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Canada grows a playoff beard to support Netherlands during the World Cup. Netherlands can either love it or hate it, but it end with Netherlands shaving it off.
They're in an Established relationship.
They're in an Established relationship.
I hope this was close to what you were thinking, OP!
Lars breathed out a sigh of content and took another swing of his ice cold booze. The club he’d chosen for the night was nearly on the outskirts of Amsterdam, far away from the city’s glittering lights and crowded traffic. In that case, it was definitely quieter and slower than most other clubs, the rumble of the World Cup shaking the foundations of every bar in the city. As they should be with Netherlands’s game against Uruguay being played over and over again on TV screens across the small but proud country. Lars himself had been sucked into the excitement and anticipation, sitting at home, leaning back on his couch, with a cinnamon flavoured rolled up fag and his pet rabbit sitting idly by, eyes glued to his TV. The announcer’s rough voice narrated what was obvious and interrupted the shouts from the players but Holland didn’t mind the sounds, all senses honed on that one little black and white ball that swerved in blinding strokes across the green field and would decide exaggeratingly an entire country’s fate.
When they came out 3:2, Netherlands practically exploded in aspiring celebration, the streets flooded with people of all statures, and cheers that reached to every city rang in absolute bliss. Lars had actually started jumping on his couch in pure glee, completely out of his own nature, the knowledge of his team going into the finals to butt heads with Spain of all people racking his mind. He fired up to beat the Spaniards ass. His rabbit had hopped up and down due to it’s masters happiness but quickly decided that watching the game had worn it out far too much and curled up across the room in it’s favourite corner.
Holland had gone outside to mingle with the crying people of his country for a good few hours. It wasn’t over yet but for the citizens, the occasion for getting into the finals was too glorious to pass up. After having a good few drinks, Lars had gone back home to call up his boyfriend Canada who’d flown to the Netherlands to support Lars’s team. The nearly invisible (but terribly cute, in Holland’s opinion) blonde had been there from nearly the start, watching games with the Dutch nation, and usually they ended up going on congratulatory bar visits and smoke joints. Despite seeming like a goody two shoes, Matthew’s face literally lit up at the mention of some marijuana on even the less stressful days. After coming home, they’d curl up against each other on Lars’s bed and just get as high as possible. He really enjoyed these times with Canada and more than occasionally they ended up sleeping together that night.
However, the stoic nation hadn’t seen his Canadian for awhile now. Despite his wins near the end, he’d been a bit busy with his country’s economics and financials to go with Matthew out for even lunch. He’d missed three games and each time, Matthew had forgiven him and assured perhaps another time. Well, this certainly seemed like the time. And the Dutchman was going to make it up to the blonde one way or the other.
The front door made it’s shrill ringing noise, two beats, as it was opened and closed lightly. Holland looked up from his seat at the right side table and his eyes first lay on that one stubborn string of hair that curled naturally on Matthew’s head. His normally solid face softened and broke with a small smile that quickly faded again and was replaced with a perplexed look as his gaze shifted to the Canadian’s face. It was the same as it usually was, without sharp angles, large and welcoming eyes, and features that matched his brother America in more than one way but was still distinctive to Lars. But something was now occupying the nation’s soft skin, something that certainly wasn’t there before.
Lars breathed out a sigh of content and took another swing of his ice cold booze. The club he’d chosen for the night was nearly on the outskirts of Amsterdam, far away from the city’s glittering lights and crowded traffic. In that case, it was definitely quieter and slower than most other clubs, the rumble of the World Cup shaking the foundations of every bar in the city. As they should be with Netherlands’s game against Uruguay being played over and over again on TV screens across the small but proud country. Lars himself had been sucked into the excitement and anticipation, sitting at home, leaning back on his couch, with a cinnamon flavoured rolled up fag and his pet rabbit sitting idly by, eyes glued to his TV. The announcer’s rough voice narrated what was obvious and interrupted the shouts from the players but Holland didn’t mind the sounds, all senses honed on that one little black and white ball that swerved in blinding strokes across the green field and would decide exaggeratingly an entire country’s fate.
When they came out 3:2, Netherlands practically exploded in aspiring celebration, the streets flooded with people of all statures, and cheers that reached to every city rang in absolute bliss. Lars had actually started jumping on his couch in pure glee, completely out of his own nature, the knowledge of his team going into the finals to butt heads with Spain of all people racking his mind. He fired up to beat the Spaniards ass. His rabbit had hopped up and down due to it’s masters happiness but quickly decided that watching the game had worn it out far too much and curled up across the room in it’s favourite corner.
Holland had gone outside to mingle with the crying people of his country for a good few hours. It wasn’t over yet but for the citizens, the occasion for getting into the finals was too glorious to pass up. After having a good few drinks, Lars had gone back home to call up his boyfriend Canada who’d flown to the Netherlands to support Lars’s team. The nearly invisible (but terribly cute, in Holland’s opinion) blonde had been there from nearly the start, watching games with the Dutch nation, and usually they ended up going on congratulatory bar visits and smoke joints. Despite seeming like a goody two shoes, Matthew’s face literally lit up at the mention of some marijuana on even the less stressful days. After coming home, they’d curl up against each other on Lars’s bed and just get as high as possible. He really enjoyed these times with Canada and more than occasionally they ended up sleeping together that night.
However, the stoic nation hadn’t seen his Canadian for awhile now. Despite his wins near the end, he’d been a bit busy with his country’s economics and financials to go with Matthew out for even lunch. He’d missed three games and each time, Matthew had forgiven him and assured perhaps another time. Well, this certainly seemed like the time. And the Dutchman was going to make it up to the blonde one way or the other.
The front door made it’s shrill ringing noise, two beats, as it was opened and closed lightly. Holland looked up from his seat at the right side table and his eyes first lay on that one stubborn string of hair that curled naturally on Matthew’s head. His normally solid face softened and broke with a small smile that quickly faded again and was replaced with a perplexed look as his gaze shifted to the Canadian’s face. It was the same as it usually was, without sharp angles, large and welcoming eyes, and features that matched his brother America in more than one way but was still distinctive to Lars. But something was now occupying the nation’s soft skin, something that certainly wasn’t there before.
So I got this really neat line stuck in my head:
"I love you enough to not hate you, but not enough to forgive you."
...or something to that effect. If someone could make a Hetalia fic based on this?
Thank you *bows*
"I love you enough to not hate you, but not enough to forgive you."
...or something to that effect. If someone could make a Hetalia fic based on this?
Thank you *bows*
Huh, my first time writing Fruk and it’s this. Oh well. I’m not the person who promised to do this above. Please forgive any typos. ;__;
Francis thinks that he truly should have seen this coming. Relationships did not last, were not meant to last, especially with him, and all of the new alliances and globalization could not make up for centuries of fighting, tears, and regret. So perhaps it is just the moment that catches him off guard, he thinks, when he opens to the door to Arthur’s flat, bouquet in hand.
It was inexplicably unlocked, but he didn’t pay it any mind, because he was supposed to be surprising the other for their upcoming anniversary (later on, the irony hits Francis of him actually being monogamous like an embittered punch to the stomach). So he opens the door and there Arthur is, on the couch, eyes closed, mouth agape as he let his former colony pound him into oblivion.
There is strewn clothing on the floor, but for the most part, both of them have most of their clothing on as though it were a rushed act and yet, none of this matters to Francis. He feels too sick to care.
He drops the bouquet in shock and feels a distinct burning of betrayal and hurt in his throat. Part of him doesn’t believe this is happening—after all, Francis does not get cheated on—and part of him refuses to believe it’s happening. He simply does not get cheated on and—oh god, the room smells like sex and he feels humiliated.
The worst part, though, is how quickly Arthur detangles himself from Alfred, stuttering excuses, once he realizes that Francis is there. Francis doesn’t want to acknowledge the absolutely torn look in Arthur’s eyes; it would be so much easier if Arthur didn’t care.
Francis puts on a brave face—which he finds terribly difficult to do over the sound of his heart breaking—before snidely remarking, “So sorry to interrupt, Angleterre,” (he hasn’t called Arthur that since before they decided to be serious) and exiting with a door slam.
He waits outside the door, though. Part of him doesn’t want it to be over like that, not so soon. Part of him desperately wants—needs—Arthur to fight for him (“Chase after me, you bastard!” he thinks when it becomes horribly apparent that Arthur isn’t following). But life isn’t filled with bullshit fairytale endings, so Francis leaves after a few minutes, wanting very much to shoot something.
What perhaps is worst about the whole ordeal is that Arthur doesn’t try to contact him for a few days after. It is pretty much a certain that the relationship is over—Francis made a mistake letting someone into his life like that and it certainly won’t happen again—but he would at least like an apology. A, “Sorry for wasting your time,” or “Sorry for ripping your heart out.”
It is a full week later when Arthur finally calls. Francis certainly wasn’t waiting by the phone or anything, but the thoughts of how that conversation would go had wormed through his mind all week and, at the end of it all, Francis simply can’t bring himself to answer the phone. His stomach still feels too sick from picturing Arthur being fucked.
Beep.
“Um, hello, Francis. Sorry about waiting to call and all that but, I, uh, wanted to get all of my thoughts together before I talked to you and…and, you know what? This doesn’t feel right. Can I talk to you in person? So, um, thanks for listening…call me back?”
Beep.
Francis isn’t sure what to make of that—seeing Arthur in person right now seems like that last thing he could want to do, but he waits a day and calls Arthur back (It’s funny, he thinks, how he and Arthur used to try to kill each other on every occasion and now, he’s wary of even calling the him).
Francis thinks that he truly should have seen this coming. Relationships did not last, were not meant to last, especially with him, and all of the new alliances and globalization could not make up for centuries of fighting, tears, and regret. So perhaps it is just the moment that catches him off guard, he thinks, when he opens to the door to Arthur’s flat, bouquet in hand.
It was inexplicably unlocked, but he didn’t pay it any mind, because he was supposed to be surprising the other for their upcoming anniversary (later on, the irony hits Francis of him actually being monogamous like an embittered punch to the stomach). So he opens the door and there Arthur is, on the couch, eyes closed, mouth agape as he let his former colony pound him into oblivion.
There is strewn clothing on the floor, but for the most part, both of them have most of their clothing on as though it were a rushed act and yet, none of this matters to Francis. He feels too sick to care.
He drops the bouquet in shock and feels a distinct burning of betrayal and hurt in his throat. Part of him doesn’t believe this is happening—after all, Francis does not get cheated on—and part of him refuses to believe it’s happening. He simply does not get cheated on and—oh god, the room smells like sex and he feels humiliated.
The worst part, though, is how quickly Arthur detangles himself from Alfred, stuttering excuses, once he realizes that Francis is there. Francis doesn’t want to acknowledge the absolutely torn look in Arthur’s eyes; it would be so much easier if Arthur didn’t care.
Francis puts on a brave face—which he finds terribly difficult to do over the sound of his heart breaking—before snidely remarking, “So sorry to interrupt, Angleterre,” (he hasn’t called Arthur that since before they decided to be serious) and exiting with a door slam.
He waits outside the door, though. Part of him doesn’t want it to be over like that, not so soon. Part of him desperately wants—needs—Arthur to fight for him (“Chase after me, you bastard!” he thinks when it becomes horribly apparent that Arthur isn’t following). But life isn’t filled with bullshit fairytale endings, so Francis leaves after a few minutes, wanting very much to shoot something.
What perhaps is worst about the whole ordeal is that Arthur doesn’t try to contact him for a few days after. It is pretty much a certain that the relationship is over—Francis made a mistake letting someone into his life like that and it certainly won’t happen again—but he would at least like an apology. A, “Sorry for wasting your time,” or “Sorry for ripping your heart out.”
It is a full week later when Arthur finally calls. Francis certainly wasn’t waiting by the phone or anything, but the thoughts of how that conversation would go had wormed through his mind all week and, at the end of it all, Francis simply can’t bring himself to answer the phone. His stomach still feels too sick from picturing Arthur being fucked.
Beep.
“Um, hello, Francis. Sorry about waiting to call and all that but, I, uh, wanted to get all of my thoughts together before I talked to you and…and, you know what? This doesn’t feel right. Can I talk to you in person? So, um, thanks for listening…call me back?”
Beep.
Francis isn’t sure what to make of that—seeing Arthur in person right now seems like that last thing he could want to do, but he waits a day and calls Arthur back (It’s funny, he thinks, how he and Arthur used to try to kill each other on every occasion and now, he’s wary of even calling the him).
(screened comment)
Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 1/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-12 06:11 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 2/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-12 06:17 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 3/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-12 06:27 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 4/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-19 04:06 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 5/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-19 04:10 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 7a/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-21 06:20 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 7b/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-21 06:23 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] prologue/sidestory A
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-08 05:56 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] prologue/sidestory B
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-08 05:58 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 10/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-08 06:07 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Prussia/Germany/Austria et al Who's Afraid of Roderich Edelstein? [Rewrite] 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-08 06:12 (UTC) - ExpandOkay so I have recently realized that I have seen WWII Au fics take part mostly on the Western side of the European theater.
I am going to go ahead and request a fic that takes place in North Africa during WWII, with the main focus on the Allies in a Human AU. Other then that I am going to say that this is pretty much anything goes and any length is good.
Bonus:
- Egypt is really ignored on the Kink Meme so I want him in there... but just drop the Gupta from his human name.
I am going to go ahead and request a fic that takes place in North Africa during WWII, with the main focus on the Allies in a Human AU. Other then that I am going to say that this is pretty much anything goes and any length is good.
Bonus:
- Egypt is really ignored on the Kink Meme so I want him in there... but just drop the Gupta from his human name.
I've heard the treaty of Versailles/ a number of other events in German history described as rape, which is what gave me this idea.
I want Germany and Italy in an established relationship, where Italy tries to initiate sex and discovers that Germany has genophobia.
Bonus: Italy assumes the reason Germany doesn't want to have sex is because Germany isn't attracted to him, and does things like dressing up in cute/sexy outfits which only makes Germany even more uncomfortable.
I want Germany and Italy in an established relationship, where Italy tries to initiate sex and discovers that Germany has genophobia.
Bonus: Italy assumes the reason Germany doesn't want to have sex is because Germany isn't attracted to him, and does things like dressing up in cute/sexy outfits which only makes Germany even more uncomfortable.
Italy was willing to admit that Germany was, on the whole, smarter than him. Italy could do a lot of things better than Germany, that was true, but Germany caught onto things quicker, understood things better than Italy and he was usually better at reading the atmosphere too. Which was why, after almost a month of subtle hints, suggestions and downright obvious desirous looks thrown in Germany’s direction, Italy was starting to get a little frustrated that he wasn’t getting the point; he wanted sex. But why? Was he so dense when it came to this kind of thing that he couldn’t take even the most obvious of hints? Perhaps a more direct approach was needed, Italy mulled as he chewed slowly on the end of his fork, the pasta once on it long gone.
“Italien, is everything alright?” Germany shook Italy from his thoughts with his concerned voice that really was sweet coming from such a big man.
“Si, I was just thinking about stuff.” Italy smiled back calmly. Germany took this as a hint not to probe any further and so went back to his own lunch. Italy picked up his own empty plate and made his way over to the sink, swooping calmly and unannounced to wrap an arm around Ludwig and kiss him on the cheek.
“Grazie!” He said cheerily, as Germany grunted something akin to a ‘you’re welcome’, his expression practically unchanged but a tell-tale red tint on his ears giving him away. Tonight. Tonight would be the night Italy would use his direct approach.
…
Italy sat in the comfy armchair next to Germany’s, an open but ignored book lying on his lap. He eyed his friend, taking in every feature and every angle of him as he sat (with impossibly straight posture) in his own chair, reading a newspaper. Feliciano glances at the clock; it’s 10.35 now, Germany doesn’t normally go to bed until 11 so he shouldn’t be too tired and he looked relatively alert. Now, he’d do it now.
Italy got up from his chair, putting the book down on the coffee table carefully so as not to annoy Germany and stands over the other nation, bearing a winning smile.
“Hey, Germania, do you want to go to bed?” he asked sweetly, slyly hiding his intentions.
“Not yet, Italien, I want to finish this article. You go to bed if you want.” Germany replied, barely taking his eyes from the newspaper. Italy’s smile turned to a frown.
“No! Come on, Germania, come with me to bed.” He persisted, leaning on the armrests. Germany flipped down his newspaper and removed his reading glasses, looking up at his friend, thoroughly annoyed at this disturbance.
“It’s just one article. Can’t it wait, Italien?” he implored in a brave attempt at being reasonable with the Italian.
“It cannot wait.” Italy said seriously, sitting himself astride Germany’s legs. Germany was used to Italy invading his personal space and getting uncomfortably close so this particular action elicited little more than a raised eyebrow and an irritated sigh. Italy leaned in to kiss Germany on each cheek.
“Italien, I’ll come to bed in a minute. Please, just…”
But Italy continued to kiss him, wrapping his arms around the German determinedly. And then he kissed him on the mouth, a place that, until now, had not been subject to Italy’s affections. Italy was bubbling with glee inside- his first kiss with Germany! Well, his first proper kiss. It would be nice if he would kiss back, he was probably just a bit shocked, that was all. He pulled back, smiling, and looked expectantly into Germany’s eyes. He had been expecting surprise, embarrassed shock even, on his friend’s face. He hadn’t been expecting the purely horrified expression in Germany’s eyes, the face drained of colour, the trembling brow. Italy’s heart pounded loudly, worried by the fear in Germany’s face. This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Germany stood up and Italy fell to the floor on his arse with a painful thump. The blond left the room quickly and wordlessly, leaving his friend hurt and perplexed on the floor.
“Italien, is everything alright?” Germany shook Italy from his thoughts with his concerned voice that really was sweet coming from such a big man.
“Si, I was just thinking about stuff.” Italy smiled back calmly. Germany took this as a hint not to probe any further and so went back to his own lunch. Italy picked up his own empty plate and made his way over to the sink, swooping calmly and unannounced to wrap an arm around Ludwig and kiss him on the cheek.
“Grazie!” He said cheerily, as Germany grunted something akin to a ‘you’re welcome’, his expression practically unchanged but a tell-tale red tint on his ears giving him away. Tonight. Tonight would be the night Italy would use his direct approach.
…
Italy sat in the comfy armchair next to Germany’s, an open but ignored book lying on his lap. He eyed his friend, taking in every feature and every angle of him as he sat (with impossibly straight posture) in his own chair, reading a newspaper. Feliciano glances at the clock; it’s 10.35 now, Germany doesn’t normally go to bed until 11 so he shouldn’t be too tired and he looked relatively alert. Now, he’d do it now.
Italy got up from his chair, putting the book down on the coffee table carefully so as not to annoy Germany and stands over the other nation, bearing a winning smile.
“Hey, Germania, do you want to go to bed?” he asked sweetly, slyly hiding his intentions.
“Not yet, Italien, I want to finish this article. You go to bed if you want.” Germany replied, barely taking his eyes from the newspaper. Italy’s smile turned to a frown.
“No! Come on, Germania, come with me to bed.” He persisted, leaning on the armrests. Germany flipped down his newspaper and removed his reading glasses, looking up at his friend, thoroughly annoyed at this disturbance.
“It’s just one article. Can’t it wait, Italien?” he implored in a brave attempt at being reasonable with the Italian.
“It cannot wait.” Italy said seriously, sitting himself astride Germany’s legs. Germany was used to Italy invading his personal space and getting uncomfortably close so this particular action elicited little more than a raised eyebrow and an irritated sigh. Italy leaned in to kiss Germany on each cheek.
“Italien, I’ll come to bed in a minute. Please, just…”
But Italy continued to kiss him, wrapping his arms around the German determinedly. And then he kissed him on the mouth, a place that, until now, had not been subject to Italy’s affections. Italy was bubbling with glee inside- his first kiss with Germany! Well, his first proper kiss. It would be nice if he would kiss back, he was probably just a bit shocked, that was all. He pulled back, smiling, and looked expectantly into Germany’s eyes. He had been expecting surprise, embarrassed shock even, on his friend’s face. He hadn’t been expecting the purely horrified expression in Germany’s eyes, the face drained of colour, the trembling brow. Italy’s heart pounded loudly, worried by the fear in Germany’s face. This wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Germany stood up and Italy fell to the floor on his arse with a painful thump. The blond left the room quickly and wordlessly, leaving his friend hurt and perplexed on the floor.
So I'm a total fluff!bunny and would really like to see some Spamano fluff anons *A*.
General plot-bunny/kink/gist: Romano and Spain plan to meet on Valentines, but due to some event that's up to the filler!anon, Spain is held up/distracted on Valentines and keeps on getting later and later for his and Romano's date. Romano, on the other hand, is waiting... and waiting... and waiting...
Make it a happy ending please! This anon is fine with nation names or human names, alternate universes, art/comic fills, etc. etc... whatever the filler!anon deems worthy ;>
Bonus 1: Romano thinks Spain's late on purpose/has forgotten and is understandably upset
Bonus 2: Spain doesn't show up until RIGHT BEFORE the cafe/restaurant closes
General plot-bunny/kink/gist: Romano and Spain plan to meet on Valentines, but due to some event that's up to the filler!anon, Spain is held up/distracted on Valentines and keeps on getting later and later for his and Romano's date. Romano, on the other hand, is waiting... and waiting... and waiting...
Make it a happy ending please! This anon is fine with nation names or human names, alternate universes, art/comic fills, etc. etc... whatever the filler!anon deems worthy ;>
Bonus 1: Romano thinks Spain's late on purpose/has forgotten and is understandably upset
Bonus 2: Spain doesn't show up until RIGHT BEFORE the cafe/restaurant closes
I'd give it a try... First time filling, so please don't be too harsh.
Also, I'm not quite sure how fluffy it turned out to be because this anon has no idea how to write something that is not angst =)
-----------------------
- Sir, perhaps you should stop hiding behind this bush and sit down? Perhaps I could get you a glass of water?
- Ah!... No, I'm quite well where I am right now... Just make sure no one sits down at that table! - loudly whispered Romano at the waiter. He didn't really want to give up his lookout position quite yet, just after mere twenty five minutes of hiding. Technically his date is not supposed to start until fifteen minutes later, but he couldn't sleep all night. He spent hours upon hours of picking what he is going to wear, then cleaning up (poorly) the resulted mess, discarding the previously chosen wardrobe because he decided it would clash with Spain's hair, and then aimlessly circling around the establishment where they planned to meet... But he decided beforehand that he will wait for Spain to show up first and then join him fashionably late. He didn't want to appear that desperate. Not really.
Spain was looking forward to this day all week. He made various preparations, wanting to make sure that everything goes perfect. Unfortunately he didn’t take into account just one thing that probably wouldn’t have mattered at all have he left his apartment just one minute sooner. As soon as he was getting ready he heard the most horrifying howl that he has ever heard in his life. Shivering, he peaked out the door. That fraction of a second was enough for pissed, angry and drunk England to barge inside.
Two hours in Romano decided to give up and sit down. He was still trying to rationalize the absence of Spain. Perhaps he has simply overslept; after all, they did decide to meet rather early. Perhaps something happened... An accident! But, no, Italian quickly calmed himself. They were nations, after all. Simple accidents, even deliberate assassination attempts by mere humans wouldn't leave them incapacitated for a long period of time. And last time he checked, Spain's economy was on a decent level... no sort of emergencies written about in the newspaper... Dammit, where is that bastard!
Drunken England is a scary sight, indeed. He was virtually a hostage within his own apartment. Every time he tried to inch away toward the exit, Arthur just grabbed him by his clothes and told him another soul-wrenching story about what an ungrateful brat Alfred is, and how on such an important day he just ignores him. And every time Spain tried to explain England that maybe, just maybe he could have plans that day, he was greeted by a scowl and a declaration of war. And then Arthur would lose his trail of though and start telling the story from the beginning.
After shooing away the waiter for the umpteenth time (who kept trying to get him to order something), Italian was becoming genuinely angry. How did Spain possibly dare to stand him up! How dare he forget that they were planning to meet! Perhaps he is spying on his brother and that potato-head... The sight of those happy couples sitting around him, whispering sweet nothings to each other was making him sick. He wanted to cry, but kept it in himself, not wanting to give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing he made him feel miserable. He kept staring at the phone, waiting for a call from Spain that would explain everything; damn, he wanted to call him himself, to yell at him, to make him come here and apologize! But he didn't and just kept waiting and waiting and waiting.
Also, I'm not quite sure how fluffy it turned out to be because this anon has no idea how to write something that is not angst =)
-----------------------
- Sir, perhaps you should stop hiding behind this bush and sit down? Perhaps I could get you a glass of water?
- Ah!... No, I'm quite well where I am right now... Just make sure no one sits down at that table! - loudly whispered Romano at the waiter. He didn't really want to give up his lookout position quite yet, just after mere twenty five minutes of hiding. Technically his date is not supposed to start until fifteen minutes later, but he couldn't sleep all night. He spent hours upon hours of picking what he is going to wear, then cleaning up (poorly) the resulted mess, discarding the previously chosen wardrobe because he decided it would clash with Spain's hair, and then aimlessly circling around the establishment where they planned to meet... But he decided beforehand that he will wait for Spain to show up first and then join him fashionably late. He didn't want to appear that desperate. Not really.
Spain was looking forward to this day all week. He made various preparations, wanting to make sure that everything goes perfect. Unfortunately he didn’t take into account just one thing that probably wouldn’t have mattered at all have he left his apartment just one minute sooner. As soon as he was getting ready he heard the most horrifying howl that he has ever heard in his life. Shivering, he peaked out the door. That fraction of a second was enough for pissed, angry and drunk England to barge inside.
Two hours in Romano decided to give up and sit down. He was still trying to rationalize the absence of Spain. Perhaps he has simply overslept; after all, they did decide to meet rather early. Perhaps something happened... An accident! But, no, Italian quickly calmed himself. They were nations, after all. Simple accidents, even deliberate assassination attempts by mere humans wouldn't leave them incapacitated for a long period of time. And last time he checked, Spain's economy was on a decent level... no sort of emergencies written about in the newspaper... Dammit, where is that bastard!
Drunken England is a scary sight, indeed. He was virtually a hostage within his own apartment. Every time he tried to inch away toward the exit, Arthur just grabbed him by his clothes and told him another soul-wrenching story about what an ungrateful brat Alfred is, and how on such an important day he just ignores him. And every time Spain tried to explain England that maybe, just maybe he could have plans that day, he was greeted by a scowl and a declaration of war. And then Arthur would lose his trail of though and start telling the story from the beginning.
After shooing away the waiter for the umpteenth time (who kept trying to get him to order something), Italian was becoming genuinely angry. How did Spain possibly dare to stand him up! How dare he forget that they were planning to meet! Perhaps he is spying on his brother and that potato-head... The sight of those happy couples sitting around him, whispering sweet nothings to each other was making him sick. He wanted to cry, but kept it in himself, not wanting to give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing he made him feel miserable. He kept staring at the phone, waiting for a call from Spain that would explain everything; damn, he wanted to call him himself, to yell at him, to make him come here and apologize! But he didn't and just kept waiting and waiting and waiting.
Re: Spain/Romano: Waiting for Spain on Valentines [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-15 20:53 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Spain/Romano: Waiting for Spain on Valentines [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-19 04:37 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Spain/Romano: Waiting for Spain on Valentines [2/2]
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-20 17:44 (UTC) - ExpandIf Hungary loves Yaoi than surely her male counterpart would be all over yuri.
So as previously said: Anything goes! I just want to see Male!Hungary andall as many other nations as possible genderbent while Hungary makes it his mission to get a free show by all the female couples.
What? Yeah, I don't know.
DO WHAT YOU WISH WITH IT BUT MAKE IT LOLZY!
So as previously said: Anything goes! I just want to see Male!Hungary and
What? Yeah, I don't know.
DO WHAT YOU WISH WITH IT BUT MAKE IT LOLZY!
America/anyone America being cast in an Hollywood movie as the villain.....
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 03:26 am (UTC)(link)...and being a little bit too convincing.
A talent agent scouts Alfred and gets him a major role in a block-buster.
Excited, once the movie raps up Alfred gets everyone tickets to go see the movie.
Figuring they would all get some laughs at him, they all go opening night.
Cue them being utterly horrified by Alfred's role, for Alfred--to due being part of his Hollywood--makes an horrifyingly convincing villain.
AKA Nations watching a movie starring America, is terrified by America's extremely convincing performance
Bonus: They don't look him in the eye for weeks.
A talent agent scouts Alfred and gets him a major role in a block-buster.
Excited, once the movie raps up Alfred gets everyone tickets to go see the movie.
Figuring they would all get some laughs at him, they all go opening night.
Cue them being utterly horrified by Alfred's role, for Alfred--to due being part of his Hollywood--makes an horrifyingly convincing villain.
AKA Nations watching a movie starring America, is terrified by America's extremely convincing performance
Bonus: They don't look him in the eye for weeks.
Re: America/anyone America being cast in an Hollywood movie as the villain.....
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 04:20 pm (UTC)(link)I've never seen a prompt like this, anon. :D This looks fantastic! Maybe I can bribe possible fillers with art for filling? >:D
Just the title, pretty much. Smut is not mandatory, but could take place before or after(or in, haha) he shower. I really want to just see some sluff between the two with affectionate, cute gestures like washing each other's hair, backs, or just whole body.
So yeah, smut doesn't really matter to me, I just love the fluff.
(if someone wants to do this with another pairing that's fine, but I really would like to see America and Canada.)
So yeah, smut doesn't really matter to me, I just love the fluff.
(if someone wants to do this with another pairing that's fine, but I really would like to see America and Canada.)
"Wow! What a day! Your bears have a real temper problem though, Mattie." Canada stared blankly at his brother.
America had called up Canada earlier that day and whined about being bored and lonely, along with something about England that Canada didn't really pay attention to.
In the hopes of placating his brother, Canada invited America up to his house to go hiking for the day. America did agree, but Canada should've known it wasn't just going to be a simple hike.
All throughout the day America caused all sorts of problems. He complained about being hungry and decided he knew a better way than the trail and ended up getting them lost. He smacked Matthew with tree branches as he moved them out of his way.He fell into a large mud puddle, dragging Canada with him, and tried to steal a bear cub with plans for getting Kumajiro a girlfriend.
After all this, Canada was exhausted and didn't hear a word of America's chatter beside him.
When they reached the house he immediately headed for the shower.
As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he felt a presence behind him and glanced back,"Ah, Alfred, I shouldn't take long. You can wait in the kitchen."
"Nonsense! It'll be quicker if we both just get one now!" America said decisively and pushed past Canada.
As America entered the bathroom and began to strip off his clothes, Canada frowned uneasily,"But, won't it be awkward?"
"Why? We're both dudes so it's cool." America flashed him a smile then began struggling with his boots.
Canada sighed and shut the door behind them, undressing as well.
Once his clothes were gone Matthew heard a loud whistle and he blushed and tossed a sock in America's direction.
His only response was a chuckle as his brother turned on the water and after a few seconds, stepped into the shower.
Canada stood awkwardly for a few moments, then set his glasses on the counter and stepped into the shower as well.
America had called up Canada earlier that day and whined about being bored and lonely, along with something about England that Canada didn't really pay attention to.
In the hopes of placating his brother, Canada invited America up to his house to go hiking for the day. America did agree, but Canada should've known it wasn't just going to be a simple hike.
All throughout the day America caused all sorts of problems. He complained about being hungry and decided he knew a better way than the trail and ended up getting them lost. He smacked Matthew with tree branches as he moved them out of his way.He fell into a large mud puddle, dragging Canada with him, and tried to steal a bear cub with plans for getting Kumajiro a girlfriend.
After all this, Canada was exhausted and didn't hear a word of America's chatter beside him.
When they reached the house he immediately headed for the shower.
As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he felt a presence behind him and glanced back,"Ah, Alfred, I shouldn't take long. You can wait in the kitchen."
"Nonsense! It'll be quicker if we both just get one now!" America said decisively and pushed past Canada.
As America entered the bathroom and began to strip off his clothes, Canada frowned uneasily,"But, won't it be awkward?"
"Why? We're both dudes so it's cool." America flashed him a smile then began struggling with his boots.
Canada sighed and shut the door behind them, undressing as well.
Once his clothes were gone Matthew heard a loud whistle and he blushed and tossed a sock in America's direction.
His only response was a chuckle as his brother turned on the water and after a few seconds, stepped into the shower.
Canada stood awkwardly for a few moments, then set his glasses on the counter and stepped into the shower as well.
How'd he get it? Is it something historical, or some really stupid accident? I want to see anon's ideas. Got to say, I'm a little biased towards humor, but don't let that stop any plot bunnies.
Bonus - He tells everyone it's representative of an event, but it really was something stupid.
Bonus - He tells everyone it's representative of an event, but it really was something stupid.
Outside the meeting building, Netherlands occupied the closest smoking bench he could find. Filling his pipe with his usual measure of marijuana, he gave himself a light and tilted his head back before taking a puff.
“Hey, Mr. Netherlands! Whatcha doing?!” A boyish voice popped up from next to him. He peered out of one eye to see an especially short group of people, which he eventually recognized as the group of micronations that show up at meetings. The one that had spoken up was the little British sailor boy with mega-sized eyebrows.
“I’m having myself a smoke.”
“Isn’t smoking a bad thing, though?” The little single pony-tailed girl chirped up.
“For kids, yeah, I guess. I’m an adult; so it’s okay for me.” He looked and tried to answer politely for the young girl. Wy, now that was a name he could remember instantly for two reasons. One, it was only two letters long, and two, it belonged to a blushing cute girl, who probably wasn’t going to get any bigger than this anyway, so that was something to brighten up his day.
“But won't that damage your lungs? I heard that it doesn’t matter how old you are, you can still get cancer and ruin your voice forever!” The final child spoke up, the Italian one, Seborga, with the curl.
“That is a risk I’m willing to take, kid.” Netherlands rolled his eyes, getting a little annoyed at how these kids insisted on sitting next to him on the bench (except for Wy, she could sit as close to him as she wanted).
“Mr. Netherlands, sir? What’s that mark on your forehead?” The young girl pointed to the barely noticeable discolored stripe on his head.
“That, little missy, is a scar.”
“How’d you get it?! Did you get in a fight? Who’d you fight? Did you win?” The Italian principality bombarded him with questions. Taking a deep puff from his pipe, Netherlands shrugged and tried to put it shortly so that the annoying ones would let him be.
“I got it…in a scuffle with some of the natives in the Americas…”
“Really?! Wow, is it that old?!” The little sailor asked, but got a nudge from Wy.
“Sealand! It’s rude to call something old!”
“No, that’s alright, sweetie. I guess you could say it’s old. I’ve seen a lot in my time…and the scar actually helps me remember some things…things that I never want to forget.”
“Like what, sir?”
Netherlands inhaled deeply and placed a hand on the young girl’s shoulder while the other two boys gathered around like schoolchildren to a storyteller.
“Well...I had just finished setting up a little cottage for myself near the Delaware river, so naturally I was getting hungry after such hard work that day. I looked around for something to cook up to eat. So I take a seat by the river and look for a good fish for myself and some of my men. Suddenly, this huge fish shows up upstream, and I went in for the kill.”
“How big was it?”
“Heh…heh…it was at least this big.” Netherlands chuckled as he held up his hands on each side of his chest.
“Did it put up a fight?”
“Like hell it did! Those tails are a lot more dangerous when they’re flapping out of the water. It whacked me across the face, it sure did! Of course, I snapped the neck and let it go limp in my hands.”
“Wait a minute, I thought you said you got that mark from Indians!”
“Ah…yes. You see, the fish might have hit me, but that is not how I got the scar. Not too far from where I got the fish, a whole horde of natives popped out of the bushes or something, aiming to get the same fish I just got!”
“Were you outnumbered?”
“Yeah, they’re must’ve been about a dozen of them and only one me.”
“Ooo…were they scary-looking Indians?” Wy rested her chin in her palms and looked up at Netherlands with an intriguing expression.
“Well, they gave it their best shot with their blood-painted cheeks and high-pitched war cries…but I most certainly wasn’t afraid of them.”
“Did they come at you like this…BLARGH!!!” Seborga pulled on his lips and growled in a childish scaring face.
“Sort of…it was more like this…EaaarrRGHHH!!!” Netherlands pushed down on his lower eyelids and wagged his tongue as he playfully made the children jump back in screaming giggles.
“Hey, Mr. Netherlands! Whatcha doing?!” A boyish voice popped up from next to him. He peered out of one eye to see an especially short group of people, which he eventually recognized as the group of micronations that show up at meetings. The one that had spoken up was the little British sailor boy with mega-sized eyebrows.
“I’m having myself a smoke.”
“Isn’t smoking a bad thing, though?” The little single pony-tailed girl chirped up.
“For kids, yeah, I guess. I’m an adult; so it’s okay for me.” He looked and tried to answer politely for the young girl. Wy, now that was a name he could remember instantly for two reasons. One, it was only two letters long, and two, it belonged to a blushing cute girl, who probably wasn’t going to get any bigger than this anyway, so that was something to brighten up his day.
“But won't that damage your lungs? I heard that it doesn’t matter how old you are, you can still get cancer and ruin your voice forever!” The final child spoke up, the Italian one, Seborga, with the curl.
“That is a risk I’m willing to take, kid.” Netherlands rolled his eyes, getting a little annoyed at how these kids insisted on sitting next to him on the bench (except for Wy, she could sit as close to him as she wanted).
“Mr. Netherlands, sir? What’s that mark on your forehead?” The young girl pointed to the barely noticeable discolored stripe on his head.
“That, little missy, is a scar.”
“How’d you get it?! Did you get in a fight? Who’d you fight? Did you win?” The Italian principality bombarded him with questions. Taking a deep puff from his pipe, Netherlands shrugged and tried to put it shortly so that the annoying ones would let him be.
“I got it…in a scuffle with some of the natives in the Americas…”
“Really?! Wow, is it that old?!” The little sailor asked, but got a nudge from Wy.
“Sealand! It’s rude to call something old!”
“No, that’s alright, sweetie. I guess you could say it’s old. I’ve seen a lot in my time…and the scar actually helps me remember some things…things that I never want to forget.”
“Like what, sir?”
Netherlands inhaled deeply and placed a hand on the young girl’s shoulder while the other two boys gathered around like schoolchildren to a storyteller.
“Well...I had just finished setting up a little cottage for myself near the Delaware river, so naturally I was getting hungry after such hard work that day. I looked around for something to cook up to eat. So I take a seat by the river and look for a good fish for myself and some of my men. Suddenly, this huge fish shows up upstream, and I went in for the kill.”
“How big was it?”
“Heh…heh…it was at least this big.” Netherlands chuckled as he held up his hands on each side of his chest.
“Did it put up a fight?”
“Like hell it did! Those tails are a lot more dangerous when they’re flapping out of the water. It whacked me across the face, it sure did! Of course, I snapped the neck and let it go limp in my hands.”
“Wait a minute, I thought you said you got that mark from Indians!”
“Ah…yes. You see, the fish might have hit me, but that is not how I got the scar. Not too far from where I got the fish, a whole horde of natives popped out of the bushes or something, aiming to get the same fish I just got!”
“Were you outnumbered?”
“Yeah, they’re must’ve been about a dozen of them and only one me.”
“Ooo…were they scary-looking Indians?” Wy rested her chin in her palms and looked up at Netherlands with an intriguing expression.
“Well, they gave it their best shot with their blood-painted cheeks and high-pitched war cries…but I most certainly wasn’t afraid of them.”
“Did they come at you like this…BLARGH!!!” Seborga pulled on his lips and growled in a childish scaring face.
“Sort of…it was more like this…EaaarrRGHHH!!!” Netherlands pushed down on his lower eyelids and wagged his tongue as he playfully made the children jump back in screaming giggles.
Yeah, Im going to hell.
ANYWAY
We all know Netherlands is a perv for lolis.
And Liechtenstein is our resident loli.
And that Switzerland will pop a cap in the ass of anyone who even looks at her.
THUS: Netherlands/Liechtenstein sexytiems. While having to worry about being found/caught/shot in the dick by good ol' Vash. But please do make it consenusal, and not have her be like, 13. 'Cause some creepy is okay by me. Just not too much.
ps: CAPTCHA I CANNOT TYPE IN HEBREW WTF.
ANYWAY
We all know Netherlands is a perv for lolis.
And Liechtenstein is our resident loli.
And that Switzerland will pop a cap in the ass of anyone who even looks at her.
THUS: Netherlands/Liechtenstein sexytiems. While having to worry about being found/caught/shot in the dick by good ol' Vash. But please do make it consenusal, and not have her be like, 13. 'Cause some creepy is okay by me. Just not too much.
ps: CAPTCHA I CANNOT TYPE IN HEBREW WTF.
There's no shame in having preferences. His just happens to be virginity, or at least the illusion of it. He loves to know that his women are too flat to have caught the interest of someone before him; the hips that could still belong to a boy, the breasts that aren't visible beneath a layer of clothing, the way he knows that he will be the first to put his hand between their legs and show them a different kind of heaven.
They are no less women just because their bodies won't tempt other men, and Holland knows that it is only a matter of teaching them. He loves nothing more than the sight a nipple puckering for the first time under his fingers, the sound of a breathing that grows ragged in wonder, the feel of something changing for good as he presses into places where no man has been before.
The taste as he eats her out for the first time, having had to tell her that yes, yes, he wants to do it, he likes to do it, and refraining from suggesting that she sucks him off so that she can see for herself what it is like to do it with your mouth.
It wouldn't do to have all the fun at once, after all. This is the third time they're together, after a conversation during a meeting which ended in the women's restroom with her small bra unfastened to be pushed up to make way for his face and his hand up under her skirt. The second time had been in his bed, when her brother had gone to discuss work with Germany and Prussia and she had snuck away for a night in which Switzerland had made sure no-one in Europe got any sleep. Holland doesn't like to do it with limited time, but keeping an ear out after Liechtenstein's brother is better than no Liechtenstein at all.
She is breathing quicker, and he keeps on ramming his tongue against her clitoris, pressing down and letting up in a rhythm that her body is telling him is just the right one for her. He would love to take his time with this, to taste and explore and prolonging the pleasure for her, but Switzerland won't spend the entire day shopping for groceries. Liechtenstein is far from complaining, and he supposes he might show her his true expertise whenever he gets around to teaching her to suck cock. Her thighs are quivering around his head; she is fighting to keep her hips still, and he licks her harder, hears a breath turn into a shriek, and keeps it up until she moans in gratitude. He moves down to less sensitive places as she rides out her orgasm, and kisses the insides of a thigh as she collapses back into herself.
"Think he'll be back soon?" he asks as he sits up, and Liechtenstein glances at the clock on the wall, and shakes her head.
"At least fifteen minutes longer, I think," she says, and Holland refrains from cursing. He moves up above her instead, takes himself in his hand and slips inside of her with reverence and absolute patiences. She is still small beneath him and virgin-tight around him, but her face is content as he starts fucking her at a leisurely pace, wanting to make her come when he is inside of her but remembering, from the last time, that she needs more time than he probably has to do his business, get dressed and get out of the house before Switzerland catches sight of him alone with his sister.
"You're wonderful," he tells her and leans down to kiss her, tasting her mouth and her tongue as her arms slip up to wrap around his shoulders.
"You are, too," she tells him when he pulls back to get a better angle and increase the pace, "no-one else would ever have shown me this."
"More's their loss," he says as he lifts her right leg to rest it over his shoulder to pound in earnest.
The sight of her beneath him is an image of everything that he could ever have wanted; her heaving chest tells that she is getting closer, again, and that promise is alone to almost send him over the brink. He stills inside of her, presses a hand to her stomach to keep her still, and barely manages to suppress it.
They are no less women just because their bodies won't tempt other men, and Holland knows that it is only a matter of teaching them. He loves nothing more than the sight a nipple puckering for the first time under his fingers, the sound of a breathing that grows ragged in wonder, the feel of something changing for good as he presses into places where no man has been before.
The taste as he eats her out for the first time, having had to tell her that yes, yes, he wants to do it, he likes to do it, and refraining from suggesting that she sucks him off so that she can see for herself what it is like to do it with your mouth.
It wouldn't do to have all the fun at once, after all. This is the third time they're together, after a conversation during a meeting which ended in the women's restroom with her small bra unfastened to be pushed up to make way for his face and his hand up under her skirt. The second time had been in his bed, when her brother had gone to discuss work with Germany and Prussia and she had snuck away for a night in which Switzerland had made sure no-one in Europe got any sleep. Holland doesn't like to do it with limited time, but keeping an ear out after Liechtenstein's brother is better than no Liechtenstein at all.
She is breathing quicker, and he keeps on ramming his tongue against her clitoris, pressing down and letting up in a rhythm that her body is telling him is just the right one for her. He would love to take his time with this, to taste and explore and prolonging the pleasure for her, but Switzerland won't spend the entire day shopping for groceries. Liechtenstein is far from complaining, and he supposes he might show her his true expertise whenever he gets around to teaching her to suck cock. Her thighs are quivering around his head; she is fighting to keep her hips still, and he licks her harder, hears a breath turn into a shriek, and keeps it up until she moans in gratitude. He moves down to less sensitive places as she rides out her orgasm, and kisses the insides of a thigh as she collapses back into herself.
"Think he'll be back soon?" he asks as he sits up, and Liechtenstein glances at the clock on the wall, and shakes her head.
"At least fifteen minutes longer, I think," she says, and Holland refrains from cursing. He moves up above her instead, takes himself in his hand and slips inside of her with reverence and absolute patiences. She is still small beneath him and virgin-tight around him, but her face is content as he starts fucking her at a leisurely pace, wanting to make her come when he is inside of her but remembering, from the last time, that she needs more time than he probably has to do his business, get dressed and get out of the house before Switzerland catches sight of him alone with his sister.
"You're wonderful," he tells her and leans down to kiss her, tasting her mouth and her tongue as her arms slip up to wrap around his shoulders.
"You are, too," she tells him when he pulls back to get a better angle and increase the pace, "no-one else would ever have shown me this."
"More's their loss," he says as he lifts her right leg to rest it over his shoulder to pound in earnest.
The sight of her beneath him is an image of everything that he could ever have wanted; her heaving chest tells that she is getting closer, again, and that promise is alone to almost send him over the brink. He stills inside of her, presses a hand to her stomach to keep her still, and barely manages to suppress it.
I'd like France, while watching Prussia and Spain being platonic (or not so platonic) buddy buddies, imagine them having hot sex right in front of him. Detailed and very graphic would be appreciated, of course :)
Bonus: Creeped out!Prussia and Not Really Sure What France Is Thinking!Spain
Bonus: Creeped out!Prussia and Not Really Sure What France Is Thinking!Spain
Oh GOD yes! Awesome request, anon!
Sorry if this is too specific; the idea won't leave me.
Highschool student Matthew has been hiding from his family that he doesn't feel comfortable with his biological gender. At night, he dresses up and fantasizes about the day he is able to move from his family's small town, live the way he wants to live, and get the surgery.
Unfortunately though, through whatever anon chooses, his female counterpart is eventually revealed to his popular, football playing, twin brother Alfred (who I think wouldn't understand it, but would support him eventually) and his father, Arthur (who I think would be less accepting).
What happens next is up to anon, though I'm looking for a lot of family angst here.
Bonus 1: Matthew's female name is Madeline (I just really love the name).
Bonus 2: Matthew's first attempt to Pass doesn't go well, but Alfred is there to comfort him/beat up any jerks.
Bonus 3: France is involved somehow.
Highschool student Matthew has been hiding from his family that he doesn't feel comfortable with his biological gender. At night, he dresses up and fantasizes about the day he is able to move from his family's small town, live the way he wants to live, and get the surgery.
Unfortunately though, through whatever anon chooses, his female counterpart is eventually revealed to his popular, football playing, twin brother Alfred (who I think wouldn't understand it, but would support him eventually) and his father, Arthur (who I think would be less accepting).
What happens next is up to anon, though I'm looking for a lot of family angst here.
Bonus 1: Matthew's female name is Madeline (I just really love the name).
Bonus 2: Matthew's first attempt to Pass doesn't go well, but Alfred is there to comfort him/beat up any jerks.
Bonus 3: France is involved somehow.
*BASHES HEAD ON KEYBOARD*
Hey Kink Meme how is it during part 13 nothing interested me but here we are less then three hours into the newest part and you've already provided me with *pauses to count* four different requests that I want to fill... fufufufufufu
No promises because dear sweet god I am already wanting to do three other fills on this page alone... and I am already working on two other fills from earlier parts but I may eventually get to this...
for no... I second.
Hey Kink Meme how is it during part 13 nothing interested me but here we are less then three hours into the newest part and you've already provided me with *pauses to count* four different requests that I want to fill... fufufufufufu
No promises because dear sweet god I am already wanting to do three other fills on this page alone... and I am already working on two other fills from earlier parts but I may eventually get to this...
for no... I second.
Under-aged Belgium can't buy a sex toy yet so she uses her creativity.
-Belgium uses it to stimulate her clitoris directly and/or she covers it with a condom or latex glove so it can be inserted
-The Bad Friends Trio and/or Netherlands do a walk-in and/or voyeur
-Belgium uses it to stimulate her clitoris directly and/or she covers it with a condom or latex glove so it can be inserted
-The Bad Friends Trio and/or Netherlands do a walk-in and/or voyeur
Re: Belgium-solo: Masturbating with electronic toothbrush
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 04:24 am (UTC)(link)-fans self- Oh, Bel! You dirty dog you~ <333
Seconding like I don't even-
Seconding like I don't even-
Re: Belgium-solo: Masturbating with electronic toothbrush
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-16 02:34 (UTC) - ExpandAlaska, US, Canada, Russia - Little Mis(ter)s Sun(flower)shine
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 04:22 am (UTC)(link)I'm simply asking for the basic outline of the plot 'Little Miss Sunshine' with Alaska (an OC of course) as Olive. And Alaska's a boy. Who crossdresses and enters beauty contests and likes doing so (in secret). And Canada finds out (somehow) and offers to give moral support and transportation. Then shit hits the fan when Russia and America find out.
Fun part: stray from the original movie's hijinx. Do not be afraid to add in a barfight or two. The only resemblences should be the contest's name and when Ivan, Matt and Al jump onstage to dance with Alaska at the end (the reason can differ as well! Stage fright! Losing confidence in the middle of the dance!)
Bonus one: 'Uncle Matt' makes offhanded remarks about eating bits of Alaska (what use to be his coastline). Think of your creepy uncle who smiled at and touched you too much. But, like, your uncle is a wendigo and not Pedobear.
Bonus two: The song during Alaska's performance is 'Sex Bomb'. Francis picked it out for him.
Bonus three: Genfic. No pairings. No romance. Just family and friendship dynamics.
Fun part: stray from the original movie's hijinx. Do not be afraid to add in a barfight or two. The only resemblences should be the contest's name and when Ivan, Matt and Al jump onstage to dance with Alaska at the end (the reason can differ as well! Stage fright! Losing confidence in the middle of the dance!)
Bonus one: 'Uncle Matt' makes offhanded remarks about eating bits of Alaska (what use to be his coastline). Think of your creepy uncle who smiled at and touched you too much. But, like, your uncle is a wendigo and not Pedobear.
Bonus two: The song during Alaska's performance is 'Sex Bomb'. Francis picked it out for him.
Bonus three: Genfic. No pairings. No romance. Just family and friendship dynamics.
You had me at Alaska,US,Canada and Russia.
--
Alaska or as as you should call him,Oliver was in his locked room, doing something you don't find young boys doing.
"Dad would hate me if I told him." Oliver murmured to himself, while looking in his closet for the blond wig Poland gave him."I mean, cross-dressing. Silly for a boy to be dressing up. But I love doing it."
Oliver reached in the back of his closet and pulled out the strange but well kept wig and placed it on his head. Then going back in for his dark blue knee length skirt and a light blue blouse.
Putting all of the clothes on, Oliver turned around and looked at himself in the mirror and what stared back was a twelve year old girl.
Oliver's father's. Yes,father's would turn Oliver into baked Alaska, if they found out about his little secret was.
Oliver then unlocked his door,walked downstairs,and went to the living room to watch the hunting channel since no one was home. His dad, America was with Uncle England and папа was out with Mr.Latvia and Mr.Lithuania.
With the hunting channel turned on and his comfort clothing on he finally relaxed to a peaceful afternoon.
Well that was until Alaska heard a key sliding into the slot and the door opened up,his Uncle Canada walked in the room and he starte to stare at Oliver with wide eyes and he said.
"What the hell are you wearing?"
---
Want me to continue? I know I am horrible writer. But I did try? This is really my first post here.
--
Alaska or as as you should call him,Oliver was in his locked room, doing something you don't find young boys doing.
"Dad would hate me if I told him." Oliver murmured to himself, while looking in his closet for the blond wig Poland gave him."I mean, cross-dressing. Silly for a boy to be dressing up. But I love doing it."
Oliver reached in the back of his closet and pulled out the strange but well kept wig and placed it on his head. Then going back in for his dark blue knee length skirt and a light blue blouse.
Putting all of the clothes on, Oliver turned around and looked at himself in the mirror and what stared back was a twelve year old girl.
Oliver's father's. Yes,father's would turn Oliver into baked Alaska, if they found out about his little secret was.
Oliver then unlocked his door,walked downstairs,and went to the living room to watch the hunting channel since no one was home. His dad, America was with Uncle England and папа was out with Mr.Latvia and Mr.Lithuania.
With the hunting channel turned on and his comfort clothing on he finally relaxed to a peaceful afternoon.
Well that was until Alaska heard a key sliding into the slot and the door opened up,his Uncle Canada walked in the room and he starte to stare at Oliver with wide eyes and he said.
"What the hell are you wearing?"
---
Want me to continue? I know I am horrible writer. But I did try? This is really my first post here.
Kiku keeps a blog and one day posts an entry about how much he loves cats or Greek mythology. A continent away, Heracles happens to stumble upon it while randomly browsing the Internet and leaves a comment. Kiku, surprised at seeing a comment from someone who isn't on his friends list, comments back. It escalates from there until they're IMing regularly from separate continents and trying to see if there's a way for them to meet in person.
Bonus 1: The only way Heracles can reliably get on the Internet is bystealing Sadiq's laptop persuading his richer neighbor Sadiq to lend him his laptop, and Sadiq becomes suspicious about his sudden desire to be on the Internet for way longer than before.
Bonus 2: Cybersex.
Bonus 1: The only way Heracles can reliably get on the Internet is by
Bonus 2: Cybersex.
Seconded!
Re: Greece/Japan - human AU, meeting over the Internet
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-15 21:05 (UTC) - ExpandBent over or on the kitchen counter and with Hungary still in her green dress and bandanna. Her breasts are groped through her apron and her skirt is hiked up.
Different anon here. I uh did a fill but I don't know if it's exactly what OP had in mind but I hope it's enjoyed
It’s all a lie of course; everything from the flower themed curtains to the pie sitting on the table.
Her dress is pushed up to her waist, stomach pressed against the counter top and breasts being groped by the man behind her.
It’s all a lie because really, neither of them wants to admit that they’re pretending it’s someone else.
She dreams of Austria; his dark hair, long slim fingers, and violet eyes shinning with something. . .
She doesn’t know who he thinks of; perhaps his sister confident women that she is, one of the Asian girls, or even Russia’s sister. He has never said who and she has never asked.
Their lie may always start differently but it always ends the same; their bodies joined as they both pretend they are with someone else.
Today they decided to play in the kitchen. She had even baked a real pie for the occasion, a lovely domestic house wife making a dessert as she anticipates her husband’s return. And come home he did, coming behind her and kissing her neck, murmuring little non-senses as he let his hand wander over her body.
Sometimes it almost felt like it was all real.
Soon however she is bent over, her most intimate parts bared to him, she never wears underwear. She wonders what he thinks as he stares at her but soon all thoughts are gone as he pushes inside.
Oh it feels so good!
She burns for this and eagerly pushes back against him as he easily slides into her.
So hot! He throbs inside her and she feels as though she will be consumed.
He whispers something and she thinks she must be crazy and hearing things.
Soon however the thoughts are erased from her mind as he hits a spot within her that he seems always able to find.
She cannot hold back a scream.
He makes sure to continue the motion until all she can see is white as her body explodes with pleasure and her juices gush around him and down her legs, soon followed by his.
Neither of them says anything as they catch their breath.
This is always the hardest part because now the lie is shattered and they have to face reality.
When she turns to face him she seems something in his eyes that has never been there before.
She feels fear, uncertainty, and something else that she has never felt for any other.
Suddenly everything doesn’t feel like a lie anymore.
It’s all a lie of course; everything from the flower themed curtains to the pie sitting on the table.
Her dress is pushed up to her waist, stomach pressed against the counter top and breasts being groped by the man behind her.
It’s all a lie because really, neither of them wants to admit that they’re pretending it’s someone else.
She dreams of Austria; his dark hair, long slim fingers, and violet eyes shinning with something. . .
She doesn’t know who he thinks of; perhaps his sister confident women that she is, one of the Asian girls, or even Russia’s sister. He has never said who and she has never asked.
Their lie may always start differently but it always ends the same; their bodies joined as they both pretend they are with someone else.
Today they decided to play in the kitchen. She had even baked a real pie for the occasion, a lovely domestic house wife making a dessert as she anticipates her husband’s return. And come home he did, coming behind her and kissing her neck, murmuring little non-senses as he let his hand wander over her body.
Sometimes it almost felt like it was all real.
Soon however she is bent over, her most intimate parts bared to him, she never wears underwear. She wonders what he thinks as he stares at her but soon all thoughts are gone as he pushes inside.
Oh it feels so good!
She burns for this and eagerly pushes back against him as he easily slides into her.
So hot! He throbs inside her and she feels as though she will be consumed.
He whispers something and she thinks she must be crazy and hearing things.
Soon however the thoughts are erased from her mind as he hits a spot within her that he seems always able to find.
She cannot hold back a scream.
He makes sure to continue the motion until all she can see is white as her body explodes with pleasure and her juices gush around him and down her legs, soon followed by his.
Neither of them says anything as they catch their breath.
This is always the hardest part because now the lie is shattered and they have to face reality.
When she turns to face him she seems something in his eyes that has never been there before.
She feels fear, uncertainty, and something else that she has never felt for any other.
Suddenly everything doesn’t feel like a lie anymore.
My little sister had this very cute idea the other day and will love to see it come to life.
We are all Mexican Canadian and have deep love for both countries and since I started watching hetalia two years ago my sis keeps saying her favorite pairing is Canada/Mexico. A week ago we were watching the news and we saw one about a pair of Mexican immigrants who wanted to cross the border (you know the usual...) and my sis told me: "You know, I bet they hop the border to get to Canada. Uhh Can you imagine Mexico trying to hop the border to get to Canada and finding a very angry Alfred trying to stop him because he doesn't want him to be with his lil brother?"
I loved the idea and swore to her that I would requested here.
Sooo Jealous Alfred putting all those immigration laws against Mexico because he wants to get to his lil brother Canada.
Crack, angst, romantic, do with this whatever you choose to, smut is well appreciated by these two sisters but not a must (even though she sounds like such a kid in here she is actually 17 ). Just please nothing non-consensual.
Bonus:
1: England and France knew of the relationship but didn’t tell Alfred which causes Al to be very angry.
That's it ^^
We are all Mexican Canadian and have deep love for both countries and since I started watching hetalia two years ago my sis keeps saying her favorite pairing is Canada/Mexico. A week ago we were watching the news and we saw one about a pair of Mexican immigrants who wanted to cross the border (you know the usual...) and my sis told me: "You know, I bet they hop the border to get to Canada. Uhh Can you imagine Mexico trying to hop the border to get to Canada and finding a very angry Alfred trying to stop him because he doesn't want him to be with his lil brother?"
I loved the idea and swore to her that I would requested here.
Sooo Jealous Alfred putting all those immigration laws against Mexico because he wants to get to his lil brother Canada.
Crack, angst, romantic, do with this whatever you choose to, smut is well appreciated by these two sisters but not a must (even though she sounds like such a kid in here she is actually 17 ). Just please nothing non-consensual.
Bonus:
1: England and France knew of the relationship but didn’t tell Alfred which causes Al to be very angry.
That's it ^^
It's laundry day. Russia comes home to find Fem!America wearing one of his hockey jerseys...fun stuff happens.
Not going to be picky on this one. Regular verse, Gauken, another AU -- plot, smut, something in between. Fic or art. It's up to you to decide, 'cause I'll take anything.
Bonus: She's not wearing it to turn him on, she really just didn't have anything else to wear and just grabs the first thing of his that she thinks is clean and puts it on.
Not going to be picky on this one. Regular verse, Gauken, another AU -- plot, smut, something in between. Fic or art. It's up to you to decide, 'cause I'll take anything.
Bonus: She's not wearing it to turn him on, she really just didn't have anything else to wear and just grabs the first thing of his that she thinks is clean and puts it on.
Russia wakes up to a low rumbling and a woosh-woosh-woosh. The sunlight streams in through large windows, filtered by sheer curtains, simultaneously illuminating the emptiness of the room (devoid of furniture besides for a large, old bed and green carpet and otherwise quite devoid of color) and warming the open space with its light. He blinks blearily, uncharacteristically off-guard. He is lying face down, tangled up in a pale blue comforter, on his bed. His cheek is pressed to the mattress cover, small silk-screened sunflowers sprinkled across a wrinkled off-white field. He has a game to go to, he remembers, and reluctantly sits up, clad only in navy and gray striped boxers, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he searches for his hockey jersey, on hands and needs feeling along the carpet, before realizing that all the clothes (splayed out on the ground like the remnants of some sort of textile battlefield), thrown and forgotten in a frenzy of motion last night, were no longer there. His floor was... clean. A series of thumps and a squeal bring him out of his bafflement.
His eyes narrow as he swings the door open, movements low and quiet, creeping along down the empty hallway, down the stairs, and through the kitchen (as bare and empty as the rest of the house, save his stash of liquid warmth and strength and courage). The thumps grow louder, and he can hear muttering and cursing. He peeks from behind a corner, seeing tan, nicely toned legs dancing back and forth in front of his washing machine. Recognition lit his violet irises, and he releases the tension from his body, standing up and making his way into the small laundry room. "What are you doing, little one?" he asks, bemused.
She pauses, lean arms wrapped around the jostling machine, and turns to look at him, blond hair in a disarray and Texas slipping, precariously perched on the tip of her nose. She, he notes with a sense of testosterone driven possessiveness, is robed only in plain pink cotton underwear and his hockey jersey. She stands up suddenly, positioning herself in front of the loud machine, as if trying to hid it from his view with her body. "I was just doing the laundry," she says, her cheeks tinted pink.
The washing machine emits a couple of low thuds and rocks slightly. He approaches, smiling, so much taller than her, and reaches his arms around her, lifting the lid to the machine; it quickly stills itself. She moves out of his way, embarrassed, as he adjusts clothing, taking this one and moving it there, or pulling that one out and placing it here. "They have to be spread evenly, little one, or else the throws the balance of the machine."
He sets the lid back down, the machine starting up again and running with a steady rumble and a smooth woosh-woosh-woosh. He turns to her, grinning. "You look so good," he murmurs, and then adds, "in my shirt."
One arm warps itself possessively around her waist, the other affectionately pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She grins up at him, and lifts herself up on her toes to press a kiss against his lips, pressing herself closer to him, against his bare chest, through the thin material of the hockey jersey. Her arms settle loosely on his shoulders, around his neck. He can feel her, and he can smell his scent (his, his, only his) on her, mingling with her own (like a prairie after the rain, sweet and fresh and wide open freedom) and it drives him wild. He kisses her in return, lifting her and setting her gently on the cold metal of the washing machine, eliciting a beautiful gasp and a playful grin from her gorgeous lips. She tangles her hands in his silver hair, drawing him up towards her, now that she is higher than him; her golden legs wrap themselves around his waist, hooking behind his back to ensure he cannot leave. He cannot help notice how beautiful she is, her lips parted and swollen, smiling down at him, the rhythmic hustle of the machine providing a most delicious kind of friction between them.
His house, large though it is, is more vacant than not, the only two occupants of the large, mostly unfurnished mansion hidden away in the small laundry room, enjoying each others' company and warmth and love in the willing reprieve of a new morning.
His eyes narrow as he swings the door open, movements low and quiet, creeping along down the empty hallway, down the stairs, and through the kitchen (as bare and empty as the rest of the house, save his stash of liquid warmth and strength and courage). The thumps grow louder, and he can hear muttering and cursing. He peeks from behind a corner, seeing tan, nicely toned legs dancing back and forth in front of his washing machine. Recognition lit his violet irises, and he releases the tension from his body, standing up and making his way into the small laundry room. "What are you doing, little one?" he asks, bemused.
She pauses, lean arms wrapped around the jostling machine, and turns to look at him, blond hair in a disarray and Texas slipping, precariously perched on the tip of her nose. She, he notes with a sense of testosterone driven possessiveness, is robed only in plain pink cotton underwear and his hockey jersey. She stands up suddenly, positioning herself in front of the loud machine, as if trying to hid it from his view with her body. "I was just doing the laundry," she says, her cheeks tinted pink.
The washing machine emits a couple of low thuds and rocks slightly. He approaches, smiling, so much taller than her, and reaches his arms around her, lifting the lid to the machine; it quickly stills itself. She moves out of his way, embarrassed, as he adjusts clothing, taking this one and moving it there, or pulling that one out and placing it here. "They have to be spread evenly, little one, or else the throws the balance of the machine."
He sets the lid back down, the machine starting up again and running with a steady rumble and a smooth woosh-woosh-woosh. He turns to her, grinning. "You look so good," he murmurs, and then adds, "in my shirt."
One arm warps itself possessively around her waist, the other affectionately pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She grins up at him, and lifts herself up on her toes to press a kiss against his lips, pressing herself closer to him, against his bare chest, through the thin material of the hockey jersey. Her arms settle loosely on his shoulders, around his neck. He can feel her, and he can smell his scent (his, his, only his) on her, mingling with her own (like a prairie after the rain, sweet and fresh and wide open freedom) and it drives him wild. He kisses her in return, lifting her and setting her gently on the cold metal of the washing machine, eliciting a beautiful gasp and a playful grin from her gorgeous lips. She tangles her hands in his silver hair, drawing him up towards her, now that she is higher than him; her golden legs wrap themselves around his waist, hooking behind his back to ensure he cannot leave. He cannot help notice how beautiful she is, her lips parted and swollen, smiling down at him, the rhythmic hustle of the machine providing a most delicious kind of friction between them.
His house, large though it is, is more vacant than not, the only two occupants of the large, mostly unfurnished mansion hidden away in the small laundry room, enjoying each others' company and warmth and love in the willing reprieve of a new morning.
It's consensual, romantic and erotic. Belgium is the only focus of their affections.
They take turns with Belgium while the others watch.
They take turns with Belgium while the others watch.
During WWII Alfred is still feeling the side effects of the depression and instead of getting better its actually getting worse. The people are revolting and demand a better government. In steps Ivan who offers him a way out. All he has to do is to become a communist. Like with China after WWII. Will love you if you do a RussiaxAmerica.
Bonus-China doesn’t become a communist.
Bonus 2- The Cold War still happens only America and Russia against China and whomever else you want. Please don’t do a RussiaxChina.
Bonus-China doesn’t become a communist.
Bonus 2- The Cold War still happens only America and Russia against China and whomever else you want. Please don’t do a RussiaxChina.
THIS. THIS RIGHT HERE.
So seconded~
(And despite the boatloads of other fills I want to do... this is going on my list. ;;facepalms;;)
So seconded~
(And despite the boatloads of other fills I want to do... this is going on my list. ;;facepalms;;)
So Spain getting extremely turn on and embarrassed when Romano starts talking dirty to him in Spanish.
Bonus: Romano tops from the bottom because he controls everything Spain does only with his words
Bonus: Romano tops from the bottom because he controls everything Spain does only with his words
This is a first time for a lot of things for me:
filling a request
writing male/male smut
writing fanfic, so please don't kill me if I mess up the characters a little.^.^"
Also I have to warn that a majority of the dialogue is in Spanish, but I have absolutely no experience speaking it, so if I've gotten some or everything wrong, sorry. I just couldn't resist writing something for this, since I have something of a language kink myself. I only put down what the translator told me, I swear! (also, I totally stole the story title and based a couple of Romano's later lines off of a song. I don't claim to have a copyright on any of that.)
“Romano~!” Spain cooed, as he opened his door and his arms to the red-faced boy who planted a palm firmly on the other nation’s face, holding him at arm’s length while he removed his shoes. “Ah, my little tomato!” Spain cried when he was finally allowed to crush the other boy against his body.
“Get off me, bastard. I came over here because I thought you were going to cry if I didn’t watch some crappy movie with you.” Romano grumbled, “If you wanted a cuddle session then you should have asked for that.” Spain beamed dumbly.
“Eh…? Can I ask for that now?” the Italian sputtered for a moment before shoving past the Spaniard into his living room, discarding his jacket on the floor casually.
“Of course not, idiot. You already asked for a movie.”
“Ah, we can do both!” Spain insisted, tapping quickly after the smaller brunette, already plopped onto the couch in Spain's sitting room and fiddling with buttons on the remote, changing the channel on the massive flat-screen TV which Spain had just installed. Romano said nothing in response to Spain’s hopeful comment, trying to control a snide remark that could spoil the older nation’s current good cheer, though knowing Spain, that was virtually impossible. Swallowing nervously, Romano flipped on subtitles for the movie, entirely in Spanish. He didn’t feel like having to concentrate on translating the movie. He had a plan and he needed all the space in his mind that he could get for other, more important, translations. He looked up from the menu as he received a disapproving tut from Spain. “No subtitles, Romano. It spoils the entire film.” Romano gave the Spaniard a baleful, completely disbelieving glare, thumb hovering over the ‘enter’ button on the remote.
“What are you talking about? I’m supposed to actually concentrate on an entire two hours of your dumb language and understand it?” Romano tried to keep his voice angry, but he thought he could hear the tiny hint of desperation in it and hoped Spain missed it. Spain just nodded, sinking onto the couch next to the Italian with an oblivious smile, slinging an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders.
“You’ve been spending too much time with your brother. I bet your Spanish is rusty. This will help you get back in practice.”
“You bastard, this isn’t a movie at all. It’s a language lesson.” Romano grumbled. But he couldn’t deny the movie was the perfect opportunity to set his plan in action. The boy could already feel heat rising to his face as Spain snatched away the remote from Romano’s frozen hand, starting the film. A title in white letters popped onto the black screen.
“You’ll do fine Tomate.” Spain teased, reaching over to tug on the errant curl that never conformed to the rest of the straight spikes of Romano’s hair. He knew what this did to the boy, yet he was in the habit of using it as a casual, joking touch. This time, though, Spain almost hoped for a reaction. Romano seemed to have been avoiding him lately. So he was pleased when, ever-so-carefully, Romano reached over, lightly brushing fingertips across Spain’s thigh. The cheerful Spaniard glanced up at the boy’s face, expecting a beet red, embarrassed expression, but instead finding seductive, liquid dark chocolate eyes staring back into his.
“Spain…” Romano hesitated for only a moment, drawing in a breath. “Es muy importante esta película?” It took the older brunette a moment to comprehend the words the boy was saying, even thought they were flawlessly spoken in his own language. Is this movie very important?
filling a request
writing male/male smut
writing fanfic, so please don't kill me if I mess up the characters a little.^.^"
Also I have to warn that a majority of the dialogue is in Spanish, but I have absolutely no experience speaking it, so if I've gotten some or everything wrong, sorry. I just couldn't resist writing something for this, since I have something of a language kink myself. I only put down what the translator told me, I swear! (also, I totally stole the story title and based a couple of Romano's later lines off of a song. I don't claim to have a copyright on any of that.)
“Romano~!” Spain cooed, as he opened his door and his arms to the red-faced boy who planted a palm firmly on the other nation’s face, holding him at arm’s length while he removed his shoes. “Ah, my little tomato!” Spain cried when he was finally allowed to crush the other boy against his body.
“Get off me, bastard. I came over here because I thought you were going to cry if I didn’t watch some crappy movie with you.” Romano grumbled, “If you wanted a cuddle session then you should have asked for that.” Spain beamed dumbly.
“Eh…? Can I ask for that now?” the Italian sputtered for a moment before shoving past the Spaniard into his living room, discarding his jacket on the floor casually.
“Of course not, idiot. You already asked for a movie.”
“Ah, we can do both!” Spain insisted, tapping quickly after the smaller brunette, already plopped onto the couch in Spain's sitting room and fiddling with buttons on the remote, changing the channel on the massive flat-screen TV which Spain had just installed. Romano said nothing in response to Spain’s hopeful comment, trying to control a snide remark that could spoil the older nation’s current good cheer, though knowing Spain, that was virtually impossible. Swallowing nervously, Romano flipped on subtitles for the movie, entirely in Spanish. He didn’t feel like having to concentrate on translating the movie. He had a plan and he needed all the space in his mind that he could get for other, more important, translations. He looked up from the menu as he received a disapproving tut from Spain. “No subtitles, Romano. It spoils the entire film.” Romano gave the Spaniard a baleful, completely disbelieving glare, thumb hovering over the ‘enter’ button on the remote.
“What are you talking about? I’m supposed to actually concentrate on an entire two hours of your dumb language and understand it?” Romano tried to keep his voice angry, but he thought he could hear the tiny hint of desperation in it and hoped Spain missed it. Spain just nodded, sinking onto the couch next to the Italian with an oblivious smile, slinging an arm around the younger boy’s shoulders.
“You’ve been spending too much time with your brother. I bet your Spanish is rusty. This will help you get back in practice.”
“You bastard, this isn’t a movie at all. It’s a language lesson.” Romano grumbled. But he couldn’t deny the movie was the perfect opportunity to set his plan in action. The boy could already feel heat rising to his face as Spain snatched away the remote from Romano’s frozen hand, starting the film. A title in white letters popped onto the black screen.
“You’ll do fine Tomate.” Spain teased, reaching over to tug on the errant curl that never conformed to the rest of the straight spikes of Romano’s hair. He knew what this did to the boy, yet he was in the habit of using it as a casual, joking touch. This time, though, Spain almost hoped for a reaction. Romano seemed to have been avoiding him lately. So he was pleased when, ever-so-carefully, Romano reached over, lightly brushing fingertips across Spain’s thigh. The cheerful Spaniard glanced up at the boy’s face, expecting a beet red, embarrassed expression, but instead finding seductive, liquid dark chocolate eyes staring back into his.
“Spain…” Romano hesitated for only a moment, drawing in a breath. “Es muy importante esta película?” It took the older brunette a moment to comprehend the words the boy was saying, even thought they were flawlessly spoken in his own language. Is this movie very important?
In most AUs, the characters' relationships mirror those in canon. What I'd like to see is any kind of AU where the characters' canon relationships are basically ignored and everything happens based on personality. England and Austria are best friends and England has a crush on his neighbor Poland that drives him crazy? Belarus is Japan's stalker instead of Russia's? GO FOR IT, as long as you write it like it's the most natural thing in that world.
You can write common pairings, as long as their relationship isn't quite the same as in canon/fanon (e.g. Prussia and Germany aren't brothers, Sweden doesn't like Finland at first and Finland pursues him, etc). Rare pairs are obviously encouraged, though.
You can write common pairings, as long as their relationship isn't quite the same as in canon/fanon (e.g. Prussia and Germany aren't brothers, Sweden doesn't like Finland at first and Finland pursues him, etc). Rare pairs are obviously encouraged, though.
Filling the Hipstertalia AU prompt, but the relationships in it are inspired by this prompt...so...yeah. Thought I'd link it.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17337.html?thread=51516857#t51516857
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17337.html?thread=51516857#t51516857
A mix-up at the dry cleaners ends with Norway and Iceland mistakenly taking home a tuxedo and wedding dress. So they decide to play wedding dress-ups and fight over who gets to be the bride, with Norway winning. This then unleashes Norway’s inner bridezilla. No gender bend please.
Bonus: they do the “You may now kiss the bride” scene as an excuse to make out (they're not in a relationship).
Bonus: Norway makes groom!Iceland take the wedding garter off with his teeth.
Bonus: Denmark and Sweden catch them playing dress-ups. Norway quickly backpedals saying he’s not obsessed with weddings at all! Weddings are stupid! Like he’d want to get married! (*shifty eyes*)Then runs off and Denmark finds him comfort eating a tub of strawberry ice cream while crying that no one wants to marry him.
Bonus: they do the “You may now kiss the bride” scene as an excuse to make out (they're not in a relationship).
Bonus: Norway makes groom!Iceland take the wedding garter off with his teeth.
Bonus: Denmark and Sweden catch them playing dress-ups. Norway quickly backpedals saying he’s not obsessed with weddings at all! Weddings are stupid! Like he’d want to get married! (*shifty eyes*)
Its anon above. um, I hope i've done this right. More to follow... hopefully.
The Icelandic met office site includes seismic info, I honestly have no idea if this gets onto TV though.
The dry cleaning van had been and gone that morning, leaving Norway four grey garment bags that Iceland, like a good houseguest, had hung in the hallway before getting back to loafing around. He was good at that. Hell, if it had been anyone else’s house, the dry-cleaned clothes would have been left crumpled on the doorstep.
As it was, he didn’t notice that one bag was noticeably bigger and bulkier than the others, and if he’d bothered to try, he’d have remembered that Norway had only sent two suits to the cleaners anyway. But he didn’t.
Norway returned from his meeting just after five and came to find Iceland in the living room, where he had spent the day snacking and watching trashy Norwegian television.
He was carrying the dry cleaning bags, a rather familiar look of mild disappointment and annoyance on his face. It was most usually seen whenever Denmark was in the vicinity.
“I’ve got the wrong clothes.”
Iceland tore his gaze away from the television. It was only the weather, anyway.
“I sent two suits,” muttered Norway, dumping the bundle onto the crowded coffee table and beginning to unwrap. “The ones I took to Stockholm.” He disturbed a mound of biscuit wrappers, sighed - “Would it have killed you to put some stuff away, Ice?”
“…forgot.” Norwegian weather reports weren’t as exciting as Icelandic ones. There was no seismic information. Iceland supposed that it wasn’t necessary. Norway, he thought, was such a tranquil, pleasant country… his gaze wandered, unconsciously, to where his brother was struggling with shrink-wrap and crumbs, to the curve of the back of his neck … so attractive.
Iceland gave a mental start. Concentrate on something else… He forced himself to look away, back to the screen where commercials were now running.
The first two bags did indeed contain Norways suits, which he folded neatly over the back of the sofa. The third bag –
“A tuxedo.” Norway shook it out and snorted. “a tacky one, too.” He peered over the collar of the garment at Iceland, who was flicking through the TV shopping channels “It would fit you just fine, I reckon. So its for a young guy, or a short guy.” He snorted, then murmered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Shotgun dwarf wedding’.
There was no response. Iceland had just settled on bid-up TV (special sale – Tanzanite Jewelry) when he heard his brother gasp and saw, from the corner of his eye, something white, voluminous and lacy spill out of the final bag.
“That’s a-“
“-wedding dress,” finished Norway. Interested, Iceland got up to examine it. The dress was pretty standard for Norwegian brides: full length silk, fitted, sleeveless. There was a veil, too. Iceland reached out to stroke the smooth fabric. It was slightly cool, and soft. For some odd reason, it reminded him of –
“some girl’s going to miss this,” Norway muttered. Iceland nodded, fighting to control the furious blush that had spread over his face. “y-yeah…”
The Icelandic met office site includes seismic info, I honestly have no idea if this gets onto TV though.
The dry cleaning van had been and gone that morning, leaving Norway four grey garment bags that Iceland, like a good houseguest, had hung in the hallway before getting back to loafing around. He was good at that. Hell, if it had been anyone else’s house, the dry-cleaned clothes would have been left crumpled on the doorstep.
As it was, he didn’t notice that one bag was noticeably bigger and bulkier than the others, and if he’d bothered to try, he’d have remembered that Norway had only sent two suits to the cleaners anyway. But he didn’t.
Norway returned from his meeting just after five and came to find Iceland in the living room, where he had spent the day snacking and watching trashy Norwegian television.
He was carrying the dry cleaning bags, a rather familiar look of mild disappointment and annoyance on his face. It was most usually seen whenever Denmark was in the vicinity.
“I’ve got the wrong clothes.”
Iceland tore his gaze away from the television. It was only the weather, anyway.
“I sent two suits,” muttered Norway, dumping the bundle onto the crowded coffee table and beginning to unwrap. “The ones I took to Stockholm.” He disturbed a mound of biscuit wrappers, sighed - “Would it have killed you to put some stuff away, Ice?”
“…forgot.” Norwegian weather reports weren’t as exciting as Icelandic ones. There was no seismic information. Iceland supposed that it wasn’t necessary. Norway, he thought, was such a tranquil, pleasant country… his gaze wandered, unconsciously, to where his brother was struggling with shrink-wrap and crumbs, to the curve of the back of his neck … so attractive.
Iceland gave a mental start. Concentrate on something else… He forced himself to look away, back to the screen where commercials were now running.
The first two bags did indeed contain Norways suits, which he folded neatly over the back of the sofa. The third bag –
“A tuxedo.” Norway shook it out and snorted. “a tacky one, too.” He peered over the collar of the garment at Iceland, who was flicking through the TV shopping channels “It would fit you just fine, I reckon. So its for a young guy, or a short guy.” He snorted, then murmered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Shotgun dwarf wedding’.
There was no response. Iceland had just settled on bid-up TV (special sale – Tanzanite Jewelry) when he heard his brother gasp and saw, from the corner of his eye, something white, voluminous and lacy spill out of the final bag.
“That’s a-“
“-wedding dress,” finished Norway. Interested, Iceland got up to examine it. The dress was pretty standard for Norwegian brides: full length silk, fitted, sleeveless. There was a veil, too. Iceland reached out to stroke the smooth fabric. It was slightly cool, and soft. For some odd reason, it reminded him of –
“some girl’s going to miss this,” Norway muttered. Iceland nodded, fighting to control the furious blush that had spread over his face. “y-yeah…”
Canada/America- Canada is secretly a popstar and America is his biggerst fan
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 05:02 am (UTC)(link)The nation Canada is often seen as 'invisible' to the other nations, but when he takes off his glasses and applies his disguise he is known as 'Gordon Prince' one of the worlds favourite superstar to millions of people (Actor,Singer, heartthrob). None of the Nations seem to put the two together, since Gordon and Matthew seem to act totally different. But one day America(who claims to be Gordon's Biggest fan) goes to his concert and is taken to the backstage where 'Gordon' seduces him.
Points for: America finding out that Gordon and Matthew are the same and is okay with it.
Points for: America finding out that Gordon and Matthew are the same and is okay with it.
Does OP have a specific look in mind for Gordon? ( The first thing that popped in my head was a combination of Justin Bieber and Bill Kaulitz type look XD)
Continuation of the "Boss and the Counselor" section of "Boss Spain Doesn't Understand" http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia/807634.html where France continues his advances to see just how long it takes for Spain to realize what's going on. It can be his own version of a "demonstration in skinship". If you want, you can rewrite the beginning to change the time or setting, but the situation should be more or less the same where Spain's too worried about his relationship with Romano to realize what France is really doing to him. And don't be afraid to go all the way.
Bonus: Spain's obliviousness exceeds all expected levels
SUPER BONUS:...the point of realization is when Romano walks in on them
Bonus: Spain's obliviousness exceeds all expected levels
SUPER BONUS:...the point of realization is when Romano walks in on them
SECONDED SO GOD DAMN HARD YOU DONT EVEN KNOW.
also, might fill if it doesn't get filled before i get impatient or something.
also, might fill if it doesn't get filled before i get impatient or something.
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