comment drabbles
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, no historical relevance or correlation whatsoever.
Summary: WWII. Antonio goes to church, and Arthur watches.
Amen
( for weareallpuppets )
Sunday, Arthur finds him under the weeping color ghosts of a stained glass shadow, rosary beads intertwined between his bandaged fingers. Dust catches in the light, little white specks that causes Arthur to squint at the added glare, but he finds him. Mass is over, the pews mostly empty(as they will be for a long, long time). It's only Antonio genuflecting at the kneelers, back hunched over his hands that point toward God now. Antonio and rubble and dust.
“Hello,” says Antonio into his prayers, as Arthur slides in the seats behind him.
Warily, “Good morning.”
There's a long stretch of silence between them after that, twenty Hail Mary's and two Glory to Be's. Frowning, Arthur shakes his head and sighs and sneaks a cigarette between his mouth, lighting the flame with Alfred's beat up Zippo. His world weary bones sag into the bullet hole ridden seat. Takes a drag and makes 'o's with puffs of smoke.
It's cold. To the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen, and Antonio finally turns to him, smiling tiredly through all the blood that drips down his face.
"You'll go to Hell if you smoke indoors," he jokes.
"Sorry," murmurs Arthur, and shifts to the side of the pew that faces the gaping, open hole that Ludwig had bombed and ripped open.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, language
Summary: Canada/Ukraine. Matthew sings Katya a song.
Serenade
( for lilichen )
So he owes Alfred a week of who knows the fuck what and Ivan's probably never gonna let Matthew live this down(literally); but right now, none of that matters. Right now equates to an armful of the woman of his dreams in his arms, pulled up close and warm against his chest. Right now, the lights are dimmed to a sunset low that catches on the crest of her eyelashes(golden) when he glances to look, and the strum of his brother's guitar is tuned down and strung out to a sleepy, country lullaby.
Katya, she intertwines her fingers with his as he dips his head close to hers, like an instinct; and Matthew nearly stutters at the feel of her skin against his, but doesn't, because he's practiced this so many times before. What he's about to do next.
Cause then, with his nose in her hair and his eyes at the sky, he sings. He sings with the weight in his chest and the warmth in his heart while his body leads them along through the melodic stanzas of the music. His voice is as deep and cool as his lakes, as husky as his bountiful forests, and he hopes that it's(he's) enough to make her smile, maybe, maybe even with that blush she sometimes gets that he likes a lot alot - but he's too nervous to look. Refuses to do so until his song is done.
( He wonders, then, if she can feel his pulse soar. If the sweat that must be coating his hands bothers her, if it perhaps grosses her out, fuck, it must - )
And when he's done, he stops moving completely. Takes a breath, and closes his eyes, and enjoys the heat shared between them, until she takes a step back and -
Shit, she must hate him now. He made a fool of himself, damn Alfred for encouraging this - it was an awkward, weird thing to do and he's about to blurt out an apology, beg for forgiveness, anything, before Katya cuts his thoughts off completely.
"Matvey," she says, and sounds like she's about to CRY(yeah, he's not opening his eyes yet). "Matvey, thank you."
And then she kisses him.
And.
Oh.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language
Summary: Turkey takes Germany out to eat.
Untitled
( for ziggyfig )
When Germany refuses to relax on verbal cue, Turkey takes to running his broad hands across the stiff, hard line of Germany's shoulders.
"I said relax," Turkey repeats and throws the younger nation a toothy grin that spreads all the way to his gestures, all hearty back pats and laid back posture. "You're about to get the meal of a life time here. Can't appreciate a gut of good food when you look like you've up and swallowed a -"
Germany promptly cuts him off, "Please don't finish that sentence."
"Fine, fine." Turkey throws up his hands, palms faced forward. "But only if you ease up a little for me, eh?"
A sigh, "Fine", and a harried rub at his temple with one knuckle later, and Germany finally allows the older nation to remove his coat and ease him down in to an open seat in the busy Turkish restaurant. "Thank you."
It makes Turkey wanna laugh, how tense Germany still looks shoved behind that iron-wire table amongst the throngs of sage old men and hungry families. The poor kid's always tense though, so in a way, Turkey can't blame him. In any case, he was better than his Eastern brother about him even being here at his place, so whatever.
In an attempt to make easy conversation, Turkey tells Germany that aloud as he slips into the seat across from him, but with tons more diplomacy. More "Hey thanks for coming, place is busy, huh?" and "My people kinda like it here at your place", and less mention of the kid's red-eyed brother and sociopolitical complaints in general. Right now just ain't the time. He says it in German, too, because why not - when in Rome, right? And that gets him a small, appreciative smile, which is a lot, considering his company.
Awesome.
To his surprise, Germany orders his grub without asking for any of Turkey's help when the time arrives. The kid's accent's kinda cute when applied to his language, and Turkey brings that up, too, once the waiter struts off and away. Germany throws him a glare, but then lowers his eyes and admits that he was curious, because he has had his food before, after all, it was impossible not to, and that perhaps he read text books on Turkey's culinary history (not brochures, not a web page, but fuckin text books - MULTIPLE ONES) on his spare time.
And Turkey laughs at that, absolutely roars with mirth, never mind how Germany flushes red and furrows his eyes. He doesn't mean to be rude, cause Turkey's one classy bastard and to hell with anyone who thought otherwise. He just can't help it.
"Look, kid," Turkey says, one arm thrown over the arc of his chair, his legs crossed with the leisure one learns after once being a motherfucking empire, "If you want to get to know me, you're allowed a hands on education."
A beat.
When Germany reddens even further and reprimands him for the innuendo, spine perfectly straight and movements blocky, Turkey only cracks the fuck up all over again.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, language
Summary: Gilbert will always be Gilbert to Ludwig.
Big Brother
( for colorcapsule )
Gilbert's suit looks washed out, well worn and weather fatigued, but Gilbert being Gilbert, Gilbert being his older brother, manages to uphold that strident militaristic air to him anyway. Often times - secretly of course - Ludwig wonders how he manages it. The one instance Ludwig offered to buy his sibling new attire, he was snapped at, lectured.
You may do all the yapping at these shitty world meetings, his brother said, canines bared, but I can dress myself, dammit.
And that was that.
Ludwig knows he's not the only one who notices it, though, despite the backseat his brother tends to take during debate. His old friends(allies, enemies, Ludwig isn't too sure what his brother calls him, never has been) are the most predictably, outwardly appreciative, with Antonio throwing rueful smiles and Francis sliding close to Gilbert rather than him, even when speaking exclusively to the younger of the Germanic brothers.
People, other nations, they tend to stand straighter in what used to be Prussia's presence, shoulders thrown back, grins wide (or scowls heavy). He may not be the powerhouse he once was, may not even be his own country any longer (the East to his West), but -
"Pride," Gilbert announces one day, out of the blue, back turned to Ludwig as he stands before a full length mirror. Nostalgia hits, and for a moment, Ludwig remembers the days he stood draped in the tail ends of Prussia's blood soaked cape. "Pride is what's most important. Those other bastards can try 'n push us around all they like, but fuck 'em, we're way more awesome than they are. Don't you ever fuckin' forget that, West."
And it's frustrating sometimes, Gilbert's arrogance. If Ludwig lacked the patience he learned to develop over the years and wars and failures, he would have commented heatedly on the importance of humility and other's opinions, would have criticized Gilbert's apparent work ethic deficiency in the turn of this new century. Things were different now. Times have changed.
Instead, Gilbert, Gilbert being his brother, has him nodding silently, an old habit.
"Yes, sir," he sighs, and lets his brother tut and flatten out invisible wrinkles on his shirt.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language, no historical relevance or correlation whatsoever.
Summary: WWII. Antonio goes to church, and Arthur watches.
Amen
( for weareallpuppets )
Sunday, Arthur finds him under the weeping color ghosts of a stained glass shadow, rosary beads intertwined between his bandaged fingers. Dust catches in the light, little white specks that causes Arthur to squint at the added glare, but he finds him. Mass is over, the pews mostly empty(as they will be for a long, long time). It's only Antonio genuflecting at the kneelers, back hunched over his hands that point toward God now. Antonio and rubble and dust.
“Hello,” says Antonio into his prayers, as Arthur slides in the seats behind him.
Warily, “Good morning.”
There's a long stretch of silence between them after that, twenty Hail Mary's and two Glory to Be's. Frowning, Arthur shakes his head and sighs and sneaks a cigarette between his mouth, lighting the flame with Alfred's beat up Zippo. His world weary bones sag into the bullet hole ridden seat. Takes a drag and makes 'o's with puffs of smoke.
It's cold. To the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen, and Antonio finally turns to him, smiling tiredly through all the blood that drips down his face.
"You'll go to Hell if you smoke indoors," he jokes.
"Sorry," murmurs Arthur, and shifts to the side of the pew that faces the gaping, open hole that Ludwig had bombed and ripped open.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, language
Summary: Canada/Ukraine. Matthew sings Katya a song.
Serenade
( for lilichen )
So he owes Alfred a week of who knows the fuck what and Ivan's probably never gonna let Matthew live this down(literally); but right now, none of that matters. Right now equates to an armful of the woman of his dreams in his arms, pulled up close and warm against his chest. Right now, the lights are dimmed to a sunset low that catches on the crest of her eyelashes(golden) when he glances to look, and the strum of his brother's guitar is tuned down and strung out to a sleepy, country lullaby.
Katya, she intertwines her fingers with his as he dips his head close to hers, like an instinct; and Matthew nearly stutters at the feel of her skin against his, but doesn't, because he's practiced this so many times before. What he's about to do next.
Cause then, with his nose in her hair and his eyes at the sky, he sings. He sings with the weight in his chest and the warmth in his heart while his body leads them along through the melodic stanzas of the music. His voice is as deep and cool as his lakes, as husky as his bountiful forests, and he hopes that it's(he's) enough to make her smile, maybe, maybe even with that blush she sometimes gets that he likes a lot alot - but he's too nervous to look. Refuses to do so until his song is done.
( He wonders, then, if she can feel his pulse soar. If the sweat that must be coating his hands bothers her, if it perhaps grosses her out, fuck, it must - )
And when he's done, he stops moving completely. Takes a breath, and closes his eyes, and enjoys the heat shared between them, until she takes a step back and -
Shit, she must hate him now. He made a fool of himself, damn Alfred for encouraging this - it was an awkward, weird thing to do and he's about to blurt out an apology, beg for forgiveness, anything, before Katya cuts his thoughts off completely.
"Matvey," she says, and sounds like she's about to CRY(yeah, he's not opening his eyes yet). "Matvey, thank you."
And then she kisses him.
And.
Oh.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?, language
Summary: Turkey takes Germany out to eat.
Untitled
( for ziggyfig )
When Germany refuses to relax on verbal cue, Turkey takes to running his broad hands across the stiff, hard line of Germany's shoulders.
"I said relax," Turkey repeats and throws the younger nation a toothy grin that spreads all the way to his gestures, all hearty back pats and laid back posture. "You're about to get the meal of a life time here. Can't appreciate a gut of good food when you look like you've up and swallowed a -"
Germany promptly cuts him off, "Please don't finish that sentence."
"Fine, fine." Turkey throws up his hands, palms faced forward. "But only if you ease up a little for me, eh?"
A sigh, "Fine", and a harried rub at his temple with one knuckle later, and Germany finally allows the older nation to remove his coat and ease him down in to an open seat in the busy Turkish restaurant. "Thank you."
It makes Turkey wanna laugh, how tense Germany still looks shoved behind that iron-wire table amongst the throngs of sage old men and hungry families. The poor kid's always tense though, so in a way, Turkey can't blame him. In any case, he was better than his Eastern brother about him even being here at his place, so whatever.
In an attempt to make easy conversation, Turkey tells Germany that aloud as he slips into the seat across from him, but with tons more diplomacy. More "Hey thanks for coming, place is busy, huh?" and "My people kinda like it here at your place", and less mention of the kid's red-eyed brother and sociopolitical complaints in general. Right now just ain't the time. He says it in German, too, because why not - when in Rome, right? And that gets him a small, appreciative smile, which is a lot, considering his company.
Awesome.
To his surprise, Germany orders his grub without asking for any of Turkey's help when the time arrives. The kid's accent's kinda cute when applied to his language, and Turkey brings that up, too, once the waiter struts off and away. Germany throws him a glare, but then lowers his eyes and admits that he was curious, because he has had his food before, after all, it was impossible not to, and that perhaps he read text books on Turkey's culinary history (not brochures, not a web page, but fuckin text books - MULTIPLE ONES) on his spare time.
And Turkey laughs at that, absolutely roars with mirth, never mind how Germany flushes red and furrows his eyes. He doesn't mean to be rude, cause Turkey's one classy bastard and to hell with anyone who thought otherwise. He just can't help it.
"Look, kid," Turkey says, one arm thrown over the arc of his chair, his legs crossed with the leisure one learns after once being a motherfucking empire, "If you want to get to know me, you're allowed a hands on education."
A beat.
When Germany reddens even further and reprimands him for the innuendo, spine perfectly straight and movements blocky, Turkey only cracks the fuck up all over again.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating & Warnings: PG-13, language
Summary: Gilbert will always be Gilbert to Ludwig.
Big Brother
( for colorcapsule )
Gilbert's suit looks washed out, well worn and weather fatigued, but Gilbert being Gilbert, Gilbert being his older brother, manages to uphold that strident militaristic air to him anyway. Often times - secretly of course - Ludwig wonders how he manages it. The one instance Ludwig offered to buy his sibling new attire, he was snapped at, lectured.
You may do all the yapping at these shitty world meetings, his brother said, canines bared, but I can dress myself, dammit.
And that was that.
Ludwig knows he's not the only one who notices it, though, despite the backseat his brother tends to take during debate. His old friends(allies, enemies, Ludwig isn't too sure what his brother calls him, never has been) are the most predictably, outwardly appreciative, with Antonio throwing rueful smiles and Francis sliding close to Gilbert rather than him, even when speaking exclusively to the younger of the Germanic brothers.
People, other nations, they tend to stand straighter in what used to be Prussia's presence, shoulders thrown back, grins wide (or scowls heavy). He may not be the powerhouse he once was, may not even be his own country any longer (the East to his West), but -
"Pride," Gilbert announces one day, out of the blue, back turned to Ludwig as he stands before a full length mirror. Nostalgia hits, and for a moment, Ludwig remembers the days he stood draped in the tail ends of Prussia's blood soaked cape. "Pride is what's most important. Those other bastards can try 'n push us around all they like, but fuck 'em, we're way more awesome than they are. Don't you ever fuckin' forget that, West."
And it's frustrating sometimes, Gilbert's arrogance. If Ludwig lacked the patience he learned to develop over the years and wars and failures, he would have commented heatedly on the importance of humility and other's opinions, would have criticized Gilbert's apparent work ethic deficiency in the turn of this new century. Things were different now. Times have changed.
Instead, Gilbert, Gilbert being his brother, has him nodding silently, an old habit.
"Yes, sir," he sighs, and lets his brother tut and flatten out invisible wrinkles on his shirt.