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O_o I can't get this picture out of my head of a British cavalry on unicorns. Like if Narnia joined the revolution.
Nice crack, a!a!
Nice crack, a!a!
So... yeah, I'm kind of experimenting with this one. It's fairly dark, based largely off of the Wild/Seven Swans tale with mentions of parent-child incest and mpreg, also magic is very much a thing that may or may not be properly explained.
I am a fairly slow writer, but I know where I'm going with this, mostly, so it shouldn't be too long between updates.
Not Canon Names:
Soren - Denmark
Lukas - Norway
Emil – Iceland
**
Once upon a time... that was how the Story began. Every Saturday night, after the boys had washed and prepared for bed, Father would gather them in the sitting room and tell them the Story.
And every week, he started the same way.
Once upon a time.
**
Once upon a time, there was a King.
He was a good King, powerful and kind, if not a bit prickly and prone to temper.
He loved his people, and they knew it and loved him back.
And when the King fell in love, the Kingdom rejoiced.
The Queen was a bright man, with hair like the sun over eyes like the noon-day sky full of mischief and happiness, never one to take the King's sharp tongue to heart. It was the Queen who begged the King to use his magic to allow him to bear their children, and the King could not bear to refuse.
Six beautiful sons were born within the span of ten years, bringing light and joy into the castle and the kingdom, but Magic is not used lightly.
With each child, the Queen grew weaker and weaker, until finally he swore to the worried King that the seventh child, currently resting within his belly, would be the last.
And he was. With blue eyes and golden locks, the child was born in the image of the Queen, but the Queen did not live to hold his youngest babe.
**
Berwald wrapped his arms around the slender figure of his youngest brother, rocking gently back and forth as Matthew burst into tears. Father was so wrapped up in his memories that he hardly noticed the quiet sobbing – the only sound outside of the crackling fire to break the silence - though it was hardly a surprise. Though Father claimed to love all of his children, ensuring that none of them lacked for anything within his power, he couldn't bear to look at Matthew.
Little Matthew, the final gift from their “mother”, who, out of all of his brothers, resembled Queen Alfred the most.
Who had to be reassured almost daily that his brothers did not hate him for being born because Father refused to stop telling that damned Story like it wasn't their story as well, as though they might forget Dad if he didn't remind them of his sacrifice Every. Single. Week.
“What happened next?” Tino's subdued voice broke through the miserable silence, and Berwald cast a grateful glance to where Tino was curled up with Eduard in front of the fire.
The sooner the story was over, the sooner they could escape to their room, away from Father and his endless grief.
“Ah,” Father blinked, his eyes dark and empty, as though he'd forgotten what he was doing. “Where was I...?”
**
The Queen died with a smile on his face and a name on his lips, taking with him the Kingdom's light.
Save for the seven stars he had borne the King, the only consolation in the darkness of his grief.
And the King took his precious sons and hid them away where they would be safe, because he could not bear to lose the gifts his Queen had died for.
**
I am a fairly slow writer, but I know where I'm going with this, mostly, so it shouldn't be too long between updates.
Not Canon Names:
Soren - Denmark
Lukas - Norway
Emil – Iceland
**
Once upon a time... that was how the Story began. Every Saturday night, after the boys had washed and prepared for bed, Father would gather them in the sitting room and tell them the Story.
And every week, he started the same way.
Once upon a time.
**
Once upon a time, there was a King.
He was a good King, powerful and kind, if not a bit prickly and prone to temper.
He loved his people, and they knew it and loved him back.
And when the King fell in love, the Kingdom rejoiced.
The Queen was a bright man, with hair like the sun over eyes like the noon-day sky full of mischief and happiness, never one to take the King's sharp tongue to heart. It was the Queen who begged the King to use his magic to allow him to bear their children, and the King could not bear to refuse.
Six beautiful sons were born within the span of ten years, bringing light and joy into the castle and the kingdom, but Magic is not used lightly.
With each child, the Queen grew weaker and weaker, until finally he swore to the worried King that the seventh child, currently resting within his belly, would be the last.
And he was. With blue eyes and golden locks, the child was born in the image of the Queen, but the Queen did not live to hold his youngest babe.
**
Berwald wrapped his arms around the slender figure of his youngest brother, rocking gently back and forth as Matthew burst into tears. Father was so wrapped up in his memories that he hardly noticed the quiet sobbing – the only sound outside of the crackling fire to break the silence - though it was hardly a surprise. Though Father claimed to love all of his children, ensuring that none of them lacked for anything within his power, he couldn't bear to look at Matthew.
Little Matthew, the final gift from their “mother”, who, out of all of his brothers, resembled Queen Alfred the most.
Who had to be reassured almost daily that his brothers did not hate him for being born because Father refused to stop telling that damned Story like it wasn't their story as well, as though they might forget Dad if he didn't remind them of his sacrifice Every. Single. Week.
“What happened next?” Tino's subdued voice broke through the miserable silence, and Berwald cast a grateful glance to where Tino was curled up with Eduard in front of the fire.
The sooner the story was over, the sooner they could escape to their room, away from Father and his endless grief.
“Ah,” Father blinked, his eyes dark and empty, as though he'd forgotten what he was doing. “Where was I...?”
**
The Queen died with a smile on his face and a name on his lips, taking with him the Kingdom's light.
Save for the seven stars he had borne the King, the only consolation in the darkness of his grief.
And the King took his precious sons and hid them away where they would be safe, because he could not bear to lose the gifts his Queen had died for.
**
Perched up on the mantle, Soren bit back the urge to growl, his gaze sweeping over the downcast expressions of his brothers, pausing when he saw Matthew curled into Berwald's tight embrace, still shuddering from the force of his quiet sobs.
Sometimes he hated Arthur for being so selfish. For not thinking about what he was doing to his sons.
For forgetting that he had not been the only one to grieve when Dad had died - even Emil, who had only been three at the time, had cried for days when Soren had told him that “Dama” wouldn't be coming back. For locking them all away without even servants to talk to in the name of protection and then being so wrapped up in his grief and self-loathing that the only time he spent with them was the morning meal each day and the weekly story time, where he made sure that none of his sons forgot just how miserable he was because of them.
Because Dad had wanted a large family, and so had not been willing to stop at one or two, sacrificing his health and inevitably his life so that they could live.
Arthur didn't deserve the title of Father. Not when Soren had been the one to wipe away his brothers' tears and tuck them in at night, not when nine-year-old Berwald was changing baby Matthew's diapers while Soren had played mother and father and nursemaid all in one before he was even as old as Matthew was now.
“And they all lived happily ever after...,” Arthur finished, his voice trailing off as he stared into the distance.
Snorting, Soren jumped down, clenching his jaw to keep from voicing his opinion of Arthur's story as he stalked out of the room, more for the sake of his brothers than his father. The last time he'd lashed out at Arthur in front of them, it had escalated far too quickly. Matthew had flinched away from him afterward and Berwald had not been pleased.
So he held in his temper until he reached the large bedroom that all seven of them shared, and then he grabbed the pillow off of the nearest bed and threw it across the room, dropping onto the bed as his anger fled.
Twenty-one, and he'd been trapped in this castle with the same eight people for over half his life. Not that Soren begrudged his brothers the time he'd spent caring for them, but sometimes he wished he could just get away and see the world outside of the stone walls that were their prison just once more.
“Soren?” Tino peeked his head around the door, looking nervous and pleading at the same time.
“Hey,” Soren waved him in, patting the bedspread in silent invitation. He knew that his temper scared his brothers sometimes, especially the younger ones, but he was still relieved when Tino came rushing to join him, Eduard at his heels. “You okay?”
Eduard shook his head, curling up against Soren like a kitten, but he didn't say a word. Instead, Tino, who was curled up on Soren's other side spoke up, “Will he ever stop telling that story?”
Brow furrowed in worry – Eduard had long ago stopped relying on Tino to speak for him except when he was too distressed to voice his own thoughts – Soren shook his head. “It's been eleven years. If he was going to stop, he'd've done it by now.”
If he had cared at all, he'd have stopped long before Matthew was old enough to understand – the words were left unspoken this time. They'd been said before, far too often, but nothing ever changed.
Sometimes he hated Arthur for being so selfish. For not thinking about what he was doing to his sons.
For forgetting that he had not been the only one to grieve when Dad had died - even Emil, who had only been three at the time, had cried for days when Soren had told him that “Dama” wouldn't be coming back. For locking them all away without even servants to talk to in the name of protection and then being so wrapped up in his grief and self-loathing that the only time he spent with them was the morning meal each day and the weekly story time, where he made sure that none of his sons forgot just how miserable he was because of them.
Because Dad had wanted a large family, and so had not been willing to stop at one or two, sacrificing his health and inevitably his life so that they could live.
Arthur didn't deserve the title of Father. Not when Soren had been the one to wipe away his brothers' tears and tuck them in at night, not when nine-year-old Berwald was changing baby Matthew's diapers while Soren had played mother and father and nursemaid all in one before he was even as old as Matthew was now.
“And they all lived happily ever after...,” Arthur finished, his voice trailing off as he stared into the distance.
Snorting, Soren jumped down, clenching his jaw to keep from voicing his opinion of Arthur's story as he stalked out of the room, more for the sake of his brothers than his father. The last time he'd lashed out at Arthur in front of them, it had escalated far too quickly. Matthew had flinched away from him afterward and Berwald had not been pleased.
So he held in his temper until he reached the large bedroom that all seven of them shared, and then he grabbed the pillow off of the nearest bed and threw it across the room, dropping onto the bed as his anger fled.
Twenty-one, and he'd been trapped in this castle with the same eight people for over half his life. Not that Soren begrudged his brothers the time he'd spent caring for them, but sometimes he wished he could just get away and see the world outside of the stone walls that were their prison just once more.
“Soren?” Tino peeked his head around the door, looking nervous and pleading at the same time.
“Hey,” Soren waved him in, patting the bedspread in silent invitation. He knew that his temper scared his brothers sometimes, especially the younger ones, but he was still relieved when Tino came rushing to join him, Eduard at his heels. “You okay?”
Eduard shook his head, curling up against Soren like a kitten, but he didn't say a word. Instead, Tino, who was curled up on Soren's other side spoke up, “Will he ever stop telling that story?”
Brow furrowed in worry – Eduard had long ago stopped relying on Tino to speak for him except when he was too distressed to voice his own thoughts – Soren shook his head. “It's been eleven years. If he was going to stop, he'd've done it by now.”
If he had cared at all, he'd have stopped long before Matthew was old enough to understand – the words were left unspoken this time. They'd been said before, far too often, but nothing ever changed.
“I am going to kill Father.” Lukas' voice was void of emotion, but his eyes flickered with fury as he ushered Emil into the room.
“Not 'til I get a chance,” Soren countered. Still, if Lukas was that upset... Soren's gaze went to the door, watching for Berwald and his precious cargo.
“S'alright, Matt,” Berwald's deep voice came from the doorway, Matthew's trembling body cradled against his shoulder. “Won't let 'im near ya 'gain.”
“He asleep?” Soren pushed himself up with his elbows until he was sitting on the bed, letting the twins curl back up against him in his new position.
“Hardly,” Berwald muttered, using one hand to pull the covers down in the bed just across from where Soren and the twins were sprawled out. “Should've made him sleep though. We're gonna hav'ta start all over with him now.” Shaking his head, he laid Matthew onto the bed, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead before pulling the blanket back up.
“What happened?” As cold as it might seem, Matthew was used to hearing how it was his birth that had killed Dad, and even if he needed constant reaffirmation that his brothers would always love him, it had been almost a year since the Story had really affected him.
“We were saying good night, and Father snapped out of it long enough to see Matthew, and then he started talking about how beautiful he was, 'just like my Alfred',” Lukas sneered, his hands twisting and curling like he was fighting the urge to light the room on fire – he probably was, considering this was more emotion than he usually showed in a week. “You should have seen the look in his eyes, Soren. He's not sane. I think he really thought that Matthew was Dad.”
“He didn't...” Oh, gods. Soren didn't want to believe it, because as much as he hated Arthur, the man was still their father, but Berwald just looked at him, angry and scared and worried, and Soren knew that it was no lie.
It was that look, the look of a child who needed to know what to do, coming from Berwald, who had always seemed so much older than Soren despite being a year younger, that kept Soren from completely losing his temper.
Then Matthew whimpered and shoved the blankets away, face still streaked with drying tears as he reached up, silently pleading for Berwald to hold him again.
They couldn't stay like this forever, Soren thought as he watched Berwald give in to the wide-eyed plea, whispering some quiet words into Matthew's ear that seemed to calm him.
Arthur hadn't touched Matthew – if he had tried, Lukas wouldn't just be talking about killing him because he would have already burnt the body after Berwald had snapped his neck– but Matthew was so desperate for his father's love that if Arthur got him alone for a moment, he might very well go along with whatever Arthur wanted.
“We're not staying here.” Eleven years, Soren had dreamed of leaving, though he'd always cared too much for his brothers to follow through with the plans he'd made. But if Arthur had finally noticed Matthew's resemblance to the lost Queen as more than a cause of pain, Father or not, it was only a matter of time before he forgot himself completely, and Soren would tie his brothers up and carry them away in sacks before allowing them to be hurt. “Not if Arthur's finally snapped.”
“M'sorry!” Matthew squeaked, burrowing into Berwald's arms with a sob.
“No!” Soren hissed as his anger seeped into the word, Matthew flinching into Berwald's chest. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, Soren waved Tino out of his way, standing and moving to Berwald's side, resting his hand on Matthew's shoulder. “No, Baby Bear, it's not your fault. You did nothing.”
“Not 'til I get a chance,” Soren countered. Still, if Lukas was that upset... Soren's gaze went to the door, watching for Berwald and his precious cargo.
“S'alright, Matt,” Berwald's deep voice came from the doorway, Matthew's trembling body cradled against his shoulder. “Won't let 'im near ya 'gain.”
“He asleep?” Soren pushed himself up with his elbows until he was sitting on the bed, letting the twins curl back up against him in his new position.
“Hardly,” Berwald muttered, using one hand to pull the covers down in the bed just across from where Soren and the twins were sprawled out. “Should've made him sleep though. We're gonna hav'ta start all over with him now.” Shaking his head, he laid Matthew onto the bed, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead before pulling the blanket back up.
“What happened?” As cold as it might seem, Matthew was used to hearing how it was his birth that had killed Dad, and even if he needed constant reaffirmation that his brothers would always love him, it had been almost a year since the Story had really affected him.
“We were saying good night, and Father snapped out of it long enough to see Matthew, and then he started talking about how beautiful he was, 'just like my Alfred',” Lukas sneered, his hands twisting and curling like he was fighting the urge to light the room on fire – he probably was, considering this was more emotion than he usually showed in a week. “You should have seen the look in his eyes, Soren. He's not sane. I think he really thought that Matthew was Dad.”
“He didn't...” Oh, gods. Soren didn't want to believe it, because as much as he hated Arthur, the man was still their father, but Berwald just looked at him, angry and scared and worried, and Soren knew that it was no lie.
It was that look, the look of a child who needed to know what to do, coming from Berwald, who had always seemed so much older than Soren despite being a year younger, that kept Soren from completely losing his temper.
Then Matthew whimpered and shoved the blankets away, face still streaked with drying tears as he reached up, silently pleading for Berwald to hold him again.
They couldn't stay like this forever, Soren thought as he watched Berwald give in to the wide-eyed plea, whispering some quiet words into Matthew's ear that seemed to calm him.
Arthur hadn't touched Matthew – if he had tried, Lukas wouldn't just be talking about killing him because he would have already burnt the body after Berwald had snapped his neck– but Matthew was so desperate for his father's love that if Arthur got him alone for a moment, he might very well go along with whatever Arthur wanted.
“We're not staying here.” Eleven years, Soren had dreamed of leaving, though he'd always cared too much for his brothers to follow through with the plans he'd made. But if Arthur had finally noticed Matthew's resemblance to the lost Queen as more than a cause of pain, Father or not, it was only a matter of time before he forgot himself completely, and Soren would tie his brothers up and carry them away in sacks before allowing them to be hurt. “Not if Arthur's finally snapped.”
“M'sorry!” Matthew squeaked, burrowing into Berwald's arms with a sob.
“No!” Soren hissed as his anger seeped into the word, Matthew flinching into Berwald's chest. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, Soren waved Tino out of his way, standing and moving to Berwald's side, resting his hand on Matthew's shoulder. “No, Baby Bear, it's not your fault. You did nothing.”
Matthew shook his head wildly, and Soren knew he was blaming himself for Dad's death and Arthur's insanity. Like it was his fault Arthur wanted to fuck his eleven-year-old son in the name of their dead mother.
And nothing Soren said would convince him otherwise.
Soren had never hated Arthur more than he did at that moment, but he forced the feeling down, wrapping his arms around Berwald until Matthew was pressed between them. “We love you, Baby Bear,” he whispered, his throat hoarse with subdued emotion. “More than anything.”
“Mm-hmm.” Berwald nodded, resting his head against Soren's. “N'ver gonna stop lovin' ya.”
“Love you, Matt” Emil's voice was low, his cheeks red as he joined the pile, leaning his head against Matthew's side.
“Always,” Lukas draped himself over Emil, prompting a short whine of protest, “Love you always, Matthew.”
“Hey!” Tino jumped off the bed, dragging Eduard along with him until he launched himself at the group hug. “We love Matt too.”
Eduard approached more slowly, a sad smile on his lips as he fixed his glasses. “Love you, Matt,” he whispered, leaning against Soren as he reached his arm in to hold Matthew's hand.
Matthew sniffled, trying not to cry. “... love you.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
This was their family, their home. Seven hurting boys and the memory of a loving father and dad.
They needed each other. Nothing more, nothing less.
But they couldn't mope over Matthew forever.
Smirking, Soren shifted his weight and pushed, shoving the pile of tangled bodies onto the bed before leaping on top. “Did I ever tell you about the time Dad tried to catch Arthur's imaginary friends?”
“Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're imaginary.”
“Do you have imaginary friends, Lukas?” That was Tino's innocent voice, and gods only knew if he was genuinely curious or just trying to get a rise out of Lukas, but Soren laughed anyway, accepting the fist Lukas slammed against his shoulder without complaint.
“Anyway, Dad was pregnant with the twins, as big as a whale, and he got it into his head that Arthur was hiding something from him...” Soren watched his family as he told the story, managing to make them all laugh – even if he had to tickle them to do it.
Later they would think about escape, how to best leave Arthur alone with his delusions, but tonight, tonight was for family.
In the morning, Matthew was gone.
**
Any questions? I'm still working on the universe, so if it's not clear what's going on, feel free to ask. I'm hoping nobody seems too OOC – Matthew may come over as too childish or too mature depending on the situation, but he's an eleven-year-old who's been locked away in a castle and coddled by his brothers since birth, and that's gotta mess him up a little.
And nothing Soren said would convince him otherwise.
Soren had never hated Arthur more than he did at that moment, but he forced the feeling down, wrapping his arms around Berwald until Matthew was pressed between them. “We love you, Baby Bear,” he whispered, his throat hoarse with subdued emotion. “More than anything.”
“Mm-hmm.” Berwald nodded, resting his head against Soren's. “N'ver gonna stop lovin' ya.”
“Love you, Matt” Emil's voice was low, his cheeks red as he joined the pile, leaning his head against Matthew's side.
“Always,” Lukas draped himself over Emil, prompting a short whine of protest, “Love you always, Matthew.”
“Hey!” Tino jumped off the bed, dragging Eduard along with him until he launched himself at the group hug. “We love Matt too.”
Eduard approached more slowly, a sad smile on his lips as he fixed his glasses. “Love you, Matt,” he whispered, leaning against Soren as he reached his arm in to hold Matthew's hand.
Matthew sniffled, trying not to cry. “... love you.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
This was their family, their home. Seven hurting boys and the memory of a loving father and dad.
They needed each other. Nothing more, nothing less.
But they couldn't mope over Matthew forever.
Smirking, Soren shifted his weight and pushed, shoving the pile of tangled bodies onto the bed before leaping on top. “Did I ever tell you about the time Dad tried to catch Arthur's imaginary friends?”
“Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're imaginary.”
“Do you have imaginary friends, Lukas?” That was Tino's innocent voice, and gods only knew if he was genuinely curious or just trying to get a rise out of Lukas, but Soren laughed anyway, accepting the fist Lukas slammed against his shoulder without complaint.
“Anyway, Dad was pregnant with the twins, as big as a whale, and he got it into his head that Arthur was hiding something from him...” Soren watched his family as he told the story, managing to make them all laugh – even if he had to tickle them to do it.
Later they would think about escape, how to best leave Arthur alone with his delusions, but tonight, tonight was for family.
In the morning, Matthew was gone.
**
Any questions? I'm still working on the universe, so if it's not clear what's going on, feel free to ask. I'm hoping nobody seems too OOC – Matthew may come over as too childish or too mature depending on the situation, but he's an eleven-year-old who's been locked away in a castle and coddled by his brothers since birth, and that's gotta mess him up a little.
A!Anon, this story has already got me hooked, gah. Mattie's questionable OOCness is understandable, and everyone else seems pretty IC, so don't worry.
But Anon, I'm sure you didn't know this, but Soren's my FAVORITE name for Denmark, so it made me thrilled to see him with that name~
Anyways, keep up the good work ^^ (And don't worry about updating too quickly since I have the habit of updating slowly on fills myself)
But Anon, I'm sure you didn't know this, but Soren's my FAVORITE name for Denmark, so it made me thrilled to see him with that name~
Anyways, keep up the good work ^^ (And don't worry about updating too quickly since I have the habit of updating slowly on fills myself)
Lovely ending to a lovely, addictive fic :)
Yeep, the whole I-was-dating-your-girlfriend thing was going to come back to bite him sooner or later. I felt so bad for Arthur as well as Alfred because he was obviously so hurt and confused. But yaay it all worked out in the end.
Through all of this, Alfred's PoV was a delight, Arthur so adorably prickly and Arthur-ish, and I reeeally liked all your other side characters and the little world you sketched out here. (And... yeah, it was messy but let's hope Hannah moves on from all this ok too.)
Yeep, the whole I-was-dating-your-girlfriend thing was going to come back to bite him sooner or later. I felt so bad for Arthur as well as Alfred because he was obviously so hurt and confused. But yaay it all worked out in the end.
Through all of this, Alfred's PoV was a delight, Arthur so adorably prickly and Arthur-ish, and I reeeally liked all your other side characters and the little world you sketched out here. (And... yeah, it was messy but let's hope Hannah moves on from all this ok too.)
This is just brilliant!
And the ending, while I do admit it would have been awesome to see them actually escape the feeling of hope and the prospect of a future where there wasn't one before seems a perfectly good place to stop. :)
I love the pairing and the dynamics and the way Canada so desperately tries not to let herself love the babies while America can't help but to love them. Thank you for this fill.
Apologies for not seeing it sooner.
And the ending, while I do admit it would have been awesome to see them actually escape the feeling of hope and the prospect of a future where there wasn't one before seems a perfectly good place to stop. :)
I love the pairing and the dynamics and the way Canada so desperately tries not to let herself love the babies while America can't help but to love them. Thank you for this fill.
Apologies for not seeing it sooner.
I absolutely love the mental image I get from your description of the aliens!!
The way not everyone manages to get, or that we don't know if they do or not... your imagery is wonderful. Your writing is brilliant.
Thank you!
The way not everyone manages to get, or that we don't know if they do or not... your imagery is wonderful. Your writing is brilliant.
Thank you!
Oh... Russia.
Wow, this is heartbreaking. I want to hug him, but it wouldn't be enough.
Thank you.
Wow, this is heartbreaking. I want to hug him, but it wouldn't be enough.
Thank you.
1. OP has no problem with either way, rape can be used as drama, or makes the story 'feels' more, but if that's not your cup-of-tea, A!Anon, then this OP has no problem.
2. This OP loves bondage too, although more on the D/s side. So just put in bondage as much as you want, A!Anon. /o/
2. This OP loves bondage too, although more on the D/s side. So just put in bondage as much as you want, A!Anon. /o/
...oh god.
I'm going to have to try beating myself to death with my own umbrella now. Thank you.
I'm going to have to try beating myself to death with my own umbrella now. Thank you.
Is this fill abandoned? Please say it ain't so.
(damn, of course I de-anon by accident when I'm replying to something like this. i hope nobody saw it)
Anyway, thank you! I'll be waiting patiently. :)
Anyway, thank you! I'll be waiting patiently. :)
I really nice how you're starting this, and the names are nice picks (I'm kind of really glad to not have to read a story about Berwald for once). The characterizations seem good so far, even though the unproblematic relationship between maks and Bertil took me by surprise a bit. Will we see some Norway or Estonia on the side?
Keep up the good work!
Keep up the good work!
Would it be okay to make Kugelmugel, Sealand and either Finland or Sweden female?
I am really glad that you like it so far, OP \o/ And I actually had a few vague plans about messing with Finland's name as well, because I get fiddly about stuff ^^
A new part will be up shortly, and I'll try to keep up the good work and live up to that trust <3
And ahahaha Grisslehamn is one of those places that gets quite a bit of traffic from the surrounding areas in summer, and a lot of people in Stockholm have summer houses there, but there are very few permanent residents. My family has a summer house close to Norrtälje, so we've gone there a couple of times, and I thought it would be suitable since it is rather small and remote, but not too removed from everything ^^
A new part will be up shortly, and I'll try to keep up the good work and live up to that trust <3
And ahahaha Grisslehamn is one of those places that gets quite a bit of traffic from the surrounding areas in summer, and a lot of people in Stockholm have summer houses there, but there are very few permanent residents. My family has a summer house close to Norrtälje, so we've gone there a couple of times, and I thought it would be suitable since it is rather small and remote, but not too removed from everything ^^
Oh, my goodness.
Dear lord, this was gorgeous. I can't explain it to say that you sketched the characters and infused just those few lines with so much history and life, that there's clearly so much detail in there that isn't said. You said...everything that needed saying, I guess. It was lovely.
I'll be keeping an eye on this!
Dear lord, this was gorgeous. I can't explain it to say that you sketched the characters and infused just those few lines with so much history and life, that there's clearly so much detail in there that isn't said. You said...everything that needed saying, I guess. It was lovely.
I'll be keeping an eye on this!
I am glad to please, anon, and I'll try to keep it up ^^ As for the relationship between Maks and Bertil, I see it as usually being more problematic, but at the time of that particular exchange, Bertil is far too exhausted by his loss and Maks is at least sensitive enough to this that he tries to bother him as little as he can, if that makes sense?
And I'm planning on throwing a number of characters into the mix somehow ~.^
And I'm planning on throwing a number of characters into the mix somehow ~.^
Notes: Molossia is physically/mentally 16 in this story, which may or may not be underage where you are.
--
Molossia shows up on America's doorstep, dusty from the road, with the sun behind him and a satchel over his shoulder, and a slightly uncertain, almost timid look in his eyes.
"Can I, uh," he says quietly, scuffing his feet. "Can I wear the collar?"
America says nothing, and Molossia looks up at him almost shyly. America meets his grey eyes, and the trust he sees there has heat warming in his blood.
Trust, and trust; Molossia entrusting him with this, with the care of his body and his mind; Molossia trusting in America's own wants; and trusting that America will trust him in turn, that Molossia knows his own needs and desires. Trust and want, and heat rising between them in the conduit of their shared gaze; Molossia wanting to give America this, America wanting to prove himself worthy of this, and both of them reading each other in the gaze that burns so hot between them, until America thinks he can feel Molossia's thoughts as his own, twining alongside his.
"Yes," he replies, and sees the heat in the convulsion of Molossia's throat as he swallows.
He leads him upstairs, and the air is cool, here, spring settling into summer in the north, cool enough to play in without heat laying them low, warm enough to be comfortable around Molossia's skin.
He leads him into their ritual room, and oh, America can feel little shivers, now, anticipation thrumming under his skin, and he can sense it tightening Molossia's muscles as well, a bare pace behind him, in this little bare room with its single window and its simple wooden chest against the wall.
America opens the chest, and removes the contents, placing them carefully on the floor, apart from the simple brown collar. He waits.
Molossia undresses neatly, not-slowly and not-quickly, placing each item in the chest as he removes it; his satchel, his shoes, his jacket and trousers and shirt, his socks and his underwear; and stands naked before America, unashamed.
America looks at Molossia, bare and trusting, his cock already starting to stir between his legs, his eyes that will not quite meet America's; and oh, there is something softening and open in Molossia's face already, something vulnerable and willing to be vulnerable; something that America alone is allowed to have and will never stop cherishing. Something that Molossia gives him freely; something that America can only give freely in return for.
America says, "Down," and Molossia's eyes slip-flutter almost shut; he looks at America beneath his eyelids, and he sinks to his knees, easy, willing. Sinks down and rests his hands on his thighs and tips his head back to bare his throat to America, to offer his neck for America's collar.
--
Molossia shows up on America's doorstep, dusty from the road, with the sun behind him and a satchel over his shoulder, and a slightly uncertain, almost timid look in his eyes.
"Can I, uh," he says quietly, scuffing his feet. "Can I wear the collar?"
America says nothing, and Molossia looks up at him almost shyly. America meets his grey eyes, and the trust he sees there has heat warming in his blood.
Trust, and trust; Molossia entrusting him with this, with the care of his body and his mind; Molossia trusting in America's own wants; and trusting that America will trust him in turn, that Molossia knows his own needs and desires. Trust and want, and heat rising between them in the conduit of their shared gaze; Molossia wanting to give America this, America wanting to prove himself worthy of this, and both of them reading each other in the gaze that burns so hot between them, until America thinks he can feel Molossia's thoughts as his own, twining alongside his.
"Yes," he replies, and sees the heat in the convulsion of Molossia's throat as he swallows.
He leads him upstairs, and the air is cool, here, spring settling into summer in the north, cool enough to play in without heat laying them low, warm enough to be comfortable around Molossia's skin.
He leads him into their ritual room, and oh, America can feel little shivers, now, anticipation thrumming under his skin, and he can sense it tightening Molossia's muscles as well, a bare pace behind him, in this little bare room with its single window and its simple wooden chest against the wall.
America opens the chest, and removes the contents, placing them carefully on the floor, apart from the simple brown collar. He waits.
Molossia undresses neatly, not-slowly and not-quickly, placing each item in the chest as he removes it; his satchel, his shoes, his jacket and trousers and shirt, his socks and his underwear; and stands naked before America, unashamed.
America looks at Molossia, bare and trusting, his cock already starting to stir between his legs, his eyes that will not quite meet America's; and oh, there is something softening and open in Molossia's face already, something vulnerable and willing to be vulnerable; something that America alone is allowed to have and will never stop cherishing. Something that Molossia gives him freely; something that America can only give freely in return for.
America says, "Down," and Molossia's eyes slip-flutter almost shut; he looks at America beneath his eyelids, and he sinks to his knees, easy, willing. Sinks down and rests his hands on his thighs and tips his head back to bare his throat to America, to offer his neck for America's collar.
Molossia's characterisation here is drawn from his canonical interactions with America (where he behaves very differently to how he does with everyone else). Since the strips imply that his aggressive act is a front, and the idea of the prompt is giving up stress and not having to act, I've gone with that.
It had been easy for him to settle into the rhythm of a small town, and he knew it surprised people. Until he and Maks were twelve, their little family had lived in Piteå, which was admittedly a small town, but not nearly as small as Grisslehamn. But then they'd moved to Stockholm, and Maks had absorbed everything about the city quickly, enchanted by the faster pace it offered. After just a year he had dropped his northern dialect completely, slipping into the southern Stockholm nasal drawl that to Bertil sounded a lot like braying.
Bertil, on his part, had missed the nearness of living in a small town. He was used to knowing where everything was and the names and families of everyone living close to him, and the anonymity of the big city seemed to at once crowd him and make him feel as if he was alone on a desert island. He's never minded loneliness before, but then again loneliness had to him represented tranquility and time for thought, and that was hard to achieve when there was constant noise and chatter and commotion all around.
With time, he'd learned how to cultivate silence on the inside, a soothing place free of distraction, and had retreated there whenever he started feeling overwhelmed - which was often. It had surprised everyone when he'd brought home Irina, a fellow student of economics at the time. Maks had been blunt about it, of course, exclaiming something about thinking he was a 'hopeless case' and immediately signing over all credit for it on her, and at least in the latter he had a point. Their mother had just been a bit relieved, but not offensively so, and had welcomed her into the family with open arms.
After that, it had been easier. Irina had been supportive when he decided that economics were not for him, had smiled when he'd managed to finally spit out that he was going to try to become a carpenter, teasing him gently about being her 'handy man', and had never once seemed disappointed that he wasn't and could never be the partner he thought he ought to be. For a while she'd had to support them both while he learned his craft, and even afterwards it was tough for a while, because in the land of Ikea and convenience, one man and his carpeting tools were not exactly sought after.
But he'd slowly managed to gain more work, mostly building patios and saunas and the like, but soon being sought after for furniture and decorations as well. By the time Peter was born, he'd been featured in local magazines waxing poetic about his 'rustic' and 'genuine' style, and the future was beginning to look bright. Two years later Arvid was born, they had moved into a house in Åkersberga instead of the ratty flat in Hässelby, and everything had been perfect.
And then... then two years of bliss followed by four years of struggle, of hospital visits and chemo, of being so damn tired of the entrance hall of Danderyd hospital and waiting for cabs there at all hours of the day. Of realizing he actually needed a driver's licence since Irina could no longer drive the kids and having to worry about that on top of everything else.
At the end of all that, he'd thought he was going to be fine with staying where he was simply because he was too tired to move, but then five years' worth of frustration came spilling out all at once when he'd put the kids to bed, and he'd ended up stabbing a chisel through the kitchen table. He'd cleaned it away before the boys woke up, and they hadn't even asked any questions when they had to eat breakfast in front of the TV.
Bertil, on his part, had missed the nearness of living in a small town. He was used to knowing where everything was and the names and families of everyone living close to him, and the anonymity of the big city seemed to at once crowd him and make him feel as if he was alone on a desert island. He's never minded loneliness before, but then again loneliness had to him represented tranquility and time for thought, and that was hard to achieve when there was constant noise and chatter and commotion all around.
With time, he'd learned how to cultivate silence on the inside, a soothing place free of distraction, and had retreated there whenever he started feeling overwhelmed - which was often. It had surprised everyone when he'd brought home Irina, a fellow student of economics at the time. Maks had been blunt about it, of course, exclaiming something about thinking he was a 'hopeless case' and immediately signing over all credit for it on her, and at least in the latter he had a point. Their mother had just been a bit relieved, but not offensively so, and had welcomed her into the family with open arms.
After that, it had been easier. Irina had been supportive when he decided that economics were not for him, had smiled when he'd managed to finally spit out that he was going to try to become a carpenter, teasing him gently about being her 'handy man', and had never once seemed disappointed that he wasn't and could never be the partner he thought he ought to be. For a while she'd had to support them both while he learned his craft, and even afterwards it was tough for a while, because in the land of Ikea and convenience, one man and his carpeting tools were not exactly sought after.
But he'd slowly managed to gain more work, mostly building patios and saunas and the like, but soon being sought after for furniture and decorations as well. By the time Peter was born, he'd been featured in local magazines waxing poetic about his 'rustic' and 'genuine' style, and the future was beginning to look bright. Two years later Arvid was born, they had moved into a house in Åkersberga instead of the ratty flat in Hässelby, and everything had been perfect.
And then... then two years of bliss followed by four years of struggle, of hospital visits and chemo, of being so damn tired of the entrance hall of Danderyd hospital and waiting for cabs there at all hours of the day. Of realizing he actually needed a driver's licence since Irina could no longer drive the kids and having to worry about that on top of everything else.
At the end of all that, he'd thought he was going to be fine with staying where he was simply because he was too tired to move, but then five years' worth of frustration came spilling out all at once when he'd put the kids to bed, and he'd ended up stabbing a chisel through the kitchen table. He'd cleaned it away before the boys woke up, and they hadn't even asked any questions when they had to eat breakfast in front of the TV.
After that, their Falu-red house with its garden and the forest surrounding it, the brief bike-ride that would take them to the sea, and the slow pace of Grisslehamn through most of the year... it came as a blessing, a refuge. He had adapted easily to a life that consisted mostly of driving the kids where they needed to be, trying to turn the garden into less of a jungle, and working quietly and contently at creating his furniture. More than a few old customers had remained faithful, and there were several small shops in Norrtälje that loved featuring a 'local carpenter' among their wares. Surprisingly, Irina's parents had also contacted him, saying that they had put away money to leave her, and now they wanted it to go to her dear husband and their grandchildren. Bertil hadn't protested. It clearly meant a lot for them to, as they said, 'do the right thing', and at the time he'd needed the help.
He didn't have many friends, but he didn't feel as if he needed them much. He was at least acquainted with the people he sold his furniture to, knew the store owners in Grisslehamn by name, had been to dinner with the parents of Arvid and Peter's closest friends a couple of times. He had never been a night life sort of person, and that was good, because the closest thing Grisslehamn had to that was a really decent pizza place where they would serve alcohol in the evenings, and close at ten during weekends. It was run by a couple of brothers that amusingly enough actually were of Italian ancestry, although Bertil couldn't say if that factored into the quality of the pizza. The eldest brother claimed so; the youngest would just smile pleasantly and shrug.
Maks would occasionally visit during the summers, but not for very long at a time since the silence and the peace apparently made him restless. Their cousins, Lukas and Emil, occasionally visited as well, and Bertil enjoyed going on fishing trips with either or both, bringing the boys along and packing a lunch so they could stay out for hours. He'd bought a small motor boat during their first year there, had upgraded it to a larger model after a year and a half, and now made a point of taking the boys camping on one of the many small islands as often as he could in the summers.
Peter had taken to the sea as if he was born half fish, and he would jump between the skerries and islets with a nonchalance that made his father anxious and amused at the same time, nagging for every opportunity he could get to steer the boat, and competing in a goodnatured manner with Lukas about who could pull up more fish. Arvid had stayed more apprehensive, enjoying the trips greatly, but clearly feeling more at home on solid ground. He would disappear into the woods from time to time and come back with sticks and pine needles stuck in his hair, and once Bertil had gotten out of him that he was 'building stuff', he took some of his excess material and built a platform between three sturdy trees for the boy to turn into a tree-house.
He didn't have many friends, but he didn't feel as if he needed them much. He was at least acquainted with the people he sold his furniture to, knew the store owners in Grisslehamn by name, had been to dinner with the parents of Arvid and Peter's closest friends a couple of times. He had never been a night life sort of person, and that was good, because the closest thing Grisslehamn had to that was a really decent pizza place where they would serve alcohol in the evenings, and close at ten during weekends. It was run by a couple of brothers that amusingly enough actually were of Italian ancestry, although Bertil couldn't say if that factored into the quality of the pizza. The eldest brother claimed so; the youngest would just smile pleasantly and shrug.
Maks would occasionally visit during the summers, but not for very long at a time since the silence and the peace apparently made him restless. Their cousins, Lukas and Emil, occasionally visited as well, and Bertil enjoyed going on fishing trips with either or both, bringing the boys along and packing a lunch so they could stay out for hours. He'd bought a small motor boat during their first year there, had upgraded it to a larger model after a year and a half, and now made a point of taking the boys camping on one of the many small islands as often as he could in the summers.
Peter had taken to the sea as if he was born half fish, and he would jump between the skerries and islets with a nonchalance that made his father anxious and amused at the same time, nagging for every opportunity he could get to steer the boat, and competing in a goodnatured manner with Lukas about who could pull up more fish. Arvid had stayed more apprehensive, enjoying the trips greatly, but clearly feeling more at home on solid ground. He would disappear into the woods from time to time and come back with sticks and pine needles stuck in his hair, and once Bertil had gotten out of him that he was 'building stuff', he took some of his excess material and built a platform between three sturdy trees for the boy to turn into a tree-house.
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