This is a deanon bit - prompt below!
KinkMeme Drabbles - the challenge was to take a kink (any pairing) and return with a drabble of 500 words or less. Some of these went over, but not by much. Enjoy!
.o.O.o.
Animalistic behaviors and characteristics, dominant/submissive - UKUS (R/NC-17)
China knows something. America hadn't been suspicious at first, just genuinely appreciative of the jade-and-silver pendants the old Nation had given he and England. "For your anniversary, aru!", he had chirped, "The Special Relationship still continues, yes?" And America had impulsively swept him up into a hug, the necklace still clasped in hand, while England sputtered something about "It's not a bloody anniversary!" Looking back on it, he could almost swear that he saw some of the other Asian Nations out of the corner of his eye; Taiwan's face was pressed into her sleeve, Japan's lips were twitching, Korea was obviously trying to rein in laughter, and even Hong Kong's impassive expression had cracked as America clasped the chain with its elegantly wrought phoenix around his neck, England doing the same with his matching dragon. Even now, in hindsight, he couldn't tell what was so funny, but he kept thinking back to China's enigmatic smile, touched with just a hint of amusement... What did China know that he didn't?
He hissed as his train of thought was promptly derailed, all thoughts of China - political, socioeconomic, or personal - vanishing at the feel of a pen jabbing rather viciously into his side. He grumbled with annoyance, shoving the pen (and the stack of paperwork near it, and the paperweight, and his coffee mug) off the side of the desk. Really should remember to clear this thing off before I get bent over it. Annoying object removed, he was able to focus on England as the other wedged him up against the desk. He tucked his chin to keep England from getting to his neck, growling a warning. England bared his teeth at this defiance and went below the belt instead, sliding a hand past America's waistband and wrapping it tightly around his erection. The shock made America moan and toss his head back, England pouncing on the opportunity to clamp his jaws onto the exposed skin of America's throat. The young democracy gave a low cry and arched into England's lithe, compact body.
When the grip on his neck eased, America gave a muted chirr - almost of disappointment - and leaned down to nuzzle England's jawline, tugging suggestively at his trousers. The older Nation rumbled, the sound deep in his chest, and spun America around so that he faced the desk. America ground into the desk for friction as England yanked his pants down to his thighs, pressing two saliva-wet fingers into him. He squirmed against them as they spread, scissored, pulled out, almost melting with relief as he heard the faint zzzzzzzip of England's dress slacks coming undone and felt callused hands spread him wide. Then England was in him, almost too large for his tight confines, and he keened, digging his nails into the desk and leaving trails of splintered wood as he was claimed, filled.
He really didn't want to have to explain those to the White House staff later.
Eventually, he just Googled the meaning of the dragon and phoenix.
HOW THE HELL DID CHINA...?
.o.O.o.
Beards or stubble - (UK)US (PG-PG13)
America once thought that he had to shave fairly regularly - two times a week or so, depending on if he had a meeting or not - and he knew that Canada was only a bit worse (picked it up from France maybe?), but the first time stayed for a straight two weeks in the United Kingdom's manor house for a meeting, he had to revise his opinion when he found out that both England and Scotland woke up every morning needing a shave (or at least a trim). Wales, pretty-boy that he was (England made a snarky quip once about the third brother having fae blood), never seemed to have stubble of any kind, and would take his brothers' taunting with good-natured return jibes. Scotland he almost expected it from, but for England, America just thought it was weird, especially in the years when England would, for some odd reason or another, decide to sport a well-trimmed beard, just a trifle darker than the tawny shade of his hair. It always made him look older than his human twenty-two years, more distinguished.
But it was fuzzy.
Whenever he crawled into bed, he would be assaulted on at least one side, like it or not. One night he ended up sandwiched between Scotland and England, tucked under the redhead's chin, the blond to his back (which was so sore, like his ass, how is one person supposed to keep up with three?) and he was distracted all night long by the soft-scratchy fuzz both on his forehead and on the back of his neck. The next morning he woke up to feel phantom touches there, like the pet cat had crawled into bed and curled up next to him, then left before dawn. Shivering, he left to shower and then made his way down for breakfast (he cooked the bacon, eggs, and biscuits himself - England's brothers shared his lack of culinary skills) and was met at the kitchen table by the other three, each with a mug of tea in their hands. He proceeded to curse them all and raided the cabinet for some coffee (not much in the way of Starbucks here, but at least there was good NesCafe). As he sat down with the steaming mug of coffee, feeling revived by the very aroma, Wales leaned over to him, studying his face intently. He blinked slowly, mind still morning-sluggish.
"Somethin' on m' face?"
Wales' expression was utterly serious. "Stubble. I think you need a shave."
Laughter burst out from Scotland and England on the other side of the table as America, coffee aside, pounced on Wales with all the sleep-deprived intent in the world on strangling him.
.o.O.o.
Collars (slave) - SuFin
With how they tended to embody the very essence of a happy domestic couple, most Nations of the world figured that Sweden and Finland's sex life was just as tame. To anyone up-front enough to ask, Sweden would mumble an unintelligible reply and Finland would just smile that sweet, sweet smile of his (the nice one, not the one that made Russia tremble with very real fear). Anyone pressing the matter further would go to Denmark, the other Scandinavian having once - and only once - 'accidentally' walked in on the two. Denmark would blink, shudder, and take a long chug of whatever beer happened to be closest.
Creeping close to the door, Denmark cracked the door open ever so slightly, trying to see how large it would have to be to get the camera through. 'Damn Prussia and England for doing this to me! Last time I ever do a contest of shots against either, that's for sure.' He inched the door a bit wider... there! He flipped the side-screen open and froze, gawking at what he saw.
'Holy. Shit.'
Both were completely naked. Sweden was kneeling before Finland, knees spread wide, the smaller Nation standing between them. His fingers, long and delicate, tilted Sweden's face up towards him. Denmark hastily forced back a choked sound when he saw the heavy leather collar that fit snugly around Sweden's long, pale neck. He bit the side of his cheek to keep quiet as Finland tipped Sweden's chin farther and farther back, until those ice-cold eyes were focused on the ceiling. A sharp snap cut through the darkness as Finland attached a chain to the collar, links glinting in the faint light. He slipped a finger under the collar to check its tightness - once satisfied, Finland gently stroked his captive's cheek.
Then he stepped back and yanked the chain, violent in its force. Sweden crashed to his hands, landing on all fours as he choked and gasped. Finland placed a foot on his shoulder, superiority writ deep in his face and stance.
"You may be the Northern Lion, but that only makes you your master's cat." He extended his hand like a benevolent king and Sweden - proud, strong Sweden - leaned into the caress, rapture evident in every movement.
Denmark had had more than enough. He hightailed it out of there before either of them noticed him at the door. Screw England, Prussia, and their damn drunken dares.
"Trust me," he would tell the other Nation. "You don't wanna know."
.o.O.o.
Physical imperfections (scars or burns; acne pits; heaviness; outsized features such as ears or nose; jolie-laide/ugly-beautiful characters) - China, Hong Kong, England - eyebrows
Hong Kong never did come straight out and say anything. In this he resembled Canada and India far more than America, South Africa, Australia, or many of the others England had taken care of over the years, but the Empire did know more than a little about garnering information from silent, withdrawn colonies.
"Was it the older schoolchildren again?" he asked, daubing the bruised and bleeding cut on the dark-haired boy's cheekbone with an alcohol-dipped handkerchief. He could tell by the way his boy's eyes shifted - just a little to the side - and the way his mouth set into an even straighter line that he had hit upon the truth this time. He placed a bandage upon the now-clean cut and reached to brush dark, unruly bangs out of that pale face.
"It's these, isn't it?" An almost indiscernible fluttering of lashes as his thumb gently brushed his colony's overly-thick (English) eyebrows told him that this was the case. England sighed and let his hand drop, slumping back into his chair. His little Asian colony, who looked so very like China save for the bushy black eyebrows and stoic expression, merely sat in his own chair and waited silently for England to speak.
Propping his elbow on a knee, England rested his chin in hand, gazing at the boy. "I leave for my own lands tomorrow, do you remember? I believe I could... help... this situation before then, if you would allow."
A slight widening of eyes and a hesitant nod.
England sighed once again and stood, heading for the washroom cabinet where he kept the tweezers.
China was there the next day - England gone, his European occupier off to tour his other colonies before returning home to his own lands. China squealed in delight when he saw Hong Kong and leaned down to brush the boy's bangs out of his face, all the better to see his eyebrows, thin and delicate as a master calligrapher's ink-stroke. In a fit of glee and charity, China took him out on the town that day. Hong Kong walked the market streets with China, saw a play, kicked ball with others of his human age, browsed shops, and all without being looked at sideways or down upon for the obvious Westerner eyebrows on his face.
But they aren't now, are they?
Discreetly, he reached up to trace his newly slim eyebrows, careful to avoid the skin still tender from plucking. China noticed the movement and smiled happily down at the boy - who now looked as he was supposed to!
"You look so wonderful now, my son!" China exclaimed. "Much like a proper child of our great peoples, now that you don't have those, mm?" And though he heard Hong Kong make no response, that was to be expected; the boy was not a talker. Perhaps it was merely because of the softness of the statement that he missed it, continuing on in rapid-fire Mandarin.
"But Father's people are mine too."
When England next returned, Hong Kong's eyebrows were bushy again, much to China's dismay and all attempts to keep them otherwise.
.o.O.o.
Wings (wingfic)
The angel Britannia knelt over him, pinning the other man to the bed. Alfred could feel the pressure on his wrists, a silent demand, a silent warning. Other Nations might not think that England possessed the strength to keep America still, as frightfully powerful as the young superpower was.
How quickly they forget.
White tunneled Alfred's field of vision, the huge, majestic wings draping to enclose him on both sides. Soft feathers brushed his sides when they shifted, the delicate touch making him twitch. He wanted so much to reach up, to trace his hands over the long, firm primaries, to bury himself in the feel of the thick insulating down under the layers of normal feathers, but his hands were immobile, held fast to the cotton sheets.
Arthur smirked at his halfhearted struggles. The halo, dimly glowing, hung in the air like a floating coronet, casting a faint light over Arthur's face and giving his wings and shoulders a golden shadow. Alfred watched it like a moth drawn to the flame as the angel brought their faces closer, dipping his head to the side to press a line of kisses along America's jawline and down his neck, pausing to lick the hollow of his collarbone. The wings moved again, drawing closer, encasing them both in a muted cave of ivory.
America almost didn't notice when his hands were released as Arthur reached over to grab a small bottle from where it lay next to the pillow. He did notice, however, when England nudged him forward, grabbing his legs to hoist them over his shoulders, half lying on the wings, the feathers smooth beneath his tense muscles. He definitely noticed when he was opened, stretched, prepared. Alfred's toes curled at the sensation, suddenly feeling empty as the fingers withdrew. The emptiness was soon replaced, however, as America felt the older Nation force past the tense ring of muscle. His breath hitched as Arthur thrust into him, little by little, great wings flicking and twitching with every little motion, quiet 'ah, ah, ah' noises escaping Alfred's dry, parted lips.
When he was finally balls-deep inside of America's yielding body, England leaned forward to kiss his former charge. "And you thought angels couldn't be sinful, boy. Had you forgotten? The devil is an angel too…"
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