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It's terribly, dreadfully awkward, and yet I can't stop LOLing.
I kept refreshing for a while because I couldn't quite believe that you stopped here, but you did and ARGH I WANT MORE.
I kept refreshing for a while because I couldn't quite believe that you stopped here, but you did and ARGH I WANT MORE.
Aaaaaand after posting this comment, I see that you DID, just as a separate thread. Will be watching that in the future. XD
I don't think I've ever been so charmed by a story in my life, much less by a vampire story. What the hell? <3
Yeah, and when you bookmark, be sure and bookmark the actual request; it's much easier! :Db
Eeep I'm sorry lmfao. I didn't take into consideration how the story was formatted when I posted the update, so it only showed one part, oops. D:
I lol at awkward moments in stories too! I always have to stop reading for a moment to collect myself.
I lol at awkward moments in stories too! I always have to stop reading for a moment to collect myself.
Damn bastard probably had an umbrella somewhere that he just yanked out and used to fly. That had to be how magic people flew, didn’t it?
Olkjaslifl oh America, you are so adorable, but he's not Mary Poppins.
Oh my god, anon, this is just so fantastic, I'm loving it so much!
Olkjaslifl oh America, you are so adorable, but he's not Mary Poppins.
Oh my god, anon, this is just so fantastic, I'm loving it so much!
King Harald ordered the sailors to move the next day, away from the coast. Godwinson and his men weren’t due to arrive for a few more days, but it never hurt to be ready, Harald had said, and laughed. If there was a joke, Norway didn’t understand it, but his head was still buzzing from the night before.
The rendezvous point was only a few hours’ walk from the coast, and they reached it by early afternoon. It was a pretty place, a wooden bridge stretching over a wide, blue river. It was nothing like the dim, hard grayness of the coast.
Norway’s head hurt. Denmark was talking too loudly in his ear, but Norway wasn’t about to admit that he was still aching from a few tankards of ale. He rubbed the side of his head and looked around, his eyes unfocused.
The sailors had left their heaviest armor back on the coast, and some had stripped out of the lighter, leather armor to swim in the river. Harald had sent away many of his men to keep the English hostages in a more secure location, and there was a strange new quietness with the smaller group.
It was a happy scene, but there was a vague uneasiness inside of Norway, like a blunt blade pressing against his gut. It was hard to focus on through the buzzing. Norway shook his head, feeling nauseous.
“I wonder if we should have brought the metal armor,” he said to Denmark. He thought his voice sounded high and uneven.
“What armor?” Denmark said, casting him a strange look. “You didn’t bring any metal armor on the boat, Noregr.”
“Not me,” Norway said, “Everyone.” He rubbed his head again, feeling as if he had forgotten something. “That would have been better. I think that would have been better.”
The sun was bright in the sky, and Norway was beginning to miss the grey clouds of yesterday. The light seemed to stream from everywhere, and it felt like a thousand sharp knives in his brain. He shut his eyes and tried to think.
There was a shout that only partly made it through Norway’s buzzing ears, and dimly he noticed the splashing in the river stop. Then there was a rising clamor, and the sound of pounding feet, and Denmark grabbed Norway by the shoulders and shook him. Norway realized that Denmark had been talking to him.
“Noregr, what the hell are you doing? Open your eyes!” Denmark yelled, and Norway opened his eyes. There was still too much light, but he could see his sailors scrambling along the banks of the river, swearing and trying to pull their armor on. It must have been difficult to get the leather over their wet skin. It must have been uncomfortable. Norway blinked.
“Look that way, the English are coming!” Denmark said, “Sure as shit not coming to trade for hostages, either. See-- they’re all decked out for battle, look. You can see the sun shining off all that metal.” Norway didn’t look.
“I know,” he said, and again his voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from someone else. “They’re coming to attack. I know that.” Norway reached for his sword, his fingers fumbling with the sheath. He wrapped them around the sheath, and then they were steady. He exhaled.
Denmark already had his ax out and was swinging it along the ground in low arcs. There was a growing smile on his face as he bounced on the balls of his feet, and he reminded Norway of Hrungnir’s clay giant, built to come alive in battle. Norway could sense the same bright, bloodthirsty energy rising within himself, but it felt strange and sick today. He didn't know why; it must have been more than just the alcohol.
The rendezvous point was only a few hours’ walk from the coast, and they reached it by early afternoon. It was a pretty place, a wooden bridge stretching over a wide, blue river. It was nothing like the dim, hard grayness of the coast.
Norway’s head hurt. Denmark was talking too loudly in his ear, but Norway wasn’t about to admit that he was still aching from a few tankards of ale. He rubbed the side of his head and looked around, his eyes unfocused.
The sailors had left their heaviest armor back on the coast, and some had stripped out of the lighter, leather armor to swim in the river. Harald had sent away many of his men to keep the English hostages in a more secure location, and there was a strange new quietness with the smaller group.
It was a happy scene, but there was a vague uneasiness inside of Norway, like a blunt blade pressing against his gut. It was hard to focus on through the buzzing. Norway shook his head, feeling nauseous.
“I wonder if we should have brought the metal armor,” he said to Denmark. He thought his voice sounded high and uneven.
“What armor?” Denmark said, casting him a strange look. “You didn’t bring any metal armor on the boat, Noregr.”
“Not me,” Norway said, “Everyone.” He rubbed his head again, feeling as if he had forgotten something. “That would have been better. I think that would have been better.”
The sun was bright in the sky, and Norway was beginning to miss the grey clouds of yesterday. The light seemed to stream from everywhere, and it felt like a thousand sharp knives in his brain. He shut his eyes and tried to think.
There was a shout that only partly made it through Norway’s buzzing ears, and dimly he noticed the splashing in the river stop. Then there was a rising clamor, and the sound of pounding feet, and Denmark grabbed Norway by the shoulders and shook him. Norway realized that Denmark had been talking to him.
“Noregr, what the hell are you doing? Open your eyes!” Denmark yelled, and Norway opened his eyes. There was still too much light, but he could see his sailors scrambling along the banks of the river, swearing and trying to pull their armor on. It must have been difficult to get the leather over their wet skin. It must have been uncomfortable. Norway blinked.
“Look that way, the English are coming!” Denmark said, “Sure as shit not coming to trade for hostages, either. See-- they’re all decked out for battle, look. You can see the sun shining off all that metal.” Norway didn’t look.
“I know,” he said, and again his voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from someone else. “They’re coming to attack. I know that.” Norway reached for his sword, his fingers fumbling with the sheath. He wrapped them around the sheath, and then they were steady. He exhaled.
Denmark already had his ax out and was swinging it along the ground in low arcs. There was a growing smile on his face as he bounced on the balls of his feet, and he reminded Norway of Hrungnir’s clay giant, built to come alive in battle. Norway could sense the same bright, bloodthirsty energy rising within himself, but it felt strange and sick today. He didn't know why; it must have been more than just the alcohol.
Norway pulled his sword out and steeled himself. He planted his feet in the grass and locked his hands around the hilt of his sword. Now, finally, he looked over the hill at the English.
There were thousands of them, glimmering in their metal armor and polished helms. A wide swath of trampled grass marked their progress, and Norway thought it made it look as if a sea had parted behind them. There was still a little time to retreat, but Norway knew that Harald Hardrada would not run. It wasn’t his way.
Norway took a deep breath. Perhaps they would win. There was no reason they had to lose.
The English broke over the crest of the hill and came down to the bridge in a great, terrible wave. Harald was still organizing his men, hurried but confident. Even as Norway and Denmark ran to join the growing crowd, Norway knew there would not be enough time to prepare. Godwinson and his men were coming too fast.
The English soldiers met the bridge in minutes, and the sound of battle cries and clashing metal filled the air like a sudden explosion. Still Harald was collecting the troops, and somehow, miraculously, the English soldiers did not come cutting through his men.
“What’s happening?” Norway asked Denmark.
“Who gives a shit?” he said, a wild grin on his face. “You think that little twerp is there?” Norway craned his head back. Between the jostling shoulders of the bigger warriors, he could just make out a huge shape at their end of the bridge and knocking the English back. The figure twisted to swing his sword again, and for a moment Norway saw his one dead eye in profile.
“Huh,” he breathed. There was the pride again, a warm, light feeling in his chest, and a sudden surge of hope. Norway rubbed the pommel of his sword with his thumb, and watched as the strings of Norwegian soldiers shifted around him.
The reprieve only lasted for a few minutes, but when the one-eyed sailor finally fell and the English rushed through, Harald’s troops are were ready as they could possibly be, out-numbered and poorly equipped.
“If we can hold out until the rest of the army comes,” Norway said to Denmark, “maybe we’ll win.” If Denmark said anything back, it was lost in the roar of metal and stamping feet as the English came upon them.
Norway had fought many, many times before, and he slipped into the rhythm of battle without a thought. Even with the sick feeling still knotted within his stomach, it was what he was born for.
Time seemed to slow and lurch forward as he fought, and it was difficult to say with certainty how quickly anything had happened. Norway knew that a shield had hit the side of his head, leaving a mottled purple bruise and a trickling cut, and that he had lost Denmark at some point, and that he had killed at least one English soldier. He also knew that his warriors and soldiers were dying around him, faster than the English died. They had only their leather, not the metal plates and swinging chain mail of the English, and Norway felt their vulnerability keenly.
Increasingly Norway understood that they would not win, that reinforcements would not come in time, and if they did they would only be slaughtered too. He understood this in a visceral way, right down to his gut. It didn’t change anything; he still needed to bear down on the English with the whole of his will and fight until he was soaked with blood, but he wished that it wouldn’t end this way. It was too bad.
There was a sudden, terrible pain in his throat, and Norway knew what that meant, too. Blackness exploded in front of his eyes, and Norway staggered, and then fell.
There were thousands of them, glimmering in their metal armor and polished helms. A wide swath of trampled grass marked their progress, and Norway thought it made it look as if a sea had parted behind them. There was still a little time to retreat, but Norway knew that Harald Hardrada would not run. It wasn’t his way.
Norway took a deep breath. Perhaps they would win. There was no reason they had to lose.
The English broke over the crest of the hill and came down to the bridge in a great, terrible wave. Harald was still organizing his men, hurried but confident. Even as Norway and Denmark ran to join the growing crowd, Norway knew there would not be enough time to prepare. Godwinson and his men were coming too fast.
The English soldiers met the bridge in minutes, and the sound of battle cries and clashing metal filled the air like a sudden explosion. Still Harald was collecting the troops, and somehow, miraculously, the English soldiers did not come cutting through his men.
“What’s happening?” Norway asked Denmark.
“Who gives a shit?” he said, a wild grin on his face. “You think that little twerp is there?” Norway craned his head back. Between the jostling shoulders of the bigger warriors, he could just make out a huge shape at their end of the bridge and knocking the English back. The figure twisted to swing his sword again, and for a moment Norway saw his one dead eye in profile.
“Huh,” he breathed. There was the pride again, a warm, light feeling in his chest, and a sudden surge of hope. Norway rubbed the pommel of his sword with his thumb, and watched as the strings of Norwegian soldiers shifted around him.
The reprieve only lasted for a few minutes, but when the one-eyed sailor finally fell and the English rushed through, Harald’s troops are were ready as they could possibly be, out-numbered and poorly equipped.
“If we can hold out until the rest of the army comes,” Norway said to Denmark, “maybe we’ll win.” If Denmark said anything back, it was lost in the roar of metal and stamping feet as the English came upon them.
Norway had fought many, many times before, and he slipped into the rhythm of battle without a thought. Even with the sick feeling still knotted within his stomach, it was what he was born for.
Time seemed to slow and lurch forward as he fought, and it was difficult to say with certainty how quickly anything had happened. Norway knew that a shield had hit the side of his head, leaving a mottled purple bruise and a trickling cut, and that he had lost Denmark at some point, and that he had killed at least one English soldier. He also knew that his warriors and soldiers were dying around him, faster than the English died. They had only their leather, not the metal plates and swinging chain mail of the English, and Norway felt their vulnerability keenly.
Increasingly Norway understood that they would not win, that reinforcements would not come in time, and if they did they would only be slaughtered too. He understood this in a visceral way, right down to his gut. It didn’t change anything; he still needed to bear down on the English with the whole of his will and fight until he was soaked with blood, but he wished that it wouldn’t end this way. It was too bad.
There was a sudden, terrible pain in his throat, and Norway knew what that meant, too. Blackness exploded in front of his eyes, and Norway staggered, and then fell.
You post it here http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/7233.html so that people can see there's been a fill, otherwise people miss out on lovely gems like this <3
Did it for you this time :3 I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING MORE OR YOUR ART
Did it for you this time :3 I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING MORE OR YOUR ART
I shall have to quote you in order to express the way that I feel about this story/this chapter.
*Ahem*
"This was so totally beyond awesome that it wasn’t even in the same zip code!"
Word.
(And the way that you end your chapters totally makes me want to go watch Spiderman XD)
*Ahem*
"This was so totally beyond awesome that it wasn’t even in the same zip code!"
Word.
(And the way that you end your chapters totally makes me want to go watch Spiderman XD)
oh, well. still as beautiful as usual. OP better be happy to get such a gorgeous fanart!
oh america why why!? Read the damn script *facepalms* pffft demented nice one you don't even have to know whats it about to be scary...thats even scaries ;A;
This was fantastic! I love this fic so much :D
Alfred is suuuuuuch a little girl it's hilarious!
Thanks for the lulz, authoranon
Alfred is suuuuuuch a little girl it's hilarious!
Thanks for the lulz, authoranon
ah, they have such pretty little notions and habits.
the prison most certainly does sound unique, ahaha. I'm curious to see what other differences there are.
the prison most certainly does sound unique, ahaha. I'm curious to see what other differences there are.
Re: Any Nations: The woes of a Chibi!Nation in an adult world
(Anonymous) 2010-08-24 11:47 am (UTC)(link)May this anon know the link to this picture you have spoken of?
PLEASE?
PLEASE?
and is terribly sorry for making you wait, anon, but life is crazy, at the moment. O_o
But I finally found the time to comment on this.
...
Oh, anon, you are wonderful! I adore your Russia. He's so...adorable (Ugh, I can't express myself today).
And England won't know what hit him.
I look forward to your next update!
But I finally found the time to comment on this.
...
Oh, anon, you are wonderful! I adore your Russia. He's so...adorable (Ugh, I can't express myself today).
And England won't know what hit him.
I look forward to your next update!
:'D I'm so glad to hear that! So happy to hear that you liked it~
This is a totally completely utterly different anon! :D Nicknameless, I suppose. Which is why I said different!anon hahah.
This is a totally completely utterly different anon! :D Nicknameless, I suppose. Which is why I said different!anon hahah.
T-Thank you! ///
Go go go! 8D I'd love to write more hurrr. But I have no idea what pairing to do.
Ahhh nope. New kid yo o/
Go go go! 8D I'd love to write more hurrr. But I have no idea what pairing to do.
Ahhh nope. New kid yo o/
YUUUUSSSSS. Thank you thank you thank you! I'm cumming!!!
If you can type while you're coming, you are talented indeed.
Ohh, I'm glad you still like it orz
Life over here is extremely hectic all of a sudden, too, so I may be late in updating *___*
This will be completed by the end of the weekend, though, most assuredly~ (at least, I hope orz)
Life over here is extremely hectic all of a sudden, too, so I may be late in updating *___*
This will be completed by the end of the weekend, though, most assuredly~ (at least, I hope orz)
I'll have it up as soon as I can x3 Explosive!England is my favorite kind of England, I'm glad someone else feels the same xD
D'awwwww, I love this! I've always had the hugest weak-spot for Spamano, and this just does everything right.
Way to stick in historical references too!
Way to stick in historical references too!
"So," America breathes into England's ear, not quite touching, punctuating his words with a soft lick, "I bet you could go for a nice cup of tea right now?"
It's an innuendo, a play on the phrase my cup of tea, and an in-joke, something for the two of them. They're on the couch in America's living room, not really paying attention to the late news flickering muted on America's big flat-screen TV. It's not a strange position to be in, and the way their thighs are pressed together, the way America's arm is thrown over England's shoulders and England's hand is pressed to the inside of America's knee, that's nothing out of hte ordinary either. America can feel the tension still in England's shoulders. He's had a rough week, nothing threatening, nothing that would make the news, just an argument with his boss - his boss is nice enough guy but England would argue with - hell, who's a paradigm of nonargumentativeness? Is that a word? Well, whoever his boss was, England would argue. And he's had thunderstorms. America likes thunderstorms but there's such a thing as too much.
England swallows - his throat moves, America can watch it quiver - and he says, "Perhaps something stronger."
That's code, too.
Well, that's cool. It's what he wants, what he needs, and America is happy to provide. More than happy. He pulls back, gives England's arm a brief squeeze. "Go take a shower, then," he says. "I'll be waiting when you get out."
--
He waits in the bathroom. England steps out of the shower, still dripping wet. He reaches for where the towel would be, if America hadn't taken it down. He hesitates. America smiles, and hands him the towel. "Close your eyes," he says.
England does, looking a little bit amused. That's okay. He'll start looking other things soon enough. Like desperate, that's a good one. Easy to get, too. America just watches as England dries off , and then he takes his wrist and leads him into the bedroom. He starts complaining about the possibility of running into things. "What, don't you trust me?" America asks, lets himself sound a bit breathy - not like he has to fake that bit, it's England.
"You'd probably think it was funny, you git," mutters England. But he doesn't open his eyes.
America yanks the sheets down, then sits England on the edge of the bed while he strips, and just leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor, because he's kind of in a hurry now. He grins, and hums as he gets the box of toys from under the bed - England's fists are clenched in the sheets already. That's good. First up is the blindfold. He dooesn't say what he's doing as he puts it on, and he keeps humming. It's not any actual tune, just a sort of abstract little noise of joy, because he's happy right now, he likes seeing England like this, knowing what's going to happen soon, the way he's already shivering just from anticipation. America stops and strokes his thighs - England obligingly lets hem fall open, then palms open-handed at his half-hard cock. That gets a harsh intake of breath and a muttered, "Get on with it."
He wants to have some cheery, chirpy answer to that - "If you say so!" or "Was just going to, sweetie," but that wouldn't be in character, not that he's really playing anone in particular, but still, there's a character to these scenes, whenver they go for something stronger, and England doesn't like him getting too chirpy. Ten minutes in, America won't care. But for now, he goes for a husky, seductive, "Oh, this isn't about what you want, is it?"
"Well, I know you want it too so just get aaaaaahhhh." England trails off into a moan as America leans in and licks down his cock, kisses the tip. But his hands don't rise.
It's an innuendo, a play on the phrase my cup of tea, and an in-joke, something for the two of them. They're on the couch in America's living room, not really paying attention to the late news flickering muted on America's big flat-screen TV. It's not a strange position to be in, and the way their thighs are pressed together, the way America's arm is thrown over England's shoulders and England's hand is pressed to the inside of America's knee, that's nothing out of hte ordinary either. America can feel the tension still in England's shoulders. He's had a rough week, nothing threatening, nothing that would make the news, just an argument with his boss - his boss is nice enough guy but England would argue with - hell, who's a paradigm of nonargumentativeness? Is that a word? Well, whoever his boss was, England would argue. And he's had thunderstorms. America likes thunderstorms but there's such a thing as too much.
England swallows - his throat moves, America can watch it quiver - and he says, "Perhaps something stronger."
That's code, too.
Well, that's cool. It's what he wants, what he needs, and America is happy to provide. More than happy. He pulls back, gives England's arm a brief squeeze. "Go take a shower, then," he says. "I'll be waiting when you get out."
--
He waits in the bathroom. England steps out of the shower, still dripping wet. He reaches for where the towel would be, if America hadn't taken it down. He hesitates. America smiles, and hands him the towel. "Close your eyes," he says.
England does, looking a little bit amused. That's okay. He'll start looking other things soon enough. Like desperate, that's a good one. Easy to get, too. America just watches as England dries off , and then he takes his wrist and leads him into the bedroom. He starts complaining about the possibility of running into things. "What, don't you trust me?" America asks, lets himself sound a bit breathy - not like he has to fake that bit, it's England.
"You'd probably think it was funny, you git," mutters England. But he doesn't open his eyes.
America yanks the sheets down, then sits England on the edge of the bed while he strips, and just leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor, because he's kind of in a hurry now. He grins, and hums as he gets the box of toys from under the bed - England's fists are clenched in the sheets already. That's good. First up is the blindfold. He dooesn't say what he's doing as he puts it on, and he keeps humming. It's not any actual tune, just a sort of abstract little noise of joy, because he's happy right now, he likes seeing England like this, knowing what's going to happen soon, the way he's already shivering just from anticipation. America stops and strokes his thighs - England obligingly lets hem fall open, then palms open-handed at his half-hard cock. That gets a harsh intake of breath and a muttered, "Get on with it."
He wants to have some cheery, chirpy answer to that - "If you say so!" or "Was just going to, sweetie," but that wouldn't be in character, not that he's really playing anone in particular, but still, there's a character to these scenes, whenver they go for something stronger, and England doesn't like him getting too chirpy. Ten minutes in, America won't care. But for now, he goes for a husky, seductive, "Oh, this isn't about what you want, is it?"
"Well, I know you want it too so just get aaaaaahhhh." England trails off into a moan as America leans in and licks down his cock, kisses the tip. But his hands don't rise.
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