[Fanfiction] More Latin Hetalia Prompt Fills
Characters: Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina (MATE MAFIA), Brazil, and Portugal (once)
Rating/Warnings: From "So G it hurts" to PG-13. Warnings for the author botching history terribly. D:
Thanks to ryuuzakiroth, melissa-42, and inquisitioned for the prompts.
Part of their daily routine requires the three of them to cross a busy road to their daycare centre; however, today Dani is being fussy about taking Martín’s hand and outright eschews it (on the basis of being “not a girl and big enough to cross the street on his own”. Except that Dani is not big enough to do much of anything by himself and now he’s going to make them late and Martín is giving them both that little half-smirk he gets when his feelings are hurt and he doesn’t want to admit it. So Sebastián sighs internally and tells Daniel that he and Martín are too scared to cross the street on their own and they only feel brave enough if Daniel will hold their hands and lead them across.
Today, they’re only a little bit late.
In actuality, Sebastián isn’t fond of kissing that goes past the polite greeting of lips barely meeting cheek; having your mouth pressed against someone else’s just seems unsanitary and there’s no logical explanation for why it should be as stimulating as everyone claims it is. But polite salutations are not enough for Daniel and never have been, and Sebastián always finds his iron willpower lacking in the face of bright eyes and a sweet smile and some suggestive words. And so maybe it is unsanitary to have someone else’s teeth tugging gently on his bottom lip or another person's tongue in his mouth, but he’ll have to adjust his standpoint on the process not being electrifying.
I’M SORRY MELI THIS IS SO WEIRD AND NOT REALLY WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, SOB.
When the foreigner speaks, the words that fall out are ugly, like rocks sinking into mud. It’s nothing at all like his own beautiful language that trills like birdsong or like brookwaters over the riverstones.
The foreigner stands head and shoulders and hips above them proudly, sun shining through his hair like gold and copper and all the precious metals of the earth. Where the foreigner is pale, they are dark, and where the sunlight burnishes him into shades of pink and red, they are darker. He places a hand over his chest and repeats the word “Portugal” over and over until the two of them are exchanging exasperated looks because really, they’re not stupid.
Having given them his name, he now seems to find it perfectly acceptable to crouch in front of the taller of the two of them and rubs at his face with a blanched piece of cloth until the paint is smeared and gone, repeating a different word over and over until it’s understood that they’re being “gifted” with new names. The newly-christened Brasil lifts his chin defiantly and his face screws up into a petulant pout that often foretells the arrival of a screaming fit. Portugal doesn’t seem to notice and instead stares at the now-dirty scrap of cloth as if unsure what to do with it before dropping it to the ground and kicking some dirt over it.
He turns to the only remaining child now with a genuinely confused expression, not unlike the one he’d been giving the cloth. As if, maybe, his uncertainty might cause him to drop this child to the ground and kick dust over him as well for being unneeded.
Portugal does not crouch in front of him or scrub at his face until his skin tingles and feels raw. Instead, he shifts his weight and stares. After a moment, he begins to speak again, stumbling between “Soriano” (a familiar word) and “Sacramento” (an unfamiliar one), and looking so discomfited that he eventually sighs and waves a dismissive hand. Soriano-Sacramento takes this to mean he is either both or neither or nothing and he finds this doesn’t bother him. Brasil next to him has been slowly tightening up like a bowstring.
Portugal turns and starts walking away, clearly confident enough that they’ll follow him to not look back. His voice rises again in that odd language, and his voice is slow and loud and rhythmic this time, as if trying to teach them.
Brasil knows some of this harsh language, Soriano-Sacramento knows, probably more than enough to express their collective feelings on the matter. And when Brasil’s spine has become so tense that he’s bent slightly backwards because of it, Soriano-Sacramento turns his gaze to his dusty feet and waits.
The screamed “não” that echoes in the space between them is perhaps, Soriano-Sacramento thinks, the only word they need to know.
It was strange how bleak sterility could make someone look so small. That a lack of hue could make them almost disappear, and that the only colour in the room was the mottled reds and purples and greens that littered Daniel’s skin, injuries clearly visible and proof of the ones that weren’t. He wasn’t disappearing, Sebastián thought. The light was just eating him alive.
And the light seemed to flicker and dim at the corners of his vision, leeched and seeping away to leave a grimy grey shadow cast over everything. Sebastián didn’t need to turn around to know that someone else had joined him in the deserted hallway. His new companion stood posed like some sort of avenging angel, with dark wings mantling to take up space just because he could and absorbing the light into obsidian feathers.
“You know,” said the newcomer’s voice, an odd mixture of soft and infinitely prideful, “all the money in the world can’t save someone who’s dying.”
“The money was only a happy coincidence,” Sebastián murmured quietly. “Besides, if it could, I don’t imagine you’d be here right now. You have a bit of a reputation for not being particularly fond of me.”
The words no sooner passed his lips than he was staring into a pair of unnaturally green eyes. The owner of those eyes had a deceptively sweet smile, though his canines looked just a bit too sharp, and his smile was just a little too wide, and he moved too quickly for it to be human.
Namely because, of course, he wasn’t.
“I’m not,” he cooed into Sebastián’s face, “so you can imagine how thrilling it is to know thatyou need me, Artigas. You need me and I could make you do anything, you know. I could make you steal, or murder, or even make you kill yourself and die. And you’d do all of it, just for him.”
Sebastián said nothing, staring straight ahead to a painting hanging on the wall, one of some idyllic countryside in shades of…shades of…gray.
“I mean, this is a really good deal for me, you know. You’ve been letting those brats kill off what’s mine, and now I’m going to have you. You’ll be like the grandest jewel in my crown. Hell’s finest achievement.”
“If that’s your idea of ‘Hell’s finest achievement’,” Sebastián replied coolly, “I think you need to sort out some of your priorities.”
The demon straightened, his posture going so rigid as if almost to appear painful. He stared down at Sebastián condescendingly, an unholy light shining from his slitted pupils.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to say those kinds of things,” he said softly.
“Nonsense. If not now, when?”
“Then give me one good reason not to just let your cousin die right now,” the demon pressed. “One reason to not just cut the string and let him go.”
Sebastián’s gaze flickered from the painting to Daniel’s peacefully sleeping face and back again. Inhale. Exhale. The quiet beeping of the machines keeping him alive.
“You won’t kill him. And you wouldn’t kill me either. Not yet.” He replied evenly.
The demon grinned (just a little too wide for his face) and leaned back, fisting his hands on his waist.
“And why not?” he asked mockingly. “I think you’re overestimating yourself.”
The Uruguayan laughed and adjusted his glasses.
“Because,” he said, “you’re just as bored as I am, and you want to see what I’ll do. So fine. I’ll play your game in exchange for his life. All the normal contract rules in place. My soul for his life. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The demon, for his own part, looked momentarily discomfited before a lazy, sensuous smile stole onto his face, bringing with it veins of pale red to shoot through the grey haze.
“I may hate you, but you never bore me, Artigas,” he purred. “So very well, let’s play. Your life for his. Just say my name and seal the contract with blood, and the game will begin.”
Sebastián inhaled deeply, reaching over to brush strays curls out of his sleeping cousin’s face, mindful of all the tubes and wires. It was worth it for this, he told himself firmly. Anything was worth it for Daniel.
He turned to the demon who was suddenly hovering close by his shoulder and offered him a tight, business-like smile.
“Martín.”
The word seemed to echo off of the walls like the room was a cavernous expanse of empty space; it grew louder and pitchy, like the tones of a warped bell, becoming deafening as the shades of gray darkened into nothing but blackness and two pinpoints of glowing green and the backlit outlines of gigantic feathered wings spreading wide. Cold hands gripped his chin and frigid breath that smelled vaguely of old dry rot and musty linen fanned over his cheeks. Without warning, a mouth fixed over his and something sharp stabbed into his lip.
It burned then and hurt far more than it should have, each thrum of his heart making it burn more intensely until he wanted to scream from the pain of it, but couldn’t; the rest of him had gone ominously cold.
Seal the contract with blood, and the game will begin.
“This is not a short hike,” Martín hissed through gritted teeth as he slapped at mosquitoes descending like a horde to feast on his flesh. “This is a stroll through Hell. This is cruel and unusual punishment, boludo!”
“You have your jungle, I have mine,” Luciano replied dismissively, stretching his arms upward before folding them behind his head with a satisfied smile. “Yours just happens to be concrete.”
“That joke is old,” Martín muttered darkly, glaring at Luciano’s back as he lagged further and further behind, secretly willing the Brazilian to fall into a sandpit and disappear forever or something. Or at least require Martín’s help to extricate himself from such a dilemma. Lost in his daydreams of heroism, he stumbled when he ran into Luciano’s back. The Brazilian glanced over his shoulder, his expression of irritation falling to one of concern as he took note of the inflamed spots of red dotting Martín’s skin.
“Is this all mosquito bites?” he asked. “Let me see your repellent, you idiot. Who gave it to you?”
Martín handed Luciano his spray bottle of repellent with a scowl, crossing his arms and lifting his chin defiantly.
“Dani loaned it to me,” he responded defensively, “and he said it would work.”
Luciano wrinkled his nose and unscrewed the bottle cap. He dipped his finger into the solution and stuck the digit in his mouth with a thoughtful expression. After a moment he snorted.
“It’ll work for something, yeah. I guess you pissed him off. Or pissed off Sebastián, more likely.”
The Argentinean stared back at Luciano with furrowed brows.
“…what are you talking about?”
“That’s not repellent,” Luciano explained patiently. “It’s sugar water.”
It was one of the few times that he would admit to his perceptions being flawed and one of the even fewer times where he would agree that he found it difficult to adjust his views; Dani was not the naive child that Sebastián had had a hand in raising and he was not innocent nor oblivious nor even unspoilt. It could be read between the lines of jagged raised scars and welts on his back that would not heal from fights he hadn’t needed to fight (for you, for me, for us both, and-) and in the aggressive way he pushed Sebastián down onto the bed, laying him bare without finesse and only passion and enthusiasm, smoothing his rough worker hands down the planes of Sebastián’s skin with something like awe in his eyes. “But,” Sebastián’s traitorous mind whispered, “but isn’t this you taking advantage of a situation” and because he didn’t know and couldn’t speak with his mouth otherwise occupied, he swallowed everything down; Dani, his own doubts, and that eternal feeling of discontent, letting it all settle sourly in his belly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.
So Martín hangs around that bastard Sebastián’s place and he’s entitled to, you know, being the King of Hell and doing whatever you want comes with the territory; it also means he can eat what he wants in Sebastián’s house, wreck what he wants, and sleep where he wants. Today he’s commandeered the bed, though his victory is ruined by the fact that Sebastián is still in it and sleeping as though entirely sure of his safety and that Martín wouldn’t…strangle him in his sleep or something. With a roll of his unnaturally bright eyes and an impatient huff, Martín flops backwards and digs his fingers into the sheets, relishing the coolness of them and the…completely…wrong texture. Beneath his hands is a sensation like the one he has when he runs his hands over his own dark wings.
Feathers. As if he was lying in a pile of feathers.
They don’t seem to be attached to anything, so he tears a handful away and holds his fist in front of his face, astonished by how he seems to be holding nothing. But he can still feel them in his hand, brushing against his palm even though he can’t see anything.
Even as the thought occurs to him, he can feel the invisible feathers crumbling away into transparent dust in his fist, his own wings hackling over his head as he hears and feels the feathers littering the sheets doing the same.
Rating/Warnings: From "So G it hurts" to PG-13. Warnings for the author botching history terribly. D:
Thanks to ryuuzakiroth, melissa-42, and inquisitioned for the prompts.
- ryuuzakiroth preguntó: Baby! Mate Mafia: Dani doesn't want to holds hands with Tintin and Sebby has to do something D:
Part of their daily routine requires the three of them to cross a busy road to their daycare centre; however, today Dani is being fussy about taking Martín’s hand and outright eschews it (on the basis of being “not a girl and big enough to cross the street on his own”. Except that Dani is not big enough to do much of anything by himself and now he’s going to make them late and Martín is giving them both that little half-smirk he gets when his feelings are hurt and he doesn’t want to admit it. So Sebastián sighs internally and tells Daniel that he and Martín are too scared to cross the street on their own and they only feel brave enough if Daniel will hold their hands and lead them across.
Today, they’re only a little bit late.
- ryuuzakiroth preguntó: YOU BROKE MAI HEART. MAKE IT UP WITH PARURU KISSES D:
In actuality, Sebastián isn’t fond of kissing that goes past the polite greeting of lips barely meeting cheek; having your mouth pressed against someone else’s just seems unsanitary and there’s no logical explanation for why it should be as stimulating as everyone claims it is. But polite salutations are not enough for Daniel and never have been, and Sebastián always finds his iron willpower lacking in the face of bright eyes and a sweet smile and some suggestive words. And so maybe it is unsanitary to have someone else’s teeth tugging gently on his bottom lip or another person's tongue in his mouth, but he’ll have to adjust his standpoint on the process not being electrifying.
- melissa-42 preguntó: I WANT ONE!! Babbu Lu and Babbu Sebby taking Portuguese lessons from Portugal
I’M SORRY MELI THIS IS SO WEIRD AND NOT REALLY WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, SOB.
When the foreigner speaks, the words that fall out are ugly, like rocks sinking into mud. It’s nothing at all like his own beautiful language that trills like birdsong or like brookwaters over the riverstones.
The foreigner stands head and shoulders and hips above them proudly, sun shining through his hair like gold and copper and all the precious metals of the earth. Where the foreigner is pale, they are dark, and where the sunlight burnishes him into shades of pink and red, they are darker. He places a hand over his chest and repeats the word “Portugal” over and over until the two of them are exchanging exasperated looks because really, they’re not stupid.
Having given them his name, he now seems to find it perfectly acceptable to crouch in front of the taller of the two of them and rubs at his face with a blanched piece of cloth until the paint is smeared and gone, repeating a different word over and over until it’s understood that they’re being “gifted” with new names. The newly-christened Brasil lifts his chin defiantly and his face screws up into a petulant pout that often foretells the arrival of a screaming fit. Portugal doesn’t seem to notice and instead stares at the now-dirty scrap of cloth as if unsure what to do with it before dropping it to the ground and kicking some dirt over it.
He turns to the only remaining child now with a genuinely confused expression, not unlike the one he’d been giving the cloth. As if, maybe, his uncertainty might cause him to drop this child to the ground and kick dust over him as well for being unneeded.
Portugal does not crouch in front of him or scrub at his face until his skin tingles and feels raw. Instead, he shifts his weight and stares. After a moment, he begins to speak again, stumbling between “Soriano” (a familiar word) and “Sacramento” (an unfamiliar one), and looking so discomfited that he eventually sighs and waves a dismissive hand. Soriano-Sacramento takes this to mean he is either both or neither or nothing and he finds this doesn’t bother him. Brasil next to him has been slowly tightening up like a bowstring.
Portugal turns and starts walking away, clearly confident enough that they’ll follow him to not look back. His voice rises again in that odd language, and his voice is slow and loud and rhythmic this time, as if trying to teach them.
Brasil knows some of this harsh language, Soriano-Sacramento knows, probably more than enough to express their collective feelings on the matter. And when Brasil’s spine has become so tense that he’s bent slightly backwards because of it, Soriano-Sacramento turns his gaze to his dusty feet and waits.
The screamed “não” that echoes in the space between them is perhaps, Soriano-Sacramento thinks, the only word they need to know.
- inquisitioned preguntó: Also what if i asked for two, and Shadow King Sebas and actual!Demon King Martin making a deal. B)
It was strange how bleak sterility could make someone look so small. That a lack of hue could make them almost disappear, and that the only colour in the room was the mottled reds and purples and greens that littered Daniel’s skin, injuries clearly visible and proof of the ones that weren’t. He wasn’t disappearing, Sebastián thought. The light was just eating him alive.
And the light seemed to flicker and dim at the corners of his vision, leeched and seeping away to leave a grimy grey shadow cast over everything. Sebastián didn’t need to turn around to know that someone else had joined him in the deserted hallway. His new companion stood posed like some sort of avenging angel, with dark wings mantling to take up space just because he could and absorbing the light into obsidian feathers.
“You know,” said the newcomer’s voice, an odd mixture of soft and infinitely prideful, “all the money in the world can’t save someone who’s dying.”
“The money was only a happy coincidence,” Sebastián murmured quietly. “Besides, if it could, I don’t imagine you’d be here right now. You have a bit of a reputation for not being particularly fond of me.”
The words no sooner passed his lips than he was staring into a pair of unnaturally green eyes. The owner of those eyes had a deceptively sweet smile, though his canines looked just a bit too sharp, and his smile was just a little too wide, and he moved too quickly for it to be human.
Namely because, of course, he wasn’t.
“I’m not,” he cooed into Sebastián’s face, “so you can imagine how thrilling it is to know thatyou need me, Artigas. You need me and I could make you do anything, you know. I could make you steal, or murder, or even make you kill yourself and die. And you’d do all of it, just for him.”
Sebastián said nothing, staring straight ahead to a painting hanging on the wall, one of some idyllic countryside in shades of…shades of…gray.
“I mean, this is a really good deal for me, you know. You’ve been letting those brats kill off what’s mine, and now I’m going to have you. You’ll be like the grandest jewel in my crown. Hell’s finest achievement.”
“If that’s your idea of ‘Hell’s finest achievement’,” Sebastián replied coolly, “I think you need to sort out some of your priorities.”
The demon straightened, his posture going so rigid as if almost to appear painful. He stared down at Sebastián condescendingly, an unholy light shining from his slitted pupils.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to say those kinds of things,” he said softly.
“Nonsense. If not now, when?”
“Then give me one good reason not to just let your cousin die right now,” the demon pressed. “One reason to not just cut the string and let him go.”
Sebastián’s gaze flickered from the painting to Daniel’s peacefully sleeping face and back again. Inhale. Exhale. The quiet beeping of the machines keeping him alive.
“You won’t kill him. And you wouldn’t kill me either. Not yet.” He replied evenly.
The demon grinned (just a little too wide for his face) and leaned back, fisting his hands on his waist.
“And why not?” he asked mockingly. “I think you’re overestimating yourself.”
The Uruguayan laughed and adjusted his glasses.
“Because,” he said, “you’re just as bored as I am, and you want to see what I’ll do. So fine. I’ll play your game in exchange for his life. All the normal contract rules in place. My soul for his life. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The demon, for his own part, looked momentarily discomfited before a lazy, sensuous smile stole onto his face, bringing with it veins of pale red to shoot through the grey haze.
“I may hate you, but you never bore me, Artigas,” he purred. “So very well, let’s play. Your life for his. Just say my name and seal the contract with blood, and the game will begin.”
Sebastián inhaled deeply, reaching over to brush strays curls out of his sleeping cousin’s face, mindful of all the tubes and wires. It was worth it for this, he told himself firmly. Anything was worth it for Daniel.
He turned to the demon who was suddenly hovering close by his shoulder and offered him a tight, business-like smile.
“Martín.”
The word seemed to echo off of the walls like the room was a cavernous expanse of empty space; it grew louder and pitchy, like the tones of a warped bell, becoming deafening as the shades of gray darkened into nothing but blackness and two pinpoints of glowing green and the backlit outlines of gigantic feathered wings spreading wide. Cold hands gripped his chin and frigid breath that smelled vaguely of old dry rot and musty linen fanned over his cheeks. Without warning, a mouth fixed over his and something sharp stabbed into his lip.
It burned then and hurt far more than it should have, each thrum of his heart making it burn more intensely until he wanted to scream from the pain of it, but couldn’t; the rest of him had gone ominously cold.
Seal the contract with blood, and the game will begin.
- melissa-42 preguntó: Brazil/Argentina enjoying nature~
“This is not a short hike,” Martín hissed through gritted teeth as he slapped at mosquitoes descending like a horde to feast on his flesh. “This is a stroll through Hell. This is cruel and unusual punishment, boludo!”
“You have your jungle, I have mine,” Luciano replied dismissively, stretching his arms upward before folding them behind his head with a satisfied smile. “Yours just happens to be concrete.”
“That joke is old,” Martín muttered darkly, glaring at Luciano’s back as he lagged further and further behind, secretly willing the Brazilian to fall into a sandpit and disappear forever or something. Or at least require Martín’s help to extricate himself from such a dilemma. Lost in his daydreams of heroism, he stumbled when he ran into Luciano’s back. The Brazilian glanced over his shoulder, his expression of irritation falling to one of concern as he took note of the inflamed spots of red dotting Martín’s skin.
“Is this all mosquito bites?” he asked. “Let me see your repellent, you idiot. Who gave it to you?”
Martín handed Luciano his spray bottle of repellent with a scowl, crossing his arms and lifting his chin defiantly.
“Dani loaned it to me,” he responded defensively, “and he said it would work.”
Luciano wrinkled his nose and unscrewed the bottle cap. He dipped his finger into the solution and stuck the digit in his mouth with a thoughtful expression. After a moment he snorted.
“It’ll work for something, yeah. I guess you pissed him off. Or pissed off Sebastián, more likely.”
The Argentinean stared back at Luciano with furrowed brows.
“…what are you talking about?”
“That’s not repellent,” Luciano explained patiently. “It’s sugar water.”
- oslusiadas preguntó: let's see something from Sebas' point of view on Dani! I don't care what they're doing, but I want to see it in his voice.
It was one of the few times that he would admit to his perceptions being flawed and one of the even fewer times where he would agree that he found it difficult to adjust his views; Dani was not the naive child that Sebastián had had a hand in raising and he was not innocent nor oblivious nor even unspoilt. It could be read between the lines of jagged raised scars and welts on his back that would not heal from fights he hadn’t needed to fight (for you, for me, for us both, and-) and in the aggressive way he pushed Sebastián down onto the bed, laying him bare without finesse and only passion and enthusiasm, smoothing his rough worker hands down the planes of Sebastián’s skin with something like awe in his eyes. “But,” Sebastián’s traitorous mind whispered, “but isn’t this you taking advantage of a situation” and because he didn’t know and couldn’t speak with his mouth otherwise occupied, he swallowed everything down; Dani, his own doubts, and that eternal feeling of discontent, letting it all settle sourly in his belly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.
- inquisitioned preguntó: Oops, more. Demon!AU, Sebas and Martín, feathers.
So Martín hangs around that bastard Sebastián’s place and he’s entitled to, you know, being the King of Hell and doing whatever you want comes with the territory; it also means he can eat what he wants in Sebastián’s house, wreck what he wants, and sleep where he wants. Today he’s commandeered the bed, though his victory is ruined by the fact that Sebastián is still in it and sleeping as though entirely sure of his safety and that Martín wouldn’t…strangle him in his sleep or something. With a roll of his unnaturally bright eyes and an impatient huff, Martín flops backwards and digs his fingers into the sheets, relishing the coolness of them and the…completely…wrong texture. Beneath his hands is a sensation like the one he has when he runs his hands over his own dark wings.
Feathers. As if he was lying in a pile of feathers.
They don’t seem to be attached to anything, so he tears a handful away and holds his fist in front of his face, astonished by how he seems to be holding nothing. But he can still feel them in his hand, brushing against his palm even though he can’t see anything.
Even as the thought occurs to him, he can feel the invisible feathers crumbling away into transparent dust in his fist, his own wings hackling over his head as he hears and feels the feathers littering the sheets doing the same.