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drcalvinIt's not my fault there are more of these... blame the requesting anons! Although, the twisted vriting is all my fault, ahahaha
I've stuck basically everything pairing-y here, so we have mild PG-15 to hard R mixed. And some are crack
How we dance - Prussia/Austria, waltz
"That is never dancing," Austria sniffed. On the television, a gang of young sloppily dressed hoodlums jumped around, spinning on the floor sometimes. They even yelled at each other!
"You're always so old-fashioned," Prussia said. "And a snob."
He was lying upside down on the sofa, having finally gotten tired of Austria's meaningful glances whenever he forgot himself and put his feet up on the table. So he put them against the wall instead. This had the bonus effect of making it impossible for him to properly see Austria's frosty glares - although he could still feel them, dammit, and he was receiving a very cold one right now.
"I fail to see how being able to appreciate the finer things in life-" Austria began, but since Prussia had heard variations of this lecture for something like three hundred years now, he was getting a bit tired of it.
"Not listening," he said in a sing-song voice, grinning when the other man gave a weary sigh.
Austria turned off the television, no longer able to stand watching what the 'dancers' were doing. Deplorable, how low standards had sunk lately.
"I was watching that!" Prussia protested. "Besides, they said your beloved waltz was corrupting the youth when it startd. I remember!"
"That was merely a few hard-headed old stodges," the aristocrat quickly countered.
"Pff, yeah, right... You just liked it because it brought you closer to all that nubile young flesh than old folk dances." Prussia closed his eyes, his obnoxious grin widening slightly.
"Mmm, holding onto Hungary's waist for a whole dance... Admit it, that's why you supported the style in the first place!"
"I most certainly did not." Austria went over to his record player, feeling that he needed to cleanse his mind with some appropriate music. "Dancing is about the soul; music taken shape, making the spirit soar."
"So what," Prussia twisted his head a bit. "Are you claiming that it doesn't matter who you dance with for you to be happy?"
"Of course I prefer to waltz with someone I am fond of. However," Austria admitted it easily enough, "as long as it is a skilled partner, I can enjoy only the pure art of dancing."
"You're on!"
"Excuse me?"
"I said," Prussia slid off the sofa and came up to him, doing his best to loom threateningly, "you're on. Let's dance."
"You want to waltz? With me?"
"Sure." The German man shrugged. "Lemme show you what those old prunes were so upset about, back then..."
A disbelieving laughter escaped Austria. "Truly?"
When he saw that Prussia was not backing down, he smiled smugly. "Very well." He started the music. "Now then, let me show you what dancing is all about..."
Hands grasped, eyes met in challenge and they were off, dancing.
Only a few whirls in, Prussia slid closer, his hand on Austria's back dipping dangerously low. Austria raised an eyebrow but refused to back down. Instead, he countered with some more advance steps, leading a suddenly flustered Prussia through a complicated pattern of twirls and dips.
"Bastard," Prussia muttered. But his pale cheeks were stained with colour and his voice trembled with mirth.
"Imbecile," Austria retorted, in reply to which Prussia pulled him tight against his own body.
"I can't stand your snobby attitude," he growled, "and your petty little rules."
They danced faster now, leaving the music behind as they twirled almost nose to nose, hands squeezing hard enough to whiten their knuckles.
"I despise your rudeness, your loudness..." Austria whispered in his ear. "Your mere presence makes me ill," he continued while his hand slid up to rest against the muscular neck, feeling the few beads of sweat gathered in that annoyingly messy hair.
"Fine!" Prussia spat, grinding against his partner almost as roughly as the plebeians on the television earlier. "I fucking hate you too."
"As long as we're clear on that."
When they broke the kiss, they were still twirling around each other, though the song had long since ended.
That's why they call it tease - Norway, Denmark
"Really? You're really gonna do it?" Denmark's grin was so wide, it looked as if it may split his head in half.
Norway shuddered inside, but nodded. He was a nation of his word, after all. Denmark had won the hockey game against Sweden, so...
"Yessss!" Denmark punched the air and did a mad little jig where he was standing.
"But," Norway hastened to add, "you are not allowed to touch. Don't even think about it. Or I will take severe measures, understood?"
"Course, babe." The taller nation practically licked his lips in anticipation. This would be just like old days, except Norway was much cuter than Sweden had ever been! Nor was he a damn brat any longer, having finally grown into a fine young man. Such a shame that this had involved him leaving the house and thus Denmark's control, but now... now he would finally see Norway reveal it all.
[Later that evening]
"You touched!"
"I swatted a fly!" Denmark protested. "Come on," he shrugged and pulled his most innocent I'm-such-a-loveable-dork-aren't-I?-grin, the one that worked on everyone... except Norway. "You haven't even gotten any clothes off yet."
"That," Norway frostily informed him, "does not matter. Now." He snapped a finger and a cold wind suddenly howled outside, blowing open the window.
Denmark's smile turned a bit stiff. It wasn't really that he believed in pagan monsters anymore. Except it was a bit hard not to, when your old housemate-cum-unreachable love interest had a pet troll or two...
"Turn him towards the wall," Norway ordered, his voice betraying no emotion.
"Wha-? No! Hey, NORWAY! Come on, maaaan!"
Completely ignoring the protesting Dane, Norway began to remove his clothes one by one.
His axe - Norway, Denmark
This is a very bad idea. He really should know better by now. Norway thought he had grown out of this a long time ago, but when Denmark went to his private training field he was, as always, unable to not follow.
Sweden and Denmark are - perhaps - fighting again soon. It's all a bit complicated and Denmark just grins disturbingly at him, asks if he's that eager to see him kick some ass again.
But they'll be battling for real, soon. Norway can taste the unrest in the air; sometimes at eve of battle he still hears the valkyries ride. They are surely saddling up now...
He doesn't know whether Denmark or Sweden will win this time, doesn't much care either. They're not fighting about him and, if he is to be quite honest, he doesn't mind when they fight about something else. It makes Denmark less focused on him, more... easily distracted.
Although, right now, it is Norway who is distracted. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to breathe as silently as possible while Denmark fires shot after shot at the target. The other nation is a stone-throw away and Norway is hidden only by the meagre protection offered by an old hawthorn bush. If things were as usual then Denmark would turn towards him soon and hear, see him, his shame and weakness...
But when Denmark throws his gun away, muttering to himself in anger because too many of his shots have gone wild, Norway smiles to himself. He finally dares touch his own flesh properly. At times like these, Denmark sees only Sweden, wants only him. Strangely enough, that is what makes the usually cool youth under his rule want him all the more.
Norway allows himself a small shudder of pleasure and a barely restrained gasp at the scene that unfolds before him.
Denmark throws off his big noisy coat, as he earlier threw away his gun. Instead, finally, he brings out the great axe that he has always treasured beyond any other weapon. He swings it a few times, the movements softening the hard lines of his shoulders while they at the same time cause a different sort of hardness in Norway.
Then he screams, wordlessly defiant, looking just as old and magnificent as Norway knows he can be, though Norway despairs because he hardly ever is. The ax dances, the targets shatter in a thousand broken pieces and Norway's hand squeezes harder as his sex demands more, faster.
He has to bite his lip to keep silent, and though separated the two nations move together perfectly. Denmark's anger burns too hotly and with axe in hand he shapes it, controls it, so that by tomorrow it will turn on the Swedes with a well-honed, and deadly, precision.
Norway's desire soars through him, burns him, and he imagines the scenes of carnage that Denmark will cause, the wild abandon of battle overcoming the both. He both loathes and needs it to free himself from the cold of his land. The coming panic, the struggle and all the thousand uncertainties that can change fate in a snap. And so, his eyes stay locked on the ever-young viking on the field, until his release takes him completely and he trembles while coming all over his hands.
Denmark is still fighting the shadow of the one he has lost, but his movements are becoming more precise. The usual reckless smile soon appears on his face again. Norway lies mellow and graceful beneath the hawthorn and listens to the sounds of his master training. When they'll go back, he'll be all cold composure again, while Denmark will tease and torment him.
But right now, in their own ways, they can both be beautifully free.
Centuries of Gold - Spain, France
When France finally finds him, the annoying little bastard is sitting at his rickety kitchen chair, surrounded by all the average tools of a household. An old, worn table which shows traces from so many meals prepared, in the stains and cuts and burns littering it. There are the ever-present onions, a large sack of flour in the corner and though the day is warm enough, the fireplace never stops emitting its heat - waiting to be fed, so it in turn can help feed its master.
Spain sits at his chair and studies something in his lap, appearing either very serious or (more likely, in France's opinion) sleepy.
"Why didn't you show up yesterday?" France asks, stepping up to the other nation and poking him in the neck. "Huh, we were supposed to go drin-"
In Spain's hands, there is gold. Such bright, splendid gold...
It may just be the greatest necklace France has ever seen, an exquisite treasure obviously taken from the New World, with emeralds and pearls and gold. So bright...
"You dumped me to stare at a necklace?" he asks, disbelief colouring his voice. "Spain, I'm hurt, truly!" Although, looking at that necklace himself, he can almost understand its allure.
The necklace slips out of Spain's hands and France almost whimpers when he hears it crash onto the stone floor. Of course Spain is wealthy now, with a whole new world to explore and exploit, but to treat fine gold like that!
"I thought they'd join me," Spain says, his words unusually hesitant. He has still not looked up from his lap, although his hands are slowly lifting now, fingers spread wide.
"Excuse me?" France doesn't understand him, even less than usual.
When Spain turns to look at him, his eyes are closed and his mouth is lifted in a smile, but there is nothing filling the expression.
"I said- We said. They should accept the cross, accept my bosses." Spain reaches inside a dull brown bag which France had not even noticed until this moment and brings out a great heavy bar of gold. France can't tear his eyes from it and when Spain drops it too on the floor, carelessly, he almost cries out in protest.
"I thought I'd have lots of children," Spain says, playing with a small pagan bracelet he has found in his bag. "I love kids. We'd live in my house, we'd go visit theirs..."
"You have little Romano to care for already," France points out, "why would you want more brats?"
Do you, he tries silently, not want the gold any longer? I can help you! Hmm, perhaps this sounds too opportunistic
Spain looks down at his hands, which are now resting on the kitchen table. That table, familiar - old, scarred, burned. These days, his hands are the hands of a wealthy nobleman, one who has never cut himself while working on the field, nor been burned and branded as a slave. He doesn't need to work the fields any longer, he only needs to count his gold and quench any protests to keep it coming, ever more.
"I wanted to raise children. I think that's what I wanted. But then, I never..." he breaks off. "Only, they weren't children, were they? Even though they were small and friendly."
"If you don't need all that gold, Spain, perhaps I could-"
"And now they aren't anything at all." Spain bends, picks up the necklace and the gold bar. "There's only gold left. Gold and corpses."
"I like gold," France says, almost leering at him. It turns to a scowl when Spain packs the treasures away and rises.
"I hope you'll never learn," Spain says, "how in the end, bones weigh heavier than the gold."
"What in the world are you talking about?" France looks at him as if he has grown a second head, but Spain merely shakes his head.
"Nothing. Children." He gives France the bracelet. "Please, take it," Spain murmurs. "Sorry 'bout yesterday - I can maybe make good for it now?"
France smiles then and laughs, slaps his back and doesn't notice how Spain shies from the hand holding the bracelet. They leave the kitchen and none of them speak more of children that weren't, or how much blood an ounce of gold can cost.
The Warsaw pact - Poland/Prussia
Poland is silly and ditzy and a lot more annoying than East remembers him ever being during the middle ages. Right now he's also being annoyingly smug about the name of this new sham military alliance they're all entering.
"It's still Russia's, you ass," East mutters and kicks one of Poland's stuffed animals out of the way.
"So? Russia's, like, everywhere. Like air." Poland puts on a smidge more of his new black-market bought lipstick and blows his mirror image a kiss.
"I think you mean like pollution," East says and sniffs the air meaningfully. "Really, you have let yourself go badly."
Poland's giggle is shrill and annoying. "I'm totes the only cool thing about this pact!" He stops to pick up the abused plush animal and plops down on the bed besides East.
"It's, like, Russia's made up a secret club because he's totally not down with America having a secret club of his own," he explains eagerly, as if East is too stupid to realize that himself. "And I'm, you know, like, the club mascot because I'm all cute and awesome!" Poland nods in apparent satisfaction. "Yep, it's totally the Poland rule in, like, it's ultimate action!"
"The what?"
"You know, Poland rule? Oh my God, are you like totally square! It's like, everything with Warsaw becomes, like, a hundred zillion times more coolers!"
East beats his head against the soft mattress and moans. "Why do I even bother to come here?"
"'cuz we're both totes too awesome to, like, languish in solitude!" Poland does a fair impression of that Norwegian painting and East can't help a snort of laughter. "And Warsaw is like completely the most awesome place ever and you're like, way too fond of saying awesome, East, so I'm like picking it up and hmmff!"
Poland isn't a girl, even if he wears a skirt sometimes. When East rolls on top of the other nation and kisses him, his hands wander beneath the skirt and find immediate proof that Poland is a at best a fake girl. But, honestly, East doesn't really care.
"Ouch!" He jerks his head back and glares down at the pouting blond beneath him, feeling his tongue burn where Poland bit him.
"Now what?" he complains, "We've eaten, we've talked and I even gave you some bloody weeds so why can't we finally fuck?"
"Are you, like, an idiot?" Poland says and pinches his ass. "You're here, in Warsaw to sign the Warsaw pact so, I'm like totally topping tonight."
East just stares at him for a moment, then he lets all pretensions fall and just smirks at Poland. "Ohh, we'll just see about that!" He bends closer until their noses are almost touching and grasps Poland's thin shoulders hard. "Don't forget how most of your land today used to be Prussian!"
Poland's giggle is just as high-pitched as before, but now his smile seems sharper and when he pulls East down, he bites his lip until the pain blossoms and East can taste blood between them.
"And you'd better, like, remember," Poland whispers, "whose land it is now!"
Ai no Otaku - Greece/Japan/Turkey
Turkey always has to try and best him, either by force or by attempting to outdo him. Greece loathes it.
He hates it even more when Japan, his timid little friend who can nonetheless bloom out beautifully beneath the right, skilful hands (that is, Greece's!) tells him about how there has opened a Turkish restaurant in Shibuya. The other nation is much embarrassed when he realises how strained the relationship between Greece and Turkey is and apologizes profoundly, until Greece takes up the topic of nekomimi sex. Japan is suitably distracted and once the cat ears have come out, even Greece forgets the matter for a while.
Until he finds the hidden pictures one night, when Japan is at a conference with China, Korea and several other of his neighbours. Greece has promised to come over to feed Japan's new cats.
One of the little dears goes hiding in Japan's cosplay wardrobe and since he doesn't want it to eat glitter or tear up those cute "sailor fuku" uniforms that Japan likes to wear when Greece spanks him, he follows.
The pictures stop him cold. A far too familiar dark-skinned man, wearing a mask and a blond wig... It is not his usual mask, no, and the uniform jacket is one that Greece only vaguely remembers from some trading cards Japan has shown him once, but he would know that smile anywhere. And, he thinks while his usually mellow grin shows far too many teeth, the scar on Turkey's chest, where Greece almost got his heart just before he broke free. Not that it would have killed the old bastard, but it's good to know that it's still there after all these years.
Well. It's not like him and Japan has an exclusive thing going on. Why, if Japan wanted to do that tying-up thing with Turkey that Greece just can't get into, he may even have approved. But the costumes? No. There, his little Asian friend will have to pick and Greece intends to show him that there is only one obvious choice.
-------------------
How did he end up in this position? Greece wonders as Turkeys large cock prods against his lips. He glares up at the masked nation and wonders again how someone dressed up as a huge purple robot in ridiculous plastic armour can look so full of himself.
"Oh, please, Greece-san," Japan moans from beneath him, hand pulling pleadingly at his skirt, "please."
"Shut up, you baka," Greece snaps, glad that he remembers to stay in character even at a time like this. Then Turkey's hand grips his head tighter, fingers digging through the wig. And though he has to swallow a lot of revulsion to do it, he puts his lips around the very tip of Turkey's cock. Yuck.
"Don't be such a tease," Turkey rumbles. Greece pinches his ugly old balls to remind him that giant robots are, according to Japan - the ruthless director of this little scenario - not allowed to speak in anything but wordless berserker bellows.
He adjusts Japan's ass a bit, while letting his tongue play with Turkey's cock. When he feels the flesh in his hands quiver, Greece hums, pleased that his efforts are paying off. As long as he doesn't think whose dick he's sucking, this isn't so bad...
The armour thankfully overpowers any smell from his partner with it's strong plastic scent and Turkey has finally managed to shut up except for his panting. Also, Japan finally feels open enough to take him.
Greece makes sure the bright red condom is properly in place. It's strange to feel the thin layer of rubber around him, but he absolutely refused to use a dildo. He does, after all, have his own equipment and so this was the best compromise they could come up with. Finally, Greece pulls Japan closer, feeling his flesh clench tight for a few moments before it opens up for Greece's determined cock. At the same time, Turkey pushes himself deeper inside his mouth, and he relaxes his throat, swallowing the older nation all the way down in a far too familiar move.
Beneath him, Japan gasps and writhes as Greece begins to fuck him properly, lifting that sweet, slim body towards him until he's buried to the roots and then pulling him off. The smell of plastic is almost dizzyingly strong now, but he can hear Japan sob with pleasure, whimpering protests with his mouth all the while his body begs for more and more.
Turkey pulls back at the last minute, to spend himself all over Japan's face and the come mixes with tears. It is a sight Greece can only enjoy for a few minutes, though, because then Turkey sits his disgusting ass on Japan's face, ordering him to clean him and make him ready for round two.
"Can't hold out long enough, old man?" Greece says, glad that he's not playing some sweet little princess this time but a feisty German girl. From the description of his character, she sounds practically Prussian in her attitude.
"Oh," Turkey purrs, "I just wanted to lift that skirt of yours and ah, peek at your ladylike opening."
Greece doesn't answers, but doubles his pace, spreading Japan's legs until the hole they have cut in his tight costume threatens to rip open completely. His cute little cock slips free from beneath the costume and in an instant, Greece's and Turkeys hands are battling to grasp it.
"Ten million lira that he'll come from my mouth, before he can come from your cock!"
"Make it ten euro, and we're on," Greece snarls. He smiles down at Japan, who blinks at them in a confused daze when Turkey moves away from him and Greece slows down for a moment. His tongue looks very small and pink as he licks his lips.
"Now, kitten," Greece says, "you know what we want you to do?"
"Nani?"
"Just come for us, little Japan," Turkey rumbles, "and remember who made you scream."
"That's right, ki- I mean, BAKA!" Greece slaps Japan lightly and with that as a signal, they start moving.
Japan has weird tastes and makes him dress up in bunny ears and school uniforms, but by the Gods of his motherland, Japan is his. And when the spandex rips from their movements and he can feel the smaller nation clench his ass around his cock, when he sees the tears flow and the mouth move in wordless begging, then Greece knows that he is finally about to win over that bastard.
Turkey first cosplays Char Aznable from Mobile Suit Gundam.
Then they're Neon Genesis Evangelion characters. Turkey = EVA:01, Japan = Shinji, Greece = Asuka
Marching to my tune - Austria/Prussia
Austria didn't know how many times he had decided that enough was enough, that he would accept no more insults or embarrassments from Prussia. Countless times over the years... Finally, however, the other had pushed him too far, committed an offence too grievous to ignore and Austria decided to retaliate.
Much to his shock, he soon realised that he couldn't truly retaliate as a country. Because where on the map was Prussia? He had no quarrels with Germany and, as such, he could hardly attack his north-eastern part, even if it was held by an offensive ruffian.
It had taken a few days of contemplation before Austria realized that this conundrum could not only be solved, but solved in a way that would be infinitely more pleasurable than merely crushing the cur in battle.
As usual, his musings were interrupted by Prussia, when the other rattled his chains most unbecomingly and tried to say something. The little ball-gag he had borrowed from Hungary, who was always happy to aid him, the dear heart, stopped him most efficiently.
"Ah, ah, ah..." Austria tapped Prussia on the nose with his baton. "If you were to remain still, Prussia, it would please me a great deal. We do not want scratches on the grand piano, now do we?"
The growl informed him that Prussia was probably less than concerned about the piano right now.
Austria let his baton wander down, flicking aside the opened shirt and revealing a map of pale scars. "You have kept in shape," he murmured, "most excellent."
Prussia tried to kick, which earned him a swift flick over the cheek. The red mark looked so nice, Austria decided to create a matching one on the other side.
"Now, Prussia. I think we are ready to begin your lessons." He sat down at the piano, noting how inspiring an ornament Prussia made. A bit rough around the edges so far, but he'd polish him up in time...
"This," he said as he began to play, "is Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach, and not Bash, Blasch, Bahh or any of the other charmingly 'creative' names you have given him over the years."
Austria stopped playing for a moment, rising up to stare at the bound Prussian. "And you will learn every single one of his compositions before these chains come off, do you understand?"
He smiled wider, pleased to see how Prussia swallowed and paled. "And until you do..." he took the baton, twirling it carefully, "I shall be more than happy to instruct you."
Vroom - America/England
"Ohh, England, more, more!"
"This is disgusting," England muttered and tried to scoot backwards without leaving half his skin stuck on the tacky fake-leather seats.
"England!"
"Alright, you tosser," he grumbled before going back to blowing America.
"Ohh, yeah," the younger nation moaned, shamelessly spreading his legs and rocking his hips. England just hoped that nobody would look too closely at them and wonder why the hell an empty car standing on the side of the highway was moving so bloody much. Not that they'd seen anyone except the occasional bird for quite some time...
Well. If America was going to have so much fun, he should try to enjoy himself too, he decided and began jerking himself off. At least this ridiculous car was huge, but did it really have to be that particular nauseating shade of bubblegum-blue?
"England," America moaned, "please, take me... It's so hot, I ne-"
"Of course it's bloody hot, you idiot! We're in the middle of Arizona and your old heap of junk doesn't have air-conditioning!"
America stopped moaning and rose up on his elbows to glare at England. He did, one had to admit, look quite fine in that nude-and-sweaty way.
"At least it's not a damn Mini," he snarled.
England gaped. "You dare insult the Mini?"
"Fuck yeah. Most uncomfortable car to fuck in this side of the Volkswagen."
"...what?"
America's brain seemed to catch up with what he'd said and he blushed slightly.
"What! You've buggered somebody in a Beetle?"
"Euuhm..."
"You sodding traitor!"
"No, wait, England! England!" America tried to grab the angry nation, but he marched off into the baking desert sun before he could catch him. "England! Come back, you're gonna get a sunburn!"
England didn't even bother to turn around when giving him the two-fingered salute.
"Besides, I was thinking of you the whole time!"
I'm not allowed to think this - Germany, fantasy about WWII nations
It was really nice to be with Italy. He was sweet, cuddly and he even had an acceptable morning-breath. The only problem was, sometimes he almost thought he was a little too sweet. While Germany would never stray from his partner, he couldn't help wondering how it would be if someone, somehow, managed to... force him. Then it wouldn't be his fault, now would it?
Like Poland, that resilient little bitch. When Italy had to go home and talk things over with his brother, he couldn't help but remember how Poland's eyes burned, even as they pushed his weakened body and worthless army out of the way. What would he do, if he ever had the chance to retaliate?
Perhaps, Germany thought, he would force him to wear clothes similar to the ones he favoured. His cock twitched a little at the thought, and he imagined how it would be, to parade in front of the laughing polish troops wearing nothing but a tiny skirt and a too-tight top. The skirt would be far too short, as well, and his ass would be visible for the entire world to see...
Maybe Austria would smile in that aristocratic way of his, kick his legs out from under him? His hand grasped his own cock and began stroking softly as the images continued to play out in his mind.
Poland was so lazy, he would just sit there, force Germany to suck his dick, pull his hair and laugh at him. While Austria would jeer at him, mighty Germany brought so low by the very nations he had taken over. Then he would hit him, no, he would spank him. Disdainful, elegant Austria. He'd never use his hands nor his belt, he'd have Germany crawl around, showing his ass in that too-short skirt until he'd gathered enough birch rods to fit even the fussy Austrian. Then he'd spank him, while Germany kneeled between Poland's legs and tried to hold back the tears.
His hands moved quicker, he closed his eyes and tried to feel the burning pain, the shame. And they would see his shame too, all of them, especially when Poland had come down his throat and Austria ordered him to turn over so he could fuck that shameless ass, when Belgium came to sit on his face and let him beg to lick her... Then they'd see how hard he was, they'd know he enjoyed it and wanted nothing more than for someone to force him down, break him open and fuck
Germany bit his lip to stifle the cry that wanted to escape when he came in his own hand, then lay still, feeling his heart race for a few moments. He had to go wash himself off, before somebody saw. Before somebody guessed what he wanted, and what Italy couldn't give.
Eat up - Belarus/Russia (stuffing)
When Belarus comes up to him after a meeting, Russia tries to escape. However, for once she doesn't mention the word marriage, but only inquires after his health.
It is with great hesitation that he admits that, perhaps, he has been surviving mostly on vodka since they all left him alone. That's where it begins.
"I only want you to grow strong, dearest brother," she tells him when she begins to come over with homemade food.
It is nice to have company, Russia thinks, and since his sister is still more worried about him wasting away than reuniting, he allows it to continue. Once or twice, she even drags Ukraine along and they all share a lovely meal.
Belarus cooking, however, is rather full of calories. When he overhears England remarking to America that the young idiot doesn't have to watch his weight until he starts looking like Russia, he realizes that his trousers have been showing an increasing strain as of late.
"Sister, dear," he tells her, "I think I am not too thin, any longer. Yes?"
He smiles hopefully at her and she nods, acting as if nothing is wrong. He believes her until their next dinner, a week later, when he drops the cutlery and finds his speech go thick and slurred before they have finished the soup.
"You are still the greatest country in the world, dear brother," Belarus voice rings clearly through the fog filling his mind. "I will show everyone how great you are..."
Russia's mouth falls open despite his attempts to close it, he slobbers and spills food all down his coat, but his sister only giggles and keeps feeding him. And feeding him, with borscht and bread and cabbage and eggs and cake and more, more, more...
"There, brother," she murmurs sweetly when his stomach is taught and the bile keeps rising in his throat, "aren't you feeling much better now?"
He tries, desperately to nod, because every time he has protested, she just feeds him more and more.
"Then, dearest brother," she whispers and unhooks her skirt, pulls down her pantyhose, "I think you deserve a special dessert."
When she hooks up a leg around his shoulder and pulls aside her panties, his only wish is that he will manage to keep the nausea under control.
"Lick it all up, dear brother, and grow big and strong!"
Invisible? France+Canada
"Oh, ohh, my dear..." France moaned and leaned back even further in the chair, stroking his impressive cock. He grasped his balls in one hand, rolling them gently and squeezed the thick head of his cock with the other, pausing only to drag his finger in the precum and taste it with obvious pleasure.
"Oh, yes!"
"Ah- uhm, ahrghh!" Canada blushed deeper and pulled the hood of his jumper over his eyes, only to look up with a startled gasp when France moaned his name.
"My dear," France continued, oblivious as always to the bespectacled northerner, "ahhh, Canada, come to papa..."
"But I'm right HERE!" Canada wailed and tried to cover his eyes, hide his erection and climb up the wall at the same time. Oh, why had he ever decided that he'd just sit and glare at France until the other would have to notice him?
"Yes, like that," France hissed between his teeth, teasing the slit of his cock with a nail, "careful, child! Ah! Yes!" He thrust into his own hand, threw his head back and moaned deeply. "Ah, Canada, how I love you!"
Canada froze like a deer in headlights. "P- papa?" he whispered.
With a hoarse cry, France orgasmed, a rather impressive amount of come streaming from his cock. Some of it even reached Canada, landing on his jeans and jumper.
"Papa..."
"Hmm?" France opened an eye and leered, straight at Canada. "If you want to join me next time, just jump right in. Dear boy."
Chocolate symphony - Austria/Turkey
"And that is how you bake a proper Sachertorte," Austria finished the lesson, presenting the beautiful cake, is dark chocolate glaze almost shining.
"Mfmmh," Turkey said around the gag in his mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"Hmmf!"
"Ah yes, my attire." Austria lifted the note-patterned apron and wiped his hand on it, ignoring how Turkey's eyes grew at least two sizes at what it revealed.
"It is important to always use an apron and, of course, have a towel ready to wipe up any spills post-haste. Otherwise," he allowed himself a small smile, "I shall leave choice of clothes up to you. Though I recommend against flared sleeves, they tend to get very dirty."
He turned around and gave Turkey a beautiful view of his uncovered bottom, one that only improved when Austria bent at the waste to take out a piping bag.
Turkey strained against his bonds, but Austria had spent many years both binding and being bound by Hungary, and was not one to make sloppy knots.
"There," he said as he finished filling the bag with cream. "Shall I show you how to decorate it now?"
Turkey shook his head and jerked his hips; even through his baggy pants, his erection was clearly visible.
"Yes, it is a bit early for cake already. Perhaps we can train on something else..."
When Austria took out a pair of scissors and carefully cut off his clothes, Turkey almost sobbed in relief. However, as the other nation then, instead of say removing his bloody apron and putting his sweet little butt on his eager cock, took out the piping bag, Turkey began to feel a little apprehensive.
"Let's see if I can write something along the length, hmm?" Austria said, frowning in concentration. "Do you think 'Österreich' is too long?"
Ferris wheel - Prussia/Liechtenstein
"YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO SHOOT US DOWN, YOU LUNATIC!" Prussia screamed at the gondola beneath theirs. There had been some highly suspicious sounds from it ever since the beginning of the journey, and now that the wheel seemed stuck, there was no knowing what the madman with the gun would try. That reminded him...
"AND YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO SHOOT WEST EITHER, YOU HEAR ME!"
"Don't worry, Mr Prussia," Liechtenstein said. She sat on the bench opposite of him and smiled adorably, not at all phased by the fact that they were stuck God knew how many metres above the ground. "Brother wouldn't do anything like that!"
"No, he'll just shoot me when we get to the ground... Man, I knew this was a stupid idea."
"Oh, but Mr Germany so wanted to ride the wheel and they did warn that you two were too heavy together."
"Next time, I'll just stay on the ground. What if we're stuck here for hours? What if Switzerland kills me for deflowering you!"
He remembered then that the nation he was talking to was, in a way, a young girl and apologised hastily. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to mind his slip.
"Now why would he do that..." Liechtenstein smiled. "After all, Mr Prussia, brother trusts me."
"Not me!"
"No." Liechtenstein's smile suddenly seemed a bit less innocent. "But they can't even see into our gondola and..." She began to unbutton her dress, "I've always wondered if what Hungary says of you is true?"
Prussia opened his mouth. Closed it. Was about to protest that he was certainly not the nation to take the virginity of Switzerland's little sister when he saw a pair of tiny, but deliciously tempting for that, breasts.
"You, er, really don't think he can see?" he asked.
Liechtenstein stepped out of her skirts and held up a finger, listening. There were no sounds, especially not of an older brother exploding in rage and trying to climb up the Ferris wheel to protect her virginity.
"No," she said after a while, "I don't think he does."
"Hehehe..." Prussia began to remove his shirt, exclaiming happily when a pair of small, eager hands reached to help him with the fly. "So tell me, babe, what exactly has Hungary told you bout my awesomeness?"
Smack - Hungary/Belarus
"-and that'll better teach you to badmouth my Roderich where I can hear!" Hungary finished, angrily adding a last few smacks with her hairbrush to Belarus's bare bottom.
The other girl sobbed and squirmed on her lap, her composure having broken completely some twenty smacks ago.
"Now, apologize!" Hungary said sternly, unable to resist sneaking a feel along the tender flesh of the freshly spanked buttocks. Oh, it had been so terribly long since she had such a nice plaything! Why, Prussia hardly bruised at all, the though-skinned clod.
"I- I'll tell brother on you!" Belarus stuttered, tears spilling beautifully from her eyes. "You barbarian!"
"No, you won't," Hungary said.
"Ho- how do you know, know that?"
"Because," she smiled and caught the weeping girl's face in a gentle grip, "I don't think you want your brother to know too many details of our little girl's night, hmm?"
She slipped a finger inside Belarus opening, grinning wickedly at the moisture she found there. "Oh my..."
"Ahh!" The girl arched on her lap, and Hungary took the opportunity to slide a hand inside her blouse, finding and pinching a nipple.
"You don't think I would become a little suspicious when you called dear Roderich 'pussy-whipped' three times in one evening, hmm?" she asked, teasing nipple and clit in tandem.
Belarus moaned and squirmed. "Well," she admitted, "it always seems to work for East Germany..."
As long as north is up on the map, Canada is on top - Canada/Prussia
Canada was a nice- partner. Boyfriend. Thing. Whatever he was, Prussia thought, he was nice. He was understanding of his partner's needs, made lovely food, never asked him to clean and could hold his liquor well... but not so well that Prussia got embarrassed by always barfing first.
He even understood that, this recently after his 'break-up' from Russia (Halleluja! Ring the bells! Declare a national holiday, nay, declare two!) if one could title it so, when Prussia had felt the whole relationship was more about breaking him, Prussia was a bit... apprehensive about bottoming.
"Oh, that's alright, dear," Canada said and smiled in that friendly way of his. "I like it both ways."
Prussia was very grateful and he had prepared properly for their first night together. Cleaned (everywhere), shaved (also everywhere), chewed half a package of breath-mints and brought flowers, cherry-tasting lube, a whole box of condoms and West's finest wine.
Canada met him in the door with a kiss, a hug and showed him the dinner table.
"You know, I'm not very picky... but I can't really see any plates," Prussia said slowly.
"That's right, dear! I thought, well, we've already been dating for a while and one gets a bit impatient at times, eh?" He giggled and pinched Prussia's butt.
Somehow or other, and damn him for a Wessie if he knew how it had happened, Prussia had ended up naked on the table. Meanwhile Canada - also naked, except for his Mountie jacket - sat on him. And fed him little pieces of pancake, though he himself seemed most interested in the maple syrup he dribbled all over Prussia.
"Ahhahaa..." he moaned when Canada dropped a large dollop of syrup on his crotch (Oops! Let me get that for you!) and proceeded to give him the blowjob of his life.
"I should," Prussia finally gasped, "here, let me-"
"That's okay, baby," Canada purred and pushed Prussia back down, very meaningfully placing his hands above his head and snapping a pair of handcuffs on him. "Just enjoy the ride, hmm? And don't worry; I've done my stretching already..."
When he slid down on him, hot flesh closing around Prussia's cock, while his hands played with his own cock and nipples in a mind-blowingly sexy image, Prussia began to get a queerly familiar feeling. His suspicions only increased when Canada began riding him in earnest, fucking himself on Prussia while pinning him to the table though he desired nothing more than touch the sexy little bastard, kiss him or do anything except helplessly watch him play with himself.
Figures. It was just his luck that he'd found the closet dom of the New World.
"Aahh, Prussia," Canada moaned and pinched his nipples with just the right balance between pleasure and pain, "let me see you come for me, baby."
"Ye- yes, sir," Prussia replied, and was rewarded with an especially satisfying clench of nether muscles.
Well... at least this one's main kink seemed to involve food, instead of his blood.
French flair - Canada/Cuba
After he had finished seeing maple-shaped starbursts, his brain had dribbled out through his cock and he'd decided to emigrate to Canada as soon as he could say something more than 'hnaaghnrnr!!' Cuba just lay back and enjoyed the pleased buzz thrumming in his body.
It took quite a while, but finally, he managed to lift his head and look blearily at Canada. "Ay, ay, ay! Amigo, where'd you learned to do that?" he asked, very impressed. Who knew his shy friend could do such advanced tricks with his tongue.
"You like it? Eh, haha, that makes me really happy! I'm a bit out of practice," Canada said, blushing adorably.
"Out of practice? Dios Mio, then you'll kill me when you really get going!"
"Oh no, ehehee..."
"By the way, you have a little- no, there on the other side."
Very fastidiously, Canada wiped himself off. "Thank you."
"Mi pleasure," Cuba said and meant it from the bottom of his heart. "But how'd'ya learn that?"
"France," Canada said. "He said it's always easier to keep a rhythm if you hum something - I usually do O Canada, but speeded up a little."
"Fr...ance? Who, ah, raised you, when you were... pequeñito?"
With a smile, completely unabashed, Canada nodded. "Yup. He used to pour maple syrup on himself and ask me to come lick the lolly."
"Ah. Ha."
"Wanna do another round?"
"You know, actually, amigo, I have some fish to pull up... So, eh, mebbe 'nother time, heh?"
Also, a couple of these are way to long to be drabbles. Ficlets, more like it
I've stuck basically everything pairing-y here, so we have mild PG-15 to hard R mixed. And some are crack
How we dance - Prussia/Austria, waltz
"That is never dancing," Austria sniffed. On the television, a gang of young sloppily dressed hoodlums jumped around, spinning on the floor sometimes. They even yelled at each other!
"You're always so old-fashioned," Prussia said. "And a snob."
He was lying upside down on the sofa, having finally gotten tired of Austria's meaningful glances whenever he forgot himself and put his feet up on the table. So he put them against the wall instead. This had the bonus effect of making it impossible for him to properly see Austria's frosty glares - although he could still feel them, dammit, and he was receiving a very cold one right now.
"I fail to see how being able to appreciate the finer things in life-" Austria began, but since Prussia had heard variations of this lecture for something like three hundred years now, he was getting a bit tired of it.
"Not listening," he said in a sing-song voice, grinning when the other man gave a weary sigh.
Austria turned off the television, no longer able to stand watching what the 'dancers' were doing. Deplorable, how low standards had sunk lately.
"I was watching that!" Prussia protested. "Besides, they said your beloved waltz was corrupting the youth when it startd. I remember!"
"That was merely a few hard-headed old stodges," the aristocrat quickly countered.
"Pff, yeah, right... You just liked it because it brought you closer to all that nubile young flesh than old folk dances." Prussia closed his eyes, his obnoxious grin widening slightly.
"Mmm, holding onto Hungary's waist for a whole dance... Admit it, that's why you supported the style in the first place!"
"I most certainly did not." Austria went over to his record player, feeling that he needed to cleanse his mind with some appropriate music. "Dancing is about the soul; music taken shape, making the spirit soar."
"So what," Prussia twisted his head a bit. "Are you claiming that it doesn't matter who you dance with for you to be happy?"
"Of course I prefer to waltz with someone I am fond of. However," Austria admitted it easily enough, "as long as it is a skilled partner, I can enjoy only the pure art of dancing."
"You're on!"
"Excuse me?"
"I said," Prussia slid off the sofa and came up to him, doing his best to loom threateningly, "you're on. Let's dance."
"You want to waltz? With me?"
"Sure." The German man shrugged. "Lemme show you what those old prunes were so upset about, back then..."
A disbelieving laughter escaped Austria. "Truly?"
When he saw that Prussia was not backing down, he smiled smugly. "Very well." He started the music. "Now then, let me show you what dancing is all about..."
Hands grasped, eyes met in challenge and they were off, dancing.
Only a few whirls in, Prussia slid closer, his hand on Austria's back dipping dangerously low. Austria raised an eyebrow but refused to back down. Instead, he countered with some more advance steps, leading a suddenly flustered Prussia through a complicated pattern of twirls and dips.
"Bastard," Prussia muttered. But his pale cheeks were stained with colour and his voice trembled with mirth.
"Imbecile," Austria retorted, in reply to which Prussia pulled him tight against his own body.
"I can't stand your snobby attitude," he growled, "and your petty little rules."
They danced faster now, leaving the music behind as they twirled almost nose to nose, hands squeezing hard enough to whiten their knuckles.
"I despise your rudeness, your loudness..." Austria whispered in his ear. "Your mere presence makes me ill," he continued while his hand slid up to rest against the muscular neck, feeling the few beads of sweat gathered in that annoyingly messy hair.
"Fine!" Prussia spat, grinding against his partner almost as roughly as the plebeians on the television earlier. "I fucking hate you too."
"As long as we're clear on that."
When they broke the kiss, they were still twirling around each other, though the song had long since ended.
That's why they call it tease - Norway, Denmark
"Really? You're really gonna do it?" Denmark's grin was so wide, it looked as if it may split his head in half.
Norway shuddered inside, but nodded. He was a nation of his word, after all. Denmark had won the hockey game against Sweden, so...
"Yessss!" Denmark punched the air and did a mad little jig where he was standing.
"But," Norway hastened to add, "you are not allowed to touch. Don't even think about it. Or I will take severe measures, understood?"
"Course, babe." The taller nation practically licked his lips in anticipation. This would be just like old days, except Norway was much cuter than Sweden had ever been! Nor was he a damn brat any longer, having finally grown into a fine young man. Such a shame that this had involved him leaving the house and thus Denmark's control, but now... now he would finally see Norway reveal it all.
[Later that evening]
"You touched!"
"I swatted a fly!" Denmark protested. "Come on," he shrugged and pulled his most innocent I'm-such-a-loveable-dork-aren't-I?-grin, the one that worked on everyone... except Norway. "You haven't even gotten any clothes off yet."
"That," Norway frostily informed him, "does not matter. Now." He snapped a finger and a cold wind suddenly howled outside, blowing open the window.
Denmark's smile turned a bit stiff. It wasn't really that he believed in pagan monsters anymore. Except it was a bit hard not to, when your old housemate-cum-unreachable love interest had a pet troll or two...
"Turn him towards the wall," Norway ordered, his voice betraying no emotion.
"Wha-? No! Hey, NORWAY! Come on, maaaan!"
Completely ignoring the protesting Dane, Norway began to remove his clothes one by one.
His axe - Norway, Denmark
This is a very bad idea. He really should know better by now. Norway thought he had grown out of this a long time ago, but when Denmark went to his private training field he was, as always, unable to not follow.
Sweden and Denmark are - perhaps - fighting again soon. It's all a bit complicated and Denmark just grins disturbingly at him, asks if he's that eager to see him kick some ass again.
But they'll be battling for real, soon. Norway can taste the unrest in the air; sometimes at eve of battle he still hears the valkyries ride. They are surely saddling up now...
He doesn't know whether Denmark or Sweden will win this time, doesn't much care either. They're not fighting about him and, if he is to be quite honest, he doesn't mind when they fight about something else. It makes Denmark less focused on him, more... easily distracted.
Although, right now, it is Norway who is distracted. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to breathe as silently as possible while Denmark fires shot after shot at the target. The other nation is a stone-throw away and Norway is hidden only by the meagre protection offered by an old hawthorn bush. If things were as usual then Denmark would turn towards him soon and hear, see him, his shame and weakness...
But when Denmark throws his gun away, muttering to himself in anger because too many of his shots have gone wild, Norway smiles to himself. He finally dares touch his own flesh properly. At times like these, Denmark sees only Sweden, wants only him. Strangely enough, that is what makes the usually cool youth under his rule want him all the more.
Norway allows himself a small shudder of pleasure and a barely restrained gasp at the scene that unfolds before him.
Denmark throws off his big noisy coat, as he earlier threw away his gun. Instead, finally, he brings out the great axe that he has always treasured beyond any other weapon. He swings it a few times, the movements softening the hard lines of his shoulders while they at the same time cause a different sort of hardness in Norway.
Then he screams, wordlessly defiant, looking just as old and magnificent as Norway knows he can be, though Norway despairs because he hardly ever is. The ax dances, the targets shatter in a thousand broken pieces and Norway's hand squeezes harder as his sex demands more, faster.
He has to bite his lip to keep silent, and though separated the two nations move together perfectly. Denmark's anger burns too hotly and with axe in hand he shapes it, controls it, so that by tomorrow it will turn on the Swedes with a well-honed, and deadly, precision.
Norway's desire soars through him, burns him, and he imagines the scenes of carnage that Denmark will cause, the wild abandon of battle overcoming the both. He both loathes and needs it to free himself from the cold of his land. The coming panic, the struggle and all the thousand uncertainties that can change fate in a snap. And so, his eyes stay locked on the ever-young viking on the field, until his release takes him completely and he trembles while coming all over his hands.
Denmark is still fighting the shadow of the one he has lost, but his movements are becoming more precise. The usual reckless smile soon appears on his face again. Norway lies mellow and graceful beneath the hawthorn and listens to the sounds of his master training. When they'll go back, he'll be all cold composure again, while Denmark will tease and torment him.
But right now, in their own ways, they can both be beautifully free.
Centuries of Gold - Spain, France
When France finally finds him, the annoying little bastard is sitting at his rickety kitchen chair, surrounded by all the average tools of a household. An old, worn table which shows traces from so many meals prepared, in the stains and cuts and burns littering it. There are the ever-present onions, a large sack of flour in the corner and though the day is warm enough, the fireplace never stops emitting its heat - waiting to be fed, so it in turn can help feed its master.
Spain sits at his chair and studies something in his lap, appearing either very serious or (more likely, in France's opinion) sleepy.
"Why didn't you show up yesterday?" France asks, stepping up to the other nation and poking him in the neck. "Huh, we were supposed to go drin-"
In Spain's hands, there is gold. Such bright, splendid gold...
It may just be the greatest necklace France has ever seen, an exquisite treasure obviously taken from the New World, with emeralds and pearls and gold. So bright...
"You dumped me to stare at a necklace?" he asks, disbelief colouring his voice. "Spain, I'm hurt, truly!" Although, looking at that necklace himself, he can almost understand its allure.
The necklace slips out of Spain's hands and France almost whimpers when he hears it crash onto the stone floor. Of course Spain is wealthy now, with a whole new world to explore and exploit, but to treat fine gold like that!
"I thought they'd join me," Spain says, his words unusually hesitant. He has still not looked up from his lap, although his hands are slowly lifting now, fingers spread wide.
"Excuse me?" France doesn't understand him, even less than usual.
When Spain turns to look at him, his eyes are closed and his mouth is lifted in a smile, but there is nothing filling the expression.
"I said- We said. They should accept the cross, accept my bosses." Spain reaches inside a dull brown bag which France had not even noticed until this moment and brings out a great heavy bar of gold. France can't tear his eyes from it and when Spain drops it too on the floor, carelessly, he almost cries out in protest.
"I thought I'd have lots of children," Spain says, playing with a small pagan bracelet he has found in his bag. "I love kids. We'd live in my house, we'd go visit theirs..."
"You have little Romano to care for already," France points out, "why would you want more brats?"
Do you, he tries silently, not want the gold any longer? I can help you! Hmm, perhaps this sounds too opportunistic
Spain looks down at his hands, which are now resting on the kitchen table. That table, familiar - old, scarred, burned. These days, his hands are the hands of a wealthy nobleman, one who has never cut himself while working on the field, nor been burned and branded as a slave. He doesn't need to work the fields any longer, he only needs to count his gold and quench any protests to keep it coming, ever more.
"I wanted to raise children. I think that's what I wanted. But then, I never..." he breaks off. "Only, they weren't children, were they? Even though they were small and friendly."
"If you don't need all that gold, Spain, perhaps I could-"
"And now they aren't anything at all." Spain bends, picks up the necklace and the gold bar. "There's only gold left. Gold and corpses."
"I like gold," France says, almost leering at him. It turns to a scowl when Spain packs the treasures away and rises.
"I hope you'll never learn," Spain says, "how in the end, bones weigh heavier than the gold."
"What in the world are you talking about?" France looks at him as if he has grown a second head, but Spain merely shakes his head.
"Nothing. Children." He gives France the bracelet. "Please, take it," Spain murmurs. "Sorry 'bout yesterday - I can maybe make good for it now?"
France smiles then and laughs, slaps his back and doesn't notice how Spain shies from the hand holding the bracelet. They leave the kitchen and none of them speak more of children that weren't, or how much blood an ounce of gold can cost.
The Warsaw pact - Poland/Prussia
Poland is silly and ditzy and a lot more annoying than East remembers him ever being during the middle ages. Right now he's also being annoyingly smug about the name of this new sham military alliance they're all entering.
"It's still Russia's, you ass," East mutters and kicks one of Poland's stuffed animals out of the way.
"So? Russia's, like, everywhere. Like air." Poland puts on a smidge more of his new black-market bought lipstick and blows his mirror image a kiss.
"I think you mean like pollution," East says and sniffs the air meaningfully. "Really, you have let yourself go badly."
Poland's giggle is shrill and annoying. "I'm totes the only cool thing about this pact!" He stops to pick up the abused plush animal and plops down on the bed besides East.
"It's, like, Russia's made up a secret club because he's totally not down with America having a secret club of his own," he explains eagerly, as if East is too stupid to realize that himself. "And I'm, you know, like, the club mascot because I'm all cute and awesome!" Poland nods in apparent satisfaction. "Yep, it's totally the Poland rule in, like, it's ultimate action!"
"The what?"
"You know, Poland rule? Oh my God, are you like totally square! It's like, everything with Warsaw becomes, like, a hundred zillion times more coolers!"
East beats his head against the soft mattress and moans. "Why do I even bother to come here?"
"'cuz we're both totes too awesome to, like, languish in solitude!" Poland does a fair impression of that Norwegian painting and East can't help a snort of laughter. "And Warsaw is like completely the most awesome place ever and you're like, way too fond of saying awesome, East, so I'm like picking it up and hmmff!"
Poland isn't a girl, even if he wears a skirt sometimes. When East rolls on top of the other nation and kisses him, his hands wander beneath the skirt and find immediate proof that Poland is a at best a fake girl. But, honestly, East doesn't really care.
"Ouch!" He jerks his head back and glares down at the pouting blond beneath him, feeling his tongue burn where Poland bit him.
"Now what?" he complains, "We've eaten, we've talked and I even gave you some bloody weeds so why can't we finally fuck?"
"Are you, like, an idiot?" Poland says and pinches his ass. "You're here, in Warsaw to sign the Warsaw pact so, I'm like totally topping tonight."
East just stares at him for a moment, then he lets all pretensions fall and just smirks at Poland. "Ohh, we'll just see about that!" He bends closer until their noses are almost touching and grasps Poland's thin shoulders hard. "Don't forget how most of your land today used to be Prussian!"
Poland's giggle is just as high-pitched as before, but now his smile seems sharper and when he pulls East down, he bites his lip until the pain blossoms and East can taste blood between them.
"And you'd better, like, remember," Poland whispers, "whose land it is now!"
Ai no Otaku - Greece/Japan/Turkey
Turkey always has to try and best him, either by force or by attempting to outdo him. Greece loathes it.
He hates it even more when Japan, his timid little friend who can nonetheless bloom out beautifully beneath the right, skilful hands (that is, Greece's!) tells him about how there has opened a Turkish restaurant in Shibuya. The other nation is much embarrassed when he realises how strained the relationship between Greece and Turkey is and apologizes profoundly, until Greece takes up the topic of nekomimi sex. Japan is suitably distracted and once the cat ears have come out, even Greece forgets the matter for a while.
Until he finds the hidden pictures one night, when Japan is at a conference with China, Korea and several other of his neighbours. Greece has promised to come over to feed Japan's new cats.
One of the little dears goes hiding in Japan's cosplay wardrobe and since he doesn't want it to eat glitter or tear up those cute "sailor fuku" uniforms that Japan likes to wear when Greece spanks him, he follows.
The pictures stop him cold. A far too familiar dark-skinned man, wearing a mask and a blond wig... It is not his usual mask, no, and the uniform jacket is one that Greece only vaguely remembers from some trading cards Japan has shown him once, but he would know that smile anywhere. And, he thinks while his usually mellow grin shows far too many teeth, the scar on Turkey's chest, where Greece almost got his heart just before he broke free. Not that it would have killed the old bastard, but it's good to know that it's still there after all these years.
Well. It's not like him and Japan has an exclusive thing going on. Why, if Japan wanted to do that tying-up thing with Turkey that Greece just can't get into, he may even have approved. But the costumes? No. There, his little Asian friend will have to pick and Greece intends to show him that there is only one obvious choice.
-------------------
How did he end up in this position? Greece wonders as Turkeys large cock prods against his lips. He glares up at the masked nation and wonders again how someone dressed up as a huge purple robot in ridiculous plastic armour can look so full of himself.
"Oh, please, Greece-san," Japan moans from beneath him, hand pulling pleadingly at his skirt, "please."
"Shut up, you baka," Greece snaps, glad that he remembers to stay in character even at a time like this. Then Turkey's hand grips his head tighter, fingers digging through the wig. And though he has to swallow a lot of revulsion to do it, he puts his lips around the very tip of Turkey's cock. Yuck.
"Don't be such a tease," Turkey rumbles. Greece pinches his ugly old balls to remind him that giant robots are, according to Japan - the ruthless director of this little scenario - not allowed to speak in anything but wordless berserker bellows.
He adjusts Japan's ass a bit, while letting his tongue play with Turkey's cock. When he feels the flesh in his hands quiver, Greece hums, pleased that his efforts are paying off. As long as he doesn't think whose dick he's sucking, this isn't so bad...
The armour thankfully overpowers any smell from his partner with it's strong plastic scent and Turkey has finally managed to shut up except for his panting. Also, Japan finally feels open enough to take him.
Greece makes sure the bright red condom is properly in place. It's strange to feel the thin layer of rubber around him, but he absolutely refused to use a dildo. He does, after all, have his own equipment and so this was the best compromise they could come up with. Finally, Greece pulls Japan closer, feeling his flesh clench tight for a few moments before it opens up for Greece's determined cock. At the same time, Turkey pushes himself deeper inside his mouth, and he relaxes his throat, swallowing the older nation all the way down in a far too familiar move.
Beneath him, Japan gasps and writhes as Greece begins to fuck him properly, lifting that sweet, slim body towards him until he's buried to the roots and then pulling him off. The smell of plastic is almost dizzyingly strong now, but he can hear Japan sob with pleasure, whimpering protests with his mouth all the while his body begs for more and more.
Turkey pulls back at the last minute, to spend himself all over Japan's face and the come mixes with tears. It is a sight Greece can only enjoy for a few minutes, though, because then Turkey sits his disgusting ass on Japan's face, ordering him to clean him and make him ready for round two.
"Can't hold out long enough, old man?" Greece says, glad that he's not playing some sweet little princess this time but a feisty German girl. From the description of his character, she sounds practically Prussian in her attitude.
"Oh," Turkey purrs, "I just wanted to lift that skirt of yours and ah, peek at your ladylike opening."
Greece doesn't answers, but doubles his pace, spreading Japan's legs until the hole they have cut in his tight costume threatens to rip open completely. His cute little cock slips free from beneath the costume and in an instant, Greece's and Turkeys hands are battling to grasp it.
"Ten million lira that he'll come from my mouth, before he can come from your cock!"
"Make it ten euro, and we're on," Greece snarls. He smiles down at Japan, who blinks at them in a confused daze when Turkey moves away from him and Greece slows down for a moment. His tongue looks very small and pink as he licks his lips.
"Now, kitten," Greece says, "you know what we want you to do?"
"Nani?"
"Just come for us, little Japan," Turkey rumbles, "and remember who made you scream."
"That's right, ki- I mean, BAKA!" Greece slaps Japan lightly and with that as a signal, they start moving.
Japan has weird tastes and makes him dress up in bunny ears and school uniforms, but by the Gods of his motherland, Japan is his. And when the spandex rips from their movements and he can feel the smaller nation clench his ass around his cock, when he sees the tears flow and the mouth move in wordless begging, then Greece knows that he is finally about to win over that bastard.
Turkey first cosplays Char Aznable from Mobile Suit Gundam.
Then they're Neon Genesis Evangelion characters. Turkey = EVA:01, Japan = Shinji, Greece = Asuka
Marching to my tune - Austria/Prussia
Austria didn't know how many times he had decided that enough was enough, that he would accept no more insults or embarrassments from Prussia. Countless times over the years... Finally, however, the other had pushed him too far, committed an offence too grievous to ignore and Austria decided to retaliate.
Much to his shock, he soon realised that he couldn't truly retaliate as a country. Because where on the map was Prussia? He had no quarrels with Germany and, as such, he could hardly attack his north-eastern part, even if it was held by an offensive ruffian.
It had taken a few days of contemplation before Austria realized that this conundrum could not only be solved, but solved in a way that would be infinitely more pleasurable than merely crushing the cur in battle.
As usual, his musings were interrupted by Prussia, when the other rattled his chains most unbecomingly and tried to say something. The little ball-gag he had borrowed from Hungary, who was always happy to aid him, the dear heart, stopped him most efficiently.
"Ah, ah, ah..." Austria tapped Prussia on the nose with his baton. "If you were to remain still, Prussia, it would please me a great deal. We do not want scratches on the grand piano, now do we?"
The growl informed him that Prussia was probably less than concerned about the piano right now.
Austria let his baton wander down, flicking aside the opened shirt and revealing a map of pale scars. "You have kept in shape," he murmured, "most excellent."
Prussia tried to kick, which earned him a swift flick over the cheek. The red mark looked so nice, Austria decided to create a matching one on the other side.
"Now, Prussia. I think we are ready to begin your lessons." He sat down at the piano, noting how inspiring an ornament Prussia made. A bit rough around the edges so far, but he'd polish him up in time...
"This," he said as he began to play, "is Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach, and not Bash, Blasch, Bahh or any of the other charmingly 'creative' names you have given him over the years."
Austria stopped playing for a moment, rising up to stare at the bound Prussian. "And you will learn every single one of his compositions before these chains come off, do you understand?"
He smiled wider, pleased to see how Prussia swallowed and paled. "And until you do..." he took the baton, twirling it carefully, "I shall be more than happy to instruct you."
Vroom - America/England
"Ohh, England, more, more!"
"This is disgusting," England muttered and tried to scoot backwards without leaving half his skin stuck on the tacky fake-leather seats.
"England!"
"Alright, you tosser," he grumbled before going back to blowing America.
"Ohh, yeah," the younger nation moaned, shamelessly spreading his legs and rocking his hips. England just hoped that nobody would look too closely at them and wonder why the hell an empty car standing on the side of the highway was moving so bloody much. Not that they'd seen anyone except the occasional bird for quite some time...
Well. If America was going to have so much fun, he should try to enjoy himself too, he decided and began jerking himself off. At least this ridiculous car was huge, but did it really have to be that particular nauseating shade of bubblegum-blue?
"England," America moaned, "please, take me... It's so hot, I ne-"
"Of course it's bloody hot, you idiot! We're in the middle of Arizona and your old heap of junk doesn't have air-conditioning!"
America stopped moaning and rose up on his elbows to glare at England. He did, one had to admit, look quite fine in that nude-and-sweaty way.
"At least it's not a damn Mini," he snarled.
England gaped. "You dare insult the Mini?"
"Fuck yeah. Most uncomfortable car to fuck in this side of the Volkswagen."
"...what?"
America's brain seemed to catch up with what he'd said and he blushed slightly.
"What! You've buggered somebody in a Beetle?"
"Euuhm..."
"You sodding traitor!"
"No, wait, England! England!" America tried to grab the angry nation, but he marched off into the baking desert sun before he could catch him. "England! Come back, you're gonna get a sunburn!"
England didn't even bother to turn around when giving him the two-fingered salute.
"Besides, I was thinking of you the whole time!"
I'm not allowed to think this - Germany, fantasy about WWII nations
It was really nice to be with Italy. He was sweet, cuddly and he even had an acceptable morning-breath. The only problem was, sometimes he almost thought he was a little too sweet. While Germany would never stray from his partner, he couldn't help wondering how it would be if someone, somehow, managed to... force him. Then it wouldn't be his fault, now would it?
Like Poland, that resilient little bitch. When Italy had to go home and talk things over with his brother, he couldn't help but remember how Poland's eyes burned, even as they pushed his weakened body and worthless army out of the way. What would he do, if he ever had the chance to retaliate?
Perhaps, Germany thought, he would force him to wear clothes similar to the ones he favoured. His cock twitched a little at the thought, and he imagined how it would be, to parade in front of the laughing polish troops wearing nothing but a tiny skirt and a too-tight top. The skirt would be far too short, as well, and his ass would be visible for the entire world to see...
Maybe Austria would smile in that aristocratic way of his, kick his legs out from under him? His hand grasped his own cock and began stroking softly as the images continued to play out in his mind.
Poland was so lazy, he would just sit there, force Germany to suck his dick, pull his hair and laugh at him. While Austria would jeer at him, mighty Germany brought so low by the very nations he had taken over. Then he would hit him, no, he would spank him. Disdainful, elegant Austria. He'd never use his hands nor his belt, he'd have Germany crawl around, showing his ass in that too-short skirt until he'd gathered enough birch rods to fit even the fussy Austrian. Then he'd spank him, while Germany kneeled between Poland's legs and tried to hold back the tears.
His hands moved quicker, he closed his eyes and tried to feel the burning pain, the shame. And they would see his shame too, all of them, especially when Poland had come down his throat and Austria ordered him to turn over so he could fuck that shameless ass, when Belgium came to sit on his face and let him beg to lick her... Then they'd see how hard he was, they'd know he enjoyed it and wanted nothing more than for someone to force him down, break him open and fuck
Germany bit his lip to stifle the cry that wanted to escape when he came in his own hand, then lay still, feeling his heart race for a few moments. He had to go wash himself off, before somebody saw. Before somebody guessed what he wanted, and what Italy couldn't give.
Eat up - Belarus/Russia (stuffing)
When Belarus comes up to him after a meeting, Russia tries to escape. However, for once she doesn't mention the word marriage, but only inquires after his health.
It is with great hesitation that he admits that, perhaps, he has been surviving mostly on vodka since they all left him alone. That's where it begins.
"I only want you to grow strong, dearest brother," she tells him when she begins to come over with homemade food.
It is nice to have company, Russia thinks, and since his sister is still more worried about him wasting away than reuniting, he allows it to continue. Once or twice, she even drags Ukraine along and they all share a lovely meal.
Belarus cooking, however, is rather full of calories. When he overhears England remarking to America that the young idiot doesn't have to watch his weight until he starts looking like Russia, he realizes that his trousers have been showing an increasing strain as of late.
"Sister, dear," he tells her, "I think I am not too thin, any longer. Yes?"
He smiles hopefully at her and she nods, acting as if nothing is wrong. He believes her until their next dinner, a week later, when he drops the cutlery and finds his speech go thick and slurred before they have finished the soup.
"You are still the greatest country in the world, dear brother," Belarus voice rings clearly through the fog filling his mind. "I will show everyone how great you are..."
Russia's mouth falls open despite his attempts to close it, he slobbers and spills food all down his coat, but his sister only giggles and keeps feeding him. And feeding him, with borscht and bread and cabbage and eggs and cake and more, more, more...
"There, brother," she murmurs sweetly when his stomach is taught and the bile keeps rising in his throat, "aren't you feeling much better now?"
He tries, desperately to nod, because every time he has protested, she just feeds him more and more.
"Then, dearest brother," she whispers and unhooks her skirt, pulls down her pantyhose, "I think you deserve a special dessert."
When she hooks up a leg around his shoulder and pulls aside her panties, his only wish is that he will manage to keep the nausea under control.
"Lick it all up, dear brother, and grow big and strong!"
Invisible? France+Canada
"Oh, ohh, my dear..." France moaned and leaned back even further in the chair, stroking his impressive cock. He grasped his balls in one hand, rolling them gently and squeezed the thick head of his cock with the other, pausing only to drag his finger in the precum and taste it with obvious pleasure.
"Oh, yes!"
"Ah- uhm, ahrghh!" Canada blushed deeper and pulled the hood of his jumper over his eyes, only to look up with a startled gasp when France moaned his name.
"My dear," France continued, oblivious as always to the bespectacled northerner, "ahhh, Canada, come to papa..."
"But I'm right HERE!" Canada wailed and tried to cover his eyes, hide his erection and climb up the wall at the same time. Oh, why had he ever decided that he'd just sit and glare at France until the other would have to notice him?
"Yes, like that," France hissed between his teeth, teasing the slit of his cock with a nail, "careful, child! Ah! Yes!" He thrust into his own hand, threw his head back and moaned deeply. "Ah, Canada, how I love you!"
Canada froze like a deer in headlights. "P- papa?" he whispered.
With a hoarse cry, France orgasmed, a rather impressive amount of come streaming from his cock. Some of it even reached Canada, landing on his jeans and jumper.
"Papa..."
"Hmm?" France opened an eye and leered, straight at Canada. "If you want to join me next time, just jump right in. Dear boy."
Chocolate symphony - Austria/Turkey
"And that is how you bake a proper Sachertorte," Austria finished the lesson, presenting the beautiful cake, is dark chocolate glaze almost shining.
"Mfmmh," Turkey said around the gag in his mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"Hmmf!"
"Ah yes, my attire." Austria lifted the note-patterned apron and wiped his hand on it, ignoring how Turkey's eyes grew at least two sizes at what it revealed.
"It is important to always use an apron and, of course, have a towel ready to wipe up any spills post-haste. Otherwise," he allowed himself a small smile, "I shall leave choice of clothes up to you. Though I recommend against flared sleeves, they tend to get very dirty."
He turned around and gave Turkey a beautiful view of his uncovered bottom, one that only improved when Austria bent at the waste to take out a piping bag.
Turkey strained against his bonds, but Austria had spent many years both binding and being bound by Hungary, and was not one to make sloppy knots.
"There," he said as he finished filling the bag with cream. "Shall I show you how to decorate it now?"
Turkey shook his head and jerked his hips; even through his baggy pants, his erection was clearly visible.
"Yes, it is a bit early for cake already. Perhaps we can train on something else..."
When Austria took out a pair of scissors and carefully cut off his clothes, Turkey almost sobbed in relief. However, as the other nation then, instead of say removing his bloody apron and putting his sweet little butt on his eager cock, took out the piping bag, Turkey began to feel a little apprehensive.
"Let's see if I can write something along the length, hmm?" Austria said, frowning in concentration. "Do you think 'Österreich' is too long?"
Ferris wheel - Prussia/Liechtenstein
"YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO SHOOT US DOWN, YOU LUNATIC!" Prussia screamed at the gondola beneath theirs. There had been some highly suspicious sounds from it ever since the beginning of the journey, and now that the wheel seemed stuck, there was no knowing what the madman with the gun would try. That reminded him...
"AND YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO SHOOT WEST EITHER, YOU HEAR ME!"
"Don't worry, Mr Prussia," Liechtenstein said. She sat on the bench opposite of him and smiled adorably, not at all phased by the fact that they were stuck God knew how many metres above the ground. "Brother wouldn't do anything like that!"
"No, he'll just shoot me when we get to the ground... Man, I knew this was a stupid idea."
"Oh, but Mr Germany so wanted to ride the wheel and they did warn that you two were too heavy together."
"Next time, I'll just stay on the ground. What if we're stuck here for hours? What if Switzerland kills me for deflowering you!"
He remembered then that the nation he was talking to was, in a way, a young girl and apologised hastily. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to mind his slip.
"Now why would he do that..." Liechtenstein smiled. "After all, Mr Prussia, brother trusts me."
"Not me!"
"No." Liechtenstein's smile suddenly seemed a bit less innocent. "But they can't even see into our gondola and..." She began to unbutton her dress, "I've always wondered if what Hungary says of you is true?"
Prussia opened his mouth. Closed it. Was about to protest that he was certainly not the nation to take the virginity of Switzerland's little sister when he saw a pair of tiny, but deliciously tempting for that, breasts.
"You, er, really don't think he can see?" he asked.
Liechtenstein stepped out of her skirts and held up a finger, listening. There were no sounds, especially not of an older brother exploding in rage and trying to climb up the Ferris wheel to protect her virginity.
"No," she said after a while, "I don't think he does."
"Hehehe..." Prussia began to remove his shirt, exclaiming happily when a pair of small, eager hands reached to help him with the fly. "So tell me, babe, what exactly has Hungary told you bout my awesomeness?"
Smack - Hungary/Belarus
"-and that'll better teach you to badmouth my Roderich where I can hear!" Hungary finished, angrily adding a last few smacks with her hairbrush to Belarus's bare bottom.
The other girl sobbed and squirmed on her lap, her composure having broken completely some twenty smacks ago.
"Now, apologize!" Hungary said sternly, unable to resist sneaking a feel along the tender flesh of the freshly spanked buttocks. Oh, it had been so terribly long since she had such a nice plaything! Why, Prussia hardly bruised at all, the though-skinned clod.
"I- I'll tell brother on you!" Belarus stuttered, tears spilling beautifully from her eyes. "You barbarian!"
"No, you won't," Hungary said.
"Ho- how do you know, know that?"
"Because," she smiled and caught the weeping girl's face in a gentle grip, "I don't think you want your brother to know too many details of our little girl's night, hmm?"
She slipped a finger inside Belarus opening, grinning wickedly at the moisture she found there. "Oh my..."
"Ahh!" The girl arched on her lap, and Hungary took the opportunity to slide a hand inside her blouse, finding and pinching a nipple.
"You don't think I would become a little suspicious when you called dear Roderich 'pussy-whipped' three times in one evening, hmm?" she asked, teasing nipple and clit in tandem.
Belarus moaned and squirmed. "Well," she admitted, "it always seems to work for East Germany..."
As long as north is up on the map, Canada is on top - Canada/Prussia
Canada was a nice- partner. Boyfriend. Thing. Whatever he was, Prussia thought, he was nice. He was understanding of his partner's needs, made lovely food, never asked him to clean and could hold his liquor well... but not so well that Prussia got embarrassed by always barfing first.
He even understood that, this recently after his 'break-up' from Russia (Halleluja! Ring the bells! Declare a national holiday, nay, declare two!) if one could title it so, when Prussia had felt the whole relationship was more about breaking him, Prussia was a bit... apprehensive about bottoming.
"Oh, that's alright, dear," Canada said and smiled in that friendly way of his. "I like it both ways."
Prussia was very grateful and he had prepared properly for their first night together. Cleaned (everywhere), shaved (also everywhere), chewed half a package of breath-mints and brought flowers, cherry-tasting lube, a whole box of condoms and West's finest wine.
Canada met him in the door with a kiss, a hug and showed him the dinner table.
"You know, I'm not very picky... but I can't really see any plates," Prussia said slowly.
"That's right, dear! I thought, well, we've already been dating for a while and one gets a bit impatient at times, eh?" He giggled and pinched Prussia's butt.
Somehow or other, and damn him for a Wessie if he knew how it had happened, Prussia had ended up naked on the table. Meanwhile Canada - also naked, except for his Mountie jacket - sat on him. And fed him little pieces of pancake, though he himself seemed most interested in the maple syrup he dribbled all over Prussia.
"Ahhahaa..." he moaned when Canada dropped a large dollop of syrup on his crotch (Oops! Let me get that for you!) and proceeded to give him the blowjob of his life.
"I should," Prussia finally gasped, "here, let me-"
"That's okay, baby," Canada purred and pushed Prussia back down, very meaningfully placing his hands above his head and snapping a pair of handcuffs on him. "Just enjoy the ride, hmm? And don't worry; I've done my stretching already..."
When he slid down on him, hot flesh closing around Prussia's cock, while his hands played with his own cock and nipples in a mind-blowingly sexy image, Prussia began to get a queerly familiar feeling. His suspicions only increased when Canada began riding him in earnest, fucking himself on Prussia while pinning him to the table though he desired nothing more than touch the sexy little bastard, kiss him or do anything except helplessly watch him play with himself.
Figures. It was just his luck that he'd found the closet dom of the New World.
"Aahh, Prussia," Canada moaned and pinched his nipples with just the right balance between pleasure and pain, "let me see you come for me, baby."
"Ye- yes, sir," Prussia replied, and was rewarded with an especially satisfying clench of nether muscles.
Well... at least this one's main kink seemed to involve food, instead of his blood.
French flair - Canada/Cuba
After he had finished seeing maple-shaped starbursts, his brain had dribbled out through his cock and he'd decided to emigrate to Canada as soon as he could say something more than 'hnaaghnrnr!!' Cuba just lay back and enjoyed the pleased buzz thrumming in his body.
It took quite a while, but finally, he managed to lift his head and look blearily at Canada. "Ay, ay, ay! Amigo, where'd you learned to do that?" he asked, very impressed. Who knew his shy friend could do such advanced tricks with his tongue.
"You like it? Eh, haha, that makes me really happy! I'm a bit out of practice," Canada said, blushing adorably.
"Out of practice? Dios Mio, then you'll kill me when you really get going!"
"Oh no, ehehee..."
"By the way, you have a little- no, there on the other side."
Very fastidiously, Canada wiped himself off. "Thank you."
"Mi pleasure," Cuba said and meant it from the bottom of his heart. "But how'd'ya learn that?"
"France," Canada said. "He said it's always easier to keep a rhythm if you hum something - I usually do O Canada, but speeded up a little."
"Fr...ance? Who, ah, raised you, when you were... pequeñito?"
With a smile, completely unabashed, Canada nodded. "Yup. He used to pour maple syrup on himself and ask me to come lick the lolly."
"Ah. Ha."
"Wanna do another round?"
"You know, actually, amigo, I have some fish to pull up... So, eh, mebbe 'nother time, heh?"
Also, a couple of these are way to long to be drabbles. Ficlets, more like it
