hetalia_kink | Hetalia kink meme part 27

Hetalia kink meme part 27

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Human!AU, where little kids Francis, Gilbert and Antonio first meet in a speech therapy class. None of them are native speakers (of English, and they're living in a country where that's the dominant language), and have to learn how to get over their accents (or they are native speakers and just really struggle with certain letters/sounds).
Bonding over this is much appreciated, and I'd like if Gil struggled with w/r sounds and Spain with a lisp.
No bullying in the story, but if it's mentioned that's okay. I just really want something cute and fluffy~

Bonus: Francis is a 'graduate' of the program and is Antonio and Gilbert's tutor.
Bonus: the speech impediments are written out in the story (I know this may be hard/annoying, which is why it's a bonus)
Bonus: other nations make an appearance.

I once read a doujinshi featuring these four and I sooo crave for more.
(preferably) Human!AU where Germany&Italy and Lithuania&Poland are engaged but decide to spice things up by exchanging partner for a night.
What I'd like to see is basically a foursome with these guys.
Some fluff/slice of life before the sex part is totally welcome and appreciated!

Bonus 1: It was Italy's idea
Bonus 2: Both Germany and Lithuania are reluctant at first
Bonus 3: They all end up interacting with each other somehow (so also Germany/Lithuania and Italy/Poland)

BONUS 4: Some final fluff with GerIta and LietPol where they all realize how much they love their partner and prefer them over anyone else, even if it was fun to try something different for a night.

I saw these DJ by ERGO/moriyakoko it's in Japanese and I couldn't understand a single word. So I would really like to read a story based on this beautiful work of art.

Bonus: America knows about Liet's crush.

Fantasy setting where King England has engaged Prince America to a princess. The princess is captured so America has to go and be the hero and save her. He ends up falling in love with Witch Belarus instead.

Human or nation names are fine. You can include any other ships.

I'd like to fill this as soon as I have the time. Would OP be okay with an ensemble cast? Can Alfred go questing with some more party members plus throw in some possible fantasy world politics?

Sorry, I hadn't checked in awhile. Ensemble is fine. More party members and politics are great. You can even include any other ships.

America invites Russia & Friends to the Secret American Moon Base so they can all have zero-gravity group sex on the moon.

Russia is in a bad mode, anon chooses way maybe he had a bad encounter with General Winter or another nation, nightmares... Idk man just Russia is pretty sad and hurt. Cue Nation B giving him some very needed comfort, i'm just looking for some cute thing no smut required (But i will love you if you managed to put some in it)

Bonus 1: In case of smut, uke Russia please?
Bonus 2: Some mentions of the Mongols
Bonus 3: The other nation is not America

As always when he needed to calm himself, Russia wandered the vast expanses of his land, caring little where his feet took him. Bad enough that the first frost of the season had fallen in Moscow this morning, the sign that within a month he would have to hand his poor, battered heart to General Winter. To have his boss lecturing him about being weak and not wanting his nation to be great again – greatness was a lie, anyway, Russia had decided long ago. It was just another way for his bosses to hurt his people – was worse.

To have the plumbing of the creaky old palace he called home go out again was just too much. His bosses always wanted him to put on a good show for the other nations, but never wanted to pay for it. They were much more concerned with paying for tanks and fighter planes and their own personal luxuries: Russia did all the maintenance on his house himself, now he no longer had Litva and the others to help him.

He couldn't call someone in to fix things: his bosses provided for him, but paid nothing. The old palace had been slowly crumbling for years, and having the pipes fail now, so close to winter, well… He would be spending winter scraping clean snow for water.

Russia blinked when he realized his aimless wandering had brought him to Kaliningrad. He hadn't wanted to come here: he never felt quite comfortable, as though the place belonged to someone else. Which was odd, because all the Prussians and Germans who'd survived the war had been expelled, and all the settlers replacing them were good Russians.

Still, there was something odd about Kaliningrad. Not the architecture: the new buildings were typical Soviet things, and what older ones had survived had lost their historical significance. It was more… the way Latvian and Lithuanian words had bled into the local dialect, making the Kaliningraders sound vaguely… Prussian. The way Kaliningraders worked harder and cared more for the quality of their work than most of the Soviets had done, something that in the years since the fall of the Soviet Union had given Kaliningrad Oblast the highest standard of living of any district in Russia.

Strange… Prussia had no influence here. Russia had helped to see to that himself. Yet he always felt as though he stood on foreign soil when he came here.

Not that it mattered, Russia decided, strolling along one of the bridges – there weren't enough for the famous bridge riddle any more, but the island in the river was still a park – and finding himself a nice, quiet park bench where he could try to drown out the disquiet and the day's unhappiness with vodka. The Kaliningraders were Russian enough for that.

#

When Russia woke it was to the pounding headache and nausea of a hangover. Normally that never happened, but since his memory stopped sometime between the third and fourth bottle of vodka, and he didn't remember eating anything, it made sense that he'd feel bad.

Which was about as much thinking as Russia was ready to do.

He lay where he was for a time, aware that he was far more comfortable that he should have been. He smelled wood-smoke, and could hear the soft crackle of a fire somewhere nearby. He was definitely in a bed, which was odd – Russians were not known for their generosity to strangers, and even the weirdness of Kaliningraders was not such that one would be likely to take a dead drunk stranger to his home and let him sleep in his bed – a bed that was far too comfortable for either a hospital or a prison. Hospitals and prisons weren't known for fireplaces, either.

He heard a door open, soft footsteps approaching, then a warm hand touched his forehead.

Russia blinked. And blinked again. He was hallucinating, surely.

The hallucination gestured to something on his left. “There's painkillers and orange juice on the dresser. I'll be back in a little while with breakfast.” Even the voice was correct, but the sympathetic smile was just… odd.

The hallucination – it had to be, didn't it? - reached the door before Russia croaked, “Prussia?”

“Yes?”

Russia swallowed. He hadn't expected… well, he'd thought at best he'd wake in a hospital and have to influence his way out. This just wasn't possible. “Why?” was all he managed to say.

Prussia chuckled softly. “Later, all right? After the painkillers have had a chance to work and you have something solid inside you.” And left, leaving Russia to stare at the whitewashed walls of a small, cozy room with firelight dancing on the walls and dappled sunlight shafting in through a single little window.

A window set so deep the walls of this place had to be at least a meter thick, and if Russia was right the window panes weren't glass, they were muscovite, and that made this place older than almost anything else in Kaliningrad.

Trying to sort that out made his head hurt even more, so Russia rolled to the side and found the promised painkillers and juice – it looked fresh-squeezed, too, not from a bottle – and gulped down the pills. The juice was warm and frothy, full of pulp. The mental image of Prussia squeezing oranges and being all domestic was just too confusing: Prussia was a warrior to the core, a fighter who refused to surrender or break. Who could be beaten into the ground but would build himself back and return stronger than ever.

Someone like that did not squeeze oranges to make juice, and certainly did not come to land taken from him seventy years ago to carry a drunk Russia to a cozy bedroom in a building that was possibly even more impossible, and definitely did not make breakfast for the nation who had taken his old heartland.

Yet, not long after Russia finished the juice – and started to wonder what had happened to his clothes and what else had happened while he'd been too drunk to notice – Prussia returned, carrying a tray loaded with more juice, and what smelled awfully like the result of a traditional Russian breakfast marrying a traditional German one.

“I've eaten,” Prussia said. “Your clothes should be dry by now.”

Russia just stared at him, not sure how those comments fitted together.

“You messed up your clothes pretty good,” Prussia said by way of explanation. “I'm not going to ask why you were face down crying in the dirt, but to get you clean I had to take all your clothes off, so once I'd got you to bed, I washed your stuff and set it out to dry.” He shrugged. “Nothing I've got here would fit you.”

Slowly, too slowly, something impossible dawned on Russia. “You are Kaliningrad now?”

Prussia blushed a bit. “Kind of. The people aren't really mine, but the land, well… you can't take a nation's birthplace from them, no matter what you do.” He shrugged. “Eat, Russia. We can talk after.”

Once again, Russia was left to wonder what mad world he'd slid into while he was doing his best to drink his way to oblivion. At least this insanity was comfortable and included food that smelled good.

It tasted good too.

#

Later, after he had washed in a wonderfully hot shower and dressed in his warm, dry clothes – they smelled faintly of rosemary, which was nice, and he could only presume Prussia was the one who had mended his scarf with tiny stitches, because Russia had only noticed a day or so back that it was fraying there – Russia ventured into an equally cozy living room where a blanket folded by a couch said silently where Prussia had slept last night.

The other nation blushed when he picked up the blanket and took it from the room, but was back to his usual color when he returned and gestured to the couch. “I'll explain now, if you want.”

Russia sat awkwardly, unsure where this was going. “Yes, please.”

Prussia turned to stare out a small, deep-set window. He clasped his hands together behind his back, standing with his legs a little apart: parade rest, which looked kind of odd for a nation wearing jeans and a faded tee-shirt. “I honestly didn't know until recently.” There was none of Prussia's usual bluster in his voice. “It hurt too much, see. Still does, but I'm getting more used to that.” He paused, then said, “So when I felt you on my land, in turmoil, I pretty much had to help.”

Russia swallowed. “You really are Kaliningrad.”

“I guess so.” A quick, one-shouldered shrug. “Not that it matters. Prussia hates the very idea of Russia.” That was very dry. “Nobody would believe you if you told them.”

It occurred to Russia then that Prussia was speaking Russian and his accent was close to identical to the Kaliningrader accent. “But you… you do have the people.”

Prussia shook his head. “They're more yours than mine.” A shrug. “And I don't think any of your oblasts are personified, are they?”

“No, no they are not.” With the one exception standing here. “So you are helping me because you are Kaliningrad?”

Prussia shrugged. “Could be. Could be because I'm much more the Teutonic Order than Prussia these days, too, and that comes with a big share of helping those in need.” He turned then, grinning. “Not that anyone would believe that of me.”

Russia couldn't disagree. Prussia was a loud, arrogant, heartless ass. He would laugh at someone who needed help and call them a loser. “This is so. I am having trouble believing and I am here.”

Prussia chuckled, and settled on the couch beside Russia. He felt very warm, nice. “Yes. I think you're the first nation I've brought here, actually. I hid the place centuries ago, and come back here when I need time to think.”

He must have built it himself, Russia thought. He wondered how the other nation had provided such a lovely hot shower when – belatedly- he realized that there was no electricity here. Candles and firelight were all there was. “How… How did you keep it so nice?”

“The usual way – hard work and a bit of ingenuity.” Prussia stretched, leaned back further. “This is the last place I've got that's wholly mine: I'm not going to let it go to ruin.”

“And you are being nice to me even though I helped take your heart from you.” Russia didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until Prussia made a rude noise.

“Russia, Koenigsburg stopped being my heart a long time ago. It was barely even mine, apart from my birthplace, when what was left of Prussia was dissolved.”

Russia didn't think he could be that calm about something so momentous.

“You helped end the evil that had twisted my little brother into knots.” Now Prussia sounded sad. “For that, I thank you, and I'm sorry I couldn't return the favor and get the communists out of your lands sooner.”

For a moment Russia was tempted to ask who – or what – inhabited Prussia's body, then the man laughed softly. “I'm confusing you, aren't I?”

“A little bit,” Russia conceded.

Prussia shifted to grin at him. “We all put on faces, yes? The arrogant arse with an ego that can't fit through a door is mine.”

Russia blinked, trying to reconcile the Prussia he thought he knew with this rather different man who wore the same body and had the same mannerisms, but was much calmer, much more pleasant, and really someone he'd like to be friends with. He couldn't do it.

“Come on,” Prussia said after a short, uncomfortable quiet. “You're not going to accept this unless I show you all of it.”

#

It's been a while since I last came here and honestly I thougth it was sort of abandoned. Instead I found this little gem and I'm absolutely thrilled! It's a nice prompt, well written, about one of my most beloved pairing. Is it Christmas already? :D

OMG that was so amazing and i loved it so much! Thank you, really i never expect to actually get a fill and when i got the time to go back here i found this amazing thing and couldn't be happier. It is lovely, i loved how you used Prussia and his history, it is just so brilhant (Did i write this right? I never remember the correct way). Muito, muito obrigada!

While Russia wasn't certain what to expect from 'all of it', he was quite certain he didn't expect to be led to a trapdoor hidden in a – remarkably well-stocked – pantry, nor for the trapdoor to open to a long ladder that climbed down so far he was sure he was ten or more meters below the ground when his boots reached solid earth once more.

The air itself spoke of Prussia, whispering of things Russia would never have associated with the loud, arrogant nation he'd thought he knew.

Prussia himself had vanished into the dimness, the oil lantern he'd brought a flicker of light that didn't so much illuminate as define the darkness.

Light flared, then more, and Russia realized the other nation was lighting torches – the old kind: brands of wood topped with oil-soaked cloth. His eyes grew steadily wider as the torches showed more of this echoing space: an ancient tomb to a forgotten king, the walls of lime-soaked hardwood that must be harder than stone by now supporting beams of the same material.

Like any place sacred to a nation, this place defied time. Had this not been Prussia's heartland, the walls and roof would have collapsed long ago, leaving nothing to mark it as a place once used by humans.

Then Russia realized the walls were marked by scratches, none much higher than a meter above the hard-packed earthen floor. Those scratches were clearly grouped, like tally marks… no, they were tally marks. He counted to himself, stopped when he realized there were more than a thousand of them, many more.

Prussia rejoined him, hung the lantern from a hook set on the ladder. “I probably wasn't born here, but this is where my first memories are,” he said simply.

Russia blinked. As always when he was uncertain, his hands found his scarf, wrapping it around his fingers in a complicated cats-cradle of fabric. “Probably?”

Prussia shrugged. “As far as I can tell, my parents were human. They abandoned me to the forest because they thought I was a demon. I was suckled by a she-wolf: her descendants are all over Europe by now, and still mine.”

Russia swallowed. “Those marks on the walls… you made them, yes?”

“Yeah. I don't know how old I was when I started making a mark each time the first flowers of spring came through.” A shrug. “It probably wasn't any worse a life than you had with the Horde. Maybe better: I might have been burned in sacrifice to the old Prussian gods – usually Peckols, the god of the underworld – but at least I was my own person, you know?”

Russia shuddered. Those were memories he tried not to bring to mind. But to be burned by ones own people? That was horrible, far worse than anything he could – or even wanted to – imagine.

The weight of a hand on his shoulder. “It's old news, Russia. I didn't know it wasn't supposed to be that way.”

When he turned that way, Prussia was smiling, not his usual smirk, but a gentle, rather sad smile.

“Vanya.”

Prussia blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“Call me Vanya,” Russia said. “That is how close friends call Ivan, yes?” Close friends and family, and if Prussia had trusted him with this, with his heartland, then Russia could not help but think the other man had to be a close friend, or as close to it as nations could be.

The other nation clicked his tongue. “I know that… I just never thought you'd...” He gave a quick shake of his head. “No matter. I'm being foolish.” A shrug. “Gilbert, or Gil if you'd rather.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “This place does that to me.”

Russia understood: all nations had layers of defenses, mannerisms they used to protect their true selves. It was hard to keep those in one's heartland, and grew more difficult the closer one was to one's birthplace – the reason nations rarely invited other nations into those lands.

He wondered why Prussia had brought him here, but before he could ask, the other nation said, “You needed help.” Then, when Russia stared at him with his mouth fallen open, Prussia grinned. “No, I can't read your mind. That one was written all over your face.”

To his considerable shock, Russia found himself blushing. He hid his face with his scarf, hoping the heat in his face wasn't too obvious.

If it was, Prussia didn't comment on it. “At any rate, this is who I am.” He made a quick gesture Russia couldn't interpret.

“Has any other nation seen this?” The idea that he was the first to be trusted with something so sacred was beyond terrifying – and that was without considering that it was Prussia who was trusting him.

Again, Prussia's answer was nothing he'd expected. “That kind of depends, actually.” Another complex gesture. “I brought Templar here from the Vatican's prisons, when his Order was dissolved.” This time, there was no doubting Prussia's sadness. “I did my best for him, but I couldn't save him. In the end, I took him to his heartland to fade, and stayed with him until he was gone.”

For a long moment, Russia could think of nothing to say to that: how do you respond to someone who has stood a death watch over another nation? Well… nation-kind, anyway. “I did not know any other orders were personified.” It sounded weak.

Prussia shrugged. “Most people don't. They keep to themselves. Hospitaller survived everything and eventually became Malta. I think Benedictine, Franciscan, Jesuit, and the other purely monastic orders still live with Holy See, but I haven't seen any of them in a long time.” Another shrug. “Templar and Hospitaller welcomed me as a brother. The other orders… not so much.” A quick gesture to his hair and eyes. “I had to tell all my grandmasters God made me in the colors of my order so they didn't think I was a demon.”

Russia tilted his head. “White, gold, and red, I can see. But where is the black?”

Prussia chuckled, and held out one arm. A moment later a huge black eagle swooped in to settle on that arm, beating its wings as its claws gently wrapped around Prussia's wrists. The bird blurred, becoming the little chick that nested in Prussia's hair, which it proceeded to do with a happy peep.

Prussia reached up to pet it gently.

“Oh.” What else could he say?

Prussia's soft smile made him look, well… almost sweet. “He prefers to stay little.”

People would definitely find a chick much less threatening than a big black eagle.

“So. Anything else you want to know?” Prussia asked.

Russia frowned. “Only that I still do not understand why you would bring me here and be so nice.” Even allowing for Kaliningrad being a Russian oblast, bringing Russia to his heart like this was… He couldn't imagine even his sisters doing this. It spoke of a trust he really couldn't imagine.

The comment earned him another of those gentle smiles. “Really, Vanya? Let's put it this way: I'm not the idiot I pretend to be. Prussia might hate Russia with all his soul, but Gilbert can see past the things the Russian leaders have done to their nation, and rather likes Ivan.”

“Does that mean you want to become one with me?” Nobody – other than Belarus, who was frankly disturbing the way she was so intense about it – had ever wanted to be closer to him. Most wanted to be far away, and the further the better.

When Prussia looked at him like that, with the harsh lines of his face softened and his red eyes gleaming with amusement, it was enough to make a stronger nation go weak at the knees. “I sort of already am, remember? But yes, I'd like to get to know you – know Vanya – better.”

Again the emphasis on the person rather than the nation. Nobody had ever done that with him before, and Russia found that he liked it a great deal. “I would like that, Gilbert,” he said. “I would like it very much.”

Wow anon, I love how you write both of them, but especially Prussia!
He's blunt, he's sure of himself but you temper that with this feeling of history and myth behind what the nations are and I like it very much. Thanks for writing this!

I love this fic but there's too little of it: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1010519
I'd love to see someone else's take on a similar idea. Every nation is born with a Class and Aspect which detail their impact on the world, as detailed here: http://infinitywhale.tumblr.com/post/40221639933/ultimate-classpect-post

I know someone's already used this with BelLiech, but I liked the idea. I just wanted it to be more general.

USUK, GerIta, Spamano, PruCan, PruAus, PruHun, LietPol, Giripan, SuFin and DenNor would be good as I ship those. Absolutely NO Germancest, Snowbunnies or Itacest though.

Some smut would be nice but you don't have to add any if you don't want to. Canon or Human!AU is fine with me.

Forgot to add, multi-fills are much loved.

1) Are you okay with LietBel (I was thinking on filling with them)?
2) Would one nation serenading the other with a love song be good?

Sorry Anon, I don't do LietBel. I would be open to the serenading idea though. It's not exactly what I was looking for, but it sounds nice.

Poland getting violently raped, then outright murdered or left for dead.

Bonuses:
-strangulation (doesn't need to be the cause of death if included)
-Poland urinating, from fear, pain or after he dies
-necro (gets his corpse violated as well)
bless sweet anonymity.

High School and late nights have just been kicking my ass, no lie, so I needed something like this. Something happened, anything, and now the nations can take a peak into their alternate lives. Like for example, they see themselves being human instead of nations. Now, the ending? Up to you but I would like it if this was meant to do something for them. Teach them or get a pair together, whatever, surprise me.

I would love for all this to be centered around Romano please and add as many AUs (Angels, Wingtalia, Demons, Soulmate, End of the world, ect.) as you'd like, but High School and eventual Nyo is a must.

Bonuses
- 'The Red String of Fate' makes an appearance, a pairing that shows up a lot but not all the time because sometimes life is mean (Suggested pairings for this: Prumano, AmeBel, Canada x Ukraine). Friendly bro time Prumano or best friends Canada x Ukraine is amazing too, it's not all about smut Anons
- Mythology AU
- Female Plus Sized Lovino because holy fuck, that's beautiful and sexy right there

I really wanna put another bonus but I feel selfish
please, I will love you forever if you have them in someway talk to their alternates
Pst, don't be scared to make this sad and totally like, "What?! Oh my God, no!" at some parts, just don't drown me please!

I want to fill for this with Prumano! (My love for that pairing will never die.) Just, uhh...give me some time to write it.

Same anon as before, but I have a question for OP. I plan to include high school and Nyo AUs, since those are a must, as well as Red String of Fate and some others. If I can include another mythology, is there any specific one you want?

Well, honestly I'm a huge Greek mythology fan but anything supernatural excites me so anything here is just, goodness, it's amazing.

That sounded kinda vague, I mean, okay, ANYTHING is perfect. Go wild on this, nearly everything up there is suggestion so if you want to add in a Roman thing then go Egyptian, I would have no problem with it. I'd probably squeal because I'm a freak that loves that stuff.

Pretty much as said above. Based on this tumblr post: http://nonasuch.tumblr.com/post/141566220050/having-grown-up-in-dc-statues-of-various-dead

In which one of them is snatched up and made the monster's slave and the other goes to rescue them, but fails so they're both trapped

Bonus- Spamano smut with tentacles added
Extra weird bonus- one/both of them get knocked up

America mentioned in an old strip that fighting was the only thing keeping these old men alive. So, let's take it a little more literally! For some reason, France and England get cursed (who and why is up to anon), where if they stay apart too long, they turn into old men (they won't die, they'll just be super old, and all the stuff that goes with it).. But! They can be farther apart if they have a good old-fashioned argument.

Sp, what do they do? Do they play domestic because they've run out of arguments? How do the other nations take their yo-yo-ing ages?

Bonus!

1) The curse works the other way as well, if they have a huge spat white in each other's space, they'll turn into children.

2) They have to live together after they run out of arguments.

At first it had been an utter disaster.

"Witches are serious things," insisted England, grabbing at France's hand. The man had turned away, his jaw set and his shoulders stiff. The wind dragged through his hair and threatened to turn it into a rat's nest, and more alarmingly, France ignored it.

France threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed and thrashed at England's heart.

"Little England, Witches are a story. I love stories and romance, but they are just a story, and that is just an angry woman who cannot touch us."

"No, France, we must go back. You must apologize," England insisted. His grip tightened; France's thin wrist bones bit into his palm. France was so tall and his hair was the color of the late autumn wheat field behind him. England set his feet, face turning ugly, while France tugged at his hand.

"I will not apologize. It is beneath me," he said, and England wondered when he'd become so cold without him noticing. So much pride, he'd thought, once, that it was so noble.

"Then I will. I will apologize for us both," England decided, turning and leaning his whole body into it. France squawked, caught off guard. For a moment he stumbled along behind the young country who couldn't decide what his majority language should be, let alone stop believing in fairy tales.

But it was only a moment; but England was very small. France twisted and jerked, and England cried out as he tore his hand free.

"You may go and apologize, but I won't," said France archly, stubborn for pride's sake. England stomped his foot, he threw himself at him yelling and pulled at France's shirt.

France left him in the field in the end, and it was only the bitter air and the argument between them that allowed, for a little while, the idea that maybe the woman had just been a normal woman after all.

It was a month later when boats were spotted crossing the sea between them. England was in Dover; he saw them from the cliffs. He'd been expecting them. The path down to the harbor was a switch-back trail of up and down, the grass clinging to the cliffs against the howling wind off the sea batting against his ankles. They hurt. He was out of breath by the time stubbornness brought him down to the sea, and the boat had beaten him there.

He waited, sitting on an overturned barrel that smelled strongly of fish and oil. On board the ship, amongst the commotion, an elderly gentlemen decorated in the colors of royalty strode down the gangplank. The wind dragged pale hair out of his eyes; lines dug deep into his face. Despite his pride, he stumbled a little when he hit the bottom of the ramp, and one of the young sailors popped up in alarm and grabbed him by the arm.

"Careful now, there," the young man said, and the old man muttered something garbled in another language and tried to throw him off.

England just waited. Somehow he'd found a strange patience in his chest, even as a younger heart beat with panic beneath it. He simply didn't have the energy.

The old man stared at the dock as if it had personally offended him, until he found England's eyes. The old man took in a deep breath and marched for him, wrapped in a heavy and fine cloak and with a shoulder set against the wind.

England blinked. With each step, the white seemed more blonde; the wrinkles less deep. He took in a breath and his bones did not creak as much as they had. The ache in his ankles and elbows pulled away, a weight he had forgotten until the moment it disappeared. He slowly came to his feet, staring in bewilderment at his hands as the liver spots and fine map of wrinkles smoothed away as if they had never been. Lucky for them, no one was looking.

No one watched as an old man turned fitful and furious and teenaged as he walked towards another old man who shrunk, cloak five times too big again.

"This is all your fault!" demanded France, in French, his fury only fitting into the shapes of the noble's language. "You and your insistence on magic and witches!"

"You're young again," England pointed out, thoughts whirring.

"I am not! I look like a horrible, wrinkled old---wait, what?" France's words stumbled, startled, as he looked down at himself. He patted himself down frantically, fingers slipping over his throat and following the strong line of it to his jaw. His face. Until his eyes peeked out through his hands, face aghast.

"You didn't believe me," said England, a pout creeping into his voice.

"I still do not believe you. This must be something else," France announced, hands dropping away. He stepped in and grabbed England's shoulders, shaking them, and England had to grab at France's wrists to not shake apart to the ground.

"It's! A Witch! We must find her and beg forgiveness--France--France, stop shaking me," he ordered, or tried, shoving at France with short arms and twisting his body until France let go.

"Yes, we will find her, and once we do, I will make her tell us what we must do," France said, his fingers grabbing at his collar and twisting. He turned, as if to march them back down to the shore immediately.

"France, I can't go, there are things I must do," shouted England in alarm, dragged along and helpless. "I can't--"

"Oh, but you will, and immediately," France determined, and of course, that was the last word on the matter.

They looked all over in the woods where the woman had cast the curse on them. They had been playing at a game of sticks, using them as swords and chopping at each other while France pretended at being an important person and England tried to thwack his backside. France had spotted a cat and decided it made a fine enough target; England had yelled at him, and an woman had tried to stop them and France had--

well, it had become a mess, and they could not find her again.

Learning the extent of the curse took maddening trial and error. Magic did not come with a set of instructions, and they only had England's poorly remembered recollection of what exactly she had said. They discovered that distance, over time, turned them old; and not in a gradual way, exactly. They did not grow slowly like the mortals did, seguing from youth to adulthood, to middle age, to age, and then white haired and wheezing.

It was something they could feel, like the onset of winter. In a matter of days they would simply be old, old men with aching limbs and people calling them witches instead.

But the worse terms they separated on, the longer they could remain young.

So they learned. They learned how to hurt each other, which was a natural thing for countries considering the way their borders flexed and shifted with every passing mortal generation, but they learned how to do it by degrees. As the years passed they turned it into an art form, France better at it than he was; the exact level of vitriol for a month or a year, or longer.

But they always had to come together again, before the curse could take deep hold of them. After all, the mortals had enough problems with the concept of their existence, let alone seeing so obviously some strange change in their bodies.

"We can't stay in the same room forever, England," said France early on, when they'd realize nothing changed as long as they stayed together. England was taller than before; he sat in a simple cotton shirt and trousers by the fire near France's feet, while the other man sat on a stool and measured sticks into the flames.

"I'm not saying we should," he's said, irritable.

"I refuse to be reliant on something as ridiculous as keeping you close," said France sharply, and it hurt something in England. The longer it went on, the more outrageously sharp-tongued France became. England wrapped his arms around his knees, mouth set into a line, and refused to look at him.

"I'm not telling you to," said England into his arms.

"Then stop pouting, England. We have affairs to attend to. You cannot stay."

"You're the one who dragged me here int he first place," he muttered at last. "Don't make this my fault."

"It is your fault. You--you believe in things, and that is what made the curse real. If you had just ignored it from the start--"

"Oh, so you believe it's a curse now? You believe me?" England spat, turning to look at him with a hand on the floor for balance. "And it's my fault? That's not how magic works, France!"

"You don't know how it works, stop pretending you do," said France, his voice rising, and before England could not remember ever yelling so much at each other. It was as if, with the sudden pressure to yell at each other--to yell anything--it had opened a floodgate of bitterness that both of them had stored.

"Then stop telling me what I can and cannot do," said France, standing. He threw the sticks to the ground.

"Then don't tell me what I should or should not do!" yelled England, scrambling to his feet.

They stared at each other.

"Then go," said France thinly, but he smiled with dark victory; England hissed through his teeth, heart beating too fast. A perfect argument to leave with, to leave on.

"Drown in a river," England tossed at him, stomping out the door.

It was pride. It was always pride, and over time, they could simply not stand each other in turns until the sense of winter crawled inside their bones and for, a moment, it was a relief to see the other man's face.

But it didn't last; it never lasted.

And centuries later, England found he was becoming tired of it.

"Why do you guys always fight, anyway?" asked America once, during the World War. England had not heard him at first, his palms pressed tight to the desk in front of him. He was staring at the lines on the map as if by force of will he could change the location of the fronts and the little markers that indicated where they'd lost ground. He and France had been yelling at each other, and France had left abruptly.

"Well, England? Man, everyone says 'the continent this' and 'the continent that' and 'Its just Europe, Al,' but really? You guys can't stop for two damn minutes to discuss important stuff?" said America, getting into it, his face reddening and his arms flying up.

"We do not always fight," muttered England.

"You could have fooled me! Even the War of Independence, France helped me but it was always about you," said America, and he seemed to realize the low blow and the sharp edge of his bitterness just a moment too late-- as he always did, clumsy and brash. They both breathed harshly in the silence, and England squared his shoulders.

"We don't always. I suppose it's as much a habit as anything else. At least one thing has not changed," he suggested, with a vague gesture at the door.

"Its weird. We're allies. You grew up together," said America, brow furrowing, his mouth pulled to the side. The boy hated puzzles he couldn't solve, problems he couldn't grasp.

England couldn't help the low tug of affection in his chest.

"It's just how it is," England said, and that was that.

America proceeded to ask everyone about it; everyone shrugged and said that was just how England and France always had been. England knew because he was in the room half the time, and once Russia cornered him very benignly in an underground bunker while the earth shook with falling shells.

"Why do you always fight?" asked Russia, always too large and smiling too softly and with his fingers pulling thoughtfully through his scarf. "We should always try to get along together. Everyone should get along together," he repeated, earnestly, and England pulled back from him a bit and wondered if he could press his way through the wall behind him.

"It's how we get along," England tried. The two of them, through mutual and unspoken agreement, had decided a long time ago to leave it all a secret. It opened them up to the others with a vulnerability. Like now--it had been weeks since they'd last seen each other, and their words had been tired and the barbs blunted. England felt old. He felt the winter in his bones, and that did not help with Russia looming over him.

"I do not understand. Friends do not argue," said Russia wisely, studying his face closely.

"We've known each other a long time," England tried, offering Russia the parental smile he'd learned with America and Canada. "It might seem like arguing to you, but it's like a game for us. We know each other so well, only we can yell like that at each other."

Russia tilted his head to the side. England blinked at his own words, wondering quietly: was it true?

Only France knew how to drag out that one time at Versailles with the ducks. Only he knew how sensitive France could be about wrinkles on his face. Only France knew that England would never get over Arthur's death. Only England knew how deeply Joan had dug into his heart--and oh, they had not needed to see each other for years after she'd been murdered.

"You know each other very well. So the arguing is like a special conversation?" asked Russia.

"Yes! Yes, just like that," England babbled, hesitating a moment, and then patting one of Russia's large arms. "A special conversation we have between us. Some friends are like that, but not all of them."

Russia had nodded, accepting this new idea and going idle as he thought about it. England had carefully fled and made sure not to be stuck alone in a room with him for some time unless Russia brought it up again.

After the war everyone was tired. England was tired, even after everything had been signed, and things were not over; he and America, Russia and France, all of them had new lands to govern and paperwork to make. For the mortals it was a matter of new procedures, of moving armies and building walls.

For them, they had to look each other in the face, as gaolers and prisoners. It wore him out. There were meetings, and meetings, and at the end of them they had to retreat home to lick their wounds. They had won. They had won and they had done it together.

England sat in a chair in the small rooms France had in Berlin. It was a terrible chair, rickety, fit only for a servant's kitchen. His boots were in the corner, his jacket hung up on a peg on the wall. France studied the street outside at his window. They were both there by mutual, unspoken agreement.

It would be weeks, or months, until they'd be able to see each other again, and the meeting had been a poor place for the row they needed to see them through until then.

"Come with me," England said abruptly.

France looked at him over his shoulder, looking thing and malnourished in just his white collared shirt. The edge of his mouth pulled up in a thin line.

"Why, my dear? You know as well as I, there are things we must do," said France, but the vitriol had left his voice. His eyes were hooded.

"You know why," said England. He hated the back and forth; sometimes in each other's beds, sometimes fighting out of them. He pushed the heels of his palms over his eyes. "I don't want to do it this time."

"Why, England, I have never seen you back down for a fight so quickly," said France, goading. "Come now, you are that addicted to my presence? My prowess?"

France pressed a hand to his chest, twisting to show off at advantage his chest and ass in equal measure. England barked a laugh that was too thin.

"No. I just don't want to do this right now. Not now," said England. He looked at the floor, frowning, and missed whatever reaction France had for him.

"England, we have to," said France, his voice sharpening with something not unlike panic. "We must. You must. My countryside is too battered and broken, I will not walk among my people as a stooped old man as if--"

"I know. I know," muttered England. He grabbed the back of his chair, hauling to his feet. "I can't think of anything. You start it, don't make me start it."

"Giving up at the end, England?" asked France archly. "You made such a show of being the little island that would not give up, and this is where you decide it's time to fold it in? Just a spat, England, give me that."

"You...." England tried. He tried, but all he could see was that France was thin and wartorn. His shirt gaped over his stomach and off his shoulders, no longer fitting a thinner frame. War haunted his eyes, but there was a spark there--a spark of determination that had no gone out. Relief had him flushed, high on his cheeks.

England just looked at him, his chest tight. All he wanted was what he'd done two days ago; just held France for a while, his hand over his heart and counting it's beats.

Thoughts bubbled up in the back of his mind; coward, weakling, sycophant. Parasite, who clings to the obvious winner. Pride without substance, your armies are nothing, you've lost so much.

But England could not say them; he refused.

France tore his eyes away from him, reaching around himself for something. France's hand landed on a comb, and he brandished it at England.

"Your hair looks like a birds nest," France started, and for them, that was a poor one. "Your face looks like it was bashed in with the butt of a gun."

"Those are horrible," England pointed out, tired.

"You won't help!" spat France. He loomed over him with the brush in his hand. "You--you--stupid, stubborn, tiny little country. Your food is horrible. You can't spay worth a damn. You... you...!"

It was satisfying to watch him stumble over the words, exhausted.

England stepped in. He wrapped his fingers around the brush and tugged at it; France clung to it stubbornly. England tugged harder, and harder, until he exhaled an angry breath and shoved his shoulder into France's chest. He twisted with his hand, and the brush popped free of France's numb fingers.

"Not today," said England, and he shoved France down onto the bed.

"England, I understand that I am an addictive thing, that I am glorious and you cannot resist me, but this is a little bit much," breath France through his wheezes, the air driven out of him. France grunted as England landed on him, knees and elbows luckily missing anything important. England shoved up on his arms, straddling France on hands and knees. The man was laid out under him, breathless and chest heaving underneath the thing white shirt.

"I don't want to argue," said England, and he slid his hand up under the shirt and pressed it over France's skin. For all he looked thing and pale, France was still warm. The muscles of his stomach pulled underneath his palm and France gasped a little.

More than once, they'd gotten stubborn. One of the other would wait it out, old and wizened and creaking with the weather. Sometimes they were nearly caught that way by a country. They would wait for as long as they could stand and then crash together afterwards, the rush of youth heady like an aphrodisiac. Arguing for principle and arguing for anger and arguing for purpose had blended together, and England couldn't tell it apart anymore.

He bent down and mouthed France's neck, over the bruise he'd already left.

"England, please," said France. Thin strong hands came up his back to fist in England's shirt. "Please, I know you cannot resist me, but--ah."

England nosed under the collar of France's shirt and kissed his collar bone. He started to undo buttons while France closed his eyes and swallowed very hair, the skin of his throat trembling.

Stubborn, England kissed his chest. He undid his shirt and pushed it aside; he kissed down and down, and when France interrupted him, he bit. This was the best way to keep France quiet. It was the best way not to argue at all. France's breathing was light and uneven. He arched his back, shoulders and hips pressing back down into the mattress.

England felt like he was trembling; his heart was beating fast, as if he was running. He ran his hands over where France's slacks pulled over the man's thighs, and cold fingers curled into his hair and jerked on it.

But he couldn't help it; he pressed his nose to the dip of skin by France's hip, more bone than muscle right now, and muttered, "Shut you right up, didn't I?"

"Fuck you," breathed France, swatting his head. England grunted and looked up at him, scowling.

"Is that a request, is it?" he asked, and France swatted him again.

"If you won't argue, at least be useful in another way," France growled at him, and England couldn't help a smirk. He dug his fingers into France's thighs and kissed just below France's belly button. Pleasure curled in his stomach, hot and heavy, as France's legs kicked a little. Taking his time, England undid the buttons for France's trousers. He kissed the skin there and earned himself a breathy sound; he undid them, shifting up on his knees to get a hand inside France's pants and palm the hard cock underneath.

France gasped; he closed his eyes and titled his head back, throat working.

"Easy today, aren't you," drawled England and France kicked again, as if to hurt him, missing horribly.

"We've won and I'm not dead," breathed France. "You can't imagine how much that makes one want to celebrate being alive."

"I can," England said, and this was better. He leaned down and kissed at the edge of France's mouth; France grabbed at him, jerking his mouth down and keeping him there with fierce kisses to his mouth. England shifted his grip, palm sticky, and drew France's cock out to the air. France gasped against him, pausing a moment to pull back and stare at him with narrow eyes.

England made a fist and squeezed lightly; France's expression went slack, his mouth a little open, red from kissing him.

"You are so easy, that's what you are," England breathed. He moved his hand, up and down, the slick precome coating his palm as he felt the tremor of France's cock in his hand. "Putting on airs all the time, but I know you."

"Now you think of something," France breathed, hips arching upwards with a frustrated little noise. "Why do you have the worst timing? Always too late, you think of it, you said you didn't want to argue."

"I'm not arguing," England argued, bending down to kiss him again; France turned his head and England kissed skin and hair, sputtering as it caught inside his mouth. Hair just tasted--stringy, and France barked a laugh at him.

"No, No, you won't get me easy," France announced. He slung an arm around England's neck, catching him in the suggestion of a headlock. France dragged him down with it, squawking, and forced to let go. France threw a leg around him, a hand already wriggling in between the two of them to palm at England's pants.

"What's this, not being greedy for once?" England said, a jolt running up his spine.

"This is revenge," France promised, crushing their mouths together. England's protest muffled, struggling, while France's hands did things. He gasped as air skidded along his belly, then groaned as a palm found him.

"Who is easy now, hmm?" hummed France.

"You. You are easy," England said, and then sucked in a sharp breath as his cock skidded against something hard and hot and slick.

"Help me," France demanded, and England buried his face against France's throat. He reached between them, and their hands were sticky and slick as they pressed their cocks together.

They rutted together, fighting to breathe. A low tight feeling curled into England's stomach, and he wondered for a moment if they could even remember what it was like not to argue at all. It was their language between them; it was how they communicated, curse or no curse at all.

England came suddenly; it made him shake, spent in their combined hands. France laughed--a victory--and he was shuddering under him, come burning hot and mixing together on their stomachs. England tugged his hand free and lay on him, a mess, the sweat making his back cold as the wind from outside came in through the window. France had trouble catching his breath, one hand in England's hair, the other trapped between them.

They lay like that a while.

"I'll think of a proper argument tomorrow," France breathed in England's ear.

"You always do," England said, and closed his eyes.

England had a cottage in the countryside. The Queen kept it for him, indulgent about it. On paper it was officially one of many small pieces of land that belonged to the royal household and it was technically loaned for some charity, but it was for him. When he walked out in the morning, there was only grass and sheep. Sometimes the farmer who owned the sheep came by, a lovely woman always wearing galoshes, and she would lean on the fence they shared and chat about the weather. England thought she figured he was a retired military man who fled to the countryside. It wasn't very wrong, really.

Mail came on Friday. Last time he'd talked to his neighbor, she'd told him the sheep knew a storm was coming, so he'd checked to make sure all his windows were shut. He sat outside, watching the pile of angry storm clouds fill the horizon, and drank tea out of a thermos.

He could feel the weather pressure shifting in his bones. He frowned. He and France had not had that great of a row last time the UN had gotten together. The insults were practiced, the argument involving something from the 1600's.

Rain came down in buckets all night while he laid in bed and distinctly ignored the emails sitting in his phone. France had been trying to contact him, needling, insulting, and then creating more and more elaborate threats. They'd found that arguing via email worked only a little; arguing over the phone worked better. It meant they often spoke but saw each other much less frequently, the arguments smaller, but spread out over fewer days.

Sometimes people noticed. Once China and he had shared a wall between their hotel rooms at a dignitary function in Hong Kong. There was a little balcony and England had ducked out on it to call France, lining up arguments in his head; that market idea is ridiculous, did you honestly think that would work at Eurovision, your taste in wine at the dinner after that meeting last month was horrible.

He'd come back inside, tossing his phone aside with a sigh and bees buzzing in his guts, all sorts of twisted out of shape. A knock had come from his door; startled, he'd patted himself down, as if he'd stolen something and forgotten about it and needed to find the evidence in order to hide it.

England stopped; he was being ridiculous. Angry and on edge--the argument had turned into one of their more serious rows--he'd open the door to find China there.

Oh.

It was rather late, wasn't it. Time zones and everything.

"Er, good evening," stumbled England, trying to look away from China's irritable gaze. The man had the ability to just look at a person and make them squirm. England refused to squirm.

"Yes, good evening. Deep evening. You could even say, it is very much night," said China in clipped tones, extra annoyed to filter himself into English. "Why are you always on the phone at the worst hours?"

"Time zones, you know," England said, flushing. He refused to look guiltily at his phone. "I had to make a call, it was important."

"It was France," said China, waving a hand sharply through the air. "You hate France. He hates you. But you are always calling. This is not the first time. Hong Kong always complained about it; he's always calling! Worst hours!"

England blanched at the thought of being so accidentally obvious; the weight of the curse and it's secret pressed against him.

"It was important business, as I said. We have tightly involved movement of peoples and economies," said England primly. "I'm not complaining about how you are always texting during meetings!"

"I do not," said China archly. "I only text during breaks, which is polite."

"You use those picture things, I saw you," England said.

"They are called emojis, you ignorant fool. I am older than you by several dozen hundreds of years, and even I know what they are."

Couldn't hold that over me if you saw me tomorrow if I hadn't called, England thought bitterly. He sighed, smoothing down the front of his shirt.

"I apologize, China. I will attempt to be more circumspect in the future," he said, because he was a polite gentleman and China wasn't France. He wasn't obligated to argue.

China seemed put off whatever he was about to say; he closed his mouth, and nodded sharply.

"I hope so. Good night," he offered, and didn't stay for England to repeat it back to him.

England shut his eyes against the rain against his roof. His phone buzzed again; he reached over and turned it off. He just wasn't in the mood, no matter the threat that lingered in his bones.

The next morning he looked in the mirror and could see the shadow of age on himself. Lines by his eyes, his hair nearly all white. He ran his hand through it; by the end of the day, all the brown and blonde mix would be gone. Eaten.

He jumped at the knock on his door. It was Thursday; the mail was not due. Freezing in place his thoughts scattered. The nearest town was a tiny thing of maybe forty houses. What would any of them think to see an old man suddenly at the home of the eccentric young man who'd been living there for the past two months?

England drew up a plan mentally as he tucked his shirt into his waistband of his pants and opened the door.

"Good morning," he said, then stopped.

France stood there, looking cross. His shoulders were bent and the rain was beating down on his umbrella. A car sat at odd corners behind him in England's drive, next to the porche. Mud spattered France's legs, and his hands were wrinkled and bony. White, near transparent, hair hung in his face and age weighed down his eyes.

It had been a while; England was struck, just looking and remembering. France's cheekbones became more prominent when he was old, but he was still strong somehow. The same dusty elegance of the backrooms in Versailles.

"I refuse to continue your silliness," said France, stepping closer; England could feel the age fall off himself, could see it in France's face. France loomed over him in the doorway, looking down into his eyes, and England looked back feeling strangely floaty in his head.

"England," said France. He bent down and touched England's face just barely. "England, you must move."

"Right," said England, ducking out of the way to go into his kitchen. He could France shaking the raindrops off his umbrella with a flat rattling sound, grumbling with the stomps of his feet against the mat inside the door. On auto-pilot, England put water on for tea and found package biscuits in a cupboard.

France had already made himself home in the front room, sitting in the very comfiest chair next to the iron stove. It was the chair England preferred, which was why it was next to the stove. France scooted forward in his seat, hands extended to it, and frowned when he found it wasn't as hot as he expected.

"It's only embers right now. I need to get some wood from out back," said England, setting down the tea service on the side table at France's right hand. France huffed and threw himself back into an elegant sprawl, long hands dripping off the arms of his chair.

"Tea, always tea," said France, looking over at the clatter of porcelain as England settled the sugar bowl. "Don't you have something stronger, like wine?"

"I have cooking wine," England ventured, mostly to needle him. France huffed and flapped his hand, unimpressed.

"Cooking wine! I will not stoop to that, as if we are on rations at war. And even then, I never drank it. Are you getting the wood or not?"

"You should be feeling better now," England said, eyeing France's youthful hands.

"It's raining. Its cold. I drove along bumpy roads that god has forgotten and damned while my entire body was convinced it was about to die," said France. "I think you owe me some warmth and proper hosting."

"Does that mean you're staying a while?" asked England.

"Get the wood," said France, sinking in to himself.

England shook his head and muttered under his breath. Outside the rain showed no sign of letting up, and he stole France's umbrella to dart out through the sheets of water to the lean-to for the wood. He was running low, he mused, grabbing an armful and holding the umbrella in his armpit as he trundled back. By the time he'd gotten inside, France already had helped himself to tea, and had it sitting in his lap to warm it. A biscuit was in his hand, and he was wrinkling his nose at it.

"If I'm a good host, then be a good guest and not saying anything," England grumbled, kneeling down in front of the stove and feeding sticks to the low glow of embers inside.

They ended up in bed together that night, after France had concocted a meal out of the contents of his cabinets. England had offered it to him, polite as a host, and France was off-put by what he called insufferable charity. France had dragged him down with him, saying something about it being cold and England a bed warmer. France had meant it as an insult, but it was somewhat true, and neither of them could work up a proper snit over it.

They tried over the next few days; France would pulled out an old wound and England would find the insult totally dulled, used too many times, and he was unable to be righteously angry at it. He'd try to yell at France for making him go out into the rain over and over, but in the end they'd both ended up laughing at each other.

They'd just.....run out.

Day seven, and England woke up tangled in France's arms. He pushed up on his hands and just looked at him, a disgraceful mess of a man shoved in with him on a double bed against the wall. The morning light made his skin look a warmer color. Sweat made the man's hair stick to him--there was a lot of it, but it was light--and a strand was half in his mouth.

He really could just live like this for the rest of his days, he thought quietly to himself. He rubbed his thumb over France's cheek, pulling the strand of spit hair out of the man's mouth. He didn't even mind.

England knew him, inside and out, and couldn't think of a single mean thing to think or say.

France made a noise, protesting, and slit open one eye.

"You look disgustingly infatuated," murmured France.

"You look disgusting," said England.

"What a gentleman," said France, sighing and stretching. His long pale arms arched out of the light and into shadow and his feet stuck out from the other end. He sighed, flopping, and England felt a strange feeling turn over in his stomach.

"I thought, maybe," said England, and he shut his mouth.

France eyed him, sleepy lassitude leaving him. He pushed up on his elbows and brushed his fingertips over England's stomach. England sucked in his stomach a little bit, a shiver running over his shoulders.

"Don't stop now," said France.

England swallowed.

"I thought I might not mind growing old in the countryside," said England, looking away from him.

"....That's it?" murmured France. France had made all of their meals. He'd insisted England make a run into town and had given him a neatly penned list of essentials that had been two sheets of small note paper long. They'd talked about the other nations, about policy, about the ridiculous things their relative Prime Ministers had done lately. The days had passed in a contented blur.

"Oh shove it," muttered England, starting the fight to crawl over France and out of the bed. "You won't take it seriously."

Long arms wrapped around him and England yelped, suddenly caught. France twisted and England found himself trapped in a tangle of blankets and french legs, staring up at France pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"You thought if we didn't argue anymore and you grew old, you could just stay out here?" pressed France. "You were going to abandon me to white-hair and broken hips while you lived out here tucked away in a cottage? What were you going to do in three weeks at the next UN meeting?"

"Beg off? Show up to the queen and go, Majesty, I think I need a vacation?" tried England. "Look, I didn't really think it through, alright. I just. I just couldn't think of anything anymore. I--I don't want to," he ended, his voice low.

France was silent for a few seconds; he was dangerous when presented with deeper feelings and honesty. He had a tendency to recoil and become pithy; granted, England tended to become surly and closed off. They both rejected it.

England was just out of anything nasty to say.

France's gaze slid away from him.

"............maybe you were right," muttered France.

"What was that?" said England, flatly astonished.

"You were right," repeated France, looking cross about it. "Its a curse. There's a witch. I was a nasty, horrible child and a witch cursed us and we need to make amends and break it and magic is real."

England opened and shut his mouth. He'd kept quiet about the gnomes in his garden and he'd hidden the bowl of milk he put out for the brownies. There were some nails pounded into the doorway to keep out the nastier fairies he'd spotted in the nearby grove of trees, and the woman with the galoshes never lost a single lamb because there was a glow about her.

"Really?" he squeaked, hated it, scowled, and France snorted and flicked the end of his nose.

"I am tired of us needing to argue to spend a week apart," said France broadly. "You were right, all along. So what must we do in order to break the curse?"

England shut his eyes. He felt strangely empty. All the warmth in the bedding had gone and he was just cold. France wanted to break the curse at last, of course he did, he hated the feeling of being trapped with England for longer than a few weeks at a time.

Long ago they had tried just not leaving each other, but it had grown awkward and strained and they'd argued so badly that they'd both decided it wasn't worth trying to do again.

England dragged his hands over his face, not quite sure what he'd been expecting.

"First we have to go to where we met her the first time. I've thought about it; I don't think she was really a woman or a witch."

Before France could open his mouth with an 'I told you so,' England put a hand over his mouth and caught him in a stern gaze.

"I think she was one of the fairy folks our to teach us a lesson. That means a fairy circle or a fairy mound. If we go to that woods and find a fairy circle, I think we can call her out again."

France sat back on his heels on top of England's thigh, the blankets pooling around his waist and arms crossed over his bare chest. He was wearing nothing, for it 'was a shame to hide such a beautiful body, even in front of someone like you, a heathen when it comes to art'. England dutifully tried to ignore that as his heart gave a big, heavy beat in his chest.

"Alright. Tomorrow we're going," said France. "You can leave this house locked up for a while, can't you?"

England sighed, feeling old and empty even without the curse's hold on him.

"I'll have to leave a note on the door, or the mortals will worry," he said, but France took that for the 'yes I am going' that it was, and gave him a brilliant smile of victory.

"Then we have no need to rush the morning," purred France, but England put a hand in his face and shoved. France sputtered as he slunk out from under him, going for his underwear.

It is late and I am very very silly, but this part is actually Part 8 and posted wrongly out of order.

Holy shit, Author!Anon, God bless you and your writing. This shit is GREAT, and you're a champion!

A!A here and this comment made my day, not sure if anyone was still trolling through this meme! More to come, hopefully, eventually?

(note - the above is actually part 8, and part 7 is a bit out of order -- but this is the proper part 9 that continues it!)

The fastest course to France was by boat by Dover, then north to the National Forest of Lyons by train and hired car. It was simpler than wrangling plane tickets and England felt a grim sort of satisfaction at the sense of a circle coming back to eat it's own tail. The docks of Dover were grand metal things that jutted out into the sea, embracing huge boats and flat trucks filled with rusted cargo containers. He studied the limestone cliffs, which in and off themselves remained relatively unchanged from the first time he had climbed down them while turned impossibly old, while France handled all the transactions with the aplomb and charm that he leveraged when he wanted things done very quick and neat. That charm could not change the weather, though, and the rain still came down in sheets the entire time they crossed the channel to the distant coastline.

They shared a chartered seat together, trapped with school children talking loudly behind them and France disparaging the choices of sandwiches on the trolley. England grunted his replies as he watched the wind whip up the waves, thrashing them into silver walls that crashed down in heaves of white foam. Fog clung to the edges of France's distant shores, and they loomed ahead in vague threatening shapes.

He didn't notice when France's conversation with himself petered out, and jolted at the sharp kick to his shin.

"What's that for?" England asked, jerking his leg back as he focused back on the food France had purchased. There was a solid muffin sitting next to a paper cup of steaming tea, neither things France would have chosen for himself because he disliked overly dense muffins sold by large companies. Confused, he refocused back on France's face, but the other man just rolled his eyes and shoved the muffin in his direction.

"I refuse to go on this fool's errand with a sullen schoolboy," France announced. "Clearly its your delicate English stomach and the lowered levels of caffeine."

England scowled and snatched his muffin away before France decided to shove it into his face.

"It's not a fool's errand," grumbled England. "This is your idea. Well, maybe that makes it a terrible plan. But if you want to go stomping around in the woods, I'm not going to stop you."

"You're being a git about it," France said, then looked horrified at the borrowed British term. England smirked and France turned his head away, chin lifted, and fingers tight around his coffee.

"What was that, now?" said England, brows lifted.

"You are a terrible influence on language. There's a reason we have a ministry to protect it," France said loftily, and England found his mood thawed despite himself. It didn't feel like the normal kind of argument; it was the habit that was comforting, despite the heavy rock in his stomach.

On shore, they got tickets on a train going north. It took a few hours and two transfers, but they finally rented a car and argued about who would drive about an hour outside of Lyons. In the end France won because he knew the roads better, and England wasn't in the mood for sniping about his placid driving habits.

The moment they had stepped on French soil, France had been irrepressible; but at least they couldn't get lost. The further they went, the more determined the country became, and the more England had to pretend at enthusiasm.

The rain had let up by the time they were walking down the remains of an old dirt path in the old royal forest. Wet moss and dirt left a heavy thickness to the smell of the air. The beech trees soared above their heads, their branches blocking out what little sun managed to filter through the grey sky. It left England and France in twilight darkness, relying on a torch fished out of the rental car's boot to find their way along a half-remembered trail.

"You're the one always going on about fairies. How do we find one?" asked France. He wielded the torch, a hand deep in his pocket and hair curling in the humidity. It irritated France; he kept shoving it back out of his face.

England's steps were slow, the mud sticking to his heels and the bottom hem of his pants. He tilted back his head, searching for the grey sky through the leaves and tried to fit their pattern to a memory centuries old.

"You don't find fairies. They find you," England said. He winced as the torch was turned on him, France stopping dead in his tracks and deciding to blind him. England threw up a hand, squinting past his spread fingers and unable to make out France's face.

"There must be a trick to it, some kind of spell or sign or thing that you do," demanded France.

"Look for a fairy mound or circle?" England ventured. "They just sort of show up. No one else ever tries to see them, that's all. You.... you find a place you think they might be, and offer them food or something shiny, and then if you're lucky they show up."

France dropped the angle of the torch. England blinked hard to chase the spots out of his vision as above them the storm clouds shuddered with a roll of thunder as they contemplated dropping rain again. As England's eyes adjusted back to the darkness, France resolved as a series of grey lines twisted together; his long legs and perfectly tailor trousers, the sharp drop of his suit jacket off his shoulders, and the pale angle of his face studying England with a certain angry twist to his mouth.

England looked away from him and pushed on down the path, making a show of looking through the tree trunks. He wandered to the left, wet ferns slapping at his ankles as he pushed a bush out of his way to study the muted green shadows just beyond.

"You aren't trying at all," said France. His voice was terse.

"I'm trying," England said. "You can't just command the Fey like people."

"No, you are not trying. I know you when you are trying; you are stubborn as a mule. You line up ideas and lay out plans, and in the end it is only sheer thick-headedness that keeps you going," said France, his voice starting to rise to echo off the trees.

"Are you actually trying to get me to cooperate?" England muttered, and instantly regretted it as he heard heavy, splotching footsteps approaching from behind. He sighed and shoved his damp hair off his forehead, straightening up to turn and face the other country.

Maybe they'd have a proper argument after all, and leave behind the idea of trying to fix a curse.

England didn't expect France's lean fingers to grab his collar; England grabbed France's wrist, digging in his heels as the taller man dragged him closer. They were nose to nose, France's eyes narrowed and digging into him, and England scowled and tried to ignore the smell of coffee on his breath.

"What is wrong with you?" France demanded, giving him a shake. "We've had this terrible curse for centuries and I finally tell you that you're right, we need to do this your way, and you give up? I thought you were tired of this farce!"

England put his head down and shoved his body into France, then twisted; France grunted as his shoulders hit the tree behind him, then gasped as the air left his lungs. England tore away, stumbling back among the grasses that whipped at his legs and left behind cold splatters of water.

"I am tired of it," England snarled. "I'm tired of this, I'm tired of yelling and arguing, I'm tired of you!"

The words ripped out of him; France stiffened, and the silence rushed in like an accusation. England refused to try and read the look on France's face in the dark. Instead, he hissed in a sharp breath through his teeth and looked away, straight back, firm shoulders, with his hands in fists.

"We won't find it on the path," he said stiffly, and he stomped off for a few feet until a heavy tree root caught on his toes and made him trip. He cursed as he fell to a knee in a puddle and scraped a hand. He leaned his weight back on his heels, digging in a pocket for a kerchief to rub the moss and blood off his hand with a viciousness that almost tore his pocket.

"You stupid thing," said France, his voice low at England's back. England firmly ignored him, struggled to his feet, and stomped onward.

"England," said France.

England kept walking. He wasn't in the mood for France's hurt; for him to play it out like he was a wounded victim in a story designed to ruin France's life. He wanted nothing of his Lancelot stories of being noble and maligned, pitied and sympathized with, for his life was simply so hard and England was so cruel.

England's chest hurt. The muscles of his chest felt thick and tight as he trudged along with the rustle of France's footsteps following behind him. The sucking sound of walking through wet earth was punctuated by frustrated French curses, and England could find no satisfaction in them, nor in imagining how France struggled in his very nice shoes and slightly shiny shirt that stuck to skin in damp weather.

"England, stop being an ass," said France, and there was a thin note of panic that made England stop. It felt like he'd been walking for hours; his knees and hips hurt dimly, and the forest around him didn't look familiar. As England came back to himself, he forced himself to take in the world around him.

A stream cut across the clearing in front of him, thin and reedy in the storm darkness. The sound of it was buried under the rattling wind and the threatening rumbles above their heads. England's fingertips felt cold and numb, and his head full of cotton. He twisted to look back behind him, and France was only a few steps away.

France stood there, his expression pulled tight around the eyes and his mouth pressed into a thin line. The wind tugged at his clothes and pulled them into odd, slashing shapes. His hair was a mess; mud splattered up to his knees, and his grip on the torch made his knuckles look sharp and pale.

Pained, England finally pinned down with some astonishment. The look in France's eyes were pained and somewhat afraid.

It felt like someone had punched England in the stomach.

"France?" England said, the name thin and worried. Some of the tight look in France's face eased, and France flashed him a thin smile.

"You've been acting strange for hours. For two days," said France, and his own voice was thin. "Why are you so angry with me?"

England's mouth went dry, not sure what to make of the plaintive way France asked him. He looked down at the broken trail they'd made crashing through the woods and swallowed.

"It's fine," England said. "It's fine. I get it. You want to be rid of me, once and for all. That's just fine."

It felt so petty to say aloud; England put a hand over his eyes, teeth gritted tightly together. What an idiot. France was right, he was an idiot thing. He was acting like some teenager from the dramas that were so popular out of America lately.

Cold fingertips touched the back of England's knuckles. They slid along the back of England's hand, and then a damp hand took his wrist and tugged. England resisted, mostly out of reflex, and they battled for a moment over it until England just gave up and let France peel it away.

England lifted his chin and forced a challenge into his stare when he looked up into France's face, only to falter at the soft smile that reached France's eyes. It made the skin crinkle a little there, an echo of the heavy lines that dug in when France grew old. That was right. When France was a white haired old man, he had deep grooves from laughter and smiles etched into his face.

"My dear, dear England," murmured France. He didn't release England's hand. He just simply held on and stepped in close. "I couldn't get rid of you if I tried."

"That's not the point," said England, chest burning.

"I wouldn't want to get rid of you," France said, and England stared at the way France's lashes drew down over his eyes so that they could no longer look at each other.

"I. What?" said England.

"You have no head for these things," France sighed, and he released England's hand only to cup his face in his palms. England didn't dare move as the man bent, like a willow bowing before the wind, to press their clammy foreheads together.

"I'm tired of arguing all the time," said France, slowly as if speaking to a particularly thick child. "I'm tired of watching you flinch and turn so very, very frustratingly stoic. I'm tired of the look on your face when we part on an argument. And I'm especially tired of watching you give up."

"Oh." England tried to put words into his head, but all he could hear was the rushing in his ears as all the blood in his body filled his face.

"Say something. I refuse to be the only one embarrassing myself," France muttered. The pointed edges of his nails dug slightly into England's cheeks.

"So this isn't about you getting tired of being forced to see me over and over," said England slowly.

"No, you idiot," hissed France, jerking back and lifting his hands as if he wanted to throttle him. Instead, France threw them in the air, exasperated. "I love you, you stupid man who has the worst taste in food and nearly as bad sense of fashion!"

"Well, how am I supposed to know that!" said England back, and now they were both breathing hard and flushed as the sound of rain drops started to patter against the leaves above their heads. "Arguing is what we do! It's how we--how we talk to each other, without that, then. Then--!"

"I just spent a week in a tiny cottage in the middle of no where laughing over the style of hats at the races and the inability of our relative parties to agree on anything," said France. "And I liked it!"

"I. Even the part when I burnt breakfast?" said England.

"Especially the part where you burnt breakfast because I kissed you," shot back France.

They stared at each other.

Rain rushed out of the sky to fight through the tree canopy. Only stray drops managed to make it through to strike their shoulders and hair. France's face was all red; the torch light had gone out, leaving them only in shades of silver and green. There was a shiver in the set of France's shoulders, the man tensed as if to run. It reminded England of a deer, long legged and full of fear, not sure if it should charge or flee.

All the knots in England's chest fell to pieces. His shoulders dropped and he suddenly shrugged off his jacket, needing to fight when his elbow stuck in a sleeve.

"What in the world are you doing now?" asked France, gaze darting over him as if he could find instructions on the care and feeding of England written on his forehead. England had to go up on tip-toe, but he managed to sling is around France's shoulders.

Pleasure warmed him at the startled look on France's face.

"You look like a drowned cat. I love you too," said England, as casually as he could muster through the lump in his throat.

"You maddening man," muttered France, but there were no edges to his words anymore. He sighed and ducked down; England push up on his toes, and they kissed briefly as the rain drops flattened their hair and slipped down the back of their necks.

(de-anon over at https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437524/chapters/25630305 with the next bit of chapter up!)

England could feel France's eyes burning through him. He shut the grate, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. Silence pressed in on him as he dragged the only other chair in the front room over to the grate, leaving it between himself and France, and took a cup for himself. Settling into the hard-backed wood chair, he focused on the wall and let the tea sink down into his stomach and chase off the rain chill.

"You're so very, very stubborn," said France at last. He was more anxious about silence; he gave in more quickly. Grew more restless. England knew it of him. He knew all of France's softest places, and he knew how to make him spitting angry. He knew when a stubborn silence would drive him up a wall and say something nasty.

"And you're an idiot," said England, "But that's never stopped you."

"You wouldn't answer my calls," snapped France. "We agreed. The phone works perfectly well for a few days."

England focused on drinking tea, wishing he could just build a wall and sit behind it instead of existing with France like this in his front room.

"Well?" said France. "You made me come all the way out into this horrible island, in the rain. I had a lovely young woman ask me if I needed help crossing the street!"

"I'm sure looking like an old man does not dent your drive to seduce anything that moves. Perfect opening," said England. "You could have asked her to give you a sponge bath."

France's grip tightened on the cup and there was a canny look to his eye, as if he was measuring the exact force required to throw it at his head.

"That is classless," France said. The argument was warming the air between them; they knew all the steps. Suddenly, England was tired of it; of all of it. Of the curse, of how France could never stoop down to being old or dealing with it properly. "I looked old enough to be her father twice over, England, I would think you had some sort of fetish."

England sighed. He put the cup to the side.

"Aright," he said.

"...Alright?" said France, staring at him. "You--you ancient...skirt chaser."

"That's horrible," said England. "Can't you do better?"

"You--you....insinuator of horrible things," said France, but both of them knew that the moment had passed and the argument had deflated. France kicked out his feet, crossing them only a few inches away from the little stove, with the air of great injury.

"I've got a good cheese and bread," said England, studying the movement of tea in his cup. "And a pickled spread."

"Don't tell me you are suggesting you cook us lunch," said France, warily.

"I could," said England.

"You're a disaster," said France. "You can't good anything that a decent living being could eat and survive."

"Then you do it," said England. He couldn't even be needled anymore; France had complained about his cooking for hundreds of years, and he was just tired. He couldn't work up the proper outrage.

"Fine. I will show you want a master can do with even simple ingredients," said France.

Then ended up complaining about Germany as a common topic, and then other members of the EU. France had a good story about Canada getting stuck at an environmental protection conference cornered by an earnest young mortal man from Spain who insisted that Canada (the physical and actual country, the one with rivers and rocks) needed to build a giant mirror to reflect the sun and save the polar bears.

England was chuckling as France complained about his kitchen, the state of his burner, the lack of proper grilling pan, and the astounding emptiness of his spice cabinet. They ate lunch together, fancy melted thing that was basically grilled cheese but France insisted on calling a 'melt'.

During the afternoon the rain lightened up a little bit, but did not stop.

"What a dreadful rainy place," muttered France. "You should just stay on my coastline, it's actually warm there and the sun miraculously appears."

"And battle with all the tourists? I already go there in summers," pointed out England.

"Its not like that all the time when you lot's people aren't all trying to shove into the few decent beaches in Europe," said France, curled back up in the good chair. England had washed the dishes; he stood in the kitchen doorway, just looking at him. France's wavy hair had escaped the ribbon holing it back, brushing over his forehead. He looked a little miserable, the fine silks of his clothes sticking to him a bit in the humidity from the rain.

"I do like French beaches," England said, drawing up on him. He rubbed the hint of dampness off his hands on his pants. "I suppose you have some nice places. Its nice and quiet out here, though. Nothing but my and sheep and sometimes the mail."

"I can't understand why you are all the way out here," said France, throwing a hand wide. "There's nothing here!"

"That's something of the point," said England, sitting on the arm of France's chair. The chair creaked alarmingly, but England didn't move.

"Why?" said France, glaring at him, but about the twist of annoyed mouth, his eyes were asking what the hell was he doing.

England shrugged, and flicked a strange of hanging hair.

"You're hair is......... flat," he tried.

France broke into laughter, pressing a hand to his mouth as he watching England over his knuckles.

"That's the worst I've heard," said France dryly.

"You are inconveniently tall," tried England again.

"Really?" said France.

"You try better," England said. "I can't."

"You..... It rains, constantly, in your country and its miserable," tried France.

"You already complained about that," said England back, lifting his heavy brows.

"Your beaches are artificial and dreary," said France, but his mouth was trembling with a barely suppressed smile.

"Half of them were carved out of mountains and the sand is dragged in from somewhere," England sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Honestly," said France, asking the sky.

"We've said all there is that could be possibly said, you damn frog," said England.

"Come now, you are infinitely creative," said France, a hand laying on England's knee as he leaned up and in to him; England turned his face away, arms crossed, and his skin prickling with heat. "Tell me again how I'm a weak idiot who couldn't even protect my own capital."

"You're a weak idiot who couldn't even protect your own capital," he dutifully repeated. France snorted, then sighed, leaning his head against England's side.

Together they listened to the rain. France was very, very warm and England felt stuffy under his jumper.

"I'm not letting you cook dinner," said France.

"I didn't think you would," said England.

So character A is a werewolf or werecat or werehorse or anything of the sort (it can be anthro or full on, as long as there is fur) who transforms between forms but generally looks human for character B (this can be nations or human AU. I'm flexible).

Character B for whatever reason has been infected/given the gift of character A's lyncanthropy, so character A helps character B through his or her first transformation. You have flexibility in the circumstance, the form, the genders; what I want is a detailed, sensual transformation.

Bonus:

1) They are in an already established relationship

2) Smut is involved.

1) Would Germancest be okay? (I'm considering filling it with Germancest).

2) Are you okay with knotting?

I'm very okay and very excited for both. Thank you.

And I am the OP in the above post, just forgot to say it :P

I really like Spamano and Prussia/Spain, but my OTP is Prumano, so what I'd like to see is Romano trying to get an oblivious Spain to see that he's had a crush on him for centuries, Prussia getting jealous over Spain and trying to foil Romano's plans, and then the two of them ending up with each other in the end. Doesn't have to include smut, but that's nice too. Spain can either be honestly oblivious to what's going on, or he can be playing oblivious to avoid anything awkward.

Bonus 1: Prussia's attempts to keep Romano away from Spain make Romano think that Prussia is jealous over HIM.

Bonus 2: Mention of Prussia having a huge thing for brown hair and green eyes.

Bonus 3: If including a sex scene, having Prussia be the bottom.

I would like to see the first time of a variety of nations. Making the pairings based on history (ex: lithuania/poland (b/c they were "married" for a time) I would like to also see pairings you wouldn't assume, like rarepairs or crack pairings, as long as there is some basis in actual history. The sex can be totally consensual, dubious consent or non consensual.

Bonus 1: America is the last country to have his cherry popped. And he is conflicted because of American views on sex. Also Lithuania (Amer/Liet is one of my favorite rarepairs)

Bonus 2: Russia took someone's virginity (consensually) while his first time was less so.

Bonus 3: Someone unexpected has been the first of a lot of people. (ex: Sweden, Lithuania)

Would second this (and possibly fill here) but just curious...what exactly do you mean "American views on sex?" That's like saying teenager's view on politics or a scientist's position on stem cell research. Not everyone is the same, and you can't force everyone into a monolith just because you've seen a lot of poorly enforced, incorrect stereotypes or spoke to ten people out of 1,000. America is completely different when it comes to sex depending on the region. It is also viewed very differently depending on the country (some think Americans are sexually corrupt hound dogs. Others think they are sexually oppressed "puritans", etc). And if you went by the "views on sex" logic, Japan, Romania, the middle east, etc would be even worse.

A recommendation here is to suggest one of the ways people handle England, for example. It would either make sense for him to be like some massive horny teenager but very inexperienced in bed or the type of guy who everyone thinks is celibate (or a virgin/asexual?) but is actually extremely kinky/experienced. It usually leads to funny results.

Hopefully this comment won't get censored. Your idea sounds really great, and the other bonuses sound interesting too, but when you say "views on sex" it just sets up for confusion for writing if an anon/filler has a different view than what you want for the fill. But if you don't mind seeing any interpretation then please say so (cause this anon really wants to fill @_@).

I mean the confusion between those two points. How America would be sex obsessed and yet afraid of going against his morals/his Puritan history. Also with America's history with LGBT rights and things I could see him being conflicted with the possibilities of being gay/by/etc. How the characters are handled is up to filling anon's, whatever works best. I can see America being more prudish or more sex hound so that's why it was a bonus. I am more interested in seeing rarepairs represented and interesting interpretations of historical relationships/character sexuality.

The Roman Empire sighed. The Big Man had a way of making him pay for his escapades when he visited his family back in the living world, but really, this was excessive.

He stood, not yet manifest, watching yet another World Council meeting fall apart. His two heirs had taken cover under the table when America had responded to Russia’s taunts by throwing a punch that send the frigid nation flying six feet into the wall. Germany was shouting, trying to bring order back, England had taken the opportunity to kick France’s vital regions as payback for the latter’s flirting, and Prussia, who usually defused these things before they could erupt, was too hungover to bother lifting his head from the table.

Rome couldn’t blame the former nation: yesterday had been the anniversary of his dissolution, and Prussia always got blind drunk on that day.

“We should stop this.” Germania sounded calm, as always. “We taught them this: it is our responsibility to fix our errors.”

The other ancients murmured agreement. Even the Golden Horde, who had been the most trenchantly against any change to the old traditions – until the devastation of the Second World War. The old raider’s pride wouldn’t let him appear to agree with the Big Man’s orders, though, so he’d joined the group of ancients with a show of reluctance.

Rome wondered why the other ancients looked to him for guidance. His empire had not been the first, the greatest, or the largest, and honestly, he’d hated the wars – while enjoying a good brawl as much as any man – because they took him away from his many loves.

“Yes,” he said, and hoped this would work, not least because he really did not want to have to use the Big Man’s second stage of this plan.

#

Germany’s voice froze mid-shout when a blinding light filled the conference room. He raised his arm to shield his eyes, aware that everyone had fallen quiet. All he could hear was nations breathing.

Then a far-too-familiar voice said, “By Jupiter’s beard, what a mess.”

He opened his eyes and lowered his arm. Yes, it was the Roman Empire, standing in the center of a group of… nations? One, in dappled green and brown clothing, looked like Germany himself, if Germany had long hair and wore something so outlandish. There was a dark-haired woman dressed as though she was one of Greece’s statues come to life, another who could have stepped off Egypt’s ancient murals. A red-headed woman with a bow stood beside a man who looked like an older, fiercer version of Mongolia.

Nobody moved for a long time.

The Roman Empire clapped his hands. “Come now, all of you youngsters, straighten things up and get back to your seats. We have a lot to do.”

Germany realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it, his teeth clicking.

China looked as though he was going to protest the ‘youngsters’ comment, then he looked at the group and meekly started tidying the papers scattered when America had lunged across the table.

#

Rome dearly wanted to hug both his grandsons, as well as the nations he’d fathered but never acknowledge in his time. That would spoil the Big Man’s plan, though. He was going to have to think of something to get back at the old fellow, but for now, he’d best play along and get this over with.
Once all the living nations were seated – Prussia hadn’t lifted his head even once – Rome graced them with his best smile. “Much better.” Then he sobered. “Now, this is going to be a little difficult.”

Young Germany was glaring daggers at him, a glare that was more than a little reminiscent of Germania’s moods, right down to the narrowed eyes and suspicious expression.

Germania stepped forward then, picking up the thread of the Big Man’s instructions. “We taught you, our children, how nations worked,” Germania didn’t sound quite as expressionless as usual. “But we were wrong on one very important point.”

All of the nations looked bewildered.

Germania flushed. “Conquest,” he said in a soft voice. “Conquest, occupation, annexation… they do not need to be sealed as we taught you.”
Rome could see the nations thinking that through, the uncertainty and confusion.

“We were all wrong.” Brittania spoke up then. “We hurt ourselves when we conquer as well as the nation we rape.”

Her words fell into horrified silence.

The Golden Horde nodded, a single curt gesture. “Breaks us too.” He turned to look directly at a white-faced, openly terrified Russia. “I hurt you bad when you were too little for me. I am wrong. I am… sorry.”

Russia tried to speak, but couldn’t force words out of his mouth.

America jumped to his feet, glaring fiercely at the ancient nations. “Dude, you think sorry cuts it? He was a freaking baby! I’m gonna -”

“No, son.” The Great Mother stepped forward, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. “You alone of those here have neither suffered nor inflicted those wounds. Your part is to show what it is to have joined with others solely by choice.”

America blinked. Stared. “Mama?”

She smiled. “Russia was your first partner, in the early 1990s.”

America’s face flushed bright scarlet.

“You, my son, were the first to join with him by choice.”

Russia hid his face in his scarf.

Germania cleared his throat. “Two others here have never raped another,” he said quietly. “Canada, whose first chosen partner was Ukraine, but whose first time was with Germany.”

Germany’s face matched America’s, but he bowed his head, clearly waiting for condemnation.

Canada – for once – was clearly heard by everyone in the room. “I forgave you a long time ago, Germany. You couldn’t disobey your boss’s orders.”
If anything, Germany’s blush grew fiercer.

“The other is Prussia.”

Germany just stared at his look-alike, mouth open. Everyone knew Prussia’s reputation. It was impossible that he… that…

It occurred to him then that all the modern nations – particularly those who had been defeated by Prussia at some point during their turbulent history – wore the same thunderstruck expression. As though they’d been smacked in the face with something they’d never considered possible. Or even thinkable.

France broke the shocked silence with a soft, “I thought it was just me.”

Poland tossed his hair. “As if I cared whether he wanted me enough to finish things.”

Austria sniffed. “I hardly care what that barbarian thinks.”

Germany’s hands clenched. He wanted to shout his fellow-nations down, to berate them for being so callous about his brother… but he had been no better than they, and if he said anything they’d throw his past in his face and likely worse.

Prussia’s chair shot backwards on its wheels and slammed into the wall as the red-eyed nation rose, glaring around the room with a fury that managed to cow everyone who met that glare. “You could have asked,” he spat. With a curt gesture he pulled something from his pocket, tossed it onto the table in Hungary’s direction, where the object splayed out and revealed itself to be a rosary. “I was and am Ordo domus Sanctæ Mariæ Theutonicorum Hierosolymitanorum. A religious order. I was ordained in 1190, and became a cardinal in the 1300s.”

Germany swallowed.

“You became Protestant.” Austria could have been more contemptuous, but it would have taken effort.

Prussia shook his head. “My Grandmaster did that. I never did.” Another glare. “Thing is, my dear friends, up until I met Hungary, I’d only ever met Templar and Hospitaller, and they’d never met any real countries either.”

America and England both had the grace to look somewhat shamed. Most of the others looked bewildered.

“Since our predecessors here seem to want sexual confessions,” That verbal snipe made the Roman Empire and Germany’s doppelganger stiffen. “Well, fine. When the Order was chased out of Acre, Mamluk sealed it.”

Hungary paled, and Austria’s eyes widened.

“After he was done, I swore I would never do that to anyone else.” Prussia shrugged. “Between that and my vows, that was the end of the matter.” Now contempt filled his expression. “Imagine what I thought of you lot when I found out you thought it was normal to rape the nation you defeated no matter how small they were.”

Poland actually looked stricken, and Lithuania horrified.

Prussia smiled bitterly. “Yeah.” He gave the nations another glare. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s rather a lot of beer I need to get very friendly with.”

Germany made no attempt to stop his brother. Frankly, Prussia deserved whatever consolation he could find, whether alcoholic or otherwise.

The ancients apparently disagreed. Germany’s look-alike – he had to be the legendary Germania – moved to block the door. “No, my son. You have things to teach your fellow nations.”

“Oh, I’m not one of them,” Prussia said with withering sarcasm. “I’m just a useless hanger-on who lurks in my brother’s basement.”

Germania’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You are far more than that, and there are those here who will tell you so.”

“Fuck them and their pity.”

“Dude!” America’s voice rang out and echoed faintly off the walls. “Pity ain’t cutting it. Sure I was kind of pissed with the whole East Germany shit, but damn… You’ve been my freaking inspiration for years. Even got a town named for ya – and it’s got one of the best damn malls in the country.”

It wasn’t often Germany got to see his brother genuinely stunned. He savored the moment, Prussia’s deer-in-the-headlights look wasn’t likely to happen again for another hundred years or so, if not more. Moments like these reminded him that his brother wasn’t that far beyond his reach after all. That he could possibly attain the same heights without becoming a monster.

There was a rare uncertainty in Prussia’s voice when he said, “You… admire me?” As though he didn’t believe anyone could do that.

“Fuck yeah!” Nobody could doubt America’s enthusiasm. Of course, America showed the same enthusiasm for giant pollution-eating robots, which rather damaged his credibility, but still… The admiration of the world’s only superpower wasn’t something to dismiss casually.

“So do I.” Canada rose and walked over to Prussia, guiding the startled nation to his chair. “Not many of us would sacrifice ourselves for family -”

France actually looked ashamed of himself, as did England. Germany suspected he didn’t want to know the history there, at least, not the personal history.

“- but you not only did that, you sacrificed yourself for a nation at war with your brother, simply because you believed it was the right thing to do.” Canada’s soft smile wasn’t quite one of hero-worship, but it was close. “If you ever need it, New Prussia is yours. It’s not much, I know, but -”

“Canada,” Prussia said in a voice that actually shook. “Stop. You’ll make me lose my awesome completely.”

For a long time nobody said anything. Germany was sure most of the nations were unsure what they could say that wouldn’t be horrifically awkward. It would be like encountering a prim France, or an exhibitionist Canada, or… Well. He hoped the two north American nations could see his gratitude, because he truly didn’t know how he could thank them for this. For the healing he could see beginning.

“This is why you must speak,” Germania said softly. “The harm you have done each other cannot begin to heal until you acknowledge it. The harm you have done to yourselves cannot begin to heal until you can apologize to those you wronged and mean every word.”

Is there more of this coming along? I do adore a good deconstruction. I've taken to referring to conquest=rape as "Will the Real Sex Offender Please Stand Up?" because by that standard just about everyone would have raped just about everyone else by now and it's really hard to take that seriously or sympathise with them when it's played straight. Something where that's taken into account and it's possible to see how messed-up it would have made them all while both suffering and perpetrating is a wonderful thing to see.

Yes, there's more: I just have to have time to get to it.

“That’s a fine thing for you to say, bastard!”

The Roman Empire closed his eyes for a moment. The elder of his heirs had good reason for his hatred, for everything, really, and this reckoning had to happen.

South Italy stood, pointing towards Rome, the outstretched hand trembling. “It wasn’t you that was conquered by your own grandsire. At least Spain tried to be gentle.” He spat each word out as though tasting bile.

North Italy stared from Rome to his brother, amber eyes gone wide and distressed.

Half the nations of South America were on their feet, shouting that Spain had shown them no such gentleness, while the rest glared equally fiercely in Portugal’s direction.

“Silence, the lot of you!” Prussia’s battlefield roar cut through the noise. He turned to Rome, his gesture more like stabbing the old nation. “You think opening raw wounds is going to help? You think exposing all our weaknesses in front of fucking blood enemies is going to make things better?” The former nation’s glare left Rome suspecting that he too would have fallen to Prussia had they ever faced each other in battle. “No. You fools want us to heal, you let us do it our way.”

Rome blinked. To his shock, Prussia was heard, respected. When everything he’d seen over the years suggested Prussia was seen as merely an infernal nuisance, there was respect, even fear.

Germania’s rare little hint of a smile warmed his eyes more than Rome liked to admit – but then he liked his old rival a whole lot more than he should. “Might one ask what is ‘your way’, my son?”

To Rome, the pride in Germania’s voice was clear.

Prussia snorted. “How about this: all of us who’ve fucked someone over and regret it start by apologizing.”

Rome suspected the vulgar language was deliberate – Prussia used words the same way he used everything else: as weapons and tools towards whatever his goal happened to be. Lately that goal had been making himself seem harmless and a figure of ridicule, but now… Rome wondered what else he’d missed while he’d been watching his children and grandsons.

“Hai.” Japan spoke into the hush. “I deeply regret all that I did as an Empire and the pain I caused to my family -” He bowed first to China, then Taiwan, then Korea, and one by one the other Asian nations. “- and my friends. I will be honored if you choose to forgive.”

America smiled in Japan’s direction. “I forgive you, dude.”

“Forgiveness originated in me!” Korea shouted.

Taiwan swallowed. She was shaking. “I… can’t.” She blinked several times, wrapped her arms around herself. “I just...” Her voice rose, shaking. “I just… can’t.”

Japan bowed once more, and went to his knees. “I beg you, if I can take any action that will ease your soul, please inform me and I will act immediately.”

For a moment, Taiwan didn’t respond, then her eyes seemed to take on a dark light. “You can die!”

Jupiter’s ass, what have we unleashed?

Rome was given no chance to ponder that question: Japan produced his katana from… somewhere and offered the weapon to Taiwan.

“No, sister.” China started from his seat, only to find Prussia behind him, gently pushing him back down.

“She needs to let this out,” Prussia murmured.

“I failed her,” China whispered, watching Taiwan snatch the sheathed weapon from Japan’s hands, draw it from its sheath. “I failed them all.”

Taiwan’s face twisted, and she drove the katana through Japan’s stomach. “I… why can’t I do it? I should… You slaughtered my people and replaced them with yours. You made me your ‘little cherry blossom’ and treated me like a doll. Why?”

This time Prussia didn’t stop China rising. The oldest of the living nations walked lightly to his sister, pulled her into a gentle embrace. “It is because you are true to yourself, sister. You are not a killer. Hate is not in you.” He gave her a sad smile. “It is not for us to question our leaders, nor to turn away from their commands.”

Korea knelt beside Japan, for once quiet while he helped withdraw the sword. Japan’s breath came in a series of hissing gasps, and pain twisted his expression, but he held up one hand when Korea tried to help him to his feet. “I deserve no less.”

“No.” Korea shook his head. “You are not the person who did those things.” He cleaned the sword, sheathed it, then helped Japan to stand, guided him to his seat. “That person died in America’s bombs and let the real Japan come back.”

Japan blinked, a hint of confusion on his usually expressionless face. “You are North and South… yet you forgive?”

One of Korea’s rare, genuine smiles – echoed by that odd hair-curl of his – warmed his usually sharp, mischievous face. “It is because I am North and South that I can forgive, brother.” His smile twisted into its usual wickedness. “And now I must claim big brother’s breasts again or he will think there is something terribly wrong with me.”

#

Rome’s attention was taken from the Asian nation when Germania pointed him towards Turkey, who sat absolutely still while both Australia and New Zealand spoke to him. Apparently both southern nations had decided to offer forgiveness. Turkey didn’t move even when the two young nations embraced him before New Zealand and Australia joined the fast-growing cluster of Asian and South Pacific nations, where both were welcomed.

England stared at the two, eyes open wide and tears in his eyes.

Russia turned to the three Baltic nations, his lips moving in an apology too soft for Rome to hear. Lithuania shuddered, but murmured acceptance, while Estonia merely shook his head and retreated, staring. Latvia smiled despite teary eyes and hugged Russia. “You can start to get better now,” he said. “Prussia taught me that.”

Bewilderment flickered across Russia’s blank expression. “Prussia?” He pronounced it ‘proosiya’.

“When I was the Livonian Brothers of the Sword,” Latvia explained. “He killed four of his own knights for… you know… and told me there was no shame in being overpowered by stronger enemies.” The smallest Baltic smiled. “Prussia was a good big brother.”

“You’re a better person than I could ever be,” Prussia murmured, having approached the two while they spoke. “You’re the one who’s done everything he could to help the others heal, and forgiven everyone who’s hurt you.” He ruffled Latvia’s hair. “I can’t do that, no matter how I pray for it.”

“You help your way, Prussia.” Latvia squeezed the former nation’s hand. “How many beatings have you taken for others in your life?”

Beatings and worse, was the unspoken implication.

Rome glanced at Germania, who raised an eyebrow at him. “How much of this did you know?”

Germania lifted one shoulder a little. “All of it. We all have our ways to deal with pain, Rome. His is… a little unusual I grant, but it works for him.”

Rome wouldn’t call Prussia’s current state ‘working’.

Prussia shrugged off Latvia’s comment with a wry twist of a smile. “I’m a freak, an abomination, demon-spawned, not a proper nation, all of that.” There wasn’t any humor in his voice. “Since everyone’s going torture me anyway, why not protect those who aren’t used to it?” He spoke softly, but Russia heard him, as did Lithuania and Estonia.

Russia stared. “Is that why you are being so difficult in my house?”

The albino nation chuckled. “Well, duh. While you were playing with me, you weren’t after anyone else.”

Russia bit his lip. “I am so very sorry, for everything.” He moved to stand, but Prussia gently pressed him back into his chair.

“It wasn’t your fault, shithead.”

Rome had to admit that Prussia’s way of accepting an apology was unique.

“Your bosses and Horde did a number on you.” A quick shrug, then he ruffled Russia’s hair. “Not surprising you cracked.”

Latvia shook his head and clicked his tongue. “And you say you can’t forgive.”

Prussia stuck his tongue out at the smaller nation. “This ain’t forgiveness. It’s accepting that shit happens and sometimes we’re stuck doing crap we don’t want.”

“Prussia asks too much of himself.” North Italy ventured out from under the table to hug Prussia. “Forgiving doesn’t mean acting like nothing happened,” he added. “It’s what you’re doing now, being nice to Russia even though Russia was mean to you.”

Prussia looked shocked for a moment before he returned the hug. “Don’t ever stop being such a sweetheart, Vene.”

North Italy smiled, not his usual bright and rather clueless smile but something much more gentle and forgiving. He turned to Austria and whispered in that austere nation’s ear.

Austria stiffened, rubbed his forefinger against his nose while he watched the smaller nation run around the room giving hugs to anyone and everyone.

Now Rome was beginning to see the fruits of Prussia’s suggestion. Turkey spoke with Greece, for once not arguing or spitting venom, Romania and Bulgaria both hugged the masked nation before giving Russia the same treatment. Bosnia, Serbia, and the other Balkan nations cried as they held each other, while the Africans and South Americans were mingling without concern for the ancient feuds that tore them apart in the power vacuum left by their former colonizers.

Germania nodded. “He’s smarter than he pretends, old man.” He turned to the other Ancients. “Go on. We have our own apologies to make to our descendants.”

Germany watched, bewildered, as the weirdest chaos he’d even seen at one of these meetings expanded to include everyone present. Turkey punched Rome in the face before being wrapped in the ancient’s arms, Russia was actually talking to the old barbarian – the Horde? - who’d terrified him earlier, Poland and Lithuania approached Prussia and for once it seemed that the conversation was civil, if awkward, leaving Germany to wonder just what had happened while his brother had been a Polish duchy.

Spain and Portugal embraced a woman who looked so much like them she had to be their mother, before the three of them spoke to a rather battered Rome.

If he hadn’t made his own much-needed apologies to everyone he’d conquered as soon as he was able, Germany would have found the whole situation agonizingly embarrassing. Bad enough to have one’s sexual preferences become the topic of global gossip, without everyone knowing who you’d had sex with when, and whether or not it was forced. He really should have listened to Prussia and not his other brothers.

Especially not Bavaria. ‘Hunt them down and conquer them: they love it’. Ugh.

It had taken him years to be able to meet England’s cold green gaze after, and longer for the crawling anger and shame to fade. And France, well… Germany doubted he would ever be able to forgive the nation for demanding Prussia’s death and trying to make Germany into a kind of fake France. He still had to force himself not to show anything but neutrality towards the so-called nation of love.

Both France and England sat with their arms folded, stubbornly refusing to accept that they might perhaps be other than purely innocent or righteous.

Germania approached them both, rested a hand on each nation’s shoulder.

Germany carefully didn’t smile at the near-identical reactions.

“You are brothers,” Germania said. “And my sons.”

Germany wished he hadn’t heard that. It meant he was related to France. Behind him, Prussia snickered.

“You knew?”

Prussia spoke so softly Germany doubted anyone else would hear him. “Ja, I knew. Vati had Fuzz-face with Rome, and Eyebrows with Brittania.”

Germany looked from Germania to Rome, and back. The discussion with France and England didn’t appear to be going well, despite the addition of the redheaded bow woman – presumably Brittania. More to the point, both Germania and Rome were very much male. Emphatically so. “Er…”

Prussia made a sound Germany was sure he didn’t want to interpret. “Something ‘proper’ nations can do,” he said. “When we’ve lost, or we choose to submit to someone or some shit.”

Germany was quite certain his face was on fire – although it did explain why the aftermath of that war had felt so… odd. To distract himself from that – it wasn’t pleasant to remember, and he’d rather focus on sensible things – Germany looked to see what was happening with England and France.

England had his arms wrapped around Brittania, crying softly. Germany recognized the posture: someone letting out centuries of pain in the arms of one of the few he trusted. He’d done with same with North Italy, a few years before the Wall had come down.

He averted his eyes, not wanting to intrude on something so personal.

France had an odd look in his eyes when he approached Germany and Prussia. “I… It seems we are full brothers, you and I.”

Germany blinked. “We are?” Oh, wait… Prussia had told him once he’d been the Holy Roman Empire, the youngest of Germania’s many children, and with a name like that, Rome had to be his other parent.

“Yes, you are.” Germania’s voice was quiet, calm. “And it is past time you reconciled.”

That meant more than the last hundred years, Germany was sure.

France glowered at the ancient nation. “That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have this barbarian traipsing through your heart like he owned it.”

Germania raised an eyebrow. “No, I had that barbarian -” he pointed to Rome, who appeared to have managed to turn the whole of southern Europe into a family gathering - “- traipsing through mine.”

“And you killed him in revenge.” The flatness of France’s voice told Germany far more than he’d wanted to know.

“No.” Germania’s calm didn’t waver. “I gave him mercy when he asked it, when Constantinople fell to the Ottomans.”

France was left with his mouth open, not that Germany blamed him. Everyone ‘knew’ Germania had killed Rome, but he doubted any of the nations realized it had been an act of mercy.

Prussia squeezed his shoulder.

Germany reached back to wrap an arm around his brother’s body. Every now and then, when Prussia was tired, Germany would catch a little of the pain his older brother concealed from the world, and he fully understood why a nation suffering that would ask someone he trusted for mercy. If Prussia ever asked that of him, Germany could only hope he would be able to give it.

Prussia broke their little bubble of silence. “Look, if you don’t regret anything, don’t bother apologizing. That’s just insulting.”

France flushed. “I am not the one who slaughtered millions!”

“Ja? Your Napoleon might disagree.” Prussia’s voice could have cut steel. “And don’t try claiming anything from before that, either,” he added before France could object. “Fact is, we’ve all been beating on each other for the smallest pretext since forever.”

Germany felt his brother’s movement, heard the sneer in his voice. “I couldn’t stop my kings playing at war, but I tried to do what I could to make up for the shit they pulled. Same as I did with my knights. I’ve made my peace with what I am and what I’ve done, Fuzz-face. Have you?”

Germania sighed. “Little elf, you may be at peace with deeds, but you are not at peace with your soul.”

Prussia made a sound of derision. “And you’re surprised?” he demanded. “I’m working on it. That will do for now.”

Another sigh, but before Germania could speak, France’s disgusted, “You mean I’m related to that monster?” shattered any chance of an amicable ending to the tension.

“Calm your tits, Fuzz-face.” Prussia’s voice was colder than anything Germany had heard in years. Not since he’d been stuck with his mad boss’s orders had Germany heard anything like this. “I’m adopted. You don’t need to fear any tainted blood from me.”

France glared. “Good. After everything you did we should have killed you when we dissolved you.”

Which was why Germany doubted he could ever forgive France completely. The conquest and occupation, unpleasant as they had been, those he could live with. But the desire to destroy Prussia who’d been completely innocent and lied to spare Germany the worst? That he couldn’t forgive, and worse, Prussia wouldn’t allow him to reveal the truth.

Germania’s sharp, “Enough,” was almost as forceful as Prussia’s battlefield command voice. “You were once friendly with Prussia. Do you truly believe he would change so much from the man you once knew?”

“Vati, don’t.” Prussia wasn’t pleading. To his eternal shame, Germany knew what Prussia pleading sounded like, and this wasn’t it.

“He’s a monster,” France snarled. “A demon. He slaughters on the battlefield and laughs. He’s -”

“I’m a fucking berserker, arse-wipe,” Prussia retorted. “Same as Canada.”

Who, Germany noted, was having an emotional moment with the four attending Nordics – Iceland having declined due to one of his volcanoes erupting a few days ago – and who looked awfully like Norway when you saw the two of them side by side.

France rocked back on his feet, apparently shocked. “Berserker? But...”

“I’m not Nordic, ja, I know.” Now Prussia just sounded tired. “Fuck if I know why I’ve got it, but I do. Anything else you’d like to condemn me for? Might as well get it all out in the open.”

France blinked. Stared.

Germany knew without looking that Prussia was rubbing his left arm again.

“Please,” Germania said softly. “Little elf, tell him. You’ve carried this on your own long enough.”

France’s frown was one of confusion now, not anger. “Tell me what?”

Prussia sighed. “Oh, just that I lied at the trial. No way I was letting you arses rip into my brother after everything I gave up for him.”

Germany bowed his head, knowing Prussia meant far more than simply creating the empire. He’d failed Prussia so much the shame was unbearable, and made worse by the way Prussia forgave him every time he’d thrown his brother’s generosity in his face.

God, Prussia even forgave Germany for conquering him and treating him like a slave for years. Forgave him for sending him to the camps and an existence of torture.

He didn’t want to see France’s face, see that hatred fall to him.

“You… what?”

“I lied.” Prussia didn’t mince words. “God in Heaven, France, West wasn’t even a hundred years old for that war. Do you really think he had any way of defying his boss at that age? It’s hard enough when you’re over a thousand. Even China has trouble.”

France was breathing hard. “You… you lied to protect… Dear god, do you know what he did to me?”

Germany wished he could disappear into the floor. Worse, the room had gone silent, everyone’s attention caught by France’s anguished shout.

Prussia just… Germany didn’t need to look to know his brother had that odd little smile of his, the sad one that meant he was going to say or do something that revealed his true self to whoever was there. The true self that was nothing like the loudmouthed buffoon he pretended to be to protect himself.

“He’d already done the same to me, France.” Prussia’s soft, emotionless voice carried to every nation in the room. “When he did it to you, I was wearing a black triangle. Because I’d blown my cover getting Canada out before the kid could be shipped off to Mengele as an experimental subject. I took Canada’s place.”

Silence.

Now France’s voice shook. “And you… you forgave that?”

“He had no choice,” Prussia said simply. “Of course I did.”

“Then… why does…”

“Oh, France,” Prussia sighed. “France. You can be so blind sometimes, not that I’m any better. They’re not here because we need to forgive the people who fucked us over, or apologize to the ones we fucked over.”

Oh. The realization hit Germany with the force of a bunker-buster a moment before Prussia spoke. His eyes burned and he started to shake.

“We need to forgive ourselves.”

#

Prussia won't talk about what happened at Russia's house and it's eating him up inside. He can't get over his fear of the nation and feels really weak for it. He also feels like he should have gotten over these things years ago but for some reason he just can't. Until he reluctantly confides in another nation. I would like to see their friendship build up to a point where Prussia can confide in them and I definitely want a big bucket full of angst. But with a positive outlook for the future.

A) It is not a nation you'd expect (Austria, Hungry, Germany, Spain, France.

B) Prussia first lets some stuff slip accidentally (possibly while drunk)

C) Russia actually apologized for the things he did, which just makes it worse somehow.

Australia made damn sure he wasn't noticed when he walked away from the beach resort – his beaches and their isolated resorts made wonderful places to host the world meetings when his turn came around, which seemed to be quite a bit more often than was strictly accurate, probably because of said beaches and isolated resorts. The nations might not get much done, but they sure enjoyed relaxing – and Australia enjoyed not having to clean up any disasters between the nations and his people.

Which was why he was slipping quietly away, having noticed Prussia disappearing into the distance with an esky tucked under one arm. Australia was quite sure the thing was full of beer – Germany and Prussia had quite the taste for beer, and once they'd got used to the lighter taste of his lagers and agreed it went well with Australia's weather, they always went through a phenomenal amount of it.

They couldn't drink him dry, but they tried.

That said, slipping off to drink alone was a bad sign.

While he followed, Australia tried to work out what had set the often loud and unpredictable former nation off this time. Insults were usually met with insults, embarrassing missteps with loud laughter and claims he totally meant that.

Several of the Europeans had been in foul temper, what with the unpleasantness in their lands, but…

Prussia slid down a steep sandbank to sit on the pale sand, and took a long swig from a bottle of… was that vodka?

Australia considered speed-dialing Germany, discarded the idea when Prussia drank again. At this rate the man would be unconscious before anyone else could get here.

Instead, he settled himself beside Prussia, his senses hyper-aware in the warm night.

“...fuck do you want?” Prussia snarled.

“Nothin'.” Australia lied smoothly, and waited while the other nation did a remarkable imitation of Russia and downed the rest of the vodka in one long swig. Whatever had sent Prussia seeking forgetfulness at the bottom of a bottle – and for him it would take something like vodka to find it – would be revealed at its own pace. Or not.

Either way, when Prussia passed out, he'd not be left alone to face his hangover somewhere unfamiliar.

Prussia just grunted and cracked another bottle.

Australia winced. A dozen bottles of cheap vodka sat in the esky, any one sufficient to kill a human if drunk in one hit. Even Russia would have trouble putting that lot away in one sitting.

“Tastes like shit,” Prussia grumbled about half way through the bottle. “'kin' Russian crap booze.” He turned and frowned at Australia. “Why in th' fuck you care, anyhow?”

Australia shrugged. “I like you. You're a good mate.” Pub crawls with Prussia and Germany were a riot, sometimes literally, and he and Prussia had built up something of a friendship since the fall of the Berlin Wall had left the other nation with a lot more free time than he was accustomed to.

“'S'warm here.” Prussia muttered. “No fuckin' snow. Hate that shit. No commies either.” The level of the bottle dropped further. “Dunno how y'do it.”

Australia wouldn't have said no communists: it wasn't like he'd ever tried to ban them or anything. It was just that… “Land of everything trying to kill ya, remember? We kind of ignore the bosses and do what we think works. Mostly.” It worked for him, although he doubted it would work too well for any other nation.

Prussia snorted. “Better'n fuckin' bendin' over'n lettin' th' fuckers screw ya.”

Australia sighed. “Mate, I'm gonna have ta switch ya over ta beer. This Russian piss ain't doing ya any favors.”

“Beer ain't strong enough.” Prussia finished the second bottle with a hefty swig.

“Ya want to forget something?” Australia wasn't asking, not really. “A good adrenaline rush'll do that for ya. Drives everything out for a while.”

Prussia turned to stare at him. In the dim light his eyes seemed like dark holes against his pale skin. “The fuck?”

“I'm serious.” Best not to mention his fling with Russia, he decided. Danger made both of them hot and bothered, and things… well… progressed. “There oughta be a tiger shark or an old man croc out in that water right about now.”

If anything, Prussia's stare grew more intense. “You seriously fuckin' wrestle sharks when you're upset?”

“Sharks, crocs, anythin' dangerous.” Australia spread his hands. “It's good fun, and ya don't think about anything else while you're doing it. Then ya feel too bloody good to care about whatever got you in the dumps.”

Prussia shook his head, and invaded the third bottle. “Ain't gonna work, kid.” He closed his eyes, the moonlight making it look liked he'd become a rather disreputable statue, at least until he took another long swallow of vodka. “You c'n get off on it, an' th' fuckin' Russki, but it ain't me.”

Australia sighed. “Sculling bloody turps till you bloody pass out then puking on the beach works better?”

Prussia opened his arms wide in what was probably meant to be some kind of expansive gesture. If Prussia hadn't overbalanced and toppled onto the sand, it might have worked. “'sfine...” He stayed where he was, the rest of the bottle draining into the sand. “No dreams that way, see?”

Australia gently picked up the now-empty bottle and set it aside before lying down beside the other nation. “Figures you'd have nightmares now and then,” he said in a casual tone. After getting this close to whatever was eating the other nation, he didn't want to balls it up by jumping on what could have been just an off-hand comment. “I get 'em, and you've done way bloody more than I have.”

“Had a fuck-ton done t'me, too,” Prussia said in the dazed, not-quite-there manner of the thoroughly drunk. “Mostly by fuckin' Russia.”

Well, that wasn't exactly surprising. Russia wasn't known for being nice in any of his incarnations. Drinking with him and having sex after doing something ridiculously dangerous was one thing, but having to live with him didn't bear thinking about – and that was without considering that Prussia had ended up in Russia's household as spoils of war, or the rather large grudge Russia had against all things Germanic at the time.

“Stupid.” Prussia seemed to have forgotten that he had company. “Not like I hadn't been through th'same shit with Poland, it's just how shit happens when you lose a war an' get annexed. Th' big bastard even apol… said sorry, and Poland never did.”

For a time, it seemed that was all Prussia was going to say, then his voice rose in an anguished wail, “So why the fuck can't I get over it? Quarter of a fucking century and I still fucking freeze when he's there.”

While Australia was quite certain that Prussia had forgotten his presence: the other nation wasn't one to admit to any kind of weakness, much less something like this, he figured at this point he might as well take the risk and try to help. They were as human as they were nation, and Prussia was perhaps a little more human than most of them, what with his nation having been dissolved damn near seventy years back. Well, what was left of it, anyway. “What was different about when Poland stopped than now?” He kept that calm, matter-of-fact. “Apart from the obvious, anyhow.”

Even drunk as he was, Prussia was dangerous. It took him a while to realize that Australia wasn't some kind of figment of his imagination, then in less time than it took to blink, the older nation had twisted on the sand and now held a sword to Australia's throat. Even in the moonlight, his snarl was clear.

Australia did not flinch or try to move away. Two and a half bottles of vodka notwithstanding, that weapon was completely steady, telling him it had stopped exactly where Prussia meant it to. If he did what his nerves were telling him to do, he'd likely spend the next few days recovering from fatal injuries, and that wasn't his idea of a good time.

Prussia's voice was a low growl, a string of German curses – to Australia, most German sounded like a declaration of homicidal intent, and this was particularly hostile – followed by, “You tell anyone about this and I'll fuckin' demonstrate what th' fuckin' fucker did.”

Australia rolled his eyes. Europeans. “Just calm down, mate. I'm not a bloody scab.” After a moment, he added, “I won't say anything.” He sighed. “You don't need to threaten me to shut me up.”

That at least got through to the other nation: the sword vanished into wherever Prussia kept it – Australia wasn't quite sure what to call it, but it made a handy place to keep a few beers for emergencies – and he rolled back to lie on the sand again. “You're a strange one, kid.”

Australia let himself fall to the sand. “So people tell me.”

The murmur of water lapping the sand was the only sound for a while, then Prussia spoke again. “Ya gotta understand, with us conquering always meant control, you know? Controlling everything.” He paused, then let his breath out on a long sigh. “The usual way to stop any bad memories out of that's to conquer someone else, preferably the one who did it to you.” His laughter was soft, bitter. “Like I can do that now.” Another short pause. “It generally wasn't so bad, if you behaved and your people weren't too rebellious.” Another of those painful laughs, followed by a snort. “I think you can guess how well that worked for me, ja?”

Australia risked a bit of a dry joke. “Mate, you bloody near define defiance.”

“Damn right.”

Australia would have sworn the other nation was grinning in the darkness right then.

“Obedience to proper authority, sure, but nothing that's not Prussian can ever be proper authority.”

It made sense, in a weird kind of way – but then, not much that Prussia did was ordinary.

“So, yeah, after Tannenberg, and then after I got pushed into becoming a Duchy, Poland did his best to control me.” A brief silence. “You kids are so fuckin' lucky, you know? We all thought England had lost it, treating you like you actually were his kids, not his property, an' never claiming you the way it was always done.”

Well, fuck. No wonder Europeans were so dysfunctional, if their nations behaved like that and thought it was normal. England might not have been a particularly kindly parental figure, but he'd been decent enough, and Australia remembered fondly the times he'd met the man's standards and been awarded England's sparse praise.

Prussia snorted. “Anyhow, I had people to look after then. I could focus on them an' let the stuff happening to me get distant.” He sighed. “No fuckin' way t' do that now.”

In short, he'd never really dealt with it, just let it get sufficiently distant that it no longer traumatized him – not that Prussia would ever admit either that he'd been traumatized, or that he hadn't dealt with the aftermath.

No bloody wonder the rest of the world behaved like insane children. At least him and the Yank – and the Kiwi and Maple boy, he reminded himself – actually were children by nation standards. The older nations tended not take anyone seriously unless they had a good five hundred years as an independent entity to their name, and China was always boasting about his four thousand years of functional government. To them, America was barely reaching adulthood, maybe, depending on when you counted from.

Insane children with severe PTSD, and Christ, but the flashbacks had to be horrible. He had enough issues each fire season, but that was nothing to being systematically brutalized and, well… raped (Australia mentally cringed from even thinking the word).

“So, got any bright ideas, sunshine?” Prussia asked sardonically, after finishing a bleak recitation that left Australia's stomach churning in queasy horror.

Russia really had done “everything” to the other nation. Who, to be fair, had done his share of terrorizing the rest of Europe, though he appeared to have left the… the rape out of it. Not that Australia was going to put money on that: Prussia was, like the rest of them, human enough to present his own deeds in the best light possible and make strategic omissions if needed.

“Honestly?” Australia had to work to keep his voice calm. “This probably helps all by itself. Makes the whole thing less of a nightmare and more something you can face directly.” He would have shrugged, but his position in the sand didn't really allow for that. “Maybe write it down sometime, read it over later. Doesn't matter if you destroy it once you're done – that might even help, kind of a symbolic letting go thing.” The difference between those of his people who counseled trauma survivors and Prussia was that Prussia was likely to be facing his nemesis more often than not. Avoidance wasn't an option.

Prussia said nothing for a while. “Huh. So that woo woo shit does kind of work.”

Australia snorted. “Only partly. You don't get all over it because you tell it once. It's more… ya know, the way they treat phobias, by exposing you to it in controlled doses until you stop freaking.”

That earned him a sound that hovered between real laughter and insane, broken giggles. “Russia-phobic… I reckon most of Eastern Europe has that issue.”

“More than likely.” Australia kept the relaxed, not-quite-flippant tone.

Another long silence followed, then Prussia said, “You said something about beer?”

Australia laughed. “Sure, mate.” He reached into his private stash, withdrew two cold cans and handed one to Prussia. “Enjoy.”

#

Doesn't have to have pairings, but I really want some fat!Spain. Mentions of other nations enjoying/commenting on his size is wonderful. Feeding is even better. I'd really prefer that he enjoys being larger, and he should definitely keep that great ass~

Bonus- if he's dating it's Romano, France or Prussia
Bonus- he's dating all three, and they all love making him bigger
Bonus- his partner(s) have also gained weight.

So, earlier this year, Italy became the last Western European nation to legalize same-sex civil unions. (You can read a little bit about it here-- http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/12/world/europe/italy-gay-same-sex-unions.html?_r=0)

What I would like is a conversation between Italy and Romano about how they feel about this decision. I don't care what pairings, if any, you would like to include. I'm mostly concerned with how they feel about change and modernization and relationships, the disconnect between them, their politicians, and their people, and the possibilities now available to them and their people.

Something goes awry and nations start reverting to their worst behavior in history. It is up to author anon to decide when that time period would be. Just when the nation was it's most bloodthirsty, most cruel and in general when they were on their baddest behavior. It happens slowly and they try to figure out how to stop it.

Bonus 1: Germany flips out. The other nations look to him for guidance but he's too busy locking himself up in his basement and just in general being a wreck.

Bonus 2: Sweden is one of the first to get hit and he is truly terrifying. (I love seeing my favorites being kind of evil haha.)

Bonus 3: Not all nations go through it, just some. And others worry about when/if they will be turned and what their worst selves actually are.

Any nations you want to see in particular other than Germany and Sweden? I want to know who else to throw in the pot.

Any nation you can think of really. I think England, Russia and Japan would be good. Just any nation who you can see as having a "bad side". And not all nations have to be affected, some can just be reacting to those who are affected. I personally love the nordics so seeing them is good.

Journal Entry #1

Sweden got hit with it first. I had never seen anything more terrifying than cool-headed guy Sweden glare at everyone so chillingly. When I had asked him what was the matter, he growled out at me.

"I was once the mightiest army in the world! Carolus would be ashamed at what I've become." Those who had been around long enough to know the name all looked at each other in hesitation.

I of course, had to start reading up. Carolus Rex, also known as King Charles XII of Sweden, and dear God this guy was terrifying. Russia seemed particularly on edge when that name dropped (I admit I got a brief satisfaction from that scared look of his), but I'm also worried about what that means.

Journal Entry #2

He's not getting any better. A few of the other nations tried talking to him but he refused to listen. He kept talking about one thing and one thing only: War.

I've done my research, I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks I am. The Swedes are tough sons of bitches, there's a reason the Pope has Swedish Guards after all. To think actually going to a war with them...

I've been in enough wars, I don't want more.

Journal Entry #3

Germany got hit with it next. I heard from a shaken Italy how the poor guy locked himself in the basement, screaming how he's "not a Nazi" and "May the Kaiser free me." He didn't seem happy to hear about good ol' Wilhelm, considering he and Germany didn't start out on the right foot during the first World War.

Britain and France seem on edge now, not that it's a surprise. If Germany snaps they're going to be the first ones to fight him, well other than Sweden, who's being kept at home for his own good.

I'm scared, but I have to be strong. I've been through my share of bad times, some cynics would say that I'm still in them, but I shudder to think of what would happen if this...this hate plague got to me all of a sudden.

The thought of another civil war shook me to the very foundation.

Journal Entry #4

I think it's starting to affect Italy, both North and South. Although I can't say for certain what on earth those two at their worst is like. I know from more research (Not that I mind the busy-work, our past helps shape our future) that the Holy Roman Empire was split down the middle, East and West.

I wonder what this means for the two then. Greece has been showing signs of being uncomfortable as well, but I haven't the faintest idea what he's going to turn into. Spartan would be my best guess but you can never tell...

I have no idea what's going on. Quite frankly..I'm scared. Yeah, I know. It's kinda hard to believe isn't it? But even heroes can get scared.

I'm scared of what the others will turn into. I'd rather not have to deal with Britain trying to get me to "rejoin" him and "stamp out that rebellious spirit". It was bad enough the first time.

I suppose I'm also scared of what I'll turn into. I have so much bad history, it's like an all you can eat buffet.

I wonder if that's why I haven't been affected yet. I'm already so poisonous that this plague doesn't even affect me.

I wish that wasn't so comforting.

Not OP.... But this was really good. I was excited to see how someone would do this!

france and england (can be malexmale, femalexfemale or malexfemale ) are both into the ddlg kink (you can decide on the roles for each other ) they try to keep this kink secret as much as they can and act it out completely once they get home from any meetings. Their relationship is very loving and whenever one asks for something the other tries their best to give them it.

This can be as long as you want to, i'm not that picky.

Bonuses; loving and caring sex, other countries finding out by accident.

Dear anon, it could be nice if there be something kind of fun-scary. For example Russia and 2p!Russia know each other very well (good relationship) and because they are bored they decided to make 1p Poland love them.
1. Poland don't know about 2p! Russia, he think that this is one person
2. They decided to hide it from Poland just to have more fun... till the end.
3. no rape, no blood,
can be some typical Russia behavior but i love it fun than sad. everything else is up to You

Ah, sorry for how dirty this is, but give me Austria being roughly banged please. Doesn't have to be noncon, he can be begging for it, just something not soft at all would be cool :) Go crazy anons!

Bonus:

1. pairing not seen here all that often? I'm not opposed to PruAus or Aushun, but I wouldn't mind something else too.

If Austria is paired with a female, do you want him to get pegged at one point?

OP here - that would be actually awesome! Totally open to pegging!

Apparently Japan and Russia never signed a peace treaty for WW2 because of a dispute over the Kuril Islands: http://www.csmonitor.com/World/Europe/2013/0429/Japan-and-Russia-want-to-finally-end-World-War-II-agree-it-is-abnormal-not-to

Hatesex or comedy, either's awesome, both is better.

Germany is in a terrible mood because of something (probably Italy and Prussia being annoying shitheads- I say this with affection- but it's up to anon as to why.) Cue Romano to come and give him more hell. However, Germany is not having it now and he gives him hell right back.

Basically, what I'm looking for is a huge argument between Romano and Germany where they keep insulting each other and trying to get the other to back down, with Romano constantly pushing Germany's buttons to get a bigger reaction, until it gets physical. Which starts to turn Romano on.

Romano is such a temperamental bottle of explosive emotion, the epitome of a loose cannon, he actually REALLY likes it when someone can be really harsh with him and control him. Which leads to intense smut.

Bonus- They don't have romantic feelings for each other. It's totally animalistic.

Bonus- Romano cries during sex because of how rough Germany gets with him.

Bonus- Romano is forced to deepthroat, and it's rough and unpleasant for him.

I'm going to hell.

Have I died and gone to heaven? Because this is perfection.

The inevitable meeting migraine had barely started to ease when someone pounded on Germany's door, followed by a too-familiar voice. “Open up damn it, potato bastard or I'll break your door down!”

Apparently sending Prussia to help North Italy get his nation's financial affairs somewhat less untangled had been a worse idea than he thought. Prussia was little short of genius when it came to financial matters – something that had been very helpful of late – but he wasn't the most tactful of nations. He might have promised he wouldn't make North Italy cry, but there was a rather high chance Prussia had managed to do exactly that.

Particularly with South Italy threatening to destroy parts of his house.

Germany sighed under his breath and made his way to the front door. He might as well get all the headaches over with.

A particularly loud and vile curse – thankfully in Italian, a language the neighbors neither spoke nor understood – changed his mind about trying to be polite. Germany wrenched the door open, demanding, “What do you want?” in a low growl.

South Italy glared at him. “I want your stupid -” He poked Germany's chest. “- albino potato brother -” Poke. “- out of my country -” Poke. “- and away from my idiot brother.” All shouted, thankfully in Italian.

Germany didn't want to think about what the neighbors would say. He liked living in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Berlin, but dear God the other nations made it difficult.

The other nation raised his hand for another poke, and Germany grasped his arm and hauled him inside, closing the door firmly. That extra he'd paid to soundproof the house was worth every pfennig. “That is enough,” he growled in his own language, knowing full well that the other nation understood. “You could have emailed. Or called.”

“Fuck you. You think I wanted to come to your stupid country?” He folded his arms – which was an improvement on poking Germany's chest. “Your idiot brother made my little brother cry.”

Which Germany had half expected, but still… Prussia was there to help, and if the god-damned Italies weren't going to be useful they could bloody well accept what was offered. “What did he do? Give an accurate budget total?” Which would be so far in the negatives there wasn't enough red ink to print it.

For a moment it looked like the other nation would try to punch him, then South Italy snarled. “Fuck off. Interfering, pestilential, idiot potatoes.”

He would have said a lot more if Germany hadn't sneered at him – these arguments were so tiresome and he was in a foul temper to start with, with his headache threatening to start jackhammers on his skull. “I'll take that as a yes.”

The southern half of Italy was well-known for his ungoverned – and possibly ungovernable – temper. He'd raved at Germany many times over the years, often threatening violence, though rarely delivering on the threat. Whatever else the man was, he wasn't a fool and he knew Germany would win any kind of physical contest.

“You potato fuckers have no right interfering in our nation,” South Italy snapped.

Germany raised an eyebrow. “Your brother asked for help.” The statement was true, and should get an interesting reaction. With a killer headache inevitable, he might as well enjoy what he could before his temper snapped completely, and if that enjoyment came at the cost of someone who'd gone out of his way to irritate Germany more times than he could count, well, so much the better.

“Taking advantage of his good nature, are you?” The other nation's voice turned harsh, ugly. “Just like you always have.”

“That,” Now Germany's voice was edged with steel. Referring to the things he'd done at the order of that mad bastard with the toothbrush mustache was out of line. “is a lie.” He stepped closer to the shorter nation, and didn't bother to conceal a cold smile when South Italy retreated until his back met the wall.

“Truth hurts, potato fucker.” South Italy sneered. “You invaded him and used him you bastard, and you're still doing -” Whatever he planned to say disappeared in a gasp when Germany's fists curled into his shirt and lifted him, held him against the wall with his feet dangling several inches from the floor.

It took Germany a moment to see past raw fury that sent his heartbeat racing and his vision red. He held his self-control by the thinnest margin, not wanting to upset North Italy by beating his abrasive brother to a pulp. “Would you like to find out?” The demand emerged as a low growl, and Germany realized he'd gone hard as he glared at the startled face of the other nation. At the mix of fear, shock, and humiliation that twisted across South Italy's expression in the moment before anger resurfaced.

“Fuck you!” South Italy twisted, trying for a groin kick.

Germany pressed closer, using his larger size to pin the other nation against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he allowed the intoxicating mix of anger and lust to rule him. It had been so long since he'd conquered another nation, so long since he'd been allowed to even think of it.

And – oh, the delicious irony – he could feel South Italy rising to the challenge, hardening against his body. “I think you would.” A twitch of his hip, pushing himself closer against that hardness to torment the other nation.

A shudder ran through the trapped nation's body, and his olive-green eyes opened wide. “You… you miserable potato fucker.”

Now Germany chuckled at the insult, low and sensual. “That would make you the potato.”

South Italy twisted and writhed, but could not break free. His futile struggling intoxicated Germany, driving him to tease the other's growing erection without mercy.

“Let… Let go!”

“You want this,” Germany murmured, a cruel smile curving his lips. “You went to so much trouble to earn it, and now you will reap the reward.”

For a moment, the space between heartbeats, South Italy froze. Olive green locked with ice blue, and the smaller nation gave the slightest of nods, acquiescence more than permission. Acknowledging that his body craved the mastery Germany would force on him.

Germany accepted that with a slight nod of his own, his smile widening. He tossed the other into the living room, following closely and slamming the door behind him.

Before South Italy could climb to his feet, Germany hauled him to his knees, holding him there by the simple expedient of a hand curled tightly into the other nation's hair – avoiding that stray curl. “You know what to do.”

South Italy tried vainly to free himself. “Like fuck I will.”

“If you don't want a dry invasion of the Volturno, you'll do it.”

The captive nation shuddered at the threat, eyes opened wide in fear.

Germany grinned, a fierce, vicious thing he'd learned from his brother. “And if you bite, you'll regret it.” Nothing more than that: a vague threat was often more fearsome than a specific one.

“Bastard.”

Germany answered with a light slap from his free hand – the angle was wrong to hit the other nation hard enough to truly hurt. “Get on with it before I change my mind.” Before his erection reached the point where he'd need to leave and jack off or take South Italy regardless of his protests and arguments.

“Fuck you.” But South Italy reached up with trembling hands and unzipped Germany's pants, adjusted his boxers so his erection could rise freely.

Germany's soft, dark chuckle sent a shiver through the other nation's body. “I will. Now suck.”

For a long moment it looked as though the other nation would refuse and he would be forced to make good on his threat – it was never smart to allow others to think one would back down if one's bluff was called – then South Italy shuddered again and took him into his mouth.

Germany allowed his captive the illusion that he would be permitted to set the pace until the other began to tease with his tongue: then he simply thrust into the open mouth, placing his free hand on the back of South Italy's head so he couldn't retreat.

The man's whole body shuddered when he gagged, then Germany pulled to force South Italy's head to tilt back, opening his throat to take the whole of Germany's erection.

A feral smile twisted Germany's face as he thrust into the choking nation, as South Italy writhed helplessly, eyes squeezed shut and tears pooling at the corners, running down his face. It had been too long, far, far too long.

South Italy was nothing, a left-over remnant of a national identity long-gone. It wouldn't even matter if he killed him. Not that Germany planned anything so extreme: he had a suspicion there would be more of these arguments, more encounters ending this way, because South Italy was rock-hard, craving being mastered and controlled as much as Germany craved to master, to control. To invade and conquer and rule.

Oh, no, Germany would not discard so enjoyable a playmate. He would have both Italies, the North with soft words and gentle caresses, the South like this, his to command and punish.

As he felt himself near his peak, Germany pulled free of South Italy's lovely mouth – so much more pleasant when it was filled with his dick than when the other nation spewed insults with wild abandon. When South Italy slumped against his legs, gasping and quite incapable of resisting, Germany grasped his shirt and threw the smaller nation onto the sofa, positioned his trembling form for Germany's convenience, with his hips on the padded arm and his legs falling loose.

It was no challenge to reach around and undo South Italy's belt while the other struggled to regain his breath, to yank his trousers to his ankles, pull his boxers down to join the trousers.

Only when Germany pulled his cheeks apart to expose the entrance to South Italy's vital regions did the other nation try to wriggle free, and fail. The squirming made Germany smile, the babbling and tears as he slowly drove in to plunder the Volturno at his leisure, all brought a cruel delight.

His captive's protests devolved to gasped curse words, barely understandable as his body rocked each time Germany slowly pulled back only to surge on with a single powerful thrust, growing more shrill as the invasion continued at a steady, ruthless pace.

Germany rested one hand on the small of South Italy's back, enough force to keep the smaller nation from rising. He let the generic curses go, but when South Italy insulted him yet again, Germany brought his free hand down on the tanned curve of his captive's ass, hard.

South Italy yelped, straining to twist free.

Germany smacked him again, deliberately striking the same place, not letting his invasion slow or falter. And again. And again, until South Italy writhed beneath him, wordless wails accompanying each new strike, helpless to escape the blows or even to twist enough that Germany would miss his intended target.

Once again Germany drew close to climax. This time he made no attempt to control himself, just shifted his grip so he held South Italy's hips and thrust harder and faster, until the exultant bliss of conquest overwhelmed him and his vision went white for a moment.

He finished leaning over his captive, his weight pressing the smaller man into the sofa, replete and not in the least concerned that South Italy squirmed beneath him, now trying to get his hands to his own unsatisfied erection.

“None of that,” Germany murmured, pulling South Italy's arms back and trapping his hands with his body before he turned his captive's head to face him. The wide-eyed, glazed look satisfied him immensely. “You can bring yourself off in the bathroom.”

As did the way it turned to an expression of outraged betrayal.

Germany pushed himself upright, then hauled South Italy to his feet. “I won't have you ruining my furniture.” Semen seeped from the smaller nation's ass, starting to trickle down his legs, and God help him if that wasn't an enticing sight.

If he didn't get South Italy to the bathroom and out of his sight, he'd plunder the nation again just for the sheer joy of conquest. Not that Germany had any intention of telling the other that.

“You… you...” South Italy seemed to have lost the ability to form sentences.

Germany lifted him by his abused shirt, not caring that the other man's pants and underwear still pooled around his ankles, and slung him over one shoulder. To his amusement, South Italy did nothing more than grunt, though he remained painfully hard – Germany could feel the erection against his shoulder – and unable to do anything to remedy that condition.

Thankfully the bathroom was only a short distance away, down the hall and to Germany's right.

He deposited South Italy there, and closed the door behind him as he left, grinning to himself when it took almost fifteen seconds for the other nation to realize Germany had meant what he said. The outraged screech almost made Germany laugh out loud.

Likely he'd need to clean the bathroom after South Italy left, but it was worth it. He hadn't felt this good, this satisfied in almost seventy five years.

OP here! And, omg, someone filled for this!! o_o I just happened to be browsing through the requests today and saw that it was filled, and I actually squealed with happiness and immediately went somewhere private to read it. Thank you so much!!

The way you write Germany is very interesting. Cause I usually see him portrayed as guilt-ridden about WWII, but you actually made mention that he gets a thrill out of conquering and controlling others, which I can definitely see. It totally works. The whole exchange where Romano calls him a potato fucker and Germany says, "That would make you the potato" had me laughing XD, that was greatly appreciated. As well as "invading the Volturno." And the smut was hot! And you did all the bonuses! Germano hate sex is such a weakness for me, and Romano crying while being brutally fucked is just asdfghjkl >///<, I'm such a pervert.

I'm so happy that someone wrote this! My only wish is that it was longer! DX I would love more, but I don't want to be selfish. Thank you for this!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 33 of 48

Hetalia kink meme part 27

Bad Touch Trio - speech therapy

GerPol + LietIta - Partner Exchange

AmeRus, unrequited LietRus based on the doujinshi "Triple Helical" (or "Triple Helical, Side L")

America/Belarus - Witch Gets the Prince

Possible filler

Re: Possible filler

America/Russia/Ukraine/Belarus/Lithuania/Latvia/Estonia, moon orgy

Russia/Anyome, Russia finally gets some love and comfort

Re: Russia/Anyome, Russia finally gets some love and comfort - Part 1 of ?

Re: Russia/Anyome, Russia finally gets some love and comfort - Part 1 of ?

A very, very happy OP

Re: Russia/Anyone, Russia finally gets some love and comfort Part 2 of 2

Re: Russia/Anyone, Russia finally gets some love and comfort Part 2 of 2

Any, Homestuck classpect AU.

Any/Any - Love Song-fic

Re: Any/Any - Love Song-fic

Questions for OP

Re: Questions for OP

any/Poland - non-con and snuff

Romano + World Seeing/Talking to Their AU Selves

Re: Romano + World Seeing/Talking to Their AU Selves

Re: Romano + World Seeing/Talking to Their AU Selves

OP replying and stuff

Re: OP replying and stuff

Any, Nations interacting with magical realism statues

Tentacle monster X Spain/Romano

FrUK - Proximity Curse

By Magic Bound 1/?

By Magic Bound 2/?

By Magic Bound 3/?

By Magic Bound 4/?

By Magic Bound 5/?

By Magic Bound 6/?

By Magic Bound 7/?

Re: By Magic Bound 7/?

Not OP

Re: Not OP

By Magic Bound 9/?

By Magic Bound -- Next Chapters at AO3

By Magic Bound 7/?

Any/Any- Partner's First Transformation

Questions for OP

Re: Questions for OP

Re: Questions for OP

Prussia/Spain/Romano-- Dramedy Love Triangle

Multiple Nations: Their first time

Re: Multiple Nations: Their first time

OP: Re: Multiple Nations: Their first time

Forgive us Our Sins (1 of ?)

Forgive us Our Sins (2 of ?)

Re: Forgive us Our Sins (2 of ?)

Re: Forgive us Our Sins (2 of ?)

Forgive Us Our Sins 3 of ?

Forgive Us Our Sins 4 of ?

Re: Multiple Nations: Their first time - Forgive Us Our Sins 5 of 5

Prussia: Finally dealing with his trauma

Re: Prussia: Finally dealing with his trauma - 1 of ?

Re: Prussia: Finally dealing with his trauma - 2 of 2

Fat!Spain

Italy + Romano-- Legalization of Same-Sex Civil Unions

Multiple Nations: Becoming the worst versions of themselves

Re: Multiple Nations: Becoming the worst versions of themselves

OP: Re: Multiple Nations: Becoming the worst versions of themselves

Hate Plague (1/?)

Re: Hate Plague (1/?)

FrancexEngland ddlg kink

Triangle

Roughly Screwed Austria

Re: Roughly Screwed Austria

Re: Roughly Screwed Austria

Japan +/ Russia, WW2 treaty.

Germano- hate sex

Re: Germano- hate sex

International Affairs

Re: International Affairs