Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED
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hetalia kink meme
part 9
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( Christmas Reveals )
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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