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I don't really act out to be noticed, and I won't say I am a very lonely person, but this is based on how I feel when I'm lonely, and sometimes even when I'm not. I think it's very, very human to want someone to care. I hope you find someone who notices and cares, even when you don't speak up.
OP's been super busy this summer and somehow missed this update and apologizes.
I'm still really enjoying this fill and I look forward to the next update.
I'm still really enjoying this fill and I look forward to the next update.
Writer!anon says, "It's coming!"
Writer!anon also enjoys puns with innuendo.
Writer!anon also enjoys puns with innuendo.
"So, um...you find that stuff kinky?" The ill-disguised repulsion in Canada's voice is akin to what he'd sound like if Alfred confided in him that he were into scat. Or child pornography. "A-ah...I mean...um, attractive?" He squeaks, flushing and playing with his hands. "I-I guess...well, to each his own..."
America rolls his eyes and shrugs, slurping his vanilla shake and not really dignifying that with a real response.
It honestly feels better than any other sex he's had.
"It's not...suffocating? All that...fat? Crushing you?" Canada plays with his salad fork, frowning. "If you ask me, that sounds really frightening."
He doesn't quite get the appeal of near-starving models that flaunt his magazines. Well, maybe that's not ENTIRELY true, he can sort of see the appeal, but sex with a model clearly airbrushed in her photos is just that. Sex. Not that he's had such a thing ever since Russia came into his life, into his bed. Despite the unnerved stares they get together whilst in public, the idea of falling back into looking for comfort tangled up with a bitchy pile of bones is as appealing as having his cold vanilla shake exchanged for a weed to chew on.
In the day, Ivan is glowing, bearing a perpetual little smile and plenty of chaste kisses for Alfred. There is hand-holding, there are long walks and clouds to gaze at and books to read and movies to see and ice cream to eat. These already sacred moments are spiced with tender caresses from Ivan and doting murmurs America can get drunk on. And getting picked up as if he were a young boy again and not someone bearing the weight of godawful debt is the icing on the cake; it feels GOOD to be hoisted into a pair of affectionate arms and carried to bed, laughter filling the air before the moans drift in.
Russia is soft in more ways than one. His tummy is actually pretty fun to play with, and it feels good when it's pressed against him. The guy doesn't squash him, for pete's sake-the two just get a mutual kick out of the sensation; Ivan peppering his lean body with kisses and tender touches, his body a pooling, protective shield keeping him in a warm bed with warm arms, his matchstick legs just barely making their way around Russia's waist. But that feels good too.
After so much time being the tough hero that he is, it feels nice to be so domineered and yet so loved, trying to get as much of Ivan as he could and loving that there was always more. And Russia was gentle. So gentle. A little too gentle sometimes, which really wasn't so bad as it was wholly vanilla.
"Sweetie, you...you can go harder if you like." He shifts underneath the body poised over him, Ivan only making light, shallow thrusts, shivering.
"Nyet. This is better. I will not hurt you."
He rolls his eyes and bucks his hips, smirking when Ivan throws his head back and yelps in surprise. "Better not bore me either, babe."
America rolls his eyes and shrugs, slurping his vanilla shake and not really dignifying that with a real response.
It honestly feels better than any other sex he's had.
"It's not...suffocating? All that...fat? Crushing you?" Canada plays with his salad fork, frowning. "If you ask me, that sounds really frightening."
He doesn't quite get the appeal of near-starving models that flaunt his magazines. Well, maybe that's not ENTIRELY true, he can sort of see the appeal, but sex with a model clearly airbrushed in her photos is just that. Sex. Not that he's had such a thing ever since Russia came into his life, into his bed. Despite the unnerved stares they get together whilst in public, the idea of falling back into looking for comfort tangled up with a bitchy pile of bones is as appealing as having his cold vanilla shake exchanged for a weed to chew on.
In the day, Ivan is glowing, bearing a perpetual little smile and plenty of chaste kisses for Alfred. There is hand-holding, there are long walks and clouds to gaze at and books to read and movies to see and ice cream to eat. These already sacred moments are spiced with tender caresses from Ivan and doting murmurs America can get drunk on. And getting picked up as if he were a young boy again and not someone bearing the weight of godawful debt is the icing on the cake; it feels GOOD to be hoisted into a pair of affectionate arms and carried to bed, laughter filling the air before the moans drift in.
Russia is soft in more ways than one. His tummy is actually pretty fun to play with, and it feels good when it's pressed against him. The guy doesn't squash him, for pete's sake-the two just get a mutual kick out of the sensation; Ivan peppering his lean body with kisses and tender touches, his body a pooling, protective shield keeping him in a warm bed with warm arms, his matchstick legs just barely making their way around Russia's waist. But that feels good too.
After so much time being the tough hero that he is, it feels nice to be so domineered and yet so loved, trying to get as much of Ivan as he could and loving that there was always more. And Russia was gentle. So gentle. A little too gentle sometimes, which really wasn't so bad as it was wholly vanilla.
"Sweetie, you...you can go harder if you like." He shifts underneath the body poised over him, Ivan only making light, shallow thrusts, shivering.
"Nyet. This is better. I will not hurt you."
He rolls his eyes and bucks his hips, smirking when Ivan throws his head back and yelps in surprise. "Better not bore me either, babe."
They should just start calling me Late!Anon orz
Arthur's swift spiral into insanity is terrifying. What kind of chaos is this going to bring?
Ahh, Greece. It's slightly amusing that he's acting more fatherly than their own father, right now...I hope he can help them!
Arthur's swift spiral into insanity is terrifying. What kind of chaos is this going to bring?
Ahh, Greece. It's slightly amusing that he's acting more fatherly than their own father, right now...I hope he can help them!
Filled here:
http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/78769.html?thread=509607345#cmt509607345
http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/78769.html?thread=509607345#cmt509607345
[And now, finally, for the event itself -- the climax of the story, but not the end. Real camera footage of the ceremony can be see from 1:27 here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hguYEbpwVZU. Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this next part...and I hope it does not disappoint.]
The memorial wreaths for the morning’s ceremonies were massive affairs, each one large enough to require two men to carry it. Both wreaths were simple arrangements of white carnations, trimmed with a broad ribbon in black, red, and gold stripes. Crisp white lettering across the ribbon proclaimed the wreaths to be the offering of the Chancellor of the Federal Republic. Germany had kept a close eye on the protocol officers who made the final arrangements for the wreaths, and more than one quiet word in the appropriate ears had ensured that the finished products met even his exacting standards. He only hoped that they would meet Poland’s standards as well.
When the Chancellor's motorcade arrived at the site of the first ceremony of the day, Poland and his bosses were there to meet them. It did not take Germany long to locate his fellow nation in the throng of political and military elites who had been invited to attend the wreath-laying. In keeping with the martial nature of the ceremony, Poland had donned an officer’s greatcoat and shoulderboards. His stiff peaked cap with its distinctive eagle badge was drawn low over his eyes, so that all anyone could see of his expression was the firm set of his mouth. Germany had not intended to offer more than a murmured good morning, but Poland did not appear inclined to reciprocate even that much. As a compromise, they merely nodded to each other -- just as they had done the previous afternoon on the airport tarmac -- and took their places at the back of the procession so the ceremony could begin.
The rows of white stone columns that flanked the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were yet another fragment of a Polish royal palace razed by German hands -- for Saxon Palace, Germany recalled bleakly, had met the same brutal end as its elder sister not far to the north. Only the archways that sheltered the tomb had been spared destruction. But the tomb itself had survived, as much a testament to Poland’s own endurance as it was a memorial to his nameless fallen, and on this occasion it was only proper that the Federal Republic of Germany should come to pay his respects to both.
The wreath-laying proceeded without incident. Germany kept his eyes fixed forward the entire time, watching the ceremony with his best expression of grave dignity. When the time came to honour the dead, he placed his hand over his heart -- the civilian’s salute -- and beside him Poland snapped to attention and brought two fingers up to touch the peak of his cap in proper military style. The green-and-white wreath would keep its solitary vigil after they departed.
The site of the second wreath-laying ceremony was only a few minutes away, and once more Germany found himself riding in the Chancellor’s vehicle as if he had planned to do so all along. There were no attempts at conversation this time; the Chancellor was silent, and Germany sat stiffly across from him, all but counting every breath until the motorcade drew to a stop at their destination.
The Monument to the Heroes of the Warsaw Ghetto stood alone in an open square. Germany had seen pictures of it before, but as he stepped out of the car he felt that the black-and-white photographs he remembered were a poor representation of the real thing. From a distance, the memorial had looked like a tall grey slab of stone, very different from the white-columned tomb they had just visited. At this closer range, though, the granite wall was only the backdrop to a tall bronze sculpture of a group of figures -- men and women and children, set against the lighter grey stone on the bottom half of the memorial and darker stone at the top.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order. But before then, there had been another order, and those who resisted it took to the streets with every weapon they could make or muster. House by house, the Jewish ghetto of Warsaw had fallen in cinders and ash, and where it had stood the open square with its stone and bronze monument held the memory of those who had fought and died, or fought and lived to fight again.)
The memorial wreaths for the morning’s ceremonies were massive affairs, each one large enough to require two men to carry it. Both wreaths were simple arrangements of white carnations, trimmed with a broad ribbon in black, red, and gold stripes. Crisp white lettering across the ribbon proclaimed the wreaths to be the offering of the Chancellor of the Federal Republic. Germany had kept a close eye on the protocol officers who made the final arrangements for the wreaths, and more than one quiet word in the appropriate ears had ensured that the finished products met even his exacting standards. He only hoped that they would meet Poland’s standards as well.
When the Chancellor's motorcade arrived at the site of the first ceremony of the day, Poland and his bosses were there to meet them. It did not take Germany long to locate his fellow nation in the throng of political and military elites who had been invited to attend the wreath-laying. In keeping with the martial nature of the ceremony, Poland had donned an officer’s greatcoat and shoulderboards. His stiff peaked cap with its distinctive eagle badge was drawn low over his eyes, so that all anyone could see of his expression was the firm set of his mouth. Germany had not intended to offer more than a murmured good morning, but Poland did not appear inclined to reciprocate even that much. As a compromise, they merely nodded to each other -- just as they had done the previous afternoon on the airport tarmac -- and took their places at the back of the procession so the ceremony could begin.
The rows of white stone columns that flanked the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were yet another fragment of a Polish royal palace razed by German hands -- for Saxon Palace, Germany recalled bleakly, had met the same brutal end as its elder sister not far to the north. Only the archways that sheltered the tomb had been spared destruction. But the tomb itself had survived, as much a testament to Poland’s own endurance as it was a memorial to his nameless fallen, and on this occasion it was only proper that the Federal Republic of Germany should come to pay his respects to both.
The wreath-laying proceeded without incident. Germany kept his eyes fixed forward the entire time, watching the ceremony with his best expression of grave dignity. When the time came to honour the dead, he placed his hand over his heart -- the civilian’s salute -- and beside him Poland snapped to attention and brought two fingers up to touch the peak of his cap in proper military style. The green-and-white wreath would keep its solitary vigil after they departed.
The site of the second wreath-laying ceremony was only a few minutes away, and once more Germany found himself riding in the Chancellor’s vehicle as if he had planned to do so all along. There were no attempts at conversation this time; the Chancellor was silent, and Germany sat stiffly across from him, all but counting every breath until the motorcade drew to a stop at their destination.
The Monument to the Heroes of the Warsaw Ghetto stood alone in an open square. Germany had seen pictures of it before, but as he stepped out of the car he felt that the black-and-white photographs he remembered were a poor representation of the real thing. From a distance, the memorial had looked like a tall grey slab of stone, very different from the white-columned tomb they had just visited. At this closer range, though, the granite wall was only the backdrop to a tall bronze sculpture of a group of figures -- men and women and children, set against the lighter grey stone on the bottom half of the memorial and darker stone at the top.
(Warsaw must be pacified, came the order. But before then, there had been another order, and those who resisted it took to the streets with every weapon they could make or muster. House by house, the Jewish ghetto of Warsaw had fallen in cinders and ash, and where it had stood the open square with its stone and bronze monument held the memory of those who had fought and died, or fought and lived to fight again.)
The members of the German delegation were joined by their Polish counterparts for this second ceremony, and once again Germany found himself standing next to Poland. In the brief space of time that they had been apart, Poland had taken the opportunity to exchange his officer’s cap and greatcoat for the plain dark overcoat that he had worn for their meeting the night before. His necktie was perfectly knotted, and not a hair was out of place, but in such close proximity Germany could detect the unmistakable odour of stale cigarette smoke on his clothes.
It was just as well that they stayed together. There were cameras everywhere, photographers and journalists waiting for the perfect shot of the visitors, and in the midst of their overwhelming attention Germany instinctively hung back, not wanting to draw their notice. Poland's presence gave him something else to focus on and think about. If nothing else, Poland also seemed to be struggling to overcome his instinct to bolt from a crowd of strangers, and Germany felt a sudden twinge of sympathy for him, like an echo of the ache in his jaw.
They approached the memorial with slow, measured steps, walking behind the wreath. With each step, the main feature of the memorial became more apparent: the tight-knit group of bronze figures, caught in a frozen moment in time. Some of the figures held guns; others held makeshift bombs or other weapons. Their faces were set in grief, anger, defiance, determination -- a host of emotions, with no two expressions alike. Germany let his gaze travel across each one in turn, and as the procession came to a halt to allow the delegation to present the wreath, he turned his attention to his boss, determined that he would not look away for a single moment.
You have no right to make him the scapegoat, he wanted to say to everyone present, as he had said to Poland the night before. He had no part in what I did, or what was done in my name -- Norway and Sweden kept him safe during the war, well away from me and well away from you. Of all of us here, he bears no responsibility for this. But he would be silent and watch, because for now that was all he could do.
The bearers placed the wreath before the memorial, lowering it so that its supporting base sat neatly against the back of the stone step and the tail ends of the ribbon brushed the ground. Germany’s heart lifted a little when his boss stepped forward to adjust the ribbon, smoothing it out to prevent it from becoming wrinkled. It was a small but sensible gesture, respectful without seeming fussy. The media seemed to appreciate it as well, for the rapid-fire clicking of cameras grew louder as various photographers angled for a good shot of the scene.
The Chancellor stepped back from the wreath to stand before the memorial. A few moments of silent contemplation were of course to be expected, for all present. Germany, standing with Poland slightly to one side of the group, was at the wrong angle and too far away to see his boss's face clearly, but he had no trouble picturing the look of grim solemnity that was the only proper expression for such an occasion. No matter what, he was prepared to offer a few words of gratitude in private to the Chancellor afterwards, for his strength and composure throughout such an ordeal.
He was not prepared for what happened next.
Facing the memorial, and the wreath that he had placed before it, the Chancellor brought his feet together and slowly sank to his knees on the damp stone. The hem of his coat brushed the ground, settling around him as he knelt. He clasped his ungloved hands in front of him, and bowed his head.
It was just as well that they stayed together. There were cameras everywhere, photographers and journalists waiting for the perfect shot of the visitors, and in the midst of their overwhelming attention Germany instinctively hung back, not wanting to draw their notice. Poland's presence gave him something else to focus on and think about. If nothing else, Poland also seemed to be struggling to overcome his instinct to bolt from a crowd of strangers, and Germany felt a sudden twinge of sympathy for him, like an echo of the ache in his jaw.
They approached the memorial with slow, measured steps, walking behind the wreath. With each step, the main feature of the memorial became more apparent: the tight-knit group of bronze figures, caught in a frozen moment in time. Some of the figures held guns; others held makeshift bombs or other weapons. Their faces were set in grief, anger, defiance, determination -- a host of emotions, with no two expressions alike. Germany let his gaze travel across each one in turn, and as the procession came to a halt to allow the delegation to present the wreath, he turned his attention to his boss, determined that he would not look away for a single moment.
You have no right to make him the scapegoat, he wanted to say to everyone present, as he had said to Poland the night before. He had no part in what I did, or what was done in my name -- Norway and Sweden kept him safe during the war, well away from me and well away from you. Of all of us here, he bears no responsibility for this. But he would be silent and watch, because for now that was all he could do.
The bearers placed the wreath before the memorial, lowering it so that its supporting base sat neatly against the back of the stone step and the tail ends of the ribbon brushed the ground. Germany’s heart lifted a little when his boss stepped forward to adjust the ribbon, smoothing it out to prevent it from becoming wrinkled. It was a small but sensible gesture, respectful without seeming fussy. The media seemed to appreciate it as well, for the rapid-fire clicking of cameras grew louder as various photographers angled for a good shot of the scene.
The Chancellor stepped back from the wreath to stand before the memorial. A few moments of silent contemplation were of course to be expected, for all present. Germany, standing with Poland slightly to one side of the group, was at the wrong angle and too far away to see his boss's face clearly, but he had no trouble picturing the look of grim solemnity that was the only proper expression for such an occasion. No matter what, he was prepared to offer a few words of gratitude in private to the Chancellor afterwards, for his strength and composure throughout such an ordeal.
He was not prepared for what happened next.
Facing the memorial, and the wreath that he had placed before it, the Chancellor brought his feet together and slowly sank to his knees on the damp stone. The hem of his coat brushed the ground, settling around him as he knelt. He clasped his ungloved hands in front of him, and bowed his head.
Germany's mouth would have fallen open completely if the pain in his jaw had permitted it. For a split-second, all of his instincts writhed in panicked, desperate protest -- no, you can't, you mustn't, it's too much -- but then the sickening whirl of shame and dismay fell away, and a flood of raw, nameless emotion swelled up to replace it, filling his heart and making his head swim.
'Święta Maryjo, Matko Boża -- '
Poland's voice was no louder than an exhaled breath, but Germany heard every word of it. He did not dare to turn his head, but he could glance out of the corner of his eye, and what he saw stunned him all the more. Poland, his face dead white and his lips slightly parted, was staring at the Chancellor, looking every bit as thunderstruck as Germany felt. One scarcely needed to know Polish to understand the words that had escaped from him in his astonishment. Holy Mary, Mother of God --
At some point, the Chancellor must have stood up and paid his final respects to the memorial, but Germany scarcely knew what was happening around him. People were moving, and he was moving with them, and Poland wasn't standing next to him any longer. That troubled him vaguely, but not enough to make him stop moving, back the way they had come and in the direction of the motorcade. His next clear memory was that of the cold metal of a car door against his hand. Even when he was inside the car again, sitting directly across from his boss for the third time that morning, he found that he could not put a coherent thought together, let alone open his mouth to say any of the things he had planned to say.
The Chancellor, fortunately, did not seem to care that his nation was staring at him in helpless silence. He looked drawn and tired, worn out by the events of the morning, but he managed a faint smile, and then reached over to take Germany's hand and clasp it briefly.
Germany's breath caught in his throat. Instead of his own words, all he could hear in his mind was his boss's voice: Will you trust me with that much?
He had to settle for returning the pressure of the hand clasping his own, hoping that it would be enough to say everything he could not. I will, sir. I will.
****
'Święta Maryjo, Matko Boża -- '
Poland's voice was no louder than an exhaled breath, but Germany heard every word of it. He did not dare to turn his head, but he could glance out of the corner of his eye, and what he saw stunned him all the more. Poland, his face dead white and his lips slightly parted, was staring at the Chancellor, looking every bit as thunderstruck as Germany felt. One scarcely needed to know Polish to understand the words that had escaped from him in his astonishment. Holy Mary, Mother of God --
At some point, the Chancellor must have stood up and paid his final respects to the memorial, but Germany scarcely knew what was happening around him. People were moving, and he was moving with them, and Poland wasn't standing next to him any longer. That troubled him vaguely, but not enough to make him stop moving, back the way they had come and in the direction of the motorcade. His next clear memory was that of the cold metal of a car door against his hand. Even when he was inside the car again, sitting directly across from his boss for the third time that morning, he found that he could not put a coherent thought together, let alone open his mouth to say any of the things he had planned to say.
The Chancellor, fortunately, did not seem to care that his nation was staring at him in helpless silence. He looked drawn and tired, worn out by the events of the morning, but he managed a faint smile, and then reached over to take Germany's hand and clasp it briefly.
Germany's breath caught in his throat. Instead of his own words, all he could hear in his mind was his boss's voice: Will you trust me with that much?
He had to settle for returning the pressure of the hand clasping his own, hoping that it would be enough to say everything he could not. I will, sir. I will.
****
This is so fantastic that I have no words for it, anon! You're doing a brilliant job with this and everything is so painful and beautiful and amazing!
Wow. This is so utterly raw, and it's great.
Wow. I really like this fic, anon, though I'm super late in finding it. I do hope you update it soon. I love how Arthur is being kind to her and all. Great work!
So. Only missed it by a day!
I'm making up a lot of alternate history – I did a bit of research, into possible ways history could have twisted, but research turns me into a perfectionist – and I'm too easily distracted to be a good one – so I gave it up in favor of actually writing the story. There isn't much of it in this chapter, but it will come into play as we see more of the set-up in the other world.
**
Lithuania shivered, hands twisting nervously around his hair, hating the look of cold amusement that watched him like a predator toying with its prey. Had Poland known that this was what Russia was capable of becoming? Was that why he had worked so hard to break Russia down and keep him frightened and submissive?
Still, looking at the giant, Lithuania's resolve to keep the broken slave safely away strengthened. This Russia, so large and menacing, would surely be able to stand against Poland in a way that the Russia he had failed never had the chance to learn.
The rattle of the doorknob snapped Lithuania from his thoughts, a flash of fear surging through him as he watched the giant man direct his cold gaze to the door.
Poland.
It had to be – no one else would risk Poland's displeasure by entering his bedchambers uninvited.
The plan had been to sneak in, save Russia, and get out. It should have been at least another few hours before Poland finished the talks with Ukraine, and when Poland finally did discover the loss of his toy, he would blame it on Ukraine or one of her allies.
Lithuania hadn't thought to consider that Russia would be replaced. That he wouldn't have time before Poland was back.
Hardly able to breath, instinct drove him backwards, into the shadows and away from Poland, as the door opened. He was the highest ranked of any of the territories, but even that wouldn't save him if Poland thought him a traitor to the Empire.
Poland might even decide he should take Russia's place.
“-nerve of that bitch- Who are you?” Poland's voice was sharp, vicious, as he stood in the doorway, outlined by the light from outside. “What are you doing in here?”
“Zdravstvujte, Pol'sha.” The venom in the cold man's too cheerful voice was clear, even if Lithuania couldn't understand the words, and Lithuania pressed himself against the back wall, not wanting to be caught anywhere near the two frightening men.
**
The slave couldn't breath, his vision growing dim as he struggled for air.
He'd never been without Master before. Always, always, he knelt at Master's feet or beside Master's bed, even if Master didn't find him worthy of attention. To be anywhere but at Master's side was one of the most effective punishments Master wielded, because if he was not at Master's side, he was nothing.
“Breathe, Rus.”
A flash of defiant anger – this man was not the Consort, not Master – was quickly suppressed.
He was still the lowest of the low, and even if the man were a slave, he would still be bound to obey.
Sullenly, the slave drew in a sharp breath of air, shuddering as it filled his aching chest.
“It's okay, Rus.” The man offered, his voice soft and soothing like the Consort's. “You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you.”
The man didn't understand.
This strange man who looked so much like the Consort seemed to think he should be glad that Master would never find him.
“Master...” The slave breathed quietly, eyes closed in fear and uncertainty, trying to draw upon the memory of Master, the feel of slender, calloused hands against his skin and the sound of his voice.
“He won't find you here.”
As if Master would waste his time searching for a disobedient toy. He had other pets, other slaves to occupy his time. Still, the words cut like a knife.
“Please, sir...,” The slave whispered, fighting tears as he bowed his head to the floor. He didn't know what he was asking, what he wanted – he wasn't allowed to want – only that he was more afraid than he could remember ever being before, even when withstanding Master's sharpest rages.
“Rus,” The man began, moving closer, so close he could feel the air moving. “Tell me what you need. Please, let me help you.”
The slave's breath caught, a silent stutter in his throat. What he needed... “Master?”
**
The desperation in Rus' shaking voice was stark and painful, a plea painted with need and hope and despair. For the first time, Lithuania realized that it wasn't relief fueling Rus' actions, but fear. He was afraid, not of his master finding him and punishing him, but of never seeing his master again. Like as not, the Empire was the one constant in Rus' tortured life, and now he was gone.
“Oh, Rus.” Lithuania fought the urge to pull the trembling, scared boy into his arms, his heart aching. “It'll be alright, Rus. You'll see.”
Rus just curled up into himself, obviously not agreeing.
“Poland,” Lithuania whispered under his breath in his own language. “Come back soon.”
He didn't know how to get through to Rus, but Poland, who was the closest thing to the master Rus was missing there was in this universe, might have a chance. If he was willing.
Lithuania couldn't imagine Poland refusing to help Rus, but at the same time, Poland had been so freaked out when he ran from the room that he might not be able to help. Lithuania didn't know what exactly had made Poland run, what had put the sharp light of terror in those familiar green eyes, but he knew that the parallels between Russia and the Empire that had done this to Rus hadn't helped.
Russia at least had had insanity as an excuse, his mind twisted by the words and actions of his leaders – and he'd always believed his actions to be just. Every blow, every wound he had inflicted had been for a reason, even if it only made sense in Russia's broken mind, and he'd always tended to the wounds with such gentleness afterward that Lithuania knew he regretted the apparent necessity of his actions.
The Empire couldn't claim that much –if he knew nothing else about the man, Lithuania knew that nothing could justify breaking a child so thoroughly that he grovelled and begged for punishment, to steal away his name, his very humanity, and leave him believing his existence was meant for nothing more than to be a plaything. A toy.
Though Lithuania would never voice those thoughts in front of Poland.
“I swear, Rus,” Lithuania swore with a determination he could hardly believe, “we'll help you. We'll make it better for you here.”
Rus cringed, a sharp keen dying in his throat nearly before it began. He needed comfort, a gentle touch and someone to let him cry into their shoulder, none of which Lithuania could bring himself to offer for fear of making it worse.
Lithuania had never felt so helpless before, hovering over Rus with nothing but useless platitudes to offer, and it wasn't long before his stomach began to ache.
“Come here, Rus,” Lithuania coaxed, moving slowly towards the kitchen where he kept his medicine. It probably wouldn't hurt to get some food into Rus while he was there with the way his bones stuck out from his skin so starkly.
When Rus began to crawl after him, Lithuania stopped. “Can you stand, Rus?”
“Yes, sir.” Rus rose to his feet, head still bowed, and suddenly Lithuania wanted to be sick.
The scars on his back were continued on his chest and legs, but even worse than that were the dark bruises and scars over his groin and around his nipples and the dried blood and semen trailed down the inside of his legs.
Shuddering and fighting the bile that rose up in his throat, Lithuania abandoned the thought of food and began to walk down the hall to the bathroom, forcing a smile and gesturing for Rus to follow when he coudn't get his voice to work, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms with the effort it took to keep from putting a hole in the wall.
And if Lithuania hoped that Russia taught the Empire a much needed lesson, imagining an evil-looking Poland with teeth filed to a point and short spiky hair being torn to a thousand bloody pieces, well, he wasn't hurting anyone.
**
Poland stumbled as he appeared in the pasture just outside his small home, collapsing in the grass as a wave of fatigue overtook him, his vision clouded by unshed tears.
He was emotionally and physically exhausted, the jump having drained the last of his energy, and he could hardly breath for the pain in his heart. He laid in the grass, staring up blankly at the clouds, fingers clenched in the dirt to keep himself grounded.
This was his soil. His grass. His land.
Land that he had suffered for so many times, fighting and cursing even when he should have been dead.
It was no Empire, but for the first time the thought didn't make him wonder for chances long past.
He'd never been the nicest of people – Poland knew that much – always thinking of himself and his own first.
Was it really a surprise that his other self, one that had thrived, was just as selfish? Taking and taking and never knowing when enough was enough without Lithuania there to temper him.
Or maybe the other Lithuania had tried, certainly he hadn't agreed with what had been done to little Russia, maybe he had tried and- Poland stopped that thought before the weary depression of his exhaustion turned back into the sharp, terrified self-loathing he'd felt earlier.
A wet, hairy muzzle brushed his arm, and Poland dragged his gaze from the sky to see Princess' soulful brown eyes looking down at him with worry.
“Hey, sweetie,” Poland smiled shakily, reaching up with one arm to pat the pony's neck, grimacing as she moved to nuzzle his face. “You don't think I could hurt Liet, right?” The words slowed as he really thought about them.”
It wasn't like he'd never hurt Lithuania before. He'd nearly consumed Lithuania back when the Commonwealth had been strong – smiling and laughing as he urged Lithuania to learn Polish and to become his when they were supposed to be equals. And he hadn't cared that his attitude had hurt Lithuania – he hadn't even known until he'd proposed putting the Commonwealth back together and Lithuania had snapped at him.
Princess whinnied, her mane falling down over her muzzle to tickle his face, and Poland felt the tears escape. He sobbed quietly, curling in on himself as he wept, until his head ached. He fell asleep with the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks,
When he woke, the sun had set. Princess stood over him like a watch pony, nickering happily when Poland pushed himself up into a seated position, wincing as his body protested.
“I'm fine, Princess.” Poland pushed the pony away when she moved in to nuzzle away the tear tracks. “I'll be fine.”
His head still ached, and he really didn't want to go back and face what his other self had done to Russia, but he would survive. It was for the best that one Poland try to fix what another had broken, right? Plus, Lithuania would probably never forgive him if Poland didn't go back to help.
“Wish me luck, Princess.” Poland stood, hugging Princess as though it would be the last time he ever saw her, trying not to talk himself out of going back.
He had to do this.
Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, Poland exhaled sharply and made his way inside to arrange for a ride to Lithuania's home.
**
Zdravstvujte, Pol'sha [Russian] – Hello, Poland
This is mostly filler, getting everyone where they need to be. I don't really like what I did with Poland, but I figure he just needed to wrap his mind around the situation. He hasn't really dealt with his emotions yet, but he's sort of shoved them out of the way so he can work around them.
Um... Alternate history!
So Ukraine broke away from Poland and his empire and forged her own country. She's strong enough that it would cost too much to drag her back, so Poland grudgingly puts up with her.
Also, I swear I'm not making Alter!Liet into a wimp just for fun! There is a reason behind it.
Thanks so much to everyone enjoying this.
I'm making up a lot of alternate history – I did a bit of research, into possible ways history could have twisted, but research turns me into a perfectionist – and I'm too easily distracted to be a good one – so I gave it up in favor of actually writing the story. There isn't much of it in this chapter, but it will come into play as we see more of the set-up in the other world.
**
Lithuania shivered, hands twisting nervously around his hair, hating the look of cold amusement that watched him like a predator toying with its prey. Had Poland known that this was what Russia was capable of becoming? Was that why he had worked so hard to break Russia down and keep him frightened and submissive?
Still, looking at the giant, Lithuania's resolve to keep the broken slave safely away strengthened. This Russia, so large and menacing, would surely be able to stand against Poland in a way that the Russia he had failed never had the chance to learn.
The rattle of the doorknob snapped Lithuania from his thoughts, a flash of fear surging through him as he watched the giant man direct his cold gaze to the door.
Poland.
It had to be – no one else would risk Poland's displeasure by entering his bedchambers uninvited.
The plan had been to sneak in, save Russia, and get out. It should have been at least another few hours before Poland finished the talks with Ukraine, and when Poland finally did discover the loss of his toy, he would blame it on Ukraine or one of her allies.
Lithuania hadn't thought to consider that Russia would be replaced. That he wouldn't have time before Poland was back.
Hardly able to breath, instinct drove him backwards, into the shadows and away from Poland, as the door opened. He was the highest ranked of any of the territories, but even that wouldn't save him if Poland thought him a traitor to the Empire.
Poland might even decide he should take Russia's place.
“-nerve of that bitch- Who are you?” Poland's voice was sharp, vicious, as he stood in the doorway, outlined by the light from outside. “What are you doing in here?”
“Zdravstvujte, Pol'sha.” The venom in the cold man's too cheerful voice was clear, even if Lithuania couldn't understand the words, and Lithuania pressed himself against the back wall, not wanting to be caught anywhere near the two frightening men.
**
The slave couldn't breath, his vision growing dim as he struggled for air.
He'd never been without Master before. Always, always, he knelt at Master's feet or beside Master's bed, even if Master didn't find him worthy of attention. To be anywhere but at Master's side was one of the most effective punishments Master wielded, because if he was not at Master's side, he was nothing.
“Breathe, Rus.”
A flash of defiant anger – this man was not the Consort, not Master – was quickly suppressed.
He was still the lowest of the low, and even if the man were a slave, he would still be bound to obey.
Sullenly, the slave drew in a sharp breath of air, shuddering as it filled his aching chest.
“It's okay, Rus.” The man offered, his voice soft and soothing like the Consort's. “You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you.”
The man didn't understand.
This strange man who looked so much like the Consort seemed to think he should be glad that Master would never find him.
“Master...” The slave breathed quietly, eyes closed in fear and uncertainty, trying to draw upon the memory of Master, the feel of slender, calloused hands against his skin and the sound of his voice.
“He won't find you here.”
As if Master would waste his time searching for a disobedient toy. He had other pets, other slaves to occupy his time. Still, the words cut like a knife.
“Please, sir...,” The slave whispered, fighting tears as he bowed his head to the floor. He didn't know what he was asking, what he wanted – he wasn't allowed to want – only that he was more afraid than he could remember ever being before, even when withstanding Master's sharpest rages.
“Rus,” The man began, moving closer, so close he could feel the air moving. “Tell me what you need. Please, let me help you.”
The slave's breath caught, a silent stutter in his throat. What he needed... “Master?”
**
The desperation in Rus' shaking voice was stark and painful, a plea painted with need and hope and despair. For the first time, Lithuania realized that it wasn't relief fueling Rus' actions, but fear. He was afraid, not of his master finding him and punishing him, but of never seeing his master again. Like as not, the Empire was the one constant in Rus' tortured life, and now he was gone.
“Oh, Rus.” Lithuania fought the urge to pull the trembling, scared boy into his arms, his heart aching. “It'll be alright, Rus. You'll see.”
Rus just curled up into himself, obviously not agreeing.
“Poland,” Lithuania whispered under his breath in his own language. “Come back soon.”
He didn't know how to get through to Rus, but Poland, who was the closest thing to the master Rus was missing there was in this universe, might have a chance. If he was willing.
Lithuania couldn't imagine Poland refusing to help Rus, but at the same time, Poland had been so freaked out when he ran from the room that he might not be able to help. Lithuania didn't know what exactly had made Poland run, what had put the sharp light of terror in those familiar green eyes, but he knew that the parallels between Russia and the Empire that had done this to Rus hadn't helped.
Russia at least had had insanity as an excuse, his mind twisted by the words and actions of his leaders – and he'd always believed his actions to be just. Every blow, every wound he had inflicted had been for a reason, even if it only made sense in Russia's broken mind, and he'd always tended to the wounds with such gentleness afterward that Lithuania knew he regretted the apparent necessity of his actions.
The Empire couldn't claim that much –if he knew nothing else about the man, Lithuania knew that nothing could justify breaking a child so thoroughly that he grovelled and begged for punishment, to steal away his name, his very humanity, and leave him believing his existence was meant for nothing more than to be a plaything. A toy.
Though Lithuania would never voice those thoughts in front of Poland.
“I swear, Rus,” Lithuania swore with a determination he could hardly believe, “we'll help you. We'll make it better for you here.”
Rus cringed, a sharp keen dying in his throat nearly before it began. He needed comfort, a gentle touch and someone to let him cry into their shoulder, none of which Lithuania could bring himself to offer for fear of making it worse.
Lithuania had never felt so helpless before, hovering over Rus with nothing but useless platitudes to offer, and it wasn't long before his stomach began to ache.
“Come here, Rus,” Lithuania coaxed, moving slowly towards the kitchen where he kept his medicine. It probably wouldn't hurt to get some food into Rus while he was there with the way his bones stuck out from his skin so starkly.
When Rus began to crawl after him, Lithuania stopped. “Can you stand, Rus?”
“Yes, sir.” Rus rose to his feet, head still bowed, and suddenly Lithuania wanted to be sick.
The scars on his back were continued on his chest and legs, but even worse than that were the dark bruises and scars over his groin and around his nipples and the dried blood and semen trailed down the inside of his legs.
Shuddering and fighting the bile that rose up in his throat, Lithuania abandoned the thought of food and began to walk down the hall to the bathroom, forcing a smile and gesturing for Rus to follow when he coudn't get his voice to work, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms with the effort it took to keep from putting a hole in the wall.
And if Lithuania hoped that Russia taught the Empire a much needed lesson, imagining an evil-looking Poland with teeth filed to a point and short spiky hair being torn to a thousand bloody pieces, well, he wasn't hurting anyone.
**
Poland stumbled as he appeared in the pasture just outside his small home, collapsing in the grass as a wave of fatigue overtook him, his vision clouded by unshed tears.
He was emotionally and physically exhausted, the jump having drained the last of his energy, and he could hardly breath for the pain in his heart. He laid in the grass, staring up blankly at the clouds, fingers clenched in the dirt to keep himself grounded.
This was his soil. His grass. His land.
Land that he had suffered for so many times, fighting and cursing even when he should have been dead.
It was no Empire, but for the first time the thought didn't make him wonder for chances long past.
He'd never been the nicest of people – Poland knew that much – always thinking of himself and his own first.
Was it really a surprise that his other self, one that had thrived, was just as selfish? Taking and taking and never knowing when enough was enough without Lithuania there to temper him.
Or maybe the other Lithuania had tried, certainly he hadn't agreed with what had been done to little Russia, maybe he had tried and- Poland stopped that thought before the weary depression of his exhaustion turned back into the sharp, terrified self-loathing he'd felt earlier.
A wet, hairy muzzle brushed his arm, and Poland dragged his gaze from the sky to see Princess' soulful brown eyes looking down at him with worry.
“Hey, sweetie,” Poland smiled shakily, reaching up with one arm to pat the pony's neck, grimacing as she moved to nuzzle his face. “You don't think I could hurt Liet, right?” The words slowed as he really thought about them.”
It wasn't like he'd never hurt Lithuania before. He'd nearly consumed Lithuania back when the Commonwealth had been strong – smiling and laughing as he urged Lithuania to learn Polish and to become his when they were supposed to be equals. And he hadn't cared that his attitude had hurt Lithuania – he hadn't even known until he'd proposed putting the Commonwealth back together and Lithuania had snapped at him.
Princess whinnied, her mane falling down over her muzzle to tickle his face, and Poland felt the tears escape. He sobbed quietly, curling in on himself as he wept, until his head ached. He fell asleep with the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks,
When he woke, the sun had set. Princess stood over him like a watch pony, nickering happily when Poland pushed himself up into a seated position, wincing as his body protested.
“I'm fine, Princess.” Poland pushed the pony away when she moved in to nuzzle away the tear tracks. “I'll be fine.”
His head still ached, and he really didn't want to go back and face what his other self had done to Russia, but he would survive. It was for the best that one Poland try to fix what another had broken, right? Plus, Lithuania would probably never forgive him if Poland didn't go back to help.
“Wish me luck, Princess.” Poland stood, hugging Princess as though it would be the last time he ever saw her, trying not to talk himself out of going back.
He had to do this.
Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, Poland exhaled sharply and made his way inside to arrange for a ride to Lithuania's home.
**
Zdravstvujte, Pol'sha [Russian] – Hello, Poland
This is mostly filler, getting everyone where they need to be. I don't really like what I did with Poland, but I figure he just needed to wrap his mind around the situation. He hasn't really dealt with his emotions yet, but he's sort of shoved them out of the way so he can work around them.
Um... Alternate history!
So Ukraine broke away from Poland and his empire and forged her own country. She's strong enough that it would cost too much to drag her back, so Poland grudgingly puts up with her.
Also, I swear I'm not making Alter!Liet into a wimp just for fun! There is a reason behind it.
Thanks so much to everyone enjoying this.
Fabulous as always! The characterizations are wonderful, and I love the contrast between the two Russias.
Nice insight into just how broken alt!Russia is...
i don't normally like this kind of au at all but i'm loving the research you've put into this (it shows!). especially the language details and polonisation.
the characterisation is lovely and complex too. they're some of my favs and i'm so happy you're doing them justice!! :)
the characterisation is lovely and complex too. they're some of my favs and i'm so happy you're doing them justice!! :)
Omg when did this update?! Ahh!!! :DDDDDD
I really can't express my love for this fill... FrUk has always been one of my biggest pairings. And I feel like you really hit the nail on the head with both England and Frances character- (my France feels, they hurt!!) I really hope you continue this :DDD
I really can't express my love for this fill... FrUk has always been one of my biggest pairings. And I feel like you really hit the nail on the head with both England and Frances character- (my France feels, they hurt!!) I really hope you continue this :DDD
I am SO sorry! I have no excuses, but I will try to do better in the future. This chapter was just hard because I had a dozen different ways to take it that mark the future of the story.
**
A flash of sparks marked the failure of the fifth attempt to discover the location of his Queen, and the King hissed and cursed.
He could see the place somewhat around the image of the wounded demon, but it wasn't enough.
Whatever protections guarded the hovel were strong, strong enough to ward off his search, but they couldn't hold forever. Certainly the ones he searched for couldn't hide there forever.
It was only a matter of time.
Grabbing another spellbook from the bookshelf, he opened it to a stronger location spell, smiling as he felt something before it failed.
He was getting closer.
**
Never before had Lukas felt such white-hot rage flowing through his veins as he did listening to Matthew's stuttered tale of how he had seduced their father to save their lives. Only the fact that he couldn't seem to work magic in this form kept him from shooting off sparks of fire as Matthew curled over Emil and sobbed his apologies for letting them be trapped in swan forms.
It wasn't Matthew's fault Arthur was insane, nor was he to blame for wanting to see his brothers live.
If anything, Lukas was to blame for not summoning the trolls from the very start. If only he'd been faster...
If he hadn't waited, Matthew might not bear yet another unwarranted burden of guilt.
Except that the pain and Matthew's description of watching them writhe on the ground made it sound like Arthur had been using a sapping death spell. If the Trolls had come before Arthur had stopped, it would have taken little more than a thought to complete the process in an instant, leaving nothing but corpses for the Trolls to steal away.
A wave of icy terror flowed down Lukas' spine at the realization of how close they had come to death, and Lukas pressed himself against Matthew's side, wishing he could tell his little brother exactly what he had done – he had saved them, no matter what shape they were bound to now.
Curses could be broken, transformations undone, but life... life could not be rekindled.
“You shouldn't be so quick to take blame,” Herakles' slow voice is calming and free of judgment as he looks up from Berwald's still form – Lukas was fairly certain Herakles had done something to make him sleep before his wing was set. “You didn't know the Trolls would come. Surely you prefer your brothers alive as birds rather than dead as men?”
Shocked into silence, Matthew nodded, his shuddering sobs quieting as he looked up.
“Don't you think they would agree?”
This time, Matthew's nod came slower, but it did come. Soren and Tino screeched their agreement, while Lukas nodded, looking to the healer in muted approval.
He received a quiet look of understanding, a small smile that seemed to accept his own unspoken gratitude.
Herakles was a good man.
The quiet was broken by Eduard, leaping into the air and honking as a tri-colored kitten mewled pitifully from where it had landed, just missing Eduard in its attack. It was smaller than Eduard, but the way it watched him retreat between Matthew and Soren suggested that it really didn't care.
“Pounce....” Herakles scolded half-heartedly.
“That's my brother!” Tino, however, took the apparent threat to his twin very seriously, extending his wings and hissing menacingly at the small cat, frightening it back to the warmth of its mother beneath the bed.
Matthew looked worried, pulling Emil up against his chest – and out of reach of cats.
“I think, young swan,” Herakles began in a stern fashion, though his eyes were bright with supressed laughter, “that you will have to forgive a kitten's curiosity.” To Matthew, who was watching the cats with wary eyes, he reassured, “My cats will not harm a guest in my home, even a bird-shaped one.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, though your brave warrior here seems ready to fight off threats of any size.”
As if on cue, Tino ruffled his feathers, folding his wings back against his body with an air of seriousness that seemed to dare any kitten to mess with him as he made his way back to Eduard's side.
Matthew giggled.
He was wearing a timid smile, letting a ruffled Emil back down onto his lap. The sight and sound warmed Lukas' heart, enough that he didn't scold Tino for causing a ruckus in their host's home – it wasn't like the cats could do much damage, especially as only the kittens seemed particularly interested in them and even the largest of those was just Emil's size.
After what Matthew had gone through, what they'd all gone through, it was good to see that he could still smile, even covered in blood – their blood, Lukas had realized with mixed relief and horror upon listening to Matthew's tale – and buried beneath Herakles' oversized cloak.
At least he didn't seem to have been too badly hurt in Arthur's hands.
Now they just had to keep it that way.
Arthur wasn't the type to get over things easily. He'd spent eleven years brooding over the loss of his Queen, and he probably could have gone on until he died of old age if Matthew hadn't caught his eye.
Unless something knocked Arthur out of his insanity, Matthew was never going to be safe.
And anyone who interfered would probably not live to regret it.
Watching Herakles stand at the grumble of Matthew's stomach, fetching a bowl from one of the cupboards and filling it with something from a pot on the back of the stove, his every movement slow and deliberate, Lukas felt a prickle of guilt in his chest.
Herakles had no idea of the danger they put him in just by being here, and there was no way to tell him.
“You should eat,” Herakles told Matthew, crouching down and holding out the bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “It will do you good.”
Reaching out to take the offering, Matthew smiled nervously. “...Thank you.”
Herakles just smiled back, “I'll get you something for your brothers.” At Matthew's confused look, he explained that swans were better off eating fresh vegetables than the stew he was feeding Matthew, before standing and walking out the door.
Matthew looked at his brothers with wide-eyed concern, clutching his bowl against his chest as though it might hurt them just by existing. Likely he had been thinking of sharing it with them.
“It's okay, Baby Bear,” Soren honked, gently bumping his head against Matthew's, causing the tension that lined his body to ease away. Then he nudged the bowl, “Eat.”
Even without understanding what Soren was saying, the actions were obvious enough that Matthew only hesitated for a moment before dipping the spoon into the stew and lifting a bite to his mouth.
When Herakles returned with an armful of fresh produce, Matthew had already consumed half the bowl. He stopped eating to watch Herakles pump water into a bowl to wash the vegetables, chopping carrots and celery into small pieces and ripping the lettuce apart with his fingers. The end product, which was placed in front of Matthew in a large bowl, was a delicious looking salad.
“No meat?” Soren whined quite loudly.
“Soren?” Matthew tensed, obviously worried.
Soren was an idiot.
With careful precision, Lukas gauged the distance and unfurled his wing sharply, cuffing Soren's side with a nonchalant ease he didn't really feel. “Idiot.”
Now Herakles was looking a little worried, but Matthew's gaze was warm and fond. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning anymore either, familiar enough with his brothers to recognize that Lukas wouldn't be rough with Soren if something was actually wrong.
With a nod, Lukas walked to the bowl, gesturing with his bill for Emil and the twins to join him. “Save some for Berwald,” he told them as quietly as he could. “We don't want to inconvenience the healer anymore than necessary.”
Nodding their understanding, all three began to nibble at the leaves, and once Lukas was satisfied that they were actually eating, he joined them, followed not long after by Soren.
When he looked up from the bowl, his stomach pleasantly full, Lukas saw Herakles looking through a number of dark-looking books and found himself torn between staying beside Matthew and joining the healer in searching for a cure.
In the end, he didn't move. It wasn't like he had any more idea of what spell Arthur had used than Herakles. He hadn't been conscious while it was cast, after all. And as fascinating as those books looked, Matthew needed him, his tired gaze darting upward between each bite as though reassuring himself that they were all there alive and accounted for.
Pressing himself into Matthew's side, Lukas curled his neck around to rest his head in Matthew's lap. Who knew how long it would be before Arthur came looking for Matthew? How long would they be allowed to rest before having to run?
If they even managed to run. When Arthur came for Matthew, they wouldn't even have the advantage of surprise, not that it had been surprise that had saved them this time.
Arthur had underestimated Lukas' ability, not expecting a self-taught amateur without experience to have a full contract with the trolls – though really, it had been the faeries Arthur had contracted with to serve in the castle that had given Lukas the idea to even look for contract magic to begin with – but he wouldn't do so again.
Not that it mattered, since Lukas' magic was locked away in this form. He couldn't even summon a gust of warm air, much less anything that might save them from Arthur.
“Matthew,” Herakles interrupted Lukas' thoughts. “You said your brothers were all changed together. Are you absolutely certain that all of them were transformed at the exact same time?”
The gravity in Herakles voice had Matthew clutching at Lukas so tight that he could hardly breath, his bowl abandoned on the floor, while the others tensed, turning to face the healer. “I don't-” Matthew began, hesitating as he stared at Herakles.
“It's important, Matthew.” Despite the obvious tension in the way Herakles held the book laying open before him, he managed to keep his voice level and almost calm as he explained. “If it was six consecutive spells, there will be a different remedy than if it was a single spell working on all of them.”
Matthew nodded his understanding and squeezed his eyes tight in recollection, “I- I think it was just one. They- they all started screa- screaming again at- at the same time. I didn't....” The blood drained from his face as his eyes opened, his body shaking like a leaf.
Lukas stroked Matthew's face with the side of his bill, Emil and Eduard quickly joining him in offering a comforting touch. Berwald moved, as though aware of Matthew's distress, but whatever the healer had done to put him out was strong enough to keep him asleep, with Soren and Tino working to calm his troubled slumber.
There was a look of dismay on the healer's face as he looked back over his book, and Lukas felt a chill go down his spine. Perhaps they would never be returned to their human form-
“I'm afraid I've found the cure, Matthew.” Herakles paused, his fingers pressed down against the pages of the book. His eyes were dark and serious, his lips drawn tightly together.
Matthew didn't seem to notice, eyes alight with hope. “You did?”
“You should know,” Herakles began, “that it is rare for a mage to have the power and the will to cast a multiple transformation spell, but once cast its victims are bound together. You must cure your brothers together, or the spell will solidify and there will be no cure for any of them.”
Lukas nodded absently, his mind going back to his studies. It was a basic law of magic that spells could not be picked apart and undone piece by piece, but try as he might, he couldn't think of anything that would cause the healer to look so foreboding. Then he recalled the matter of emotional output. The rage and hatred Arthur had born towards them when he cast the spell would require the cure to be painful, evidence of a true love for those who could be the objects of such hate.
And because there were six of them, whatever Matthew had to suffer would be six times as painful.
“What is it?” He stumbled to his feet, wings outstretched for balance as he moved quickly across the floor. “What does Matthew have to do?!”
“Lukas!” The others called out in a chorus of honks and whistles, while Matthew reached out for him too late.
“What is it, Lu?” Soren followed him to Herakles side.
“The cure!” Lukas honked, tugging at Herakles shirt to get the man to let him look at the book. Lukas didn't want Matthew knowing how to break the curse before he knew just how much Matthew would have to suffer because Matthew would hide any fear or pain if he thought he could help them. Matthew would sacrifice himself for them without a thought, never thinking that they might not want such a sacrifice. “It will hurt Matthew. All of Father's hatred went into that spell, and Matthew will have to bear the pain six times over to prove that he loves us enough to counteract it!”
**
Finally. This is very much a transitional chapter, come next chapter things will start happening.
Right!Anon: Yup. I'm trying for a very fairytale-esque villain in Arthur as he slips deeper and deeper into insanity. :)
OP: I am glad you're enjoying the story. I've always loved fairytales – especially making up my own using the bare bones of the original stories.
For pairings, I've actually done some more thinking about the plot and what's happening in the future for this story. I have something planned for France – I'm not telling what because that would spoil it, but it kind of clashes with making him a romantic interest. Right now I'm debating making Matthew end up with either one of the Asians (most likely Japan) or one of the Germanics (either Germany, Switz, or Liechtenstein). Your opinion would be much appreciated in the decision-making process, even if only to decide which family to use.
Honestly, Matthew's the only one for whom a pairing is a necessity, and I'm still not sure I will pair his brothers at all. But if I do, how do you feel about Lithuania as a partner for Finland or Sweden? And one (or both) of the Italies as a partner for the other? Also, would you be terribly upset if I paired Norway with Greece (after the curse is broken, of course)?
I know you said anything would be fine, but I'd rather double check than put in a pairing that might ruin the story for you. :) Especially since it would almost be easier to simply forgo pairings entirely.
Camper!Anon: Thanks for reminding me that there are people reading this! Otherwise I might have dithered over which plotline to go with for even longer. :) It made me smile to see that someone liked my story so much.
Lovely!Anon: I think I'm the late one here... :)
The chaos is going to be spectacular once things get started. :) I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!
<3 to you all
**
A flash of sparks marked the failure of the fifth attempt to discover the location of his Queen, and the King hissed and cursed.
He could see the place somewhat around the image of the wounded demon, but it wasn't enough.
Whatever protections guarded the hovel were strong, strong enough to ward off his search, but they couldn't hold forever. Certainly the ones he searched for couldn't hide there forever.
It was only a matter of time.
Grabbing another spellbook from the bookshelf, he opened it to a stronger location spell, smiling as he felt something before it failed.
He was getting closer.
**
Never before had Lukas felt such white-hot rage flowing through his veins as he did listening to Matthew's stuttered tale of how he had seduced their father to save their lives. Only the fact that he couldn't seem to work magic in this form kept him from shooting off sparks of fire as Matthew curled over Emil and sobbed his apologies for letting them be trapped in swan forms.
It wasn't Matthew's fault Arthur was insane, nor was he to blame for wanting to see his brothers live.
If anything, Lukas was to blame for not summoning the trolls from the very start. If only he'd been faster...
If he hadn't waited, Matthew might not bear yet another unwarranted burden of guilt.
Except that the pain and Matthew's description of watching them writhe on the ground made it sound like Arthur had been using a sapping death spell. If the Trolls had come before Arthur had stopped, it would have taken little more than a thought to complete the process in an instant, leaving nothing but corpses for the Trolls to steal away.
A wave of icy terror flowed down Lukas' spine at the realization of how close they had come to death, and Lukas pressed himself against Matthew's side, wishing he could tell his little brother exactly what he had done – he had saved them, no matter what shape they were bound to now.
Curses could be broken, transformations undone, but life... life could not be rekindled.
“You shouldn't be so quick to take blame,” Herakles' slow voice is calming and free of judgment as he looks up from Berwald's still form – Lukas was fairly certain Herakles had done something to make him sleep before his wing was set. “You didn't know the Trolls would come. Surely you prefer your brothers alive as birds rather than dead as men?”
Shocked into silence, Matthew nodded, his shuddering sobs quieting as he looked up.
“Don't you think they would agree?”
This time, Matthew's nod came slower, but it did come. Soren and Tino screeched their agreement, while Lukas nodded, looking to the healer in muted approval.
He received a quiet look of understanding, a small smile that seemed to accept his own unspoken gratitude.
Herakles was a good man.
The quiet was broken by Eduard, leaping into the air and honking as a tri-colored kitten mewled pitifully from where it had landed, just missing Eduard in its attack. It was smaller than Eduard, but the way it watched him retreat between Matthew and Soren suggested that it really didn't care.
“Pounce....” Herakles scolded half-heartedly.
“That's my brother!” Tino, however, took the apparent threat to his twin very seriously, extending his wings and hissing menacingly at the small cat, frightening it back to the warmth of its mother beneath the bed.
Matthew looked worried, pulling Emil up against his chest – and out of reach of cats.
“I think, young swan,” Herakles began in a stern fashion, though his eyes were bright with supressed laughter, “that you will have to forgive a kitten's curiosity.” To Matthew, who was watching the cats with wary eyes, he reassured, “My cats will not harm a guest in my home, even a bird-shaped one.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, though your brave warrior here seems ready to fight off threats of any size.”
As if on cue, Tino ruffled his feathers, folding his wings back against his body with an air of seriousness that seemed to dare any kitten to mess with him as he made his way back to Eduard's side.
Matthew giggled.
He was wearing a timid smile, letting a ruffled Emil back down onto his lap. The sight and sound warmed Lukas' heart, enough that he didn't scold Tino for causing a ruckus in their host's home – it wasn't like the cats could do much damage, especially as only the kittens seemed particularly interested in them and even the largest of those was just Emil's size.
After what Matthew had gone through, what they'd all gone through, it was good to see that he could still smile, even covered in blood – their blood, Lukas had realized with mixed relief and horror upon listening to Matthew's tale – and buried beneath Herakles' oversized cloak.
At least he didn't seem to have been too badly hurt in Arthur's hands.
Now they just had to keep it that way.
Arthur wasn't the type to get over things easily. He'd spent eleven years brooding over the loss of his Queen, and he probably could have gone on until he died of old age if Matthew hadn't caught his eye.
Unless something knocked Arthur out of his insanity, Matthew was never going to be safe.
And anyone who interfered would probably not live to regret it.
Watching Herakles stand at the grumble of Matthew's stomach, fetching a bowl from one of the cupboards and filling it with something from a pot on the back of the stove, his every movement slow and deliberate, Lukas felt a prickle of guilt in his chest.
Herakles had no idea of the danger they put him in just by being here, and there was no way to tell him.
“You should eat,” Herakles told Matthew, crouching down and holding out the bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “It will do you good.”
Reaching out to take the offering, Matthew smiled nervously. “...Thank you.”
Herakles just smiled back, “I'll get you something for your brothers.” At Matthew's confused look, he explained that swans were better off eating fresh vegetables than the stew he was feeding Matthew, before standing and walking out the door.
Matthew looked at his brothers with wide-eyed concern, clutching his bowl against his chest as though it might hurt them just by existing. Likely he had been thinking of sharing it with them.
“It's okay, Baby Bear,” Soren honked, gently bumping his head against Matthew's, causing the tension that lined his body to ease away. Then he nudged the bowl, “Eat.”
Even without understanding what Soren was saying, the actions were obvious enough that Matthew only hesitated for a moment before dipping the spoon into the stew and lifting a bite to his mouth.
When Herakles returned with an armful of fresh produce, Matthew had already consumed half the bowl. He stopped eating to watch Herakles pump water into a bowl to wash the vegetables, chopping carrots and celery into small pieces and ripping the lettuce apart with his fingers. The end product, which was placed in front of Matthew in a large bowl, was a delicious looking salad.
“No meat?” Soren whined quite loudly.
“Soren?” Matthew tensed, obviously worried.
Soren was an idiot.
With careful precision, Lukas gauged the distance and unfurled his wing sharply, cuffing Soren's side with a nonchalant ease he didn't really feel. “Idiot.”
Now Herakles was looking a little worried, but Matthew's gaze was warm and fond. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning anymore either, familiar enough with his brothers to recognize that Lukas wouldn't be rough with Soren if something was actually wrong.
With a nod, Lukas walked to the bowl, gesturing with his bill for Emil and the twins to join him. “Save some for Berwald,” he told them as quietly as he could. “We don't want to inconvenience the healer anymore than necessary.”
Nodding their understanding, all three began to nibble at the leaves, and once Lukas was satisfied that they were actually eating, he joined them, followed not long after by Soren.
When he looked up from the bowl, his stomach pleasantly full, Lukas saw Herakles looking through a number of dark-looking books and found himself torn between staying beside Matthew and joining the healer in searching for a cure.
In the end, he didn't move. It wasn't like he had any more idea of what spell Arthur had used than Herakles. He hadn't been conscious while it was cast, after all. And as fascinating as those books looked, Matthew needed him, his tired gaze darting upward between each bite as though reassuring himself that they were all there alive and accounted for.
Pressing himself into Matthew's side, Lukas curled his neck around to rest his head in Matthew's lap. Who knew how long it would be before Arthur came looking for Matthew? How long would they be allowed to rest before having to run?
If they even managed to run. When Arthur came for Matthew, they wouldn't even have the advantage of surprise, not that it had been surprise that had saved them this time.
Arthur had underestimated Lukas' ability, not expecting a self-taught amateur without experience to have a full contract with the trolls – though really, it had been the faeries Arthur had contracted with to serve in the castle that had given Lukas the idea to even look for contract magic to begin with – but he wouldn't do so again.
Not that it mattered, since Lukas' magic was locked away in this form. He couldn't even summon a gust of warm air, much less anything that might save them from Arthur.
“Matthew,” Herakles interrupted Lukas' thoughts. “You said your brothers were all changed together. Are you absolutely certain that all of them were transformed at the exact same time?”
The gravity in Herakles voice had Matthew clutching at Lukas so tight that he could hardly breath, his bowl abandoned on the floor, while the others tensed, turning to face the healer. “I don't-” Matthew began, hesitating as he stared at Herakles.
“It's important, Matthew.” Despite the obvious tension in the way Herakles held the book laying open before him, he managed to keep his voice level and almost calm as he explained. “If it was six consecutive spells, there will be a different remedy than if it was a single spell working on all of them.”
Matthew nodded his understanding and squeezed his eyes tight in recollection, “I- I think it was just one. They- they all started screa- screaming again at- at the same time. I didn't....” The blood drained from his face as his eyes opened, his body shaking like a leaf.
Lukas stroked Matthew's face with the side of his bill, Emil and Eduard quickly joining him in offering a comforting touch. Berwald moved, as though aware of Matthew's distress, but whatever the healer had done to put him out was strong enough to keep him asleep, with Soren and Tino working to calm his troubled slumber.
There was a look of dismay on the healer's face as he looked back over his book, and Lukas felt a chill go down his spine. Perhaps they would never be returned to their human form-
“I'm afraid I've found the cure, Matthew.” Herakles paused, his fingers pressed down against the pages of the book. His eyes were dark and serious, his lips drawn tightly together.
Matthew didn't seem to notice, eyes alight with hope. “You did?”
“You should know,” Herakles began, “that it is rare for a mage to have the power and the will to cast a multiple transformation spell, but once cast its victims are bound together. You must cure your brothers together, or the spell will solidify and there will be no cure for any of them.”
Lukas nodded absently, his mind going back to his studies. It was a basic law of magic that spells could not be picked apart and undone piece by piece, but try as he might, he couldn't think of anything that would cause the healer to look so foreboding. Then he recalled the matter of emotional output. The rage and hatred Arthur had born towards them when he cast the spell would require the cure to be painful, evidence of a true love for those who could be the objects of such hate.
And because there were six of them, whatever Matthew had to suffer would be six times as painful.
“What is it?” He stumbled to his feet, wings outstretched for balance as he moved quickly across the floor. “What does Matthew have to do?!”
“Lukas!” The others called out in a chorus of honks and whistles, while Matthew reached out for him too late.
“What is it, Lu?” Soren followed him to Herakles side.
“The cure!” Lukas honked, tugging at Herakles shirt to get the man to let him look at the book. Lukas didn't want Matthew knowing how to break the curse before he knew just how much Matthew would have to suffer because Matthew would hide any fear or pain if he thought he could help them. Matthew would sacrifice himself for them without a thought, never thinking that they might not want such a sacrifice. “It will hurt Matthew. All of Father's hatred went into that spell, and Matthew will have to bear the pain six times over to prove that he loves us enough to counteract it!”
**
Finally. This is very much a transitional chapter, come next chapter things will start happening.
Right!Anon: Yup. I'm trying for a very fairytale-esque villain in Arthur as he slips deeper and deeper into insanity. :)
OP: I am glad you're enjoying the story. I've always loved fairytales – especially making up my own using the bare bones of the original stories.
For pairings, I've actually done some more thinking about the plot and what's happening in the future for this story. I have something planned for France – I'm not telling what because that would spoil it, but it kind of clashes with making him a romantic interest. Right now I'm debating making Matthew end up with either one of the Asians (most likely Japan) or one of the Germanics (either Germany, Switz, or Liechtenstein). Your opinion would be much appreciated in the decision-making process, even if only to decide which family to use.
Honestly, Matthew's the only one for whom a pairing is a necessity, and I'm still not sure I will pair his brothers at all. But if I do, how do you feel about Lithuania as a partner for Finland or Sweden? And one (or both) of the Italies as a partner for the other? Also, would you be terribly upset if I paired Norway with Greece (after the curse is broken, of course)?
I know you said anything would be fine, but I'd rather double check than put in a pairing that might ruin the story for you. :) Especially since it would almost be easier to simply forgo pairings entirely.
Camper!Anon: Thanks for reminding me that there are people reading this! Otherwise I might have dithered over which plotline to go with for even longer. :) It made me smile to see that someone liked my story so much.
Lovely!Anon: I think I'm the late one here... :)
The chaos is going to be spectacular once things get started. :) I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!
<3 to you all
OP is slightly late but here!
I'm so happy to see this update! Lukas is always such an overprotective brother (but in a good way, of course).
Let's see... I honestly don't care too much who Matthew turns out with, but I suppose either Japan or Liechtenstein would be nice. Same goes for the other three, don't particularly care who they end up with, so whatever you'd want to go with, go ahead and choose.
I'm so happy to see this update! Lukas is always such an overprotective brother (but in a good way, of course).
Let's see... I honestly don't care too much who Matthew turns out with, but I suppose either Japan or Liechtenstein would be nice. Same goes for the other three, don't particularly care who they end up with, so whatever you'd want to go with, go ahead and choose.
Oh the feel of leather against skin… there could be nothing more erotic than that. His German lover’s sock-suspenders cut tightly into his skin, fastened by a little buckle and Italy’s hand caressed it, the contrast to the buttery leather and Germany’s smooth skin and downy blonde leg hair. Germany was such a good boy; such a good, good boy. His cock was red and weeping, standing at full attention as Italy removed his mouth with a small pop!
Germany knew his face was shamelessly red, that his eyes would have held such a great amount of lust and darkened how Italy liked them as he climbed onto his lap. Germany felt the smooth silk of the stockings slide against his bare thighs as Italy’s deft fingers began to work at the buttons of his shirt. Germany remained silent and motionless. He was painfully hard and dripping.
“Germany was such a good boy and wore them for me,” he whispered against the blonde man’s neck, mouthing red marks. “So I’ll give him rewards.” Italy’s hand gave a few hard, fast tugs against German’s member and the man couldn’t help but buck and twitch and groan at the sudden assault. “Maybe it would have been fun if he hadn’t… maybe,” he bit down hard against the skin just at the junction of his shoulder and neck. “But I would have been angry. It doesn’t matter really.”
The shirt came off in haste, thrown somewhere behind them (Germany hopes not into the smouldering fire on the far wall). Then Italy is rocking against him, kissing him passionately, sliding his tongue against his and biting down on his bottom lip with his teeth. Germany reaches up to pull him close, to bury his hand in his auburn hair. A hand travels down to his ass and grips the pale cheek, shoving his hips closer so they collide and Germany can feel the scratchy, strained and damp fabric of the panties against his hyper-sensitive tip. Italy groaned against his mouth when Germany pulled back the suspender strap. The sound it makes as it snapped against Italy’s cheek resonated throughout the room.
Italy got off Germany’s lap for a moment and stood up, taking a fistful of Germany’s hair and tugging him forward. Germany tried not to allow his eyes to roll back in pleasure, in the mix of pain and bliss that so turns him on, and Italy knows doing this will make him wild – make him something untameable and unsatisfied and completely his to control. That is not what Germany wanted. Not tonight. He wanted Italy satisfied and contented and almost ready to fall asleep blissful and happy, and then – and only then, would he begin his fun. To carry out Italy’s wish. To wreck him. Absolutely annihilate him.
“Suck.”
He does. It’s not an unsurprising request – Germany rarely gives blow-jobs. One, because he’s often very methodical about sex, and two, he’s not confident he’s that good at them. The reason why he conceded and wore the suspenders is because Italy had not explored his kinks and fetishes and sexuality the way Germany had. Germany liked the bondage and the spanking and the pain, and being so full of pleasure and pain that he shook at the sheer intensity of the euphoria it could bring (Italy was quite a good dominant when he’d been convinced that someone could actually like to be hurt). Italy, up until recently, had been a virgin and their sex had been rather vanilla. Had he been in such a mood, maybe Germany wouldn’t have worn the suspenders just to see what his partner would do to him, but the night is not about him.
So, Germany sucks.
His cheeks hollow and his tongue lavish and to show his appreciation, Italy tugs on his hair roughly and groans his name. His thighs and knees wobble and Italy’s back arches.
“So good, oh Ludwig!” he swears in Italian then as Ludwig takes him deeper, swallowing once letting the feel of the back of his throat coax his orgasm. “I’m going to… I want to… ugh,” he swallows dryly. “Is that all right?”
Germany swallows once again before tightening his lips and sucking harder in an attempt to answer. Italy unravels at the seams, his legs shaking and his head falling back over his shoulders. Germany wraps an arm around his waist in case his legs, the slim things they were, decided to give out. When they did, Germany caught his lover’s weight, letting Italy grasp his shoulders and hair, panting into the crown of his head.
“Ludwig,” he moans gently, contently, and kisses his hair. “Ludwig, Ludwig…,” he sighs.
He falls gracefully into his lap again, straddling him, kissing him all over – face, brows, lips, eyelids, cheeks. One hand reached down and hastily brushes away the silk panties, pushing them to the dip on the side of his arse between his thighs as he spreads his legs and gently lowers himself down onto Ludwig.
He gasps out when it stretches and there’s a slight burn, but he lifts himself up a little bit more, then down again to accommodate for the intrusion. Germany’s hands are on his hips, not guiding him or forcing – just resting there.
While, Italy rode him as he will and Germany sinks back into the lounge, contented for the moment to watch the show. He’s got considerably more stamina than his Italian partner – indeed sometimes he draws it out, finds that the longer he leaves himself strung the better the release will be. Italy is not like that however. Adolescent in his pleasures, he’s a one-show pony, a quick-draw McGraw – all those weird American terms he’s heard the man describe his old British lover. Italy, for sake of a better word, is all about the ending. Germany likes the scenic route.
Italy asks him, in a ragged panting breath, “A-are you close? Germany?”
He’s not on the precipice, but he’s not exactly too far away either. Then, however, he has an idea.
“Come, Italy.”
The Italian looks shocked. “W-what?”
“Come.” Germany says. “That’s an order.”
Italy shivers when Germany grabs his cock that has sprung back to life, pumping it roughly. Italy lets out a keening wail messing Germany’s hand, lingerie and Germany’s tank top. He shivers and shakes and slowly his beautifully aching body crawls off Germany and presses by his side.
“Germany, let me…,” he whimpers and reaches out for his member.
“No,” he catches Italy’s hand.
“Ve, why not?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not like this… I-,”
“Lay on your side.”
Italy blinks. “What?”
“I said; lay on your side, Italy.”
The Italian, with some hesitation, positions himself on the lounge with Germany behind him. For a moment, he thinks their spooning, but Germany’s still poking him in the back and oh! It must be painful by now, mustn’t it?
“Hold the back of my neck,” commands Germany as he nestles his nose behind Italy’s ear. A hand comes up to rest onto the junction of Germany’s neck and shoulder. He grabbed onto Italy’s hips, positioned the man’s legs one over the other before wrapping a hand around the man’s lean waist, so he wouldn’t fall off the lounge and onto the floor.
“L-Ludwig?” he muttered. “Is this some weird sex move?”
He hummed against Italy’s ear. “Squeeze your thighs together.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.”
“H-how?”
Germany sighed. “L-like you have to go to the toilet or something.”
Germany positioned himself just under the frill of Italy’s lace panties and the side clips of his silken stockings. Italy squeezed his thighs together and Germany thrust forward. Italy yelped at the strange sensation – the man was having sex with his legs! It was weird! He could feel Germany’s hands roaming around his body, touching him roughly as his gasps filled his ear.
Germany felt this way? Loved the stockings so much that they weren’t merely foreplay?
“Sheiẞe, Italy…,” he moaned. “I’m going to ruin these fucking things.”
The textures of the stockings rubbed against his tip, against his shaft, were slightly painful and excruciatingly blissful. He was no stranger to pain during sex, and the slightly rough texture on a hypersensitive region of his body had him shaking.
He came in a mess, ruining the expensive silk, tearing and grabbing his lover’s body and grunting his completion into his ear. Italy squirmed as his arousal sprang back to life – Jesus, why did Germany have to be so hot? Why did him, completely losing control in the throws of pleasure turn him on so much?
“Damn it, fuck,” Germany sighed, relaxing his hold on Italy.
The Italian man sighed and stretched, contented in is exploration of his own sexual needs for the night. It had been good – surprising, and maybe, just maybe, he’d try it again. Although, obviously with a new set of lingerie.
“Ve,”he sighed and rolled over to Germany. The man was still panting. “That was great, Germany.”
Germany didn’t respond. He caught his breath and looked at the contented Italian.
“I’m hungry,” he muttered. “Ve… do you still have the gelato in the freezer?”
He did, but he didn’t tell Italy that.
Until he went to get up, went to move in those ruined little stocking and panty set and nothing else except legs for miles and his cute little ass that had been claimed for Deustchland many, many, many times.
Germany grabbed onto Italy’s thigh, running his hand down the silk covering it.
“Who said we’re done?”
“Ve?”
So basically this fill has switched Gerita to ItaGer, and then back to Gerita again. This part is long overdue. I plan to finish up this fill within the next week, so please look out for more! Also, intercrural - there you go OP! Expect more soon!
Germany knew his face was shamelessly red, that his eyes would have held such a great amount of lust and darkened how Italy liked them as he climbed onto his lap. Germany felt the smooth silk of the stockings slide against his bare thighs as Italy’s deft fingers began to work at the buttons of his shirt. Germany remained silent and motionless. He was painfully hard and dripping.
“Germany was such a good boy and wore them for me,” he whispered against the blonde man’s neck, mouthing red marks. “So I’ll give him rewards.” Italy’s hand gave a few hard, fast tugs against German’s member and the man couldn’t help but buck and twitch and groan at the sudden assault. “Maybe it would have been fun if he hadn’t… maybe,” he bit down hard against the skin just at the junction of his shoulder and neck. “But I would have been angry. It doesn’t matter really.”
The shirt came off in haste, thrown somewhere behind them (Germany hopes not into the smouldering fire on the far wall). Then Italy is rocking against him, kissing him passionately, sliding his tongue against his and biting down on his bottom lip with his teeth. Germany reaches up to pull him close, to bury his hand in his auburn hair. A hand travels down to his ass and grips the pale cheek, shoving his hips closer so they collide and Germany can feel the scratchy, strained and damp fabric of the panties against his hyper-sensitive tip. Italy groaned against his mouth when Germany pulled back the suspender strap. The sound it makes as it snapped against Italy’s cheek resonated throughout the room.
Italy got off Germany’s lap for a moment and stood up, taking a fistful of Germany’s hair and tugging him forward. Germany tried not to allow his eyes to roll back in pleasure, in the mix of pain and bliss that so turns him on, and Italy knows doing this will make him wild – make him something untameable and unsatisfied and completely his to control. That is not what Germany wanted. Not tonight. He wanted Italy satisfied and contented and almost ready to fall asleep blissful and happy, and then – and only then, would he begin his fun. To carry out Italy’s wish. To wreck him. Absolutely annihilate him.
“Suck.”
He does. It’s not an unsurprising request – Germany rarely gives blow-jobs. One, because he’s often very methodical about sex, and two, he’s not confident he’s that good at them. The reason why he conceded and wore the suspenders is because Italy had not explored his kinks and fetishes and sexuality the way Germany had. Germany liked the bondage and the spanking and the pain, and being so full of pleasure and pain that he shook at the sheer intensity of the euphoria it could bring (Italy was quite a good dominant when he’d been convinced that someone could actually like to be hurt). Italy, up until recently, had been a virgin and their sex had been rather vanilla. Had he been in such a mood, maybe Germany wouldn’t have worn the suspenders just to see what his partner would do to him, but the night is not about him.
So, Germany sucks.
His cheeks hollow and his tongue lavish and to show his appreciation, Italy tugs on his hair roughly and groans his name. His thighs and knees wobble and Italy’s back arches.
“So good, oh Ludwig!” he swears in Italian then as Ludwig takes him deeper, swallowing once letting the feel of the back of his throat coax his orgasm. “I’m going to… I want to… ugh,” he swallows dryly. “Is that all right?”
Germany swallows once again before tightening his lips and sucking harder in an attempt to answer. Italy unravels at the seams, his legs shaking and his head falling back over his shoulders. Germany wraps an arm around his waist in case his legs, the slim things they were, decided to give out. When they did, Germany caught his lover’s weight, letting Italy grasp his shoulders and hair, panting into the crown of his head.
“Ludwig,” he moans gently, contently, and kisses his hair. “Ludwig, Ludwig…,” he sighs.
He falls gracefully into his lap again, straddling him, kissing him all over – face, brows, lips, eyelids, cheeks. One hand reached down and hastily brushes away the silk panties, pushing them to the dip on the side of his arse between his thighs as he spreads his legs and gently lowers himself down onto Ludwig.
He gasps out when it stretches and there’s a slight burn, but he lifts himself up a little bit more, then down again to accommodate for the intrusion. Germany’s hands are on his hips, not guiding him or forcing – just resting there.
While, Italy rode him as he will and Germany sinks back into the lounge, contented for the moment to watch the show. He’s got considerably more stamina than his Italian partner – indeed sometimes he draws it out, finds that the longer he leaves himself strung the better the release will be. Italy is not like that however. Adolescent in his pleasures, he’s a one-show pony, a quick-draw McGraw – all those weird American terms he’s heard the man describe his old British lover. Italy, for sake of a better word, is all about the ending. Germany likes the scenic route.
Italy asks him, in a ragged panting breath, “A-are you close? Germany?”
He’s not on the precipice, but he’s not exactly too far away either. Then, however, he has an idea.
“Come, Italy.”
The Italian looks shocked. “W-what?”
“Come.” Germany says. “That’s an order.”
Italy shivers when Germany grabs his cock that has sprung back to life, pumping it roughly. Italy lets out a keening wail messing Germany’s hand, lingerie and Germany’s tank top. He shivers and shakes and slowly his beautifully aching body crawls off Germany and presses by his side.
“Germany, let me…,” he whimpers and reaches out for his member.
“No,” he catches Italy’s hand.
“Ve, why not?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not like this… I-,”
“Lay on your side.”
Italy blinks. “What?”
“I said; lay on your side, Italy.”
The Italian, with some hesitation, positions himself on the lounge with Germany behind him. For a moment, he thinks their spooning, but Germany’s still poking him in the back and oh! It must be painful by now, mustn’t it?
“Hold the back of my neck,” commands Germany as he nestles his nose behind Italy’s ear. A hand comes up to rest onto the junction of Germany’s neck and shoulder. He grabbed onto Italy’s hips, positioned the man’s legs one over the other before wrapping a hand around the man’s lean waist, so he wouldn’t fall off the lounge and onto the floor.
“L-Ludwig?” he muttered. “Is this some weird sex move?”
He hummed against Italy’s ear. “Squeeze your thighs together.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.”
“H-how?”
Germany sighed. “L-like you have to go to the toilet or something.”
Germany positioned himself just under the frill of Italy’s lace panties and the side clips of his silken stockings. Italy squeezed his thighs together and Germany thrust forward. Italy yelped at the strange sensation – the man was having sex with his legs! It was weird! He could feel Germany’s hands roaming around his body, touching him roughly as his gasps filled his ear.
Germany felt this way? Loved the stockings so much that they weren’t merely foreplay?
“Sheiẞe, Italy…,” he moaned. “I’m going to ruin these fucking things.”
The textures of the stockings rubbed against his tip, against his shaft, were slightly painful and excruciatingly blissful. He was no stranger to pain during sex, and the slightly rough texture on a hypersensitive region of his body had him shaking.
He came in a mess, ruining the expensive silk, tearing and grabbing his lover’s body and grunting his completion into his ear. Italy squirmed as his arousal sprang back to life – Jesus, why did Germany have to be so hot? Why did him, completely losing control in the throws of pleasure turn him on so much?
“Damn it, fuck,” Germany sighed, relaxing his hold on Italy.
The Italian man sighed and stretched, contented in is exploration of his own sexual needs for the night. It had been good – surprising, and maybe, just maybe, he’d try it again. Although, obviously with a new set of lingerie.
“Ve,”he sighed and rolled over to Germany. The man was still panting. “That was great, Germany.”
Germany didn’t respond. He caught his breath and looked at the contented Italian.
“I’m hungry,” he muttered. “Ve… do you still have the gelato in the freezer?”
He did, but he didn’t tell Italy that.
Until he went to get up, went to move in those ruined little stocking and panty set and nothing else except legs for miles and his cute little ass that had been claimed for Deustchland many, many, many times.
Germany grabbed onto Italy’s thigh, running his hand down the silk covering it.
“Who said we’re done?”
“Ve?”
So basically this fill has switched Gerita to ItaGer, and then back to Gerita again. This part is long overdue. I plan to finish up this fill within the next week, so please look out for more! Also, intercrural - there you go OP! Expect more soon!
Re: Any/Sealand, Shota, The real reason Sealand sold himself on eBay...
(Anonymous) 2013-09-01 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)Nmnmnmnmnmnm I needs this...
KITTEN! Tino being fierce! Matthew being protective! Kitten!
...dear heavens, poor Matthew! And with Arthur coming closer and closer to finding them... *Bites nails.*
...dear heavens, poor Matthew! And with Arthur coming closer and closer to finding them... *Bites nails.*
*Please tell me if I'm doing this write. >~<*
He looked before him, Spain's voice ringing in his head. /"A soldier does as told, willingly, and knowing they might die."/ It didn't help him though. There lay the body of a young boy, maybe only 19 years old. He was wearing an American uniform, but.... /He was too young to die./ Romano knelt down, biting his lip, trying desperately not to cry, though failing. He closed the boy's eyes, as gently as one would touch an infant. /To protect my brother, and my people.../ Gunshots still rang out.
"But do so many have to die?"
He looked before him, Spain's voice ringing in his head. /"A soldier does as told, willingly, and knowing they might die."/ It didn't help him though. There lay the body of a young boy, maybe only 19 years old. He was wearing an American uniform, but.... /He was too young to die./ Romano knelt down, biting his lip, trying desperately not to cry, though failing. He closed the boy's eyes, as gently as one would touch an infant. /To protect my brother, and my people.../ Gunshots still rang out.
"But do so many have to die?"
New!A!anon again. Sorry it was so short ^^" It is literally 3am, and I had to see this filled...... So I wrote it up XD *flees back to her corner of shyness*
A!Anon, this is still excellent, but you may want to look into a grammar beta just a bit? I noticed some tense shifting and suddenly reappearing clothes.
Other than that it's good and oh my god intercrural sex thank you so much
Other than that it's good and oh my god intercrural sex thank you so much
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