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Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/632.html?thread=558456#t558456
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Berwald stares at Tino in disbelief as he tries to digest the words that just came out of his wife‘s mouth.
“Su-san”, the Fin had asked “why do we never have sex?”
The Swede can’t claim he’s never thought about it. Sometimes when the younger boy huddles close to him at night he’ll caress his back and imagine how soft the skin beneath the fabric of the Fins nightshirt must feel. He’ll wonder how it would feel to kiss that skin and if he would be able to make Finland shudder and gasp in pleasure beneath him. However he settles with wrapping his arms around the boy. He settles with the small touches they share during the day. And when they gently brush their lips together he settles with the sweet taste of those innocent kisses. No matter how tempting it is he never deepens the kiss. Because he does not want to frighten his little wife. He is aware that Tino used to feel intimidated by him. And so he tries not to break the trust that has finally been established between them. In return Tino’s boldness is slowly staring to show. And he suddenly finds himself wondering what happened to the timid and innocent little nation he used to know.
“You keep saying I’m your wife” Tino continues, blushing a bit as his eyes meet Berwald's intense gaze “and if you’re serious about that then it would be completely natural for us to make love right?"
"I t'ght y’ w'dn't want that" the Swede answers.
The hopeful glow in Tino's eyes fades. Replaced by something Berwald can't quite distinguish. Disappointment? Regret? Hurt? The only thing he's sure about is that he doesn't like it. He usually prefers to show his feelings trough actions, not words. But this time he doesn't know how to act and so he quickly opens his mouth to say something, anything, to bring back his wife's gentle smile.
"I-"
"But why didn't you ask?" Tino disrupts "Ever since the first time you told me to sleep in your bed I've been waiting for you to ask me, but you never do. Does it mean you don't want to? You don't want me as your lover?"
Berwald can't stand the sadness in the Fin's voice. He closes the distance between them with such haste that the boy barely manages to let out a surprised yelp before he presses their lips together to silence him. Tino soon relaxes in his grip and accepts the kiss. Soft. Sweet. Loving. Neither of them wants it to end, but there are still words that needs to be spoken. "'m s'rry fer never makin‘ love to y‘" Berwald whispers as he pulls back "I didn’t want t’ scare y'”
“Then tonight...” Tino says, his expression a mixture of relief and embarrassment “can we do it tonight?”
The Swede nods and caresses one of the Fin’s reddened cheeks.
“T’night”
As the day passes he silently watches Tino grow more anxious. He wants to comfort him and tell him it's all right, but truth to be told he's just as nervous. This will be their first time. What if something goes wrong? What if he hurts his dear wife? Lost in such thoughts he doesn't notice when Tino sits down beside him until he can feel the other's chin resting on his shoulder,
"Su-san?" Tino asks. His voice so soft it sends shivers down Berwald's spine "It's getting late. Should we go to bed? And... you know..."
Berwald doesn't answer. He simply places a light kiss on the Fin's forehead before scooping him up in his arms. There's a small gasp, but no protests as he carries him towards the bedroom. Then, as he ever so gently lays him down on their bed, he leans in and captures his lips with his own. Tino returns the kiss, but with more fervor than usual. His lips part and Berwald hesitantly accepts the invitation by sliding his tongue inside his mouth. He considers pulling back once he realizes he has no idea how to continue, but Tino clutches his shirt, pulling him closer, edging him on. As they clumsily rub their tongues together he can finally tell that Tino wants this, that he wants him, and the sensation makes an overwhelming heat spread throughout his body.
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Berwald stares at Tino in disbelief as he tries to digest the words that just came out of his wife‘s mouth.
“Su-san”, the Fin had asked “why do we never have sex?”
The Swede can’t claim he’s never thought about it. Sometimes when the younger boy huddles close to him at night he’ll caress his back and imagine how soft the skin beneath the fabric of the Fins nightshirt must feel. He’ll wonder how it would feel to kiss that skin and if he would be able to make Finland shudder and gasp in pleasure beneath him. However he settles with wrapping his arms around the boy. He settles with the small touches they share during the day. And when they gently brush their lips together he settles with the sweet taste of those innocent kisses. No matter how tempting it is he never deepens the kiss. Because he does not want to frighten his little wife. He is aware that Tino used to feel intimidated by him. And so he tries not to break the trust that has finally been established between them. In return Tino’s boldness is slowly staring to show. And he suddenly finds himself wondering what happened to the timid and innocent little nation he used to know.
“You keep saying I’m your wife” Tino continues, blushing a bit as his eyes meet Berwald's intense gaze “and if you’re serious about that then it would be completely natural for us to make love right?"
"I t'ght y’ w'dn't want that" the Swede answers.
The hopeful glow in Tino's eyes fades. Replaced by something Berwald can't quite distinguish. Disappointment? Regret? Hurt? The only thing he's sure about is that he doesn't like it. He usually prefers to show his feelings trough actions, not words. But this time he doesn't know how to act and so he quickly opens his mouth to say something, anything, to bring back his wife's gentle smile.
"I-"
"But why didn't you ask?" Tino disrupts "Ever since the first time you told me to sleep in your bed I've been waiting for you to ask me, but you never do. Does it mean you don't want to? You don't want me as your lover?"
Berwald can't stand the sadness in the Fin's voice. He closes the distance between them with such haste that the boy barely manages to let out a surprised yelp before he presses their lips together to silence him. Tino soon relaxes in his grip and accepts the kiss. Soft. Sweet. Loving. Neither of them wants it to end, but there are still words that needs to be spoken. "'m s'rry fer never makin‘ love to y‘" Berwald whispers as he pulls back "I didn’t want t’ scare y'”
“Then tonight...” Tino says, his expression a mixture of relief and embarrassment “can we do it tonight?”
The Swede nods and caresses one of the Fin’s reddened cheeks.
“T’night”
As the day passes he silently watches Tino grow more anxious. He wants to comfort him and tell him it's all right, but truth to be told he's just as nervous. This will be their first time. What if something goes wrong? What if he hurts his dear wife? Lost in such thoughts he doesn't notice when Tino sits down beside him until he can feel the other's chin resting on his shoulder,
"Su-san?" Tino asks. His voice so soft it sends shivers down Berwald's spine "It's getting late. Should we go to bed? And... you know..."
Berwald doesn't answer. He simply places a light kiss on the Fin's forehead before scooping him up in his arms. There's a small gasp, but no protests as he carries him towards the bedroom. Then, as he ever so gently lays him down on their bed, he leans in and captures his lips with his own. Tino returns the kiss, but with more fervor than usual. His lips part and Berwald hesitantly accepts the invitation by sliding his tongue inside his mouth. He considers pulling back once he realizes he has no idea how to continue, but Tino clutches his shirt, pulling him closer, edging him on. As they clumsily rub their tongues together he can finally tell that Tino wants this, that he wants him, and the sensation makes an overwhelming heat spread throughout his body.
"What do we do now?" Tino asks when they part from the kiss.
“F'replay I guess” Berwald answers, struggling a bit to catch his breath “T’ turn eachoth’r on”
“Oh” Tino says “I’m sort of turn on already, but all right. where do we start?”
Berwald seems quite unsure about this. “'heard talkin’ dirty helps create the right atm’sphere”
“Dirty?”
“Yes. Say somethin' bad.”
Tino hesitates for a moment then takes a deep breath. “So you want it rough!? I'll give you rough! I'll tear your guts out and feed them to the dogs you fucking worthless piece of shit! I ha- I hate you!” he screams, but the anger in his voice quickly disappears as he sees the way Berwald stares at him in disbelief. It’s usually hard to read the Swede’s emotions, but now his face has the word hurt written all over it. “I’m sorry!” Tino yelps and embraces the larger man “I didn’t mean that! You told me to say something bad so I...s-sorry! I don’t hate you! Please don’t think I hate you!”
“I,” Berwald mumbles after a while “think w' sh'd try somethin' else.”
Tino huddles closer to him before fondly running his fingers over Sweden's thigh “I agree” he whispers “Making love is about showing someone how much you care about them, right? We shouldn’t say mean things to each other." Berwald smiles and wraps his arms around him. He feels content like this. Just holding the boy close. Feeling the warmth of his body and listening to his soft breath. A small gasp escapes his lips as the hand on his thigh moves towards his groin. "Finland?" he breaths in surprise when the Fin begins to rub him trough his trousers "what'r y' doin‘?".
"I'm touching you" Tino answers and looks up at him, a faint blush covering his cheeks "I should be able to do this right. I mean, I've done it alone so... does it feel any good?"
Berwald nods. The pace seems somewhat off, but it’s certainly arousing. He soon finds himself leaning into the touch. A few grunts and quiet moans can be heard, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep the sounds from coming. He's almost too embarrassed to face his lover, but when he does his unintentional glare is met by an affectionate grin and the shame that has gotten to him quickly fades. There's no need to conceal his yearning. Not in front of his wife. "Perhaps we..." Tino whispers with a hint of pride in his eyes. It's not often that he's able to make Sweden loose his composure like this. "Perhaps we should take our clothes off?"
It's far from the first time the Fin has seen this much of his skin, but once Berwald has stripped down to his underwear he is painfully aware of the other's gaze. He's trying to find courage enough to remove his last piece of clothing when he realizes that Tino is still fully dressed. "Didn't y' say w' were gonna undress?" he asks, wondering if the boy that will strip without hesitation in the sauna has suddenly become even shyer than himself.
"I was hoping you'd do it for me" Tino answers "take off my clothes I mean"
"Ah... I will th'n."
"Should I get up? or do you want me to lay down?"
Berwald simply answers the question by placing a hand on the Fin's chest and pushes him down on the mattress before placing himself on all four above him.
"You look kinda scary when you're nervous."
"hn?"
"N-Nothing. Go on"
“F'replay I guess” Berwald answers, struggling a bit to catch his breath “T’ turn eachoth’r on”
“Oh” Tino says “I’m sort of turn on already, but all right. where do we start?”
Berwald seems quite unsure about this. “'heard talkin’ dirty helps create the right atm’sphere”
“Dirty?”
“Yes. Say somethin' bad.”
Tino hesitates for a moment then takes a deep breath. “So you want it rough!? I'll give you rough! I'll tear your guts out and feed them to the dogs you fucking worthless piece of shit! I ha- I hate you!” he screams, but the anger in his voice quickly disappears as he sees the way Berwald stares at him in disbelief. It’s usually hard to read the Swede’s emotions, but now his face has the word hurt written all over it. “I’m sorry!” Tino yelps and embraces the larger man “I didn’t mean that! You told me to say something bad so I...s-sorry! I don’t hate you! Please don’t think I hate you!”
“I,” Berwald mumbles after a while “think w' sh'd try somethin' else.”
Tino huddles closer to him before fondly running his fingers over Sweden's thigh “I agree” he whispers “Making love is about showing someone how much you care about them, right? We shouldn’t say mean things to each other." Berwald smiles and wraps his arms around him. He feels content like this. Just holding the boy close. Feeling the warmth of his body and listening to his soft breath. A small gasp escapes his lips as the hand on his thigh moves towards his groin. "Finland?" he breaths in surprise when the Fin begins to rub him trough his trousers "what'r y' doin‘?".
"I'm touching you" Tino answers and looks up at him, a faint blush covering his cheeks "I should be able to do this right. I mean, I've done it alone so... does it feel any good?"
Berwald nods. The pace seems somewhat off, but it’s certainly arousing. He soon finds himself leaning into the touch. A few grunts and quiet moans can be heard, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep the sounds from coming. He's almost too embarrassed to face his lover, but when he does his unintentional glare is met by an affectionate grin and the shame that has gotten to him quickly fades. There's no need to conceal his yearning. Not in front of his wife. "Perhaps we..." Tino whispers with a hint of pride in his eyes. It's not often that he's able to make Sweden loose his composure like this. "Perhaps we should take our clothes off?"
It's far from the first time the Fin has seen this much of his skin, but once Berwald has stripped down to his underwear he is painfully aware of the other's gaze. He's trying to find courage enough to remove his last piece of clothing when he realizes that Tino is still fully dressed. "Didn't y' say w' were gonna undress?" he asks, wondering if the boy that will strip without hesitation in the sauna has suddenly become even shyer than himself.
"I was hoping you'd do it for me" Tino answers "take off my clothes I mean"
"Ah... I will th'n."
"Should I get up? or do you want me to lay down?"
Berwald simply answers the question by placing a hand on the Fin's chest and pushes him down on the mattress before placing himself on all four above him.
"You look kinda scary when you're nervous."
"hn?"
"N-Nothing. Go on"
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=4753098#t4753098 Canada/America. Yandere America.
Well...it was filled, but it felt like the other fill was more yanGIRE America. Sooo...yeah. I hope you enjoy! Also Canadanon really DOESN'T want this to happen XD Ever
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He couldn’t stand it. The way they doted on Mathew whenever he visited, the way they smiled warmly at him, gave him discounts, pulled out his chair. It made him sick.
But it wasn’t because they didn’t treat him like that. He had tried it once, faking the curl and smiling stupidly and saying eh and acting sickeningly nice. He had gotten the discounts and warm smiles. They had pulled out his chair and given him their nicer champagne. It wasn’t jealously, although that was what he had thought at first.
No, it was that they were treating Mathew like that. Not that he had a problem with Mathew being treated well, he really felt he should be, but the way they looked at him just grated on Alfred’s nerves. But he hadn’t been angry when he had watched them doing it for Seychelles or anyone else. Only Mathew.
Mathew who lived right next door. Mathew who would cook him pancakes randomly and smile goofily with apologies for waking him up. Who still hit his head when he went into Alfred’s living room because he wasn’t used to how low they were, and then who would blush and apologize for no reason. Who occasionally borrowed his tops, and from who Alfred had stolen more clothes from than he could count. The Mathew that always helped him out in a pinch and took everything in stride. Gangly, constantly chilly, too tall, always awkward, just damned cute, Mathew.
His Mathew.
So he guessed it was jealously that had him rapping angrily at England’s door. But not the kind that he had thought it was originally. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse. Probably worse since Mathew saw him as a brother. Way worse.
His mind wasn’t on the small man who answered the door and lead him in, and he was barely able to keep up with the expected polite conversation as bits of him warred with each other
Not right!
What are ya’, fuckin queer?
It’s cool! If you like him then you like him.
Have you seen how Francis touches him? And Arthur too! Bastards!
No way, he’s your bro! Way not cool!
Just talk to him about it!
Why does he even visit them so much when you’re right there? There’s something up.
If you decided to take him as your own he couldn’t stop you.
It was that last part of him that disturbed him the most. It kept whispering things to him, and they were bad, he knew it, but they made sense at the same time.
The country looked up from his tea, why had Arthur given him tea anyways? He hated the stuff. He scanned the Englishman’s face, not sure what exactly he was even going to say. The voices of himself quieted and he noticed Arthur had just finished saying something. America shook his head, as though it would clear it out of all of his muddled thoughts, “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked,” The exaggerated was Arthur was saying them, as if he was dumb, annoyed him, “If there was something you wanted. I have an envoy from one of my former colonies arriving in about an hour, so if we could wrap this-”
“Which one?” He had snapped the words out before he had even realized it, leaning over the small table separating them.
“Ah…” The Englishman paused, “It’s not Australia or India…it is…Canada, I believe.”
For some reason the word felt like a stab to his gut. Why did he need to get ready for an envoy from Canada, the place was nice enough as it was. Why did it need to be extra nice? Why did he even need to see the envoy? Their relationship was good enough already with their looks and discounts. England was up to something, he had to be.
“Getting awfully friendly with him, aren’t you?” The words were spilling out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing, like he couldn’t control it. Couldn’t control himself, “Whatever you’re planning I won’t let you.”
Arthur frowned deeply, his giant eyebrows knitting together as he slowly placed his teacup on the saucer, “We’re not planning anything. What on earth would we plan?”
Well...it was filled, but it felt like the other fill was more yanGIRE America. Sooo...yeah. I hope you enjoy! Also Canadanon really DOESN'T want this to happen XD Ever
---
He couldn’t stand it. The way they doted on Mathew whenever he visited, the way they smiled warmly at him, gave him discounts, pulled out his chair. It made him sick.
But it wasn’t because they didn’t treat him like that. He had tried it once, faking the curl and smiling stupidly and saying eh and acting sickeningly nice. He had gotten the discounts and warm smiles. They had pulled out his chair and given him their nicer champagne. It wasn’t jealously, although that was what he had thought at first.
No, it was that they were treating Mathew like that. Not that he had a problem with Mathew being treated well, he really felt he should be, but the way they looked at him just grated on Alfred’s nerves. But he hadn’t been angry when he had watched them doing it for Seychelles or anyone else. Only Mathew.
Mathew who lived right next door. Mathew who would cook him pancakes randomly and smile goofily with apologies for waking him up. Who still hit his head when he went into Alfred’s living room because he wasn’t used to how low they were, and then who would blush and apologize for no reason. Who occasionally borrowed his tops, and from who Alfred had stolen more clothes from than he could count. The Mathew that always helped him out in a pinch and took everything in stride. Gangly, constantly chilly, too tall, always awkward, just damned cute, Mathew.
His Mathew.
So he guessed it was jealously that had him rapping angrily at England’s door. But not the kind that he had thought it was originally. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse. Probably worse since Mathew saw him as a brother. Way worse.
His mind wasn’t on the small man who answered the door and lead him in, and he was barely able to keep up with the expected polite conversation as bits of him warred with each other
Not right!
What are ya’, fuckin queer?
It’s cool! If you like him then you like him.
Have you seen how Francis touches him? And Arthur too! Bastards!
No way, he’s your bro! Way not cool!
Just talk to him about it!
Why does he even visit them so much when you’re right there? There’s something up.
If you decided to take him as your own he couldn’t stop you.
It was that last part of him that disturbed him the most. It kept whispering things to him, and they were bad, he knew it, but they made sense at the same time.
The country looked up from his tea, why had Arthur given him tea anyways? He hated the stuff. He scanned the Englishman’s face, not sure what exactly he was even going to say. The voices of himself quieted and he noticed Arthur had just finished saying something. America shook his head, as though it would clear it out of all of his muddled thoughts, “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked,” The exaggerated was Arthur was saying them, as if he was dumb, annoyed him, “If there was something you wanted. I have an envoy from one of my former colonies arriving in about an hour, so if we could wrap this-”
“Which one?” He had snapped the words out before he had even realized it, leaning over the small table separating them.
“Ah…” The Englishman paused, “It’s not Australia or India…it is…Canada, I believe.”
For some reason the word felt like a stab to his gut. Why did he need to get ready for an envoy from Canada, the place was nice enough as it was. Why did it need to be extra nice? Why did he even need to see the envoy? Their relationship was good enough already with their looks and discounts. England was up to something, he had to be.
“Getting awfully friendly with him, aren’t you?” The words were spilling out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing, like he couldn’t control it. Couldn’t control himself, “Whatever you’re planning I won’t let you.”
Arthur frowned deeply, his giant eyebrows knitting together as he slowly placed his teacup on the saucer, “We’re not planning anything. What on earth would we plan?”
“I didn’t say he was planning anything,” Mathew was too sweet for that. No this was definitely England’s doing. Alfred let his thumb ghost over the switchblade in pocket. It was only for emergencies, but maybe this was one. No, it wasn’t, but it didn’t hurt to touch it, to reassure himself it was there. Just in case, he told himself.
“Well I am not planning anything.” The condescending smile on Arthur’s face pissed him off. Smarmy asshole, “I have nothing that I would plan, particularly not with any of my former colonies.”
“Then why do you need to be so friendly?” He could feel the smoothness of the switchblade under his finger. It felt right, “What’s this envoy coming for?”
“We’re discussing trading,” It was amazing the prude could even speak with his lips pursed together so tightly, “He happens to have some very bountiful resources and I was thinking if lowering import taxes was what it took to get a little most access to them I could stand that, not that it’s any of your business.”
England wanted Mathew’s resources, of course he did. He probably wanted more, probably just didn’t want Alfred to know. Thought he was stupid.
This is paranoia! Stop it.
He wants him. Just like you do.
Why’re ya’ fightin’ over tha’ little nobody anyway?
You can’t let him have him.
You’re being stupid!
He used to be Arthur’s once. Arthur’s regretting letting him go.
Commonwealth.
The word rung out in his mind. Commonwealth. The American was standing before he was even aware of it, his tea cup knocked over, “Is that what this is? You want him back?” The words were tearing themselves from his throat, “Well it’s not happening, he’s not going to assimilate with you.”
Arthur rose to his feet, straightening his green uniform, “What in God’s name are you talking about? I have no desire to have Canada assimilate with me. I’ve already had the pleasure of that, no thank you.” Alfred felt his stomach roiling at the words. What was so bad about Mathew? England simply continued, not noticing like the idiot he was, “And what is this ‘with you’ business. Last I checked Canada was rather happy to be his own nation and wasn’t assimilating with anyone. Who would he assimilate with, you? Don’t be ridiculous.”
It felt like he was boiling on the inside. Why wouldn’t Mathew assimilate with him? It would work out fine. He would make a great 51st state. Why was Arthur laughing at him?
He would be a great wife.
Wouldn’t have to be an actual state. Just…be taken under your wing. Your protection.
Be yours. He would come to like it.
He would have no choice
It was like all of him was humming. The parts of him that shouted out protests were smothered, he couldn’t hear it. Just the harmonious humming.
He would hum with us
I’m sure he likes humming.
It wasn’t ridiculous. It wasn’t laugh worthy. “Shut up!” His hand wasn’t even shaking as it flipped open the switch blade, “You don’t know anything! It would work great! It would be perfect!”
“Good lord! You’re off your rocker.” For all of the condescension in the fool’s voice his green eyes were focused on the blade, “It would never work.”
“Why not?” He could see it now, Mathew by his side, “Who would stop me? You? You couldn’t even stop me from claiming my own independence when you had a base in North America.”
“You bloody fool,” Arthur was now shaking his head slowly, “He would stop you. And I would most certainly help. We’ve fought you off once.”
“Shut up!” The War of 1812 was a fluke. Besides, they hadn’t won it anyways. It was just that Alfred had decided to stop was all. And they were weak now, they couldn’t fight them off now. He stepped forwards, raising the blade, “Maybe if I take care of you now…!”
The Englishman stumbled backwards, moving around his chair, “You have gone mad! You know as well as I do that hurting these bodies does nothing to the country itself! We would still assist Canada!”
“If it doesn’t do anything then it shouldn’t matter if I do.” Maybe when Arthur came back again he’d be less of a snotty fucktard. Maybe he was doing England a favor. Yes, then they would leave Mathew alone…
“Well I am not planning anything.” The condescending smile on Arthur’s face pissed him off. Smarmy asshole, “I have nothing that I would plan, particularly not with any of my former colonies.”
“Then why do you need to be so friendly?” He could feel the smoothness of the switchblade under his finger. It felt right, “What’s this envoy coming for?”
“We’re discussing trading,” It was amazing the prude could even speak with his lips pursed together so tightly, “He happens to have some very bountiful resources and I was thinking if lowering import taxes was what it took to get a little most access to them I could stand that, not that it’s any of your business.”
England wanted Mathew’s resources, of course he did. He probably wanted more, probably just didn’t want Alfred to know. Thought he was stupid.
This is paranoia! Stop it.
He wants him. Just like you do.
Why’re ya’ fightin’ over tha’ little nobody anyway?
You can’t let him have him.
You’re being stupid!
He used to be Arthur’s once. Arthur’s regretting letting him go.
Commonwealth.
The word rung out in his mind. Commonwealth. The American was standing before he was even aware of it, his tea cup knocked over, “Is that what this is? You want him back?” The words were tearing themselves from his throat, “Well it’s not happening, he’s not going to assimilate with you.”
Arthur rose to his feet, straightening his green uniform, “What in God’s name are you talking about? I have no desire to have Canada assimilate with me. I’ve already had the pleasure of that, no thank you.” Alfred felt his stomach roiling at the words. What was so bad about Mathew? England simply continued, not noticing like the idiot he was, “And what is this ‘with you’ business. Last I checked Canada was rather happy to be his own nation and wasn’t assimilating with anyone. Who would he assimilate with, you? Don’t be ridiculous.”
It felt like he was boiling on the inside. Why wouldn’t Mathew assimilate with him? It would work out fine. He would make a great 51st state. Why was Arthur laughing at him?
He would be a great wife.
Wouldn’t have to be an actual state. Just…be taken under your wing. Your protection.
Be yours. He would come to like it.
He would have no choice
It was like all of him was humming. The parts of him that shouted out protests were smothered, he couldn’t hear it. Just the harmonious humming.
He would hum with us
I’m sure he likes humming.
It wasn’t ridiculous. It wasn’t laugh worthy. “Shut up!” His hand wasn’t even shaking as it flipped open the switch blade, “You don’t know anything! It would work great! It would be perfect!”
“Good lord! You’re off your rocker.” For all of the condescension in the fool’s voice his green eyes were focused on the blade, “It would never work.”
“Why not?” He could see it now, Mathew by his side, “Who would stop me? You? You couldn’t even stop me from claiming my own independence when you had a base in North America.”
“You bloody fool,” Arthur was now shaking his head slowly, “He would stop you. And I would most certainly help. We’ve fought you off once.”
“Shut up!” The War of 1812 was a fluke. Besides, they hadn’t won it anyways. It was just that Alfred had decided to stop was all. And they were weak now, they couldn’t fight them off now. He stepped forwards, raising the blade, “Maybe if I take care of you now…!”
The Englishman stumbled backwards, moving around his chair, “You have gone mad! You know as well as I do that hurting these bodies does nothing to the country itself! We would still assist Canada!”
“If it doesn’t do anything then it shouldn’t matter if I do.” Maybe when Arthur came back again he’d be less of a snotty fucktard. Maybe he was doing England a favor. Yes, then they would leave Mathew alone…
I think requests are now open, this OP would like to see America/Lithuania please. OP wants it to be just between these two and the world be damned, no Leit thinking of Russia, or America thinking of whoever, just nice love between the two? Please anons?
It sounds so romantic when OP puts it this way, but it's up to anons! Go crazy!
It sounds so romantic when OP puts it this way, but it's up to anons! Go crazy!
Prussia wasn't the only one under Russian occupation, so let's see some interaction between these two for a change.
B: Smut
B: Smut
Writer!anon is sorry, but will get to the smut eventually. In the mean time, please live with this.
When the iron curtain fell, she certainly didn't like it and wasn't just because she and Austria were on opposite sides.
Now she was part of the Soviet Union.
At first, it seemed little had changed. Ivan smiled and wished her well, voice like poisoned honey sending chills down her spine. (She never let him know.)
But then, she began noticing things. Small things, but choice, or rather, a lack of her own choices in favor of Ivan's. First it was simple things, like what to eat for breakfast, reasonable considering she was now living in his house, but they soon escalated until she noticed her politicians, the people elected by her own people, were slowly disappearing in favor of others. Their faces were unknown to her, but Ivan smiles and laughed and just introduced them.
"Meet your new bosses. They'll be taking over for a while," he said, gently. They were the Hungarian Communist Party and of course Hungary was suspicious.
Erzsébet wasn't exactly opposed to Ivan's ideas: she had read Marx's book and did feel his ideas had merit; she just didn't agree with the way Russia was carrying it out. (And she didn't like his dogmatic and suffocating boss, either.)
She missed her old flag.
Ivan had insisted, as Ivan often did, to add the Communist Coat of Arms to it. And so, emblazoned on the white stripe was the familiar hammer and star. (She didn't like it, but she'd never tell him. In the times to come, it would be the thing that drove her to breaking point.)
She missed Nagy.
He had made it clear and he had made it just. He had let people talk freely and chose and not be terrified of being prosecuted for treason and everyone loved him. He had a daughter. (She was there when he went to the hospital, had held the little girl in her arms as he just sat there, wide grin on his face. "Her name is Erzsébet," was all he said.)
Something in her broke when his government was removed ("For your own good," Ivan said, fingering a lock of her hair in the meeting room with one hand, circling her waist with his other arm. "Please don't resist," he whispered in her ear.)
When the iron curtain fell, she certainly didn't like it and wasn't just because she and Austria were on opposite sides.
Now she was part of the Soviet Union.
At first, it seemed little had changed. Ivan smiled and wished her well, voice like poisoned honey sending chills down her spine. (She never let him know.)
But then, she began noticing things. Small things, but choice, or rather, a lack of her own choices in favor of Ivan's. First it was simple things, like what to eat for breakfast, reasonable considering she was now living in his house, but they soon escalated until she noticed her politicians, the people elected by her own people, were slowly disappearing in favor of others. Their faces were unknown to her, but Ivan smiles and laughed and just introduced them.
"Meet your new bosses. They'll be taking over for a while," he said, gently. They were the Hungarian Communist Party and of course Hungary was suspicious.
Erzsébet wasn't exactly opposed to Ivan's ideas: she had read Marx's book and did feel his ideas had merit; she just didn't agree with the way Russia was carrying it out. (And she didn't like his dogmatic and suffocating boss, either.)
She missed her old flag.
Ivan had insisted, as Ivan often did, to add the Communist Coat of Arms to it. And so, emblazoned on the white stripe was the familiar hammer and star. (She didn't like it, but she'd never tell him. In the times to come, it would be the thing that drove her to breaking point.)
She missed Nagy.
He had made it clear and he had made it just. He had let people talk freely and chose and not be terrified of being prosecuted for treason and everyone loved him. He had a daughter. (She was there when he went to the hospital, had held the little girl in her arms as he just sat there, wide grin on his face. "Her name is Erzsébet," was all he said.)
Something in her broke when his government was removed ("For your own good," Ivan said, fingering a lock of her hair in the meeting room with one hand, circling her waist with his other arm. "Please don't resist," he whispered in her ear.)
Germany has to unknot the Italy brothers hair again, AND deal with two horny Italians ♥
BONUS: N. Italy tops!
Human names are appreciated, but no must.
BONUS: N. Italy tops!
Human names are appreciated, but no must.
Germany/Austria - during a quarrel, Germany slaps Austria and both of them are surprised to discover Austria kind of, uhh. Likes it. Sexy time ensues somehow.
Please?
Please?
So after seeing all of these Twilight series and its ~*~sparkly vampires~*~ requests, I must ask for some True Blood. It can either be a whole crossover (where vampires "come out of the coffin" in the Hetaliaverse), or someone makes fun of Alfred for Twilight and he goes to prove that not all of his vampires sparkle.
If you're going the crossover route, bonus points go for Eric Northman and Berwald knowing each other before.
If you're going the crossover route, bonus points go for Eric Northman and Berwald knowing each other before.
Norway's birtday was yesterday. So. I wanna see one or more countries surprise im with something! They could also join the May 17th procession~
hint: procession is a metaphor
Smut is optional but very, very welcome :>
Smut is optional but very, very welcome :>
i wrote this for may 17th already, it isn't smut or anything. but it was just a little gift to norway (:
[denmark/norway]
Norway smiles—funny, he isn’t exactly sure why either.
It’s been a while since he’s laughed, smiled, shown anything. Anything at all. Swears he had forgotten how to smile, to laugh, to expose ( because—because it shows who he really is, that he isn’t what he should be, how he always has been, that he’s changed )
How it feels to have his lips curl, teeth tucking underneath his lips, soft flesh he doesn’t remember having. How it feels for the air to be pressing out of his lungs faster, shorter, uninhibited bursts. How it feels to do something, be someone, something, he doesn’t even remember being. Bright vermillion berries in the forest that should be frozen.
Smile like icy river white, morning snow still scattered across undeterred by the wind, unmoved, not dancing as they do at night, white little dresses upon the snowflakes. Intricate designs he holds in his hands, captures, melts.
Doesn’t know if it’s Denmark that causes it, idiotic smile printed over his face, coming back with frostbite and showing no pain. Being outside for hours upon hours from late afternoon through the nights where Norway is left up alone in the bed. Wondering. How he grins and grabs hold of Norway’s hands, delicate and gentle for hands that look like they could never be. Slips in different, broken, but all the same, together. That it doesn’t matter to him. How he trips sometimes, and laughs on the ground, how he can be. Exist with no worry. That he has always been okay, that he never needed anyone.
Not in battle. Not here. Not then. Not now. Not Denmark. Not anything.
Not Norway.
( And he doesn’t know why he smiles about the thought that passes last, because it should sting, it should hurt—because he needs Denmark more than anything. )
Norway, he needs—everything, everyone, always. Denmark.
[denmark/norway]
Norway smiles—funny, he isn’t exactly sure why either.
It’s been a while since he’s laughed, smiled, shown anything. Anything at all. Swears he had forgotten how to smile, to laugh, to expose ( because—because it shows who he really is, that he isn’t what he should be, how he always has been, that he’s changed )
How it feels to have his lips curl, teeth tucking underneath his lips, soft flesh he doesn’t remember having. How it feels for the air to be pressing out of his lungs faster, shorter, uninhibited bursts. How it feels to do something, be someone, something, he doesn’t even remember being. Bright vermillion berries in the forest that should be frozen.
Smile like icy river white, morning snow still scattered across undeterred by the wind, unmoved, not dancing as they do at night, white little dresses upon the snowflakes. Intricate designs he holds in his hands, captures, melts.
Doesn’t know if it’s Denmark that causes it, idiotic smile printed over his face, coming back with frostbite and showing no pain. Being outside for hours upon hours from late afternoon through the nights where Norway is left up alone in the bed. Wondering. How he grins and grabs hold of Norway’s hands, delicate and gentle for hands that look like they could never be. Slips in different, broken, but all the same, together. That it doesn’t matter to him. How he trips sometimes, and laughs on the ground, how he can be. Exist with no worry. That he has always been okay, that he never needed anyone.
Not in battle. Not here. Not then. Not now. Not Denmark. Not anything.
Not Norway.
( And he doesn’t know why he smiles about the thought that passes last, because it should sting, it should hurt—because he needs Denmark more than anything. )
Norway, he needs—everything, everyone, always. Denmark.
I'm a big fan of city-tans. Like...huge.
I'd like to see a post WWII Russia with his three children. Oldest son, Moscow, only daughter St. Petersburg, and youngest son Stalingrad--who's dealing with a name change.
Moscow should be the overprotective big brother type, St. Petersberg should be like a slightly cynical Ukraine, and Stalingrad should be the misbehaved little brother.
But I just want to see Russia taking care of his "children" after the war and just being a father.
Obviously the kink is: Russia+Fatherhood.
I'd like to see a post WWII Russia with his three children. Oldest son, Moscow, only daughter St. Petersburg, and youngest son Stalingrad--who's dealing with a name change.
Moscow should be the overprotective big brother type, St. Petersberg should be like a slightly cynical Ukraine, and Stalingrad should be the misbehaved little brother.
But I just want to see Russia taking care of his "children" after the war and just being a father.
Obviously the kink is: Russia+Fatherhood.
Th-thirded... However, you've chosen the 'characters' for the cities in such a strange way. The point is that in Russian language the word 'Moscow' has a feminine (grammatical) gender and 'St. Petersburg' - masculine gender.
In addition, the widely known rivalry between these cities (as well as the most characteristic features of their personalities).
This article contains some information on their nature and relationships in real life:
http://www.nytimes.com/2000/05/07/world/comments-revive-st-petersburg-moscow-rivalry.html
In addition, the widely known rivalry between these cities (as well as the most characteristic features of their personalities).
This article contains some information on their nature and relationships in real life:
http://www.nytimes.com/2000/05/07/world/comments-revive-st-petersburg-moscow-rivalry.html
If... if someone anon wrote this, I would be happy enough to cry
Post-WWII: Prussia has had it with his brother, what with nazis, Preussenschlag and then losing the war. So he is happy (or, you know, at least stomping away in fury) to join Russia and put up a wall.
Germany doesn't think he needs his stupid brother anyway and blames all kind of crap at him.
As the years pass, they start missing each other... a lot
tl:dr-version: in 1945 Germany and Prussia have a big breakup and angst about it until 1989
Can be set during any time of this, so go with dark or sad or fluffy as you'd like anon~
Bonus: Brothercest (duh)
Post-WWII: Prussia has had it with his brother, what with nazis, Preussenschlag and then losing the war. So he is happy (or, you know, at least stomping away in fury) to join Russia and put up a wall.
Germany doesn't think he needs his stupid brother anyway and blames all kind of crap at him.
As the years pass, they start missing each other... a lot
tl:dr-version: in 1945 Germany and Prussia have a big breakup and angst about it until 1989
Can be set during any time of this, so go with dark or sad or fluffy as you'd like anon~
Bonus: Brothercest (duh)
Author!anon with the lulzy fill promise from yesterday - yeah, this sort of kept nagging at me today during an extremely boring class, so you lucky, lucky OP get a poetry fill. Well, I call it poetry, only because whatever this turned out to be can't be called prose with a straight face. Sorry for the fail.
Warnings - language, spite and enough political incorrectness to sink a boat. Also, ninja-references to lots of Cold War stuff.
Wishes For My Brother
I wish you'd grow a fucking backbone and man up,
I think mine's cracked and bent from all your stupid war.
You lost. So what? You're not the first or last.
You could do with some practice, but at least
Get on your feet and take it like you should.
I wish you'd stop and listen for a moment
And try to understand why I feel sorry - I was wrong.
And if that fails, I wish you'd had the guts to tell it to my face on time.
And if that fails too, well then, it doesn't count,
And I just wish you'd tried your best at Stalingrad.
I wish I hadn't let you strip me of my name and land,
At least not easily enough for you to think they come for free.
Well, now it's time to get them back under a different form,
Misshapen, but still there and close, so you can see
That what I've gained is no more than you've lost.
I hope he works you dead and you grow thin and stretched.
I hope your calloused hands forget the sword and gun
And get new callouses from sickles, spades and ropes.
I hope he grinds your arrogance into the ground so you can't rise
And if you do, I hope he beats you down again.
I hope your new friends laugh at you behind your back
Still quietly, but enough to let you hear,
I hope you know they've put you on a leash
And on those drunken nights you spend alone
I hope you see what all their help is worth.
I hope that fucking wall of yours comes down
I hope it falls apart and crumbles on your head,
Rains plaster in your eyes and bricks and dust,
And as you try to build it up again, to hide away,
I hope you see I'm doing so much better on my own.
I hope you choke to death on all your import goods
And those American financial schemes you get.
Who needs them when you've got canned food and socialism?
I bet you'll never get that right, you ass,
So, there!
I wish he didn't smile brightly when he says
'Sometimes a brother is the weirdest thing, you know?'
(I do, but rather not remember it at all)
He seems to think a heart is fixable with just a word.
I don't.
I wish she'd let me fuck her and shut up
Instead of going all, 'You miss yours', like she knows.
('I miss mine too,' she says, so maybe yeah, she does,
That's not the point, because, you know.
I DON'T.)
But most of all I wish I could have seen your face
Throughout these years apart, and know for sure,
That you've been miserable and lonely and afraid,
Forgotten in a corner of the world by all,
Just like the one you think loathes you the most.
And in the end I want to get this straight and clear:
If, when that stupid wall comes down somehow,
I run to you without a word and grab you tight
And squeeze so hard that you'll be bruised for days
And cry, and let you do the same for me,
It's not because I missed you, or I care,
But just because around us they all do the same,
OK?
Warnings - language, spite and enough political incorrectness to sink a boat. Also, ninja-references to lots of Cold War stuff.
Wishes For My Brother
I wish you'd grow a fucking backbone and man up,
I think mine's cracked and bent from all your stupid war.
You lost. So what? You're not the first or last.
You could do with some practice, but at least
Get on your feet and take it like you should.
I wish you'd stop and listen for a moment
And try to understand why I feel sorry - I was wrong.
And if that fails, I wish you'd had the guts to tell it to my face on time.
And if that fails too, well then, it doesn't count,
And I just wish you'd tried your best at Stalingrad.
I wish I hadn't let you strip me of my name and land,
At least not easily enough for you to think they come for free.
Well, now it's time to get them back under a different form,
Misshapen, but still there and close, so you can see
That what I've gained is no more than you've lost.
I hope he works you dead and you grow thin and stretched.
I hope your calloused hands forget the sword and gun
And get new callouses from sickles, spades and ropes.
I hope he grinds your arrogance into the ground so you can't rise
And if you do, I hope he beats you down again.
I hope your new friends laugh at you behind your back
Still quietly, but enough to let you hear,
I hope you know they've put you on a leash
And on those drunken nights you spend alone
I hope you see what all their help is worth.
I hope that fucking wall of yours comes down
I hope it falls apart and crumbles on your head,
Rains plaster in your eyes and bricks and dust,
And as you try to build it up again, to hide away,
I hope you see I'm doing so much better on my own.
I hope you choke to death on all your import goods
And those American financial schemes you get.
Who needs them when you've got canned food and socialism?
I bet you'll never get that right, you ass,
So, there!
I wish he didn't smile brightly when he says
'Sometimes a brother is the weirdest thing, you know?'
(I do, but rather not remember it at all)
He seems to think a heart is fixable with just a word.
I don't.
I wish she'd let me fuck her and shut up
Instead of going all, 'You miss yours', like she knows.
('I miss mine too,' she says, so maybe yeah, she does,
That's not the point, because, you know.
I DON'T.)
But most of all I wish I could have seen your face
Throughout these years apart, and know for sure,
That you've been miserable and lonely and afraid,
Forgotten in a corner of the world by all,
Just like the one you think loathes you the most.
And in the end I want to get this straight and clear:
If, when that stupid wall comes down somehow,
I run to you without a word and grab you tight
And squeeze so hard that you'll be bruised for days
And cry, and let you do the same for me,
It's not because I missed you, or I care,
But just because around us they all do the same,
OK?
Spain x Romano
Spain is somehow a kid again - being the same age age as Romano (who is a kid also) and the little Spainard can't resist the opportunity to flirt with the Italian in a pretty dress~
(er, can Spain actually remember who Romano is....pls?)
B: Romano -likes- the flirting
EB: shota if Spain's feeling brave!
EEB: Spain manages to kiss Romano >3
Spain is somehow a kid again - being the same age age as Romano (who is a kid also) and the little Spainard can't resist the opportunity to flirt with the Italian in a pretty dress~
(er, can Spain actually remember who Romano is....pls?)
B: Romano -likes- the flirting
EB: shota if Spain's feeling brave!
EEB: Spain manages to kiss Romano >3
Technically, you read left to right, but it's only on the second page.
There's more! I just had to put this first part out, it was too cute a prompt to not drop all other fills and do! XD (curse you, OP, for making me draw more chibis, I need to stop!)
But yes, I hope to return with much better quality, but fair warining in that it might be a while...! Holy crap, I just noticed a typo. *headdeskheaddeskheaddesk*
There's more! I just had to put this first part out, it was too cute a prompt to not drop all other fills and do! XD (curse you, OP, for making me draw more chibis, I need to stop!)
But yes, I hope to return with much better quality, but fair warining in that it might be a while...! Holy crap, I just noticed a typo. *headdeskheaddeskheaddesk*
the countries of hetalia find out about the marukaite chikyuu dubs the fans have sung...What I want is to see the countries starting to argue which countries marukaite chikyuu version is better!
Bonus:not beeing able to hold the tension some countries start kissing and making out(no smut plz);3
>///
Bonus:not beeing able to hold the tension some countries start kissing and making out(no smut plz);3
>///
As much as the fangirls would like to wish otherwise, the fact of the matter is that Prussia's canon voice is... very unpretty.
Prussia is insecure about his voice, and keeps himself quiet in bed (biting sheets/pillows or otherwise muffling himself). His partner (choice up to anon) is having none of that, and is determined to make him scream and moan.
Prussia is insecure about his voice, and keeps himself quiet in bed (biting sheets/pillows or otherwise muffling himself). His partner (choice up to anon) is having none of that, and is determined to make him scream and moan.
I thought the write a thon was over on the 24th....oh well~
Um...Spain, Greece, and the Italy brothers just hanging out, kicking it back, and relaxing amongst eachother. Other countries can make cameos but I'd love attention on those 4 just generally being friendly around eachother.
For those who like Spain/S.Italy, you can throw that in if you'd like b-but bonus if you can work in something like Greece/N.Italy or even Spain/Greece, yay rarepairs
Um...Spain, Greece, and the Italy brothers just hanging out, kicking it back, and relaxing amongst eachother. Other countries can make cameos but I'd love attention on those 4 just generally being friendly around eachother.
For those who like Spain/S.Italy, you can throw that in if you'd like b-but bonus if you can work in something like Greece/N.Italy or even Spain/Greece, yay rarepairs
very very very much seconded. because it's a cute idea (and greeNita sounds just too cute... X3)
Finland sits waiting, pretending he can’t hear the shouting in the next room. The answer will be either yes or no: the people of Sweden will aid him, or they will not. Sweden is likely sitting to the side, listening as well. No one will listen to him if he speaks; it is not exactly a secret what he and Finland – legally, Messrs. Oxenstierna and Väinämöinen – are to each other.
He waits, and waits more, drinking cup after cup of coffee; finally Sweden slides out of the room, closing the door silently behind himself, and makes his way over, folding up in a chair beside Finland. “’m sorry. F’r th’wait.”
“If it’ll help me stay out of Russia’s clutches, I don’t mind.”
Sweden lowers his eyes and sets his hands over Finland’s, wrapped around the mug of coffee. He takes a sip, sliding his fingers between Finland’s, then takes the cup and sets it on the table so they are holding hands. “Y’know wha’th’nswer’ll be.”
Finland’s stomach freezes in sudden shock. “No,” he whispers, protest, denial. “No, no, not again. Not ever again, Sweden, I won’t go, I’ll fight until I’m dead if I have to I won’t go back to that I won’t don’t let me Sweden –”
Sweden is holding his hands so hard his bones hurt.
“C’n’t. Th’boss. But –” The corner of Sweden’s mouth tilts, very nearly a grin by his standards. “C’n g’ve m’wife gifts.”
Oh, Finland breathes, suddenly warmed. Not completely deserted, only relegated to unofficial channels.
It takes him a few hours for it all to sink in properly. By the time it does, the meeting is already over, the official announcement no different from Sweden’s prediction, and Finland and Sweden have already traveled out to their house in the country. Finland starts packing to leave almost immediately.
Sweden watches him, looming in doorways anxiously even after Finland tells him it’s all right to go work on those half-constructed bookshelves sitting upstairs. Eventually Finland tires of it and lets Sweden help him pack. If he can’t fuss he’ll just get upset and loom more and be so distracted he burns lunch. Finland expects to be hungry soon enough, and so sees no point in skipping meals when it’s not necessary.
Sweden helps him pack for much fighting and for the winter, which is looking to be colder than it’s been in a long time. Finland’s bag, when they are done, is heavy but not unbearably so, designed for long treks and longer waits.
They cook together, and Sweden in an unusual fit of clumsiness cuts his finger with the knife. Finland bandages it and kisses it better, although where he kisses it better is not all that close to Sweden’s finger.
Finland leaves soon after to take a boat out to his home, and on his way off their property, he looks back. Sweden is still standing in the door of their house, tall and handsome and too-present, and Finland only wishes they could make war together.
His own commanders put Finland on sniper duty, which he does, gladly. He almost-dies a few times, shot by counter-snipers, but nations don’t die easily, if at all. So long as someone manages to get him out of the cold and start feeding him he survives. Among the men, who don’t know what he is, he develops a bit of a reputation of his own, though his surname doesn’t hurt that. It helps a little that he feigns tone-deafness and a poor voice; in reality he is subject to neither fault.
Every so often he manages to receive packages labeled as being from a B. Oxenstierna; he gets some invasive questions about that – How does a guy like you get to know someone with that kind of name? – but he manages to pass it off as being from a friend, and handing out the treats that Sweden sends does a lot to silence the questions.
Mostly he sits in the snow, waiting for Soviet soldiers to pass into his line of sight. Russia is not the only nation beloved of General Winter, and Russia’s boss is an idiot; he has sent southern troops. Finland waits, still and silent, and thinks that come spring, the fields will be green with spilt blood. If there will be anyone left to farm them.
Despite their tactics, despite the cold, despite Soviet stupidity, Finland and his people must sue for peace. They lose their industry, their best farmland, their heart. During the talks he gets into a physical fight with Russia, who proceeds to break his arm and ask, smiling blankly, if Finland would like to join with him again; they had so much fun together back then.
Finland says several unprintable things and goes to get his bone set.
Once the peace brokering began, Sweden closed up the house outside Stockholm and went to the one near Helsinki, thinking that Finland would come back there after the talks were over.
He was right. He’s in the middle of preparing dinner for two – always for two; he always wants to have a meal on hand for when Finland eventually returns – when the door clicks open. When he looks back it’s Finland, pack on his back, wrapped up against the weather, gun strapped to his back. His coat is a little dirty, but mostly just white, shockingly so.
“You’re here,” Finland says, sounding a little wondering. Sweden sets down the cooking spoon that was in his hand, turns down the stove, and takes the few steps to bring them face-to-face.
He wants to catalogue the changes to Finland’s body, to remap his skin, but Finland has other ideas, taking hold of Sweden’s shoulders and yanking him forward into a kiss. Sweden, surprised by the sudden fierceness of the gesture, has to catch himself on Finland, hand landing on the scratched worn barrel of the gun; his palm freezes to it, counterpoint to the devouring intensity of Finland’s mouth.
Finland wasn’t this aggressive before the war, but then, before the war he had not come so close to victory against Russia that he could taste it, only to have it bled out of him. Before the war Sweden had not stood neutral against him in a war of self-defense, unable to offer enough aid to change the conflict. Before the war Finland did not have the resources to bring invaders to their knees without their willing –
Sweden, gasping against Finland’s mouth, tastes blood and snow as he pulls away and sinks to the floor, burying his hands into the folds of Finland’s clothing, setting his mouth to Finland’s cock, long slow strokes of his tongue and his lips, hand wrapped around the base.
Finland doesn’t last very long. Sweden, still kneeling on the floor, starts to slowly undress him, buttons and zippers and layers coming unwrapped from around Finland’s body until by the time he’s approaching entirely unclothed he’s hard again.
Before Sweden can move to let Finland start fucking his throat, though, Finland grabs him by the collar and hauls him to standing, kisses him distractedly, fumbling at Sweden’s waist. Sweden helps him, ends up sliding their erections together, Finland’s hand over his setting the pace as they breathe into each other’s skin.
Finland smells of sweat, water, sex, blood. Sweden doesn’t know whether the blood is Finland’s or some anonymous Soviet soldier’s. He comes thinking of a red smear of Russian blood against Finland’s lips, in his hair.
Every so often he manages to receive packages labeled as being from a B. Oxenstierna; he gets some invasive questions about that – How does a guy like you get to know someone with that kind of name? – but he manages to pass it off as being from a friend, and handing out the treats that Sweden sends does a lot to silence the questions.
Mostly he sits in the snow, waiting for Soviet soldiers to pass into his line of sight. Russia is not the only nation beloved of General Winter, and Russia’s boss is an idiot; he has sent southern troops. Finland waits, still and silent, and thinks that come spring, the fields will be green with spilt blood. If there will be anyone left to farm them.
Despite their tactics, despite the cold, despite Soviet stupidity, Finland and his people must sue for peace. They lose their industry, their best farmland, their heart. During the talks he gets into a physical fight with Russia, who proceeds to break his arm and ask, smiling blankly, if Finland would like to join with him again; they had so much fun together back then.
Finland says several unprintable things and goes to get his bone set.
Once the peace brokering began, Sweden closed up the house outside Stockholm and went to the one near Helsinki, thinking that Finland would come back there after the talks were over.
He was right. He’s in the middle of preparing dinner for two – always for two; he always wants to have a meal on hand for when Finland eventually returns – when the door clicks open. When he looks back it’s Finland, pack on his back, wrapped up against the weather, gun strapped to his back. His coat is a little dirty, but mostly just white, shockingly so.
“You’re here,” Finland says, sounding a little wondering. Sweden sets down the cooking spoon that was in his hand, turns down the stove, and takes the few steps to bring them face-to-face.
He wants to catalogue the changes to Finland’s body, to remap his skin, but Finland has other ideas, taking hold of Sweden’s shoulders and yanking him forward into a kiss. Sweden, surprised by the sudden fierceness of the gesture, has to catch himself on Finland, hand landing on the scratched worn barrel of the gun; his palm freezes to it, counterpoint to the devouring intensity of Finland’s mouth.
Finland wasn’t this aggressive before the war, but then, before the war he had not come so close to victory against Russia that he could taste it, only to have it bled out of him. Before the war Sweden had not stood neutral against him in a war of self-defense, unable to offer enough aid to change the conflict. Before the war Finland did not have the resources to bring invaders to their knees without their willing –
Sweden, gasping against Finland’s mouth, tastes blood and snow as he pulls away and sinks to the floor, burying his hands into the folds of Finland’s clothing, setting his mouth to Finland’s cock, long slow strokes of his tongue and his lips, hand wrapped around the base.
Finland doesn’t last very long. Sweden, still kneeling on the floor, starts to slowly undress him, buttons and zippers and layers coming unwrapped from around Finland’s body until by the time he’s approaching entirely unclothed he’s hard again.
Before Sweden can move to let Finland start fucking his throat, though, Finland grabs him by the collar and hauls him to standing, kisses him distractedly, fumbling at Sweden’s waist. Sweden helps him, ends up sliding their erections together, Finland’s hand over his setting the pace as they breathe into each other’s skin.
Finland smells of sweat, water, sex, blood. Sweden doesn’t know whether the blood is Finland’s or some anonymous Soviet soldier’s. He comes thinking of a red smear of Russian blood against Finland’s lips, in his hair.
Would love to see something that starts off as placid!Russia and America having totally great, sweet, tender sex. But then something sets crazy!Russia off and it turns into brutal non-con that America simply can't escape from. Bonus points for gunplay and gagging.
Don't look at me like that. :|
Don't look at me like that. :|
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America (and whoever wants to tag along) goes looking for the lost city of Atlantis. And find it and it's nation-tan~ Really, I just want to see an Atlantis-tan!
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21753.html?thread=94728697#t94728697
Romano suddenly gets this urgent need for sex after seeing Antonio make a sexy gesture, so in the middle of a meeting he drags him out ton empty room to fulfill his sexual urge. Obviously NC-17 Spain tops. Bonus: Romano talking dirty in spanish to turn on Spain as he is.
Shinatty-chan/Pedobear.
8D
Bonus:: Pedobear is actually Pedobear!Prussia.
8D
/b/tard!anon TOTALLY seconds this for the lulz.
Now, anon cannot fail to deliver. :D
Now, anon cannot fail to deliver. :D
" BUT I DON'T LOVE AMERICA! I LOVE YOU! "
Yes. There.
Yes. There.
random anon. Here's what came to my head. It became kinda of angsty when I think about it. orz Am hoping to see another anon's take on this though.
The teacup fell from nerveless fingers.
If he had cared to noticed, he would have realised his lap was growing damp, damp with tea where it pooled over the edges of table.
Of all the words to say, he never expected him to say that. Unless this was all some cruel joke or something. If it was, it wasn't funny. If it wasn't, then...He looked down, avoiding England's face.
He had been happy when England invited him for tea. It was one of those rare moments. Rare moments where he remembered that he was Canada. Canada and not America. That alone made him happy. Although he often chided himself at how embarrassing it was. And it was silly really. Silly to be happy over an unchangeable thing.
He stole a glance at England, who was still staring at him, red faced and teacup untouched. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Who knows, maybe this was just some sick joke? After all, Canada knows how fond of England is of America and may have mistaken him for America yet again. If it was, it hurt. It hurt and made him suddenly question was being here a good thing after all? Or maybe England was drunk? If being drunk on tea was possible.
"I'm not America, you know," Canada finally said hesitantly. "I'm Canada."
"I am not talking about America!" England replies tersely. "I am talking to you, why should that idiot come into the conversation?!"
Yes. Why? Canada asks himself. Although its only natural right? He looks like America and he bets England is still thinking America is the one sitting opposite him, not Canada.
"I don't know," Canada answers evenly, trying to keep his voice steady while avoiding eye contact. Because you like him? "Wherever we like it or not, the topic always comes back to him. Not to mention England, about what you said before...If it's a joke, I'm not laughing." He finally meets England's gaze. "That's low. Even for you."
England looks as if he swallowed something horrible.
"WHAT? Are you...suggesting that I said that as a joke? Something to amuse myself with?" He sputters as if he didn't believe what Canada was saying. "Surely, you know me better than this."
"You tell me," Canada said. "It's not everyday someone suddenly goes I love you to another. Although France is an exception," He adds. "That or the fact I been mistaken for America all these years and you don't even realise! Then suddenly out of the blue, its But I don't love America. I love you. Your even thinking that its America here right?"
Canada realises his voice had gone louder and he doesn't care. Better to tell England straight out else he would never get the chance. "Do you know how many times I been mistaken for him? How many times I was blamed for something he had done? How many times when you ignored me for him. Especially after you took me from France! So forgive me for not taking this seriously enough."
England doesn't reply. Serves him right.
Canada takes advantage of England's silence to get up and head off to the kitchen. He knows England's house well enough to know where the kitchen is. Although he might have liked to stayed and listen to England's excuses, he needed to wipe the spilled tea.
The teacup fell from nerveless fingers.
If he had cared to noticed, he would have realised his lap was growing damp, damp with tea where it pooled over the edges of table.
Of all the words to say, he never expected him to say that. Unless this was all some cruel joke or something. If it was, it wasn't funny. If it wasn't, then...He looked down, avoiding England's face.
He had been happy when England invited him for tea. It was one of those rare moments. Rare moments where he remembered that he was Canada. Canada and not America. That alone made him happy. Although he often chided himself at how embarrassing it was. And it was silly really. Silly to be happy over an unchangeable thing.
He stole a glance at England, who was still staring at him, red faced and teacup untouched. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Who knows, maybe this was just some sick joke? After all, Canada knows how fond of England is of America and may have mistaken him for America yet again. If it was, it hurt. It hurt and made him suddenly question was being here a good thing after all? Or maybe England was drunk? If being drunk on tea was possible.
"I'm not America, you know," Canada finally said hesitantly. "I'm Canada."
"I am not talking about America!" England replies tersely. "I am talking to you, why should that idiot come into the conversation?!"
Yes. Why? Canada asks himself. Although its only natural right? He looks like America and he bets England is still thinking America is the one sitting opposite him, not Canada.
"I don't know," Canada answers evenly, trying to keep his voice steady while avoiding eye contact. Because you like him? "Wherever we like it or not, the topic always comes back to him. Not to mention England, about what you said before...If it's a joke, I'm not laughing." He finally meets England's gaze. "That's low. Even for you."
England looks as if he swallowed something horrible.
"WHAT? Are you...suggesting that I said that as a joke? Something to amuse myself with?" He sputters as if he didn't believe what Canada was saying. "Surely, you know me better than this."
"You tell me," Canada said. "It's not everyday someone suddenly goes I love you to another. Although France is an exception," He adds. "That or the fact I been mistaken for America all these years and you don't even realise! Then suddenly out of the blue, its But I don't love America. I love you. Your even thinking that its America here right?"
Canada realises his voice had gone louder and he doesn't care. Better to tell England straight out else he would never get the chance. "Do you know how many times I been mistaken for him? How many times I was blamed for something he had done? How many times when you ignored me for him. Especially after you took me from France! So forgive me for not taking this seriously enough."
England doesn't reply. Serves him right.
Canada takes advantage of England's silence to get up and head off to the kitchen. He knows England's house well enough to know where the kitchen is. Although he might have liked to stayed and listen to England's excuses, he needed to wipe the spilled tea.
Greece Egypt Motherlover
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/digital-short-motherlover/1099491/
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/digital-short-motherlover/1099491/
Yes in that order. Yes, that's right. Not just one but a whole gang of them pls.
America leaves England in charge of looking after his mochimerica for a few days but conveniently forgets to tell him just how to look after them. They begin multiplying and...
America leaves England in charge of looking after his mochimerica for a few days but conveniently forgets to tell him just how to look after them. They begin multiplying and...
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11813.html?thread=26915365#t26915365
Ok, so far I've seen a lot of these where America is a kid/has been turned into a child and England has to take care of him, but I haven't seen the reverse. So I'd really like to see something where England (accidently?) getting turned into a child with America being forced to take care of him, perhaps because nobody else is willing to. As for the kink, once England changes back to normal, I'd love to see dub-con, some bondage, orgasm denial, and begging please.
America taking care of England would be so adorable! I can just see him accidentally making England cry and him making a dork of himself just to cheer him back up. <3
So for some reason, these two have popped into this Anon's head and won't leave~
I would like Ukraine comforting Liet after being again turned down by Belarus. Romance and/or sex is not necessary, but anon would love fluff... because she's a sucker for it. Please?
I would like Ukraine comforting Liet after being again turned down by Belarus. Romance and/or sex is not necessary, but anon would love fluff... because she's a sucker for it. Please?
(screened comment)
(screened comment)
OP knew it was a good idea to drop by before going to bed~
(Anonymous) - 2009-05-23 05:30 (UTC) - ExpandSo some of you may or not know of the Canadian (perhaps it is mostly Ontarian??) joke that the Prime Minister Stephen Harper "eats babies" (http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20060502/toronto_commuters_060502/20060502). Of course he doesn't really, but we make fun of it all the time (still).
One of the other countries overhears/sees something about it and thinks it's real. The first thing they think of is the possibility of a fascist Canada springing up out of nowhere, since they don't pay attention to Canada they don't know how unlikely it is. So they spread the news of Canada's terrifying boss around.
Suddenly Germany is inviting Canada over to bratwurst and giving speeches about how it's "Okay to not always listen to you boss" and Russia starts reminiscing about how a bad boss can screw up a country. Spain freaks out when Canada wears blue (Blueshirts) etc. And Canada has no idea what the fuck is going on. How anon chooses to resolve the problem, and if they become closer, or just angry, with Canada is up to anon <3
long request is long, gaah! (dear god say this hasn't been done)
One of the other countries overhears/sees something about it and thinks it's real. The first thing they think of is the possibility of a fascist Canada springing up out of nowhere, since they don't pay attention to Canada they don't know how unlikely it is. So they spread the news of Canada's terrifying boss around.
Suddenly Germany is inviting Canada over to bratwurst and giving speeches about how it's "Okay to not always listen to you boss" and Russia starts reminiscing about how a bad boss can screw up a country. Spain freaks out when Canada wears blue (Blueshirts) etc. And Canada has no idea what the fuck is going on. How anon chooses to resolve the problem, and if they become closer, or just angry, with Canada is up to anon <3
long request is long, gaah! (dear god say this hasn't been done)
This anon, at least, hasn't seen this particular stroke of genius before. Do want so hard ffffsfs fljksj
captcha: ruckuses Paris
captcha: ruckuses Paris
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