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Hetalia Drabbles Galore

Chapter Text

1.) Flesh and Stone - T for creepiness - Prussia, Germany, creepy-serious - Nations having the involuntary ability to shapeshift into a National symbol.

2.) Electronic Shenanigans - PG for slight language - America/Poland, France, crack - America and Poland being derps on Twitter, with texting and Facebook thrown in for the hell of it.

3.) Sleep Softly In Winter - M for death and creepiness - Russia, creepy-serious - Nation dying for the sake of one of their citizens.

4.) Nazi Ghosts: A Colbert Special Report - T for Prussia's mouth - Prussia, Stephen Colbert, crack - A Nation as a guest on the Colbert Report.

5.) No Piano In Sight - T/M for glossed over sex - Prussia/Austria, romance, sexytiems - Austria is a DJ at a nightclub. Prussia finds out. Molesting and blackmail ensues.

6.) Untitled - T for masturbation - Austria, sexytiems - Austria masturbates to the rhythm of a metronome.

7.) In the Dappled Sunshine - PG with no real warnings - LietPol, romance, angst - "What would you do if you were human?"

8.) Better Left Unsaid - T for sex-ed... France style - Bad Touch Trio, Little!Germany, crack - Prussia gives Germany "The Talk", with a little help from France and Spain.

9.) The Perks of Eurovision - T for Poland in sequins - LietPol, romance, crack - In 2010, Lithuania's entry to Eurovision was a ridiculously catchy song titled Eastern European Funk...

10.) The Worst Job in Fairyworld - PG, spoilers for Fairly Oddparents Wishology! - England, Norway, crack - England and Norway have a word with the Fairy Nation about recent happenings...

11.) Blue and White - M for explicit, kinky sex (consensual erotic asphyxiation) - Netherlands/Canada, kinky sexytiems - Netherlands chokes Canada with his scarf during sex, and Canada loves it.

12.) Untitled - T for creepiness - America, Canada, slight AmeCan, angst - Alfred cannot remember a time before he was sick.

13.) The Meaning of Art - G - France, mentioned England, implied France/England, fluff - Francis comes across a new art showing.

14.) Professors - PG - France/England, Harry Potter crossover, humour - The Potions Master and Herbology professor hate each other's guts.

15.) Goodnight - G - England, chibi!Australia, fluff - Being an empire is hard work.

Chapter Text

He is the symbol of the nation.

They are the symbol of the nations.

Nation.

Nations.

Nation.

It's so hard to remember, sometimes, when their people are one but their country is two, ripped down the middle and licked by burning cold Red on one side and freezing hot Blue on the other.

And they - he - they are stuck in the middle.

Iron and concrete, things that should be so solid have never felt shakier and yet more binding, somehow all at once.

Iron is good, steel is awesome, good metal makes good swords which makes good battles, except that no one needs swords anymore, not now that there are guns and gas and bombs, things that incinerate and massacre.

Concrete is like some pale impersonation of stone, something man-made and artificial that tastes of grit and dust and decay.

Not that they can taste, right now. But there's the memory of tasting - blood, sweat, dirt, gunpowder, blood, snow, tears, blood -

There is graffiti on their skin - their stone - messages their people leave for them, but they can no more pay it heed or do anything about it than they can stop the snow or sun.

They - he - one of them wonders if they could just disappear, dissolve, let their people swarm together and merge again, like water droplets, like blood droplets on a sword blade. Would their people be better off without them here, like this?

Yes.

But they cannot disappear, no more than Blue can mix with Red.

(That's purple, isn't it? But Purple means Royal and that's old and dead now.)

So he - they stand, concrete and iron, shivering cold and hot in their peoples' discontent.

Until finally they fall down.

Chapter Text

France yawned, sipping at his latte as he waited for his laptop to boot up. He stretched his legs, glancing around the empty conference room. He loved it when the world meetings were in Paris, it meant he got to sleep in and still be the first one here. With time to kill, he logged into his Facebook.

(They all had Facebook pages, even Austria and Russia. Under their human names, of course. It was nearly impossible not to, these days, and it was a really convenient way to get ahold of each other without those pesky long distance cell phone bills.)

Glancing over his newsfeed, France snorted a bit. Of course England would become a fan of Monty Python's Flying Circus. France was just about to make a properly derisive comment when something farther down the feed caught his eye, and he raised an eyebrow. He hadn't been aware that there was such an enticing blond- oh. It was Poland. Merde, but he looked cute in a skirt.

Clicking over to Poland's Wall, France typed in a quick "It's a trap!" knowing the Poland wouldn't take offence. As his post went up, France raised an eyebrow again to see that apparently America had posted more comments on Poland's wall lately than Lithuania and Hungary combined, and wasn't that an odd set of circumstances. Curious now, France clicked on their wall-to-wall page, glad he was friends with both of them.

Alfred Fucking Jones Ttly. Call you later.

Feliks Lukasiewicz Lunch?

Alfred Fucking Jones Have to, boss is going.

Feliks Lukasiewicz Conference in Paris, y/n?

France raised an eyebrow, hiding a smile as he closed his laptop. Something interesting was going on around here. He looked forward to sitting back and watching.

~*~

lost. hlp plzkthnx.

don't no paris either. france?

ttly uselss. how shd i no ware i am? im lost!!!

eiffel twr?

???

france's dick

o. i c it.

mtng near ther.

awesome thnx. c u?

duh

~*~

Germany glanced over as America styfled laughter for the fourth time. Granted, he wasn't known for paying much attention during conferences, but he was being worse than usual today. Leaning back a bit, Germany could see America texting under the table.

Typical.

~*~

hey u hav skype?

yah. u?

yup. use it 2 tlk 2 matt. +me?

ttly. omg rss wnt shut up.

wats he tlkng bout neway?

dnt care. sno & snflrs pbly.

sno & ??? snuflers???

sunflowers

o. yah. $$$ blah blah

haha. lnch soon, yay!

saw cafe nrby. y/n?

y!!! omg yay no cnfrnce food!!

haha yay!!!!!

~*~

France saw them leave together, saw that Russia had a firm hold on Lithuania's proverbial leash, and took it upon himself to distract England. He'd see it on Facebook soon enough anyway.

~*~

@starsnstripes4eva Had fun 2day. We should, like, do it again.

@polska♥ ttly. y u type like u talk???

@starsnstripes4eva haha. Like, ask me to my face & maybe i'll tell.

France grinned the next morning, realizing that neither of them had posted a single word, on any website, for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Cold.

Some people assumed that because he was a northern country and so much of his land was covered in permafrost, Russia didn't mind or just didn't feel the cold. This assumption was vastly incorrect. He felt the cold just as acutely as anyone else, felt the wind creep into his clothes and the stinging sleet slice across any exposed skin.

Just because he and General Winter had an agreement, it didn't mean he couldn't freeze.

Russia shifted a little, trying to curl closer into himself, to hunch his shoulders and use the collar of his coat to protect the back of his neck. The fur trim helped a little, but not nearly enough.

There was an answering shift against his chest, and his numb lips curled up into a slight smile, murmuring softly, soothingly, though she probably couldn't hear him over the howling wind. He tightened his arms around her, hugging her closer where she was tucked inside his coat, against his broad, warm chest. The rest of him was freezing, feet and fingers and ears, but where she was curled she would stay warm longest. Long enough.

He'd found her in the woods, she was only a tiny little thing, probably not older than six. She was dressed to be outside, but she must have wandered away and gotten lost when the sudden blizzard had swept up across the plains. They weren't that far from the nearest village, but in a storm like this even a kilometre became an insurmountable distance.

So Russia had scooped her up and dried her frozen tears, murmuring Russian lullabies to soothe her fears. He'd found a snowbank and dug into the side out of the wind, tucking her into his coat and curling around her, letting the snow insulate their heat.

This wasn't the first time he'd frozen, not by a long shot. It was almost comforting by now, feeling the blanket of cold settling over him, dulling his senses and stealing all touch. But this time he fought it, fought giving in to the beckoning wind, because he wasn't alone this time, and she was only human, so fragile and small. He would give her the best chance he could.

She shifted against his chest again, curling close into the sheltering warmth, and Russia closed his eyes and smiled.

They found him the next morning, pale coat nearly hidden by the blanketing snow, but his black boots gave him away. They shook their heads and sighed, how sad for such a young man to have lost his way in the storm. Such a fool, such a waste.

They grabbed him by his stiff shoulders, heaving him over to try and find the identity of the frozen young man, and a little girl slid out of his half open coat, blinking sleepily up at them from the cocoon of his scarf. They were so shocked, they scooped her up and fled, shouting as they returned to the village that they'd found the dear little one that they'd all feared lost. Her mother clung to her and wept for days, blessing the angel that had sacrificed himself for her baby.

When the men went back to try and find him again, to give him proper rites and inform his family of what he had done, his body was long gone.

Chapter Text

"Nation! Tonight, we have a very special guest; a dead guy."

Back stage, waiting for the luckless intern to give him the green light, Prussia snorted. For all that America kept gushing about this guy, Prussia wasn't impressed so far. He did appreciate the sense of humor, though.

"No, no," Stephen Colbert continued, one eyebrow cocked and loaded. "I'm serious. He looks like a ghost, and according to my sources, he shouldn't exist. Please welcome the Nation of Prussia!"

Prussia strolled out onto the stage, eliciting cheers and not a few wolf whistles from the audience. He smirked. He'd known it was a good idea to pull the jackboots out of storage to go with his distressed jeans. He took his time getting to Colbert, shaking the man's hand briefly and then dropping into the provided chair and leaning back to kick said jackboots up onto the desk. Colbert stared at him for a long moment like he wasn't sure what he was seeing, then tapped his notes against the desk and leaned forward.

"So you, am I right, are the national personification of Prussia."

"That's me," Prussia smirked and nodded.

"Well then, Mister Prussia,"

"Herr Prussia," Prussia corrected him promptly, "Or Herr Beilschmidt, that works too." It just earned him another of those blank looks.

"Sorry, I don't speak Nazi."

Prussia had been expecting something along those lines, since he didn't live completely under a rock and he had seen the show before. "There's a difference between 'Nazi' and 'German', liebling. For one thing, one's not a language."

That earned a laugh from the audience, and apparently Colbert really didn't speak enough German to catch what Prussia had called him. "So you may claim. Well then, Hair Prussia, is it true you look the way you do because you're a Nazi zombie ghost here to feast on our capitalist brains?"

"I think you're confusing 'Nazi' with 'communist' this time," Prussia snarked, getting another laugh. "I look the way I do because I've always looked this way. It might be fun to be a zombie though."

"But is it true that you're dead? I mean, I looked on a map once and didn't see any Prussia."

"Well hey, I'm still here, aren't I?"

"It appears so, yes," Colbert gingerly tried to nudge Prussia's boots off his desk. "But according to the research my interns got off Wikipedia, Prussia was dissolved in 1946, which was admittedly a long time ago."

"Long time ago? Try living for 900 years," Prussia waved a hand negligently. "Anyway, yeah, my government dissolved and then I had to go live with that bastard Russia, and now I'm back and bumming in West's basement letting him do all the real work."

"And by 'West', you mean...?"

"Germany. Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Tall, blond, total stick in the mud, huge mancrush on North Italy."

"Really?" Colbert's eyebrows went up. "That makes me extremely uncomfortable."

"Try waking up with a cute, naked Italian in your bed and not developing a mancrush on him."

"Most of the Italians I know, I would never, ever want to see naked," Colbert deadpanned, and Prussia paused, thinking about that. "Anyway," Colbert glanced down at his notecards again. "So your nation was dissolved, but somehow you're still here. Why should we care?"

"Because I'm awesome!" Prussia finally got his feet down off the desk so he could lean forward over the desk, poking his finger at Colbert's nose. "If it wasn't for me, America wouldn't even be here. Or at least, not nearly as awesome as you are today."

"Oh really?" Colbert blinked, going a bit cross-eyed at the pointing finger. "Do tell."

"America's not the only nation on the planet, you know-"

"But it's the only one that matters," Colbert interrupted, and Prussia had to double check and make sure that America himself hadn't decided to sneak in and take the pundit's place.

"It is not, shut up and listen. So when you guys were dunking tea in the toilet and generally being a pain for England, there were some nasty wars going on in Europe, too. We, and by we I mean Prussians, didn't like England too much right then, so we decided to help your little Revolution out."

"Uh huh," Colbert leaned his chin on his hand, apparently fascinated. "We didn't need the help though, I'm sure. We've got the greatest military power in the world."

"Today," Prussia rolled his eyes. "Back then, America was a ragtag group of colonists," -And one boy with stars in his eyes and dreams way too big for him- he couldn't help but think fondly. Humans didn't understand what it was like, to have witnessed things personally and really remember them. "England would have squashed you flat. So I sent over a general to help train Washington and his troops."

Colbert blinked at him. "Really now?"

"Oh yeah," Prussia smirked a bit, remembering fondly the good old days. "And obviously, it did some good, since you kicked England's ass. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're welcome," Colbert looked unsure what he was being thanked for, but glanced at his watch. "Unfortunately, we're nearly out of time. Thank you for coming." He reached over to shake Prussia's hand, then turned to the camera to address the audience again. "Nation-"

Prussia smirked, tucking his hands behind his head. "She's pretty hot, y'know."

Colbert stopped and turned away from the camera to stare at him blankly. "What?"

"The Colbert Nation. She's got a sweet ass. Bitch won't put out, though."

It took a few moments for this to sink in. Once it had, Colbert made a noise vaguely like a vacuum cleaner dying and put his head in his hands. Prussia wondered idly if he was going to cry, then decided that if he did, at least he'd have something to lord over America at the next meeting.

Chapter Text

It wasn't that he only enjoyed classical music. That's just what he was most known for. He'd come upon classical music first, long long ago, and it would probably always be his favorite. But the truth was, Roderich loved all music.

Even the hard, gritty music that Arthur called 'rock', even the sugar-candy pop that Kiku loved, even Alfred's latest 'brilliant' accomplishment: rap. Roderich couldn't help but be drawn to the music, swept away and lost in it. Classical music was easy; he caressed the piano like a lover, letting the music slide through his fingers, and it was no wonder the other Nations joked that Elizaveta had divorced him because he was cheating on her with the piano.

With other styles of music, it wasn't so easy. The music would pour into him, fill him up until he thought he might burst with it, and he had to do something to let it out. He would dance, then, or at least move, hips swaying and head nodding in time to the music. But he would only dance when no one was around. After all, he had a reputation to keep.

So instead, he snuck out at night when no one could see.

~*~

Usually Gilbert hated drinking alone. Ludwig had bailed on him at the last minute, the bastard, but Gilbert was too keyed up and decided he would go bar-hopping alone. Maybe he could pick up some cute little girl for the night, and thus no longer be drinking alone.

He'd never been in this particular club before, and he looked around in interest as he threaded his way through the crowds to the bar. It seemed like a typical night club, with lots of strobe lights, a bar with a DJ's stage beside it, and lots of people in leather. The music at the moment was some sort of European techno-pop. Kinda catchy, if you liked that sort of thing.

As he leaned against the bar and waited for the overworked barkeep to notice him, Gilbert glanced over at the DJ. He didn't pay much attention to the man beyond the fact that he was nice-looking. At least, not until a few minor details filtered deeper into his brain, and then Gilbert's eyes snapped back to him. No glasses, but there was that ridiculous curl of hair, and if he squinted in the low light, Gilbert thought he could make out that distinctive beauty mark near his mouth.

Gilbert frowned, drumming his fingers on the bar. There was no way that was Roderich. It had to be an evil twin, or possibly a clone (or aliens, if you could believe Alfred, which Gilbert usually didn't). Still, physical similarities aside, the DJ was acting about as un-Roderich-like as possible. For one thing, he wasn't wearing a shirt, just a black leather vest held only loosely closed by a couple silver chains. For another, the DJ was being far too energetic, nodding his head and occasionally bouncing up out of his seat in time to the music, lips moving as he sang along, grinning and bright eyed and generally everything Roderich wasn't. As he moved, the vest gaped open, every now and then showing a glimpse of nipple against a pale chest. Gilbert felt a stirring of interest in his groin, whether that was Roderich or not.

The current song ended, and Gilbert's eyes narrowed as the DJ bounced up out of his seat, interacting with the crowd a bit as he switched over to the next song, announcing he'd be going on break for a few minutes. And the voice certainly sounded quite a bit like Roderich's.

Gilbert began pushing his way through the crowd, trying to get to the employees only door set in the wall between the bar and the DJ stand. He made it just as the DJ stepped off the stage, and Gilbert reached out and grabbed his arm. The DJ turned to look at him in surprise, and Gilbert smirked at the look of shocked recognition. "So it is you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Roderich said stiffly, trying to pull his arm away. Gilbert just tightened his grip, satisfied to see Roderich wince, and reached to open the employees' door with his other hand and shove Roderich through.

"Now now Roderich, aren't you happy to see me? I didn't know you had it in you. You're even wearing leather."

Roderich stiffened, apparently ready to revert back to his usual personality in the presence of someone who knew him. "You-"

Gilbert reached out to grab him again, yanking him close as the door closed behind them, muting the noise of the club to a dull drone. "I like it."

Roderich grunted and tried to lean back away from him, and Gilbert studied the other man for a moment. "You look good without glasses," he found himself saying, and Roderich stared at him in surprise. Gilbert smirked and took the opportunity to push Roderich back against the wall, pressing his body close against the other man's and rubbing their hips together teasingly. He was pleased to see Roderich's cheeks darken in a flush.

"Get off..." Roderich's hands came up to Gilbert's shoulders, but he never quite got around to trying to push him away as Gilbert ground his hips against him again. Roderich gasped, head falling back a bit, and Gilbert took the opportunity to attack that pale neck with his teeth. Roderich grunted again, trying to push him away this time. "I said get off!"

"I plan on it," Gilbert smirked, one hand settling under the vest to palm his nipple. "Just not in the way you mean." He paused, pretending to ponder something as Roderich scowled at him. "I wonder if Elizaveta knows about your little hobby..."

"That's blackmail," Roderich growled.

Gilbert just smirked at him, shoving his knee between Roderich's thighs to press against him more firmly. "It's working, isn't it? And your body certainly seems to be enjoying it." He licked his lips, savoring Roderich's scowl, the high flush of his cheeks. It was so much easier to appreciate his expressions without his glasses, Gilbert made a mental note to do away with them more often. He leaned closer, lips brushing Roderich's ear. "You were having fun, weren't you? You were honestly having fun. I didn't know it was possible for you to enjoy anything that didn't involve a piano." Or sex on a piano, he mentally added.

"Shut up," Roderich gasped, pushing at his shoulders again, but Gilbert had him firmly pinned. "You don't know anything-"

"The hell I don't," Gilbert shifted, pressing his hips more firmly against Roderich's and savoring his groan. "We've all got hobbies and things we enjoy, Roddy. Nice to know you're as human as the rest of us."

"What did you just-?!" Roderich yelped, but didn't get a chance to finish as Gilbert kissed him hard, hand migrating from Roderich's hip to his ass. He groaned into the kiss, hands tightening on Gilbert's shoulders as his hips bucked entirely of their own accord. Gilbert shoved him more firmly back against the wall, not letting him break the kiss as his hands deftly began unfastening Roderich's pants.

Roderich gasped when the kiss finally broke for air, arching up into his hands. "Let me go, you buffoon-!"

Gilbert blinked, pausing for a moment in fascination. "Did you just try to insult me by calling me a musical instrument?"

Roderich scowled at him, cheeks pink and lips slightly swollen from the rough kisses. "That's a bassoon, you-!" He was cut off by a gasp once again as Gilbert finally managed to get a hand down his pants.

"Eh, not like I'd take offense anyway," Gilbert kissed along his jaw, pausing to nip at the soft skin under his ear and making Roderich groan. The hallway at the back of a night club wasn't exactly the best place for a sexy tryst, but Gilbert had made do with worse. He shifted again, unfastening his pants one-handed since his other hand was still otherwise occupied. At least Roderich didn't seem inclined to try and escape anymore, if the way he was gripping Gilbert's shoulders was any indication. The trick, Gilbert thought idly, was to get him to stop thinking about just exactly what he was doing and who he was doing it with.

In a fluid motion, Gilbert stepped back and hooked a foot around Roderich's ankles, shoving him sideways. He tripped over and hit the ground with a startled yelp, pants around his thighs. But before he had a chance to raise himself to more than his hands and knees, Gilbert had dropped down behind him and was leaning over his back, one arm wrapping firmly around his chest to hold Roderich against him.

"Let me go," Roderich gasped again, breathless, palms and knees still stinging from their sudden meeting with the floor.

Gilbert hummed a bit, shifting into a better position. Roderich should at least be grateful he'd spared a moment to spit-lube himself, though mostly that was because chafing was painful no matter which position you were playing. "No, Roddy, I don't think I will."

There was music in this too, Roderich thought distantly. Or at least a rhythm. Back and forth, up and down, in and out. His own groans, and Gilbert panting in his ear, blending into a strange kind of harmony. With the hum of the club in the background, it was just another kind of music.

Almost, almost beautiful.

Roderich groaned and closed his eyes, and let it wash over him.

Chapter Text

Tic
Tic
Tic

In, out, breath filling his lungs and leaving him in a gentle whoosh of air.

Body shifting, leaning back, resting one elbow on the piano's covered keys, feeling the smooth wood dig into his back.

Tic
Tic
Tic

Eyes slip closed, listening to the music echo through his mind, contrasting to the vast silence of the hall where he sits, save for the steady beat of the metronome.

Tic
Tic

Calm, peace, stroking himself in time to the music in his mind, the rhythm of his breath blending with the solemn, stately sound of the metronome.

Breath catch - no. Breathe, in and out, stay in time, in time with the music, the metronome. Play your body as you would an instrument, controlled yet lost in the joy of pleasure, the passion of music.

Tic
Tic

And when he came, he may have whispered a name, just the barest breath leaving his lips, lost in the rhythm of the metronome.

Chapter Text

"What would you do if you were a human?"

"Eh?" Poland craned his head back, peering over at Lithuania. They were both sprawled on the grass under the shelter of a large tree, listening to the wind rustling the leaves and enjoying the warm summer day. "Like, what're you talking about, Liet?"

Lithuania sighed, looking unusually serious. Things were going so wrong lately. He wasn't sure how much longer their boss could hold off Russia and Austria. He reached over, lacing his fingers through Poland's where they rested in the cool grass. "I just... wondered. If we weren't countries. If we could actually grow up and live lives..."

Poland propped himself up on one elbow, brow furrowing as he looked down at their clasped hands. "What brought this on? It's, like, totally unlike you to be this serious."

"Nevermind," Lithuania sighed again, morosely, staring up at the leaves. After a moment, Poland shrugged and flopped back into the grass, their fingers still intertwined. A few minutes passed in silence, before Poland spoke up softly.

"Do you, like, think it would be the same?"

"Huh? Would what be the same?"

"If we weren't nations. Would we, like, still be together? I totally wouldn't want to be human if it meant I couldn't be with you, Liet."

Lithuania felt his cheeks go pink, but he squeezed his partner's hand. "Yeah, I know."

"But, like, if we were human, maybe we wouldn't have to be separated, either. You know? I don't want that, like, at all."

"We don't have a choice," Lithuania tried, and Poland scowled bitterly.

"Like, we never do."

"Yeah," Lithuania sighed again.

"Maybe it'd be better to be human, you know? We'd, like, be able to choose."

Lithuania closed his eyes, tugging Poland closer until the blond nation laid his head on his chest. "I'm sorry I asked."

Poland's hand curled in his shirt, holding on while he could. "Me too."

Chapter Text

"Bruder,"

"Eh?" Prussia wasn't exactly paying attention. Spain and France were currently arguing over who had the rights to the last cheese stick, and it was highly entertaining. "What is it, Germany?"

Germany shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, hands knotted together. If 'Adorkable' had needed a poster child (it didn't, it already had one and his name was Romano), Germany would have easily gotten the job. "I have a question. It's kind of important."

"Oh?" Prussia tore his eyes away from his two bickering friends to turn his attention to his little brother. He held out his arms, inviting Germany to climb onto his lap. "What is it? I can answer anything."

Germany gave a tiny, shy smile, and Prussia had to resist the urge to squeal over how adorable his baby brother was. "Well, I read about something in a book, but I'm not really sure what they were talking about."

"Oh, books," Prussia wrinkled his nose, really hoping Germany wasn't about to ask him about the invention of chocolate or anything stupid like that. When Prussia read books at all (which wasn't often, since he'd rather be outside doing awesome things) they were usually sensible books about warfare or military campaigns. Useful things. Germany seemed absolutely hopeless about reading things just because they were there. "Well, what was it that confused you?"

Germany looked up at him, pale blue eyes so serious. "Bruder, what's 'sex'?"

Prussia went still in shock. Behind him he could hear Spain choking on his hard won cheese stick. Germany just blinked innocently. In the end, it was France who recovered himself first, coming forward to sit on the couch beside Prussia and Germany. "I believe I can answer that for you. I'll just need some assistance..."

"Hell no," Prussia eyed France with a frown, hugging Germany protectively.

France merely looked amused. "I meant I shall need some paper and a pencil. This requires diagrams."

Twenty minutes later, all four of them were leaned over the coffee table, watching as France quickly and expertly sketched detailed figures. "...And there, you see?"

"I think so..." Germany was blushing terribly, but also looked thoughtful. "But why are his eyebrows so big?"

In the sudden silence Prussia snickered, not having noticed that.

"Wait," Spain frowned in confusion. "France, is that really how it works?"

Prussia and France both turned to stare at him. "You've got to be shitting me, man."

Spain looked embarrassed. "I've only entertained girls before..."

"You can do sex with girls?!" Germany's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Oh boy..." Prussia shook his head, standing and tucking Germany easily under one arm, ignoring his flailing and the way France was looking hungrily at Spain. "You kids have fun. I'm going to go give my darling baby brother a good porno."

The sound of the door closing behind them almost drowned out Spain's yelp.

Chapter Text

If he was ever really pressed, Lithuania would have to admit that he didn't really like Eurovision all that much. He'd never been one for huge, garish displays anyway, and while 'national pride' was all well and good, it tended to cause more fights than anything.

Even meeting between the Nations themselves became a tense affair, with Denmark smirking even more than usual, France already predicting himself as the winner every year, and America blithely making comparisons between Eurovision and American Idol. Even worse, as the competition really started to heat up, the Nations that made it into the finals would invariably be argued over, with everyone forming up behind their various choices.

Apparently, Eurovision was srs bzns.

It all just gave Lithuania a headache.

One night, coming home from grocery shopping, Lithuania was quite happy that the end of the contest was only a week away. Then at least they'd have peace for another year. He shifted his bags to one arm, digging out his keys and debating just ringing the bell and have Poland get the door for him. But, after a moment where it looked like he might drop the milk, he managed to get the door open and himself inside.

"I'm home," he called, kicking the door closed behind him. He wasn't sure where in the house Poland was, but he'd probably come soon enough when he started smelling food. "Poland?"

"Like, in the living room, Liet!" came his lover's voice. "Can you, um, come in here for a quick sec?"

"Let me put the groceries down," Lithuania headed into the kitchen, setting the bags down on the counter. As he turned to go into the living room, he noticed that the stereo he usually kept on the counter so he could listen to music as he cooked was gone. He blinked as he started toward the living room. "Hey, did you move my..."

He stopped. And stared. And was still staring when Poland reached over and hit the play button on the stereo. Instantly it started blasting InCulto's song for this year's Eurovision. Poland just grinned widely at him, blowing him a kiss before he started to dance.

Lithuania felt rather like his brain was going to melt through his ears. He'd grown very tired of that song over the past couple months, but he had a feeling he could never get tired of this. For one thing, Poland was in a skirt, and he always liked Poland in a skirt. It was a very short skirt, too, paired with a metallic silver tanktop and a killer pair of knee-high boots.

As Poland danced, Lithuania's eyes were invariably drawn to his ass, especially with the way that skirt kept flaring up as he turned. He barely noticed when Poland stepped up onto the coffee table, laughing a bit at knowing he had his Liet's undivided attention.

The song ended far too soon for Lithuania's liking. He wondered if Poland would keep dancing if he set the stereo to repeat, but he didn't get a chance to find out. Poland hopped down off the table, drawing a faint noise of protest out of Lithuania. Poland bent over, rummaging around for something on the couch. Lithuania took a couple steps sideways to get a better view of his ass, making Poland laugh again.

"Liet, I know you, like, totally hate Eurovision, but you should get into it more! It's fun! Look, I even got you these!"

To Lithuania's complete horror, Poland held up a pair of shiny neon green briefs similar to what the band had actually worn in the contest (much to Lithuania's mortification). "I think you would look so totally cute!"

"Over my dead body," Lithuania found himself saying, then paused. "Only when you win Eurovision."

Poland just laughed, and reached over to hit 'play' again.

Chapter Text

"This has got to stop."

"Do you have any idea how much damage control we're having to do, even with the mass memory alterings your people did?"

"Atlantis was bad enough. Well, at least the last couple times."

The Fairy Nation, the personification of the oldest, most magical race in the known universe, felt himself quaking a bit as he stared up at the two much larger (though vastly younger) human Nations. It didn't help that they had him under a butterfly net, and they both looked pissed.

"We were willing to overlook what keeps happening in Dimmsdale," England groused, rubbing his temples. "It's not like we don't all have unruly citizens that get out of hand from time to time..."

"Though Cosmo is a force in himself," Norway added.

"But this was a disaster. America's running around screaming about aliens even more than he usually does, and don't even get us started on our governments."

"Half of whom were at MARF..." Norway murmured under his breath.

England coughed. "Be that as it may..." he paused, trying to remember the point.

The fairy took the opportunity to jump in. "It shouldn't happen again. I hope." He fidgeted nervously. "Things just got out of hand. ...Jorgen's hand, to be precise. And besides, I was gum!"

England shook his head, reaching to lift the net and free the fairy. "Fine fine, we understand. It's not like we really have any say in our nations' workings either. ...There aren't any more prophesies we should know about, are there?"

"No, no, none! Well, not any I know about."

England frowned. "Shouldn't you know about them?"

"Did you know about the whole King Arthur debacle before hand?"

England tried not to look embarrassed, and glared at Norway, who was snickering. "Point made." He sighed. "I guess I'll go try and convince America that KISS aren't aliens. ...Just fairies, apparently. Right. Try and let us know before anything else hits the fan, would you?"

"Hey, I warned you about the muffin, didn't I?"

"We really should just put a GPS tracker on Timmy Turner," Norway sighed. "Tea on Tuesday as usual, gentlemen?"

The personification of all of Fairy World nodded, then winced as a voice he both hated and adored thundered across the magical multiverse.

"BINKY!!!"

"Coming Jorgen!" he squeaked, and with an apologetic look at the other two, poofed out.

Norway and England just sighed and shook their heads.

Chapter Text

Breathing.

It wasn't something you really thought about, until all of a sudden you couldn't.

Canada arched on the hotel bed, mouth slightly open as his lungs fought to draw in air. His chest was burning, head spinning, heart pounding in time with the throbbing in his throat and cock and ass. (Some small corner of his mind wondered dizzily how Netherlands had managed to time his thrusts exactly to the pounding of Canada's heart, and he had to fight down the hysterical urge to giggle.)

He shuddered, tilting his head back and feeling the soft scarf tighten around his neck. He would have mewled, if he'd had the breath, one leg shifting to wrap more firmly around Netherlands' hips.

Above him, Netherlands licked his lips, admiring the view but careful not to let himself get carried away. They'd been at this for a few years now, off and on, and he knew just exactly how much give the knit scarf had. (He was still a little amazed that Canada had returned to him at all, after that first disastrous time when Netherlands had underestimated his own strength and overestimated how much the scarf would stretch before turning as immobile as rope.)

Netherlands' eyes sharpened and immediately darted upward when Canada tapped his knuckles against the wall where they were bound at the headboard with the other end of the long scarf. Once, twice, three times.

Netherlands stilled his hips, loosening the scarf and pulling it away from Canada's throat, trying not to be too concerned as Canada gasped in a couple deep breaths. Netherlands watched carefully as the color returned to Canada's cheeks and lips, and after a minute the younger Nation opened his eyes and offered Netherlands a wane smile.

"More," Canada rasped, voice not quite normal after being choked. Netherlands' eyebrows rose, and Canada gave a soft laugh, rocking his hips up and wringing a groan out of his partner. "C'mon, more. I won't break like some pretty Lolita."

Netherlands groaned again, and leaned down enough to give him a light kiss. "You and America are pretty alike sometimes, y'know?"

Canada nipped at his lower lip in reprimand, though his voice lacked any real malice. "Bite your tongue."

"I'd rather bite yours," Netherlands murmured, and then wrapped the tail end of the scarf around his hand to get a better grip as he pulled it tight again. Canada managed a soft moan before his air was cut off, and squirmed rather deliciously. Netherlands gave a rather breathless chuckle of his own and rolled his hips in another thrust, making Canada arch off the bed.

It was good, Canada thought hazily. So good. He knew Netherlands would be careful, Canada trusted him enough that he could let go, give in to the dizziness and the way his vision would fragment and fuzz and then sparkle blue and white, just like the stripes on Netherlands' scarf. He tried to moan again, trembling with need, and it sent a shock of lust straight through him when he found he couldn't. He tried to gasp Netherlands' name, found he couldn't do that either, would have cried out in relief when he felt the scarf tighten just a fraction more.

Netherlands shifted his hips on the next thrust, just enough, and Canada's world exploded into stars and sparkles and a delicious burn all through his body, lack of oxygen making him feel dizzy and high and as though he was just going to float away somewhere. He only dimly registered that Netherlands was still rocking into him, when he tensed with his own release.

Then the pressure on his windpipe eased as Netherlands loosened the scarf. "Breathe, Matt," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the side of Canada's neck to rouse him a bit. His shoulders relaxed as Canada took a few deep breaths, only slightly shakey. Carefully, Netherlands pulled out of him, then reached up to pull the knots loose that were holding Canada's hands bound to the headboard.

Once he was free, Canada made a pleased sound and curled up to cuddle against Netherlands' chest. Netherlands chuckled, settling into the bed and pulling a blanket up over both of them, then letting his arm drape lazily over Canada's waist. "Sleep well."

"Mmm, you too..." Canada nuzzled into his shoulder with a little yawn.

Netherlands grinned a bit, and couldn't help asking, "Does America know how kinky you can get?"

Canada made a disgruntled sound and smacked his shoulder, though not very hard. Netherlands just chuckled again and pulled him close, nuzzling his face into Canada's hair.

Chapter Text

Alfred can't remember a time before he lived with Matthew.

Alfred can't remember a time before he was sick.

There are good days, when he can get up and move around and joke with Matt and his weird British friend that comes over sometimes, when he can get his own food and coffee and shower on his own. It's been a long time since he's been outside, but it used to be he could even run to Tim Horton's on his own, or maybe, if it was a really good day, go to the grocery for Matt.

But there are bad days too.

Days when he's dizzy and disoriented, when he's so weak he can't even get out of bed, when everything hurts and it feels like the worst hangover in history except that he doesn't drink. Days that he spends in the bathroom, puking his guts out into the toilet while Matthew hovers worriedly in the doorway. He hates the days when he's physically ill to the point of collapsing, but he hates the other kind of bad days more.

Bad days when he curls up under his blankets and fights not with his roiling stomach but with his rebellious mind instead, days when his subconscious whispers that Matthew's way too good for him, that he's nothing but a burden, that he should kill himself and be out of Matt's hair forever.

Alfred can't remember a time before Matthew was his whole world, though Matthew says that time existed.

Alfred overhears him talking on the phone sometimes, voice soft and worried and sometimes on the verge of tears. If he knows that Alfred is nearby he'll speak in French, but that doesn't stop Alfred from hearing his own name.

Once, Alfred's stomach has actually managed to settle a little and he shuffles out of the bathroom without Matthew noticing. The Canadian is in the kitchen, the small TV on the counter playing CNBC on mute as he cradles his cell phone against his ear. Alfred goes still outside the doorway when he realizes Matthew is speaking English for once.

"...know, Arthur. I don't know what to do. He doesn't even remember unless he's in the middle of a fever dream, and then it's just incoherent babbling. They're supposed to be holding an election this year, and the riots are getting worse, and I don't know..."

Matthew trails off, and Alfred watches a tear slip down his cheek. Suddenly feeling sick for entirely different reasons, Alfred creeps back to his bedroom like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

Alfred cannot remember a time before America was in revolt. All Canadians pay a lot of attention to their southern neighbors, watching anxiously to make sure no troublemakers cross the borders. Their own political system isn't terribly stable, and the last thing they need is America's government tearing itself apart to spark something in their own people.

Alfred can't remember, but Matthew tells him stories sometimes, on his good days. Matthew will sit on the bed beside him and Alfred will cuddle up against his side, laying his head on the other man's shoulder. Matthew will stroke his hair and tell him about the land of the free and the home of the brave, about when America was strong and confident, a place where everyone wanted to be instead of a place that everyone wanted to leave.

Alfred watches him with stars in his eyes, thinking he would have liked to have seen America like that, instead of torn by political infighting and national revolution. Matthew just smiles, strained and tearful, and tells him that a long time ago, he did.

But Alfred can't remember.

Alfred can't remember a time before he was sick.

Alfred can't remember America at all.

Chapter Text

Francis has very particular tastes in art.

Antonio always tells him that he’s too picky, that you can find art in any part of life. But then again, that’s the sort of thing Francis expects out of Antonio. Still, his friend’s words stay in his mind.

When he passes a small gallery set up for a pottery show on his way home one evening, Francis stops to peer at the posters hung in the windows. This gallery is one of his favourites, they tend to get in good (if unknown) artists.

He’s amazed at how beautiful a simple teapot can be; crackled raku glaze or porcelain painted with intricate roses, long graceful necks and twisted handles. Something so… utilitarian made so lovely.

Francis digs his phone out of his pocket to make a note of the exhibition’s time and the potter’s name. Arthur Kirkland.

Chapter Text

It’s a well known fact that the Potions Master and the Herbology professor hate each other’s guts. It’s like saying the Great Hall is big or the lake is wet, it’s just an accepted truth of daily life at Hogwarts.

Some of the students say it’s just natural animosity. The two went to Beauxbatons together; one the son of the French Minister and the other the son of the British ambassador to the French Ministry, it’s only natural they would rub each other the wrong way. Others insist that it’s something more, terrible tales of twenty-year-old curses and accidents with malicious intent.

The Headmaster, who has known them both for a very long time, just smiles. He’s the only one who really has any idea what goes on in the Potions room after classes, or in the greenhouses on sunny Saturday afternoons when neither professor can be found.

Animosity indeed.

Chapter Text

Most of the time, England’s house was in an uproar; bothersome siblings and noisy colonies coming in and out and generally making his life a chaotic racket. Most of the time, England had a perpetual headache from the noise and the chaos and all the tediousness that being an empire brought. Most of the time, he was quick to snap and swear and yell at the top of his lungs until everyone left him alone for just a few moments.

But sometimes, sometimes late at night, when the sun had gone to sleep and the candles gave everything a softer, warmer touch, when England would be down in his study finally getting some overdue work done. Sometimes, he would find the house just too quiet, everyone tucked into their beds but him.

And England would get up, not needing a candle to light his way as he mounted the ancient, solid steps. And then he’d go down the hall, peeking into bedrooms and counting sleeping children. Canada, curled up with his bear. India, laying peacefully on his back. Egypt and South Africa, both so bundled in blankets they almost couldn’t be seen.

When he reached the last door and peeked in, he was startled to find a pair of open eyes. New Zealand was silently sleeping in her bed across the room, but Australia was watching the door. England frowned, murmuring just loud enough for the boy to hear, “You should be sleeping, Oz.”

“I was waiting for you,” Australia whispered back, and even in the darkness England could see him smile. “Goodnight, England.”

England smiled back, a little warmer and gentler. It was always easier when things were quiet, when everyone was asleep. “Goodnight, sleep well.”

He softly closed the door, and went back downstairs.