long request is long
anonymous
April 1 2010, 04:28:11 UTC
My headcanon is that Arthur used to sleep around a /lot/, especially in his pirate days, mostly because he was drunk more often back then, and the big one being that he was lonely. and because he /really/ likes bottoming.
Arthur stopped having sex with so many people once he started raising Alfred. Reasons being Alfred made his life so much brighter and less lonely so he doesn't need to sleep around anymore.
Especially after Alfred grows up (because he's not a pedo in my mind~) and he realizes he's in love with America, he really doesn't want to sleep with just anybody.
And like, Francis or somebody knew this was why Arthur stopped having sex so much, and he wondered why after Alfred became independent Arthur didn't pick up the habit again. (Because regardless of being heartbroken he was still in love with Alfred and /still/ didn't want to sleep with anyone else)
So anyway, my request is this: It's present day. Arthur's been in love with Alfred forever and stuff. America is confused about his feelings or something like that. All the nations are at a world conference and Arthur didn't show for some reason, and they end up talking about their experience with sleeping with him.
Alfred becomes very jealous/angry/embarrassed at this conversation because a)he's never had sex with Arthur b)he's getting slightly turned on by imagining Arthur doing the things the other nations are talking about
stuff happens and eventually Alfred realizes he's in love with Arthur and finally has sex with him. Artie bottoming, of course.
Forgotten Juliet [1/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 06:57:09 UTC
Rome was the first one who showed England how weak he really was.
He was also the first man who ever wanted him.
“Beautiful,” Rome had called him, long, so very long ago; his smile warm and his eyes friendly-even with two legions of his army behind him ready to plunder his land like he’d done to many others before him. “Beautiful Britannia,” Rome had baptized him, having the gall to ask the child he’d been back then to become a part of him.
The waters of his coast turned red with blood that day.
It wasn’t the last time England bled red rivers and cried bloody tears. And it certainly wasn’t the last time he was wanted by somebody.
England was no so old yet that he could no longer remember days from long ago. Oh, no. He remembered everything in perfect detail; he had excellent memory when it came to the past.
He remembered the good days, the peaceful days from when he’d been young and happy, long before war was brought to his shores. He remembered the hundreds of years he spent in Rome’s house, learning his language and his religion, the gentle pats to the head which only made him hate the old man even more. He remembered the shadowy, dark centuries of the bloody barbarians who took his lands from him, the scruffy blonde giants who he hated even more than Rome.
England remembered every last man who ever fought for him; he remembered the first time he held the blue, red and white of his flag in his hands; and the tears he’d cried in his childhood when his beloved king of legends died for him.
It was the first time his heart was broken by a man he loved, and it certainly wasn’t the last time either.
England could remember a lot of things; but the one thing that stood out amongst all his old, dusty memories was the cold, empty space at his side.
The second was his promise to be the strongest.
“I-Inglaterra,” a breathy gasp broke England’s alcohol-induced daze, and with a tired sigh he tugged harder at the brown curls in his hand, urging the other man to go faster, harder, to hurry up and finish because he had business to do. “Inglaterra, Inglaterra, você é tão lindo,” was the half whisper, half sob that made England remember where in the seven hells he was.
There was a sea of pale bed sheets beneath his back, a mess of tangled limbs so deeply woven together it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Needy gasps and breathy moans filled the air; sewed between the musky scent of sex was the sulfuric aftertaste of copper, the faint droplets of blood on the dirtied sheets seeping past hastily applied bandages long worn out.
The scent that stood out amongst all others was the distinctive smell of alcohol, cheap and poor in quality but good enough for a night like this. England was pleasantly surprised; usually, he woke up the next day with a splitting headache and hazy memories of the night before. Tonight was different. Tonight he wasn’t so drunk. He had Spain to thank for that. The look the country bumpkin had worn, the rage, the split second of sadness, but most of all the expression of utter defeat-England had Spain to thank for being sober enough to feel every last one of the Spaniard’s ex-charge’s soft, loving touches.
Victory never tasted so sweet, he thought smugly, absentmindedly sucking on his ring finger before he tugged the other man into a sloppy, albeit heated kiss.
Forgotten Juliet [2/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 07:01:25 UTC
A creak of the rocky old bed broke them apart, its old legs just about ready to give up to the heavy weight of the two bodies locked together above the tattered mattress. By its own accord, a dark-skinned hand reached up to cup the face of the fairer of the two, a calloused thumb stroking the flushed face lovingly.
“I love you.” The words were breathed hotly against the Empire’s skin, lightly chapped lips worshiping England’s body like one would a deity. Hands made rough by the sea mapped every little scar on the expanse of pale skin at their owner’s disposal, treating them like jewels rather than the disfigurations they were. The nation was under a spell, enchanted with the siren’s song and thorny petals.
“I love you.” A chaste kiss was placed on England’s forehead, then a second one on his lips, and a third, a fourth and a fifth. Each was sweeter than honey, the clumsy passion of the giver felt in every last one of them. There was genuine honesty in the kisses, an innocent love not unlike that of a child to their mother. The hands holding him were ever so gentle; they handled him like fragile glass, as if he were something to be treasured forever. Chocolate colored eyes looked at England with adoration, the other’s boyish good looks outlined with the tender emotions of a man deeply in love.
Not being able to stand the sight of it, England closed his eyes. He closed his eyes, simply feeling the rocking motions of his body as he rode out the hazy waves of pleasure. The little thrills running up his spine, the heat across his cheeks, the feeling of having a man, hot and hard and strong, between his thighs was a very familiar sensation. England was all too used to having a man adorn his bed, and he wasn’t too bad at pleasing them either if he said so himself.
Wrapping his arms around the other’s neck, he murmured soothing words against the taller nation’s lips, carding his fingers through the thick brown curls. The other’s breath hitched, a bead of sweat running down his temple. England kissed his pliant lips, delving inside the other’s mouth, savoring the sweet spices and bitter alcohol and everything that made the other so warm and so gentle.
When it was over, as it must always be, England pulled away from the arms sweetly embracing him and sat up He did have a headache, but it wasn’t so painful as to make him forget he had unfinished business to attend to. England was actually quite looking forward to getting another glimpse of Spain’s sorry, defeated excuse for a face.
“Don’t go,” was murmured against his back, the strong arms refusing to let him go. “Stay here with me,” his voice, thick with sleep and remnants of desire, was hot against England’s skin.
“Let go before I put a bullet in your head,” England said simply, squinting his eyes as he tried to recall where his trousers had landed. Standing up, he began to pick up his discarder garments. “I’m leaving.”
England liked leaving first; it was much better than being the one left behind.
“I love you.” Breathing harshly, he stared at England with something akin to desperation in his brown eyes. “I love you.”
Nothing was said for several minutes, and except for the rustle of clothing-the slide of gloves over pale hands, the chime of the buckle of a belt, and the flutter of a tailored coat thrown over slim shoulders-there was no other sound but the fast, nervous beating of one heart, and the disinterest of another.
Then finally, “Inglaterra-”
A smile twisted the privateer’s lips, razor-sharp and cynical, reminding the other nation of shards of broken glass. There was amusement dancing in the Empire’s green eyes, so much like a pair of beautiful emeralds dipped in cold poison. “I know that.” he said simply, the exotic lilt of his tongue sending a shiver down the taller nation’s spine.
Forgotten Juliet [3/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 07:04:15 UTC
The look on the other’s face made England want to reach for the bottle again, even though he knew it would be empty. It was a face of hope, dreaming of forevers and happily ever afters. It was a face full of promises. Of something beautiful England had never managed to grasp in his hands.
It made the secret thirst for companionship buried deep in England’s heart so much more painful to bear.
The pale sheets pooled around the taller nation’s hips when he stood, cheeks still flushed from their past activities, dark brown curls plastered to his forehead, rosy lips swollen from kissing. He looked lovely, England couldn’t help but think. No wonder Spain didn’t want to let him go.
All the better reason to take him away from the stupid bastard.
“I love you,” he repeated, his accented voice firmer this time. He spoke with conviction, eyes determined and hopeful and utterly naïve. One would think that after all he’d gone through, the rise and decline of his once powerful empire, the scars he bore, the years upon years he’d suffered while under Spain’s rule, he would be a little bit more realistic.
Love? Why would England want love?
Everyone who ever claimed to love him always abandoned him.
England was sick of being loved by men who never really loved him at all.
“I love you. You’re the only one I truly want,” he promised, and for a lighting-quick second, England felt his heart skip a beat, a split-second weakness in his impenetrable shields. “I’ll protect you,” he promised yet again, not a trace of trickery in his eyes.
The momentarily weakness passed and went, a tiny leave fluttering in the winds.
Protect him?
Protect him? England had heard those words so many times before he’d lost count of them long ago. Rome promised to protect him too, only to abandon him when England most needed him. France murmured the same words into his skin the first time he bedded him; days later, he lead an attack to his capital. His brothers often used to trick him during his childhood, showering him with love and affection and promises to protect him from then on before they threw him out to fend for himself, leaving him, alone and defenseless in the dangers of the wild forests.
England didn’t need anyone to protect him. He’d been alone for centuries; England could damn well protect himself. He’d been doing it since the second he’d been born.
“I’ll fight for you.” Reaching for him, brown eyes sincere, that warm smile England had come to associate with him over the years confident and bright on his lips, the expert navigator stared straight ahead at him, unflinching. “If it’s Spain’s head you want, I’ll bring it to you in a golden platter, Inglaterra.”
England didn’t need anyone to protect him. He didn’t.
Although…although…
England craved that most of all. No one had ever promised to protect him and actually kept to their word. No one had ever proclaimed to love him and actually stayed by his side. Despite his efforts, England wasn’t made of ice; despite how hard he tried, he still wanted the warmth and love he never had during his childhood.
A happy place. A home no one would ever want to leave, where everyone smiled. A warm place. A warm person.
It wouldn’t be too hard to reach for that hand, for the promises of forevers and happily ever afters.
It wouldn’t, but England didn’t want it. Would [not] want it. The only men who swore eternal love to him always wanted something in return. Be it power, money, or land or even a night with him; they always wanted something from him in return for their sweet nothings and loving kisses.
Forgotten Juliet [4/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 07:08:08 UTC
And of course he would love England too. Had England not fought Spain to help him? They were allies, had been allies for a long time. Of course he would love England, of course he would promise to protect him; after all, if it weren’t for England, he would still be in Spain’s house.
All wanted him, all desired him, but no one ever [needed] him. England was something nice and pretty to adorn their beds; since they couldn’t beat him, the second best thing was to have him on his back, beneath them, and at their mercy. The British Empire bent over for no one in the battlefield, yielded to no man and submitted to no enemy, but it was a different matter in the bedroom.
It wasn’t real love, but it was better than going home to an empty house.
Thank God for the booze.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror nailed to the cabin wall, England straightened out the wrinkles marring his shirt. In spite of himself, he wasn’t able to stop the mocking smile from blooming on his lips, a thorny rose that cut all who touched it. “You love me, you say?”
Not backing down, the taller man tilted his chin stubbornly. There was a sort of elegance in him, the dog of the sea with his brutish ways and his lack of mannerisms. There was a handsomeness in him, a princely charm. It was what had made England favor him for so long. “I do. I love you,” he said, not a waver in his voice. “Inglaterra, if you would have me, I would do anything for you."
“I know that.” A sly smirk twisted the Empire’s lips, cruel and beautiful like the tempest that was the sea. “And I’m supposed to care?”
England’s empire was magnificent; he held the world by its throat, and stood at the pinnacle of success. There was barely anyone left who could stand up to him. His enemies cowered behind each other, plotted against him, joined forces in foolish attempts to defeat him-they were proof of his greatness. England was the envy of all.
So he would never say he was lonely.
Not to anyone, not ever. Empires did not get lonely, and Empires had no soft spots.
Because it was his weakness, his Achilles’ heel, and if it was ever found out, he would be done for.
No. England would never say he was lonely.
He would take that secret with him to the grave.
Sheathing his sword, England passively turned his back to the other, unmindful of the pain reflected in the other nation’s brown eyes, the obvious heartbreak, the disbelief, and the betrayal; because England had always been so good at making men fall in love with him.
He just wasn’t any good at making them stay.
Tucking his trousers into his sturdy black boots, England pushed aside the scarlet coat to return his pistol to its holster. It was one of his favorites coats; with its golden embroidery and royal blue trim and its opened sleeves. It certainly was one of England’s best works.
Walking over to his long-time ally, England’s gloved hand cupped the frozen nation’s chin. He really was lovely. It would have been nice if it could have been possible.
It was just too bad England always fell in love with men who never really loved him at all.
“I’ll say goodbye to Spain for you, my dear Portugal.” Leaning up to plant a brief kiss on the dark-haired man’s cheek, England smiled brazenly. “The dim-witted bumpkin is still crying over his precious armada. Ha! It won’t be long before his golden throne is mine.”
Strong.
England would remain strong forever. He would be strong, because the only other option was to be weak, and he would never allow himself to be weak. Not again, never again. England knew too well the pain of being nothing but a powerless little island, easy for the taking by anyone who felt up to the whim. And they loved hurting him, always, always, and forever always.
England was sick of being hurt; he built himself an empire so he would never be hurt again.
Forgotten Juliet [5/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 07:12:38 UTC
He reinforced that empire with steel walls and barbed wire so no one would ever get in. He locked away his heart in a jar, and threw that jar into a dusty old drawer. The silver key had been done away in the same manner; but its presence was always with him wherever he went, a hot coal in his pocket that flared brightly whenever someone managed to breech the walls of his empire, even if just a little.
He built himself an Empire because he knew the pain of being weak, of being hurt, of being violated. He knew it was only the strong who survived, and that the weak were always trampled upon. He remembered every last little scar mapped on his body, and how he came to have them. He remembered being small and powerless, unable to protect himself from the bigger, powerful empires and countries that came to his shores. Back then, all he'd been able to do was run away and hope the invaders would leave him without too much damage.
His hopes were always met with crushing realism.
Everyone wanted him; but no one needed him.
It was so easy to sprout off words of love and devotion, but England had been alive long enough to know that promises were easier to break than to keep. How many, just how many partners, allies, one-night stands, and enemies had whispered words of love and forevers into his ear? Too many, far too many.
But it didn’t matter. It didn’t. Because England had a magnificent empire, the greatest of them all; anything he could want, he got. He was bigger than anyone, stronger than anyone, better than anyone.
They could keep their love and their happily ever afters; they could keep their forevers and sweet nothings, they could keep it all.
It was better to be feared than loved.
----
Good God, this looks like it’s going to be a long fill Dx I hope OP!Anon doesn’t mind; since your request felt that it deserved a developed background I thought I should do it justice. I want to flesh out the characters a bit; I hope that’s okay with you. I’ll try to get to the US/UK parts soon, promise. I also apologize in advance for any mistakes, it’s almost 3 AM here and I have school tomorrow /cries
[By the way, this part took place after the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the beginning of the English Armada (1589) during the Anglo-Spanish War (1585-1604) where England intended to capture the incoming Spanish treasure fleet and expel the Spanish from Portugal, which had been ruled by King Philip since the Iberian Union of 1850.]
Re: Forgotten Juliet [5/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 08:04:43 UTC
um..Wow. You've successfully rendered me speechless, Anon!!
This looks so amazingly promising, I'm twitching in excitement, sitting on the edge of my seat awaiting for the next update!! Will you include little-America?? God I hope so :D
I am F5ing with glee and am officially camping out here. -bookmarks-
Re: Forgotten Juliet [5/?]
anonymous
May 24 2010, 13:07:44 UTC
Author!anon you have no idea how much i like the way this story is going. The defensiveness and loneliness of England, longing for companionship yet at the same time pushing it away for the fear of weakness and explosure, it's just GUH! I love your writing<3333
Re: Forgotten Juliet [5/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 17:58:19 UTC
This. THIS. Congratulations, anon, you have gained a stalker. Amazing, beautiful job with your setup of characters (poor, poor Iggy and Portugal D: ) and did I mention this so close to my head cannon it's almostn scary? Anyhow, I eagerly await your next installment.
Forgotten Juliet [6/?]
anonymous
June 12 2010, 16:42:41 UTC
The rocking of the waves, the short tempter of the harsh mistress that was the sea, and the salty winds that lulled the veils of his ship from sleep to awareness and back again; it was the closest England felt to being truly happy.
He would fight with tooth and nail to keep that small piece of happiness.
“Time to show me that lovely face or yours, dear.”
Water splashed hard against the sleeping nation’s face, startling him out of his slumber. Tired green eyes snapped open, the nation’s bruised limbs tensing in alertness almost immediately. The thick chains attached to his neck, wrists and ankles weighted him down heavily; they restricted his movements, only allowing him to crane his neck up to look upon the face of his captor.
Those eyebrows were unmistakable, as was the vulpine smirk on the island nation’s lips.
“My, my. You look quite fetching like that, my beloved Spain.”
A hiss of pain was England’s answer, the heel of his boot digging sharply into the country’s broken ribs. Green eyes glared hotly at him from a grime-streaked face, a set of bleeding lips set into a grimace. Despite his best efforts, despite how much he struggled and cursed at England, all Spain could do was yank at his chains like a beaten dog.
Chuckling, England pushed the heel of his boot down further. The crunching of bones grinding together was music to his ears. “Now, now, there’s no need to make such a face, old chap,” he crooned, leaning down to brush the back of his gloved hand against Spain’s bruised cheek. Three days and still the man refused to surrender. It was getting on England’s nerves. “I’m only here to talk business is all, so stop it with that incessant glowering of yours.”
Snapping at England’s hand, Spain twisted away from the smaller country’s touch. England chuckled at his stubbornness, a strained, dulcet smile making its way to his lips. “How rude, and here I thought we were past this kind of foreplay.”
Taking the chains attached to Spain’s collar, he yanked the dark-skinned country forward. Blood dribble down Spain’s chin at the roughness of the action, staining the white of his shirt a dark crimson. Smiling chillingly, England brought their faces closer together, Spain’s labored breathing hot against the British’s lips. “It is in your best interests to listen, and listen well, swine,” he began, the silky tones of his voice caressing the dark-haired man’s bloodied mouth as gently as the ocean breeze. “Relinquish your control over the seas, and I’ll let you leave.” A pause followed by an airy chuckle. “Of course, I can’t promise you’ll go in one piece.”
Cupping Spain’s face in one hand, England felt delight at the expression of pure anger he saw. Laughing, he crouched down before the chained nation. “Feisty, feisty. Your brother is definitely more to my tastes.”
The change was immediate. Gritting his teeth, Spain narrowed his eyes. “Leave Portugal out of this.” His voice was rough from disuse, dry from lack of water. “You’ve done enough to him.”
Forgotten Juliet [7/?]
anonymous
June 12 2010, 16:48:14 UTC
England made a noise between irritation and disgust. “No more than you have.”
“You’re a witch,” Spain spat, teeth red with blood. His patented smile was nowhere to be seen this time around. “If he falls, it will be your doing.”
Cocking an eyebrow, England smiled derisively, adding lewd tones to his voice, “I have not done anything to your brother that he has not asked me to do to him.” Trailing gloved fingers down Spain’s chest, he toyed with the flimsy buttons of the poet shirt. “You yourself know how pleasant a host I can be, or would you like me to refresh your memory, hmm?”
Spain’s face shuttered close, green eyes darkening with his anger. England’s lips curved into a smirk. “We’ve had fun times together in the past, have we not? Tell me what I want to hear, and I will trade your chains for the comfort of my bed. I can assure you you’ll prefer my chambers to this dungeon.”
Spitting out a mouthful of blood before England’s feet, Spain clenched his hands. “He loves you.” Gritting his teeth, he repeated, “He loves you, and you don’t even give a damn, do you?”
England’s mouth twitched, his mood gone sour. “I fail to see how this is relevant to the matter at hand, my little bumpkin. My patience with you grows thin.” He stood, taking several steps back, his expression merciless, hard. “I’m sure my boys would love to have some fun with you, so choose. And be quick about it.”
“What do you want me to say?” Spain hissed, yanking at his chains. It was a fruitless effort, and he knew it. But Spain was the country of passion, and England knew he was just as zealous in his anger as he was in his love. “I am the one in chains, am I not? What else do you want from me?” His anger made his accent thicker, his eyes come alive with green fire.
Grinning wickedly, England nudged him with the toe of his boot. “For starters, you could bow your head and lick my shoes. How does that sound, poppet?”
Scowling, Spain glared at him. “You’re going to have to untie me first, princesa.”
Taken back, England blinked. This was…unexpected. He had not expected such an easy surrender, not from a man who he knew as well as the back of his hand. Spain was known for being a resilient son of a bitch, since when had he bent over backwards for anyone? Brow furrowed, England pursued his lips. “Pardon me?”
“Did you come here just to gloat?” Spain snapped, obviously frustrated. “You’re despicable! Just bend over so I can kiss your ass already, I’m tired of looking at your ugly face!”
Closing the distance between them, England dropped to one knee in front of him, his infamous temper flaring to life. He was terribly angry at this turn of events, and also terribly disappointed. He’d been expecting Spain to put up more of a fight. Spain was a downright pain in the ass, but he was better company than France, and he was ever so lovely when provoked. Just as lovely as his brother, and twice as strong; England loved strong men, loved the challenge they provided him with. He specially loved breaking them. This time, though, it seemed someone had gotten to Spain before him. “So you’re just going to do as I say, is that it?”
Spain refused to meet his eyes. “You make it sound as if I have a choice.”
Arthur stopped having sex with so many people once he started raising Alfred. Reasons being Alfred made his life so much brighter and less lonely so he doesn't need to sleep around anymore.
Especially after Alfred grows up (because he's not a pedo in my mind~) and he realizes he's in love with America, he really doesn't want to sleep with just anybody.
And like, Francis or somebody knew this was why Arthur stopped having sex so much, and he wondered why after Alfred became independent Arthur didn't pick up the habit again. (Because regardless of being heartbroken he was still in love with Alfred and /still/ didn't want to sleep with anyone else)
So anyway, my request is this: It's present day. Arthur's been in love with Alfred forever and stuff. America is confused about his feelings or something like that. All the nations are at a world conference and Arthur didn't show for some reason, and they end up talking about their experience with sleeping with him.
Alfred becomes very jealous/angry/embarrassed at this conversation because a)he's never had sex with Arthur b)he's getting slightly turned on by imagining Arthur doing the things the other nations are talking about
stuff happens and eventually Alfred realizes he's in love with Arthur and finally has sex with him. Artie bottoming, of course.
can anon work with this?
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He was also the first man who ever wanted him.
“Beautiful,” Rome had called him, long, so very long ago; his smile warm and his eyes friendly-even with two legions of his army behind him ready to plunder his land like he’d done to many others before him. “Beautiful Britannia,” Rome had baptized him, having the gall to ask the child he’d been back then to become a part of him.
The waters of his coast turned red with blood that day.
It wasn’t the last time England bled red rivers and cried bloody tears. And it certainly wasn’t the last time he was wanted by somebody.
England was no so old yet that he could no longer remember days from long ago. Oh, no. He remembered everything in perfect detail; he had excellent memory when it came to the past.
He remembered the good days, the peaceful days from when he’d been young and happy, long before war was brought to his shores. He remembered the hundreds of years he spent in Rome’s house, learning his language and his religion, the gentle pats to the head which only made him hate the old man even more. He remembered the shadowy, dark centuries of the bloody barbarians who took his lands from him, the scruffy blonde giants who he hated even more than Rome.
England remembered every last man who ever fought for him; he remembered the first time he held the blue, red and white of his flag in his hands; and the tears he’d cried in his childhood when his beloved king of legends died for him.
It was the first time his heart was broken by a man he loved, and it certainly wasn’t the last time either.
England could remember a lot of things; but the one thing that stood out amongst all his old, dusty memories was the cold, empty space at his side.
The second was his promise to be the strongest.
“I-Inglaterra,” a breathy gasp broke England’s alcohol-induced daze, and with a tired sigh he tugged harder at the brown curls in his hand, urging the other man to go faster, harder, to hurry up and finish because he had business to do. “Inglaterra, Inglaterra, você é tão lindo,” was the half whisper, half sob that made England remember where in the seven hells he was.
There was a sea of pale bed sheets beneath his back, a mess of tangled limbs so deeply woven together it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Needy gasps and breathy moans filled the air; sewed between the musky scent of sex was the sulfuric aftertaste of copper, the faint droplets of blood on the dirtied sheets seeping past hastily applied bandages long worn out.
The scent that stood out amongst all others was the distinctive smell of alcohol, cheap and poor in quality but good enough for a night like this. England was pleasantly surprised; usually, he woke up the next day with a splitting headache and hazy memories of the night before. Tonight was different. Tonight he wasn’t so drunk. He had Spain to thank for that. The look the country bumpkin had worn, the rage, the split second of sadness, but most of all the expression of utter defeat-England had Spain to thank for being sober enough to feel every last one of the Spaniard’s ex-charge’s soft, loving touches.
Victory never tasted so sweet, he thought smugly, absentmindedly sucking on his ring finger before he tugged the other man into a sloppy, albeit heated kiss.
It tasted of triumph.
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“I love you.” The words were breathed hotly against the Empire’s skin, lightly chapped lips worshiping England’s body like one would a deity. Hands made rough by the sea mapped every little scar on the expanse of pale skin at their owner’s disposal, treating them like jewels rather than the disfigurations they were. The nation was under a spell, enchanted with the siren’s song and thorny petals.
“I love you.” A chaste kiss was placed on England’s forehead, then a second one on his lips, and a third, a fourth and a fifth. Each was sweeter than honey, the clumsy passion of the giver felt in every last one of them. There was genuine honesty in the kisses, an innocent love not unlike that of a child to their mother. The hands holding him were ever so gentle; they handled him like fragile glass, as if he were something to be treasured forever. Chocolate colored eyes looked at England with adoration, the other’s boyish good looks outlined with the tender emotions of a man deeply in love.
Not being able to stand the sight of it, England closed his eyes. He closed his eyes, simply feeling the rocking motions of his body as he rode out the hazy waves of pleasure. The little thrills running up his spine, the heat across his cheeks, the feeling of having a man, hot and hard and strong, between his thighs was a very familiar sensation. England was all too used to having a man adorn his bed, and he wasn’t too bad at pleasing them either if he said so himself.
Wrapping his arms around the other’s neck, he murmured soothing words against the taller nation’s lips, carding his fingers through the thick brown curls. The other’s breath hitched, a bead of sweat running down his temple. England kissed his pliant lips, delving inside the other’s mouth, savoring the sweet spices and bitter alcohol and everything that made the other so warm and so gentle.
When it was over, as it must always be, England pulled away from the arms sweetly embracing him and sat up He did have a headache, but it wasn’t so painful as to make him forget he had unfinished business to attend to. England was actually quite looking forward to getting another glimpse of Spain’s sorry, defeated excuse for a face.
“Don’t go,” was murmured against his back, the strong arms refusing to let him go. “Stay here with me,” his voice, thick with sleep and remnants of desire, was hot against England’s skin.
“Let go before I put a bullet in your head,” England said simply, squinting his eyes as he tried to recall where his trousers had landed. Standing up, he began to pick up his discarder garments. “I’m leaving.”
England liked leaving first; it was much better than being the one left behind.
“I love you.” Breathing harshly, he stared at England with something akin to desperation in his brown eyes. “I love you.”
Nothing was said for several minutes, and except for the rustle of clothing-the slide of gloves over pale hands, the chime of the buckle of a belt, and the flutter of a tailored coat thrown over slim shoulders-there was no other sound but the fast, nervous beating of one heart, and the disinterest of another.
Then finally, “Inglaterra-”
A smile twisted the privateer’s lips, razor-sharp and cynical, reminding the other nation of shards of broken glass. There was amusement dancing in the Empire’s green eyes, so much like a pair of beautiful emeralds dipped in cold poison. “I know that.” he said simply, the exotic lilt of his tongue sending a shiver down the taller nation’s spine.
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It made the secret thirst for companionship buried deep in England’s heart so much more painful to bear.
The pale sheets pooled around the taller nation’s hips when he stood, cheeks still flushed from their past activities, dark brown curls plastered to his forehead, rosy lips swollen from kissing. He looked lovely, England couldn’t help but think. No wonder Spain didn’t want to let him go.
All the better reason to take him away from the stupid bastard.
“I love you,” he repeated, his accented voice firmer this time. He spoke with conviction, eyes determined and hopeful and utterly naïve. One would think that after all he’d gone through, the rise and decline of his once powerful empire, the scars he bore, the years upon years he’d suffered while under Spain’s rule, he would be a little bit more realistic.
Love? Why would England want love?
Everyone who ever claimed to love him always abandoned him.
England was sick of being loved by men who never really loved him at all.
“I love you. You’re the only one I truly want,” he promised, and for a lighting-quick second, England felt his heart skip a beat, a split-second weakness in his impenetrable shields. “I’ll protect you,” he promised yet again, not a trace of trickery in his eyes.
The momentarily weakness passed and went, a tiny leave fluttering in the winds.
Protect him?
Protect him? England had heard those words so many times before he’d lost count of them long ago. Rome promised to protect him too, only to abandon him when England most needed him. France murmured the same words into his skin the first time he bedded him; days later, he lead an attack to his capital. His brothers often used to trick him during his childhood, showering him with love and affection and promises to protect him from then on before they threw him out to fend for himself, leaving him, alone and defenseless in the dangers of the wild forests.
England didn’t need anyone to protect him. He’d been alone for centuries; England could damn well protect himself. He’d been doing it since the second he’d been born.
“I’ll fight for you.” Reaching for him, brown eyes sincere, that warm smile England had come to associate with him over the years confident and bright on his lips, the expert navigator stared straight ahead at him, unflinching. “If it’s Spain’s head you want, I’ll bring it to you in a golden platter, Inglaterra.”
England didn’t need anyone to protect him. He didn’t.
Although…although…
England craved that most of all. No one had ever promised to protect him and actually kept to their word. No one had ever proclaimed to love him and actually stayed by his side. Despite his efforts, England wasn’t made of ice; despite how hard he tried, he still wanted the warmth and love he never had during his childhood.
A happy place. A home no one would ever want to leave, where everyone smiled. A warm place. A warm person.
It wouldn’t be too hard to reach for that hand, for the promises of forevers and happily ever afters.
It wouldn’t, but England didn’t want it. Would [not] want it. The only men who swore eternal love to him always wanted something in return. Be it power, money, or land or even a night with him; they always wanted something from him in return for their sweet nothings and loving kisses.
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All wanted him, all desired him, but no one ever [needed] him. England was something nice and pretty to adorn their beds; since they couldn’t beat him, the second best thing was to have him on his back, beneath them, and at their mercy. The British Empire bent over for no one in the battlefield, yielded to no man and submitted to no enemy, but it was a different matter in the bedroom.
It wasn’t real love, but it was better than going home to an empty house.
Thank God for the booze.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror nailed to the cabin wall, England straightened out the wrinkles marring his shirt. In spite of himself, he wasn’t able to stop the mocking smile from blooming on his lips, a thorny rose that cut all who touched it. “You love me, you say?”
Not backing down, the taller man tilted his chin stubbornly. There was a sort of elegance in him, the dog of the sea with his brutish ways and his lack of mannerisms. There was a handsomeness in him, a princely charm. It was what had made England favor him for so long. “I do. I love you,” he said, not a waver in his voice. “Inglaterra, if you would have me, I would do anything for you."
“I know that.” A sly smirk twisted the Empire’s lips, cruel and beautiful like the tempest that was the sea. “And I’m supposed to care?”
England’s empire was magnificent; he held the world by its throat, and stood at the pinnacle of success. There was barely anyone left who could stand up to him. His enemies cowered behind each other, plotted against him, joined forces in foolish attempts to defeat him-they were proof of his greatness. England was the envy of all.
So he would never say he was lonely.
Not to anyone, not ever. Empires did not get lonely, and Empires had no soft spots.
Because it was his weakness, his Achilles’ heel, and if it was ever found out, he would be done for.
No. England would never say he was lonely.
He would take that secret with him to the grave.
Sheathing his sword, England passively turned his back to the other, unmindful of the pain reflected in the other nation’s brown eyes, the obvious heartbreak, the disbelief, and the betrayal; because England had always been so good at making men fall in love with him.
He just wasn’t any good at making them stay.
Tucking his trousers into his sturdy black boots, England pushed aside the scarlet coat to return his pistol to its holster. It was one of his favorites coats; with its golden embroidery and royal blue trim and its opened sleeves. It certainly was one of England’s best works.
Walking over to his long-time ally, England’s gloved hand cupped the frozen nation’s chin. He really was lovely. It would have been nice if it could have been possible.
It was just too bad England always fell in love with men who never really loved him at all.
“I’ll say goodbye to Spain for you, my dear Portugal.” Leaning up to plant a brief kiss on the dark-haired man’s cheek, England smiled brazenly. “The dim-witted bumpkin is still crying over his precious armada. Ha! It won’t be long before his golden throne is mine.”
Strong.
England would remain strong forever. He would be strong, because the only other option was to be weak, and he would never allow himself to be weak. Not again, never again. England knew too well the pain of being nothing but a powerless little island, easy for the taking by anyone who felt up to the whim. And they loved hurting him, always, always, and forever always.
England was sick of being hurt; he built himself an empire so he would never be hurt again.
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He locked away his heart in a jar, and threw that jar into a dusty old drawer. The silver key had been done away in the same manner; but its presence was always with him wherever he went, a hot coal in his pocket that flared brightly whenever someone managed to breech the walls of his empire, even if just a little.
He built himself an Empire because he knew the pain of being weak, of being hurt, of being violated. He knew it was only the strong who survived, and that the weak were always trampled upon. He remembered every last little scar mapped on his body, and how he came to have them. He remembered being small and powerless, unable to protect himself from the bigger, powerful empires and countries that came to his shores. Back then, all he'd been able to do was run away and hope the invaders would leave him without too much damage.
His hopes were always met with crushing realism.
Everyone wanted him; but no one needed him.
It was so easy to sprout off words of love and devotion, but England had been alive long enough to know that promises were easier to break than to keep. How many, just how many partners, allies, one-night stands, and enemies had whispered words of love and
forevers into his ear? Too many, far too many.
But it didn’t matter. It didn’t. Because England had a magnificent empire, the greatest of them all; anything he could want, he got. He was bigger than anyone, stronger than anyone, better than anyone.
They could keep their love and their happily ever afters; they could keep their forevers and sweet nothings, they could keep it all.
It was better to be feared than loved.
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Good God, this looks like it’s going to be a long fill Dx I hope OP!Anon doesn’t mind; since your request felt that it deserved a developed background I thought I should do it justice. I want to flesh out the characters a bit; I hope that’s okay with you. I’ll try to get to the US/UK parts soon, promise. I also apologize in advance for any mistakes, it’s almost 3 AM here and I have school tomorrow /cries
[By the way, this part took place after the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the beginning of the English Armada (1589) during the Anglo-Spanish War (1585-1604) where England intended to capture the incoming Spanish treasure fleet and expel the Spanish from Portugal, which had been ruled by King Philip since the Iberian Union of 1850.]
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Poor guy QAQ
And Arthur is poor, too...*hug
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This looks so amazingly promising, I'm twitching in excitement, sitting on the edge of my seat awaiting for the next update!! Will you include little-America?? God I hope so :D
I am F5ing with glee and am officially camping out here. -bookmarks-
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*join the camp-out F5 party*
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Congratulations, anon, you have gained a stalker. Amazing, beautiful job with your setup of characters (poor, poor Iggy and Portugal D: ) and did I mention this so close to my head cannon it's almostn scary? Anyhow, I eagerly await your next installment.
*F5 party*
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The rocking of the waves, the short tempter of the harsh mistress that was the sea, and the salty winds that lulled the veils of his ship from sleep to awareness and back again; it was the closest England felt to being truly happy.
He would fight with tooth and nail to keep that small piece of happiness.
“Time to show me that lovely face or yours, dear.”
Water splashed hard against the sleeping nation’s face, startling him out of his slumber. Tired green eyes snapped open, the nation’s bruised limbs tensing in alertness almost immediately. The thick chains attached to his neck, wrists and ankles weighted him down heavily; they restricted his movements, only allowing him to crane his neck up to look upon the face of his captor.
Those eyebrows were unmistakable, as was the vulpine smirk on the island nation’s lips.
“My, my. You look quite fetching like that, my beloved Spain.”
A hiss of pain was England’s answer, the heel of his boot digging sharply into the country’s broken ribs. Green eyes glared hotly at him from a grime-streaked face, a set of bleeding lips set into a grimace. Despite his best efforts, despite how much he struggled and cursed at England, all Spain could do was yank at his chains like a beaten dog.
Chuckling, England pushed the heel of his boot down further. The crunching of bones grinding together was music to his ears. “Now, now, there’s no need to make such a face, old chap,” he crooned, leaning down to brush the back of his gloved hand against Spain’s bruised cheek. Three days and still the man refused to surrender. It was getting on England’s nerves. “I’m only here to talk business is all, so stop it with that incessant glowering of yours.”
Snapping at England’s hand, Spain twisted away from the smaller country’s touch. England chuckled at his stubbornness, a strained, dulcet smile making its way to his lips. “How rude, and here I thought we were past this kind of foreplay.”
Taking the chains attached to Spain’s collar, he yanked the dark-skinned country forward. Blood dribble down Spain’s chin at the roughness of the action, staining the white of his shirt a dark crimson. Smiling chillingly, England brought their faces closer together, Spain’s labored breathing hot against the British’s lips. “It is in your best interests to listen, and listen well, swine,” he began, the silky tones of his voice caressing the dark-haired man’s bloodied mouth as gently as the ocean breeze. “Relinquish your control over the seas, and I’ll let you leave.” A pause followed by an airy chuckle. “Of course, I can’t promise you’ll go in one piece.”
Cupping Spain’s face in one hand, England felt delight at the expression of pure anger he saw. Laughing, he crouched down before the chained nation. “Feisty, feisty. Your brother is definitely more to my tastes.”
The change was immediate. Gritting his teeth, Spain narrowed his eyes. “Leave Portugal out of this.” His voice was rough from disuse, dry from lack of water. “You’ve done enough to him.”
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England made a noise between irritation and disgust. “No more than you have.”
“You’re a witch,” Spain spat, teeth red with blood. His patented smile was nowhere to be seen this time around. “If he falls, it will be your doing.”
Cocking an eyebrow, England smiled derisively, adding lewd tones to his voice, “I have not done anything to your brother that he has not asked me to do to him.” Trailing gloved fingers down Spain’s chest, he toyed with the flimsy buttons of the poet shirt. “You yourself know how pleasant a host I can be, or would you like me to refresh your memory, hmm?”
Spain’s face shuttered close, green eyes darkening with his anger. England’s lips curved into a smirk. “We’ve had fun times together in the past, have we not? Tell me what I want to hear, and I will trade your chains for the comfort of my bed. I can assure you you’ll prefer my chambers to this dungeon.”
Spitting out a mouthful of blood before England’s feet, Spain clenched his hands. “He loves you.” Gritting his teeth, he repeated, “He loves you, and you don’t even give a damn, do you?”
England’s mouth twitched, his mood gone sour. “I fail to see how this is relevant to the matter at hand, my little bumpkin. My patience with you grows thin.” He stood, taking several steps back, his expression merciless, hard. “I’m sure my boys would love to have some fun with you, so choose. And be quick about it.”
“What do you want me to say?” Spain hissed, yanking at his chains. It was a fruitless effort, and he knew it. But Spain was the country of passion, and England knew he was just as zealous in his anger as he was in his love. “I am the one in chains, am I not? What else do you want from me?” His anger made his accent thicker, his eyes come alive with green fire.
Grinning wickedly, England nudged him with the toe of his boot. “For starters, you could bow your head and lick my shoes. How does that sound, poppet?”
Scowling, Spain glared at him. “You’re going to have to untie me first, princesa.”
Taken back, England blinked. This was…unexpected. He had not expected such an easy surrender, not from a man who he knew as well as the back of his hand. Spain was known for being a resilient son of a bitch, since when had he bent over backwards for anyone? Brow furrowed, England pursued his lips. “Pardon me?”
“Did you come here just to gloat?” Spain snapped, obviously frustrated. “You’re despicable! Just bend over so I can kiss your ass already, I’m tired of looking at your ugly face!”
Closing the distance between them, England dropped to one knee in front of him, his infamous temper flaring to life. He was terribly angry at this turn of events, and also terribly disappointed. He’d been expecting Spain to put up more of a fight. Spain was a downright pain in the ass, but he was better company than France, and he was ever so lovely when provoked. Just as lovely as his brother, and twice as strong; England loved strong men, loved the challenge they provided him with. He specially loved breaking them. This time, though, it seemed someone had gotten to Spain before him. “So you’re just going to do as I say, is that it?”
Spain refused to meet his eyes. “You make it sound as if I have a choice.”
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