I seem incapable of writing anything light-hearted right now.
So take this Nazi occupation of France ficlet, instead.
DISCLAIMER SAYS HETALIA DOES NOT BELONG TO ME
"Alright," he growled, jamming the iron crossbar up tight against the other man's throat, lifting him by his chin and pinning him against the wall, "Maybe now you'll cooperate."
The trapped man gulped, trying to get air to his lungs. He said nothing. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he wouldn't.
The man wielding the pipe rolled his cerulean eyes at the paler blue set, widened with fear. "Look, France…" he whipped out a pistol and shoved it against the man's temple. "Don't make this difficult," he growled getting close up in France's face, eyes dark with fury, voice dangerously low. "I'm a busy man."
France winced as the cold steel barrel pressed against his skin. His hands, pushing futilely against the iron bar, trembled.
The other applied slight pressure to the pistol, and cocked it; the click echoed metallically. "Don't make me do it, France," he hissed in his ear, "Because I have to move on to England. Be a pity if I had to waste time here, wiping you off the floor…"
France's eyes glazed with fear. He swallowed air, and then spoke. "Alright," he rasped, trying to force the bar away, "I…surrender."
The other pulled back the bar, and France slid down the wall and crumpled on the floor, rubbing his throat and gasping. His long, honey-blonde hair, usually so carefully arranged, fell in his pale, rimmed eyes limply. He looked utterly defeated.
The other man kept the gun pointed at him a second longer, but when it became apparent France wasn't moving, he uncocked it and put it away. He stared at the broken man in the dirty, bloody uniform for a moment, then shook his head. "So weak," he spat, disgustedly. "Verdammt untermensch."
He turned on his heel and left the room.
France stared after him.
It was true, he thought, dully; he was weak. Even when he had been great, had been powerful, he had never been lucky at war…he had lost too many battles…
"Sorry, England…" he whispered, the words grating along his sore throat.
Outside, above the door, the proud red, white, and blue French flag was hauled down, and the glaring German colours flying its place.