[Fanfiction] Accord
Title: Accord
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): PWP
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!England, Canada, America, Australia, New Zealand
Rating/Warning(s): R/M, language, sex, all that good stuff
Word Count: 2,532
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - England and her colonies… in an orgy. Not much more to be said. Partially corresponding to Entwined, just with Iggy as a girl.
England can’t be sure who she likes the best of them. Not at this particular moment.
She wants badly to touch them too but earlier, Canada (sneaky little bastard) had trapped her wrists in handcuffs with an abashed though mischievous grin. So all she can do is lay back and let them at it, which is trickier than it sounds (former Empire instincts and all).
Maybe it’s Australia, who’s grinning at her evilly and sucking at her neck hard enough to leave hickeys and pinching at her nipples almost painfully with his rough fingers. It’s so damn typical of him, the hooligan. She snaps at him and he laughs at her and calls her “Pommie bitch.”
Or maybe it’s New Zealand, who is like a god, a better class of one without all the tentacles but so damn striking with all those tattoos upon his face and limbs. He has a gentler smile though, something more genuinely good-natured about his demeanor as he soothes those spots his brother treats so roughly with laps of his tongue.
Or maybe it’s Canada, the sneak, who’s between her legs and almost as pretty as a girl- No. That’s just the long strawberry blonde hair, the already enormous blue eyes magnified by big glasses. He just seems more delicate that the rest of them, since his “brothers” are almost all bigger than him, more obviously muscular. But damn if he could eat out a woman like a pro.
People would think that she’d instantly choose America but he’s hardly the first thought in her mind right now except “I’m betting this is all his fault.” Even when he kisses her and they take her breath away (to steal a trite phrase) because it’s him and you just can’t think of anything else-
“Let us take care of you,” he had whispered into her ear earlier (right before Canada had gotten those handcuffs on her) and she had rattled off several unkind words at that.
She doesn’t close her eyes because the sight of it all is so fascinating, if infuriating. So she pretends that it’s not happening, not really, not even when all four of them steal kisses from her mouth, all kisses loving and sweet and affectionate in their own ways somehow. Somehow.
She isn’t used to sweetness.
But she doesn’t have long to think on that. Their fingers trail across her skin slowly and quickly, gentle and rough. Nails rake along her inner thighs, America parting her legs more for Canada, who trails his tongue around and around her clit, teasing it. She’s half surprised that the more boisterous Nation doesn’t just shoulder his brother away then again… America’s watching her reactions with a curiously intense expression, his bright blue eyes half-lidded.
Dammit. Damn them! She wants to just pull on Canada’s hair and squeeze her thighs around his head but they got her wrists tied to the headboard of her bed (such a big and empty one most of the time these days…). Besides, America keeps her legs open and pinned with that stupidly powerful grip of his. And it’s even more of a turn-on, being pinned like that, his fingers rough against her legs.
It’s New Zealand who swallows her scream as she spasms and comes for the first time, thanks to Canada’s talented mouth. He has rough lips, just like all of them, but his taste like wet loam and forests and the dark, rich, smoky honey made from the tiny flowers of a bush. But even as she is trying to recover, trying to get some sense of the world again, she feels another tongue licking her clean along her folds and she could see another blonde down there, as Canada draws back to clean his glasses on a fold of sheet.
He gives her a smirk that just almost rivals his brother’s and then asks, “So, which of us do you want first?”
The question doesn’t register in her brain for a good minute or so. Canada sighs and nudges his brother, who’s in the middle of nipping teasingly along her upper thigh. “Oi, you ask her-”
“I’m surprised I even have a choice in the matter,” comes her dry reply as she finds her voice.
“Climax to sarcasm in five seconds, that has to be a record of some sort,” laughs New Zealand.
“This is the Pommie we’re talking about,” says Australia, settling back on his heels. “Make up your mind already.”
She rolls her eyes heavenward. Any straight woman (or yes, gay man) would have a hard time choosing too, from this gallery of testosterone. Deceptively delicate Canada with the pouty lips and big vulnerable eyes. Rangy, roguish Australia with that stupid grin and flyaway hair. Tall, exotic New Zealand with his sardonic but gentle smile and tattoos all over his muscled limbs. Golden boy America with that heart-stopping smile and blinding charisma.
Then she smirks. “Surprise me,” she finds herself saying. “If you lads can come to accords.”
In retrospect, that is probably not the right thing to say to a group of four lads who had managed to corner her in her own house.
Someone unfastens her cuffed hands from the headboard and they flip her on her stomach, not ungently however. Hands support her and rub along her back and shoulders and belly, caressing and exploratory. Fingers pinch at her nipples and someone gropes her breasts without much art (Australia again).
“Gently there, mate,” is the rumble of New Zealand’s pleasant baritone.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
She rolls her eyes again and shifts on her knees and her cuffed hands. “Gits,” she mutters and is ungracious enough to bite the fingers that trail along her lips and jaw and try to open her mouth.
The yelp is higher than it should have been. Oh, that had been Canada. She cranes her neck to kiss the fingers in apology as she hears Australia laugh. The North American nation murmurs, “I probably deserved that.”
“Man up, frog.”
Even England can feel a perceptible drop in temperature from where she guesses Canada is. “Boys,” she says and feels a very familiar headache start to form behind her temples-
And she gasps as she feels the very tip of someone’s erection rubbing against her, pushing right into her. Her fists clench and they start tingling in that delicious-dangerous way from cut-off circulation. Whoever’s fucking her isn’t Canada, she deduces. His fingers are stroking her hair. Not Australia either. She bites her lower lip and feels a rough fingertip gently stop her from doing so and she looks sidelong and sees the light glinting off America’s glasses. Process of elimination…
Ever mindful, ever quietly conscientious, New Zealand fucks her at a good pace and her toes curl as she feels every inch of him in her. He actually ignores sniping comments from Australia and she rolls her eyes again, ignoring them too. His mouth kisses and bites along her shoulder blade and back just hard enough to feel good. He’s always seemed so very balanced to her, so very poised, quick to anger but quick to subside as well. His hands are bigger than the others’, the calluses on them from woodwork and from the sea. They feel absolutely heavenly upon her back, dancing across tensed muscles.
She arches into him, closing her eyes as he grunts under his breath and thrusts into her one last time. Her body shudders again but she doesn’t scream, merely sigh. Panting, she rests her upper body against the mattress, only half aware of how obscene she must surely look.
And that is surely an invitation for Australia, who shoulders New Zealand out of the way (she can hear the curses and the thump as the taller nation hits the floor of her bedroom). He doesn’t use any kind of ceremony; he just fucks her hard from the start. It’s almost painful, really (who is she kidding? It is painful). But still, she doesn’t mind it. In a way, she craves this more than all the gentleness in the world. He doesn’t know it; not consciously, but he refuses to treat her like glass.
Their hips collide hard enough to bruise and he clutches at her waist with nails digging in hard. She realizes that she’s whimpering and she hears angry remarks buzzing over her head like flies.
“Ease up, Australia-”
“Don’t hurt her-”
“Shut up!” she finally snarls. “And-” Here she had to catch her breath because Australia, like a good boy, hadn’t stopped- “If you even think of stopping, I’ll-” She arches into him because it’s just that damn good and she doesn’t care that her wrists are now bleeding.
Of course Australia’s laughing, flipping the bird at lot of them like the pillock he is and always will be. England isn’t sure what she says at the end but she can only be certain that it is not something to be repeated in front of children. He bites into her shoulder as he thrusts into her one last time and his nails leave angry red crescents on her abdomen.
She doesn’t even try to support herself then and just lets the rest of her body fall. Dimly, she realizes that they are turning her over onto her back and Canada is between her legs again. She could make several unkind remarks about that but the portion of her brain for snark has been shorted out by the sex for the time being. Besides, he is good. She sighs as his mouth and tongue stroke across sensitized flesh just gently enough to not hurt.
In the mean time, she can feel the cool metal of glasses frames on her chest as America kisses along her collarbone and then licks a trail down to each nipple. They take their time and eventually, Canada pulls his face away from between her legs and kisses her bleeding wrists, licking away the blood tenderly with long laps of his tongue. He smiles at her in a slightly abashed fashion and she can somehow manage to read the question in his eyes. She smiles back and nods, her fingers stroking his cheek gently.
It isn’t that he is unconfident, she thinks, as he exchanges a glance with Alfred, who silently moves to gently lift her legs. It’s like the seeming femininity. Canada is very much confident, very much self-assured, very much masculine- in comparison with the rest of her former colonies, he just doesn’t seem so.
He fills her slowly, gently, as though worried that she would in fact break. But she doesn’t mind this at all; the slow pace lets her savor it like a fine wine, a new tea, and it’s easy on her far too sensitive skin and flesh. America lowers her legs so that they hook over Canada’s shoulders and she can feel him at a completely new angle and depth. A sigh flutters from her lips as he starts thrusting, shallowly and slowly at first.
It’s at first almost too pleasant, too gentle to be real. And yet it’s not quite enough. Heat gathers in her abdomen and she licks at her lips, America kissing her breasts and shoulders and neck again. He catches her earlobe in his mouth and nibbles playfully.
“America,” she whispers as she brings her hips up in silent urging.
“Yeah?” he whispers back, his voice heavy and muddled with arousal.
“I want to suck you off.”
Canada, ever good at taking a hint, thrusts into her a little harder, a little faster. America hesitates but obeys without another word, a rare moment for him. He maneuvers himself around and she kisses the tip of his erection affectionately, gratified to hear him hiss through his teeth. She continues to kiss and lick around the very tip of his cock. He rocks on his heels slightly and she opens her mouth to take him in further. She’s hardly bad at this; before long, America’s rocking into her mouth further, groaning sharply and muttering under his breath. And Canada is continuing to fill her, every bit of her, colliding with her clit on every other thrust and-
She fights to breathe but it’s a good feeling, the feel of America in her mouth, something to do, something to connect all three of them together. England hums under her breath, sucking harder and harder. It builds up beautifully, in a crescendo, and she’s clenching around Canada as though she would never let go, and sucking on America just to hear him pant and actually start to beg-
It’s not a perfect ending, as she closes her eyes and feels warm stickiness drop onto her cheek and mouth and even a dab on the tip of her nose. But she doesn’t care, as she coasts on that crest in a daze, her skin almost on fire and too tight for her body. She sighs and feels Canada still in her, softening, as well as America kissing her cheek, cleaning her gently. Her eyes open slightly as she heard keys jingling. New Zealand unlocks the handcuffs (and maybe she’ll be having some… words with Canada about these at a later time).
Maybe there’s another round. Maybe they keep going the entire night (youthful exuberance and all). But she remembers being carried to the bathroom, being bathed and attended to like a queen. Someone washes her hair for her with her rosemary scented shampoo, more than one someone washes her with lavender-scented soap. Someone cleans her sore wrists and bandages them neatly. She remembers a tangle of limbs, the scent of nations and males, all upon her not so cold, not so large bed. And then, slumber.
Requisite Morning-After Epilogue:
England wakes up to the smell of something frying and the sound of arguing voices. She yawns and sits up gingerly. Someone had thoughtfully laid out a robe and slippers for her and she puts both on, going to her kitchen. New Zealand and Australia bicker over rugby, the shorter of the two gesturing irritably with a crumpling tabloid. America is nowhere to be seen and Canada quietly cooks pancakes and streaky bacon and sausage on the griddle. All three look over at her and give their usual morning greetings.
“Morning, Pommie.”
“Good morning, England.”
“Sleep well?”
England finds herself smiling at them and that’s what causes the subsequent odd reactions. New Zealand stares. Australia chokes around a mouthful of toast and vegemite. Canada nearly misses the griddle with the pancake on his spatula. America enters through the front door and blinks at the silent tableau.
“I brought the milk-” His voice trails off. “Uh…”
She rolls her eyes and sits at the breakfast table and New Zealand (bless his heart) gets her tea (two lumps of sugar, a splash of cream). Australia returns to looking over tabloids before starting up another argument with his brother and Canada rescues breakfast and gets the plates from the cupboard. She sips at her tea and shakes her head at them, even as America places a gentle hand on her back.
“You okay?” he asks.
England looks up at him, smiles again, and says, “Never better.”
Notes:
My general description of New Zealand hasn’t really changed (tall, muscular half-Maori bloke with a ton of very, very cool tattoos). And someone pointed out to me that America actually ends up taking the least amount of spotlight in this fic. I honestly don’t know how that ended up happening.
By the way, England’s right; this whole thing was cooked up by America.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): PWP
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!England, Canada, America, Australia, New Zealand
Rating/Warning(s): R/M, language, sex, all that good stuff
Word Count: 2,532
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - England and her colonies… in an orgy. Not much more to be said. Partially corresponding to Entwined, just with Iggy as a girl.
England can’t be sure who she likes the best of them. Not at this particular moment.
She wants badly to touch them too but earlier, Canada (sneaky little bastard) had trapped her wrists in handcuffs with an abashed though mischievous grin. So all she can do is lay back and let them at it, which is trickier than it sounds (former Empire instincts and all).
Maybe it’s Australia, who’s grinning at her evilly and sucking at her neck hard enough to leave hickeys and pinching at her nipples almost painfully with his rough fingers. It’s so damn typical of him, the hooligan. She snaps at him and he laughs at her and calls her “Pommie bitch.”
Or maybe it’s New Zealand, who is like a god, a better class of one without all the tentacles but so damn striking with all those tattoos upon his face and limbs. He has a gentler smile though, something more genuinely good-natured about his demeanor as he soothes those spots his brother treats so roughly with laps of his tongue.
Or maybe it’s Canada, the sneak, who’s between her legs and almost as pretty as a girl- No. That’s just the long strawberry blonde hair, the already enormous blue eyes magnified by big glasses. He just seems more delicate that the rest of them, since his “brothers” are almost all bigger than him, more obviously muscular. But damn if he could eat out a woman like a pro.
People would think that she’d instantly choose America but he’s hardly the first thought in her mind right now except “I’m betting this is all his fault.” Even when he kisses her and they take her breath away (to steal a trite phrase) because it’s him and you just can’t think of anything else-
“Let us take care of you,” he had whispered into her ear earlier (right before Canada had gotten those handcuffs on her) and she had rattled off several unkind words at that.
She doesn’t close her eyes because the sight of it all is so fascinating, if infuriating. So she pretends that it’s not happening, not really, not even when all four of them steal kisses from her mouth, all kisses loving and sweet and affectionate in their own ways somehow. Somehow.
She isn’t used to sweetness.
But she doesn’t have long to think on that. Their fingers trail across her skin slowly and quickly, gentle and rough. Nails rake along her inner thighs, America parting her legs more for Canada, who trails his tongue around and around her clit, teasing it. She’s half surprised that the more boisterous Nation doesn’t just shoulder his brother away then again… America’s watching her reactions with a curiously intense expression, his bright blue eyes half-lidded.
Dammit. Damn them! She wants to just pull on Canada’s hair and squeeze her thighs around his head but they got her wrists tied to the headboard of her bed (such a big and empty one most of the time these days…). Besides, America keeps her legs open and pinned with that stupidly powerful grip of his. And it’s even more of a turn-on, being pinned like that, his fingers rough against her legs.
It’s New Zealand who swallows her scream as she spasms and comes for the first time, thanks to Canada’s talented mouth. He has rough lips, just like all of them, but his taste like wet loam and forests and the dark, rich, smoky honey made from the tiny flowers of a bush. But even as she is trying to recover, trying to get some sense of the world again, she feels another tongue licking her clean along her folds and she could see another blonde down there, as Canada draws back to clean his glasses on a fold of sheet.
He gives her a smirk that just almost rivals his brother’s and then asks, “So, which of us do you want first?”
The question doesn’t register in her brain for a good minute or so. Canada sighs and nudges his brother, who’s in the middle of nipping teasingly along her upper thigh. “Oi, you ask her-”
“I’m surprised I even have a choice in the matter,” comes her dry reply as she finds her voice.
“Climax to sarcasm in five seconds, that has to be a record of some sort,” laughs New Zealand.
“This is the Pommie we’re talking about,” says Australia, settling back on his heels. “Make up your mind already.”
She rolls her eyes heavenward. Any straight woman (or yes, gay man) would have a hard time choosing too, from this gallery of testosterone. Deceptively delicate Canada with the pouty lips and big vulnerable eyes. Rangy, roguish Australia with that stupid grin and flyaway hair. Tall, exotic New Zealand with his sardonic but gentle smile and tattoos all over his muscled limbs. Golden boy America with that heart-stopping smile and blinding charisma.
Then she smirks. “Surprise me,” she finds herself saying. “If you lads can come to accords.”
In retrospect, that is probably not the right thing to say to a group of four lads who had managed to corner her in her own house.
Someone unfastens her cuffed hands from the headboard and they flip her on her stomach, not ungently however. Hands support her and rub along her back and shoulders and belly, caressing and exploratory. Fingers pinch at her nipples and someone gropes her breasts without much art (Australia again).
“Gently there, mate,” is the rumble of New Zealand’s pleasant baritone.
“Don’t be a pussy.”
She rolls her eyes again and shifts on her knees and her cuffed hands. “Gits,” she mutters and is ungracious enough to bite the fingers that trail along her lips and jaw and try to open her mouth.
The yelp is higher than it should have been. Oh, that had been Canada. She cranes her neck to kiss the fingers in apology as she hears Australia laugh. The North American nation murmurs, “I probably deserved that.”
“Man up, frog.”
Even England can feel a perceptible drop in temperature from where she guesses Canada is. “Boys,” she says and feels a very familiar headache start to form behind her temples-
And she gasps as she feels the very tip of someone’s erection rubbing against her, pushing right into her. Her fists clench and they start tingling in that delicious-dangerous way from cut-off circulation. Whoever’s fucking her isn’t Canada, she deduces. His fingers are stroking her hair. Not Australia either. She bites her lower lip and feels a rough fingertip gently stop her from doing so and she looks sidelong and sees the light glinting off America’s glasses. Process of elimination…
Ever mindful, ever quietly conscientious, New Zealand fucks her at a good pace and her toes curl as she feels every inch of him in her. He actually ignores sniping comments from Australia and she rolls her eyes again, ignoring them too. His mouth kisses and bites along her shoulder blade and back just hard enough to feel good. He’s always seemed so very balanced to her, so very poised, quick to anger but quick to subside as well. His hands are bigger than the others’, the calluses on them from woodwork and from the sea. They feel absolutely heavenly upon her back, dancing across tensed muscles.
She arches into him, closing her eyes as he grunts under his breath and thrusts into her one last time. Her body shudders again but she doesn’t scream, merely sigh. Panting, she rests her upper body against the mattress, only half aware of how obscene she must surely look.
And that is surely an invitation for Australia, who shoulders New Zealand out of the way (she can hear the curses and the thump as the taller nation hits the floor of her bedroom). He doesn’t use any kind of ceremony; he just fucks her hard from the start. It’s almost painful, really (who is she kidding? It is painful). But still, she doesn’t mind it. In a way, she craves this more than all the gentleness in the world. He doesn’t know it; not consciously, but he refuses to treat her like glass.
Their hips collide hard enough to bruise and he clutches at her waist with nails digging in hard. She realizes that she’s whimpering and she hears angry remarks buzzing over her head like flies.
“Ease up, Australia-”
“Don’t hurt her-”
“Shut up!” she finally snarls. “And-” Here she had to catch her breath because Australia, like a good boy, hadn’t stopped- “If you even think of stopping, I’ll-” She arches into him because it’s just that damn good and she doesn’t care that her wrists are now bleeding.
Of course Australia’s laughing, flipping the bird at lot of them like the pillock he is and always will be. England isn’t sure what she says at the end but she can only be certain that it is not something to be repeated in front of children. He bites into her shoulder as he thrusts into her one last time and his nails leave angry red crescents on her abdomen.
She doesn’t even try to support herself then and just lets the rest of her body fall. Dimly, she realizes that they are turning her over onto her back and Canada is between her legs again. She could make several unkind remarks about that but the portion of her brain for snark has been shorted out by the sex for the time being. Besides, he is good. She sighs as his mouth and tongue stroke across sensitized flesh just gently enough to not hurt.
In the mean time, she can feel the cool metal of glasses frames on her chest as America kisses along her collarbone and then licks a trail down to each nipple. They take their time and eventually, Canada pulls his face away from between her legs and kisses her bleeding wrists, licking away the blood tenderly with long laps of his tongue. He smiles at her in a slightly abashed fashion and she can somehow manage to read the question in his eyes. She smiles back and nods, her fingers stroking his cheek gently.
It isn’t that he is unconfident, she thinks, as he exchanges a glance with Alfred, who silently moves to gently lift her legs. It’s like the seeming femininity. Canada is very much confident, very much self-assured, very much masculine- in comparison with the rest of her former colonies, he just doesn’t seem so.
He fills her slowly, gently, as though worried that she would in fact break. But she doesn’t mind this at all; the slow pace lets her savor it like a fine wine, a new tea, and it’s easy on her far too sensitive skin and flesh. America lowers her legs so that they hook over Canada’s shoulders and she can feel him at a completely new angle and depth. A sigh flutters from her lips as he starts thrusting, shallowly and slowly at first.
It’s at first almost too pleasant, too gentle to be real. And yet it’s not quite enough. Heat gathers in her abdomen and she licks at her lips, America kissing her breasts and shoulders and neck again. He catches her earlobe in his mouth and nibbles playfully.
“America,” she whispers as she brings her hips up in silent urging.
“Yeah?” he whispers back, his voice heavy and muddled with arousal.
“I want to suck you off.”
Canada, ever good at taking a hint, thrusts into her a little harder, a little faster. America hesitates but obeys without another word, a rare moment for him. He maneuvers himself around and she kisses the tip of his erection affectionately, gratified to hear him hiss through his teeth. She continues to kiss and lick around the very tip of his cock. He rocks on his heels slightly and she opens her mouth to take him in further. She’s hardly bad at this; before long, America’s rocking into her mouth further, groaning sharply and muttering under his breath. And Canada is continuing to fill her, every bit of her, colliding with her clit on every other thrust and-
She fights to breathe but it’s a good feeling, the feel of America in her mouth, something to do, something to connect all three of them together. England hums under her breath, sucking harder and harder. It builds up beautifully, in a crescendo, and she’s clenching around Canada as though she would never let go, and sucking on America just to hear him pant and actually start to beg-
It’s not a perfect ending, as she closes her eyes and feels warm stickiness drop onto her cheek and mouth and even a dab on the tip of her nose. But she doesn’t care, as she coasts on that crest in a daze, her skin almost on fire and too tight for her body. She sighs and feels Canada still in her, softening, as well as America kissing her cheek, cleaning her gently. Her eyes open slightly as she heard keys jingling. New Zealand unlocks the handcuffs (and maybe she’ll be having some… words with Canada about these at a later time).
Maybe there’s another round. Maybe they keep going the entire night (youthful exuberance and all). But she remembers being carried to the bathroom, being bathed and attended to like a queen. Someone washes her hair for her with her rosemary scented shampoo, more than one someone washes her with lavender-scented soap. Someone cleans her sore wrists and bandages them neatly. She remembers a tangle of limbs, the scent of nations and males, all upon her not so cold, not so large bed. And then, slumber.
Requisite Morning-After Epilogue:
England wakes up to the smell of something frying and the sound of arguing voices. She yawns and sits up gingerly. Someone had thoughtfully laid out a robe and slippers for her and she puts both on, going to her kitchen. New Zealand and Australia bicker over rugby, the shorter of the two gesturing irritably with a crumpling tabloid. America is nowhere to be seen and Canada quietly cooks pancakes and streaky bacon and sausage on the griddle. All three look over at her and give their usual morning greetings.
“Morning, Pommie.”
“Good morning, England.”
“Sleep well?”
England finds herself smiling at them and that’s what causes the subsequent odd reactions. New Zealand stares. Australia chokes around a mouthful of toast and vegemite. Canada nearly misses the griddle with the pancake on his spatula. America enters through the front door and blinks at the silent tableau.
“I brought the milk-” His voice trails off. “Uh…”
She rolls her eyes and sits at the breakfast table and New Zealand (bless his heart) gets her tea (two lumps of sugar, a splash of cream). Australia returns to looking over tabloids before starting up another argument with his brother and Canada rescues breakfast and gets the plates from the cupboard. She sips at her tea and shakes her head at them, even as America places a gentle hand on her back.
“You okay?” he asks.
England looks up at him, smiles again, and says, “Never better.”
Notes:
My general description of New Zealand hasn’t really changed (tall, muscular half-Maori bloke with a ton of very, very cool tattoos). And someone pointed out to me that America actually ends up taking the least amount of spotlight in this fic. I honestly don’t know how that ended up happening.
By the way, England’s right; this whole thing was cooked up by America.