That's Just Sick
Title: That's Just Sick
Originally posted: 2/4/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: England/Hungary
Premise: The request was for "heterosexual sex in the missionary position." After I laughed for five minutes, I decided to write this.
Time period: Modern? It's crack.
Smuttiness: 4/10
Funnyness: 8/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's so, so meta, I really can't apologize enough for how meta this is. Also, there is no sex in it. Okay? There is a tasteful fade to black. So don't come to me whining about what a rip off this is. You've been warned. It's mostly just me riffing on how very strange the kink meme can be, with my first ever appearance of blushy England. Enjoy it while it lasts.
"So."
"So."
"Do you think we should--"
"--I mean, do you--oh, sorry--"
"No, after you, excuse me--"
"A-all right…umm…"
Hungary shifted. England studied the wall. The clock on the wall ticked. Hungary crossed her legs, and the bedsprings creaked a little.
England cleared his throat. "Can I get you something else to drink?"
"Yes, please," she said immediately.
There was an audible sigh of relief from both of them as he moved away to the mini bar. Hungary's shoulders tensed again when he returned with two shot glasses in hand. They both bolted their drinks.
"Ah…" England sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, a clear foot of space between them. He adjusted his collar. "Ehm. What is it specifically that we're supposed to be doing, again?"
Hungary picked up the script from the end table and handed it to him without a word.
He took it with a murmured "Thank you," "Mmm," and scanned the header for the thousandth time. There was really no room for ambiguity. 'Heterosexual sex in the missionary position.' He glanced up at Hungary. She studied the toes of her shoes and blushed a little.
"Ah. Well, then," he began authoritatively. And then, weaker: "…Well."
"Who comes up with this filth?" She glowered at the far wall.
England exhaled on an unsteady laugh. "And why were we chosen to--I mean, why was I--with you--not that I specifically object to the pairing, but--"
"But why not Austria or Prussia or someone, I know." She rubbed her forehead with her knuckles. "I-I have to admit, even with those two--I mean, all of these requirements…we don't usually…"
England blinked.
"Well, you know how it is," she began, and knocked back the last few drops in her glass. "The requests are never just 'go have sex,' there's always something. It's 'on a piano,' or 'cravat breath play,' or 'Hungary tops'--I get those a lot, I like those--"
"Ah," England managed. "So you mean, you've never…"
"In the missionary…I, ah, maybe once or twice? But…no."
An awkward silence fell between them. England scratched the back of his neck. His empty glass was still clasped between his fingers. It was cool where it grazed his skin.
"But this must be even worse for you," she went on. "I mean, you're always put with, who…America, or France, or…"
"Canada," he supplied. "Prussia's not uncommon, either. Japan. Hong Kong, now and then."
"Is it really so many?"
"Mm…"
"It must get very tiring," she offered sympathetically.
He squeezed her hand in appreciation. "I've even had a few with Australia," he added brightly.
"Oh, that must be interesting! I can't remember if I've ever been paired with a non-canon character."
"Yes. Ah…Yes."
The momentary camaraderie between them melted away. He realized his hand was still on hers, and coughed and drew away. She captured his fingers. "Tell me something, England," she began. "Have you ever, actually…you know…with a woman?"
He cleared his throat and wished he was dead. "Ah--well--there was…if you're counting…do gender bends count?"
"They can," she said kindly.
"Wait--there was something with Ukraine once, I think."
She raised her eyebrows. "What on Earth was the story behind that one?"
"I, ah, can't recall."
"Well," she smiled. He dimly felt that that was good, that at least one of them was smiling, even if it was at his expense. "You can always pretend I'm a man who's been rewritten as a woman, if that makes it easier?"
"You're very sweet," and would you look at that, he could blush harder. "But I don't believe it would help at all."
Then, in a tone of slight alarm, "Oh, I mean no offense, of course, with all this--"
Hungary burst out laughing. Her fingers wove gently into his.
He clasped her hand. "What I mean to say is, I've always thought you were a lovely young lady. Very, ah, spirited, and--if this were under any other circumstances--"
"I know, I know--if they had just asked for me to tie you to the bed, strangle you with a garter, and sodomize you with my saber hilt, or something--"
"Exactly," he said, relieved that she understood. "It's no personal reflection on you. I've always felt that Austria must be a very lucky fellow."
"Thank you," she murmured. A lock of her hair fell forward across her face, and there was a private flash of those green eyes from under thick eyelashes. England felt himself smile in return.
Hungary pulled her legs up onto the bed and faced him. She propped one leg up, and he caught a pale flash of stocking all the way to mid-thigh before she twitched her skirt back into place. Her ankle rested against the side of his hip. She drew his hand in to her lap and clasped it between her own. He turned towards her obligingly. "Maybe," she allowed, "We should try to ease into things."
"Y-yes--" he looked down, away to the wall, anywhere but at--
She reached out and tipped his chin back towards her with two fingertips. He met her eyes, and held his breath to quell the overpowering urge to say something embarrassing. "After all," she went on. "We're two experienced adults."
"But this--" he protested.
"I know," she hushed. "It's--it's sick, but…we've done everything else, haven't we?"
He swallowed.
"And just think of the bragging rights we'll have with the rest of the nations." Her lips parted on an irrepressible grin. "None of them have ever done this before."
"Lucky souls," he muttered. Still, he folded his hand into hers, and drew her forward. Hungary rose onto her knees, and the light from the lamp on the night stand behind her painted a line of gold up the side of her dress: over the delicate curve of her hip, up along her narrow waist, to just under where her ribs made a gentle flare in her silhouette. Without quite thinking, he rest his other hand on that warm hip. She tensed for an instant, but didn't draw away.
She dropped her hand from his chin to his collar, and drew him up to his knees across from her. He thought he might be breathing too fast. A faint blush had risen to her cheeks, but that was--that was nice, it suited her. Her complexion was so clear, and bright, and he felt a small tug in the pit of his stomach and acted on it before his courage failed him. He leaned in and grazed a kiss across the warm swell of her cheekbone.
He heard her inhale. She smelled like sunshine on autumn grass.
Her fingertips charted their way hesitantly from his shirt collar to the back of his neck, and curled against him, and he could feel the cool, flat stones of her fingernails against his bare skin. He swallowed against a surge of apprehension, and kissed his way from her cheek to the corner of her jaw. She turned her chin up, to admit him passage there, and that opened the way to the soft hollow below her ear, and the warm channel of her throat. He availed himself to both. Now she exhaled, and her back bowed a little, into him. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and so he slid his hand from her hip to the small of her back. She allowed her arm to fold light across his shoulders. Their bodies grazed together: the tips of her breasts against his chest. He tugged her in a bit closer, and he felt her breath against his cheek.
She released his hand, then, and ran her fingers through his hair. He smiled against her skin. She drew back, just a little, and tugged on the ends of his hair to turn his face up, and laid a soft kiss across his lips. He shut his eyes, as was proper. He could still taste her scotch and soda, which was fine, he was sure he tasted like gin and frayed nerves, so he rather suspected that he was getting the better end of the bargain. He opened his mouth against hers; she answered. His arm went around her waist, then, and since she had gone for his hair, he returned the favor, burying his fingers in the soft heavy weight of it. He felt her smile into their kiss and thought, well. Something we have in common, at least.
A few minutes later found them lying back against the bed, or her lying back, at least, and him half-propped over her. Her long hair was spread across the pillow, and he ran his fingers through it over and over again, while she nuzzled back against his hand and they traded exploratory kisses. She'd got open half the buttons on his shirt, and her fingernails scored faint red lines across his chest and side and back, searching for those little spots that made him shiver. She found them. He drew in a breath as her thumb dug into the scar just below his ribs on the left side, and briefly thanked God that it was Hungary who was chosen for this, good natured and experienced Hungary, who, now that the scotch was kicking in, seemed to be happily resigning herself to this whole endeavor and oh--
He froze for a moment as her progress down the front of his shirt culminated in unsticking the button on the front of his trousers. He gaped down at her.
"We'll have to get them off eventually," she giggled at his expression.
"Y-yes, o-of course, you're right--" he was blushing again. Damn it.
She caught his hands. "Why don't we," she proposed, "Take a quick break for another drink, and get off the rest of our clothes?"
He nodded and clambered out of the bed with unseemly haste to fix their drinks. It was just, well, such a good suggestion, and removed the looming threat of fumbling with bra straps and whatever else she had on under there--he hadn't actually had a lot of exposure to that kind of thing--and he'd been trying to remember which way those little eye hooks went, and--
He turned around in time to see Hungary shake out her hair, and her dress slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor. She glanced back at him, caught him staring, and smiled.
"Oh," he thought he might have said. After a moment, he held out her drink. She took it, sipped, held his eyes the whole time. He drank with considerably less finesse. He turned his back to her while he undressed. Something told him that she had not extended him the same courtesy. He felt the color rise in his face again, but somehow (and four shots of gin might have had something to do with it) the thought that she was watching wasn't precisely…discomfiting.
"I have an idea," she suddenly declared. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the bed. He fell over with an undignified yelp and found himself trapped beneath her, his hips clamped between her thighs, her breasts hanging an inch above his face while she swept his arms up and did something with--oh, that was his tie, wasn't it, and--she'd tied him to the bed? All of a sudden he thought this might, at least, be better than all those pairings with France.
Still, he protested, "Hungary, please, the script--"
"Just says we have to finish with that perversion," she replied, and jammed one of her stockings in his mouth. He coughed. "There's no reason we can't warm up with something a little more to both our tastes, don't you agree?"
He gaped at her. She wound back and slapped him across the face. "You answer me when I ask you a question," she ordered. "Don't you agree, I said."
He nodded energetically.
Hungary smiled sunnily, and shimmied down his body. She glanced up at him and said, "Sorry I didn't bring my saber with me today," and then her teeth sank into his inner thigh.
England screamed.
---
France met him at the door when he limped home several hours later.
"So? How did it go?" was the first thing he asked.
"Fine," England replied dazedly.
France's eyebrows rose. "You mean you went through with it?"
"Yes, of course. A fill is a fill, after all." He kicked his shoes off at the landing.
France stood back from him as he lurched into the house. His expression was a combination of amazement and dismay. "I--I hardly know what to--mon ami, you have beat out Japan once and for all, I am thinking."
"Mmm. I'd like an ice pack, please. A few, actually."
"Anything you say," France marveled, and made his retreat.
It really hadn't been that bad, England reasoned, as he made his way to his office and eased down at his desk. He flicked on his computer. Nothing he cared to ever repeat, but he felt they'd made the most of a bad situation. There at the end, there had even been moments when it was rather…pleasant.
He opened up his internet browser and ignored his new message notifications. He clicked open the tab for the Kink Meme.
And she truly was an astonishing young lady. It was a pity they'd only met under such distasteful circumstances. He rather thought she was someone he might like to know better. Austria was insane for letting her get away like he did, England was sure of that. But, well, Austria's loss was his gain.
He double checked that he was logged out, then clicked the 'post a new comment' link. He flexed his fingers and thought about what to write.
He felt sure it should have something to do with sabers.
Originally posted: 2/4/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: England/Hungary
Premise: The request was for "heterosexual sex in the missionary position." After I laughed for five minutes, I decided to write this.
Time period: Modern? It's crack.
Smuttiness: 4/10
Funnyness: 8/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's so, so meta, I really can't apologize enough for how meta this is. Also, there is no sex in it. Okay? There is a tasteful fade to black. So don't come to me whining about what a rip off this is. You've been warned. It's mostly just me riffing on how very strange the kink meme can be, with my first ever appearance of blushy England. Enjoy it while it lasts.
"So."
"So."
"Do you think we should--"
"--I mean, do you--oh, sorry--"
"No, after you, excuse me--"
"A-all right…umm…"
Hungary shifted. England studied the wall. The clock on the wall ticked. Hungary crossed her legs, and the bedsprings creaked a little.
England cleared his throat. "Can I get you something else to drink?"
"Yes, please," she said immediately.
There was an audible sigh of relief from both of them as he moved away to the mini bar. Hungary's shoulders tensed again when he returned with two shot glasses in hand. They both bolted their drinks.
"Ah…" England sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, a clear foot of space between them. He adjusted his collar. "Ehm. What is it specifically that we're supposed to be doing, again?"
Hungary picked up the script from the end table and handed it to him without a word.
He took it with a murmured "Thank you," "Mmm," and scanned the header for the thousandth time. There was really no room for ambiguity. 'Heterosexual sex in the missionary position.' He glanced up at Hungary. She studied the toes of her shoes and blushed a little.
"Ah. Well, then," he began authoritatively. And then, weaker: "…Well."
"Who comes up with this filth?" She glowered at the far wall.
England exhaled on an unsteady laugh. "And why were we chosen to--I mean, why was I--with you--not that I specifically object to the pairing, but--"
"But why not Austria or Prussia or someone, I know." She rubbed her forehead with her knuckles. "I-I have to admit, even with those two--I mean, all of these requirements…we don't usually…"
England blinked.
"Well, you know how it is," she began, and knocked back the last few drops in her glass. "The requests are never just 'go have sex,' there's always something. It's 'on a piano,' or 'cravat breath play,' or 'Hungary tops'--I get those a lot, I like those--"
"Ah," England managed. "So you mean, you've never…"
"In the missionary…I, ah, maybe once or twice? But…no."
An awkward silence fell between them. England scratched the back of his neck. His empty glass was still clasped between his fingers. It was cool where it grazed his skin.
"But this must be even worse for you," she went on. "I mean, you're always put with, who…America, or France, or…"
"Canada," he supplied. "Prussia's not uncommon, either. Japan. Hong Kong, now and then."
"Is it really so many?"
"Mm…"
"It must get very tiring," she offered sympathetically.
He squeezed her hand in appreciation. "I've even had a few with Australia," he added brightly.
"Oh, that must be interesting! I can't remember if I've ever been paired with a non-canon character."
"Yes. Ah…Yes."
The momentary camaraderie between them melted away. He realized his hand was still on hers, and coughed and drew away. She captured his fingers. "Tell me something, England," she began. "Have you ever, actually…you know…with a woman?"
He cleared his throat and wished he was dead. "Ah--well--there was…if you're counting…do gender bends count?"
"They can," she said kindly.
"Wait--there was something with Ukraine once, I think."
She raised her eyebrows. "What on Earth was the story behind that one?"
"I, ah, can't recall."
"Well," she smiled. He dimly felt that that was good, that at least one of them was smiling, even if it was at his expense. "You can always pretend I'm a man who's been rewritten as a woman, if that makes it easier?"
"You're very sweet," and would you look at that, he could blush harder. "But I don't believe it would help at all."
Then, in a tone of slight alarm, "Oh, I mean no offense, of course, with all this--"
Hungary burst out laughing. Her fingers wove gently into his.
He clasped her hand. "What I mean to say is, I've always thought you were a lovely young lady. Very, ah, spirited, and--if this were under any other circumstances--"
"I know, I know--if they had just asked for me to tie you to the bed, strangle you with a garter, and sodomize you with my saber hilt, or something--"
"Exactly," he said, relieved that she understood. "It's no personal reflection on you. I've always felt that Austria must be a very lucky fellow."
"Thank you," she murmured. A lock of her hair fell forward across her face, and there was a private flash of those green eyes from under thick eyelashes. England felt himself smile in return.
Hungary pulled her legs up onto the bed and faced him. She propped one leg up, and he caught a pale flash of stocking all the way to mid-thigh before she twitched her skirt back into place. Her ankle rested against the side of his hip. She drew his hand in to her lap and clasped it between her own. He turned towards her obligingly. "Maybe," she allowed, "We should try to ease into things."
"Y-yes--" he looked down, away to the wall, anywhere but at--
She reached out and tipped his chin back towards her with two fingertips. He met her eyes, and held his breath to quell the overpowering urge to say something embarrassing. "After all," she went on. "We're two experienced adults."
"But this--" he protested.
"I know," she hushed. "It's--it's sick, but…we've done everything else, haven't we?"
He swallowed.
"And just think of the bragging rights we'll have with the rest of the nations." Her lips parted on an irrepressible grin. "None of them have ever done this before."
"Lucky souls," he muttered. Still, he folded his hand into hers, and drew her forward. Hungary rose onto her knees, and the light from the lamp on the night stand behind her painted a line of gold up the side of her dress: over the delicate curve of her hip, up along her narrow waist, to just under where her ribs made a gentle flare in her silhouette. Without quite thinking, he rest his other hand on that warm hip. She tensed for an instant, but didn't draw away.
She dropped her hand from his chin to his collar, and drew him up to his knees across from her. He thought he might be breathing too fast. A faint blush had risen to her cheeks, but that was--that was nice, it suited her. Her complexion was so clear, and bright, and he felt a small tug in the pit of his stomach and acted on it before his courage failed him. He leaned in and grazed a kiss across the warm swell of her cheekbone.
He heard her inhale. She smelled like sunshine on autumn grass.
Her fingertips charted their way hesitantly from his shirt collar to the back of his neck, and curled against him, and he could feel the cool, flat stones of her fingernails against his bare skin. He swallowed against a surge of apprehension, and kissed his way from her cheek to the corner of her jaw. She turned her chin up, to admit him passage there, and that opened the way to the soft hollow below her ear, and the warm channel of her throat. He availed himself to both. Now she exhaled, and her back bowed a little, into him. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and so he slid his hand from her hip to the small of her back. She allowed her arm to fold light across his shoulders. Their bodies grazed together: the tips of her breasts against his chest. He tugged her in a bit closer, and he felt her breath against his cheek.
She released his hand, then, and ran her fingers through his hair. He smiled against her skin. She drew back, just a little, and tugged on the ends of his hair to turn his face up, and laid a soft kiss across his lips. He shut his eyes, as was proper. He could still taste her scotch and soda, which was fine, he was sure he tasted like gin and frayed nerves, so he rather suspected that he was getting the better end of the bargain. He opened his mouth against hers; she answered. His arm went around her waist, then, and since she had gone for his hair, he returned the favor, burying his fingers in the soft heavy weight of it. He felt her smile into their kiss and thought, well. Something we have in common, at least.
A few minutes later found them lying back against the bed, or her lying back, at least, and him half-propped over her. Her long hair was spread across the pillow, and he ran his fingers through it over and over again, while she nuzzled back against his hand and they traded exploratory kisses. She'd got open half the buttons on his shirt, and her fingernails scored faint red lines across his chest and side and back, searching for those little spots that made him shiver. She found them. He drew in a breath as her thumb dug into the scar just below his ribs on the left side, and briefly thanked God that it was Hungary who was chosen for this, good natured and experienced Hungary, who, now that the scotch was kicking in, seemed to be happily resigning herself to this whole endeavor and oh--
He froze for a moment as her progress down the front of his shirt culminated in unsticking the button on the front of his trousers. He gaped down at her.
"We'll have to get them off eventually," she giggled at his expression.
"Y-yes, o-of course, you're right--" he was blushing again. Damn it.
She caught his hands. "Why don't we," she proposed, "Take a quick break for another drink, and get off the rest of our clothes?"
He nodded and clambered out of the bed with unseemly haste to fix their drinks. It was just, well, such a good suggestion, and removed the looming threat of fumbling with bra straps and whatever else she had on under there--he hadn't actually had a lot of exposure to that kind of thing--and he'd been trying to remember which way those little eye hooks went, and--
He turned around in time to see Hungary shake out her hair, and her dress slide off her shoulders and drop to the floor. She glanced back at him, caught him staring, and smiled.
"Oh," he thought he might have said. After a moment, he held out her drink. She took it, sipped, held his eyes the whole time. He drank with considerably less finesse. He turned his back to her while he undressed. Something told him that she had not extended him the same courtesy. He felt the color rise in his face again, but somehow (and four shots of gin might have had something to do with it) the thought that she was watching wasn't precisely…discomfiting.
"I have an idea," she suddenly declared. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the bed. He fell over with an undignified yelp and found himself trapped beneath her, his hips clamped between her thighs, her breasts hanging an inch above his face while she swept his arms up and did something with--oh, that was his tie, wasn't it, and--she'd tied him to the bed? All of a sudden he thought this might, at least, be better than all those pairings with France.
Still, he protested, "Hungary, please, the script--"
"Just says we have to finish with that perversion," she replied, and jammed one of her stockings in his mouth. He coughed. "There's no reason we can't warm up with something a little more to both our tastes, don't you agree?"
He gaped at her. She wound back and slapped him across the face. "You answer me when I ask you a question," she ordered. "Don't you agree, I said."
He nodded energetically.
Hungary smiled sunnily, and shimmied down his body. She glanced up at him and said, "Sorry I didn't bring my saber with me today," and then her teeth sank into his inner thigh.
England screamed.
---
France met him at the door when he limped home several hours later.
"So? How did it go?" was the first thing he asked.
"Fine," England replied dazedly.
France's eyebrows rose. "You mean you went through with it?"
"Yes, of course. A fill is a fill, after all." He kicked his shoes off at the landing.
France stood back from him as he lurched into the house. His expression was a combination of amazement and dismay. "I--I hardly know what to--mon ami, you have beat out Japan once and for all, I am thinking."
"Mmm. I'd like an ice pack, please. A few, actually."
"Anything you say," France marveled, and made his retreat.
It really hadn't been that bad, England reasoned, as he made his way to his office and eased down at his desk. He flicked on his computer. Nothing he cared to ever repeat, but he felt they'd made the most of a bad situation. There at the end, there had even been moments when it was rather…pleasant.
He opened up his internet browser and ignored his new message notifications. He clicked open the tab for the Kink Meme.
And she truly was an astonishing young lady. It was a pity they'd only met under such distasteful circumstances. He rather thought she was someone he might like to know better. Austria was insane for letting her get away like he did, England was sure of that. But, well, Austria's loss was his gain.
He double checked that he was logged out, then clicked the 'post a new comment' link. He flexed his fingers and thought about what to write.
He felt sure it should have something to do with sabers.