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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(Gilbert says Roderich’s fingers know how to play your cunt, or your cock; the Gilbert-Elizabeta-Roderich triangle is a delicate matter and Alfred doesn’t ask because he understands enough of delicate matters to know they all share the same bed. A waterbed, according to Ludwig.)
So Gilbert says, “Hey,” and then he repeats himself and turns to face Alfred who folds his arms and glares. “Your dad’s worried you’ll choke on your sulk if you don’t lighten up. Don’t do that to Francis, okay? He’s with me on that one. Arthur’s no good for you, sunshine.”
Eyebrows creasing with the effort to hold back a frown but failing miserably, Alfred throws his head back. He groans. Great, just great. Trust Gilbert to be an awesome boss. Also trust him to fuck your private life up. He likes to do that. A lot.
And Papa likes to play along.
Right now, he hates them both-
(Just a little, though, because Papa is a nice dad considering-well, everything, really-and Gilbert taught him to make people gleam in light so Alfred can’t hate Gilbert even if he tried.)
-who do they think they are?
They smother a love yearning to blossom in light and sun
(and Arthur like Alfred wants to blossom in Arthur and through Arthur and with Arthur).
“Arthur,” Alfred declares as he hands Papa the garlic press, “is the love of my life,” and his father freezes in his movement.
Alfred thinks of moving out.
Slumped on a bench and watching the idle park life passing by, he thinks of moving out and Papa’s distress giving way to terror as Alfred announces he’s moving in with Arthur.
(“Alfred-” Papa whispers because all air is knocked out of his lungs when Alfred steps aside and in comes Arthur. Leaning against the door frame and hands in his pockets, he looks defiantly up at Papa and Alfred leans close to touch his mouth to Arthur’s, to his rings and studs and all the metal, and Arthur reaches up, drags his knuckles along the base of Alfred’s neck, strokes and fondles him and Alfred purrs, and Arthur saying: - )
It’s a busy day for each of them and by the time the sun sets, Gilbert takes Alfred and Ludwig to his local. Alfred doesn’t think he’ll ever get the hang of pub life. But that’s okay. It’s London. London’s swinging, and the only thing that matters is to go with the flow.
Besides, he won’t refuse a pint. Or two. Or, quite possibly, nine. It’s London swinging and Alfred swinging just as much. He's in love.
Shortly after the third and right before the fourth pint, there is this cheesy music playing.
Gilbert says it’s all in his head and Ludwig agrees. Alfred decides he’s well past the point of giving a fuck-it’s as it is and he’ll just sing in tune with the music in his head, then.
Alfred singing, “We’re gonna make love, it’s gonna be tonight,” but the alcohol is making his head dizzy and his tongue’s grown heavy so he slurs more than he sings. “Huggin’ and teasin’ an’ lovin’ an’ squeezin’, oh yeah Arthur’s gonna be mine...”
Ludwig chokes on his beer. Gilbert spares Alfred a glance before he pats his brother’s back. Alfred keeps staring at Gilbert until Gilbert meets his eyes. He says, “You know him. Tell me where I can get to know him, too.”
Amusement flares in his eyes and smugness pulls at the corners of his mouth but Gilbert’s voice is steady when he speaks. “Talk to your dad, sunshine.”
“Suck it-suck him,” Alfred says, “Where did you meet him? How did you meet Arthur,” and despair and longing make his voice sound meek and feeble and Alfred cries, “Please, Gilbert, I need to know! Don’t treat me like a kid!”
In the end, Gilbert says nothing but it’s Ludwig who explains, “He finds you,” although, Alfred muses, a fat load of good this one does.
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He concludes Arthur has none, perhaps a Prince Albert piercing at best, and that is precisely why Arthur takes off his clothes in Alfred’s fantasy.
Arthur doesn’t takes his eyes off of Alfred’s body, however, and Alfred stares right back and Arthur mouths for him to come closer, come, pretty boy-and Alfred comes but not like that and he swears under his breath, rolls onto his stomach and collects his thoughts.
Face flush and glinting, his thoughts keep Arthur hold fast to the chair. Arthur spreads his legs as Alfred kneels between them and one of his fingers traces the slant of Alfred’s mouth while Arthur’s tongue sucks and pulls on his other hand.
He sees the faint shimmer of a piercing right above the tip of Arthur’s tongue. Alfred gets hard just thinking about it. Before he knows it, his hand treats his cock to another orgasm and he’s biting the pillow to refrain from screaming Arthur’s name. Papa and Matthew are in the next room, watching hockey or soccer, or something else entirely.
“So,” Alfred says and drags his teeth over Arthur’s finger, craving to pull it in and suck like Arthur is sucking the fingers of his other hand. “How come you don’t have a more advanced genital piercing yet,” and Alfred knows, even when he is just thinking things, that he would never say such a thing to Arthur-Arthur-without a word that would falter, without a voice that would fade into gasps and moans and grunts and please let me fuck you’s.
“Because,” Arthur says. Between each syllable his tongue darts out to lick his fingers, “I like pretty boys handling my cock. Are you a pretty boy, Alfred?”
“Y-yeah,” Alfred says and Arthur stops sucking his fingers. Smiling, he brushes a strand of hair from his eyes and behind his ears. Arthur’s fingers touch the piercings in his ears.
Alfred’s breath hitches; he barely catches the moan in his throat before it’s out. Swallowing, he forces it back. Arthur reaches out for his hands.
“Do you want to be my pretty boy, Alfred?” Arthur breathes and each of his touches feels like an orgasm in itself: slow and teasing and then a thousand insects buzzing through his cock and innards and his chest. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Alfred’s cock explodes-or so Alfred thinks it feels like. Light flooding his vision and being Arthur all over:
Arthur’s eyes and Arthur’s studs and Arthur’s rings and Arthur’s voice (Alfred imagines it’s dark and soft and making the blood pool low in his gut), and Arthur’s touch and Arthur’s cock cradled in Alfred’s hands and Arthur ordering Alfred to jab the needle through its tip to make Arthur scream and come and scream some more and then come again, and Alfred wondering what it must feel like to have the inside of your ass fucked raw by unyielding metal.
It’s just an idea, really, but it’s an idea that grows into desire and before long Alfred ponders: apadravya or ampallang, which one suits him better? Which one’s more in line with him?
He needs someone to talk this through with but Matthew’s still squeamish about jabbing needles through your body and Papa-Alfred won’t talk to Papa.
Gilbert is his boss (and busy explaining his brother the many levels of “awesome” Ludwig would embody when put in boots and uniform and flogging “these bitches”.
Ludwig blushes, mumbles and excuses himself. As Ludwig walks past and their eyes meet, Alfred holds up his hand and gives him the V-sign. Ludwig smiles weakly at that, but he smiles and that is enough for Alfred to feel pleased.
Honestly, Gilbert’s such a pain in the ass for all involved.)
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He also wonders what Arthur would have to say.
“Go for it,” perhaps, or, nipping at his earlobe while Alfred’s playing with the rings in his nipples, making Arthur’s mouth fall open on ragged breathing, “The pain is intense, pretty boy. I rather you do it to me.”
And Alfred craves to, he really does.
--
"We're gonna make love/It's gonna be tonight...", ampallang & apadravya.
tbc with the boys meeting & real smut taking place outside Al's imagination. Your comments have been lovely, thank you so much, anons. ♥
I'm curious as to who you think I am.
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And just to say I'm loving this to bits, anon <3 I really like how you portray Alfred, and even more, how he imagines Arthur and how things could be.
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.../sudden urge to go get another one
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this is lovely. awesome. the style. the interactions. mon dieu, indeed.
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recaptcha: gomorrah nbs. oh captcha you know you love some TV-appropriate sodomy 8D
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I think I know who you are just from your wording and... but, still. I. /dies
INCOHERENCY OVERLOAD
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I LOVE YOU /F5S LIKE MAD
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I can't even.
It's SO GOOD. I'll be F5ing. *intensestare*
( Captcha says you should "consider tokugawa" I'm not entirely sure what that means. :S )
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This hits so many levels of hotness I can't even begin to describe - you do it far better than I ever could.
This fill is delicious like Alfred's fantasies. *g*
I totally wish I knew who you were now, so I can stalk your fiction :3
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Loving this, and eagerly waiting for an update! ♥
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It’s his ghost that lingers everywhere, his ghost and scent and light and Alfred’s growing restless: where is Arthur, has something happened to Arthur, is Arthur alright, has Arthur…
Arthur’s the pillar of his world, Alfred thinks, the pillar of a world founded on freedom, independence and equality.
Irony finds a hundred ways to bloom, doesn't it.
A warm and sunny day, perfect to spend lunch hour sitting on a bench in a city park, and Alfred’s thumbing through Gilbert’s tattered fetish magazine.
Page 75. Black ribbon on white skin, and hazy green is the only colour gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. The photography is beautiful. Arthur is beautiful.
Thumbnail tracing the line of Arthur’s back, Alfred imagines Arthur’s tilted head and parted lips are meant for him and no one else.
Arthur is a thousand things, and more than that: Arthur is light and love and virtue, and he’s biting on his finger, ever so luscious, lewd, and promising. It’s almost like Alfred can hear him pant even though it’s his chest heaving and his thoughts spinning and his mouth falling open on a voiceless gasp.
(“Touch me,” Arthur breathes. Tongue darting out, curling up and back and light sliding off underneath Arthur’s tongue, Alfred touches the pad of his thumb to Arthur’s snakebites. He thinks of kissing them.
Instead, he says, “I want you to shine,” and Arthur shines, and shines, and shines.)
The old man next to him mutters something before he straightens, leaves, and seconds later someone new flops down. A pang of something likes shame makes his guts twist, and embarrassment crawls across his neck. Alfred moves to put the magazine away.
A hand keeps him from doing so, however, and Alfred’s head jerks up.
(“You into that,” says the owner of the hand, amused, entertained. Undisclosed laughter sips through his voice as he goes on, “pretty boy?” and Alfred’s brain stops working.)
Eyes going wide, Alfred’s heart skips a beat or two, and then it thunders against his ribcage like it’s breaking free. Breath catches high in his throat but Arthur’s smile comes in a flash of white and red and silvery gleam, knocking all breath out of his lungs, leaving him breathless and gasping for air.
Arthur says, “What a lovely face you have,” and Alfred swoons.
Back in the shop and Gilbert’s in a sour mood; Alfred can tell by the scowl that’s painting his face in annoyance as his needle outlines the pattern of Roderich’s new tattoo. Break’s almost over and Roderich’s tattoo isn’t making much progress whatsoever.
Alfred is glad he isn’t Gilbert’s boyfriend (because Gilbert isn’t gentle and loving and wouldn’t tilt the world out of its axis to make Arthur’s days longer and brighter, to make Arthur bath in sun and light and adoration).
“On second thought, Gilbert, I’m not sure if I really need,” Roderich begins but Gilbert’s growl cuts him off. Alfred laughs. Gilbert swears under his breath.
“Don’t you have work to do,” he snaps at Alfred, who folds his arms behind his head. “Yeah,” Alfred says and grins. “Tonight.”
The sound of pages being flipped and Ludwig reading, “2:30 p.m., Lukasiewicz, Feliks-Alfred,” and Alfred rolls his eyes.
Precise, straight to the point, matter-of-factly-no humour. Ludwig in a nutshell.
“You’re no fun,” he says and turns to face the counter. Ludwig’s cheeks darken ever so slightly.
Friday club night is Sin City in the Electric Ballroom, the best place to be on Friday nights and doubly so when Arthur (Arthur!) is leaning against the wall, waiting for him (him!) to return with two bottles of beer. Arthur grins as he catches sight of Alfred. He winks.
Bass pounding in his skull, rattling his teeth and heart and brain, Alfred’s breathing smoke and sweat and booze and smiles back (and almost trips over his own feet as he does so).
“Thanks, mate,” Arthur shouts over the music. Alfred beams.
He holds out a bottle for Arthur to take, then, but Arthur―Arthur wraps his arms around Alfred’s shoulders, pulls him close-flush against his chest-and yells something into Alfred’s ear Alfred doesn’t catch right away but when he does, he’s melting.
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Alfred wants his arm to slide around Arthur, to spin Arthur round and hold him tight and fast, and Arthur arching into the touch, lowering his head to his chest, exposing his neck.
Alfred wants all that and more: Alfred wants his lips tracing the line of Arthur’s neck, down, down, down, to his nape and piercings there, breathing open-mouthed kisses into skin and studs, and Alfred wants Arthur’s tongue, wants it licking and pulling and sucking as Alfred taste the inside of his mouth.
His heart races, the tips of his fingers are wet and sweating, and Alfred’s not sure if that’s what Arthur wants as well-at least like that, like Alfred wants it, like Alfred needs it.
So he brings his hands to touch the small of Arthur’s back-shy, hesitant like afraid to hurt even though he knows there are no piercings there, not anymore, corset piercings are not permanent-and Alfred leans close to shout, “You’re welcome!” embracing false subtleness and double entendre because he means what he says very much like he says it.
A faint tremble soars through Arthur; Alfred feels it beneath his hands. Alfred isn’t sure if it’s because the bottles are cold against this skin or because Arthur wants it, too.
Arthur’s hands move, crawl up and up and up till it’s the back of his knuckles brushing the back of Alfred’s neck. Other hand cradling the side of Alfred’s face and Alfred’s heart pumping in his throat, Arthur stares into his eyes and smiles and leans close, and Arthur’s kiss finds to the corner of his mouth and Alfred’s certain he’s going to split in two.
“I’d like that, yeah,” Arthur says but the music’s heavy, loud, and noisy, so Alfred doesn’t catch more than hot breath ghosting over his lips and cheeks and nose. Alfred’s eyelids flutter.
Somehow-somehow he’s glad the music’s heavy, loud and noisy because when he doesn’t react Arthur starts grinding his body against Alfred’s. A moan forms low in his stomach. It’s almost like Arthur knows because Arthur’s tongue slides into his mouth, dragging the sound up from the bottom of his guts straight into his own mouth. Alfred moans. Arthur sucks it in.
Then he breaks away, looks at Alfred. Alfred feels like being pulled in and under, drowning in a sea of green that has gone a little wide, a little foggy. Alfred feels the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest against his own. Arthur’s mouth is open on the same shallow breathing like Alfred’s is.
Alfred’s mesmerised, caught in the moment and swept away. That’s why he forgets he’s holding on to the bottles: fingers going slack, both bottles slip from his grip. They fall to the ground. The glass shatters, probably, but Alfred doesn’t feel anything, neither shards nor pain nor wet.
Alfred presses the pad of his thumb to Arthur’s snakebites, rubbing his adoration into them. Arthur’s teeth, he feels them just underneath. It’s great. It’s so fucking great, and Arthur’s letting him do all of this-making his piercings scrape against his teeth, curling his fingers around Alfred’s wrist and guiding his thumb to his lips.
(Arthur’s lips parted, mouth opened far and wide, and Alfred can see the glinting barbell of a tongue piercing, and then Arthur’s tongue’s curling back against the roof of his mouth and there are two studs just underneath its frenulum. They are really there, not just hinting at being there like in the magazine. They are really there.
Seconds tick by in a rush of warmth spreading deep within his soul and Alfred knows this is love, so much of it, so intense and burning and overwhelming is this love.
“What’re you waiting for? Come on!” Arthur shouts, speech slurred and garbled and tongue quaking with each word, piercings glinting and gleaming and shining, and Alfred nearly does come.)
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