Seeking
Title: Seeking
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A pair of Nations come together, each seeking someone else.
Timeframe: August of 1934 and then July of 2010
Word Count: 2506, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: NC-17 RATED. Contains graphic depictions of gratuitous sex between a heterosexual couple. Also contains bad accents (Ireland's pre-1937 accent), an OC, reference to the Irish War of Independence, and possible historical or political fail on my part.
August, 1934
It was hot, even hotter than summers there generally were. The air was dry, easier on her breathing than the near constant rains in her own lands. Her skin was hypersensitive, forcing her to whimper at every touch, acutely aware of every bead of sweat rolling off his body and her own, the slipperiness of the silk under her back, the hand that wasn’t clenched in dark hair grasping at the sheet, searching for some sort of traction. Her breath caught in her throat, coming out as a strangled gasp as his mouth found her frantic pulse at the same time a hand found a nipple.
It had been so long, so long since her last visit to his house. Far too long.
She’d had a leg wrapped around his waist as tightly as she could manage since he’d unceremoniously and yet gently, mindful of her breathing, dropped her on the pallet and begun divesting her of clothing he promptly declared to be far too concealing, she’d catch her death of the heat if she kept them on. The other leg was tangled with one of his own, her attempt to keep him on top of her, and thus unmoving inside her, as long as was possible.
It was only after he’d sucked a brilliant red mark into being and she arched her back so much so that it appeared it would break that he began to move, unfairly slowly. She whined, tight in her throat. “Céilí Mór,” she swore softly, flexing her leg and arching into every thrust. “Faster, diabhal thú, faster!”
He laughed, low and deep in his chest, nuzzling behind an ear, nipping as he went. “Why would I do that when it’s far more fun to frustrate yer?” he asked teasingly, slowly snapping his hips into hers.
Her response was a growl and her fingers tightening in his hair, yanking it back so she could look him in the eyes, green eyes flashing with lust and frustration. “’Tis not spun sugar I am, ya chancer, don’t be treatin’ me like it!”
His face took on a large, wicked grin even as he tweaked the nipple he still had in hand, forcing her to hiss in a breath. “That’s more like yer,” he retorted smugly, wrapping his other arm around her waist and raising her hips. She gasped even as he began to speed up, groaned as the thrusts became more powerful and laughed at the sheer joy of it.
“Aye, chara orm,” she whimpered, clenching tighter to him, forming a counter rhythm to his. It had been so many years since their last encounter, she thought as it got still hotter, as skin became even more slippery under her hands, no longer clenched in the silk bedding. “Daor orm.” Her skin felt afire, her mind thick with fog, feeling herself stretch tighter and tighter every passing moment until all too soon and yet not soon enough, never soon enough, she felt herself snap and called out, her voice little more than a moan deep in her chest, head thrown back and she was floating, shuddering, distantly feeling him attack her throat. A few moments later he groaned gutturally, his teeth fixed firmly in the flesh of her neck, the vibrations making her tremble again with a small sigh.
She was content to lay there, lazy, sated, and boneless until she had the presence of mind to suggest another round.
“Ya weren’t seein’ me.”
…Apparently her partner had other ideas, and the suddenness and certainty of the statement had her blinking away the pleasant fog. “Sadiq?” she asked dumbly.
He chuckled and lifted his head enough to match his dark eyes to hers. “‘Daor orm’,” he repeated to her, grinning as her eyes widened. “We’re friends, but we’re not that close.”
Me dear. “Cac,” she murmured, running a hand over her face. “’Tis sorry I am Sadiq, truly. Slipped out, it did.”
Turkey sighed, though it could only just be described like that, it was closer to a huff. “İrlanda, I’m not him.”
She scowled up at him, pulling the arm that he’d taken hold of at some point. “Aye, know that I do! Didn’t come here lookin’ for him!” He tightened his grip slightly, frowning down at her.
“Didn’t yer?” His free hand came up to cup her cheek, brushing a thumb under an eye even as she continued to glare at him. “Never been a secret that yer were close. Hell, half the Middle East expected ya to jump into his bed the second ya got away from that brother of yers. Know Orangey jumped right back to his proper place.” That only got a “pft” as a response. “And yet here yer are.”
Her eyes flashed with anger again, attempting to tug her arm away still. “Aye, ‘course ‘tis here I be. Breathe better here, I can. And friends we are, as ye said; yer memory’s good enough t’remember th’last tumble we had, aye?” She glanced away. “Had t’thank ye, I did.”
He blinked down at her, trying to figure out what she could possibly mean by that for a long moment. Once he did, he very nearly growled. “I didn’t talk my sultan into sendin’ yer people that food ‘cause I wanted you to fall into my bed, İrlanda. You know me better than that!”
“Aye, ‘course I do.” She took that moment of distraction to roll out from under him and start searching the floor for something to cover herself with. “Thought ye knew me better than t’think I would have a tumble with ye in payment, I did. ‘Twas thanks I said.”
“…Yer still scrawny.”
That forced a laugh out of her as she picked up one of his robes, wrapping it around herself. He was right, of course, she and her people were still recovering even if it had been nearly one hundred years since the Famine. “Aye, I am, I am. Still can hand ye yer arse anytime ye ask, Sadiq. Handed me brother his, after all.” She settled back down on the pallet and pressed a quick kiss to Turkey’s cheek. “Go raibh maith agat, An Tuirc,” she whispered mischievously. “Much more difficult ‘twould have been without ye.”
He smirked up at her and quickly tugged her to lie down instead of sitting, making sure to grab further up her arm. Once most Nations saw the still healing scars on her wrists -- a great deal healed, if the rumors were true -- they took care to avoid touching them. “Had to show up that bitch of a queen yer brother had.” She laughed again, trailing off into a small coughing fit, quickly waving off his silent offer of water. “Still scrawny and still healin’.” He shook his head. “No surprise then that you haven’t gone after him yet. Bet you still haven’t even seen that boy of yers.”
“Ludwig? Me nephew he is, not me boy.”
“Might as well be his anne the way you treat him,” he muttered under his breath, only grinning innocently when she shot him a look. “That’ll be a no, ya haven’t then.” He shook his head. “I’ll say it again, I’m not Prusya, İrlanda. Don’t be lookin’ for him in my bed, you won’t find him.”
She growled softly. “Aye, I be knowin’ ye’re not me Preußen! Ye’re not pale enough, eyes be too dark! And a laugh ‘tis, ye lecturin’ me about seekin’ a lover in another’s arms! ‘Tis Kiku ye be lookin’ for in me, and I be tellin’ ye now ye won’t be findin’ him!” She laughed bitterly at his decidedly blank look. “Did I rob ye of yer tongue then?” She sighed and shook her head. “Again, ‘tis sorry I am. ‘Twas uncalled for, that was.”
“Yer both short and scrawny. And that’s where it ends.”
“…Sadiq, chara orm…” She gave him a small smile. “Don’t wholly mind, I don’t, if ye look for him. ‘Tis friends we are who occasionally have a tumble. Helps with the loneliness, it does.” She curled up against him, wanting to return at least partially to the cuddling portion of the event. “Aye, maybe a bit ‘tis that I’m looking for Preußen, but fully aware I won’t be findin’ him. Too different, ye two are.” She pressed another kiss to his cheek. “And in love with ye, I’m not. As long as ye don’t be lecturin’ me, I won’t be mindin’ if you see me as Kiku just this once.” Sadiq grinned and pulled her tighter, fingers already working at freeing her from his robe.
“I think I can agree to that, Brigid.” Any further discussion was rendered pointless the moment she dug her fingers into his hair and yanked his mouth down on her own.
-----
July, 2010
He was getting rusty in recent years, Sadiq thought as he found himself staring into familiar green eyes, twinkling with mischief. It was the only reason he could think of for not noticing the small Nation come up behind him while he was packing up his briefcase after yet another European Union acquis chapter meeting, and certainly the only thing that would keep him from noticing as she sat down on the table all pretty as you please and as if she owned the place. Which, since she’d been a member since 1973, she very nearly did.
“Hello, chara orm,” she greeted him, all brightness and smiles, even though he knew she was far from being healthy enough to warrant any kind of smile. “Bored out of your mind, aye?”
“Boring as hell, this shit,” he replied, a wicked smirk appearing on his half-masked face.
“Aye, ‘tis,” she sighed. “Wouldn’t be here today if I wasn’t backing you, ‘tis the truth.” The end of that was choked off by a coughing fit, fits that had become increasingly common in the past two years. He held out a bottle of water, a little relived when she took it from him. It seemed like it was getting time for another visit to his lands, dry her lungs out a bit. “Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly. “Be better soon, I will.”
“I’d expect nothing else from yer,” he replied, wondering why she’d suddenly taken to glancing around the meeting room. None of the Bosses were around, and only a few straggling Nations were. When she turned a smirk on him, he figured it out.
“Come back t’me room with me,” she whispered, purposefully thickening her accent back to the old days. “Promise t’see only ye this time, I do.”
He only grinned wickedly and pulled her off the table.
Footnotes:
...I apologize for my fail porn, first off. Also, Hetalia: The only fandom where the smut comes with footnotes.
Set in 1934 for no particular reason other than it seemed like a nice empty year for both Ireland and Turkey, set in summer because temps are higher.
Dry air was once traditionally prescribed for people with weak respiratory systems and Ireland is still healing from both the Irish War of Independence and then the Irish Civil War that started up nearly right after the first war. She was a sickly little thing back in the early 20th Century, economy going back and forth.
The silk wasn't chosen for any gratuitous reason, there's actually some logic. Silk is a cooler fabric, wicking away sweat and keeping the user/wearer cooler. The fact that it's silk is a bonus. :'>
Céilí Mór: Damn in Irish
diabhal thú: Damn you in Irish.
chancer: Irish slang for "an individual who pushes their luck"
chara orm: Irish for "me friend." Ireland and Turkey have had historically rather good foreign relations, and Ireland along with Portugal is a major backer of Turkey's bid to enter the EU. The cut text is a direct quote from Turkey's Ministry of Foreign Affairs page.
Cac: Shit, in Irish.
İrlanda: Ireland in Turkish
Orangey: He means Portugal. There's a reason for that name, and I'm going to copy/paste manga_ghost's note on that. "Okay I swear I have a good (if somewhat obscure) reason for Turkey giving Port this nickname. You know, other than to infuriate him. Back in the day (think middle ages) Portugal used to be well-known for the trade it did in sweet oranges, especially in the south-eastern parts of Europe - so well-known, in fact, that in languages such as Greek and Turkish, their word for orange derives from Portugal’s name. :’> Portugal → Portakal → Orange → Orangey. It’s the sort of thing Turkey would do, okay. /o\"
“I didn’t talk my sultan into sendin’ yer people that food ‘cause I wanted you to fall into my bed, İrlanda. You know me better than that!” -- Turkey attempted to send 10,000 sterling to aid the Irish during the Famine of 1845-1852, but Queen Victoria asked them to send 1000 instead, as she had only sent 2000 herself. They did so, but secretly they also launched three ships carrying as much food as they could. The Courts of England attempted to stop the ships, but they failed and the ships sailed into Drogheda harbor.
“Aye, I am, I am. Still can hand ye yer arse anytime ye ask, Sadiq. Handed me brother his, after all.” -- The Irish War of Independence, considered to be the first successful revolution of the 20th Century. They didn't get full sovereignty until 1949, though they were sneaky and proclaimed themselves free of the UK in 1937. Until then, they were a member of the Commonwealth along with Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.
Go raibh maith agat, An Tuirc: Thank you, Turkey in Irish
Ireland's wrist scars: Reference to the Act of Union of 1801 that bound Ireland to the rest of the United Kingdom, depicted as an unwilling marriage on both England and Ireland's parts as well as ten years' imprisonment in chains in the Tower of London.
anne: Turkish for mother
Prusya: Turkish for Prussia.
I... actually don't really have much of a reason for the lack of Ireland and Prussia seeing each other pre-World War II. Politics weren't so hot for either of them really post-World War I, especially since Ireland was newly the Irish Free State and Prussia had also just become the Free State of Prussia (I'm not kidding). And the state of Germany... yeah.
Preuben: German for Prussia
European Union acquis chapter meeting -- Turkey put in for EU membership back in 1987, and their bid was approved in 1999. If they get accepted, the earliest they can join is 2013, and only if they meet every criteria, which is what the acquis chapters are for, and if they get a unanimous vote. France and his rules, aye?
...fits that had become increasingly common in the past two years. -- Ireland's economy. It is currently, and for the most part historically, shit. She's not a well woman.
This was my first time writing Turkey, so please tell me if I fucked up anywhere along the way.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A pair of Nations come together, each seeking someone else.
Timeframe: August of 1934 and then July of 2010
Word Count: 2506, including footnotes
Notes/Warnings: NC-17 RATED. Contains graphic depictions of gratuitous sex between a heterosexual couple. Also contains bad accents (Ireland's pre-1937 accent), an OC, reference to the Irish War of Independence, and possible historical or political fail on my part.
August, 1934
It was hot, even hotter than summers there generally were. The air was dry, easier on her breathing than the near constant rains in her own lands. Her skin was hypersensitive, forcing her to whimper at every touch, acutely aware of every bead of sweat rolling off his body and her own, the slipperiness of the silk under her back, the hand that wasn’t clenched in dark hair grasping at the sheet, searching for some sort of traction. Her breath caught in her throat, coming out as a strangled gasp as his mouth found her frantic pulse at the same time a hand found a nipple.
It had been so long, so long since her last visit to his house. Far too long.
She’d had a leg wrapped around his waist as tightly as she could manage since he’d unceremoniously and yet gently, mindful of her breathing, dropped her on the pallet and begun divesting her of clothing he promptly declared to be far too concealing, she’d catch her death of the heat if she kept them on. The other leg was tangled with one of his own, her attempt to keep him on top of her, and thus unmoving inside her, as long as was possible.
It was only after he’d sucked a brilliant red mark into being and she arched her back so much so that it appeared it would break that he began to move, unfairly slowly. She whined, tight in her throat. “Céilí Mór,” she swore softly, flexing her leg and arching into every thrust. “Faster, diabhal thú, faster!”
He laughed, low and deep in his chest, nuzzling behind an ear, nipping as he went. “Why would I do that when it’s far more fun to frustrate yer?” he asked teasingly, slowly snapping his hips into hers.
Her response was a growl and her fingers tightening in his hair, yanking it back so she could look him in the eyes, green eyes flashing with lust and frustration. “’Tis not spun sugar I am, ya chancer, don’t be treatin’ me like it!”
His face took on a large, wicked grin even as he tweaked the nipple he still had in hand, forcing her to hiss in a breath. “That’s more like yer,” he retorted smugly, wrapping his other arm around her waist and raising her hips. She gasped even as he began to speed up, groaned as the thrusts became more powerful and laughed at the sheer joy of it.
“Aye, chara orm,” she whimpered, clenching tighter to him, forming a counter rhythm to his. It had been so many years since their last encounter, she thought as it got still hotter, as skin became even more slippery under her hands, no longer clenched in the silk bedding. “Daor orm.” Her skin felt afire, her mind thick with fog, feeling herself stretch tighter and tighter every passing moment until all too soon and yet not soon enough, never soon enough, she felt herself snap and called out, her voice little more than a moan deep in her chest, head thrown back and she was floating, shuddering, distantly feeling him attack her throat. A few moments later he groaned gutturally, his teeth fixed firmly in the flesh of her neck, the vibrations making her tremble again with a small sigh.
She was content to lay there, lazy, sated, and boneless until she had the presence of mind to suggest another round.
“Ya weren’t seein’ me.”
…Apparently her partner had other ideas, and the suddenness and certainty of the statement had her blinking away the pleasant fog. “Sadiq?” she asked dumbly.
He chuckled and lifted his head enough to match his dark eyes to hers. “‘Daor orm’,” he repeated to her, grinning as her eyes widened. “We’re friends, but we’re not that close.”
Me dear. “Cac,” she murmured, running a hand over her face. “’Tis sorry I am Sadiq, truly. Slipped out, it did.”
Turkey sighed, though it could only just be described like that, it was closer to a huff. “İrlanda, I’m not him.”
She scowled up at him, pulling the arm that he’d taken hold of at some point. “Aye, know that I do! Didn’t come here lookin’ for him!” He tightened his grip slightly, frowning down at her.
“Didn’t yer?” His free hand came up to cup her cheek, brushing a thumb under an eye even as she continued to glare at him. “Never been a secret that yer were close. Hell, half the Middle East expected ya to jump into his bed the second ya got away from that brother of yers. Know Orangey jumped right back to his proper place.” That only got a “pft” as a response. “And yet here yer are.”
Her eyes flashed with anger again, attempting to tug her arm away still. “Aye, ‘course ‘tis here I be. Breathe better here, I can. And friends we are, as ye said; yer memory’s good enough t’remember th’last tumble we had, aye?” She glanced away. “Had t’thank ye, I did.”
He blinked down at her, trying to figure out what she could possibly mean by that for a long moment. Once he did, he very nearly growled. “I didn’t talk my sultan into sendin’ yer people that food ‘cause I wanted you to fall into my bed, İrlanda. You know me better than that!”
“Aye, ‘course I do.” She took that moment of distraction to roll out from under him and start searching the floor for something to cover herself with. “Thought ye knew me better than t’think I would have a tumble with ye in payment, I did. ‘Twas thanks I said.”
“…Yer still scrawny.”
That forced a laugh out of her as she picked up one of his robes, wrapping it around herself. He was right, of course, she and her people were still recovering even if it had been nearly one hundred years since the Famine. “Aye, I am, I am. Still can hand ye yer arse anytime ye ask, Sadiq. Handed me brother his, after all.” She settled back down on the pallet and pressed a quick kiss to Turkey’s cheek. “Go raibh maith agat, An Tuirc,” she whispered mischievously. “Much more difficult ‘twould have been without ye.”
He smirked up at her and quickly tugged her to lie down instead of sitting, making sure to grab further up her arm. Once most Nations saw the still healing scars on her wrists -- a great deal healed, if the rumors were true -- they took care to avoid touching them. “Had to show up that bitch of a queen yer brother had.” She laughed again, trailing off into a small coughing fit, quickly waving off his silent offer of water. “Still scrawny and still healin’.” He shook his head. “No surprise then that you haven’t gone after him yet. Bet you still haven’t even seen that boy of yers.”
“Ludwig? Me nephew he is, not me boy.”
“Might as well be his anne the way you treat him,” he muttered under his breath, only grinning innocently when she shot him a look. “That’ll be a no, ya haven’t then.” He shook his head. “I’ll say it again, I’m not Prusya, İrlanda. Don’t be lookin’ for him in my bed, you won’t find him.”
She growled softly. “Aye, I be knowin’ ye’re not me Preußen! Ye’re not pale enough, eyes be too dark! And a laugh ‘tis, ye lecturin’ me about seekin’ a lover in another’s arms! ‘Tis Kiku ye be lookin’ for in me, and I be tellin’ ye now ye won’t be findin’ him!” She laughed bitterly at his decidedly blank look. “Did I rob ye of yer tongue then?” She sighed and shook her head. “Again, ‘tis sorry I am. ‘Twas uncalled for, that was.”
“Yer both short and scrawny. And that’s where it ends.”
“…Sadiq, chara orm…” She gave him a small smile. “Don’t wholly mind, I don’t, if ye look for him. ‘Tis friends we are who occasionally have a tumble. Helps with the loneliness, it does.” She curled up against him, wanting to return at least partially to the cuddling portion of the event. “Aye, maybe a bit ‘tis that I’m looking for Preußen, but fully aware I won’t be findin’ him. Too different, ye two are.” She pressed another kiss to his cheek. “And in love with ye, I’m not. As long as ye don’t be lecturin’ me, I won’t be mindin’ if you see me as Kiku just this once.” Sadiq grinned and pulled her tighter, fingers already working at freeing her from his robe.
“I think I can agree to that, Brigid.” Any further discussion was rendered pointless the moment she dug her fingers into his hair and yanked his mouth down on her own.
-----
July, 2010
He was getting rusty in recent years, Sadiq thought as he found himself staring into familiar green eyes, twinkling with mischief. It was the only reason he could think of for not noticing the small Nation come up behind him while he was packing up his briefcase after yet another European Union acquis chapter meeting, and certainly the only thing that would keep him from noticing as she sat down on the table all pretty as you please and as if she owned the place. Which, since she’d been a member since 1973, she very nearly did.
“Hello, chara orm,” she greeted him, all brightness and smiles, even though he knew she was far from being healthy enough to warrant any kind of smile. “Bored out of your mind, aye?”
“Boring as hell, this shit,” he replied, a wicked smirk appearing on his half-masked face.
“Aye, ‘tis,” she sighed. “Wouldn’t be here today if I wasn’t backing you, ‘tis the truth.” The end of that was choked off by a coughing fit, fits that had become increasingly common in the past two years. He held out a bottle of water, a little relived when she took it from him. It seemed like it was getting time for another visit to his lands, dry her lungs out a bit. “Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly. “Be better soon, I will.”
“I’d expect nothing else from yer,” he replied, wondering why she’d suddenly taken to glancing around the meeting room. None of the Bosses were around, and only a few straggling Nations were. When she turned a smirk on him, he figured it out.
“Come back t’me room with me,” she whispered, purposefully thickening her accent back to the old days. “Promise t’see only ye this time, I do.”
He only grinned wickedly and pulled her off the table.
Footnotes:
...I apologize for my fail porn, first off. Also, Hetalia: The only fandom where the smut comes with footnotes.
Set in 1934 for no particular reason other than it seemed like a nice empty year for both Ireland and Turkey, set in summer because temps are higher.
Dry air was once traditionally prescribed for people with weak respiratory systems and Ireland is still healing from both the Irish War of Independence and then the Irish Civil War that started up nearly right after the first war. She was a sickly little thing back in the early 20th Century, economy going back and forth.
The silk wasn't chosen for any gratuitous reason, there's actually some logic. Silk is a cooler fabric, wicking away sweat and keeping the user/wearer cooler. The fact that it's silk is a bonus. :'>
Céilí Mór: Damn in Irish
diabhal thú: Damn you in Irish.
chancer: Irish slang for "an individual who pushes their luck"
chara orm: Irish for "me friend." Ireland and Turkey have had historically rather good foreign relations, and Ireland along with Portugal is a major backer of Turkey's bid to enter the EU. The cut text is a direct quote from Turkey's Ministry of Foreign Affairs page.
Cac: Shit, in Irish.
İrlanda: Ireland in Turkish
Orangey: He means Portugal. There's a reason for that name, and I'm going to copy/paste manga_ghost's note on that. "Okay I swear I have a good (if somewhat obscure) reason for Turkey giving Port this nickname. You know, other than to infuriate him. Back in the day (think middle ages) Portugal used to be well-known for the trade it did in sweet oranges, especially in the south-eastern parts of Europe - so well-known, in fact, that in languages such as Greek and Turkish, their word for orange derives from Portugal’s name. :’> Portugal → Portakal → Orange → Orangey. It’s the sort of thing Turkey would do, okay. /o\"
“I didn’t talk my sultan into sendin’ yer people that food ‘cause I wanted you to fall into my bed, İrlanda. You know me better than that!” -- Turkey attempted to send 10,000 sterling to aid the Irish during the Famine of 1845-1852, but Queen Victoria asked them to send 1000 instead, as she had only sent 2000 herself. They did so, but secretly they also launched three ships carrying as much food as they could. The Courts of England attempted to stop the ships, but they failed and the ships sailed into Drogheda harbor.
“Aye, I am, I am. Still can hand ye yer arse anytime ye ask, Sadiq. Handed me brother his, after all.” -- The Irish War of Independence, considered to be the first successful revolution of the 20th Century. They didn't get full sovereignty until 1949, though they were sneaky and proclaimed themselves free of the UK in 1937. Until then, they were a member of the Commonwealth along with Canada, Australia, and New Zealand.
Go raibh maith agat, An Tuirc: Thank you, Turkey in Irish
Ireland's wrist scars: Reference to the Act of Union of 1801 that bound Ireland to the rest of the United Kingdom, depicted as an unwilling marriage on both England and Ireland's parts as well as ten years' imprisonment in chains in the Tower of London.
anne: Turkish for mother
Prusya: Turkish for Prussia.
I... actually don't really have much of a reason for the lack of Ireland and Prussia seeing each other pre-World War II. Politics weren't so hot for either of them really post-World War I, especially since Ireland was newly the Irish Free State and Prussia had also just become the Free State of Prussia (I'm not kidding). And the state of Germany... yeah.
Preuben: German for Prussia
European Union acquis chapter meeting -- Turkey put in for EU membership back in 1987, and their bid was approved in 1999. If they get accepted, the earliest they can join is 2013, and only if they meet every criteria, which is what the acquis chapters are for, and if they get a unanimous vote. France and his rules, aye?
...fits that had become increasingly common in the past two years. -- Ireland's economy. It is currently, and for the most part historically, shit. She's not a well woman.
This was my first time writing Turkey, so please tell me if I fucked up anywhere along the way.