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UK/Younger!HK
England's bithday is coming up soon and Hong Kong wants to get him something, but isn't sure of what his "Dad" likes. Ends up snooping around under England's bed and finds some weird magazines with a bunch of slutty maids, and a peticular magazine catches his eye. It's a bunch of cosplay maids in there and Hong Kong decides that he'll wear one of those outfits and become a maid for England's birthday seeing how much England likes maids.
Bonus : If Hong Kong calls England "Master" And Enland gets a bit aroused at name and the outfit Hong Kong is in.
Extra Bonua : If there ends up being some Shota!Molestaion And Hong Kong wearing frilly panties!You know want it too.
Sorry for being so specfic!But this anon is a greedy anon!
For now! I shall be looking for some requests to fill!
England's bithday is coming up soon and Hong Kong wants to get him something, but isn't sure of what his "Dad" likes. Ends up snooping around under England's bed and finds some weird magazines with a bunch of slutty maids, and a peticular magazine catches his eye. It's a bunch of cosplay maids in there and Hong Kong decides that he'll wear one of those outfits and become a maid for England's birthday seeing how much England likes maids.
Bonus : If Hong Kong calls England "Master" And Enland gets a bit aroused at name and the outfit Hong Kong is in.
Extra Bonua : If there ends up being some Shota!Molestaion And Hong Kong wearing frilly panties!
Sorry for being so specfic!
For now! I shall be looking for some requests to fill!
Rick Mercer hanging out with Canada, because that's basically what he does for a living, along with bothering Canadian Prime Ministers and Americans.
Bonus points if you add in America, and references to past Rick Mercer Reports.
Mercer: Hey Canada! Remember when I got all those Politicians and the Prime Minister to keep saying dude?
Canada:...I still can't believe you did that. Heh heh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdjNdQcOoHg&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FGIQpdtS_Y
Bonus points if you add in America, and references to past Rick Mercer Reports.
Mercer: Hey Canada! Remember when I got all those Politicians and the Prime Minister to keep saying dude?
Canada:...I still can't believe you did that. Heh heh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdjNdQcOoHg&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FGIQpdtS_Y
US/UK/US, embarrassed!Alfred: UK telling a bunch of really embarrassing stories about America when he was a kid. OP only wants humor and a humiliated US, but if anon can fit smut in there, that would be just fine. ; )
Bonus if you fit Canada in there.
Bonus if you fit Canada in there.
The bartender always knew it would be an interesting night whenever those two came in. Coming in, they seemed normal enough; two young guys roughly the same age, military or government employees from the looks of them and the threads of their conversations. There was also a strange tension between them that betrayed what he suspected to be homosexual feelings between them, but he still wasn't sure if they were actually a gay couple or just really repressed. He had long since decided it was better not to ask, because, well, after a few drinks, the British one started getting a little odd, even for a drunk.
"-they could just fuck off for all I care. No one takes responsibility anymore, that's why we're in this shit." He poked the taller man in the chest. "Centuries ago, I'd have their heads on a block and be done with it."
That one was called Arthur. When sober, he was the more composed of the two. Alcohol quickly changed that.
"Well, that isn't an option." The taller one, Alfred, was American, and built like a football quarterback. He smiled a lot.
"Regardless, there must be more done to discourage this shit than just a little slap on the wrist. This is just like that decade when you started puberty and thought nothing of masturbating in public even when I told you it wasn't acceptable behavior."
The smile on Alfred's face had frozen unnaturally.
"Oh, those people were mortified," Arthur met the bartender's eyes and laughed. "I had to pull my rank or he would've been flogged in the square several times over. Maybe he would've learned his lesson much sooner, but I always did spoil the ungrateful child."
"Arthur..." Alfred hissed, still smiling.
"I didn't realize I had a problem until I caught him and his brother jerking each other off." Arthur said mirthfully, taking another drink. "There they were on the bed going at it like-"
"Arthur! That's enou-"
"Right. So that's when I finally put America-"
"Alfred." He was cowered into his templed hands.
"Right, I finally put Alfred here over my knee and whipped his little bottom myself. He cried and cried, but a father must be firm, you know. And sure enough, problem solved itself."
Slowly, Alfred looked up from his hands and over at Arthur. He was no longer smiling. "Can we change the subject now?"
Arthur nodded into his drink. "I did move the boys into their own rooms after that. Unfortunately they were both still wetting the bed on occasion, so that was more to clean for a few years."
"You aren't changing the subject."
Leaning forward so close that their noses were practically touching, Arthur gave Alfred an exasperated look. "I heard you. I'm just finishing the story for the good man. It's called being polite." He pulled back and looked at the bartender with a suffering look.
"Kids." Arthur finished his drink and wobbled off the chair. Then he tugged on Alfred's jacket sleeve and held on. "Come on, you rude ingrate," he said with renewed enthusiasm. "Let's go back to your place so you can fuck me."
With a growling huff of a sigh, Alfred let himself be pulled along without a word, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. His face was burning red as they walked out the door.
The bartender collected the empty glasses they had left behind. Well, that was one mystery solved. As strange as they were, at least it was never boring when they dropped in.
"-they could just fuck off for all I care. No one takes responsibility anymore, that's why we're in this shit." He poked the taller man in the chest. "Centuries ago, I'd have their heads on a block and be done with it."
That one was called Arthur. When sober, he was the more composed of the two. Alcohol quickly changed that.
"Well, that isn't an option." The taller one, Alfred, was American, and built like a football quarterback. He smiled a lot.
"Regardless, there must be more done to discourage this shit than just a little slap on the wrist. This is just like that decade when you started puberty and thought nothing of masturbating in public even when I told you it wasn't acceptable behavior."
The smile on Alfred's face had frozen unnaturally.
"Oh, those people were mortified," Arthur met the bartender's eyes and laughed. "I had to pull my rank or he would've been flogged in the square several times over. Maybe he would've learned his lesson much sooner, but I always did spoil the ungrateful child."
"Arthur..." Alfred hissed, still smiling.
"I didn't realize I had a problem until I caught him and his brother jerking each other off." Arthur said mirthfully, taking another drink. "There they were on the bed going at it like-"
"Arthur! That's enou-"
"Right. So that's when I finally put America-"
"Alfred." He was cowered into his templed hands.
"Right, I finally put Alfred here over my knee and whipped his little bottom myself. He cried and cried, but a father must be firm, you know. And sure enough, problem solved itself."
Slowly, Alfred looked up from his hands and over at Arthur. He was no longer smiling. "Can we change the subject now?"
Arthur nodded into his drink. "I did move the boys into their own rooms after that. Unfortunately they were both still wetting the bed on occasion, so that was more to clean for a few years."
"You aren't changing the subject."
Leaning forward so close that their noses were practically touching, Arthur gave Alfred an exasperated look. "I heard you. I'm just finishing the story for the good man. It's called being polite." He pulled back and looked at the bartender with a suffering look.
"Kids." Arthur finished his drink and wobbled off the chair. Then he tugged on Alfred's jacket sleeve and held on. "Come on, you rude ingrate," he said with renewed enthusiasm. "Let's go back to your place so you can fuck me."
With a growling huff of a sigh, Alfred let himself be pulled along without a word, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. His face was burning red as they walked out the door.
The bartender collected the empty glasses they had left behind. Well, that was one mystery solved. As strange as they were, at least it was never boring when they dropped in.
Why the hell not. Let's have some crack, anons.
There must be an explanation to the presence of this alien sometime in the future, but for now we'll just have to speculate it in the light of America's secret hobby...
There must be an explanation to the presence of this alien sometime in the future, but for now we'll just have to speculate it in the light of America's secret hobby...
Noooot sure if this has been requested before, but here goes...
Explore the concept of Greece's double-curl. Doesn't need a pairing, but can include one.
Explore the concept of Greece's double-curl. Doesn't need a pairing, but can include one.
US is fucking Matt Damon, so UK starts fucking Ben Affleck.
on the bed, on the floor, on a towel by the door, in the tub, in the car, up against the minibar
on the bed, on the floor, on a towel by the door, in the tub, in the car, up against the minibar
THIS.
I SECOND THIS.
SJLFJDSKLJFKSDFKLJKU
SO BADLY.
I SECOND THIS.
SJLFJDSKLJFKSDFKLJKU
SO BADLY.
Austria/Hungary - wedding anniversary. Since it listed in Hungary's profile.. a fic about what they do to celebrate the event, pls. Dinner, movie, sexxings... etc
based on http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Litbel
Liet's deep dark secret that he never ever brings up....ever:
Liet's short lasting marriage to Belarus.
super duper angsty because what ultimately broke the union was Lithuanian
independence while Belarus remained with Russia.
Liet's deep dark secret that he never ever brings up....ever:
Liet's short lasting marriage to Belarus.
super duper angsty because what ultimately broke the union was Lithuanian
independence while Belarus remained with Russia.
It was bliss, it was like the sudden lucky break, that sudden time where a spot of sun peaks out from behind rain clouds before disappearing again.
It was happiness, short termed happiness, like the delicious flavor of snow as it starts to fall, leaving a soft content air. But the snow would soon melt, revealing the dirty brown of the group, where grass refuses to grow again.
He proceeded everyday in a dreamlike state, even though he never dropped a single dish or even though he never made a complaint, his speech was slow, and his eyes were glassy as if he was somewhere else. Somewhere happier.
His brothers all noticed the change. Before, he would always give them a smile whenever he walked past, and they would draw courage from him. Now he just wanders around, like a ghost. He hasn’t slept for days.
He had been looking down at the ground, afraid to see what was in her eyes. But he summoned up all his courage and lifted his head to gaze at her. His breath caught in his throat.
His emerald eyes were filled with tears and swirled with a combination of disbelief, anger, fear, love... but the thing that tore at him the most was the pure agony screaming out of those cloudy blue orbs.
He gripped her hand tight in his own, as if it would stop her from leaving.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky with empty eyes, feeling a breeze ruffle his hair gently as her image floated through his mind.
Hiser slim frame shook as he wept silently in his bed. He missed her so much. His heart ached with a dull pain and he hugged a corner of his blanket to himself, trying, squeezing his eyes shut and imagining his arms around her.
“Don’t leave me...” He heard himself saying over and over again, until it had become a ritual, something said everyday to drive away the endless pain.
He could still see her, her smile light.
Very, very gently, she eased her hand out of his grasp and his palm closed around air. He sucked in a slow breath. Time seemed to stop ticking and his heart stopped with it. In that moment, he knew that he had died.
He had died, maybe not physically but mentally.
He pressed his wet cheek to his pillow and sighed, finally closing his eyes from exhaustion. His brow furrowed as he was soon lost in the realm of dreams, where he saw her everywhere he went and he mumbled her name as he tried to fall into a dreamless sleep.
He had never been so sure of anything in his life. He gave up. Now that he finally came to terms with the fact that she loved someone else, there was no need for him to continue on.
She had been all he had, the reason for him to breathe. She was his sun, his light, his star, his love. Without her, he was nothing.
A short laugh escaped mouth, startling his younger brothers. It was quite ironic, he realized. That she never really had even liked her. But they had been the highlights of his day, when she pretended to smile for him.
It was quite a perfect relationship, but because of careless words, and even careless actions, it was dissolved.
And when it finally ended, it sent him into cyclical spirals of sadness and hope and memory, of a terrible bone-weary nostalgia; it sent him crashing to the earth only to have him rebuild his wings, fly too close to the sun, sink beneath the ocean until he had the strength to try again.
January, with its increasing instability, stole from me that field on the edge of time: a hand held fast in his, and a double heartbeat singing through his veins.
He knew he never should have fallen in love. He knew that he should have never fallen in love with her.
He knew that she hated him. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that she was just listening to her older brother. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that they were only temporary, that that she was used to control him. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that she was too good for him. She was rich, and beautiful. She was strong. He was none of those things. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
But he did.
He did, and in those short happy months.
It was bliss for him.
It was happiness, short termed happiness, like the delicious flavor of snow as it starts to fall, leaving a soft content air. But the snow would soon melt, revealing the dirty brown of the group, where grass refuses to grow again.
He proceeded everyday in a dreamlike state, even though he never dropped a single dish or even though he never made a complaint, his speech was slow, and his eyes were glassy as if he was somewhere else. Somewhere happier.
His brothers all noticed the change. Before, he would always give them a smile whenever he walked past, and they would draw courage from him. Now he just wanders around, like a ghost. He hasn’t slept for days.
He had been looking down at the ground, afraid to see what was in her eyes. But he summoned up all his courage and lifted his head to gaze at her. His breath caught in his throat.
His emerald eyes were filled with tears and swirled with a combination of disbelief, anger, fear, love... but the thing that tore at him the most was the pure agony screaming out of those cloudy blue orbs.
He gripped her hand tight in his own, as if it would stop her from leaving.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky with empty eyes, feeling a breeze ruffle his hair gently as her image floated through his mind.
Hiser slim frame shook as he wept silently in his bed. He missed her so much. His heart ached with a dull pain and he hugged a corner of his blanket to himself, trying, squeezing his eyes shut and imagining his arms around her.
“Don’t leave me...” He heard himself saying over and over again, until it had become a ritual, something said everyday to drive away the endless pain.
He could still see her, her smile light.
Very, very gently, she eased her hand out of his grasp and his palm closed around air. He sucked in a slow breath. Time seemed to stop ticking and his heart stopped with it. In that moment, he knew that he had died.
He had died, maybe not physically but mentally.
He pressed his wet cheek to his pillow and sighed, finally closing his eyes from exhaustion. His brow furrowed as he was soon lost in the realm of dreams, where he saw her everywhere he went and he mumbled her name as he tried to fall into a dreamless sleep.
He had never been so sure of anything in his life. He gave up. Now that he finally came to terms with the fact that she loved someone else, there was no need for him to continue on.
She had been all he had, the reason for him to breathe. She was his sun, his light, his star, his love. Without her, he was nothing.
A short laugh escaped mouth, startling his younger brothers. It was quite ironic, he realized. That she never really had even liked her. But they had been the highlights of his day, when she pretended to smile for him.
It was quite a perfect relationship, but because of careless words, and even careless actions, it was dissolved.
And when it finally ended, it sent him into cyclical spirals of sadness and hope and memory, of a terrible bone-weary nostalgia; it sent him crashing to the earth only to have him rebuild his wings, fly too close to the sun, sink beneath the ocean until he had the strength to try again.
January, with its increasing instability, stole from me that field on the edge of time: a hand held fast in his, and a double heartbeat singing through his veins.
He knew he never should have fallen in love. He knew that he should have never fallen in love with her.
He knew that she hated him. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that she was just listening to her older brother. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that they were only temporary, that that she was used to control him. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
He knew that she was too good for him. She was rich, and beautiful. She was strong. He was none of those things. He should have known that he should have never fallen in love.
But he did.
He did, and in those short happy months.
It was bliss for him.
why is there not enough france/spain
i swear, they have had quite the history. seriously.
anything having do to with the war of spanish succession.
i'm sure someone could do something interesting with it, they almost combined france and spain. and i don't want to see lovey-dovey please, i want raw, real feelings. since those times were more of war, i want rough.
let's have some sex in this haha (:
but that's up to you really, since i'm just interested in seeing something real good, sex wouldn't hurt.
so let's go, rough, biting, bruising, dubcon sorta goodness.
france taking advantage of spain, yeahh.
i swear, they have had quite the history. seriously.
anything having do to with the war of spanish succession.
i'm sure someone could do something interesting with it, they almost combined france and spain. and i don't want to see lovey-dovey please, i want raw, real feelings. since those times were more of war, i want rough.
let's have some sex in this haha (:
but that's up to you really, since i'm just interested in seeing something real good, sex wouldn't hurt.
so let's go, rough, biting, bruising, dubcon sorta goodness.
france taking advantage of spain, yeahh.
Anon is thinking that this fill probably answers this request too:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=555896#t555896
(Anon thinks this may be a bit too… gruesome? wrong? historically inept? all of the above? Hopefully, OP will like it anyway because 1) anon made a mental checklist of what OP wanted to see; and 2) anon is also trying to gather more love for france/spain.)
Two Drops of Blood on a Ray of Sunshine
The weapon he carried was sticky and dirtied with blood and chaos. His garments, battle regalia in all its glory, were torn in several places, wounds apparent from the blood that soaked the tattered cloths. There was a cut above his brow rendered by a sharp sword. It swelled with the red liquid that flowed seamlessly down the side of his face, passing his jaw and dripping down his chin. Each droplet found its way to his olive-toned chest which was exposed due to the slice of a blade too late to render any damage to anything other than the yellow silk ribbons that once decorated his shirt. The ever-present cross on his chest gleamed even in the absence of the cheery sky above, but it too was not spared from being stained red.
His breaths were quick, shallow and ragged, his face determined and rebellious as his stance remained defensive if not weakened after his efforts to fight the endless war before him. He was losing this battle within his own kingdom and the dominion of kingdoms wanting a piece of him, but he was still a sight to behold.
“Just like old times,” Francis murmured as he observed the vision his younger brother made, a vision he himself did not cause upon the other. His own blond locks fluttered in the wind, sticking to the sweat on his face to obscure his view for the moment.
“You plotted with England to disseminate my empire.”
Antonio was angry, the rage on his face showing as his grip on his weapon tightened. It was obvious that he was not too keen on relinquishing his territories and that included the one both Francis and Roderick had their eyes on - Italy, or more particularly, the South of Italy.
“You’re misconstruing a treaty for a plot,” Francis responded, gloved hand tucking his wayward strands behind his ear. “Your childless king is dead,” he said next as if to remind him of the reason why this had all happened.
The sudden proclamation did not cause Antonio’s stance to falter. Instead, he stood his ground despite the ensuing battle behind him. His king had just passed away without a proper heir and although his will left little doubt of who was to succeed him, his people were still divided amongst themselves. It was either a Bourbon or a Habsburg, the French or the Austrians both of whom wanted more than he was willing to give.
“Your dead king chose the French,” Francis reminded him. The victory in those words felt superficial at best. Antonio had yet to succumb to the reality. It was evident by the smell of blood against blood, the sight of dead carcasses quickly piling up in the battlefield, and the screams of fury surrounding them.
“Choosing the French entails going to war with the Austrians,” Antonio said as he made his first move with a downward swing of his heavy axe.
Francis, about a hair away from being chopped in half, moved swiftly enough so that he would not get hit. He grinned when he tasted the blood that dripped from his forehead down his nose. It mirrored Antonio’s own wound.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=555896#t555896
(Anon thinks this may be a bit too… gruesome? wrong? historically inept? all of the above? Hopefully, OP will like it anyway because 1) anon made a mental checklist of what OP wanted to see; and 2) anon is also trying to gather more love for france/spain.)
Two Drops of Blood on a Ray of Sunshine
The weapon he carried was sticky and dirtied with blood and chaos. His garments, battle regalia in all its glory, were torn in several places, wounds apparent from the blood that soaked the tattered cloths. There was a cut above his brow rendered by a sharp sword. It swelled with the red liquid that flowed seamlessly down the side of his face, passing his jaw and dripping down his chin. Each droplet found its way to his olive-toned chest which was exposed due to the slice of a blade too late to render any damage to anything other than the yellow silk ribbons that once decorated his shirt. The ever-present cross on his chest gleamed even in the absence of the cheery sky above, but it too was not spared from being stained red.
His breaths were quick, shallow and ragged, his face determined and rebellious as his stance remained defensive if not weakened after his efforts to fight the endless war before him. He was losing this battle within his own kingdom and the dominion of kingdoms wanting a piece of him, but he was still a sight to behold.
“Just like old times,” Francis murmured as he observed the vision his younger brother made, a vision he himself did not cause upon the other. His own blond locks fluttered in the wind, sticking to the sweat on his face to obscure his view for the moment.
“You plotted with England to disseminate my empire.”
Antonio was angry, the rage on his face showing as his grip on his weapon tightened. It was obvious that he was not too keen on relinquishing his territories and that included the one both Francis and Roderick had their eyes on - Italy, or more particularly, the South of Italy.
“You’re misconstruing a treaty for a plot,” Francis responded, gloved hand tucking his wayward strands behind his ear. “Your childless king is dead,” he said next as if to remind him of the reason why this had all happened.
The sudden proclamation did not cause Antonio’s stance to falter. Instead, he stood his ground despite the ensuing battle behind him. His king had just passed away without a proper heir and although his will left little doubt of who was to succeed him, his people were still divided amongst themselves. It was either a Bourbon or a Habsburg, the French or the Austrians both of whom wanted more than he was willing to give.
“Your dead king chose the French,” Francis reminded him. The victory in those words felt superficial at best. Antonio had yet to succumb to the reality. It was evident by the smell of blood against blood, the sight of dead carcasses quickly piling up in the battlefield, and the screams of fury surrounding them.
“Choosing the French entails going to war with the Austrians,” Antonio said as he made his first move with a downward swing of his heavy axe.
Francis, about a hair away from being chopped in half, moved swiftly enough so that he would not get hit. He grinned when he tasted the blood that dripped from his forehead down his nose. It mirrored Antonio’s own wound.
France; being the third wheel. France being extremely bored and lonely, so he decides to visit other countries with significant others and pesters them in their blissful home. Ger/Ita, Swe/Fin, Aus/Hun, Spa/Ita.. any pairings welcome. I just want to see France being his awesome self and tease other countries (out of spite?)
Spain/Romano/Francis
Based on this movie of Epicness:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Killer_Tomatoes_Eat_France
Based on this movie of Epicness:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Killer_Tomatoes_Eat_France
Because there is something seriously wrong with me....
SeychellesxRussia.
Yes. In that order.
France brings a drunken Seychelles to an Allies meeting. Chaos ensues.
Take this where you wish....
BUT.Anon would love you if you include Sey using her hair ribbons as bondage. B3
SeychellesxRussia.
Yes. In that order.
France brings a drunken Seychelles to an Allies meeting. Chaos ensues.
Take this where you wish....
BUT.
HJSKHDFSFJKHDSJK YUS. *A*
Seychelles needs more love NAO.
Seychelles needs more love NAO.
So. I was helping a friend with an assigment and found this quote on the wikipedia article about beijing opera. It's about men playing the roles of women:
Wei Changsheng, a male Dan performer in the Qing court, developed the cai ciao, or "false foot" technique, to simulate the bound feet of women and the characteristic gait that resulted from the practice. The ban on female performers also led to a controversial form of brothel, known as the xianggong tangzi, in which men paid to have sex with young boys dressed as females. Ironically, the performing skills taught to the youths employed in these brothels led many of them to become professional Dan later in life
I don't care if Wikipedia is right or not. Run with this, anon.
Wei Changsheng, a male Dan performer in the Qing court, developed the cai ciao, or "false foot" technique, to simulate the bound feet of women and the characteristic gait that resulted from the practice. The ban on female performers also led to a controversial form of brothel, known as the xianggong tangzi, in which men paid to have sex with young boys dressed as females. Ironically, the performing skills taught to the youths employed in these brothels led many of them to become professional Dan later in life
I don't care if Wikipedia is right or not. Run with this, anon.
Kiku glanced about the lavishly decorated room - a little too lavishly, for his tastes; sprays of silk flowers, unfading even in the cold winter, adorned ornately carved furniture. The young boy was nevertheless awed; he'd come seeking the finer things in life with which to display his growing refinement and power, and though he'd never admit to it, he could think of no better person at the moment than his mentor, China. Yao had happily accepted his 'younger brother's' request for visitation at his siyu, signing his letter with elegant, calligraphic cursive script alongside the standard traditional.
At the moment, however, Yao was nowhere to be seen, so Kiku settled himself to admiring the intricate embroidery strung through every square inch of silk in the room, especially the golden phoenixes flying in place upon glistening crimson fabric draping the decadent bed.
"Ah, you've arrived, aru! Sincere apologies for not greeting you more promptly," Yao called warmly from the behind the room divider, his silhouette cloaked by the clothes slung over its top. "Something abrupt came up - I hope you don't mind that I have another guest over at the moment, aru."
Something about the voice disturbed Kiku - there was a air of almost languor he'd never recalled hearing from the elder Asian, and it did not sit well. However, he shoved the thought aside, adopting his usual business-like mentality. "No," he replied disinterestedly, "It doesn't matter to me."
"Good, good, aru. You might meet him sometime. Now, what was it that you wanted to learn about?"
"You've taught me the basics of tea preparation and decor. I'd like to learn the finer points of both, along with anything of class," Kiku responded, then gaped as Yao stepped daintily out from behind the screens. Perhaps it was merely a function of his progression - a misfire of attractions - but the older man looked positively alluring, bedecked in clothing he'd never laid eyes on before. Gathering his composure after the brief moment of shock, he merely commented, "You're no longer wearing hanfu."
"Oh, this?" Yao murmured with a soft, unsettling laugh tinged by his own disquiet, if Kiku didn't find the notion ridiculous, "This is simply something special for the guest I'm entertaining, aru. It's a xingtou, though I don't have the headdress or much of the makeup on."
"Hm. It... looks decent," Kiku assented to remarking, then changed the subject back to relevant topics, "Speaking of which, some tutelage in performing arts would do as well. It's a strange question to ask, but I'd like to know how to portray women in theater without involving women themselves." He thought of the Onna Kabuki's prevalence in his own nation, and narrowed his eyes in disapproval. Such things should not be performed by women, especially not with the wanton acts they often committed after - and sometimes during - performances.
"Oh..." the Chinese man's eyes dimmed unnoticed, but quickly recalled their brightness at his 'little brother' asking anything of him at all, "Well, you do realize that would mean men would have to take their place, aru?"
"Yes," came the curt reply.
"Well, in that case, the best way to teach is through training, aru," Yao stated with a thin smile, "I'll teach you in the ways of the Dan, aru."
[[This... doesn't agree wholly with history per APH, but I did my research, honest! Most of the time periods correlated, so this is a sort of fictionalized retelling of the 1630s-1650s.
Notes: A siyu is the home of a well established Dan, which often doubled as a higher class xianggong tangzi when a master-trainter Dan took on apprentices. Hanfu are long, flowing robes from the Han dynasty, from which Japan drew inspiration when making their kimonos. Xingtou is a general term for Beijing Opera costumes. Wakashu Kabuki - Kabuki involving young men to boys playing female roles - rose when Onna Kabuki - Kabuki with women - was abolish in the early 1600s; guess where I'm implying Japan got the idea from? I'd say more about the history, but it be spoilers for the story, so I'll mention things as needed. I hope this isn't boring you to death... ^_^; First time writing anything this serious here.]]
At the moment, however, Yao was nowhere to be seen, so Kiku settled himself to admiring the intricate embroidery strung through every square inch of silk in the room, especially the golden phoenixes flying in place upon glistening crimson fabric draping the decadent bed.
"Ah, you've arrived, aru! Sincere apologies for not greeting you more promptly," Yao called warmly from the behind the room divider, his silhouette cloaked by the clothes slung over its top. "Something abrupt came up - I hope you don't mind that I have another guest over at the moment, aru."
Something about the voice disturbed Kiku - there was a air of almost languor he'd never recalled hearing from the elder Asian, and it did not sit well. However, he shoved the thought aside, adopting his usual business-like mentality. "No," he replied disinterestedly, "It doesn't matter to me."
"Good, good, aru. You might meet him sometime. Now, what was it that you wanted to learn about?"
"You've taught me the basics of tea preparation and decor. I'd like to learn the finer points of both, along with anything of class," Kiku responded, then gaped as Yao stepped daintily out from behind the screens. Perhaps it was merely a function of his progression - a misfire of attractions - but the older man looked positively alluring, bedecked in clothing he'd never laid eyes on before. Gathering his composure after the brief moment of shock, he merely commented, "You're no longer wearing hanfu."
"Oh, this?" Yao murmured with a soft, unsettling laugh tinged by his own disquiet, if Kiku didn't find the notion ridiculous, "This is simply something special for the guest I'm entertaining, aru. It's a xingtou, though I don't have the headdress or much of the makeup on."
"Hm. It... looks decent," Kiku assented to remarking, then changed the subject back to relevant topics, "Speaking of which, some tutelage in performing arts would do as well. It's a strange question to ask, but I'd like to know how to portray women in theater without involving women themselves." He thought of the Onna Kabuki's prevalence in his own nation, and narrowed his eyes in disapproval. Such things should not be performed by women, especially not with the wanton acts they often committed after - and sometimes during - performances.
"Oh..." the Chinese man's eyes dimmed unnoticed, but quickly recalled their brightness at his 'little brother' asking anything of him at all, "Well, you do realize that would mean men would have to take their place, aru?"
"Yes," came the curt reply.
"Well, in that case, the best way to teach is through training, aru," Yao stated with a thin smile, "I'll teach you in the ways of the Dan, aru."
[[This... doesn't agree wholly with history per APH, but I did my research, honest! Most of the time periods correlated, so this is a sort of fictionalized retelling of the 1630s-1650s.
Notes: A siyu is the home of a well established Dan, which often doubled as a higher class xianggong tangzi when a master-trainter Dan took on apprentices. Hanfu are long, flowing robes from the Han dynasty, from which Japan drew inspiration when making their kimonos. Xingtou is a general term for Beijing Opera costumes. Wakashu Kabuki - Kabuki involving young men to boys playing female roles - rose when Onna Kabuki - Kabuki with women - was abolish in the early 1600s; guess where I'm implying Japan got the idea from? I'd say more about the history, but it be spoilers for the story, so I'll mention things as needed. I hope this isn't boring you to death... ^_^; First time writing anything this serious here.]]
Germany sassing America for having poor grammar.
Thank you very much!
Thank you very much!
"So, uhm. So you're sure this is safe, right?" says America, still tugging at the handcuffs anchoring him securely to the headboard. He could always break them, if he really wanted to. Probably. Across the room, Germany's back stays turned as he finishes folding their clothes (in alphabetical order, too, he'll bet). America watches shifting muscle over the shoulder blades and waits for an answer, which he doesn't get. "'Cause you know," he tries again, when Germany does at last turn around, "I've heard some pretty crazy stuff about this kinda thing."
He flashes a winning smile. Germany does not.
"Have you now," he says tonelessly, moving to the bed in steady, even strides. The glove doesn't snap when he pulls it on because it's real leather, not some cheap fake material, but if cold black shine could make a sound that's what America would be hearing.
America clears his throat, then wrinkles his nose. "Yeah." The bed dips at his left side when Germany sits down on the edge, and the pants he's got on make a funny sorta noise when he does that, but nothing about Germany's face is funny so America can't laugh. "Not that I've, uh, done any research on it or nothing--"
"'Anything'," corrects Germany, looking down at him and lifting an eyebrow.
"--Anything, right, just that I can't help but hear through the grapevine and stuff what's going on in Europe, and some people say y'all are all--"
America flinches when Germany suddenly reaches out and taps at the bridge of his glasses, more from the hollow thunk it makes than from the force of it. The finger stays there, and he finds it difficult not to stare at it, though he knows how dumb the cross-eyed expression must look.
"'You all'," cautions Germany, and when his hand pulls away it takes the glasses with it, leaving America blinking in the blurred half-light. "You have both words for a reason, America, so there is no reason to force them together so haphazardly. Surely England taught you better than that. Anyway," he continues, twisting slightly to lay the glasses safely on the bedside table, "I can assure you that you are in no real danger. I've done this many times before."
"Yeah? With who?"
Germany doesn't skip a beat, doesn't even change expressions, just picks up the crop that America didn't see on the table before and whaps him straight across the abdomen when he turns back. America hisses and jerks at the handcuffs again.
"'With whom', America, 'with whom'. Really," Germany sighs, and the gloved hand he runs over the blossoming new welt is c-c-c-cold, but not quite enough to stop the burning, "One would think you hardly knew your own language."
America's mouth works soundlessly for a second, disbelieving. "You didn't answer the question," he retorts lamely. "Who was it? Was it Italy? 'Cause I always thought you and him would be more into, y'know, cuddling and sh--OW!"
This time, Germany just crosses his arms and looks down in cool expectation, idly tapping the crop against his own arm. America glowers, then thinks.
"B...'Because', not ''cause'?" he tries. Germany closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. Not a wrong answer, but not the right one either. America thinks some more. "What, something about 'you and him'?"
Thwap. A thigh this time.
"Ow! Dang it, Germany, how is that wr--"
Thwap. The stomach again.
"--Sonuva--! 'You and he', 'you and he'! Nominative case! Jesus!"
It's hard to tell without his glasses, but that might be the beginnings of a smirk playing across Germany's face. America exhales deeply and leans back against the headboard to glare at the ceiling. "I'm pretty sure this is nothing like whatever you and Italy get up to," he huffs. Then there's a hand forcing his head down again, cupping his chin not too roughly but not too gently, either.
"Of course not," says Germany, and now he really is smiling and that's worse. "Have you never heard, America? Everyone learns in his own way. It's simply a matter of finding the proper teaching method."
America glares, blows the hair away from his eyes. It's going to be a very long night.
Seriously, England's tabloids didn't say anything about needing a freaking dictionary. What the heck.
He flashes a winning smile. Germany does not.
"Have you now," he says tonelessly, moving to the bed in steady, even strides. The glove doesn't snap when he pulls it on because it's real leather, not some cheap fake material, but if cold black shine could make a sound that's what America would be hearing.
America clears his throat, then wrinkles his nose. "Yeah." The bed dips at his left side when Germany sits down on the edge, and the pants he's got on make a funny sorta noise when he does that, but nothing about Germany's face is funny so America can't laugh. "Not that I've, uh, done any research on it or nothing--"
"'Anything'," corrects Germany, looking down at him and lifting an eyebrow.
"--Anything, right, just that I can't help but hear through the grapevine and stuff what's going on in Europe, and some people say y'all are all--"
America flinches when Germany suddenly reaches out and taps at the bridge of his glasses, more from the hollow thunk it makes than from the force of it. The finger stays there, and he finds it difficult not to stare at it, though he knows how dumb the cross-eyed expression must look.
"'You all'," cautions Germany, and when his hand pulls away it takes the glasses with it, leaving America blinking in the blurred half-light. "You have both words for a reason, America, so there is no reason to force them together so haphazardly. Surely England taught you better than that. Anyway," he continues, twisting slightly to lay the glasses safely on the bedside table, "I can assure you that you are in no real danger. I've done this many times before."
"Yeah? With who?"
Germany doesn't skip a beat, doesn't even change expressions, just picks up the crop that America didn't see on the table before and whaps him straight across the abdomen when he turns back. America hisses and jerks at the handcuffs again.
"'With whom', America, 'with whom'. Really," Germany sighs, and the gloved hand he runs over the blossoming new welt is c-c-c-cold, but not quite enough to stop the burning, "One would think you hardly knew your own language."
America's mouth works soundlessly for a second, disbelieving. "You didn't answer the question," he retorts lamely. "Who was it? Was it Italy? 'Cause I always thought you and him would be more into, y'know, cuddling and sh--OW!"
This time, Germany just crosses his arms and looks down in cool expectation, idly tapping the crop against his own arm. America glowers, then thinks.
"B...'Because', not ''cause'?" he tries. Germany closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. Not a wrong answer, but not the right one either. America thinks some more. "What, something about 'you and him'?"
Thwap. A thigh this time.
"Ow! Dang it, Germany, how is that wr--"
Thwap. The stomach again.
"--Sonuva--! 'You and he', 'you and he'! Nominative case! Jesus!"
It's hard to tell without his glasses, but that might be the beginnings of a smirk playing across Germany's face. America exhales deeply and leans back against the headboard to glare at the ceiling. "I'm pretty sure this is nothing like whatever you and Italy get up to," he huffs. Then there's a hand forcing his head down again, cupping his chin not too roughly but not too gently, either.
"Of course not," says Germany, and now he really is smiling and that's worse. "Have you never heard, America? Everyone learns in his own way. It's simply a matter of finding the proper teaching method."
America glares, blows the hair away from his eyes. It's going to be a very long night.
Seriously, England's tabloids didn't say anything about needing a freaking dictionary. What the heck.
Grandpa Rome/ S. Italy
Lovino is all grown-up and Grandpa Rome finally realizes what's so "special" about his body.
(for names, S. Italy as Lovino is preferred, and Grandpa Rome as Roma, though not necessary)
Lovino is all grown-up and Grandpa Rome finally realizes what's so "special" about his body.
(for names, S. Italy as Lovino is preferred, and Grandpa Rome as Roma, though not necessary)
Um. Dunno if this has been requested before, but...!
America getting/asking for stories and/or pictures of England during his pirate!delinquent days from France (and getting turned on from it).
Teens will be teens?
Bonus if he sekritly keeps a picture forjerking off later and if England finds out and gets flustered~
(Human names, yay? :D?)
America getting/asking for stories and/or pictures of England during his pirate!delinquent days from France (and getting turned on from it).
Teens will be teens?
Bonus if he sekritly keeps a picture for
(Human names, yay? :D?)
Fill here; http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11638282#t11638282
UK/Sealand. Shota/Brotherkink. I'd really like some hard shota between these too~ I've seen a lot with Kid!America and Kid!Canada, but not nearly enough with Sealand.
so umm... kink... England catches Sealand looking at some rather graphic adult sites...
so umm... kink... England catches Sealand looking at some rather graphic adult sites...
France/Poland/England
Poland fighting for the Allies along with France and England and them letting him fall under Soviet rule after the war. Guilt and anger all around, smut optional.
Poland fighting for the Allies along with France and England and them letting him fall under Soviet rule after the war. Guilt and anger all around, smut optional.
Um. So this didn't go where I wanted it to and I'm pretty sure it isn't remotely what you're looking for. Sorry, OP. :|
--
The gun is a Błyskawica, one of the precious few weapons Poland's army managed to make in secret. Poland lays claim to it early on in the planning stages of his would-be revolution; he slouches at the strategy sessions and secret meetings with his chin propped on his hands and his hair sticky with sweat and dried blood, and he demands to be given something to fight with. A homemade weapon, too, at least until they're supplied with something better – not, like, one of those crappy German ones.
He is deceptively fragile back then, even though he still has a capital and an army. He is all bandages and bruises and half-healed wounds, and since some of his people are starving he is also thin enough to count his ribs in the mirror. All the same, he is cheerfully feral when he makes his demands ("and bullets, lots of bullets") and in the end his people remember what he is and acquiese with quick sharp nods.
Even back then, he knows it's a shitty plan. It puts faith in the other nations that, frankly, Poland is in no mood to have. It assumes that his army – most of which doesn't even have weapons, for God's sake – is capable of pulling off one more miracle, at least beyond actually surviving as long as it has.
But Poland hasn't lasted this long by being a pessimist, so he waves his gun over his head the second some grizzled old soldier who used to have grandchildren hands it to him reverently and he twirls around in the middle of someone's secret basement until he gets dizzy and he teaches one of the very youngest boys how to make really good bombs out of common household materials, because they need to get weapons from somewhere.
It's a shitty plan, but it also puts faith in him and his people – and Poland's never doubted his people, not when he was young and stupid and certainly not now, when they treat him as something precious and fragile and made of glass.
*
Germany has blood on his boots.
For some reason this bothers Poland more than it should. The other nation is otherwise just as crisp and neat as ever, not a single hair out of place and his gun held with the precision and care of a well-trained soldier. If he keeps up the pretense everywhere else, why doesn't he bother about the boots?
"No one is coming," Germany says. There is wariness in the way he clutches his weapon and anger laced through his voice, as if this mess is somehow Poland's fault.
For his part, Poland sways on his feet and glances around him. There are bodies tangled together all around him – not soldiers, he thinks, just an attempt to make the army give up. As if dead civilians are that shocking, these days.
He feels Russia somewhere on what he still considers his soil – waiting for him and Germany to finish trying to blow each other to pieces before he moves in and takes over, the asshole. He also feels the sharp sick pain of the bullets that just killed the people all around him, but dead civilians aren't anything new to him, either.
There is no sign of the others - England, America, the great and powerful nations of the West. His people send messages. They hold out hope.
"You think I want to do this?" Germany asks.
Poland rolls his eyes. "Don't even fucking try to guilt-trip at me." He considers, then smirks as best he can with a split lip and adds, "You've, like, got something on your boots."
Germany's expression changes to something that isn't carefully impassive, but Poland's too busy getting shot again to figure out what it is.
If the hoped-for reinforcements don't get their asses in gear soon, there won't be any of his people left to save.
*
--
The gun is a Błyskawica, one of the precious few weapons Poland's army managed to make in secret. Poland lays claim to it early on in the planning stages of his would-be revolution; he slouches at the strategy sessions and secret meetings with his chin propped on his hands and his hair sticky with sweat and dried blood, and he demands to be given something to fight with. A homemade weapon, too, at least until they're supplied with something better – not, like, one of those crappy German ones.
He is deceptively fragile back then, even though he still has a capital and an army. He is all bandages and bruises and half-healed wounds, and since some of his people are starving he is also thin enough to count his ribs in the mirror. All the same, he is cheerfully feral when he makes his demands ("and bullets, lots of bullets") and in the end his people remember what he is and acquiese with quick sharp nods.
Even back then, he knows it's a shitty plan. It puts faith in the other nations that, frankly, Poland is in no mood to have. It assumes that his army – most of which doesn't even have weapons, for God's sake – is capable of pulling off one more miracle, at least beyond actually surviving as long as it has.
But Poland hasn't lasted this long by being a pessimist, so he waves his gun over his head the second some grizzled old soldier who used to have grandchildren hands it to him reverently and he twirls around in the middle of someone's secret basement until he gets dizzy and he teaches one of the very youngest boys how to make really good bombs out of common household materials, because they need to get weapons from somewhere.
It's a shitty plan, but it also puts faith in him and his people – and Poland's never doubted his people, not when he was young and stupid and certainly not now, when they treat him as something precious and fragile and made of glass.
*
Germany has blood on his boots.
For some reason this bothers Poland more than it should. The other nation is otherwise just as crisp and neat as ever, not a single hair out of place and his gun held with the precision and care of a well-trained soldier. If he keeps up the pretense everywhere else, why doesn't he bother about the boots?
"No one is coming," Germany says. There is wariness in the way he clutches his weapon and anger laced through his voice, as if this mess is somehow Poland's fault.
For his part, Poland sways on his feet and glances around him. There are bodies tangled together all around him – not soldiers, he thinks, just an attempt to make the army give up. As if dead civilians are that shocking, these days.
He feels Russia somewhere on what he still considers his soil – waiting for him and Germany to finish trying to blow each other to pieces before he moves in and takes over, the asshole. He also feels the sharp sick pain of the bullets that just killed the people all around him, but dead civilians aren't anything new to him, either.
There is no sign of the others - England, America, the great and powerful nations of the West. His people send messages. They hold out hope.
"You think I want to do this?" Germany asks.
Poland rolls his eyes. "Don't even fucking try to guilt-trip at me." He considers, then smirks as best he can with a split lip and adds, "You've, like, got something on your boots."
Germany's expression changes to something that isn't carefully impassive, but Poland's too busy getting shot again to figure out what it is.
If the hoped-for reinforcements don't get their asses in gear soon, there won't be any of his people left to save.
*
UK/USA
Playing Fatal Frame
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatal_Frame
Playing Fatal Frame
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fatal_Frame
This is not my OTP, but I second this! Fatal Frame FTW! XD
Since the Nazis had to stage a special takeover for Prussia, and Gilbert evidently was off doing other things while Ludwig was bonding with Italy and Japan...
Let me see him involved with the German resistance. Historical bonus to you if you include the Catcholic Church, the Communists, or both.
Let me see him involved with the German resistance. Historical bonus to you if you include the Catcholic Church, the Communists, or both.
(screened comment)
Has anyone here read Good Omens? I hope so, because I'd like to see a crossover pairing: War/England- because I think England has been in love with the idea of war for a long time. Something historical would be nice and if you write smut, I'd like it rough and dirty. Thabks.
He loved red.
She was painted in it, she practically dripped it. Her low throaty laughter reminded him of apples and cherries and mulberries and dark wine, of bloody flesh only just seared in orange-crimson flames. He would twine his fingers in her crimson hair and expect to be burnt and expect to feel his fingers draw away sticky and cloying. Her slender fingers touched at his lips and he kissed them with worship. She would push her lithe, powerful body against his until his skin turned red for the desire of her. He would feel like the only man in the world in her eyes that glowed like the sunset.
He knew she was special, different, just like him, and yet, far more. She came to his isle as, not a conqueror but as a warrior, a harbinger. Whooping and shrieking and ululating her violent, joyful cries that paralyzed and thrilled, she baptized him in blood and brought him glory. Her hand guided the shield of the turtle and her arm helped raise up the battle banner of her priestess and avatar (who better than one who had her hair?).
She would not always stay but he knew of her presence, everywhere. Even in the grimmest of fields and the dullest of days, he would remember her burning hot touch and her sweet-bitter breath and her red, red lips. She would never bless him (for she was never on any one side) but he loved her for her impartiality and wicked licentiousness. In youth, he tumbled with the scarlet giantess in a bed of furs while she gave him his first wounds of a different battlefield. He swore he loved her as she rode him like a stallion, screaming and gasping until their completion. Her smile seared him and he gazed at her with both fear and worship.
When he grew older, she came to him just as overwhelmingly but by that time, he knew something more of a woman’s touch. She came with him on his battles on the sea and even the massive expanses of endless water did not daunt her. For soon, her color spread on sapphire waters like ephemeral flowers on blue ground. She was even more glorious as a sailor, her wild hair barely tamed with a scarf only a shade darker than her curls, her firelight eyes blazing as her lovely, powerful body seemed uncontained in her massive ruby coat and her immense crimson boots. Gold glimmered on her fingers and on her garments but she reserved her greatest avarice for the cutlass she bore, the silver blushed pink like a shy maiden’s blush. He feared that sword for he wondered how many lives she could have taken for the steel to have taken that color.
She was painted in it, she practically dripped it. Her low throaty laughter reminded him of apples and cherries and mulberries and dark wine, of bloody flesh only just seared in orange-crimson flames. He would twine his fingers in her crimson hair and expect to be burnt and expect to feel his fingers draw away sticky and cloying. Her slender fingers touched at his lips and he kissed them with worship. She would push her lithe, powerful body against his until his skin turned red for the desire of her. He would feel like the only man in the world in her eyes that glowed like the sunset.
He knew she was special, different, just like him, and yet, far more. She came to his isle as, not a conqueror but as a warrior, a harbinger. Whooping and shrieking and ululating her violent, joyful cries that paralyzed and thrilled, she baptized him in blood and brought him glory. Her hand guided the shield of the turtle and her arm helped raise up the battle banner of her priestess and avatar (who better than one who had her hair?).
She would not always stay but he knew of her presence, everywhere. Even in the grimmest of fields and the dullest of days, he would remember her burning hot touch and her sweet-bitter breath and her red, red lips. She would never bless him (for she was never on any one side) but he loved her for her impartiality and wicked licentiousness. In youth, he tumbled with the scarlet giantess in a bed of furs while she gave him his first wounds of a different battlefield. He swore he loved her as she rode him like a stallion, screaming and gasping until their completion. Her smile seared him and he gazed at her with both fear and worship.
When he grew older, she came to him just as overwhelmingly but by that time, he knew something more of a woman’s touch. She came with him on his battles on the sea and even the massive expanses of endless water did not daunt her. For soon, her color spread on sapphire waters like ephemeral flowers on blue ground. She was even more glorious as a sailor, her wild hair barely tamed with a scarf only a shade darker than her curls, her firelight eyes blazing as her lovely, powerful body seemed uncontained in her massive ruby coat and her immense crimson boots. Gold glimmered on her fingers and on her garments but she reserved her greatest avarice for the cutlass she bore, the silver blushed pink like a shy maiden’s blush. He feared that sword for he wondered how many lives she could have taken for the steel to have taken that color.
Okay so I really liked that story earlier in the meme where Arthur uses poetry to seduce Kiku. Would it be possible to have it the other way around, with Kiku using Japanese poetry (translated into english, since stupid anon does not speak japanese) to seduce Arthur? Pretty please with a cherry on top?
I really do like that story too, and I definitely want to see someone do the reverse of it.
Here's the link to that fill, just in case some potential writer!anon missed it: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5329111#t5329111
Here's the link to that fill, just in case some potential writer!anon missed it: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5329111#t5329111
Korea, Taiwan and Japan argue about dorama, while China tries to ignore them and America is a complete fanboy.
Hungary/Prussia. Awkward sexual tension, neither one wanting to be the first to give in. And when/if they do, Hungary tops.
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