AN: Originally from a request on the Hetalia kink meme, and I quote:

America has snapped and secretly enjoys the idea of fattening others up, so he captures other nations to test his experiment. He's willing to feed and feed those, to see who he can make the biggest. Bonus: He snapped because he was upset at being blamed for obesity epidemics and being called fat!


The argument started out like any other: America being an idiot, and England pointing out his flaws for the world to see. They shot insults back and forth with frightening speed and fury, but neither of them was actually mad. This was the only game that the two of them liked to play—who can make the other cry.









But with this one innocent word, England had crossed a line. Immediately America whirled around in horror, eyes narrowed dangerously and voice stone cold. "What did you just call me?"

England didn't quite understand where all this anger had come from. "I called you a fatass, America," he repeated quite calmly. He always made fun of how much the younger nation ate, because frankly America's habit of devouring ten burgers in a minute and still having room for more was a tad disturbing. So what was it that had made America so mad?

America's face reddened horribly, his hands clenched into fists. Really, he looked more embarrassed than mad. "I'm not fat!" he wailed, knowing he should shoot another insult back but unable to think of anything else. "I'm not fat and I've never been fat and I'll never be fat! Okay?" Stupid, ignorant, egocentric—these were insults he could handle. But his weight was the one thing America was truly sensitive about.

Geeze, he didn't have to get so defensive… Was it the word "fat" making America so mad? Was that it? Unbeknownst to him, England's mouth curled into a smile. He'd found it—the sure way to get under America's skin. He was winning this round. "You flatter yourself." England snorted, giving America an incredulous look. "I mean, honestly, America, at first it was sort of cute, but how long to you intend to keep deluding yourself like this?"

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. America couldn't be having this conversation, especially not with England. "I'm not deluding myself! I'm not fat, okay?" he screeched in reply, all self-control forgotten.

England rolled his eyes. No mercy. "It's not really been a big deal up until now, I mean, you've only gained a couple of pounds here and there, but if you keep completely letting yourself go like you're so fond of doing, then we all know someday you're going to end up three hundred pounds."

Oh, god. America's face was the color of the ketchup he liked to spread on his burgers, his whole body shaking with fury. "I. Am. Not. Getting. Fat." He spat each word as if it was the last he would ever say.

England decided that perhaps America just wasn't mad enough. He strolled forward towards the younger nation, so close that he could have kissed him. America exhaled in relief. Maybe this was England's way of making up? He was too stubborn to apologize, so he was going to kiss him instea—

No. America was dead wrong. Instead of kissing, England roughly pulled up America's shirt and grabbed a hold of the flab hiding underneath. He'd been working out a lot lately, but even that wasn't enough to hide the consequence of a purely junk food diet. America had a small belly forming under his military unform, and now England had found it. America just stared at him in horror, completely at a loss for words. England beamed.

"Still want to try and convince me you're not fat, America?" he asked in a voice sugar-sweet. America could only stand frozen in horror as England caressed the fat with both hands, rubbing it up and down in little circles and rubbing its existence into America's brain.

While this slow torture was being executed, America breathed deeply in and out, trying desperately to calm himself in any way he could. What was the most comforting thing he could think of? He should try to picture that, take his mind off of England, off of his own alarming weight… Oh. It was burgers, wasn't it? It only confirmed England's accusations about him, but oh god, the most wonderful thing in the world right now would be to eat a fresh, steaming hot hamburger, or maybe two. Automatically America's eyes flew open and shot to the plate of burgers he'd left on the Allies meeting room table, but he regretted this move almost before he'd even done it.

"And you're still hungry!" England laughed out loud, the sound reverberating around the room and shaming America more with each and every chortle. America wanted to die. "Even after I prove to you what a fatass you are, all you can think of is stuffing your face with even more food! Or have I just not gotten through your thick skull yet? Well, then let me spell it out for you." Looking straight into America's eyes, England began to speak. "Fatass. Fatass. Fatass. Fatass. Fatass. Fatass. Fatass. Fat. F… A…"

America closed his eyes.

"T… A…"

He couldn't take this anymore.


He was done pretending.


If they would always see him as nothing but fat, then he would just have to prove them wrong.

"Now do you understand?"

America understood, all right. And he expressed his understanding by throwing his arms forward and shoving England with all his might across the room.

England crashed into the blackboard with a sickening crack and crumpled in a heap on the floor.

When he opened his eyes, America was standing over him, the plate of burgers in his hand. But he had no intention of eating them.

"I'll show you fat," America whispered, and when England opened his mouth to respond, he had a burger whole shoved roughly down his throat by America's hand.

England spluttered and choked, but eventually managed to swallow. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he swore violently, his expression one of pure disbelief. "I could have choked to death there! Is this some kind of sick joke?"

But one look at America told him that it wasn't a joke at all. The younger nation's expression was stony, unreadable, and cold. And suddenly, eyes darting to the huge stack of burgers in America's hand, England was very, very afraid.

"What the hell…?" England whispered, but that was all he had the chance to say before his mouth was yanked open and another hamburger entered his throat. America was so much stronger, and all England could do was chew and swallow and hope that it would all be over soon. "If this is punishment for what I said to you…"

But America shook his head, eyes still as unfeeling as ever. "I'm not trying to punish you, England."

"Then what the bloody hell are you doing?"

America raised a hand mechanically and plucked a burger from the pile, slowly moving it in the direction of England's mouth. "I'm proving to you exactly why I'm not a fatass."

England stared. "But… that makes no bloody sense! How on earth is force-feeding me your bloody food going to make me see that—MMMPH." America had had enough of England's words. It was burger time. And suddenly, England understood. America's actions spoke louder than words ever could. It made perfect bloody sense, though it was very sick sense indeed.

America had no intention of losing a single pound, but every inch of his brain was intent on becoming the thinner of the two.

And he was going to do this by making England fatter.

When it came right down to it, hearing England's moans of pain, it was almost like feeding him was a strange, sexual dance. England pleaded, no more, no more. He was stuffed to the brim and would explode with one more bite. But America, in control at last, would never take no for an answer. He wouldn't stop until England really did explode. And England was genuinely afraid that maybe he really would.

The other nations were told that America and England were discussing urgent matters that had to be conducted immediately in secret, and so left the two of them alone in America's house for as long as it took. France stared spreading a rumor that they were hiding away for a sexual retreat. And he was sort of right. Because to America's surprise, this little game of his was becoming more and more fun each day.

And to England's horror, he found that he didn't quite mind it either.

Finally the day came when America sat back and admired his handiwork. He really had done a fine job. Under the massive rolls of fat, England was barely recognizable. But he still had to measure the real way. America dragged the bathroom scale he hadn't touched in months into the kitchen where England sat, moaning from his lunch of far too many hotdogs and pretty much a whole cake on top of that. America carefully squeezed the device under England's now enormous bottom and waited. Then he pulled it out again with a proud smile. England shuddered in response. He couldn't even see the floor under his new shape. What on earth had the scale told him?

America stepped onto the scale himself then, looking down at the number displayed for the first time without fear. He'd gained a little these past couple of months—sitting around the house all day putting food down England's throat couldn't be great for his metabolism, and the fact that he had been sneaking a little of said food now and then hadn't helped him either. But the results weren't quite alarming. Especially not when compared to England's.

"175," he announced his own weight, for once proud to be just barely overweight. So what if he was chubby? He was nothing compared to England.

England couldn't stand not knowing, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. "And what is mine?"

America's mouth curled into a smile. "Guess."

By now, England knew better than to resist. "Two… hundred?" Of course, that was ridiculous. He would have only gained forty pounds or so. There's no way this could come of just forty pounds. But he was terrified of any other answer, pleading desperately with fate that the number would be small.

America laughed. "You're a terrible guesser."

Better to start small and hope for the best. "Um… two… fifty?"

America gave him a look. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Three hundred?" England whispered feverishly. That was as high as he was going to go, no matter what the scale may have said. Because there was no way, absolutely no way in hell that he had gone from a relatively skinny man to a monster over three hundred.

But America's eyes were gleaming. England let out another moan. "Three hundred… fifty."

England's eyes widened in horror. "No."

A sadistic smile twitched at the far right corner of America's lips. "You're right. I apologize." England nearly died of relief. "I lied to you. You don't weigh three hundred."

"Th… thank you," England gasped, though who he was thanking, he had no idea. "What… am I really?"

The twitching ghost of a smile become a full one then. "Three hundred fifty… six."

England closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't heard.

"And only going to get bigger," America finished with a huge grin. "Much bigger."


That was the first time in months when a trace of the old America could be found in his eyes. The hero who would throw himself into the business of other nations just to prove that his values were better than theirs. The hero who believed in justice, who always wanted to save the day. He looked into England's eyes and found only pain. He knew that he could easily keep up this silly game. Force England much past his limit, to four hundred, five hundred even. He could keep going forever. But England would never be happy. And as few morals as America possessed, he didn't want to make England unhappy. He'd made his point. He'd proved England fatter. Now was the time to step away and rejoin the life he'd once lived.

…but feeding people was so much fun…

He was saved from his dilemma by a knock on the door. England's eyes grew huge as he stumbled to flee the room. "Oh, god, I can't let anyone see me like this! Bloody hell, where do I hide?"

He was panting just from running ten feet. America felt truly sorry for him. "Go upstairs to the guest bedroom. You'll be safe in there."

England nodded and started puffing up the stairs. America left the kitchen in the other direction and headed for the house's front door.

The only problem was that, once he opened it, there appeared to be no one there.

"Uh, hello?" America asked, cautiously waving his arm out into the air in front of him. "Is anybody—"

"OW! Watch where you put your hands! That was my eye!" America blinked, and suddenly a man with wavy, dirty blonde hair and glasses had materialized in front of him, rubbing at his eye with the back of one hand. "And I'm Canada, before you ask."

Canada! Right! That cleared that up. His brother. America smiled. After all these months alone, it was nice to have some company other than stuffy England. "Hey, dude! Sup?"

Canada gave him a very strange look. "Are you okay, America?"

"Of course I'm okay!" America laughed. And he meant it, too. "Never been better! Why do you ask?"

"I mean, you've been sealed in your house with England for months," Canada went on, sounding very concerned. "No one was allowed to see you. I'm just worried that something is going on you're going to regret."

America's mind shot immediately to England and that horrified look in his eyes at the thought of gaining more. He didn't regret what he had done so far, but he couldn't go any further without hurting a man he cared about. Suddenly his mouth went dry. He couldn't do this to the man who had once taken care of him.

"You're… you're right, dude. I probably would have if you hadn't come alone." America offered Canada a sheepish smile. He knew he was doing the right thing in deciding to stop, but he still couldn't help being very disappointed. There was a very awkward pause after that. Canada was waiting for an explanation that America couldn't give. Finally he scratched the back of his head with a hand and asked, "So, uh… you wanna… come inside, or something?"

To his surprise, Canada responded by rolling his eyes. "You just want me to make you pancakes, don't you?"

America's face reddened, and he lowered his hand. "What was that?"

Canada sighed. "America, honestly. It's painfully obvious that the only reason you want my company is so I can cook for you, which is really extremely rude."

Where the hell was this coming from? For once, America wasn't even hungry. In a strange sort of way, feeding others seemed to satisfy his own desire for eating obscene amounts of food. He shot Canada a heated glare. "Dude, you're my brother. I want to spend time with you because I care about you. It has nothing to do with your food!"

But Canada was standing for none of this. "I had a lot of time to think these past couple of months, America, and I've decided that I'm not going to let you walk all over me anymore, so I'm not cooking for you even if you beg! How about you do something nice for me for once, huh?" His lip trembled, eyes full of fire. He had been waiting to say this for a long time. "Plus, it's not like you need the food, anyway…"

Oh no he didn't. "What was that?" America spat, hands curling into fists at his sides.

Canada looked up at him, expression triumphant. "Even you have got to admit that you're not exactly skinny, America."

Oh, god, him too? How many people think I'm some kind of worthless fatass? Everyone?

"You've gained a couple of pounds since I last saw you, and even then you weren't all that thin to begin with…"

America's nails had been digging into his palms, but suddenly he released them, readying himself for a challenge. I'll show him who's not skinny.

Before the Canadian even knew what had hit him, America's arm shot out like a cannon and dragged the startled nation inside.

Then he locked the door and grinned a terrifying smile. Another couple months of feeding had never hurt anyone, right?

Apparently they could. Because Canada ended up falling far short of England's high standards, and America was desperately hungry for more. He began to grow impatient. He couldn't deal with waiting for prey to come to him. As soon as he was done with Canada, he pulled on his bomber jacket and ran out the door in search of his next victim.

"Hey, France! You wanna spend the night at my place?"

"Ohonhonhonhon. Of course I would love to, Amerique! Your place is not as romantic as mine, but occasionally it can be quite lovely. You and I will get to know each other intimately during this time, oui?"

"Oh, yeah! Very intimately…"

The French love rich foods, and his girlish figure was gone within the week.

"Hey, China! I know a guaranteed way to end the famine your people are having!"

"Oh, really, aru? What is it, aru? I would love to find out, aru!"

"Come over to my place and you'll find out there!"

And later…

"Hey, Japan! Wanna come over and watch a scary movie with me or something?"

"I am sorry, America-san. But I am afraid I am busy preparing dinner for tonight."

"If you come over, I'll make you dinner, dude!"

"Well, in that case… perhaps I can go, if just for a few hours."

"Heheheh… that is good."

And even later…

"Prussia, come over to my place! Canada's over and he's giving out free maple syrup! It's awesome!"

"Germany! I don't really have a good reason why you should come over, but you should do it anyway! Yeah!"

"Italy! Hey, dude! Wanna come over for some pasta or pizza or something? My treat!"

Not surprisingly, Italy had absolutely no idea what was going on and devoured everything put in front of him at a frankly alarming rate. By the end of his session, he was far in the lead. But there was still one person America wanted to use, the person who he hated more than anyone in the world. It would be dangerous, certainly, as this nation was infamously violent and carried a weapon on his person at all times. But America wouldn't be able to sleep well at night until he had this one in his house squeezed in with all the others. His final trophy, if you will. The last leg of a long and difficult race that had also been the time of his life.

He took a deep breath.

And knocked on Russia's door.

Russia, needless to say, was a bit surprised to see America there to visit him. "Ah, hello, America. I thought you were still in your house and seeing no one. Actually, I was pleased to think that you'd finally cracked and gone insane, and I would never have to deal with you again. But now you are here because you want to become one with Mother Russia, da?"

America carefully shook his head. Russia's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Then why are you here, little one?"

America took another deep breath before looking deep into Russia's violet eyes. "I want… you to come over to my place, dude. Not becoming one or anything like that. Just hanging out, as… as friends."

Under his scarf, Russia's mouth curled into a smile. "I do not know what you are trying to do, America, but I will play along for today. Da, I will go with you. You may lead the way."

America breathed a sigh of relief and headed home, pretending to burst into a violent coughing fit about halfway there so Russia wouldn't see his little smile.

As soon as they were in America's kitchen, he pulled out his first burger and shoved it at Russia's face. "Here. Eat this, okay?"

Russia gave America a confused look, but then suddenly his smile grew even wider. Somehow, he immediately understood. America was very afraid. "Ah, so this is what you had planned? You're trying to feed me, da?" Sounding faintly amused by the idea, Russia shared a quiet little chuckle with himself and shook his head, but took the burger from America's hand. "So this is the new kink spreading across America. I wondered how long it would take to catch on, knowing how much you Americans love your food. Though I must say, I would have taken you for a feedee, not a feeder. However, I guess once you get to know most people, they aren't really what you'd think they'd be, da?"

Kink? Feedee? There were other people who did this? "I have no idea what you're talking about, dude. Just eat the goddamn burger."

Russia obediently took a bite, still smiling that same creepy smile. "Everyone thinks I'm so big and scary, but I do enjoy being submissive, you know," he went on contemplatively. "Especially when doing interesting things. I usually go for physical violence, but I suppose being fattened would not be all that bad as well." He gave a nod to the completely dumbstruck America and reached for a second burger. "After all, I'm not exactly skinny to begin with, da?"

Of course. Of course he wasn't. Russia was bigger than America and had always been bigger. So why hadn't he, when England called him "fatass" that day that felt like lifetimes ago, just replied with the fact that Russia was fatter and then could have called it a day?

Because then none of this would have happened. He and his sworn enemy wouldn't be standing in his kitchen, and he wouldn't be feeding burger after burger into Russia's willing mouth. Because as little as he liked to admit it, this was possibly the most sensual thing he'd ever done, twice as much as having sex with England. And it wasn't because of England, either. It was because of this, this act of putting food into Russia's mouth and watching it slowly disappear, of watching Russia finish off plate after plate and watching his stomach slowly expand, was so magical in it of itself, and he never, ever wanted the feeling to end.

Russia won the unspoken contest by a landslide. Over 500. Over a quarter ton. Mother Russia was bigger than ever. And for some strange reason no one could understand but him, he was the one at the end left with the biggest smile, too.

Eventually, America let them all go, one by one. England first, who would never insult him in that kind of way again. They left his house in twos and threes, murmuring, terrified, amongst themselves, shooting a glance back at America every couple of seconds to make sure they were really free of him. France was whining to the group as a whole about how no one would want to give him their vital regions looking like this, but then, since everyone was in the same boat, it didn't really matter after all. Italy asked America if he could have some more pasta please before Germany dragged him off by his curl. And slowly, they all departed, one by one, until no one was left at all.

Except for Russia, who grinned and took America into his arms. He was enormous, nearly smothering America with the weight he pressed upon him. But all that fat just meant a softer cushion for America to lean against. His flabby arms just meant a better hug.

"No one will ever call me fat again," America whispered into Russia's chest, when no one else was listening.

Russia gave a hearty laugh. "Is that what this was all about? Proving you're not fat?"

America pulled his head away and nodded sadly. "England was making fun of my weight. Everyone was, actually. And I wasn't even really fat. It was horrible. One day I just kind of… couldn't take it anymore. So I decided to prove them wrong, all of them."

Russia nodded knowingly. This was a very familiar emotion. "Revenge is sweet, da?" he whispered softly to America's ear.

America smiled. "Da. It is."

"But now that it's all over…" Russia cocked his head at America, looking like a curious newborn puppy. Right away, America loved him. "…what are we going to do with our lives?"

One word stopped him. "…we?" America dared to ask, looking up at the bigger nation with huge blue eyes.

Russia smiled. "Da. We. You didn't think I would let you leave me after we had so much fun together, did you?"

America almost cried. "You… had fun, didn't you?" He looked out at the sea of other nations, waddling away from his home. They'd all be on a strict diet as soon as they reached their homes, and soon they'd all be thin again, with no other souvenirs from their journey but the memories. Bittersweet. "None of them… had fun, not really. I mean, they may have liked eating the food, but the actual act of getting bigger…"

Russia put a quieting finger to America's lips. "I know. You and I were the only ones who enjoyed it, all of it, for what it was. But you know what I'd enjoy doing now?"

America shook his head. "What?" He couldn't think of anything that was worth doing, anymore. He'd gone through all the nations at breakneck speed, tripled their starting weight and sent them away. What could possibly be left for him in this world he didn't understand?

Russia's smile grew mischievous again, into the same smile that terrorized the Baltics' dreams and had sent America spiraling into starting the Cold War. "There's still one nation left to fatten. I'd like to finish the job."

"One… nation? Do you mean…?" England, Canada, France, Japan. China, Prussia, Germany, Italy. Russia. Who was left? No one except… and then he understood. Eyes huge and mouth open, America stared up at Russia with an expression one part horror and two parts awe. "…me?"

Russia nodded. "Da. You're barely chubby. I'd like that to be changed. And I'm not always submissive, you know. Sometimes I like to be in charge too."

America thought this over. Unlike the others, who had had been forced upon this, Russia was giving him a choice in the matter. And it was a very serious choice to make. Here he was, the only skinny nation in a sea of morbidly obese ones. It was so amazing, for once in his life, not to be the fat one. Not to be fat. That was what he had wanted, wasn't it? To be the skinniest out of everyone else?

But months alone with Russia filled with burgers, fries, donuts, milkshakes… all the junk his heart desired, more and more and more. Food piled in front of him in masses and being told it was okay to eat all of it, the more the better, until he was far too full to move. That was like heaven. Better than heaven. And here it was, being offered to him by a smiling man who wanted to make him huge.

"Yes," America whispered, wrapping his arms around Russia's middle, though they could barely begin to stretch all the way around. "Yes, yes, yes!" He was giddy at the thought. So what if he'd be fat? He'd be thinner than Russia still, probably. And what was fat, really? A word that England liked to throw at him? What did it matter? What did it change? America was tired of pretending. If he was always going to be labeled as fat, then dammit, he was going to be the best fat man he could be.

"I knew you were a feedee at heart," Russia replied with a laugh, playfully ruffling America's hair. "Now what are we waiting for? Let's go get you some hamburgers, da? We must waste no time in making you a fatass for real!"

The word "fatass" had never appealed to America quite so much. He released his arms from Russia's ample belly and linked one of them through Russia's sleeve, swinging both arms as he skipped along, whistling a tune even he didn't know what it was. The other nations stared at the two of them passed by, the biggest one of all and the only one a normal size, but neither of them paid any attention. Their proportions were soon to drastically change, so it didn't matter, anyway.

America laughed impatiently at all the trouble Russia had to exert to move. "Let's go! I'm starving, dude! Hurry up! Can't you move any faster? Come on!"

Because of his weight, it was quite a struggle for Russia to keep up with the smaller nation. But they both knew he didn't really mind, because all through that struggle, he was smiling.