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Okay, I know that Little!Germany would mean this was set hundreds of years ago, but eh, what timeline?
~*~
"Bruder,"
"Eh?" Prussia wasn't exactly paying attention. Spain and France were currently arguing over who had the rights to the last cheese stick, and it was highly entertaining. "What is it, Germany?"
Germany shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, hands knotted together. If 'Adorkable' had needed a poster child (it didn't, it already had one and his name was Romano), Germany would have easily gotten the job. "I have a question. It's kind of important."
"Oh?" Prussia tore his eyes away from his two bickering friends to turn his attention to his little brother. He held out his arms, inviting Germany to climb onto his lap. "What is it? I can answer anything."
Germany gave a tiny, shy smile, and Prussia had to resist the urge to squeal over how adorable his baby brother was. "Well, I read about something in a book, but I'm not really sure what they were talking about."
"Oh, books," Prussia wrinkled his nose, really hoping Germany wasn't about to ask him about the invention of chocolate or anything stupid like that. When Prussia read books at all (which wasn't often, since he'd rather be outside doing awesome things) they were usually sensible books about warfare or military campaigns. Useful things. Germany seemed absolutely hopeless about reading things just because they were there. "Well, what was it that confused you?"
Germany looked up at him, pale blue eyes so serious. "Bruder, what's 'sex'?"
Prussia went still in shock. Behind him he could hear Spain choking on his hard won cheese stick. Germany just blinked innocently. In the end, it was France who recovered himself first, coming forward to sit on the couch beside Prussia and Germany. "I believe I can answer that for you. I'll just need some assistance..."
"Hell no," Prussia eyed France with a frown, hugging Germany protectively.
France merely looked amused. "I meant I shall need some paper and a pencil. This requires diagrams."
Twenty minutes later, all four of them were leaned over the coffee table, watching as France quickly and expertly sketched detailed figures. "...And there, you see?"
"I think so..." Germany was blushing terribly, but also looked thoughtful. "But why are his eyebrows so big?"
In the sudden silence Prussia snickered, not having noticed that.
"Wait," Spain frowned in confusion. "France, is that really how it works?"
Prussia and France both turned to stare at him. "You've got to be shitting me, man."
Spain looked embarrassed. "I've only entertained girls before..."
"You can do sex with girls?!" Germany's mouth dropped open in shock.
"Oh boy..." Prussia shook his head, standing and tucking Germany easily under one arm, ignoring his flailing and the way France was looking hungrily at Spain. "You kids have fun. I'm going to go give my darling baby brother a good porno."
The sound of the door closing behind them almost drowned out Spain's yelp.
...fuck.
As I read this, I immediately guessed that mystery girl is Al's kid and that he brainwashed her in classic psychopatic-parent style.
But your author's note at the end...
That's fucked up.
Which is beyond awesome, author!anon. On my own personal scale-of-evilness, you and artist!anon are tied for most rotten-to-the-core Alfred (original author!anon's version is more "horribly misdirected energy with disturbing results")
So, yeah, this is good. Really good. Horrifically good.
And now I don't have to write that request for America/state incest with a psychological focus :D [/shot]
As I read this, I immediately guessed that mystery girl is Al's kid and that he brainwashed her in classic psychopatic-parent style.
But your author's note at the end...
That's fucked up.
Which is beyond awesome, author!anon. On my own personal scale-of-evilness, you and artist!anon are tied for most rotten-to-the-core Alfred (original author!anon's version is more "horribly misdirected energy with disturbing results")
So, yeah, this is good. Really good. Horrifically good.
Oh. Oh Germany, I feel so so sorry for you. And Spain, oh man. XD
Awesome fill, anon!
Awesome fill, anon!
You handled the abduction kink well! England likes it but is clearly shown as unhealthy because its /not/ roleplay here and its like he has to force himself to ignore the bad feelings between them. Their loneliness strikes me as pretty dang IC. I desperately want to know what will happen this time since this time England was /truly/ leaving so it probably will not end as 'well' as the last times.... Do the other nations know about this aspect of their abuse cycle??? If they did they'd have taken measures though, no?
God England stop being a prick and Prussia stop being...such a douch!
God England stop being a prick and Prussia stop being...such a douch!
"I think so..." Germany was blushing terribly, but also looked thoughtful. "But why are his eyebrows so big?"
xDDDDDD
xDDDDDD
Wow, this is a pretty interesting story. I have a little quote that I just found in one of my favorite books, The Darkest Evening Of The Year by Dean Koontz, that was a bit related to this story {in regards to Sweden as a teenager}. Sort of scared me when I read it and I immediately thought of Sweden's viking days.
"You? Even young and stupid, as you describe yourself then?
I don't think you have a dark side." "I think most of us do," he disagreed.
"Maybe all of us. And the most important thing we can ever do is keep the door shut to it, keep the door shut and locked tight."
"You? Even young and stupid, as you describe yourself then?
I don't think you have a dark side." "I think most of us do," he disagreed.
"Maybe all of us. And the most important thing we can ever do is keep the door shut to it, keep the door shut and locked tight."
An author on FF made a fanfic very similar to your request around five days when you requested it ;DDD Iiiiiit's a small world aaaaaafter allll~~
Here it be~ And it be FrUk c:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6236244/1/Love_the_Way_You_Lie
Here it be~ And it be FrUk c:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6236244/1/Love_the_Way_You_Lie
Ah man, that was so cute! It was funny how possessive Prussia was, never letting him go for more than a few seconds.
I'm kind of a nerd for this, but when Prussia though the questions was something like the invention of chocolate, I started thinking about since Spain was already there, he'd go ahead and talk about how he got it from the Aztecs and how it use to be really bitter.
I'm kind of a nerd for this, but when Prussia though the questions was something like the invention of chocolate, I started thinking about since Spain was already there, he'd go ahead and talk about how he got it from the Aztecs and how it use to be really bitter.
Arthur woke alone, buried in blankets and staring at the dark ceiling above. He didn't move except to cover his nose with a hand against a dreadful and unfamiliar smell outside. He felt empty still, and his stomach churned silently with hunger and thirst. He contemplated escape once more, but with how he had been found the day before, he knew that any attempts at escape would be in vain. He was weak, and the demon was far stronger than him.
Arthur didn't want to leave the bed. Knowing that there was no hope left for him had weakened him and taken his energy. He couldn't imagine leaving the bed, and probably wouldn't have if not for the demon that invaded the room and stood above him.
“You need food,” the demon told him, and he grabbed Arthur before the angel could escape back under the blankets. His hands were rough as he carted Arthur away from the blankets, bruising him when he turned him and adjusted him in his arms. Arthur pushed his face away to spite him instead of kicking, something that served to annoy the demon simply by Arthur's persistence.
“I don't want your fucking food!” Arthur spat, and the demon looked down at him, and really looked. The angel's arms and legs were bloody and covered in dirt, and his wings were unkempt, feathers sticking up in random locations, the white covered by brown and crimson, sticky and grimy and utterly disgusting. The tunic no longer held its shine, and it too was covered in blood and dirt.
The demon stiffened when he walked, and Arthur looked around in confusion. They were leaving the house, and walking into the forest. His hands stopped pushing at the demon for a moment, then he was grabbing at the arms that held him, trying to squeeze hard enough to dig his nails into that skin.
“No!” Arthur shouted, scared for his life. “Put me down this instant! Wherever you want to take me, I'm not going!”
The demon frowned at Arthur's shouts and held him closer to his body, trying to muffle the sounds. However, he didn't let the angel go, and continued through the woods. Arthur was unable to see anything as his face had been pressed into the demon's arm, and he attempted to bite the demon in a misguided attempt to free himself. The demon ignored it though, and then all Arthur felt was cold and wet.
The demon pushed him under the water, dunking him before Arthur had a chance to catch his breath. Arthur choked and reached out for something, anything to pull himself from the water, but his hands only found slick rocks. He slipped back into the water when the demon pushed him under again, and then he was pulled out by a firm grip.
Arthur gasped for breath when he was pulled from the water, shivering and gasping in the cold. The demon had climbed into the water with him, and large hands explored his body. Arthur tried to push away, but the demon was scratching at him, rubbing him raw in places, and then pulling him down to sit in the water while his legs were pulled on and rubbed. The demon was muttering under his breath, and Arthur let himself slump against him.
Arthur tried to ignore the hands that brushed through his hair and over his skin, and played with his tunic. He clenched his teeth against the feeling of fingers patting and arranging the feathers in his wings, pinching and hurting him. He shut his eyes and waited, until the hands were done with him, and he was left shivering in the water, naked, before the monster behind him.
The monster wrapped something around him, a large blanket, and Arthur was hefted up and taken back through the woods, back to the house. The demon said nothing until they were sitting before a large fire, over which a pig hung on a spit. Arthur brought the blanket up to cover his eyes, and the demon watched him.
“You have scars,” the demon finally said, and he grinned at Arthur. “I have some too. On my chest.” The demon moved to take off his shirt, grinning at the prospect of telling a story. “Thi-”
“They're all from you,” Arthur mumbled from the blankets. The demon had to stop and stare, confused by how dejected Arthur sounded. “Why won't you just let me go?”
Arthur didn't want to leave the bed. Knowing that there was no hope left for him had weakened him and taken his energy. He couldn't imagine leaving the bed, and probably wouldn't have if not for the demon that invaded the room and stood above him.
“You need food,” the demon told him, and he grabbed Arthur before the angel could escape back under the blankets. His hands were rough as he carted Arthur away from the blankets, bruising him when he turned him and adjusted him in his arms. Arthur pushed his face away to spite him instead of kicking, something that served to annoy the demon simply by Arthur's persistence.
“I don't want your fucking food!” Arthur spat, and the demon looked down at him, and really looked. The angel's arms and legs were bloody and covered in dirt, and his wings were unkempt, feathers sticking up in random locations, the white covered by brown and crimson, sticky and grimy and utterly disgusting. The tunic no longer held its shine, and it too was covered in blood and dirt.
The demon stiffened when he walked, and Arthur looked around in confusion. They were leaving the house, and walking into the forest. His hands stopped pushing at the demon for a moment, then he was grabbing at the arms that held him, trying to squeeze hard enough to dig his nails into that skin.
“No!” Arthur shouted, scared for his life. “Put me down this instant! Wherever you want to take me, I'm not going!”
The demon frowned at Arthur's shouts and held him closer to his body, trying to muffle the sounds. However, he didn't let the angel go, and continued through the woods. Arthur was unable to see anything as his face had been pressed into the demon's arm, and he attempted to bite the demon in a misguided attempt to free himself. The demon ignored it though, and then all Arthur felt was cold and wet.
The demon pushed him under the water, dunking him before Arthur had a chance to catch his breath. Arthur choked and reached out for something, anything to pull himself from the water, but his hands only found slick rocks. He slipped back into the water when the demon pushed him under again, and then he was pulled out by a firm grip.
Arthur gasped for breath when he was pulled from the water, shivering and gasping in the cold. The demon had climbed into the water with him, and large hands explored his body. Arthur tried to push away, but the demon was scratching at him, rubbing him raw in places, and then pulling him down to sit in the water while his legs were pulled on and rubbed. The demon was muttering under his breath, and Arthur let himself slump against him.
Arthur tried to ignore the hands that brushed through his hair and over his skin, and played with his tunic. He clenched his teeth against the feeling of fingers patting and arranging the feathers in his wings, pinching and hurting him. He shut his eyes and waited, until the hands were done with him, and he was left shivering in the water, naked, before the monster behind him.
The monster wrapped something around him, a large blanket, and Arthur was hefted up and taken back through the woods, back to the house. The demon said nothing until they were sitting before a large fire, over which a pig hung on a spit. Arthur brought the blanket up to cover his eyes, and the demon watched him.
“You have scars,” the demon finally said, and he grinned at Arthur. “I have some too. On my chest.” The demon moved to take off his shirt, grinning at the prospect of telling a story. “Thi-”
“They're all from you,” Arthur mumbled from the blankets. The demon had to stop and stare, confused by how dejected Arthur sounded. “Why won't you just let me go?”
Ah, god, that's horrible. ;_; Poor Arthur's so crazily disoriented; I wonder it the thing about being hot meant that he actually has a terrible fever? I mean, he could certainly be that disorient without having a fever after all he's gone through, but ... OTL
I'm glad it seems like Alfred is figuring things out, a little, though; he has no frame of reference to understand Arthur, let alone ask the right questions or communicate well, but he's clearly smart enough to start wondering the right things, like "Wait, that actually hurt you?" etc.
So looking forward to this, anon! This s=story is really sucking me in and making me wonder about what's going on in Alfred's head.
I'm glad it seems like Alfred is figuring things out, a little, though; he has no frame of reference to understand Arthur, let alone ask the right questions or communicate well, but he's clearly smart enough to start wondering the right things, like "Wait, that actually hurt you?" etc.
So looking forward to this, anon! This s=story is really sucking me in and making me wonder about what's going on in Alfred's head.
I hope the OP is still out there somewhere @^@
-
Trailing after Alfred, Arthur followed him to work.
Sometimes he rode on Alfred’s shoulder, the warmth of his human’s body comforting. It was one of the few ways Arthur could feel close to him, staring wistfully at the man, his heart churning painfully in his chest. Alfred was warm, so very warm, and his smiles were beautiful and brilliant. Arthur loved to see Alfred smile.
But lately, Alfred had begun to feel his presence.
He could not see Arthur of course; Alfred did not believe in magic and the only way Alfred would be able to see Arthur was if Arthur showed himself to the scientist. Arthur was not so far gone that he would purposely show himself to an adult human, no matter how much he loved Alfred. Arthur would be punished severely if he did, even vanished from his homeland. There was only so much Francis could do for him; it was only because he was Francis’ partner that he was even allowed to visit his human so often.
Alfred could not see him—but he had begun to feel the little touches, the ghost-like kisses on his forehead and the shimmering trails of magic Arthur left behind. He would scratch his cheek where Arthur had last kissed him, furrow his brow in confusion when Arthur sat on his shoulder, chew his bottom lip in frustration when his precious machines picked up a small signal of energy in his tightly-locked house only to disappear seconds later.
It should have sent Arthur flying home, Alfred’s sudden, quickly growing awareness of the faery, but Arthur stayed. He stayed and watched Alfred work himself into the ground trying to solve this new, bizarre puzzle he could not find all the pieces to.
Arthur had not gone home in months now. Never before had he gone so long without assuring his brothers and sisters that he was still a part of their world, that he had not given himself entirely to his beloved human.
“Your wings are all droopy,” they would tell him, mouths curled in disgust. “His magic is bad for you. His magic hurts you. His magic is no good for you; he is hurting you.”
“I will not leave him,” Arthur would tell them in return, shoulders stubborn and voice strong. Defiant. “You will not make me choose between my home and my human; I can have both. You cannot stop me.”
The High Council did not understand and neither did his brothers and sisters—but Arthur could not bring himself to separate himself from Alfred. It would be far too painful.
“The love you give him he takes and takes in strife,” they would snap back, eyes red with anger, sharp teeth bared in ferocious snarls. “He uses your love to hurt you; he is no good for you. He is a mud man, a worm of the earth and his strange magic is making you ill. Do you wish to die for him? Your love for him is killing you!”
Sneering haughtily, Arthur would reply, “My love is mine to give to whomever I choose.”
Hissing, wings flapping angrily behind them, they would hurl out, their voices shrill and hurtful, “Then go ahead and give your heart to your mud man, but lay not with the worms of the earth! Your body is yours and yours alone, you cannot give your precious human that which is not his to take! If you lay with him, Arthur, the doors of our world will be closed to you forever; you will never be able to come back!”
Arthur knew the rules of the People well, he did not need to be reminded of the consequences of crossing that last, unforgivable line. He loved Alfred, but he also loved his home too much to give one up for the other; he wanted to keep both. Arthur wanted a balance between the two.
Arthur should have know better than to be so naïve.
-
Trailing after Alfred, Arthur followed him to work.
Sometimes he rode on Alfred’s shoulder, the warmth of his human’s body comforting. It was one of the few ways Arthur could feel close to him, staring wistfully at the man, his heart churning painfully in his chest. Alfred was warm, so very warm, and his smiles were beautiful and brilliant. Arthur loved to see Alfred smile.
But lately, Alfred had begun to feel his presence.
He could not see Arthur of course; Alfred did not believe in magic and the only way Alfred would be able to see Arthur was if Arthur showed himself to the scientist. Arthur was not so far gone that he would purposely show himself to an adult human, no matter how much he loved Alfred. Arthur would be punished severely if he did, even vanished from his homeland. There was only so much Francis could do for him; it was only because he was Francis’ partner that he was even allowed to visit his human so often.
Alfred could not see him—but he had begun to feel the little touches, the ghost-like kisses on his forehead and the shimmering trails of magic Arthur left behind. He would scratch his cheek where Arthur had last kissed him, furrow his brow in confusion when Arthur sat on his shoulder, chew his bottom lip in frustration when his precious machines picked up a small signal of energy in his tightly-locked house only to disappear seconds later.
It should have sent Arthur flying home, Alfred’s sudden, quickly growing awareness of the faery, but Arthur stayed. He stayed and watched Alfred work himself into the ground trying to solve this new, bizarre puzzle he could not find all the pieces to.
Arthur had not gone home in months now. Never before had he gone so long without assuring his brothers and sisters that he was still a part of their world, that he had not given himself entirely to his beloved human.
“Your wings are all droopy,” they would tell him, mouths curled in disgust. “His magic is bad for you. His magic hurts you. His magic is no good for you; he is hurting you.”
“I will not leave him,” Arthur would tell them in return, shoulders stubborn and voice strong. Defiant. “You will not make me choose between my home and my human; I can have both. You cannot stop me.”
The High Council did not understand and neither did his brothers and sisters—but Arthur could not bring himself to separate himself from Alfred. It would be far too painful.
“The love you give him he takes and takes in strife,” they would snap back, eyes red with anger, sharp teeth bared in ferocious snarls. “He uses your love to hurt you; he is no good for you. He is a mud man, a worm of the earth and his strange magic is making you ill. Do you wish to die for him? Your love for him is killing you!”
Sneering haughtily, Arthur would reply, “My love is mine to give to whomever I choose.”
Hissing, wings flapping angrily behind them, they would hurl out, their voices shrill and hurtful, “Then go ahead and give your heart to your mud man, but lay not with the worms of the earth! Your body is yours and yours alone, you cannot give your precious human that which is not his to take! If you lay with him, Arthur, the doors of our world will be closed to you forever; you will never be able to come back!”
Arthur knew the rules of the People well, he did not need to be reminded of the consequences of crossing that last, unforgivable line. He loved Alfred, but he also loved his home too much to give one up for the other; he wanted to keep both. Arthur wanted a balance between the two.
Arthur should have know better than to be so naïve.
Arthur should have fled when Alfred first starting suspecting the shimmering trails of fairy dust Arthur sometimes left lying around, the tiny footprints on the soil of his small garden, the opened boxes of sugar cubes he forgot to put away on occasion. Arthur’s love for Alfred made him forgetful, made him lose focus, made him less sharp and less careful of his magic. Because magic was powerful energy and Alfred’s machines were sharp, much too sharp.
Francis had once told him that Alfred would sooner dissect him like he would a butterfly before returning his love.
And he was right.
It was raining when Arthur woke up from his sleep, expecting to open his eyes to his bed or roses and sweet-scented lilies, to the dewy grass and the rich, earthy smell of wet soil from Alfred’s garden.
He woke up in a cold metallic bed inside a glass cage.
“Aha. So you were asleep.”
Bright, much too bright lights. A white cold room and a sharp, stinging pain on the side of his neck. Arthur felt his blood freeze in his veins before his brain caught up with his horrible, horrible situation.
The smile on Alfred’s face was beautiful, as were his blue, blue eyes. It was a cold, calculative smile, the kind of smile Arthur remembered seeing on Alfred’s face whenever he took apart one of his newest machines.
The snap of rubber gloves was deafening—just like the sound of Arthur’s fast beating heart.
“Now, let’s try and figure out what you are, little guy.”
--
That’s it for the epilogue :D Thanks so much for your kind comments, anons~!
Francis had once told him that Alfred would sooner dissect him like he would a butterfly before returning his love.
And he was right.
It was raining when Arthur woke up from his sleep, expecting to open his eyes to his bed or roses and sweet-scented lilies, to the dewy grass and the rich, earthy smell of wet soil from Alfred’s garden.
He woke up in a cold metallic bed inside a glass cage.
“Aha. So you were asleep.”
Bright, much too bright lights. A white cold room and a sharp, stinging pain on the side of his neck. Arthur felt his blood freeze in his veins before his brain caught up with his horrible, horrible situation.
The smile on Alfred’s face was beautiful, as were his blue, blue eyes. It was a cold, calculative smile, the kind of smile Arthur remembered seeing on Alfred’s face whenever he took apart one of his newest machines.
The snap of rubber gloves was deafening—just like the sound of Arthur’s fast beating heart.
“Now, let’s try and figure out what you are, little guy.”
--
That’s it for the epilogue :D Thanks so much for your kind comments, anons~!
THIS IS FUCKING GOLD. <3
author!anon, ilu.
author!anon, ilu.
Author's note and Possible spoiler alert: Hi, long time lurker, first time filler. Inspired by the movie "The Last Exorcism". Some parts borrowed from the film, so it may constitute as a spoiler of sorts, though it's re-done in a way it doesn't reveal the ending. Hope no one minds a fourth filler for this, and not villainy in a way you would think it is. Non-beta'd, short fail!fill is short.
--camera pointed towards the letter. Too close, too blurry. It zooms out slowly until everything is in focus.
The penmanship is hurried, but still legible.
"Hmmm.. no mention of cattle slaughtered. But! She says she suspects her son is possessed and fear for his and hers soul and.. let's see here... 'And may be nearing damnation lest salvation will draw near. Please help-' hhmmm hrm hmmm ah, more 'help us'... aaaaand.. that's it. Looks like it's in the next four counties south, so we'll go ahead and knock this out. Use this, to expose what exorcism is really about: ... nothing but a sham to prey on the Lord's flock, to twist their faith into bleeding their pockets."
The scene switches instantly to a camera's outside view of the church--
Canada shifted in his seat, Kumajirou on his lap (it was easy smuggling the bear when everyone else pretty much ignores you) pawing inside a large bucket of popcorn, which was sitting on America's lap. The other nation was munching on the popcorn, the lights from the screen bouncing off from Texas, occassionally making a white glare when he would tilt his head just right. Canada watched his twin wiggled his eyebrows excitedly. He chuckled a little and turned his focus back to the movie screen.
They weren't the only nations in the theatre. All of the G8 were here and some more, as others were also invited to the screening of the movie which America is starring in. It had all started with a bet that despite producing some memorable and popular movies, that the nation itself was a bad actor. America, always trying to prove himself, made a bet that he could convice everyone of his skills.
How the nation got himself a role, nobody-- not even Canada himself --knew. What the northern twin did know was America almost turned down the role, as the details revealed about the movie itself: a horror film, tentatively titled at that time Exorcism II.
Canada had listened to his brother whine and bemoan his fate for a chance, only to let it slip away. He made several excuses as to why he couldn't do the film, but Canada knew--
America was afraid of ghosts.
And with this fact-- and maybe some pent up aggression that's been building up over the years --Canada egged on his brother and his cowardice, letting something so simple to stop him from proving everyone else wrong. After all, he was sure America would try to convice the moviemakers to make him the hero who would persevere, using his charm to do it this way, so it shouldn't be THAT bad, right?
"Not so heroic turning back, eh..." He had muttered softly, carefully hiding his smile as his brother scowled, pouting like a petulant child, eyes casted down.
That small shove gave America confidence to take on a role in the movie, and Canada knew nothing else after that. Even when he tried to fish for some details, his brother was surprisingly tight-lipped, only giving him an eerie smile and a soft "You'll see."
--"... and you live here, by yourselves?"
"Just me and my baby boy... please, he's all that I have. Ask the Lord to save him and give him back. I just want my precious baby back..."
The son who sat next to her smiled shyly, as her fingers brush through the strands of his blond hair, toying with a stubborn cowlick that refused to be down. He looked thin and a little pale, his eyes so dull, so dull compared to a photo that showed a vibrant young man with impossibly blue eyes, so unlike the eyes that look at the pastor and the camera crew pleading for help. For salvation--
--camera pointed towards the letter. Too close, too blurry. It zooms out slowly until everything is in focus.
The penmanship is hurried, but still legible.
"Hmmm.. no mention of cattle slaughtered. But! She says she suspects her son is possessed and fear for his and hers soul and.. let's see here... 'And may be nearing damnation lest salvation will draw near. Please help-' hhmmm hrm hmmm ah, more 'help us'... aaaaand.. that's it. Looks like it's in the next four counties south, so we'll go ahead and knock this out. Use this, to expose what exorcism is really about: ... nothing but a sham to prey on the Lord's flock, to twist their faith into bleeding their pockets."
The scene switches instantly to a camera's outside view of the church--
Canada shifted in his seat, Kumajirou on his lap (it was easy smuggling the bear when everyone else pretty much ignores you) pawing inside a large bucket of popcorn, which was sitting on America's lap. The other nation was munching on the popcorn, the lights from the screen bouncing off from Texas, occassionally making a white glare when he would tilt his head just right. Canada watched his twin wiggled his eyebrows excitedly. He chuckled a little and turned his focus back to the movie screen.
They weren't the only nations in the theatre. All of the G8 were here and some more, as others were also invited to the screening of the movie which America is starring in. It had all started with a bet that despite producing some memorable and popular movies, that the nation itself was a bad actor. America, always trying to prove himself, made a bet that he could convice everyone of his skills.
How the nation got himself a role, nobody-- not even Canada himself --knew. What the northern twin did know was America almost turned down the role, as the details revealed about the movie itself: a horror film, tentatively titled at that time Exorcism II.
Canada had listened to his brother whine and bemoan his fate for a chance, only to let it slip away. He made several excuses as to why he couldn't do the film, but Canada knew--
America was afraid of ghosts.
And with this fact-- and maybe some pent up aggression that's been building up over the years --Canada egged on his brother and his cowardice, letting something so simple to stop him from proving everyone else wrong. After all, he was sure America would try to convice the moviemakers to make him the hero who would persevere, using his charm to do it this way, so it shouldn't be THAT bad, right?
"Not so heroic turning back, eh..." He had muttered softly, carefully hiding his smile as his brother scowled, pouting like a petulant child, eyes casted down.
That small shove gave America confidence to take on a role in the movie, and Canada knew nothing else after that. Even when he tried to fish for some details, his brother was surprisingly tight-lipped, only giving him an eerie smile and a soft "You'll see."
--"... and you live here, by yourselves?"
"Just me and my baby boy... please, he's all that I have. Ask the Lord to save him and give him back. I just want my precious baby back..."
The son who sat next to her smiled shyly, as her fingers brush through the strands of his blond hair, toying with a stubborn cowlick that refused to be down. He looked thin and a little pale, his eyes so dull, so dull compared to a photo that showed a vibrant young man with impossibly blue eyes, so unlike the eyes that look at the pastor and the camera crew pleading for help. For salvation--
That would explain why lately America's been rather thin as of lately. The boisterous nation would wave it off, saying it was all part of the movie, and he had thought that perhaps it was to show what the hero would go through, in the midst of.. battling a ghost?
From what Canada could surmise so far as he watched, the movie seems like a mock documentary about a minister, set to reveal the shady secret of exorcisms. He had expected his brother to be the pastor, as the character itself was a funny, easy going guy even as a man of the cloth. He didn't expect his brother to be the actual victim who will play the possessed one. He didn't have time to catch any trailers of the sort regarding the movie. Even then, America had forbid anyone to see it, convincing them that it'll be better that they will get "surprised" by it.
Well, Canada was sure is now, and he knew that some of the nations who came to watch with them now would be just as surprised as he is. Or perhaps they shouldn't be- America did really like going for the impossible. Now they'll just have to see how he'd play him off.
--"...seemed like a very good kid. He's actually very social, surprisingly, for someone who lives alone with his mother for a long time. Or he could be lashing out, trying to scare her into getting them out of this house and into somewhere where there's people, when they're not in the middle of nowhere."
The camera now is watching the boy play with a flute. He wasn't that particularly good, but he ended the note with a small beaming smile, his eyes slightly brightening, bringing a little color to the pallor of his skin.
The scene shifted the mother sitting by the window, looking over to her son who was outside gathering wood.
"Almost on all night, I would find him just standing in the dark. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was watching me. Just standing there and watching me. But I know, deep in my heart, it wasn't really him. It was the demon, using my son's body."
The woman lifted a shaky hand to cover her mouth as she steeled herself not to cry.
"But some nights... some nights are worse. And I wanted to get up, to help, because he is crying, and that damn flute keeps playing, and he's crying, and I hear things, voices. Both, always both, just things, slamming, and voices whispering and yelling and I... and I..."
The camera zooms in to the woman's face as she tears up, tone breaking. "And I couldn't get up. My baby boy needed me and I couldn't get up..."
The scene now shows the son, rubbing his arm--
Canada laughed along with the audience at the fake exorcism, sending the mother into a frenzy of shouting and crying and America's character shrieking as he panicked, clasping his hands together as he babbled and begged for the Lord to save him. Intermingled with the fake exorcism where behind the scenes of how the preacher had tricked the mother and son into believing the"shaking", the "sounds", and the "smoke emitting from the cross", all rigged beforehand as part of the plan to get them to believe.
It didn't took long for the parts to roll in, the parts where things starts to get good as he watched America's character having "unexpectedly" shown up in a motel where the preacher stayed in, two counties away.
Canada hugged Kumajirou tightly to him now in anticipation.
Beside him, the munching ceased.
From what Canada could surmise so far as he watched, the movie seems like a mock documentary about a minister, set to reveal the shady secret of exorcisms. He had expected his brother to be the pastor, as the character itself was a funny, easy going guy even as a man of the cloth. He didn't expect his brother to be the actual victim who will play the possessed one. He didn't have time to catch any trailers of the sort regarding the movie. Even then, America had forbid anyone to see it, convincing them that it'll be better that they will get "surprised" by it.
Well, Canada was sure is now, and he knew that some of the nations who came to watch with them now would be just as surprised as he is. Or perhaps they shouldn't be- America did really like going for the impossible. Now they'll just have to see how he'd play him off.
--"...seemed like a very good kid. He's actually very social, surprisingly, for someone who lives alone with his mother for a long time. Or he could be lashing out, trying to scare her into getting them out of this house and into somewhere where there's people, when they're not in the middle of nowhere."
The camera now is watching the boy play with a flute. He wasn't that particularly good, but he ended the note with a small beaming smile, his eyes slightly brightening, bringing a little color to the pallor of his skin.
The scene shifted the mother sitting by the window, looking over to her son who was outside gathering wood.
"Almost on all night, I would find him just standing in the dark. I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was watching me. Just standing there and watching me. But I know, deep in my heart, it wasn't really him. It was the demon, using my son's body."
The woman lifted a shaky hand to cover her mouth as she steeled herself not to cry.
"But some nights... some nights are worse. And I wanted to get up, to help, because he is crying, and that damn flute keeps playing, and he's crying, and I hear things, voices. Both, always both, just things, slamming, and voices whispering and yelling and I... and I..."
The camera zooms in to the woman's face as she tears up, tone breaking. "And I couldn't get up. My baby boy needed me and I couldn't get up..."
The scene now shows the son, rubbing his arm--
Canada laughed along with the audience at the fake exorcism, sending the mother into a frenzy of shouting and crying and America's character shrieking as he panicked, clasping his hands together as he babbled and begged for the Lord to save him. Intermingled with the fake exorcism where behind the scenes of how the preacher had tricked the mother and son into believing the"shaking", the "sounds", and the "smoke emitting from the cross", all rigged beforehand as part of the plan to get them to believe.
It didn't took long for the parts to roll in, the parts where things starts to get good as he watched America's character having "unexpectedly" shown up in a motel where the preacher stayed in, two counties away.
Canada hugged Kumajirou tightly to him now in anticipation.
Beside him, the munching ceased.
--"...not comfortable when we have a multiple personality psycopath in the same house as I am. I say we get outta here."
"Look, we should take him to a hospital. He obviously needs help."
"He just keeps staring at me-"
"Ssh, shut up."
"I don't- I don't think he's crazy in the head. Something else is going on here. There is no possible way a young man like that can create two distinct sounds, one obviously out of his range."
"Does it matter if he's nuts in the head or possessed? The mother isn't here anymore, he's obviously targetting us now so can we pleeeeaaase get the fu--"
"Wait, what was that?"--
Canada's eyes widened as the pastor, the camera man, and the lady producer walk up the stairs in the dark, the lights having gone out, towards the room where America's character is locked up. The sounds of furnitures being dragged and slammed, a deranged flute music, a deep baritone male voice, a sultry tone of a female's, frantic disembodied whisperings, and the choked cries of America were mingled inside the room. The door seems to be pounded heavily, as if someone is trying to break out.
Canada watched as the characters finally opened the door, the sounds ceasing all together as they peered into the dark bedroom, everything in it seemingly just fine. No overturned furniture, and no America. They stepped into the dark, the camera with its own light looking around, until a commotion catches them by the side.
America's head is lolled out, hanging off the edge, and his arm seems to be dangling from behind his head in a disturbing angle, staring straight into the camera.
The audience gasped loudly with a few horrified shrieks as the camera pans to reveal America stuffed into the upper shelf of the cabinet, body twisted to fit the small space in a horrifying way. As the camera pans to reveal the inside of the cabinet, America continued to stare, following the camera, eyes wide and unblinking with an impassive expression.
As the characters panic in horror over the young man's condition, it didn't took long--
--"Oh my God! Oh my God!"
"Lord Almighty, how did he... help me take him out!"
"Oh my God! Oh God, oh God!"
"Jesus, stop staring! STOP STARI--"
--before America's face contorts and lunged for the camera, the whole body slipping out and twisting, stretching with ease despite having been stuffed.
Canada screamed out along with the audience.
He was unaware of the nation next to him, smiling oddly, who had been staring at him for a long time.
--harsh panting. The camera jiggles for a moment as the panicky cameraman tries to turn on the light. It lights up, only for him to stand still when a flute note floats in the air.
The camera swivels just in time to catch the smiling blonde boy twists his neck in a severe angle to the side.
Everything goes black.
"Look, we should take him to a hospital. He obviously needs help."
"He just keeps staring at me-"
"Ssh, shut up."
"I don't- I don't think he's crazy in the head. Something else is going on here. There is no possible way a young man like that can create two distinct sounds, one obviously out of his range."
"Does it matter if he's nuts in the head or possessed? The mother isn't here anymore, he's obviously targetting us now so can we pleeeeaaase get the fu--"
"Wait, what was that?"--
Canada's eyes widened as the pastor, the camera man, and the lady producer walk up the stairs in the dark, the lights having gone out, towards the room where America's character is locked up. The sounds of furnitures being dragged and slammed, a deranged flute music, a deep baritone male voice, a sultry tone of a female's, frantic disembodied whisperings, and the choked cries of America were mingled inside the room. The door seems to be pounded heavily, as if someone is trying to break out.
Canada watched as the characters finally opened the door, the sounds ceasing all together as they peered into the dark bedroom, everything in it seemingly just fine. No overturned furniture, and no America. They stepped into the dark, the camera with its own light looking around, until a commotion catches them by the side.
America's head is lolled out, hanging off the edge, and his arm seems to be dangling from behind his head in a disturbing angle, staring straight into the camera.
The audience gasped loudly with a few horrified shrieks as the camera pans to reveal America stuffed into the upper shelf of the cabinet, body twisted to fit the small space in a horrifying way. As the camera pans to reveal the inside of the cabinet, America continued to stare, following the camera, eyes wide and unblinking with an impassive expression.
As the characters panic in horror over the young man's condition, it didn't took long--
--"Oh my God! Oh my God!"
"Lord Almighty, how did he... help me take him out!"
"Oh my God! Oh God, oh God!"
"Jesus, stop staring! STOP STARI--"
--before America's face contorts and lunged for the camera, the whole body slipping out and twisting, stretching with ease despite having been stuffed.
Canada screamed out along with the audience.
He was unaware of the nation next to him, smiling oddly, who had been staring at him for a long time.
--harsh panting. The camera jiggles for a moment as the panicky cameraman tries to turn on the light. It lights up, only for him to stand still when a flute note floats in the air.
The camera swivels just in time to catch the smiling blonde boy twists his neck in a severe angle to the side.
Everything goes black.
Don't think I can edit my first post, but I wanted to state that the ending is not the same as the movie's, nor do some of the scripts and reactions of the characters. A few scenes were borrowed, while others were chanegd.
Ending left intentionally vague. May it frustrates you as the ending of the movie does to me. Haha! XD
Ending left intentionally vague. May it frustrates you as the ending of the movie does to me. Haha! XD
Re: Accidental magic turns Alfred into a child and is raised by Germany.
(Anonymous) 2010-08-31 05:12 am (UTC)(link)Ah, screw it. I’ll take this one on anyway. It’ll bug me until I do.
September 3 1939, 7:33pm
This war wasn’t going to end up like the Great War. Not if England had anything to say about it. He spent two days researching and preparing, pouring over every tome in his library. After 48 hours with no sleep, he found the perfect spell and he was closing in on Germany’s house.
He was hiding in the bushes, keeping silent and breathless. Any moment now, Germany would walk out that door.
England opened a leather-bound book. The movement of his arms caused the bush to rustle and he stopped immediately. He couldn’t hear anything but the chirping of birds, though, so he continued on. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, England turned to the pages he needed. In crisp, clean handwriting, the book said:
A reversal spell requires a pinch of faerie dust mixed with silver metal shavings, a clean white tunic, and a single unicorn hair. Sprinkle the faerie dust mixed with the metal shavings over thy tunic. With the hair in thy right hand, face thy target, then finish the spell with ‘Revertere’!
Of course, England had memorized it. He prepared everything in advance. He took a bottle of dust and silver shavings from a pocket(who says tunics can’t have pockets? Rubbish), and with the unicorn hair in his hand, he mentally prepared himself for what would happen. Germany would become a child again.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
America had been trying to track down England for the past few hours. England’s boss told him that the nation was very distressed when he heard what happened to Poland. England refused to leave the house for day or two. After his Prime Minister declared war on Germany, England up and left without telling anyone.
He found England in German territory three hours ago. So far, America hadn’t approached England yet, because technically, his people wanted him to stay out of European affairs.
America was in a bush not ten feet away from England, watching the older nation mutter to himself. And then, everything went to shit.
The only warning America had was the sound of birds chirping and boots scraping against dirt. Another nation, dressed in a black uniform, jumped out of the bushes and lunged for Al’s former guardian. America sprung into action without thinking. He body-slammed the newcomer. They landed with a thud.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
England snapped into action-there was rustling in the bushes right behind him, and a thud. Germany’s attacking me! The bastard. Arthur poured the mixed dust over his tunic, spun around, and crashed straight into the dirt. A wave of nausea hit him in the gut. The world around him turned into a grayish blur. The distressed voices of his people filled his mind…
’Aaaah! They’ve torpedoed us!’
‘How? They can’t do that, we’re a cruise ship!’
He heard some words being shouted in what sounded like German. You…you bastard! England stumbled around blindly, clawing the dirt, bushes, and trees. He heard the He managed to pull himself up-the angry shouting grew louder, so it must have meant he was getting closer. Still clutching the single unicorn hair, he grabbed the air, and miraculously came into contact with a strong, muscled chest. The nation was still blinded, but that didn’t matter so long as he could still speak.
“You’ll pay for this, foul kraut! REVERTERE!”
Both nations were blown straight off their feet from the power of the spell.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Notes: The attacker (it’s not Germany, but the nation does speak german) chose a very untimely (or timely, since I guess you did want to read this) moment to attack. A British cruise ship, the SS Athenia, was torpedoed by a German sub at 7:40pm on Sept. 3, 1939. The deaths of some of the passengers and crew distracted England for that one crucial minute.
September 3 1939, 7:33pm
This war wasn’t going to end up like the Great War. Not if England had anything to say about it. He spent two days researching and preparing, pouring over every tome in his library. After 48 hours with no sleep, he found the perfect spell and he was closing in on Germany’s house.
He was hiding in the bushes, keeping silent and breathless. Any moment now, Germany would walk out that door.
England opened a leather-bound book. The movement of his arms caused the bush to rustle and he stopped immediately. He couldn’t hear anything but the chirping of birds, though, so he continued on. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, England turned to the pages he needed. In crisp, clean handwriting, the book said:
A reversal spell requires a pinch of faerie dust mixed with silver metal shavings, a clean white tunic, and a single unicorn hair. Sprinkle the faerie dust mixed with the metal shavings over thy tunic. With the hair in thy right hand, face thy target, then finish the spell with ‘Revertere’!
Of course, England had memorized it. He prepared everything in advance. He took a bottle of dust and silver shavings from a pocket(who says tunics can’t have pockets? Rubbish), and with the unicorn hair in his hand, he mentally prepared himself for what would happen. Germany would become a child again.
America had been trying to track down England for the past few hours. England’s boss told him that the nation was very distressed when he heard what happened to Poland. England refused to leave the house for day or two. After his Prime Minister declared war on Germany, England up and left without telling anyone.
He found England in German territory three hours ago. So far, America hadn’t approached England yet, because technically, his people wanted him to stay out of European affairs.
America was in a bush not ten feet away from England, watching the older nation mutter to himself. And then, everything went to shit.
The only warning America had was the sound of birds chirping and boots scraping against dirt. Another nation, dressed in a black uniform, jumped out of the bushes and lunged for Al’s former guardian. America sprung into action without thinking. He body-slammed the newcomer. They landed with a thud.
England snapped into action-there was rustling in the bushes right behind him, and a thud. Germany’s attacking me! The bastard. Arthur poured the mixed dust over his tunic, spun around, and crashed straight into the dirt. A wave of nausea hit him in the gut. The world around him turned into a grayish blur. The distressed voices of his people filled his mind…
’Aaaah! They’ve torpedoed us!’
‘How? They can’t do that, we’re a cruise ship!’
He heard some words being shouted in what sounded like German. You…you bastard! England stumbled around blindly, clawing the dirt, bushes, and trees. He heard the He managed to pull himself up-the angry shouting grew louder, so it must have meant he was getting closer. Still clutching the single unicorn hair, he grabbed the air, and miraculously came into contact with a strong, muscled chest. The nation was still blinded, but that didn’t matter so long as he could still speak.
“You’ll pay for this, foul kraut! REVERTERE!”
Both nations were blown straight off their feet from the power of the spell.
Notes: The attacker (it’s not Germany, but the nation does speak german) chose a very untimely (or timely, since I guess you did want to read this) moment to attack. A British cruise ship, the SS Athenia, was torpedoed by a German sub at 7:40pm on Sept. 3, 1939. The deaths of some of the passengers and crew distracted England for that one crucial minute.
A femslash prompt! An aggressive femslash prompt! You have no idea how much I love you for this. So, here's a fill-- sorry it's so slow getting around to the smut. Enjoy!
Everyone knows that Ireland doesn't go for men. “Doesn't drive stick,” says Wales, with a wink. “Has a-- ah-- an alternate sexuality,” says England. Scotland doesn't say anything; he just watches her, and dreams.
In their world, you slept with who you could, whether to cement international ties, to prove your dominance, or just to find a bit of solace. Homosexuality as such was never much of an issue; what does gender mean, to someone who was never born, who will never have children? But still, Ireland was unique. There weren't many women who admitted to sleeping only with women.
As such, she had a reputation, and not an entirely positive one. And so the first time Belarus found herself alone with the other woman-- during those fevered months of negotiations about the travel ban-- she was uncomfortable. She thought she saw Ireland looking at her, in that way that men do; she looked away, hoping that the woman wouldn't start a conversation.
No such luck. “Belarus, isn't it?” The woman's English was lilting and melodic. Belarus felt a brief surge of irritation that she simply assumed that she'd know the language, but she let it slide; you can't get angry about everything.
“Yes,” she said, shortly.”
“Ah, so I thought,” said Ireland, with a slow smile. Belarus, without knowing why, found her pulse quickening.
“You're Ireland, of course. What are you doing here? I thought that England handled your international relations.”
Ireland's expression darkened. “Not in years and years, girl.”
Belarus' back straightened. Girl? “I see.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Ireland twirling a strand of hair-- brown, not red, like Belarus had vaguely expected-- around her finger. “So what brings you here? You're not a member of the Union.”
“Neither are you,” Belarus said.
Ireland shrugged. “I tag along from time to time, when things are quiet at home.”
“And how do you know I don't do the same?”
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't.”
Belarus was quiet for a moment. “There's trouble,” she said.
“Oh?” said Ireland, face calm.
“It's Lukashenko. My Prime Minister,” she added, since there was no reason for Ireland to know about her politics. Ireland's expression stayed smooth, vaguely interested. “He... well. The Union isn't pleased with him.” She adjusted her collar fastidiously. “They've imposed a travel ban.”
Ireland's expression was softly sympathetic. “Is that it,” she said.
“Is what it?” asked Belarus, sharply.
“There's been something about you... you seemed troubled.”
Belarus sat straighter. “Thank you for your concern,” she said.
Ireland stood. “Well, I'd best be off. But if you need anyone--” she met Belarus' eyes, calmly, “--you can find me here.” She handed her a card, with an address written on it in neat letters. Her mind immediately assigned all sorts of sinister lesbian motives to the gesture, and she resolved to throw the thing away as soon as she was out of eyeshot.
But she didn't. She kept it, in the bottom of her purse, without knowing quite why. She hadn't had many friends since her long isolation with Brother; maybe she was just lonely. Whatever the reason, one night after a particularly long day-- another frustrating talk with her brother-- she found herself walking towards the address, physical distance meaning little to a being like herself. The country was beautiful, and she couldn't quite bring herself to stop staring at the hills, the meadows. She felt herself growing warm in the face, like she did sometimes when she looked at Brother's tundra. She shook it off, and faced the house that she'd arrived it.
It was a pretty place, stone, with roses on a trellis over the door and an extensive garden. There was no doorbell, so she used the old iron knocker in the middle of the door. Waiting, she ran her finger over the rose bush, wincing as she pricked a finger and sucking away the dot of blood that appeared. She heard footsteps from inside the house. Soon the door opened, and she was staring at the face of the woman she'd talked to at the EU meeting.
Everyone knows that Ireland doesn't go for men. “Doesn't drive stick,” says Wales, with a wink. “Has a-- ah-- an alternate sexuality,” says England. Scotland doesn't say anything; he just watches her, and dreams.
In their world, you slept with who you could, whether to cement international ties, to prove your dominance, or just to find a bit of solace. Homosexuality as such was never much of an issue; what does gender mean, to someone who was never born, who will never have children? But still, Ireland was unique. There weren't many women who admitted to sleeping only with women.
As such, she had a reputation, and not an entirely positive one. And so the first time Belarus found herself alone with the other woman-- during those fevered months of negotiations about the travel ban-- she was uncomfortable. She thought she saw Ireland looking at her, in that way that men do; she looked away, hoping that the woman wouldn't start a conversation.
No such luck. “Belarus, isn't it?” The woman's English was lilting and melodic. Belarus felt a brief surge of irritation that she simply assumed that she'd know the language, but she let it slide; you can't get angry about everything.
“Yes,” she said, shortly.”
“Ah, so I thought,” said Ireland, with a slow smile. Belarus, without knowing why, found her pulse quickening.
“You're Ireland, of course. What are you doing here? I thought that England handled your international relations.”
Ireland's expression darkened. “Not in years and years, girl.”
Belarus' back straightened. Girl? “I see.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Ireland twirling a strand of hair-- brown, not red, like Belarus had vaguely expected-- around her finger. “So what brings you here? You're not a member of the Union.”
“Neither are you,” Belarus said.
Ireland shrugged. “I tag along from time to time, when things are quiet at home.”
“And how do you know I don't do the same?”
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't.”
Belarus was quiet for a moment. “There's trouble,” she said.
“Oh?” said Ireland, face calm.
“It's Lukashenko. My Prime Minister,” she added, since there was no reason for Ireland to know about her politics. Ireland's expression stayed smooth, vaguely interested. “He... well. The Union isn't pleased with him.” She adjusted her collar fastidiously. “They've imposed a travel ban.”
Ireland's expression was softly sympathetic. “Is that it,” she said.
“Is what it?” asked Belarus, sharply.
“There's been something about you... you seemed troubled.”
Belarus sat straighter. “Thank you for your concern,” she said.
Ireland stood. “Well, I'd best be off. But if you need anyone--” she met Belarus' eyes, calmly, “--you can find me here.” She handed her a card, with an address written on it in neat letters. Her mind immediately assigned all sorts of sinister lesbian motives to the gesture, and she resolved to throw the thing away as soon as she was out of eyeshot.
But she didn't. She kept it, in the bottom of her purse, without knowing quite why. She hadn't had many friends since her long isolation with Brother; maybe she was just lonely. Whatever the reason, one night after a particularly long day-- another frustrating talk with her brother-- she found herself walking towards the address, physical distance meaning little to a being like herself. The country was beautiful, and she couldn't quite bring herself to stop staring at the hills, the meadows. She felt herself growing warm in the face, like she did sometimes when she looked at Brother's tundra. She shook it off, and faced the house that she'd arrived it.
It was a pretty place, stone, with roses on a trellis over the door and an extensive garden. There was no doorbell, so she used the old iron knocker in the middle of the door. Waiting, she ran her finger over the rose bush, wincing as she pricked a finger and sucking away the dot of blood that appeared. She heard footsteps from inside the house. Soon the door opened, and she was staring at the face of the woman she'd talked to at the EU meeting.
^Darn it, forgot to title it...above post is part of fill
(Anonymous) 2010-08-31 05:14 am (UTC)(link)Forgot to put the title. The title was supposed say, "America of The Axis!". Please excuse this clumsy author!anon
“Ireland,” she said, in greeting.
“Belarus,” said the other woman. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“Neither was I,” she said, truthfully.
“Well, come in then,” she said, and padded away from the door, her bare feet swishing quietly against the dull wood.
Belarus followed her into a small living room, where a fire crackled and an oil lamp sat on a coffee table. She saw electrical outlets on the wall, but nothing had been plugged into them. Apparently Ireland liked more natural light.
“Cup of tea?” the woman asked.
“Thank you, no,” she answered before she thought about it.
Ireland frowned disapprovingly, and went to the kitchen to pour her one. She sat the mug down in front of Belarus, and said, “Drink. Whatever it is that's brought you here, the tea won't hurt.”
Belarus obediently took a sip-- she was a guest, after all-- and found that a weight settled out of her stomach. “It's good,” she said, shortly.
“Of course,” said Ireland. “Now tell me. How are you?”
Belarus blinked, a catch in her throat. She wasn't sure how long it had been since someone had asked her that question. Before she knew it, she was talking, telling the woman about her children, her problems with her boss, her brother, how long she'd loved him--
“--and he's never so much as looked at me,” she wailed, crossing her arms over her chest, Ireland's calm face drawing the words out of her like a magnet. “No matter how hard I try to be good for him, to be what he wants...” she trailed off into silence, startled to discover that she was blinking back tears. Ireland was sitting next to her on the couch, closer than she'd started, and Belarus found she couldn't remember who had moved. “And all this time, I've never let a man touch me, I wanted it to be perfect, for him... but it's been so long now, and I feel so cold, and so, so alone--” she barely recognized her own voice. “Am I hideous, Ireland?” she asked, plaintively. “Is that why he doesn't want me?”
The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Belarus started at the intimate gesture. “You're lovely,” she said, meeting her eyes. “You're beautiful.”
“I'm beautiful?” she asked, voice small.
“You're beautiful,” Ireland repeated, and Belarus couldn't quite look away from her eyes, so green in the firelight. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost somewhere in her throat when Ireland leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Never doubt that.”
Belarus met her eyes, heart thumping. Her eyes traveled down to Ireland's lips. Maybe it was only because it had been so long since someone had been kind to her, or maybe it was because the woman really was beautiful-- she thought of endless fields, and the roses over the door. She wasn't quite sure why herself, when she leaned forward, and touched her lips to Ireland's.
Ireland drew back, and looked at her, considering. “You're a virgin, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” she answered, primly.
“We'll be slow then,” said Ireland, and kissed her back. Slow, gentle. Belarus started when she felt a brush of tongue.
The woman slid closer on the couch, and all of a sudden, Belarus felt claustrophobic. She pulled away, breathing shallowly. “I don't want slow,” she said, deadly quiet.
The smile on Ireland's face could have melted rocks. “We'll take it fast then,” she said, and fisted a hand in Belarus' hair, tilting her head back, and kissing her hard.
Belarus grabbed Ireland's shirt; she wasn't sure if she wanted to pull her closer or push her away. Her mind was made up for her when Ireland bit her bottom lip, hard enough to sting. She gasped, and nearly snarled, grabbing the other woman's hair and biting her back. Ireland laughed, low. The sound made her inexplicably angry, and on impulse she dragged her fingernails down the other woman's throat. Ireland's eyes went hazy, and she took a deep breath. Experimentally, she did it again. Ireland shuddered. “You're a fast learner, girl,” she got out, voice husky and low.
“Belarus,” said the other woman. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“Neither was I,” she said, truthfully.
“Well, come in then,” she said, and padded away from the door, her bare feet swishing quietly against the dull wood.
Belarus followed her into a small living room, where a fire crackled and an oil lamp sat on a coffee table. She saw electrical outlets on the wall, but nothing had been plugged into them. Apparently Ireland liked more natural light.
“Cup of tea?” the woman asked.
“Thank you, no,” she answered before she thought about it.
Ireland frowned disapprovingly, and went to the kitchen to pour her one. She sat the mug down in front of Belarus, and said, “Drink. Whatever it is that's brought you here, the tea won't hurt.”
Belarus obediently took a sip-- she was a guest, after all-- and found that a weight settled out of her stomach. “It's good,” she said, shortly.
“Of course,” said Ireland. “Now tell me. How are you?”
Belarus blinked, a catch in her throat. She wasn't sure how long it had been since someone had asked her that question. Before she knew it, she was talking, telling the woman about her children, her problems with her boss, her brother, how long she'd loved him--
“--and he's never so much as looked at me,” she wailed, crossing her arms over her chest, Ireland's calm face drawing the words out of her like a magnet. “No matter how hard I try to be good for him, to be what he wants...” she trailed off into silence, startled to discover that she was blinking back tears. Ireland was sitting next to her on the couch, closer than she'd started, and Belarus found she couldn't remember who had moved. “And all this time, I've never let a man touch me, I wanted it to be perfect, for him... but it's been so long now, and I feel so cold, and so, so alone--” she barely recognized her own voice. “Am I hideous, Ireland?” she asked, plaintively. “Is that why he doesn't want me?”
The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Belarus started at the intimate gesture. “You're lovely,” she said, meeting her eyes. “You're beautiful.”
“I'm beautiful?” she asked, voice small.
“You're beautiful,” Ireland repeated, and Belarus couldn't quite look away from her eyes, so green in the firelight. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost somewhere in her throat when Ireland leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Never doubt that.”
Belarus met her eyes, heart thumping. Her eyes traveled down to Ireland's lips. Maybe it was only because it had been so long since someone had been kind to her, or maybe it was because the woman really was beautiful-- she thought of endless fields, and the roses over the door. She wasn't quite sure why herself, when she leaned forward, and touched her lips to Ireland's.
Ireland drew back, and looked at her, considering. “You're a virgin, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” she answered, primly.
“We'll be slow then,” said Ireland, and kissed her back. Slow, gentle. Belarus started when she felt a brush of tongue.
The woman slid closer on the couch, and all of a sudden, Belarus felt claustrophobic. She pulled away, breathing shallowly. “I don't want slow,” she said, deadly quiet.
The smile on Ireland's face could have melted rocks. “We'll take it fast then,” she said, and fisted a hand in Belarus' hair, tilting her head back, and kissing her hard.
Belarus grabbed Ireland's shirt; she wasn't sure if she wanted to pull her closer or push her away. Her mind was made up for her when Ireland bit her bottom lip, hard enough to sting. She gasped, and nearly snarled, grabbing the other woman's hair and biting her back. Ireland laughed, low. The sound made her inexplicably angry, and on impulse she dragged her fingernails down the other woman's throat. Ireland's eyes went hazy, and she took a deep breath. Experimentally, she did it again. Ireland shuddered. “You're a fast learner, girl,” she got out, voice husky and low.
I agree with this comment so much, author!anon. I've actually seen an author just GO there and investigate how depending on a kink like that as crutch could start destroying a relationship, not to mention how using/exploring a kink like that in a way that is definitely NOT roleplay can be quite dangerous and damaging. Very cool stuff, anon, and very chilling. OTL
Belarus smiled, almost cruel. She grabbed Ireland by the hair, and pulled her head back, exposing a long line of neck. “I've always learned fast. And if you call me that again, I'll leave.”
Ireland shook her head, as well as she could. “You and I would both regret that. Still, I'll not say it again.”
“Good,” she said, and scratched her again, leaving long red lines down her neck.
Ireland tilted her head forward enough to meet her eyes. “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Belarus almost smiled, and then she was sinking her teeth into the other woman's neck, and Ireland was gasping and making sounds low in her throat. On sudden inspiration, Belarus fastened her lips around the skin and sucked. The noise from Ireland was closer to a moan now, and Belarus felt heat beginning to pool between her legs. She could enjoy this, she realized, all of a sudden. She could maybe even orgasm, like she did during hot nights at home by herself. And she would still be clean for her brother, she thought, with sudden elation. No man would have touched her.
Belarus let go of the woman's hair, to drag her fingernails down her back. The cloth of her shirt was in the way, so she slid her hands underneath, and then her fingers were moving over hot, soft skin. She dug her nails in, and Ireland gasped, grabbing her shoulders. “Dear Lord,” she said, breathing quickly. Then she moved her hands to Belarus' neck, and slid slow, experimental fingernails up to her jawline, and back down. Belarus shivered. Ireland's smile grew predatory, and she scratched harder, hard enough to leave red lines like the ones on her own neck.
Belarus closed her eyes, and when Ireland's mouth found her throat, she was making small noises that she'd never made in front of another person. She felt hands at the bow tying her apron shut, and she didn't protest when the bow came undone and the zipper on her dress was pulled down. She pulled away, and shrugged out of the long, tight sleeves, leaving her bare to the waist except for a plain, neat bra. Ireland's mouth moved lower, ghosting over her breasts, and Belarus shuddered and arched her back into the touch. Then there were teeth again, and God, she didn't think she'd ever felt anything like it.
One of Ireland's hands left her, and she didn't even notice until she felt a sudden, stinging impact against her cheek. The bitch had slapped her! She straightened in fury, and aimed a hard swing back at her. Ireland caught her hand, and twisted it behind her back, leaning down again to kiss her collarbone, her neck, the tops of her breasts.
“If you want this to stop, say 'Enough,'” she instructed. Belarus sniffed haughtily, and started to struggle. Stop? Hardly.
She managed to work a knee up between them, and pushed the other woman away, following her down to pin her wrists above her head. Then she was kissing her savagely, all tongue and teeth and heavily breath. Ireland rolled her hips up towards her, making a sound low in her throat, and Belarus hissed as she felt the other woman's pelvic bone rub between her legs. Ireland maneuvered them to put a leg between Belarus', and she groaned at the pressure, realizing suddenly that she was wet. Really wet.
Ireland slipped her arms out of Belarus' grasp, and grabbed her hips, moving them up and down along the ridge of her hip. The friction was enough to make Belarus close her eyes tight and gasp. Then Ireland was rocking her hips up into Belarus, and Belarus was moving against her, grinding like a whore, her mind said, but it felt too good to matter. She shifted to get her balance, and pressed her leg between Ireland's. Ireland groaned, low and throaty, so Belarus did it again, working the movement into the rhythm she'd found. The women closed their eyes tight, breathing hard and moving against each other, hands in each other's hair, and then Belarus was coming, barely noticing the sounds coming out of her mouth, holding Ireland tight and nearly crying with the release. Ireland watched her, eyes hungry, and a moment later she was finishing too, eyes open and hips thrusting hard.
Ireland shook her head, as well as she could. “You and I would both regret that. Still, I'll not say it again.”
“Good,” she said, and scratched her again, leaving long red lines down her neck.
Ireland tilted her head forward enough to meet her eyes. “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Belarus almost smiled, and then she was sinking her teeth into the other woman's neck, and Ireland was gasping and making sounds low in her throat. On sudden inspiration, Belarus fastened her lips around the skin and sucked. The noise from Ireland was closer to a moan now, and Belarus felt heat beginning to pool between her legs. She could enjoy this, she realized, all of a sudden. She could maybe even orgasm, like she did during hot nights at home by herself. And she would still be clean for her brother, she thought, with sudden elation. No man would have touched her.
Belarus let go of the woman's hair, to drag her fingernails down her back. The cloth of her shirt was in the way, so she slid her hands underneath, and then her fingers were moving over hot, soft skin. She dug her nails in, and Ireland gasped, grabbing her shoulders. “Dear Lord,” she said, breathing quickly. Then she moved her hands to Belarus' neck, and slid slow, experimental fingernails up to her jawline, and back down. Belarus shivered. Ireland's smile grew predatory, and she scratched harder, hard enough to leave red lines like the ones on her own neck.
Belarus closed her eyes, and when Ireland's mouth found her throat, she was making small noises that she'd never made in front of another person. She felt hands at the bow tying her apron shut, and she didn't protest when the bow came undone and the zipper on her dress was pulled down. She pulled away, and shrugged out of the long, tight sleeves, leaving her bare to the waist except for a plain, neat bra. Ireland's mouth moved lower, ghosting over her breasts, and Belarus shuddered and arched her back into the touch. Then there were teeth again, and God, she didn't think she'd ever felt anything like it.
One of Ireland's hands left her, and she didn't even notice until she felt a sudden, stinging impact against her cheek. The bitch had slapped her! She straightened in fury, and aimed a hard swing back at her. Ireland caught her hand, and twisted it behind her back, leaning down again to kiss her collarbone, her neck, the tops of her breasts.
“If you want this to stop, say 'Enough,'” she instructed. Belarus sniffed haughtily, and started to struggle. Stop? Hardly.
She managed to work a knee up between them, and pushed the other woman away, following her down to pin her wrists above her head. Then she was kissing her savagely, all tongue and teeth and heavily breath. Ireland rolled her hips up towards her, making a sound low in her throat, and Belarus hissed as she felt the other woman's pelvic bone rub between her legs. Ireland maneuvered them to put a leg between Belarus', and she groaned at the pressure, realizing suddenly that she was wet. Really wet.
Ireland slipped her arms out of Belarus' grasp, and grabbed her hips, moving them up and down along the ridge of her hip. The friction was enough to make Belarus close her eyes tight and gasp. Then Ireland was rocking her hips up into Belarus, and Belarus was moving against her, grinding like a whore, her mind said, but it felt too good to matter. She shifted to get her balance, and pressed her leg between Ireland's. Ireland groaned, low and throaty, so Belarus did it again, working the movement into the rhythm she'd found. The women closed their eyes tight, breathing hard and moving against each other, hands in each other's hair, and then Belarus was coming, barely noticing the sounds coming out of her mouth, holding Ireland tight and nearly crying with the release. Ireland watched her, eyes hungry, and a moment later she was finishing too, eyes open and hips thrusting hard.
They lay there in silence for a moment, breath hot against each other's cheeks, hair curling against damp necks, slick against the inside of their skirts. Belarus spoke first. “No one will no of this.”
Ireland's eyes were closed. “No one,” she agreed, a small smile on her face.
“Then,” said Belarus, freeing her arms with a quickness her brother would never have guessed of her and choking off Ireland's air with a wrist to the throat. “I don't think we should stop here.” Her voice was low, dangerous.
Ireland lay very, very still, trembling with the effort it took to keep from fighting back. When Belarus drew away, she let out the breath she'd been holding, air cool and welcome in her lungs. Then, with reflexes earned through centuries of war and struggle, she flipped the two of them over so that Belarus was looking up at her. “No,” she said. “I don't think so either.”
Belarus grinned, savagely, an expression she didn't even know she could make outside of the battlefield. She lifted her head and arched her back, letting Ireland look at her. "Teach me," she said. The firelight was beautiful across the planes of Ireland's face, and there was plenty of night left.
Ireland's eyes were closed. “No one,” she agreed, a small smile on her face.
“Then,” said Belarus, freeing her arms with a quickness her brother would never have guessed of her and choking off Ireland's air with a wrist to the throat. “I don't think we should stop here.” Her voice was low, dangerous.
Ireland lay very, very still, trembling with the effort it took to keep from fighting back. When Belarus drew away, she let out the breath she'd been holding, air cool and welcome in her lungs. Then, with reflexes earned through centuries of war and struggle, she flipped the two of them over so that Belarus was looking up at her. “No,” she said. “I don't think so either.”
Belarus grinned, savagely, an expression she didn't even know she could make outside of the battlefield. She lifted her head and arched her back, letting Ireland look at her. "Teach me," she said. The firelight was beautiful across the planes of Ireland's face, and there was plenty of night left.
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