(no subject)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG - R
Five Minute Drabbles:
1. I don't even, crack, - GAME SHOW
2. England & America, the Truman Trials - Untitled
3. England/Spain - Do You Remember (sex)
4. England/Spain - Waltz
5. Canada/America - I Love You (sex, twincest)
GAME SHOW
( Prompt: "ROFL HOW ABOUT LIKE, FAMILY WARS" kthxmammaria )
"Is this entirely necessary?" questions Germany in a shaky deadpan tone that nearly teeters over the edge onto 'outright concerned'. He has a cream pie in one hand, an empty soda bottle in the other, and two very aggressive North American twins wrestling rather violently in front of him on neon colored gym mats. The audience's yells and screams deafen his ears, and the confetti, oh the amount of eco-destroying confetti--
And for some reason, everything's covered in chocolate.
Absolutely everything.
Besides him, a whip cream covered Prussia sets his hands on his hips and throws his head back laughing. "Lighten up, bruder! It's just a girly family game," he comforts, though the bloody nose he received from Spain earlier still bleeds rather jarringly all over his 'Green team' uniform. "Prime time shit, you know. Not worth pissing over."
Right as Prussia finishes that sentence, a short woman nation screams over a microphone, "¡Cuidado! GET HIM, CANADA! RIP OUT HIS THROAAT! Go GO GO GO - POINT! HE GOT THE POINT! WOOO!"
"Ahh, Mexico~! You are so cute when you are being enthused!"
"You WANKER," roars a red faced England. Australia and New Zealand have both of his arms in a vice-like grip, holding him back from launching himself at giggling Spain, smirking France, or most anyone else that comes across his way. "You're the REFEREES in this round, how is that commentary NEUTRAL -"
Germany's eyebrow does a funny twitch.
Face contorted in a chilly rage, Canada slams his forearm against his older brother's collar bone, pinning him down to the floor which audibly cracks with the superhuman force, "Vous êtes stupide! Tu es betes comme tes pieds--"; and America, whose grin reaches manic levels somewhere around the eyes, subsequently responds with a sound headbutt and a one-inch punch to the ribs, "Don't you fuckin' bring that French shit on me, you good f'r nothin'--"
"SHIT! SHIT! ¡CUIDADO! CANADA, WHY ARE YOU SO SLOW, WATCH OUT --"
"Right," says Germany bluntly, shoulders slacking as he sighs over the blaring music from the speakers and a splash of chocolate that clashes against his platinum blond hair, "Family time."
Untitled
( Prompt: Truman trials, America at the end of WWII. gyllespi )
England coughs a single whooping cough, and leaves a black streak of sticky tar and ash behind his napkin. Sulfur, the pungent scent of gunpowder collect in his sinuses, watering his eyes, building pressure onto his already climactic migraine. "Tsk," the empire scoffs at the rattling in his chest(there is so much rebuilding left to do), "Tsk." He then folds the napkin once, twice. Neatly hides the piece of cloth away in pocket of his battered, yet freshly pressed uniform.
Behind the bathroom door he leans against - properly, of course, stature perfect, shoulders squared - , he hears America - he hears Alfred kneel on the tile floor, listens to the sickening splash and gags of emesis. Oh my god, says a groan, a voice that cracks with the youth of a boy, oh my fucking god.
"That's quite enough, chap," England states evenly, paternally. "Come on out now."
There's a flush, running water. A shuddering breath. With a huff, England kicks off the wall and folds his arms regally behind his back and waits.
A moment later, America emerges, all smiles, and asks the (ex-)empire for a piece of gum. "I-I'll trade ya for a fag, or whatever you call it."
America, superpower. Winner of wars, creator of the atom bomb. America, who still burns
parts of Germany to the ground, who held Japan singed and broken in his arms.
"Keep your cigarettes, thank you," says Arthur, handing his former colony a stick of aforementioned candy, "I quit smoking."
"No need to lie around me, old man," laughs Alfred, shakily, and leads the way across the courthouse and towards the courtroom.
Waltz
( Prompt: England/Spain, weareallpuppets )
It's an old Spanish love song, but the record player skips, breaks, and the lyrics to the vocals are marred, eaten alive in the scratch of the needle before they have the chance to ride out on the hot, staccato flow of the melody. Still though, Arthur sways them to the music, a simple two step - one hand enveloped with his, the other on his hip; and now, at this moment, Antonio has no problem with the younger man taking the lead, because there's less trouble that way, and because he's tired and Arthur's stubborn. Because when Arthur holds him close and sturdy(possessive), he can hear him sing.
Actually, singing is the wrong word for it, Antonio thinks. Arthur is no skylark, not like him, not like Francis, not even like some of his 'boys', but he's a poet, a great one. With his mouth against his hair, Arthur whispers what the love song doesn't, voice still raw from London's ashes. It's not the words to what the musician initially intended, but the stuff in his heart put into words and stanzas, rhythm and rhyme.
And Antonio, Antonio's chest bubbles with something that doesn't hurt him for once, that doesn't rip and tear and burn - something human. The feeling climaxes into a giggle, but before Arthur has the chance to redden and pull away, like he is wont to do, Antonio slumps against him, stopping all movement. Suddenly, the air in the mess hall seems all the more suffocating.
“What -”
“Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking,” murmurs Antonio, smiling softly, smiling with all the weariness of his centuries old age,“I like your version better.” He runs his thumb over Arthur's, "It's not as sad."
Arthur stiffens, but nods.
"Thank you."
"Do you mind if I--"
"No. Go ahead."
And so they play the song again, but this time, this time it's Antonio who sings.
Do You Remember
( the 21st night of SEPTEMBER no idk, this was for weareallpuppets )
Arthur's palms are against Antonio's shoulders, pushing him down, pinning him still, his teeth grazing, biting against the older country's already swollen lips. He smiles against the tinge of iron(blood, red, always such a becoming pigment on Antonio, always) mixing in with the tang of his own taste(Antonio had swallowed around him, every last drop, held his stare with pride and only giggled in the back of his throat when Arthur's fingers clenched tight in his hair, threading in his curls with the desperate grasp of a drowning victim) - a vain indulgence.
When Arthur parts to breathe, Antonio lets loose a thready laugh, eyes half lidded. There's something dim in his stare, dulled and numb, but neither of them bother to take note of what's obvious.
Do you remember, he murmurs, tone deep and chocolate dark, dripping with intent, do you remember when they called you the Shark of the Sea?
Yes, says Arthur, and he sinks canines into the nape of Antonio's neck, against the scars he left himself, yes.
I Love You
( Prompt: I honestly forget what the original prompt was, Fayore. R, sex, twincest. )
Something in him, his chest, his heart - it aches and pulls, tears and breaks; but Matty's lips against his eyelids, his lips, his face are soft and searching, and cold, cold, cold. Their chests slide together, close, their beings from the long expanses of their legs to the calloused pads of their finger tips interwined in the darkness. If Alfred squints, he thinks he can see puffs of winter-frost air seep through the fragile parting of the Northerner's lips, slow and lingering, souls from the dead hiding and floating out from the inhuman cavities of their century old bodies. He doesn't like it, doesn't like seeing it almost as much as he hates and needs the death of all light in the room(save for what the blinds let bleed in from the streets and fractionally opened window); so he leans up, kisses Matty right there, lets his warmth dampen and drown out the chill.
I l-- he mouths, draws out on the line of his brother's jaw, but one of them - he can't tell, in this world he's(they've) created, the world of the back of his(their) eyelids, he can't tell his twin from himself, himself from his twin - shakes his head 'no, please, stop'.
It isn't how it works here.
So instead, instead they show with their actions, aching cocks and pulling hands in hair and tearing nails on hot, sweat slicked skin. Cause words aren't enough, never enough, though Alfred tries(or maybe Matthew). In English, French, German, Navajo, that old constant humming of the natives that once kept them inseparable.
They make love to make up for what they can't say.
It works, it doesn't work, and he(who is he, he doesn't know, he doesn't want to know) curls up against his brother, knees to his chest, face hidden in his brother's shoulder, and he cry, cry, cries, in tears like searing fire.
Rating & Warnings: PG - R
Five Minute Drabbles:
1. I don't even, crack, - GAME SHOW
2. England & America, the Truman Trials - Untitled
3. England/Spain - Do You Remember (sex)
4. England/Spain - Waltz
5. Canada/America - I Love You (sex, twincest)
GAME SHOW
( Prompt: "ROFL HOW ABOUT LIKE, FAMILY WARS" kthxmammaria )
"Is this entirely necessary?" questions Germany in a shaky deadpan tone that nearly teeters over the edge onto 'outright concerned'. He has a cream pie in one hand, an empty soda bottle in the other, and two very aggressive North American twins wrestling rather violently in front of him on neon colored gym mats. The audience's yells and screams deafen his ears, and the confetti, oh the amount of eco-destroying confetti--
And for some reason, everything's covered in chocolate.
Absolutely everything.
Besides him, a whip cream covered Prussia sets his hands on his hips and throws his head back laughing. "Lighten up, bruder! It's just a girly family game," he comforts, though the bloody nose he received from Spain earlier still bleeds rather jarringly all over his 'Green team' uniform. "Prime time shit, you know. Not worth pissing over."
Right as Prussia finishes that sentence, a short woman nation screams over a microphone, "¡Cuidado! GET HIM, CANADA! RIP OUT HIS THROAAT! Go GO GO GO - POINT! HE GOT THE POINT! WOOO!"
"Ahh, Mexico~! You are so cute when you are being enthused!"
"You WANKER," roars a red faced England. Australia and New Zealand have both of his arms in a vice-like grip, holding him back from launching himself at giggling Spain, smirking France, or most anyone else that comes across his way. "You're the REFEREES in this round, how is that commentary NEUTRAL -"
Germany's eyebrow does a funny twitch.
Face contorted in a chilly rage, Canada slams his forearm against his older brother's collar bone, pinning him down to the floor which audibly cracks with the superhuman force, "Vous êtes stupide! Tu es betes comme tes pieds--"; and America, whose grin reaches manic levels somewhere around the eyes, subsequently responds with a sound headbutt and a one-inch punch to the ribs, "Don't you fuckin' bring that French shit on me, you good f'r nothin'--"
"SHIT! SHIT! ¡CUIDADO! CANADA, WHY ARE YOU SO SLOW, WATCH OUT --"
"Right," says Germany bluntly, shoulders slacking as he sighs over the blaring music from the speakers and a splash of chocolate that clashes against his platinum blond hair, "Family time."
Untitled
( Prompt: Truman trials, America at the end of WWII. gyllespi )
England coughs a single whooping cough, and leaves a black streak of sticky tar and ash behind his napkin. Sulfur, the pungent scent of gunpowder collect in his sinuses, watering his eyes, building pressure onto his already climactic migraine. "Tsk," the empire scoffs at the rattling in his chest(there is so much rebuilding left to do), "Tsk." He then folds the napkin once, twice. Neatly hides the piece of cloth away in pocket of his battered, yet freshly pressed uniform.
Behind the bathroom door he leans against - properly, of course, stature perfect, shoulders squared - , he hears America - he hears Alfred kneel on the tile floor, listens to the sickening splash and gags of emesis. Oh my god, says a groan, a voice that cracks with the youth of a boy, oh my fucking god.
"That's quite enough, chap," England states evenly, paternally. "Come on out now."
There's a flush, running water. A shuddering breath. With a huff, England kicks off the wall and folds his arms regally behind his back and waits.
A moment later, America emerges, all smiles, and asks the (ex-)empire for a piece of gum. "I-I'll trade ya for a fag, or whatever you call it."
America, superpower. Winner of wars, creator of the atom bomb. America, who still burns
parts of Germany to the ground, who held Japan singed and broken in his arms.
"Keep your cigarettes, thank you," says Arthur, handing his former colony a stick of aforementioned candy, "I quit smoking."
"No need to lie around me, old man," laughs Alfred, shakily, and leads the way across the courthouse and towards the courtroom.
Waltz
( Prompt: England/Spain, weareallpuppets )
It's an old Spanish love song, but the record player skips, breaks, and the lyrics to the vocals are marred, eaten alive in the scratch of the needle before they have the chance to ride out on the hot, staccato flow of the melody. Still though, Arthur sways them to the music, a simple two step - one hand enveloped with his, the other on his hip; and now, at this moment, Antonio has no problem with the younger man taking the lead, because there's less trouble that way, and because he's tired and Arthur's stubborn. Because when Arthur holds him close and sturdy(possessive), he can hear him sing.
Actually, singing is the wrong word for it, Antonio thinks. Arthur is no skylark, not like him, not like Francis, not even like some of his 'boys', but he's a poet, a great one. With his mouth against his hair, Arthur whispers what the love song doesn't, voice still raw from London's ashes. It's not the words to what the musician initially intended, but the stuff in his heart put into words and stanzas, rhythm and rhyme.
And Antonio, Antonio's chest bubbles with something that doesn't hurt him for once, that doesn't rip and tear and burn - something human. The feeling climaxes into a giggle, but before Arthur has the chance to redden and pull away, like he is wont to do, Antonio slumps against him, stopping all movement. Suddenly, the air in the mess hall seems all the more suffocating.
“What -”
“Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking,” murmurs Antonio, smiling softly, smiling with all the weariness of his centuries old age,“I like your version better.” He runs his thumb over Arthur's, "It's not as sad."
Arthur stiffens, but nods.
"Thank you."
"Do you mind if I--"
"No. Go ahead."
And so they play the song again, but this time, this time it's Antonio who sings.
Do You Remember
( the 21st night of SEPTEMBER no idk, this was for weareallpuppets )
Arthur's palms are against Antonio's shoulders, pushing him down, pinning him still, his teeth grazing, biting against the older country's already swollen lips. He smiles against the tinge of iron(blood, red, always such a becoming pigment on Antonio, always) mixing in with the tang of his own taste(Antonio had swallowed around him, every last drop, held his stare with pride and only giggled in the back of his throat when Arthur's fingers clenched tight in his hair, threading in his curls with the desperate grasp of a drowning victim) - a vain indulgence.
When Arthur parts to breathe, Antonio lets loose a thready laugh, eyes half lidded. There's something dim in his stare, dulled and numb, but neither of them bother to take note of what's obvious.
Do you remember, he murmurs, tone deep and chocolate dark, dripping with intent, do you remember when they called you the Shark of the Sea?
Yes, says Arthur, and he sinks canines into the nape of Antonio's neck, against the scars he left himself, yes.
I Love You
( Prompt: I honestly forget what the original prompt was, Fayore. R, sex, twincest. )
Something in him, his chest, his heart - it aches and pulls, tears and breaks; but Matty's lips against his eyelids, his lips, his face are soft and searching, and cold, cold, cold. Their chests slide together, close, their beings from the long expanses of their legs to the calloused pads of their finger tips interwined in the darkness. If Alfred squints, he thinks he can see puffs of winter-frost air seep through the fragile parting of the Northerner's lips, slow and lingering, souls from the dead hiding and floating out from the inhuman cavities of their century old bodies. He doesn't like it, doesn't like seeing it almost as much as he hates and needs the death of all light in the room(save for what the blinds let bleed in from the streets and fractionally opened window); so he leans up, kisses Matty right there, lets his warmth dampen and drown out the chill.
I l-- he mouths, draws out on the line of his brother's jaw, but one of them - he can't tell, in this world he's(they've) created, the world of the back of his(their) eyelids, he can't tell his twin from himself, himself from his twin - shakes his head 'no, please, stop'.
It isn't how it works here.
So instead, instead they show with their actions, aching cocks and pulling hands in hair and tearing nails on hot, sweat slicked skin. Cause words aren't enough, never enough, though Alfred tries(or maybe Matthew). In English, French, German, Navajo, that old constant humming of the natives that once kept them inseparable.
They make love to make up for what they can't say.
It works, it doesn't work, and he(who is he, he doesn't know, he doesn't want to know) curls up against his brother, knees to his chest, face hidden in his brother's shoulder, and he cry, cry, cries, in tears like searing fire.