![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anything based on 'The Red Shoes' fairytale:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_%28fairy_tale%29
Basically, Nation A gives Nation B shoes. The shoes force Nation B to dance. How it ends, and whether a Nation C is brought in to help, is up to anon.
Bonus: One of the nations is either Denmark, as the home of Hans Christian Andersen, or Spain, as a nation famed for its dance.
Super Bonus: Denmark/Spain. Only to encourage more rare!pairs. Seriously, I'm open to anyone.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_%28fairy_tale%29
Basically, Nation A gives Nation B shoes. The shoes force Nation B to dance. How it ends, and whether a Nation C is brought in to help, is up to anon.
Bonus: One of the nations is either Denmark, as the home of Hans Christian Andersen, or Spain, as a nation famed for its dance.
Super Bonus: Denmark/Spain. Only to encourage more rare!pairs. Seriously, I'm open to anyone.
The shoes were of rich red leather that gleamed with an almost unearthly luster. In some lights, the leather gleamed like garnets, like fine Burgundy wine in a crystal glass. In other lights, the leather looked redder than blood, as red as coral branches.
Spain marveled as them, even though he wasn’t one for nice clothes and fancy shoes. Clothes were clothes and if they fit him and were comfortable, that was it. Oh, there were his matador uniforms, the court costumes he used to wear… but that was different. Somehow.
He picked up the shoes and they seemed almost too light. Leather should be heavier than this, have a solidness in your hands, especially with the hard, hard soles and the tough heels. Then they seemed too heavy, as if they were made of lead. No, not even lead, something heavier, more so, as if they sought to find the ground.
Spain finally set down the shoes and loosened the laces. When he slipped his feet into them, he felt no tingle, no magic running up his legs. But then he lifted his foot, wriggled his toes in the comfortable, conforming embrace of the leather. He smiled and clicked his heels together, just once.
It felt right.
…
Dance stirred something in Spain that almost nothing else could. It was in his bones, every nerve ending, every muscle fiber, every drop of blood.
He twisted and turned upon the soles of his new, fascinating, astonishing shoes. His feet met the floor, kissed it and scorned it in the profound beat of flamenco, that dance of travelers and wild women. He made his own music, added his own beat, though all dancers did, all dances required some variation of it.
Let Austria delight only in the grand piano and violin and the orchestra. Let him think of ballet dancers as mere scenery. But dancers created their own music and their own theme, even contrary to the song played for them.
Spain danced with the flirtatious girls bright in their youthful innocence. He danced with the beautiful women full in their prime with complex rich experience. All of them had the knowing eyes that only women could have, and yet the innocence that all mortal had compared to countries. And he didn’t stop with only the women but the men as well, boys who could make women too green with envy. He reveled in their strength and enthusiasm and beauty, their energy and animal passions.
He went from flamenco to sevillanas to salsa to tango, to all those beautifully primal, complex dances that came from places he had once called his. And then he lost himself to the joy of movement, without rules or lines or etiquette or customs.
It no longer became about the people, in the end, just about the movement.
Spain did not stop until dawn and when the sun started a true, swift ascent, he staggered home and fell asleep just as he fell into his ancient, rumpled bed. He thought to remove his shoes just in time and their dull thud as they hit his bedroom floor was the last sound he heard.
Spain marveled as them, even though he wasn’t one for nice clothes and fancy shoes. Clothes were clothes and if they fit him and were comfortable, that was it. Oh, there were his matador uniforms, the court costumes he used to wear… but that was different. Somehow.
He picked up the shoes and they seemed almost too light. Leather should be heavier than this, have a solidness in your hands, especially with the hard, hard soles and the tough heels. Then they seemed too heavy, as if they were made of lead. No, not even lead, something heavier, more so, as if they sought to find the ground.
Spain finally set down the shoes and loosened the laces. When he slipped his feet into them, he felt no tingle, no magic running up his legs. But then he lifted his foot, wriggled his toes in the comfortable, conforming embrace of the leather. He smiled and clicked his heels together, just once.
It felt right.
…
Dance stirred something in Spain that almost nothing else could. It was in his bones, every nerve ending, every muscle fiber, every drop of blood.
He twisted and turned upon the soles of his new, fascinating, astonishing shoes. His feet met the floor, kissed it and scorned it in the profound beat of flamenco, that dance of travelers and wild women. He made his own music, added his own beat, though all dancers did, all dances required some variation of it.
Let Austria delight only in the grand piano and violin and the orchestra. Let him think of ballet dancers as mere scenery. But dancers created their own music and their own theme, even contrary to the song played for them.
Spain danced with the flirtatious girls bright in their youthful innocence. He danced with the beautiful women full in their prime with complex rich experience. All of them had the knowing eyes that only women could have, and yet the innocence that all mortal had compared to countries. And he didn’t stop with only the women but the men as well, boys who could make women too green with envy. He reveled in their strength and enthusiasm and beauty, their energy and animal passions.
He went from flamenco to sevillanas to salsa to tango, to all those beautifully primal, complex dances that came from places he had once called his. And then he lost himself to the joy of movement, without rules or lines or etiquette or customs.
It no longer became about the people, in the end, just about the movement.
Spain did not stop until dawn and when the sun started a true, swift ascent, he staggered home and fell asleep just as he fell into his ancient, rumpled bed. He thought to remove his shoes just in time and their dull thud as they hit his bedroom floor was the last sound he heard.
UK/Canada(+/France?) -- Canada really IS becoming invisible; and England is the one who notices
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 08:54 am (UTC)(link)Canada unintentionally turns invisible for real whenever he's too shy to interact with the others - which happens almost every time he's around someone that's not America. He doesn't realize this at all. Neither does America, because he's usually too preoccupied with world meeting business to notice.
One day, Canada becomes so frustrated about being invisible to the others that he begins to literally start vanishing for good. Flickering in and out when one is talking to him; disappearing for long lengths of a time... etc.
All of this happens without Canada realizing what's going on with him.
England notices. He freaks out when he realizes what's really going on with Canada and tries his best to find a way to help stop Canada from disappearing.
Bonuses:
-France helps.
-side FrUK and/or FACE family bonding?
-SUPER BONUS for a Fr/UK/Canada threesome.
Smut would be loved, too.
One day, Canada becomes so frustrated about being invisible to the others that he begins to literally start vanishing for good. Flickering in and out when one is talking to him; disappearing for long lengths of a time... etc.
All of this happens without Canada realizing what's going on with him.
England notices. He freaks out when he realizes what's really going on with Canada and tries his best to find a way to help stop Canada from disappearing.
Bonuses:
-France helps.
-side FrUK and/or FACE family bonding?
-SUPER BONUS for a Fr/UK/Canada threesome.
Smut would be loved, too.
>u>
[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<u<>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]
>u>
<u<
If you are not familiar with Chichi Wo Moge, click here~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdpK0ANEk8U
Okay. So this song is about groping breasts and whatnot, yes? Well this Anon has learned that Folgore's seiyuu and Japan's seiyuu are the same guy.
Which means.
Japan is singing this boob-gropey song.
Now, what I want is Japan attempting to seduce Ukraine by singing this.
Bonus 1: It works.
Bonus 2: Since Folgore is Italian, have Italy and Japan compete for Ukraine's attention <s>and tracts of land</s> by singing this.
Go wild~
<u<
If you are not familiar with Chichi Wo Moge, click here~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdpK0ANEk8U
Okay. So this song is about groping breasts and whatnot, yes? Well this Anon has learned that Folgore's seiyuu and Japan's seiyuu are the same guy.
Which means.
Japan is singing this boob-gropey song.
Now, what I want is Japan attempting to seduce Ukraine by singing this.
Bonus 1: It works.
Bonus 2: Since Folgore is Italian, have Italy and Japan compete for Ukraine's attention <s>and tracts of land</s> by singing this.
Go wild~
OPAnon is dying to read a fic in which the Allies star as the Witches 5 villains from Sailor Moon S. England as Eudial, France as Mimete, China as Tellu, Russia as Viluy and America & Canada as Cyprine & Ptilol. No genderbending please, and try to make it funny.
It's up to Authornon if they fight the Sailor Scouts like in the anime, or just appear discussing plans for stealing pure hearts.
Bonus: Austria appears Prof. Tomoe.
It's up to Authornon if they fight the Sailor Scouts like in the anime, or just appear discussing plans for stealing pure hearts.
Bonus: Austria appears Prof. Tomoe.
Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 1a/?
(Anonymous) 2010-08-27 12:58 pm (UTC)(link)“Today on Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia Allies 6, England’s gone crazy, aru! Last night he became the Professor’s favourite, and it’s gone to his head. He even decided to target his loved ones to achieve our goal! All this and more today on Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia Allies 6, Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! Don’t go away, aru!”
(Insert Theme Song here. Author!Anon will come up with one someday!)
Deep beneath Hetalia Academy, six nations in school uniform sat cross-legged on the floor of a seemingly unused science lab around a circle drawn on the floor in chalk. Hand-picked by their Professor to run Hetalia Academy by day as its Student Council, and achieve world peace by night these six nations worked tirelessly towards their goal.
“Is everyone present?” England said. China looked around the circle at the other nations present: America, Canada, England, France, and Russia. They had all been his Allies during World War 2, and now they’d all been gathered by Professor Austria to collect pure heart crystals to save the world from something the Professor didn’t really elaborate on. All they knew was to collect pure heart crystals for world peace, and that was something all of them wanted.
“Of course we are, England!” America said. “There’s only six of us, and we’re all sitting around this stupid circle of yours.”
“Al is right.” Canada said. “There’s you, France, Russia, China, Al, and I.”
“Can we find out the next target and wrap this up soon, Angleterre?” France said. “Hetalia Academy’s Open Day is tomorrow, and I have a lot of last-minute preparations to do today.”
“All of your preparations for tomorrow aren’t finished?” England glared at France. “As Vice-President of the Student Council, you're supposed to be setting an example for the other students! Are anyone else’s preparations unfinished?”
“Mine aren’t done yet, aru.” China said. “France isn’t the only one who isn’t ready for tomorrow.”
“Fine.” England sighed. “Let’s get on with it. Everyone hold hands.”
Everyone else hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the hands of the nation next to them. They created a circle around the magical circle England had drawn. England began to chant, and the circle glowed. An image of their target started to form in the centre of the circle. America suddenly let go of China and Canada’s hands, and the image vanished.
“Aaaugh! This feels like a séance!” America said. “How do we know a ghost isn’t going to appear in the centre of the circle?”
“It’s not a bloody séance, America!” England said. “And now we have to start over again.”
Everyone grumbled a bit and then held hands again. None of them liked picking a target this way, but England was the Professor's favourite and he called all the shots. England checked the magic circle to make sure all the lines were still intact and started chanting again. The circle glowed and an image started to form in front of the Allies 6. The image showed lots of different nations, and flicked through them as though the pictures were a deck of cards until it stopped on an image of a young man holding a sheep.
“Is that Wales?” America said. “Our target for a pure heart crystal is Wales?”
“No, it’s New Zealand.” China said, and glared at England. “Our target is New Zealand?! Your own son?!”
“Believe me, I’m shocked too.” England said, and let go of France and Canada’s hands. “But I should’ve known that he could have come up. In any case, one sacrifice is a small price to pay for world peace, right?”
“How do you know his heart crystal is what we’re looking for?” France said. “It could be a wild goose chase like all of Hungary’s attempts.”
“I’m not so sure.” China said. “When he really wants to do something he’s determined to get it right, but does that mean his heart is pure?”
“Of course it is! He’s one of my children after all!” England said and the others exchanged looks that basically said “is this guy for real?” The phone in the corner of the room began to ring, and England went to answer it. While England was talking on the phone, the other five Allies huddled together so England wouldn't hear what they were saying.
(Insert Theme Song here. Author!Anon will come up with one someday!)
Deep beneath Hetalia Academy, six nations in school uniform sat cross-legged on the floor of a seemingly unused science lab around a circle drawn on the floor in chalk. Hand-picked by their Professor to run Hetalia Academy by day as its Student Council, and achieve world peace by night these six nations worked tirelessly towards their goal.
“Is everyone present?” England said. China looked around the circle at the other nations present: America, Canada, England, France, and Russia. They had all been his Allies during World War 2, and now they’d all been gathered by Professor Austria to collect pure heart crystals to save the world from something the Professor didn’t really elaborate on. All they knew was to collect pure heart crystals for world peace, and that was something all of them wanted.
“Of course we are, England!” America said. “There’s only six of us, and we’re all sitting around this stupid circle of yours.”
“Al is right.” Canada said. “There’s you, France, Russia, China, Al, and I.”
“Can we find out the next target and wrap this up soon, Angleterre?” France said. “Hetalia Academy’s Open Day is tomorrow, and I have a lot of last-minute preparations to do today.”
“All of your preparations for tomorrow aren’t finished?” England glared at France. “As Vice-President of the Student Council, you're supposed to be setting an example for the other students! Are anyone else’s preparations unfinished?”
“Mine aren’t done yet, aru.” China said. “France isn’t the only one who isn’t ready for tomorrow.”
“Fine.” England sighed. “Let’s get on with it. Everyone hold hands.”
Everyone else hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the hands of the nation next to them. They created a circle around the magical circle England had drawn. England began to chant, and the circle glowed. An image of their target started to form in the centre of the circle. America suddenly let go of China and Canada’s hands, and the image vanished.
“Aaaugh! This feels like a séance!” America said. “How do we know a ghost isn’t going to appear in the centre of the circle?”
“It’s not a bloody séance, America!” England said. “And now we have to start over again.”
Everyone grumbled a bit and then held hands again. None of them liked picking a target this way, but England was the Professor's favourite and he called all the shots. England checked the magic circle to make sure all the lines were still intact and started chanting again. The circle glowed and an image started to form in front of the Allies 6. The image showed lots of different nations, and flicked through them as though the pictures were a deck of cards until it stopped on an image of a young man holding a sheep.
“Is that Wales?” America said. “Our target for a pure heart crystal is Wales?”
“No, it’s New Zealand.” China said, and glared at England. “Our target is New Zealand?! Your own son?!”
“Believe me, I’m shocked too.” England said, and let go of France and Canada’s hands. “But I should’ve known that he could have come up. In any case, one sacrifice is a small price to pay for world peace, right?”
“How do you know his heart crystal is what we’re looking for?” France said. “It could be a wild goose chase like all of Hungary’s attempts.”
“I’m not so sure.” China said. “When he really wants to do something he’s determined to get it right, but does that mean his heart is pure?”
“Of course it is! He’s one of my children after all!” England said and the others exchanged looks that basically said “is this guy for real?” The phone in the corner of the room began to ring, and England went to answer it. While England was talking on the phone, the other five Allies huddled together so England wouldn't hear what they were saying.
Re: Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 1b/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-27 13:00 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 2a/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-05 20:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 3a/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-11 09:44 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 3b?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-11 09:46 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Handsome Soldier Sailor Italia - Allies 6! Episode 1: A Dingo Stole My Heart! 3c/?
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-11 10:02 (UTC) - ExpandThis anon had noticed that Americans tend to like catchy songs without really thinking of what the song is saying or situation they're singing it in.
Cue Alfred singing inappropriate songs at inappropriate moments without understanding why this upsets Matthew so much. Meant to be funny, with lots of frustrated fail!angry Canada. Maybe other nations reactions to this as well
Examples/Bonuses;
i. Singing Justin Beiber 'Baby' during sexytimez
ii. Singing South Park's 'Blame Canada' at anytime. (I'm sorry that song is catchy as hell)
iii. Singing 'Sexyback' (or some other popular yet inappropriate song (I can't be tamed) in an attempt to serenade Matthew
Cue Alfred singing inappropriate songs at inappropriate moments without understanding why this upsets Matthew so much. Meant to be funny, with lots of frustrated fail!angry Canada. Maybe other nations reactions to this as well
Examples/Bonuses;
i. Singing Justin Beiber 'Baby' during sexytimez
ii. Singing South Park's 'Blame Canada' at anytime. (I'm sorry that song is catchy as hell)
iii. Singing 'Sexyback' (or some other popular yet inappropriate song (
fail title is fail. also, first time writing america/canada so crit is greatly appreciated!
Canada groaned as America slammed into him, curl shaking with every thrust. "America, America," he gasped, and America took his hands and held them, and it was so good Canada thought he might die --
until he heard what America was humming.
It was just a simple tune, a simple few words. But upon hearing those words Canada's eyes popped out of his head, and he had a horrified expression even as he came.
"Am-America," he said afterwards, in the warm glow of good sex and being with your beloved, "what were you -- what were you singing?"
America looked at him, eyes open and face vulnerable without his glasses, and softened by the lamp light, and Canada's heart throbbed, and he thought maybe it didn't matter because America was just so beautiful --
America grinned. "Oh, that? Oh, I don't remember. I think it was 'Baby' by Justin Bieber. Have you heard it? Damn, it's so catchy." At this point, he began to sing it in earnest. "And I was like baby, baby, baby oh! Baby, baby, baby, no! Like, baby, baby baby --"
Canada shrieked (an honest to god shriek -- he'd insist later it was completely manly, but it was truly a shriek) and shoved America out of bed.
---
Canada smiled at America over the table. The day had been beautiful. He couldn't believe that America had not only remembered his birthday, but had planned in advance for it! They had gone to art museums, taken walks through beautiful gardens, had a picnic, and now they were at a classy restaurant with dim lighting and candles.
"America," he said, leaning over, "thank you so much. It was really, really nice of you to do all of this for me."
America smiled. "Ah, babe, no problem. You know I'd do anything for ya." He interlocked their fingers.
As the waiter came and they placed their orders, he heard a faint humming noise coming from somewhere. He smiled; America was so cute with his constant humming, and there was no way that it could be anything as bad as what he was humming last time. It couldn't hurt to ask. "What're you singing, America?"
America looked up, eyes bright and blue behind his glasses. "Oh my God, you know that song 'Blame Canada' from South Park? Jesus, that song is so catchy!" With that infectious smile on his face, he started to sing it, right there in the restaurant. "Blame Canada, blame Canada! With all their beady little eyes and flapping heads so full of -- "
Canada's jaw must have dropped, because he couldn't say a word. He got up and stomped out of the restaurant, but not before throwing his wine in America's face.
---
"Babe, I'm really sorry!" America yelled from the ground below Canada's apartment.
"Oh really, America?" Canada yelled back. "It's too bad I don't give a shit!" He turned to walk back inside his house, but not before he heard the strum of a guitar. He couldn't believe it. Was America really...
America ran his fingers over the guitar once, twice. He got down on one knee and yelled, "This is for my totally awesome boyfriend! I'm not always nice to him but he's still the coolest!" People turned to watch, giggling couples and older men and women, some smiling, some scowling. Canada felt a blush heat his cheeks; America was so frustrating, but he always managed to get Canada to forgive him.
Canada turned back and put his hands on the railing expectantly. America began.
"I'm bringin' sexy back; yeah! Them other boys don't know how to act. I think you're special, what's behind your back? So turn around and I'll pick up the slack, yeah! Dirty babe, you see the shackles baby, I'm your slave, I'll let you --"
Canada sprang into action. He grabbed the nearest potted plant and flung it down, narrowly missing America's head. "How could you?" he yelled. "Go home!"
America wailed. Literally, like a little child. Wailed. "No, Canada! Please, no!" He was so distressed that he had forgotten to call Canada 'Matthew.' "You can't! I love you!"
And without a second thought, he launched into Aerosmith's "Don't Want to Miss A Thing." Canada stood there, touched but unwilling to admit it.
Canada groaned as America slammed into him, curl shaking with every thrust. "America, America," he gasped, and America took his hands and held them, and it was so good Canada thought he might die --
until he heard what America was humming.
It was just a simple tune, a simple few words. But upon hearing those words Canada's eyes popped out of his head, and he had a horrified expression even as he came.
"Am-America," he said afterwards, in the warm glow of good sex and being with your beloved, "what were you -- what were you singing?"
America looked at him, eyes open and face vulnerable without his glasses, and softened by the lamp light, and Canada's heart throbbed, and he thought maybe it didn't matter because America was just so beautiful --
America grinned. "Oh, that? Oh, I don't remember. I think it was 'Baby' by Justin Bieber. Have you heard it? Damn, it's so catchy." At this point, he began to sing it in earnest. "And I was like baby, baby, baby oh! Baby, baby, baby, no! Like, baby, baby baby --"
Canada shrieked (an honest to god shriek -- he'd insist later it was completely manly, but it was truly a shriek) and shoved America out of bed.
---
Canada smiled at America over the table. The day had been beautiful. He couldn't believe that America had not only remembered his birthday, but had planned in advance for it! They had gone to art museums, taken walks through beautiful gardens, had a picnic, and now they were at a classy restaurant with dim lighting and candles.
"America," he said, leaning over, "thank you so much. It was really, really nice of you to do all of this for me."
America smiled. "Ah, babe, no problem. You know I'd do anything for ya." He interlocked their fingers.
As the waiter came and they placed their orders, he heard a faint humming noise coming from somewhere. He smiled; America was so cute with his constant humming, and there was no way that it could be anything as bad as what he was humming last time. It couldn't hurt to ask. "What're you singing, America?"
America looked up, eyes bright and blue behind his glasses. "Oh my God, you know that song 'Blame Canada' from South Park? Jesus, that song is so catchy!" With that infectious smile on his face, he started to sing it, right there in the restaurant. "Blame Canada, blame Canada! With all their beady little eyes and flapping heads so full of -- "
Canada's jaw must have dropped, because he couldn't say a word. He got up and stomped out of the restaurant, but not before throwing his wine in America's face.
---
"Babe, I'm really sorry!" America yelled from the ground below Canada's apartment.
"Oh really, America?" Canada yelled back. "It's too bad I don't give a shit!" He turned to walk back inside his house, but not before he heard the strum of a guitar. He couldn't believe it. Was America really...
America ran his fingers over the guitar once, twice. He got down on one knee and yelled, "This is for my totally awesome boyfriend! I'm not always nice to him but he's still the coolest!" People turned to watch, giggling couples and older men and women, some smiling, some scowling. Canada felt a blush heat his cheeks; America was so frustrating, but he always managed to get Canada to forgive him.
Canada turned back and put his hands on the railing expectantly. America began.
"I'm bringin' sexy back; yeah! Them other boys don't know how to act. I think you're special, what's behind your back? So turn around and I'll pick up the slack, yeah! Dirty babe, you see the shackles baby, I'm your slave, I'll let you --"
Canada sprang into action. He grabbed the nearest potted plant and flung it down, narrowly missing America's head. "How could you?" he yelled. "Go home!"
America wailed. Literally, like a little child. Wailed. "No, Canada! Please, no!" He was so distressed that he had forgotten to call Canada 'Matthew.' "You can't! I love you!"
And without a second thought, he launched into Aerosmith's "Don't Want to Miss A Thing." Canada stood there, touched but unwilling to admit it.
So America and England've been going out for a while and they've had their share of fun, extremely satisfying sexytimes. Bjs, mutual masterbation, and the like. One day, America decides he wants to experiment anal, which neither has any experience with. England's hesitant at first, but agrees to give it a try.
Yep, realistic first timeawkward anal experimentation, with USUK in that order. (preferably with no age gap between them.) IRL, anal penetration can be very painful, even when done right, and it certainly isn't for every couple out there. Whether our boys like it in the end is up to the author. A little bit of pain is always welcome though- *shot*
Bonus: America uses toys/fingers to get England used to anal sensations. Lots of lube, stroking of ass, gentle probing, rimming, beads, plugs, distracting with other sensations on the cock and nipples, constant communication ("do you like this?" "should I keep going?" "I'm feeling good, are you?").
Yep, realistic first time
Bonus: America uses toys/fingers to get England used to anal sensations. Lots of lube, stroking of ass, gentle probing, rimming, beads, plugs, distracting with other sensations on the cock and nipples, constant communication ("do you like this?" "should I keep going?" "I'm feeling good, are you?").
Seconded! There is never enough realistic anal around~
Basically, Russia wins the Cold War, and invites Prussia to 'annex' his brother and create a united, socialist Germany. By which I mean he persuades Gil to rape his brother. Germany tries to get his brother to stop and Russia helps by restraining Ludwig and giving advice, but does not actually take part in the act. Also, he doesn't threaten Gil in any way. Make it clear than in the end it is all Prussia's choice and no-one elses.
Goodness, I feel dirty.
Sorry ahead of time for any mistakes or if this isn't quite what you wanted.
Unbeta'd and it's only my second fill/attempt at smut.
*****
“I assure you, Prussia, he really does want it.”
Gilbert’s crimson eyes, dull with incomprehension slid from his bound, gagged and unconscious brother up to catch Ivan’s gaze.
“He does?” Gilbert asked, arching a brow and redirecting his gaze back to his brother. Eyes filled with lust and longing dragged over the bound man’s naked body, drinking in the sight as if he had been longing to see it his entire life—and perhaps he had.
“Da. And you yourself should be well aware of how wonderful the socialist regime is… All these years we’ve worked together so closely.” Ivan purred, smiling that sweet, neutral smile of his in favour of hiding the excitement coursing through his body.
“And your dear brother begged me to bring him to you.” His smile never once shifted as he spoke, “He told me that he rejects you because his people reject you and my empire… That if it were up to him he would gladly and most willingly become one…” he trailed off, violet eyes falling to Ludwig momentarily before returning to Gilbert, “That he struggles because he can’t come willingly.”
Gilbert nodded slowly, yes, of course. This made so much more sense. He loved Ludwig—always had, really—and each time Ludwig rejected him, claiming it was a sin and a crime against nature, his heart cracked a little bit more. Of course Ludwig had to love him in return, of course Ludwig was only trying to protect his people! That is, after all, what any good nation would do… And Gilbert had raised Ludwig to be the second most awesome nation of all fucking time. He hesitated for a heartbeat before reaching forward and brushing Ludwig’s hair over his forehead, fingers sliding down over his bruised cheek bone to swollen lips—his brother had obviously struggled with Ivan to put on a good show, couldn’t have the others thinking he was coming willingly after all.
The wandering hand slid lower, over Ludwig’s neck and down his bare chest, making the large blonde shiver in his sleep.
“Surely you can understand how important it is to save face, Prussia?”
*****
Sorry ahead of time for any mistakes or if this isn't quite what you wanted.
Unbeta'd and it's only my second fill/attempt at smut.
*****
“I assure you, Prussia, he really does want it.”
Gilbert’s crimson eyes, dull with incomprehension slid from his bound, gagged and unconscious brother up to catch Ivan’s gaze.
“He does?” Gilbert asked, arching a brow and redirecting his gaze back to his brother. Eyes filled with lust and longing dragged over the bound man’s naked body, drinking in the sight as if he had been longing to see it his entire life—and perhaps he had.
“Da. And you yourself should be well aware of how wonderful the socialist regime is… All these years we’ve worked together so closely.” Ivan purred, smiling that sweet, neutral smile of his in favour of hiding the excitement coursing through his body.
“And your dear brother begged me to bring him to you.” His smile never once shifted as he spoke, “He told me that he rejects you because his people reject you and my empire… That if it were up to him he would gladly and most willingly become one…” he trailed off, violet eyes falling to Ludwig momentarily before returning to Gilbert, “That he struggles because he can’t come willingly.”
Gilbert nodded slowly, yes, of course. This made so much more sense. He loved Ludwig—always had, really—and each time Ludwig rejected him, claiming it was a sin and a crime against nature, his heart cracked a little bit more. Of course Ludwig had to love him in return, of course Ludwig was only trying to protect his people! That is, after all, what any good nation would do… And Gilbert had raised Ludwig to be the second most awesome nation of all fucking time. He hesitated for a heartbeat before reaching forward and brushing Ludwig’s hair over his forehead, fingers sliding down over his bruised cheek bone to swollen lips—his brother had obviously struggled with Ivan to put on a good show, couldn’t have the others thinking he was coming willingly after all.
The wandering hand slid lower, over Ludwig’s neck and down his bare chest, making the large blonde shiver in his sleep.
“Surely you can understand how important it is to save face, Prussia?”
*****
Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 09:59 am (UTC)(link)I'd like to see a human AU with the nations that were most effected by the Holocaust meeting, living, and helping each other survive through the concentration camps. The one's that come to mind first are Poland, Hungary, Germany, Prussia, and, Austria, but feel free to correct this not extremely history oriented person ^-^;;
If this does get filled I'd like to see something longer than a drabble if possible....
Bonus: Don't introduce everybody at once! This is AU so nobody knows each other yet, 'except for Germany and Prussia....
If this does get filled I'd like to see something longer than a drabble if possible....
Bonus: Don't introduce everybody at once! This is AU so nobody knows each other yet, 'except for Germany and Prussia....
Anon has decided to change her plot slightly. Roderich is going to stay a Jew, because…Toris can’t be the only one…and Ludwig and Gilbert are going to be internal resistance fighters. Prussians were known for their internal resistance during the Nazi Regime.
I’m nothing if not a people-pleaser. I hope this pleases the vast majority of people!
--
Elizaveta Hérdérvary sat on her bed, staring out at the snowy streets of West Berlin. Christmas had been three days prior, and though she didn’t have anything to show for the holiday (In these times, gift-giving wasn’t practical) she was still happy with how the holiday had turned out. She’d taken her ration book to the market and got a pound of potatoes, as well as a few ham bones to make a hearty stew.
The room was quiet and dark at the moment. Power was very touchy this time of year, and as a poor Hungarian immigrant, she didn’t really have the money to pay for electric. This meant she had to turn to artificial light and the small fireplace in the living room of her ground-floor apartment.
A ball of white fur hopped onto the bed beside her, and she smiled at the dog. “Hello, Hanatamago.”
Hanatamago was the dog belonging to her roommates (If you could even use that term) Berwald and Tino. The two men weren’t as much living with her as hiding in her apartment, in a small cellar-like room her neighbor Roderich had helped her gauge out into the earth under the wooden floorboards.
Not much was known about the two blonde men she harbored. She knew Berwald was a Swedish carpenter, and Tino was a rather Bohemian Finnish painter, and that they’d been trying to get back to Sweden from France when they’d gotten stuck in Germany. She also knew that they were on the German military’s radar as homosexuals and had to hide.
The story of how she found them was rather confusing. They had been hiding out in the broom closet of an old, abandoned store and Tino had fallen sick. Berwald had been desperate enough to get his lover medical attention that he’d gone to the first person he could find on the street, (Namely, Elizaveta) claiming Tino was his brother and dragging Elizaveta back into the store.
Elizaveta had no previous medical training, but her mother had been a nurse so she knew a thing or two. Tino had been under the effects of a rather bad fever, and they ended up having to take him back to her home and get him in front of the fire. Things were so bad that they couldn’t afford medication, so she’d gotten Tino comfortable and she and Berwald prayed for a miracle.
God was merciful, it appeared. Tino had come out of delirium after four days of senselessness, and had only just gotten healthy enough to start walking around again. At the moment, he was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, reading a Finnish novel which she’d been told by Berwald was the one he’d been carrying around since they started on their journey. He claimed it was his favorite, but Elizaveta assumed it just reminded him of his native Finland.
The day she’d found out they weren’t brothers was rather comical. She’d come back from shopping to find Berwald’s hand in a rather compromising place on Tino’s body, the Finn moaning with his legs spread rather wide. Elizaveta had to be sat down and handed a hot cup of tea before she’d listen to reason.
Tino and Berwald had been ready to leave, but she had actually been the one to insist they stay with her. The hole in the ground had been started so her neighbor, a Jewish man named Roderich, would have someplace to hide should the SS come knocking. It could easily fit two people, but three (Especially when one of them was of Berwald’s size) was iffy.
So they’d devised a devious plan. They’d gone to the jeweler and had two cheep wedding bands made. Should the Nazis come through, she and Berwald would put on said rings and pose as spouses while Tino and Roderich hid in the hatch. Berwald had been unsure of the plan, but Tino had pointed out that he was the more obviously effeminate of the two and that Roderich would be given away by the Star of David sewn into the arm of all of his jackets.
It really was the only solution, and Berwald had agreed.
Quite suddenly, a noise that could only be a gunshot rang out into the quiet night.
I’m nothing if not a people-pleaser. I hope this pleases the vast majority of people!
--
Elizaveta Hérdérvary sat on her bed, staring out at the snowy streets of West Berlin. Christmas had been three days prior, and though she didn’t have anything to show for the holiday (In these times, gift-giving wasn’t practical) she was still happy with how the holiday had turned out. She’d taken her ration book to the market and got a pound of potatoes, as well as a few ham bones to make a hearty stew.
The room was quiet and dark at the moment. Power was very touchy this time of year, and as a poor Hungarian immigrant, she didn’t really have the money to pay for electric. This meant she had to turn to artificial light and the small fireplace in the living room of her ground-floor apartment.
A ball of white fur hopped onto the bed beside her, and she smiled at the dog. “Hello, Hanatamago.”
Hanatamago was the dog belonging to her roommates (If you could even use that term) Berwald and Tino. The two men weren’t as much living with her as hiding in her apartment, in a small cellar-like room her neighbor Roderich had helped her gauge out into the earth under the wooden floorboards.
Not much was known about the two blonde men she harbored. She knew Berwald was a Swedish carpenter, and Tino was a rather Bohemian Finnish painter, and that they’d been trying to get back to Sweden from France when they’d gotten stuck in Germany. She also knew that they were on the German military’s radar as homosexuals and had to hide.
The story of how she found them was rather confusing. They had been hiding out in the broom closet of an old, abandoned store and Tino had fallen sick. Berwald had been desperate enough to get his lover medical attention that he’d gone to the first person he could find on the street, (Namely, Elizaveta) claiming Tino was his brother and dragging Elizaveta back into the store.
Elizaveta had no previous medical training, but her mother had been a nurse so she knew a thing or two. Tino had been under the effects of a rather bad fever, and they ended up having to take him back to her home and get him in front of the fire. Things were so bad that they couldn’t afford medication, so she’d gotten Tino comfortable and she and Berwald prayed for a miracle.
God was merciful, it appeared. Tino had come out of delirium after four days of senselessness, and had only just gotten healthy enough to start walking around again. At the moment, he was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, reading a Finnish novel which she’d been told by Berwald was the one he’d been carrying around since they started on their journey. He claimed it was his favorite, but Elizaveta assumed it just reminded him of his native Finland.
The day she’d found out they weren’t brothers was rather comical. She’d come back from shopping to find Berwald’s hand in a rather compromising place on Tino’s body, the Finn moaning with his legs spread rather wide. Elizaveta had to be sat down and handed a hot cup of tea before she’d listen to reason.
Tino and Berwald had been ready to leave, but she had actually been the one to insist they stay with her. The hole in the ground had been started so her neighbor, a Jewish man named Roderich, would have someplace to hide should the SS come knocking. It could easily fit two people, but three (Especially when one of them was of Berwald’s size) was iffy.
So they’d devised a devious plan. They’d gone to the jeweler and had two cheep wedding bands made. Should the Nazis come through, she and Berwald would put on said rings and pose as spouses while Tino and Roderich hid in the hatch. Berwald had been unsure of the plan, but Tino had pointed out that he was the more obviously effeminate of the two and that Roderich would be given away by the Star of David sewn into the arm of all of his jackets.
It really was the only solution, and Berwald had agreed.
Quite suddenly, a noise that could only be a gunshot rang out into the quiet night.
Re: Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-26 19:16 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-27 13:28 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-27 17:42 (UTC) - ExpandOP Re: Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) - 2010-08-27 19:42 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Human AU - Nations helping each other through the Concentration Camps
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-24 01:26 (UTC) - ExpandBelarus gives Estonia some punishment
Bonus:Bondage
Bonus2: Belarus using her knife
Bonus:Bondage
Bonus2: Belarus using her knife
(I love Germancest involving Austria.)
Germany and Austria both want Prussia, and they come to the conclusion that they'll simply have to share him. I want smut. Lots of smut.
Bonus: There's sandwiching involved, and it's messy.
Super Bonus: Prussia is in the center.
Germany and Austria both want Prussia, and they come to the conclusion that they'll simply have to share him. I want smut. Lots of smut.
Bonus: There's sandwiching involved, and it's messy.
Super Bonus: Prussia is in the center.
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/world/1051605/couple-fall-in-love-at-suicide-spot
You know what I want. You want it too.
You know what I want. You want it too.
Do Better
Or, In which Ivan Braginsky succeeds through failure
-
14.
“Hello!” says the man from the other side of the railing. He’s smiling, very brightly and very softly. Gentle. “Do you mind?”
Ivan blinks in surprise, but makes himself smile too. “Be my guest.”
He swings himself up and over the railing and flops himself down- there’s no better word, really, like a Labrador- on two feet of concrete they sit on and dangles his feet over the ledge. The stranger looks down.
Ivan looks too. It’s a very long way. But he already knows that.
“I’ve noticed you,” he says with that ever-present smile. “I see you every time I go past on my bike.” He waves to a shiny sky-blue machine. It’s very pretty- like the frozen waves far beneath them, very much like something a uni student would ride. Ivan looks closer at the man next to him- blond hair, roundish face, smiling smiling eyes. He is a uni student. Probably. “…You’re thinking, right? About it.”
“I am,” says Ivan lightly.
At that, the man’s eyebrows falls slightly into a helpless, happy angles. They watch the icy river for a moment.
“Yeah,” murmurs blond uni student eventually.
“And you?”
“Just.” Smile, and he thinks that only Ivan could see how unhappy he might be. Could be. “Thinking. I’m in love with the wrong…well. The wrong man. And my little dog died the other day. Just,” he adds with a sigh, still smiling. “Thinking.”
Ivan blows on his fingers. They’re getting cold. The poor man doesn’t have a jacket either.
“What was his name?”
He laughs and it’s a wondrous sound, like the sound Ivan imagines snowflakes would make if they had voices.
“The dog or the man?” he asks in a laugh that sounds like a cry. But he smiles and answers anyway, in a beautiful gasp of Berwald.
Later, he waves at him as he rides away into oncoming traffic, after. Somehow the sound of horns in the crisp winter air makes Ivan grin to himself for a moment.
-
8.
The lady hovers. Her gait is slow, her head lowered, but she sidles up behind him and then just walks away again. Ivan watches her, amused at first, but his patience isn’t what it used to be, these days.
This is a suicide spot, he feels like informing her. Not a bread line.
It must be the tenth time she’s walked by when he just turns on the ledge so he can look her in the eye. She makes a face like a deer caught in headlights.
“What?” Ivan asks shortly. He looks down at them briefly. Looks back up to her face. “Don’t you have children to feed?”
“Oh no!” the woman says all in a rush. “Well, yes, I have five, bless the Lord, four boys and a girl, but I left my husband and they’re still with him. And I thought I’d be able to run away with a new man, but no-one…” Her sentence runs out of breath, and she kind of meanders along tearfully. “No-one wants me.”
“Oh.” Ivan is genuinely surprised. Although the woman has a matronly sort of air, she is breathtakingly beautiful.
“The owner of the last brothel said that my Pipeline was too loose,” she adds almost regretfully. “I don’t even know what that means.”
The more he looks at this woman, the more he feels certain that she would have been a wonderful mother, in another world perhaps. In better circumstances.
“Anyway. I have life insurance,” she tells him sincerely. “And my oldest is about to start college, so-”
Ivan swallows down the black rising in his heart. “I would think your children would prefer their mother back, over a cheque for forty thousand dollars. I would.”
Prefer his mother back, that is.
And, because he likes her, he hands the tearful woman the business card of his psychiatrist. Ivan won’t be needing him soon enough, anyway.
-
Or, In which Ivan Braginsky succeeds through failure
-
14.
“Hello!” says the man from the other side of the railing. He’s smiling, very brightly and very softly. Gentle. “Do you mind?”
Ivan blinks in surprise, but makes himself smile too. “Be my guest.”
He swings himself up and over the railing and flops himself down- there’s no better word, really, like a Labrador- on two feet of concrete they sit on and dangles his feet over the ledge. The stranger looks down.
Ivan looks too. It’s a very long way. But he already knows that.
“I’ve noticed you,” he says with that ever-present smile. “I see you every time I go past on my bike.” He waves to a shiny sky-blue machine. It’s very pretty- like the frozen waves far beneath them, very much like something a uni student would ride. Ivan looks closer at the man next to him- blond hair, roundish face, smiling smiling eyes. He is a uni student. Probably. “…You’re thinking, right? About it.”
“I am,” says Ivan lightly.
At that, the man’s eyebrows falls slightly into a helpless, happy angles. They watch the icy river for a moment.
“Yeah,” murmurs blond uni student eventually.
“And you?”
“Just.” Smile, and he thinks that only Ivan could see how unhappy he might be. Could be. “Thinking. I’m in love with the wrong…well. The wrong man. And my little dog died the other day. Just,” he adds with a sigh, still smiling. “Thinking.”
Ivan blows on his fingers. They’re getting cold. The poor man doesn’t have a jacket either.
“What was his name?”
He laughs and it’s a wondrous sound, like the sound Ivan imagines snowflakes would make if they had voices.
“The dog or the man?” he asks in a laugh that sounds like a cry. But he smiles and answers anyway, in a beautiful gasp of Berwald.
Later, he waves at him as he rides away into oncoming traffic, after. Somehow the sound of horns in the crisp winter air makes Ivan grin to himself for a moment.
-
8.
The lady hovers. Her gait is slow, her head lowered, but she sidles up behind him and then just walks away again. Ivan watches her, amused at first, but his patience isn’t what it used to be, these days.
This is a suicide spot, he feels like informing her. Not a bread line.
It must be the tenth time she’s walked by when he just turns on the ledge so he can look her in the eye. She makes a face like a deer caught in headlights.
“What?” Ivan asks shortly. He looks down at them briefly. Looks back up to her face. “Don’t you have children to feed?”
“Oh no!” the woman says all in a rush. “Well, yes, I have five, bless the Lord, four boys and a girl, but I left my husband and they’re still with him. And I thought I’d be able to run away with a new man, but no-one…” Her sentence runs out of breath, and she kind of meanders along tearfully. “No-one wants me.”
“Oh.” Ivan is genuinely surprised. Although the woman has a matronly sort of air, she is breathtakingly beautiful.
“The owner of the last brothel said that my Pipeline was too loose,” she adds almost regretfully. “I don’t even know what that means.”
The more he looks at this woman, the more he feels certain that she would have been a wonderful mother, in another world perhaps. In better circumstances.
“Anyway. I have life insurance,” she tells him sincerely. “And my oldest is about to start college, so-”
Ivan swallows down the black rising in his heart. “I would think your children would prefer their mother back, over a cheque for forty thousand dollars. I would.”
Prefer his mother back, that is.
And, because he likes her, he hands the tearful woman the business card of his psychiatrist. Ivan won’t be needing him soon enough, anyway.
-
Tino got preggers and the couple are shopping for baby room furniture at Ikea together. For those who know, that store is MASSIVE and full of cubbyholes. Tino gets a bout of sexual frustration and the two *ahem* sneak off. :)
Bonus if they go to the cafeteria and Berwald tells his wife that he cooks it better. <3 for blushy!Tino.
Random bonus if Berwald greatly loves lingon berries. Because it just. makes. sense.And I, too, love lingonberry.
Bonus if they go to the cafeteria and Berwald tells his wife that he cooks it better. <3 for blushy!Tino.
Random bonus if Berwald greatly loves lingon berries. Because it just. makes. sense.
Turkey and Greece having sex against one of the pillars in the Acropolis. OwO Go wild with this one, authors anon!
More angst than smut. Mircofiller!anon apologizes for her lack of pr0n skillz
“Don’t talk.”
It was Greece’s only request, and although Turkey normally would have done anything but follow his instructions, considering that the island nation was now naked, legs spayed wide, letting himself be fucked into the marble of his precious legacy, Turkey thought that he can be gracious. Just this once.
But he’s a loud person in general, so it’s hard. The sound of shallow breaths and bitten-away moans curled through the air as their bodies slapped together. So hot, so lewd, familiar but without an easy pace that accompanies regularity.
He had just come to inquire after Japan, whether the sweet little thing was still at Greece’s place. Then the brat had gotten all pissy. They’d fought, and then they fucked.
Like always.
“Don’t talk.”
But Turkey wanted to (leaning into his thrusts, now, feeling the frictionless slip/slide of his entrance, the reluctant giving in on Greece’s part, the island nation was smooth steel under his fingertips) … wanted to tease, to make Greece tighten around him in anger. Maybe coax a kiss, although he knew that that wasn’t allowed either.
Greece’s eyes were closed, head turned slightly away. The flush was high on his cheeks, and he expelled a soft breath of air every time Turkey pushed into him, jarring the pillar, making everything tremble.
What was he trying to do? Turkey wondered, unable to look away. Was Greece thinking of another man, perhaps…Japan? But no, there was no other who touched him like this. Turkey smiled bitterly (and he was allowed, because Greece couldn’t see) at the thought that he was the only recipient of Greece’s reluctant submission, his biting anger, his ridiculous conditions.
Like, “Don’t talk. Don’t kiss. Don’t touch me.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you.”
The sun slid down like a bloody egg, staining the ruins, the marble, the open-faced picture of classical beauty and Greece. Painting Greece in shades of darkness and fury. Turkey lapped at his neck, wondering if a well-placed nip would make him bleed. Wanting to lick up that blood and swallow it until it became a part of him. Until they both became a part of each other, again.
Greece hissed, low in his throat, and Turkey knew the angle. He had been purposely skidding over it, but now he pounded in earnest, gripping his former charge’s hips until his fingers left red/purple bruises that would last for days. Greece was arched, now, as his prostate pummeled with more pain than pleasure. Seeing nothing but blinding white as he came, clenched and shuddering and hating every minute of it because his skin had been rubbed with Turkey’s scent, Turkey’s marks, Turkey’s…
Words.
”I think I might’ve loved you,”
He probably didn’t remember. Greece opened his eyes to a cloud of white dusting his hair and shoulders. Everything ached, especially his back. Turkey, so warm, was draped over him and for one minute, it was almost comfortable.
“Don’t talk.”
It was Greece’s only request, and although Turkey normally would have done anything but follow his instructions, considering that the island nation was now naked, legs spayed wide, letting himself be fucked into the marble of his precious legacy, Turkey thought that he can be gracious. Just this once.
But he’s a loud person in general, so it’s hard. The sound of shallow breaths and bitten-away moans curled through the air as their bodies slapped together. So hot, so lewd, familiar but without an easy pace that accompanies regularity.
He had just come to inquire after Japan, whether the sweet little thing was still at Greece’s place. Then the brat had gotten all pissy. They’d fought, and then they fucked.
Like always.
“Don’t talk.”
But Turkey wanted to (leaning into his thrusts, now, feeling the frictionless slip/slide of his entrance, the reluctant giving in on Greece’s part, the island nation was smooth steel under his fingertips) … wanted to tease, to make Greece tighten around him in anger. Maybe coax a kiss, although he knew that that wasn’t allowed either.
Greece’s eyes were closed, head turned slightly away. The flush was high on his cheeks, and he expelled a soft breath of air every time Turkey pushed into him, jarring the pillar, making everything tremble.
What was he trying to do? Turkey wondered, unable to look away. Was Greece thinking of another man, perhaps…Japan? But no, there was no other who touched him like this. Turkey smiled bitterly (and he was allowed, because Greece couldn’t see) at the thought that he was the only recipient of Greece’s reluctant submission, his biting anger, his ridiculous conditions.
Like, “Don’t talk. Don’t kiss. Don’t touch me.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you.”
The sun slid down like a bloody egg, staining the ruins, the marble, the open-faced picture of classical beauty and Greece. Painting Greece in shades of darkness and fury. Turkey lapped at his neck, wondering if a well-placed nip would make him bleed. Wanting to lick up that blood and swallow it until it became a part of him. Until they both became a part of each other, again.
Greece hissed, low in his throat, and Turkey knew the angle. He had been purposely skidding over it, but now he pounded in earnest, gripping his former charge’s hips until his fingers left red/purple bruises that would last for days. Greece was arched, now, as his prostate pummeled with more pain than pleasure. Seeing nothing but blinding white as he came, clenched and shuddering and hating every minute of it because his skin had been rubbed with Turkey’s scent, Turkey’s marks, Turkey’s…
Words.
”I think I might’ve loved you,”
He probably didn’t remember. Greece opened his eyes to a cloud of white dusting his hair and shoulders. Everything ached, especially his back. Turkey, so warm, was draped over him and for one minute, it was almost comfortable.
Despite the danger, Arthur gets a secret thrill out of pleasuring himself in Busby's Chair because it makes him feel restrained. This time, he takes his time to fantasize that someone else is with him: preferably Francis or Alfred, but it is up to filler so long as it's detailed and heavy.
Bonus: Arthur gets so wrapped up in it that he moans louder than he realizes/says Nation2's name aloud
Bonus: Nation2 watches halfway through, or surprises UK by doing the fantasized action
Bonus: Arthur gets so wrapped up in it that he moans louder than he realizes/says Nation2's name aloud
Bonus: Nation2 watches halfway through, or surprises UK by doing the fantasized action
A/N: Hey there, OP! I certainly hope this fill works for you. Please enjoy!
---
England’s heart drums a fervid crescendo in his ribcage as descends lower down the staircase to his basement. The temperature continues to drop with every step he takes, in harmony with every excited rasp of breath. Motes, dust, and cobwebs flutter in the air lazily. Every bit of speck is familiar to England – they are as ancient as him, after all. He pays no heed to them – minor nuisances they are, surely, but they serve their own purpose.
Everything – the chill, the dirt, the cloying aroma of mold – is unwelcoming as they can be. And with good reason. England takes great effort to make this area of his home as dingy and inaccessible as possible. He doesn’t want any thieving rapscallions to set foot in there. As it is currently the home to an assortment of highly unpredictable magical items, it will only be a matter of time before he discovers a stray corpse in there – an innocent victim of misguided curiosity.
That’s why he takes precautions. England is fully aware that he’s a Nation, but that doesn’t protect him, his home, and his possessions from prying eyes and rumor mills.
The eerie creak of floorboards tells England that he’s nearly at the end of the corridor, his destination. Everything in his sight is pitch-black; he relies at the sounds and smells of his surroundings as his guides. After all, he knows the layout of the place unlike any other – he made regular trips to this special room every so often, so much so that every nook and cranny is already ingrained in him.
Nothing much changes, too, thankfully. England supposes that it helps somewhat.
He twists the tarnished old doorknob located at the very end. The very feeling of it under the pads of his fingers sends gooseflesh across his skin; whether it’s anticipation or arousal – England can’t tell. Perhaps a little of both?
Still trawling through the darkness, England effortlessly finds the gas lamp located at the far corner of the chamber and lights it on. The glow is barely discernible from the rest of the room, but England deems it fit for his intentions. Visibility is the least of his worries with what he’s about to accomplish.
With a furtive glance, he scans the rows upon rows of books stacked on the olden basswood shelves - spell-books, potion formulae, tomes on magical creatures - each with their own diluted history long-forgotten by the modern populace.
But not England.
Everything is as novel as they were years ago. And as dangerous, with the most lethal of them just sitting innocently in the middle of the room.
Faded crimson cushions, smooth and ornate wooden curlicues – Busby’s Chair remains to be as mundane as ever to the naked eye.
England’s heart drums a fervid crescendo in his ribcage as descends lower down the staircase to his basement. The temperature continues to drop with every step he takes, in harmony with every excited rasp of breath. Motes, dust, and cobwebs flutter in the air lazily. Every bit of speck is familiar to England – they are as ancient as him, after all. He pays no heed to them – minor nuisances they are, surely, but they serve their own purpose.
Everything – the chill, the dirt, the cloying aroma of mold – is unwelcoming as they can be. And with good reason. England takes great effort to make this area of his home as dingy and inaccessible as possible. He doesn’t want any thieving rapscallions to set foot in there. As it is currently the home to an assortment of highly unpredictable magical items, it will only be a matter of time before he discovers a stray corpse in there – an innocent victim of misguided curiosity.
That’s why he takes precautions. England is fully aware that he’s a Nation, but that doesn’t protect him, his home, and his possessions from prying eyes and rumor mills.
The eerie creak of floorboards tells England that he’s nearly at the end of the corridor, his destination. Everything in his sight is pitch-black; he relies at the sounds and smells of his surroundings as his guides. After all, he knows the layout of the place unlike any other – he made regular trips to this special room every so often, so much so that every nook and cranny is already ingrained in him.
Nothing much changes, too, thankfully. England supposes that it helps somewhat.
He twists the tarnished old doorknob located at the very end. The very feeling of it under the pads of his fingers sends gooseflesh across his skin; whether it’s anticipation or arousal – England can’t tell. Perhaps a little of both?
Still trawling through the darkness, England effortlessly finds the gas lamp located at the far corner of the chamber and lights it on. The glow is barely discernible from the rest of the room, but England deems it fit for his intentions. Visibility is the least of his worries with what he’s about to accomplish.
With a furtive glance, he scans the rows upon rows of books stacked on the olden basswood shelves - spell-books, potion formulae, tomes on magical creatures - each with their own diluted history long-forgotten by the modern populace.
But not England.
Everything is as novel as they were years ago. And as dangerous, with the most lethal of them just sitting innocently in the middle of the room.
Faded crimson cushions, smooth and ornate wooden curlicues – Busby’s Chair remains to be as mundane as ever to the naked eye.
Relinquished [1;8/8] Please don't mind the previous fail numbering. OTL
(Anonymous) - 2010-09-29 03:48 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Relinquished [1;8/8] Please don't mind the previous fail numbering. OTL
(Anonymous) - 2010-10-01 10:55 (UTC) - ExpandPretty much just what the title says. Scenario can be anything so long as it involves filling him to his absolute limit. Would prefer dub-con or non-con, but I'll take what I can get. Any pairing is fine.
S-sorry this is kind of weird.
aaah I'm so embarrassed
S-sorry this is kind of weird.
aaah I'm so embarrassed
Instead of getting angry when young South Italy hears about Spain wanting to swap him for his brother he runs away. Spain eventually finds him, but very sick to the point to the point of delusion. during these delusions Spain finds out Romano's crippling fear of being abandoned. This is why Spain is so attached to Romano much to the other nations confusion.
Make it heartbreaking anons
Make it heartbreaking anons
Might give it a shot too, if you don't mind~ I like the prompt and am a huge sucker for Spain/Chibi Romano interaction. ^^
Russia is fascinated by the amount of temper in such a small, slender body...
*wink wink nudge nudge*
Please make it hot! With Russia worshipping Englands body from head to toe, stroking, kissing, licking...till England comes absolutely undone and has no control of his body whatsoever left.
Then Russia fucks him, slow and sweet to a mind-numbing orgasm.
Bonus: Russia starts with kissing his ankle and then works his way higher, and higher.
*wink wink nudge nudge*
Please make it hot! With Russia worshipping Englands body from head to toe, stroking, kissing, licking...till England comes absolutely undone and has no control of his body whatsoever left.
Then Russia fucks him, slow and sweet to a mind-numbing orgasm.
Bonus: Russia starts with kissing his ankle and then works his way higher, and higher.
“Are you barking?”
The outraged tone of voice echoing down the corridor gave Russia pause, but China kept walking, talking in hushed voices with Korea as they traversed the hall’s length in search for the exit. That was definitely England’s voice, the lilt turned sharp and deadly with the accusation.
Funny, Russia thought with no little amusement. He came to a halt where he was and promptly forgot China and that little brat of a brother the Asian man usually avoided.
It had been quite some time since he’d been witness to the little Englishman’s terrorizing rage. These days, the short blond seemed nothing short of tired and weary all the time, stretched thin from wars in the Middle East and an unfortunate accident concerning British Petroleum in the Gulf of Mexico.
He’d been exiting the latest conference hall with the former Allied powers (sans France, and with the addition of Korea) where they had discussed nuclear weaponry and possession. Times were tense; everyone was feeling the strain of failing economies; add to that the threat of nuclear warfare, and it was no wonder someone was feeling stressed out. America and Korea, young and immature as they were, had had a hard time keeping from gnashing their teeth at each other during the meeting.
He was fully prepared, therefore, to see England arguing with a petulant America over earlier behavior or some new outlandish strategy. But when he closed his hand over the corner of a wall and peeked around, he was met with…
England.
Just England.
“You must be out of your mind, sir,” England was saying to – presumably – nothing. England’s voice was chilled and lowered to what the former empire must have assumed to be a private tone. How silly of him to think that Russia wouldn’t hear if he happened to happen upon him – which he just so happened to do.
But who was he talking to? More of his ‘magical creature’ friends? Ridiculous, but—then again, Russia was plagued by his General Winter, and if England had ‘friends’ like him, the large nation couldn’t help but sympathize and yet laugh inwardly at the other’s misfortune.
It took a moment for Russia to realize that England was holding – in his hand and pressed against an ear – a small and rather fashionable device. It took him a moment longer to realize what it was, but he felt no discontent. After all, Russia might not have invested in the latest technology, but it was of no loss to him. If he didn’t advance to the point of iPads and cellular phones, he might be able to remember himself. Russia was, temporarily, on something of a self-amusing scavenger hunt for his own self, and use of other nations’ technological advances would surely hinder the search. When Google maps let him down, he decided it just wasn’t worth it.
But lucky for him, England was starting to forget to use his inside voice. Such wonderful amusement for Russia!
“No, I’ll not do as you ask, you thrice-damned brute!”
Oh, it did feel so good to hear such dulcet, angry tones again. Russia could almost sigh for the joy of it all.
“Good day, sir!”
And so the sigh that had been building died in his frigid lungs as soon as it began and bitter disappointment arose in its place. The conversation was over already, one-sided though it may have seemed to him, and Russia couldn't be any unhappier for it.
That was when the shiny red gadget crashed into the wall next to his face, startling him out of his oncoming sulk. The bit of technology cracked down the middle and clattered to the floor, its form mangled as it laid there with its two parts held together by a broken hinge. Russia reached down to collect it, ignoring England’s start of surprise.
“Oh. Oh, Russia, I’m sorry.” As if they needed yet another excuse for the war that was looming over them. The words Seemingly Inevitable were already stamped over it in bold red letters.
“I hadn’t realized you were— what are you doing over there?”
Russia hummed noncommittally and turned the phone over in his hand, inspecting the crack in the shell. Quite impressive, really. England’s temper had done quite the number on this messenger. The thought sent a thrill down the pillar of Russia’s spine.
The outraged tone of voice echoing down the corridor gave Russia pause, but China kept walking, talking in hushed voices with Korea as they traversed the hall’s length in search for the exit. That was definitely England’s voice, the lilt turned sharp and deadly with the accusation.
Funny, Russia thought with no little amusement. He came to a halt where he was and promptly forgot China and that little brat of a brother the Asian man usually avoided.
It had been quite some time since he’d been witness to the little Englishman’s terrorizing rage. These days, the short blond seemed nothing short of tired and weary all the time, stretched thin from wars in the Middle East and an unfortunate accident concerning British Petroleum in the Gulf of Mexico.
He’d been exiting the latest conference hall with the former Allied powers (sans France, and with the addition of Korea) where they had discussed nuclear weaponry and possession. Times were tense; everyone was feeling the strain of failing economies; add to that the threat of nuclear warfare, and it was no wonder someone was feeling stressed out. America and Korea, young and immature as they were, had had a hard time keeping from gnashing their teeth at each other during the meeting.
He was fully prepared, therefore, to see England arguing with a petulant America over earlier behavior or some new outlandish strategy. But when he closed his hand over the corner of a wall and peeked around, he was met with…
England.
Just England.
“You must be out of your mind, sir,” England was saying to – presumably – nothing. England’s voice was chilled and lowered to what the former empire must have assumed to be a private tone. How silly of him to think that Russia wouldn’t hear if he happened to happen upon him – which he just so happened to do.
But who was he talking to? More of his ‘magical creature’ friends? Ridiculous, but—then again, Russia was plagued by his General Winter, and if England had ‘friends’ like him, the large nation couldn’t help but sympathize and yet laugh inwardly at the other’s misfortune.
It took a moment for Russia to realize that England was holding – in his hand and pressed against an ear – a small and rather fashionable device. It took him a moment longer to realize what it was, but he felt no discontent. After all, Russia might not have invested in the latest technology, but it was of no loss to him. If he didn’t advance to the point of iPads and cellular phones, he might be able to remember himself. Russia was, temporarily, on something of a self-amusing scavenger hunt for his own self, and use of other nations’ technological advances would surely hinder the search. When Google maps let him down, he decided it just wasn’t worth it.
But lucky for him, England was starting to forget to use his inside voice. Such wonderful amusement for Russia!
“No, I’ll not do as you ask, you thrice-damned brute!”
Oh, it did feel so good to hear such dulcet, angry tones again. Russia could almost sigh for the joy of it all.
“Good day, sir!”
And so the sigh that had been building died in his frigid lungs as soon as it began and bitter disappointment arose in its place. The conversation was over already, one-sided though it may have seemed to him, and Russia couldn't be any unhappier for it.
That was when the shiny red gadget crashed into the wall next to his face, startling him out of his oncoming sulk. The bit of technology cracked down the middle and clattered to the floor, its form mangled as it laid there with its two parts held together by a broken hinge. Russia reached down to collect it, ignoring England’s start of surprise.
“Oh. Oh, Russia, I’m sorry.” As if they needed yet another excuse for the war that was looming over them. The words Seemingly Inevitable were already stamped over it in bold red letters.
“I hadn’t realized you were— what are you doing over there?”
Russia hummed noncommittally and turned the phone over in his hand, inspecting the crack in the shell. Quite impressive, really. England’s temper had done quite the number on this messenger. The thought sent a thrill down the pillar of Russia’s spine.
America, England - England cries in front of little!America
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 12:07 pm (UTC)(link)^^ A military defeat, an illness, a sad memory... Anon would love to see some little!America comforting England. Doesn't matter why England's upset, anything's good.
Bonus: England's lost his handkerchief; America provides.
Bonus: England's lost his handkerchief; America provides.
(deleted comment)
America, fresh out of the shower, dancing (sexily) and singing to T-Rex' 'Get It On', clad only in a pair of tight-fitting boxers.
(Un)fortunately, he forgot two things:
1. He had a informal meeting with Russia today.
2. He didn't lock his door.
Cue Russia finding him like this and pouncing him. Bottom!America.
First time, please! No established relationship between these two. No Non-Con; dub-con of the 'No...No...Yes! Yes! YES!' variety is okay, though.
Make it hot and fluffy, please.
(Un)fortunately, he forgot two things:
1. He had a informal meeting with Russia today.
2. He didn't lock his door.
Cue Russia finding him like this and pouncing him. Bottom!America.
First time, please! No established relationship between these two. No Non-Con; dub-con of the 'No...No...Yes! Yes! YES!' variety is okay, though.
Make it hot and fluffy, please.
ohhh denial and exceptance sex and clad in a pair of tight-fitting American flag boxers would be awesome!! With Ivan wearing his own flag? XD
I second this so hard
I second this so hard
...Because of a weird fortune cookie, the pair has to pretend they're one another to prevent an international incident. However, things don't exactly go according to plan as France decides to woo England to get into his pants. Meanwhile America has a difficult time stopping France when Prussia and Spain keep on getting in his way.
Bonus: At the start of the world meeting, France (in US body wearing a schoolgirl uniform) begins singing/dancing Britney Spear's 'If You Seek Amy' and it undeniably turns Englandand several other nations on
Bonus 2: America gets his revenge byabusing France's body purposely gaining ALOT of weight, shave off ALL his hair and running around naked in a public area
Bonus 3: It never happened. It was all just a dream. England's dream that is.
ReCaptcha: "chrosed universality"
Bonus: At the start of the world meeting, France (in US body wearing a schoolgirl uniform) begins singing/dancing Britney Spear's 'If You Seek Amy' and it undeniably turns England
Bonus 2: America gets his revenge by
Bonus 3: It never happened. It was all just a dream. England's dream that is.
ReCaptcha: "chrosed universality"
High school or college AU. So, I guess human names, but that's up to the writer.
America has a test coming up. Studying isn't gong all that well for him so his boyfriend (England) decides to help.
After a lot of frustration because America just isn't getting it, England comes up with the perfect plan.
America gets an answer right: England removes one article of clothing.
America gets an answer wrong: England puts on a previously discarded piece of clothing.
And when America gets all the questions right, sexytimes happens.
Bonus: England acts really seductive each time he removes a piece of clothing, even if it's only a sock. XD
America has a test coming up. Studying isn't gong all that well for him so his boyfriend (England) decides to help.
After a lot of frustration because America just isn't getting it, England comes up with the perfect plan.
America gets an answer right: England removes one article of clothing.
America gets an answer wrong: England puts on a previously discarded piece of clothing.
And when America gets all the questions right, sexytimes happens.
Bonus: England acts really seductive each time he removes a piece of clothing, even if it's only a sock. XD
Started working on a fill for this. :D
Over here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=78083554#t78083554
Over here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=78083554#t78083554
Kalmar Union Era. I want Denmark trying to seduce Sweden, and when that fails, just taking what he wants. And the best part? Sweden can't bring himself to really hate it.
BONUS: Denmark cuddles him afterwards.
BONUS: Denmark cuddles him afterwards.
Microfiller!anon presents this not-so-microfill. Title comes from the Robert Frost poem "Fire and Ice" The porn feels tame in this one :(
All he ever wanted
All he ever wanted
(not love, not adoration, not even tenderness, because what he wanted and what he needed were expressly different things, of course)
Was to be taken seriously.
“Sweden.” He smiled, like ice and alcohol. “Sverige.”
The blonde turned very slightly from his task, neck tensed in annoyance. But he didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge Denmark’s drunken request, had he made one, which he did in the very tone of Sweden’s name. Should’ve been apparent.
It made him burn. Before Sweden even processed movement, Denmark was standing behind the ice-giant, warm breath swirling fire on the nape of his neck, delighting childishly at how he was still taller, just a little bit. “Sverige…I want you to look at me.”
It was dangerous to bother a Viking while he was sharpening his weapon. Sweden’s hand tightened on his axe and he didn’t reply. Although, perhaps there was a treacherous tremble in his fingers that was not there before.
Denmark’s expression darkened. His hands reached for, bunched and twisted in Sweden’s shirt, feeling the cheap, rough material rip between his fingers. It wasn’t his intention to humiliate Sweden with poverty, the idiot had chosen it himself.
Perhaps to match his pretty little favorite.
“Saw you in the garden, today, Sverige.” Denmark ran his palms along the lean lines of Sweden’s frame, learning the shift of muscle under skin, the mouth-watering smell of pine and musk that was all his.
Sweden carefully pressed a thumb along the blade of his axe, angling it to the grindstone for the perfect edge. A jarring, metallic sound. A shiver of clenched hatred.
“The sweet, blonde one…what was his- Ah, Finland? You were lookin’ at him?” Denmark could not suppress the savage pleasure he felt at Sweden’s flinch. “Careful,” He purred. “Dun’ wanna cut your hand.”
Careful
Careful
Don’t get in too deep
Don’t cut yourself and get in too deep
Mouths jarring out of angle, wide, lapping tongues smearing saliva, sharp, white teeth sinking into skin too rough to be pleasurable. It was just another way to mark possession.
Sweden fought because his pride demanded it, grunting slightly as his axe was ripped from his grip, skittering to the other side of the room. Denmark gleefully slammed him into the floor, hands kneading at his corded thighs, pulling apart his ass, raking blunt nails down his muscled back.
“I wan’ you Sverige.” Denmark’s laugh was a low growl, deep in his throat. “Now.”
Sweden ground his teeth and tried to knee him in the face, but even drunk, the Dane was too nimble, too well-fed, and well-trained, having survived the harsh winter nights far easier than Sweden. He easily overpowered the other man, pinning him down in a warm crush of hands, legs, teeth and laughter.
“I own you.” And that was the last that Denmark would say. From here on out the sharp-tongued Nordic with fire-blue eyes would show rather than declare, conquer his threatened territory. Half-hard already, he ground against the sharp jut of Sweden’s pelvis, then shifting lower. His grin was a savage promise.
Closing his eyes tightly, Sweden attempted to shift Denmark off, bucking suddenly against his grasp. But that just seemed to make the other man hiss in pleasure as he leaned down, rubbing their bodies together in slow, smooth movements. There was no need to be frantic. Denmark was willing to take his time.
Almost bearable. Sweden set his teeth against it. Almost. The warmth was welcome, the caresses (their sharp edge, even) made him shiver and twitch…and Denmark’s face. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Sweden’s pride on the floor, being ground into some other man’s whore, his freedom pounded into submission, his love…
So Sweden would never admit to himself that what Denmark did to him was almost bearable, on those cold nights by the smoking, flickering fire, curled up in their sweat and saliva. Almost bearable.
All he ever wanted
All he ever wanted
(not love, not adoration, not even tenderness, because what he wanted and what he needed were expressly different things, of course)
Was to be taken seriously.
“Sweden.” He smiled, like ice and alcohol. “Sverige.”
The blonde turned very slightly from his task, neck tensed in annoyance. But he didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge Denmark’s drunken request, had he made one, which he did in the very tone of Sweden’s name. Should’ve been apparent.
It made him burn. Before Sweden even processed movement, Denmark was standing behind the ice-giant, warm breath swirling fire on the nape of his neck, delighting childishly at how he was still taller, just a little bit. “Sverige…I want you to look at me.”
It was dangerous to bother a Viking while he was sharpening his weapon. Sweden’s hand tightened on his axe and he didn’t reply. Although, perhaps there was a treacherous tremble in his fingers that was not there before.
Denmark’s expression darkened. His hands reached for, bunched and twisted in Sweden’s shirt, feeling the cheap, rough material rip between his fingers. It wasn’t his intention to humiliate Sweden with poverty, the idiot had chosen it himself.
Perhaps to match his pretty little favorite.
“Saw you in the garden, today, Sverige.” Denmark ran his palms along the lean lines of Sweden’s frame, learning the shift of muscle under skin, the mouth-watering smell of pine and musk that was all his.
Sweden carefully pressed a thumb along the blade of his axe, angling it to the grindstone for the perfect edge. A jarring, metallic sound. A shiver of clenched hatred.
“The sweet, blonde one…what was his- Ah, Finland? You were lookin’ at him?” Denmark could not suppress the savage pleasure he felt at Sweden’s flinch. “Careful,” He purred. “Dun’ wanna cut your hand.”
Careful
Careful
Don’t get in too deep
Don’t cut yourself and get in too deep
Mouths jarring out of angle, wide, lapping tongues smearing saliva, sharp, white teeth sinking into skin too rough to be pleasurable. It was just another way to mark possession.
Sweden fought because his pride demanded it, grunting slightly as his axe was ripped from his grip, skittering to the other side of the room. Denmark gleefully slammed him into the floor, hands kneading at his corded thighs, pulling apart his ass, raking blunt nails down his muscled back.
“I wan’ you Sverige.” Denmark’s laugh was a low growl, deep in his throat. “Now.”
Sweden ground his teeth and tried to knee him in the face, but even drunk, the Dane was too nimble, too well-fed, and well-trained, having survived the harsh winter nights far easier than Sweden. He easily overpowered the other man, pinning him down in a warm crush of hands, legs, teeth and laughter.
“I own you.” And that was the last that Denmark would say. From here on out the sharp-tongued Nordic with fire-blue eyes would show rather than declare, conquer his threatened territory. Half-hard already, he ground against the sharp jut of Sweden’s pelvis, then shifting lower. His grin was a savage promise.
Closing his eyes tightly, Sweden attempted to shift Denmark off, bucking suddenly against his grasp. But that just seemed to make the other man hiss in pleasure as he leaned down, rubbing their bodies together in slow, smooth movements. There was no need to be frantic. Denmark was willing to take his time.
Almost bearable. Sweden set his teeth against it. Almost. The warmth was welcome, the caresses (their sharp edge, even) made him shiver and twitch…and Denmark’s face. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Sweden’s pride on the floor, being ground into some other man’s whore, his freedom pounded into submission, his love…
So Sweden would never admit to himself that what Denmark did to him was almost bearable, on those cold nights by the smoking, flickering fire, curled up in their sweat and saliva. Almost bearable.
England/America- Protecting another nation at high personal risk
(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 12:56 pm (UTC)(link)Set in mordern time, during a world meeting, place gets attacked by infiltrated shooters going after politicians/heads of state. In the violent commotion, while America is not paying attention by making sure others are uninjured, he becomes target of an attack, and England steps in.
I'd love to see England succesfully (okay, badass Arthur) fending off the attack, but getting heavily injured while at it. Taking a bullet or two, and especially PLEASE a cut and blood on his face.
England walks off relatively by himself (or with France's help!) to check on his own diplomatic associates. America knew he was protected by England, but does not realize the extent of the wounds taken.
England and America are NOT in a stablished relations, but there are feelings from both sides!!
BONUS:
-Later France breaks his careless facade attitude by scowling Alfred and revealing just what really happened.
-America overhears UK Prime Minister angrily chastising Arthur by putting America's safety over his own.
-Make out sessions! First-time sexy times orz!
I'd love to see England succesfully (okay, badass Arthur) fending off the attack, but getting heavily injured while at it. Taking a bullet or two, and especially PLEASE a cut and blood on his face.
England walks off relatively by himself (or with France's help!) to check on his own diplomatic associates. America knew he was protected by England, but does not realize the extent of the wounds taken.
England and America are NOT in a stablished relations, but there are feelings from both sides!!
BONUS:
-Later France breaks his careless facade attitude by scowling Alfred and revealing just what really happened.
-America overhears UK Prime Minister angrily chastising Arthur by putting America's safety over his own.
-Make out sessions! First-time sexy times orz!
Everyone thinks that Russia's childish behavior is a mask cloaking his true intentions.
America trying to reveal them, but instead finds out that Russia is not pretending. Revolution deranged him and he has an emotional level of a little child fully unaware oh how his doings affect others.
America decides to cure him somehow (by medicine, psychology, magic, alien technology, whatever) and while he finding the cure, he tryes to restrain Russia's innocent!cruelty
Bonus 1: America become overprotective to Russia defensing him in front of other nations, who are realy surprised by this.
Bonus 2: America and Russia had had very close relationship before the Revolution.
America trying to reveal them, but instead finds out that Russia is not pretending. Revolution deranged him and he has an emotional level of a little child fully unaware oh how his doings affect others.
America decides to cure him somehow (by medicine, psychology, magic, alien technology, whatever) and while he finding the cure, he tryes to restrain Russia's innocent!cruelty
Bonus 1: America become overprotective to Russia defensing him in front of other nations, who are realy surprised by this.
Bonus 2: America and Russia had had very close relationship before the Revolution.
There’s pain in the cold, pretty little crimson wings of the bird that kept on trying to fly away staining the snow.
“Isn’t it fun when we play together, Toris?”
Why doesn’t he get up, so that they can keep playing? Russia doesn’t know. Russia never knows.
Why they leave him, why they hate him.
When the bird doesn’t as much as chirp, he thinks that they are probably playing a new game. That’s why he likes this little bird with the bright eyes the very best – he comes up with the best games. Russia thinks he can guess what this one is.
“Oh, are we playing the silent game? I love that one. I bet I can make you talk, da?”
And then there is screaming on the surface of Russia’s winter wonderland, becoming a cacophony with the caws of crows flying far away. He becomes consumed by the sound, relishing as it bites back at the cold and tells him he is not alone.
--------------
“Shut-up, you commie bastard! I was just about to make my amazing speech on the functions of alien space lasers! And what we can do to protect ourselves now!”
Russia gives America a playful grin. “But Alfred –”
“That’s America to you.”
Russia continues undeterred. “As I was saying, America, wouldn’t it be better if, instead of imaginary space guns, we play with real guns? Would be much more enjoyable, da?” The whole room visibly tensions as a black gloved hand taps the table in front of it.
“R-russia, your not trying to start a war, are you –“
“You know it would be unwise brother –“
“Don’t even think about it, you wanker –“
“Do it Ivan. I waited through the whole cold war to see the American idiot get his ass kicked by someone other than me – “
“Cuba, you fool, you’ve been beating up Canada this whole time!”
Russia stares around the meeting, a genuine look of confusion on his face. “But, we are just speaking hypothetically – it is like a game played with words, da? No need to become… alarmed.” A small smile plays on snow-chapped lips.
All he receives in return are stares of disgust.
Twenty minutes later the nations are filing out of the meeting room, animatedly chatting to one another, too busy to notice the large Russian nation more than it takes to move out of the way when he walks past. America walks next to England, a stash of hamburgers in his arms that has seemingly appeared out of nowhere – and England hopes very much that they were not in America’s briefcase. They disappear quickly into his large mouth, and between bites – or sometimes during – he garbles out, “Did you see that Russian bastard try to interrupt my presentation? I would have like, connected my fist with his face, if it wouldn’t have given the wrong impression. Oh hey, speaking of fists, did you watch those Chuck Norris video’s I lent you? Isn’t he just the coolest?”
England gives him an exasperated look.
“America, you git, didn’t anybody ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full? Or in coherent sentences?”
America glances over quickly and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I –“
“I like Chuck Norris.” interrupts a voice in the background.
Russia, in heavy debt due towards the end of the Soviet Union, puts Lithuania up for sale. Who buys him and what they do with him is up to anon.
Bonus 1: The buyer is someone totally unexpected (so no Poland, no US, no Belarus)
Bonus 1: The buyer is someone totally unexpected (so no Poland, no US, no Belarus)
(This will be long; no idea yet how long; probably not what you're expecting)
Toris stared at Ivan as though he had grown another head. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. It was no secret that the Soviet Union was seriously in dept, especially to China, and Toris knew that this was making Ivan incredibly irritable. But this?
"D-did you just say that you were putting me up for sale sir?" Toris asked, hoping that perhaps he had heard wrong.
"Da…I am needing the cash fast." Ivan replied, tiredly rubbing his eyes as he went over his finances again, not liking the numbers that kept coming up.
Still in disbelief Toris couldn't find words for a few minutes. When they did come however they came with an angry outburst. "You can't sell me! I'm a nation! I'm not some piece of land like Alaska that you can just get rid of whenever you want!"
"You belong to me Toris…you and your people and now I must sell them so that I may be able to support myself. You think I am the first to sell you? You think I will be last?" Ivan replied voice cold but more tired sounding then angry, "It is simply what must happen."
Toris’ body shook with rage as he listened to Ivan. “You don’t own me Ivan and if you sell me I swear that I will come back and get revenge. I’m not going to be passed around like some bauble to be added to someone’s collection!”
"Toris!!" Ivan roared, slamming his fist against the table making all the china rattle, "You have no say in this, you are already up in the market. I will hear no more words of rebellion or I will have you gagged and kept in a cage till you're sent."
"It had better be a study cage!" Toris shouted before stomping out of the room, completely ignoring the fact that he had not been dismissed. Out of spite he knocked down some of Ivan's priceless vases. If he was to be sold he wasn't worried about getting punished. Locking himself in his room, with a chair under the doorsince he didn't actually have a room lock, he angrily set about packing his bag with all of his clothes…leaving the woman's maid outfits in the closet. There was no way in hell he was bringing that thing.
"Toris?" a voice said quietly from outside, mildly shakily. "Toris what's wrong? You broke a vase…"
At the sound of his brother's voice Toris' anger melted away and he pushed the chair away and opened the door. "I'm being sold Raivis."
"…What?!" Raivis squeaked, shaking. "H-How! Why, why did this happen?!"
"Apparently Ivan needs the money." Sighing tiredly Toris pulled Raivis into a hug. "I'm sorry Raivis I won't be here to protect you anymore. You and Eduard will have to look after each other. But don't worry; I have a feeling all this won't be for much longer."
"Y-Yes…" Raivis replied sniffling, "why is it you? Why are you being sold? I thought you were his favourite!"
Not having an answer to that question Toris could only shake his head. "I don't know. I'm just happy it's not you or Eduard. I don't know what's going to happen and if I'm sent to someone cruel I would rather it be me than either of you."
"I'm sorry Toris…I'm so sorry." Raivis replied, weeping weakly into Toris' chest.
"Ssssh, don't be Raivis." Toris said hugging him. "There's nothing to be sorry about." He knew it was no real assurance; there was no truth to his words after all only blind useless hope. Hope that maybe, hopefully, in the future there would be a time when they were nations again and not just items that were bought and sold on a whim. Maybe there would be a time when Russia wouldn't be a monster, slowly going insane by the ideals of a man even madder then he.
From there it only got worse with Ivan becoming more aggressive and all the other nations around him shrinking away in fear. There was a dead silence that seemed to constantly hang in the air; fear and sorrow kept other nations tongues still and their feet light.
Toris stared at Ivan as though he had grown another head. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. It was no secret that the Soviet Union was seriously in dept, especially to China, and Toris knew that this was making Ivan incredibly irritable. But this?
"D-did you just say that you were putting me up for sale sir?" Toris asked, hoping that perhaps he had heard wrong.
"Da…I am needing the cash fast." Ivan replied, tiredly rubbing his eyes as he went over his finances again, not liking the numbers that kept coming up.
Still in disbelief Toris couldn't find words for a few minutes. When they did come however they came with an angry outburst. "You can't sell me! I'm a nation! I'm not some piece of land like Alaska that you can just get rid of whenever you want!"
"You belong to me Toris…you and your people and now I must sell them so that I may be able to support myself. You think I am the first to sell you? You think I will be last?" Ivan replied voice cold but more tired sounding then angry, "It is simply what must happen."
Toris’ body shook with rage as he listened to Ivan. “You don’t own me Ivan and if you sell me I swear that I will come back and get revenge. I’m not going to be passed around like some bauble to be added to someone’s collection!”
"Toris!!" Ivan roared, slamming his fist against the table making all the china rattle, "You have no say in this, you are already up in the market. I will hear no more words of rebellion or I will have you gagged and kept in a cage till you're sent."
"It had better be a study cage!" Toris shouted before stomping out of the room, completely ignoring the fact that he had not been dismissed. Out of spite he knocked down some of Ivan's priceless vases. If he was to be sold he wasn't worried about getting punished. Locking himself in his room, with a chair under the doorsince he didn't actually have a room lock, he angrily set about packing his bag with all of his clothes…leaving the woman's maid outfits in the closet. There was no way in hell he was bringing that thing.
"Toris?" a voice said quietly from outside, mildly shakily. "Toris what's wrong? You broke a vase…"
At the sound of his brother's voice Toris' anger melted away and he pushed the chair away and opened the door. "I'm being sold Raivis."
"…What?!" Raivis squeaked, shaking. "H-How! Why, why did this happen?!"
"Apparently Ivan needs the money." Sighing tiredly Toris pulled Raivis into a hug. "I'm sorry Raivis I won't be here to protect you anymore. You and Eduard will have to look after each other. But don't worry; I have a feeling all this won't be for much longer."
"Y-Yes…" Raivis replied sniffling, "why is it you? Why are you being sold? I thought you were his favourite!"
Not having an answer to that question Toris could only shake his head. "I don't know. I'm just happy it's not you or Eduard. I don't know what's going to happen and if I'm sent to someone cruel I would rather it be me than either of you."
"I'm sorry Toris…I'm so sorry." Raivis replied, weeping weakly into Toris' chest.
"Ssssh, don't be Raivis." Toris said hugging him. "There's nothing to be sorry about." He knew it was no real assurance; there was no truth to his words after all only blind useless hope. Hope that maybe, hopefully, in the future there would be a time when they were nations again and not just items that were bought and sold on a whim. Maybe there would be a time when Russia wouldn't be a monster, slowly going insane by the ideals of a man even madder then he.
From there it only got worse with Ivan becoming more aggressive and all the other nations around him shrinking away in fear. There was a dead silence that seemed to constantly hang in the air; fear and sorrow kept other nations tongues still and their feet light.
Page 4 of 49