Hetalia kink meme ([personal profile] hetalia_kink) wrote2011-02-27 12:28 pm

Past-Part Fills Part 4--closed

This Past-Part Fills post is now closed to new fills.
Fresh past-part fills post HERE

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Anatomy of the Infinite - Placeholder

(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 02:09 pm (UTC)(link)
Back from China, anons! :D And whoah, we're on a new part already? /very out of the loop

This is a placeholder for Anatomy of the Infinite, the Canada/England fill with England gradually losing his memory and snarky subtitles. Request and parts 1a to 6a can be found here:


Thank you for sticking with me ♥!

message from authornon

(Anonymous) 2010-09-10 09:33 pm (UTC)(link)
to the anon(s) that commented and my OP and anyone else watching this holder:


first of all, i want to thank the anon(s) that commented on this placeholder- it was a super warm fuzzy surprise :D which has me extremely guilty saying the following:

this fill will be on an indefinite hiatus. it may be a week, it may be a month, it may (god forbid) be several months. i've just begun at a boarding school and totally underestimated the things i've got to take care of and organize and LEARN, basically- think of a 15 year old thrust onto a 600+ acre college campus. >_< AHHHH.

so yes- this fill is not being abandoned. i have the rest of it outlined already.

and thank you for understanding ;A; ♥

(btw, for something a little less depressing, go read an awesometastic friend of mine's lovely lovely lovely lovely FrUK fill (if you aren't already):


it will make you adore everything in life, seriously)

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A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures - Placeholder

(Anonymous) 2010-08-17 03:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Place holder for A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures. It is a America/Japan school AU fic.

Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=27721998#t27721998

Parts 1-7: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=39475865#t39475865

A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures [8a/?]

(Anonymous) 2010-10-16 04:07 am (UTC)(link)
Kiku blinked and opened his eyes to see the sun high in the sky and sending rays of sunlight into his room. Kiku sat up and stretched. Mid-yawn, he paused. Wait. Sun high in the sky...? He immediately reached out for his alarm clock. "9 AM?!" He's already missed first period! And how on earth did he forget to set his alarm?

Jumping out of bed, he shivered as the air felt cold against his bare skin. Kiku furrowed his eyebrows and looked at himself. Why am I naked...? He wondered as he walked over to the closet to get his clothes.

"Mnn... Kiku, thanks for protecting me from the vampires..." Alfred said as he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.

Kiku stared at a naked Alfred with wide eyes before letting out a blood curling scream that could be heard by Yao from his classroom.

The Chinese boy was taking his exam as he and the rest of the class heard a yell. Glancing out the window, he didn't even have to guess to know that it came from the dorm room, particularly from his and Kiku's dorm. "Hmph. Serves them right for keeping me up all night." He mumbled as he looked back down at his test. Sure enough, he had dark rings around his eyes from tossing and turning at each moan of a monster from Kiku's TV.


"You! Me! Bed! Naked! What?! Us!? Happened?!" Kiku spoke in shrill fragments of sentences.

Alfred blinked and looked around the room. Articles of clothing was strew around the floor, which matched what the both of them had been wearing the night before. "Hold up, let me put on my glasses..." Alfred said as he reached for them on the dresser. "Woah?! What happened here?! It looks like someone had crazy sex that started with ripping the clothes off of each other."

Kiku gave him a stare.

"Oh, hey, why're you naked, Kiku?" Alfred asked with a smile.

"... Alfred. This isn't math, I think you can figure this out."

Alfred frowned and made a face that looked as if he was thinking hard. "... Oh! You burried something in your closet/underwear drawer and now you can't find it after throwing all the clothes out!" He said, looking proud of himself.

"W-What?!" How could Alfred come to that conclusion and not think of the obvious. Or...was it just him who was thinking of that? Maybe he should cut back from reading all that rated-18 material. No! Its for studying! He thought to himself, trying to steel his resolve. So I draw better doujinshis! Doujinshi making is my side past time after all! "You know you're naked too, right?!"

Alfred looked a little confused at the revelation and then he slipped out of bed to look at himself. "...Hey! You're right!"

Kiku made a shrieking sound and blushed deep before hiding under his desk. "Alfred...Just put your clothes on. Please."

"Why?! We're both guys! Its absolutely fine!"

"... ..." Kiku stayed under the desk as his face turned darker red than ever before.


"Ok, my clothes are on, Kiku. Can you please come out now?" Alfred asked delicately.


"Um, Kiku, I can't hear you if you're going to muffle yourself by hugging your knees."

"I said leave the room!" Kiku yelled out this time. "I need to put on my clothes too!!"

Alfred took a step back and gave him a smile and a shrug. "Ok man, I get it! I'll wait for you outside and we can walk to class together!" Alfred said as he closed the door behind him.

"Class!" He was already what, a whole period late?? He quickly dashed around the room, putting on whichever piece of clothing he came across while gathering papers and art supplies to put into his book bag.

"Ok, I'm ready Alfred!" Kiku said as he exited his own room.

"Kiku! I just thought of something!" Alfred said excitedly. "...We didn't have wild sex last night and forget everything like one of those, uh, I've just gotten close to the right age of reading it manga, right?"

Kiku paled as he remembered the embarrassing moment, he had forgotten after running around gathering all his school things. "W-Well, do you remember anything?"

A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures [8b/?]

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A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures [9a/?]

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A Comic is Worth More Words than Pictures [9b/?]

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Caged - fanart fill

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 01:43 am (UTC)(link)
Original request: (part 4) http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/6850.html?thread=8846274#t8846274

erm.. new anon here so umm i'd like someone to do a fill about Sealand and England stuck in an enclosed place.

Bonus Point: Sealand at some point murmured 'nii-san'

Fanart here: http://i37.tinypic.com/24enreu.jpg

Re: Caged - fanart fill

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 01:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Very nice and intriguing, anon! I love the aura of mystery to it.

Re: Caged - fanart fill

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-18 15:12 (UTC) - Expand

artist!anon adds...

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-18 15:17 (UTC) - Expand

anon above

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(Anonymous) - 2010-08-20 19:23 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Caged - fanart fill

(Anonymous) - 2010-11-19 21:57 (UTC) - Expand

America/Germany, hogtie bondage 1/4

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 02:16 am (UTC)(link)
original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=4496842#t4496842

Rope slips through America's fingers, barely catching on his calluses as it falls in coils across Germany's back. Germany shivers.

America strokes his hand down between Germany's shoulderblades. "Ready?"

Germany hums in assent but his breath still hitches a little when America tugs the first length of rope around his upper arms, admires the indent the ropes make in pale skin that holds a constellation of old battle-scars. America kisses the boundary of the rope and his skin – he never wants to give Germany another scar, and still looks up at the stars sometimes and prays he'll never need to because this – this tumbled rubber ball of feelings boinging around in his chest – he doesn't think he could hurt him again, not after feeling Germany's body still below him in willing surrender and having to bend and kiss his shoulders, his arms, his face or have his heart beat out of his chest with the love.

"Okay, now your wrists." Wrists are hard for Germany, harder than his arms even though they're not quite as hard as his neck, so America takes his time, curling his hands around them and squeezing, lightly, before he follows with the ropes. Germany's back tenses – his muscles shift under pale skin and his shoulders stiffen against the sheet – so America leaves the rope in loose circlets and bends down to flutter kisses across the pale skin on the inside of his wrists until he hears Germany breathe out and settle back against the bed.

"That's good, sweetheart. That's real good" – Germany is doing great today. He took a gag for America – asked for it, even – eyes as blue as a September sky flickering closed in obedience as America pressed it into his mouth and stroked his hair back away from the straps. God, God, he's beautiful, willingly giving himself up to let America be gentle with him the way he can't be with himself.

As soon as the ropes are snug around Germany's wrists, America slides his palms across his bound arms, rubs his thumbs into the knots of muscle where his shoulders twist up and back – they're tense from endless workdays hunched over a desk but they loosen as he relaxes into the bondage.

He reaches for the next rope and bends Germany's legs up at the knee to tie his ankles together, rubbing his thumbs in circles around the jut of Germany's anklebones and pressing his palms briefly along the soles of Germany's feet. The last rope binds his wrists to his ankles, pulling his thighs and chest off the bed just a little. America steps back to look and all the air flies clear out of his throat – Germany lies still on the dark bedspread, calm against the dark green ropes that dig little ridges into his pale skin. Even his fingers are fallen open in loose curls.

"You okay?" America asks, once he can breathe again, "Circulation fine?"

America/Germany, hogtie bondage 2/4

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 02:17 am (UTC)(link)
Germany nods – not the usual crisp jerk of his head but slower, languid, and when America moves to look him in the face, his eyes are hazy and all the creases in his forehead from when he worries are smoothed out. He's away somewhere, somewhere he can only go when he can lay everything on America's shoulders and fall.

The trust is staggering. America leans down to kiss the rise of Germany's cheekbone and promises himself for the millionth time to deserve it, to never, ever touch him with anything but the bright-hot love that's so strong it hurts when it flares in his chest.

America reaches around to unbuckle the gag, careful not to hook any of Germany's hair when he pulls it off. Underneath, Germany's lips are stretched and chafed at the corners of his mouth, and America kneels down to catch his mouth in deep, gentle kisses, stroking his tongue across the chapped skin. When America stands to set the gag down on the nightstand, Germany nuzzles into his crotch wordlessly, dragging his open mouth over the fly of America's pants. Oh. Oh wow., and America's dick twitches, hardening against the constriction.

"Hey, hey." America steps back, draws his fingers along the line of Germany's jaw to tilt his chin up. "Did you want something?"

"Your cock," says Germany, and his voice is small and rough, "Please."

Germany is gazing up at him disheveled and trusting, his lips fallen open and shiny from kissing. His hair is tangled over his forehead. America pulls at his belt with shaky hands, shoves his pants down around his knees.

"Okay." America pushes a strand of hair out of Germany's eyes as he shuffles forward, grips his cock at the base and holds it out for Germany to lick and nuzzle at the head – his tongue, Christ - and Germany reaches for it, straining his neck to just get his lips around the head and suck, flicking his tongue at the tip. Heat spikes through America's stomach as Germany wiggles over the bed to get closer, making tiny, pathetic sounds of distress that he can't get more, overwhelmed and desperate with his need.

"Shh, shh. Easy." America slides his hand along Germany's temple. "It's okay." He takes tiny steps forward until he's closer, his heart skipping at Germany's soft moan of gratitude. Sliding his hand down to Germany's cheek, America skims over the bump where his cock presses along the inside of Germany's mouth, traces out his devotion along Germany's jaw. Just a little further in, and he's pressing against the back of Germany's throat and the smooth-hot pressure of his muscles working there, and America shudders all over and pushes in more.

Germany's mouth is almost flush with his hips – he's filled to breaking with America's cock but America rocks his hips that little bit forward because he knows Germany will love him for it later and curls a hand around the back of Germany's head to hold him there – fuck fuck, the way his throat works around America's cock when he knows he's trapped – America gasps and bites the heel of his hand because he can come so fast like this if he lets himself.

America/Germany, hogtie bondage 3/4

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-18 02:18 (UTC) - Expand

America/Germany, hogtie bondage 4/4

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Undertow (England, Sealand) (1/1)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 07:33 am (UTC)(link)
Anything goes Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=23682451#t23682451

Characters: England, Sealand(implied)

Summary: Wander out deep enough and you realise the ocean only looks calm on the surface.



"We're fine, aren't we?" England asks, eyes searching, a tightness in his chest that he can't explain. He isn't even sure why he feels this, why the sense of something clenching his insides in an unyielding grip. The boy is still smiling at him and it should be a good thing. But it only makes him hurt the more.

"Of course." The words roll smoothly off of the child's tongue, blue eyes rise to meet his - clear as the Mediterranian. A smile plays at the edges of those lips, guileless. "Why wouldn't we be?"

He doesn't answer, he can't. The words tangle in his throat and he swallows them down - jagged, sharp things. Why, indeed? Forgiven, just like that? He lets out a breath, coming harder than he expects. "No reason, I suppose..."

Eyes flit away from him and toward the water, bare feet in the rough sand as they wander out past the tide line. The sand is dark beneath them, clinging to their toes. Footprints follow them, darting in and out of the dampness, clear and deeply imprinted in places and fading to near-nothingness in others.

They don't hold hands. Never that. Still, it's the closest they've come, to be able to walk almost side by side.

The boy pauses and England barely notices for a second, going on a few more steps before drawing to a halt himself, turning to look behind. His eyes widen a fraction as he watches those small footprints edge closer to the water, the lapping waves starting to pull at them, pulling them out of shape, obscuring them and clinging to slender, bare limbs.

His mouth opens as he takes a few steps to follow, freezing as he feels the first droplets of water against his toes, salt and cold, too cold for comfort. He edges back a step and watches, brows furrowed, as the boy eases farther out, water surging around skinny knees, dampening the cuffs of the plain blue shorts. The boy reaches a hand down as the wave comes in, the water rolling off his fingers, splitting around the slight barrier of his hand.

When the boy turns his head again, there is some of that same depth in his gaze, the colour reflecting the cold murkiness of the Thames, and then he knows. He knows that they're not fine. A slow blink and the waters calm, back to that same bright shade as before, hiding the dark current beneath.

It's still there though. Now that he's seen it, he cannot unsee. Still there and perhaps one day the bright, inviting surface will lure him in, to be dragged down among the rocks like so many sailors. He takes a step further back from the water. "We should go. The tide is coming in."

"Just a second longer..." Soft, almost dreamy. "Can you hear it...? Can you hear the sea?"

And he can. He hears it in every word, like listening at the mouth of a seashell. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll catch cold out there."

Turning, toward him again, moving through the water toward the shore, the sea drawing back only reluctantly to leave the boy standing there, glistening wet, droplets trailing down the inside of his calves and tracing the curve of one ankle. This time he holds out his hand as he approaches, his eyes guileless as he looks up at England.

England feels the pull, silent and inexorable, a siren's call. He swallows.

A small hand slips into his own and he drowns, even as the ocean recedes behind them.


Re: Undertow (England, Sealand) (1/1)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 12:48 am (UTC)(link)
This is really cool and just-- intriguing, I guess? The whole thing is beautiful, but I especially like the deceptive simplicity of that last line. <3

Re: Undertow (England, Sealand) (1/1)

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[Part 9] France and England (Placeholder)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 10:12 am (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=26778382#t26778382

England is fighting side by side with France in a war, and notices that France is acting strange and then realizes that France has a fever and has to get France back to safety before *insert enemy of your choosing* harms France any further.

The Queen of Hearts is to be Despised and Feared. [1/2]

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 10:35 am (UTC)(link)


"Drying your tears still?"

The room was dark, almost pitch black, sliced coldly by the bar of light that slid through the unshut door. The bar broke and diminished; there was a man at the door.

No. He was no man.

England moved away from the light, shied away from it, pressed a tired body against the wall of the tiny room. Go away, he thought. Don't look at me. I am not doing this. the past decade never happened. And he was not lying crumpled in his room with all the blinds drawn, letters strewn all over his desk and floor and bed, wiping his dirtied face with torn scraps of red.

The door closed, rather heavily because England had paid good money for it. In the confinement of the sightless room, the sound of laboured breathing was at once louder and much more conspicuous. England held his breath, wiped away phlegm; the noise remained.

Now that England was listening for it, there were other worrying qualities to the sound; it was too wet, wasn't even, and if England's eyes closed (even though it made no change to the perspective) there was the distant echo of human voices. They did not come from outside England's shuttered window; no, the noise was recognizable as out of physical earshot, from across the Channel. The breaths had begun to even out, they grew strained and conscious. Its loneliness in the otherwise soundless room had been realized.

"The problem is settled. We won the war. He is yours no longer, so hasn't the time yet come for you to move on?"

England stood, feeling out the wall to ascertain the positioning of the room. Slowly, England walked toward the voice, reaching out a filthy hand in the dark. After an agonizing amount of time fingers reached curled hair, and England knew what colour it would be if the room allowed for spectrum.

England traced up the hair, found a clammy face at the end of it. The laboured breath hitched, and there was a movement in the air; but no opposing hand came to hit England away, so England continued moving along that face; over trimmed chin and long nose. Near the cheeks there was unhealthy warmth; at the forehead the heat was nearly deathly.

". . . I never suspected you could move on that fast," he said, chuckling.

The Queen of Hearts is to be Despised and Feared. [2/2]

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-18 10:42 (UTC) - Expand

Don't be afraid - fanart fill

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 05:37 pm (UTC)(link)
original request here (part 6): http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=15887138#t15887138

I would like to see something so fluffy filled with China being a good big brother and helping child Korea get over his fear of the dark!

Just a small fanart fill.


Re: Don't be afraid - fanart fill

(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 02:20 am (UTC)(link)
Waahh!! So cute! 8D

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Re: Don't be afraid - fanart fill

(Anonymous) - 2010-11-17 20:40 (UTC) - Expand

England/Seychelles, anything

(Anonymous) 2010-08-18 07:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Original Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13943.html?thread=34112887#t34112887

This is writeranon's first fill, so please bear with me. ;;

She hated rain.
It wasn’t in her nature to like it. Her home was a beautiful, sunny place with warm temperatures. She loved living in warm, sunny places.
That was the reason why she hated visiting England’s house. As an ex-colony, it was only fair to visit her so-called “dad” or “brother” every once and a while, but why couldn’t he live in a place more exposed to sunshine? It depressed her. As she looked out the window and watched the small droplets of water hit the glass, she could only sigh and wait for it to be over so she could go outside.

Which, judging from how hard it was raining, would be a long time.

He loved rain.
It relaxed him, and gave the perfect atmosphere to have a good cup of tea and just clear one’s mind of worries and thoughts. He had grown as a nation with rain, and it became almost a release of emotions for when he was older. The rain would always come back to him; the rain would never fight back. It fell in his happiest and darkest times, and he loved it for that.

In his particularly lethargic mood, he made cups of tea for him and his young guest who was perched at the window. He knew Seychelles didn’t quite enjoy tea when she was younger, but could only hope that her taste for Earl Grey had grown just a bit with age. He smiled a bit, noticing her bored daze.

She saw his reflection in the wet glass and sighed. “You know, your place is really boring, especially because of this stupid rain. You can’t go outside to do anything.”

He set the tray of tea aside and took a seat beside her. He knew that she was getting drowsy as well; he could see it in her eyes. “I find it quite fascinating. You know, someone once said that ‘Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning how to dance in the rain’. Do you have that mindset?”

Seychelles rolled her eyes. “Why would I want to dance in the rain? I’d get wet, cold and dirty, and that would be stupid. I thought you liked being clean and all that.”

England chuckled. “It’s in a figurative sense. You don’t have to wait for bad things- in this case the rain, to pass. Instead, you ‘dance in the rain’, or take challenges head on. It’s quite a simple quote, but quite inspiring.”

Moving to rub her arms, she pouted a bit. Not only was it wet, but it was damn cold too. “Well, I think that’s kind of stupid. A regular person would just stay inside and read a book or something. Rain sucks.”

He looked at her for a moment; she did look a bit chilly. Thinking for a moment, he moved a bit closer and wrapped his arms around her. He was much warmer than her, and could feel the coolness of her skin seeping through the material of his shirt. “Well, that’s your opinion, I suppose. Perhaps you’ll learn to be a bit less thick-headed when you’re older. You probably got it from that bloody frog.”

Seychelles shot him a sour look and squirmed for a moment, but settled down almost immediately. He was warm… and she felt a bit better with his arms around her. A yawn managed to escape her. “I’m not thick headed, I’m just practical. Papa Francis might be a bit thick headed though.” She giggled, closing her eyes. If he asked, it was to rest them.

England simply hummed in response, letting her stay close as he watched the rain that he loved and she despised. It certainly was a clash of opinions, but the moment itself was perfect and harmonious.

Perhaps they couldn’t dance in the rain just yet, but this was nice too.

Re: England/Seychelles, anything

(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 12:45 am (UTC)(link)
This is kind of amazing, anon. <3


(Anonymous) - 2010-08-19 01:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: England/Seychelles, anything

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-22 18:08 (UTC) - Expand

Writeranon again~

(Anonymous) - 2010-08-23 16:54 (UTC) - Expand

Strawberry Red, Skywalker Blue (1/6)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 07:52 am (UTC)(link)
A Russia/America fic: glow-in-the-dark condoms, lightsaber-cock fencing, motel room, Star Wars references, semi-serious Cold War allusions

Original request: Part 8, nonspecific

(Author!anon's note: this story is set sometime between 1993 and 1995. It has been fact-checked accordingly, but a couple of minor anachronisms were left in for aesthetic reasons.)

- - -

Russia had heard many things about American sexual traditions—some of them very enticing, including, so he'd thought, the tradition of checking into a motel just for a single night, just so you could have sex without anyone finding out—or, worse, interrupting you.  There was something so luxurious about the idea a whole living space just dedicated to casual sex;1 but he wasn't sure he liked the reality.

"You know, this is really—how do you say—cheesy," Russia said as he closed the door of the motel room behind them.

The bed wasn't heart-shaped, but it did have a red velvet-y bedspread Russia was willing to bet was really polyester, gaudy pink-and-gold striped wallpaper,  and horrible fake-Louis XIV white furniture with 'gold leaf' that looked like someone had mixed mustard and eyeshadow and painted it on with their thumbs.

"What?"  America sounded injured.  "One luxurious love-nest, two bottles of champagne, three bottles of lube, four boxes of assorted condoms, five—um. . ."

"Cheap champagne, cheap motel room, novelty condoms, five different kinds of flavored body gels to go with the lube . . ."

Though, Russia had to admit, America hadn't skimped on the lube itself.  There was one bottle of nice water-based glycerin stuff, one bottle of heavy, manly cream, and one tiny, beautiful vial of silicone lube so pure and slick that you only needed a couple of drops to cover your entire cock.  Even if, like America you were a big—wait, no, sorry—even if, like America, you had a big dick.

"Well, at least I brought strawberries, too.  Champagne and strawberries are a very romantic combination!"

"But you didn't bring strawberries.  You brought strawberry pop-tarts."

"It was the closest I could get.  Come on, Russkie, I know the stores are better here than in Russia2, but you still can't seriously expect I'd be able to buy fresh strawberries in the mini-mart at the gas station, even if I could manage champagne.  I mean, come on, that was a good trick.  Admit you're impressed."

"Da, da," Russia admitted, "champagne at a gas station is a good trick, yes.  But it's not real champagne."

"What do you mean its--oh, you mean because it's not from France?"

"He'd kill you--kill us both--if he heard us calling that--" (Russia gestured melodramatically at the two bottles of Andre's 'Extra-Dry') "—champagne."

"Yeah, you're right." 

America looked almost chagrined--and Russia almost felt sorry for being a killjoy.  But then America flopped back onto the bed, spread-eagled, and Russia lost his thought entirely.  Those long legs looked very inviting, spread out on red velvet; the blue jeans were an obstacle, but--then America opened his mouth and spoiled it. The jeans were nowhere near as much of an obstacle as America's insistence on having the last word.

"Come on, this may be a cheap motel but it's a love motel!  And that's what we're here for, right?  Love!  And sex! . . . well, sex, anyway," he amended. 

Strawberry Red, Skywalker Blue (2/6)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-19 07:57 am (UTC)(link)
America, Russia was sure, must have a severe allergy to the word 'love,' to be as careful with it as he was. Given the horrible liberties America took with just about every other word, grammatical construction, and verbal convention of the English language, the only possible explanation for his behavior around 'love' was that if America ever used the word in a way he didn't mean, his throat would close up, his face would turn blue, and he'd convulse on the floor like a dying trout until someone gave him a really big shot of steroids. . . . which, actually, now that Russia thought of it, had been kind of what America had looked like at Mexico's party, when someone told him what was actually in that bottle of tequila he'd been trying to chug.

Surely he could have used the word otherwise. Russia knew perfectly well that America wasn't going to make any real commitment to him--not after everything they'd been through--so it wasn't as if Russia would hold America accountable for any endearments he happened to use while they were together. Especially if there was no one else there to overhear them.

"Well, anyway, we might as well have some fun," America said. He got up to put the champagne in the mini-fridge, and on his way back, he snaked an arm around Russia's waist without warning, leaning in to whisper "We do have this place all night. . . "

Russia didn't need another hint.  He twisted around, found America's thigh with his hand, and America's mouth with his own, and pulled him in for a long, involved kiss.  America pressed eagerly against him, arm tightening, and ran his tongue along Russia's teeth.  Nipping gently at that oh-so-skillful tongue, Russia shifted his hand to grip the sensitive place right where America's thigh met his round, firm buttock, and squeezed.  America gasped and arched his back, straining his shoulders against Russia's other hand.

After that, they couldn't be bothered with staying upright.  They sprawled onto the soft bedspread, kissing, touching, and holding one another with that hunger that only comes from deprivation.  The effort of maintaining indifference and disdain in public was devastating to both of them. It was worse even than the years of open hostility; at least then, they hadn't had to watch one another longingly across the table at G8, trying to milk every ounce of intimacy out of the careless glances that were all the eye contact they could let the other nations see them make.

Soon, Russia had thrown America's T-shirt off one side of the bed, and America had thrown Russia's wool dress trousers off the other.  Russia finally got rid of those obstructive jeans of America's (nice soft fabric, though--he'd have to ask for a pair next Christmas) and America took great pleasure in popping every single button off of Russia's blue dress shirt in the process of removing it.  America had Russia's nipple in his mouth when he remembered about the gels.

"Ah. . ." Russia gasped as America's teeth brushed his erect nipple.  Then America pulled away.  "Sto . . . ?"

"We have toys!  Well, gels."

America fumbled on the bedside table, and chose the 'Scrumptious Strawberry Kiwi' gel.  He popped open the packet and slathered it on his lips.  Russia laughed.  America looked like a kid who'd been eating a cherry Popsicle—badly.

"Alfred, you look—"

"Ravishing?"  America said, batting his eyelashes and puckering his lips melodramatically.  "I always did love a bit of lip gloss. . ."

Russia stopped his mouth with a long kiss.  Then it was his turn to pull away, lips tingling from the odd, chemical taste of the gel.

"Bleah, what is this stuff?" 

America pulled a face of his own.

"Well, the package made it sound good."

"You shouldn't believe everything you read," Russia said dryly, as they used Russia's poor shirt to wipe the goop off their lips and tongues. 

"Well, never mind the gel.  It was worth a try."

Strawberry Red, Skywalker Blue (3/6)

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golden slumbers kiss your eyes 1/1

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 04:32 am (UTC)(link)

Sweden sets his briefcase down and undoes his shoes as he comes home. It's been a long day, and the light is still bright, almost maddeningly so. The house is quiet. Sweden goes from room to room, looking for his family. He finds them in the master bedroom, all curled up in a pool of sunlight. From the mussed sheets and knocked over throw pillows, he thinks a truly epic tickle fight must have occurred.

Hanatamago rests on his side, his little stubby legs kicking through the air as he dreams. Sealand has a thumb in his mouth, and his sockless feet are sticking out of the covers. Finland's arm is over him He fixes the covers and pulls them back all the way so they don't catch cold.

It looks as if after the tickling fest – or somewhere in the middle – they simply fell down in exhaustion. This is not uncommon, given they both suffer sleeplessness from the constant onslaught of brightness.

Sweden pulls out the latest treat to bring home: four eyemasks – or whatever they are called – for travelers. They're dark enough to keep out the intrusive, burning sunlight. He slips one over Sealand's eyes, and he doesn't stir. There's a small one for Hanatamago that will surely be chewed through by the time they wake.

The last is for Finland. Finland stirs slightly at the touch.

"Mmm..? Sverige?"

"Shh. 'S alr'ght."

He climbs in beside them without bothering to change his clothes. They can be cleaned and pressed, the price won't be that much. He slips the last eye mask over his face and sighs contentedly as he nuzzles into his wife's neck and puts his arm around his waist. Finland snuggles in, sleepily.

"Glad you're glad...." he says.

"'e too."

There they are, Papa bear, Mama bear, baby bear and doggy bear as Sealand had said the first time he heard that tale. This is the sum of his happiness. He can not ask for more than coming home to a long moment like this.

The light shines on behind them.

Re: golden slumbers kiss your eyes 1/1

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 05:08 am (UTC)(link)
Awww, this made me smile. I love this fluffy stuff so much. C:

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Sleeping With The Enemy (1/4)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 07:19 am (UTC)(link)

This was for her beloved's own good. Maybe it was delusion, maybe it was truth, but Belarus believed it so wholly it could only ever be the former.

“Do you smoke?”

“Every now and then,” she answered truthfully, not being able to help but smile a crooked, fake smile when she saw the orange glow of a cigarette being offered to her. She took it and inhaled—bitter. Thoughts came into her head about leaving, stealing off and going somewhere far away. Somewhere untouched by the reality that was bitter like the tar in her mouth.

Of course, that was impossible. Reality, by its very nature, was everywhere—there was no escape from the war, and her desire for her brother—precious thing, had no hope of being returned. So what if Russia could offer her undying love if she kept trying; so what if all Finland had to offer were cheap cigarettes? At least the smokes were real.

So maybe Belarus was being stupid and selfish. She didn't care as much as she should have, in that case. A brief glance at the burning end of her cigarette made her contemplate setting herself, Finland, and his whole tiny abode aflame—how dare his land be this fucking cold all the time.

Russia was a madman. Looking back at everything made it a shame that this wasn't apparent before. Pity.

“...thank you.” she'd told him, when her better judgment reminded her that Finland had been the one to give her a light. He gave a nod in response; Belarus noticed a huff and rings under his eyes. Just like her. He was tired; everyone was tired.

“I'm not going to ask how you got here. Or how you know-” he'd wanted to go into chattering detail about how Belarus shouldn't have known where he lived, when he'd be home, and why he wasn't out exhausting himself like he was every other maddening day of the year. But he didn't. These were different times, and different times called for a different Finland. “But what could you need?”

He was right.

Sleeping With The Enemy (1/4)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 07:20 am (UTC)(link)

He'd been spending every waking moment training, buffering, anything to prepare himself for the carnage they both knew was going to come sooner or later. And with his questionable choice of alliances considered, the sight of one of Russia's sisters in his presence was probably a bad idea. Unless he was going to murder her, of course.

But nothing was being fought over at the moment. Only on a technicality, but it would have to be a technicality Belarus could cling to.

“Anything, I suppose.”

Her voice was hollow.

She'd meant to say that she needed that puerile rush that a child got when they did something naughty. Or, perhaps, for something, anything so that Russia could see what she'd done. Because she didn't have his love. She didn't even have his acknowledgement, for the first time in years. Those goddamned Balts had everything of him.


Belarus opened her mouth to speak and clarify.

“My brother loves me,” she began, voice vibrating like icicles in a cave, “this I know. And don't think I appreciate for a second what you've done to him.”

She could hear the faintest laugh. And for this, she thought, she could shoot Finland if she'd had her gun with her.

“Sorry, sorry. But of all the things you could have risked yourself for here—“ and he checked his supply of cigarettes to find his supply depressingly low. Naturally. Everything was rationed in these times, and made scarce whenever it was most inconvenient.

“—I can't give you his affection.”

He was trying hard to keep courteous. But Belarus could tell he wanted nothing more than her gone and a hole in her brother's head.

And besides, if he could humiliate her precious Russia, make him bleed... he could do this. If he could bring her brother to the point where suicide and the bottle were equally attractive options to unsee what had been seen, he could easily do this. And she could go back home, and they could go back to trying to kill each other when the time came. It was a perfect plan.

Besides, she'd heard it all too much before: when a man and a woman are alone together in the cold, their options for entertainment are painfully limited. This wasn't supposed to be too hard.

“I don't want his affection.” she said. “only his jealousy.”

Finland's scowl disappeared.

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[Part12]Friction and Sparks - place holder!

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 03:25 pm (UTC)(link)
I hope I'm doing this right...;;;
Placeholder for the France/Canada falling in love fill from part 12~!

Original request and parts 1a-2d are here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=43131612#t43131612

Re: [Part12]Friction and Sparks - place holder!

(Anonymous) 2010-09-16 02:01 am (UTC)(link)
You're totally doing it right, anon! :D *stalks this thread instead of the old one*

Friction and Sparks [3a]

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[authoranon apologizes]

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Friction and Sparks [4a]

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Continued here-->!

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[Part 9] US + UK bromance

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 10:01 pm (UTC)(link)
Original prompt: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=27562254#t27562254

US + UK Bromance. No deep angsting, no pining for the other. Just straight out platonic bromance.


I wasn't sure what exactly OP expected for a "bromance", but this randomly came to me after watching my little brother act like an idiot with his friends. It's not much, but hopefully OP enjoys!

I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker - 1/3

(Anonymous) 2010-08-21 10:02 pm (UTC)(link)
“What the hell is this?” was Arthur’s pleasant greeting as he walked into Alfred’s house and saw the boy bent over a plastic guitar, one foot propped heroically up on a footstool, tongue poking out of his mouth, as the music surged and lights blinked and spasmed quick enough to give Arthur an epileptic shock on the television.

Alfred didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Oh hey, Arthur! ‘S’up?”

Arthur made a noise of non-commitment and slammed the door behind him, though the sound was barely heard over the pulsing surge of guitar riffs and clicking plastic buttons Alfred kept slamming in his quest to beat his game.

“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” Alfred said, only sounding a little distracted, the colored chords reflecting in his glasses as his fingers danced between red, green, orange, then back to green, then blue, then blue and green together.

“Is that so?” Arthur asked, setting down his briefcase on the table and trying to ignore the screeching coming from the television. “I recall that I was meant to come here anyway for the sake of working on a plan for—”

“Yeah, yeah, work, work,” Alfred dismissed instantly, and when the song ended, he seemed to relax, setting his foot back down on solid ground with its companion and swiveling around to grin at Arthur. The plastic guitar hung from a strap around his shoulder. “Hey, bro, you wanna do me a favor and grab me a soda? I’m on a roll over here!”

“Don’t call me bro,” Arthur said with a snort, “And no, I won’t.”

“Come oooooon, Artie.”

“Don’t call me that, either.”


Alfred.” Arthur felt his lip curl and it took all his effort not to go and throw his briefcase at the grinning idiot. “We have work to do.”

“Can’t we do it later? I’m on a roll over here.”

“So you just said.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and kicked a couch pillow over at Arthur’s head. Arthur caught it effortlessly and chucked it back at Alfred’s head. Alfred laughed, ducked, and started a new song. He made a valiant effort of striking a very glorious pose, pushing his foot onto the footstool again, and making a few flailing gestures with his arms. But then the music started and the chords started flying across the screen and Alfred set to work of completing the next stage, not even missing a note. Arthur rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and watched Alfred as he played.

Once it became evident that Alfred really was planning on playing, Arthur turned away and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it up on the back of a chair and sitting down at the table, unlatching his briefcase and starting to dig around for the folders. He’d just have to wait until Alfred was serious—in his years of befriending the idiot, he knew that he had to wait until Alfred was ready to work, because forcing him to work only resulted in counter productivity. It was always better just to wait.

“That’s hardly what I would consider real playing,” Arthur called over his shoulder as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He could always relax a little when he was dealing with Alfred, who was always so casual it was almost painful.

“Well obviously! It’s a video game! And I am the master of video games,” Alfred crowed, and hit a long chord. The music warbled and Alfred grinned victoriously.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“I’m taking your silence for ‘holy crap, you’re awesome!’, by the way!” Alfred announced.

Arthur snorted. “I’d like to see you play a real guitar, boy.”

“What, like you?”

“I play the bass,” Arthur muttered to himself, shuffling the folders and laying out some of the forms on the table, brow furrowing. “Are you done yet? We have work to do!”

“Tell you what,” Alfred said. “I’ll get to work if you can beat my score in Guitar Hero. Commere.”


“Come oooooooooooooooooon.”

“Don’t you start that,” Arthur said and then, just because he was a benevolent person, walked over to Alfred, punching the back of his shoulder without much umf (not that he could harm Alfred, anyway, super-strength imbecile that he was). “But fine. Hand it over.”

Alfred didn’t respond until the song ended, and once it did, he handed it over to Arthur.

You Sexy Thing, You: Placeholder

(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 03:46 am (UTC)(link)
This is a placeholder for the prompt linked here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=47698525#t47698525


you sexy thing, you (1a/?)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 04:24 am (UTC)(link)
from this request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=47698525#t47698525

You Sexy Thing, You.

France is not having a good day, and rarely does Denmark marching up to him make it better.

Especially if Denmark is marching up to him followed by a veritable posse. Dieu, one would think France has done something wrong.

He can see that this posse consists of Monaco, Poland, and Hungary. Briefly the frightening thought crosses France’s mind that this has to do with finances, but none of them look particularly ill, so that cannot be it.

Denmark reaches him and clears his throat: “France. We need to talk.”

France is faced away from them because he is currently getting the coffee he thought his room service would have brought up to him this morning, before the conference. He was so tired he did not even get to make one advance on England for pure laughs. No wonder the tea-sucker looked so happy afterward.

Denmark begins speaking again, and this time the others join in.

“We were talking –“

“After the meeting.”

“Yes, and we thought we should ask you about something –“

“Not that it’s any of our business!”

“But what the hell do you see in England?”

France stares silently at the crowd assembled around him before clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow: “You are asking me what I see in l’Angleterre.”

Denmark folds his arms: “Well, yeah.”

He fiddles with his cup before taking a sip and tasting Styrofoam (it is a mystery why they don’t provide proper china for beverages at these meetings, really), and he sets it down and waits for more of them to speak up.

At last, he groans, “I see nothing in him as far as I know” and that is when the voices erupt from their dormant chords.

“What do you mean, you don’t see anything in him?” Monaco exclaims, hands pressed to the table.

Denmark shakes his head: “Look, man, we all know England is not a catch. But really? You could sleep with anyone here in something like a millisecond and instead you spend your time trying to get your hand down his pants.”

“I what?” France feigns shock because true gentleman would never face accusations such as these without at least being pressed for them, or under some sort of obligation.

“You. England. Pants. You are in them presumably most of the day,” Denmark states flatly.

France rolls his eyes. They could stand to be a little less enthusiastic, but what is a gentleman to do? He takes another sip (the Styrofoam still tastes awful): “I cannot help it if he is practically begging for it, mes amis.”

“Begging for it?” Poland scoffs, “That’s like the least likely story I have ever heard, so lame. You gotta realize that England? Yeah, he’s not the prettiest flower in the bouquet, you dig?”

As usual, it takes France’s normally excellent brain at least five extra seconds to process what Poland is saying. “You imply England is not the sexy one, as you say?” he asks mildly, folds his hands behind his cup.

Monaco shakes her head: “Not at all. Have you seen his hair?”

“He’s pretty skinny.”

“You mean like a stick is skinny.”


“I hear his knees are, like, totally knobby.”

“His eyebrows don’t do much for him, either.”

“And he could use some sun, just saying.”

“Stop!” France holds up his hands to stop the abuse: “I cannot abide the slander of such a beautiful creature as l’Angleterre.”

They are all silent for a moment. Then –

“Dude,” Poland snickers: “You just called him beautiful. That is so gay.”

“I don’t really mind,” Hungary murmurs from her thermos of tea.

“If you must know,” France continues wearily, “You must realize that l’Angleterre is more than what you see. He can be more. You must know that. I have seen it! Why else would I pursue him? I desire all beautiful things. And if you should like proof of this, I have some in my hotel room.”

And with that, he dumps his half-drunk coffee in the bin and walks to the elevator.


you sexy thing, you (1b/?)

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Have Some Fan Art...

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America/Russia Reset

(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 04:15 am (UTC)(link)
Original Request(part 6): http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10530.html?thread=15416354#t15416354

I didn't realize it was a closed part so I accidentally posted there, whoops~!
Overcharge (1/?)

Alfred F. Jones, formally known as the United States of America, truly hated the press sometimes. Yes, he approved of the right to say what you want, when you want, but the whole 'Let's get as close up as we can and set our flashes on the highest setting so we can blind and stun the people we're swarming.' All the while disregarding common sense, courtesy, and the law of physics that says no two units of matter can occupy the same space at the same time....

Well, it got taxing for someone like him, who had to attend a large number of political meetings, or deal with the long, boring, detailed accounts of what happened.

Currently he was standing off along the far wall of the room, to the right of Hilary Clinton's assistant, pretending to take notes on something the spokesman at the podium was talking about so as to 'blend in' with various political officials clambering about. Doodles of random space ships and scenery covered the small square of paper with a whimsical eclectic nature.

"I was not knowing you to take notes Mr. Jones."

For a moment Alfred tried to simply ignore the large Russian man standing directly in front of him, ignore the forced civil tone and thinly veiled glare that slowing burrowed it's way into his skull. But remembering the small plastic object wrapped in green the Clinton had prepared for a certain Foreign Minister, he just gave a long sigh, closing the notepad and slipping it into his jacket. It wasn't his favorite bomber jacket from the World War, but the pockets were nice, had a smooth inner lining that was cool to the touch, and completely masked the way he clenched his fists inside of them.

Keeping in mind the fact that so many humans were around them, America addressed Russia coolly, keeping his tone flat and face a pleasant smile.

"Braginski, I never figured ya to be the kind of guy that stuck that large nose of yours into someone's business- oh wait- I do." Hailing a passing waiter that carried glasses of champagne on a large tray, Alfred grabbed two glasses before the waiter departed quickly... apparently the tension between the two of them was becoming palpable.

"Ah, witty as usual dear Alfred, you were saving that one for whole night, da? It takes your brain long time to think such dribble, I had forgotten what with the..." the Russian man paused in his insults as Alfred handed him (more like dropped it in front of him) an empty champagne glass, the contents had been chugged, and the second glass was quickly following its fate. "...meetings with my sestra and Georgia", he finished lamely as the American dipped his head back to let the bubbly alcohol gush down his throat, his Adam's Apple bobbing quickly.

Giving a fake satisfied sigh and the glass a small twirl between his fingers, America saluted with the champagne glass, the cold mouth tipped to his forehead, before pivoting it quickly towards Russia.

"As much as I'd LOVE to sit here and trade insults and chit-chat with ya, I only have to stick around til Clinton and your Lavrov guy push the freakin' button." Before Ivan could respond, Alfred had stepped away from the wall, catching a passing waitress and switching out his empty glass for a full one, walking determinedly into the crowd as Clinton presented a green present, the small green ribbon wiggling invitingly as it passed hands.

Ivan tried to follow after Alfred, his large frame difficult to navigate through the crowd without knocking some pompous press member to the ground as the whole crowd gathered to see what was going on.
Mmkay, so I tried to give Russia an accent so an grammatical mistakes with his speech are intentional... and uh, I hope you like it? I'll try to finish the rest of it later, I kinda got a small plot ready...

Overcharge (2/?)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 12:44 am (UTC)(link)
Glaring and attempting to intimidate his way through the surge of curious attendees and wannabe celebrity reporters didn't work as well on common, unaware humans as it did their nations. Most just glared right back at him, sniffing at his 'rudeness' before planting their feet and turning back to the scene in the center of the room. The Russian foreign minister seemed to pause for a moment, translators trying to interpret the reason for the gift before the man simply delved into the gift, unwrapping it while reporters and photographers surged forward, snapping pictures of the woman's nervous pride.

Russia finally spotted a swaying lock of blond hair amongst the horde, that persistent bobbing cowlick that always caught his attention during meetings like an annoying gnat that you couldn't swat. For some reason that he couldn't fathom, Russia just couldn't leave America with the last word, with the parting jab and casual dismissal, and so, disregarding whatever measly trinket the woman had brought that was most likely made in one of Yao's sweat shops, Ivan stalked after the shorter nation as he exited the main room into the hallway.

As Russia finally disentangled himself from the crowd, laughter resounded through the air at whatever gift was within the green box. Striding quickly through the double doors Ivan caught sight of two men arguing down the hall, near the exit of the building. One was definitely Alfred, the eccentric waving of his hands and raised voice giving him away even from this far away. Ivan assumed the other man was the American's security or assistant, either way it was obvious he was trying to keep the young man from bolting out the door onto the dark streets of Geneva.

"Dear Alfred, fleeing already? Ah, reminds me so dearly of 1951, nyet?"

That definitely got the American's attention as he turned on heel, eyes glittering darkly at the hit a the Korean War. The assistant seemed fundamentally confused and worried as he tried to insert himself between America and Russia, both men seeming to puff themselves up while their muscles clenched and teeth ground together.

Wonderful adrenaline, hate and competition surged between the two of them, making the boringly diplomatic evening worth-while as they both elbowed the human to the side, not hard enough to harm him, but enough to get the message across. The security man seemed to hop indecisively from foot to foot before dashing down the hall as the two nations strode forward, chests nearly touching as the glared into each others face, insults ready to fly and fist clenching excitedly at their sides.

Arms wrenched back, mouths snarling as fists were thrown forward, seeming to fly forever, time swirling to a near-stop-

Click. It echoed in both their minds, a resounding sound of plastic sliding onto plastic. Their momentum and balance tumbled and turned, stomachs rising to their throats and hearts dropping down to their bellies. Eyes rolled and darkness all but slapped them upside the head as the superpower and ex-superpower crumpled to the floor without a single blow being dealt.

The last thing they heard was the sound of heavy feet pounding towards them and men shouting, a mixture of languages that neither man could decipher as their hearing fading out to the sound of deep murmuring and finally an empty, deep drone like the tide at Diomede.

:O And so the plot thickens~!

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Authoranon is gleeful over 1st comment~

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Eng/Fra: wearing a collar in public

(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 07:17 pm (UTC)(link)
I decided to go with the Past Part Fills post since 13 is kinda full already, innit? Anyways. I'm posting this placeholder first because I like it when it looks clean like that, but I'll post the first part right away.

England/France (or the other way round) enjoying a healthy BDSM relationship and one of them wearing a collar in public.

Optional: It doesn't have to be a traditional collar; a necklace works just as much as long as they're the only ones knowing what it actually symbolizes.

Sorry, this fill got... kind of out of hand. I just snatched the spark of inspiration and ran away with it and I ended up with something a bit more... introspective and relationship examinationish. I hope OP and the seconders will enjoy anyway.

Sorry for the slow beginning too. Try to be patient with me... m(_ _)m;;;

Also, hints of other pairings. Lots of them. My headcanon is a bit polyamorous. Again, I hope it's okay... if not, hopefully someone at least gets some entertainment out of this.

That Other Four-Letter Word (Part 1a)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-22 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)
England really didn't have a reason to feel this way. He knew, rationally, that politics and international relations weren't a part of their deal. He would not cross that line. And he was fine with it, most of the time. Sometimes he did miss the old days and how simple everything used to be with imperialism, but he really didn't want to go back there. He had known that when France had offered to marry him, or even to become his subordinate. He hadn't wanted it then and he didn't want it now. It would feel so... wrong. And he didn't want France to be his because of economic difficulties or because it couldn't be helped, he wanted France to want to be his.

Most of the time he was fine with what he had. But then there was Germany. Why, why did it have to be, of all people? France spend far too much time with Germany, chatting, flirting, laughing together, making their plans and having their EU thing. England could see the speciality of their relationship so easily, and it made him so terribly, horribly jealous.

Why did it have to be Germany? Why did it have to be the one nation that had taken France away from England, made him his property, made him his personal whore, as England bitterly suspected. France never talked about it, nor did Germany, but England could read between the lines. The image haunted him. That bastard of a Kraut with his filthy Nazi hands on his France...

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. No, he shouldn't go there. He would only work himself up into a mad rage like this. It was in the past and Germany was a friend now. Germany would never touch France without a permission anymore, ever. It was a political relationship, friendly at most. Nothing more.

For goodness' sake, England should really watch himself. He was supposed to be done with the imperialism. This was supposed to be something healthy and enjoyable for both of them.

After another EU meeting, when they were hanging out at Belgium's place, France sat down on the sofa next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Well, aren't you in a bad mood today." England's reply was a hostile grunt. "Don't be like that, what is it?" France urged.

"Nothing! Who says I have to be happy all the time? This is how I am most of the time so if that doesn't please you go--" England's ramble was cut by a kiss full on the mouth. France never kissed Germany like this, did he? England wondered, feeling a bit better. Definitely not in public at least...

France noticed his angry eagerness and sat on his lap, spread-legged, deepening the kiss and embrasing England around the neck. His mouth tasted of sweet strawberry liqueur. England grabbed his body possessively and his greedy tongue claimed France's mouth. France broke the kiss, laughing. "Zut alors, you old scoundrel. What the hell is it with you again?"

"Shut up," snapped England, but without the bite. Instead he gave France some non-figurative bites on the chin and neck, pushing him down on the sofa with full intentions of ravishing the man right then and there. France gasped, trying to hold his moans, and pushed him away.

"England, we're not alone."

That Other Four-Letter Word (Part 1b)

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Part 1 Notes

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That Other Four-Letter Word (Part 2a)

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Under (Part 14 a)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 02:25 am (UTC)(link)
The end is here &hearts

Parts 1-11: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11863306#t11863306

Part 12, and some neat discussion: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10456.html?thread=22558168#t22558168

Part 13: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=46411929#t46411929


Matthew sleeps like the dead. For the first night, he doesn’t dream. He passes out, cold, losing himself in the stillness. It’s not that he’s not still miserable—he is—but now he knows something, has a bit of an illusion of closure. He returns to work this week, going through the motions until they don’t seem quite so robotic anymore. He eats. He sleeps. He sleeps, but now he also dreams.

The dreams are the rawest kind, all scent and sound and vivid feeling. Alfred’s there with him, under his fingernails and deep inside his chest, stealing his air. Hurting. Burning. Scraping. Drowning him. But it’s sinking in gradually, with every gasping, clammy-skinned awakening, with the weak-limbed aftershocks and sticky sheets. There really is no going back.

No going back—maybe it’s true. Everything is different now. In a way, the world is upside-down. Underwater.

Another week passes like this, with him living a shadowed copy of a life—A life that’s gone grey and still. Then a phone call comes from Alfred. He should have known he wouldn’t let something go so easily. He’s too tenacious for his own good. The buzz of his silenced cell phone skittering along the table is jarring. In an instant the old nausea is back. It doubles as Al’s number appears on the screen. He shakily answers.

Al jumps in immediately before Matthew can muster a greeting. “Hey. Hey, don’t hang up, alright?” Words practically tripping over each other. “Don’t go.”

As if he ever had a choice. He sets his shoulders. Exhales. “So talk. Let’s talk, Al. Please.” He takes a seat. He doesn’t trust his legs.

He hears Al take a steadying breath on the other line, near identical to his. “L-like I said, Matt, I really screwed this one up.”

That burn crawls up his throat again, pricks at the back of his eyes. “What did you want? What did you want me to be?” It’s time, now. It’s been time for a while.

He can be patient just a little longer as Al gathers his thoughts, swallows a few times into the receiver. Al’s voice is so soft. “I needed it, Matt,” he says finally. “I needed it so bad ‘cause I’m always the one, you know? They all want me to be everything and sometimes I just can’t.” Ragged, raw scrapes in the back of his throat. “It had to be you—I trust you. You’re safe. You’d never—“

“—Didn’t I, though?” Matthew’s closing his eyes against the pulse pounding in his skull. You monster, you sicko, you should have known if he asked you’d do it and if you did it you’d fuck it up. Safe, what the fuck is that?

Because I made you,” Al insists, almost harshly. “I took what you wanted to give and I made you give me more because I didn’t know how to stop.”

Why?” The million dollar question.

Under (Part 14 b)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 02:25 am (UTC)(link)
“Matt,” Al sighs, “I’m—I’m scared.” Matthew raises his eyebrows at this, but keeps listening. “I didn’t think anything could hurt me anymore. I can’t be like that, it’s too lonely that way. And you’ve always been—”

“—Right there,” Matthew finishes softly, his heart beginning to do some wild acrobatics in his ribcage.

“Yeah. You know me. You’ve always known me. I guess I thought if you did this with me, I could really just let go. Let you take over. Stop being the one in control. It was selfish.”

Matthew’s mouth tightens a fraction. “It was. You have no idea how much I—I wanted to get you what you wanted.” Then guilt twists in him and his own voice fades to nearly nothing. “But eventually all I wanted to do was hurt you until you didn’t want to do it anymore. Make you need to stop.” And still keep you around somehow because I’ve forgotten how not to have you.

Alfred makes a sound on the other end of the line. Something like a heated sigh, but with a note of misery that punches right through.

Matthew grimaces. “I felt like you were using me.” There. He said it. He shifts a little in his chair, waiting.

“I was, I guess. But that isn’t all there is to it, Matt.”

“Al—“ He’s not sure if he can handle this.

“Let me say this.”


“I wanted to be sure I could still be hurt. I wanted… that. I did. But when I think about it—” and here he trails off.

“When you think about it?” Matthew prompts softly.

It’s tiny, whispered truth. “When I think about it, I’m realizing I want you more than I want anything else.”

Matthew exhales, but there’s a tiny Oh nestled in the sound. He takes one deep, bracing breath, then asks simply, “Can I come over?”

There’s a relieved chuckle on the other line. “’Course.”

Under (Part 15a)

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Blood, like water (Part 12)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 06:00 am (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=42495708#t42495708

Hi, Kink Meme! I want some AU action: In here Nations are something like vampires, in the sense that if they bite (?) someone, that person becomes a Nation (or an anthropomorphic representation of something like that, i.e. The United Nations).


The news spreads through the little valley from mouth to mouth: Marcus the shepherd has caught two wild boys on the mountain.

He found the twins toddling naked, dried blood crusted on their necks and chests, but otherwise unharmed. The shepherd's wife washed them and found identical puncture marks, matching the marks left on sheep mangled by wolves but much less savage, on their necks just milimeters from their soft, pulsing jugulars.

"Perhaps the god Mars loved an Amazon and transformed her into a she-wolf," mused the shepherd's wife as she held the boys in her lap. "And the she-wolf whelped them, and carried them down the mountain to us by the napes of their necks."

The shepherd and his wife had a cottage full of hungry children of their own, but the twins were so winsome with their large brown eyes and their plump baby's bellies that they could not be induced to give the boys up.

They grew, and the scars on their necks faded into the gleaming tan of their skins. Perhaps there was something to the tale of Mars being their father, for the twins were fierce in war and sported with sword and spear, and were the terror of the vallies and gullies and mountains. When between them they had given battle to every worthy opponent and made love to every lovely maiden in the near vicinity, the twins left their parents' cottage and journeyed until they came to seven hills, and here they decided to make a city.

And here, for the first time in their lives, they quarreled.

"It shall be a city filled with brigands and men of war," said the brother with laughing eyes. "The most beautiful and wicked of all women will walk her streets and the river will flow with good ale. Her name will be known forevermore as a city of war and power."

"It shall be a city of just men and philosophers," said the brother with sorrowful eyes. "Their noble daughters will walk her streets without fear of being molested. Her name will be known forevermore as a city of justice and beauty.

One regreted of their past, and wished to begin anew. The other regreted nothing, and longed for more bloodshed, more lands to conquer. They came to blows.

The blood-red sun set that night on a kin-slayer. It rose the next day, and the world did not end, nor did the Harpies descend on him and rend his flesh from his bones. Romulus stood over the body of his brother and blinked tears from his eyes.

What once was a duo was now only unus.

Blood, like water (Part 12), Part 2

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 06:26 am (UTC)(link)

Long ago, a hundred hundred years ago, before the time of Cincinnatus, before the Brothers Gracchi, Romulus had discovered he was not as other men. He barely aged, and if he was not immortal, than he was nigh-impossible to kill. He had watered Rome's hills with his brother Remus' blood, but perhaps a demi-god could only die at the hands of another demi-god.

He hacked his way into the onslaught of Germans, barking out orders to his men, demanding that they hold their formation. More and more Germans poured forth from the forest, and only Romulus' inhuman endurance allowed him to hold strong against them.

He cut a swath through the enemy, and when he stumbled into the shallow stream, the shock of the cold water brought him to his senses. At his feet, half-submerged in the stream, a young German lay bleeding out his life into the rushing water. Blue eyes stared up at Romulus, and then slid closed.

Romulus collapsed next to the German, seeing in him every nameless, faceless barbarian he'd killed over the centuries. He brushed the German's blond hair, badly matted with blood, back from his face. Such a waste of a fine warrior and a handsome man, to die here in this wet and grime. The German's head lolled back, exposing his throat, bare and tempting. Almost on a whim, Romulus plunged his teeth into the German's throat and bit down.

The German woke up.

Howling, he kicked Romulus off of him, sending him flying backwards into the water. Hrothoberacht, for that was the name the German was known to his own kind, stumbled in the muddy bed of the stream, grasping at his bleeding throat. He inhaled, and that first breath of immortality was like breathing fire.

"Such a gift I've given you," said Romulus cheerfully, as he sloshed to his feet. "And you do not even thank Rome for it."

For the first time in his life, Hrothoberacht turned and fled a field of war.

All through the long night he ran. Hrothoberacht knew that he had stood before Tiwisko, the god-who-had-been-born-of-the-Earth, before he was brought back from beyond. No longer was he merely Hrothoberacht the Cherusker, he was now something more, something nigh-infinite. His wits addled, he stumbled in circles, and it took many days more than it should have for him to find his tribe's caravan.

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[Part 5] Superheroic 19/?

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 10:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=13865738#t13865738

Parts 1- 10: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10456.html?thread=18559192#t18559192

Parts 11-18: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=45750937#t45750937

Spain is a superhero. Romano gets caught up in secret identity drama, a fanclub, and hostage situations.

"Is he serious?" Romano demanded.

Prussia frantically waved his hands. "You heard nothing! Just... auditory illusions created by my awesome magic!"

"Exactly... You are hearing what you want to hear," France jumped in. "So if, say, you heard someone say that they want you to be their boyfriend, perhaps that is what your mind is telling you that you secretly want!"

"Screw this," Romano said, fumbling with the handcuffs. It was the same pair of trick handcuffs Prussia had used last time, so while he took a while to find the latch to get them off, he still managed it in a reasonable amount of time. As Prussia and France leapt towards him, Romano swept Prussia's bedspread around his shoulders. "If you two can be lame supervillains, then so can I! I'm not going to sit around while you guys battle it out! That's scary and dumb and really, really stupid!"

Just then, Spain came down the stairs, dressed as The Conquistador, cape billowing around him dramatically. Romano had to admit, he looked very heroic. Spandex was a good look on Spain.

"Hey guys!" Spain said, striking a heroic pose on the bottom stair. "I mean, fiends."

"Give it up, Spain. He's already figured it out," France said. "He heard you chatting with Germany at the front door."

"Oh," Spain said.

"Maybe hiding out in your brother's basement wasn't the best idea we've ever had," France continued, casting a sidelong glance at Prussia.

"Or maybe someone shouldn't have stopped to chat about how this whole thing was a set up to woo a stubborn little Italian," Prussia said.

"Aw, but he's so cute!" Spain protested.

Romano stood tall on Prussia's bed, swathed in chick-print sheets. He had wrapped the sheets cunningly so that they covered the top of his head and the lower part of his face. He imagined that even with the chick-print design, he still looked pretty intimidating. "I'm not cute. I'm Dastardly Muffin! Show some respect and bow before my, um, evil!"

"Cutest supervillain ever!" Spain cooed. "I just want to cuddle you into submission!"

"Shut up!" Romano snapped. "I'm trying to conquer the world or something!"

"You've already conquered my heart," Spain replied, smiling. "What do you need the rest of the world for?"

Romano's face bloomed bright red. "St-stop saying such idiotic things!" he yelled. "Or else!"

"Or else what?" Spain asked curiously.

In a move straight out of a bad mafia movie, Romano tackled Prussia (France was closer, but Romano didn't want to touch him for fear of cooties and/or STDs) and pulled the chain from his unlocked tight across Prussia's neck. "Or else this old man haired, rabbit eyed potato brother gets it!"

There was a surprised silence in the basement that lasted almost twelve entire seconds before Spain said, "My little Romano is so badass!" in exactly the same gushing tones that he usually reserved for calling Romano cute, adorable, or a tomato.

"Damn it, I'm being serious!" Romano said. "You'd better obey my demands!"

"What are your demands? Do you want to rule the world?" Spain asked. "Because that doesn't really seem like something you'd be interested in."

Romano considered. He really didn't want to rule the world. That seemed like a lot of work, and at the core of things, he was lazy. So what were his demands?

"Three meals a day and a nap with pasta," Romano said. "Th-those are my demands, okay?"

Spain's brow furrowed. Where had he heard those before? It hadn't been too long ago, he was pretty sure, but when you were his age "not too long ago" tended to span the past few decades. Finally, he got it. "Isn't that what you said when I asked you--"

"Shut up!" Romano interrupted. "It's not! Those are just my demands, okay?"

While Romano was distracted with being flustered, Prussia dipped under the handcuff chain. "Three meals and naps? Those are pretty lame demands," he informed Romano. "You should have stuck with world domination."

Re: [Part 5] Superheroic 19/?

(Anonymous) 2010-08-23 11:36 pm (UTC)(link)
"Three meals a day and a nap with pasta," Romano said. "Th-those are my demands, okay?"




...nothing. Oh well.

This is adorkable and fun, anon!

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[Part 5] Superheroic 22a/22

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52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 10a/

(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 02:09 am (UTC)(link)
Continuing from here! :D -->>
(request) http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=23482003#t23482003
(direct-to-fill) http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=25786771#t25786771

So, part of the reason why it took me so long to post this is, the longer it took me to write something, the more I felt I had to write in order to compensate. After moving, transferring universities, getting used to a brand spankin' new city and just getting over procrastination in general, I finally sat down and punched out another 5,000 words and deliver four new installments. So without further ado (and hopefully OP's gracious forgiveness for the lateness on this project), here is the next phase of 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski


Jones creases her eyebrows and purses her lips in indignation as she closes Outlook with a heated click. She sits back in her chair as quietly and as dignified as she can, but she can’t stop the harrumph which sounds more second grader-ish than she wants it to.

“What is going on, Amelia?” Fernandez asks in a hushed tone leaning to her side. They’re in English class, and the professor, an older retired Lieutenant Colonel from the Dark Ages, talks about voice and style, and other things Jones could give two rips about.

“Family stuff,” Jones mutters. She scribbles something down on paper to make it look like she’s taking notes. Poor Lieutenant Colonel McAfferty probably doesn’t even realize what decade it is, let alone his students haven’t been paying attention since day one.

“Like what?” Fernandez asks. Jones rolls her eyes and scoffs. Reinhold, a fellow four-dig and in Squad 14 snores a bit. McAfferty doesn’t look up from his lecture notes. “What? I am only trying to help.”

“You have to know my family, Fernandez,” Jones says. “There’s no way you can help out.”

“But let me try,” he prods. Jones rolls her eyes again, this time more playful than before and gives her friend a soft slap on the arm. “Is there really anything else we can be doing in this class anyway?”

“I’ve got engineering homework. We’ve got to design a glider. Then our group picks the best design and builds it. I’m so stoked, you don’t even know.” Jones giggles like a girl a third her age in a toy store.

A wicked grin crosses her lips as fuselage, wings and rudders come to place in her mind. She bites her bottom lip as she configures weight distribution and air dynamics. Her nose crinkles. She knows it does because Matt used to say when she concentrated really hard on something, her nose would crinkle. She adjusts the size of the wings and imagines the balsa wood glider turning loops and skidding on the grass, completely unharmed.

Jones can’t string two sentences together to form a coherent thought on paper, but by God did she understand the mechanics of flight and airplanes. One of her most treasured gifts as a child was from her mother before the Divorce. The small thing was only made of balsa wood, and took all of three minutes to put together. She broke it in about three days when she’d launched it and it landed straight into a rock, cracking the fuselage in half. Instead of crying over it, like most girls her age did when their Barbies were suddenly headless, Jones was fascinated. What had made the glider do that? And why had the fuselage broke?

Re: 52 Sunflowers for Ivan Braginski 10a/

(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 02:09 am (UTC)(link)
She read whatever books she could understand on the subject matter. She wondered if she could make a better design than the company and set off to do just that. By the time she was seven and her mother had rescinded child custody in the Divorce, Jones had created a glider that could sail for forty seconds. She and her younger brother Matt played with the glider that entire lightening bug summer, trying to tell each other that their parents’ failed marriage was not their fault.

In high school, Jones graduated to heavier materials like aluminum and tin, despite her father’s disapproval. At thirteen, she and Matt could stay at home without a babysitter. By thirteen in a half, she found the soldering iron. By sixteen, she’d made a complete replica of a P38—able to fly once she figured out some basic electrical engineering— by scratch.

“Amelia?” Fernandez asks, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

“Wha-what?” Jones jars back into reality with a near physical plop. He offers a cheerful smile.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.

“It’s nothing interesting,” Jones insists.

Three strikes you’re out, and Fernandez decides to drop the subject. Instead, he tells her about his home country. His stories have more voice and style or whatever the hell McAfferty keeps talking about. He naturally swings his arms and uses his hands to emphasize points, places and people, subtle enough not to catch the eye of professor. Jones leans on her open palm and just listens.

There are no bells to signify the end of class, only a row of cadets desperately watching the clock on their issued Fujitsu laptops. At exactly ten thirteen, Reinhold pops awake. McAfferty dismisses the class, giving them an assignment to read “The Falling Man” article from Esquire, found online. They’ll be doing an in-class discussion next class and there would be an analysis paper due the day before Comm’s Challenge. The class groans, but is out of the room before the professor can assure them it’s only for ten points.

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Fluttering Chaos [1a/6]

(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 02:17 pm (UTC)(link)
This is the first chapter in response to this request
Austria crushes on Italy after realising how much he’s grown, and after a bit of uncertainty and denial, decides to romantically pursue him, finally managing to explain his feelings through music composed on a violin Italy gave him decades before. (in short)

Basically, it’s a fluff Austria/N.Italy fill in 6 chapters. Please do enjoy and comment if you like! It’d make me really happy!


With a soft sigh, Austria walked through the corridor leading to the meeting hall, checking the documents he was holding in his arms for the tenth time, as if to make sure that they hadn’t changed disposition in the last three minutes.

The meeting he was going to was only the first in his list of bothersome things he had to do for the day, and he wanted nothing more than get out of it as soon as possible.

As he got closer and closer to the door of the room, he could distinctly hear some of the European Nations present there bitching at each other; Czech and Slovakia were yelling loudly, and he almost turned around to leave, only to stop himself at the last second.

He couldn’t just leave like that, mainly because one of the planned subjects regarded him, but Austria had never had enough patience to deal with the two rebellious Nations, especially this early in the morning.

Yet, this was a meeting, and he had to participate. Doing the opposite would only create problems for him.

With a sigh, he straightened his back, wondering if it was better to first get a coffee. He might need it, but…

“Ve~ Roderich? Buongiorno!”

He halted his movements and turned around, nodding at the two Italian brothers moving closer.

Italy waved happily at him whilst his older brother simply grunted, not even bothering with verbal greetings.

Austria inwardly frowned at the uncouth lack of appropriate manners, but had given up on Romano acting like a proper gentleman with males centuries before.

Guten morgen, Feliciano, Lovino,” he nodded at them, face carefully blank.

Italy beamed at him, opening his mouth to talk, but Romano was already bored, and bumping against his brother’s arm, stomped towards the door, only hesitating when he heard a particularly loud curse coming from the other side.

Austria shook his head, about to follow the two Italians, then he noticed something that made him stop.

“Wait a moment, Feliciano!”

Italy tilted his head to the side and turned around, eyes opening wide as he stared at Austria stomping closer, eyes set on him, expression serious. “V–ve? Is there something wrong with me?!”

“You really are hopeless, Feliciano,” Austria muttered under his breath, sighing as he reached forwards for Italy’s chest. “Your tie is crooked… here, let me–”

Italy’s shoulders dropped a bit in relief as he allowed Austria to fix it for him, a faint flush on his cheeks.

Mentally shaking his head, Austria wondered if Italy would ever hold himself properly to his status; when he’d been living at his house, despite the problems they had gone through for the first few decades (Austria still didn’t like to remember how he had been under the impression that Italy was a girl), at least the little Italian teen had been properly dressed and well–behaving.

Nowadays, all he did was run around mostly naked, unless he had official meetings.

Still, remembering the little Italy of back then, Austria had to admit that now things were so very different; Italy was almost as tall as he was, he’d truly grown up…

“Here, all done,” he stated, pulling away. “You should try to…” he trailed off as he stared at Italy, who was smiling warmly up at him.

Something shifted inside him –the picture of little Italy crumbled into small shards, and was replaced with older Italy, the one standing in front of him. his heart skipped a beat without reason.

“Do I look good now, Roderich?” with a small tilt of his head, Italy pointed to his now fixed tie, cheeks still flushed.

Austria didn’t know what to say.

Fluttering Chaos [1b/6]

(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 02:19 pm (UTC)(link)
Part of him wanted to answer that yes, of course Italy looked proper –it was just a stupid crooked tie, the rest of his suit was impeccable– but the main part of him took in the sight in front of him, and didn’t really know what to say.

Italy looked good in that dark suit (probably one of his branded ones), it made his eyes stand out more; and then there was his built –no more that of a child, he looked fit, yet still lithe enough to not fall in the ‘manly’ category.

Young Italy had twirled for decades in female clothes, fitting into them perfectly, moving through Austria’s house with his vacant, bright smile yet shy and attentive, and for a moment, as the Austrian aristocrat had looked up from the fixed tie, he had expected Italy to still look like that –small, innocent and cute.

Somehow, the sight of a grown–up, matured Italy didn’t fit his mental image at all, no matter if under the slightly more attentive expression he was wearing, there was the same bright, innocent smile.

Italy was an adult now, and even Austria had to admit that he looked good.

When had he changed so much? He couldn’t remember.

Feeling embarrassed for his own thoughts, Austria pressed his lips together in a thin line, and made a motion towards the door, where Romano was standing, looking uninterestedly at them.

“Uh… yes, of course. Stop asking such stupid questions already and get in the room, the meeting is about to start!”

“Ve~ thank you! Roderich is always nice with me~”

Italy grabbed his brother’s arm and pushed the door open, stepping into the meeting room with a happy laugh.

Austria was left alone in the corridor, completely still and flustered at Italy’s nice words, unable to move and feeling unexpectedly rattled.


With a soft sigh, Austria shut the door behind his back and neatly placed his jacket on the rack next to the entrance.

With methodical, familiar motions, he walked through the main corridor and dropped the package of documents on the small table in the corner, then removed his shoes and placed them on the shoe–cupboard, taking out his slippers and putting those on.

Then, eyes still vacant, he walked to the kitchen and served himself a glass of wine.

He sipped the cool red liquid slowly, letting it rest in his mouth for a little longer, swallowing it in small gulps, refreshed by its tangy taste, before washing the glass in the sink, drying it up and placing it back where it belonged.

All of that was done in complete silence, the usual routine for when he came back home from a meeting.

After that, he moved to his bedroom.

There were a lot of clothes that Austria used when going out, most of them looking just as uncomfortable as those he used when he remained home, but there was difference for him anyway, and he pulled one of his house–attires out from the armoire.

Mind carefully blank, Austria placed his used clothes back into the drawer and walked to the final destination, the music room.

There was no one else in the house –at this time of the day, his maids were left free of work and Hungary would only come to visit him later in the afternoon– and the feeling allowed him to relax as he sat down to the piano, cracking his knuckles and lifting the lid of the keyboard up.

Another second of silence, in which all the thoughts he’d tried to keep at bay cluttered together to the front of his mind, pushing at each other, demanding to be addressed…

Then his fingers fell on the keys, and music filled up the nothingness.

For the entire duration of the meeting, Austria’s eyes had returned to Italy over and over.

Unable to let his mind wander elsewhere, the Austrian Nation had tried hard to concentrate on business matters, but not even the problems of his own boss had been enough to absorb his attention.

Sitting there for over two hours, Austria had enough time to think.

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[Part 9] Counsellor!US/Punk!UK

(Anonymous) 2010-08-25 01:57 am (UTC)(link)
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=26872846#t26872846

I always see Arthur as the older one, or at least being in an authoritarian role, in AUs (which is kinda fitting but still!)

With a school AU setting, I'd like to see uncontrollable/violent/wild/troubled/whatever punk!Arthur finally being forced to go see a counsellor by his school as they're tired of his behaviour and running out of money to pay for all the damages he causes.
What the school doesn't know is that over the sessions, a relationship has been forming between Arthur and the counsellor. One that's not so innocent and certainly not appropriate.

The counsellor can be anyone you'd like, with whatever pairing. USUK, FrUK, Prussia/UK, Russia/UK, Spain/UK, heck whatever! Go wild anons, I'm not particular on pairings.

First Name Basis 1/?

(Anonymous) 2010-08-25 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
The first time the school had forced Arthur to a counsellor, he threw up over her shoes. To be fair, he couldn't remember much after; screams of my precious Blahniks and someone grabbing his collar. It got foggy after that.

It did not end well, is the point.

Arthur looks at the wall, covered with posters about plays, articles on students, clubs. He is waiting, and Arthur has never been the patient sort.

He stands up, kicking his legs out.

About a month ago—a good half a year after the previous counsellor incident—Arthur had been found smashing windows. It wasn't that big a deal; he only did it to the abandoned classrooms. It was a good way to relieve stress when pounding on Francis wasn't.

The school staff didn't seem to agree. Health and safety rings like a bell in his ears. Inappropriate behaviour.

Major attitude problems.

What a crock of shit. Arthur just—likes to do what he wants to. Which is smoke, and drink, and skip classes. The school has nothing to hold against him, anyway: parents missing, brothers scattered, with no contact. Charging a student—a student who struggles to support himself alone, no less—with damages seems below them.

All of which lead to this.

Arthur needs a fag. His fingers are itching for it, flexing and twitching. The nearby receptionist looks him over, squinted, and then goes back to her computer. Arthur briefly considers giving her the finger.

He's waiting for somebody, though this somebody obviously has no sense of time or... sense. Arthur isn't sure he wants that in a counsellor.

(Well. Strictly speaking, Arthur doesn't want a counsellor at all. Fuck.)

Frustration and anxiety are starting to pull at his brain matter. A smoke would help. A smoke would really help. Arthur peers desperately at the wall clock, then the door, and the familiar rectangle bump in his pocket.

One minute wouldn't hurt, would it? And if he sees the bloke coming, he can just rush back in. Yeah, it's easy.

Conclusion plain and satisfying, Arthur runs his palm over the bump in his pocket, and turns outside. He can breathe, here. Sure, it's grey and hinting-at-rain and polluted kind of air, but it's better than a stare-down.

Plus, he really needs that cigarette.

With shaking fingers, Arthur pulls out the packet, dutifully reads the death warning, and throws the fag to his mouth. It's a party trick, at this point—the first fifty times, Arthur wasted a whole pack on wet tarmac, trying to impress some chick in town.

Still, he's perfect now. He cheers internally as he catches the end in his teeth and feels for his lighter. It's cheap: a plastic, thumb-bruising zippo. They come in packs of ten for a quid, so Arthur expects as much.

It takes three tries. Three little flickers of pathetic flame, and then there's a glow of red and the familiar hit in the back of his throat; unpleasant, at first, then smooth sailing. Arthur blames it on the body's natural desire to not inhale killer smoke, and laughs at himself.

It's a bad habit, Arthur knows that much. But so is drinking, and so is moping on the roof, and so is staying up till four in the morning. Arthur likes the bad stuff because it's bad. And the addiction; that hardly helps.

Oh, wait, shit, footsteps. Arthur keeps his head down, not wishing for a scolding. It sounds like—sneakers, though, because they squeak across the damp ground, and the person is whistling what sounds like something out of high school musical—

—his gaze meets the shoes. Neon, blinding affairs. Jeans. Shirt untucked and brown leather jacket.

Face: American.

Arthur can tell; it was something you picked up in a school as strangely multicultural as theirs. An east German boy who insisted he's Prussian, the French bastard, that rather pretty Seychellois girl Arthur has a kind-of-thing-for but not really.

The smile gives it away, mostly. Smug, and too wide, and that fake looking laser white gleam; how he flashes it so proudly, brightening when he catches Arthur's eye. Most usually recoil.

First Name Basis 2/?

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Signed, Sealed & Delivered 1/? - (Netherlands/Denmark/Germany/Prussia) Part 12

(Anonymous) 2010-08-25 07:35 pm (UTC)(link)

Notes: Set after the celebrations for the Netherlands getting silver this year’s World Cup. This is very dirty. Includes toys.

Human names:
Denmark: Volundr Angantyrsson
Netherlands: Adriaen de Ruyter


Ludwig knew it had been a bad idea to accompany his brother to Amsterdam, for post-World Cup celebrations.

For one, he hated big crowds. The crowd in Amsterdam, welcoming their national football team, celebrating their men who came in second best, was beyond huge.
By the end of the day, his headache was bordering on a migraine, not to mention the exhaustion caused by the sun scorching any brain cells not already killed by liquor.

He had no idea of how bad exactly that idea was, until after the celebrations involving far too much alcohol, and several not quite legal substances.

Also, why Netherlands and Amsterdam? Why not Spain and Madrid instead? They got the Gold. They got their First Star. Maybe Gilbert was mad because of the semi finals still?
No, that wasn’t him. Antonio was a close friend of his, and Prussia was no sore loser, even if his antics told one otherwise.

Only later that day it occurred to him why Gilbert had chosen Adriaen’s place.

The booze. The drugs. Netherlands himself. ... and Denmark.

Yes, Spain was a close friend, but his brother enjoyed parties that bordered on being bacchanal even more than that friend’s company it seemed. Who better to indulge in these things with than their debauched neighbours. Those three in one spot never meant anything good. Sweden could attest to that only too well.

Why exactly did he decide to tag along again, instead of staying home?
Oh right. Gilbert had called him a spoil sport, deadhead, and loser for the umpteenth time, who should go out just for once to see what real life truly was like.

However, it did not explain why exactly Ludwig had let himself be talked into this mess. Since when did he care about his brother’s taunts anyway?

Maybe, just maybe, it was him who was the sore loser here, who’d rather go watch the Dutch celebrate their Silver than the Spanish their Gold.
How very petty.

God, he knew he was going to regret having harboured such immature feelings. Even though they’d only lasted for a good three hours, drowned out by a couple of beers in the end.

No, he wasn’t mad any longer. He was happy for Antonio. He deserved his victory. After all, he, Germany, had won the cup thrice already. No, his loss had not been the reason for his tagging along. That meant, there only was one other plausible explanation.

The ongoing heatwave most likely had fried his senses for good.

Now it was Netherlands’s far too loud music getting on his nerves. If one could still call that thundering noise music. 160 beats per minute at least, making the whole house rumble and shake.

Denmark also complained about it. Although, not for it being too loud, but because he preferred what he liked to call real music. Netherlands complied by switching CDs, yet it didn’t get any better. If someone was to ask Ludwig, this particular band should be sued for raping their instruments and microphones.

Volundr gave him the finger, told him he had no clue about Metal, and then made to put in a random, coverless DVD he’d found amongst Netherlands’s stash of movies.

“If you want to watch TV, you might want to turn that down,” Germany grumbled.

“Porn needs no sound, West!” Gilbert yelled from behind him, slouching on the couch and smoking the joint Netherlands had just passed him.

Wait, what? He was just about to reprimand his brother for doing weed when he heard the word porn, eyes flying back to Adriaen’s big flatscreen TV. Oh God. No! Not this again!

They’d already had that last New Year’s Eve, which had ended in one giant disaster anyway. Memories he wished would’ve faded by now, of Liechtenstein walking into his living room, and staring at the monitor in utter shock, while Prussia, Turkey, and France had commented on the blowjob skills of one of the porn actresses while having their hands where the poor, young nation definitely did not have to see them. ... and that was one of the more harmless memories of that night!

Signed, Sealed & Delivered 2/? - (Netherlands/Denmark/Germany/Prussia) Part 12

(Anonymous) 2010-08-25 07:36 pm (UTC)(link)
“Gilbert, you slut, you promised us your little bro wasn’t going to ruin our fun!” Netherlands growled, then threw a Hustler magazine at Ludwig’s head. “That’s why we allowed you to bring that bore along in the first place!”

“Ah, shut the fuck up! Little West isn’t going to be a party pooper tonight! --- Right, West?!” He added with a sharper tone.

Germany resorted to cross his arms in front of his chest, a sour expression marring his usually stoic features. No way in hell was he going to argue with his brother, nor Denmark or Netherlands about this. Instead, he grabbed another beer can, and tried to ignore his surroundings.

“How funny. I thought, he was the sick fuck of the family!” Denmark laughed. “What was it? Dog porn? Ugh!”

Okay. If he heard one more person talking about that alleged bestiality collection of his –which had never ever existed to begin with!—he was going to make someone seriously unhappy!

Frowning, he picked the magazine from his lap, quickly leafing through it: “Well, I dare say this one is just as boring as what you consider a good porn movie!” That being said, he threw it back at its owner with a tad too much force, the magazine losing a few of its papers during its shortlived but violent journey.

Netherlands and Prussia broke out in laughter, wheras Denmark merely raised a brow, turning to look at him: “Is that so? Then why don’t you indulge us with your dirty, little fantasies, kid? Mhm? Kindly leave the dog fucking out, though.”

“Excatly! Why don’t you share some details for once, Ludwig. Prove to us you’re a real man.”

Face darkening, Germany glowered at the both of them, his brother chuckling in the background.

“Now you’ve got to tell them, West. Enquiring minds want to hear more!”

“First of all, I abhor the idea of anything sexual that involves animals. Although, thank you very much for listening to any of those slanderous statements telling you otherwise! And, second of all, why would I have to prove myself to any of you! I don’t feel the need to brag about what I do behind closed doors. See, I prefer to actually do instead of talk! Unlike you lot!” Ludwig pressed, furious at this point. Furious, because this was not the first time they’d mocked him, his reputed tastes, or his lack of interest in reciting any of his experiences. “However, feel free to share your stories. Oh wait! You’re going to do that anyway. You don’t need my okay for it!”

“All I got was blablabla! Gilbert, your baby bro sounds like a broken record.”

“Okay, that’s it, buddy,” Netherlands snorted, pointing behind himself. “You either stop being a bitch right now, or --- well, you know where the door is!”

“Ohh, wait. Wait!” Volundr interrupted him, carefully placing his beer on the windowsill, before making his way over to Ludwig. Smirking at both his brother and Adriaen, he put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s an interesting statement you made there, kid. Also, I must say, I certainly agree with you when it comes down to it.”

Stubbing out the joint, Prussia inched closer, grinning, while Netherlands gave his friend and neighbour an amused, if questioning look.
Germany didn’t quite know what to make of this, of Denmark’s words, so he eyed him, confusion apparent. Confusion that tripled when the hand on his shoulder moved to cup his chin, tilting his head up.

“See, I am more of the doer type, too. So, why not exchange our stories that way, mhm? That’s if you’re up for it.”

“Right, Ludwig. You’re a man of your word, aren’t you?”

“I’ll even start,” Volundr drawled, the grip on his jaw tightening while he leant closer, till their lips almost were touching. “... since you do seem to be of the shy sort.

“Oh West!” Gilbert snickered. “Now you’ve got yourself into deep shit!”

Ludwig gritted his teeth, staring back at Volundr, whose eyes wouldn’t leave his. The first to look away was going to be the loser. That much was certain. Such a stupid, childish game. It did make him angry at himself for not having seen it coming. This particular nation probably outranked all three of them when it came to certain experiences, and he probably had taken his words as a challenge. There was no way to talk himself out of this.


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(Anonymous) 2010-08-26 05:26 am (UTC)(link)
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=40606940#t40606940 (Provoking America)

This is a spur-of-the-moment fill based on what might happen AFTER Arthur embarks on a "get America jealous, that will lead to hatesex" program.


I’m an idiot.

I mean, yeah, I guess everyone’s been telling me so for ages, but it only really matters if I say it, right? So I’ll say it. I’m an idiot. I really am.

But I’m learning.

In a way I guess it’s a good thing that England’s suddenly gotten less obvious about sleeping around. (Because he was hiding it a lot better before. I don’t think he’s gotten any more slutty promiscuous - just a lot less subtle. Maybe it’s because he actually has less partners than before? He must have been absolutely pimping during his empire days.) If he hadn’t, I might have gone on holding onto stupid Hollywood-fairytale-romance-novel type daydreams like “one true love” and “saving myself” and “monogamy” and “forever” and shit. Fucking hell, how lame must I have looked?

We’re fucking Nations, not people.


I didn’t mean it that way, but now that I look at it, I guess that’s exactly right, ain’t it? We’re Nations - not people. And I’m talking about fucking Nations, not people. (Wonder if I can? Never tried it.)

We’re Nations and we’re made up of people. Lots of different people. We can’t love

(...fuck, that sounded so teenage-drama-llama. Next thing you know I’ll be writing poetry in a journal and painting my nails black.)

And now that I think about it, it’s wrong. We can love other Nations, 'cos some of our people do. And some of our people will love people from other Nations. And we can hate them at the same time. And we can be mostly indifferent to them because most of our people will never really have anything to do with other Nations. Brief visits, if that.

I’m across the Atlantic. My business is my States. How can England really touch me? How could he feel anything - how could any of us feel anything - that’s pure? Something that’s not just a faint echo from other people, and pulled the other way by the feelings of yet more people?

There’s no Arthur. There’s only England. There’s no Alfred really, just me - us, I guess - America. Those names - I’ve been fooling myself - those are just names we use to make things easier.

And I’ve been stupid. China’s been a lot nicer ever since I sucked him off. My Boss was pleased with me. And that’s what I should be doing, making things easier for him. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy being with China either. If I sleep with Germany, I bet I could along with the EU better, and he wouldn’t be so scary as France....not that France is scary, okay, just that everyone knows how...good he is, and I’ve only just started getting into this game. I’m sure I can catch up though.

Mexico. Yeah, I should see about Mexico. Brazil too.

This is what I should have been doing all along.


Of course, in my head, Arthur eventually convinces Alfred otherwise. But I honestly don't know how to write a realistic way for them to get there.

Re: Aftermath

(Anonymous) 2010-08-26 07:01 am (UTC)(link)
/giant frown

Way to break my heart, anon.

I'ma crawl into your head to look at that happy ending, 'kay?

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Sad but delicious :)

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[Part 12] Finland, Argentina, tango (artfill)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-26 01:21 pm (UTC)(link)
Finland and Argentina dancing tango, artfill requested.

Here's the picture.

Here's an omake, which I drew at first because I'd forgotten the prompt asked specifically for a het pairing. Sorry, I fail. OTL

The Argentina OC is by vtophya (http://vtophya.deviantart.com/art/APH-Argentina-127726463), but I am not vtophya. The female Argentina is genderbent.

Re: [Part 12] Finland, Argentina, tango (artfill)

(Anonymous) 2010-08-26 02:05 pm (UTC)(link)
I've been thinking about Finland's love for tango in connection with hetalia for quite some time! *_*

Ofc, being a firm SuFin-fan, my imagination ran a slightly different track, but these are both super-cute pics ^w^ ♥

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Re: [Part 12] Finland, Argentina, tango (artfill)

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author strikes again

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