In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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hetalia kink meme
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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The long, wide skirt sweeps the floor; it sings with colour, bright and mad and wonderful as the dancer clasps hands with the Belarusian People's Republic. In contrast to her partner, Belarus is wearing the slim gamine-gown that is fashionable now, and she has teased her fine, pale hair into pincurls--she looks so strange with short hair, he thinks to himself, but then he has only known her for a few months. She has been lodging next to him since she broke with her brother over her republican tendencies, and although they sometimes cross paths when she is hanging laundry or he is stepping out for milk, they have hardly spoken more than a score of words to each other.
Even now, he is hardly sparing her a glance. His eyes are arrested by the man who has her hands in his gloved hands, his dress embroidered with fine flowers as though this were a Reinaissance ball. As though these were still the glory days of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, when that slender man in a dress was a mighty ruler. His hair is swept back from his face with a touch of pomade (his one concession to the fashion of the day), and his eyes are sparkling with mischief.
They have been born anew, in the wake of the war. This new Poland is aglow with optimism, proud and flamboyant and unashamed to be dancing in a woman's clothes. In the periphery, Lithuania watches with an unaccustomed shyness. His hand rests on a frieze, detailed with dancing nymphs done in pale plaster-and-jute staff; the nymphs look utterly graceful and carefree, even roughly shaped as they are. Their soft chitons cling to their breasts; Poland's chest is smooth and flat under the lace of his neckline.
He wonders if the man were always as beautiful and carefree as he is today. It has been many years since last they danced--many years since he drew that soft hand into his and kissed it with warm affection.
Skirts fly out, revealing soft, lacy petticoats; Lithuania swallows his apprehension and strides across the room. He feels awkward in his uniform, still Russian in all of its particulars--it looks absurd and drab against the vibrant glamour of Poland's dress. He feels absurd and drab. Will he even be recognized, now that they are new people?
His hand closes on Poland's bare shoulder, calluses awkward-rough on the smooth skin. The golden-haired man is laughing as he turns to greet the interloper--
--and then he stands still, for a moment, mouth still half-open. "I--oh, golly, ain't you the cat's meow." His hands do not so much release Belarus's, as they fall out of hers and into Lithuania's. "Tell me I'm not all zozzled ... it's you, right?"
Lithuania can't help but laugh, his apprehension falling away. "Yes, it's me," he says.
"Says you," says Poland, but he leans close, resting his hard chin on Lithuania's shoulder. The bone of his jaw digs slightly at an old scar; the closeness is strange, after so many years apart.
Neither one lets go, even when the music changes and the dancers shift around them.
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wow, Writer!anon, I'm not the OP, but I'd like you to know how ridiculously happy I am to see this written! No, seriously. I can't even express that, and-- and it's written so amazingly, too, wow. Christmas in September, take two!
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Writeranon, ilu. Ilu HARD.
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Even the captive band retires at last, leaving to share a decrepit apartment with vanquished Germany--Lithuania can't help wondering how long that can last, since everyone knows that the two of them had gotten up to worse than mischief when they'd been together last. Austria departs the ballroom with the careful steps, the peculiar, precise grace of the man who would die if anyone knew he were drunk.
They are alone in the ballroom, but for the nymphs on the frieze.
"Hey," Lithuania whispers (and even a whisper echoes strangely in the empty room). "Hey--you should come home with me."
"Cash or check?" murmurs Poland against his ear, breath ghosting there and making Lithuania shiver. "Check," he answers, but he can barely hear himself. "Only ... only until we get home."
Poland's grin is suddenly feral, teeth bright in the low light. "Race you," he says, except that when he hikes up his skirts and dashes off, his free hand is firmly clasped in Lithuania's.
They dash to Kaunas, feet light on the long road. Traces of the war pass them by, broken buildings and abandoned weapons; Poland's long skirt flies out behind them and obscures the signs of destruction. By the time they have reached Lithuania's door, the both of them are breathless and collapse against it, laughing--they cannot even muster the strength to reach for the handle and turn it, and so they sink to the stoop and lean against one another's shoulders.
"Your dress is getting dirty," Lithuania says, as he kisses Poland's ear.
"Aww, applesauce," says Poland. "I've got more."
At last, Lithuania composes himself enough to climb to his feet, unlocking the door and gently pushing it open; Poland, who had been leaning against the wood of it, squawks and almost topples in. "Lay off!" he shouts, then falls back against the rug in the entryway in a mock faint. He raises one hand elegantly, wrist bent like a swan's neck in his elbow-length glove. "Help me up."
"Do you want me to lay off, or help you up?" Lithuania asks mildly, but his hand is already closing on Poland's and drawing the man to his feet.
They are close, now--as close as they were while dancing. Poland's golden hair curtains off the dim light spilling in through the door. "I want my check," he says softly, and closes the door.
It has been centuries since they have kissed one another. Lithuania is pleased to discover that they haven't forgotten how.
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i can't wait for the third installment. <333
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Tonight, Lithuania eases the soft silk stockings down Poland's legs, pressing a kiss to the man's knee and curling his fingertips over the lean, hard muscle of his calf. The skin is smooth, shaven under stockings and petticoats and skirts; nonetheless, he cannot mistake those fine legs for anything but masculine. "I've missed you," he says, and he brushes kisses over Poland's inner thighs. Slowly, gloved fingers tangle in his hair.
"You've gotta stop greasing your hair," Poland mutters. "I like it loose--and you're staining my gloves."
"Take them off," says Lithuania, reasonably. He turns his head to catch the tip of one finger in his teeth, tugging gently until the glove comes free; he can hear Poland's breath hitch at the whisper of fabric over skin, and he can see the man's bare hand trembling.
His own hand is careful, gentle as he smooths it over Poland's thigh and up to the soft curve of his arse. "I've missed you," he says again, because it's more true with every passing moment. "May I ...?"
"Sure ... sure, that'd be swell," Poland says, like laughing. "Just stop beating your gums and do it."
Perhaps Lithuania should wait, should be patient, should take them to bed and do this right--but he has spent too many years, now, being broken and taught to love haste and roughness. He slides Poland's soft undergarments down, and nuzzles his cheek against the swell of his arousal. The flesh of it is hot, the skin almost unbearably soft over hardness; he can't stifle a low moan as he licks the length and takes the tip between his lips. Sweet Christ, hisses Poland, his hands clenching in Lithuania's hair again. One hand gloved, one hand bare and hot against the nape of his neck. So lost is he to the sensation of being slowly sucked that at first, the burn of fingers inside him is almost imperceptible--and by the time he notices, the burn has turned to rapture.
They make love on a narrow couch, still mostly dressed, Poland's skirts in disarray on the cracked leather. Lithuania would try to hush their cries--but Belarus has gone home with her brother, and so there is no one to hear them shout their pleasure to the night.
When they are lying entangled and sated, Poland tugs off his remaining glove and slides his fingers into Lithuania's hair. "That was swell," he says, beaming. "We've gotta go to Vilnius next time, visit my joint."
There is a terrible, uncomfortable silence.
"Er," Lithuania begins, as politely as he can. "Vilnius is mine. My capital, actually."
Poland bursts out laughing. "You slay me! Naw, you're all wet. Vilnius is mine."
With a sigh, Lithuania lets his head rest on Poland's chest. The lace tickles his cheek. "We never used to fight."
"Yeah ... we didn't." For a moment, Poland is uncharacteristically quiet. "I guess we're different people now--huh, Liet?"
Leaning up to kiss his cheek, Lithuania says softly, "I guess we are."
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D-DRUNK LATVIA'S GONNA BE MY NEW FETISH THANKS TO YOU :DDD
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DRUNK LATVIA IS ADORABLE, SAYS I.
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