Hetalia kink meme part 22
axis powers
hetalia kink meme
part 22
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June
England's first surprise came on the first day when he first saw his "little" colony again. He had been expecting to find the little boy that he'd left, once scarcely higher than his chin. America was still clearly a boy, but nothing like little anymore. He was even taller than England now, and although he was still gangly it was plain to see that he was already starting to fill out. It wouldn't be long until his chest and arms matched those broad shoulders. His voice didn't even crack. England wondered how long he had until everyone took him for an adult, probably not very judging by the ages at which his people tended to marry.
Once he got over his initial shock, he found himself somewhat sad. America was easily his favorite colony. America was somewhat of a special project to him. There was something about him that had drawn England in, made him see potential. Maybe it was that he saw something of himself in the boy, what he could have been if he had lived a life free from his brothers' abuse. He had wanted to be there for America through his awkward adolescent years.
"Come on, England! I did so much work to the house, you've just gotta see this!"
Of course, it was hard to stay melancholy when he seemed so excited about and proud of the things he had done, the ways he had grown. England felt as though he absorbed part of that energy as he allowed America to point out everything he'd done. It was all good workmanship. It seemed he had a reason to be proud after all.
It seemed that even in his absence England had managed to raise him alright after all.
He was going to be quite attractive once he was fully grown as well. England could see it already: the hard, masculine lines of his face hidden behind the last traces of baby fat, the strength his body would have when he decided to grow out now that he was likely done with up. And then, of course, he had his soulful blue eyes, his soft golden hair, and that energetic personality.
Maybe in a decade or two, England thought, he'd be ready to take. He hoped he could be there for that too, but for less pure reasons than the transition he'd missed. It wasn't as though America was his child. America was a nation, and although they may have referred to each other as family, they didn't possess that sort of bond. America was more England's student than his son. He took care of himself as they all did, he simply had more guidance than most.
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Family was different. It was very, very different. He pressed a hand against his stomach, thinking of all the children he'd birthed over the years. Not many compared to other nations, only five, but he had loved them and watched after them until they didn't need him anymore. Even now he had a Twenty-two-year-old son back in London, with a wife and one child three years old and another on the way. Jonathan was the reason he hadn't come back and the reason he left in the first place. He fled across the sea as soon as he knew he would go into heat. He wanted to wait until he was home and choose the most suitable "father" for his child, but couldn't stand the voyage and convinced the best man on the ship to impregnate him.
That was how it worked: there were times when nations became fertile, either because of crops or a population boom, and they became pregnant. There were no exceptions. If they resisted the desire invaded their minds, driving them mad until they were no better than whores, begging anyone who produced sperm to fuck them.
It wasn't always that bad. Most of the time he'd had sex with an ally or even just a human he'd grown fond of. Two of his children were Portugal's and one had been a kind but lonely man he lived next door to when he was in Kent for a short time.
(The other one had been France, a sort of peace treaty to end the 100 years war. He didn't love Mary any less than the others. There was nothing French about her in the slightest)
"Hey, old man," America said, turning back to him and grinning, "You alive in there?"
"America, I don't bloody care that you're taller than me now," he snapped, startled and therefore inclined to shout, "I am your superior and you will address me as such."
He shrugged, "Other stuff wasn't getting through. I was asking if you wanted to go for a ride. I know a place not far from here that's really pretty in the afternoons."
England rolled his eyes, "Well, alright. I suppose I'll allow you to drag me out into the wilderness."
"Awesome! Come on!" America grabbed his wrist and led him off to the stables.
England shook his head. He could see he had his work cut out for him if he as much as hoped to have the boy act properly again.
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A/n: Gonna be a little like the attention whore I am here: If you liked this fill, please, please, please leave a comment. I live off of your love.
July
America still wasn’t quite used to the idea of having England around again. Maybe it was because it felt different than the other times they’d lived together. There was some sort of tension, drawing America deeper but forcing him away at the same time. Maybe he’d just forgotten about it? Twenty three years wasn’t a long time for England, but that was almost a quarter of America’s whole life. It made it really, really hard to tell…
All he knew was that it was fantastic and agonizing at the same time to be with England. As they sat across from each other, eating, America was consumed by both the desire to slide next to England and lean on him and to stay where he was because he was scared to get that close. All he knew was that he couldn’t take his eyes off of him, watching his mouth as he brought a piece of meat to his lips, the almost harsh line of his jaw as he chewed, and the chords of his neck as he swallowed. Of course, there was good reason for him to be watching him. England was right across the table and they were talking. Still, he was sure he had never before noticed all those little details, like the way that his thin, long fingers carefully handled his fork and knife. He wondered why on earth he hadn’t, because he had been missing out on a great show.
“Are you alright, America?” England asked standing and coming over to his side. He placed a hand on America’s forehead, “You look flushed and you’re just staring blankly at me.”
America blushed redder more because of the touch than the embarassment. He wanted to shove England away and pull him into his lap at the same time. He looked up to meet England’s eyes. Did he want to shove him away and insist he was fine or ask what was wrong with him and why he’d started feeling so queasy?
When they made eye contact, England startled. He pulled his hand away and knelt down to be at America’s level, “America, love, as soon as we finish eating you should go up to your room. Rest. Don’t worry about this, you’ll be alright.” He lovingly brushed America’s bangs. America frowned. Usually England kissed his forehead or hair. Maybe he just didn’t wanna get sick?
After dinner he dutifully laid down in bed, but there was no way he could sleep. It was still light out! He looked out the window instead, watching the grass and tree branches beyond move in the wind, and traced random patters on his pillow. All he could think of was England, remembering them sitting and playing out in that field and hunting and riding in the forest.
He rolled onto his back. He wanted to go out and play with England. Since he’d come he’d always put up a fight about that, saying that America was too old for that nonsense, and he was far too distinguished to comply in the first place. America smiled; he could always get him to go with it anyway. A few days ago he’d even talked him into wrestling.
It had been a lot of fun. It felt so good to go against someone who he actually had to work to keep up with for once! True, he was stronger and had a longer reach now, but England was fast and flexible. America would grab him one second and he’d be free again the next. And he was really distracting too. Whenever America touched him he felt a shock course through his entire body.
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So there was a really good reason that he lost! That must have been why he didn’t mind that England had managed to shove him to the ground and pin him, or even that he gloated a little by grinning wolfishly down at him and saying “My, my, America, you’ve gotten much stronger than last time but you’re still no match for me!”
But now why when he thought back to that day was he putting more emphasis on the way the sun shone through his even messier than usual hair, the flush of his cheeks, the almost wild look in his eyes, and why did that make his stomach tighten and roll?
It was then that his subconscious truly betrayed him. He imagined England closing those green eyes and leaning down to kiss him, not on the temple as he actually had, but on the lips. Their mouths opened and their tongues pressed together hot and wet and-
What. The fuck.
America rolled over onto his stomach and buried his head under the pillow. What the hell was he thinking?! This was England he was talking about, his teacher, his friend. He was practically his father!
“Practically,” He thought, “But not actually.”
“Shut up!” He told himself, pressing the sides of the pillow down against his ears as though that would block out the voice in his head.
It was too late, far too late. He’d opened himself up to the torrent of images, touching England, being touched by England, fucking him, being fucked by him… Why?
He knew what sex was. His teachers had taught him the basics, how animals and humans procreated. Then Canada had passed on what he’d learned from France about men having sex with other men, and even more importantly how nations would have sex with nations they were close to when they were grown, no matter how they had felt about each other as children.
He sat up and pulled his knees close. No, that couldn’t be true. After all, France had said that someday he and Canada would be attracted to each other, and that was just gross!
It… It was still gross, right?
He tried to imagine himself kissing his brother, but it still felt wrong. Well, so did kissing England, really, but that was a good-but-bad-at-the-same-time wrong and kissing Canada was just-plain-gross wrong.
He rested his cheek on one of his knees. He still had time. If France was telling the truth nations didn’t touch children. It seemed pretty likely because he hadn’t tried to do anything to either him or Canada and England said he’d molest anything with a pulse. America sighed and lay back down. It was okay for now. He still had years to think it over, to decide how he felt about England.
For the time being, he was safe.
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"But now why when he thought back to that day was he putting more emphasis on the way the sun shone through his even messier than usual hair, the flush of his cheeks, the almost wild look in his eyes, and why did that make his stomach tighten and roll?"
Aha! The plot (or rather UST, at this point) thickens!
Poor America, you think you have years to figure it out, but everything's about to change on you...
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I hope we get more soon.
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Oh god America as Garrus lololololol
This is seriously good so far. I can't wait to see what happens next!
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A/N: I would just like to make it clear before going into this that in spite of England referring to him as a boy all the time, America is physically about 16 years old. While on that topic, warning for Ephebophilia in this chapter.
August
England didn't suspect that there was anything wrong with America for a long time. It had been clear for almost a month that he was attracted to England, but that was normal enough. After all, England could remember his own adolescence perfectly clearly, all the confused nights when he lay back with his tunic lifted, thinking about a hundred different people and unsure of how he felt about any of them. It was part of growing up and America would get past it. Hopefully not past England, but past the confusion.
No, the real person England worried about was himself. It was one thing to look at America and notice how attractive he'd grow to be. It was another thing entirely to actually want him as he was. It was wrong, disgusting even. England didn't know why he felt that way. He'd never had a problem with this sort of thing before. He hadn't been attracted to boys since he was one himself, since over three hundred years ago when he and Portugal had…
Well, that wasn't the issue. The issue was that he was attracted to a child!
He wasn't exactly a child, though, his treacherous thoughts reminded him. True, he was only about one hundred, but England guessed from his appearance that people his physical age married on a regular basis. Hell, from one point of view he had been younger when he first-
"Um… Hey England…"
Bloody hell, where had he come from? He forced himself to smile up at America. He looked worried, hands behind his back and looking down at his shoes. England set aside his embroidery to show that America had his attention.
"Yes, dear boy?"
"I- can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Of course, lad," He patted the cushion next to him.
"Thanks," America said, taking a seat.
"Now, what seems to be bothering you?"
"England… I'm scared."
England sighed, "America, I've told you a million times, there are no such things as ghosts."
"It's not about that!" He said a little too harshly, "This is serious!"
"Sorry, lad," England said, smiling, "I'll hear you out."
"I know I shouldn't have yelled," He shifted uncomfortably, "I just… I'm worried."
England furrowed his brow. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but it certainly sounded serious…
"I've been feeling… weird lately and I don't know what to do about it. I know it's not just puberty or anything, because I haven't changed in the past seven years."
It was most likely something normal that he simply hadn't encountered yet, but it didn't hurt to make sure "So, what do you mean by 'weird' exactly?"
"Well, it's… Um…" He turned bright red, "This is really, really awkward, but… um."
"It's alright, love," England reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, "Whatever it is you can tell me."
America turned even redder, "I want sex. Like really, really want it. And it's just been getting worse and worse. I can barely think of anything else anymore," His voice cracked and he began speaking more quickly, "I can't concentrate, can barely do chores. Even my dreams are all me getting fucked or something that I know means the same thing. And they're so vivid, England, I would have pretty intense dreams before, but nothing like this. And the worst is when I don't dream of sex because then..." He looked away, "Then I dream about being pregnant, or giving birth, or holding a baby. And the feelings just gets worse and worse when I'm around you, so doing this is awful. I want it to stop, England," He looked back at England, tears were rolling down his face, "I don't feel like me. I want to go back to the way I was before. Please England, you told me you'd always help me, so please fix this."
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England looked at him. It sounded as though he was… No, that wasn't possible. It was too early. America was only one hundred. Oh, but he had aged so quickly, and it did explain why they were both feeling like that… There was only one way to be sure.
"America," England said, making his voice as serious as possible, "I need to go into your bedroom."
"What? Why?"
"Just trust me. I think I know what's happening," He pulled him into a hug, "And if I'm right, I'm so, so sorry."
"England? England, what's wrong with me?" He looked absolutely terrified.
"It'll be alright, I promise it'll be alright."
"England, I'm scared."
"I know, I know," He pulled him closer, "But I want to be sure before I say anything."
"England, am I going to die?"
"No, America. You'll be alright. I promise that everything will be alright, but you have to trust me."
"Okay," America said meekly.
He followed England upstairs to his room, standing aside and letting England investigate. Normally he'd have to go and smell the bed or his pajamas or something like that. He was almost knocked out the moment he opened the door. It probably didn't help that it was one of those hot, sticky summer days, but the air was positively saturated with the smell of a nation in heat.
"My God, how long has this been going on?"
He had asked himself more than America, but the boy still looked ashamed, staring down at the floor.
England forced a smile and said, "Don't worry. This is completely natural and you're going to be perfectly fine."
"England," America said, much more sternly than he had before, "What's wrong with me?"
England stroked his hair, one last bit of comfort before he said, "Nothing's wrong with you, America. It's just-" He took a deep breath, "It's time for you to have your first child."
"What?" America looked down at himself as though he expected his stomach to have ballooned without his notice, "England, I've never even had sex."
"No, America, you're not pregnant now."
"But then what do you mean? I have the choice not to have a kid, don't I?"
England swallowed, "No, America," He said, "You really don't."
"All I have to do is not have sex for-"
"America, I know it's hard to understand but that's not an option." England took his hands.
"Of course it is!" America shouted, shaking him away, "Why wouldn't it be?"
England sighed and closed his eyes, "You've never been through this before, America, so you don't know what it's like after a few months. I've tried, America, I've tried so hard... Not even you can overcome biology like that."
"But I- England, I'm not ready for a kid!"
England wrapped his arms America, who proceeded to bury his face in England's chest and be unusually still.
Christ, this was so different from when he'd learned he was going to be pregnant. That was the difference between a 100-year-old and a 900-year-old, most likely. England had had so much more time to live, to grow a mental and emotional longing so that when the physical ones came everything fell into place.
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"I'm sorry," He said, stroking America's hair again, "I'm so sorry it has to be this way. But I suppose there is one good thing that comes of this timing."
America looked up, "And that is?"
"You don't have to be alone. I know how hard it is to raise a child. The least I can do is stay here until it's fully grown."
"But England, you're going to be stuck here for twenty years!"
"You're forgetting how old I am. It's a moment of my time that I have to give up to fulfill my responsibilities."
"You're talking like you know you're going to be- be the dad."
"Even if I'm not I'll stay. You're my colony, so taking care of you is my responsibility."
"England I- I'm still scared."
"I know, love," He placed his chin on America's shoulder, "But I promise to make it as comfortable as it can be."
"So… um…" He took a step back, "I guess we have sex now?"
England was taken aback from the sudden turn. America had just been so terrified, had said he might not want England to father his child, and now… England looked him over. He was shaking and had tears in his eyes. He was desperate, overemotional. This was probably just another way of control, to pretend that he was choosing to do something that had to happen. It couldn't happen. Not like that.
"No," England said.
"What do you mean 'no'?" America asked. "I thought I didn't have a choice."
"We have a little time. You definitely have a week; you might even have two before it starts getting too bad. I want you to be in a state where you can enjoy sex, even if you can't look forward to having a child."
America just stared at him, confused and hurt. England looked back, trying to convey a million things, trying to get him to understand what he had no words to say.
"Alright… I think I'm gonna go to bed then," America finally said. He stepped into his room but didn't close the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
England smiled back reassuringly, "Good night to you, then. I'll bring you supper when the time comes."
"Right, thanks."
England kept his eyes on him, still desperately wanting him to understand, but America just shut his door.
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America awoke before dawn the next morning. He rolled onto his side and looked out the window, hoping to watch the trees and grass move in the wind to try to settle the racing of his mind and the tangling of his thoughts. It looked like he was out of luck, though. It was raining sheets, making most of the landscape too dark to make much out. Pretty much the only thing he could see was a fallen tree on the edge of the woods. He knew it had toppled over during the night because its insides were still bright white against the dark sky and the darker forest. It was broken now, not quite dead and rotting yet but it might as well be. You couldn't fix something like that, not when that much of it was exposed.
He scowled and rolled over onto his side. He fucking hated symbolism.
He snuggled down into his blanket. God, what a day. Even if the storm would end the ground would be all muddy. He was going to be stuck inside all day with England in awkwardville.
He sat and ran a hand through his hair. The worst part was probably that he wanted it. He wanted to have sex with England. He wanted to have a family with him.
The two of them sitting together on the sofa. England with the baby in his arms. Both of them smiling.
But it was so scary. He couldn't imagine actually taking care of a kid. He was still practically a kid himself!
Walking through town with England and the child, the kid tugging him around. "Daddy, we should get sweets!" "Daddy, can I have a pet?" "Daddy, will you buy me a flower?" "By God, Alfred, you spoil that child."
And even if he would make a good dad, he'd have to have sex to do it. There was no one around that he really knew besides England. He'd just left Virginia to stay inconspicuous, and who else could he trust?
Tracing England's spine, feeling the rise and fall of each vertebrae
But that would change everything. He had liked being the spoiled little brother; he'd liked their relaxed relationship.
Kissing those soft-looking lips. Did they feel like they looked? How did it feel to kiss someone in the first place?
What would it be like to have a lover? It didn't seem like fun. Everything he'd read or heard made it seem like it was nothing but trouble.
Smiling. Kissing. Holding. Cuddling.
It would definitely hurt, both the sex and the pregnant part. All of it was stuffing things in places where things shouldn't be stuffed.
Freeing England's cock, making it get big and hard. Oh, how many times had he glanced down at England's lap, wondering what he was hiding.
He threw the blanket off and went down the hall to England's room. There wasn't time for this. Something was gonna give, and it might as well be the side that was going to break in the end. It went well all the way through opening the door.
He walked slowly up to the bed. England was on his side, curled around a spare pillow. He was muttering something that sounded almost like German. The only things America could pick out that even might have been words were "byre," "éadlufu." Who knew what the hell that meant? Then he heard his own name and felt his heart stop for a moment.
Fuck, this was happening. It was really happening. He wasn't sure if he wanted to run away and live in the woods or jump him right then and there. He swallowed.
"Come on, America," He said to himself, "You can do this."
He reached out and lightly shook England's shoulder.
"Hey, England, wake up."
His eyes fluttered open once, twice, before he seemed to realize what was going on and sat up.
"What's wrong, America?"
"I- um…"
"Do you feel ill, love? It is usually easier to get sick when one is- Well, it won't cause any trouble if you just rested today."
"No!" America realized how loudly he said that and blushed, "It's not that."
"What, then?" England asked, stretching.
America took a deep breath, "I wanna have sex."
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"Sorry?"
He blushed even redder, "I- I wanna have sex. I'm ready now."
"Are you sure?" England asked, examining his face, "This is rather fast."
"I know. But I- I-" What did he want to say? That he'd wanted England for months? That he knew he wouldn't have the balls to do this later?
England blushed "If you're sure I-I won't force you to explain yourself." He pulled back the sheet and looked away.
America awkwardly climbed into bed and crawled over England. He froze unsure of what to do.
"Would you like some help, America?"
"Shut up!"
England sighed, "If you're going to be so pig-headed the entire time you're going to be in for some rather painful sex." He flipped them.
"Hey!"
"I-I want you to enjoy yourself." He kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then, finally, his lips.
America was disappointed. Kissing had always been described as so magical, the thing that broke spells and caused happily-ever-afters. Instead, it was just England's lips against his. He supposed it was alright, but it wasn't magic.
England pulled away, legitimate concern on his face, "What's wrong? You're not kissing back."
"I think we did it wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when you hear about kissing-"
England laughed.
"What's so funny?" America demanded.
"Oh, America," He tucked a strand of hair behind America's ear, "Kissing is a metaphor."
America blushed. Again with the symbolism! At least England seemed a little less awkward. That was one of them. "For what?"
"Love. That's why it's always 'true love's kiss' and not simply a kiss. But even that's rather exaggerated. There is beauty in life and even more in love, but you must accept it for what it is, not for the ideal."
He kissed America again, slowly and sweetly. This time America pressed back. He tried to push thoughts of fairytales from his head and just focus on the moment, on England's lips on his, his hand reaching down to tangle their fingers. Lust began to boil in his stomach, making it tighten and his blood rush south. Oh this… this wasn't bad at all.
England opened his mouth and began to lick America's lips for some reason. After a few moments of confusion, he realized that England wanted to get into his mouth. He opened and allowed him in. He liked this. It was even better than normal kissing. He pressed his tongue against England's. Who knew his mouth was so sensitive? Every caress, every swipe, made his cock harden a little more. He was glad they were going straight from kissing to sex. If England had done this to him at any other time he probably would have died of embarrassment.
"My, my, America," England teased, "Getting so aroused so quickly…"
Oh wait, maybe he'd die of embarrassment anyway.
"Don't worry, it's always like that the first time," He nuzzled America's ear.
"Hnn…" He couldn't really worry about embarrassment when England was doing that to him.
"Normally I like to draw things out, touch and play for eons, but I don't think you'll make it. I'll be back in a moment."
He slid from the bed and went to his wardrobe. America sat up to watch as he rummaged around, pulling out a small wooden box.
"What's that?" America asked.
"Slick," England replied, opening it and pulling out a vial.
America blushed. Oh hell, this was happening. Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell.
He placed the vial on the bedside table and crawled back over America. He placed his hand on America's thighs and began to drag them upwards, taking America's shift with him. It was bad enough that America hadn't been naked in front of England since he was a kid, but the way that he was staring at every new inch of skin made him feel self-conscious. Did he like it? Did he think America looked like a kid? He hadn't stopped, so he probably didn't think that America looked deformed or anything.
When his eyes finally reached America's face again he smiled, "Relax. You're perfectly lovely, and it's not as though your job is difficult."
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