Hey, I needed to take a break from studying, and usually I do that by writing fanfic. Unfortunately, the fic I've been working on, Empire Strikes Crack, has been tiring me out. So…I'm taking a break from that and writing something new for a bit.

Also, I used Romano instead of Lovino, because Romano is an actual Italian name that people have, whereas Lovino is not. Though I don't know, maybe there are some Hetalia fans in Italy who named their kid Lovino, who knows?


Antonio gestured to the motionless form of a filthy young man, slouched in the corner of the cell, likely pruning in the dirty puddle of bilge water that sloshed around his legs. "Ay...he looks kind of…dead. Could you do something about that?"

Roderich snapped, slamming the keys onto the table outside the grimy cell and snarling, "He won't eat! What the hell am I supposed to do about that?"

Antonio tapped a thoughtful finger to his chin. "Hmmm…have you tried force feeding?"

"He keeps trying to bite me! And do you want to break his jaw?"

"Right…oh! What if we chop off a finger every time he refuses to eat?"

"I thought we were avoiding bodily harm! What kind of idiot—"

Antonio suddenly brightened and clapped his fist enthusiastically into his open palm. "No, we chop the fingers off of someone else! How long 'till we make port?"

"Eh…Francis said a couple days, roughly."

"Perfect!"


Gilbert was never particularly adept at soliciting prostitutes. In theory, it shouldn't be that difficult, but Gilbert's trademark god-like confidence and charisma always seemed to fail him when faced with the prospect of trying to obtain company. Of course, it wasn't because he was inexperienced in sex, not in the slightest! It was simply because the prostitutes found him so enormously attractive that they had no interest in payment for their services. However, Gilbert, being ever chivalrous, was always unwilling to deprive a hardworking economic contributor of her income.

And so, after a night of drinking anxiously and sulking in the corner, graciously turning down the swarms of women who always crowded around him, drawn in by his awesome, literal five meters, the first mate was discovered empty handed and drunk as a fish.

"Gil, I asked for a whore."

"Ja, ja, here I am…" Gilbert gulped down the last of his pint and giggled, puckering his lips at the captain and the quartermaster, the latter of whom noticed the empty purse at Gilbert's belt.

"Gil, mon dieu!" He gasped, "Did you spend all the whore money on beer?"

"Whaaaaat? No…no? No. I did not. I diiiiiid noooo—" He burped.

Francis cut in impatiently, tapping his foot and crossing his arms tensely. "Then where is the whore, Gil? We have an investment starving to death in the brig!"

"Riiight Here!" Gilbert pounded his fist on the table emphatically, gesturing toward himself with the other hand. "I looooooove wurst! Om nom nommmm…" He slumped over the bar, knocking over his glass and rocking his stool back and forth precariously.

Antonio sighed and slung Gilbert over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "My fault, we shouldn't have sent Gil. Okay Fran, he drank all the whore money, so I guess you're gonna have to pick up a girl the old fashioned way. The barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in, so I want someone back at the ship in no more than two hours, yes?"


"Ah, Bonjour, ma Cherie…" Francis sidled up to the bar, smiling his most charming, scurvy-less smile. (Francis was far too attractive not to eat his fruits and vegetables.)

"I hope I have not caught you unawares...but I feel we have this connection...how do you say...destiny?"

The barmaid raised a somewhat blasé eyebrow and offered him a monotone greeting in perfect French. Francis was caught off guard and dropped his act, surprised back into his native tongue. "Tu parles Français? Where are you from? I'm from Auray!"

She replied mildly, in English, wiping down the bar in sweeping, circular motions that picked up most of the grime and spilled beer. "I'm from Bruges."

Francis tried to recover from the lukewarm reception. "Ah, well, your accent was so flawless; I thought you were from France as well!"

She paused, cocking her head, "Really? I've always been told I have an obvious accent."

"I didn't notice! I was so nervous, because you're so beautiful!"

"Well, you sure do seem nervous."

Francis finally deflated, requesting meekly, "Please, can you just sleep with me?"

"Uh, I'm fine, thanks."

"J'taime?"

She rubbed her forehead. "I overheard your conversation. I don't fancy having my fingers chopped off. Put a bit of a damper on business at the tavern, you know?"

"We wouldn't reeeeaaally chop your fingers off! Just threaten to."

"Yes, and pirates…such as yourself…" She gave him a scathing once over, "…didn't reeeeeaaally sack this town six years ago, destroying business and plunging this tavern into debt, the stress of which caused my father to hang himself a year later, orphaning me and my brothers and forcing me to take over this godforsaken tavern when I was only thirteen, dealing with drunk idiots like Gil every night and contemplating hanging myself, also due to the stress of running a heavily debt-ridden tavern?"

"He tries his best!"

"Every time a whore tried to pick him up, he stuttered like an idiot and ran away!"

"He has issues!"

"Whatever, it's not my problem anyway."

Francis sighed dramatically and massaged his temples as early morning light filtered through the door of the empty pub. "Okay, I don't have any money on me at the moment, but I have a ridiculous amount of gold back on the Chiara."

"Nope, I don't have time for that shit."

"What? You're going to be closed for the next twelve hours; you won't even be doing anything! Isn't this shithole of a pub in debt?"

"Hey! It's not that shitty!"

"I literally stepped in a pile of shit right outside the door! It's shitty!"

"Fine, Jesus! How much am I getting paid for this shit?"

Francis smirked and adjusted the lapels of his coat with a flourish. "However much you need to bail out your shithole of a pub."

The barmaid gritted her teeth. "Alright, let's go to your shithole of a ship."


"Oh, wait, wait, one more thing."

She turned impatiently from the door. "What?"

"Can you pretend I seduced you, and you're coming back to the ship because you're madly in love with me? Oh, and you have to act like you really think we're going to chop off your fingers, you know, be all like, 'How could you Francis?', and cry and everything?"

She strolled out, slamming the door behind her without a word.


"Ppppppftt—what the fucking hell assholes? Go fuck your whore mothers you bast—arrrggghh!" He cut off as Roderich threw another bucketful of cold water over his head.

"Good morning amorcito!" Antonio chimed in brightly. "You look hungry! Hera, breakfast please!" The cook stepped into the cell with a bowl of hot porridge, placing it at the captive's feet. The young man regarded it disdainfully before promptly kicking the bowl with all the force he could muster in his weakened state, sending it skittering to the captain's feet, sloshing watery porridge over his boots.

"I don't dine with pirates." He spit out venomously.

Antonio darkened, nodding at Roderich, before approaching the young man, who, with each step, shrank back against the side of the cell. He crouched at his captive's side, cornering him, and countered belatedly with a predatory grin, "Neither does Emma."

"Emma? Who's Emma?"

As if on cue, the door to the trap door leading to the main deck collapsed open, and Francis entered, shoving a girl down into the dimly lit hold, gagged and bound by her wrists with a rope that had left red burn marks on her pale arms. Antonio rose, beaming.

"Ah, look Roma, the lovely Emma has arrived!"

"Mmmph!"

Romano looked on in shock and horror as Francis shoved the woman against the bars of the cell and ripped her gag off roughly. She gasped, tears rolling from her reddened eyes down her cheeks and begged raggedly over her shoulder.

"Please! Please, Francis! Let me go! I won't tell the authorities!"

Romano lunged at Antonio, chains jangling violently as he pulled uselessly against them. "Let her go, bastard! You can't do this!"

Antonio ignored him, addressing Emma jovially, hands clasped behind his back as he strode towards her shaking form. "Ah, Emma, you've met the other guest of honor, Roma!" She nodded her head reluctantly, eyes wide with fear. "You must be hungry…"

She nodded again, and Lovino had a sinking suspicion as to where this was all going as Herakles stepped forward with a knife. "Tomate, you must be hungry as well…"

Romano shook his head slowly and swallowed hard, trembling slightly. Antonio tsked as he took the knife from Herakles and freed Emma's wrists, examining her shaking right hand. "That's very rude, amorcito…look, Emma is very disappointed…"

"Please! Please! God, just do what he says!" she pleaded.

Romano nodded up at her, eyes wide with fear but determined. "Anything I have to do, I'll do it." Antonio smiled, releasing Emma's hand and sauntering towards Romano, coming to a halt a foot away from Romano's kneeling figure. "It's a banquet, isn't it? All you have to do is eat."

"I'll do it." Romano repeated, jaw clenched, as he looked around Antonio at Emma, on the other side of the bars with a numb look. When the silence continued into minutes, Romano broke, making eye contact with his captor and hissing, "What? What am I eating?"

Antonio fixed him with a stony gaze. "Your porridge, Roma."

"I—" Romano's voice caught in his throat as Antonio loomed over him, blocking out the light from the lantern and occupying his field of vision. Antonio's eyes flicked down to his boots and Romano understood. Wordlessly, he bent his head and licked the remains of the porridge off of the worn, dark brown leather, grimacing at the taste.

"That's enough." Romano lifted his head at the words, brow furrowed in silent fury. At some unspoken command, everyone but Roderich and Antonio silently left the hold, save for Emma's quiet snuffles.

Antonio crouched down and cocked his head as he grasped Romano's chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up with a critical gaze. "He still has bruises from when you tried to force-feed him, and he's covered in filth. Hmmm…and he's bound to have raw skin from the irons." Antonio released Romano's chin and stood, finished examining his prisoner. As he ambled up to the steps, he threw over his shoulder, "Clean him up and bring him to my quarters. I'll be expecting him in no more than an hour."

Romano watched, silently fuming, as the trap door swung shut behind him.


"You look good."

"I hate you."

"You look good when you hate me." Antonio grinned lazily and spread his arms at the feast on the table. "But that doesn't really matter. Sit. Eat. You're starving."

Romano didn't move, crossing his arms and glaring across the room, grinding his molars.

"Alright then," Antonio's gaze grew steely and he suddenly seemed coiled to attack, even draped lethargically over his chair as he was, boots propped up on the edge of the table. His voice was harsh.

"Romano. Sit."

Romano pulled out a chair and sat.

"Eat."

Romano growled low in his throat as he viciously ripped a drumstick off of the roast chicken in front of him and angrily sank his teeth into it. Antonio chuckled. "So you can eat. Though, there's no need to be so…" He shrugged as he sipped his wine and Romano slammed his own goblet onto the table. "Petulant. All you have to do is behave until your grandfather pays the ransom. There's no need to torture yourself."

"I'd rather die than be a disgusting leech on my family, like you're a leech on society."

"Really? I'd always fancied myself more of a wolf…picking off straying lambs from the fold…" He eyed Romano as the captive noble reached for an apple, inhaling it, and fiddled absently with the golden cross around his neck.

Romano came up for air, leaning his forearms on the table, bandages startlingly white against his olive skin, and staring at his plate. "This is disgusting."

"How so?"

Romano ignored him. "I am disgusting."

"You were before we cleaned you up."

Romano stood suddenly, knocking over his chair, and snarled, "You are disgusting! You are going to hell! How can you wear that cross as if you truly had the fear of the Lord?" Antonio hummed thoughtfully before answering.

"You're right. I have no fear of the lord." He didn't smile so much as bare his teeth. "I have much love for him, but no fear."

"How—"

Antonio cut him off. "Why should I fear god? Does he not love all his children?" He mused, "Maybe he loves me enough not to punish me, more than he loves the less fortunate in this world?"

"You WILL be punished! It is in the hands of the Lord, and it may not be today, or tomorrow, but you will regret the day you turned your back on His name, and repent!"

Antonio smirked and leveled His gaze up at Romano, taking His boots down from the table and leaning over the table towards him. "And who will punish me? Saint John? Your grandfather? You, maybe? I have already provided you with the knife." He leaned back in His chair; arms spread wide, locking eyes with Romano. "Send me to my judgement."

Romano picked up the knife with trembling fingers and trudged shakily around the groaning table, towards Antonio, until he stood right beside his chair. Antonio stood and wrapped His hand around Romano's, stilling it. "Ay…you won't be able to get it in very far if your hand is so unsteady."

He pulled Romano closer and pressed their foreheads together, resting the tip of the knife over His own heart, and sighed contentedly.

"Perfect. Go on."

"You're insane." Romano whispered in shock as he squirmed in Antonio's iron grip.

"You're weak. Is that any better?"

Romano at last managed to jerk his hand away, stumbling back. Dark rage coiled in his stomach and he screamed out in frustration, "I'm not weak!" He lunged at Antonio, aiming for His abdomen, intent on ending his imprisonment aboard the Chiara. Unfortunately, Antonio was quick to disarm him, intercepting him at the wrist and twisting his arm across his body to slam his knife hand to the table, eliciting a cry of pain.

Instantly Antonio was at Romano's back, hissing against the side of his neck.

"Playing God now, are we?" He pressed himself into Romano's back and pushed Romano's hand harder against the wood, knuckles turning white. "You should know your place!" He tore Romano away from the table, hand traveling up to his wrist and squeezing, forcing Romano to drop the knife. He dragged Romano over to the bed and threw him against it, breathing hard and almost snorting like a bull as He towered over him. Romano scowled up at Him, though his voice shook.

"You're a goddamn sodomite too? Christ, you're worse than I thought."

Snickering at that, He seemed to calm a little. "You thought I was going to fuck you?"

Romano reddened. "What the hell was I supposed to think?"

Antonio's head fell back and he raked his hands through his hair, laughing. "I was thinking about it too, but I won't. Stay here, alright? I'll be back by nightfall, probably." He strode over to the door, unlocking it with a heavy clunk. He paused before he crossed the threshold, looking over his shoulder at the hunched figure of Romano.

"Are you disappointed?"

Even after he locked the thick wooden door securely behind him and strolled cheerfully across the main deck, he could faintly hear the screamed expletives and curses. Antonio smiled at the memory as he and his first mate and quartermaster drank to their success, joined by an exasperated tavern owner.


Yeesh, Roma. Let's say he went for...perhaps ten days without eating enough? It would be preeeeetty anticlimactic if he died of heart failure before we've even made decent headway into the story.