hetalia_kink | Hetalia Kink meme part 14 -- CLOSED

Oops.
This one should work.
http://www.imagebam.com/image/8d4193100256367

This will still drag out for a bit more, believe me. ;P

I most definitely will! The next part will be just straight-on smut, so please look forward to it.

Much thanks for reading!

There'll be more definitely! Much thanks for reading and commenting!

...;alsdkjf so i kind of want this like burning. o____o

Unf, my friend.

JUST. UNF.

Oh anon, I really love your story and characterization. I want to read more of this America, please, PLEASE continue this ;;

If you’re bothered that the op thinks this ‘doesn’t adjust to their prompt at all’ (pfff), maybe you can continue this as a part of the ‘Anything goes’ thread: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=23682451#t23682451

Yes, I based it loosely of the First Battle of Marne (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Battle_of_Marne). I thought I wouldn't mention it because it might not be considered Teenage!Germany or not. But I liked it and the pictures inspired me so I wrote about it.

And yeah, I couldn't really add France and Spain in there, since Spain isn't involved in this war and France.. well, let's just say France hasn't been too nice to Germany. (Damn cuckoo clocks.) He's not really the sympathetic type when it comes to the potato bastard.

But.. I do have an idea now to include the two. I think when I have some time I'll e

...write about it here. |D Wow can't believe I didn't finish that.

But keep an eye out for it!

we will wait as long as it takes, oh author!anon!
<3
Can't wait to see how this pans out.
ALSO, UNF CANT WAIT TO HAVE ALFIE IN THAT CORSET.

Awww, talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I do hope Arthur will still be able to keep some sort of contact with his angel friends ;_;

Just stopping in after reading for about the tenth time. You are incredible, anon.

ALL OF THESE PAIRINGS RIGHT NOW ARE FANTASTIC.

Ludwig and Berwald are absolutely, totally, completely adorable together.

AND THEN EVERYONE ELSE IS TOO. HOW DO YOU DO IT?

Like seriously, these are the pairings you'd never really think of, or if you do, you wouldn't think they'd be able to work. But you deffo work it and I'm enjoying it so much < 3

+++++PRUMANO = FANTASTIC
+++++FRSP = EVERYTHING I WANTED, FOR REAL

THANK YOU.

ALSO IM SICK AGAIN (OF FUCKING COURSE) WHICH IS WHY I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO COMMENT ON THE OTHER PARTS, BUT ONCE IM LIKE ACTUALLY BETTER, I'LL BE RIGHT ON IT. And I'll actually give you like in depth reviews, I mean it hahaha

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH I'm so happy to see an update anon!

If my grandma wasn't sleeping in this room, I'd keysmash in joy or something like last time lol

KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK ANON. 8D <3

(Yay, you liked it! :) And also yay for headcanon correllation. The whole USUK relationship is... argh, complicated is the best summary! And inextricably linked with France and Russia. Chapter 6 is a ridiculously long chapter, AND IT'S ALL THEIR FAULT. Also Austria and Hungary's fault (I love writing Hungary. Can you tell? :)). Oh, by the way, have a link to the poem Ireland keeps referencing: http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html
This section picks up directly from the last Ireland and Belgium scene, by the way.)

--

“What?” asked Belgium.

“It’s from a poem,” explained Ireland. “’The Second Coming’, by Yeats. It’s a visionary sort of thing – it describes some kind of catastrophe that the poet foresaw, where the world begins to descend into chaos. ‘Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold’. It’s based around the Christian notion of the second coming of Christ, except it’s more about – well, the end of the world as we know it. Written in 1919, so you can hardly blame him for thinking world destruction was at hand!”

Belgium nodded, confusedly.

“Wars, revolutions, fighting for independence and all that,” explained Ireland. “You know, I guess Yeats is sort of vindicated by what’s happening now. Who knows – maybe he predicted this!”

“You,” said Belgium, “have a really morbid sense of humour.”

“Yes, yes I do.” They laughed together.

“So,” said Belgium. “Yeats?”

“Yeah. I’ve always liked the way that poem goes from miniscule to colossal. It begins with the falcon, spinning away out of control, and then ends in worldwide devastation. Like one action that goes hideously wrong. It’s as though the whole thing gains momentum – until everything collapses.” Ireland accompanied this with expansive hand gestures, presumably the better to illustrate concepts such as ‘devastation’ and ‘hideously wrong’.

“Like an alien pressing a tiny button to destroy the Earth,” said Belgium, wryly.

“Oh yeah. Ugh. Speaking of that alien thing – it’s staring at me.” Ireland shuddered.

“Ignore him,” said Belgium, dismissively.

“Can’t I go bash its head against the wall? Just a little bit? Please?”

“Ireland,” said Belgium, reproachfully.

“Not even enough to do any real damage!” Ireland assured her. “Just enough to repay it for effectively murdering us all!”

“Ireland!” This time, Belgium’s reproach was more sharply expressed.

“You’re just no fun,” said Ireland, pouting.

“Tell me the rest of the poem,” said Belgium, unexpectedly. She keeps doing that, thought Ireland. Saying unexpected things, that is.

“Huh? You want me to read it out to you?”

“Yes please.”

“All right... but – well, poetry read aloud never sounds as good as when you read it. I'm serious! It never matches up to the voice in your head. Everyone reads a poem differently – it seems to clash really awfully when someone adds a different intonation to a word, or – well, you get the picture.”

Belgium listened, nodding. “Ireland?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Just read me the poem already.”

“Tch. If that’s what you really want... ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear...”

Ludwig left kisses on her stomach, warm and soft, his fingers tugging down the edge of her skirts. Roddi gasped into her palm, eyes shut and mouth pressed against her own skin to satisfy a deeper urge. His mouth, god damn that German mouth. She whored herself out so easily, married into a dozen beds over the centuries, but there was something else about the slow way Ludwig conducted himself that kept her coming back. Outside, the rain fell in harsh patterns against the window panes. Drafts cut through the drapes and dragged at her bare shoulders, the house too old and money too thin to fix them.

It was all the fault of the man who slipped her skirts down over her knees, but she couldn’t stop wanting his hands and his mouth.

“Speak to me of Vienna,” Ludwig murmured into her hip, his fingers sliding around the backs of her knees. “Tell me, Roddi.”

The smooth, rounded vowels of Viennese filled her mouth, the thicker taste of old German mixing with modern Austrian making the words hold a note of foreign song to Ludwig’s Deutsche-trained ears.

“Vienna’s the jewel of Austria. Her towers are my towers, her songs my songs,” Roddi breathed, shifting her hand to watch over the hills of her breasts Ludwig’s head dip to kiss the inside of her knees, grip unmoving on her calves. “Her streets run into dead ends and narrow alleys, but she is the best. The best. Her cafes always serve fragrant coffee, and her pastries are always just the right amount of sw-sweet.”

Ludwig’s teeth grazed her thigh, a spark of pain mixing with the lazy, melting pleasure in her stomach.

“Sweet, so sweet,” Roddi breathed, clutching at the bed sheets. “Apfelstrudel, gugelhupf, sachertorte with just the right amount of a-apricots.”

His fingers slipped past slickness, brushing against sensitive heat. Bed sheets crinkled as the wide shadow of him blocked out what little street light escaped through the shut curtains. On this street, the green gas lamps had not yet been upgraded to electric, so the glow held a ethereal, otherly cast that left everything ghostly. Roddi gasped, biting her wrist, as his mouth skirted her left breast and bit.

“Dobostorte,” she exhaled into her skin, eyes shutting as her body shook and twisted despite herself around the slow stroking of Ludwig’s hand, keeping her vowels extended and dragging, lazy like their sex. “Chocolate and butter cream, melting in your mouth.”

She knew Ludwig understood barely half of what she said, but she kept on. “Coating the inside of your teeth, soft and m-m-oist.”

His weight straddled her thighs, his teeth on her throat. There was always pain with Ludwig, but measured out in careful spoonfuls. Her hips arched up into the slip of his fingers, hooking into her warm depths, shaking as her hands fell uselessly to the bed. “And a piano forte, playing in the background. You can hear it in the streets, trickling amongst the throngs, slow classics winding with the smell of coffee.”

Her voice cracked as suddenly it was not fingers, but a hot, sharp thrust that locked the two of them together. Ludwig grunted, his breath warm against her cheek. Obligingly, she wove her arms about his neck and into the ruined mess of his hair that she’d torn apart only an hour ago after they’d stumbled through the door, escaping the cold press of a German winter and the searching eyes of America, England, and France chasing them through every hallway and into every corner.

They moved, her Viennese poetry stumbling on her tongue with the powerful feeling of Ludwig’s body moving in her own. Overwhelming, taking away her thought, and all her memory. Desperate, she clawed at his back, leaving satisfying long scores against his war-torn back.

“P-pianos, and sometimes–ah–violins, small girls with thin h-hands, or boys with, with their hair tied back,” she murmured into his ear, hooking her knees over his hips to goad him faster. “Music, Mozart and Beethoven, Brahms. Wiener Classic, Wagner and–and–“

They cried out, Roddi caught on the names of famous composers, Ludwig some begging wordless phrase, and Roddi was filled with a different heat as her body clenched and Ludwig’s shuddered. The silence filled only with rain and their gasping, Ludwig’s hand on her thigh promising to leave a distinct palm-shaped bruise. Roddi could feel the heat of blood under her fingernails.

Roddi’s body unlocked, limp as her limbs fell back to the sheets, staring but not seeing the cracked ceiling of the safe house above their heads.

“Weanerisch,” she breathed.

“Don’t talk,” Ludwig replied in thick high German, his vowels dragging and constants harsh for the growl caught in his throat. He drew from her, catching his weight heavily on his elbow over the pale sculpture of her hungry body, scarred with the memory of gun fire. “No more of it.”

His words spoken into her throat almost begged, for all the snarl; Roddi laughed, the sound thin like the covers. Her voice snapped at him in his own clipped dialect. “Then don’t ask me to seduce you with Viennese just so you can pretend that you aren’t in Berlin. You’re naive. You’ve always been naive.”

Ludwig said nothing, pushing away from her to sit up at the edge of the bed. Roddi studied his back, still broad, but now bleeding. She diffidently touched the edge of a four-fingered scratch, and he did not wince from it.

“Do you only like the sound when they are pretty words, Luddi? Pretty, pretty words, like what your Boss told you in his poor Austrian, like what Prussia told you in his old German, like what Italy told you in his sweet–“

“Shut up,.” Ludwig said, his voice tired, his bare shoulders held tight.

It held none of the sting of the Reich, but Roddi closed her mouth with the memory of lightning blue eyes and the snap of bone underneath the butt of his gun. Cold air made her feel bare, and she reached for her skirts and shirt to drag them to her in fistfuls. Ludwig dragged his fingers over his neck, her teeth marks a growing rosy chain down his shoulder.

“Please, Roderica.”

“Austria,” she snapped at him, pulling her shirt on over her shoulders. Where was her bra?

Ludwig’s back straightened, the sound of him stilled, and she busied herself patting about them for her glasses, lost at some point between the door and the bed.

“I’ll escort you back to your quarters, then,” Ludwig replied, his voice taut. “You’ll not be able to find it in the rain alone.”

Failing to find her glasses, Roddi squinted at the opposite end of the plain flat bed, and collected her slip for underneath her plaid skirt. “Don’t be ridiculous, they’re frightened about any sign of any of us coming back together. They’ll see it as a coup in progress, the paranoid fools.”

Ludwig didn’t reply while she located her bra, shoved behind the pillows they had pushed out of their way, and dug it out with bony fingers. All art had been lost in their shape, leanness from piano playing quickly turning to bony knobs out of hunger.

He twisted to face her, and she found him holding out her glasses carefully in his left hand. She stared at them for a moment before she plucked them out of his hands and unfolded them with soft metal clicks. They froze her ears as she slipped them back onto her nose, and when she next looked up she saw Ludwig’s face thrown into a stark relief of drawn lines by his mouth and drawn brows, emotional state other than ‘weary’ unreadable.

“You’ll get lost,” he told her stiffly, giving her quickly his back. So shy in the aftermath of sex. She had once considered it endearing. He quickly pulled his rough slacks back on from the floor, and she watched go through the easy motions, his back flexing and rear pleasing as she contorted her arms to redo her bra clasps at the small of her back.

Her lips pressed thinly together. “Yes, well, I don’t need to be lead around like a myopic grandfather by a lame dog.”

Ludwig picked up his shirt gingerly in clumsy hands, holding it without looking at the mussed collar and a lost button. She slipped off the bed and pulled her slip back on with a small, businesslike tug.

They spoke not at all as they finished dressing. Ludwig waited by the door, and caught her elbow as Roddi prepared to storm past him into the hostel that never asked questions and would forget so easily for the right amount of American dollars.

She looked up into his intent face, jerking at her elbow with a pointed glare. Ludwig did not let go, and after a few futile tugs, she gave in.

“Fine.” She stepped away from him, busying herself with tying her scarf into a knot. “Fine. But we’re separating two streets away from the Americans.”

Ludwig, pushing open the door slowly and giving the hall a thorough warning look, nodded mutely. Still a soldier, she thought, watching him slide into the hall with the ingrained wariness of street dogs, and hold the door for her.

She swept past, chin held high.

Downstairs, they moved through the sparse common room without pause, their bribes already paid. Ludwig caught the eye of the sleepy man slowly turning the pages of a newspaper by the door, and there was a brief exchange of weighty glances before they were out into the rain. Thin and petering, it didn’t soak as much as slowly induce the flesh to freeze. Roddi found herself stepping close to Ludwig’s bulk, which blocked not only the breeze but much of the sideways inclinations of the rain, despite herself. She turned up the oft-mended collar of her coat, hiding her face against the cold instead of leaning into his arm.

Ludwig’s elbow brushed her arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of it feeling like the loaned wife she had been for more than twenty years on German soil. The urge to take off her shoe and stab him in the eye with the heel overwhelmed her.

She made their silence into a game, counting out the blocks where Ludwig said nothing, and she said nothing. Five, six; ten. Ludwig took the back roads and alleys she swore she’d never seen, and had not existed, until she set foot on them.

It looks very promising ! Can't wait for the next update (and to see how Arthur and Francis will behave !).

The lights of the occupation districts chilled the night with a clean white glow ahead of them, the loud, rowdy sound of American and British soldiers muted only by the greater howl of the weather. Roddi found her steps slowing, dragging on Ludwig’s elbow. The rain had the streets empty, and they were ghosts treading on dangerous territory.

Ludwig looked down at her, coming to a stop underneath the protective roof of a bus terminal with cracked plastic for walls. Water dragged his hair into his eyes, cutting small streams down his face. She made a noise at him, reaching up shove his blond fringe out of his eyes as she tried to blink through the collection of water on her glasses making everything bright, sliding smears.

“You look like a drowned dog,” she informed him.

His mouth thinned, and he bent his head to better be within her reach, even if his brows bent with confusion. Rain gathered on his great-coat in sparkling bunches, and she flicked her fingers at them to destroy them into merely wet smears.

“Roderica,” Ludwig started, his German making clipped pieces out of her name. She went up on her toes, combing her fingers back through his hair to try to make it resemble his usual severe style. “Roderica.”

Roddi stepped back, severely eying the smeary glimmer of Ludwig.

Ludwig stepped forward, gripping her upper arm. She stumbled as he pulled her in, locking up as the sharp memory of being shoved to the ground flickered through her mind. The hard hands of Germany gripping her, bending her, breaking her–

“Stay safe,” Ludwig said into her ear, and his thick voice warmed her in her stomach. She shivered, remembered the thick tone of his voice as his hands ran up her sides and undid her bra from behind. Rough, certain fingers, and a steady, harsh voice.

Roddi grabbed at Ludwig’s arm to keep her balance, eyes wide in her face as she stared at him in turn. Ludwig’s cutting, bright blue eyes looked straight through her, then broke her grip without effort as he forged past her into the rain. Puddles soaked his coat as he drove through them, unheading of any obstacle as he strode for the electric lights. A dark, determined shape, despite all the attempts to break him.

She wrapped her coat more tightly around herself against the chill, and fussed with her hair. Counting the minutes, she waited until Ludwig disappeared from view and her toes had gone entirely numb before following him into the rain.

His German still warmed her ear, all the way back to the headquarters, past the jeering, and chased her all the way back to Vienna.

--

What started out as pure smut ended on a rather wet note, but there may be a smutty conclusion/sequel written a bit later. Not exactly as requested, but I hope op enjoys!!

(Wondering anon from above)Please forgive any typos, commentboxed.
The snow has already thawed and messed up the streets in great dirty rivers. Now that is gone as well. All that remains is the sharp bite of cold in the air. Winter has already gone, but spring is not quite here.
His people hurry all around him, cheeks red from the cold but faces twisted into grimaces of uneasiness - Winter always comes too soon, but spring doesn't seem to come at all. And maybe that is why so many of his people leave for places where the air doesn't cut like a knife and the only flowers that will bloom for most of the year are flowers of ice.
Or maybe it is just him, him that people are glad to be free of. They hate the cold and can't stand him any longer. He hates the cold, too, and he is not too sure he can still stand himself.
His steps take him past the riches and the squalor of his capital, past cars longer than a room and decorated with gilt, past homeless men that have frozen under their single blanket. They take him to a neighbourhood which is not quite rich and not quite poor, grand houses faded from age and patched in too many places. A cap is on his head and his head between his shoulders, and his scarf is wrapped around all of it. He doesn't really see or hear anything, he just wants to be left alone, and he wants people not to run away from and he doesn't know-
He stops. He's stopped dead in his tracks and only when he has he realizes why. From a hundred feet away, a tune approaches, carried on the lips of a young woman bundled against the cold so much he can barely see her face. The tune is one of his own, as are the words, and she sings them in a way that tells him her mother sang it at her bedside every night, and her grandmother before. It isn't just a sweet melody and pretty words, though. The melody and the words are old, from times that don't bear thinking about, from times before even the church had arrived. A lullaby that speaks of white snow and red berries, woods of dark trees green even in winter and the shapes of animals moving at dusk. It is an old lullaby, old enough that he has heard it sung in his mother's voice, and this young woman is singing it, she knows it, knows a part of him he's almost forgotten.
When she steps past him, light on her feet, the song finished but still hanging in the air, she gives him a small, vaguely embarrased smile and a nod.
"My mother used to sing it to me." she says, and he just gives her a smile back, and she is on her way, past the faded splendor of the houses.
And when she is gone far enough, he rests against the cracked plaster of the wall, the smile still on his face and the voice, the words, the melody still in his head, and there are tears streaming down his face even though he's so happy he has heard it again, or maybe because of it.
The sun is a bit brighter now, or his mood might be, because it certainly seems brighter. Wiping the tears away with an end of his scarf, he continues on his not-quite-as-aimless-as-before way, and says to the thin air and the unnamed woman who has left, but who hasn't really as she is a part of him -
"Yes, I know. So did mine."

Thanks :*

Well, I had hard time picking stories that Feliks could already read (I omitted the ancient dramas) because most of the writers were anonymous and wrote for God (all of the hymns, songs, morality plays - which were really popular - and I think Feliks liked them too) or were written later. And I sooo have a book which I want to include in this. So bad. But I can't at least until after 1461 (hope I'll make it to that D:), at least if I want to keep date accuracy.

About catholicism - either you were a catholic or you were picked on and eventually burnt on the stake. That's why Lithuania got picked up by Teutonic Order. And you weren't really recognised as a cyvilised country when you wree pagan. (Yeah, that's the reason Poland got baptized. And to avoid beeing invaded by 'rightfull catholics' who wnated to broaden christianity.)

OhMyGod! Long comment is long. I am such a chatterbox.

Hehe, hilarious! Love that comic. I don't know if I'll have time since I'm working on another fill right now, but I'd like to give this one a shot if I could(I might even do the whole movie, I love TLK so much).

_{I do have a question, though...Would OP object to Nekotalia-fication? XDDD}

Oh, I forgot to say this (like a million times ago when I reviewed, I just noticed nowXD), that I loved the USUK hints you dropped. I may ship FrUK, but USUK is actually in my top three ships in the series, so it's nice to see it present in a fic like this, unexpectedly ^^
besides, I totally think that everybody has fucked everybody at least once in this universeXD

Ah~! This is great so far! I hope you update soon! ;w;

Hetalia Kink meme part 14 -- CLOSED

Re: For Author!Anon and OP!Anon from Artist!Anon

Author!Anon here.

Author!Anon here.

Author!Anon here.

Re: Russia/Lithuania - Misunderstanding

Author!Anon here!

Re: off-track (side a)

Author! Anon

Re: Author! Anon

Re: Author!Anon

OP

Re: Survival (5/5)

OP

OP

Re: DIY Doomsday (6f/?)

The Smell of Vienna Coffee 1/?

The Smell of Vienna Coffee 2/?

Re: The Smell of Vienna Coffee 3/?

Re: The Fruit of One's Imagination [2c/?]

The Smell of Vienna Coffee 4/4

no subject

A!A

Re: Any/Any Lion King

Re: Op

Re: If I Should Die Before I Wake [1b]