hetalia_kink | Hetalia kink meme part 24

Hetalia kink meme part 24

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hetalia kink meme
part 24

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Yeah... I was originally gonna smush 'em into one chapter, but then I decided to just separate them. I'm having so much fun with writing this, you have no idea. I don't know how I have never considered both of them bullies, but they so are. Brilliant I tell you, thanks for the wonderful idea ^^

And I'm still glad to hear that you're enjoying it. And as I've said, feel free to tell me if anything hits you, or it starts going somewhere you don't want. I'm totally flexible.

(Pffft! Finished typing above phrase and then connotation hit me...)

I'll try to have a longer chapter for you by tomorrow~

^//^

Glad to hear it =]

Might be interesting.
The musical itself has some pretty awesome tunes.

I eagerly await it C: and don't worry. I will :)

A/N: Okay so I know this already has a bunch of fills but I saw it on the first day and couldn’t resist. Updates might be slow after this and the first chapter but I do have it all planned out. It sort of follows the plot of the movie (somewhat). Hope you enjoy this.

Human names: Germania – Brynner
Rome – Romulus
Fem!Egypt – Sema
Denmark – Britt
Hungary - Elizabeta
Lichtenstein – Lillian

Prologue - And I confess that I'm only holding on by a thin thin thread

“Say cheese!” One of the parents called out from behind the camera they were holding. Romulus put forth his best smile, Brynner made something that resembled a grimace at best.

“Can you at least smile?” Romulus asked as he elbowed Brynner in the ribs. “It’s our grad pictures.”

“So we don’t need pictures. We had some taken professionally back in January.” He pointed out not wincing, as he was use to Romulus and his antics by now.

“But it’s part of the fun. We need something that we can look back and smile on later.” Romulus leaned over and kissed Brynner, which earned him a hard shove. He managed to brace himself for it, as he knew it was coming and laughed. “Come on you can at least allow yourself to have some fun tonight.”

“I am having fun.” He replied stoically.

Romulus laughed. “At least show it on the outside please.” He leaned over and kissed Brynner on the lips. “You’re leaving me soon, so at least let me enjoy this.” He scowled at Romulus who beamed at him. “I love you too!”

They managed to get away from the large graduation party that had been thrown for them. Well it wasn’t so much that they snuck away as it was Brynner grabbing Romulus and dragging him away. He ignored Romulus’s protests until they reached his bedroom, which was very removed from everyone else. He went to sit down but Romulus grabbed him and pulled him onto his lap.

“We can talk now.” Romulus purred into his ear, “Or not talk. Which everyone you want.” Brynner was guessing by the positioning of Romulus’s hands he didn’t want to talk.

Brynner took Romulus’s hands in his as that should keep him from doing anything. “Let’s talk.”

Romulus pouted but didn’t protest much beyond that. “I want use to grow older together. Have children. Raise a family.” They had been friends since grade 2 this was no surprise to Brynner but it was the first time Romulus was saying the speech in the context of just them.

“We’re both guys Romulus we can’t have kids.” No matter how many times Brynner had told Romulus that the other boy never seemed to listen.

“So we adopt!” Nothing fazed him. Ever. Or so it seemed to always be like that.

“Fine we adopt.” Brynner gave in. He too had always wanted children.

“So where does this leave us?” Romulus asked after a brief pause.

“Where do you want it to leave us?” Brynner asked back knowing this could be dangerous letting Romulus decide what he wanted for their future. He was far too impulsive.

“Can we get married?!” Romulus exclaimed and Brynner somehow knew this was coming.

“After University.” Brynner said and continued before Romulus could object. “We will be on opposite sides of the country meaning we won’t be around each other. It will be different.”

“We can do it.” Romulus said with enthusiasm. Brynner allowed himself to smile. “Does this mean we’re engaged.”

“I guess so.” Brynner replied after thinking it over. Romulus turned Brynner’s head so the he could kiss him.

“We’re engaged!” Romulus practically shouted, Brynner nodded his head in agreement.

It was harder then Romulus figured, trying to keep up a long distance relationship. They only got to see each other about twice to three times a year. Which was hard for Romulus, as he was a touch feely person and even Brynner had to admit, but never to Romulus, the non-intimacy was hard. Brynner was almost done his law degree and Romulus was almost done with his degree in design. They were still engaged and in a relationship but at times it just didn’t feel that way. They both wanted very different things for their lives right now. And that difference in lifestyle was not going to make things any easier after graduation. They had only been able to see each other once this year for a day because of Christmas with their families. They were sitting on Romulus’s bed, with him leaning into Brynner. They had been sitting like in silence for almost half an hour when Romulus finally spoke what they were both thinking.

“This isn’t going to work is it?” Romulus asked sadly.

Brynner kissed his forehead. “I’m afraid not. We tried.”

“We did.” Romulus perked up, “But we can still be friends”

Brynner smiled. “I doubt I can get rid of you if I tried.”

“YEP!” Romulus yelled, he certainly got over the break up rather quickly. “I’m keeping the ring.”

Brynner nodded his head. “You do that.”

“Just incase we ever get back together.” That was Romulus forever the optimist.

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly they were both ale to move on. Romulus found himself a husband who was almost as eccentric as he was and Brynner found himself a wife.

Brynner was in no hurry to go home. He loved his kids to pieces but it was nice to be able tot be here with just himself. All he needs was milk, eggs, bread and cereal right now. A trip he could easily do by himself.

“Brynner?!” He turned his head at the sound of his name but should have known.

“Romulus.” The male in front of him broke out in a smile. “It’s been awhile.”

Romulus through his arms around Brynner and squeezed tightly. “I missed you! What are you doing here?”

“I’m shopping.” Brynner replied and Romulus laughed. “How long have you lived here for?”

“Years!” His smile faltered a little and Brynner knew from experience not to pry Romulus would tell him when he was ready. “You?”

“We just moved here.” Brynner said and Romulus frowned again.

“We?” Romulus asked not sure if he would like the answer.

“My children and I.” Brynner sighed he knew what was coming the part he didn’t like. “My wife left me years ago.” Romulus perked up.

“Do you have any pictures I always carry pictures.” He blabbered on pulling out his wallet and in turn nine different pictures. “My two oldest. Francis and Antonio.” He handed over the pictures. “Sadik, Romano, Arthur, Feli, Herkules, Sema, Alfred and Matthew. My late husband and I adopted them all. Aren’t they adorable!” Brynner nodded his head. “Do you have any pictures?”

Brynner pulled out a family picture that he kept on him at all times. “Gilbert, Roddich, Elizabeta, Berwald, Britt, Vash, Ludwig, and Lillian.” As he said a name he pointed to the appropriate face.

“They’re so cute.” Romulus squeed. He followed Brynner around the store until the other man was finished shopping.

As he loaded his groceries into his car Romulus was just standing there watching. “What are you doing tonight?” Romulus asked.

“Nothing.” Brynner replied closing his trunk and turning to face Romulus.

“Lets go on a date.” Well that was Romulus for you, very straightforward with what he wanted. He was subtle as a brick going through a window at times.

“You haven’t changed one bit.” Brynner responded.

“Please?” Romulus was practically begging.

“Fine.“ He should be able to manage it; the older kids could look after the younger ones. Its not like one date would lead to anything serious.

There we have it the prologue. Chapter 1 should be up sometime this week hopefully by Friday

I am on this, anon.

So uh ... not anon above but I got bit with a plotbunny for this and it is not letting go. Mind a second-fill, OP and other prospective author-anon?

_{I just akjsdhasd Estonimerica yessss}

Another filler! Yay!

This is an excellent start - I love the intro with Rome and Germania being "engaged" and not working out. And the fact that neither of them really blink at the number of children the other has, though that's likely because of their own personal horde.

Looking forward to Chapter 1!!!

Berwald stared at the keys on the ground. It was the third time he’d dropped them trying to get them in the keyhole, his hands shaking so much he couldn’t hold them. In spite of his struggle, he was glad the door was locked; it meant no one could be in the house; no one could have snuck in while he was out.

Taking a deep breath, he bent down and picked up the keys one last time. He very slowly slid it into the lock and turned. Once it was open, he darted inside, jerking the key out of the lock and slamming the door behind him. He turned the inside lock, and tried to turn the handle. It wouldn’t move. He checked again, just in case, to make sure it was really locked. It still didn’t move. Still, he checked again, and again, and again, until he was afraid he’d somehow wear down the lock until it broke.

A shower. He really, really wanted a shower. He wanted nothing more in the world right then than a shower. He kicked off his shoes and headed down the hall. He peeked into Peter’s room instinctively, wanting to check that he was alright, before remembering he was off romping around in the wilds of the Yukon. He continued to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, and then tested it, and tested it again, and again, and again before forcing himself to stop.

He’d never liked hot showers. He was a cold nation, and he felt like he was burning whenever the water went above lukewarm. But now, he had it turned as hot as it would go. It was searing, turning his skin instantly red upon contact. He wanted the burn. The hot water would boil away the grime, and the fluids, and the shame. The steam filled his lungs, making him cough, but he kept on with it. He’d had much worse in Tino’s saunas. Still, it wasn’t enough. He could still feel it on himself, he could still feel him on himself. He nearly emptied the bottle of soap onto the washcloth, scrubbing his already reddened skin raw, trying to make him go away. But he wouldn’t go away, not matter how hard or long Berwald washed himself.

He turned the shower off and stumbled out, aiming for the toilet. He felt a sudden urge to vomit, overtaken by the memory of Vincent’s lips on him, his tongue in his mouth, the feeling of fingers on his face. Bent over the toilet, he retched, and vomited up his drinks from earlier in the evening. He knew in the back of his mind that the taste in his mouth was bile and alcohol, but he felt that it was the taste of shame and Vincent.

His toothbrush. He couldn’t scrub the intern off of his skin, but perhaps he could flush him out of his body and wash him out of his mouth. He grabbed his toothbrush from the holder, the plain yellow one next to Peter’s Superman one (a gift from Alfred). He stuck it in his mouth and jabbed it back into his throat, felt the bile rising again, and vomited what little was left in his stomach into the toilet. He could still feel him inside. He stuck the toothbrush back again, and again. He didn’t have anything left in him for his stomach to expel, leaving him dry-heaving into the toilet for several minutes, but he kept trying anyway.

He put the toothbrush to a different use. He brushed his teeth, spitting out the toothpaste, rinsing the brush off, and starting over every minute or so to clean as much as he could. It didn’t work. He could still taste the spit and feel the tongue. Disappointed, he finally gave in and put the toothbrush back. He vowed to buy a new one, a better quality one, as soon as he could.

He overdressed himself. Normally for bed, he’d put on boxers, sweatpants if it was particularly cold. That night, he put on sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, and thick socks. It was excruciatingly hot, but he felt vulnerable. He found himself missing the days of armor.

After spending thirty minutes locking every window and triple-checking the locks, Berwald allowed himself to rest. He slept on the sofa that night, wanting to be near the front door where he could hear if someone was trying to get in. Perhaps if he heard them before they got in the door, he could be better prepared to escape or appear threatening enough to make the person leave voluntarily. He thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, that he would have nightmares, but neither came true; he slept as soon as he laid down, and didn’t dream at all. Somehow, the latter would not be a relief to him in the morning.

A!A: Character limits may be the death of me.

I've tried to make a Hetalia vid of The Soviet Machine. Nothing could be as good as the actual music. But I've never had a chance to see more of it than shows up on youtube, so it would be fun to have someone to picture when I listened to the music.

Wow, this is really haunting, A!A. I love his thought-process in the aftermath, he seems so vulnerable and shocked and just puts everything on automatic.

I'm very intrigued to see how you're going to bring Denmark into this, especially because it's Denmark.

_{hmm I think I'm starting to see what you mean by warnings for ED...}

Ugh, I finally got around to commenting to this chapter. I meant to do it earlier but I got sick and I couldn't stay up long enough to write. (Actually I started feeling really ill while reading this chapter so at first I was wondering if I was really sick or if I was that disgusted by Arthur. xD)

I'm so glad you replied, A!A! It's nice to hear from you aside from the fic. Here's a strategy that I like, btw: you can reply to comments at the end of each chapter. That way you almost never waste comment space because almost always the fic doesn't fill up a full even number of comments anyway.

I just realized another thing that I can't wait to see: Rhys's point of view. Not necessarily as in literally shifting the narration to him but even just hearing his thoughts on the situation. I guess that links to the whole general mystery about him but I'm also curious about how he sees Francis, what does he think about him. I wonder if he suspects that Francis wants to be good to him or if he fears that it's some sort of sadistic ruse or a priviledged nobleman's whim.
Though I guess if Rhys himself came from a higher standing (possibly being Arthur's family and all) he'd know that there are good people within the nobility too... I guess? Or I guess he could simply be too traumatized and/or depressed to think clearly.

I do wish Francis would talk to him more, though. They both must be so lonely, too. In fact, Francis especially, since he has absolutely no friends around at all, just strangers he's barely learning to read, in a strange environment, and all the people he even sympathizes with are too suspicious of him to let him get close. I can't even imagine how stressed he must be, spending all that time in such a situation. Actually, wonder if he has anyone to write to? Does he have any friends alive in general who'd be reachable? Gilbert maybe? I'd write a million letters just to vent if I were him...

I so got this.

The science-theme titling is now officially a thing, okay.

Poland has a very annoying laugh, at times.

"Shut up," Lithuania grits out, pulling the bandage tighter around his arm.

"Ahaha --" Poland wipes tears of laughter from his eyes and reaches out to help Lithuania tie the bandage off. "Russia? You got beaten up by Russia?"

"Shut up," Lithuania says through grinding teeth. The memory stings enough; he does not need Poland laughing at him.

"Russia? As in, the same Russia we danced all over a couple of decades ago?" Poland has to let go of the bandage, his hands shaking with mirth. "The same Russia who burst into tears when Sweden pulled out another Dmitri? That Russia?"

"He's upgraded." Lithuania scowls at the roll of bandage on the table. "Improved his army, his training -- he must have bought new weapons off the CPE or whatever she's calling herself, his guns were beyond anything I've encountered this far north --"

"Riiiiight," Poland drawls. "And that's how he beat you with his infantry, right?"

Lithuania slams his uninjured hand down on the table. "He used tactics we've never seen before!" Those walking walls... "I crushed his cavalry easily, but when it came to the battle his officers reacted like they were barely Russian at all! They've had training, Poland! Training and practice, and I wish I knew where they were getting it from --"

"Dude, calm down." Poland pries his hand off the table and forces a glass of wine into his fingers. "It's still Russia, okay? We'll play a few games with his trading agreements, and next time you two fight you'll know how to get around his new fancy footwork. 'Kay?"

"I hate that word," Lithuania grumbles. Okay has infested Poland's speech since he first encountered the term. "Fine. Are you sure our western front is secure?"

"Sweden's rumbling." Poland shrugs. "Sweden's always rumbling. Who cares? Germany doesn't want to invade us, and we can hold off Sweden if he comes at us without her."

"Who?"

"Duh. Germany." Poland sighs at Lithuania's confusion. "She's taken over the Germanies, right? And United States of Europe is too long, and nobody's going to call her Europe."

Lithuania isn't nearly as convinced as Poland that the girl from the future will stay out of it if Sweden demands an invasion, but he knows Poland well enough to see that if he argues the point, his partner will stick his fingers in his ears and start humming loudly. Well, fine. Lithuania will have to finish nursing his wounds before he can do anything, anyway.

Grantville must be full of awful people.

Why?

Thank you! I pretty much had to write it, once it came into my head.

I think Carlino's owner knows why he's doing it; he just doesn't care. As you say, there's a complete lack of empathy for slaves. Thanks for commenting!

The frantic feeling that you got in this part was really atmospheric; it almost made me feel nervous! This fill has such great potential to be really powerful, I can't wait to see where you're going with it :)

second!

England was looking at the silver coin between his fingers, twisting it over and over again so it would catch the light. The coin was not his, but as familiar as foreign currency could be - silver, notched edges, the convex bevel of a face on one side, an eagle with rounded wings on the other.

After a few moments, England allowed himself to come to terms with the fact that he was probably too drunk for this, but then America walked back into the room with a bottle of wine he'd brought from his own room. Likely rotgut, but, well. After a fifth of scotch, England wasn't sure if he could be bothered to make the requisite grumpy comment.

England looked up to see America's lip ticked up in a half smile as he held the bottle by the neck, showing England the label. "Merlot," the American said, and England was vaguely impressed that he remembered to call it 'mer-low' and not 'mer-lot.'

"I'm sure it's high quality," England replied, deceptively mild - he looked down at the coin in his hands, realizing that his thumb was rubbing over the imprint of George Washington's face.

"Hey, I didn't get the cheapest bottle," America said with a bigger grin this time, going over to the hotel room desk. Of course, neither one of them had thought to buy a corkscrew and America was… ack.

England watched with a long-suffering sigh as the nation in front of him simply pushed the cork into the bottle with his finger. No class. Absolutely--

"No class," America interrupted his mental tirade - his voice was pitched high like he had just been nailed in the testicles, which was the way that America always chose to imitate a British accent. "Absolutely no bloody class. It was like you were raised by barbarians."

England scowled, and America laughed, coming over with the plastic bathroom cups full of cheap wine.

"Cheers," America offered in his normal Yankee drawl, clinking the plastic glasses together before sitting down in the desk chair, across from where England was seated on the edge of the hotel bed. England rolled his eyes in response to the toast, and sipped from the plastic cup.

"This tastes like petrol," England informed the younger nation, getting another derisive snort from America. America leaned into the back of the desk chair and put his feet up on the desk, atop England's papers.

"And you used to suck down grog like it was France's knob," America retorted with another wicked half-grin. "At least now we have the FDA and cheap wine won't blind you. Not as much could be said for grog. Or France's knob, for that matter."

England's eyebrows narrowed and he snorted through his nose before taking another drink of the wine.

Another hotel room. Another world conference. Another last night in the hotel… and another short extension of leave before returning home. England looked out the window and saw the lights of Boston reflected in the Charles - strange, how the years blended together and it seemed like just yesterday this was a far-flung outpost… but that was definitely not the state of things now. He turned his head back to the plastic cup of wine, the coin in his hand, and the grinning younger nation across from him.

England tossed the coin through the air and the flipping coin seemed suspended - yeah, he had drank a bit too much for his own good - before America's large, impossibly strong hand darted out and snatched the coin from the air.

The fist was suspended between them for a moment. "So, are you going to go with the awesome symbol of American freedom, or the awesome patriot who helped throw off the chains of tyranny?"

England leveled another sour gaze over across at the younger nation. "You wouldn't know tyranny if it hit you in the face with a Roman shield," he told America primly. "Heads," he added, remembering rubbing his thumb over the impression on the coin.

America offered him another unabashed grin, before slapping the coin down on the back of his opposite wrist, and removing his hand with a dramatic flourish.

The eagle flashed in the light.

"Heh," was America's comment, reaching for his glass of petrol and downing the monstrosity in two inhumanly large gulps.

England's lips twisted. "Well," he said, taking another sip of his own alcoholic "beverage." He hummed. "I suppose you know--"

"Of course," America responded in a sentence that was more like a purr.

This was how it worked, of course. The "winner" was in control. The "loser" chose. It had been this way… for a while, now. Special relationship, indeed.

England hummed and raised his plastic cup to take another drink, but America's mouth was suddenly in the way and England had no choice but to dovetail his lips for the kiss.

Fucking George Washington always ruined everything.

Though, truth be told, at the end of the day, England had a hard time figuring out whether or not he was still angry about the ruination - losing tended to pay off in strange ways, and England was certainly no stranger to that.

America's Boston home was a townhome - and normally England would be more hesitant about doing this sort of thing in the equal to a rowhouse, but it was a Wednesday early afternoon and it was unlikely the neighbors were home as it were.

The outfit was… not exactly time appropriate, but, well, that wasn't the point. It was strange and arousing in and of itself just to be wearing a mockery of Victorian finery - the skirt was long and the tea-stained dark of age, brushing the insteps of the button-up black riding shoes. Even shifting slightly made England shiver with sensation - the garter belt was pleasantly scratchy black lace against his waist, extending into the clips that held the thigh-high white stockings in place. The underwear was scandalously thin, and the unusual smoothness of feminine undergarments shot shivers of sensation up his body every time he shifted and the fabric rubbed against his cock and between his legs.

The corset was tight and entirely indecent for the time period, since he had forgone the accompanying overlayer - the bone of the corset rubbed his nipples to hardness already, and the anticipation was nearabouts killing him.

In short, it was perfect. It was perfect to be standing in the office in the corner, looking studiously at the slightly textured wall. England's pulse had been at a higher rate for the past ten minutes he had been standing here.

And standing. And standing.

Ten more minutes of restless shifting later - and where the hell was that feckless layabout, he is half-hard already and just standing and standing--

The door opened. The hair on the back of England's exposed neck rose to attention, but England kept his gaze steadily in the corner.

The door closed. Footsteps against the carpet. Closer, closer--

Large warm hands closed over England's hips, causing the Briton to take a silent - but noticeable - intake of air. The hands then proceeded to roam freely - over his sides, up to his neck, down again to his ass and between his legs, palming the half-hardness there with a brazenness that England knew was coloring his cheeks.

When America pressed against his back, England's breath was shorter - he could feel the suit the other wore, and the lace jabot around America's neck was scratchy-cool against England's exposed back and neck. When America leaned forward to rumble in England's ear, England was all at attention.

"Supernova," America purred against the shell of his ear, the safeword. England exhaled through clenched teeth. "Green, yellow, red?"

England took a deep breath. "Green," England said quietly, ready for the water to close over his head and sweep him away.

And that got a hum from America, who stepped back away from England's back, and there was a moment where England felt like he was floating in his own fog, blind and ready to give himself away to the water and the wet and that sinking feeling that was submission, that sinking and that inevitable tug toward the depths of feeling.

"Awesome," America said quietly. Not that England would ever admit it, but the boy was good at an imperial purr when he tried. "You will approach the front of the desk and bend over - grab the opposite edge of the desk and spread your legs."

England took a breath. Another. After a moment, he turned around and saw - well, it's America, in a mostly-modern black suit, but there is a pressed handkerchief in the other's pocket and the jabot - again, a testament to the period, but not exactly on.

The walk across the room was almost torture - it was so wrong to feel the skirt around his hips, the scrape of the corset against his nipples, the pull and give of garters against his thighs and waist. So wrong but ah.

Without a word, the former British Empire walked to the desk and lay belly-down against the desk, spreading his legs and reaching for the lip of the table. Spreading his legs made the slick, scanty underwear pull tight against his cock and between the cheeks of his ass, and had he not a few thousand years of experience, he might have come then.

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Page 120 of 293

Hetalia kink meme part 24

a!a!

a!a!

Re: Ensemble - ABBA's musical Chess

OP

Eye of the Storm - Prologue a/?

Re: Eye of the Storm - Prologue b/?

Re: Italy/Romano - Codependency

Re: Estonia/America - How?

OP!

Salve 2a/?

Re: Salve 2b/?

OP

new!anon here

Re: Gift 8c/?

Re: USUK - Victorian or Victorian-style BDSM

Poland and Lithuania, Freeze-Thaw Erosion.

Re: Poland and Lithuania, Freeze-Thaw Erosion.

Re: Poland and Lithuania, Freeze-Thaw Erosion.

Re: OP

Re: Madre de Esclavo (4/4)

Re: Salve 2b/?

Re: England + America or USUK- Going to Church

The Depths [1]

The Depths [2]

The Depths [3]