I want where Buon San Valentino left off the continuation of it since the author is too mean to actually write it.
What happens after that? Did Germany get back his memories of being HRE?OP hopes so. If he did get them back did he tell Italy? What was Italys reaction to being proposed? What about Austria, Hungary, and Prussia?
What happens after that? Did Germany get back his memories of being HRE?
I'm 99% sure this has been requested before, but I'll double-check.
Belarus' little pet... a leash... o////o
Such a wonderful idea.
Such a wonderful idea.
Oooh, England. :3 He's just so... argh, indescribable here. XD
I think I heard something like this on the kink meme before... I'll go search for it now, but seconding anyways! Turkey + Poland = just about/as awesome as Gilbo.
I want Lithuania as a good old-fashioned lover, generally kind and considerate. Not 'putting up with Pol's craziness for the sake of love' or being star-eyed fool- just a nice, normal kind of lover, who can accept his love as he is- bad and good. And a huge cookie for good-lover sex in it.
(referances to queen's song "good old fashioned lover boy" will win you my heart and soul.)
(referances to queen's song "good old fashioned lover boy" will win you my heart and soul.)
Thank you so much! You've no idea what that means to me:D
“Did you ever want to have children?”
That earned him a sharp look over silver spectacles. “Is that any question to ask an unmarried woman?” she inquired rather icily.
He shrugged a single long shoulder, looking at her through his long, pale eyelashes. “Did you?”
She settled for delicately placing a single slice of Sachertorte upon a rose-bedecked saucer, fussing with the coffee things before bringing the try over to the long legged young man currently adorning her parlor couch. Setting the tray down upon the elegant glass and mahogany coffee table, she fussed with her navy wool skirt before taking a seat next to him. While there was only one slice of cake, there were two cups. She poured out equal shares of piquant, aromatic coffee and handed him the first cup she poured.
He accepted the cup and saucer with almost exaggerated care, his flesh almost a match for the porcelain in hue. His long fingers grasped the handle of the cup with the same delicacy one would afford a day-old chick.
“Did you ever want to have children?” he insisted.
She pursed her lips at him and the tiniest furrow formed between her dark arching brows. “If it matters so much to you… no.”
He blinked bemusedly, cup almost at his lips. “Why not?”
She sniffed. “It is my womb, my body,” she pointed out almost acidly. She delicately dropped a pale crystal of lump sugar into her coffee cup with a pair of little tongs and stirred with an equally miniscule silver spoon.
“There hasn’t been anyone-” he began.
She gave him an affronted look as she set the silver spoon down and picked up her coffee cup. “Of course not.”
“The Spaniard,” he began.
She almost snorted into her coffee. “Antonio is nothing more than a colleague.”
“The Frenchman-”
“Lecher,” she near sneered. “And do not dare bring up that uncouth- companion of yours.”
He grinned at her, the mellow light of the parlor glinting off his eyeteeth. “Aw, Gilbert isn’t bad, as a rule…”
She gave him a pointed look as she set her coffee down and picked up a slender silver dessert fork.
“I think I might have taken a lot away from you,” he said, hands curled around his coffee cup.
“Nonsense. You are a nuisance, yes, but you have hardly ‘taken’ anything.”
He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “It’s been twenty years.”
She paused, her fork slowly slicing into the tip of her cake. “Nineteen,” she said after a moment.
“And three months.”
“Indeed.” She favored him with one of her rare, slow smiles, the kind of expression that made her students or underlings squirm in mingled pleasure and excitement and shivery fear all at once.
“You’ve only grown more beautiful since then,” he said.
“I am growing old,” she replied.
He laughed, though the sound had a soft echo of what may have been sadness. “You can’t talk to me about age. Except in the worst way.”
“You look like my son.”
“If you started very early,” he replied cheekily. He set his cup down, being just the slightest bit careless. The sound of china meeting china sounded crackled through the air. Panic stricken, he nudged the cup to assess the damage, of which there was none.
“I’ll- buy you another one,” he said anyways.
“You already bought me that one,” she said.
“I can get you more.”
“I will need a new cabinet then.”
“Or do you want music?” he asked. “Or an instrument? I can find a Stra-”
“Likely not so legally obtained,” she observed wryly. “I decline. My own is most serviceable.”
“I’m not trying to buy you,” he said.
She finally took a bite of her cake. “I know,” she replied after savoring the bittersweet chocolate and bright-sweet apricot.
“I miss it, sometimes,” he said conversationally, looking at the gleaming silver fork in her hand.
“What?”
“Eating,” he sighed. “Food. Especially- Well, chocolate cake, Sachertorte, came years too late.” He propped his chin on his hand.
“My condolences.”
He smiled his sweet, slightly indolent smile. “It’s all right. I like watching you enjoy it. And I can at least drink coffee. And hot chocolate.”
That earned him a sharp look over silver spectacles. “Is that any question to ask an unmarried woman?” she inquired rather icily.
He shrugged a single long shoulder, looking at her through his long, pale eyelashes. “Did you?”
She settled for delicately placing a single slice of Sachertorte upon a rose-bedecked saucer, fussing with the coffee things before bringing the try over to the long legged young man currently adorning her parlor couch. Setting the tray down upon the elegant glass and mahogany coffee table, she fussed with her navy wool skirt before taking a seat next to him. While there was only one slice of cake, there were two cups. She poured out equal shares of piquant, aromatic coffee and handed him the first cup she poured.
He accepted the cup and saucer with almost exaggerated care, his flesh almost a match for the porcelain in hue. His long fingers grasped the handle of the cup with the same delicacy one would afford a day-old chick.
“Did you ever want to have children?” he insisted.
She pursed her lips at him and the tiniest furrow formed between her dark arching brows. “If it matters so much to you… no.”
He blinked bemusedly, cup almost at his lips. “Why not?”
She sniffed. “It is my womb, my body,” she pointed out almost acidly. She delicately dropped a pale crystal of lump sugar into her coffee cup with a pair of little tongs and stirred with an equally miniscule silver spoon.
“There hasn’t been anyone-” he began.
She gave him an affronted look as she set the silver spoon down and picked up her coffee cup. “Of course not.”
“The Spaniard,” he began.
She almost snorted into her coffee. “Antonio is nothing more than a colleague.”
“The Frenchman-”
“Lecher,” she near sneered. “And do not dare bring up that uncouth- companion of yours.”
He grinned at her, the mellow light of the parlor glinting off his eyeteeth. “Aw, Gilbert isn’t bad, as a rule…”
She gave him a pointed look as she set her coffee down and picked up a slender silver dessert fork.
“I think I might have taken a lot away from you,” he said, hands curled around his coffee cup.
“Nonsense. You are a nuisance, yes, but you have hardly ‘taken’ anything.”
He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “It’s been twenty years.”
She paused, her fork slowly slicing into the tip of her cake. “Nineteen,” she said after a moment.
“And three months.”
“Indeed.” She favored him with one of her rare, slow smiles, the kind of expression that made her students or underlings squirm in mingled pleasure and excitement and shivery fear all at once.
“You’ve only grown more beautiful since then,” he said.
“I am growing old,” she replied.
He laughed, though the sound had a soft echo of what may have been sadness. “You can’t talk to me about age. Except in the worst way.”
“You look like my son.”
“If you started very early,” he replied cheekily. He set his cup down, being just the slightest bit careless. The sound of china meeting china sounded crackled through the air. Panic stricken, he nudged the cup to assess the damage, of which there was none.
“I’ll- buy you another one,” he said anyways.
“You already bought me that one,” she said.
“I can get you more.”
“I will need a new cabinet then.”
“Or do you want music?” he asked. “Or an instrument? I can find a Stra-”
“Likely not so legally obtained,” she observed wryly. “I decline. My own is most serviceable.”
“I’m not trying to buy you,” he said.
She finally took a bite of her cake. “I know,” she replied after savoring the bittersweet chocolate and bright-sweet apricot.
“I miss it, sometimes,” he said conversationally, looking at the gleaming silver fork in her hand.
“What?”
“Eating,” he sighed. “Food. Especially- Well, chocolate cake, Sachertorte, came years too late.” He propped his chin on his hand.
“My condolences.”
He smiled his sweet, slightly indolent smile. “It’s all right. I like watching you enjoy it. And I can at least drink coffee. And hot chocolate.”
“Not wine,” she said, in a rare moment of impishness.
“I do not drink… vine,” he said as portentously as possible and had the pleasure of seeing her mouth twitch that little bit uncontrollably.
When she was younger, she was pretty; any idiot could see how beautiful she was, with her pitch black curls and aristocratic bearing. Even as she grew older, she remained beautiful, because age couldn’t affect the imperious delicacy of her jaw and chin, the graceful tilt of her nose, the depths of her impossibly blue-violet eyes. But wrinkles didn’t mean anything to him, not the delicate crows’ feet at her eyes, the fine textures of her cheeks, the creases at the corners of her slowly thinning mouth. Each one reminded him of the years that she had, the times she savored and lived, the experience and wisdom that he only pretended to have.
He considered himself lucky to have seen the passions in her, the fire beneath the chillingly beautiful Lady. Every day, he couldn’t forget the fire that never ceased, never died in her remarkable eyes. Not one woman in a thousand had that and he had lived long enough to see thousands, hundreds of thousands.
She fixed her stern gaze upon him and he realized that he had lost himself again. He only smiled abashedly because she had no qualms about making him feel as clumsy and callow as a peasant boy.
Then her gaze didn’t quite ease, didn’t quite fade, but perhaps- softened. “Why do you look at me like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like…” She had to stop for a moment to mull over the correct words, the correct turn of phrase. The concentration on her face was all too endearing. “Like you are a student visiting Vienna for the first time, seeing the Hofburg Palace, listening to Mozart’s symphonies in the great opera house.”
“Like everything is new and beautiful. So beautiful that it’s frightening because you think that you will never see such things again, hear such music ever again. Everything else would be just a pale copy, a bad imitation, a cheap fake,” he replied.
Her cheeks flushed and she didn’t reply immediately.
“Because it’s just the way it is,” he said simply.
“I am an old woman now,” she said just a little sharply.
“I’m old enough to be your grandfather many times over,” he returned comfortably.
“It does not look that way,” she retorted.
“But it is not the truth,” he pointed out reasonably.
“When are you going to tire of me?”
It wasn’t the first time she had asked him this. She had never said it with hurt, with weariness, only with a matter-of-fact expectation, as if she were planning out a schedule and itinerary and needed to know the exact times and dates and expenditures necessary.
“Never.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I am the one who has seen decades pass too quick,” he replied wryly. “Let me be the judge of- fidelity? Constancy?”
“Am I the only one?” She didn’t say the way most women would have. She asked out of genuine curiosity, a dispassionate desire for the information, not affirmation of his passion.
“Now? Yes, of course.” His mouth pursed in a rather hurt expression. “But are you the only woman I have wanted? No.”
“Who was she?”
His mouth twisted into a half-smile. “You might know her as Sisi.”
She blinked rapidly, surprised for once. “Empress Elisabeth?” she asked incredulously.
He did not shrug. “I was not the only one. But I was one of the few she- tolerated.”
“And did you make your offer?”
“I almost did.”
“Because she would have refused?”
“No. Because she died that day.” He sighed ruefully.
“Even then?”
He finally touched her fingers softly, only letting his very fingertips graze against the slowly mottling skin of her fine boned hands. “Real beauty never fades.”
“So will you?” she asked at last. Her hands did not draw away from his, however, a good sign.
“Will I what?” He played coy, tracing the many minute blood vessels within her hands.
“Ask me again.”
“Will you?”
“What would it mean?”
“No more sunrises. No more sunsets. No more cake.”
“And why won’t you?”
“Because I can’t make you.”
“I do not drink… vine,” he said as portentously as possible and had the pleasure of seeing her mouth twitch that little bit uncontrollably.
When she was younger, she was pretty; any idiot could see how beautiful she was, with her pitch black curls and aristocratic bearing. Even as she grew older, she remained beautiful, because age couldn’t affect the imperious delicacy of her jaw and chin, the graceful tilt of her nose, the depths of her impossibly blue-violet eyes. But wrinkles didn’t mean anything to him, not the delicate crows’ feet at her eyes, the fine textures of her cheeks, the creases at the corners of her slowly thinning mouth. Each one reminded him of the years that she had, the times she savored and lived, the experience and wisdom that he only pretended to have.
He considered himself lucky to have seen the passions in her, the fire beneath the chillingly beautiful Lady. Every day, he couldn’t forget the fire that never ceased, never died in her remarkable eyes. Not one woman in a thousand had that and he had lived long enough to see thousands, hundreds of thousands.
She fixed her stern gaze upon him and he realized that he had lost himself again. He only smiled abashedly because she had no qualms about making him feel as clumsy and callow as a peasant boy.
Then her gaze didn’t quite ease, didn’t quite fade, but perhaps- softened. “Why do you look at me like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like…” She had to stop for a moment to mull over the correct words, the correct turn of phrase. The concentration on her face was all too endearing. “Like you are a student visiting Vienna for the first time, seeing the Hofburg Palace, listening to Mozart’s symphonies in the great opera house.”
“Like everything is new and beautiful. So beautiful that it’s frightening because you think that you will never see such things again, hear such music ever again. Everything else would be just a pale copy, a bad imitation, a cheap fake,” he replied.
Her cheeks flushed and she didn’t reply immediately.
“Because it’s just the way it is,” he said simply.
“I am an old woman now,” she said just a little sharply.
“I’m old enough to be your grandfather many times over,” he returned comfortably.
“It does not look that way,” she retorted.
“But it is not the truth,” he pointed out reasonably.
“When are you going to tire of me?”
It wasn’t the first time she had asked him this. She had never said it with hurt, with weariness, only with a matter-of-fact expectation, as if she were planning out a schedule and itinerary and needed to know the exact times and dates and expenditures necessary.
“Never.”
“You can’t say that.”
“I am the one who has seen decades pass too quick,” he replied wryly. “Let me be the judge of- fidelity? Constancy?”
“Am I the only one?” She didn’t say the way most women would have. She asked out of genuine curiosity, a dispassionate desire for the information, not affirmation of his passion.
“Now? Yes, of course.” His mouth pursed in a rather hurt expression. “But are you the only woman I have wanted? No.”
“Who was she?”
His mouth twisted into a half-smile. “You might know her as Sisi.”
She blinked rapidly, surprised for once. “Empress Elisabeth?” she asked incredulously.
He did not shrug. “I was not the only one. But I was one of the few she- tolerated.”
“And did you make your offer?”
“I almost did.”
“Because she would have refused?”
“No. Because she died that day.” He sighed ruefully.
“Even then?”
He finally touched her fingers softly, only letting his very fingertips graze against the slowly mottling skin of her fine boned hands. “Real beauty never fades.”
“So will you?” she asked at last. Her hands did not draw away from his, however, a good sign.
“Will I what?” He played coy, tracing the many minute blood vessels within her hands.
“Ask me again.”
“Will you?”
“What would it mean?”
“No more sunrises. No more sunsets. No more cake.”
“And why won’t you?”
“Because I can’t make you.”
It was not as if they had not had this conversation before; almost every year they mused on this and he waited as she asked variations on the same questions and he gave her the same script in return. She met his eyes squarely, quite boldly even. In the past, she had seen him lure a pigeon to a balcony to meet an untimely end, seen him casually repel people away from him in midst of a crowded thoroughfare.
“I would beg to differ on that account,” she told him wryly.
A rare, wounded expression flickered across his bright green eyes. He closed his eyes slowly. “If you want to die, if you really want to grow old… how can I take it away from you? Do you think that you mean that little to me?” For once he stepped away from the script.
“How can I be anything else?”
His eyes opened to meet hers and in there simmered an all too human anger. But it faded soon enough. He shrugged inelegantly; he had none of her dancer’s grace and would never have it, not the careless but careful measured movements and gestures that could only be trained up from birth.
“You are very hard on me,” he said with a half smile. But the wry expression faded to something softer, sweeter.
“The centuries surely did not teach you manners.”
“I was doing other things than finding an etiquette teacher.”
“Hence, my work is set out for me.”
He laughed. She kissed him, softly, upon his pale, cold cheek that still bore a very faint sword scar. Surely she felt him shiver, as if she were the one with unnaturally chilled skin. She slipped her hands from his and unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons that fastened her cuffs. He stopped her.
She gave him a sharp look. “I can only wear high necked blouses so often,” she said.
“It’s because you think your neck isn’t pretty,” he replied.
“Silly vanity,” she sniffed, which meant that he had surmised correctly.
He chuckled softly and let his fingertips trail down her cheek and cradle her jaw. “When are you ever going to believe me?”
“Because you’re insane,” she replied. “To be this fixated.”
“’Love is merely a madness,’” he quoted.
“Yes, love,” she murmured, absently.
He sighed as he leaned in to kiss her lips. She kissed him back, in a manner that would have startled her colleagues and students. He pressed the softest of kisses to her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, down her jaw. All the while, there was the sweet music of her fluttering heartbeat, the whistle of breath rushing in and out of her lungs. His mouth traced along her jaw, unhurriedly going to her neck and fine throat. It was still a very fine neck. Graceful, long, with no sign of wattle or droops. Her fingers touched his jaw, ran through his long strands of auburn hair.
You spent your nights doing this and it never grew old, never grew routine. At least, not with her.
He inhaled the scent of her, beneath her expensive sweet perfume and the delicate soap she used. The scent of her, what was under the cosmetics, was what mattered. His teeth extended and he did his very best not to drool as his mouth subtly reconformed in ways that would make anatomists yelp.
His teeth raked across the skin of her neck, too delicately. The veins here, the arteries there, the fragile little crackling network of nerves in between. It would just be too easy to drain her, too easy to take away her single fragile life in a few moments. He fought with himself every time he came here, hovering between brutality and care.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and she sighed against him, warm and pliant and realer than anything else in the room, in his reality. She was too warm against him.
“I would beg to differ on that account,” she told him wryly.
A rare, wounded expression flickered across his bright green eyes. He closed his eyes slowly. “If you want to die, if you really want to grow old… how can I take it away from you? Do you think that you mean that little to me?” For once he stepped away from the script.
“How can I be anything else?”
His eyes opened to meet hers and in there simmered an all too human anger. But it faded soon enough. He shrugged inelegantly; he had none of her dancer’s grace and would never have it, not the careless but careful measured movements and gestures that could only be trained up from birth.
“You are very hard on me,” he said with a half smile. But the wry expression faded to something softer, sweeter.
“The centuries surely did not teach you manners.”
“I was doing other things than finding an etiquette teacher.”
“Hence, my work is set out for me.”
He laughed. She kissed him, softly, upon his pale, cold cheek that still bore a very faint sword scar. Surely she felt him shiver, as if she were the one with unnaturally chilled skin. She slipped her hands from his and unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons that fastened her cuffs. He stopped her.
She gave him a sharp look. “I can only wear high necked blouses so often,” she said.
“It’s because you think your neck isn’t pretty,” he replied.
“Silly vanity,” she sniffed, which meant that he had surmised correctly.
He chuckled softly and let his fingertips trail down her cheek and cradle her jaw. “When are you ever going to believe me?”
“Because you’re insane,” she replied. “To be this fixated.”
“’Love is merely a madness,’” he quoted.
“Yes, love,” she murmured, absently.
He sighed as he leaned in to kiss her lips. She kissed him back, in a manner that would have startled her colleagues and students. He pressed the softest of kisses to her cheeks, the corners of her mouth, down her jaw. All the while, there was the sweet music of her fluttering heartbeat, the whistle of breath rushing in and out of her lungs. His mouth traced along her jaw, unhurriedly going to her neck and fine throat. It was still a very fine neck. Graceful, long, with no sign of wattle or droops. Her fingers touched his jaw, ran through his long strands of auburn hair.
You spent your nights doing this and it never grew old, never grew routine. At least, not with her.
He inhaled the scent of her, beneath her expensive sweet perfume and the delicate soap she used. The scent of her, what was under the cosmetics, was what mattered. His teeth extended and he did his very best not to drool as his mouth subtly reconformed in ways that would make anatomists yelp.
His teeth raked across the skin of her neck, too delicately. The veins here, the arteries there, the fragile little crackling network of nerves in between. It would just be too easy to drain her, too easy to take away her single fragile life in a few moments. He fought with himself every time he came here, hovering between brutality and care.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and she sighed against him, warm and pliant and realer than anything else in the room, in his reality. She was too warm against him.
England pushes the needle through the cloth in his embroidery hoop with hands that are shaking ever slow slightly. He mentally curses; taking another long sip of tea and wishes it was something stronger. He’s determined to stay sober though, because tonight won’t be like the other nights. France is coming over for dinner tonight, and then afterwards, England knows, they will have mind-blowing sex. He’s counting on that happening actually because tonight he has a specific request for France about what he wants to do in bed. England generally doesn’t talk about sex, especially not to France.
It’s not that he can’t talk about sex and it’s not that he hasn’t talked about his sexual preferences, kinks and fantasies with other lovers. It’s just that there is something particularly humiliating about doing it with France. He knows France will be judging him. Storing up all the little details so he can throw it back in England’s face the next time he calls France a pervert for flirting with him in public. So usually England just lets what happens happen when it comes to sex with France and it’s always good, very, very good. When he absolutely has something he is simply dying to do with France, something he really loves, England gets good and sloshed, before demanding that France do whatever it is to him. That way later he can always blame it on the alcohol. The problem is it’s not good when he’s too drunk to move. He can never really feel the pleasure as intensely as he would like, there’s the nausea and dizziness, which are deffinitely not turn-ons. He has a hard time remembering the entire experience the next morning, not to mention it always feels like he’s used France somehow.
England jabs the embroidery needle almost viciously back into the cloth. Get it together man, he tells himself sternly, you’re an adult, act like it.
It’s not that he can’t talk about sex and it’s not that he hasn’t talked about his sexual preferences, kinks and fantasies with other lovers. It’s just that there is something particularly humiliating about doing it with France. He knows France will be judging him. Storing up all the little details so he can throw it back in England’s face the next time he calls France a pervert for flirting with him in public. So usually England just lets what happens happen when it comes to sex with France and it’s always good, very, very good. When he absolutely has something he is simply dying to do with France, something he really loves, England gets good and sloshed, before demanding that France do whatever it is to him. That way later he can always blame it on the alcohol. The problem is it’s not good when he’s too drunk to move. He can never really feel the pleasure as intensely as he would like, there’s the nausea and dizziness, which are deffinitely not turn-ons. He has a hard time remembering the entire experience the next morning, not to mention it always feels like he’s used France somehow.
England jabs the embroidery needle almost viciously back into the cloth. Get it together man, he tells himself sternly, you’re an adult, act like it.
Softly, he drew his fangs again her skin once more, opening the skin and letting slip blood to open air. His tongue caught those drops and again, he could have latched on, could have drawn as much blood as possible from tortured blood vessels. He could have made her pale skin mottled plum violet as he collapsed the fine little web and maze of veins and arteries under her skin.
But he didn’t. He sighed just as she sighed again. Her body trembled in his arms and she let herself be lost in that state that she surely only felt at her piano, before a silent audience in a gilded performance chamber. No, not performing, when she had just finished Chopin’s Nocturne in its entirety, her fingers dancing across the ivory keyboard, and she was smiling because the music wasn’t for anyone else. It was just for her.
The soul soared where the body could not go. It went to places only dimly imagined. One single sense captured the mind, snared it, and somehow gave it wings. He watched her play and beneath her sober expression, she was always smiling, her pleasure untainted by irony or ruefulness.
He tangled with her briefly, momentarily, only given the music of her fluttering heartbeat. The sound mingled with the ticks of a slowly winding clock, only given so much power before the cogs slowed and the sounds- ended.
He pulled away at last. Only a few drops; what he had taken wouldn’t have even filled a hospital blood vial. His tongue traced over the nicks, his saliva coating the wounds. The skin remained livid but no blood welled out again.
Her blue-violet eyes were half-lidded now and she leaned against him, breathing just a little unevenly. He kept holding her, even as her eyes closed and her breathing evened. Upon the opposite wall, a walnut and brass clock slowly and steadily sliced the seconds to nothing.
Notes:
Fem!Austria’s human name would have been Rosamunda Edelstein. Mangary goes by Eli Hedervary.
“Sisi”, Elisabeth of Bavaria, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary – a tragic figure in German and Austrian history. A complex, troubled woman who faced no small personal tragedy. Probably one of the most romanticized figures in Germany, she was known for being a free spirit, a broken bird, and an astonishingly vain muse. No paintings exist of her past the age of 30 because she refused to be remembered as ever getting old and only a few rare photographs of her, taken covertly. At the age of 60, she was stabbed to death by an Italian anarchist. Interestingly, she took a greater interest in Hungary than Austria, learning Hungarian and keeping primarily Hungarian ladies in waiting.
“Love is merely a madness” – quote from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”, I like to think that Eli finds Shakespeare’s plays amusing, mostly the crossdressing ones.
Blood draws- I did bother to do the research on this because I used to study anatomy and because I used to be a much more enthusiastic vampire writer. Most of the usual places where you can draw blood without causing nerve damage or exsanguination would be on elbow or possibly the hand. NOT the wrist, because while there are veins there, you have to get through tendon and you could badly injure your “victim.” And Austria will kill anyone who touches the hands. Normally Mangary draws from the elbow, or the median cubital vein, a superficial vein where you would donate blood from, at least, for a decent meal.
But he didn’t. He sighed just as she sighed again. Her body trembled in his arms and she let herself be lost in that state that she surely only felt at her piano, before a silent audience in a gilded performance chamber. No, not performing, when she had just finished Chopin’s Nocturne in its entirety, her fingers dancing across the ivory keyboard, and she was smiling because the music wasn’t for anyone else. It was just for her.
The soul soared where the body could not go. It went to places only dimly imagined. One single sense captured the mind, snared it, and somehow gave it wings. He watched her play and beneath her sober expression, she was always smiling, her pleasure untainted by irony or ruefulness.
He tangled with her briefly, momentarily, only given the music of her fluttering heartbeat. The sound mingled with the ticks of a slowly winding clock, only given so much power before the cogs slowed and the sounds- ended.
He pulled away at last. Only a few drops; what he had taken wouldn’t have even filled a hospital blood vial. His tongue traced over the nicks, his saliva coating the wounds. The skin remained livid but no blood welled out again.
Her blue-violet eyes were half-lidded now and she leaned against him, breathing just a little unevenly. He kept holding her, even as her eyes closed and her breathing evened. Upon the opposite wall, a walnut and brass clock slowly and steadily sliced the seconds to nothing.
Notes:
Fem!Austria’s human name would have been Rosamunda Edelstein. Mangary goes by Eli Hedervary.
“Sisi”, Elisabeth of Bavaria, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary – a tragic figure in German and Austrian history. A complex, troubled woman who faced no small personal tragedy. Probably one of the most romanticized figures in Germany, she was known for being a free spirit, a broken bird, and an astonishingly vain muse. No paintings exist of her past the age of 30 because she refused to be remembered as ever getting old and only a few rare photographs of her, taken covertly. At the age of 60, she was stabbed to death by an Italian anarchist. Interestingly, she took a greater interest in Hungary than Austria, learning Hungarian and keeping primarily Hungarian ladies in waiting.
“Love is merely a madness” – quote from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”, I like to think that Eli finds Shakespeare’s plays amusing, mostly the crossdressing ones.
Blood draws- I did bother to do the research on this because I used to study anatomy and because I used to be a much more enthusiastic vampire writer. Most of the usual places where you can draw blood without causing nerve damage or exsanguination would be on elbow or possibly the hand. NOT the wrist, because while there are veins there, you have to get through tendon and you could badly injure your “victim.” And Austria will kill anyone who touches the hands. Normally Mangary draws from the elbow, or the median cubital vein, a superficial vein where you would donate blood from, at least, for a decent meal.
Blue Beard, Aschenputtel (Cinderella), and The Goose Girl are also interesting Grimm Tales. Also, Snow White/Little Snow White is also one, which this anon loves very much.
Might do one of the OP's mentioned ones, as well as Hetalia-ized Snow White, if you don't mind. <3
Might do one of the OP's mentioned ones, as well as Hetalia-ized Snow White, if you don't mind. <3
Just watched Disney's Hercules. Totally want to see America in the role like the Beauty and the Beast fill(s)!
Quote: "I'm afraid being famous isn't the same as being a hero."
"But, what can I do?"
"That's something you have to figure out for yourself."
Bonus: Iggy as Meg/Fem!England as Meg. As in- "I won't say I'm in love."
You KNOW you want to, Anons~
Quote: "I'm afraid being famous isn't the same as being a hero."
"But, what can I do?"
"That's something you have to figure out for yourself."
Bonus: Iggy as Meg/Fem!England as Meg. As in- "I won't say I'm in love."
You KNOW you want to, Anons~
Dinner goes fairly well, the food is lovely because France cooks it and England is banned from even being in the kitchen while the cooking is happening. England refuses the glass of wine France offers in favor of water, which gets him a raised eyebrow, but France doesn’t comment. They talk about politics and music, how the novel France is writing in his spare time is going and how England’s garden is fairing with all the unexpected (even for England) rain. France teases him a little about being jealous over France and Germany’s political relationship, what do you think he’s going to steal me away from you, mon petit lapin?
All in all it’s very normal and very domestic. They’ve been doing this once a week when their schedules allowed it for a couple decades now. England is beginning to relax the knots his shoulder muscles had tied themselves into have begun to loosen. Soon though France will begin clearing the table and England will have to say something or not bring it up at all this evening.
“Is there something you want to talk about mon cher?”
England almost jumps guiltily but catches himself in time, talking a small sip of water instead. “What do you mean?”
“You keep twitching.” France gives him a look over his shoulder as he begins setting dishes in the sink. “You refused the wine, and you keep staring at me, it does not take a genius to finger out there is something on your mind.”
England takes a breath; “There is something as a matter of fact, and something I thought we could do to night.”
France turns around a looks at him, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the counter, giving England his full attention.
“I . . .” He is going to regret this; he is so going to regret this. It’s like handing the enemy a loaded gun even if France doesn’t laugh at him, he’d most certainly hold it against him late. It isn’t even that kinky, England could be requesting all sorts of other much less sexually normal things that just happened to get him all hot under the collar. This is rather vanilla really, but England is requesting it, asking for it, and that in and over itself is the problem.
France sighs “Would this be easier if we went up stairs now?” He glances meaningfully at the staircase leading to England’s bedroom, “the dishes can wait until later.”
England nods and France moves across the room to cup England’s face in his hands and kiss him on the lips. After a moment England stands so he can put his arms around France’s shoulders wind his fingers in France’s hair, kiss him back with just as much force. England runs his fingers lightly around the waistband of France’ slacks, fingers skirting up underneath silk shirt the other is wearing. France shivers ever so slightly at the feather light touches, sucking England bottom lips between his teeth before biting gently. They pull apart finally and England leads the way up the stairs snorting and rolling his eyes when he feels France grope his arse once or twice on the way up. When they get inside the bedroom France kisses him again, first on the lips and then along his neck, trailing up to right behind his ear, making England squirm. France steps back enough to pull his own shirt off, and England undoes his shoes and gets his socks off before becoming distracted by France’s chest.
It isn’t so much wanting to, as having to reach forward and mouth across France’s pectorals, touch and play with his nipples, feel the other nation’s chest hair against his face. France’s fingers are gentle, carding through the hair at the nape of England’s neck. He’s making soft little noises as England does things he knows France especially likes, touching him there or like that. Finally England pulls away and strips off his own sweater-vest and shirt, shucks his trousers and climbs on to the bed only in his boxer. France looks at him for a long moment before quickly getting rid of his own shoes, socks and slacks and climbs onto the bed too. He kisses down England’s neck this time and licks at one of England’s sensitive little nipples before looking up at the other nation.
“There was something you wanted to ask?”
All in all it’s very normal and very domestic. They’ve been doing this once a week when their schedules allowed it for a couple decades now. England is beginning to relax the knots his shoulder muscles had tied themselves into have begun to loosen. Soon though France will begin clearing the table and England will have to say something or not bring it up at all this evening.
“Is there something you want to talk about mon cher?”
England almost jumps guiltily but catches himself in time, talking a small sip of water instead. “What do you mean?”
“You keep twitching.” France gives him a look over his shoulder as he begins setting dishes in the sink. “You refused the wine, and you keep staring at me, it does not take a genius to finger out there is something on your mind.”
England takes a breath; “There is something as a matter of fact, and something I thought we could do to night.”
France turns around a looks at him, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the counter, giving England his full attention.
“I . . .” He is going to regret this; he is so going to regret this. It’s like handing the enemy a loaded gun even if France doesn’t laugh at him, he’d most certainly hold it against him late. It isn’t even that kinky, England could be requesting all sorts of other much less sexually normal things that just happened to get him all hot under the collar. This is rather vanilla really, but England is requesting it, asking for it, and that in and over itself is the problem.
France sighs “Would this be easier if we went up stairs now?” He glances meaningfully at the staircase leading to England’s bedroom, “the dishes can wait until later.”
England nods and France moves across the room to cup England’s face in his hands and kiss him on the lips. After a moment England stands so he can put his arms around France’s shoulders wind his fingers in France’s hair, kiss him back with just as much force. England runs his fingers lightly around the waistband of France’ slacks, fingers skirting up underneath silk shirt the other is wearing. France shivers ever so slightly at the feather light touches, sucking England bottom lips between his teeth before biting gently. They pull apart finally and England leads the way up the stairs snorting and rolling his eyes when he feels France grope his arse once or twice on the way up. When they get inside the bedroom France kisses him again, first on the lips and then along his neck, trailing up to right behind his ear, making England squirm. France steps back enough to pull his own shirt off, and England undoes his shoes and gets his socks off before becoming distracted by France’s chest.
It isn’t so much wanting to, as having to reach forward and mouth across France’s pectorals, touch and play with his nipples, feel the other nation’s chest hair against his face. France’s fingers are gentle, carding through the hair at the nape of England’s neck. He’s making soft little noises as England does things he knows France especially likes, touching him there or like that. Finally England pulls away and strips off his own sweater-vest and shirt, shucks his trousers and climbs on to the bed only in his boxer. France looks at him for a long moment before quickly getting rid of his own shoes, socks and slacks and climbs onto the bed too. He kisses down England’s neck this time and licks at one of England’s sensitive little nipples before looking up at the other nation.
“There was something you wanted to ask?”
a/n - OP, please don't hate me. But you can't deny that this is consensual :D
Sweden tightens the ropes, and Sealand can hear the jangling of metal, which clashes oddly with the birdsong and the wind in the trees around them. He shivers in anticipation.
“Am I nearly ready?”
His guardian looks up from where he is knelt in front of the boy.
“nr’ly. This h’s to fit..”
Sweden looks up at Sealands flushed face, notices the slight tremble in his hands. Is this right? Perhaps he is too young, after all. Perhaps he should wait.
If he waited a few more years, Tino would be less likely to kill him, should Sweden and Sealand be found out. He almost undoes the harness and suggest they go back down, but…
“I want to do this.”
“Y’ sure?”
“Yes.” Sweden has never heard so much resolve in his adopted sons voice. “Lets do it!”
Sweden stands up, grips Sealands bare arms, turns him around - to face the edge of the hill.
God, he loves the outdoors…
“Rih’. Abseilin’ can be v’ry dangerous, Peter, so list’n to what I tell you”
Sweden tightens the ropes, and Sealand can hear the jangling of metal, which clashes oddly with the birdsong and the wind in the trees around them. He shivers in anticipation.
“Am I nearly ready?”
His guardian looks up from where he is knelt in front of the boy.
“nr’ly. This h’s to fit..”
Sweden looks up at Sealands flushed face, notices the slight tremble in his hands. Is this right? Perhaps he is too young, after all. Perhaps he should wait.
If he waited a few more years, Tino would be less likely to kill him, should Sweden and Sealand be found out. He almost undoes the harness and suggest they go back down, but…
“I want to do this.”
“Y’ sure?”
“Yes.” Sweden has never heard so much resolve in his adopted sons voice. “Lets do it!”
Sweden stands up, grips Sealands bare arms, turns him around - to face the edge of the hill.
God, he loves the outdoors…
“Rih’. Abseilin’ can be v’ry dangerous, Peter, so list’n to what I tell you”
England stares at him for a moment before jerking out of his pleasure induced haze enough to blush deeply, “Yes well.” For a moment he really thinks he’s going to chicken out and not ask at all. He’s never so much as flinched in battle but he’s actually getting cold feet over admitting something so trivial to France. It’s that thought the pushes him forward, because the idea of being a coward is something England can’t stand. “I want to you to touch me with your mouth,” he says completely seriously, “here” his hand skim over the bulge in his boxers, “and here,” his hand drops lower between his thighs, “until I come.” There’s a beat and England isn’t quite ready to see the mocking laughter in France’s eyes yet, “please.” He finishes a little belatedly without looking up.
He looks at France finally, and the other nation isn’t laughing, if anything he looks thoughtful. England clears his throat feeling a little awkward and France snaps out of his reveries focusing once more on the other nation, “of course Angleterre.” He murmurs bending his head to kiss England right at the base of his throat, flicking the fragile skin with his tongue before working his way down to England’s nipples again. England sighs with equal parts relief and arousal and lies back, staring at the ceiling as France’s mouth moves down his chest. Then France is licking around one nipple, slow and meticulous and England can’t help but look down and watch France’s tongue against his skin. When France pulls back England’s nipple is wet and fully erect. France moves to the other one also gently licking it, while is fingers come up to pinch the first slick nipple hard and England hisses is entire body arching into the pain/pleasure of it. France only increases the pressure, mouth gently on one little nub while his fingers work almost viciously at the other, England feels tears start at the corners of his eyes. Then France pulls away and his fingers leave England’s abused flesh, moving across his chest to squeeze the other just as hard, England whole body bucks and France chuckles softly and pulls away. England realizes his cock is rock hard and he has spread his thighs wide open. He flushes again, and France makes a pleased noise and hooks his fingers in the waistband of England’s boxers before pulling them down and off.
England squirms a little now fully naked and watches France out of half lidded eyes as the other nation leans forward. Hot breath ghosts over England erection, making him hiss a little. France smiles and then bends forward enough to actually nuzzle at England’s cock, and England hisses again this time at the scrap of France’s beard against sensitive skin and France gins. As France takes the tip of England’s cock into his mouth, England thinks hazily that he is a very luck man. Because contrary to popular belief France hates giving blowjobs, loathes it in fact. He’ll do it for England though, and the fact of the matter is France is bloody good at it. England moans as France takes more of him into that wet hot mouth, fingers rub and work his balls as his tongue works up and down England’s length. France pulls back up a little, tongue sliding across the crown and sensitive underside of England’s cock while his knuckles strokes right behind England’s balls and England pants and tries to keep from writhing too much. It feels fantastic though and when France pulls all the way off and England makes a small noise of protest.
He looks at France finally, and the other nation isn’t laughing, if anything he looks thoughtful. England clears his throat feeling a little awkward and France snaps out of his reveries focusing once more on the other nation, “of course Angleterre.” He murmurs bending his head to kiss England right at the base of his throat, flicking the fragile skin with his tongue before working his way down to England’s nipples again. England sighs with equal parts relief and arousal and lies back, staring at the ceiling as France’s mouth moves down his chest. Then France is licking around one nipple, slow and meticulous and England can’t help but look down and watch France’s tongue against his skin. When France pulls back England’s nipple is wet and fully erect. France moves to the other one also gently licking it, while is fingers come up to pinch the first slick nipple hard and England hisses is entire body arching into the pain/pleasure of it. France only increases the pressure, mouth gently on one little nub while his fingers work almost viciously at the other, England feels tears start at the corners of his eyes. Then France pulls away and his fingers leave England’s abused flesh, moving across his chest to squeeze the other just as hard, England whole body bucks and France chuckles softly and pulls away. England realizes his cock is rock hard and he has spread his thighs wide open. He flushes again, and France makes a pleased noise and hooks his fingers in the waistband of England’s boxers before pulling them down and off.
England squirms a little now fully naked and watches France out of half lidded eyes as the other nation leans forward. Hot breath ghosts over England erection, making him hiss a little. France smiles and then bends forward enough to actually nuzzle at England’s cock, and England hisses again this time at the scrap of France’s beard against sensitive skin and France gins. As France takes the tip of England’s cock into his mouth, England thinks hazily that he is a very luck man. Because contrary to popular belief France hates giving blowjobs, loathes it in fact. He’ll do it for England though, and the fact of the matter is France is bloody good at it. England moans as France takes more of him into that wet hot mouth, fingers rub and work his balls as his tongue works up and down England’s length. France pulls back up a little, tongue sliding across the crown and sensitive underside of England’s cock while his knuckles strokes right behind England’s balls and England pants and tries to keep from writhing too much. It feels fantastic though and when France pulls all the way off and England makes a small noise of protest.
Well I know one of the models gave you an option to examine plants and see whether or not they were poisonous......England would probably suck at that--
Basically, some stupid nation doing this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXOM8TNbZmA&feature=related
and their partner finding them that way. Why they're in there, how they get out, if evil partner turns on the dryer to teach them a lesson, kinky half-in half-out of the dryer sex...all up to author!anon :3
bonus: it's a nation you wouldn't quite expect to do something like this.
Cracky fun pls :D
and their partner finding them that way. Why they're in there, how they get out, if evil partner turns on the dryer to teach them a lesson, kinky half-in half-out of the dryer sex...all up to author!anon :3
bonus: it's a nation you wouldn't quite expect to do something like this.
Cracky fun pls :D
<3 Very cute. Authornon. Very cute indeed.
Also, derp. I got really sick and haven't put your Prussia/England up for you yet. Soon!
Also, derp. I got really sick and haven't put your Prussia/England up for you yet. Soon!
:DD I love you, author anon. This has made my awful day much better(, DA?)
... Holy shit, Finland's going to fucking KILL him, seriously. <3<3<3
Now that I think about it, it's not impossible that OP might have meant something like this was okay, too ... Like, any interaction, sexual or not, as long as it wasn't rape? I dunno!
Now that I think about it, it's not impossible that OP might have meant something like this was okay, too ... Like, any interaction, sexual or not, as long as it wasn't rape? I dunno!
Great start author!anon! And I agree with a previous anon- England doesn't seem OOC at all. I can't wait to read more <3
But I do have a question: with England's quick mention of the Vikings, I was curious if you going with Denmark and England being children during the Viking raids and the later Danish rule over England? (Thus excluding them from the whole raping-and-pillaging bit)?
But I do have a question: with England's quick mention of the Vikings, I was curious if you going with Denmark and England being children during the Viking raids and the later Danish rule over England? (Thus excluding them from the whole raping-and-pillaging bit)?
Even if they weren't children, Denmark may not have partaken in the rape or may have confined it to women and/or non-nations or something?
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