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[drabbles] From the anon meme - dumping 12 drabbles
Some bits and bobs I've written recently on the meme. Reposted for my convenience and perhaps your pleasure. Now with 100% more proof reading!
Very various pairings and ratings, since it's all prompts.
Pasta sauce - SRZ BZNS! Romano & Greece, G
"I don't know what you do to your meat-sauce," Italy Romano grumbled, wearing a much-disgusted frown as he poked the sad, oily mess that Greece had dared serve as 'Spaghetti Bolognese'.
"Eh, nothing to say to your defence!? Even Germany can cook better than this crap!"
The way it took Greece several s-e-c-o-n-d-s of thought before he deigned reply to the insult almost infuriated Romano more than the bad cooking in itself.
"I never said it was Spaghetti Bolognese," Greece finally managed, still sounding too sleepily pleased with himself.
"Hah! You're lying." With a triumphant grin, Romano threw the menu open on the offending page. "See? Right there. And I'm telling you-" for added intensity, he shook the menu in the mellow nation's face, "that there is not even one speck; NOT ONE SPECK I SAY! Of tomato in this- this mess."
Now Greece finally frowned, although he never stopped petting the kitten riding on his shoulder. "It is not a mess... It's just different from yours. Besides..."
"Yeeees?"
"It's only called Bolognese in the English menu."
"So?"
Now Greece shrugged. "That one is for England. Do you think he would notice any difference between yours and mine meat-sauce?"
Alas, Romano was forced to admit, that was highly unlikely.
Renunciation, Sweden & Queen Kristina, G
She left him. His little girl, whom he had taught better than most of princes. His lady king, raised to become so much more than a child-bearer, a family-minder queen... Raised to such great things, yet shackled by the demands of her sex. The trapped bird.
Only now, she had left him.
Sweden watched Kristina's empty room in silence. In his mind's eye, he could already see the dust settle. Heard echoes of the scratching pens, as his chroniclers were already beginning to inscribe the tale of her destiny in the memories of his children.
"So she did it? She really left?" Finland asked from behind him.
His wife would soon begin to chatter, Sweden knew. He had that nervous lilt to his voice that meant he really wanted to run away - but because Finland was no coward, he would hide his fears behind cheerful babble. Most of the time, it was comforting. Right now... He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything now.
She had left. Her throne, her homeland, him.
When Finland finally took a break in his steady stream of comforting, annoying, familiar words, he managed to catch his eye. Held it for a moment, the silence, but finally forced himself to break it.
"Don' l've me."
Finland laughed and shook his head. "Me? Why would I?"
Yes, Sweden thought many years later, why would a queen renounce her country? Why would a marriage break after hundreds of years?
For freedom, Kristina's haughty smile told him over the echoes of years, for freedom and my dreams.
If only he had listened more closely.
In the sun, Greece/Egypt, G
The first time Egypt found him sleeping in the sun, he was worried that the other nation had passed out. But Greece is hardy and the sun god favours him too. It took many years of casual acquaintanceship, which slowly turned into something one might call friends, before Egypt would lie down beside him and forget all time and place.
It took another few decades before Greece reached out a hand, not to push away a snoozing kitty, but to touch and feel. The difference was, of course, that this time Egypt didn't ask whether he suffered from sunstroke
Ra, Apollo, Helios... The sun of their mothers is their sun too. The great eye watches them still, fondly, when the children kiss and laugh in the warmth.
Their hair, Canada/America, PG
"He has my fine, silky hair!" his father says.
The pride he feels, the tingle of shame and excitement.... Honestly, it's more embarrassing that it's caused by such a scrap of affection, than the actual focus of his kink.
"Man, dude, I gotta admit I love your hair," his brother says and snuffles it fondly.
"Because it's so soft?"
"Mwuh-? Nahhh, but you smell totally good! Like, trees and maples and stuff. Your hair especially."
"My hair, especially..."
It's special, he thinks, and draws his brother closer. It's mine, it's me.
"I like how your smells too," he admits a little later. "And how it feels."
"Cool! Wanna, uh, like, pet it? Ahahaha, that sounds kinda weird..."
No, he thinks while he does it. It's not weird, it's glorious.
His brother has unremarkable hair, just like their other father (it's the only thing unremarkable about him, sometimes). But they both like being touched there, these blond tousle-headed boys. Like being stroked and petted and told how good they smell.
And it's something only they know. And that's worth more than a thousand offhanded scraps from a loveless table.
Taste of home, Romano & Spain, G
Everyone always teases Romano about his "interest" in tomatoes, even the macho-potato, who really doesn't have a foot to stand on!
He doesn't understand what their problem is, anyway. Just because they don't have the climate to grow the most perfect crop on the earth, they're jealous, hah!
The smell of tomato sauce is home and safety; it is arguments (with that bastard, because his brother is never there) and laughter. Wilted plants in dire need of water means phantom pains of hunger. Even that bastard's laughter stutters for a moment if he sees such a sight.
"Ey, Romano, catch!" Something red flies his way, and Romano catches it with the ease centuries of practice give.
"Don't play with your food, you idiot!" he grumbles, before biting into the sweet, moist flesh.
Oh.
"Grew it myself," that bastard says and smiles sooooo annoyingly. "Thought this crop kinda tasted like the old days, eh?"
"Shaddup," Romano tells him, and reaches out a demanding hand. "More!"
Spain's laughter is familiar and reminds him of the harvest in years now gone. That, Romano realizes, must be how a real tomato fairy would sound.
Party at Truman's, Turkey & Greece, PG
Related wiki-link
It's not that he feels sorry for the boy, Turkey tells himself. It's just that he too well knows the ache of internal strife. Nobody but a nation can understand that feeling. Mind and body coming unhinged, shattering into similar but distinct particles that spin like tiny shards of Potential: Future unity, genocide, dissolution...
Civil war is a nation's nightmare; foreign enemies can crush and trample, but only your own children can become someone who is not You.
Of course, he wasn't feeling sorry for the boy... But both Germany and that little idiot were to blame for much of the brat's current confusion and that irked him, at a deep level. Though Turkey was not a great empire (at the moment), this did not mean he appreciated others playing with his toys. And if this brat was not his, hah, then whose was he? His own? Hah! Ridiculous!
He looked down at the young man who had fallen asleep on his shoulder and fought back the desire to adjust his tousled hair. Greece would probably wake up, if he did. Then there would be shouting and arguments... All amusing, of course, Turkey told himself, always very amusing to argue with the boy. It was just that right now he desired some peace and quiet.
Around them, America and his NATO friends were partying; ostensibly because they were handing over America's gifts to Turkey and Greece, though everyone present knew it was more about foiling Russia's plans.
Turkey had cared before. Tomorrow he would care again. Right now, however, all he wanted was to watch his stupid, stupid boy have a small measure of peace.
Smoke, Japan + Netherlands, G
Netherlands keeps his pipe with him, always. It is a token and a memory, even if certain younger nations and northern neighbours complain about the ill effects. He's still here, though, isn't he?
In the smoke he sees the ruins of past glories - his own, the Brits, the Spaniards. He lights one, for all the sailors in the world who no longer can.
Though he hides it, never brings anything to meetings, Japan finds increasing solace in the calm act of lightening one. He can make a ceremony out of it, so easily: To roll the paper, careful, stack the tobacco, inhale the sweetish scent.
Or he can just light one up, too stressed to eat and too keyed-up to sleep. When the lights of Akiba flash too brightly and the pace of change makes his old bones creak, a smoke calms him down and brings him back.
They don't smoke together any longer. But the last time someone made a pointed comment about the physiological and economical costs of smoking? Japan took out his lighter without reflecting twice. And if Netherlands was the only one prepared to offend enough to light up, right there in the room? They both know their natures differ. The bond is still there, intangible and present like smoke.
When we laughed, Japan/China, tickling, bondage PG-15
Then:
"Shouldn't leave an opening!" China cries teasingly before he attacks with his four-thousand years of amassed tickling skills.
His younger brother, usually such a sombre little thing, giggles and twists. Oh, how Japan tries to escape, but his laughter only increase in volumes, until he is sobbing and hiccuping with sheer joy.
"Do you give up, aru?" China asks, when the child is only able to gasp and flail in helpless hilarity.
"Never!" the little pipsqueak shouts and soon they are off again.
Now:
"Ah, China-san, don't twist so... it disturbs the symmetry," Japan chides.
And how he loves this symmetry, of black ropes stretched over pale, smooth skin. China tries to contain his enthusiastic movements, but when Japan's hand descends again, he breaks almost immediately.
Even so, Japan keeps it up, fingers expertly finding the sensitive spots - between ribs, beneath arms, on the inside of knees. Oh, but he knows a thousand and one places that will make China wriggle and moan, cry and curse and beg for him to touch again, again...
He is still looking for that one place, though. The one that will make him laugh so loud that the birds fly up in fright from the bamboo grove. The laughter that once belonged only to Japan and innocent, sun-drenched days.
Marking, Turkey/Greece, PG (?)
Some nations dream of wars, because they enjoy the slaughter.
Some nations have wars because they would not know how to be nations any more, if they stopped.
Some nations don't even have wars, they're improving the world.
But when Greece's anger is finally roused? When his blood boils, it is because his scars burn and the maps call him out. They mock, the laugh, always reminding him of the past. He wants to rewrite them, he wants to redraw them so perfectly, that none can remember that they ever looked different.
When Turkey went to war, before, it was to grow and take. Why would he care about enemies defeated? He was his own and that was enough. But. Somewhere along the way a boy captivated him, forced his hand. Drew his interest, an interest which lingers. He wants to brand him, again, he wants to feel his sharp sword biting into the contested lands.
They're not at war right now.
Maps remain as they are. But even if the swords are exchanged for knives and the invasions for more personal victories... Everything is, still, about the scars they can leave on each other.
The morning after the uncomfortable night before, America/Thailand, implied rape
"Ehrm, so. Like, wasn't it a little bit fun at least?"
The lump on the bed doesn't stir when Alfred enters the bedroom, despite the awesome latte he ran down and bought just for his guest.
"Aw, man, I'm sooo sorry." He's always hated apologizing, Alfred has, but he knows what a man's gotta do in a situation like this. He's up-to-date on his literature, after all, Even if he still secretly prefers the Golden Age when Superman could stomp nazis and all that.
"Look, I'll just-"
Shit; England's gonna chew his ear off when he hears this. Literally.
"I can talk to the others, if you want? I mean, don't want you to get a bad reputation or anything like that..."
And France will hit on him like whoa after this, fuuuck.
Finally, a reaction. The lump moves, reveals a thin arm. He happily hands over the coffee and a bagel. Everything is better with bagels.
"That is all right, America," his unfortunately unwilling partner says. He puts the coffee aside, the food too. But at least he takes the little lemon-scented napkin and, very carefully, begins to clean under his nails.
"I don't think much good will come of it, ana, if we go talking too much."
He almost slaps him on the back then, but remembers in the last second. The cheery wave probably looks a little awkward, but that's all right. Today is a little awkward.
"You're a gem, Thai, really! I mean- I know I fucked up and I'm totally sorry."
The napkin is a small ball of mush, but Thailand only keeps wiping his hands with it. Maybe he's not hungry this early in the morning? Alfred is always hungry, but he knows some dudes aren't. Or-
Oh man, he's really gotta do something about sensitivity and crap. Maybe Matty can help him out? He's always going on about it anyway.
"You need something for the headache? Or water? I've got water! Heh, we were way wasted yesterday, weren't we..."
There's something sharp in Thailand's eyes then, but he smiles and nods. "Perhaps a glass of water would be good for me. And then I must take my leave, ana."
"Sure you don't wanna hit the showers first? No? 'kay. And dude, I'm so grateful that you're being so cool about all this. Really!"
Thailand finally stops wiping his hands clear. America figures that maybe this is some kind of hint, so he leaves (without snatching the bagel, he's trying here, he really is) and hides in the bathroom until he hears the door close behind the other nation.
Bolshoi , Russia/Prussia, Ballet boots, non-con, R
"Wha-? Hahahaha! Think I'm gonna watch bloody ballet! That shit's for wusses!"
He should have known Russia - sorry, sorry, comrade USSR - would take that as fighting words.
The East German delegation went to the ballet, as did most of the head honchos from the big guy's house.
Only Ivan and Gilbert stayed behind; for private cultural exchange with comrade East, as the smiling arse explained it. Smiles all around, in fact.
Hours after the humans had left the Bolshoi Theatre for other amusements, Gilbert was finally beginning to find an appreciation for Ivan's culture. Though he wasn't smiling any longer.
"Shiii-"
Biting his lip, he tried to keep the pleas inside, even as his calves burned with tear-stinging intensity.
"Ah, ah," Ivan tutted and glided around to stand in front of him again. He looked far more intimidating than any man had a right to be while wearing a leotard. He still sported his falsely gentle grin.
"Arms should be gracefully rounded, my dear. Think lightness, fresh air - spring."
His hands trailed down Gilbert's side, each light touch leaving a burning trail on a too-tense body. The toe boots, even with their "supporting" heels, were murder. The way Ivan had been placing him in excruciating position after position was hell... But when he decided to help him, by tying Gilbert's arms above his head and so forcing him to either strain his abused legs to the utmost or suffer a painful pull in his shoulders after only a few minutes, they descended to a new circle. There could not be many lefts, he thought. There must not be many left...
"I'm sorry." His tongue was too thick and he could feel sweat pool down his back, making the leotard stick disgustingly to him. "I'm really fucking sorry for- Oh God- Sorry, insulting your ballet."
"Mhm?" Russia's hand stroked further down, coming to rest between his legs.
His eyes slid closed. No, no, please not this again...
"I think East is beginning to understand now."
"Yes!"
"Then perhaps-" A quick flick with his knife, and he had freed Gilbert's arms. The sudden loss of balance, and subsequent added weight to his toes had him crying out in pain. At once, Ivan's arms were around him, supporting with a mocking gentleness.
"I believe," Ivan said, crowding so close that it became impossible to ignore his heavily present arousal, "that it is time to teach you attitude à la seconde now."
Is this shame? France/Romano, rape, R
"Your lips are so sweet... To drink a kiss from them is to feast on sunlight, dearest one," France tells him and forces him to the ground.
You should smile more, Romano! Isn't it sunny and nice in your house today?
Spain said that once, before he noticed the upturned bucket on the floor. After that, they spent the day yelling at each other.
"Please, darling," France whispers in his ears while teasing his nipples, alternating gentle strokes with electrifying, sharp little pinches.
"Show that wonderful Italian smile for me, oui? I could play your pleasure like the finest instrument, if only you would join me in the symphony for a second."
France's cock pokes Romano when he presses his leg against Romano's sex. It makes waves of heath and near-pain blossom in the bottom of his stomach. He turns his face away from another of those demanding kisses.
Spain caught him wanking once. He nearly fell over himself in his haste to get away, which would have humiliated Romano to no end, if it wasn't so obvious that the depraved bastard couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Romano's cock.
When France tugs at his sensitive hair, the silence is finally broken, and Romano keens sharply. The pretty words fall all the more rapidly, afterwards, while the skilled hands move so much more insistently.
He screamed at Spain - Get out, GET OUT YOU ASSHOLE! - and the idiot excused himself, ran into the doorpost, fell on his ass, stared and then crawled out. It was horrible, by far the most humiliating experience in his century-long life.
Even when France's lube-slicked cock enters him, when he makes Romano twist and whimper beneath devilishly skilled fingers... Tears come to his eyes and his hips move helplessly. France is all endearments - mon cher, sweetest love - while he takes and takes and never once cares.
Yet even then, the memory of Spain's horrified fascination and his own new and oh-so-confusing sexuality burns in Romano's mind.
Afterwards, the lovely words have dried up. His ass feels weird and slimy. Spain would still stare at him, he thinks. Maybe cry a little, but he wouldn't be able to look away. He never will.
And with that thought, Romano pushes away his satisfied invader and goes to wash away the physical traces of his violation. Tomorrow is another day. He needs to grow up, grow strong, if he's ever to show Spain who the real boss is around here.
Some of these are pretty meh, I admit. But there is one or two which I think turned out well, so if you like any of them, do let me know ^_^
also - Have changed some icons! Yaay
Very various pairings and ratings, since it's all prompts.
Pasta sauce - SRZ BZNS! Romano & Greece, G
"I don't know what you do to your meat-sauce," Italy Romano grumbled, wearing a much-disgusted frown as he poked the sad, oily mess that Greece had dared serve as 'Spaghetti Bolognese'.
"Eh, nothing to say to your defence!? Even Germany can cook better than this crap!"
The way it took Greece several s-e-c-o-n-d-s of thought before he deigned reply to the insult almost infuriated Romano more than the bad cooking in itself.
"I never said it was Spaghetti Bolognese," Greece finally managed, still sounding too sleepily pleased with himself.
"Hah! You're lying." With a triumphant grin, Romano threw the menu open on the offending page. "See? Right there. And I'm telling you-" for added intensity, he shook the menu in the mellow nation's face, "that there is not even one speck; NOT ONE SPECK I SAY! Of tomato in this- this mess."
Now Greece finally frowned, although he never stopped petting the kitten riding on his shoulder. "It is not a mess... It's just different from yours. Besides..."
"Yeeees?"
"It's only called Bolognese in the English menu."
"So?"
Now Greece shrugged. "That one is for England. Do you think he would notice any difference between yours and mine meat-sauce?"
Alas, Romano was forced to admit, that was highly unlikely.
Renunciation, Sweden & Queen Kristina, G
She left him. His little girl, whom he had taught better than most of princes. His lady king, raised to become so much more than a child-bearer, a family-minder queen... Raised to such great things, yet shackled by the demands of her sex. The trapped bird.
Only now, she had left him.
Sweden watched Kristina's empty room in silence. In his mind's eye, he could already see the dust settle. Heard echoes of the scratching pens, as his chroniclers were already beginning to inscribe the tale of her destiny in the memories of his children.
"So she did it? She really left?" Finland asked from behind him.
His wife would soon begin to chatter, Sweden knew. He had that nervous lilt to his voice that meant he really wanted to run away - but because Finland was no coward, he would hide his fears behind cheerful babble. Most of the time, it was comforting. Right now... He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything now.
She had left. Her throne, her homeland, him.
When Finland finally took a break in his steady stream of comforting, annoying, familiar words, he managed to catch his eye. Held it for a moment, the silence, but finally forced himself to break it.
"Don' l've me."
Finland laughed and shook his head. "Me? Why would I?"
Yes, Sweden thought many years later, why would a queen renounce her country? Why would a marriage break after hundreds of years?
For freedom, Kristina's haughty smile told him over the echoes of years, for freedom and my dreams.
If only he had listened more closely.
In the sun, Greece/Egypt, G
The first time Egypt found him sleeping in the sun, he was worried that the other nation had passed out. But Greece is hardy and the sun god favours him too. It took many years of casual acquaintanceship, which slowly turned into something one might call friends, before Egypt would lie down beside him and forget all time and place.
It took another few decades before Greece reached out a hand, not to push away a snoozing kitty, but to touch and feel. The difference was, of course, that this time Egypt didn't ask whether he suffered from sunstroke
Ra, Apollo, Helios... The sun of their mothers is their sun too. The great eye watches them still, fondly, when the children kiss and laugh in the warmth.
Their hair, Canada/America, PG
"He has my fine, silky hair!" his father says.
The pride he feels, the tingle of shame and excitement.... Honestly, it's more embarrassing that it's caused by such a scrap of affection, than the actual focus of his kink.
"Man, dude, I gotta admit I love your hair," his brother says and snuffles it fondly.
"Because it's so soft?"
"Mwuh-? Nahhh, but you smell totally good! Like, trees and maples and stuff. Your hair especially."
"My hair, especially..."
It's special, he thinks, and draws his brother closer. It's mine, it's me.
"I like how your smells too," he admits a little later. "And how it feels."
"Cool! Wanna, uh, like, pet it? Ahahaha, that sounds kinda weird..."
No, he thinks while he does it. It's not weird, it's glorious.
His brother has unremarkable hair, just like their other father (it's the only thing unremarkable about him, sometimes). But they both like being touched there, these blond tousle-headed boys. Like being stroked and petted and told how good they smell.
And it's something only they know. And that's worth more than a thousand offhanded scraps from a loveless table.
Taste of home, Romano & Spain, G
Everyone always teases Romano about his "interest" in tomatoes, even the macho-potato, who really doesn't have a foot to stand on!
He doesn't understand what their problem is, anyway. Just because they don't have the climate to grow the most perfect crop on the earth, they're jealous, hah!
The smell of tomato sauce is home and safety; it is arguments (with that bastard, because his brother is never there) and laughter. Wilted plants in dire need of water means phantom pains of hunger. Even that bastard's laughter stutters for a moment if he sees such a sight.
"Ey, Romano, catch!" Something red flies his way, and Romano catches it with the ease centuries of practice give.
"Don't play with your food, you idiot!" he grumbles, before biting into the sweet, moist flesh.
Oh.
"Grew it myself," that bastard says and smiles sooooo annoyingly. "Thought this crop kinda tasted like the old days, eh?"
"Shaddup," Romano tells him, and reaches out a demanding hand. "More!"
Spain's laughter is familiar and reminds him of the harvest in years now gone. That, Romano realizes, must be how a real tomato fairy would sound.
Party at Truman's, Turkey & Greece, PG
Related wiki-link
It's not that he feels sorry for the boy, Turkey tells himself. It's just that he too well knows the ache of internal strife. Nobody but a nation can understand that feeling. Mind and body coming unhinged, shattering into similar but distinct particles that spin like tiny shards of Potential: Future unity, genocide, dissolution...
Civil war is a nation's nightmare; foreign enemies can crush and trample, but only your own children can become someone who is not You.
Of course, he wasn't feeling sorry for the boy... But both Germany and that little idiot were to blame for much of the brat's current confusion and that irked him, at a deep level. Though Turkey was not a great empire (at the moment), this did not mean he appreciated others playing with his toys. And if this brat was not his, hah, then whose was he? His own? Hah! Ridiculous!
He looked down at the young man who had fallen asleep on his shoulder and fought back the desire to adjust his tousled hair. Greece would probably wake up, if he did. Then there would be shouting and arguments... All amusing, of course, Turkey told himself, always very amusing to argue with the boy. It was just that right now he desired some peace and quiet.
Around them, America and his NATO friends were partying; ostensibly because they were handing over America's gifts to Turkey and Greece, though everyone present knew it was more about foiling Russia's plans.
Turkey had cared before. Tomorrow he would care again. Right now, however, all he wanted was to watch his stupid, stupid boy have a small measure of peace.
Smoke, Japan + Netherlands, G
Netherlands keeps his pipe with him, always. It is a token and a memory, even if certain younger nations and northern neighbours complain about the ill effects. He's still here, though, isn't he?
In the smoke he sees the ruins of past glories - his own, the Brits, the Spaniards. He lights one, for all the sailors in the world who no longer can.
Though he hides it, never brings anything to meetings, Japan finds increasing solace in the calm act of lightening one. He can make a ceremony out of it, so easily: To roll the paper, careful, stack the tobacco, inhale the sweetish scent.
Or he can just light one up, too stressed to eat and too keyed-up to sleep. When the lights of Akiba flash too brightly and the pace of change makes his old bones creak, a smoke calms him down and brings him back.
They don't smoke together any longer. But the last time someone made a pointed comment about the physiological and economical costs of smoking? Japan took out his lighter without reflecting twice. And if Netherlands was the only one prepared to offend enough to light up, right there in the room? They both know their natures differ. The bond is still there, intangible and present like smoke.
When we laughed, Japan/China, tickling, bondage PG-15
Then:
"Shouldn't leave an opening!" China cries teasingly before he attacks with his four-thousand years of amassed tickling skills.
His younger brother, usually such a sombre little thing, giggles and twists. Oh, how Japan tries to escape, but his laughter only increase in volumes, until he is sobbing and hiccuping with sheer joy.
"Do you give up, aru?" China asks, when the child is only able to gasp and flail in helpless hilarity.
"Never!" the little pipsqueak shouts and soon they are off again.
Now:
"Ah, China-san, don't twist so... it disturbs the symmetry," Japan chides.
And how he loves this symmetry, of black ropes stretched over pale, smooth skin. China tries to contain his enthusiastic movements, but when Japan's hand descends again, he breaks almost immediately.
Even so, Japan keeps it up, fingers expertly finding the sensitive spots - between ribs, beneath arms, on the inside of knees. Oh, but he knows a thousand and one places that will make China wriggle and moan, cry and curse and beg for him to touch again, again...
He is still looking for that one place, though. The one that will make him laugh so loud that the birds fly up in fright from the bamboo grove. The laughter that once belonged only to Japan and innocent, sun-drenched days.
Marking, Turkey/Greece, PG (?)
Some nations dream of wars, because they enjoy the slaughter.
Some nations have wars because they would not know how to be nations any more, if they stopped.
Some nations don't even have wars, they're improving the world.
But when Greece's anger is finally roused? When his blood boils, it is because his scars burn and the maps call him out. They mock, the laugh, always reminding him of the past. He wants to rewrite them, he wants to redraw them so perfectly, that none can remember that they ever looked different.
When Turkey went to war, before, it was to grow and take. Why would he care about enemies defeated? He was his own and that was enough. But. Somewhere along the way a boy captivated him, forced his hand. Drew his interest, an interest which lingers. He wants to brand him, again, he wants to feel his sharp sword biting into the contested lands.
They're not at war right now.
Maps remain as they are. But even if the swords are exchanged for knives and the invasions for more personal victories... Everything is, still, about the scars they can leave on each other.
The morning after the uncomfortable night before, America/Thailand, implied rape
"Ehrm, so. Like, wasn't it a little bit fun at least?"
The lump on the bed doesn't stir when Alfred enters the bedroom, despite the awesome latte he ran down and bought just for his guest.
"Aw, man, I'm sooo sorry." He's always hated apologizing, Alfred has, but he knows what a man's gotta do in a situation like this. He's up-to-date on his literature, after all, Even if he still secretly prefers the Golden Age when Superman could stomp nazis and all that.
"Look, I'll just-"
Shit; England's gonna chew his ear off when he hears this. Literally.
"I can talk to the others, if you want? I mean, don't want you to get a bad reputation or anything like that..."
And France will hit on him like whoa after this, fuuuck.
Finally, a reaction. The lump moves, reveals a thin arm. He happily hands over the coffee and a bagel. Everything is better with bagels.
"That is all right, America," his unfortunately unwilling partner says. He puts the coffee aside, the food too. But at least he takes the little lemon-scented napkin and, very carefully, begins to clean under his nails.
"I don't think much good will come of it, ana, if we go talking too much."
He almost slaps him on the back then, but remembers in the last second. The cheery wave probably looks a little awkward, but that's all right. Today is a little awkward.
"You're a gem, Thai, really! I mean- I know I fucked up and I'm totally sorry."
The napkin is a small ball of mush, but Thailand only keeps wiping his hands with it. Maybe he's not hungry this early in the morning? Alfred is always hungry, but he knows some dudes aren't. Or-
Oh man, he's really gotta do something about sensitivity and crap. Maybe Matty can help him out? He's always going on about it anyway.
"You need something for the headache? Or water? I've got water! Heh, we were way wasted yesterday, weren't we..."
There's something sharp in Thailand's eyes then, but he smiles and nods. "Perhaps a glass of water would be good for me. And then I must take my leave, ana."
"Sure you don't wanna hit the showers first? No? 'kay. And dude, I'm so grateful that you're being so cool about all this. Really!"
Thailand finally stops wiping his hands clear. America figures that maybe this is some kind of hint, so he leaves (without snatching the bagel, he's trying here, he really is) and hides in the bathroom until he hears the door close behind the other nation.
Bolshoi , Russia/Prussia, Ballet boots, non-con, R
"Wha-? Hahahaha! Think I'm gonna watch bloody ballet! That shit's for wusses!"
He should have known Russia - sorry, sorry, comrade USSR - would take that as fighting words.
The East German delegation went to the ballet, as did most of the head honchos from the big guy's house.
Only Ivan and Gilbert stayed behind; for private cultural exchange with comrade East, as the smiling arse explained it. Smiles all around, in fact.
Hours after the humans had left the Bolshoi Theatre for other amusements, Gilbert was finally beginning to find an appreciation for Ivan's culture. Though he wasn't smiling any longer.
"Shiii-"
Biting his lip, he tried to keep the pleas inside, even as his calves burned with tear-stinging intensity.
"Ah, ah," Ivan tutted and glided around to stand in front of him again. He looked far more intimidating than any man had a right to be while wearing a leotard. He still sported his falsely gentle grin.
"Arms should be gracefully rounded, my dear. Think lightness, fresh air - spring."
His hands trailed down Gilbert's side, each light touch leaving a burning trail on a too-tense body. The toe boots, even with their "supporting" heels, were murder. The way Ivan had been placing him in excruciating position after position was hell... But when he decided to help him, by tying Gilbert's arms above his head and so forcing him to either strain his abused legs to the utmost or suffer a painful pull in his shoulders after only a few minutes, they descended to a new circle. There could not be many lefts, he thought. There must not be many left...
"I'm sorry." His tongue was too thick and he could feel sweat pool down his back, making the leotard stick disgustingly to him. "I'm really fucking sorry for- Oh God- Sorry, insulting your ballet."
"Mhm?" Russia's hand stroked further down, coming to rest between his legs.
His eyes slid closed. No, no, please not this again...
"I think East is beginning to understand now."
"Yes!"
"Then perhaps-" A quick flick with his knife, and he had freed Gilbert's arms. The sudden loss of balance, and subsequent added weight to his toes had him crying out in pain. At once, Ivan's arms were around him, supporting with a mocking gentleness.
"I believe," Ivan said, crowding so close that it became impossible to ignore his heavily present arousal, "that it is time to teach you attitude à la seconde now."
Is this shame? France/Romano, rape, R
"Your lips are so sweet... To drink a kiss from them is to feast on sunlight, dearest one," France tells him and forces him to the ground.
You should smile more, Romano! Isn't it sunny and nice in your house today?
Spain said that once, before he noticed the upturned bucket on the floor. After that, they spent the day yelling at each other.
"Please, darling," France whispers in his ears while teasing his nipples, alternating gentle strokes with electrifying, sharp little pinches.
"Show that wonderful Italian smile for me, oui? I could play your pleasure like the finest instrument, if only you would join me in the symphony for a second."
France's cock pokes Romano when he presses his leg against Romano's sex. It makes waves of heath and near-pain blossom in the bottom of his stomach. He turns his face away from another of those demanding kisses.
Spain caught him wanking once. He nearly fell over himself in his haste to get away, which would have humiliated Romano to no end, if it wasn't so obvious that the depraved bastard couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Romano's cock.
When France tugs at his sensitive hair, the silence is finally broken, and Romano keens sharply. The pretty words fall all the more rapidly, afterwards, while the skilled hands move so much more insistently.
He screamed at Spain - Get out, GET OUT YOU ASSHOLE! - and the idiot excused himself, ran into the doorpost, fell on his ass, stared and then crawled out. It was horrible, by far the most humiliating experience in his century-long life.
Even when France's lube-slicked cock enters him, when he makes Romano twist and whimper beneath devilishly skilled fingers... Tears come to his eyes and his hips move helplessly. France is all endearments - mon cher, sweetest love - while he takes and takes and never once cares.
Yet even then, the memory of Spain's horrified fascination and his own new and oh-so-confusing sexuality burns in Romano's mind.
Afterwards, the lovely words have dried up. His ass feels weird and slimy. Spain would still stare at him, he thinks. Maybe cry a little, but he wouldn't be able to look away. He never will.
And with that thought, Romano pushes away his satisfied invader and goes to wash away the physical traces of his violation. Tomorrow is another day. He needs to grow up, grow strong, if he's ever to show Spain who the real boss is around here.
Some of these are pretty meh, I admit. But there is one or two which I think turned out well, so if you like any of them, do let me know ^_^
also - Have changed some icons! Yaay
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Romaaaaaaaanoooooo--
I kinda hate you for making me like that last one so much. I feel so much emotion from it. I also liked the Turkey and Greece ones. Keep writing; you're awesome at it.
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Somehow, I still think Romano walked away from that encounter... if not the "winner", then much less defeated than France thinks