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I just read this article http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek-Turkish_earthquake_diplomacy and after regaining some of my faith in humanity and wanting to baaaw, I have to request Turkey/Greece based on this event.
I remember seeing it in the news when it had happened, but I totally forgot despite the fact that it had made me go 'holy shit Greece and Turkey genuinely helping each other did I slip into bizarro world what' back then.
I remember seeing it in the news when it had happened, but I totally forgot despite the fact that it had made me go 'holy shit Greece and Turkey genuinely helping each other did I slip into bizarro world what' back then.
THIS ANON SHALL DO THIS
This anon also started drawing (http://i39.tinypic.com/34ihguc.png) a fancomic of it but then got lazy due to perfectionism, so will give you a drabble instead. Hopefully by the end of tomorrow. ♥
This anon also started drawing (http://i39.tinypic.com/34ihguc.png) a fancomic of it but then got lazy due to perfectionism, so will give you a drabble instead. Hopefully by the end of tomorrow. ♥
Kinda specific this, but here I go -
Germany and Italy > both get tentacle raped at the same time > both get totally turned on seeing the other being violated > tentacle rape ends but both are still horny so more mindless sex ensues :D
...Please?
Germany and Italy > both get tentacle raped at the same time > both get totally turned on seeing the other being violated > tentacle rape ends but both are still horny so more mindless sex ensues :D
...Please?
Perv!Anon will gladly take this task on!
I'll be back A.S.A.P
*tinkers off to type*
I'll be back A.S.A.P
*tinkers off to type*
Freud/Germany. Mindfuck.
"So, Roderich tells me you've been building up your industry. An externalization of latent sexual frustrations, perhaps?"
"What? No! That's preposterous! Now leave me alone, I'm going to my office."
"Deliberate isolation. A piteous attempt to return to the womb."
"I don't have a mother. Just Prussia and Austria."
"Oh, my boy, we have much to talk about."
I NEED THIS.
"So, Roderich tells me you've been building up your industry. An externalization of latent sexual frustrations, perhaps?"
"What? No! That's preposterous! Now leave me alone, I'm going to my office."
"Deliberate isolation. A piteous attempt to return to the womb."
"I don't have a mother. Just Prussia and Austria."
"Oh, my boy, we have much to talk about."
I NEED THIS.
D: So I decided to take it up, and I promise it'll get somewhere!
Germany felt a smile form on his face. It was here. After a month of pushing around the same squeaking cart, a month of sullenly wandering around the supermarket, a month of tomato sauce lingering in his mouth, it was here. The man sighed contently as he grabbed a large amount of wurst and placed it carefully in his cart. They were even on sale.
Looking around and seeing no one else, Germany grabbed one last package and hugged it to his chest. The scent pervaded his nose, even smelt better than he remembered. 'I love you' he thought as he placed the wurst in the cart with the others. The food was finally in stock, and Germany couldn't wait to sink his teeth into them. During its absence, Italy took it upon himself to prepare dinner for them while Germany focused on seizing his beloved food. There was no surprise to what was prepared. Pasta, pasta, pasta! Italy couldn't get enough, especially with having free reign of dinner for once. The other man was shaken as he thought of the month he barely survived. NO ONE but Italy (or possibly America, but Germany didn't want to take the chance) would have been able to make through the onslaught of the same food day after day.
Someone had answered his plea today.
About thirty minutes later, with an incident involving oranges and someone cracking their ribs, Germany was in the kitchen cooking his wurst; he also hoped it would drive out the smell of whatever spices Italy kept using. His reign of terror was over. He occasionally poked at the meat as it cooked. He heard some murmuring over in the next room and saw Italy enter the room out of the corner of his eye.
"Ve? You're cooking?" Italy rubbed his eyes; he must have been sleeping again while Germany was shopping. He tottered over to him and looked over his shoulder. Italy scrunched up his face when he saw what it was.
"Wuuuuuuuuuuuuuurst?" he moaned. Italy tugged on Germany's sleeve while whining. The other man wouldn't be deterred and kept a stony gaze.
"You've had your pasta, now you'll eat what I cook." The tugging increased, but Germany ignored it. The wurst looked like it was almost finished. Italy was quiet for a moment when he saw it wasn't working, then perked his head up.
"Hey! Germany! This old guy came here a few hours ago when you left, he wanted to see you!" Germany turned his head toward Italy, who was beaming at remembering something that happened before he slept. He jerked his head for Italy to continue.
"Who was he?"
"Um...um...I can't remember, but he had a really funny name!" The man clenched his fist in pride, but Germany just stared. Almost every name sounded funny to him; it didn't help narrow down the list. the wurst was done. He took them out of the pot while Italy mumbled to himself some word combinations. "Well-I think he left something with his name. I'll go get it~"
Germany felt a smile form on his face. It was here. After a month of pushing around the same squeaking cart, a month of sullenly wandering around the supermarket, a month of tomato sauce lingering in his mouth, it was here. The man sighed contently as he grabbed a large amount of wurst and placed it carefully in his cart. They were even on sale.
Looking around and seeing no one else, Germany grabbed one last package and hugged it to his chest. The scent pervaded his nose, even smelt better than he remembered. 'I love you' he thought as he placed the wurst in the cart with the others. The food was finally in stock, and Germany couldn't wait to sink his teeth into them. During its absence, Italy took it upon himself to prepare dinner for them while Germany focused on seizing his beloved food. There was no surprise to what was prepared. Pasta, pasta, pasta! Italy couldn't get enough, especially with having free reign of dinner for once. The other man was shaken as he thought of the month he barely survived. NO ONE but Italy (or possibly America, but Germany didn't want to take the chance) would have been able to make through the onslaught of the same food day after day.
Someone had answered his plea today.
About thirty minutes later, with an incident involving oranges and someone cracking their ribs, Germany was in the kitchen cooking his wurst; he also hoped it would drive out the smell of whatever spices Italy kept using. His reign of terror was over. He occasionally poked at the meat as it cooked. He heard some murmuring over in the next room and saw Italy enter the room out of the corner of his eye.
"Ve? You're cooking?" Italy rubbed his eyes; he must have been sleeping again while Germany was shopping. He tottered over to him and looked over his shoulder. Italy scrunched up his face when he saw what it was.
"Wuuuuuuuuuuuuuurst?" he moaned. Italy tugged on Germany's sleeve while whining. The other man wouldn't be deterred and kept a stony gaze.
"You've had your pasta, now you'll eat what I cook." The tugging increased, but Germany ignored it. The wurst looked like it was almost finished. Italy was quiet for a moment when he saw it wasn't working, then perked his head up.
"Hey! Germany! This old guy came here a few hours ago when you left, he wanted to see you!" Germany turned his head toward Italy, who was beaming at remembering something that happened before he slept. He jerked his head for Italy to continue.
"Who was he?"
"Um...um...I can't remember, but he had a really funny name!" The man clenched his fist in pride, but Germany just stared. Almost every name sounded funny to him; it didn't help narrow down the list. the wurst was done. He took them out of the pot while Italy mumbled to himself some word combinations. "Well-I think he left something with his name. I'll go get it~"
Russia X Latvia - learning how to ice skate. Fluff.
Anons likes fluffiness, so they will try.
---
Raivis stared out into the frozen lake where numerous people were having fun skating and gulped. He'd never ice skated before, and was nervous to go out there and try. He could easily fall and break a bone, or cause thin ice to break and wind up drowning. He felt his feet weighed down by the skates as if they were a hundred pounds.
"I don't know about this..."
"Don't worry about it," Ivan said as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, "I'll show you how to do it."
Raivis was ready to faint from fear, and having Ivan's hand on him did not help at all.He knew there was no way out of this. He wished he already knew how to do it like the other two nations. But no. Now he was stuck with a crazy man that was going to teach him. If he messed up or tried to run, he could be punished for it. He didn't want that so he let Ivan take his hand and drag out out into the lake.
He shook nervously as he tried to balance himself so he wouldn't fall. He stopped shaking when he saw Ivan frown at him. Was he doing something wrong this early? Suddenly he was pulled forward so that Ivan's arms latched onto his. He tried not to blush from the closeness, and looked down at his feet.
"Relax, Latvia. I won't let you fall. Just slowly drag your feet as though you're walking," Ivan instructed.
Raivis did just that and started to move his feet. He was amazed that he hadn't fallen so far. Left, right, left, right, le- His skate tipped and he started to womble. As Ivan had promised, he held the boy up and made sure he didn't fall as he adjusted himself. He continued to carefully move his feet, and the next thing he knew he was on the other side of the lake.
"See? I told you you could do it," Ivan praised with a kind smile.
Raivis nodded a bit and mumbled a 'Yes' in response. They spent the rest of the day repeating that process, and eventually he went from Ivan holding his arm to holding his hand.
Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
---
Hope Anon likes. :3
---
Raivis stared out into the frozen lake where numerous people were having fun skating and gulped. He'd never ice skated before, and was nervous to go out there and try. He could easily fall and break a bone, or cause thin ice to break and wind up drowning. He felt his feet weighed down by the skates as if they were a hundred pounds.
"I don't know about this..."
"Don't worry about it," Ivan said as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, "I'll show you how to do it."
Raivis was ready to faint from fear, and having Ivan's hand on him did not help at all.He knew there was no way out of this. He wished he already knew how to do it like the other two nations. But no. Now he was stuck with a crazy man that was going to teach him. If he messed up or tried to run, he could be punished for it. He didn't want that so he let Ivan take his hand and drag out out into the lake.
He shook nervously as he tried to balance himself so he wouldn't fall. He stopped shaking when he saw Ivan frown at him. Was he doing something wrong this early? Suddenly he was pulled forward so that Ivan's arms latched onto his. He tried not to blush from the closeness, and looked down at his feet.
"Relax, Latvia. I won't let you fall. Just slowly drag your feet as though you're walking," Ivan instructed.
Raivis did just that and started to move his feet. He was amazed that he hadn't fallen so far. Left, right, left, right, le- His skate tipped and he started to womble. As Ivan had promised, he held the boy up and made sure he didn't fall as he adjusted himself. He continued to carefully move his feet, and the next thing he knew he was on the other side of the lake.
"See? I told you you could do it," Ivan praised with a kind smile.
Raivis nodded a bit and mumbled a 'Yes' in response. They spent the rest of the day repeating that process, and eventually he went from Ivan holding his arm to holding his hand.
Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
---
Hope Anon likes. :3
Russia/France- Russia dominating over a drunk (or drugged) France. Possible bondage.
Turkey/Hungary - The Battle of Mohács - rape.
Don't mean to break out of the meme, but one of the better Holocaust fics out there is this one: http://zed-azrael.livejournal.com/12718.html#cutid1
France in love.
I think about LOVE, not a sexual drive. I would die from happiness if France actually didn't have courage to confess or confess but his lover took it as a joke and Francis keep playing his normal perverted self.
I'm not picky, everything will make me happy.
I think about LOVE, not a sexual drive. I would die from happiness if France actually didn't have courage to confess or confess but his lover took it as a joke and Francis keep playing his normal perverted self.
I'm not picky, everything will make me happy.
A-anon apologizes for sucking all of the funny right out of this, but love is a HUGE KINK for her and she wanted to give this a try.
Anon also apologizes that she sucks so hardcore at French. No, she refuses to use Google Translator, except for one phrase.
___
Francis presses one eye to the cracked door and watches, feeling his face grow warm.
He thinks about why and his face grows even warmer. Dammit. Arthur isn’t even doing anything sexy. He should just leave. Right now. Just turn on his Coco Chanel high heels and walk away.
Instead, he keeps watching as Arthur reads, as Arthur picks up a pen and signs something with a flourish, as he purses his lips and takes a sip of his tea.
He feels something in his chest tighten, sending a pleasant shock through his system. “Mon Dieu,” he curses as quietly as he can.
He wonders if he’s sick for liking Arthur like this – green eyes serious and downturned, lips pursed in a frown, his chair and body backlit by the sun blaring through the windows.
Maybe he does have a problem. (He can already hear Alfred’s voice in his head. ‘Wait, you’re stalking someone who isn’t having sex or jacking off? Francis, do you have a fever?”)
He feels a little nauseous, because he has an idea of what that problem might be.
And for all that Francis brags about his skill in the bed, how easily he can make women quiver and sigh on the Eiffel Tower underneath a starlit sky…
For all that, Francis doesn’t have the foggiest notion on what to do about love.
He bites his lip and shifts a little. The door lets out one clear, lingering creak that causes Arthur’s head to jerk up. “Wh-who’s there?”
Francis sighs and plasters the best smile he can on his face. “It is simply moi~” he trills as he pushes the door open and postures. “I am here to vanquish le boredom with the art de l’amour.” (His stomach flip-flops at the word, and his arms crawl and twitch with nerves.)
“Oh, bloody hell.” Arthur leans back in his chair and rubs at his temples in a very put-upon way. (And Francis thinks of how nice it would be to kiss those temples, just hold Arthur close and – stop it, he tells himself sharply.) “Francis, I will count to five, and by the time I look up you had better be gone.”
Francis feels his stomach churn and mistakes the feeling for courage. “Wait. I have something important to tell you,” he blurts out.
Arthur rolls his eyes but stands, one hand planted on the desk while the other positions itself on his hip. “Well, out with it.”
Francis’s body quivers, and Arthur’s eyes are so intense he thinks that Arthur must notice, because those eyes are sharp and beautiful in the sunlight –
Francis’s common sense goes out the window, and he almost runs the last four steps to Arthur, throws his arms around him and holds him close. His fingers fist in sandy hair; words are being sputtered in his ear, but all he hears is the accent, wild and raw, and it’s perfect.
Francis turns his head and kisses Arthur’s ear. “Je t’aime,” he whispers, and his voice feels tremulous as Arthur freezes against his body.
Then Arthur starts to chuckle. “Well for heaven’s sake,” Arthur says, leaning back against the desk, fisting his hands in Francis’s shirt and dragging him back as well. “If you needed to get shagged so badly, you only had to wait five more minutes.” Arthur’s smirking against his lips. “It’s just a few minutes, though, I’m certain my boss wouldn’t mind.”
And Arthur kisses him, snakes his tongue past Francis’s lips.
Francis shouldn’t feel like crying. He’s almost ashamed that he has to pull back to breathe, get rid of the sting in his throat.
“Francis?”
“Pardonnez-moi,” Francis whispers against Arthur’s lips. “I shall remember it for le next time.”
And then he crushes their lips together and pulls Arthur close.
Francis can at least be a good lover to Arthur.
Even if he can’t convey his love.
___
There you go, anon, quick ‘n dirty. I might continue this – I’m not sure yet. Regardless, I hope this fulfills you until some other anon flies by and fills it out better.
Anon also apologizes that she sucks so hardcore at French. No, she refuses to use Google Translator, except for one phrase.
___
Francis presses one eye to the cracked door and watches, feeling his face grow warm.
He thinks about why and his face grows even warmer. Dammit. Arthur isn’t even doing anything sexy. He should just leave. Right now. Just turn on his Coco Chanel high heels and walk away.
Instead, he keeps watching as Arthur reads, as Arthur picks up a pen and signs something with a flourish, as he purses his lips and takes a sip of his tea.
He feels something in his chest tighten, sending a pleasant shock through his system. “Mon Dieu,” he curses as quietly as he can.
He wonders if he’s sick for liking Arthur like this – green eyes serious and downturned, lips pursed in a frown, his chair and body backlit by the sun blaring through the windows.
Maybe he does have a problem. (He can already hear Alfred’s voice in his head. ‘Wait, you’re stalking someone who isn’t having sex or jacking off? Francis, do you have a fever?”)
He feels a little nauseous, because he has an idea of what that problem might be.
And for all that Francis brags about his skill in the bed, how easily he can make women quiver and sigh on the Eiffel Tower underneath a starlit sky…
For all that, Francis doesn’t have the foggiest notion on what to do about love.
He bites his lip and shifts a little. The door lets out one clear, lingering creak that causes Arthur’s head to jerk up. “Wh-who’s there?”
Francis sighs and plasters the best smile he can on his face. “It is simply moi~” he trills as he pushes the door open and postures. “I am here to vanquish le boredom with the art de l’amour.” (His stomach flip-flops at the word, and his arms crawl and twitch with nerves.)
“Oh, bloody hell.” Arthur leans back in his chair and rubs at his temples in a very put-upon way. (And Francis thinks of how nice it would be to kiss those temples, just hold Arthur close and – stop it, he tells himself sharply.) “Francis, I will count to five, and by the time I look up you had better be gone.”
Francis feels his stomach churn and mistakes the feeling for courage. “Wait. I have something important to tell you,” he blurts out.
Arthur rolls his eyes but stands, one hand planted on the desk while the other positions itself on his hip. “Well, out with it.”
Francis’s body quivers, and Arthur’s eyes are so intense he thinks that Arthur must notice, because those eyes are sharp and beautiful in the sunlight –
Francis’s common sense goes out the window, and he almost runs the last four steps to Arthur, throws his arms around him and holds him close. His fingers fist in sandy hair; words are being sputtered in his ear, but all he hears is the accent, wild and raw, and it’s perfect.
Francis turns his head and kisses Arthur’s ear. “Je t’aime,” he whispers, and his voice feels tremulous as Arthur freezes against his body.
Then Arthur starts to chuckle. “Well for heaven’s sake,” Arthur says, leaning back against the desk, fisting his hands in Francis’s shirt and dragging him back as well. “If you needed to get shagged so badly, you only had to wait five more minutes.” Arthur’s smirking against his lips. “It’s just a few minutes, though, I’m certain my boss wouldn’t mind.”
And Arthur kisses him, snakes his tongue past Francis’s lips.
Francis shouldn’t feel like crying. He’s almost ashamed that he has to pull back to breathe, get rid of the sting in his throat.
“Francis?”
“Pardonnez-moi,” Francis whispers against Arthur’s lips. “I shall remember it for le next time.”
And then he crushes their lips together and pulls Arthur close.
Francis can at least be a good lover to Arthur.
Even if he can’t convey his love.
___
There you go, anon, quick ‘n dirty. I might continue this – I’m not sure yet. Regardless, I hope this fulfills you until some other anon flies by and fills it out better.
Denmark/Norway. Sex in a public toilet. Make it rough and with lots of dirty talking. Ty~
Denmark/Norway, sex in a public bathroom.
I actually have another version of this, but it’s only half finished. I don’t really like how I made Norway in this one to be honest. But I’m having trouble with finishing the other. However, I’m going to try later on because I like that version a lot better. Anyway, here’s something to read while I struggle with the other version.
Since they don’t have any official names, I just chose the two names that apparently are most popular in Denmark and Norway ATM.
Uh… Lucas/Lukas is the most popular in both Norway and Denmark?? What the… I’ll just chose the second most popular in Norway then.
Lucas = Denmark
Mathias = Norway
Oh, and I guess the sex isn’t rough and there’s not much dirty talk. But hey, they’re in a public bathroom. 1/3 isn’t that bad, eh ? And also... Eh… Let’s just say that they’re doing it in a stall for handicapped people. Guess I didn’t really use my brain when I was writing this. Oh, and this is my first time writing a sex scene! I kept giggling through the entire story.
”Ngh…” Norway moaned as he was pushed up against the wall in one of the stalls in the men’s room in the Geneva International Conference Centre. There was being held a conference about the World’s climate today, but for two Scandinavians the conference had become too dull. Not that the meeting was very successful anyway, as the only thing that had happened during the last two hours had been France and England arguing over something. Norway didn’t even bother to find out what the quarrel had been about.
“You like that?” the other Scandinavian, more specifically Denmark said. He had his left knee in between the other nation’s legs. The circling motion he made with it was unbearable and the Norwegian was struggling with keeping his voice down.
The Dane leaned down and whispered in Norway’s ear “I was asking you a question.” He added more pressure to the other nation’s groin, almost to the point where it hurt.
“..Yea...I like it.” Norway managed to say in between moans.
The Dane smirked, apparently very satisfied with his response. His lips began traveling down the other’s neck. He sucked and bit at various places and was clearly trying to make hickeys.
“Lucas… Please… They’ll see the marks.” Norway tried to push the other away from him.
“I want them to see. I want to show the world that you’re mine, and no one else’s Mathias.” He grabbed his lover’s hands and held them over his head. With his free hand he tugged at the black tie the other nation had worn for the occasion. He tried to get it off, but with only one hand that was proved rather difficult. Instead he decided to unbutton the buttons on Norway’s white shirt, softly licking the skin with his tongue as more and more skin was relieved.
“Gods, Denmark enough with the teasing already!” Norway said, the annoyance clear in his voice as he struggled to get out of the Dane’s grip.
“Always so impatient, aren’t we?” Denmark sighed. He removed his knee from the other nation’s groin and let go of his hands.
“Take of your pants.” Denmark demanded, and Norway willingly complied. While Norway was busy Denmark took of his own tie without Norway noticing.
Hungary/girl!Poland/girl!Lithuania
anything. sex or no sex, Hungary being involved or spying on the other two having girlsex. anything, really. just. IT NEEDS TO EXIST.
anything. sex or no sex, Hungary being involved or spying on the other two having girlsex. anything, really. just. IT NEEDS TO EXIST.
The meeting was so boring that Hungary was honestly surprised that nobody (except for Greece, of course) was asleep yet. She desperately tried to keep her eyes open and not to yawn. UK was talking about how something was all America’s fault. From the hurt look Alfred was sending his way it was clear that as soon as his speech would end, another fiery discussion will occur.
Elizaveta played with a spoon, plaited a strand of her hair, crumpled her handkerchief and decided that hell, she will die from boredom. It was pure torture.
In the display of utter desperation she began to look at the other nations, but no one did anything interesting enough.
Or maybe not?
Hungary glued her eyes to Lithuania, who looked really… interesting. She was blushing madly, brows knitted together and gaze fixed on the table. Her chest was moving up and down frantically and if her hands weren’t clearly visible, Elizaveta would swear that…
Oh, forget it. Hungary smiled when she noticed that Poland was sitting very closely to her friend, her chin leaning on the table. Poland’s hands were under the table and from the strange position her right arm was in, Elizaveta could easily guess what was going on.
Alfred finally started to speak and this time it was Arthur who was frowning unhappily. Meanwhile Lithuania was getting redder and redder, glaring from time to time at Poland who didn’t look fazed in the slightest. Hungary wondered when poor girl would snap and as soon as she thought this--
‘I’m sorry!’ Lithuania suddenly pushed her chair from the table and stood up, interrupting US mid-word. ‘B-bathroom!’ she stuttered in explanation and flew from the room.
Poland’s green eyes followed her to the door.
‘I think I like, should go with her, she will get totally lost or something,’ she said, smiled charmingly and stood up as well.
Nobody pointed out the nonsense of these words and Arthur cleared his throat when the door closed.
Hungary glanced at Austria and then at the door. Shit, how she would love to see how Poland make Lithuania angry. It was just too funny and here – here she will die soon, seriously.
Not wasting any more time she excused herself as well. Arthur’s glare didn’t bother her and she didn’t care that she would miss something. It was fun watching Arthur and Alfred fighting with all that sexual tension floating between them the first two thousands times. Now it became… not so original at least.
She quickly found bathroom and was just about to jump inside, when muffled groan stopped her dead in her tracks.
Hungary cocled her head to the side and just peeked carefully into the bathroom. And felt her eyes widen impossibly.
Because – oh my, now it was - strange. Poland always teased Lithuania, but she was teasing everybody close to her – flirting, joking, fluttering her eyelashes, sometimes even touching, smiling sweetly all the time and only her green eyes betrayed that she wasn’t exactly the most innocent there. Everyone was so used to this that no one thought of this twice. They were also sure that Lithuania and Poland were friends. Like, best friends, okay, but still.
Roman Empire/England. you know it.
Remember those strips where Grandpa Rome returns as a ghost to take a look at Germany? Well, Grandpa Rome decides to see how good ol' Britannia moved onand how he's been treating his grandchildren Of course, ghosts are no new thing to England, mwahaha...
can be smutty or non. the important thing is that he gets called GRANDPA ROME by someone at some point. :D
Remember those strips where Grandpa Rome returns as a ghost to take a look at Germany? Well, Grandpa Rome decides to see how good ol' Britannia moved on
can be smutty or non. the important thing is that he gets called GRANDPA ROME by someone at some point. :D
I first read this wonderful fill in an earlier request post (http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=1001080#t1001080), featuring Viking!Sweden and England, and now I'm hungry for more. Only I want Denmark to join them, too. ;D
Prompts:
- doesn't have to be set around any historical event, but I want to see England taken captive and "taught some heathen manners" (read: dirty, rough sex)
- sexy blasphemy (England calling the vikings heathens, Sweden and Denmark being all, "Denounce your old God, we are your Gods now. >:D")
- BONUS if you can slip in some insults/dirty talking in Danish and/or Swedish
And oh... Jeebus. I don't know why I'm requesting this, 'cause I'm sure I'm going to end up writing one version or another of this myself, BUT THERE CAN NOT BE ENOUGH SEXY VIKINGS AM I RIGHT? :DD And I totally know I'm not the only one wanting to see this.
Prompts:
- doesn't have to be set around any historical event, but I want to see England taken captive and "taught some heathen manners" (read: dirty, rough sex)
- sexy blasphemy (England calling the vikings heathens, Sweden and Denmark being all, "Denounce your old God, we are your Gods now. >:D")
- BONUS if you can slip in some insults/dirty talking in Danish and/or Swedish
And oh... Jeebus. I don't know why I'm requesting this, 'cause I'm sure I'm going to end up writing one version or another of this myself, BUT THERE CAN NOT BE ENOUGH SEXY VIKINGS AM I RIGHT? :DD And I totally know I'm not the only one wanting to see this.
Seconded. *u*
Prussia/Germany or the other way around, I don't care - as long as Germany crying while ejaculating is involved in one way or the other.
You can do it, Anon! ♥
You can do it, Anon! ♥
Hong Kong/England, Role Reversal.
Strange idea thats been going through my head for a while now. What if Hong Kong was the conqueror, and England the one conquered? All the bad things Hong Kong had to do(servicing his 'master' smutiness up to you) now England has to do, with Kong Kong as the super power.
It would be so cute if they're was some France/England too, like France watching out for lil England~
Strange idea thats been going through my head for a while now. What if Hong Kong was the conqueror, and England the one conquered? All the bad things Hong Kong had to do(servicing his 'master' smutiness up to you) now England has to do, with Kong Kong as the super power.
It would be so cute if they're was some France/England too, like France watching out for lil England~
Russia/Suicidal!Lithuania- Lithuania holds a knife up to his neck, and tells Russia that he'll do it right there if he comes any closer. How Russia reacts to this is up to you.
There were days when he thought that living in fear was worse than not living at all. It was always worst in the depths of (Russia's) Winter, when it seemed that the sun himself was too depressed to share any of his warmth. One would have thought that he'd have grown used to it by now, but even Russia struggled against the Winter he'd faced for his whole life, so how could Lithuania be expected to cope at all?
He stepped a little closer to the pot, a little closer to the fire, and wondered what it would be like to burn. Warm. Yes. It would be so warm. And when it was over, he would never have to see Russia ever again. And his people would be dead. Worse: forgotten.
But what did the histories of the future matter compared to what he was facing now? He would be better off dead. No more cold, no more winter, no more worries, no more Russia. No more fear. He was already failing his people, failing his friends.... friend? Did he have any left?
Poland? He cared for Poland, but he also remembered all too well that Poland, beloved Poland, had laughed as he was being dragged off by Russia into this hell. How could he ever have thought that they were ever friends when all Poland wanted was a compliant lackey? Poland wasn't capable of caring, after all.
The other Baltics? Strangers united in fear. He could barely understand Estonia most of the time and Latvia... Latvia could be very much like Russia sometimes. He felt sometimes that they were both laughing at him, because Russia 'loved' him best, and that made him a convenient meat-shield.
And America? God, he was just projecting his fantasies of being rescued on the poor nation, wasn't he? America had given him back to Russia without a fight, but, really, who would want to fight for him? He was worthless.
He was cold.
The water was boiling so invitingly: if only the pot was big enough for him to crawl in and just die.
Instead, he moved methodically to cut up the cabbage that was supposed to go into the soup. The knife went up and down and he watched longingly, though he felt strangely detatched from his own actions. As he turned around to put the cabbage into the pot, he knocked it over, spilling the boiling water all over the kitchen floor and on his own legs.
For a moment, he stood stunned, not even feeling the heat of the water now soaked into his pants. The cast-iron pot had cracked on the tiled floor, and cracked the tiles under it. Cabbage was scattered all over the place, a bit here, a pile there, because he'd dropped the chopping board from the shock of the contact. It was just supposed to be a simple soup, and he couldn't even handle this much? How useless was he?
"Lithuania? I heard a..."
Russia. He'd messed up the kitchen, messed up the food, and Russia was going to kill him or worse, because he was that worthless, that useless, that he was nothing, nothing at all and he wanted to be nothing at all, because to die by his own hand was better than dying by anyone elses' and he was so tired of struggling in a world that didn't need him, that didn't want him, so he would just have to...
"STOP!"
The knife felt cold against his skin, but he felt even colder. He didn't even notice that Russia had actually listened to him and had frozen at the threshold.
"Lithuania, what are you doing?"
It was the same sing-song voice he always used and it made Lithuania's stomach churn with the confirmation that he was truly and utterly worthless.
"Lithuania?"
"Don't come any closer!" the words exploded out of his mouth in a shriek as he pressed the cold blade against his throat, feeling the sting as it broke skin. Release, release, release, release... he wanted...
The kitchen was silent. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing. The world was blurring and he realised that he was crying.
He stepped a little closer to the pot, a little closer to the fire, and wondered what it would be like to burn. Warm. Yes. It would be so warm. And when it was over, he would never have to see Russia ever again. And his people would be dead. Worse: forgotten.
But what did the histories of the future matter compared to what he was facing now? He would be better off dead. No more cold, no more winter, no more worries, no more Russia. No more fear. He was already failing his people, failing his friends.... friend? Did he have any left?
Poland? He cared for Poland, but he also remembered all too well that Poland, beloved Poland, had laughed as he was being dragged off by Russia into this hell. How could he ever have thought that they were ever friends when all Poland wanted was a compliant lackey? Poland wasn't capable of caring, after all.
The other Baltics? Strangers united in fear. He could barely understand Estonia most of the time and Latvia... Latvia could be very much like Russia sometimes. He felt sometimes that they were both laughing at him, because Russia 'loved' him best, and that made him a convenient meat-shield.
And America? God, he was just projecting his fantasies of being rescued on the poor nation, wasn't he? America had given him back to Russia without a fight, but, really, who would want to fight for him? He was worthless.
He was cold.
The water was boiling so invitingly: if only the pot was big enough for him to crawl in and just die.
Instead, he moved methodically to cut up the cabbage that was supposed to go into the soup. The knife went up and down and he watched longingly, though he felt strangely detatched from his own actions. As he turned around to put the cabbage into the pot, he knocked it over, spilling the boiling water all over the kitchen floor and on his own legs.
For a moment, he stood stunned, not even feeling the heat of the water now soaked into his pants. The cast-iron pot had cracked on the tiled floor, and cracked the tiles under it. Cabbage was scattered all over the place, a bit here, a pile there, because he'd dropped the chopping board from the shock of the contact. It was just supposed to be a simple soup, and he couldn't even handle this much? How useless was he?
"Lithuania? I heard a..."
Russia. He'd messed up the kitchen, messed up the food, and Russia was going to kill him or worse, because he was that worthless, that useless, that he was nothing, nothing at all and he wanted to be nothing at all, because to die by his own hand was better than dying by anyone elses' and he was so tired of struggling in a world that didn't need him, that didn't want him, so he would just have to...
"STOP!"
The knife felt cold against his skin, but he felt even colder. He didn't even notice that Russia had actually listened to him and had frozen at the threshold.
"Lithuania, what are you doing?"
It was the same sing-song voice he always used and it made Lithuania's stomach churn with the confirmation that he was truly and utterly worthless.
"Lithuania?"
"Don't come any closer!" the words exploded out of his mouth in a shriek as he pressed the cold blade against his throat, feeling the sting as it broke skin. Release, release, release, release... he wanted...
The kitchen was silent. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing. The world was blurring and he realised that he was crying.
Patriotism OT3! Liberty/Justice/America, because America has to get it on with two girls at least once. Bonus points for creative use of Justice’s blindfold.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5137111#t5137111
Metal Gear Solid X-over: The Boss/U.S.
Kink? Let's have a fem!U.S.
Kink? Let's have a fem!U.S.
Russia/Canada based on this http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/317879
Please and Thank you?
Please and Thank you?
France and Quebec!Canada, nothing too schmoopy, bonus for orgasm denial until the other party begs in French.
Poland/Lithuania...secret, diiiirty meetings, when Lithuania is living with Russia...I'm talking in a broom cupboard, a bathroom during a world meeting, that kind of thing. Anything that involve the thrill of trying not to be caught!
Russia is given charge of Korea as WWII starts to end (anon can choose to use the twin theory or not). Russia shifts from attempts at a benevolent father to an enraged child, particularly as Korea shrinks away from him. Bondage, flogging, corporal punishment, etc. encouraged.
America keeps hitting on Canada and molesting him for ridiculous reasons! Filled with nonsense, hilarity ensues!
(I'll love you forever if you keep steeling lines from Spongebob Squarepants)
Canada: Damn it America! Why ya gotta go and make things so complicated?!
America (Starts singing): I see the way you're~!
Canada:*SLAP* I'm not referencing you idiot! (Avril Lavigne reference btw)
Anon can do ANYTHING with this! Make it as hilarious as possible!
Bonus points for adding France video taping it.
(I'll love you forever if you keep steeling lines from Spongebob Squarepants)
Canada: Damn it America! Why ya gotta go and make things so complicated?!
America (Starts singing): I see the way you're~!
Canada:*SLAP* I'm not referencing you idiot! (Avril Lavigne reference btw)
Anon can do ANYTHING with this! Make it as hilarious as possible!
Bonus points for adding France video taping it.
Anon fails! This is why I should stop writing these things when I don't have the request in front of me. Cause I have a tendency to not follow prompts. I just... loved the idea of Al teasing Matt using his own music.
OTZ x infinity, OP.
**
“Come oooon,” Al whined, spinning around in his chair in front of Matthew’s desk.
Matt, hunched over another piece of paper as he transferred it from the large stack on his left to another large, although less so, pile on his right, felt the beginnings of a headache start to throb in his temple.
“I’m doing work. You do know what work is, right?” Matt grated out, scratching his signature on the paper and then stamping his seal beside it before putting it in the ‘done’ pile.
“But it’s boring,” Al stated as if he had uncovered some great philosophical truth. “You’re becoming a little too much like Arthur.”
The throb took on a sharp pinch like an ice pick was being dug into his brain.
“I’m writing this because of your mistake,” Matt growled. “And since people tend to lump us together, I thought I should make sure that everyone knows that I had nothing to do with it.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Al protested.
Matt sighed, massaging his eyebrows. “Actually, it was. I wish you would stop making things so complicated.”
“I see the way you’re acti–”
“No,” Matthew said, lowly and dangerously, pointing his pen at Al like a weapon. “I will take your continuance of that as a declaration of war.”
“Pfft. You’re like a bird, you’ll only fly away,” Al teased, standing up from the chair. Matt rolled his eyes and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
Sign, stamp. Sign, stamp. SiiIIII–!!
“Al!” Matt exclaimed, clapping a hand to the ear that had recently been the target of Al’s tongue as a blush ignited his features.
“What?” Al smiled, his hands already tugging Matt’s shirt out of his belted slacks as he sat on Matt’s desk, heedless of everything else already on it.
Matt attempted to swat him away and moved his papers out from underneath Al’s ass. “I’m working here. Will you quit it?”
“No,” Al laughed, sliding his hand up Matt’s shirt and watching as the flush moved from Matt’s cheeks to his cheekbones, causing a few of the freckles not faded by his insistence to stay cooped up in his office to pop. “I’m never going to quit. Ain’t nothing wrong with it. Just actin’ like we’re animals.”
Matt sighed again, the ice pick in his skull having upgraded to the jackhammer from hell. “Why does our music suck so much?” he asked forlornly to no one in particular. He attempted to ignore Al, just as he was ignoring the fact that he knew his face was bright red.
OTZ x infinity, OP.
**
“Come oooon,” Al whined, spinning around in his chair in front of Matthew’s desk.
Matt, hunched over another piece of paper as he transferred it from the large stack on his left to another large, although less so, pile on his right, felt the beginnings of a headache start to throb in his temple.
“I’m doing work. You do know what work is, right?” Matt grated out, scratching his signature on the paper and then stamping his seal beside it before putting it in the ‘done’ pile.
“But it’s boring,” Al stated as if he had uncovered some great philosophical truth. “You’re becoming a little too much like Arthur.”
The throb took on a sharp pinch like an ice pick was being dug into his brain.
“I’m writing this because of your mistake,” Matt growled. “And since people tend to lump us together, I thought I should make sure that everyone knows that I had nothing to do with it.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Al protested.
Matt sighed, massaging his eyebrows. “Actually, it was. I wish you would stop making things so complicated.”
“I see the way you’re acti–”
“No,” Matthew said, lowly and dangerously, pointing his pen at Al like a weapon. “I will take your continuance of that as a declaration of war.”
“Pfft. You’re like a bird, you’ll only fly away,” Al teased, standing up from the chair. Matt rolled his eyes and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
Sign, stamp. Sign, stamp. SiiIIII–!!
“Al!” Matt exclaimed, clapping a hand to the ear that had recently been the target of Al’s tongue as a blush ignited his features.
“What?” Al smiled, his hands already tugging Matt’s shirt out of his belted slacks as he sat on Matt’s desk, heedless of everything else already on it.
Matt attempted to swat him away and moved his papers out from underneath Al’s ass. “I’m working here. Will you quit it?”
“No,” Al laughed, sliding his hand up Matt’s shirt and watching as the flush moved from Matt’s cheeks to his cheekbones, causing a few of the freckles not faded by his insistence to stay cooped up in his office to pop. “I’m never going to quit. Ain’t nothing wrong with it. Just actin’ like we’re animals.”
Matt sighed again, the ice pick in his skull having upgraded to the jackhammer from hell. “Why does our music suck so much?” he asked forlornly to no one in particular. He attempted to ignore Al, just as he was ignoring the fact that he knew his face was bright red.
SWEDEN/FINLAND; in one of IKEA's model rooms.
Total bonus points if it's in the childrens' section.
Total bonus points if it's in the childrens' section.
(screened comment)
Anon wants to see some Switzerland/Canada.
Matthew's trying to have better relations with him and invites him over. Vash isn't sure how to talk to him at first, but they end up getting along with their similar interests~
It can be anything: fluff, friendship or smut.
Matthew's trying to have better relations with him and invites him over. Vash isn't sure how to talk to him at first, but they end up getting along with their similar interests~
It can be anything: fluff, friendship or smut.
Poland, inviting Hungary, Slovakia, and the Czech Republic to a *~SLEEPOVER!~*
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visegr%C3%A1d_Group
Bonus points for Hungary being their mother. (extreme bonus points for knowing what anon is talking about!)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visegr%C3%A1d_Group
Bonus points for Hungary being their mother. (extreme bonus points for knowing what anon is talking about!)
Yeah, this is totally crack.
--
Later on, the twins agree that it's probably Poland's fault. These things usually are.
"I can't believe you let him talk us into joining a club," Slovakia says.
The Czech Republic glares at his sister, who is regarding him with the air of someone who has better things to do than be at a sleepover, like possibly alphabetizing her socks. Her hair is in rollers, although he suspects that this, too, is Poland's fault and that if he asks about it, Slovakia will kick him.
"I didn't let him do anything," he says with as much wounded dignity as he can muster. He considers for a moment before adding, "and you're not the one with ribbons on your mustache."
Slovakia bristles. "Are you saying I have a mustache?"
"I say you're overreacting," the Czech Republic mutters - since he does have a mustache, which he's quite proud of when Poland hasn't somehow managed to tie ribbons to it - but that's as far as he gets before his sister grabs the popcorn bowl and empties it over his head.
Things go rapidly downhill from there.
*
The club - such as it is - comes into being when everyone finishes kicking Russia out of their respective houses. Poland proposes a party to celebrate, somehow inexplicably forgetting to mention that he's, like, not paying for any of the drinks, and somewhere around their twelth bottle, he absently makes his suggestion.
"It'd, like, be fun," he says. "We could take turns sleeping over at each other's houses and totally watch movies and everything."
Everything thinks this is a grand idea, although this may have something to do with the fact that the alternative is watching Hungary call the twins her little darlings and Slovakia grumbling drunkenly about Magyarization and trying to punch her in the head.
*
Back then the twins are still sharing a house, even if they squabble over things like boundaries and language and whose turn it is to do the laundry. Poland gets them all banners - or at least pouts at Hungary until she gets the banners, which means they're a hundred percent less pink and glittery - and proudly announces that Visegrád Triangle is, like, totally the best name ever. It's historical and everything!
They're all too hungover to argue with him - that, and facing down Poland when he's in these kind of moods usually just ends in frustration and attempts at justifiable countrycide.
It's only when the twins find separate houses - no one's quite sure if Slovakia made a grand exit or the Czech Republic kicked her out - that someone suggests that maybe a name change is in order, seeing as how they're not a triangle anymore. Just a thought.
"Great idea!" Poland chirps.
The next day he turns up with another banner - a glittery pink one, with V4 on it in enormous silvery letters - and invites them all over for a sleepover.
Hungary thinks this is a brilliant idea, even if her idea of ideal sleepover movies is a little odd and makes the Czech Republic edge away from her as quickly as politeness allows.
"This is your fault," he hisses at Slovakia, who kicks him in the ankle for his troubles.
*
That's how the sleepover club starts.
And somewhere in between Poland's obsession with manicures, Hungary's habit of pinching cheeks and cooing about how certain little countries have gotten so big, and the twins alternately trying to throttle each other or presenting a united front against what they both acknowledge as their fellow members' idiocy - somewhere in there, it's almost...fun.
Even with the rollers. Even with Hungary bringing disturbing movies and Slovakia being a little too possessive of the remote control.
The Czech Republic draws the line at the damn mustache ribbons, though.
--
Later on, the twins agree that it's probably Poland's fault. These things usually are.
"I can't believe you let him talk us into joining a club," Slovakia says.
The Czech Republic glares at his sister, who is regarding him with the air of someone who has better things to do than be at a sleepover, like possibly alphabetizing her socks. Her hair is in rollers, although he suspects that this, too, is Poland's fault and that if he asks about it, Slovakia will kick him.
"I didn't let him do anything," he says with as much wounded dignity as he can muster. He considers for a moment before adding, "and you're not the one with ribbons on your mustache."
Slovakia bristles. "Are you saying I have a mustache?"
"I say you're overreacting," the Czech Republic mutters - since he does have a mustache, which he's quite proud of when Poland hasn't somehow managed to tie ribbons to it - but that's as far as he gets before his sister grabs the popcorn bowl and empties it over his head.
Things go rapidly downhill from there.
*
The club - such as it is - comes into being when everyone finishes kicking Russia out of their respective houses. Poland proposes a party to celebrate, somehow inexplicably forgetting to mention that he's, like, not paying for any of the drinks, and somewhere around their twelth bottle, he absently makes his suggestion.
"It'd, like, be fun," he says. "We could take turns sleeping over at each other's houses and totally watch movies and everything."
Everything thinks this is a grand idea, although this may have something to do with the fact that the alternative is watching Hungary call the twins her little darlings and Slovakia grumbling drunkenly about Magyarization and trying to punch her in the head.
*
Back then the twins are still sharing a house, even if they squabble over things like boundaries and language and whose turn it is to do the laundry. Poland gets them all banners - or at least pouts at Hungary until she gets the banners, which means they're a hundred percent less pink and glittery - and proudly announces that Visegrád Triangle is, like, totally the best name ever. It's historical and everything!
They're all too hungover to argue with him - that, and facing down Poland when he's in these kind of moods usually just ends in frustration and attempts at justifiable countrycide.
It's only when the twins find separate houses - no one's quite sure if Slovakia made a grand exit or the Czech Republic kicked her out - that someone suggests that maybe a name change is in order, seeing as how they're not a triangle anymore. Just a thought.
"Great idea!" Poland chirps.
The next day he turns up with another banner - a glittery pink one, with V4 on it in enormous silvery letters - and invites them all over for a sleepover.
Hungary thinks this is a brilliant idea, even if her idea of ideal sleepover movies is a little odd and makes the Czech Republic edge away from her as quickly as politeness allows.
"This is your fault," he hisses at Slovakia, who kicks him in the ankle for his troubles.
*
That's how the sleepover club starts.
And somewhere in between Poland's obsession with manicures, Hungary's habit of pinching cheeks and cooing about how certain little countries have gotten so big, and the twins alternately trying to throttle each other or presenting a united front against what they both acknowledge as their fellow members' idiocy - somewhere in there, it's almost...fun.
Even with the rollers. Even with Hungary bringing disturbing movies and Slovakia being a little too possessive of the remote control.
The Czech Republic draws the line at the damn mustache ribbons, though.
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