Hetalia kink meme part 23
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hetalia kink meme
part 23
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He mocked England's offers of mending their rapport because America had to be guarded. Countries entered and maintained relationships for political gain or for security. Getting close to England again would lead to England wanting to own America again, or England's boss feeling free to make more and more demands. Or entirely different countries would take offense in some way and there'd be political trouble. For America to allow himself vulnerability with another country would be spitting on the sacrifices and fights of his citizens.
"Unless I was really England's son. Then it wouldn't matter. Even if countries didn't like it, they couldn't do anything about it, and there wouldn't have to be any power struggles."
"I doubt you're capable of keeping that kind of peace, but if it's being England's son you want, I can help you with that."
Nearly jumping out of his skin, America turned one way, then another, looking for who had spoken. It didn't sound like one of the other countries. No one had come outside; no one had walked up to the building. He had been sure he was alone when he came out here.
A burning cigarette signaled someone sitting on the steps, several feet away from America.
"I didn't just walk past you, did I?" Strange. The boy was very slight, and rather dark, but perched on the white concrete, he stood out dramatically. He hadn't questioned America using England's name, so maybe he was a micronation or someone's state or province, tagging along to the meeting.
The boy took a deep drag of his cigarette, taking so long to answer that America thought he wasn't going to. Then, "You did not. I could tell somewhere, someone was wanting something, so I decided to drop in and offer a solution."
America was a bit let down, having hoped for something more outlandish. "Okay, bro, whatever you say. Could you maybe cough next time? Warn a guy you're there? That was seriously creepy!"
"I'm creepy? You're standing in the dark like a loser, crying that you have no daddy, and you're trying to call me creepy?"
"Shut up! I'm not crying!" America's face started burning, and for the second time in under five minutes, he was grateful for the cover of nightfall. "We don't know each other, why are you talking to me?" What was this kid doing, hanging about here? He wasn't human, but he also didn't have the feel of a place personification.
"Grow a thicker skin, I just told you I'm here because of you. You should speak more kindly to people with the power to grant wishes."
In spite of having his doubts over whether or not magical creatures existed, America was ever ready to believe in the impossible--so long as he could see it. He could see this person, who wasn't human, who gave off a sense of being powerful, and whom America could not identify as anything he'd ever met before. "How can you do that?"
"I'm a genie." The cigarette tip glowed brilliantly as the self-professed genie gave one last inhale. He flicked the filter in a high, perfect arc, over the sidewalk and into the road.
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"That's definitely what you want? To be England's child?"
America nodded. Hopeful excitement was filling him. "I want you to make me England's child, so I can be his son and we can be together all the time without anyone caring."
"Granted! Soon enough, that is." The boy reached into his jacket, pulling out a battered metal case. "Join me in a celebratory smoke?"
Uneasily--what was with the wait?--America sat down by the genie, accepting a cigarette. As warm as the night was, the concrete beneath America was freezing. He wondered how he would know when he was England's son. How happy was England going to be? Now he'd have no doubts of how America felt, and all America's petulant remarks would be forgiven. "England's gonna be psyched! Bet he doesn't believe me when I tell him I met a genie. Canada is going to be so jealous when I'm more to England than he is!"
The genie, amusement in his dark eyes, just held out a zippo to light America's cigarette.
***
Walking out on America after the meeting had been an overreaction that England wished he could take back.
"America is always saying horrible things," England grumbled to his drink. "If he honestly had a problem with me, he'd do more than make rude remarks."
The glass sat on the cocktail napkin that had come with it, and did nothing more than reflect the overhead lights.
Fighting the urge to curse at it, England grabbed the glass and downed the contents. "Blink at me, will you?"
He'd pressed America for details, gotten mad when he was given them, and nagged America when he could have just let the boy vent. America was his own country, an equal now who had the right to be in an ill humor every once in a while, just like everyone else. So what if it was over something petty? Everybody had bad days. Why expect more of America?
Trying to phone America just got England directed to voice mail. Well, probably America was out and ignoring his mobile. Who knew, maybe he and Canada and Mexico had all made up and were together somewhere. The bartender was giving England funny looks--fair enough, England had been drinking a lot and he was probably presenting himself as a distraught boyfriend who'd just been dumped. Leaving the bar, England returned to his hotel room, to go to bed.
Predictably, between all those drinks on an empty stomach and spending the evening worrying, England slept badly.
Only the details of one of his dreams stayed with him--a teenage boy standing before the hotel bed, smoking a cigarette while staring disdainfully down on England. "Better prepare you."
The question England wanted answered was how the hell this kid had gotten into his room, never mind what "prepare" meant. He didn't get the chance to ask. A spear materialized in the boy's hand. To England's horror, it was launched at him, piercing his abdomen. The length sank into him, painlessly--then once it had disappeared, there was writhing inside England like his insides had turned to snakes trying to bite their way out.
"I'll come back in a few hours to check on you," the boy said.
Scared awake, England spent the next hour on the bathroom floor, throwing up while hunched over by stomach pain. "It was a nightmare, that's what you get for drinking so much." He wished he could remember if the cigarette smell in the room had been here when he'd arrived.
***
Whatever America had smoked, it hadn't been a cigarette.
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"So I got high with some weirdo and England found me and brought me to his hotel room." Everything was fine. England was probably pissed off, but even if he was, he'd rescued America, hadn't he? He could have left America with someone else, or steered America to America's own hotel room and dumped him off there alone.
Haziness washed over America. He wanted the air conditioning off, it was brutally cold. Was the smell in the room because of him? Had he gotten black out drunk, forcing England to care for him? What an awful night this had been!
Seeking warmth, he made it to the bed. England, lying front-first, was not sleeping well, and America's attempts to cuddle against him to warm up were only making the older country more fretful. "You're a pain even when you're asleep. But I guess I owe you." With one hand, America stroked England's hair. With the other hand, he rubbed England's back. He really hoped, during his high, he hadn't told England anything about the wish he'd made to the "genie." He was so crushed that it wasn't real and he wouldn't magically become England's child that America wasn't even humiliated by falling for the story.
His hand had lowered to an inappropriate extent.
For a time, America just stared at his hand resting on England's ass. He had been confused and depressed, but the fog in his head was increasing and everything that had happened wasn't feeling real anymore. He and England seemed to be the only people there were, this bed seemed to be the entire world. America tried to collect his bearings--then America sat up and pulled off England's pants.
He was not thinking about sex with England. Even as his fingers rubbed over and encircled England so intimately, easing into him as if America did this all the time, nothing felt sexual about it. There was only warmth and closeness, but not enough. What if he could get inside England? It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would England not be waking, why else would England's ass be giving in to America like this? America had started with dry hands, and impossibly, he was nearly fisting England with ease. As he observed the oddity of this situation, America's fist forced through what little resistance there'd been.
His entire hand was encased by warm tightness.
This...couldn't be right. It felt wonderful, but something was wrong with this. No, something was wrong with him--America's skin was changing. There was a moisture all over him that wasn't sweat. It almost felt..."Oily?"
And he was shrinking.
If America had had any fear, it was quickly dissolving into pure amazement. His clothes had vanished, he was the same size he'd been as a teenager, and he still decreasing. Withdrawing his hand from England's ass earned America a small whine from the older country, who arched slightly without waking, as if protesting the emptiness. Not wanting to deny England, America went back to fingering the older country, feeling himself continue to diminish. Would this stop? His urge to be inside England was getting stronger, rising to a frantic desperation. When he was down to colony-size, America hesitantly clasped his tiny hands. Pressing them to England's entrance, they slipped in deeper than America intended--his wrists and most of his arms disappeared. Wriggling forward, he was now nose-first to England's ass.
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***
Moaning loudly, England became aware that his pain had turned into an intense sexual encounter.
Lying on his stomach, his ass was stretched and filled, with more being coaxed into him. Nothing else could fit into him, what was the meaning of trying by force? Logic, however, didn't stop England from wanting to press up harder onto whatever was doing the penetrating, though trying displeased whoever was doing this to England.
Not even thinking who might be with him, England squirmed against the mattress. He had a raging hard-on, which he rubbed against the rumpled top sheet, friction unbearable. "Keep going," he begged. "I'll hold still, just keep going."
Presumably appeased, the fucking resumed.
What was going into England was very large. The attempted insertion turned into a lot of pushing; the object simply was too big to go in all the way, but the stranger refused to give up. They shoved and shoved. Impatiently, England buried his face into the mattress, elbows digging in, ass rising. This time the person with him did not punish England for moving without permission. England held his breath as he thrust backward. When he had to breathe, there was a tiny frame of mere seconds where his body did not resist and only accepted the object. Panting and groaning, England went along with this process. He felt like he was going to split apart. There was searing pain, while at the same time, a frenzied satiation that made England want this to continue harder than it already was going.
Impossibly, the entirety of the thing went into him.
With more than a few whimpers, England waited for the next part. Why wasn't the stranger getting on with fucking him? He swore his ass was tightening around whatever this was. Having it pound in and out of him was going to be amazing. Backing upward to prompt the stranger to hurry up, England groaned, every inch of his body on fire, sweat running down him. Not able to control himself, he humped the mattress, putting pressure on his cock. Rocking into the bed in such a rhythm made the fullness in his ass more pronounced; it had to be wishful thinking that he was being penetrated deeper. "Fuck this--fuck you, stopping now--fuck, fuck, fuck!" He couldn't think or even breathe. It was a relief wrapping his hands around his cock and going along until he'd jerked off all over the bed. Overwhelmed, he flopped down into the mess, gasping.
Once he'd regained his breath, he felt uncomfortably stretched. It hit England that he still didn't know who was with him. And what had been put into him? His ass was burning and stretched out, but it no longer had the sensation that anything was in there. When had the object been removed? It was so big that there was no way it could've been pulled out without England knowing.
His stomach hitched, and he rolled over, onto his back. Nervousness prickled him all over, like static shock.
***
He'd fallen asleep. After all that, he'd actually fallen asleep.
What woke England was difficulty breathing. He was being crushed! The top sheet was mounding up, over his midsection--someone was lying on him. It had to be the stranger who'd spent the night, but just because he'd given out an solid fuck did not mean he had the right to use England's stomach as a pillow. Especially when his head alone weighed a ton. "Get off, what are you even--" England, having just swatted at the mound, inhaled suddenly, due to being in agony. Gingerly, he felt over his front. "What the goddamn fuck?"
No one was lying on him. That was, at least not in the way he'd first thought.
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Grabbing his mobile, England had no idea how he was going to explain this, which didn't matter as he got no answer from the name he selected.
"Having a little trouble reaching America?"
Cigarette smoke drifted into England's nostrils before he set eyes on the teenager from his dream. The boy was young, too young, and not a country or a town or anything else of the like, though he was far too magical to be human. England said the very first thing that came to mind. "Oh God, did I let you fuck me last night?"
The boy's face twisted with annoyance. He was a cute kid, even if he was dressed unimaginatively in jeans and a touristy-looking t-shirt, but he barely looked older than Sealand. Quite a huge turn off. "That's the question you have to ask, with all things said and done? Did we fuck?"
"Well, I had sex with someone last night."
"You didn't. Calling it that is disgusting." Stifling a laugh, the boy then had a thought about his cigarette. "Oh...should I not be smoking around you?"
All the drinking he'd done came back to England. But he hadn't been like this last night! What the hell was in him, fairy or imp spawn that only took hours to gestate? Or was some poor woman somewhere in a panic because she was no longer pregnant?
Still considering his cigarette, the boy remorsefully laid it out on one palm, closing his fist around it. When he uncurled his hand, fingers splaying, the cigarette was gone.
"Undo this!" Gesturing at his belly, England struck it again, by accident. It was huge and he wasn't used to having it. He hissed in pain. A flurry of indignant activity went off inside him, and he circled his arms around his midsection, trying to calm down his intruder. Those pointy little kicks hurt.
"It wasn't your wish, and even if it was, I can't take back wishes once they're granted. He only had one wish. Technically, I've given him extra, in making sure he gets what he asked for."
"You're a genie." Dread filled England. Genies were one of the few magical creatures England wanted nothing to do with. They only offered wishes to terrorize, and they went about fulfilling those wishes by the most spiteful ways possible. Undoing magic cast by someone else was already difficult; magic cast by a genie was beyond England's abilities. He had no hope of undoing this or magically switching the child back into its rightful mother.
"I sure am!" The boy smiled charmingly. He stooped down, picking clothing off the floor, and folded a shirt. England recognized it as part of what America had been wearing yesterday. "Your beloved former colony was so sad by the distances that had to be kept. He so badly wanted to be closer to you."
The sarcasm didn't go unnoticed by England, but he had bigger concerns. "America. It was to him you granted a wish? Then--"
"You're pregnant with him. Congratulations! Aren't you happy?" The genie, folding America's jeans, stacked them on top of the shirt. He then tossed America's socks and briefs onto the pile. Holding out America's bomber jacket and wondering what to do with it, the genie decided to just leave it on the bed. "I wasn't going to give America anything, but he got on my nerves a bit with all his talk. You were his guardian, and you've mostly been close after that, why did he think being blood-related would make you more? But that's your fault, for raising him wrong. So you get to raise him again!"
Then this wasn't a stolen child. That was the only good news about this situation. "Are you forgetting that America has a boss who will notice if he's gone? How do you suggest I explain being up the duff with him?"
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Keeping out of sight for weeks would be immensely difficult, though not impossible. It was the end of that more worrying England. "If this is supposed to be kept quiet, how is he getting out of me?"
"Same way he got into you." The genie smiled wickedly. "Best of luck!" He vanished on the spot.
"Shit." Stunned, England sat on the bed, not knowing what to do. He was only wearing a shirt, which his newly-huge stomach was hanging out of. None of his clothes were going to fit. Just sitting up had been hard; his stomach was so massive it felt like the skin was going to break open, and trying to walk around with this...how was he going to get anything done? Huffily, he tried pitching himself forward, and stood up quite off-balanced, but his belly had felt stuffed and stretched past maximum capacity while the bulk of it was resting in his lap. Now there was nothing supporting it. One hand pressing under the heavy curve gave England a little relief. He couldn't do that all the time though.
A month of this?
Squirming started inside him. Evidently, going from sitting to standing had disturbed America. "Don't fucking start! This is your fault!" England sat back down, rubbing his stomach because the skin was sore, dammit, not because he cared about America being bothered. "Of all the selfish things--you had to wish something that would also be done to me?" Come to think of it, he was coming off worse. America didn't have to do anything but ride this out and get taken care of for the next several years. It was England doing the hard part. And sex was going to be ruined for him forever, knowing that "dream" had actually been America invading his body. "Someday," England hissed, "I am going to humiliate you with that reminder." Under the scritching of his fingers, the shifting calmed. No more kicks or jabs were aimed at his insides. England sighed and did not take his hand off his stomach. "Who am I kidding, no I won't. It's not like I'm going to want to remember it either."
However misguided America had been, and as inconvenient and the pain in the ass that this was, it was almost flattering. Of everything the boy could have wished for, what had appealed to him most was making England his parent?
England's mobile was still on the bed. He picked it up, mentally rehearsing a story that would convince his boss not to look in on him anytime soon. Once he was done with that, he'd try and figure out which country he would phone for help in getting through this.
***
END
A/N: I don't know if this is what you wanted, OP.
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I laughed at the promise to humiliate America in the future. I could so see that happening.
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