(frozen comment) Rome/Germania -- Goats
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(This is a model request. Please follow this format when requesting yourself: Pairing/character(s) and kink/prompt in subject line, BRIEF elaboration in message -- stay under 200 words and 3 bonuses. Historical background or definition of words, which can be removed without changing the prompt itself, won't count toward the limit.)
I'm requesting something humorous involving the above. Doesn't have to have smut, but smut would be nice.
I'm requesting something humorous involving the above. Doesn't have to have smut, but smut would be nice.
I just want to see a three-person relationship which is written as equally as valid and stable as any couple. A bit of fighting is okay, as long as it's stuff like Russia the kitchen is a bloody mess what did you do and not stuff like you two are ignoring me I feel like the third wheel. But mostly I just want to see cuddles and domesticity.
Re: Russia/England/Canada - functional poly relationship
(Anonymous) 2011-11-01 04:54 am (UTC)(link)AWH! This sounds so cute! Seconded!
Do you mind if I use both human and Country names? :D
Matthew was unhappy.
It wasn't like the event that happened a year prior in which Matthew had walked in the door to find feathers everywhere and a miserable Arthur sitting on Ivan's stool while the large nation attempted to pick goose down out of his eyebrows, nor like the event of Arthur cooking breakfast and nearly burning the house down if not for the speedy intervention of Katyusha, but some could constitute it as nearly as bad.
Of course, like in many domestic affairs, the key to his unhappiness was in the kitchen in a large puddle on the ground.
"Matvey~ how nice to see you~" the Canadian's Russian lover swooped down to press a kiss to his cheek (really, Ivan was a romanticist at heart, albeit a mildly twisted one) and hug him.
Matthew let himself be consoled for a second before pointing at the puddle of suspiciously red fluid on the ground. "What did you do?!"
To his credit, Ivan looked distinctly uncomfortable as he lowered his head and mumbled something.
"And where's Arthur? Oh God, you didn't-"
The Russian pulled himself up to his full height, giving Matthew a hurt look at made the blonde feel guilty,"No! I did not hurt Arthur, he's upstairs, sewing while looking over..." he trailed off.
Matthew sighed,"Ivan, who is he looking over?"
"...your stutter is nonexistent today, Matvey. This is good progress."
"Don't try to change the subject, love. Who?"
As Ivan suddenly kissed him again, Matthew could practically feel the cogs in the other nation's head moving. Maybe if I kiss him enough, he'll forget...
With some serious force of will, the little Canadian forced himself away, wrapping his fingers loosely around Ivan's hand and dragging him upstairs.
Entering Arthur's room, said British man jumped up, a small smile crossing his face at the sight of both of his lovers. "Matthew, Ivan, I was just making sure that the wanker over here wasn't dead- oh, wait-"
Lying on the bed, a cold compress and what appeared to be bandages around his face and arms, was Francis. Kumakic- Kumaji- Matthew could never remember his name! His bear was sniffing at the fingers of the Frenchman interestedly.
"..." Matthew stared in shock for a few moments before looking as if he wanted to keel over. "M-maple..."
"It's really not as bad as it looks, Matt!" Arthur pleaded, an awkward look sliding into his green eyes.
"Matvey? Matvey, are you okay?" the tall Russian asked concernedly, patting the frozen Canadian's face lightly. "You look like little Lithuania after he's done wrong-"
"Papa!" Matthew finally got over his shock, running to his father who was just beginning to stir thanks to his polar bear's nibbling at his fingers.
"Mon Dieu... ma tête... oh, Mathieu~" Francis smiled. "I was just coming to... er... see you, but then your brutal lover attacked me in a fit of jealousy!" he threw his hands over his face dramatically.
"You...! That's not how it went at all, you bloody surrender-monkey!" Arthur hissed, popping right up next to Matthew and looking as if he wanted to beat the Frenchman within another inch of his life. "You assaulted me!"
There was an ominous aura from Ivan in the background,"Kol kol kol..."
"Calm down, Ivan," Arthur recognized the danger of having a pissed-off Russian in the same room as the weakened Francis. "He's not assaulting me now- was that a hand on my thigh I'm going to kill you Francis-"
Matthew coughed lightly,"That was me..."
(In all actuality, it was Francis, but Matthew would prefer it if his father didn't die and the pink flush on Arthur's face sent butterflies into his stomach.)
"Honhonhon, looks like my son is embracing his heritage," Francis snickered, glad for the excuse.
It wasn't like the event that happened a year prior in which Matthew had walked in the door to find feathers everywhere and a miserable Arthur sitting on Ivan's stool while the large nation attempted to pick goose down out of his eyebrows, nor like the event of Arthur cooking breakfast and nearly burning the house down if not for the speedy intervention of Katyusha, but some could constitute it as nearly as bad.
Of course, like in many domestic affairs, the key to his unhappiness was in the kitchen in a large puddle on the ground.
"Matvey~ how nice to see you~" the Canadian's Russian lover swooped down to press a kiss to his cheek (really, Ivan was a romanticist at heart, albeit a mildly twisted one) and hug him.
Matthew let himself be consoled for a second before pointing at the puddle of suspiciously red fluid on the ground. "What did you do?!"
To his credit, Ivan looked distinctly uncomfortable as he lowered his head and mumbled something.
"And where's Arthur? Oh God, you didn't-"
The Russian pulled himself up to his full height, giving Matthew a hurt look at made the blonde feel guilty,"No! I did not hurt Arthur, he's upstairs, sewing while looking over..." he trailed off.
Matthew sighed,"Ivan, who is he looking over?"
"...your stutter is nonexistent today, Matvey. This is good progress."
"Don't try to change the subject, love. Who?"
As Ivan suddenly kissed him again, Matthew could practically feel the cogs in the other nation's head moving. Maybe if I kiss him enough, he'll forget...
With some serious force of will, the little Canadian forced himself away, wrapping his fingers loosely around Ivan's hand and dragging him upstairs.
Entering Arthur's room, said British man jumped up, a small smile crossing his face at the sight of both of his lovers. "Matthew, Ivan, I was just making sure that the wanker over here wasn't dead- oh, wait-"
Lying on the bed, a cold compress and what appeared to be bandages around his face and arms, was Francis. Kumakic- Kumaji- Matthew could never remember his name! His bear was sniffing at the fingers of the Frenchman interestedly.
"..." Matthew stared in shock for a few moments before looking as if he wanted to keel over. "M-maple..."
"It's really not as bad as it looks, Matt!" Arthur pleaded, an awkward look sliding into his green eyes.
"Matvey? Matvey, are you okay?" the tall Russian asked concernedly, patting the frozen Canadian's face lightly. "You look like little Lithuania after he's done wrong-"
"Papa!" Matthew finally got over his shock, running to his father who was just beginning to stir thanks to his polar bear's nibbling at his fingers.
"Mon Dieu... ma tête... oh, Mathieu~" Francis smiled. "I was just coming to... er... see you, but then your brutal lover attacked me in a fit of jealousy!" he threw his hands over his face dramatically.
"You...! That's not how it went at all, you bloody surrender-monkey!" Arthur hissed, popping right up next to Matthew and looking as if he wanted to beat the Frenchman within another inch of his life. "You assaulted me!"
There was an ominous aura from Ivan in the background,"Kol kol kol..."
"Calm down, Ivan," Arthur recognized the danger of having a pissed-off Russian in the same room as the weakened Francis. "He's not assaulting me now- was that a hand on my thigh I'm going to kill you Francis-"
Matthew coughed lightly,"That was me..."
(In all actuality, it was Francis, but Matthew would prefer it if his father didn't die and the pink flush on Arthur's face sent butterflies into his stomach.)
"Honhonhon, looks like my son is embracing his heritage," Francis snickered, glad for the excuse.
(stupid character limit, sorry!)
"Papa, how about you leave? You're not going to see anything interesting, and you've checked up on me." Matthew suggested wearily, running a hand down his face. He sneaked a peek sideways and saw that the Englishman was still quietly spluttering, his face deepening its pink. Ivan's purple eyes were happily looking at the two from his stance in the doorway, sliding down Matthew's frame until-
"He is totally not checking out my ass."
Francis looked as if he wanted to giggle at the involuntary exclamation that left the Canadian's lips. Arthur glanced at the chortling Russian and grinned slightly.
"Sorry love, he was."
"And still am, Matvey~"
Matthew smacked himself in the face. "You two..." he hissed, face a fierce red.
Arthur's fingers found his own and he tugged the other man into an embrace. "It is a very nice ass, Matthew. He's got good taste."
"M-maple... be quiet, Arthur." was the muffled answer into his shoulder.
"...I'm going to take this as my chance to leave. Au revoir~ have fun, kids and use protection- ow!"
A well placed smack to the head sent the intruding Frenchman flying out of Ivan's house.
"AND STAY OUT, YOU WANKER!" Arthur yelled.
Matthew stayed where he was in the Englishman's arms, enjoying the gentle way he combed through his hair, and Ivan joined the hug, massive arms somehow managing to wrap all the way around both the Canadian and Arthur.
"Thank you for smashing the Frog up, Ivan," Arthur mumbled. "It was rather... gallant of you."
The Russian let out a low chuckle,"It was nothing I did not want to do, Arthur. He should not be touching you, for you are one with Russia."
The other two in the embrace coughed a few times at the rather sexual images in their minds and at the possessiveness of their lover.
They cuddled together for a few more moments before a loud scream from downstairs made them all jump apart as if electrified.
Ukraine came pounding up the stairs,"Vanyaaa! Who died?!"
"I'm not cleaning that up," Matthew groaned.
----
I hope I did a mildly good job! :) My first fill *wipes away tears*
Er... the bit of French that must be translated is pretty much "My God, my head". I think the rest is general knowledge.
"Papa, how about you leave? You're not going to see anything interesting, and you've checked up on me." Matthew suggested wearily, running a hand down his face. He sneaked a peek sideways and saw that the Englishman was still quietly spluttering, his face deepening its pink. Ivan's purple eyes were happily looking at the two from his stance in the doorway, sliding down Matthew's frame until-
"He is totally not checking out my ass."
Francis looked as if he wanted to giggle at the involuntary exclamation that left the Canadian's lips. Arthur glanced at the chortling Russian and grinned slightly.
"Sorry love, he was."
"And still am, Matvey~"
Matthew smacked himself in the face. "You two..." he hissed, face a fierce red.
Arthur's fingers found his own and he tugged the other man into an embrace. "It is a very nice ass, Matthew. He's got good taste."
"M-maple... be quiet, Arthur." was the muffled answer into his shoulder.
"...I'm going to take this as my chance to leave. Au revoir~ have fun, kids and use protection- ow!"
A well placed smack to the head sent the intruding Frenchman flying out of Ivan's house.
"AND STAY OUT, YOU WANKER!" Arthur yelled.
Matthew stayed where he was in the Englishman's arms, enjoying the gentle way he combed through his hair, and Ivan joined the hug, massive arms somehow managing to wrap all the way around both the Canadian and Arthur.
"Thank you for smashing the Frog up, Ivan," Arthur mumbled. "It was rather... gallant of you."
The Russian let out a low chuckle,"It was nothing I did not want to do, Arthur. He should not be touching you, for you are one with Russia."
The other two in the embrace coughed a few times at the rather sexual images in their minds and at the possessiveness of their lover.
They cuddled together for a few more moments before a loud scream from downstairs made them all jump apart as if electrified.
Ukraine came pounding up the stairs,"Vanyaaa! Who died?!"
"I'm not cleaning that up," Matthew groaned.
----
I hope I did a mildly good job! :) My first fill *wipes away tears*
Er... the bit of French that must be translated is pretty much "My God, my head". I think the rest is general knowledge.
OH YOU BLOODY TEASE!
That was quite good. I hope you do more :3
That was quite good. I hope you do more :3
aw, thank you :3 it was in two comments, just in case you didn't see~ but if you wanted me to continue, i definitely might! this was fun to write!
Mildly good? You did fantastic! That was adorable and IC. It made my night!
yay! anon feels happy! :3
Um, that was amazing! It definitely made me chuckle. yay (dsy)functional threesome!
Great first fill, writer!anon. Hope to see more from you!
Great first fill, writer!anon. Hope to see more from you!
This anon just wants something as simple as fluffy and awkward first kisses. No preferred couples, absolutely anything goes. :D
Bonus:
- Based on real historical event
Bonus:
- Based on real historical event
Oh hello, guilty pleasure. How nice of you to drop in.
OP, do you have any particular pairings that you're fond of? I aim to please :)
OP, do you have any particular pairings that you're fond of? I aim to please :)
:D oh yay!
I really do ship everything, so feel free to fill with any pairing you feel like, I will probably love it nonetheless. :D
I really do ship everything, so feel free to fill with any pairing you feel like, I will probably love it nonetheless. :D
Her long hair fluttered lightly in the crisp sea breeze, and she stared down over the side of her ship (her ship, she'd say it a million times and never enough) at the other nation.
"Bom dia." Portugal smiles, and her red hair catches in the sun. Sunlight is so uncommon to England, that he stares at the copper and the yellow and auburn and falls in love giddily. Her green eyes glitter down at him, and suddenly he doesn't mind that his eyes make him think of his mother.
Portugal's gaze settled over the waves.
"Do you need something?" England asked unsurely, and she's smiling at him again like sun, smile as open as sea. But settled under the smile is a depth. A darkness.
Rome who took her under his wing and tried to make her a little lady, lamenting her vulgar latin. The darkness is grief. Is another invasion. Is a desire to drive her brother Spain far from her house.
"I'm Portugal." She volunteered, tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder, blowing her fringe away from her face with a puff of air. Maybe she should just cut her hair.
"I'm England." England's tentative smile is a smirk - a wildcat snarl - friendly-like. Portugal paused, temporary forgetting what she's looking for. An explorer at heart, she is merely curious.
They're young, and it's sweet, and it won't last.
But she pulls away from her ship side and calls over her shoulder. "You wanna be friends, Ingla?"
When they're older, and they're used to leaning on each other, but not so much older that they recognize they're doing it, England tries to kiss her. They're teenagers, or at least, brushing up to it, and they're truly kicking France's ass (crude, vulgar really to say it). The hormones are sharp in their skin.
Portugal shoves him away with a pout. Maybe she called him an erotic ambassador. England rubbed his jaw, and scowled, and embarrassed past compare, she leant forward.
They kissed like gulls touching the waves with their feet. Sea-spit light.
They're still young, and it's still sweet, and it still won't last.
As they age, the world tumbled into chaos, and Portugal stands by her first love, because that's what he is. He is the little child who dared the waves to swallow him up. The ferocity of an island, small and isolated, that she can only match in the number of times people have stood on her soil and said this is nice, I shall call it.
She considers it a great irony that their heights are very similar.
But when the world falls into chaos the second time, she is tired and in denial. She laughs, and sips a drink, claims to know almost nothing of the war. Even when she can feel it. Quietly, though, she hands England her Azores; loved him, believed him, watched him stand out against all of Europe.
The time of Empires has, however, fallen, and they realize, imperfectly, that the time of them has also fallen. England has moved on.
Portugal saw him kiss his former colony bright on the mouth at the end of the war. Dipped back and everything. It makes her feel hot, and funny, and some of that is because she couldn't even imagine being intimate with her own released colonies. They're like her children. But then, England is a kinky fellow. If he's happy, after all, they've been tense since the Angola issue.
Portugal lingers, the waves of her mind, turning the issue over and over again. The bottom of the ocean is a boiled city; a spoilt love story. This is a young girl losing her first love. This is a grown man finding another love. This is nothing she can blame, and nothing he can blame.
They don't talk as much as they used to, even about their favourite topics (ships, and the sea, and water, and the raising of children).
She realizes he is avoiding her when he refuses to kiss America near her.
That he will not inflict his happiness upon her.
Perhaps it is tragic that they are still best friends, even when love has only complicated the matter between them. Because love is not an answer. It is never the answer. Usually it's the problem. It is the love laws, boundaries, territories that complicate this. How far and how much and who and why.
They are the experts of denial; so Portugal doesn't reflect on how England kissed her first and she kissed him first. They aren't that romantic to think that changes things.
"Bom dia." Portugal smiles, and her red hair catches in the sun. Sunlight is so uncommon to England, that he stares at the copper and the yellow and auburn and falls in love giddily. Her green eyes glitter down at him, and suddenly he doesn't mind that his eyes make him think of his mother.
Portugal's gaze settled over the waves.
"Do you need something?" England asked unsurely, and she's smiling at him again like sun, smile as open as sea. But settled under the smile is a depth. A darkness.
Rome who took her under his wing and tried to make her a little lady, lamenting her vulgar latin. The darkness is grief. Is another invasion. Is a desire to drive her brother Spain far from her house.
"I'm Portugal." She volunteered, tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder, blowing her fringe away from her face with a puff of air. Maybe she should just cut her hair.
"I'm England." England's tentative smile is a smirk - a wildcat snarl - friendly-like. Portugal paused, temporary forgetting what she's looking for. An explorer at heart, she is merely curious.
They're young, and it's sweet, and it won't last.
But she pulls away from her ship side and calls over her shoulder. "You wanna be friends, Ingla?"
When they're older, and they're used to leaning on each other, but not so much older that they recognize they're doing it, England tries to kiss her. They're teenagers, or at least, brushing up to it, and they're truly kicking France's ass (crude, vulgar really to say it). The hormones are sharp in their skin.
Portugal shoves him away with a pout. Maybe she called him an erotic ambassador. England rubbed his jaw, and scowled, and embarrassed past compare, she leant forward.
They kissed like gulls touching the waves with their feet. Sea-spit light.
They're still young, and it's still sweet, and it still won't last.
As they age, the world tumbled into chaos, and Portugal stands by her first love, because that's what he is. He is the little child who dared the waves to swallow him up. The ferocity of an island, small and isolated, that she can only match in the number of times people have stood on her soil and said this is nice, I shall call it.
She considers it a great irony that their heights are very similar.
But when the world falls into chaos the second time, she is tired and in denial. She laughs, and sips a drink, claims to know almost nothing of the war. Even when she can feel it. Quietly, though, she hands England her Azores; loved him, believed him, watched him stand out against all of Europe.
The time of Empires has, however, fallen, and they realize, imperfectly, that the time of them has also fallen. England has moved on.
Portugal saw him kiss his former colony bright on the mouth at the end of the war. Dipped back and everything. It makes her feel hot, and funny, and some of that is because she couldn't even imagine being intimate with her own released colonies. They're like her children. But then, England is a kinky fellow. If he's happy, after all, they've been tense since the Angola issue.
Portugal lingers, the waves of her mind, turning the issue over and over again. The bottom of the ocean is a boiled city; a spoilt love story. This is a young girl losing her first love. This is a grown man finding another love. This is nothing she can blame, and nothing he can blame.
They don't talk as much as they used to, even about their favourite topics (ships, and the sea, and water, and the raising of children).
She realizes he is avoiding her when he refuses to kiss America near her.
That he will not inflict his happiness upon her.
Perhaps it is tragic that they are still best friends, even when love has only complicated the matter between them. Because love is not an answer. It is never the answer. Usually it's the problem. It is the love laws, boundaries, territories that complicate this. How far and how much and who and why.
They are the experts of denial; so Portugal doesn't reflect on how England kissed her first and she kissed him first. They aren't that romantic to think that changes things.
Aw, so bittersweet. ♥♥
I've never read Portugal before, but that was really sweet. Thank you so much, anon! ♥
I've never read Portugal before, but that was really sweet. Thank you so much, anon! ♥
This was amazing. Really interesting and bittersweet. I liked this line:
That he will not inflict his happiness upon her.
That he will not inflict his happiness upon her.
Their first kiss - well; it’s not romantic to be quite frank.
It’s rather sloppy, really - lips just barely finding lips, slipping and finding cheeks and chins and skin instead, the scent of alcohol nearly overpowering on their breath. They’re drunk - drunk on whiskey and the high they get from being here - here in this illegal, crowded, hazy bar, breaking laws but loving it (they’ve both always been rule-breakers deep down under their skin) - and perhaps just drunk on life, on jazz and cocktails, flappers and foxtrots.
When America reflects on it later, he realizes it is less about them - who they are and what they mean to each other - and more about being close, being readily available - the alcohol clouding their brains wasn’t picky.
It’s their first kiss together; it’s America’s first in general - since forever and always - and he wonders if maybe he should feel cheated. (He’s a closet romantic - shh, don’t tell - who reads fairy tales and women's dime novels, dreams of happily ever after, perfect kisses, and soul mates. And maybe - well, maybe he was waiting for true love, maybe he wanted more than a drunken kiss in a crowded Speakeasy.)
But see, here’s the complication - the little detail that America wants to forget more than anything:
he likes it.
The slipping mouths and clumsy movements, the alcohol on his breath and in his mind, the jazz pounding into his skull, Louis Armstrong singing, “I'm confessin' that I love you; tell me, do you love me too?.” But most of all he likes the nation in the pin-striped suit and the black fedora who tastes of smoke and cigars. Yeah. He likes him a lot.
Time moves forward, skips over days at a time when they’re apart, slows down and pauses, seems to last forever on late-night meetings in illegal bars (they kiss sometimes, always with whiskey on their tongues; America says “I love you,” once, but doubles back, pretends he’s singing along with Frank Sinatra and hides it all.)
The 20s slip into the 30s and eventually into the 40s; that's when it ends. That's when letters speaking of wars arrive and the other nation realizes it's time to leave - he's nearly been there a lifetime and he hadn't realized.
So he hops on a ship and sails back across the sea. (America swears part of his heart does too; a hidden stowaway on that Europe-bound ship.)
Life changes after the 20s; more than he could have ever imagined, and there is more to occupy America’s mind than a cigarette-smoking nation in a black fedora and a pin-striped suit (who makes him think of jazz and the lyrics of love songs). Bombs and planes over Hawaii, his little girl, blood and smoke and death and war - oh yes, that. America mind fills with battle plans and tanks, not smokey kisses or Speakeasies. He sings “when the saints come marching home” sometimes, and covers his Frank Sinatra records with battle plans and newspapers announcing war and death, Germans and tanks and bombs over London, France in chains, atom bombs and Japan in pieces.
(They see each other once - two soldiers on different sides who never wanted war; America raises his gun, cocks it and aims. He doesn’t shoot.
The other has his gun raised too, aimed right dead in America’s face from twenty feet away. He could shoot and kill him in one shot, America knows.
But he doesn’t shoot either.
They part ways, pretend it didn’t happen. America hums Frank Sinatra that night, wonders if he still remembers the steps to the foxtrot.)
And then, this: 2004, when America bumps into a familiar auburn-haired male - thinks of lips on lips and hands on skin.
(Frank Sinatra plays in his head, sings, “Your hello will let me know that we’re the same as we used to be; oh, ain’t cha ever coming back to me?” and he can almost taste smoke and cigars on his lips.)
Maybe he’s drunk on life again - on memories of whiskey and jazz, flappers and foxtrots; maybe he’s a fool who can’t control his tongue.
He opens his mouth and asks without thinking if perhaps they could go on a date sometimes.
Romano, absolutely stunned - brown eyes wide and mouth hanging open - turns and walks off without a word.
(But he doesn’t say no; America holds on tight to that little detail.)
It’s rather sloppy, really - lips just barely finding lips, slipping and finding cheeks and chins and skin instead, the scent of alcohol nearly overpowering on their breath. They’re drunk - drunk on whiskey and the high they get from being here - here in this illegal, crowded, hazy bar, breaking laws but loving it (they’ve both always been rule-breakers deep down under their skin) - and perhaps just drunk on life, on jazz and cocktails, flappers and foxtrots.
When America reflects on it later, he realizes it is less about them - who they are and what they mean to each other - and more about being close, being readily available - the alcohol clouding their brains wasn’t picky.
It’s their first kiss together; it’s America’s first in general - since forever and always - and he wonders if maybe he should feel cheated. (He’s a closet romantic - shh, don’t tell - who reads fairy tales and women's dime novels, dreams of happily ever after, perfect kisses, and soul mates. And maybe - well, maybe he was waiting for true love, maybe he wanted more than a drunken kiss in a crowded Speakeasy.)
But see, here’s the complication - the little detail that America wants to forget more than anything:
he likes it.
The slipping mouths and clumsy movements, the alcohol on his breath and in his mind, the jazz pounding into his skull, Louis Armstrong singing, “I'm confessin' that I love you; tell me, do you love me too?.” But most of all he likes the nation in the pin-striped suit and the black fedora who tastes of smoke and cigars. Yeah. He likes him a lot.
Time moves forward, skips over days at a time when they’re apart, slows down and pauses, seems to last forever on late-night meetings in illegal bars (they kiss sometimes, always with whiskey on their tongues; America says “I love you,” once, but doubles back, pretends he’s singing along with Frank Sinatra and hides it all.)
The 20s slip into the 30s and eventually into the 40s; that's when it ends. That's when letters speaking of wars arrive and the other nation realizes it's time to leave - he's nearly been there a lifetime and he hadn't realized.
So he hops on a ship and sails back across the sea. (America swears part of his heart does too; a hidden stowaway on that Europe-bound ship.)
Life changes after the 20s; more than he could have ever imagined, and there is more to occupy America’s mind than a cigarette-smoking nation in a black fedora and a pin-striped suit (who makes him think of jazz and the lyrics of love songs). Bombs and planes over Hawaii, his little girl, blood and smoke and death and war - oh yes, that. America mind fills with battle plans and tanks, not smokey kisses or Speakeasies. He sings “when the saints come marching home” sometimes, and covers his Frank Sinatra records with battle plans and newspapers announcing war and death, Germans and tanks and bombs over London, France in chains, atom bombs and Japan in pieces.
(They see each other once - two soldiers on different sides who never wanted war; America raises his gun, cocks it and aims. He doesn’t shoot.
The other has his gun raised too, aimed right dead in America’s face from twenty feet away. He could shoot and kill him in one shot, America knows.
But he doesn’t shoot either.
They part ways, pretend it didn’t happen. America hums Frank Sinatra that night, wonders if he still remembers the steps to the foxtrot.)
And then, this: 2004, when America bumps into a familiar auburn-haired male - thinks of lips on lips and hands on skin.
(Frank Sinatra plays in his head, sings, “Your hello will let me know that we’re the same as we used to be; oh, ain’t cha ever coming back to me?” and he can almost taste smoke and cigars on his lips.)
Maybe he’s drunk on life again - on memories of whiskey and jazz, flappers and foxtrots; maybe he’s a fool who can’t control his tongue.
He opens his mouth and asks without thinking if perhaps they could go on a date sometimes.
Romano, absolutely stunned - brown eyes wide and mouth hanging open - turns and walks off without a word.
(But he doesn’t say no; America holds on tight to that little detail.)
Romerica is a pairing that is totally overlooked; it's not necessarily canon but it's based on a historical event which makes it cooler in my opinion.
- Frank Sinatra was a jazz singer popular in the late 30s and 40s; his parents were Italian immigrants and it was rumoured that he was involved with the Italian mafia (The Godfather makes a joke off this in the first scene). For some reason Frank Sinatra = Romerica in my mind
- Speakeasies = illegal bars during Prohibition
- foxtrot = popular dance
- women's dime novels = cheap stories that were usually romances
- the title is a line from a Frank Sintra song (best line by far though is "We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes, but you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes"
- Frank Sinatra was a jazz singer popular in the late 30s and 40s; his parents were Italian immigrants and it was rumoured that he was involved with the Italian mafia (The Godfather makes a joke off this in the first scene). For some reason Frank Sinatra = Romerica in my mind
- Speakeasies = illegal bars during Prohibition
- foxtrot = popular dance
- women's dime novels = cheap stories that were usually romances
- the title is a line from a Frank Sintra song (best line by far though is "We should be like a couple of hot tomatoes, but you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes"
Oh my GOD. I love Romerica, I love Prohibition-era fics (my secret history-geek field of interest), and I love classic jazz. This fill is just a fantastic combination of all of the above, and somehow it's adorable in the special way that these two can be when they get together. Adorkable, almost. Kudos to you, thanks for writing something so lovely.
THIS. I love a good Prohibition-era fic. There's just something about that atmosphere I'm so crazy about. Speakeasies, jazz, you name it. And Romerica really is an overlooked pair, but I do love it so. Oh, this was fantastic. And Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong references - yeah. You win the internet.
This. I love everything about this fill, from the Romerica to the 20s to the Frank flippin' Sinatra to just everything. You win life my friend.
This is amazing, anon. I love the imagery you describe of the 20s, America's thought processes, Romano's reactions; it works perfectly for this pairing.
OP has to agree with all comments above, this is absolutely lovely and fantastic. Amazingly written and a really cute pair.
Thank you for writing this. :D <3
Thank you for writing this. :D <3
Aw, I love Romerica! And you're right- it doesn't get a much attention as one would think it would. Their characters would just bounce off each other so well!
Thanks for writing it! Loved it. :)
Thanks for writing it! Loved it. :)
This isn't as historical or short and delicately sweet like the other fills, but I've recently taken to this pairing and I find it just freaking adorable, so I hope OP thinks it's adorable, too!
She couldn’t even remember when she had first started doing it. Cocking her finger like a barrel and pointing it across the table, lowering one eyelid so it was just her and her target, leaning forwards slightly with her shoulder, tensing, thumb on the hammer and finger on the trigger—
And with a slight jerk, she’d gone and killed the Republic of France. She grinned, chucking in silence to herself, her brother’s leg brushing against hers gently as he shifted and deepened the frown lines around his mouth.
Liechtenstein briefly roamed her blue eyes around the table—it didn’t really matter for her to be there, since Switzerland took care of everything for her, but that was alright with her. Another daintily manicured gun (courtesy of Hungary) pointed directly across the table, and bam—the Kingdom of Norway was obliterated. Liechtenstein grinned to herself, lowered closer to the table (she was easily out of sight, being covered by the slight drone of England’s speech) and she closed one eye, pointed, and shot—
—right into the eyes of her next victim. She had already pointed when she noticed he had noticed her, and she froze, caught between embarrassment and terror. Her newest victim, a young man no older than herself, with silver hair and brilliantly bright eyes, cocked his eyebrow, and then, in a swift movement, grabbed at his throat, rolled his eyes into his head, and gave the most spectacular, silent fake death she had ever witnessed. He dropped to the table without even a thunk, his hair swirling around his pink ears and white forehead, and she giggled and gave her shoulders a victory wiggle.
After a moment, he lifted his head, those eyes trained on her, and she flushed deeply, playfully blowing at the tip of her finger like a smoking barrel.
Iceland, that’s who it was. A sovereign country who also was barely needed at these meetings, considering others made decisions for him whether he wanted them to or not.
Liechtenstein smoothed a piece of golden blonde hair behind her ear and smiled at Iceland, who gave a surprised and shy smile in return. They never spoke words between one another.
One month later they were in yet another meeting, in the middle of yet another argument, with Liechtenstein drawing houses with swirls of smoke trickling out of their modest chimneys, when she happen to glance up and notice Iceland staring in her direction, eyes soft and ponderous.
Liechtenstein gave him a small smile and his eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been looking at her. She twirled the pen in-between her fingers and brandished it like a tiny sword in her hand, scribbling fiercely on her paper. She lifted the paper and showed him the house with the swirling chimney smoke and big flowers. Iceland grinned and flipped over his note sheet, quickly scribbling a picture of his own.
When she lifted it to show her, it was a house, with turrets, horses and soldiers, complete with a drawbridge. But the façade was still a simple four-walled house with a wooden door and little chimney.
Liechtenstein giggled, turned her paper back over and quickly added more details to her house, adding extra rooms, a mews, some stables, a garden and three more floors. All the while the house remained the same on the smallest level, a simple drawing a child could have emulated.
She couldn’t even remember when she had first started doing it. Cocking her finger like a barrel and pointing it across the table, lowering one eyelid so it was just her and her target, leaning forwards slightly with her shoulder, tensing, thumb on the hammer and finger on the trigger—
And with a slight jerk, she’d gone and killed the Republic of France. She grinned, chucking in silence to herself, her brother’s leg brushing against hers gently as he shifted and deepened the frown lines around his mouth.
Liechtenstein briefly roamed her blue eyes around the table—it didn’t really matter for her to be there, since Switzerland took care of everything for her, but that was alright with her. Another daintily manicured gun (courtesy of Hungary) pointed directly across the table, and bam—the Kingdom of Norway was obliterated. Liechtenstein grinned to herself, lowered closer to the table (she was easily out of sight, being covered by the slight drone of England’s speech) and she closed one eye, pointed, and shot—
—right into the eyes of her next victim. She had already pointed when she noticed he had noticed her, and she froze, caught between embarrassment and terror. Her newest victim, a young man no older than herself, with silver hair and brilliantly bright eyes, cocked his eyebrow, and then, in a swift movement, grabbed at his throat, rolled his eyes into his head, and gave the most spectacular, silent fake death she had ever witnessed. He dropped to the table without even a thunk, his hair swirling around his pink ears and white forehead, and she giggled and gave her shoulders a victory wiggle.
After a moment, he lifted his head, those eyes trained on her, and she flushed deeply, playfully blowing at the tip of her finger like a smoking barrel.
Iceland, that’s who it was. A sovereign country who also was barely needed at these meetings, considering others made decisions for him whether he wanted them to or not.
Liechtenstein smoothed a piece of golden blonde hair behind her ear and smiled at Iceland, who gave a surprised and shy smile in return. They never spoke words between one another.
One month later they were in yet another meeting, in the middle of yet another argument, with Liechtenstein drawing houses with swirls of smoke trickling out of their modest chimneys, when she happen to glance up and notice Iceland staring in her direction, eyes soft and ponderous.
Liechtenstein gave him a small smile and his eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been looking at her. She twirled the pen in-between her fingers and brandished it like a tiny sword in her hand, scribbling fiercely on her paper. She lifted the paper and showed him the house with the swirling chimney smoke and big flowers. Iceland grinned and flipped over his note sheet, quickly scribbling a picture of his own.
When she lifted it to show her, it was a house, with turrets, horses and soldiers, complete with a drawbridge. But the façade was still a simple four-walled house with a wooden door and little chimney.
Liechtenstein giggled, turned her paper back over and quickly added more details to her house, adding extra rooms, a mews, some stables, a garden and three more floors. All the while the house remained the same on the smallest level, a simple drawing a child could have emulated.
When Liechtenstein lifted it to show Iceland, Iceland had already completed his own house-castle, and was furnishing it with a bizarre version of his own national flag. When he showed it to Liechtenstein, she noticed that it now had an airport, a watchtower and something that resembled an ice cream stand. Liechtenstein furrowed her brows and quickly drew a cone with two circles on top and a big question mark, holding it up for Iceland to see.
Iceland’s eyes glittered as he gave her a big smile, a dimple forming in his cheek, as he nodded and copied her image with a heart next to it. Liechtenstein could barely hold back her giggle as she also drew a heart beside her drawing, and they exchanged a look of understand.
Iceland then quickly doodled a gun poking out from the ice cream cone he drew beneath his house-castle, drawing a line to the top of the highest turret, where he drew a window. Liechtenstein stared at the image for a moment, baffled at its meaning, when it dawned on her—he hid his artillery in the ice cream stand? Liechtenstein gave him a bewildered look. He shrugged in return.
Two and a half months went by and neither spoke to the other. Not in words, anyway. Somehow, Iceland had gotten Liechtenstein’s address, and sent her a huge manila envelope that was dog-eared and torn, and had a drawing of a little house with a swirl for smoke coming out of the chimney. Switzerland had been downright puzzled at its arrival, for Liechtenstein never received mail from anyone. Inside were two dozen pages of simple drawings—more house-castles, ice cream cones and airports lodged on tiny islands, with little people and trees and roads and a misshapen map of Europe that made Liechtenstein the most important country. She giggled and smiled over all the cream-colored pages, noticing that there were only two words hastily scribbled in English underneath two distinct stick figures—one with a bow, one without.
You it said underneath the bow. Me it said underneath the other.
Iceland received a nearly identical package three weeks later, with fantastic drawings of a stick-figure girl and a stick-figure boy traveling through the strangest worlds imaginable. Barely a week had passed before Liechtenstein received another packaged, a continuation of the story. Liechtenstein finished drawing sometime around midnight that night, incorporating memories from her youth into the story, fashioning debt and famine as a dragon with veined wings and her brother as a super hero prince who saved her. Iceland drew her world in return with many lonely nights and confused darkness, when suddenly they were swept up into a world of light with people on all sides and tall wooden ships taking them to a place they had never seen before.
When the next world meeting came up, Liechtenstein had an entire pad of paper with her, armed with four different colored pens as well. But her heart sputtered and fell when she didn’t see Iceland sitting beside Norway and Denmark, or even over by Finland, like he usually was. She glanced around and realized he wasn’t hiding over by Germany or Italy either, like he sometimes did. Hong Kong was sitting with Canada on the other side of the table, but he wasn’t there, either.
Switzerland could feel her happiness ebb away throughout the first half of the meeting, but he had no idea why she was so sad. He nudged her thigh with his leg and she looked up at him, and he gave her a rare, sweet smile. Liechtenstein beamed in response and continued drawing on her paper, drawing the stick-figure boy over and over without thinking about it.
Iceland’s eyes glittered as he gave her a big smile, a dimple forming in his cheek, as he nodded and copied her image with a heart next to it. Liechtenstein could barely hold back her giggle as she also drew a heart beside her drawing, and they exchanged a look of understand.
Iceland then quickly doodled a gun poking out from the ice cream cone he drew beneath his house-castle, drawing a line to the top of the highest turret, where he drew a window. Liechtenstein stared at the image for a moment, baffled at its meaning, when it dawned on her—he hid his artillery in the ice cream stand? Liechtenstein gave him a bewildered look. He shrugged in return.
Two and a half months went by and neither spoke to the other. Not in words, anyway. Somehow, Iceland had gotten Liechtenstein’s address, and sent her a huge manila envelope that was dog-eared and torn, and had a drawing of a little house with a swirl for smoke coming out of the chimney. Switzerland had been downright puzzled at its arrival, for Liechtenstein never received mail from anyone. Inside were two dozen pages of simple drawings—more house-castles, ice cream cones and airports lodged on tiny islands, with little people and trees and roads and a misshapen map of Europe that made Liechtenstein the most important country. She giggled and smiled over all the cream-colored pages, noticing that there were only two words hastily scribbled in English underneath two distinct stick figures—one with a bow, one without.
You it said underneath the bow. Me it said underneath the other.
Iceland received a nearly identical package three weeks later, with fantastic drawings of a stick-figure girl and a stick-figure boy traveling through the strangest worlds imaginable. Barely a week had passed before Liechtenstein received another packaged, a continuation of the story. Liechtenstein finished drawing sometime around midnight that night, incorporating memories from her youth into the story, fashioning debt and famine as a dragon with veined wings and her brother as a super hero prince who saved her. Iceland drew her world in return with many lonely nights and confused darkness, when suddenly they were swept up into a world of light with people on all sides and tall wooden ships taking them to a place they had never seen before.
When the next world meeting came up, Liechtenstein had an entire pad of paper with her, armed with four different colored pens as well. But her heart sputtered and fell when she didn’t see Iceland sitting beside Norway and Denmark, or even over by Finland, like he usually was. She glanced around and realized he wasn’t hiding over by Germany or Italy either, like he sometimes did. Hong Kong was sitting with Canada on the other side of the table, but he wasn’t there, either.
Switzerland could feel her happiness ebb away throughout the first half of the meeting, but he had no idea why she was so sad. He nudged her thigh with his leg and she looked up at him, and he gave her a rare, sweet smile. Liechtenstein beamed in response and continued drawing on her paper, drawing the stick-figure boy over and over without thinking about it.
Exactly forty-two minutes into the meeting, Iceland rushed through the door, wearing an emerald-colored sweater over tan slacks, looking weary and rushed. His hair was askew and his brow shined with sweat, but Liechtenstein instantly brightened at the sight of him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, meandering to the only available seat. “I had—“
“Don’t worry about it, Iceland,” Belgium said gently, laying a hand on top of his. (The only free seat had been beside her.) “Shall we continue?”
Liechtenstein waited for Iceland to compose himself before trying to gain his attention. When he didn’t seem to notice her, she placed her hand in a fist on the table, pointed her finger at him, cocked back her thumb, closed one eye and fired.
Iceland froze for a moment in his shuffling of papers, suddenly dropping them onto the table, clutching his chest, and falling to the table. Liechtenstein clamped her hands over her mouth as he lay in a pile of papers—that is, until he looked up, cocked his own finger back at her, and shot at her. Liechtenstein looked flabbergasted, but gave her own dramatic death scene, nearly knocking into Switzerland as she did so. They both fell into a fit of silent giggles, hands pressed over their mouths in glee.
“...and what’s going on down there?” America said from the front of the room. Both Liechtenstein and Iceland froze in their places. “Something funny?”
“N-no,” Liechtenstein stuttered. “Nothing, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sir?” America said, shuffling the report he had in his hands. He smiled warmly at the two of them. “I’m no sir. And if you’re laughing, I know at least someone is enjoying life, for once.” Liechtenstein’s cheeks brightened and she glanced at Iceland, who looked equally as embarrassed for being caught. That didn’t stop them from speaking picture-language to each other for the remainder of the meeting.
Since he had arrived late, Iceland was asked to stay behind. Liechtenstein was waiting outside the building for Switzerland, as she always did, sitting on a petite wooden bench in the grandiose garden that surrounded their meeting building in Paris. It was easily one of the more beautifully kept buildings, and Liechtenstein loved just sitting outside, soaking in the sun and the fragrant breeze. She pulled her legs into a cross-legged position underneath her yellow skirt and placed her hands in her lap, gazing at the sky.
“Are you... waiting for someone?” a voice said from beside her. Liechtenstein turned and saw Iceland standing at the other end of the bench, his bag slung over one shoulder, running his free hand through his hair. Liechtenstein nodded.
“My brother,” she said. Iceland nodded and looked at the nearest plant, a waning rosebush.
“May I... sit down?” he asked in his soft, warm voice. Liechtenstein nodded once more.
“Of course, Iceland.” He did so, sitting roughly three inches from her, but still not touching her. She instinctively shifted over, allowing him more room than was necessary on a bench that could easily fit three people.
“So... what happened? Why were you late?” Liechtenstein asked. For someone she knew so intimately, she couldn’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say.
“Well...” Iceland started, trying to hide his growing flush, “normally I travel with Denmark and Norway, but I had to attend something with my boss right before this conference, and, well... transportation is not really reliable all the time,” Iceland finished finally. Liechtenstein twirled a lock of hair around her finger, staring at the rosebush just feet from them.
“I know how that feels.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, meandering to the only available seat. “I had—“
“Don’t worry about it, Iceland,” Belgium said gently, laying a hand on top of his. (The only free seat had been beside her.) “Shall we continue?”
Liechtenstein waited for Iceland to compose himself before trying to gain his attention. When he didn’t seem to notice her, she placed her hand in a fist on the table, pointed her finger at him, cocked back her thumb, closed one eye and fired.
Iceland froze for a moment in his shuffling of papers, suddenly dropping them onto the table, clutching his chest, and falling to the table. Liechtenstein clamped her hands over her mouth as he lay in a pile of papers—that is, until he looked up, cocked his own finger back at her, and shot at her. Liechtenstein looked flabbergasted, but gave her own dramatic death scene, nearly knocking into Switzerland as she did so. They both fell into a fit of silent giggles, hands pressed over their mouths in glee.
“...and what’s going on down there?” America said from the front of the room. Both Liechtenstein and Iceland froze in their places. “Something funny?”
“N-no,” Liechtenstein stuttered. “Nothing, I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sir?” America said, shuffling the report he had in his hands. He smiled warmly at the two of them. “I’m no sir. And if you’re laughing, I know at least someone is enjoying life, for once.” Liechtenstein’s cheeks brightened and she glanced at Iceland, who looked equally as embarrassed for being caught. That didn’t stop them from speaking picture-language to each other for the remainder of the meeting.
Since he had arrived late, Iceland was asked to stay behind. Liechtenstein was waiting outside the building for Switzerland, as she always did, sitting on a petite wooden bench in the grandiose garden that surrounded their meeting building in Paris. It was easily one of the more beautifully kept buildings, and Liechtenstein loved just sitting outside, soaking in the sun and the fragrant breeze. She pulled her legs into a cross-legged position underneath her yellow skirt and placed her hands in her lap, gazing at the sky.
“Are you... waiting for someone?” a voice said from beside her. Liechtenstein turned and saw Iceland standing at the other end of the bench, his bag slung over one shoulder, running his free hand through his hair. Liechtenstein nodded.
“My brother,” she said. Iceland nodded and looked at the nearest plant, a waning rosebush.
“May I... sit down?” he asked in his soft, warm voice. Liechtenstein nodded once more.
“Of course, Iceland.” He did so, sitting roughly three inches from her, but still not touching her. She instinctively shifted over, allowing him more room than was necessary on a bench that could easily fit three people.
“So... what happened? Why were you late?” Liechtenstein asked. For someone she knew so intimately, she couldn’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say.
“Well...” Iceland started, trying to hide his growing flush, “normally I travel with Denmark and Norway, but I had to attend something with my boss right before this conference, and, well... transportation is not really reliable all the time,” Iceland finished finally. Liechtenstein twirled a lock of hair around her finger, staring at the rosebush just feet from them.
“I know how that feels.”
“Yeah.”
They sat in silence, the wind whistling through the brambles surrounding them providing the only soundtrack. Liechtenstein stole a glance at Iceland, who was staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought. His shoulder twitched and she quickly looked away, just in time for Iceland to glance at her, and smile at how pretty she was.
“Do you always wait—”
“Are you waiting for—” They both spoke at the same time, nearly asking the same question to one another. Liechtenstein giggled and Iceland looked away, hands pressed into his knees.
“You go first,” Liechtenstein said. She had shifted closer to him.
“No, you,” he said, gesturing to her with his shoulder.
“No, really, what were you going to say?” Liechtenstein insisted.
“I can’t go first, you’re a lady,” Iceland mumbled. “Denmark would kick my ass.”
“That’s just silly, though,” Liechtenstein said, wringing her hands in her lap. “So, really, please, what were you going to ask me?”
“But I insist,” Iceland said, and he leaned over on one hand, furrowing his eyebrows at the blonde young woman. “Doesn’t matter if it’s silly, it’s how I was raised. So, what were you going to say?”
“I mean, it’s not as important as your question could be,” Liechtenstein said, pushing her hair behind her ears. Her ribbon rustled in the breeze.
“But my question isn’t all that important,” Iceland said. His skin was prickling along his bare arms from where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. Liechtenstein was leering into his face.
“Well, mine isn’t, either.”
“So then, who goes first?” Iceland asked, and Liechtenstein answered him with a wry smile across her pale cheeks.
“I...” Liechtenstein murmured, staring straight into his face. “I dunno. I don’t even remember what I was going to say.”
“Me neither,” Iceland admitted, and they both grinned and broke out into giggles. For the first time they heard each other laugh out loud; Liechtenstein’s slightly quiet, bubbly laugh from deep in her throat, and Iceland’s huffing giggles, similar to a cough but not quite, but still laced with intrinsic happiness.
Liechtenstein opened her eyes to face Iceland once more, who was leaning on his hand on the bench, staring past her at a bird that had landed on the fence that surrounded the garden.
“Look,” he said, and he nodded. Liechtenstein turned and ‘hmm’ed at the sight of the bird. Iceland’s face blazed as he gazed at her profile while she was distracted by the bird. His mind raced with adventures of a stick-boy and a stick-girl, jumping and dancing through history retold together.
She turned back, eyes catching the light. Iceland opened and closed his mouth, as words came into his mind and left just as quickly.
Without a word, they stared at one another, cheeks steadily growing redder until Liechtenstein reached up and pushed a stray lock of silver hair that had fallen into his eyes away and behind his ear, so she could see his handsome face properly. That’s when it happened. She leaned in and all at once her lips were on his, her hand resting on his chin, just pressing against him, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. He reciprocated and closed his eyes as well, long lashes dusting her cheeks. The bird on the fence started chirping at some other birds that were high in a tree at the edge of the garden.
“Do you always wait—”
“Are you waiting for—” They both spoke at the same time, nearly asking the same question to one another. Liechtenstein giggled and Iceland looked away, hands pressed into his knees.
“You go first,” Liechtenstein said. She had shifted closer to him.
“No, you,” he said, gesturing to her with his shoulder.
“No, really, what were you going to say?” Liechtenstein insisted.
“I can’t go first, you’re a lady,” Iceland mumbled. “Denmark would kick my ass.”
“That’s just silly, though,” Liechtenstein said, wringing her hands in her lap. “So, really, please, what were you going to ask me?”
“But I insist,” Iceland said, and he leaned over on one hand, furrowing his eyebrows at the blonde young woman. “Doesn’t matter if it’s silly, it’s how I was raised. So, what were you going to say?”
“I mean, it’s not as important as your question could be,” Liechtenstein said, pushing her hair behind her ears. Her ribbon rustled in the breeze.
“But my question isn’t all that important,” Iceland said. His skin was prickling along his bare arms from where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. Liechtenstein was leering into his face.
“Well, mine isn’t, either.”
“So then, who goes first?” Iceland asked, and Liechtenstein answered him with a wry smile across her pale cheeks.
“I...” Liechtenstein murmured, staring straight into his face. “I dunno. I don’t even remember what I was going to say.”
“Me neither,” Iceland admitted, and they both grinned and broke out into giggles. For the first time they heard each other laugh out loud; Liechtenstein’s slightly quiet, bubbly laugh from deep in her throat, and Iceland’s huffing giggles, similar to a cough but not quite, but still laced with intrinsic happiness.
Liechtenstein opened her eyes to face Iceland once more, who was leaning on his hand on the bench, staring past her at a bird that had landed on the fence that surrounded the garden.
“Look,” he said, and he nodded. Liechtenstein turned and ‘hmm’ed at the sight of the bird. Iceland’s face blazed as he gazed at her profile while she was distracted by the bird. His mind raced with adventures of a stick-boy and a stick-girl, jumping and dancing through history retold together.
She turned back, eyes catching the light. Iceland opened and closed his mouth, as words came into his mind and left just as quickly.
Without a word, they stared at one another, cheeks steadily growing redder until Liechtenstein reached up and pushed a stray lock of silver hair that had fallen into his eyes away and behind his ear, so she could see his handsome face properly. That’s when it happened. She leaned in and all at once her lips were on his, her hand resting on his chin, just pressing against him, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. He reciprocated and closed his eyes as well, long lashes dusting her cheeks. The bird on the fence started chirping at some other birds that were high in a tree at the edge of the garden.
word limits GUH
Liechtenstein pulled away, cheeks flushed and breathless, but fell forwards again as Iceland pulled her in, settling a gentle hand on her waist. She snaked her other arm up around his neck and carded her fingers through his hair. It was as soft as she had imagined it for the past three months. The kiss was sweet and simple, nothing complex or overly sensual, since she they were both completely inexperienced. Iceland pressed his lips against hers clumsily, trying to soak in as much of her sweet taste as he could, curling his toes into his shoes and thinking only of her.
She pulled away again, and instead of going in for another kiss, Iceland pressed his forehead to hers, lost in breath.
“I haven’t finished drawing a response to your last package,” Iceland murmured. Liechtenstein rubbed small circles into his jaw with her thumb, an action that made both of them feel tensed and awkward, but happy at the same time.
“It’s alright,” she responded. “Um... can I kiss you again?” she asked in a tiny voice. Iceland smiled, cupped her chin in his palms and drew her in, lips to lips, applying more pressure, experimenting with how pursed her lips were and how readily she accepted him.
That night, Iceland stayed up until three a.m., finishing a story about a road race with cars tied to horses, so he could give it to her when they met for ice cream outside Versailles.
Title came from the fact I was listening to "Blackbird" by the Beatles on repeat while writing. Just a little headcanon for you. I hope OP enjoys :)
Liechtenstein pulled away, cheeks flushed and breathless, but fell forwards again as Iceland pulled her in, settling a gentle hand on her waist. She snaked her other arm up around his neck and carded her fingers through his hair. It was as soft as she had imagined it for the past three months. The kiss was sweet and simple, nothing complex or overly sensual, since she they were both completely inexperienced. Iceland pressed his lips against hers clumsily, trying to soak in as much of her sweet taste as he could, curling his toes into his shoes and thinking only of her.
She pulled away again, and instead of going in for another kiss, Iceland pressed his forehead to hers, lost in breath.
“I haven’t finished drawing a response to your last package,” Iceland murmured. Liechtenstein rubbed small circles into his jaw with her thumb, an action that made both of them feel tensed and awkward, but happy at the same time.
“It’s alright,” she responded. “Um... can I kiss you again?” she asked in a tiny voice. Iceland smiled, cupped her chin in his palms and drew her in, lips to lips, applying more pressure, experimenting with how pursed her lips were and how readily she accepted him.
That night, Iceland stayed up until three a.m., finishing a story about a road race with cars tied to horses, so he could give it to her when they met for ice cream outside Versailles.
Title came from the fact I was listening to "Blackbird" by the Beatles on repeat while writing. Just a little headcanon for you. I hope OP enjoys :)
Ah, freakin' ADORABLE! So sweet and I love how they converse through pictures and the way they first meet! (I've definitely seen at least one other story where Liech is "shooting" people at a meeting, so that's going to be part of my headcanon now :D )
This was so FREAKING adorable! All the little details of their interactions and the way Lili shoots people during meetings. They are super cute together.
Awwww. This is just so sweet.
How they talk when through pictures, Liech shooting people, the slightly awkward kiss thats just to sweet for words.
How they talk when through pictures, Liech shooting people, the slightly awkward kiss thats just to sweet for words.
OP absolutely loves it, absolutely adorable with the pictures and shy approach to one another. And lol at shenanigans at world meetings. <3
Really sweet and adorable! <3
Really sweet and adorable! <3
This is one of the sweetest and cutest things I've ever read. And funny too.
I really like it,really. Great job!
A drunk Greece confesses that he'd like to act out his fantasy where he is the conqueror and Turkey is his unwilling prize, but he thinks that Turkey would simply forget about it. Yet she doesn't. She slowly convinces herself that she owes this to Greece, that Greece needs this to reconcile with their shared past, etc. But in fact, it is just a fantasy for Greece and he isn't even aware of what meaning Turkey fills it with.
They decide to act it out, authentic setting and costumes and all. But in the middle of it, Turkey starts to remember a long gone past when she was taken against her will, triggered by something Greece says or does. In panic, she forgets who her partner is/where she is and what the safe word was. Greece realizes just in time and lots of comforting ensues.
Bonus: Hair pulling -I love her long hair.
Bonus: Greece dirty talking during it.
They decide to act it out, authentic setting and costumes and all. But in the middle of it, Turkey starts to remember a long gone past when she was taken against her will, triggered by something Greece says or does. In panic, she forgets who her partner is/where she is and what the safe word was. Greece realizes just in time and lots of comforting ensues.
Bonus: Hair pulling -I love her long hair.
Bonus: Greece dirty talking during it.
Re: Greece/Fem!Turkey -RolePlay, Rape fantasy gone wrong
(Anonymous) 2011-10-10 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)........This is actually really hot. Seconding.
Anything with these two as friends. Their first meeting maybe, a small fight between them over something silly, a talk about their families, a fun day at the park whilst adult nations bore themselves to death in a meeting, collaborating for a prank?
Anything cute you can think of, Anon.
Bonus: Use human names, make up something for TRNC.
Anything cute you can think of, Anon.
Bonus: Use human names, make up something for TRNC.
In a fancomic I read, England assembled pieces of power into a sphere that is implied to be the Worlds hegemony, and the root of a superpowers strength, that he ingested to keep the world safe. I know America wasn't the only one who would have wanted that pretty bauble.
I want to see something like tomb raider or Indiana Jones going on where the other nations are trying to get a hold of that magic ball to become ruler of the world and poor put-upon England tries to keep them from finding that blasted thing, partially cause it was taken from him decades ago and partially cause he knows one of the searching nations already has it and would use it to destroy the world out of childish spite if it was taken from them.
Bonus 1: All England wants Is a damn cup of tea, but he never ever gets the chance to have even a sip.
Bonus 2: the nation that has the hegemony ball is someone unexpected.
I want to see something like tomb raider or Indiana Jones going on where the other nations are trying to get a hold of that magic ball to become ruler of the world and poor put-upon England tries to keep them from finding that blasted thing, partially cause it was taken from him decades ago and partially cause he knows one of the searching nations already has it and would use it to destroy the world out of childish spite if it was taken from them.
Bonus 1: All England wants Is a damn cup of tea, but he never ever gets the chance to have even a sip.
Bonus 2: the nation that has the hegemony ball is someone unexpected.
~*Of Magical Orbs of Doom and Tea*~ (Part 1)
The morning began much like any other. England was woken up by his fairy friends and rolled out of bed gracefully. 8am meant tea and a biscuit and then a wash and dressing by 9 and the office at 10. Perfect scheduled normalcy. Or as normal as a nation ever got in times of peace. He looked at his schedule as he set the water on for tea. “Meeting with Minister at 10:30…Trade negotiations with Israel at 1 damn I forgot I was watching Will and Kate’s child this afternoon. With a put upon sigh he began tidying up his living room as he waited for the water to boil. This would be the latest in the line of many children he had been called upon to babysit in his long life and while he did not mind he sometimes wondered if it would ever end. At least this one was cute. The kettle began to whistle and he went to take it off and pour the tea. Right then somebody started ringing the bell. The insistent ring was the giveaway as to who the visitor was. No one but Alfred would smash the button repeatedly. Hastily putting down the kettle Arthur almost ran to open the door. He didn’t want to replace another one when Alfred inevitably got tired of beating the doorbell and then progressed to beating the door down. “Just a bloody minute he called as he navigated around the antiques littering the path to the entryway. Finally getting to the door he opened it only to get immediately smothered in 150 LBs of America . Umph he grunted as America tackled him. Tuning out the others chatter as he tried to breath. After counting to 20 he started fighting to get out of the strangle hold of a hug the other had him in until
“And that’s when I was like Fuck you, you commie bastard I claim the magic orb of doom because I’M THE HERO!!!!!”
“Wait what?! England asked suddenly freezing.
“Haven’t you been listening at all Iggy?” Alfred asked breezily as he moved through the others house to the kitchen to look for food. “Apparently there is this magic orb of doom that will give the owner the power to rule the world.”
England wanted to drink. It was 8:30am and he wanted a drink. This did not bode well for his sanity. “Says who exactly” he asked tentatively as he walked back to the kitchen. Shooting a glare out the door at Wales and Scotland for letting Alfred onto the porch before he closed the door.
“Say’s Russia’s boss” said Alfred through a mouthful of vaguely bacon like food. “Apparently it was lost during World War two and hasn’t been seen since”
England sighed as he looked forlornly at his now tepid over steeped tea and he dumped it setting the pot back on to boil. “That’s ridiculous Alfred” he said trying to inject his normal sarcasm and disdain into his tone.
“That’s what Germany said” Alfred said as he poured some of Wale’s orange juice into a teacup (England had to resist beating him tea cups were for tea not orange juice) ” but then Russia’s boss had pictures proving that that’s how his crazy ex boss got into power sooooo….” He nodded seeming pleased with the knowledge.
England was trying not to shift into warlock mode “So who else was at this meeting Alfred” he tried to ask casually
Swallowing around another piece of bacon-coal Alfred spent a minute thinking. “Germany, Russia, Poland, France, Sweden and Netherlands”. He ticked off on his fingers. At England’s incredulous stare he added “Apparently our bosses figured if anyone had it, or had see where it went, it would be one of us. But none of them knew” he shrugged.
Thank God for small mercies England thought as he poured a fresh cup Wincing as he heard the doorbell ring again.
The morning began much like any other. England was woken up by his fairy friends and rolled out of bed gracefully. 8am meant tea and a biscuit and then a wash and dressing by 9 and the office at 10. Perfect scheduled normalcy. Or as normal as a nation ever got in times of peace. He looked at his schedule as he set the water on for tea. “Meeting with Minister at 10:30…Trade negotiations with Israel at 1 damn I forgot I was watching Will and Kate’s child this afternoon. With a put upon sigh he began tidying up his living room as he waited for the water to boil. This would be the latest in the line of many children he had been called upon to babysit in his long life and while he did not mind he sometimes wondered if it would ever end. At least this one was cute. The kettle began to whistle and he went to take it off and pour the tea. Right then somebody started ringing the bell. The insistent ring was the giveaway as to who the visitor was. No one but Alfred would smash the button repeatedly. Hastily putting down the kettle Arthur almost ran to open the door. He didn’t want to replace another one when Alfred inevitably got tired of beating the doorbell and then progressed to beating the door down. “Just a bloody minute he called as he navigated around the antiques littering the path to the entryway. Finally getting to the door he opened it only to get immediately smothered in 150 LBs of America . Umph he grunted as America tackled him. Tuning out the others chatter as he tried to breath. After counting to 20 he started fighting to get out of the strangle hold of a hug the other had him in until
“And that’s when I was like Fuck you, you commie bastard I claim the magic orb of doom because I’M THE HERO!!!!!”
“Wait what?! England asked suddenly freezing.
“Haven’t you been listening at all Iggy?” Alfred asked breezily as he moved through the others house to the kitchen to look for food. “Apparently there is this magic orb of doom that will give the owner the power to rule the world.”
England wanted to drink. It was 8:30am and he wanted a drink. This did not bode well for his sanity. “Says who exactly” he asked tentatively as he walked back to the kitchen. Shooting a glare out the door at Wales and Scotland for letting Alfred onto the porch before he closed the door.
“Say’s Russia’s boss” said Alfred through a mouthful of vaguely bacon like food. “Apparently it was lost during World War two and hasn’t been seen since”
England sighed as he looked forlornly at his now tepid over steeped tea and he dumped it setting the pot back on to boil. “That’s ridiculous Alfred” he said trying to inject his normal sarcasm and disdain into his tone.
“That’s what Germany said” Alfred said as he poured some of Wale’s orange juice into a teacup (England had to resist beating him tea cups were for tea not orange juice) ” but then Russia’s boss had pictures proving that that’s how his crazy ex boss got into power sooooo….” He nodded seeming pleased with the knowledge.
England was trying not to shift into warlock mode “So who else was at this meeting Alfred” he tried to ask casually
Swallowing around another piece of bacon-coal Alfred spent a minute thinking. “Germany, Russia, Poland, France, Sweden and Netherlands”. He ticked off on his fingers. At England’s incredulous stare he added “Apparently our bosses figured if anyone had it, or had see where it went, it would be one of us. But none of them knew” he shrugged.
Thank God for small mercies England thought as he poured a fresh cup Wincing as he heard the doorbell ring again.
Author anon! here how do i find it on the fill list?? I tried and couldn't find the right section sorry!!
Any child-infant nation, looked after by their national animal until the time the nation learns to fend for themselves.
The animal keeps them safe, even feeds them, travels with them, talks like a sage, and comforts them like a parent.
Bonus: Multiple fills with diff. nations in ficlets/drabbles.
Bonus: A fill for Canada, Russia or Turkey whose birth places have harsh environments.
The animal keeps them safe, even feeds them, travels with them, talks like a sage, and comforts them like a parent.
Bonus: Multiple fills with diff. nations in ficlets/drabbles.
Bonus: A fill for Canada, Russia or Turkey whose birth places have harsh environments.
Aww, seconded!
Canada's national animal is the Beaver, I wanna see that badly along with *checks wiki* Sweden and a Dala horse???? WUt? is wiki serious?
Anyway this request is just so filled with potential CUTE! I hope someone fills it!
Anyway this request is just so filled with potential CUTE! I hope someone fills it!
His constant companion was a large cat, whose shoulder England barely reached and whose feet were larger than his head, and who could tirelessly carry England all the way from his feet to his head, and help to fight off his brothers and the invaders from across the sea.
The cat had allowed England to suckle from it when he could barely crawl, and taught him how to catch the rabbits that ran through the fields and the fish that swam off his coast. The cat kept him clean with its big tongue and warm with its soft fur, acting as a blanket and pillow as England was lulled to sleep by the steady beating of its heart.
England sobbed, feeling that large heart slow beneath his hands, which were pushed into the large wound in the cat’s side. The blood trickled out from under England’s hands as he stared up at his big brother, who was laughing at England's misery, hand on the flank of his own animal friend, the big horse who's horn was dripping with the blood of England's fallen cat.
The two of them got bored eventually and ran off, allowing England to spend one more night with his big cat friend.
England's animal is the lion, and Scotland's is the unicorn.
The cat had allowed England to suckle from it when he could barely crawl, and taught him how to catch the rabbits that ran through the fields and the fish that swam off his coast. The cat kept him clean with its big tongue and warm with its soft fur, acting as a blanket and pillow as England was lulled to sleep by the steady beating of its heart.
England sobbed, feeling that large heart slow beneath his hands, which were pushed into the large wound in the cat’s side. The blood trickled out from under England’s hands as he stared up at his big brother, who was laughing at England's misery, hand on the flank of his own animal friend, the big horse who's horn was dripping with the blood of England's fallen cat.
The two of them got bored eventually and ran off, allowing England to spend one more night with his big cat friend.
England's animal is the lion, and Scotland's is the unicorn.
Nuuu Scotland why you so meeeaaann???
Belarus had been brought into the world by the stork. That's what they told her, anyway. She didn't believe them.
The wisent didn't tell her much of anything. It preferred to eat, and taught her the value of farming and agriculture.
Her storks taught her to hunt. When she could catch the fish, the mice and the little birds they flew away. She saw them occasionally after that, when they came to help her get more food, but after that they left.
Her wisent stayed for longer, though she left him before he could leave her.
When she met her big brother he still had his animals. The eagle scared her, being able to look in many directions at once, though her brother told her not to be scared by it, and let her stroke one of its heads while he patted the other. It could disappear at will, and Belarus preferred it to do so.
She preferred his bear, with it's thick coat and clumsy nature. She had seen it take the head off an attacking wolf once, as she huddled next to her brother and he tried to shield her gaze.
The eagle appeared less when they met their big sister, but the bear was still with them. Her big sister didn't have any animals with her, and when they asked her about them, she could never respond.
But she always kept some flowers in her hair, and sometimes smiled at the willows and pines when they walked past them.
Belarus' animals are the wisent (European bison) and white stork. Russia's are the double headed eagle and bear. Ukraine doesn't have a national animal (according to wikipedia), but instead has national plants: the guelder rose, the pine and the willow tree.
The wisent didn't tell her much of anything. It preferred to eat, and taught her the value of farming and agriculture.
Her storks taught her to hunt. When she could catch the fish, the mice and the little birds they flew away. She saw them occasionally after that, when they came to help her get more food, but after that they left.
Her wisent stayed for longer, though she left him before he could leave her.
When she met her big brother he still had his animals. The eagle scared her, being able to look in many directions at once, though her brother told her not to be scared by it, and let her stroke one of its heads while he patted the other. It could disappear at will, and Belarus preferred it to do so.
She preferred his bear, with it's thick coat and clumsy nature. She had seen it take the head off an attacking wolf once, as she huddled next to her brother and he tried to shield her gaze.
The eagle appeared less when they met their big sister, but the bear was still with them. Her big sister didn't have any animals with her, and when they asked her about them, she could never respond.
But she always kept some flowers in her hair, and sometimes smiled at the willows and pines when they walked past them.
Belarus' animals are the wisent (European bison) and white stork. Russia's are the double headed eagle and bear. Ukraine doesn't have a national animal (according to wikipedia), but instead has national plants: the guelder rose, the pine and the willow tree.
Latvia's bird wasn't as intimidating as Prussia's was, though it often went after the large eagle before Latvia called it back.
Latvia's bird wasn't as large as Lithuania's bird, and it couldn't spear fish with its beak or kill the mice that ate his grains.
Latvia's bird wasn't as extravagant as Poland's bird, and he often kept it away from the eagle because the Polish bird reminded Latvia too much of Prussia's.
Latvia's bird wasn't as scary as Sweden's lion or as large as his elk, or even as pretty as his horse.
By the time Latvia went to live with Russia, most of the other nations had lost their animals. Though he still sometimes saw Russia sitting with his bear, it always seemed old and slightly ghost-like, and he knew Russia felt lonely without it.
When Latvia felt lonely, all he had to do was hold out his finger and his little bird would perch on it. Small enough to be hidden from Russia, it's song and the way it's tail danced as it hopped around could entertain Latvia for hours, and make him feel warm on the coldest day.
Prussia's bird is the Prussian eagle. Lithuania's bird is the white stork. Poland's bird is the Bielik Eagle. Sweden's animals are the lion, the elk and the Dalecarlian horse. Russia's animals are the Russian bear and the double headed eagle.
Latvia's bird is the white wagtail.
The same author wrote all three of the above stories, and I recognise their are probably historical and cultural errors in them, and that this fill didn't fit the request. All the information was taken from wikipedia
Latvia's bird wasn't as large as Lithuania's bird, and it couldn't spear fish with its beak or kill the mice that ate his grains.
Latvia's bird wasn't as extravagant as Poland's bird, and he often kept it away from the eagle because the Polish bird reminded Latvia too much of Prussia's.
Latvia's bird wasn't as scary as Sweden's lion or as large as his elk, or even as pretty as his horse.
By the time Latvia went to live with Russia, most of the other nations had lost their animals. Though he still sometimes saw Russia sitting with his bear, it always seemed old and slightly ghost-like, and he knew Russia felt lonely without it.
When Latvia felt lonely, all he had to do was hold out his finger and his little bird would perch on it. Small enough to be hidden from Russia, it's song and the way it's tail danced as it hopped around could entertain Latvia for hours, and make him feel warm on the coldest day.
Prussia's bird is the Prussian eagle. Lithuania's bird is the white stork. Poland's bird is the Bielik Eagle. Sweden's animals are the lion, the elk and the Dalecarlian horse. Russia's animals are the Russian bear and the double headed eagle.
Latvia's bird is the white wagtail.
The same author wrote all three of the above stories, and I recognise their are probably historical and cultural errors in them, and that this fill didn't fit the request. All the information was taken from wikipedia
I loved all three of them. But I especially liked the idea in the Belarus one... That the animals disappear when the nation comes to a certain age... It was genious. England's was a sad one and Latvia's made me smile. Thanks for filling, A!A.
((As a weird note, I've always felt the lion as a national animal for the UK was strange as hell, so, I associate him with wildcats. *waves to other filler* Poor England *petpet*))
Rome speaks often of lions; the long tail, the ragged mane, the strong jaw, the paws that can soothe claws through gazelle. England was too young at the time to even ask what a gazelle was, certain it was something terrifying, unique, bold and glorious. Ever watchful of Rome's technique (armoured boxes, and stabs, jabs not strokes of blade) England duplicates the fighting stance, but his is coloured awkwardly with a feral grace. Rome pushes at England's arms, poking the limbs in here and there, pulling the spine straight here and there, pushing his head level because one day this little protegee will not fight people taller than him.
(Eventually, England will laugh at that notion, because he grows up shorter than most of his enemies, and still juts his head slightly upwards when he fights. Exposing his arteries and veins because he must keep his eye on the opponent. Fearlessness in the single curve of a neck, and green eyes daring them to take advantage as he grips whatever weapon he clings to now.)
Rome does not ask him where he learnt his technique, which is tailored to spring and bite and worry at a foe. Instead, Rome pushes little England towards the wall, and England punches it until his knuckles bleed. That night, Rome calls England an angel, though his wrecked fists are only full of angles, and the innate sense that he has completely betrayed his brother Scotland. The shame coils in his gut for centuries, and he finds the best way to deal with it, is to simply avoid it. Most nights, he can't even remember her face, but he does remember that he is not much of an angel - even with her magic pouring through his veins. She promised, green eyes and red curling hair, that she would teach him to defend himself, even when he didn't understand why. Claimed she'd be there forever.
(He doesn't mention her by name; he's not sure he remembers. It would be worse to be wrong.)
She was bound strongly to the corvines, especially the ravens, but also the crows, the magpies, the rooks and reaves. England remembers black feathers - inky like fingers - being twined through his hair. England, on the other hand, attracted the wildcats. They came from the North, and the East, and the everywhere, never more than one at a time, sometimes to leave a little mouse by his feet and sometimes just to curl against him as he slept like a breathing, gently fire.
(Sometimes he eats the mice, because Rome might have; England is eager to impress.)
It is they, with their nail-like claws, and deceptively small stature, arced ears that flick back, and twitching, tabby tails, that teach England how to fight. How to fight, he picks the wildcat up by the scruff, and calls it Lion, because surely this creature is glorious, unique and bold with limpet-like eyes. How to fight, and it feels like it's torn his skin right off. How to fight? Give no quarter. Seize and rip and burn and destroy as hard as you can. His stance is prepared to spring, merciless in approach, and full of jutting bones like a squirming feline, yet equipped with the same grace.
(They say when a human child is confronted with danger, it turns instinctively for assistance, and when a puppy is confronted with danger, it automatically submits to the force, keening for mercy, but when a kitten is confronted with danger, it simply braces its tiny body for impact.)
England braced himself as Rome gutted him with the butt of the spear, and his eyes water; you cannot rebel. England knows that he, with his tiny wildcat claws, and woad-dipped feral anger, had almost dragged Nero to his knees. Later, he crawls to sit at Boudicca's poisoned feet, and asks God to save, please save the Queen.
Rome speaks often of lions; the long tail, the ragged mane, the strong jaw, the paws that can soothe claws through gazelle. England was too young at the time to even ask what a gazelle was, certain it was something terrifying, unique, bold and glorious. Ever watchful of Rome's technique (armoured boxes, and stabs, jabs not strokes of blade) England duplicates the fighting stance, but his is coloured awkwardly with a feral grace. Rome pushes at England's arms, poking the limbs in here and there, pulling the spine straight here and there, pushing his head level because one day this little protegee will not fight people taller than him.
(Eventually, England will laugh at that notion, because he grows up shorter than most of his enemies, and still juts his head slightly upwards when he fights. Exposing his arteries and veins because he must keep his eye on the opponent. Fearlessness in the single curve of a neck, and green eyes daring them to take advantage as he grips whatever weapon he clings to now.)
Rome does not ask him where he learnt his technique, which is tailored to spring and bite and worry at a foe. Instead, Rome pushes little England towards the wall, and England punches it until his knuckles bleed. That night, Rome calls England an angel, though his wrecked fists are only full of angles, and the innate sense that he has completely betrayed his brother Scotland. The shame coils in his gut for centuries, and he finds the best way to deal with it, is to simply avoid it. Most nights, he can't even remember her face, but he does remember that he is not much of an angel - even with her magic pouring through his veins. She promised, green eyes and red curling hair, that she would teach him to defend himself, even when he didn't understand why. Claimed she'd be there forever.
(He doesn't mention her by name; he's not sure he remembers. It would be worse to be wrong.)
She was bound strongly to the corvines, especially the ravens, but also the crows, the magpies, the rooks and reaves. England remembers black feathers - inky like fingers - being twined through his hair. England, on the other hand, attracted the wildcats. They came from the North, and the East, and the everywhere, never more than one at a time, sometimes to leave a little mouse by his feet and sometimes just to curl against him as he slept like a breathing, gently fire.
(Sometimes he eats the mice, because Rome might have; England is eager to impress.)
It is they, with their nail-like claws, and deceptively small stature, arced ears that flick back, and twitching, tabby tails, that teach England how to fight. How to fight, he picks the wildcat up by the scruff, and calls it Lion, because surely this creature is glorious, unique and bold with limpet-like eyes. How to fight, and it feels like it's torn his skin right off. How to fight? Give no quarter. Seize and rip and burn and destroy as hard as you can. His stance is prepared to spring, merciless in approach, and full of jutting bones like a squirming feline, yet equipped with the same grace.
(They say when a human child is confronted with danger, it turns instinctively for assistance, and when a puppy is confronted with danger, it automatically submits to the force, keening for mercy, but when a kitten is confronted with danger, it simply braces its tiny body for impact.)
England braced himself as Rome gutted him with the butt of the spear, and his eyes water; you cannot rebel. England knows that he, with his tiny wildcat claws, and woad-dipped feral anger, had almost dragged Nero to his knees. Later, he crawls to sit at Boudicca's poisoned feet, and asks God to save, please save the Queen.
He's curled up there, like a tiny kitten, and Rome eventually touches him on the head, winning his trust back again. This, however, is not the first time England has crouched by a dead woman, struck by a sudden loss that he's not sure he can hold. Instead, England twisted, this time too weak not to force himself to cling to Rome. They croon at each other in Latin. And the wildcats slowly recede from the British Isles, retreating to isolated pockets. Rome calls England a little lion.
(Years later, England tall, but never as tall as Rome would have hoped, but still an Empire as Rome hoped in drilled Latin and the criss-cross scar of roads, poisoned Queens, stands overlooking Africa. He has claimed a long stroke down Mother Africa's front, pulling her children into an untidy line. The grass is long, and England watches the black, almost brown eyes of the lion in front of him.
It blinks slowly at him.
Glorious, but that was a given. This lion has come to represent England. Yet, when he crouches defensively by the beast, his pose is all jutted clawing limbs, head jutted upwards, and he will find like a small creature. Deceptively weak creature. He will give no quarter, and in a sharp hiss and spit of words, sworn, expletive, England is not a tufted tail, but a tabby one. England is not curved ears, but arching, flattened pointed ones. England is not a tawny pelt, but coloured like loam and brindle and mud after rain. England is not a thick, defensive mane, but a ripple of puffed fur, just daring, daring anybody to take advantage of him.
The lion blinks again, but perhaps it is not a real lion - not a human lion, but a nation lion - for it merely twitches its tail patiently and walks away from England.
England is frozen, aware of the message. Aware, but wishing desperately he wasn't;
You must make peace with your battles.
Eventually, dragged to the floor by the war machine - twice through the ringer - and loathing, deep loathing from what he gave to Germany - his friends, his fellows, Europe, what France pays for in everything Germany hopes to do to him - and the scarring bombs that sink into him, like rain. For all of this, he is pulled to the floor, by the scruff of his dignity, and the wildcat is all but beaten out of him until he is crying shrilly from economic ruin, and deep rivets in his cities. The Empire is lost, and the influences of Rome are removed, painfully so, until he speaks only corrupted languages, and only builds square houses. The guilt in his gut bubbles and broths.
The lion, that he stood armed by, has taken over a single aspect of him; it has made him tired. He is too tired to clutch his Empire. Instead, he economically collapses against the little chick that defied him once and now peacefully holds him up and stays for once. England has no choice but to trust.
The wildcats have taught England to battle as none can, to defend his island at any cost - in beaches and fields and skies and ashen, burnt-out cities that smell of horror - and the lions have taught England that he must pick his battles, he must find some peace. He must. Or it shall destroy him.)
(Years later, England tall, but never as tall as Rome would have hoped, but still an Empire as Rome hoped in drilled Latin and the criss-cross scar of roads, poisoned Queens, stands overlooking Africa. He has claimed a long stroke down Mother Africa's front, pulling her children into an untidy line. The grass is long, and England watches the black, almost brown eyes of the lion in front of him.
It blinks slowly at him.
Glorious, but that was a given. This lion has come to represent England. Yet, when he crouches defensively by the beast, his pose is all jutted clawing limbs, head jutted upwards, and he will find like a small creature. Deceptively weak creature. He will give no quarter, and in a sharp hiss and spit of words, sworn, expletive, England is not a tufted tail, but a tabby one. England is not curved ears, but arching, flattened pointed ones. England is not a tawny pelt, but coloured like loam and brindle and mud after rain. England is not a thick, defensive mane, but a ripple of puffed fur, just daring, daring anybody to take advantage of him.
The lion blinks again, but perhaps it is not a real lion - not a human lion, but a nation lion - for it merely twitches its tail patiently and walks away from England.
England is frozen, aware of the message. Aware, but wishing desperately he wasn't;
You must make peace with your battles.
Eventually, dragged to the floor by the war machine - twice through the ringer - and loathing, deep loathing from what he gave to Germany - his friends, his fellows, Europe, what France pays for in everything Germany hopes to do to him - and the scarring bombs that sink into him, like rain. For all of this, he is pulled to the floor, by the scruff of his dignity, and the wildcat is all but beaten out of him until he is crying shrilly from economic ruin, and deep rivets in his cities. The Empire is lost, and the influences of Rome are removed, painfully so, until he speaks only corrupted languages, and only builds square houses. The guilt in his gut bubbles and broths.
The lion, that he stood armed by, has taken over a single aspect of him; it has made him tired. He is too tired to clutch his Empire. Instead, he economically collapses against the little chick that defied him once and now peacefully holds him up and stays for once. England has no choice but to trust.
The wildcats have taught England to battle as none can, to defend his island at any cost - in beaches and fields and skies and ashen, burnt-out cities that smell of horror - and the lions have taught England that he must pick his battles, he must find some peace. He must. Or it shall destroy him.)
The rain patters, meekly, weakly; England merely grips his umbrella tighter, and pulls his raincoat around him, hurrying to and fro amongst his work and his people.
More than a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, too long ago, the rain patters just as meekly, just as weakly, steady and thrumming like a heartbeat, or the twist of emotion in England's gut. The little child shakes and shivers, and his forehead burns up, unsheltered from the rain, whimpering.
A single wildcat steps from the shadows of the trees, eyes a bulbous, luminescence, yellow and critical. Angular even. England is full of angles. The feline is full of angles. All fluidly, rain-licked together.
It steps, circling England as best it can, and purrs a warmth into England, and tells him to fight and live through another night, live to another day, and then fight on and on and on.
Nowadays, however, England lazily strokes his pet cat, socks left across the boiler pipes of his cloakroom, and a fresh cardigan nuzzling him in warmth. He sits and reflects on survival, peace, lions, wildcats, Empires, and screaming young children who would do anything to bite an Empire's heart out.
Quietly, he murmurs, that god, please, god save the Queen please. He's not been a Christian in years, really. The cat growls, friendly-like, a single purr knitted straight into England's bones, and England shuts his eyes, at peace, almost serene, angelic really, and strokes the soft fur rhythmically.
He is still a cat, left as a variation on a single fluid theme.
((Pretend there wasn't an italics malfunction B:))
More than a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, too long ago, the rain patters just as meekly, just as weakly, steady and thrumming like a heartbeat, or the twist of emotion in England's gut. The little child shakes and shivers, and his forehead burns up, unsheltered from the rain, whimpering.
A single wildcat steps from the shadows of the trees, eyes a bulbous, luminescence, yellow and critical. Angular even. England is full of angles. The feline is full of angles. All fluidly, rain-licked together.
It steps, circling England as best it can, and purrs a warmth into England, and tells him to fight and live through another night, live to another day, and then fight on and on and on.
Nowadays, however, England lazily strokes his pet cat, socks left across the boiler pipes of his cloakroom, and a fresh cardigan nuzzling him in warmth. He sits and reflects on survival, peace, lions, wildcats, Empires, and screaming young children who would do anything to bite an Empire's heart out.
Quietly, he murmurs, that god, please, god save the Queen please. He's not been a Christian in years, really. The cat growls, friendly-like, a single purr knitted straight into England's bones, and England shuts his eyes, at peace, almost serene, angelic really, and strokes the soft fur rhythmically.
He is still a cat, left as a variation on a single fluid theme.
((Pretend there wasn't an italics malfunction B:))
My, the metaphorical upbringing is an amazing spin on the prompt.
I've always associated England with cats too. Though perhaps, more aptly, it's Arthur Kirkland who I associate with cats, with a certain delicacy, dignity, imperiousness and short temper and those green eyes of his. The metamorphosis of England as a country to an empire to a settled country, the particular desperation of his battles, it's all spun together quite amazingly, especially how he weighs all the influences in his life and what he keeps from his lessons.
I've always associated England with cats too. Though perhaps, more aptly, it's Arthur Kirkland who I associate with cats, with a certain delicacy, dignity, imperiousness and short temper and those green eyes of his. The metamorphosis of England as a country to an empire to a settled country, the particular desperation of his battles, it's all spun together quite amazingly, especially how he weighs all the influences in his life and what he keeps from his lessons.
Anon, post your fill to the "Fill List" section so more ppl can see it.
Here:http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18224.html#comments
Here:http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18224.html#comments
Australia shivered as he curled up in the small hollow, underneath a scrub bush. It was night time and July, both of these factors causing the temperature to drop in the desert and there was nothing around that could warm him up. There was nothing to do but wait for her to come.
One morning, two winters ago, Australia remembered waking up for the first time. There had been no one around at the time, but Australia knew there had been. It was the same way that he knew his name was Australia and that he could speak and be understood by the animals around him. He had wandered through the desert, collapsing several times of dehydration before waking up and meeting her.
As Australia was thinking this over, he missed the tell-tale sound of feet upon the ground. "Little one?" Her head poked through the bush as she rested on her forelegs. Australia could see the baby's head sticking out of her pouch, leading to a strange two-headed appearance.
"You're here!" Australia cried, standing up and getting a mouthful of scrub bush. She laughed as he scrambled out to meet her and throw his arms around her. "I've missed you," he muttered into her blue-grey fur.
"And we have missed you," she replied, sniffing his hair and touching her nose to his face. "Did you manage to catch something to eat today?" Australia detached from her side so he could turn to see her face properly.
"No," he said mournfully. Then he brightened. "I managed to scare off a dingo by using my legs like you taught me."
"Well done, little one. Did you hear that child," she looked down at her pouch where the baby's head was sticking out in curiosity. "Your legs are always your most powerful tool." The baby nodded, looking serious with his dark eyes. He was a boy and was already getting his red coat. "And it's time to use yours. Out you come." She nudged her baby and he reluctantly climbed out of her pouch. "Little one, you shall come with us to get food and water." Australia smiled and touched his nose to hers.
"The dingo whispered something to me," Australia said quietly as she and the baby started to hop slowly along, allowing Australia to run along next to them. "He said that there are others like me. The dingo says that their kind tells stories about the other beings that are like humans but not at the same time." She stopped abruptly and Australia and the baby skidded to a halt beside her.
"There are others like you. All animals know them when they see them, but they cannot speak to them after they have integrated with humans. Soon, that will happen to you," she said sadly and Australia shook his head violently.
"I will never do that. You will always be the most important being to me," Australia said stubbornly. She regarded him with a mixture of fondness and regret while the baby stared up at the nation. They would grow up alongside each other, but they could never be the same.
One morning, two winters ago, Australia remembered waking up for the first time. There had been no one around at the time, but Australia knew there had been. It was the same way that he knew his name was Australia and that he could speak and be understood by the animals around him. He had wandered through the desert, collapsing several times of dehydration before waking up and meeting her.
As Australia was thinking this over, he missed the tell-tale sound of feet upon the ground. "Little one?" Her head poked through the bush as she rested on her forelegs. Australia could see the baby's head sticking out of her pouch, leading to a strange two-headed appearance.
"You're here!" Australia cried, standing up and getting a mouthful of scrub bush. She laughed as he scrambled out to meet her and throw his arms around her. "I've missed you," he muttered into her blue-grey fur.
"And we have missed you," she replied, sniffing his hair and touching her nose to his face. "Did you manage to catch something to eat today?" Australia detached from her side so he could turn to see her face properly.
"No," he said mournfully. Then he brightened. "I managed to scare off a dingo by using my legs like you taught me."
"Well done, little one. Did you hear that child," she looked down at her pouch where the baby's head was sticking out in curiosity. "Your legs are always your most powerful tool." The baby nodded, looking serious with his dark eyes. He was a boy and was already getting his red coat. "And it's time to use yours. Out you come." She nudged her baby and he reluctantly climbed out of her pouch. "Little one, you shall come with us to get food and water." Australia smiled and touched his nose to hers.
"The dingo whispered something to me," Australia said quietly as she and the baby started to hop slowly along, allowing Australia to run along next to them. "He said that there are others like me. The dingo says that their kind tells stories about the other beings that are like humans but not at the same time." She stopped abruptly and Australia and the baby skidded to a halt beside her.
"There are others like you. All animals know them when they see them, but they cannot speak to them after they have integrated with humans. Soon, that will happen to you," she said sadly and Australia shook his head violently.
"I will never do that. You will always be the most important being to me," Australia said stubbornly. She regarded him with a mixture of fondness and regret while the baby stared up at the nation. They would grow up alongside each other, but they could never be the same.
Notes:
Kangaroo is one of the national animals of Australia.
Australia was explored and claimed in the name of Great Britain in 1770 (it had been explored before but never settled on) and settlement went ahead on 26th January 1788 (Australia Day). This fill takes place in between these two days so modern Australia exists and can speak English, but can still communicate with animals because no humans have settled. This is my head!canon interfering - if no people have settled but the nation still exists, then they can speak to animals because they are really the only inhabitants. After people settle and become part of that country, the nation loses that ability. All nations have a special gift with their own animals because the animals recognise them as nations.
The kangaroo and her baby are not named because I don't see themselves giving names or Australia doing it. She is a red kangaroo which is one of the largest, but is blue-grey due to her being female. Their social interactions involve sniffing each other and touching noses.
This is modern Australia, the Aboriginals arrived nearly 40,000 years ago. So imagine him like America, the indigenous nation are separate from the colony.
The dingo was introduced to Australia but a very long time ago.
The baby's head sticking out of the pouch led visiting Europeans to say the creature had two heads, which led to claims that they were making things up.
Kangaroos can use their arms but their legs are the most powerful limbs.
July is midwinter in Australia.
I loved writing about Australia. I think I'll go do some more about it.
And now my notes are longer than the fill. Oh well.
Kangaroo is one of the national animals of Australia.
Australia was explored and claimed in the name of Great Britain in 1770 (it had been explored before but never settled on) and settlement went ahead on 26th January 1788 (Australia Day). This fill takes place in between these two days so modern Australia exists and can speak English, but can still communicate with animals because no humans have settled. This is my head!canon interfering - if no people have settled but the nation still exists, then they can speak to animals because they are really the only inhabitants. After people settle and become part of that country, the nation loses that ability. All nations have a special gift with their own animals because the animals recognise them as nations.
The kangaroo and her baby are not named because I don't see themselves giving names or Australia doing it. She is a red kangaroo which is one of the largest, but is blue-grey due to her being female. Their social interactions involve sniffing each other and touching noses.
This is modern Australia, the Aboriginals arrived nearly 40,000 years ago. So imagine him like America, the indigenous nation are separate from the colony.
The dingo was introduced to Australia but a very long time ago.
The baby's head sticking out of the pouch led visiting Europeans to say the creature had two heads, which led to claims that they were making things up.
Kangaroos can use their arms but their legs are the most powerful limbs.
July is midwinter in Australia.
I loved writing about Australia. I think I'll go do some more about it.
And now my notes are longer than the fill. Oh well.
Awww... This was so cute. The mental image of Australia and the mommy kangroo touching noses XDD Thanks for the heartwarming fill A!A.
This was so sweet, and I like long notes, haha. It's part of the charm of reading Hetalia fic. XD I was reminded of Dot and Kangaroo at the beginning, which brings back fond memories.
Though it’s been many years – centuries, even – Kumajiro remembers his mother. She was a powerful and beautiful creature, a chosen of Nanuk the polar bear master, revered by some native tribes as a spirit herself, the manifestation of winter storms. She traveled far and took him with her, deep into the interior of the continent and further south than others of their kind would dare. The world was colder then, and she was strong, and bold.
He’d been her only child by birth, a lonely singleton with no siblings of his own, which is rare for their kind, even more so back then. He’d been old enough to understand this loneliness for a while before they found his brothers, the not-human human boys.
He remembers the day that she brought them home from hunting, two pudgy little pink babies tied together in a cradleboard, like the ones used by Ojibwe’s people to carry their cubs. She set Kumajiro to watching them while she built a den for the winter, something she hadn’t done since Kumajiro himself was a cub too small to walk on his own.
That winter was spent in their den, and Kumajiro came to understand more about his new brothers, strange as they were. They were human, but the Strange Kind, like Iroquios, Bandera, and Inuit. They could not move much on their own, even after their cradleboard was untied, and they had neither claws nor sharp teeth; but they responded well to sharing Mother’s milk and soon grew strong, though it took many months for them to be strong enough to go out with Mama and Kumajiro.
Kumajiro remembers liking the quiet twin best of his new brothers. The one that would come to be called America was too noisy and loud and never wanted to sleep like a good polar bear should, but Canada was quiet and content with the warmth of his mother and brothers through their long winter nights.
He remembers leaving the den at last once the long winter had ended, and traveling with Mother to show his brothers all the things that they would need to know. Mother took them to Iroquios to learn hunting and Inuit to learn songs, but neither they nor any of the other Strange Kind of humans wanted to take the children in to teach them human-ways. Kumajiro remembers being glad for that. It meant that his brothers would stay with him and Mother, where they belonged.
They were happy for a while, and busy, and warm. But it couldn’t last forever. Nothing ever could.
He remembers the terrible day that Mother disappeared, leaving the three alone, with only Kumajiro anywhere close to full-grown.
He remembers the day that America left them to travel south, following the bird that he called Father Eagle to find warmth and independence that he would continue to seek all of his days. Canada cried so hard to find his brother gone, and Mama too, and when he clung to Kumajiro for comfort, Kumajiro found himself promising his little brother that they’d never be separated forever.
Kumajiro remembers all these things. He even remembers Canadas’s name, every day. But he pretends to forget, because they’ve forgotten. There were good times with Mother. And there were good times with the Europeans. But between them, there were bad times. Terrible times.
It’s easier for his brothers if they don’t remember.
He’d been her only child by birth, a lonely singleton with no siblings of his own, which is rare for their kind, even more so back then. He’d been old enough to understand this loneliness for a while before they found his brothers, the not-human human boys.
He remembers the day that she brought them home from hunting, two pudgy little pink babies tied together in a cradleboard, like the ones used by Ojibwe’s people to carry their cubs. She set Kumajiro to watching them while she built a den for the winter, something she hadn’t done since Kumajiro himself was a cub too small to walk on his own.
That winter was spent in their den, and Kumajiro came to understand more about his new brothers, strange as they were. They were human, but the Strange Kind, like Iroquios, Bandera, and Inuit. They could not move much on their own, even after their cradleboard was untied, and they had neither claws nor sharp teeth; but they responded well to sharing Mother’s milk and soon grew strong, though it took many months for them to be strong enough to go out with Mama and Kumajiro.
Kumajiro remembers liking the quiet twin best of his new brothers. The one that would come to be called America was too noisy and loud and never wanted to sleep like a good polar bear should, but Canada was quiet and content with the warmth of his mother and brothers through their long winter nights.
He remembers leaving the den at last once the long winter had ended, and traveling with Mother to show his brothers all the things that they would need to know. Mother took them to Iroquios to learn hunting and Inuit to learn songs, but neither they nor any of the other Strange Kind of humans wanted to take the children in to teach them human-ways. Kumajiro remembers being glad for that. It meant that his brothers would stay with him and Mother, where they belonged.
They were happy for a while, and busy, and warm. But it couldn’t last forever. Nothing ever could.
He remembers the terrible day that Mother disappeared, leaving the three alone, with only Kumajiro anywhere close to full-grown.
He remembers the day that America left them to travel south, following the bird that he called Father Eagle to find warmth and independence that he would continue to seek all of his days. Canada cried so hard to find his brother gone, and Mama too, and when he clung to Kumajiro for comfort, Kumajiro found himself promising his little brother that they’d never be separated forever.
Kumajiro remembers all these things. He even remembers Canadas’s name, every day. But he pretends to forget, because they’ve forgotten. There were good times with Mother. And there were good times with the Europeans. But between them, there were bad times. Terrible times.
It’s easier for his brothers if they don’t remember.
Notes: Sorry anon who wanted Canada and a beaver. This is just what came to mind for me. Because Kumajiro. Besides all that, did you know that twins are actually the most common type of polar bear birth? They can have singleton or triplet litters depending on their situation, but twins are the most common. (This factoid brought to you by researcher!anon and the letter G)
So yeah, weird take on prompt is kind of weird. Hope it's enjoyable anyway.
So yeah, weird take on prompt is kind of weird. Hope it's enjoyable anyway.
My goodness, this is so sad and adorable and
/asplodes
/asplodes
Oh heavens, so sad.
:P Now I want to write an animal fic.
:P Now I want to write an animal fic.
This fic is so beautiful and bittersweet.
http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/140/3/d/homehusband_su_by_jacyll-d3gt3uc.png
I just want anything based on this.
I just want anything based on this.
I seconded this incredibly hard. Like, it can't get any harder.
Though, I may try to fill this...
Though, I may try to fill this...
Anon would like to fill this, as long as OP doesn't mind a lack of smut.
Yup. Germany screams during sex.
Bonus: He is the one on top.
Bonus: He is the one on top.
lol, seconded!
Thirded! Might fill if I wasn't supposed to be writing Rochu XD
I'd love to fill this, but I have one clarification to ask: should this be only screams of pleasure or should it involve words - such as orders or any kind of yelling Germany could make at Italy?
This pairing is sadly lacking in the Western fandom, but it's one of my favorites. I don't really care who is on top, but make it kinky as hell! OP enjoys light bondage, spanking/slapping, breathplay, and verbal abuse in particular, but I'm leaving this wide open for whatever kinks people like to write (or draw--artfills are loved too)!
Filling! It'll be finished this weekend but I was too excited to wait.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=87603682#t87603682
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=87603682#t87603682
AU of course. I want to see the relationship growing from a normal relationship between a teacher (Fritz) and a student (Gilbert), to a romantically one. Realism is love.
Bonus: guilt (because a teacher with moral don't have such relationships with their students, even if they're awesome)
Bonus: Other characters show up.
I'm sorry if I failed even more.
Bonus: Other characters show up.
I'm sorry if I failed even more.
This is pure awesomeness!
I need this like yesterday!...It helps that Prussia/Fritz is my guilty pleasure...
>.< I wish I could write decent stuff in English.
I need this like yesterday!...It helps that Prussia/Fritz is my guilty pleasure...
>.< I wish I could write decent stuff in English.
Teacher/student? Yes, yes please. Thirded! Especially for the first bonus.
It's 1947, and Prussia has been officially dissolved, yadda yadda blah blah blah. Prussia, although rather begrudgingly, is ready to no longer be a nation: he's had his run, he was a great empire, but now he's tired and just wants to leave it to his brother. However, Hungary doesn't want to see him disappear/die, so she does the first thing she thinks of: she proposes.
I want to see what happens afterwards; does he accept? Does he reject her? Is he surprised? What does it mean if they get married, about their two separate nations? I don't know, anons!
Bonus: Prussia has proposed to Hungary before
Bonus 2: The other nations are rather against this plan
Bonus 3: that was Hungary basically confessing to Prussia
I want to see what happens afterwards; does he accept? Does he reject her? Is he surprised? What does it mean if they get married, about their two separate nations? I don't know, anons!
Bonus: Prussia has proposed to Hungary before
Bonus 2: The other nations are rather against this plan
Bonus 3: that was Hungary basically confessing to Prussia
Re: Prussia/Hungary: Marriage as a means to save his life
(Anonymous) 2011-10-05 07:58 pm (UTC)(link)WANT, SECOND.
It is 1947, and it is raining.
Elizaveta thinks it is fitting for a day such as this, a day of dissolution, of washing something away forever. It hurts when she thinks of what’s to come, and despite all the years she has spent hitting him with her frying pan and making fun of him and saying that she doesn’t care about him, she wants him to stay — because who else will treat like her like a boy?
Certainly not Roderich, her husband for several decades up until recently, whom she had slept with every night, who had decided that sex with a woman was simply not satisfactory. Certainly not Feliciano, who she had practically raised as his caring mother, who she had dressed in her native dresses, who she had (attempted) to pair up with Holy Rome.
Who else, but Gilbert?
It hurts even more when he walks into the room, on the dreadful day, with a smile on his face.
She wants to slap him, to punch him, to hit him in the face with her frying pan over and over and over because he just shouldn’t be this happy about this. That stupid little bird on his head is chirping and tweeting and looking positively gleeful today, excited to see everyone not fighting.
Everyone greets him today, which they usually don’t, but they feel like being courteous today — after all, he’s only going to die and dissolve into nothing. And he grins back like he’s almost as awesome as he thinks he is, like he’s not simply going to disappear today.
Elizaveta wonders if she’s the only one who really ca — is concerned. After all, she doesn’t care about that stupid Gilbert, no way no way no way.
“Alright,” Hermann Göring says, and it only makes sense to for him to call the meeting, as he is Gilbert’s Prime Minister. “Let’s…get this over with.”
And as that stupid stupid stupid albino walks over, ready to die, Elizaveta can’t help but scream before she can think about.
“No!” she shouts, and she wants to say it more, nonononono! but keeps it to herself, because she already has the attention of the entire room, — and that’s too many people, quite frankly. But Gilbert is staring at her, and really, he’s the only one that matters, and suddenly she doesn’t know what to say with his red-red-red eyes looking into hers, questioning why?
--
quick AN: if you couldn't tell, i enjoy italics. and stutter!style.
Elizaveta thinks it is fitting for a day such as this, a day of dissolution, of washing something away forever. It hurts when she thinks of what’s to come, and despite all the years she has spent hitting him with her frying pan and making fun of him and saying that she doesn’t care about him, she wants him to stay — because who else will treat like her like a boy?
Certainly not Roderich, her husband for several decades up until recently, whom she had slept with every night, who had decided that sex with a woman was simply not satisfactory. Certainly not Feliciano, who she had practically raised as his caring mother, who she had dressed in her native dresses, who she had (attempted) to pair up with Holy Rome.
Who else, but Gilbert?
It hurts even more when he walks into the room, on the dreadful day, with a smile on his face.
She wants to slap him, to punch him, to hit him in the face with her frying pan over and over and over because he just shouldn’t be this happy about this. That stupid little bird on his head is chirping and tweeting and looking positively gleeful today, excited to see everyone not fighting.
Everyone greets him today, which they usually don’t, but they feel like being courteous today — after all, he’s only going to die and dissolve into nothing. And he grins back like he’s almost as awesome as he thinks he is, like he’s not simply going to disappear today.
Elizaveta wonders if she’s the only one who really ca — is concerned. After all, she doesn’t care about that stupid Gilbert, no way no way no way.
“Alright,” Hermann Göring says, and it only makes sense to for him to call the meeting, as he is Gilbert’s Prime Minister. “Let’s…get this over with.”
And as that stupid stupid stupid albino walks over, ready to die, Elizaveta can’t help but scream before she can think about.
“No!” she shouts, and she wants to say it more, nonononono! but keeps it to herself, because she already has the attention of the entire room, — and that’s too many people, quite frankly. But Gilbert is staring at her, and really, he’s the only one that matters, and suddenly she doesn’t know what to say with his red-red-red eyes looking into hers, questioning why?
--
quick AN: if you couldn't tell, i enjoy italics. and stutter!style.
She fidgets with her hands for a moment, before walking to him and opening her mouth and spewing out anything she can think of. “You…you can’t go, you know, because you’re Gilbert, and I…errr…I don’t think it’s…uhm…healthy for the world to suddenly be…uhh…cut off from that much…ahh…awesome.” She cringes as she uses the word, as does almost everyone in the room, but she can’t help it, because that’s the only way he’ll listen, and come on, this has got to work.
He’s smirking at her now, tilting his head, ready for a good laugh. “Well, it’s probably not, but how do you propose to fix that?”
“Marry me.”
She doesn’t care, no, she really, really doesn’t care about him, but he can’t go, he can’t he can’t he can’t.
And now he’s smiling at her, that one smile she’s only seen once before, where he looks like he’s truly happy, but tinged with sadness. She can hear all the other nations murmuring in discontent, because they don’t want him around, whywhywhy don’t they?
(It was terrible the last time, rejecting him, and seeing that face in her head over and over and over, but she had to, she had to — )
“Sorry, sweetcheeks,” Gilbert says, as he ruffles her hair like he used to. “I don’t think anyone can handle my awesomeness anymore. Except, maybe, for you.” He scoops up that stupid stupid stupid little bird up in his hands and holds it out to her, before making her hold the bright yellow ball of fluff. “Take care of Gilbird for me, will you?”
Feliks makes her sit back down, and as the ceremony commences, she tells herself she will not cry, she will not cry, she will not cry. She holds Gilbird like it’s the only thing that will be left of him, and decides that maybe, she can come to like birds.
As the final words are being said, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she cares just a little bit, because he’s her best friend and her greatest lover and everything she’s ever needed —
And the ceremony ends, and he’s still there, and everyone is so confused, before of course, Yao explains that, “He was not a nation that fell, he just dissolved. He’s still a nation-tan, just…without a nation.”
And she is so so so relieved, and Gilbert is grinning and his stupid bird is chirping happily. The rest of the nations grumble and leave the conference room, but she’s still there, and she runs up and hug him, and keeps him there for minutes and minutes and minutes.
“I thought I lost you,” she says.
“Not just yet,” he whispers in her hair.
She can’t deny it anymore, because really, she just might ca —
“So, what was that about marriage?” he says as he grabs her ass, and she hits him in the head as hard as she can, because he’s such an idiot and sometimes she just can’t stand him.
Because really, she doesn’t care, and that’ll be okay with her.
…Just until she can get revenge.
--
quick AN: this was totally going to end with him dying, and then i was like...how would they die? Do they just...disappear? Do they turn into magic pixie dustof awesomeness? therefore, comedic ending to a semi-angsty one-shot.
He’s smirking at her now, tilting his head, ready for a good laugh. “Well, it’s probably not, but how do you propose to fix that?”
“Marry me.”
She doesn’t care, no, she really, really doesn’t care about him, but he can’t go, he can’t he can’t he can’t.
And now he’s smiling at her, that one smile she’s only seen once before, where he looks like he’s truly happy, but tinged with sadness. She can hear all the other nations murmuring in discontent, because they don’t want him around, whywhywhy don’t they?
(It was terrible the last time, rejecting him, and seeing that face in her head over and over and over, but she had to, she had to — )
“Sorry, sweetcheeks,” Gilbert says, as he ruffles her hair like he used to. “I don’t think anyone can handle my awesomeness anymore. Except, maybe, for you.” He scoops up that stupid stupid stupid little bird up in his hands and holds it out to her, before making her hold the bright yellow ball of fluff. “Take care of Gilbird for me, will you?”
Feliks makes her sit back down, and as the ceremony commences, she tells herself she will not cry, she will not cry, she will not cry. She holds Gilbird like it’s the only thing that will be left of him, and decides that maybe, she can come to like birds.
As the final words are being said, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she cares just a little bit, because he’s her best friend and her greatest lover and everything she’s ever needed —
And the ceremony ends, and he’s still there, and everyone is so confused, before of course, Yao explains that, “He was not a nation that fell, he just dissolved. He’s still a nation-tan, just…without a nation.”
And she is so so so relieved, and Gilbert is grinning and his stupid bird is chirping happily. The rest of the nations grumble and leave the conference room, but she’s still there, and she runs up and hug him, and keeps him there for minutes and minutes and minutes.
“I thought I lost you,” she says.
“Not just yet,” he whispers in her hair.
She can’t deny it anymore, because really, she just might ca —
“So, what was that about marriage?” he says as he grabs her ass, and she hits him in the head as hard as she can, because he’s such an idiot and sometimes she just can’t stand him.
Because really, she doesn’t care, and that’ll be okay with her.
…Just until she can get revenge.
--
quick AN: this was totally going to end with him dying, and then i was like...how would they die? Do they just...disappear? Do they turn into magic pixie dust
I loved the emotions in this and how you handled Elizaveta's POV. The part where Gilbert wouldn't marry her really tugged at my heart because she was so scared and desperate. And the ending was just lovely!
Though I must admit that I'm a bit confused about the historical side of this. You said that this takes place in 1947, but since Hermann Göring (who committed suicide in 1946) is in this, did you actually mean the de facto abolition by the Nazis in 1934?
Though I must admit that I'm a bit confused about the historical side of this. You said that this takes place in 1947, but since Hermann Göring (who committed suicide in 1946) is in this, did you actually mean the de facto abolition by the Nazis in 1934?
uh...woops. I was kind of browsing through wikipedia to see who the last ruler-type figure of Prussia was, and I saw "Hermann Goring (last)" and immediately assumed. I have a bad habit with that.
(It reminds me of the time I saw "Leonard Nimory has attended his last Star Trek Convention", assumed he was dead, and then told my Nimroy-fanatic best friend and let her have a panic attack before I reread it.)
Thank you for the clarification!
(It reminds me of the time I saw "Leonard Nimory has attended his last Star Trek Convention", assumed he was dead, and then told my Nimroy-fanatic best friend and let her have a panic attack before I reread it.)
Thank you for the clarification!
Anon this was just lovely! I was starting to cry like an idiot, but then you saved me from making a fool of myself in a room with other four people with your happy ending! I love this fill so so much!
EVEN IF YOU DID, THEY WOULD BE TEARS OF AWESOMENESS.
Ahhhhhhhhhh omg this is FANTASTIC, authornon! I'm really curious to hear about her revenge, too. I really enjoyed the angst with the touch of comedic silliness in the middle, just wonderful ahhhhhhhhh~~
asdglhlkj;
That was very gorgeous, my friend. Incredibly sweet. I loved the emotions and the stuttering. Everything was natural and in-character. Everything flowed well, and you could really feel what Hungary felt as she witnessed everything.
I like your strikethrough comments, as well. lol
That was very gorgeous, my friend. Incredibly sweet. I loved the emotions and the stuttering. Everything was natural and in-character. Everything flowed well, and you could really feel what Hungary felt as she witnessed everything.
I like your strikethrough comments, as well. lol
Thank you very much! I developed stutter!style from one of my favorite fanfiction authors, and have been using it for...a year now? I love the way it just emphasizes everything and tend to use it in all my work.
I also love the writing style I use like that, the present tense, because, like you said, it flows well and it allows for so much connection through the reader and the words.
I WAS WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO NOTE THAT, THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME NOT FEEL SO LAME XD
Greece/Japan - Greece uses rhetoric to ask Japan to marry him
(Anonymous) 2011-10-05 04:11 pm (UTC)(link)So the art of rhetoric (persuasion) was first developed in Greece, and the "Big Three" developers of rhetorical theory in the ancient world were from Greece: Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Many students are taught the three Aristotelian modes of persuasion: pathos (appeal to the audience's emotions), ethos (ethics, or appeal to the speaker's personal character/credibility), and logos (appeal to logic: using facts or figures to back up your argument). See more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modes_of_persuasion
This anon has always been a sucker for unusual and interesting marriage proposals. I want to see Greece, in front of a large crowd (including Japan of course), make a speech that uses the rhetorical modes of persuasion to convince Japan to marry him. I'm fine with either countries or humans.
Bonus 1: The speech is tacked on to a completely different speech at the beginning or the end.
Bonus 2: Someone else who heard the speech falls for it and asks Greece to marry them.
Bonus 3: Include historical details about ancient Greek orators. For example, in ancient Greece, orators often studied gymnastic to give themselves better posture and better, smoother gesturing abilities.
This anon has always been a sucker for unusual and interesting marriage proposals. I want to see Greece, in front of a large crowd (including Japan of course), make a speech that uses the rhetorical modes of persuasion to convince Japan to marry him. I'm fine with either countries or humans.
Bonus 1: The speech is tacked on to a completely different speech at the beginning or the end.
Bonus 2: Someone else who heard the speech falls for it and asks Greece to marry them.
Bonus 3: Include historical details about ancient Greek orators. For example, in ancient Greece, orators often studied gymnastic to give themselves better posture and better, smoother gesturing abilities.
Re: Greece/Japan - Greece uses rhetoric to ask Japan to marry him
(Anonymous) 2011-10-05 08:58 pm (UTC)(link)This is so nerdy. Seconded XD
Yeah, I'm taking two different classes about rhetoric in graduate school this semester, so it's kind of on my mind all the time. XD I'm actually about to write a 10-12 page paper comparing two rhetorical schools of thought and argue why one is superior to the other.
I'm going to try and fill this, don't know how long it will take. I've had two teachers who really pressed those three words... my papers are not complete without ethos, pathos or logos in them.
Yay! I know I had it hammered into my head a lot as well, both in undergraduate and graduate classes.
AU. America's life started to go downhill after he gained his liberty. Now, he is forced to seek refuge with England once again. But Arthur is not willing to just forgive and forget...
An interesting prompt, but I'm not quite sure what you're asking for. Do you want America to have to make it up to England somehow? Do you want England to angrily tell him off? Do you want angst? Smut? Happy ending, or none? It's not very clear from your request as it currently reads.
Maybe they're really cool with anything from "interpersonal melodrama ending in a fairy-tale ending" to another "England rapes and abuses America as punishment for leaving" kind of story? I've seriously seen prompts that were meant to be that open...
I'm curious, too!
I'm curious, too!
Eh, I wasn't quite sure what I wanted in the beginning... but rape is definitely not it. What I do want, though, is to see America make it up to England. And for it to take quite a while. While I do not want to see an abusive Arthur, I do want him to be somewhat distant and cold towards Alfred... So, yes to angst - and yes to a happy ending.
So it's a pretty well-known fact that Danes and Swedes hated each other back in the days. Therefore I want some violent hatesex between the two. The catch? I want Sweden genderbent.
No rape, both of them want it equally much.
Bonus:
- References to history
- If there's one who's more dominant, it's Sweden
No rape, both of them want it equally much.
Bonus:
- References to history
- If there's one who's more dominant, it's Sweden
I actually want to try filling this o_o I've barely written any Sweden and I've never written Denmark, but I am willing to try because I am strangely intrigued by this prompt... maybe fill sometime soon?
I'd totally read this even if it is your first time writing Denmark =)
OP would be delighted if you filled this, even if you've never written Denmark before. :D
“You’ve had your hair pinned up.”
Sweden said nothing at the sound of a voice; instead she continued to read the book in her dainty hands, eyes trailing over intricate script painstakingly written over. She became very aware of a hand on her shoulder, and hot breath against the only exposed skin along her cheek.
“It brings out your face.” Sweden pursed her lips into a line and carefully turned the leather-hide page. It was one of the less fragile books from Denmark’s massive collection, and she’d be damned to allow him to interrupt. “Is there any particular reason you’ve done it this way?”
“Suggestion,” Sweden responded. She curled one of her legs beneath her, using one hand to hide it away underneath the top layer of her skirt. She allowed her hand to lie along her thigh, and although her entire leg was hidden from view she knew Denmark could see the outline through a layer of petticoat and a layer of woolen-cotton dark skirt.
Denmark, who had been waiting with his head on her shoulder, stood up straight and walked ‘round to the front of the chair she was perched in, hands folded behind his back. Sweden glanced upwards, her face unchanging, as Denmark’s lips twisted into a bizarre grin. His blonde hair was untamed and his eyes shone against a thin face and a long neck; the rest of his body, however, was as formed and strong as ever, even hidden beneath layers of cloth and brocade.
Sweden’s mouth turned into a small frown. Denmark was just... standing there in front of her, looking her over like a peculiar painting. Sweden closed the book in her hands and pulled her other leg into her seat, hiding it all beneath her floor-length skirt. She smoothed out the pleats and sat up straighter, reaching up to her hair and tucking some loose strands back into the impeccable bun at the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes as she moved but she could feel Denmark watching her body move, watching the curve of her chest and the flex of her shoulders and biceps. If he was going to show his strength, she was going to send hers right back.
“Have you been here all day?” Denmark asked, finally. He had wandered to the fireplace on the opposite wall, standing in front of it to soak up its warmth. Sweden lowered her arms and allowed the corner of her lips to perk upwards, eyes practically glittering beneath her spectacles.
“I have,” Sweden answered finally. “Easier to stay out of trouble this way, hrm, Denmark?” That grin returned to Denmark’s rosy cheeks, and his eyes sparkled the way they did when he was a young conqueror taking everything around him. It was a hunger, almost, Sweden noted: a hunger for power, for adventure, for knowledge.
Sweden’s heart thrummed against her breast as Denmark’s eyes sparkled. Lord how she hated that.
Sweden said nothing at the sound of a voice; instead she continued to read the book in her dainty hands, eyes trailing over intricate script painstakingly written over. She became very aware of a hand on her shoulder, and hot breath against the only exposed skin along her cheek.
“It brings out your face.” Sweden pursed her lips into a line and carefully turned the leather-hide page. It was one of the less fragile books from Denmark’s massive collection, and she’d be damned to allow him to interrupt. “Is there any particular reason you’ve done it this way?”
“Suggestion,” Sweden responded. She curled one of her legs beneath her, using one hand to hide it away underneath the top layer of her skirt. She allowed her hand to lie along her thigh, and although her entire leg was hidden from view she knew Denmark could see the outline through a layer of petticoat and a layer of woolen-cotton dark skirt.
Denmark, who had been waiting with his head on her shoulder, stood up straight and walked ‘round to the front of the chair she was perched in, hands folded behind his back. Sweden glanced upwards, her face unchanging, as Denmark’s lips twisted into a bizarre grin. His blonde hair was untamed and his eyes shone against a thin face and a long neck; the rest of his body, however, was as formed and strong as ever, even hidden beneath layers of cloth and brocade.
Sweden’s mouth turned into a small frown. Denmark was just... standing there in front of her, looking her over like a peculiar painting. Sweden closed the book in her hands and pulled her other leg into her seat, hiding it all beneath her floor-length skirt. She smoothed out the pleats and sat up straighter, reaching up to her hair and tucking some loose strands back into the impeccable bun at the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes as she moved but she could feel Denmark watching her body move, watching the curve of her chest and the flex of her shoulders and biceps. If he was going to show his strength, she was going to send hers right back.
“Have you been here all day?” Denmark asked, finally. He had wandered to the fireplace on the opposite wall, standing in front of it to soak up its warmth. Sweden lowered her arms and allowed the corner of her lips to perk upwards, eyes practically glittering beneath her spectacles.
“I have,” Sweden answered finally. “Easier to stay out of trouble this way, hrm, Denmark?” That grin returned to Denmark’s rosy cheeks, and his eyes sparkled the way they did when he was a young conqueror taking everything around him. It was a hunger, almost, Sweden noted: a hunger for power, for adventure, for knowledge.
Sweden’s heart thrummed against her breast as Denmark’s eyes sparkled. Lord how she hated that.
“Well,” Denmark said, putting a particular emphasis on the word. “I never said you couldn’t get into trouble, Sweden. This is my house! And trouble always leads to a certain fun, does it not?” Denmark remarked, putting his hands on his waist and smiling toothily at Sweden. Sweden resisted the urge to run up to him and kick his teeth in.
“Fun,” Sweden murmured. She shifted in her seat, placing a hand on her neck, over her high collar. ‘Fun’ was certainly not trying to talk to Denmark, Sweden was sure of that. She thought back to the book she had been reading. Although not the type of ‘fun’ she’d normally engage in at home, far away from here, she’d rather read fantastic stories than pretend to enjoy the Union.
“Your hair is coming undone,” Denmark said. He started balancing on his heels, still standing with his back to the flames. The room darkened in his outstanding shadow, even though it hadn’t been that light to begin with. “I think it might just be too fine to stay up with only one pin.”
“Maybe,” Sweden agreed. Her chest felt tight and her breathing increased as Denmark began walking towards her, but he stopped when he reached the center of the room and instead looked down at the carpet beneath his boots.
“There seems to be something—oh,” he said, nudging the floor. “Nevermind, it’s a part of the pattern, I see.” When he looked back up Sweden had gotten to her feet and was crossing the room to meet him, face as neutral as ever. Denmark placed his hands on his waist once more and tipped his head to the side, widening his eyes and pulling a grin at the young woman before him.
“Are you coming over here to berate me?” Denmark asked. Sweden perked an eyebrow. “I can see it on your face. I know you think I can’t read your expressionless expressions, but I can, and—” Denmark never finished his sentence, or even expressed whatever point he was trying to make; Sweden had reached out and, in one fluid movement, grasped the back of Denmark’s unruly head and pulled his face to hers, locking him into a bruising, steamy kiss. Denmark faltered, eyes wide open, barely moving as Sweden moved her other hand to his neck and turned her head, soaking up every bit of him she could muster. She parted her lips on his, sucking at his bottom lip, using her petite tongue to wedge between his thick lips and engage him. After a few more seconds of complete confusion, Denmark closed his eyes and reciprocated, allowing a groan to escape the back of his throat.
When Sweden pulled away, azure eyes narrowed and glowing, Denmark gave her a sloppy grin.
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” Denmark remarked. Sweden’s lip twitched but she said nothing, only grabbing his dangling arm and pulling it to her waist. She leaned up and kissed him again, pushing her body flush against his, strands of golden hair falling down over her covered shoulders.
Denmark stumbled backwards with her force and suddenly he was on the carpet, leaning back on his elbows, with Sweden straddling his lap, her hands on either side of his face, kissing him sloppily along his jaw and his lips. She ran her hands through his mussed hair, pulling gently at the wild patches that defied gravity. Denmark shifted his legs and clamped his thighs around her waist, allowing her to push his back against the carpet, their heads only a few meters from the flames licking the black-bricked fireplace.
Denmark pulled away, head against the floor, staring up at Sweden, trying to regain his breath. His entire body was tensed his head swam from heat and arousal. Sweden was like siren from fairy-tales; a vixen, an enchantress, a succubus. She could easily get Denmark to do whatever she wanted, regardless of the fact that he was the clear favorite of the Union.
This was one of those moments when Denmark realized that he was completely under her control, and he did not mind in the least.
A!a from above (the one who's never written Denmark before). I've been slowly and steadily writing this fill and I figured I should post some up to show I've been working on it. Smut smut smut smut is coming later.
“Fun,” Sweden murmured. She shifted in her seat, placing a hand on her neck, over her high collar. ‘Fun’ was certainly not trying to talk to Denmark, Sweden was sure of that. She thought back to the book she had been reading. Although not the type of ‘fun’ she’d normally engage in at home, far away from here, she’d rather read fantastic stories than pretend to enjoy the Union.
“Your hair is coming undone,” Denmark said. He started balancing on his heels, still standing with his back to the flames. The room darkened in his outstanding shadow, even though it hadn’t been that light to begin with. “I think it might just be too fine to stay up with only one pin.”
“Maybe,” Sweden agreed. Her chest felt tight and her breathing increased as Denmark began walking towards her, but he stopped when he reached the center of the room and instead looked down at the carpet beneath his boots.
“There seems to be something—oh,” he said, nudging the floor. “Nevermind, it’s a part of the pattern, I see.” When he looked back up Sweden had gotten to her feet and was crossing the room to meet him, face as neutral as ever. Denmark placed his hands on his waist once more and tipped his head to the side, widening his eyes and pulling a grin at the young woman before him.
“Are you coming over here to berate me?” Denmark asked. Sweden perked an eyebrow. “I can see it on your face. I know you think I can’t read your expressionless expressions, but I can, and—” Denmark never finished his sentence, or even expressed whatever point he was trying to make; Sweden had reached out and, in one fluid movement, grasped the back of Denmark’s unruly head and pulled his face to hers, locking him into a bruising, steamy kiss. Denmark faltered, eyes wide open, barely moving as Sweden moved her other hand to his neck and turned her head, soaking up every bit of him she could muster. She parted her lips on his, sucking at his bottom lip, using her petite tongue to wedge between his thick lips and engage him. After a few more seconds of complete confusion, Denmark closed his eyes and reciprocated, allowing a groan to escape the back of his throat.
When Sweden pulled away, azure eyes narrowed and glowing, Denmark gave her a sloppy grin.
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” Denmark remarked. Sweden’s lip twitched but she said nothing, only grabbing his dangling arm and pulling it to her waist. She leaned up and kissed him again, pushing her body flush against his, strands of golden hair falling down over her covered shoulders.
Denmark stumbled backwards with her force and suddenly he was on the carpet, leaning back on his elbows, with Sweden straddling his lap, her hands on either side of his face, kissing him sloppily along his jaw and his lips. She ran her hands through his mussed hair, pulling gently at the wild patches that defied gravity. Denmark shifted his legs and clamped his thighs around her waist, allowing her to push his back against the carpet, their heads only a few meters from the flames licking the black-bricked fireplace.
Denmark pulled away, head against the floor, staring up at Sweden, trying to regain his breath. His entire body was tensed his head swam from heat and arousal. Sweden was like siren from fairy-tales; a vixen, an enchantress, a succubus. She could easily get Denmark to do whatever she wanted, regardless of the fact that he was the clear favorite of the Union.
This was one of those moments when Denmark realized that he was completely under her control, and he did not mind in the least.
A!a from above (the one who's never written Denmark before). I've been slowly and steadily writing this fill and I figured I should post some up to show I've been working on it. Smut smut smut smut is coming later.
I... Have been stalking the kink meme for almost two years, waiting for the day a Denmark/fem!Sweden fic would appear. Today is that day.
This was absolutely gorgeous, I'm still rolling around in delight! Thank you so, so, so much. This pair needs so much more love!
This was absolutely gorgeous, I'm still rolling around in delight! Thank you so, so, so much. This pair needs so much more love!
Never knew how much this pairing was necessary in my life until this fill. I kinda have a hair kink though that you tickled. Not OP, but I am loving this already.
Late OP is late, but loved it none the less. <3 It's hot already and you've written them flawlessly. <3
Cant wait for more! :D
Cant wait for more! :D
Not!OP (obviously) but this anon (who can, unfortunately only draw with pencils and not paint with words like this), has also been scouring the kink meme for a decent fic with this pairing. Thank you do much author!anon, for bringing this, anon here is in heaven already!
Sweden laid another wet kiss to the Dane’s lips before she sat up, rolling her hips against his pelvis as she did, causing Denmark to gasp in pleasure. Her red lips curled into a sly smile, reminiscent of Denmark’s own, and she reached up behind her head and removed her pin. Gold colored sheathes of hair fell around her shoulders, and as she leaned over Denmark once more it brushed against his throat and his cheeks.
“Jag vet att du kommer njuta av denna,” Sweden whispered into his skin. Denmark curled his toes in his boots and reached up to lose his hands in her long locks. She pressed against him once more, kissing and then licking his chin, leading a trail to his lips which she captured before he could get out another word. Denmark’s hands traveled to her upper back, where he found the silver buttons used to close her dress. He immediately began working on the fastens, and she shucked the dress as soon as it came loose.
Denmark ran his hands down Sweden’s bare shoulders, stopping at the layer of thin white cotton that covered her breasts and waist. They were practically transparent but were still covering her, and as Denmark stopped moving to admire her, Sweden unbuttoned his coat.
“You’re much eager than normal,” Denmark murmured through her hair. “Even Norway isn’t this forward.”
“Says the kingdom who unbuttoned a lady’s dress in mere moments,” Sweden murmured back. As Denmark’s chest was revealed, Sweden laid a trail of kisses down his neck, his clavicle, and between his pectorals, down over his abdominals to the nip his navel made. Her hands followed, lightly scratching with her long trimmed nails. Denmark swallowed and clenched his hands into fists, groaning as Sweden stopped just above his hips, not even acknowledging the growing lump beneath his trousers.
“You’re incorrigible,” Denmark said as he slid one wayward hand up her thigh, snaking it beneath the layers of petticoat she still wore. He wormed underneath her bloomers and massaged her inner thigh, causing an uncharacteristic whine from the female nation. Sweden hovered over Denmark, using her hands to prop her up, biting her lower lip and squeezing her eyes shut to remain unaffected from the Dane’s lithe hands. Denmark grinned as his other hand followed up her other thigh, and Sweden bowed her head on his shoulder and trembled slightly as he easily found all her tenderest of places.
“You’re so stoic all the time,” Denmark said in a low, hushed voice. “Always with absolutely no expression, pursed lips and empty eyes, although I can see that Viking spark, you’re just suppressing it, my lady.” He moved his fingers and Sweden let out a gasp. “I can read all your emotionless emotions.” With that, Sweden placed on of her hands on Denmark’s shoulder and brought him into an unexpected kiss. Denmark, unprepared, pulled his hands out from underneath her petticoat and placed a hand on her cheek instead. Sweden pulled away and, with eyes at half-mast, murmured
“Shut the hell up.” Denmark smirked upwards as she gave his shoulder a pinch and made to remove all and every bit of fabric separating them.
“Whatever you—“ Denmark began, but Sweden clamped a hand over his mouth as she discarded her bloomers over her long legs.
“Never listens,” she murmured, her face hiding behind a veil of hair. She pushed her hair over her shoulder and focused on Denmark’s waist, trailing her hands down his hips. Denmark said nothing more, instead settling one hand on her hips. He traced his thumb in circles against her skin, enjoying the taut muscle beneath. She was strong, and he was lucky to have her, really. He squeezed her flesh and let out a strange little giggle that was just characteristically him.
Jag vet att du kommer njuta av denna = I know you will enjoy this (Swedish) (give or take a few words)
“Jag vet att du kommer njuta av denna,” Sweden whispered into his skin. Denmark curled his toes in his boots and reached up to lose his hands in her long locks. She pressed against him once more, kissing and then licking his chin, leading a trail to his lips which she captured before he could get out another word. Denmark’s hands traveled to her upper back, where he found the silver buttons used to close her dress. He immediately began working on the fastens, and she shucked the dress as soon as it came loose.
Denmark ran his hands down Sweden’s bare shoulders, stopping at the layer of thin white cotton that covered her breasts and waist. They were practically transparent but were still covering her, and as Denmark stopped moving to admire her, Sweden unbuttoned his coat.
“You’re much eager than normal,” Denmark murmured through her hair. “Even Norway isn’t this forward.”
“Says the kingdom who unbuttoned a lady’s dress in mere moments,” Sweden murmured back. As Denmark’s chest was revealed, Sweden laid a trail of kisses down his neck, his clavicle, and between his pectorals, down over his abdominals to the nip his navel made. Her hands followed, lightly scratching with her long trimmed nails. Denmark swallowed and clenched his hands into fists, groaning as Sweden stopped just above his hips, not even acknowledging the growing lump beneath his trousers.
“You’re incorrigible,” Denmark said as he slid one wayward hand up her thigh, snaking it beneath the layers of petticoat she still wore. He wormed underneath her bloomers and massaged her inner thigh, causing an uncharacteristic whine from the female nation. Sweden hovered over Denmark, using her hands to prop her up, biting her lower lip and squeezing her eyes shut to remain unaffected from the Dane’s lithe hands. Denmark grinned as his other hand followed up her other thigh, and Sweden bowed her head on his shoulder and trembled slightly as he easily found all her tenderest of places.
“You’re so stoic all the time,” Denmark said in a low, hushed voice. “Always with absolutely no expression, pursed lips and empty eyes, although I can see that Viking spark, you’re just suppressing it, my lady.” He moved his fingers and Sweden let out a gasp. “I can read all your emotionless emotions.” With that, Sweden placed on of her hands on Denmark’s shoulder and brought him into an unexpected kiss. Denmark, unprepared, pulled his hands out from underneath her petticoat and placed a hand on her cheek instead. Sweden pulled away and, with eyes at half-mast, murmured
“Shut the hell up.” Denmark smirked upwards as she gave his shoulder a pinch and made to remove all and every bit of fabric separating them.
“Whatever you—“ Denmark began, but Sweden clamped a hand over his mouth as she discarded her bloomers over her long legs.
“Never listens,” she murmured, her face hiding behind a veil of hair. She pushed her hair over her shoulder and focused on Denmark’s waist, trailing her hands down his hips. Denmark said nothing more, instead settling one hand on her hips. He traced his thumb in circles against her skin, enjoying the taut muscle beneath. She was strong, and he was lucky to have her, really. He squeezed her flesh and let out a strange little giggle that was just characteristically him.
Jag vet att du kommer njuta av denna = I know you will enjoy this (Swedish) (give or take a few words)
Just as he was about to attempt to make her repeat the same sound as earlier, two small, strong fists reached up and pinned his wrists above his head, against the carpet. He looked up in surprise and saw Sweden stretched over him, hair falling against his face and chest, eyes narrow and shining a violet-blue that sent a chill down Denmark’s spine. Sweden’s lips were in the smallest of smiles, not saying a word to the confused Dane beneath her. Keeping one hand on his wrists, she trailed her fingers down his chest, causing terse breaths to shudder from his lips.
Denmark clenched his teeth as she reached his waistline, not sure if he was allowed to make a sound. He could see her muscles tightening in her arm as she relayed all the strength she could in making sure he didn’t use his hands at all.
“Where is everyone else?” Sweden asked, as if she wasn’t causing Denmark’s skin to prickle to her every touch.
“O-out,” Denmark stammered. She pulled his trousers down past his hips, tracing tantalizing circles lightly along his thigh. “I t-think.”
“So, we are alone in the house?”
“I-I mean—“ Denmark started, but his words were lost in a heated gasp as he closed his eyes and buckled under her hands.
“I said... are we alone in the house?”
“I... I can’t say for a-absolute certainty,” Denmark managed to gasp. He laid his head back along the carpet, flexing his shoulders, curling his toes into his boots as Sweden slicked her hand over his member skillfully. Suddenly, she was in his face again, hair pulled back over her shoulders, one eyebrow uncharacteristically arched, a dimple appearing on her let cheek as her lips curled into a grin to match his own.
“I’ll ask, one more time,” she said, releasing his wrists and placing a delicate hand on his cheek. “Maybe you’ll understand what I mean this time.” She leaned forward, hair grazing his chest, and murmured
“Er vi alene nok til dette?” into his ear. Denmark bit his lower lip and had to stop himself from bucking up into her hips.
“Y-yes,” he answered, not even caring if there were in fact people around, because they were in the upper chambers and oh it didn’t even matter anymore at that point. Sweden laid a kiss on his lips, eyes closed, her eyelashes so long they brushed up against his cheeks as she pressed against him. Only moments passed before they were one, and Sweden gasped into his lips as he began thrusting into her, sliding his arms around her shoulders.
Sweden released her hold on his lips, instead smoothing his hair back from his forehead and laying a kiss to his brow, allowing him to nip and lick at her exposed neck. She ran her hand through his tousled locks, her over sensitized skin feeling every prick of his wild hair. She balled her hand into a fist and accidentally tugged his hair as a jolt ran through her spine as a particularly well-placed thrust caught her by surprise. She let out a heated gasp that doubled as a low moan, and she buried her nose into his hair as he bit her neck. Her entire face was hot and she felt a bit dizzy, but the sensations coursing through her were worth it.
“Your face—it’s so red,” Denmark murmured as she pushed herself off his chest, still hovering over him. She closed her eyes and frowned, hair cascading over her shoulders as she shifted and pressed her knees firmly against the carpet.
“Sh-shut up,” she mumbled, and Denmark smirked. Sweden opened her eyes and looked at him and his infuriating grin, and resisted the urge to punch him in the face. Instead, she resolved, while trapped in arousal’s embrace, to screw with him another way.
“W-what’re you doing?” Denmark asked as she sat up, pulling him into a sitting position with her. He stopped thrusting momentarily just to gape at her in confused, face flushed and sweating, hair even rowdier than usual, chest heaving with lost breath.
Er vi alene nok til dette? = are we alone enough for this? (Danish)(once again, give or take a few words, I have no Swedish/Danish speaking friends)
Denmark clenched his teeth as she reached his waistline, not sure if he was allowed to make a sound. He could see her muscles tightening in her arm as she relayed all the strength she could in making sure he didn’t use his hands at all.
“Where is everyone else?” Sweden asked, as if she wasn’t causing Denmark’s skin to prickle to her every touch.
“O-out,” Denmark stammered. She pulled his trousers down past his hips, tracing tantalizing circles lightly along his thigh. “I t-think.”
“So, we are alone in the house?”
“I-I mean—“ Denmark started, but his words were lost in a heated gasp as he closed his eyes and buckled under her hands.
“I said... are we alone in the house?”
“I... I can’t say for a-absolute certainty,” Denmark managed to gasp. He laid his head back along the carpet, flexing his shoulders, curling his toes into his boots as Sweden slicked her hand over his member skillfully. Suddenly, she was in his face again, hair pulled back over her shoulders, one eyebrow uncharacteristically arched, a dimple appearing on her let cheek as her lips curled into a grin to match his own.
“I’ll ask, one more time,” she said, releasing his wrists and placing a delicate hand on his cheek. “Maybe you’ll understand what I mean this time.” She leaned forward, hair grazing his chest, and murmured
“Er vi alene nok til dette?” into his ear. Denmark bit his lower lip and had to stop himself from bucking up into her hips.
“Y-yes,” he answered, not even caring if there were in fact people around, because they were in the upper chambers and oh it didn’t even matter anymore at that point. Sweden laid a kiss on his lips, eyes closed, her eyelashes so long they brushed up against his cheeks as she pressed against him. Only moments passed before they were one, and Sweden gasped into his lips as he began thrusting into her, sliding his arms around her shoulders.
Sweden released her hold on his lips, instead smoothing his hair back from his forehead and laying a kiss to his brow, allowing him to nip and lick at her exposed neck. She ran her hand through his tousled locks, her over sensitized skin feeling every prick of his wild hair. She balled her hand into a fist and accidentally tugged his hair as a jolt ran through her spine as a particularly well-placed thrust caught her by surprise. She let out a heated gasp that doubled as a low moan, and she buried her nose into his hair as he bit her neck. Her entire face was hot and she felt a bit dizzy, but the sensations coursing through her were worth it.
“Your face—it’s so red,” Denmark murmured as she pushed herself off his chest, still hovering over him. She closed her eyes and frowned, hair cascading over her shoulders as she shifted and pressed her knees firmly against the carpet.
“Sh-shut up,” she mumbled, and Denmark smirked. Sweden opened her eyes and looked at him and his infuriating grin, and resisted the urge to punch him in the face. Instead, she resolved, while trapped in arousal’s embrace, to screw with him another way.
“W-what’re you doing?” Denmark asked as she sat up, pulling him into a sitting position with her. He stopped thrusting momentarily just to gape at her in confused, face flushed and sweating, hair even rowdier than usual, chest heaving with lost breath.
Er vi alene nok til dette? = are we alone enough for this? (Danish)(once again, give or take a few words, I have no Swedish/Danish speaking friends)
Without saying a word, Sweden snaked her arms around his waist and drew her hands down his arms, pulling his hands up to her breasts, curling his fingers around them, forcing him to cup them and run his fingertips over them gently. In all the times they’d had sex in the past, one thing he never did was touch her so gently—she hated it, especially her breasts, because she felt it was a part of her reserved. And she especially hated it with Denmark, partly because she hated Denmark, and partly because she knew that is was a complete and utter turn-on for him.
Sweden closed her eyes and twisted her hips, bringing her legs from a kneeling position to having them curled around his hips, digging her heels into the floor. She lowered her shoulders and ran his hands up to her neck, where he finally gave in with a deep-seated groan and practically attacked her neck.
“If you don’t move—“ Sweden murmured into his cheek, but he immediately did so, and the new position gave him a better angle, which Sweden immediately enjoyed. She bit her lip to keep from voicing how good it felt, because she had no intentions of letting Denmark know how much she enjoyed their trysts.
“I kn-know you’re not gonna say anything,” Denmark muttered into her ear, “but I can feel your nails on my back.” Sweden scoffed and kissed his neck, trying to ignore him in favor of the sensation. “It’s okay, because, ohhh, Sweden...”
“Hmmph,” was all Sweden said in reply, even though her mind was trembling with thoughts—ohhhDenmarkyouarejustsogoodohohneverstop—
“And you’re breathing real heavy.”
“Oh, käf—ohhhh,” Sweden moaned, and her body was tensing around him and her calves felt like she’d just run a mile through the snow, every tendon and muscle and blood vessel pumping with adrenaline. She took momentary comfort in knowing that he would have visible marks on his back from the damage her nails were inflicting at the moment.
“Yer going to have to—to go harder than that,” Sweden mumbled, without even thinking about it. Her mind was completely eclipsed with that searing pleasure tingling in her toes and her fingertips, and she flushed even darker when she realized she’d broken her resolve and voiced something. She could practically feel Denmark’s stupid grin as he licked at her breast and then grabbed her shoulders.
“I knew it,” was all he said, before pulling out and pushing Sweden down onto her back on the floor, pinning her to the floor by her shoulders. Her hair was laid around her head and she stared up at him, chest heaving, wearing half a glare and half a look of utter arousal. He grinned, leaned down, and kissed her full on the mouth, running his hands through her hair, one hand on the small of her back and she arched into him, twisting and turning beneath him, like a caged animal trying to escape it’s captor, and then she swore at him in Swedish as she came, as she always did, muttering obscenities with rose-red lips and a relaxed expression. He had her name on his lips, as he always did, and kissed her nose as he relaxed. She groaned and shoved him away, trying to sit up but failing in her fatigue.
Instead, Denmark rolled off of her and laid on his stomach beside her, head in his hands, making a face at her. Sweden just lay on her back, one arm strewn over her stomach, glaring at him. They were both panting, and although Sweden didn’t want to admit it, she couldn’t get up because she was still on a high from orgasm shooting through her bones.
Sweden closed her eyes and twisted her hips, bringing her legs from a kneeling position to having them curled around his hips, digging her heels into the floor. She lowered her shoulders and ran his hands up to her neck, where he finally gave in with a deep-seated groan and practically attacked her neck.
“If you don’t move—“ Sweden murmured into his cheek, but he immediately did so, and the new position gave him a better angle, which Sweden immediately enjoyed. She bit her lip to keep from voicing how good it felt, because she had no intentions of letting Denmark know how much she enjoyed their trysts.
“I kn-know you’re not gonna say anything,” Denmark muttered into her ear, “but I can feel your nails on my back.” Sweden scoffed and kissed his neck, trying to ignore him in favor of the sensation. “It’s okay, because, ohhh, Sweden...”
“Hmmph,” was all Sweden said in reply, even though her mind was trembling with thoughts—ohhhDenmarkyouarejustsogoodohohneverstop—
“And you’re breathing real heavy.”
“Oh, käf—ohhhh,” Sweden moaned, and her body was tensing around him and her calves felt like she’d just run a mile through the snow, every tendon and muscle and blood vessel pumping with adrenaline. She took momentary comfort in knowing that he would have visible marks on his back from the damage her nails were inflicting at the moment.
“Yer going to have to—to go harder than that,” Sweden mumbled, without even thinking about it. Her mind was completely eclipsed with that searing pleasure tingling in her toes and her fingertips, and she flushed even darker when she realized she’d broken her resolve and voiced something. She could practically feel Denmark’s stupid grin as he licked at her breast and then grabbed her shoulders.
“I knew it,” was all he said, before pulling out and pushing Sweden down onto her back on the floor, pinning her to the floor by her shoulders. Her hair was laid around her head and she stared up at him, chest heaving, wearing half a glare and half a look of utter arousal. He grinned, leaned down, and kissed her full on the mouth, running his hands through her hair, one hand on the small of her back and she arched into him, twisting and turning beneath him, like a caged animal trying to escape it’s captor, and then she swore at him in Swedish as she came, as she always did, muttering obscenities with rose-red lips and a relaxed expression. He had her name on his lips, as he always did, and kissed her nose as he relaxed. She groaned and shoved him away, trying to sit up but failing in her fatigue.
Instead, Denmark rolled off of her and laid on his stomach beside her, head in his hands, making a face at her. Sweden just lay on her back, one arm strewn over her stomach, glaring at him. They were both panting, and although Sweden didn’t want to admit it, she couldn’t get up because she was still on a high from orgasm shooting through her bones.
“Alright?” Denmark asked, as he ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it. Sweden closed her eyes, lips parted, feeling lighter than air, as if her blood had been turned into steaming water and she’d been immersed into a hot bath. Of course, she wanted to say. Of course I’m alright because you’re the first person in my life that’s made me feel something beyond pain and indifference, you freaking blonde idiot.
“Yeh,” was all she said out loud. Denmark laid his head down in his arms and watched her face as she became lost in her thoughts, firelight dancing off her sweat-soaked skin, surrounded in a bed of fine linens made from their clothes. Denmark reached out and ran a finger down her cheek, and she smacked it down onto the carpet, her long manicured nails digging into his fingers. She squeezed his hand and curled her fingers around his, rubbing his thumb and rolling onto her side, fighting in her head with her need to nap and her need to run to the washroom immediately.
But she didn’t let him go. Not for a second.
How did this come out being one-sided fem!Sweden/Denmark? Anyway. I listened to "Hysteria" by Muse and "Kiss with a Fist" by Florence + the Machine alternatively while writing this. Forgive my poor Swedish/Danish, I normally ask friends for help but I have no Scandinavian-speaking friends, boo. I hope this is what OP was looking for :<
“Yeh,” was all she said out loud. Denmark laid his head down in his arms and watched her face as she became lost in her thoughts, firelight dancing off her sweat-soaked skin, surrounded in a bed of fine linens made from their clothes. Denmark reached out and ran a finger down her cheek, and she smacked it down onto the carpet, her long manicured nails digging into his fingers. She squeezed his hand and curled her fingers around his, rubbing his thumb and rolling onto her side, fighting in her head with her need to nap and her need to run to the washroom immediately.
But she didn’t let him go. Not for a second.
How did this come out being one-sided fem!Sweden/Denmark? Anyway. I listened to "Hysteria" by Muse and "Kiss with a Fist" by Florence + the Machine alternatively while writing this. Forgive my poor Swedish/Danish, I normally ask friends for help but I have no Scandinavian-speaking friends, boo. I hope this is what OP was looking for :<
asdfgsfs, this was exactly what OP was looking for. <3 it's glorious and lovely and perfect and hot. Don't forget hot.
The Danish and Swedish was a really nice touch as well, especially since OP is Swedish herself. :D (so I can be your Scandinavian friend, lol)
This was perfect, please have all my love. <3
The Danish and Swedish was a really nice touch as well, especially since OP is Swedish herself. :D (so I can be your Scandinavian friend, lol)
This was perfect, please have all my love. <3
not!OP finds it kind of funny that she is Danish and OP is Swedish xD
Anyways, this was awesome! I completely agree with OP. Perfect and hot <3
Anyways, this was awesome! I completely agree with OP. Perfect and hot <3
Yum! This anon is neither Danish nor Swedish, but I sure want more people to write this pairing! The world needs more hot Denmark and Sweden!
a;sdlkf;sdkfsdfdlfajd;f
Oh wow, this was great. I adore DenSu but this is the first time I've ever read it with fem!Sweden and it was hnnnnngggg-worthy. I would love to see more delicious fics like this.
Thank you anon!
Oh wow, this was great. I adore DenSu but this is the first time I've ever read it with fem!Sweden and it was hnnnnngggg-worthy. I would love to see more delicious fics like this.
Thank you anon!
Any/Lithuania - Maid outfit, feather duster used for sex
(Anonymous) 2011-10-05 04:16 pm (UTC)(link)Preferred pairings are America/Lithuania or Russia/Lithuania, but I really will take anyone who could do this convincingly. I want to see Lithuania dressed in his maid's outfit from the April Fool's comics, for whatever reason you can contrive, with a featherduster. Then, I want to see his partner use the handle of said featherduster to penetrate Lithuania, that is, fuck him with it. Human names are somewhat preferred, but I am fine with nation names if that's how you write.
Bonuses:
-He's wearing the maid outfit the whole time.
-Tickling/sensation play with the feathery end, on either partner.
-No genital-anal sex (but both partners get off anyway).
Bonuses:
-He's wearing the maid outfit the whole time.
-Tickling/sensation play with the feathery end, on either partner.
-No genital-anal sex (but both partners get off anyway).
It was a set-up; he knew it as soon as he agreed to Ivan’s conditions. Work had been stressful lately, and Toris had already lost many hours of sleep over it. Ivan was being demanding about deadlines, which was normal, but when he’d started to demand paperwork to be handed in up to a week ahead of due dates, Toris had drawn a line. He was diplomatic about it, approaching Ivan alone in his personal office and asking him outright if he was angry about something. Ivan had smiled ever so innocently, playing the ‘whatever are you talking about?’ game with him. As if that wasn’t frustrating enough, he had of course only smiled when Toris pressed the topic.
‘Why Toris, if you want a break all you have to do is ask!’ Ivan had said. Toris had been wary, but how could he resist the bait?
‘May I have a break?’ He’d ask with one eyebrow raised.
‘Yes, of course!’
‘O-oh… thank yo—’
‘Just one catch.’ Ah, and there it was.
Toris currently stood alone in Ivan’s private study. It was adjoined to the Russian’s bedroom, and about the same size (which was by no means small!). Large enough to have two long bookcases, a fireplace, two large windows, a small desk, and a couch in front of the fireplace. Fidgeting a little, he couldn’t get those ‘conditions’ out of his mind. Ivan came in soon enough, a bundle of black and white clothing in his hands. He held it as if it was something precious, and he supposed in the Russian’s mind it might as well be. As if Toris might have forgotten exactly what it was, Ivan unfolded it to hold it out before the Lithuanian. A maid’s dress was. It was shorter than the more traditional one he’d worn before, in Ivan’s house during the Tsardom. Toris’ face was already burning, and he gave a heavy swallow.
“Why that one?” He asked, defensive. Ivan only chuckled, giving it a little shake.
“I like this one.” He responded with a smile. “Come now Toris, the sooner you put it on the sooner you can start cleaning, and then you can have your break!” That said, Toris took the dress with a heavy sigh. He paused at the sight of the other things in Ivan’s hands. Well, two of them were expected. White thigh-high stockings and black shoes. It was the third item that seemed a little out of place.
“Plastic?” Toris asked, glancing back up to meet Ivan’s violet eyes. He spoke of the handle of the feather duster Ivan was holding. Ivan was old fashioned, and he usually preferred the wooden handles.
“I misplaced the old one. Don’t worry, the feathers are still real!” Ivan assured him. As if that was very comforting. Toris took the other items reluctantly.
“You do remember my conditions, right?”
“I’m not to try and have sex with you.” Ivan said, one hand raised. Those weren’t Toris’ exact words, but that was the jist of it.
“G-good enough.”
“And you remember mine?”
“Wear the dress and clean your study while you finish some paperwork, and address you properly.”
“And?” Ivan prompted with a sing-song tone. Toris’ face burned, and he averted his eyes.
“If I fail to do this job, I won’t get my break.” He muttered. Ivan smiled, clapping his hands together in front of him with a nod. Just as Toris moved for the bedroom to change, he was stopped by the Russian.
“Mn, one more thing!” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of white satin panties. Oh, they were made for men, but that didn’t make it any better. Toris snatched them in a hurry, not daring to look into Ivan’s eyes as he rushed for the bedroom. It was like Ivan said. The sooner he changed and cleaned the sooner his break would begin!
‘Why Toris, if you want a break all you have to do is ask!’ Ivan had said. Toris had been wary, but how could he resist the bait?
‘May I have a break?’ He’d ask with one eyebrow raised.
‘Yes, of course!’
‘O-oh… thank yo—’
‘Just one catch.’ Ah, and there it was.
Toris currently stood alone in Ivan’s private study. It was adjoined to the Russian’s bedroom, and about the same size (which was by no means small!). Large enough to have two long bookcases, a fireplace, two large windows, a small desk, and a couch in front of the fireplace. Fidgeting a little, he couldn’t get those ‘conditions’ out of his mind. Ivan came in soon enough, a bundle of black and white clothing in his hands. He held it as if it was something precious, and he supposed in the Russian’s mind it might as well be. As if Toris might have forgotten exactly what it was, Ivan unfolded it to hold it out before the Lithuanian. A maid’s dress was. It was shorter than the more traditional one he’d worn before, in Ivan’s house during the Tsardom. Toris’ face was already burning, and he gave a heavy swallow.
“Why that one?” He asked, defensive. Ivan only chuckled, giving it a little shake.
“I like this one.” He responded with a smile. “Come now Toris, the sooner you put it on the sooner you can start cleaning, and then you can have your break!” That said, Toris took the dress with a heavy sigh. He paused at the sight of the other things in Ivan’s hands. Well, two of them were expected. White thigh-high stockings and black shoes. It was the third item that seemed a little out of place.
“Plastic?” Toris asked, glancing back up to meet Ivan’s violet eyes. He spoke of the handle of the feather duster Ivan was holding. Ivan was old fashioned, and he usually preferred the wooden handles.
“I misplaced the old one. Don’t worry, the feathers are still real!” Ivan assured him. As if that was very comforting. Toris took the other items reluctantly.
“You do remember my conditions, right?”
“I’m not to try and have sex with you.” Ivan said, one hand raised. Those weren’t Toris’ exact words, but that was the jist of it.
“G-good enough.”
“And you remember mine?”
“Wear the dress and clean your study while you finish some paperwork, and address you properly.”
“And?” Ivan prompted with a sing-song tone. Toris’ face burned, and he averted his eyes.
“If I fail to do this job, I won’t get my break.” He muttered. Ivan smiled, clapping his hands together in front of him with a nod. Just as Toris moved for the bedroom to change, he was stopped by the Russian.
“Mn, one more thing!” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of white satin panties. Oh, they were made for men, but that didn’t make it any better. Toris snatched them in a hurry, not daring to look into Ivan’s eyes as he rushed for the bedroom. It was like Ivan said. The sooner he changed and cleaned the sooner his break would begin!
It was eerily familiar, changing into the dress. He shuddered at the feel of the stockings on his bare legs. It was humiliating, but he’d actually shaved his legs for this. It was purely aesthetic! It was just awkward to try and wear stockings with unshaved legs—damn itchy too! If he had to be uncomfortable, he wanted to minimize that as much as possible. But it left his legs with a cool feeling, one he hadn’t felt since the days of old when tights weren’t only feminine. The panties were next, and he hated that initial coolness from the smooth fabric, closing his eyes and resisting another shudder. This dress already had no petticoat thankfully, so it wouldn’t fluff unnecessarily. The apron was next and the shoes were last. They were black and shiny, round toes and a single black strap over the tops of his feet. They only had about an inch of a heel.
Coming back into the study was hard to do with a straight face, and Toris could feel the flush of heat no matter how hard he tried to manage it. He swallowed, forcing his voice to remain level. “Mr. Braginsky.” He addressed the Russian sitting at his small desk. Ivan looked up, keeping his smile to a polite level.
“Ah, Toris! Don’t mind me, you can go ahead and begin.” Ivan gave a little wave of his hand, dropping his gaze back to the papers in front of him. Toris gave a small sigh of relief, giving a nod of his head.
“Yes, Sir.” He added, just to be sure. And so Toris began his little job of cleaning. Without a rag, he had to actually use the duster he had on hand. The mantle place, the bookshelf, a few decorative trinkets and vases that Ivan had around the study. He picked up books left out on the table by the window, put them back, and gathered the tea tray and cups, placing them by the door. He worked quickly of course, wanting this to be over as soon as possible. Now and then he would glance over to the desk and catch Ivan staring, though Ivan would only give a small smile and go back to work without a word. With a bit more straightening and starting the fire in the fireplace (it was evening by now), Toris gave a small huff of satisfaction. Standing by the couch, he crossed his arms. “I’m finished, Mr. Braginsky.” Ivan looked up again now, setting down his pen.
“Very good, I think I’ll just give it a quick inspection then.” He stated as he stood. Toris held back a small groan of complaint, nodding his head instead. Ivan wandered over to the bookshelf, swiping at the shelves with his finger. Satisfied, he moved over to the mantle, then the various decorations. However he moved over to a portrait next, and Toris felt his stomach flip.
“Wait, I’ll…!” But it was too late, and he watched in dismay as Ivan swept his finger across the frame of the portrait. Naturally it came away covered in dust, as Toris had forgotten all about the paintings. “J-just let me…”
“Tsk, tsk Toris.” Ivan said as he rubbed his finger against his thumb before he wiped it off on his pants. “I believe we had a deal? It looks as if you’ve failed to meet the conditions.” Toris was devastated, and he approached the Russian to plead with him.
“P-please Ivan, I really need a—”
“Ah!” Ivan explained, holding up one finger. “You’ve broken another one! You failed to finish cleaning, so you’re still under my service.” Toris grit his teeth, brow furrowed.
“Please, Sir.” The Lithuanian corrected himself. “I really need a break, I’m barely getting any sleep and I’m at my wits end with paperwork.” Ivan’s expression became sorrowful, as if touched by his subordinate’s plight. He crossed his arms over his chest, pretending to contemplate this. Ivan was sometimes strict, but he wasn’t cruel. Perhaps he would really let it go this time! Toris hated that Ivan enjoyed his ‘troubled’ expressions, but he used it to his advantage now. Even more than he loved to tease, Ivan loved to be kind and give others a helping hand. Not many knew this because they didn’t know how to ask, but Toris had long ago learned how to get what he wanted. Well, most of the time. Finally Ivan smiled, and it brought out Toris’ own.
Coming back into the study was hard to do with a straight face, and Toris could feel the flush of heat no matter how hard he tried to manage it. He swallowed, forcing his voice to remain level. “Mr. Braginsky.” He addressed the Russian sitting at his small desk. Ivan looked up, keeping his smile to a polite level.
“Ah, Toris! Don’t mind me, you can go ahead and begin.” Ivan gave a little wave of his hand, dropping his gaze back to the papers in front of him. Toris gave a small sigh of relief, giving a nod of his head.
“Yes, Sir.” He added, just to be sure. And so Toris began his little job of cleaning. Without a rag, he had to actually use the duster he had on hand. The mantle place, the bookshelf, a few decorative trinkets and vases that Ivan had around the study. He picked up books left out on the table by the window, put them back, and gathered the tea tray and cups, placing them by the door. He worked quickly of course, wanting this to be over as soon as possible. Now and then he would glance over to the desk and catch Ivan staring, though Ivan would only give a small smile and go back to work without a word. With a bit more straightening and starting the fire in the fireplace (it was evening by now), Toris gave a small huff of satisfaction. Standing by the couch, he crossed his arms. “I’m finished, Mr. Braginsky.” Ivan looked up again now, setting down his pen.
“Very good, I think I’ll just give it a quick inspection then.” He stated as he stood. Toris held back a small groan of complaint, nodding his head instead. Ivan wandered over to the bookshelf, swiping at the shelves with his finger. Satisfied, he moved over to the mantle, then the various decorations. However he moved over to a portrait next, and Toris felt his stomach flip.
“Wait, I’ll…!” But it was too late, and he watched in dismay as Ivan swept his finger across the frame of the portrait. Naturally it came away covered in dust, as Toris had forgotten all about the paintings. “J-just let me…”
“Tsk, tsk Toris.” Ivan said as he rubbed his finger against his thumb before he wiped it off on his pants. “I believe we had a deal? It looks as if you’ve failed to meet the conditions.” Toris was devastated, and he approached the Russian to plead with him.
“P-please Ivan, I really need a—”
“Ah!” Ivan explained, holding up one finger. “You’ve broken another one! You failed to finish cleaning, so you’re still under my service.” Toris grit his teeth, brow furrowed.
“Please, Sir.” The Lithuanian corrected himself. “I really need a break, I’m barely getting any sleep and I’m at my wits end with paperwork.” Ivan’s expression became sorrowful, as if touched by his subordinate’s plight. He crossed his arms over his chest, pretending to contemplate this. Ivan was sometimes strict, but he wasn’t cruel. Perhaps he would really let it go this time! Toris hated that Ivan enjoyed his ‘troubled’ expressions, but he used it to his advantage now. Even more than he loved to tease, Ivan loved to be kind and give others a helping hand. Not many knew this because they didn’t know how to ask, but Toris had long ago learned how to get what he wanted. Well, most of the time. Finally Ivan smiled, and it brought out Toris’ own.
“I suppose I can let it go this once, and give you your break. You did uphold most of the conditions after all.” Toris’ smile grew, but before he could get out a word of gratitude Ivan’s smile grew playful. “Just one catch.” With that the brunette’s heart plummeted into his stomach. Ivan chuckled at Toris’ new expression, reaching out to pat his lover and subordinate’s cheek. “Oh come now, don’t make that face! It’s just a little punishment. That’s an easy price to pay, da?” Toris swallowed. He couldn’t give up his chance of a break.
“Yes.” Toris agreed. “Sir.” He added. Ivan was delighted, and he took a hold of Toris’ hand. Leading him over to the desk, Toris knew exactly what he was in for. Once Ivan released him, Toris gave a hard swallow, looking quite troubled again. He glanced to Ivan who was looking quite expectant, and so he gave in. Setting the feather duster on the desk, he bent over it. Elbows on the smooth wooden surface and palms flat, Toris bend his head down so that his hair would cover his red face. Ivan moved behind him with a little sound of happiness, lifting that already short skirt. Toris grit his teeth when he felt those long fingers slip into the edge of his underwear, feeling them drawn down to his knees. The air was cool on his exposed skin, already a bit warmer than usual thanks to his nervousness. Ivan set his hand beside Toris on the desk.
Smack! The first blow to one bare cheek was nothing of what Toris had expected. Sure it stung, but Ivan usually had a rather heavy hand for his ‘little punishments’. Just a few slaps could bring quite the pink flush to anyone’s backside! Smack, smack-smack! A second fell to follow the first, and two more to the other cheek. By the time he moved back to the first cheek, the sting had already gone from it. It was about that time that Toris realized Ivan had been honest—this was a little punishment! It was a strange feeling, that he was so grateful to his lover suddenly. It took a good ten swats for the sting to build enough to really start to sting, but Toris wasn’t about to protest!
Smack, smack! The sound of that bare skin being slapped always seemed so loud when there was no other sound aside from Toris’ swift gasps of air as that sting built up. His backside was getting quite warm now, and they’d reached sixteen before he gave a small sound of discomfort. “Ah, ah-ha…” Lips parted and eyes closed, Toris was ashamed to feel his body responding to this ‘punishment’. He couldn’t help it! The build had been so gradual that he couldn’t concentrate on the pain, only the sensation of being struck. The little jolt it would send through his body, the sting, the thrill, the game of it. Leave it to Ivan to turn a little game of ‘blackmail’ into something consensual. Toris moved his hips back into swat eighteen, and he heard Ivan give a little ‘ah!’ of satisfaction. Smack! The next one was harder, and Toris gave a sharp gasp and a little arch of his back. That one had hurt! Smack! One hard swat to the other side, and he gave a little jolt. But then they stopped.
“There there, you’ve done so well!” Ivan cooed, reaching over to lift the feather duster. He bat it against his leg a few times to shake off what little dust it had gathered. Toris shuddered as those soft feathers brushed across his sore pink backside, giving a heavy sigh of relief. They tickled and they teased, creating a confusing sensation across those two stinging and flushed cheeks. It chased away that sting, leaving only the most pleasant warmth. Toris used to blame Ivan for ‘teaching’ his body to enjoy that feeling, but with time he’d come to understand that it was only natural to enjoy any pure sensation which could bring pleasure.
“Yes.” Toris agreed. “Sir.” He added. Ivan was delighted, and he took a hold of Toris’ hand. Leading him over to the desk, Toris knew exactly what he was in for. Once Ivan released him, Toris gave a hard swallow, looking quite troubled again. He glanced to Ivan who was looking quite expectant, and so he gave in. Setting the feather duster on the desk, he bent over it. Elbows on the smooth wooden surface and palms flat, Toris bend his head down so that his hair would cover his red face. Ivan moved behind him with a little sound of happiness, lifting that already short skirt. Toris grit his teeth when he felt those long fingers slip into the edge of his underwear, feeling them drawn down to his knees. The air was cool on his exposed skin, already a bit warmer than usual thanks to his nervousness. Ivan set his hand beside Toris on the desk.
Smack! The first blow to one bare cheek was nothing of what Toris had expected. Sure it stung, but Ivan usually had a rather heavy hand for his ‘little punishments’. Just a few slaps could bring quite the pink flush to anyone’s backside! Smack, smack-smack! A second fell to follow the first, and two more to the other cheek. By the time he moved back to the first cheek, the sting had already gone from it. It was about that time that Toris realized Ivan had been honest—this was a little punishment! It was a strange feeling, that he was so grateful to his lover suddenly. It took a good ten swats for the sting to build enough to really start to sting, but Toris wasn’t about to protest!
Smack, smack! The sound of that bare skin being slapped always seemed so loud when there was no other sound aside from Toris’ swift gasps of air as that sting built up. His backside was getting quite warm now, and they’d reached sixteen before he gave a small sound of discomfort. “Ah, ah-ha…” Lips parted and eyes closed, Toris was ashamed to feel his body responding to this ‘punishment’. He couldn’t help it! The build had been so gradual that he couldn’t concentrate on the pain, only the sensation of being struck. The little jolt it would send through his body, the sting, the thrill, the game of it. Leave it to Ivan to turn a little game of ‘blackmail’ into something consensual. Toris moved his hips back into swat eighteen, and he heard Ivan give a little ‘ah!’ of satisfaction. Smack! The next one was harder, and Toris gave a sharp gasp and a little arch of his back. That one had hurt! Smack! One hard swat to the other side, and he gave a little jolt. But then they stopped.
“There there, you’ve done so well!” Ivan cooed, reaching over to lift the feather duster. He bat it against his leg a few times to shake off what little dust it had gathered. Toris shuddered as those soft feathers brushed across his sore pink backside, giving a heavy sigh of relief. They tickled and they teased, creating a confusing sensation across those two stinging and flushed cheeks. It chased away that sting, leaving only the most pleasant warmth. Toris used to blame Ivan for ‘teaching’ his body to enjoy that feeling, but with time he’d come to understand that it was only natural to enjoy any pure sensation which could bring pleasure.
[Damn character limits!]
At any time during this game, he knew he could say no. He could refuse to play along, and Ivan’s only response would be long hours of doing paperwork and mindless little chores around the house. Even then, he would never really overdo it! He never punished Toris for falling asleep on couches, after all. But Toris felt those smooth and tickling feathers sliding down, until they slipped between his thighs a little. “Ha—hey…!” Toris’ feet slid apart almost out of instinct, just a moment before he caught himself and pressed them tightly together. His weakest spot! Unfortunately it caused his underwear to slide to his ankles. Ivan practically giggled now. “My condition!” Toris protested, even though he knew it was already too late. His arousal had already grown enough for him to be hiding an erection, not knowing what he would do if he had to stand up right now.
“I’m not going to break it.” Ivan assured his lover. “I follow the rules, unlike a naughty little maid I know!” He sing-songed again, and Toris swallowed. Placing his left hand onto the desk again, Ivan leaned over until his hot breath tickled the hair covering Toris’ ear. “Come now Toris, I promise. Spread your thighs for me?” He asked ever so politely. Toris took in a shuddering breath through his parted lips, and slowly his heels slid apart. He knew his mind was muddled from pleasure, and that was Ivan’s fault, but who could pass up more pleasure? Toris was modest, but he wasn’t chaste! Ivan wasted no time in bringing the feather duster back between those sweat-damp thighs.
“Ooohh…” Toris’ voice gave a shameless moan before he could stop himself, but once it was out it was out. His fists were now clenched on the desk, and he tilted his head back. Ivan took advantage of that bared neck, kissing up and down it as the duster swept up and down between those sensitive thighs, brushing both sides. Toris was trembling, craving so much more than just those feathers! But Ivan took it one step further, abandoning Toris’ neck to bend his knees until his hand could slide up between the junction of those thighs. “Iva—Mr. Braginsky…!” Toris gave a whine of dismay as the feathers teased those sensitive orbs of flesh, and up to the underside of his erection.
“Da? What is it, moy dorogoy?” Ivan murmured affectionately, pleased that Toris had not broken character yet.
“M…more.” Toris stated simply. Ivan smiled, his devious little grin, and he pulled that feather duster away. Switching it to his left hand for a moment, he moved to open the top left drawer of his desk. Pulling out the little tube of lubricant, Toris gave in to the fact that he was letting Ivan break his condition without his complaint. However when Ivan opened the tube, he was still holding the duster. Green eyes widened when Ivan began to spread the slippery substance over the smooth plastic handle, and suddenly everything clicked. “You planned this!” Ivan didn’t bother to deny it, giving a small laugh.
“Such a thing to accuse! And here I’ve been so kind to you.” Ivan ‘scolded’ his maid-lover. Toris bit his lower lip, chewing at it as he debated his options. Before he could think of a good reason to stop this whole thing, Ivan was already taking up his place. This time his left hand came around under Toris’ hips, slick fingers wrapping around that arousal, fingertips brushing across the damp head of it. Toris gave another soft moan, voice wavering, losing all resistance again. He felt that cool, hard object slide between those pink cheeks to press against his entrance, and he only nodded.
At any time during this game, he knew he could say no. He could refuse to play along, and Ivan’s only response would be long hours of doing paperwork and mindless little chores around the house. Even then, he would never really overdo it! He never punished Toris for falling asleep on couches, after all. But Toris felt those smooth and tickling feathers sliding down, until they slipped between his thighs a little. “Ha—hey…!” Toris’ feet slid apart almost out of instinct, just a moment before he caught himself and pressed them tightly together. His weakest spot! Unfortunately it caused his underwear to slide to his ankles. Ivan practically giggled now. “My condition!” Toris protested, even though he knew it was already too late. His arousal had already grown enough for him to be hiding an erection, not knowing what he would do if he had to stand up right now.
“I’m not going to break it.” Ivan assured his lover. “I follow the rules, unlike a naughty little maid I know!” He sing-songed again, and Toris swallowed. Placing his left hand onto the desk again, Ivan leaned over until his hot breath tickled the hair covering Toris’ ear. “Come now Toris, I promise. Spread your thighs for me?” He asked ever so politely. Toris took in a shuddering breath through his parted lips, and slowly his heels slid apart. He knew his mind was muddled from pleasure, and that was Ivan’s fault, but who could pass up more pleasure? Toris was modest, but he wasn’t chaste! Ivan wasted no time in bringing the feather duster back between those sweat-damp thighs.
“Ooohh…” Toris’ voice gave a shameless moan before he could stop himself, but once it was out it was out. His fists were now clenched on the desk, and he tilted his head back. Ivan took advantage of that bared neck, kissing up and down it as the duster swept up and down between those sensitive thighs, brushing both sides. Toris was trembling, craving so much more than just those feathers! But Ivan took it one step further, abandoning Toris’ neck to bend his knees until his hand could slide up between the junction of those thighs. “Iva—Mr. Braginsky…!” Toris gave a whine of dismay as the feathers teased those sensitive orbs of flesh, and up to the underside of his erection.
“Da? What is it, moy dorogoy?” Ivan murmured affectionately, pleased that Toris had not broken character yet.
“M…more.” Toris stated simply. Ivan smiled, his devious little grin, and he pulled that feather duster away. Switching it to his left hand for a moment, he moved to open the top left drawer of his desk. Pulling out the little tube of lubricant, Toris gave in to the fact that he was letting Ivan break his condition without his complaint. However when Ivan opened the tube, he was still holding the duster. Green eyes widened when Ivan began to spread the slippery substance over the smooth plastic handle, and suddenly everything clicked. “You planned this!” Ivan didn’t bother to deny it, giving a small laugh.
“Such a thing to accuse! And here I’ve been so kind to you.” Ivan ‘scolded’ his maid-lover. Toris bit his lower lip, chewing at it as he debated his options. Before he could think of a good reason to stop this whole thing, Ivan was already taking up his place. This time his left hand came around under Toris’ hips, slick fingers wrapping around that arousal, fingertips brushing across the damp head of it. Toris gave another soft moan, voice wavering, losing all resistance again. He felt that cool, hard object slide between those pink cheeks to press against his entrance, and he only nodded.
“Ha…” Toris’ voice was again quiet as it slid inside, no thicker than perhaps two of Ivan’s fingers, and it went slowly. In fact, it seemed to press inside forever! He gave a whimper of impatience until the fingers around his member gave him a soothing stroke or two. Finally he felt the wider end of the duster’s handle, and Ivan’s fingers, against his backside, and he surmised that Ivan must have his fingers partly tangled into the feathers. “Mmm, mmh…” Toris’ eyes were closed again, and Ivan was bending to kiss at his clothed shoulder, to his back. It wasn’t even bare skin, but Toris shuddered as those lips kissed at his back, at the scars under the dress’ fabric.
The handle was pulled back swiftly now that his body had become accustomed to it, and it thrust back inside just as fast. “Oh!” Toris gave a small sound of surprise. It didn’t stop, giving a slick sound as it slid in and out, quite carefully aimed of course! Toris arched his back at the sensation of that smooth object moving back and forth, nearly leaving his body before he was pushed back inside again enough for those fingers and the base of it to brush his sore cheeks. The feathers even managed to tickle his thighs more than a few times. Coupled with the slow strokes of those hot, slick fingers around his erection, it was quite the flurry of pleasurable sensations.
“Oh, yes, ha, aha-ha, ah!” Toris’ voice escaped his parted lips, damp and swollen from his biting at them. It was easy to imagine that handle as something else. Well, to be fair Ivan was about four times as thick as that handle, but it was the motion. With quick and heavy thrusts like the handle was mimicking, Toris would have been feeling his body give a jolt with each one. He closed his eyes again, letting everything but those sensations and his own imagination and memories overtake him. He became aware of the heavy breath against his shoulder, so hot it made the fabric of the dress damp with it. Turning his face towards it, he would receive an affectionate nuzzle from that big nose, bringing the smallest of smiles to his parted lips.
“Ah, A…AH!” Toris gave in to his climax with a short, loud shout. His body went rigid, shuddering from head to toe as his heels left the floor. That wave of pleasure washed over him, making his whole body flush as hot as his backside for those brief moments. And when it was over he nearly collapsed against the desk, breath heavy and uneven. Ivan pulled the duster out slowly, dropping it to the floor. He pulled away his soiled hand as well, giving the most curious of smiles as he looked over it. Toris felt embarrassment well up inside of him, but before he could offer, Ivan turned his questioning gaze to him.
“I-I’ll keep my promise.” Ivan murmured, and the depth to his voice gave Toris a thrill. It was still soft, but the tone was so different from any other time. “But… mm, I’ll only touch myself… so…” He glanced to Toris’ still quite shamefully bared backside and back to those green eyes quickly. Toris didn’t even know what to feel at that suggestion, hesitating. His lover had actually been quite generous though, and he was still intent on playing by Toris’ rules. He supposed he would reward the Russian for his ‘good’ behavior, and let him get a good look at the body he was promising not to touch. Finally, after a few tense moments for Ivan, Toris nodded. Ivan smiled, opening his pants with his clean hand in a hurry.
Even without glancing over his shoulder—and how could he!—he could hear very clearly what Ivan was doing behind him. He knew it was hard for Ivan to keep his word, not to touch. What a tease it was, to be so close and not allowed to touch, not to take what was right there in front of you. And to be so desired, so respected, so loved that even the sight of you could bring about such a thing… Ivan had only given pleasure this entire game, never directly taken his own. Toris gave a small jump of surprise when he felt a hot, wet substance splash across one cheek to drip down to his thigh, accompanied by an elated little moan. “Th-that was touching.” Toris teased, and Ivan gave a little breathless giggle.
The handle was pulled back swiftly now that his body had become accustomed to it, and it thrust back inside just as fast. “Oh!” Toris gave a small sound of surprise. It didn’t stop, giving a slick sound as it slid in and out, quite carefully aimed of course! Toris arched his back at the sensation of that smooth object moving back and forth, nearly leaving his body before he was pushed back inside again enough for those fingers and the base of it to brush his sore cheeks. The feathers even managed to tickle his thighs more than a few times. Coupled with the slow strokes of those hot, slick fingers around his erection, it was quite the flurry of pleasurable sensations.
“Oh, yes, ha, aha-ha, ah!” Toris’ voice escaped his parted lips, damp and swollen from his biting at them. It was easy to imagine that handle as something else. Well, to be fair Ivan was about four times as thick as that handle, but it was the motion. With quick and heavy thrusts like the handle was mimicking, Toris would have been feeling his body give a jolt with each one. He closed his eyes again, letting everything but those sensations and his own imagination and memories overtake him. He became aware of the heavy breath against his shoulder, so hot it made the fabric of the dress damp with it. Turning his face towards it, he would receive an affectionate nuzzle from that big nose, bringing the smallest of smiles to his parted lips.
“Ah, A…AH!” Toris gave in to his climax with a short, loud shout. His body went rigid, shuddering from head to toe as his heels left the floor. That wave of pleasure washed over him, making his whole body flush as hot as his backside for those brief moments. And when it was over he nearly collapsed against the desk, breath heavy and uneven. Ivan pulled the duster out slowly, dropping it to the floor. He pulled away his soiled hand as well, giving the most curious of smiles as he looked over it. Toris felt embarrassment well up inside of him, but before he could offer, Ivan turned his questioning gaze to him.
“I-I’ll keep my promise.” Ivan murmured, and the depth to his voice gave Toris a thrill. It was still soft, but the tone was so different from any other time. “But… mm, I’ll only touch myself… so…” He glanced to Toris’ still quite shamefully bared backside and back to those green eyes quickly. Toris didn’t even know what to feel at that suggestion, hesitating. His lover had actually been quite generous though, and he was still intent on playing by Toris’ rules. He supposed he would reward the Russian for his ‘good’ behavior, and let him get a good look at the body he was promising not to touch. Finally, after a few tense moments for Ivan, Toris nodded. Ivan smiled, opening his pants with his clean hand in a hurry.
Even without glancing over his shoulder—and how could he!—he could hear very clearly what Ivan was doing behind him. He knew it was hard for Ivan to keep his word, not to touch. What a tease it was, to be so close and not allowed to touch, not to take what was right there in front of you. And to be so desired, so respected, so loved that even the sight of you could bring about such a thing… Ivan had only given pleasure this entire game, never directly taken his own. Toris gave a small jump of surprise when he felt a hot, wet substance splash across one cheek to drip down to his thigh, accompanied by an elated little moan. “Th-that was touching.” Toris teased, and Ivan gave a little breathless giggle.
“No, no!” Ivan protested, leaning over Toris’ shoulder again. He kissed at that damp neck, and Toris was tilting his head to the side to allow it. “Sorry.” He murmured. Toris chuckled in response. After a moment longer, Ivan spoke up again. “…You know I would have given you your break the moment you put on that dress.” He said quietly. Toris gave a sigh, and a small smile.
“I know.” He half-lied. He’d suspected that much, seeing as he knew Ivan wasn’t really angry about anything. Not enough to push Toris for any other reason than to play a little game. And he’d never admit it out loud, but humiliating and embarrassing as it was, he had ended up enjoying this game. Ah, perhaps Ivan had trained his body… But was that such a bad thing?
[The end x.x ]
“I know.” He half-lied. He’d suspected that much, seeing as he knew Ivan wasn’t really angry about anything. Not enough to push Toris for any other reason than to play a little game. And he’d never admit it out loud, but humiliating and embarrassing as it was, he had ended up enjoying this game. Ah, perhaps Ivan had trained his body… But was that such a bad thing?
[The end x.x ]
Mmmh, anon, you know I love you. ♥ Everything from the spanking to the actual kink to the come dripping down Toris' thigh at the end was absolutely delicious. And the way you wrote the dynamic between these two is somehow sweet in spite of everything else going on.
And of course I'm a sucker for really hot fic that doesn't involve penile-anal penetration. I also like that you didn't make the kink about humiliation (which would have been an easy thing to do with the prompt), but instead focused on the pleasure.
Thanks so much for filling! :D
And of course I'm a sucker for really hot fic that doesn't involve penile-anal penetration. I also like that you didn't make the kink about humiliation (which would have been an easy thing to do with the prompt), but instead focused on the pleasure.
Thanks so much for filling! :D
Wow, this was strangely hot. I was not expecting it to be like this, and that's a good thing! I'm glad I decided to give this a chance.
I'm glad you enjoyed it! I somewhat pride myself on improving the view on this pairing, so I'm very happy to hear that.
Here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=88585186#t88585186
I don't see this pairing much these days, so I'm asking for some.
Basically what I'd like to see is France topping the hell out of Prussia. Modern setting or after cold war would be the best. It could be angry sex because they still have issues. Maybe dub-con with Prussia not willing to submit but really incapable of say no to France because he feel he deserves it after WW2. Or France ashamed of himself, but again, incapable of stopping...It can be as angsty as you wish, kind anon, as long as there's an happy (or not so sad) ending.
Bonus: some other nations notices what's going on and try to do something
Basically what I'd like to see is France topping the hell out of Prussia. Modern setting or after cold war would be the best. It could be angry sex because they still have issues. Maybe dub-con with Prussia not willing to submit but really incapable of say no to France because he feel he deserves it after WW2. Or France ashamed of himself, but again, incapable of stopping...It can be as angsty as you wish, kind anon, as long as there's an happy (or not so sad) ending.
Bonus: some other nations notices what's going on and try to do something
Seconding! This pairing is my life.
By "other nations notice what's going on and try to do something" do you mean that they think Prussia's being raped?
I shameless stole this from the other author!anon. I apologize if I completely butchered this.
_
i.
He doesn’t cry out.
(His breath comes in harsh pants as he desperately clutches the sheets. His forehead, slick with sweat, hovers inches from the bed and his shoulders tremble slightly – in excitement, anticipation, indignation; he’s not quite sure. He’s not used to be being taken this way. Years ago, he would have never considered handing himself over so quietly to fucked and used until he could no longer breathe, no longer walk, but his body betrayed him as easily as if he was a fumbling adolescent and not a great nation. Former great nation, he reminds himself as cool hands grasp his hips too gently and his body betrays him again by seeking out the warmth he knows is right there. He arches his back as warm lips pressing against his spine. They murmur meaningless words in sweet French, moving with deliberate slowness. He ignores the light trembling of the lips as they kiss the curve of his neck and as they part slightly as a pair of sharp teeth bite down on his shoulder – still too gently – then make their way back down the column of his spine. His lover, if that’s even the correct term for the arraignment they have, makes another slow, torturous circuit with his lips as blunt nails dig into his hips.
The low French continues and he can feel the quick nips of sharp teeth along his back, across his shoulders and a warm tongue sliding across skin salty with sweat. The nails dig deeper. A voice whispers in his ear, Merci, mon cher. Merci.
Then, Francis enters him.)
He bites his lower lip, swallowing the German swears before they escape. He knows what will happen if he manages to let them escape. They’ve both been there. For the sake of their equally stubborn pride, Prussia pretends not to hear him whenever he moans Angleterre. It works pretty well.
It’s disgusting, their arraignment, and Prussia can’t help but wonder if they’re both sick. He knows France is, the way he maneuvers his hands across his skin teasing and exploring or that mouth murmuring French nonsense even as his thrusts become frantic and his hips lose the carefully constructed rhythm as he reaches his climax.
He would rather finish himself off, but France is still inside him, now soft, and his fingers are curling around him already in slow even strokes. For the first time tonight, there are no French words offered in comfort and Prussia can screw his eyes shut and imagine the long fingers deftly sliding across his most intimate part belong to someone else. Even if the palms are too calloused and worn.
(Afterward, there is no talking. There never is.
They’ve already cleaned up and settle next to each other in bed carefully avoiding physical contact. Francis offers him a cigarette. He accepts, pressing the unlit end to the already burning cigarette dangling from Francis’s lips. He keeps his eyes low, takes a long slow drag until his lungs burn, then sits back to exhale.
The smell of smoke lingers in the room until the next time. Prussia doesn’t bother to open the windows until then.)
_
i.
He doesn’t cry out.
(His breath comes in harsh pants as he desperately clutches the sheets. His forehead, slick with sweat, hovers inches from the bed and his shoulders tremble slightly – in excitement, anticipation, indignation; he’s not quite sure. He’s not used to be being taken this way. Years ago, he would have never considered handing himself over so quietly to fucked and used until he could no longer breathe, no longer walk, but his body betrayed him as easily as if he was a fumbling adolescent and not a great nation. Former great nation, he reminds himself as cool hands grasp his hips too gently and his body betrays him again by seeking out the warmth he knows is right there. He arches his back as warm lips pressing against his spine. They murmur meaningless words in sweet French, moving with deliberate slowness. He ignores the light trembling of the lips as they kiss the curve of his neck and as they part slightly as a pair of sharp teeth bite down on his shoulder – still too gently – then make their way back down the column of his spine. His lover, if that’s even the correct term for the arraignment they have, makes another slow, torturous circuit with his lips as blunt nails dig into his hips.
The low French continues and he can feel the quick nips of sharp teeth along his back, across his shoulders and a warm tongue sliding across skin salty with sweat. The nails dig deeper. A voice whispers in his ear, Merci, mon cher. Merci.
Then, Francis enters him.)
He bites his lower lip, swallowing the German swears before they escape. He knows what will happen if he manages to let them escape. They’ve both been there. For the sake of their equally stubborn pride, Prussia pretends not to hear him whenever he moans Angleterre. It works pretty well.
It’s disgusting, their arraignment, and Prussia can’t help but wonder if they’re both sick. He knows France is, the way he maneuvers his hands across his skin teasing and exploring or that mouth murmuring French nonsense even as his thrusts become frantic and his hips lose the carefully constructed rhythm as he reaches his climax.
He would rather finish himself off, but France is still inside him, now soft, and his fingers are curling around him already in slow even strokes. For the first time tonight, there are no French words offered in comfort and Prussia can screw his eyes shut and imagine the long fingers deftly sliding across his most intimate part belong to someone else. Even if the palms are too calloused and worn.
(Afterward, there is no talking. There never is.
They’ve already cleaned up and settle next to each other in bed carefully avoiding physical contact. Francis offers him a cigarette. He accepts, pressing the unlit end to the already burning cigarette dangling from Francis’s lips. He keeps his eyes low, takes a long slow drag until his lungs burn, then sits back to exhale.
The smell of smoke lingers in the room until the next time. Prussia doesn’t bother to open the windows until then.)
ii.
He is aware of the looks other nations give him when he appears at one of the meetings with his brother for the first time since the unification. He ignores all the glances except for one. The usual sneer is a familiar comfort amongst the wary looks of mistrust. Prussia welcomes it.
Then suddenly, his small source of familiarity morphs into a grimace of disgust and pity. His own confident smirk remains fixed on his face, but his eyes harden and he takes his seat without looking back at the face he’s seen every time he’s closed his eyes for the last 43 years. He sits quietly, ignored, for the rest of the meeting as his brother attempts to maneuver the meeting from the less productive discussions.
Rather unfortunately, he manages to catch the attention of a very calmly smiling Russia. He spends the rest of the meeting digging the nails of his right hand into his thigh. His brother notices but thankfully doesn’t comment.
When France arrives on his doorstep – it’s his brother’s doorstep, but he’ll be damned if he has to admit it – a scarf tied loosely around his neck and a bottle of wine, he lets in inside.
(He’s not delusional enough to think that things will return to what they were before. No matter how many times Antonio and Francis snuck over the wall to visit him with smuggled wine and beer to relive the good old days, he could see the distrust in France’s eyes. He knows – and he knows very well that Francis knows that he knows – that Francis was only there for Antonio. Every time the pair left, the two would lock eyes and Gilbert would fix his best shit-eating grin on his face in challenge. Francis’s eyes would narrow and he would blow his old friend a kiss before chasing after the drunken cheerful Spaniard.
He hates the pair of them.)
“Mon dieu, it’s been too long.” His eyes roam over the simple décor looking for a comfortable looking chair to lounge in and dangle his legs over the armrest as if he were in his own home. Prussia considers informing him that the chair he’s chosen is reserved for West’s dogs, and promptly changes his mind when he notices the bottle of wine has already been opened.
“I wonder how you’ve managed to stay away from my awesome presence for so long.” He comes back into the living room with two wine glasses.
“Merci.” France pours the wine into each glass before holding his own for a toast. “To long enduring friendship.”
He smirks, raising his glass to accept the toast with hard eyes. He wishes the wine were something stronger.
It takes them a few glasses to slip past the awkward, slightly tense atmosphere that has built up over the long years behind the Iron Curtain. Neither of them bring up the war – which each is silently thankful for – nor find it necessary to ask too many unnecessary questions.
(“Where’s Allemagne? Visiting Italie?” Francis laughs to himself as in reveling in a secret.
Gilbert clutches the near empty bottle of wine firmly in his hands. “Nein. He’s…in Vienna.”
Francis, being tactful, chooses that moment to tumble out of the chair, spilling the remaining wine over both of them.)
They make their way through Germany’s impressive alcohol collection laughing and touching in earnest. France rests his head on Prussia’s lap, fiddling with the collar of the other man’s shirt. His long fingers slipping under the shirt and tracing a collarbone with lazy alcohol induced carefulness. Prussia closes his eyes remembering the countless mornings the infamous Bad Touch Trio found themselves half-naked, tangled in each other’s limbs, and more often than they cared to admit, in jail playing what-did-we-do-last-night.
France’s cool hands are familiar as they trace patterns on his collarbone. His own hands twist through silky blond hair thinking, it’s too long and too light, but it’s nice anyway.
He is aware of the looks other nations give him when he appears at one of the meetings with his brother for the first time since the unification. He ignores all the glances except for one. The usual sneer is a familiar comfort amongst the wary looks of mistrust. Prussia welcomes it.
Then suddenly, his small source of familiarity morphs into a grimace of disgust and pity. His own confident smirk remains fixed on his face, but his eyes harden and he takes his seat without looking back at the face he’s seen every time he’s closed his eyes for the last 43 years. He sits quietly, ignored, for the rest of the meeting as his brother attempts to maneuver the meeting from the less productive discussions.
Rather unfortunately, he manages to catch the attention of a very calmly smiling Russia. He spends the rest of the meeting digging the nails of his right hand into his thigh. His brother notices but thankfully doesn’t comment.
When France arrives on his doorstep – it’s his brother’s doorstep, but he’ll be damned if he has to admit it – a scarf tied loosely around his neck and a bottle of wine, he lets in inside.
(He’s not delusional enough to think that things will return to what they were before. No matter how many times Antonio and Francis snuck over the wall to visit him with smuggled wine and beer to relive the good old days, he could see the distrust in France’s eyes. He knows – and he knows very well that Francis knows that he knows – that Francis was only there for Antonio. Every time the pair left, the two would lock eyes and Gilbert would fix his best shit-eating grin on his face in challenge. Francis’s eyes would narrow and he would blow his old friend a kiss before chasing after the drunken cheerful Spaniard.
He hates the pair of them.)
“Mon dieu, it’s been too long.” His eyes roam over the simple décor looking for a comfortable looking chair to lounge in and dangle his legs over the armrest as if he were in his own home. Prussia considers informing him that the chair he’s chosen is reserved for West’s dogs, and promptly changes his mind when he notices the bottle of wine has already been opened.
“I wonder how you’ve managed to stay away from my awesome presence for so long.” He comes back into the living room with two wine glasses.
“Merci.” France pours the wine into each glass before holding his own for a toast. “To long enduring friendship.”
He smirks, raising his glass to accept the toast with hard eyes. He wishes the wine were something stronger.
It takes them a few glasses to slip past the awkward, slightly tense atmosphere that has built up over the long years behind the Iron Curtain. Neither of them bring up the war – which each is silently thankful for – nor find it necessary to ask too many unnecessary questions.
(“Where’s Allemagne? Visiting Italie?” Francis laughs to himself as in reveling in a secret.
Gilbert clutches the near empty bottle of wine firmly in his hands. “Nein. He’s…in Vienna.”
Francis, being tactful, chooses that moment to tumble out of the chair, spilling the remaining wine over both of them.)
They make their way through Germany’s impressive alcohol collection laughing and touching in earnest. France rests his head on Prussia’s lap, fiddling with the collar of the other man’s shirt. His long fingers slipping under the shirt and tracing a collarbone with lazy alcohol induced carefulness. Prussia closes his eyes remembering the countless mornings the infamous Bad Touch Trio found themselves half-naked, tangled in each other’s limbs, and more often than they cared to admit, in jail playing what-did-we-do-last-night.
France’s cool hands are familiar as they trace patterns on his collarbone. His own hands twist through silky blond hair thinking, it’s too long and too light, but it’s nice anyway.
(Francis’s stubble feels rough against his skin as their lips meet clumsily and their noses bump into each other. They intend to defile Ludwig’s living room floor in a fit of drunken passion, regardless of whether or not it’s been defiled before. They grasp at each other, shedding layers of clothing to nip at the flushed skin below. They are not who the other wants or needs, but they are there and they are drunk enough to convince themselves that this arraignment is enough to sustain them both.
It doesn’t, but they succeed in defiling the floor and sharing a smoke as they let their eyes wander around the room, at each other’s naked bodies. They have sobered up enough to avoid eye contact entirely.)
It happens this way several more times until the terms of the arraignment are drawn.
It doesn’t, but they succeed in defiling the floor and sharing a smoke as they let their eyes wander around the room, at each other’s naked bodies. They have sobered up enough to avoid eye contact entirely.)
It happens this way several more times until the terms of the arraignment are drawn.
iii.
As a general rule, he avoids Spain for some time afterward.
(They both do.
Neither of them is the mood to listen to Antonio talk about joys his little Italian lover brings him. Gilbert is fully aware of them. There is a reason he chose to stay in his brother’s basement rather than the East Wing that was left unoccupied for him.)
Italy is the one who discovers them.
“Ve, I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you?” He turns to Germany with a bright smile on his features.
“Er…yes?” Germany is caught unaware by Italy’s sudden surge of excitement. He sends his older brother a questioning look, but Prussia quietly hums to himself as he paws through the fridge looking for a snack.
Italy, undeterred by Germany’s confusion and Prussia’s indifference, continues on prattling a bit in Italian before his words begin making sense.
“..and big brother Francia seemed so sad for a while. I think it has something to do with Inghilterra, but I didn’t want to ask him in case he got mad. So instead, I asked Fratello, who asked big brother Espana. And then he said that he’s so happy for the two of them, and he doesn’t know why they didn’t just tell him first–”
“Wait, Italien. You did what?”
Germany’s eyes widen in horror as his brother grasps Italy’s shoulders in his hands. Italy trembles at his tone and quickly backtracks.
“Ve! I’m so sorry! I was worried about big brother France, so I asked Romano to–”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia’s voice is deceptively even and controlled, but Germany can see the all too familiar set of his grin and the cold look in his eyes. He stands then placing a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Bruder.”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia repeats calmly ignoring his brother and focusing on the Italian looking back and forth between them in panic.
“Ah. I told him about you and France. You were getting to know each other the way Germany and I know each other, and I was so happy I asked Fratello if he knew and he said it was stupid and that hanging around ‘that potato bastard’ was making me weird. So then I asked him to ask big brother Spain if he knew anything and Romano said, ‘like hell I’m asking that tomato bastard anything.’ But he asked Spain anyway, and oh Prussia I’m so happy for you! You’ve been so down lately and even Germany was worried. And now everyone’s happy, ve!”
When Italy finishes waving his hands about exuberantly and mimicking his older brother’s coarse tone, Germany has trouble deciding which part of his speech to be most disturbed by. (He’s going to have to talk to Feliciano about making their sex life public knowledge after he’s bleached the image of his brother and Francis as well as any memory of Feliciano speaking like Lovino. It’s going to be a long night.)
Prussia’s hands slip from his shoulders. Without another word, he stalks from the room.
(Later that night, Ludwig opens his front door to find Francis leaning against the doorframe with a small smile that gives way to,
“Allemange what a pleasure. Are you treating my dear Italie well?”
He politely asks the other nation to come inside, before convincing Feliciano that he agreed to have dinner with the Italian brothers and they must be on their way before Lovino gets angry. He will have to get drunk another night.)
As a general rule, he avoids Spain for some time afterward.
(They both do.
Neither of them is the mood to listen to Antonio talk about joys his little Italian lover brings him. Gilbert is fully aware of them. There is a reason he chose to stay in his brother’s basement rather than the East Wing that was left unoccupied for him.)
Italy is the one who discovers them.
“Ve, I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you?” He turns to Germany with a bright smile on his features.
“Er…yes?” Germany is caught unaware by Italy’s sudden surge of excitement. He sends his older brother a questioning look, but Prussia quietly hums to himself as he paws through the fridge looking for a snack.
Italy, undeterred by Germany’s confusion and Prussia’s indifference, continues on prattling a bit in Italian before his words begin making sense.
“..and big brother Francia seemed so sad for a while. I think it has something to do with Inghilterra, but I didn’t want to ask him in case he got mad. So instead, I asked Fratello, who asked big brother Espana. And then he said that he’s so happy for the two of them, and he doesn’t know why they didn’t just tell him first–”
“Wait, Italien. You did what?”
Germany’s eyes widen in horror as his brother grasps Italy’s shoulders in his hands. Italy trembles at his tone and quickly backtracks.
“Ve! I’m so sorry! I was worried about big brother France, so I asked Romano to–”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia’s voice is deceptively even and controlled, but Germany can see the all too familiar set of his grin and the cold look in his eyes. He stands then placing a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Bruder.”
“What did you tell Romano?” Prussia repeats calmly ignoring his brother and focusing on the Italian looking back and forth between them in panic.
“Ah. I told him about you and France. You were getting to know each other the way Germany and I know each other, and I was so happy I asked Fratello if he knew and he said it was stupid and that hanging around ‘that potato bastard’ was making me weird. So then I asked him to ask big brother Spain if he knew anything and Romano said, ‘like hell I’m asking that tomato bastard anything.’ But he asked Spain anyway, and oh Prussia I’m so happy for you! You’ve been so down lately and even Germany was worried. And now everyone’s happy, ve!”
When Italy finishes waving his hands about exuberantly and mimicking his older brother’s coarse tone, Germany has trouble deciding which part of his speech to be most disturbed by. (He’s going to have to talk to Feliciano about making their sex life public knowledge after he’s bleached the image of his brother and Francis as well as any memory of Feliciano speaking like Lovino. It’s going to be a long night.)
Prussia’s hands slip from his shoulders. Without another word, he stalks from the room.
(Later that night, Ludwig opens his front door to find Francis leaning against the doorframe with a small smile that gives way to,
“Allemange what a pleasure. Are you treating my dear Italie well?”
He politely asks the other nation to come inside, before convincing Feliciano that he agreed to have dinner with the Italian brothers and they must be on their way before Lovino gets angry. He will have to get drunk another night.)
iv.
The last time is different.
(Francis kisses him roughly, thoroughly, until his lips are bruised and Gilbert pins his hands above his head. Their teeth clang violently while their hips rock in a frenzied motion. Gilbert lets a hand wander across the other man’s body for the first time. His nails dig into flesh. Francis writhes underneath him – first in confusion at this new game that they’re playing then in pure desire as the friction below makes him arch his back.)
France is crying out in while he’s being prepared. Prussia doesn’t offer any words of comfort and France doesn’t ask for them. It’s sick, the arraignment that they have. It doesn’t offer them more than a few moments of pleasure and even if he can appreciate the sight of France’s lithe body below him, he knows this is not what truly wants. (He makes sure to lay him on his stomach before taking him. Even through the coarse calls for Angleterre, he can nearly imagine it’s a different voice calling out a different voice. Nearly.)
They’re enjoying their post-coitus pack of cigarettes. It’s another first for them as knees brush against each other, shoulders knock together, and hips touch. Prussia is enjoying his second cigarette when France speaks.
“I spoke to him.”
“Did you?” He lets out a plume of smoke. “What did he say?”
France’s laugh fills the room. It’s a hollow sound, laughing without mirth, and he turns to his old friend. “We both know I didn’t give him the chance to say anything.”
The statement lingers in the air a while. Thighs sweep past each other, and Prussia wonders idly if he remembered to feed his birds.
“Mon dieu, he seemed surprised. Can’t imagine why after all these years.” France’s hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. He tucks a stray strand behind his ear. “I gave him a deadline and told him he knows where to find me.”
“The deadline. When is?”
France gives him a side-along glance before closing his eyes and taking as slow drag.
“Tomorrow.”
It takes a moment for the information to process, and Prussia lets out a loud laugh that shakes the entire bed.
“You’re a cruel man Francis Bonnefoy.”
(Later, after Francis has left, Gilbert calls Alfred. They talk for a while before Alfred’s laugh interrupts one of Gilbert’s questions.
“Of course everyone’s going to be there. It’s the party of the year! Ya sure the old age isn’t getting to you, Gil?”)
The last time is different.
(Francis kisses him roughly, thoroughly, until his lips are bruised and Gilbert pins his hands above his head. Their teeth clang violently while their hips rock in a frenzied motion. Gilbert lets a hand wander across the other man’s body for the first time. His nails dig into flesh. Francis writhes underneath him – first in confusion at this new game that they’re playing then in pure desire as the friction below makes him arch his back.)
France is crying out in while he’s being prepared. Prussia doesn’t offer any words of comfort and France doesn’t ask for them. It’s sick, the arraignment that they have. It doesn’t offer them more than a few moments of pleasure and even if he can appreciate the sight of France’s lithe body below him, he knows this is not what truly wants. (He makes sure to lay him on his stomach before taking him. Even through the coarse calls for Angleterre, he can nearly imagine it’s a different voice calling out a different voice. Nearly.)
They’re enjoying their post-coitus pack of cigarettes. It’s another first for them as knees brush against each other, shoulders knock together, and hips touch. Prussia is enjoying his second cigarette when France speaks.
“I spoke to him.”
“Did you?” He lets out a plume of smoke. “What did he say?”
France’s laugh fills the room. It’s a hollow sound, laughing without mirth, and he turns to his old friend. “We both know I didn’t give him the chance to say anything.”
The statement lingers in the air a while. Thighs sweep past each other, and Prussia wonders idly if he remembered to feed his birds.
“Mon dieu, he seemed surprised. Can’t imagine why after all these years.” France’s hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. He tucks a stray strand behind his ear. “I gave him a deadline and told him he knows where to find me.”
“The deadline. When is?”
France gives him a side-along glance before closing his eyes and taking as slow drag.
“Tomorrow.”
It takes a moment for the information to process, and Prussia lets out a loud laugh that shakes the entire bed.
“You’re a cruel man Francis Bonnefoy.”
(Later, after Francis has left, Gilbert calls Alfred. They talk for a while before Alfred’s laugh interrupts one of Gilbert’s questions.
“Of course everyone’s going to be there. It’s the party of the year! Ya sure the old age isn’t getting to you, Gil?”)
v.
“I’ll be gone for a conference for a few days next week.”
“Sounds fun. Where?”
Germany hesitates and wonders if he should tell his brother. Prussia is lounging in a chair, legs dangling off the back, reading the back of some DVD he picked up from America’s house some time ago.
“Just Vienna.”
“Cool. I’ll come along.” Prussia scrunches his eyebrows together as he continues to inspect the DVD. Germany lets out a sigh.
“Gud. That’s good.”
(The air in Vienna is the same as Gilbert remembers, and even as he closes his eyes, the sounds of the street carry a note of familiarity. He knows his brother is watching him carefully, but Feliciano is peering into the shop windows and dragging poor Ludwig around.
He doesn’t care that he agreed to sit through three days listening to the nations argue amongst themselves over tariffs and airport security.
He’s in Vienna.)
__
I apologize yet again if this wasn't what was expected as well as for any mistakes.
“I’ll be gone for a conference for a few days next week.”
“Sounds fun. Where?”
Germany hesitates and wonders if he should tell his brother. Prussia is lounging in a chair, legs dangling off the back, reading the back of some DVD he picked up from America’s house some time ago.
“Just Vienna.”
“Cool. I’ll come along.” Prussia scrunches his eyebrows together as he continues to inspect the DVD. Germany lets out a sigh.
“Gud. That’s good.”
(The air in Vienna is the same as Gilbert remembers, and even as he closes his eyes, the sounds of the street carry a note of familiarity. He knows his brother is watching him carefully, but Feliciano is peering into the shop windows and dragging poor Ludwig around.
He doesn’t care that he agreed to sit through three days listening to the nations argue amongst themselves over tariffs and airport security.
He’s in Vienna.)
__
I apologize yet again if this wasn't what was expected as well as for any mistakes.
Not the OP, but this is so beautifully written, I can't believe no one's commented yet. I love the images you've described, the messed up relations between them, gah, my heart breaks for them, for everyone involved with them.
The Italian brothers are womanizers, no doubt about it; however, Seborga seems to be taking this very seriously since he keeps interfering with Romano and Italy's game wit the female nations. Mostly Romano's, that in return makes Romano very, very upset.
Anything really goes for this. I'd like to see upset Romano getting upset by Seborga's every little action. And Italy getting a bit bothered too with his brother's actions.
Genderblending is fine.
Bonus: nothing really just Seborga doing a lot of cockblocking.
Romano and Italy getting back at Seborga.
Anything really goes for this. I'd like to see upset Romano getting upset by Seborga's every little action. And Italy getting a bit bothered too with his brother's actions.
Genderblending is fine.
Bonus: nothing really just Seborga doing a lot of cockblocking.
Romano and Italy getting back at Seborga.
I just died, and this should happen.
WhatisthisIdon'teven...okay, whatever. Sorry if they're not in character...ehehehehe... So. Hope the OP likes... Also, I realize this is more of a prologue-y thing, so the next bit will be about when Romano gets cockblocked (again) by Seborga, only this time he kind of actually flips his shit.
Mischief Managed, 1a/?
Romano’s face lit up in fury at his youngest brother.
“What the hell was that?!” he screamed, voice cracking. “And who the hell do you think you are, you smug sonuvabitch?!”
They were at the Italies’ residence, which was not far off from the Mediterranean. Romano, being the smooth gentleman he was, decided to pick up a girl--preferably one with a good body. Veneziano had gone, too, but he ended up building a sandcastle that looked slightly of pasta when Romano had dragged Seborga back home, who was currently smiling one of those shit-eating smiles that really set Romano off.
“It was fun to see you get dropped like that!” he stated, puffing his chest out.
Romano’s face twisted into something that Spain would’ve considered ‘totally uncute.’
“Fucker!” he growled, almost lunging at the younger nation, but Italy caught his brother in a hug.
“Ve, Roma, it’s not nice to pounce at Seborga like that!”
“Nice my ass, Veneziano, did you see what this dick did? Fuck, she was really hot, too!”
“It was just a little cockblocking, Big Brother Prussia did that all the time!” the younger twin stated enthusiastically, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Besides, Romano, I thought you like Big Brother Spai--”
“It’s really fucking creepy when you say it like that,” Romano deadpanned.
“Ve, Romano, don’t use such nasty words~”
Romano’s eyebrow twitched and a vein popped in his forehead. “Oh, fuck no. You are not speaking in fucking tildes like the tomato bastard.”
But Italy completely ignored the retort. “And anyway, fratello, it’s not like he messed up your flirting with Monaco or Big Sister Hungary...”
Romano really hated it when his brother was right.
Mischief Managed, 1a/?
Romano’s face lit up in fury at his youngest brother.
“What the hell was that?!” he screamed, voice cracking. “And who the hell do you think you are, you smug sonuvabitch?!”
They were at the Italies’ residence, which was not far off from the Mediterranean. Romano, being the smooth gentleman he was, decided to pick up a girl--preferably one with a good body. Veneziano had gone, too, but he ended up building a sandcastle that looked slightly of pasta when Romano had dragged Seborga back home, who was currently smiling one of those shit-eating smiles that really set Romano off.
“It was fun to see you get dropped like that!” he stated, puffing his chest out.
Romano’s face twisted into something that Spain would’ve considered ‘totally uncute.’
“Fucker!” he growled, almost lunging at the younger nation, but Italy caught his brother in a hug.
“Ve, Roma, it’s not nice to pounce at Seborga like that!”
“Nice my ass, Veneziano, did you see what this dick did? Fuck, she was really hot, too!”
“It was just a little cockblocking, Big Brother Prussia did that all the time!” the younger twin stated enthusiastically, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Besides, Romano, I thought you like Big Brother Spai--”
“It’s really fucking creepy when you say it like that,” Romano deadpanned.
“Ve, Romano, don’t use such nasty words~”
Romano’s eyebrow twitched and a vein popped in his forehead. “Oh, fuck no. You are not speaking in fucking tildes like the tomato bastard.”
But Italy completely ignored the retort. “And anyway, fratello, it’s not like he messed up your flirting with Monaco or Big Sister Hungary...”
Romano really hated it when his brother was right.
.An amusing beginning, but where's the rest? |D *shot*
What it says in the tin really. Be them married, shaking up, or just dating; It can be an AU or Canon, both human names and nation names are 100% OK by me just keep them in character.
bonus: dealing with one another's families/friends.
bonus: Denmark always tries to embarrass her.
As far as human names go for Denmark I am not a huge fan of Matthias, I'm OK with it but something else will win you cookies on top of my undying love for choosing to fill this.
bonus: dealing with one another's families/friends.
bonus: Denmark always tries to embarrass her.
As far as human names go for Denmark I am not a huge fan of Matthias, I'm OK with it but something else will win you cookies on top of my undying love for choosing to fill this.
Oh!Rarepair! Seconded!
Hey OP! Usually I hatehatehate when people say they're working on a prompt, but it's been a while since you posted and I just wanted you to know that I am doing this. This will happen.
Right now, it's at 3000 words and they haven't even been on a date yet though.
It looks like it's going to be a little angsty, a little fluffy, and a lot of plot. And I probably won't post till I'm done, or else I'll forget to finish.
Right now, it's at 3000 words and they haven't even been on a date yet though.
It looks like it's going to be a little angsty, a little fluffy, and a lot of plot. And I probably won't post till I'm done, or else I'll forget to finish.
Sorry it's taken me so long; I really am looking forward to your fill!
just popping by to say that I am also doing a fill for this prompt! I will be posting as I write it.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" - T.S. Eliot
The streets of Minsk are wind-whipped and frozen, cold like the heart of a Nordic winter as the Kingdom of Denmark steps out of the Minsk International Airport and into the city. His breath winds frosted around his cheeks, untamed hair and scarf fluttering in the breeze as he and his Deputy Foreign Minister are led to a car that will take them to the blond's hotel.
Or maybe it's only as cold as the heart of the woman who defines it. Snow crackles like bones beneath Denmark's dress shoes as the sun sinks towards the horizon, and he wonders if he even wants to know.
Belarus has always fascinated him; he thinks the blonde has always fascinated every nation that has come to know her, albeit in different ways. Belarus is like a diamond, cut sharp and glittering like ice, rigid in her composition. He has never seen the woman break, but even diamonds degrade into dust with enough time.
Denmark doesn't ever want to see her broken, he thinks as his feet lead him out of the car and into the lavish-looking hotel. But he would like to see beneath her clean-cut exterior, beyond the facets and reflections of the world around her; he wants to see the Belarus beneath the surface, down to the woman inside, visible if only he tilts his head and looks just the right way, within the light.
The Dane's room is grandly furnished, dotted with lavish commodities no doubt worth amounts in kroner he doesn't even want to contemplate. The bed is massive and its linens luxurious, there is a mini-bar in a corner stocked with bottles in too many languages to count, and the balcony offers a majestic panorama of Belarus's capital in all of its winter-white, sunset-lit glory. His suitcase is already propped neatly next to the large desk, and Denmark sheds his overcoat and suit jacket, kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie ever-so-slightly as he falls onto the bed, sinking bonelessly into the wonderful softness of warm blankets and fluffed pillows. Planes always leave him feeling tired and aching, but he is grateful for the speed that allows international travel in a matter of hours, as opposed to weeks or months in centuries before.
Nearly forgetting to confirm his arrival with his brothers, Denmark pulls his phone from its holder on his belt and lets them know with a short message; his Deputy Foreign Minister will have already alerted his government officials of their arrival, so he rolls over and closes his eyes, resting. His siblings respond in kind, wishing him well with Belarus and he thanks them, although he likes to believe it won't be as bad as everyone seems to think. The blond has met with the Belarusian and her officials before, and every time has been courteous and pleasant, albeit distant in regards to the woman in question. She far from frightens him; Denmark has lived Viking raids and battled the lion of the north and walked the halls of Valhalla in death. A woman with a knife in her garter and eyes like fiery sapphires is nothing he can't handle.
But what Belarus hides beneath the cold, crystalline exterior; Denmark wonders if that is what he should be afraid of.
Nearly forgetting to confirm his arrival with his brothers, Denmark pulls his phone from its holder on his belt and lets them know with a short message; his Deputy Foreign Minister will have already alerted his government officials of their arrival, so he rolls over and closes his eyes, resting. His siblings respond in kind, wishing him well with Belarus and he thanks them, although he likes to believe it won't be as bad as everyone seems to think. The blond has met with the Belarusian and her officials before, and every time has been courteous and pleasant, albeit distant in regards to the woman in question. She far from frightens him; Denmark has lived Viking raids and battled the lion of the north and walked the halls of Valhalla in death. A woman with a knife in her garter and eyes like fiery sapphires is nothing he can't handle.
But what Belarus hides beneath the cold, crystalline exterior; Denmark wonders if that is what he should be afraid of.
She grew up amidst blood and battle with her siblings, in the mountains where the winters are endless and only the strong survive. The land that gave birth to her is frozen and unforgiving, long ravaged by the wars of Poland and Lithuania's Commonwealth and her survival under Russia's rule. There is no doubt in the Dane's mind that deep within her is something powerful, something fierce; vestiges of her days as a wayward vagabond, slipping silently through snow-covered forests and raining hellfire upon her enemies. Perhaps such things are why the blonde hides knives beneath her skirts, and her irises cut diamond-cold into those who meet them.
But Denmark knows that hidden even further is something gentle, hesitant like a frightened animal to show itself. Belarus was once a child like he and his brothers, like any of the Nations that have left their footsteps upon the earth; when she did not know war, when she did not know unkindness. When she knew only peace with the forests and beings around her. It is an innocence long lost in himself, wasted away in ancient Viking raids and crushed under the feet of blood-driven warriors. But he likes to think it is still buried within her, hidden away in the cracks of silent, snow-covered cliffs.
And the Dane is determined to find it, to coax it gently out of the Belarusian, to give a little to get a little bit more.
Denmark rolls over, running the itinerary of his trip over in his head like his hands do through his hair. She is to take him around the many corners of her capital city tomorrow afternoon after the initial meetings; she will introduce him to its cultural areas and production centers, give him a taste of what her nation has to offer. The blond is here on business concerning trade and cooperation after all, and he has to know exactly what he is dealing with.
And perhaps in showing him her greatest treasures and bountiful offerings, the threads that weave the fabric of her people and country, he will see beyond the sapphire of her eyes to Belarus the woman; terrible and beautiful and a wonder to behold, if given the chance.
The sun is setting blood-red and honey-dark beneath the horizon, and Denmark throws wide the curtains of the glass doors to the balcony. Minsk glitters with snow and glows effervescent in the sunset, and somewhere in the city Belarus sits silent at a sunset-lit desk, hoping. Her fingers trace a sharp jawline and wild hair on a shining photograph amidst countless government documents and official seals. His eyes are blue like hers, bright and ocean-clear like the seas that surround him.
Belarus turns towards her window, staring into the painter's palette of color over the horizon. She thinks of snow-covered mountains bathed in starshine, and Valdimárr Køhler, the Kongeriget Danmark.
But Denmark knows that hidden even further is something gentle, hesitant like a frightened animal to show itself. Belarus was once a child like he and his brothers, like any of the Nations that have left their footsteps upon the earth; when she did not know war, when she did not know unkindness. When she knew only peace with the forests and beings around her. It is an innocence long lost in himself, wasted away in ancient Viking raids and crushed under the feet of blood-driven warriors. But he likes to think it is still buried within her, hidden away in the cracks of silent, snow-covered cliffs.
And the Dane is determined to find it, to coax it gently out of the Belarusian, to give a little to get a little bit more.
Denmark rolls over, running the itinerary of his trip over in his head like his hands do through his hair. She is to take him around the many corners of her capital city tomorrow afternoon after the initial meetings; she will introduce him to its cultural areas and production centers, give him a taste of what her nation has to offer. The blond is here on business concerning trade and cooperation after all, and he has to know exactly what he is dealing with.
And perhaps in showing him her greatest treasures and bountiful offerings, the threads that weave the fabric of her people and country, he will see beyond the sapphire of her eyes to Belarus the woman; terrible and beautiful and a wonder to behold, if given the chance.
The sun is setting blood-red and honey-dark beneath the horizon, and Denmark throws wide the curtains of the glass doors to the balcony. Minsk glitters with snow and glows effervescent in the sunset, and somewhere in the city Belarus sits silent at a sunset-lit desk, hoping. Her fingers trace a sharp jawline and wild hair on a shining photograph amidst countless government documents and official seals. His eyes are blue like hers, bright and ocean-clear like the seas that surround him.
Belarus turns towards her window, staring into the painter's palette of color over the horizon. She thinks of snow-covered mountains bathed in starshine, and Valdimárr Køhler, the Kongeriget Danmark.
belarus-denmark relations - "The expansion of the trade, economic and investment cooperation was the focus of the consultations between the foreign ministries of Belarus and the Kingdom of Denmark in Minsk on January 29, 2009. The Belarusian delegation was led by Deputy Foreign Minister of Belarus Valery Voronetsky, the Danish one by Deputy Foreign Minister of Denmark Michael Silmer-Jons. Taking part in the consultations was Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of Belarus to Sweden and Denmark on concurrent Andrei Grinkevich. The sides discussed a wide range of issues of the bilateral cooperation, possibilities to extend trade and economic contacts, improvement of the legal and treaty base, topical issues of the Belarus-EU cooperation, and the interaction in the Council of the Baltic Sea States." The fic and its events revolve around this meeting.
denmark's deputy foreign minister - I have a weird thing about using the names of actual people in hetalia fanfic, especially if they're alive, so note that there will be no names of the real people involved with the events in the story, even though many are available.
krone - the currency of the kingdom of denmark; the plural is kroner.
lion of the north - a common name for the kingdom of sweden during its era as a great empire.
walked the halls of valhalla in death - it is my personal headcanon that nations whose people, culture, and/or legacy are strong enough will revive after being killed. also a personal headcanon is that when denmark, sweden, norway, or iceland die, their souls are taken to valhalla while their bodies heal enough for them to live again; in norse mythology (attributed to the early pagans and vikings of denmark, sweden, norway, and iceland after norwegian settlement), great warriors were said to have been taken to valhalla after death to aid the god odin in the events of ragnarǫk. wiki it, it's cool stuff.
valdimárr køhler - the human name I have given denmark; "Valdimárr" is the old norse form of "Valdemar", which in turn is the scandinavian form of "Waldemar" and, through relation to the original slavic name "Vladimir", means "to rule with greatness"; I chose the old norse version of the name because it is what would have been spoken at the time before and when the original danish states united under the name of denmark, up until around post-viking age times. it is a headcanon of mine that nations took their human names at defining points in the formation of their country and its cultural identity, and that while some modernize the names through time as language changes, other keep the names the same. "Køhler" is the unofficial, popular fanon surname for denmark (it is an actual danish surname), which I kept because I in fact like it.
kongeriget danmark - the danish name for the kingdom of denmark.
this is the second filler anon up there! the fic will be kind of plot-heavy and will take a little bit to really get into the knitty gritty of the prompt, but honestly it's more about character development and a slice-of-life type feel than actual real plot I should say. there will be smut, lots of smut, but we have to build up to that point first! I am currently writing another fill on the meme and am in the midst of midterms, but I will update as quickly as college allows. to everyone who happens to take an interest in the fic, enjoy the ride!
in other news my historical/author's notes are yet again basically longer than the actual parts augh why do I do this :V
denmark's deputy foreign minister - I have a weird thing about using the names of actual people in hetalia fanfic, especially if they're alive, so note that there will be no names of the real people involved with the events in the story, even though many are available.
krone - the currency of the kingdom of denmark; the plural is kroner.
lion of the north - a common name for the kingdom of sweden during its era as a great empire.
walked the halls of valhalla in death - it is my personal headcanon that nations whose people, culture, and/or legacy are strong enough will revive after being killed. also a personal headcanon is that when denmark, sweden, norway, or iceland die, their souls are taken to valhalla while their bodies heal enough for them to live again; in norse mythology (attributed to the early pagans and vikings of denmark, sweden, norway, and iceland after norwegian settlement), great warriors were said to have been taken to valhalla after death to aid the god odin in the events of ragnarǫk. wiki it, it's cool stuff.
valdimárr køhler - the human name I have given denmark; "Valdimárr" is the old norse form of "Valdemar", which in turn is the scandinavian form of "Waldemar" and, through relation to the original slavic name "Vladimir", means "to rule with greatness"; I chose the old norse version of the name because it is what would have been spoken at the time before and when the original danish states united under the name of denmark, up until around post-viking age times. it is a headcanon of mine that nations took their human names at defining points in the formation of their country and its cultural identity, and that while some modernize the names through time as language changes, other keep the names the same. "Køhler" is the unofficial, popular fanon surname for denmark (it is an actual danish surname), which I kept because I in fact like it.
kongeriget danmark - the danish name for the kingdom of denmark.
this is the second filler anon up there! the fic will be kind of plot-heavy and will take a little bit to really get into the knitty gritty of the prompt, but honestly it's more about character development and a slice-of-life type feel than actual real plot I should say. there will be smut, lots of smut, but we have to build up to that point first! I am currently writing another fill on the meme and am in the midst of midterms, but I will update as quickly as college allows. to everyone who happens to take an interest in the fic, enjoy the ride!
in other news my historical/author's notes are yet again basically longer than the actual parts augh why do I do this :V
I didn't know that there were two people working on fills for me! I apologize for not noticing that until now...
Thank you though anon. This is a lovely start and your promises of something plot heavy manned me really excited I love plots and character development oh so very much... And the fact that you are basing this on something factual makes me even happier. I am unsure what else to say other then I can't wait for an update!
Thank you though anon. This is a lovely start and your promises of something plot heavy manned me really excited I love plots and character development oh so very much... And the fact that you are basing this on something factual makes me even happier. I am unsure what else to say other then I can't wait for an update!
Not!OP here, but someone who is really, really, really looking forward to read more of this fic. Wow, just wow, anon. Your painter-ish descriptions really blew me away and set my thoughts on this to be a grand fic, and I really appreciate the rare!pair!!
I hope you'll have fun writing this A!A, I know I'll have enourmous amounts of fun reading <3
I hope you'll have fun writing this A!A, I know I'll have enourmous amounts of fun reading <3
Dawn greets Denmark like a wave, washing away stars and sleep with the rising of the sun. Light and color splash across the whites and tans of the bed linens, watercolor and rippling as the blond stretches, running a hand through his hair. Belarus and her government wish to waste no time in conducting their business, and though heaven is warm sheets and fluffy pillows, the Dane has his sights set on a different kind of lightness.
At eight-hundred hours, a car arrives to take both Denmark and his Deputy Foreign Minister to Minsk's governmental center. The building is warm and bustling with activity, in stark contrast to the biting, statue-still cold of the outside world. The liquid glimmer of her government's seal is glass-wet beneath his feet as he is led through decorated halls and over marble-dark floors; agendas are reviewed, his collar and tie are straightened, and at last a set of large, wooden double-doors greet the Dane and his gathered officials.
A deep breath. The clicking of dress shoes on a platinum-shine floor. Belarus's eyes are hungry.
The Nations are seated next to each other, formalities exchanged through interpretation because neither blond has been entwined enough to learn more than a sliver of the other's tongue. But that is what they are here for; to meld, to learn, to agree to disagree. They will shape the futures of their people, one thread at a time.
At eight-hundred hours, a car arrives to take both Denmark and his Deputy Foreign Minister to Minsk's governmental center. The building is warm and bustling with activity, in stark contrast to the biting, statue-still cold of the outside world. The liquid glimmer of her government's seal is glass-wet beneath his feet as he is led through decorated halls and over marble-dark floors; agendas are reviewed, his collar and tie are straightened, and at last a set of large, wooden double-doors greet the Dane and his gathered officials.
A deep breath. The clicking of dress shoes on a platinum-shine floor. Belarus's eyes are hungry.
The Nations are seated next to each other, formalities exchanged through interpretation because neither blond has been entwined enough to learn more than a sliver of the other's tongue. But that is what they are here for; to meld, to learn, to agree to disagree. They will shape the futures of their people, one thread at a time.
As the morning drips down into afternoon, the Dane watches the Belarusian, watches her diamond eyes and stark-white teeth as they flash between the syllables of her throaty language. It has been long since the blond has heard her speak anything but her brother's tongue, dipthongs fluid and consonants clustered in her native Belarusian. Her voice is crisp and sharp, double-edged in guarded familiarity. When Belarus speaks, her words are fireflies floating around his head, ambient in their course.
Their officials discuss every possible facet of bilateral cooperation, from trade and economy to law and legality, her relations within the European Union to her dealings with the Council of the Baltic Sea States. Her foreign trade deficit has risen to nearly eighty-million dollars in the face of the seven million his economy has invested in hers in the past year, and it hangs over Belarus like a storm about to break. Denmark silences his officials in quick-cut Danish when their words to the blonde grow heated, and he takes it upon himself to speak to her firmly but fairly; he knows she may represent an entire nation, but she alone cannot bear the blame of her entire government's actions. Belarus the woman is one made of many, but one amidst the same.
When he finishes, words hanging sharp in the air around them all, her irises meet his own, sapphire against cerulean. Belarus is undefined, underived, an equation in which the limit does not exist and Denmark can see forever in the darkness of her eyes. The blonde smooths the skirt of her puffy dress, monochrome and high-collared with lace and ribbons; her tongue flicks across her lips as her gaze rises again to meet his. She leans over towards him, the fabric on her shoulder brushing warm against his suit jacket. The Dane feels her fingertips feather-soft in his hair where fabric meets skin, and her nails are rounded and smooth. Her breath is heated and heavy on his collar as he sits statue-still, heart racing; he isn't sure if she is Belarus the predator or Belarus the prey, until she whispers steady into his ear.
дзякую.
The Respubliki Biełaruś signals sharply in her mothertongue for the proceedings to continue, this time without interruption, and the Kongeriget Danmark is speechless beside her.
Their officials discuss every possible facet of bilateral cooperation, from trade and economy to law and legality, her relations within the European Union to her dealings with the Council of the Baltic Sea States. Her foreign trade deficit has risen to nearly eighty-million dollars in the face of the seven million his economy has invested in hers in the past year, and it hangs over Belarus like a storm about to break. Denmark silences his officials in quick-cut Danish when their words to the blonde grow heated, and he takes it upon himself to speak to her firmly but fairly; he knows she may represent an entire nation, but she alone cannot bear the blame of her entire government's actions. Belarus the woman is one made of many, but one amidst the same.
When he finishes, words hanging sharp in the air around them all, her irises meet his own, sapphire against cerulean. Belarus is undefined, underived, an equation in which the limit does not exist and Denmark can see forever in the darkness of her eyes. The blonde smooths the skirt of her puffy dress, monochrome and high-collared with lace and ribbons; her tongue flicks across her lips as her gaze rises again to meet his. She leans over towards him, the fabric on her shoulder brushing warm against his suit jacket. The Dane feels her fingertips feather-soft in his hair where fabric meets skin, and her nails are rounded and smooth. Her breath is heated and heavy on his collar as he sits statue-still, heart racing; he isn't sure if she is Belarus the predator or Belarus the prey, until she whispers steady into his ear.
дзякую.
The Respubliki Biełaruś signals sharply in her mothertongue for the proceedings to continue, this time without interruption, and the Kongeriget Danmark is speechless beside her.
belarusian - from wiki: 'According to the 1999 Belarus Census, the Belarusian language is declared as a "language spoken at home" by about 3,686,000 Belarusian citizens (36.7% of the population) as of 1999. About 6,984,000 (85.6%) of Belarusians declared it their "mother tongue". Other sources put the "population of the language" as 6,715,000 in Belarus and 9,081,102 in all countries. According to a study done by the Belarusian government in 2009, 72% of Belarusians speak Russian at home, while Belarusian is used by only 11.9% of Belarusians. 29.4% of Belarusians can write, speak and read Belarusian, while only 52.5% can read and speak it. According to the research, one out of ten Belarusians does not understand Belarusian. After Belarusian independence, the Belarusian language gained in prestige and popular interest. However, the implementation of the 1992–1994 "Law on languages" was conducted in such a way that it provoked public protests and was dubbed "Landslide Belarusization" and "undemocratic" by those opposing it in 1992–1994. In a controversial referendum held on 14 May 1995 the Belarusian language lost its exclusive status as the only state language. The state support of Belarusian language and culture in general has dwindled since then.'
the belarusian language has waxed and waned in use and prominence throughout history, usually depending on who was in control of the country or had the largest influence on it at any given time. at some points it was considered a rural, uneducated language that was worthless, while it flourished greatly in other times. russia-belarus international relations have taken a turn for the worse in recent years, and the country is largely split over whether union/greater cooperation with russia would be beneficial or not for either. because of this, I believe belarus would revert back to her native belarusian heritage in many aspects of her life, in an attempt to solidify her identity and make it clear the state of affairs between herself and her brother. this entire idea will be explored in much greater detail later in the fic.
дзякую - transliterated as dzjákuyu; belarusian for "thank you".
respubliki biełaruś - the transliterated belarusian name for the republic of belarus; in cyrillic letters, it is spelled Рэспубліка Беларусь.
more soon! only one midterm to go!
the belarusian language has waxed and waned in use and prominence throughout history, usually depending on who was in control of the country or had the largest influence on it at any given time. at some points it was considered a rural, uneducated language that was worthless, while it flourished greatly in other times. russia-belarus international relations have taken a turn for the worse in recent years, and the country is largely split over whether union/greater cooperation with russia would be beneficial or not for either. because of this, I believe belarus would revert back to her native belarusian heritage in many aspects of her life, in an attempt to solidify her identity and make it clear the state of affairs between herself and her brother. this entire idea will be explored in much greater detail later in the fic.
дзякую - transliterated as dzjákuyu; belarusian for "thank you".
respubliki biełaruś - the transliterated belarusian name for the republic of belarus; in cyrillic letters, it is spelled Рэспубліка Беларусь.
more soon! only one midterm to go!
Earlier reviewer!anon here :D
Yet again, you don't disappoint A!A. I wished for there to be more to read, but completely understands midterms and their hazzles. Have a good one, and keep up the awesome work!
Yet again, you don't disappoint A!A. I wished for there to be more to read, but completely understands midterms and their hazzles. Have a good one, and keep up the awesome work!
I've never commented before, but let me say that this is gorgeous.
Your prose is beautiful and your descriptions are so vivid. Writing it in present tense makes everything so much more striking and so much stronger. I like how everything is distant and slightly ambiguous (although that is only how I see it).
Beautiful. Lovely. Gorgeous. Again and again.
I can't wait for you to continue.
Your prose is beautiful and your descriptions are so vivid. Writing it in present tense makes everything so much more striking and so much stronger. I like how everything is distant and slightly ambiguous (although that is only how I see it).
Beautiful. Lovely. Gorgeous. Again and again.
I can't wait for you to continue.
For the remainder of the meeting, Denmark sits silent and intrigued, fascinated evermore by Belarus's throat-dark words and clearwater eyes. He wonders what Danish sounds like to her; if it is lilting and flowing, or slurring, or filled with sharp stops and starts. He wonders what she sees in his eyes; the oceans that surround him, the bottoms of his lakes, the panorama skies that crown his mountains and keep steady watch over his people.
The kingdom wonders what she sees in him.
Denmark has always been the most boisterous of his brothers, loud and heartfelt and always eager for a challenge. Even in the ancient days with Norway and Sweden, when they worse horns upon their heads like wild beasts and painted the earth red with Viking glory; when success was celebrated with gold-glimmer mead and love-vicious whores and plundered riches pooled liquid at their feet.
Denmark has always been an animal in the shade of steel, a son of rage and love and all things in-between. He knows Belarus is completely capable of handling such a monster, but whether or not she wants to is an entirely different matter.
The Belarusian doesn't meet his eyes until their officials have declared the meetings over, proceedings done for the day but she and the blond have places to be, things to see. Belarus reviews their agenda to all of their officials, where she plans to take him, what she wishes to discuss, what she believes is most important for the Dane to observe. She speaks of museums, industrial centers, local shops and restaurants; the atoms of her culture and identity that she has to offer not only his country, but the rest of the world as well.
When the two are escorted out of her governmental headquarters, the marble beneath the kingdom's feet is liquid and glimmering, an ocean of glass the Nations walk upon like gods; their heels click cut across the stone, bodies hidden beneath coats and scarves from the cold, and Belarus entwines her arm with Denmark's. She is old-fashioned, vintage; he feels carried upon her arm like an offering, shown to her people for all that he is, and all that she can make him to be. The blonde does not meet his gaze when she attaches herself to him, but the Dane can feel the strength beneath the layers keeping her warm, how she keeps him held tight and rigid to her side.
Whether he is grounding her or she is guarding him, Denmark isn't quite sure, but he is certain of one thing: Belarus's eyes are sapphire-bright and endless, her steps are as firm as her hold on his arm, and she does not let him fall behind.
The kingdom wonders what she sees in him.
Denmark has always been the most boisterous of his brothers, loud and heartfelt and always eager for a challenge. Even in the ancient days with Norway and Sweden, when they worse horns upon their heads like wild beasts and painted the earth red with Viking glory; when success was celebrated with gold-glimmer mead and love-vicious whores and plundered riches pooled liquid at their feet.
Denmark has always been an animal in the shade of steel, a son of rage and love and all things in-between. He knows Belarus is completely capable of handling such a monster, but whether or not she wants to is an entirely different matter.
The Belarusian doesn't meet his eyes until their officials have declared the meetings over, proceedings done for the day but she and the blond have places to be, things to see. Belarus reviews their agenda to all of their officials, where she plans to take him, what she wishes to discuss, what she believes is most important for the Dane to observe. She speaks of museums, industrial centers, local shops and restaurants; the atoms of her culture and identity that she has to offer not only his country, but the rest of the world as well.
When the two are escorted out of her governmental headquarters, the marble beneath the kingdom's feet is liquid and glimmering, an ocean of glass the Nations walk upon like gods; their heels click cut across the stone, bodies hidden beneath coats and scarves from the cold, and Belarus entwines her arm with Denmark's. She is old-fashioned, vintage; he feels carried upon her arm like an offering, shown to her people for all that he is, and all that she can make him to be. The blonde does not meet his gaze when she attaches herself to him, but the Dane can feel the strength beneath the layers keeping her warm, how she keeps him held tight and rigid to her side.
Whether he is grounding her or she is guarding him, Denmark isn't quite sure, but he is certain of one thing: Belarus's eyes are sapphire-bright and endless, her steps are as firm as her hold on his arm, and she does not let him fall behind.
Minsk is her governmental capital as well as her economic one, and their steps down her streets are whirlwinded and lightning-sharp within buildings and around citizens. Belarus brings him to her largest industrial complexes first, touring him through warm offices and behind glass windows where he can see into the heart of her economic stronghold. The Dane is whisked away to museums and parks where her history and land is laid bare for him to observe. He feels like an explorer; not a conqueror of days gone by but like a child, an entirely new world laid at his feet and no one to tell him where he can and cannot go. Without interpreters and officials, the only common language between them is English; Belarus's voice is still throat-deep and liquid, tossing and turning around The United States' and The United Kingdom's chopping, melodic syllables. Denmark knows his own English is patterned, inflected with tones and glides, tumbling between his tongue and teeth. Together they create a cacophony of wonder and answers and understandings, music to no other ears but their own.
(And in all the time they have traveled her streets, her city, her heart, she has not once let him go.)
When the sky begins to darken and the sun sinks heavy and hot beneath the horizon, Belarus leads Denmark through the streets and oathways that will take him back to his hotel. She takes him into souvenir shops and past cozy cafés, the smells of pastries and coffees hanging effervescent around the Dane's head. When a particularly fascinating restaurant catches his eye, windows glowing with candles and menus in her brother's tongue that he doesn't understand, she stops. Neither of them have eaten since the break in the morning meetings earlier, too preoccupied with the maze of her capital, but Denmark doesn't want to interrupt whatever schedule she has planned. When the blond goes to continue on, the Belarusian's arm hooked in his own stops him. Her eyes glitter in the candlelight of the restaurant and the glow of the streetlights around them both, dark and deep. She meets his gaze for the first time since they departed her government center, and the Dane shivers from more than just the cold that races up his spine like lightning, when his irises meet her's, blinding.
The Respubliki Biełaruś opens the door, bells tinkling announcement of their arrival, and she pulls the Kongeriget Danmark in beside her, arm in arm, rising.
(And in all the time they have traveled her streets, her city, her heart, she has not once let him go.)
When the sky begins to darken and the sun sinks heavy and hot beneath the horizon, Belarus leads Denmark through the streets and oathways that will take him back to his hotel. She takes him into souvenir shops and past cozy cafés, the smells of pastries and coffees hanging effervescent around the Dane's head. When a particularly fascinating restaurant catches his eye, windows glowing with candles and menus in her brother's tongue that he doesn't understand, she stops. Neither of them have eaten since the break in the morning meetings earlier, too preoccupied with the maze of her capital, but Denmark doesn't want to interrupt whatever schedule she has planned. When the blond goes to continue on, the Belarusian's arm hooked in his own stops him. Her eyes glitter in the candlelight of the restaurant and the glow of the streetlights around them both, dark and deep. She meets his gaze for the first time since they departed her government center, and the Dane shivers from more than just the cold that races up his spine like lightning, when his irises meet her's, blinding.
The Respubliki Biełaruś opens the door, bells tinkling announcement of their arrival, and she pulls the Kongeriget Danmark in beside her, arm in arm, rising.
historical notes [parts 6 - 7] + important author's note
(Anonymous) 2011-11-01 07:01 am (UTC)(link)voices of the characters - even though there hasn't been any dialogue yet, there will be starting with the next update, and when I'm writing characters I always like to find references of what I think they would sound like in their native languages; it helps me write their dialogue and figure out how exactly to describe their voices when I need to, and it's just fun because I'm a russian major in college who is a total derp for languages in general.
denmark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shnmZy3vFW0& (danish simba is my perfect denmark voice; this video is kind of quiet, so turn up your volume a little.)
belarus: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBlioQdAIdc&feature=related (russian pocahontas is the best voice I can imagine for belarus; since russian is the dominant language of the country, she would speak it very often when dealing with most of her citizens.)
english is also the second-most known language in belarus, especially with the younger generation, so it is extremely logical for belarus to have a very good grasp of english (besides the fact that she is a Nation).
important note: (as explained in another fill of mine on the meme)
apologies for the smaller update and so long a wait for it; my uncle has been and is still in the hospital because of a minor car accident, and a lingering case of the flu/pneumonia has worsened to legionnaire's disease, a severe form of viral pneumonia. for the past few days my family has been on edge and I hadn't been able to write because legionnaire's can be fatal, especially with his diabetes and, because he hadn't been up to keeping on top of it while he was sick before ending up in the hosptial, a close brush with complete renal failure. coupled with a midterm earlier this week and a funeral for a high school teacher of mine over the weekend, it has been a hellacious week that has involved me breaking down on more than one occasion to my friends because so much is happening at once. thank you all so much for reading and being so patient, and I'll continue to update as college and life allows.
denmark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shnmZy3vFW0& (danish simba is my perfect denmark voice; this video is kind of quiet, so turn up your volume a little.)
belarus: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBlioQdAIdc&feature=related (russian pocahontas is the best voice I can imagine for belarus; since russian is the dominant language of the country, she would speak it very often when dealing with most of her citizens.)
english is also the second-most known language in belarus, especially with the younger generation, so it is extremely logical for belarus to have a very good grasp of english (besides the fact that she is a Nation).
important note: (as explained in another fill of mine on the meme)
apologies for the smaller update and so long a wait for it; my uncle has been and is still in the hospital because of a minor car accident, and a lingering case of the flu/pneumonia has worsened to legionnaire's disease, a severe form of viral pneumonia. for the past few days my family has been on edge and I hadn't been able to write because legionnaire's can be fatal, especially with his diabetes and, because he hadn't been up to keeping on top of it while he was sick before ending up in the hosptial, a close brush with complete renal failure. coupled with a midterm earlier this week and a funeral for a high school teacher of mine over the weekend, it has been a hellacious week that has involved me breaking down on more than one occasion to my friends because so much is happening at once. thank you all so much for reading and being so patient, and I'll continue to update as college and life allows.
Re: historical notes [parts 6 - 7] + important author's note
(Anonymous) 2011-11-01 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)Continuos reviewer!anon here again.
Thank you for the update despite all the things you've had in your life as of late, A!A. I really hope things will work out for the better in terms of that sickness.
As for the update this time, I only have a minor thing to point out: We Danes did not have horns on our helmets. It was supposedly a Christian way of portrayal to make the vikings look more like the Devil xD
I continue to be amazed with your Belarus, definitely as enchanted as Denmark himself!
Oooh, and I'm intrigued by your voice head-canon, it's hard to disagree with Belarus' voice from what I've heard of her Japanese seiyuu. Denmark seems to have a very soft voice if you go with Simba's though, and the general stereotype of us is that we have very rough voices/words compared to the rest of the Nordic countries, for example. I still think it's a cool idea that you thought of these little details though!
Thank you for the update despite all the things you've had in your life as of late, A!A. I really hope things will work out for the better in terms of that sickness.
As for the update this time, I only have a minor thing to point out: We Danes did not have horns on our helmets. It was supposedly a Christian way of portrayal to make the vikings look more like the Devil xD
I continue to be amazed with your Belarus, definitely as enchanted as Denmark himself!
Oooh, and I'm intrigued by your voice head-canon, it's hard to disagree with Belarus' voice from what I've heard of her Japanese seiyuu. Denmark seems to have a very soft voice if you go with Simba's though, and the general stereotype of us is that we have very rough voices/words compared to the rest of the Nordic countries, for example. I still think it's a cool idea that you thought of these little details though!
thank you lots! and I added an extra historical note explaining why I used the horned helmet imagery, I guess I forgot about it when I put together the notes for this update!
as a native english speaker, danish sounds very flowing and seems to slide around in the mouth, with some glottal feel but very little at all to me. it's norwegian, swedish, and icelandic that sound a lot more rougher and/or have more stops and starts to my ears! but everyone hears everything differently; as a russian-major who grew up listening to polish and slovak from my grandparents, I find russian to be very soothing and calming, but I know many people who find it rough and with too many consonant clusters for their liking!
as a native english speaker, danish sounds very flowing and seems to slide around in the mouth, with some glottal feel but very little at all to me. it's norwegian, swedish, and icelandic that sound a lot more rougher and/or have more stops and starts to my ears! but everyone hears everything differently; as a russian-major who grew up listening to polish and slovak from my grandparents, I find russian to be very soothing and calming, but I know many people who find it rough and with too many consonant clusters for their liking!
horned helmets: the modern-day stereotype of vikings as horned-helmeted, viciously savage barbarians is highly idealized and most likely comes from misconceptions and fascinations that arose during the viking revival. from wiki: 'The Viking revival (Septentrionalism) was an increase in popular and scholarly interest in and enthusiasm for the history and culture of the Vikings and other Norsemen of the Viking Age. The revival proper was in part stirred by the 19th century National Romanticism movement. In Scandinavia it took the form of a Romantic nationalism called Scandinavism. Interest was also widespread in Great Britain, in both the Vikings and the Danelaw and in Anglo-Saxon history and language.'
the only historical evidence of horned helmets ever found has been depictions of their use in religious ritual. but there's no concrete evidence saying they never did, so grains of salt all around, basically. imagine what you like, this is a fanfic at the end of the day; but I like to the that denmark, sweden, and norway may have worn horned helmets in battle as part of their positions as leaders of their armies, and as part of their image as not-quite-human-but-not-quite-god beings, largely ceremonial and symbolic of their nature.
the only historical evidence of horned helmets ever found has been depictions of their use in religious ritual. but there's no concrete evidence saying they never did, so grains of salt all around, basically. imagine what you like, this is a fanfic at the end of the day; but I like to the that denmark, sweden, and norway may have worn horned helmets in battle as part of their positions as leaders of their armies, and as part of their image as not-quite-human-but-not-quite-god beings, largely ceremonial and symbolic of their nature.
Re: historical notes [parts 6 - 7] + important author's note
(Anonymous) 2011-11-03 11:37 am (UTC)(link)OP apologizes for taking so long to respond! I am in one of those towns that got 12+ inches of snow on Saturday and was without power.
First off don't worry about taking a longer time to write. Internet life takes a backseat as far as I am concerned when it comes to real life, especially when someone in your family is hurt or sick. So don't apologize, I hope that your uncle makes a full recovery, Legionnaire's totally sucks, everyone in my house (except for my stepfather) came down with it last August. I am also sorry to hear about your teacher's passing, and midterms kind of, you know suckbut only when you're going through just boring old suburban people problems.
Now about the fill, I love that you haven't had any dialog yet. I love how your doing more to build the atmosphere and feelings without saying anything... which is something I enjoy, and I believe most fanfiction writers focus too much on the dialogue and not on the other ones. Keep going yo!
First off don't worry about taking a longer time to write. Internet life takes a backseat as far as I am concerned when it comes to real life, especially when someone in your family is hurt or sick. So don't apologize, I hope that your uncle makes a full recovery, Legionnaire's totally sucks, everyone in my house (except for my stepfather) came down with it last August. I am also sorry to hear about your teacher's passing, and midterms kind of, you know suck
Now about the fill, I love that you haven't had any dialog yet. I love how your doing more to build the atmosphere and feelings without saying anything... which is something I enjoy, and I believe most fanfiction writers focus too much on the dialogue and not on the other ones. Keep going yo!
Belarus is silent as she leads Denmark through the doors, the restaurant homey and cozy. Diners whisper and mutter in quiet Russian amidst them, throaty words buzzing like fireflies around the Nations' ears. Lights are lit dim within colored glass and books lie within carved shelves in the walls, busy wallpaper and carpet decorating the various rooms. A fire roars in the grand fireplace and the bar shines liquid and dark, men and women sitting high and heady beneath candlelight. A waitress greets them and the Belarusian says something in clipped Russian, voice gentle to match the warm atmosphere. The blond raises a brow at her tone, so different than when she is in meetings or world conferences, but says nothing. Belarus walks with him again, arm in arm, as they are led to their table.
The two are seated in a corner by the fire, flames flickering like starbursts and throwing shadows over the paintings and books along the wall. Belarus is cat-like in the half-dark, cunning; Denmark wonders if she is taking him apart with her eyes, breaking him down, building him up. She surprises the blond further when she orders water instead of the alcohol she normally goes after at world meetings.
"No vodka this time?" he asks.
"Гарелка is for later," she replies.
"Later?"
"You shall see," and her mouth is sharp, defined. Denmark raises a brow in question, and her eyes meet his, equal.
The two are seated in a corner by the fire, flames flickering like starbursts and throwing shadows over the paintings and books along the wall. Belarus is cat-like in the half-dark, cunning; Denmark wonders if she is taking him apart with her eyes, breaking him down, building him up. She surprises the blond further when she orders water instead of the alcohol she normally goes after at world meetings.
"No vodka this time?" he asks.
"Гарелка is for later," she replies.
"Later?"
"You shall see," and her mouth is sharp, defined. Denmark raises a brow in question, and her eyes meet his, equal.
"You know I can't read anything on this menu, ret?" he rests his chin on his hand, a corner of his mouth turned upward. Belarus scoffs, but her tone is gentle as she translates the entire menu. Both of them decide on borshch, warm and filling in the chill of her winter.
"Боршч has always been Brother's favorite," the blonde explains as they wait. "No one has ever made it better than Sister; it was her people that created it, after all," the Belarusian finishes, sipping her water. Denmark recalls having learned that particular fact at some point or another, but her quieter tone has him curious; this is the most talkative he has ever seen her outside of a conference. The Dane asks tell me more, tell me, wants to feel the air heavy with her throaty words and sapphire eyes.
The blonde speaks of winters in high mountains, survival amidst snow-covered forests and rocky cliffs. She tells him of the different varieties and recipies, the changes she and her brother have made to their sister's creation; how they have made something as simple as a food distinct yet familiar among them.
And Denmark is content to listen, to learn, to see a side of Belarus that few Nations ever have. Many of them only see the image of the crazed, wild, over-loving tigress that the Belarusian projects, too overwhelemed to look beneath the surface, within the facets of her diamond exterior. There is a gentler, more vulnerable Belarus buried inside, and the blond knows this because of a select few before him who have braved the raging waters of her arctic eyes and tundra hands. When the United States took her to his home and to his bed, the man had nothing but good things to say of her: her kindness when one could draw it out, her fierce loyalty when one earned it, her pride when one gave her the room to breathe. The United Kingdom tasted rage and love in her kisses and the scrape of her nails, Lithuania spins tales of chasing her animal-like and long ago through forests. Denmark knows she needs someone like that, someone just as wild and free as herself; someone who can take what she gives, give just as much back, run with her like the howling winds of her mountains and settle like the snows of her winters all the same. He feels wonderfully privileged to see her this way, the way she was meant to be seen.
"You are not listening to a single word I am saying, are you?" the blonde asks, tone firm but yielding.
"Yes I am," the kingdom replies nonchalantly, teasing.
"Not to my words."
"Words aren't the only thing I can hear when you speak."
"Боршч has always been Brother's favorite," the blonde explains as they wait. "No one has ever made it better than Sister; it was her people that created it, after all," the Belarusian finishes, sipping her water. Denmark recalls having learned that particular fact at some point or another, but her quieter tone has him curious; this is the most talkative he has ever seen her outside of a conference. The Dane asks tell me more, tell me, wants to feel the air heavy with her throaty words and sapphire eyes.
The blonde speaks of winters in high mountains, survival amidst snow-covered forests and rocky cliffs. She tells him of the different varieties and recipies, the changes she and her brother have made to their sister's creation; how they have made something as simple as a food distinct yet familiar among them.
And Denmark is content to listen, to learn, to see a side of Belarus that few Nations ever have. Many of them only see the image of the crazed, wild, over-loving tigress that the Belarusian projects, too overwhelemed to look beneath the surface, within the facets of her diamond exterior. There is a gentler, more vulnerable Belarus buried inside, and the blond knows this because of a select few before him who have braved the raging waters of her arctic eyes and tundra hands. When the United States took her to his home and to his bed, the man had nothing but good things to say of her: her kindness when one could draw it out, her fierce loyalty when one earned it, her pride when one gave her the room to breathe. The United Kingdom tasted rage and love in her kisses and the scrape of her nails, Lithuania spins tales of chasing her animal-like and long ago through forests. Denmark knows she needs someone like that, someone just as wild and free as herself; someone who can take what she gives, give just as much back, run with her like the howling winds of her mountains and settle like the snows of her winters all the same. He feels wonderfully privileged to see her this way, the way she was meant to be seen.
"You are not listening to a single word I am saying, are you?" the blonde asks, tone firm but yielding.
"Yes I am," the kingdom replies nonchalantly, teasing.
"Not to my words."
"Words aren't the only thing I can hear when you speak."
Belarus's eyes narrow, shadowed and glittering in the firelight as their meal arrives. Denmark's gaze is dark, cunning; he feels a high-heel brush against his leg as the waitress serves them, feels the blonde's ankle as her foot slides against the fabric of his trousers, up, up, up. The Dane crosses his own ankles, trapping her foot between his legs and her mouth tips down; he can hear the huff of her breath, the low growl in her throat, but both of them are silent as they eat. He is challenging her, pushing her down, waiting to see how and when she will force herself back up. She brings her other foot up and suddenly there is a six-inch dagger between his legs, a warning or a challenge of her own; Denmark can't tell but he doesn't want to when she takes the first bite of her borshch, tongue licking pink across her spoon and her lips. Her eyes are heady beneath her long lashes and they cut lighting to his core when they meet his own, sparking fire in his chest and down between his legs. The blond lets her other foot go, and the two slide back into the crystalline comfort that has surrounded them all day.
Until Belarus slips off one of her high-heels; the Nation's toes curl warm into the fabric of his dress pants, slipping with purpose, sliding between his thighs, breaking him down. She smiles cold and cunning behind her spoon, the fire behind her roars, and the Dane is breathless, borshch on his tongue, her ankle in his hand.
Until Belarus slips off one of her high-heels; the Nation's toes curl warm into the fabric of his dress pants, slipping with purpose, sliding between his thighs, breaking him down. She smiles cold and cunning behind her spoon, the fire behind her roars, and the Dane is breathless, borshch on his tongue, her ankle in his hand.
гарелка - transliterated as harelka or xarelka; the belarusian word for 'vodka'.
ret - the danish word for 'right'.
боршч - from wiki: '(Ukrainian: борщ) a soup of Ukrainian origin that is popular in many Eastern and Central European countries. In most of these countries, it is made with beetroot as the main ingredient, giving it a deep reddish-purple color. In some countries, tomato may occur as the main ingredient, while beetroot acts as a secondary ingredient. Other, nonbeet varieties also exist, such as the tomato paste-based orange borscht and the green borscht (sorrel soup). The soup began its existence from trimmings of cellared vegetables consumed throughout the winter months. Most families had a container, usually a kettle or stove pot, kept outside to store those trimmings. Around the first spring thaw, that pot was placed on the fire and cooked into a soup-like meal. One of the primary vegetables of the Slavic diet consumed during the winter months was beets. Hence, the recipe changed into what is traditionally known as a beet soup. In Belarusian cuisine, the tomatoes are standard, sometimes in addition to beets. It is usually served with smetana (Eastern European-style sour cream) and a traditional accompaniment of pampushki (sing. pampushka), small hot breads topped with fresh chopped garlic.'
this is the belarusian pronounciation/name of the original ukrainian dish, transliterated as boršč (borshch). on a transliteration note, vodka is also italicized in the fic because it is not a native english word.
belarus/us, belarus/lithuania, belarus/uk - according to himaruya, belarus lived with the us for a time after the break-up of the soviet union; belarusian people and the territory of modern-day belarus had been part of the grand duchy of lithuania and later the polish-lithuanian commonwealth in their history, and because I was inspired by fanart and I love rarepairs, have some belarus/uk. (I kind of really want to write a smutty encounter between them one day, mmmm.)
more soon! going to animeUSA next this upcoming weekend and then a week of thanksgiving break, much needed because this semester has been outrageously hectic. getting into the dirty stuff next update!
ret - the danish word for 'right'.
боршч - from wiki: '(Ukrainian: борщ) a soup of Ukrainian origin that is popular in many Eastern and Central European countries. In most of these countries, it is made with beetroot as the main ingredient, giving it a deep reddish-purple color. In some countries, tomato may occur as the main ingredient, while beetroot acts as a secondary ingredient. Other, nonbeet varieties also exist, such as the tomato paste-based orange borscht and the green borscht (sorrel soup). The soup began its existence from trimmings of cellared vegetables consumed throughout the winter months. Most families had a container, usually a kettle or stove pot, kept outside to store those trimmings. Around the first spring thaw, that pot was placed on the fire and cooked into a soup-like meal. One of the primary vegetables of the Slavic diet consumed during the winter months was beets. Hence, the recipe changed into what is traditionally known as a beet soup. In Belarusian cuisine, the tomatoes are standard, sometimes in addition to beets. It is usually served with smetana (Eastern European-style sour cream) and a traditional accompaniment of pampushki (sing. pampushka), small hot breads topped with fresh chopped garlic.'
this is the belarusian pronounciation/name of the original ukrainian dish, transliterated as boršč (borshch). on a transliteration note, vodka is also italicized in the fic because it is not a native english word.
belarus/us, belarus/lithuania, belarus/uk - according to himaruya, belarus lived with the us for a time after the break-up of the soviet union; belarusian people and the territory of modern-day belarus had been part of the grand duchy of lithuania and later the polish-lithuanian commonwealth in their history, and because I was inspired by fanart and I love rarepairs, have some belarus/uk. (I kind of really want to write a smutty encounter between them one day, mmmm.)
more soon! going to animeUSA next this upcoming weekend and then a week of thanksgiving break, much needed because this semester has been outrageously hectic. getting into the dirty stuff next update!
Anon here can't wait for any of it! :D (but will, of course, do so anyway). I can't say enough how much I love your descriptions, a-and sorry, I feel bad about pointing out the thing with the helmets now! I didn't mean to make you write all those - probably - unnecessary notes ;A;"
Still, I absolutely love how you describe the both of them. It seems to me that you've really gotten under Belarus' skin as an author too.
Still, I absolutely love how you describe the both of them. It seems to me that you've really gotten under Belarus' skin as an author too.
thank you! and the notes were no problem, I actually just copied them from the other fill I'm doing on the meme where I used the same imagery, except with sweden instead. and this is my first time writing both denmark and belarus, so I'm glad they're coming across in-character and well!
"Hviderusland," her name in his native tongue is breathy, honey in his mouth, dripping. The republic can see stars in his eyes, fiery and white in the flickers of the flames.
"Данія," she responds, his name in her own language thick through her teeth. She wriggles her toes, feels him through the thick fabric, licks her spoon with half-lidded eyes. The Dane's grip on her ankle tightens.
"So is this the game we're going to play?" he asks, meeting her gaze and Belarus can hear want and need in the kingdom's voice, loud and clear.
"We have been doing so since your feet touched the grounds of my capital," the blonde responds airily. "And I have somewhere in mind where we can continue." Denmark's breath catches in his throat as her foot slides across his trousers once more, his hand around her ankle loose and half-guiding her foot closer, faster, harder.
"Please tell me it's the nearest bedroom," the blond rasps, legs parted wide to the republic's teasing, torturous touch.
"Not yet," and Denmark's eyes positively glow at not yet, "but for the record, yours is closer." Belarus's smile is dark and cunning, brow shadowed high in the flickering flames behind her. She is becoming playful, seductive, absolutely breathtaking in this side of her humanity and the Dane sets down his spoon in the empty bowl, mesmerized. He hears the clink of the blonde's own utensil, feels her foot slide mercilessly from between his legs back to the floor as the waitress brings their check. He steels himself against the intensity of her gaze as they stand, slipping on shoes and scarves and wool coats and sliding back into place as the Kongeriget Danmark and the Respublika Biełaruś, business-like and battle-worn.
"Данія," she responds, his name in her own language thick through her teeth. She wriggles her toes, feels him through the thick fabric, licks her spoon with half-lidded eyes. The Dane's grip on her ankle tightens.
"So is this the game we're going to play?" he asks, meeting her gaze and Belarus can hear want and need in the kingdom's voice, loud and clear.
"We have been doing so since your feet touched the grounds of my capital," the blonde responds airily. "And I have somewhere in mind where we can continue." Denmark's breath catches in his throat as her foot slides across his trousers once more, his hand around her ankle loose and half-guiding her foot closer, faster, harder.
"Please tell me it's the nearest bedroom," the blond rasps, legs parted wide to the republic's teasing, torturous touch.
"Not yet," and Denmark's eyes positively glow at not yet, "but for the record, yours is closer." Belarus's smile is dark and cunning, brow shadowed high in the flickering flames behind her. She is becoming playful, seductive, absolutely breathtaking in this side of her humanity and the Dane sets down his spoon in the empty bowl, mesmerized. He hears the clink of the blonde's own utensil, feels her foot slide mercilessly from between his legs back to the floor as the waitress brings their check. He steels himself against the intensity of her gaze as they stand, slipping on shoes and scarves and wool coats and sliding back into place as the Kongeriget Danmark and the Respublika Biełaruś, business-like and battle-worn.
It is all the blond can do not to have her in any one of the alleys they pass, her arm in his like she has never left it. When he asks where she is taking him he receives no response, only the icy mist of her breath backlit by streetlights and the tug of her arm to lead the way. Denmark is curious, captivated, eager to see her diamond-shine in a light he never has before. He wants to know first hand the strength in her shoulders, the feel of her touch, the wonders of her body she has promised with deep eyes and dark smiles. The republic is so close, right next to him and touching him and wonderfully warm beneath fabric and layers; Belarus is a gift he will take all the time in the world to unwrap, to savor, to burn the taste of her into his tongue and the feel of her into his hands forever.
Lost in thought amidst the bustle of passersby and the republic's lead, Denmark is wrenched from his musings as Belarus stops. The building before them is embellished with silver and gold shades, grand and exotic with writing in her brother's tongue he can't understand; the blonde swears he can hear music, feel the bass of a sound system beneath his feet.
"En natklub?," he questions, raising a brow at the Nation. A place like this is the last one he would ever expect to see her.
"Да," she responds, and the Dane will never hear enough of those throaty words. "Did I not say I wanted you to see everything my country has to offer? Everything I have to offer?" Belarus's eyes are wide with want, and Denmark lets her guide him through the glass doors, lead him down the rabbit hole, wherever she wishes to take him.
Lost in thought amidst the bustle of passersby and the republic's lead, Denmark is wrenched from his musings as Belarus stops. The building before them is embellished with silver and gold shades, grand and exotic with writing in her brother's tongue he can't understand; the blonde swears he can hear music, feel the bass of a sound system beneath his feet.
"En natklub?," he questions, raising a brow at the Nation. A place like this is the last one he would ever expect to see her.
"Да," she responds, and the Dane will never hear enough of those throaty words. "Did I not say I wanted you to see everything my country has to offer? Everything I have to offer?" Belarus's eyes are wide with want, and Denmark lets her guide him through the glass doors, lead him down the rabbit hole, wherever she wishes to take him.
And now here they are, Denmark in his suit and tie and Belarus in her high-collared cocktail dress in the middle of a Minsk nightclub at midnight. The kingdom has a glass of icy vodka in one hand and the republic's hip in the other as she grinds liquid against him. He can feel her curves throught the layered, fluffy material; her ass, her hips, her waist, everything as he slides a hand down the front of her dress and swallows down a mouthful of alcohol, pressing arctic kisses to her neck and beneath her ear. Both of them are sweat-slicked and hungry for more as the blonde traces her nails prickle-gentle down Denmark's neck and pushes his mouth ever closer onto her skin. Both of her hands move down his thighs, sliding agonizingly slow over the fabric of his trousers as he jerks her hips back, groaning throatily into her shoulder.
Belarus spins to face Denmark, crushing his mouth against her own as she traces her fingers down his chest, feeling the Scandinavian Nation hot and burning beneath her palm. She dips them beneath the edge of his dress pants, teasing and tempting as the blond's breathy whimpers urge her on. Belarus takes her time with his belt and the clasp and zipper of his trousers, working far too slow for the taller Nation's liking until her hand reaches inside to palm him through the thin fabric of his boxers. Denmark growls, breath caught as he tangles a hand in her hair and pulls her head back to kiss her, vodka-cold and heavy until the heat of her breath washes away the prickling chill.
The nightclub is dark and deep but for the occasional scattered glow of neon lights, and Belarus's dangerous game begins as she crushes her body closer to the kingdom's and he is ever grateful for the layers of her dress that hide her hand even more than the near-darkness. Her hand around him is rough and slow as he bucks into her touch, a measured dance in time with the thick pounding of the bass; when the beat of his heart and the beat of the drum are one and the same and everything around him is Belarus. The smaller blonde yanks Denmark's tie, swallowing his moans and gasps with her mouth as her hand winds its way beneath his suit jacket and around his back, fingers digging into muscle and bone as the kingdom tenses. She reaches into one of his back pockets, grabbing the white handkerchief whose corner she'd seen sticking out before.
Belarus spins to face Denmark, crushing his mouth against her own as she traces her fingers down his chest, feeling the Scandinavian Nation hot and burning beneath her palm. She dips them beneath the edge of his dress pants, teasing and tempting as the blond's breathy whimpers urge her on. Belarus takes her time with his belt and the clasp and zipper of his trousers, working far too slow for the taller Nation's liking until her hand reaches inside to palm him through the thin fabric of his boxers. Denmark growls, breath caught as he tangles a hand in her hair and pulls her head back to kiss her, vodka-cold and heavy until the heat of her breath washes away the prickling chill.
The nightclub is dark and deep but for the occasional scattered glow of neon lights, and Belarus's dangerous game begins as she crushes her body closer to the kingdom's and he is ever grateful for the layers of her dress that hide her hand even more than the near-darkness. Her hand around him is rough and slow as he bucks into her touch, a measured dance in time with the thick pounding of the bass; when the beat of his heart and the beat of the drum are one and the same and everything around him is Belarus. The smaller blonde yanks Denmark's tie, swallowing his moans and gasps with her mouth as her hand winds its way beneath his suit jacket and around his back, fingers digging into muscle and bone as the kingdom tenses. She reaches into one of his back pockets, grabbing the white handkerchief whose corner she'd seen sticking out before.
Denmark's grip on the shot glass tightens with every move of Belarus's fingers and his other hand trails down her side, mapping the indent of her waist and the flare of her hips, around the curve of her ass as he pulls her tighter. The blonde grabs his wrist, tipping the glass down to finish off the last of the vodka; not all of it reaches her mouth, trailing shimmer-bright down her jaw and Denmark's breath catches in his throat with a moan when her sapphire eyes meet his. Her tongue flicks over her lips, alcohol heavy on her breath and the kingdom can't help but lean down and kiss her, lap away the glittering liquid like honey, all tongue and teeth and he can feel himself on the edge of glory, almost there.
Denmark tilts his head towards the ceiling, letting his eyes close as the atmosphere of the nightclub echoes around him; room dark and deep, music pounding in his ears, a slick-chilled shot glass in hand and vodka-heady Belarus's hand between his legs. Never in his wildest dreams would he ever have thought it would be the Respublika Biełaruś to dance before him, splay her fingers all over his body, drink vodka from his hand like she was dying. Denmark has so many questions but she leaves no room for words when her hand on him is practiced and quickened; the republic knows exactly what she's doing and the blond is content to let her lead the way with her fingers, her mouth, her kisses that have him gasping for breath from more than the heat between them. Belarus tugs on his tie tighter, pulls him down further, lavishes his jaw and neck and God in heaven he is so close, crushing her closer, shot glass teetering icy in his hand, just a little more oh fuck yes in all the languages he knows yes-
Everything is white behind his eyes, lights blinding and the shattering of glass on the floor distant, and when Denmark comes it is like fire and stars in his veins. His cries are muted in the fabric of her collar as he crushes her to his chest, forehead pressed to her shoulder, moans and gasps drowned in the music that buzzes around their ears like bees. It is all he can do to stay standing, legs shaking in the afterglow as Belarus's free arm holds him steady, holds him fast; her fingers trace lightning through the kingdom's sweat-fluffed mane, untamed as the viking she knows sleeps hidden inside him. He buries his nose in her hair, the soft fabric of her ribbon gentle against his skin as the republic whispers words in her mothertongue to calm him.
When he pulls away to meet her gaze, panting and hair wild and dark eyes half-lidded, cheeks dusted with red and tie and collar wrenched crookedly open, the Kongeriget Danmark is the most beautiful thing Belarus has ever seen.
Denmark tilts his head towards the ceiling, letting his eyes close as the atmosphere of the nightclub echoes around him; room dark and deep, music pounding in his ears, a slick-chilled shot glass in hand and vodka-heady Belarus's hand between his legs. Never in his wildest dreams would he ever have thought it would be the Respublika Biełaruś to dance before him, splay her fingers all over his body, drink vodka from his hand like she was dying. Denmark has so many questions but she leaves no room for words when her hand on him is practiced and quickened; the republic knows exactly what she's doing and the blond is content to let her lead the way with her fingers, her mouth, her kisses that have him gasping for breath from more than the heat between them. Belarus tugs on his tie tighter, pulls him down further, lavishes his jaw and neck and God in heaven he is so close, crushing her closer, shot glass teetering icy in his hand, just a little more oh fuck yes in all the languages he knows yes-
Everything is white behind his eyes, lights blinding and the shattering of glass on the floor distant, and when Denmark comes it is like fire and stars in his veins. His cries are muted in the fabric of her collar as he crushes her to his chest, forehead pressed to her shoulder, moans and gasps drowned in the music that buzzes around their ears like bees. It is all he can do to stay standing, legs shaking in the afterglow as Belarus's free arm holds him steady, holds him fast; her fingers trace lightning through the kingdom's sweat-fluffed mane, untamed as the viking she knows sleeps hidden inside him. He buries his nose in her hair, the soft fabric of her ribbon gentle against his skin as the republic whispers words in her mothertongue to calm him.
When he pulls away to meet her gaze, panting and hair wild and dark eyes half-lidded, cheeks dusted with red and tie and collar wrenched crookedly open, the Kongeriget Danmark is the most beautiful thing Belarus has ever seen.
hviderusland - the danish name for the republic of belarus.
данія - transliterated as daniya; the belarusian name for the kingdom of denmark.
(en) natklub - danish for '(a) nightclub'.
I'm such a bad author-non, taking forever to update, but finals are coming up (plus I am also doing another fill on the meme at the same time right now) so I apologize in advance for however long it takes to continue updating. I have such a thing for dirty nightclub shenanigans it's not even funny; on to more shameless smut next time! and potentially an answer to why Belarus likes to play arousing games of footsies and tipsily whack off boys in dark, musical places :D
данія - transliterated as daniya; the belarusian name for the kingdom of denmark.
(en) natklub - danish for '(a) nightclub'.
I'm such a bad author-non, taking forever to update, but finals are coming up (plus I am also doing another fill on the meme at the same time right now) so I apologize in advance for however long it takes to continue updating. I have such a thing for dirty nightclub shenanigans it's not even funny; on to more shameless smut next time! and potentially an answer to why Belarus likes to play arousing games of footsies and tipsily whack off boys in dark, musical places :D
H-Holy hell that was hot, Author!anon! M-My god, I started to get a little hot under the collar myself there at the end of this update.
I've said this before (I think), but I just adore how you've taken the /canon/ Belarus with her /canon/ traits of tenacity, inner strength and attitude. It fits her so unbearably well to be such a calculated tease all the way, Denmark - with his rather wild inhibitions - doesn't have a chance against it xD
Thank you for updating again anon, I'll happily wait as long as you need, and I'll definitely be saving this on my laptop for future re-reading :D
I've said this before (I think), but I just adore how you've taken the /canon/ Belarus with her /canon/ traits of tenacity, inner strength and attitude. It fits her so unbearably well to be such a calculated tease all the way, Denmark - with his rather wild inhibitions - doesn't have a chance against it xD
Thank you for updating again anon, I'll happily wait as long as you need, and I'll definitely be saving this on my laptop for future re-reading :D
OP always feels like she is so late to the party, but that part in the club was really sexy. I got a great visual on that one. And now your telling me there is more sexiness to come <3
I have to agree 100% with what that other anon said, because I was going to type the same thing (more or less) until I read his/her comment.
How was AUSA? and I hope your exams go well ^^
I have to agree 100% with what that other anon said, because I was going to type the same thing (more or less) until I read his/her comment.
How was AUSA? and I hope your exams go well ^^
Belarus's kisses are as chaste as her hands as they fic his collar and tie, refasten his trousers and straighten his lapels. Her hands run through his hair, wild like the mane of a lion, majestic. Her sapphire eyes meet his, wide and wanting and the kingdom pulls her close, slides his hand slow through her own hair and gentle down her back.
Their calm is broken by the feel of glass crinkling underfoot, and Denmark gives the republic a sheepish smile, attempting to apologize until she places a finger over his lips to stop him. The blonde tugs his arm and leads them to the lobby, music now distant and muted. Tab paid and belongings returned, Belarus taps out a number on her phone, speaking more of those thick, throaty words the Dane can't understand and can't resist. When she finishes, she links her arm with his once more, leading him towards the glass doors to wait.
Neither of them speak as they watch her people go by; Denmark can see couples darting after each other through the falling snow, businessmen and women with breifcases shining as they head for nearby hotels. Coulds of breath whisper amidst the flakes, tinted orange-yelloe byt the glow of streetlights, and homey reataurants glitter with candlelight. Like any city, Minsk never sleeps, and Denmark glances at Belarus who watches her people like a hawk, a mother, a protector; everything the rumors say she's not supposed to be.
And after everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, the Respublika Biełaruś still continues to amaze him. The blond wonders what other cards she has up her sleeve, what other hands she'll play before the coming of the dawn.
At last the car Belarus called for arrives, and when the world tilts ever-so as he steps out into the cold, Denmark is glad for her intuition, her foresight. The vodka they shared earlier is warm in his belly like the heat of the car, its spacious interior dim-lit and scattered with flecks of a slowly-cycling aurora. The republic says something to her chauffer quietly in her wonderful throat-language, and Denmark is surprised when the screen goes up, leaving them unseen and undisturbed for the ride.
Their calm is broken by the feel of glass crinkling underfoot, and Denmark gives the republic a sheepish smile, attempting to apologize until she places a finger over his lips to stop him. The blonde tugs his arm and leads them to the lobby, music now distant and muted. Tab paid and belongings returned, Belarus taps out a number on her phone, speaking more of those thick, throaty words the Dane can't understand and can't resist. When she finishes, she links her arm with his once more, leading him towards the glass doors to wait.
Neither of them speak as they watch her people go by; Denmark can see couples darting after each other through the falling snow, businessmen and women with breifcases shining as they head for nearby hotels. Coulds of breath whisper amidst the flakes, tinted orange-yelloe byt the glow of streetlights, and homey reataurants glitter with candlelight. Like any city, Minsk never sleeps, and Denmark glances at Belarus who watches her people like a hawk, a mother, a protector; everything the rumors say she's not supposed to be.
And after everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, the Respublika Biełaruś still continues to amaze him. The blond wonders what other cards she has up her sleeve, what other hands she'll play before the coming of the dawn.
At last the car Belarus called for arrives, and when the world tilts ever-so as he steps out into the cold, Denmark is glad for her intuition, her foresight. The vodka they shared earlier is warm in his belly like the heat of the car, its spacious interior dim-lit and scattered with flecks of a slowly-cycling aurora. The republic says something to her chauffer quietly in her wonderful throat-language, and Denmark is surprised when the screen goes up, leaving them unseen and undisturbed for the ride.
Belarus is settled heavy and warm against him, vodka tingling on her breath as she tilts the kingdom's lips down to meet her own. The blonde is gentle, delicate with the Dane as if he was a fragile flower, paper-thin. He likes this soft Belarus well enough, but the memory of her mouth hot and rough on his own and her hands sliding down his thighs makes him want, makes him need. Her hand on his jaw pulls him even closer, and Denmark notices she removed her gloves at some point because her fingertips are soft, her touch feather-light against his cheek. Her tongue is easy against his, yielding and gentle and before he knows it the republic has draped herself across his lap. Her weight is solid, secure in his arms as she kisses him senseless, slow and steady. The kingdom can feel the fire inside him flickering to life again as his hands trace the curve of Belarus's body beneath scarves and wool, feeling her tiny shoulders and rounded curves.
“How long do we have?” he asks between kisses, panting and hungry for more.
“Any minute now,” she answers breathily, lips trailing down his neck until she meets the cloth of his scarf and collar.
“It would be a shame to leave you in here alone,” Denmark rasps into the crook of her neck, fingers sliding beneath her coat, up and down her back and kneading into the muscle hidden underneath lace and fabric.
The car comes to a gentle halt. Denmark's eyes are dark, his breath deep, and Belarus's hand is clawed around his tie.
“You aren't.”
The kingdom is speechless as she presses a button to lower the screen, barking liquid Belarusian to her chauffeur. The door is opened for both of them, the Dane wide-eyed in silent shock as Belarus pulls him out behind her. A tiny suitcase is on the ground before them both, its handle in the republic's gloved hand as she continues fervently to her driver. When she finishes, Denmark finds his arm in hers once more as she leads him into his hotel.
(There is no point in questions anymore; they are long past such guarding hesitations.)
“How long do we have?” he asks between kisses, panting and hungry for more.
“Any minute now,” she answers breathily, lips trailing down his neck until she meets the cloth of his scarf and collar.
“It would be a shame to leave you in here alone,” Denmark rasps into the crook of her neck, fingers sliding beneath her coat, up and down her back and kneading into the muscle hidden underneath lace and fabric.
The car comes to a gentle halt. Denmark's eyes are dark, his breath deep, and Belarus's hand is clawed around his tie.
“You aren't.”
The kingdom is speechless as she presses a button to lower the screen, barking liquid Belarusian to her chauffeur. The door is opened for both of them, the Dane wide-eyed in silent shock as Belarus pulls him out behind her. A tiny suitcase is on the ground before them both, its handle in the republic's gloved hand as she continues fervently to her driver. When she finishes, Denmark finds his arm in hers once more as she leads him into his hotel.
(There is no point in questions anymore; they are long past such guarding hesitations.)
Belarus asks to shower, tells him she will not touch a bed until both of them are clean. The Dane merely nods, watching her back as she goes into the bathroom. He watches the door close, hears the water run, envisions the curve of her shoulders and flare of her hips as she undresses; the slide of fabric and lace down her long legs, the fall of her silvery hair over her back, heated water and soap dripping glittered down her arms, between her breasts, between her legs-
The Dane groans, tossing his suit jacket onto the bed and sitting on the edge, undoing the laces of his dress shoes and setting them before the nightstand. He runs a hand through his fluffed hair, feeling and remembering sweat and kisses and Belarus's hands tracing trails down his chest, around his back, between his legs; exploring, plotting, mapping the planes of his body like his mapmakers have done to his lands in centuries long passed.
And how Denmark wishes to do the same to her.
Before long, the kingdom hears the water turn off and the faint rustle of a towel. When Belarus opens the door, hair wavy and wet and her robe tied loosely, she is beautiful, endless; the Scandinavian Nation watches her every move as she walks past him, tossing the fluffy, winter-white cloth onto his face.
“Your turn,” and her voice is honey-dark in his ears. Denmark inhales the scent of her shampoo and it reminds him of frost and mint and firewood, the fabric damp and warm against his cheek as a corner of her mouth turns up, eyes shining. The republic kneels at her suitcase, mindlessly thumbing through paperwork and official documents until she hears the bathroom door close and the water begin to run.
Belarus sets down the papers and begins ruffling through her clothes and belongings, fingering delicate lace and satin and ribbons, shadowed and seductive in the dim light of the single glowing lamp. She checks the bar, tracing a finger over the names on the bottles in languages she knows and doesn't, setting a pair of tall, thin wine glasses in the middle.
Slipping off her robe, the Respublika Biełaruś goes to work.
The Dane groans, tossing his suit jacket onto the bed and sitting on the edge, undoing the laces of his dress shoes and setting them before the nightstand. He runs a hand through his fluffed hair, feeling and remembering sweat and kisses and Belarus's hands tracing trails down his chest, around his back, between his legs; exploring, plotting, mapping the planes of his body like his mapmakers have done to his lands in centuries long passed.
And how Denmark wishes to do the same to her.
Before long, the kingdom hears the water turn off and the faint rustle of a towel. When Belarus opens the door, hair wavy and wet and her robe tied loosely, she is beautiful, endless; the Scandinavian Nation watches her every move as she walks past him, tossing the fluffy, winter-white cloth onto his face.
“Your turn,” and her voice is honey-dark in his ears. Denmark inhales the scent of her shampoo and it reminds him of frost and mint and firewood, the fabric damp and warm against his cheek as a corner of her mouth turns up, eyes shining. The republic kneels at her suitcase, mindlessly thumbing through paperwork and official documents until she hears the bathroom door close and the water begin to run.
Belarus sets down the papers and begins ruffling through her clothes and belongings, fingering delicate lace and satin and ribbons, shadowed and seductive in the dim light of the single glowing lamp. She checks the bar, tracing a finger over the names on the bottles in languages she knows and doesn't, setting a pair of tall, thin wine glasses in the middle.
Slipping off her robe, the Respublika Biełaruś goes to work.
apologies for any grammatical errors you saw; I caught a few while looking over the update that I didn't when I was actually posting it. apparently writing fic in the notes of my phone and then transferring it all to my laptop doesn't always work as well as I hope! it's also 2am and my roommate is asleep so the only light is my laptop and bluh preparing for finals therefore I haven't slept well in a while and basically I can't do much of anything very well right now! next update is aaaalllll smut, and because I like detail, the update after that will no doubt be even more smut because well SMUT. my love for het is atrocious, mmmmm.
thank you for reading, and to the anon who asked, AUSA went extremely well! I cosplayed the dolorosa from homestuck, bought lots of stuff and had fun at panels! and got my picture taken a billion times (which was awesome) but at the same time, it gets annoying when you get stopped every 20 seconds or so and all you're trying to do is get to the goddamn bathroom or something; but I digress. finals are the next two weeks, so updating will work around all of that!
also I'm not sure why belarus thinks that she needs lingerie and alcohol to further seduce denmark because he's obviously wrapped around her finger but I have a sickeningly sweet spot for seduction so THERE. :3
thank you for reading, and to the anon who asked, AUSA went extremely well! I cosplayed the dolorosa from homestuck, bought lots of stuff and had fun at panels! and got my picture taken a billion times (which was awesome) but at the same time, it gets annoying when you get stopped every 20 seconds or so and all you're trying to do is get to the goddamn bathroom or something; but I digress. finals are the next two weeks, so updating will work around all of that!
also I'm not sure why belarus thinks that she needs lingerie and alcohol to further seduce denmark because he's obviously wrapped around her finger but I have a sickeningly sweet spot for seduction so THERE. :3
Glad to hear you had a good time at AUSA! OP here did too, and knows the cosplay pain; I was Tsukimi from Princess Jellyfish and my kuranosuke and I kept getting paused for the bit we wore or stuff. I was going to do fem!France but my fem!Spain and fem!Prussia bailed... Thus I was just plain clothes.
Anyways... Op loves het smut and feels like this fandom needs more of it. She is there for so freaking excited for youR update. She is also wondering why Belarus thinks she needs more to get Denmark to eat for the palm of her hand, it is so obvious that he is so ready to get it on. Very sexy though.
Good luck with finals!
Anyways... Op loves het smut and feels like this fandom needs more of it. She is there for so freaking excited for youR update. She is also wondering why Belarus thinks she needs more to get Denmark to eat for the palm of her hand, it is so obvious that he is so ready to get it on. Very sexy though.
Good luck with finals!
Belarus slips on the white baby-doll she tucked in the bottom of her suitcase, thin straps accented with ribbons and lace layered over her breasts. The underwear that match are decorated with the same lace and fabric, an over-sized bow falling below the small of her back. The republic brushes out her hair until it is sleek and shining, the wintry scent of her shampoo settling gentle around her head like mist. She tidies their belongings, straightening shoes and aligning coats, tucking suitcases into neat squares like travel-sized soldiers.
Behind the bar, Belarus runs her fingers over the labels of various drinks, searching for the perfect one. There are all kinds of bottles; tall and thing, short and fat, jugs and diamonds and geometric shapes tinted enticing to the eye. There are drinks from all over the world for her to choose from in endless different languages, but the republic wants something made by her people, from her lands and hers alone. What she settles on is amber-bright and glittering, not too strong, just enough; she remembers vividly the vodka they drank only an hour earlier, the tilt of Denmark's shoulders as they climbed heated into the car.
She decides on only one glass instead of two; all the better to share, with all that has gone between them already.
Belarus turns the single lamp in the corner to its lowest setting, soft white light a dim haze that glitters through the air. Corners are dark, shadows blur and all around the blonde is a warm haven of secrets to uncover, unclothe, undo.
When the rat-a-tat of the shower ceases and the hum of a blow-dryer sounds, the republic throws wide the curtains of the room, the glimmer of her capital and the twinkling of a cascade of stars illuminating the panorama. She looks out upon her city like a mother, a guardian; she is of her people, by her people, for her people, one of them and one and the same. Flickering flakes of snow fall hazy in the air, sparkling and firefly-like in the moonlight, as numerous as her people, her children, and even more; as uncountable as the children of all Nations, under one endless, brilliant sky.
The hum of the blow-dryer silences, and Belarus hears the click of the door. The scent of snow and evergreens and yule-fire floods the room. Denmark's robe is blood-red and dark in the reflection of the window. She runs her tongue over her teeth, starving, wanting.
Behind the bar, Belarus runs her fingers over the labels of various drinks, searching for the perfect one. There are all kinds of bottles; tall and thing, short and fat, jugs and diamonds and geometric shapes tinted enticing to the eye. There are drinks from all over the world for her to choose from in endless different languages, but the republic wants something made by her people, from her lands and hers alone. What she settles on is amber-bright and glittering, not too strong, just enough; she remembers vividly the vodka they drank only an hour earlier, the tilt of Denmark's shoulders as they climbed heated into the car.
She decides on only one glass instead of two; all the better to share, with all that has gone between them already.
Belarus turns the single lamp in the corner to its lowest setting, soft white light a dim haze that glitters through the air. Corners are dark, shadows blur and all around the blonde is a warm haven of secrets to uncover, unclothe, undo.
When the rat-a-tat of the shower ceases and the hum of a blow-dryer sounds, the republic throws wide the curtains of the room, the glimmer of her capital and the twinkling of a cascade of stars illuminating the panorama. She looks out upon her city like a mother, a guardian; she is of her people, by her people, for her people, one of them and one and the same. Flickering flakes of snow fall hazy in the air, sparkling and firefly-like in the moonlight, as numerous as her people, her children, and even more; as uncountable as the children of all Nations, under one endless, brilliant sky.
The hum of the blow-dryer silences, and Belarus hears the click of the door. The scent of snow and evergreens and yule-fire floods the room. Denmark's robe is blood-red and dark in the reflection of the window. She runs her tongue over her teeth, starving, wanting.
"Bela, why is it so dark in-"
Denmark is speechless for the thousandth time when he sees the blonde before the window, framed by the glow of her capital and glittering snow. When the kingdom steps closer, he can see the fall of her hair around her neck, the outline of her shoulder blades, and when she turns, her sapphire eyes are glimmering like the stars above them both. White lace and chiffon fall soft and sensual around her hips, and when Denmark catches sight of the bow at her back he has to bite his lip to keep down the whimper-moan in his throat. How he wants to tempt her, touch her, take her right here and now but he won't; not until she chooses the game, lays down the rules, deals all of the cards in play.
Belarus beckons him with her brow and her mouth turned up at the corners, and he is helpless but to comply. She drinks from the glass she had poured, tilting the Dane's head gently down to meet hers, lips parting to let him taste the liquid amber. He lets the stinging sweetness wash its way warm down his throat, accented with lust and finished off with the taste of Belarus's tongue, just as sweet. Denmark could kiss her forever like this, lips soft and mouth tingling with alcoholic afterglow.
The kingdom takes the glass from her hand, swallowing down a mouthful before trailing his tongue along her jaw, down her neck. He can feel the bubbling fizz of whatever she poured them, tiny pricks against his lips and her skin, and he knows she can feel it too by the way her arms wrap around him, her hands over his shoulder blades. The republic's fingers dig in, her nails scrape, and even through the soft fabric of his robe the blond can feel her pulling at him, wanting. Her skin is shower-warm, the scents of her wilderness hanging airily around her body. Belarus reaches up on her toes to kiss him at his full height, and when she pulls away he tips the glass down to her mouth; her fingers drift across his own, taking the glass in her own hand as she tilts her head down to the side. When the blonde dips the glass down, amber liquid honey-dark and glittering as it trickles down her chin and over her collarbone, the Dane is wide-eyed with lust, watching.
Denmark is speechless for the thousandth time when he sees the blonde before the window, framed by the glow of her capital and glittering snow. When the kingdom steps closer, he can see the fall of her hair around her neck, the outline of her shoulder blades, and when she turns, her sapphire eyes are glimmering like the stars above them both. White lace and chiffon fall soft and sensual around her hips, and when Denmark catches sight of the bow at her back he has to bite his lip to keep down the whimper-moan in his throat. How he wants to tempt her, touch her, take her right here and now but he won't; not until she chooses the game, lays down the rules, deals all of the cards in play.
Belarus beckons him with her brow and her mouth turned up at the corners, and he is helpless but to comply. She drinks from the glass she had poured, tilting the Dane's head gently down to meet hers, lips parting to let him taste the liquid amber. He lets the stinging sweetness wash its way warm down his throat, accented with lust and finished off with the taste of Belarus's tongue, just as sweet. Denmark could kiss her forever like this, lips soft and mouth tingling with alcoholic afterglow.
The kingdom takes the glass from her hand, swallowing down a mouthful before trailing his tongue along her jaw, down her neck. He can feel the bubbling fizz of whatever she poured them, tiny pricks against his lips and her skin, and he knows she can feel it too by the way her arms wrap around him, her hands over his shoulder blades. The republic's fingers dig in, her nails scrape, and even through the soft fabric of his robe the blond can feel her pulling at him, wanting. Her skin is shower-warm, the scents of her wilderness hanging airily around her body. Belarus reaches up on her toes to kiss him at his full height, and when she pulls away he tips the glass down to her mouth; her fingers drift across his own, taking the glass in her own hand as she tilts her head down to the side. When the blonde dips the glass down, amber liquid honey-dark and glittering as it trickles down her chin and over her collarbone, the Dane is wide-eyed with lust, watching.
Denmark yanks the Belarusian close, licking and tasting the tingling alcohol that has slid its way across her collarbones and beneath ribboned lace, down between her breasts. He grabs her shoulders, pulling her body against his mouth as she pushes her head closer, fingers dragging languidly through his hair. Belarus tastes like fire and snow and stars, the bubble of alcohol cool on his tongue, silky-sweet down his throat as he meets her mouth once more. The republic's hands push at his chest, guiding the kingdom to sit on one of the bar chairs. Out of the corner of his eye, the blond sees her grab the glass again before she kisses him hot and heavy, rough and wanting. One of her hands snakes around his neck, beneath the collar of his robe, nails scratching and prickling playfully over his skin and it sends shivers down his spine as he arches into her touch.
Belarus pulls away with a growl, tilting the glass down high above them both; the remainder of the alcohol flows icy down Denmark's jaw, in stark contrast to the heat of his flushed cheeks and panting kisses. His robe hangs loose, and Belarus's tongue follows the path of glittering amber, around his collarbones, down his chest. Denmark is breathless, moans torn from his throat and arms laid out across the bar as Belarus's hands roam his body. The republic paints him with kisses and licks and nips, fisting a hand in his hair as she tilts his head back, tongue and teeth on his neck like he is her prey.
The blonde presses her body closer to him, against him, onto him as the kingdom pulls her as close as he can; yanking her mouth to his own, Denmark slides a hand down the indent of her waist and over the flare of her hips. Spinning her around, he drags one hand down her stomach, teasing beneath the band of those wonderfully seductive underwear, resisting her hands when they attempt to force his fingers further down. The kingdom's other hand slides up her neck, fingers tracing her chin and jaw and over her lips. He is surprised when Belarus's first reaction is to open her mouth, tongue licking languid and hot over the two fingers there. One of her hands leaves his to grab his wrist, massaging his palm as she sucks and nips the fingers in her mouth and Denmark growls animal-like into the crook of her neck, yanking her hips against his own as she grinds liquid and hot against him.
Belarus rocks into Denmark, her body soft and round between his legs as she slides her free hand down his thigh, uncovered by his robe and the kingdom remembers the nightclub only hours before. Her nails scrape along his skin, tracing lightning down his limbs as he bucks and arches against her, wanting and needing more.
Belarus pulls away with a growl, tilting the glass down high above them both; the remainder of the alcohol flows icy down Denmark's jaw, in stark contrast to the heat of his flushed cheeks and panting kisses. His robe hangs loose, and Belarus's tongue follows the path of glittering amber, around his collarbones, down his chest. Denmark is breathless, moans torn from his throat and arms laid out across the bar as Belarus's hands roam his body. The republic paints him with kisses and licks and nips, fisting a hand in his hair as she tilts his head back, tongue and teeth on his neck like he is her prey.
The blonde presses her body closer to him, against him, onto him as the kingdom pulls her as close as he can; yanking her mouth to his own, Denmark slides a hand down the indent of her waist and over the flare of her hips. Spinning her around, he drags one hand down her stomach, teasing beneath the band of those wonderfully seductive underwear, resisting her hands when they attempt to force his fingers further down. The kingdom's other hand slides up her neck, fingers tracing her chin and jaw and over her lips. He is surprised when Belarus's first reaction is to open her mouth, tongue licking languid and hot over the two fingers there. One of her hands leaves his to grab his wrist, massaging his palm as she sucks and nips the fingers in her mouth and Denmark growls animal-like into the crook of her neck, yanking her hips against his own as she grinds liquid and hot against him.
Belarus rocks into Denmark, her body soft and round between his legs as she slides her free hand down his thigh, uncovered by his robe and the kingdom remembers the nightclub only hours before. Her nails scrape along his skin, tracing lightning down his limbs as he bucks and arches against her, wanting and needing more.
The Viking inside him is hungry and rising; he wants to throw the Belarusian onto the bed, mark her with his tongue and teeth, hold down her arms as he fucks her long and rough into the sheets; he wants to watch her pant, hear her moan, feel her hot and tight around him as he drives her down, meets her bucking hips and arching spine with a fervor to rival her own. Denmark growls low in his throat at the thought of the Respublika Biełaruś beneath him: hair fanned out over the pillows, skin flushed hot and slick with swear, his tongue trailing between her breasts and teeth ghosting over her neck.
Denmark's fingers leaving the republic's mouth distract him from his thoughts as she turns to face him again, hands meandering beneath the loose tie of his robe. The kingdom grabs her wrists, raising a brow as she struggles to reach for the knot; her eyes meet his, clear-cut sapphire against ocean-clear cerulean, and even though she fights Denmark can see the glimmer of playfulness in her irises. He holds her wrist before them both as she pulls back, a corner of her mouth upturned as the become locked in their defying dance; Belarus growls and attempts to catch her teeth on his arm as the kingdom pushes her down, wanting to throw her over his shoulder and toss her on the bed like he were a hunter and she his prized, perfect prey.
Releasing her wrists, the Scandinavian Nation grabs the blonde's waist, lifting her and crushing her to his chest. Her ankles cross behind his back, holding herself up as her hands tilt his chin so she can kiss him for the thousandth time that night. Her hands drag through his hair, gripping and tugging in all the right places as he moves toward the bed.
Gently laying the Belarusian on the sheets, the Kongeriget Danmark crawls over her, pressing delicate kisses to her neck and collarbones, sliding a hand up her thigh. The blonde trails her fingers down his chest, undoing the knot holding his robe together as she holds his tongue and teeth to her skin.
Denmark's fingers leaving the republic's mouth distract him from his thoughts as she turns to face him again, hands meandering beneath the loose tie of his robe. The kingdom grabs her wrists, raising a brow as she struggles to reach for the knot; her eyes meet his, clear-cut sapphire against ocean-clear cerulean, and even though she fights Denmark can see the glimmer of playfulness in her irises. He holds her wrist before them both as she pulls back, a corner of her mouth upturned as the become locked in their defying dance; Belarus growls and attempts to catch her teeth on his arm as the kingdom pushes her down, wanting to throw her over his shoulder and toss her on the bed like he were a hunter and she his prized, perfect prey.
Releasing her wrists, the Scandinavian Nation grabs the blonde's waist, lifting her and crushing her to his chest. Her ankles cross behind his back, holding herself up as her hands tilt his chin so she can kiss him for the thousandth time that night. Her hands drag through his hair, gripping and tugging in all the right places as he moves toward the bed.
Gently laying the Belarusian on the sheets, the Kongeriget Danmark crawls over her, pressing delicate kisses to her neck and collarbones, sliding a hand up her thigh. The blonde trails her fingers down his chest, undoing the knot holding his robe together as she holds his tongue and teeth to her skin.
more soon! only three finals left! I should probably be studying for the one I have tonight on all kids of crazy russian literature but naaaaaaaaah SMUT. next update, there will really be more than just foreplay, which I tend to get on a roll with sometimes and then it's like 'goddammit' when are they actually going to DO IT'.
also, the entirety of this update was written to this song on pretty much constant loop because asdfksajdhfkjsdf
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muigK9vTS2c
and also maybe some of this one too?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4_7w06Logc
also, the entirety of this update was written to this song on pretty much constant loop because asdfksajdhfkjsdf
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muigK9vTS2c
and also maybe some of this one too?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4_7w06Logc
T-This is only getting better, and anon here loooooves foreplay, so I'll have to say, the more of it the better, personally XD
Anon also has a feeling that she'll be saving this to read over and over again when it's finished ~
Also, it's always nice to broarden ones music taste! *loved that Italian one* and I already knew Va Fangool <3
Anon also has a feeling that she'll be saving this to read over and over again when it's finished ~
Also, it's always nice to broarden ones music taste! *loved that Italian one* and I already knew Va Fangool <3
The Scandinavian Nation licks and nips, relishing the cool taste of Belarus's shower-clean skin. Her nails trail sparks through his hair and down his neck, holding his mouth to the crook of her shoulder as he feels one of her legs hook around his back. The lace and ribbon that brushes his cheek is tantalizing and beautiful, but he would rather it thrown across the floor than on her body any longer.
The blond lifts her onto her knees in his lap, sliding his hands up underneath the thin chiffon, feeling her ribs and memorizing the secrets tucked in the spaces between them. The Belarusian complies, lifting her arms as Denmark pulls the fabric over her head to land forgotten on the carpet. He pulls her close, tongue dragging over the space between her breasts and he can feel her hips rocking into his, knows she wants more more more. The blonde is getting impatient; he can tell by the way her hands try to force his wrists from her waist and down to her hips, the bite of her teeth in her kisses, the huff of her breath come quick and hot on his skin.
His tongue swirls over one of her nipples as he thumbs the other, drawing growls from her throat, low and heady in his ear. Belarus arches into his touch, holding him to her chest like a child in the arms of its mother, like one of their people, born of woman and nourished by her and made one with her all the same. The blond slides a hand along the curve of her ass, pulling her hips closer to his own as the silky feel of the ribbon on her underwear falls liquid through his fingers. He tugs at the fabric and the republic wastes no time in pulling them off, tossing them to a dark corner of the room before pulling his mouth to her breasts once more, running her fingers through his mane of sweat-slicked, untamed hair.
The blond lifts her onto her knees in his lap, sliding his hands up underneath the thin chiffon, feeling her ribs and memorizing the secrets tucked in the spaces between them. The Belarusian complies, lifting her arms as Denmark pulls the fabric over her head to land forgotten on the carpet. He pulls her close, tongue dragging over the space between her breasts and he can feel her hips rocking into his, knows she wants more more more. The blonde is getting impatient; he can tell by the way her hands try to force his wrists from her waist and down to her hips, the bite of her teeth in her kisses, the huff of her breath come quick and hot on his skin.
His tongue swirls over one of her nipples as he thumbs the other, drawing growls from her throat, low and heady in his ear. Belarus arches into his touch, holding him to her chest like a child in the arms of its mother, like one of their people, born of woman and nourished by her and made one with her all the same. The blond slides a hand along the curve of her ass, pulling her hips closer to his own as the silky feel of the ribbon on her underwear falls liquid through his fingers. He tugs at the fabric and the republic wastes no time in pulling them off, tossing them to a dark corner of the room before pulling his mouth to her breasts once more, running her fingers through his mane of sweat-slicked, untamed hair.
Denmark kneads the soft flesh with his hands, nipping and sucking and Belarus is liquid in his lap, guiding his mouth with her fingers beneath his jaw. Her nails trail down his sides beneath the blood-dark fabric of his robe, making him shiver with want and whimper with need. The republic grabs one of his wrists, dragging it down to her stomach and between her legs, nails digging into his skin, telling him without words what she will do if he doesn't comply. The kingdom gives, letting her have this victory, splaying his hands wide over her hips and sliding his fingers ever closer to the spot that he knows will make her beg, make her scream. Denmark's mouth is on her skin like his hand is between her legs, rubbing and circling and teasing and yes, there are the sounds he has waited all day and night to hear. Belarus whimpers and moans low in her throat, biting her lip to lessen the sounds she rarely lets anyone but herself hear.
When Denmark looks up, meets her sapphire eyes tinted dark and deep with need, her hair fluffed long and waving around her face and cheeks brushed pink, she is beautiful; absolutely beautiful and gorgeous and wonderful and he could come right then and there but he won't, he can't, not yet. When he comes it will be for her and her alone, and after all, ladies first. The kingdom slips a finger inside of her, then two, then three and dear God she is so tight, hot and wet for him and only him right now as she bucks and groans and holds his mouth to her breast. The Scandinavian Nation's free arm wraps around her back, holding her steady and strong and even though she is Belarus who needs no one to save her, he will hold her fast; hold her until the line between his body and hers is blurred and dead and washed away on the shores of his seas and ocean-bright eyes, melted in the aftermath of her silent snows.
The Respublika Biełaruś grinds down on his fingers, twisting and bucking and arching into his touch. Denmark can tell by her whimpers and gasps that she is close, so fucking close and he meets her half-lidded gaze, fists a hand in her hair and makes her look at him.
When Denmark looks up, meets her sapphire eyes tinted dark and deep with need, her hair fluffed long and waving around her face and cheeks brushed pink, she is beautiful; absolutely beautiful and gorgeous and wonderful and he could come right then and there but he won't, he can't, not yet. When he comes it will be for her and her alone, and after all, ladies first. The kingdom slips a finger inside of her, then two, then three and dear God she is so tight, hot and wet for him and only him right now as she bucks and groans and holds his mouth to her breast. The Scandinavian Nation's free arm wraps around her back, holding her steady and strong and even though she is Belarus who needs no one to save her, he will hold her fast; hold her until the line between his body and hers is blurred and dead and washed away on the shores of his seas and ocean-bright eyes, melted in the aftermath of her silent snows.
The Respublika Biełaruś grinds down on his fingers, twisting and bucking and arching into his touch. Denmark can tell by her whimpers and gasps that she is close, so fucking close and he meets her half-lidded gaze, fists a hand in her hair and makes her look at him.
“I want to see you,” he whispers, as breathless as the Nation writhing in his lap. One of Belarus's hands holds his jaw, trails down his chest, reaches between his legs. The blond moans at her touch, gasping and panting into her neck as her hand moves too fast and never enough; Denmark remembers the nightclub, dark and deep and Belarus's hands all over his body, touching and tempting and teasing and torturing.
“I want to see it in your e-eyes,” and the republic's free hand splays across his neck, grabbing beneath his jaw as the kingdom falters,” I want, jeg vil føle dig, jeg vil-”
Belarus only nods her head, cheeks red and eyes half-lidded as she she moves, her hand around his neck holding tighter with every breath each Nation takes. Denmark's words are Danish, rough and low, nothing she can understand anymore as they clatter around them both, ripped from his throat like they are his last.
The republic's body is sparks and fire, the world behind her eyes is white as she grinds down on the kingdom's hand one last time, her hand on him still and she feels the Kongeriget Danmark follow her over the edge, into their glory as their eyes meet wide, wanting no longer, but only for the moment.
Belarus lets her fingers slide from Denmark's neck and wipes the stickiness from her hand onto his chest, tracing her touch over his jaw as the Scandinavian Nation licks the taste of himself from her skin. Cradling him to her chest, the pair fall down into the pillows and sheets, panting and sweat-slicked and hungry for more.
“I want to see it in your e-eyes,” and the republic's free hand splays across his neck, grabbing beneath his jaw as the kingdom falters,” I want, jeg vil føle dig, jeg vil-”
Belarus only nods her head, cheeks red and eyes half-lidded as she she moves, her hand around his neck holding tighter with every breath each Nation takes. Denmark's words are Danish, rough and low, nothing she can understand anymore as they clatter around them both, ripped from his throat like they are his last.
The republic's body is sparks and fire, the world behind her eyes is white as she grinds down on the kingdom's hand one last time, her hand on him still and she feels the Kongeriget Danmark follow her over the edge, into their glory as their eyes meet wide, wanting no longer, but only for the moment.
Belarus lets her fingers slide from Denmark's neck and wipes the stickiness from her hand onto his chest, tracing her touch over his jaw as the Scandinavian Nation licks the taste of himself from her skin. Cradling him to her chest, the pair fall down into the pillows and sheets, panting and sweat-slicked and hungry for more.
jeg vil føle dig – danish for 'I want to feel you'; danish is obviously not my specialty as a russian major with a side of german, so if this is wrong or there's something off, I always accept suggestions.
also, danish is really tricky with its pronunciation, as a hell of a lot of the words aren't said quite like they're spelled at first glance, especially without knowing danish pronunciation rules. I guess you could say this particular phrase sounds something like 'yai vil fouh-luh dai"; seriously, danish doesn't pronounce half its vowels and it can just get really confusing for the most part. but it's one of the sexiest languages I've ever heard. youtube a few disney movies in danish and asjdhfksdjhfksdf; I prefer aladdin and also simba (who is my headcanon denmark voice) myself.
I'm pretty sure these two are never going to stop fucking, I have at least two more updates' worth of smut already planned and then some plot-ish things and then (hey no surprise here) even more sex; updates soon!
also, danish is really tricky with its pronunciation, as a hell of a lot of the words aren't said quite like they're spelled at first glance, especially without knowing danish pronunciation rules. I guess you could say this particular phrase sounds something like 'yai vil fouh-luh dai"; seriously, danish doesn't pronounce half its vowels and it can just get really confusing for the most part. but it's one of the sexiest languages I've ever heard. youtube a few disney movies in danish and asjdhfksdjhfksdf; I prefer aladdin and also simba (who is my headcanon denmark voice) myself.
I'm pretty sure these two are never going to stop fucking, I have at least two more updates' worth of smut already planned and then some plot-ish things and then (hey no surprise here) even more sex; updates soon!
Bring on the smut anon just keep bringing it on until you feel like you've had enough. I love heterosexual sex scenes written by women, because it's nice good sex, and the guy is never a bag o dicks. I really chuckled at the "ladies first" line oh how I wish. Anyways I love this oh so very much :)
Yep Danish has the same problem as French and English, words aren't said how they look. I'm currently self teaching myself Danish and if I didn't have the audio I'd be lost.
Yep Danish has the same problem as French and English, words aren't said how they look. I'm currently self teaching myself Danish and if I didn't have the audio I'd be lost.
Denmark lies breathless above Belarus, cheek to her chest, fingers tangled in her hair. Her arms cradle his head, running her fingers through his untamed mane, gentle and comforting. The kingdom's body is lightning-vivid and burning with the aftermath of the republic's torturous, tantalizing touch, and he leans up to catch her mouth with his own. Her kisses are soft, slow like her fingers in his hair and the hand that ghosts over his shoulders, dipping beneath the collar of his robe to trace her nails over his skin. The blond could kiss her forever like this, serene and satisfied but ever eager for just a little bit more. The prickle of her nails circles between his shoulder blades, sending sparks up his spine as her fingers dig into just the right places, massaging and rubbing and Denmark is honey in her hands, ever-willing, ever-giving.
Belarus can feel the blond gripping her shoulders, muscles tightening and hips jerking into hers as she works her fingers into his shoulder blades, over his spine and down his sides beneath the blood-dark fabric. She smiles wickedly into his kisses, crossing her ankles around his back and trailing a hand down to one of his hipbones; the kingdom whimpers into her mouth, sliding shamelessly up to his knees above her and allowing her nails to prickle against his thigh, dangerous and demanding.
The republic uses the opportunity to shove the blond onto his back, a yelp of surprise escaping his throat as Belarus crawls slowly over him, animal-like and graceful. Her teeth nip over his neck, biting bruises like watercolor as he pulls her down, grinding and bucking against her hips. Their mouths meet tongue and teeth as Denmark runs his hands over her body; across her tiny shoulders, down her arms that hide wildfire and gold beneath skin, over her stomach. The Nation is small, curved and rounded in all the places he isn't, diamond-eyed but never delicate in her beauty. The kingdom slides a hand over her breasts, warm and soft on his palm, down her ribs, feeling the indents of each; she is thin but not too much so, and he can feel the shadow of muscle taut beneath the health of curved skin. There is a certain gracefulness in the fullness of her hips as his hands trail down her thighs, body heady and hot as she grinds down on him, against him.
Belarus can feel the blond gripping her shoulders, muscles tightening and hips jerking into hers as she works her fingers into his shoulder blades, over his spine and down his sides beneath the blood-dark fabric. She smiles wickedly into his kisses, crossing her ankles around his back and trailing a hand down to one of his hipbones; the kingdom whimpers into her mouth, sliding shamelessly up to his knees above her and allowing her nails to prickle against his thigh, dangerous and demanding.
The republic uses the opportunity to shove the blond onto his back, a yelp of surprise escaping his throat as Belarus crawls slowly over him, animal-like and graceful. Her teeth nip over his neck, biting bruises like watercolor as he pulls her down, grinding and bucking against her hips. Their mouths meet tongue and teeth as Denmark runs his hands over her body; across her tiny shoulders, down her arms that hide wildfire and gold beneath skin, over her stomach. The Nation is small, curved and rounded in all the places he isn't, diamond-eyed but never delicate in her beauty. The kingdom slides a hand over her breasts, warm and soft on his palm, down her ribs, feeling the indents of each; she is thin but not too much so, and he can feel the shadow of muscle taut beneath the health of curved skin. There is a certain gracefulness in the fullness of her hips as his hands trail down her thighs, body heady and hot as she grinds down on him, against him.
The Belarusian scores her nails down the kingdom's chest, pressing her lips to his collarbones, nipping her way down; Denmark growls low in his throat, attempting to flip her over but she resists, meeting his gaze with madness in her eyes and her fingers curved like claws. He knows she is tempting him, taunting him to throw her down and have her wild and untamed, take her by ferocious force.
“You're playing a dangerous game, Hviderusland,” the blond says between kisses, feeling the pull of Belarus's fingers in his hair and the wonderful writhing of her body into his own.
“I know,” and her tongue licks a trail over his jaw to the crook of his neck, breath hot and heady as she whispers in his ear.
“That is the only way I know how.”
Denmark is gone. He grabs her by the waist, flipping her around with a growl and crawling over her, letting slip words in tongues he hasn't spoken in centuries; words of intimidation and power that made he and his brothers feared like demons, prayers offered to gods long forgotten in hope for salvation.
The blonde makes an attempt to throw him off before he holds her wrists to the sheets, grinding and rutting against her ass, dragging tongue and teeth up her back slowly, precisely. The republic bucks against him, wanting, needing, nearly begging but not yet, not until he tells her. Denmark pulls her to his chest, kissing her shoulder with one hand on her breast and the other between her legs. Belarus tilts her head back as his fingers trail up her neck, holding tight and pushing her closer to the stars that glitter at the horizon of her vision, closer to the edge. Denmark knows just when to let her breathe as his fingers twist and rub between her legs, drawing moans and whimpers and gasps out of her throat to shatter around them, ring heavenly in his ears. He can hear the blonde attempting to speak, unable to form words in a language he understands, praising him with her moans and damning him with her growls as she pulls at the fabric of his robe, wanting more, wanting the Dane as close as she can have him; but she won't beg, not until he says she can, not until he needs her to.
“You're playing a dangerous game, Hviderusland,” the blond says between kisses, feeling the pull of Belarus's fingers in his hair and the wonderful writhing of her body into his own.
“I know,” and her tongue licks a trail over his jaw to the crook of his neck, breath hot and heady as she whispers in his ear.
“That is the only way I know how.”
Denmark is gone. He grabs her by the waist, flipping her around with a growl and crawling over her, letting slip words in tongues he hasn't spoken in centuries; words of intimidation and power that made he and his brothers feared like demons, prayers offered to gods long forgotten in hope for salvation.
The blonde makes an attempt to throw him off before he holds her wrists to the sheets, grinding and rutting against her ass, dragging tongue and teeth up her back slowly, precisely. The republic bucks against him, wanting, needing, nearly begging but not yet, not until he tells her. Denmark pulls her to his chest, kissing her shoulder with one hand on her breast and the other between her legs. Belarus tilts her head back as his fingers trail up her neck, holding tight and pushing her closer to the stars that glitter at the horizon of her vision, closer to the edge. Denmark knows just when to let her breathe as his fingers twist and rub between her legs, drawing moans and whimpers and gasps out of her throat to shatter around them, ring heavenly in his ears. He can hear the blonde attempting to speak, unable to form words in a language he understands, praising him with her moans and damning him with her growls as she pulls at the fabric of his robe, wanting more, wanting the Dane as close as she can have him; but she won't beg, not until he says she can, not until he needs her to.
“Bið mik, Hviderusland,” and the Kongeriget Danmark fists a hand in the Belarusian's hair, teeth grazing her jugular, fingers ghosting between her legs, just out of reach. The blonde jerks against his hold on her, body taut and tight with one last snarl, an animal in the shade of adoring contempt. The Viking inside Denmark is untamed, alive; the Dane bites and licks her collarbones, shoves her to the sheets, growls wild in her ear. He grabs one of her legs and she curves it around his waist, arching up to meet his chest as he lowers himself over her, letting her feel the heat from his body and the softness of his robe, but nothing more.
“Beg,” he rasps low in his throat, holding his hand beneath her jaw as she tries to meld her body against his, meet the kingdom's heat with her own. Belarus whimpers, moans for his touch until she gives, finally gives, pleading his name, Данія, Данія, прашу, Данія; his name on her tongue is honey-dark and liquid, sparking white behind his eyes and lightning through his veins. The Nation beneath him is on her knees, begging for him and crying for his touch, sweat-slicked and hot and he can't wait any longer; Denmark needs her body, her heat, all that she can give him as he moves over her, into her, all around her.
The former Viking is statue-still, nose buried in her hair and fingers entwined with her own in the sheets, feeling the Belarusian stiffen and hearing her draw her breath sharp; how he wants to move, how he wants to feel her beneath and around him, soft and warm and beautiful in the glow of her capital. But he will let her have all the time in the world, all the time she needs until she is ready, ever-willing, ever-giving.
The evening out of her breath is her signal, and Belarus slams her hips into his own as he presses his lips to the back of her neck, licking and nipping as she bucks hot against him, and they are like animals in heat, rutting rough and untamed. Denmark slides a hand over her stomach, reaching down between her legs, rubbing, circling, slick with her warmth and the slide of his body over hers. The blonde reaches back to tangle her fingers in his hair, shoving his mouth into the crook of her neck as he paints her skin red with his teeth.
“Beg,” he rasps low in his throat, holding his hand beneath her jaw as she tries to meld her body against his, meet the kingdom's heat with her own. Belarus whimpers, moans for his touch until she gives, finally gives, pleading his name, Данія, Данія, прашу, Данія; his name on her tongue is honey-dark and liquid, sparking white behind his eyes and lightning through his veins. The Nation beneath him is on her knees, begging for him and crying for his touch, sweat-slicked and hot and he can't wait any longer; Denmark needs her body, her heat, all that she can give him as he moves over her, into her, all around her.
The former Viking is statue-still, nose buried in her hair and fingers entwined with her own in the sheets, feeling the Belarusian stiffen and hearing her draw her breath sharp; how he wants to move, how he wants to feel her beneath and around him, soft and warm and beautiful in the glow of her capital. But he will let her have all the time in the world, all the time she needs until she is ready, ever-willing, ever-giving.
The evening out of her breath is her signal, and Belarus slams her hips into his own as he presses his lips to the back of her neck, licking and nipping as she bucks hot against him, and they are like animals in heat, rutting rough and untamed. Denmark slides a hand over her stomach, reaching down between her legs, rubbing, circling, slick with her warmth and the slide of his body over hers. The blonde reaches back to tangle her fingers in his hair, shoving his mouth into the crook of her neck as he paints her skin red with his teeth.
They rut, they writhe, they buck into each other like they know nothing else, ready and searching for the end they know is waiting, molding and melting between their bodies; Denmark drowns his moans and gasps in Belarus's neck, jerking his hips haphazardly against her skin, rhythm tilted and unsteady with every move he makes, every breath she takes. They are wild and primal and in their movement there is no thought, only instinct and the slick-slide of their bodies against one another, closer and closer, harder, faster, like they are predators on the hunt and hunting they are, for completion and the energy between them that is already one and the Nations are anxious for their bodies to do the same.
Denmark can tell by the grip of her fingers and the change in her breath that Belarus is close, so damn close and his hand between her legs quickens; he is determined that she come first, be the first one over the edge so that he can let her guide him wherever her white-hot yearning will lead them both. The republic's voice is heady with need and dark with want as they move, faster and harder and the Dane moans hitched against her neck, voice cracking as Belarus pants and arches into the blond's body. They move longer still, back and forth and back and forth, meeting but never quite merging into the holy union they are biting screaming dying for, Denmark's hand between her legs and Belarus's hand in his hair and mouths meeting tongue-teeth for the last time-
The glow of Minsk outside the window is starshine compared to the white behind their eyes, Denmark jerking his hips against the blonde's body, wide-eyed and weary and drowning his broken cries in her neck. Belarus yanks his head down, entwining her fingers with his, wanting her skin touching as much of his as she can, sweat-slicked and heated; the former Viking's pleasure-dark eyes and red-dusted cheeks, tousled hair and taut muscle surrounding her, holding her, loving her are the most beautiful things the republic has ever seen.
Both Nations collapse into the sheets, panting and holding tight to each other as they wait for the world to stop spinning, for the earth to right itself beneath them so they can pick the scattered, white-hot pieces of themselves back up and build themselves stronger, closer once more.
Denmark can tell by the grip of her fingers and the change in her breath that Belarus is close, so damn close and his hand between her legs quickens; he is determined that she come first, be the first one over the edge so that he can let her guide him wherever her white-hot yearning will lead them both. The republic's voice is heady with need and dark with want as they move, faster and harder and the Dane moans hitched against her neck, voice cracking as Belarus pants and arches into the blond's body. They move longer still, back and forth and back and forth, meeting but never quite merging into the holy union they are biting screaming dying for, Denmark's hand between her legs and Belarus's hand in his hair and mouths meeting tongue-teeth for the last time-
The glow of Minsk outside the window is starshine compared to the white behind their eyes, Denmark jerking his hips against the blonde's body, wide-eyed and weary and drowning his broken cries in her neck. Belarus yanks his head down, entwining her fingers with his, wanting her skin touching as much of his as she can, sweat-slicked and heated; the former Viking's pleasure-dark eyes and red-dusted cheeks, tousled hair and taut muscle surrounding her, holding her, loving her are the most beautiful things the republic has ever seen.
Both Nations collapse into the sheets, panting and holding tight to each other as they wait for the world to stop spinning, for the earth to right itself beneath them so they can pick the scattered, white-hot pieces of themselves back up and build themselves stronger, closer once more.
bið mik - a hopefully correct translation of 'beg me' into old norse, the precursor to most modern scandinavian-classified languages; denmark and all of his siblings (sans finland, whose language belongs to an entirely different classification) would have spoken old norse during the viking age, until its dialects began to branch off and develop into the modern scandinavian languages around the 1300's. again, if I fubar'd on this one too, do offer suggestions so I can de-anon nicely!
прашу - belarusian for 'please', transliterated as prašú.
if you happen to have read any of the other fills I've done on the meme, you might recognize a few phrases and terms of wording that hearken back to earlier fills of mine. you might even get my identity, since I have de-anoned before! and I managed to cut the smut down to end with this update, so there's lots of talking and heart-to-heart and somewhat plot-exposition to come and then eventually (and inevitably) more porn! more soon, and I hope everyone had a wonderful whatever you celebrated this month!
прашу - belarusian for 'please', transliterated as prašú.
if you happen to have read any of the other fills I've done on the meme, you might recognize a few phrases and terms of wording that hearken back to earlier fills of mine. you might even get my identity, since I have de-anoned before! and I managed to cut the smut down to end with this update, so there's lots of talking and heart-to-heart and somewhat plot-exposition to come and then eventually (and inevitably) more porn! more soon, and I hope everyone had a wonderful whatever you celebrated this month!
A-Anon, this just continues to be wonderful. I'm sorry I haven't been able to drop you a comment (this is Dane-anon btw) before now, but Christmas/Jul is always such a busy time!
Your Danish was fine, so I suppose Google did a reasonable job this time?
Anyways, this has been a pleasure to read from ther start, and I will be delighted to read more - porn and plot alike! :D
Your Danish was fine, so I suppose Google did a reasonable job this time?
Anyways, this has been a pleasure to read from ther start, and I will be delighted to read more - porn and plot alike! :D
thank you so much! and don't worry about being able to comment right away, I'm 450 miles from home visiting family and surrounded by snow, so there's lots of downtime to write out some more porn for the holidays. :D
actually, I go to wiktionary for when I need to make phrases and then consult the wiki articles on a specific language's grammar if I'm not sure about it. or if I'm talking about a specific country, place, event, or thing I can find on wikipedia, I go to the article I'm referencing in the specific language I need (how I got denmark and belarus's names in each other's languages for example), which I know I can rely on at least a bit better than google translate!
actually, I go to wiktionary for when I need to make phrases and then consult the wiki articles on a specific language's grammar if I'm not sure about it. or if I'm talking about a specific country, place, event, or thing I can find on wikipedia, I go to the article I'm referencing in the specific language I need (how I got denmark and belarus's names in each other's languages for example), which I know I can rely on at least a bit better than google translate!
I always am so late when it comes to joining the party! I swear next time I will be prompt!!
I love the way you write smut. I think I've said that before but honestly I need to repeat it. It's so much more focused on what women typically like in their porny-goodness without wandering into the laughable stuff you get in paper back novel romances. Keep doing what you are doing because it is all kinds of fabulous.
AND NO YOU SAY THERE WILL BE PLOT? FUCK-to-da-YEAH. You may choose between a baby or cookies as an expression of my undying gratitude. Really, anon you spoil this always-late-to-the-party-OP
My Danish and Russian both suck (ha Russian... I should probably practice that more, and self teaching myself Danish is going... not nearly as good as it did with Italian) so I can't help you would with any of that.
I hope you had a happy holiday/holidays... I feel asleep on New Years Eve again despite being at a party... :/
I love the way you write smut. I think I've said that before but honestly I need to repeat it. It's so much more focused on what women typically like in their porny-goodness without wandering into the laughable stuff you get in paper back novel romances. Keep doing what you are doing because it is all kinds of fabulous.
AND NO YOU SAY THERE WILL BE PLOT? FUCK-to-da-YEAH. You may choose between a baby or cookies as an expression of my undying gratitude. Really, anon you spoil this always-late-to-the-party-OP
My Danish and Russian both suck (ha Russian... I should probably practice that more, and self teaching myself Danish is going... not nearly as good as it did with Italian) so I can't help you would with any of that.
I hope you had a happy holiday/holidays... I feel asleep on New Years Eve again despite being at a party... :/
Belarus holds tight to Denmark, precious wonderful beautiful Denmark, panting into his chest as both of them remember how to breathe. Her fingers dart through his hair, fluffed and wild and crowning his head like the mane of a lion, pressing kisses to his forehead with whispers to calm him. His hands on her grip the blonde close, and the world is calm as the hum of her capital and the sounds of their breathing hang like fireflies around them. Denmark's breath slows as he rolls onto his back, pulling the Belarusian onto his chest and kissing her lazily, languidly. She fingers the blood-dark fabric pooled at his elbows, sliding up to his collar and cradling his jaw. When they part, she looks at the kingdom beneath her, really looks; sees his pleasure-dim eyes, red-flushed skin, half-hidden canines that glimmer razor-pointed in the moonlight.
The Dane flicks his tongue over his lips, biting, jaw tilting as if he is about to speak, wants to speak but cannot find the words to do so. The blonde stops him with her finger over his mouth, and his cerulean eyes meet hers, wide and glittering in the dim light beside them; she could lose herself in them if she's not careful, and she reaches back to switch off the tiny lamp on the nightstand. Both Nations are left in the glow of the moon and her capital, snowfall speckling the room like the shimmering fractals of a pool. Belarus reaches for her towel on the floor, standing up and tossing Denmark's to him as she cleans herself. Flinging hers towards the bathroom when she is done, she begins to tiptoe about the room to collect her scattered clothes.
The kingdom fiddles with his towel as he watches the blonde, marveling at the lines of her body in the moonlight, at how she moves naked before him without the slightest hint of shame. He likes that in her, how she is brazen, bold, courageous in the face of calamity when even the most fearless of Nations might falter. The Scandinavian Nation remembers how only the morning prior his officials were quick-cut and sharp with her, and how she sat straight and unbreaking as he reigned them in beneath him.
Belarus is a conundrum in fits and starts, one he has already begun to solve, piece by piece, bit by bit with every layer he removes and every passing understanding that goes between them.
The Dane flicks his tongue over his lips, biting, jaw tilting as if he is about to speak, wants to speak but cannot find the words to do so. The blonde stops him with her finger over his mouth, and his cerulean eyes meet hers, wide and glittering in the dim light beside them; she could lose herself in them if she's not careful, and she reaches back to switch off the tiny lamp on the nightstand. Both Nations are left in the glow of the moon and her capital, snowfall speckling the room like the shimmering fractals of a pool. Belarus reaches for her towel on the floor, standing up and tossing Denmark's to him as she cleans herself. Flinging hers towards the bathroom when she is done, she begins to tiptoe about the room to collect her scattered clothes.
The kingdom fiddles with his towel as he watches the blonde, marveling at the lines of her body in the moonlight, at how she moves naked before him without the slightest hint of shame. He likes that in her, how she is brazen, bold, courageous in the face of calamity when even the most fearless of Nations might falter. The Scandinavian Nation remembers how only the morning prior his officials were quick-cut and sharp with her, and how she sat straight and unbreaking as he reigned them in beneath him.
Belarus is a conundrum in fits and starts, one he has already begun to solve, piece by piece, bit by bit with every layer he removes and every passing understanding that goes between them.
It's not until she tosses a blanket over his head that Denmark's train of thought crashes, lap suddenly occupied by the beautiful Belarusian as she swathes them both in blankets and sheets and nestles into his arms. He didn't take her as one for cuddling, but she's surprised him so many times over the course of a day that nothing she does baffles him anymore; she is Belarus, quiet and courageous and powerful in ways he doesn't want to describe, doesn't want to dirty with words that will never be adequate enough.
“What is that look for, Данія,” and Belarus's eyes are narrowed as she looks up from his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his robe. It's only then that he realizes he's been smiling dreamily at her for the past thirty seconds like a lovestruck schoolchild.
“Nothing,” he lies, sing-song and dripping through his teeth. The blonde raises a brow, unamused.
“I just never thought the fearless, fearsome Respublika Biełaruś would be one for cuddling,” Denmark says playfully, and the woman in question sits up in his lap, blankets around her shoulders and body bared unabashedly to his eyes.
“There is much you have to learn about me, Kongeriget Danmark,” she says, and he suppresses a shiver at the way his name in his mothertongue slides honey-dark from her mouth. The kingdom's heart could burst at her words, because learning means more of her sapphire eyes and diamond-cut courage and that wonderful, beautiful body that brings him to his knees.
“But I'm not sure I can teach such an old dog new tricks,” Belarus teases with shadowed irises, nails trailing down the dusting of hair on his chest and tongue licking over her lips.
“And I'm sure it was this old dog who gave you quite the performance earlier,” the Scandinavian Nation purrs, sliding a hand over the blonde's hip and tilting her head towards his own, pressing his mouth to hers. Her tongue licks over his teeth that bite her lip before she pulls away, eyes glittering endless and deep.
“What is that look for, Данія,” and Belarus's eyes are narrowed as she looks up from his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his robe. It's only then that he realizes he's been smiling dreamily at her for the past thirty seconds like a lovestruck schoolchild.
“Nothing,” he lies, sing-song and dripping through his teeth. The blonde raises a brow, unamused.
“I just never thought the fearless, fearsome Respublika Biełaruś would be one for cuddling,” Denmark says playfully, and the woman in question sits up in his lap, blankets around her shoulders and body bared unabashedly to his eyes.
“There is much you have to learn about me, Kongeriget Danmark,” she says, and he suppresses a shiver at the way his name in his mothertongue slides honey-dark from her mouth. The kingdom's heart could burst at her words, because learning means more of her sapphire eyes and diamond-cut courage and that wonderful, beautiful body that brings him to his knees.
“But I'm not sure I can teach such an old dog new tricks,” Belarus teases with shadowed irises, nails trailing down the dusting of hair on his chest and tongue licking over her lips.
“And I'm sure it was this old dog who gave you quite the performance earlier,” the Scandinavian Nation purrs, sliding a hand over the blonde's hip and tilting her head towards his own, pressing his mouth to hers. Her tongue licks over his teeth that bite her lip before she pulls away, eyes glittering endless and deep.
“But really,” Denmark begins, resting amongst the pillows piled against the headboard, “in a single day, you've shattered nearly every image your behavior has made of you.” The Belarusian's lips turn down into a frown and Denmark wonders if she's going to pull a knife on him at this very moment (from where he doesn't know but he wouldn't be surprised), because it's fucking Belarus and that's what she does. The blonde is cunning, quick, cutthroat and fierce; show a weakness and it's hers forever, leave an opening and she's through it before even she's realized it's there. He knows she grew up in lands more ravaged than the ones he left his blood-drenched footprints on, knows she didn't survive by simply laying down her arms and letting go.
But the Belarusian only lowers her head, turning her gaze everywhere but his own, eyes flickering with something he can see is more than the snow and starshine outside the window.
“Of course, you can't judge a book by its cover, but you, this,” and his hands run up her ribs, over her shoulders, hold her face to meet her eyes. “This isn't the Respublika Biełaruś I was prepared for.”
“Then what were you prepared for?” Her eyes are hard, crystalline.
“I don't know,” and the kingdom's hands slip from her jaw, into the blankets. “Maybe I wasn't prepared for anything, and that's why I expected everything.” The blonde looks at him curiously, head tilted ever so like an animal in waiting, silent.
But the Belarusian only lowers her head, turning her gaze everywhere but his own, eyes flickering with something he can see is more than the snow and starshine outside the window.
“Of course, you can't judge a book by its cover, but you, this,” and his hands run up her ribs, over her shoulders, hold her face to meet her eyes. “This isn't the Respublika Biełaruś I was prepared for.”
“Then what were you prepared for?” Her eyes are hard, crystalline.
“I don't know,” and the kingdom's hands slip from her jaw, into the blankets. “Maybe I wasn't prepared for anything, and that's why I expected everything.” The blonde looks at him curiously, head tilted ever so like an animal in waiting, silent.
“Your arm in mine throughout the city, your games in the restaurant, the admittedly wonderful attention in the nightclub,” and Belarus doesn't meet the Dane's eyes at his words, “you carving out a place in my hotel room like you belong nowhere else.” The faintest shade of red splashes across the blonde's cheeks, even in the dim light of the world outside.
“This has something to do with din broder; your brother.”
The republic whirls her gaze to meet Denmark's, wide-eyed and weary when her shoulders sink ever so beneath the blankets around her. It is like he has seen right through to her heart, and she knows there is nowhere else to hide.
“Yes.” Her fingers trail over his chest.
“Everything.” The kingdom watches her, waiting.
“Yes.” The blonde's nails trace lightning beneath his jaw, down his neck, pressing into his skin.
“And nothing.” He covers her hand with his own and holds it between them, entwining their fingers.
“Да.”
“This has something to do with din broder; your brother.”
The republic whirls her gaze to meet Denmark's, wide-eyed and weary when her shoulders sink ever so beneath the blankets around her. It is like he has seen right through to her heart, and she knows there is nowhere else to hide.
“Yes.” Her fingers trail over his chest.
“Everything.” The kingdom watches her, waiting.
“Yes.” The blonde's nails trace lightning beneath his jaw, down his neck, pressing into his skin.
“And nothing.” He covers her hand with his own and holds it between them, entwining their fingers.
“Да.”
din broder – danish for 'your brother'.
да – belarusian (additionally also russian) for 'yes'.
semi-plottish shenanigans now begin! I'm going to take a more unorthodox approach with belarus's characterization where it involves russia, one that I've never actually seen done before, so this will be really interesting to write. more very soon, gotta get lots written before college resumes in a week or so.
(did I mention the entirety of this update was written to gary jules' mad world? I'm pretty sure it shows quite a bit unless it's just me)
да – belarusian (additionally also russian) for 'yes'.
semi-plottish shenanigans now begin! I'm going to take a more unorthodox approach with belarus's characterization where it involves russia, one that I've never actually seen done before, so this will be really interesting to write. more very soon, gotta get lots written before college resumes in a week or so.
(did I mention the entirety of this update was written to gary jules' mad world? I'm pretty sure it shows quite a bit unless it's just me)
There may not have been any smut in this chapter, but you know what it was still really sexy.
I am happy to see us moving into some plot now too though, and really excited to see what your take on Belarus will be exactly. If you think it's going to be interesting to write I am going to assume that it is going to be interesting to read. So I really can't wait for your next update!
I am happy to see us moving into some plot now too though, and really excited to see what your take on Belarus will be exactly. If you think it's going to be interesting to write I am going to assume that it is going to be interesting to read. So I really can't wait for your next update!
Belarus stares at their joined hands for a long moment, shifting her fingers against Denmark's; the Scandinavian Nation can see fire in her eyes, rage and love and all things in-between.
“And why are you so confident Brother has anything to do with this?” she asks finally, not taking her eyes off their hands.
“For starters, you haven't pulled a knife on me at any point,” he begins. “Nor have you threatened me, or given me the cold shoulder like you do to anyone <but your brother and sister at world conferences.” Belarus still doesn't look at him, only their hands.
“You've paid attention to me out of more than just necessity, something you don't do to others when your brother is around,” he continues. The republic stares at their fingers, unmoving.
“Were you genuinely, naturally cold and distant to others, to me, you wouldn't need to drop the act.”
Belarus closes her eyes, statue-still but for the rise and fall of her chest. The kingdom is silent as he watches the blonde, waiting for her to lash out, attack him, say something, anything.
"Go on." Her voice is sharp, cutthroat. Denmark listens.
"And this has nothing to do with your brother because you obviously have something to prove, to everyone but him," the Scandinavian Nation finishes. Belarus's gaze meets his, icy, glittering.
“And why are you so confident Brother has anything to do with this?” she asks finally, not taking her eyes off their hands.
“For starters, you haven't pulled a knife on me at any point,” he begins. “Nor have you threatened me, or given me the cold shoulder like you do to anyone <but your brother and sister at world conferences.” Belarus still doesn't look at him, only their hands.
“You've paid attention to me out of more than just necessity, something you don't do to others when your brother is around,” he continues. The republic stares at their fingers, unmoving.
“Were you genuinely, naturally cold and distant to others, to me, you wouldn't need to drop the act.”
Belarus closes her eyes, statue-still but for the rise and fall of her chest. The kingdom is silent as he watches the blonde, waiting for her to lash out, attack him, say something, anything.
"Go on." Her voice is sharp, cutthroat. Denmark listens.
"And this has nothing to do with your brother because you obviously have something to prove, to everyone but him," the Scandinavian Nation finishes. Belarus's gaze meets his, icy, glittering.
"And how do you know such a thing?" she asks, words hissed and pleading and Denmark doesn't miss the way her fingers tighten ever so around his own.
"You would not have been in my bed otherwise," he replies, voice low. "Nor would you have been so with the United States, the United Kingdom, or Lithuania, to name only the ones I know."
Belarus is stock-still and silent, eyes flickering with something Denmark thinks might be pride and relief and regret, all gathered into one. The blonde looks down at their joined hands, hers so much smaller than his own, and brings them to her cheek. Her skin is soft and star-pale in the moonlight, the night still young over her never-sleeping capital. The Dane twirls her long hair between his fingers, strands as white as the flakes that continue to blanket the world around them.
"I was a fool in my youth," Belarus begins tersely, and Denmark interrupts her before she can say more.
"Hey, hey, don't say things like that," he chides, pulling the Belarusian into his arms. "If anyone's the idiot out of all of us, it's me," he laughs, thinking of his brothers' mocking but playful words.
"You don't understand," she counters, "this whole affair about being love with brother and wanting to marry him, it is all a lie." Her hands fist in the fabric of his robe, pulling and twisting as she speaks. Her voice is scratchy and low from her throat, raw with the weight of long-kept secrets.
"It always has been."
Denmark says nothing for a moment, processing the words he had known all along were true and yet doesn't want to believe, because secrets mean lies and lies mean somebody always gets hurt in the end. And he doesn't want that to happen to wonderful beautiful Belarus, who has been through so much and should not have to bear such a burden anymore.
baaah apologies for such a tiny update that ends on a cliffhanger-ish note; college is fun but with eight classes I'm going to be a busy bee this semester! more very soon, the weekend is almost here!
"You would not have been in my bed otherwise," he replies, voice low. "Nor would you have been so with the United States, the United Kingdom, or Lithuania, to name only the ones I know."
Belarus is stock-still and silent, eyes flickering with something Denmark thinks might be pride and relief and regret, all gathered into one. The blonde looks down at their joined hands, hers so much smaller than his own, and brings them to her cheek. Her skin is soft and star-pale in the moonlight, the night still young over her never-sleeping capital. The Dane twirls her long hair between his fingers, strands as white as the flakes that continue to blanket the world around them.
"I was a fool in my youth," Belarus begins tersely, and Denmark interrupts her before she can say more.
"Hey, hey, don't say things like that," he chides, pulling the Belarusian into his arms. "If anyone's the idiot out of all of us, it's me," he laughs, thinking of his brothers' mocking but playful words.
"You don't understand," she counters, "this whole affair about being love with brother and wanting to marry him, it is all a lie." Her hands fist in the fabric of his robe, pulling and twisting as she speaks. Her voice is scratchy and low from her throat, raw with the weight of long-kept secrets.
"It always has been."
Denmark says nothing for a moment, processing the words he had known all along were true and yet doesn't want to believe, because secrets mean lies and lies mean somebody always gets hurt in the end. And he doesn't want that to happen to wonderful beautiful Belarus, who has been through so much and should not have to bear such a burden anymore.
baaah apologies for such a tiny update that ends on a cliffhanger-ish note; college is fun but with eight classes I'm going to be a busy bee this semester! more very soon, the weekend is almost here!
This just keeps getting better and better, anon :D The update might've been small, and yes, I (at least) was left just pining for more as always; but I'm glad there was one nonetheless! School and work can be a bitch when you feel like being creative instead, I know, but we all know it's important, so don't sweat it and take your time.
This is rather interesting. However, it's difficult to read because of all the parts squished to the side.
Please consider replying to your first entry for your next update. I've seen a lot of people doing that lately and it fixes the squish!
Please consider replying to your first entry for your next update. I've seen a lot of people doing that lately and it fixes the squish!
aah I apologize! I have a really large laptop screen and when I look at the thread on it, it's not squished at all for me, but I will make sure to start back from the original post next time!
... You're just ginna stop there?
D:
Anon you are killing me with anticipation! Really you totally are, I want more! Also loving that her brotherly obsession was just an act.
Honestly though you should start replying to your original post so it's not so squished over, you know?
D:
Anon you are killing me with anticipation! Really you totally are, I want more! Also loving that her brotherly obsession was just an act.
Honestly though you should start replying to your original post so it's not so squished over, you know?
I'm sorry! I didn't want to leave you in anticipation either, but I didn't want to leave you without an update for too long; don't worry though, the next update will not have any crazy cliffhanger stuff, I promise!
and I will definitely start the comments from the beginning again; like I said, it doesn't look squished on my laptop, but I wouldn't want to be reading squished fic either so no worries!
and I will definitely start the comments from the beginning again; like I said, it doesn't look squished on my laptop, but I wouldn't want to be reading squished fic either so no worries!
“But why?” is out of his mouth before he realizes it, before he wonders if she even wants to talk anymore, maybe he's pushed her too close to the edge already; and then he's yelling at himself inside, stupid stupid Danmark look where your mouth has run you now. But he is and isn't surprised when the Belarusian Nation only stares at the cloth of his robe, blood-red fabric worried between her fingers.
"Because I had no other choice," she says, whispering dark and deep and meeting his gaze with those sapphire eyes that cut through his own like the knives she wears beneath her skirts. "I watched as your Vikings traded their way through my and my siblings' lands. I watched as Lithuania gathered territory after territory under his wing until he came for me, and offered my people so many more opportunities and freedoms than what I could give them alone." The blonde's fingers still in his robe, and the Dane sits silent, listening, waiting with bated breath.
"Then the Tatars came," and Belarus's eyes flash fire so quick Denmark almost misses it, except he can't because she is burning, bright and wild and alive. "And then Brother Russia, your own Brother Sweden, Brandenburg, Transylvania; I lost over half of my people, my lands ravaged and ruined by decades of war and fighting. By the time Poland and Lithuania's Commonwealth ceased to exist, Brother had taken all of my lands and people, promised me that all would be well if Ukraine and I came back to him once more."
"And you believed him," Denmark whispers, watching the Belarusian as her gaze turns to the glittering snowfall outside.
"I was young, my lands and people torn asunder by decades of war. War for a cause not even of our own doing," she continues, eyes still set upon the window. "My lands were barren, my people halved and hungry; whether I wished it or not, I needed help."
Denmark is silent, steady for the Belarusian when her fingers tighten in his robe and her body leans into his own.
"Because I had no other choice," she says, whispering dark and deep and meeting his gaze with those sapphire eyes that cut through his own like the knives she wears beneath her skirts. "I watched as your Vikings traded their way through my and my siblings' lands. I watched as Lithuania gathered territory after territory under his wing until he came for me, and offered my people so many more opportunities and freedoms than what I could give them alone." The blonde's fingers still in his robe, and the Dane sits silent, listening, waiting with bated breath.
"Then the Tatars came," and Belarus's eyes flash fire so quick Denmark almost misses it, except he can't because she is burning, bright and wild and alive. "And then Brother Russia, your own Brother Sweden, Brandenburg, Transylvania; I lost over half of my people, my lands ravaged and ruined by decades of war and fighting. By the time Poland and Lithuania's Commonwealth ceased to exist, Brother had taken all of my lands and people, promised me that all would be well if Ukraine and I came back to him once more."
"And you believed him," Denmark whispers, watching the Belarusian as her gaze turns to the glittering snowfall outside.
"I was young, my lands and people torn asunder by decades of war. War for a cause not even of our own doing," she continues, eyes still set upon the window. "My lands were barren, my people halved and hungry; whether I wished it or not, I needed help."
Denmark is silent, steady for the Belarusian when her fingers tighten in his robe and her body leans into his own.
"I was disillusioned, distraught. I was told to speak neither my mothertongue, nor Poland's, nor Lithuania's; only Brother's. My people were denied their own publications and literature, their language, their religion." She scoffs, and the sound is sandpaper to Denmark's ears; it doesn't suit her.
"I was not even allowed my own name," the blonde barks, steel-eyed and sharp-shouldered. "Even that was denied me and yet I still trailed Brother like a dog, taking feverishly even the scraps of his leaders' table, because it was more than the nothing I would have had on my own."
"It was the only way to keep your people alive," the Scandinavian Nation comforts her, thumb brushing her cheek, palm cradling her jaw as she leans into his touch. "You did what you had to."
"I let Brother's leaders shove their religion, their government, their language, everything they had down my peoples' throats," Belarus spits, anger heady and rising. "And in my foolishness I looked past it all, ignored everything; I thought in my ignorance that the closer to Brother we became, the better everything would be. He had given me his word, and I still believed he would keep it." The blonde's eyes flash fire and dissonance, diamond-cut and narrow as they meet Denmark's once more. A wry smile that The Dane thinks doesn't suit her twists her lips.
"How ironic that my times of greatest freedom were not with Brother and the family who raised me, but with Deutschland, who would come to be the most feared and oppressive power ever seen," the blonde quips, eyes turned down and hands in her lap as she sits up again.
"I was not even allowed my own name," the blonde barks, steel-eyed and sharp-shouldered. "Even that was denied me and yet I still trailed Brother like a dog, taking feverishly even the scraps of his leaders' table, because it was more than the nothing I would have had on my own."
"It was the only way to keep your people alive," the Scandinavian Nation comforts her, thumb brushing her cheek, palm cradling her jaw as she leans into his touch. "You did what you had to."
"I let Brother's leaders shove their religion, their government, their language, everything they had down my peoples' throats," Belarus spits, anger heady and rising. "And in my foolishness I looked past it all, ignored everything; I thought in my ignorance that the closer to Brother we became, the better everything would be. He had given me his word, and I still believed he would keep it." The blonde's eyes flash fire and dissonance, diamond-cut and narrow as they meet Denmark's once more. A wry smile that The Dane thinks doesn't suit her twists her lips.
"How ironic that my times of greatest freedom were not with Brother and the family who raised me, but with Deutschland, who would come to be the most feared and oppressive power ever seen," the blonde quips, eyes turned down and hands in her lap as she sits up again.
"He let my people have their language, their literature and music, everything Brother had stripped them of," she continues. "It was World War I and he was so young, so new on his feet from beneath Prussia's careful hand; he did not want to fight, did not want to kill, like all of us who want to live and let live even beneath the anger and the screams of our dying." Denmark meets her eyes, seeing red-drenched shores and Norway bleeding in his arms, tiny Iceland's eyes watery and afraid, Sweden broken beneath his feet even as the Dane's own eyes filled with tears; for all their conquering histories and the thrill of battle, Denmark has never met a Nation who has truly enjoyed the feel of another helpless beneath their feet, Nation or human otherwise, once the vigor of battle is wiped away with the blood and sweat and tears. They are one with their people as they are one of their people, and as all of them are connected by the common denominator of humanity, so too are all Nations united in their kind. To hurt another is to hurt oneself, hate not what is but what is done, forever and ever, unending and equal, amen in all their tongues, amen.
"Every time Brother Russia took me under his wing, my people were denied more and more of what made them who they were," the blonde continues on, nails scratching through the dusting of golden hair on Denmark's chest, fingers leaving indents in his skin as if he were her rock, her lifeline, holding her fast against the storm that followed her every step.
"Germany took me to his lands, to his bed, showed me what I could have, what I could be without Brother guiding my hand. I thought that declaring my independence after the war would help, even in the face of Poland and Brother Russia fighting for my lands," the Belarusian whispers. "But I knew I and my people would be nowhere without him, as cruel as his leaders were and as cruel as they drove him to be; were I to resist, I would be left to care for my people alone, even worse off than we has been before, so I fabricated the lie you all have been witnesses to for decades."
“So you pretended to want to marry him and stay with him forever, so he wouldn't ever suspect you of wanting to break away from his influence, even when you were under the control of another,” Denmark surmised, running his fingers through the blonde's hair, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“I wanted my independence more than even before after World War II, but my people and lands were completely destroyed; yet again, I was forced to rely on Brother's leaders, Brother's help if I didn't wish for my people to starve,” Belarus spits, teeth flashing sharp in the moonlight. “If I were to drop the lie I had begun, who knows what he would have done in response. He could have thrown me out on my knees and I would have had to hope some other Nation was feeling generous enough to help me without putting me beneath their feet; or he could have pulled me closer to him, made sure I would never leave his side because we both knew my people would not survive otherwise.”
"Every time Brother Russia took me under his wing, my people were denied more and more of what made them who they were," the blonde continues on, nails scratching through the dusting of golden hair on Denmark's chest, fingers leaving indents in his skin as if he were her rock, her lifeline, holding her fast against the storm that followed her every step.
"Germany took me to his lands, to his bed, showed me what I could have, what I could be without Brother guiding my hand. I thought that declaring my independence after the war would help, even in the face of Poland and Brother Russia fighting for my lands," the Belarusian whispers. "But I knew I and my people would be nowhere without him, as cruel as his leaders were and as cruel as they drove him to be; were I to resist, I would be left to care for my people alone, even worse off than we has been before, so I fabricated the lie you all have been witnesses to for decades."
“So you pretended to want to marry him and stay with him forever, so he wouldn't ever suspect you of wanting to break away from his influence, even when you were under the control of another,” Denmark surmised, running his fingers through the blonde's hair, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“I wanted my independence more than even before after World War II, but my people and lands were completely destroyed; yet again, I was forced to rely on Brother's leaders, Brother's help if I didn't wish for my people to starve,” Belarus spits, teeth flashing sharp in the moonlight. “If I were to drop the lie I had begun, who knows what he would have done in response. He could have thrown me out on my knees and I would have had to hope some other Nation was feeling generous enough to help me without putting me beneath their feet; or he could have pulled me closer to him, made sure I would never leave his side because we both knew my people would not survive otherwise.”
“Brother's leaders have always pulled him in too many directions, and I was not willing to test his mind at that point in time for fear of what my actions might spur him or them to do,” the Belarusian explains, staring down at her hands.
“The sooner we all start speaking Russian, the faster we shall build Communism,” she quips, eyes dark. “That was the eternal motto of Brother's Union, it seemed, and once again I and my people were forced to submit to his rule until his precious Union finally collapsed.” Denmark doesn't miss the glimmer in her eyes as she goes on, the sharpening of her gaze. “But I knew it was far too gone to break the lie I had begun long ago, so I mourned his Union even as I fled to the house of the United States, where he treated me as an equal, bent down to take my hand and brought us both to our feet.”
“But now that you're independent, wouldn't Russia suspect your intentions of marriage even as you separate yourself from him further?” Denmark questions, relishing the warmth of her body against his own.
“Ah, but that is where the lie serves me best,” Belarus says, voice honey-dark and dripping into the Dane's ears. “Brother has always feared the thought of marriage to me because I am his sister, but he has always coveted that kind of loyalty. Now that I have proven I can stand on my own two feet without him, he does not have the same power over me like he used to. In this way, I have my own form of control over his actions, my own threat so like the ones he turned on me.”
“The sooner we all start speaking Russian, the faster we shall build Communism,” she quips, eyes dark. “That was the eternal motto of Brother's Union, it seemed, and once again I and my people were forced to submit to his rule until his precious Union finally collapsed.” Denmark doesn't miss the glimmer in her eyes as she goes on, the sharpening of her gaze. “But I knew it was far too gone to break the lie I had begun long ago, so I mourned his Union even as I fled to the house of the United States, where he treated me as an equal, bent down to take my hand and brought us both to our feet.”
“But now that you're independent, wouldn't Russia suspect your intentions of marriage even as you separate yourself from him further?” Denmark questions, relishing the warmth of her body against his own.
“Ah, but that is where the lie serves me best,” Belarus says, voice honey-dark and dripping into the Dane's ears. “Brother has always feared the thought of marriage to me because I am his sister, but he has always coveted that kind of loyalty. Now that I have proven I can stand on my own two feet without him, he does not have the same power over me like he used to. In this way, I have my own form of control over his actions, my own threat so like the ones he turned on me.”
belarus's history – I'm attempting to condense about a thousand years of history into a ten-minute conversation to explain why belarus does what she does; instead of me awkwardly (and probably badly) explaining it here, just follow the wiki article I've been referencing as her explanation goes along:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Belarus
deutschland – the german name for 'germany'.
germany and wwi – from wiki: 'The German Empire (German: Deutsches Kaiserreich, literally meaning: German Emperor's Realm) is the common name given to the state officially titled the German Realm (German: Deutsches Reich), but also called Kaiserlich Deutsches Reich (Imperial German Realm) by German historians referring to Germany from the unification of Germany and proclamation of Wilhelm I as German Emperor on 18 January 1871, to 1918, when it became a federal republic after defeat in World War I and the abdication of the Emperor, Wilhelm II. The German Empire consisted of 27 constituent territories (most of them ruled by royal families). While the Kingdom of Prussia contained most of the population and most of the territory of the Reich, the Prussian leadership became supplanted by German leaders and Prussia itself played a lesser role. As Dwyer points out, Prussia's political and cultural influence had diminished considerably by the 1890s.
I subscribe to the hre = germany theory; canonically, prussia did raise germany, but I like to believe he was at one point the hre (since much of the hre consisted of the territories that would form the german empire) and he didn't just pop up out of nowhere for prussia to raise. as for germany's reaction to belarus, he would probably have just come into his own from under prussia's influence as the figurehead of his nation just in time for wwi, and it being wwi, probably wouldn't've been the greatest first experience of autonomy.
the sooner we all start speaking russian, the faster we shall build communism – famously said by nikita khrushchev after stalin's death, in reference to the sovietization of the ussr's component republics to further its separation from the western world.
more soon! I hope belarus isn't coming across as too beaten-up (and I hope I'm getting my history and historical reasoning right I've never seen this kind of take on her character aaahhh), but really, the country has been through hell and still isn't quite back if the modern-day political atmosphere is anything to go by. also, more smut is definitely on the horizon!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Belarus
deutschland – the german name for 'germany'.
germany and wwi – from wiki: 'The German Empire (German: Deutsches Kaiserreich, literally meaning: German Emperor's Realm) is the common name given to the state officially titled the German Realm (German: Deutsches Reich), but also called Kaiserlich Deutsches Reich (Imperial German Realm) by German historians referring to Germany from the unification of Germany and proclamation of Wilhelm I as German Emperor on 18 January 1871, to 1918, when it became a federal republic after defeat in World War I and the abdication of the Emperor, Wilhelm II. The German Empire consisted of 27 constituent territories (most of them ruled by royal families). While the Kingdom of Prussia contained most of the population and most of the territory of the Reich, the Prussian leadership became supplanted by German leaders and Prussia itself played a lesser role. As Dwyer points out, Prussia's political and cultural influence had diminished considerably by the 1890s.
I subscribe to the hre = germany theory; canonically, prussia did raise germany, but I like to believe he was at one point the hre (since much of the hre consisted of the territories that would form the german empire) and he didn't just pop up out of nowhere for prussia to raise. as for germany's reaction to belarus, he would probably have just come into his own from under prussia's influence as the figurehead of his nation just in time for wwi, and it being wwi, probably wouldn't've been the greatest first experience of autonomy.
the sooner we all start speaking russian, the faster we shall build communism – famously said by nikita khrushchev after stalin's death, in reference to the sovietization of the ussr's component republics to further its separation from the western world.
more soon! I hope belarus isn't coming across as too beaten-up (and I hope I'm getting my history and historical reasoning right I've never seen this kind of take on her character aaahhh), but really, the country has been through hell and still isn't quite back if the modern-day political atmosphere is anything to go by. also, more smut is definitely on the horizon!
The Belarusian's eyes are dangerous, glittering flashfire and regret, brows knit shamed like the threads of her lie. Denmark once feared such tangled webs, in the whispers of bloodshed and brotherhood and the echo of Kalmar burning on his tongue.
He knows better now.
“And I know it is not fair to treat him such; for all he has done to my people and myself, he is still мой брат, my Brother,” the blonde affirms, and the Dane can see in her downcast eyes and the way her fingers grip the fabric of his robe that he isn't really the one she's talking to.
“He is still human, as much as beings like us can be.” At her words, the Scandinavian Nation pulls the Belarusian into his lap, threading his fingers together at the small of her back as her ankles instinctively cross behind his own, anchoring her body to his and Denmark will be her rock for as long as she desires, as long as she has needed so (and he is a firm believer in the unconditional, that no good goes undeserved and unwanted in the end).
“And the funny thing about humans is that they always have the capacity to forgive even the worst of offenses,” Denmark reassures Belarus, her fingers trailing through his wild mane and down his shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck.
“I know you've already forgiven your bror, many times over and many years ago,” the blond reassures her, pressing a kiss cool and comforting to her cheek. “I can hear it in the way you speak so highly of him, and see it in the way you protect and defend him so fiercely.” Denmark's praise is all the solace Belarus needs and more, something she has only heard from the precious few she has allowed into her bed and her heart.
“But I think,” the Dane murmurs against her cheek, the Belarusian's eyes wonder-wide, “the person you really need to forgive,” his mouth meets hers, words whispered feather-light and soft, “is yourself.”
He knows better now.
“And I know it is not fair to treat him such; for all he has done to my people and myself, he is still мой брат, my Brother,” the blonde affirms, and the Dane can see in her downcast eyes and the way her fingers grip the fabric of his robe that he isn't really the one she's talking to.
“He is still human, as much as beings like us can be.” At her words, the Scandinavian Nation pulls the Belarusian into his lap, threading his fingers together at the small of her back as her ankles instinctively cross behind his own, anchoring her body to his and Denmark will be her rock for as long as she desires, as long as she has needed so (and he is a firm believer in the unconditional, that no good goes undeserved and unwanted in the end).
“And the funny thing about humans is that they always have the capacity to forgive even the worst of offenses,” Denmark reassures Belarus, her fingers trailing through his wild mane and down his shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck.
“I know you've already forgiven your bror, many times over and many years ago,” the blond reassures her, pressing a kiss cool and comforting to her cheek. “I can hear it in the way you speak so highly of him, and see it in the way you protect and defend him so fiercely.” Denmark's praise is all the solace Belarus needs and more, something she has only heard from the precious few she has allowed into her bed and her heart.
“But I think,” the Dane murmurs against her cheek, the Belarusian's eyes wonder-wide, “the person you really need to forgive,” his mouth meets hers, words whispered feather-light and soft, “is yourself.”
She can't, she can't, not anymore; through the Vikings, the Tatars, the Commonwealth, the Great Wars, the Union, she has never once faltered, never stumbled, she has bent but never broken beneath another. But Denmark's words are truth, one she cannot hope to resist any longer. Belarus has known so for decades, centuries, known in the weight upon her shoulders and footsteps that her people, her children leave behind.
(For others to walk away from her mistakes, she must lead the way herself.)
“You are not the first to say such to me,” the blonde whispers, voice husky and ragged in Denmark's ear, and The United States and The United Kingdom and Lietuvos Respublika linger unspoken between her teeth. When the blond hears the barely-there hitch in her throat, he says nothing. “But you are the first I have ever believed. Not because the others were inadequate or insincere, but because I could not bring myself to believe those words until now.”
“Well, the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” Denmark soothes, nose buried in the Belarusian's wheat-light hair. “Or years, whatever works.” The blonde smiles against his cheek, barely there but he can feel the curve of her lips on his skin, more reassuring than all of the words passed between them throughout the night. And while the Respublika Biełaruś may not be human, right now she's the closest thing to it as the Kongeriget Danmark thumbs away her tears; holding her close, holding her steady, holding her hand as she shatters, ready to help pick her back up again more whole than she's ever been before.
(broken is not the same as beyond repair, letting go is not the same as giving up)
(For others to walk away from her mistakes, she must lead the way herself.)
“You are not the first to say such to me,” the blonde whispers, voice husky and ragged in Denmark's ear, and The United States and The United Kingdom and Lietuvos Respublika linger unspoken between her teeth. When the blond hears the barely-there hitch in her throat, he says nothing. “But you are the first I have ever believed. Not because the others were inadequate or insincere, but because I could not bring myself to believe those words until now.”
“Well, the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” Denmark soothes, nose buried in the Belarusian's wheat-light hair. “Or years, whatever works.” The blonde smiles against his cheek, barely there but he can feel the curve of her lips on his skin, more reassuring than all of the words passed between them throughout the night. And while the Respublika Biełaruś may not be human, right now she's the closest thing to it as the Kongeriget Danmark thumbs away her tears; holding her close, holding her steady, holding her hand as she shatters, ready to help pick her back up again more whole than she's ever been before.
(broken is not the same as beyond repair, letting go is not the same as giving up)
kalmar – denmark is referencing the kalmar union of the kingdoms of demark, sweden, and norway (and their territorial possessions) under a single monarch that lasted from 1397 until 1523. it was not a peaceful time for any of the political entities involved, and many conflicts arose between the three united countries.
from wiki: 'The countries had not technically given up their sovereignty or even their independence, but in practice, they were not autonomous, the common monarch holding sovereignty and, in practice, leading foreign policy; diverging interests (especially the Swedish nobility's dissatisfaction over the dominant role played by Denmark and Holstein) gave rise to a conflict that would hamper the union in several intervals from the 1430s until its breakup in 1523 when Gustav Vasa became king of Sweden. Norway and its overseas dependencies continued to remain a part of the realm of Denmark–Norway under the Oldenburg dynasty for several centuries after the dissolution (until1814).'
мой брат – belarusian (and russian) for 'my brother'; transliterated as moi/moy brat.
bror – the danish word for 'brother'; broder is another term meaning the same thing, though bror is a more common and colloquial shortening.
lietuvos respublika – the lithuanian name for the republic of lithuania.
wow I am the WORST author-non! so many apologies for this taking so long, I went to katsucon earlier this month and school has been so crazy with midterms coming up and recitals and all this other shit and baaaahhhhh I promise not to do that again! we're actually coming up on the end after another good round of smut (which will start next time!) and some more heart-to-heart, so I will have that all up as soon as possible!
also, I rediscovered the gladiator ost today while writing this and 'now we are free' is the best forgiveness/redemption/everything-is-okay-in-the-end song ever y/y?
from wiki: 'The countries had not technically given up their sovereignty or even their independence, but in practice, they were not autonomous, the common monarch holding sovereignty and, in practice, leading foreign policy; diverging interests (especially the Swedish nobility's dissatisfaction over the dominant role played by Denmark and Holstein) gave rise to a conflict that would hamper the union in several intervals from the 1430s until its breakup in 1523 when Gustav Vasa became king of Sweden. Norway and its overseas dependencies continued to remain a part of the realm of Denmark–Norway under the Oldenburg dynasty for several centuries after the dissolution (until1814).'
мой брат – belarusian (and russian) for 'my brother'; transliterated as moi/moy brat.
bror – the danish word for 'brother'; broder is another term meaning the same thing, though bror is a more common and colloquial shortening.
lietuvos respublika – the lithuanian name for the republic of lithuania.
wow I am the WORST author-non! so many apologies for this taking so long, I went to katsucon earlier this month and school has been so crazy with midterms coming up and recitals and all this other shit and baaaahhhhh I promise not to do that again! we're actually coming up on the end after another good round of smut (which will start next time!) and some more heart-to-heart, so I will have that all up as soon as possible!
also, I rediscovered the gladiator ost today while writing this and 'now we are free' is the best forgiveness/redemption/everything-is-okay-in-the-end song ever y/y?
I feel bad as an OP because I didn't leave a comment on your last update! Sorry I've been without a computer for a while now! Well I was now I have one again as of... yesterday. Anyways I liked the update before and of course this one. Your interpretation of Belarus's relationship with Russia as well as her reasons for it is really rather interesting and a nice touch.
...Too bad so very few remember it. She used to fight her brother. She used to scheme behind his back.
Something said at the world meeting causes Ukraine to go off on her brother, Hetmanate style. Turkey finds the sight all too appealing.
BONUS: Turkey is not the only one interested, but is quick to discourage others
Something said at the world meeting causes Ukraine to go off on her brother, Hetmanate style. Turkey finds the sight all too appealing.
BONUS: Turkey is not the only one interested, but is quick to discourage others
Contrary to popular belief, Romania has not always been a vampire. No, it only happened recently, when he was set upon by a vampire rather annoyed with this whole "vampires a broody and sexy" thing. Cue Romani having to deal with awkward social situations, cliches and the random urge to bite other nations.
Bonus:
1) He does not want to eat Hungary; when someone suggests it, after reading too many cheesy vampire novels, he is repulsed. As is Hungary,
2) Russia finds it hilarious.
Bonus:
1) He does not want to eat Hungary; when someone suggests it, after reading too many cheesy vampire novels, he is repulsed. As is Hungary,
2) Russia finds it hilarious.
If the OP doesn't mind, this will be much longer than a oneshot.
Romania liked to think he didn't make mistakes.
Okay, that was a lie. Romania made so many mistakes it was almost ridiculous – of course, none of them were really his fault per se; most of the time they were caused by Turkey or Hungary or Bulgaria and his ridiculous need to hit random objects with sticks. The last time Romania had made a truly horrendous mistake was all the way back in 1955, and even then he'd managed to end the problem in his standard fashion (violent death mostly, but hey, when you find something that works). Since the nineties things had been going very well, and even Bulgaria couldn't get him down with his inane hitting.
And yet, he'd screwed up anyway, and this time it looked permanent.
Romania hid his head in his hands as Bulgaria banged on his front door, wishing that he could just sink into the wood, through the earth, and remain six feet under with a stake through his chest and rice scattered across the surface (though having rice scattered across his nice kitchen floor didn't sound very appealing to him).
“People's Republic of Romania! Open this door at once!” Bulgaria commanded, the knocking growing much louder as he applied more strength with the stick. “How can you give me a ride to the meeting today if you won't even come out?”
Romania tried to ignore him. He really did. But it was an honorable effort that had been going on for two hours now, and after two hours of listening to Bulgaria's annoying rants could do a number on the most stoic man around.
“I'm not going!” Romania finally yelled, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. “I'm not going, you're more of an idiot than usual for not figuring that out, and you should get a ride with someone else. Greece, for example, I bet he hasn't even left yet.”
“How can you call yourself a People's Republic if you refuse to actually help people?” Bulgaria retorted, finally having left off the knocking. Romania would see about repairing it later; he was not in the mood to see the inordinate damage to the paint (and freshly done, too!).
“I'm refusing to help you,” Romania said, reaching for the bottle of blood on the floor beside him and taking a deep swig. “I never said anything about refusing to help my people.”
“You can't help people when you're sulking inside your kitchen for no good reason.”
“Japan managed it.”
“Japan is crazy.”
“But he managed it.”
The only noise for the next little while was the tik-toking of the clock on the kitchen wall, steady and constant and almost reassuring. Usually when Romania was silent like this the sound would drive him insane, but now it was comforting, reminding him that some things stayed the same even when life was ruined forever. Like clocks on the wall, and grass in the spring, and –
He grimaced, grabbed his discarded coat, and pulled it over his head. Like Bulgaria trying to pick his lock.
“Dammit!” Bulgaria yelled when something outside broke. “Why'd you go and change the locks again? I'd only just figured out that last one.”
“You have a stick,” Romania grumbled too low for the Balkan to hear, reaching again for the bottle of blood. “Use it.”
Bulgaria paused to think a little longer, then resumed hammering at the wooden barrier with his trusty stick. The knocking had turned into full-out banging and hammering; the door creaked as if it would give at any moment. Romania's widened as he scrambled to his feet, dropped the bottle, and searched desperately for the key. “Hold on, I'm coming!” he called. “Just don't break my door! It's too expensive to replace every time you fancy robbing me!”
“What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of me breaking down your door because you won't let me in.”
He finally located the tiny metal object and managed to fuddle it into the lock. It slipped in his hands as he twisted it and jiggled at the doorknob to get the deadbolt to unlatch, but it finally gave. Romania pulled the door open inward, making sure to keep to the side in case Bulgaria was still swinging his stick.
Romania liked to think he didn't make mistakes.
Okay, that was a lie. Romania made so many mistakes it was almost ridiculous – of course, none of them were really his fault per se; most of the time they were caused by Turkey or Hungary or Bulgaria and his ridiculous need to hit random objects with sticks. The last time Romania had made a truly horrendous mistake was all the way back in 1955, and even then he'd managed to end the problem in his standard fashion (violent death mostly, but hey, when you find something that works). Since the nineties things had been going very well, and even Bulgaria couldn't get him down with his inane hitting.
And yet, he'd screwed up anyway, and this time it looked permanent.
Romania hid his head in his hands as Bulgaria banged on his front door, wishing that he could just sink into the wood, through the earth, and remain six feet under with a stake through his chest and rice scattered across the surface (though having rice scattered across his nice kitchen floor didn't sound very appealing to him).
“People's Republic of Romania! Open this door at once!” Bulgaria commanded, the knocking growing much louder as he applied more strength with the stick. “How can you give me a ride to the meeting today if you won't even come out?”
Romania tried to ignore him. He really did. But it was an honorable effort that had been going on for two hours now, and after two hours of listening to Bulgaria's annoying rants could do a number on the most stoic man around.
“I'm not going!” Romania finally yelled, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. “I'm not going, you're more of an idiot than usual for not figuring that out, and you should get a ride with someone else. Greece, for example, I bet he hasn't even left yet.”
“How can you call yourself a People's Republic if you refuse to actually help people?” Bulgaria retorted, finally having left off the knocking. Romania would see about repairing it later; he was not in the mood to see the inordinate damage to the paint (and freshly done, too!).
“I'm refusing to help you,” Romania said, reaching for the bottle of blood on the floor beside him and taking a deep swig. “I never said anything about refusing to help my people.”
“You can't help people when you're sulking inside your kitchen for no good reason.”
“Japan managed it.”
“Japan is crazy.”
“But he managed it.”
The only noise for the next little while was the tik-toking of the clock on the kitchen wall, steady and constant and almost reassuring. Usually when Romania was silent like this the sound would drive him insane, but now it was comforting, reminding him that some things stayed the same even when life was ruined forever. Like clocks on the wall, and grass in the spring, and –
He grimaced, grabbed his discarded coat, and pulled it over his head. Like Bulgaria trying to pick his lock.
“Dammit!” Bulgaria yelled when something outside broke. “Why'd you go and change the locks again? I'd only just figured out that last one.”
“You have a stick,” Romania grumbled too low for the Balkan to hear, reaching again for the bottle of blood. “Use it.”
Bulgaria paused to think a little longer, then resumed hammering at the wooden barrier with his trusty stick. The knocking had turned into full-out banging and hammering; the door creaked as if it would give at any moment. Romania's widened as he scrambled to his feet, dropped the bottle, and searched desperately for the key. “Hold on, I'm coming!” he called. “Just don't break my door! It's too expensive to replace every time you fancy robbing me!”
“What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of me breaking down your door because you won't let me in.”
He finally located the tiny metal object and managed to fuddle it into the lock. It slipped in his hands as he twisted it and jiggled at the doorknob to get the deadbolt to unlatch, but it finally gave. Romania pulled the door open inward, making sure to keep to the side in case Bulgaria was still swinging his stick.
It was a lucky thing he did so, because the stick came whistling in where his head had been only seconds before. Bulgaria yelped and tripped inside at the sudden loss of something for the weight to land on, then he stood in the hallway, glancing around.
Romania grabbed the stick and threw it outside before shutting the door, locking it, and tucking the key into his pocket. He narrowed his eyes as he glared at the other nation, attempting to make the waves of passionate anger felt all the way to Austria's house. Of course, this being Bulgaria (the self-proclaimed Prussia of the Balkans), he didn't notice it at all. The man blinked and stared at Romania, in a clear state of confusion. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he gasped.
Instantly Romania's anger diminished and fear took its place. Did Bulgaria figure it out that quickly? He couldn't have, it wasn't possible – Romania had been careful, so careful; why did he let the most capricious nation in Europe into his house again? Now that he looked back on it it was so stupid, so incredibly stupid. Everything he'd worked for for the past week had been for nothing... And Bulgaria's current presence was most certainly not helping, especially with the red, salty blood visibly flowing through his veins, the coppery scent pungent even over here... It wouldn't be difficult just to kill him now, would it? Nobody would miss him. And it might help the secret stay on the down low longer; after all, you want something done right, do it yourself –
“You're not wearing your hat.”
Romania blinked and tried to forget his fantasy of biting into Bulgaria's neck and draining the corpse of its life (which, admittedly, was not a recent fantasy). “What?”
“Your hat,” Bulgaria prompted, reaching over and tapping the side of Romania's head. “You're not wearing it. You're always wearing your hat, it's your trademark. You're not good at anything else anyway.”
Romania shoved him away (“Don't touch me!”) and ducked into the kitchen, eager to put a wall between him and the succulent neck idiot. “I'm good at other things too,” he protested.
“Oh yeah?” Bulgaria said, completely ignoring the safety procedures and following the other into his kitchen. “Name one thing.”
Romania kicked the bottle under the table and dragged his coat on top of the spilt blood with his foot. No need for Bulgaria to see that. “Agriculture,” he said after a minute.
Bulgaria's expression was flatter than Liechtenstein's chest as he clapped, slowly and sarcastically, and said, “Bravo, Mr. People's Republic. Bravo.”
Romania resisted the urge to retrieve the stick and beat its owner over the head with it. For years Bulgaria had mocked him, saying that he wasn't good at anything besides hats and agriculture (and until the last few decades, that had been unfortunately true), but he was getting better about it now!
“Anyway,” Bulgaria said, pulling out a chair and helping himself to a piece of fruit from the bowl. “Whash wif da lack of hat? You shick or shomshin?”
Am I ever, Romania didn't say.
There was a long pause before the other nation happened to glance at the floor. Romania was by now tapping the surface of the table nervously, bemoaning his terrible fortune and wondering when he'd become so idiotic as to willingly let Bulgaria into his house.
“And why is your coat on the floor?”
Romania sheepishly let his gaze slide from the wooden table to Bulgaria, who had lost any facade of his usual crazy and was now entirely business. Romania was familiar with that look. It meant that Bulgaria had finally caught wind of the issue and that he was a lot smarter than anyone else gave him credit for. “No reason,” Romania answered, trying to sound as casual as possible. He failed.
Bulgaria gave him one last scrutinizing glare, and then before Romania could move, he had pulled the coat off the floor and revealed the mess of blood underneath. His eyes widened in shock when he saw the smeared red stain, his jaw dropping again, but this time in horror. “Gospodi,” he murmured, dropping the apple. It bounced once and rolled across the floor,
“It isn't what it looks like,” Romania began desperately, reaching to take the coat. Bulgaria held it out of his reach.
Romania grabbed the stick and threw it outside before shutting the door, locking it, and tucking the key into his pocket. He narrowed his eyes as he glared at the other nation, attempting to make the waves of passionate anger felt all the way to Austria's house. Of course, this being Bulgaria (the self-proclaimed Prussia of the Balkans), he didn't notice it at all. The man blinked and stared at Romania, in a clear state of confusion. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he gasped.
Instantly Romania's anger diminished and fear took its place. Did Bulgaria figure it out that quickly? He couldn't have, it wasn't possible – Romania had been careful, so careful; why did he let the most capricious nation in Europe into his house again? Now that he looked back on it it was so stupid, so incredibly stupid. Everything he'd worked for for the past week had been for nothing... And Bulgaria's current presence was most certainly not helping, especially with the red, salty blood visibly flowing through his veins, the coppery scent pungent even over here... It wouldn't be difficult just to kill him now, would it? Nobody would miss him. And it might help the secret stay on the down low longer; after all, you want something done right, do it yourself –
“You're not wearing your hat.”
Romania blinked and tried to forget his fantasy of biting into Bulgaria's neck and draining the corpse of its life (which, admittedly, was not a recent fantasy). “What?”
“Your hat,” Bulgaria prompted, reaching over and tapping the side of Romania's head. “You're not wearing it. You're always wearing your hat, it's your trademark. You're not good at anything else anyway.”
Romania shoved him away (“Don't touch me!”) and ducked into the kitchen, eager to put a wall between him and the succulent neck idiot. “I'm good at other things too,” he protested.
“Oh yeah?” Bulgaria said, completely ignoring the safety procedures and following the other into his kitchen. “Name one thing.”
Romania kicked the bottle under the table and dragged his coat on top of the spilt blood with his foot. No need for Bulgaria to see that. “Agriculture,” he said after a minute.
Bulgaria's expression was flatter than Liechtenstein's chest as he clapped, slowly and sarcastically, and said, “Bravo, Mr. People's Republic. Bravo.”
Romania resisted the urge to retrieve the stick and beat its owner over the head with it. For years Bulgaria had mocked him, saying that he wasn't good at anything besides hats and agriculture (and until the last few decades, that had been unfortunately true), but he was getting better about it now!
“Anyway,” Bulgaria said, pulling out a chair and helping himself to a piece of fruit from the bowl. “Whash wif da lack of hat? You shick or shomshin?”
Am I ever, Romania didn't say.
There was a long pause before the other nation happened to glance at the floor. Romania was by now tapping the surface of the table nervously, bemoaning his terrible fortune and wondering when he'd become so idiotic as to willingly let Bulgaria into his house.
“And why is your coat on the floor?”
Romania sheepishly let his gaze slide from the wooden table to Bulgaria, who had lost any facade of his usual crazy and was now entirely business. Romania was familiar with that look. It meant that Bulgaria had finally caught wind of the issue and that he was a lot smarter than anyone else gave him credit for. “No reason,” Romania answered, trying to sound as casual as possible. He failed.
Bulgaria gave him one last scrutinizing glare, and then before Romania could move, he had pulled the coat off the floor and revealed the mess of blood underneath. His eyes widened in shock when he saw the smeared red stain, his jaw dropping again, but this time in horror. “Gospodi,” he murmured, dropping the apple. It bounced once and rolled across the floor,
“It isn't what it looks like,” Romania began desperately, reaching to take the coat. Bulgaria held it out of his reach.
“It looks,” he said, “like you have a giant bloodstain on your floor for reasons that you've known and been keeping secret for the past week.”
Romania bit his lip. “Okay,” he admitted sullenly, “then it's exactly what it looks like.”
“Care to explain this?” Bulgaria said venomously, pointing at the red liquid. He had to stand on one leg and flail with an arm to do so, making a rather ludicrous picture. Romania laughed, once, then bit his lip again. There was a sharp pain there and then a coppery warm taste. Damn it.
“What's so funny?” Bulgaria demanded. “Your coat is covered in the stuff! You're not wearing your hat! You aren't going around impaling people again, are you? That wasn't helpful at all, no matter how you wanted to put it at the time! Greece still has the scars and I'm still finding limbs in my flowerbed! I swear, Romania, if I find bodies burned or buried in your backyard –“
“I'm not im-- doing that anyone!” Romania interuppted, reaching for his coat. Bulgaria let him take it. “I'm not. I promise.” He didn't like the word “impale” very much; as much as he admired Tepes, and as much as he didn't regret his actions during those seven years, he still considered it a dark time of his life that everyone would be better off not returning to. Especially considering he spent another thirteen years rotting in Hungary's dungeon and talking to himself because of it.
“Then what the hell is going on?” Bulgaria said quietly, softly, warily. “I'm your next-door neighbor, I know what it means when 'Romania' and 'blood' end up in the same sentence. You're a nice guy, Romania, I don't doubt that... but I've seen you when you're angry and insane, and it's not a pretty picture.”
Romania twisted his hands in his coat, which was now going to need a serious washing as soon as possible. He hadn't needed the allusions to his history. It was depressing enough as it was; first Rome, then Turkey, then Russia... and every time, it had ended in a bloody revolution that was ultimately doomed for failure. Everything he did was doomed for failure, all the time – ha, he couldn't even keep a simple secret!
“It's animal blood,” he finally said. “Not human. I can't kill my own people, not again. You should know that.” The last bit was said in an accusatory tone. Bulgaria should know that. Killing one's own people... it was a painful process, one that could drive a nation insane. It had happened to Russia, nearly happened to America, and several times to Romania. In fact, Romania was still amazed he'd come out of those rough periods relatively unscathed.
“And what is animal blood doing all over your kitchen floor?”
“It's a long story that I really don't want to tell.”
Bulgaria sighed and put his hands on his waist, looking from Romania to the floor and back again. “Alright, where's the bleach then?”
Romania frowned and looked up.
Bulgaria snapped his fingers. “Bleach, Roro. Bleach. To clean this up. You can't just leave it lying around.”
“Oh,” Romania said. “Under the sink. And don't call me that.”
“I'll call you whatever I want until I get an explanation for this,” Bulgaria said, opening the cabinet and looking around. “And it better be fast, because there's still a meeting to get to and we're already late.”
As Bulgaria began to clean up the mess, Romania hung the coat on the back of a chair and bent to grab the bottle from underneath the table. The other Balkan eyed him as he did so, but thankfully didn't say anything.
When the trash was taken out, the floor scoured, and the entire room smelled unappetisingly of bleach, Bulgaria dragged him upstairs, handed him his hat where it had been discarded on the floor (“Much better, now I can hit you and not feel bad”), and sat him down on the bed. Then he paced back and forth across the room military style, drawing a forked twig from nowhere and tapping his hand with it. "Now," he said, "tell me what's up with you."
"You'll laugh."
"I laugh at everyone regardless of their life stories, don't flatter yourself. Besides, we're friends. It'll be friendly laughter that you won't hold against me."
Romania bit his lip. “Okay,” he admitted sullenly, “then it's exactly what it looks like.”
“Care to explain this?” Bulgaria said venomously, pointing at the red liquid. He had to stand on one leg and flail with an arm to do so, making a rather ludicrous picture. Romania laughed, once, then bit his lip again. There was a sharp pain there and then a coppery warm taste. Damn it.
“What's so funny?” Bulgaria demanded. “Your coat is covered in the stuff! You're not wearing your hat! You aren't going around impaling people again, are you? That wasn't helpful at all, no matter how you wanted to put it at the time! Greece still has the scars and I'm still finding limbs in my flowerbed! I swear, Romania, if I find bodies burned or buried in your backyard –“
“I'm not im-- doing that anyone!” Romania interuppted, reaching for his coat. Bulgaria let him take it. “I'm not. I promise.” He didn't like the word “impale” very much; as much as he admired Tepes, and as much as he didn't regret his actions during those seven years, he still considered it a dark time of his life that everyone would be better off not returning to. Especially considering he spent another thirteen years rotting in Hungary's dungeon and talking to himself because of it.
“Then what the hell is going on?” Bulgaria said quietly, softly, warily. “I'm your next-door neighbor, I know what it means when 'Romania' and 'blood' end up in the same sentence. You're a nice guy, Romania, I don't doubt that... but I've seen you when you're angry and insane, and it's not a pretty picture.”
Romania twisted his hands in his coat, which was now going to need a serious washing as soon as possible. He hadn't needed the allusions to his history. It was depressing enough as it was; first Rome, then Turkey, then Russia... and every time, it had ended in a bloody revolution that was ultimately doomed for failure. Everything he did was doomed for failure, all the time – ha, he couldn't even keep a simple secret!
“It's animal blood,” he finally said. “Not human. I can't kill my own people, not again. You should know that.” The last bit was said in an accusatory tone. Bulgaria should know that. Killing one's own people... it was a painful process, one that could drive a nation insane. It had happened to Russia, nearly happened to America, and several times to Romania. In fact, Romania was still amazed he'd come out of those rough periods relatively unscathed.
“And what is animal blood doing all over your kitchen floor?”
“It's a long story that I really don't want to tell.”
Bulgaria sighed and put his hands on his waist, looking from Romania to the floor and back again. “Alright, where's the bleach then?”
Romania frowned and looked up.
Bulgaria snapped his fingers. “Bleach, Roro. Bleach. To clean this up. You can't just leave it lying around.”
“Oh,” Romania said. “Under the sink. And don't call me that.”
“I'll call you whatever I want until I get an explanation for this,” Bulgaria said, opening the cabinet and looking around. “And it better be fast, because there's still a meeting to get to and we're already late.”
As Bulgaria began to clean up the mess, Romania hung the coat on the back of a chair and bent to grab the bottle from underneath the table. The other Balkan eyed him as he did so, but thankfully didn't say anything.
When the trash was taken out, the floor scoured, and the entire room smelled unappetisingly of bleach, Bulgaria dragged him upstairs, handed him his hat where it had been discarded on the floor (“Much better, now I can hit you and not feel bad”), and sat him down on the bed. Then he paced back and forth across the room military style, drawing a forked twig from nowhere and tapping his hand with it. "Now," he said, "tell me what's up with you."
"You'll laugh."
"I laugh at everyone regardless of their life stories, don't flatter yourself. Besides, we're friends. It'll be friendly laughter that you won't hold against me."
Romania wanted to point out that just because they got along didn't mean they were friends, but he settled for rolling his eyes and letting Bulgaria lighten the mood. Maybe if he could keep him talking...
Suddenly the forked twig was pointed directly at him. He followed its length until he met Bulgaria's eyes, which were narrowed and serious. "Spill."
Romania looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. They were very interesting without their gloves on; covered in scars and callouses and old tell-tale marks of war. He finally muttered something under his breath.
Bulgaria frowned and leaned closer. "What was that?"
"I said 'I'm a vampire.' How hard is that to understand?!" Romania snapped.
Bulgaria looked a little taken aback. Then he reached over and pulled the curtains open, letting a flood of light pour into the room and directly onto where Romania was sitting.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOLHISTORY
"Horrendous mistake back in 1955" -- the Warsaw Pact [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warsaw_Pact ], signed in 1955, was a reaction by Russia to America's founding of NATO. Signing this made Romania a communist country and thrust him directly into one of the worst periods of his history. The last leader of this period, Nicolae Ceausescu [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ceausescu ], and his wife were shot at Targoviste on Christmas Day.
"You can't help people..." "Japan managed it." -- Japan, as we all know, had a little bit of a shut-in issue for a few centuries. [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edo_period ]
"Prussia of the Balkans" -- It's true. Quite a few history texts, websites, Hetalia fanfictions, and other (awesome) sources describe Bulgaria this way.
"You're always wearing your hat, it's your trademark." -- Romania has too many hats, guys. [ http://www.eliznik.org.uk/RomaniaPortul/m_hat.htm ]
"Gospodi" -- If my (inaccurate) sources are correct: Bulgarian for "God".
"... Impaling people again..." "... limbs in my flowerbed" -- This was probably obvious, but the first is a reference to Vlad Tepes, commonly known as "the Impaler." [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vlad_the_Impaler ] Romanians love the guy: he's a national hero who's celebrated for keeping the Ottoman Empire from overrunning Romania like it did with Bulgaria and Byzantium before him. He ultimately failed, but hey. He was epic. The second quote refers to the fact that Hungarian leader Mihail Szilagyi (Google him, he exists! His Wikipedia page is just in Romanian) was sawn in half in Bulgaria's front lawn -- not to mention all of the other people killed on the guy's land. Hey, he was right between Romania and Turkey. Things got messy in 1460.
... to be continued...
Also, there appear to be two part Bs, the latter of which is supposed to be C. Newbie fails.
Suddenly the forked twig was pointed directly at him. He followed its length until he met Bulgaria's eyes, which were narrowed and serious. "Spill."
Romania looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. They were very interesting without their gloves on; covered in scars and callouses and old tell-tale marks of war. He finally muttered something under his breath.
Bulgaria frowned and leaned closer. "What was that?"
"I said 'I'm a vampire.' How hard is that to understand?!" Romania snapped.
Bulgaria looked a little taken aback. Then he reached over and pulled the curtains open, letting a flood of light pour into the room and directly onto where Romania was sitting.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOLHISTORY
"Horrendous mistake back in 1955" -- the Warsaw Pact [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warsaw_Pact ], signed in 1955, was a reaction by Russia to America's founding of NATO. Signing this made Romania a communist country and thrust him directly into one of the worst periods of his history. The last leader of this period, Nicolae Ceausescu [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ceausescu ], and his wife were shot at Targoviste on Christmas Day.
"You can't help people..." "Japan managed it." -- Japan, as we all know, had a little bit of a shut-in issue for a few centuries. [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edo_period ]
"Prussia of the Balkans" -- It's true. Quite a few history texts, websites, Hetalia fanfictions, and other (awesome) sources describe Bulgaria this way.
"You're always wearing your hat, it's your trademark." -- Romania has too many hats, guys. [ http://www.eliznik.org.uk/RomaniaPortul/m_hat.htm ]
"Gospodi" -- If my (inaccurate) sources are correct: Bulgarian for "God".
"... Impaling people again..." "... limbs in my flowerbed" -- This was probably obvious, but the first is a reference to Vlad Tepes, commonly known as "the Impaler." [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vlad_the_Impaler ] Romanians love the guy: he's a national hero who's celebrated for keeping the Ottoman Empire from overrunning Romania like it did with Bulgaria and Byzantium before him. He ultimately failed, but hey. He was epic. The second quote refers to the fact that Hungarian leader Mihail Szilagyi (Google him, he exists! His Wikipedia page is just in Romanian) was sawn in half in Bulgaria's front lawn -- not to mention all of the other people killed on the guy's land. Hey, he was right between Romania and Turkey. Things got messy in 1460.
... to be continued...
Also, there appear to be two part Bs, the latter of which is supposed to be C. Newbie fails.
No! I can't be left hanging like that! I just love your writing style and the humor is great. Romania is my favorite, so I'll definitely be waiting for the next chapter.
Thank you! I haven't posted any of my writing for a long time now; it's nice to know that I'm not failing epically.
Someone filled it? And it has Bulgaria in it? Author!Anon, I think I may love you.
Also, is that a TVTropes reference as the title?
Also, is that a TVTropes reference as the title?
This was supposed to be an implied Hung/Roma, right? Yet I freaking squealed seeing Bulgaria there.
No, I'm totally not a biased Bulga/Roma shipper. Not at all.
A!A, I only have one request and that is for youto have my blood to update this.
No, I'm totally not a biased Bulga/Roma shipper. Not at all.
A!A, I only have one request and that is for you
Oh this one was so fun. I like the style of humor and both Romania and Bulgaria come of as sweet, which I imagine them to be, at least to each other.
I'll be following this and looking forward to the next update.
I'll be following this and looking forward to the next update.
Romania blinked in the sudden onslaught of brightness and held up a hand to keep the most direct rays from hurting his eyes. After a few seconds the glare faded and he could see Bulgaria watching him cautiously, the expression on his face one of skepticity and something that could only be described as scientific observation. Romania, naturally, wasn't fond of being scrutinized like he was a rat in a lab. He glared flatly at Bulgaria.
Bulgaria gazed warily back at him, expression unchanging.
Romania sighed. “Did you really feel the need to do that?” he asked, standing and heading for the window.
Bulgaria pointed at him. “You didn't burst into flames!” he accused. “Therefore, you can't be a vampire.”
Romania drew the curtains with a loud ripping sound and turned to face his fellow Balkan. “Vampires don't burst into flames in the sunlight, Bulgaria,” he said. “That was uncalled for and rude.” Much like everything else the nation did.
Bulgaria's skeptical, scientific expression melted away to be replaced by one of anger. “Well, don't go and act all high-and-mighty on me. Forgive me for doing the first thing that comes to mind when my best friend announces he's a vampire!”
“I am not your best friend!”
“Well, I am your very best friend, and nothing you can say will change that fact.” Bulgaria scratched his head with his forked twig. “Anyway,” he said, thinking hard. Something clicked in Romania's head.
There was a loud crack as he hit Bulgaria in the face. The Balkan staggered backward, simultaneously rubbing his cheek and glancing around for his attacker. Romania ground his teeth together, ignoring the ache in his knuckles. “You tried to kill me!” he announced. “With the sun, and the bursting into flames, and the vampirism! You tried to kill me, didn't you?!”
“If it's you or me, I'd rather it wasn't me. And it's not like it worked anyway,” Bulgaria retorted. Romania didn't know this, but he really hadn't tried to kill the (newly) vampiric nation – it was just an instinct he remembered from watching horror movies America sent him. He'd always wanted to stand in front of the stupid blonde protagonist and just yank open the curtain that was right there, and had resolved to do so the very next time he met a vampire. It wasn't meant in a malicious way at all.
“Oh, that's something to say to your very best friend!”
“Life sucks. Deal with it.”
“I am dealing with it!” Romania sank down onto his bed and pulled off his hat, weaving his fingers in and out of the tassels. “I know I always looked like a vampire before... and I've dealt with more slayers and hunters and priests than you can count, if you could count. But this is different. This – this is permanent. Permanent and horrible and I've had vampires as part of my folklore for too long to be blessed with ignorance like America or Sealand or those folks who think demons are just the greatest.”
The mattress compressed as Bulgaria sat down beside him, staying unusually silent. “You can't be a vampire,” he said reassuringly. “You still have two nostrils.”
Romania wished he were closer to a wall. Facepalming was simply not enough to contain the fail in that statement.
“It's true!” Bulgaria said. “Vampires only have one nostril! And you have two, so --”
Romania poked his temple. “Bulgarian,” he said. Then he pointed to himself. “Romanian. This is the last time I'm going to clarify that.”
“Oh. Right.”
Silence.
“Well... you haven't tried to kill me, and people tend to do that a lot. So that's a good thing, right? Because we still have that meeting that we kind of need to get to,” Bulgaria asked, turning his hazel eyes on Romania. Romania sighed.
“I've been downing that stuff twenty-four seven all week. I think I'm full... it's just, human blood or nation blood or anything like that is a lot different from animal blood, which is why I've been staying locked up in here. I might hurt someone without meaning to.” It was true. Even when he wasn't focusing on it, the scent of Bulgaria's blood was constantly there beside him, nagging at the back of his head and yelling drink me! Drink me! I'm tasty!
Bulgaria gazed warily back at him, expression unchanging.
Romania sighed. “Did you really feel the need to do that?” he asked, standing and heading for the window.
Bulgaria pointed at him. “You didn't burst into flames!” he accused. “Therefore, you can't be a vampire.”
Romania drew the curtains with a loud ripping sound and turned to face his fellow Balkan. “Vampires don't burst into flames in the sunlight, Bulgaria,” he said. “That was uncalled for and rude.” Much like everything else the nation did.
Bulgaria's skeptical, scientific expression melted away to be replaced by one of anger. “Well, don't go and act all high-and-mighty on me. Forgive me for doing the first thing that comes to mind when my best friend announces he's a vampire!”
“I am not your best friend!”
“Well, I am your very best friend, and nothing you can say will change that fact.” Bulgaria scratched his head with his forked twig. “Anyway,” he said, thinking hard. Something clicked in Romania's head.
There was a loud crack as he hit Bulgaria in the face. The Balkan staggered backward, simultaneously rubbing his cheek and glancing around for his attacker. Romania ground his teeth together, ignoring the ache in his knuckles. “You tried to kill me!” he announced. “With the sun, and the bursting into flames, and the vampirism! You tried to kill me, didn't you?!”
“If it's you or me, I'd rather it wasn't me. And it's not like it worked anyway,” Bulgaria retorted. Romania didn't know this, but he really hadn't tried to kill the (newly) vampiric nation – it was just an instinct he remembered from watching horror movies America sent him. He'd always wanted to stand in front of the stupid blonde protagonist and just yank open the curtain that was right there, and had resolved to do so the very next time he met a vampire. It wasn't meant in a malicious way at all.
“Oh, that's something to say to your very best friend!”
“Life sucks. Deal with it.”
“I am dealing with it!” Romania sank down onto his bed and pulled off his hat, weaving his fingers in and out of the tassels. “I know I always looked like a vampire before... and I've dealt with more slayers and hunters and priests than you can count, if you could count. But this is different. This – this is permanent. Permanent and horrible and I've had vampires as part of my folklore for too long to be blessed with ignorance like America or Sealand or those folks who think demons are just the greatest.”
The mattress compressed as Bulgaria sat down beside him, staying unusually silent. “You can't be a vampire,” he said reassuringly. “You still have two nostrils.”
Romania wished he were closer to a wall. Facepalming was simply not enough to contain the fail in that statement.
“It's true!” Bulgaria said. “Vampires only have one nostril! And you have two, so --”
Romania poked his temple. “Bulgarian,” he said. Then he pointed to himself. “Romanian. This is the last time I'm going to clarify that.”
“Oh. Right.”
Silence.
“Well... you haven't tried to kill me, and people tend to do that a lot. So that's a good thing, right? Because we still have that meeting that we kind of need to get to,” Bulgaria asked, turning his hazel eyes on Romania. Romania sighed.
“I've been downing that stuff twenty-four seven all week. I think I'm full... it's just, human blood or nation blood or anything like that is a lot different from animal blood, which is why I've been staying locked up in here. I might hurt someone without meaning to.” It was true. Even when he wasn't focusing on it, the scent of Bulgaria's blood was constantly there beside him, nagging at the back of his head and yelling drink me! Drink me! I'm tasty!
Fffff difficult formatting is difficult...
“Okay, I'll stick with you all day and make sure you don't kill anyone. And if you do, I'll hit you with my trusty monster bat right here.” He held up his forked twig, waving it a little. “And you know, my folklore is really similar to yours. I bet I know how to kill you off if things get out of hand. Oh, and there's those people in your magic club or whatever... England, and the guy with the barrettes? I bet they know how to --”
He gasped for breath when Romania elbowed him in the gut. “I'm not looking for anyone who knows how to kill me!” he said. “It wouldn't work. Nations can't die, first of all, and second, if you don't kill a strigo correctly they'll come back to life and keep terrorizing people, this time without inhibitions. The best thing to do is just to stay here. I'll work something out, get England to relay events to me or something like that. It'll be fine. It's been fine so far.”
Bulgaria stared at him for a few minutes, the expression of scientific observation back upon his countenance. Romania avoided his gaze, settling instead for playing with the little felt hat and feeling sorry for himself. He was allowed to do that, after all: thanks to this incident, he was never going to see any of his friends again (except maybe Bulgaria, who was stupid and didn't count as a friend). He was never going to go outside, or celebrate Christmas and Easter in Bucharest, or have meetings with England and Norway or scheme to set the former up with America...
Bulgaria stood and yanked on Romania's arm so hard he was certain it would come out of the socket. He stumbled to his feet and reached up to massage his shoulder. “Hey!” he said, “what was that for?”
Bulgaria snatched the hat and dusted it off, then ran his fingers through Romania's hair (which he hadn't bothered to comb today), and again set the felt decoration on top of his head. “What are you doing?!” Romania demanded to know.
“You're a mess," Bulgaria said matter-of-factly, “and you're sulking and feeling sorry for yourself and like I said, that never ends well for any of us. So I am going to get you to that boring meeting if it takes all day and you are going to meet with England and work this out and you will like it. So there.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, yelling, “Yes I know that this is a dangerous, reckless and idiotic thing to do, but since when do I do things otherwise? Come on!”
Romania stood there, sputtering, and watched Bulgaria march away, his determination clear even when he wasn't in the room. Honestly, what did the nation think he could accomplish? There was no way Romania could go around the other countries right now without putting them at serious risk of their lives. There was no way he could face America and his fanboy tendencies, Hungary's insulting mockery, Ireland's "I told you so" looks. It wouldn't end well at all.
The phone began ringing loudly.
"I'll get it!" Bulgaria yelled from downstairs. Romania paled and snatched up the phone before he could.
"Hello?" he said tentatively.
"Romania?" The familiar British accent simultaneously comforted him and made him want to bury his head in his pillows and sleep until the world ended (spring would be far too soon).
"Yes?"
"Oh, thank God you answered. I've been trying to reach you for three days now!"
"I noticed," Romania said dryly. In fact, England had been keeping him up at night with his constant worrying. However, England either didn't hear him or chose not to acknowledge it.
“You missed the meeting on Tuesday after you promised you'd be there. I know that you're not the most punctual or responsible or even down-to-earth person in the world, but it's been three days and Norway and I figured that since we haven't heard from you at all, something must have happened. Are you sure everything's all right?”
“Okay, I'll stick with you all day and make sure you don't kill anyone. And if you do, I'll hit you with my trusty monster bat right here.” He held up his forked twig, waving it a little. “And you know, my folklore is really similar to yours. I bet I know how to kill you off if things get out of hand. Oh, and there's those people in your magic club or whatever... England, and the guy with the barrettes? I bet they know how to --”
He gasped for breath when Romania elbowed him in the gut. “I'm not looking for anyone who knows how to kill me!” he said. “It wouldn't work. Nations can't die, first of all, and second, if you don't kill a strigo correctly they'll come back to life and keep terrorizing people, this time without inhibitions. The best thing to do is just to stay here. I'll work something out, get England to relay events to me or something like that. It'll be fine. It's been fine so far.”
Bulgaria stared at him for a few minutes, the expression of scientific observation back upon his countenance. Romania avoided his gaze, settling instead for playing with the little felt hat and feeling sorry for himself. He was allowed to do that, after all: thanks to this incident, he was never going to see any of his friends again (except maybe Bulgaria, who was stupid and didn't count as a friend). He was never going to go outside, or celebrate Christmas and Easter in Bucharest, or have meetings with England and Norway or scheme to set the former up with America...
Bulgaria stood and yanked on Romania's arm so hard he was certain it would come out of the socket. He stumbled to his feet and reached up to massage his shoulder. “Hey!” he said, “what was that for?”
Bulgaria snatched the hat and dusted it off, then ran his fingers through Romania's hair (which he hadn't bothered to comb today), and again set the felt decoration on top of his head. “What are you doing?!” Romania demanded to know.
“You're a mess," Bulgaria said matter-of-factly, “and you're sulking and feeling sorry for yourself and like I said, that never ends well for any of us. So I am going to get you to that boring meeting if it takes all day and you are going to meet with England and work this out and you will like it. So there.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, yelling, “Yes I know that this is a dangerous, reckless and idiotic thing to do, but since when do I do things otherwise? Come on!”
Romania stood there, sputtering, and watched Bulgaria march away, his determination clear even when he wasn't in the room. Honestly, what did the nation think he could accomplish? There was no way Romania could go around the other countries right now without putting them at serious risk of their lives. There was no way he could face America and his fanboy tendencies, Hungary's insulting mockery, Ireland's "I told you so" looks. It wouldn't end well at all.
The phone began ringing loudly.
"I'll get it!" Bulgaria yelled from downstairs. Romania paled and snatched up the phone before he could.
"Hello?" he said tentatively.
"Romania?" The familiar British accent simultaneously comforted him and made him want to bury his head in his pillows and sleep until the world ended (spring would be far too soon).
"Yes?"
"Oh, thank God you answered. I've been trying to reach you for three days now!"
"I noticed," Romania said dryly. In fact, England had been keeping him up at night with his constant worrying. However, England either didn't hear him or chose not to acknowledge it.
“You missed the meeting on Tuesday after you promised you'd be there. I know that you're not the most punctual or responsible or even down-to-earth person in the world, but it's been three days and Norway and I figured that since we haven't heard from you at all, something must have happened. Are you sure everything's all right?”
It was more than a little insulting that England didn't trust his sanity enough to think he was alright after not having called him back. It was also a little touching that someone cared, but he knew England -- the country probably was just irked that he hadn't shown up to help him with his rituals or research or something he couldn't complete on his own but was too uptight to admit. Romania opened his mouth to respond, but he never got the chance. “Don't worry, captain. We'll be right over,” Bulgaria interrupted, apparently having picked up the phone anyway.
“Bulgaria, is that you?” England said, confused. “What are you doing there?”
“He's leaving,” Romania said through gritted teeth. He ended the call and tossed the device onto his bed, then began the trek downstairs to show Bulgaria exactly what being a vampire meant.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
England stared at the phone as the dial tone beep-beep-beeped its way through the narrow hallway. He was confused, surprised, and more than a little taken aback – he hadn't expected anything like this, as good (and capable) as he was at imagining worst case scenarios.
“Well?” Norway said monotonously, his expression having kept its dull boredom throughout. “Where the hell has he been?”
The CALL ENDED message was still flashing when England shoved the cellphone back in his pocket. “I don't know,” he said. “He picked up, finally, but Bulgaria didn't really let him get a word in edgewise.”
“Neither did you,” Norway pointed out. England narrowed his eyes.
“Touché,” he said.
Norway blinked once, slowly, and said, “What was Bulgaria doing at Romania's house for a week, anyway?”
“Maybe he was just concerned,” England mused, not really believing it himself. “We mustn't jump to conclusions.”
“I'll give you a minute to remember what sort of world we live in, England, and revise that statement."
A pause, then: "Oh, bloody hell.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOLFOLKLORE
“Vampires don't burst into flames!” -- The Romanian strigoi doesn't, anyway, and neither do many other vampires in the Balkans.
“You can't be a vampire! You still have two nostrils!” -- The Bulgarian krvopijac, also known as an obour, looks like your average person except for the lack of a nostril.
“... kill a strigo correctly...” -- There's a couple of ways to do this, or at least prevent it from wreaking havoc on the world. You can drive a stake or knife through the heart of the corpse, bury it face down, scatter rice across the top of the grave (this is because apparently, vampires have extreme OCD and feel the need to count and sort every grain of rice before sucking someone's blood dry)... Most of the time just destroying the body works. But a simple wooden stake through the heart isn't going to cut it. In some circles, even, vampires have two hearts! Sorry Buffy.
"Ireland's 'I-told-you-so' looks" -- Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was Irish and very knowledgeable on Romanian vampirism, apparently. Most of Romania's tourists are there because of his book. Naturally Ireland doesn't think it's all it's cracked up to be.
So I don't actually know what color Bulgaria's eyes are -- official art says they're brown, but most fans draw him with green, which I personally like better. So I went with hazel, which can look like either depending on the light. Yay compromising!
… to be continued...
“Bulgaria, is that you?” England said, confused. “What are you doing there?”
“He's leaving,” Romania said through gritted teeth. He ended the call and tossed the device onto his bed, then began the trek downstairs to show Bulgaria exactly what being a vampire meant.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
England stared at the phone as the dial tone beep-beep-beeped its way through the narrow hallway. He was confused, surprised, and more than a little taken aback – he hadn't expected anything like this, as good (and capable) as he was at imagining worst case scenarios.
“Well?” Norway said monotonously, his expression having kept its dull boredom throughout. “Where the hell has he been?”
The CALL ENDED message was still flashing when England shoved the cellphone back in his pocket. “I don't know,” he said. “He picked up, finally, but Bulgaria didn't really let him get a word in edgewise.”
“Neither did you,” Norway pointed out. England narrowed his eyes.
“Touché,” he said.
Norway blinked once, slowly, and said, “What was Bulgaria doing at Romania's house for a week, anyway?”
“Maybe he was just concerned,” England mused, not really believing it himself. “We mustn't jump to conclusions.”
“I'll give you a minute to remember what sort of world we live in, England, and revise that statement."
A pause, then: "Oh, bloody hell.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOLFOLKLORE
“Vampires don't burst into flames!” -- The Romanian strigoi doesn't, anyway, and neither do many other vampires in the Balkans.
“You can't be a vampire! You still have two nostrils!” -- The Bulgarian krvopijac, also known as an obour, looks like your average person except for the lack of a nostril.
“... kill a strigo correctly...” -- There's a couple of ways to do this, or at least prevent it from wreaking havoc on the world. You can drive a stake or knife through the heart of the corpse, bury it face down, scatter rice across the top of the grave (this is because apparently, vampires have extreme OCD and feel the need to count and sort every grain of rice before sucking someone's blood dry)... Most of the time just destroying the body works. But a simple wooden stake through the heart isn't going to cut it. In some circles, even, vampires have two hearts! Sorry Buffy.
"Ireland's 'I-told-you-so' looks" -- Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was Irish and very knowledgeable on Romanian vampirism, apparently. Most of Romania's tourists are there because of his book. Naturally Ireland doesn't think it's all it's cracked up to be.
So I don't actually know what color Bulgaria's eyes are -- official art says they're brown, but most fans draw him with green, which I personally like better. So I went with hazel, which can look like either depending on the light. Yay compromising!
… to be continued...
Yay, update!
I love the fact that you're incorporating the Romanian folklore of the vampire rather than just the pop culture versions.
Also, this story may or may not have assisted in my conversion to the RomaniaxBulgaria ship *cough.*
I love the fact that you're incorporating the Romanian folklore of the vampire rather than just the pop culture versions.
Also, this story may or may not have assisted in my conversion to the RomaniaxBulgaria ship *cough.*
Also, did you post in the fills list? I didn't see it there, is all.
I just checked and it's definitely there; maybe it just blends in really, really well?
And I'm ecstatic that you're enjoying it! This isn't my first Hetalia fanfiction, but it is the first I'm actually letting people see, so that means a lot. As for the folklore, I just figured that it made more sense to have Romania as one of his own rather than a stereotypical vampire (which is hilarious in hindsight, considering Hetalia is built on stereotypes). It also allows for everyone to havehilarious different opinions on what's going on and how to fix it and all that.
It's funny that people keep mentioning it (the Romania/Bulgaria, I mean). I didn't write this with that intention. :D They definitely Need More Love, though.
And I'm ecstatic that you're enjoying it! This isn't my first Hetalia fanfiction, but it is the first I'm actually letting people see, so that means a lot. As for the folklore, I just figured that it made more sense to have Romania as one of his own rather than a stereotypical vampire (which is hilarious in hindsight, considering Hetalia is built on stereotypes). It also allows for everyone to have
It's funny that people keep mentioning it (the Romania/Bulgaria, I mean). I didn't write this with that intention. :D They definitely Need More Love, though.
Love this fill! I haven't seen any Romania-centric fic before, so I'm enjoying this expansion on his personality. I agree with OP: I love how you used traditional Romanian folklore instead of pop-vampires, and also how you acknowledged the different traditions.
Also, your Bulgaria is amazing c:
Also, your Bulgaria is amazing c:
I can't even begin to describe how much this story rocks! It's the very first story I read about those two new characters and I know that there's not much canon and even fanon to research, but you took what there was and threw in some real history and created a characterization that is just so perfectly hetalia-like... And I already love both of them. (I also think they have awesome chemistry in this xD And even though it wasn't intended, you are making me ship Romania/Bulgaria). Also, I am so amazed by all the history and folklore you know and include about these two countries. I love the notes at the end explaining all of this and I feel like I'm actually learning new stuff through hetalia-fanfiction again. It's awesome! And your writing style is simply amazing, hilarious and captivating. I'm gonna stalk this fill like Dracula stalked Mina!
You know, there were various ways in which this prompt could go, some good, some bad, so at the beginning I was a bit iffy about checking it out. The way you went with is exceptional. It's hilarious, for starters, the characterization is so accurate (at least to my headcanon) that it's a bit scary, and it's feeding my Bul/Ro ship like mad (I don't know if you meant it that way and it doesn't really matter anyway, I adore the "friendly" interaction as it is). I love your long-suffering Romania and boastful, delightfully dense Bulgaria and his magically appearing sticks. And the tone, somewhat ironic and parodistic while at the same time showing some real emotion underneath...Damn, I love this fic to pieces and I crave moar.
I'm thinking psychiatric medication in particular. Maybe they are having nasty side-effects. Maybe they believe the medication isn't working. Maybe they feel they were better off when they weren't taking it. Maybe some combination of the above. For whatever reason, the character decides (without telling anyone) to stop taking their pills. Others start to notice changes in their behavior or personality. You decide what happens from there. Make it hopeful, make it tragic, whatever inspires you.
Bonuses:
1. Their significant other eventually finds out and confronts them, not understanding why they'd stop taking it (or lie about it).
2. The side-effects of the medication were affecting their sex life, which was a big point of distress for the character.
Bonuses:
1. Their significant other eventually finds out and confronts them, not understanding why they'd stop taking it (or lie about it).
2. The side-effects of the medication were affecting their sex life, which was a big point of distress for the character.
I'm sort of experimenting with a new style with this so keep that in mind if the style doesn't stay consistant. Also, no clue where this is going, how long it's going to be, or if I will actually have time to update ever. (I'm sort of really busy right now but I loved this request too much to not fill it.)
Monochrome
(London Bridge is broken down; falling down, falling down; Londong Bridge is falling down, my fair Lady)
It's 10:00 a.m. and England is late.
But proper etiquette and chivalry and true gentlemanliness dictates that one must always be on time for appointments - and perhaps early even, as he often is - and this is loud-mouthed, green-eyed, straight-backed England missing - England who had never (except for that one time in the 1970s, but ah, let’s not mention that, shall we?) missed a meeting. So people pause; stop and stare. Look at that empty chair at the table with open mouths and wide eyes.
It’s strange, is what it is. (Perhaps a little worrying to a few, but they’re not going to mention it.)
And then, five minutes past ten, Germany yells at people to take their seats and wrestles the meeting into order. Because it’s just one nation out of hundreds missing and there are things to discuss, things to do, and England will not hold them back from that, there or not.
They talk of energy and fossil fuels, a little bit of economy and debt, while certain minds still focus on that empty chair.
The start is hard to pinpoint, hard to track it down exactly, but he thinks it’s sometime in 1943; winter, perhaps, where it starts out slow and builds up speed, like a galleon on the ocean catching the wind. (But not as beautiful; not nearly, no.) Simple things like headaches, pounding beats in his head, echoing around his skull - but that could be the march of soldiers outside, could be the sound of bombs and planes - he’s not sure.
And then there’s missing links - gaps and holes in his memory - did I already meet with Russia today, I can’t quite remember - and little things like that. Sometimes he finds himself in the middle of brewing tea when he spots the forgotten cuppa on his kitchen table. It’s gone cold by then.
There’s fatigue too - this overwhelming drowsiness weighing him down and tugging at the loose threads in his jacket, pulling him into the ground. Sometimes he can’t sleep. (Because there are gunshots ringing in his head from halfway across the country and there are orders yelled and soldiers marching, marching, marching through his mind and across his body and bombs falling and so very much to keep him up and awake, wide eyed.) (And sometimes because there’s work and plans and maps to study, strategies to create - it’s all a very big chessboard, really, and moves must be made on time, in time.) (And sometimes simply because he just - for whatever reason - can’t. He hates these time the most, for he really is so very exhausted and it so very bothersome.)
And, of course, don’t forget: he just feels so very melancholic. All the time - as he climbs out of bed, when he drinks his first (and second, third, fouth, sometimes sixth) cuppa of the day, as he walks down the halls of Westminster. It's like dark, indigo paint, splashing across him here, there, everywhere, seeping into his clothes, his skin, his bones, staining him a deep blue. (Like the ocean, but not nearly as happy, no where near as free.)
But. But remember. It’s war.
So he thinks nothing of it. Just drinks some more tea, takes some deep breaths, tries to push it out of his mind and forget it.
But it doesn’t stop - never, not even with treaties signed and troops pulled out - thank god - and streets overflowing with celebrations, wine glasses filled and campaign bottles opened, people cheering, laughing, crying - but in a good way.
No, it doesn’t stop. Not then when it should. Not when he expects it too.
Monochrome
(London Bridge is broken down; falling down, falling down; Londong Bridge is falling down, my fair Lady)
It's 10:00 a.m. and England is late.
But proper etiquette and chivalry and true gentlemanliness dictates that one must always be on time for appointments - and perhaps early even, as he often is - and this is loud-mouthed, green-eyed, straight-backed England missing - England who had never (except for that one time in the 1970s, but ah, let’s not mention that, shall we?) missed a meeting. So people pause; stop and stare. Look at that empty chair at the table with open mouths and wide eyes.
It’s strange, is what it is. (Perhaps a little worrying to a few, but they’re not going to mention it.)
And then, five minutes past ten, Germany yells at people to take their seats and wrestles the meeting into order. Because it’s just one nation out of hundreds missing and there are things to discuss, things to do, and England will not hold them back from that, there or not.
They talk of energy and fossil fuels, a little bit of economy and debt, while certain minds still focus on that empty chair.
The start is hard to pinpoint, hard to track it down exactly, but he thinks it’s sometime in 1943; winter, perhaps, where it starts out slow and builds up speed, like a galleon on the ocean catching the wind. (But not as beautiful; not nearly, no.) Simple things like headaches, pounding beats in his head, echoing around his skull - but that could be the march of soldiers outside, could be the sound of bombs and planes - he’s not sure.
And then there’s missing links - gaps and holes in his memory - did I already meet with Russia today, I can’t quite remember - and little things like that. Sometimes he finds himself in the middle of brewing tea when he spots the forgotten cuppa on his kitchen table. It’s gone cold by then.
There’s fatigue too - this overwhelming drowsiness weighing him down and tugging at the loose threads in his jacket, pulling him into the ground. Sometimes he can’t sleep. (Because there are gunshots ringing in his head from halfway across the country and there are orders yelled and soldiers marching, marching, marching through his mind and across his body and bombs falling and so very much to keep him up and awake, wide eyed.) (And sometimes because there’s work and plans and maps to study, strategies to create - it’s all a very big chessboard, really, and moves must be made on time, in time.) (And sometimes simply because he just - for whatever reason - can’t. He hates these time the most, for he really is so very exhausted and it so very bothersome.)
And, of course, don’t forget: he just feels so very melancholic. All the time - as he climbs out of bed, when he drinks his first (and second, third, fouth, sometimes sixth) cuppa of the day, as he walks down the halls of Westminster. It's like dark, indigo paint, splashing across him here, there, everywhere, seeping into his clothes, his skin, his bones, staining him a deep blue. (Like the ocean, but not nearly as happy, no where near as free.)
But. But remember. It’s war.
So he thinks nothing of it. Just drinks some more tea, takes some deep breaths, tries to push it out of his mind and forget it.
But it doesn’t stop - never, not even with treaties signed and troops pulled out - thank god - and streets overflowing with celebrations, wine glasses filled and campaign bottles opened, people cheering, laughing, crying - but in a good way.
No, it doesn’t stop. Not then when it should. Not when he expects it too.
I hate word limits. Seriously.
In fact, it gets worse, accelerates - like a Cruiser MK 1 starting slow and gaining: head pounding and pounding - but no more battles outside to blame it on - and joints aching like the old man he is - well, should be.
But it’s nothing, he thinks; not to worry; remember, straight back, head high, stiff upper lip and all that, lad. It will get better - wars take time to heal.
In fact, it gets worse, accelerates - like a Cruiser MK 1 starting slow and gaining: head pounding and pounding - but no more battles outside to blame it on - and joints aching like the old man he is - well, should be.
But it’s nothing, he thinks; not to worry; remember, straight back, head high, stiff upper lip and all that, lad. It will get better - wars take time to heal.
OP really likes what you've got so far! And while I left the prompt open, England was one of the characters I was secretly hoping it would be filled with, interestingly enough. The imagery and the voice are both very compelling. I'm kind of fascinated by the different directions in which you might take this; I hope you do find the time to update! Thanks for taking the time to fill, as it is.
The bit about the paint was so vivid to me, especially, that I was inspired to scribble something down for you: http://i129.photobucket.com/albums/p204/false_dichotomy/monochromeKM1.png
The bit about the paint was so vivid to me, especially, that I was inspired to scribble something down for you: http://i129.photobucket.com/albums/p204/false_dichotomy/monochromeKM1.png
:3
I've never received fanart before; you have turned me into a pile of happy goo, OP.
Thank you so much and I'm glad you like it so far. (England is by far my favorite character so I couldn't resist filling with him.) And I really, really like your drawing. (You call that a scribble?! It's so good!)
Hopefully I'll be able to update soon. Perhaps today, but maybe not.
I've never received fanart before; you have turned me into a pile of happy goo, OP.
Thank you so much and I'm glad you like it so far. (England is by far my favorite character so I couldn't resist filling with him.) And I really, really like your drawing. (You call that a scribble?! It's so good!)
Hopefully I'll be able to update soon. Perhaps today, but maybe not.
Love it so far- compelling what is going on in England's mind.
You've chosen the perfect character/condition match. The last line was heartbreaking. I can't wait for more.
Thank you to anyone who commented! And fanart! *melts* Thank you, OP! And I love your drawing style a lot. I'm glad people are enjoying it so far, I hope it stays that way.
America has his phone out of his pocket and in his hand the second the meeting ends (it would have been sooner but Germany was already giving him the evil eye from talking too much and listening too little and well, America may have missles and power but my god, Germany is scary when he's mad). He scrolls through his contacts quickly: Australia - Belarus - Canada - Denmark - ah, England.
The phone rings eight times and then goes to voicemail; England usually picks up on ring three. With a frown - perhaps a twinge of worry but only just - America tries again.
“Come on,” he urges as it rings - as if England can hear him from however far away and it will help the process go faster. “Come on, pick up old ma-”
“Yes?”
America perks up at the voice - like a puppy; maybe if he had a tail it’d be wagging. “England!”
“…America?” (England sounds okay; or, he sounds living, at least, which is good; and America’s pretty sure cell phones don’t get reception from outer space so that rules out the alien abduction theory; so far, so good; maybe he was worrying too much.)
“Duuuuude,” America laughs, draws out the word because he knows England hates it. “Where were you? You never miss meetings, Artie; what’s up?”
There’s an intake of breath on the phone, a quite curse, but no "My name's Arthur, not 'Artie', git", which is strange. Instead all England says is, “The meeting…of course.”
(Now that - that is strange; England couldn’t possibly have forgotten, could he? It seems unlikely; America knows England, knows Arthur, and knows he is nothing if not prepared; he knows he marks things weeks in advance, blocks off meeting days in bright red on his calendar, and types up little reminders on his phone - not that he ever really uses those; he likes the old fashioned way more, but well, better safe than sorry is England's motto.)
“I suppose it just slipped my mind,” England is saying now and something sounds rather…off. It might be the phone, a bad signal messing with the sound and England’s voice but America doesn’t think that’s quite it. It’s something else.
“Thank you for calling me.” And England hangs up. Just like that.
(Lifeless, America thinks later. England sounded like a zombie.)
((1954 - it hasn’t stopped.
Nine years since the war and the headaches have not passed, the dizziness not left, and the melancholy still weighing him down. There’s something wrong, a little voice whispers - perhaps the part of his mind not foolish enough to ignore it, perhaps the fae hovering about his head. Whatever it is, England ignores it. He hasn’t forgotten power, hasn’t forgotten the feeling of ruling the world - or most of it, at least - and he isn’t going to let himself be held down by a metaphorical rain cloud above his head.
He is fine.
(Because, you see, he has to be fine; if he’s not, it makes him weak, and England remembers well what happens when you’re weak - invasions, Roman soldiers marching through in legions, Picts and Scots and his brothers from the North, and Normans even; bruises and footprints on his pale skin left by those stronger than him.)
But while England shrugs, pushes it from his mind and pretends everything is fine and dandy, thank you, Churchill observes, worries, and wonders; he sees that dark indigo staining his country’s skin and clothes and everything and he worries - whether for his country or his friend, England can’t be sure - and pulls him aside one day after a meeting to ask if perhaps something was wrong.
It’s silly, this; England is his country, years and centuries and oh, lifetimes older than him and England can take care of himself, has been doing that for ages, dear boy, without your help. England wants to argue; he wants to put Churchill in his place, tell him to sit down and keep quiet, there‘s a good lad, for England was proud and powerful still - despite the holes and the cracks left from the bombs - and he was fine.
America has his phone out of his pocket and in his hand the second the meeting ends (it would have been sooner but Germany was already giving him the evil eye from talking too much and listening too little and well, America may have missles and power but my god, Germany is scary when he's mad). He scrolls through his contacts quickly: Australia - Belarus - Canada - Denmark - ah, England.
The phone rings eight times and then goes to voicemail; England usually picks up on ring three. With a frown - perhaps a twinge of worry but only just - America tries again.
“Come on,” he urges as it rings - as if England can hear him from however far away and it will help the process go faster. “Come on, pick up old ma-”
“Yes?”
America perks up at the voice - like a puppy; maybe if he had a tail it’d be wagging. “England!”
“…America?” (England sounds okay; or, he sounds living, at least, which is good; and America’s pretty sure cell phones don’t get reception from outer space so that rules out the alien abduction theory; so far, so good; maybe he was worrying too much.)
“Duuuuude,” America laughs, draws out the word because he knows England hates it. “Where were you? You never miss meetings, Artie; what’s up?”
There’s an intake of breath on the phone, a quite curse, but no "My name's Arthur, not 'Artie', git", which is strange. Instead all England says is, “The meeting…of course.”
(Now that - that is strange; England couldn’t possibly have forgotten, could he? It seems unlikely; America knows England, knows Arthur, and knows he is nothing if not prepared; he knows he marks things weeks in advance, blocks off meeting days in bright red on his calendar, and types up little reminders on his phone - not that he ever really uses those; he likes the old fashioned way more, but well, better safe than sorry is England's motto.)
“I suppose it just slipped my mind,” England is saying now and something sounds rather…off. It might be the phone, a bad signal messing with the sound and England’s voice but America doesn’t think that’s quite it. It’s something else.
“Thank you for calling me.” And England hangs up. Just like that.
(Lifeless, America thinks later. England sounded like a zombie.)
((1954 - it hasn’t stopped.
Nine years since the war and the headaches have not passed, the dizziness not left, and the melancholy still weighing him down. There’s something wrong, a little voice whispers - perhaps the part of his mind not foolish enough to ignore it, perhaps the fae hovering about his head. Whatever it is, England ignores it. He hasn’t forgotten power, hasn’t forgotten the feeling of ruling the world - or most of it, at least - and he isn’t going to let himself be held down by a metaphorical rain cloud above his head.
He is fine.
(Because, you see, he has to be fine; if he’s not, it makes him weak, and England remembers well what happens when you’re weak - invasions, Roman soldiers marching through in legions, Picts and Scots and his brothers from the North, and Normans even; bruises and footprints on his pale skin left by those stronger than him.)
But while England shrugs, pushes it from his mind and pretends everything is fine and dandy, thank you, Churchill observes, worries, and wonders; he sees that dark indigo staining his country’s skin and clothes and everything and he worries - whether for his country or his friend, England can’t be sure - and pulls him aside one day after a meeting to ask if perhaps something was wrong.
It’s silly, this; England is his country, years and centuries and oh, lifetimes older than him and England can take care of himself, has been doing that for ages, dear boy, without your help. England wants to argue; he wants to put Churchill in his place, tell him to sit down and keep quiet, there‘s a good lad, for England was proud and powerful still - despite the holes and the cracks left from the bombs - and he was fine.
Really.
But the words don’t come; he can’t force them from his mouth - he’s just much too tired to try. He can’t work up the energy to complain, to argue - to do anything, really - so he simply nods and agrees.
Major Depression Disorder, the doctor says with a frown.
(But England thinks it’s quite a lot of big words simply to say he’s feeling a little under the weather. It's not a big deal and the humans really shouldn't act as if it is; it’s a simple bump in the road - he's been through worse before and he’ll be over this soon enough.)
And then, here, this is funny - in an almost depressing sort of way: prescribed pills. Little, white human-made things that are supposed to chase the weariness from his bones and the indigo stains from his skin.
(I’m a nation, he thinks. A nation - the great British Empire. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine - just leave me be already.)
He almost throws them away when he gets home - contemplates tossing them in his burning fireplace. But Winston had looked at him with such concern, asked, “Please, England? and he doesn’t want to agree, doesn’t want to admit any sort of dependence on pathetic human medications, but he nods and says he’ll try them.
The pills send the headaches away and block the pains. Well, he thinks. It’d be a waste not to use them.))
So, a warning: I'm going to be jumping around in time a lot, so I hope it doesn't get too confusing.
But the words don’t come; he can’t force them from his mouth - he’s just much too tired to try. He can’t work up the energy to complain, to argue - to do anything, really - so he simply nods and agrees.
Major Depression Disorder, the doctor says with a frown.
(But England thinks it’s quite a lot of big words simply to say he’s feeling a little under the weather. It's not a big deal and the humans really shouldn't act as if it is; it’s a simple bump in the road - he's been through worse before and he’ll be over this soon enough.)
And then, here, this is funny - in an almost depressing sort of way: prescribed pills. Little, white human-made things that are supposed to chase the weariness from his bones and the indigo stains from his skin.
(I’m a nation, he thinks. A nation - the great British Empire. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine - just leave me be already.)
He almost throws them away when he gets home - contemplates tossing them in his burning fireplace. But Winston had looked at him with such concern, asked, “Please, England? and he doesn’t want to agree, doesn’t want to admit any sort of dependence on pathetic human medications, but he nods and says he’ll try them.
The pills send the headaches away and block the pains. Well, he thinks. It’d be a waste not to use them.))
So, a warning: I'm going to be jumping around in time a lot, so I hope it doesn't get too confusing.
Oops. I completely forgot a part. My bad.
(And by 2011, England has nearly forgotten what those little white pills even are. It’s a common everyday practice: wake, eat, pills, work.
But those little, plastic pill bottles stay hidden at all times - in the back of crowded shelves and shoved in the bottoms of unorganized drawers where no one would ever find them.
He's not sure what he would do if anyone ever found out.)
(And by 2011, England has nearly forgotten what those little white pills even are. It’s a common everyday practice: wake, eat, pills, work.
But those little, plastic pill bottles stay hidden at all times - in the back of crowded shelves and shoved in the bottoms of unorganized drawers where no one would ever find them.
He's not sure what he would do if anyone ever found out.)
This is so well written- sort of heartbreaking for England
I'm so glad you updated! Love the time jumping, by the way. It adds to the atmosphere of confusion on England's mind...
Captcha, stop giving me fractions and exponents already!
Captcha, stop giving me fractions and exponents already!
...this fill has me morbidly curious. As an anon who is on medication for a mental condition, I'm intrigued by this prompt and fill... hrm. This is excellent, I really like the switching perspectives, please keep going!
OP apologizes for taking so long to comment-- spent the weekend working on a 20-page paper.
I loved this update just as much as the previous one! Churchill's concern for England, especially, was really touching. And that very last line, the implication that England perceives some kind of potential stigma about taking them, that caught me off-guard (but in a good way!). I wasn't necessarily expecting that to get touched upon, but I'm glad you did. And the whole scene with the phone-conversation, that was just wonderful, that America could notice a problem without even having to see him, and that you managed to work his noticing as both an indication of how much he cares/how much he's aware of England and as an indication of how bad England's gotten. Also I like your use of nation-names in the narration but human names in the dialogue; that's actually my preference for a fic like this. :)
The time-jumping is working really well so far, so no need to worry about them being confusing. It works well, given the prompt.
I loved this update just as much as the previous one! Churchill's concern for England, especially, was really touching. And that very last line, the implication that England perceives some kind of potential stigma about taking them, that caught me off-guard (but in a good way!). I wasn't necessarily expecting that to get touched upon, but I'm glad you did. And the whole scene with the phone-conversation, that was just wonderful, that America could notice a problem without even having to see him, and that you managed to work his noticing as both an indication of how much he cares/how much he's aware of England and as an indication of how bad England's gotten. Also I like your use of nation-names in the narration but human names in the dialogue; that's actually my preference for a fic like this. :)
The time-jumping is working really well so far, so no need to worry about them being confusing. It works well, given the prompt.
Your style is beautiful. I love how you write England... proud and powerful stil, yes, yes and so afraid of weakness. Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous.
All your comments made me happy. *blushes* Thank you! And I'm glad to see you're all enjoying this.
“Hey France!”
France turns and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. (Because that voice was unmistakably American and well, that could mean anything, really.) “Yes?” he asks, with a smile, secretly glancing around for means of a quick exit if it proves necessary.
America hurries towards him - a blur of brown and blond coming at high speeds; France braces himself for inpact but America manages to stop himself just feet away from the other nation. He closes the distance between them with a few large steps and then, when he’s as close to France as he can be, he leans in close, as if they’re sharing secrets. France humors him and leans in as well, waiting curiously for whatever America is going to say. “Do you know what’s wrong with England?” America asks, and there is obvious concern in his voice no matter how hard he tries to cover it with indifference.
France raises an eyebrow and leans back away from the other blond. “Why would you assume I know anything?”
America rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says, as if it is obvious, “you two always know what’s wrong with each other.”
France has to wonder if this is true and realizes well, it probably is; know your enemy, the saying goes, and France knows England well. Usually at least, because this time around, he really doesn't have a clue.
(If France were to be completely honest with himself, he may admit that the sight of England’s chair sitting empty had worried him far more than he would ever care to admit; he may say that it stirred up the contents of his stomach, made him nearly sick with concern, and forced little tempting thoughts of rushing out of the room and to that red-brick house on the outskirts of London as fast as his legs - and the Eurostar - would carry him.
Ah, but - he’s hardly ever that honest with himself.)
“I have no more idea why he was not here today than you do, Amérique. Have you thought of calling him and asking him yourself?”
“Of course I did," America insists. "I already did that, but he just said he forgot. But dude, I mean, come on - this is England. He never forgets about meetings.”
This is true, France thinks; how odd it is for America to have made a rational point.
“So you have no clue why he's not here? None at all?” America asks. The ever-constant Hollywood smile is gone; he‘s nibbling on his bottom lip and fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “He sounded weird on the phone," America admits after a moment of silence.
"Weird how exactly?"
America signs heavily, his shoulders dropping with it, and rubs his hand over the back of his neck - a nervous habit he's had since the 20s. "I don't know; just...weird. Different. Kinda like he was bothered by something or..." he cuts off, unable to finish his sentence, unsure of what he's even trying to say. For a moment, he fiddles with his glasses, before asking, "You don’t know of anything that could be bothering him?”
“America,” France sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, “Despite what you seem to think, I don’t keep tabs on everything Angleterre does. I promise you that I have no clue what could be wrong with him.”
(Except. Well. Maybe he has a guess.
Because maybe he thinks of two weeks ago in Paris - hands and skin and teeth and tongues.
And perhaps of weeks before that, even - flowers and dinners and fine wine, whispered sweet nothings that might not have been nothings at all, might actually have been whispered sweet somethings.
But mostly he thinks of England storming out of his house in a rush, not a word said, ignoring all of his calls and e-mails and texts until France finally gave up and stopped sending them.
But that couldn’t possibly be it, could it?)
“Oh,” America breathes; his whole figure slumps in defeat. “Thanks anyway.”
“Hey France!”
France turns and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. (Because that voice was unmistakably American and well, that could mean anything, really.) “Yes?” he asks, with a smile, secretly glancing around for means of a quick exit if it proves necessary.
America hurries towards him - a blur of brown and blond coming at high speeds; France braces himself for inpact but America manages to stop himself just feet away from the other nation. He closes the distance between them with a few large steps and then, when he’s as close to France as he can be, he leans in close, as if they’re sharing secrets. France humors him and leans in as well, waiting curiously for whatever America is going to say. “Do you know what’s wrong with England?” America asks, and there is obvious concern in his voice no matter how hard he tries to cover it with indifference.
France raises an eyebrow and leans back away from the other blond. “Why would you assume I know anything?”
America rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says, as if it is obvious, “you two always know what’s wrong with each other.”
France has to wonder if this is true and realizes well, it probably is; know your enemy, the saying goes, and France knows England well. Usually at least, because this time around, he really doesn't have a clue.
(If France were to be completely honest with himself, he may admit that the sight of England’s chair sitting empty had worried him far more than he would ever care to admit; he may say that it stirred up the contents of his stomach, made him nearly sick with concern, and forced little tempting thoughts of rushing out of the room and to that red-brick house on the outskirts of London as fast as his legs - and the Eurostar - would carry him.
Ah, but - he’s hardly ever that honest with himself.)
“I have no more idea why he was not here today than you do, Amérique. Have you thought of calling him and asking him yourself?”
“Of course I did," America insists. "I already did that, but he just said he forgot. But dude, I mean, come on - this is England. He never forgets about meetings.”
This is true, France thinks; how odd it is for America to have made a rational point.
“So you have no clue why he's not here? None at all?” America asks. The ever-constant Hollywood smile is gone; he‘s nibbling on his bottom lip and fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “He sounded weird on the phone," America admits after a moment of silence.
"Weird how exactly?"
America signs heavily, his shoulders dropping with it, and rubs his hand over the back of his neck - a nervous habit he's had since the 20s. "I don't know; just...weird. Different. Kinda like he was bothered by something or..." he cuts off, unable to finish his sentence, unsure of what he's even trying to say. For a moment, he fiddles with his glasses, before asking, "You don’t know of anything that could be bothering him?”
“America,” France sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, “Despite what you seem to think, I don’t keep tabs on everything Angleterre does. I promise you that I have no clue what could be wrong with him.”
(Except. Well. Maybe he has a guess.
Because maybe he thinks of two weeks ago in Paris - hands and skin and teeth and tongues.
And perhaps of weeks before that, even - flowers and dinners and fine wine, whispered sweet nothings that might not have been nothings at all, might actually have been whispered sweet somethings.
But mostly he thinks of England storming out of his house in a rush, not a word said, ignoring all of his calls and e-mails and texts until France finally gave up and stopped sending them.
But that couldn’t possibly be it, could it?)
“Oh,” America breathes; his whole figure slumps in defeat. “Thanks anyway.”
After America’s call, England checks his calendar. There in his own handwriting it reads: Nation Conference in Paris - September 14-19.
Today is September 14; he wonders how he could have possibly forgotten.
To be dreadfully honest, England is in no mood to deal with a hundred or so other nations - or the screaming, chaos, and arguing they will surely bring - nor does he particularly want to go to Paris right now - or ever does, really - but he’s not foolish enough to think he can be absent for an entire conference without raising questions - questions he’s not sure he can even answer, let alone want to.
It will be impossible to avoid questions all together, though; they will already want to know why he wasn’t there the 14th and what he was doing instead.
Somehow England feels that ‘Oh, nothing important really, I simply spent the day cleaning up the remains from a shattered tea cup and wondering what would happen if I closed my fist around them’ will not appease them. (Now this was not his whole day but it is the only part he can clearly remember - the rest seems to have passed in a daze.)
There is lead in his bones where marrow should be - or at least it feels that way. He feels so heavy, so tired and hard to move - it is a Herculean feat simply to pack his bag for the next five days. (His suitcase when he is done is filled with suits and shirts and ties and shoes - but not one pill.)
England takes a glance around his house before he leaves - his house has not felt like home for the past few days; it has felt strange and unfamiliar, far too large and empty, and the shadows lurking in the corners seem to grow larger and larger by the minute - soon they will overtake the whole house - cover and conquer.
He does not feel sad to leave it. But he does not feel relieved either. (If anything, the shadows seem worse out on the street. The walls of the buildings press in on all sides and he feels as if they will close in too tight and crush him where he stands - ah, but what an absurd though that is, so he shakes it from his mind and keeps walking.)
The train he boards is jam-packed full of people. But he should have expected that, shouldn’t he have? It’s unpleasant, the air hot and stifling and thick, flooded with people and noises and smells.
It’s not that England doesn’t like trains - he does. He’s always been immensely proud of his Underground, proud of the way that it wowed and inspired, and proud that those electric trains were his first. And he always loved the noise: the conversations in corners, along walls, to his left, to his right. He liked watching silently from his seat, seeing all the people, learning things about them from the simplest details; he even liked the crowds, the ‘oh, I’m sorry, sir’ or the ‘excuse me, miss’ and the bumping and crowding because all those bumping, pushing people were his - or mostly, at least.
It was always best at night - the windows dark, the compartment nearly empty and quiet, so that he could sit next to someone and ask what they’re listening to, what they’re reading, where they’re going, how their day’s been - little things like that; just simple conversations with a stranger on a nearly empty train, streetlamps and traffic lights illuminating the compartment as they pass by them.
Today is September 14; he wonders how he could have possibly forgotten.
To be dreadfully honest, England is in no mood to deal with a hundred or so other nations - or the screaming, chaos, and arguing they will surely bring - nor does he particularly want to go to Paris right now - or ever does, really - but he’s not foolish enough to think he can be absent for an entire conference without raising questions - questions he’s not sure he can even answer, let alone want to.
It will be impossible to avoid questions all together, though; they will already want to know why he wasn’t there the 14th and what he was doing instead.
Somehow England feels that ‘Oh, nothing important really, I simply spent the day cleaning up the remains from a shattered tea cup and wondering what would happen if I closed my fist around them’ will not appease them. (Now this was not his whole day but it is the only part he can clearly remember - the rest seems to have passed in a daze.)
There is lead in his bones where marrow should be - or at least it feels that way. He feels so heavy, so tired and hard to move - it is a Herculean feat simply to pack his bag for the next five days. (His suitcase when he is done is filled with suits and shirts and ties and shoes - but not one pill.)
England takes a glance around his house before he leaves - his house has not felt like home for the past few days; it has felt strange and unfamiliar, far too large and empty, and the shadows lurking in the corners seem to grow larger and larger by the minute - soon they will overtake the whole house - cover and conquer.
He does not feel sad to leave it. But he does not feel relieved either. (If anything, the shadows seem worse out on the street. The walls of the buildings press in on all sides and he feels as if they will close in too tight and crush him where he stands - ah, but what an absurd though that is, so he shakes it from his mind and keeps walking.)
The train he boards is jam-packed full of people. But he should have expected that, shouldn’t he have? It’s unpleasant, the air hot and stifling and thick, flooded with people and noises and smells.
It’s not that England doesn’t like trains - he does. He’s always been immensely proud of his Underground, proud of the way that it wowed and inspired, and proud that those electric trains were his first. And he always loved the noise: the conversations in corners, along walls, to his left, to his right. He liked watching silently from his seat, seeing all the people, learning things about them from the simplest details; he even liked the crowds, the ‘oh, I’m sorry, sir’ or the ‘excuse me, miss’ and the bumping and crowding because all those bumping, pushing people were his - or mostly, at least.
It was always best at night - the windows dark, the compartment nearly empty and quiet, so that he could sit next to someone and ask what they’re listening to, what they’re reading, where they’re going, how their day’s been - little things like that; just simple conversations with a stranger on a nearly empty train, streetlamps and traffic lights illuminating the compartment as they pass by them.
But right now it’s crowded; so very, terrifyingly crowded - Has it always been this crowded? he wonders. There’s an elbow in his side digging into his ribcage and a foot on his new shoes and woman’s purse hitting him in the side every time she moves. And it’s loud - crying children, ringing phones, shuffling papers, loud music escaping from headphones and spilling into the air, beating mercilessly against his ears.
Everything is pushing in from all sides as if it’s all going to just eat him whole and my god, he can’t breathe - there’s no room for that on this train.
England doesn’t want to be around so many people, doesn’t want their noise and their closeness; he doesn’t want to be touched, or seen, or spoken to, or expected to speak - he just wants to be left alone.
But he’s not missing a meeting again and raising questions and causing unnecessary concern - no, because he’s fine, really he is. There’s nothing wrong, he tells himself. Nothing.
Keep calm and carry on, he reminds himself; he holds his breath and huddles in on himself, trying to shrink away from the strangers all around him.
Alright; so in November I have a bunch of college applications due and Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, where you write a 50000 word novel in a month; along with a million other things so if updates are slow, that's why.
Everything is pushing in from all sides as if it’s all going to just eat him whole and my god, he can’t breathe - there’s no room for that on this train.
England doesn’t want to be around so many people, doesn’t want their noise and their closeness; he doesn’t want to be touched, or seen, or spoken to, or expected to speak - he just wants to be left alone.
But he’s not missing a meeting again and raising questions and causing unnecessary concern - no, because he’s fine, really he is. There’s nothing wrong, he tells himself. Nothing.
Keep calm and carry on, he reminds himself; he holds his breath and huddles in on himself, trying to shrink away from the strangers all around him.
Alright; so in November I have a bunch of college applications due and Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, where you write a 50000 word novel in a month; along with a million other things so if updates are slow, that's why.
Oh, but my little FrUK-shipper heart just broke, anon. This fic is somehow so tragic, even with just putting together all the little details you've given. I have to say, I love it.
Good luck with everything you've got going on this month, too!
Good luck with everything you've got going on this month, too!
I want to hold England forever. Oh, my poor, poor love.
As someone who suffers from depression I have to say that you're doing a marvelous job depicting the helpless feeling that everything around you is just wrong and too much. Hoping you'll touch on the paranoia and the feeling that noone really cares and that thay're all pretending to be polite or out of obligation.
Keep it up A!A!
Keep it up A!A!
Continued here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=87821794#t87821794
Significantly older fem!France teaching young but legal!America how to please a woman. Can be AU or not.
Bonus: America is excited, but awkward and nervous while France is caring and understanding.
Bonus: America is excited, but awkward and nervous while France is caring and understanding.
Seconded!
Awkward!Nervous!America ftw :)
Awkward!Nervous!America ftw :)
Human AU: Prussia and Hungary are a young married couple with a little baby (Germany) and were rather... unprepared for the sudden birth of their son. Cue the couple attempting to buy things for said baby, and either not understanding or semi-failing. Inspired by this ADORABLE comic: http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrbfckxljb1qcjb2m.png
Bonus: One of Prussia's friends who has a child attempts to help
Bonus 2: Baby Germany was so sudden/they were so unprepared their buying a lot of the necessities after he's born
Bonus: One of Prussia's friends who has a child attempts to help
Bonus 2: Baby Germany was so sudden/they were so unprepared their buying a lot of the necessities after he's born
I don't ship PrussiaxHungary...but I want this so much!
Seconded forever, this sounds so adorable :D
but now I have the worst mental image of Hungary on 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant'
Well, this is sort of a prologue kind of thing. It's pretty short, but I promise the rest of the chapters will be longer.
-------
"GILBERT YOU ASSHOLE!" Elizabeta screamed, her eyes twisted shut in pain. "You did this to me," She breathed in between contractions.
"Well I sure hope so," Gilbert quipped, chuckling.
Oh, she would have liked to smack the man for that. She was derailed in her efforts by another contraction.
"Come on, one more push," The doctor coaxed.
Elizabeta grabbed her husband's hand, nearly breaking it, as she gave one last strong push. Loud, abrasive wails soon filled the room.
The rest happened in a blur, Elizabeta was too tired to care much. She knew her baby boy was healthy and big, eight pounds and some change apparently.
"Hey little man," She greeted him when the nurse placed his bundled up body on her chest. Gilbert sat next to them on the bed.
"Hey, Ludwig," He said, cradling the baby's head in his hand. "He's so small..."
"Trust me, he's bigger than he looks," Elizabeta groaned.
-------
"GILBERT YOU ASSHOLE!" Elizabeta screamed, her eyes twisted shut in pain. "You did this to me," She breathed in between contractions.
"Well I sure hope so," Gilbert quipped, chuckling.
Oh, she would have liked to smack the man for that. She was derailed in her efforts by another contraction.
"Come on, one more push," The doctor coaxed.
Elizabeta grabbed her husband's hand, nearly breaking it, as she gave one last strong push. Loud, abrasive wails soon filled the room.
The rest happened in a blur, Elizabeta was too tired to care much. She knew her baby boy was healthy and big, eight pounds and some change apparently.
"Hey little man," She greeted him when the nurse placed his bundled up body on her chest. Gilbert sat next to them on the bed.
"Hey, Ludwig," He said, cradling the baby's head in his hand. "He's so small..."
"Trust me, he's bigger than he looks," Elizabeta groaned.
A/N: Nobody saw that de-anon. -shifty eyes- Hey, OP this is getting to be longer than a fluffy short fill. I hope you don't mind.
---
"It sometimes happens, even in the best of families, that a baby is born. This is not necessarily cause for alarm. The important thing is to keep your wits about you and borrow some money." ~Elinor Goulding Smith
It hit Gilbert first as he sat there in the hospital room, the first rays of the day's sunlight breaking through the venitian blinds. She was about seven months along when they found out she was expecting.
Gilbert popped another piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth. He'd been trying to quit since the day they found out, but, God, did he need a smoke right about now.
He put his feet up on the linoleum end table near the chair he was sitting in. It was nearly twenty four hours ago that he was hurriedly rushing around the house trying to get Elizabeta's bag ready.
"Don't... ow fuck... Don't forget his socks, Gilbert," Elizabeta hollered, trying to apply eyeliner in between waves of pain.
"All right, all right," He called back, throwing open drawers searching for the few onesies that he and Elizabeta and managed to scrounge together in the two months they knew about the pregnancy.
He threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. Elizabeta was tossing things into a plastic bag, toothbrushes, a hairbrush, shampoo.
"Come on, Liz," Gilbert said.
Elizabeta pulled her hair up into a ponytail, "I just wanna make sure we have everything."
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. "Everything is going to be fine. Chill out,"
She leaned her head against his shoulder, "Thank you."
Elizabeta rolled over in the hospital bed and blinked her eyes open. "Hey," She said blearily, proping herself up on her hands.
"Morning," Gilbert stood up and stretched.
Elizabeta stepped into her slippers, "Did you bring my sweatshirt?" she yawned.
Gilbert unzipped the duffelbag and dug through it. He tossed an oversized grey sweatshirt to her, not bothering to argue back that it was really his sweatshirt. It was his college after all.
"I can't believe it," Elizabeta breathed, pressing her hand against the plexiglass window.
Gilbert put his hand on her shoulder, "Can't believe what?"
"Him, this. I'm a mom," She paused, "You're a dad."
Her husband laughed, "That is so... cheesy." He ruffled her brown hair. You're a dad. The words spun around in his brain. He felt sick.
She smacked him on the arm, "Shut it. I'm hormonal."
"What are we going to do?" Gilbert watched Elizabeta while she kept her eyes on her son. If she heard him she pretended not to notice. Gilbert was greatful, he hadn't really wanted to let Elizabeta know he was clueless.
They left the hospital later that day. Gilbert had forgotten Ludwig's socks.
---
"It sometimes happens, even in the best of families, that a baby is born. This is not necessarily cause for alarm. The important thing is to keep your wits about you and borrow some money." ~Elinor Goulding Smith
It hit Gilbert first as he sat there in the hospital room, the first rays of the day's sunlight breaking through the venitian blinds. She was about seven months along when they found out she was expecting.
Gilbert popped another piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth. He'd been trying to quit since the day they found out, but, God, did he need a smoke right about now.
He put his feet up on the linoleum end table near the chair he was sitting in. It was nearly twenty four hours ago that he was hurriedly rushing around the house trying to get Elizabeta's bag ready.
"Don't... ow fuck... Don't forget his socks, Gilbert," Elizabeta hollered, trying to apply eyeliner in between waves of pain.
"All right, all right," He called back, throwing open drawers searching for the few onesies that he and Elizabeta and managed to scrounge together in the two months they knew about the pregnancy.
He threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. Elizabeta was tossing things into a plastic bag, toothbrushes, a hairbrush, shampoo.
"Come on, Liz," Gilbert said.
Elizabeta pulled her hair up into a ponytail, "I just wanna make sure we have everything."
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. "Everything is going to be fine. Chill out,"
She leaned her head against his shoulder, "Thank you."
Elizabeta rolled over in the hospital bed and blinked her eyes open. "Hey," She said blearily, proping herself up on her hands.
"Morning," Gilbert stood up and stretched.
Elizabeta stepped into her slippers, "Did you bring my sweatshirt?" she yawned.
Gilbert unzipped the duffelbag and dug through it. He tossed an oversized grey sweatshirt to her, not bothering to argue back that it was really his sweatshirt. It was his college after all.
"I can't believe it," Elizabeta breathed, pressing her hand against the plexiglass window.
Gilbert put his hand on her shoulder, "Can't believe what?"
"Him, this. I'm a mom," She paused, "You're a dad."
Her husband laughed, "That is so... cheesy." He ruffled her brown hair. You're a dad. The words spun around in his brain. He felt sick.
She smacked him on the arm, "Shut it. I'm hormonal."
"What are we going to do?" Gilbert watched Elizabeta while she kept her eyes on her son. If she heard him she pretended not to notice. Gilbert was greatful, he hadn't really wanted to let Elizabeta know he was clueless.
They left the hospital later that day. Gilbert had forgotten Ludwig's socks.
A nation gets drunk and starts singing a song that they would normally never sing while in public.
Bonus 1: It's a really sappy love song that they sing to another nation
Bonus 2: Their boss hears it
Bonus 3: They get really drunk and go on worldwide TV singing it.
Why do I feel like this has been requested before?
Bonus 1: It's a really sappy love song that they sing to another nation
Bonus 2: Their boss hears it
Bonus 3: They get really drunk and go on worldwide TV singing it.
Why do I feel like this has been requested before?
LOL, for some reason, this reminds me of that video of Putin singing "Blueberry Hill".
Ohh, this seems good!
Might do it (not 100% sure) but just might... (I don't want to post something really sucky though :(
Might do it (not 100% sure) but just might... (I don't want to post something really sucky though :(
Anon from above.
Creative title is creative.
First shot on a short story and first one on kink meme, so… don’t kill me if it’s horrid. Hopefully OP and everyone else enjoys it!
Romano made sure he never got blind drunk. Sure, he had the regular wine when chatting up a pretty lady or having a few watching the soccer. But, he always made sure he didn’t go over the top. For plenty of reasons, none of what you’re thinking, you damn pervert.
It just seemed that some people, oh, pushy brothers and Spanish bastards for an example, can’t get it through their thick heads that Romano didn’t want to get wasted.
So, when he woke up with a thunderous headache and a naked Spain grinning at him, warm hands wrapped around his waist, his brain short-circuited. Then it blasted back to life as he saw France and Prussia (cheeky bastards) peek through the door in the corner; with those stupid perverted grins on their faces and a tape in hand.
“Aahhh!” Romano let a (manly) yelp out, pushing the invading Spain off him and scuttling for his clothes, ignoring the piercing headache.
“You mother-fuckers!” He yelled, watching the duo at the door sneak in, Prussia with that fucking smug face and France with a disgusting expression Romano wanted to punch in.
“What the fuck did you do?! Why the fuck am I with that bastard?!” he cried, glaring holes at the Frenchman, ignoring the burning blush on his face that just refused to go away.
“Ahh, Lovi… can’t you remember anything?” Spain sheepishly replied, still naked and in Romano’s bed, and still fucking beautiful and, and, godammit. He did remember however a night full of important figures, pretty girls with short dresses and cocktail drinks at hand, and… that’s all.
“No, you-“
“Ahh, really?” France interrupted, whisking towards the tv, a playful grin on his face.
Romano watched the tape warily, glaring both at it and France; hoping that they would both incarnate into a million pieces.
“What’s that?” he scowled, watching as the tape slid into the player.
Prussia snickered, making a seat next to Spain, which just made Romano more pissed, and the german turned to look at the Italian. His grin was wide and mocking.
Romano just wanted to rip it off his face and slap him with it. Then, music played, soft and entrancing. The scene was at the ball that the nations attended last night, and he saw in the corner that the scene was on the news. Then a familiar person appeared on screen, seemingly gatecrashing the band.
Oh no.
Oh fuck no.
Creative title is creative.
First shot on a short story and first one on kink meme, so… don’t kill me if it’s horrid. Hopefully OP and everyone else enjoys it!
Romano made sure he never got blind drunk. Sure, he had the regular wine when chatting up a pretty lady or having a few watching the soccer. But, he always made sure he didn’t go over the top. For plenty of reasons, none of what you’re thinking, you damn pervert.
It just seemed that some people, oh, pushy brothers and Spanish bastards for an example, can’t get it through their thick heads that Romano didn’t want to get wasted.
So, when he woke up with a thunderous headache and a naked Spain grinning at him, warm hands wrapped around his waist, his brain short-circuited. Then it blasted back to life as he saw France and Prussia (cheeky bastards) peek through the door in the corner; with those stupid perverted grins on their faces and a tape in hand.
“Aahhh!” Romano let a (manly) yelp out, pushing the invading Spain off him and scuttling for his clothes, ignoring the piercing headache.
“You mother-fuckers!” He yelled, watching the duo at the door sneak in, Prussia with that fucking smug face and France with a disgusting expression Romano wanted to punch in.
“What the fuck did you do?! Why the fuck am I with that bastard?!” he cried, glaring holes at the Frenchman, ignoring the burning blush on his face that just refused to go away.
“Ahh, Lovi… can’t you remember anything?” Spain sheepishly replied, still naked and in Romano’s bed, and still fucking beautiful and, and, godammit. He did remember however a night full of important figures, pretty girls with short dresses and cocktail drinks at hand, and… that’s all.
“No, you-“
“Ahh, really?” France interrupted, whisking towards the tv, a playful grin on his face.
Romano watched the tape warily, glaring both at it and France; hoping that they would both incarnate into a million pieces.
“What’s that?” he scowled, watching as the tape slid into the player.
Prussia snickered, making a seat next to Spain, which just made Romano more pissed, and the german turned to look at the Italian. His grin was wide and mocking.
Romano just wanted to rip it off his face and slap him with it. Then, music played, soft and entrancing. The scene was at the ball that the nations attended last night, and he saw in the corner that the scene was on the news. Then a familiar person appeared on screen, seemingly gatecrashing the band.
Oh no.
Oh fuck no.
_flash back_
“Another wine, sir?”
“Sure.” Came the gruff response and the Italian slouched back into his seat, watching the band play boring American shit.
“Ahh, fratello, are you enjoying it?” Romano looked at his brother, who seemed to be generally happy and entertained with this boring crap.
“Not really. Its crap” he replied honestly. Really, who found this music entertaining? He ignored America’s loud and off-tune singing to the song.
“Really? I thought it was pretty good...” Feliciano responded, watching the band in wonder.
“Figures...”
Spain was there, and he and the rest of the “bad friends trio” full of his idiot friends, flirting with some singer girl. She seemed loaded, and was basically throwing herself at him. He scowled into his wine.
Then, the girl was getting frisky. And Romano’s mood went down the drain, and the wine down his throat.
Few more drinks where poured and drunk, and Romano could feel that he was getting past that line, and he most likely had, but, hell, Spain was just soaking the attention up it made him so pissed.
The night was going past, and Romano could feel he was at his utmost limit. Spain looked at him, worry in his eyes.
“Lovi, are you alright?”
Romano began his reply, but then felt betrayed as the idiot didn’t pester him more (ignoring the fact that the girl literally pulled him in her lap so he couldn’t reply.)
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special entertainment. Someone from the audience sing?”
Now, everyone knew it was meant to be one of pop singers… the one in Spain’s lap.
“Maybe I’ll sing it to you?” she loudly whispered into Spain’s ear, and Romano nearly lost it. Alcohol seemed to have that effect on him- make him do stupid acts of stupidity. That’s why he never drank.
“Don’t worry about it.” Romano shouted, making the whole table look at him in shock. He just grimaced back. “I’ll sing to the Spanish bastard, not you” he slurred, and made his way to the stage, remembering the sweet feeling of the insulted look on her face.
He got up, ignoring the whispers that erupted through the crowd, and whispered to the band what he wanted them to play. They just nodded, thank fucking god.
He’ll make sure that this performance would top anything that bitch could do.
“This is for Antonio.” Romano said simply, and waited for the band to start playing. It started, soft and entrancing.
He swayed to the music, forgetting that all the nations bossed, that the whole world was watching him, and then let the words flow out.
“Oh, my love, my darling,
I've hungered for your touch”
Romano smiled; carefree and unstrained… he felt so fucking happy, it was almost criminal. Why can’t he feel like that always?
“A long lonely time
and time goes by so slowly
and time can do so much
are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
Godspeed your love to me”
Now, he had caught sight of Spain. His eyes were bugged out, and his mouth was open in astonishment. Romano inwardly grinned at the blush that was splashed on the Spaniard cheeks; even in the murky light he could see it. Romano wet his lips, pressed seductively (what he thought was) against the microphone support, and began singing again.
“Another wine, sir?”
“Sure.” Came the gruff response and the Italian slouched back into his seat, watching the band play boring American shit.
“Ahh, fratello, are you enjoying it?” Romano looked at his brother, who seemed to be generally happy and entertained with this boring crap.
“Not really. Its crap” he replied honestly. Really, who found this music entertaining? He ignored America’s loud and off-tune singing to the song.
“Really? I thought it was pretty good...” Feliciano responded, watching the band in wonder.
“Figures...”
Spain was there, and he and the rest of the “bad friends trio” full of his idiot friends, flirting with some singer girl. She seemed loaded, and was basically throwing herself at him. He scowled into his wine.
Then, the girl was getting frisky. And Romano’s mood went down the drain, and the wine down his throat.
Few more drinks where poured and drunk, and Romano could feel that he was getting past that line, and he most likely had, but, hell, Spain was just soaking the attention up it made him so pissed.
The night was going past, and Romano could feel he was at his utmost limit. Spain looked at him, worry in his eyes.
“Lovi, are you alright?”
Romano began his reply, but then felt betrayed as the idiot didn’t pester him more (ignoring the fact that the girl literally pulled him in her lap so he couldn’t reply.)
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special entertainment. Someone from the audience sing?”
Now, everyone knew it was meant to be one of pop singers… the one in Spain’s lap.
“Maybe I’ll sing it to you?” she loudly whispered into Spain’s ear, and Romano nearly lost it. Alcohol seemed to have that effect on him- make him do stupid acts of stupidity. That’s why he never drank.
“Don’t worry about it.” Romano shouted, making the whole table look at him in shock. He just grimaced back. “I’ll sing to the Spanish bastard, not you” he slurred, and made his way to the stage, remembering the sweet feeling of the insulted look on her face.
He got up, ignoring the whispers that erupted through the crowd, and whispered to the band what he wanted them to play. They just nodded, thank fucking god.
He’ll make sure that this performance would top anything that bitch could do.
“This is for Antonio.” Romano said simply, and waited for the band to start playing. It started, soft and entrancing.
He swayed to the music, forgetting that all the nations bossed, that the whole world was watching him, and then let the words flow out.
“Oh, my love, my darling,
I've hungered for your touch”
Romano smiled; carefree and unstrained… he felt so fucking happy, it was almost criminal. Why can’t he feel like that always?
“A long lonely time
and time goes by so slowly
and time can do so much
are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
Godspeed your love to me”
Now, he had caught sight of Spain. His eyes were bugged out, and his mouth was open in astonishment. Romano inwardly grinned at the blush that was splashed on the Spaniard cheeks; even in the murky light he could see it. Romano wet his lips, pressed seductively (what he thought was) against the microphone support, and began singing again.
“Lonely rivers flow to the sea,
to the sea
to the open arms of the sea
lonely rivers sigh 'wait for me, wait for me'
I'll be coming home wait for me”
Spain, Spain. He felt the blush on his cheeks, both from the alcohol and this powerful emotion that made him madly, deeply, so fucking stupidly in love with him.
“Oh, my love
my darling
I've hungered for your touch
a long lonely time”
He loved Spain. He wanted him. Needed him- like one needed air. Romano was overwhelmed with all this mushy feelings of love, affection and the sheer emotion of love that it was drowning him.
“And time goes by so slowly
and time can do so much
are you still mine?
I need your love”
Romano ignored all the lights and cameras that seemed to be on him. All he could see was Spain. That stupid, sexy, too kind for his fucking good Spanish bastard.
“I need your love
Godspeed your love to me”
The crowd was silent; Romano still felt the alcohol pumping through his veins, staring at Spain who was just staring back, dumbfounded and blushing deeply.
Then, the moment was broken. People were clapping, cheering. But Romano could not break that eye-lock he had with Spain. He watched as the happy-go lucky nation clamber onto the stage, and he couldn’t turn away, couldn’t run away from those smouldering eyes. The alcohol seemed to slow his reactions, as it was ridiculously slow how he responded to Spain kissing him, which was so freaking passionate it was ridiculous.
They broke away, and Romano saw that Spain’s eyes had darkened considerably.
“Shall we go?” he said, softly but still somewhat husky.
“Fuck yes.”
_end flash back_
“Fuck no.”
Romano stood in horror as the clip ended. The rest of the night was clearly remembered now- the fucking hot sex that followed that seemed almost impossible.
Now the world knew his feelings. And he expressed them. And they are now shown on national tv.
The trio was watching him expectantly, and he knew he was the colour of a ripe cherry tomato. All he could do was give a strangled yelp out and bury his head into the pillows, blushing and mortified. Spain, the bastard, just laughed and laid next to Romano, softly patting his head, an affectionate gesture.
And Romano was just too tired to tell him to fuck off, alright?
…but he did have the energy to chase France and Prussia out of the room, of course…
Taadaa~
First post. Got lazy with the reason why Romano wanted to sing to Spain on the stage in front of heaps of people, but you know. It’s 3.30 am. Sue me. Sorry if OOC, try to pretend it was the wine speaking.
Song was Unchained Melody. Play it while reading the singing part, it’s so much mushier XD Hopefully it was at least semi-enjoyable…
to the sea
to the open arms of the sea
lonely rivers sigh 'wait for me, wait for me'
I'll be coming home wait for me”
Spain, Spain. He felt the blush on his cheeks, both from the alcohol and this powerful emotion that made him madly, deeply, so fucking stupidly in love with him.
“Oh, my love
my darling
I've hungered for your touch
a long lonely time”
He loved Spain. He wanted him. Needed him- like one needed air. Romano was overwhelmed with all this mushy feelings of love, affection and the sheer emotion of love that it was drowning him.
“And time goes by so slowly
and time can do so much
are you still mine?
I need your love”
Romano ignored all the lights and cameras that seemed to be on him. All he could see was Spain. That stupid, sexy, too kind for his fucking good Spanish bastard.
“I need your love
Godspeed your love to me”
The crowd was silent; Romano still felt the alcohol pumping through his veins, staring at Spain who was just staring back, dumbfounded and blushing deeply.
Then, the moment was broken. People were clapping, cheering. But Romano could not break that eye-lock he had with Spain. He watched as the happy-go lucky nation clamber onto the stage, and he couldn’t turn away, couldn’t run away from those smouldering eyes. The alcohol seemed to slow his reactions, as it was ridiculously slow how he responded to Spain kissing him, which was so freaking passionate it was ridiculous.
They broke away, and Romano saw that Spain’s eyes had darkened considerably.
“Shall we go?” he said, softly but still somewhat husky.
“Fuck yes.”
_end flash back_
“Fuck no.”
Romano stood in horror as the clip ended. The rest of the night was clearly remembered now- the fucking hot sex that followed that seemed almost impossible.
Now the world knew his feelings. And he expressed them. And they are now shown on national tv.
The trio was watching him expectantly, and he knew he was the colour of a ripe cherry tomato. All he could do was give a strangled yelp out and bury his head into the pillows, blushing and mortified. Spain, the bastard, just laughed and laid next to Romano, softly patting his head, an affectionate gesture.
And Romano was just too tired to tell him to fuck off, alright?
…but he did have the energy to chase France and Prussia out of the room, of course…
Taadaa~
First post. Got lazy with the reason why Romano wanted to sing to Spain on the stage in front of heaps of people, but you know. It’s 3.30 am. Sue me. Sorry if OOC, try to pretend it was the wine speaking.
Song was Unchained Melody. Play it while reading the singing part, it’s so much mushier XD Hopefully it was at least semi-enjoyable…
OP IS SOO HAPPY TO SEE THIS FILLED! I love it anon! I'm glad you managed to get the bonuses too! This is very much how I see Romano when he gets drunk., XD
Thank goodness. It has a lot of mistakes, but I'm glad you enjoyed it, op :) Hopefully more people fill it, it was a good request!
This prompt turned out to be less about writing drunken singing and more about writing drunk!America. But two singers for the price of one!
It was the night. The night. The night when all the nations met up, not for politics or building international relations, but rather to make a lot of mess, a lot of noise and for a lot of alcohol to be consumed. In other words, a party. No humans were invited, especially their bosses, and so the nations felt comfortable enough engaging in thoroughly non-human behaviours.
Two hours into the party, everyone was pretty far gone, and England slid onto a bar stool beside America. Australia was playing barman, even though it was a help-yourself sort of affair, and he quickly served him some neat rum. England thanked him before turning to America, slumped over the bar.
"It looks like someone had a bit too much," England said, slurring his words slightly. Next to him, Norway snorted into his drink.
"England," America whined, sounding strangely like when he was younger and he had been sick with the 'flu. Against his will, England felt his sympathy rise for America. "I don't feel so good." England picked up the lad's empty glass and sniffed, before recoiling at the stench of whiskey.
"God, how much have you had?" England asked as he pushed the glass over to Australia, who made it vanish behind the bar as he served Norway another drink.
"Too much," America groaned, his head rolling in his folded arms. "Make it stooop." England grimaced. He knew what stage America was at and hoped he was far away when America finally gave into the urge to vomit. Australia placed a glass of water in front of America, but the nation was too drunk to even notice. England sighed and resigned himself to helping, pulling America by the shoulder so he leant against England instead of the bar. America was completely unaware but Norway sniggered beside him and Australia shot them an amused look. England dealt with the problem by quickly shoving Norway into an inebriated Denmark, who quickly took advantage of the situation, and ordering a vomit bowl from Australia.
"Eng-land," America murmured and England looked down at America, now pressing his face against England's shoulder. Manfully, England ignored America's breath against his neck and Prussia's catcalls. Prussia had bigger things to worry about, such as Belarus-with-a-knife sneaking up behind him.
"Come on, America, you need to drink some water." England raised the glass of water to America's lips and America sipped at it carefully before grimacing.
"I feel sicky," America mumbled and England grabbed the bowl that Australia had left on the bar. He actually liked this shirt and he hated having to get vomit out of everything. It wasn't a moment too soon before America's stomach contents decided to show themselves. After retching several times, America surfaced and England wiped his mouth with a napkin. He definitely was horribly in love.
"Darling, you need to drink some more water," England coaxed America into taking a few more sips of the glass.
"I wanna go to sleep," America said and England nodded. He had a feeling that his night was going to be cut short when he had caught sight America sprawled across the bar. He didn't feel any resentment though, God knows how many times America had helped England home from the pub.
"Alright America, we'll get you up to your room." England slid off his stool and almost collapsed under America's weight. He managed to heave America upright again and start making their way through the throngs of people towards the door. Nearly all of the nations ignored them, wrapped up in their own little world, apart from France, who launched himself at the two of them, before being kicked to the floor by England.
"France? What you doing here?" America asked, looking blearily down at France, who made a quick recovery.
"You have to stop Canada, he's doing... singing.... Dion." France moaned and England and America turned to the stage where France had gestured to see Canada leaning against Netherlands, who was bent in half with laughter.
"Every night in my dreams/ I see you, I feel you/ That is how I know you go on," Canada sang, remarkably tunefully into the microphone.
It was the night. The night. The night when all the nations met up, not for politics or building international relations, but rather to make a lot of mess, a lot of noise and for a lot of alcohol to be consumed. In other words, a party. No humans were invited, especially their bosses, and so the nations felt comfortable enough engaging in thoroughly non-human behaviours.
Two hours into the party, everyone was pretty far gone, and England slid onto a bar stool beside America. Australia was playing barman, even though it was a help-yourself sort of affair, and he quickly served him some neat rum. England thanked him before turning to America, slumped over the bar.
"It looks like someone had a bit too much," England said, slurring his words slightly. Next to him, Norway snorted into his drink.
"England," America whined, sounding strangely like when he was younger and he had been sick with the 'flu. Against his will, England felt his sympathy rise for America. "I don't feel so good." England picked up the lad's empty glass and sniffed, before recoiling at the stench of whiskey.
"God, how much have you had?" England asked as he pushed the glass over to Australia, who made it vanish behind the bar as he served Norway another drink.
"Too much," America groaned, his head rolling in his folded arms. "Make it stooop." England grimaced. He knew what stage America was at and hoped he was far away when America finally gave into the urge to vomit. Australia placed a glass of water in front of America, but the nation was too drunk to even notice. England sighed and resigned himself to helping, pulling America by the shoulder so he leant against England instead of the bar. America was completely unaware but Norway sniggered beside him and Australia shot them an amused look. England dealt with the problem by quickly shoving Norway into an inebriated Denmark, who quickly took advantage of the situation, and ordering a vomit bowl from Australia.
"Eng-land," America murmured and England looked down at America, now pressing his face against England's shoulder. Manfully, England ignored America's breath against his neck and Prussia's catcalls. Prussia had bigger things to worry about, such as Belarus-with-a-knife sneaking up behind him.
"Come on, America, you need to drink some water." England raised the glass of water to America's lips and America sipped at it carefully before grimacing.
"I feel sicky," America mumbled and England grabbed the bowl that Australia had left on the bar. He actually liked this shirt and he hated having to get vomit out of everything. It wasn't a moment too soon before America's stomach contents decided to show themselves. After retching several times, America surfaced and England wiped his mouth with a napkin. He definitely was horribly in love.
"Darling, you need to drink some more water," England coaxed America into taking a few more sips of the glass.
"I wanna go to sleep," America said and England nodded. He had a feeling that his night was going to be cut short when he had caught sight America sprawled across the bar. He didn't feel any resentment though, God knows how many times America had helped England home from the pub.
"Alright America, we'll get you up to your room." England slid off his stool and almost collapsed under America's weight. He managed to heave America upright again and start making their way through the throngs of people towards the door. Nearly all of the nations ignored them, wrapped up in their own little world, apart from France, who launched himself at the two of them, before being kicked to the floor by England.
"France? What you doing here?" America asked, looking blearily down at France, who made a quick recovery.
"You have to stop Canada, he's doing... singing.... Dion." France moaned and England and America turned to the stage where France had gestured to see Canada leaning against Netherlands, who was bent in half with laughter.
"Every night in my dreams/ I see you, I feel you/ That is how I know you go on," Canada sang, remarkably tunefully into the microphone.
"Is he singing - " England asked in disbelief.
"Yes. Yes he is," France answered mournfully. He looked more discomforted than England remembered seeing him before. Canada looked straight at France as he sung the next few lines and England snorted.
"Oh God, he's singing to you," England said mockingly and France groaned, letting his head drop back.
"Why me? Why this song? Why now?" England left France to his pointless questions, for he had bigger problems. After a few moments of silence, America had recognised the person singing and the song.
"I love this song!" America suddenly cheered, making England jump. Then the worst thing possible happened. "I can sing too! Near, far, wherever you are/ I believe that the heart will go on."
"Time to go," England said quickly as nations started to turn towards America. He left France talking to the ceiling and dragged America towards the door. He was still humming the song as England pulled him out of the door.
"I love that song," America said as they walked along the hotel corridor. Luckily the late hour meant that the corridors were deserted.
"So you've said," England replied absently as he scanned the door numbers. He couldn't remember America's hotel number and instead tried to find his room. However, the alcohol in his system wasn't making it any easier.
"I always thought that it could refer to me and you, but I don't mind if that Canada sung it to France instead. Celine is his singer after all," America babbled and England stumbled over his feet.
"What?!" England asked, more loudly than he probably should of, considering the other people in the hotel. If there even was any people in the hotel after the nations had booked all the rooms.
"Well, it's like the most known love song in the world and I thought it would be a good idea. It was either that or My Little Pony."
"My Little Pony?" England asked, nonplussed. He wondered if he made this much sense when he was drunk.
"I used to wonder what friendship could be/ Until you all shared its magic with me,"
"Okay, I get it," England said hastily, cutting off America's loud singing. He didn't know what to address first, the fact that America knew the My Little Pony theme song, how he was in love with England or how he thought that My Heart Will Go On was the most known love song in the world. "You're really going to hate yourself in the morning." America gave England a bright smile as they arrived at the door of England's hotel room. England clumsily unlocked the door and the both of them stumbled in. America stopped short at the sight of the bed however.
"England, I can't... do that tonight," America said awkwardly and England gave him a blank look, already wondering if he had any night clothes for America.
"Do what?" America fidgeted.
"You know, that." England was more mystified than ever and gave America his full attention.
"Saying that is not very clear," England pointed out and America looked downwards.
"It doesn't work properly when I'm drunk," America said mournfully and after a minute, it clicked. England swallowed his chuckle, there was no telling how drunken America could interpret it, and stepped towards America.
"Yes. Yes he is," France answered mournfully. He looked more discomforted than England remembered seeing him before. Canada looked straight at France as he sung the next few lines and England snorted.
"Oh God, he's singing to you," England said mockingly and France groaned, letting his head drop back.
"Why me? Why this song? Why now?" England left France to his pointless questions, for he had bigger problems. After a few moments of silence, America had recognised the person singing and the song.
"I love this song!" America suddenly cheered, making England jump. Then the worst thing possible happened. "I can sing too! Near, far, wherever you are/ I believe that the heart will go on."
"Time to go," England said quickly as nations started to turn towards America. He left France talking to the ceiling and dragged America towards the door. He was still humming the song as England pulled him out of the door.
"I love that song," America said as they walked along the hotel corridor. Luckily the late hour meant that the corridors were deserted.
"So you've said," England replied absently as he scanned the door numbers. He couldn't remember America's hotel number and instead tried to find his room. However, the alcohol in his system wasn't making it any easier.
"I always thought that it could refer to me and you, but I don't mind if that Canada sung it to France instead. Celine is his singer after all," America babbled and England stumbled over his feet.
"What?!" England asked, more loudly than he probably should of, considering the other people in the hotel. If there even was any people in the hotel after the nations had booked all the rooms.
"Well, it's like the most known love song in the world and I thought it would be a good idea. It was either that or My Little Pony."
"My Little Pony?" England asked, nonplussed. He wondered if he made this much sense when he was drunk.
"I used to wonder what friendship could be/ Until you all shared its magic with me,"
"Okay, I get it," England said hastily, cutting off America's loud singing. He didn't know what to address first, the fact that America knew the My Little Pony theme song, how he was in love with England or how he thought that My Heart Will Go On was the most known love song in the world. "You're really going to hate yourself in the morning." America gave England a bright smile as they arrived at the door of England's hotel room. England clumsily unlocked the door and the both of them stumbled in. America stopped short at the sight of the bed however.
"England, I can't... do that tonight," America said awkwardly and England gave him a blank look, already wondering if he had any night clothes for America.
"Do what?" America fidgeted.
"You know, that." England was more mystified than ever and gave America his full attention.
"Saying that is not very clear," England pointed out and America looked downwards.
"It doesn't work properly when I'm drunk," America said mournfully and after a minute, it clicked. England swallowed his chuckle, there was no telling how drunken America could interpret it, and stepped towards America.
"America, you are very drunk. And very likely to regret saying several of these things in the morning. I'm not too sober myself. You have also vomited a lot, which does put me off kissing you. I am not planning on doing anything but sleeping. Are you?" America shook his head dumbly and England nodded in satisfaction. "Now that's settled, off with your trousers." America choked as England started to toe off his shoes.
"But you just said," America said and England rolled his eyes.
"To sleep. You can sleep in your shoes and trousers if you want but I thought it would be more comfortable." England kicked off his trousers and watched America go bright red and stumble onto the bed. Feeling mischievous, England pulled America's trousers to round his ankles. The squeal that came out of America was unexpected, but hilarious.
"Don't do that!" America kicked out feebly but sounded honestly distressed so England let him do the rest on his own, preferring to crawl into one side of the double bed. America soon joined him after flipping off the light. There was a few minutes of silence between the two. "England?"
"Yes, America?" England murmured sleepily.
"Can I kiss you? So I know it's real?" England smiled.
"Yes. Keep your mouth closed though," he warned before America clumsily found his lips in the dark. It was brief but after America pulled away, England felt a strange sensation in his lips that made his smile go wider and his heart beat faster. He thought that the feeling and the confusion of the night would keep him awake but soon he was snoring along with America.
I hate these small character limits. Celine Dion is a French-Canadian singer and one of her famous songs is 'My Heart Will Go On'. Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNIPqafd4As&ob=av2n
'My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic' is an American show that has become very popular, very fast. As you can tell, it's all about friendship. Song here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmJvHILyeOo.
Hope you enjoyed.
"But you just said," America said and England rolled his eyes.
"To sleep. You can sleep in your shoes and trousers if you want but I thought it would be more comfortable." England kicked off his trousers and watched America go bright red and stumble onto the bed. Feeling mischievous, England pulled America's trousers to round his ankles. The squeal that came out of America was unexpected, but hilarious.
"Don't do that!" America kicked out feebly but sounded honestly distressed so England let him do the rest on his own, preferring to crawl into one side of the double bed. America soon joined him after flipping off the light. There was a few minutes of silence between the two. "England?"
"Yes, America?" England murmured sleepily.
"Can I kiss you? So I know it's real?" England smiled.
"Yes. Keep your mouth closed though," he warned before America clumsily found his lips in the dark. It was brief but after America pulled away, England felt a strange sensation in his lips that made his smile go wider and his heart beat faster. He thought that the feeling and the confusion of the night would keep him awake but soon he was snoring along with America.
I hate these small character limits. Celine Dion is a French-Canadian singer and one of her famous songs is 'My Heart Will Go On'. Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNIPqafd4As&ob=av2n
'My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic' is an American show that has become very popular, very fast. As you can tell, it's all about friendship. Song here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmJvHILyeOo.
Hope you enjoyed.
Op did not expect to see this filled twice! I love your drunk America and your somewhat sober England. I love the fact that it was Canada singing to France. XD Thanks for the fill anon!
Now I really want to see the morning after. Squal? Loved it btw.
It must be a sign: as I was reading this, My Heart Will Go On started playing on my iPod....
Absolutely adorable!
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