Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED
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hetalia kink meme
part 9
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( Christmas Reveals )
He's lost in his mental badmouthing of America, so he's not very surprised to find himself suddenly falling to the ground. When he's home he knows exactly what's going on around him at all times, but he gets a little fuzzy when faced with actual cities. He's knocked over fourteen of England's full sets of armour since he began to walk, but this is the first time that the armour has cried out in pain. It's also the first time its fallen over so quietly. He makes a mental note to thank the armour for that, and sits up. The movement elicits another cry of pain, so he quickly scrambles off and to the side. And stops.
There's another blond sitting up as well, rubbing the rapidly forming mark on his forehead where they must have banged heads. Australia can feel a headache coming on, and not just from the collision. The other boy looks like America … but not. It's not just that Australia suspects that it would take a mixture of the strongest glues that England has to shut America's mouth. There's also something different about them. The sense that this mystery boy gives off is different. He's … bigger. There's more to him, although he appears to be the same height as America.
"You must be the good twin."
It's not until NotAmerica stiffens that Australia realises that he's spoken aloud. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He shrugs at the England who lives in his head and disapproves every single thing he does, and goes to open his mouth.
"You … don't think I'm America?" The boy speaks after all. Australia had been on the verge of thinking that he was a ghost. Pity. Ghosts were pretty interesting.
"Nah. You're different, yeah?" He knows that the way he slurs his words together drives England absolutely insane, but the boy doesn't say anything, just goes a little pinker. Funny, his accent isn't too bad either. Not as sharp and harsh as America's, but softer, and the way he pronounces America is off slightly.
NotAmerica looks like he's about to cry. It's all the warning Australia gets before he's tackles, arms full of a sobbing teenager. He can make out a couple of words here in there, but they mostly seem complimentary in nature, so he lets it wash over him. He's still being explored, he goes walkabout every now and then and doesn't see another human being for weeks, so he's brilliant at sitting still. He employs the skill now, allowing NotAmerica to cry into his shoulder.
With a final sniffle, the other sits up. "I'm Canada." He says, sticking out a hand.
Australia takes it. "Wait." He pauses, and mentally reviews what England has taught him of world geography. "Who?"
Canada's resulting explosion is kinda cute. Australia could get to like such an older brother.
This anon means no offence to Americanons, but that's pretty much how Americans are seen over here…
If MLIA has allowed me to believe anything, it's that an Australian/British accent will get you chicks in America. Does it work on Canada?
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Wonderful start so far. I find it funny and surprising how Australia seems a bit more mature about everything than his older North American brothers.
Poor Canada. Can't get ever get a break.
Thanks for filling, author-anon! I can't wait for more. :)
((I can't speak for Canadanons, but you are correct that an Australian/British accent, or nearly any foreign language, will get you girls in America. Trufax.))
~~ Huh? Americans are loud-mouthed idiots? But we're not all like our politicians, celebrities, and tourists! We just have an unfortunate propensity of putting those guys in front of a camera/positions of power all the time... *Americanon is depressed at continuing shitty world image of her people.* Author-anon, I'm not offended, it's not your fault, but it's still a sad fact of reality. :( ~~
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It's not like Australia has not seen other countries. It's not as though Australia loves England simply because there is no other option. He has met England's family, extended, adopted and by blood. He does not approve of Scotland or Ireland, even if some of them now make him up. He's got his drinking ability from Ireland for one thing. But not even the golden, perfect beauty of America can compare to the way England moves when he's getting annoyed - it's like watching a thunderstorm roll over the plains in his centre that only he knows about, like a force of nature. The paler, icy attractiveness of Canada fades into obscurity when compared to the way England looks as he smiles at Australia, like pure, sunshine warmth. It makes Australia feel good in a way he's never even imagined before. Nothing compares to the way that England smells, a rainstorm and fog rolled into one attractively cool package. Australia cites his summery winter and slips into bed with England, curling himself like a snake around England. It's amazing, how he feels, solid muscle lurking under the surface of soft, smooth skin. Australia encounters America's scars upon England skin and traces them reverently, not out of any respect for the other boy, but out of respect for England, the pain he's suffered at the hands of a blind colony. As nations go, the wounds are still recent, the pain lurks just beneath the surface of England skin, but they're healing. England's moving on, Australia is part of the reason why, and as Australia falls to sleep, lying comfortable half on, half off of England, he swears to himself that he will never allow himself to hurt England like that.
Australia would have only got England's version of events, and I'm sure that England spent most of them alternatively ranting about America and crying.
Australia hasn't really, as far as I know, rebelled against England. Even the Eureka Stockade was basically miners against officers. It was over the mining licences, among other things. This is where part of Australia's general disdain towards authority comes from, the rest of the reason is basically WW2.
Two years after Australia's official settlement by the British. The settlers were on the verge of starvation when, June 3rd 1790 (many years later, a date that is also my birthday~), the Lady Juliana sailed into the harbour and saved them.
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Australia miserably wonders whether it will be a snake or a spider that gets him first. With a snake, especially one of the long, thin brown ones that hide out further in the scrub, it will be quick. It will hurt like his lungs and veins are being directly branded with white-hot iron, he's been bitten before, but it will be quick. Spiders, on the other hand, usually used slow acting, paralytic poison. Slow torture when he eventually feels it, but at least it won't hurt as much in the beginning.
He's still weighing the pros and cons of each particular death (he's up to decided on an animal-by-animal basis) when a something tugs him towards the south. It's not a smell, or something he's spotted out of the corner of his eye. It's something else, something supernatural, that tells him that if he continues in this roughly southern direction, he will strike the coast. And there, there is something different. Something not-his, not any of his brothers, and not-England's either. Something he's never experienced before.
He senses the other long before he sees him. And considering that the other is wearing something very vividly blue, the colour of the northern sky in the middle of summer, that's an accomplishment. He looks like a sky spirit against the dry browns and greens of Australia's eucalyptus forest. Blue like the sky with hair like the sun, and Australia's pretty sure that somehow, he's got previous knowledge of this person. Must have been something that England said, he's never even dreamed of such a being. It was something that England had said, something about a blond man with a strange sort of beard (Australia's hidden himself in a tree, the other is almost directly beneath him now, such ignorance of his surroundings would kill you out here silly man) and a funny way of speaking, something about an animal…
There's a noise, a croak, and Australia's got his answer. He takes a second to reposition himself, centres his weight back on his legs in order to get the most force out of his jump, and tackles France from above with a war cry of "Frog!"
France curses, loudly and in such a manner that Australia can tell that he's cursing although he cannot understand the language. France grabs his hands before he can get so much as three punches in, but he's forgotten to restrain his legs and a quick, deceptively strong kick to the back of France's undefended knee has both of them tumbling to the ground. They roll a little, the colours of the bush scrub blurring around them, and then France pins Australia underneath him and the colours of Australia's world right themselves on the edges of his vision. He has to look up, there's a rock under his neck forcing him to, and suddenly he understands why Canada was so quite about his relationship with England. France is nothing whatsoever, like anything he's ever experienced.
This …France is nothing like England. Australia has played a similar well-meaning, harmless trick on England, and by this time he had Australia face down over his lap, arse up in the air. The spanking that followed hadn't hurt particularly, it had just been humiliating. France isn't spanking him, he doesn't look like the thought has even occurred to him, because his head is thrown back and he's laughing loud enough to out kookaburras to shame. He's also woken the Bunyip that lives in the marshy bit a couple of hundred meters to the right, and as Australia has no wish to be drowned by dirty mud-water, he shuts France up.
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He kisses him. It works in its original intention, France goes quite with a funny little strangled sound. Australia hears the Bunyip grumbled and go back to sleep, but France is so pretty and smooth and perfect, a little like Canada and a little like one of the fae in England's stories. Clothed in the sky and crowned by the sun, he doesn't belong in Australia's dirt encrusted world. He doesn't belong in Australia. Australia slithers out from underneath him and vanishes into his bush in the way that only he and the ghosts that haunt his land can. He flees, and thinks that he can hear France being to swear again as he does. Not even the knowledge that France is exploring him to piss off England can stop the tingling feeling in his lips. As first kisses go, it hadn't been too bad.
"Long, thin brown ones…" = a brown snake. Most poisonous in the entire world. Will kill you dead very quickly.
Fail!Anon fails at Australian mythology. I'm pretty sure that Bunyips are like that though I wouldn't stake so much as a sliver of cheese on it.
Over a third of Australia's female settlers were prostitutes. Just saying.
"Early in the [1800s] British officials were alarmed by French exploration of the south coast of Australia…" Aw France, no need to go to such and extent just to get England's attention… An interesting but most unrelated note, this takes place after the French Revolution.
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And fantastic descriptions, anon! I especially how you contrasted England and France, not only their appearances, but how their personalities.
OP is getting edumacated and enjoying herself. Thankies, author-anon! :)
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He had died over and over and over again; been stabbed in Egypt, and been hit by a grenade on the western front. He dies again and again and again in Gallipoli, so many times in so many ways. He drowns off the shore of Gallipoli, he's dragged under by the unexpected weight of his gear. Hours later he drags himself out of the surf only to be shot before he reaches the false safety of the trenches. Those were the ones that haunted his nightmares, but the ones that left him in a shaking, catatonic ball were the ones of fire and darkness, when death crept up unexpectedly but passed over him apathetically, leaving him to bleed out on the sand.
He wakes up after one such death to find himself in a hospital morgue. It's a sadly familiar feeling, he gingerly climbs out of the bag whilst trying very had not to breathe in and not to look around. He feels as they die, feels their thoughts, their terror, their homesickness then a fiery burst of white. It's like fireworks going off inside of his skull, and the feeling has him on the floor, the heels of his hands pressed dangerously hard against his sockets in an unconscious attempt for it to just stop. He's rocking back and forth, murmuring each name as they die, a mortal chant that he can't seem to stop but they keep on dying and they will not stop and-
The sudden warmth of a hand on his shoulder, such a contrast compared to the coolness of a recently dead body, startles him. He raises his head, eyes throbbing from the release in pressure as he lowers his hand to lay them passively on his lap. It's America, silent for once. His brother-nation gently slides his arms around Australia's shoulders, slips them lower and picks him up as though he weighs nothing more than a child. Compared to America, he is one; he has been federated for thirteen years and England drags him into this mockery. He's still a child, even with the war forcing him to grow up quickly, he looks as though he's in his late teens. He's gotten more than one odd look, they think he's faked his age so that he can go to war, like John had, but John had thought that it would be an adventure though now he's hiding somewhere halfway up the beach, knowing that he's supposed to charge next but all he can think of is his maybe-girlfriend that he's left back home and he doesn't want to di-
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That's the last time Australia sees America for a while. Their forces work together, even though Australia's mostly deployed as part of the ANZAC troops, they're stills allies and work together. With America's involvement, the tides are starting to turn. They're winning, and it looks like they're going to actually win. It's something that Australia had not even dreamed of during the blood and sand days of the Gallipoli beach. But then Japan bombs Darwin. He completely destroys it. There is nothing left. And England refuses to allow him to go home. He says that he is needed here, far, far away from his own soil. He says that it is necessary that he languish in an English hospital, far removed from the action, as he heals.
He can't really remember what it feels like, to have his own soil under his feet, to hear his own accent instead of the tightly wound British one. England says that it's the affect of loosing Darwin. A nation's loss doesn't translate very well to a deceptively human body, and Darwin was in his north. It's a head wound, and when he's feeling extremely uncharitable, pulled in thousands of directions by the different wishes of his people, he thinks that it’s the only reason that he is in hospital, instead of out in the trenches where England could use him.
He will not be used by England again. And in the constantly raining countryside of England, America shines even brighter as the sun…
"There should be a thousand yellow daisies!" From Gilmore Girls, when someone proposes to Loralie very unromantically. Not mentioned for any other reason. If you wanted to woo Australia, I'm guessing maybe a bouquet of wattle flowers and a six pack of VB? Haha, my country would be so easy….
For three generations (the Great War, WW2, Vietnam), Australia sent the cream of that generation off to war. Makes you wonder what we would be like if the best of our gene pool hadn't died.
Gallipoli got so bad that people who survived two weeks were considered veterans.
So much angst. Research for this part = not nice.
Australia was federated in 1901. We're just over 100 years old. Man, the celebrations in 2001 were fun~.
ANZAC = Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.
Uh, instead of doing massive notes, can I just say that everything is mostly true fax?
Um yeah, you know 'those' British accents? The annoying ones? Yeah, they get on my nerves. You know the one, it's the one that everyone seems to use in British war movies…
After WW2, Australian foreign policy started shifting towards America as opposed to England. Nowadays American culture in very much an every day thing, we watch American TV shows, listen to American music, are interested in their celebrities and celebrate their holidays (Halloween mostly). It's a little scary, tbh.
I listened to 'Things Have Changed' by Bob Dylan the entire time while writing this. I blame Bob Dylan. I plan to do a ridiculously cracky and fluffy omake after they're done, so the one for this one will be properly romantic.
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He wants to come, needs to, wants it more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. He can feel it beginning, feels the sharp feeling in his veins that he can't really call pleasure tighten and tighten and tighten -
And he's left gaping open, the warmth melting the delicious cool as he's left grinding desperately down into something that's no longer there. Sweat slicks his body like snowmelt, but he doesn't want to melt. He needs the chill back in his bones, he wants it to settle over him, into him, wants it to imprint itself on his very soul. He would kill for it, there's no question in that basic fact, and when it returns he almost sobs with joy.
He can feel that whatever is breeching him is bigger than the three fingers, and he would tense if he was not so busy impaling himself upon it as best he can. It hurts, but it's a delicious hurt, like warming frozen toes in a too hot shower. He's wordless now, he can only make a high pitched keening noise when he's got air to spare. The pressure is enormous, but he's been stretched well and the flood of endorphins in his body have robbed him of the ability to feel pain. They're connecting in a way that he's never done before, he can feel the other's heartbeat pound between his legs and between the two thin coats of skin that separate them. He's not quite so swept away as to believe that he fully loves the other, but as Russia beings to move he can't help but gasp it in every language that he knows. He has one hysterical thought before Russia beings to move in earnest, better the red being on the bed than under it.
This pops anon's smut writing cherry. Was it good for you? I feel uncomfortable with how much of a whore I've made my country into.
"Red's under the beds" is what Australia's referring to. A common phrase of the time, along with 'All the way with LBJ" etc.
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