Hetalia kink meme ([personal profile] hetalia_kink) wrote2011-02-26 01:32 pm

Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED

 
Thanks to anon's suggestions we are now enforcing a past-part fills post

Fresh past-part fills post
HERE




Keep yourself up to date -- check out the NEWS HERE

Under--cont'd

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 01:24 pm (UTC)(link)
link to previous:

http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11863306#t11863306

Part 12 is on its way.

Re: Under--cont'd

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 12:03 am (UTC)(link)
Comments are maxed in part 5 so I'm commenting here, even though there's no fill here just yet.

Excuse me, but - "Get out of here. Get to a hospital." The fuck? That's way worse to me than any of the physical stuff. I started reading this thinking I was going to get BDSM and a dom's discovery of himself. I didn't expect abuse, certainly not this level (that has nothing to do with BDSM, as far as I can tell). My expectations aside, Matthew basically kicking Alfred out after that is the last straw. I know you have more planned, Anon, but at this point I don't see how this relationship can possibly be repaired.

Re: Under--cont'd

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Anon saw it....

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Under Part 12

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[Londonanon]

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reCaptcha: filthy love

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Re: Under Part 12

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Under: Part 13-(eventual) conclusion

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Sealand/Hong Kong + England

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 01:50 pm (UTC)(link)
Continued from here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14253578#t14253578

The fourth part, aka the part where the Azn!anon tortures Hong. Hong, ilu.

---
Light flooded the room, blinding its occupant. The Chinese boy had finally gotten to restless sleep for the first time in days, but it was soon ruined by a swift foot to the gut. He cried out almost silently in pain.

"Get up. Up now, boy."

So he got up quickly, despite the blossoming purple he knew to be appearing on his stomach. The Englishman looked furious, and the boy didn't know why. He never knew why.

"Get me a cigar."

He scrambled, looking for the box that housed Arthur's foul smelling cigars. The Englishman kept all of his unsavory possessions in his room, out of sight. He found it and presented it to Arthur.

"How am I to enjoy this without a match, bloody idiot?" Slap!

Cheek smarting, he ran to fetch the match box. He struck a match, and held it to the end of Arthur's cigar. The cigar was brought up to Arthur's lips, and it was accepted with no look or word of thanks.

Inhaling deeply, Arthur looked over at the Chinaman and mentally frowned. He blew out smoke into the boy's face (not entirely by accident, but with no regrets.) The yellow boy immediately started couging, sounding as if he was choking.

"Quiet."

And to his deep satisfaction, the boy stopped (though he was clearly trying hard not to cough.) If only Peter was this obedient... pity.

"Sir... I... hungry," the Chinese boy sputtered out in a small voice. He was starved, having not eaten for a day and a half. Inside, he was frustrated; the unwieldly harsh language made him seem unbearably stupid, and his pride had all but slipped away.

Arthur looked at him, despised. He plucked the cigar from his lips, and took the boy's forearm.

"Who asked you to speak?"

The cigar was ground into the pale skin. Loud cries of apology issued forth at once, in the filthy boy's home language.

"Dui bu qi- Dui bu qi- Dui bu qi-," he heard himself screaming.

"Hungry, are you? You want to eat, boy?"

No. Please no. He hoped with all his heart that Arthur was not going to make him do that base and vile thing. He was praying to gods that had long forsaken him.

But the pants were unzipped, and he found himself being pulled to meet the man's groin. Bitterly, he opened his mouth and serviced the Brit. The sour length in his mouth was large, and it stretched his small child's mouth. Strong hands were tangled in his once fine black hair, forcing his head to move.

He choked and gagged, as Arthur had no reservations when it came to thrusting hard into his mouth. It seemed like forever, and the dragon inside of him was shaking with anger. If Yao had known what he was forced to do... The yellow boy felt tears springing from the edges of his eyes, and as the first tear slid down his filthy cheek, Arthur came. leaving his bitter fluids in the Chinese boy's mouth.

"Swallow."

And it was swallowed. Arthur cleaned himself off, and looking presentable, left him alone in the dark once more.

The yellow boy decided to fall where he stood. Cheek pressed to cool floor, he curled in on himself and sobbed.

Re: Sealand/Hong Kong + England

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 01:53 pm (UTC)(link)
Almost forgot: 芳 (fāng), 芬芳 (fēnfāng), 香 (xiāng), 馨 (xīn). Anon would like to know which name for Hong Kong sound best. They all mean fragrant; 香 is the first character in Xiang Gang (HK), and it is read as "Kaoru" in Japanese, which is why HK was named Kaoru in a popular fan video. I want him to have a Chinese name ffff.

Recaptcha: Williams straddle. Oh Canada.

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Sealand/Hong Kong + England [5/?]

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Sealand/Hong Kong + England [6/?]

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American Gods/Hetalia

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 02:17 pm (UTC)(link)
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12145418#t12145418

The Broken Circle, Part 1

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 02:28 pm (UTC)(link)
The weapons
that were once outside
sharpening themselves on war
are now indoors



Ludwig fell asleep alone that night, but dreamed of Feliciano. It was not one of his usual dreams, mismatched and twisted scenes of his wakeful hours. It was not one of his less usual dreams, where he is a small child and Feliciano is in a dress and he wakes crying and unremembering.

He dreamed. The hall is larger than any he has seen before, larger than any city he has seen. Here, he cannot help but think of Gilbert’s city of Dresden, razed and burned. The statues are taller than him and made of grey speckled stone. The rock they are hewn from is smooth from age not art.

He stands next to a statue of a woman, and he imagines her skin would be dark, and her eyes at once rainbow and moonlight and earth and childbirth blood. Her hips are wide and dressed in a skirt of crossed bones. Her breasts are bare and large and heavy with milk. Her face is human, but her hands and feet are clawed and furred like a jungle cat. She is somehow holding a large jar. At her feet burned Ixchel.

He recoils away from her, and into Feliciano. Feliciano stumbles, falls, rises, and retreats away from this statue, and Ludwig does as well. The rock eyes of the statues follow them.

“These are the dead gods,” Feliciano explains. His hand is holding Ludwig’s as they hurry away. It is not the reassuring grip Ludwig’s knows in the waking world. His voice is soft and thick like the times he spoke of his grandfather. “No one remembers them these days, except in ruins and books. No one worships them anymore.”

Feliciano leads him to where the statues are marble white and shining, both artifice and art softening the harsh stone. Here, they stand beside a statue of another woman. She is naked, save for the cloth draping from her human hands to guard her pubic area. She has a girl’s breasts and a woman’s hips. Her petrified hair is pinned and tied, save for the locks curling around her neck and shoulders. Her curves are illuminated by words at her feet, burning Aphrodite and Venus, interchangeably.

“She was Grandpa’s Venus,” says Feliciano, unaffected by her nudity, unlike Ludwig, “And before that, Hypatia’s Aphrodite.”

“Who is ‘Hypatia’?” Ludwig can only remember to 1871, waking up and seeing Gilbert shorter than him and sick with relief.

“Hypatia was Heracles’s mother.” Feliciano reaches out and nearly touches the statue that is as white as his flags of surrender. “Grandpa told me one of her stories, one he didn’t take from her.

“Pygmalion made a statue in Aphrodite’s image, but the longer he worked on it, the less it looked like her and the more he loved it, until he begged Aphrodite to bring it to life because he would not--could not--love anyone else. She took pity on him, and brought the statue to life and called her Galatea.

“But now, in here, no one can be Aphrodite to her Galatea, because she has no Pygmalion. Lovino and I don’t know her rituals, her needed sacrifices, and Hypatia died before she could teach Heracles.”

In his dream, Ludwig is frightened, and in his bed, his hands shook and clutched the bedsheets more tightly. “I-is there a hall like this one--o-one for us?”

Feliciano frowns. Tears fall from his eyes to the floor and turn into steam by Venus’s flames. Ludwig doesn’t know why, doesn’t know that Feliciano is seeing Rome’s body, bloody and broken on Germania’s sword, is hearing France tell him that the Holy Roman Empire is dead and that he should forget before it breaks him. “I don’t know. But even--even if we have a Pygmalion, even if we have someone who could never love anyone else again, we have no Venus to take pity on us, because she has no one to love her.”

Re: The Broken Circle, Part 1

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 1

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 1

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The Broken Circle, Part 2

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A/N

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 2

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The Broken Circle, Part 3

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THANK YOU AUTHOR!ANON

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 3

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 3

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The Broken Circle, Part 4

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The Broken Circle, Part 5

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The Broken Circle, Part 6

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The Broken Circle, Part 7, Section I

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The Broken Circle, Part 7, Section II

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Re: The Broken Circle, Part 7, Section II

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The Broken Circle, Part 8, Section I

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The Broken Circle, Part 8, Section II

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The Broken Circle, Part 8, Section III

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The Broken Circle, Notes

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Re: The Broken Circle, Notes

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Puppet 1/?

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 02:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Continued from: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14021642#t14021642
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Just to clear things up, this anon is different from the anon that seconded the prompt... Seconder anon can post another fill of this if anon likes...

Also, lots of flashback for this part... I hope OP enjoys.

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A bird had laid an egg…

“Sister, what’s that?”

It was a fairly large egg with a weird shape…

“Run!”

That was the first thought I had from when it all started…

“We have to get out of here! Mindanao, warn the neighborhood! Tell them to run to safety!”

It was just us in the house… Mr. America had to go to one of his bases because of some trouble…

“BOOM!”

I didn’t know what was happening back then. All that I knew back then were the loud cries of our countrymen, the chaos beyond the walls, the earth-shattering explosions, and the sound of Luzon’s whispers as she led me to safety.

----

Two days after the bombings, Japan had landed in northern Luzon.

… I had never seen my dear sister look so helpless.

----

After a few weeks, Japan had captured Luzon.

I was left with Brother Mindanao after she surrendered.

The tears he kept inside and his shaking form as he held mine were all the proof I needed to know that he had cared for our sister too.

----

Mr. America’s people had to retreat. He said he was sorry, and that he’d come back for us.

Brother was very bitter about that, but I silently thanked him for giving me something to look forward to.

…freedom.
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-The thing about the egg was inspired from a phrase I heard about the war at Vietnam, about how planes were like birds and started laying eggs of fire to their fields.
-From what I got on the Japanese Occupation, it seems that Japan bombed the Philippines a few hours after Pearl Harbor... Which was why Al had to leave the triplets.
-Manila was taken on January 2, 1942
-The last part was in reference to MacArthur's famous phrase "I shall return".

Re: Puppet 1/?

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 03:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Yes. Philippines-tan. YES.

Great work so far, anon!

The OP is happy!!!

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Re: Puppet 1/?

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The OP!Re: Puppet 3/?

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Part 5: England/America - shota

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Original request, for "warm, fluffy, 100% consensual shota":
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14399498#t14399498

I'm posting the fill as a reply to this. If anyone else fills this, please feel free to post under this comment as well!

all for you (1/2)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 04:40 pm (UTC)(link)
All for You

Alfred lies back obediently, hands curled into loose fists by his shoulders as his trousers are undone. He lifts his hips when told, first for the trousers and then for his underwear.

"Can you open your legs for Daddy?"

Teeth digging softly into his lower lip, Alfred smiles and complies, his bent knee falling sideways to the mattress. His skin warms under the hands that move up along his legs, passing his knees, settling splayed along his inner thighs. "That's my good lad," the man murmurs, and Alfred warms more at the words, the tone, the soft green gaze. His smile widens until his lip comes free of his teeth. When Alfred's tongue darts out to soothe over his lip, Daddy moves one hand from Alfred's thigh to his mouth, tracing Alfred's lip with his thumb. Alfred licks at the tip and Daddy slides his thumb into Alfred's mouth so Alfred can suckle, his own hand curling around Daddy's wrist as he does.

A soft choking sound comes from Daddy and he stands up, taking his hands from Alfred's mouth and thigh. Alfred sits up. "Please don't go, Daddy. Did I do something wrong?" His teeth dig into his lip harder than before.

But Daddy is smiling when he turns around. "No, baby boy," he says as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and starts on his trousers. "You're not doing anything wrong at all."

Alfred smiles and lies back to watch Daddy finish undressing. He looks down to watch his fingers fumble at the buttons of his own shirt, then back up: "Can you help me, please?"

The mattress sinks as Daddy sits at the edge. Alfred glances at the fingers undoing his buttons, then up at the face above him. "You're a big boy," Daddy says as he undoes the last button. "You should be able to do this yourself."

"I know." Alfred sits up so Daddy can slide the shirt down his arms. "But I like it when you do it." As naked as Daddy now, except for his socks, Alfred climbs into Daddy's lap and puts his arms around Daddy's neck. "Alfred loves Daddy," he says seriously. He chews his lip briefly and then adds, "Alfred wants Daddy to love him, too."

"Oh, Alfred." Daddy holds him and strokes his hair. "Daddy loves you very much."

"Show me, Daddy," Alfred whispers, arching a little closer. "Show me how you love me."

Daddy lies back on the bed, bringing Alfred with him, then rolling so they're on their sides. When Daddy asks him to, Alfred turns around to face away, then wriggles back so he can feel Daddy against his back. He mewls unhappily when Daddy pulls away, but Daddy strokes his hair again and tells him it's all right.

Alfred turns his head and watches Daddy squeeze the special lotion into his hand. "Can I help?" he asks when Daddy starts to put the lotion on himself, and Daddy lets Alfred help by putting his hand over Daddy's as it moves up and down.

They lie down on their sides again and Daddy nudges Alfred's legs apart with his hand, just enough to put his love between Alfred's thighs. It's warm and slick and makes Alfred squirm happily when Daddy starts to move. "You can put it inside me if you want to, Daddy," Alfred says, looking back over his shoulder.

Daddy shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Daddy doesn't want to hurt you. Daddy doesn't want to break you. Daddy just wants to love you, Alfred."

Alfred mewls again, a soft, happy sound this time, and turns forward again as Daddy loves him and loves him.

He doesn't look back again until Daddy's arms tighten around him and Daddy grunts softly and the slickness coating Alfred's thighs isn't just the special lotion. "Are you pleased with me, Daddy?"

"Yes, baby boy." Daddy's lips brush his, but even though Alfred opens his mouth, Daddy doesn't put his tongue in like he did that one time. "Do you want to give Daddy some of your love now?"

"All," Alfred says. "All for you."

Re: all for you (1/2)

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another!anon says:

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HERE IT IS: Something In Between (1/I dunno yet.)

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You're only making it worse!

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 06:11 pm (UTC)(link)
in response to this prompt:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?replyto=14369290
Where England wakes up with a hangover, either next to someone or with a weird tattoo. I opted for all of the above and moar.
_________________________________________________________________

At least…he thought in panic, at least he had been with America last night, right? So this was America’s bed he was sleeping in, because his ‘special friend’ had taken him back and cared for him while he was drunk and fended off France, right?

Tentatively, Arthur reached over to touch the skin of the person in bed next to him, shaking with sickness and cold, only for the person next to him to be even colder than the air. That was the least of his concerns, however, when he noticed angry red letters stretching across his arm, inflamed from what was unmistakably a fresh tattoo.

He read the words out loud, jerking his hand back from his bed companion in horror.

“Made in China.”

England is awake!” said a cheerful, soft voice. He realized immediately that he was with two people, and looked over to his other side, almost missing the lovely tattoo on his other arm, which said in big black letters

“One with Russia.”

Arthur’s panic escalated as the two people next to him sat up in bed, smiling cheerfully. He was even more horrified when a somehow previously unseen person popped up from under the covers.

“Let Korea touch your breasts again!” he screamed, nuzzling his head against England. The ridiculous hair with the face started to blush and look uncomfortably aroused. England noticed another sore mark across his pecks, and from under the hairy mass of the man’s head, England barely made out

“Originated in Korea.”

“Americaaaa!” England shouted, and suddenly the man in question burst through the door. England blanched. He hadn’t expected America to actually be here…he just felt like screaming his name in anger, because he knew that somehow, SOMEHOW this was Alfred’s fault.

“Oh, hi England,“ Alfred said cheerfully. He was wearing a pink apron and stirring what looked like pancake batter. Behind him, a fuzzy white bear nudged him.

“Maple.” he demanded. Then England realized Canada had been there the whole time.

“Hi~” Matthew said, waving.

“What are these people doing in your bed?”

“I don’t know. They just show up sometimes, is all. Be happy Mexico isn’t here.”

“They just…show up…sometimes?”

“Hey, you look kind-of stupid with that maple leaf on your forehead. I bet you regret that one,” America said, snickering, as batter splashed on the floor.

“I guess it could be worse,” England said, rubbing his head and starting to cry a little. “At least nobody tattooed my ass.” Which was awfully sore, come to think of it.

“Of course not!” Alfred said cheerfully, effectively splashing most of the batter on Kumajiro, who whined a little. “Because that’s property of America!”

Re: You're only making it worse!

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 06:20 pm (UTC)(link)
Lmao they just 'show up' sometimes XD

I also lol-ed hard at 'made in China' XDD

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OP here!

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You're only making it worse! Omake

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Part 5: America/Canada - Canada has maple syrup running through his veins

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 07:48 pm (UTC)(link)
Original awesome request (buried way deep in the thread of another, also-awesome request): http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14198026#t14198026

***

I am saddened and dismayed that Part 5 maxed, thereby cutting off the insanely AWESOME thread of anon-comments that grew as a response from the insanely awesome request of "Geography!Fail Causes Worldwide Panic"

All I can do is offer this sequel to the anon-inspired masterpiece, "2009 American Invasion of Canada", and hope it causes some lulz and smiles.

***

SWEET TOOTH (part 1)

***
Matthew breathed a sigh of relief when Alfred's hand passed by the knife - which was, upon closer inspection, a dull-edged butter knife, meant more for spreading than for cutting - and instead braced it on the table top. No knifing for Canada today!

And then the fear returned sevenfold when Alfred gave him a wolfish grin and raised Matthew's wrist to his mouth - and sank his teeth in.

Matthew yowled, as much in shock as anything else, as he felt sharp stabbing pains, and then Alfred was dragging him over to the platterful of fluffy pancakes, holding his wrist out, and letting him bleed all over the pancakes.

Bleed delicious, thick, slightly-redder-than-normal syrupy sweetness all over the pancakes.

"Mmm," Alfred grinned, licking his lips as he moved Matthew's punctured wrist in a circle, tracing a drippy red-amber ring on the pancakes. "God, you're sweet, Mattie," he crooned, turning the wrist over, then over, so he could drip two dots on the stack - with a flicker of rage, Matthew realized Alfred was tracing a _smiley-face_ onto his pancakes.

A smiley-face in Matthew's maple-syrupy blood. Aaaargh!

Who the fuck had told America about their best-guarded secret!? That was a Code Maple security breach, that was! When he got back, when he found out, he would - he would -

And then he lost his train of thought as Alfred, having drowned his pancakes in Matthew's maple-blood, pushed Matthew onto a chair and used his lassoo to tie him to it. His fingers were sure and deft, the knots as intricate as any Eagle Scout's, as he restrained Matthew. Then he had the sheer cocky audacity to grin down at his furious, rope-tied brother before seating himself behind the pancakes and tucking in.

Sweet Tooth (part 2)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 07:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"Ohhhhh god!" he moaned upon taking the first bite. "Oh fucking hell Mattie. This. Is. So. Gooooo~oooood!" His eyelids fluttered shut. Matthew sighed. If Alfred liked it, that increased the chances of him bleeding Matthew for syrup again. Dammit!

Alfred ate the pancakes slowly, savoring them. Matthew was surprised. His brother tended not so much to eat things as to inhale them, sucking them down as if he was on a time-limit. He only ever slowed down and ate like a reasonable human being when England was there to thwap good manners into him. But here Alfred was, chewing his food - swallowing slowly - licking and sucking on the fork's tines to get every last bit of syrup off it before he went back for another bite of pancake.

And, all the while, making near-pornographic noises of enjoyment as he ate his breakfast.

"Ooooooh~ that's so goooo~oood," Alfred said again, eyes at half-mast as he chewed. Matthew stared at him. Alfred's voice had dropped a few octaves down, and his eyes were - yes - they were definitely glazing over. Was he flushing? It was a bit harder to tell on Alfred's more tanned skin, but -- yes, he was.

Matthew pondered, as Alfred continued to have oral sex with his pancakes. Was it possible there was more than one aspect to True Canadian Blood? Of course True Canadian Blood had to involve maple syrup, but they were known for other things as well…like a certain other plant that brought Matthew great joy…

Half-intrigued and half-aghast, Matthew sat there and watched Alfred be R-rated over food. He was so intent on him, he actually forgot about Tony skulking in the background and the minor discomfort of being tied to a chair.

Alfred finished off by using the last bite of pancake to sop up the remaining syrup. Unsatisfied, he then began to lick the whole platter. Matthew sighed.

"Alfred, really. What are you, fifty years old?" he scolded his older brother. (presumably - France, England, and Canada himself had expressed doubts upon this issue. It always ended with Alfred defending his right to the position as 'elder brother' physically, which, as England had once observed wryly, was a very elder brother thing to do.)

Alfred cocked his head like a dog, staring straight at Matthew. "You're right," he said agreeably, which was so rare that Matthew immediately felt nervous. He was even more nervous, his stomach filling with cavorting butterflies, as Alfred got to his feet and stalked - STALKED, actually stalked, moving with a fluidity that reminded Matthew of the mountain lions that prowled their lands - Matthew, circling him once and then suddenly swinging himself onto Matthew's lap, straddling his northern brother.

"Why should I lick for scraps, when I have the source right here?" he purred, bringing Matthew's wrist to his mouth again, baring his teeth in a grin that was half-wolf, canines actually glinting.

Matthew stared, dumbstruck, like prey caught in a predator's gaze. Behind them, Tony puttered around happily setting up multiple cameras.

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France/England - Their Finest Hour

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 09:21 pm (UTC)(link)
Requeste and previous parts: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11925258#t11925258

Their Finest Hour [10/?]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 09:25 pm (UTC)(link)
6. Choices



“What will happen to him now?”

Arthur looks up. Sees Matthew standing there, fidgeting a little, almost wringing his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“They... they divided France. One part belongs to Germany now.”.

“Two parts out of five,” Arthur says “Yes. What do you want to know?”

“What will happen to him? What happens when they divide your land, do you... is he still... here? Is there someone- another France now?”

Arthur is surprised. Then remembers how young Matthew actually is. How little he has seen, comparing to the rest of them. For a brief second he sees the sweet child he was, not the brave young man he is.

“I should be so lucky,” Arthur says then, not unkindly “No. Francis' still around. As long as his... his identity isn't lost, he'll stay just the way he is.”

Matthew's eyes are filling up:

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

Although he wonders too, sometimes. Let's say, just as a crazy and highly unlikely hypothesis, let's just say Francis loses the... the whatever it is that makes him be himself, let's say he changes. Let's assume that, under Ludwig's rule, he becomes a little less France and a little more Germany. Then, not that it's going to happen, not that it's even important, but then, would he disappear?

Arthur doesn't believe it. He thinks that France, the nation, the, the concept, won't crumble so easily. So fast. Because it is fast, other nations spent longer than that under someone else's rule, hell, they've been through it themselves. And they're still here.

And still. Still.

If Francis could at least keep in touch. Or- anything, really, Arthur's not asking for much here, just one look, one word, just so he can be sure. Those pictures are still engraved in his mind, he can still see it, and he wants so much to know.

Matthew doesn't insist, doesn't ask the “how, how can you be sure?” that he wants so much to ask, and Arthur's almost thankful for it. As soon as Matthew leaves the room, he gets up. Takes his coat, locks the door and leaves.

Crossing the borders to France is easier and harder than he had expected. He dresses in the nazi uniform, disguises the color of his eyes and hair and knows that the only problem will be Ludwig recognizing him, all the others, the humans, he can take. Still, he knows what he's doing, he's good at it and he's not afraid, not of Ludwig, not of being discovered.

Of nothing, really. He's not afraid, period. He sees the swastikas in occupied France, sees the soldiers in the streets, hears the deep silence of the city and wonders- but no. He won't think, won't reach conclusions until he sees Francis.

Still. He remembers how smug Francis was, how proud of his Paris, his lights, his so deeply ingrained sense of freedom and thinks, no, it's just not possible, something that strong won't die this easily. Francis wouldn't allow it. I won't allow it.

He finds a place to stay, his uniform and rank he gave himself opening doors and clearing all his way to the top. He finds details about meetings and summits and planning session and, yes, Francis, he hears about him. Ludwig, they say, keeps him around, he doesn't represents, to the Germans, any threat whatsoever, just a symbol of a broken nation, even if they are not exactly aware of what he is. Arthur forces a tight smile and drinks to that. He finds how and where and when can see him.

There will be a dinner, some party, Arthur doesn't care. It takes him a few days, but he gets the invitation and he's there when Ludwig brings Francis along.

Arthur enters first, actually, led by one of the soldiers. The room is bright and clear, all wood and carpets and paintings on the walls. There's a table set for at least a dozen people, covered by fine white cloth and it's almost unreal, how rich and peaceful and normal everything is.

Arthur sits down. He acts calm, he breathes, he acts like everybody else. They all get up when Ludwig enters. So does Arthur. He tries not to hope for anything, so he won't show surprise and ruin his disguise.

Then he sees Francis.

Their Finest Hour [11/?]

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Untitled - (14/?)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 09:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Original requests - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=4606154#t4606154 and http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=4729802#t4729802

Parts 1-13 - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=13283594#t13283594
________________

[[Sorry if this little rape-transition doesn't flow right. I don't think it does. But my mind insisted that Russia had to rape them both, which is a surprisingly hard thing to write. D: I also apologize for not getting this up yesterday, like I said I would. I got very little computer time yesterday, so I couldn't get this written. I will try to make up for it by updating a whole lot this week. :) ]]

Raivis felt his heart constrict painfully when he more felt than saw Ivan shift and come in front of him, that small smile which was both sickening and infuriating dancing on his face. He wanted to claw that smile right off. He wanted to ravage and tear him apart until he begged for mercy, mercy which Raivis would not give. After all, why should he? The fucking bastard had never given them any mercy.

His own savage, violent thoughts rather surprised the boy. He had never used to have such thoughts...he had never truly hated someone so much he wanted them dead before. 'Guess that's just another way this bastard has fucked us up...' he thought bitterly.

He laid as still and unresponsively as he could while the Russian crawled over his small body and kissed him roughly, the feeling of his tongue roaming around his mouth making him want to go wash his mouth out with sandpaper. He could feel Ivan's still very present erection pressing against the back of his thigh, and he involuntarily shuddered at the thought of what was obviously soon to come.

He would suppose later that he should probably count himself lucky. With the high state of arousal Ivan was in at the moment, it would be like him to just go, with no thought as to the fact that Raivis was completely unprepared. But apparently the Russian was thinking of it, probably only in passing, but thinking of it nonetheless. He didn't seem to want to wait any longer than the bare minimal amount of time, however, because instead of getting Raivis to wet his fingers, he just brought his cleaner hand to his own mouth and laved the two fingers with spit, doing a much quicker job than the Latvian probably would have done.

Grinning in satisfaction, he brought the fingers to Raivis's entrance and shoved them roughly in, causing the Lativan boy to cry out in pain at the sudden intrusion. Eduard flinched; he couldn't see any details of what the Russian was doing to his brother. He could just see his large blurry form crouched over his brother's smaller blurry form. Judging from the sound, he probably hadn't pressed his penis in yet; most likely he'd just done a very rough job of putting his fingers in. Eduard was glad he'd at least done that. He'd had a terrible worry he wouldn't prepare him at all, and Eduard knew how horrible that was. 'Raivis probably knows too...' he thought suddenly, and the realization made his stomach clench.

Soon, too soon for him to be ready, the Russian removed his fingers, which had been roughly and quickly scissoring Raivis's entrance, and shifted his body a bit. Raivis knew with a horrible sort of certainty what was about to come, and he clenched his eyes shut, the small part of him that was still a child, that hadn't been completely corrupted by this man, was thinking over and over in vein, 'Maybe if I close my eyes, it'll go away...'

But of course, it didn't. He hadn't really thought it would.

He felt a large hand cup his face, and he resisted the instinct to pull away.

"Raivis..." he heard the Russian murmur. "Open your eyes. I want to see them."

And what could he do but obey? He had to exert every ounce of self-control he had to force his eyes open, and even then, he could only get them to open halfway. But it seemed to be enough for Ivan. He smiled happily, a childlike smile, the kind of innocent, joyful smile Raivis never wore anymore. 'Because this man stole it from me, that's why...' he thought absently. 'He stole my childhood. My innocence. And now he wears it like it's his own...the fucking bastard...'

Untitled - (15/?)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 10:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Ivan leaned in and kissed Raivis again, more gently than before. Raivis was like a little doll...a beautiful little doll. Ivan knew he shouldn't be so rough with his toys. They might break. But it would be okay, as long as he was gentle with them too. As long as he kissed it and made it better, the hurts would go away. Yes...it would go away, and his toys would stay with him forever. If he could get them to stay, everything would be good. Everyone would be happy. And the only way he could get them to stay was to teach them it.

So what he was doing now...it was for Raivis's own good. He shouldn't have that terrible look in his eyes, a look of fear mixed with hatred. All Ivan was trying to do was to help him. So he wouldn't get any bad ideas about trying to run off, like his brother. He had to teach him. Raivis would be so much unhappier if he left...Ivan hated the thought of his beloved Raivis being unhappy when he could have prevented it. He was his doll, but he was his child, too, and he cared for him greatly. He couldn't allow him to do something that would be detrimental to his happiness. Mother Russia had to protect his children...his beautiful but oh so naive children, who were so easily blinded by the glimmer and sparkle of the decadent, bourgeoisie lifestyle of that capitalist pig, Alfred. Sure, it seemed good at first glance...but the whole system was, for lack of a better analogy, like an old whore. She could look pretty when she dressed up and put on her makeup, but underneath the splendor, she was still just an old whore, riddled with disease and caked with filth.

Ivan couldn't allow his children to play with that old whore, though she beckoned to them, her hand gleaming with rings on every finger; rings that shone like the finest gold and diamond in the beautiful moonlight but were revealed to be nothing but tin and copper in the sunlight that told no lies. They might catch her terrible disease, or be stolen and manipulated and brainwashed into becoming old whores themselves. Ivan didn't know what he'd do if he ever saw one of his children like that...filled with the infestive, self-perpetuating cancer that was capitalism.

So, the only solution was to keep them here, by his side. Forever.

And the only way to do that was to ensure they knew to stay.

It all made such perfect sense in his mind; Ivan didn't understand how his children, naive though they were, didn't see it. He didn't understand why they struggled and rebelled so. He knew what was best for them. It was all he wanted, all he'd ever wanted. And it saddened and angered him that Raivis would be looking at him with such hatred in his eyes when he was giving completely of himself, to help him. He didn't understand why all his children were so ungrateful for all he did for them, every day. All he protected them from.

He pressed himself swiftly, suddenly, into Raivis, as far in as he could go, his hurt and pain making him regret preparing him. If he was going to be such an ungrateful, beastly child, he deserved to be punished. It was Mother Russia's duty to punish his ungrateful children. Even if they hated it now, someday, they would understand, and be grateful he had steered them from their terrible path of self-destruction. They would forgive him, and he would tell them there was no need, for a mother doing his duty is nothing that needs to be forgiven.

[[So, since I don't really like writing mindlessrapetruck!Russia, this needed a chapter with his thoughts and reasonings. :) I will be writing this from the Baltics' perspectives most likely for the rest of the story.]]

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Third fill for Vampire!US/UK : Prologue

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 10:26 pm (UTC)(link)
[Re-posting prologue with following story here. It's just easier this way.

Original request here; http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12012042#t12012042

This fill uses idea of second writer-anon's idea of a Vampire Alfred and a reincarnated Arthur.]



Arthur notices him first, loud and bright, across the dimly lit interior of the pub. His voice cuts through him and when he turns to look he sees a smile that blinds.

He is instantly, irrevocably, entranced. His jealous eyes watch him from the shadows for the rest of the evening, caught in the web that this little star has cast out, trapped him within so easily without effort nor knowledge of what the attention from one such as himself actually means. This doesn't matter too much though; Arthur would educate him on the matter and he can be patient. He does not plan on waiting very long anyway.

He catches him on the road home, stumbling and drunk, singing some dreadful American song to the tune of God Save the Queen and Arthur just smiles from the dark, all sharp teeth and feral intent. He wraps his hand around a strong arm and forces him against the trunk of a tree that lines this boy's shadowed path home. There is a struggle, he expected one and is not disappointed, but really the child does not stand much of a chance. When he sinks his teeth into flesh that opens up easily his senses are awash in pleasure, in the hot pulsing wave of blood, and he groans, suddenly desperate for more.

The boy makes some sound too, a strangled sort of gasp that stutters off into a lovely sort of keening whimper. Arthur just smiles against his throat, drinks more deeply, and grinds his hips down against those of his victim, beautiful and dying in his arms.

When the boy awakens next Arthur learns that his name is Alfred. He realizes that he couldn't have thought of a better name had he graced it upon him himself. He brushes golden locks of hair from blue eyes and tells Alfred how he belongs to him now.

Alfred just smiles, touches Arthur's cheek, and tells him that he is hungry.

They spend years together, traveling across America until they reach the sea and take ship to England. They move through life like a dream and Arthur wonders at happiness and the fragility of it. They spend days wrapped in each other's arms, curtains drawn and bodies entangled until one wakes the other with gentle kisses that turn harsher with passion and slumber gives way to sex. They spend evenings prowling the streets, hands brushing, mouths curling over suggestive words and smiling pretty, lips bloodstained and hearts full of joy with how they are now, together and happy.

But happiness is fragile, isn't it.

When the hunter catches him Alfred is not with him. Arthur thanks God and fights vicious and terrible against his attacker but the man is clever and it is clear he has been tracking them for awhile and he knows Arthur's tricks before Arthur has time to use them in his favor. He does not know how the human gets the upper hand, nor does he wish to understand it, but he feels the horrible moment that the stake pierces his ribcage, forcing itself past flesh and muscle and bone into his heart and Arthur thinks, oh, this is what breathlessness feels like. I had forgotten.

Before he dies he hears Alfred's voice, a shout of despair and he thinks you are too late. He does not know where the hunter has gone, he wants to warn Alfred, tells him he loves him too, but he no longer can find the words and he wouldn't know how to say them anyway.

The last thing he sees are Alfred's eyes, that particular blue, even though his own are closed already.

Dying this time doesn't feel so very different from the first. It is strange though, knowing that you will never again wake up. Very strange, and also very sad.

Part 1/?

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)
Arthur woke up with a splitting headache, his mouth feeling drier than it ever had in his entire life, and a distinct hatred of all things French.

Groaning he moved to clutch at his head, pushing himself up from what he had passed out on, which had apparently been his desk. Signing heavily he stood on shaky legs, waiting a moment for feeling to return to them before walking unsteadily across the room.

He spared a moment to glare down at the vagrant currently occupying his couch, before walking on, careful to mind the various wine bottles that littered the floor. He paused a moment to lean on the door jamb before pushing himself down the hall to the washroom.

Arthur braced himself over the sink, looking at his reflection and wincing inwardly. He was a mess, strands of hair sticking damp to his forehead, his eyes looking glassy to his careful inspection. He hadn't been sleeping well and he could admit the alcohol the night before had done little to help matters. It was a difficult thing to sleep though, when ones dreams were plagued with seductive horrors that he worried were enough to have himself committed.

Anxiously Arthur wet his suddenly dry lips, willing the sudden wave of heat that had suffused his spine to go away upon the flimsy memory of rendered flesh and blood, gaping wounds that bled freely and fatally, blooming like some sort of macabre flower.

...And the color blue, interwoven throughout a crimson sea of dizzied passion and pleasure, a spiral that climbed higher and higher until-

Arthur cleared his throat, dropping his gaze from the mirror. Clearly something was the matter with him, stress perhaps, working too hard, but even that excuse sounded flimsy to him. An empty justification for his perverse thoughts.

He was spending too much time around Francis...

Turning on the tap he quickly splashed his face, taking comfort in the cold clarity the water provided before turning around and heading back to his sitting room. He walked a little more steadily this time back to his desk, picking up the small bottle of brandy that they hadn't managed to entirely finish off the night before and taking a comforting draught, to take the edge off his headache. A short pause later, during which he cast the Frenchmen on his sofa a disparaging look, he turned round to open the curtains with a flourish.

The sudden cry of distress from behind him was enough to not mind the pain the action caused himself and he smiled.

"Wake up, twat. It's a beautiful morning!" That was, however, a lie. It was raining lightly and too bright though he could see the gathering darkness of approaching storm clouds. It would pour later.

Francis just groaned his reply, burying his head further into the cushions and curling up into himself. Arthur watched him, counting the seconds, before the other stirred again and with a heavy sigh pushed himself up into a sitting position, hand scrubbing his face and eyes pinning him with an annoyed look.

"Pourquoi! Why must you be such a terrible little man?"

Arthur scoffed, looking away and choosing not address the question. Instead he looked out his flat window over the city to which he had only just recently moved.

London was a frightfully large place, much different from what he was used to, but he admitted that he liked it here. There was something familiar despite his visits here as a boy being brief and often school related. There was something that made him nostalgic for a time that he was certain had never existed for him. It was a bittersweet sensation but he found himself more often wishing to drown in it, wishing nothing more than to walk these city streets and remember something.

Arthur sighed, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.

“Get out of my house,” he said quietly and stared out the window, watching the city darken.

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Part 2/?

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Part 3/?

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Part 4/?

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Part 6/?

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Part 10/17

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Milky White Saigon (4/?)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 10:29 pm (UTC)(link)
Original request+previous parts here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14347786#t14347786

-----

Alfred wasn’t exactly sure how he got into this room, vaguely remembering that he had fallen asleep on top of Vietnam and heard her crying out his name, trying to wake him up (so he would not crush her to death). He felt soft covers, a flat pillow. He was lying on his back, on a small bed, and completely clothed (phew).

And on a small chair next to his bed was Vietnam, who had changed from her revealing clothes to her much preferred green dress. It suited her well, outlining the curves of her body until it reached her legs (where he found himself missing the soft looking thighs).

“You collapsed on me.”

“Yeah, I was conscious for that part.” Alfred sat up on the bed, tasting his mouth. “I didn’t throw up.”

“Thank goodness.” Vietnam spoke under her breath.

“So…are we still talking?” Alfred asked casually, knowing what he was getting himself into (but somehow he wanted her around, not wanting this to end. Because if it did, it meant war, war, war, war, war…).

“If you’d like. I’d much rather argue with you than…” Vietnam fell quiet, their thoughts in sync. They both wished it were as easy as arguing in a simple bar with hard liquor on hand rather than spraying blood and wasting lives.

The window’s blinds were pulled open, revealing the bar’s neon sign. It illuminated the dark room, spraying bright colors over Alfred’s legs and Vietnam’s face.

Alfred watched her as she looked down, fiddling with her thumbs, obviously a little uncomfortable being here (and he felt the same).

He felt it, that is, the desire to lean in.

“I…I should…go…” Vietnam spoke quietly but sternly, standing up from her small chair and turning to leave.

But Alfred reached out and grabbed her hand before she was out of reach (and he could claim that he was still intoxicated, but all of this was fresh in his mind even decades later). “Don’t leave.” He spoke bluntly. He knew he was going to embarrass himself. “Don’t leave me alone like this.” Back in this HELL of his where all he could see was nothing, nothing good, and nothing worth everything that they’re sacrificing.

Milky White Saigon (5/5 + Epilogue)

(Anonymous) 2009-07-21 10:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Vietnam looked back, eyes-wide with surprise and curiosity. She looked at a young face, white skin underneath bright yellow hair, shockingly blue eyes piercing her. But those blue eyes, though brilliant they may be, was missing something, dull like coal. And around those eyes were signs of fatigue, days without sleep, weeks even. His grip on her hand was weak, weaker than a child’s, and his hands were cold. They were cold like bitter ice, inhumanly so.

Vietnam turned; eyes softened with pity and understanding. She walked closer to Alfred, his hand still enclosed around her hand.

Alfred scooted to the edge of the bed, gently pulling Vietnam closer. He let go of her hand, snaking his arms around her waist and pressed his face to her stomach. “Soft…” He mumbled, the sounds of his breaths amplified and muffled by her clothes.

“Not something to say to a woman.” Vietnam frowned.

“…It’s so weird. You’re so much older than I am, yet you look younger.” Alfred took in the smell of her clothes.

Vietnam sighed. “You surely act younger than I do.”

“Mm…” Alfred held tighter, knowing that he must be suffocating her by now. “In bed with the enemy nation? What would my boss say?”

“Who said we’re going to be in bed.” Vietnam tried to pry away from Alfred’s death grip. “Can’t breath…” She groaned.

“Sorry,” Alfred pulled back, just a bit, and looked up at Vietnam. “Being around men all the time…it’s tiring.”

Vietnam narrowed her eyes, unamused. “Men…”

“Exactly. Men.” Alfred smiled. “Ah…you’re hair isn’t tied back.” He reached back, running a hand through black silk.

“I didn’t feel like it.” Vietnam slowly lowered herself, bending her knees slowly. Her cheeks were pink.

And Alfred’s cheeks were a bright flaming red (not from alcohol, he will admit). “It looks better on you…” he whispered, drawing her face closer to his.

“It’s more convenient to tie it back.” Vietnam pressed her forehead to Alfred’s.

“Like I wouldn’t know.” Alfred laughed. “What would the boss say?” He sighed, though not sadly.

“Does it matter now?” Vietnam closed her eyes and felt rough lips on hers.

Rough, like sandpaper, but soft and sweet like honey.

“Just one night.”

“Just one night.”

Vietnam pushed Alfred and together they fell onto the bed.

And the next day, it was all forgotten.

-----

1995, Alfred came to visit Ho Chi Minh City in lieu of the lifted embargo and Clinton’s announcement of normalization.

“Ugh, I’ll never get used to long plane flights like these.” Alfred groaned, rubbing his neck painfully. He carried his luggage, looking around for a sign or any sort of indication that someone was waiting for him. “And it’s hot…isn’t it supposed to be winter here? It’s winter back home.” He looked around, hoping to find a familiar face.

And he saw her, standing with her hands clasped behind her back. She was smiling, hair loose, wearing her usual green dress, legs covered up like before (he silently cursed to himself). She walked up to him, slowly, as they haven’t seen each other in decades.

Alfred looked down, looking at her with a smile as well. “Well, then.” He puts down his luggage, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Still wearing that old dress of yours?”

“Hello to you, too.” Vietnam grabbed his arms with her long fingers, healing of their scars, and kissed him gently on the lips, smiling.

He felt her cheek, a dark milky texture caressing his white hands.

This wasn’t a bar in Saigon, no neon lights, and no hard liquor.

This was real.

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Drunken Confession [1/3]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 12:56 am (UTC)(link)
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14344970#t14344970

Please enjoy the fluff and humor I tried to put into this lovely story.
-------------------

He should have been used to it. For the love of all that was holy, Alfred should have been used to being around a drunk Arthur. They always went out to a bar at least once a week, damn it! So, why the hell does this surprise Alfred?!

“I can’ believe ya wen’ ta France of all nations!” the drunk Englishman slurred, gesturing wildly as Alfred calmly sat next to him, “E’en God damn Spain wouda been better than France. I though’ I raised ya right!”

In all honesty, Alfred wanted to die right there. Seriously, that was centuries ago! The young nation shook his head. What the hell? He may as well answer the damn question.

“Oh, please. I only went to France because at the time he was much more useful. Plus, it pissed you off, so that was a bonus,” he replied before sighing. Maybe Alfred should just order a glass of water. Arthur snorted at the excuse, but the American ignored it.

“Wha’ an excuse! ‘E prob’ly was yer first love, too,” Arthur grumbled before ordering another beer. Alfred was surprised and a little offended at that.

“Hey, hey! That’s not true! I wouldn’t even touch France with a twelve-foot pole!” the American’s companion snorted rudely again. It was obvious that Arthur wasn’t willing to believe that. Alfred sighed and decided that he probably should order the water.

Drunken Confession [2/3]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 12:59 am (UTC)(link)
It was only an hour later that Arthur decided it would be fun to hang off of Alfred. Hang as in looping his arms around the American’s neck and just hanging there. He blushed and tried to get Arthur off of him, but it was futile. Alfred sighed and decided to let the Englishman do whatever the hell he wanted.

After half-an-hour things started to get really awkward for Alfred.

“I still don’ see wha’ ye saw in bloody France,” Arthur spat, glaring at the younger nation, “I’s all yer bloody faul’ anyway.”

“The hell? What do you mean it’s my fault?” Alfred sputtered, once again offended by the drunken nation. The Englishman muttered darkly under his breath before replying.

“Wha’? Ye don’ mean ta say tha’ i’ isn’ yer faul’ I can’ go ta yer bloody birthday withou’ feelin’ depressed? Ye don’ mean ta say tha’ i’ isn’ yer faul I feel weird aroun’ ye?!” the American really wasn’t sure where the hell this was going now. Well, he figured it out just as soon as Arthur’s lips crashed against his own.

He tastes like alcohol…and tea. Alfred thought absently before pushing the Englishman off, a blush dusting his cheeks. Damn it, Arthur probably meant none of this! He was drunk for God’s sake!

“Dammit, boy! I’s all yer faul’! All ye ‘ave ta do is lookit me or smile an’ I ‘ave buh-erflies in my damn stoma’!” Arthur told the American heatedly, “Dammit, woi di’ oi ‘ave ta fawl in love wi’ ye?! ‘Cause oi do love ye, ye know.”

By that point, the Englishman had slipped into the Cockney accent. Not only was he drunk off his rocker, but he was saying things in Cockney and that made it hard to understand him. Alfred’s eyes softened at the confession, but he couldn’t believe it. Although the American would admit to loving Arthur as well, the man was drunk.

“Pfft, if ye thin’ oi’m too drunk ta mean i’, oi’ll ‘ave ta sen’ ye ta Russia in a box wi’ a le’er tha’ says, ‘Ta Russia wi’ love,’” Arthur threatened, seemingly able to read Alfred’s mind. The American chuckled nervously, knowing that drunk or sober, the Englishman followed through with his threats. In all honesty, Alfred hoped fervently that he would remember all that was said that night. Maybe then it would be easier to deal with the decision he was about to make.

“Oh, c’mon, Arthur. I’ve loved you the best out of all the nations, you should know that by now,” Alfred replied with a soft smile. That stopped the blond Briton’s tirade abruptly. They were silent for a long while. “I’m taking you home. Any more of that and I’m afraid you might get alcohol poisoning, old man.”

The American said all of that cheerfully and paid the bartender. Then, Alfred stood up, scooped Arthur up into his arms bridal style, and left the bar.

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Apologize [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 01:01 am (UTC)(link)
“So, what do you say?” Turkey asked softly from where he stood at the foot of the large bed, delicately taking a bite out of a piece of lokum and staring down at the young nation lying on the plush mattress. Currently, Canada was lying on his back, both arms tied to the metalwork that made up the headboard with vibrant strips of silk that wrapped around his slender wrists, pulling him close to the metal. His legs were spread, each tied to a corner of the bed. And he was nude save for his Canadian flag boxers.

Dark eyes roamed appreciatively over the pale figure, golden locks spilling across the silken pillows, until they locked onto still defiant violet orbs.

“I’m sorry.” Canada’s meek voice did not match his eyes. Turkey smirked and took another bite of lokum, chewing slowly and not breaking eye contact with the younger nation.

“Look,” the other nation began in an even voice, “you’ve had me tied up for a while now and I’ve apologized repeatedly. Invading you was a stupid idea. I get it and—“

Turkey chuckled lowly and Canada tensed.

“I wonder.” Turkey, with the grace and danger of a panther, sauntered to the side of the bed and sat next to Canada, placing a calloused hand against the other’s smooth face. “Do you get it?” He trailed his hand up to soft hair and then grasped it tightly, smirking widely when the other stifled a whimper. “Because I don’t think you do.”

His smirk turned darker. “What were you thinking invading me? I used to be the Ottoman fucking Empire. I’ve got centuries on you, kid.”

He tightened his grip on Canada’s hair and leaned forward. Canada winced and tried to ignore the pain as the scent of rosewater filled his senses.

“But I guess you’re just like your brother, hm? Enjoy invading countries for fun.” Turkey growled, loosening his grip. “All you Western nations are the same.” He glared down at the blond.

“I’m sorry?” Canada offered.

“Not yet, but you will be soon, kid.” Turkey grinned wolfishly, idly stroking Canada’s cheek.
Canada swallowed sharply.

“By the way, you look good like that. In fact, you’re quite the looker kid.” Turkey added, in a manner that one would use when discussing the weather.

Canada blinked, unsure of what to do or say.

“Didn’t England teach you any manners?” Turkey growled. “That was a compliment.”

Canada clenched his jaw and turned his head away, glaring up at the gossamer of the canopy.
Turkey shook his head and finished off the rest of the dessert, briefly wondering if he should request more. He leisurely walked over to his wardrobe, pulling open a drawer. His back was to the bed, so Canada had no idea what the other nation was getting, but he didn’t think it would anything pleasant.

He had heard stories from England and france and Greece about the cruelty and temper of the Ottoman Empire. And though the other nation had been almost civil to him (almost because he was still tied up and almost naked), Canada was still nervous.

Damn England for leaving him here. Wasn’t he more important than Coronation Street?!
England wouldn’t have made America stay and beg the Turk for forgiveness.

So engrossed in sulking, Canada did not notice when Turkey returned, carrying whatever he had been looking for. Turkey eyed the smaller nation in amusement. He looked like a pouting child, lower lip jutting out and eyes narrowed.

Finally, Turkey spoke, “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Canada blinked and lifted his neck so that he could see the older nation. His eyes briefly narrowed on what the other was holding. Wait, was that a…?

“Whip?” Canada squeaked. Turkey smiled faintly and lifted it up to show Canada. The dark leather gleamed ominously in the sunlight that filtered through the tall windows of the nation’s room. With a vicious smirk, Turkey cracked the whip once, uncomfortably close to Canada’s bare leg.

“I don’t like to repeat myself.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Original request: <http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=13710090#t13710090>
I apologize for the dark tone. T.T Humor not my forte. According to wikipedia, lokum is what Turkish people call Turkish Delights.

Re: Apologize [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 03:02 am (UTC)(link)
Awwwwwwwwwwww~ I was gonna comment at Part 5 before the comments maxed out so shall do it here instead.

Definitely definitely looking forward to reading more!

Damn England for leaving him here. Wasn’t he more important than Coronation Street?!
England wouldn’t have made America stay and beg the Turk for forgiveness.

;A; I feel for Canada there...

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Strange Little Mouse and His Strange Little Books [4/4]

(Anonymous) 2009-07-22 01:37 am (UTC)(link)
Request is here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=3001290
And parts 1 through 3 are here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=14118666#t14118666

And here goes the last of it. Forgive me for the terrible ending.

---

For several days, Natalia had spent her time doing the following: wake up, read that damn book for a few hours, toy with the idea of going to shove marriage papers in Ivan's face before forgetting it altogether, try to figure out what the hell said book meant, re-read the footnotes of said book, eat something, repeat steps two through five until midnight, fall asleep, rinse and repeat. For five days.

Natalia didn't realize how odd her behavior was for the past week had been until she found herself scurrying through the halls in search of the little Baltic. Black shoes tapped fu