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threesome between Fritz, Hans Hermann von Katte and Prussia.
8D
8D
Just a note here: I don't exactly know what Katte looks like since I can only seem to find black and white sketches of him. I basically have him looking a bit like Germany, but with smoother features. I don't exactly know much on how Fritz felt for Katte--aside from attraction. But I have it viewed as him admiring this older man, and being flustered by his feelings for men instead of women. Also know: Katte was 26, Fritz was 18. I was winging it mostly. Katte was known to be a womanizer, so I played along with that, and made him a bit of a maninizer towards Fritz. Yes, I plan on having young Fritz as a little tsundere.
If you need a description of how I'm seeing this pairing, just think Spain and S.Italy. That might make things a bit more clear.
Now, on to part one! (I'll post the rest later tonight)
If you need a description of how I'm seeing this pairing, just think Spain and S.Italy. That might make things a bit more clear.
Now, on to part one! (I'll post the rest later tonight)
Tnhought up from a random conversation I had over a lunch with a bunch of friends. Austria is giving Hungary a singing lesson, Hungary mucks up (how is writer's choice) and as a consequence Austria tells Hungray she needs to work on her oral(as in voice exercices) Hungary gets the wrong end of the stick...
Anon would love whoever filled this forever!
Thank you!!! ^-^
Anon would love whoever filled this forever!
Thank you!!! ^-^
It had been an unexpected day when Hungary had appeared by Austria’s side after a meeting, pulled on his sleeve, and demanded to be taught to sing.
Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head.
India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.
Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head.
India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.
Lithuania, Poland and Canada, any combination! Maybe sweet threesome? or just the three of them hanging out? or two of them together and the third as a friend? I don't care, it'd be sweet anyway ^^ (actually I don't mind putting America there too, but he's not necessarily required)
No angst and UST please, and my kink for this one is fluffiness :)
No angst and UST please, and my kink for this one is fluffiness :)
Germany as a not-so-masked vigilante, beating the crap outta crime. The archnemesis? Mafia!Romano (tho' if you wanna do someone else, that's fine)
Bonus 1: Italy as that fanboy/damsel in distress
Bonus 2: Prussia as his partner-in-crimejustice
Bonus 1: Italy as that fanboy/damsel in distress
Bonus 2: Prussia as his partner-in-
Anon has exams this month and is completely stressed out, so she'd love some serious fluff:
5 times Nation A realized they were in love with Nation B
Anon doesn't really care about the possible pairings, since she loves almost all of them; so multiple fills are encouraged! ♥
5 times Nation A realized they were in love with Nation B
Anon doesn't really care about the possible pairings, since she loves almost all of them; so multiple fills are encouraged! ♥
Matthew had held back for quite a long time. It wasn't because he was intimidated by Alfred. That wasn't the case at all. It was because he was pretty sure that Alfred had hardly ever noticed him. After all, everyone ignored him. That's just how it was when you were Canada.
But he knew if he tried to tell Alfred out loud, he'd probably be ignored no matter what. He knew what he would do. Put pencil to paper. He smiled as the words flowed out. There were so many times he'd realized how much he loved Alfred--and he'd loved him as more than just two brothers would love one another.
He could feel the tears roll down his cheek--tears of joy and sweetness. Tears for all those memories of those times he really did realize how much he loved Alfred.
After he'd gotten out his words, his feelings on the paper, he folded it up and put it in an envelope, then sealed up the envelope. He was going to deliver this in person, even if Alfred didn't notice it was him delivering it. After all, it would mean more if he gave it himself. At least, it would mean more to him.
When he finally got to America's house--to Alfred's house--he looked around to make sure that Alfred was at home for once. Phew. He was. He raised a hand to knock on the door. After a slight wait, Alfred finally opened the door.
"...Who...are you?" He gave a light teasing smile before seeing Matthew's face fall, which caused him to hastily add. "Oh, I know it's you Canada-kun. Whatcha got there? Izzat for me?"
Matthew nodded. "Y-yeah! It's for you. I thought that it would be nice to deli--"
"...Give it to me already." Alfred huffed, impatient as ever.
Matthew grudgingly heaved a sigh and handed it over. He figured he was going to hand it over anyway. Here he flinched as Alfred hastily tore open the envelope and started to read.
Out loud.
"Dear Alfred
I guess this is going to sound boring to you, but...I love you. And I've realized quite a few times that I did. And I can name five specific times."
Here, Alfred looked up at Matthew, quirking a brow. Sure, his little brother never really had a way with words, but this was how he really felt? Matthew glanced away nervously. He was sure Alfred would just laugh, crumple the letter, and chuck it at him.
But Alfred kept reading out loud.
But he knew if he tried to tell Alfred out loud, he'd probably be ignored no matter what. He knew what he would do. Put pencil to paper. He smiled as the words flowed out. There were so many times he'd realized how much he loved Alfred--and he'd loved him as more than just two brothers would love one another.
He could feel the tears roll down his cheek--tears of joy and sweetness. Tears for all those memories of those times he really did realize how much he loved Alfred.
After he'd gotten out his words, his feelings on the paper, he folded it up and put it in an envelope, then sealed up the envelope. He was going to deliver this in person, even if Alfred didn't notice it was him delivering it. After all, it would mean more if he gave it himself. At least, it would mean more to him.
When he finally got to America's house--to Alfred's house--he looked around to make sure that Alfred was at home for once. Phew. He was. He raised a hand to knock on the door. After a slight wait, Alfred finally opened the door.
"...Who...are you?" He gave a light teasing smile before seeing Matthew's face fall, which caused him to hastily add. "Oh, I know it's you Canada-kun. Whatcha got there? Izzat for me?"
Matthew nodded. "Y-yeah! It's for you. I thought that it would be nice to deli--"
"...Give it to me already." Alfred huffed, impatient as ever.
Matthew grudgingly heaved a sigh and handed it over. He figured he was going to hand it over anyway. Here he flinched as Alfred hastily tore open the envelope and started to read.
Out loud.
"Dear Alfred
I guess this is going to sound boring to you, but...I love you. And I've realized quite a few times that I did. And I can name five specific times."
Here, Alfred looked up at Matthew, quirking a brow. Sure, his little brother never really had a way with words, but this was how he really felt? Matthew glanced away nervously. He was sure Alfred would just laugh, crumple the letter, and chuck it at him.
But Alfred kept reading out loud.
Five times France realized he was in love with England [1/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 13:27 (UTC) - ExpandFive times France realized he was in love with England [2/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 14:04 (UTC) - ExpandFive times France realized he was in love with England [3/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 14:06 (UTC) - ExpandFive times France realized he was in love with England [4/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 14:09 (UTC) - ExpandFive times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 14:11 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 14:50 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 16:43 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 18:48 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 18:55 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-08 19:27 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-09 07:39 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-09 12:01 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-15 15:53 (UTC) - ExpandEto... I really wanna see aristocratic/noble birth Arthur being sold off as a pet/slave by his brothers to a new rich/peasant Alfred ^^ to pay off their debts ^^
Smutty times with Arthur being all uptight despite of his new role, and Alfred enjoying his feisty character. The kink of course is submission!!!
Bonus points if Alfred is to blame for Arthur's family bankrupt (I was thinking of poker, but I'm not picky), whether Arthur gets to know the truth or not is up to writer!anon ^^
don't really care about names so that is also up to you writer!!!
Anon will give all the love in the world to the person who fills this!!!
Thanks!!!!
Smutty times with Arthur being all uptight despite of his new role, and Alfred enjoying his feisty character. The kink of course is submission!!!
Bonus points if Alfred is to blame for Arthur's family bankrupt (I was thinking of poker, but I'm not picky), whether Arthur gets to know the truth or not is up to writer!anon ^^
don't really care about names so that is also up to you writer!!!
Anon will give all the love in the world to the person who fills this!!!
Thanks!!!!
(screened comment)
Two countries X and Y switch their body for unknown reasons and for a unknown time. Confusion ensue. (I expect a lot of funny)
Pairing, smut is up to anon, if anon wants to put smut in her fill, it may be X/Y or X(or Y)/other country, and the country involved can be aware or not.
thanks :D
Pairing, smut is up to anon, if anon wants to put smut in her fill, it may be X/Y or X(or Y)/other country, and the country involved can be aware or not.
thanks :D
This Anon hasn't had the best of days lately so maybe that's why she want hurt/comfort...
Enemy forces (it doesn't matter who) has captured England, who is then brutally raped, tortured, etc. After hearing about the capture, a rescue team was formed (America is a given, but France also would preferred). The problem is that they weren't aware of just how far the damage was. They had came too late and had found England is completely broken.
Of course, although it seems hopeless, America won't give up, he makes it his job to help England. Slowly but surely, England recovers.
This Anon will love whoever fills this for life!
Hopefully that description is easy to understand.
Enemy forces (it doesn't matter who) has captured England, who is then brutally raped, tortured, etc. After hearing about the capture, a rescue team was formed (America is a given, but France also would preferred). The problem is that they weren't aware of just how far the damage was. They had came too late and had found England is completely broken.
Of course, although it seems hopeless, America won't give up, he makes it his job to help England. Slowly but surely, England recovers.
This Anon will love whoever fills this for life!
Hopefully that description is easy to understand.
(screened comment)
(screened comment)
Using human names when alone to show intimacy. Doesn't have to be smut.
B: They do it without realizing it.
B: They do it without realizing it.
This Is What We Talk About [Alfred side]
It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
continues next
It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
continues next
France/England, using this as the theme:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/world/europe/17submarine.html?_r=1&ref=world
I'm not really looking for smut so...crack anyone? :DDD
Summary: "Two nuclear submarines, one French and the other British, collided in mid-Atlantic earlier this month, reports in the British and French news media said on Monday, quoting sources in the two defense ministries."
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/world/europe/17submarine.html?_r=1&ref=world
I'm not really looking for smut so...crack anyone? :DDD
Summary: "Two nuclear submarines, one French and the other British, collided in mid-Atlantic earlier this month, reports in the British and French news media said on Monday, quoting sources in the two defense ministries."
I just watched it and I need this like burning.
Prussia and Hungary are childhood friends who live with each other. They're falling behind on rent, so they decide to make a porno to make money.
Make it smutty and funny.
Prussia and Hungary are childhood friends who live with each other. They're falling behind on rent, so they decide to make a porno to make money.
Make it smutty and funny.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=69993300#t69993300
(Because we need some more dark!Spain)
Spain/Romano: Punishment/torture noncon.
Spain takes pleasure in his darker side and puts his teenage charge through a series of tortures as punishment: Bondage, force-feeding, desperation, stripping, forced stimulation, bloodplay, etc. Any or all of those in a wicked combination.
(Bonus: Spain remains oblivious or perhaps not as to the pain and horror he's causing Romano)
Spain/Romano: Punishment/torture noncon.
Spain takes pleasure in his darker side and puts his teenage charge through a series of tortures as punishment: Bondage, force-feeding, desperation, stripping, forced stimulation, bloodplay, etc. Any or all of those in a wicked combination.
(Bonus: Spain remains oblivious or perhaps not as to the pain and horror he's causing Romano)
This is the anon that claimed, btw. XD Also, major failure ahead, since I don't usually write. Yeaaah....
--
Lovino isn’t quite sure when it began—time no longer had any meaning to him, except for when the day’s punishment began and ended. There is no indication as to whether it is day or night—there are no windows here, and the only light comes from the candles that the Spaniard lights when he enters the room.
Currently, he is bound to the bed once more, arms raised above him, wrists bound and lashed to the headboard. A dark and heavy blindfold is wrapped around his eyes, and his mouth has been taped shut. He is used to the deprivation of these senses now, and he can only be grateful that Antonio hasn’t completely cut off all of his senses. Not being able to see, or move and talk is hard enough as it is.
The Italian shifts as much as he is allowed to, just to stimulate some circulation in his body, flexes his fingers and his toes; the room is cold, and he is naked. He’s always naked now—what use was there for clothes? They were only torn and ripped away in the end. He has also given up struggling a long time ago; struggles brought nothing but pain and more degradation beyond what he thought was humanly possible.
Lovino lies there, and waits for Antonio’s return. It is inevitable.
--
“Lovino…” There’s a croon in his ear, and it’s the Spaniard. There is also a strange smell, and it takes awhile for him to realize it’s the smell of food. The Italian is used to the sterile smell of the room, and the scents from whatever Antonio has brought overwhelm him, makes his nose hurt. There is some shuffling, and the suspended Italian is dropped onto the bed. He tries to move his hands apart, but finds that he can’t—they are still bound together. The texture of the sheets on the bed makes him cringe. He lies there, afraid to move. He feels the bed dip, knows that Antonio has sat down on it.
A pair of calloused hands moves the Italian in an almost gentle fashion—adjusts him so that Lovino sits in Antonio’s lap. It’s not longer as embarrassing to sit in the man’s nap naked; he knows that before, he would have screamed and cursed and attempted to physically harm the man. Not anymore. The Italian sits there, shivering, not making a sound until he feels the piece of tape being ripped away from his mouth, and he utters a small cry of pain.
Antonio presses a finger to the other man’s lips, smiles, even thought Lovino can’t see it. “Sh, it’s alright…” His voice is low, and soothing, but it makes Lovino shudder. The Italian feels Antonio reach around him for something. “Open your mouth.”
Lovino obeys, and opens his mouth. Antonio presses something into his mouth, those fingers lingering in his mouth for a few seconds, and it’s only when they are gone does Lovino bite down, and chew. Spanish olives. This is repeated for a few minutes, and when Antonio is done, Lovino laments. Only olives? Nothing else?
But no, he can’t complain.
It’s better than what he usually gets.
“What do you say, Lovino?”
“Thank you, Master, thank you thank you thank you…”
--
Lovino isn’t quite sure when it began—time no longer had any meaning to him, except for when the day’s punishment began and ended. There is no indication as to whether it is day or night—there are no windows here, and the only light comes from the candles that the Spaniard lights when he enters the room.
Currently, he is bound to the bed once more, arms raised above him, wrists bound and lashed to the headboard. A dark and heavy blindfold is wrapped around his eyes, and his mouth has been taped shut. He is used to the deprivation of these senses now, and he can only be grateful that Antonio hasn’t completely cut off all of his senses. Not being able to see, or move and talk is hard enough as it is.
The Italian shifts as much as he is allowed to, just to stimulate some circulation in his body, flexes his fingers and his toes; the room is cold, and he is naked. He’s always naked now—what use was there for clothes? They were only torn and ripped away in the end. He has also given up struggling a long time ago; struggles brought nothing but pain and more degradation beyond what he thought was humanly possible.
Lovino lies there, and waits for Antonio’s return. It is inevitable.
--
“Lovino…” There’s a croon in his ear, and it’s the Spaniard. There is also a strange smell, and it takes awhile for him to realize it’s the smell of food. The Italian is used to the sterile smell of the room, and the scents from whatever Antonio has brought overwhelm him, makes his nose hurt. There is some shuffling, and the suspended Italian is dropped onto the bed. He tries to move his hands apart, but finds that he can’t—they are still bound together. The texture of the sheets on the bed makes him cringe. He lies there, afraid to move. He feels the bed dip, knows that Antonio has sat down on it.
A pair of calloused hands moves the Italian in an almost gentle fashion—adjusts him so that Lovino sits in Antonio’s lap. It’s not longer as embarrassing to sit in the man’s nap naked; he knows that before, he would have screamed and cursed and attempted to physically harm the man. Not anymore. The Italian sits there, shivering, not making a sound until he feels the piece of tape being ripped away from his mouth, and he utters a small cry of pain.
Antonio presses a finger to the other man’s lips, smiles, even thought Lovino can’t see it. “Sh, it’s alright…” His voice is low, and soothing, but it makes Lovino shudder. The Italian feels Antonio reach around him for something. “Open your mouth.”
Lovino obeys, and opens his mouth. Antonio presses something into his mouth, those fingers lingering in his mouth for a few seconds, and it’s only when they are gone does Lovino bite down, and chew. Spanish olives. This is repeated for a few minutes, and when Antonio is done, Lovino laments. Only olives? Nothing else?
But no, he can’t complain.
It’s better than what he usually gets.
“What do you say, Lovino?”
“Thank you, Master, thank you thank you thank you…”
I've seen a couple Boston Tea Party fics, but I haven't seen any of the Boston Massacre.
UK x colonial America, obviously. snowballs, insults and a gun.
wikipedia has a strangely detailed account of the event, if anon is interested. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_massacre#Event
UK x colonial America, obviously. snowballs, insults and a gun.
wikipedia has a strangely detailed account of the event, if anon is interested. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_massacre#Event
different anon from above delivering a fic anon has wanted to write for a long time.
------
His first thought is that he shouldn’t be here – that he should be on his way back home, back to where he knows England is waiting for him. If he’s late England will pull him aside and scold him until he pretends to be apologetic and remorseful. He’ll promise to never do it again, swear that he’s loyal to England and the Crown; then England will ruffle his hair like he’s still a child and send him up to bed. Canada will give him a disapproving look from behind his bear, tell him that he really should listen to what England says because England’s only looking out for America. At least he will until America punches his brother hard enough to get him to shut up.
He doesn’t mean to wander over, not at first, or so he tells himself. Arguments between the British soldiers and his citizens aren’t exactly uncommon, but when he sees the soldier strike one of the boys on the side of the head he can’t help himself. A few quick strides and he’s there, easily blending in with the gathering crowd.
“Why don’t you go back to where you belong,” cries someone from near the front of the group – even though he’s grown America still has to stretch to see over the sea of heads to get a good look at the soldier who, America notes with some satisfaction, looks worried. He should be, he thinks, they all should be.
When the church bells start ringing he doesn’t even blink, not as the mob presses in around him. It’s exhilarating, yelling along with his people and he can feel them, every single one as they’re united against a single threat, united against England.
The soldier is moving now, slowly but he’s still moving – trying to find safer ground, America supposes. He has to laugh when the man ends up with his back to a building and more space for the crowd to gather around and grow.
“They’re sending reinforcements!”
Of course they are. America stands on his toes to peer over crowd - there has to be at least a hundred people gathered now - to watch the bright red coats part the sea of people with ease.
It’s the eyebrows that he spots first, and he chuckles to himself because they remind him so much of England…
England.
America is taken back, stops mid throw to stare at the older nation before the dawning realization makes his grin widen. England is here, England will find out first hand that he isn’t going to be taken lightly. It’s perfect, and so he launches the snowball and laughs as it hits an unfaltering England square on his chest.
England’s expression doesn’t change as the soldiers load their muskets and form a semi-circle around the door – leveling their muskets at the crowd. America nearly laughs at the idea – England wouldn’t dare, not after the death of Christopher Seider, not when all America needs is any excuse at all to prove just how much England isn’t wanted, isn’t needed here anymore.
“Why don’t you fire?” He yells, voice easily carrying over the other jeers and taunts of the crowd. “Fire!”
England’s eyes snap to him in an instant and they widen with surprise even as America’s call is taken up by others in the crowd. He doesn’t stop the smirk, can’t stop the way he feels like laughing because England knows he’s here, knows that he’s not being a good little colony sitting back in the house and waiting for England to come home. He hasn’t been that model colony for a long time and maybe, just maybe, if England had paid attention, had taken him seriously, he wouldn’t be so surprised.
So America cups his hands around his mouth and yells again, as loud as he can – “Fire!”
Someone, America can’t tell who, clubs down a soldier. The man falls to the ground and he can’t help but join in the laughter from the crowd – it’s only a taste of what they deserve. The British don’t belong in Boston; don’t belong in the houses of his people. Ungrateful, that’s what England would say, but America knows better. He’s not ungrateful if he never wanted, never needed, what England says he’s giving him in the first place.
------
His first thought is that he shouldn’t be here – that he should be on his way back home, back to where he knows England is waiting for him. If he’s late England will pull him aside and scold him until he pretends to be apologetic and remorseful. He’ll promise to never do it again, swear that he’s loyal to England and the Crown; then England will ruffle his hair like he’s still a child and send him up to bed. Canada will give him a disapproving look from behind his bear, tell him that he really should listen to what England says because England’s only looking out for America. At least he will until America punches his brother hard enough to get him to shut up.
He doesn’t mean to wander over, not at first, or so he tells himself. Arguments between the British soldiers and his citizens aren’t exactly uncommon, but when he sees the soldier strike one of the boys on the side of the head he can’t help himself. A few quick strides and he’s there, easily blending in with the gathering crowd.
“Why don’t you go back to where you belong,” cries someone from near the front of the group – even though he’s grown America still has to stretch to see over the sea of heads to get a good look at the soldier who, America notes with some satisfaction, looks worried. He should be, he thinks, they all should be.
When the church bells start ringing he doesn’t even blink, not as the mob presses in around him. It’s exhilarating, yelling along with his people and he can feel them, every single one as they’re united against a single threat, united against England.
The soldier is moving now, slowly but he’s still moving – trying to find safer ground, America supposes. He has to laugh when the man ends up with his back to a building and more space for the crowd to gather around and grow.
“They’re sending reinforcements!”
Of course they are. America stands on his toes to peer over crowd - there has to be at least a hundred people gathered now - to watch the bright red coats part the sea of people with ease.
It’s the eyebrows that he spots first, and he chuckles to himself because they remind him so much of England…
England.
America is taken back, stops mid throw to stare at the older nation before the dawning realization makes his grin widen. England is here, England will find out first hand that he isn’t going to be taken lightly. It’s perfect, and so he launches the snowball and laughs as it hits an unfaltering England square on his chest.
England’s expression doesn’t change as the soldiers load their muskets and form a semi-circle around the door – leveling their muskets at the crowd. America nearly laughs at the idea – England wouldn’t dare, not after the death of Christopher Seider, not when all America needs is any excuse at all to prove just how much England isn’t wanted, isn’t needed here anymore.
“Why don’t you fire?” He yells, voice easily carrying over the other jeers and taunts of the crowd. “Fire!”
England’s eyes snap to him in an instant and they widen with surprise even as America’s call is taken up by others in the crowd. He doesn’t stop the smirk, can’t stop the way he feels like laughing because England knows he’s here, knows that he’s not being a good little colony sitting back in the house and waiting for England to come home. He hasn’t been that model colony for a long time and maybe, just maybe, if England had paid attention, had taken him seriously, he wouldn’t be so surprised.
So America cups his hands around his mouth and yells again, as loud as he can – “Fire!”
Someone, America can’t tell who, clubs down a soldier. The man falls to the ground and he can’t help but join in the laughter from the crowd – it’s only a taste of what they deserve. The British don’t belong in Boston; don’t belong in the houses of his people. Ungrateful, that’s what England would say, but America knows better. He’s not ungrateful if he never wanted, never needed, what England says he’s giving him in the first place.
Well, I think there has been at least one Hamlet-request in each of the 4 parts, since I've seen a few, but now; I couldn't find them D:
SO I'll just be posting the fic here. When I find the links, I'll put them in, promise D:
Since all the requests has differed from one another, I chose to go with the country names, seeing as how Denmark's name still is unknown. I chose not to follow the script 100%, and will just be writing the plot with part quotes, part self-invented stuff. If you're a true Shakespeare-fan, you'll quickly see what I've used and not used xD
Anyway, enjoy? :3
SO I'll just be posting the fic here. When I find the links, I'll put them in, promise D:
Since all the requests has differed from one another, I chose to go with the country names, seeing as how Denmark's name still is unknown. I chose not to follow the script 100%, and will just be writing the plot with part quotes, part self-invented stuff. If you're a true Shakespeare-fan, you'll quickly see what I've used and not used xD
Anyway, enjoy? :3
Hamlet - Denmark (Wow, surprise xD)
Claudius - Sweden
Gertrude - Finland
Ophelia - Canada
The Ghost - Russia
Marcellus and Bernado - Germany and Prussia
Horatio - Prussia too (have kind of smacked the characters together)
Polonius - England
Laertes - America
Fortinbras - Norway
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - Belarus and Ukraine
The rest will be played by normal humans.
Claudius - Sweden
Gertrude - Finland
Ophelia - Canada
The Ghost - Russia
Marcellus and Bernado - Germany and Prussia
Horatio - Prussia too (have kind of smacked the characters together)
Polonius - England
Laertes - America
Fortinbras - Norway
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - Belarus and Ukraine
The rest will be played by normal humans.
Sweden/Finland. Finnish Civil War
Finland returns from Russia's house back to Sweden's side. However after a while Sweden starts to notice that there's something wrong with his dear 'wife'. His worst fears come true when one day he realizes that there are two Finlands instead of one.
And that it was just the beginning of one of Europe's bloodiest civil wars.
Finland returns from Russia's house back to Sweden's side. However after a while Sweden starts to notice that there's something wrong with his dear 'wife'. His worst fears come true when one day he realizes that there are two Finlands instead of one.
And that it was just the beginning of one of Europe's bloodiest civil wars.
[I've included notes of timelines and such, and a small vocabulary after the fic.]
- - -
It was a night of celebration. With the cries of 'Our land, our land!' still ringing through the halls and streets and dark forests of his grounds, Finland toppled into the sheets with his lover. They were both delirious with joy, Finland because of his freedom, Sweden because of the happiness of his loved one. Their lovemaking was ecstatic, blissful, and so overjoyed Finland kept slipping from one language to another and Sweden didn't even care.
"Sverige. Sver-- R-Ruotsi. Oh. Luoja. Voi luojaluojaluoja--" and then there were no more words, no more language, just breath and skin and heat.
After hours and hours of touches and kisses and caresses Sweden finally held the trembling new nation in his arms (a nation, he stressed himself, no longer a Grand Duchy to anyone), whispering sweet nothings in his ear as the last lines of the anthem faded into the night.
It was easy to fool himself to think such peace could last forever.
- - -
Over the next weeks Finland grew more and more tense. He was never snappish, not quite, for there was always that sweet, open smile on his face when he turned to Sweden, but he became quiet and serious very unlike his usual character. Sweden would catch him staring solemnly into the fire, his face almost as stoic as his own in the mirror.
There's a lot of movement going on, he would say, on the rare occasion Sweden would ask him about it. Things are changing fast and people are restless. It'll just take a while. It'll pass.
At the end of January, the tension reaching higher and higher all the while, Finland went missing for two days. He had told Sweden not to worry whatever happened (what exactly might happen, he did not say) and that he had his rifle with him in any case (which was exactly why Sweden was worried).
He came back at the evening of the 28th. Sweden only heard the door quietly opening and closing, the sound of a gun and boots being placed down and then soft steps until Finland came around the corner of the kitchen.
"Hey," he said in the form of a greeting, a smile dancing around the corner of his lips. Sweden 'mmh'-ed him in response, the relief of seeing the other only apparent in the way his eyes lit up. Finland came closer in those soft steps of his and leaned up to place a lingering kiss on Sweden's lips.
"'r' th'ngs w'rking out 't last?" the taller man murmured once they pulled apart. Finland hummed quietly.
"Quite," he said mysteriously. "Still some work to do, here and there, but things are rolling about just fine for the moment..."
Another kiss, slightly longer this time. Sweden gave a small grunt. "G't t' f'nish th' cook'ng." Finland sighed, but stepped down anyhow.
"All right. You can finish up here..." He backed away and leaned on the doorway, "... and I'll just get things started in the bedroom." And he slipped away, leaving behind only a lingering blush on Sweden's face.
- - -
And life went on. Sweden knew that there was a full-fledged war going on now, so he wasn't surprised that Finland could be thrumming with energy one day and beaten to the ground the next. In a war as fluctuating as this, there was no telling what would happen next. Of course it hurt him to see Finland so dispirited at times, but Sweden also knew he could not make things better by getting involved. Civil wars were a messy affair, he had experienced many enough, and would only turn messier if other nations took part in them.
So when he woke up to find Finland next to him, however bedraggled, he would smile and feel relieved. And when he didn't... well, that was war for you.
On those empty mornings the only signs that Finland had been there at all were the newspapers strewn over the kitchen table. Sweden couldn't read them, he didn't speak Finland's language, but every once in a while there were things scribbled over the pages or some passage or another crossed out angrily. War propaganda, was Sweden's best guess, but even so he could not tell what Finland had been so angered by.
One morning an entire page had been ripped out. There were a few letters left in the margins and some emblems which said nothing to Sweden, but that was all.
- - -
It was a night of celebration. With the cries of 'Our land, our land!' still ringing through the halls and streets and dark forests of his grounds, Finland toppled into the sheets with his lover. They were both delirious with joy, Finland because of his freedom, Sweden because of the happiness of his loved one. Their lovemaking was ecstatic, blissful, and so overjoyed Finland kept slipping from one language to another and Sweden didn't even care.
"Sverige. Sver-- R-Ruotsi. Oh. Luoja. Voi luojaluojaluoja--" and then there were no more words, no more language, just breath and skin and heat.
After hours and hours of touches and kisses and caresses Sweden finally held the trembling new nation in his arms (a nation, he stressed himself, no longer a Grand Duchy to anyone), whispering sweet nothings in his ear as the last lines of the anthem faded into the night.
It was easy to fool himself to think such peace could last forever.
- - -
Over the next weeks Finland grew more and more tense. He was never snappish, not quite, for there was always that sweet, open smile on his face when he turned to Sweden, but he became quiet and serious very unlike his usual character. Sweden would catch him staring solemnly into the fire, his face almost as stoic as his own in the mirror.
There's a lot of movement going on, he would say, on the rare occasion Sweden would ask him about it. Things are changing fast and people are restless. It'll just take a while. It'll pass.
At the end of January, the tension reaching higher and higher all the while, Finland went missing for two days. He had told Sweden not to worry whatever happened (what exactly might happen, he did not say) and that he had his rifle with him in any case (which was exactly why Sweden was worried).
He came back at the evening of the 28th. Sweden only heard the door quietly opening and closing, the sound of a gun and boots being placed down and then soft steps until Finland came around the corner of the kitchen.
"Hey," he said in the form of a greeting, a smile dancing around the corner of his lips. Sweden 'mmh'-ed him in response, the relief of seeing the other only apparent in the way his eyes lit up. Finland came closer in those soft steps of his and leaned up to place a lingering kiss on Sweden's lips.
"'r' th'ngs w'rking out 't last?" the taller man murmured once they pulled apart. Finland hummed quietly.
"Quite," he said mysteriously. "Still some work to do, here and there, but things are rolling about just fine for the moment..."
Another kiss, slightly longer this time. Sweden gave a small grunt. "G't t' f'nish th' cook'ng." Finland sighed, but stepped down anyhow.
"All right. You can finish up here..." He backed away and leaned on the doorway, "... and I'll just get things started in the bedroom." And he slipped away, leaving behind only a lingering blush on Sweden's face.
- - -
And life went on. Sweden knew that there was a full-fledged war going on now, so he wasn't surprised that Finland could be thrumming with energy one day and beaten to the ground the next. In a war as fluctuating as this, there was no telling what would happen next. Of course it hurt him to see Finland so dispirited at times, but Sweden also knew he could not make things better by getting involved. Civil wars were a messy affair, he had experienced many enough, and would only turn messier if other nations took part in them.
So when he woke up to find Finland next to him, however bedraggled, he would smile and feel relieved. And when he didn't... well, that was war for you.
On those empty mornings the only signs that Finland had been there at all were the newspapers strewn over the kitchen table. Sweden couldn't read them, he didn't speak Finland's language, but every once in a while there were things scribbled over the pages or some passage or another crossed out angrily. War propaganda, was Sweden's best guess, but even so he could not tell what Finland had been so angered by.
One morning an entire page had been ripped out. There were a few letters left in the margins and some emblems which said nothing to Sweden, but that was all.
Greedy anon is greedy. I've wanted this for a while, but I'm finally just going to go ahead and ask. I loved the state-tans in the following fill:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=6235351#t6235351
And would love a sequel featuring them in Civil War fic. Which means I'm asking for something much more serious and dark than the original fill.
While the states are fighting between themselves, America is bedridden under care due to major physical and mental damage from all the fighting.
Bonus for state hate sex and/or non-con. Double bonus if it's Virginia and Massachusetts who are both harboring major daddy issues.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=6235351#t6235351
And would love a sequel featuring them in Civil War fic. Which means I'm asking for something much more serious and dark than the original fill.
While the states are fighting between themselves, America is bedridden under care due to major physical and mental damage from all the fighting.
Bonus for state hate sex and/or non-con. Double bonus if it's Virginia and Massachusetts who are both harboring major daddy issues.
This is the non-original-author-Anon. I don't think I followed the characters in the original story very closely. I kind of took up whatever characterization seemed fitting for the time period. I hope this is okay, OP.
Just a few author's notes before we begin, so I can get this out of my system.
1) My home state was such a brat during this time period aaaugh.
2) Texas has special privileges, hur hur hur
3) I hope you don't mind non-explicit mpreg, because, well, the years this fic covers includes the addition of about a quarter of the modern states in a span of 40 years, so it's kind of hard to imagine America as anything other than Mister Mom in the time period.
Sorry. Here we go.
----
It shouldn’t have surprised anyone, really, especially when the signs had started so early, showing even by the birth of the twins. America hadn’t really been expecting twins, but that was what happened, and sometimes things didn’t happen the way they were planned.
And either way, they were two new healthy states for the Union, beautiful, and oh Lord they were already being taken away from him —
“Who’s this one?”
“Mine,” America tried to grab for the baby, but even then, the other one was grabbed away by curious Tennessee and Alabama. America groaned. Already, his children were splitting them up, by region and by faction, slave and non-slave.
“Missouri,” said America, though he didn’t know if he was naming the child or his own feelings.
“Mine and Missouri,” said New Hampshire, cradling the northern state in his arms and murmuring broken French to him.
“Maine and Missouri and they’re both mine, give them back to me.” He reached for Missouri, but Tennessee yanked him away, already mumbling along about the ways of America, how he was so lucky to be born in a country that would watch over him yet keep out of his business. The twins were each taken their separate ways, and even by evening America hadn’t seen either of them again.
That night, America squalled and cried more than both his newborns.
XXXXX
Just a few author's notes before we begin, so I can get this out of my system.
1) My home state was such a brat during this time period aaaugh.
2) Texas has special privileges, hur hur hur
3) I hope you don't mind non-explicit mpreg, because, well, the years this fic covers includes the addition of about a quarter of the modern states in a span of 40 years, so it's kind of hard to imagine America as anything other than Mister Mom in the time period.
Sorry. Here we go.
----
It shouldn’t have surprised anyone, really, especially when the signs had started so early, showing even by the birth of the twins. America hadn’t really been expecting twins, but that was what happened, and sometimes things didn’t happen the way they were planned.
And either way, they were two new healthy states for the Union, beautiful, and oh Lord they were already being taken away from him —
“Who’s this one?”
“Mine,” America tried to grab for the baby, but even then, the other one was grabbed away by curious Tennessee and Alabama. America groaned. Already, his children were splitting them up, by region and by faction, slave and non-slave.
“Missouri,” said America, though he didn’t know if he was naming the child or his own feelings.
“Mine and Missouri,” said New Hampshire, cradling the northern state in his arms and murmuring broken French to him.
“Maine and Missouri and they’re both mine, give them back to me.” He reached for Missouri, but Tennessee yanked him away, already mumbling along about the ways of America, how he was so lucky to be born in a country that would watch over him yet keep out of his business. The twins were each taken their separate ways, and even by evening America hadn’t seen either of them again.
That night, America squalled and cried more than both his newborns.
XXXXX
Prussia/Austria --> Hungary; five times Hungary watched and the one time she joined in
1) It was never really about Silesia. Oh, for his boss, certainly. For the people, perhaps.
But for Prussia who is whispering into Austria's ears while he fucks him roughly, whispering what looks like sweet nothings but Hungary knows is taunts and reminders of the loss? For Prussia, it has always only been about two things and two things only - to see his enemies defeated, to feel them submit beneath him.
If she could, she would stop them. But not even her thousands of soldiers can do anything and so she watches, tears staining her eyes, hot wetness enfolding her fingers... she watches as Prussia tears of his trousers with a whooping laugh and she despises it. She watches when Prussia enters him, roughly, and she envies him.
She watches Austria's tear-filled eyes and Prussia's mad grin and she hates them both for making her feel like this; dirty, sinful... abandoned.
2) When they meet Prussia on the field, he is standing alone, while his king and shattered army flee for their lives. Hungary can not even determine if the blood is his or belongs to someone else, until he kneels before them and a fresh stream flows down his head.
"One night," he snarls at them, still so defiant, but his eyes never leaves Austria's, "one night, for his life!"
Russia is shaking with laughter. "You think too highly of yourself!"
But Austria, he only nods and Hungary knows then where she will spend the night.
She smiles at Prussia and bends close to him before he is led away, "Every time you meet on the battlefield, every time you speak, we will know what you volunteered to do," she whispers. "And he will never forget how you look tonight..." He stiffens. Says nothing but now, finally, his eyes darken in shame.
She wonders idly how he would look, if he realized that she too will know?
3) She can not believe it at first, when she finds them out in the forest. It is still early spring, cool and damp, but Austria does not seem to care about the mud clinging to his knees. His glasses have fallen off, but he is moaning beneath Prussia, whose face is flushed and strained. They move together and Hungary feels a new kind of pain; she thought, at least, that they would always only move against each other.
It is quick and dirty, afterwards the two do not speak to each other. But when Hungary, alone in the forest, replays the events while her hand rubs and pinches at that secret place, she remembers the almost spoken word on Austria's lips. When she comes, his name escapes her in a breathless cry and the memory of Prussia's slight smile burns inside her, all her old sins come back to haunt her in his pale form.
But for Prussia who is whispering into Austria's ears while he fucks him roughly, whispering what looks like sweet nothings but Hungary knows is taunts and reminders of the loss? For Prussia, it has always only been about two things and two things only - to see his enemies defeated, to feel them submit beneath him.
If she could, she would stop them. But not even her thousands of soldiers can do anything and so she watches, tears staining her eyes, hot wetness enfolding her fingers... she watches as Prussia tears of his trousers with a whooping laugh and she despises it. She watches when Prussia enters him, roughly, and she envies him.
She watches Austria's tear-filled eyes and Prussia's mad grin and she hates them both for making her feel like this; dirty, sinful... abandoned.
2) When they meet Prussia on the field, he is standing alone, while his king and shattered army flee for their lives. Hungary can not even determine if the blood is his or belongs to someone else, until he kneels before them and a fresh stream flows down his head.
"One night," he snarls at them, still so defiant, but his eyes never leaves Austria's, "one night, for his life!"
Russia is shaking with laughter. "You think too highly of yourself!"
But Austria, he only nods and Hungary knows then where she will spend the night.
She smiles at Prussia and bends close to him before he is led away, "Every time you meet on the battlefield, every time you speak, we will know what you volunteered to do," she whispers. "And he will never forget how you look tonight..." He stiffens. Says nothing but now, finally, his eyes darken in shame.
She wonders idly how he would look, if he realized that she too will know?
3) She can not believe it at first, when she finds them out in the forest. It is still early spring, cool and damp, but Austria does not seem to care about the mud clinging to his knees. His glasses have fallen off, but he is moaning beneath Prussia, whose face is flushed and strained. They move together and Hungary feels a new kind of pain; she thought, at least, that they would always only move against each other.
It is quick and dirty, afterwards the two do not speak to each other. But when Hungary, alone in the forest, replays the events while her hand rubs and pinches at that secret place, she remembers the almost spoken word on Austria's lips. When she comes, his name escapes her in a breathless cry and the memory of Prussia's slight smile burns inside her, all her old sins come back to haunt her in his pale form.
Hi anons!
hope my request it's not strange, I would like to see a fic about Rome and England when he was under his rule with the name Britannia; can be interactions as family, sort of mentor, fluffy, angsty etc, I just want to see those two interacting together during this period (and to sse chibi!iggy). hope my request it's not too confusing
hope my request it's not strange, I would like to see a fic about Rome and England when he was under his rule with the name Britannia; can be interactions as family, sort of mentor, fluffy, angsty etc, I just want to see those two interacting together during this period (and to sse chibi!iggy). hope my request it's not too confusing
Japan/America; non-con. Can be Pearl Harbor or with POW!America.
Bonus points for yandere!Japan.
Bonus points for yandere!Japan.
First-time request fill, I hope you enjoy it. D: Going with POW!America, because it's hot.
------
The air is hot, and humid, and sticky, and although America is long used to such climates, it doesn't make it any more bearable. There are spiders the size of his palms crawling on the prison walls, and more bugs than he can put names to scurrying in and out of the buildings.
A particularly large one has made its residence in the left corner under his prison cot, and he has named it Mister Samsa. He likes to think that England will call him cultured for doing so. Samsa is the only company America has these days, for the guards pass him by without any words, and the only sign there is a world outside of the cell is the glass of water and bowl of rice shoved into the room once a day. He is hungry, but he is a nation, and doesn't really need food, so he eats it and places a few grains on the floor for Samsa to eat. He might as well be kind to his cellmate.
The days have passed like this, too many that he cares to count, but the monotony of counting raindrops and talking out loud to a bug is brought to an end by his cell door, quite suddenly and without warning, opening, and in steps Japan.
No matter how many times he sees him, America is always fairly amazed by the lack of expression on his face. No matter the situations, the Asian nation controls his face carefully, expression always either blank or a distant expression of worry that is the only sign he is feeling an emotion strongly.
His face is blank today, so there will be no change in America's situation. Not that America was expecting one, for the other Allies are mainly busy with wiping up the fight in Europe as Germany falters, slowly but surely losing as Russia steamrolls over him. At least, that was the situation last he heard before his command was captured in the tropical Pacific islands that Japan and he are having their own little war in. Perhaps the tide has changed, perhaps not. America is stuck here, and this is his situation.
Japan turns to the guards. "Watashi wa kore kara hitori de itte hoshii."
The guards simply salute, turning and leaving as Japan steps fully into the cell, door swinging shut behind him. He looks at America with those unreadable dark eyes.
"You will not surrender, will you?" The words are clipped, almost sad. America shrugs.
"You brought me into this war, I'm not backing out of it."
If Japan were more open, a cool smile would probably quirk his lips right about now. His expression remains blank, however. "There is much talk of how it is less brought you into the war, and more just opened the door for you."
America bristles at that, because he knows the controversy surrounding that attack, he knows it, but his own intentions are pure, damn it. He's in this war to stop the world-wide suffering, and that's more than can be said for the nation in front of him.
Then again, no one can ever really say it's the nation's fault, not with the bosses they have, or with popular sentiment, or with how badly the last war ended, and America thinks that perhaps he should have been more involved with the last treaty, making it fair to everyone instead of getting disgusted with Europe and leaving, refusing to sign the treaty. He had just wanted to be left alone again, and look where that had got him.
No, he couldn't be alone, not anymore. Look where it got the world. He made a mental note to never be absent from international affairs and treaty signings again. He would make sure this didn't happen again, that was his job. To be a hero.
Japan crosses the distance between them, reaching out and grabbing America's hair with detached calm, twisting the golden strands so that America is forced to look up at him.
------
------
The air is hot, and humid, and sticky, and although America is long used to such climates, it doesn't make it any more bearable. There are spiders the size of his palms crawling on the prison walls, and more bugs than he can put names to scurrying in and out of the buildings.
A particularly large one has made its residence in the left corner under his prison cot, and he has named it Mister Samsa. He likes to think that England will call him cultured for doing so. Samsa is the only company America has these days, for the guards pass him by without any words, and the only sign there is a world outside of the cell is the glass of water and bowl of rice shoved into the room once a day. He is hungry, but he is a nation, and doesn't really need food, so he eats it and places a few grains on the floor for Samsa to eat. He might as well be kind to his cellmate.
The days have passed like this, too many that he cares to count, but the monotony of counting raindrops and talking out loud to a bug is brought to an end by his cell door, quite suddenly and without warning, opening, and in steps Japan.
No matter how many times he sees him, America is always fairly amazed by the lack of expression on his face. No matter the situations, the Asian nation controls his face carefully, expression always either blank or a distant expression of worry that is the only sign he is feeling an emotion strongly.
His face is blank today, so there will be no change in America's situation. Not that America was expecting one, for the other Allies are mainly busy with wiping up the fight in Europe as Germany falters, slowly but surely losing as Russia steamrolls over him. At least, that was the situation last he heard before his command was captured in the tropical Pacific islands that Japan and he are having their own little war in. Perhaps the tide has changed, perhaps not. America is stuck here, and this is his situation.
Japan turns to the guards. "Watashi wa kore kara hitori de itte hoshii."
The guards simply salute, turning and leaving as Japan steps fully into the cell, door swinging shut behind him. He looks at America with those unreadable dark eyes.
"You will not surrender, will you?" The words are clipped, almost sad. America shrugs.
"You brought me into this war, I'm not backing out of it."
If Japan were more open, a cool smile would probably quirk his lips right about now. His expression remains blank, however. "There is much talk of how it is less brought you into the war, and more just opened the door for you."
America bristles at that, because he knows the controversy surrounding that attack, he knows it, but his own intentions are pure, damn it. He's in this war to stop the world-wide suffering, and that's more than can be said for the nation in front of him.
Then again, no one can ever really say it's the nation's fault, not with the bosses they have, or with popular sentiment, or with how badly the last war ended, and America thinks that perhaps he should have been more involved with the last treaty, making it fair to everyone instead of getting disgusted with Europe and leaving, refusing to sign the treaty. He had just wanted to be left alone again, and look where that had got him.
No, he couldn't be alone, not anymore. Look where it got the world. He made a mental note to never be absent from international affairs and treaty signings again. He would make sure this didn't happen again, that was his job. To be a hero.
Japan crosses the distance between them, reaching out and grabbing America's hair with detached calm, twisting the golden strands so that America is forced to look up at him.
------
Russia/America in the cold war. Bonus if either is a stalker to the other.
Canada/America. America gets hooked on prescription painkillers after tending to severe war injuries, and relies on Canada to feed his addiction. Anon would prefer at some point that Canada's all "stop this, I'm not going to be your enabler anymore. You have to get off this stuff, it's killin' you man!" Doesn't have to be direct quote, but something of that nature.
Matthew had been doing this for years now.
He could only vaguely remember the start of this, somewhere along the Civil War, which tore Alfred apart, piece by piece. Matthew could still remember the screams at night that Alfred let out from the immense pain from the gaping wounds and mental strain. Until the medication arrived, Matthew would cover his ears with his pillow, having a heavy feeling in his chest.
The painkillers took affect immediately, leaving the nights quiet again and Matthew relieved as the heavy feeling in his chest going away slowly.
Then came the World War. Blood and tears were shed, and Matthew could remember how cold it was in trenches as his men and him were bombed by Germans, using the Zepplin. He could hear the bombs crashing, and the sound rung in his ears still, long after the war was over. Alfred, he had suffered the same pain as he had, maybe worse.
Then the medication came again. He remembered seeing Alfred pop another pill in his mouth from time-to-time, his brother's face starting with pain and switching to relief. Matthew knew that this was to help him, but... he couldn't help but feel worried. He swore he saw Alfred intake more than he should've, but he turned his head the other way, trying to ignore it.
The first World War had ended, and Matthew was glad. His people wouldn't have to suffer anymore, or any other people for that matter. But it took time to resettle after it.
Alfred was back to his cheerful self again, and Matthew noticed something wasn't right. Alfred still kept asking for a supply of painkillers every month or so, even long after the war. Matthew couldn't help but comply to his brother's needs, always wondering wether he should ask Alfred about it. But the mentality the Canadian had only thought that the action would cause more a wall between them.
But Matthew had to say, Alfred was one of the few people he trusted, even if the American's actions were rash.
Then in a sudden flurry of time, the Second World War had started. It had only been 21 years since the first, and Matthew thought it was much too soon.
The Germans, Italians and Japanese had teamed up and become the Axis Powers, while the English, French, Russians, Chinese and Americans had an alliance set up and became the Allied forces against Nazi Germany and the Oriental Japanese. Sometimes Matthew wondered why he wasn't invited into the Allied powers. He helped a great deal in the war if he remembered correctly.
Matthew also remembered thinking how similar the trenches were to the trenches in the first War. He remembered looking around the dark and muddy trench and seeing his men hold their guns tightly to their chests, while some of them repeated silent prayers for themselves and their families.
Matthew would remember all these men after the war was over, he would make sure the rest of his people remembered too.
Even when Matthew was in the worst of situations in the middle of the war, he would idly think of his brother, knowing how hard he was hit during the attack at Pearl Harbor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the loud sounds of gunshots and bombs falling onto the wet and soft earth and obliterating everything in it's path.
The world held their breaths when the Americans had dropped the bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Matthew swore that the whole could hear the traumatic, resounding boom of the nuclear explosion.
Even after that, Alfred had continued to ask.
Now Matthew was really worried.
He could only vaguely remember the start of this, somewhere along the Civil War, which tore Alfred apart, piece by piece. Matthew could still remember the screams at night that Alfred let out from the immense pain from the gaping wounds and mental strain. Until the medication arrived, Matthew would cover his ears with his pillow, having a heavy feeling in his chest.
The painkillers took affect immediately, leaving the nights quiet again and Matthew relieved as the heavy feeling in his chest going away slowly.
Then came the World War. Blood and tears were shed, and Matthew could remember how cold it was in trenches as his men and him were bombed by Germans, using the Zepplin. He could hear the bombs crashing, and the sound rung in his ears still, long after the war was over. Alfred, he had suffered the same pain as he had, maybe worse.
Then the medication came again. He remembered seeing Alfred pop another pill in his mouth from time-to-time, his brother's face starting with pain and switching to relief. Matthew knew that this was to help him, but... he couldn't help but feel worried. He swore he saw Alfred intake more than he should've, but he turned his head the other way, trying to ignore it.
The first World War had ended, and Matthew was glad. His people wouldn't have to suffer anymore, or any other people for that matter. But it took time to resettle after it.
Alfred was back to his cheerful self again, and Matthew noticed something wasn't right. Alfred still kept asking for a supply of painkillers every month or so, even long after the war. Matthew couldn't help but comply to his brother's needs, always wondering wether he should ask Alfred about it. But the mentality the Canadian had only thought that the action would cause more a wall between them.
But Matthew had to say, Alfred was one of the few people he trusted, even if the American's actions were rash.
Then in a sudden flurry of time, the Second World War had started. It had only been 21 years since the first, and Matthew thought it was much too soon.
The Germans, Italians and Japanese had teamed up and become the Axis Powers, while the English, French, Russians, Chinese and Americans had an alliance set up and became the Allied forces against Nazi Germany and the Oriental Japanese. Sometimes Matthew wondered why he wasn't invited into the Allied powers. He helped a great deal in the war if he remembered correctly.
Matthew also remembered thinking how similar the trenches were to the trenches in the first War. He remembered looking around the dark and muddy trench and seeing his men hold their guns tightly to their chests, while some of them repeated silent prayers for themselves and their families.
Matthew would remember all these men after the war was over, he would make sure the rest of his people remembered too.
Even when Matthew was in the worst of situations in the middle of the war, he would idly think of his brother, knowing how hard he was hit during the attack at Pearl Harbor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the loud sounds of gunshots and bombs falling onto the wet and soft earth and obliterating everything in it's path.
The world held their breaths when the Americans had dropped the bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Matthew swore that the whole could hear the traumatic, resounding boom of the nuclear explosion.
Even after that, Alfred had continued to ask.
Now Matthew was really worried.
Raiding!Prussia/peachmaker!Canada
- in which Canada agrees to do Prussia a favor in order to stop his region-seizing of another country. What the favor is is be up to anon! I'm fine with anything, as long as they interact a lot. It's okay if it's not historically accurate (idk how it could be anyway).
- in which Canada agrees to do Prussia a favor in order to stop his region-seizing of another country. What the favor is is be up to anon! I'm fine with anything, as long as they interact a lot. It's okay if it's not historically accurate (idk how it could be anyway).
Mmmmmmmm peach cobbler.
By which I mean, seconded. For either peace or peaches, we need more of these two. ;D
By which I mean, seconded. For either peace or peaches, we need more of these two. ;D
Original request here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7651543#t7651543
It had been a quiet day, and he'd been content to spend it quietly at home, doing some long-overdue tidying, cooking up some delicious food, and catching up on his reading. At around midnight, he eased himself off the divan, put away his book and started to prepare for bed. Just as he was drifing off to sleep, a nice, quiet end to a nice, quiet day, someone pressed the doorbell.
And pressed it. And pressed it, and pressed it and abandoned it in favour of banging on the door.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that it was close to one in the morning, and that whoeever was at the door was probably drunk, since sober people tended not to visit in the middle of the night. Sane people preferred not to visit him in his home at all, because crowds, at least, offered some protection from inappropriate molestations. Muttering a curse under his breath, he got out of bed and headed downstairs, wondering who it could possibly be.
The smell of alcohol hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he wrinkled his nose. England had one hand raised, as if expecting the door to still be there. Glazed green eyes blinked and tried to focus.
"Oh, God, you've multiplied."
Then England fell over onto him and threw up.
It had been a quiet day, and he'd been content to spend it quietly at home, doing some long-overdue tidying, cooking up some delicious food, and catching up on his reading. At around midnight, he eased himself off the divan, put away his book and started to prepare for bed. Just as he was drifing off to sleep, a nice, quiet end to a nice, quiet day, someone pressed the doorbell.
And pressed it. And pressed it, and pressed it and abandoned it in favour of banging on the door.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that it was close to one in the morning, and that whoeever was at the door was probably drunk, since sober people tended not to visit in the middle of the night. Sane people preferred not to visit him in his home at all, because crowds, at least, offered some protection from inappropriate molestations. Muttering a curse under his breath, he got out of bed and headed downstairs, wondering who it could possibly be.
The smell of alcohol hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he wrinkled his nose. England had one hand raised, as if expecting the door to still be there. Glazed green eyes blinked and tried to focus.
"Oh, God, you've multiplied."
Then England fell over onto him and threw up.
He should have known, really. Should have just gone back to sleep and let that bloody pirate rot outside his door. It figured that on the one day he decided to keep things quiet, England had to go party enough for two. Fortunately, the lobby was marble, which meant no wet carpeting to clean up. Unfortunately, it still meant that he had vomit all over his favourite silk dressing gown and his fluffy bedroom slippers. With a small noise of disgust, he dropped England into the pool of his own vomit and started pulling off his clothes.
There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7766743#t7766743
Original Request up there ^^
I wanted to try lol
---------
'It's quiet without America', England thinks as he takes a sip from his tea. 'That's almost unatural.' A pause. And then an eye roll. 'Rubbish! I ought to be enjoying this while I can!'
He and several Nations were at the moment conducting a meeting in a stuffy room and the heat on at full blast. And everyone noticed a certain loudmouth Nation missing. Because, really, silence speaks for itself.
England was trying his hardest not to nod off ('That's just undignified, thank you very much.') while everyone else was doing their... thing. He blamed the warm air and it's ability to distract.
Germany sat at the head of the ridiculously long table droning on about some current affair that needed attention. The Italy brothers were having a debate (in writing) about the best way to prepare chicken alfredo. France was trying to make lewd eye sex with whoever had the misfortune of glancing his way ('I will not look at that wanker. No.').
Canada really was asleep, making a half-hearted attempt at hiding it by placing a sheet of paper over his head. Japan, polite as always, sat up straight and sipped his beverage in order to stay awake. China was doodling a panda army on some notes while Korea poked his shoulder. And Russia just sat smiling ominously without showing any signs of the hot air affecting him. They kind of forgot why they were here, basically.
But hey, it could be worse. There could have been some chaos and disorder. People could have been throwing chairs and shouting. It was peaceful for once, without the usual frantic atmosphere. Peaceful enough to nap-er...bask in. This was nice. This was better...
'This is boring,' England sighed.
America is annoying, with his burger obsession, belief in aliens, silly bomber jacket, cocky grin and overdone bombast. But it was never dull with him around.
(England would rather cap himself in the knees before he'd ever admit this).
Sometimes the younger country wouldn't be around. This was the fourth meeting he's missed and no one (at least no one in this room) knew the reason behind these disappearances. There were also times when America would call up England to cancel a pre-arranged rendezvous. These calls usually went along the lines of 'Hey Arthur! I can't make it that day 'cuz some stuffs come up, so I'll see you later 'kay?' and he'd hang up leaving England sputtering with indignation.
'Damn it all, I'm out of tea!' groused the former empire.
'Where the bloody hell are you America?'
Original Request up there ^^
I wanted to try lol
---------
'It's quiet without America', England thinks as he takes a sip from his tea. 'That's almost unatural.' A pause. And then an eye roll. 'Rubbish! I ought to be enjoying this while I can!'
He and several Nations were at the moment conducting a meeting in a stuffy room and the heat on at full blast. And everyone noticed a certain loudmouth Nation missing. Because, really, silence speaks for itself.
England was trying his hardest not to nod off ('That's just undignified, thank you very much.') while everyone else was doing their... thing. He blamed the warm air and it's ability to distract.
Germany sat at the head of the ridiculously long table droning on about some current affair that needed attention. The Italy brothers were having a debate (in writing) about the best way to prepare chicken alfredo. France was trying to make lewd eye sex with whoever had the misfortune of glancing his way ('I will not look at that wanker. No.').
Canada really was asleep, making a half-hearted attempt at hiding it by placing a sheet of paper over his head. Japan, polite as always, sat up straight and sipped his beverage in order to stay awake. China was doodling a panda army on some notes while Korea poked his shoulder. And Russia just sat smiling ominously without showing any signs of the hot air affecting him. They kind of forgot why they were here, basically.
But hey, it could be worse. There could have been some chaos and disorder. People could have been throwing chairs and shouting. It was peaceful for once, without the usual frantic atmosphere. Peaceful enough to nap-er...bask in. This was nice. This was better...
'This is boring,' England sighed.
America is annoying, with his burger obsession, belief in aliens, silly bomber jacket, cocky grin and overdone bombast. But it was never dull with him around.
(England would rather cap himself in the knees before he'd ever admit this).
Sometimes the younger country wouldn't be around. This was the fourth meeting he's missed and no one (at least no one in this room) knew the reason behind these disappearances. There were also times when America would call up England to cancel a pre-arranged rendezvous. These calls usually went along the lines of 'Hey Arthur! I can't make it that day 'cuz some stuffs come up, so I'll see you later 'kay?' and he'd hang up leaving England sputtering with indignation.
'Damn it all, I'm out of tea!' groused the former empire.
'Where the bloody hell are you America?'
Thank you ! :0 writer anon its great!
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