hetalia_kink | Hetalia kink meme part 24

(Oh please God tell me nobody saw the initial, de-anoned reply. D: That's a scary feeling I don't want to experience again...)

(A!Anon replies!) Eeee, thank you so much! I'm thrilled you like it so much. The second I saw that you mentioned the space race in your prompt, Russia and America just came to mind.

Again, thank you so much, and you're very welcome. c:

I do have two other fills I'm trying to soldier through, and they'll be a little longer, so hopefully at least one will catch your eye. ;)

A very intriguing start and I definitely like it :D Your descriptions in the first part about the fields and Alfred-boy were lovely and I really liked their tone; calm and serene with an underlying uncertainness that came forth later.

I like your Sweden, not only because I can actually understand what he's saying but he has a very calming presence to him, and America's slight awe at this older Nation recognizing him is cute. And the "How long will you be staying...?" just had me aww.

Can't wait for more Anon, but I've got to run.

Er, your second chapter was posted in the wrong place, so I don't know if you're going to keep it there. So I'll comment here!

This is really great. I wasn't expecting much, but your writing is genuinely funny. Although France is being a perv, he's not annoying, which is important to me. (I will never understand why characters are included by writers, and then made so irritating the reader wants to skip over their text.)

England's instant focus on Proving France Wrong is so in-character. And America's ridiculous competitive urge blinding him to the realization that this is essentially a competition for which couple France should have a threesome with. And Romano is grumpy but cute, which is a nice surprise. But does he have sex with Spain? America seemed to imply not. ;)

Please do! That would be amazing!

Seconded!

Yeah! :D

Seconded because I didn't even know how badly I wanted this until now.

Fuck.

Fuckety fucking flying fuck.

He fucking hated Africa.

"Why Africa?" he whined.

"To torment you."

"That's totally not cool, England."

"Indeed, it's rather hot."

"... Shut the fuck up."

"Live with it, wanker."

Looks like he was still sour about that teeth comment...

***

This time around - thankfully - America had been told (ordered) to kick back and watch while England quite cheerfully went up to Ivory Coast and challenged the other to a game of one-on-one soccer ("Football, you wanker!").

The game seemed to be going well - America certainly wasn't enjoying the sight of a sweating England, no way - until England kicked the ball at Ivory Coast's head, knocking the African Nation out cold.

"That was easy," England hummed smugly as he tied their colleague up in a nice little baggage, before turning to stare America right into the eyes.

America stared back.

England scowled. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Carry 'em you bleeding idiot!"

So now he was a back mule. Lovely.

***

"You know," America said, peering at Ivory's map and stabbing his finger at it, "I've always wondered how you pronounce that."

England peeked out from underneath the desk. "The name of the capital?"

"Yeah."

"I've got no bloody clue."

He said with a growl and disappeared from sight, leaving America frowning at the Yamoussoukro printed on the map.

***

America tried to surreptitiously keep an eye on England was the older Nation lounged behind Ivory's desk in his sweaty - temptingly clinging to his skin - shirt while sipping tea and reading the local newspaper. America had tried to do the same with markedly less success.

Really, just another thing that annoyed him about Africa, they seemed to all speak French! Maybe England's talks about France lecherously (or "froggishly" as England called it) seducing everyone into speaking his language were true...

Luckily he hadn't been tricked! Heroes were never tricked!

He was awesome!

"Why the bloody hell are you striking a We Can Do It! pose?"

***

Now, it was time to get back to England's good graces! And he had an awesome plan!

He glanced around the office to make sure England was still in the toilet, before he gleefully pounded over to the piles of paper covering the table. With utmost care, he placed an ivory teacup, full of steaming tea, on its saucer, on the table.

For a moment he surveyed it. Had he remembered everything?

A cookie!

America rummaged his pockets and pulled out a massive chocolate-chip cookie which he placed on the side of the saucer. He gazed it for a moment forlornly.

He had really wanted to eat that cookie.

But England's delighted expression when he returned from the toilet was almost better.

But not really, because nothing was better than chocolate-chip cookies (except hamburgers but America was pretty sure you can't have them with tea).

(But tea was kinda icky anyway so it didn't matter.)

***

When they started to hear threatening rumbling that sounded like some sort of drum orchestra, England quickly stopped his humming - Anarchy in the UK this time - and swiped his in-progress chess game - the board and pieces made of ivory - into his bag/hammerspace/magic purse.

"It seems we have overstayed our welcome."

And then Ivory Coast kicked the door open, snarling; "The official name is Côte d'Ivoire you po'buckers!"

America barely had the time to take in the huge elephant gun before he was - again - dragged out of the window.

"Poo fuckers?" America asked confused as he sat up after the fall.

England spluttered, his face turning red. "Close enough," he choked out.

***

"Was that finally the last of Africa?" America demanded as he flopped on England's study sofa.

England's lovely rendition of Baby You're A Rich Man stopped as he perused the map. "I wouldn't worry too much about it."

America sighed in relief and hugged Joe. "Wonderful."

As he stabbed the flag to the Ivory Coast, England hid a smile and glanced at the flagless Mali.

It wasn't like America needed to know... yet.

***
A/N: Wish me luck on Kyrgyzstan!

Oh my god. Want.

seconding!

I'm not even a FrUk fan, but yes, this is full of win!

*snerk* So that's where Cote d'Ivoire turns up. I love England's varied and entertaining ways of getting the invadees out of the way. And America's attempt at reconciliation - he's such a teenager ...

Good luck with Kyrgyzstan. However you do it, I'm sure it will be enteraining!

Someday, Africa is going to be the new rising economy and the new global language will be French..again. Hon hon hon

I will set up camp :)

This fill is always funny.

Jacob had avoided Alfred successfully for most of the day. Even when it was time for dinner, he’d managed to sit far away from him.

But it was that night, when he entered his sleeping quarters, that he discovered an awful truth: he had a roommate.

“Hey, the master said we could share your bed. Says it’s sort of big anyway, since, you know, it’s a castoff and all…” Alfred had at least the decency to look a little embarrassed. That quickly faded, though, as he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not handsy!”

Sharing a bed. A shiver went down Jacob’s spine, and he felt already vulnerable sleeping clothes. He threw himself on the bed, turning away towards the wall. “See if I fucking care.”

Just lie down a minute. Share the bed with me.

His eyes flew open, as he realized, no, that was the wrong side to present to Alfred! He tried to turn over, but the bed dipped down next to him and Alfred was there, altogether too close and too smiling, as he said,

“Well, it’s a tight fit, but it’ll be fine! I don’t sprawl or anything! Do you snore?”

He could practically feel his breath on him. And god, he was breaking out in a sweat. He’d barely managed to flip onto his back, but he still felt horribly exposed, like he’d stripped himself naked and offered himself to his fellow slave. “Move the fuck over! Don’t they have personal space where you come from?!

“Um, I’ll fall off the bed. I’m serious, I will.” Alfred turned his baby blues on him, as though he could somehow make his warm eyes cause everything to be better.

He was going to hyperventilate, and then everyone would know, Alfred would tell everyone. Jacob shut his eyes tightly, praying that there would be an end to it.

He nearly screamed when Alfred’s arm fell across him as the other shuffled a bit in bed. “Sorry. Just trying to get comfortable.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Jacob said, sitting up and trying to navigate his way out of the bed without climbing on top of Alfred. That was just an invitation for something, and Jacob was far too wary to take the chance.

“Oh. Okay. You can climb over me, I’m fine,” Alfred said, turning over so he was sprawled on his stomach.

Jacob managed to take a blanket and a pillow with him, gingerly easing his way over Alfred and managing just barely not to touch him. He curled up on the hard floor; it was the servants’ quarters, after all, and not somewhere that deserved a rug. He had no talent to make a rug, nor the good grace to ask someone to make one for him.

He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him, as he tried not to feel the solid surface pressing hard against his back.

“You’re awful young to be giving up the bed, you know… You can’t be more than fifteen.”

You’re so young; you can’t be more than fifteen.

Jacob shuddered, and snarled back, “I’ll give up the bed if I want to! I’m not that young! Shut up!”

Alfred was quiet after that, and soon enough, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.

Jacob shivered, the chill of the floor emanating through him, though it was hardly the only thing keeping him from sleeping. He shut his eyes tightly, and eventually unconsciousness took him.

Dammit. Sorry. Anon is bad at HTML...

Might fill this if I have time.....

Lukas wakes to the roar of a blood-frenzied crowd, maddened by the scent of iron soaking the air, the crackle of the blazing bonfire consuming bundles of dry wood.

"Kill the witch!" Someone screeches from far away, and Lukas tries to raise his head only to have it shoved toward the cold-packed dirt. He takes a deep breath, and the smell of his land lingers in his nostrils.

It's poor comfort, but Lukas needs it desperately at this time.

He's just managed to slump against the ground when he's dragged roughly to his feet. Legs buckling under his own weight, his tired body is forced to hold itself up. Lukas cracks open one swollen eye to catch blurred glimpses of the angry mob in front of him. His people.

Trying valiantly to support himself, Lukas blinks blearily before giving in to his body's urges and collapses toward the ground again. He used to be strong, used to be powerful and feared, but now with the rage of his people turned against him, Lukas is weak.

A hairy hand grabs the back of his collar and hauls him up again. Lukas lets himself dangle limply from the man's powerful hold, a puppet whose strings have been cut. He doesn't have the strength to keep his eyes open, not with blood dripping from a nasty cut in his forehead, his stomach too empty to growl, weakened from illness and plague. Lukas wonders if any of his brothers are in the audience, if they are seeing the price he has to pay for being himself.

Bitter laughter wells up in his throat, and Lukas has to chuckle aloud at the irony. Magic runs through his veins; his land stinks of it. It reeks from every surface, and the air is always thick with copious amounts of what they are now calling the Devil's work.

Lukas's deranged laughter is silenced by a strong blow to the back of his head. He rocks forward from the force of the hit and nearly bits his own tongue off. Not that it matters because everything will be ashes in a few minutes.

"Brothers!"

Ah, the execution has begun, Lukas notes grimly. His pale, pale hair is hanging in front of his eyes, and he can't see anything anymore. Lukas thinks that he sees Tino's horrified face, Berwald holding back an enraged Matthias, little Emil clutching his doll tightly... but they're all hallucinations, visions dreamt up by an exhausted mind and weary soul. There will be no comfort in this night, not when the red sparks are leaping from their father flame in a furious attempt to reach the stars.

"- practicing his vile deeds within the walls of our own village! With the blood of our animals spread across the floor, this thing was ready to contact the Devil himself!"

There is an outraged cry from the crowd. Lukas notices the sharp sting attacking his heart and can hardly bring himself to care. It hurts to hear his beloved language cursing him like this, but, Lukas reminds himself, they are mere humans frightened by things beyond their understanding.

"- we caught him, brothers! We stopped him and captured him to bring him before you for judgement!"

Really, it was all his fault. He was too careless, too confident and prideful. He had ignored all of Tino's worries, assured that his people would never harm him.

"And now, by the cleansing flame, let him be judged!"

Clearly, he was wrong.

The heat is drawing nearer now, and Lukas's pale Northern skin is flushing a bright angry red. There are men taking his arms and binding them with lengths of rope that Lukas remembers helping coil, lashing them to sails and setting ships free to the open waters.

Ah, he loves his land and his people, even if they do not love him.

"Burn the cursed witch!"

Lukas closes his eyes as he is tossed into the hungry flames. They lick along his body and consume each shred of tattered cloth that hangs off his thin body. Long tongues caress each curve of his body, and it's almost gently, the way they engulf him. Lukas merely waits with bated breath and steady eyes for the pain to start.

It starts quickly and ends quickly. Lukas inhales a lungful of smoke and coughs harshly, then screams. Then screams again. And again, and again, and again.

Because, oh, the pain is blinding now, and he's thrashing about, trying to escape from the hurt everywhere, and, oh, spirits, will no one release him from this torture? The fire scars every inch of him. It leaves no trace but a blackened trail of ash that sears itself into the very land.

Far away, the waves are crashing, the cliffs are trembling, and the sky rumbles with anger, but Lukas cannot comprehend any of this. His legs are gone now; they have crumbled from beneath him into piles of gray ash that fail to support him.

Lukas falls face-forward into the fire and cries with relief because the darkness is approaching quickly, it's rushing toward him with its hungry jaws wide open, begging for him to embrace it -

Lukas leaps.

Just as the inky ebony mass is reaching up, stretching black arms to wrap itself around him, Lukas is vaguely aware of screaming. It is not his own, for though his voice is not low in timbre, it is not high either. This anguished noise is the sound of a deep and manly voice straining to higher octaves not meant to be. In fact, it sounds like the voice is calling -

"- Norway!"

Norway jerks awake with hands flailing, gripping crazily at the sweat-stained sheets around him. He lets go immediately and starts to grip himself wildly, checking for centuries-old burns, scars from the trials he had to endure at the hands of his people.

And then Denmark is in front of him. His strong, steady hands are resting on Norway's shoulders, the callouses rubbing soothingly over soft cloth. Norway relaxes marginally because there is no smoke, there is no ash, and there is no fire. He slumps against the headrest, pillows cushioning his back, and passes a hand over bloodshot eyes.

A moment passes, and Norway peers through his long fingers to see Denmark staring at him, worried expression plastered firmly onto his stupid face, the fool.

"What are you looking at?" It comes out harsher than Norway intended, but he brushes the twinge of guilt aside easily. Denmark is still staring at him like he's managed to steal his battle-axe and toss it to the bottom of the ocean.

"... are you okay now, Norge?" The question is soft and hesitant, nothing at all like the loud and exuberant nation normally is.

Norway quirks an elegant eyebrow at the blond and scoffs beneath his breath. "Of course I am, idiot. Don't overreact."

Denmark is silent for a moment, and Norway's eyelids are drooping by the time he speaks up again.

"You were dreaming of the trials, weren't you?"

Norway stiffens. There is a reason nations hate talking about their dreams, hate what ghosts of the past are brave enough to haunt them in their sleep. It is because, for nations, all dreams hold fragments of the truth.

The truth is hardly ever pleasant for nations. Norway's dreams certainly aren't filled with sunshine and daisies. More often then not, they are filled with blood and screams.

He moves his hand to cover his eyes once again and lets out a dream-laden sigh. For Denmark, that is more than enough confirmation for him to scoot under the sheets next to Norway, wrapping his arm around Norway's slender frame.

Norway had not even realized he was trembling until he is resting in Denmark's steady hold. He exhales a shaky proclamation of fear that Denmark can never hear but always tell.

The taller nations presses a gently kiss to the side of Norway's head and tightens his grip fractionally.

"It's okay, Norge. It's over," he murmurs. Norway doesn't bother to correct him, doesn't bother to call out the elephant in the room, the one that both are fully aware of.

It's never okay for things like them, beings that are more than man. Nations will never rest, not even in times of peace and prosperity. They are cursed entities, there from the beginning of time and doomed to last until the end of it. It is worse for older nations like himself and Denmark because the path they walk is marked by the bloody footprints they leave behind, the tracks of a battle-axe dragged against the ground.

Things will never be okay, but Denmark's warm breath is resting at the top of his head, Denmark's strong arms are around him, and for a moment, it's more than enough.

-------

Sorry if it's not what anon wanted, but I tried my best. Hope you enjoyed it. Cheers~

"Do you remember the safe-word?" Francis whispered, combing a hand back through dark, sweaty hair before he leaned down against the naked chest under his, lips searching and sucking down that pulsing throat, looking for an umblemished patch of skin to leave one of his own bruising love-marks. He had the most divine scent of fresh oregano and tilled black earth in his skin, muscles straining under bronze flesh before his entire body relaxed at once. For the sake of saving the batteries, Francis flicked off the switch on the end of the wonderful toy he'd just withdrawn from its warm haven, letting it rest on the tangled bedsheets as he reached down and made sure he was ready for what would come next between spread legs and aching hips.

"Lovino~?" Ah- Antonio had been too rough with him, that scoundrel. The way he hissed when Francis' body touched his told him enough, and the Frenchman tisked softly before pawing through the bedsheets looking for the solution. He found the abused bottle of lubricant and idly dribbled some on his fingertips, the warming agent doing so much to ease what tension the bound man tried working into his lower half. "Do you remember the word?"

"Shut the... hell..." That was a yes then! Divine, simply perfect, much like the sound those bruised lips made as Francis let himself invade the other's body, so warm and relaxed around him. He groaned loudly before opening his mouth and letting all the sound and air out of his chest, his body contracting and writhing as Francis just smiled and watched. His hands started at the hips he moved to connect with his, rolling slowly up the faint black hairs that coated the flat stomach, misleadingly soft until Francis rocked his hips up and the muscles in Lovino's core reacted with a gorgeous flex.

So warm, so ready, so completely drunk off the last four hours that Lovino wasn't even trying to hold anything back anymore. He always fought in the beginning, that was how he even agreed to it: they had to fight him. It started with Gilbert setting the timer and Antonio drilling them all repeatedly about the safe word while Francis made sure there were enough batteries for the toys, lube for the deeds, and water for the victim.

Then they fought.

They had to drag him upstairs, they had to take off his clothes- maybe even rip them, or go a step further with scissors and expose his wonderfully warm, sun-kissed body. Getting him in the restraints was always the most difficult, because sometimes he gave in to the fun and tried to be the one in control instead, not the other way around! How ever they managed to get him down on the bed was how he would stay for as long as the timer kept going: last time he had been face down for five hours, this time he was going to be on his back for six.

Lovino always decided how long to set the timer for, but it was Francis' job to pick which toy to use on him: they both liked the effect of the blue one...

But nothing was better than taking Lovino's body for his own. As tempted as Francis always was to just take the toy in hand and watch it plunge again and again into exposed, trembling, sex-stained flesh, Francis always gave in and did it himself. It was carnal, but who was he to deny himself when Lovino always had ever opportunity to make it end, but never did?

So he'd thrust into him, again, and again, and he'd listen to those gasping breaths and the wanton sighs, eyes drinking in the way he'd force his head back on the pillows, spine trying to knot itself together as legs and arms remained eagle spread. The only thing Francis missed in this game that he'd sometimes earned in others was the sweet reward of lean thighs wrapping around him, legs pulling him in further, deeper, longer...

"I'm- I'm-!" Do it, Francis wanted to see it again: that look in sex-fogged eyes as his body declared no more and erupted under him. He barely had the breath to speak anymore, whispering nothing under his breath as Francis climbed down on his hands, then down to his elbows, hips slowing but still rocking up and down on him, a gentle rhythme as he closed his eyes. The smell of that sweat, the sound of those breaths, the heat of so much sun-soaked beauty submitting and writhing against him...

After four hours, Francis didn't need another roaring orgasm. He let himself slide languidly into the pool of sinful contentment, his body letting go slowly, elegantly, only hitching his breath for a moment before with a long exhale... there.

"You are so wonderful, my love..." And Francis could kiss him, kiss bruised lips and tangle his fingers in that hair again, feeling that tongue that was always so razor sharp lap against his lips before he retreated, moved back, sat up...

"W-wa... ait..."

Reinserted the toy...

Okay, so. I apparently have no idea how to use the kinkmeme. I wrote up two posts with Francis, was working on one for Prussia, went back to double check a detail and...

I think kink meme deleted my posts?

I was an idiot who for once didn't save the piece.

I'm not going through all that effort again.

Sorry.

OR THIS ANON IS JUST REALLY STUPID BECAUSE NOW THEY'RE BACK.

I'M

*goes back to writing then*

Hetalia kink meme part 24

Re: OP

OP dances in

Re: Chemistry Contest 1/?

Re: USUK-Sleeping on someone

Re: Australia, little!Hutt River: Human AU, Australia as a single parent

Re: Hope for OP

Re: Stripper!Italy, GerIta 1980s AU

The Conquest List [9/22(?)]: Ivory Coast, UKUS

Re: RusAme; John Adams pimps out American virgins to Russian tsar

Re: Anyone; homophobic character finding out their younger sibling is gay

Re: France/England - in which England does all the wooing

Re: The Conquest List [9/22(?)]: Ivory Coast, UKUS

Re: The Conquest List [9/22(?)]: Ivory Coast, UKUS

OP

Re: The Conquest List [9/22(?)]: Ivory Coast, UKUS

Mask 2/?

A!anon

Re: America, human(s); America and the secret service

More Than Man - Norway/Denmark

Re: More Than Man - Norway/Denmark, Part 1b/2

Re: More Than Man - Norway/Denmark, Part 2/2

Safe Word 1/? Francis.

Re: Safe Word 2/? Francis.

Re: Bat Touch Trio/Romano, Bondage, toys, and availability

Re: Bat Touch Trio/Romano, Bondage, toys, and availability