"I'll take over the office, and you can do the laundry"
Spent a lot of yesterday playing on conference software. It was fun and did funky things like show you where the plugs are.
Other fun things include writing tentacle pr0n on the train. Oh, the commuter next to me had wide, wide eyes.
Even I think this fic is not just wrong on many levels, but is wrong on every level that ever existed. Just to warn you.
Title: The Moon That Laughs, The Earth That Spills
Rating: THE HIGHEST THERE IS
Words: 2000-ish
Summary: America goes missing. There is a cupboard.
Notes/warnings: Okay kids. There is bad language. This is tentacle pr0n. No way of getting around that. Mochimerica tentacle pr0n at that. Inspired by this EXTREMELY NSFW art. cienna made me do it. Disclaimer: I did not write this. Okay so I did. But I was clearly drunk or something. Actually I wasn't. But this still isn't my fault!
So. Enjoy?
.The Moon That Laughs, The Earth That Spills.
It had been three days. Three days in which England had tried phoning America, then texting him, and writing him increasingly hostile emails, and still no reply. England knew America took that damn blackberry with him everywhere, and played with it like a ten year old with a new shiny toy at every available opportunity, so he really could not comprehend why the fuck America wasn't answering. Not that England was worried.
It wasn't even like they'd had an argument, and England was pretty sure he hadn't insulted America's manliness or stupidity recently (which America always seemed to get moody about).
Even worse, Canada hadn't seen him either and, whilst in no way worried, not at all, England still thought this was too much.
He didn't believe for an instant that America had just run off (not with someone else; England wasn't thinking that.)
As much of an annoying and ungrateful git as he might be, England knew America wouldn't abandon his stupid country. And America was still standing, going about its business, with only a few politicians looking vaguely concerned and oddly glassy-eyed.
England thought to ask them, but when he did they just stared at him with a disquieted look before hurrying away, begging illness or madness or some equally ridiculous excuse.
He asked France, "Do they do that to you?"
And France replied, "Ahh, they always do that to me. They are in awe of my beauty," which England suspected was not actually the case, and which as also entirely unhelpful.
So England asked Japan if he had seen America, hoping for something of a more sane response. Japan shook his head and said, "I couldn't possibly comment without knowing all the facts."
Finally he turned to Germany, at least sure of a direct response, who told him, "I have not seen him," and then he frowned so England knew it wasn't just him; that America wasn't just ignoring him or trying to piss him off. He knew there was something wrong.
Not that he was worried.
Since long before England had only ever known of one way of finding what had been lost, beyond the simple human ways of computers and records and intelligence networks. He had not done such a thing in some while, but this was America who, regardless of whether England cared or not, needed to be found.
So England consulted his oldest and most powerful books, remembering what he had forgotten. And that night, when the moon was at its highest, he donned his old robes, thick and heavy, smelling of herbs and spices and sulphur, wrapping magic around him and over him.
He pulled on his old gloves, battered and stained with potions and scorched by fire. They had protected him from evil for centuries, and he trusted them still. He pulled on his old hat, dented and worn, but still it stood to reach up and call down the sky. His boots, of an old style that England knew the others would laugh at; that America would laugh at, but they were dragon hide and irreplaceable and would protect him from the demons of the earth.
That night, it was cool outside and the air was clear and the moon shone bright and full, perfect for summoning, and England reached out and called. Wrapped in his old clothes and the night, he felt all the doubt and apprehension leech from his body as he raised his arms and let the magic course through him.
He asked the foxes Where is he? and they looked at England and nodded, as though he might understand.
He turned to the ghosts and the ghouls and breathed Where is he? and the ghosts and ghouls said He is not with us, but with you which was one reason why England hated asking the dead; they were always so fucking cryptic.
Then he called to the moon, who was generally much clearer about these things, and asked, Where is he? and the moon laughed.
So he called to the Earth and the trees, Where is he? He wasn't worried, because the moon didn't seem worried, and the foxes had smiled.
And then the Earth said, I think you'll find him in your broom cupboard, where you left him.
England very distinctly did not remember leaving America in his broom cupboard.
And he was neither worried nor thinking strange things about narrow broom cupboards and what might happen therein.
So he said, "You must be mistaken, O Earth."
The Earth replied, I think not.
England lowered his arms and looked around him. He had never known the Earth to lie, and knew better than to argue further, so he gave his thanks, offered water and cheese triangles, then went back into his house.
"This is as bad," he told Gregory the ugly faerie, "As when the Rivers of the North told me my constitution was lost down the back of the settee."
Gregory nodded unsympathetically before fluttering away, which just added to the absolute wrongness of this whole situation.
He hadn't been in a cupboard with America for weeks.
Still, the Earth had answered him, and Gregory had run away, and the moon had laughed its face off, so he thought he'd better check. And if this was some elaborate ruse by America to freak him out England was going to slap him into the next century.
So, he opened his cupboard door and in an instant understood the glassy eyed politicians, and the sudden absence of all his friends.
There was something in his cupboard.
And it was moving; uncoiling, like it was stretching. And it was breathing.
He stared at its shape, half-hidden behind shadows and brooms and buckets and England's extensive whisky collection. And it stared back with very very familiar eyes.
But these eyes were too big and they were too round and England's first thought was that America had been cursed. England started to say, "America," and switch on the cupboard light when it pounced, launching itself from behind boxes and bottles and it was huge.
And fucking heavy; its bulk knocking England to the floor and his head slammed painfully against the corridor wall. For a minute his vision swam, and there was white and blue and then England realised he was looking at the thing, and out in the light it was fucking freaky.
It was smiling widely, those massive eyes bright, and it was wrapping slimy, cold, tentacle things around his arms and his boots. On top of England, the creature, America or not-America or whatever, squirmed about like it was getting comfortable, and England wanted to ask, "What happened," except then it shoved one of its tentacles in his mouth. England tasted salt on his tongue as the thing brushed its tentacle over his teeth and his tongue like it belonged there. Like it knew.
Perhaps, England considered, it was trying to convince him it was really America. Its tentacles were caressing, gently, teasing, and that grin had America written all over it.
Even so.
Even so, England pushed at its heavy bulk, trying to get it off him because this thing was lecherous, and yes, okay, that only further convinced England that this really was America. But he would rather have the idiot back as a human.
The blob thing seemed to have a different opinion, however, as it used its arm-tentacles things to rip and tear at England's robes before trailing them over his torso and around his arms and along his thighs.
"You are not," England tried, turning and shifting onto his side, managing to shove the thing off of him onto the floor. He tried to scramble away, except the blob reeled its tentacles tightly around his waist and held onto his arms and England felt more around his calf. It pulled him back, unbalancing England so much that he fell back against the thing, felt its cool, smooth skin against his back and arms. The thing was, England decided, processed, and he tried to push away but the tentacles held him fast. He felt them and saw them stretching across his body then, brushing over his nipples and curving around his cock, and feeling up his fucking arse.
England breathed, "I can turn you back," choked on the words as the tentacles pulled and pushed at him, stroking him slowly, and then fast, and then teasing at him and pushing in and oh shit but this was fucking ridiculous.
All England could think was how very like America this was to be so bloody impatient, but then he felt a tentacle push deeper and there and he cried out in surprise, his body pushing back, and then all he could think was fuck and shit and bollocking hell. He wanted it to stop, but he didn't. He wanted to get away, but he didn't, and the blob's tentacles wrapped tighter around England’s legs and crawled up one boot, removing it, and then he felt nibbling at his toes and he was so hard.
There was nibbling at his nipples too, and looking down he saw a little blob sucking at him, and at his toes and at his cock, its small mouth taking in the tip, tiny tongues lapping teasingly.
The little blobs worked faster, the tentacles coiling and pulling with greater urgency and he just gave in to it, because fuck but it was good.
And America. It was America anyway, so what did it matter? How it knew to touch him there, bite that way, lick that. It couldn't be anyone else.
So England leant back against the blob, smoothed his still-gloved hands over its skin, and felt soft lips against his side; the thing's wide American grin turned to nuzzling at England, and England felt its warm breath on his skin.
He said, "fuck," and moaned and pushed himself down, pressing his hips forward, wanting more and now. He gasped, shut his eyes tightly, as another tentacle entered him, wriggling and moving and stretching his skin and caressing him there and again and England spread his legs wider, wanting and needing so much it hurt. England didn’t care, just let the fucking blob do whatever it wanted, did whatever he wanted. He rubbed at the blob’s flesh, and there was a tentacle in his mouth so he ran his teeth over it, then licked at it and felt the blob at his back shiver and the tentacles in his arse fuck him faster and then he was coming, and the blob was merciless, wanking him over and over again until he was gasping and groaning and gritting his teeth, needing it to just stop.
Then, in a second, the tentacles were gone, and he was cold and empty and panting on the floor, trying to catch his breath, and when he opened his eyes there was America.
Human, and naked and smiling gleefully.
"I see you liked that," he said, sounding breathless and smug all at once. England glared and really would have told him to fuck off, except then America leant down and kissed him, and England could feel America’s cock, hard against his stomach, rubbing himself against England’s body. America kissed him deeply, fucking his mouth with his tongue, one hand stroking at his ear and his cheek and the other reached down between them, taking hold of himself, touching himself, his arm moving faster.
"I like to see you like this," he breathed, looking down at England, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed and England didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. "You are," and then America groaned, his fingers sliding around England’s neck and grasping tightly at his hair, holding on as he came all over them both, his hips jerking forward, his lips so close England could taste his rapid breaths against his skin.
And when it was over, when America stilled, red lips parted and wet, England stretched up and kissed him, pulling him down to lay on top of him, America covering England's body with his own.
"That was fast," England said, finally.
America laughed sleepily, "Whatever."
.THE END.
Comments conveying horror/queasinesss/doubts as to my sanity welcome as always!
Other fun things include writing tentacle pr0n on the train. Oh, the commuter next to me had wide, wide eyes.
Even I think this fic is not just wrong on many levels, but is wrong on every level that ever existed. Just to warn you.
Title: The Moon That Laughs, The Earth That Spills
Rating: THE HIGHEST THERE IS
Words: 2000-ish
Summary: America goes missing. There is a cupboard.
Notes/warnings: Okay kids. There is bad language. This is tentacle pr0n. No way of getting around that. Mochimerica tentacle pr0n at that. Inspired by this EXTREMELY NSFW art. cienna made me do it. Disclaimer: I did not write this. Okay so I did. But I was clearly drunk or something. Actually I wasn't. But this still isn't my fault!
So. Enjoy?
.The Moon That Laughs, The Earth That Spills.
It had been three days. Three days in which England had tried phoning America, then texting him, and writing him increasingly hostile emails, and still no reply. England knew America took that damn blackberry with him everywhere, and played with it like a ten year old with a new shiny toy at every available opportunity, so he really could not comprehend why the fuck America wasn't answering. Not that England was worried.
It wasn't even like they'd had an argument, and England was pretty sure he hadn't insulted America's manliness or stupidity recently (which America always seemed to get moody about).
Even worse, Canada hadn't seen him either and, whilst in no way worried, not at all, England still thought this was too much.
He didn't believe for an instant that America had just run off (not with someone else; England wasn't thinking that.)
As much of an annoying and ungrateful git as he might be, England knew America wouldn't abandon his stupid country. And America was still standing, going about its business, with only a few politicians looking vaguely concerned and oddly glassy-eyed.
England thought to ask them, but when he did they just stared at him with a disquieted look before hurrying away, begging illness or madness or some equally ridiculous excuse.
He asked France, "Do they do that to you?"
And France replied, "Ahh, they always do that to me. They are in awe of my beauty," which England suspected was not actually the case, and which as also entirely unhelpful.
So England asked Japan if he had seen America, hoping for something of a more sane response. Japan shook his head and said, "I couldn't possibly comment without knowing all the facts."
Finally he turned to Germany, at least sure of a direct response, who told him, "I have not seen him," and then he frowned so England knew it wasn't just him; that America wasn't just ignoring him or trying to piss him off. He knew there was something wrong.
Not that he was worried.
Since long before England had only ever known of one way of finding what had been lost, beyond the simple human ways of computers and records and intelligence networks. He had not done such a thing in some while, but this was America who, regardless of whether England cared or not, needed to be found.
So England consulted his oldest and most powerful books, remembering what he had forgotten. And that night, when the moon was at its highest, he donned his old robes, thick and heavy, smelling of herbs and spices and sulphur, wrapping magic around him and over him.
He pulled on his old gloves, battered and stained with potions and scorched by fire. They had protected him from evil for centuries, and he trusted them still. He pulled on his old hat, dented and worn, but still it stood to reach up and call down the sky. His boots, of an old style that England knew the others would laugh at; that America would laugh at, but they were dragon hide and irreplaceable and would protect him from the demons of the earth.
That night, it was cool outside and the air was clear and the moon shone bright and full, perfect for summoning, and England reached out and called. Wrapped in his old clothes and the night, he felt all the doubt and apprehension leech from his body as he raised his arms and let the magic course through him.
He asked the foxes Where is he? and they looked at England and nodded, as though he might understand.
He turned to the ghosts and the ghouls and breathed Where is he? and the ghosts and ghouls said He is not with us, but with you which was one reason why England hated asking the dead; they were always so fucking cryptic.
Then he called to the moon, who was generally much clearer about these things, and asked, Where is he? and the moon laughed.
So he called to the Earth and the trees, Where is he? He wasn't worried, because the moon didn't seem worried, and the foxes had smiled.
And then the Earth said, I think you'll find him in your broom cupboard, where you left him.
England very distinctly did not remember leaving America in his broom cupboard.
And he was neither worried nor thinking strange things about narrow broom cupboards and what might happen therein.
So he said, "You must be mistaken, O Earth."
The Earth replied, I think not.
England lowered his arms and looked around him. He had never known the Earth to lie, and knew better than to argue further, so he gave his thanks, offered water and cheese triangles, then went back into his house.
"This is as bad," he told Gregory the ugly faerie, "As when the Rivers of the North told me my constitution was lost down the back of the settee."
Gregory nodded unsympathetically before fluttering away, which just added to the absolute wrongness of this whole situation.
He hadn't been in a cupboard with America for weeks.
Still, the Earth had answered him, and Gregory had run away, and the moon had laughed its face off, so he thought he'd better check. And if this was some elaborate ruse by America to freak him out England was going to slap him into the next century.
So, he opened his cupboard door and in an instant understood the glassy eyed politicians, and the sudden absence of all his friends.
There was something in his cupboard.
And it was moving; uncoiling, like it was stretching. And it was breathing.
He stared at its shape, half-hidden behind shadows and brooms and buckets and England's extensive whisky collection. And it stared back with very very familiar eyes.
But these eyes were too big and they were too round and England's first thought was that America had been cursed. England started to say, "America," and switch on the cupboard light when it pounced, launching itself from behind boxes and bottles and it was huge.
And fucking heavy; its bulk knocking England to the floor and his head slammed painfully against the corridor wall. For a minute his vision swam, and there was white and blue and then England realised he was looking at the thing, and out in the light it was fucking freaky.
It was smiling widely, those massive eyes bright, and it was wrapping slimy, cold, tentacle things around his arms and his boots. On top of England, the creature, America or not-America or whatever, squirmed about like it was getting comfortable, and England wanted to ask, "What happened," except then it shoved one of its tentacles in his mouth. England tasted salt on his tongue as the thing brushed its tentacle over his teeth and his tongue like it belonged there. Like it knew.
Perhaps, England considered, it was trying to convince him it was really America. Its tentacles were caressing, gently, teasing, and that grin had America written all over it.
Even so.
Even so, England pushed at its heavy bulk, trying to get it off him because this thing was lecherous, and yes, okay, that only further convinced England that this really was America. But he would rather have the idiot back as a human.
The blob thing seemed to have a different opinion, however, as it used its arm-tentacles things to rip and tear at England's robes before trailing them over his torso and around his arms and along his thighs.
"You are not," England tried, turning and shifting onto his side, managing to shove the thing off of him onto the floor. He tried to scramble away, except the blob reeled its tentacles tightly around his waist and held onto his arms and England felt more around his calf. It pulled him back, unbalancing England so much that he fell back against the thing, felt its cool, smooth skin against his back and arms. The thing was, England decided, processed, and he tried to push away but the tentacles held him fast. He felt them and saw them stretching across his body then, brushing over his nipples and curving around his cock, and feeling up his fucking arse.
England breathed, "I can turn you back," choked on the words as the tentacles pulled and pushed at him, stroking him slowly, and then fast, and then teasing at him and pushing in and oh shit but this was fucking ridiculous.
All England could think was how very like America this was to be so bloody impatient, but then he felt a tentacle push deeper and there and he cried out in surprise, his body pushing back, and then all he could think was fuck and shit and bollocking hell. He wanted it to stop, but he didn't. He wanted to get away, but he didn't, and the blob's tentacles wrapped tighter around England’s legs and crawled up one boot, removing it, and then he felt nibbling at his toes and he was so hard.
There was nibbling at his nipples too, and looking down he saw a little blob sucking at him, and at his toes and at his cock, its small mouth taking in the tip, tiny tongues lapping teasingly.
The little blobs worked faster, the tentacles coiling and pulling with greater urgency and he just gave in to it, because fuck but it was good.
And America. It was America anyway, so what did it matter? How it knew to touch him there, bite that way, lick that. It couldn't be anyone else.
So England leant back against the blob, smoothed his still-gloved hands over its skin, and felt soft lips against his side; the thing's wide American grin turned to nuzzling at England, and England felt its warm breath on his skin.
He said, "fuck," and moaned and pushed himself down, pressing his hips forward, wanting more and now. He gasped, shut his eyes tightly, as another tentacle entered him, wriggling and moving and stretching his skin and caressing him there and again and England spread his legs wider, wanting and needing so much it hurt. England didn’t care, just let the fucking blob do whatever it wanted, did whatever he wanted. He rubbed at the blob’s flesh, and there was a tentacle in his mouth so he ran his teeth over it, then licked at it and felt the blob at his back shiver and the tentacles in his arse fuck him faster and then he was coming, and the blob was merciless, wanking him over and over again until he was gasping and groaning and gritting his teeth, needing it to just stop.
Then, in a second, the tentacles were gone, and he was cold and empty and panting on the floor, trying to catch his breath, and when he opened his eyes there was America.
Human, and naked and smiling gleefully.
"I see you liked that," he said, sounding breathless and smug all at once. England glared and really would have told him to fuck off, except then America leant down and kissed him, and England could feel America’s cock, hard against his stomach, rubbing himself against England’s body. America kissed him deeply, fucking his mouth with his tongue, one hand stroking at his ear and his cheek and the other reached down between them, taking hold of himself, touching himself, his arm moving faster.
"I like to see you like this," he breathed, looking down at England, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed and England didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. "You are," and then America groaned, his fingers sliding around England’s neck and grasping tightly at his hair, holding on as he came all over them both, his hips jerking forward, his lips so close England could taste his rapid breaths against his skin.
And when it was over, when America stilled, red lips parted and wet, England stretched up and kissed him, pulling him down to lay on top of him, America covering England's body with his own.
"That was fast," England said, finally.
America laughed sleepily, "Whatever."
.THE END.
Comments conveying horror/queasinesss/doubts as to my sanity welcome as always!