sighs into her touches as he enjoys the view. Yep, this is a dream. There’s no possible way this could ever actually happen, with Elizaveta leaning down to kiss him of her own volition (god her tongue in his mouth is gorgeous) and Roderich’s hands touching him just like that. He wishes his hands were free, so he could join in, touch them both. If this is a dream he might as well enjoy it. It’ll never happen again. Hell he’s awesome enough to have this kind of dream in the first place, why shouldn’t he take advantage?
“Gonna let me go?” he asks as Elizaveta pulls back from the kiss. She looks confused for a moment, her forehead furrows and her eyes sharpen through the flush of her skin. She’s enjoying this, he realizes, and it makes him grin. Roderich is pumping him now, skillfully pressing those fingers into his hot flesh, though its still so slow it’s more of a tease then any sort of relief.
Elizaveta leans down to lick his ear, tracing the shell of it with her tongue. “If you’re good,” she whispers in his ear.
Gilbert grins. “Never.”
God her smile is devious, he thinks as she pulls back from him and moves back to her former husband, kissing him deeply, and running her hand down the front of his coat. She’s undoing the buttons as Roderich moans shamelessly in her mouth, and Gilbert feels himself grow hotter as she slowly strips the jacket from him, and then unties the cravat so slowly it’s like torture. Roderich’s shirt is next; she slides her hand up his side, still kissing him, only breaking the kiss for a moment to help him pull it over his head. It’s a sensual masterpiece; Gilbert avoids thinking about how much practice stripping Roderich so damn beautifully must have taken. She’s straddling his knee now, grinding herself on his thigh, tonguing his neck and his chin is tilted up, his mouth open and Roderich’s gasping. Gilbert’s breath hitches at the sight, and not just because Roderich’s hand has tightened on his cock.
Her clothes disappear faster, and soon he’s staring at both of the, naked as he is. Elizaveta turns to him again, leaning down to tongue his neck, nip his jugular, and let her breasts brush against him teasingly. He tugs on his bound wrists, gasping at the feel of her teeth on him. Roderich is leaning over her, pressing kisses down her back, and she’s gasping at the feeling of him tracing her spine with his tongue. For once Gilbert is grateful for Roderich’s concentration; he’s still working him so slowly it’s growing painful. “Will you get on with it?” Gilbert snarls, leaning up as far as he can to nibble Elizaveta’s neck.
She moans, and it’s a beautiful sound. It’s even more wonderful when she leans up to undo the bonds at his wrists. He grins at that, and twists them a bit to stretch them out and before Elizaveta has a chance to react he pulls her down on top of him, curling his hands in her hair and kissing her fiercely. She shudders above him, gasping as they end the kiss. “Now that’s better.”
She grins down at him. “We should put your mouth to better use,” she says. At this point Gilbert’s game for anything, and still fairly convinced this is all an elaborate hallucination, but hey, it’s a good one, so who’s he to complain. Elizaveta leans over him, her face flushed and her eyes sharp and Gilbert knows exactly what she wants from him. He grips her thighs, needing the beautiful taught skin of them. His grin is wicked.
“You sure that’s safe?” he asks, voice hoarse, and then he groans as Roderich’s delicate hands press against the slit of his cock and make his nerves sing.
Elizaveta’s expression is beautifully devious. “If you want to keep your vital regions, it will be.” She lowers herself onto him and he accepts her willingly, gratefully, god she’s beautiful here too, all wet and pink and shivering. He tests her folds gently, just brushing the edge of them with his tongue and he grins when he feels a shiver quake her long legs. Before long he’s laving her liberally, tonguing her clit and she’s moaning over him, her hands clenched in his short hair, pulling at it. He’s grinning into her, preparing to lick deeper, when the sensation of his legs being parted, and something slippery running down his perineum. He gasps and freezes, and then nearly chokes when he feels something slick press against his anus. Roderich, that has to be Roderich. The long finger pressing into him can’t possibly belong to anything else and a flash of rebellion boils in him. He clenches around that finger, struggles, but Elizaveta is holding his head down, and that finger is still pushing in regardless and it burns.
“You aren’t helping.” Gilbert freezes again at Roderich’s voice, and the finger slips in further, brushing against his prostate and making him groan. It wouldn’t even have taken that much to make him groan; Roderich’s voice is husky with want and that alone, after so much silence, would have been enough. Roderich brushes his prostate again, sending jolts and shivers through that little bundle of nerves that make Gilbert gasp with need. Still, with Elizaveta moaning above him, her hair falling over her shoulders in amber-brown curls and sticking to her shoulders, her face, her chest from the sweat, it isn’t hard to calm himself.
Her clothes disappear faster, and soon he’s staring at both of the, naked as he is. Elizaveta turns to him again, leaning down to tongue his neck, nip his jugular, and let her breasts brush against him teasingly. He tugs on his bound wrists, gasping at the feel of her teeth on him. Roderich is leaning over her, pressing kisses down her back, and she’s gasping at the feeling of him tracing her spine with his tongue. For once Gilbert is grateful for Roderich’s concentration; he’s still working him so slowly it’s growing painful. “Will you get on with it?” Gilbert snarls, leaning up as far as he can to nibble Elizaveta’s neck.
She moans, and it’s a beautiful sound. It’s even more wonderful when she leans up to undo the bonds at his wrists. He grins at that, and twists them a bit to stretch them out and before Elizaveta has a chance to react he pulls her down on top of him, curling his hands in her hair and kissing her fiercely. She shudders above him, gasping as they end the kiss. “Now that’s better.”
She grins down at him. “We should put your mouth to better use,” she says. At this point Gilbert’s game for anything, and still fairly convinced this is all an elaborate hallucination, but hey, it’s a good one, so who’s he to complain. Elizaveta leans over him, her face flushed and her eyes sharp and Gilbert knows exactly what she wants from him. He grips her thighs, needing the beautiful taught skin of them. His grin is wicked.
“You sure that’s safe?” he asks, voice hoarse, and then he groans as Roderich’s delicate hands press against the slit of his cock and make his nerves sing.
Elizaveta’s expression is beautifully devious. “If you want to keep your vital regions, it will be.” She lowers herself onto him and he accepts her willingly, gratefully, god she’s beautiful here too, all wet and pink and shivering. He tests her folds gently, just brushing the edge of them with his tongue and he grins when he feels a shiver quake her long legs. Before long he’s laving her liberally, tonguing her clit and she’s moaning over him, her hands clenched in his short hair, pulling at it. He’s grinning into her, preparing to lick deeper, when the sensation of his legs being parted, and something slippery running down his perineum. He gasps and freezes, and then nearly chokes when he feels something slick press against his anus. Roderich, that has to be Roderich. The long finger pressing into him can’t possibly belong to anything else and a flash of rebellion boils in him. He clenches around that finger, struggles, but Elizaveta is holding his head down, and that finger is still pushing in regardless and it burns.
“You aren’t helping.” Gilbert freezes again at Roderich’s voice, and the finger slips in further, brushing against his prostate and making him groan. It wouldn’t even have taken that much to make him groan; Roderich’s voice is husky with want and that alone, after so much silence, would have been enough. Roderich brushes his prostate again, sending jolts and shivers through that little bundle of nerves that make Gilbert gasp with need. Still, with Elizaveta moaning above him, her hair falling over her shoulders in amber-brown curls and sticking to her shoulders, her face, her chest from the sweat, it isn’t hard to calm himself.
Appearances aside, he has always been quite disciplined. His tongue reaches into her, tasting her bitterness, enthusiastically thrusting into her. Roderich is closer now, leaning over her shoulder, one hand toying with her nipple even as the other continues working another finger into Gilbert.
Gilbert often forgets that Roderich himself can be quite attentive when his own interests are involved. They’ve never really had similar interests, so Gilbert’s never cared. This though, the way he can use those gorgeous hands, the way he’s playing them both like his beloved piano, never missing a beat, and never faltering in his opposed movements, is something even Gilbert can admit he’s impressed by.
Elizaveta cries out at the feel of Roderich’s soft kisses along her neck. Her thighs clench around Gilbert’s face, and her ass tightens around his fingers. She’s shaking, grinding down on his tongue and her moans are beautiful. She tenses suddenly, and Gilbert digs his fingers into her thighs and licks her clit and she groans as wetness washes his tongue. If Gilbert wasn’t grinning before, he is now. Take that you pansy twit.
“Knew your mouth was good for something,” she hisses as she slides off of him, tumbling into the pillows above his head with a satisfied smile on her face. She leans over to play with his hair, even as he’s gasping at the feeling of Roderich’s fingers twisting within him. He’s shifting on them, fucking himself on them (with out Elizaveta to distract him it’s very hard to concentrate on anything else). His face twists in a grimace as Roderich kneads his prostate insistently. “Gilbert.” He focuses on Elizaveta’s voice in a vain effort to distract himself. “Turn over.”
What?
Elizaveta runs her nails down his cheek and neck, and Roderich twists his fingers within him and replaces his other hand on Gilbert’s cock. Gilbert moans, still not sure he heard that right. Roderich’s hand wraps around the base of his cock. God he’s so hot now he thinks he’s about to explode or pass out and damn it that’s not playing fair. “Move your hand,” he growls. He tries to sit up, but Elizaveta pins his shoulders down (far too easily, much to his chagrin). He glares up at them, not at all reassured by the still-devious look in Elizaveta’s eye, or the blush spreading across Roderich’s face.
“I believe you should do as requested.” Roderich’s blush grows, if possible, redder.
Something clicks in the back of Gilbert’s head, and he glances up at Elizaveta, who’s grinning at him, and then back at Roderich. “You think you can handle it?” he asks. He’s pretty sure his attempt to leer at the man is failing. His head is too fuzzy and he can’t really concentrate enough on anything but the fingers in his ass and the hand on his cock to really try.
Roderich huffs, and Elizaveta giggles (god that sound is hot). “Of course.” The fact that Roderich is flushing all the way down his chest now doesn’t help his indignant stare.
Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, pushes himself down on Roderich’s fingers, rubs himself against them moaning shamelessly. “You want this?” he taunts. A flicker of something Gilbert might almost call desperation flashes through Roderich’s eyes. Elizaveta lets him go, and he leans up, crashing his mouth onto Roderich’s forcefully. Roderich moans into their kiss, and he can hear Elizaveta humming behind him and that makes it all the better. “Come on,” Gilbert growls against Roderich’s ear. “Or are you too much of a wuss?”
Roderich shudders, and kisses him, biting Gilbert’s lip lightly. “Turn around.” His voice is a soft, husky murmur.
“You better make it worth my while.” Gilbert is grinning as he does just that, flips over onto his knees. Elizaveta is in front of him now, stroking herself lazily as she watches them with half lidded eyes. Gilbert moans as Roderich pushes into him, and finds her hand, drawing it to his lips. Roderich pauses for a moment, lets Gilbert adjust to his size. “I’m not you, you idiot,” Gilbert hisses between clenched teeth. “Move!” And Roderich does, gasping over his shoulder, pressing kisses and nips along his spine that are really too damn soft, but it’s Roderich, so he doesn’t expect any different.
Gilbert often forgets that Roderich himself can be quite attentive when his own interests are involved. They’ve never really had similar interests, so Gilbert’s never cared. This though, the way he can use those gorgeous hands, the way he’s playing them both like his beloved piano, never missing a beat, and never faltering in his opposed movements, is something even Gilbert can admit he’s impressed by.
Elizaveta cries out at the feel of Roderich’s soft kisses along her neck. Her thighs clench around Gilbert’s face, and her ass tightens around his fingers. She’s shaking, grinding down on his tongue and her moans are beautiful. She tenses suddenly, and Gilbert digs his fingers into her thighs and licks her clit and she groans as wetness washes his tongue. If Gilbert wasn’t grinning before, he is now. Take that you pansy twit.
“Knew your mouth was good for something,” she hisses as she slides off of him, tumbling into the pillows above his head with a satisfied smile on her face. She leans over to play with his hair, even as he’s gasping at the feeling of Roderich’s fingers twisting within him. He’s shifting on them, fucking himself on them (with out Elizaveta to distract him it’s very hard to concentrate on anything else). His face twists in a grimace as Roderich kneads his prostate insistently. “Gilbert.” He focuses on Elizaveta’s voice in a vain effort to distract himself. “Turn over.”
What?
Elizaveta runs her nails down his cheek and neck, and Roderich twists his fingers within him and replaces his other hand on Gilbert’s cock. Gilbert moans, still not sure he heard that right. Roderich’s hand wraps around the base of his cock. God he’s so hot now he thinks he’s about to explode or pass out and damn it that’s not playing fair. “Move your hand,” he growls. He tries to sit up, but Elizaveta pins his shoulders down (far too easily, much to his chagrin). He glares up at them, not at all reassured by the still-devious look in Elizaveta’s eye, or the blush spreading across Roderich’s face.
“I believe you should do as requested.” Roderich’s blush grows, if possible, redder.
Something clicks in the back of Gilbert’s head, and he glances up at Elizaveta, who’s grinning at him, and then back at Roderich. “You think you can handle it?” he asks. He’s pretty sure his attempt to leer at the man is failing. His head is too fuzzy and he can’t really concentrate enough on anything but the fingers in his ass and the hand on his cock to really try.
Roderich huffs, and Elizaveta giggles (god that sound is hot). “Of course.” The fact that Roderich is flushing all the way down his chest now doesn’t help his indignant stare.
Gilbert shrugs his shoulders, pushes himself down on Roderich’s fingers, rubs himself against them moaning shamelessly. “You want this?” he taunts. A flicker of something Gilbert might almost call desperation flashes through Roderich’s eyes. Elizaveta lets him go, and he leans up, crashing his mouth onto Roderich’s forcefully. Roderich moans into their kiss, and he can hear Elizaveta humming behind him and that makes it all the better. “Come on,” Gilbert growls against Roderich’s ear. “Or are you too much of a wuss?”
Roderich shudders, and kisses him, biting Gilbert’s lip lightly. “Turn around.” His voice is a soft, husky murmur.
“You better make it worth my while.” Gilbert is grinning as he does just that, flips over onto his knees. Elizaveta is in front of him now, stroking herself lazily as she watches them with half lidded eyes. Gilbert moans as Roderich pushes into him, and finds her hand, drawing it to his lips. Roderich pauses for a moment, lets Gilbert adjust to his size. “I’m not you, you idiot,” Gilbert hisses between clenched teeth. “Move!” And Roderich does, gasping over his shoulder, pressing kisses and nips along his spine that are really too damn soft, but it’s Roderich, so he doesn’t expect any different.
Gilbert kisses Elizaveta’s wrist, and draws her fingers, rough with all the work she’s done (not at all like Roderich’s far to delicate hands), into his mouth, sucking along them teasingly. She groans, shuddering, her hand trembling in his grasp and he answers her groan with a moan of his own as Roderich hits his prostate and begins to ride him hard. Good, the bastard isn’t going to be a totally pansy about this. Gilbert’s never liked it gentle. He’s gasping and swearing at the man as the heat builds within him, still tonguing Elizaveta’s hand, fingers, wrist like they’re a lifeline. She shudders; he can smell her come from where he is and he moans at the sound she makes. Roderich’s coming fast now, his gasps are sharp and short, and there are these shaky little sounds that Gilbert’s never heard from him before, and damn that’s a good thing because after all the teasing Gilbert’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. His head is going fuzzy, his breath comes short and god every movement Roderich makes feel like heaven.
He barely notices when someone (he’s not sure who anymore) takes his cock in hand and jerks him off roughly. He comes with a yell, and Roderich is seconds behind. He’s sure he’ll hear about that one later, but now he’s so worn, and lazy and tired he doesn’t care to think about it.
They fall asleep in the mess of that bed tangled together, with Gilbert’s arm over Elizaveta’s waist pressed against Roderich’s thigh, and Roderich’s legs tangled with both of theirs, his hands brushing idly through his wife’s beautiful hair. Those damn hands, Gilbert thinks, as his eyes drift shut. They could drive a man insane. There is still a part of him, as sleep takes him, that wonders how he’ll feel when he wakes up tomorrow on his brother’s old, too large bed, sticky and cold and alone. His heart is aching in ways he’ll never admit to as he falls asleep. Instead, he wakes still tangled in Elizaveta and Roderich’s embrace. Elizaveta has flipped herself over in her sleep, and is now cuddled against his side, her hands brushing his chest, and as his eyes drift higher his heart stops.
Roderich is awake. Roderich is awake and leaning over Elizaveta, tangled as she is in Gilbert’s arms, with a quiet smile on his face. He lifts an eyebrow as he catches Gilbert’s startled gaze, his smile falling into a smirk. He leans over Elizaveta’s shoulder, his delicate, long-fingered hands brushing Gilbert’s chin, and Gilbert finds himself unable to move. He’s sure he should breath, breathing would be good; his head feels fuzzy.
Roderich kisses him, just a light kiss, barely a touch of the lips. When he pulls back, Gilbert thinks it’s possibly the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt.
~*~
Elsewhere Germany sighs heavily, and pulls half-heartedly at the grip Italy has on his arm. “Italy, I have work to do,” he groans, but Italy’s grinning at him with that bright, stupid, beautiful grin.
“Come on Germany! There’s so many more gardens to see,” he exclaims, and tugs, and Germany finds himself following reluctantly anyway. He doesn’t catch the mischievous glint in Italy’s eye. Not yet, Italy thinks, as he leads Germany away. Can’t let you go just yet. They’re not done.
--
Long fic ended up being long. o////o
He barely notices when someone (he’s not sure who anymore) takes his cock in hand and jerks him off roughly. He comes with a yell, and Roderich is seconds behind. He’s sure he’ll hear about that one later, but now he’s so worn, and lazy and tired he doesn’t care to think about it.
They fall asleep in the mess of that bed tangled together, with Gilbert’s arm over Elizaveta’s waist pressed against Roderich’s thigh, and Roderich’s legs tangled with both of theirs, his hands brushing idly through his wife’s beautiful hair. Those damn hands, Gilbert thinks, as his eyes drift shut. They could drive a man insane. There is still a part of him, as sleep takes him, that wonders how he’ll feel when he wakes up tomorrow on his brother’s old, too large bed, sticky and cold and alone. His heart is aching in ways he’ll never admit to as he falls asleep. Instead, he wakes still tangled in Elizaveta and Roderich’s embrace. Elizaveta has flipped herself over in her sleep, and is now cuddled against his side, her hands brushing his chest, and as his eyes drift higher his heart stops.
Roderich is awake. Roderich is awake and leaning over Elizaveta, tangled as she is in Gilbert’s arms, with a quiet smile on his face. He lifts an eyebrow as he catches Gilbert’s startled gaze, his smile falling into a smirk. He leans over Elizaveta’s shoulder, his delicate, long-fingered hands brushing Gilbert’s chin, and Gilbert finds himself unable to move. He’s sure he should breath, breathing would be good; his head feels fuzzy.
Roderich kisses him, just a light kiss, barely a touch of the lips. When he pulls back, Gilbert thinks it’s possibly the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt.
~*~
Elsewhere Germany sighs heavily, and pulls half-heartedly at the grip Italy has on his arm. “Italy, I have work to do,” he groans, but Italy’s grinning at him with that bright, stupid, beautiful grin.
“Come on Germany! There’s so many more gardens to see,” he exclaims, and tugs, and Germany finds himself following reluctantly anyway. He doesn’t catch the mischievous glint in Italy’s eye. Not yet, Italy thinks, as he leads Germany away. Can’t let you go just yet. They’re not done.
--
Long fic ended up being long. o////o
Ohgodohgod oh god so much OT3. ;AAAAA; This was hot and awesome and perfect, anon. A++ porn and characterization, unf. YOU SHOULD WRITE MORE OF THEM 8D PLEASE
/bookmarks forever
/bookmarks forever
o////////o Thank you! Glad you liked. ^_^
Oh...oh God, that was hot. I love you forever for writing this~
|D Thank you~ This threesome needs more love, seriously.
*huff huff huff*
GILBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~~~~
(By that I mean FUCK ME, THAT WAS HOT!)
GILBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~~~~
(By that I mean FUCK ME, THAT WAS HOT!)
AWWWWWWW HECK YEAH. The characterization! The (hot hot hot) porn! THIS WAS MADE OF AWESOME AND WIN, ANON.
(Some of the details were just perfect, like Austria and Hungary's hands.)
(And Germany and Italy on the sidelines was just the cherry on top.)
(Some of the details were just perfect, like Austria and Hungary's hands.)
(And Germany and Italy on the sidelines was just the cherry on top.)
(Italy in my head is totally a matchmaker at heart <3)
Thank you~ Glad you liked. ^_^b
Thank you~ Glad you liked. ^_^b
ANON, YOU'RE MADE OF AWESOME! I... THIS IS JUST... AND THE ENDING... AND ITALY! FFFFF!
I wanted this to be filled so hard, and.. umf! *calms down* Just...
Beautiful job!
XD I was so giddy I ended up posting this reply somewhere else, OTL I blame you for frying my brain and making me stay up late reading this!
I wanted this to be filled so hard, and.. umf! *calms down* Just...
Beautiful job!
o///o Thank you~ Sorry for frying your brain....maybe?
Anon, marry me. This...this just...this was so amazing. If you're not up for marriage, how about an Internet? They're really tasty!
This. ¤3¤ <3
I mean, this is way better than I could have expected or imagined. EVER.
It has all these story elements I like way too much in anything but especially threesome stories. Like...a normally not so nice character showing their angstier side without loosing their edge, check, and and...Roderich and Elizaveta are sharing so nicely. <3
Love your characterization of those two in general as well. The mixed balance of feminine and masculine is juuust right. *squees*
What else did I squee over...all of it really, but the present day setting and Wall angst being there tickled especially. *^__^*
Did I mention I LOVE long fics? ¤3¤
and German and Italy at the end? d'aaw~ :D
So, if you ever post this unanomously, expect to be pounced. A lot. :D ~<3
I mean, this is way better than I could have expected or imagined. EVER.
It has all these story elements I like way too much in anything but especially threesome stories. Like...a normally not so nice character showing their angstier side without loosing their edge, check, and and...Roderich and Elizaveta are sharing so nicely. <3
Love your characterization of those two in general as well. The mixed balance of feminine and masculine is juuust right. *squees*
What else did I squee over...all of it really, but the present day setting and Wall angst being there tickled especially. *^__^*
Did I mention I LOVE long fics? ¤3¤
and German and Italy at the end? d'aaw~ :D
So, if you ever post this unanomously, expect to be pounced. A lot. :D ~<3
Eight kinds of win, anon. This meme needs more Gilbert!
Oh god. That was HOT. I love it. o.o
And italy at the end was awesome as well.
And italy at the end was awesome as well.
oh shit, I wasn't going to read this for the longest time and now I am so, so glad I did <333
Thank you anon, thank you
Thank you anon, thank you
Almost anything I say is going to be redundant. But I read this three times. Then copypaste'd it. FUCK, anon.
And your Roderich, oh HHNNNNNNGGGG *dies*
So. Fucking. Hot. Allofit.
And your Roderich, oh HHNNNNNNGGGG *dies*
So. Fucking. Hot. Allofit.
It's all America's fault, or so the world sentiment seems to be. Show me America getting punished for causing this global recession. A sadistic gangbang or countries taking turns, just so long as there's more than one and America is utterly screwed. Make him bleed.
Bonus: Everyone is shown to be raging hypocrites.
Extra bonus: someone comforts America at the end of everything and fluff happens.
Bonus: Everyone is shown to be raging hypocrites.
Extra bonus: someone comforts America at the end of everything and fluff happens.
sorry OP!anon I try to fill this but realize that i don't think i can finish! but so my efforts doesn't go entirely to waste i'm gonna put them up and hope it'll inspire someone to fill this~~~~~
fdshkihfuihfasf. Oh man. Thank you for the beautiful fill, but I am so wiggling at the edge of my seat for more.....the art is gorgeous, the story is d'awww -- and that Arthur is the one to start off? America is going to NEED comforting.
Recaptcha says little's Gould
Why yes, recaptcha, in the end america having little gold did affect the other countries...
Recaptcha says little's Gould
Why yes, recaptcha, in the end america having little gold did affect the other countries...
HOLY GOD!
THISSS....
is amazing and sexy and hot and needs to be finished!!!!!!
THISSS....
is amazing and sexy and hot and needs to be finished!!!!!!
*nosebleed* OH GOD, DO WANT. Your art is so awesome. I wish I could come up with some eloquent comment fitting of bit of awesome, but I'm at a loss for words.
I... if you find the time and motivation, I would love to see this completed. *puppy-dog eyes* but I do know what it's like to run out of steam, s... so... it's ok....
I... if you find the time and motivation, I would love to see this completed. *puppy-dog eyes* but I do know what it's like to run out of steam, s... so... it's ok....
don't worry OP I do plan on finishing it! its just that ... it'll take some time gangbangs takes a long time RL can be a bitch :/
I've been reading Watchmen
Can you tell?
---
It was dark in the conference room when Canada arrived. He’d expected as much; he’d waited in the parking lot until the only car he recognized there was the familiar Ford Mustang. Unlike the other cars, Canada was sure it hadn’t been used for carpooling, like the rest of the cars. If it had been, would this still have happened?
Yes, of course it would have. A small gesture of goodwill wouldn’t have stopped them now, he thought. It was too late for things like that. In fact, it probably would have made things worse.
“A-America?” asked Canada, dreading that the other Nations might have taken him with them.
“Oh, it’s you,” he heard from behind some toppled chairs in the corner. “You’re too late. The meeting’s over.”
Canada flicked on the light switch and started slowly to the corner of the room.
“But if the meeting’s over, I’ve got to wonder…”
Canada took slow steps toward the chairs. He was close enough to see a foot propped up on one, and came closer until he was finally close enough to see his brother’s face.
“Why am I still here?”
Red streamed from America’s nose, white from the corners of his mouth, dripping in a river down his neck, smeared across a torn white shirt and onto that cross dangling from his neck. So much red, so much white, like some sick patriotic joke set up just for Canada to find.
“Oh God…” Canada kicked the chairs out of the way. He didn’t know what else to do besides take a handkerchief out of his pocket, kneel down, and try to wipe that blasphemy off America’s face. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him more, but he had to wipe hard over bruised skin to have any affect on the caking fluids.
“America, I —” What was he going to say? That he hadn’t known? Of course he had known. Russia had even invited him personally, and all Canada could do was decline. They all knew they wouldn’t even have to lift a finger to keep Canada quiet.
This didn’t have to happen. He could have stopped all this, given more of a warning, kept him from going, thought Canada, dabbing over a split lip, only to find that all over America’s teeth was more red-and-white mockery.
“I’m —”
“Don’t say it,” said America, wearily, “If you say ‘I’m soooreee’ in that funny accent of yours, I’ll laugh. I swear I will.”
In any other circumstance, Canada would have shouted some retort, but instead he just noticed that the handkerchief wasn’t helping at all — all he was doing was smearing pink across bruises.
America propped himself up on his elbows, leaning forward, hauling himself up.
“What am I supposed to say instead?”
“I don’t know,” said America. He stepped around the chairs, Canada finally seeing what they’d done to America’s jeans, what they’d done to him, and all the bloodstained denim between his legs. America spat pink to the carpet. “Whatever you want, I guess. I’m going home. You should too. The meeting’s over.”
“You can’t go out like that!”
“Why not? People will see?” There was no mocking tone to his voice, no sarcasm. Only tiredness.
Canada’s next words die in his mouth as America opens the door wider.
“At least let me take you home,” said Canada, “Please…”
“I’ll be fine,” said America, “Always am.” He flicked off the light switch on his way out, leaving Canada alone in the dark.
Can you tell?
---
It was dark in the conference room when Canada arrived. He’d expected as much; he’d waited in the parking lot until the only car he recognized there was the familiar Ford Mustang. Unlike the other cars, Canada was sure it hadn’t been used for carpooling, like the rest of the cars. If it had been, would this still have happened?
Yes, of course it would have. A small gesture of goodwill wouldn’t have stopped them now, he thought. It was too late for things like that. In fact, it probably would have made things worse.
“A-America?” asked Canada, dreading that the other Nations might have taken him with them.
“Oh, it’s you,” he heard from behind some toppled chairs in the corner. “You’re too late. The meeting’s over.”
Canada flicked on the light switch and started slowly to the corner of the room.
“But if the meeting’s over, I’ve got to wonder…”
Canada took slow steps toward the chairs. He was close enough to see a foot propped up on one, and came closer until he was finally close enough to see his brother’s face.
“Why am I still here?”
Red streamed from America’s nose, white from the corners of his mouth, dripping in a river down his neck, smeared across a torn white shirt and onto that cross dangling from his neck. So much red, so much white, like some sick patriotic joke set up just for Canada to find.
“Oh God…” Canada kicked the chairs out of the way. He didn’t know what else to do besides take a handkerchief out of his pocket, kneel down, and try to wipe that blasphemy off America’s face. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him more, but he had to wipe hard over bruised skin to have any affect on the caking fluids.
“America, I —” What was he going to say? That he hadn’t known? Of course he had known. Russia had even invited him personally, and all Canada could do was decline. They all knew they wouldn’t even have to lift a finger to keep Canada quiet.
This didn’t have to happen. He could have stopped all this, given more of a warning, kept him from going, thought Canada, dabbing over a split lip, only to find that all over America’s teeth was more red-and-white mockery.
“I’m —”
“Don’t say it,” said America, wearily, “If you say ‘I’m soooreee’ in that funny accent of yours, I’ll laugh. I swear I will.”
In any other circumstance, Canada would have shouted some retort, but instead he just noticed that the handkerchief wasn’t helping at all — all he was doing was smearing pink across bruises.
America propped himself up on his elbows, leaning forward, hauling himself up.
“What am I supposed to say instead?”
“I don’t know,” said America. He stepped around the chairs, Canada finally seeing what they’d done to America’s jeans, what they’d done to him, and all the bloodstained denim between his legs. America spat pink to the carpet. “Whatever you want, I guess. I’m going home. You should too. The meeting’s over.”
“You can’t go out like that!”
“Why not? People will see?” There was no mocking tone to his voice, no sarcasm. Only tiredness.
Canada’s next words die in his mouth as America opens the door wider.
“At least let me take you home,” said Canada, “Please…”
“I’ll be fine,” said America, “Always am.” He flicked off the light switch on his way out, leaving Canada alone in the dark.
writeranon is not the person who drew the comic or said that they were going to finish this... but I just had to write it anyway. Sorry about that...
don't be sorry, I actually quite enjoyed reading it! its similar to how I was going to end it but better lol I don't know if it was obvious that I was going to use Canada as the one to comfort him afterwards
Does it continue? Could it? Please?
Okay, anon. I never freaking cry when reading fics, but...this just really got to me for some reason. I applaud you and humbly ask for a continuation!!
A continuation. This is feeling a bit more like Canada's story now.
Also, this is my first time writing Japan. I hope I did a good job...
---
“Did you hear what happened to Japan?” asked Canada. America sat on his bed, hunched over an old color gameboy, falling bricks reflecting off his glasses. Canada sat on the other side of the bed. There was something so usual about the way America hadn’t noticed him walk in twenty minutes ago. Maybe he hadn’t even heard Canada, but there Canada sat anyway, the new pair of jeans he’d brought for his brother in his lap.
“He’s under observation… or something. Something like he didn’t eat for a while, just locked himself in a closet with some comic books. So now they’re watching him, making sure he’s not going to hurt himself —”
“And I did this to him,” said America. So America had heard his brother speak. But, if Japan had locked himself in all week, he couldn’t have been at the meeting.
“That’s not what I was trying to say.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” asked America, the music from the gameboy gaining speed.
“No, it’s not true.”
“Then who did?”
Canada swallowed. People selling seemingly stable investments, giving mortgages to high-risk customers, inflating a real-estate bubble for profit and profit and profit until it inevitably popped had done it. And their headquarters had been Wall Street, just under America’s right earlobe.
Canada had no answer. He stood up, about to say he was going to the bathroom, but then he didn’t think America would notice, so he left without saying anything at all into the hallway and found a nice crook in the wall to stand in.
He took his cell out of his pocket and dialed Japan. It only rang once before it picked up.
“Moshimoshi?” The voice was too deep to be Japan’s. Perhaps he’d dialed the wrong number?
“Hello? Can I… can I speak with Honda?” asked Canada. He hoped this was the right number, or else he may be given to the wrong Honda.
“Hello?” No, it was the right Honda on the other end of the line.
“Japan, it’s Canada.”
“Ah, Canada-san. Hello.”
“Umm,” said Canada, completely forgetting why now he called. It almost seemed
like the world was falling apart again. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, and though I appreciate your concern, I feel I must remind you that while it may be a timely hour in Ottawa, it is four AM in Tokyo.” Even through his even, calm tone, Japan’s voice sounded hoarse, almost as if he had been crying.
“Oh, sorry… and actually, I’m in D. C. right now,” said Canada.
“I see.”
“You… heard what happened, right?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“Nobody needed to tell me. They may have confiscated my computer, but I still have a phone. Russia-san posted pictures of the act to his livejournal.”
“Russia, he…?”
“Yes. He’s rather famous in the Russian blogosphere. His people were entertained by his stories of us, thinking them satire. According to the most recent comments, though, his fans are no longer amused,” said Japan.
“Oh, God…”
“Would you like me to text you the link?”
“No. No, I don’t want it.”
“Canada, I understand that you are upset, but I believe that if I remain on the phone much longer, my observers will begin to think there’s been an international incident,” said Japan.
“I could have stopped it,” blurted Canada. Even though he’d thought it and thought it, it sounded strange in his own voice.
“And America-kun could have stopped making risky loans, but there is little use dwelling on what could have been done. Good night, Canada-san.”
“Good—”
But Japan hung up. That small sign of discourtesy seemed to speak volumes. How had everyone managed to remain so civil in the thirties?
Wait, no, they hadn’t remained civil at all. Perhaps nothing like this had happened, but what happened instead was so much worse. It wouldn’t cure an ailing economy, but maybe if everyone vented earlier, it wouldn’t happen again. It was a price, but averting disaster always came at a price…
It made Canada sick that he was even thinking that way, and sicker when he thought that he was probably right.
The whole damn world needed a support group now.
Also, this is my first time writing Japan. I hope I did a good job...
---
“Did you hear what happened to Japan?” asked Canada. America sat on his bed, hunched over an old color gameboy, falling bricks reflecting off his glasses. Canada sat on the other side of the bed. There was something so usual about the way America hadn’t noticed him walk in twenty minutes ago. Maybe he hadn’t even heard Canada, but there Canada sat anyway, the new pair of jeans he’d brought for his brother in his lap.
“He’s under observation… or something. Something like he didn’t eat for a while, just locked himself in a closet with some comic books. So now they’re watching him, making sure he’s not going to hurt himself —”
“And I did this to him,” said America. So America had heard his brother speak. But, if Japan had locked himself in all week, he couldn’t have been at the meeting.
“That’s not what I was trying to say.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” asked America, the music from the gameboy gaining speed.
“No, it’s not true.”
“Then who did?”
Canada swallowed. People selling seemingly stable investments, giving mortgages to high-risk customers, inflating a real-estate bubble for profit and profit and profit until it inevitably popped had done it. And their headquarters had been Wall Street, just under America’s right earlobe.
Canada had no answer. He stood up, about to say he was going to the bathroom, but then he didn’t think America would notice, so he left without saying anything at all into the hallway and found a nice crook in the wall to stand in.
He took his cell out of his pocket and dialed Japan. It only rang once before it picked up.
“Moshimoshi?” The voice was too deep to be Japan’s. Perhaps he’d dialed the wrong number?
“Hello? Can I… can I speak with Honda?” asked Canada. He hoped this was the right number, or else he may be given to the wrong Honda.
“Hello?” No, it was the right Honda on the other end of the line.
“Japan, it’s Canada.”
“Ah, Canada-san. Hello.”
“Umm,” said Canada, completely forgetting why now he called. It almost seemed
like the world was falling apart again. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine, and though I appreciate your concern, I feel I must remind you that while it may be a timely hour in Ottawa, it is four AM in Tokyo.” Even through his even, calm tone, Japan’s voice sounded hoarse, almost as if he had been crying.
“Oh, sorry… and actually, I’m in D. C. right now,” said Canada.
“I see.”
“You… heard what happened, right?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you?”
“Nobody needed to tell me. They may have confiscated my computer, but I still have a phone. Russia-san posted pictures of the act to his livejournal.”
“Russia, he…?”
“Yes. He’s rather famous in the Russian blogosphere. His people were entertained by his stories of us, thinking them satire. According to the most recent comments, though, his fans are no longer amused,” said Japan.
“Oh, God…”
“Would you like me to text you the link?”
“No. No, I don’t want it.”
“Canada, I understand that you are upset, but I believe that if I remain on the phone much longer, my observers will begin to think there’s been an international incident,” said Japan.
“I could have stopped it,” blurted Canada. Even though he’d thought it and thought it, it sounded strange in his own voice.
“And America-kun could have stopped making risky loans, but there is little use dwelling on what could have been done. Good night, Canada-san.”
“Good—”
But Japan hung up. That small sign of discourtesy seemed to speak volumes. How had everyone managed to remain so civil in the thirties?
Wait, no, they hadn’t remained civil at all. Perhaps nothing like this had happened, but what happened instead was so much worse. It wouldn’t cure an ailing economy, but maybe if everyone vented earlier, it wouldn’t happen again. It was a price, but averting disaster always came at a price…
It made Canada sick that he was even thinking that way, and sicker when he thought that he was probably right.
The whole damn world needed a support group now.
oops, I forgot to change the title to the previous post. >.< I should pay more attention...
I freaking love this, your writing, your America. Your Japan was spot on, by the by.
Russia has LJ!? Let's get his LJ so we can stalk him! Sorry, that was the first thing that came to mind. XD
Anyways, poor Canada. Poor America.
I think everyone needs a support group indeed. Will we see a continuation?
Anyways, poor Canada. Poor America.
I think everyone needs a support group indeed. Will we see a continuation?
Apparently Russia's blogging is based on LJ, (http://community.livejournal.com/russiamagazine/) so it made sense.
It will probably continue. Thank you all for the comments. :)
It will probably continue. Thank you all for the comments. :)
Thank you, anon. Thank you.
Could we have more?
PLEASE?
Could we have more?
PLEASE?
a part III. Uhh... I took Canada's glasses to be Quebec. Or something.
---
America was asleep, as he had been for about two hours. Once the gameboy’s batteries had run out, he dug a half-bag of potato chips out from under his bed, finished them off, and climbed between the sheets. Since then, Canada had spent his time calling other Nations he’d known wouldn’t have been at the meeting —Taiwan, who’d tried to hang herself last week, so was under observation like Japan; Southern Ireland, who never went anywhere she knew England would be; Sealand, who never got invited to anything; and Cuba, who he thought would have been too disgusted with America to even be in the same room with him. When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Canada had never known doing nothing could be so exhausting. By then, his cell had nearly run out of power. He set the phone down on the nightstand by Texas, and took off Quebec and put them on the nightstand, too, and climbed into bed. Immediately, America got up, took his pillow, and lay down on the floor, quickly enough for Canada to realize that America had never actually been asleep at all.
“Come back to bed,” said Canada.
“I’m fine here,” said America.
“No, you aren’t,” said Canada, throwing back the comforter to make space. America sat up, picked up the pillow, and paused.
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” said Canada. Without looking at his brother once, America put the pillow back on the bed and climbed in, curling up, facing the wall. At the hem of his shirt, Canada could see the beginnings of a bruise. Lightly, he pulled the fabric away to see where it ended, but couldn’t find
America winced.
“Have you been to a doctor?” asked Canada, tugging again at the shirt, trying to get him to roll over, but America didn’t budge.
“No.”
Canada let go of the shirt.
“I could have gone if I wanted to,” said America. Canada put a hand on America’s stomach, but instead of coaxing him closer as he’d intended, America curled up tighter.
“That… that’s what’s so great. I could go if I wanted to. There’s no waiting list or anything.”
“You’re mumbling into your pillow, America.”
“It’s not a socialist system… I could if I wanted…”
“Talk to me, not your pillow.”
“But… I don’t… want to…”
Canada pulled America, forcing him onto his back. America just let out a sharp gasp, but nothing more, as Canada tugged at the shirt, trying to find where that goddamned bruise ended. It had to end somewhere, after all. As he searched for it over America’s stomach, he heard a strangled sound.
It was America, choking on nothing, eyes frozen to the ceiling. Slowly, Canada pulled the shirt back over America’s stomach and took back his hands. Perhaps he didn’t need to find where that bruise ended after all.
“I-I’m sorry, I—”
But Canada was interrupted by America’s laughter. America laughed hard enough to wake the President’s daughters, and Canada, for the life of him, could not understand why.
---
America was asleep, as he had been for about two hours. Once the gameboy’s batteries had run out, he dug a half-bag of potato chips out from under his bed, finished them off, and climbed between the sheets. Since then, Canada had spent his time calling other Nations he’d known wouldn’t have been at the meeting —Taiwan, who’d tried to hang herself last week, so was under observation like Japan; Southern Ireland, who never went anywhere she knew England would be; Sealand, who never got invited to anything; and Cuba, who he thought would have been too disgusted with America to even be in the same room with him. When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Canada had never known doing nothing could be so exhausting. By then, his cell had nearly run out of power. He set the phone down on the nightstand by Texas, and took off Quebec and put them on the nightstand, too, and climbed into bed. Immediately, America got up, took his pillow, and lay down on the floor, quickly enough for Canada to realize that America had never actually been asleep at all.
“Come back to bed,” said Canada.
“I’m fine here,” said America.
“No, you aren’t,” said Canada, throwing back the comforter to make space. America sat up, picked up the pillow, and paused.
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” said Canada. Without looking at his brother once, America put the pillow back on the bed and climbed in, curling up, facing the wall. At the hem of his shirt, Canada could see the beginnings of a bruise. Lightly, he pulled the fabric away to see where it ended, but couldn’t find
America winced.
“Have you been to a doctor?” asked Canada, tugging again at the shirt, trying to get him to roll over, but America didn’t budge.
“No.”
Canada let go of the shirt.
“I could have gone if I wanted to,” said America. Canada put a hand on America’s stomach, but instead of coaxing him closer as he’d intended, America curled up tighter.
“That… that’s what’s so great. I could go if I wanted to. There’s no waiting list or anything.”
“You’re mumbling into your pillow, America.”
“It’s not a socialist system… I could if I wanted…”
“Talk to me, not your pillow.”
“But… I don’t… want to…”
Canada pulled America, forcing him onto his back. America just let out a sharp gasp, but nothing more, as Canada tugged at the shirt, trying to find where that goddamned bruise ended. It had to end somewhere, after all. As he searched for it over America’s stomach, he heard a strangled sound.
It was America, choking on nothing, eyes frozen to the ceiling. Slowly, Canada pulled the shirt back over America’s stomach and took back his hands. Perhaps he didn’t need to find where that bruise ended after all.
“I-I’m sorry, I—”
But Canada was interrupted by America’s laughter. America laughed hard enough to wake the President’s daughters, and Canada, for the life of him, could not understand why.
LOL @ Quebec! I can totally see that one happening.
When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Poor Canada, even his voice sounds like America. D:
The last sentence creeped me out. America is definitely getting darker and darker with Canada having no idea on what to do. Can't wait to see more of this!
I can't wait to see Canada interacting with England, Russia, etc etc and how it goes. I can imagine lots of yelling and arguing. @____@
When Canada had tried to talk to him, though, Cuba yelled at him for being America and hung up.
Poor Canada, even his voice sounds like America. D:
The last sentence creeped me out. America is definitely getting darker and darker with Canada having no idea on what to do. Can't wait to see more of this!
I can't wait to see Canada interacting with England, Russia, etc etc and how it goes. I can imagine lots of yelling and arguing. @____@
Reason for the laughter = take another look at part I.
America has a better memory than most give him credit for. I mean, he remembers the Alamo and he wasn't even there.
America has a better memory than most give him credit for. I mean, he remembers the Alamo and he wasn't even there.
Oh god, America's ...trauma is so palpable here. Again, I very much enjoy your writing, how simple yet devastating it is. The last sentence hurt, man.
I wish I could give you better reviews, writer!anon! But I love this, and....hope you... continue, sob.
I wish I could give you better reviews, writer!anon! But I love this, and....hope you... continue, sob.
more please? I know I'm selfish but this is so god damned good
Oh, ow. OW. I love the way you wrote America's trauma from Canada's point of view - all the little touches, like how he won't share a bed, and wincing, and the laughter....speaking of the president's daughters, what happens when America's boss finds out what happened? And is that why he ended up giving Brown such a sucky present? HMMM?
Artist!Anon, I hope you don't mind that I took some liberties about what happened... erp.
Here, have some France, being himself.
---
“Ah, mon fils, I haven’t seen you in so long,” said France, curiously keeping his hands to himself today.
“Two weeks,” said Canada, curtly, watching the small bottle of antibacterial gel on the table instead of France himself.
“Would you like some?” asked France, picking up the bottle, “Everyone’s so sick. It may be wise.” Canada saw all the boxes of tissues on the table, now a mainstay, and put his hand on the table face up. Instead of pouring some gel into his hand, though, France poured gel into his own hand and began rubbing it into Canada’s palm. Perhaps Canada should have stayed home too — he could feel bile rising in his throat.
“I trust you are still well?”
“I was in D.C,” said Canada. And he would have still been there, too, if his bosses hadn’t advised him that he couldn’t just stay there all week, that he still had a job to do.
“For too long, likely. You may have caught something,” said France, “You can never be too careful, these days, especially if you must sit so close to me…” Canada hadn’t chosen to sit so close, but that was where the placard had placed him that day, just between France and Switzerland. He tried to pull his hand away, but France tightened his grip, moving up and lingering on Canada’s wrist.
“People forget to wash their wrists, you know. It’s disgusting.” His fingers continued upwards, into Canada’s sleeve, into what could barely be considered ‘wrist’ anymore. Again, Canada tried to pull back, but France just wouldn’t let go.
“I know what you are thinking,” he whispered, “I did not touch him. He is a leper. I-I couldn’t.”
Canada swallowed hard and wondered how far he could scoot to the right before Switzerland would shoot at him.
“He may be the worst, but there are so many lepers now. I can’t touch any of them. It’s very… lonely…”
Canada yanked his hand away, finally freeing himself from France’s grasp.
“At least let me get your other hand,” said France. Canada shook his head and put his hands in his lap. But France’s hand followed, caressing his fingers. “Please.”
Canada scooted away, seeing the obvious lust in France’s eyes, and kept moving farther and farther to the right until he hit a shoulder.
The mouth of a pistol jabbed against his cheek.
Scrambling back again, Canada found himself neatly in France’s arms. Canada couldn’t decide which was worse, the gun in his face or France’s hands, slick with antibacterial gel, the man kissing each newly-sanitized spot. Canada tried to calm his breath, wanting to move to another seat, knowing if he did, he’d likely get sat on by one of the stragglers —
And suddenly, France was yanked away with a yelp. England had walked in, carrying an itinerary, and as he’d walked by, had pulled France off of Canada by his hair. England threw down the itinerary near his placard and said, “Bloody Hell, where is everybody today?”
Here, have some France, being himself.
---
“Ah, mon fils, I haven’t seen you in so long,” said France, curiously keeping his hands to himself today.
“Two weeks,” said Canada, curtly, watching the small bottle of antibacterial gel on the table instead of France himself.
“Would you like some?” asked France, picking up the bottle, “Everyone’s so sick. It may be wise.” Canada saw all the boxes of tissues on the table, now a mainstay, and put his hand on the table face up. Instead of pouring some gel into his hand, though, France poured gel into his own hand and began rubbing it into Canada’s palm. Perhaps Canada should have stayed home too — he could feel bile rising in his throat.
“I trust you are still well?”
“I was in D.C,” said Canada. And he would have still been there, too, if his bosses hadn’t advised him that he couldn’t just stay there all week, that he still had a job to do.
“For too long, likely. You may have caught something,” said France, “You can never be too careful, these days, especially if you must sit so close to me…” Canada hadn’t chosen to sit so close, but that was where the placard had placed him that day, just between France and Switzerland. He tried to pull his hand away, but France tightened his grip, moving up and lingering on Canada’s wrist.
“People forget to wash their wrists, you know. It’s disgusting.” His fingers continued upwards, into Canada’s sleeve, into what could barely be considered ‘wrist’ anymore. Again, Canada tried to pull back, but France just wouldn’t let go.
“I know what you are thinking,” he whispered, “I did not touch him. He is a leper. I-I couldn’t.”
Canada swallowed hard and wondered how far he could scoot to the right before Switzerland would shoot at him.
“He may be the worst, but there are so many lepers now. I can’t touch any of them. It’s very… lonely…”
Canada yanked his hand away, finally freeing himself from France’s grasp.
“At least let me get your other hand,” said France. Canada shook his head and put his hands in his lap. But France’s hand followed, caressing his fingers. “Please.”
Canada scooted away, seeing the obvious lust in France’s eyes, and kept moving farther and farther to the right until he hit a shoulder.
The mouth of a pistol jabbed against his cheek.
Scrambling back again, Canada found himself neatly in France’s arms. Canada couldn’t decide which was worse, the gun in his face or France’s hands, slick with antibacterial gel, the man kissing each newly-sanitized spot. Canada tried to calm his breath, wanting to move to another seat, knowing if he did, he’d likely get sat on by one of the stragglers —
And suddenly, France was yanked away with a yelp. England had walked in, carrying an itinerary, and as he’d walked by, had pulled France off of Canada by his hair. England threw down the itinerary near his placard and said, “Bloody Hell, where is everybody today?”
The table was smaller than usual, and even then, only about half the chairs were filled. “I know Israel and India are probably at a launch, but everyone else?”
“Mexico’s been told not to leave her house,” said Spain, leaning back into his chair, sniffling into a tissue.
“And Germany’s at home with a bad cold…” said North Italy. Everyone began to mutter about sickness and flus as France’s gaze returned to Canada.
“Japan and Taiwan are not well, aru,” said China. Such an inspecific term, probably exactly what Japan’s observers had told him to say.
“And then America is probably —”
At home, watching TV with the girls, gorging himself on potato chips he can’t taste, the girls yelling at him to make room for them on the couch, while little did they know that that strange kid they called Alfred was not well —
“—Staying out of this in protest of environmental regulation. So I guess that accounts for everyone,” said England, sitting down, “We should probably begin, then.”
As England started off the meeting, most of the other Nations paid more attention to their colds and tissues than to their itineraries. Spain had even fallen asleep, making soft sounds of congested snoring.
“Your other hand, mon fils,” said France quietly, bottle in hand. Looking at all sick Nations across the table, Canada saw little choice but to give it to him.
“Mexico’s been told not to leave her house,” said Spain, leaning back into his chair, sniffling into a tissue.
“And Germany’s at home with a bad cold…” said North Italy. Everyone began to mutter about sickness and flus as France’s gaze returned to Canada.
“Japan and Taiwan are not well, aru,” said China. Such an inspecific term, probably exactly what Japan’s observers had told him to say.
“And then America is probably —”
At home, watching TV with the girls, gorging himself on potato chips he can’t taste, the girls yelling at him to make room for them on the couch, while little did they know that that strange kid they called Alfred was not well —
“—Staying out of this in protest of environmental regulation. So I guess that accounts for everyone,” said England, sitting down, “We should probably begin, then.”
As England started off the meeting, most of the other Nations paid more attention to their colds and tissues than to their itineraries. Spain had even fallen asleep, making soft sounds of congested snoring.
“Your other hand, mon fils,” said France quietly, bottle in hand. Looking at all sick Nations across the table, Canada saw little choice but to give it to him.
wow...just wow. Matt is just, well wow.
Francis I know what you did, don't touch him! >O
I hope for more?
Francis I know what you did, don't touch him! >O
I hope for more?
Ew, Francis. XD;;
Sort of hooked, here, man. Waiting on more with bated breath.
Sort of hooked, here, man. Waiting on more with bated breath.
I can't wait for the next part!!
I kind of want to see Matt go all hockeyrage on Arthur
Good writing is GOOD. Anon you have to write more. Perhaps some falshbacks of the meeting, or hints about it from the other nations. What a unique idea to tell the story from Matthew's POV. I love this story so much I'm bookmarking it nauw.
EEK! Needy!France is so....meeep!!
I love this fic, I can't wait for the next part!!
I love this fic, I can't wait for the next part!!
Ouch. Poor America. Poor Japan, and everybody, too.
Though it looks like Japan really was at the meeting in the comic, and I hope that when artist!anon gets back to it, she doesn't take Japan out. We need more Japan/America, even if it is non-con.
But it looks like some nasty stuff was done and said at the meeting.
But it looks like some nasty stuff was done and said at the meeting.
Aah, so sad! :'( But I can't wait for the rest, artist!anon.
....
....
bitchslaps arthur
....
....
I have no excuse for being so slow
for now I'll upload every 3 pages I've done
and yeah it's gonna be alittle long cause I went overboard like that
lol but this is really embarrassing but I hope it's good enough for you all!!!
for now I'll upload every 3 pages I've done
and yeah it's gonna be alittle long cause I went overboard like that
lol but this is really embarrassing but I hope it's good enough for you all!!!
OH MY GOD.
I HAD TOTALLY LOST ALL HOPE THAT THIS WOULD BE EVER BE CONTINUED.
DRAWFAG ANON, YOU HAVE MADE MY NIGHT. ♥ ♥
I HAD TOTALLY LOST ALL HOPE THAT THIS WOULD BE EVER BE CONTINUED.
DRAWFAG ANON, YOU HAVE MADE MY NIGHT. ♥ ♥
O.O This, this, th...
IS AMAZING!!!!!!!!
Drawfag!Anon is made of so much win it's blinding my eye. America's expressions are so awesome I can't even describe it. It's like you can totally tell he's in pain yet turned on at the same time. And England <fgqwtxzv!@$> How can Arthur rape someone and still be so moe???
Please continue anon, you're doing a fantastic job.
IS AMAZING!!!!!!!!
Drawfag!Anon is made of so much win it's blinding my eye. America's expressions are so awesome I can't even describe it. It's like you can totally tell he's in pain yet turned on at the same time. And England <fgqwtxzv!@$> How can Arthur rape someone and still be so moe???
Please continue anon, you're doing a fantastic job.
This actually makes me want to cry for Alfred, owjalksd.
Great job, artist!anon. Oh my god.
Great job, artist!anon. Oh my god.
oh way to awesome oh god the guilt
Can't wait for the next part.
recaptcha: remind policy (lol o=)
Can't wait for the next part.
recaptcha: remind policy (lol o=)
ANON, YOU HAVE MADE MY NIGHT. Please tell us there will be more soon.
Seriously, what is it with me and my favorite characters getting abused? D=
Seriously, what is it with me and my favorite characters getting abused? D=
Thank you guys~~~~~!
there will be more but ... you'll have to be patient with me. Give me at least a week and I probably have the next three done. Anon will do her best!
there will be more but ... you'll have to be patient with me. Give me at least a week and I probably have the next three done. Anon will do her best!
Oh God, poor Alfred. ;A;
But I need more... O_O
Why do I love seeing my favorite characters get hurt and abused?
But I need more... O_O
Why do I love seeing my favorite characters get hurt and abused?
MOAR MOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOARMOAR
This is so hot and the expressions are just like, WOW! >w<
Please continue! ♥
This is so hot and the expressions are just like, WOW! >w<
Please continue! ♥
adflk;j;
UltraShy!Anon hasn't commented on any fills yet, but this was just too... sa;dlkfj. This is probably why UltraShy!Anon hasn't commented on anything, really. When she sees something she really likes, she gets a bit incoherent. But their expressions! And Arthur drawing "GUILTY" across Alfred's forehead. That kiss! And France. And. Just. Guh. Um. I think I love you. I really do hope this is continued.
UltraShy!Anon hasn't commented on any fills yet, but this was just too... sa;dlkfj. This is probably why UltraShy!Anon hasn't commented on anything, really. When she sees something she really likes, she gets a bit incoherent. But their expressions! And Arthur drawing "GUILTY" across Alfred's forehead. That kiss! And France. And. Just. Guh. Um. I think I love you. I really do hope this is continued.
wow i can't even put into words how awesome this artwork is. seriously, america's expressions are just gorgeous, and that one panel where england is looking down at him? omg, breathtakingly beautiful! more, more, please!
The links never work for me :(
Ahhh…. And only 5 years too late. http://www.mangago.me/read-manga/financial_crisis_hetalia_axis_powers_dj/mi/mi_chapter-1/ For all anons who's links don't work.
Anyways, it was very well done!!! *appluads*
Anyways, it was very well done!!! *appluads*
Switzerland/Liechtenstein - body switch (as in Freaky Friday or something no I don't watch this kind of movies /LIES)
Some sexing in each other bodies would be nice too :)
Some sexing in each other bodies would be nice too :)
Want this so hard
Sweden/Finland- one of them got drunk, then DEMANDED sex from the other--and getting it, of course.XD
Bonus if one or all the other Scandinavian countries catch them in the act.<33
Sweden/Finland- one of them got drunk, then DEMANDED sex from the other--and getting it, of course.XD
Bonus if one or all the other Scandinavian countries catch them in the act.<33
And now for some History. WW1, Vittorio Veneto, in which Italy completley kicks Austria-Hungary's asses and beats them so bad they had to get a divorce.
America attempts to explain the literary significance of the novel Slaughterhouse-Five (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slaughterhouse_five) to either England, France, or Japan, and fails.[/geek]
If you can find a place for smut in this prompt, you're totally welcome to it. :D
If you can find a place for smut in this prompt, you're totally welcome to it. :D
Ah, here it is. Sort of, I hope this works.
--
England sipped his tea, seemingly trapped in his chair. The walls had a warm color along with the lighting, the chair low and heavily-cushioned, cradling him. In other words, it was, well, womblike, almost, like every other Starbucks he’d ever been in. He wondered how these places had possibly become so popular. Perhaps Freud had been right.
On top of it all, the tea was terrible.
“So, umm, why’d you want to talk to me?” asked America. The whole place smelled like coffee. That might have something to do with the taste of the tea — with every sip, he also got a mouthful of coffee.
“I was looking at your banned books list.”
“That old thing? I haven’t banned a book in like, what, forty years?”
“No, the other banned books list.”
“Oh, that one,” he said, laughing, “Looking for something good for after Harry Potter?”
“I’ve read since Harry Potter.” This was pretty pointless, he thought, but then again, America had called him over for more pointless things than this. That new swingset, for example.
“Yeah, that whole inspired into reading thing, got you —”
“Unlike you, I’ve always read.”
America paused, slurping that sugary-coffee concoction they sold with whipped cream and a hundred thousand calories.
“Yeah, well, anyway, that banned books list, it’s false advertising. The stuff there’s barely racy. If you’re looking for actual erotica, you won’t find it there,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
America gave him a doubting look.
“And anyway, I found a book,” said England, digging around in his laptop bag and handing America a paperback. America took it, looking it front and back, flipping it to where he knew the pictures were.
“Slaughterhouse-Five! Yeah, I remember this stuff! Good stuff, too. Let me guess, though — you got lured in because it was banned for sexual content, right?”
“No, it wasn’t that at all.”
“Oh come on. Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone tries to do that at least once.” England leaned back, his cheeks forming a pink tinge, but America continued, “I swear, it’s a conspiracy, to try to get kids to read things with actual content. Anyway, how’d you like it?”
“It was… interesting,” said England.
“Interesting.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, it was about World War Two!”
“So are a lot of your movies,” said England.
“Yeah? Well Slaughterhouse-Five is a great book. Just like how Saving Private Ryan is a great movie.”
“I don’t recall there being any plunger-shaped aliens in Saving Private Ryan.”
“Well, you know,” said America, floundering, “It’s like… an allegory. You know, like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
“Oh, well then. What do these plunger-shaped aliens stand for, exactly?”
“They stand for,” said America. Then he paused, and started again. “They stand for…”
England waited, a mocking smile on his lips.
“Maybe it’s not an allegory.”
--
England sipped his tea, seemingly trapped in his chair. The walls had a warm color along with the lighting, the chair low and heavily-cushioned, cradling him. In other words, it was, well, womblike, almost, like every other Starbucks he’d ever been in. He wondered how these places had possibly become so popular. Perhaps Freud had been right.
On top of it all, the tea was terrible.
“So, umm, why’d you want to talk to me?” asked America. The whole place smelled like coffee. That might have something to do with the taste of the tea — with every sip, he also got a mouthful of coffee.
“I was looking at your banned books list.”
“That old thing? I haven’t banned a book in like, what, forty years?”
“No, the other banned books list.”
“Oh, that one,” he said, laughing, “Looking for something good for after Harry Potter?”
“I’ve read since Harry Potter.” This was pretty pointless, he thought, but then again, America had called him over for more pointless things than this. That new swingset, for example.
“Yeah, that whole inspired into reading thing, got you —”
“Unlike you, I’ve always read.”
America paused, slurping that sugary-coffee concoction they sold with whipped cream and a hundred thousand calories.
“Yeah, well, anyway, that banned books list, it’s false advertising. The stuff there’s barely racy. If you’re looking for actual erotica, you won’t find it there,” he said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
America gave him a doubting look.
“And anyway, I found a book,” said England, digging around in his laptop bag and handing America a paperback. America took it, looking it front and back, flipping it to where he knew the pictures were.
“Slaughterhouse-Five! Yeah, I remember this stuff! Good stuff, too. Let me guess, though — you got lured in because it was banned for sexual content, right?”
“No, it wasn’t that at all.”
“Oh come on. Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone tries to do that at least once.” England leaned back, his cheeks forming a pink tinge, but America continued, “I swear, it’s a conspiracy, to try to get kids to read things with actual content. Anyway, how’d you like it?”
“It was… interesting,” said England.
“Interesting.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, it was about World War Two!”
“So are a lot of your movies,” said England.
“Yeah? Well Slaughterhouse-Five is a great book. Just like how Saving Private Ryan is a great movie.”
“I don’t recall there being any plunger-shaped aliens in Saving Private Ryan.”
“Well, you know,” said America, floundering, “It’s like… an allegory. You know, like The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
“Oh, well then. What do these plunger-shaped aliens stand for, exactly?”
“They stand for,” said America. Then he paused, and started again. “They stand for…”
England waited, a mocking smile on his lips.
“Maybe it’s not an allegory.”
Continued and finished.
--
“See, you stop copying off of me, and this is what you get.” said England.
“That’s not true! As soon as my writers stopped copying off of you, we got Mark freaking Twain —”
“Who couldn’t spell —”
“It was a Missouri dialect, dammit! Pure Americana! Don’t tell me yours have never written dialect. I’ve tried to read Wuthering Heights. Impossible.”
“That’s how you’re supposed to do dialect. You don’t write dialect if everyone has the same one. That’s just stupid.”
“Mark Twain was not stupid!”
England opened his mouth but America just continued.
“Why can’t you recognize that I actually have some culture that I haven’t copied for once? God!”
“That wasn’t my point —”
“What was your point? The time travel part? You know, some of Mark Twain had time travel in it too. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court? Ever heard of it? You’d think you’d read novels that you were in.”
“That wasn’t—”
“What makes H. G. Wells so great, anyway? It’s older? Not everything older is better, you know.”
“That —”
“You were never too keen on him, either. What if I made fun of Peter Pan? And start to call it just some dumb fairy story?”
“You. Take. That. Back.”
“No.”
“Yes. Now.”
“Why should I?”
“First of all,” said England, “It is not just some ‘dumb fairy story.’ Second of all, Peter Pan was the name of that dumb movie Disney made. The book was called Peter and Wendy. Third, the man who wrote Peter and Wendy was Scottish, not English. And fourth, that’s not what I was trying to say at all!”
America finally shut up and drank more frappuchino.
“Look. I’m willing to excuse the plunger-shaped aliens and time travel —”
“Tralfamadorians and being unstuck in time,” corrected America.
“Whatever. I’ll excuse it because it was written in the sixties and we were both really high back then,” said England, “But otherwise, the book isn’t like you at all.”
“Well, I didn’t write the book,” said America, setting down the frappe and twisting the straw wrapper. “Vonnegut did. And he had this thing about what happened at Dresden. You were there too, so you remember what Germany was like after it, right? And I kind of wanted to talk to him about it, but after the war I was so busy with Japan and then the Cold War and, well, you know…” The straw wrapper had torn into two pieces, each perfectly rolled into a paper rope.
“I see,” said England.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” said America.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” The sounds of the coffee shop filled their pause, other people chatting, typing on laptops, and the coffee machines whirring.
“Well,” said America his usual dopey grin returning, “As long as we’re spilling our guts about classic literature, mind giving me some commentary on A Clockwork Orange?”
--
“See, you stop copying off of me, and this is what you get.” said England.
“That’s not true! As soon as my writers stopped copying off of you, we got Mark freaking Twain —”
“Who couldn’t spell —”
“It was a Missouri dialect, dammit! Pure Americana! Don’t tell me yours have never written dialect. I’ve tried to read Wuthering Heights. Impossible.”
“That’s how you’re supposed to do dialect. You don’t write dialect if everyone has the same one. That’s just stupid.”
“Mark Twain was not stupid!”
England opened his mouth but America just continued.
“Why can’t you recognize that I actually have some culture that I haven’t copied for once? God!”
“That wasn’t my point —”
“What was your point? The time travel part? You know, some of Mark Twain had time travel in it too. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court? Ever heard of it? You’d think you’d read novels that you were in.”
“That wasn’t—”
“What makes H. G. Wells so great, anyway? It’s older? Not everything older is better, you know.”
“That —”
“You were never too keen on him, either. What if I made fun of Peter Pan? And start to call it just some dumb fairy story?”
“You. Take. That. Back.”
“No.”
“Yes. Now.”
“Why should I?”
“First of all,” said England, “It is not just some ‘dumb fairy story.’ Second of all, Peter Pan was the name of that dumb movie Disney made. The book was called Peter and Wendy. Third, the man who wrote Peter and Wendy was Scottish, not English. And fourth, that’s not what I was trying to say at all!”
America finally shut up and drank more frappuchino.
“Look. I’m willing to excuse the plunger-shaped aliens and time travel —”
“Tralfamadorians and being unstuck in time,” corrected America.
“Whatever. I’ll excuse it because it was written in the sixties and we were both really high back then,” said England, “But otherwise, the book isn’t like you at all.”
“Well, I didn’t write the book,” said America, setting down the frappe and twisting the straw wrapper. “Vonnegut did. And he had this thing about what happened at Dresden. You were there too, so you remember what Germany was like after it, right? And I kind of wanted to talk to him about it, but after the war I was so busy with Japan and then the Cold War and, well, you know…” The straw wrapper had torn into two pieces, each perfectly rolled into a paper rope.
“I see,” said England.
“Is that all you wanted to know?” said America.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” The sounds of the coffee shop filled their pause, other people chatting, typing on laptops, and the coffee machines whirring.
“Well,” said America his usual dopey grin returning, “As long as we’re spilling our guts about classic literature, mind giving me some commentary on A Clockwork Orange?”
OMG.
ANON... You win. Everything. Everywhere.
ESPECIALLY because of the last line.
(NotOP)
ANON... You win. Everything. Everywhere.
ESPECIALLY because of the last line.
(NotOP)
"I’ll excuse it because it was written in the sixties and we were both really high back then."
I lol'd. This Americanon had to read Slaughterhouse-Five for a Lit class and agrees with England entirely. :D
I lol'd. This Americanon had to read Slaughterhouse-Five for a Lit class and agrees with England entirely. :D
haha
oh lord, the sixties.
this was awesome
oh lord, the sixties.
this was awesome
Loved this XD
OMG, the last line...you win the internet. XD
OMG, the last line...you win the internet. XD
YES. I wrote a whole paper for Lit class on Slaughterhouse-Five and HOLY CRAP. Nothing makes me happier when people connect Hetalia to lovely books of literature.
Oh, and triple win on the reference to post-Dresden Germany.
Oh, and triple win on the reference to post-Dresden Germany.
Not sure if this technically qualifies as a kink, but it's rare enough. I'd like to see some smut done with Russia/anyone in which Russia is actually presented as... how he's described: chubbybig-boned. None of this waifish-bishie Russia that's all too rampant.
Arthur doesn’t like Ivan. He never has. Ivan is insane and cruel and hard to get along with. The amount of times they’ve fallen out over the years is astronomical, but they always get back together in the end. Not for comfort – definitely not for that. Not for love, either, but simply because Arthur likes Ivan’s body.
He’s a connoisseur of countries, having fucked most of the globe at some point in his life, and yet he always comes back to this – to Ivan. Oh, Francis is entertaining, and Ludwig is adventurous, and even Alfred is eager, but none of them compare to the feeling of being pressed down and pounded into by a solid hulk of a real man.
He moans softly as they lie on Ivan’s bed, kissing and rocking together gently. Ivan is heavy against him, pushing him into the mattress, covering him, pinning him. They are all but naked, the only surviving garments being Ivan’s tight briefs and Arthur’s black socks. Sweat glistens on their skin. They’ve spent the whole evening working slowly up to this, from the moment Arthur stepped over the threshold with a big bottle of Antonio’s finest wine in his hand and delivered the first kiss to Ivan’s cold cheek.
“Ah…mm…Ivan…” Arthur arches, and they both groan appreciatively. “Can we…?”
“Yes…I’ll just…” Ivan gets to his feet and the night air rushes in to fill his place, drying Arthur’s sweat onto his skin. He watches Ivan scuffling through his drawers, biting his lip with eagerness. He’s been looking forward to this for years. He hates it when they’re obliged to be apart because of petty little squabbles between their bosses. He wishes there were more countries with meat on their bones.
Ivan walks back over to him, shedding his underwear without ceremony. Arthur spreads his legs and Ivan kneels between them. They admire each other. Ivan’s eyes sweep the scars decorating Arthur’s chest and flick over his bright, intelligent eyes. Arthur watches Ivan’s huge chest heaving and lifts his hips to invite him to act. “Come on,” He says softly. “Come on.”
Ivan runs one large hand down Arthur’s leg, lifting it and resting it over his shoulder. And then he lifts the other one. And then he opens the tube of lubricant he has in his other hand. And then Arthur closes his eyes.
“Oh sweet God,” He gasps, feeling Ivan’s impressive cock sinking into his body. “Ivan…oh God…” Ivan doesn’t reply but his hitched breathing tells Arthur everything. He shifts his body sharply, panting. “Come on, Ivan!”
Ivan’s thick fingers clamp around Arthur’s thighs, holding him steady as he starts to thrust, gently at first, deliberately, driving in all the way and drawing out slowly. Arthur screws his eyes closed and fists his hands in the crumpled duvet, moaning his appreciation and rocking his body in time to meet Ivan’s hips.
And then Ivan speeds up, shallower, faster thrusts that send Arthur into a frenzy of bucking and arching and cursing. He changes his grip often, fingers sliding as his palms sweat, and the sound of his heavy breathing only makes Arthur want more of him, and faster, and harder. “Ivan! Oh God! More! More! Fuck me!”
Ivan obeys, hips jerking furiously. Arthur opens his eyes for a few seconds to watch him panting and moaning. A bead of sweat trickles down Ivan’s chest, rolling down his sizeable stomach, and-
Arthur cries out, closing his eyes as Ivan grunts and speeds up more, fucking him desperately, hands tight on Arthur’s thighs, so tight it hurts, but Arthur is well beyond caring, cursing and crying out, his body quivering. He’s so close to coming that it almost hurts, and when one last thrust tips him over the edge he is lost in a haze of white-hot pleasure, barely noticing that Ivan is still fucking him.
The feeling of Ivan coming inside him is lost among the other sensations and it’s with muzzy affability that he feels his lover flop down beside him and embrace him, pulling him tight against his strapping body. They kiss lazily and fall asleep, Arthur thinking fond thoughts about Ivan’s sexual prowess and hoping their bosses don’t fall out again for a very, very long time.
He’s a connoisseur of countries, having fucked most of the globe at some point in his life, and yet he always comes back to this – to Ivan. Oh, Francis is entertaining, and Ludwig is adventurous, and even Alfred is eager, but none of them compare to the feeling of being pressed down and pounded into by a solid hulk of a real man.
He moans softly as they lie on Ivan’s bed, kissing and rocking together gently. Ivan is heavy against him, pushing him into the mattress, covering him, pinning him. They are all but naked, the only surviving garments being Ivan’s tight briefs and Arthur’s black socks. Sweat glistens on their skin. They’ve spent the whole evening working slowly up to this, from the moment Arthur stepped over the threshold with a big bottle of Antonio’s finest wine in his hand and delivered the first kiss to Ivan’s cold cheek.
“Ah…mm…Ivan…” Arthur arches, and they both groan appreciatively. “Can we…?”
“Yes…I’ll just…” Ivan gets to his feet and the night air rushes in to fill his place, drying Arthur’s sweat onto his skin. He watches Ivan scuffling through his drawers, biting his lip with eagerness. He’s been looking forward to this for years. He hates it when they’re obliged to be apart because of petty little squabbles between their bosses. He wishes there were more countries with meat on their bones.
Ivan walks back over to him, shedding his underwear without ceremony. Arthur spreads his legs and Ivan kneels between them. They admire each other. Ivan’s eyes sweep the scars decorating Arthur’s chest and flick over his bright, intelligent eyes. Arthur watches Ivan’s huge chest heaving and lifts his hips to invite him to act. “Come on,” He says softly. “Come on.”
Ivan runs one large hand down Arthur’s leg, lifting it and resting it over his shoulder. And then he lifts the other one. And then he opens the tube of lubricant he has in his other hand. And then Arthur closes his eyes.
“Oh sweet God,” He gasps, feeling Ivan’s impressive cock sinking into his body. “Ivan…oh God…” Ivan doesn’t reply but his hitched breathing tells Arthur everything. He shifts his body sharply, panting. “Come on, Ivan!”
Ivan’s thick fingers clamp around Arthur’s thighs, holding him steady as he starts to thrust, gently at first, deliberately, driving in all the way and drawing out slowly. Arthur screws his eyes closed and fists his hands in the crumpled duvet, moaning his appreciation and rocking his body in time to meet Ivan’s hips.
And then Ivan speeds up, shallower, faster thrusts that send Arthur into a frenzy of bucking and arching and cursing. He changes his grip often, fingers sliding as his palms sweat, and the sound of his heavy breathing only makes Arthur want more of him, and faster, and harder. “Ivan! Oh God! More! More! Fuck me!”
Ivan obeys, hips jerking furiously. Arthur opens his eyes for a few seconds to watch him panting and moaning. A bead of sweat trickles down Ivan’s chest, rolling down his sizeable stomach, and-
Arthur cries out, closing his eyes as Ivan grunts and speeds up more, fucking him desperately, hands tight on Arthur’s thighs, so tight it hurts, but Arthur is well beyond caring, cursing and crying out, his body quivering. He’s so close to coming that it almost hurts, and when one last thrust tips him over the edge he is lost in a haze of white-hot pleasure, barely noticing that Ivan is still fucking him.
The feeling of Ivan coming inside him is lost among the other sensations and it’s with muzzy affability that he feels his lover flop down beside him and embrace him, pulling him tight against his strapping body. They kiss lazily and fall asleep, Arthur thinking fond thoughts about Ivan’s sexual prowess and hoping their bosses don’t fall out again for a very, very long time.
HELP YOURSELF TO A GLASS OF INTERNETS, MY FRIEND. BECAUSE THIS WAS THE BEST THING I'VE READ ALL DAY. <3<3<3
No, seriously. This was wonderful. I'm sick to death of the waify Russia constantly depicted as only looking bulky because of his clothes, or writers avoiding physical descriptions of him for just this reason. Russia's hot just the way he is. And so is this. Many kudos to you. :D
No, seriously. This was wonderful. I'm sick to death of the waify Russia constantly depicted as only looking bulky because of his clothes, or writers avoiding physical descriptions of him for just this reason. Russia's hot just the way he is. And so is this. Many kudos to you. :D
hello sexy Ivan, how are you today?
FUCK YES and thank you <3
FUCK YES and thank you <3
I think this might be in my top 3 fills~ so hot (and I totally agree with UK on this one lol)
WOAH
I like Russia ......... but now I WANT RUSSIA THANKS TO THIS
huffhuff
I like Russia ......... but now I WANT RUSSIA THANKS TO THIS
huffhuff
Not that I'm much of a fan of Russia porn, but we all know that the bulk is what makes him so lovable ♥
lkjasldfj.
Guh.
Oh I think we need more sexy sizable Ivan. Oh yes.
Especially with England. >D
Man, it was getting up there, but because of this fic IvanxArthur is quickly becoming my new OTP
Guh.
Oh I think we need more sexy sizable Ivan. Oh yes.
Especially with England. >D
Man, it was getting up there, but because of this fic IvanxArthur is quickly becoming my new OTP
Well, shit. You can have a piece of my soul, author-anon. As this is utterly awesome.
Guh, man. You make me wish that I was Arthur in this. Mmm, hello there, Ivan.
Guh, man. You make me wish that I was Arthur in this. Mmm, hello there, Ivan.
I wish I had something coherent to say after reading this but I don't because that was just so damn hot
Your Ivan is so so hot. And Russia/England is slowly working towards being an OTP now. Much love to you anon <3
Your Ivan is so so hot. And Russia/England is slowly working towards being an OTP now. Much love to you anon <3
Amazing. I had no idea I liked this pairing, but now I know. I'm glad I took the time to read this amazing piece of art <3
So, while doing some researcher on Seychelles for another fill, I came upon some interesting information, namely that the Seychelles Islands were a pirate haven before falling under French control, and became a prison colony after being turned over to the British.
THEREFORE. England/Seychelles, PIRATE-OFF.
Who is the most nefarious, efficient practitioner of piracy? England has experience on his side, but Seychelles was born into it and has natural ability to work with. WHO. WILL. WIN?!
Obnoxious request is obnoxious, but anon would sincerely love for someone to do this. Pretty please?
THEREFORE. England/Seychelles, PIRATE-OFF.
Who is the most nefarious, efficient practitioner of piracy? England has experience on his side, but Seychelles was born into it and has natural ability to work with. WHO. WILL. WIN?!
Obnoxious request is obnoxious, but anon would sincerely love for someone to do this. Pretty please?
S-Somehow, I get the image of both of them fucking the hell out of Spain in order to prove their dominance or something...
SECONDED!
SECONDED!
Russia meeting Anna Anderson (or anyone claiming to be Anastasia, really.) Anon would like to see him having a hard time deciding whether or not to believe her story (but secretly really wanting it to be true.)
Or AU where she IS the real deal. Guilt, angst and possible hurt/comfort for the latter would be awesome.
Or AU where she IS the real deal. Guilt, angst and possible hurt/comfort for the latter would be awesome.
I hope this is what you wanted. This is the AU. Is it bad that I was listening to the song "Servant of Evil" when typing this?
Ivan stared at the old woman sitting in the chair in front of him in disbelief.
"It's been a long time. Hasn't it Ivan Braginski? Or should I say Russia? You haven't aged a day in the last ninety years." said the woman.
"You can't be here...I watched you die!" cried Ivan and then softly, "I watched you all die."
"Ivan! Ivan! Help us please!"
"Ivan! You...You swore to protect us! Why?!"
A sob "I don't want to die! Please don't let them do this Ivan!"
"Ivan..." she started.
"I-I don't know what to say...You must be very angry with me," said Ivan sadly.
Anastasia sighed. "I've stop being angry a long time ago, Ivan. Oh sure, I felt really raw at you, my people, and the world when I woke up in that Lithuanian monastery after all of it was done. I was young. I wanted to get revenge for the deaths of my family. I wanted blood!
...But,I'm getting too old to be carrying a grudge...especially since I've seen how much you have suffered..."
"W-What do you mean,Nastya?" asked Ivan.
Anastasia carefully got up from her chair and walked over to Ivan. She put a hand on both of his cheeks and made him look her in the eyes.
"When I was younger, even when you were playing with Alexei and I, your eyes were so sad. I had asked Olishka why were so sad and she said that you and Toris participated in Bloody Sunday...That must have hurt you so much..." She pulled Ivan into a hug. "You eyes now are all broken...I wish I could do something to help you..."
Ivan began to hug her back. "I only did what the people wanted,Nastya...I'm sorry..."
"It's okay Ivan. I understand. You are the Motherland. You are to protect the people first. I'm just glad to see you, one more time before I die."
"Anastasia..."
Anastasia smiled at Ivan. "We have 90 years of memories and experience to catch up on and not a lot of time to do so. So lets get started,okay?"
And thus ends my fail drabble. Another anon could come and make a better one if they want.
Ivan stared at the old woman sitting in the chair in front of him in disbelief.
"It's been a long time. Hasn't it Ivan Braginski? Or should I say Russia? You haven't aged a day in the last ninety years." said the woman.
"You can't be here...I watched you die!" cried Ivan and then softly, "I watched you all die."
"Ivan! Ivan! Help us please!"
"Ivan! You...You swore to protect us! Why?!"
A sob "I don't want to die! Please don't let them do this Ivan!"
"Ivan..." she started.
"I-I don't know what to say...You must be very angry with me," said Ivan sadly.
Anastasia sighed. "I've stop being angry a long time ago, Ivan. Oh sure, I felt really raw at you, my people, and the world when I woke up in that Lithuanian monastery after all of it was done. I was young. I wanted to get revenge for the deaths of my family. I wanted blood!
...But,I'm getting too old to be carrying a grudge...especially since I've seen how much you have suffered..."
"W-What do you mean,Nastya?" asked Ivan.
Anastasia carefully got up from her chair and walked over to Ivan. She put a hand on both of his cheeks and made him look her in the eyes.
"When I was younger, even when you were playing with Alexei and I, your eyes were so sad. I had asked Olishka why were so sad and she said that you and Toris participated in Bloody Sunday...That must have hurt you so much..." She pulled Ivan into a hug. "You eyes now are all broken...I wish I could do something to help you..."
Ivan began to hug her back. "I only did what the people wanted,Nastya...I'm sorry..."
"It's okay Ivan. I understand. You are the Motherland. You are to protect the people first. I'm just glad to see you, one more time before I die."
"Anastasia..."
Anastasia smiled at Ivan. "We have 90 years of memories and experience to catch up on and not a lot of time to do so. So lets get started,okay?"
And thus ends my fail drabble. Another anon could come and make a better one if they want.
Jesus Christ, that was fast! :D
And it was totally the kind of thing I was looking for. Very sweet, thanks!
And it was totally the kind of thing I was looking for. Very sweet, thanks!
That's so sweet and, well, sad at the same time TT_TT
Thanks for your work, writer!anon!
Thanks for your work, writer!anon!
O-oh, anon. Hetalia has made me start to read about Russia's history again and the Romanov's history has always fascinated me, so. So. ;-; oh God, thank you for writing this.
I want UK meeting the last of his WW1 veterans on their deathbed or when they are very old and telling them who and what he is.
Give me something fluffy, sweet, and sad.
Give me something fluffy, sweet, and sad.
The Last Post (AKA Something that almost resembles a fill)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-06 12:52 am (UTC)(link)i have only very shallow, general info on this, so... please excuse the errors XD
He sits in the uncomfortable chair by the bedside, next to the last survivor of WWI. His stare is absent and directed toward the window. Outside, the charcoal clouds twist and churn, darkening the world.
A feather-light touch on his hand snaps him from his reverie.
"Arthur?"
He smiles kindly. The elderly man's face lights up. "I haven't seen you in so long."
"I'm always here, friend."
"I had thought you'd forgotten about me. About us. But you really are always there, in the end." A weak chuckle escapes his lips.
Arthur encircles the hand, wrinkled and pale and gaunt, with his own, squeezing it reassuringly. "I could never forget."
"It was so long ago... The older I get, the more my mind seems to fly back." His eyelids flutter and Arthur is afraid that he's lost him, too soon, too soon. But they open again and the man frowns. "I can almost taste the blood... It's horrible. I wish I had better memories." The man sighs, a shaky, ragged escape of breath.
Arthur nods. He remembers, too. Burned into his mind, faces, young and terrified, painted with agony and fear. Every advance paid for by the blood of men who shouldn't have had to die. He can remember them all, every family he visited ("Oh, God, no, please...."), every man he stood by ("Are you ready?" "Never."), every single one since his creation (red, red, red, seeping into his lungs, drowning him with the blood of his people and, God, wasn't he supposed to protect them?).
The man's breathing grows erratic, his chest rising and falling and sounding like there's a tin can rattling in his torso.
He holds the memories of every soldier whose ever fought for him close to his heart. It hurts, shards of glass embedded in his chest, but he would rather that than let himself forget.
Arthur squeezes his hand once more, and feels a weak squeeze back, before an empty beeeep sounds throughout the room and he knows he's gone. Arthur closes his eyes but doesn't let go of his hand, not yet.
"Thank you, old friend."
I am a firm believer that heroes are people who sacrifice for a greater good and heroes should never be forgotten, and even more so that wars should never occur in the first place. Can you tell? XD
The Last Post: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Post
I would love if someone wrote a fic that went more in depth on the Last Post
He sits in the uncomfortable chair by the bedside, next to the last survivor of WWI. His stare is absent and directed toward the window. Outside, the charcoal clouds twist and churn, darkening the world.
A feather-light touch on his hand snaps him from his reverie.
"Arthur?"
He smiles kindly. The elderly man's face lights up. "I haven't seen you in so long."
"I'm always here, friend."
"I had thought you'd forgotten about me. About us. But you really are always there, in the end." A weak chuckle escapes his lips.
Arthur encircles the hand, wrinkled and pale and gaunt, with his own, squeezing it reassuringly. "I could never forget."
"It was so long ago... The older I get, the more my mind seems to fly back." His eyelids flutter and Arthur is afraid that he's lost him, too soon, too soon. But they open again and the man frowns. "I can almost taste the blood... It's horrible. I wish I had better memories." The man sighs, a shaky, ragged escape of breath.
Arthur nods. He remembers, too. Burned into his mind, faces, young and terrified, painted with agony and fear. Every advance paid for by the blood of men who shouldn't have had to die. He can remember them all, every family he visited ("Oh, God, no, please...."), every man he stood by ("Are you ready?" "Never."), every single one since his creation (red, red, red, seeping into his lungs, drowning him with the blood of his people and, God, wasn't he supposed to protect them?).
The man's breathing grows erratic, his chest rising and falling and sounding like there's a tin can rattling in his torso.
He holds the memories of every soldier whose ever fought for him close to his heart. It hurts, shards of glass embedded in his chest, but he would rather that than let himself forget.
Arthur squeezes his hand once more, and feels a weak squeeze back, before an empty beeeep sounds throughout the room and he knows he's gone. Arthur closes his eyes but doesn't let go of his hand, not yet.
"Thank you, old friend."
I am a firm believer that heroes are people who sacrifice for a greater good and heroes should never be forgotten, and even more so that wars should never occur in the first place. Can you tell? XD
The Last Post: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Post
England+America&Canada
(Sorry for the specific-ness!! *winces*)
Set back in the colonial days: When England comes over for a visit someone mistakes him for a rich landowner/settler/whatever and kidnaps little America and Canada for ransom. England goes crazy overprotective Daddy on the kidnapper’s ass and beats the shit out of him. Please! England needs to kick some butt!
(Sorry for the specific-ness!! *winces*)
Set back in the colonial days: When England comes over for a visit someone mistakes him for a rich landowner/settler/whatever and kidnaps little America and Canada for ransom. England goes crazy overprotective Daddy on the kidnapper’s ass and beats the shit out of him. Please! England needs to kick some butt!
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5527511#t5527511
Anyone/Poland (except for Liet, the poor guy doesn't need any more stress)
Poland in his fabulous Santa-clothes. (http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/1052294.html) Smut very much appreciated! <3
Hetalia verison of Shugo Chara.
Anon can decide the characters, except UK has to be Utau and N.Italy has to be Yaya.
Anon can decide the characters, except UK has to be Utau and N.Italy has to be Yaya.
Italy has garlic breath and doesn't notice/mind.
Germany has onion breath and doesn't notice/mind.
:( This makes kissing challenging. Lulz please.
Germany has onion breath and doesn't notice/mind.
:( This makes kissing challenging. Lulz please.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=1080184
It was actually a very nice establishment, even done up as it was. Faux-Egyptian was a tad ridiculous in Chicago, England thought.
Then again, England had always though the phrase, ‘a tad ridiculous’ suited America perfectly. Even this speakeasy’s décor hadn’t outdone America’s cowboy days.
“England! Glad you could make it for a drink!”
While England did look at his watch first to make sure (America was known to be on time occasionally), a remark on the other nation’s lateness was on his tongue already when America plunked down next to him.
It died a silent and forgettable death in favor of a startled, “What are you wearing?!”
The jacket was typical of America- he’d probably never outgrow wearing one kind or another- but England had never seen him in a woman’s fur coat. Also familiar were the glasses, although the frames were new.
The green hat was new too - England believed the style was called cloche- but it was the matching dress underneath the jacket that was increasing his heart rate. Due to shock at the impropriety, of course.
He managed to pull his eyes from the hemline back up to America’s gaze. America, for his part, was looking at him in confusion.
It was actually a very nice establishment, even done up as it was. Faux-Egyptian was a tad ridiculous in Chicago, England thought.
Then again, England had always though the phrase, ‘a tad ridiculous’ suited America perfectly. Even this speakeasy’s décor hadn’t outdone America’s cowboy days.
“England! Glad you could make it for a drink!”
While England did look at his watch first to make sure (America was known to be on time occasionally), a remark on the other nation’s lateness was on his tongue already when America plunked down next to him.
It died a silent and forgettable death in favor of a startled, “What are you wearing?!”
The jacket was typical of America- he’d probably never outgrow wearing one kind or another- but England had never seen him in a woman’s fur coat. Also familiar were the glasses, although the frames were new.
The green hat was new too - England believed the style was called cloche- but it was the matching dress underneath the jacket that was increasing his heart rate. Due to shock at the impropriety, of course.
He managed to pull his eyes from the hemline back up to America’s gaze. America, for his part, was looking at him in confusion.
Re: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-11 02:50 am (UTC)(link)“A dress,” he said, “The girls on your side of the pond wear them too, you know- I’d have figured you knew what they were-”
Exasperation finally forced England’s composure (partly) back into place, and he interrupted sharply, “Yes, alright, I know what it is, but why are you wearing it?” England knew he was starting to flush, and blamed it completely on the embarrassment he felt for his shameless former colony.
America beamed.
“Loosen up, will ya? I represent them too, ‘specially after the 19th passed. Besides, it’s fun.”
England sputtered (although he’d deny anything so undignified later) and managed, “But you’re in a dress! In public!” Actually, he wasn’t sure if the speakeasy exactly counted as public, but- well- it was close enough!
America frowned at him, which made England realize (bloody dim lighting) that he was also wearing make-up.
“So are they,” America started to say, gesturing to a group of women at the bar- or so England assumed he would have said and gestured, but both were cut off as a crafty look came into America’s eyes.
England did not like that look. Particularly paired with horn-rimmed glasses.
“‘In public,’ huh?” America said. Smiling, he leaned forward and asked cheekily, “So, what about private?”
Exasperation finally forced England’s composure (partly) back into place, and he interrupted sharply, “Yes, alright, I know what it is, but why are you wearing it?” England knew he was starting to flush, and blamed it completely on the embarrassment he felt for his shameless former colony.
America beamed.
“Loosen up, will ya? I represent them too, ‘specially after the 19th passed. Besides, it’s fun.”
England sputtered (although he’d deny anything so undignified later) and managed, “But you’re in a dress! In public!” Actually, he wasn’t sure if the speakeasy exactly counted as public, but- well- it was close enough!
America frowned at him, which made England realize (bloody dim lighting) that he was also wearing make-up.
“So are they,” America started to say, gesturing to a group of women at the bar- or so England assumed he would have said and gestured, but both were cut off as a crafty look came into America’s eyes.
England did not like that look. Particularly paired with horn-rimmed glasses.
“‘In public,’ huh?” America said. Smiling, he leaned forward and asked cheekily, “So, what about private?”
Re: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-11 02:51 am (UTC)(link)America’s body was not built with even the minimal curvature required to support that kind of dress, and England tried to ignore the way this gave him a shadowed view down the other nation’s torso when he was leaned over like that. He partially succeeded, but the indecency of it was distractingly appalling. Truly.
“That’s- I- well,” England groped for words, and fell back on an old phrase. Not quite intended for this usage, but Elizabeth had rarely steered him wrong. Gathering his poise, he met America’s gaze as resolutely as he could and said primly, “I don’t desire to make windows into people’s private lives.”
America only smiled, and moved back to his original place. England was about to sigh in relief when America stood and tugged at England’s arm.
“I’ve got some hooch at home,” he said easily, and grinned. Unsure at this turn of events, England stood as well, America’s hand still on his elbow. Before he could shake him off (he did not need to be escorted, thank you) America used his grip to pull England’s body to his own.
“And, since you’re so fond of dresses- in private only, of course- the bank ain’t closed.”
England might not have quite kept up on all of America’s recent slang, but the meaning was very, very clear in context.
((AN: The bank phrase isn’t actually entirely accurate- a woman would say, ‘the bank’s closed’ to a man to indicate that she didn’t want to have sex, so I altered it to mean the opposite. No explicit sex, but I hope OP enjoyed?))
“That’s- I- well,” England groped for words, and fell back on an old phrase. Not quite intended for this usage, but Elizabeth had rarely steered him wrong. Gathering his poise, he met America’s gaze as resolutely as he could and said primly, “I don’t desire to make windows into people’s private lives.”
America only smiled, and moved back to his original place. England was about to sigh in relief when America stood and tugged at England’s arm.
“I’ve got some hooch at home,” he said easily, and grinned. Unsure at this turn of events, England stood as well, America’s hand still on his elbow. Before he could shake him off (he did not need to be escorted, thank you) America used his grip to pull England’s body to his own.
“And, since you’re so fond of dresses- in private only, of course- the bank ain’t closed.”
England might not have quite kept up on all of America’s recent slang, but the meaning was very, very clear in context.
((AN: The bank phrase isn’t actually entirely accurate- a woman would say, ‘the bank’s closed’ to a man to indicate that she didn’t want to have sex, so I altered it to mean the opposite. No explicit sex, but I hope OP enjoyed?))
Re: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-11 03:25 am (UTC)(link)Not OP, but anon sure as hell enjoyed it!! :D!! LORD! That was kinky and CUTE... you made the make up and the dress seem natural and hot damn... excellent historical slang refs and just great job
Re: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-11 03:46 pm (UTC)(link)Oh wow! The way you write England is wonderful.
Re: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-31 06:15 pm (UTC)(link)This was wonderful, thank you!
Female countries gather about and do each other's hair, clothes and make-up. To impress their guy.
(c'mon, we need SOME het around here folks ;D)
Included: Hungary, Seychelles, Belarus, Ukraine, Belgium, Vietnam, Taiwan, Lichenstein
Their guys can be whomever anon wants to be.
Please make use of all things GIRLY! <3
(c'mon, we need SOME het around here folks ;D)
Included: Hungary, Seychelles, Belarus, Ukraine, Belgium, Vietnam, Taiwan, Lichenstein
Their guys can be whomever anon wants to be.
Please make use of all things GIRLY! <3
US and UK bickering over fictional detectives. Like UK has Sherlock Holmes while US has Colombo..? Make it lulzy, Anon.
... This idea... is proof of why you shouldn't be doing your Ancient Greece literature report at 1 A.M
Greece/Mama Greece - Oedipus complex
Nuff said.
Greece/Mama Greece - Oedipus complex
Nuff said.
ALDKFJLSDJ.
Oh. My. God.
Totally de-lurking to comment on this.
Oh the SMUT I friggin' love you.
Oh. My. God.
Totally de-lurking to comment on this.
Oh the SMUT I friggin' love you.
"Yes you like my statue of liberty, don't you bitch?"
"Oh America," England cried out "I love how you fuck my arsehole. Please, fill it with your American cum!"
Like a glorious soldier on a mighty white stallion, America ejaculated his semen into England's most secret depths. Like a windmill, he blasted the wind out of his lover.
England could only scream and shed grateful tears for the best fuck he ever received for centuries. The end.
America clicked on the reply button to submit his fill to the international porn challenge. He only had to wait for a few minutes until his inbox was flooded.
"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU GITFACE
Fuck you,
-England"
"This piece of shit was so horrible that I'll be crying forever. Don't quit your day job. On second thought, please do, you failure.
Still crying,
-Prussia"
"ur ficcie was so hawttt. It taught me lots of things about sex cuz I'm still a virgin hehe. Teh last bit was touching ;_;
squee~,
-Italy"
"What.
Requesting for a scientific answer,
-Germany"
"Windmills do not work that way!!!
-Belgium"
"No offense, but you really need to get laid
Seriously,
-Greece"
"If I will never be able to get it up again, I'm blaming your libido-murdering story and then I'm gonna CUT YOU.
Die,
-Turkey"
"My my, America. You really shouldn't be promoting unprotected sex, you know. Unless you have finally given up on finding those extra-small condoms.
kolkolkolkol,
-Russia"
"How? Oh distant and uncaring God, how can You allow this filthy terror to find purchase on a fertile earth?!
Dying inside,
-Belarus"
"Needs more tentacles.
Love,
-
"ALDKFJLSDJ.
Oh. My. God.
Totally de-lurking to comment on this.
Oh the SMUT I friggin' love you.
Amour,
-France"
ha..ha..HAHAHA!!! brb rotflmao forever
OH GOD, I LOVE THIS MEME. WHAT THE SHIT, THIS IS SO FUCKING HILARIOUS.
FUCK, MY STOMACH IS HURTING.
FUCK, MY STOMACH IS HURTING.
BEST. COMMENTBOX'D. RESPONSE. EVER.
You, sir, winz teh internet! XDD
You, sir, winz teh internet! XDD
/DEAD
YOU WIN EVERYTHING SFDLKJJKLFSLKJFLS
YOU WIN EVERYTHING SFDLKJJKLFSLKJFLS
ASDFGHJKL OH GAWD ANON ILUFOREVER~ ROFL.
"Anon, I think I died a little.
Like, totally LOL'ing,
-Anon"
Like, totally LOL'ing,
-Anon"
Feliks you are being too obvious! Learn how to anon, aru!
Shut up! Oh my Gawd, Yao! You're like, totally giving it away!
OH I KNEW LURKING HERE WOULD MAKE ME FEEL BETTER ABOUT MY AWFUL DAY BUT.
OH ANON, YOU. YOU. YOU MADE ME LAUGH SO HARD WHEN THE ONLY THING I WANTED TO DO WAS LIE IN BED AND SLEEP FOREVER
sklfdskfnhl THANK YOU.
/brb LOLing forever
OH ANON, YOU. YOU. YOU MADE ME LAUGH SO HARD WHEN THE ONLY THING I WANTED TO DO WAS LIE IN BED AND SLEEP FOREVER
sklfdskfnhl THANK YOU.
/brb LOLing forever
"Windmills do not work that way!!!" and "libido-murdering story "
Best lines ever. Srsly. XDDD Kink meme needs to have more crack fics!
Best lines ever. Srsly. XDDD Kink meme needs to have more crack fics!
OH GOD I HURT I CAN'T BREATHE YES
ANON ILU LONG TIEM
(reCaptcha says "in Caldwell" - sounds like a perfect place to consummate our union! :D)
ANON ILU LONG TIEM
(reCaptcha says "in Caldwell" - sounds like a perfect place to consummate our union! :D)
WINDMILLS DO NOT WORK THAT WAY!
thank fuck nobody is home or they would wonder why I just started LAUGHING
dear beautiful anon, please, please don't ever change
thank fuck nobody is home or they would wonder why I just started LAUGHING
dear beautiful anon, please, please don't ever change
...what is this I don't even
My face hurts. I love you anon. Like. A lot. I LOVE YOU THIS IS THE MOST BRILLIANT THING EVER WHAT.
My face hurts. I love you anon. Like. A lot. I LOVE YOU THIS IS THE MOST BRILLIANT THING EVER WHAT.
You know what the best part was? The fact that America actually ended it with 'the end.' That's just brilliant. No one does that anymore.
So true at least Francis love it. I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING.
THIS.
OH GOD, THIS.
ANON, YOU ROCK SO HARD. >XD
OH GOD, THIS.
ANON, YOU ROCK SO HARD. >XD
ADF[JADSF'AH;AD'G;ASF;SDFHASFHRPAF T 24
OH GOD.
I SWEAR, THAT MADE MY DAY.
i feel like an idiot sitting here and laughing at my laptop.
BUT I FUCKING LOVE IT.
OH GOD, RUSSIAS, BELGIUM, TURKEYY.
OH GOD.
I SWEAR, THAT MADE MY DAY.
i feel like an idiot sitting here and laughing at my laptop.
BUT I FUCKING LOVE IT.
OH GOD, RUSSIAS, BELGIUM, TURKEYY.
OMG, this is the best fic ever.
Where's the first commenter (i.e. France), i would like to hear his/her opinion???
Where's the first commenter (i.e. France), i would like to hear his/her opinion???
Oh god I laughed so hard I peed myself a little.
Japan and Turkey.
Japan and Turkey.
*insert keysmash here*
ANON. YOU WIN THE INTERNET.
omg Japan XDDDD
*rocking back and forth dying of laughter*
ANON. YOU WIN THE INTERNET.
omg Japan XDDDD
*rocking back and forth dying of laughter*
I'm sorry, I think I just woke up my whole house.
Utter brilliance. I still can't breathe... it's been, like, what ten minutes OHFUCK.
Utter brilliance. I still can't breathe... it's been, like, what ten minutes OHFUCK.
Anyone/teenage Sealand, Sealand as an aggressive/demanding uke
Bonus points for UK, America or Canada (incest-kink?)
...
or Russia >.>;
Bonus points for UK, America or Canada (incest-kink?)
...
or Russia >.>;
Both China and France topping Russia.
Double penetration.
*hides now*
Double penetration.
*hides now*
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