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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?"
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? :)
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.”
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.”
~*~
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~~~~~
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.”
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.
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.
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 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) - 2009-03-11 03:25 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) - 2009-03-11 15:46 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Part 1 Fill, Flapper America, Improper in Public, 2/3
(Anonymous) - 2009-03-31 18:15 (UTC) - ExpandFemale 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"
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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