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threesome between Fritz, Hans Hermann von Katte and Prussia.
8D
8D
Just a note here: I don't exactly know what Katte looks like since I can only seem to find black and white sketches of him. I basically have him looking a bit like Germany, but with smoother features. I don't exactly know much on how Fritz felt for Katte--aside from attraction. But I have it viewed as him admiring this older man, and being flustered by his feelings for men instead of women. Also know: Katte was 26, Fritz was 18. I was winging it mostly. Katte was known to be a womanizer, so I played along with that, and made him a bit of a maninizer towards Fritz. Yes, I plan on having young Fritz as a little tsundere.
If you need a description of how I'm seeing this pairing, just think Spain and S.Italy. That might make things a bit more clear.
Now, on to part one! (I'll post the rest later tonight)
If you need a description of how I'm seeing this pairing, just think Spain and S.Italy. That might make things a bit more clear.
Now, on to part one! (I'll post the rest later tonight)
He could see the look in the prince's eyes whenever he watched that man. The way those ebony orbs in the center seemed to focus in on him, and the color within to glass over--it was such a sign that Fritz was mezmerized. Whenever he watched Hans, it was like watching a zombified slave. It was as if Fritz had been instructed to watch him, monitor him--be entranced by him. The older man had the prince within his grasps if he wanted to have such a thing. And who wouldn't? Fritz was an attractive young man himself. Golden blonde hair that cascaded from his scalp and tied so elegantly in a ponytail with crystalline eyes of aquamarine that would make any sailor wish to sail upon the oceans of his ocular organs. And it was only when Gilbert stopped to look over Fritz's shoulder to examine Hans that he realized that both men were of equal attraction.
Something within Prussia made him curious as to how Hans may have seen Fritz. The hopeless romantic within himself wanted to see if he could make a love connection between the two men disregarding how he was entirely aware that Fritz's father--the king--would not have been happy with that. Alas--he still wanted to try.
"Speak to him." Gilbert urged Fritz as the two men both took their position in taking glances at von Katte. Fritz looked at Gilbert, his cheeks flushed, surprised with the nation's forward decision.
"I-I c-couldn't do that!" the young prince said, his reddened cheeks pure proof that the child (in Gilbert's eyes) was embarassed. Gilbert had to smile a bit. Eighteen years wasn't long to a nation, but watching Fritz grow up to this beautiful young man--it seemed like it had taken forever. Fritz had come to maturity in physical stature, but his mind was still that of a boy.
"Why is that, Frederick?" Gilbert teased. "Are you afraid he might be turned away from you because of your silly little boy crush?" He waved a finger scoldingly at the prince, tsk-tsking at him, almost as if he was ashamed of him.
A huffed expression swept over Fritz's face as Gilbert had the audacity to call him Frederick instead of Fritz. He liked the name Fritz--Frederick was far too formal. "A-Absolutely not!" he snorted, standing firmly and adjusting his posture--throwing off the entire look by crossing his arms like a standard teenager.
Prussia cocked his head in intrigue, almost pouting at the heir. "Well, why aren't you going over say something to him?" he asked, knowing full well that Fritz was procrastinating.
His mouth opened then to speak--then went very quiet, and closed his jaw. Hans was approaching them and the light blush upon Fritz's cheeks seemed to intensify. Hans was smiling at the nation and his prince.
"Guten tag." he said politely, bowing a bit in front of Fritz. "How is our nation and our finest prince doing today?"
"Gut, danke Herr Von Katte." Prussia said, smiling and nodding his head courteously at the man. Hans's complexion was so similar to Fritz, but his hair was shorter and smoothed back, several strands of white blonde hair swaying on his forehead. The one difference Gilbert could spot was their eye color. While Fritz's eyes were the color of the Mediterranean ocean, Hans's were more like the icey azure of the skies over Finland. He was just as attractive as Fritz.
And he could see why Fritz was so hesitant to say something to the man. He was incredibly good looking. The poor prince was having a difficult time responding to the man, trying to come up with a coherent, but still refined answer.
"You don't need to show propriety with me, Fritz." Hans said, extending a hand and squeezing his shoulder. "You appeal to me even without the royalty and refined exterior." Fritz's blushing cheeks were so bright you would have to be color blind not to notice them.
"D-Danke." Fritz said with a smile, and a bow to the older man. "That's very nice of you." Prussia smirked. If chemistry had a feeling--the surge between the two men could be felt by Gilbert as well. He could tell almost instantaneously--this silly boy crush of Frtiz's was mutual.
Something within Prussia made him curious as to how Hans may have seen Fritz. The hopeless romantic within himself wanted to see if he could make a love connection between the two men disregarding how he was entirely aware that Fritz's father--the king--would not have been happy with that. Alas--he still wanted to try.
"Speak to him." Gilbert urged Fritz as the two men both took their position in taking glances at von Katte. Fritz looked at Gilbert, his cheeks flushed, surprised with the nation's forward decision.
"I-I c-couldn't do that!" the young prince said, his reddened cheeks pure proof that the child (in Gilbert's eyes) was embarassed. Gilbert had to smile a bit. Eighteen years wasn't long to a nation, but watching Fritz grow up to this beautiful young man--it seemed like it had taken forever. Fritz had come to maturity in physical stature, but his mind was still that of a boy.
"Why is that, Frederick?" Gilbert teased. "Are you afraid he might be turned away from you because of your silly little boy crush?" He waved a finger scoldingly at the prince, tsk-tsking at him, almost as if he was ashamed of him.
A huffed expression swept over Fritz's face as Gilbert had the audacity to call him Frederick instead of Fritz. He liked the name Fritz--Frederick was far too formal. "A-Absolutely not!" he snorted, standing firmly and adjusting his posture--throwing off the entire look by crossing his arms like a standard teenager.
Prussia cocked his head in intrigue, almost pouting at the heir. "Well, why aren't you going over say something to him?" he asked, knowing full well that Fritz was procrastinating.
His mouth opened then to speak--then went very quiet, and closed his jaw. Hans was approaching them and the light blush upon Fritz's cheeks seemed to intensify. Hans was smiling at the nation and his prince.
"Guten tag." he said politely, bowing a bit in front of Fritz. "How is our nation and our finest prince doing today?"
"Gut, danke Herr Von Katte." Prussia said, smiling and nodding his head courteously at the man. Hans's complexion was so similar to Fritz, but his hair was shorter and smoothed back, several strands of white blonde hair swaying on his forehead. The one difference Gilbert could spot was their eye color. While Fritz's eyes were the color of the Mediterranean ocean, Hans's were more like the icey azure of the skies over Finland. He was just as attractive as Fritz.
And he could see why Fritz was so hesitant to say something to the man. He was incredibly good looking. The poor prince was having a difficult time responding to the man, trying to come up with a coherent, but still refined answer.
"You don't need to show propriety with me, Fritz." Hans said, extending a hand and squeezing his shoulder. "You appeal to me even without the royalty and refined exterior." Fritz's blushing cheeks were so bright you would have to be color blind not to notice them.
"D-Danke." Fritz said with a smile, and a bow to the older man. "That's very nice of you." Prussia smirked. If chemistry had a feeling--the surge between the two men could be felt by Gilbert as well. He could tell almost instantaneously--this silly boy crush of Frtiz's was mutual.
I can't express how much I love this! Ol' Fritz <3 Is there going to be anymore? I hope so~
Nevermind, clearly this anon just doesn't know how to read. I eagerly await the rest of this! F5F5F5F5F5F5
Okay, I had to go and look up von Katte to really understand this, and all I can say is... awwww. Prussia playing royal matchmaker. ;)
And dude, why does it seem like Prussia's military history is full of boy love? XD
[Pfft, reCAPTCHA: misconduct fatal. >D Misconduct, fuck yes.]
And dude, why does it seem like Prussia's military history is full of boy love? XD
[Pfft, reCAPTCHA: misconduct fatal. >D Misconduct, fuck yes.]
Jesus anon, this is so much better so far than I ever hoped for!
<3
<3
I'm working on part 2 right now, going to try and get it up before I leave for work tonight.
Get it? Get it up? I'm so funny~
Get it? Get it up? I'm so funny~
Ah! I can't wait.
;__;
You have reduced me to a wibbling puddle of goo anon.
;__;
You have reduced me to a wibbling puddle of goo anon.
Oh oh oh, but this is gorgeous. ;A; Don't leave us hanging, anon, please!
Tnhought up from a random conversation I had over a lunch with a bunch of friends. Austria is giving Hungary a singing lesson, Hungary mucks up (how is writer's choice) and as a consequence Austria tells Hungray she needs to work on her oral(as in voice exercices) Hungary gets the wrong end of the stick...
Anon would love whoever filled this forever!
Thank you!!! ^-^
Anon would love whoever filled this forever!
Thank you!!! ^-^
It had been an unexpected day when Hungary had appeared by Austria’s side after a meeting, pulled on his sleeve, and demanded to be taught to sing.
Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head.
India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.
Confusedly, Austria had enquired as to why, received a rather flustered response about Seychelles sounding like an angel, and then another demand for lessons.
“Well, of course, I’d love to help, Hungary...”
“Great! That’s settled then!” she had grinned, and run off.
Sighing, Austria wondered what he had got himself in for.
But now, a few weeks on, Hungary was doing unexpectedly well. It had been a rough first week, cleaning the rust off her rather messy mezzo-soprano voice, but it had been a worthwhile cause, though Austria swore his crystal cabinet would never be the same again, and now she carried a tune gently and gracefully.
“Well, Elizaveta, I think you’ve made excellent progress, would you like me to put you in for the exam?”
She nodded, grinning, watching him over the grand piano.
“Excellent,” he signed some papers and handed her back the book of Italian Arias he had been making notes in for her, “And this week I’d like you to practice your orals.”
Hungary gaped.
“What?”
“Well, they’ll be in the exam, best to get some practice in now,” he said, firmly.
“R-right, of course! Thanks!” she rushed out, gripping her books tightly.
It was the matter-of-fact way that he had announced it that had thrown her most. Surely, if this was a main part of singing, why didn’t he tell her before?! Usually Roderich would go red and skirt around a subject like that, calling it vulgar and brushing it off, who knew they were part of musical exams!? Kinky bastard.
Hungary giggled out loud, how was she supposed to showcase such practice?! And then it hit her, and there was just one girl to see.
India was sitting in her garden, listening to some soothing Bhangra music when she heard a banging on the door.
Brightly coloured attire swishing as she walked, India wondered who could be calling now. Maybe it was America to have another laugh at her Bollywood scene. Ever since Arthur had introduced him to it, the man wouldn’t leave it alone, mocking her for all it was worth. She rolled her eyes, sincerely hoping that it was anyone else.
“Namastē,” she smiled, opening the door.
“Namastē, India!” Hungary smiled.
“Oh, Hungary, do come in,” she stepped aside to let her in, “What can I do for you, ba-hen?”
“Well, it’s sort of an odd request,” Hungary put a hand behind her head.
India raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“I need bananas. Lots of them.”
India had to admit. It was, indeed, an odd request.
As Hungary sauntered back home, looking smug with armfuls of bananas, people gawked, but she was confident. This was practice, she thought, grinning, and practice makes perfect.
Author's note, "ba-hen" - Sister in Hindi
The next morning, she made her way to Austria’s house for another lesson, bumping into Slovakia, who politely declined a banana.
When she arrived, she went in, hearing Austria playing the piano, like he usually did before her lessons, a nice Chopin prelude. (Or just ‘pretty music!’ to Hungary’s ears.)
“Hey, Roderich!” she bounded in, paying no heed to his unfinished prelude.
“You’re early, Hungary,” he noted, checking his watch.
“Yes, but I’ve been practicing, just like you said!” she laughed.
“You have?” he asked, standing up and taking some other music books from a pile on top of the concert grand. He sounded impressed.
“Yeah, I have! I practiced all night, I’ll be even better than I was before,” she giggled.
“Well, that’s remarkable, considering I didn’t even give you the book,” he smiled, handing her an open book and sitting back down.
“Huh?” she snatched the book away and saw the various small call and response singing exercises, “But you said...!”
Austria raised an eyebrow, “Everything all right, Elizaveta?”
She went bright red and slammed the book down onto the floor.
“No, everything is not all right, you said to practice my orals, so I did! All night! For you!”
Austria blinked. Then came the unmistakeable sound of many piano keys being hit by a forehead.
“No, Hungary,” he replied, red-faced, “I said to practice your aurals. Read the top of the page.”
She looked at the book on the floor.
“Ah.”
“Yes, Hungary,” Austria sat up, rubbing his forehead, “Ah.”
“Well, you know what I think?” she announced, folding her arms.
“Enlighten me,” Austria replied, still unable to look at her face.
“I think,” she sat down heavily on his lap, “We should practice anyway.”
Austria spluttered, “Wh-what?!”
“It’s sure to be in the exam,” she grinned, flicking a piece of broken ivory from his forehead, “Best to get some practice in now, hmm?”
Any other possible protests were suddenly silenced with a forceful kiss.
“Hungary,” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Yeees?” she smiled, waiting for the beautiful compliment, how her eyes look like... something of great natural beauty, or how her hair resembles... burnt music parchment? Something nice, at least, knowing Rode-
“Why do you taste like bananas?”
Lololol sorry OP.
The next morning, she made her way to Austria’s house for another lesson, bumping into Slovakia, who politely declined a banana.
When she arrived, she went in, hearing Austria playing the piano, like he usually did before her lessons, a nice Chopin prelude. (Or just ‘pretty music!’ to Hungary’s ears.)
“Hey, Roderich!” she bounded in, paying no heed to his unfinished prelude.
“You’re early, Hungary,” he noted, checking his watch.
“Yes, but I’ve been practicing, just like you said!” she laughed.
“You have?” he asked, standing up and taking some other music books from a pile on top of the concert grand. He sounded impressed.
“Yeah, I have! I practiced all night, I’ll be even better than I was before,” she giggled.
“Well, that’s remarkable, considering I didn’t even give you the book,” he smiled, handing her an open book and sitting back down.
“Huh?” she snatched the book away and saw the various small call and response singing exercises, “But you said...!”
Austria raised an eyebrow, “Everything all right, Elizaveta?”
She went bright red and slammed the book down onto the floor.
“No, everything is not all right, you said to practice my orals, so I did! All night! For you!”
Austria blinked. Then came the unmistakeable sound of many piano keys being hit by a forehead.
“No, Hungary,” he replied, red-faced, “I said to practice your aurals. Read the top of the page.”
She looked at the book on the floor.
“Ah.”
“Yes, Hungary,” Austria sat up, rubbing his forehead, “Ah.”
“Well, you know what I think?” she announced, folding her arms.
“Enlighten me,” Austria replied, still unable to look at her face.
“I think,” she sat down heavily on his lap, “We should practice anyway.”
Austria spluttered, “Wh-what?!”
“It’s sure to be in the exam,” she grinned, flicking a piece of broken ivory from his forehead, “Best to get some practice in now, hmm?”
Any other possible protests were suddenly silenced with a forceful kiss.
“Hungary,” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Yeees?” she smiled, waiting for the beautiful compliment, how her eyes look like... something of great natural beauty, or how her hair resembles... burnt music parchment? Something nice, at least, knowing Rode-
“Why do you taste like bananas?”
Lololol sorry OP.
OP loves it!! and is in hysterics over last comment!!! WELL DONE AUTHOR!ANON
Nnnnnnngggg not!OP really really wants a sequel~ There is NOT enough A/H smut in this meme at ALL!
(Lovely job, anon! Bananas....pffffft.)
(Lovely job, anon! Bananas....pffffft.)
XD oh Austria, are you sure you want to know the answer to that..?
writeranon, you're awesome~
writeranon, you're awesome~
As soon as I stop laughing, maybe I can type straight.
I loved this. And ZOMGINDIA. WOO! And Slovakia. WIN. XD
Asking India for bananas just made my day. Seriously.
I loved this. And ZOMGINDIA. WOO! And Slovakia. WIN. XD
Asking India for bananas just made my day. Seriously.
OP loves you - and will love you forever!!! THIS IS FANTASTIC!!!!!!
I cant wait til the next bit goes up!!!!!!
I cant wait til the next bit goes up!!!!!!
Lithuania, Poland and Canada, any combination! Maybe sweet threesome? or just the three of them hanging out? or two of them together and the third as a friend? I don't care, it'd be sweet anyway ^^ (actually I don't mind putting America there too, but he's not necessarily required)
No angst and UST please, and my kink for this one is fluffiness :)
No angst and UST please, and my kink for this one is fluffiness :)
Germany as a not-so-masked vigilante, beating the crap outta crime. The archnemesis? Mafia!Romano (tho' if you wanna do someone else, that's fine)
Bonus 1: Italy as that fanboy/damsel in distress
Bonus 2: Prussia as his partner-in-crimejustice
Bonus 1: Italy as that fanboy/damsel in distress
Bonus 2: Prussia as his partner-in-
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11604234#t11604234
Anon has exams this month and is completely stressed out, so she'd love some serious fluff:
5 times Nation A realized they were in love with Nation B
Anon doesn't really care about the possible pairings, since she loves almost all of them; so multiple fills are encouraged! ♥
5 times Nation A realized they were in love with Nation B
Anon doesn't really care about the possible pairings, since she loves almost all of them; so multiple fills are encouraged! ♥
Matthew had held back for quite a long time. It wasn't because he was intimidated by Alfred. That wasn't the case at all. It was because he was pretty sure that Alfred had hardly ever noticed him. After all, everyone ignored him. That's just how it was when you were Canada.
But he knew if he tried to tell Alfred out loud, he'd probably be ignored no matter what. He knew what he would do. Put pencil to paper. He smiled as the words flowed out. There were so many times he'd realized how much he loved Alfred--and he'd loved him as more than just two brothers would love one another.
He could feel the tears roll down his cheek--tears of joy and sweetness. Tears for all those memories of those times he really did realize how much he loved Alfred.
After he'd gotten out his words, his feelings on the paper, he folded it up and put it in an envelope, then sealed up the envelope. He was going to deliver this in person, even if Alfred didn't notice it was him delivering it. After all, it would mean more if he gave it himself. At least, it would mean more to him.
When he finally got to America's house--to Alfred's house--he looked around to make sure that Alfred was at home for once. Phew. He was. He raised a hand to knock on the door. After a slight wait, Alfred finally opened the door.
"...Who...are you?" He gave a light teasing smile before seeing Matthew's face fall, which caused him to hastily add. "Oh, I know it's you Canada-kun. Whatcha got there? Izzat for me?"
Matthew nodded. "Y-yeah! It's for you. I thought that it would be nice to deli--"
"...Give it to me already." Alfred huffed, impatient as ever.
Matthew grudgingly heaved a sigh and handed it over. He figured he was going to hand it over anyway. Here he flinched as Alfred hastily tore open the envelope and started to read.
Out loud.
"Dear Alfred
I guess this is going to sound boring to you, but...I love you. And I've realized quite a few times that I did. And I can name five specific times."
Here, Alfred looked up at Matthew, quirking a brow. Sure, his little brother never really had a way with words, but this was how he really felt? Matthew glanced away nervously. He was sure Alfred would just laugh, crumple the letter, and chuck it at him.
But Alfred kept reading out loud.
But he knew if he tried to tell Alfred out loud, he'd probably be ignored no matter what. He knew what he would do. Put pencil to paper. He smiled as the words flowed out. There were so many times he'd realized how much he loved Alfred--and he'd loved him as more than just two brothers would love one another.
He could feel the tears roll down his cheek--tears of joy and sweetness. Tears for all those memories of those times he really did realize how much he loved Alfred.
After he'd gotten out his words, his feelings on the paper, he folded it up and put it in an envelope, then sealed up the envelope. He was going to deliver this in person, even if Alfred didn't notice it was him delivering it. After all, it would mean more if he gave it himself. At least, it would mean more to him.
When he finally got to America's house--to Alfred's house--he looked around to make sure that Alfred was at home for once. Phew. He was. He raised a hand to knock on the door. After a slight wait, Alfred finally opened the door.
"...Who...are you?" He gave a light teasing smile before seeing Matthew's face fall, which caused him to hastily add. "Oh, I know it's you Canada-kun. Whatcha got there? Izzat for me?"
Matthew nodded. "Y-yeah! It's for you. I thought that it would be nice to deli--"
"...Give it to me already." Alfred huffed, impatient as ever.
Matthew grudgingly heaved a sigh and handed it over. He figured he was going to hand it over anyway. Here he flinched as Alfred hastily tore open the envelope and started to read.
Out loud.
"Dear Alfred
I guess this is going to sound boring to you, but...I love you. And I've realized quite a few times that I did. And I can name five specific times."
Here, Alfred looked up at Matthew, quirking a brow. Sure, his little brother never really had a way with words, but this was how he really felt? Matthew glanced away nervously. He was sure Alfred would just laugh, crumple the letter, and chuck it at him.
But Alfred kept reading out loud.
Gurk-- ANON IS SQUEALING IN JOY.
GAWD I CAN'T WAIT TILL THERE'S MORE.
GAWD I CAN'T WAIT TILL THERE'S MORE.
Matthew blinked, listening to Alfred read.
"Number one: I realized I loved you when you tried to help me help my people get along. It showed you really did care and that you really had been listening. I felt like you noticed me and wanted me to be happy."
Here, Alfred paused, glancing up from the letter. "Of course I care. And I always like seeing you happy. I like seeing anyone and everyone happy!" Alfred gushed, giving a starry smile. He then read more.
"Number two: I realized I loved you every time we argue. Just because we're arguing a lot doesn't mean we don't love each other. If anything, I think we argue because we love each other and it's a way of airing things between us, eh?"
Alfred looked up with a confused look, pausing.
Matthew gulped. Ohhh... "W-what I meant is, we argue because it helps us let one another know what's bugging us instead of not communicating at all. And you know what they say...communication is key in a relationship."
Alfred blinked a few times, then looked back to the letter, reading the next out loud. "Number three: I realized I loved you when you finally listened to me, even if I acted a little creeped about the situation under which you finally listened."
Alfred tried to think back? When was this? Maybe...when he had that chainsaw? Yes, that had to be it. He didn't have the heart to tell Matthew that he hadn't completely been listening. Or was it that day he gave some advice? Ah yes, he'd been listening. He knew his brother needed that kind of support.
"...Number four..." Alfred continued reading. "I realized I loved you when you were acting heroic around everyone. I love that boisterous hero in you, even when I say I don't like it. You know I say things like that when I'm mad."
Alfred looked up with a few tears in his eyes now. Somehow, it touched him that Matthew loved that boisterous streak to him. Matthew bit his lip, waiting for Alfred to continue reading.
Alfred spoke up, reading the last line. "Number five: I realized I loved you when I picked up my pencil to write you this. I realized, really, and truly, that I loved you enough to tell you I loved you.
I love you with all my heart and soul.
Matthew."
"Number one: I realized I loved you when you tried to help me help my people get along. It showed you really did care and that you really had been listening. I felt like you noticed me and wanted me to be happy."
Here, Alfred paused, glancing up from the letter. "Of course I care. And I always like seeing you happy. I like seeing anyone and everyone happy!" Alfred gushed, giving a starry smile. He then read more.
"Number two: I realized I loved you every time we argue. Just because we're arguing a lot doesn't mean we don't love each other. If anything, I think we argue because we love each other and it's a way of airing things between us, eh?"
Alfred looked up with a confused look, pausing.
Matthew gulped. Ohhh... "W-what I meant is, we argue because it helps us let one another know what's bugging us instead of not communicating at all. And you know what they say...communication is key in a relationship."
Alfred blinked a few times, then looked back to the letter, reading the next out loud. "Number three: I realized I loved you when you finally listened to me, even if I acted a little creeped about the situation under which you finally listened."
Alfred tried to think back? When was this? Maybe...when he had that chainsaw? Yes, that had to be it. He didn't have the heart to tell Matthew that he hadn't completely been listening. Or was it that day he gave some advice? Ah yes, he'd been listening. He knew his brother needed that kind of support.
"...Number four..." Alfred continued reading. "I realized I loved you when you were acting heroic around everyone. I love that boisterous hero in you, even when I say I don't like it. You know I say things like that when I'm mad."
Alfred looked up with a few tears in his eyes now. Somehow, it touched him that Matthew loved that boisterous streak to him. Matthew bit his lip, waiting for Alfred to continue reading.
Alfred spoke up, reading the last line. "Number five: I realized I loved you when I picked up my pencil to write you this. I realized, really, and truly, that I loved you enough to tell you I loved you.
I love you with all my heart and soul.
Matthew."
Alfred clutched tightly to the paper, giving a light smile. Matthew had poured his heart and soul out in this letter apparently.
"I realized something too, you know." He grinned, looping an arm around the Canadian now.
Matthew blinked, glancing over to his American brother. "What's that, eh?"
"You've much more potential. Not just as a country. As a lover, Matty. My lover. And I think you're realizing potential." Alfred winked. "You know, I think you're a hero. To my heart."
Canada smiled now, pressing closer to America; so Alfred had felt the same way? He wished he'd known sooner. But he was happy to get these feelings out.
"Wanna stay for a burger?" Alfred gave his cheesy grin now.
Matthew nodded and smiled. "That would be awesome. Like you."
"I realized something too, you know." He grinned, looping an arm around the Canadian now.
Matthew blinked, glancing over to his American brother. "What's that, eh?"
"You've much more potential. Not just as a country. As a lover, Matty. My lover. And I think you're realizing potential." Alfred winked. "You know, I think you're a hero. To my heart."
Canada smiled now, pressing closer to America; so Alfred had felt the same way? He wished he'd known sooner. But he was happy to get these feelings out.
"Wanna stay for a burger?" Alfred gave his cheesy grin now.
Matthew nodded and smiled. "That would be awesome. Like you."
ANON IS AWE-ING TO NO END.
B'AWWWW <3
Well done Writer!Anon !
B'AWWWW <3
Well done Writer!Anon !
aww so cheesy and yet so cute
OP loves you jsahjgdhj ♥♥ Matthew is just so adorable here~
Five times France realized he was in love with England [1/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 01:27 pm (UTC)(link)(Or "Where England is an oblivious douchebag for five times")
France squinted as he looked at that adorable, tiny nation.
The eyebrows were really something, he noted. Really, really something. In fact, they awed him so much that he whistled.
England, on the other hand, was not amused. Not amused at all. In fact, he was close to blowing a gasket.
"Stop staring at me!" he squeaked. Angrily.
France merely chuckled and patted England's head, only to get his hand swatted away.
"But mon chéri, you are so adorable!" he said.
"Stop mocking me, you cross-dressing get!" England said.
"And your eyebrows. So exquisite!"
"The eyebrows again?!" He rubbed the aforementioned eyebrows. "I'll burn them so that you'll-- I mean, I'll never have to hear any of your stupid jabs."
France frowned. "But I like them."
"All the more reason for me to make them disappear." England was cackling now.
As he tried to make England do otherwise, France wondered why he even bothered with that little island that gave him nothing but trouble (and perhaps some amusement on odd days like this). Then he went, "Oh," and he merely laughed. He also lightly slapped himself on the cheek. But how could he have been so ignorant as to not have noticed that?
England was left creeped out; all the more so because there weren't even any fairies telling jokes to France.
"It's nothing, chéri," France said, his tone sounding lighter than the usual. "I'll visit again tomorrow. Don't shave your eyebrows~!" He blew a kiss onto the highly disgusted-looking young nation.
He pranced away from England who was left shouting, "Like I'll do anything you say, bastard!"
When France visited, there was little England whose eyebrows seemed to have grown. He smiled a smile brighter than the day.
"Angleterre is so cute, non?" he asked.
France squinted as he looked at that adorable, tiny nation.
The eyebrows were really something, he noted. Really, really something. In fact, they awed him so much that he whistled.
England, on the other hand, was not amused. Not amused at all. In fact, he was close to blowing a gasket.
"Stop staring at me!" he squeaked. Angrily.
France merely chuckled and patted England's head, only to get his hand swatted away.
"But mon chéri, you are so adorable!" he said.
"Stop mocking me, you cross-dressing get!" England said.
"And your eyebrows. So exquisite!"
"The eyebrows again?!" He rubbed the aforementioned eyebrows. "I'll burn them so that you'll-- I mean, I'll never have to hear any of your stupid jabs."
France frowned. "But I like them."
"All the more reason for me to make them disappear." England was cackling now.
As he tried to make England do otherwise, France wondered why he even bothered with that little island that gave him nothing but trouble (and perhaps some amusement on odd days like this). Then he went, "Oh," and he merely laughed. He also lightly slapped himself on the cheek. But how could he have been so ignorant as to not have noticed that?
England was left creeped out; all the more so because there weren't even any fairies telling jokes to France.
"It's nothing, chéri," France said, his tone sounding lighter than the usual. "I'll visit again tomorrow. Don't shave your eyebrows~!" He blew a kiss onto the highly disgusted-looking young nation.
He pranced away from England who was left shouting, "Like I'll do anything you say, bastard!"
When France visited, there was little England whose eyebrows seemed to have grown. He smiled a smile brighter than the day.
"Angleterre is so cute, non?" he asked.
Five times France realized he was in love with England [2/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 02:04 pm (UTC)(link)"Oh mon petit chou, see how marvelous you become when you actually bother to keep up with the times," France cooed.
"I feel embarrassed," England muttered. "I look stupid. I-I want my armor back."
"Non, Angleterre. I assure you that you look simply dashing in that." This was what France really thought. England did look rather handsome with a mostly green tunic and cream-colored bottoms. It suited him more than the sight of mental and the stench of blood. Though, France thought with a lewd laugh, England would look best without any clothes. As most people would do in France's honest opinion.
"Which worries me."
France frowned. "How mistrustful of you. My heart feels like breaking right now."
"Please, don't let me bother." The words were carefully drawled out by England from his mouth.
"Though I really can't think how you could stand to wear armor all day long. It's hot and hard to move around."
England harrumphed. "You're not just enough of a man. I can't even begin to imagine how you can stand to wear all of those frills, and those layers and layers of coats."
"It's called being fashionable, chou."
England snorted at this. "I don't see how fashionable you'll get when someone suddenly stabs you in the back."
"I think I'll handle. After all, you're here to save me when that happens, oui?" France smiled the brightest of smiles. A feeling was niggling at the back of his head.
"We're enemies, you idiot!" England turned his back on France and began walking away. But he didn't move fast enough for France not to notice the sheer redness of his face.
"Je t'aime, mon lapin!"
"I hate you, French get!"
"I feel embarrassed," England muttered. "I look stupid. I-I want my armor back."
"Non, Angleterre. I assure you that you look simply dashing in that." This was what France really thought. England did look rather handsome with a mostly green tunic and cream-colored bottoms. It suited him more than the sight of mental and the stench of blood. Though, France thought with a lewd laugh, England would look best without any clothes. As most people would do in France's honest opinion.
"Which worries me."
France frowned. "How mistrustful of you. My heart feels like breaking right now."
"Please, don't let me bother." The words were carefully drawled out by England from his mouth.
"Though I really can't think how you could stand to wear armor all day long. It's hot and hard to move around."
England harrumphed. "You're not just enough of a man. I can't even begin to imagine how you can stand to wear all of those frills, and those layers and layers of coats."
"It's called being fashionable, chou."
England snorted at this. "I don't see how fashionable you'll get when someone suddenly stabs you in the back."
"I think I'll handle. After all, you're here to save me when that happens, oui?" France smiled the brightest of smiles. A feeling was niggling at the back of his head.
"We're enemies, you idiot!" England turned his back on France and began walking away. But he didn't move fast enough for France not to notice the sheer redness of his face.
"Je t'aime, mon lapin!"
"I hate you, French get!"
Five times France realized he was in love with England [3/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 02:06 pm (UTC)(link)There was once a point in time when France wouldn't go frolic with anyone. There was once a time when France chose to stop chasing skirts and pants and a lot of other things.
When asked by a nation why, he would only charmingly smile at them and say, "I have found love, mon ami." Then he would walk away looking brighter than the sun itself.
When England asked why, obviously a bit perturbed at France's display of chastity as it had been a while since that age where France was truly a pure-minded soul, France leered at him and said, "I'm just waiting for the perfect opportunity." England had huffed and then said, "Frog." France only laughed and made the notion of kissing England who managed to stop him before any damage had been made.
But France was happiest during those times, it seemed.
When England won custody of America, France returned to normal. When asked why he'd suddenly returned to his lecherous ways, France replied, with much superfluous drama, "It was just not meant to be." Everyone just shook their heads with a smile on their faces.
Then when it was England's turn to ask him, France said, "Ah, mon amour became enamored with someone else."
And England had said, "The country of love, huh? I never thought you gave up that quickly."
France had blinked at that. A smile slowly spread across his lips. "If you say so."
When asked by a nation why, he would only charmingly smile at them and say, "I have found love, mon ami." Then he would walk away looking brighter than the sun itself.
When England asked why, obviously a bit perturbed at France's display of chastity as it had been a while since that age where France was truly a pure-minded soul, France leered at him and said, "I'm just waiting for the perfect opportunity." England had huffed and then said, "Frog." France only laughed and made the notion of kissing England who managed to stop him before any damage had been made.
But France was happiest during those times, it seemed.
When England won custody of America, France returned to normal. When asked why he'd suddenly returned to his lecherous ways, France replied, with much superfluous drama, "It was just not meant to be." Everyone just shook their heads with a smile on their faces.
Then when it was England's turn to ask him, France said, "Ah, mon amour became enamored with someone else."
And England had said, "The country of love, huh? I never thought you gave up that quickly."
France had blinked at that. A smile slowly spread across his lips. "If you say so."
Five times France realized he was in love with England [4/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 02:09 pm (UTC)(link)"I think I don't hate you too much," England had said one day with a brightly flushed face and furrowed eyebrows.
He began walking away in a rather stiff manner.
France was shell-shocked, of course. And ungraciously gaping and staring at nothing in particular. It had taken him a while to have those words registered in his head. When they did, he turned to face the direction England had walked to, only to find that England was already far away.
So France ran.
When he caught up with England, he looped an arm around the other's shoulders. He had a lazy-looking smile on his face; only there to taunt England more.
He pinched England's nose with his hand and said, "I never knew you could be sweet, Angleterre!"
England huffed and pushed him away, albeit the redness in his face had never ceased to disappear. France merely walked beside him with an extra bounce in his steps.
"Well I think I love you, too," France whispered in England's ear in what he knew was a sensual way.
England pushed him away -- harder this time -- and marched away, his footsteps sounding crisp and clear in the morning air.
France merely chuckled and jogged after the furious and possibly embarrassed England.
He began walking away in a rather stiff manner.
France was shell-shocked, of course. And ungraciously gaping and staring at nothing in particular. It had taken him a while to have those words registered in his head. When they did, he turned to face the direction England had walked to, only to find that England was already far away.
So France ran.
When he caught up with England, he looped an arm around the other's shoulders. He had a lazy-looking smile on his face; only there to taunt England more.
He pinched England's nose with his hand and said, "I never knew you could be sweet, Angleterre!"
England huffed and pushed him away, albeit the redness in his face had never ceased to disappear. France merely walked beside him with an extra bounce in his steps.
"Well I think I love you, too," France whispered in England's ear in what he knew was a sensual way.
England pushed him away -- harder this time -- and marched away, his footsteps sounding crisp and clear in the morning air.
France merely chuckled and jogged after the furious and possibly embarrassed England.
Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 02:11 pm (UTC)(link)Passion, France thought, guided his way through the sounds of gentle music to where England was sulking. They were currently in a ball for the nations. Most of them had already forgotten why they even had balls like these at least once a year. Possibly to commemorate some once upon a time grand event. None of them were complaining though. It was quite nice to get together every now and then.
"Champagne?" France asked as he handed a dainty glass to the sour-looking England.
"No, thank you," England replied, seemingly intent on being a bad mood the whole night.
France sat beside him, probably aggravating him even more. France placed the extra champagne-filled glass on the table near him. He swirled his own glass, looking at it, before taking a sip. Deeming that this was actually good champagne, he faced England and asked, "Why the, ah, long face, Angleterre?"
"When did you start caring?" England asked snidely.
France hummed a bit before answering. "We're entitled to act however we want. I might just be making small talk, oui?"
"Knowing you."
"So, care to tell me what's making you into a bigger party pooper, as America would put it?"
"We're entitled to act however we want."
France chuckled. "Touché then. Best not to bother you if that'll be the only response I'll be getting the whole evening." He took another sip of his champagne. A longer one. "Though I must admit that they have an amazing champagne selection here. It's a shame you don't want to taste it."
"Oh give me the damn thing!" England exclaimed, exasperated. "Better trashed than noticing that you're actually there."
"It's not as... potent as your kind of liquor though."
"Alcohol is still alcohol."
France shrugged and handed England the extra glass. England downed every drop of the champagne with a flick of his wrist.
"I would leave it to you to make champagne look so classless," France commented.
"Do shut up," England said. "Now where's the bloody waiter?"
"At least you're in the mood now." He was the one who had the honor of getting the attention of the wine waiter who easily glided through the crowd of dancers and gave England a refill of his glass.
"A party's always good with something like this." He gestured to his glass.
"Indeed." France looked at his own glass that was half-filled with champagne.
"You should've gotten a refill. Glass's half-empty."
"Non, non. It's half-full." France was smiling now. "I sometimes forget that you care."
"Are we going back to that conversation?" England was already slurring a bit. He'd never been good at holding his alcohol -- lousy to the point where even champagne got him feeling the same as a man who'd gone through a bottle of vodka --, but he drank it the way he breathed in oxygen. France found this spectacularly amusing.
"I also sometimes forget how cute you can be," he said, pinching England's cheek to rile the other up.
"Sod off," England said. He then took yet another swig of his champagne. "There stronger stuff here?"
"I'm afraid not. It's supposed to be a formal, peaceful event."
"Great." He looked like he was lamenting the death of a unicorn.
"Though I do know where to get your sort of alcohol."
There was something lewd about the tone of his voice that made even a drunk England feel wary. But alcohol was top priority, so England nodded his head and he was whisked away by France.
Later on, when they were ridding themselves of their clothing, and kissing and groping each other like mad, France thought that it was very unfair of him to take advantage of England like this. Then he laughed in the face of a hot and inebriated England.
"Je suis tellement amoureuse de toi," he murmured.
"What?" was England's intelligent reply.
"Next time, we'll do this when you're sober, mon amour." France smiled at England. The next time, he would also say those words again when England was sober.
He kissed England.
It was a promise.
"Champagne?" France asked as he handed a dainty glass to the sour-looking England.
"No, thank you," England replied, seemingly intent on being a bad mood the whole night.
France sat beside him, probably aggravating him even more. France placed the extra champagne-filled glass on the table near him. He swirled his own glass, looking at it, before taking a sip. Deeming that this was actually good champagne, he faced England and asked, "Why the, ah, long face, Angleterre?"
"When did you start caring?" England asked snidely.
France hummed a bit before answering. "We're entitled to act however we want. I might just be making small talk, oui?"
"Knowing you."
"So, care to tell me what's making you into a bigger party pooper, as America would put it?"
"We're entitled to act however we want."
France chuckled. "Touché then. Best not to bother you if that'll be the only response I'll be getting the whole evening." He took another sip of his champagne. A longer one. "Though I must admit that they have an amazing champagne selection here. It's a shame you don't want to taste it."
"Oh give me the damn thing!" England exclaimed, exasperated. "Better trashed than noticing that you're actually there."
"It's not as... potent as your kind of liquor though."
"Alcohol is still alcohol."
France shrugged and handed England the extra glass. England downed every drop of the champagne with a flick of his wrist.
"I would leave it to you to make champagne look so classless," France commented.
"Do shut up," England said. "Now where's the bloody waiter?"
"At least you're in the mood now." He was the one who had the honor of getting the attention of the wine waiter who easily glided through the crowd of dancers and gave England a refill of his glass.
"A party's always good with something like this." He gestured to his glass.
"Indeed." France looked at his own glass that was half-filled with champagne.
"You should've gotten a refill. Glass's half-empty."
"Non, non. It's half-full." France was smiling now. "I sometimes forget that you care."
"Are we going back to that conversation?" England was already slurring a bit. He'd never been good at holding his alcohol -- lousy to the point where even champagne got him feeling the same as a man who'd gone through a bottle of vodka --, but he drank it the way he breathed in oxygen. France found this spectacularly amusing.
"I also sometimes forget how cute you can be," he said, pinching England's cheek to rile the other up.
"Sod off," England said. He then took yet another swig of his champagne. "There stronger stuff here?"
"I'm afraid not. It's supposed to be a formal, peaceful event."
"Great." He looked like he was lamenting the death of a unicorn.
"Though I do know where to get your sort of alcohol."
There was something lewd about the tone of his voice that made even a drunk England feel wary. But alcohol was top priority, so England nodded his head and he was whisked away by France.
Later on, when they were ridding themselves of their clothing, and kissing and groping each other like mad, France thought that it was very unfair of him to take advantage of England like this. Then he laughed in the face of a hot and inebriated England.
"Je suis tellement amoureuse de toi," he murmured.
"What?" was England's intelligent reply.
"Next time, we'll do this when you're sober, mon amour." France smiled at England. The next time, he would also say those words again when England was sober.
He kissed England.
It was a promise.
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 02:50 pm (UTC)(link)Wah! That's so sweet. Not OP but thank you for writing this anon!
AAH, OP ADORES THIS AUTHOR!ANON sjdgsjaf. I've been craving France/England recently, and you just made my day more awesome ♥♥ thank you!~ 8D
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 04:43 pm (UTC)(link)This is nice, so cute <3
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 06:48 pm (UTC)(link)This anon is completely in love with your writing. <333333333333
Also, seconding OP there; I've been craving some good France/England lately, so yeah. Thank you so much for making my day, Author!Anon!! :D
Also, seconding OP there; I've been craving some good France/England lately, so yeah. Thank you so much for making my day, Author!Anon!! :D
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)Oh, that was wonderful! I've been craving some of these two lately, as well, so it's marvelous to see this! Great job!
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-08 07:27 pm (UTC)(link)Joining the craving line, so cute. Pinning for each other for hundreds of years, what can be more romantic XDDD????
Hi guys. Like. I totally love all of you for making my day with your comments. ♥
Kink Meme needs more FrUK. *shot*
(personally, idk what's better than hundreds of years of "huh what?" that France and UK/England/who'shereally? have going for them.)
(personally, idk what's better than hundreds of years of "huh what?" that France and UK/England/who'shereally? have going for them.)
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-09 07:39 am (UTC)(link)Awww. So cute! I love every line of it~ *saves for later re-reading*
Though... to be 'amoureuse', France would need to be a girl XD boys are "amoureux"~
Though... to be 'amoureuse', France would need to be a girl XD boys are "amoureux"~
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-09 12:01 pm (UTC)(link)Hogod. Fail author!anon is fail. D:
*takes note of this*
Thanks for pointing it out anon~! ♥
*takes note of this*
Thanks for pointing it out anon~! ♥
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-10 03:08 pm (UTC)(link)You, dear author!anon, are as un-fail-ish as is humanly possible X3
...if anything, it made me giggle ♥
...if anything, it made me giggle ♥
Re: Five times France realized he was in love with England [5/5]
(Anonymous) 2009-05-15 03:53 pm (UTC)(link)jkghajs ghksf The first few parts were absolutely adorable, and the last bits broke my heart. It's nice to see how their relation changed throughout the centuries. Poor France. England WAS a complete douchebag XD. A cute douchebag, anyway.
You really have a way with words. Reading this, it felt like I was going through pages of a memory.
I love you Writer!Anon!
You really have a way with words. Reading this, it felt like I was going through pages of a memory.
I love you Writer!Anon!
I
It is a Monday morning. Fresh blood and innocence running circles through his veins, delicate patterns underneath that are soon to be broken. Cut. Blood surging out, slashed apart like wire with a—spark. Red, rubies, paint like the sunsets over the eastern seas of which Feliciano paints.
Romano wakes up, arms lashing out against white sheets. Constrained. He wakes up last, the smell Juniper leaves and starlight stuck in the pillow next to his. Light drool marks left—they have been together for eight years and twenty-three days so far, never separate. Brothers.
From the window, Feliciano sings. To the birds. To the skies. To the blue bells creeping up on vines. To God the Almighty. To Romano. Light notes that float around above his brother’s head, waking him up with slight shrillness from a young voice. Flowing in waves, the pitch wavers just—just.
But Romano can’t say how much. He never has known how much.
But he accepts it all the same. Accepts the sound, moving and leaves Feliciano angel-like in front of the window frame. Romano just lying in their bed and listening. Heart open, palms upturned to meet an identical grip and a sweet good morning. Honey. Brilliant smile like sunlight filtering through stained glass in the northern churches—high in the Alps.
His heart moves, short uninhibited bursts as Feliciano’s voice lulls him out of his bed, along with a hand in his. Pace evolving; ready for this gut-wrenching, stomach dropping feeling, butterflies in his throat and thoughts smudged.
He’s ready on that Monday morning.
It is a Monday morning. Fresh blood and innocence running circles through his veins, delicate patterns underneath that are soon to be broken. Cut. Blood surging out, slashed apart like wire with a—spark. Red, rubies, paint like the sunsets over the eastern seas of which Feliciano paints.
Romano wakes up, arms lashing out against white sheets. Constrained. He wakes up last, the smell Juniper leaves and starlight stuck in the pillow next to his. Light drool marks left—they have been together for eight years and twenty-three days so far, never separate. Brothers.
From the window, Feliciano sings. To the birds. To the skies. To the blue bells creeping up on vines. To God the Almighty. To Romano. Light notes that float around above his brother’s head, waking him up with slight shrillness from a young voice. Flowing in waves, the pitch wavers just—just.
But Romano can’t say how much. He never has known how much.
But he accepts it all the same. Accepts the sound, moving and leaves Feliciano angel-like in front of the window frame. Romano just lying in their bed and listening. Heart open, palms upturned to meet an identical grip and a sweet good morning. Honey. Brilliant smile like sunlight filtering through stained glass in the northern churches—high in the Alps.
His heart moves, short uninhibited bursts as Feliciano’s voice lulls him out of his bed, along with a hand in his. Pace evolving; ready for this gut-wrenching, stomach dropping feeling, butterflies in his throat and thoughts smudged.
He’s ready on that Monday morning.
II
Northern winds driving through their hair, rustling amber against brick and wood houses standing. Tall and thin just like the stalks of summertime flowers. Waters dancing around the gondola and fingers dragging through shallow water, canals moving by in slow heartbeats, waves beating gently against the sides.
Feliciano has invited him to Venice, stay as long as he likes. Truthfully, he isn’t sure how long he wants to stay. Watching his brother in the reflection of the passing waters, blurring like snowstorms.
Hey, Romano, brother?
What?
How long has it been?
Seven years.
It’s been a long time, Feliciano frowns at the thought. Short and rare, beauty he is not sure. But Romano’s heart gets caught in his throat, pumping and pumping, humming, when his brother slides his hand into the water with Romano’s. Delicate, together.
Northern winds driving through their hair, rustling amber against brick and wood houses standing. Tall and thin just like the stalks of summertime flowers. Waters dancing around the gondola and fingers dragging through shallow water, canals moving by in slow heartbeats, waves beating gently against the sides.
Feliciano has invited him to Venice, stay as long as he likes. Truthfully, he isn’t sure how long he wants to stay. Watching his brother in the reflection of the passing waters, blurring like snowstorms.
Hey, Romano, brother?
What?
How long has it been?
Seven years.
It’s been a long time, Feliciano frowns at the thought. Short and rare, beauty he is not sure. But Romano’s heart gets caught in his throat, pumping and pumping, humming, when his brother slides his hand into the water with Romano’s. Delicate, together.
III
Romano stares down into his liquor. Eyes fixed, hands gripped, holding the bottle close—loosely, dangerously—but away. He lets the faulty lighting, dim but all the same penetrating, shine in his eyes, blunt and jaded eyes. Eyes that follow a drunken couple out of the door, leaving it swinging—open, close, open, close. Loud clap of sound when it finally slams shut.
Sips. Can I get another fucking bottle? It’s placed in front of him, fingers tapping, drunken, out of time.
He hears the door swing open, hates the swish-swish sound it makes when the cool nighttime air is let in. Nice to breathe, hard to feel on his skin. Likes it warm. He stares blankly at the bottle. Sips.
“You shouldn’t drink liquor. Wine, Romano.”
Feliciano looks down at his brother, asks for a three glasses from the bartender.
“Three glasses?” Looks. “Why?”
“For Ludwig, too.” Feliciano tugs on the sleeves of Ludwig, who looks at Romano. Grumbles a ‘hello.’ Blonde, so blonde, pale, blue eyes like the skies over villages far outside Milan, to the south. He seems unsentimental, drab, so unlike Romano’s brother. Feliciano is alive, breathing, muscles singing in unison when moving, singing—there is envy building up in his veins as he looks on, smiling faces and short kisses. It should be him.
“I’m feeling kind of sick.”
“Too much?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to go.”
“Do you need a ride Romano? I’d be happy—”
“No. I’m okay. Really.” Romano leaves that night, wandering under streetlamps and cannot sleep.
Romano stares down into his liquor. Eyes fixed, hands gripped, holding the bottle close—loosely, dangerously—but away. He lets the faulty lighting, dim but all the same penetrating, shine in his eyes, blunt and jaded eyes. Eyes that follow a drunken couple out of the door, leaving it swinging—open, close, open, close. Loud clap of sound when it finally slams shut.
Sips. Can I get another fucking bottle? It’s placed in front of him, fingers tapping, drunken, out of time.
He hears the door swing open, hates the swish-swish sound it makes when the cool nighttime air is let in. Nice to breathe, hard to feel on his skin. Likes it warm. He stares blankly at the bottle. Sips.
“You shouldn’t drink liquor. Wine, Romano.”
Feliciano looks down at his brother, asks for a three glasses from the bartender.
“Three glasses?” Looks. “Why?”
“For Ludwig, too.” Feliciano tugs on the sleeves of Ludwig, who looks at Romano. Grumbles a ‘hello.’ Blonde, so blonde, pale, blue eyes like the skies over villages far outside Milan, to the south. He seems unsentimental, drab, so unlike Romano’s brother. Feliciano is alive, breathing, muscles singing in unison when moving, singing—there is envy building up in his veins as he looks on, smiling faces and short kisses. It should be him.
“I’m feeling kind of sick.”
“Too much?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to go.”
“Do you need a ride Romano? I’d be happy—”
“No. I’m okay. Really.” Romano leaves that night, wandering under streetlamps and cannot sleep.
IV
He is elegant in his movements, brushing and sliding skin against skin. It leaves Romano breathless. Slight like twitches of his muscles are visible under thinned skin. Rigid lines of scars that only barely exist.
Feliciano bends on top of him, back facing, bending alluring lines out of nothing. Thin torso. Spine stretching his skin, minute bones jutting out of skin. Underneath when he descends. Romano runs his fingers along these bones. Once, during the night when they sleep. Twice, through a shirt. Three, pulling his brother to safety out of a river when they were younger. Millions of times, memorizing the patterns. Structure, weaknesses.
“Hey, turn around.”
And Feliciano does, all of the ease and his brother whispers. Feliciano is his, alone. They’re brothers. Always have been. He is his. They are together. One. Holds Romano’s jaw, line melding and changing in his hands, as he holds his lips to the side of his brothers, letting Romano slide into him. He is unmoved, eyes still connected to his brothers, haunting in their amber, in their stillness. Focus. Legs scrambling for more movement, contact.
“Do you love me?” In between breaths, shallow and hard-hitting.
Romano hesitates—“Yes.”
He is elegant in his movements, brushing and sliding skin against skin. It leaves Romano breathless. Slight like twitches of his muscles are visible under thinned skin. Rigid lines of scars that only barely exist.
Feliciano bends on top of him, back facing, bending alluring lines out of nothing. Thin torso. Spine stretching his skin, minute bones jutting out of skin. Underneath when he descends. Romano runs his fingers along these bones. Once, during the night when they sleep. Twice, through a shirt. Three, pulling his brother to safety out of a river when they were younger. Millions of times, memorizing the patterns. Structure, weaknesses.
“Hey, turn around.”
And Feliciano does, all of the ease and his brother whispers. Feliciano is his, alone. They’re brothers. Always have been. He is his. They are together. One. Holds Romano’s jaw, line melding and changing in his hands, as he holds his lips to the side of his brothers, letting Romano slide into him. He is unmoved, eyes still connected to his brothers, haunting in their amber, in their stillness. Focus. Legs scrambling for more movement, contact.
“Do you love me?” In between breaths, shallow and hard-hitting.
Romano hesitates—“Yes.”
V
Cries when he hears the news. And when he walks through the streets to find his brother, he still cries. Running, blurred vision, but he doesn’t know that he’s crying. Shoulders. Feet. Yelling. Screaming. Swearing.
Lungs just about to explode when he finally sees Feliciano, on the dock. Crowds of people, hurricane of colors and memories blending in one fluid motion as Romano reaches out for his brother’s hand.
“Feliciano.”
“What? Why are you crying?” Romano doesn’t hear him, nothing but his heartbeats. Pounding, distracting, hurting.
“Why the fuck are you going with that guy—Ludwig?” He just about screams. Maybe he does scream, but Romano just doesn’t have the ability to tell anymore. Just barely kept himself from cursing Ludwig out. Bastard. Took him away. Ripped them apart, lodged and tore. Flesh from flesh. Heart from heart. Hand from hand.
(Thief.)
“Because—”
“Don’t tell me you love him. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, Feliciano.” He flinches at the words. Eyes closing as Romano squeezes his hand, hard and wanting.
“I tried, I didn’t mean too. I mean.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mutters.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.” I am—and it doesn’t come out in time. Romano runs.
note: oh, i forgot to put the "run 4/5" on the last post, ugh. i fail.
Cries when he hears the news. And when he walks through the streets to find his brother, he still cries. Running, blurred vision, but he doesn’t know that he’s crying. Shoulders. Feet. Yelling. Screaming. Swearing.
Lungs just about to explode when he finally sees Feliciano, on the dock. Crowds of people, hurricane of colors and memories blending in one fluid motion as Romano reaches out for his brother’s hand.
“Feliciano.”
“What? Why are you crying?” Romano doesn’t hear him, nothing but his heartbeats. Pounding, distracting, hurting.
“Why the fuck are you going with that guy—Ludwig?” He just about screams. Maybe he does scream, but Romano just doesn’t have the ability to tell anymore. Just barely kept himself from cursing Ludwig out. Bastard. Took him away. Ripped them apart, lodged and tore. Flesh from flesh. Heart from heart. Hand from hand.
(Thief.)
“Because—”
“Don’t tell me you love him. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, Feliciano.” He flinches at the words. Eyes closing as Romano squeezes his hand, hard and wanting.
“I tried, I didn’t mean too. I mean.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mutters.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.” I am—and it doesn’t come out in time. Romano runs.
note: oh, i forgot to put the "run 4/5" on the last post, ugh. i fail.
This is the anon lurking in the fill above yours~
This was gorgeous author!anon. The imagery and the flow. The way you described Romano and his thoughts and his feelings. ajfkdkl I could die from the sheer beauty.
Your wording, anon, is beautiful, I think.
This was gorgeous author!anon. The imagery and the flow. The way you described Romano and his thoughts and his feelings. ajfkdkl I could die from the sheer beauty.
Your wording, anon, is beautiful, I think.
Oh, oh my god, Romano. You broke my heart author!anon, this was wonderful and gorgeous and ksagdg, I love you ♥♥♥
...That was beautiful. Have the internets I promised.
I'm gonna go cry now.
I'm gonna go cry now.
The first time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she slept.
The little one spent such a long time outside playing with her siblings that she fell asleep as soon as dinner was over. China smiled as he pulled her closer. Vietnam always slept in his bed at night, refusing to sleep with the rest of the children. She would always be found sleeping there in her favorite spot, against China’s chest, right next to his heart.
The second time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she left.
The little girl that he raised was now older and so much more beautiful. France wanted her for himself and China had no way to stop them, no matter how much he wanted to.
He wondered numbly, how many time will his children have to leave him before it stop hurting so much?
That night he slept by himself, missing the presence that was usually there next to his heart.
The third time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she cried.
How many years have it been since the last time that they met? She looked so thin, almost unrecognizable.
“I want you and Russia to help me defeat France.” She pleaded, fear evident in her eyes. What have that man been doing to you, he wanted to say. But all he could manage to say was…
“Of course, little sister.”
When he saw her dressed in the harsh military uniform instead of her normal silk, he thought she was gorgeous. Russia was right, his little sister look good in red.
The fourth time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she smiled.
She just became a unified nation once more, shedding the bloody uniform that she has been wearing for 30 years and donning again her green silk ao dai.
“Congratulation, meimei. You did it,” he smiled, squeezing her small hand in his. His little sister, his daughter, his comrade, his…Vietnam.
She smiled widely, slipping under his arm and gave him a hug. “Thank you, big brother.” China hugged her back and realized how much he missed having her in his arm like this.
The fifth time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she woke up.
After years of awkwardly trying to repair their relationships together, all it took was one drunken night to solidify it.
“Do you regret it?” China whispered, threading his hand through her hair. So long, so smooth, just like black silk, it reminded him of those days so long ago when she was younger.
“No. Not really,” she replied, hiding her face from him, tracing patterns lazily on his bare chest. Brushing her hand over his heart, she could feel the familiar rhythm there. “I missed this.”
“Really? Only that?”
“No…I missed you.”
China smiled and burrowed his face in her hair, enveloping the smaller body in his embrace. Vietnam laughed at his reaction and hugged him back tightly. China decided then that his heartbeat sounded best when it’s beating next to Vietnam’s. He hope that he’ll be able to hear that duet for a long time.
The little one spent such a long time outside playing with her siblings that she fell asleep as soon as dinner was over. China smiled as he pulled her closer. Vietnam always slept in his bed at night, refusing to sleep with the rest of the children. She would always be found sleeping there in her favorite spot, against China’s chest, right next to his heart.
The second time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she left.
The little girl that he raised was now older and so much more beautiful. France wanted her for himself and China had no way to stop them, no matter how much he wanted to.
He wondered numbly, how many time will his children have to leave him before it stop hurting so much?
That night he slept by himself, missing the presence that was usually there next to his heart.
The third time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she cried.
How many years have it been since the last time that they met? She looked so thin, almost unrecognizable.
“I want you and Russia to help me defeat France.” She pleaded, fear evident in her eyes. What have that man been doing to you, he wanted to say. But all he could manage to say was…
“Of course, little sister.”
When he saw her dressed in the harsh military uniform instead of her normal silk, he thought she was gorgeous. Russia was right, his little sister look good in red.
The fourth time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she smiled.
She just became a unified nation once more, shedding the bloody uniform that she has been wearing for 30 years and donning again her green silk ao dai.
“Congratulation, meimei. You did it,” he smiled, squeezing her small hand in his. His little sister, his daughter, his comrade, his…Vietnam.
She smiled widely, slipping under his arm and gave him a hug. “Thank you, big brother.” China hugged her back and realized how much he missed having her in his arm like this.
The fifth time that China was in love with Vietnam was when she woke up.
After years of awkwardly trying to repair their relationships together, all it took was one drunken night to solidify it.
“Do you regret it?” China whispered, threading his hand through her hair. So long, so smooth, just like black silk, it reminded him of those days so long ago when she was younger.
“No. Not really,” she replied, hiding her face from him, tracing patterns lazily on his bare chest. Brushing her hand over his heart, she could feel the familiar rhythm there. “I missed this.”
“Really? Only that?”
“No…I missed you.”
China smiled and burrowed his face in her hair, enveloping the smaller body in his embrace. Vietnam laughed at his reaction and hugged him back tightly. China decided then that his heartbeat sounded best when it’s beating next to Vietnam’s. He hope that he’ll be able to hear that duet for a long time.
I really like how the love here is more than just romantic, showing different facets of their relationship. Very nice!
"Love? What's that?"
Francis beams and ruffles his hair affectionately.
"Mon cheri, it is when you feel warm with someone. You want to be sharing every moment of your life with them."
He frowns and his brows bunch together with causes Francis to laugh.
"You'll understand soon, child. Love is like shaping a diamond. It takes time."
Oh, how Matthew wishes that he understands when he is standing by Alfred while the American is chattering excitedly about his Great Canyon is better than the Niargra Falls.
His stomach is twisting and flopping and performing all kins of aerobatics inside of him. It's fluttering with the intensity of a billion angry butterflies and squirming like he swallowed a hundred earthworms.
Then Alfred gives him that smile. That dazzling and charming smile which is capable of making a rock fall for such an insufferable partiotic idiot who decorates his bed with his own national flag.
Alfred is walking Matthew home, boasting about his new aircraft after a delicious dinner at a renowned diner just on the outskirts of town that served amazing burgers and even poutine. A pleasantly surprising cheesy poutine with the richest gravy that caused his tastebuds to explode. It's perhaps the most considerate Alfred's been in a long while. Then Alfred grabs at Matthew's hand, looking just a little embarassed because heroes don't hold hands unless their counterparts want to. Matthew laughs, then Alfred laughs and they laugh together.
They hold hands.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
But ah, what is love? How can he be in it if he doesn't know, right? And Alfred is watching his thriller flicks, trembling under a comforter with cold feet pressing against Matthew's thigh.
Matthew absently eats the popcorn, pretending to be interested in the gruesome and action oriented movie while deep in thought. Though he really can't think with the scent of Alfred that clings to the comforter pressing against his nose, decorated with little American flags.
He leans into Alfred's alluring heat, feeling the body against him shift to envelope his with strong arms that tuck him snugly beside Alfred.
He almost falls asleep, but he doesn't, being absolutely content to just stare at the television and not really watching. Because he feels every involuntary tremble from Alfred whenever sudden screams rip through the speakers of Alfred's plasma television and the reverberating laugh in Alfred's torso whenever the protagonist does something unheroic and stupid. Matthew tries to swallow and finds his mouth sort of dry and he thinks it's the popcorn.
They cuddle.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
"How dumb do you think I am?" He snaps, gritting his teeth. Alfred is looking a little stunned but also upset, tossing down his cup of soda just a little too heavily onto the marble counter of Matthew's kitchen.
"You know what? I don't have to do this. Why do I even bother? You'r practically me anyway, I shouldn've just annexed you."
Matthew is the one who sweeps Alfred's glass onto the ground with a thundering crash that mirrors the sound in his taut chest. He marches up the stairs and slams the door behind him, burying his face in his hands.
Why does it hurt so much? Is this what love is as well? Because there is a warmth that spreads through out his body and makes his eyes are sting with fresh tears. Matthew is frustrated and angry, wishing he is no longer in love with that burger-eating-hero-complex-McDonald-fucking dumbass.
When he does gather enough courage to walk outside his room while dabbing at his red puffy eyes, he sees that Alfred's fallen asleep while sitting by his door with a mug in the shape of a beaver in his hands.
A new mug to compensate for the glass that Matthew broke.
Matthew traces the buck teeth on the beaver and he bites his cheek.
He kisses Alfred on the cheek.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
Francis beams and ruffles his hair affectionately.
"Mon cheri, it is when you feel warm with someone. You want to be sharing every moment of your life with them."
He frowns and his brows bunch together with causes Francis to laugh.
"You'll understand soon, child. Love is like shaping a diamond. It takes time."
Oh, how Matthew wishes that he understands when he is standing by Alfred while the American is chattering excitedly about his Great Canyon is better than the Niargra Falls.
His stomach is twisting and flopping and performing all kins of aerobatics inside of him. It's fluttering with the intensity of a billion angry butterflies and squirming like he swallowed a hundred earthworms.
Then Alfred gives him that smile. That dazzling and charming smile which is capable of making a rock fall for such an insufferable partiotic idiot who decorates his bed with his own national flag.
Alfred is walking Matthew home, boasting about his new aircraft after a delicious dinner at a renowned diner just on the outskirts of town that served amazing burgers and even poutine. A pleasantly surprising cheesy poutine with the richest gravy that caused his tastebuds to explode. It's perhaps the most considerate Alfred's been in a long while. Then Alfred grabs at Matthew's hand, looking just a little embarassed because heroes don't hold hands unless their counterparts want to. Matthew laughs, then Alfred laughs and they laugh together.
They hold hands.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
But ah, what is love? How can he be in it if he doesn't know, right? And Alfred is watching his thriller flicks, trembling under a comforter with cold feet pressing against Matthew's thigh.
Matthew absently eats the popcorn, pretending to be interested in the gruesome and action oriented movie while deep in thought. Though he really can't think with the scent of Alfred that clings to the comforter pressing against his nose, decorated with little American flags.
He leans into Alfred's alluring heat, feeling the body against him shift to envelope his with strong arms that tuck him snugly beside Alfred.
He almost falls asleep, but he doesn't, being absolutely content to just stare at the television and not really watching. Because he feels every involuntary tremble from Alfred whenever sudden screams rip through the speakers of Alfred's plasma television and the reverberating laugh in Alfred's torso whenever the protagonist does something unheroic and stupid. Matthew tries to swallow and finds his mouth sort of dry and he thinks it's the popcorn.
They cuddle.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
"How dumb do you think I am?" He snaps, gritting his teeth. Alfred is looking a little stunned but also upset, tossing down his cup of soda just a little too heavily onto the marble counter of Matthew's kitchen.
"You know what? I don't have to do this. Why do I even bother? You'r practically me anyway, I shouldn've just annexed you."
Matthew is the one who sweeps Alfred's glass onto the ground with a thundering crash that mirrors the sound in his taut chest. He marches up the stairs and slams the door behind him, burying his face in his hands.
Why does it hurt so much? Is this what love is as well? Because there is a warmth that spreads through out his body and makes his eyes are sting with fresh tears. Matthew is frustrated and angry, wishing he is no longer in love with that burger-eating-hero-complex-McDonald-fucking dumbass.
When he does gather enough courage to walk outside his room while dabbing at his red puffy eyes, he sees that Alfred's fallen asleep while sitting by his door with a mug in the shape of a beaver in his hands.
A new mug to compensate for the glass that Matthew broke.
Matthew traces the buck teeth on the beaver and he bites his cheek.
He kisses Alfred on the cheek.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
;3; This is so cute.
More, please, author!anon. <3
More, please, author!anon. <3
Please to finish out the five, anon! I so want to see where this goes <3
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
This is so, so cute!!! I fricking love this, so well written and fluffy without being annoying! Love, LOVE, LOVE!
This is so, so cute!!! I fricking love this, so well written and fluffy without being annoying! Love, LOVE, LOVE!
It is Alfred's perception of a romantic dinner.
Take out KFC on paper plates with a glowing candle between them. Matthew is drinking coca cola from his new beaver mug and Alfred has the can. The Canadian finds himself unable to ask for more, rather enjoying this simple and greasy meal.
Sure, steak and wine and pasta might have been nice. But if Alfred hadn't insisted on deep fried chicken, Matthew thinks might not have recognized the unreasonable and self-centered American anymore.
While they eat, they watch hockey and Saw IV, just enjoying each other's company and drinking lots of fluid because of the spicy chicken on their tongues. They scream appropriately and cling at each other appropriately, their quickened hearts beating together in unison.
It would help just that much more if Tony isn't hovering by the door, causing Alfred to shriek out in terror and Matthew having his ears ring for the next thirty minutes.
But in all, Matthew is just content being with Alfred even when he has greasy smears all over his bare arms from the clingy American, crying as if tomorrow is going to end. Matthew knows that by the end of this, Alfred would wipe his tears and laugh then talk about watching Saw V and how heroic it'd be.
Alfred whimpers, leaning closer to Matthew.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
It's his first time.
It's painful-- no, it is absolutely excruciating.
It burns when he is stretched and tears jumps to his eyes. But he grits his teeth and bites into the pillow, taking heavy breaths in attempt to calm himself down enough not to tense his ass while Alfred is grunting with effort to push inwards.
Then they move together slowly, with Mathew hissing and Alfred thrusting awkwardly at an erratic pace, for once unsure of what he's doing.
"Should we stop?" Alfred mumbles, fingers gripping tightly onto Matthew's hips and Matthew only swallows, mouth dry from too many quick breaths.
"Just move. Don't make me go through this again, you dickwad--" Matthew breathes in sharply. "-- I don't appreciate having my ass ripped apart repeatedly by someone who doesn't have experience--"
At this point, Alfred is laughing and he becomes more relaxed which in turn makes Matthew relax. Even when it took them thirty minutes to figure out what they are supposed to do with the lubrication which turned out to be useless as they had only slapped on a generous amount to Alfred's cock.
They touch each other gingerly and Matthew is feeling just a little warm, flushed from the heat that is inside of him and surrounding him-- Alfred's heat.
And then, he thinks he understands.
The heat, the want and the need that pours from him as Alfred begins to fall into a steady rhythm. How the warmth curls tightly in his abdomen and makes his limbs tingle and his heart race like a stallion in heat. How everything just seemed to build up to this very moment when they both see stars behind their eyes that snap shut.
Matthew groans loudly and Alfred arches into him.
And he finally knows that he's in love.
end; 1,188 words. started may 11 2009. completed may 12 2009.
Take out KFC on paper plates with a glowing candle between them. Matthew is drinking coca cola from his new beaver mug and Alfred has the can. The Canadian finds himself unable to ask for more, rather enjoying this simple and greasy meal.
Sure, steak and wine and pasta might have been nice. But if Alfred hadn't insisted on deep fried chicken, Matthew thinks might not have recognized the unreasonable and self-centered American anymore.
While they eat, they watch hockey and Saw IV, just enjoying each other's company and drinking lots of fluid because of the spicy chicken on their tongues. They scream appropriately and cling at each other appropriately, their quickened hearts beating together in unison.
It would help just that much more if Tony isn't hovering by the door, causing Alfred to shriek out in terror and Matthew having his ears ring for the next thirty minutes.
But in all, Matthew is just content being with Alfred even when he has greasy smears all over his bare arms from the clingy American, crying as if tomorrow is going to end. Matthew knows that by the end of this, Alfred would wipe his tears and laugh then talk about watching Saw V and how heroic it'd be.
Alfred whimpers, leaning closer to Matthew.
And Matthew thinks he's in love.
It's his first time.
It's painful-- no, it is absolutely excruciating.
It burns when he is stretched and tears jumps to his eyes. But he grits his teeth and bites into the pillow, taking heavy breaths in attempt to calm himself down enough not to tense his ass while Alfred is grunting with effort to push inwards.
Then they move together slowly, with Mathew hissing and Alfred thrusting awkwardly at an erratic pace, for once unsure of what he's doing.
"Should we stop?" Alfred mumbles, fingers gripping tightly onto Matthew's hips and Matthew only swallows, mouth dry from too many quick breaths.
"Just move. Don't make me go through this again, you dickwad--" Matthew breathes in sharply. "-- I don't appreciate having my ass ripped apart repeatedly by someone who doesn't have experience--"
At this point, Alfred is laughing and he becomes more relaxed which in turn makes Matthew relax. Even when it took them thirty minutes to figure out what they are supposed to do with the lubrication which turned out to be useless as they had only slapped on a generous amount to Alfred's cock.
They touch each other gingerly and Matthew is feeling just a little warm, flushed from the heat that is inside of him and surrounding him-- Alfred's heat.
And then, he thinks he understands.
The heat, the want and the need that pours from him as Alfred begins to fall into a steady rhythm. How the warmth curls tightly in his abdomen and makes his limbs tingle and his heart race like a stallion in heat. How everything just seemed to build up to this very moment when they both see stars behind their eyes that snap shut.
Matthew groans loudly and Alfred arches into him.
And he finally knows that he's in love.
end; 1,188 words. started may 11 2009. completed may 12 2009.
this was so sweet anon, thaaaanks for the smiiiles
...But this was sooo cute~
And don't worry, I have the same problem.. I have a fic I want to post up but I have some sort of OCD that it has to be perfect for me to put it up
And don't worry, I have the same problem.. I have a fic I want to post up but I have some sort of OCD that it has to be perfect for me to put it up
This was beautiful, anon. I think I recognize your style from elsewhere, and I must say that if you've written what I think you've written, then I've very much enjoyed your other fills.
Also - you get bonus points for mentioning the Saw series. The first few films are very near and dear to anon, and seeing them in fic kafjdakjsfjah. :D
Excellent, excellent work. I salute you!
Also - you get bonus points for mentioning the Saw series. The first few films are very near and dear to anon, and seeing them in fic kafjdakjsfjah. :D
Excellent, excellent work. I salute you!
Oh, Anon, this is just so lovely. It's tender and funny and painful by turns, and the ending made this anon tear up a little, smiling all the while. Thank you for sharing this! ♥
lovely dear, lovely and totally hot
thanks!
thanks!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
This was spectacular! I really like how you captured these two, especially with such a broad range of emotion. Very well done!
(You might be my favorite writer on the kink meme, by the way.)
This was spectacular! I really like how you captured these two, especially with such a broad range of emotion. Very well done!
(You might be my favorite writer on the kink meme, by the way.)
You have to be my favorite writer on the kink meme. All of your fics are so good!
OP loves this, author!anon; it's gorgeous. Your Canada is simply adorable. ♥♥♥ And fffff finally, a first time that's actually realistic. thank you~ \o/
psssst no one saw that
psssst no one saw that
Take some Germany/France :D ~ I wish you good luck with your exams, OP!
Eins.
It’s weird, working with France and not fighting him.
The distance between them is still there – invisible, slowly shrinking but never forgotten so that they always have trouble relaxing in each other’s presence – nonetheless, they are talking, discussing, even cooking together and that is more than Germany has ever hoped for after the war.
He’s unsure if France sometimes tries to get on his nerves on purpose (constantly bugging him and eyeing him a bit too wary to call it more than acquaintanceship yet) but they manage – somehow.
Touching is a rare occurrence because Germany never stops to feel dirty (all the blood and guilty and more feelings than he can voice) and France probably because his fear lets him keep a safe distance when they meet.
Not that Germany doesn’t understand. But still… the hurt is there, small and a constant accompany of Germany just like Prussia should be if he could be there.
(But he’s not; Russia seals him away surely knowing that he is ripping a part of Germany’s soul out of its place.)
So he never asks anything of France - never requests a thing and banishes all thoughts off asking him to come over more often.
Germany takes what is given to him, thankful to receive anything at all.
France is like a small shimmer of light next to America’s bright and blending sun which dances sometimes right before his eyes and the next time so far away that Germany is anxious Alfred will leave him alone.
Alone, like he had been in his childhood before Prussia, Austria or Italy crashed in his spheres.
The helping hands which are offered to him are the only reason he tries to go on.
The only reason why he hasn’t gripped a pistol yet.
Work keeps him alive, watchful eyes prop him back to live, a treaty is his anchor when darkness, screams and the smell of blood are getting too strong in his dreams to forget them when he wakes up bathed in sweat.
And a smiling France is becoming his goal.
Eins.
It’s weird, working with France and not fighting him.
The distance between them is still there – invisible, slowly shrinking but never forgotten so that they always have trouble relaxing in each other’s presence – nonetheless, they are talking, discussing, even cooking together and that is more than Germany has ever hoped for after the war.
He’s unsure if France sometimes tries to get on his nerves on purpose (constantly bugging him and eyeing him a bit too wary to call it more than acquaintanceship yet) but they manage – somehow.
Touching is a rare occurrence because Germany never stops to feel dirty (all the blood and guilty and more feelings than he can voice) and France probably because his fear lets him keep a safe distance when they meet.
Not that Germany doesn’t understand. But still… the hurt is there, small and a constant accompany of Germany just like Prussia should be if he could be there.
(But he’s not; Russia seals him away surely knowing that he is ripping a part of Germany’s soul out of its place.)
So he never asks anything of France - never requests a thing and banishes all thoughts off asking him to come over more often.
Germany takes what is given to him, thankful to receive anything at all.
France is like a small shimmer of light next to America’s bright and blending sun which dances sometimes right before his eyes and the next time so far away that Germany is anxious Alfred will leave him alone.
Alone, like he had been in his childhood before Prussia, Austria or Italy crashed in his spheres.
The helping hands which are offered to him are the only reason he tries to go on.
The only reason why he hasn’t gripped a pistol yet.
Work keeps him alive, watchful eyes prop him back to live, a treaty is his anchor when darkness, screams and the smell of blood are getting too strong in his dreams to forget them when he wakes up bathed in sweat.
And a smiling France is becoming his goal.
Zwei.
The first time France takes his hand is a moment he certainly will always remember.
He’s busy all day, being on conferences and meetings since the early morning – like he has been the whole week.
Economy is not as stable as he wants it to be, therefore Ludwig dreams of Fridays and eggs that cost more than a million Deutsche Mark (which has happened before, after the first world war that left him with too many bills and later too less food and work to keep his people alive).
There is fear that seeps into his blood and every noise makes him jumpy so that Italy is not helping when he bursts in his bureau with a bag full of pasta to share.
Germany barley manages to not throw him out.
Later at the meeting with the Allies who come to control his growth and progress he is close to jump up and start ranting about all the problems he has.
About the destroyed cities and villages, the problem with the refugees and all the missing men he needs for his industry… but he stays silent, knowing that he is stupid for accusing them for any of those since it is his fault, his alone to bear.
Still, that doesn’t make his anger go away.
Minutes after they are finished he rushes out of the room, ready to drown his sorrow either in beer or through mindlessly going back to removing ruins from his streets until darkness forces him to sleep because he can not identify a body from a stone anymore.
Anything is better than to have time to think, time to mourn his brother’s loss, all the deaths he has on his hands and the guilty his future children will have to face.
It’s France who follows him, calls him to stop and eyes him worriedly, knowingly.
Germany doesn’t know if the other cares because he fears another wave of hatred against his nation or because he truly is concerned – that doesn’t matter anyways, not to him, not now.
The soft, warm fingers touching his hand, carefully guiding him away to a restroom is all he can feel, is all he dares himself to acknowledge.
He doesn’t grip back, is just content to have any skin against his at all, although the wish to yank his hand back because he’s dirty - oh so dirty - arises immediately.
Limb and empty he lets France pull him along, set him on a soft bed and realizes with shock how those delicate fingers are placed on his fore head.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” He hears faintly, only able to helplessly watch France’s frown deepen, unsure how to react since it has been such a long time since anybody except for his war companies (who have the same problems themselves now) cared.
France rumours through the small cupboard on the other side and a glass with water and tablets are pushed into Germany’s cold hands seconds after.
He doesn’t question what that is or what it will do, he simply gulps all down.
“Can’t have you getting sick, I need your industry as much as you do.”
Says that melodious voice while drowsiness overcomes Germany and he has to lie down to not fall over and greet the floor.
So. Only business partners, huh? is his last thought – without regret and only a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Better than being alone, Ludwig thinks before he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.
Drei.
Cooking is difficult when having France over, Ludwig learns over the years.
He’s either doing it too simple or mixing the wrong ingredients or making too much or cooking only wurst or – well, it’s difficult.
So they agree that Francis is in control of the kitchen when he visits.
At first, Germany is afraid that he will never get to eat sausages or potatoes again or that France will only serve those small portions where nobody gets full from.
But it turns out to be rather fun, watching France cook is like watching Italy paint – grace, intensity and beauty combined into an exciting mix he can never get enough off.
At the beginning, they are both stiff and a bit reluctant around each other.
So Germany starts to ask, to memorize menus, always serious and with a growing interest in the other’s cuisine.
And notices that France is more than just a fancy nation who likes to undress and bother other innocent nations.
When he cooks he’s serious himself, all professional and fascinating and up to any request Germany has.
Slowly, Ludwig even gets Francis’s approval to cook German desserts or show him traditional meals.
His shame that they certainly do not compare to France’s cuisine vanishes as Francis himself demands a second slice of the delicious cake Ludwig has made for him.
Before Germany knows himself he is heed over heals in love with the French Haute cuisine.
And perhaps even a bit more with the cook himself.
Vier.
They are getting closer, Ludwig realizes one morning after waking up and finding instead of a half naked Italy a full naked France in his bed.
He could scream and throw the other out but the warmness and the familiarity of having those arms draped over his chest is enough to stay silent.
Ludwig shifts a bit, now able to wrap one arm around Francis’s sleeping form and pulls the blanket over those white shoulders so that they don’t feel chilly anymore.
Lying there, awake and unable to drift of into sleep with such a distraction next to him, Ludwig reconsiders.
It’s still a bit weird between them, both so different in character and way of life but somehow they accomplish each other pretty nicely.
Francis makes him loosen up, makes him smile more often and always seems to know when his presence is needed to not let Ludwig drown in memories of his past and all the guilty he will never be able to compensate.
Where Italy has been more a burden (although a lovely one Ludwig wouldn’t want to miss in his life) France is a surprisingly equal partner – when he isn’t on one of his love trips, that is.
Ludwig has learnt to interpret the smiles he sees which sometimes aren’t smiles but a barrier to protect, to yield off other nations.
He knows that Francis cooks late at night when he is angry, that Francis gives roses and hopes to get more than just weird looks and uncertain smiles in return, that Francis loves to design clothes and that he is afraid to be alone, too.
He knows that France still hates that he has lost his colonial status just as much as England does, that France has a sense for sarcasm and is proud, very proud of his history and of what he is today.
Although they disagree on many aspects and couldn’t sometimes be more different than fire and water, Ludwig is glad, more than he can possibly ever tell Francis, to call him a close friend.
Smiling softly, he nuzzles his nose into those nice smelling blond locks without becoming aware of the same smile – wider and cheekier than his – spreading over Francis’s lips.
Fünf.
“Keep your hands to yourself! There’s no sane person in the world who would want to be touched by you!”
England’s shriek is loud and audible, drifting through the whole conference room even better since the other conversations have tuned down to hushed whispers which stop abruptly when France’s and England’s talk gets too noisy to ignore.
Silence follows that sentence in form of a thick suffocating blanket, weighing overwhelmingly on the shoulders of the nations present in the room.
Nobody dares to say something, only some shuffling of paper and throats being cleared can be heard.
Until an amusing laugh cuts the quietness and eases the invisible blanket away.
France chuckles, smirking at England and stands up from his chair to trace a finger over the other’s cheek which makes England blush.
“I will not take pity in you when you realize what you are missing, my perverted English friend.”
And out he is, leaving the room while still laughing and waving playfully back at England.
The conversations turn up again, Italy continues to eat his pasta not so secretly under the table, Greece slumps back onto Japan’s shoulder, Poland and Lithuania reassume their chat and Russia is back to eyeing Latvia, Estonia and all the other nations – who will be his one day – like he has before the fight.
England is distracted from gazing angrily at the door through America who yanks suddenly at his arm and asks him something with Canada trailing behind him.
Only Germany cannot concentrate on his papers anymore.
How weird since nothing out off the ordinary happened.
But the nagging feeling in his chest simply grows with each passing minute and after a last glance at Italy (who is now drooling on his brother’s papers) and at his brothers (Austria is unconsciously keeping Prussia occupied – with the help of an aggressive looking Hungary at his side) he leaves the meeting room silently.
He doesn’t have to search for long; a half open balcony door is enough to attract his attention as he walks through the corridors.
Carefully Ludwig opens the door a bit more to check if he has found the right location.
And yes, there is Francis with his back to him, leaning small and inconspicuously on the balcony railings, shoulders drooped and his hair dancing with a gentle breeze from time to time.
Unsure if he should say anything at all, Ludwig waits a bit – for a sign or a word that either tells him to leave Francis alone or to approach him, he is not sure which he would prefer.
But after a felt eternity, he is unwilling to not say anything at all when he is here to see if everything is okay with Francis.
So he steps on the balcony, still not noticed by the other nation.
A grey cloud of smoke suddenly hits his face and he can’t stop from coughing loudly since he inhaled too much of the cigarette in his surprise.
Preoccupied with waving the smell away, he doesn’t see Francis turning around but faces him not until after a soft gasp drifts through the air.
“Ludwig! I’ll be back in a second, just let me finish this one.”
Francis lifts the cigarette with grace and sends him a small apologetic smile, nothing compared to his usual so energetic one.
Ludwig doesn’t even try to smile back; instead he easily catches the lifted arm at the wrist and has the smelly object in his fingers sooner than Francis can even raise an eyebrow.
“You promised me to quit.” Is all Ludwig says in a low and clear voice, no accusation or anger in his tone, only a worried declaration.
Francis sighs, leans back on the railings and laughs softly.
“Yeah, I did. But habits are hard to let go off, especially when they calm you down.”
This time Ludwig raises an eyebrow before he walks to the small trash bin next to the door and throws the cigarette away after he has put it out.
“Others manage without, so can you.”
Another sigh greets him as he turns back around.
Francis shakes his head good-naturedly, now a slightly painful expression on his face.
“I wish it would be that easy.”
Somehow this conversation is about more than just the cigarette, Ludwig becomes aware.
Francis looks so lost, so sad and frustrated – something he only does when Arthur is involved in one or the other way – that Ludwig has to bite his lips hard to keep himself from rushing back and shaking some sense into England personally.
It’s not that he dislikes Arthur, not at all, they get along pretty well – even go drinking together from time to time – but when it comes to Francis, nothing seems to make sense anymore to Ludwig.
It’s as if he is fighting a war about that he knows nothing at all, not the goal nor the enemies are clear to him.
It’s probably the same he would react when anybody would hurt his brothers’ or Feliciano’s feelings, only different, different in a way he can not explain.
So his thoughts are on autopilot like they always are when the confusion is getting too much to sort out.
And when he has too much to think over, he tends to get irrational.
That’s the only explanation he can offer as to why the next sentence leaves his mouth.
“I have nothing against you touching me.”
Francis’s eyes are on his in an instance, wide and perhaps shocked and suddenly Ludwig’s throat gets dry and he inwardly curses his inability to deal with feelings.
Having a talk with Arthur would have been the better solution he thinks but what is said can not be taken back.
And shouldn’t be, since he knows that it’s the truth speaking out of his heart.
“I – I mea-“
But Francis cuts him of as he is suddenly in Ludwig’s arms, warm and laughing and still smelling a bit after smoke, but the sadness has nearly vanished and that’s enough for Ludwig to know that he most likely did something right here.
Francis can’t stop laughing, whispering French words against Germany’s neck Ludwig doesn’t understand but they sound like sweet music to his ears nonetheless.
The single word he hears and knows the meaning of is a softly muttered Merci, over and over again.
Suddenly it is easy, and he doesn’t give it a second thought when he whispers with a hoarse voice and tightening arms back in German.
“Danke.”
And then, because it is what he feels, now for a long time, “Ich liebe dich.”
Soft and hushed.
Love you for who you are and what you give me, he adds silently in his thoughts.
Ludwig almost believes that Francis didn’t hear it but then he is pulled down and lips connect with his. It’s everything he knows and everything he doesn’t, all new but familiar.
The warmth and gentleness and eagerness, fragments of possessiveness on his part, seduction on Francis’s part and altogether something completely wonderful.
When they part – breathlessly and both blushing – Francis intertwines their fingers of both hands and rests his fore head against Ludwig’s.
Blue orbs meet blue orbs, only slightly different in their colour.
“Je t’aime.”
Ludwig can’t stop a silly grin from spreading over his face so very unlike him.
“Good.” He simply says after some minutes of not being able to stop smiling so damn idiotically at France. Before he gets to add more, he receives another talented kiss from Francis.
thank you, author!anon. asggas, exams start tomorrow :((
Anyway~ I absolutely loved this; Germany/France is so rare, and skchhs I love how Germany still thinks fondly of Italy, even as he falls in love with France. And I love the France->England, you included so many OTPs in one fic ♥♥ win, author!anon, win.
Anyway~ I absolutely loved this; Germany/France is so rare, and skchhs I love how Germany still thinks fondly of Italy, even as he falls in love with France. And I love the France->England, you included so many OTPs in one fic ♥♥ win, author!anon, win.
whaaaa~~
Such a rare pairing! I've been actually wondering why there is no more about them. I mean, they're almost completely opposite, it makes everything so interesting 8D
Anyway, you write really well author!anon <3 I enjoyed much ^^
Such a rare pairing! I've been actually wondering why there is no more about them. I mean, they're almost completely opposite, it makes everything so interesting 8D
Anyway, you write really well author!anon <3 I enjoyed much ^^
I liked it. And if you think about it, it's not so strange pairing - After all, it was France and Germany that created EU... they still are the main and biggest countries there...
Silly OTP is silly, and also much too rare and much loved to see here. This was such a nice story <3
ahh, that was sweet. i need to write some france/germany sometimes !
Oh *anon*. Your imagery is so gorgeous, and the emotions that run through this are poignant and perfect. My heart was in my throat the whole time - especilly 2 and 4. It wasn't overly done or sappy, just the lyrical, beautiful aching truth of the way Ludwig in love *would be*. I love this so much anon. Love this pairing, love the way you portrayed them. Serious business!cooking!France is a major kink of mine. I love the sincere quality of Germany's *appreciation* for France's personality, beyond the nympho caricature. Everything about this was lovely.
I wonder, are you a native english speaker? There were a few quirks that made me think you might not be, or at least using an overzealous spellchecker that replaced words occasionally. Honestly, the writing was so good that it didn't detract from it much; but if you do non-anon writing in this fandom, I'd be delighted to beta for you if you wanted.
I wonder, are you a native english speaker? There were a few quirks that made me think you might not be, or at least using an overzealous spellchecker that replaced words occasionally. Honestly, the writing was so good that it didn't detract from it much; but if you do non-anon writing in this fandom, I'd be delighted to beta for you if you wanted.
Eto... I really wanna see aristocratic/noble birth Arthur being sold off as a pet/slave by his brothers to a new rich/peasant Alfred ^^ to pay off their debts ^^
Smutty times with Arthur being all uptight despite of his new role, and Alfred enjoying his feisty character. The kink of course is submission!!!
Bonus points if Alfred is to blame for Arthur's family bankrupt (I was thinking of poker, but I'm not picky), whether Arthur gets to know the truth or not is up to writer!anon ^^
don't really care about names so that is also up to you writer!!!
Anon will give all the love in the world to the person who fills this!!!
Thanks!!!!
Smutty times with Arthur being all uptight despite of his new role, and Alfred enjoying his feisty character. The kink of course is submission!!!
Bonus points if Alfred is to blame for Arthur's family bankrupt (I was thinking of poker, but I'm not picky), whether Arthur gets to know the truth or not is up to writer!anon ^^
don't really care about names so that is also up to you writer!!!
Anon will give all the love in the world to the person who fills this!!!
Thanks!!!!
(screened comment)
He was woken by someone throwing a bucket of water over his head, freezing cold water like a hard slap to the face. Blearily, Arthur forced his eyes open and almost shut them immediately as blinding white light invaded his pupils.
Spotlights shone directly on his face; he winced and squinted through half-opened eyes, trying to discern where he was. He could vaguely make out the shadowy shapes of men and women sitting in rows before him like the audience at a play. Where was he? What was happening?
Arthur, I’m sorry.
His memory returned like a crash of thunder, along with the realisation that he was completely naked. He was on his knees with a collar around his neck, his arms held back by two shadowy figures behind him.
They had come in the evening to collect on a debt. Arthur remembered answering the door for them because they had let go of all their maids and servants months ago. A man in a top hat and a coat whose tails almost touched the ground smiled humourlessly, two giant men flanked his sides, leering down at him hatefully.
What do you want?
The repayment of your debt
Arthur, I’m sorry
He wanted to groan. Stupid older brothers and their gambling problems. He knew they were hardly sorry at all. In fact, they had probably been glad to get rid of him. It was fine if they wanted to play poker but did they have to get him involved? He was perfectly innocent in all this!
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a real treat for you tonight!”
Arthur did not have to look behind him to know that the man with that long tail coat was presenting this ‘exhibition’ The two men holding him tightened their grip as their boss prodded the end of his cold, metal cane into his side.
“A noble born from the old Kirkland family. Just look at that white skin! You can tell he’s never hard to work a minute under the sun. Fine, supple, young body, flaxen hair - ”
Spotlights shone directly on his face; he winced and squinted through half-opened eyes, trying to discern where he was. He could vaguely make out the shadowy shapes of men and women sitting in rows before him like the audience at a play. Where was he? What was happening?
Arthur, I’m sorry.
His memory returned like a crash of thunder, along with the realisation that he was completely naked. He was on his knees with a collar around his neck, his arms held back by two shadowy figures behind him.
They had come in the evening to collect on a debt. Arthur remembered answering the door for them because they had let go of all their maids and servants months ago. A man in a top hat and a coat whose tails almost touched the ground smiled humourlessly, two giant men flanked his sides, leering down at him hatefully.
What do you want?
The repayment of your debt
Arthur, I’m sorry
He wanted to groan. Stupid older brothers and their gambling problems. He knew they were hardly sorry at all. In fact, they had probably been glad to get rid of him. It was fine if they wanted to play poker but did they have to get him involved? He was perfectly innocent in all this!
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a real treat for you tonight!”
Arthur did not have to look behind him to know that the man with that long tail coat was presenting this ‘exhibition’ The two men holding him tightened their grip as their boss prodded the end of his cold, metal cane into his side.
“A noble born from the old Kirkland family. Just look at that white skin! You can tell he’s never hard to work a minute under the sun. Fine, supple, young body, flaxen hair - ”
He wanted to snort as a gloved hand ran through his hair. Flaxen hair? What kind of bad romantic novel would ever describe his sandy hair as flaxen? Even in such an embarrassing situation, restrained and naked for crowds of strangers to view him like a piece of meat, he could not repress a bitter smirk.
“Eyes like emeralds!” the man continued, jerking Arthur’s face up without a touch of gentleness. “Even if you aren’t interested in the rest, we are willing to extract the eyes for you at only a small extra charge.”
The two captors pulled him back into a sitting position while hands pried his legs open. He tried to protest but his throat was too sore to speak. He squirmed to no avail; they were holding tight. A glove was snapped off. Cold fingers probed his asshole.
“I can assure his virginity, ladies and gents! Perfectly healthy, doesn’t eat much as you can tell, can read and write of course. No matter what you’re looking for, you can find it in this young man.” The hand wrapped itself around his cock. Arthur almost jumped as it slowly began pumping him.
“N – No,” he chocked but even a single syllable seared his throat.
The hand began to move faster, almost urgently and, as much as he loathed it, he knew that he was growing hard. Spurned on, the naked hand continued to stroke and play with him in front of the audience, who leaned forward for a better view. Arthur squirmed, trying to use his legs to cover his embarrassment but the moment he managed to bring his thighs together, they were pulled apart again.
His back arched as he came, ripping a painful cry from his throat. He almost fell back but for the two men supporting him. Around the audience, he was vaguely aware of their animated murmurs.
“Look at that!” the boss announced proudly, as if his pet had performed an amazing trick. “You can’t accuse me of selling impotent goods! He’d make a fine sex slave if you wish. Bidding will be in pounds. Shall we open the floor?”
Arthur only half listened to the cries that rang through the hall - he hardly cared if he went for a penny or a pound – his heart was beating too loudly to really pay attention to the bidding. He was a noble, from a proud family with a long history of greatness, just when did they turn to selling their own kin? Just when did their greatness fall?
When the bidding finally ceased – he had no idea how long it took, his concept of time was rather inhibited – he could only think of their old estate and the manor houses they had once owned across the country, each one sold as he grew up.
Curtains descended, thankfully blocking his from the view of those intrusive eyes. Hard footsteps tapped across the stage. The boss knelt down, smiling.
“You did well, pet,” he cooed, though his words slid off of Arthur’s skin like slime. The same hand that had serviced him now cupped his chin, smearing his own cum across his face. “And now,” the man whispered, “here’s your reward.”
Before he could protest, the neck of a wine bottle was rammed down his throat, but it certainly was not wine that forced its way into him. The world began to swim. When the two giants released him, he fell to the floor with a dull thud.
XX
Sorry for lack of historical referrence, though anon does have in mind sometime in the beginning of the Edwardian period, except historical inconsistancy
“Eyes like emeralds!” the man continued, jerking Arthur’s face up without a touch of gentleness. “Even if you aren’t interested in the rest, we are willing to extract the eyes for you at only a small extra charge.”
The two captors pulled him back into a sitting position while hands pried his legs open. He tried to protest but his throat was too sore to speak. He squirmed to no avail; they were holding tight. A glove was snapped off. Cold fingers probed his asshole.
“I can assure his virginity, ladies and gents! Perfectly healthy, doesn’t eat much as you can tell, can read and write of course. No matter what you’re looking for, you can find it in this young man.” The hand wrapped itself around his cock. Arthur almost jumped as it slowly began pumping him.
“N – No,” he chocked but even a single syllable seared his throat.
The hand began to move faster, almost urgently and, as much as he loathed it, he knew that he was growing hard. Spurned on, the naked hand continued to stroke and play with him in front of the audience, who leaned forward for a better view. Arthur squirmed, trying to use his legs to cover his embarrassment but the moment he managed to bring his thighs together, they were pulled apart again.
His back arched as he came, ripping a painful cry from his throat. He almost fell back but for the two men supporting him. Around the audience, he was vaguely aware of their animated murmurs.
“Look at that!” the boss announced proudly, as if his pet had performed an amazing trick. “You can’t accuse me of selling impotent goods! He’d make a fine sex slave if you wish. Bidding will be in pounds. Shall we open the floor?”
Arthur only half listened to the cries that rang through the hall - he hardly cared if he went for a penny or a pound – his heart was beating too loudly to really pay attention to the bidding. He was a noble, from a proud family with a long history of greatness, just when did they turn to selling their own kin? Just when did their greatness fall?
When the bidding finally ceased – he had no idea how long it took, his concept of time was rather inhibited – he could only think of their old estate and the manor houses they had once owned across the country, each one sold as he grew up.
Curtains descended, thankfully blocking his from the view of those intrusive eyes. Hard footsteps tapped across the stage. The boss knelt down, smiling.
“You did well, pet,” he cooed, though his words slid off of Arthur’s skin like slime. The same hand that had serviced him now cupped his chin, smearing his own cum across his face. “And now,” the man whispered, “here’s your reward.”
Before he could protest, the neck of a wine bottle was rammed down his throat, but it certainly was not wine that forced its way into him. The world began to swim. When the two giants released him, he fell to the floor with a dull thud.
XX
Sorry for lack of historical referrence, though anon does have in mind sometime in the beginning of the Edwardian period, except historical inconsistancy
GAH. This is so awesome.
And this anon doesn't mind the lack of hist. references at all. :3 She actually thinks it would be a little hard to picture it if it was 'historically accurate', and finds this just, just...disturbingly and sinfullydelicious good.
/brb f5ing forever
And this anon doesn't mind the lack of hist. references at all. :3 She actually thinks it would be a little hard to picture it if it was 'historically accurate', and finds this just, just...disturbingly and sinfully
/brb f5ing forever
Oh my !"#$#$$% God!!!! Such a great beginning!!! it's amazing, Awesome as would say Prussia or America!!!!!!
I love you writer!anon with the force of thousands suns and one more!!! I love the way in which you can perceive Arthur's character throughout the whole ordeal!! I'm just so glad right now!!!
And there's nothing to forgive writer!anon!! you're doing an incredible job, and such things are not that necessary to be honest :P, but I truly appreciate your concern with the context, you are making me feel really happy with such a small detail!!!!
Please keep going writer!anon!!
From anywhere with love...
OP
I love you writer!anon with the force of thousands suns and one more!!! I love the way in which you can perceive Arthur's character throughout the whole ordeal!! I'm just so glad right now!!!
And there's nothing to forgive writer!anon!! you're doing an incredible job, and such things are not that necessary to be honest :P, but I truly appreciate your concern with the context, you are making me feel really happy with such a small detail!!!!
Please keep going writer!anon!!
From anywhere with love...
OP
White. Soft. Fluffy. Like floating on clouds. He paused for a moment and thought; warm.
Arthur’s eyes snapped open.
“What the hell?!” he screamed sitting bolt upright, white sheets thrown aside and billowing in the air before drifting like feathers back over his lap.
“Now that’s a fine way to greet a beautiful day,” an amused voice brimmed with laughter. It had a slight tilt to it. The ‘a’ sounds were mispronounced.
Arthur looked up, shocked. Wherever he was now, it was definitely not the old cages where that loan shark and his two giant cronies used to keep all their slaves.
He was in a spacious room, richly furnished with an old armoire – oak most likely – on one end and a tall bookshelf spanning the entire opposite wall. The window was left open for the sunlight to freely enter, the accompanying wind making satin drapes timidly flutter over the side of a small vase sitting in the cabinet besides him. Arthur touched the white sheets on his lap and realised that they were cotton – the good kind which would be ruined if washed too roughly.
The contrast between the spacious, clean room and his previous, neglected cage was such a surprise that at first he was too dazzled to notice the man sitting on a chair besides the bed until he cleared his thought.
Arthur almost jumped. “ Ehhh? W - Who are you? Where am I?”
The man smiled, pleased that he had finally been noticed. The man was tall and, from the looks of his attire, probably rich. Arthur remembered that pig had described his hair as flaxen, this man’s hair, on the other hand, seemed more like gold. His eyes were a little too blue for Arthur’s liking, a little too bright. It gave him the deepest misgivings.
However, the man smiled warmly. “You can call me Alfred and this,” he swept a hand across the room, “is my manor house.”
Unwittingly, Arthur shuffled back. “Why am I in your manor house? I’ve never met you before,” he asked suspiciously.
“Ah,” Alfred gave him a knowing look. Arthur scowled. That accent...he could not quite put his finger on it, but it sounded strange to his ears, not exactly grating but it was not normal either.
Alfred noticed his frown and winked. “Well, you see, from today on I’m your master.”
It took all of three seconds for that statement to sink in.
“Wh – What?!”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Arthur spluttered. How could this man be so infuriatingly calm? How could he smile in such a friendly manner and still say such things so casually? “No it isn’t bloody nice to meet me!” he practically screeched. “You’re my master? What kind of sick joke is that? I – I’m going home!”
Alfred stood up to stop him but Arthur had already thrown the sheets aside and was ready to storm out of the room.
Except...
“...Where are my clothes?”
Alfred had to bit his lip to stop himself from laughing at Arthur’s sulky expression “They were filthy so I threw them out.”
“Give me some clothes and let me go!” he cried, pulling the covers up to his neck.
Alfred shook his head. “Are you really in a position to make demands? You’re forgetting that I bough you, paid quite a pretty penny for you too so, technically, I own you, right?”
Arthur blushed to his roots. This was a disgrace! He was a noble and yet here he was in some stranger’s house being taunted like a child! “Y – You git!” he shouted. Then it hit him. “That accent! You’re American, aren’t you?” he scowled.
“You can tell?” Alfred’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I suppose the accent is a pretty big give away but I just can’t pronounce things in...” he screwed up his face, “the Queen’s English,” he said, trying to mimic an English accent and failing miserably.
A pillow found itself kissing the face of Alfred Jones, sliding off in ecstasy onto the floor with a small whump sound. For Alfred however, it had vaguely hurt. It had been thrown rather viciously.
“I despise Americans!” Arthur retorted, his face red with anger.“You filthy money-grubbers come into the country and just buy up land because you’re rich! You even have the cheek to make up fake coats of arms and pretend to be noblemen even though you’ve no history!”
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” Alfred grinned, though there was a distinct lack of humour in his eyes.
Arthur’s eyes snapped open.
“What the hell?!” he screamed sitting bolt upright, white sheets thrown aside and billowing in the air before drifting like feathers back over his lap.
“Now that’s a fine way to greet a beautiful day,” an amused voice brimmed with laughter. It had a slight tilt to it. The ‘a’ sounds were mispronounced.
Arthur looked up, shocked. Wherever he was now, it was definitely not the old cages where that loan shark and his two giant cronies used to keep all their slaves.
He was in a spacious room, richly furnished with an old armoire – oak most likely – on one end and a tall bookshelf spanning the entire opposite wall. The window was left open for the sunlight to freely enter, the accompanying wind making satin drapes timidly flutter over the side of a small vase sitting in the cabinet besides him. Arthur touched the white sheets on his lap and realised that they were cotton – the good kind which would be ruined if washed too roughly.
The contrast between the spacious, clean room and his previous, neglected cage was such a surprise that at first he was too dazzled to notice the man sitting on a chair besides the bed until he cleared his thought.
Arthur almost jumped. “ Ehhh? W - Who are you? Where am I?”
The man smiled, pleased that he had finally been noticed. The man was tall and, from the looks of his attire, probably rich. Arthur remembered that pig had described his hair as flaxen, this man’s hair, on the other hand, seemed more like gold. His eyes were a little too blue for Arthur’s liking, a little too bright. It gave him the deepest misgivings.
However, the man smiled warmly. “You can call me Alfred and this,” he swept a hand across the room, “is my manor house.”
Unwittingly, Arthur shuffled back. “Why am I in your manor house? I’ve never met you before,” he asked suspiciously.
“Ah,” Alfred gave him a knowing look. Arthur scowled. That accent...he could not quite put his finger on it, but it sounded strange to his ears, not exactly grating but it was not normal either.
Alfred noticed his frown and winked. “Well, you see, from today on I’m your master.”
It took all of three seconds for that statement to sink in.
“Wh – What?!”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Arthur spluttered. How could this man be so infuriatingly calm? How could he smile in such a friendly manner and still say such things so casually? “No it isn’t bloody nice to meet me!” he practically screeched. “You’re my master? What kind of sick joke is that? I – I’m going home!”
Alfred stood up to stop him but Arthur had already thrown the sheets aside and was ready to storm out of the room.
Except...
“...Where are my clothes?”
Alfred had to bit his lip to stop himself from laughing at Arthur’s sulky expression “They were filthy so I threw them out.”
“Give me some clothes and let me go!” he cried, pulling the covers up to his neck.
Alfred shook his head. “Are you really in a position to make demands? You’re forgetting that I bough you, paid quite a pretty penny for you too so, technically, I own you, right?”
Arthur blushed to his roots. This was a disgrace! He was a noble and yet here he was in some stranger’s house being taunted like a child! “Y – You git!” he shouted. Then it hit him. “That accent! You’re American, aren’t you?” he scowled.
“You can tell?” Alfred’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I suppose the accent is a pretty big give away but I just can’t pronounce things in...” he screwed up his face, “the Queen’s English,” he said, trying to mimic an English accent and failing miserably.
A pillow found itself kissing the face of Alfred Jones, sliding off in ecstasy onto the floor with a small whump sound. For Alfred however, it had vaguely hurt. It had been thrown rather viciously.
“I despise Americans!” Arthur retorted, his face red with anger.“You filthy money-grubbers come into the country and just buy up land because you’re rich! You even have the cheek to make up fake coats of arms and pretend to be noblemen even though you’ve no history!”
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” Alfred grinned, though there was a distinct lack of humour in his eyes.
because I think I broke my F5 button again.
ILU. ILU this. Oh Arthur. So feisty!
ILU. ILU this. Oh Arthur. So feisty!
I was a bit hesitant at first because I wasn't sure how Arthur would fit the role of a slave...
... But this. This. Is brilliant, anon. They're both so wickedly IC I'm grinning like a dork over here.
And how do you come up with sentences like, "A pillow found itself kissing the face of Alfred Jones, sliding off in ecstasy onto the floor with a small whump sound." Honestly. ♥
... But this. This. Is brilliant, anon. They're both so wickedly IC I'm grinning like a dork over here.
And how do you come up with sentences like, "A pillow found itself kissing the face of Alfred Jones, sliding off in ecstasy onto the floor with a small whump sound." Honestly. ♥
This anon is so completely in love with your writing!<33
And the way you write both Alfred and Arthur, really. They're so in character it's actually rather EASY to picture the scenes, when this anon believes it would be pretty, um...awkward, let's say, to imagine Arthur in that kind of role.
*waits eagerly for more*
And the way you write both Alfred and Arthur, really. They're so in character it's actually rather EASY to picture the scenes, when this anon believes it would be pretty, um...awkward, let's say, to imagine Arthur in that kind of role.
*waits eagerly for more*
Arthur was a little perturbed by this but, nevertheless, he continued to rant on. “It takes three generations to make a gentleman!” – He remembered his father telling him that – “Don’t get arrogant just because you have a nice house and money! I should - ”
His tirade was promptly cut off when Alfred practically jumped him, pinning him down against the soft bed. “Say the same thing to you,” he breathed, finishing his sentence for him. His face was too close, far too close. Arthur thought he could see all the way to the bottom of those eyes.
Alfred closed the distance, their noses almost touching, his voice was deadly serious and his eyes darkened as he drew closer. The smell of his cologne was smothering. “I don’t think you should talk so arrogantly either, pauper.”
“P – Pauper?!” Arthur threw him off of him. He blushed with indignation. He had no idea just how anyone could be so – so infuriating! “I’ll have you know that I’m - ”
“Arthur Kirkland, from the Kirkland family, I know,” Alfred sat upright on the edge of the bed, his humour had returned to him in an instant, leaving Arthur vaguely confused. “Pure white skin that’s never known a day of hard labour, flaxen hair and...what was it that man said?” he mockingly recited the words at the auction. “Oh yes, eyes like emeralds.”
“Surely you weren’t swindled by that pig’s lies!” Arthur snorted.
Alfred leaned over, cupping Arthur’s chin. “I don’t know, I think you’re pretty impressive up close.”
He batted his hand away. It brought back memories or that slave dealing pig and made him scowl at the indignity of it. “Don’t touch me, you git! Let me go!”
“Go where?” Alfred asked. “Your family sold you to pay their debts, didn’t they? I doubt they’d welcome you back with open arms and I did pay for you after all. I expect to get my money’s worth.”
Arthur opened his mouth to reply but he was not really sure what to reply with. For most part, he simply stuttered rather embarrassingly, trying to think of something rather crippling to say.
“Master Jones! You have a guest!” a female voice from below cried.
“Bring him to the drawing room and tell him to wait! I’ll be down soon,” Alfred turned his head toward the door and Arthur used this opportunity to push him away.
“It’s impolite to keep your guests waiting. You really don’t know anything about common courtesy,” he retorted.
Alfred’s attention returned to pinning his new slave against the bed. “You’re a virgin. That wasn’t a lie, was it?” he asked shamelessly. Such ill-mannered bluntness made Arthur’s cheeks burn.
“Y - You think I’m some farm girl who would lift up her skirts for just anyone?” he spat
Alfred simply laughed at his comparison, pushing his weight down to keep him from struggling. “That’s good to hear,” he grinned, leaning forward.
XX
Anon is working toward the submissive kink and the bonus kink. Sorry it's taking so long to get there!
It take three generations to make a gentleman is actually an American saying (I believe) Arthur, you hypocrite
His tirade was promptly cut off when Alfred practically jumped him, pinning him down against the soft bed. “Say the same thing to you,” he breathed, finishing his sentence for him. His face was too close, far too close. Arthur thought he could see all the way to the bottom of those eyes.
Alfred closed the distance, their noses almost touching, his voice was deadly serious and his eyes darkened as he drew closer. The smell of his cologne was smothering. “I don’t think you should talk so arrogantly either, pauper.”
“P – Pauper?!” Arthur threw him off of him. He blushed with indignation. He had no idea just how anyone could be so – so infuriating! “I’ll have you know that I’m - ”
“Arthur Kirkland, from the Kirkland family, I know,” Alfred sat upright on the edge of the bed, his humour had returned to him in an instant, leaving Arthur vaguely confused. “Pure white skin that’s never known a day of hard labour, flaxen hair and...what was it that man said?” he mockingly recited the words at the auction. “Oh yes, eyes like emeralds.”
“Surely you weren’t swindled by that pig’s lies!” Arthur snorted.
Alfred leaned over, cupping Arthur’s chin. “I don’t know, I think you’re pretty impressive up close.”
He batted his hand away. It brought back memories or that slave dealing pig and made him scowl at the indignity of it. “Don’t touch me, you git! Let me go!”
“Go where?” Alfred asked. “Your family sold you to pay their debts, didn’t they? I doubt they’d welcome you back with open arms and I did pay for you after all. I expect to get my money’s worth.”
Arthur opened his mouth to reply but he was not really sure what to reply with. For most part, he simply stuttered rather embarrassingly, trying to think of something rather crippling to say.
“Master Jones! You have a guest!” a female voice from below cried.
“Bring him to the drawing room and tell him to wait! I’ll be down soon,” Alfred turned his head toward the door and Arthur used this opportunity to push him away.
“It’s impolite to keep your guests waiting. You really don’t know anything about common courtesy,” he retorted.
Alfred’s attention returned to pinning his new slave against the bed. “You’re a virgin. That wasn’t a lie, was it?” he asked shamelessly. Such ill-mannered bluntness made Arthur’s cheeks burn.
“Y - You think I’m some farm girl who would lift up her skirts for just anyone?” he spat
Alfred simply laughed at his comparison, pushing his weight down to keep him from struggling. “That’s good to hear,” he grinned, leaning forward.
XX
Anon is working toward the submissive kink and the bonus kink. Sorry it's taking so long to get there!
It take three generations to make a gentleman is actually an American saying (I believe) Arthur, you hypocrite
*keysmash* BRB F5ING FOREVER.
/incoherence
/incoherence
YOU BIG DIRTY TEASE. D< More. Like. Now.
F5F5F5F5F5
Look, you almost made me de-anon myself in my haste. D<
F5F5F5F5F5
F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5 -SPASM OH GOD ;AAA;-
P-PLEASE UPDATE SOON. <3 This is. this is so amazingly hot. -is the person who prayed you'd give it a go and is immensely happy you did- I really love how you portray aristocrat!Alfie. <3 Then again, I love when he's acting horny with Arthur. idk. it's hot. -shot-
... I feel horrible for hoping the sex scene will be very, very soon. oh my. ;A; US/UK WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME.
P-PLEASE UPDATE SOON. <3 This is. this is so amazingly hot. -is the person who prayed you'd give it a go and is immensely happy you did- I really love how you portray aristocrat!Alfie. <3 Then again, I love when he's acting horny with Arthur. idk. it's hot. -shot-
... I feel horrible for hoping the sex scene will be very, very soon. oh my. ;A; US/UK WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME.
...Wow. You made me completely speechless; I don't even know what to say except for "bookmarked" and "F5".
Hawwwwwwwwt prideful!uke!Arthur! Plz to continue!
Arthur thought that if his cheeks grew any redder he would surely burst a blood vessel. “Shut up, git! Ponce! Wanker!”
Alfred’s grin widened. He was definitely too close for comfort, their noses almost touching and their breath caressing the bottom of each other’s lips. Arthur found himself forced to stare into those unnervingly blue eyes. He knew he would hate those eyes.
“What a foul mouth for a noble! Is insulting your bed partner also common courtesy?”
“B – Bed partner?!” Arthur spluttered but to flail around would probably cause them to bump heads or, worse, bump lips, so he did his best to keep himself under control. He just wished that Alfred would shift the weight off of his lower region too. It was crushing and causing unnecessary shiver to run down his spine.
“Well, that’s what I am. Since I’ll be taking that valuable virginity of yours,” Alfred whispered, pulling the merciful sheets which had covered Arthur’s body out of the way.
Magic. This man must be a warlock or a sorcerer, Arthur reckoned because, as much as he dearly wanted to at the moment, he found himself incapable of moving. Even as Alfred’s mouth descended upon his own, he felt frozen. His limbs had gone all funny. What was this?
He almost gagged when he felt a tongue slip into his mouth. No, he only wanted one tongue in his mouth thank-you-very-much - His own. However, Alfred hushed him and ran a comforting hand through his hair, calming him.
Certain that there would be no more gagging, Alfred’s tongue continued to probe his mouth. Arthur moaned and sunk deeper against the mattress, feeling a hardness poking into his thigh. He was shocked, partly scandalised that he felt disappointment when Alfred’s mouth left his own but he soon discovered that Alfred had other plans. The man traced kisses down his neck, sucking hard at the crook of his neck before going lower, kissing all the way down to his nipple.
“Ah...God!” Arthur gasped, clenching fistfuls of sheet to dig his nails in.
This was so...lewd. He was Arthur Kirkland, who was he to be seduced by some fake aristocrat? His back arched with pleasure as a large hand cupped him. He – he definitely should not be swindled like this – he gasped – but those obscene sounds as Alfred sucked his nipple were pushing out all coherent thought.
“You’re so excitable!” he heard Alfred murmur with a hint of admiration.
“Sh - Shut up!”
“Bonjour, mon cher!”
Both leapt apart as though the force of a wall had been thrown between them. The door burst open.
“...Francis!” Alfred groaned, clambering off of the bed. He looked thoroughly pissed off.
The man was dressed in the fanciest clothes Arthur had ever seen. He was used to men in coat tails and dress suits but this man was something else entirely.
“Alfred, don’t you know it is quite rude to keep your guests waiting with not a flower in sight to pass the time?” He spoke with a thick accent, drawing out his r’s as he smiled lazily, as beguiling as a Cheshire cat.
Arthur immediately scowled at him, his gaze switching between the two. A healthy well of shame rose through him. Now that his mind was clear had he really been about to do it with that obscene, bad-mannered American?
“Great. An American and a Frenchman, my two favourite kinds of people,” he muttered.
The man – Francis – surveyed him a little too eagerly for his liking. “Ah, I see you’ve been keeping the flowers to yourself.”
anon is so, so sorry for stopping there and also hopes no one minds the inclusion of Francis. I sort of need him for the poker thing
Alfred’s grin widened. He was definitely too close for comfort, their noses almost touching and their breath caressing the bottom of each other’s lips. Arthur found himself forced to stare into those unnervingly blue eyes. He knew he would hate those eyes.
“What a foul mouth for a noble! Is insulting your bed partner also common courtesy?”
“B – Bed partner?!” Arthur spluttered but to flail around would probably cause them to bump heads or, worse, bump lips, so he did his best to keep himself under control. He just wished that Alfred would shift the weight off of his lower region too. It was crushing and causing unnecessary shiver to run down his spine.
“Well, that’s what I am. Since I’ll be taking that valuable virginity of yours,” Alfred whispered, pulling the merciful sheets which had covered Arthur’s body out of the way.
Magic. This man must be a warlock or a sorcerer, Arthur reckoned because, as much as he dearly wanted to at the moment, he found himself incapable of moving. Even as Alfred’s mouth descended upon his own, he felt frozen. His limbs had gone all funny. What was this?
He almost gagged when he felt a tongue slip into his mouth. No, he only wanted one tongue in his mouth thank-you-very-much - His own. However, Alfred hushed him and ran a comforting hand through his hair, calming him.
Certain that there would be no more gagging, Alfred’s tongue continued to probe his mouth. Arthur moaned and sunk deeper against the mattress, feeling a hardness poking into his thigh. He was shocked, partly scandalised that he felt disappointment when Alfred’s mouth left his own but he soon discovered that Alfred had other plans. The man traced kisses down his neck, sucking hard at the crook of his neck before going lower, kissing all the way down to his nipple.
“Ah...God!” Arthur gasped, clenching fistfuls of sheet to dig his nails in.
This was so...lewd. He was Arthur Kirkland, who was he to be seduced by some fake aristocrat? His back arched with pleasure as a large hand cupped him. He – he definitely should not be swindled like this – he gasped – but those obscene sounds as Alfred sucked his nipple were pushing out all coherent thought.
“You’re so excitable!” he heard Alfred murmur with a hint of admiration.
“Sh - Shut up!”
“Bonjour, mon cher!”
Both leapt apart as though the force of a wall had been thrown between them. The door burst open.
“...Francis!” Alfred groaned, clambering off of the bed. He looked thoroughly pissed off.
The man was dressed in the fanciest clothes Arthur had ever seen. He was used to men in coat tails and dress suits but this man was something else entirely.
“Alfred, don’t you know it is quite rude to keep your guests waiting with not a flower in sight to pass the time?” He spoke with a thick accent, drawing out his r’s as he smiled lazily, as beguiling as a Cheshire cat.
Arthur immediately scowled at him, his gaze switching between the two. A healthy well of shame rose through him. Now that his mind was clear had he really been about to do it with that obscene, bad-mannered American?
“Great. An American and a Frenchman, my two favourite kinds of people,” he muttered.
The man – Francis – surveyed him a little too eagerly for his liking. “Ah, I see you’ve been keeping the flowers to yourself.”
anon is so, so sorry for stopping there and also hopes no one minds the inclusion of Francis. I sort of need him for the poker thing
Ahahaha. Seriously. France is a welcome addition. XD
Watch out, Arthur! XD
Oh, anon. I've been refreshing this like mad. XD
reCAPTCHA says: poked Democrats
Watch out, Arthur! XD
Oh, anon. I've been refreshing this like mad. XD
reCAPTCHA says: poked Democrats
Words cannot express how much I love this story so far. It's already one of my favorites on the kink meme.
F5F5F5—
F5F5F5—
THERE IS NO ONE WHO WOULD MIND FRANCIS...Except maybe for the fact that he kinda ruined a very hot scene...Mmm...Yeeessss...I did like that scene, yes I did.
Oh God. Finally my kind of kinks - submissive!Arthur. Thank you thank you thank you OP and writer!Anon.
I love everything about this - noble Arthur and aristocratic Alfred? Ffff.
Please, update soon.
I love everything about this - noble Arthur and aristocratic Alfred? Ffff.
Please, update soon.
Ohhhhhhhh Francis...Arthur, Alfred is the least of your worries if you're naked in a bed with Francis in the room!
I don't know about the others, but I particularly think Francis is ALWAYS welcomed. Especially when it involves Arthur and Alfred *bricked* *very, very wide grin*
*joins the F5ing party*
*joins the F5ing party*
“W – Who’s a flower here?” Arthur snorted and then, to Alfred, demanded; “Get me some clothes!”
“You know, I am the master here,” Alfred sighed, rubbing the side of his head in exasperation.
Francis shook his head sadly. “You are two lenient mon ami, if you really want to train a slave give him to me. I’ll have him bowing and licking your feet - ”
“Right, we’re going downstairs now,” Alfred cut through him before he could make any more lewd suggestions. “Arthur, you be a good boy and stay put,” Alfred ordered as he left the room with Francis in tow.
Arthur glared at them. “Don’t patronise me you - ”
The door closed before he could finish his sentence. Voices on the other side continued to argue as they grew more distant.
“Great, now I have to deal with this!”
“Ah, if you like I could - ”
“Gah! Don’t put your hand there!”
Arthur waited for the better part of three seconds before wrapping the sheet around his waist and heading straight for the door. He tried the handle. It would not budge.
“He locked the door. Git,” he cursed, giving it a slight kick for good measure.
Looking around, he thought it would be better to assess his situation. The window was still open, he could climb out of that except for the fact that they were on the third floor. He glanced at his waist and wondered if the sheets would be long enough to form a makeshift rope. However, before he could escape he had to be decently clothed.
Throwing open the doors of the armoire, he found various shirts and coats hanging in order of colour. There were a number of trousers folded at the bottom and, upon opening he drawers, he discovered socks and underwear too.
Arthur did not spare a moment’s thought before raiding the armoire. He pulled on the first shirt he could get his hands on; it dropped to his thighs, the sleeves falling halfway over his hands. It was rather sloppy but he supposed that it would have to do. He shrugged on a jacket, also too large, and grabbed a pair of trousers.
“If you wanted to play dress-up you could have just asked.”
Arthur almost shrieked, dropping the clothes at his feet. “Y – You!”
Alfred leaned against the door post, a suspiciously wrapped package lay tucked under his arm and an equally, if not even more, suspicious grin plastered across his face.
“But I think these clothes would suit you much better,” he tore the brown paper off of the package. “I had Francis order this for me. He knows all about fashion.”
Draping the clothes over one arm, Alfred made his way towards him to pull his own clothes off of Arthur. As soon as he had been effectively stripped, Alfred draped the smaller shirt over his shoulders, guiding arms through sleeves and doing up the buttons with gentle care.
“I – I can dress myself,” Arthur protested. Or tried to at least.
“Oh? I thought nobles had servants to wait on them hand and foot,” Alfred chuckled, eyes determinedly fixed on the tiny rose shaped buttons along the shirt.
“Even I can do something like put on a shirt.”
“It’s okay. Let me,” he insisted.
Arthur tried to look at the lightly billowing curtains, anything to keep his mind off of what was happening. A small pout graced his lips. Honestly, how did he wind up in a situation like this of all things? However, when he really thought about it there was not much he could do anymore. He had no money, no title, no house to go back to or a family that would welcome him.
“I...can’t really go home can I?” he murmured.
Alfred’s pause was barely noticeable before he continued working on the buttons. How long did one button take? “It’s okay. You can stay with me. This was designed to be your room,” he replied, showing a gentleness that seemed to totally contrast his earlier brashness.
Arthur made no reply as Alfred crouched down to do up the last of the buttons. The shirt was slightly longer than expected. However, when he felt Alfred’s hand brush against his crotch, he immediately stiffened, suppressing a shiver and an angry shout.
“You know, I am the master here,” Alfred sighed, rubbing the side of his head in exasperation.
Francis shook his head sadly. “You are two lenient mon ami, if you really want to train a slave give him to me. I’ll have him bowing and licking your feet - ”
“Right, we’re going downstairs now,” Alfred cut through him before he could make any more lewd suggestions. “Arthur, you be a good boy and stay put,” Alfred ordered as he left the room with Francis in tow.
Arthur glared at them. “Don’t patronise me you - ”
The door closed before he could finish his sentence. Voices on the other side continued to argue as they grew more distant.
“Great, now I have to deal with this!”
“Ah, if you like I could - ”
“Gah! Don’t put your hand there!”
Arthur waited for the better part of three seconds before wrapping the sheet around his waist and heading straight for the door. He tried the handle. It would not budge.
“He locked the door. Git,” he cursed, giving it a slight kick for good measure.
Looking around, he thought it would be better to assess his situation. The window was still open, he could climb out of that except for the fact that they were on the third floor. He glanced at his waist and wondered if the sheets would be long enough to form a makeshift rope. However, before he could escape he had to be decently clothed.
Throwing open the doors of the armoire, he found various shirts and coats hanging in order of colour. There were a number of trousers folded at the bottom and, upon opening he drawers, he discovered socks and underwear too.
Arthur did not spare a moment’s thought before raiding the armoire. He pulled on the first shirt he could get his hands on; it dropped to his thighs, the sleeves falling halfway over his hands. It was rather sloppy but he supposed that it would have to do. He shrugged on a jacket, also too large, and grabbed a pair of trousers.
“If you wanted to play dress-up you could have just asked.”
Arthur almost shrieked, dropping the clothes at his feet. “Y – You!”
Alfred leaned against the door post, a suspiciously wrapped package lay tucked under his arm and an equally, if not even more, suspicious grin plastered across his face.
“But I think these clothes would suit you much better,” he tore the brown paper off of the package. “I had Francis order this for me. He knows all about fashion.”
Draping the clothes over one arm, Alfred made his way towards him to pull his own clothes off of Arthur. As soon as he had been effectively stripped, Alfred draped the smaller shirt over his shoulders, guiding arms through sleeves and doing up the buttons with gentle care.
“I – I can dress myself,” Arthur protested. Or tried to at least.
“Oh? I thought nobles had servants to wait on them hand and foot,” Alfred chuckled, eyes determinedly fixed on the tiny rose shaped buttons along the shirt.
“Even I can do something like put on a shirt.”
“It’s okay. Let me,” he insisted.
Arthur tried to look at the lightly billowing curtains, anything to keep his mind off of what was happening. A small pout graced his lips. Honestly, how did he wind up in a situation like this of all things? However, when he really thought about it there was not much he could do anymore. He had no money, no title, no house to go back to or a family that would welcome him.
“I...can’t really go home can I?” he murmured.
Alfred’s pause was barely noticeable before he continued working on the buttons. How long did one button take? “It’s okay. You can stay with me. This was designed to be your room,” he replied, showing a gentleness that seemed to totally contrast his earlier brashness.
Arthur made no reply as Alfred crouched down to do up the last of the buttons. The shirt was slightly longer than expected. However, when he felt Alfred’s hand brush against his crotch, he immediately stiffened, suppressing a shiver and an angry shout.
Arthur obediently lifted his legs so that he could slip them on, though he held himself as stiff as a statue during the ‘dress up’. He glanced down at Alfred and immediately regretted it, watching him at that angle, his face almost pressed to his crotch brought back memories of what they had been doing just moments ago.
His beet red face burned. Alfred, noticing Arthur’s sudden discomfort chuckled and made a point of letting his hand ‘accidently’ slide along his crotch as he pulled up the underwear.
Arthur tried to think about something else, anything else, but nothing could replace the heat steadily pooling below. He really hoped that Alfred would not say anything about his now prominent erection. He really, really hoped that -
“How lewd.”
Oh how he wanted to curse that damn man with everything under the sun! However, instead Arthur snapped; “You did that on purpose!”
“I was just trying to help you get dressed. I suppose we should take care of this problem first,” Alfred’s hands pulled the underwear back down.
“I can deal with it!” Arthur stepped back sharply.
Alfred rose to his feet, his eyes alive with unbidden laughter that threatened to bubble from his throat. “Oh, so you’ll take care of it!”
“Y – Yes! I’ll take care of myself!” he blushed, turning the other way in order to hide his shame.
Alfred’s hands on his shoulders made him jump. The man guided him to the bed, pushing him down so that he was seated over the edge. “Okay then,” he said and stepped back. “Go ahead. Take care of it.”
Arthur’s momentary confusion quickly gave way to indignation. Was there no end to this man’s disgracefulness? “...Leave then!” he snapped.
This time Alfred laughed unabashedly. “Why? This is my house. I can come and go wherever I please.” A wicked smile graced his face. Arthur shuddered. He really wanted to deal with this – the mortifying problem but his hands would not move when he felt that gaze sliding over him.
Alfred licked his lips with impatience.“If you don’t hurry, I’ll assume you don’t really know what to do and - ”
The hands reaching for his crotch told Arthur all he needed to know.
“Don’t touch me!” he snapped, scooting all the way down to the other end of the bed.
“Well then go ahead,” Alfred obediently stepped back, still goading him. “Take care of that problem yourself. Go on. Don’t turn around, just do it. If you turn around, I’m going to assume that you don’t really know what you’re doing and take matters into my own hands.”
“Y – You...”
“Yes? You want me to help you after all?”
“I hate you!”
“I’m not going to do anything suspicious. See? I’m retreating all the way back here,” he indeed did step back, pressing his back against the far wall he crossed his arms against his chest and watched in comfort.
“Wanker,” Arthur mumbled under his breath.
“No, I believe that would be you.”
Anon should stop taking detours and get on with hitting theproduction kink targets y/y?
His beet red face burned. Alfred, noticing Arthur’s sudden discomfort chuckled and made a point of letting his hand ‘accidently’ slide along his crotch as he pulled up the underwear.
Arthur tried to think about something else, anything else, but nothing could replace the heat steadily pooling below. He really hoped that Alfred would not say anything about his now prominent erection. He really, really hoped that -
“How lewd.”
Oh how he wanted to curse that damn man with everything under the sun! However, instead Arthur snapped; “You did that on purpose!”
“I was just trying to help you get dressed. I suppose we should take care of this problem first,” Alfred’s hands pulled the underwear back down.
“I can deal with it!” Arthur stepped back sharply.
Alfred rose to his feet, his eyes alive with unbidden laughter that threatened to bubble from his throat. “Oh, so you’ll take care of it!”
“Y – Yes! I’ll take care of myself!” he blushed, turning the other way in order to hide his shame.
Alfred’s hands on his shoulders made him jump. The man guided him to the bed, pushing him down so that he was seated over the edge. “Okay then,” he said and stepped back. “Go ahead. Take care of it.”
Arthur’s momentary confusion quickly gave way to indignation. Was there no end to this man’s disgracefulness? “...Leave then!” he snapped.
This time Alfred laughed unabashedly. “Why? This is my house. I can come and go wherever I please.” A wicked smile graced his face. Arthur shuddered. He really wanted to deal with this – the mortifying problem but his hands would not move when he felt that gaze sliding over him.
Alfred licked his lips with impatience.“If you don’t hurry, I’ll assume you don’t really know what to do and - ”
The hands reaching for his crotch told Arthur all he needed to know.
“Don’t touch me!” he snapped, scooting all the way down to the other end of the bed.
“Well then go ahead,” Alfred obediently stepped back, still goading him. “Take care of that problem yourself. Go on. Don’t turn around, just do it. If you turn around, I’m going to assume that you don’t really know what you’re doing and take matters into my own hands.”
“Y – You...”
“Yes? You want me to help you after all?”
“I hate you!”
“I’m not going to do anything suspicious. See? I’m retreating all the way back here,” he indeed did step back, pressing his back against the far wall he crossed his arms against his chest and watched in comfort.
“Wanker,” Arthur mumbled under his breath.
“No, I believe that would be you.”
Anon should stop taking detours and get on with hitting the
T-this is just becoming more and more delicious. <333
I'm so totally in love with the way you write Alfred. :D Such a tease~♥
I'm so totally in love with the way you write Alfred. :D Such a tease~♥
Goshhh Anon you've been making me happier and happier by chapter!! I really love the way in which you've taken over this request XD so go crazy anon, I know you'll not disappoint us in the end, and we'll get what we've been deliciously waiting for :)
Anon! I love your writing, love your input on the original idea, love your characterization, lovely Arthur, amazing Alfred, actually I love everything really!!! (Adding Francis into the mix was a nice touch!)
Keep going Anon!!! you've been doing an excellent job with the story!!!
Love you forever and ever...
OP
Anon! I love your writing, love your input on the original idea, love your characterization, lovely Arthur, amazing Alfred, actually I love everything really!!! (Adding Francis into the mix was a nice touch!)
Keep going Anon!!! you've been doing an excellent job with the story!!!
Love you forever and ever...
OP
GOD WOMAN.
fkdlgkdl why do i get. like turned on every time I read something. ;AAA; oh god anon. -F5 spasm-
S-SMUT PLS ORZ. I'd love to see how Arthur copes with it all since he's so unwilling to do all this.
Anon here is also wondering, do you plan to make this a long fill? Cause if so. I is curious if it's all humor or other stuff like angst or drama or something?
-... digs Angst!Alfred cause she fails-
... i feel bad about asking this ROFLMAO;;;.
fkdlgkdl why do i get. like turned on every time I read something. ;AAA; oh god anon. -F5 spasm-
S-SMUT PLS ORZ. I'd love to see how Arthur copes with it all since he's so unwilling to do all this.
Anon here is also wondering, do you plan to make this a long fill? Cause if so. I is curious if it's all humor or other stuff like angst or drama or something?
-... digs Angst!Alfred cause she fails-
... i feel bad about asking this ROFLMAO;;;.
Author!anon is happy to please! It will probably be fairly long-ish. It'll also probably be light-hearted over all but there will be drama (maybe the angst will come with that? Maybe?)
Ohh! If so, not requesting, but recommending the idea of maybe Arthur's brothers trying to/successfully buying Arthur back from Alfred, orz? Then. then drama. IDK LMAO;;. The idea popped into my head and it seemed too good to toss, so I figured I'd show it to you and rofl yeah. -shot- ;A;'' ... or somewhat non!con when Alfie is angry. thus. painful and unwilling sex because orz Alfie is mad and bah bah bdshfksj, I feel horribly awkward for saying all this. LOL.
Also, could this anon possibly draw Arthur in the new clothes Alfred gave him? <3 suddenly got an idea, orz;;. Assuming that'll be the clothes Arthur keeps, orz;.
Also, could this anon possibly draw Arthur in the new clothes Alfred gave him? <3 suddenly got an idea, orz;;. Assuming that'll be the clothes Arthur keeps, orz;.
Sure, I'll give it a shot as long as OP agrees/does not mind.
Author!Anon can't really draw but will give it a shot!
Author!Anon can't really draw but will give it a shot!
Ohh, yay~ Thank you so much, orz;;!
O-oh, no, I wasn't trying to make your work pile bigger, OTL;;;. I was asking if I could try it, LOL. I have a habit of referring to myself in third person when on the Kink Meme ROFL;;. Sorry for the confusion!
O-oh, no, I wasn't trying to make your work pile bigger, OTL;;;. I was asking if I could try it, LOL. I have a habit of referring to myself in third person when on the Kink Meme ROFL;;. Sorry for the confusion!
Oh no, no problem.Author!anon likes to draw but just sucks at it that's all. Will gladly daw for you as long as you don't mind the suckery.
Oh no, no problem.Author!anon likes to draw but just sucks at it that's all. Will gladly draw for you as long as you don't mind the suckery.
O-OH MY GOD. YOU'RE PURE GENIUS.
Make this fic as long as you want; I'll be there to read all of the parts even if it kills me.
Make this fic as long as you want; I'll be there to read all of the parts even if it kills me.
Arthur glared at him sullenly, but the darker his scowl the brighter Alfred would smile. He swallowed around the hard lump that had formed in his throat, his body flushed with embarrassment as his hands trembled and touched his own erection.
At first he could not bring himself to move. His eyes nervously flickered up at Alfred and then back to his lap and each time that smile would cause him to freeze. However, he desperately needed release and waiting around was helping no one. Reluctantly, trying to be as subtle as possible – which was a feat in itself – he licked his lips and began to move his hand.
A shiver of pleasure raced up his spine. He spread his legs for more freedom, forgetting his audience for a moment, caught in the chase of those trills of ecstasy that would run through his entire body. His breathing became laboured as he pumped his cock. His other hand snaked up his shirt to touch his nipple, slowly running a nail in circles around it.
He leaned back, grunting as he felt his cock swell. His hand was already a little wet with precum but that simply made it easier to run his fingers up and down his length.
It did not take long for him to cum, staining his hand white. Arthur fell back into the deliciously cool sheets, his legs still obscenely outspread and his flushed cheeks hot as he caught his breath.
“Satisfied?” he panted, staring at Alfred from the corner of his eyes.
“For now,” Alfred leaned over him, planting a light kiss on Arthur’s forehead.
“W – What was that for?” he blushed, too tired to put any energy into his protests.
Alfred simply smiled, pulling the covers over him. It was not until he softly bid him good night did Arthur realise just how tired he was. Somewhere in the mists between consciousness and sleep, he was vaguely aware of those deft hands undressing him, stripping him of the shirt that had taken so long to put on. However, once it was removed the warmth hovering above him abated. He heard footsteps retreating and the creak of a door before he finally gave in and let his dreams carry him away.
XX
When Arthur woke, bright light was streaming through the window, catching steams of dancing dust in its beams. He pulled his body up into a sitting position, noticing the smell of fresh bread and jam notoriously close.
Glancing at the bedside table, there was a tray laden with sweet breads and pots of honey and jam. A piece of paper had been wedged between the marmalade and the teapot; Arthur picked it up curiously and turned it over.
‘Please eat and dress before eight o’clock
- Emily’
Who was Emily? He wondered while stuffing sweet bread into his mouth. Forgetting the table manners he had been raised on, he ate with gusto, spreading crumbs over the white sheets, which he later hastily wiped off with a hand.
He finished a third cup of tea before he finally decided to get up. Judging by the amount of light, it was not yet eight but he dressed anyway, putting on the clothes Alfred had left draped over the chair last night.
It was a little fancy for a servant, if that was what he was going to be from now on. He wondered if it was out of consideration for his previous station that he was giving the sort of clothes he was comfortable in – a plain cotton shirt and starch breeches would have irritated his skin – or if this was Alfred’s own way of making fun of him. Scowling to himself, he was sure that it was probably the latter.
The manor itself was not as impressive as some of the summer homes his family had previously owned, Arthur noted with a touch of satisfaction, but it was by no means unimpressive. The white walls gave the halls an airy, spacious feel, the grey floors were sparkling marble like that of a palace. As Arthur made his way down the stairs he duly took in the decor; mahogany furniture was a nice touch – Victorian he believed – but the watercolour paintings of high mountains and flowered fields were far too whimsical; they belonged in a woman’s parlour.
An old woman in a grey maid’s uniform waited at the bottom of the stairs. Her grey hair was peeking out of her maid’s cap and she stood with a considerable hunch but when she smiled it reached her eyes with genuine warmth.
At first he could not bring himself to move. His eyes nervously flickered up at Alfred and then back to his lap and each time that smile would cause him to freeze. However, he desperately needed release and waiting around was helping no one. Reluctantly, trying to be as subtle as possible – which was a feat in itself – he licked his lips and began to move his hand.
A shiver of pleasure raced up his spine. He spread his legs for more freedom, forgetting his audience for a moment, caught in the chase of those trills of ecstasy that would run through his entire body. His breathing became laboured as he pumped his cock. His other hand snaked up his shirt to touch his nipple, slowly running a nail in circles around it.
He leaned back, grunting as he felt his cock swell. His hand was already a little wet with precum but that simply made it easier to run his fingers up and down his length.
It did not take long for him to cum, staining his hand white. Arthur fell back into the deliciously cool sheets, his legs still obscenely outspread and his flushed cheeks hot as he caught his breath.
“Satisfied?” he panted, staring at Alfred from the corner of his eyes.
“For now,” Alfred leaned over him, planting a light kiss on Arthur’s forehead.
“W – What was that for?” he blushed, too tired to put any energy into his protests.
Alfred simply smiled, pulling the covers over him. It was not until he softly bid him good night did Arthur realise just how tired he was. Somewhere in the mists between consciousness and sleep, he was vaguely aware of those deft hands undressing him, stripping him of the shirt that had taken so long to put on. However, once it was removed the warmth hovering above him abated. He heard footsteps retreating and the creak of a door before he finally gave in and let his dreams carry him away.
XX
When Arthur woke, bright light was streaming through the window, catching steams of dancing dust in its beams. He pulled his body up into a sitting position, noticing the smell of fresh bread and jam notoriously close.
Glancing at the bedside table, there was a tray laden with sweet breads and pots of honey and jam. A piece of paper had been wedged between the marmalade and the teapot; Arthur picked it up curiously and turned it over.
‘Please eat and dress before eight o’clock
- Emily’
Who was Emily? He wondered while stuffing sweet bread into his mouth. Forgetting the table manners he had been raised on, he ate with gusto, spreading crumbs over the white sheets, which he later hastily wiped off with a hand.
He finished a third cup of tea before he finally decided to get up. Judging by the amount of light, it was not yet eight but he dressed anyway, putting on the clothes Alfred had left draped over the chair last night.
It was a little fancy for a servant, if that was what he was going to be from now on. He wondered if it was out of consideration for his previous station that he was giving the sort of clothes he was comfortable in – a plain cotton shirt and starch breeches would have irritated his skin – or if this was Alfred’s own way of making fun of him. Scowling to himself, he was sure that it was probably the latter.
The manor itself was not as impressive as some of the summer homes his family had previously owned, Arthur noted with a touch of satisfaction, but it was by no means unimpressive. The white walls gave the halls an airy, spacious feel, the grey floors were sparkling marble like that of a palace. As Arthur made his way down the stairs he duly took in the decor; mahogany furniture was a nice touch – Victorian he believed – but the watercolour paintings of high mountains and flowered fields were far too whimsical; they belonged in a woman’s parlour.
An old woman in a grey maid’s uniform waited at the bottom of the stairs. Her grey hair was peeking out of her maid’s cap and she stood with a considerable hunch but when she smiled it reached her eyes with genuine warmth.
She introduced herself as Emily; the only maid currently working on the manor, as she shook Arthur’s hand. It was nice to meet him, she said. It was good to finally have a strong arm to help around the house and was he aware of what would be required of him.
They toured around the house, Emily showing him the ins and outs of the manor, where the bread was kept and the newspapers ironed, where the key to the wine cabinet was hidden and what to do when the grocer’s boy came round with eggs and butter.
Arthur, though feeling a little lost, found that he could not utter a word of protest. He could not refuse to work; not in front of this kind old lady and, at the back of his mind, he reckoned that this was all part of Alfred’s man. Perhaps he was not as dumb as he looked.
As if to speak of the devil, Alfred poked his head out of the study as Emily was showing him one of the many store cupboards. His eyes brightened with a smile when he saw them and quickly began to approach.
“Oh, you’re up! That’s good,” he beamed. Emily curtsied but Arthur, standing behind her, simply scowled.
The look on his face was not beyond Alfred’s recognition. Rather than being offended however, he grinned. “What? Giving me the silent treatment now? That’s cruel, Arthur.”
“I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my name!” Arthur snapped, forgetting Emily’s worried look.
Alfred’s laughter rang cross the hall. “Then what should I call you? You don’t expect me to say ‘Mr Kirkland’ to a servant?”
“Git,” Arthur mumbled but could not deny that that would be very awkward if he did.
“I see you’re going to be a troublesome one. Come with me to the study,” he ordered. Arthur did not move. “What’s wrong? Even a dog knows how to follow orders,” he turned back when he realised that his servant was remaining resolutely still.
A trill of indignation ran up his spine. The man was still as crude and ill-mannered as ever. “Don’t compare me to a dog!” he spat but followed Alfred anyway.
XX
He was surprised to see that what Alfred had called a study was more like a small library. Bookshelves reached the ceiling, crammed full of books of varying thickness. More lay in piles at the feet of the bookcases, paper strewn across the floor and, in the middle of the room a desk with a small lump was buried under an avalanche of documents.
“You can read right? Clean this up then. The books go back in alphabetical order,” Alfred waved a hand over the mess.
“You’re a slob,” Arthur muttered, running a critical eye over the mess. He refused to be impressed by the selection. They were probably just for show anyway.
“I’m simply busy.”
“So you do work after all.”
He picked up a thick tome at random, running his eyes over the gold leaf lettering. Alfred pushed the paper off of his desk and settled down with a quill, scratching something rather noisily on a piece of parchment. Arthur continued to return the books on the floor back to their rightful places.
The work was surprisingly boring. With exception for lunch and bathroom breaks, the mess had been left of accumulate for so long that stacking the books took the entire day. Though it briefly crossed Arthur’s mind to insist that he was not meant to be used for such menial work, he never found the time to actually raise his protests. Alfred finished whatever he was doing as soon as lunch was sounded and for the rest of the day he was out gallivanting somewhere, or so Emily told him.
The thought made him scowl. How dare that man go out and have a good time when here he was, tidying that man’s mess. He had not stepped outside since coming to the manor and was craving a little fresh air.
Finally, as darkness descended, the study was mostly clean – he wondered how long that would last – and a chime at the door announced Alfred’s return to the manor.
Arthur had no idea why he rushed out to meet him. Maybe he just wanted to give him a piece of his mind that was all, but when he finally reached the door he found that he had nothing to say after all.
Emily was taking his coat and hat from him. Alfred smiled and thanked her until his eyes landed on Arthur and his smile widened.
XX
anon is working on the art!
They toured around the house, Emily showing him the ins and outs of the manor, where the bread was kept and the newspapers ironed, where the key to the wine cabinet was hidden and what to do when the grocer’s boy came round with eggs and butter.
Arthur, though feeling a little lost, found that he could not utter a word of protest. He could not refuse to work; not in front of this kind old lady and, at the back of his mind, he reckoned that this was all part of Alfred’s man. Perhaps he was not as dumb as he looked.
As if to speak of the devil, Alfred poked his head out of the study as Emily was showing him one of the many store cupboards. His eyes brightened with a smile when he saw them and quickly began to approach.
“Oh, you’re up! That’s good,” he beamed. Emily curtsied but Arthur, standing behind her, simply scowled.
The look on his face was not beyond Alfred’s recognition. Rather than being offended however, he grinned. “What? Giving me the silent treatment now? That’s cruel, Arthur.”
“I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my name!” Arthur snapped, forgetting Emily’s worried look.
Alfred’s laughter rang cross the hall. “Then what should I call you? You don’t expect me to say ‘Mr Kirkland’ to a servant?”
“Git,” Arthur mumbled but could not deny that that would be very awkward if he did.
“I see you’re going to be a troublesome one. Come with me to the study,” he ordered. Arthur did not move. “What’s wrong? Even a dog knows how to follow orders,” he turned back when he realised that his servant was remaining resolutely still.
A trill of indignation ran up his spine. The man was still as crude and ill-mannered as ever. “Don’t compare me to a dog!” he spat but followed Alfred anyway.
XX
He was surprised to see that what Alfred had called a study was more like a small library. Bookshelves reached the ceiling, crammed full of books of varying thickness. More lay in piles at the feet of the bookcases, paper strewn across the floor and, in the middle of the room a desk with a small lump was buried under an avalanche of documents.
“You can read right? Clean this up then. The books go back in alphabetical order,” Alfred waved a hand over the mess.
“You’re a slob,” Arthur muttered, running a critical eye over the mess. He refused to be impressed by the selection. They were probably just for show anyway.
“I’m simply busy.”
“So you do work after all.”
He picked up a thick tome at random, running his eyes over the gold leaf lettering. Alfred pushed the paper off of his desk and settled down with a quill, scratching something rather noisily on a piece of parchment. Arthur continued to return the books on the floor back to their rightful places.
The work was surprisingly boring. With exception for lunch and bathroom breaks, the mess had been left of accumulate for so long that stacking the books took the entire day. Though it briefly crossed Arthur’s mind to insist that he was not meant to be used for such menial work, he never found the time to actually raise his protests. Alfred finished whatever he was doing as soon as lunch was sounded and for the rest of the day he was out gallivanting somewhere, or so Emily told him.
The thought made him scowl. How dare that man go out and have a good time when here he was, tidying that man’s mess. He had not stepped outside since coming to the manor and was craving a little fresh air.
Finally, as darkness descended, the study was mostly clean – he wondered how long that would last – and a chime at the door announced Alfred’s return to the manor.
Arthur had no idea why he rushed out to meet him. Maybe he just wanted to give him a piece of his mind that was all, but when he finally reached the door he found that he had nothing to say after all.
Emily was taking his coat and hat from him. Alfred smiled and thanked her until his eyes landed on Arthur and his smile widened.
XX
anon is working on the art!
Oh, you sneaky, sneaky Alfred. ♥
Now why do I have an image of Arthur eventually advising Alfred how to act like a proper gentleman? XD
Now why do I have an image of Arthur eventually advising Alfred how to act like a proper gentleman? XD
Woah, the Alfred in this story just so… damn sexy.
I totally laughed at him being his usual sloppy self though
Gaah, waiting for the continutation is getting harder and harder each time—
I totally laughed at him being his usual sloppy self though
Gaah, waiting for the continutation is getting harder and harder each time—
IAWTC. Especially the part about waiting. D:
I love you for writing this..aww Alfred why so sexy as always?XD
Haha I feel sorry for Arthur though..XD
Haha I feel sorry for Arthur though..XD
;A;'' T-That was so cute! lmfao, poor Arthur's gotta clean up Alfred's mess; it's gotta be a nightmare.
AND. ... am I wrong. for thinking the next segment is gonna wind up being smut? ROFLROFL maybe I'm just looking too forward to it. ;A;''
And yes! I can't wait to see the visual~~ <3
AND. ... am I wrong. for thinking the next segment is gonna wind up being smut? ROFLROFL maybe I'm just looking too forward to it. ;A;''
And yes! I can't wait to see the visual~~ <3
Here's the pic of Arhtu's outfit(line art)http://pics.livejournal.com/mizumimi/pic/0000a0d2/g1 Warning: I really do suck at drawing
“Arthur! Come help me undress,” he ordered as he passed him, already loosening his tie.
“Can’t you do this yourself?” Arthur nevertheless followed him up the stairs to the master bedroom.
“It’s more fun if you do it for me!” Alfred laughed, throwing open the door. They stepped inside and he turned, spreading his arms out to be undressed.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “So? What were you doing all evening?” he demanded, hands latching on to the clasps of his waistcoat.
“Enjoying myself of course. I was playing poker with some...friends,” Alfred’s smile became tenuous at the mention of ‘friends.’
Unlike Alfred, Arthur did not bother to savour the act of undressing another man. The waistcoat came off quickly, thrown over the side of a chair in an afterthought. The buttons of Alfred’s shirt were the next to come undone; his hands working quickly on unfastening them.
“You should stop that. Gambling is the path to the devil,” he grunted as the shirt came loose and slid off of Alfred’s shoulders.
He snorted. “What are you, a puritan?”
“No!” he blushed. “It’s just that gambling was the whole reason my family fell into debt in the first place. It was all over a series of poker games as well.”
A lazy smile crossed his face. Arthur looked away. He suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that he was with a half naked man...working methodically stripping him of the other half.
“Oh, are you worried about me?” Alfred looked both pleased and amused by this. “Don’t worry, I’m great at it!” he laughed.
Arthur scowled and dropped to his knees to fiddle with the belt. “I take it back! Gamble as much as you want. Go gamble and lose your fortune! Then maybe your ego will deflate with your wallet.”
“I hate to break it to you but that won’t be happening anytime soon. I am awesome at the game after all.” It was hard to take his boasting seriously when his trousers slipped to the floor, leaving him in only underwear. Alfred stepped out of it on his own accord, stooping up to fling the rest of his clothes to one side. “That will be all, you can retire for the night.”
At first Arthur was confused. It had been a whole day and Alfred had not tried to touch him, molest him, taunt him or make any other inappropriate comments.
“Is something wrong?” Alfred asked, wondering why Arthur was still in his room after he had been dismissed.
“Uh...no,” he shook his head, regaining enough sense to turn around and head for the door.
Arms snaked around him; hands planted firmly on his chest stopped him from going any further.
“Oh, I see,” Alfred’s breath tickled the lobe of his ear.
A blush rose to his cheeks “Sh – shut up!” he struggled in Alfred’s grip, though to no avail. He could just feel him grinning from ear to ear, probably thinking of a thousand lewd, inappropriate thoughts at that very minute!
“If you really wanted to sleep with me so badly you should have just said so,” Alfred tried to sound casual but his voice betrayed his delight.
Arthur froze. “What? I never said that I – Ahhh!” before he could finish his sentence, he felt himself being pulled back until he was falling. Alfred’s back hit the double bed, dragging Arthur with him into a sea of blue sheets and duck feather pillows.
“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” Alfred stretched, still refusing to let go of his prize.
“N – no it doesn’t! What will Emily think when she sees two grown men sleeping together like this?! Hey, are you listening to me?”
Arthur shook his head. He was too close. Like this, if he turned around, Alfred’s face would be right in front of him. The feel of naked skin against the back of his thin shirt spread warmth through his body. The colour in his cheeks rose to crimson.
However, he was surprised when the grip slackened, though it was not enough to free himself, it warranted a curious glance over his shoulder to Alfred’s sleeping face. The rise and fall of his chest pressed against Arthur’s back. This close, he thought he could hear the sound of a heart beat and Alfred’s steady breathing.
There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight.
“Arthur! Come help me undress,” he ordered as he passed him, already loosening his tie.
“Can’t you do this yourself?” Arthur nevertheless followed him up the stairs to the master bedroom.
“It’s more fun if you do it for me!” Alfred laughed, throwing open the door. They stepped inside and he turned, spreading his arms out to be undressed.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “So? What were you doing all evening?” he demanded, hands latching on to the clasps of his waistcoat.
“Enjoying myself of course. I was playing poker with some...friends,” Alfred’s smile became tenuous at the mention of ‘friends.’
Unlike Alfred, Arthur did not bother to savour the act of undressing another man. The waistcoat came off quickly, thrown over the side of a chair in an afterthought. The buttons of Alfred’s shirt were the next to come undone; his hands working quickly on unfastening them.
“You should stop that. Gambling is the path to the devil,” he grunted as the shirt came loose and slid off of Alfred’s shoulders.
He snorted. “What are you, a puritan?”
“No!” he blushed. “It’s just that gambling was the whole reason my family fell into debt in the first place. It was all over a series of poker games as well.”
A lazy smile crossed his face. Arthur looked away. He suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that he was with a half naked man...working methodically stripping him of the other half.
“Oh, are you worried about me?” Alfred looked both pleased and amused by this. “Don’t worry, I’m great at it!” he laughed.
Arthur scowled and dropped to his knees to fiddle with the belt. “I take it back! Gamble as much as you want. Go gamble and lose your fortune! Then maybe your ego will deflate with your wallet.”
“I hate to break it to you but that won’t be happening anytime soon. I am awesome at the game after all.” It was hard to take his boasting seriously when his trousers slipped to the floor, leaving him in only underwear. Alfred stepped out of it on his own accord, stooping up to fling the rest of his clothes to one side. “That will be all, you can retire for the night.”
At first Arthur was confused. It had been a whole day and Alfred had not tried to touch him, molest him, taunt him or make any other inappropriate comments.
“Is something wrong?” Alfred asked, wondering why Arthur was still in his room after he had been dismissed.
“Uh...no,” he shook his head, regaining enough sense to turn around and head for the door.
Arms snaked around him; hands planted firmly on his chest stopped him from going any further.
“Oh, I see,” Alfred’s breath tickled the lobe of his ear.
A blush rose to his cheeks “Sh – shut up!” he struggled in Alfred’s grip, though to no avail. He could just feel him grinning from ear to ear, probably thinking of a thousand lewd, inappropriate thoughts at that very minute!
“If you really wanted to sleep with me so badly you should have just said so,” Alfred tried to sound casual but his voice betrayed his delight.
Arthur froze. “What? I never said that I – Ahhh!” before he could finish his sentence, he felt himself being pulled back until he was falling. Alfred’s back hit the double bed, dragging Arthur with him into a sea of blue sheets and duck feather pillows.
“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” Alfred stretched, still refusing to let go of his prize.
“N – no it doesn’t! What will Emily think when she sees two grown men sleeping together like this?! Hey, are you listening to me?”
Arthur shook his head. He was too close. Like this, if he turned around, Alfred’s face would be right in front of him. The feel of naked skin against the back of his thin shirt spread warmth through his body. The colour in his cheeks rose to crimson.
However, he was surprised when the grip slackened, though it was not enough to free himself, it warranted a curious glance over his shoulder to Alfred’s sleeping face. The rise and fall of his chest pressed against Arthur’s back. This close, he thought he could hear the sound of a heart beat and Alfred’s steady breathing.
There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight.
*grins*
Oh this is just too cute! ♥ Oh Arthur.
Oh this is just too cute! ♥ Oh Arthur.
Aww, that was adorable! <33333
And your drawing is really good!! ^^
And your drawing is really good!! ^^
Wow Every time I come here there is a new part!!! I'm so happy!!! Writer!anon is the bestest best ever to write such an amazing story!!! I love the interaction between Alfred and Arthur!!! and this part was really cute, I can't wait for the next one :)
Etoo... About the direction of this story settled by the request, you're free to do whatever you want with it, but humbly ask for a happy ending if it is possible.
Keep writing to your heart's content Anon, I'll be always waiting patiently for you
Lots of love
OP
Etoo... About the direction of this story settled by the request, you're free to do whatever you want with it, but humbly ask for a happy ending if it is possible.
Keep writing to your heart's content Anon, I'll be always waiting patiently for you
Lots of love
OP
I love this story. And Slave!Arthur is HOT. The whole concept reminds me of Anne Rice's 'Sleeping Beauty' series...
AHHHH SO GOOD!!!!!
Thank you, OP!Anon. This author!anon is working on filling the kinks
Francis, Arthur decided with a definite sigh, was definitely going to be the bane of his existence. Him and that sloppy, no-good, obscenely cheerful American he had the indignity of calling ‘master.’
“Ah, mon cheri, I see you have settled in well,” the Frenchman in question sidled up to him when they bumped into each other in the drawing room. Arthur had just been cleaning, but now, faced with Francis he did an about-turn and tried to march right out until Francis flung an arm over Arthur’s shoulder, halting him. Just how had he managed to get in anyway? Arthur could not recall ever hearing the bell ring.
Stiffly, he flung his arm off. “Listen, git, I have a bone to pick with you!” he glared at Francis and his ridiculous clothes with all his might.
“Avec moi?” Francis smiled, feigning innocence.
Arthur tried to keep a handle on his temper, despite the fact that he was sure that he was being ridiculed again. “These clothes!” he ran a hand over the long coat. “I’m a servant and you’re making me dress like a gentleman? Are you trying to mock me?”
“You do not like the clothes?” Francis looked surprised, as if anyone could possibly dislike his taste in fashion. “What a selfish man. If you don’t like them you don’t have to wear them. If they displease you so much then take them off.”
Arthur yelped as Francis reached for the bow around his neck, quickly loosening it. The man was faster than he could have possibly imagined; by the time he realised the bow was undone, so were half of the buttons on his shirt and his coat was slipping off of his shoulders. Arthur was sure that he would have been fully undressed if not for the loud bang to the door.
“Francis!” Alfred’s face was much like the sound he had made; thunderous.
“Ah, mon ami! Francis immediately released Arthur – he sighed with relief – and held his hands up as if he had absolutely no part in what his hands decided to undress or molest.
“Don’t speak French to me!” Alfred glowered at him. “And keep your hands off of my servants!”
“I was only trying to help - ”
“Help my arse!” Arthur scowled.
“Yes, that’s exactly it.”
“Francis!”
The Frenchman smiled, letting his arms drop to his side. As if to show his goodwill, he took a further three steps away from Arthur, he was busily readjusting his clothing with a very red face and as much dignity as he could muster.
Alfred turned a sympathetic eye towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with this. Can you please ask Emily to bring some wine into the drawing room later?”
“Whatever,” Arthur shrugged. He was proud for the fact that he did not run right out of the room but those who observed him noticed a distinct briskness about his walk.
Unfortunately for him Emily was gone by the time he made it to the kitchen. He reminded himself with a groan that today was the day she usually went out to buy meat from the butcher’s. That only meant that he would have to take it upon himself to serve the wine, meaning he would inevitably have to return to the drawing room.
His hands shook with the humiliation of the whole affair as he poured the glasses. How dare that damn, slimy frog bastard try and touch him! Alfred was bad enough. Was he doomed to spend the rest of his days surrounded by perverts after his body like – like rabid men after a maiden?
Arthur’s face went as red as the wine recalling Alfred’s first attempts with him. Damn that man! Damn all mankind who did not know how to act like a proper gentleman! He seethed with the audacity of it! The disgrace! The – the absolute, utter, undeniable arrogance that man had shown in just about everything he did!
His energy deflated with the suddenness of a popped balloon. Why was he getting so worked up about Alfred? In fact, what was he doing ranting to himself like this? He had wine to serve.
By the time he returned, it sounded as if the two had already settled down, as had Arthur, though he often thought back to his rant and a small wave of depression would wash over him.
Francis, Arthur decided with a definite sigh, was definitely going to be the bane of his existence. Him and that sloppy, no-good, obscenely cheerful American he had the indignity of calling ‘master.’
“Ah, mon cheri, I see you have settled in well,” the Frenchman in question sidled up to him when they bumped into each other in the drawing room. Arthur had just been cleaning, but now, faced with Francis he did an about-turn and tried to march right out until Francis flung an arm over Arthur’s shoulder, halting him. Just how had he managed to get in anyway? Arthur could not recall ever hearing the bell ring.
Stiffly, he flung his arm off. “Listen, git, I have a bone to pick with you!” he glared at Francis and his ridiculous clothes with all his might.
“Avec moi?” Francis smiled, feigning innocence.
Arthur tried to keep a handle on his temper, despite the fact that he was sure that he was being ridiculed again. “These clothes!” he ran a hand over the long coat. “I’m a servant and you’re making me dress like a gentleman? Are you trying to mock me?”
“You do not like the clothes?” Francis looked surprised, as if anyone could possibly dislike his taste in fashion. “What a selfish man. If you don’t like them you don’t have to wear them. If they displease you so much then take them off.”
Arthur yelped as Francis reached for the bow around his neck, quickly loosening it. The man was faster than he could have possibly imagined; by the time he realised the bow was undone, so were half of the buttons on his shirt and his coat was slipping off of his shoulders. Arthur was sure that he would have been fully undressed if not for the loud bang to the door.
“Francis!” Alfred’s face was much like the sound he had made; thunderous.
“Ah, mon ami! Francis immediately released Arthur – he sighed with relief – and held his hands up as if he had absolutely no part in what his hands decided to undress or molest.
“Don’t speak French to me!” Alfred glowered at him. “And keep your hands off of my servants!”
“I was only trying to help - ”
“Help my arse!” Arthur scowled.
“Yes, that’s exactly it.”
“Francis!”
The Frenchman smiled, letting his arms drop to his side. As if to show his goodwill, he took a further three steps away from Arthur, he was busily readjusting his clothing with a very red face and as much dignity as he could muster.
Alfred turned a sympathetic eye towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with this. Can you please ask Emily to bring some wine into the drawing room later?”
“Whatever,” Arthur shrugged. He was proud for the fact that he did not run right out of the room but those who observed him noticed a distinct briskness about his walk.
Unfortunately for him Emily was gone by the time he made it to the kitchen. He reminded himself with a groan that today was the day she usually went out to buy meat from the butcher’s. That only meant that he would have to take it upon himself to serve the wine, meaning he would inevitably have to return to the drawing room.
His hands shook with the humiliation of the whole affair as he poured the glasses. How dare that damn, slimy frog bastard try and touch him! Alfred was bad enough. Was he doomed to spend the rest of his days surrounded by perverts after his body like – like rabid men after a maiden?
Arthur’s face went as red as the wine recalling Alfred’s first attempts with him. Damn that man! Damn all mankind who did not know how to act like a proper gentleman! He seethed with the audacity of it! The disgrace! The – the absolute, utter, undeniable arrogance that man had shown in just about everything he did!
His energy deflated with the suddenness of a popped balloon. Why was he getting so worked up about Alfred? In fact, what was he doing ranting to himself like this? He had wine to serve.
By the time he returned, it sounded as if the two had already settled down, as had Arthur, though he often thought back to his rant and a small wave of depression would wash over him.
The door to the drawing room had been left partially closed. Arthur raised his fist to knock but suddenly halted. Now that he thought about it, what did Alfred talk about with Francis? He knew that they were ‘friends’ – in the loosest sense of the word – but they were not in any business ventures together that would be a cause for them to have such serious discussions.
“You already have what you wanted, mon ami, I think you are pushing your luck,” Francis’ thick tone trickled through the slight crack between door and door post.
“Lady Luck loves me,” Alfred’s boasting could be clearly heard even without pressing an ear to the wood. “Besides, if they choose to play then that’s a risk they take. They just don’t learn.”
Francis sighed. “You already have what you wanted. Don’t provoke them.”
Laughter boomed. Arthur had never heard Alfred laugh as loudly as he did. “Are you worried about me, Francis?”
“I think you are being a fool, that’s all.” Displeasure gave an edge to his voice. “You know how vicious nobles can be, especially when they’re playing games and trust me, mon ami, all of life is a game to them. You already have what you wanted.”
There. Again. Arthur wondered what Francis meant when he kept repeating ‘you already have what you wanted.’ He knew that Alfred gambled – boasted about his good luck in the game – but were they also involved in something shady?
Well, it was none of his business, Arthur obstinately told himself and with that rapped his knuckles against the door before pushing it open.
“Your wine, sirs,” he announced, curling his tongue around the word ‘sirs’ so that it dripped with sarcasm.
“Arthur?” Alfred’s shock was the first to register in his brain. “I remember asking you to send Emily,” he stood, taking the decanter of wine from him. There was slight anger in his voice, not enough to really be recognisable but just enough to shake Arthur a bit.
“Emily is currently out shopping,” Arthur replied curtly. He did not want to be in the room a moment longer if he was going to be treated with such ingratitude.
Turning on his heels, he marched back to the kitchen, scowling to himself. What was that? Just because he had come instead of Emily was no reason for Alfred to get so upset, surely he was just as good as she was at serving him.
“Git!” he growled at the far wall. He flung a damp tea cloth at it, imagining that it was Alfred’s face.
*F5's like there is no tomorrow*
ILU author anon!
ILU author anon!
WHY ARE YOU SO DAMN AWESOME AUTHOR!ANON
F5F5F5F5F5
F5F5F5F5F5
KDFGKSFGKDS NEEDS UPDATE NOW. D:
Anon, have you abandoned us? Please don't leave this unfinished! My sanity is at stake here!
Anon apologises for the lateness! Anon got caught up in other prompts
XX
Arthur was still angry at how Alfred had treated him by the time he was ready to retire. Honestly, there was no reason for Alfred to have looked so upset when all he did was bring them wine instead of Emily.
Okay, so maybe he had eavesdropped on a conversation he should not have heard but how was Alfred to know? Besides he had no clue what they had been talking about, except that it probably involved gambling.
His foul mood was enough reason to throw Alfred out of his room when he entered that night without knocking. That man never had the decency to knock. What if he had been getting undressed?
“Is there something you want?” he snapped.
Alfred closed the door behind him. The click it made sounded a little too loud but Arthur had no time to dwell on that as Alfred silently proceeded to approach him.
“A – Alfred?” he stepped back. “What? Did you get into an argument with that wino again?”
He almost shrieked when Alfred flung his arms around his shoulders, pulling him against his chest. “I don’t feel like going to sleep. Why don’t you play with me?” he whispered suggestively but with none of his usual playfulness.
“...What’s wrong?” Arthur pushed him away.
“I want you to - ”
“Don’t give me that! Why are you acting so strange?” he snapped. This muteness was scaring him a little. He was used to a normal, audacious Alfred, not this quiet, serious one.
“I...okay, I’ll confess everything,” Alfred sighed. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I’m gravely ill. I think...it’s probably fatal.”
Arthur blinked. “...What?” Sickness? Fatal? As much as he hated the man, his heart began to race with fear.
“I...Arthur, I...” Alfred paused for dramatic effect. “...I have love sickness!”
Arthur whacked him around the side of the head so hard that Alfred stumbled back and fell on to the bed. “You bloody git!” he screamed at him, his face turning crimson. From this day forth he swore that he would never, ever believe a single word that man said.
“Don’t be so cruel! Can’t you see that I am dying?” Alfred lay flat against the bed, having his arms in the air as if writhing in pain, though his loud laughter did not help his cause.
“Go die in a ditch, pig!”
Alfred laughter dwindled into chuckles. “Okay, okay, I won’t joke about it anymore, but weren’t you seriously worried?” he asked, sitting up with a smile.
Arthur would ever admit that he was slightly relieved to see him return to his former self. No, he would rather die than admit something like that. “Don’t flatter yourself! If I was worried, it was only because I’d be on the streets if you died,” he retorted.
“You don’t mean that!”
“I do! I definitely do! I can’t wait to be rid of you!” he cried, turning his back on Alfred.
“...Arthur,” he whispered.
“Wh – What is it now?” Arthur turned and, as he did so, found himself smacking straight into Alfred’s chest. The man’s arms descended upon him, trapping him there.
“Arthur,” he whispered, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.
“W - What?”
Alfred kissed his ear without reply and Arthur had to briefly wonder why he was letting this git have his way with him again.
XX
Arthur was still angry at how Alfred had treated him by the time he was ready to retire. Honestly, there was no reason for Alfred to have looked so upset when all he did was bring them wine instead of Emily.
Okay, so maybe he had eavesdropped on a conversation he should not have heard but how was Alfred to know? Besides he had no clue what they had been talking about, except that it probably involved gambling.
His foul mood was enough reason to throw Alfred out of his room when he entered that night without knocking. That man never had the decency to knock. What if he had been getting undressed?
“Is there something you want?” he snapped.
Alfred closed the door behind him. The click it made sounded a little too loud but Arthur had no time to dwell on that as Alfred silently proceeded to approach him.
“A – Alfred?” he stepped back. “What? Did you get into an argument with that wino again?”
He almost shrieked when Alfred flung his arms around his shoulders, pulling him against his chest. “I don’t feel like going to sleep. Why don’t you play with me?” he whispered suggestively but with none of his usual playfulness.
“...What’s wrong?” Arthur pushed him away.
“I want you to - ”
“Don’t give me that! Why are you acting so strange?” he snapped. This muteness was scaring him a little. He was used to a normal, audacious Alfred, not this quiet, serious one.
“I...okay, I’ll confess everything,” Alfred sighed. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I’m gravely ill. I think...it’s probably fatal.”
Arthur blinked. “...What?” Sickness? Fatal? As much as he hated the man, his heart began to race with fear.
“I...Arthur, I...” Alfred paused for dramatic effect. “...I have love sickness!”
Arthur whacked him around the side of the head so hard that Alfred stumbled back and fell on to the bed. “You bloody git!” he screamed at him, his face turning crimson. From this day forth he swore that he would never, ever believe a single word that man said.
“Don’t be so cruel! Can’t you see that I am dying?” Alfred lay flat against the bed, having his arms in the air as if writhing in pain, though his loud laughter did not help his cause.
“Go die in a ditch, pig!”
Alfred laughter dwindled into chuckles. “Okay, okay, I won’t joke about it anymore, but weren’t you seriously worried?” he asked, sitting up with a smile.
Arthur would ever admit that he was slightly relieved to see him return to his former self. No, he would rather die than admit something like that. “Don’t flatter yourself! If I was worried, it was only because I’d be on the streets if you died,” he retorted.
“You don’t mean that!”
“I do! I definitely do! I can’t wait to be rid of you!” he cried, turning his back on Alfred.
“...Arthur,” he whispered.
“Wh – What is it now?” Arthur turned and, as he did so, found himself smacking straight into Alfred’s chest. The man’s arms descended upon him, trapping him there.
“Arthur,” he whispered, resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.
“W - What?”
Alfred kissed his ear without reply and Arthur had to briefly wonder why he was letting this git have his way with him again.
XX
“Ah, mon cheri, Arthur!”
Once again, Arthur found himself caught by Francis again as he was making his cleaning rounds.
“How do you always manage to sneak inside?” he snapped. If he did not know better he would have thought that the man actually broke into the manor to do all sorts of lewd things.
“A trade secret,” Francis winked. “Mon ami, Alfred is not home yet?”
“He’s out playing that terrible game he likes so much,” Arthur grumbled. It was worse when Alfred was not in; there was no one to save him this time if Francis decided that his clothes were getting a little too small for him.
However, groping him was something that Francis would settle for later Digging into his breast pocket he produced a piece of paper and handed it to Arthur. “Ah then perhaps I can send you on an errand? It is important that he gets this soon. Here, I will write down directions.”
Arthur grudgingly took the note and excused himself. At least this way there was no chance of being molested. He was disappointed to see, however, that apart from the directions the note Francis had given him was in some sort of code.
“This is definitely shady!” he muttered, pocketing both note and directions as he made his way to the gambling houses.
“Ah, mon cheri, Arthur!”
Once again, Arthur found himself caught by Francis again as he was making his cleaning rounds.
“How do you always manage to sneak inside?” he snapped. If he did not know better he would have thought that the man actually broke into the manor to do all sorts of lewd things.
“A trade secret,” Francis winked. “Mon ami, Alfred is not home yet?”
“He’s out playing that terrible game he likes so much,” Arthur grumbled. It was worse when Alfred was not in; there was no one to save him this time if Francis decided that his clothes were getting a little too small for him.
However, groping him was something that Francis would settle for later Digging into his breast pocket he produced a piece of paper and handed it to Arthur. “Ah then perhaps I can send you on an errand? It is important that he gets this soon. Here, I will write down directions.”
Arthur grudgingly took the note and excused himself. At least this way there was no chance of being molested. He was disappointed to see, however, that apart from the directions the note Francis had given him was in some sort of code.
“This is definitely shady!” he muttered, pocketing both note and directions as he made his way to the gambling houses.
Uh oh. Is Francis scheming to have Arthur figure out what happened?
I can't wait to read more ♥
I can't wait to read more ♥
Uh, oh. Francis, you better not be doing anything bad.
Oh God, cliffhanger. ♥
Oh God, cliffhanger. ♥
HAHAHAHAHHAHAHA i lol'd at the love sick part xD;;;;
Arthur approached gambling house with more than a little caution. He had never seen a gambling house before, of course he had not; he was from a well-to-do family! Ignoring the fact that his brothers often gambled, he had never had any desire to throw money away.
The current establishment looked more like a whore house without the whores, not that he had ever been to the red light district either!
The doorman was a squat but muscular man with more hairs in his nose than his entire head. Plucking up his courage, he approached him, clearing his throat loudly so that he could be heard over the loud voices coming from within.
“I’m here with a message for Mr Alfred Jones.”
The man fixed him in his sight, scowling as if he resented being forced to do his job. Grumbling under his breath, he hoped from the stool where he had been half-sleeping and unlocked the iron door, leading him into a place with nefariously narrow corridors with purple walls and disgustingly ruddy red carpets stained with alcohol.
“Can’t he gamble in a more refined place,” Arthur hissed under his breath. Stupid Alfred and his stupid habits!
The man brought him along a series of doors. Muffled voices shouted behind the oak, sounds of struggles and even the odd scream made Arthur jump.
“The one on th’ end,” the doorman grunted, thrusting his thumb in the direction of the last door at the end of the corridor before ambling back to his post.
Arthur forgot to thank the man, not that he had really done anything to be thanked. He was too busy staring at the door as though it were a portal to the underworld. This was shady. This was definitely shady.
He chided himself for being so weak. No, he would go in there, march up to that idiot Alfred, and give him a piece of his mind about gambling and how it corrupted the soul or something! His hand as already firmly wrapped around the handle when his courage was suddenly drained by the angry shouts coming from within.
“Damn you Jones! You cheated!”
It figured that someone would be angry with Alfred. That was not what caused him to pause. Though muffled, he knew that voice.
“Don’t be such a sore loser, I never use underhanded tricks,” he could hear the glee on Alfred’s voice.
“Dammit, my entire fortune is riding on this!”
“B – Brother?” Arthur whispered and pressed his ear to the door.
“Maybe you should quit,” Alfred advised.
“Screw you! I’ve already lost this much!”
Yes, his brother had already lost their estates and almost all of their wealth Was that not why they sold him To pay for their debts? Yet now his stupid brother was doing the same thing he had before, only this time they would not be able to sell him again if they got into trouble.
Arthur could hear Alfred sigh. “If you insist.”
“Bastard, is taking my little brother not enough for you?”
“I was under the impression that you didn’t like him. Besides I - ”
There was a loud thud, which sounded distinctly like someone slamming something down on the table.
“Don’t screw with me! This is all your fault! In fact you were the one who suggested we sell him to pay off the money we owed! You said that you would help cover our debts if we did!”
Arthur jerked his head back, his heart thumping. Alfred had really said that? But that was impossible, how had Alfred even been aware of his existence before that day when he had been sold as a slave? Had this whole thing been orchestrated by him? Arthur could not imagine why.
His hands curled into tight fists. He did not know why this sudden realisation hurt him either. It was as if someone had driven a stake into his chest, it was a burning fire that continually seared him without relief. He always knew that man had been rotten, hadn’t he? He always knew that man had been no good.
“What did I ever do to you?” Arthur muttered, turning his back to the door.
The current establishment looked more like a whore house without the whores, not that he had ever been to the red light district either!
The doorman was a squat but muscular man with more hairs in his nose than his entire head. Plucking up his courage, he approached him, clearing his throat loudly so that he could be heard over the loud voices coming from within.
“I’m here with a message for Mr Alfred Jones.”
The man fixed him in his sight, scowling as if he resented being forced to do his job. Grumbling under his breath, he hoped from the stool where he had been half-sleeping and unlocked the iron door, leading him into a place with nefariously narrow corridors with purple walls and disgustingly ruddy red carpets stained with alcohol.
“Can’t he gamble in a more refined place,” Arthur hissed under his breath. Stupid Alfred and his stupid habits!
The man brought him along a series of doors. Muffled voices shouted behind the oak, sounds of struggles and even the odd scream made Arthur jump.
“The one on th’ end,” the doorman grunted, thrusting his thumb in the direction of the last door at the end of the corridor before ambling back to his post.
Arthur forgot to thank the man, not that he had really done anything to be thanked. He was too busy staring at the door as though it were a portal to the underworld. This was shady. This was definitely shady.
He chided himself for being so weak. No, he would go in there, march up to that idiot Alfred, and give him a piece of his mind about gambling and how it corrupted the soul or something! His hand as already firmly wrapped around the handle when his courage was suddenly drained by the angry shouts coming from within.
“Damn you Jones! You cheated!”
It figured that someone would be angry with Alfred. That was not what caused him to pause. Though muffled, he knew that voice.
“Don’t be such a sore loser, I never use underhanded tricks,” he could hear the glee on Alfred’s voice.
“Dammit, my entire fortune is riding on this!”
“B – Brother?” Arthur whispered and pressed his ear to the door.
“Maybe you should quit,” Alfred advised.
“Screw you! I’ve already lost this much!”
Yes, his brother had already lost their estates and almost all of their wealth Was that not why they sold him To pay for their debts? Yet now his stupid brother was doing the same thing he had before, only this time they would not be able to sell him again if they got into trouble.
Arthur could hear Alfred sigh. “If you insist.”
“Bastard, is taking my little brother not enough for you?”
“I was under the impression that you didn’t like him. Besides I - ”
There was a loud thud, which sounded distinctly like someone slamming something down on the table.
“Don’t screw with me! This is all your fault! In fact you were the one who suggested we sell him to pay off the money we owed! You said that you would help cover our debts if we did!”
Arthur jerked his head back, his heart thumping. Alfred had really said that? But that was impossible, how had Alfred even been aware of his existence before that day when he had been sold as a slave? Had this whole thing been orchestrated by him? Arthur could not imagine why.
His hands curled into tight fists. He did not know why this sudden realisation hurt him either. It was as if someone had driven a stake into his chest, it was a burning fire that continually seared him without relief. He always knew that man had been rotten, hadn’t he? He always knew that man had been no good.
“What did I ever do to you?” Arthur muttered, turning his back to the door.
OH I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT.
Arthur! Don't be so mad at Alfred. ♥
Arthur! Don't be so mad at Alfred. ♥
OH NOES.
B-but he did it out oflust love, Arthur?
Anyway, Alfred is not the only one to blame, he just suggested it and your brother went through with it~
D:
B-but he did it out of
Anyway, Alfred is not the only one to blame, he just suggested it and your brother went through with it~
D:
Oh Alfred, thats a horrible way to get what you want!!
Can't wait for more Writer!Anon~
Can't wait for more Writer!Anon~
Oh. MY. GOD. GJFKGJD ANON PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE UPDATE SOON. T-THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME. -sobbb-
S-Something in me is heartwarmimg though that Arthur's brothers really didn't want to sell him, but yeah. -bricked-
But fffff, will be checking for updates like no tomorrow. -spams F5-
S-Something in me is heartwarmimg though that Arthur's brothers really didn't want to sell him, but yeah. -bricked-
But fffff, will be checking for updates like no tomorrow. -spams F5-
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
CLIFFHANGER!!!!
-f5 f5 f5 f5-
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
f5's some more.....Anon you are responsible if my keyboard break -just kidding- but just so you know ILU
CLIFFHANGER!!!!
-f5 f5 f5 f5-
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
f5's some more.....Anon you are responsible if my keyboard break -just kidding- but just so you know ILU
He spoke with a thick accent, drawing out his r’s as he smiled lazily, as beguiling as a Cheshire cat.
LOL, typical Frenchlish. xDD dont forget the 'z' thing.
What is zat, 'Arry?
LOL, typical Frenchlish. xDD dont forget the 'z' thing.
What is zat, 'Arry?
Arthur awoke to the sound of Emily’s hoarse shouting. Lifting his head from the pillows, he groaned at the fierce sunlight hitting his face through the windows.
“Arthur!” Emily cried from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. It was amazing how an old woman could shout like that. “Arthur, have you seen the Master anywhere?”
Arthur lazily dressed himself as he left the room, still doing up his buttons before he managed to reach the top step. “Didn’t he com home last night?” he yawned sleepily.
It was not as if he cared if Alfred had come home or not. In fact, he would rather if Alfred did not come home just yet; after Arthur had overheard that conversation he had left without announcing his presence or giving Alfred the Francis’ note. He still reckoned that if he saw the man today, he would not be able to control the urge to punch him in the face.
The thought ruined Arthur’s mood. Great, the day had not even started and already he had a scowl on his face. Just what had he done to deserve being sold like that? And Alfred was involved? He had never done anything to warrant that kind of treatment!
“Arthur!” another voice called him and it was not Emily’s.
“F – Francis!” Arthur hurriedly corrected his clothes before Francis could correct the for him. Properly dressed he came dashing down the stair case, skipping two at a time. “What the hell do you want Francis, you git?” he growled.
Francis, however, gave him a sombre look – Arthur would have called it a glare except that it lacked the bite of one – and ran a tired hand through his hair.
“Arthur, mon ami, I know you used to be a noble but surely you can deliver something as simple as a letter,” he sighed.
“O – Of course I can!”Arthur’s face burnt red with embarrassment. Maybe he should have given Alfred the letter – he did not want to be seen as incompetent – but who could expect him to just walk in there after he had heard such a conversation?
“So you gave it to him?” Francis brightened. Arthur quickly turned his gaze to the floor. He could just feel the weight of Francis’ sigh crushing against his shoulders. “Mon Dieu! I told you that it was important, rosbif,” he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Normally Arthur would have returned insult for insult but this time he could only stutter “I – I - ”
Before he could even think of an excuse, Francis grabbed him by the hand. “Come with me, he is probably still at the gambling house,” he pulled Arthur outside despite his protests, only stopping once to let Arthur put on a pair of shoes at least.
Arthur could barely keep up with Francis’ long strides. He was not following him as much as he was being towed along. The grip on his hand was unrelenting, chaining him to Franci’s side as he was dragged along.
It was still far too early for any normal person to be up. The streets were still asleep, the brick houses grey with morning mist and filled with birds taking their pick on the leftovers last night’s revelry. Arthur tugged at his wrist. The fact that he was feeling nervous was making his heart beat faster than his actual nervousness.
“Francis, what’s going on? What’s so important about a stupid message anyway?” he asked, feigning annoyance.
Francis did not glance at him as they walked. They kept up the same fast pace. “That message, mon ami, was to tell him that Monsieur Macken was going to be gambling tonight and that he should leave as soon as possible,” he explained.
“Mr Macken?” Arthur frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar? “Ah, that pig who sold me! W – Wait, what does Alfred have to do with him?” he cried.
The doorman was different from the one that Arthur had talked to. Only once they were in front of the gambling house did Francis release him. He exchanged a few quick words with the man at the door, words that Arthur was not quite able to pick up.
“Looks like we are too late,” Francis sighed as he came striding back to him.
“Arthur!” Emily cried from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. It was amazing how an old woman could shout like that. “Arthur, have you seen the Master anywhere?”
Arthur lazily dressed himself as he left the room, still doing up his buttons before he managed to reach the top step. “Didn’t he com home last night?” he yawned sleepily.
It was not as if he cared if Alfred had come home or not. In fact, he would rather if Alfred did not come home just yet; after Arthur had overheard that conversation he had left without announcing his presence or giving Alfred the Francis’ note. He still reckoned that if he saw the man today, he would not be able to control the urge to punch him in the face.
The thought ruined Arthur’s mood. Great, the day had not even started and already he had a scowl on his face. Just what had he done to deserve being sold like that? And Alfred was involved? He had never done anything to warrant that kind of treatment!
“Arthur!” another voice called him and it was not Emily’s.
“F – Francis!” Arthur hurriedly corrected his clothes before Francis could correct the for him. Properly dressed he came dashing down the stair case, skipping two at a time. “What the hell do you want Francis, you git?” he growled.
Francis, however, gave him a sombre look – Arthur would have called it a glare except that it lacked the bite of one – and ran a tired hand through his hair.
“Arthur, mon ami, I know you used to be a noble but surely you can deliver something as simple as a letter,” he sighed.
“O – Of course I can!”Arthur’s face burnt red with embarrassment. Maybe he should have given Alfred the letter – he did not want to be seen as incompetent – but who could expect him to just walk in there after he had heard such a conversation?
“So you gave it to him?” Francis brightened. Arthur quickly turned his gaze to the floor. He could just feel the weight of Francis’ sigh crushing against his shoulders. “Mon Dieu! I told you that it was important, rosbif,” he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Normally Arthur would have returned insult for insult but this time he could only stutter “I – I - ”
Before he could even think of an excuse, Francis grabbed him by the hand. “Come with me, he is probably still at the gambling house,” he pulled Arthur outside despite his protests, only stopping once to let Arthur put on a pair of shoes at least.
Arthur could barely keep up with Francis’ long strides. He was not following him as much as he was being towed along. The grip on his hand was unrelenting, chaining him to Franci’s side as he was dragged along.
It was still far too early for any normal person to be up. The streets were still asleep, the brick houses grey with morning mist and filled with birds taking their pick on the leftovers last night’s revelry. Arthur tugged at his wrist. The fact that he was feeling nervous was making his heart beat faster than his actual nervousness.
“Francis, what’s going on? What’s so important about a stupid message anyway?” he asked, feigning annoyance.
Francis did not glance at him as they walked. They kept up the same fast pace. “That message, mon ami, was to tell him that Monsieur Macken was going to be gambling tonight and that he should leave as soon as possible,” he explained.
“Mr Macken?” Arthur frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar? “Ah, that pig who sold me! W – Wait, what does Alfred have to do with him?” he cried.
The doorman was different from the one that Arthur had talked to. Only once they were in front of the gambling house did Francis release him. He exchanged a few quick words with the man at the door, words that Arthur was not quite able to pick up.
“Looks like we are too late,” Francis sighed as he came striding back to him.
“W – why?” Arthur’s eyes roved across the foreboding building. It really did look like a whore house even in the morning light.
He remembered very little of Macken, mostly due to the fact that he was either unconscious or drugged during their meetings. However, he did remember those two giant men that followed him everywhere like twin shadows. Even so, surely Alfred could handle himself, right? Right?
They were very big.
And they were strong.
There were two of them as well...
“I – I’ll go check on him!” Arthur started and dashed into the building before Francis was able to catch a hold of him.
“Wait a minute, mon ami!” he heard Francis shout but how could he wait? If something was wrong with Alfred then it would be his fault for not delivering the letter. It was not as if he really cared about Alfred’s well-being but he did not want it to be his fault.
The last door at the end of the corridor seemed to grow upon him, looming up to meet him as urgently as Arthur rushed towards it. Without a second thought he gripped the handle and threw the heavy door open with a loud bang that resounded through the corridor.
“Alfred!”
The atmosphere was tense, or had been before Arthur had shattered it with his presence. He could tell that the men had been in the middle of a stand-off just before he burst in.
The man Arthur easily identified as Macken indeed has his two giant bodyguards behind him. They stood on one side of the table opposite to Alfred, who was looking at him with a rather bewildered face and Arthur’s eldest brother; clean shaven for once, finely dressed as if they still owned a fortune.
“A – Arthur?” his brother stared at him in shock.
“Brother...” Arthur looked at him apprehensively. He had not forgotten that he and his other brothers had sold him to the man standing on the other side of the table.
That same man smiled – leered to be more accurate – at him and began to approach, heavy boots echoing on the filthy stone floor.
“Oh isn’t that...” Macken’s gloved hand caught Arthur’s chin, forcing him to look at his own reflection in the man’s grey eyes. “Ah yes, I remember your pretty little face!”
Before Arthur could bat him away, a heavy hand fell on the man’s shoulders. Alfred was standing over them, his face the very picture of storm at sea. “Do. Not. Touch. Him,” his words were grinded out from between clenched teeth.
Macken let go as quickly as possible, chuckling. “Oh, of course, he is yours now. How are you liking your little whore now?”
Alfred glared at him with more hate than Arthur had ever seen in his life. “He’s not - ”
“We haven’t done anything, you filthy pig!” Arthur spat in his face.
“A – Arthur!” his brother tried to make his way over to them but was blocked by one of the bodyguards.
The look of mirth on Macken’s face dropped instantaneously.
“Mr Jones, you haven’t trained him properly yet!” Macken spoke courteously while with both hands he grabbed Arthur, slamming him forward over the poker table.
Arthur gasped in pain, taken by surprise at the suddenness of Macken’s actions. Had he always been this strong? There was no time to think when he felt the lukewarm warmth of a gloved hand groping underneath his underwear.
“Macken!” Alfred practically hauled him off of Arthur, his face livid with anger. “Respect other people’s property!”
“I am not your - ”
“I believe this matter is settled, don’t you?” Alfred’s curt voice cut through everything. It was strained with the effort to keep himself under control.
Macken stumbled back, barely caught by his bodyguards. At first it looked as if all hell would break loose but, after a moment of apprehensive silence, he grinned.
“Well, if that is what you wish. Money is all the same to me no matter who it comes from, as long as I am paid I am happy but are you sure you want to bail the Kirkland family out of their debts? That brother over there will probably just gamble it all away again,” he rudely pointed the tip of his walking stick at Arthur’s brother.
Alfred sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t help it. I did promise that I would if they did me a certain favour, although...”
He remembered very little of Macken, mostly due to the fact that he was either unconscious or drugged during their meetings. However, he did remember those two giant men that followed him everywhere like twin shadows. Even so, surely Alfred could handle himself, right? Right?
They were very big.
And they were strong.
There were two of them as well...
“I – I’ll go check on him!” Arthur started and dashed into the building before Francis was able to catch a hold of him.
“Wait a minute, mon ami!” he heard Francis shout but how could he wait? If something was wrong with Alfred then it would be his fault for not delivering the letter. It was not as if he really cared about Alfred’s well-being but he did not want it to be his fault.
The last door at the end of the corridor seemed to grow upon him, looming up to meet him as urgently as Arthur rushed towards it. Without a second thought he gripped the handle and threw the heavy door open with a loud bang that resounded through the corridor.
“Alfred!”
The atmosphere was tense, or had been before Arthur had shattered it with his presence. He could tell that the men had been in the middle of a stand-off just before he burst in.
The man Arthur easily identified as Macken indeed has his two giant bodyguards behind him. They stood on one side of the table opposite to Alfred, who was looking at him with a rather bewildered face and Arthur’s eldest brother; clean shaven for once, finely dressed as if they still owned a fortune.
“A – Arthur?” his brother stared at him in shock.
“Brother...” Arthur looked at him apprehensively. He had not forgotten that he and his other brothers had sold him to the man standing on the other side of the table.
That same man smiled – leered to be more accurate – at him and began to approach, heavy boots echoing on the filthy stone floor.
“Oh isn’t that...” Macken’s gloved hand caught Arthur’s chin, forcing him to look at his own reflection in the man’s grey eyes. “Ah yes, I remember your pretty little face!”
Before Arthur could bat him away, a heavy hand fell on the man’s shoulders. Alfred was standing over them, his face the very picture of storm at sea. “Do. Not. Touch. Him,” his words were grinded out from between clenched teeth.
Macken let go as quickly as possible, chuckling. “Oh, of course, he is yours now. How are you liking your little whore now?”
Alfred glared at him with more hate than Arthur had ever seen in his life. “He’s not - ”
“We haven’t done anything, you filthy pig!” Arthur spat in his face.
“A – Arthur!” his brother tried to make his way over to them but was blocked by one of the bodyguards.
The look of mirth on Macken’s face dropped instantaneously.
“Mr Jones, you haven’t trained him properly yet!” Macken spoke courteously while with both hands he grabbed Arthur, slamming him forward over the poker table.
Arthur gasped in pain, taken by surprise at the suddenness of Macken’s actions. Had he always been this strong? There was no time to think when he felt the lukewarm warmth of a gloved hand groping underneath his underwear.
“Macken!” Alfred practically hauled him off of Arthur, his face livid with anger. “Respect other people’s property!”
“I am not your - ”
“I believe this matter is settled, don’t you?” Alfred’s curt voice cut through everything. It was strained with the effort to keep himself under control.
Macken stumbled back, barely caught by his bodyguards. At first it looked as if all hell would break loose but, after a moment of apprehensive silence, he grinned.
“Well, if that is what you wish. Money is all the same to me no matter who it comes from, as long as I am paid I am happy but are you sure you want to bail the Kirkland family out of their debts? That brother over there will probably just gamble it all away again,” he rudely pointed the tip of his walking stick at Arthur’s brother.
Alfred sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t help it. I did promise that I would if they did me a certain favour, although...”
“W – Wait!” Arthur’s previously ignored brother gained everyone’s attention by throwing all the chips off of the poker table. “We haven’t finished gambling! I will win the money needed to pay Mr Macken with my own hands. I don’t need your charity!” he fiercely glared at Alfred.
Arthur’s mood had been foul in the morning but now it had reached the absolute rock bottom. Here he was in this disgusting place, everyone was shouting at each other, his brother was being an obstinate idiot, he had been felt up by the world’s greediest man and, to make things worse, Alfred of all people had been the one to save him.
This was the absolute worst.
“Charity? I thought it was a business transaction,” Arthur’s voice coldly cut through the heated atmosphere in the room.
“Arthur?” Alfred turned to him with a confused frown. Where had he heard that from?
Arthur was almost ready to laugh. This truly had to be the worst. The worst day of his life. Even being sold naked in front of a crowd of rich strangers could not possibly beat this day in terms of absolute crap.
He stared at Alfred with a cold, merciless gaze. “That was the deal, wasn’t it? In return for you covering our debts to Mr Macken, my brothers would sell me to you?”
It was hard to discern the expression on Alfred’s face. If it was shock, it was far too pained. If it was sadness, there was too much confusion in it.
“Oh ho, you’ve been found out Mr Jones!” Macken roared with laughter. “Although I beat you to the punch and claimed the boy as a deposit first.”
“Yes, you made me pay a fair amount just to reclaim what was mine,” Alfred agreed with a bitter, depreciating smile.
“Stop talking about me as if I’m an object!” Arthur snapped, stabbing a finger squarely at Alfred’s chest. “Y – You...you’re the absolute worst! I hate you!”
A brief look of hurt passed across Alfred’s face before being completely smothered. Arthur, too angry to notice it, continued to shout.
“W – Why?” he demanded. “Why did you want my brothers to sell me to you? We never met! I never did anything to you, and even if I did, I surely didn’t deserve this! If you hated me that much you could have just told me! You didn’t have to...you didn’t have to...”
“Get out.” A whisper at first, hardly audible and yet quivering with tangible rage. When no one moved, Alfred glared at them with the force of a thousand dangers. “Get out all of you!” he roared.
“W - well, my business is done here. Good day to you Mr Jones, Mr Kirkland,” Macken quickly withdrew, trying not to look too intimidated.
“Wait a minute, my brother - ”
“Get out!”
Arthur’s brother jumped and bolted, shutting the door firmly as he left.
The silence left in their wake resounded like a roar across the walls. It was a silence too terrible to pronounce; a crushing, devastated silence that laid waste to their minds.
Arthur did not realise that he was trembling until everyone else had gone. He wondered why he was so upset, why it hurt to be betrayed. No, not betrayed. He had never thought Alfred was on his side so how could he be betrayed by him? Yet it felt as if Alfred had taken his feelings and trampled all over them with malice.
He was so stupid. How could he have allowed himself to be tricked by this man? All this time Alfred had been arranging for him to be sold into slavery, he had coerced his brothers, used his wealth for bribes and had Arthur stripped of his rank and sold to him. Even he had thought that no one could be so low!
“I hate you, you disgusting pig!” Arthur expelled a quivering breath.
Why was Alfred being so silent? Did he not even care to deny it?
“You’re the worst person I have ever met! Even if you didn’t like me, this method of getting revenge is just too sick!” Why was Alfred not saying anything? Angry tears threatened to fall from Arthurs eyes as he shouted. “Why did you have to do this? Why didn’t you just tell me that you hated me from the beginning?”
Surely, surely, Arthur thought, he must have done something terrible for Alfred to go out of his way and make him a slave. Even though he had no idea what it could be or even when they had met. He wondered way though, why was it that the thought of Alfred hating him hurt more than his betrayal.
Arthur’s mood had been foul in the morning but now it had reached the absolute rock bottom. Here he was in this disgusting place, everyone was shouting at each other, his brother was being an obstinate idiot, he had been felt up by the world’s greediest man and, to make things worse, Alfred of all people had been the one to save him.
This was the absolute worst.
“Charity? I thought it was a business transaction,” Arthur’s voice coldly cut through the heated atmosphere in the room.
“Arthur?” Alfred turned to him with a confused frown. Where had he heard that from?
Arthur was almost ready to laugh. This truly had to be the worst. The worst day of his life. Even being sold naked in front of a crowd of rich strangers could not possibly beat this day in terms of absolute crap.
He stared at Alfred with a cold, merciless gaze. “That was the deal, wasn’t it? In return for you covering our debts to Mr Macken, my brothers would sell me to you?”
It was hard to discern the expression on Alfred’s face. If it was shock, it was far too pained. If it was sadness, there was too much confusion in it.
“Oh ho, you’ve been found out Mr Jones!” Macken roared with laughter. “Although I beat you to the punch and claimed the boy as a deposit first.”
“Yes, you made me pay a fair amount just to reclaim what was mine,” Alfred agreed with a bitter, depreciating smile.
“Stop talking about me as if I’m an object!” Arthur snapped, stabbing a finger squarely at Alfred’s chest. “Y – You...you’re the absolute worst! I hate you!”
A brief look of hurt passed across Alfred’s face before being completely smothered. Arthur, too angry to notice it, continued to shout.
“W – Why?” he demanded. “Why did you want my brothers to sell me to you? We never met! I never did anything to you, and even if I did, I surely didn’t deserve this! If you hated me that much you could have just told me! You didn’t have to...you didn’t have to...”
“Get out.” A whisper at first, hardly audible and yet quivering with tangible rage. When no one moved, Alfred glared at them with the force of a thousand dangers. “Get out all of you!” he roared.
“W - well, my business is done here. Good day to you Mr Jones, Mr Kirkland,” Macken quickly withdrew, trying not to look too intimidated.
“Wait a minute, my brother - ”
“Get out!”
Arthur’s brother jumped and bolted, shutting the door firmly as he left.
The silence left in their wake resounded like a roar across the walls. It was a silence too terrible to pronounce; a crushing, devastated silence that laid waste to their minds.
Arthur did not realise that he was trembling until everyone else had gone. He wondered why he was so upset, why it hurt to be betrayed. No, not betrayed. He had never thought Alfred was on his side so how could he be betrayed by him? Yet it felt as if Alfred had taken his feelings and trampled all over them with malice.
He was so stupid. How could he have allowed himself to be tricked by this man? All this time Alfred had been arranging for him to be sold into slavery, he had coerced his brothers, used his wealth for bribes and had Arthur stripped of his rank and sold to him. Even he had thought that no one could be so low!
“I hate you, you disgusting pig!” Arthur expelled a quivering breath.
Why was Alfred being so silent? Did he not even care to deny it?
“You’re the worst person I have ever met! Even if you didn’t like me, this method of getting revenge is just too sick!” Why was Alfred not saying anything? Angry tears threatened to fall from Arthurs eyes as he shouted. “Why did you have to do this? Why didn’t you just tell me that you hated me from the beginning?”
Surely, surely, Arthur thought, he must have done something terrible for Alfred to go out of his way and make him a slave. Even though he had no idea what it could be or even when they had met. He wondered way though, why was it that the thought of Alfred hating him hurt more than his betrayal.
I KNEW MY F5 SPASM WOULD COME USEFUL
okay on a more serious note, just. just bawww. ;A; That was so emotional and I loved it! I really loved when Alfred got protective over Arthur, and then angry too. Some part of me felt so bad when Alfred got yelled at, but he had it coming anyway.
LMAO fjdksfjds damn I'm going to go back to F5 spams again.
okay on a more serious note, just. just bawww. ;A; That was so emotional and I loved it! I really loved when Alfred got protective over Arthur, and then angry too. Some part of me felt so bad when Alfred got yelled at, but he had it coming anyway.
LMAO fjdksfjds damn I'm going to go back to F5 spams again.
asdasjkdhasjkdhasjkdhasjkdhjkdhaskdjhas f5 f5 f5
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!
AH!H!HAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
*incoherent thoughts* ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!
AH!H!HAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
*incoherent thoughts* ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Oh man, a cliff hanger.
*dies*
And I owe France an apology. :/
WRITE MOAR ANON! ♥ I'm so loving this!
*dies*
And I owe France an apology. :/
WRITE MOAR ANON! ♥ I'm so loving this!
OH GOD. PERFECT. EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT. I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING MORE...Other than the fact that I love, love, love Protective!Alfred. XD And poor Arthur...HE DOESN'T HATE YOU. HE LOVES YOU.
Much love writer!anon, MUCH LOVE!!!
GAAAAAAAAHH. Goddamnit you! That was... gaah, I'm all jittery in my seat, because it's all getting so exciting! ;A; God, I can't wait to see the continuation and Alfred's response!
Alfred sucked in a loud breath to steady himself. He reckoned that it took a special kind of awesome to stand that verbal barrage without lashing out. He waited for Arthur to be done and steadied himself so that the next words he said were spoken in calmness.
“Revenge? Do you think that’s why I wanted to buy you?” he asked. “Is that why you think I made your brothers sell you?”
“If not then what else?” Arthur snapped at him. Alfred wondered if he was aware that he looked about to cry. “Why else would you humiliate me and make me do all those embarrassing things unless you wanted revenge?”
“I didn’t know you hated it so much,” he said quietly, barely able to contain his shaky voice.
“Of course I hated it! Being watched while I did things like that, having to do a servant’s work even though I’m a noble, did you think I would enjoy doing things like that?”
Alfred stared at him hard. Was it so hard to understand? What had he ever done to Arthur to give the impression that he hated him? Had he not always been kind? Did he not smile whenever he looked at him and laugh when he said something? Why then was Arthur accusing him of such hurtful things?
“You...are really annoying, you know?” he whispered.
All of Arthur’s protests were cut off as Alfred pushed him against the wall, kissing him fiercely.
At first shock allowed Alfred to slip in his tongue but, after a moment, Arthur began to struggle against the hands pinning down his wrists.
“N – No, stop!” he broke away from Alfred’s mouth, gaining enough strength to shove Alfred away. “Stop it, dammit!”
Alfred could have persisted. He could have put more force into his grip and held Arthur down. Even if he thrashed and cried, he was sure that he would have the definite weight and height advantage, which would be enough to keep Arthur pinned to the wall as long as he wanted.
Yet Alfred did not force himself on him. He was in shock that he had even pushed him against the wall in the first place.
Arthur glared at him; anger and hurt mingling in his eyes. Their gazes met and he looked away sharply, muttering a hateful; “Git!” under his breath as he ran out of the room, straight past Francis who had been waiting in the corridor for things to cool down. Now he emerged from his hiding place with a bitter smile.
“That was, how do you say it, ‘smooth’ mon ami.”
Alfred glared at him. He was in a foul mood and had no time for idiotic jokes. “Shut up Francis.”
Francis sighed audibly. “I’m sorry, mon ami, I tried to warn you about Macken coming. Even though you’ve tried to keep the extent of your wealth hidden from vultures now he knows that if he can find a way to squeeze you he’ll wring out gold.”
Alfred’s expression softened at his friend’s concern. “Don’t worry, I’m always careful with what I do. I’d never let that happen.” He shook his head; if Macken was the only thing he had to worry about, he would consider himself blessed.
“Revenge? Do you think that’s why I wanted to buy you?” he asked. “Is that why you think I made your brothers sell you?”
“If not then what else?” Arthur snapped at him. Alfred wondered if he was aware that he looked about to cry. “Why else would you humiliate me and make me do all those embarrassing things unless you wanted revenge?”
“I didn’t know you hated it so much,” he said quietly, barely able to contain his shaky voice.
“Of course I hated it! Being watched while I did things like that, having to do a servant’s work even though I’m a noble, did you think I would enjoy doing things like that?”
Alfred stared at him hard. Was it so hard to understand? What had he ever done to Arthur to give the impression that he hated him? Had he not always been kind? Did he not smile whenever he looked at him and laugh when he said something? Why then was Arthur accusing him of such hurtful things?
“You...are really annoying, you know?” he whispered.
All of Arthur’s protests were cut off as Alfred pushed him against the wall, kissing him fiercely.
At first shock allowed Alfred to slip in his tongue but, after a moment, Arthur began to struggle against the hands pinning down his wrists.
“N – No, stop!” he broke away from Alfred’s mouth, gaining enough strength to shove Alfred away. “Stop it, dammit!”
Alfred could have persisted. He could have put more force into his grip and held Arthur down. Even if he thrashed and cried, he was sure that he would have the definite weight and height advantage, which would be enough to keep Arthur pinned to the wall as long as he wanted.
Yet Alfred did not force himself on him. He was in shock that he had even pushed him against the wall in the first place.
Arthur glared at him; anger and hurt mingling in his eyes. Their gazes met and he looked away sharply, muttering a hateful; “Git!” under his breath as he ran out of the room, straight past Francis who had been waiting in the corridor for things to cool down. Now he emerged from his hiding place with a bitter smile.
“That was, how do you say it, ‘smooth’ mon ami.”
Alfred glared at him. He was in a foul mood and had no time for idiotic jokes. “Shut up Francis.”
Francis sighed audibly. “I’m sorry, mon ami, I tried to warn you about Macken coming. Even though you’ve tried to keep the extent of your wealth hidden from vultures now he knows that if he can find a way to squeeze you he’ll wring out gold.”
Alfred’s expression softened at his friend’s concern. “Don’t worry, I’m always careful with what I do. I’d never let that happen.” He shook his head; if Macken was the only thing he had to worry about, he would consider himself blessed.
It figured that Arthur would not be home straight away, not after what had happened. He probably wanted to walk around town and collect his thoughts; Alfred was doing exactly the same as he reclined in his armchair with a glass of wine.
He had vainly hopes that Arthur had run back to the manor but there was no such luck there. Once he arrived home Emily had proceeded to mother him, all but locking him in his room with a meal and a drink and insisting he take his rest. He wondered how anyone thought he could rest when Arthur was storming around somewhere hating him.
It was rapidly getting late. Did Arthur know the way back home? What if he was lost and crying somewhere – Alfred’s mind quickly dismissed that thought. Arthur did not seem the kind to easily cry. Still, his mind was uneasy. Arthur was a nobleman – or had been at any rate - surely he had no idea which streets to avoid after sunset and which ones were safe. Surely he had no knowledge about the thugs that operated at night or the harlot’s prowling for any living creature of the male persuasion.
What if something happened?
There was nowhere else for him to go. Arthur could not return to his brothers, Alfred knew his pride would not allow that. In that case, would he sleep on the streets rather than return to him?
Alfred gnawed on the bottom of his lip. He had been stupid, so stupid to force himself on Arthur like that while he had been confused and hurt. Now –
Even though you’ve tried to keep the extent of your wealth hidden from vultures now he knows that if he can find a way to squeeze you he’ll wring out gold.
Alfred’s heart dipped a little when he remembered those words. He gulped a mouthful of wine to try and rid himself of them yet they persisted. No surely...but what if...
Jumping to his feet, Alfred flung on a coat. There was no time to worry or wonder about buts and what ifs. He had to find Arthur and he had to find him quickly, before Macken got it into his disgusting head to use Arthur as leverage against him or the merciless streets swallowed him up.
“I’ll chain you to me if that’s what it takes!” he growled to himself. Despite his carefree attitude, Alfred had always worked hard to get what he wanted and he always got what he worked hard for.
He had vainly hopes that Arthur had run back to the manor but there was no such luck there. Once he arrived home Emily had proceeded to mother him, all but locking him in his room with a meal and a drink and insisting he take his rest. He wondered how anyone thought he could rest when Arthur was storming around somewhere hating him.
It was rapidly getting late. Did Arthur know the way back home? What if he was lost and crying somewhere – Alfred’s mind quickly dismissed that thought. Arthur did not seem the kind to easily cry. Still, his mind was uneasy. Arthur was a nobleman – or had been at any rate - surely he had no idea which streets to avoid after sunset and which ones were safe. Surely he had no knowledge about the thugs that operated at night or the harlot’s prowling for any living creature of the male persuasion.
What if something happened?
There was nowhere else for him to go. Arthur could not return to his brothers, Alfred knew his pride would not allow that. In that case, would he sleep on the streets rather than return to him?
Alfred gnawed on the bottom of his lip. He had been stupid, so stupid to force himself on Arthur like that while he had been confused and hurt. Now –
Even though you’ve tried to keep the extent of your wealth hidden from vultures now he knows that if he can find a way to squeeze you he’ll wring out gold.
Alfred’s heart dipped a little when he remembered those words. He gulped a mouthful of wine to try and rid himself of them yet they persisted. No surely...but what if...
Jumping to his feet, Alfred flung on a coat. There was no time to worry or wonder about buts and what ifs. He had to find Arthur and he had to find him quickly, before Macken got it into his disgusting head to use Arthur as leverage against him or the merciless streets swallowed him up.
“I’ll chain you to me if that’s what it takes!” he growled to himself. Despite his carefree attitude, Alfred had always worked hard to get what he wanted and he always got what he worked hard for.
a...aamazing!!! *_*
*F5-es nonstop 8D*
YES. OMG. I CAN'T WAIT FOR THE NEXT PART OMG
fkdl;sgkfl;d WRITER-NON WHY DO YOU FORCE ME TO F5 THIS SO MUCH ;A; I-I can't wait for the next parts, FFFF I NEED THIS LIKE I NEED AIR.
Go, go, Alfred! Find Arthur! >A
Go, go, Alfred! Find Arthur! >A
Arthur found himself by the port, watching the ships gliding along the water. He had no idea how he managed to reach the port; he had been running blindly, but he was not particularly worried that he had no idea how to get back. There was nowhere to ‘get back’ to anyway.
“Stupid Alfred,” he muttered under his breath. He wondered if he could stowaway on one of the ships and end up in India or something. Somewhere totally unfamiliar where he could try to restart his life without any meddling interferences.
The sun was rapidly setting and it was getting dark quickly. Where would he sleep tonight? On the streets? His nose wrinkled at the thought. Surely there was somewhere better than that. Maybe someone would be kind enough to give him lodging. Surely if he knocked on all the houses in the city someone would –
“Ridiculous. No one does something for nothing.” Even Alfred had –
Arthur frowned. He did not want to think about that idiot and sitting around watching seagulls and ships was making him do exactly that. Determined to find a place for the night, Arthur stood up and brushed down his clothes. He had to take care of himself now.
As he turned, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Arthur jumped with a start and tried to turn around but the hand grabbed him and pulled him backwards into an alley, causing him to stumble. He screamed.
XX
Alfred was quickly getting annoyed. The streets were a maze and he had an uncanny feeling that he was just running in circles.
He had already searched the shadiest places he knew of, including the red light district – not that he expected Arthur to be there but one could never be too sure. His search was soon turning into a fruitless attempt.
“Where the hell did he go?” he muttered. He never should have let Arthur run away from the gambling house. That had been a stupid move.
Just as he was on the verge of giving up, Arthur heard something that made his blood run cold.
Was that a scream? Yes, he had definitely heard a scream; Arthur’s scream.
Pushing his fear to one side, he hurtled in the direction of the voice.
XX
Arthur was rather disappointed by the rather high-pitched frequency of his scream. He stumbled and barrelled around, flinging out his arm, and was satisfied to feel the back of his hand hit his assailant across the cheek.
The man released him and stumbled back, cursing in vivid, violent French.
Arthur blinked twice, and squinted in the dim light. There was hardly enough sun left in the sky to see the ground in front of him but he knew that voice without a doubt.
“B – Bloody hell, Francis! I thought you were a...oh wait, you are a pervert,” Arthur sighed and scowled at him.
“Mon ami, you can be so cruel!” Francis sighed with an expression of mock hurt. “I was looking for you the whole day! What is a fine nobleman like yourself doing roaming these dangerous streets?”
“Ex-nobleman,” Arthur muttered. “And you don’t expect me to go back to that place, do you? You overheard are conversation. Don’t tell me that you knew all along!”
“About ‘that’? Oui, mon ami, I did,” Francis nodded, remaining calm even when Arthur lunged for him.
“Is the whole world part of a conspiracy to humiliate me?” he demanded angrily, grabbig Francis by the collar of his shirt.
As if he did not already have enough reasons to begrudge the man. He had endured the hugs and the gropes and even the attempts from Francis to steal his chastity with a stiff upper lip, surely the fact that he had never actually kicked the man in the balls for it all meant that he deserved better than that from Francis.
“Humiliate?” Even in the darkness, this close Arthur could see Francis’ lips curl with laughter. “Maybe that’s how you feel but I don’t think that was our little friend’s intention.”
Arthur stared at him in distrust but realised him anyway and took a few steps back. “What do you mean by that?”
Arthur’s retreat only encouraged Francis to move forward. “I mean what I say, mon ami, you are so quick to jump to conclusions,” he spoke as he moved.
“Stupid Alfred,” he muttered under his breath. He wondered if he could stowaway on one of the ships and end up in India or something. Somewhere totally unfamiliar where he could try to restart his life without any meddling interferences.
The sun was rapidly setting and it was getting dark quickly. Where would he sleep tonight? On the streets? His nose wrinkled at the thought. Surely there was somewhere better than that. Maybe someone would be kind enough to give him lodging. Surely if he knocked on all the houses in the city someone would –
“Ridiculous. No one does something for nothing.” Even Alfred had –
Arthur frowned. He did not want to think about that idiot and sitting around watching seagulls and ships was making him do exactly that. Determined to find a place for the night, Arthur stood up and brushed down his clothes. He had to take care of himself now.
As he turned, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Arthur jumped with a start and tried to turn around but the hand grabbed him and pulled him backwards into an alley, causing him to stumble. He screamed.
XX
Alfred was quickly getting annoyed. The streets were a maze and he had an uncanny feeling that he was just running in circles.
He had already searched the shadiest places he knew of, including the red light district – not that he expected Arthur to be there but one could never be too sure. His search was soon turning into a fruitless attempt.
“Where the hell did he go?” he muttered. He never should have let Arthur run away from the gambling house. That had been a stupid move.
Just as he was on the verge of giving up, Arthur heard something that made his blood run cold.
Was that a scream? Yes, he had definitely heard a scream; Arthur’s scream.
Pushing his fear to one side, he hurtled in the direction of the voice.
XX
Arthur was rather disappointed by the rather high-pitched frequency of his scream. He stumbled and barrelled around, flinging out his arm, and was satisfied to feel the back of his hand hit his assailant across the cheek.
The man released him and stumbled back, cursing in vivid, violent French.
Arthur blinked twice, and squinted in the dim light. There was hardly enough sun left in the sky to see the ground in front of him but he knew that voice without a doubt.
“B – Bloody hell, Francis! I thought you were a...oh wait, you are a pervert,” Arthur sighed and scowled at him.
“Mon ami, you can be so cruel!” Francis sighed with an expression of mock hurt. “I was looking for you the whole day! What is a fine nobleman like yourself doing roaming these dangerous streets?”
“Ex-nobleman,” Arthur muttered. “And you don’t expect me to go back to that place, do you? You overheard are conversation. Don’t tell me that you knew all along!”
“About ‘that’? Oui, mon ami, I did,” Francis nodded, remaining calm even when Arthur lunged for him.
“Is the whole world part of a conspiracy to humiliate me?” he demanded angrily, grabbig Francis by the collar of his shirt.
As if he did not already have enough reasons to begrudge the man. He had endured the hugs and the gropes and even the attempts from Francis to steal his chastity with a stiff upper lip, surely the fact that he had never actually kicked the man in the balls for it all meant that he deserved better than that from Francis.
“Humiliate?” Even in the darkness, this close Arthur could see Francis’ lips curl with laughter. “Maybe that’s how you feel but I don’t think that was our little friend’s intention.”
Arthur stared at him in distrust but realised him anyway and took a few steps back. “What do you mean by that?”
Arthur’s retreat only encouraged Francis to move forward. “I mean what I say, mon ami, you are so quick to jump to conclusions,” he spoke as he moved.
“What else am I supposed to think?” Arthur glared at him. His back hit a wall. The alley was a dead end and there was nowhere left to run. Francis continued to approach, pinning him there with his body.
“You should ask him yourself.”
XX
Alfred skidded in front of the alleyway just in time. A few minutes later and who knew what could have happened. He saw Arthur’s surprised expression, he saw him pinned to the wall and his attacker’s back, exposed and unprotected, facing him.
“Arthur!” Alfred bravely rushed forward. “Get your hands off of him you bastard!” He sent a punch flying into the face of the man. It caught his right cheek and sent him sprawling onto the floor.
“F – Francis!” Arthur cried, shocked.
“Francis?” Alfred stared at the bundle on the floor. Now that he had time to look properly, it was Francis. Well, life was just full of surprises.
However, Alfred’s thoughts were interrupted by Arthur’s disgruntled cry.
“Y – You’ve killed him! I can’t believe it! You’ve killed him!”
“No...no worries, mon ami, I’m fine...I think,” Francis muttered, gingerly clambering back on to his feet, despite the fact that no one was listening.
“How could you? I know he’s a perverted git who deserved it but – but – how could you be such a brute?” Arthur raged.
“I said that I’m fine.”
Alfred frowned at Arthur’s indignant expression. He had almost had a heart attack, ran all the way here and saved him from a possible murderer and this was all the thanks he got? “Don’t take his side now! If he was feeling you up then he deserved to die!” he snapped back.
“I said I’m fine!”
“You didn’t have to kill him!” Arthur cried.
“Mon Dieu, I’m not dead you idiots!”
“Shut up!” both simultaneously snapped at Francis.
“Anyway, come home. It’s late and it’s getting dangerous,” Alfred wearily sighed as he ran a hand through his hair.
Arthur scowled at him and tried to back even further against the wall. “No.”
“Arthur,” Alfred looked reproachful but Arthur was willing to remain stubborn.
“No!” he snapped. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”
“I’ll explain everything alright? So come with me. Please,” Alfred added, as if that would convince Arthur any more than his previous attempts to bring him home.
They seemed to stay forever, locked in a staring contest – a glaring contest to be more accurate – in a fierce battle of wills. How long they remained like that, neither of them was quite sure but when Arthur let his shoulders slump and breathed a tired ‘Alright, fine,’ the sun had already gone down.
Alfred’s mind crowed in triumph and Arthur frowned at him as if he could hear the victory music coming out of his head. He did not think a celebration was entirely appropriate right now. Alfred had a lot of explaining to do after all.
“You should ask him yourself.”
XX
Alfred skidded in front of the alleyway just in time. A few minutes later and who knew what could have happened. He saw Arthur’s surprised expression, he saw him pinned to the wall and his attacker’s back, exposed and unprotected, facing him.
“Arthur!” Alfred bravely rushed forward. “Get your hands off of him you bastard!” He sent a punch flying into the face of the man. It caught his right cheek and sent him sprawling onto the floor.
“F – Francis!” Arthur cried, shocked.
“Francis?” Alfred stared at the bundle on the floor. Now that he had time to look properly, it was Francis. Well, life was just full of surprises.
However, Alfred’s thoughts were interrupted by Arthur’s disgruntled cry.
“Y – You’ve killed him! I can’t believe it! You’ve killed him!”
“No...no worries, mon ami, I’m fine...I think,” Francis muttered, gingerly clambering back on to his feet, despite the fact that no one was listening.
“How could you? I know he’s a perverted git who deserved it but – but – how could you be such a brute?” Arthur raged.
“I said that I’m fine.”
Alfred frowned at Arthur’s indignant expression. He had almost had a heart attack, ran all the way here and saved him from a possible murderer and this was all the thanks he got? “Don’t take his side now! If he was feeling you up then he deserved to die!” he snapped back.
“I said I’m fine!”
“You didn’t have to kill him!” Arthur cried.
“Mon Dieu, I’m not dead you idiots!”
“Shut up!” both simultaneously snapped at Francis.
“Anyway, come home. It’s late and it’s getting dangerous,” Alfred wearily sighed as he ran a hand through his hair.
Arthur scowled at him and tried to back even further against the wall. “No.”
“Arthur,” Alfred looked reproachful but Arthur was willing to remain stubborn.
“No!” he snapped. “Why should I go anywhere with you?”
“I’ll explain everything alright? So come with me. Please,” Alfred added, as if that would convince Arthur any more than his previous attempts to bring him home.
They seemed to stay forever, locked in a staring contest – a glaring contest to be more accurate – in a fierce battle of wills. How long they remained like that, neither of them was quite sure but when Arthur let his shoulders slump and breathed a tired ‘Alright, fine,’ the sun had already gone down.
Alfred’s mind crowed in triumph and Arthur frowned at him as if he could hear the victory music coming out of his head. He did not think a celebration was entirely appropriate right now. Alfred had a lot of explaining to do after all.
Oh Anon! You've got me waiting in suspense yet again! DX I can't wait to see Alfred explain everything; will he confess his love to Arthur? ♥
Though I admit, I really love that bit with “Mon Dieu, I’m not dead you idiots!” Oh Francis, you poor guy. LOL;;;.
I can't wait for the next update! Thank you for your great work so far! ♥
Though I admit, I really love that bit with “Mon Dieu, I’m not dead you idiots!” Oh Francis, you poor guy. LOL;;;.
I can't wait for the next update! Thank you for your great work so far! ♥
Yay, I knew F5ing this thread the whole day would eventually pay off~ X3
...Even though it left me even more curious than before. orz
This is AMAZING, author!anon. You have no idea how eagerly you leave me waiting every time you update.♥
That being said, I shall go back to f5ing now. *hasnolifelolorz*
Also. It's random, but Francis totally reminded me of poor little Mattie when he was being ignored. xD
It is broken again.
God, I can't wait for more. ♥
God, I can't wait for more. ♥
OMG! I am one of those who was NOT expecting France there! XD [awww~ he caaaaares! <33]
GOGOGOGO! TELL THE TRUTHTHAT YOU LOVE HIM WITH THE INTENSITY OF ONE ZILLION HAMBURGERS TO HIM, AMERICA!!! *A*
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SUCH GREAT FIC! <33 *gives you all my love, respect and... more love*
GOGOGOGO! TELL THE TRUTH
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SUCH GREAT FIC! <33 *gives you all my love, respect and... more love*
Oh my god,one of my favourite fanfictions!!!!!!!!!!!!!Please continue it,when i saw there was no part 22 it just ruined my day.............................................
Arthur heard something that made his blood run cold.
I suppose you mean 'Alfred'?
Amazing fic, btw.
I suppose you mean 'Alfred'?
Amazing fic, btw.
Two countries X and Y switch their body for unknown reasons and for a unknown time. Confusion ensue. (I expect a lot of funny)
Pairing, smut is up to anon, if anon wants to put smut in her fill, it may be X/Y or X(or Y)/other country, and the country involved can be aware or not.
thanks :D
Pairing, smut is up to anon, if anon wants to put smut in her fill, it may be X/Y or X(or Y)/other country, and the country involved can be aware or not.
thanks :D
This Anon hasn't had the best of days lately so maybe that's why she want hurt/comfort...
Enemy forces (it doesn't matter who) has captured England, who is then brutally raped, tortured, etc. After hearing about the capture, a rescue team was formed (America is a given, but France also would preferred). The problem is that they weren't aware of just how far the damage was. They had came too late and had found England is completely broken.
Of course, although it seems hopeless, America won't give up, he makes it his job to help England. Slowly but surely, England recovers.
This Anon will love whoever fills this for life!
Hopefully that description is easy to understand.
Enemy forces (it doesn't matter who) has captured England, who is then brutally raped, tortured, etc. After hearing about the capture, a rescue team was formed (America is a given, but France also would preferred). The problem is that they weren't aware of just how far the damage was. They had came too late and had found England is completely broken.
Of course, although it seems hopeless, America won't give up, he makes it his job to help England. Slowly but surely, England recovers.
This Anon will love whoever fills this for life!
Hopefully that description is easy to understand.
(screened comment)
Thank you so much, OP!Anon.~~ :] Well, here's your story, Part 1!~ I have a feeling this may end up pretty long, so I hope you all stick with me to the end!
It's damp and empty; their footsteps are resounding throughout the ghostly walls like in a horror movie where the group is walking through the ruins, and all of sudden a ghost should come up and try and strangle them, but no ghost comes.
They are not ghost-hunting, after all. They are looking for someone, or more specifically, a nation. The half of the United Kingdom whom represents the England part of it, in other words: Arthur Kirkland.
“You're walking to slow, America.” France bluntly states, and America jumps at France's voice, “D-Don't scare me like that, France!” America demands and France chuckles; despite the serious atmosphere, it is no less fun to scare America. The golden blond does, however, pick up his pace and walks a bit faster. They move their flashlights among the prison cells, filled with skeletons and blood and gore and honestly, despite their age, both nations were disgusted to the core.
“America, do you honestly think England is here?” France asks, and America pauses, but replies, “I don't know. He hasn't been in the others, but there's still a chance.” France narrows his eyes, but they push onward. A sudden rustle comes out from deeper in the prison, and both nations get out their pistols with a swift movement.
There is no following noise though; “Who's there?!” America shouts, and there is another sound, but it does not sound of pulling out a gun. It sounds like the movement of chains and America, oh God, oh God, it can't be, is it--
His pistol hits the ground and he makes a run for it through the jail cells, his flashlight moving like stage lights. France follows America, but slows his pace when he finds the young nation, standing in front of a cell. He is in what looks like perpetual shock, as if... as if, no, there is no way England can be dead in his cell, right...? No way in hell, France is sure, and he is right.
The sight he sees is far from rewarding though. When he stands beside America, he sees a stranger, because the England he knows would give a smart remark when he's found, but this England does nothing.
He sits there, he's completely motionless, not doing anything at all; “England?” There is no reply. America knocks on the cell bars; “England!” He doesn't say anything. The younger nation grips his teeth, and pulls on the doorway into the cell, but it doesn't open.
He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a ring with keys slung on it and ringing together like a poorly done symphony. With haste, he opens the door and walks in; “England!” he shouts again, but even then, he does not react.
England sits, his wrists cuffed with shackles that are chained to the wall. His eyes are half-glazed, they are a disgustingly dull green and America hates it. France though, notes the condition instead. England's shirt is gone, and he's stuck with a pair of pants, that, mind you, are in no better condition then he is. They are torn and, oh God, are they burnt too?
France knows the sight would be disturbing because it's Russia who took England in the first place, but this is just terrifying. He is covered, head to toe, in scars and burns over his old, dried wounds, and he is thin, so thin, you can see his ribs and cheekbones peering out, and he's pale, so pale as if he's dead.
“England...” America says softly, and his fingers reach out to touch England's cheek; the moment they make contact, England's reaction is wild. He says nothing, but he slaps away America's hand as if he is trying to feed him poison and crawls away until his aching back touches the wall behind him.
It's damp and empty; their footsteps are resounding throughout the ghostly walls like in a horror movie where the group is walking through the ruins, and all of sudden a ghost should come up and try and strangle them, but no ghost comes.
They are not ghost-hunting, after all. They are looking for someone, or more specifically, a nation. The half of the United Kingdom whom represents the England part of it, in other words: Arthur Kirkland.
“You're walking to slow, America.” France bluntly states, and America jumps at France's voice, “D-Don't scare me like that, France!” America demands and France chuckles; despite the serious atmosphere, it is no less fun to scare America. The golden blond does, however, pick up his pace and walks a bit faster. They move their flashlights among the prison cells, filled with skeletons and blood and gore and honestly, despite their age, both nations were disgusted to the core.
“America, do you honestly think England is here?” France asks, and America pauses, but replies, “I don't know. He hasn't been in the others, but there's still a chance.” France narrows his eyes, but they push onward. A sudden rustle comes out from deeper in the prison, and both nations get out their pistols with a swift movement.
There is no following noise though; “Who's there?!” America shouts, and there is another sound, but it does not sound of pulling out a gun. It sounds like the movement of chains and America, oh God, oh God, it can't be, is it--
His pistol hits the ground and he makes a run for it through the jail cells, his flashlight moving like stage lights. France follows America, but slows his pace when he finds the young nation, standing in front of a cell. He is in what looks like perpetual shock, as if... as if, no, there is no way England can be dead in his cell, right...? No way in hell, France is sure, and he is right.
The sight he sees is far from rewarding though. When he stands beside America, he sees a stranger, because the England he knows would give a smart remark when he's found, but this England does nothing.
He sits there, he's completely motionless, not doing anything at all; “England?” There is no reply. America knocks on the cell bars; “England!” He doesn't say anything. The younger nation grips his teeth, and pulls on the doorway into the cell, but it doesn't open.
He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a ring with keys slung on it and ringing together like a poorly done symphony. With haste, he opens the door and walks in; “England!” he shouts again, but even then, he does not react.
England sits, his wrists cuffed with shackles that are chained to the wall. His eyes are half-glazed, they are a disgustingly dull green and America hates it. France though, notes the condition instead. England's shirt is gone, and he's stuck with a pair of pants, that, mind you, are in no better condition then he is. They are torn and, oh God, are they burnt too?
France knows the sight would be disturbing because it's Russia who took England in the first place, but this is just terrifying. He is covered, head to toe, in scars and burns over his old, dried wounds, and he is thin, so thin, you can see his ribs and cheekbones peering out, and he's pale, so pale as if he's dead.
“England...” America says softly, and his fingers reach out to touch England's cheek; the moment they make contact, England's reaction is wild. He says nothing, but he slaps away America's hand as if he is trying to feed him poison and crawls away until his aching back touches the wall behind him.
Holy shit. You work fast. ILU. Marry me. ♥
Adfahsdfhs. OAO You have me at the edge of my seat Writer!Anon.
Adfahsdfhs. OAO You have me at the edge of my seat Writer!Anon.
LOL, thank you! :DD I'm glad you're happy~~
And yes! ♥ I was hoping I'd have you waiting for more, LOL;;;.
And yes! ♥ I was hoping I'd have you waiting for more, LOL;;;.
“England, what's wrong?” America asks, but England looks at him, he's terrified like a corner animal, and France walks in. His hand is on America's shoulder and he shakes his head; “Let me take over, America.” The younger blond nods and stands, moving to the doorway.
“What's your name?” France asks, standing and gazing down on England. He says something, but France hears a mumble of words, and re-asses his question.
“D-Don't know... Said I don't have one...” France narrows his eyes. So Russia's gone as far as to leave England completely name-less, “Do you know who I am? Or that guy over there?” England shakes his head.
“... Do you remember what they did to you?” France asks, and England flinches. His eyes hit the ground and a stream of explanations leave his mouth, but they are so slow and fast that France can't understand a single thing, and neither can America.
England's voice gradually grew louder, “They told me I wasn't who I was, I'm worthless, they'd come in here everyday with sharp objects and guns and they were loud and I was bleeding and then they'd grab my shirt and pants,” he clutches his head and his eyes grow wide and he can't stop the memories and France nearly topples over when America shoves him aside and dives to England's side.
“And they're coming, you're one of them aren't you? You're going to come here and you're going to beat me and do those horrible things and I'm going to die and--”
“England, stop! We're not here to hurt you! Calm down!” America shouts with a voice coated in worry, distress... pain, France notes. His hands are on England's bare shoulders, and his ramblings come to a miserable end, and America narrows his eyes. Without another thought about it, he pulls England into an embrace; “I'm so sorry...” he whispers, but England looks hysterical again, and shoves him away.
America falls back and looks at England with shock. “They're broken him completely.” France explains, his brow furrowing. Even if England has always been his rival, he can't help, but feel pity. He's always been a very head strong person and brave and now look at him.
His body is scarred all over, and his mind is even worse off if England can't even handle a little human contact. “Did they... rape him?” America asks as England still trembles, and France nods; “Probably. They've probably done it... in the crueler way, if he's left like this.”
The blond, young Nation looks down. As America, he's always had days where he just wants to beat himself up. The feeling is strong now, and all he wants to do is find Russia and kill him until he's dead and never gonna rise again, and drag the bastard down to hell for doing this... Doing this to England, damn that fucking bastard, he's going to kill him, he's going to kill him that Russia's going to regret ever doing this, and before he knows it, he's walking out of the jail cell with France's pistol in hand.
Russia, damn it, you're going to get this, I'm not letting you go, I'm going to make sure-- “America!” France grabs his shoulder, and America's broken out of his thoughts and all he sees is France's face, and, “Russia can wait for later. For now, I need you to help me get England out of here.”
America pauses; as much as he just wants to find Russia and give him Hell, no, no, worse then Hell, he can't now. His priority needs to lie with England.
“... All right, but... how? He doesn't even want us near him, but I don't think he can walk on his own...” America replies, and France nods; “Exactly, and in his mental state, convincing may just make things worse... so, America, I want you to knock him out. A hit to the back of the neck should leave him unconscious.”
“Knock him out?! You can't be serious, France!” America answers in defiance, but France shakes his head, “It's the only way for now. I don't know if anyone else is in here, and if there is, we're lucky no one's caught us yet. If he makes a fuss, we might get into some trouble.” He explains, and America turns his face to England.
So vulnerable and so weak... It breaks America's heart. I... I have to. I can't leave him here... America thinks, and walks over to England. He grasps his wrist and England can remember.
“What's your name?” France asks, standing and gazing down on England. He says something, but France hears a mumble of words, and re-asses his question.
“D-Don't know... Said I don't have one...” France narrows his eyes. So Russia's gone as far as to leave England completely name-less, “Do you know who I am? Or that guy over there?” England shakes his head.
“... Do you remember what they did to you?” France asks, and England flinches. His eyes hit the ground and a stream of explanations leave his mouth, but they are so slow and fast that France can't understand a single thing, and neither can America.
England's voice gradually grew louder, “They told me I wasn't who I was, I'm worthless, they'd come in here everyday with sharp objects and guns and they were loud and I was bleeding and then they'd grab my shirt and pants,” he clutches his head and his eyes grow wide and he can't stop the memories and France nearly topples over when America shoves him aside and dives to England's side.
“And they're coming, you're one of them aren't you? You're going to come here and you're going to beat me and do those horrible things and I'm going to die and--”
“England, stop! We're not here to hurt you! Calm down!” America shouts with a voice coated in worry, distress... pain, France notes. His hands are on England's bare shoulders, and his ramblings come to a miserable end, and America narrows his eyes. Without another thought about it, he pulls England into an embrace; “I'm so sorry...” he whispers, but England looks hysterical again, and shoves him away.
America falls back and looks at England with shock. “They're broken him completely.” France explains, his brow furrowing. Even if England has always been his rival, he can't help, but feel pity. He's always been a very head strong person and brave and now look at him.
His body is scarred all over, and his mind is even worse off if England can't even handle a little human contact. “Did they... rape him?” America asks as England still trembles, and France nods; “Probably. They've probably done it... in the crueler way, if he's left like this.”
The blond, young Nation looks down. As America, he's always had days where he just wants to beat himself up. The feeling is strong now, and all he wants to do is find Russia and kill him until he's dead and never gonna rise again, and drag the bastard down to hell for doing this... Doing this to England, damn that fucking bastard, he's going to kill him, he's going to kill him that Russia's going to regret ever doing this, and before he knows it, he's walking out of the jail cell with France's pistol in hand.
Russia, damn it, you're going to get this, I'm not letting you go, I'm going to make sure-- “America!” France grabs his shoulder, and America's broken out of his thoughts and all he sees is France's face, and, “Russia can wait for later. For now, I need you to help me get England out of here.”
America pauses; as much as he just wants to find Russia and give him Hell, no, no, worse then Hell, he can't now. His priority needs to lie with England.
“... All right, but... how? He doesn't even want us near him, but I don't think he can walk on his own...” America replies, and France nods; “Exactly, and in his mental state, convincing may just make things worse... so, America, I want you to knock him out. A hit to the back of the neck should leave him unconscious.”
“Knock him out?! You can't be serious, France!” America answers in defiance, but France shakes his head, “It's the only way for now. I don't know if anyone else is in here, and if there is, we're lucky no one's caught us yet. If he makes a fuss, we might get into some trouble.” He explains, and America turns his face to England.
So vulnerable and so weak... It breaks America's heart. I... I have to. I can't leave him here... America thinks, and walks over to England. He grasps his wrist and England can remember.
Englaaaaaand. ;^; Don't worry America will take care of you!
Oui, oui! ;AAAA; pffsht I can't wait to get to the fluff part in this fic, which is indeed America taking care of England~~
They would grab his wrist and they'd pull him up, fingers trace over his bare chest before they'd slam him against the wall and it'd hurt so much, he couldn't do anything, and America painfully ignores England's struggles to be free, his screaming, it's so loud and it's like they're cutting him up inside out and he pulls England to his chest. His free hand folds into a straight line and it hits his neck without a sound, and England isn't awake anymore.
“Job well done, America. Now let's get going.” France adds, stoic, unlike his normal self. He... he knew England would be hurt, but this was beyond what he ever thought he'd see. His rival... his rival was by near, dead inside, or maybe already gone. France couldn't tell at England in this state.
America nods, and he takes the keys in his hand and unlocks the shackles. He picks up England, slipping his arms under his neck and knees protectively. He's... he's so light... America thinks, and all of a sudden, he feels like his knees will buckle any moment and he's going to start crying because, damn it, damn it all to Hell, he couldn't protect England. He loves him, has loved him for so long, longer then he's loved anyone and likes to think it's longer then anyone has loved someone and here England is, beaten and traumatized because America failed to be a damn hero.
What was his title worth if he can't even protect the person he loves most in the world?
France exits the cell and America follows after, France cautiously making his way forward with his pistol protectively in his hand.
The place was truly empty though, because the trio managed to make it outside without much trouble at all. The sun is setting, but the darkness has left France and America wincing as they adjust to the light, and struggle to the helicopter; “I'll pilot this time.” France says, and America doesn't reply, but France knows America would rather be holding England.
In minutes, the plane was buzzing in the air; “Let's bring him to your vacation house in Virginia for now, okay? I highly doubt letting his higher-ups see him like this will be a good idea anyway.” France explains, and America nods. Even if France doesn't say it, America knows it's also because... well, they honestly don't know whether England will heal, or rather, if he can.
They're in the air, and America's honestly always loved it up there. It's vast and beautiful colors; right now, it's purple and orange and yellow like America's hair, but the sky holds no comfort today, because he can't feel happy when England is in his arms.
England, whose eyes showed a void when they found him, who was scared when America touched his cheek, who... who didn't know who he was, who America was, who France was. Everything was a blur to England and it made America's heart break.
His gloved hand runs through England's tangled hair, and he comes to notice, and his eyes narrow; dry blood coats his sandy blond hair, which isn't so much blond anymore. It's so pale that it's almost like Prussia's white hair, and America remembers the urge to kill Russia, but he knows. France's words ring in his head, Russia is not his priority, England is.
“... Do you think you can heal him?” France asks, but America doesn't reply, because... he's always the hero, he can do anything, he's got no faults, but, to be honest... he really doesn't know anymore.
[A/N: orz, ANY TALES FANS OUT THERE? Cause that quote, "
What was his title worth if he can't even protect the person he loves most in the world?" is pretty much jacked off one of the Tales Of games~~ Though I admit, I honestly don't know which game it's from. Memory escapes me. I think it's Lloyd who said it, but. idk. ;A;''' ]
“Job well done, America. Now let's get going.” France adds, stoic, unlike his normal self. He... he knew England would be hurt, but this was beyond what he ever thought he'd see. His rival... his rival was by near, dead inside, or maybe already gone. France couldn't tell at England in this state.
America nods, and he takes the keys in his hand and unlocks the shackles. He picks up England, slipping his arms under his neck and knees protectively. He's... he's so light... America thinks, and all of a sudden, he feels like his knees will buckle any moment and he's going to start crying because, damn it, damn it all to Hell, he couldn't protect England. He loves him, has loved him for so long, longer then he's loved anyone and likes to think it's longer then anyone has loved someone and here England is, beaten and traumatized because America failed to be a damn hero.
What was his title worth if he can't even protect the person he loves most in the world?
France exits the cell and America follows after, France cautiously making his way forward with his pistol protectively in his hand.
The place was truly empty though, because the trio managed to make it outside without much trouble at all. The sun is setting, but the darkness has left France and America wincing as they adjust to the light, and struggle to the helicopter; “I'll pilot this time.” France says, and America doesn't reply, but France knows America would rather be holding England.
In minutes, the plane was buzzing in the air; “Let's bring him to your vacation house in Virginia for now, okay? I highly doubt letting his higher-ups see him like this will be a good idea anyway.” France explains, and America nods. Even if France doesn't say it, America knows it's also because... well, they honestly don't know whether England will heal, or rather, if he can.
They're in the air, and America's honestly always loved it up there. It's vast and beautiful colors; right now, it's purple and orange and yellow like America's hair, but the sky holds no comfort today, because he can't feel happy when England is in his arms.
England, whose eyes showed a void when they found him, who was scared when America touched his cheek, who... who didn't know who he was, who America was, who France was. Everything was a blur to England and it made America's heart break.
His gloved hand runs through England's tangled hair, and he comes to notice, and his eyes narrow; dry blood coats his sandy blond hair, which isn't so much blond anymore. It's so pale that it's almost like Prussia's white hair, and America remembers the urge to kill Russia, but he knows. France's words ring in his head, Russia is not his priority, England is.
“... Do you think you can heal him?” France asks, but America doesn't reply, because... he's always the hero, he can do anything, he's got no faults, but, to be honest... he really doesn't know anymore.
[A/N: orz, ANY TALES FANS OUT THERE? Cause that quote, "
What was his title worth if he can't even protect the person he loves most in the world?" is pretty much jacked off one of the Tales Of games~~ Though I admit, I honestly don't know which game it's from. Memory escapes me. I think it's Lloyd who said it, but. idk. ;A;''' ]
They made it out safely! I don't think I could've taken it if something else bad would've happened. @A@
England is still asleep. He must have been really tired, America figures, so he lets him sleep in his vacation house.
“I... I really don't want to think about what they could have done to him- aru.” China says as he sits on the couch across from America. He was called over by the young nation and France to check up on England, since they couldn't exactly leave him in a hospital. He'd probably wind up locked up that way, in the hospital, and America didn't want to think what would happen.
“It's that bad?” France asks, and China nods; “This is only the physical condition too. I have no idea what's become of his mind- aru.”
“We don't know much either, to be honest. He's scared of physical contact though.” France adds, and China ponders for a moment, and gives his answer.
“He looks like he's been abused, physically and sexually. I don't want to go into detail about how bad, but I can tell you that it's definitely enough to leave him scared of others- aru,” China begins to explain, “It's trauma, I'd say. He's been surrounded by people who've been hurting him, and it's probably gotten to the point where to him, everyone is the same, and they're all trying to hurt him- aru.”
“... Is he... going to be okay?” America asks with an unsteady voice. The answer scares him, what if it's a no? What if there's no hope for England and that nation's personification is gone down an insane road forever, and no matter how many times America calls for him to come back, he won't...
China pauses, and a silence fills the room. His eyes are conflicted, but he speaks, because China knows; keeping an answer from someone is no better then saying it at all, “I don't know yet. I haven't seen enough, but... if I had to give you a yes or no answer, I'd say no- aru.”
America's hope fell, but inside he laughs dryly. He figured it'd be no, but he still held onto that scrimmage of hope. That small bit that prayed it'd be okay, he could help England, he'd heal him, he'd be the hero...
“I can take him if you want. I could see if there's anyone in my country who knows what to do- aru...” China explains, but... but America's hands ball into fists as they grip his pants; “... Don't. I'm... I'm going to be the one to heal him. I'll help him.”
“... Are you sure? It's going to be hard, and it might not work- aru.” China warns him, and America nods. His decision is firm and he knows, he loves England and if he couldn't save him then, the least he could do was try now.
[A/N: Anon fails for forgetting to make the subject for Part 3 to be 'Hold Me Close [3/?]' SORRY GAIZ LOL;;;.]
“I... I really don't want to think about what they could have done to him- aru.” China says as he sits on the couch across from America. He was called over by the young nation and France to check up on England, since they couldn't exactly leave him in a hospital. He'd probably wind up locked up that way, in the hospital, and America didn't want to think what would happen.
“It's that bad?” France asks, and China nods; “This is only the physical condition too. I have no idea what's become of his mind- aru.”
“We don't know much either, to be honest. He's scared of physical contact though.” France adds, and China ponders for a moment, and gives his answer.
“He looks like he's been abused, physically and sexually. I don't want to go into detail about how bad, but I can tell you that it's definitely enough to leave him scared of others- aru,” China begins to explain, “It's trauma, I'd say. He's been surrounded by people who've been hurting him, and it's probably gotten to the point where to him, everyone is the same, and they're all trying to hurt him- aru.”
“... Is he... going to be okay?” America asks with an unsteady voice. The answer scares him, what if it's a no? What if there's no hope for England and that nation's personification is gone down an insane road forever, and no matter how many times America calls for him to come back, he won't...
China pauses, and a silence fills the room. His eyes are conflicted, but he speaks, because China knows; keeping an answer from someone is no better then saying it at all, “I don't know yet. I haven't seen enough, but... if I had to give you a yes or no answer, I'd say no- aru.”
America's hope fell, but inside he laughs dryly. He figured it'd be no, but he still held onto that scrimmage of hope. That small bit that prayed it'd be okay, he could help England, he'd heal him, he'd be the hero...
“I can take him if you want. I could see if there's anyone in my country who knows what to do- aru...” China explains, but... but America's hands ball into fists as they grip his pants; “... Don't. I'm... I'm going to be the one to heal him. I'll help him.”
“... Are you sure? It's going to be hard, and it might not work- aru.” China warns him, and America nods. His decision is firm and he knows, he loves England and if he couldn't save him then, the least he could do was try now.
[A/N: Anon fails for forgetting to make the subject for Part 3 to be 'Hold Me Close [3/?]' SORRY GAIZ LOL;;;.]
China! So cute~ (t-the "aru"... OwO)
Yes America! Give him all the love he can get.
Yes America! Give him all the love he can get.
Thank you!~~ <3 tbh I was worried that'd take the serious-ness out of China. -shot-
YES! Hohoho, part 6 is where the love begins, my friend~
YES! Hohoho, part 6 is where the love begins, my friend~
It's morning and the sky is clear, the sun is bright, but... it does not help America, because if it can not heal England, then it isn't good enough.
He's sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and the newspaper. He called in a few days ago, to the White House. He can't make it back due to some emergencies, so he's going to be a few days late. They let him off the hook, thank God.
America sighs; “Even if I said I'd take care of him... I have no idea where to start... First off, what can I do when I have to go back to Washington anyway?” He can't bring England, but he most certainly can't just leave him here on his own.
Then there's Russia... America had to control himself, so his grip on the coffee mug's handle didn't cause the glass to shatter. Knowing him, he might come back to fetch England, and if America wants to do anything, he'd like to invite Russia over for the sole purpose of punching him in the face, but he's got to take care of England for now.
“Is he even up yet?” America quietly asks himself, and he abandons the breakfast on the table (buttered toast, sausages, eggs, and of course, tea, just the way England always liked it.) and walks down the hall into the guest room.
It was a beauty, really, like a painting. The windows sail high, covered by thin, white curtains that let in a dull glimmer of sunlight through the fabric. The room was generally large, but empty. It has a dresser and closet, with a mirror, one large bed and a nightstand.
America strides over to the large, white bed, with a single person sleeping on it, and that is England. His body is still coated in old blood, mixed with the white bandages wrapped around him, on his wounds. The white bed is stained with blotches of red when America laid England down there the first time, but he doesn't really care.
His hands run through that dry hair and... no one was around, he knew it, and America begins to cry. His hand, once in England's hair, was slips behind his glasses and on his eyes as he cries. He honestly didn't cry all night, made himself stay strong, but you know, facades only last so long.
England... England, he loves him, loves him as much as he loves himself and his country, he's important, the most important person in America's life... and here he is.
He's in blood, he's dying inside, he's not England anymore... and it hurts America more then a shot to his heart would.
America knows, he'd give anything to everything if they'd switch him with England. They'd turn back time and America would be captured instead of England... it's fine, it really is, as long as England's healthy and happy, it's okay. Love just extends to so many lengths, and this is one of them.
He hears a groan from below, and wipes his bleary eyes, and looks down, and there is England, waking up. Slowly, but surely, he's alive, and America pushes back the urge to embrace him, talk about how worried he was...
[A/N: I SWEAR THINGS SHOULD GET MORE INTERESTING SOON.]
He's sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and the newspaper. He called in a few days ago, to the White House. He can't make it back due to some emergencies, so he's going to be a few days late. They let him off the hook, thank God.
America sighs; “Even if I said I'd take care of him... I have no idea where to start... First off, what can I do when I have to go back to Washington anyway?” He can't bring England, but he most certainly can't just leave him here on his own.
Then there's Russia... America had to control himself, so his grip on the coffee mug's handle didn't cause the glass to shatter. Knowing him, he might come back to fetch England, and if America wants to do anything, he'd like to invite Russia over for the sole purpose of punching him in the face, but he's got to take care of England for now.
“Is he even up yet?” America quietly asks himself, and he abandons the breakfast on the table (buttered toast, sausages, eggs, and of course, tea, just the way England always liked it.) and walks down the hall into the guest room.
It was a beauty, really, like a painting. The windows sail high, covered by thin, white curtains that let in a dull glimmer of sunlight through the fabric. The room was generally large, but empty. It has a dresser and closet, with a mirror, one large bed and a nightstand.
America strides over to the large, white bed, with a single person sleeping on it, and that is England. His body is still coated in old blood, mixed with the white bandages wrapped around him, on his wounds. The white bed is stained with blotches of red when America laid England down there the first time, but he doesn't really care.
His hands run through that dry hair and... no one was around, he knew it, and America begins to cry. His hand, once in England's hair, was slips behind his glasses and on his eyes as he cries. He honestly didn't cry all night, made himself stay strong, but you know, facades only last so long.
England... England, he loves him, loves him as much as he loves himself and his country, he's important, the most important person in America's life... and here he is.
He's in blood, he's dying inside, he's not England anymore... and it hurts America more then a shot to his heart would.
America knows, he'd give anything to everything if they'd switch him with England. They'd turn back time and America would be captured instead of England... it's fine, it really is, as long as England's healthy and happy, it's okay. Love just extends to so many lengths, and this is one of them.
He hears a groan from below, and wipes his bleary eyes, and looks down, and there is England, waking up. Slowly, but surely, he's alive, and America pushes back the urge to embrace him, talk about how worried he was...
[A/N: I SWEAR THINGS SHOULD GET MORE INTERESTING SOON.]
*cries* Americaaaaa. ;^;
J-just stay strong! Your love will conquer all!!! (≧ロ≦)
J-just stay strong! Your love will conquer all!!! (≧ロ≦)
This...This is so sad and sweet and oh America, you darling hero you. And France. And China. A-And...England, oh poor little baby, everything will (hopefully) be okay... (I'm going to have to stalk this thread now anon.)
England says nothing, but when he looks at America, all of a sudden the world moves fast, and America realizes England's on the other side of the bed, and he looks like he's about run out through the window.
“Hold on, England! Stop! I'm not here to hurt you!” He shouts in a desperate voice, and England pauses, his body remains tense though.
“Look, I'm not here to harm you, okay? I'm here to help you. I'm not allied with Russia or anything like that, so chill out... I know I knocked you out and all, but it was just so we could get you to come here, so trust me on this, okay?” America explains slowly, but England still looks at him wary... no, not wary. He looks at America with a terrified expression, because all he thinks is that America is another bad person, another person out to make him more miserable then he already was...
He can't trust this man! He knocked him out, so England does the most natural thing; he runs straight past America and out the door. He's gotta get out of here, find someone, find someone he can depend on, but... but he can't recall anyone, who can he depend on?
He doesn't even know his own name...
“England, stop, damn it!” America's voice grows closer, and England's been deprived for days, he's shocked he can even run, but not outrun the American behind him. All of a sudden, they grab his arm and England knows, oh God, they're going to kill him, he always hears from people in other cells; “If you try and run, they're going to kill you, slow and painful,” oh God, this guy's going to kill him, he's never going even find out what his name is. Freedom was so close, so close, England wishes--
America embraces him instead. His arms around England's smaller frame, and England does the natural thing to him; he tries to push America away, he's terrified, this must be a trick, they're going to kill him, it's just a false hope, it's nothing good.
“Please believe in me.” America says, and England stops. To be honest, he isn't sure what to do. All he's known for months now is the horrifying world where they've taken him. They cut him with knives, slammed him against the walls and floors, raped him, blindfolded him and told him he's not whatever his name was, that there's no such thing as kindness and it's all a lie...
England hasn't seen compassion in months. He's forgotten what it was. He's forgotten how you feel when someone is compassionate towards you... so he keeps his face stoic, he doesn't react when America's arms get tighter and he starts to weep a little.
It stays like that for a few moments, and the only sound in the hallway is America's quiet sobbing. Then he lets go; “Sorry... You're probably feeling dirty. You can take a shower if you want...” He says, wiping his tears.
Inside somewhere, he's broken inside that England doesn't hug him back, that England really has been torn apart inside and out, so much that it's unimaginable.
America steps a good distance away; “It's right down the hall. Don't take too long! I have food waiting for you in the dining room!” He says, smiling again, and England simply nods. America nods and walks down the hall, back to the dining room, and England heads down to the bathroom.
[A/N: >A<;; Author!Anon hopes you're enjoying this, since it's starting to stray from what I originally planned, orz;;;. And. idk. this one... sort of bugs me anyway. I feel like I'm rushing it. -sobbbb- ]
“Hold on, England! Stop! I'm not here to hurt you!” He shouts in a desperate voice, and England pauses, his body remains tense though.
“Look, I'm not here to harm you, okay? I'm here to help you. I'm not allied with Russia or anything like that, so chill out... I know I knocked you out and all, but it was just so we could get you to come here, so trust me on this, okay?” America explains slowly, but England still looks at him wary... no, not wary. He looks at America with a terrified expression, because all he thinks is that America is another bad person, another person out to make him more miserable then he already was...
He can't trust this man! He knocked him out, so England does the most natural thing; he runs straight past America and out the door. He's gotta get out of here, find someone, find someone he can depend on, but... but he can't recall anyone, who can he depend on?
He doesn't even know his own name...
“England, stop, damn it!” America's voice grows closer, and England's been deprived for days, he's shocked he can even run, but not outrun the American behind him. All of a sudden, they grab his arm and England knows, oh God, they're going to kill him, he always hears from people in other cells; “If you try and run, they're going to kill you, slow and painful,” oh God, this guy's going to kill him, he's never going even find out what his name is. Freedom was so close, so close, England wishes--
America embraces him instead. His arms around England's smaller frame, and England does the natural thing to him; he tries to push America away, he's terrified, this must be a trick, they're going to kill him, it's just a false hope, it's nothing good.
“Please believe in me.” America says, and England stops. To be honest, he isn't sure what to do. All he's known for months now is the horrifying world where they've taken him. They cut him with knives, slammed him against the walls and floors, raped him, blindfolded him and told him he's not whatever his name was, that there's no such thing as kindness and it's all a lie...
England hasn't seen compassion in months. He's forgotten what it was. He's forgotten how you feel when someone is compassionate towards you... so he keeps his face stoic, he doesn't react when America's arms get tighter and he starts to weep a little.
It stays like that for a few moments, and the only sound in the hallway is America's quiet sobbing. Then he lets go; “Sorry... You're probably feeling dirty. You can take a shower if you want...” He says, wiping his tears.
Inside somewhere, he's broken inside that England doesn't hug him back, that England really has been torn apart inside and out, so much that it's unimaginable.
America steps a good distance away; “It's right down the hall. Don't take too long! I have food waiting for you in the dining room!” He says, smiling again, and England simply nods. America nods and walks down the hall, back to the dining room, and England heads down to the bathroom.
[A/N: >A<;; Author!Anon hopes you're enjoying this, since it's starting to stray from what I originally planned, orz;;;. And. idk. this one... sort of bugs me anyway. I feel like I'm rushing it. -sobbbb- ]
England is awake! *sniffle* He reminds me of a wounded puppy. America, you're slowly getting through to him! Keep it up~
Oh god, I can't wait for the rest of this! *sob* Poor England! I'm going to stalk this for a while (must see it through to the end).
America sits and wonders; “Is England still afraid of physical contact?” He asks himself. He just hugged him and the guy stopped squirming and pushing him away, but... America could tell, something in him is still scared. He doesn't want to be touched by anyone.
He doesn't seem to trust him either. Then again, it's only been one day, America isn't expecting much progress. He sighs and shakes his head. For now, I should just work on getting England's name back in his head and his body back in shape. He's like stick and bones, no joke... America plans. Maybe he should ask China just in case.
Speaking of China, he's gotta tell China about England's progress, “Call me when he wakes up and what happens... aru.” America imitates him, even to the point of his suffix.
The young nation pulls out his phone, dials the numbers, and puts it to his ear; “C'mon, China, pick up, pick up- aru,” America mumbles, mocking China's suffix again and the other end picks up, “Hello- aru?” America brightens up a bit, “Hey China- aru! … Wait, what?” China had the nerve to hang up.
“Make this quick- aru.” China grumbles, and America laughs nervously; “Chill out, man. Anyway, going on to the more serious subject, England woke up.”
China pauses for a moment, and replies; “What did he do?”
America looks away, and gulps before he speaks, and he explains the situation the best he can; “But... I don't think he trusts me, still.”
“It figures he wouldn't- aru. I'm not a real doctor, so I don't know how to go about this case. For now, just be nice and give him what he's looking for. Try to give him things he likes too- aru.” China explains, and America replies, “Right, thanks.” And they hang up.
England walks in then, with a fresh change of clothes. He's in a black hoodie with too long sleeves and even more too long sweat pants. I know I lent him those since he has nothing else to wear, but he looks so cute...! America gazes at him, mulling over how he'd look in bed, while America's busy taking off those clothes and how--
He's afraid of physical contact.
“... I suck.” America mumbles to himself and buries his face in his hands. England stares at him peculiarly; what the hell's he going on about?
“S-Sorry!” America hops out of his slump in an instant. “You're probably hungry! Come on, sit and eat!” America pushes the plate full of food towards England, “It might have gotten cold though. Jeez, you take so long in the shower!”
England flinches, “I'm sorry,” he says, and there are creases on his forehead, and America suppresses a frown; “Nothing to apologize about! Dig in!” America says cheerfully, and England looks up at him, unsure. He didn't understand where this boundless amount of energy and forgivingness all came from... they were never like this back at the prison... he can recall when they'd feed him, it was horrifying, really. They'd literally push the food into his throat... He... he can remember the drugs too, pills, and all the needles and...
America stands up; “England, are you okay?” He asks, and England takes a step back. Is the food drugged? He's not going to be tricked; he takes another step back.
“England, calm down! It's just food, there's nothing out there to get you!” He explains, trying to keep his voice low, but it was still somewhat of a shout.
“Y-You're lying! You're going to drug me and rape me and drag me back to the prison and then they're going to... they're going to...” England's voice hits a whisper and he clutches his head again, and the memories flood back and sting him and he hates it, and someone help him, that's all he wants, but he can't tell who wants to help and who wants to hurt him in the long run.
[A/N: Thank you guys for the support so far~~ Much love to you two!]
He doesn't seem to trust him either. Then again, it's only been one day, America isn't expecting much progress. He sighs and shakes his head. For now, I should just work on getting England's name back in his head and his body back in shape. He's like stick and bones, no joke... America plans. Maybe he should ask China just in case.
Speaking of China, he's gotta tell China about England's progress, “Call me when he wakes up and what happens... aru.” America imitates him, even to the point of his suffix.
The young nation pulls out his phone, dials the numbers, and puts it to his ear; “C'mon, China, pick up, pick up- aru,” America mumbles, mocking China's suffix again and the other end picks up, “Hello- aru?” America brightens up a bit, “Hey China- aru! … Wait, what?” China had the nerve to hang up.
“Make this quick- aru.” China grumbles, and America laughs nervously; “Chill out, man. Anyway, going on to the more serious subject, England woke up.”
China pauses for a moment, and replies; “What did he do?”
America looks away, and gulps before he speaks, and he explains the situation the best he can; “But... I don't think he trusts me, still.”
“It figures he wouldn't- aru. I'm not a real doctor, so I don't know how to go about this case. For now, just be nice and give him what he's looking for. Try to give him things he likes too- aru.” China explains, and America replies, “Right, thanks.” And they hang up.
England walks in then, with a fresh change of clothes. He's in a black hoodie with too long sleeves and even more too long sweat pants. I know I lent him those since he has nothing else to wear, but he looks so cute...! America gazes at him, mulling over how he'd look in bed, while America's busy taking off those clothes and how--
He's afraid of physical contact.
“... I suck.” America mumbles to himself and buries his face in his hands. England stares at him peculiarly; what the hell's he going on about?
“S-Sorry!” America hops out of his slump in an instant. “You're probably hungry! Come on, sit and eat!” America pushes the plate full of food towards England, “It might have gotten cold though. Jeez, you take so long in the shower!”
England flinches, “I'm sorry,” he says, and there are creases on his forehead, and America suppresses a frown; “Nothing to apologize about! Dig in!” America says cheerfully, and England looks up at him, unsure. He didn't understand where this boundless amount of energy and forgivingness all came from... they were never like this back at the prison... he can recall when they'd feed him, it was horrifying, really. They'd literally push the food into his throat... He... he can remember the drugs too, pills, and all the needles and...
America stands up; “England, are you okay?” He asks, and England takes a step back. Is the food drugged? He's not going to be tricked; he takes another step back.
“England, calm down! It's just food, there's nothing out there to get you!” He explains, trying to keep his voice low, but it was still somewhat of a shout.
“Y-You're lying! You're going to drug me and rape me and drag me back to the prison and then they're going to... they're going to...” England's voice hits a whisper and he clutches his head again, and the memories flood back and sting him and he hates it, and someone help him, that's all he wants, but he can't tell who wants to help and who wants to hurt him in the long run.
[A/N: Thank you guys for the support so far~~ Much love to you two!]
Woo~ Doctor!China
The image of England in over-sized clothes is so adorable!
Oh god, poor England. :[ They even drugged him! As much as I love Russia... I want to slap him right now.
The image of England in over-sized clothes is so adorable!
Oh god, poor England. :[ They even drugged him! As much as I love Russia... I want to slap him right now.
LOL, yes~~ tbh I was gonna use South Korea and Japan too, but I figured China himself was enough.
YESSSS. I personally have a fetish for ukes in oversized clothes cause it's so cute, so I had too. ;A;''
LOL, I felt bad for putting Russia in such a bad light, but I couldn't resist. It is hurt and comfort~~ -shot-
YESSSS. I personally have a fetish for ukes in oversized clothes cause it's so cute, so I had too. ;A;''
LOL, I felt bad for putting Russia in such a bad light, but I couldn't resist. It is hurt and comfort~~ -shot-
Haha I love it when the ukes are in their seme's huge over-sized clothes too. 8D I just want to hug and squish them. ♥
Well, the story does need a bad guy. xD
Well, the story does need a bad guy. xD
Oh Gosh, I just had to comment on the oversized clothes thing because I'm so happy that you have that fetish too. I'm such a sucker for ukes in clothes that are far too big for them (and preferably belong to their semes...XD). Gah. England would be too cute dressed like that...
It's amazing how you can turn it so quickly from being funny (Oh, god, America...Mocking China? Lol, my dumb country) to serious (oh god, must hug England! Awwww) again...
America turns and he picks up the toast. Quickly, he takes a small bite out of and drops it onto the plate, and his hands go for the other parts of the breakfast as well, all know having a small bite taken out of, and then a swig of tea; “There! I even took a bite myself! They're fine, England.” America huffs and crosses his arms.
England narrows his eyes, but... it's food, and truth be told, he's starving, and... well, the man's not going to eat poison, so... England stands, and he moves to the chair. America goes back to his, and England sits, beginning to eat.
“Do you like it?” America asks, cheery in voice. England looks down, but nods, and America's smile grows wider; “Great! Do you want this again tomorrow, or do you want me to try making something different?” England pauses.
“You're making this... tomorrow to? For me?” He asks, and the words sound as if they'd be happily curious, but they sound like a simple question, which England's voice still empty. America nods; “Of course! I'm taking care of you now, so I got to do a good job!” For humor's sake, he wanted to add that China and France will come beat him up other wise, but England would probably take that the wrong way.
England isn't sure what to say. Why is this guy being so nice anyway? It feels so familiar, but he doesn't know, “... I'll... have the same thing. Thank you.” England says, and America frowns inside. He knows he isn't expecting results right now, but he thought he'd gained a smidgen of England's trust, but his voice sounds like England still thinks he has to be polite and good-willed, or else he's going to get hurt.
England, I'd never hurt you. America thinks, but he wants to say it out loud; it'd probably throw England into a fit of distrust again, so he stays quiet.
“Are you sure?” America asks, and England nods. Figures; England is just scared of asking for something else because he's worried he's going to get hit for being spoiled.
“All right! Then after this, we'll have an important lesson, so be ready, okay?” America tells him, positive and bright, but England flinches, and America knows he's thinking of some sort of horrifying and traumatizing lesson instead of something simple as England's identity.
“Don't worry, it's nothing bad. You said so yourself; you don't know who you are! I'm going to help you remember!” America explains, and England looks up at him, his eyes... just a little less dull. Just a little, and America's soaring. England nods, and sips the last of his tea. He ate pretty fast, America notes, and with a smile; “Do you want more?”
“... N-No, thank you...” England sputters out, and America pouts. He's probably lying and he's probably still hungry, “Are you sure? I have plenty of food! You can eat all you want! It's really okay.”
England shakes his head, and he stands. His plate in his hands with the tea cup balancing carefully on it, and he heads into the kitchen. Oh well, America figures he can just make England eat once his stomach winds up growling again. How can he be in that state and have one plate fill him completely?
The older nation headed to the sink to wash his dishes; “Hey, I can do it for you if you want.” America calls from the dining room, but England, busy looking around, has his eyes fixated on one object, so much that he doesn't reply. It's a knife; there's a knife piled with the utensils.
It's sharp, and all of a sudden, England can see the blood on it, his blood, his reflection, he can see Russia, he can remember his screams and he can recall it all and the plate falls from his hands and shatters and England is brought out of his horrific reverie with the sound and America runs in.
England narrows his eyes, but... it's food, and truth be told, he's starving, and... well, the man's not going to eat poison, so... England stands, and he moves to the chair. America goes back to his, and England sits, beginning to eat.
“Do you like it?” America asks, cheery in voice. England looks down, but nods, and America's smile grows wider; “Great! Do you want this again tomorrow, or do you want me to try making something different?” England pauses.
“You're making this... tomorrow to? For me?” He asks, and the words sound as if they'd be happily curious, but they sound like a simple question, which England's voice still empty. America nods; “Of course! I'm taking care of you now, so I got to do a good job!” For humor's sake, he wanted to add that China and France will come beat him up other wise, but England would probably take that the wrong way.
England isn't sure what to say. Why is this guy being so nice anyway? It feels so familiar, but he doesn't know, “... I'll... have the same thing. Thank you.” England says, and America frowns inside. He knows he isn't expecting results right now, but he thought he'd gained a smidgen of England's trust, but his voice sounds like England still thinks he has to be polite and good-willed, or else he's going to get hurt.
England, I'd never hurt you. America thinks, but he wants to say it out loud; it'd probably throw England into a fit of distrust again, so he stays quiet.
“Are you sure?” America asks, and England nods. Figures; England is just scared of asking for something else because he's worried he's going to get hit for being spoiled.
“All right! Then after this, we'll have an important lesson, so be ready, okay?” America tells him, positive and bright, but England flinches, and America knows he's thinking of some sort of horrifying and traumatizing lesson instead of something simple as England's identity.
“Don't worry, it's nothing bad. You said so yourself; you don't know who you are! I'm going to help you remember!” America explains, and England looks up at him, his eyes... just a little less dull. Just a little, and America's soaring. England nods, and sips the last of his tea. He ate pretty fast, America notes, and with a smile; “Do you want more?”
“... N-No, thank you...” England sputters out, and America pouts. He's probably lying and he's probably still hungry, “Are you sure? I have plenty of food! You can eat all you want! It's really okay.”
England shakes his head, and he stands. His plate in his hands with the tea cup balancing carefully on it, and he heads into the kitchen. Oh well, America figures he can just make England eat once his stomach winds up growling again. How can he be in that state and have one plate fill him completely?
The older nation headed to the sink to wash his dishes; “Hey, I can do it for you if you want.” America calls from the dining room, but England, busy looking around, has his eyes fixated on one object, so much that he doesn't reply. It's a knife; there's a knife piled with the utensils.
It's sharp, and all of a sudden, England can see the blood on it, his blood, his reflection, he can see Russia, he can remember his screams and he can recall it all and the plate falls from his hands and shatters and England is brought out of his horrific reverie with the sound and America runs in.
This is amazing! I am so loving this and cannot wait for you to post more! <3
Thank you so much! <33 I'm glad you're enjoying it, bby~~
He actually ate some food. Yes! America you're getting closer!
Oh no, England having flashbacks. D8
Oh no, England having flashbacks. D8
Those flashbacks are going to get much more frequent. ;A; Just wait till America puts him to sleep tonight.
“England! What happened?!” He asks, and pauses when he sees the china plates, broken and all of the floor; “I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll clean it up now...” England says in a rush, his arm raises as if to defend himself. His voice is meek and he quickly turns and crouches down, the white glass pooling in his hand as he attempts to pick up the sharp pieces, fighting back the images for blood and gore and...
“Come here.” America says, and England, in shock, drops the glass pieces. He turns with haste, almost stepping on a broken piece of the plate, and walks over to America. His head is looking at the ground and he's trembling. America only plans to tell him to wait on the couch, but his urge was so much more stronger when he sees England so weak and small...
England is about to push him away again when his arms are around him again, just like earlier, but America's lips so close to his ear stop him; he can hear whispers of sweet words into his ear, how it's okay and he doesn't need to be afraid, and how America's going to be his hero and Russia won't come after him, and England's arms wrap around America too, and they're embracing and...
America breaks out of his daydream; England still stands before him, shaking, scared, and America wants to cry again, because England was so strong, so great, so tall, so... “England, look at me.” America demands, but not cruelly. It is more of a request and he complies, slowly looking up.
“England, wait on the couch, okay? You can watch TV or something, I'll catch up soon.” America smiles instead, and England looks confused. He expected anger, but this man is smiling. England nods slowly and walks out, to the couch, and sits down. He wants to check the television, but... he's honestly a little scared, so he sits and waits for America.
America is in the kitchen and he's on his knees. In his hand is the larger pieces of broken glass, and he fits not to ball his hands in fists, because his palms will wind up bleeding and while he couldn't give a damn, he has no idea what the sight of blood will stimulate if England sees it.
He has to resist the urges, and sighs. He... he can't rush the things involving emotion; it's not going to do England any good if America flings his feelings at him. It'll just leave his mind spinning and confused and even more worse then he is now.
“England... I'll save you, I promise.” America remarks, and continues picking up the glass scattered all over the ground in his hand.
[A/N: Damn, Author!Anon has never written so much in her life... Well, this is it! Not the end, but it's 11:16 pm here and Author!Anon has yet to do her homework, so... she's. gonna go do that. ;AAA;'' Will continue tmr~~
Sorry for making it so long. I honestly didn't realize it'd be THIS long, orz;;.
I think it end around Part 15 or something, but if OP and commenters enjoy that it's so long, then I can make it even longer~~ I just. don't wanna make it so long you guys get sick of it. >A<'''
Also, Russia making a villainous reappearance = y/n? I made him such a jerk already, I wasn't sure if making his role here even worse would be fun for readers LOL;;;. But if you guys want it like that, I already have stuff planned~~ And no, I do not hate Russia, gaiz. ;A; ]
“Come here.” America says, and England, in shock, drops the glass pieces. He turns with haste, almost stepping on a broken piece of the plate, and walks over to America. His head is looking at the ground and he's trembling. America only plans to tell him to wait on the couch, but his urge was so much more stronger when he sees England so weak and small...
England is about to push him away again when his arms are around him again, just like earlier, but America's lips so close to his ear stop him; he can hear whispers of sweet words into his ear, how it's okay and he doesn't need to be afraid, and how America's going to be his hero and Russia won't come after him, and England's arms wrap around America too, and they're embracing and...
America breaks out of his daydream; England still stands before him, shaking, scared, and America wants to cry again, because England was so strong, so great, so tall, so... “England, look at me.” America demands, but not cruelly. It is more of a request and he complies, slowly looking up.
“England, wait on the couch, okay? You can watch TV or something, I'll catch up soon.” America smiles instead, and England looks confused. He expected anger, but this man is smiling. England nods slowly and walks out, to the couch, and sits down. He wants to check the television, but... he's honestly a little scared, so he sits and waits for America.
America is in the kitchen and he's on his knees. In his hand is the larger pieces of broken glass, and he fits not to ball his hands in fists, because his palms will wind up bleeding and while he couldn't give a damn, he has no idea what the sight of blood will stimulate if England sees it.
He has to resist the urges, and sighs. He... he can't rush the things involving emotion; it's not going to do England any good if America flings his feelings at him. It'll just leave his mind spinning and confused and even more worse then he is now.
“England... I'll save you, I promise.” America remarks, and continues picking up the glass scattered all over the ground in his hand.
[A/N: Damn, Author!Anon has never written so much in her life... Well, this is it! Not the end, but it's 11:16 pm here and Author!Anon has yet to do her homework, so... she's. gonna go do that. ;AAA;'' Will continue tmr~~
Sorry for making it so long. I honestly didn't realize it'd be THIS long, orz;;.
I think it end around Part 15 or something, but if OP and commenters enjoy that it's so long, then I can make it even longer~~ I just. don't wanna make it so long you guys get sick of it. >A<'''
Also, Russia making a villainous reappearance = y/n? I made him such a jerk already, I wasn't sure if making his role here even worse would be fun for readers LOL;;;. But if you guys want it like that, I already have stuff planned~~ And no, I do not hate Russia, gaiz. ;A; ]
I just want to give England a huge hug. Although, I don't think that would be a good idea at this time.
;A; I think we all wanna give England a big hug. I'M SO SORRY FOR DOING THIS TO YOU, ENGLAAAND.
Oh, yes! That's great~~ I don't mind writing lots at all. I really love writing hurt and comfort stuff, and angst, etc. so this is a lot of fun for me~~ I'd love to write a long fic about this. The request is just so cute~~
Russia reappearance looks like it's going down the YES road then~~
Oh, yes! That's great~~ I don't mind writing lots at all. I really love writing hurt and comfort stuff, and angst, etc. so this is a lot of fun for me~~ I'd love to write a long fic about this. The request is just so cute~~
Russia reappearance looks like it's going down the YES road then~~
Anon would totally not object to a Russia reappearance. *nods* And long fics are lovely! And especially if you're going to post around this much all the time, I'd totally love you for it! XD
Good luck with your homework~ This anon is considering filling a HRE/Italy request and may be up a while longer as wellEven though this anon should also be working on homework as well ;A;
Good luck with your homework~ This anon is considering filling a HRE/Italy request and may be up a while longer as well
Yes! Looks like people are wanting Russia reappearance, which is a-okay for me, cause I was looking forward to writing that. -bricked-
And yesss~! That's even better~~ I was actually gonna run around and fill some more US/UK when I have more time, so if possible, you'd probably see some more fics that're long like this one~~ If the request is something you could drag on like this, anyway. :DDD I think you might know who I am if you see my writing again LOL;;;. I personally think I have a peculiar way of writing sometimes. -shot-
Thank you ;AAA; It's not much, but... I tend to be distracted easily, so yeah. D8;;Good luck to both anons here then? ;AAAA;
If time permits, I may write Part 10 tonight too~~ Though I wouldn't count on it. D:
And yesss~! That's even better~~ I was actually gonna run around and fill some more US/UK when I have more time, so if possible, you'd probably see some more fics that're long like this one~~ If the request is something you could drag on like this, anyway. :DDD I think you might know who I am if you see my writing again LOL;;;. I personally think I have a peculiar way of writing sometimes. -shot-
Thank you ;AAA; It's not much, but... I tend to be distracted easily, so yeah. D8;;
If time permits, I may write Part 10 tonight too~~ Though I wouldn't count on it. D:
Oh Anon! If you are willing to write a long story, than I am certain that we are more than willing to read it! And Russia coming in makes me oh so very curious and oh Lord but I want to hug England and I almost cried when I read America's little fantasy about England trusting him enough just to hug him. DX My poor little babies...
Also...This anon would kill to see Canada have a cameo here...Just 'cause I love him and I think it would be interesting but please, if you don't want to put him in, then don't! This anon is just selfishly suggesting it.
Regardless, this story is...gah. Just perfect. I'M GOING TO BE STALKING THE US/UK FILLS NOW TO FIND YOU AGAIN.
Also...This anon would kill to see Canada have a cameo here...Just 'cause I love him and I think it would be interesting but please, if you don't want to put him in, then don't! This anon is just selfishly suggesting it.
Regardless, this story is...gah. Just perfect. I'M GOING TO BE STALKING THE US/UK FILLS NOW TO FIND YOU AGAIN.
so ... so sweet...why did i just find this now!!!!
I LOVE YOU AUTHOR!ANON.
I HAVEN'T READ SUCH A PROMISING STORY IN A LONG TIME. EXCELLENT JOB SO FAR, THIS ANON CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE! I teared up for both America and England!
I HAVEN'T READ SUCH A PROMISING STORY IN A LONG TIME. EXCELLENT JOB SO FAR, THIS ANON CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE! I teared up for both America and England!
I just passed by and found this fic,and read it because its US/UK without see the request....and...when I read it.....Adfsksjsh....oh author anon...this is just..awesome @////@....poor iggy though.and russia re-appearance?DO WANT 8D.
England is sitting, he's waiting on the couch, and peers out the window. The scenery looks different to him; he hasn't seen it in so long, it looks alien to him. All he's even been seeing were the chains, bloody and cold hard floor, white mixed with red. It wasn't exactly a pleasant sight, so England didn't mind the current view, though to be honest in his current state, he probably didn't care where he was.
As long as it didn't involve sharp knives, chains, anything torture method of the sort.
“Hey, England!” The sandy haired nation slowly turns to the source, and it's America; “Enjoying the view? Actually, do you want to go outside?” England doesn't answer. He isn't sure; were they knives out there? Were they going to hurt him?
“I own this house and the area around it, so it's no problem!” America winks as he speaks, “I have a nice little table outside, so we can sit and talk there! Oh, or if you like trees, I have a nice tree from Japan, pretty cherry blossoms...” America muses on where to go, while England watches him blankly.
Trees and tables... it doesn't sound dangerous. The guy looks unarmed too; all he has was a big white T-shirt and blue jeans. England doesn't dispel the thought that he might get killed anyway. Brute force is something very probable, but he does not object.
He's scared of saying his opinion. All he recalls when he says his thoughts are being beaten for it, raped, and before he knows it, he's trembling, his brows furrow and America pauses; “England? Hey, England!” he says, trying to grab his attention.
His hand reaches out to shake his shoulder, but it stops; You can't touch him. It rings in America's head, but what can he do? England's shaking, he needs to grab his attention and... “Look, no one's going to hurt you. If you want, we can just stay inside for today. Maybe we'll go out another day when you want to.”
England's shaking comes to a stop, and he slowly, fearfully looks up; he expects piercing eyes that are really justify the phrase, “Looks can kill,” but soft blue eyes meet his dull green and a warm smile reflects his partly open mouth, and it is nothing like Russia.
“Just sit down and let me talk, okay?” America says, and he walks across the coffee table and onto the couch, directly across from England.
“So, what's your name?” He asks, and England blinks, wary, but does not answer. America says nothing and waits patiently, before he jokingly says, “You know, when someone asks something, you're supposed to answer.”
The words, the words he can understand, “You ungrateful ingrate. When I ask you something, I'm not asking for an answer, I'm demanding one, so out with it,” the words are dripping with venom and hate and the lips which it comes from curl into a smile and they kick his gut and step on his head, and England finds himself flinch at America's words.
The young nation frowns for a moment, but forces a smile for England; “I... I don't have one... sir.” England says meekly, and he's looking down, and America... America shakes his head, he forces his smile again.
“It's okay! I'll give you one then; from now own, your name's Arthur Kirkland, okay?” America announces, and England only nods; he nods because is scared if he says no, or if he questions his new name.
America feels frustrated inside; is he scaring England? The guy's only been agreeing or doing whatever it takes to cause America less trouble... then again, knowing Russia, figures it'd happen; “Also, sir is no! I don't want that special jazz; just call me Alfred, okay?” England nods again.
“... Hey. Are you really okay with your name? With what you're calling me? You know, you could just call me stupid, git, whatever...” But England shakes his head. Last time he called someone something like those, he wound up with a stomach covered in white and his shaking and the pain and they went too fast... and...
America wants to hold England, kiss him, say it's going to be okay... but it's not going to be okay, because America knows he's getting to England's heart just a little, repairing it slowly, but it's working, but... he doesn't know if one day, it'll just fall apart again.
As long as it didn't involve sharp knives, chains, anything torture method of the sort.
“Hey, England!” The sandy haired nation slowly turns to the source, and it's America; “Enjoying the view? Actually, do you want to go outside?” England doesn't answer. He isn't sure; were they knives out there? Were they going to hurt him?
“I own this house and the area around it, so it's no problem!” America winks as he speaks, “I have a nice little table outside, so we can sit and talk there! Oh, or if you like trees, I have a nice tree from Japan, pretty cherry blossoms...” America muses on where to go, while England watches him blankly.
Trees and tables... it doesn't sound dangerous. The guy looks unarmed too; all he has was a big white T-shirt and blue jeans. England doesn't dispel the thought that he might get killed anyway. Brute force is something very probable, but he does not object.
He's scared of saying his opinion. All he recalls when he says his thoughts are being beaten for it, raped, and before he knows it, he's trembling, his brows furrow and America pauses; “England? Hey, England!” he says, trying to grab his attention.
His hand reaches out to shake his shoulder, but it stops; You can't touch him. It rings in America's head, but what can he do? England's shaking, he needs to grab his attention and... “Look, no one's going to hurt you. If you want, we can just stay inside for today. Maybe we'll go out another day when you want to.”
England's shaking comes to a stop, and he slowly, fearfully looks up; he expects piercing eyes that are really justify the phrase, “Looks can kill,” but soft blue eyes meet his dull green and a warm smile reflects his partly open mouth, and it is nothing like Russia.
“Just sit down and let me talk, okay?” America says, and he walks across the coffee table and onto the couch, directly across from England.
“So, what's your name?” He asks, and England blinks, wary, but does not answer. America says nothing and waits patiently, before he jokingly says, “You know, when someone asks something, you're supposed to answer.”
The words, the words he can understand, “You ungrateful ingrate. When I ask you something, I'm not asking for an answer, I'm demanding one, so out with it,” the words are dripping with venom and hate and the lips which it comes from curl into a smile and they kick his gut and step on his head, and England finds himself flinch at America's words.
The young nation frowns for a moment, but forces a smile for England; “I... I don't have one... sir.” England says meekly, and he's looking down, and America... America shakes his head, he forces his smile again.
“It's okay! I'll give you one then; from now own, your name's Arthur Kirkland, okay?” America announces, and England only nods; he nods because is scared if he says no, or if he questions his new name.
America feels frustrated inside; is he scaring England? The guy's only been agreeing or doing whatever it takes to cause America less trouble... then again, knowing Russia, figures it'd happen; “Also, sir is no! I don't want that special jazz; just call me Alfred, okay?” England nods again.
“... Hey. Are you really okay with your name? With what you're calling me? You know, you could just call me stupid, git, whatever...” But England shakes his head. Last time he called someone something like those, he wound up with a stomach covered in white and his shaking and the pain and they went too fast... and...
America wants to hold England, kiss him, say it's going to be okay... but it's not going to be okay, because America knows he's getting to England's heart just a little, repairing it slowly, but it's working, but... he doesn't know if one day, it'll just fall apart again.
[A/N: NOTES HERE CAUSE I FAIL AND DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH SPACE IN THE ABOVE POST. ;AAA;
But thank you gaiz so much. <333 I-I'm so honored you all like it so much LOL;;; I was worried someone might yell at me for not writing well nuff. or something.
Also, I was working on what each installment of this story will be about, and so far. it should be at least 19 parts long, oh God. ;AAA;'' y/n, gaiz? And no, that's not even the endddd.
AND. AND AND. oh crap I forgot what I wanted to sa-- OH YEAH. Sorry for like, filler part here. ;AA; I planned to make this more fluff. but GOD I didn't realize how HARD it is to make fluff when the couple. can't touch each other. -sobbbbb- Hopefully I'll have more installments with snuggle fluff when I get England to stop being. so paranoid. >A<'''
Also, curious, gaiz, I'm only considering it, but some future smexy tiem = y/n? I thought it might be interesting since here's England, having gotten raped, and he's gonna wind up having smut time with America, hahaha;;;.
and tbh. idk about you. but. I ALWAYS LOVE SMUT TIME HAHAHA;;;. yes i fail.
oh my, this was long. :DD]
But thank you gaiz so much. <333 I-I'm so honored you all like it so much LOL;;; I was worried someone might yell at me for not writing well nuff. or something.
Also, I was working on what each installment of this story will be about, and so far. it should be at least 19 parts long, oh God. ;AAA;'' y/n, gaiz? And no, that's not even the endddd.
AND. AND AND. oh crap I forgot what I wanted to sa-- OH YEAH. Sorry for like, filler part here. ;AA; I planned to make this more fluff. but GOD I didn't realize how HARD it is to make fluff when the couple. can't touch each other. -sobbbbb- Hopefully I'll have more installments with snuggle fluff when I get England to stop being. so paranoid. >A<'''
Also, curious, gaiz, I'm only considering it, but some future smexy tiem = y/n? I thought it might be interesting since here's England, having gotten raped, and he's gonna wind up having smut time with America, hahaha;;;.
and tbh. idk about you. but. I ALWAYS LOVE SMUT TIME HAHAHA;;;. yes i fail.
oh my, this was long. :DD]
God, there is so many things that reminds England of what happened. :[
Dammit. Hug! OTL Hug...
19 parts? OAO Not even the end? Wow! I can't wait. ♥
YES YES for smexy time. \(^o^)/
Dammit. Hug! OTL Hug...
19 parts? OAO Not even the end? Wow! I can't wait. ♥
YES YES for smexy time. \(^o^)/
I say YES to long story! I say YES to sexy tiems! (And...and caring and fluffy and sweet and romantic too right because poor baby England needs some real loving...? XD)
England is silent, but America knows he's listening; “You woke up in this room, so you probably know, but this is your new bed room for now. Sorry it's so empty, it's only a guest room.” America explains, and England nods. America solemnly watches for a moment... he, he honestly just wants to walk over, and kiss him good night, but... but it'll probably leave England hysterical, again, so he pushes his urge away.
“Good night. I'm probably going to be up for a while longer, so come to me if you need anything.” America says with a smile, and with a click, the lights are off and the only source of light is the moon and the night light America left, since he figures that England and the dark aren't good buddies right now.
England sits still for a moment, looking at the white sheets before him. He looks at the doorway now; he said... good night, so... England supposes he should sleep, but something pulls at him, says he shouldn't, reminds him what happened when he slept, but when he's surrounded by warm white sheets and soft pillows, he can't catch his drooping eyelids, and he can't catch himself fall onto the bed and sleep.
He wishes he never slept though, because in his mind, he dreams of just a week ago, a week ago when people would come by, they'd point and laugh and mock him. Then Russia would walk up to them, a graceful smile, and they'd scamper away back on guard duty as they should.
Then Russia would walk in, and he'd lean down and cup his face, and England would be scared, it's going to happen, he's gonna do it again, but it hurts when he does and England's eyes trace to the back and there's more needles and pills and knives and guns and there's everything. All of a sudden, Russia's taking off his pants, they're all watching outside the cell, and England's struggling against the chains, and his pants are on the floor too and it hurts, God it hurts, please stop, he's begging, stop it, please stop it--
America is jerked away from his paper work when he hears screaming upstairs. He runs up stairs and into the room, and he finds England, in his bed, he's turning and crying and screaming and begging for someone to stop, and America does the first thing that comes to mind; he knows he shouldn't touch England, but he grabs his shoulder and shakes him.
“Arthur, Arthur, wake up!” He shouts, and in an instant, England finds himself in his white bed, and the big white pajama shirt and shorts America lent him stick to him because of the sweat, and he finds America hovering above him, gripping his shoulders.
All he can do is shriek again and shove him away. America tumbles back and fights to regain his balance in the few steps it'll take.
England sits and pants, clutching the bedsheets and looking at America, who is confused and lost as he tries to assess the situation. One thing he knows; England is absolutely terrified, he's scared like when America touched his cheek in the prison, and he's going to go hysterical if America lets this go easy.
“England... what happened?” He asks, and England thinks, but in the long run, all he does is tremble and clutch his blanket. America furrows his brow.
“Good night. I'm probably going to be up for a while longer, so come to me if you need anything.” America says with a smile, and with a click, the lights are off and the only source of light is the moon and the night light America left, since he figures that England and the dark aren't good buddies right now.
England sits still for a moment, looking at the white sheets before him. He looks at the doorway now; he said... good night, so... England supposes he should sleep, but something pulls at him, says he shouldn't, reminds him what happened when he slept, but when he's surrounded by warm white sheets and soft pillows, he can't catch his drooping eyelids, and he can't catch himself fall onto the bed and sleep.
He wishes he never slept though, because in his mind, he dreams of just a week ago, a week ago when people would come by, they'd point and laugh and mock him. Then Russia would walk up to them, a graceful smile, and they'd scamper away back on guard duty as they should.
Then Russia would walk in, and he'd lean down and cup his face, and England would be scared, it's going to happen, he's gonna do it again, but it hurts when he does and England's eyes trace to the back and there's more needles and pills and knives and guns and there's everything. All of a sudden, Russia's taking off his pants, they're all watching outside the cell, and England's struggling against the chains, and his pants are on the floor too and it hurts, God it hurts, please stop, he's begging, stop it, please stop it--
America is jerked away from his paper work when he hears screaming upstairs. He runs up stairs and into the room, and he finds England, in his bed, he's turning and crying and screaming and begging for someone to stop, and America does the first thing that comes to mind; he knows he shouldn't touch England, but he grabs his shoulder and shakes him.
“Arthur, Arthur, wake up!” He shouts, and in an instant, England finds himself in his white bed, and the big white pajama shirt and shorts America lent him stick to him because of the sweat, and he finds America hovering above him, gripping his shoulders.
All he can do is shriek again and shove him away. America tumbles back and fights to regain his balance in the few steps it'll take.
England sits and pants, clutching the bedsheets and looking at America, who is confused and lost as he tries to assess the situation. One thing he knows; England is absolutely terrified, he's scared like when America touched his cheek in the prison, and he's going to go hysterical if America lets this go easy.
“England... what happened?” He asks, and England thinks, but in the long run, all he does is tremble and clutch his blanket. America furrows his brow.
[A/N: >A>'' brow should be. brows. Author-non fails.]
Oh god. Oh god. D8 Poor England! The nightmareeees! Damn you Russia! Adfasgads Alfred can't even do anything to really help him. OTL
...This nearly made me cry anon. Good work... (Oh I really am hoping that this has at least a semi-happy ending. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaasssssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeee?)
“It's going to be okay.” He whispers, and he knows England can hear his voice. How he wants to embrace him and hold his hand, persuade him that America's going to protect him, but he doesn't; he sits on the edge of the bed, while England is still slumping and sitting in the middle.
“I'll fight off all the bad guys, okay? So you can just sleep; don't worry about it.” America smiles, his face and body glow against the light of the moon and the small, dull lamp in the room. England doesn't move though.
“En-- Arthur, it's fine. It's just a dream; remember, you're here, you're with me, and I'm not going to hurt you in the slightest. Russia isn't coming here.” His words are confident and filled with warmth, England feels gulps and takes a nod; something in his instincts tell him to just go to sleep as he is told.
He lays back down, and America shoots him another smile; “I'll stay here until you fall asleep, so don't worry.” England doesn't respond, and America knows England couldn't have not heard him. For the following hour or so, he sat, watching England breathing, watching him try to sleep.
It is when England manages to fall back into a slumber, America narrows his eyes; he's so small, so weak... it's nothing like how England once was. America picks up his hand, his eyes graze over the bandages wrapped around it, and how rough it feels; Well, he has been in a jail cell for so long... and he resists the urge not to tightly hold England's hand, because remembering the jail cell, remembering how much England suffered (and he didn't even know half the story, mind you.), and who did it all...
He lifts up England's pale hand and lays his lips against it for a moment, and lets go; he brushes a hair out of his face and, “I'm sorry,” so barely above a whisper, before he leaves.
It wasn't the last time America has to come to England's room; in fact, he winds up making a second round trip. It's frequent for the first few nights, but America feels a twinge of hope when he realizes he's coming at England's room to comfort him from nightmares less and less, but as China tells him when he calls; “Don't get your hopes up- aru. He's still unstable; he's only okay now because you're giving him all the affection he needs, but if something like what Russia did to him happens in the slightest, you'll wind up back at square 1- aru.”
“I'll fight off all the bad guys, okay? So you can just sleep; don't worry about it.” America smiles, his face and body glow against the light of the moon and the small, dull lamp in the room. England doesn't move though.
“En-- Arthur, it's fine. It's just a dream; remember, you're here, you're with me, and I'm not going to hurt you in the slightest. Russia isn't coming here.” His words are confident and filled with warmth, England feels gulps and takes a nod; something in his instincts tell him to just go to sleep as he is told.
He lays back down, and America shoots him another smile; “I'll stay here until you fall asleep, so don't worry.” England doesn't respond, and America knows England couldn't have not heard him. For the following hour or so, he sat, watching England breathing, watching him try to sleep.
It is when England manages to fall back into a slumber, America narrows his eyes; he's so small, so weak... it's nothing like how England once was. America picks up his hand, his eyes graze over the bandages wrapped around it, and how rough it feels; Well, he has been in a jail cell for so long... and he resists the urge not to tightly hold England's hand, because remembering the jail cell, remembering how much England suffered (and he didn't even know half the story, mind you.), and who did it all...
He lifts up England's pale hand and lays his lips against it for a moment, and lets go; he brushes a hair out of his face and, “I'm sorry,” so barely above a whisper, before he leaves.
It wasn't the last time America has to come to England's room; in fact, he winds up making a second round trip. It's frequent for the first few nights, but America feels a twinge of hope when he realizes he's coming at England's room to comfort him from nightmares less and less, but as China tells him when he calls; “Don't get your hopes up- aru. He's still unstable; he's only okay now because you're giving him all the affection he needs, but if something like what Russia did to him happens in the slightest, you'll wind up back at square 1- aru.”
America knows; England is still fragile. He's progressing, but he still is far from over what Russia did. He doesn't like going into the kitchen at all, and spends most of his time reading books America offers him; old books, like Shakespeare's works and what not.
There are days where England is completely enamored in the book, America likes to watch him from the corner of his eye as he pretends to watch the television and drink his coffee instead. It is like this often; England's still sitting, cute in America's clothes because they're so over-sized (he's hardened himself mentally, so he can stand the sight without swooning about how cute it is in his mind, like some fan boy, or whatever Japan calls them.) and he'd sit at one end of the couch, America at the other.
England was still afraid of requesting anything, America had to lead him through the day. He sort of has the message now, knows what to do, like when it is time for breakfast, he will wander down to the dining room on his own now (America usually had to fetch him).
He's becoming a little self-sufficient. America thinks to himself with a smile, but he knows it's only because he is here, and once America leaves, England will be scared to do something again, because right now, his whole world is made of terrifying memories and the warmth of America's Virginia vacation home.
He can't stay forever though; “Alfred, are you sure?” Canada asks on the phone that night, “I mean... England is going to be scared of me. He's only really comfortable with you, and you said he still doesn't trust you...”
“I know, but there's nothing else I can do. You're closest and Mexico has her hands busy with the Swine Flu. Plus, we look so alike, and I told my boss I'd manage to get back in a few days. I can't leave England on his own though, so come on, please? I'll owe you, okay?” America begs, and Canada sighs through the phone; “Fine.”
[A/N: Sorry! This was supposed to be in the above segment, but it wound up being too long, so I cut it and put it here~~ For the commenter who wanted a Canada cameo, here you go!~]
There are days where England is completely enamored in the book, America likes to watch him from the corner of his eye as he pretends to watch the television and drink his coffee instead. It is like this often; England's still sitting, cute in America's clothes because they're so over-sized (he's hardened himself mentally, so he can stand the sight without swooning about how cute it is in his mind, like some fan boy, or whatever Japan calls them.) and he'd sit at one end of the couch, America at the other.
England was still afraid of requesting anything, America had to lead him through the day. He sort of has the message now, knows what to do, like when it is time for breakfast, he will wander down to the dining room on his own now (America usually had to fetch him).
He's becoming a little self-sufficient. America thinks to himself with a smile, but he knows it's only because he is here, and once America leaves, England will be scared to do something again, because right now, his whole world is made of terrifying memories and the warmth of America's Virginia vacation home.
He can't stay forever though; “Alfred, are you sure?” Canada asks on the phone that night, “I mean... England is going to be scared of me. He's only really comfortable with you, and you said he still doesn't trust you...”
“I know, but there's nothing else I can do. You're closest and Mexico has her hands busy with the Swine Flu. Plus, we look so alike, and I told my boss I'd manage to get back in a few days. I can't leave England on his own though, so come on, please? I'll owe you, okay?” America begs, and Canada sighs through the phone; “Fine.”
[A/N: Sorry! This was supposed to be in the above segment, but it wound up being too long, so I cut it and put it here~~ For the commenter who wanted a Canada cameo, here you go!~]
Yes, Arthur still in Alfred's big clothes. 8D
Pfft, the image of Alfred struggling to restrain himself at the sight of cute Arthur is hilarious. I can see his arms twitching, wanting to reach out and pull Arthur into that most wanted hug. xD
I can't wait to see Arthur's reaction to Matthew.
Pfft, the image of Alfred struggling to restrain himself at the sight of cute Arthur is hilarious. I can see his arms twitching, wanting to reach out and pull Arthur into that most wanted hug. xD
I can't wait to see Arthur's reaction to Matthew.
Yes! :DD Author-non still has a fetish. for oversized clothes so I had to. AND OF COURSE.~~ Shame Alfie can't hug him. uh. yet. :'DDD
Of course~~ I'm not too sure how to work it out, but I think I got something. <3
Of course~~ I'm not too sure how to work it out, but I think I got something. <3
YOU BOUGHT IN CANADA! Oh, as the commenter who wanted a Canada cameo, I am THRILLED. XDDDD Also. Oversized clothes...Eeeee! So cute...
“Hey, Arthur, what do you think about having a new care taker?” America asks, his voice cheery and positive, and England places his book on his lap, looking at America. His eyes are not curious though, he looks at America as if he is staring into air, and America notices his hand on the book twitches.
“My brother, Mattie Williams!” America says, ignoring it; he shouldn't point it out, just keep England happy and unafraid. It hurts him inside that the mention of new name sends England back down a spiral of unpleasant memories.
“He's real nice, nicer then I am! Probably cooks better too, I think you'll like him, Arthur!” America explains, cheery, but England doesn't react. America hopes England would say something, but then he doesn't remain expectant. England still doesn't react to much, other then if he's scared. He does some things on his own, but that's only daily actions such as coming for breakfast, because he's probably feeling conditioned to coming down to eat if anything.
“... Okay.” England says only that, and America's lips form a thin line, before he nervously dismisses England back to his book.
It is the next day Canada arrives; “Arthur, this is Matty. Matty... well, yeah.” America introduces them, and Canada instinctively holds his hand out for a handshake (how awkward is this? His former ruling empire is going to shake his hand.) but England takes a step back and stares, afraid, almost wary, and Canada remembers and pulls his hand back to his side.
“Oh, sorry! I forgot. Anyway, it's as Alfred says. I'm Matthew Williams, his brother. It's nice to meet you, Arthur.” This is so silly for him, he thinks. He's known England all his life, and now the man doesn't even remember who he is, let alone his own identity.
Now he's just Arthur Kirkland until he heals up more and America decides to tell him about the nations. “I hope he'll remember before that,” Canada remembers America say.
“There's still a chance he'll remember. China said Russia traumatized him and practically brainwashed him, but he hasn't forgotten. It's still in there.” America tells Canada this the night before, and Canada can't forget America's determined voice, so he recalls that he braced himself for the worst. And... honestly, something in Canada wonders if he braced himself enough, because England is so different.
He is healing, America reminds him on the phone as Canada was coming, and Canada wonders, if this is healing, exactly what was it before? Because England is still covered in bandages, and that is only the part of him which is shrouded by America's clothing.
Even then, he can see purple and black peer out from clothing spots and other parts of England, and Canada, with eerie curiosity, wants to know what happened to England, but he remembers stories of England's hysterical reaction when he's asked about it, and replaces his curiosity with the convincing lie that he'll probably never get over the story he'll be told if England gets around to telling him about it.
“I'll be taking care of you from now on, so I hope we get along,” Canada says nervously, and England is looking down at his feet; “Yes sir.” England mumbles, but Canada barely hears it, and isn't sure whether England was speaking at all, because he sounds so different.
“Well... I dropped my stuff of at the air port this morning, so I should get going now.” America shoots both of them a smile; “Arthur, be good and listen to Mattie, okay? Oh, and hold out your hands,” England does as he's told to, “If Mattie's being lewd though, don't listen to him. Punch him and run into my bedroom and hide.” He drops the keys into England's hands and runs out the door, and Canada follows him out.
“Alfred! I wouldn't do anything lewd to Arthur! Are you out of your mind?!” Canada sighs, exasperated as he listens to America's haughty laughter fade in the distance. He turns and smiles at England; “Sorry. He was just kidding, I won't do anything bad to you.” England still looks afraid though. Canada frowns at this. Now he knows why America sounds so miserable the night before, when they talked on the phone.
“My brother, Mattie Williams!” America says, ignoring it; he shouldn't point it out, just keep England happy and unafraid. It hurts him inside that the mention of new name sends England back down a spiral of unpleasant memories.
“He's real nice, nicer then I am! Probably cooks better too, I think you'll like him, Arthur!” America explains, cheery, but England doesn't react. America hopes England would say something, but then he doesn't remain expectant. England still doesn't react to much, other then if he's scared. He does some things on his own, but that's only daily actions such as coming for breakfast, because he's probably feeling conditioned to coming down to eat if anything.
“... Okay.” England says only that, and America's lips form a thin line, before he nervously dismisses England back to his book.
It is the next day Canada arrives; “Arthur, this is Matty. Matty... well, yeah.” America introduces them, and Canada instinctively holds his hand out for a handshake (how awkward is this? His former ruling empire is going to shake his hand.) but England takes a step back and stares, afraid, almost wary, and Canada remembers and pulls his hand back to his side.
“Oh, sorry! I forgot. Anyway, it's as Alfred says. I'm Matthew Williams, his brother. It's nice to meet you, Arthur.” This is so silly for him, he thinks. He's known England all his life, and now the man doesn't even remember who he is, let alone his own identity.
Now he's just Arthur Kirkland until he heals up more and America decides to tell him about the nations. “I hope he'll remember before that,” Canada remembers America say.
“There's still a chance he'll remember. China said Russia traumatized him and practically brainwashed him, but he hasn't forgotten. It's still in there.” America tells Canada this the night before, and Canada can't forget America's determined voice, so he recalls that he braced himself for the worst. And... honestly, something in Canada wonders if he braced himself enough, because England is so different.
He is healing, America reminds him on the phone as Canada was coming, and Canada wonders, if this is healing, exactly what was it before? Because England is still covered in bandages, and that is only the part of him which is shrouded by America's clothing.
Even then, he can see purple and black peer out from clothing spots and other parts of England, and Canada, with eerie curiosity, wants to know what happened to England, but he remembers stories of England's hysterical reaction when he's asked about it, and replaces his curiosity with the convincing lie that he'll probably never get over the story he'll be told if England gets around to telling him about it.
“I'll be taking care of you from now on, so I hope we get along,” Canada says nervously, and England is looking down at his feet; “Yes sir.” England mumbles, but Canada barely hears it, and isn't sure whether England was speaking at all, because he sounds so different.
“Well... I dropped my stuff of at the air port this morning, so I should get going now.” America shoots both of them a smile; “Arthur, be good and listen to Mattie, okay? Oh, and hold out your hands,” England does as he's told to, “If Mattie's being lewd though, don't listen to him. Punch him and run into my bedroom and hide.” He drops the keys into England's hands and runs out the door, and Canada follows him out.
“Alfred! I wouldn't do anything lewd to Arthur! Are you out of your mind?!” Canada sighs, exasperated as he listens to America's haughty laughter fade in the distance. He turns and smiles at England; “Sorry. He was just kidding, I won't do anything bad to you.” England still looks afraid though. Canada frowns at this. Now he knows why America sounds so miserable the night before, when they talked on the phone.
Oh...Oh Arthur you poor baby and Mattie you darling you and Alfred...Gah. I really hope things end up happy...(And I can't help but wonder if Canada ever finds out what happened...)
I hope Matthew is able to help Arthur a bit more. It's good that he's being exposed to more people.
England's progressing well, Canada tells America. He says it might have actually been a smart move to have Canada take care of England, because China says that according to what he hears from Canada, England seems less afraid because Canada looks like America, and America seems to trust him a lot.
Still, he is afraid, none the less. He still has traumatic memories flood back at the very instance of anything that reminds him of the prison. Canada notes that when he came with a knife in the dining room to cut the steak, England winds up running upstairs, and hid in America's bed room until Canada convinces him to come out.
America laughs at this; “That's sort of cute.” he says, but China says something quite different: “That's actually a little bad- aru. Not only is he still traumatized, he's still stuck in the mindset that he has to follow orders instead of act on his own will, because you did tell him that America was just joking- aru.” It really blows America's bubble, but he says it'll be fine, because soon, England's going to be fine with the sight of a knife.
He doesn't tell anyone, but he hopes that England will be okay with it soon.
“Anyway, all I really do is hang around the house, cook and clean. I do what you told me and usually give Arthur what he used to like; he enjoys it, eh.” Canada explains, and he can tell America is smiling through the cell phone.
“Good! All right, I have to meet with Congress now, so I'll call you later.” America says and they say they good byes and shut the phones off. Canada looks back at England sitting on the couch, looking outside, but he seems completely uninterested. In fact, according to what he's heard from America, and seen himself, England seems to be bored with everything that isn't dangerous. There are days he is more open, days he is more scared, but he always seems to be thinking about something when he's not either, and no matter what day, there is an instance where England gazes blankly and remembers. They both note that when it is like this, England tends to twitch.
It's been like that for a days. About a week, Canada has taken care of England, and there is almost no progress, it's so slow, but Canada perseveres, because he loves his brother and his brother loves England, and Canada loves England too. They're like his family, plus France, of course.
So when the door is torn down, England screams and there's a pipe and the first thing Canada does is usher England to the back door and dive into the kitchen and pull out the pistol in the cabinet.
It is 5 hours ago Russia warns America, and it is 3 hours later that he hears this voice mail on his cell phone, and it is another 3 hours when he arrives to his vacation house, and it is ravaged. The door is torn down, and he can see broken windows and gunshots on the wall.
“It is 5 hours, I will give you, da? I know where you are hiding, and I am coming for my toy. Chase is fun, so I will give you 5 hours to try and run.”
It is sent at 4:30 p.m., on a Monday afternoon.
America hears this at 7:36 p.m., on a Monday evening.
He arrives to his vacation house at 10:28 p.m., on a Monday night.
He is one hour late.
England's voice is coming from his bedroom; he is screaming. America can hear Russia laugh.
[A/N: YOU CAN SHOOT AUTHOR-NON FOR CLIFF-HANGING, CAUSE IT'S 2:46 AM, SO GOOD NIGHT. ;AA; ]
Still, he is afraid, none the less. He still has traumatic memories flood back at the very instance of anything that reminds him of the prison. Canada notes that when he came with a knife in the dining room to cut the steak, England winds up running upstairs, and hid in America's bed room until Canada convinces him to come out.
America laughs at this; “That's sort of cute.” he says, but China says something quite different: “That's actually a little bad- aru. Not only is he still traumatized, he's still stuck in the mindset that he has to follow orders instead of act on his own will, because you did tell him that America was just joking- aru.” It really blows America's bubble, but he says it'll be fine, because soon, England's going to be fine with the sight of a knife.
He doesn't tell anyone, but he hopes that England will be okay with it soon.
“Anyway, all I really do is hang around the house, cook and clean. I do what you told me and usually give Arthur what he used to like; he enjoys it, eh.” Canada explains, and he can tell America is smiling through the cell phone.
“Good! All right, I have to meet with Congress now, so I'll call you later.” America says and they say they good byes and shut the phones off. Canada looks back at England sitting on the couch, looking outside, but he seems completely uninterested. In fact, according to what he's heard from America, and seen himself, England seems to be bored with everything that isn't dangerous. There are days he is more open, days he is more scared, but he always seems to be thinking about something when he's not either, and no matter what day, there is an instance where England gazes blankly and remembers. They both note that when it is like this, England tends to twitch.
It's been like that for a days. About a week, Canada has taken care of England, and there is almost no progress, it's so slow, but Canada perseveres, because he loves his brother and his brother loves England, and Canada loves England too. They're like his family, plus France, of course.
So when the door is torn down, England screams and there's a pipe and the first thing Canada does is usher England to the back door and dive into the kitchen and pull out the pistol in the cabinet.
It is 5 hours ago Russia warns America, and it is 3 hours later that he hears this voice mail on his cell phone, and it is another 3 hours when he arrives to his vacation house, and it is ravaged. The door is torn down, and he can see broken windows and gunshots on the wall.
“It is 5 hours, I will give you, da? I know where you are hiding, and I am coming for my toy. Chase is fun, so I will give you 5 hours to try and run.”
It is sent at 4:30 p.m., on a Monday afternoon.
America hears this at 7:36 p.m., on a Monday evening.
He arrives to his vacation house at 10:28 p.m., on a Monday night.
He is one hour late.
England's voice is coming from his bedroom; he is screaming. America can hear Russia laugh.
[A/N: YOU CAN SHOOT AUTHOR-NON FOR CLIFF-HANGING, CAUSE IT'S 2:46 AM, SO GOOD NIGHT. ;AA; ]
...Mimimimimimimimimi...That is a cruel thing to do Author-non! No matter how much I love you, that is a cruel thing to do! Now I will be wondering what is going to happen and what has happened and is England all right and is Canada (brave, sweet Canada) alright and HOW COULD YOU?! I can't even shoot you because then you will not be able to finish this! DX SO CRUEL.
OMG... O_O that was intense... CLIFFHANGER!! TTATT WHY!? WHY!? ;A;
I can't wait for more! XD Iggy.. ;A; *begins to feel really sad and depressed and angry at Russia*
by the way...
WILL YOU MARRY ME? *kneels down on one leg*
I can't wait for more! XD Iggy.. ;A; *begins to feel really sad and depressed and angry at Russia*
by the way...
WILL YOU MARRY ME? *kneels down on one leg*
ANON WOULD BE HAPPY TO MARRY YOU. <3
-bricked-
-bricked-
Holy shit man. That was intense. NOOOOOO! Why'd it end there?!??!!?! *spazzes out* Oh dear Russia is in the house. RUSSIA! Adfadsgshdsf. OAO
What happened to Matthew??!?! D8
Alfred save Arthur! Hurrrrrrry. TT_TT
What happened to Matthew??!?! D8
Alfred save Arthur! Hurrrrrrry. TT_TT
Oh, that was me. Due to over-spazzing, I forgot to change the subject title.
GAHHHHHH PLEASE UPDATE THIS SOON AUTHOR!ANON. THERE'S NO WAY I CAN GET ANY WORK DONE TONIGHT IF I'M GOING TO BE F5-ING THIS EVERY TWO SECONDS.
OH SNAP CLIFFHANGER!
F5 F5 F5 F5
F5 F5 F5 F5
MATTHEW!!!! ARTHUR!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
*wibbles*
*runs in circles*
F5F5F5
*wibbles*
*runs in circles*
F5F5F5
America does not think; he dashes, runs like there's someone out to get him, except there isn't. They're out for England, “Arthur!” His voices are messily mixed and not in sync with England's tearing screams, and he's not, Russia can't be...
“Matty!” America skids to a stop, when he finds Canada slump against the wall. His head is bleeding and Canada is unconscious. Russia's beaten him around, America figures, and so he grabs him; “Matty! Open your eyes!” America shakes him, and Canada, by a little, opens his cerulean eyes to face his distressed brother.
“Al... fred... D-Damn it, Russia...” He sputters out, but it's so difficult and hard, because his voice is so rasp, because he can recall an hour ago when he's trying to dodge and remembers when he screams; “Russia, get the fuck out of here!” Because he has to protect England, but it didn't work.
“I know! But what about you?!” America asks; he loves England, but Canada is his brother. He can't just leave him, right?
“I'm fine... Just... go help... England...” His breathes out and clutches his head with one hand, over his bleeding wound, and his other hand finds it's way onto America's hand on his left shoulder, and feebly attempts to pry it off. America looks at him with shock and conflict, but Canada smiles, and attempts to clearly see America's face through his cracked glasses.
“Canada, I'm sorry.” America mutters out, and squeezes the hand which had just tried to pull him off Canada's shoulder, and Canada wants to smile when America runs upstairs, pistol being pulled out of his pocket, but he's so tired, and that's not the point right now.
Who to call, who to call... Canada forces him hand, coated in the blood of his own from when he was hit with Russia's pipe, to the phone beside him. It resides on the nightstand, in the corner, beside Canada who is using the wall for support.
He pulls the black phone, smeared with red now, and dials; he prays it works, because he is worried about America, if he can handle this on his own.
America is all alone when he opens the door, and finds the most disgusting sight he has seen, and something in him just breaks. What he sees is England, he's only the floor, his hands are tied together with chains, not shackles, just chains. They are cold and rough against his skin like the wood floor must be, and he is bruised and bleeding and Russia is on top of him.
[A/N: ;AAA; Author-non is so sorry she caused so much eagerness about the earlier cliff hanger!
I-I hope you enjoy this part.]
“Matty!” America skids to a stop, when he finds Canada slump against the wall. His head is bleeding and Canada is unconscious. Russia's beaten him around, America figures, and so he grabs him; “Matty! Open your eyes!” America shakes him, and Canada, by a little, opens his cerulean eyes to face his distressed brother.
“Al... fred... D-Damn it, Russia...” He sputters out, but it's so difficult and hard, because his voice is so rasp, because he can recall an hour ago when he's trying to dodge and remembers when he screams; “Russia, get the fuck out of here!” Because he has to protect England, but it didn't work.
“I know! But what about you?!” America asks; he loves England, but Canada is his brother. He can't just leave him, right?
“I'm fine... Just... go help... England...” His breathes out and clutches his head with one hand, over his bleeding wound, and his other hand finds it's way onto America's hand on his left shoulder, and feebly attempts to pry it off. America looks at him with shock and conflict, but Canada smiles, and attempts to clearly see America's face through his cracked glasses.
“Canada, I'm sorry.” America mutters out, and squeezes the hand which had just tried to pull him off Canada's shoulder, and Canada wants to smile when America runs upstairs, pistol being pulled out of his pocket, but he's so tired, and that's not the point right now.
Who to call, who to call... Canada forces him hand, coated in the blood of his own from when he was hit with Russia's pipe, to the phone beside him. It resides on the nightstand, in the corner, beside Canada who is using the wall for support.
He pulls the black phone, smeared with red now, and dials; he prays it works, because he is worried about America, if he can handle this on his own.
America is all alone when he opens the door, and finds the most disgusting sight he has seen, and something in him just breaks. What he sees is England, he's only the floor, his hands are tied together with chains, not shackles, just chains. They are cold and rough against his skin like the wood floor must be, and he is bruised and bleeding and Russia is on top of him.
[A/N: ;AAA; Author-non is so sorry she caused so much eagerness about the earlier cliff hanger!
I-I hope you enjoy this part.]
The screams and the sight of England crying make America wish he was blind and deaf, because it's like a horror movie, just so much more worse. Russia is thrusting in him without rhythm; all that matters it's his own pleasure, and he doesn't care for England's tears. They urge him on, really.
“England!” America cries out, and runs to pry Russia away from England, but the gun shot which whips across his face and leaves a small cut on America's cheek stops him.
“America, and here I thought you lost interest in England.” Russia smiles as he removes himself from England and stands. He calmly zips his pants up, and England is left panting and crying, until his sobs are reduced to quiet sobs once Russia kicks him in the gut, and fires his gun seconds away from his face.
“You bastard...” America mutters out, and the hilt of his gun is gripped so tightly, America should be thankful it does not snap.
“What's wrong? He is my toy, and owners are free to do with their toys as they want, da?” Russia asks, and America's suddenly holding the gun up to Russia; “Shut the fuck up and leave.” Russia looks into his blue eyes and he does not lose him smiling facade, “What makes you think I will listen to you?”
“Because I'm America. I'm this nation's personification and I'm telling you to get off my fucking soil, you sick bastard!” America's voice is steadily rising; “I don't give a damn who you are; you're on my land and I don't want you here, so get the fuck off, right now.”
America's voice was dripping with venom and it sent chills up Russia's spine; it excited him, and amused him all the same.
“I'll leave soon, America. I just came to take what was rightfully mine,” and Russia motions to America. Within a swift motion, the wall cracked with the heat of a bullet smoking through it; America's pistol fires that moment and leaves a hole in the wall, but it does not phase Russia.
“He doesn't belong to you. Leave.” America demands again, but Russia simply walks over and grabs England's hair; “Let him go!” America orders, and wants to fire, but he is scared of what Russia will do to England if he does.
Russia lifts England up higher and licks his cheek, England's blood on his tongue and it tastes like steel, but he doesn't care. His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his arm, desires to badly to fire. Russia loves it, he loves having the upper hand against America, a superpower, it makes him giddy inside.
“It's not like you can help him.” Russia says as he lets England fall to a thud on the ground, and points his gun at England; “It's not like you can--” Russia's words do not leave his mouth, because he does not expect America to run straight into him, like an ox, and for the shattering glass of the window in the guest room to resound in the night as the pieces which glitter in the night fall as America falls with Russia.
“England!” America cries out, and runs to pry Russia away from England, but the gun shot which whips across his face and leaves a small cut on America's cheek stops him.
“America, and here I thought you lost interest in England.” Russia smiles as he removes himself from England and stands. He calmly zips his pants up, and England is left panting and crying, until his sobs are reduced to quiet sobs once Russia kicks him in the gut, and fires his gun seconds away from his face.
“You bastard...” America mutters out, and the hilt of his gun is gripped so tightly, America should be thankful it does not snap.
“What's wrong? He is my toy, and owners are free to do with their toys as they want, da?” Russia asks, and America's suddenly holding the gun up to Russia; “Shut the fuck up and leave.” Russia looks into his blue eyes and he does not lose him smiling facade, “What makes you think I will listen to you?”
“Because I'm America. I'm this nation's personification and I'm telling you to get off my fucking soil, you sick bastard!” America's voice is steadily rising; “I don't give a damn who you are; you're on my land and I don't want you here, so get the fuck off, right now.”
America's voice was dripping with venom and it sent chills up Russia's spine; it excited him, and amused him all the same.
“I'll leave soon, America. I just came to take what was rightfully mine,” and Russia motions to America. Within a swift motion, the wall cracked with the heat of a bullet smoking through it; America's pistol fires that moment and leaves a hole in the wall, but it does not phase Russia.
“He doesn't belong to you. Leave.” America demands again, but Russia simply walks over and grabs England's hair; “Let him go!” America orders, and wants to fire, but he is scared of what Russia will do to England if he does.
Russia lifts England up higher and licks his cheek, England's blood on his tongue and it tastes like steel, but he doesn't care. His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his arm, desires to badly to fire. Russia loves it, he loves having the upper hand against America, a superpower, it makes him giddy inside.
“It's not like you can help him.” Russia says as he lets England fall to a thud on the ground, and points his gun at England; “It's not like you can--” Russia's words do not leave his mouth, because he does not expect America to run straight into him, like an ox, and for the shattering glass of the window in the guest room to resound in the night as the pieces which glitter in the night fall as America falls with Russia.
Russia, you bastard. TAT
Angry/Protective Alfred is sexy.
Angry/Protective Alfred is sexy.
;AAA; I have indeed made him into a horrible person. I didn't think I'd take it this far, I swear! -shot- Sadistic!Russia is just so fun to make an antagonist out of. -shot-
Yesss~~ Personally, I love when semes get over protective, orz. >A<''
Yesss~~ Personally, I love when semes get over protective, orz. >A<''
Speechless!Anon is speechless and is desperately waiting for another update! 8D
You are awesome, you know that? Just completely awesome.
You are awesome, you know that? Just completely awesome.
A-Author-non is honored to receive such praise. ;AAA; tyvm, ilu~~
Another update is on its way~~! -writes-
Another update is on its way~~! -writes-
...Gfarble....Gfarble...Oh God, Arthur...You poor, poor baby... And Alfred you fantastically protective man/nation you. And poor baby Matthew...who's smart enough to call for help and Ivan...Oh Ivan as much as I love you...You're a bastard here and I want Alfred to shoot you. Really. I kinda do.
;AAA; I felt horrible for doing this to Arthur, tbh. -shot- Though I do quite enjoy writing angry-srs-bzns!Alfred. idk why. i find it hot. -shot-
Matty! D: I wanted to write more on his condition, but there wasn't much to write on it in the first place. -shot- And Ivan... I felt. horrible. for making him such a bastard. I hope I didn't go overboard. -shot-
Matty! D: I wanted to write more on his condition, but there wasn't much to write on it in the first place. -shot- And Ivan... I felt. horrible. for making him such a bastard. I hope I didn't go overboard. -shot-
I quite enjoy reading about angry-srs-bzns!Alfred. I find him hot too... (And I feel horrible for reading this about Arthur...DX He needs a hug...which means he has to be less afraid of people first...DX)
Yes. Matty! (Like I said, at least he's smart enough to call for help...) And Ivan. No, you didn't go overboard. He is rather perfectly insane...
Yes. Matty! (Like I said, at least he's smart enough to call for help...) And Ivan. No, you didn't go overboard. He is rather perfectly insane...
“I'll leave soon, America. I just came to take what was rightfully mine,” and Russia motions to America.
“I'll leave soon, America. I just came to take what was rightfully mine,” and Russia motions to England.
His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his arm, desires to badly to fire.
His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his pistol, desires to badly to fire.
“I'll leave soon, America. I just came to take what was rightfully mine,” and Russia motions to England.
His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his arm, desires to badly to fire.
His eyes focus on America's enraged expression and his trembling arm as it clutches his pistol, desires to badly to fire.
GODDAMN IT AMERICA, SHOOT HIM IN THE HEAD!!!!!
Man, I love Russia, but in this fic, I want him DED!!
*huggles poor Matthew, only because she shouldn't huggle poor Arthur right now, and Al is kinda busy.*
Man, I love Russia, but in this fic, I want him DED!!
*huggles poor Matthew, only because she shouldn't huggle poor Arthur right now, and Al is kinda busy.*
They tumble onto the ground; naturally you'd think they just break their backs, but they're nations, they're stronger then normal people, so all they do is roll around and land punches against each other while the glass scattered on the green grass cuts them and lodges itself in their large jackets.
“You fucking bastard!” America shouts, and punches Russia square in the cheek. Russia pushes him off and they wind up standing; “You are no better, da?” Russia taunts him and punches America back. His glasses scatter onto the grass and they lunge for each other, both grabbing each other's arms like a wrestling match and attempting to push the other over.
“I don't give a damn if I'm not any better, Arthur had nothing to do with what I did!” America barks back, and feels himself fall onto the ground when Russia's knee meets his gut, and feels his head pushed into the dirt and shards of glass digging into his cheek as Russia's foot is atop his head.
“America, oh America, you must be stupid to think that would stop me. Honestly, I couldn't care less about England, it's you I hate. And you love England.” Russia explains, and it clicks; Russia did this because of America. He hurt England because it hurts America in the long run.
Something in America breaks.
At the same time, something in him flares.
He pushes Russia off with this sudden strength, granted by his rage, and Russia topples over, but with a roll, he stands back up, but by the time he regains his senses, America's hands are around his neck and his back is against a tree; “You fucking bastard! You did this to Arthur because of me!?” His grip becomes harder and Russia knows he can not die, but the lack of breath is painful anyway.
“Goddamn it, Russia, you- you bastard! I'm going to send you fucking hell, you son of a bitch!” America's grip is so tight and blood drips from Russia's neck and he coughs. His blood splatters over America's bomb jacket and over his fingers, which are busy trying to pry America's hands off.
“I don't give a shit about why you hate me! I couldn't care less if you did, but using that as an excuse to hurt Arthur; you, damn it, you fucking--” America can't even voice his rage; how dare he, how dare Russia hurt England just to tick America off, that's fucking bullshit, America thinks. He doesn't know anything right now, doesn't know where he is, who he is, all he knows is he going's to fucking kill this guy, and he hates him.
“Sacre-bleu, America, stop!” France's voice comes from behind, but America's resolution does not waver, and his muscles tense more as his grip becomes harder, and before he knows it, France is trying to pry him off, but America's too strong, and then he realizes France has one arm and Germany has the other, and they're pulling him off.
“America, let go!” Germany orders, but America drowns out their voice in his anger, and he's struggling to finish the job before the two nations overpower him. Seconds later, Lithuania is on his left arm with France; “America, please, stop!” Estonia helps with Germany, and in seconds, America finds himself struggling as four pairs of arms have to drag him away, and even then, they struggle to keep America in their grip.
“Get the fuck off! I'm going to kill that son of a bitch, damn it, you--” America's shouting curses as Russia tries to catch his breath and France stands in front of him and there is a warm feeling against his cheek; France slapped him.
“England.” Is all France has to say, and America's heart drops.
[A/N: I-Ivan had it coming?
-feels bad for making him so horrible in this story-
;AAA; I'm so sorry, Ivaaaaan.]
“You fucking bastard!” America shouts, and punches Russia square in the cheek. Russia pushes him off and they wind up standing; “You are no better, da?” Russia taunts him and punches America back. His glasses scatter onto the grass and they lunge for each other, both grabbing each other's arms like a wrestling match and attempting to push the other over.
“I don't give a damn if I'm not any better, Arthur had nothing to do with what I did!” America barks back, and feels himself fall onto the ground when Russia's knee meets his gut, and feels his head pushed into the dirt and shards of glass digging into his cheek as Russia's foot is atop his head.
“America, oh America, you must be stupid to think that would stop me. Honestly, I couldn't care less about England, it's you I hate. And you love England.” Russia explains, and it clicks; Russia did this because of America. He hurt England because it hurts America in the long run.
Something in America breaks.
At the same time, something in him flares.
He pushes Russia off with this sudden strength, granted by his rage, and Russia topples over, but with a roll, he stands back up, but by the time he regains his senses, America's hands are around his neck and his back is against a tree; “You fucking bastard! You did this to Arthur because of me!?” His grip becomes harder and Russia knows he can not die, but the lack of breath is painful anyway.
“Goddamn it, Russia, you- you bastard! I'm going to send you fucking hell, you son of a bitch!” America's grip is so tight and blood drips from Russia's neck and he coughs. His blood splatters over America's bomb jacket and over his fingers, which are busy trying to pry America's hands off.
“I don't give a shit about why you hate me! I couldn't care less if you did, but using that as an excuse to hurt Arthur; you, damn it, you fucking--” America can't even voice his rage; how dare he, how dare Russia hurt England just to tick America off, that's fucking bullshit, America thinks. He doesn't know anything right now, doesn't know where he is, who he is, all he knows is he going's to fucking kill this guy, and he hates him.
“Sacre-bleu, America, stop!” France's voice comes from behind, but America's resolution does not waver, and his muscles tense more as his grip becomes harder, and before he knows it, France is trying to pry him off, but America's too strong, and then he realizes France has one arm and Germany has the other, and they're pulling him off.
“America, let go!” Germany orders, but America drowns out their voice in his anger, and he's struggling to finish the job before the two nations overpower him. Seconds later, Lithuania is on his left arm with France; “America, please, stop!” Estonia helps with Germany, and in seconds, America finds himself struggling as four pairs of arms have to drag him away, and even then, they struggle to keep America in their grip.
“Get the fuck off! I'm going to kill that son of a bitch, damn it, you--” America's shouting curses as Russia tries to catch his breath and France stands in front of him and there is a warm feeling against his cheek; France slapped him.
“England.” Is all France has to say, and America's heart drops.
[A/N: I-Ivan had it coming?
-feels bad for making him so horrible in this story-
;AAA; I'm so sorry, Ivaaaaan.]
What what what what?????adfsksjshhs F5F5F5F5F5...angry and lost control america was just too sexy
...HABBLEDASH GFARBLE NERK. I CAN'T SPEAK ANYMORE BECAUSE I AM SO IN AWE AND ENTHARLLED WITH THIS CHAPTER. I KINDA BUT DIDN'T EXPECT RUSSIA'S REASON. GAH. And angry!America, oh how I do love you and France and Germany and Lithuania and ESTONIA and oh what's happened to England now or is he just (understandably) completely messed up now. DON'T WORRY. AMERICA WILL SAVE YOU/MAKE IT BETTER...As soon as he manages to control those murderous urges that is. (Also. Yeah...Ivan had it coming...DX)
Sh-shit. That was intense! God. THAT WAS THE REASON HE DID IT?!?! OTL
As much as I wanted Alfred to hurt Ivan even more, it's a good thing the others stopped him.
As much as I wanted Alfred to hurt Ivan even more, it's a good thing the others stopped him.
I dont care if I'm not any better, Arthur had nothing to do with wat I did...
WHAT DID ALFRED DO TO MAKE RUSSIA DO THIS TO ARTHUR??!!! POOR BABY IS GONNA FEEL SO GUILTY AND BROKEN WHEN HE GET'S OVER THE BERSERKER MODE!!! AND I CAN'T STOP TYPING IN CAPSLOCK!!!!
And yeah, Ivan had it more than coming to him. Man, this was good!!!
(What did Matthew call, the entire UN??)
WHAT DID ALFRED DO TO MAKE RUSSIA DO THIS TO ARTHUR??!!! POOR BABY IS GONNA FEEL SO GUILTY AND BROKEN WHEN HE GET'S OVER THE BERSERKER MODE!!! AND I CAN'T STOP TYPING IN CAPSLOCK!!!!
And yeah, Ivan had it more than coming to him. Man, this was good!!!
(What did Matthew call, the entire UN??)
America's eyes are on the ground; he's the worst. He's horrible. How... how could he forget England? He was so caught up with Russia, he... he forgot England.
“Guys... let me go,” America whispers, “Please.” Germany looks at him warily, but France puts a hand on the German's shoulders, and he nods. Germany releases America's arm, and Lithuania and Estonia follow suit. America pulls himself up, ignoring the offered hands which want to help him stand, and walks into the house, the glass cracking under his feet, and the wood creaking when he enters the house.
“Thank you guys for coming.” France says, and Germany nods, “I'm going to go check up on Canada.” He says, and follows America in, but he stops when he sees Canada, and tends to his wounds with what he has. Germany looks at Lithuania and Estonia and speaks, “You guys should take Russia back now. I'll stay and make sure nothing else happens.”
The two nod, and walk over to Russia. They help him stand properly, and begin walking; “Ukraine and Belarus are waiting for you,” and Russia nods as he is lugged away.
America walks up the stairs solemnly, but he runs into a dash when he can hear England crying again, attempting to sob without making much of a fuss or noise, but why? Russia was gone, there was nothing to cry about. The door is on the floor, and when he runs in, he sees China, South Korea, and Japan.
“Yong-soo! Get the drugs and everything Russia brought out of here!” China orders, and South Korea begins scooping up everything he was to grab and ran past America, out of the room. Japan runs up to him; “America! Are you okay?”
“I-I'm fine, but...” America's eyes are glued to England, who China is trying to get near, but he doesn't know how to get near England at all.
“We... We came through the back door. It seems France received a call from Canada about everything, and then France asked Germany and China to help. Afterwards, Germany called Estonia and Lithuania to help stop Russia, and China asked Yong-soo and I to assist him...” Japan explained, his voice trailing off as he watched England too.
“I figured it would be like this- aru,” China stops, standing still as he thinks that maybe he should wait for England to calm down, but it's so hard, because he doesn't know when he'll calm down; “That's why I asked. When I heard Russia came, I knew England would probably wind up more messed up then he was before- aru.” England doesn't cease his tears; “He's absolutely terrified of us- aru.”
“... China, everyone, go down and help France with Matty. I... I'm going to try.” America says, and he looks as if he's about to cry, so China hesitates. Japan and South Korea watch for his decision, and after a silent moment, nothing, but England's crying filling the air, China walks out the door, and Japan follows with a first aid kit, and South Korea with the items he collected, which he throws in the garbage as he finds his way to Canada with the others.
“England?” America asks, but England doesn't respond; he tries to say it a bit louder this time, and... when he does, England looks at him for a split second.
He cries harder, and he is more scared. America feels the tears welling up in his eyes; “... I'm sorry, England, I'm so sorry...” and he finds himself standing, and he is crying too.
[A/N: Thank you gaiz so much for your support! >A< I feel so honored to have these comments! I don't think I would've been this determined to continue if it wasn't for all of you~~
I hope I can "try" and get Part 19 up by 2:30 am, which is when I'll force myself to sleep! If not, it'll be up tmr, I hope. ;A;'']
“Guys... let me go,” America whispers, “Please.” Germany looks at him warily, but France puts a hand on the German's shoulders, and he nods. Germany releases America's arm, and Lithuania and Estonia follow suit. America pulls himself up, ignoring the offered hands which want to help him stand, and walks into the house, the glass cracking under his feet, and the wood creaking when he enters the house.
“Thank you guys for coming.” France says, and Germany nods, “I'm going to go check up on Canada.” He says, and follows America in, but he stops when he sees Canada, and tends to his wounds with what he has. Germany looks at Lithuania and Estonia and speaks, “You guys should take Russia back now. I'll stay and make sure nothing else happens.”
The two nod, and walk over to Russia. They help him stand properly, and begin walking; “Ukraine and Belarus are waiting for you,” and Russia nods as he is lugged away.
America walks up the stairs solemnly, but he runs into a dash when he can hear England crying again, attempting to sob without making much of a fuss or noise, but why? Russia was gone, there was nothing to cry about. The door is on the floor, and when he runs in, he sees China, South Korea, and Japan.
“Yong-soo! Get the drugs and everything Russia brought out of here!” China orders, and South Korea begins scooping up everything he was to grab and ran past America, out of the room. Japan runs up to him; “America! Are you okay?”
“I-I'm fine, but...” America's eyes are glued to England, who China is trying to get near, but he doesn't know how to get near England at all.
“We... We came through the back door. It seems France received a call from Canada about everything, and then France asked Germany and China to help. Afterwards, Germany called Estonia and Lithuania to help stop Russia, and China asked Yong-soo and I to assist him...” Japan explained, his voice trailing off as he watched England too.
“I figured it would be like this- aru,” China stops, standing still as he thinks that maybe he should wait for England to calm down, but it's so hard, because he doesn't know when he'll calm down; “That's why I asked. When I heard Russia came, I knew England would probably wind up more messed up then he was before- aru.” England doesn't cease his tears; “He's absolutely terrified of us- aru.”
“... China, everyone, go down and help France with Matty. I... I'm going to try.” America says, and he looks as if he's about to cry, so China hesitates. Japan and South Korea watch for his decision, and after a silent moment, nothing, but England's crying filling the air, China walks out the door, and Japan follows with a first aid kit, and South Korea with the items he collected, which he throws in the garbage as he finds his way to Canada with the others.
“England?” America asks, but England doesn't respond; he tries to say it a bit louder this time, and... when he does, England looks at him for a split second.
He cries harder, and he is more scared. America feels the tears welling up in his eyes; “... I'm sorry, England, I'm so sorry...” and he finds himself standing, and he is crying too.
[A/N: Thank you gaiz so much for your support! >A< I feel so honored to have these comments! I don't think I would've been this determined to continue if it wasn't for all of you~~
I hope I can "try" and get Part 19 up by 2:30 am, which is when I'll force myself to sleep! If not, it'll be up tmr, I hope. ;A;'']
I SHALL SUPPORT YOU UNTIL YOU FINISH! (No really, I've been reviewing almost every chapter...) And...Oh...Oh...Poor little England and Russia bought drugs?! I want to hurt him now. I want everything to be okay. And China does not inspire hope in me or America and...and...and...DX I'm gonna cry if this doesn't turn out kinda alright in the end. No really. I wanna cry now. DX (You have some serious writing skills there anon!)
Thank you so much for doing so as well! ;AAA;
YES. D: Since I remembered I wrote England was drugged sometimes in the prison, so yeah. -shot- Yes. ;A; I find China would be blunt in this kind of situation, so I try to keep him straightforward here.
Whether it turns out okay or not, that shall be seen. ... when this ends. -bricked-
Thank you so much! >A
YES. D: Since I remembered I wrote England was drugged sometimes in the prison, so yeah. -shot- Yes. ;A; I find China would be blunt in this kind of situation, so I try to keep him straightforward here.
Whether it turns out okay or not, that shall be seen. ... when this ends. -bricked-
Thank you so much! >A
Like the Anon above, I'll support you til the very end! \(^o^)/
"Get the drugs and everything Russia brought out of here"
Dear God. What the hell else could he have brought? @A@
The last part with Arthur and Alfred made me cry. England is even worst than he was before. This... this is heart-breaking.
"Get the drugs and everything Russia brought out of here"
Dear God. What the hell else could he have brought? @A@
The last part with Arthur and Alfred made me cry. England is even worst than he was before. This... this is heart-breaking.
I don't think I should tell you what I intended to list as to what he brought. ;A;
Call me horrible, but I really did want to write something that could reduce the readers to tears (I love stories that can touch the reader's heart. -bricked-) so I'm glad I got the desired result.
Author-non is sorry for making you cry though! D: -hug-
Call me horrible, but I really did want to write something that could reduce the readers to tears (I love stories that can touch the reader's heart. -bricked-) so I'm glad I got the desired result.
Author-non is sorry for making you cry though! D: -hug-
But if you wanted to make us cry.... I started to sob and cry about the same time Alfred did. Just... yeah.
I'll stick around for a month or two if that's how long it takes you to end this!! (as long as there's some comfort for poor Arthur here?? And Alfred? *wibbles then starts sobbing again*
I'll stick around for a month or two if that's how long it takes you to end this!! (as long as there's some comfort for poor Arthur here?? And Alfred? *wibbles then starts sobbing again*
How long has it been? About 1 month? America thinks to himself. The scars on his face have healed, and he is good as he was earlier; Canada was still healing, and... England, well...
Occasionally, China calls to tell him about England; “I haven't been able to get through to him at all- aru... He goes everyday doing the exact same thing, and it's always the things I told him to do when he first started staying with him. I've tried to ply him with everything I could think of- aru. Books he liked, British tea, nothing comes up- aru.” America cringes as China continues, “He doesn't react to it. He looks at it, and he'll hold it because I'm telling him to try it, but... nothing happens- aru. He's just doing it out of fear- aru.”
“... What about Japan? South Korea? Haven't they been visiting him?” America asks, and he has to control himself so his phone doesn't crush under his strength.
“Japan tries too. He brings tea from his country. Poetry, rugs, anything that England would like- aru. South Korea has tried to make him watch dramas. It's like he's completely soul-less now- aru. Unless something reminds him of Russia; then he starts to scream again- aru.” China explains, and with a sharp breath, he says, “I don't think there's anymore we can do- aru. He's beyond help now- aru...”
America hangs up. He... He refuses to believe it. It's... It's England, he's got to be okay inside, right? Right? He's strong, so strong, America remembers, there's no way he'd... give up like that.
China's not doing it right, he convinces himself. Maybe if he visits England, it'll be okay. England still remembers him, right? Of course he does, of course he does, England would never truly forget him. He's America, he's America, so... So stop crying, damn it... America wipes his tears.
He must be strong, because it is England, and everyone is giving up, but he won't. He'll save him, wherever he has gone. He stands up and picks up his phone; “I'm taking him home.” America says, and hangs up on China, who doesn't have a chance to argue back.
And now, a few hours later, he's being guided by Chinese officials to their personification's household, where England was. It's been a while since he saw England. After the events with Russia... well, China took care of England there on after. America was in no condition with injuries, and his unstable emotions.
He... he is okay now, he is! He's a hero! Heroes always heal!
But when China greets him and leads him to England's room, he finds him on his knees; he sobs. He hasn't seriously cried over this whole ordeal yet, because he forces him emotions in check, even when they are so messy after Russia came. Seeing England scream, backed against the wall, afraid like he is Russia too...
It hurts. It hurts him like he's been shot too many times, and he can't take it anymore. Politics, economy, everything; it's stressing him out, he's so tired, then there's England, the person he loves, afraid and weak and he can't do anything, and, and...
He's no hero. He can't do this.
He can't help England.
But his mind changes the screaming ceases; America does not hear over his crying, but he knows when he feels warmth around him; he doesn't know what happened. China watches from the side with a smile.
But England is hugging him, embracing him, his mouth against America's golden hair. He doesn't stroke his back or anything like that, like he once used to when America was young, but he holds him close, regardless, and says nothing. America sneaks his arms around him, and he cries against the crook of England's neck.
There is hope, isn't there- aru? China asks himself; I was mistaken. What he needs isn't someone smart enough to have a Doctor's degree. England needs specifically America to help him- aru.
“Because he still remembers you somewhere inside- aru.” The Chinese man whispers.
[A/N: BECAUSE. I'VE BEEN GIVING YOU ALL DEPRESSING ANGST SO HERE'S SOME LOVELY. CUTE THINGS. IDK. ;A;
So it's 2:45, I am definitely sleeping now. D8 GOOD NIGHT GAIZ, ILU SO MUCH.
and no this isn't the end, STILL. HAHAHA.]
Occasionally, China calls to tell him about England; “I haven't been able to get through to him at all- aru... He goes everyday doing the exact same thing, and it's always the things I told him to do when he first started staying with him. I've tried to ply him with everything I could think of- aru. Books he liked, British tea, nothing comes up- aru.” America cringes as China continues, “He doesn't react to it. He looks at it, and he'll hold it because I'm telling him to try it, but... nothing happens- aru. He's just doing it out of fear- aru.”
“... What about Japan? South Korea? Haven't they been visiting him?” America asks, and he has to control himself so his phone doesn't crush under his strength.
“Japan tries too. He brings tea from his country. Poetry, rugs, anything that England would like- aru. South Korea has tried to make him watch dramas. It's like he's completely soul-less now- aru. Unless something reminds him of Russia; then he starts to scream again- aru.” China explains, and with a sharp breath, he says, “I don't think there's anymore we can do- aru. He's beyond help now- aru...”
America hangs up. He... He refuses to believe it. It's... It's England, he's got to be okay inside, right? Right? He's strong, so strong, America remembers, there's no way he'd... give up like that.
China's not doing it right, he convinces himself. Maybe if he visits England, it'll be okay. England still remembers him, right? Of course he does, of course he does, England would never truly forget him. He's America, he's America, so... So stop crying, damn it... America wipes his tears.
He must be strong, because it is England, and everyone is giving up, but he won't. He'll save him, wherever he has gone. He stands up and picks up his phone; “I'm taking him home.” America says, and hangs up on China, who doesn't have a chance to argue back.
And now, a few hours later, he's being guided by Chinese officials to their personification's household, where England was. It's been a while since he saw England. After the events with Russia... well, China took care of England there on after. America was in no condition with injuries, and his unstable emotions.
He... he is okay now, he is! He's a hero! Heroes always heal!
But when China greets him and leads him to England's room, he finds him on his knees; he sobs. He hasn't seriously cried over this whole ordeal yet, because he forces him emotions in check, even when they are so messy after Russia came. Seeing England scream, backed against the wall, afraid like he is Russia too...
It hurts. It hurts him like he's been shot too many times, and he can't take it anymore. Politics, economy, everything; it's stressing him out, he's so tired, then there's England, the person he loves, afraid and weak and he can't do anything, and, and...
He's no hero. He can't do this.
He can't help England.
But his mind changes the screaming ceases; America does not hear over his crying, but he knows when he feels warmth around him; he doesn't know what happened. China watches from the side with a smile.
But England is hugging him, embracing him, his mouth against America's golden hair. He doesn't stroke his back or anything like that, like he once used to when America was young, but he holds him close, regardless, and says nothing. America sneaks his arms around him, and he cries against the crook of England's neck.
There is hope, isn't there- aru? China asks himself; I was mistaken. What he needs isn't someone smart enough to have a Doctor's degree. England needs specifically America to help him- aru.
“Because he still remembers you somewhere inside- aru.” The Chinese man whispers.
[A/N: BECAUSE. I'VE BEEN GIVING YOU ALL DEPRESSING ANGST SO HERE'S SOME LOVELY. CUTE THINGS. IDK. ;A;
So it's 2:45, I am definitely sleeping now. D8 GOOD NIGHT GAIZ, ILU SO MUCH.
and no this isn't the end, STILL. HAHAHA.]
OMFG YES!!!! He.... he remembers.... *wipes tears and snot from her face* The hug.... dear god, the hug...
I LUV U!!!
(now get some rest so you can keep writing tomorrow!!!)
I LUV U!!!
(now get some rest so you can keep writing tomorrow!!!)
...SOB. So...beautiful...and England finally kinda remembers and so sad and perfect and wonderful and heartbreaking and poor everyone and oh Lord but I wanna wrap England and America up in cotton wool and keep them safe from everyone and from now on I'm gonna somewhat de-anon myself so that you know I'm stalking you. FROM NOW ON I SHALL END EVERYTHING I SAY WITH "OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!"
Also. PLEASE MARRY ME ANON. PLEASE. I'LL PAY FOR THE WEDDING! YOU CAN WEAR WHATEVER YOU WANT.
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO.
Also. PLEASE MARRY ME ANON. PLEASE. I'LL PAY FOR THE WEDDING! YOU CAN WEAR WHATEVER YOU WANT.
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO.
ASFGASDFSGADAGADGAA
...
Okay, I think I can type out a real comment now.
HUG! HUG! HUG!!!!! ARTHUR HUGGED HIM! *Spazzes* ヽ(´▽`)/
Dammit, tears are back. At least they are tears of happiness. There is hope that he will get better!
...
Okay, I think I can type out a real comment now.
HUG! HUG! HUG!!!!! ARTHUR HUGGED HIM! *Spazzes* ヽ(´▽`)/
Dammit, tears are back. At least they are tears of happiness. There is hope that he will get better!
AUTHOR!Anon, ILU. And I hope you get some good night's REST! Thank you so much for your hard work, and I love, love this so MUCH.
...my reCAPTCHA just spewed out the name of my seat mate. WAT.
...my reCAPTCHA just spewed out the name of my seat mate. WAT.
Awww!! ='D That last bit was so beautiful! Poor America and England~! I can't wait until you post again! <3 This is so lovely.
Ugh. I cried. ;_; *sobsob*
This is gold, Author!Anon, this is pure gold.
I'm sorry I can't really come up with, er, anything else to say now, but I'm really, really in love with this story. I can't wait for the next part(s?)! <3
*bookmarks :B*
Also, I hope you had a good night's rest~ ^-^
This is gold, Author!Anon, this is pure gold.
I'm sorry I can't really come up with, er, anything else to say now, but I'm really, really in love with this story. I can't wait for the next part(s?)! <3
*bookmarks :B*
Also, I hope you had a good night's rest~ ^-^
how much I love you?
This is so cute and is a breath of fresh air from all the angst. (though the angst was enjoyable. honestly.)
I feel so bad for America and England. Especially Iggy! ;A; I don't get though how come they allowed Russia to get England in the first place. *sorry if I didn't read it carefully at the start >_<*
Awesome story! XD I want to print this out one day when it's finished. :3 ([6]w[6]) <meep)
This is so cute and is a breath of fresh air from all the angst. (though the angst was enjoyable. honestly.)
I feel so bad for America and England. Especially Iggy! ;A; I don't get though how come they allowed Russia to get England in the first place. *sorry if I didn't read it carefully at the start >_<*
Awesome story! XD I want to print this out one day when it's finished. :3 ([6]w[6]) <meep)
T-Thank you so much! <33 Author-non is honored! -shot-
It's okay! :D I didn't really go much into it, since I sort of figured it's sort of a thing where no one saw it coming, so yeah. -shot-
It's okay! :D I didn't really go much into it, since I sort of figured it's sort of a thing where no one saw it coming, so yeah. -shot-
England's been coming around, and it makes America happy. He's now staying at America's place in Washington D.C., and now America's coming home to his house everyday instead of lodging at the White House.
It's been 5 weeks since they embraced, but it makes America's heart drop when it seems it's like when they first hugged; a one time thing. England is healing, but at the same time, he's still haunted. He wakes up at night frequently, and he doesn't go anywhere in the house, other then the living room and the guest room he's been staying in.
Though, America does find it cute though; there is one other room he goes to, and from time to time, America arrives home late, and he'd tip-toe to his room and see England sleeping on his bed instead of the guest room. America doesn't mind though; he did say, “If you ever want to, you can sleep in my bed room instead.” He never thought England would seriously do it, but he is proven wrong that day when he comes home and sees England snuggled in his big bed, sleeping peacefully under the comforters.
Now, he's never going to say it, but he does take pictures when England's looking especially cute, and he'll look at the photos of him on his iPhone when he's bored and crammed in the White House for work.
Despite all the faults though, England is going the better way now, and it makes America happy. China always agrees when he hears about England's progress. He always reminds America though, that even he is healing, the way it sounds, he is all the more easy to break now.
America is okay though; he is healing too, because watching England heal is all he needs. “He does things on his own now, in a way.” America notes; in a way. In a general sense, he still only does things if he's told it's okay, but before, England would be told it's okay to watch the television, but he never would, because he's still scared. America would say he can read whatever is on America's bookshelf, he can go anywhere in the house that he'd like (“Just don't go into the basement; that's where Tony is.” America would warn him.), he can eat anything in the house, call him whenever he feels like it, but he'd never do any of it, because he was afraid.
It is different now though. America comes home and he finds England watching the TV, or sitting on the couch, reading more books. Solemnly, he is never eating though because of his dislike for the kitchen, so America tends to lay out some food on the dining table for England to eat when he's hungry.
He doesn't call America either, but that doesn't mean he doesn't speak. His voice is very quiet and he doesn't say much, but he's always says, “Welcome home,” “Thank you,” “Good morning,” and “Good night.”
America knows though; he certainly doesn't say much to others, but he has a cute habit of mumbling to himself when things don't go his way (when it doesn't involve America, of course).
He's not so bad with other people too; they don't have America's privilege with England, but he doesn't run from them. He doesn't seem afraid of Canada at all, but he doesn't seem to like France or Spain much, as America often sees the ghost of a scowl on his face when they come. He seems to appreciate Japan's visits though, along with Canada's.
“I didn't think he'd heal, or this fast- aru. I'm proud of you- aru.” China's words ring in his head as America smiles, standing beside his bed, where England sleeps. Got my bed jacked from me again. America says to himself, playfully.
His gloved hand picks up England's pale one, but he notes it's getting a little color back; his lips are against it in a quick kiss, and England's eyes flutter open; a small smile graces his lip. He rarely smiles, only when America comes home, from time to time; “Welcome home.”
His privilege is no hug or kiss, but they do hold hands from time to time.
[A/N: ;A;'' Author-non apologizes for lack of hurt/comfort! I just felt like writing fluff.
Sorry, this may be the only update today. >A>; I have a project due for history;;! I'll try and fit another update in today though!
Also, what would you like to see for Part 21: Something more serious with Doctor!China, orz. Or some more fluff? :D Rejected idea will come in later parts.]
It's been 5 weeks since they embraced, but it makes America's heart drop when it seems it's like when they first hugged; a one time thing. England is healing, but at the same time, he's still haunted. He wakes up at night frequently, and he doesn't go anywhere in the house, other then the living room and the guest room he's been staying in.
Though, America does find it cute though; there is one other room he goes to, and from time to time, America arrives home late, and he'd tip-toe to his room and see England sleeping on his bed instead of the guest room. America doesn't mind though; he did say, “If you ever want to, you can sleep in my bed room instead.” He never thought England would seriously do it, but he is proven wrong that day when he comes home and sees England snuggled in his big bed, sleeping peacefully under the comforters.
Now, he's never going to say it, but he does take pictures when England's looking especially cute, and he'll look at the photos of him on his iPhone when he's bored and crammed in the White House for work.
Despite all the faults though, England is going the better way now, and it makes America happy. China always agrees when he hears about England's progress. He always reminds America though, that even he is healing, the way it sounds, he is all the more easy to break now.
America is okay though; he is healing too, because watching England heal is all he needs. “He does things on his own now, in a way.” America notes; in a way. In a general sense, he still only does things if he's told it's okay, but before, England would be told it's okay to watch the television, but he never would, because he's still scared. America would say he can read whatever is on America's bookshelf, he can go anywhere in the house that he'd like (“Just don't go into the basement; that's where Tony is.” America would warn him.), he can eat anything in the house, call him whenever he feels like it, but he'd never do any of it, because he was afraid.
It is different now though. America comes home and he finds England watching the TV, or sitting on the couch, reading more books. Solemnly, he is never eating though because of his dislike for the kitchen, so America tends to lay out some food on the dining table for England to eat when he's hungry.
He doesn't call America either, but that doesn't mean he doesn't speak. His voice is very quiet and he doesn't say much, but he's always says, “Welcome home,” “Thank you,” “Good morning,” and “Good night.”
America knows though; he certainly doesn't say much to others, but he has a cute habit of mumbling to himself when things don't go his way (when it doesn't involve America, of course).
He's not so bad with other people too; they don't have America's privilege with England, but he doesn't run from them. He doesn't seem afraid of Canada at all, but he doesn't seem to like France or Spain much, as America often sees the ghost of a scowl on his face when they come. He seems to appreciate Japan's visits though, along with Canada's.
“I didn't think he'd heal, or this fast- aru. I'm proud of you- aru.” China's words ring in his head as America smiles, standing beside his bed, where England sleeps. Got my bed jacked from me again. America says to himself, playfully.
His gloved hand picks up England's pale one, but he notes it's getting a little color back; his lips are against it in a quick kiss, and England's eyes flutter open; a small smile graces his lip. He rarely smiles, only when America comes home, from time to time; “Welcome home.”
His privilege is no hug or kiss, but they do hold hands from time to time.
[A/N: ;A;'' Author-non apologizes for lack of hurt/comfort! I just felt like writing fluff.
Sorry, this may be the only update today. >A>; I have a project due for history;;! I'll try and fit another update in today though!
Also, what would you like to see for Part 21: Something more serious with Doctor!China, orz. Or some more fluff? :D Rejected idea will come in later parts.]
Oh anon! An update! YAY! And please, don't put off your history project just for us! We want you to do well anon! Anyways. Such a cute chapter. I was so happy! I was smiling! I was laughing! I was 'awwing' at how cute Arthur is with his mumbles and sleeping in Alfred's bed and not liking France or Spain and he's just too cute.
And as for 21...ummm...I DON'T KNOW. Maybe Doctor!China so that the bad stuff can be taken care of first and then more fluff? That sounds good to me...
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO.
And as for 21...ummm...I DON'T KNOW. Maybe Doctor!China so that the bad stuff can be taken care of first and then more fluff? That sounds good to me...
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO.
That was so adorable. I'm so glad Arthur is finally doing things on his own. The fact he sleeps in Alfred's bed when he comes home late. ♥
I like how even after he loses his memory, Arthur still doesn't like Spain or France. Haha.
Hm, more serious with Doctor!China would result in bad news but in the end it could lead to more fluffier scenes. :]
Also, don't worry about trying to update again today, just focus on finishing your project!
I like how even after he loses his memory, Arthur still doesn't like Spain or France. Haha.
Hm, more serious with Doctor!China would result in bad news but in the end it could lead to more fluffier scenes. :]
Also, don't worry about trying to update again today, just focus on finishing your project!
I LOVE you so much you can take my soul now
this fic is so cute and loved and so well written and full of emotion and wah!!!!!!!!!! i cant praise ytouu enough i'm unworthy!!!!~
goodluck with your projects and i'll look forward to the nxt updates coz i seriously love this fic !!!!!!!!!
this fic is so cute and loved and so well written and full of emotion and wah!!!!!!!!!! i cant praise ytouu enough i'm unworthy!!!!~
goodluck with your projects and i'll look forward to the nxt updates coz i seriously love this fic !!!!!!!!!
not OP
I have an idea. How about Arthur finding pictures of him and Alfred either new(like how friends take pictures together) or old(during the colonial era)or does that comes later in your grand story plan?
I have an idea. How about Arthur finding pictures of him and Alfred either new(like how friends take pictures together) or old(during the colonial era)or does that comes later in your grand story plan?
Oh, yes! :D I did actually play around with that idea when I was first making that fic, but I didn't get to using it yet~~
“Cute, isn't he?” America asks with a smile as he and China peer through the guest room door where England is sleeping in America's bed for the umpteenth time. It's late at night when China arrives to America's house, and China can't help, but nod. He remembers the old days, with Vietnam, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, and Hong Kong... how when he would arrive in his home and see them sleeping on the front porch under one blanket, waiting for him to come back from work.
It makes him heart warm. He can tell why America likes the sight of England sleeping so much; “Yes. He looks much better then before- aru.” China quietly notes, and America smiles with a proud nod. He motions China to come back with him to his office, and they sit there and talk.
“How do you think he is?” America asks, his face hardening. He knows China is very blunt with England's condition because he does not want to give America any false hope.
“You can smile- aru. I think things are going great- aru.” China explains, and America's face brightens so much that if he were a light bulb, China would bet it'd be worth quite the penny.
“Really? He is?” America is so jumpy that China has to motion for him to sit and stay still, which America does, but he is still giddy and excited like a school girl whose crush just confessed he reciprocated her feelings.
“Yes, really. It's quite a shock, to be honest- aru. Considering how he reacted to you, I didn't think he'd ever get over what happened with Russia, but he has- aru. Even more so, he's made so much more progress with you then he had with me, South Korea, and Japan- aru.” China adds, and some part of America wants to run out the door and scream, “I fucking did it!” But he holds himself on the couch.
“Even more so, he feared you because you said Russia would not come for him, but Russia did- aru. Then he began to associate you with Russia- aru. And it took one month for him to sleep in your bed because he misses your presence.” China explains, and America stops. Wait... what? H-He always thought that England slept in his bed because it was comfortable... he looks at China like a deer looks at a car's headlights.
“... Don't tell me you didn't realize that- aru.” China says flatly, and America flails his arms; “O-Of course I know!” He lies, and it is so clear that China is unaware why he even true. He shakes his head and moves on.
“Moving on; I'd say he's attached to you if you guys held hands as you said- aru. Then again, you do spend the most time with him and he's like a child right now, so it figures- aru. Has he shown any signs of remembering prior to his capture?” China asks, and America cups his chin, thoughts running through his mind. He isn't very sure, because England never says so himself; hell, the guy never says much unless directed.
“Not that I know of. I'd say he hasn't really forgotten though,” America begins, “He did know the way around my house right away though!” America says, and China nods; that's something. If England has never been to America's real house prior to his current stay here, he wouldn't know anything about where everything is.
“Anything else- aru?” America shakes his head; “Personality.” America goes on to explain that England curses too, but not in front of him. Only when he's alone, which China says means he's still scared.
“It's still good though. Naturally, a person of normal status would've probably entered a state of insanity and probably killed themselves, or they would suffer post-traumatic stress for life. I think within a few months, he might return to his normal self- aru.” China looks out the dark window, reflecting him and America with the stars and moons, which were vague in view because of the city buildings.
“So then if we're getting their mentally, then the next step is his memories, right?” China nods; “His personality will probably return with his memories- aru. I just don't know how to do it- aru.”
[A/N: ;AAA;'' S-Sorry for boring segment. -sob-]
It makes him heart warm. He can tell why America likes the sight of England sleeping so much; “Yes. He looks much better then before- aru.” China quietly notes, and America smiles with a proud nod. He motions China to come back with him to his office, and they sit there and talk.
“How do you think he is?” America asks, his face hardening. He knows China is very blunt with England's condition because he does not want to give America any false hope.
“You can smile- aru. I think things are going great- aru.” China explains, and America's face brightens so much that if he were a light bulb, China would bet it'd be worth quite the penny.
“Really? He is?” America is so jumpy that China has to motion for him to sit and stay still, which America does, but he is still giddy and excited like a school girl whose crush just confessed he reciprocated her feelings.
“Yes, really. It's quite a shock, to be honest- aru. Considering how he reacted to you, I didn't think he'd ever get over what happened with Russia, but he has- aru. Even more so, he's made so much more progress with you then he had with me, South Korea, and Japan- aru.” China adds, and some part of America wants to run out the door and scream, “I fucking did it!” But he holds himself on the couch.
“Even more so, he feared you because you said Russia would not come for him, but Russia did- aru. Then he began to associate you with Russia- aru. And it took one month for him to sleep in your bed because he misses your presence.” China explains, and America stops. Wait... what? H-He always thought that England slept in his bed because it was comfortable... he looks at China like a deer looks at a car's headlights.
“... Don't tell me you didn't realize that- aru.” China says flatly, and America flails his arms; “O-Of course I know!” He lies, and it is so clear that China is unaware why he even true. He shakes his head and moves on.
“Moving on; I'd say he's attached to you if you guys held hands as you said- aru. Then again, you do spend the most time with him and he's like a child right now, so it figures- aru. Has he shown any signs of remembering prior to his capture?” China asks, and America cups his chin, thoughts running through his mind. He isn't very sure, because England never says so himself; hell, the guy never says much unless directed.
“Not that I know of. I'd say he hasn't really forgotten though,” America begins, “He did know the way around my house right away though!” America says, and China nods; that's something. If England has never been to America's real house prior to his current stay here, he wouldn't know anything about where everything is.
“Anything else- aru?” America shakes his head; “Personality.” America goes on to explain that England curses too, but not in front of him. Only when he's alone, which China says means he's still scared.
“It's still good though. Naturally, a person of normal status would've probably entered a state of insanity and probably killed themselves, or they would suffer post-traumatic stress for life. I think within a few months, he might return to his normal self- aru.” China looks out the dark window, reflecting him and America with the stars and moons, which were vague in view because of the city buildings.
“So then if we're getting their mentally, then the next step is his memories, right?” China nods; “His personality will probably return with his memories- aru. I just don't know how to do it- aru.”
[A/N: ;AAA;'' S-Sorry for boring segment. -sob-]
Nooo...This is a good chapter. So much happier than I thought China would be. XD And Arthur, you're so cute and Alfred is too. And I knew he was afraid of Alfred for those reasons at first and yay! He might be better soon...if...if there are no more...setbacks? DX
Anon from above here. I forgot to add this:
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
It was not boring! It was filled with cuteness~
China with all the kids~ Haha. How adorable.
*slaps Alfred for being stupid* Of course he misses you! xD
China with all the kids~ Haha. How adorable.
*slaps Alfred for being stupid* Of course he misses you! xD
SHOW HIM PICTURES AL!!!! TAKE HIM TO THAT CLOSET YOU KEEP ALL YOUR OLD TOYS AND MEMORIES IN!!!!
*huggles story and doesn't let go*
*huggles story and doesn't let go*
“What do you mean?” America's face becomes stern, but China doesn't blame him. It's a very serious subject; “You know amnesiac cases, America. You can't just tell them all they've forgotten and expect them to remember. It's something similar here- aru.”
“But England didn't forget, he--” America begins, but China cuts him off swiftly; “just isn't aware he remembers everything- aru.” China rests his chin on his hands, which are laced together and has his elbows rest on his knees, “I know, America.”
“Then why are you saying this?” He asks, and China looks down; “Because even if that was the case, I wouldn't know how to go about all this- aru.”
“... What?” America asks, and China can tell his voice is bordering on shock and possible rage; Russia is coming to his mind all over again.
“Russia forced England to forget his own name. I don't doubt he knows what it takes to make England forget everything,” He grabs America's arm as he stands; “Remember last time- aru.” Then the memories flood back like a raging waterfall, and America recalls the screams and shattering glass and all the chaos; it sends his mind spiraling again. He sits down again.
“Don't get me wrong- aru. I am not pinning the blame on Russia. There is a chance England can not remember because of him, but there is a chance he simply can not recall it is all. Or option C- aru, and that is he chooses not to remember it.” That is what leaves their discussion in a frozen moment, and America struggles to speak. His mouth opens, it closes, it opens, and closes again. He... he doesn't know what to say.
“We don't know what Russia told him.” China says, and America feels the leather of the couch strain under his grip, because he is holding it so tight because it is all that keeps him from flying to Europe.
“Russia is not your concern, America. Think about England. If you leave him-” China warns him and is promptly cut off by America; “I know... I know.” He says quietly, and sits back, releasing his hold on the couch.
“All right. On the topic of England... First, we need to find out why he's like this; why he can't remember. Whether he's afraid, or doesn't want to, or something completely different- aru. If possible, you might have to speed up- aru.” China explains, and America nods; the economy is terrible, and it does the United Kingdom no good to have one of its personifications missing (right now, they are left with all, but Ireland and Scotland, who have taken up representing the United Kingdom until England's return.) so he has to hurry, but all the same-- “But if it's causing you to rush it, then don't. We need to be as slow as England needs- aru. He's still fragile; we need to preserve his trust more then anything.”
“... Got it... but what can I do to make him trust me more?” America asks himself quietly, and China smiles; “I thought you would ask that- aru. I have some ideas.”
America looks at him peculiarly; he knows China is smart, but heck, he is the last person America expects to know plenty about relationships; he'd usually go to Canada for this kind of thing.
“So, tomorrow, you are to take England out on a date- aru. I heard of a place here... The Cheesecake Factory, they called it? Taiwan and Hong Kong went- aru. They said it was great, so take England there, enjoy dinner, and the night scenery. I heard tomorrow is indeed a cloud free day- aru.” China says this all in one breath, and... and America is speechless.
[A/N: Sorry! Short update is short! ;A; It's sort of like a small transition, ending the earlier event and. uh. GIVING YOU A LITTLE HINT ABOUT PART 23, HMMM?
There should be even more fluff after that too~~ Poor America's gonna get ordered around by China for quite a bit. Needless to say, it'll be cute, so I hope you love it~~ <3 I hope it's cute, LOL;;;.
ALSO. I er, also started a new fill on the APH Kink Meme, so go check it out~~ It's on the 29th page. I think by now you can probably tell it's me by my manner of writing. XDDD]
“But England didn't forget, he--” America begins, but China cuts him off swiftly; “just isn't aware he remembers everything- aru.” China rests his chin on his hands, which are laced together and has his elbows rest on his knees, “I know, America.”
“Then why are you saying this?” He asks, and China looks down; “Because even if that was the case, I wouldn't know how to go about all this- aru.”
“... What?” America asks, and China can tell his voice is bordering on shock and possible rage; Russia is coming to his mind all over again.
“Russia forced England to forget his own name. I don't doubt he knows what it takes to make England forget everything,” He grabs America's arm as he stands; “Remember last time- aru.” Then the memories flood back like a raging waterfall, and America recalls the screams and shattering glass and all the chaos; it sends his mind spiraling again. He sits down again.
“Don't get me wrong- aru. I am not pinning the blame on Russia. There is a chance England can not remember because of him, but there is a chance he simply can not recall it is all. Or option C- aru, and that is he chooses not to remember it.” That is what leaves their discussion in a frozen moment, and America struggles to speak. His mouth opens, it closes, it opens, and closes again. He... he doesn't know what to say.
“We don't know what Russia told him.” China says, and America feels the leather of the couch strain under his grip, because he is holding it so tight because it is all that keeps him from flying to Europe.
“Russia is not your concern, America. Think about England. If you leave him-” China warns him and is promptly cut off by America; “I know... I know.” He says quietly, and sits back, releasing his hold on the couch.
“All right. On the topic of England... First, we need to find out why he's like this; why he can't remember. Whether he's afraid, or doesn't want to, or something completely different- aru. If possible, you might have to speed up- aru.” China explains, and America nods; the economy is terrible, and it does the United Kingdom no good to have one of its personifications missing (right now, they are left with all, but Ireland and Scotland, who have taken up representing the United Kingdom until England's return.) so he has to hurry, but all the same-- “But if it's causing you to rush it, then don't. We need to be as slow as England needs- aru. He's still fragile; we need to preserve his trust more then anything.”
“... Got it... but what can I do to make him trust me more?” America asks himself quietly, and China smiles; “I thought you would ask that- aru. I have some ideas.”
America looks at him peculiarly; he knows China is smart, but heck, he is the last person America expects to know plenty about relationships; he'd usually go to Canada for this kind of thing.
“So, tomorrow, you are to take England out on a date- aru. I heard of a place here... The Cheesecake Factory, they called it? Taiwan and Hong Kong went- aru. They said it was great, so take England there, enjoy dinner, and the night scenery. I heard tomorrow is indeed a cloud free day- aru.” China says this all in one breath, and... and America is speechless.
[A/N: Sorry! Short update is short! ;A; It's sort of like a small transition, ending the earlier event and. uh. GIVING YOU A LITTLE HINT ABOUT PART 23, HMMM?
There should be even more fluff after that too~~ Poor America's gonna get ordered around by China for quite a bit. Needless to say, it'll be cute, so I hope you love it~~ <3 I hope it's cute, LOL;;;.
ALSO. I er, also started a new fill on the APH Kink Meme, so go check it out~~ It's on the 29th page. I think by now you can probably tell it's me by my manner of writing. XDDD]
...Have I mentioned how much I love you lately? Because I really should tell you more often. XD Oh, I'm looking forward to the rest of China's orders and the (hopefully) adorable date and now I'm off to read your other fill! (Or at least I hope it's your other fill...I'm just assuming it's the last one on there so far, the 18 year old Arthur one...?)
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
ROFL THANK YOU SO MUCH. <3 Anon feels too honored. ;AAAA;
lmao yes it's that one. god is my writing that obvious. ;AAA; I linked my friend to this fill and I didn't bother telling her I wrote it. and she immediately knew by my manner of writing ORZ;.
lmao yes it's that one. god is my writing that obvious. ;AAA; I linked my friend to this fill and I didn't bother telling her I wrote it. and she immediately knew by my manner of writing ORZ;.
IT IS MY HONOUR TO BE READING ANON'S GLORIOUS FICS.
No really...You just have the same kinks I do. And I like your writing style...And your stories. Seriously, I'm refreshing both of your fills now...Constantly. XD
No really...You just have the same kinks I do. And I like your writing style...And your stories. Seriously, I'm refreshing both of your fills now...Constantly. XD
W...woot...a date in cheese cake factory?*A*...that's awesome anon!!!can't wait for part 23 *w*...and this anon is curious,Were taiwan and HK went there as a couple too?just because this anon ships HK-Taiwan XD.oh...that 18 years old arthur one...I've not read it yet...but I noticed you from the author note XDD..will definitely read that one later <3
YESS~~ pfft when I was like. "What's a good resturant?" and then it's like CHEESECAKE FACTORY IN BLARING LIGHTS. -bricked-
BAHAHAH YES LOL;; This anon also ships HK/Taiwan. >A>;; ... actually I ship Taiwan with HK, Japan, or South Korea LOL -fail-
BAHAHAH YES LOL;; This anon also ships HK/Taiwan. >A>;; ... actually I ship Taiwan with HK, Japan, or South Korea LOL -fail-
EXPRESS MY LOVE MORE TO YOU!! XD
I am very very very excited to see the 23th part of this! <3 Cheesecake Factory? Suggested by China? XD I would've thought he'd say, "Take him to Chinatown, aru. There are some really good tea houses there and the stuffed toys there are cheap!" :3
I'm gonna go and read your other fill! Thanks for the update~ ^_^
as a gift:
≡ ≡
(○Ａ○) x ([6]w[6])
I am very very very excited to see the 23th part of this! <3 Cheesecake Factory? Suggested by China? XD I would've thought he'd say, "Take him to Chinatown, aru. There are some really good tea houses there and the stuffed toys there are cheap!" :3
I'm gonna go and read your other fill! Thanks for the update~ ^_^
as a gift:
≡ ≡
(○Ａ○) x ([6]w[6])
America casually walks into the restaurant with a black sweater and denim jeans. England follows behind with a T-Shirt (From America, and they still haven't gotten around to picking up England's clothes in London because they haven't an excuse to raid England's home, nor do they know where his keys even are.) that hits the length of his elbows, and short cargo pants from America, except it goes a little past his ankles. America needs smaller clothes, that's for sure.
England isn't even that much shorter; 2 centimeters, to be exact. He should be able to fit like a tee in America's pants at the very least (the former England would hate to admit it, but America's T-Shirts would never fit him because of America's much-more athletic build in comparison to him.) but no, not even that. Well, it's not England currently cared much anyway.
“We got a private booth Arthur, so let's go!” America motions for them to go deeper into the restaurant, so England nods and scampers closely behind America.
They sit across from each other, and a waiter comes to deliver their menus; America slides one to England. “Take it, and you can order whatever you'd like and as much as you'd like.” America smiles, and England nods; “Thank you.” He says, a bit quietly, and they read over the menus. It's 10 minutes later that they order.
“I'll have a Hibachi Steak and Coke!” America says, cheery, and picks up a bread in the basket and takes a bite out of it. England shifts a little, and tries to hide his nervous expression with a look of apathy or wariness; “I'll have a Chicken Salad Sandwich and Iced Green Tea.” He says, and the waiter nods. He takes their orders and goes on his merry way.
“So how do you like it so far?” America asks, and England looks up; “The restaurant! Does it fit your tastes?” England ponders for a moment before he answers: “I don't really know. We've only been here for about.... 15 minutes?” England cocks his head to the left as he tries to remember when they arrived, and notices America's glasses messed with his blond hair, his hands slid onto his face and pushes the glasses up until his hair. He's trembling.
“... Alfred? I-Is something wrong?” England stammers out, and America shakes his head; Nothing wrong, but you! Damn it, Arthur, why so moe!? America has to control himself, and makes a mental thank you that he is sitting and not standing, making his slowly coming erection just a little less obvious.
“S-Sorry, Arthur. Anyway, want some bread?” America asks as he regains himself and picks up a piece of bread. England nods and mutters a small thank you as he munches on it quietly, and... and America is looking out at the tinted window behind him, so desperate to punch it and virtually shatter it, take England in his arms and somewhere private where they could, quote – “have some alone time” – unquote.
“... Alfred, why did you take me out to dinner today?” England asks, a bit nervously. He fidgets, but attempts to look like he doesn't care, borderline a small scowl maybe (it's probably because England isn't the best at forcing his expressions right now, like Alfred) and looks to the right. America smiles; “You're always home, right?”
England nods. “Well, it gets stuffy there after a while, right? You must get bored, always reading or watching TV, right?” England looks down, and America smiles, “You can be honest.”
“It... does feel lonely after a while.” England admits, and America feels positive inside. He's gotten one step closer if he can pry honest answers out of England.
“Is this why you sleep in my bed if I take too long to come home?” America asks, “Because it reminds you of me and makes you feel less lonely?” England's face still lights up red when he's embarrassed, America notes when he speaks, and sees England turn completely red by the time he finished the first part of his question.
[A/N: Sorry that nothing much has happened yet! It's sort of like a transition from China's talk with America to the date. 24 should have more fluff, I hope.
I also apologize for today's lack of updates. I have trouble thinking of what to do with this segment! >A<;; orz. I would've written more, but it's 4:59 am. ;A;'' I'm scared of being caught by my parents, sorry gaiz. Hopefully, I'll update more tommorow.]
England isn't even that much shorter; 2 centimeters, to be exact. He should be able to fit like a tee in America's pants at the very least (the former England would hate to admit it, but America's T-Shirts would never fit him because of America's much-more athletic build in comparison to him.) but no, not even that. Well, it's not England currently cared much anyway.
“We got a private booth Arthur, so let's go!” America motions for them to go deeper into the restaurant, so England nods and scampers closely behind America.
They sit across from each other, and a waiter comes to deliver their menus; America slides one to England. “Take it, and you can order whatever you'd like and as much as you'd like.” America smiles, and England nods; “Thank you.” He says, a bit quietly, and they read over the menus. It's 10 minutes later that they order.
“I'll have a Hibachi Steak and Coke!” America says, cheery, and picks up a bread in the basket and takes a bite out of it. England shifts a little, and tries to hide his nervous expression with a look of apathy or wariness; “I'll have a Chicken Salad Sandwich and Iced Green Tea.” He says, and the waiter nods. He takes their orders and goes on his merry way.
“So how do you like it so far?” America asks, and England looks up; “The restaurant! Does it fit your tastes?” England ponders for a moment before he answers: “I don't really know. We've only been here for about.... 15 minutes?” England cocks his head to the left as he tries to remember when they arrived, and notices America's glasses messed with his blond hair, his hands slid onto his face and pushes the glasses up until his hair. He's trembling.
“... Alfred? I-Is something wrong?” England stammers out, and America shakes his head; Nothing wrong, but you! Damn it, Arthur, why so moe!? America has to control himself, and makes a mental thank you that he is sitting and not standing, making his slowly coming erection just a little less obvious.
“S-Sorry, Arthur. Anyway, want some bread?” America asks as he regains himself and picks up a piece of bread. England nods and mutters a small thank you as he munches on it quietly, and... and America is looking out at the tinted window behind him, so desperate to punch it and virtually shatter it, take England in his arms and somewhere private where they could, quote – “have some alone time” – unquote.
“... Alfred, why did you take me out to dinner today?” England asks, a bit nervously. He fidgets, but attempts to look like he doesn't care, borderline a small scowl maybe (it's probably because England isn't the best at forcing his expressions right now, like Alfred) and looks to the right. America smiles; “You're always home, right?”
England nods. “Well, it gets stuffy there after a while, right? You must get bored, always reading or watching TV, right?” England looks down, and America smiles, “You can be honest.”
“It... does feel lonely after a while.” England admits, and America feels positive inside. He's gotten one step closer if he can pry honest answers out of England.
“Is this why you sleep in my bed if I take too long to come home?” America asks, “Because it reminds you of me and makes you feel less lonely?” England's face still lights up red when he's embarrassed, America notes when he speaks, and sees England turn completely red by the time he finished the first part of his question.
[A/N: Sorry that nothing much has happened yet! It's sort of like a transition from China's talk with America to the date. 24 should have more fluff, I hope.
I also apologize for today's lack of updates. I have trouble thinking of what to do with this segment! >A<;; orz. I would've written more, but it's 4:59 am. ;A;'' I'm scared of being caught by my parents, sorry gaiz. Hopefully, I'll update more tommorow.]
f5 f5 f5 f5
the England why so moe part made me smile xDDD
indeed England wahy so MOE?
the England why so moe part made me smile xDDD
indeed England wahy so MOE?
BECAUSE YOU NEVER SEE MOE!ENGLAND. ;A; I had to, rofl. -bricked-
anon you had me glued in this page...everytime i'm online i just have to check if theres an update of what ;___________;
hahahahahha this is pure gold really and i can't wait for the next part
*F5's some more*
hahahahahha this is pure gold really and i can't wait for the next part
*F5's some more*
Oh Arthur! So adorably moe and perfect and Alfred...you poor soul being tortured like that. (I vote "YES" for some alone time...XD)
ON ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
ON ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
ROFL YES. I was half-tempted to make him do something since his patience is waning thin... we'll see how things play out in the following installments. ;)
My patience would be wearing thin too...In fact...I would have lost it a long time ago and just jumped him. XD But...Alfred is...a stronger person than I. XD
YES ARTHUR, WHY SO MOE?!?!
Psh, Arthur doesn't need his own clothes, he can just continue to borrow them from Alfred. xD
Psh, Arthur doesn't need his own clothes, he can just continue to borrow them from Alfred. xD
I'd ttly jump Arthur. -bricked-
;AA; I wish I could keep it like that, but that'd probably inaccurate, in-character wise. -sobbb-
;AA; I wish I could keep it like that, but that'd probably inaccurate, in-character wise. -sobbb-
“I-It does not!” He retorts, forgetting his position as a 'prisoner' (in his own mind, of course.) and America laughs.
“Are you sure? If you want, I could try and cut work time.” America offers, but England shakes his head. America can hear him mutter something about how it's fine.
“... There are ghosts in my house, you know.” America tries. It reminds him a little of his and England's own fights, before Russia got his hands on him. How their answers shot back and forth until one of them lost. America feels giddy inside; he's one step closer.
“Huh? Oh, yes. They're really nice.” England states as a matter of fact, but feels scared inside when he sees America pale and freeze into his spot.
“A-Alfred...?” He says meekly, and America does not move. All of a sudden, America's hands are on the table, a slam resounding and England scampering away as he moves back with his chair in absolute terror. Did he say something wrong?
“A-Arthur! Are there... are there really ghosts in my house?” America looks at him as if he's going to die, and for a moment, England calms himself, just a tad, and nods slowly.
“G-Ghosts... in my house... Ha... ha ha...” America laughs to himself nervously, and feels himself a bit tipsy. Hey, he remembers that one time he couldn't find his Harry Potter book... Hey! Does that mean those ghosts took it? Wait, what else did they take? Wait... they're nice, Arthur said...
“Arthur! What did they tell you?!” America asks, and he is back in motion with his hands on the table once again. England jumps at the impact, and nervously fiddles with his fingers. What if America gets upset about what the spirits tell him? Is he going to hurt him? Mentally, England shakes his head. No, no, no, he's been with America for a few months and he hasn't been yelled at once.
In fact, the only thing England doesn't like about staying with America is that his house, even with those dead friends and fairies flying here and there, is very large, and so empty and England feels a little lonely. He would never say it though; he doesn't want to trouble his care taker, nor does he want to be laughed at.
That is why England settles for America's bed; it smells of him, England always thinks, hamburgers and soda, cigarettes and beer. It makes him feel a little less lonely.
“T-They told me... um... about you...” England stammers out; “They say you... you eat weird food a lot, and sometimes you go outside and smoke, and you're trying not to... a-and that you sleep at abnormal times...” England feels his eyes shut, but forces them open (“Courage is the first step to being strong, Arthur!” America tells him one day when he's not at the White House.) and looks up at America's expression.
He sighs, a playful sigh; “That's all they said?” He asks, “Here I got riled up thinking they were bothering you...” America laughs to himself a little and sits down again. He motions for England to come back, and he does so.
“Sorry for scaring you.” America apologizes with a smile, and England offers a small smile back and nods. The door slowly creaks open, and a waiter delivers their food. With a curt thank you and your welcome exchange, he leaves, and America nearly devours his food while England watches in a bit of awe.
“Chow down! It's great!” America says between mouthfuls of steak, and England nods warily. He prods at his food with his finger slowly, before gulping and eating it. His eyes light up for a moment, and America smiles; “Wasn't I right?” England takes a bite out of his food and nods.
“Are you sure? If you want, I could try and cut work time.” America offers, but England shakes his head. America can hear him mutter something about how it's fine.
“... There are ghosts in my house, you know.” America tries. It reminds him a little of his and England's own fights, before Russia got his hands on him. How their answers shot back and forth until one of them lost. America feels giddy inside; he's one step closer.
“Huh? Oh, yes. They're really nice.” England states as a matter of fact, but feels scared inside when he sees America pale and freeze into his spot.
“A-Alfred...?” He says meekly, and America does not move. All of a sudden, America's hands are on the table, a slam resounding and England scampering away as he moves back with his chair in absolute terror. Did he say something wrong?
“A-Arthur! Are there... are there really ghosts in my house?” America looks at him as if he's going to die, and for a moment, England calms himself, just a tad, and nods slowly.
“G-Ghosts... in my house... Ha... ha ha...” America laughs to himself nervously, and feels himself a bit tipsy. Hey, he remembers that one time he couldn't find his Harry Potter book... Hey! Does that mean those ghosts took it? Wait, what else did they take? Wait... they're nice, Arthur said...
“Arthur! What did they tell you?!” America asks, and he is back in motion with his hands on the table once again. England jumps at the impact, and nervously fiddles with his fingers. What if America gets upset about what the spirits tell him? Is he going to hurt him? Mentally, England shakes his head. No, no, no, he's been with America for a few months and he hasn't been yelled at once.
In fact, the only thing England doesn't like about staying with America is that his house, even with those dead friends and fairies flying here and there, is very large, and so empty and England feels a little lonely. He would never say it though; he doesn't want to trouble his care taker, nor does he want to be laughed at.
That is why England settles for America's bed; it smells of him, England always thinks, hamburgers and soda, cigarettes and beer. It makes him feel a little less lonely.
“T-They told me... um... about you...” England stammers out; “They say you... you eat weird food a lot, and sometimes you go outside and smoke, and you're trying not to... a-and that you sleep at abnormal times...” England feels his eyes shut, but forces them open (“Courage is the first step to being strong, Arthur!” America tells him one day when he's not at the White House.) and looks up at America's expression.
He sighs, a playful sigh; “That's all they said?” He asks, “Here I got riled up thinking they were bothering you...” America laughs to himself a little and sits down again. He motions for England to come back, and he does so.
“Sorry for scaring you.” America apologizes with a smile, and England offers a small smile back and nods. The door slowly creaks open, and a waiter delivers their food. With a curt thank you and your welcome exchange, he leaves, and America nearly devours his food while England watches in a bit of awe.
“Chow down! It's great!” America says between mouthfuls of steak, and England nods warily. He prods at his food with his finger slowly, before gulping and eating it. His eyes light up for a moment, and America smiles; “Wasn't I right?” England takes a bite out of his food and nods.
Yay an update~
Haha, Alfred and his fear of ghosts! You had to add that in somewhere didn't you? xD
Haha, Alfred and his fear of ghosts! You had to add that in somewhere didn't you? xD
Of course, anon! <3
it only gets better. bless America and his ghostly fears~~
it only gets better. bless America and his ghostly fears~~
skclsajlkfasjdlkqscklasjclkasjclkajslkcjsa
I LOVE YOU ANON AND AN UPDATE YAY!!!!
lol the ghost xD
and lol Harry Potter xDDDD
I LOVE YOU ANON AND AN UPDATE YAY!!!!
lol the ghost xD
and lol Harry Potter xDDDD
ILU TOO DEAR. <3
I had to. (: Scared America is scared, thus, lol. -bricked for being horrible-
I was gonna do Twilight. BUT HARRY POTTER IS MAGIC = Y/Y?
-rofl random-
I had to. (: Scared America is scared, thus, lol. -bricked for being horrible-
I was gonna do Twilight. BUT HARRY POTTER IS MAGIC = Y/Y?
-rofl random-
England gives a small thank you when America dabs his cheek with a fabric napkin. There was something on his cheek, America claims, and he proceeds to wipe it off for him, watching with nostalgia as England's face flares red.
America will never say it, but there was nothing on England's cheek. He seems to have retained his proper table manners or something, somehow. Maybe it was just something his body remembers. Either way, there was nothing there. He... he just looked so cute, eating his food and America wanted to caress his cheek so badly, and wiping his face was the first idea that came to mind.
“I-Is it off?” England asks, and America nods. They resume chatting and eating, though America does more of the talking, what with England's quiet personality... right now, anyway.
Their dinner had remained relatively uneventful there on, except as America turns to check the clock (China reminds him before he goes to the restaurant, “Remember what time you leave- aru!”), he knocks over his glass of soda, and it nearly misses England; there is a big blot of brown on his shirt now.
“Damn it! Sorry, Arthur!” America apologizes, but England insists it's fine. America frowns; “Arthur, take off your shirt.” England flinches. Wait, what? He thought America was a good person, wouldn't demand him to strip and oh God, were his friends at America's house lying and he's had the misconception of him--
“I am not raping you, Arthur. Just... take it off. It'll be fine.” America insists, and England pauses before he follows orders, because either way, he'll wind up in trouble if his deductions are correct.
They are wrong though; America takes his shirt and hands him bulky, gray blue sweater which once cloaked America's black t-shirt under. “It's pretty fuzzy inside if I do say so myself. I think it'll be fine if you wear it without something under.” England slips on the clothing, and needless to say, it is very warm and soft inside... and it smells of America, warm because America was just wearing it... England wants to keep it.
America, on the other hand, wants to kick himself. He should have seen his coming; the sleeves hang over England's hands, and it's loose around his neck, almost slipping off one side of his shoulders.
“W-Well! C'mon, we're done eating, right?” America says nervously, and England nods quickly. The younger blond stands, and his guest follows suit. With a brief pay to the register, he leaves with England behind in tow. They are walking to the parking lot, and America sees a small group of people in the corner of his eye.
“England, give me your hand.” America says, and holds out his large and calloused palm to England. The sandy blond blinks a few times before he blushes a little and pulls his sleeve down to unveil his hand, and places it on America's hand.
He takes this time, as the pair walk in the parking lot, softly holding the other's hand (Only because England may run off, America thinks.) that England thinks about how rough America's hand feels. He's rather curious on why it's like that.
They walk to the car like that, hand in hand, and America feels a twinge of regret when he releases England's small palm (not exactly small; just smaller then his is all.) and opens the car door for him. They drive home with only some music playing on the radio quietly, and England's eyes trail back to America's hand, the one which did not hold the steering wheel as he drives in the streets of Washington.
“Go inside, Arthur. It's late, so you should sleep. I still have some work to do, so I'll go to sleep later.” America explains to him, and England enters his room, “Good night,” he says as he leaves America's sight, and America replies with the same words.
He heads into his own room and resumes his paperwork, with the ashtray littered with cigarettes as America smokes to relieve his stress. He makes this night an exception to his break on cigarettes.
It is later, America stands in his bedroom, preparing to sleep. His door... it just opened by itself. England sleeps. He is alone. His door fucking opened all by itself, like magic. The ghosts, the ghosts, the freaking ghosts!
It's a shame America doesn't fear the laughter of the fairies.
America will never say it, but there was nothing on England's cheek. He seems to have retained his proper table manners or something, somehow. Maybe it was just something his body remembers. Either way, there was nothing there. He... he just looked so cute, eating his food and America wanted to caress his cheek so badly, and wiping his face was the first idea that came to mind.
“I-Is it off?” England asks, and America nods. They resume chatting and eating, though America does more of the talking, what with England's quiet personality... right now, anyway.
Their dinner had remained relatively uneventful there on, except as America turns to check the clock (China reminds him before he goes to the restaurant, “Remember what time you leave- aru!”), he knocks over his glass of soda, and it nearly misses England; there is a big blot of brown on his shirt now.
“Damn it! Sorry, Arthur!” America apologizes, but England insists it's fine. America frowns; “Arthur, take off your shirt.” England flinches. Wait, what? He thought America was a good person, wouldn't demand him to strip and oh God, were his friends at America's house lying and he's had the misconception of him--
“I am not raping you, Arthur. Just... take it off. It'll be fine.” America insists, and England pauses before he follows orders, because either way, he'll wind up in trouble if his deductions are correct.
They are wrong though; America takes his shirt and hands him bulky, gray blue sweater which once cloaked America's black t-shirt under. “It's pretty fuzzy inside if I do say so myself. I think it'll be fine if you wear it without something under.” England slips on the clothing, and needless to say, it is very warm and soft inside... and it smells of America, warm because America was just wearing it... England wants to keep it.
America, on the other hand, wants to kick himself. He should have seen his coming; the sleeves hang over England's hands, and it's loose around his neck, almost slipping off one side of his shoulders.
“W-Well! C'mon, we're done eating, right?” America says nervously, and England nods quickly. The younger blond stands, and his guest follows suit. With a brief pay to the register, he leaves with England behind in tow. They are walking to the parking lot, and America sees a small group of people in the corner of his eye.
“England, give me your hand.” America says, and holds out his large and calloused palm to England. The sandy blond blinks a few times before he blushes a little and pulls his sleeve down to unveil his hand, and places it on America's hand.
He takes this time, as the pair walk in the parking lot, softly holding the other's hand (Only because England may run off, America thinks.) that England thinks about how rough America's hand feels. He's rather curious on why it's like that.
They walk to the car like that, hand in hand, and America feels a twinge of regret when he releases England's small palm (not exactly small; just smaller then his is all.) and opens the car door for him. They drive home with only some music playing on the radio quietly, and England's eyes trail back to America's hand, the one which did not hold the steering wheel as he drives in the streets of Washington.
“Go inside, Arthur. It's late, so you should sleep. I still have some work to do, so I'll go to sleep later.” America explains to him, and England enters his room, “Good night,” he says as he leaves America's sight, and America replies with the same words.
He heads into his own room and resumes his paperwork, with the ashtray littered with cigarettes as America smokes to relieve his stress. He makes this night an exception to his break on cigarettes.
It is later, America stands in his bedroom, preparing to sleep. His door... it just opened by itself. England sleeps. He is alone. His door fucking opened all by itself, like magic. The ghosts, the ghosts, the freaking ghosts!
It's a shame America doesn't fear the laughter of the fairies.
[A/N: Sorry for lack of updates. ;A;'' -sigh- I... I. orz. couldn't think of much for this segment in the long run and I didn't feel very motivated to write, so it took a while, but once I decided I should at least update a little, I wrote, and in the end, I got 2 updates. <3
I hope this fluff warms your heart. |D]
I hope this fluff warms your heart. |D]
This was so cuuuuuuuute!
Alfred you sly dog! Haha!
They held hands~ *feels all fuzzy inside now*
Yay for magical creatures wanting to help. :]
Alfred you sly dog! Haha!
They held hands~ *feels all fuzzy inside now*
Yay for magical creatures wanting to help. :]
England is finally getting better yay!!!!!!
I love you anon! *is an avid fan of this fic*
I love you anon! *is an avid fan of this fic*
Aww, that was so cute!
Don't worry about the updating-thingie! <3 People usually start feeling that way when they're in the middle of writing long stories~
Thank you for making me all fuzzy inside~! x33
Don't worry about the updating-thingie! <3 People usually start feeling that way when they're in the middle of writing long stories~
Thank you for making me all fuzzy inside~! x33
GLEE! UPDATE! Oh anon, don't feel bad about the lack of updates, we appreciate what we get because it is so good and it's all about quality over quantity! And the fluff lately is killing me but in an oh-so-good way! Arthur, why so cute and adorable and dressed in that jumper... Gah...Nosebleed... Poor Alfred, I couldn't deal with that so well... And the fairies and ghosts are back, I was wondering when Arthur would start talking about them again, I'm sure Alfred missed that as much as I did. XD (And Alfred being so afraid is so cute. XD) ALSO. YAY. ARTHUR IS HEALING AT LAST! WOO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
But now he hears them; listens like a hawk.
It doesn't sound like laughter! It sounds like... like, almost akin to scratching your finger nails against the chalkboard. America did his best, and it's a lot of effort considering that it's damn America, to not scream at the top of his lungs.
He always hates the fact that he's such a wuss when it comes to the supernatural. This is one of the times where he especially hates it.
Honestly, when these times come around, if he is alone in his house, he likes to call England and pester him until he eventually loses interest and starts falling asleep, or can manage to make England fly over the pond and watch him until he sleeps. He likes the second option a lot, because when he wakes up, he always finds England with a cup of tea at the dining table and some burnt scones waiting for him.
Given, those scones are always deadly, but he endures it anyway, because just something simple like that earns him some small time with England.
Speaking of England, “... Isn't he in his room right now?” America ponders to himself, and freezes; Wait a minute... He's not going to let me sleep with him! I mean, come on, you can't even hug the guy! He's probably going to freak out and run, but... ha ha, hey, he trusts me! He might not mind! America paces in his bedroom, and shakes his head; No, he might still be scared. Come on, Alfred F. Jones, you're a man! You can take a bunch of freaky laugh--
It's there again. It's higher.
America doesn't realize they're giggling at his idiocy.
He doesn't realize he just fucking screamed and ran to England's room, the guest room, like there is a floating knife out to chop his “awesome” blond head off.
“A... Alfred...?” England sits up and rubs his eyes, large white shirt hanging off his shoulders a little and sleeves falling off his wrists. America knows he would just cry at the sight and how cute it is, if thoughts of ghosts and other horrific images weren't flooding his mind. Damn it; Japan's videos were just too scary! South Korea's horror movies scarred him too.
“Ha... ha ha... S-Sorry, Arthur! M-Mind if I sleep here tonight? I'll sleep on the chair, I swear!” America flails his arms, practically begging for a night's sleep near England, even if England goes to sleep first.
“... I don't really mind, but why?” He replies, and America gulps; “I-I'll explain tomorrow. It's late, so go back to sleep!” America explains, and England looks at him blankly, dazed and half-asleep, before flopping back on the big bed and curling under the sheets.
After 15 minutes, America sneaks out of the room, bravely, one may add, and snatches his iPhone off the coffee table and tip toes back in; he smirks and takes another picture. America can't resist, with England curled on the sheets and moon light framing his already pale self. With a satisfied huff, he places the phone on the desk and pulls a blanket out of the closet.
Promptly placing himself on the office chair near the desk, he lays the blanket on himself and leans back with a small creak, letting himself fall asleep.
It takes an unfortunate 3 hours of desperate attempts to not make any sound in fear of waking England, yet darting his eyes for any sign of ghosts.
In the morning, England wakes up to see America sprawled on the wooden floor.
[A/N: As I said, I haven't been feeling very up to writing lately, but I wrote down a lot of ideas for the following segments to make myself write at home, and I think I got my writing kick back!
Hopefully, I'll be able to swig 9 updates in a whole day like I did when I first wrote this!]
It doesn't sound like laughter! It sounds like... like, almost akin to scratching your finger nails against the chalkboard. America did his best, and it's a lot of effort considering that it's damn America, to not scream at the top of his lungs.
He always hates the fact that he's such a wuss when it comes to the supernatural. This is one of the times where he especially hates it.
Honestly, when these times come around, if he is alone in his house, he likes to call England and pester him until he eventually loses interest and starts falling asleep, or can manage to make England fly over the pond and watch him until he sleeps. He likes the second option a lot, because when he wakes up, he always finds England with a cup of tea at the dining table and some burnt scones waiting for him.
Given, those scones are always deadly, but he endures it anyway, because just something simple like that earns him some small time with England.
Speaking of England, “... Isn't he in his room right now?” America ponders to himself, and freezes; Wait a minute... He's not going to let me sleep with him! I mean, come on, you can't even hug the guy! He's probably going to freak out and run, but... ha ha, hey, he trusts me! He might not mind! America paces in his bedroom, and shakes his head; No, he might still be scared. Come on, Alfred F. Jones, you're a man! You can take a bunch of freaky laugh--
It's there again. It's higher.
America doesn't realize they're giggling at his idiocy.
He doesn't realize he just fucking screamed and ran to England's room, the guest room, like there is a floating knife out to chop his “awesome” blond head off.
“A... Alfred...?” England sits up and rubs his eyes, large white shirt hanging off his shoulders a little and sleeves falling off his wrists. America knows he would just cry at the sight and how cute it is, if thoughts of ghosts and other horrific images weren't flooding his mind. Damn it; Japan's videos were just too scary! South Korea's horror movies scarred him too.
“Ha... ha ha... S-Sorry, Arthur! M-Mind if I sleep here tonight? I'll sleep on the chair, I swear!” America flails his arms, practically begging for a night's sleep near England, even if England goes to sleep first.
“... I don't really mind, but why?” He replies, and America gulps; “I-I'll explain tomorrow. It's late, so go back to sleep!” America explains, and England looks at him blankly, dazed and half-asleep, before flopping back on the big bed and curling under the sheets.
After 15 minutes, America sneaks out of the room, bravely, one may add, and snatches his iPhone off the coffee table and tip toes back in; he smirks and takes another picture. America can't resist, with England curled on the sheets and moon light framing his already pale self. With a satisfied huff, he places the phone on the desk and pulls a blanket out of the closet.
Promptly placing himself on the office chair near the desk, he lays the blanket on himself and leans back with a small creak, letting himself fall asleep.
It takes an unfortunate 3 hours of desperate attempts to not make any sound in fear of waking England, yet darting his eyes for any sign of ghosts.
In the morning, England wakes up to see America sprawled on the wooden floor.
[A/N: As I said, I haven't been feeling very up to writing lately, but I wrote down a lot of ideas for the following segments to make myself write at home, and I think I got my writing kick back!
Hopefully, I'll be able to swig 9 updates in a whole day like I did when I first wrote this!]
B) Author-non fails like no tomorrow.
Aw you don't fail. The one that fails is Alfred. haha. Poor guy gets no breaks from ghosts. xD
England pauses, assessing the situation through the dull, gray-green eyes that are lost like the daytime has lost the night, because he is so tired.
Then he climbs out of bed and pulls his shirt back on a little before walking over to America. He's on the cold floor, with the blanket on his feet. “A-Alfred?” England says quietly, afraid to wake him. America isn't responding, still out like a light. England calls him a few more times, but the result is the same.
England pauses; when he thinks about it, this is the first time he can recall America's sleeping face, though it seems vaguely familiar and nostalgic to him.
After all, when he is living with America, it is usually America who wakes early. Even if England awakens first, he never enters America's room because he fears waking him up, so he always leaves America to get up by himself.
England admires his face for a bit; America frequently wears glasses, and never takes them off, unless he plans to take a shower or go to sleep, or they fall off by some mishap. He looks much less like an adult with them, almost adolescent with his childish face.
A smile ghosts over the Brit's face for a moment, before he shakes his head; enough reverie or whatever it may be, America is sleeping on the floor! He can catch a cold, so England, pausing for a moment to push back any unnecessary memories, shakes America's shoulder.
“Alfred,” England begins, “Alfred, it's unhealthy to sleep on the floor.” He says, and continuously calls his name until America's blue eyes flutter open and glitter in the morning sun.
“Huh... Ar... thur...?” America mumbles out, and England nods; “I'm awake now. You... You can sleep on my bed.” Completely out of it, America nods and somewhat sleep-deprived from last night, he wobbles over to England's bed without thinking and flops straight onto it, and hugs the pillows, taking in the scent of England which was all over it; not that he'd ever say it.
England grabs the sheets and drapes them over America, and walks out. There is not much to do in America's house right now; he has read all the books stacked in America's bookshelves, video games pique his interest little to nothing. The television only features weather (not that England thinks much of it; he never leaves the house anyway.) and childish cartoons.
Maybe he will clean a little. He does it to kill time, and it has been a while since he has last organized this mess of a house. First stop for England was, of course, America's room because honestly, that thing, no matter how many times he tidied it up, it would become as if a tornado hit within days.
He walks in quietly, and looks around with a scowl; “... Bloody Hell.” he mutters to himself, seeing clothes and other articles of... whatever it is America owns, England can't tell. It's scattered all over the ground and England wonders if the person who raised America never taught him how to properly clean. How ironic, isn't it?
With a huff, he starts picking up the clothes and dumps them onto America's bed, beginning to organize them accordingly. Pants with pants, shirts with shirts, boxers with boxers (England never, ever wants to know why America has boxers with cotton candy on them.), you know how it goes.
He pauses when he pats America's jacket, the dust flying off it and floating elsewhere. That's not the problem though; it is the small crunch he hears, and he digs in America's pockets, tossing out the house keys on to the bed, along with the car keys, wallets, and cigarettes; McDonald's coupons. What catches his eyes it an older, folded white paper.
He opens it, and it looks like an ancient photo; monochrome, a child and an adult.
England sees a splitting image of himself.
Then he climbs out of bed and pulls his shirt back on a little before walking over to America. He's on the cold floor, with the blanket on his feet. “A-Alfred?” England says quietly, afraid to wake him. America isn't responding, still out like a light. England calls him a few more times, but the result is the same.
England pauses; when he thinks about it, this is the first time he can recall America's sleeping face, though it seems vaguely familiar and nostalgic to him.
After all, when he is living with America, it is usually America who wakes early. Even if England awakens first, he never enters America's room because he fears waking him up, so he always leaves America to get up by himself.
England admires his face for a bit; America frequently wears glasses, and never takes them off, unless he plans to take a shower or go to sleep, or they fall off by some mishap. He looks much less like an adult with them, almost adolescent with his childish face.
A smile ghosts over the Brit's face for a moment, before he shakes his head; enough reverie or whatever it may be, America is sleeping on the floor! He can catch a cold, so England, pausing for a moment to push back any unnecessary memories, shakes America's shoulder.
“Alfred,” England begins, “Alfred, it's unhealthy to sleep on the floor.” He says, and continuously calls his name until America's blue eyes flutter open and glitter in the morning sun.
“Huh... Ar... thur...?” America mumbles out, and England nods; “I'm awake now. You... You can sleep on my bed.” Completely out of it, America nods and somewhat sleep-deprived from last night, he wobbles over to England's bed without thinking and flops straight onto it, and hugs the pillows, taking in the scent of England which was all over it; not that he'd ever say it.
England grabs the sheets and drapes them over America, and walks out. There is not much to do in America's house right now; he has read all the books stacked in America's bookshelves, video games pique his interest little to nothing. The television only features weather (not that England thinks much of it; he never leaves the house anyway.) and childish cartoons.
Maybe he will clean a little. He does it to kill time, and it has been a while since he has last organized this mess of a house. First stop for England was, of course, America's room because honestly, that thing, no matter how many times he tidied it up, it would become as if a tornado hit within days.
He walks in quietly, and looks around with a scowl; “... Bloody Hell.” he mutters to himself, seeing clothes and other articles of... whatever it is America owns, England can't tell. It's scattered all over the ground and England wonders if the person who raised America never taught him how to properly clean. How ironic, isn't it?
With a huff, he starts picking up the clothes and dumps them onto America's bed, beginning to organize them accordingly. Pants with pants, shirts with shirts, boxers with boxers (England never, ever wants to know why America has boxers with cotton candy on them.), you know how it goes.
He pauses when he pats America's jacket, the dust flying off it and floating elsewhere. That's not the problem though; it is the small crunch he hears, and he digs in America's pockets, tossing out the house keys on to the bed, along with the car keys, wallets, and cigarettes; McDonald's coupons. What catches his eyes it an older, folded white paper.
He opens it, and it looks like an ancient photo; monochrome, a child and an adult.
England sees a splitting image of himself.
Cotton candy boxers FTW! Haha.
and...
Damn! He found a photo of himself. OMG! Why'd it end there?! D8
and...
Damn! He found a photo of himself. OMG! Why'd it end there?! D8
Yes! <3 LMFAO I was going to do like, heart-pattern, but then KNOWING HOW QUEER AMERICA CAN BE, ROFL IT'D PROBABLY BE SOMETHING WEIRDER. -bricked-
Yes! :DDD Now his curiousity for who he once was begins~~
lmfao this author-non is just a cruel person via cliffhangers. >A>;;; -bricked-
Yes! :DDD Now his curiousity for who he once was begins~~
lmfao this author-non is just a cruel person via cliffhangers. >A>;;; -bricked-
...GAH. JUST GAH AUTHOR!ANON! One. YAY! Update! Two. He found the picture... LE GASP. Three. Oh man, these last two chapters were so damn cute! Will England remember? Will he be happy? Will America finally get to have some 'happy adult alone time' with England! (I vote YES to all...Especially the last one. XD)
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Hopefully, you can expect more updates coming FAST~! <33
Thank you so much! The first half of this story was so angst, hopefully there'll be lots of heart-warming fluff here~~ <3
Thank you so much! The first half of this story was so angst, hopefully there'll be lots of heart-warming fluff here~~ <3
WAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH SO CUTE
I love you author anon and yay!!!!~
I really really love you!!
you are awesome!
I love you author anon and yay!!!!~
I really really love you!!
you are awesome!
I LOVE YOU TOO BBY. ♥
I'm glad you're enjoying it~~!
I'm glad you're enjoying it~~!
C-CLIFF HANGER. |"OTL *trembling with curiosity* <-*weird*
This story is so adorable right now!I can't wait for more~!*hearts author!anon*
This story is so adorable right now!I can't wait for more~!*hearts author!anon*
ROFL LOL. A-Author-non apologizes for making you tremble!
Thank you so much! ♥ I'm happy you like it!~~ -hearts you back ♥-
Thank you so much! ♥ I'm happy you like it!~~ -hearts you back ♥-
It's odd though; how does that work? The image looks from ancient days; he should not have been alive at that point. Born, not even!
Yet, England does not mistake his face. He is smiling, and in his arms; a child, small with golden blond hair and eyes so bright and alive that matches the vast skies.
“... Alfred?” He asks, speaking to the child more then anyone else. This child is in a photo though, he does not reply to England's inquiry. The clock ticks as if in an eerie movie, while England sits and stares at the photo likes it is the one thing that will change his utterly horrifying life memories around; unfortunately, or fortunately, it is. It is simply a matter of how England accepts it.
His hands trace over the photo, the image of himself and this child. He... It is simply impossible. England doesn't understand. It would be different if he looked younger in this image; 4 years older then America, because that is what he is told he is.
However, he looks the same as he always has, and that is logically incorrect. England furrows his brows; there's something very... unmistakable about the photo. It feels like it has some meaning beyond his face on it. There is something in his mind, pulling at him, telling him something that he can't understand... He can see cracked, distorted images, happy children, laughter, arrows, the swords, a woman who died, a punch from a blond man– they move at an alarmingly fast speed and it rushes back like a mother who runs to the hospital to heal her ailing child.
“Augh!” He clutches his head, these memories come back with such sharp clarity it hurts, and damn it, it's too much, they're coming too fast, he can't assess anything and all those feelings related to those images rotate in his heart, and it's beating, faster and faster, his breath is getting short and rough–
“Stop it!” His voice resounds in the room, maybe the house, and he finds himself trembling on the bed, on his knees, forehead touching the soft fabric of the bed, and sweat running down his face.
He's shaking, he doesn't know what to do. What happened? It was so sudden, but so clear, now England looks back and he can barely remember what he just saw.
A part of him tells him to try and remember what happened, but another fears it. Everything came so fast, so hard and difficult to understand with all these memories and the feelings they hold running through him like a crowd escaping something dangerous.
England shakes his head, tries to calm his breath. He lies against the bed, the clothes decorating it all sorts of colors. He folds the photo and places it back in America's jacket pocket. He lays in silence, clutching America's jacket against him, taking an air-full of the scent; it smells just like him.
He loves it.
It's a horrible smell, really. Mixed with wine, beer, cigarettes, burgers, other odors attached to it, but some reason, it calms England, makes him think America is there.
He longs for America's real embrace, but he can't do it. England is scared; Russia would lean close when he visits England in the prison, everything bad that happened to him involved someone or something getting close to him. He hated it; he couldn't stand it, didn't even want to be remotely near someone if he didn't need to be.
Yet, England does not mistake his face. He is smiling, and in his arms; a child, small with golden blond hair and eyes so bright and alive that matches the vast skies.
“... Alfred?” He asks, speaking to the child more then anyone else. This child is in a photo though, he does not reply to England's inquiry. The clock ticks as if in an eerie movie, while England sits and stares at the photo likes it is the one thing that will change his utterly horrifying life memories around; unfortunately, or fortunately, it is. It is simply a matter of how England accepts it.
His hands trace over the photo, the image of himself and this child. He... It is simply impossible. England doesn't understand. It would be different if he looked younger in this image; 4 years older then America, because that is what he is told he is.
However, he looks the same as he always has, and that is logically incorrect. England furrows his brows; there's something very... unmistakable about the photo. It feels like it has some meaning beyond his face on it. There is something in his mind, pulling at him, telling him something that he can't understand... He can see cracked, distorted images, happy children, laughter, arrows, the swords, a woman who died, a punch from a blond man– they move at an alarmingly fast speed and it rushes back like a mother who runs to the hospital to heal her ailing child.
“Augh!” He clutches his head, these memories come back with such sharp clarity it hurts, and damn it, it's too much, they're coming too fast, he can't assess anything and all those feelings related to those images rotate in his heart, and it's beating, faster and faster, his breath is getting short and rough–
“Stop it!” His voice resounds in the room, maybe the house, and he finds himself trembling on the bed, on his knees, forehead touching the soft fabric of the bed, and sweat running down his face.
He's shaking, he doesn't know what to do. What happened? It was so sudden, but so clear, now England looks back and he can barely remember what he just saw.
A part of him tells him to try and remember what happened, but another fears it. Everything came so fast, so hard and difficult to understand with all these memories and the feelings they hold running through him like a crowd escaping something dangerous.
England shakes his head, tries to calm his breath. He lies against the bed, the clothes decorating it all sorts of colors. He folds the photo and places it back in America's jacket pocket. He lays in silence, clutching America's jacket against him, taking an air-full of the scent; it smells just like him.
He loves it.
It's a horrible smell, really. Mixed with wine, beer, cigarettes, burgers, other odors attached to it, but some reason, it calms England, makes him think America is there.
He longs for America's real embrace, but he can't do it. England is scared; Russia would lean close when he visits England in the prison, everything bad that happened to him involved someone or something getting close to him. He hated it; he couldn't stand it, didn't even want to be remotely near someone if he didn't need to be.
A jacket is an inanimate object; it does not move, so England feels free to hold it close to him, pretend it's America because if the real America hugs him, England figures he will probably scream, maybe cry, because everything will come back to him just like it almost did now; except those memories will be all the nightmares he's ever had, never wants to have again.
England looks at the clock; thirty minutes since he began cleaning, ten since he screamed– forty minutes total. With a sigh, he feels relief when he realizes his scream did not awaken America. He must have really been asleep then.
The sandy-blond haired man hops off the bed, leaving the half organized clothes on the bed and wanders to his room; to where America is. Just to check on him in case, coax him back to sleep. He looked sleepy in the morning, so England figures he should make sure he gets an adequate amount of sleep.
England pauses when he opens the door. He doesn't need to walk closer to know.
America is ill.
[A/N: I SWEAR I'LL EXPLAIN WITH SOME LOGIC (YEAH YOU HEARD ME RIGHT.) WHY AMERICA GOT SICK.
Also, I'm thinking this fill may end up... ehhhh, around 45 parts? I'm not sure yet. I don't think it'll surpass 50, or. orz. it might. Oh God. -sob-]
England looks at the clock; thirty minutes since he began cleaning, ten since he screamed– forty minutes total. With a sigh, he feels relief when he realizes his scream did not awaken America. He must have really been asleep then.
The sandy-blond haired man hops off the bed, leaving the half organized clothes on the bed and wanders to his room; to where America is. Just to check on him in case, coax him back to sleep. He looked sleepy in the morning, so England figures he should make sure he gets an adequate amount of sleep.
England pauses when he opens the door. He doesn't need to walk closer to know.
America is ill.
[A/N: I SWEAR I'LL EXPLAIN WITH SOME LOGIC (YEAH YOU HEARD ME RIGHT.) WHY AMERICA GOT SICK.
Also, I'm thinking this fill may end up... ehhhh, around 45 parts? I'm not sure yet. I don't think it'll surpass 50, or. orz. it might. Oh God. -sob-]
Ouch, the rush of sudden memories. That sounds really painful. :[
Alfred is sick? Whyyyyy?!?!? D8 How is he going to take care of Arthur now? x_x
45 or 50 parts it doesn't matter! It'll all be well written and I can't wait. 8D
Alfred is sick? Whyyyyy?!?!? D8 How is he going to take care of Arthur now? x_x
45 or 50 parts it doesn't matter! It'll all be well written and I can't wait. 8D
Oui oui! I was sorta hoping to make it sound painful, ROFL. Since. yeah. -bricked-
ROFL YES. ;AA; I'll explain soon, I swear!
Aww, thank you so much! ♥ fjdskljfka this author-non is too honored.
ROFL YES. ;AA; I'll explain soon, I swear!
Aww, thank you so much! ♥ fjdskljfka this author-non is too honored.
I agree with OP take as long as you want wahahahah because this fill is amazing!
FFFFF sleeping on the floor ofcourse will make you ill xD
reCaptcha: Devoted Harrison
Yes i am a devoted reader!!!!!!!
FFFFF sleeping on the floor ofcourse will make you ill xD
reCaptcha: Devoted Harrison
Yes i am a devoted reader!!!!!!!
Thank you so much! ♥ I'm happy you guys like it! I was starting to fret over whether people were starting to get tired of my long-winded angst/fluff story, rofl;;;.
Yes! That is actually part of the reason. -bricked-
Thank you so much again! -hug-
Yes! That is actually part of the reason. -bricked-
Thank you so much again! -hug-
...Poor baby Arthur, that sounded like it was rather...painful? DX And oh noes! Alfred is sick! What shall our little Englishman do? (Take care of your man Arthur! XD) Also. There is nothing wrong with a long story. XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Yes! Time to Arthur to take some action, non? ♥ Thanks a bunch!~~ I'm so happy I'm getting so much support ROFL;;.
“A-Alfred!” England calls out, runs to his side; America's eyes flutter open, dazed by his illness. He sits up and holds a hand to his head.
“Huh? Arthur? S'that you...?” America asks, voice dripping in confusion and dizziness. England nods, standing against the bed with his hands pressing against it, holding him up.
“Yes! You're sick...” He says quietly, shocking wearing away and replacing itself with an unmatched amount of worry. America, much to England's surprise and chagrin, laughs. It is forced and it sounds weak and... England hurts inside. He has never seen America so weak before.
“It's nothing, Arthur! Heroes don't get sick?” America explains, smiles at England, but it's such a lie, “I'm just a little sleepy is all.” He goes on to say, prays that England isn't able to tell when he lies.
“... H-How many fingers am I holding up?” England's voice in unsteady. He worries America will scold him for trying to rule over him, but places his trust in the young man and speaks what he wants. His palm is in the air, only 3 fingers holding themselves up. He figures, this close, America should be able to clearly see his hand.
“Huh... Oh... Is it...” He mumbles out, squints his eyes; “4?” America asks, and England shakes his head. “See, you are sick...” He says, almost a whisper, but America denies it again.
“I'm not, really! Stop worrying; anyway, I gotta hurry up and go to work. I'm going to get yelled at by the Congress if I'm late...” America says, and he stands up, weakly shoving England in the torso and stumbling to the door.
America wobbles, tips back and forth like a pendulum and turns the door knob; “S'not opening... Hey, Arthur, is it locked?” America asks, and England frowns. He's not turning it the right way. America finally tries to opposite way and it opens. He smiles; “Oh, it's working...” he says, walks out with a smile on his face like that of an elderly woman. It worries England.
He doesn't know what to do. He wants to stop America, but he's scared. Afraid he's going to be yelled at, hurt, because he can't forget those memories yet.
Instead, he scampers after America, follows him, stands near the bathroom as America walks in and shuts the door behind him.
It is a few moments later, America does not open the door. England gulps and knocks on it; “A-Alfred? Are you okay?” He asks, and does not receive a reply– “Alfred? Alfred, I'm going to open the door, okay?” He asks, and hears America choke out a response, it sounds like a request to not open the door.
England disobeys when he hears America coughing, it's a strangled cough, like someone's trying to kill him, and the door bursts open.
America doesn't turn to England, too busy trying to keep himself standing by clutching the sink. He's on his knees, his hand closed around his mouth as he coughs violently. He looks pale, paler then before, but his cheeks are dipped in pink and red.
The Brit pauses when he sees deep red drip from America's hand, the one covering his mouth. It's mixed with water, the water overflowing from the sink.
“Alfred! Oh God, Alfred!” England runs over, crouches next to him. He swallows his own fear; he can touch America, it's okay, he convinces himself. They've held hands before, so he buries his trauma in his mind, because he can't afford to be scared now. The only person he has any remote memories of happiness with is coughing blood, damn it.
[A/N: OKAY I'LL EXPLAIN WHAT HE'S GOT SOON, I SWEAR ROFL. ;A;'']
“Huh? Arthur? S'that you...?” America asks, voice dripping in confusion and dizziness. England nods, standing against the bed with his hands pressing against it, holding him up.
“Yes! You're sick...” He says quietly, shocking wearing away and replacing itself with an unmatched amount of worry. America, much to England's surprise and chagrin, laughs. It is forced and it sounds weak and... England hurts inside. He has never seen America so weak before.
“It's nothing, Arthur! Heroes don't get sick?” America explains, smiles at England, but it's such a lie, “I'm just a little sleepy is all.” He goes on to say, prays that England isn't able to tell when he lies.
“... H-How many fingers am I holding up?” England's voice in unsteady. He worries America will scold him for trying to rule over him, but places his trust in the young man and speaks what he wants. His palm is in the air, only 3 fingers holding themselves up. He figures, this close, America should be able to clearly see his hand.
“Huh... Oh... Is it...” He mumbles out, squints his eyes; “4?” America asks, and England shakes his head. “See, you are sick...” He says, almost a whisper, but America denies it again.
“I'm not, really! Stop worrying; anyway, I gotta hurry up and go to work. I'm going to get yelled at by the Congress if I'm late...” America says, and he stands up, weakly shoving England in the torso and stumbling to the door.
America wobbles, tips back and forth like a pendulum and turns the door knob; “S'not opening... Hey, Arthur, is it locked?” America asks, and England frowns. He's not turning it the right way. America finally tries to opposite way and it opens. He smiles; “Oh, it's working...” he says, walks out with a smile on his face like that of an elderly woman. It worries England.
He doesn't know what to do. He wants to stop America, but he's scared. Afraid he's going to be yelled at, hurt, because he can't forget those memories yet.
Instead, he scampers after America, follows him, stands near the bathroom as America walks in and shuts the door behind him.
It is a few moments later, America does not open the door. England gulps and knocks on it; “A-Alfred? Are you okay?” He asks, and does not receive a reply– “Alfred? Alfred, I'm going to open the door, okay?” He asks, and hears America choke out a response, it sounds like a request to not open the door.
England disobeys when he hears America coughing, it's a strangled cough, like someone's trying to kill him, and the door bursts open.
America doesn't turn to England, too busy trying to keep himself standing by clutching the sink. He's on his knees, his hand closed around his mouth as he coughs violently. He looks pale, paler then before, but his cheeks are dipped in pink and red.
The Brit pauses when he sees deep red drip from America's hand, the one covering his mouth. It's mixed with water, the water overflowing from the sink.
“Alfred! Oh God, Alfred!” England runs over, crouches next to him. He swallows his own fear; he can touch America, it's okay, he convinces himself. They've held hands before, so he buries his trauma in his mind, because he can't afford to be scared now. The only person he has any remote memories of happiness with is coughing blood, damn it.
[A/N: OKAY I'LL EXPLAIN WHAT HE'S GOT SOON, I SWEAR ROFL. ;A;'']
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...
I'll comment properly after I finish reading the other 2 parts.
...
I'll comment properly after I finish reading the other 2 parts.
“I-It's fine... G-Go sleep or something, Arthur...” America whispers out, struggling to speak, but England knows he can't just sit by and listen to America, because he is definitely not okay.
“It's not fine! Y-You're coughing blood!” England feels his voice shrink a little. He's never really argued back to America before, but then again, things would have been fine for both of them whether he says something back or not, but if England doesn't stand now, even if it's just for a moment, America will definitely not meet a very pleasant end.
“G-Go back to the bed!” He says, but America shakes his head. I'm supposed to be taking care of him... I can't let him see me like this... America thinks to himself, but his vision starts to wane when he stops coughing. He looks up, sees several visions of his sink... why are there 3?
He feels himself unable to argue back to England when two warm hands pull on his one clammy hand, coated in blood mixed with mucus, and in too much of a daze to comprehend what happens.
It's just then, he finds himself tilting against the door frame, watching England grab the blanket on his bed and pull it off, scattering his clothing all over the floor. He's, then, dragged by England onto his bed, promptly sitting down and gentle push to his shoulder sends him against the comfort of his bed. Unconsciously, he cuddles into the middle and feels the blanket laid onto him. England scampers out after, off to the bathroom, probably.
The bathroom he goes to, and turns off the running water, pooled all over the floor and watches it slowly be pulled down the drain. He sighs in relief; he was so scared for a moment... He rests his hands in the water to wash off any germs and pauses.
There is blood in his hands.
There's fucking blood on his hands.
England is about to scream, but his mind flashes with America, so weak and vulnerable. He suppresses it, swallows it down like when you swallow air from a balloon. Because he knows, tired, ill, anything, America will come rushing to him, and he can't afford that to happen.
He trembles, he can't move though. The water pulls through the drain, some of the blood staining his hand joins its course.
It's blood, it's blood, it's blood, and it's red, just as red as his own when Russia or his little soldier buddies would come by, poke him with their knives... England's eye begins to twitch, he feels himself step backwards, but his bare foot steps on something what.
Blood, spreading in the water on the floor, mixed in an eerie and disgusting appearance, like mixed gas continued in a plastic case, and England finds himself against the ground.
It is cold, the tiles are cold, and for a second, it looks like the prison, but with a light.
England wants to cry because it scares him, but he holds back any sort of sound that makes him sound even remotely miserable, because if America hears in the slightest, England will have to put him back to bed again.
He shakes his head; Be brave, Arthur Kirkland. You can do this. Mentally, he struggles to surpass everything that's happened. He wobbles back to the sink and turns on the running water again and rinses the blood off, washes it with soap thrice. He does the same to his blood stained feet, and walks over the water.
“It's not fine! Y-You're coughing blood!” England feels his voice shrink a little. He's never really argued back to America before, but then again, things would have been fine for both of them whether he says something back or not, but if England doesn't stand now, even if it's just for a moment, America will definitely not meet a very pleasant end.
“G-Go back to the bed!” He says, but America shakes his head. I'm supposed to be taking care of him... I can't let him see me like this... America thinks to himself, but his vision starts to wane when he stops coughing. He looks up, sees several visions of his sink... why are there 3?
He feels himself unable to argue back to England when two warm hands pull on his one clammy hand, coated in blood mixed with mucus, and in too much of a daze to comprehend what happens.
It's just then, he finds himself tilting against the door frame, watching England grab the blanket on his bed and pull it off, scattering his clothing all over the floor. He's, then, dragged by England onto his bed, promptly sitting down and gentle push to his shoulder sends him against the comfort of his bed. Unconsciously, he cuddles into the middle and feels the blanket laid onto him. England scampers out after, off to the bathroom, probably.
The bathroom he goes to, and turns off the running water, pooled all over the floor and watches it slowly be pulled down the drain. He sighs in relief; he was so scared for a moment... He rests his hands in the water to wash off any germs and pauses.
There is blood in his hands.
There's fucking blood on his hands.
England is about to scream, but his mind flashes with America, so weak and vulnerable. He suppresses it, swallows it down like when you swallow air from a balloon. Because he knows, tired, ill, anything, America will come rushing to him, and he can't afford that to happen.
He trembles, he can't move though. The water pulls through the drain, some of the blood staining his hand joins its course.
It's blood, it's blood, it's blood, and it's red, just as red as his own when Russia or his little soldier buddies would come by, poke him with their knives... England's eye begins to twitch, he feels himself step backwards, but his bare foot steps on something what.
Blood, spreading in the water on the floor, mixed in an eerie and disgusting appearance, like mixed gas continued in a plastic case, and England finds himself against the ground.
It is cold, the tiles are cold, and for a second, it looks like the prison, but with a light.
England wants to cry because it scares him, but he holds back any sort of sound that makes him sound even remotely miserable, because if America hears in the slightest, England will have to put him back to bed again.
He shakes his head; Be brave, Arthur Kirkland. You can do this. Mentally, he struggles to surpass everything that's happened. He wobbles back to the sink and turns on the running water again and rinses the blood off, washes it with soap thrice. He does the same to his blood stained feet, and walks over the water.
He pulls a rag out of the closet shelf nearby, managing to grab is properly, despite his incessant shaking. With a gulp, he enters the bathroom again, and steps back at the sight of blood.
Cringes, but forces himself to stand, walk forever, bend on his knees and wipe it clean, as if the blood was not on the clear white tiles of America's bathroom. He smiles a little, it is gone, the memory is gone, but when he views the rag, there is blood staining it, absorbed when he cleaned the floor, painting it pink.
Courage and determination only go so far, and he throws the rag into the bathroom and runs out. He washes his hands against at the kitchen sink, and takes a deep breath.
A trial is cleared, and it makes England smile. However, he frowns again when he is reminded of ailing America. Something in him aches at the memory.
America, always so strong and so powerful; now he's sick and weak, so dead inside. England recalls with unknown clarity at the touch of America's hand. It was moist, clammy, and pale. Just a few nights ago, America's hands were very warm and full of life.
He... He has to help America! The vision in his head, funeral, flowers and tears, he wants to cry because the very image of America dying, dead, anything, it makes him want to take the knife and follow what Juliet did in Shakespeare's work because... because America protects him. If he is gone, he will be alone, and even worse; he may be back in Russia's presence.
England isn't sure if he can heal like this again, so he heads downstairs.
His eyes gaze upon the kitchen doors. He doesn't want to open it, but... but he can't leave America like this. He should eat something, drink some good water... He should call for help too when he can. England curses to himself when he remembers America's phone book is in his bedroom, and he doesn't know anyone's actual number.
Does he have any guests planned for today? England asks himself as he stands aimlessly in the middle of the room. America usually tells him about any coming visitors, but he has heard nothing so far.
“I'll think about it later.” England tells himself, and turns his line of vision back to the kitchen. He has never entered the kitchen when he thinks about it. The last time he was in one was back at America's guest house... he cringes at the memory and shakes his head.
His hand reaches out to get the door knob. It's just a kitchen. I was able to face the blood. It repeats in his mind constantly, but when he touches the cold knob, he flinches, pulls away. It's so hard, because inside he knows, or at the very least, theorizes, it will be like the kitchen at the Guest House. And the blood, the blood, it was not his. Is that why he was able to face it?
These knives are America's. Maybe he will be able to face it. They are not Russia's knives.
There is no sound in the room other then England's breathing as he struggles to over come himself, face the sharp objects in there, forget what Russia did to him, because this is not for him, it's for America.
An hour passes as England paces back and forth, contemplating on what to do. It's 11:45 am, America woke at 10:45 am.
“I need to move faster. I don't know what he'll do when he wakes up...” England says, and glowers down at the door knob with a scowl. Just as he opens it, the doorbell rings.
[A/N: Whoo, that's quite the update today, oui? Well, 3:25 am, so I'm off to bed~~ Good night all! It's the weekend, so I pray I can update soon as well, cause there's a lot more ideas after this. ;)]
Cringes, but forces himself to stand, walk forever, bend on his knees and wipe it clean, as if the blood was not on the clear white tiles of America's bathroom. He smiles a little, it is gone, the memory is gone, but when he views the rag, there is blood staining it, absorbed when he cleaned the floor, painting it pink.
Courage and determination only go so far, and he throws the rag into the bathroom and runs out. He washes his hands against at the kitchen sink, and takes a deep breath.
A trial is cleared, and it makes England smile. However, he frowns again when he is reminded of ailing America. Something in him aches at the memory.
America, always so strong and so powerful; now he's sick and weak, so dead inside. England recalls with unknown clarity at the touch of America's hand. It was moist, clammy, and pale. Just a few nights ago, America's hands were very warm and full of life.
He... He has to help America! The vision in his head, funeral, flowers and tears, he wants to cry because the very image of America dying, dead, anything, it makes him want to take the knife and follow what Juliet did in Shakespeare's work because... because America protects him. If he is gone, he will be alone, and even worse; he may be back in Russia's presence.
England isn't sure if he can heal like this again, so he heads downstairs.
His eyes gaze upon the kitchen doors. He doesn't want to open it, but... but he can't leave America like this. He should eat something, drink some good water... He should call for help too when he can. England curses to himself when he remembers America's phone book is in his bedroom, and he doesn't know anyone's actual number.
Does he have any guests planned for today? England asks himself as he stands aimlessly in the middle of the room. America usually tells him about any coming visitors, but he has heard nothing so far.
“I'll think about it later.” England tells himself, and turns his line of vision back to the kitchen. He has never entered the kitchen when he thinks about it. The last time he was in one was back at America's guest house... he cringes at the memory and shakes his head.
His hand reaches out to get the door knob. It's just a kitchen. I was able to face the blood. It repeats in his mind constantly, but when he touches the cold knob, he flinches, pulls away. It's so hard, because inside he knows, or at the very least, theorizes, it will be like the kitchen at the Guest House. And the blood, the blood, it was not his. Is that why he was able to face it?
These knives are America's. Maybe he will be able to face it. They are not Russia's knives.
There is no sound in the room other then England's breathing as he struggles to over come himself, face the sharp objects in there, forget what Russia did to him, because this is not for him, it's for America.
An hour passes as England paces back and forth, contemplating on what to do. It's 11:45 am, America woke at 10:45 am.
“I need to move faster. I don't know what he'll do when he wakes up...” England says, and glowers down at the door knob with a scowl. Just as he opens it, the doorbell rings.
[A/N: Whoo, that's quite the update today, oui? Well, 3:25 am, so I'm off to bed~~ Good night all! It's the weekend, so I pray I can update soon as well, cause there's a lot more ideas after this. ;)]
*sniffle* Oh Arthur, you're so brave! I don't think I would've been able to stay (somewhat) calm. ♥ So adorable.
Cliffhanger again! D8 Who's at the door? Friend? Enemy? I NEED TO KNOW!!!
Oh Writer!Anon, I love you. ♥
Cliffhanger again! D8 Who's at the door? Friend? Enemy? I NEED TO KNOW!!!
Oh Writer!Anon, I love you. ♥
qwl;eqjdjsqlkdjwklqj dklwqjd klqwjdqwkldjqwlkdjlkqw
INTENSEEEE!!!
AUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AUTHOR ANON YOU MAKE MY HEART POUND SO MUCH IN THIS FIC SO MUCH!!! WHEN I LIKE SAW THE UPDATE I WAS LIKEEEEEEE YAAAAAAAAY!!
okay enough capslock i'm abusing the capital letters too much xD
I love you author anon!!!!!!
ahhhhhh this fic is just so amazing! *_*
INTENSEEEE!!!
AUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! AUTHOR ANON YOU MAKE MY HEART POUND SO MUCH IN THIS FIC SO MUCH!!! WHEN I LIKE SAW THE UPDATE I WAS LIKEEEEEEE YAAAAAAAAY!!
okay enough capslock i'm abusing the capital letters too much xD
I love you author anon!!!!!!
ahhhhhh this fic is just so amazing! *_*
...GAH. I'M HYPERVENTILATING HERE WITH THE NEED TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT AND YOU ANON, AS MUCH AS I LOVE YOU, HAVE A TERRIBLE (WONDERFUL) HABIT OF GIVING US CLIFFHANGERS. GAFRBLE. Oh, Arthur, you brave little thing you. Oh Alfred...blood is not good, it's never good. Oh mystery!person behind the door...let's hope you can do something! And you aren't like, someone who will scare Arthur even more. DX
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OHNOES! C-CLIFF HANGER AGAIN! @A@;;
This just gets more and more awesome, dammit.
*waits eagerly for more*
I hope you have a good night's rest~!
This just gets more and more awesome, dammit.
*waits eagerly for more*
I hope you have a good night's rest~!
He pulls a rag out of the closet shelf nearby, managing to grab is properly, despite his incessant shaking.
He pulls a rag out of the closet shelf nearby, managing to grab it properly, despite his incessant shaking.
He washes his hands against at the kitchen sink, and takes a deep breath
He washes his hands against at the sink in the guest room's bathroom, and takes a deep breath
He pulls a rag out of the closet shelf nearby, managing to grab it properly, despite his incessant shaking.
He washes his hands against at the kitchen sink, and takes a deep breath
He washes his hands against at the sink in the guest room's bathroom, and takes a deep breath
Anon forgives the typos due to the fact that this is the most gut-wrenchingly intense fic anon has read in like. I dunno. FOR-FREAKING-EVER?
Anon encourages writer!anon to continue, because this is fucking AWESOME. -channels Prussia-
Anon encourages writer!anon to continue, because this is fucking AWESOME. -channels Prussia-
The doorbell rings again. A bang on the door follows after. England can't bring his legs to move to the window, to check who it is. All he can recall is Russia's visit. How Canada opened the door, tried to close it right after, a pipe was jammed and everything fell and Canada grabs England and tries to get him to run–
No, that's not now. It can't be Russia! He would have enough sense to not wreck up America's real house, right?
“A-Ameri– Alfred! Are you here- aru?” It sounds nothing like Russia. England feels relief rush over; it is not Russia, after all?
“Mon cher, get out of bed!” Another voice calls out.
England isn't sure, but it sounds a lot like America's friends. He's seen them before; maybe they can help, right? England gathers his guts, gulps and he walks over, across the wood floor and to the door. With a gulp, he peers out of the window beside the door; it is a glass that is not smooth, bumpy as a decoration, so England cannot make out the whole image... but Russia doesn't seem to be there.
So England opens the door.
“Huh? Arthur? Where's Alfred- aru?” China asks; England remembers him. He comes over frequently, talks to America and him. Sometimes, he asks England questions.
“See, I told you he's still sleeping.” If England wasn't so scared and worried, he would have scowled. He's not very fond of this France guy. He likes coming over a lot too, but he usually tends to bother America instead of England.
“... Y-You're America's friends, right?” England stammers out. They both nod, confused by the sudden question; “H-He's sick. Can you go check on him?” England asks, and China's face turns stern with a frown. Concern flashes across France's face before he hides it again.
“I bet he's making it worse then it sounds. Probably just a cold.” France jokes, and he heads up to America's bed room with China.
England quietly closes the door and sits on the couch, all attempts to face the kitchen forgotten. What was most on his mind was what America even has. That Chinese man– China, America sometimes calls him, but tells England to simply call him Yao– seems like a smart person. Maybe he will know what's wrong.
He looks at his knees, fists digging into the pajama pants as he waits. He wants to come up and see for himself, but in his mind, the image of sick America flashes back in his mind, and it looks so wrong, just impossible, because the America England always sees is so strong, so able... not weak.
France walks downstairs.
England turns to him, and his eyes tell France he wants to know what happened to America.
“America has pneumonia. He has a very serious case of it.”
[A/N: If I cliff-hung here, I think I'd really be killed, so. orz. |D I'll be writing the next part as we speak.]
No, that's not now. It can't be Russia! He would have enough sense to not wreck up America's real house, right?
“A-Ameri– Alfred! Are you here- aru?” It sounds nothing like Russia. England feels relief rush over; it is not Russia, after all?
“Mon cher, get out of bed!” Another voice calls out.
England isn't sure, but it sounds a lot like America's friends. He's seen them before; maybe they can help, right? England gathers his guts, gulps and he walks over, across the wood floor and to the door. With a gulp, he peers out of the window beside the door; it is a glass that is not smooth, bumpy as a decoration, so England cannot make out the whole image... but Russia doesn't seem to be there.
So England opens the door.
“Huh? Arthur? Where's Alfred- aru?” China asks; England remembers him. He comes over frequently, talks to America and him. Sometimes, he asks England questions.
“See, I told you he's still sleeping.” If England wasn't so scared and worried, he would have scowled. He's not very fond of this France guy. He likes coming over a lot too, but he usually tends to bother America instead of England.
“... Y-You're America's friends, right?” England stammers out. They both nod, confused by the sudden question; “H-He's sick. Can you go check on him?” England asks, and China's face turns stern with a frown. Concern flashes across France's face before he hides it again.
“I bet he's making it worse then it sounds. Probably just a cold.” France jokes, and he heads up to America's bed room with China.
England quietly closes the door and sits on the couch, all attempts to face the kitchen forgotten. What was most on his mind was what America even has. That Chinese man– China, America sometimes calls him, but tells England to simply call him Yao– seems like a smart person. Maybe he will know what's wrong.
He looks at his knees, fists digging into the pajama pants as he waits. He wants to come up and see for himself, but in his mind, the image of sick America flashes back in his mind, and it looks so wrong, just impossible, because the America England always sees is so strong, so able... not weak.
France walks downstairs.
England turns to him, and his eyes tell France he wants to know what happened to America.
“America has pneumonia. He has a very serious case of it.”
[A/N: If I cliff-hung here, I think I'd really be killed, so. orz. |D I'll be writing the next part as we speak.]
P-p-pneumonia... oh god. Alfred don't die. Don't DIE. D8
O-OF COURSE HE WON'T DIE. I WON'T ALLOW IT. -sobbb-
Poor Alfred! DDDD'X
I was ttly gonna do Swine Flu tbh, but I thought Pneumonia's symptoms fit better. ;AA;
Ahaha I'm actually kinda glad you made it Pneumonia, though. <3 I've grown a little - um, a lot, actually - tired of hearing about this illness already. D: I mean, come on, I know it's alarming and all, but does it REALLY have to be on TV/radio/general media every single day, for heaven's sake...? *shot*
China is keeping watch on America. France is cooking in the kitchen. England sits by and looks through the window. He can not erase the tension in his heart– “America has pneumonia. He has a very serious case of it.” France tells him he won't die, he'll be fine, but that does not make England feel any better.
Because whether he survives, he may still be in pain; for England, America is the one he feels should be in the least pain because... well, America has always done what he can to make England happen.
He makes his house homely for England, leaves food out for him to eat, takes him out to dinner and lunch, helps him clean the house, gives him things to do, lets him do as he pleases...
Most of all, America would smile at him. Russia and his friends would smile at him, but that would scare England, because it tells him something bad is going to happen. But America's smile is different, because it does not feign kindness. It is kind to him.
In return for his kindness, England wants to help him, but he can't. China doesn't want anyone coming in unless directed to, France tells him. “He told me to make some soup for him,” France adds on and so he cooks in the kitchen, while England sits and frets in worry.
France pours the soup from the pot into a porcelain bowl, and pauses to sneak a look at England; brows furrowing, clearly upset. He shakes his head, and pours a cup of water, and places them all onto a silver tray.
Because whether he survives, he may still be in pain; for England, America is the one he feels should be in the least pain because... well, America has always done what he can to make England happen.
He makes his house homely for England, leaves food out for him to eat, takes him out to dinner and lunch, helps him clean the house, gives him things to do, lets him do as he pleases...
Most of all, America would smile at him. Russia and his friends would smile at him, but that would scare England, because it tells him something bad is going to happen. But America's smile is different, because it does not feign kindness. It is kind to him.
In return for his kindness, England wants to help him, but he can't. China doesn't want anyone coming in unless directed to, France tells him. “He told me to make some soup for him,” France adds on and so he cooks in the kitchen, while England sits and frets in worry.
France pours the soup from the pot into a porcelain bowl, and pauses to sneak a look at England; brows furrowing, clearly upset. He shakes his head, and pours a cup of water, and places them all onto a silver tray.
ILU author anon ILU so much.....i might end up getting obsessed with you and your stories xDDDDD
He walks over to England, tray in hand; “Bring this to Alfred's room. Yao asked me to make him something to eat. He should be awake soon.” France explained, now using their real name's in the presence of England. He looked up, pausing for a moment, before standing and nodding, taking the tray into his hands.
“Thank you.” He mumbles, and heads upstairs, away from France, and to where America is, with China. England looks at the door in front of him, tall and wide, and grips the tray. He can do it, because it's for America, so he knocks on the door; “Yao, I brought the food for America. France asked me too.” There is a curt, “Come in,” back like someone firing a gun.
England opens the door, and grips the plastic platter in his hands even harder, because the sight is so... alien to him.
America lays on his bed; his breathing is rasp and short, as if he struggling to simply inhale and exhale. His face is red, completely flushed, yet anywhere that hasn't turned as red as his blood was pale and near gray-white, and sweat runs down the side of his head. A cool towel decorates his forehead and... and it breaks England's heart.
Because, the image of America he has is someone who is bright, always shining, full of life, energetically running around, always having fun– this America looks like he can't even stand on his own.
“Thank you- aru.” China says, and stands from the chair he is sitting on and gently shakes America; “America, get up- aru. You're probably hungry.” It doesn't take very long for China to awaken America, and the young blond stands, hand at his head and the towel sliding off his face, yet he doesn't seem to pay much attention. He dizzily looks around, trying to keep his eyes in focus. Everything is such a blur, his lack of Texas doesn't fix it much either.
“Are... Are you hungry?” England asks, his voice almost a whisper if he hadn't forced himself to speak up so America could properly hear him. America looks up in England's direction, but his eyes aren't focused on the figure standing near the door. He squints his eyes. There looks like 3 England's there, all at once.
“Huh... Yeah... I think I am,” America answers, and coughs a bit. China pats his back, and America waves him off, nods a bit as thank you, and China nods back. He walks over, stands beside England; “I'll leave him to you for now. I have to talk to France.” England nods, understanding this is China's way of giving England time with America, time to assess the situation. China leaves the room, and England walks over, sitting down with his tray on his lap.
“Why did you bring three bowls of... what is that...” America mumbles out, his voice dry and raw, and his hand holds his head again.
“What are you saying? It's only a single bowl of soup...” England replies, confused, and America shakes his head. “It looks like 3...” He answers, and England wonders if he holds the tray any tighter, he will snap it in half, because... because, damn it! He can't even see properly! England knows America's eyesight isn't the best, but... but he's only foot or a few away from America. He should at least be able to tell that it's a single bowl of soup...
“... How do you feel?” England asks, and America shoots back; “Horrible.” He laughs a little, but it is rough and forced and he is still in a daze. “I'm not really hungry, actually.” He adds, and England places the tray on the side of the bed.
“You should eat. I'll feed you.” He says, and picks up a small spoonful of warm soup and holds it to America's mouth. He drinks it without complaint though.
Some part of England wants to cry.
Is this how America felt when he was taking care of England?
He wants to ask, but doesn't.
He simply takes the napkin on the tray, leans over and dabs a bit of the corner of America's lip, wiping away some of soup that caught itself there. It also catches some of sweat coating America's face and probably the rest of his body.
[A/N: OKAY AUTHOR-NON TOOK ANOTHER NAP ROFL YOU CAN KILL HER FOR TAKING SO LONG.]
“Thank you.” He mumbles, and heads upstairs, away from France, and to where America is, with China. England looks at the door in front of him, tall and wide, and grips the tray. He can do it, because it's for America, so he knocks on the door; “Yao, I brought the food for America. France asked me too.” There is a curt, “Come in,” back like someone firing a gun.
England opens the door, and grips the plastic platter in his hands even harder, because the sight is so... alien to him.
America lays on his bed; his breathing is rasp and short, as if he struggling to simply inhale and exhale. His face is red, completely flushed, yet anywhere that hasn't turned as red as his blood was pale and near gray-white, and sweat runs down the side of his head. A cool towel decorates his forehead and... and it breaks England's heart.
Because, the image of America he has is someone who is bright, always shining, full of life, energetically running around, always having fun– this America looks like he can't even stand on his own.
“Thank you- aru.” China says, and stands from the chair he is sitting on and gently shakes America; “America, get up- aru. You're probably hungry.” It doesn't take very long for China to awaken America, and the young blond stands, hand at his head and the towel sliding off his face, yet he doesn't seem to pay much attention. He dizzily looks around, trying to keep his eyes in focus. Everything is such a blur, his lack of Texas doesn't fix it much either.
“Are... Are you hungry?” England asks, his voice almost a whisper if he hadn't forced himself to speak up so America could properly hear him. America looks up in England's direction, but his eyes aren't focused on the figure standing near the door. He squints his eyes. There looks like 3 England's there, all at once.
“Huh... Yeah... I think I am,” America answers, and coughs a bit. China pats his back, and America waves him off, nods a bit as thank you, and China nods back. He walks over, stands beside England; “I'll leave him to you for now. I have to talk to France.” England nods, understanding this is China's way of giving England time with America, time to assess the situation. China leaves the room, and England walks over, sitting down with his tray on his lap.
“Why did you bring three bowls of... what is that...” America mumbles out, his voice dry and raw, and his hand holds his head again.
“What are you saying? It's only a single bowl of soup...” England replies, confused, and America shakes his head. “It looks like 3...” He answers, and England wonders if he holds the tray any tighter, he will snap it in half, because... because, damn it! He can't even see properly! England knows America's eyesight isn't the best, but... but he's only foot or a few away from America. He should at least be able to tell that it's a single bowl of soup...
“... How do you feel?” England asks, and America shoots back; “Horrible.” He laughs a little, but it is rough and forced and he is still in a daze. “I'm not really hungry, actually.” He adds, and England places the tray on the side of the bed.
“You should eat. I'll feed you.” He says, and picks up a small spoonful of warm soup and holds it to America's mouth. He drinks it without complaint though.
Some part of England wants to cry.
Is this how America felt when he was taking care of England?
He wants to ask, but doesn't.
He simply takes the napkin on the tray, leans over and dabs a bit of the corner of America's lip, wiping away some of soup that caught itself there. It also catches some of sweat coating America's face and probably the rest of his body.
[A/N: OKAY AUTHOR-NON TOOK ANOTHER NAP ROFL YOU CAN KILL HER FOR TAKING SO LONG.]
I know Arthur wants to do something for Alfred... but I'm glad he didn't cook for him. Haha.
Arthur is taking care of Alfred now~ ♥
Alfred, hurry and get better. (≧ロ≦)
Lol, I take a bajillion naps too. xD
Arthur is taking care of Alfred now~ ♥
Alfred, hurry and get better. (≧ロ≦)
Lol, I take a bajillion naps too. xD
sajdhskjahdjksahdjksahdjkshakjdhsakj
*yes everything i typed up there is what's left of my brain*
Alfred!! Arthur dammiit!!!!!!
Some part of England wants to cry.
Is this how America felt when he was taking care of England?
He wants to ask, but doesn't.
He simply takes the napkin on the tray, leans over and dabs a bit of the corner of America's lip, wiping away some of soup that caught itself there. It also catches some of sweat coating America's face and probably the rest of his body.
nice end for this part now i want MOAR!!!!
F5's like there is no tommorow
*yes everything i typed up there is what's left of my brain*
Alfred!! Arthur dammiit!!!!!!
Some part of England wants to cry.
Is this how America felt when he was taking care of England?
He wants to ask, but doesn't.
He simply takes the napkin on the tray, leans over and dabs a bit of the corner of America's lip, wiping away some of soup that caught itself there. It also catches some of sweat coating America's face and probably the rest of his body.
nice end for this part now i want MOAR!!!!
F5's like there is no tommorow
OH! I WAS SO HAPPY TO WAKE UP FROM SLEEPY-TIME AND FIND THREE NEW CHAPTERS! (Damn time difference...) And such lovely ones too! Poor Alfred, that doesn't seem too fun...and poor Arthur, even if you're being so cute, all worried and upset because Alfred is sick. XD And Francis and Yao! YAY!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
“He'll probably be upstairs with America for a while,” France says, and China nods in agreement, “So, how is he?” France asks, his elbows leaning against his knees.
“Not good- aru, and I haven't been able to properly see what's wrong,” China begins, “All I know is that he has pneumonia, and it's one of the more serious cases. He's trying to hold up though,” France nods, face stern.
“Is it because of stress?” He asks, and China nods.
“Yes. He's loved England for a very long time, it must have left a mark on him to see him in the stages he's gone through. Not only that, he has work. You know that being a nation personification is no easy feat- aru,” China adds, and France knows he can agree so well– “He'll survive, but then, of course he will. Nation personifications don't die unless the nation does; you've seen them come and go, France.”
“... Get on with it, China.” France says curtly; his memory of the Holy Roman Empire burns his mind, and China sighs, nodding; “We'll have to leave him in the care of England, unfortunately. No government official knows of England's stay here, but they may find out if we admit America to a hospital.”
“We can always just leave him with Canada or Japan. He seems to like both of them.” France explains, and he can hear China's small yes, but lists his reasons there after.
“You can, but it might not work. England's mind will probably remain fixated on America. After all, he has little knowledge, if any, of his nation status- aru. This may actually be a good chance for him to remember as well- aru.” France gives him a questioning look; what can he remember from helping sick Ameri– then it clicks.
“I see where you're going with this.” France says, and China nods.
“We don't have time to keep watch, so we'll leave them be. It's about time England starts getting over his other fears as well,” China states, and France, despite pitying the poor man and knowing it will be difficult, can only agree in turn.
China talks to America about his condition more, now that America is awake.
France cooks many different foods for England to give to America.
There is a list of numbers near the telephone– “If anything happens to America, call any of these numbers. Go from top to bottom, okay- aru?”
England nods, and says he will. China thanks him.
The airport buzzes, people come and go. China and France sit idly in the morning, which appears dark as night, and wait for their time to leave this country, go back to their own.
China still remembers– “I have to hurry up and heal, don't I?” He laughs, so empty and weak, “I have to work, have to help my people... And England...” China looks at him. This man is an idiot is all he thinks, but China has known that for quite a while. Heroes are independent, they can take care of themselves, America goes on to explain.
“Don't push yourself- aru. England doesn't seem to mind taking care of you.” He says, but America shakes his head anyway. It was just like America to do that.
“I'm worried- aru.” China says to France.
“I am too, but we can only do so much, you know?” France answers, and the airport grows silent for them as they tune out the words of others, idly talking to each other, and think of other things.
The next morning, America attempts to get out of bed by himself again. England ushers him to sleep once again.
“Not good- aru, and I haven't been able to properly see what's wrong,” China begins, “All I know is that he has pneumonia, and it's one of the more serious cases. He's trying to hold up though,” France nods, face stern.
“Is it because of stress?” He asks, and China nods.
“Yes. He's loved England for a very long time, it must have left a mark on him to see him in the stages he's gone through. Not only that, he has work. You know that being a nation personification is no easy feat- aru,” China adds, and France knows he can agree so well– “He'll survive, but then, of course he will. Nation personifications don't die unless the nation does; you've seen them come and go, France.”
“... Get on with it, China.” France says curtly; his memory of the Holy Roman Empire burns his mind, and China sighs, nodding; “We'll have to leave him in the care of England, unfortunately. No government official knows of England's stay here, but they may find out if we admit America to a hospital.”
“We can always just leave him with Canada or Japan. He seems to like both of them.” France explains, and he can hear China's small yes, but lists his reasons there after.
“You can, but it might not work. England's mind will probably remain fixated on America. After all, he has little knowledge, if any, of his nation status- aru. This may actually be a good chance for him to remember as well- aru.” France gives him a questioning look; what can he remember from helping sick Ameri– then it clicks.
“I see where you're going with this.” France says, and China nods.
“We don't have time to keep watch, so we'll leave them be. It's about time England starts getting over his other fears as well,” China states, and France, despite pitying the poor man and knowing it will be difficult, can only agree in turn.
China talks to America about his condition more, now that America is awake.
France cooks many different foods for England to give to America.
There is a list of numbers near the telephone– “If anything happens to America, call any of these numbers. Go from top to bottom, okay- aru?”
England nods, and says he will. China thanks him.
The airport buzzes, people come and go. China and France sit idly in the morning, which appears dark as night, and wait for their time to leave this country, go back to their own.
China still remembers– “I have to hurry up and heal, don't I?” He laughs, so empty and weak, “I have to work, have to help my people... And England...” China looks at him. This man is an idiot is all he thinks, but China has known that for quite a while. Heroes are independent, they can take care of themselves, America goes on to explain.
“Don't push yourself- aru. England doesn't seem to mind taking care of you.” He says, but America shakes his head anyway. It was just like America to do that.
“I'm worried- aru.” China says to France.
“I am too, but we can only do so much, you know?” France answers, and the airport grows silent for them as they tune out the words of others, idly talking to each other, and think of other things.
The next morning, America attempts to get out of bed by himself again. England ushers him to sleep once again.
Anon...
Are you me? Because that's fucking CREEPY. I JUST RP'd this scenario with a friend not a week ago, except it was Arthur who was sick. o.o
On that note, GET BETTER ALFRED. ;A; AND MAKE ARTHUR BETTER TOO. <3
Captcha: natures fantasy. Oh my yes. :D *brick'd*
Are you me? Because that's fucking CREEPY. I JUST RP'd this scenario with a friend not a week ago, except it was Arthur who was sick. o.o
On that note, GET BETTER ALFRED. ;A; AND MAKE ARTHUR BETTER TOO. <3
Captcha: natures fantasy. Oh my yes. :D *brick'd*
I love how you have mangaed to capture all their personalities absoulutely perfectly. And that last line somehow just speaks to me...Though I'm not quite sure how. I just know that it gets me somehow. Anyways. Wonderful work, as always Anon!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
A reference to HRE!
It was nice to get in insight on China's and France's opinion of the situation.
Alfred doesn't get the fact that even heroes need help. :[
It was nice to get in insight on China's and France's opinion of the situation.
Alfred doesn't get the fact that even heroes need help. :[
I'm all ears---err eyes author anon!~ this fill is made of love!~
The clock and America's ragged breathing become the only sounds in the room, covering England's soft, almost non-existent breathing.
It has only been 20 minutes since England sent America back to the bed for more rest. “I'm fine,” He insists, but in the end, he is sent back due to his lack of power to deny much at all– still flushed, still short, difficult breaths, sweaty, clammy– there is little to deny when he looks like he is ready to fall down and sleep forever.
Sleep forever; it means to die, England has come to learn. America dying– the thought wears his mind out, he blocks it out and focuses on the face he had been watching, resting.
It has been 4 days since he fell ill; every morning, he attempts to awaken, to get up and say he is okay now and he has to go to work and that he will come home and take England out to dinner again. Then England makes him go back to bed, one way or another. He usually winds up pushing him back to the bed.
25 minutes have passed; it feels like 3 hours to England. It feels so long because he is so worried, he longs for when America will wake up, not ill, but full of life like he always is, will come up and say, “Good morning, Arthur!”
Another hour passes. Nothing happens. He is still asleep, and England changes the towel resting on his forehead. His breathing has calmed a little, England notes, but he looks the same as he did before. At the very least, England is thankful he has progressed from Day 1.
He'll probably get up again soon. I should heat up some food... France prepared quite a lot in the few hours he stayed; stored them in the fridge and said, “There's a lot, so give him as much as he wants. If he runs out, uh... just, just call me and I'll tell you what to do next.” Worried as he is, England prays he will not have to be call the French man.
He walks into the kitchen in silence, so eerie that it bothers him– as if he didn't hate the kitchen enough already. The knives have been packed in a cabinet, courtesy of France.
England pulls the fridge open and pulls out a pot, half-filled with the chicken soup France left behind. There are several pots of it, really. According to him, chicken soup is good for treating pneumonia, so there's plenty of it. He also left the ingredients for Cream Soup in a plastic ShopRite bag, with instructions on how to cook it on the paper (France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up).
Not only that, Tomato Soup and other easy to eat foods. “Alfred has so much food, I don't fathom how he eats it all. Then again, I suppose some of this is your share too.” He remembers France say. China also left a bowl of pills out on the counter; “Give him one after every meal. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, okay- aru?”
The pot boils quietly, and England stirs it gently, back and forth, watching it bubble and the heat dissipate into the air. He turns the stove off, grabs a plate and pours some soup into it, and heads back into America's room with a tray full of soup and water and medicine; as usual.
He peers in, and America looks at him and smiles weakly; “Hey, Arthur.” He says, voice dry from sleeping.
It has only been 20 minutes since England sent America back to the bed for more rest. “I'm fine,” He insists, but in the end, he is sent back due to his lack of power to deny much at all– still flushed, still short, difficult breaths, sweaty, clammy– there is little to deny when he looks like he is ready to fall down and sleep forever.
Sleep forever; it means to die, England has come to learn. America dying– the thought wears his mind out, he blocks it out and focuses on the face he had been watching, resting.
It has been 4 days since he fell ill; every morning, he attempts to awaken, to get up and say he is okay now and he has to go to work and that he will come home and take England out to dinner again. Then England makes him go back to bed, one way or another. He usually winds up pushing him back to the bed.
25 minutes have passed; it feels like 3 hours to England. It feels so long because he is so worried, he longs for when America will wake up, not ill, but full of life like he always is, will come up and say, “Good morning, Arthur!”
Another hour passes. Nothing happens. He is still asleep, and England changes the towel resting on his forehead. His breathing has calmed a little, England notes, but he looks the same as he did before. At the very least, England is thankful he has progressed from Day 1.
He'll probably get up again soon. I should heat up some food... France prepared quite a lot in the few hours he stayed; stored them in the fridge and said, “There's a lot, so give him as much as he wants. If he runs out, uh... just, just call me and I'll tell you what to do next.” Worried as he is, England prays he will not have to be call the French man.
He walks into the kitchen in silence, so eerie that it bothers him– as if he didn't hate the kitchen enough already. The knives have been packed in a cabinet, courtesy of France.
England pulls the fridge open and pulls out a pot, half-filled with the chicken soup France left behind. There are several pots of it, really. According to him, chicken soup is good for treating pneumonia, so there's plenty of it. He also left the ingredients for Cream Soup in a plastic ShopRite bag, with instructions on how to cook it on the paper (France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up).
Not only that, Tomato Soup and other easy to eat foods. “Alfred has so much food, I don't fathom how he eats it all. Then again, I suppose some of this is your share too.” He remembers France say. China also left a bowl of pills out on the counter; “Give him one after every meal. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, okay- aru?”
The pot boils quietly, and England stirs it gently, back and forth, watching it bubble and the heat dissipate into the air. He turns the stove off, grabs a plate and pours some soup into it, and heads back into America's room with a tray full of soup and water and medicine; as usual.
He peers in, and America looks at him and smiles weakly; “Hey, Arthur.” He says, voice dry from sleeping.
"France cuts the vegetables, puts all of them in separate containers, even the amount of water in a specific container, and prays even England's horrible cooking skills can't screw it up"
Haha, oh France, I don't think even England could mess that up. xD
Arthur has somewhat gotten over his fear of the kitchen! yay!
Haha, oh France, I don't think even England could mess that up. xD
Arthur has somewhat gotten over his fear of the kitchen! yay!
LOL, quite true! But you ever know, it IS England. <3
Yes! Though it's probably only cause France hid the knives. -bricked-
Yes! Though it's probably only cause France hid the knives. -bricked-
Another hour or two flies by, the room in silence as England watches America eat in silence, assisting him when he starts getting dizzy and can't see where his hand is anymore.
“Sorry for troubling you like this.” America says sheepishly, and past the rough exterior of his voice, raw and hard, England can hear the apologetic tone and shakes his head. “You've been taking good care of me all this time, it's the least I can do... I'm sorry for troubling you as well.” He says politely, but America waves it off with his hand.
“It's fine, really. I'm just glad you're getting better,” America says, and England looks away, a small blush sneaking onto his face. America chuckles, though winds up coughing as England stands and pats his back until it passes.
“Thanks,” he says, “I'm done eating. You should take it and leave. Don't want you catching what I have, right?” England pauses; America makes perfect sense, but he doesn't want to leave, but... but he should anyway. He can't stay too long, after all. Two pneumonia cases in the same house is not exactly the ideal image of helping America.
“... Your welcome. Call me if you need me. I'll be back in another hour...” England says, voice quiet, and takes the tray and leaves. America watches him leave before he flops back on the bed.
He has to hurry up and heal, heal so that England doesn't look so distressed, and that he'd smile and they can have fun again, just like a few nights ago; “Damn it, body, why did you have to give out now...” America mutters a rhetorical question to himself and cuddles under his blankets, staring at the white ceiling as it swirls in his eyes, and he stares at it quizzically, before shrugging it off, and pulling the covers over himself.
The house has no sounds besides America's breathing, England's breathing, and the running water as England wipes the dishes clean, and leaves them to dry on the rack.
Afterwards, it's just England's foot steps as he walks place to place, around the house aimlessly; he must have toured the house, or at least, the part in which he actually goes to, at least thrice before he sits on the couch, and waits there, until America is due for another check up.
The hour passes, passes again and again, it's 11:03 in the night when it happens. England asks, “Why do you take care of me anyway?” as America is put back on the bed to rest. He is dizzy and drowsy, and England frowns. He does not expect an answer, so he stands and leaves.
“Because I love you...” America mutters out, eyes barely visible before he closes them fully, “Let's go on a dinner date again...” his final words before he drifts into sleep, and England stands in silence.
A smile ghosts over his lips before he leaves, and goes on about business as he always does. The next few days, those days, England never brings it up again. He acts like he never heard it.
“Sorry for troubling you like this.” America says sheepishly, and past the rough exterior of his voice, raw and hard, England can hear the apologetic tone and shakes his head. “You've been taking good care of me all this time, it's the least I can do... I'm sorry for troubling you as well.” He says politely, but America waves it off with his hand.
“It's fine, really. I'm just glad you're getting better,” America says, and England looks away, a small blush sneaking onto his face. America chuckles, though winds up coughing as England stands and pats his back until it passes.
“Thanks,” he says, “I'm done eating. You should take it and leave. Don't want you catching what I have, right?” England pauses; America makes perfect sense, but he doesn't want to leave, but... but he should anyway. He can't stay too long, after all. Two pneumonia cases in the same house is not exactly the ideal image of helping America.
“... Your welcome. Call me if you need me. I'll be back in another hour...” England says, voice quiet, and takes the tray and leaves. America watches him leave before he flops back on the bed.
He has to hurry up and heal, heal so that England doesn't look so distressed, and that he'd smile and they can have fun again, just like a few nights ago; “Damn it, body, why did you have to give out now...” America mutters a rhetorical question to himself and cuddles under his blankets, staring at the white ceiling as it swirls in his eyes, and he stares at it quizzically, before shrugging it off, and pulling the covers over himself.
The house has no sounds besides America's breathing, England's breathing, and the running water as England wipes the dishes clean, and leaves them to dry on the rack.
Afterwards, it's just England's foot steps as he walks place to place, around the house aimlessly; he must have toured the house, or at least, the part in which he actually goes to, at least thrice before he sits on the couch, and waits there, until America is due for another check up.
The hour passes, passes again and again, it's 11:03 in the night when it happens. England asks, “Why do you take care of me anyway?” as America is put back on the bed to rest. He is dizzy and drowsy, and England frowns. He does not expect an answer, so he stands and leaves.
“Because I love you...” America mutters out, eyes barely visible before he closes them fully, “Let's go on a dinner date again...” his final words before he drifts into sleep, and England stands in silence.
A smile ghosts over his lips before he leaves, and goes on about business as he always does. The next few days, those days, England never brings it up again. He acts like he never heard it.
He is unsure, after giving it some thought. He loves me. England thinks, but he is scared; is he just out of his mind because he is sick? England doesn't know.
“I'll ask him when he feels better.” England decides, because he wants to confirm it, wants to know if America really loves him. He tries to ignore the feeling that prays he does, shakes it off and tells himself he just wants to make sure for curiosity's sake, so he promises himself that he'll ask when things are better, but he does not realize how far off that time is, because America wakes up one day, he looks great and says he feels great. Says he should get back to work, and pats England's head for taking such good care of him.
It is a Wednesday morning when this happens.
England considers asking him now, but thinks against it. It's early morning, he just got out of his ill days, he should let him get ready for work. I'll ask him on Friday, when he comes back. England fidgets at the thought of it, and America stares at him weirdly before he smiles.
“It's probably going to be real busy for a bit since I was gone, so let's have go out for dinner on Friday night, okay?” America suggests, and England nods.
Friday evening. England thinks.
He promises himself on the dinner date, he will ask if America was being honest, or if he was just ill. Maybe he doesn't remember. England denies it, but he feels happy at the idea of America leaning over and kissing him, saying it wasn't a lie, and... and...
It is Friday evening now.
The clock ticks. It is 10 at night. He has not come home. England sits at the couch, watching the window for America's car.
The phone rings. England walks over and picks it up.
“Matthew is coming to pick you up. You'll be staying with him.” France says over the phone, immediately, because he knows it's England who picks up.
“... Why?” England asks, prays, God, please don't let it be what he thinks it is–
“Ame– Alfred passed out at work today. They've hospitalized him.” France explains, “He's even worse then before.” France hates bearing bad news, and has nothing to say when he hears England hang up.
He swears, he tries, tries, tries...
“Alfred...” He chokes out in his sobs.
China always agrees when he hears about England's progress. He always reminds America though, that even he is healing, the way it sounds, he is all the more easy to break now.
[A/N: Auwww, f***. Sorry, this was probably one of the more important segments, yet author-non screwed it up so much. ;AAA;''' Sorry gaiz!
OKAY GOOD NIGHT ROFLMAO. -insert horrible cliff-hanging habit again- ♥ ]
“I'll ask him when he feels better.” England decides, because he wants to confirm it, wants to know if America really loves him. He tries to ignore the feeling that prays he does, shakes it off and tells himself he just wants to make sure for curiosity's sake, so he promises himself that he'll ask when things are better, but he does not realize how far off that time is, because America wakes up one day, he looks great and says he feels great. Says he should get back to work, and pats England's head for taking such good care of him.
It is a Wednesday morning when this happens.
England considers asking him now, but thinks against it. It's early morning, he just got out of his ill days, he should let him get ready for work. I'll ask him on Friday, when he comes back. England fidgets at the thought of it, and America stares at him weirdly before he smiles.
“It's probably going to be real busy for a bit since I was gone, so let's have go out for dinner on Friday night, okay?” America suggests, and England nods.
Friday evening. England thinks.
He promises himself on the dinner date, he will ask if America was being honest, or if he was just ill. Maybe he doesn't remember. England denies it, but he feels happy at the idea of America leaning over and kissing him, saying it wasn't a lie, and... and...
It is Friday evening now.
The clock ticks. It is 10 at night. He has not come home. England sits at the couch, watching the window for America's car.
The phone rings. England walks over and picks it up.
“Matthew is coming to pick you up. You'll be staying with him.” France says over the phone, immediately, because he knows it's England who picks up.
“... Why?” England asks, prays, God, please don't let it be what he thinks it is–
“Ame– Alfred passed out at work today. They've hospitalized him.” France explains, “He's even worse then before.” France hates bearing bad news, and has nothing to say when he hears England hang up.
He swears, he tries, tries, tries...
“Alfred...” He chokes out in his sobs.
China always agrees when he hears about England's progress. He always reminds America though, that even he is healing, the way it sounds, he is all the more easy to break now.
[A/N: Auwww, f***. Sorry, this was probably one of the more important segments, yet author-non screwed it up so much. ;AAA;''' Sorry gaiz!
OKAY GOOD NIGHT ROFLMAO. -insert horrible cliff-hanging habit again- ♥ ]
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! D8 WHY MUST IT END THERE? *shakes screen*
Damn cliffhanger! OTL
Crying Arthur always makes me want to cry. ;^;
Damn cliffhanger! OTL
Crying Arthur always makes me want to cry. ;^;
...But...But...But...OH POOR BABY ARTHUR! YOU'VE BEEN BROKEN AGAIN, HAVEN'T YOU? DX CANADA HURRY! OR...OR SOMETHING TERRIBLE WILL HAPPEN! Oh poor Alfred and Arthur and oh my poor, poor babies and RIGHT BEFORE THE CONFESSION TOO YOU EVIL AUTHOR!ANON YOU! Wait. No. I take that back. ILU BABY. EVEN IF YOU ARE A LITTLE EVIL.
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
wqdklqwejqwlkjdklqwdjqwlkdjqwkldjlkqwdjqwlkdjqwkldjwqlkdjqwlkdjqwkldjqwkldjqwlkjwqdl;kjqwldkqwjldkqwjldkjqwd
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
HOW...HOW COULD IT BEEEEEEEEE!!!!???????!?!?!?
Author anon you have the habit of keeping me glued to my chair :l pressing F5 forever...but that's one of the reason i love you so much Dx
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
*goes crazy and spazzes*
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
HOW...HOW COULD IT BEEEEEEEEE!!!!???????!?!?!?
Author anon you have the habit of keeping me glued to my chair :l pressing F5 forever...but that's one of the reason i love you so much Dx
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
*goes crazy and spazzes*
C...cliff hanger again. ||"orz *dies*
This update was seriously the only good thing that happened in my life today, though, so this anon shall forgive you this time and shall not complain(...this time). :D...not that my forgiving you or not matters, but..
BUTBUTBUT POOR ARTHUR! ;A; Is he going to break down again? Is he? IS HE!?!? ;A; *sobs*
:3 Good night, author!anon~
This update was seriously the only good thing that happened in my life today, though, so this anon shall forgive you this time and shall not complain(...this time). :D
BUTBUTBUT POOR ARTHUR! ;A; Is he going to break down again? Is he? IS HE!?!? ;A; *sobs*
:3 Good night, author!anon~
“... I don't know how America did it,” Canada says over the phone. His voice is solemn and lonely; he watches England from afar, sit on the chair, looking at his hands which grow paler over the day.
“I honestly don't know how Amerique managed it either. Have you tried encouraging him?” France asks as he looks at the window, down at the people of French who mingle in the streets, going to school, to work, simply living their busy lives.
“Yes, I did... Whenever he looked sad, I'd tell him America would be all right, but... he never really seemed to believe me. He nods, but... it doesn't make him feel any better.” Canada says, and listens for France's reply, but France says nothing.
It has been a week and a half since England has come to Canada's house. “He is different from before,” Canada would say. He is not scared, not paranoid; empty. He is empty, Canada would tell France. He never seems to react to anything. Canada touches his shoulder once– England does not react.
“He... has always been fragile since we found him. He was healing.” France goes on to say, “Amerique made a mistake. Because he remembers nothing of his old self, and barely knows anyone else other then America, England's healing and the world America helped him rebuild was centered around the two of them. To him, America is capable of dying. If America disappears from his life, what do you think will happen?”
“That world will fall apart, because one side that is holding it up,” Canada pauses, “Isn't there anymore.”
“Exactly. Because England only has horrible memories before America came into his life, he is a pessimist, and naturally one at that, even before Russia,” France adds, “He feels Amerique has no chance of survival.”
“All we can do is wait for America to get back on his feet. I'm sorry for burdening you with this, Matthew.” France says his real name and he hangs up there on after.
There is an eerie silence. Canada breaths low, and he wonders if England is breathing. It is so quiet that he can barely tell, but he is sure England is okay when he sees his small frame, heaving up and down, just a little. Canada watches; he wants to walk over and take his hand, take his estranged father's hand and tell him it's okay.
Alfred will come for you. I'm sure of it. He's a hero. Heroes don't go back on their word. Canada tells him the first time. England doesn't believe it.
“He never said he would come back though.” England shoots back. What can Canada say? It's true. America never explicitly said he would come back.
One part of Canada wants to go to his brother and punch him, punch him square in the cheek and say, “You said you love England, don't you?! Stop forcing yourself sometimes! It worries him, can't you see him?!” But, then, Canada laughs in the back of his head.
Punching America never works some sense into him. It's happened before, before and many times after, it fails every time. Canada wonders why his brother is so thickheaded sometimes.
“... Hey, England, are you hungry?” Canada asks, heading over to him. The clock ticks, ticks again and again. It clicks, 3 times. England shakes his head.
“... Are you sure? You haven't eaten since this morning.” The sun is setting, it's late. England is a little thinner then he was when he first arrived, Canada always notes. Always tries to make him eat more cause of it, makes French cuisine that France taught him how to make.
“Yeah, I'm sure.” England says back, and they stop talking then. Canada furrows his brows. His back is turned in a second and he's walking down the hall. He... He wants to help, wants to help so bad, but doesn't know what to do anymore.
It's these days he wishes they might mistake him for America. If England sees America, he'll be happy, but he doesn't. England knows better then that.
Days pass like that; a week. Canada succeeds much less then the amount he attempts to make England do something, anything. It hurts him like Russia's pipe did when it hit his shoulder that day he broke the door down.
“I honestly don't know how Amerique managed it either. Have you tried encouraging him?” France asks as he looks at the window, down at the people of French who mingle in the streets, going to school, to work, simply living their busy lives.
“Yes, I did... Whenever he looked sad, I'd tell him America would be all right, but... he never really seemed to believe me. He nods, but... it doesn't make him feel any better.” Canada says, and listens for France's reply, but France says nothing.
It has been a week and a half since England has come to Canada's house. “He is different from before,” Canada would say. He is not scared, not paranoid; empty. He is empty, Canada would tell France. He never seems to react to anything. Canada touches his shoulder once– England does not react.
“He... has always been fragile since we found him. He was healing.” France goes on to say, “Amerique made a mistake. Because he remembers nothing of his old self, and barely knows anyone else other then America, England's healing and the world America helped him rebuild was centered around the two of them. To him, America is capable of dying. If America disappears from his life, what do you think will happen?”
“That world will fall apart, because one side that is holding it up,” Canada pauses, “Isn't there anymore.”
“Exactly. Because England only has horrible memories before America came into his life, he is a pessimist, and naturally one at that, even before Russia,” France adds, “He feels Amerique has no chance of survival.”
“All we can do is wait for America to get back on his feet. I'm sorry for burdening you with this, Matthew.” France says his real name and he hangs up there on after.
There is an eerie silence. Canada breaths low, and he wonders if England is breathing. It is so quiet that he can barely tell, but he is sure England is okay when he sees his small frame, heaving up and down, just a little. Canada watches; he wants to walk over and take his hand, take his estranged father's hand and tell him it's okay.
Alfred will come for you. I'm sure of it. He's a hero. Heroes don't go back on their word. Canada tells him the first time. England doesn't believe it.
“He never said he would come back though.” England shoots back. What can Canada say? It's true. America never explicitly said he would come back.
One part of Canada wants to go to his brother and punch him, punch him square in the cheek and say, “You said you love England, don't you?! Stop forcing yourself sometimes! It worries him, can't you see him?!” But, then, Canada laughs in the back of his head.
Punching America never works some sense into him. It's happened before, before and many times after, it fails every time. Canada wonders why his brother is so thickheaded sometimes.
“... Hey, England, are you hungry?” Canada asks, heading over to him. The clock ticks, ticks again and again. It clicks, 3 times. England shakes his head.
“... Are you sure? You haven't eaten since this morning.” The sun is setting, it's late. England is a little thinner then he was when he first arrived, Canada always notes. Always tries to make him eat more cause of it, makes French cuisine that France taught him how to make.
“Yeah, I'm sure.” England says back, and they stop talking then. Canada furrows his brows. His back is turned in a second and he's walking down the hall. He... He wants to help, wants to help so bad, but doesn't know what to do anymore.
It's these days he wishes they might mistake him for America. If England sees America, he'll be happy, but he doesn't. England knows better then that.
Days pass like that; a week. Canada succeeds much less then the amount he attempts to make England do something, anything. It hurts him like Russia's pipe did when it hit his shoulder that day he broke the door down.
Something changes though; the daily routine is broken.
The phone rings.
“Hey, Canada! It's America!” The voice is cheerful, happy, nothing like Canada hears from France and China that America was like. Canada smiles; his hand is over the speaker side of the phone. He can hear America's voice call through it.
“England, America is on the phone.”
[A/N: Sorry for lack of updates today! -sobbb- I was a bit busy today. I'm probably gonna update a little less now, things are getting even more busier, possibly. ;A;'' Gotta get my Hong Kong cosplay ready in time for AnimeNEXT! Is anyone else attending? ♥♥♥
Also, author-non apologizes for horrible cliffhanger again. -sob- I may fit in another update tonight, who knows. :DD]
The phone rings.
“Hey, Canada! It's America!” The voice is cheerful, happy, nothing like Canada hears from France and China that America was like. Canada smiles; his hand is over the speaker side of the phone. He can hear America's voice call through it.
“England, America is on the phone.”
[A/N: Sorry for lack of updates today! -sobbb- I was a bit busy today. I'm probably gonna update a little less now, things are getting even more busier, possibly. ;A;'' Gotta get my Hong Kong cosplay ready in time for AnimeNEXT! Is anyone else attending? ♥♥♥
Also, author-non apologizes for horrible cliffhanger again. -sob- I may fit in another update tonight, who knows. :DD]
its okay author anon!!!
as long as you update i shall keep stalking
*F5's again and again*
as long as you update i shall keep stalking
*F5's again and again*
...Oh...Oh. YOU ARE TERRIBLE WITH THE CLIFFHANGERS ANON! Only. Hopefully this one is a happier cliffhanger. Please? Also. Poor Canada, he's trying so hard and not really succeeding. Poor baby. Poor Arthur. AND ALFRED. SLOW DOWN. EVEN HEROES HAVE SICK DAYS.
Also. I wish I could go to AnimeNEXT. But sadly, it is in America. And I am in Australia. Do you see my problem? Also. Hong Kong, how cute! XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Also. I wish I could go to AnimeNEXT. But sadly, it is in America. And I am in Australia. Do you see my problem? Also. Hong Kong, how cute! XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Damn all the cliffhangers! OTL
afasgadgasdha Alfred is on the phone dammit! He's on the phone!!!!!!!!
*rapidly hits F5*
Ooo AnimeNext? That's cool~ ♥ I'm going to AnimeExpo. xD Won't be cosplaying APH though. :/
afasgadgasdha Alfred is on the phone dammit! He's on the phone!!!!!!!!
*rapidly hits F5*
Ooo AnimeNext? That's cool~ ♥ I'm going to AnimeExpo. xD Won't be cosplaying APH though. :/
“... A... Alfred...?” The phone is in his hands so tightly and Canada watches from afar with a whimsical smile. He recalls the moment, the moment England jumps over the couch and grabs the phone like a life line.
“Huh? Arthur? Hi to you too! How's it going?” America asks, cheerful as ever, as if nothing was wrong at all. England is silent, stares at the wall, and Canada decides to leave the happily shocked England to his business with America.
“... W-What about you...?” England asks, and something feels so nostalgic in him when America hums against the phone, deep in thought.
“I'd say I'm doing peachy! Actually, I'm due to get out of this stuffy old place within a week! How's it there with Canada? I was supposed to take care of you, but if you want to stay with Canada, you could make sure it's okay with him, or do you want to come back to Washington D.C.?” America rambles in, without a short breath in his speech as he asks England. He calls out to him when England doesn't respond.
Attempting to find the right words, England stares at the wall, ponders his mind like a cat looks for a mouse. He almost shouts; “Of course I want to go back! Are you stupid?!” But stops himself, a flush coming onto his face, almost as red as post-ill America.
“England? Hey, Engla~nd!” America calls through the phone, and England turns even more red. He isn't exactly sure what to say, because it's so America to laugh at him for sounding attached.
So the Brit smiles when he speaks; “... I think I would like to go back to Washington. Next week, you said?” England says, and feels America's wild, dorky grin through the phone. What he can't feel is how happy America really is.
“... You're sounding better and better by the day.” America comments.
“I have to get on my own two feet at some point, don't I?” England replies, with wit, and America smiles even wider, if it was even possible.
“... Yeah, next week. I'll come pick you up next week, 7 days from today,” America begins, and smiles sincerely when he ends it; “Be prepared, okay? All right! I'll see you later!” The line goes dead. There is a mischievous way that America tells England to be ready.
It makes England's heart beat faster then usual.
Canada's heart becomes warmer as he sometimes watches England with the time he can. England is starting to become the busy body he once was.
You know, it was going great. England was healing fast, becoming... well, England! He is still going strong, but... but things just have to screw up... for Canada, for England, and for America.
Because Canada got England drunk, bringing home wine as a “gift” for doing so well in recovering.
Because England is drunk and definitely not “ready” like America told him.
Because America is sober, doesn't know if it's him or England who is less prepared now, he really wants to punch Canada because he knows how England gets with (justifiable that Canada was hoping England's drinking habits changed with his personality? Pfft, as if.) wine, and that...
That England just looks so cute with his silly Britannia Angel get up.
“Alfred~! I want a hug~!” America wonders how for his heroic determination can go now.
[A/N: BECAUSE BRITANNIA ANGEL STRIKES AGAIN. ♥ ]
“Huh? Arthur? Hi to you too! How's it going?” America asks, cheerful as ever, as if nothing was wrong at all. England is silent, stares at the wall, and Canada decides to leave the happily shocked England to his business with America.
“... W-What about you...?” England asks, and something feels so nostalgic in him when America hums against the phone, deep in thought.
“I'd say I'm doing peachy! Actually, I'm due to get out of this stuffy old place within a week! How's it there with Canada? I was supposed to take care of you, but if you want to stay with Canada, you could make sure it's okay with him, or do you want to come back to Washington D.C.?” America rambles in, without a short breath in his speech as he asks England. He calls out to him when England doesn't respond.
Attempting to find the right words, England stares at the wall, ponders his mind like a cat looks for a mouse. He almost shouts; “Of course I want to go back! Are you stupid?!” But stops himself, a flush coming onto his face, almost as red as post-ill America.
“England? Hey, Engla~nd!” America calls through the phone, and England turns even more red. He isn't exactly sure what to say, because it's so America to laugh at him for sounding attached.
So the Brit smiles when he speaks; “... I think I would like to go back to Washington. Next week, you said?” England says, and feels America's wild, dorky grin through the phone. What he can't feel is how happy America really is.
“... You're sounding better and better by the day.” America comments.
“I have to get on my own two feet at some point, don't I?” England replies, with wit, and America smiles even wider, if it was even possible.
“... Yeah, next week. I'll come pick you up next week, 7 days from today,” America begins, and smiles sincerely when he ends it; “Be prepared, okay? All right! I'll see you later!” The line goes dead. There is a mischievous way that America tells England to be ready.
It makes England's heart beat faster then usual.
Canada's heart becomes warmer as he sometimes watches England with the time he can. England is starting to become the busy body he once was.
You know, it was going great. England was healing fast, becoming... well, England! He is still going strong, but... but things just have to screw up... for Canada, for England, and for America.
Because Canada got England drunk, bringing home wine as a “gift” for doing so well in recovering.
Because England is drunk and definitely not “ready” like America told him.
Because America is sober, doesn't know if it's him or England who is less prepared now, he really wants to punch Canada because he knows how England gets with (justifiable that Canada was hoping England's drinking habits changed with his personality? Pfft, as if.) wine, and that...
That England just looks so cute with his silly Britannia Angel get up.
“Alfred~! I want a hug~!” America wonders how for his heroic determination can go now.
[A/N: BECAUSE BRITANNIA ANGEL STRIKES AGAIN. ♥ ]
FUCK YES! BRITANNIA ANGEL!!!!
You just made my whole day with that! ♥♥♥♥♥
You just made my whole day with that! ♥♥♥♥♥
JUST HUG HIM, ALFRED!!!!! PLEEEEEEEASE!!!!!!
(Please don't let England break again, pretty please with sugar on top??)
(Please don't let England break again, pretty please with sugar on top??)
...Bri-Britannia Angel? OH ANON, I LOVE YOU. REALLY. I DO. Gah. WHY SO CUTE ARTHUR? WHY? Poor Alfred....and poor Matthew when Alfred's through with him for giving Arthur alcohol.(What were you thinking Canada baby?)
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
read the reCaptcha....i think its reading the story together with me C:
I love this author! anon!
SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
read the reCaptcha....i think its reading the story together with me C:
I love this author! anon!
LHSKAJGDHAS BRITANNIA ANGEL!! XDDD
Ah, that SO COMPLETELY MADE MY DAY, Author!anon. *sends love*
Ah, that SO COMPLETELY MADE MY DAY, Author!anon. *sends love*
Now whether America even wants that hug isn't up to him; England wants a hug from America, and he wants it now, and when Britannia Angel wants something, he gets it.
So he lunges at America; tackles him around his neck, and if it wasn't for America's massive strength, he's positive he would have fell. America just stands instead; frozen, doesn't know what to do. First off, England can't hug him! He's too scared for that, last time America checked.
Well, then again, it's been a while and England is drunk. Odd though, England is usually an unhappy sort of drunk. “... A-Arthur...?” America mutters out, and England wraps his arms around America's neck tighter and he finds it increasingly difficult to breath.
“Alfred...~” England's voice– his voice, his voice is slurring, but so cute and tempting and– “France, England is drunk! Help me, help me, help me, I'll show you my pictures of England being moe!” America finds himself on the phone with England burying his face against the crook of America's neck, and the iPhone is trembling in the American's hand.
France pauses; then he smiles. “... I understand, Amerique. There is something you must do.” He says smoothly, and chuckles at America fretting on the other end.
“I get it! Spit it out already!” America shouts, while England's hold on America is even tighter; oh Hell, he's got his legs jackknifed across his back; England isn't even touching the floor anymore.
“Canada is drunk, oui?” France asks, and America confirms it. He makes a note to thank whatever deity was out there for making Canada the type of drunk who just sits there in a daze.
“Put him in his room and make him sleep, then go tuck England in. That's all you have to do.” France replies, and hangs up his phone. He smiles and pulls the phone line out. He's sure the politicians don't need him now, or so he just says to himself, and promptly sits back on his Victorian style couch and flips through TV channels.
America, on the other hand, somewhat unsatisfied by such simple advice, wants to throw his phone across the room, had it not been for his lovely England pictures.
With a heavy scowl, he frowns, now assessing the situation; he is standing in the hallway with the front door open. England, or Britannia Angel– take your pick, has his legs wrapped around America's waist and arms around his neck, and busy snuggling into said neck.
Canada is off at the side, dazedly wobbles back and forth and mumbles mixes of French and English and... is that Spanish? Something is wrong.
“... Matty, c'mere.” America orders. Canada's head whips up and he walks over, tips back and forth like a teeter totter. He grabs Canada's arm, and his free arm secures itself under England (Oh America prays that the fabric of the toga is extremely smooth and he is not touching England's thighs instead.) so he won't fall, and begins to literally struggle to Canada's room, dragging his brother with him.
So he lunges at America; tackles him around his neck, and if it wasn't for America's massive strength, he's positive he would have fell. America just stands instead; frozen, doesn't know what to do. First off, England can't hug him! He's too scared for that, last time America checked.
Well, then again, it's been a while and England is drunk. Odd though, England is usually an unhappy sort of drunk. “... A-Arthur...?” America mutters out, and England wraps his arms around America's neck tighter and he finds it increasingly difficult to breath.
“Alfred...~” England's voice– his voice, his voice is slurring, but so cute and tempting and– “France, England is drunk! Help me, help me, help me, I'll show you my pictures of England being moe!” America finds himself on the phone with England burying his face against the crook of America's neck, and the iPhone is trembling in the American's hand.
France pauses; then he smiles. “... I understand, Amerique. There is something you must do.” He says smoothly, and chuckles at America fretting on the other end.
“I get it! Spit it out already!” America shouts, while England's hold on America is even tighter; oh Hell, he's got his legs jackknifed across his back; England isn't even touching the floor anymore.
“Canada is drunk, oui?” France asks, and America confirms it. He makes a note to thank whatever deity was out there for making Canada the type of drunk who just sits there in a daze.
“Put him in his room and make him sleep, then go tuck England in. That's all you have to do.” France replies, and hangs up his phone. He smiles and pulls the phone line out. He's sure the politicians don't need him now, or so he just says to himself, and promptly sits back on his Victorian style couch and flips through TV channels.
America, on the other hand, somewhat unsatisfied by such simple advice, wants to throw his phone across the room, had it not been for his lovely England pictures.
With a heavy scowl, he frowns, now assessing the situation; he is standing in the hallway with the front door open. England, or Britannia Angel– take your pick, has his legs wrapped around America's waist and arms around his neck, and busy snuggling into said neck.
Canada is off at the side, dazedly wobbles back and forth and mumbles mixes of French and English and... is that Spanish? Something is wrong.
“... Matty, c'mere.” America orders. Canada's head whips up and he walks over, tips back and forth like a teeter totter. He grabs Canada's arm, and his free arm secures itself under England (Oh America prays that the fabric of the toga is extremely smooth and he is not touching England's thighs instead.) so he won't fall, and begins to literally struggle to Canada's room, dragging his brother with him.
OH. He is so touching Arthur's thighs. NOT THE DRES-TOGA. I MEAN TOGA. Also. Oh England. Why so adorably irresistable and cute? XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ARTHUR~ WHY ARE YOU SO MOE?!?! WHY!?!
*dies from the cuteness*
*dies from the cuteness*
Matty, when you're sober, I am going to beat you for this. America grumbles in his mind, cursing how the personifications of a nation always have big houses because fuck, Canada is barely moving on his own and America's doing all the work.
“Matty, bed, now. If you don't go in bed, I will have... I'll have Daddy England teach you a lesson!” America hopes that Canada is drunk enough to believe in childhood threats, and lucky he is. Canada screams like a shrill girl, almost like when America sees ghosts, and runs to his bed, jumps on it like it's his life line; probably seems as such to him though.
America leaves and slams the door shut; “One done, one more to go.” He says to himself, reassures himself it'll be okay, because now that Canada is not hogging his attention, he remembers more and more of England, his lack of proper clothes, and that he is touching his soft legs and, oh God, his pants are straining and–
“Ha ha ha ha! We're at England's room! Ha ha!” America laughs to himself, almost hysterically, and walks in. He places England on the bed, almost asleep, and smiles; “G-Good night, Arthur. Go to sleep, okay?” America says, and practically rushes to run out.
Sort of sucks, you know? Because England catches him, grabs his bomber jacket hard and America falls backwards when England unexpectedly yanks it off, because the floor is smooth cherry wood and his socks just don't listen to him and let him fall.
His back hits the ground with a thud, and when he opens his eyes after the initial shock wears off, England is on top of him.
“Alfred...~” England's fingers run across his t-shirt, in a circular motion and he smirks, a little mischievous. America lays, doesn't reply, but– aw fuck, what can he do with England on top of him and he's able to see every detail of skin that isn't covered by the white cloth and that's in his view.
His hard-on is straining his pants. He's half tempted to throw England off and touch himself, but... but England might cry, might beat him, he honestly doesn't know how England will react anymore.
“No running allowed. ♥ ” England says, and smirks wider. America, oh God, oh God, I need to fucking run now, don't I? he thinks, and lifts himself up to escape, but, but, but.
England... kisses him. America pulls away.
He's kissed again. He pulls away. Again.
And then he can't really pull away when his head against the floor and there's another tongue in his mouth.
There's not exactly much to do once America forgets about his whole, “I won't do anything to England to make him sad right now. I have to help him.” when he's finding himself completely enamored by England tempting him.
That and his hand just sneaks up to England's thigh, and runs his hands softly over the pale skin, softer and less bruised after all the days of peace and healing, and it goes straight into England's dress-like toga, and now– shit, America knows he should stop, but when they pull away, he finds himself propped up on one elbow, but it gets worse (“Am I being punished for doing something good, like helping England?” America asks himself mentally).
England's clothing lifted up because his hand somehow reached England's hips and England's toga against his wrist, while the other side of the clothing leans to the furthest it can go while America's wrist obstructs its ability to fall onto Arthur's legs... thus showing everything it can't cover up.
Like his underwear.
Which is not his usual boxers.
America's determination falls as fast as he kisses England again, tongue and all.
[A/N: ♥ (: ]
“Matty, bed, now. If you don't go in bed, I will have... I'll have Daddy England teach you a lesson!” America hopes that Canada is drunk enough to believe in childhood threats, and lucky he is. Canada screams like a shrill girl, almost like when America sees ghosts, and runs to his bed, jumps on it like it's his life line; probably seems as such to him though.
America leaves and slams the door shut; “One done, one more to go.” He says to himself, reassures himself it'll be okay, because now that Canada is not hogging his attention, he remembers more and more of England, his lack of proper clothes, and that he is touching his soft legs and, oh God, his pants are straining and–
“Ha ha ha ha! We're at England's room! Ha ha!” America laughs to himself, almost hysterically, and walks in. He places England on the bed, almost asleep, and smiles; “G-Good night, Arthur. Go to sleep, okay?” America says, and practically rushes to run out.
Sort of sucks, you know? Because England catches him, grabs his bomber jacket hard and America falls backwards when England unexpectedly yanks it off, because the floor is smooth cherry wood and his socks just don't listen to him and let him fall.
His back hits the ground with a thud, and when he opens his eyes after the initial shock wears off, England is on top of him.
“Alfred...~” England's fingers run across his t-shirt, in a circular motion and he smirks, a little mischievous. America lays, doesn't reply, but– aw fuck, what can he do with England on top of him and he's able to see every detail of skin that isn't covered by the white cloth and that's in his view.
His hard-on is straining his pants. He's half tempted to throw England off and touch himself, but... but England might cry, might beat him, he honestly doesn't know how England will react anymore.
“No running allowed. ♥ ” England says, and smirks wider. America, oh God, oh God, I need to fucking run now, don't I? he thinks, and lifts himself up to escape, but, but, but.
England... kisses him. America pulls away.
He's kissed again. He pulls away. Again.
And then he can't really pull away when his head against the floor and there's another tongue in his mouth.
There's not exactly much to do once America forgets about his whole, “I won't do anything to England to make him sad right now. I have to help him.” when he's finding himself completely enamored by England tempting him.
That and his hand just sneaks up to England's thigh, and runs his hands softly over the pale skin, softer and less bruised after all the days of peace and healing, and it goes straight into England's dress-like toga, and now– shit, America knows he should stop, but when they pull away, he finds himself propped up on one elbow, but it gets worse (“Am I being punished for doing something good, like helping England?” America asks himself mentally).
England's clothing lifted up because his hand somehow reached England's hips and England's toga against his wrist, while the other side of the clothing leans to the furthest it can go while America's wrist obstructs its ability to fall onto Arthur's legs... thus showing everything it can't cover up.
Like his underwear.
Which is not his usual boxers.
America's determination falls as fast as he kisses England again, tongue and all.
[A/N: ♥ (: ]
...They're panties right? OR NOTHING AT ALL. OR REALLY SHORT-SHORTS. OR WHATEVER, I DON'T REALLY CARE BUT THEY SURELY MUST BE HOT. OH YES. YES THEY MUST. GO AMERICA GO! (And...please don't let this traumatise England Anon. PLEASE!) Also. lol at Canada's fear of Daddy!England. XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
hmmmmm.........very artistic and nobel of you Alfred to even try to resist such a cute England....buit you;r bound to fail AMERICA BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHA
AUTHOR ANON I'm extremely happy with this finally happy England and Alfred!!!!
AUTHOR ANON I'm extremely happy with this finally happy England and Alfred!!!!
Alfred, don't you realize you are completely powerless against a drunk and moe/seductive Arthur? Haha. You tried to resist, and FAILED! Lol. ♥
“No running allowed. ♥ ”
I love the heart you added in there! XD
Arthur's sexy thighs FTW. :]
reCAPTCHA: that battled
“No running allowed. ♥ ”
I love the heart you added in there! XD
Arthur's sexy thighs FTW. :]
reCAPTCHA: that battled
England leans deeper into the kiss, ignores America's hands roaming his thigh. America attempts to lean up higher, but feels his neck – straining, straining because he's got to keep himself held up. He pushes it off though, because... this, this is what he's been waiting for, before England lost himself.
He smiles into the kiss, and feels England smile back. He's not devouring him in that kiss, certainly not. It's gentle, soft, England loves it because he knows America would be just like that, just that enjoyable to kiss.
All because America knows. What kind of caretaker would he be – maybe lover, take it as you will – if he scares off his patient for the umpteenth time? Even America would wonder how much longer he could handle his job if he had to begin from scratch.
England pulls away first, to breath; a trail of saliva runs down the edge of his mouth, and America smiles. He starts to move himself to England isn't exactly straddling his hips. England moves himself off as well, finds himself sitting in front of America, and that American bends down, kisses the small mess at the corner of his mouth.
“It's fine if you want to breath. We're not in a rush.” America whispers, and England decides to take his advice. His breath isn't exactly heavy, but he's still obviously a little in need of oxygen. America aimlessly runs his hand through England's hair while he waits, and some reason, England leans closer, loves the notion of America hands on him, it's warm and tender and just like America.
“Alfred...” England breaths, finally catching his breath; he looks up at America who looks back – is that conflict in his eyes?
“... Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, completely serious. England nods, but America doesn't look any more convinced then he was before. His hand touches England's cheek, caresses it with his thumb, feels the warmth and when he thinks about it, it's not very different from when he was a child.
Besides the warmth, there is that flush in his face; deep pink, bordering red. America can't tell what brought it on; their kiss or the alcohol, though he has a suspicion it is a mix of both, mostly alcohol.
Oh how he wants to so badly, see England on his back and lay sweet kisses on his neck, nipple, everything, claim it as his, and promise he'll protect him forever, because he's a hero, right?
But some part of him still can't, holds back his lust and love and everything that wants England, because after being with England for so long, he's so scared; the screams, England's screams, they play in his mind and America, America wants to save him, but he doesn't know how long his determination will last. He doesn't know how long it is until he's too tired to take care of England. Because... he's drunk, he's not thinking, he'll wake up sober, naked, he'll scream and run and –
England's hand places itself over America's, not exactly small, but thinner compared to America's. He can feel the American's hand pressed against his cheek.
“... I'm sorry Arthur, I... I can't do this. I'm so – ” America begins; can't, just can't, it's not right, what if he really does hurt England? He told himself when he first took England, he's number 1 priority, think of him, just ignore you lust: be a hero, just for him.
England's lips are against his, soft, his hand now on America's shoulders, light and tender, and he pulls away; America stares in a mix of awe and curiosity.
“If you only love me in my dreams, then let me sleep forever.” England says.
[A/N: :D The quote England uses is from this site (http://www.1-love-quotes.com/love_quotes_top_100.htm)! There were so many cute quotes I wanted to use, and the hero one really fit America and England, but I wanted something short and sweet and that one just really came to me, thought it'd make good sense, so I hope you guys don't mind, rofl;;;.]
He smiles into the kiss, and feels England smile back. He's not devouring him in that kiss, certainly not. It's gentle, soft, England loves it because he knows America would be just like that, just that enjoyable to kiss.
All because America knows. What kind of caretaker would he be – maybe lover, take it as you will – if he scares off his patient for the umpteenth time? Even America would wonder how much longer he could handle his job if he had to begin from scratch.
England pulls away first, to breath; a trail of saliva runs down the edge of his mouth, and America smiles. He starts to move himself to England isn't exactly straddling his hips. England moves himself off as well, finds himself sitting in front of America, and that American bends down, kisses the small mess at the corner of his mouth.
“It's fine if you want to breath. We're not in a rush.” America whispers, and England decides to take his advice. His breath isn't exactly heavy, but he's still obviously a little in need of oxygen. America aimlessly runs his hand through England's hair while he waits, and some reason, England leans closer, loves the notion of America hands on him, it's warm and tender and just like America.
“Alfred...” England breaths, finally catching his breath; he looks up at America who looks back – is that conflict in his eyes?
“... Are you sure you want to do this?” He asks, completely serious. England nods, but America doesn't look any more convinced then he was before. His hand touches England's cheek, caresses it with his thumb, feels the warmth and when he thinks about it, it's not very different from when he was a child.
Besides the warmth, there is that flush in his face; deep pink, bordering red. America can't tell what brought it on; their kiss or the alcohol, though he has a suspicion it is a mix of both, mostly alcohol.
Oh how he wants to so badly, see England on his back and lay sweet kisses on his neck, nipple, everything, claim it as his, and promise he'll protect him forever, because he's a hero, right?
But some part of him still can't, holds back his lust and love and everything that wants England, because after being with England for so long, he's so scared; the screams, England's screams, they play in his mind and America, America wants to save him, but he doesn't know how long his determination will last. He doesn't know how long it is until he's too tired to take care of England. Because... he's drunk, he's not thinking, he'll wake up sober, naked, he'll scream and run and –
England's hand places itself over America's, not exactly small, but thinner compared to America's. He can feel the American's hand pressed against his cheek.
“... I'm sorry Arthur, I... I can't do this. I'm so – ” America begins; can't, just can't, it's not right, what if he really does hurt England? He told himself when he first took England, he's number 1 priority, think of him, just ignore you lust: be a hero, just for him.
England's lips are against his, soft, his hand now on America's shoulders, light and tender, and he pulls away; America stares in a mix of awe and curiosity.
“If you only love me in my dreams, then let me sleep forever.” England says.
[A/N: :D The quote England uses is from this site (http://www.1-love-quotes.com/love_quotes_top_100.htm)! There were so many cute quotes I wanted to use, and the hero one really fit America and England, but I wanted something short and sweet and that one just really came to me, thought it'd make good sense, so I hope you guys don't mind, rofl;;;.]
*chokes on her water* An update!
Alfred is so sweet. ♥♥♥♥♥
And that quote? It was so cute. I makes me want to hug Arthur again! ;^;
Alfred is so sweet. ♥♥♥♥♥
And that quote? It was so cute. I makes me want to hug Arthur again! ;^;
;A; Don't choke! /pats back
Thank you! lmao I feel like I made him such a sweetheart in this story that it's sort of OOC, but then I suppose he needs to be nice. /bricked
Thank you again! ♥ I was worried it sounded out of place. I'm sure he'll be huggable soon! /winkwink
Thank you! lmao I feel like I made him such a sweetheart in this story that it's sort of OOC, but then I suppose he needs to be nice. /bricked
Thank you again! ♥ I was worried it sounded out of place. I'm sure he'll be huggable soon! /winkwink
OH God, I hope things will be all right.
Oh God. I actually squealed so loudly when I saw this update, my neighbours wondered what was happening... XD Good job anon.
AND DON'T HOLD BACK ALFRED. PLEASE. FOR OUR SAKE? For the fangirls? XD Also. You're right. That hero quote suits them so perfectly...XD
AND DON'T HOLD BACK ALFRED. PLEASE. FOR OUR SAKE? For the fangirls? XD Also. You're right. That hero quote suits them so perfectly...XD
Gah. I forgot!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
America pauses, and bends down – kisses England, short and chaste, and pulls away. He smiles, full of wamrth and life and it's a smile England loves, can remember seeing it so many times, dating back to when he first spent his days living with America.
Their lips meet again and again, gentle and comforting, and they kiss like that again, but do not part this time; England's hands rummage through America's hair, and when he thinks about it, he's never touched the America's hair. It's soft, thin and his fingers move around it wish ease.
He leans closer, savors the kiss because it makes him feel so good, so safe and it reassures him, as if nothing bad will happen to him again.
America's hands wander England's back, mixed with the white cloth scarcely covering him and England parts away; America smiles again, but it's a little devilish this time.
“So, you've been dreaming about me, huh?” America smirks when he says this, and England, with a sudden jolt, remembers what he told America, and... oh for the love of – he did not just humiliate himself like that.
“W-What?! I-I was just saying that to fit the mood...!” England sputters out, but America lovingly brushes some hair away from his forehead and kisses it, and pulls England to his chest.
“I'll take that as a yes,” America says, brushes England's hair with his hands and England doesn't move, lets America hold him close and his eyes shut as he leaves America to do as he pleases.
“How do I act in your dreams? Am I still the hero?” America laughs a little when he sees this, and England can feel the vibrations of his laughter. England doesn't reply to America's question, and turns more red, contrasting his green eyes – honestly, America was very heroic in his dreams, just like he was in reality.
“Warm and kind,” England finally mumbles out; some part of him scolds himself, how embarrassing! Yet another part longs to tell America everything, even the, um, more inappropriate dreams.
America smiles and presses his lips against England's hair, and England leans into his embrace and wraps his bare arms around America; they remain like that for a while, England and America are both unaware how long, nor do they care.
“I love you too.” America whispers into England's hair, muffled, and England feels a small smirk tug at his lips; “I didn't quite catch that, Alfred.” He can feel the American grow warmer and snuggles closer to the warmth, buries his face against America's chest.
England opens his mouth to complain when America's arms are no longer around him and on his shoulder, pulls him away and ruins the sweet moment.
Instead, America kisses him, and England doesn't exactly complain and leans into the kiss, feeling America roam his mouth like an undiscovered land and finds him enjoying it. He grabs the younger nation's jacket, leans in even closer, wants more of America, wants America to just take him away.
America parts away; “I love you too.” His voice is clear, firm, proud and unrelenting; “Always have you know, even before Virginia.” He says, and England smirks. He feels the alcohol pulling his head around again now...
“So how long have you wanted this?” England asks, and stands on his knees. He loves watching America gape when he, slowly, so very slowly, lifts up his skirt, almost where his underwear is, and drops it again. America is red, so red, he looks like he was drinking too.
England snorts, giggles, he doesn't really know anymore; things are getting more exciting, and he finds himself even more drunk then earlier; shouldn't he be getting more sober? England ignores the thought.
“... You... sure?” America asks slowly, and England's smile falls, and he nods. America looks down on the wooden floor, before looking back up at England.
“If you're sure. Come on.” America stands and takes England's hand, pulls him up and guides him to the bed. England wobbles a bit, losing a little of his balance because of the wine and of course, a bit of drowsiness, before he sits.
“... Just... Just lay there. I'll go find the lubricant and stuff.” America says slowly, kisses his forehead and leaves the room, and England sits with the ticking of the clock counting how long America takes.
Their lips meet again and again, gentle and comforting, and they kiss like that again, but do not part this time; England's hands rummage through America's hair, and when he thinks about it, he's never touched the America's hair. It's soft, thin and his fingers move around it wish ease.
He leans closer, savors the kiss because it makes him feel so good, so safe and it reassures him, as if nothing bad will happen to him again.
America's hands wander England's back, mixed with the white cloth scarcely covering him and England parts away; America smiles again, but it's a little devilish this time.
“So, you've been dreaming about me, huh?” America smirks when he says this, and England, with a sudden jolt, remembers what he told America, and... oh for the love of – he did not just humiliate himself like that.
“W-What?! I-I was just saying that to fit the mood...!” England sputters out, but America lovingly brushes some hair away from his forehead and kisses it, and pulls England to his chest.
“I'll take that as a yes,” America says, brushes England's hair with his hands and England doesn't move, lets America hold him close and his eyes shut as he leaves America to do as he pleases.
“How do I act in your dreams? Am I still the hero?” America laughs a little when he sees this, and England can feel the vibrations of his laughter. England doesn't reply to America's question, and turns more red, contrasting his green eyes – honestly, America was very heroic in his dreams, just like he was in reality.
“Warm and kind,” England finally mumbles out; some part of him scolds himself, how embarrassing! Yet another part longs to tell America everything, even the, um, more inappropriate dreams.
America smiles and presses his lips against England's hair, and England leans into his embrace and wraps his bare arms around America; they remain like that for a while, England and America are both unaware how long, nor do they care.
“I love you too.” America whispers into England's hair, muffled, and England feels a small smirk tug at his lips; “I didn't quite catch that, Alfred.” He can feel the American grow warmer and snuggles closer to the warmth, buries his face against America's chest.
England opens his mouth to complain when America's arms are no longer around him and on his shoulder, pulls him away and ruins the sweet moment.
Instead, America kisses him, and England doesn't exactly complain and leans into the kiss, feeling America roam his mouth like an undiscovered land and finds him enjoying it. He grabs the younger nation's jacket, leans in even closer, wants more of America, wants America to just take him away.
America parts away; “I love you too.” His voice is clear, firm, proud and unrelenting; “Always have you know, even before Virginia.” He says, and England smirks. He feels the alcohol pulling his head around again now...
“So how long have you wanted this?” England asks, and stands on his knees. He loves watching America gape when he, slowly, so very slowly, lifts up his skirt, almost where his underwear is, and drops it again. America is red, so red, he looks like he was drinking too.
England snorts, giggles, he doesn't really know anymore; things are getting more exciting, and he finds himself even more drunk then earlier; shouldn't he be getting more sober? England ignores the thought.
“... You... sure?” America asks slowly, and England's smile falls, and he nods. America looks down on the wooden floor, before looking back up at England.
“If you're sure. Come on.” America stands and takes England's hand, pulls him up and guides him to the bed. England wobbles a bit, losing a little of his balance because of the wine and of course, a bit of drowsiness, before he sits.
“... Just... Just lay there. I'll go find the lubricant and stuff.” America says slowly, kisses his forehead and leaves the room, and England sits with the ticking of the clock counting how long America takes.
[A/N: Some reason, I feel very rofl wut to this part. idk wry.
Sorry if it came out funny. |: Writer-non only got 2 hours and 30 minutes of sleep last night.]
Sorry if it came out funny. |: Writer-non only got 2 hours and 30 minutes of sleep last night.]
...FUN HAPPY TIMES ARE FINALLY COMING! Unless Arthur falls asleep first...And Alfred seems so awkward at the end and cute. XD
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Also. Poor Anon. Try and get some more sleep.
ALSO. Yay! Update for fun happy times on my birthday! HAPPY.
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
Also. Poor Anon. Try and get some more sleep.
ALSO. Yay! Update for fun happy times on my birthday! HAPPY.
Oh yay! Sexy time is coming~! ♥
Yes, you should get some sleep! I know I don't like the feeling lack of sleep. That's why I take so many naps. xD
Yes, you should get some sleep! I know I don't like the feeling lack of sleep. That's why I take so many naps. xD
England sits on the bed, looks at the floor and swings his legs. He listens to the soft creaking outside the room, the sound of America rummaging the house for Canada's bottle of lubricant.
He doesn't know why he wants this. He only realized he loves America such a short time ago, and in his time with Canada, England slowly realized he longs to America, his warmth and touch, and a part of England finds it unnatural – it hasn't been that long. Of course, it doesn't occur to England that his old self still influences who he is slowly becoming now.
“I got it!” America calls out and sprints into the room. England's face heats up when he realizes now that they have the lubricant, they're set – he's going to really do it.
“... A-All right.” England nods and America sets the bottle on the nightstand. With a gulp, he walks towards England; “U-Um... You might want to lay down to make it easier...” America mutters out, and England jumps a little, red and nods again. He pulls his legs onto the bed and crawls to the center, and the bed dips when America follows him.
And in a swift motion, he is on the bed and his hands are pinned over his head, America's fingers intertwined with his as they kiss.
Their tongues roam on their own, and England feels himself pressed against the mattress deeper as America leans in more, and realizes how much America has wanted this – no, has wanted him.
America pulls away to breath and England attempts to catch his own breath, but America dives swiftly for his neck, nips and kisses at it, and England feels a small moan escape his lips, tries to hold it back, but he can't help it – especially when the American pulls that one strap of white from his shoulder, and starts kissing there too and England blushes harder, tries not to whimper or groan, but –
The younger nation's lips press against a nipple, kiss it tenderly and his tongue runs across it in a slow and rhythmic motion, and England decides he doesn't care anymore about whether he'll feel ashamed at the end, because, God, America is too good at this.
England feels a heat pool lower down, and the feeling is familiar, yet feels like something he hasn't known for such a long time.
All of a sudden, he groans in a small bit of distress when he feels America's lips are no longer on his nipples, but feels more satisfied when they're back on his lips, and a warm hand teases the nipple America didn't bother pleasing earlier.
England moans into the kiss, and America pulls away to breath again; “I love you,” he whispers out, and before England can reply, their lips touch again, and England's free hands wrap around America's neck and mix with his golden hair.
America pulls away again, and England frowns, moves his hands lower to America's cheeks to pull him back for a third kiss, but America shakes his head.
“England.” America says.
He doesn't answer. He knows.
“England.” America repeats it.
He knows, he knows, he knows he wants this, wants America to do it, wants the younger blond to fuck him and leave him, but – but, he keeps kissing America, does other things, prolongs it. He knows America doesn't want to wait anymore.
America gently kisses his lips and says, “It's okay. I'll be gentle – it won't hurt.” England looks at his eyes, honest and blue, as always. With a gulp, he nods. Who is he to say no? He wants this.
“Take off your pants.” America says, and sits up, “Actually, you might as well just take everything off since it's gonna be all sweaty near the end.” He notes, starts undressing himself and England follows suit.
A clatter on the ground; the cap of the lubricant hits the floor and it pours over America's hand.
He doesn't know why he wants this. He only realized he loves America such a short time ago, and in his time with Canada, England slowly realized he longs to America, his warmth and touch, and a part of England finds it unnatural – it hasn't been that long. Of course, it doesn't occur to England that his old self still influences who he is slowly becoming now.
“I got it!” America calls out and sprints into the room. England's face heats up when he realizes now that they have the lubricant, they're set – he's going to really do it.
“... A-All right.” England nods and America sets the bottle on the nightstand. With a gulp, he walks towards England; “U-Um... You might want to lay down to make it easier...” America mutters out, and England jumps a little, red and nods again. He pulls his legs onto the bed and crawls to the center, and the bed dips when America follows him.
And in a swift motion, he is on the bed and his hands are pinned over his head, America's fingers intertwined with his as they kiss.
Their tongues roam on their own, and England feels himself pressed against the mattress deeper as America leans in more, and realizes how much America has wanted this – no, has wanted him.
America pulls away to breath and England attempts to catch his own breath, but America dives swiftly for his neck, nips and kisses at it, and England feels a small moan escape his lips, tries to hold it back, but he can't help it – especially when the American pulls that one strap of white from his shoulder, and starts kissing there too and England blushes harder, tries not to whimper or groan, but –
The younger nation's lips press against a nipple, kiss it tenderly and his tongue runs across it in a slow and rhythmic motion, and England decides he doesn't care anymore about whether he'll feel ashamed at the end, because, God, America is too good at this.
England feels a heat pool lower down, and the feeling is familiar, yet feels like something he hasn't known for such a long time.
All of a sudden, he groans in a small bit of distress when he feels America's lips are no longer on his nipples, but feels more satisfied when they're back on his lips, and a warm hand teases the nipple America didn't bother pleasing earlier.
England moans into the kiss, and America pulls away to breath again; “I love you,” he whispers out, and before England can reply, their lips touch again, and England's free hands wrap around America's neck and mix with his golden hair.
America pulls away again, and England frowns, moves his hands lower to America's cheeks to pull him back for a third kiss, but America shakes his head.
“England.” America says.
He doesn't answer. He knows.
“England.” America repeats it.
He knows, he knows, he knows he wants this, wants America to do it, wants the younger blond to fuck him and leave him, but – but, he keeps kissing America, does other things, prolongs it. He knows America doesn't want to wait anymore.
America gently kisses his lips and says, “It's okay. I'll be gentle – it won't hurt.” England looks at his eyes, honest and blue, as always. With a gulp, he nods. Who is he to say no? He wants this.
“Take off your pants.” America says, and sits up, “Actually, you might as well just take everything off since it's gonna be all sweaty near the end.” He notes, starts undressing himself and England follows suit.
A clatter on the ground; the cap of the lubricant hits the floor and it pours over America's hand.
“A-Alfred!” England cries out, clutches America's shoulders like a lifeline when America stretches him, pulls out and pushes back in.
“Shh, it's okay, Arthur,” America kisses his chin and continues on, and England knows it's not the first time someone did this, but it's been so long and it feels a little foreign. Or maybe it feels different because for once, the person doing it feels loving, kind.
Another finger finds his entrance, and England feels another moan come about. America brushes a hair out of England's face and England looks at him and if he could turn more red, he certainly would have,
America's face matched a deep red like his, a thin layer of sweat on his face as he moves inside England still, and when America goes in deeper, England's eyes screw shut, and his bottom lips quivers as he tries not to say anything.
“It's okay,” America reassures him, his voice is tender and kind, “I won't make fun of you or anything.” England gulps, slowly nods, but on reflex, tries to hold back any sort of cry there is climbing up his throat.
He can't help it though, a moan and America's named mixed in it maybe. England can't tell anymore, but then, he doesn't really care. He groans in displeasure when America pulls out, and slowly opens his eyes to find America towering over him.
“... Arthur... Are you ready?” America asks, and England gulps; this is it, it's going to happen, and he trusts America, but somewhere in his heart, the memories replay.
The memories, several, they grab him, sometimes they're torturing him mercilessly in a group, or sometimes it's one person. Russia always came on his own, but sometimes his cronies would like to play in groups and they liked using random objects too.
He can remember at first, he'd curse, tell them to stop, and eventually, he'd just cry, cry because it hurts, but never order them around or ask for help; it didn't work.
It doesn't occur to England that he's crying as he recalls it, recalls the pain he thought he so distantly forgot when he began staying with America. A hand caresses his cheek and lips press against his eyelid; “Don't cry, Arthur, I'm here,” He says, “I'll protect you.” It feels like a promise, and England nods slowly, tries to stop his tears; a part of him feels pathetic.
“Sorry...” He mumbles out, and America shakes his head, wipes a tear away; “It's okay,” He says, and kisses him again, soft and short, and he's towering above England again.
“All right,” America takes a deep breath, “Are you ready, Arthur? I'm going to push in. I know I said it wouldn't hurt, but if it does and you want to stop, just tell me, okay?” England nods slowly, and a silent pause before America takes action.
“Shh, it's okay, Arthur,” America kisses his chin and continues on, and England knows it's not the first time someone did this, but it's been so long and it feels a little foreign. Or maybe it feels different because for once, the person doing it feels loving, kind.
Another finger finds his entrance, and England feels another moan come about. America brushes a hair out of England's face and England looks at him and if he could turn more red, he certainly would have,
America's face matched a deep red like his, a thin layer of sweat on his face as he moves inside England still, and when America goes in deeper, England's eyes screw shut, and his bottom lips quivers as he tries not to say anything.
“It's okay,” America reassures him, his voice is tender and kind, “I won't make fun of you or anything.” England gulps, slowly nods, but on reflex, tries to hold back any sort of cry there is climbing up his throat.
He can't help it though, a moan and America's named mixed in it maybe. England can't tell anymore, but then, he doesn't really care. He groans in displeasure when America pulls out, and slowly opens his eyes to find America towering over him.
“... Arthur... Are you ready?” America asks, and England gulps; this is it, it's going to happen, and he trusts America, but somewhere in his heart, the memories replay.
The memories, several, they grab him, sometimes they're torturing him mercilessly in a group, or sometimes it's one person. Russia always came on his own, but sometimes his cronies would like to play in groups and they liked using random objects too.
He can remember at first, he'd curse, tell them to stop, and eventually, he'd just cry, cry because it hurts, but never order them around or ask for help; it didn't work.
It doesn't occur to England that he's crying as he recalls it, recalls the pain he thought he so distantly forgot when he began staying with America. A hand caresses his cheek and lips press against his eyelid; “Don't cry, Arthur, I'm here,” He says, “I'll protect you.” It feels like a promise, and England nods slowly, tries to stop his tears; a part of him feels pathetic.
“Sorry...” He mumbles out, and America shakes his head, wipes a tear away; “It's okay,” He says, and kisses him again, soft and short, and he's towering above England again.
“All right,” America takes a deep breath, “Are you ready, Arthur? I'm going to push in. I know I said it wouldn't hurt, but if it does and you want to stop, just tell me, okay?” England nods slowly, and a silent pause before America takes action.
England's eyes shut and he cries out, can't help, but buck his hips forward, and America holds them down. His hands grip the sheets so tightly he would wonder if he's going to rip them if he wasn't so preoccupied with America.
One hand leaves his hip and moves to his cock; brushes against it and England shudders, and then a hand is around it, pumping it, and England feels another groan leave his lips.
His hand is slippery with England's precum, and tries to occupy himself by continuing to move his hand among England's cock and not suddenly push into England, not to hurt him.
England quivers, peers up at America's face; conflict. He gulps, he knows, he knows why – “Alfred, i-it's okay...” He repeats America's words, touches his face, and America's gaze meets his and he nods.
America pushes in, harder, deeper then before, still slow, not in a rush at all; England has to admit, fuck, it hurts, it hurts so much, but he wants it. He wants this, wants America to fuck him because he's not like Russia. Kind and strong, willing to stop England wants it. It reassures him, lets him know if he makes a mistake while doing this, he's still capable of calling it off.
Not that he plans to; he feels himself cry out more as America hits that specific spot again and again and his climax inches closer, just so close.
Even if it hurts, England loves it; the pain mixes with the pleasure and it feels amazing, good, he isn't sure he can even remember his name now, because all that matters right now is that America is busy fucking him, and even if it hurts, it gives him some sort of hope. A hope that tells him that there is a kindness out there for him, because even now, even if it hurts, America is gentle, tender, even when England tells him it's okay, he moves slow, patiently, waits for the pain to completely leave England's face before he goes further.
England loves it, it feels amazing; the warmth and love, yet surrounding him is the euphoria of it all. America brushes a hand on England's cheek, caresses it momentarily before pushing in deeper, harder.
“Alfred!” England cries out, the sheets twist in his grip and he can't help it; he comes, a white dresses between him and Alfred, coating his abs and England's stomach. He thinks he would bleed if he grabs the sheets tighter, because America continues moving, a rhythmic motion as if England had never come. It's a sweet and loving motion, careful and precise, and England loves it.
America climaxes not too long after, and pulls himself out. England pants, looks up at him and America brushes his bangs out of England's slick face, though they fell back into place anyway.
A gentle kiss is placed on his lips; “How are you feeling?” America asks, concerned. England scoots over a little and pats the spot beside him; America falls next to him and kisses his cheek.
“I...” England begins, takes a deep breath. He decides to say nothing, only leans forward and kisses America and feels himself in America's arms again with America's lips resting against England's head.
“You should sleep. You're probably tired.” America says, and England can feel him smile, satisfied with his answer. England gives a small, “Mm.” as an affirmative, and closes his eyes. Once he does, he realizes how exhausted he is, that he's still panting because he's so tired.
It is after America is sure England is asleep that he sleeps too.
One hand leaves his hip and moves to his cock; brushes against it and England shudders, and then a hand is around it, pumping it, and England feels another groan leave his lips.
His hand is slippery with England's precum, and tries to occupy himself by continuing to move his hand among England's cock and not suddenly push into England, not to hurt him.
England quivers, peers up at America's face; conflict. He gulps, he knows, he knows why – “Alfred, i-it's okay...” He repeats America's words, touches his face, and America's gaze meets his and he nods.
America pushes in, harder, deeper then before, still slow, not in a rush at all; England has to admit, fuck, it hurts, it hurts so much, but he wants it. He wants this, wants America to fuck him because he's not like Russia. Kind and strong, willing to stop England wants it. It reassures him, lets him know if he makes a mistake while doing this, he's still capable of calling it off.
Not that he plans to; he feels himself cry out more as America hits that specific spot again and again and his climax inches closer, just so close.
Even if it hurts, England loves it; the pain mixes with the pleasure and it feels amazing, good, he isn't sure he can even remember his name now, because all that matters right now is that America is busy fucking him, and even if it hurts, it gives him some sort of hope. A hope that tells him that there is a kindness out there for him, because even now, even if it hurts, America is gentle, tender, even when England tells him it's okay, he moves slow, patiently, waits for the pain to completely leave England's face before he goes further.
England loves it, it feels amazing; the warmth and love, yet surrounding him is the euphoria of it all. America brushes a hand on England's cheek, caresses it momentarily before pushing in deeper, harder.
“Alfred!” England cries out, the sheets twist in his grip and he can't help it; he comes, a white dresses between him and Alfred, coating his abs and England's stomach. He thinks he would bleed if he grabs the sheets tighter, because America continues moving, a rhythmic motion as if England had never come. It's a sweet and loving motion, careful and precise, and England loves it.
America climaxes not too long after, and pulls himself out. England pants, looks up at him and America brushes his bangs out of England's slick face, though they fell back into place anyway.
A gentle kiss is placed on his lips; “How are you feeling?” America asks, concerned. England scoots over a little and pats the spot beside him; America falls next to him and kisses his cheek.
“I...” England begins, takes a deep breath. He decides to say nothing, only leans forward and kisses America and feels himself in America's arms again with America's lips resting against England's head.
“You should sleep. You're probably tired.” America says, and England can feel him smile, satisfied with his answer. England gives a small, “Mm.” as an affirmative, and closes his eyes. Once he does, he realizes how exhausted he is, that he's still panting because he's so tired.
It is after America is sure England is asleep that he sleeps too.
[A/N: ... Sorry for the fail. |: I. I've written smut once before, and that was only like... sort of vague since I only wrote the end of it. This is my first time writing smut from start to end, ROFLMAO. I'M SORRY IF IT'S NOT SEXY, WRITING SMUT ISN'T MY FORTE.
Honestly, I planned to have England back out in the end because he's still scared, but rofl I fail and got too into the mood, so you have to suffer this. |: that and idk. I really love reading sweet and tender sex, it's just. so sweet. ROFL WAT.
I also wound up using, "Still Crazy After All These Years," as a small reference, so I hope the Writer-non doesn't mind! :D;;
You know, as far as I know, to me, I have a feeling I might make a record here for longest fill with this fill. rofl man. /doesn't have a life
Then again, I don't know what the longest fill here is. Anyone know? :/ Far as I know, the longest was 52 parts, but idk really.
Kay so. I only planned to write one part and sleep at 4 am, but now it's 4:41 am. Good night ROFLMAO;;; Thank God I took a 7 hour nap before this. B)]
Honestly, I planned to have England back out in the end because he's still scared, but rofl I fail and got too into the mood, so you have to suffer this. |: that and idk. I really love reading sweet and tender sex, it's just. so sweet. ROFL WAT.
I also wound up using, "Still Crazy After All These Years," as a small reference, so I hope the Writer-non doesn't mind! :D;;
You know, as far as I know, to me, I have a feeling I might make a record here for longest fill with this fill. rofl man. /doesn't have a life
Then again, I don't know what the longest fill here is. Anyone know? :/ Far as I know, the longest was 52 parts, but idk really.
Kay so. I only planned to write one part and sleep at 4 am, but now it's 4:41 am. Good night ROFLMAO;;; Thank God I took a 7 hour nap before this. B)]
I think the smut is okay author-non. And it's so sweet <333
I'm glad that Arthur decided to accept Alfred despite the unpleasant memories. And I wonder if Alfred will still remembered on his plan to hit Matthew in the morning, since it went quite smoothly because Matthew got Arthur drunk lol
As for the longest fill, I'm not so sure but Hetalia Emblem (Hetalia x Fire Emblem crossover fill that this anon is stalking) is at chapter 3 with 38 parts in total atm, each chapter -aside from the prologue, which is just 3 parts- contains 10+ parts. And the writer!anon said that it would get to chapter 7 or more, so it might get to 80+ parts in the end 8D;
reCAPTCHA: secreter however. WUT? XD;
I'm glad that Arthur decided to accept Alfred despite the unpleasant memories. And I wonder if Alfred will still remembered on his plan to hit Matthew in the morning, since it went quite smoothly because Matthew got Arthur drunk lol
As for the longest fill, I'm not so sure but Hetalia Emblem (Hetalia x Fire Emblem crossover fill that this anon is stalking) is at chapter 3 with 38 parts in total atm, each chapter -aside from the prologue, which is just 3 parts- contains 10+ parts. And the writer!anon said that it would get to chapter 7 or more, so it might get to 80+ parts in the end 8D;
reCAPTCHA: secreter however. WUT? XD;
This...is officially the best Birthday EVER. First I go to the circus...then I come home to this? YOU ROCK ANON!
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
(Also. I'm pretty sure the longest one I've read is 'Croatoa'. XD)
OH ANON, HOW I LOVE YOU SO!
(Also. I'm pretty sure the longest one I've read is 'Croatoa'. XD)
Thank you so much, author-non! This is so sweet and heart-warming. I check to see if a new part has come out regularly, I love it so much.
And the longest I've seen is Croatan, 73/75 parts. I can't remember the exact number. But I like this fill better <3
And the longest I've seen is Croatan, 73/75 parts. I can't remember the exact number. But I like this fill better <3
Aw, that was so sweet and fucking sexy. Haha. ♥ That was your first time writing smut all the way through? Wow, it didn't seem like it at all. 8D I thought it was perfect!
ReCaptcha: heart mobilize
ReCaptcha: heart mobilize
(screened comment)
Okay, here's my contribution anon!
It was hard to tell whether he really was in pain. Arthur was sure that he was - that blood was his, wasn’t it? – but it seemed as if his whole body had gone numb. It was strange; as if he were floating, and it was an unpleasant feeling. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, it was as if someone had stuffed his brain with cotton wool.
He lifted his head, testing the ropes around his wrists. They were still as tight as ever and his arms were aching from hours suspended above his head.
A door opened. Footsteps. Arthur tried to see through the haze of his own clouded mind and the blood dripping down this face. A group of blurry shadows approached him; there were four, maybe five of them. His vision kept splitting too often for him to be sure. The shadows approached. He could hear the sound of heavy boots against hollow wood. A rough hand cupped his chin, tilting his face upwards.
“What? He’s still conscious!” mocking laughter came above him.
“No way! His eyes might be open but look at him. He’s totally out of it!”
Their voices sounded so far away. As if they were coming from below the ocean...
“That’s no fun!”
“I like them submissive and cute!”
Where was he? What had he been doing again?
“Here, cut the ropes. Let’s have some fun.”
Before Arthur could gather any coherent thoughts, the rope keeping him hanging was slashed and he fell painfully to the ground, the hardness of the uneven wood biting into his knees. For a second, he remembered what pain felt like.
Though his wrists still bound, he managed to lower his arms at last and tried to curl into a ball until an invasive pair of hands pulled him away, forcing his legs apart. He wanted to scream but his voce had flown away at some point, the dark shadows grew a little more distinct. He could see faces, clothes, and cruel smiles of the people leering down at him, staring down at him from where they stood, their shadows engulfing him.
The man who had wrenched open his legs leaned forward, whispering with delight; “So, can I go first?”
XX
Alfred was impatient. How long did it take that bastard Francis to find a simple location? He was working with Ludwig and Alfred’s own intelligence agency so it should not be so hard, right? He paced up and down the empty conference hall, trying to hold back from punching everything in sight. Damn it, where was that fucking place?
He thought the age of pirates was long gone; something left to be told in the stories of Arthur’s delinquent days. Apparently, he had been wrong. Apparently, in this day and age, pirates had armed security and guns.
By the time the door finally opened, he had been at the point of smashing a chair through the meeting board. Ludwig entered, mopping his brow, he looked exhausted but Alfred had no time to offer his sympathies.
“Where is he?”
XX
It was hard to tell whether he really was in pain. Arthur was sure that he was - that blood was his, wasn’t it? – but it seemed as if his whole body had gone numb. It was strange; as if he were floating, and it was an unpleasant feeling. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, it was as if someone had stuffed his brain with cotton wool.
He lifted his head, testing the ropes around his wrists. They were still as tight as ever and his arms were aching from hours suspended above his head.
A door opened. Footsteps. Arthur tried to see through the haze of his own clouded mind and the blood dripping down this face. A group of blurry shadows approached him; there were four, maybe five of them. His vision kept splitting too often for him to be sure. The shadows approached. He could hear the sound of heavy boots against hollow wood. A rough hand cupped his chin, tilting his face upwards.
“What? He’s still conscious!” mocking laughter came above him.
“No way! His eyes might be open but look at him. He’s totally out of it!”
Their voices sounded so far away. As if they were coming from below the ocean...
“That’s no fun!”
“I like them submissive and cute!”
Where was he? What had he been doing again?
“Here, cut the ropes. Let’s have some fun.”
Before Arthur could gather any coherent thoughts, the rope keeping him hanging was slashed and he fell painfully to the ground, the hardness of the uneven wood biting into his knees. For a second, he remembered what pain felt like.
Though his wrists still bound, he managed to lower his arms at last and tried to curl into a ball until an invasive pair of hands pulled him away, forcing his legs apart. He wanted to scream but his voce had flown away at some point, the dark shadows grew a little more distinct. He could see faces, clothes, and cruel smiles of the people leering down at him, staring down at him from where they stood, their shadows engulfing him.
The man who had wrenched open his legs leaned forward, whispering with delight; “So, can I go first?”
XX
Alfred was impatient. How long did it take that bastard Francis to find a simple location? He was working with Ludwig and Alfred’s own intelligence agency so it should not be so hard, right? He paced up and down the empty conference hall, trying to hold back from punching everything in sight. Damn it, where was that fucking place?
He thought the age of pirates was long gone; something left to be told in the stories of Arthur’s delinquent days. Apparently, he had been wrong. Apparently, in this day and age, pirates had armed security and guns.
By the time the door finally opened, he had been at the point of smashing a chair through the meeting board. Ludwig entered, mopping his brow, he looked exhausted but Alfred had no time to offer his sympathies.
“Where is he?”
XX
Those filthy hands were probably leaving dirt marks on his already bloody body as they passed him around with less care than if he were a piece of meat. He had no idea where his clothes went; they were probably in shreds by now, but he was at that moment only half-aware of his nakedness. Half of his mind had deserted him long ago and the rest of it was threatening to go as well.
The next man in the circle took Arthur’s limp body, sucking his neck hard enough to leave a mark.
“There, I claimed Coventry!” he laughed harshly and lowered his pants, slamming into Arthur’s body with vicious force. “How does it feel to be fucked by a human?”
“Idiot. He can’t hear you.”
They were wrong there. Arthur could hear them. Barely.
“Oh fuck yeah...” the man hissed, riding him towards a climax.
There was no point to the rope around his wrists, Arthur thought. He could not move even if he wanted to. All the while he could feel them entering him, shoving hardened cocks, the necks of wine bottles, the tips of guns, and all manner of things up him, fucking him over and passing him to the next person for their sick games. He felt engorged cocks thrust themselves into his mouth and white cum mix with the red blood on his stomach like some cruel mockery of his flag.
While they positioned him like a doll to be fucked over tables, against the walls, on the hard and dirty floor, he lay limp and lifeless, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.
XX
It was nothing more than a filthy, run-down manor house, which had been out of use of years. Alfred practically ran for the front door, ignoring Francis’ cries of ‘Wait, you stupid idiot!’ and Kiku’s attempts to hold him back.
As if they had time for a strategy! As if they had the luxury to sit around drawing maps or the area and dividing into task forces! He was a hero and a hero did not wait in the face of danger! Besides, it was Arthur. Arthur needed him.
XX
GLEEEEEEEEEEEE! Two fills for this?! And two excellent fills at that! Oh anon! How you make my heart ache with sorrow for poor Arthur and oh, I felt so horrible reading the rape scene and Alfred, such an impulsive darling hero... My God, this is wonderful so far... Please, do continue!
Yay for another person writing this! =D Not OP, but loving you none the less~ <3
Anon not really good at commenting.but this anon totally wants moarrr
I love this so far! I'm intrigued by the notion of a nation being held captive and brutalized by humans. Eagerly (and patiently) awaiting more.
Yay another fill... god it's so depressing. D8 Poor Arthur. OTL
Alfred, hurry and save Arthur. x__x
Can't wait for the next part!
Alfred, hurry and save Arthur. x__x
Can't wait for the next part!
It was nothing more than a filthy, run-down manor house, which had been out of use of years. Alfred practically ran for the front door, ignoring Francis’ cries of ‘Wait, you stupid idiot!’ and Kiku’s attempts to hold him back.
As if they had time for a strategy! As if they had the luxury to sit around drawing maps or the area and dividing into task forces! He was a hero and a hero did not wait in the face of danger! Besides, it was Arthur. Arthur needed him.
XX
“What’s going on?”
Arthur felt a little of his awareness come back when the person, who had previous been rather enthusiastically forcing his cock up him, suddenly drew out. He heard incoherent shouts and the sound of footsteps. What was going on?
Whatever. He had no more care. The numbness had worn off and his whole body was now aching. Whatever. He sighed. Whatever. He just wanted to sleep.
XX
They broke in to the manor house rather successfully. Despite the fact that Alfred had tripped security in his mad dash for the front door, despite the fact that Francis could not aim a gun to save his life, they had already captured most of its occupants and were swiftly making their way to the back of the manor.
Ludwig emerged from the right wing, wiping the dust off of his gloved hands. “That’s all of them I think,” he sighed.
“Then Arthur is - ”
“Don’t jump the gun, mon ami, he will be here somewhere,” Francis laid a hand on his shoulder.
Alfred batted him away. All this wasted time was making him irritable. He wanted to beat the crap out of these so called pirates – he wanted to snort at that title. He remembered the stories Francis told hm of Arthur’s days on the high seas. They were nothing like that. – but the urge to find Arthur first was quickly overriding every sense in his body.
Without waiting, he turned on his heel and ran through the manor.
“Mon Dieu!” he heard Francis swear as he pursued him. Alfred raced further ahead, his eyes widening upon the sight of a set of crooked double doors.
Without slowing his pace, he barrelled into them, crying; “Arthur? Hey, Arthur? You in here?”
Francis’ footsteps came to a sudden halt behind him. Alfred was not concentrating on Francis though; he was more occupied with what lay in front of him.
Arthur lay naked, covered in blood and cum, piss, alcohol, dirt and all manner of disgusting things. It was a mess, it was horrifying, it – it –
“A – Arthur?” Words failed. Alfred soon found himself stepping forward tentatively, swallowing around the hard lump which had suddenly formed in his throat. At first, he was so afraid that the nation was dead that he dared not breathe. Those eyes were open but dull and unseeing and, as Alfred slowly bent down to pick him up, Arthur’s head rolled uselessly to a side.
Alfred’s entire body was shaking. Oh dear God, what had happened here? A trembling hand pushed back dirty, sweat-stained strands of sandy hair. Arthur’s blood seeped into his clothes but a wave of relief more palpable than Alfred imagined washed over him when he realised his heart was slowly but surely beating in his chest.
However, as soon as relief came, it was replaced by a crashing tide of anger. He was going to fucking kill those men! Who cared what his boss said? He’d kick Ludwig in the nuts if he tried to stop him too! He was going to rip apart their stupid limbs and feed their dicks to the dogs!
His grip on Arthur tightened. Francis said nothing when he carried him out of the room with him, his face striking an oddly solemn picture. He did not attempt to stop the American. Maybe he had enough sense to wait for the storm to calm.
XX
As if they had time for a strategy! As if they had the luxury to sit around drawing maps or the area and dividing into task forces! He was a hero and a hero did not wait in the face of danger! Besides, it was Arthur. Arthur needed him.
XX
“What’s going on?”
Arthur felt a little of his awareness come back when the person, who had previous been rather enthusiastically forcing his cock up him, suddenly drew out. He heard incoherent shouts and the sound of footsteps. What was going on?
Whatever. He had no more care. The numbness had worn off and his whole body was now aching. Whatever. He sighed. Whatever. He just wanted to sleep.
XX
They broke in to the manor house rather successfully. Despite the fact that Alfred had tripped security in his mad dash for the front door, despite the fact that Francis could not aim a gun to save his life, they had already captured most of its occupants and were swiftly making their way to the back of the manor.
Ludwig emerged from the right wing, wiping the dust off of his gloved hands. “That’s all of them I think,” he sighed.
“Then Arthur is - ”
“Don’t jump the gun, mon ami, he will be here somewhere,” Francis laid a hand on his shoulder.
Alfred batted him away. All this wasted time was making him irritable. He wanted to beat the crap out of these so called pirates – he wanted to snort at that title. He remembered the stories Francis told hm of Arthur’s days on the high seas. They were nothing like that. – but the urge to find Arthur first was quickly overriding every sense in his body.
Without waiting, he turned on his heel and ran through the manor.
“Mon Dieu!” he heard Francis swear as he pursued him. Alfred raced further ahead, his eyes widening upon the sight of a set of crooked double doors.
Without slowing his pace, he barrelled into them, crying; “Arthur? Hey, Arthur? You in here?”
Francis’ footsteps came to a sudden halt behind him. Alfred was not concentrating on Francis though; he was more occupied with what lay in front of him.
Arthur lay naked, covered in blood and cum, piss, alcohol, dirt and all manner of disgusting things. It was a mess, it was horrifying, it – it –
“A – Arthur?” Words failed. Alfred soon found himself stepping forward tentatively, swallowing around the hard lump which had suddenly formed in his throat. At first, he was so afraid that the nation was dead that he dared not breathe. Those eyes were open but dull and unseeing and, as Alfred slowly bent down to pick him up, Arthur’s head rolled uselessly to a side.
Alfred’s entire body was shaking. Oh dear God, what had happened here? A trembling hand pushed back dirty, sweat-stained strands of sandy hair. Arthur’s blood seeped into his clothes but a wave of relief more palpable than Alfred imagined washed over him when he realised his heart was slowly but surely beating in his chest.
However, as soon as relief came, it was replaced by a crashing tide of anger. He was going to fucking kill those men! Who cared what his boss said? He’d kick Ludwig in the nuts if he tried to stop him too! He was going to rip apart their stupid limbs and feed their dicks to the dogs!
His grip on Arthur tightened. Francis said nothing when he carried him out of the room with him, his face striking an oddly solemn picture. He did not attempt to stop the American. Maybe he had enough sense to wait for the storm to calm.
XX
Yeeeeessss...I knew there was a reason I was obsessively refreshing this request. GLEE. Oh, angry!Alfred, how you make me so very happy. And poor, poor Arthur. (Plus, Francis is indeed a smart man...and quite possibly angry enough to just let Alfred go ahead with it...?) Oh, will Alfred be allowed his revenge? Because I'm kinda all for his plans. They sound perfectly reasonable to me...
What a shock it must have been to find Arthur in that state. I hope Alfred won't do anything stupid. D8
I smiled when I read the culprits were armed pirates. It goes so well with current events (although I'm not sure if a British ship was ever involved in the recent pirate attacks.) Everyone is so very in character. I love your Francis and his random French exclamations. And of course I'm rooting for Alfred and Arthur.
Oh arthur ;______;.more pleaseee author anon >o
XX
Monochrome.
That was what Alfred thought every time he looked at Arthur’s sleeping face. Arthur, who had been cleaned and clothed in white, lain silently between white sheets in a white room with white curtains and white tiled floors, was like a tentative sketch on an artist’s canvas. The sun made his hair shine gold – the only colour apart from Alfred himself in this depressingly white room. He wanted to see a little green too.
Francis had come and gone a few hours earlier, bringing lilies – also white, the idiot – for Arthur to fail to appreciate. Feliciano, accompanied by Ludwig, brought a fruit basket but realised that the only ones eating would be the guests and took it away, deflated. Alfred knew that Kiku was off somewhere making paper cranes, as if that would help anything. Only Alfred stayed the full three days since they had rescued Arthur, staying by his side while he slept.
This was going to kill him. He had never been a patient person and this wait was going to surely bring about his early death. He arranged the lilies, drew and closed the curtains, made laps around the room; anything to keep him occupied while he prayed and waited.
The door opened as he sat by Arthur’s bedside. Alfred looked up expectantly, meeting Ludwig’s grim expression.
“Have you calmed down now?” he asked sombrely.
Alfred did not reply. He met Ludwig eye for eye, matching gazes of equal solemnity meeting each other across the room.
Ludwig sighed and opened the door wider. “If you want you can come with me but please don’t do anything reckless.”
Wordlessly, Alfred rose and followed him out of the door, sparing one last glance behind him at Arthur’s prone figure.
Monochrome.
That was what Alfred thought every time he looked at Arthur’s sleeping face. Arthur, who had been cleaned and clothed in white, lain silently between white sheets in a white room with white curtains and white tiled floors, was like a tentative sketch on an artist’s canvas. The sun made his hair shine gold – the only colour apart from Alfred himself in this depressingly white room. He wanted to see a little green too.
Francis had come and gone a few hours earlier, bringing lilies – also white, the idiot – for Arthur to fail to appreciate. Feliciano, accompanied by Ludwig, brought a fruit basket but realised that the only ones eating would be the guests and took it away, deflated. Alfred knew that Kiku was off somewhere making paper cranes, as if that would help anything. Only Alfred stayed the full three days since they had rescued Arthur, staying by his side while he slept.
This was going to kill him. He had never been a patient person and this wait was going to surely bring about his early death. He arranged the lilies, drew and closed the curtains, made laps around the room; anything to keep him occupied while he prayed and waited.
The door opened as he sat by Arthur’s bedside. Alfred looked up expectantly, meeting Ludwig’s grim expression.
“Have you calmed down now?” he asked sombrely.
Alfred did not reply. He met Ludwig eye for eye, matching gazes of equal solemnity meeting each other across the room.
Ludwig sighed and opened the door wider. “If you want you can come with me but please don’t do anything reckless.”
Wordlessly, Alfred rose and followed him out of the door, sparing one last glance behind him at Arthur’s prone figure.
XX
The man Alfred could only assume was the leader of the ring of pirates they had captured sat tied to a chair, dripping wet and bruised. From the looks of things, they were feeding him only enough to keep him alive.
It was too soft, Alfred thought. There were bruises where there should have been cuts instead. There were not enough lines under the man’s eyes, not enough desperation, not enough suffering.
Ludwig took a seat on the opposite chair, a single table separating captor and captive. Alfred positioned himself behind Ludwig, clenching his fists.
“So, are you ready to talk now? Who told you about this?” he asked sternly.
The man laughed. “It was just an experiment. It’s not like you’re human!”
“Answer the question!” Ludwig barked.
“No, wait,” Alfred cut through. “What’s this? What’s he talking about?”
“Oh are you one of them too?” the man laughed before Ludwig could open his mouth t reply. “It was just an experiment. I heard that when a country goes through economic crisis or outbreaks of disease it affects you, so does that work the other way? For example, if I cut you, could I harm the country’s society by doing that? If I capture one of you, would that be the same as having captured the country? Could I control the country through one of you? I bet you’ve never tried it. I bet you don’t even know yourself. Don’t you want to - ”
“That’s enough!” Ludwig jumped to his feet, slamming his palms against the table, but the man continued, almost hysterical.
Alfred silently moved around the side of the table, closer to the ranting man.
“Hey! What happens if I fuck one of you? What happens when two of your kind fucks? Why don’t you try it out and tell me?”
Alfred’s fist buried itself against the side of the man’s face, sending both him and the chair he was tied to sprawling across the floor.
“Alfred!” Ludwig leapt forward, pulling him back before he did anymore harm to their captive.
“Y – You,” Alfred seethed. “You...just for that? Just for your stupid curiosity you went and did something like that?!” He made a wild rush for the man, ready to kick his guts in and smash his face like a pumpkin but Ludwig held fast, dragging him inch by inch away from the prisoner.
The man laughed. Despite the red mark on his cheek and the blood trickling down his face he laughed with the force of a hundred deranged hyenas. “Idiot. If what we think is true, wars won’t be over physical land anymore, it’ll be over who gets you!”
“Who – who gets us?!” Alfred raged. “You fucking son of a – We’re not spoils of war! We feel the same things you do! Just because you thought you could get power this way you - ”
“Alfred!” Ludwig yelled. “Alfred, calm down!”
“You! You did that to Arthur!?”
“Alfred!”
“You did all of that to him!?”
“Alfred, stop this!”
“You went and raped him!?”
“Alfred!”
Ludwig let go for just a second, spinning him around to face him he slapped a gloved hand straight across Alfred’s cheek. “Snap out of it!” he cried, breathing heavily.
Alfred stared at him in silence.
“Mein Gott, ich habe Kopfschmerz,” he muttered under his breath.
“S...Sorry,” Alfred muttered, refusing to look at the prisoner because he knew that would cause his anger to swell but also refusing to look at Ludwig out of guilt. He stared at the floor between his feet instead, mumbling excuses to leave the room and return to Arthur’s side.
Ludwig promised that he would report anything new to the others. He had a bad feeling about this. They both did.
XX
The man Alfred could only assume was the leader of the ring of pirates they had captured sat tied to a chair, dripping wet and bruised. From the looks of things, they were feeding him only enough to keep him alive.
It was too soft, Alfred thought. There were bruises where there should have been cuts instead. There were not enough lines under the man’s eyes, not enough desperation, not enough suffering.
Ludwig took a seat on the opposite chair, a single table separating captor and captive. Alfred positioned himself behind Ludwig, clenching his fists.
“So, are you ready to talk now? Who told you about this?” he asked sternly.
The man laughed. “It was just an experiment. It’s not like you’re human!”
“Answer the question!” Ludwig barked.
“No, wait,” Alfred cut through. “What’s this? What’s he talking about?”
“Oh are you one of them too?” the man laughed before Ludwig could open his mouth t reply. “It was just an experiment. I heard that when a country goes through economic crisis or outbreaks of disease it affects you, so does that work the other way? For example, if I cut you, could I harm the country’s society by doing that? If I capture one of you, would that be the same as having captured the country? Could I control the country through one of you? I bet you’ve never tried it. I bet you don’t even know yourself. Don’t you want to - ”
“That’s enough!” Ludwig jumped to his feet, slamming his palms against the table, but the man continued, almost hysterical.
Alfred silently moved around the side of the table, closer to the ranting man.
“Hey! What happens if I fuck one of you? What happens when two of your kind fucks? Why don’t you try it out and tell me?”
Alfred’s fist buried itself against the side of the man’s face, sending both him and the chair he was tied to sprawling across the floor.
“Alfred!” Ludwig leapt forward, pulling him back before he did anymore harm to their captive.
“Y – You,” Alfred seethed. “You...just for that? Just for your stupid curiosity you went and did something like that?!” He made a wild rush for the man, ready to kick his guts in and smash his face like a pumpkin but Ludwig held fast, dragging him inch by inch away from the prisoner.
The man laughed. Despite the red mark on his cheek and the blood trickling down his face he laughed with the force of a hundred deranged hyenas. “Idiot. If what we think is true, wars won’t be over physical land anymore, it’ll be over who gets you!”
“Who – who gets us?!” Alfred raged. “You fucking son of a – We’re not spoils of war! We feel the same things you do! Just because you thought you could get power this way you - ”
“Alfred!” Ludwig yelled. “Alfred, calm down!”
“You! You did that to Arthur!?”
“Alfred!”
“You did all of that to him!?”
“Alfred, stop this!”
“You went and raped him!?”
“Alfred!”
Ludwig let go for just a second, spinning him around to face him he slapped a gloved hand straight across Alfred’s cheek. “Snap out of it!” he cried, breathing heavily.
Alfred stared at him in silence.
“Mein Gott, ich habe Kopfschmerz,” he muttered under his breath.
“S...Sorry,” Alfred muttered, refusing to look at the prisoner because he knew that would cause his anger to swell but also refusing to look at Ludwig out of guilt. He stared at the floor between his feet instead, mumbling excuses to leave the room and return to Arthur’s side.
Ludwig promised that he would report anything new to the others. He had a bad feeling about this. They both did.
XX
UPDAAAAAATE! WOO! And such an excellent one at that and I was so not expecting those reasons for doing it but oh Lord, they kinda creep me out and I'm with Ludwig and Alfred, this is going to be bad. And...I really wanna hug Arthur. Again. And poor Alfred too. I wanna hug him too. DX Good job anon!
People are just so power hungry. :[ It makes me so angry!
Makes me wonder how they found out about the countries' identities...
Makes me wonder how they found out about the countries' identities...
I'm vacationing in the Middle East and the only access I have is through a lousy dial up connection that takes 2 minutes to bring up every page. But I had to bear the 8 minutes it takes to post this review just to say wow. This story is much better than I expected. The idea behind the criminal's reasons for hurting Arthur is so innovative I wonder why no other author (including the creator himself) has yet thought of it. I'll be checking this story regularly. It's already one of my favorites of the fandom.
................AUTHOR aNON IS TOO awESOME ;_;
the 2 fills for thsi request is so awesome it hruts me (in a good way ) tor ead them ;_;
the 2 fills for thsi request is so awesome it hruts me (in a good way ) tor ead them ;_;
OMG this is just AWESOME!! First the idea of what we could do if ever we found out abot country-tans (wars would in deed turn very personal and uglier and...) and it was an EXPERIMENT?!!
F5F5F5!!!!
F5F5F5!!!!
“As far as I can assess, they’re not certain about our identities. That man could only guess that Alfred and myself were nations but...” Ludwig trailed off, his hands clasped firmly together on top of the conference table.
Kiku and Francis sat opposite him, Feliciano on Ludwig’s right, leaning over the side with awe as he watched Kiku discuss grave matters while playing with paper.
“But somehow Arthur’s identity was leaked,” Kiku supplied, still fiddling with his origami cranes. He had amassed about three hundred so far and was working another. Feliciano made a vague ‘ooh!’ sound. He had offered to help but had given up after the first three looked more like a squashed hippopotamus.
“And we can’t be sure who else as well,” Ludwig added, eying the brightly coloured cranes.
“Do you think we have a rat?” Francis asked. “The only ones who know about us are our bosses and their closest advisors.”
“It’s a possibility,” he sighed. There were far too many possibilities and they were all making his head spin. “At the very least, we can assume that whoever it is won’t tell anyone except their own gang about this. You wouldn’t want anyone else going after the treasure you’ve discovered, but it would be best to prepare for the worst,” he warned them.
“That man...” Kiku murmured. “Although he seemed to be the head out of those we captured he doesn’t seem like the one pulling the strings.”
“Interrogation is proceeding...smoothly,” Ludwig replied stiffly. If by ‘smoothly’ he meant ‘nowhere.’
“Ve, ve! And when we find out who discovered us?” Feliciano asked.
Ludwig cleared his throat awkwardly. He hated giving harsh answers to him. “We will have to take...disciplinary measures.”
XX
Alfred sat alone watching Arthur sleep. Just how long did he plan to do that? It had already been three days – four if you counted the present day – and the more time passed the more it seemed as if he would stay in a permanent state of unconsciousness.
He waited, staring at the hypnotic whiteness of the wall and listening to the odd footsteps that passed. They had almost completely emptied his manor house of all other servants and maids and now the house seemed eerily quiet during the day.
Alfred was on the verge of falling asleep when he felt Arthur’s hand twitch. Jolted awake, he stared at it in wonder. Had it just been his imagination? No...he was sure the hand had moved.
“Arthur?” he leaned forward, hardly daring to hope. “Hey, Arthur, can you hear me?”
The moment Arthur’s eyes snapped open he sat bolt upright, causing Alfred to jump back, crying out in surprise. Arthur’s hands flew over his mouth and he doubled over, making loud strangling sounds in his throat.
Panic rose and threatened to overwhelm him. Alfred looked around frantically for help but realised that he was the only other person in the room.
“H – Hang on a sec, I’ll go get a bucket or something!” he rushed to the toilet as fast as he could, grabbing the first serviceable item he could find – a small wash basin – and dashed back, hoping Arthur had managed to keep it in.
Bursting through the doors, he practically threw the basin onto Arthur’s lap, who immediately doubled over and threw up inside of it. Alfred watched with concern as he coughed and gasped for air.
“Here! Here, let it out,” he whispered soothingly, rubbing Arthur’s back with a hand as he made violent wretching noises. “There...that’s it, don’t hold back, get it all out of your system.”
Arthur gripped the sides of the basin to steady himself, vomiting nothing but bile from his empty stomach.
“Are you done?” Alfred asked when he had stopped. He lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. “Wait a minute and I’ll bring you some water,” he rushed back to the toilet, taking the basin with him.
Alfred emptied the contents of the basin down the toilet and flushed it, leaving the basin on top of the seat for Marianne, the only maid they had not kicked out of the manor house, to find and clean. He took a fresh basin from the bottom cabinet and filled a cup full with tap water, spilling a quarter of it in his hurry to return to the room.
Kiku and Francis sat opposite him, Feliciano on Ludwig’s right, leaning over the side with awe as he watched Kiku discuss grave matters while playing with paper.
“But somehow Arthur’s identity was leaked,” Kiku supplied, still fiddling with his origami cranes. He had amassed about three hundred so far and was working another. Feliciano made a vague ‘ooh!’ sound. He had offered to help but had given up after the first three looked more like a squashed hippopotamus.
“And we can’t be sure who else as well,” Ludwig added, eying the brightly coloured cranes.
“Do you think we have a rat?” Francis asked. “The only ones who know about us are our bosses and their closest advisors.”
“It’s a possibility,” he sighed. There were far too many possibilities and they were all making his head spin. “At the very least, we can assume that whoever it is won’t tell anyone except their own gang about this. You wouldn’t want anyone else going after the treasure you’ve discovered, but it would be best to prepare for the worst,” he warned them.
“That man...” Kiku murmured. “Although he seemed to be the head out of those we captured he doesn’t seem like the one pulling the strings.”
“Interrogation is proceeding...smoothly,” Ludwig replied stiffly. If by ‘smoothly’ he meant ‘nowhere.’
“Ve, ve! And when we find out who discovered us?” Feliciano asked.
Ludwig cleared his throat awkwardly. He hated giving harsh answers to him. “We will have to take...disciplinary measures.”
XX
Alfred sat alone watching Arthur sleep. Just how long did he plan to do that? It had already been three days – four if you counted the present day – and the more time passed the more it seemed as if he would stay in a permanent state of unconsciousness.
He waited, staring at the hypnotic whiteness of the wall and listening to the odd footsteps that passed. They had almost completely emptied his manor house of all other servants and maids and now the house seemed eerily quiet during the day.
Alfred was on the verge of falling asleep when he felt Arthur’s hand twitch. Jolted awake, he stared at it in wonder. Had it just been his imagination? No...he was sure the hand had moved.
“Arthur?” he leaned forward, hardly daring to hope. “Hey, Arthur, can you hear me?”
The moment Arthur’s eyes snapped open he sat bolt upright, causing Alfred to jump back, crying out in surprise. Arthur’s hands flew over his mouth and he doubled over, making loud strangling sounds in his throat.
Panic rose and threatened to overwhelm him. Alfred looked around frantically for help but realised that he was the only other person in the room.
“H – Hang on a sec, I’ll go get a bucket or something!” he rushed to the toilet as fast as he could, grabbing the first serviceable item he could find – a small wash basin – and dashed back, hoping Arthur had managed to keep it in.
Bursting through the doors, he practically threw the basin onto Arthur’s lap, who immediately doubled over and threw up inside of it. Alfred watched with concern as he coughed and gasped for air.
“Here! Here, let it out,” he whispered soothingly, rubbing Arthur’s back with a hand as he made violent wretching noises. “There...that’s it, don’t hold back, get it all out of your system.”
Arthur gripped the sides of the basin to steady himself, vomiting nothing but bile from his empty stomach.
“Are you done?” Alfred asked when he had stopped. He lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. “Wait a minute and I’ll bring you some water,” he rushed back to the toilet, taking the basin with him.
Alfred emptied the contents of the basin down the toilet and flushed it, leaving the basin on top of the seat for Marianne, the only maid they had not kicked out of the manor house, to find and clean. He took a fresh basin from the bottom cabinet and filled a cup full with tap water, spilling a quarter of it in his hurry to return to the room.
Arthur is awake! And now they all see just how messed up he is now...DX And Ludwig is a man with a plan...a very bad plan if he doesn't want to tell Feliciano... And Kiku's still folding cranes and this whole chapter is fantastic!
Arthur's awake! He's sick though. Get better! OTL
Arthur's awake!
The plot is very intriguing! Can't wait to see what you do with this, things could get very ugly....
The plot is very intriguing! Can't wait to see what you do with this, things could get very ugly....
“Here you go,” he handed Arthur the water, holding the clean basin underneath him. Arthur took three gulps, swishing the water around his mouth before spitting it out into the basin. He drank the rest.
A wave of relief flooded him. Alfred sighed, almost collapsing onto his seat. After that brief panic attack, everything seemed to be okay. Arthur looked weary and thin but there no longer seemed to be any immediate danger.
“How are you feeling? Do you want anything?” he asked, laying aside the basin.
At first, Arthur did not respond. His mouth opened to speak but no sound came out. His lips moved, testing his voice until he could finally produce a word. “I...”
“What’s wrong?” Alfred leaned forward, worried.
“I...” he struggled, swallowed, holding a hand close to his throat. “I’m...okay,” he rasped.
Had this been any other time, any other day, Alfred would have snorted; ‘You’re obviously not, idiot,’ but one glance down at Arthur’s open shirt, at the bandages wrapped around his chest and arms and the bruises far below made him a little more tactful.
“Ah...that’s a relief! You gave us a real scare back there and you’ve been asleep for three days! For a second I thought that - ” Alfred laughed so that he would not have to complete his sentence. “A – Anyway, how about some food? You think you can handle soup or something?” he asked, mentally kicking himself when he heard his voice tremble. He was too honest. He was terrible at feigning cheerfulness.
Arthur bowed his head, mumbling something almost inaudible.
“What was that?” Alfred leaned down.
“N...no. No soup,” he muttered wearily.
Alfred straightened, unsure of what to say next. A frown creased his lips. It was not like Arthur to be so subdued but, as he told himself, he had only just woken up. He was still injured and probably drowsy too. He would be okay after he had recovered a bit and, hopefully, gotten something into his stomach.
“You’re still tired. Get some rest. I’ll stay here if you want,” he whispered, placing a hand over Arthur’s he could not help but notice that he flinched as their skin came into contact, just a little bit, before relaxing.
Alfred was not sure if he should make a joke about it. He reached his other hand up to ruffle that sandy hair, hesitated, withdrew his hand, but then bit his lip and decided to take the plunge. Thankfully, when his fingers touched the first strands of hair, Arthur did not protest.
Yet, even so, Alfred could not help suppress the misgivings he felt inside of him.
XX
“You’re not doing it right, aru! Let me have him. Let’s see how long he lasts under Chinese water torture!”
“By all means. I’m getting tired of dealing with such a stubborn customer.”
Alfred paused to listen to voices echoing down the hall. Ever since Yao had flown in from China, it felt as if the pace of things had stepped up a little. They were still trying to trace the source of the possible information leak and the interrogation had spread to the lower ranks of pirates, although it soon became clear that they did not know much. Despite this though, their main suspect was remaining as stubbornly tight-lipped as usual.
Maybe it would be better if he just...
“Master Jones!”
Alfred turned around to see the maid rushing towards him, bearing a heavy tray laden with steaming soup and thick bread. “Marianne? Is something wrong?”
She stopped before him, gasping for breath. “I’m worried about our patient, sir. He hasn’t eaten anything since he woke up and he still refuses food. It’s like he’s trying to starve himself to death!”
Something inside of him wrapped its fingers around his hurt and squeezed.
“Give me that. I’ll deal with it,” he said softly, taking the tray from Marianne’s arms.
“Master Jones!” she halted him as he made his steady way towards Arthur’s room.“I’m worried that...well I suppose you’ll see for yourself.”
Though he did not like the way she shook her head, Alfred simply nodded sombrely, and continued his way towards the white room.
A wave of relief flooded him. Alfred sighed, almost collapsing onto his seat. After that brief panic attack, everything seemed to be okay. Arthur looked weary and thin but there no longer seemed to be any immediate danger.
“How are you feeling? Do you want anything?” he asked, laying aside the basin.
At first, Arthur did not respond. His mouth opened to speak but no sound came out. His lips moved, testing his voice until he could finally produce a word. “I...”
“What’s wrong?” Alfred leaned forward, worried.
“I...” he struggled, swallowed, holding a hand close to his throat. “I’m...okay,” he rasped.
Had this been any other time, any other day, Alfred would have snorted; ‘You’re obviously not, idiot,’ but one glance down at Arthur’s open shirt, at the bandages wrapped around his chest and arms and the bruises far below made him a little more tactful.
“Ah...that’s a relief! You gave us a real scare back there and you’ve been asleep for three days! For a second I thought that - ” Alfred laughed so that he would not have to complete his sentence. “A – Anyway, how about some food? You think you can handle soup or something?” he asked, mentally kicking himself when he heard his voice tremble. He was too honest. He was terrible at feigning cheerfulness.
Arthur bowed his head, mumbling something almost inaudible.
“What was that?” Alfred leaned down.
“N...no. No soup,” he muttered wearily.
Alfred straightened, unsure of what to say next. A frown creased his lips. It was not like Arthur to be so subdued but, as he told himself, he had only just woken up. He was still injured and probably drowsy too. He would be okay after he had recovered a bit and, hopefully, gotten something into his stomach.
“You’re still tired. Get some rest. I’ll stay here if you want,” he whispered, placing a hand over Arthur’s he could not help but notice that he flinched as their skin came into contact, just a little bit, before relaxing.
Alfred was not sure if he should make a joke about it. He reached his other hand up to ruffle that sandy hair, hesitated, withdrew his hand, but then bit his lip and decided to take the plunge. Thankfully, when his fingers touched the first strands of hair, Arthur did not protest.
Yet, even so, Alfred could not help suppress the misgivings he felt inside of him.
XX
“You’re not doing it right, aru! Let me have him. Let’s see how long he lasts under Chinese water torture!”
“By all means. I’m getting tired of dealing with such a stubborn customer.”
Alfred paused to listen to voices echoing down the hall. Ever since Yao had flown in from China, it felt as if the pace of things had stepped up a little. They were still trying to trace the source of the possible information leak and the interrogation had spread to the lower ranks of pirates, although it soon became clear that they did not know much. Despite this though, their main suspect was remaining as stubbornly tight-lipped as usual.
Maybe it would be better if he just...
“Master Jones!”
Alfred turned around to see the maid rushing towards him, bearing a heavy tray laden with steaming soup and thick bread. “Marianne? Is something wrong?”
She stopped before him, gasping for breath. “I’m worried about our patient, sir. He hasn’t eaten anything since he woke up and he still refuses food. It’s like he’s trying to starve himself to death!”
Something inside of him wrapped its fingers around his hurt and squeezed.
“Give me that. I’ll deal with it,” he said softly, taking the tray from Marianne’s arms.
“Master Jones!” she halted him as he made his steady way towards Arthur’s room.“I’m worried that...well I suppose you’ll see for yourself.”
Though he did not like the way she shook her head, Alfred simply nodded sombrely, and continued his way towards the white room.
“You’re not doing it right, aru! Let me have him. Let’s see how long he lasts under Chinese water torture!”
I smiled at Yao......lets see how long thay last >:)
WHAT's WRONG WITH ARTHUR!?!?!?!?!
F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5
I smiled at Yao......lets see how long thay last >:)
WHAT's WRONG WITH ARTHUR!?!?!?!?!
F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 F5
What's wrong with arthur????F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5..OTL
I love China! XD Water torture? XD
Oh, poor little baby Arthur, I have a very bad feeling about this...And...Yao...I think I love you...you and your chinese water torture...XD
Eat Mr. Kirkland!! It's good for your health~
Yao~ X3
Yao~ X3
Arthur, don't you know it's bad for you if you don't eat? D8
Lol, Yao is hilarious~ xD
Lol, Yao is hilarious~ xD
I agree with the other anons. More please!
I-I. I think I love you. Like, a LOT.
This is just wonderful. Seriously. Like, the pirates are sick and twisted, but... they have legitimate reasons behind their attack, which is something that's rare to see in ficdom. It actually makes sense, and if nations existed in our world like they do in theirs, I could seriously imagine something like that happening. Because, honestly, there are people out there who would definitely want to 'experiment' something like that. It's not PWP, it's GENIUS D:
All the characters are great so far (I smiled when Yao came in during this part), and their moods and reactions are quite realistic. I like how Arthur's messed up, but in a more subtle way... so far. I'm seriously very anxious for the next chapter, and great kudos to you for creating a trauma fic that's both realistic and enjoyable.
This is just wonderful. Seriously. Like, the pirates are sick and twisted, but... they have legitimate reasons behind their attack, which is something that's rare to see in ficdom. It actually makes sense, and if nations existed in our world like they do in theirs, I could seriously imagine something like that happening. Because, honestly, there are people out there who would definitely want to 'experiment' something like that. It's not PWP, it's GENIUS D:
All the characters are great so far (I smiled when Yao came in during this part), and their moods and reactions are quite realistic. I like how Arthur's messed up, but in a more subtle way... so far. I'm seriously very anxious for the next chapter, and great kudos to you for creating a trauma fic that's both realistic and enjoyable.
No one saw me de-anoning, right?
There was nothing unusual about the room at first. Arthur was now sitting up, his head turned to stare out of the window, which had been left partially open. There was nothing odd about the way he watched the curtains flutter, and yet Alfred found something painfully sad about it. He stepped inside, using his body to shut the door behind him and carefully approached the bed.
Arthur kept his gaze fixed on the curtains, not noticing, or perhaps not acknowledging, Alfred’s presence. What made him look like that? Like a bird in a cage that was too tight.
Alfred shook his head of his troubling thoughts. “Arthur!” he spoke loudly and clearly, announcing his presence. “What’s this about you not eating? Don’t try to tell me that you’re not hungry, you must be starving!”
He placed the tray on his bedside table, pushing it forward as if tempting a stray cat to eat.
Arthur spared a glance at the tray, then one at Alfred, his expression remaining thoroughly neutral.
“I’m not hungry,” he spoke in a monotone.
“Bullshit!” Alfred swore on impulse before correcting himself, keeping his anger in check. “Please eat something. You need to eat something,” he gently begged, hoping that his concern would be enough to compel him to eat. Arthur was thin, he realised as he surveyed him. He had always been a little on the skinny side but never skeletal, which would be the way he would be going if he decided to keep on refusing food.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. The first expression Alfred had seen passed over his face; it was one of disgust.
“That woman brought that to me, didn’t she? I don’t want it. Not that disgusting food a human prepared,” he said. For all his blatant displeasure, his tone still remained coldly monotonous.
“What?” Alfred stared. Surely he could not have heard that right.
“Get rid of her. I don’t want to see a human.”
Alfred smiled. This was a joke, right? There was no way a day would ever come when Arthur could speak so coldly. “Arthur what are you saying? You’re a nation, you know? Yeah, people can get really annoying but you – we – we live for our people.”
His smile dropped when Arthur looked at him. No, this was not a joke. He was completely serious.
Alfred swallowed, trying to recover his voice. “If I get Francis – If France makes you something, will you eat it?” he asked. Right now, the most important thing was to make sure that Arthur’s body at least was healthy. “I’ll go tell him to cook you something. Don’t worry, there won’t be any snails in it,” he laughed uneasily
His exit could not have been any quicker and Arthur did not seem to mourn the loss of his company. He simply leaned against the pillows propped up behind him and stared through the window again.
Once out of the room Alfred finally let his shaky composure fall to pieces. He ran a hand through his hand as he wondered just how this had happened. He was at an utter loss as to what was going on or what would happen now.
“Master Jones, was he okay? I’m so scared that he’ll end up starving!” He looked up to see Marianne’s worried face peeking at him.
Alfred bit his lip. Marianne had no notion of who they really were and even if she had known he could not bring himself to tell her the truth; that the person she had been caring for while unconscious despised her.
“...No, don’t worry, he was just being stubborn.”
Marianne sighed and smiled. “That’s a relief! Well then, Master, I have corridors to clean.”
“Thanks for all your hard work,” he whispered and waved at her as she went.
As soon as she was gone he punched the wall, ignoring the sharp sting of pain that raced down his knuckles. Even a hero needed to punch something every now and then lest they exploded with frustration. Therefore, Alfred buried his fist into the unsympathetic wall and sorry for the pieces of plaster Marianne would have to sweep from the floor.
There was nothing unusual about the room at first. Arthur was now sitting up, his head turned to stare out of the window, which had been left partially open. There was nothing odd about the way he watched the curtains flutter, and yet Alfred found something painfully sad about it. He stepped inside, using his body to shut the door behind him and carefully approached the bed.
Arthur kept his gaze fixed on the curtains, not noticing, or perhaps not acknowledging, Alfred’s presence. What made him look like that? Like a bird in a cage that was too tight.
Alfred shook his head of his troubling thoughts. “Arthur!” he spoke loudly and clearly, announcing his presence. “What’s this about you not eating? Don’t try to tell me that you’re not hungry, you must be starving!”
He placed the tray on his bedside table, pushing it forward as if tempting a stray cat to eat.
Arthur spared a glance at the tray, then one at Alfred, his expression remaining thoroughly neutral.
“I’m not hungry,” he spoke in a monotone.
“Bullshit!” Alfred swore on impulse before correcting himself, keeping his anger in check. “Please eat something. You need to eat something,” he gently begged, hoping that his concern would be enough to compel him to eat. Arthur was thin, he realised as he surveyed him. He had always been a little on the skinny side but never skeletal, which would be the way he would be going if he decided to keep on refusing food.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. The first expression Alfred had seen passed over his face; it was one of disgust.
“That woman brought that to me, didn’t she? I don’t want it. Not that disgusting food a human prepared,” he said. For all his blatant displeasure, his tone still remained coldly monotonous.
“What?” Alfred stared. Surely he could not have heard that right.
“Get rid of her. I don’t want to see a human.”
Alfred smiled. This was a joke, right? There was no way a day would ever come when Arthur could speak so coldly. “Arthur what are you saying? You’re a nation, you know? Yeah, people can get really annoying but you – we – we live for our people.”
His smile dropped when Arthur looked at him. No, this was not a joke. He was completely serious.
Alfred swallowed, trying to recover his voice. “If I get Francis – If France makes you something, will you eat it?” he asked. Right now, the most important thing was to make sure that Arthur’s body at least was healthy. “I’ll go tell him to cook you something. Don’t worry, there won’t be any snails in it,” he laughed uneasily
His exit could not have been any quicker and Arthur did not seem to mourn the loss of his company. He simply leaned against the pillows propped up behind him and stared through the window again.
Once out of the room Alfred finally let his shaky composure fall to pieces. He ran a hand through his hand as he wondered just how this had happened. He was at an utter loss as to what was going on or what would happen now.
“Master Jones, was he okay? I’m so scared that he’ll end up starving!” He looked up to see Marianne’s worried face peeking at him.
Alfred bit his lip. Marianne had no notion of who they really were and even if she had known he could not bring himself to tell her the truth; that the person she had been caring for while unconscious despised her.
“...No, don’t worry, he was just being stubborn.”
Marianne sighed and smiled. “That’s a relief! Well then, Master, I have corridors to clean.”
“Thanks for all your hard work,” he whispered and waved at her as she went.
As soon as she was gone he punched the wall, ignoring the sharp sting of pain that raced down his knuckles. Even a hero needed to punch something every now and then lest they exploded with frustration. Therefore, Alfred buried his fist into the unsympathetic wall and sorry for the pieces of plaster Marianne would have to sweep from the floor.
“Here, it’s not poisoned, see?” Alfred took a sip of the soup Francis had prepared to prove his point.
Arthur sat pointedly still, only moving when it was absolutely necessary and, even then, only at bare minimum. There was no longer any life in his eyes, as if everything had been drained out of him the day he woke up in this bleak world. His colour was gone, evaporating into the whiteness of the walls. There was nothing left.
“I’m not hungry,” he whispered.
Alfred tried not to look hurt. “Please eat it!” he scooped a spoonful of thick soup, pushing towards Arthur’s mouth the way one would coax a baby to eat.
Reluctantly, he took the spoon from Alfred’s grip, their fingers brushing ever so slightly, and swallowed a mouthful.
Alfred watched his slow, methodical way of eating. He did not savour the food, but ate it with the grim determination of a soldier given an order to march. If he was not there to watch over him, he doubted that Arthur would even bother to continue eating.
Marianne had been dismissed from caring for Arthur when he made it clear that he would not suffer her presence. It was painful to know that the only time he came alive was to hiss at her and flinch from her touch. Now Kiku took care of changes his bandages and bed sheets and Francis took over cooking duties. Alfred had to apologise profusely to her for it but she did not seem to mind.
Personally, Alfred would have done more for her but his thoughts were solely occupied with Arthur. His human-phobia extended to even his boss and countrymen. Who ever heard of a nation who hated his own people?
“S – So do you want to know what’s going on right now? I imagine it must be boring to be cooped up here all the time. Don’t worry, you’ll recover soon,” Alfred spoke for the sole purpose of filling up time and space with something, anything. Silence was too awful for him. He thought it might take away the rest of Arthur’s personality if it could.
“Well, Ludwig’s informed all the other countries and we’re all on the alert now. Security has been tightened. We think there might be a rat amongst the circle of people who know. We’re looking into that too,” he said.
Arthur made no sign of hearing him.
Alfred straightened on his chair, trying not to fidget too much. Arthur always told him off for fidgeting during world meetings but now he seemed not even to notice. “Ah, don’t worry. We’ll sort this out soon enough; I am a hero after all!” he forced a laugh. Yes, he was a hero so he could fix this. He could do anything. He could even save Arthur, right?
Again, there was no reply but Arthur turned his head to the window again as though bored of listening to Alfred’s words.
Alfred leaned forward, nudging Arthur’s arm a little. “What do you think we should do?” he smiled, hoping this would at least engage him in conversation. He was tired of talking to walls.
He was tired, but heroes were not supposed to get tired. They could do anything. They could save Arthur. That was what Alfred wanted to do. He wanted to lean forward and press his lips against Arthur’s ear and whisper; ‘I’ll save you.’
Only he did not. He could not move much whenever he was in the white room. If he did, he was afraid he would shatter something and then there really would be nothing left. Gathering his courage, he placed a hand on the bed and leaned forward, though not far enough to touch Arthur’s face.
“Wh – What should I do?” he whispered.
There was no reply.
Arthur sat pointedly still, only moving when it was absolutely necessary and, even then, only at bare minimum. There was no longer any life in his eyes, as if everything had been drained out of him the day he woke up in this bleak world. His colour was gone, evaporating into the whiteness of the walls. There was nothing left.
“I’m not hungry,” he whispered.
Alfred tried not to look hurt. “Please eat it!” he scooped a spoonful of thick soup, pushing towards Arthur’s mouth the way one would coax a baby to eat.
Reluctantly, he took the spoon from Alfred’s grip, their fingers brushing ever so slightly, and swallowed a mouthful.
Alfred watched his slow, methodical way of eating. He did not savour the food, but ate it with the grim determination of a soldier given an order to march. If he was not there to watch over him, he doubted that Arthur would even bother to continue eating.
Marianne had been dismissed from caring for Arthur when he made it clear that he would not suffer her presence. It was painful to know that the only time he came alive was to hiss at her and flinch from her touch. Now Kiku took care of changes his bandages and bed sheets and Francis took over cooking duties. Alfred had to apologise profusely to her for it but she did not seem to mind.
Personally, Alfred would have done more for her but his thoughts were solely occupied with Arthur. His human-phobia extended to even his boss and countrymen. Who ever heard of a nation who hated his own people?
“S – So do you want to know what’s going on right now? I imagine it must be boring to be cooped up here all the time. Don’t worry, you’ll recover soon,” Alfred spoke for the sole purpose of filling up time and space with something, anything. Silence was too awful for him. He thought it might take away the rest of Arthur’s personality if it could.
“Well, Ludwig’s informed all the other countries and we’re all on the alert now. Security has been tightened. We think there might be a rat amongst the circle of people who know. We’re looking into that too,” he said.
Arthur made no sign of hearing him.
Alfred straightened on his chair, trying not to fidget too much. Arthur always told him off for fidgeting during world meetings but now he seemed not even to notice. “Ah, don’t worry. We’ll sort this out soon enough; I am a hero after all!” he forced a laugh. Yes, he was a hero so he could fix this. He could do anything. He could even save Arthur, right?
Again, there was no reply but Arthur turned his head to the window again as though bored of listening to Alfred’s words.
Alfred leaned forward, nudging Arthur’s arm a little. “What do you think we should do?” he smiled, hoping this would at least engage him in conversation. He was tired of talking to walls.
He was tired, but heroes were not supposed to get tired. They could do anything. They could save Arthur. That was what Alfred wanted to do. He wanted to lean forward and press his lips against Arthur’s ear and whisper; ‘I’ll save you.’
Only he did not. He could not move much whenever he was in the white room. If he did, he was afraid he would shatter something and then there really would be nothing left. Gathering his courage, he placed a hand on the bed and leaned forward, though not far enough to touch Arthur’s face.
“Wh – What should I do?” he whispered.
There was no reply.
GFRBLE. UPDATE. YAY. Also. No, I don't think anyone saw you de-anon...not that I would mind knowing who you are so I could st-err...friend you... XD But, man oh man. I did not see this hatred of humans coming! NOT AT ALL. SHOCK. HORROR. AND INTRIGUE. Oh yes, I am very, very, very interested in this...YOU SPOIL US ANON!
Nope, didn't see your nonanon!
Interesting reaction. Extreme, but some what rational. One of the humans he knew personally completely betrayed him. Looking forward to the next chapter!!
Goes back to checking this every few hours.
Interesting reaction. Extreme, but some what rational. One of the humans he knew personally completely betrayed him. Looking forward to the next chapter!!
Goes back to checking this every few hours.
Don't worry, I didn't see your de-anoning.
This is more serious than I thought. D8 Arthur has a pobia of humans now... what would that do to his country? OAO
I wonder how his boss is taking this...
This is more serious than I thought. D8 Arthur has a pobia of humans now... what would that do to his country? OAO
I wonder how his boss is taking this...
...Poor Alfred...-hugs him- you can make it though
thanks for the update, anxiously awaiting more
thanks for the update, anxiously awaiting more
... *wibbles* ;A;
Poor Arthur~!
Anon wishes for more, so anon can see Arthur get better, because he can't stay like this forever, he just can't, and *shot* I'll shut up now.
Poor Arthur~!
Anon wishes for more, so anon can see Arthur get better, because he can't stay like this forever, he just can't, and *shot* I'll shut up now.
Arthur.........Arthur...the fills of this request are both very well written and depressing ;__;
good job writer anon! Alfred's pleading makes me sad ;_;
good job writer anon! Alfred's pleading makes me sad ;_;
He leaned in further.
“Hey, Arthur...what should I do?”
Please tell me, he wanted to beg. Look at me. Please tell what I have to.
“Y – You’re not asleep are you? Don’t tell me I’m that boring!” he feigned laughter, reclining back into his chair. His shoulders slumped.
Finally, Arthur turned his head and looked at him. He was not sure whether he preferred to be gazed upon or not.
“Arthur...”
A sudden knock startled him. Francis poked his head around the side, the surprise at on his face was false; it was common knowledge that Alfred spent almost twenty-four hours a day in Arthur’s company.
“Alfred, can we talk?” he asked, gesturing for him to follow.
Alfred rose. “I’ll be right back,” he assured Arthur, though his smile faltered when he thought that he would not really care either way. Gritting his teeth, he followed Francis out of the door, softly closing it behind him.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as they stepped into the hallway. The emptiness gave it a cold sheen and Alfred made a mental note to buy a rug or something to keep away the chill.
Francis unfolded his arms, sighing with exasperation. “Nothing, mon ami, I just thought I would throw you a line,” he said and left Alfred standing there in confusion.
Yet it was no really confusion that rooted him to the spot but realisation. If he stayed in that room for any longer, he was sure that he would be crushed by it.
XX
“We need to do something about Arthur.”
Uneasy silence pervaded. In the meeting room, one could have heard a pin drop.
Yao was the first to speak up. “I’ve brought some specialists with me aru, but...”
“...They’re human,” Ludwig guessed and Yao nodded grimly. Alfred had explained Arthur’s new temperament and there was not a snowflakes chance in hell he would endure the presence of a human let alone their ‘help.’
“Can’t you do anything?” Alfred stressed. He would have said that he was desperate except that he was a ridiculous optimist and even now he held onto the futile hope that things would somehow turn out alright.
Yao sighed.
XX
Alfred wondered if he was some sort of masochist for spending all his time with Arthur as he did. No matter how much it pained him, no matter how depressed he felt afterwards, he would always flutter back to the white room like a moth hopelessly attracted to a candle flame no matter how it singed his wings.
If there was anything positive to be reported amongst the lack of progress and the confusion, at least Arthur’s wounds were healing nicely. With Kiku changing his bandages and Yao mixing medicines, he would soon be back into perfect shape. Physically, that was.
“So Matthew said he’s flying here soon,” Alfred tried to put some enthusiasm in his voice despite his utter conviction that Matthew would not be able to do a thing. He mentally reprimanded himself for such a thought. When did he become so paranoid?
Arthur’s apathetic “Oh?” was more response than he had managed to wring out of him in days.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll appreciate more intelligent conversation,” he laughed lightly, hoping it did not sound too strained. “But that’s not true, is it? Between me and Matt you like me more, come on, admit it!” he nudged Arthur, hoping to goad a better response from him.
However, Arthur refused to take the bait and remained silent. Not to be deterred, Alfred continued. He was not the type to give up so easily.
“You know, you always like to call me an ungrateful brat. I’m sorry about that. Sorry I didn’t turn out better...but, you know, I did stick around for all those years despite all those disgusting scones of yours!”
There. A jab at Arthur’s cooking always managed to touch a nerve yet this time Arthur did not so much as flinch. Where was the furrowing of eyebrows, the indignant scowl that would cross his face, the flash of anger sparking in his eyes? At this point, Alfred would have been grateful if he called him an ‘insufferable git’ and whacked him over the head.
“Hey, Arthur...what should I do?”
Please tell me, he wanted to beg. Look at me. Please tell what I have to.
“Y – You’re not asleep are you? Don’t tell me I’m that boring!” he feigned laughter, reclining back into his chair. His shoulders slumped.
Finally, Arthur turned his head and looked at him. He was not sure whether he preferred to be gazed upon or not.
“Arthur...”
A sudden knock startled him. Francis poked his head around the side, the surprise at on his face was false; it was common knowledge that Alfred spent almost twenty-four hours a day in Arthur’s company.
“Alfred, can we talk?” he asked, gesturing for him to follow.
Alfred rose. “I’ll be right back,” he assured Arthur, though his smile faltered when he thought that he would not really care either way. Gritting his teeth, he followed Francis out of the door, softly closing it behind him.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as they stepped into the hallway. The emptiness gave it a cold sheen and Alfred made a mental note to buy a rug or something to keep away the chill.
Francis unfolded his arms, sighing with exasperation. “Nothing, mon ami, I just thought I would throw you a line,” he said and left Alfred standing there in confusion.
Yet it was no really confusion that rooted him to the spot but realisation. If he stayed in that room for any longer, he was sure that he would be crushed by it.
XX
“We need to do something about Arthur.”
Uneasy silence pervaded. In the meeting room, one could have heard a pin drop.
Yao was the first to speak up. “I’ve brought some specialists with me aru, but...”
“...They’re human,” Ludwig guessed and Yao nodded grimly. Alfred had explained Arthur’s new temperament and there was not a snowflakes chance in hell he would endure the presence of a human let alone their ‘help.’
“Can’t you do anything?” Alfred stressed. He would have said that he was desperate except that he was a ridiculous optimist and even now he held onto the futile hope that things would somehow turn out alright.
Yao sighed.
XX
Alfred wondered if he was some sort of masochist for spending all his time with Arthur as he did. No matter how much it pained him, no matter how depressed he felt afterwards, he would always flutter back to the white room like a moth hopelessly attracted to a candle flame no matter how it singed his wings.
If there was anything positive to be reported amongst the lack of progress and the confusion, at least Arthur’s wounds were healing nicely. With Kiku changing his bandages and Yao mixing medicines, he would soon be back into perfect shape. Physically, that was.
“So Matthew said he’s flying here soon,” Alfred tried to put some enthusiasm in his voice despite his utter conviction that Matthew would not be able to do a thing. He mentally reprimanded himself for such a thought. When did he become so paranoid?
Arthur’s apathetic “Oh?” was more response than he had managed to wring out of him in days.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll appreciate more intelligent conversation,” he laughed lightly, hoping it did not sound too strained. “But that’s not true, is it? Between me and Matt you like me more, come on, admit it!” he nudged Arthur, hoping to goad a better response from him.
However, Arthur refused to take the bait and remained silent. Not to be deterred, Alfred continued. He was not the type to give up so easily.
“You know, you always like to call me an ungrateful brat. I’m sorry about that. Sorry I didn’t turn out better...but, you know, I did stick around for all those years despite all those disgusting scones of yours!”
There. A jab at Arthur’s cooking always managed to touch a nerve yet this time Arthur did not so much as flinch. Where was the furrowing of eyebrows, the indignant scowl that would cross his face, the flash of anger sparking in his eyes? At this point, Alfred would have been grateful if he called him an ‘insufferable git’ and whacked him over the head.
“Arthur,” Alfred dared place a hand over his, hoping to awaken him with his touch. “Arthur...are you listening to me?”
When he was young, before he had sought independence, all he would have to do is get a little teary-eyed for Arthur to come rushing to him, sweeping him up into his arms. When he was older, he would move around noisily, doing everything in exaggeration so that it was impossible for Arthur to ignore.
This is something Alfred was not used to. He was gentle, he was obnoxious, he jabbed, he goaded, he pleaded and begged but nothing could coax a lively response - or even a response at all - from Arthur.
“Arthur!” Alfred shook his arm.
Arthur, that movie was scary let me sleep with you tonight!
“Say something.”
Arthur looked at him but his mouth would not move.
“Hey, say something. Call me an idiot like you always do. You can yell at me if you want. You can even get angry at me...Hey, come on...” he shook him, harder this time. “Tell me I’m stupid. Tell me I’m a brat! Tell me you hate me even! Just - ” Alfred’s voice faltered, threatening to break. He could not take this anymore. He flung his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. “Just do something!” he cried.
“...Alfred.” A slow response.
“Yes?” he asked, almost giddy with relief.
“You’re crushing me. Let go.”
Hope soared and came crashing down. Alfred could fel it shatter into a million pieces, each one a shard into his heart.
“S – Sorry,” he reluctantly released him, returning to his chair.
“Alfred,” Arthur pointed to his face.
It was not until then did he realise that his eyes were a little wet around the corners. He blinked in confusion and felt them rolling down his cheeks. “Ah!” he hastily rose his arm to wipe them away. “O – oh. I must have gotten a little worked up. Dust in my eye. Um...dammit, it’s really gotten in there! Don’t worry, it’ll stop soon. It’ll stop. It’ll stop.”
Alfred scrubbed his face and laughed, assuring Arthur that it was just a little dust. Not to worry, he would not go blind. It would stop soon.
Only it did not.
The door burst open while he was still trying to regain his composure. Alfred was almost sure that it was Francis here to ‘rescue’ him again but instead Kiku leaned against the door frame, panting heavily.
“Alfred, please come quickly, it’s an emergency!” he cried.
“But - ”
“It’s an emergency!” he practically pushed him out of the door. Alfred had never seen him so flustered or so forceful. It was unlike the usually reserved Kiku to be so forward as to grab his hand, practically dragging him down the hallway.
“What’s going on?” Alfred asked as soon as they reached the holding room. He knew that this was where they were keeping the prisoners for the moment.
Ludwig and Yao were already crowding around the entrance with Feliciano desperate trying to peek over their shoulders by hopping from one foot to the other and Francis leaning against the wall with a look of distaste. They turned when Alfred approached, giving him enough space to squeeze through as if to say; ‘take a look for yourself.’
The captive was dead.
Alfred did not have to bend down to check the man’s pulse to know that it was already too late. That once arrogant, stubborn man’s face was twisted with fear, eyes open and glazed, blood running down his forehead.
Ludwig cleared his throat but before he could say something a piercing scream jolted them all from their positions.
“Ve, isn’t that Marianne’s voice?”
Something cold ran down Alfred’s spine. The source of that scream had come from down the hallway and down the hallway there was only...
“Arthur!” He pushed Yao and Ludwig out of the way, dearly praying that his fears were irrational.
When he was young, before he had sought independence, all he would have to do is get a little teary-eyed for Arthur to come rushing to him, sweeping him up into his arms. When he was older, he would move around noisily, doing everything in exaggeration so that it was impossible for Arthur to ignore.
This is something Alfred was not used to. He was gentle, he was obnoxious, he jabbed, he goaded, he pleaded and begged but nothing could coax a lively response - or even a response at all - from Arthur.
“Arthur!” Alfred shook his arm.
Arthur, that movie was scary let me sleep with you tonight!
“Say something.”
Arthur looked at him but his mouth would not move.
“Hey, say something. Call me an idiot like you always do. You can yell at me if you want. You can even get angry at me...Hey, come on...” he shook him, harder this time. “Tell me I’m stupid. Tell me I’m a brat! Tell me you hate me even! Just - ” Alfred’s voice faltered, threatening to break. He could not take this anymore. He flung his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. “Just do something!” he cried.
“...Alfred.” A slow response.
“Yes?” he asked, almost giddy with relief.
“You’re crushing me. Let go.”
Hope soared and came crashing down. Alfred could fel it shatter into a million pieces, each one a shard into his heart.
“S – Sorry,” he reluctantly released him, returning to his chair.
“Alfred,” Arthur pointed to his face.
It was not until then did he realise that his eyes were a little wet around the corners. He blinked in confusion and felt them rolling down his cheeks. “Ah!” he hastily rose his arm to wipe them away. “O – oh. I must have gotten a little worked up. Dust in my eye. Um...dammit, it’s really gotten in there! Don’t worry, it’ll stop soon. It’ll stop. It’ll stop.”
Alfred scrubbed his face and laughed, assuring Arthur that it was just a little dust. Not to worry, he would not go blind. It would stop soon.
Only it did not.
The door burst open while he was still trying to regain his composure. Alfred was almost sure that it was Francis here to ‘rescue’ him again but instead Kiku leaned against the door frame, panting heavily.
“Alfred, please come quickly, it’s an emergency!” he cried.
“But - ”
“It’s an emergency!” he practically pushed him out of the door. Alfred had never seen him so flustered or so forceful. It was unlike the usually reserved Kiku to be so forward as to grab his hand, practically dragging him down the hallway.
“What’s going on?” Alfred asked as soon as they reached the holding room. He knew that this was where they were keeping the prisoners for the moment.
Ludwig and Yao were already crowding around the entrance with Feliciano desperate trying to peek over their shoulders by hopping from one foot to the other and Francis leaning against the wall with a look of distaste. They turned when Alfred approached, giving him enough space to squeeze through as if to say; ‘take a look for yourself.’
The captive was dead.
Alfred did not have to bend down to check the man’s pulse to know that it was already too late. That once arrogant, stubborn man’s face was twisted with fear, eyes open and glazed, blood running down his forehead.
Ludwig cleared his throat but before he could say something a piercing scream jolted them all from their positions.
“Ve, isn’t that Marianne’s voice?”
Something cold ran down Alfred’s spine. The source of that scream had come from down the hallway and down the hallway there was only...
“Arthur!” He pushed Yao and Ludwig out of the way, dearly praying that his fears were irrational.
HOLY CRAP CLIFF HANGER!!!
sjkadhsahdjkashdkja
HOLY CRAP ARTHUR YOUR BEING TOO COLD!!!!!!!
Alfred!! *hugs Alfred*
sjkadhsahdjkashdkja
HOLY CRAP ARTHUR YOUR BEING TOO COLD!!!!!!!
Alfred!! *hugs Alfred*
Oh Alfred, poor dear....
Cliff hanger!?! Blast!
Cliff hanger!?! Blast!
Naver stop writing dear Anon *_*
You did very well on this fic, I must admitt that the subject seems to me to be rather difficult, one can easily make it very cliche. But here everyone seems to be perfectly in character (especially Alfred ;n; I'm so sorry for him).
Thanks for writing it!
You did very well on this fic, I must admitt that the subject seems to me to be rather difficult, one can easily make it very cliche. But here everyone seems to be perfectly in character (especially Alfred ;n; I'm so sorry for him).
Thanks for writing it!
OHNOES! CLIFF HANGER!! DDDD:
*F5s liek mad*
*F5s liek mad*
Hoping that I estimated it right. Wasn't sure if it would work out 26 or 28 parts. Anon is sorry it'll be so long!
XX
Arthur backed himself into a corner at a crouch, clutching his arm as the old wounds that had not yet healed began to bleed again. He gritted his teeth together, glaring coldly at the young woman who had invaded his room. The rumpled bed was all that separated them but even at that short distance Arthur hardly felt safe at the moment.
“You’re awfully quick for someone who’s injured,” the woman smiled condescendingly, she held a dagger in her right hand and there was a gun – though still in its holster – at her hip. She wore a black dress suit – identical to that of the millions of office workers around the world – as though it were her armour, making her untouchable, superior.
“You wanted to catch me by surprise?” Arthur growled. He made a note to commit her face to memory – black hair and beauty spots and dark brown eyes that were too small and too far apart.
“I was hoping to go in and out without anyone noticing but now I fear they may have caught on after that useless pirate decided he couldn’t die in silence,” she reached for her gun.“Be a dear and don’t make this difficult, okay?”
As soon as Arthur saw her fingers reach for the holster, he barrelled into the bedside table, knocking it onto its side. The vase shattered into large shards, throwing water and fresh flowers onto the floor. He grabbed a jagged piece of vase, not caring as it sliced into his fingers. Jumping back, he pressed his back against the wall and lifted the shard to his throat.
The woman faltered for just a second. “What do you think you’re doing? You plan to take your whole country with you?” she laughed, though Arthur could sense her hesitation barely veiled by her bravado.
“It’s just a bunch of humans anyway,” he muttered. He had known that this would happen, that they would not leave him in peace. It had been foolish to take his time and rest; he would never be left in peace because those pirates were...
“You don’t have the guts,” the woman dared him. Was she one of them too?
The cold tip of the shard pricked his throat, drawing a small drop of blood. Did he dare do it? Wasn’t this what he wanted? To die rather than fall into the hands of filthy humans who would use him and torture him and fuck him as they wished? Even now, thinking about how they had stripped him and passed him around like some fuck-toy, made him want to hurl.
He wondered what would happen if he was gone. The East Germans did not die when Prussia was no more so maybe, even if he did this, the people of England, though damaged, would live on without him, not that it really mattered to him anymore.
Arthur swallowed and pressed the shard to his throat.
“Mister Kirkland, you musn’t!” Marianne – wasn’t that the name of that stupid maid? They had been too caught up to notice her enter the room – screamed as she leapt for him, knocking the glass out of his hand. He hissed as their fingers brushed, withdrawing his hand as though he had been burnt. “W –What are you doing here?” he growled at her.
Marianne made no reply but gathered herself to her feet, using her body as a shield between Arthur and the woman.
The woman was not expecting an interruption but nevertheless took it all in her stride. In hindsight, perhaps this turn of events could prove advantageous for her. “Oh? Are you one of them too? What country are you?” she asked, amusement evident on her voice.
Though Marianne’s face was a picture of confusion she did not falter. “Country?”
However, there was clearly no time to wait for an answer. They all heard the sound of pounding footsteps racing towards them. In that brief moment of distraction, the woman leaned over the bed, grabbing a fistful of Marianne’s hair, throwing her out of the way. She vehemently pulled on it, eliciting another shrill scream.
“Damn it!” she cursed under her breath, aiming the gun squarely at Arthur’s chest. “A bullet won’t hurt a country too much, right?”
The door flung open. Marianne ripped herself out of the painful grasp as Arthur grabbed another broken piece of vase and the woman raised her gun, took aim...
“Don’t shoot!”
...Fired.
XX
Arthur backed himself into a corner at a crouch, clutching his arm as the old wounds that had not yet healed began to bleed again. He gritted his teeth together, glaring coldly at the young woman who had invaded his room. The rumpled bed was all that separated them but even at that short distance Arthur hardly felt safe at the moment.
“You’re awfully quick for someone who’s injured,” the woman smiled condescendingly, she held a dagger in her right hand and there was a gun – though still in its holster – at her hip. She wore a black dress suit – identical to that of the millions of office workers around the world – as though it were her armour, making her untouchable, superior.
“You wanted to catch me by surprise?” Arthur growled. He made a note to commit her face to memory – black hair and beauty spots and dark brown eyes that were too small and too far apart.
“I was hoping to go in and out without anyone noticing but now I fear they may have caught on after that useless pirate decided he couldn’t die in silence,” she reached for her gun.“Be a dear and don’t make this difficult, okay?”
As soon as Arthur saw her fingers reach for the holster, he barrelled into the bedside table, knocking it onto its side. The vase shattered into large shards, throwing water and fresh flowers onto the floor. He grabbed a jagged piece of vase, not caring as it sliced into his fingers. Jumping back, he pressed his back against the wall and lifted the shard to his throat.
The woman faltered for just a second. “What do you think you’re doing? You plan to take your whole country with you?” she laughed, though Arthur could sense her hesitation barely veiled by her bravado.
“It’s just a bunch of humans anyway,” he muttered. He had known that this would happen, that they would not leave him in peace. It had been foolish to take his time and rest; he would never be left in peace because those pirates were...
“You don’t have the guts,” the woman dared him. Was she one of them too?
The cold tip of the shard pricked his throat, drawing a small drop of blood. Did he dare do it? Wasn’t this what he wanted? To die rather than fall into the hands of filthy humans who would use him and torture him and fuck him as they wished? Even now, thinking about how they had stripped him and passed him around like some fuck-toy, made him want to hurl.
He wondered what would happen if he was gone. The East Germans did not die when Prussia was no more so maybe, even if he did this, the people of England, though damaged, would live on without him, not that it really mattered to him anymore.
Arthur swallowed and pressed the shard to his throat.
“Mister Kirkland, you musn’t!” Marianne – wasn’t that the name of that stupid maid? They had been too caught up to notice her enter the room – screamed as she leapt for him, knocking the glass out of his hand. He hissed as their fingers brushed, withdrawing his hand as though he had been burnt. “W –What are you doing here?” he growled at her.
Marianne made no reply but gathered herself to her feet, using her body as a shield between Arthur and the woman.
The woman was not expecting an interruption but nevertheless took it all in her stride. In hindsight, perhaps this turn of events could prove advantageous for her. “Oh? Are you one of them too? What country are you?” she asked, amusement evident on her voice.
Though Marianne’s face was a picture of confusion she did not falter. “Country?”
However, there was clearly no time to wait for an answer. They all heard the sound of pounding footsteps racing towards them. In that brief moment of distraction, the woman leaned over the bed, grabbing a fistful of Marianne’s hair, throwing her out of the way. She vehemently pulled on it, eliciting another shrill scream.
“Damn it!” she cursed under her breath, aiming the gun squarely at Arthur’s chest. “A bullet won’t hurt a country too much, right?”
The door flung open. Marianne ripped herself out of the painful grasp as Arthur grabbed another broken piece of vase and the woman raised her gun, took aim...
“Don’t shoot!”
...Fired.
Uguu, the top part was meant to be part 12/28. Anon is sorry!
Alfred and Yao were the first into the room but neither of them would make it in time. The sound of the bullet exploding from the nozzle rippled through the room, tearing into space, into time, the very fabric of reality.
“Arthur!” Alfred flung out a hand. Why couldn’t he make it in time? If he really was a hero he could stop this. If he really was a hero...
“Mister Kirkland!” Marianne imposed herself between them, arms flung wide.
“Marianne!”
Blood coloured the walls. White and red like Arthur’s flag. Marianne’s face was a picture of pure shock, as if she had not comprehended that a bullet would hurt when she flung herself in its path. Her breast was crimson, the colour quickly spreading like a disease that would consume her, blood violently spurted from her mouth as she collapsed, spreading her red corruption across the once white floor.
The woman swore under her breath. Another bullet shattered the windows and she flung herself through without ceremony. Yao and Ludwig immediately gave chase while Kiku took Francis around the back in order to seal all exits, leaving only Feliciano and Alfred alone with Arthur and the body of Marianne.
A moment of absolute stillness reigned. It was that moment between the realms of conscious and unconsciousness when the mind is still trying to confirm whether it is still dreaming or not, when one feels disorientated and paralysed. It was as if someone had covered their eyes with their hands; teasingly whispering ‘Guess who?’ though no one was there; a cold surprise that festered in the gut and conquered the brain.
Arthur was the first to move, though only to slide down the wall into a shocked heap. Some of the blood had splattered onto his face so that he could feel its warmth trickling down his cheeks like tears and smell that disgusting, metallic scent smothering him.
“M – Marianne?” Feliciano smiled as he crouched beside her. He shook her gently, as one would to rouse someone from their sleep. “Ve ve, Marianne don’t lie there all day! You’re bleeding; shall I kiss it better for you? Marianne? M – Marianne, want me to kiss...kiss it...better...?”
He was crying. He tried not to show it, tried to smile despite himself but Feliciano’s trembling hands betrayed his feelings. He made no sound, he did not sob out loud as he would when pleading for mercy, but the tears came down in steady silent streams.
“M – Marianne?” Alfred knew that she was already dead. Had she been a nation she might have survived. Had she been a nation... He looked at Arthur and crept towards him, reaching out a comforting hand. “Arthur, are you - ”
“Don’t touch me!” Arthur batted him away. The harshness of his voice made Alfred flinch. “Ha...haha...” shaky, almost deranged laughter bubbled from his throat. “Hahaha! Stupid human! She should have just let her take me! If she knew who I was she would have - ”
The sound of Alfred’s palm hitting the side of Arthur’s cheek made even Feliciano look up in surprise. Alfred’s enraged face was marred by tears. Why could he not do anything? He was the hero here! Why could he never do anything but watch?
“Don’t talk as if you know everything!” he yelled, gripping Arthur’s shoulders hard enough to make him wince. “Even if I told her what you were, it wouldn’t have made a difference to her!”
Arthur quelled a little under the harshness of his gaze. “...W - Who cares?”
Alfred’s grip slackened. Arthur was slipping back into apathy.
“...War, poverty, crime, who cares what humans want to do to each other? They shouldn’t get us involved.”
“Arthur?”
“I’ve had enough.”
Cue Arthur goingRussia batshit-insane. No, just joking...
Alfred and Yao were the first into the room but neither of them would make it in time. The sound of the bullet exploding from the nozzle rippled through the room, tearing into space, into time, the very fabric of reality.
“Arthur!” Alfred flung out a hand. Why couldn’t he make it in time? If he really was a hero he could stop this. If he really was a hero...
“Mister Kirkland!” Marianne imposed herself between them, arms flung wide.
“Marianne!”
Blood coloured the walls. White and red like Arthur’s flag. Marianne’s face was a picture of pure shock, as if she had not comprehended that a bullet would hurt when she flung herself in its path. Her breast was crimson, the colour quickly spreading like a disease that would consume her, blood violently spurted from her mouth as she collapsed, spreading her red corruption across the once white floor.
The woman swore under her breath. Another bullet shattered the windows and she flung herself through without ceremony. Yao and Ludwig immediately gave chase while Kiku took Francis around the back in order to seal all exits, leaving only Feliciano and Alfred alone with Arthur and the body of Marianne.
A moment of absolute stillness reigned. It was that moment between the realms of conscious and unconsciousness when the mind is still trying to confirm whether it is still dreaming or not, when one feels disorientated and paralysed. It was as if someone had covered their eyes with their hands; teasingly whispering ‘Guess who?’ though no one was there; a cold surprise that festered in the gut and conquered the brain.
Arthur was the first to move, though only to slide down the wall into a shocked heap. Some of the blood had splattered onto his face so that he could feel its warmth trickling down his cheeks like tears and smell that disgusting, metallic scent smothering him.
“M – Marianne?” Feliciano smiled as he crouched beside her. He shook her gently, as one would to rouse someone from their sleep. “Ve ve, Marianne don’t lie there all day! You’re bleeding; shall I kiss it better for you? Marianne? M – Marianne, want me to kiss...kiss it...better...?”
He was crying. He tried not to show it, tried to smile despite himself but Feliciano’s trembling hands betrayed his feelings. He made no sound, he did not sob out loud as he would when pleading for mercy, but the tears came down in steady silent streams.
“M – Marianne?” Alfred knew that she was already dead. Had she been a nation she might have survived. Had she been a nation... He looked at Arthur and crept towards him, reaching out a comforting hand. “Arthur, are you - ”
“Don’t touch me!” Arthur batted him away. The harshness of his voice made Alfred flinch. “Ha...haha...” shaky, almost deranged laughter bubbled from his throat. “Hahaha! Stupid human! She should have just let her take me! If she knew who I was she would have - ”
The sound of Alfred’s palm hitting the side of Arthur’s cheek made even Feliciano look up in surprise. Alfred’s enraged face was marred by tears. Why could he not do anything? He was the hero here! Why could he never do anything but watch?
“Don’t talk as if you know everything!” he yelled, gripping Arthur’s shoulders hard enough to make him wince. “Even if I told her what you were, it wouldn’t have made a difference to her!”
Arthur quelled a little under the harshness of his gaze. “...W - Who cares?”
Alfred’s grip slackened. Arthur was slipping back into apathy.
“...War, poverty, crime, who cares what humans want to do to each other? They shouldn’t get us involved.”
“Arthur?”
“I’ve had enough.”
Cue Arthur going
Should have seen that coming....BUT I DIDN'T!!
;A;
;A;
AUTHOR ANON I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I HAD LIKE THE SHITTIEST LONGEST DAY EVER AT WORK AND COMING HOME AND SEEING THAT YOU UPDATED MADE MY NIGHT ;_; ILU, KEEP UP THE AWESOME WORK
CRUISE CONTROL FUCK YEAH
CRUISE CONTROL FUCK YEAH
Poor, poor Arthur...-hugs-
The suspense is killing me! Can't wait for more!
The suspense is killing me! Can't wait for more!
Oh shiiiiit. That was intense!!!! D8
Arthur has fallen off his rocker. @_@;;
Also, don't apologize for making it long~ I enjoy long fics. ^-^
Arthur has fallen off his rocker. @_@;;
Also, don't apologize for making it long~ I enjoy long fics. ^-^
Arthur tilted his head back to rest against the wall, sighing loudly as if to expel his soul in one breath.
Alfred had no idea what to say. He tentatively reached out and tied to rub the blood from Arthur’s face but it only ended up smearing into a grizzly red stain.
“You used to be really kind, you know?”
He could hold himself back no longer. Alfred flung his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. If his back could shield all the bad things from touching Arthur, he would have gladly stayed like that forever. Briefly, he wondered if he was some sort of fool for clinging on to hope even now, like a desperate beggar he grabbed at whatever gleams of light flashed before his eyes.
“Arthur, I’m not – I’m not going to let you - ” he squeezed even tighter, hardly caring that Arthur was not hugging back or if Feliciano was looking at him, at how pathetic he had become. He was a hero and he would go to any lengths to save someone, to save Athur, even if – even if he had to become the villain in doing so. “I won’ t let you go the way you’re going. I’m not going to let you become like – like this!”
“They’re not going to leave me alone,” Arthur said; a cold statement of facts.
“We’ll get them! Every last one of them!” he cried.
Arthur stiffened. Though Alfred was unable to see his face, he could sense the sudden shift in demeanour. “...Yes, I suppose we’ll have to do that,” Arthur whispered, lightly touching the small of Alfred’s back.
XX
Despite tightening security, everyone was walking on eggshells the next morning. The remaining pirates had been transferred to a proper prison, leaving the manor even emptier. They held a funeral for Marianne. Alfred took it upon himself to notify her family, sending a bouquet of yellow roses with the condolence card.
That day, it did not even rain when they carried out the coffin. Marianne’s parents wanted her buried in Maine where she had grown up but they held their own service for her anyway. Kiku gave her some of his cranes and Feliciano made a chain of daisies; Alfred could see how he trembled and clung onto Ludwig’s arm as if everyone around him would disappear if he did not hold fast. Even Francis, who remained completely calm throughout the grim affair, indulged himself in a little more wine than usual as soon as the coffin was borne away.
Only Arthur remained missing from the ceremony. Yao could not say how much the event affected him but, although he was up and walking by now, he continued to hole himself up in the manor, living his life either in the white room or in the much unused study of Alfred’s manor. His attitude remained cold and distant even to his fellow nations. He was never rude but always curt, giving no more than two or three word answers at best.
Alfred caught him sitting in the study, the lights set to a minimum, hunched over a thick tome of...something; the books in there were mostly for show and Alfred had no clue about the names of half the books in his own study.
Creeping in, he sidled towards Arthur who, as expected, paid him no mind.
“Hey Arthur! Want to...watch a movie or something?” he asked. It was a bad suggestion but he had no idea what else to say, he just wanted to do something, anything that would bring Arthur back to life even for just a second. He would even eat a million burnt scones for one, quick smile or a flustered blush.
Alfred had no idea what to say. He tentatively reached out and tied to rub the blood from Arthur’s face but it only ended up smearing into a grizzly red stain.
“You used to be really kind, you know?”
He could hold himself back no longer. Alfred flung his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. If his back could shield all the bad things from touching Arthur, he would have gladly stayed like that forever. Briefly, he wondered if he was some sort of fool for clinging on to hope even now, like a desperate beggar he grabbed at whatever gleams of light flashed before his eyes.
“Arthur, I’m not – I’m not going to let you - ” he squeezed even tighter, hardly caring that Arthur was not hugging back or if Feliciano was looking at him, at how pathetic he had become. He was a hero and he would go to any lengths to save someone, to save Athur, even if – even if he had to become the villain in doing so. “I won’ t let you go the way you’re going. I’m not going to let you become like – like this!”
“They’re not going to leave me alone,” Arthur said; a cold statement of facts.
“We’ll get them! Every last one of them!” he cried.
Arthur stiffened. Though Alfred was unable to see his face, he could sense the sudden shift in demeanour. “...Yes, I suppose we’ll have to do that,” Arthur whispered, lightly touching the small of Alfred’s back.
XX
Despite tightening security, everyone was walking on eggshells the next morning. The remaining pirates had been transferred to a proper prison, leaving the manor even emptier. They held a funeral for Marianne. Alfred took it upon himself to notify her family, sending a bouquet of yellow roses with the condolence card.
That day, it did not even rain when they carried out the coffin. Marianne’s parents wanted her buried in Maine where she had grown up but they held their own service for her anyway. Kiku gave her some of his cranes and Feliciano made a chain of daisies; Alfred could see how he trembled and clung onto Ludwig’s arm as if everyone around him would disappear if he did not hold fast. Even Francis, who remained completely calm throughout the grim affair, indulged himself in a little more wine than usual as soon as the coffin was borne away.
Only Arthur remained missing from the ceremony. Yao could not say how much the event affected him but, although he was up and walking by now, he continued to hole himself up in the manor, living his life either in the white room or in the much unused study of Alfred’s manor. His attitude remained cold and distant even to his fellow nations. He was never rude but always curt, giving no more than two or three word answers at best.
Alfred caught him sitting in the study, the lights set to a minimum, hunched over a thick tome of...something; the books in there were mostly for show and Alfred had no clue about the names of half the books in his own study.
Creeping in, he sidled towards Arthur who, as expected, paid him no mind.
“Hey Arthur! Want to...watch a movie or something?” he asked. It was a bad suggestion but he had no idea what else to say, he just wanted to do something, anything that would bring Arthur back to life even for just a second. He would even eat a million burnt scones for one, quick smile or a flustered blush.
Damn character count *grumble* *grumble*
However, Arthur paid his presence only the smallest amount of recognition, just enough to reply “...No thank you,” before promptly forgetting about him until Alfred spoke again.
“Well, how about going outside for some fresh air?” he suggested.
“I’m fine,” Arthur replied laconically, eyes rooted to the same page he had been reading for the last two hours.
“Come on, don’t be so boring! Let’s do something!” Alfred tugged at his sleeve impatiently. It was not that he thought what he had dubbed 'the Feliciano effect' would work but he had never tried to be so obstinately cheerful before and one should always try new approaches.
“London,” Arthur muttered under his breath, snapping the book shut.
“Huh?”
Arthur frowned at him for being dense. “I want to go back to London. What happened to it after I was...” he trailed away. Neither of them really wished to recall those unpleasant memories.
“...Arthur!” Alfred breathed, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. Arthur wanted to go back to London. That meant that he was worried. That meant that, surely, deep down he was still the same old Arthur! “That’s great! It would be a good idea to move now that they know where we are. I’ll talk to the others and make preparations immediately!” he cried enthusiastically.
“Thank you,” Arthur gave him the tiniest of smiles.
There really was a God after all!
“N - no problem!” Alfred cried, grinning from ear to ear. Arthur was smiling, Arthur had thanked him! Just seeing that made him feel as though he could do anything, could probably walk on top of a rainbow; he was feeling so giddy with happiness.
Alfred rushed out to tell the news to the others, failing to see that Arthur’s smile was edged with malice.
However, Arthur paid his presence only the smallest amount of recognition, just enough to reply “...No thank you,” before promptly forgetting about him until Alfred spoke again.
“Well, how about going outside for some fresh air?” he suggested.
“I’m fine,” Arthur replied laconically, eyes rooted to the same page he had been reading for the last two hours.
“Come on, don’t be so boring! Let’s do something!” Alfred tugged at his sleeve impatiently. It was not that he thought what he had dubbed 'the Feliciano effect' would work but he had never tried to be so obstinately cheerful before and one should always try new approaches.
“London,” Arthur muttered under his breath, snapping the book shut.
“Huh?”
Arthur frowned at him for being dense. “I want to go back to London. What happened to it after I was...” he trailed away. Neither of them really wished to recall those unpleasant memories.
“...Arthur!” Alfred breathed, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. Arthur wanted to go back to London. That meant that he was worried. That meant that, surely, deep down he was still the same old Arthur! “That’s great! It would be a good idea to move now that they know where we are. I’ll talk to the others and make preparations immediately!” he cried enthusiastically.
“Thank you,” Arthur gave him the tiniest of smiles.
There really was a God after all!
“N - no problem!” Alfred cried, grinning from ear to ear. Arthur was smiling, Arthur had thanked him! Just seeing that made him feel as though he could do anything, could probably walk on top of a rainbow; he was feeling so giddy with happiness.
Alfred rushed out to tell the news to the others, failing to see that Arthur’s smile was edged with malice.
What is Arthur up to now...? D8
Alfred keep an eye on him! :[ Something isn't right.
Alfred keep an eye on him! :[ Something isn't right.
Totally breaking my F5 button to see what comes next!
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF
Arthurrrrrrrrrrr what the hell is wrong with you!!!!!!!!!!!! Dx
*dies with anticipation*
reCaptcha: mitty brother
Arthurrrrrrrrrrr what the hell is wrong with you!!!!!!!!!!!! Dx
*dies with anticipation*
reCaptcha: mitty brother
Oh God, I'm loving this more with each part—
F5F5F5F5F5F55
F5F5F5F5F5F55
OH GOD ARTHUR IS TURNING INTO KOHAKU
This is getting so awesome! Can't wait for more!
XX
When Alfred brought up the subject of moving to England, they all agreed that it would be a good idea to relocate. Now that the enemy knew where they were, it was best to move as soon as possible and in England at least they could stay in one of Arthur’s homes where he would probably feel more comfortable. It could be therapeutic, Yao admitted.
They had not gauged just what kind of impact Arthur’s captivity and injuries had made on society. They all knew that England had been going through a bad period before hand but now it was going through a greater dip in economy, recent floods and snowstorms had battered the country and, worst of all, there had been a riot at the ports which had gotten out of control and the white cliffs of Dover had turned red for a few days.
When he saw the banners over London and the crowds of angry protesters being held back by police in riot gear, Alfred began to regret ever coming to the country. This was no place for Arthur to recover.
“Unemployment has risen to dangerous levels, aru,” Yao answered his silent question. “And inflation is forever going up. They want the prime minister to step down. They say the government is incompetent, aru.”
“I am thinking we shouldn’t have come here perhaps,” Ludwig murmured, glancing out of the tinted windows of the car.
“This is what Arthur wanted, right?” Alfred looked hopefully at Arthur, who made no reply.
XX
He was grateful when they reached Arthur’s house in London. It was remote enough that, as long as he did not glance at the newspapers or turned on the television, Alfred could almost pretend that nothing had ever happened.
Arthur moved through the halls like a ghost, flitting from one room to another without an intent or purpose Alfred could gleam, which was why, when he noticed Arthur pulling on his coat a few days after their arrival, he was more than a little shocked.
“Arthur? Where are you going?” he asked, trying to conceal his worry. Since they had recovered him, he had become nothing short of a recluse, a hikkikomori Kiku would have said, only Alfred was not sure if that was quite correct. Arthur pent himself up inside anyplace with four walls and would not step out.
“To Buckingham,” he replied as if this were obvious.
“What? Why?”
Arthur’s cool, hard gaze bore into the depths of his soul. It was as if he was telling him not to interfere. “I was missing for quite some time. I should report to the royal family,” he explained. Surprisingly, it sounded quite reasonable.
Alfred was not sure whether to be happy that Arthur was going out and that he was going to see people, humans, or to be even more concerned that he would snap whilst outside. “That’s good but shouldn’t you talk to the prime minister first? He’s the one who’s technically in charge.”
Arthur shook his head. “No, I’ll go to the palace first.”
“You sure like your royalty,” Alfred laughed, “I’ll come with you.”
“No, I’ll go alone,” Arthur insisted.
“But - ”
“I’ll go alone,” Arthur looked at him with what Alfred would not quite describe as a glare but was not exactly the most welcoming of looks either. Well, Arthur had become such a loner these days, always so tetchy about keeping his own company, that Alfred found himself surrendering.
“Oh, that reminds me, Yao got a good look at that woman and Ludwig’s tracking down her roots. It won’t be too long before we get to the bottom of all of this!” he said, hoping to lighten Arthur’s foul mood.
The news did not seem to excite Arthur as much as it did Alfred. Then again, nothing seemed to excite Arthur these days. Nothing could make him laugh or get angry; that smile he had given Alfred back in America had been a rare occasion.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Even if you don’t do anything I’m sure it will sort itself out.”
Alfred let him walk out of the door.
Things will continue to get more messed up from here. Anon apologises for the lack of comfort in this hurt/comfort fic.
When Alfred brought up the subject of moving to England, they all agreed that it would be a good idea to relocate. Now that the enemy knew where they were, it was best to move as soon as possible and in England at least they could stay in one of Arthur’s homes where he would probably feel more comfortable. It could be therapeutic, Yao admitted.
They had not gauged just what kind of impact Arthur’s captivity and injuries had made on society. They all knew that England had been going through a bad period before hand but now it was going through a greater dip in economy, recent floods and snowstorms had battered the country and, worst of all, there had been a riot at the ports which had gotten out of control and the white cliffs of Dover had turned red for a few days.
When he saw the banners over London and the crowds of angry protesters being held back by police in riot gear, Alfred began to regret ever coming to the country. This was no place for Arthur to recover.
“Unemployment has risen to dangerous levels, aru,” Yao answered his silent question. “And inflation is forever going up. They want the prime minister to step down. They say the government is incompetent, aru.”
“I am thinking we shouldn’t have come here perhaps,” Ludwig murmured, glancing out of the tinted windows of the car.
“This is what Arthur wanted, right?” Alfred looked hopefully at Arthur, who made no reply.
XX
He was grateful when they reached Arthur’s house in London. It was remote enough that, as long as he did not glance at the newspapers or turned on the television, Alfred could almost pretend that nothing had ever happened.
Arthur moved through the halls like a ghost, flitting from one room to another without an intent or purpose Alfred could gleam, which was why, when he noticed Arthur pulling on his coat a few days after their arrival, he was more than a little shocked.
“Arthur? Where are you going?” he asked, trying to conceal his worry. Since they had recovered him, he had become nothing short of a recluse, a hikkikomori Kiku would have said, only Alfred was not sure if that was quite correct. Arthur pent himself up inside anyplace with four walls and would not step out.
“To Buckingham,” he replied as if this were obvious.
“What? Why?”
Arthur’s cool, hard gaze bore into the depths of his soul. It was as if he was telling him not to interfere. “I was missing for quite some time. I should report to the royal family,” he explained. Surprisingly, it sounded quite reasonable.
Alfred was not sure whether to be happy that Arthur was going out and that he was going to see people, humans, or to be even more concerned that he would snap whilst outside. “That’s good but shouldn’t you talk to the prime minister first? He’s the one who’s technically in charge.”
Arthur shook his head. “No, I’ll go to the palace first.”
“You sure like your royalty,” Alfred laughed, “I’ll come with you.”
“No, I’ll go alone,” Arthur insisted.
“But - ”
“I’ll go alone,” Arthur looked at him with what Alfred would not quite describe as a glare but was not exactly the most welcoming of looks either. Well, Arthur had become such a loner these days, always so tetchy about keeping his own company, that Alfred found himself surrendering.
“Oh, that reminds me, Yao got a good look at that woman and Ludwig’s tracking down her roots. It won’t be too long before we get to the bottom of all of this!” he said, hoping to lighten Arthur’s foul mood.
The news did not seem to excite Arthur as much as it did Alfred. Then again, nothing seemed to excite Arthur these days. Nothing could make him laugh or get angry; that smile he had given Alfred back in America had been a rare occasion.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Even if you don’t do anything I’m sure it will sort itself out.”
Alfred let him walk out of the door.
Things will continue to get more messed up from here. Anon apologises for the lack of comfort in this hurt/comfort fic.
No sooner was he gone than he felt a sigh escape him. He should have been firmer, he reckoned, but he did not want to chase Arthur outside just to be handed another defeat.
“I’m too soft with him,” he muttered disapprovingly just as Kiku joined him at the main door.
“Alfred, we’re all meeting in the conference room.”
“Coming,” he sighed, his thoughts still on Arthur and scones and the first signs of real hope as he trailed towards the room.
What they had dubbed the conference room was just Arthur’s dining room. It was large enough to hold about twenty guests, something which rarely occurred since the end of the Victorian era but was useful nonetheless in times such as this.
Kiku had laced the perimeter with insulated wires, setting up a dozen computer terminals and other funny looking screens as if the dining room were now the headquarters for an international hacking operation.
Alfred carefully stepped over the wires as he made his way to where the rest were leaning over one of the terminals. No doubt it was a health hazard, not that he could complain about the state of other people’s rooms.
Ludwig looked at the empty spaces behind him, frowning. “Where’s Arthur?”
“Ah, he went to report to the royal family!” Alfred replied enthusiastically, hoping to share some of his hope with the others.
“And you let him go alone?” Francis, who had not been taken in by the screen, sat at the other end of the table.
Alfred resented the critical look he was being given. It was not as if he was ever neglectful of Arthur and besides cooking meals, which he did for everyone, Francis had stayed at a respectful distance from Arthur. His previous attempts to insult him and thus coax out the old Arthur had been met with solid nothingness.
“It’ll be okay, right? I mean, he decided to drive and there are guards all over the palace.”
“...Yes, I’m sure it will be fine.”
“So what’s up?” Alfred asked, wilfully ignoring the traces of hesitation in Kiku’s polite response.
As if suddenly reminded of why they were there, everyone turned back to the screen, “I managed to place a name to the face that Yao saw,” Ludwig began to explain. He clicked once, bringing up a file. “Look at this; she worked for MI6 and had a pretty good record until five months ago when she decided to resign. For ‘personal and family reasons’ it states. After that she practically dropped off of the face of the earth. There are no more records of her anywhere.”
“So we can assume that was when she joined the pirates, but why? She didn’t hold high enough a rank to be told about Arthur’s secret during her work so how did she find out?” Kiku wondered.
“Perhaps she went sneaking through classified files.”
“Maybe,” Kiku conceded but looked unconvinced.
“Before that she was often summoned to the palace, aru. She was a good worker and received many honours for her work. She even met with the queen a few times. Someone there could have told her, aru,” Yao tried to pin a reason on their mystery as Ludwig began scrolling through the file again.
“If someone there told her, why would they attack their own country? Surely they would ‘experiment’ with another nation. Assuming that they weren’t working with another country’s organisation or just a free-rover that is,” he murmured, eyes fixed on lines upon lines of typeset in front of him.
They were all silent for a moment, pondering what this new-found information was trying to tell them. For Alfred himself, his thoughts were mixed with worries regarding Arthur’s welfare. Maybe he really should have insisted on going with him...
“Mon Dieu!” Francis suddenly slapped a hand against his face, startling all of them out of their silence
“What?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart begin to race with the same anxiety he had felt when his home had been infiltrated.
“Whatever their motive is, mon ami, it’s someone in a relatively high position of power pulling the strings, non?”
Alfred stared at him blankly.
Francis sighed in exasperation, wondering just how anyone could be so dense. “Arthur went to Buckingham! Mon Dieu, don’t you know that place is crawling with high-flyers!”
XX
Boring speculations are boring. ^^;
“I’m too soft with him,” he muttered disapprovingly just as Kiku joined him at the main door.
“Alfred, we’re all meeting in the conference room.”
“Coming,” he sighed, his thoughts still on Arthur and scones and the first signs of real hope as he trailed towards the room.
What they had dubbed the conference room was just Arthur’s dining room. It was large enough to hold about twenty guests, something which rarely occurred since the end of the Victorian era but was useful nonetheless in times such as this.
Kiku had laced the perimeter with insulated wires, setting up a dozen computer terminals and other funny looking screens as if the dining room were now the headquarters for an international hacking operation.
Alfred carefully stepped over the wires as he made his way to where the rest were leaning over one of the terminals. No doubt it was a health hazard, not that he could complain about the state of other people’s rooms.
Ludwig looked at the empty spaces behind him, frowning. “Where’s Arthur?”
“Ah, he went to report to the royal family!” Alfred replied enthusiastically, hoping to share some of his hope with the others.
“And you let him go alone?” Francis, who had not been taken in by the screen, sat at the other end of the table.
Alfred resented the critical look he was being given. It was not as if he was ever neglectful of Arthur and besides cooking meals, which he did for everyone, Francis had stayed at a respectful distance from Arthur. His previous attempts to insult him and thus coax out the old Arthur had been met with solid nothingness.
“It’ll be okay, right? I mean, he decided to drive and there are guards all over the palace.”
“...Yes, I’m sure it will be fine.”
“So what’s up?” Alfred asked, wilfully ignoring the traces of hesitation in Kiku’s polite response.
As if suddenly reminded of why they were there, everyone turned back to the screen, “I managed to place a name to the face that Yao saw,” Ludwig began to explain. He clicked once, bringing up a file. “Look at this; she worked for MI6 and had a pretty good record until five months ago when she decided to resign. For ‘personal and family reasons’ it states. After that she practically dropped off of the face of the earth. There are no more records of her anywhere.”
“So we can assume that was when she joined the pirates, but why? She didn’t hold high enough a rank to be told about Arthur’s secret during her work so how did she find out?” Kiku wondered.
“Perhaps she went sneaking through classified files.”
“Maybe,” Kiku conceded but looked unconvinced.
“Before that she was often summoned to the palace, aru. She was a good worker and received many honours for her work. She even met with the queen a few times. Someone there could have told her, aru,” Yao tried to pin a reason on their mystery as Ludwig began scrolling through the file again.
“If someone there told her, why would they attack their own country? Surely they would ‘experiment’ with another nation. Assuming that they weren’t working with another country’s organisation or just a free-rover that is,” he murmured, eyes fixed on lines upon lines of typeset in front of him.
They were all silent for a moment, pondering what this new-found information was trying to tell them. For Alfred himself, his thoughts were mixed with worries regarding Arthur’s welfare. Maybe he really should have insisted on going with him...
“Mon Dieu!” Francis suddenly slapped a hand against his face, startling all of them out of their silence
“What?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart begin to race with the same anxiety he had felt when his home had been infiltrated.
“Whatever their motive is, mon ami, it’s someone in a relatively high position of power pulling the strings, non?”
Alfred stared at him blankly.
Francis sighed in exasperation, wondering just how anyone could be so dense. “Arthur went to Buckingham! Mon Dieu, don’t you know that place is crawling with high-flyers!”
XX
Boring speculations are boring. ^^;
HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS IS SO EPIC!!!! WHAT IS ARTHUR GONNA DO NOW??!!!!
Please make it as long as you want, I can't get enough of this!!!!
F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5
Please make it as long as you want, I can't get enough of this!!!!
F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5
I agree with the other anon. The lack of comfort is okay, as long as there is some later ;D, just make it as messed up as you can!
I can't wait to see what happens!!!
I can't wait to see what happens!!!
MI6? What the crap, Alias?! OMG YAY! (0_____0)!
sadsadaslkjdsadnupoqwu powq diowqudi'owqji'doqwjidjwqiodjwqoidjwqiodjiwqpdj
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
Their reactions!~ France reactions!!!!!
“What?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart begin to race with the same anxiety he had felt when his home had been infiltrated.
“Whatever their motive is, mon ami, it’s someone in a relatively high position of power pulling the strings, non?”
Alfred stared at him blankly.
Francis sighed in exasperation, wondering just how anyone could be so dense. “Arthur went to Buckingham! Mon Dieu, don’t you know that place is crawling with high-flyers!”
those last few lines made my heart race too author anon!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
Their reactions!~ France reactions!!!!!
“What?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart begin to race with the same anxiety he had felt when his home had been infiltrated.
“Whatever their motive is, mon ami, it’s someone in a relatively high position of power pulling the strings, non?”
Alfred stared at him blankly.
Francis sighed in exasperation, wondering just how anyone could be so dense. “Arthur went to Buckingham! Mon Dieu, don’t you know that place is crawling with high-flyers!”
those last few lines made my heart race too author anon!
This is too good to describe with words so I'll shut up and F5F5F5F5F5F5 instead.
XX
Getting past the hordes of protesters outside the gates had initially been a challenge but now that he was on palace grounds Arthur passed through with laughable ease. Everyone knew who he was. Or at least knew that he was important enough not to be delayed by security checks. They let him in easily, giving him access to the private areas without a word of protest.
On his way through the richly furnished halls, he managed to stop a maid, halting her amidst her cleaning duties.
“The queen is in, right? Tell him that Arthur Kirkland wishes to have an audience with her,” he said, sparing no thought of being polite or smiling.
The maid hesitated. She had no idea who this man was but she had often seen him with many important officials. “Uh...I will inform Her Majesty,” she curtsied and scurried off.
It was all so easy. So amazingly easily Arthur would have laughed but for the fact that his laughter had seemed stopped in his throat ever since his capture.
It took no time at all for the maid to come running back. There was a newfound obeisance in her manner as she bowed even lower. “Right this way please,” she led him to the throne room.
Without the usual gaggle of people to fill up the space, the throne room seemed larger and colder than Arthur remembered. The maid left him alone in the middle of it, facing the queen who sat on the throne in black, idly turning a decorative sword over and over in her hands.
Footsteps made hollow echoes against the hard floor. As Arthur approached, she left the sword on her lap, resting her hands above it, one on top of the other.
“I was expecting you,” she smiled, sitting erect.
“Your Highness,” Arthur performed an extravagant sweeping bow in deference to her. He lifted his head to gauge her reaction and mockingly smirked to see her smiling politely.
“I heard about what happened. I trust you are unharmed.”
“I have recovered enough,” he shrugged, straightening.
The queen clapped gloved hands together, the points of her fingers meeting in an arch that reminded him of an upside down victory. “That is truly wonderful to hear! You really are amazing, dear Arthur!”
The sound of that old, tender nickname made him wince. Fortunately, he did not think his reaction was visible enough for the queen to notice.
“Not at all. Your Highness is far more wonderful,” he bowed again. Years of watching Spenser fishing for Queen Elizabeth’s patronage had taught him how to give the most flattering lip service.
“And I am so glad that you favour old traditions. Queen Elizabeth was a wise woman to use pirates to do the dirty work,” he lifted himself up, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “But Queen Elizabeth was far more wonderful than you, old hag!”
Arthur’s expression of thinly veiled courtesy turned into disdain. For all the lack of emotion he had shown since his capture, his eyes now came alive with rage.
The queen, he was disappointed to see, remained unprovoked where others would have taken to the hills already.
“You are angry,” she swallowed up his insults in a wave of calmness, “but I too am doing what is best. Can you blame me, Arthur dear?”
XX
Notes:
Spenser: Refers to Edmund Spenser whose epic, unfinished poem The Faerie Queene is in praise of Queen Elizabeth...among other things.
Picturing the actual Queen of England being cunning and deceitful gives me the luls so feel free to imagine some fictitious AU queen. I know I am.
Getting past the hordes of protesters outside the gates had initially been a challenge but now that he was on palace grounds Arthur passed through with laughable ease. Everyone knew who he was. Or at least knew that he was important enough not to be delayed by security checks. They let him in easily, giving him access to the private areas without a word of protest.
On his way through the richly furnished halls, he managed to stop a maid, halting her amidst her cleaning duties.
“The queen is in, right? Tell him that Arthur Kirkland wishes to have an audience with her,” he said, sparing no thought of being polite or smiling.
The maid hesitated. She had no idea who this man was but she had often seen him with many important officials. “Uh...I will inform Her Majesty,” she curtsied and scurried off.
It was all so easy. So amazingly easily Arthur would have laughed but for the fact that his laughter had seemed stopped in his throat ever since his capture.
It took no time at all for the maid to come running back. There was a newfound obeisance in her manner as she bowed even lower. “Right this way please,” she led him to the throne room.
Without the usual gaggle of people to fill up the space, the throne room seemed larger and colder than Arthur remembered. The maid left him alone in the middle of it, facing the queen who sat on the throne in black, idly turning a decorative sword over and over in her hands.
Footsteps made hollow echoes against the hard floor. As Arthur approached, she left the sword on her lap, resting her hands above it, one on top of the other.
“I was expecting you,” she smiled, sitting erect.
“Your Highness,” Arthur performed an extravagant sweeping bow in deference to her. He lifted his head to gauge her reaction and mockingly smirked to see her smiling politely.
“I heard about what happened. I trust you are unharmed.”
“I have recovered enough,” he shrugged, straightening.
The queen clapped gloved hands together, the points of her fingers meeting in an arch that reminded him of an upside down victory. “That is truly wonderful to hear! You really are amazing, dear Arthur!”
The sound of that old, tender nickname made him wince. Fortunately, he did not think his reaction was visible enough for the queen to notice.
“Not at all. Your Highness is far more wonderful,” he bowed again. Years of watching Spenser fishing for Queen Elizabeth’s patronage had taught him how to give the most flattering lip service.
“And I am so glad that you favour old traditions. Queen Elizabeth was a wise woman to use pirates to do the dirty work,” he lifted himself up, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “But Queen Elizabeth was far more wonderful than you, old hag!”
Arthur’s expression of thinly veiled courtesy turned into disdain. For all the lack of emotion he had shown since his capture, his eyes now came alive with rage.
The queen, he was disappointed to see, remained unprovoked where others would have taken to the hills already.
“You are angry,” she swallowed up his insults in a wave of calmness, “but I too am doing what is best. Can you blame me, Arthur dear?”
XX
Notes:
Spenser: Refers to Edmund Spenser whose epic, unfinished poem The Faerie Queene is in praise of Queen Elizabeth...among other things.
Picturing the actual Queen of England being cunning and deceitful gives me the luls so feel free to imagine some fictitious AU queen. I know I am.
Arthur opened his mouth but did not know what to say. It had hurt, it hurt even remembering it now, that one of the few people he trusted, one he never thought would turn on him had deemed him disposable. It was the ultimate kick in the teeth. The humiliation was unbearable but the painful ache it had caused was far more potent than the burn of shame.
He struggled to hold back his anger and surprise. This was not the reply he had been expecting, he was almost resentful of her for not saying what he had thought she would. “But I am - ”
“These are sad times,” she interrupted him.
“Is your Majesty only a fair-weather friend?” he spat bitterly.
“The crown and the country go together hand in hand.”
“Then why - ”
“Do you remember – I suppose you do not,” the queen cut through him again. Arthur’s hands curled into trembling fists. “It was a few years ago and you have more than a few centuries worth of memories. However, maybe I can jolt something by reminding you about that time we met again in Hertfordshire.”
“I remember,” he replied automatically. His memory was not so bad that he could not remember what happened a few measly years ago.
“Then do you also remember what I asked you?”
“You asked me many things, Your Highness,” he replied curtly, his patience was wearing him and he had no idea what one thing had to do with the other.
The queen laughed derisively. Arthur noted with a wry smile that she still politely covered her mouth with her hand even when she was trying to be insulting. “I asked you, between the prime minister and I, if we both gave you contradictory orders who would you obey?” she reminded him.
“I said the prime minister. Even though you’re royalty the prime minister is technically my boss. You are...”
“Just a figure head,” she finished for him. “The crown and country go together hand in hand but you; it was you Arthur who betrayed me first.”
Arthur was not sure whether to burst into a fit of hysterics or throw something at her in anger. “That’s...” he struggled between the two, “I didn’t do any such thing! You expect me to – to believe that that was punishment for this so called ‘betrayal’? Are you that petty?” he cried, unable to wrap his head around her way of thinking.
“Punishment?” she laughed. “Of course not! However, it opened my eyes. I knew, finally, that between the two powers, you would not choose my side.”
Her eyes swept over the room, empty but for the two of them. Tilting her head to the side, she seemed pensive, almost wistful. Her hair was beginning to turn silver and her face wrinkle with age.
It was like a stab to the heart. Arthur remembered buying silk and velvet to drape over the throne in a mock re-enactment of the old Tudors, remembered childish shrieks of ‘off with her head!’ filling the room as he watched her, once a child, running through the halls. He crushed those memories and let them drift away on the air.
He struggled to hold back his anger and surprise. This was not the reply he had been expecting, he was almost resentful of her for not saying what he had thought she would. “But I am - ”
“These are sad times,” she interrupted him.
“Is your Majesty only a fair-weather friend?” he spat bitterly.
“The crown and the country go together hand in hand.”
“Then why - ”
“Do you remember – I suppose you do not,” the queen cut through him again. Arthur’s hands curled into trembling fists. “It was a few years ago and you have more than a few centuries worth of memories. However, maybe I can jolt something by reminding you about that time we met again in Hertfordshire.”
“I remember,” he replied automatically. His memory was not so bad that he could not remember what happened a few measly years ago.
“Then do you also remember what I asked you?”
“You asked me many things, Your Highness,” he replied curtly, his patience was wearing him and he had no idea what one thing had to do with the other.
The queen laughed derisively. Arthur noted with a wry smile that she still politely covered her mouth with her hand even when she was trying to be insulting. “I asked you, between the prime minister and I, if we both gave you contradictory orders who would you obey?” she reminded him.
“I said the prime minister. Even though you’re royalty the prime minister is technically my boss. You are...”
“Just a figure head,” she finished for him. “The crown and country go together hand in hand but you; it was you Arthur who betrayed me first.”
Arthur was not sure whether to burst into a fit of hysterics or throw something at her in anger. “That’s...” he struggled between the two, “I didn’t do any such thing! You expect me to – to believe that that was punishment for this so called ‘betrayal’? Are you that petty?” he cried, unable to wrap his head around her way of thinking.
“Punishment?” she laughed. “Of course not! However, it opened my eyes. I knew, finally, that between the two powers, you would not choose my side.”
Her eyes swept over the room, empty but for the two of them. Tilting her head to the side, she seemed pensive, almost wistful. Her hair was beginning to turn silver and her face wrinkle with age.
It was like a stab to the heart. Arthur remembered buying silk and velvet to drape over the throne in a mock re-enactment of the old Tudors, remembered childish shrieks of ‘off with her head!’ filling the room as he watched her, once a child, running through the halls. He crushed those memories and let them drift away on the air.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!! I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING.
POOR ARTHUR, MY GOD!!!!
POOR ARTHUR, MY GOD!!!!
Ooh, the cliffhangers. I guess I must be kind of masochistic to be loving them (and you) so much.
...0____________o
dammit author! anon your plots never cease to amaze me !!!!
dammit author! anon your plots never cease to amaze me !!!!
“There could be a revolt,” she murmured. Arthur remembered the hoards of protesters blocking his way in.
“Before that happens, it is my wish to start afresh, to be able to lead this nation, to succeed where this current government has failed. I want a restored and complete monarchy,” her smile turned bitter. “If you are not with me, dear Arthur, you are against me.”
A new wave of anger surged far enough to overcome foolish sentimentality. “I – I am the country, old hag!” he snarled with renewed strength. “If you are not with me, you are against me?! I should say the same to you! A queen going against her country, what a sick joke!”
“You are misinterpreting things,” she replied calmly. “You, who have all that bitter bloodstained past, must also be wiped clean if we are to start anew. We should give rise to a new England, a better one. Besides, the fate of a human nation should belong in human hands, would you not agree?”
Arthur wished nothing more than to be gone. This talk was beginning to make him feel nauseous but he had to settle things here.
“...No, I don’t. The way you think is all wrong. You want to restore power to the monarchy? You just want to become a dictator!” he shouted accusations that pelted off of the queen’s impregnable composure. “I’ve seen a thousand revolutions so I know, even though they want to destroy what has come before and start completely anew there will always be the past.”
“That is why you are not needed, you who carry all that unnecessary baggage. Please do not take this personally, dear Arthur, but this is for the country we both love. Let us destroy it and rebuild it anew. I am tired of watching the government trip over the trails of their own corruption. If it were me, if I were in charge...”
The first traces of hesitation flickered across her face, but before Arthur could seize it she had smothered the feeling.
“Arthur, don’t you love this country?”
“No,” he tried to laugh but was afraid he would hurl instead. He was feeling dizzy. “Not anymore,” he said coldly.
He had to do this now, while he still had possession of his senses. He wanted to do this knowing exactly what it meant, not lost to the storms of wild passion. Reaching into his coat he drew a long kitchen knife. He never had to go through security checks otherwise he would surely have been caught in possession of such a large thing.
The queen smiled, not the least intimidated by the sudden appearance of the knife. She picked up the sword from her lap, casually reminding him that she too was armed.
Arthur grinned in retaliation, giving the blade a few test swings. It whistled as it sliced through the air.
“I chopped off Charles’ head when he got out of hand. I can do the same to you.”
“And look what happened after you did. You really do not learn from the past, do you, dear Arthur?”
Arthur grin widened. His heart was pounding. Yes, this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, to see that glorious red again, just as he had on that day that stupid maid had died. This was what he wanted. He would put those stupid, arrogant humans in their place. He would show them that he – he and no one else – was their country.
He stepped forward, slowly at first, gaining momentum as he raced up the small steps toward the throne. The queen stood up sharply, drawing the blade in defence but it was in vain. Stupid human, his mind crowed victoriously. The stupid human thought she could go against him!
I do not want children who cannot play nice, Ivan had told him when he asked about Bloody Sunday. As crazy as he took him for then, he had had the right idea. He smiled at that thought, smiled as wide as he could.
Arthur swung the blade high above his head, plunging it down with such force that the air wailed.
He laughed with glee, already seeing the blood that would flow out freely. Wasn’t red the colour of kings?
Notes:
Charles: Refers to Charles I who was beheaded
'And look what happened after you did': After Charles was beheaded Cromwell became Lord Protector, which practically gave him the same absolute authority as a monarch. After his death, England restored its monarchy. The queen is suggesting that getting rid of the monarchy in the first place was pointless.
“Before that happens, it is my wish to start afresh, to be able to lead this nation, to succeed where this current government has failed. I want a restored and complete monarchy,” her smile turned bitter. “If you are not with me, dear Arthur, you are against me.”
A new wave of anger surged far enough to overcome foolish sentimentality. “I – I am the country, old hag!” he snarled with renewed strength. “If you are not with me, you are against me?! I should say the same to you! A queen going against her country, what a sick joke!”
“You are misinterpreting things,” she replied calmly. “You, who have all that bitter bloodstained past, must also be wiped clean if we are to start anew. We should give rise to a new England, a better one. Besides, the fate of a human nation should belong in human hands, would you not agree?”
Arthur wished nothing more than to be gone. This talk was beginning to make him feel nauseous but he had to settle things here.
“...No, I don’t. The way you think is all wrong. You want to restore power to the monarchy? You just want to become a dictator!” he shouted accusations that pelted off of the queen’s impregnable composure. “I’ve seen a thousand revolutions so I know, even though they want to destroy what has come before and start completely anew there will always be the past.”
“That is why you are not needed, you who carry all that unnecessary baggage. Please do not take this personally, dear Arthur, but this is for the country we both love. Let us destroy it and rebuild it anew. I am tired of watching the government trip over the trails of their own corruption. If it were me, if I were in charge...”
The first traces of hesitation flickered across her face, but before Arthur could seize it she had smothered the feeling.
“Arthur, don’t you love this country?”
“No,” he tried to laugh but was afraid he would hurl instead. He was feeling dizzy. “Not anymore,” he said coldly.
He had to do this now, while he still had possession of his senses. He wanted to do this knowing exactly what it meant, not lost to the storms of wild passion. Reaching into his coat he drew a long kitchen knife. He never had to go through security checks otherwise he would surely have been caught in possession of such a large thing.
The queen smiled, not the least intimidated by the sudden appearance of the knife. She picked up the sword from her lap, casually reminding him that she too was armed.
Arthur grinned in retaliation, giving the blade a few test swings. It whistled as it sliced through the air.
“I chopped off Charles’ head when he got out of hand. I can do the same to you.”
“And look what happened after you did. You really do not learn from the past, do you, dear Arthur?”
Arthur grin widened. His heart was pounding. Yes, this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Yes, to see that glorious red again, just as he had on that day that stupid maid had died. This was what he wanted. He would put those stupid, arrogant humans in their place. He would show them that he – he and no one else – was their country.
He stepped forward, slowly at first, gaining momentum as he raced up the small steps toward the throne. The queen stood up sharply, drawing the blade in defence but it was in vain. Stupid human, his mind crowed victoriously. The stupid human thought she could go against him!
I do not want children who cannot play nice, Ivan had told him when he asked about Bloody Sunday. As crazy as he took him for then, he had had the right idea. He smiled at that thought, smiled as wide as he could.
Arthur swung the blade high above his head, plunging it down with such force that the air wailed.
He laughed with glee, already seeing the blood that would flow out freely. Wasn’t red the colour of kings?
Notes:
Charles: Refers to Charles I who was beheaded
'And look what happened after you did': After Charles was beheaded Cromwell became Lord Protector, which practically gave him the same absolute authority as a monarch. After his death, England restored its monarchy. The queen is suggesting that getting rid of the monarchy in the first place was pointless.
XX
Alfred hated security checks. He had wasted a fair amount of time trying to stop those beefeaters or porkeaters or whatever they were from manhandling him. When he finally managed to locate Arthur, he raced into the throne room, throwing the door wide open.
“Arthur!”
He saw the knife gleaming, he saw the blade descending, he saw the crying, half-crazed smile on Arthur’s face, and he threw himself forward.
“St – Stop it! Please, stop it, Arthur!” he cried with as much strength as he could muster, flinging out his hand as if to catch him.
The knife’s descent froze in mid-air. Hands trembled. Alfred paused, barely daring to hope that his words had finally reached him.
Slowly, Arthur turned his head to face him, the rest of his body remaining paralysed. “...A – Alfred?” he whispered, barely believing what he was seeing. The knife fell from his hands, clattering besides the queen’s head where she had stumbled and fallen.
Sensing an opening, Alfred stepped closer, opening his arms wide as he implored him. “Don’t do this! You’ll only regret it if you do!”
“Alfred?” Arthur’s full attention was finally on him. Were those tears he could see? Arthur shook his head hopelessly. “You don’t underst - ”
Alfred halted, frozen. He thought he could see the world falling apart in front of his eyes. Arthur was no longer looking at him. He was looking at his queen. More specifically, he was looking at the blade of the sword his queen held in her hand, the blade which was buried into his side.
Arthur slowly straightened, taking one, two, three steps backward. The long blade piercing him followed. He placed trembling hands on the hilt, winced, and pulled it out, letting his blood run down the blade and onto the floor.
Alfred was sure that he needed to breathe but he could not. How could he think about breathing when the world was spinning and Arthur was – Arthur had been –
His nails pierced the palms of his hands, drawing blood, but that was nothing compared to the red stain slowly spreading across Arthur’s shirt or the blood trickling down his mouth. Arthur looked at him and, for the first time in an eternity, he gazed upon him gently. Smiling as if to say; ‘I told you so’ the sword clattered on the floor as he collapsed.
Alfred hated security checks. He had wasted a fair amount of time trying to stop those beefeaters or porkeaters or whatever they were from manhandling him. When he finally managed to locate Arthur, he raced into the throne room, throwing the door wide open.
“Arthur!”
He saw the knife gleaming, he saw the blade descending, he saw the crying, half-crazed smile on Arthur’s face, and he threw himself forward.
“St – Stop it! Please, stop it, Arthur!” he cried with as much strength as he could muster, flinging out his hand as if to catch him.
The knife’s descent froze in mid-air. Hands trembled. Alfred paused, barely daring to hope that his words had finally reached him.
Slowly, Arthur turned his head to face him, the rest of his body remaining paralysed. “...A – Alfred?” he whispered, barely believing what he was seeing. The knife fell from his hands, clattering besides the queen’s head where she had stumbled and fallen.
Sensing an opening, Alfred stepped closer, opening his arms wide as he implored him. “Don’t do this! You’ll only regret it if you do!”
“Alfred?” Arthur’s full attention was finally on him. Were those tears he could see? Arthur shook his head hopelessly. “You don’t underst - ”
Alfred halted, frozen. He thought he could see the world falling apart in front of his eyes. Arthur was no longer looking at him. He was looking at his queen. More specifically, he was looking at the blade of the sword his queen held in her hand, the blade which was buried into his side.
Arthur slowly straightened, taking one, two, three steps backward. The long blade piercing him followed. He placed trembling hands on the hilt, winced, and pulled it out, letting his blood run down the blade and onto the floor.
Alfred was sure that he needed to breathe but he could not. How could he think about breathing when the world was spinning and Arthur was – Arthur had been –
His nails pierced the palms of his hands, drawing blood, but that was nothing compared to the red stain slowly spreading across Arthur’s shirt or the blood trickling down his mouth. Arthur looked at him and, for the first time in an eternity, he gazed upon him gently. Smiling as if to say; ‘I told you so’ the sword clattered on the floor as he collapsed.
SDHJSKHFSDGHAG\DSHA
... that´s pretty much all I can say. I *wish* there was more confort, but things are so balanced this way (the plot, of course. Not the characters. Poor Arhur is totally losing it) that I don´t know where the hugs and fluff would fit.
(not that I don´t want it, poor Arthur, someone please hugs him for me).
Anyway, I totally didn´t see this coming. Your plot twists are amazing and so is your writing skills and I love you and want to marry you. Please WRITE MOAR soon.
... that´s pretty much all I can say. I *wish* there was more confort, but things are so balanced this way (the plot, of course. Not the characters. Poor Arhur is totally losing it) that I don´t know where the hugs and fluff would fit.
(not that I don´t want it, poor Arthur, someone please hugs him for me).
Anyway, I totally didn´t see this coming. Your plot twists are amazing and so is your writing skills and I love you and want to marry you. Please WRITE MOAR soon.
0___________________________0
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
DAMN ITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
DAMN ITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!
Brit!anon is finding it absolutely horrid that she is now wishing death upon the queen. Terribly, terribly horrid...
*starts chanting god save the queen over and over, and continues reading*
*starts chanting god save the queen over and over, and continues reading*
You anon, do not cease to amaze me. I love this, so much. You have no idea.
God, my internet is finally working! Stupid thing wasn't cooperating all day!
First thing I did was check this, and BAM! I get hit with a cliffhanger!!!! ARTHUR NOOO!!!!!!!
Oh Writer!Anon, I love you ♥
First thing I did was check this, and BAM! I get hit with a cliffhanger!!!! ARTHUR NOOO!!!!!!!
Oh Writer!Anon, I love you ♥
OMFG
That's all I can say rigth now... my mind is blown, anon. You must de-anon when this is done, so I can stalk you and fangirl you.
(...Arthur can't be dead, right?? RIGHT?!!! PLEEEEEASE!!!!!)
That's all I can say rigth now... my mind is blown, anon. You must de-anon when this is done, so I can stalk you and fangirl you.
(...Arthur can't be dead, right?? RIGHT?!!! PLEEEEEASE!!!!!)
Whatever was preventing Alfred from moving released him now. He rushed forward as Arthur fell, catching him before he hit the ground. The smell of blood invaded his nose, making his head swim.
“A – Arthur?” Alfred had enough sense not to jolt him. They sank to the ground together, Alfred holding on to Arthur’s body even as he felt the warmness of blood seeping into his own shirt as well.
He would have cried, except that he was in too much shock to do so. His trembling hands held Arthur close, burying his face in Arthur’s hair despite the overwhelming stench of blood.
Arthur’s eyes cracked open. He face was already losing its colour but he managed to gather enough strength to focus on the queen’s distant figure.
“Why?” his voice cracked under the strain of speaking. “I...served you. I went to war for you. I...bled for you...so...so...” His voice gave out half-way. Arthur reached out trembling, blood-stained hands as if to grasp her but Alfred blocked them with his own, fingers curling together.
The queen still remained on the floor, trembling at the sight of blood. She had not fully realised the implications of her goal. She had hoped that she would not be there to see Arthur’s undoing or, if she was, that somehow his blood would look different; not red, not like a human’s blood.
“Did you think that this was easy for me?” she almost shrieked but deciding that he voice would attract unwanted attention, quivered instead. “What else could I do? They took away all the monarchy’s power, all its real power! I didn’t want to sit and watch anymore so I – so I wanted to change everything, start anew!”
Alfred could stand this no longer. Although he had not heard half of what had been exchanged he could not care less. What mattered was Arthur.
“We’re leaving!” he announced. Scooping him up, he was hit by an unwelcome sense of de-ja-vu. This had been just like the day he had found Arthur kidnapped by the pirates. Fear wormed its way into his gut. Just how would this affect Arthur’s mind now?
“No! You won’t go anywhere!” the queen’s voice echoed, picking up Arthur’s fallen knife.
The look Alfred gave her was so ferocious she gasped and dropped the knife in shock, backing away. He wished someone else could see her now; a dishevelled, feeble woman.
“Do you really want to risk hurting me? I think you know what implications that will have on your foreign relations,” he said icily and offered her a smile that could compete with even Ivan’s.
“You should think about the implications of your actions as well! You are interfering in something that is none of your business!” The queen cried, managing to somewhat pull back her composure
Alfred gave her a cold glare. “My boss would not object to this. I am simply aiding an ally.”
He was not sure if the queen really cared about foreign powers at this point or is she was just too stunned to react but, for all the trouble it often caused him, when no one stopped him despite the incriminating picture he painted, he was never so thankful that he was a superpower.
XX
“A – Arthur?” Alfred had enough sense not to jolt him. They sank to the ground together, Alfred holding on to Arthur’s body even as he felt the warmness of blood seeping into his own shirt as well.
He would have cried, except that he was in too much shock to do so. His trembling hands held Arthur close, burying his face in Arthur’s hair despite the overwhelming stench of blood.
Arthur’s eyes cracked open. He face was already losing its colour but he managed to gather enough strength to focus on the queen’s distant figure.
“Why?” his voice cracked under the strain of speaking. “I...served you. I went to war for you. I...bled for you...so...so...” His voice gave out half-way. Arthur reached out trembling, blood-stained hands as if to grasp her but Alfred blocked them with his own, fingers curling together.
The queen still remained on the floor, trembling at the sight of blood. She had not fully realised the implications of her goal. She had hoped that she would not be there to see Arthur’s undoing or, if she was, that somehow his blood would look different; not red, not like a human’s blood.
“Did you think that this was easy for me?” she almost shrieked but deciding that he voice would attract unwanted attention, quivered instead. “What else could I do? They took away all the monarchy’s power, all its real power! I didn’t want to sit and watch anymore so I – so I wanted to change everything, start anew!”
Alfred could stand this no longer. Although he had not heard half of what had been exchanged he could not care less. What mattered was Arthur.
“We’re leaving!” he announced. Scooping him up, he was hit by an unwelcome sense of de-ja-vu. This had been just like the day he had found Arthur kidnapped by the pirates. Fear wormed its way into his gut. Just how would this affect Arthur’s mind now?
“No! You won’t go anywhere!” the queen’s voice echoed, picking up Arthur’s fallen knife.
The look Alfred gave her was so ferocious she gasped and dropped the knife in shock, backing away. He wished someone else could see her now; a dishevelled, feeble woman.
“Do you really want to risk hurting me? I think you know what implications that will have on your foreign relations,” he said icily and offered her a smile that could compete with even Ivan’s.
“You should think about the implications of your actions as well! You are interfering in something that is none of your business!” The queen cried, managing to somewhat pull back her composure
Alfred gave her a cold glare. “My boss would not object to this. I am simply aiding an ally.”
He was not sure if the queen really cared about foreign powers at this point or is she was just too stunned to react but, for all the trouble it often caused him, when no one stopped him despite the incriminating picture he painted, he was never so thankful that he was a superpower.
XX
He almost collapsed under pressure the moment they made it back. It took a moment to sick in that they had really made it to safe ground. He would have laughed when he saw everyone’s pale, shocked faces except even he could not see anything funny about this situation.
Alfred stayed by Arthur’s bed side ever since he returned with him, only leaving to shower and change his blood-stained clothes. When Yao announced that Arthur’s life was not in danger but he had lost a lot of blood and would probably need a transfusion, Alfred had stayed by Arthur’s side for that too. He was not going to make past mistakes; he would watch Arthur like a hawk this time.
“Arthur,” he murmured, watching him as he slept. He looked completely innocent like this, at peace with the world, as he did before everything went wrong.
Alfred dug his nails into the palms of his hands. “Don’t you dare make that face at me; I’m angry at you!” he fiercely whispered at Arthur’s sleeping face. “You knew who did this to you, you knew all this time and yet you didn’t say a word to me or to anyone else! I could have helped you! I could have saved you! I could have...I could have done something to...”
It was no use thinking about what could have been. What was done was done and Alfred knew that there was no going back. No use crying over spilt milk; wasn’t that what Arthur used to say? He had to look ahead, to the future.
Yet when he tried Alfred could no longer see the light he had been holding on to.
XX
They tightened security to such a degree that Arthur’s home seemed more like a fortress. Alfred did not care whether Arthur would complain about the wires or the drilled holes in the wall or the mounted cameras on the trees, he would let Kiku turn the whole house into a giant robot if that was what was needed to keep intruders out.
Ludwig brought some personnel from Germany to guard the perimeter in case the queen decided to send that woman or any others to do her dirty work, though Francis pointed out that her hands would be full with the rising tension and protests.
Alfred had no idea what was happening to the country, neither did he care but for the fact that it would probably affect Arthur in some way. He stayed with him, watching over Arthur as he slept and tried not to think too much lest he do something that he would regret.
He was still sleeping mostly. At times Arthur would wake up, though not fully conscious, and look at him with weary, unfocused eyes that would threaten to break Alfred’s heart. He knew that Arthur was just delirious and needed time to recover but those eyes never failed to pierce right through him.
When Arthur was finally well enough to sit up and eat without help, he never said anything. He was perfectly docile, perfectly obedient, but completely silent. Alfred knew that he should not complain when Arthur was steadily healing but often he had to rush out of the room for no explicable reason to stop himself from breaking down in front of him.
XX
Alfred stayed by Arthur’s bed side ever since he returned with him, only leaving to shower and change his blood-stained clothes. When Yao announced that Arthur’s life was not in danger but he had lost a lot of blood and would probably need a transfusion, Alfred had stayed by Arthur’s side for that too. He was not going to make past mistakes; he would watch Arthur like a hawk this time.
“Arthur,” he murmured, watching him as he slept. He looked completely innocent like this, at peace with the world, as he did before everything went wrong.
Alfred dug his nails into the palms of his hands. “Don’t you dare make that face at me; I’m angry at you!” he fiercely whispered at Arthur’s sleeping face. “You knew who did this to you, you knew all this time and yet you didn’t say a word to me or to anyone else! I could have helped you! I could have saved you! I could have...I could have done something to...”
It was no use thinking about what could have been. What was done was done and Alfred knew that there was no going back. No use crying over spilt milk; wasn’t that what Arthur used to say? He had to look ahead, to the future.
Yet when he tried Alfred could no longer see the light he had been holding on to.
XX
They tightened security to such a degree that Arthur’s home seemed more like a fortress. Alfred did not care whether Arthur would complain about the wires or the drilled holes in the wall or the mounted cameras on the trees, he would let Kiku turn the whole house into a giant robot if that was what was needed to keep intruders out.
Ludwig brought some personnel from Germany to guard the perimeter in case the queen decided to send that woman or any others to do her dirty work, though Francis pointed out that her hands would be full with the rising tension and protests.
Alfred had no idea what was happening to the country, neither did he care but for the fact that it would probably affect Arthur in some way. He stayed with him, watching over Arthur as he slept and tried not to think too much lest he do something that he would regret.
He was still sleeping mostly. At times Arthur would wake up, though not fully conscious, and look at him with weary, unfocused eyes that would threaten to break Alfred’s heart. He knew that Arthur was just delirious and needed time to recover but those eyes never failed to pierce right through him.
When Arthur was finally well enough to sit up and eat without help, he never said anything. He was perfectly docile, perfectly obedient, but completely silent. Alfred knew that he should not complain when Arthur was steadily healing but often he had to rush out of the room for no explicable reason to stop himself from breaking down in front of him.
XX
F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5FF5— *breaks F5 key*
I don't know how I've survived without reading this! Writer anon I'm at lost of words on the amounts of awesome this fill is flowing with. The PLOT, the villians, the team work, the angst, ARTHUR~ D:
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
EF FIVESSSS FOREVER!!!~~~~ *F5s*
EF FIVESSSS FOREVER!!!~~~~ *F5s*
XX
“What’s going on?” Alfred asked, finding Francis in one of the guest rooms leaning out of the open window to stare at something. Francis spared him a glance then bid him come closer.
Alfred stepped besides him. He took off his glasses, polished them and put the back on, squinting to see.
It was a flag, the Union Jack to be precise, but for the lion of England plastered across it in bright gold and, faintly but distinctly, the chant of ‘God Save the Queen’ was clashing with roars of ‘democracy’, ‘freedom’ and ‘fight fascism’.
“What’s that?” he asked, slightly unnerved. It had not been more than a week since his return from Buckingham but even he could not lock himself away from the unrest he felt growing on the air.
Francis breathed an audible sigh. “You do not watch the news, do you?”
“It’s depressing,” Alfred pouted. Besides, he did not want to risk the chance of Arthur overhearing something that might set him off again.
“That,” Francis gestured to the flag flying above the rooftops, “is bad news. Or good, depending on what happens next.”
Alfred wanted to ask just how it could possibly be good. “Close the window,” he ordered. “Draw all the curtains! I don’t want Arthur to see th - ”
They both started at the sound of something crashing just next door. They shared a brief look. Francis shook his head in response.
“Too late, mon ami.”
XX
“What’s going on?” Alfred asked, finding Francis in one of the guest rooms leaning out of the open window to stare at something. Francis spared him a glance then bid him come closer.
Alfred stepped besides him. He took off his glasses, polished them and put the back on, squinting to see.
It was a flag, the Union Jack to be precise, but for the lion of England plastered across it in bright gold and, faintly but distinctly, the chant of ‘God Save the Queen’ was clashing with roars of ‘democracy’, ‘freedom’ and ‘fight fascism’.
“What’s that?” he asked, slightly unnerved. It had not been more than a week since his return from Buckingham but even he could not lock himself away from the unrest he felt growing on the air.
Francis breathed an audible sigh. “You do not watch the news, do you?”
“It’s depressing,” Alfred pouted. Besides, he did not want to risk the chance of Arthur overhearing something that might set him off again.
“That,” Francis gestured to the flag flying above the rooftops, “is bad news. Or good, depending on what happens next.”
Alfred wanted to ask just how it could possibly be good. “Close the window,” he ordered. “Draw all the curtains! I don’t want Arthur to see th - ”
They both started at the sound of something crashing just next door. They shared a brief look. Francis shook his head in response.
“Too late, mon ami.”
XX
When he rushed back to the room, Alfred almost had a heart attack.
“Arthur? Dammit Arthur, what are you doing?” he rushed into the room as a decorative plate soared and smashed into pieces above his head.
Arthur was wrecking everything and anything in the room, smashing it to pieces in blind rage.
“I hate it! I hate it!” he cried, destroying everything, shattering teacups, photo frames, crystal glasses; everything that he once found precious shattered to the floor.
Alfred did not think that he even knew what he was breaking anymore, too blinded by tears to see, too numbed by pain to think.
“What did I do that was so wrong?” he continued to cry. “Didn’t I serve them? Didn’t I try hard enough? Even in the financial crisis, I suffered too! I was sick too! Didn’t I try to help? Didn’t I suffer as well?!”
Alfred tried to approach him without being bludgeoned by the metal bat. Just where had he found that anyway?
“You did! You hurt more than anyone else!” he cried. Noticing the bandages around Arthur’s side beginning to turn red again, he rushed forward. He would risk potential brain damage if he could just stop Arthur from his blind rampage. “Arthur your wound is bleeding again! Stop!”
To Alfred’s surprise he lowered the bat, panting heavily. “Then – Then why did – why did..?” he gasped, struggling to breathe and speak.
“Arthur, stop!” Alfred grabbed the bat out of his hand, flinging it far to the ground. He wrapped his arms around him, refusing to let go as they sank to the floor. “It’s enough...it’s enough, you’ve done everything you could...” he murmured, stroking the back of Arthur’s head.
Arthur’s body shook with tears. He still had enough obstinate pride to try and keep them suppressed but the effort only made his body quiver more violently. “What did I do wrong?” he managed to ask; a question wrenched from between gritted teeth.
“You didn’t do anything wrong! They’re the ones who are at fault.”
Arthur pounded his fists against Alfred’s chest. “Damn it! Damn them! Damn them! Even I! Even I...”
Alfred took the beating without protest. He simply held him tighter. His shirt had once been stained with Arthur’s blood and now it was drenched with his tears. “Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s okay,” he continued to murmur over the sound of Arthur’s suppressed sobs.
He was not sure how long they stayed like that; the two of them holding on to each other like survivors after a storm. Alfred was not even sure at what point Arthur’s fatigue caught up with him and sent him to sleep again.
Those bandages would have to be changed again, he thought to himself. Returning Arthur to his bed, he took it upon himself to deal with the wound rather than call Kiku or Yao. He did not know why, but for some reason he felt that calling someone from the outside would have destroyed what fragile balance they had managed to maintain here.
Alfred gently stroked Arthur’s hair, brushing a few odd strands away from his eyes. Why did he only look at peace now? Leaning over, he pushed the hair out of the way and placed a kiss on Arthur’s forehead.
Outside, the streets roared with angry cries but inside, enclose within the protective walls of Arthur’s room, it was completely silent.
“Arthur? Dammit Arthur, what are you doing?” he rushed into the room as a decorative plate soared and smashed into pieces above his head.
Arthur was wrecking everything and anything in the room, smashing it to pieces in blind rage.
“I hate it! I hate it!” he cried, destroying everything, shattering teacups, photo frames, crystal glasses; everything that he once found precious shattered to the floor.
Alfred did not think that he even knew what he was breaking anymore, too blinded by tears to see, too numbed by pain to think.
“What did I do that was so wrong?” he continued to cry. “Didn’t I serve them? Didn’t I try hard enough? Even in the financial crisis, I suffered too! I was sick too! Didn’t I try to help? Didn’t I suffer as well?!”
Alfred tried to approach him without being bludgeoned by the metal bat. Just where had he found that anyway?
“You did! You hurt more than anyone else!” he cried. Noticing the bandages around Arthur’s side beginning to turn red again, he rushed forward. He would risk potential brain damage if he could just stop Arthur from his blind rampage. “Arthur your wound is bleeding again! Stop!”
To Alfred’s surprise he lowered the bat, panting heavily. “Then – Then why did – why did..?” he gasped, struggling to breathe and speak.
“Arthur, stop!” Alfred grabbed the bat out of his hand, flinging it far to the ground. He wrapped his arms around him, refusing to let go as they sank to the floor. “It’s enough...it’s enough, you’ve done everything you could...” he murmured, stroking the back of Arthur’s head.
Arthur’s body shook with tears. He still had enough obstinate pride to try and keep them suppressed but the effort only made his body quiver more violently. “What did I do wrong?” he managed to ask; a question wrenched from between gritted teeth.
“You didn’t do anything wrong! They’re the ones who are at fault.”
Arthur pounded his fists against Alfred’s chest. “Damn it! Damn them! Damn them! Even I! Even I...”
Alfred took the beating without protest. He simply held him tighter. His shirt had once been stained with Arthur’s blood and now it was drenched with his tears. “Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s okay,” he continued to murmur over the sound of Arthur’s suppressed sobs.
He was not sure how long they stayed like that; the two of them holding on to each other like survivors after a storm. Alfred was not even sure at what point Arthur’s fatigue caught up with him and sent him to sleep again.
Those bandages would have to be changed again, he thought to himself. Returning Arthur to his bed, he took it upon himself to deal with the wound rather than call Kiku or Yao. He did not know why, but for some reason he felt that calling someone from the outside would have destroyed what fragile balance they had managed to maintain here.
Alfred gently stroked Arthur’s hair, brushing a few odd strands away from his eyes. Why did he only look at peace now? Leaning over, he pushed the hair out of the way and placed a kiss on Arthur’s forehead.
Outside, the streets roared with angry cries but inside, enclose within the protective walls of Arthur’s room, it was completely silent.
Poor Arthur, I hope things work out....
;A;
;A;
How awful for Arthur. ;^;
Alfred, keep taking care of him. Make sure he doesn't do anything else stupid!
Alfred, keep taking care of him. Make sure he doesn't do anything else stupid!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Author anon! you have got my attention for the nth time the developements oof each parts are awesome!
Author anon! you have got my attention for the nth time the developements oof each parts are awesome!
If Arthur’s breakdown had been good for anything, it seemed to have released his tongue along with all those pent up emotions. Alfred even entertained the vaguest notion of hope when Arthur began to talk as he had once done. Although things were not quite the same, at least he was not as cold was he was before.
However, if Arthur was calming down, the atmosphere in the city was growing more violent. The tenseness threatened to snap. It came to a point when Alfred could not walk outside without running into a horde of protesters.
The peaceful protests would turn into riots and the police would be called out with tear gas and riot gear. Alfred only barely managed to escape getting caught up in one when he went out shopping for supplies.
“What’s going on?” Arthur was curious enough to break his silence when Alfred came diving into his room, cursing and wiping off bits of banana peel from his coat.
Alfred turned wrenched his gaze away from him. Ever since he was little, he was never able to lie with a straight face, especially not to Arthur of all people, who had an uncanny sixth sense for these sorts of things.
“Arthur, no matter what, it’s going to be okay!” He wished he did not have to yell that at the floor.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s crazy! They came out publicly about reforming the government and returning to a monarchy. My boss is against it because it’s not democratic but you’ll be surprised how much support it has both nationally and internationally. People are desperate. Right now, public opinion in the UK is divided between the Royalists in favour of the change and the Civils who are standing by the government.”
As flustered and unable to think properly as he was, Alfred’s blood ran cold when he heard Arthur say the two words he had never thought he would hear.
“Civil war.”
“What?” Alfred turned to him, horrified.
“I have a feeling that things will probably amount to a civil war,” Arthur repeated, strangle calm.
Alfred stuttered trying to find the right words to express his fear. “No...why?!” he demanded, angrily punching the nearest wall. Arthur flinched at the moment of contact, turning away from the sight of bleeding knuckles.
“This is...too much! This is too much! Can’t they see how much this is tormenting you?” Alfred hissed, shaking out the pain trilling up his hand.
A bitter smile tugged at Arthur’s lips. “Humans are selfish, didn’t I say so?”
Alfred turned to him and bit his lip. He did not want Arthur returning to his hatred and disgust of humans, not now when it seemed to have simmered. There was no need to awaken that sleeping lion.
“Even if they are you still can’t turn your back on your nation! Even Russia loves his own people!” he cried, gripping Arthur’s shoulders though he could not run anyway. “When you were betrayed, it hurt, didn’t it? You still care for people deep down though! If you didn’t why would it hurt when you confronted the queen? Why did you ask her why? Why did you plead with her if you really didn’t care?”
Arthur glared at him. A small bubble of anger rose to his throat. What did Alfred know about anything? How could he lecture him as if he had any idea what he went through and yet why did it hurt to hear those words?
“Stop it,” he said curtly, staring at Alfred in warning, though Alfred was never one to read the signs properly.
“You hesitated,” he continued obliviously. “You didn’t kill her because you still cared for her! Because you were worried what would happen to your people if their queen suddenly died!”
“Shut up,” he hissed, hoping a fiercer tone would halt Alfred’s tongue.
“It hurt, didn’t it? Thinking about what would happen to your people. It hurt didn’t it?!”
“Shut up.”
“That was why you were crying last night, because you still cared!”
“Shut up!” Arthur finally cried, flinging an arm at him to push him away. Only Alfred could make him snap the way he did. Only Alfred and his idiocy. “God dammit, you insensitive git, can’t you shut up for a minute?!”
Alfred jumped back to avoid the blow and hovered around the bed trying not to look worried. “Arthur...” he breathed, only barely stopping himself from reaching out again lest he be cruelly shoved back again.
However, if Arthur was calming down, the atmosphere in the city was growing more violent. The tenseness threatened to snap. It came to a point when Alfred could not walk outside without running into a horde of protesters.
The peaceful protests would turn into riots and the police would be called out with tear gas and riot gear. Alfred only barely managed to escape getting caught up in one when he went out shopping for supplies.
“What’s going on?” Arthur was curious enough to break his silence when Alfred came diving into his room, cursing and wiping off bits of banana peel from his coat.
Alfred turned wrenched his gaze away from him. Ever since he was little, he was never able to lie with a straight face, especially not to Arthur of all people, who had an uncanny sixth sense for these sorts of things.
“Arthur, no matter what, it’s going to be okay!” He wished he did not have to yell that at the floor.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s crazy! They came out publicly about reforming the government and returning to a monarchy. My boss is against it because it’s not democratic but you’ll be surprised how much support it has both nationally and internationally. People are desperate. Right now, public opinion in the UK is divided between the Royalists in favour of the change and the Civils who are standing by the government.”
As flustered and unable to think properly as he was, Alfred’s blood ran cold when he heard Arthur say the two words he had never thought he would hear.
“Civil war.”
“What?” Alfred turned to him, horrified.
“I have a feeling that things will probably amount to a civil war,” Arthur repeated, strangle calm.
Alfred stuttered trying to find the right words to express his fear. “No...why?!” he demanded, angrily punching the nearest wall. Arthur flinched at the moment of contact, turning away from the sight of bleeding knuckles.
“This is...too much! This is too much! Can’t they see how much this is tormenting you?” Alfred hissed, shaking out the pain trilling up his hand.
A bitter smile tugged at Arthur’s lips. “Humans are selfish, didn’t I say so?”
Alfred turned to him and bit his lip. He did not want Arthur returning to his hatred and disgust of humans, not now when it seemed to have simmered. There was no need to awaken that sleeping lion.
“Even if they are you still can’t turn your back on your nation! Even Russia loves his own people!” he cried, gripping Arthur’s shoulders though he could not run anyway. “When you were betrayed, it hurt, didn’t it? You still care for people deep down though! If you didn’t why would it hurt when you confronted the queen? Why did you ask her why? Why did you plead with her if you really didn’t care?”
Arthur glared at him. A small bubble of anger rose to his throat. What did Alfred know about anything? How could he lecture him as if he had any idea what he went through and yet why did it hurt to hear those words?
“Stop it,” he said curtly, staring at Alfred in warning, though Alfred was never one to read the signs properly.
“You hesitated,” he continued obliviously. “You didn’t kill her because you still cared for her! Because you were worried what would happen to your people if their queen suddenly died!”
“Shut up,” he hissed, hoping a fiercer tone would halt Alfred’s tongue.
“It hurt, didn’t it? Thinking about what would happen to your people. It hurt didn’t it?!”
“Shut up.”
“That was why you were crying last night, because you still cared!”
“Shut up!” Arthur finally cried, flinging an arm at him to push him away. Only Alfred could make him snap the way he did. Only Alfred and his idiocy. “God dammit, you insensitive git, can’t you shut up for a minute?!”
Alfred jumped back to avoid the blow and hovered around the bed trying not to look worried. “Arthur...” he breathed, only barely stopping himself from reaching out again lest he be cruelly shoved back again.
Arthur expelled a loud sigh and fell against the pillows, sinking deeper. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence buzzing around his head. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep and yet he could feel his bones shaking with the premonition of war.
When would there finally be an end to this? He was tired of dealing with humans yet as a nation he would never be able to escape them. Arthur was not sure who he hated more; himself or the stupid, selfish humans.
Or maybe the one he hated the most was Alfred who made him feel this way, who snatched away all his exits and told him things he did not want to hear; idiotic, preposterous things like not hating humans.
“Civil war, yes, I’m on the outbreak of civil war. I can feel it,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “You know what happens to us when a country goes through civil war.”
Alfred bit his lip. Yes, he had been through enough civil wars to know what it felt like. Although the memories were hazy, he had also seen various others go through the same thing; schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, sleeplessness, self-harm; the results were never pretty.
He clenched his fists. To hell with what anyone else thought, he would not let this happen to Arthur no matter what!
Alfred lunged at Arthur, almost knocking him flat. Arthur’s eyes flew open in surprise as Alfred wrapped his arms around him, holding on as tightly as he could without crushing him.
“I won’t let that happen! War won’t help anything, just make the situation worse! I’ll use all the influence I have to resolve things properly and peacefully!”
“You can’t do everything,” Arthur found himself trying to pacify him.
“Like hell I can!” he raged. “I’m the goddamn hero here! If I say I can do it, I can - ”
All that was needed to silence him was Arthur’s hand on his head, running through his hair.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. He began to chuckle. Alfred did not like the sound. It was bitter and self-depreciating. He did not realised how badly Arthur was shaking until he loosened his grip to look at him properly.
“You’re right. Dammit, why are you always right?” Arthur muttered, trying to hide his face with his hands. “I’ve tried so hard to just stop caring as well. I hate them but I can’t stop worrying about them. Damn ungrateful brats, why can’t they have more consideration for my feelings?”
“Maybe because about ninety-nine percent of them don’t even know you exist,” Alfred joked, though it was a lame one at best, accompanied by a wobbly, half-hearted smile.
Arthur managed to smile a little, or tried to at least though the tears marred it. “I really hate them,” he confessed with a shake of his head that buried itself in Alfred’s chest. “I really don’t want anything more to do with them. This war is ridiculous...will they find happiness this way?”
“Arthur, I told you that I won’t let this happen!” Alfred hissed fiercely. He was ready to fight tooth and nail to stop this.
He did not want a war, not one like this. Arthur had suffered enough. There was no need for him to go through this kind of pain as well. It was all too cruel and Alfred was a hero; it was his job to stop cruel things from happening.
“It’s okay. Suffering with your nation is part of the job description,” Arthur almost seemed ready to laugh.
“Arthur...” Alfred shook his head, denying reality if reality insisted on letting the situation slip further. “Arthur, I don’t want to see this happen to you.”
Hands through his hair soothed him. “Then don’t look, idiot.”
He felt the beginning of tears threatening to fall. Alfred punched the mattress as they slipped down his cheek. If he could wipe away the whole world and leave only them he felt that he really would do so.
“No! I love you, you dumbass! That’s why I - ”
Alfred’s voice choked up at that moment, though it was probably fortunate for him. They stared at each other in shock, neither believing what had been said. Slowly, Arthur shrugged and shook his head.
“Honestly, you suck at confessions.”
“Don’t laugh! I’m under a lot of stress right now!”
“Right, right.”
Alfred let his shoulders slump. “I love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s, nose touching in a gentle gesture that he hoped communicated all the things he was too embarrassed to say. “Please don’t suffer alone anymore.”
“I won’t,” Arthur sighed. Why did he sound so tired? “I’ll be suffering with millions of other people. Suffering, just like them.”
That was not the answer Alfred wanted to hear. He wanted to hear him say something like ‘there won’t be a revolt’ or ‘there won’t be a war’ but this was probably the best that he was going to get. At least Arthur had acknowledged that, like it or not, he was tied to his people.
“Arthur...so it’s true what they say after all. A mother’s love is peace,” he chuckled.
Arthur’s fist lightly hit the side of Alfred’s head. “Don’t call me a mother.”
Alfred laughed at the almost-pout on Arthur’s face. How odd it was to laugh, he thought. Really, he could not tell is he was extremely happy or completely miserable. So he laughed. He laughed so hard that he cried.
“Honestly, you suck at confessions.”
“Don’t laugh! I’m under a lot of stress right now!”
“Right, right.”
Alfred let his shoulders slump. “I love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s, nose touching in a gentle gesture that he hoped communicated all the things he was too embarrassed to say. “Please don’t suffer alone anymore.”
“I won’t,” Arthur sighed. Why did he sound so tired? “I’ll be suffering with millions of other people. Suffering, just like them.”
That was not the answer Alfred wanted to hear. He wanted to hear him say something like ‘there won’t be a revolt’ or ‘there won’t be a war’ but this was probably the best that he was going to get. At least Arthur had acknowledged that, like it or not, he was tied to his people.
“Arthur...so it’s true what they say after all. A mother’s love is peace,” he chuckled.
Arthur’s fist lightly hit the side of Alfred’s head. “Don’t call me a mother.”
Alfred laughed at the almost-pout on Arthur’s face. How odd it was to laugh, he thought. Really, he could not tell is he was extremely happy or completely miserable. So he laughed. He laughed so hard that he cried.
You know, if I break my f5 it will be your fault.
This story is amazing. Every chapter is great and I know the end is near- though I don´t know how you will solve everything in two chapters - and I´m on the edge of my seat. This chapter was gorgeous. I loved the declaration, I loved everything and augh, F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5-
This story is amazing. Every chapter is great and I know the end is near- though I don´t know how you will solve everything in two chapters - and I´m on the edge of my seat. This chapter was gorgeous. I loved the declaration, I loved everything and augh, F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5-
Beautiful Writer!Anon, this part was wonderful.
I worry about these two, but I trust that you will do a fine ending. I'm looking forward to it!
I worry about these two, but I trust that you will do a fine ending. I'm looking forward to it!
There was nothing anyone could do to stop the war now. It had escalated too far and was only gaining momentum as the weeks passed. There was nothing anyone could do to fully stop the pain but at least they could help abate it just a little. It was strange how even those small words could lift Alfred’s heart.
Yao offered to make something to numb the pain and send Arthur to sleep for about three years or so. The first few years of civil war were always the most painful. Alfred wished that it would not take so long before the country settled down but he had been cautioned not to let his hopes rise too high in that area.
Currently, Alfred remained alone with Arthur in his room, tying Arthur’s wrists to the headboard so that he could not hurt himself when the symptoms started. Kiku promised to stay and nurse Arthur with him but the rest would withdraw and try to encourage their bosses to help the situation simmer down as soon as possible.
Alfred took his new task of binding Arthur hand and foot to the bed with increasing seriousness. He stared at the thick rope and tried not to think about anything else. It only pained him to think about the future and the past was a place he did not want to go to at the moment either. He only had the present now, and the rope in his hand that mercilessly bit into Arthur’s skin.
“When this is over, I might be someone completely different,” Arthur said placidly, letting himself be tied to the bed as if this were custom. He had taken Yao’s medicine earlier and was now only waiting for it to take effect.
“Arthur is always Arthur,” Alfred said with conviction. He finished checking that the knots were tight and turned to him, cupping the side of his face with his hand. “I know you. You won’t change at all.”
“Alfred,” Arthur looked as though he was about to say something more but bit his lip to stop up the words.
Alfred did not mind it. He only wanted this war to pass as quickly as possible with as little pain to Arthur. “You’ll always be the same to me,” he murmured and ruffled his hair.
Arthur frowned at him and tried to fix the mess but found that it was impossible with his wrists bound above his head. “Alfred,” his reproving tone melted away into something softer, “until I fall asleep...”
“Yeah, I promise. I’ll stay with you until then,” he smiled, lying down alongside Arthur with his head buried in the crook of his neck. He felt Arthur sigh and his breath touch the side of his ear.
“Do you think they’ll be happy this way?”
Yao offered to make something to numb the pain and send Arthur to sleep for about three years or so. The first few years of civil war were always the most painful. Alfred wished that it would not take so long before the country settled down but he had been cautioned not to let his hopes rise too high in that area.
Currently, Alfred remained alone with Arthur in his room, tying Arthur’s wrists to the headboard so that he could not hurt himself when the symptoms started. Kiku promised to stay and nurse Arthur with him but the rest would withdraw and try to encourage their bosses to help the situation simmer down as soon as possible.
Alfred took his new task of binding Arthur hand and foot to the bed with increasing seriousness. He stared at the thick rope and tried not to think about anything else. It only pained him to think about the future and the past was a place he did not want to go to at the moment either. He only had the present now, and the rope in his hand that mercilessly bit into Arthur’s skin.
“When this is over, I might be someone completely different,” Arthur said placidly, letting himself be tied to the bed as if this were custom. He had taken Yao’s medicine earlier and was now only waiting for it to take effect.
“Arthur is always Arthur,” Alfred said with conviction. He finished checking that the knots were tight and turned to him, cupping the side of his face with his hand. “I know you. You won’t change at all.”
“Alfred,” Arthur looked as though he was about to say something more but bit his lip to stop up the words.
Alfred did not mind it. He only wanted this war to pass as quickly as possible with as little pain to Arthur. “You’ll always be the same to me,” he murmured and ruffled his hair.
Arthur frowned at him and tried to fix the mess but found that it was impossible with his wrists bound above his head. “Alfred,” his reproving tone melted away into something softer, “until I fall asleep...”
“Yeah, I promise. I’ll stay with you until then,” he smiled, lying down alongside Arthur with his head buried in the crook of his neck. He felt Arthur sigh and his breath touch the side of his ear.
“Do you think they’ll be happy this way?”
“Maybe,” he replied, though he would rather that Arthur did not think about them right now, not when his awesome self was currently keeping him company. He chuckled and lifted himself closer to Arthur’s body, leaning over him so that his shadow completely masked him.
“Don’t worry about it too much. You always worry about stupid stuff. That’s why you’re starting to get wrinkles right here,” he playfully poked the point between Arthur’s eyes that wrinkled the most when he furrowed his eyebrows.
Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut then opened again to look at him. He repeated this gesture several times, keeping his eyes closed longer after each passing moment, feeling the medicine finally weighing down his eyes.
“Alfred, you know I never...never answered...you...before...” he began to slur, trying to keep his vision focused on Alfred’s smiling face for as long as possible. “But I....I also...also love - ”
Before he could finish his sentence, Arthur’s eyes closed for the final time, his head tilted to one side and his body relaxed as he was sent into a drug-induced sleep.
Alfred remained watching over him for a while. Only when Arthur’s eyes were fully shut did he allow his smile to become a frown, brushing his thumb gently over Arthur’s closed eyelids.
He waited a while, watching Arthur carefully before he finally decided to rise. The fluttering curtains caused specks of light to play across Arthur’s face. Alfred drew them close so that only faint beams peeked through the bottom.
This was a war no one needed. Personally, Alfred did not care if the government or the monarchy won if it meant that the whole stupid revolt would die down quickly. Although knowing his boss would definitely oppose the idea of a ruling monarchy, Alfred was also inclined to take the side of the government after how Arthur had been treated by the queen. However, either way, he knew that though it may be a civil war, it was not something he could stand by and quietly watch from the sidelines.
Sparing one last look at Arthur’s sleeping face he left the quiet room with grim determination, making his way downstairs. Throwing open the front door, he stepped outside to greet the tumultuous din of the London riots.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, even though he knew the dream to follow would be anything but sweet.
Three years seems a lot but I had to remember that they are countries.
Last chapter is the epilogue and hopefully bittersweet fluff times. Anon hopes you will stick with this fic until then.
“Don’t worry about it too much. You always worry about stupid stuff. That’s why you’re starting to get wrinkles right here,” he playfully poked the point between Arthur’s eyes that wrinkled the most when he furrowed his eyebrows.
Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut then opened again to look at him. He repeated this gesture several times, keeping his eyes closed longer after each passing moment, feeling the medicine finally weighing down his eyes.
“Alfred, you know I never...never answered...you...before...” he began to slur, trying to keep his vision focused on Alfred’s smiling face for as long as possible. “But I....I also...also love - ”
Before he could finish his sentence, Arthur’s eyes closed for the final time, his head tilted to one side and his body relaxed as he was sent into a drug-induced sleep.
Alfred remained watching over him for a while. Only when Arthur’s eyes were fully shut did he allow his smile to become a frown, brushing his thumb gently over Arthur’s closed eyelids.
He waited a while, watching Arthur carefully before he finally decided to rise. The fluttering curtains caused specks of light to play across Arthur’s face. Alfred drew them close so that only faint beams peeked through the bottom.
This was a war no one needed. Personally, Alfred did not care if the government or the monarchy won if it meant that the whole stupid revolt would die down quickly. Although knowing his boss would definitely oppose the idea of a ruling monarchy, Alfred was also inclined to take the side of the government after how Arthur had been treated by the queen. However, either way, he knew that though it may be a civil war, it was not something he could stand by and quietly watch from the sidelines.
Sparing one last look at Arthur’s sleeping face he left the quiet room with grim determination, making his way downstairs. Throwing open the front door, he stepped outside to greet the tumultuous din of the London riots.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, even though he knew the dream to follow would be anything but sweet.
Three years seems a lot but I had to remember that they are countries.
Last chapter is the epilogue and hopefully bittersweet fluff times. Anon hopes you will stick with this fic until then.
Anon.. anoooon... ;___; I-I don't know what to say, the whole story (and I'm sure that the next&last chapter will be, too) is Beautiful and so sad...
Definetely, this was one of the best fics I have read on this meme. ;____; (look you made me cry)
Definetely, this was one of the best fics I have read on this meme. ;____; (look you made me cry)
b'aaaaaaawing so hard! ;A;
Oh Arthur!
Of course I'll stay until the end! I can't believe that the next part is the last one! I'm going to miss this fic. ;^;
Of course I'll stay until the end! I can't believe that the next part is the last one! I'm going to miss this fic. ;^;
Looking forward to the conclusion!! I love this fic so much, it will be hard to not check it all the time once its done!!
This, oh god, this is so bittersweet. It gets better with each part. I really hope that the government ends up the winner, because it would be best for Arthur and also I can't imagine my country being ruled by the Queen. As corrupted as the system is, it's still better this way. And btw I don't have anything against the Queen
Hoping that the war doesn't really get going/doesn't affect Arthur too badly. He's suffered enough, Alfred too.
Hoping that the war doesn't really get going/doesn't affect Arthur too badly. He's suffered enough, Alfred too.
Epilogue
Alfred knew that going through civil war hurt. He could not quite remember his own civil wars; his memories in that department were cloudy at best and he had probably been delirious and half-crazed throughout it, but he knew that it was a painful time.
At first when Alfred watched him it only seemed as if Arthur were experiencing a bad dream; a very bad, horrific dream. However, when Yao’s medicine wore off and Arthur awoke, though not fully conscious, Alfred could fully appreciate the horrors of civil war.
He was glad that they had tied him down. Arthur could struggle as much as he like, the skin breaking and bleeding against the rope, he could curse Alfred and swear and spout as much angry babble as he wanted but he could never get his hands on anything dangerous.
Feeding Arthur in that deranged, paranoid state had been a frightening experience. Sometimes he was fierce and would not let anyone touch him, sometimes he was silent but paranoid, and sometimes he would be seductive, licking his lips, displaying his sweat-stained body, offering a fuck in return for freedom.
‘Hey,’ Arthur would whisper. ‘You’ve got me tied up here. Why don’t you take me? I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Come on, take me, you fucking Royalist; show your love for the country.’
At times Alfred wanted to punch every person he saw; Royalist or Civil. He wanted to yell, ‘Stop it! Stop it, can’t you see that it’s hurting him?’ There were even times when he wished everyone would just disappear in a mushroom cloud but he was not enough of a hypocrite to become the very thing he had tried to save Arthur from becoming.
He begged Yao to give Arthur another dose, would have gotten on his hands and knees even, but Yao insisted that another dose so soon would be harmful.
‘Wait three or four years aru, and if he doesn’t calm down by then I’ll give him another dose. I promise, aru,’ he had said.
The war raged on for another two years. Alfred was sure that, if it did not kill Arthur, it would surely kill him to watch its effects on Arthur’s mind.
However, just when they were ready to give Arthur another dose, the unthinkable occurred. The queen was assassinated by her own son.
After the initial surge of violence this brought about, things quickly calmed down. The government regained control and ruled that the Prince would not be tried for treason but would ascend the throne as King though with limited powers.
Unrest and bitter feelings continued to bubble – who would serve a king usurped the throne? It would be better to completely scrap the monarchy so this could never happen again – yet those feelings simmered down when it became apparent that repairing the damage both sides had done was a priority. They had made too many holes in this ship and would both sink together unless something was done.
The feeling waned into something that could tentatively be called peace.
XX
Arthur was only partially aware of what he had done during the war. He had been awake and yet delirious, thinking back on it was like looking at shadow puppets on the wall; watching and yet strangely apart from everything that was happening.
He had vague notions of what he had done but it all seemed as if it were just a bad nightmare. The things he said, the things he did or tried to do were too horrible for him to think otherwise.
Light fell on his face when Arthur sluggishly opened his eyes. It felt like the first light he had seen in centuries. His first thought was; warm, until he was finally able to perform more complex thought.
It was peaceful. The room smelt of spring; cut grass and flowers and sunlight. Was light usually this bright? The sun felt so good against his skin that he did not want to move but, shifting his head slightly, he looked down and realised that he had been untied; there were bandages around his wrist and ankles but the rope was gone.
“A – Alfred?” he tested his voice. It came out smooth.
Two warm hands clasped his own. Through his swimming vision, he managed to make out Alfred’s face leaning over him. He blinked several times to clear his vision, focusing on Alfred’s smile.
Alfred knew that going through civil war hurt. He could not quite remember his own civil wars; his memories in that department were cloudy at best and he had probably been delirious and half-crazed throughout it, but he knew that it was a painful time.
At first when Alfred watched him it only seemed as if Arthur were experiencing a bad dream; a very bad, horrific dream. However, when Yao’s medicine wore off and Arthur awoke, though not fully conscious, Alfred could fully appreciate the horrors of civil war.
He was glad that they had tied him down. Arthur could struggle as much as he like, the skin breaking and bleeding against the rope, he could curse Alfred and swear and spout as much angry babble as he wanted but he could never get his hands on anything dangerous.
Feeding Arthur in that deranged, paranoid state had been a frightening experience. Sometimes he was fierce and would not let anyone touch him, sometimes he was silent but paranoid, and sometimes he would be seductive, licking his lips, displaying his sweat-stained body, offering a fuck in return for freedom.
‘Hey,’ Arthur would whisper. ‘You’ve got me tied up here. Why don’t you take me? I wouldn’t be able to stop you. Come on, take me, you fucking Royalist; show your love for the country.’
At times Alfred wanted to punch every person he saw; Royalist or Civil. He wanted to yell, ‘Stop it! Stop it, can’t you see that it’s hurting him?’ There were even times when he wished everyone would just disappear in a mushroom cloud but he was not enough of a hypocrite to become the very thing he had tried to save Arthur from becoming.
He begged Yao to give Arthur another dose, would have gotten on his hands and knees even, but Yao insisted that another dose so soon would be harmful.
‘Wait three or four years aru, and if he doesn’t calm down by then I’ll give him another dose. I promise, aru,’ he had said.
The war raged on for another two years. Alfred was sure that, if it did not kill Arthur, it would surely kill him to watch its effects on Arthur’s mind.
However, just when they were ready to give Arthur another dose, the unthinkable occurred. The queen was assassinated by her own son.
After the initial surge of violence this brought about, things quickly calmed down. The government regained control and ruled that the Prince would not be tried for treason but would ascend the throne as King though with limited powers.
Unrest and bitter feelings continued to bubble – who would serve a king usurped the throne? It would be better to completely scrap the monarchy so this could never happen again – yet those feelings simmered down when it became apparent that repairing the damage both sides had done was a priority. They had made too many holes in this ship and would both sink together unless something was done.
The feeling waned into something that could tentatively be called peace.
XX
Arthur was only partially aware of what he had done during the war. He had been awake and yet delirious, thinking back on it was like looking at shadow puppets on the wall; watching and yet strangely apart from everything that was happening.
He had vague notions of what he had done but it all seemed as if it were just a bad nightmare. The things he said, the things he did or tried to do were too horrible for him to think otherwise.
Light fell on his face when Arthur sluggishly opened his eyes. It felt like the first light he had seen in centuries. His first thought was; warm, until he was finally able to perform more complex thought.
It was peaceful. The room smelt of spring; cut grass and flowers and sunlight. Was light usually this bright? The sun felt so good against his skin that he did not want to move but, shifting his head slightly, he looked down and realised that he had been untied; there were bandages around his wrist and ankles but the rope was gone.
“A – Alfred?” he tested his voice. It came out smooth.
Two warm hands clasped his own. Through his swimming vision, he managed to make out Alfred’s face leaning over him. He blinked several times to clear his vision, focusing on Alfred’s smile.
“Arthur? Are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you know who I am?” he asked, his voice was edged with slight panic despite his calm outward appearance.
Arthur groaned and managed to pull himself up into a sitting position. It was easier to look at Alfred this way. “Of course I know who you are,” he muttered. “Get me something to drink.”
Alfred laughed, relaxing. The sound was oddly solid; the only first real sound that did not feel like an illusion. “Only just awake and ordering me about already? You’re definitely Arthur!”
“Git,” he muttered. That word sounded so strange to him. When was the last time he had used it? It could have been centuries ago.
Alfred only smiled and looked at him with an expression he could not quite place. The force of that gaze however tender it was only made Arthur squirm.
“W – What?”
“Nothing,” Alfred said and his smile widened.
“Idiot,” Arthur frowned at him, except that his frown was the wrong way around.
XX
“She didn’t deserve a royal funeral. She doesn’t even deserve those flowers!” Alfred glared at the gravestone overshadowed by weeping willows. The stone statue of an angel above the polished slab seemed in bad taste to him.
Arthur gave him an understanding look as he knelt down to place lilies on the grave. When he rose again the sun flashed across his eyes, blinding him for just a second. It was too bright and warm of a day to be spending with the dead.
“It feels like a dream,” Arthur murmured.
The wind carried the scent of yesterday on it, brushing past them as if to beckon them towards the future. Such a nostalgic smell made his head swim, the patterns of sunlight through the weeping willows were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered over the field; a kaleidoscope of light.
“It’s not a dream, Arthur!” Alfred perked up. Rushing out of the shade of the willows he spread his arms wide like a child, as if he could embrace both the sun and sky. “Smell that fresh air! It’s the start of great new things!”
Arthur frowned at him but followed him. “You’re so optimistic. My economy is shot,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you out!” Alfred thumped his chest. “Besides, sometimes stuff like this has to happen so that new things can grow.”
“I don’t trust your loans anymore,” Arthur shook his head, only half joking.
“How mean! I won’t suddenly ask for a total repayment, I promise!”
“Who can believe the things that you say?” he retorted.
Without warning, Alfred flung himself on top of Arthur, almost toppling them both. “You’re so cruel, Arthur! And I nursed you so lovingly these six years! Six years whilst you were bat-shit crazy!” he cried, trying to hide the fact that even mentioning it brought back unwelcome memories.
“...I know,” Arthur shoved him off, growing pensive as he thought about the time that he had passed in a half-conscious state of insanity.
Even though it seemed a dream, he distinctly remembered the touch of a cool hand against his head and the presence of someone sitting by his side, always there to keep him company no matter how badly he cursed and screamed.
Arthur turned his back to Alfred so that he would not see the faint blush warming his cheeks as he muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Alfred stepped closer.
“I know,” Arthur said. “Even though I can’t really remember it very well, I remember feeling as though I was lost somewhere in a deep, dark place. I couldn’t find the way out no matter how hard I tried but then...well, you found me and lead me out of that place so...so...thank you...I guess.”
“You guess?”
Annoyed that Alfred was making him say it out loud, he took a deep breath and stiffly bellowed; “Thank - ”
“Arthur,” Alfred suddenly cut him off as he collided into his back, arresting his arms by wrapping himself around him.
“W – What?” Arthur tried to catch a glimpse of his face.
Alfred’s breath tickled the back of his neck. He hugged him tighter, pressing his chest against Arthur’s back.
“Welcome back.”
For a moment Arthur was at loss for words. Then, slowly, he managed to worm himself around to look Alfred, nestling against his warm chest. Arthur closed eyes with what felt like contentment.
“...I’m back.”
Arthur groaned and managed to pull himself up into a sitting position. It was easier to look at Alfred this way. “Of course I know who you are,” he muttered. “Get me something to drink.”
Alfred laughed, relaxing. The sound was oddly solid; the only first real sound that did not feel like an illusion. “Only just awake and ordering me about already? You’re definitely Arthur!”
“Git,” he muttered. That word sounded so strange to him. When was the last time he had used it? It could have been centuries ago.
Alfred only smiled and looked at him with an expression he could not quite place. The force of that gaze however tender it was only made Arthur squirm.
“W – What?”
“Nothing,” Alfred said and his smile widened.
“Idiot,” Arthur frowned at him, except that his frown was the wrong way around.
XX
“She didn’t deserve a royal funeral. She doesn’t even deserve those flowers!” Alfred glared at the gravestone overshadowed by weeping willows. The stone statue of an angel above the polished slab seemed in bad taste to him.
Arthur gave him an understanding look as he knelt down to place lilies on the grave. When he rose again the sun flashed across his eyes, blinding him for just a second. It was too bright and warm of a day to be spending with the dead.
“It feels like a dream,” Arthur murmured.
The wind carried the scent of yesterday on it, brushing past them as if to beckon them towards the future. Such a nostalgic smell made his head swim, the patterns of sunlight through the weeping willows were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered over the field; a kaleidoscope of light.
“It’s not a dream, Arthur!” Alfred perked up. Rushing out of the shade of the willows he spread his arms wide like a child, as if he could embrace both the sun and sky. “Smell that fresh air! It’s the start of great new things!”
Arthur frowned at him but followed him. “You’re so optimistic. My economy is shot,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you out!” Alfred thumped his chest. “Besides, sometimes stuff like this has to happen so that new things can grow.”
“I don’t trust your loans anymore,” Arthur shook his head, only half joking.
“How mean! I won’t suddenly ask for a total repayment, I promise!”
“Who can believe the things that you say?” he retorted.
Without warning, Alfred flung himself on top of Arthur, almost toppling them both. “You’re so cruel, Arthur! And I nursed you so lovingly these six years! Six years whilst you were bat-shit crazy!” he cried, trying to hide the fact that even mentioning it brought back unwelcome memories.
“...I know,” Arthur shoved him off, growing pensive as he thought about the time that he had passed in a half-conscious state of insanity.
Even though it seemed a dream, he distinctly remembered the touch of a cool hand against his head and the presence of someone sitting by his side, always there to keep him company no matter how badly he cursed and screamed.
Arthur turned his back to Alfred so that he would not see the faint blush warming his cheeks as he muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Alfred stepped closer.
“I know,” Arthur said. “Even though I can’t really remember it very well, I remember feeling as though I was lost somewhere in a deep, dark place. I couldn’t find the way out no matter how hard I tried but then...well, you found me and lead me out of that place so...so...thank you...I guess.”
“You guess?”
Annoyed that Alfred was making him say it out loud, he took a deep breath and stiffly bellowed; “Thank - ”
“Arthur,” Alfred suddenly cut him off as he collided into his back, arresting his arms by wrapping himself around him.
“W – What?” Arthur tried to catch a glimpse of his face.
Alfred’s breath tickled the back of his neck. He hugged him tighter, pressing his chest against Arthur’s back.
“Welcome back.”
For a moment Arthur was at loss for words. Then, slowly, he managed to worm himself around to look Alfred, nestling against his warm chest. Arthur closed eyes with what felt like contentment.
“...I’m back.”
Omake
“Alfred.”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“What the bloody hell did you do to my house?”
“...Ah.”
Omake 2
Matthew stood outside Alfred’s manor house. He was sure that this was the place Alfred had mentioned when he had called him but...he had been ringing the bell for three hours and no one had opened the door for him.
Had they all gone out? Were they asleep? Were they too busy looking after Arthur, who he had heard was in a bad shape, that they had failed to hear him ring?
He should go. If they were not going to open up then there was no point of being there. He was worried about Arthur but there was nothing he could do if no one was answering; he should just go back to Canada.
Heaving a sigh, Matthew rang the bell again.
Looks like someone forgot to tell him that they were moving to London. Thank you anons for reading and sticking with this fic to the end despite the lack of fluff!
“Alfred.”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“What the bloody hell did you do to my house?”
“...Ah.”
Omake 2
Matthew stood outside Alfred’s manor house. He was sure that this was the place Alfred had mentioned when he had called him but...he had been ringing the bell for three hours and no one had opened the door for him.
Had they all gone out? Were they asleep? Were they too busy looking after Arthur, who he had heard was in a bad shape, that they had failed to hear him ring?
He should go. If they were not going to open up then there was no point of being there. He was worried about Arthur but there was nothing he could do if no one was answering; he should just go back to Canada.
Heaving a sigh, Matthew rang the bell again.
Looks like someone forgot to tell him that they were moving to London. Thank you anons for reading and sticking with this fic to the end despite the lack of fluff!
I just read the whole thing and there is nothing i can really say other than... it was freaking awesome and perfect.
beautiful, and touching, and strong, and the descriptions, the feeling, the pain that came from every piece, arthur's pain, but also alfred, and how the fleeting appearance of the other nations popping up, with yao, and then the queen and then the civil war...
it was painfully raw and just beautiful. wow.
beautiful, and touching, and strong, and the descriptions, the feeling, the pain that came from every piece, arthur's pain, but also alfred, and how the fleeting appearance of the other nations popping up, with yao, and then the queen and then the civil war...
it was painfully raw and just beautiful. wow.
I can't believe that it's really over. I love this fic so much! Thank you Anon!!!
I seriously loved each and every part. I love the transition of Arthur moods, how he started off horribly broken and then slowly went insane. I love the relationship between Alfred and Arthur. ♥
I seriously started to cry, tears of joy, at the part when Alfred said "Welcome back" and Arthur replied "...I'm back." That just left such a happy feeling inside of me.
MARRY ME ANON! ;^;
... I'm going to go reread this over and over now.
I seriously loved each and every part. I love the transition of Arthur moods, how he started off horribly broken and then slowly went insane. I love the relationship between Alfred and Arthur. ♥
I seriously started to cry, tears of joy, at the part when Alfred said "Welcome back" and Arthur replied "...I'm back." That just left such a happy feeling inside of me.
MARRY ME ANON! ;^;
... I'm going to go reread this over and over now.
Praise to you writer!anon!! Such a wonderful story this was! Thank you so much for such a beautiful piece!
The whole of it was wonderful, but the ending was marvelous.
The whole of it was wonderful, but the ending was marvelous.
:D
This is just wonderful, author!anon. :D
I'm sad this has come to an end. :/
This is just wonderful, author!anon. :D
I'm sad this has come to an end. :/
Oh my. God. It's done. IT'S DONE??? NOOOOOOO!!!
That was marvelous, really! I love you so much for doing this!! &hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts
That was marvelous, really! I love you so much for doing this!! &hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts&hearts
Oh Anon...Marry me. Please. Right here. Right now. IDENTITIES MEAN LITTLE IN THE FACE OF LOVE LIKE MINE! This story was so fantastic. And it went to a place I couldn't think of and turned the world, or at least England, upside down and then righted it again and the ending was perfect. Gorgeous. Wonderful. Everything I expected from you and more. (And the omake made me laugh too. XD Poor, poor Matthew...)
SERIOUSLY ANON. MARRY ME. NOW. I CAN GET THE WEDDING RINGS, I CAN BAKE REALLY WELL SO THE CAKE'S NO ISSUE AND I CAN COOK. SO YOU'LL NEVER HAVE TO COOK AGAIN. I'LL BE A DEVOTED HOUSEWIFE WHO WILL WORSHIP YOU. MARRY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
SERIOUSLY ANON. MARRY ME. NOW. I CAN GET THE WEDDING RINGS, I CAN BAKE REALLY WELL SO THE CAKE'S NO ISSUE AND I CAN COOK. SO YOU'LL NEVER HAVE TO COOK AGAIN. I'LL BE A DEVOTED HOUSEWIFE WHO WILL WORSHIP YOU. MARRY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Magnificent, Anon. I'm slightly distracted from the things I want to say by poor Matthew in Omake 2 (I admit that I also forgot Alfred had said he was on the way...).
I'm so impressed by all the thought that obviously went into this, the philosophies upon which the story was built as well as the very engaging narrative itself. I read most of this in one sitting just now and I have to say that, unlike some other anons, I was not surprised that the Queen was behind it--but I don't credit myself for that, I credit you for leading me masterfully in that direction.
Part-way through, as soon as the protests heralding civil war appeared, I got a few lines of a poem stuck in my head. I don't know if they were in yours as you were writing this, but I dug around the internet in order to be able to quote correctly (courtesy of the Victorian Web):
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
- Tennyson, "Ulysses"
On that note (and before I get emo), I thank you, Anon.
I'm so impressed by all the thought that obviously went into this, the philosophies upon which the story was built as well as the very engaging narrative itself. I read most of this in one sitting just now and I have to say that, unlike some other anons, I was not surprised that the Queen was behind it--but I don't credit myself for that, I credit you for leading me masterfully in that direction.
Part-way through, as soon as the protests heralding civil war appeared, I got a few lines of a poem stuck in my head. I don't know if they were in yours as you were writing this, but I dug around the internet in order to be able to quote correctly (courtesy of the Victorian Web):
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
- Tennyson, "Ulysses"
On that note (and before I get emo), I thank you, Anon.
YOU MUST DE-ANON SO I CAN STALK YOU FOR MORE FICS, PLEASE!!!
Read everything in one sitting!
This jumped to being one of my favorites on the meme. Everything about it is so perfect: the plot, the logic, the characterizations. I love you author!anon!
This jumped to being one of my favorites on the meme. Everything about it is so perfect: the plot, the logic, the characterizations. I love you author!anon!
This anon doesn't mind lack of comfort. Make it as messed up as you want!
I will sit here and press F5 repeatedly.
I will sit here and press F5 repeatedly.
Senbazuru-making anon loved the thing with Japan's cranes. :D
(I'm up to 37, but I just started last night.)
(I'm up to 37, but I just started last night.)
China is SCARY.
And this is BRILLIANT. Truly, truly brilliant.
(reCAPTCHA= South gayety wtf?)
And this is BRILLIANT. Truly, truly brilliant.
(reCAPTCHA= South gayety wtf?)
I heard that when a country goes through economic crisis or outbreaks of disease it affects you, so does that work the other way? For example, if I cut you, could I harm the country’s society by doing that? If I capture one of you, would that be the same as having captured the country? Could I control the country through one of you?
You, author!anon, are brilliant. I love the implications, the way you've articulated these ideas. And suddenly pirates make so much sense! Off to read the rest now (or at least the rest of what you have so far).
You, author!anon, are brilliant. I love the implications, the way you've articulated these ideas. And suddenly pirates make so much sense! Off to read the rest now (or at least the rest of what you have so far).
Using human names when alone to show intimacy. Doesn't have to be smut.
B: They do it without realizing it.
B: They do it without realizing it.
This Is What We Talk About [Alfred side]
It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
continues next
It's like an old school meeting of the mafia dons, Alfred thinks, with the table lined by the heads of each family, along with their loyal lieutenants.
Beside him, Washington D.C. rises to his feet, his voice rising as well. No, not an old school meeting, after all. Back in the day, only the dons sat at the table, only the dons spoke, sorting things out among themselves. That's what The Godfather films taught Alfred. Coppola may have lost his shine and Pacino and De Niro may have become parodies of themselves (Alfred is not entirely unsympathetic to such fates), but there is no denying the awesomeness of those films. The first two, anyhow. Yeah, in The Godfather (Parts I and II), lieutenants were there to be silent support behind their dons, letting their elders do the talking.
Elders. Jesus, he sounds like an old man. Is he really that old? When did this happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was the hero marching in to liberate Paris?
Alfred glances over at Paris, seated by France. Both are looking at Washington D.C. like—well, not like how they looked at Alfred in August 1944. Alfred looks away before either one senses his gaze or can turn that look on him.
Washington D.C.'s voice goes up another notch in response to increased volume from Moscow. Alfred looks over as Moscow responds, up his own volume. The conversation is going nowhere. They're just saying the same things over and over, and even though Washington D.C. is right, Alfred doesn't know how much more of this he can listen to right now.
On the way back to Moscow, Alfred's eyes slide over Russia: he's doing that thing again, sleeping with his eyes open. It took Alfred a while to realize Russia has perfected the art. It's creepy…but kind of awesome, too. Alfred doesn't know how he does it. He isn't sure who else knows about it; he hasn't told anyone. He hasn't even told Russia he knows. Alfred isn't sure why he's keeping this secret. Maybe it will come in handy one day.
Alfred's gaze has slipped down from Russia's face when Russia wakes up: his hand unmistakably grasps and tilts an imaginary glass.
Their eyes meet briefly.
After another minute of listening to Washington D.C. and Moscow shouting at each other, Alfred slams his fist down on the table. He has to do it again before the others start to turn towards him, and a third time with a vocal demand for everyone to shut up before he gets the full attention of the meeting room.
"Everybody out," Alfred says. At first, no one moves. "Out! Except you." Alfred points his finger across the table at Russia. Still pointing, he says, "Russia and I will reach an accord on this. Full meeting will resume tomorrow." Alfred continues to point and look nowhere but at Russia, who meets his stare evenly, lips curling up almost imperceptibly—but Alfred seen it before and knows how to look for Russia's smile. He knows, too, how critical it is not to blink in the face of that smile.
Someone—Arthur—says they should adjourn for the day. Good old Arthur. Alfred knows they'll have words about this later, in private. Alfred is not looking for to it. He pushes it out of his mind for now.
When the last footfalls fade and they're alone, Alfred lets his hand drop, lets his eyes close for a long blink. When he comes out of it, there's a flask in Ivan's hand.
continues next
This is What We Talk About [Alfred side]
"I didn't come prepared for this," Alfred admits. "Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."
"I cannot have that," Ivan says. "Fine vodka is wasted on you." His coat falls open as he reaches into the inner pocket, and Alfred tenses to stop a shudder rippling through him. Even wrapped in his coat, it's apparent Ivan has been losing weight since the Wall came down; they can all see it, and of course there are rumors from those who have been closer to him—but seeing it in the flesh, or almost in the bone, really…
The halted shudder has balled up at the base of Alfred's throat, and he swallows it down as Ivan looks up at him. With a more obvious smile now, Ivan pushes a second flask across the table. Alfred uncaps it: Jack Daniels. Nice.
They raise the flasks in silent toast. The smooth burn of the first swallow coats Alfred's throat pleasantly. He's just settling back in his chair when Ivan subtly but unmistakably draws his coat closer about himself. Without all the other bodies in here, the temperature of the room has cooled. He gets up and, finding the thermostat by the light switch, turns it up a few degrees.
When he turns, his hip bumps the edge of the table hard, causing Ivan's flask to wobble on the table before he steadies it. He takes a step before realizing the pocket of his bomber jacket is snagged on a chair arm; his movement pulls the pocket wider and his wallet falls out, opening with the impact of landing on the floor. Alfred unsuccessfully fights a hot flush. Even though he's had this bulk for a while, he still sometimes judges spaces by the size he used to be, and winds up crashing into things.
Fortunately, Ivan seems to have missed the embarrassing display of blushing when he bent down to retrieve the wallet. Or maybe he did catch it; there's a strange look on Ivan's face as he straightens. Strange even for Ivan.
"Thanks." Alfred focuses on the wallet as Ivan hands it to him—and forgets all about the strange look. He smiles back at the Big Three, him and Arthur and Ivan, as they smile up at him out of the aging photo.
They drink in silence for a while. The theme song of the movie he watched last night is still stuck in his head, and he begins to hum it between sips. If it bothers Ivan, he doesn't say so, although he does open a window. Alfred decides to keep humming, anyhow.
He stops when Ivan says, "I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred. But I do not think you are correct in that."
"Christ, Ivan." And just when Alfred was starting to feel calm. "Do you really think you need to tell me that?"
Ivan opens his mouth, but closes it again without speaking. Alfred looks for that smile, and finds it there just at the edges of Ivan's mouth. You really shouldn't look away from that smile, Alfred knows, ever.
He lets his eyes close anyhow, just a blink as he tilts back his head to swallow down the last of the whisky.
Ivan shakes his head when Alfred leans forward to return the flask. "It is nothing. Keep it."
"Well, if you're sure…" Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.
Alfred pauses at the door, but he knows Ivan won't be walking with him and so he doesn't look back as he goes.
[end Alfred side; coming soon: Ivan side]
"I didn't come prepared for this," Alfred admits. "Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."
"I cannot have that," Ivan says. "Fine vodka is wasted on you." His coat falls open as he reaches into the inner pocket, and Alfred tenses to stop a shudder rippling through him. Even wrapped in his coat, it's apparent Ivan has been losing weight since the Wall came down; they can all see it, and of course there are rumors from those who have been closer to him—but seeing it in the flesh, or almost in the bone, really…
The halted shudder has balled up at the base of Alfred's throat, and he swallows it down as Ivan looks up at him. With a more obvious smile now, Ivan pushes a second flask across the table. Alfred uncaps it: Jack Daniels. Nice.
They raise the flasks in silent toast. The smooth burn of the first swallow coats Alfred's throat pleasantly. He's just settling back in his chair when Ivan subtly but unmistakably draws his coat closer about himself. Without all the other bodies in here, the temperature of the room has cooled. He gets up and, finding the thermostat by the light switch, turns it up a few degrees.
When he turns, his hip bumps the edge of the table hard, causing Ivan's flask to wobble on the table before he steadies it. He takes a step before realizing the pocket of his bomber jacket is snagged on a chair arm; his movement pulls the pocket wider and his wallet falls out, opening with the impact of landing on the floor. Alfred unsuccessfully fights a hot flush. Even though he's had this bulk for a while, he still sometimes judges spaces by the size he used to be, and winds up crashing into things.
Fortunately, Ivan seems to have missed the embarrassing display of blushing when he bent down to retrieve the wallet. Or maybe he did catch it; there's a strange look on Ivan's face as he straightens. Strange even for Ivan.
"Thanks." Alfred focuses on the wallet as Ivan hands it to him—and forgets all about the strange look. He smiles back at the Big Three, him and Arthur and Ivan, as they smile up at him out of the aging photo.
They drink in silence for a while. The theme song of the movie he watched last night is still stuck in his head, and he begins to hum it between sips. If it bothers Ivan, he doesn't say so, although he does open a window. Alfred decides to keep humming, anyhow.
He stops when Ivan says, "I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred. But I do not think you are correct in that."
"Christ, Ivan." And just when Alfred was starting to feel calm. "Do you really think you need to tell me that?"
Ivan opens his mouth, but closes it again without speaking. Alfred looks for that smile, and finds it there just at the edges of Ivan's mouth. You really shouldn't look away from that smile, Alfred knows, ever.
He lets his eyes close anyhow, just a blink as he tilts back his head to swallow down the last of the whisky.
Ivan shakes his head when Alfred leans forward to return the flask. "It is nothing. Keep it."
"Well, if you're sure…" Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.
Alfred pauses at the door, but he knows Ivan won't be walking with him and so he doesn't look back as he goes.
[end Alfred side; coming soon: Ivan side]
So far, I love it. These two give me chills. Can't wait for more!
I agree I love it too! :)
Author!anon thanks you both most sincerely! There's something so compelling about Ivan and Alfred, isn't there?
reCaptcha: comedy oafs
...uh, that's not quite what i had in mind, captcha...
reCaptcha: comedy oafs
...uh, that's not quite what i had in mind, captcha...
HEE I'll admit it - I. Fangirl squeed. OMFKLJGLJDS ♥ Can't wait for more, anon!
Author!anon is delighted you enjoyed it so, thanks you for reading, and hopes she will not let you down with Ivan's side!
reCaptcha: division battled
...even captcha is intrigued by their dynamic, it seems.
reCaptcha: division battled
...even captcha is intrigued by their dynamic, it seems.
I... I love you Anon. Marry me? <3
This was so amazing I love it! The thing about Alfred getting used to the change about himself, it was a very interesting concept. America just grew into himself but has to deal with another growth-spurt. He'll be a gompy teenager forever XD
You don't even know how excited I am for Ivan's Side :)
This was so amazing I love it! The thing about Alfred getting used to the change about himself, it was a very interesting concept. America just grew into himself but has to deal with another growth-spurt. He'll be a gompy teenager forever XD
You don't even know how excited I am for Ivan's Side :)
Author!anon is everso happy you like this so far, OP! I confess that I'm looking forward to writing Ivan's side, and really hope I don't let you down. ♥
I adore your writing style.
Can't wait for more!
Can't wait for more!
Author!anon confesses to getting a kick about hearing "style" applied to her writing, and thanks you very much!
Amazing!! Your style is really great, I love everything about this. Can't wait for the next part. And thanks to the OP for requesting this beautiful thing.
Author!anon joins you in thanking OP most sincerely! And also thanks you for reading. Hopefully Ivan's side (which I'm working on now) will be just as enjoyable.
I love the idea of the city-tans! It's ingenious, author!anon! Much better than a human boss, really. And you captured the feelings so well, too.
Could we have UST and/or smut..? XD
Could we have UST and/or smut..? XD
Thank you, Anon! The idea for City-tans came when I was doing research, looking for a specific incident or meeting to center on. I didn't find one and decided to leave that open--but I noticed that nearly all of the journalists and political analysts referred to "Washington" and "Moscow" rather than the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. or Russia (depending on the time frame). And thus an idea was born. :)
Could we have UST and/or smut..?
I don't want to falsely raise your expectations, so I should say that I didn't envision them with that sort of relationship for this. But this is one of my favorite pairings, so you never know what the future might hold in other stories?
Could we have UST and/or smut..?
I don't want to falsely raise your expectations, so I should say that I didn't envision them with that sort of relationship for this. But this is one of my favorite pairings, so you never know what the future might hold in other stories?
This is What We Talk About [Ivan side] – part one
America thinks Ivan sleeps with his eyes open. Ivan does not know how America came to such a conclusion or how he came to know what is in America's mind, since of course America has not said a word of this—but Ivan is certain of it. It amuses him to no end, though part of their little game means not allowing his amusement to show, or acknowledging the game in any way other than the play itself.
And play he does. Ivan has lost sleep over this game, scrupulous in keeping himself awake whenever America is near, lest America catch him with eyes closed for longer than a blink. It has meant learning to control the involuntary reflex of the blink, training the orbicularis oculi and levator palpebrae superioris muscles to respond only voluntarily, and never volunteering the response when America believes he is asleep. This game, one that he cannot be sure Alfred is aware of, has at times exhausted Ivan.
It has been worth it.
America believes Ivan to be asleep this very moment. Ivan knows this because of the way America becomes focused when he thinks he is watching Ivan sleep. This is one of the amusements for Ivan, the way America becomes more aware and guarded when he does not think Ivan is conscious. Ivan does not know why America should be this way, but suspects America must be playing a game of his own.
It is good, this. To have a way to pass the time. To have a way to stay awake in situations where it is wise not to fall asleep, such as world meetings. This meeting, for example. Ivan does not wish to nod off, but there is little to pay attention to. Moscow has made his point, Washington D.C. has failed to acknowledge the error of his own argument, and now they are shouting at each other. The discussion is loud, yes, but volume alone cannot keep one awake. There is none of the nuance of the colder past.
The flask pressing against Ivan's ribs is still cool. America's gaze has slide down from his face; before it goes, Ivan moves to capture it: curling his fingers around air, he signals "drink."
There is not a flicker in America's eyes when they meet Ivan's. Ivan is not sure if America has seen the signal. He has witnessed the missing and misunderstanding of many signals by America through the years. Many of those misses have amused Ivan, but now he is too tired for this meeting where, once again, nothing will be accomplished. He is tired enough to want to sleep, which of course he cannot do. Failing that, he wants a drink.
Or could it be that America is only pretending not to see? Is it possible that America has a new game with someone else, and that has taken his attention? One of the Middle East nations, perhaps, or North Korea—
Bam! America's hand, shaped in a fist, comes down on the table again: bam! And then his other comes up, also a fist—except for one extended finger, pointing straight at Ivan as America orders everyone else out of the room.
tbc...
America thinks Ivan sleeps with his eyes open. Ivan does not know how America came to such a conclusion or how he came to know what is in America's mind, since of course America has not said a word of this—but Ivan is certain of it. It amuses him to no end, though part of their little game means not allowing his amusement to show, or acknowledging the game in any way other than the play itself.
And play he does. Ivan has lost sleep over this game, scrupulous in keeping himself awake whenever America is near, lest America catch him with eyes closed for longer than a blink. It has meant learning to control the involuntary reflex of the blink, training the orbicularis oculi and levator palpebrae superioris muscles to respond only voluntarily, and never volunteering the response when America believes he is asleep. This game, one that he cannot be sure Alfred is aware of, has at times exhausted Ivan.
It has been worth it.
America believes Ivan to be asleep this very moment. Ivan knows this because of the way America becomes focused when he thinks he is watching Ivan sleep. This is one of the amusements for Ivan, the way America becomes more aware and guarded when he does not think Ivan is conscious. Ivan does not know why America should be this way, but suspects America must be playing a game of his own.
It is good, this. To have a way to pass the time. To have a way to stay awake in situations where it is wise not to fall asleep, such as world meetings. This meeting, for example. Ivan does not wish to nod off, but there is little to pay attention to. Moscow has made his point, Washington D.C. has failed to acknowledge the error of his own argument, and now they are shouting at each other. The discussion is loud, yes, but volume alone cannot keep one awake. There is none of the nuance of the colder past.
The flask pressing against Ivan's ribs is still cool. America's gaze has slide down from his face; before it goes, Ivan moves to capture it: curling his fingers around air, he signals "drink."
There is not a flicker in America's eyes when they meet Ivan's. Ivan is not sure if America has seen the signal. He has witnessed the missing and misunderstanding of many signals by America through the years. Many of those misses have amused Ivan, but now he is too tired for this meeting where, once again, nothing will be accomplished. He is tired enough to want to sleep, which of course he cannot do. Failing that, he wants a drink.
Or could it be that America is only pretending not to see? Is it possible that America has a new game with someone else, and that has taken his attention? One of the Middle East nations, perhaps, or North Korea—
Bam! America's hand, shaped in a fist, comes down on the table again: bam! And then his other comes up, also a fist—except for one extended finger, pointing straight at Ivan as America orders everyone else out of the room.
tbc...
This is What We Talk About [Ivan side] – part two
Their gazes lock. Ivan feels a swell of nostalgia for their old staring contests. He feels a swell of something else, too: hilarity. He recalls that there is a variation of the staring game, where blinking is allowed—but one must not laugh. Could that be the game America wishes to play now? The air is heavy; Ivan thinks that others besides America and himself are playing this new game, and that he is not the only one in danger of losing. They all want to laugh, do they not?
But then England says they should listen to America. The heaviness dissipates; the others begin to leave. Not for the first time, Ivan wonders how good a cocksucker America must be to keep England at his side like this. He hides his smile not in the corners of his mouth, where everyone hides theirs, but just under the swell of his upper lip, against his teeth. No one thinks to look for hidden smiles there.
As the meeting room becomes empty of all but the two of them, neither of them laughs; Alfred is the one to blink first, but somehow the feeling of victory eludes Ivan. It is a long blink and Ivan takes advantage of the moment to draw forth his flask.
When at last Alfred opens his eyes, they land on the flask. "I didn't come prepared for this. Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."
"I cannot have that," Ivan says, now claiming a small victory as he reaches for the second flask, whisky, in his inner pocket. "Fine vodka is wasted on you."
Sensing Alfred's gaze on his body, Ivan forces himself not to close his coat too quickly, obliges himself to meet Alfred's eyes with a smile as he pushes the whisky across the table.
They toast silently to the game. Not wishing to remind either of them how much he has lost, Ivan draws his coat more securely about himself.
After another swig, Alfred gets up. It would be curious for him to be leaving already—and he's not; Ivan watches him go to the thermostat. Ah, of course. Even without the others heating the room with their bodies, Alfred's face is still flushed pink. It is far too warm in here for someone of his bulk. Ivan was always fine, but he was born to be big; on Alfred, the weight is far less becoming and he has not yet learned how to manage his new size.
The vent above Ivan's head rumbles to life, cool air rushing out—oh, but fat, silly Alfred has turned the dial the wrong way and it is warm air that blasts into the room. Ivan waits for him to correct his error, but Alfred only moves to return to his seat, proving Ivan's theory about his ineptitude with his size by crashing into the table; Ivan manages to steady his flash before it spills. Something falls from Alfred's jacket pocket and Ivan seizes the opportunity to hide the smile that crash provoked in him, bending down to retrieve it—and is met with his own smiling face. His own and England's, and Alfred between them, an arm around each of them, smiling and smiling and smiling.
tbc...
Their gazes lock. Ivan feels a swell of nostalgia for their old staring contests. He feels a swell of something else, too: hilarity. He recalls that there is a variation of the staring game, where blinking is allowed—but one must not laugh. Could that be the game America wishes to play now? The air is heavy; Ivan thinks that others besides America and himself are playing this new game, and that he is not the only one in danger of losing. They all want to laugh, do they not?
But then England says they should listen to America. The heaviness dissipates; the others begin to leave. Not for the first time, Ivan wonders how good a cocksucker America must be to keep England at his side like this. He hides his smile not in the corners of his mouth, where everyone hides theirs, but just under the swell of his upper lip, against his teeth. No one thinks to look for hidden smiles there.
As the meeting room becomes empty of all but the two of them, neither of them laughs; Alfred is the one to blink first, but somehow the feeling of victory eludes Ivan. It is a long blink and Ivan takes advantage of the moment to draw forth his flask.
When at last Alfred opens his eyes, they land on the flask. "I didn't come prepared for this. Guess it'll have to be vodka for me, too."
"I cannot have that," Ivan says, now claiming a small victory as he reaches for the second flask, whisky, in his inner pocket. "Fine vodka is wasted on you."
Sensing Alfred's gaze on his body, Ivan forces himself not to close his coat too quickly, obliges himself to meet Alfred's eyes with a smile as he pushes the whisky across the table.
They toast silently to the game. Not wishing to remind either of them how much he has lost, Ivan draws his coat more securely about himself.
After another swig, Alfred gets up. It would be curious for him to be leaving already—and he's not; Ivan watches him go to the thermostat. Ah, of course. Even without the others heating the room with their bodies, Alfred's face is still flushed pink. It is far too warm in here for someone of his bulk. Ivan was always fine, but he was born to be big; on Alfred, the weight is far less becoming and he has not yet learned how to manage his new size.
The vent above Ivan's head rumbles to life, cool air rushing out—oh, but fat, silly Alfred has turned the dial the wrong way and it is warm air that blasts into the room. Ivan waits for him to correct his error, but Alfred only moves to return to his seat, proving Ivan's theory about his ineptitude with his size by crashing into the table; Ivan manages to steady his flash before it spills. Something falls from Alfred's jacket pocket and Ivan seizes the opportunity to hide the smile that crash provoked in him, bending down to retrieve it—and is met with his own smiling face. His own and England's, and Alfred between them, an arm around each of them, smiling and smiling and smiling.
tbc...
This is What We Talk About [Ivan side] – part three
It is almost blinding, Alfred's smile, and Ivan finds he must look away from it. His eyes slide to the picture opposite, but find no relief for Alfred smiles at him out of that picture as well, this time standing beside Japan.
A strange feeling comes over Ivan as he straightens and hands the wallet back to Alfred, who thanks him. Ivan watches Alfred look at the pictures. There is no escaping the fact that everyone in the picture is someone Alfred fought with bitterly at one point, and defeated (if Alfred counts the Cold War his victory, which Ivan knows he does). Ivan keeps such pictures himself. But there is nothing in Alfred's photographs that speaks of conquest. Alfred's photographs speak of something else, something essentially Alfred—or at least the Alfred that comes back to Ivan when he saw that picture from Potsdam.
Alfred is sitting on the other side of the table again, drinking whisky, unwilling to acknowledge the erroneous heat. He is so steadfast in refusing to admit his mistake that he begins to hum.
But then Ivan recognizes the tune, and thinks it may not be false nonchalance after all. This is the song from the film that was playing on the television in his hotel room last night. The humming, Ivan reconsiders, may be connected to Alfred having looked at those photographs just now.
Ivan is willing to drink with Alfred and even to listen to Alfred's humming, but he does not wish to watch Alfred turn darker shades of pink or start to sweat through his bomber jacket. He opens the window behind him, allowing fresh, cool air into the room. Alfred says nothing, interrupting his humming only to drink from the flask, resuming it even as he swallows. Ivan wonders if Alfred has presumed Ivan is familiar with the song, as he seems to assume that all the world knows of his "culture," and if perhaps this is a new game.
"I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred," Ivan says. "But I do not think you are correct in that."
The humming breaks off, the flask coming down to the table with a surprisingly soft thud. "Christ, Ivan. Do you really think you need to tell me that?"
So it is not a game, after all. In that case, Ivan will shut his mouth. He will not tell Alfred that the superhero of his he should identify with is the Spider-Man. What was the line? 'With great power comes great responsibility.' That is the Alfred that Ivan remembers.
The Alfred before Ivan now has closed his eyes again as he drains the flask. When he offers to return it, Ivan shakes his head. "It is nothing." He does not want Alfred to think him so poorly off now that he cannot afford the loss of a simple flask. "Keep it."
"Well, if you're sure." Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.
Unaccountably, Alfred pauses in the doorway, but does not turn around. Low in the sky now, the sun casts its late afternoon light through the window, bathing Alfred golden as he stands there. Not a superhero after all, Ivan muses, but ever the lone cowboy striding away in the sunset.
He smiles when Alfred has gone. Puts away his flask and, humming himself, puts his hands in his pockets as he goes.
[end]
NOTES:
Author!anon did not set this at a specific meeting, but from context is guessing it takes place around 2005 or 2006. The most time-specific clue is the song Alfred is humming, which is "Hero" from Spider-Man 2.
Finally, the title is stolen from a Raymond Carver story. The full title of Carver's story is "This is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love."
It is almost blinding, Alfred's smile, and Ivan finds he must look away from it. His eyes slide to the picture opposite, but find no relief for Alfred smiles at him out of that picture as well, this time standing beside Japan.
A strange feeling comes over Ivan as he straightens and hands the wallet back to Alfred, who thanks him. Ivan watches Alfred look at the pictures. There is no escaping the fact that everyone in the picture is someone Alfred fought with bitterly at one point, and defeated (if Alfred counts the Cold War his victory, which Ivan knows he does). Ivan keeps such pictures himself. But there is nothing in Alfred's photographs that speaks of conquest. Alfred's photographs speak of something else, something essentially Alfred—or at least the Alfred that comes back to Ivan when he saw that picture from Potsdam.
Alfred is sitting on the other side of the table again, drinking whisky, unwilling to acknowledge the erroneous heat. He is so steadfast in refusing to admit his mistake that he begins to hum.
But then Ivan recognizes the tune, and thinks it may not be false nonchalance after all. This is the song from the film that was playing on the television in his hotel room last night. The humming, Ivan reconsiders, may be connected to Alfred having looked at those photographs just now.
Ivan is willing to drink with Alfred and even to listen to Alfred's humming, but he does not wish to watch Alfred turn darker shades of pink or start to sweat through his bomber jacket. He opens the window behind him, allowing fresh, cool air into the room. Alfred says nothing, interrupting his humming only to drink from the flask, resuming it even as he swallows. Ivan wonders if Alfred has presumed Ivan is familiar with the song, as he seems to assume that all the world knows of his "culture," and if perhaps this is a new game.
"I know you identify yourself with Superman, Alfred," Ivan says. "But I do not think you are correct in that."
The humming breaks off, the flask coming down to the table with a surprisingly soft thud. "Christ, Ivan. Do you really think you need to tell me that?"
So it is not a game, after all. In that case, Ivan will shut his mouth. He will not tell Alfred that the superhero of his he should identify with is the Spider-Man. What was the line? 'With great power comes great responsibility.' That is the Alfred that Ivan remembers.
The Alfred before Ivan now has closed his eyes again as he drains the flask. When he offers to return it, Ivan shakes his head. "It is nothing." He does not want Alfred to think him so poorly off now that he cannot afford the loss of a simple flask. "Keep it."
"Well, if you're sure." Alfred shrugs and pockets the flask. He stands to go. "Tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow," Ivan agrees.
Unaccountably, Alfred pauses in the doorway, but does not turn around. Low in the sky now, the sun casts its late afternoon light through the window, bathing Alfred golden as he stands there. Not a superhero after all, Ivan muses, but ever the lone cowboy striding away in the sunset.
He smiles when Alfred has gone. Puts away his flask and, humming himself, puts his hands in his pockets as he goes.
[end]
NOTES:
Author!anon did not set this at a specific meeting, but from context is guessing it takes place around 2005 or 2006. The most time-specific clue is the song Alfred is humming, which is "Hero" from Spider-Man 2.
Finally, the title is stolen from a Raymond Carver story. The full title of Carver's story is "This is What We Talk About When We Talk About Love."
Gaah, I love this fill so much!! ♥ Thank you.
Author!anon thanks you for reading and is very happy you enjoyed!
lurker!anon wants to say plenty about this fill but do not know how to say and so will just say that this is wonderful. /fail in english
*bookmarks
*bookmarks
Author!anon is very happy you enjoyed it so well, and doesn't think you fail in english at all! Thank you very much for reading.
neat! I liked this!
Author!anon is happy you enjoyed, and thanks you for reading!
Ugh, this is magnificent. ♥
Bookmark'd.
Bookmark'd.
Author!anon is delighted you enjoyed it so well, and thanks you for reading! ♥
Beautiful and unique. Thank you, author!anon
I don't bookmark, I save. Yes I'm paranoid that the internet monster might eat my goodies up.
I don't bookmark, I save. Yes I'm paranoid that the internet monster might eat my goodies up.
Author!anon is very happy you liked it so well, and thanks you for your praise! I share your paranoia, btw; I have lost too much by not being paranoid enough...
This was perfect. Absolutely. Perfect.
Thank you so much for this Anon. You captured the dynamic between these two in such an interesting way that I hardly ever see for this pairing. God, I'm not coherent enough to properly express how much I love this XD
I do hope you write more for these two in the future! I'm definitely keeping this bookmark'd!
Again, thank you so much!
Thank you so much for this Anon. You captured the dynamic between these two in such an interesting way that I hardly ever see for this pairing. God, I'm not coherent enough to properly express how much I love this XD
I do hope you write more for these two in the future! I'm definitely keeping this bookmark'd!
Again, thank you so much!
Author!anon is really happy you enjoyed it, OP! Even though Ivan and Alfred are one of my favorite pairings, I wasn't sure I would ever write them--but I couldn't resist your prompt, which seemed open to other kinds of intimacy besides sexual and therefore intrigued me. So thank you very much for the prompt!
Amazing. Absolutely amazing. I love how you portrayed these two in this fic. Great job!! :D
Author!anon is very happy you enjoyed, and thanks you for reading!
ican'tbelieveyoucomparedamericatospiderman I LOVE YOU FOR THAT
Your Ivan is fantastic. It's great that despite both pieces being in third person, they each have a certain flair that fits the character they're talking about better.
I adore it. All of it.
Your Ivan is fantastic. It's great that despite both pieces being in third person, they each have a certain flair that fits the character they're talking about better.
I adore it. All of it.
Author!anon is superhappy you liked the Spider-Man thing, because I thought maybe that was a little much--but when I think about WWII-era America, that most famous of Stan Lee's lines does come to mind...
I'm also really happy you like Ivan, because so far he's my favorite character to write. Thank you very much for reading!
I'm also really happy you like Ivan, because so far he's my favorite character to write. Thank you very much for reading!
Ivan ~ ♥ I love how there isn't a game but there is one at the same time. It was almost like a completely different set of characters in the second story. It was very clever of you to use the things Alfred brushed off as Ivan's focus points.
Although I bet Alfred doesn't like being called a cowboy, I can't help but find the lone cowboy terribly suitable for him. Love that last image.
Although I bet Alfred doesn't like being called a cowboy, I can't help but find the lone cowboy terribly suitable for him. Love that last image.
Author!anon agrees that Ivan ~ ♥, definitely. "Almost like a completely different set of characters"--I like that! I'm very happy you enjoyed the structure, which came to me even before I knew exactly what the story was going to be. As for the cowboy thing, I didn't think of it until you said something, but yeah, I see Alfred squinting at Ivan and asking him just exactly what he means by that, if Ivan ever called him "cowboy" aloud.
Thank you for reading!
Thank you for reading!
France/England, using this as the theme:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/world/europe/17submarine.html?_r=1&ref=world
I'm not really looking for smut so...crack anyone? :DDD
Summary: "Two nuclear submarines, one French and the other British, collided in mid-Atlantic earlier this month, reports in the British and French news media said on Monday, quoting sources in the two defense ministries."
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/17/world/europe/17submarine.html?_r=1&ref=world
I'm not really looking for smut so...crack anyone? :DDD
Summary: "Two nuclear submarines, one French and the other British, collided in mid-Atlantic earlier this month, reports in the British and French news media said on Monday, quoting sources in the two defense ministries."
I just watched it and I need this like burning.
Prussia and Hungary are childhood friends who live with each other. They're falling behind on rent, so they decide to make a porno to make money.
Make it smutty and funny.
Prussia and Hungary are childhood friends who live with each other. They're falling behind on rent, so they decide to make a porno to make money.
Make it smutty and funny.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=69993300#t69993300
(Because we need some more dark!Spain)
Spain/Romano: Punishment/torture noncon.
Spain takes pleasure in his darker side and puts his teenage charge through a series of tortures as punishment: Bondage, force-feeding, desperation, stripping, forced stimulation, bloodplay, etc. Any or all of those in a wicked combination.
(Bonus: Spain remains oblivious or perhaps not as to the pain and horror he's causing Romano)
Spain/Romano: Punishment/torture noncon.
Spain takes pleasure in his darker side and puts his teenage charge through a series of tortures as punishment: Bondage, force-feeding, desperation, stripping, forced stimulation, bloodplay, etc. Any or all of those in a wicked combination.
(Bonus: Spain remains oblivious or perhaps not as to the pain and horror he's causing Romano)
This is the anon that claimed, btw. XD Also, major failure ahead, since I don't usually write. Yeaaah....
--
Lovino isn’t quite sure when it began—time no longer had any meaning to him, except for when the day’s punishment began and ended. There is no indication as to whether it is day or night—there are no windows here, and the only light comes from the candles that the Spaniard lights when he enters the room.
Currently, he is bound to the bed once more, arms raised above him, wrists bound and lashed to the headboard. A dark and heavy blindfold is wrapped around his eyes, and his mouth has been taped shut. He is used to the deprivation of these senses now, and he can only be grateful that Antonio hasn’t completely cut off all of his senses. Not being able to see, or move and talk is hard enough as it is.
The Italian shifts as much as he is allowed to, just to stimulate some circulation in his body, flexes his fingers and his toes; the room is cold, and he is naked. He’s always naked now—what use was there for clothes? They were only torn and ripped away in the end. He has also given up struggling a long time ago; struggles brought nothing but pain and more degradation beyond what he thought was humanly possible.
Lovino lies there, and waits for Antonio’s return. It is inevitable.
--
“Lovino…” There’s a croon in his ear, and it’s the Spaniard. There is also a strange smell, and it takes awhile for him to realize it’s the smell of food. The Italian is used to the sterile smell of the room, and the scents from whatever Antonio has brought overwhelm him, makes his nose hurt. There is some shuffling, and the suspended Italian is dropped onto the bed. He tries to move his hands apart, but finds that he can’t—they are still bound together. The texture of the sheets on the bed makes him cringe. He lies there, afraid to move. He feels the bed dip, knows that Antonio has sat down on it.
A pair of calloused hands moves the Italian in an almost gentle fashion—adjusts him so that Lovino sits in Antonio’s lap. It’s not longer as embarrassing to sit in the man’s nap naked; he knows that before, he would have screamed and cursed and attempted to physically harm the man. Not anymore. The Italian sits there, shivering, not making a sound until he feels the piece of tape being ripped away from his mouth, and he utters a small cry of pain.
Antonio presses a finger to the other man’s lips, smiles, even thought Lovino can’t see it. “Sh, it’s alright…” His voice is low, and soothing, but it makes Lovino shudder. The Italian feels Antonio reach around him for something. “Open your mouth.”
Lovino obeys, and opens his mouth. Antonio presses something into his mouth, those fingers lingering in his mouth for a few seconds, and it’s only when they are gone does Lovino bite down, and chew. Spanish olives. This is repeated for a few minutes, and when Antonio is done, Lovino laments. Only olives? Nothing else?
But no, he can’t complain.
It’s better than what he usually gets.
“What do you say, Lovino?”
“Thank you, Master, thank you thank you thank you…”
--
Lovino isn’t quite sure when it began—time no longer had any meaning to him, except for when the day’s punishment began and ended. There is no indication as to whether it is day or night—there are no windows here, and the only light comes from the candles that the Spaniard lights when he enters the room.
Currently, he is bound to the bed once more, arms raised above him, wrists bound and lashed to the headboard. A dark and heavy blindfold is wrapped around his eyes, and his mouth has been taped shut. He is used to the deprivation of these senses now, and he can only be grateful that Antonio hasn’t completely cut off all of his senses. Not being able to see, or move and talk is hard enough as it is.
The Italian shifts as much as he is allowed to, just to stimulate some circulation in his body, flexes his fingers and his toes; the room is cold, and he is naked. He’s always naked now—what use was there for clothes? They were only torn and ripped away in the end. He has also given up struggling a long time ago; struggles brought nothing but pain and more degradation beyond what he thought was humanly possible.
Lovino lies there, and waits for Antonio’s return. It is inevitable.
--
“Lovino…” There’s a croon in his ear, and it’s the Spaniard. There is also a strange smell, and it takes awhile for him to realize it’s the smell of food. The Italian is used to the sterile smell of the room, and the scents from whatever Antonio has brought overwhelm him, makes his nose hurt. There is some shuffling, and the suspended Italian is dropped onto the bed. He tries to move his hands apart, but finds that he can’t—they are still bound together. The texture of the sheets on the bed makes him cringe. He lies there, afraid to move. He feels the bed dip, knows that Antonio has sat down on it.
A pair of calloused hands moves the Italian in an almost gentle fashion—adjusts him so that Lovino sits in Antonio’s lap. It’s not longer as embarrassing to sit in the man’s nap naked; he knows that before, he would have screamed and cursed and attempted to physically harm the man. Not anymore. The Italian sits there, shivering, not making a sound until he feels the piece of tape being ripped away from his mouth, and he utters a small cry of pain.
Antonio presses a finger to the other man’s lips, smiles, even thought Lovino can’t see it. “Sh, it’s alright…” His voice is low, and soothing, but it makes Lovino shudder. The Italian feels Antonio reach around him for something. “Open your mouth.”
Lovino obeys, and opens his mouth. Antonio presses something into his mouth, those fingers lingering in his mouth for a few seconds, and it’s only when they are gone does Lovino bite down, and chew. Spanish olives. This is repeated for a few minutes, and when Antonio is done, Lovino laments. Only olives? Nothing else?
But no, he can’t complain.
It’s better than what he usually gets.
“What do you say, Lovino?”
“Thank you, Master, thank you thank you thank you…”
FFFFFFFFF I can't wait for the rest xD
> w<
Ilu2.
XD
Thank you for reading!
I'll try to get the rest of this written today.
<3
reCaptcha: Today's festive (...not for Lovino, it isn't. D= )
Ilu2.
XD
Thank you for reading!
I'll try to get the rest of this written today.
<3
reCaptcha: Today's festive (...not for Lovino, it isn't. D= )
'Room 101' ?
YOU WIN FOR THE 1984 REFERENCE, AUTHORNON.
Already this looks like its gonna be epic. This anon is eagerly anticipating more! (and hoping that her F5 button doesn't break...)
YOU WIN FOR THE 1984 REFERENCE, AUTHORNON.
Already this looks like its gonna be epic. This anon is eagerly anticipating more! (and hoping that her F5 button doesn't break...)
Aaah, this one's super phail, since I wrote it in my math class. ; _; I'm sorry!
--
Lovino is desperate, but there’s nothing he can really do in his current position, with Antonio’s hand being curled in his hair and forcing his head forwardbackforwardbackforwardback on his cock. His eyes water, then run and he tries to fight down his gag reflex, and the urge to urinate at the same time. Antonio is groaning softly above him, and the fingers pull harshly at his hair, crushing his sensitive curl, and Lovino whimpers.
Saliva runs down his chin, mixed with pre-cum, and Lovino tries not to be disgusted by it, concentrates instead on not pissing in front of the Spaniard. After a few more minutes of pain, having to feel the head of the others cock bump and hit the back of his throat, Lovino feels it twitch slightly in his mouth, and prepares himself to swallow, but is surprised to feel his head being pulled back, and held there. Antonio uses his freehand to stroke himself to his orgasm and cums heavily over the Italian’s face and into his hair.
He jerks Lovino’s head forward, turns it slightly, and wipes himself clean with the man’s hair, still holding onto the curl roughly, and pulling on it hard enough that Lovino is afraid it will rip out.
“Onto your back,” Antonio whispers, and when Lovino hesitates, he places his foot on Lovino’s chest, and pushes him down.
“Please,” Lovino whispers. “Let me go to the bathroom, please, Antonio, please…”
But Antonio doesn’t answer, he never does, and instead, he places his foot on Lovino’s stomach, then down lower, where his bladder would be, and presses. Lovino gives a loud cry, tries to shrink away from the pressure but can’t, and oh, he can’t help it now, his face red, he feels himself urinating onto his abdomen and it’s running down his side and…
Antonio stands up, and steps over Lovino, barely giving him a glance, and leaves the room.
“Clean it up,” he says, and Lovino isn’t sure if he refers to the urine, or Lovino himself.
--
Lovino is desperate, but there’s nothing he can really do in his current position, with Antonio’s hand being curled in his hair and forcing his head forwardbackforwardbackforwardback on his cock. His eyes water, then run and he tries to fight down his gag reflex, and the urge to urinate at the same time. Antonio is groaning softly above him, and the fingers pull harshly at his hair, crushing his sensitive curl, and Lovino whimpers.
Saliva runs down his chin, mixed with pre-cum, and Lovino tries not to be disgusted by it, concentrates instead on not pissing in front of the Spaniard. After a few more minutes of pain, having to feel the head of the others cock bump and hit the back of his throat, Lovino feels it twitch slightly in his mouth, and prepares himself to swallow, but is surprised to feel his head being pulled back, and held there. Antonio uses his freehand to stroke himself to his orgasm and cums heavily over the Italian’s face and into his hair.
He jerks Lovino’s head forward, turns it slightly, and wipes himself clean with the man’s hair, still holding onto the curl roughly, and pulling on it hard enough that Lovino is afraid it will rip out.
“Onto your back,” Antonio whispers, and when Lovino hesitates, he places his foot on Lovino’s chest, and pushes him down.
“Please,” Lovino whispers. “Let me go to the bathroom, please, Antonio, please…”
But Antonio doesn’t answer, he never does, and instead, he places his foot on Lovino’s stomach, then down lower, where his bladder would be, and presses. Lovino gives a loud cry, tries to shrink away from the pressure but can’t, and oh, he can’t help it now, his face red, he feels himself urinating onto his abdomen and it’s running down his side and…
Antonio stands up, and steps over Lovino, barely giving him a glance, and leaves the room.
“Clean it up,” he says, and Lovino isn’t sure if he refers to the urine, or Lovino himself.
omg omg, so sad! but i love this! you are amazing anon!
"Please, let me have more," this anon cries, "please, author!anon, please!"
I've seen a couple Boston Tea Party fics, but I haven't seen any of the Boston Massacre.
UK x colonial America, obviously. snowballs, insults and a gun.
wikipedia has a strangely detailed account of the event, if anon is interested. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_massacre#Event
UK x colonial America, obviously. snowballs, insults and a gun.
wikipedia has a strangely detailed account of the event, if anon is interested. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_massacre#Event
different anon from above delivering a fic anon has wanted to write for a long time.
------
His first thought is that he shouldn’t be here – that he should be on his way back home, back to where he knows England is waiting for him. If he’s late England will pull him aside and scold him until he pretends to be apologetic and remorseful. He’ll promise to never do it again, swear that he’s loyal to England and the Crown; then England will ruffle his hair like he’s still a child and send him up to bed. Canada will give him a disapproving look from behind his bear, tell him that he really should listen to what England says because England’s only looking out for America. At least he will until America punches his brother hard enough to get him to shut up.
He doesn’t mean to wander over, not at first, or so he tells himself. Arguments between the British soldiers and his citizens aren’t exactly uncommon, but when he sees the soldier strike one of the boys on the side of the head he can’t help himself. A few quick strides and he’s there, easily blending in with the gathering crowd.
“Why don’t you go back to where you belong,” cries someone from near the front of the group – even though he’s grown America still has to stretch to see over the sea of heads to get a good look at the soldier who, America notes with some satisfaction, looks worried. He should be, he thinks, they all should be.
When the church bells start ringing he doesn’t even blink, not as the mob presses in around him. It’s exhilarating, yelling along with his people and he can feel them, every single one as they’re united against a single threat, united against England.
The soldier is moving now, slowly but he’s still moving – trying to find safer ground, America supposes. He has to laugh when the man ends up with his back to a building and more space for the crowd to gather around and grow.
“They’re sending reinforcements!”
Of course they are. America stands on his toes to peer over crowd - there has to be at least a hundred people gathered now - to watch the bright red coats part the sea of people with ease.
It’s the eyebrows that he spots first, and he chuckles to himself because they remind him so much of England…
England.
America is taken back, stops mid throw to stare at the older nation before the dawning realization makes his grin widen. England is here, England will find out first hand that he isn’t going to be taken lightly. It’s perfect, and so he launches the snowball and laughs as it hits an unfaltering England square on his chest.
England’s expression doesn’t change as the soldiers load their muskets and form a semi-circle around the door – leveling their muskets at the crowd. America nearly laughs at the idea – England wouldn’t dare, not after the death of Christopher Seider, not when all America needs is any excuse at all to prove just how much England isn’t wanted, isn’t needed here anymore.
“Why don’t you fire?” He yells, voice easily carrying over the other jeers and taunts of the crowd. “Fire!”
England’s eyes snap to him in an instant and they widen with surprise even as America’s call is taken up by others in the crowd. He doesn’t stop the smirk, can’t stop the way he feels like laughing because England knows he’s here, knows that he’s not being a good little colony sitting back in the house and waiting for England to come home. He hasn’t been that model colony for a long time and maybe, just maybe, if England had paid attention, had taken him seriously, he wouldn’t be so surprised.
So America cups his hands around his mouth and yells again, as loud as he can – “Fire!”
Someone, America can’t tell who, clubs down a soldier. The man falls to the ground and he can’t help but join in the laughter from the crowd – it’s only a taste of what they deserve. The British don’t belong in Boston; don’t belong in the houses of his people. Ungrateful, that’s what England would say, but America knows better. He’s not ungrateful if he never wanted, never needed, what England says he’s giving him in the first place.
------
His first thought is that he shouldn’t be here – that he should be on his way back home, back to where he knows England is waiting for him. If he’s late England will pull him aside and scold him until he pretends to be apologetic and remorseful. He’ll promise to never do it again, swear that he’s loyal to England and the Crown; then England will ruffle his hair like he’s still a child and send him up to bed. Canada will give him a disapproving look from behind his bear, tell him that he really should listen to what England says because England’s only looking out for America. At least he will until America punches his brother hard enough to get him to shut up.
He doesn’t mean to wander over, not at first, or so he tells himself. Arguments between the British soldiers and his citizens aren’t exactly uncommon, but when he sees the soldier strike one of the boys on the side of the head he can’t help himself. A few quick strides and he’s there, easily blending in with the gathering crowd.
“Why don’t you go back to where you belong,” cries someone from near the front of the group – even though he’s grown America still has to stretch to see over the sea of heads to get a good look at the soldier who, America notes with some satisfaction, looks worried. He should be, he thinks, they all should be.
When the church bells start ringing he doesn’t even blink, not as the mob presses in around him. It’s exhilarating, yelling along with his people and he can feel them, every single one as they’re united against a single threat, united against England.
The soldier is moving now, slowly but he’s still moving – trying to find safer ground, America supposes. He has to laugh when the man ends up with his back to a building and more space for the crowd to gather around and grow.
“They’re sending reinforcements!”
Of course they are. America stands on his toes to peer over crowd - there has to be at least a hundred people gathered now - to watch the bright red coats part the sea of people with ease.
It’s the eyebrows that he spots first, and he chuckles to himself because they remind him so much of England…
England.
America is taken back, stops mid throw to stare at the older nation before the dawning realization makes his grin widen. England is here, England will find out first hand that he isn’t going to be taken lightly. It’s perfect, and so he launches the snowball and laughs as it hits an unfaltering England square on his chest.
England’s expression doesn’t change as the soldiers load their muskets and form a semi-circle around the door – leveling their muskets at the crowd. America nearly laughs at the idea – England wouldn’t dare, not after the death of Christopher Seider, not when all America needs is any excuse at all to prove just how much England isn’t wanted, isn’t needed here anymore.
“Why don’t you fire?” He yells, voice easily carrying over the other jeers and taunts of the crowd. “Fire!”
England’s eyes snap to him in an instant and they widen with surprise even as America’s call is taken up by others in the crowd. He doesn’t stop the smirk, can’t stop the way he feels like laughing because England knows he’s here, knows that he’s not being a good little colony sitting back in the house and waiting for England to come home. He hasn’t been that model colony for a long time and maybe, just maybe, if England had paid attention, had taken him seriously, he wouldn’t be so surprised.
So America cups his hands around his mouth and yells again, as loud as he can – “Fire!”
Someone, America can’t tell who, clubs down a soldier. The man falls to the ground and he can’t help but join in the laughter from the crowd – it’s only a taste of what they deserve. The British don’t belong in Boston; don’t belong in the houses of his people. Ungrateful, that’s what England would say, but America knows better. He’s not ungrateful if he never wanted, never needed, what England says he’s giving him in the first place.
The man struggles to his feet, cursing – “Damn you, fire!” and a shot rings out in the gathering dark. The crowd pauses only for a moment before roaring back even louder than before and America can’t remember feeling this alive. He can feel England’s eyes on him but he doesn’t care, not even as the other nation levels his musket at him.
He can’t tell who fires first but it doesn’t matter, not when the crowd around him is suddenly screaming. America hears someone call for a physician, hears cries of “murderers” and he doesn’t think he’s ever agreed about something more.
As much as he wishes to stay, wishes to find out who died – who was murdered, he knows he needs to leave, needs to leave before England catches up with him. Without a second thought he attaches himself to a group that’s running in the direction he needs to go, getting further and further away from the man who raised him.
England is going to pay, America thinks, pay for this massacre of his people and for everything else. By what means, he’s not sure, but he’s going to find a way and nothing will stand in his way, not the soldiers and not England himself.
America can’t wait.
He can’t tell who fires first but it doesn’t matter, not when the crowd around him is suddenly screaming. America hears someone call for a physician, hears cries of “murderers” and he doesn’t think he’s ever agreed about something more.
As much as he wishes to stay, wishes to find out who died – who was murdered, he knows he needs to leave, needs to leave before England catches up with him. Without a second thought he attaches himself to a group that’s running in the direction he needs to go, getting further and further away from the man who raised him.
England is going to pay, America thinks, pay for this massacre of his people and for everything else. By what means, he’s not sure, but he’s going to find a way and nothing will stand in his way, not the soldiers and not England himself.
America can’t wait.
Oh Al, you're such an ass sometimes (not that Arthur's any better)
Hope there's more <3
Hope there's more <3
Yesterday was the OP's birthday, so waking up this morning to find this was, like... the most exciting thing ever!!!
!!! This is fantastic!! Thank you so much for writing it, anon!! Al's just... fka;ldkfa <3 the part about Canada... and the snowball... and all the history... <33333 thank you~~~!
!!! This is fantastic!! Thank you so much for writing it, anon!! Al's just... fka;ldkfa <3 the part about Canada... and the snowball... and all the history... <33333 thank you~~~!
Well, I think there has been at least one Hamlet-request in each of the 4 parts, since I've seen a few, but now; I couldn't find them D:
SO I'll just be posting the fic here. When I find the links, I'll put them in, promise D:
Since all the requests has differed from one another, I chose to go with the country names, seeing as how Denmark's name still is unknown. I chose not to follow the script 100%, and will just be writing the plot with part quotes, part self-invented stuff. If you're a true Shakespeare-fan, you'll quickly see what I've used and not used xD
Anyway, enjoy? :3
SO I'll just be posting the fic here. When I find the links, I'll put them in, promise D:
Since all the requests has differed from one another, I chose to go with the country names, seeing as how Denmark's name still is unknown. I chose not to follow the script 100%, and will just be writing the plot with part quotes, part self-invented stuff. If you're a true Shakespeare-fan, you'll quickly see what I've used and not used xD
Anyway, enjoy? :3
Hamlet - Denmark (Wow, surprise xD)
Claudius - Sweden
Gertrude - Finland
Ophelia - Canada
The Ghost - Russia
Marcellus and Bernado - Germany and Prussia
Horatio - Prussia too (have kind of smacked the characters together)
Polonius - England
Laertes - America
Fortinbras - Norway
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - Belarus and Ukraine
The rest will be played by normal humans.
Claudius - Sweden
Gertrude - Finland
Ophelia - Canada
The Ghost - Russia
Marcellus and Bernado - Germany and Prussia
Horatio - Prussia too (have kind of smacked the characters together)
Polonius - England
Laertes - America
Fortinbras - Norway
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - Belarus and Ukraine
The rest will be played by normal humans.
They say a ghost has appeared. The only ghost Denmark knows of is that memory of once better times in the country. It’s a vain flicker, phantomlike, with a scent of green grass and the sound of laughing children. Now all there is left is the weaker side of the memory, with blonde hair and bright eyes, smiling though the death of his husband is only countable days away. Like he ever cared. The meat is weak, legs easily spread for a newcomer, but his own uncle? It’s incest, that he knows for sure, and that he can’t approve of.
Hours ago they were wasting wine on the soul and food on the filled stomach. Finland, his mother, was sitting there, listening carefully to his man’s words, a speech more filled with false emotions than any there ever was. ‘How could he smile like that?’ he wonders, ‘how could he whisper that man words sweeter than honey? How could he forget about the greater king after having shed so few tears?’
Humans disgust him. The fact that he’s one himself disgusts him even more.
--
“The air bites.” Denmark is wearing his thickets coat, but the wind knows no mercy. It’s like death; it wouldn’t care whether you’re king or a fishmonger, it’ll take you down in the end. The thought send thrills down his spine, though it may just be the cold getting to him.
“Watch out or only a part of you will return.” The witty remark is offered by Prussia. He has seated himself up against the wall, the sword leaning next to him, ready for use. Denmark sends him a raised brow, to which Prussia just shrugs the shoulders. “Sorry?”
“I’m here for more important matter than your future as a joker,” Denmark reminds him, and Prussia once again assures him that he’s very sorry. Though he assures him with a grin. And a wink with the eye. Denmark’s not sure his beloved father took the right choice when hiring the swordsmen.
A gasp from Germany brings Denmark back from the depths of his mind: “Look, my lord, it comes!” Denmark turns around, axe at the shoulder as he faces the silhouette of an old man.
“Oh good lord,” he mumbles, the grip around the axe’s shaft tightens. It’s really there. As Prussia threw himself at him earlier the same day, he had a hard time believing the man’s words. But there it was. The ghost. No hallucination, he was seeing it himself. He straightens himself a little up, axe in front of him as he yells: “What kind of ghost may you be? Do you bring the scent of Heaven or the flames of Hell?” The ghost stands still, feet barely reaching the ground. The only sound is the whistling wind, and the shudder from Prussia behind him.
“I think it wants you to follow it.”
“What?”
“Prussia is right,” Germany barks in, pointing towards the flickering soul, “it’s gesturing for you to come with it.”
As Denmark turns towards the ghost, it’s already slowly slipping down the stairs. “Stop!” he growls frustrated, “don’t go!” As he attempts to follow it, Prussia grab’s his sleeve. “Let me go – it’ll not speak unless I follow it!” Denmark hushes.
“It can be dangerous, my lord. What if it pushes you off the roof? What if it’s no heavenly creature, but Lucifer himself; it could take the shape of a monster. I beg you, do not follow, my lord!”
“Keep your worries to the silent mind, that’s where they belong. And stick the hands in the pockets, that are where they belong. It’s still there, it’s waving, and I’ll have to go.” Denmark slaps of the other’s hand, and before the other can manage to pull together a protest, Denmark is running down the stairs, leaving in the heavy night to follow the soul of his father.
“We should follow,” Germany turns towards Prussia, “we can’t obey the orders from one whose imagination is controlling the mind!”
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” Prussia swears under his breath, and all Germany can manage is a nod, ‘cause the tragic of the sentence hits him harder than the reality itself, and the two quickly speeds up, following their prince down the stairs.
Hours ago they were wasting wine on the soul and food on the filled stomach. Finland, his mother, was sitting there, listening carefully to his man’s words, a speech more filled with false emotions than any there ever was. ‘How could he smile like that?’ he wonders, ‘how could he whisper that man words sweeter than honey? How could he forget about the greater king after having shed so few tears?’
Humans disgust him. The fact that he’s one himself disgusts him even more.
--
“The air bites.” Denmark is wearing his thickets coat, but the wind knows no mercy. It’s like death; it wouldn’t care whether you’re king or a fishmonger, it’ll take you down in the end. The thought send thrills down his spine, though it may just be the cold getting to him.
“Watch out or only a part of you will return.” The witty remark is offered by Prussia. He has seated himself up against the wall, the sword leaning next to him, ready for use. Denmark sends him a raised brow, to which Prussia just shrugs the shoulders. “Sorry?”
“I’m here for more important matter than your future as a joker,” Denmark reminds him, and Prussia once again assures him that he’s very sorry. Though he assures him with a grin. And a wink with the eye. Denmark’s not sure his beloved father took the right choice when hiring the swordsmen.
A gasp from Germany brings Denmark back from the depths of his mind: “Look, my lord, it comes!” Denmark turns around, axe at the shoulder as he faces the silhouette of an old man.
“Oh good lord,” he mumbles, the grip around the axe’s shaft tightens. It’s really there. As Prussia threw himself at him earlier the same day, he had a hard time believing the man’s words. But there it was. The ghost. No hallucination, he was seeing it himself. He straightens himself a little up, axe in front of him as he yells: “What kind of ghost may you be? Do you bring the scent of Heaven or the flames of Hell?” The ghost stands still, feet barely reaching the ground. The only sound is the whistling wind, and the shudder from Prussia behind him.
“I think it wants you to follow it.”
“What?”
“Prussia is right,” Germany barks in, pointing towards the flickering soul, “it’s gesturing for you to come with it.”
As Denmark turns towards the ghost, it’s already slowly slipping down the stairs. “Stop!” he growls frustrated, “don’t go!” As he attempts to follow it, Prussia grab’s his sleeve. “Let me go – it’ll not speak unless I follow it!” Denmark hushes.
“It can be dangerous, my lord. What if it pushes you off the roof? What if it’s no heavenly creature, but Lucifer himself; it could take the shape of a monster. I beg you, do not follow, my lord!”
“Keep your worries to the silent mind, that’s where they belong. And stick the hands in the pockets, that are where they belong. It’s still there, it’s waving, and I’ll have to go.” Denmark slaps of the other’s hand, and before the other can manage to pull together a protest, Denmark is running down the stairs, leaving in the heavy night to follow the soul of his father.
“We should follow,” Germany turns towards Prussia, “we can’t obey the orders from one whose imagination is controlling the mind!”
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” Prussia swears under his breath, and all Germany can manage is a nod, ‘cause the tragic of the sentence hits him harder than the reality itself, and the two quickly speeds up, following their prince down the stairs.
Oh goodness, are you going to do ALL of Hamlet?
o_O I am awed by the size of that undertaking...
Anyway, I am SOOO excited!!! Ever since seeing this fanart (http://paperclippedmime.deviantart.com/art/APH-Denmark-109570207) I have been craaaaving this story, thank you thank you thank you!
Finland+Russia = lolwhut,
Arthur sends his son to France, of all places, to test his character XD,
and... I know this is way early, but I'm looking forward to Norway coming in "Hm... this is a mess. Ok, I'm taking over." XD
o_O I am awed by the size of that undertaking...
Anyway, I am SOOO excited!!! Ever since seeing this fanart (http://paperclippedmime.deviantart.com/art/APH-Denmark-109570207) I have been craaaaving this story, thank you thank you thank you!
Finland+Russia = lolwhut,
Arthur sends his son to France, of all places, to test his character XD,
and... I know this is way early, but I'm looking forward to Norway coming in "Hm... this is a mess. Ok, I'm taking over." XD
HAMLET? I LOVE YOU. <333. I would srsly offer you my babies, but I already offered them to that dear anon over younder . . .
Oh. My. God.
You've stolen this litfag's heart. You have indeed!
You've stolen this litfag's heart. You have indeed!
I am loving your casting and your adaptation so far, Anon. Please to continue~
Here are the links, writer!anon --
Hamlet references - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=2788298#t2788298
Denmark/England Fortinbras!France - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=4999127#t4999127
Denmark/Hamlet/Fortinbras/Norway with voyeur!England - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7349463#t7349463
I think your fill works for the first one :)
Hamlet references - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/3274.html?thread=2788298#t2788298
Denmark/England Fortinbras!France - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=4999127#t4999127
Denmark/Hamlet/Fortinbras/Norway with voyeur!England - http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7349463#t7349463
I think your fill works for the first one :)
Sweden/Finland. Finnish Civil War
Finland returns from Russia's house back to Sweden's side. However after a while Sweden starts to notice that there's something wrong with his dear 'wife'. His worst fears come true when one day he realizes that there are two Finlands instead of one.
And that it was just the beginning of one of Europe's bloodiest civil wars.
Finland returns from Russia's house back to Sweden's side. However after a while Sweden starts to notice that there's something wrong with his dear 'wife'. His worst fears come true when one day he realizes that there are two Finlands instead of one.
And that it was just the beginning of one of Europe's bloodiest civil wars.
[I've included notes of timelines and such, and a small vocabulary after the fic.]
- - -
It was a night of celebration. With the cries of 'Our land, our land!' still ringing through the halls and streets and dark forests of his grounds, Finland toppled into the sheets with his lover. They were both delirious with joy, Finland because of his freedom, Sweden because of the happiness of his loved one. Their lovemaking was ecstatic, blissful, and so overjoyed Finland kept slipping from one language to another and Sweden didn't even care.
"Sverige. Sver-- R-Ruotsi. Oh. Luoja. Voi luojaluojaluoja--" and then there were no more words, no more language, just breath and skin and heat.
After hours and hours of touches and kisses and caresses Sweden finally held the trembling new nation in his arms (a nation, he stressed himself, no longer a Grand Duchy to anyone), whispering sweet nothings in his ear as the last lines of the anthem faded into the night.
It was easy to fool himself to think such peace could last forever.
- - -
Over the next weeks Finland grew more and more tense. He was never snappish, not quite, for there was always that sweet, open smile on his face when he turned to Sweden, but he became quiet and serious very unlike his usual character. Sweden would catch him staring solemnly into the fire, his face almost as stoic as his own in the mirror.
There's a lot of movement going on, he would say, on the rare occasion Sweden would ask him about it. Things are changing fast and people are restless. It'll just take a while. It'll pass.
At the end of January, the tension reaching higher and higher all the while, Finland went missing for two days. He had told Sweden not to worry whatever happened (what exactly might happen, he did not say) and that he had his rifle with him in any case (which was exactly why Sweden was worried).
He came back at the evening of the 28th. Sweden only heard the door quietly opening and closing, the sound of a gun and boots being placed down and then soft steps until Finland came around the corner of the kitchen.
"Hey," he said in the form of a greeting, a smile dancing around the corner of his lips. Sweden 'mmh'-ed him in response, the relief of seeing the other only apparent in the way his eyes lit up. Finland came closer in those soft steps of his and leaned up to place a lingering kiss on Sweden's lips.
"'r' th'ngs w'rking out 't last?" the taller man murmured once they pulled apart. Finland hummed quietly.
"Quite," he said mysteriously. "Still some work to do, here and there, but things are rolling about just fine for the moment..."
Another kiss, slightly longer this time. Sweden gave a small grunt. "G't t' f'nish th' cook'ng." Finland sighed, but stepped down anyhow.
"All right. You can finish up here..." He backed away and leaned on the doorway, "... and I'll just get things started in the bedroom." And he slipped away, leaving behind only a lingering blush on Sweden's face.
- - -
And life went on. Sweden knew that there was a full-fledged war going on now, so he wasn't surprised that Finland could be thrumming with energy one day and beaten to the ground the next. In a war as fluctuating as this, there was no telling what would happen next. Of course it hurt him to see Finland so dispirited at times, but Sweden also knew he could not make things better by getting involved. Civil wars were a messy affair, he had experienced many enough, and would only turn messier if other nations took part in them.
So when he woke up to find Finland next to him, however bedraggled, he would smile and feel relieved. And when he didn't... well, that was war for you.
On those empty mornings the only signs that Finland had been there at all were the newspapers strewn over the kitchen table. Sweden couldn't read them, he didn't speak Finland's language, but every once in a while there were things scribbled over the pages or some passage or another crossed out angrily. War propaganda, was Sweden's best guess, but even so he could not tell what Finland had been so angered by.
One morning an entire page had been ripped out. There were a few letters left in the margins and some emblems which said nothing to Sweden, but that was all.
- - -
It was a night of celebration. With the cries of 'Our land, our land!' still ringing through the halls and streets and dark forests of his grounds, Finland toppled into the sheets with his lover. They were both delirious with joy, Finland because of his freedom, Sweden because of the happiness of his loved one. Their lovemaking was ecstatic, blissful, and so overjoyed Finland kept slipping from one language to another and Sweden didn't even care.
"Sverige. Sver-- R-Ruotsi. Oh. Luoja. Voi luojaluojaluoja--" and then there were no more words, no more language, just breath and skin and heat.
After hours and hours of touches and kisses and caresses Sweden finally held the trembling new nation in his arms (a nation, he stressed himself, no longer a Grand Duchy to anyone), whispering sweet nothings in his ear as the last lines of the anthem faded into the night.
It was easy to fool himself to think such peace could last forever.
- - -
Over the next weeks Finland grew more and more tense. He was never snappish, not quite, for there was always that sweet, open smile on his face when he turned to Sweden, but he became quiet and serious very unlike his usual character. Sweden would catch him staring solemnly into the fire, his face almost as stoic as his own in the mirror.
There's a lot of movement going on, he would say, on the rare occasion Sweden would ask him about it. Things are changing fast and people are restless. It'll just take a while. It'll pass.
At the end of January, the tension reaching higher and higher all the while, Finland went missing for two days. He had told Sweden not to worry whatever happened (what exactly might happen, he did not say) and that he had his rifle with him in any case (which was exactly why Sweden was worried).
He came back at the evening of the 28th. Sweden only heard the door quietly opening and closing, the sound of a gun and boots being placed down and then soft steps until Finland came around the corner of the kitchen.
"Hey," he said in the form of a greeting, a smile dancing around the corner of his lips. Sweden 'mmh'-ed him in response, the relief of seeing the other only apparent in the way his eyes lit up. Finland came closer in those soft steps of his and leaned up to place a lingering kiss on Sweden's lips.
"'r' th'ngs w'rking out 't last?" the taller man murmured once they pulled apart. Finland hummed quietly.
"Quite," he said mysteriously. "Still some work to do, here and there, but things are rolling about just fine for the moment..."
Another kiss, slightly longer this time. Sweden gave a small grunt. "G't t' f'nish th' cook'ng." Finland sighed, but stepped down anyhow.
"All right. You can finish up here..." He backed away and leaned on the doorway, "... and I'll just get things started in the bedroom." And he slipped away, leaving behind only a lingering blush on Sweden's face.
- - -
And life went on. Sweden knew that there was a full-fledged war going on now, so he wasn't surprised that Finland could be thrumming with energy one day and beaten to the ground the next. In a war as fluctuating as this, there was no telling what would happen next. Of course it hurt him to see Finland so dispirited at times, but Sweden also knew he could not make things better by getting involved. Civil wars were a messy affair, he had experienced many enough, and would only turn messier if other nations took part in them.
So when he woke up to find Finland next to him, however bedraggled, he would smile and feel relieved. And when he didn't... well, that was war for you.
On those empty mornings the only signs that Finland had been there at all were the newspapers strewn over the kitchen table. Sweden couldn't read them, he didn't speak Finland's language, but every once in a while there were things scribbled over the pages or some passage or another crossed out angrily. War propaganda, was Sweden's best guess, but even so he could not tell what Finland had been so angered by.
One morning an entire page had been ripped out. There were a few letters left in the margins and some emblems which said nothing to Sweden, but that was all.
When Finland came back that evening, he was tenser than ever. Sweden was ready to call it a night but Finland pushed him back into the bed and straddled him, giving him no time to question before rough lips claimed his. Sweden didn't understand, Finland's body was both reluctant and eager at the same time. And the way he touched, it was so foreign, so unlike his usual soft and warm caresses. This Finland was all want and demands, and while Sweden was still somewhat confused, he would have been lying if he claimed that it didn't have an effect on his body.
After all, how could he deny his lover anything? Finland was under him, clinging to him, all naked slender limbs and soft skin. And then it all went horribly wrong.
Sweden was just one push of hips away from entering his lover when Finland went shock-still in his arms. Before he realised what was happening, Finland had flipped them over with a blood-chilling screech and wrapped his fingers around Sweden's throat.
The edges of Sweden's vision blurred. All he saw was Finland's face above his, contorted in a mixture of fear and rage. "No! I won't--! I won't be taken again!" he screamed. His fingers tightened their grip and he began to shake Sweden, choking him harder and harder.
Sweden tried to push Finland off, but his hold on the other's wrists seemed to slip every time he gained a grip. His body twisted underneath Finland's, trying to dislodge him, but somehow the smaller man managed to hold on no matter what he did. Any arousal from before was long gone, and all Sweden felt was - yes, a cold fear in the pit of his stomach.
He couldn't remember ever being afraid of Finland.
"F-Fin--" he tried to call out, but in response the strangling only tightened. Sweden gurgled, gasping for breath. Finland's amethyst eyes gleamed above him, cold and harsh and merciless. "T-Ti-- TINO! STOP IT!"
It was as if a spell was broken. Suddenly Finland blinked and something shimmered in the depth of his eyes. He gasped sharply and the next moment his hands were withdrawn from Sweden's throat.
Sweden coughed violently, gulping down air all he could manage. He glanced at Finland, still rather wary, but all Finland did was sit there, looking thoroughly shocked as if he had been the one choked. Without another word he lifted himself off of Sweden and stood up from the bed.
"I... I'm sorry, Sweden. I can't do this." He spoke in a tiny voice, facing away from Sweden. The taller man could barely make his voice work again.
"Fin...?" he asked quietly, but the other nation ignored him and only hurried to pick up his discarded clothes and get out of the room. The door slammed shut a bit too loud for either of their liking, but Sweden made no motion to stand up and go after Finland. Whatever was wrong with Finland, Sweden would rather not dig too deep on it.
- - -
After that night Finland went missing for a long time. Sweden searched around the house every morning but there were no signs of the other man's presence. The house fell into such quiet Sweden wondered if Finland had meant his words more seriously than he'd thought. Had he left for good, to live on his own as an independent nation? The thought chilled Sweden.
It was three weeks later before Finland returned.
Sweden almost jumped when he heard the thunderous banging from the door. He ran to the entrance room, stopping right before reaching the door. He was being careless; how could he know who was on the other side, whether they were friend or foe? He looked around, hoping to have a reliable rifle at ready, but he'd promised himself not to keep guns, to not take part in the war storming around them.
In the end he settled for a sheath-knife he found in the kitchen (Finland's, determining from the engravings on the handle) and crept closer to the door.
"Who 's 't?" he shouted through the thick wood. The thumping paused for a moment and he heard a voice, but could not make out the words or recognise the voice. "Who - is - it?" he repeated, for once enunciating every syllable slowly. There was a slam on the door, so loud that he started, fearing whether the door would hold up.
After all, how could he deny his lover anything? Finland was under him, clinging to him, all naked slender limbs and soft skin. And then it all went horribly wrong.
Sweden was just one push of hips away from entering his lover when Finland went shock-still in his arms. Before he realised what was happening, Finland had flipped them over with a blood-chilling screech and wrapped his fingers around Sweden's throat.
The edges of Sweden's vision blurred. All he saw was Finland's face above his, contorted in a mixture of fear and rage. "No! I won't--! I won't be taken again!" he screamed. His fingers tightened their grip and he began to shake Sweden, choking him harder and harder.
Sweden tried to push Finland off, but his hold on the other's wrists seemed to slip every time he gained a grip. His body twisted underneath Finland's, trying to dislodge him, but somehow the smaller man managed to hold on no matter what he did. Any arousal from before was long gone, and all Sweden felt was - yes, a cold fear in the pit of his stomach.
He couldn't remember ever being afraid of Finland.
"F-Fin--" he tried to call out, but in response the strangling only tightened. Sweden gurgled, gasping for breath. Finland's amethyst eyes gleamed above him, cold and harsh and merciless. "T-Ti-- TINO! STOP IT!"
It was as if a spell was broken. Suddenly Finland blinked and something shimmered in the depth of his eyes. He gasped sharply and the next moment his hands were withdrawn from Sweden's throat.
Sweden coughed violently, gulping down air all he could manage. He glanced at Finland, still rather wary, but all Finland did was sit there, looking thoroughly shocked as if he had been the one choked. Without another word he lifted himself off of Sweden and stood up from the bed.
"I... I'm sorry, Sweden. I can't do this." He spoke in a tiny voice, facing away from Sweden. The taller man could barely make his voice work again.
"Fin...?" he asked quietly, but the other nation ignored him and only hurried to pick up his discarded clothes and get out of the room. The door slammed shut a bit too loud for either of their liking, but Sweden made no motion to stand up and go after Finland. Whatever was wrong with Finland, Sweden would rather not dig too deep on it.
- - -
After that night Finland went missing for a long time. Sweden searched around the house every morning but there were no signs of the other man's presence. The house fell into such quiet Sweden wondered if Finland had meant his words more seriously than he'd thought. Had he left for good, to live on his own as an independent nation? The thought chilled Sweden.
It was three weeks later before Finland returned.
Sweden almost jumped when he heard the thunderous banging from the door. He ran to the entrance room, stopping right before reaching the door. He was being careless; how could he know who was on the other side, whether they were friend or foe? He looked around, hoping to have a reliable rifle at ready, but he'd promised himself not to keep guns, to not take part in the war storming around them.
In the end he settled for a sheath-knife he found in the kitchen (Finland's, determining from the engravings on the handle) and crept closer to the door.
"Who 's 't?" he shouted through the thick wood. The thumping paused for a moment and he heard a voice, but could not make out the words or recognise the voice. "Who - is - it?" he repeated, for once enunciating every syllable slowly. There was a slam on the door, so loud that he started, fearing whether the door would hold up.
"Jumalauta, Ruotsi! Open the door, please!" And this time there was no question who it was, although Finland's voice was raw and cracked at the edges. Sweden grasped the handle and all but wrenched the door open. Immediately followed Finland, stumbling into the room on shaky legs, heavily limping his right one.
Sweden slammed the door shut and flung the knife away to catch the smaller man before he hit the floor. Finland let out a yell of pain. The right side and leg of his uniform were dappled with blood.
"F-Fin..." Sweden stammered in horror. "Wh't h'ppen'd?" His fingers brushed a cheek but Finland flinched away.
"Don't," he said testily. "Just... help me up. Please."
He half-carried, half-walked Finland over to a couch and slowly began to peel away his scruffy and bloodied uniform. There was a graze wound from a bullet on his right hip and a deep, ragged-edged one on his thigh where the bullet had hit its target. Sweden fetched towels, water and bandages, and began to clean up the blood. The deeper wound was still bleeding, and the way Finland flinched every time he touched the area didn't help.
"Wh'r's yer gun?" Sweden asked quietly in the middle of working. Finland took in a shaky breath.
"Had to leave it behind," he said, regret clear in his voice. "O-Ow, saatanan-- that hurts."
Sweden frowned in worry. His fingers were pressing lightly around the bullet wound. He glanced up at Finland. "Th' bullet's g'n' 'n. 'T w'n't c'me out."
Finland groaned. "Leave it. It'll just take a little longer to heal, I guess." Sweden nodded, cleaned the wound once more and then wrapped bandages around it as tightly as the pain would let him.
"C'mon. 'll c'rry ya t' bed." He offered his arm to Finland, who sighed and shook his head.
"I'll just bloody the sheets. I can sleep on the couch."
But Sweden would have none of that. Slipping his arms under Finland, he carefully lifted the small nation. "C'nt leave ya t' sleep 'lone," he said softly. Finland just stared at him, a protest frozen on his lips. Something glimmered in his eyes, but he averted his gaze too soon for Sweden to decipher what it was.
- - -
Sweden woke up to lack of warmth and the smell of coffee. He blearily opened his eyes to scan the bedroom. After a few blinks he realised the spot next to him was empty and he sat up in panic. Finland shouldn't be walking around, not with his leg like that. Fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table, he stood up and hurried out of the bedroom.
"Fin!" he yelled when he barged into the kitchen. The nation in question let out a small yelp and turned to him with a look of surprise.
"G-Good heavens, Sweden," Finland said softly, pressing a hand to his chest. "Don't shout like that in the morning... Coffee?"
Sweden blinked. Finland was... smiling. Which was by no means an unnatural expression for him, except there was no sign of the smudges and bruises covering his face last night. Sweden looked down.
"Y-Yer leg. 'r' ya s're ya should b' w'lking?" he asked hesitantly. Finland tilted his head.
"What are you talking about?" There was a small, bemused smile on his face and he jiggled his right leg, which was clearly unharmed. Sweden's brow furrowed even more and he could feel a slight headache forming in the back of his head.
"But. But last n'ght." He paused. "Ya w're bleed'ng."
It was difficult to tell which of the nations looked more confused at this point. After a long silence Finland shook his head again. "When I came home you were already asleep," he said in a soft and slow voice. "And I certainly wasn't bleeding." At this his lips quirked up again.
They stared at each other, Finland kind and warm, Sweden disbelieving and suspicious.
"'ll... 'll just step 'tside f'r a m'ment," he finally said to break the silence. Finland nodded.
"Don't take long, breakfast will be ready soon."
Sweden quickly pulled on his boots and coat and stepped out of the door into the cold morning. It had snowed during the night, and the ground was covered in soft whiteness. He walked down the steps and peered out into the yard. There was only one pair of footprints on the snow leading towards the house. Sweden felt dizzy.
Sweden slammed the door shut and flung the knife away to catch the smaller man before he hit the floor. Finland let out a yell of pain. The right side and leg of his uniform were dappled with blood.
"F-Fin..." Sweden stammered in horror. "Wh't h'ppen'd?" His fingers brushed a cheek but Finland flinched away.
"Don't," he said testily. "Just... help me up. Please."
He half-carried, half-walked Finland over to a couch and slowly began to peel away his scruffy and bloodied uniform. There was a graze wound from a bullet on his right hip and a deep, ragged-edged one on his thigh where the bullet had hit its target. Sweden fetched towels, water and bandages, and began to clean up the blood. The deeper wound was still bleeding, and the way Finland flinched every time he touched the area didn't help.
"Wh'r's yer gun?" Sweden asked quietly in the middle of working. Finland took in a shaky breath.
"Had to leave it behind," he said, regret clear in his voice. "O-Ow, saatanan-- that hurts."
Sweden frowned in worry. His fingers were pressing lightly around the bullet wound. He glanced up at Finland. "Th' bullet's g'n' 'n. 'T w'n't c'me out."
Finland groaned. "Leave it. It'll just take a little longer to heal, I guess." Sweden nodded, cleaned the wound once more and then wrapped bandages around it as tightly as the pain would let him.
"C'mon. 'll c'rry ya t' bed." He offered his arm to Finland, who sighed and shook his head.
"I'll just bloody the sheets. I can sleep on the couch."
But Sweden would have none of that. Slipping his arms under Finland, he carefully lifted the small nation. "C'nt leave ya t' sleep 'lone," he said softly. Finland just stared at him, a protest frozen on his lips. Something glimmered in his eyes, but he averted his gaze too soon for Sweden to decipher what it was.
- - -
Sweden woke up to lack of warmth and the smell of coffee. He blearily opened his eyes to scan the bedroom. After a few blinks he realised the spot next to him was empty and he sat up in panic. Finland shouldn't be walking around, not with his leg like that. Fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table, he stood up and hurried out of the bedroom.
"Fin!" he yelled when he barged into the kitchen. The nation in question let out a small yelp and turned to him with a look of surprise.
"G-Good heavens, Sweden," Finland said softly, pressing a hand to his chest. "Don't shout like that in the morning... Coffee?"
Sweden blinked. Finland was... smiling. Which was by no means an unnatural expression for him, except there was no sign of the smudges and bruises covering his face last night. Sweden looked down.
"Y-Yer leg. 'r' ya s're ya should b' w'lking?" he asked hesitantly. Finland tilted his head.
"What are you talking about?" There was a small, bemused smile on his face and he jiggled his right leg, which was clearly unharmed. Sweden's brow furrowed even more and he could feel a slight headache forming in the back of his head.
"But. But last n'ght." He paused. "Ya w're bleed'ng."
It was difficult to tell which of the nations looked more confused at this point. After a long silence Finland shook his head again. "When I came home you were already asleep," he said in a soft and slow voice. "And I certainly wasn't bleeding." At this his lips quirked up again.
They stared at each other, Finland kind and warm, Sweden disbelieving and suspicious.
"'ll... 'll just step 'tside f'r a m'ment," he finally said to break the silence. Finland nodded.
"Don't take long, breakfast will be ready soon."
Sweden quickly pulled on his boots and coat and stepped out of the door into the cold morning. It had snowed during the night, and the ground was covered in soft whiteness. He walked down the steps and peered out into the yard. There was only one pair of footprints on the snow leading towards the house. Sweden felt dizzy.
He took a step back and sat down on the stairs to clear his head. Resting his forehead on his palm he stared at the dark wood of the treads. He blinked. Then looked more closely.
There were stains on the wood, colouring it an even deeper brown. Sweden lowered his hand and slowly wiped his finger over the largest stain. It was still fresh enough to leave behind a smudge of red on his skin.
He sprung to his feet again, gasping in shock, his hands clenched at his sides as he stared into the white emptiness of the landscape. A hollow ache began to spread inside his chest when realised that somewhere out there Finland was still in pain.
- - -
From that point on, Sweden kept looking back and replaying their every encounter in his mind. When did the change happen? Could there have been a way to tell the two Finlands apart? He kept thinking and thinking and remembering...
Was there a difference? Were the eyes of one Finland more broken than the other's? Was his body thinner and wearier? Did he perhaps cry more? Did he smell stronger of blood, and if so, which one was it, for they both carried the smell of death so strong Sweden could barely remember the scent of the old Finland anymore.
But even now that he knew, he could not tell the two apart. All he could remember was Finland. Finland smiling, Finland crying, Finland bleeding... Finland kissing him, over and over again.
Sometimes he caught Finland watching him from the corner of his eye and he wondered if Finland knew Sweden knew. But he could not ask. The fear of losing him for real, of losing them both, kept him silent.
Slowly the smell of blood became thicker and thicker.
The Whites have taken Helsinki.
The Whites have Lahti.
They have Hyvinkää.
Riihimäki.
Hämeenlinna.
Vyborg.
And then it was the middle of May.
The Whites have taken Fort Ino.
The Red Guards have lost.
Sweden pushed his way through the snow and mud, his breath vaporising in the cold air. The air which smelled of gunpowder and blood. He knew what was expecting him in his destination and the knowledge made him vaguely sick, but he also knew this was something he needed to see.
He needed to see the end of this.
There were two lines of men; one with guns, the others without and their hands tied behind their backs. Sweden swallowed down and forced himself to take in every face in the lines but he didn't find the one... the ones he was looking for. He turned and continued on his way.
Behind him he heard a shout and the thunder of gunfire.
After the resound died down the air was perfectly still. Sweden stopped and stared. In the silence he now saw the pair he was searching for. Two ashen blond shocks of hair. Two pairs of brilliant violet eyes. But one had a bloodied lip and a bruise beneath the left eye. One had his hands tied. One had a gun in his hands.
Sweden wondered if perhaps he had gone deaf, or if it really could be this quiet.
There was no warning shout, no command for fire. One second the air was pierced by the sound of a gunshot. The next second one of the young men crumbled down to the frozen ground.
Sweden could barely breathe. His eyes were fixed on the face of the fallen man. Before his eyes, Finland was dead. At the same time, he was alive. Then he was dead again.
"Sweden."
But he did not hear his name spoken. He kept on staring. He had tied both of their wounds. He had held them both. He had made love to them both. He had loved them both, so how come...
"Sverige."
This time he looked up. It had been so long since he'd last heard his lover speaking his language. Finland faced him eye to eye. It took Sweden a moment to realise Finland was shaking, so that he barely had the time to react when the other suddenly dropped the gun.
He caught Finland just in time before he fell down. He could feel the man's whole being shaking to the core as sobs wrecked through him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorryI'm--" His voice broke down and he desperately hung on to Sweden's coat. Sweden pulled the nation closer and willed himself to not - to not look back because then the flood of emotions would break something more than his heart.
There were stains on the wood, colouring it an even deeper brown. Sweden lowered his hand and slowly wiped his finger over the largest stain. It was still fresh enough to leave behind a smudge of red on his skin.
He sprung to his feet again, gasping in shock, his hands clenched at his sides as he stared into the white emptiness of the landscape. A hollow ache began to spread inside his chest when realised that somewhere out there Finland was still in pain.
- - -
From that point on, Sweden kept looking back and replaying their every encounter in his mind. When did the change happen? Could there have been a way to tell the two Finlands apart? He kept thinking and thinking and remembering...
Was there a difference? Were the eyes of one Finland more broken than the other's? Was his body thinner and wearier? Did he perhaps cry more? Did he smell stronger of blood, and if so, which one was it, for they both carried the smell of death so strong Sweden could barely remember the scent of the old Finland anymore.
But even now that he knew, he could not tell the two apart. All he could remember was Finland. Finland smiling, Finland crying, Finland bleeding... Finland kissing him, over and over again.
Sometimes he caught Finland watching him from the corner of his eye and he wondered if Finland knew Sweden knew. But he could not ask. The fear of losing him for real, of losing them both, kept him silent.
Slowly the smell of blood became thicker and thicker.
The Whites have taken Helsinki.
The Whites have Lahti.
They have Hyvinkää.
Riihimäki.
Hämeenlinna.
Vyborg.
And then it was the middle of May.
The Whites have taken Fort Ino.
The Red Guards have lost.
Sweden pushed his way through the snow and mud, his breath vaporising in the cold air. The air which smelled of gunpowder and blood. He knew what was expecting him in his destination and the knowledge made him vaguely sick, but he also knew this was something he needed to see.
He needed to see the end of this.
There were two lines of men; one with guns, the others without and their hands tied behind their backs. Sweden swallowed down and forced himself to take in every face in the lines but he didn't find the one... the ones he was looking for. He turned and continued on his way.
Behind him he heard a shout and the thunder of gunfire.
After the resound died down the air was perfectly still. Sweden stopped and stared. In the silence he now saw the pair he was searching for. Two ashen blond shocks of hair. Two pairs of brilliant violet eyes. But one had a bloodied lip and a bruise beneath the left eye. One had his hands tied. One had a gun in his hands.
Sweden wondered if perhaps he had gone deaf, or if it really could be this quiet.
There was no warning shout, no command for fire. One second the air was pierced by the sound of a gunshot. The next second one of the young men crumbled down to the frozen ground.
Sweden could barely breathe. His eyes were fixed on the face of the fallen man. Before his eyes, Finland was dead. At the same time, he was alive. Then he was dead again.
"Sweden."
But he did not hear his name spoken. He kept on staring. He had tied both of their wounds. He had held them both. He had made love to them both. He had loved them both, so how come...
"Sverige."
This time he looked up. It had been so long since he'd last heard his lover speaking his language. Finland faced him eye to eye. It took Sweden a moment to realise Finland was shaking, so that he barely had the time to react when the other suddenly dropped the gun.
He caught Finland just in time before he fell down. He could feel the man's whole being shaking to the core as sobs wrecked through him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorryI'm--" His voice broke down and he desperately hung on to Sweden's coat. Sweden pulled the nation closer and willed himself to not - to not look back because then the flood of emotions would break something more than his heart.
"I had to. I'm sorry. I had to do it. Please tell me... Please say I did the right choice," Finland's whisper was only just audible through his sobs. Sweden tensed at the words and gritted his teeth. What could he say? He closed his eyes and buried his face in Finland's tousled hair.
"Yer... st'll 'live." It wasn't an answer and they both knew that, but it was the kindest thing he could say.
Somewhere the people were parading. They called it a victory.
To them it was nothing but a funeral.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[I had a loose timeline of the war in my mind when writing this. I didn't really mention the dates of each battle/occurrence, but for reference here's the list.
January 27-28: The start of the war. The Reds took over Helsinki.
March 16 - April 6: The battle of Tampere. The Whites took over Tampere (which was an important centre for the Reds) and the war takes a turn on their favour.
April 13: German troops join the war on the Whites' side and take over Helsinki from the Reds. They quickly moved forth and seized several other towns and hastened the Reds' loss.
May 14-16: The last Russian troops (which supported the Reds) retreated, the Whites conquered Fort Ino and a victory parade was held in Helsinki by the defeat of the Red Guards. End of the war.
(For a more detailed account, go Wiki it up. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnish_Civil_War)
Also, I understand the whole civil war and especially the aftermath might be a bit of a sore topic even nowadays, so I apologise to any fellow Finns who possibly felt a bit iffed by the fic. In my defence, I'll say that I have no personal reasons to support one side over the other (I have no idea what side my grand-grandparents were on), I'm simply dramatising something based on historical happenings. The reason Red Finland was executed in the end was simply because the Reds lost the war.And because it's oh-so-dramatic.
Red Finland's personality, by the way, is meant to be a bit more aggressive than the White Finland's: this due to the fact that especially at the start of the war, the Reds were heavier on the offensive. On the other hand, Red Finland is also more mentally unstable, because the Reds themselves had some internal disputes: their side included both moderate thinkers, who more resemble the modern social democrats, and radical left-wing communists, who were more or less in favour of joining with Soviet Russia.
Then the vocabulary. XD A very short one.
Ruotsi/Sverige = Finnish and Swedish for Sweden (respectively).
Voi luoja = Oh god.
Jumalauta = For God's sake would be a very mild translation, as the original Finnish is a pretty offensive swearword.
Saatanan-- = (Literally) The devil's--. Finland's curse is cut off. XD ]
"Yer... st'll 'live." It wasn't an answer and they both knew that, but it was the kindest thing he could say.
Somewhere the people were parading. They called it a victory.
To them it was nothing but a funeral.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[I had a loose timeline of the war in my mind when writing this. I didn't really mention the dates of each battle/occurrence, but for reference here's the list.
January 27-28: The start of the war. The Reds took over Helsinki.
March 16 - April 6: The battle of Tampere. The Whites took over Tampere (which was an important centre for the Reds) and the war takes a turn on their favour.
April 13: German troops join the war on the Whites' side and take over Helsinki from the Reds. They quickly moved forth and seized several other towns and hastened the Reds' loss.
May 14-16: The last Russian troops (which supported the Reds) retreated, the Whites conquered Fort Ino and a victory parade was held in Helsinki by the defeat of the Red Guards. End of the war.
(For a more detailed account, go Wiki it up. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnish_Civil_War)
Also, I understand the whole civil war and especially the aftermath might be a bit of a sore topic even nowadays, so I apologise to any fellow Finns who possibly felt a bit iffed by the fic. In my defence, I'll say that I have no personal reasons to support one side over the other (I have no idea what side my grand-grandparents were on), I'm simply dramatising something based on historical happenings. The reason Red Finland was executed in the end was simply because the Reds lost the war.
Red Finland's personality, by the way, is meant to be a bit more aggressive than the White Finland's: this due to the fact that especially at the start of the war, the Reds were heavier on the offensive. On the other hand, Red Finland is also more mentally unstable, because the Reds themselves had some internal disputes: their side included both moderate thinkers, who more resemble the modern social democrats, and radical left-wing communists, who were more or less in favour of joining with Soviet Russia.
Then the vocabulary. XD A very short one.
Ruotsi/Sverige = Finnish and Swedish for Sweden (respectively).
Voi luoja = Oh god.
Jumalauta = For God's sake would be a very mild translation, as the original Finnish is a pretty offensive swearword.
Saatanan-- = (Literally) The devil's--. Finland's curse is cut off. XD ]
One of the best SuFin fics out there. Thank you so much. Finland modern history is so...tragic and fascinating, thanks to Hetalia now I have a deep respect for your country & people ^^.
This was so tragic yet made of epic. Wonderful job author!anon!
I was reading about the civil war just yesterday, so to stumble across this today, with the whole thing fresh in my mine, was quite a surprise - and quite a pleasure, as this bit of writing is excellent.
This is one of the best Finland fics I've read, and I do declare, it's one of my favourites on this meme now. Argh, trying to think of how to phrase everything I want to say, but I'm not very articulate today... Anyway, it was just plain excellent. The tension, the emotions, ah....
And you clearly know what you're talking about, which is always good.
This is one of the best Finland fics I've read, and I do declare, it's one of my favourites on this meme now. Argh, trying to think of how to phrase everything I want to say, but I'm not very articulate today... Anyway, it was just plain excellent. The tension, the emotions, ah....
And you clearly know what you're talking about, which is always good.
I think this is one of the best SuFin I've ever read. Seriously. It stay true to history, they're both IC, and the story just flows.<33 I have no words.
I can't give this the elaborate feedback it deseserves, but I will at least say that I absolutely adore the way you painted Sweden and Finland both here - particularly Sweden, I think, with his mostly unspoken feelings and quiet affection for Finland and oh Finland and his broken self at the end.
I have been looking foa a fic about Finnish Civil War for a long time. As a Finn I have to say that this was perfect. Very sad and beautiful and historical. I love Finland's Finnish svearing and the way you included Sweden there. Thank you!
Greedy anon is greedy. I've wanted this for a while, but I'm finally just going to go ahead and ask. I loved the state-tans in the following fill:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=6235351#t6235351
And would love a sequel featuring them in Civil War fic. Which means I'm asking for something much more serious and dark than the original fill.
While the states are fighting between themselves, America is bedridden under care due to major physical and mental damage from all the fighting.
Bonus for state hate sex and/or non-con. Double bonus if it's Virginia and Massachusetts who are both harboring major daddy issues.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=6235351#t6235351
And would love a sequel featuring them in Civil War fic. Which means I'm asking for something much more serious and dark than the original fill.
While the states are fighting between themselves, America is bedridden under care due to major physical and mental damage from all the fighting.
Bonus for state hate sex and/or non-con. Double bonus if it's Virginia and Massachusetts who are both harboring major daddy issues.
This is the non-original-author-Anon. I don't think I followed the characters in the original story very closely. I kind of took up whatever characterization seemed fitting for the time period. I hope this is okay, OP.
Just a few author's notes before we begin, so I can get this out of my system.
1) My home state was such a brat during this time period aaaugh.
2) Texas has special privileges, hur hur hur
3) I hope you don't mind non-explicit mpreg, because, well, the years this fic covers includes the addition of about a quarter of the modern states in a span of 40 years, so it's kind of hard to imagine America as anything other than Mister Mom in the time period.
Sorry. Here we go.
----
It shouldn’t have surprised anyone, really, especially when the signs had started so early, showing even by the birth of the twins. America hadn’t really been expecting twins, but that was what happened, and sometimes things didn’t happen the way they were planned.
And either way, they were two new healthy states for the Union, beautiful, and oh Lord they were already being taken away from him —
“Who’s this one?”
“Mine,” America tried to grab for the baby, but even then, the other one was grabbed away by curious Tennessee and Alabama. America groaned. Already, his children were splitting them up, by region and by faction, slave and non-slave.
“Missouri,” said America, though he didn’t know if he was naming the child or his own feelings.
“Mine and Missouri,” said New Hampshire, cradling the northern state in his arms and murmuring broken French to him.
“Maine and Missouri and they’re both mine, give them back to me.” He reached for Missouri, but Tennessee yanked him away, already mumbling along about the ways of America, how he was so lucky to be born in a country that would watch over him yet keep out of his business. The twins were each taken their separate ways, and even by evening America hadn’t seen either of them again.
That night, America squalled and cried more than both his newborns.
XXXXX
Just a few author's notes before we begin, so I can get this out of my system.
1) My home state was such a brat during this time period aaaugh.
2) Texas has special privileges, hur hur hur
3) I hope you don't mind non-explicit mpreg, because, well, the years this fic covers includes the addition of about a quarter of the modern states in a span of 40 years, so it's kind of hard to imagine America as anything other than Mister Mom in the time period.
Sorry. Here we go.
----
It shouldn’t have surprised anyone, really, especially when the signs had started so early, showing even by the birth of the twins. America hadn’t really been expecting twins, but that was what happened, and sometimes things didn’t happen the way they were planned.
And either way, they were two new healthy states for the Union, beautiful, and oh Lord they were already being taken away from him —
“Who’s this one?”
“Mine,” America tried to grab for the baby, but even then, the other one was grabbed away by curious Tennessee and Alabama. America groaned. Already, his children were splitting them up, by region and by faction, slave and non-slave.
“Missouri,” said America, though he didn’t know if he was naming the child or his own feelings.
“Mine and Missouri,” said New Hampshire, cradling the northern state in his arms and murmuring broken French to him.
“Maine and Missouri and they’re both mine, give them back to me.” He reached for Missouri, but Tennessee yanked him away, already mumbling along about the ways of America, how he was so lucky to be born in a country that would watch over him yet keep out of his business. The twins were each taken their separate ways, and even by evening America hadn’t seen either of them again.
That night, America squalled and cried more than both his newborns.
XXXXX
Poor Alfred ITS AWESOME please continue :)
America started teaching the new states early, once he finally got them back, telling them both stories of the revolution. He lingered on the people involved, the ones he could remember best, mumbling about France’s help before he went mad, Franklin’s love for Paris, speaking whatever garbled French he knew.
And then he’d start about all the English philosophers he’d never met, like Locke and Hobbes, and how he was so angry at England once he found the books it seemed like he’d been hiding from America.
Then came Prussia training the military, and then came the old militias, and then the generals, until, inevitably, America found General Washington.
General Washington, the Holy Trinity, Boss, Father, Lover, somehow all three at once, and by then the two little states had grown old enough to know to be sick at America going on about him. By that time, they were both old enough to be sent to their respective governors and legislators, their proper homes.
One grew up with the Atlantic and the other grew up riverside, and by the next session of congress, the twins didn’t recognize each other.
America probably would have cried, if he weren’t already so busy with baby Arkansas already at his hip.
XXXXX
And then he’d start about all the English philosophers he’d never met, like Locke and Hobbes, and how he was so angry at England once he found the books it seemed like he’d been hiding from America.
Then came Prussia training the military, and then came the old militias, and then the generals, until, inevitably, America found General Washington.
General Washington, the Holy Trinity, Boss, Father, Lover, somehow all three at once, and by then the two little states had grown old enough to know to be sick at America going on about him. By that time, they were both old enough to be sent to their respective governors and legislators, their proper homes.
One grew up with the Atlantic and the other grew up riverside, and by the next session of congress, the twins didn’t recognize each other.
America probably would have cried, if he weren’t already so busy with baby Arkansas already at his hip.
XXXXX
America marveled at how fast Texas could gulp down what was put on the plate in front of him. He ate like a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks — and America thought, that might be true. Though they both knew how the vote would turn, Texas had refused to take anything of America’s before everything was ratified.
Arkansas was now big enough to crawl around underfoot. Florida waited patiently as South Carolina cut her food. Michigan had stopped crying and would open his mouth long enough to get some fruit paste in.
And now Texas has finally given up that fierce pride of his, if only long enough for breakfast. America smiled. It looked like today was going to be a good day.
“So Texas,” started America, “You happy here? You think you made the right choice?”
Texas nodded, not stopping to say a word. America returned his attention to Michigan, telling him to say ‘aaah.’
Michigan wouldn’t, though, even when he’d been so cooperative before. To prove he should eat, America put the reloaded spoon in his mouth, and promptly gagged. It tasted something like shit. Instead, America cut up and mashed some of the fruit on the table with a fork, hoping Michigan would find them a bit more palatable. Michigan seemed to agree that it was.
America didn’t want to ruin the quiet morning, but he knew that if he didn’t ruin it now, he’d have to ruin some other time. He took a deep breath and asked,
“You sure you want to be a slave-state, Texas?”
“He’s under the parallel,” said South carolina tersely, finishing chopping Florida’s omelette and handing off the fork to her little sister, “He’s got every right to it.”
“It’s his decision,” said America.
“And if I recall, he’s already said what he decided,” said South Carolina.
“I’m just making sure,” said America. So many years before he wouldn’t have cared either way, letting his states do as they would do. But now, the right to own slaves had become so much more than the right to own slaves — The whole business left him with a bad taste in his mouth. What was it General Washington had said again?
“‘Mn need the labor.”
No, those were Texas’s words, with the same words as all the others to justify it. At that moment, though America did not want to think about labor.
“See, Pa? He’s already made up his mind.”
“Alright then,” said America, thinking that somehow the political game his kids liked to play would be ruined with such uneven players. But even so, he could feel another state on the way, so their numbers couldn’t be uneven for long.
XXXXX
Arkansas was now big enough to crawl around underfoot. Florida waited patiently as South Carolina cut her food. Michigan had stopped crying and would open his mouth long enough to get some fruit paste in.
And now Texas has finally given up that fierce pride of his, if only long enough for breakfast. America smiled. It looked like today was going to be a good day.
“So Texas,” started America, “You happy here? You think you made the right choice?”
Texas nodded, not stopping to say a word. America returned his attention to Michigan, telling him to say ‘aaah.’
Michigan wouldn’t, though, even when he’d been so cooperative before. To prove he should eat, America put the reloaded spoon in his mouth, and promptly gagged. It tasted something like shit. Instead, America cut up and mashed some of the fruit on the table with a fork, hoping Michigan would find them a bit more palatable. Michigan seemed to agree that it was.
America didn’t want to ruin the quiet morning, but he knew that if he didn’t ruin it now, he’d have to ruin some other time. He took a deep breath and asked,
“You sure you want to be a slave-state, Texas?”
“He’s under the parallel,” said South carolina tersely, finishing chopping Florida’s omelette and handing off the fork to her little sister, “He’s got every right to it.”
“It’s his decision,” said America.
“And if I recall, he’s already said what he decided,” said South Carolina.
“I’m just making sure,” said America. So many years before he wouldn’t have cared either way, letting his states do as they would do. But now, the right to own slaves had become so much more than the right to own slaves — The whole business left him with a bad taste in his mouth. What was it General Washington had said again?
“‘Mn need the labor.”
No, those were Texas’s words, with the same words as all the others to justify it. At that moment, though America did not want to think about labor.
“See, Pa? He’s already made up his mind.”
“Alright then,” said America, thinking that somehow the political game his kids liked to play would be ruined with such uneven players. But even so, he could feel another state on the way, so their numbers couldn’t be uneven for long.
XXXXX
*laughs* You know, I don't usually see the States so much as America's kids, but it really works here. Poor America, with 50 of them! (Though, I can't say I'm too surprised. America always did strike me as a bit of a, um, loose nation.)
Looking forward to seeing the next bit!
Looking forward to seeing the next bit!
doing this to keep it from getting collapsed further
---
America only notice how big Texas’s hands were when they were so warm and all over him.
This hadn’t really been America’s intention, at least at first, but Texas wasn’t like the others. He was nearly the same size as America himself, and it had been so long since America had seen anyone in Europe, and Canada was still sore, and Mexico, after that war to keep Texas himself, would never talk to him ever again. With just kids he was still lonely, and though America didn’t want Texas to get the wrong idea, he had to admit that he needed this. They both did.
Texas mouthed at the newly exposed skin as he undid each of America’s buttons, and America groped for a space he knew wasn’t covered in bruises on Texas’s body. But Texas didn’t seem to mind when he missed, and as long as they both wanted it, they might as well, and it had been so long, too —
“America.”
It had stopped. Texas was using his mouth to speak instead.
“If you want me to stop, just say.”
“But I don’t,” said America. As Texas reached for the corner of his eye to brush away some moisture there, America remembered that the last time he was in this position, letting himself be ravished like this, he was under General Washington.
“Then what do you want me to do?” Texas’s face softened in a way America didn’t think it could. He thought for a moment, heart still fluttering, and pulled his shirt back together.
“I just realized,” said America, “I never told you about the General, did I?”
XXXXX
---
America only notice how big Texas’s hands were when they were so warm and all over him.
This hadn’t really been America’s intention, at least at first, but Texas wasn’t like the others. He was nearly the same size as America himself, and it had been so long since America had seen anyone in Europe, and Canada was still sore, and Mexico, after that war to keep Texas himself, would never talk to him ever again. With just kids he was still lonely, and though America didn’t want Texas to get the wrong idea, he had to admit that he needed this. They both did.
Texas mouthed at the newly exposed skin as he undid each of America’s buttons, and America groped for a space he knew wasn’t covered in bruises on Texas’s body. But Texas didn’t seem to mind when he missed, and as long as they both wanted it, they might as well, and it had been so long, too —
“America.”
It had stopped. Texas was using his mouth to speak instead.
“If you want me to stop, just say.”
“But I don’t,” said America. As Texas reached for the corner of his eye to brush away some moisture there, America remembered that the last time he was in this position, letting himself be ravished like this, he was under General Washington.
“Then what do you want me to do?” Texas’s face softened in a way America didn’t think it could. He thought for a moment, heart still fluttering, and pulled his shirt back together.
“I just realized,” said America, “I never told you about the General, did I?”
XXXXX
“Dammit, SC!”
The slap nearly echoed through the room, or perhaps it was only in America’s mind that it did.
“I didn’t take your fucking letters! I tol’ you a million times, I didn’t take them.”
But America grabbed her shoulder, drawing back his hand for another slap. South Carolina did not flinch, though, even as red blossomed across her cheek. He saw the truth now, in her eyes, something he’d always thought he could see before. Why hadn’t he seen it this time, again?
Breathless, America took back his hands. The defiant look stayed on South Carolina’s face.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said, and she grabbed back her arm, saying nothing to him, storming out, calling for Florida.
So South Carolina hadn’t taken the letters from America’s locked drawer, the only important ones in the whole desk. He’d need to find them though. They couldn’t have just walked out…
XXXXX
The slap nearly echoed through the room, or perhaps it was only in America’s mind that it did.
“I didn’t take your fucking letters! I tol’ you a million times, I didn’t take them.”
But America grabbed her shoulder, drawing back his hand for another slap. South Carolina did not flinch, though, even as red blossomed across her cheek. He saw the truth now, in her eyes, something he’d always thought he could see before. Why hadn’t he seen it this time, again?
Breathless, America took back his hands. The defiant look stayed on South Carolina’s face.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said, and she grabbed back her arm, saying nothing to him, storming out, calling for Florida.
So South Carolina hadn’t taken the letters from America’s locked drawer, the only important ones in the whole desk. He’d need to find them though. They couldn’t have just walked out…
XXXXX
The few doctors they’d allowed to touch him called it a miscarriage, while those in the west called it Bleeding Kansas. All America knew was that there was too much blood, more bloodied sheets than he’d ever remembered, and it felt like the life had been torn out of him, and that all that was left to do was the dying part.
Minnesota lay beside him, somehow sleeping soundly as pain tore at America’s stomach. Someone had put her there when he was unconscious, putting her sparse hair in pigtails. But there should have ben two little girls there, he thought, and a short cry tore from his throat. Minnesota didn’t wake.
Maybe she was dead too. His heart ached.
“Where’s my sister?” America heard from the other room. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the shouting just got louder. “Where’s my sister? Where is she?”
With a crashing noise, the sound stumbled into America’s room, all crashing and violence.
“You killed her you sonofabitch, you have no little sister cause you killed her!”
The brown-haired boy Missouri had grown into pushed over the desk with the freakish family strength, papers flying everywhere. Massachusetts rushed in soon after, blood streaming from her nose and dripping onto her dress. Once she’d grabbed Missouri, America saw that he had a fat cut across his forehead, too.
America’s hands on Minnesota’s head had left her hair bloody. His vision swam in a sea of red.
“Where’s my sister?” cried Missouri, struggling, but Massachusetts held firm.
“It’s your fault, Missouri, you killed her —”
“Nobody killed anybody,” cried America as loudly as he could, but his voice came out sounding empty and weak. His chest burned with the effort. “‘S nobody’s fault.”
“Then where’s my little sister?”
“The baby beside him bawled, her face contorted into some unhappy mask. America gently wrapped his arm around her, trying to get her to stop, because he just didn’t have the strength to get up and rock her like he should.
“Hush, this is your sister,” said America softly, trying to shush her, to shush all of them. They’d known what happened, so the least they could do was stay quiet. Missouri gritted his teeth and walked forward to get a good look at the baby.
“But she’s not Kansas, I want Kansas —”
Massachusetts yanked him back before he could touch Minnesota, and he screamed and hit back again. Minnesota cried and the noise was too much and he didn’t know how to make it stop —
But Massachusetts dragged Missouri out of the room, and half the sound was gone, but that still meant that half the sound was still there. America’s throat was dry, like he’d done enough talking for one day, but by God, still that girl wailed, and America could do nothing but whisper “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”
The door creaked open, just a little, and America couldn’t look. He thought if he saw one more person now, he’d die today.
“Dad?”
It was Michigan, though. There were too many of them now, with those “M” names. He wondered vaguely what he was thinking when a fresh wave of pain rushed over him.
“Dad wake up!”
America opened his eyes, Michigan’s hand at his shoulder.
“Whas’ happening? No one’ll tell me anything and Missouri’s screaming and you’re all”
America wasn’t listening to the boy in furs. They were all so loud.
“Take Minne,” America managed to say. “Pa needs to be left alone.
“…Okay,” said Michigan, fumbling with his baby sister, picking her up as best he could. Once he left, things were finally quiet. But for some reason, he still couldn’t enjoy it.
XXXXX
Minnesota lay beside him, somehow sleeping soundly as pain tore at America’s stomach. Someone had put her there when he was unconscious, putting her sparse hair in pigtails. But there should have ben two little girls there, he thought, and a short cry tore from his throat. Minnesota didn’t wake.
Maybe she was dead too. His heart ached.
“Where’s my sister?” America heard from the other room. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the shouting just got louder. “Where’s my sister? Where is she?”
With a crashing noise, the sound stumbled into America’s room, all crashing and violence.
“You killed her you sonofabitch, you have no little sister cause you killed her!”
The brown-haired boy Missouri had grown into pushed over the desk with the freakish family strength, papers flying everywhere. Massachusetts rushed in soon after, blood streaming from her nose and dripping onto her dress. Once she’d grabbed Missouri, America saw that he had a fat cut across his forehead, too.
America’s hands on Minnesota’s head had left her hair bloody. His vision swam in a sea of red.
“Where’s my sister?” cried Missouri, struggling, but Massachusetts held firm.
“It’s your fault, Missouri, you killed her —”
“Nobody killed anybody,” cried America as loudly as he could, but his voice came out sounding empty and weak. His chest burned with the effort. “‘S nobody’s fault.”
“Then where’s my little sister?”
“The baby beside him bawled, her face contorted into some unhappy mask. America gently wrapped his arm around her, trying to get her to stop, because he just didn’t have the strength to get up and rock her like he should.
“Hush, this is your sister,” said America softly, trying to shush her, to shush all of them. They’d known what happened, so the least they could do was stay quiet. Missouri gritted his teeth and walked forward to get a good look at the baby.
“But she’s not Kansas, I want Kansas —”
Massachusetts yanked him back before he could touch Minnesota, and he screamed and hit back again. Minnesota cried and the noise was too much and he didn’t know how to make it stop —
But Massachusetts dragged Missouri out of the room, and half the sound was gone, but that still meant that half the sound was still there. America’s throat was dry, like he’d done enough talking for one day, but by God, still that girl wailed, and America could do nothing but whisper “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”
The door creaked open, just a little, and America couldn’t look. He thought if he saw one more person now, he’d die today.
“Dad?”
It was Michigan, though. There were too many of them now, with those “M” names. He wondered vaguely what he was thinking when a fresh wave of pain rushed over him.
“Dad wake up!”
America opened his eyes, Michigan’s hand at his shoulder.
“Whas’ happening? No one’ll tell me anything and Missouri’s screaming and you’re all”
America wasn’t listening to the boy in furs. They were all so loud.
“Take Minne,” America managed to say. “Pa needs to be left alone.
“…Okay,” said Michigan, fumbling with his baby sister, picking her up as best he could. Once he left, things were finally quiet. But for some reason, he still couldn’t enjoy it.
XXXXX
Auuuuuuugh poor Alfred! (And poor Minnesota!) This is a very good fill but such a sad one, and we all know it's only going to get worse.
;_________________;
THIS IS SO SAD
AND SWEET
AND HISTORICAL
aajghghdjfkjg
I'm from Minnesota, and this just tugs my heartstrings.
THIS IS SO SAD
AND SWEET
AND HISTORICAL
aajghghdjfkjg
I'm from Minnesota, and this just tugs my heartstrings.
Awww! This anon is from Minnesota and was so happy you mentioned her state, and is mid-wibble for all the family drama...
I'm so glad you guys like it! I think I've included all the states that entered the Union between Maine and Nevada, at least in passing. Sorry, Mountain States, but you didn't exist yet, LOL.
Sorry for the delay in updating. I'll try to get more up tonight because I'll be out of town this weekend ^_^;;
---
“What’s that sound?” asked America, rubbing his temples. Only California was around to ask. Even though Oregon had come into the Union relatively easily (as a free state, too — Massachusetts was pretty happy about that), Pennsylvania still suggested that he take things easy for a while.
So there had been a sort of mass exodus from America’s house, the states moving back to their own legislatures, leaving him only with his very youngest and a few servants. It made the house very quiet, now, very lonely, like the rest of his life stretched before him endlessly without respite.
That is, until the sound had started that morning, a little soft whine, and America for the life of him couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He searched from emptied room to emptied room, trying to find the source, noting carefully where it seemed to be coming from, until he found California in a room, sitting on top of a trunk.
“I don’t hear anything,” said California, but it sounded like it was definitely coming from that room. Sometimes, though, California could be so oblivious…
“Don’t you hear that?” America asked, and California paused from her reading.
“Oh,” she said, and by then, America was sure it was coming from that trunk she was sitting on.
“Get up,” he ordered, and once California hopped up with her book, America kneeled down painfully to open the trunk. It was a gift from long ago, with a five-number lock.
It might have been a baby raccoon inside the trunk, some animal that California found outside. Maybe she was trying to hide it away from him, like some precious thing that needed to be locked away, like those letters of America’s that were still missing even when only he had the key. But anyway. He’d have to talk to her about how she couldn’t just take animals into the house, but then he realized that what was inside the trunk wasn’t a little animal at all.
Instead, it was little Oregon, flinching at the light.
“God,” America breathed. California only stared.
“How long has she — oh Lord —” America picked Oregon up, cradling her close as she continued making those small wines, probably too tired and dehydrated to cry. “Why?”
America’s mind raced, trying to think of what he should do with her first, trying to gauge how long she’d been locked up in the trunk.
“I know she’s annoying as Hell sometimes, California, but you’ve just got to deal with it —”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” If there wasn’t going to be anyone around the least, the very least the ones around could do is not lie to him.
“Dad,” she said, and pointed to the box, somehow still calm, “Think, Dad. Who else knows the combination?”
And America realized for the first time that, despite everything, California was a very smart little girl.
Sorry for the delay in updating. I'll try to get more up tonight because I'll be out of town this weekend ^_^;;
---
“What’s that sound?” asked America, rubbing his temples. Only California was around to ask. Even though Oregon had come into the Union relatively easily (as a free state, too — Massachusetts was pretty happy about that), Pennsylvania still suggested that he take things easy for a while.
So there had been a sort of mass exodus from America’s house, the states moving back to their own legislatures, leaving him only with his very youngest and a few servants. It made the house very quiet, now, very lonely, like the rest of his life stretched before him endlessly without respite.
That is, until the sound had started that morning, a little soft whine, and America for the life of him couldn’t tell where it was coming from. He searched from emptied room to emptied room, trying to find the source, noting carefully where it seemed to be coming from, until he found California in a room, sitting on top of a trunk.
“I don’t hear anything,” said California, but it sounded like it was definitely coming from that room. Sometimes, though, California could be so oblivious…
“Don’t you hear that?” America asked, and California paused from her reading.
“Oh,” she said, and by then, America was sure it was coming from that trunk she was sitting on.
“Get up,” he ordered, and once California hopped up with her book, America kneeled down painfully to open the trunk. It was a gift from long ago, with a five-number lock.
It might have been a baby raccoon inside the trunk, some animal that California found outside. Maybe she was trying to hide it away from him, like some precious thing that needed to be locked away, like those letters of America’s that were still missing even when only he had the key. But anyway. He’d have to talk to her about how she couldn’t just take animals into the house, but then he realized that what was inside the trunk wasn’t a little animal at all.
Instead, it was little Oregon, flinching at the light.
“God,” America breathed. California only stared.
“How long has she — oh Lord —” America picked Oregon up, cradling her close as she continued making those small wines, probably too tired and dehydrated to cry. “Why?”
America’s mind raced, trying to think of what he should do with her first, trying to gauge how long she’d been locked up in the trunk.
“I know she’s annoying as Hell sometimes, California, but you’ve just got to deal with it —”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” If there wasn’t going to be anyone around the least, the very least the ones around could do is not lie to him.
“Dad,” she said, and pointed to the box, somehow still calm, “Think, Dad. Who else knows the combination?”
And America realized for the first time that, despite everything, California was a very smart little girl.
Ooooh somebody's getting a spanking...hell all those little brat-tans deserve a smack on the arse for all the stress they're putting America through.
And poor little Oregon. I liked how you described her distress. I actually started feeling really bad for her. (Poor thing!)
Ugh 50 kids, ohh America you need a babysitter.
And poor little Oregon. I liked how you described her distress. I actually started feeling really bad for her. (Poor thing!)
Ugh 50 kids, ohh America you need a babysitter.
XXXXX
By Christmas, news of South Carolina’s secession from the Union reached Washington. This meant that instead of a relaxing evening after mass and celebration, three of America’s older children instead had to restrain America from thrashing while Pennsylvania tried to find the source of the bleeding.
Their father had only gone away for a few minutes upon hearing the news, saying that he was going to find the things South Carolina had left in the house so he could ship them back to her. He had been quiet, calm, almost smiling when he’d done it.
It seemed to the states holding him down, though, that South Carolina’s things included parts of America’s liver and gall bladder, along with copious amounts of his blood.
Even with the wound, their father was still strong as an ox and fought every inch of the way to the kitchen’s table. Four of them were enough to do it, though, New Jersey and Maryland, one on each arm, Ohio at his torso, and Vermont pinning his calves to the table.
“It’s all right,” muttered Pennsylvania, though now that he’d torn off enough of America’s shirt to see the wound, he wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t just new blood now, it was old stitches, too, with angry read infection and graying dead skin. It took Pennsylvania a moment to remember what the old stitches were from.
“It’s okay, it is, just stay still and we can handle this,” said Pennsylvania, wadding up some shirt and pressing down. America writhed under their hands and cried something incoherent. If Pennsylvania knew anything he knew the shock and pain would set in soon. Though he remembered little of Europe, and nothing of Nations’ constant struggles and deaths, he knew that this was not good.
“Let her go she can go if she wants to she just left so many things and I’ll have to give it back I can’t keep it it’s hers get your damn hands off of me New Jersey dammit you bastard dammit —”
All through the rant America’s voice grew quieter, his thrashing less violent.
“Ohio,” said Pennsylvania, “I want you to grab Maryland’s sewing kit and — do you know if there’s any laudanum around?”
“Why would he have laudanum?” grunted Maryland, resorting to using her knee to help hold her father’s elbow down.
“I think I saw some in his bedroom,” offered Vermont, and Ohio hurried off.
XXXXX
By Christmas, news of South Carolina’s secession from the Union reached Washington. This meant that instead of a relaxing evening after mass and celebration, three of America’s older children instead had to restrain America from thrashing while Pennsylvania tried to find the source of the bleeding.
Their father had only gone away for a few minutes upon hearing the news, saying that he was going to find the things South Carolina had left in the house so he could ship them back to her. He had been quiet, calm, almost smiling when he’d done it.
It seemed to the states holding him down, though, that South Carolina’s things included parts of America’s liver and gall bladder, along with copious amounts of his blood.
Even with the wound, their father was still strong as an ox and fought every inch of the way to the kitchen’s table. Four of them were enough to do it, though, New Jersey and Maryland, one on each arm, Ohio at his torso, and Vermont pinning his calves to the table.
“It’s all right,” muttered Pennsylvania, though now that he’d torn off enough of America’s shirt to see the wound, he wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t just new blood now, it was old stitches, too, with angry read infection and graying dead skin. It took Pennsylvania a moment to remember what the old stitches were from.
“It’s okay, it is, just stay still and we can handle this,” said Pennsylvania, wadding up some shirt and pressing down. America writhed under their hands and cried something incoherent. If Pennsylvania knew anything he knew the shock and pain would set in soon. Though he remembered little of Europe, and nothing of Nations’ constant struggles and deaths, he knew that this was not good.
“Let her go she can go if she wants to she just left so many things and I’ll have to give it back I can’t keep it it’s hers get your damn hands off of me New Jersey dammit you bastard dammit —”
All through the rant America’s voice grew quieter, his thrashing less violent.
“Ohio,” said Pennsylvania, “I want you to grab Maryland’s sewing kit and — do you know if there’s any laudanum around?”
“Why would he have laudanum?” grunted Maryland, resorting to using her knee to help hold her father’s elbow down.
“I think I saw some in his bedroom,” offered Vermont, and Ohio hurried off.
XXXXX
Illinois held Kansas in one arm and a fat stack of letters in the other.
“Do you want me to read them to you?” asked Illinois, taking a seat by the bed,
“I think they’re all notices of secession. Do you want me to read them to you anyway, Dad?”
America barely responded with a blink. He’d seemed extraordinarily uninterested in everything, even Kansas — no, especially Kansas. All the other states, at least the states that had stayed by his side, had to take turns taking care of her.
Illinois flipped through the letters anyway. “There’s a notice from Alabama, and Mississippi; Louisiana’s left us too…” muttered illinois, until he settled on an envelope that was a bit different from the others. “And a message from Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Should I open it?”
“…”
Illinois set the other letters on his lap and tore Russia’s open and began reading. “America, I regret that you have such unruly children, but looking back, it seems inevitable…” he flinched as it sounded like he skipped a few paragraphs, “Nonetheless, for your aid in the Crimean War, I would like to reciprocate. Not because it is my concern how you raise your children, but rather, but because it is inevitable. It is your boss’s decision whether to accept, but upon your request, I may find the time to visit your myself. Be well — Russia.”
“No.”
“You sure?” asked Illinois.
“Mn.”
“Okay…” Illinois shifted Kansas in his arm a bit as he thumbed through the rest of the envelopes, naming more states — Georgia, Florida, and then Texas.
“This one’s real thick. Do you want me to open it?”
America didn’t say anything. He was too occupied thinking he couldn’t let Russia see him like this, in the care of his children because he couldn’t get up and had started losing feeling in his toes.
Illinois seemed to take this nonresponse as a yes — they all had started to do that — and opened the letter anyway. It seemed to explode with papers, all stuffed into that envelope. He tried to pry out the papers carefully, but with his hand so limited by the baby, the papers fell and scattered except for the few at the bottom. A small sheet from the bottom caught his eye. He picked it out and read. “America. I have finally found the time to read your letters. They tell a fine story. I regret that I cannot be a part of it. —Texas.”
He picked up as many letters as he could, unfolding a few carefully. “What are these? Washington? Where did all these come from?”
Yesterday, the new boss had ordered that America stop trying to give his children their things back, but this was different. Those letters, he’d wanted them for so long, he’d thought he had lost them, and now even though they were all so bitter Texas had still thought to send them back.
“Do you want me to read them to you?” asked Illinois, taking a seat by the bed,
“I think they’re all notices of secession. Do you want me to read them to you anyway, Dad?”
America barely responded with a blink. He’d seemed extraordinarily uninterested in everything, even Kansas — no, especially Kansas. All the other states, at least the states that had stayed by his side, had to take turns taking care of her.
Illinois flipped through the letters anyway. “There’s a notice from Alabama, and Mississippi; Louisiana’s left us too…” muttered illinois, until he settled on an envelope that was a bit different from the others. “And a message from Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Should I open it?”
“…”
Illinois set the other letters on his lap and tore Russia’s open and began reading. “America, I regret that you have such unruly children, but looking back, it seems inevitable…” he flinched as it sounded like he skipped a few paragraphs, “Nonetheless, for your aid in the Crimean War, I would like to reciprocate. Not because it is my concern how you raise your children, but rather, but because it is inevitable. It is your boss’s decision whether to accept, but upon your request, I may find the time to visit your myself. Be well — Russia.”
“No.”
“You sure?” asked Illinois.
“Mn.”
“Okay…” Illinois shifted Kansas in his arm a bit as he thumbed through the rest of the envelopes, naming more states — Georgia, Florida, and then Texas.
“This one’s real thick. Do you want me to open it?”
America didn’t say anything. He was too occupied thinking he couldn’t let Russia see him like this, in the care of his children because he couldn’t get up and had started losing feeling in his toes.
Illinois seemed to take this nonresponse as a yes — they all had started to do that — and opened the letter anyway. It seemed to explode with papers, all stuffed into that envelope. He tried to pry out the papers carefully, but with his hand so limited by the baby, the papers fell and scattered except for the few at the bottom. A small sheet from the bottom caught his eye. He picked it out and read. “America. I have finally found the time to read your letters. They tell a fine story. I regret that I cannot be a part of it. —Texas.”
He picked up as many letters as he could, unfolding a few carefully. “What are these? Washington? Where did all these come from?”
Yesterday, the new boss had ordered that America stop trying to give his children their things back, but this was different. Those letters, he’d wanted them for so long, he’d thought he had lost them, and now even though they were all so bitter Texas had still thought to send them back.
America took off his glasses, remembering them as a gift from Texas when they both saw that America’s shooting wasn’t quite what it used to be. Then he reached under the sheets, finding the stitches, remembering that there was something else for Texas around his small intestine —
“Don’t pick at your stitches, Dad,” said Illinois, but why should America listen to him? Texas deserved something for that, and America was the father, he didn’t have to listen to the boy, even it was the exact same thing his boss had told him yesterday. He didn’t want to listen to his new boss, anyway. Some days he just wanted to kill the man, to get his children to come back home, but any time he said anything about it the Union states — that was what they would call themselves — would say he was just feverish.
But even if his south didn’t want to come back, that was okay. He still at least wanted the right to say goodbye, and to give them what they wanted back.
“Dad, don’t pick at your stitches, Dad, don’t do this.” Illinois used his free hand to wrestle America’s hand from him. “Don’t do this. You don’t owe them a damn thing. It’s just the fever. It’ll pass, Dad, don't...”
As Illinois tried to rub America’s palm affectionately, America continued his work with his other hand.
“This is ridiculous,” Illinois huffed, standing up, slapping away America’s other hand, but already the sheets were blossoming bloodstains.
“Ohio? Indiana?” he shouted, but no one answered. He gripped Kansas close, and said, “If you — stop that! Do you want me to have to tie your down?”
America gasped softly, still digging into his own flesh, trying to find what belonged to Texas, thinking that he’d be able to find it by touch alone. Illinois bit his lip, hard, and ran out of the room, crying other states names for help.
America looked over, seeing the precious letters, the ones he though he lost, and picked them up with bloodied fingers. He kissed the edges of the paper, tasting the blood, sweat, and tears that made the words, and the love in the pages.
XXXXX
“Don’t pick at your stitches, Dad,” said Illinois, but why should America listen to him? Texas deserved something for that, and America was the father, he didn’t have to listen to the boy, even it was the exact same thing his boss had told him yesterday. He didn’t want to listen to his new boss, anyway. Some days he just wanted to kill the man, to get his children to come back home, but any time he said anything about it the Union states — that was what they would call themselves — would say he was just feverish.
But even if his south didn’t want to come back, that was okay. He still at least wanted the right to say goodbye, and to give them what they wanted back.
“Dad, don’t pick at your stitches, Dad, don’t do this.” Illinois used his free hand to wrestle America’s hand from him. “Don’t do this. You don’t owe them a damn thing. It’s just the fever. It’ll pass, Dad, don't...”
As Illinois tried to rub America’s palm affectionately, America continued his work with his other hand.
“This is ridiculous,” Illinois huffed, standing up, slapping away America’s other hand, but already the sheets were blossoming bloodstains.
“Ohio? Indiana?” he shouted, but no one answered. He gripped Kansas close, and said, “If you — stop that! Do you want me to have to tie your down?”
America gasped softly, still digging into his own flesh, trying to find what belonged to Texas, thinking that he’d be able to find it by touch alone. Illinois bit his lip, hard, and ran out of the room, crying other states names for help.
America looked over, seeing the precious letters, the ones he though he lost, and picked them up with bloodied fingers. He kissed the edges of the paper, tasting the blood, sweat, and tears that made the words, and the love in the pages.
XXXXX
Anon just wants to say that she doesn't understand why there aren't any other comments on this fill because it's so grim but also so very moving and she hopes that the author does continue.
Thank you anon above for commenting, to be honest, I was waiting for a comment to continue posting. :P
It had been months since America had tried to gather up his children’s things, and weeks since any of his kids had seen fit to wrestle him down because of the apparent danger to himself. The Northern states seemed to take his lack of struggle now as a mandate to do as they needed to maintain what they thought America needed, when the truth was that he just didn’t have the energy to struggle anymore.
Vermont and a few others had stayed behind to care for him, not trusting the servants to understand, even if they, on some level, knew what they were. “They say they’ve captured some,” said Vermont, “You want to see them?”
“Who?” said America blankly, as blank as his expression, blank ever since he’d torn those glasses off which had been kicked under the bed.
“Some of my brothers. Or they were. Don’t know what to say anymore,” answered Vermont, taking the pillows in his arm and stuffing them at America’s back to sort of make him sit upright. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped down America’s face, arranging his hair, doing what he could to make the man look somewhat presentable. No matter what America said, it looked like he was going to have to see them anyway.
“Give me Kansas, you said if I came with you, I could see Kansas, where is she?” America could hear Missouri cry from the other room, the sound of how this whole thing started. When Missouri entered the room, though, he tried to present himself as maturely as possible, which was generally impossible given that he looked like a ten-year-old who’d fallen off of a horse. After him came Kentucky, bruised but not quite as battered, and then a boy that America did not recognize at all.
“Pa, they said that if I stayed with the Union, I could see Kansas, but I haven’t seen her yet —”
Kentucky looked like he was about to be sick, holding himself tight. “This is insane,” he muttered, “They’re all insane. You can’t make me pick a side. I refuse —”
And on and on they both went, America not really listening to either of them, instead staring at the new one uncomprehendingly.
“That one’s West Virginia,” lied Vermont softly, nodding toward the new boy.
“No.”
“West Virginia. That’s him, Dad.”
West Virginia stared coldly back. The fighting in the background sounded distant.
“Then… Virginia…?” America knew Virginia, she had that gold hair and that tall, slim figure, and such proud posture, and this boy only had the same way of standing.
“There’s still a Virginia.”
“But Virginia —”
Vermont didn’t say anything, but America understood.
XXXXX
It had been months since America had tried to gather up his children’s things, and weeks since any of his kids had seen fit to wrestle him down because of the apparent danger to himself. The Northern states seemed to take his lack of struggle now as a mandate to do as they needed to maintain what they thought America needed, when the truth was that he just didn’t have the energy to struggle anymore.
Vermont and a few others had stayed behind to care for him, not trusting the servants to understand, even if they, on some level, knew what they were. “They say they’ve captured some,” said Vermont, “You want to see them?”
“Who?” said America blankly, as blank as his expression, blank ever since he’d torn those glasses off which had been kicked under the bed.
“Some of my brothers. Or they were. Don’t know what to say anymore,” answered Vermont, taking the pillows in his arm and stuffing them at America’s back to sort of make him sit upright. Then he took out a handkerchief and wiped down America’s face, arranging his hair, doing what he could to make the man look somewhat presentable. No matter what America said, it looked like he was going to have to see them anyway.
“Give me Kansas, you said if I came with you, I could see Kansas, where is she?” America could hear Missouri cry from the other room, the sound of how this whole thing started. When Missouri entered the room, though, he tried to present himself as maturely as possible, which was generally impossible given that he looked like a ten-year-old who’d fallen off of a horse. After him came Kentucky, bruised but not quite as battered, and then a boy that America did not recognize at all.
“Pa, they said that if I stayed with the Union, I could see Kansas, but I haven’t seen her yet —”
Kentucky looked like he was about to be sick, holding himself tight. “This is insane,” he muttered, “They’re all insane. You can’t make me pick a side. I refuse —”
And on and on they both went, America not really listening to either of them, instead staring at the new one uncomprehendingly.
“That one’s West Virginia,” lied Vermont softly, nodding toward the new boy.
“No.”
“West Virginia. That’s him, Dad.”
West Virginia stared coldly back. The fighting in the background sounded distant.
“Then… Virginia…?” America knew Virginia, she had that gold hair and that tall, slim figure, and such proud posture, and this boy only had the same way of standing.
“There’s still a Virginia.”
“But Virginia —”
Vermont didn’t say anything, but America understood.
XXXXX
This is absolutely brilliant~
“Do you think it’s as bad as they say? If it is, we may be doing him a mercy.”
“These are the children of a man who called eight deaths a massacre,” said England, opening the door with as muffled a creak as he could make, “So he’s probably just irritable from a cold, or —”
“…Ah,” said France.
They paused, looking over the prone form on the bed, extremely pale with circles under his eyes.
“Perhaps we’re too late.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen worse. So have you.”
“But mon Dieu, that smell!”
Soon the smell hit England, too, and though he did not have such a sensitive nose as France, even he cringed. It was the smell that was a sign that a body needed to be put in the ground.
“If he was dead, why would they be keeping him here?” asked England, coming closer, each breath drawing the smell stronger.
“Mnot dead,” they heard. At first they didn’t know where the sound was coming from, it was so soft. But then they looked down and saw America with one eye cracked open, blue in stark contrast with his pale face when it used to blend in so well with a farmer’s tan. “Mnot dead, just trying t’sleep…”
“You hear that? He’s not dead,” said France, “So we might as well do what we’re here to do.”
“Right, said England, tearing away the sheets and comforter while France searched in the bag he brought. The smell hit them even harder, now with only a thin nightshirt covering the darkened, gray skin and infection, skin threatening to slough off. England took America’s shoulder to roll him over but before he could, America slapped his hand away weakly.
“Don’ touch me.”
“But it’s what your kids asked for,” said England, “We’re friends now. They’ve still got economic value without you, you know.”
Some days he wanted to kill his boss and apportion his flesh to his children. But now, more often than not, he thought about Virginia, the one he hadn’t met yet, and thought about how his toes went numb so long ago and how no amount of Pennsylvania’s prodding would bring them back, and sometimes, he thought just simply that he almost didn’t want to die.
“What… stop…”
“Sorry, but they say to make you a, what was it?”
“Paraplegic,” grunted England, prying America from the bed. Pain shot through America’s sides, but all he could manage was a sharp gasp. Without grace, England flipped him over, laying him flat on top of the infection. As America struggled to breathe, England traced a finger down to a particular point, just below most vital organs.
America knew that he wouldn’t survive this. Even if they were careful, he knew this would kill him, but he couldn’t move.
“Stop,” he cried feebly.
“Why should we?”
“They’ll declare war on you —”
“Ah, but are you really in any condition to declare war on anyone?”
“The kids’ll do it,” said America into his pillow, “They’re… they’re monsters.”
“And now you finally understand—” started England, but America cut him off.
“But y’don’t.”
France paused his digging through medical instruments to speak. “He raised you, you raise them. I say he knows this very well,” said France, “And they only get worse each generation, it seems.”
“But y’don’t. Y’don’t. They’re a confederacy, right?” asked America, straining to breath.
“That’s what they call themselves,” said England
“Which means… if they get independent, you have to deal with them all individually… like little countries…” America wheezed, one eye looking up at England, watching his face turn grim and look to France.
“Ah,” said France.
“This sounds like something we must discuss with our bosses,” said England. America heard the clatter of the medical supplies being put back into the bag from France, and he felt England pull the sheets to his shoulders and tuck him in tight, the same as when he was a little boy.
“Get well soon, mon petit,” said France, planting a peck on America’s cheek. Then they both left, America somehow still alive, but still hurting from all the weight on his torn-up stomach.
XXXXX
“These are the children of a man who called eight deaths a massacre,” said England, opening the door with as muffled a creak as he could make, “So he’s probably just irritable from a cold, or —”
“…Ah,” said France.
They paused, looking over the prone form on the bed, extremely pale with circles under his eyes.
“Perhaps we’re too late.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen worse. So have you.”
“But mon Dieu, that smell!”
Soon the smell hit England, too, and though he did not have such a sensitive nose as France, even he cringed. It was the smell that was a sign that a body needed to be put in the ground.
“If he was dead, why would they be keeping him here?” asked England, coming closer, each breath drawing the smell stronger.
“Mnot dead,” they heard. At first they didn’t know where the sound was coming from, it was so soft. But then they looked down and saw America with one eye cracked open, blue in stark contrast with his pale face when it used to blend in so well with a farmer’s tan. “Mnot dead, just trying t’sleep…”
“You hear that? He’s not dead,” said France, “So we might as well do what we’re here to do.”
“Right, said England, tearing away the sheets and comforter while France searched in the bag he brought. The smell hit them even harder, now with only a thin nightshirt covering the darkened, gray skin and infection, skin threatening to slough off. England took America’s shoulder to roll him over but before he could, America slapped his hand away weakly.
“Don’ touch me.”
“But it’s what your kids asked for,” said England, “We’re friends now. They’ve still got economic value without you, you know.”
Some days he wanted to kill his boss and apportion his flesh to his children. But now, more often than not, he thought about Virginia, the one he hadn’t met yet, and thought about how his toes went numb so long ago and how no amount of Pennsylvania’s prodding would bring them back, and sometimes, he thought just simply that he almost didn’t want to die.
“What… stop…”
“Sorry, but they say to make you a, what was it?”
“Paraplegic,” grunted England, prying America from the bed. Pain shot through America’s sides, but all he could manage was a sharp gasp. Without grace, England flipped him over, laying him flat on top of the infection. As America struggled to breathe, England traced a finger down to a particular point, just below most vital organs.
America knew that he wouldn’t survive this. Even if they were careful, he knew this would kill him, but he couldn’t move.
“Stop,” he cried feebly.
“Why should we?”
“They’ll declare war on you —”
“Ah, but are you really in any condition to declare war on anyone?”
“The kids’ll do it,” said America into his pillow, “They’re… they’re monsters.”
“And now you finally understand—” started England, but America cut him off.
“But y’don’t.”
France paused his digging through medical instruments to speak. “He raised you, you raise them. I say he knows this very well,” said France, “And they only get worse each generation, it seems.”
“But y’don’t. Y’don’t. They’re a confederacy, right?” asked America, straining to breath.
“That’s what they call themselves,” said England
“Which means… if they get independent, you have to deal with them all individually… like little countries…” America wheezed, one eye looking up at England, watching his face turn grim and look to France.
“Ah,” said France.
“This sounds like something we must discuss with our bosses,” said England. America heard the clatter of the medical supplies being put back into the bag from France, and he felt England pull the sheets to his shoulders and tuck him in tight, the same as when he was a little boy.
“Get well soon, mon petit,” said France, planting a peck on America’s cheek. Then they both left, America somehow still alive, but still hurting from all the weight on his torn-up stomach.
XXXXX
BAAAWW AMERICA T___T
asfdgflhjksf more please!! This is getting really really good!!
asfdgflhjksf more please!! This is getting really really good!!
So heartless, Arthur and Francis! But I'm still holding on to see what happens...
Ohhh poor ALFRED!! He's got to put the Daddy pants on and take charge again.
I can't wait to see what comes next. Amazing work so far!
I can't wait to see what comes next. Amazing work so far!
America did not like that he was the only one sitting down, but standing for more than a minute would leave him too wobbly to speak. It hurt even to sit, too, and to hold baby Nevada (he still couldn’t tell when he had happened), but by now his fever was gone and the skin he’d tried to tear off his own body was healing back nicely.
All of his children filed into the room, most of the South with hands tied behind their backs. He’d have to change that — he knew they were prisoners, but that couldn’t last forever, and it separated them from the rest. Other than that, they all looked the same, so tired and hurt and so much older than five years ago. It was in the look on their faces, and even the new Virginia and West Virginia had grown into the look already.
But some were prisoners, and some weren’t even if they were all hurt the same. He knew the only reason he wasn’t among the prisoners was that he hadn’t been able to act on his treasonous thoughts, because he was either too weak or too tired or too tied to the bed. Even if they were prisoners, though, they could still form a faction, and just after his last boss he’d had a chance to pour over Washington’s old letters and remember what it was dear Washington had hated. He’d even recommended against political parties, he’d felt so strongly.
So well that worked.
But if it was going to work now, his children could not be occupied, at least not for long — they were just the same as the rest. They were all the same, really, even after all this, and he couldn’t let shackles dictate otherwise.
America took a deep breath.
“If this is going to work,” he said carefully, painfully, “We’re going to have to make some changes…”
End
All of his children filed into the room, most of the South with hands tied behind their backs. He’d have to change that — he knew they were prisoners, but that couldn’t last forever, and it separated them from the rest. Other than that, they all looked the same, so tired and hurt and so much older than five years ago. It was in the look on their faces, and even the new Virginia and West Virginia had grown into the look already.
But some were prisoners, and some weren’t even if they were all hurt the same. He knew the only reason he wasn’t among the prisoners was that he hadn’t been able to act on his treasonous thoughts, because he was either too weak or too tired or too tied to the bed. Even if they were prisoners, though, they could still form a faction, and just after his last boss he’d had a chance to pour over Washington’s old letters and remember what it was dear Washington had hated. He’d even recommended against political parties, he’d felt so strongly.
So well that worked.
But if it was going to work now, his children could not be occupied, at least not for long — they were just the same as the rest. They were all the same, really, even after all this, and he couldn’t let shackles dictate otherwise.
America took a deep breath.
“If this is going to work,” he said carefully, painfully, “We’re going to have to make some changes…”
End
Not!OP Anon wants to stop lurking for once and say... wow.
This has been one of my favorite fills on this meme, it's... I can't even think of the word, but I really loved it. ♥it's late
I'm kinda sad it see it's complete! I'm gonna miss your America...
This has been one of my favorite fills on this meme, it's... I can't even think of the word, but I really loved it. ♥
I'm kinda sad it see it's complete! I'm gonna miss your America...
Prussia/Austria --> Hungary; five times Hungary watched and the one time she joined in
1) It was never really about Silesia. Oh, for his boss, certainly. For the people, perhaps.
But for Prussia who is whispering into Austria's ears while he fucks him roughly, whispering what looks like sweet nothings but Hungary knows is taunts and reminders of the loss? For Prussia, it has always only been about two things and two things only - to see his enemies defeated, to feel them submit beneath him.
If she could, she would stop them. But not even her thousands of soldiers can do anything and so she watches, tears staining her eyes, hot wetness enfolding her fingers... she watches as Prussia tears of his trousers with a whooping laugh and she despises it. She watches when Prussia enters him, roughly, and she envies him.
She watches Austria's tear-filled eyes and Prussia's mad grin and she hates them both for making her feel like this; dirty, sinful... abandoned.
2) When they meet Prussia on the field, he is standing alone, while his king and shattered army flee for their lives. Hungary can not even determine if the blood is his or belongs to someone else, until he kneels before them and a fresh stream flows down his head.
"One night," he snarls at them, still so defiant, but his eyes never leaves Austria's, "one night, for his life!"
Russia is shaking with laughter. "You think too highly of yourself!"
But Austria, he only nods and Hungary knows then where she will spend the night.
She smiles at Prussia and bends close to him before he is led away, "Every time you meet on the battlefield, every time you speak, we will know what you volunteered to do," she whispers. "And he will never forget how you look tonight..." He stiffens. Says nothing but now, finally, his eyes darken in shame.
She wonders idly how he would look, if he realized that she too will know?
3) She can not believe it at first, when she finds them out in the forest. It is still early spring, cool and damp, but Austria does not seem to care about the mud clinging to his knees. His glasses have fallen off, but he is moaning beneath Prussia, whose face is flushed and strained. They move together and Hungary feels a new kind of pain; she thought, at least, that they would always only move against each other.
It is quick and dirty, afterwards the two do not speak to each other. But when Hungary, alone in the forest, replays the events while her hand rubs and pinches at that secret place, she remembers the almost spoken word on Austria's lips. When she comes, his name escapes her in a breathless cry and the memory of Prussia's slight smile burns inside her, all her old sins come back to haunt her in his pale form.
But for Prussia who is whispering into Austria's ears while he fucks him roughly, whispering what looks like sweet nothings but Hungary knows is taunts and reminders of the loss? For Prussia, it has always only been about two things and two things only - to see his enemies defeated, to feel them submit beneath him.
If she could, she would stop them. But not even her thousands of soldiers can do anything and so she watches, tears staining her eyes, hot wetness enfolding her fingers... she watches as Prussia tears of his trousers with a whooping laugh and she despises it. She watches when Prussia enters him, roughly, and she envies him.
She watches Austria's tear-filled eyes and Prussia's mad grin and she hates them both for making her feel like this; dirty, sinful... abandoned.
2) When they meet Prussia on the field, he is standing alone, while his king and shattered army flee for their lives. Hungary can not even determine if the blood is his or belongs to someone else, until he kneels before them and a fresh stream flows down his head.
"One night," he snarls at them, still so defiant, but his eyes never leaves Austria's, "one night, for his life!"
Russia is shaking with laughter. "You think too highly of yourself!"
But Austria, he only nods and Hungary knows then where she will spend the night.
She smiles at Prussia and bends close to him before he is led away, "Every time you meet on the battlefield, every time you speak, we will know what you volunteered to do," she whispers. "And he will never forget how you look tonight..." He stiffens. Says nothing but now, finally, his eyes darken in shame.
She wonders idly how he would look, if he realized that she too will know?
3) She can not believe it at first, when she finds them out in the forest. It is still early spring, cool and damp, but Austria does not seem to care about the mud clinging to his knees. His glasses have fallen off, but he is moaning beneath Prussia, whose face is flushed and strained. They move together and Hungary feels a new kind of pain; she thought, at least, that they would always only move against each other.
It is quick and dirty, afterwards the two do not speak to each other. But when Hungary, alone in the forest, replays the events while her hand rubs and pinches at that secret place, she remembers the almost spoken word on Austria's lips. When she comes, his name escapes her in a breathless cry and the memory of Prussia's slight smile burns inside her, all her old sins come back to haunt her in his pale form.
4) "This is how you do it, once you've won," Prussia says calmly as he cuts the fine clothes of Austria. Behind his gag, said nation tries to protest this useless destruction, but Prussia doesn't listen.
"No good being too brutal," he continues, "you never know when the tide will turn." He is done, Austria is naked and as a finishing touch he plucks off the glasses. "Also," he says with a grin, "it's a lot more fun this way!"
From a simple wooden chair, Germany watches the proceedings. He is pale with horror, but unable to look away. Not that he is allowed to; sturdy ropes keep him where he is. Prussia has already made clear that he is not above a practical lesson if Germany seems unable to grasp it through a demonstration. Prussia, it turns out, does not take well to his brother harbouring rebellious elements towards him, not even if he tried to fight them down.
Behind an almost-closed door, Hungary watches, unseen. She is not allowed to be here, but she doesn't care. She would cross hell itself to see this. Sometimes, she wonders if she hasn't already.
"Now, brother," Prussia says, "I'll teach you a neat trick. You see, if Austria here sucks me off, " and his smile is almost fond as he plays with that solitary, rebellious strand of hair, "I'll become a lot more comfortable to him, afterwards. And if he sucks me off really, really well, I may even use some lube..."
5) Of course it will come to this, Hungary thinks, and giggles to herself. She is slightly tipsy - to be honest, she has been slightly tipsy for weeks now, drunk on the heady taste of freedom. Right now it's helped along with a good portion of Tokajer.
They've celebrated already, in bed, on the bed, in the kitchen, shower and even up against the piano. Her nipples stiffen at the memory of that, how Austria's lust finally overrode his musical sensibilities.
But now, it's all falling, like a particularly bloody house of cards. And West has finally let go of his brother for a while, who of course just had to come over and pester his favourite frilly fop.
It's a good thing she had plenty of vine, Hungary thinks and swallows an untimely hiccup. She feared for a while that they would just stand around snarking at each other all day long...
Then, finally, Prussia said something too rude and Austria grabbed his collar and someone wrestled someone else to the floor and then they were kissing, tearing at clothes and generally giving Hungary a wonderful reward for her patience.
6) Hungary is torn between joy and wariness. After Ivan, she was prepared to give up on all unions forever, but surely this time it will be different? If only she can keep up, hold her economy stable, she'll finally be able to bloom freely as never before. If only...
"Hey, there you are!" Prussia - no, eastern Germany these days - calls and waves at her. He's wearing only a pair of worn jeans and when Hungary sees Austria behind him, fussing with his tie, she knows what has just happened.
Damn! she thinks at first, I missed it!
"Congratulations, my dear," Austria says and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "I am so happy that you have finally joined us!"
Hang on a moment, she thinks then, I have, haven't I?
And roughly three hundred years of sexual frustration tenses then, finally, snaps.
Before Austria has pulled back fully, she grabs hold of his tie and gives him a violent kiss, far from the gentle touches they used to share during their marriage.
Then, when he is still sputtering awkwardly, she grabs Prussia by the hair and pulls him near too. This one, of course, always quick to adapt, meets her halfway. His hand finds her breast in a move that makes her smirk; she knew he never forgot that touch all those years ago.
"Hu- Hungary!" Is Austria shocked? Or is that more the tone of arousal in his voice?
"Welcome to the union, baby!" Prussia says with a wink and grabs Austria's ass.
"There are a lot of really boring meetings," somehow, they all end up in a tight hug and now her former husband's hand is also slowly moving towards her breasts, "but the neighbourly relations ain't half bad!"
"Oh, trust me," Hungary says with a secret smile, "I am perfectly aware of that."
"No good being too brutal," he continues, "you never know when the tide will turn." He is done, Austria is naked and as a finishing touch he plucks off the glasses. "Also," he says with a grin, "it's a lot more fun this way!"
From a simple wooden chair, Germany watches the proceedings. He is pale with horror, but unable to look away. Not that he is allowed to; sturdy ropes keep him where he is. Prussia has already made clear that he is not above a practical lesson if Germany seems unable to grasp it through a demonstration. Prussia, it turns out, does not take well to his brother harbouring rebellious elements towards him, not even if he tried to fight them down.
Behind an almost-closed door, Hungary watches, unseen. She is not allowed to be here, but she doesn't care. She would cross hell itself to see this. Sometimes, she wonders if she hasn't already.
"Now, brother," Prussia says, "I'll teach you a neat trick. You see, if Austria here sucks me off, " and his smile is almost fond as he plays with that solitary, rebellious strand of hair, "I'll become a lot more comfortable to him, afterwards. And if he sucks me off really, really well, I may even use some lube..."
5) Of course it will come to this, Hungary thinks, and giggles to herself. She is slightly tipsy - to be honest, she has been slightly tipsy for weeks now, drunk on the heady taste of freedom. Right now it's helped along with a good portion of Tokajer.
They've celebrated already, in bed, on the bed, in the kitchen, shower and even up against the piano. Her nipples stiffen at the memory of that, how Austria's lust finally overrode his musical sensibilities.
But now, it's all falling, like a particularly bloody house of cards. And West has finally let go of his brother for a while, who of course just had to come over and pester his favourite frilly fop.
It's a good thing she had plenty of vine, Hungary thinks and swallows an untimely hiccup. She feared for a while that they would just stand around snarking at each other all day long...
Then, finally, Prussia said something too rude and Austria grabbed his collar and someone wrestled someone else to the floor and then they were kissing, tearing at clothes and generally giving Hungary a wonderful reward for her patience.
6) Hungary is torn between joy and wariness. After Ivan, she was prepared to give up on all unions forever, but surely this time it will be different? If only she can keep up, hold her economy stable, she'll finally be able to bloom freely as never before. If only...
"Hey, there you are!" Prussia - no, eastern Germany these days - calls and waves at her. He's wearing only a pair of worn jeans and when Hungary sees Austria behind him, fussing with his tie, she knows what has just happened.
Damn! she thinks at first, I missed it!
"Congratulations, my dear," Austria says and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "I am so happy that you have finally joined us!"
Hang on a moment, she thinks then, I have, haven't I?
And roughly three hundred years of sexual frustration tenses then, finally, snaps.
Before Austria has pulled back fully, she grabs hold of his tie and gives him a violent kiss, far from the gentle touches they used to share during their marriage.
Then, when he is still sputtering awkwardly, she grabs Prussia by the hair and pulls him near too. This one, of course, always quick to adapt, meets her halfway. His hand finds her breast in a move that makes her smirk; she knew he never forgot that touch all those years ago.
"Hu- Hungary!" Is Austria shocked? Or is that more the tone of arousal in his voice?
"Welcome to the union, baby!" Prussia says with a wink and grabs Austria's ass.
"There are a lot of really boring meetings," somehow, they all end up in a tight hug and now her former husband's hand is also slowly moving towards her breasts, "but the neighbourly relations ain't half bad!"
"Oh, trust me," Hungary says with a secret smile, "I am perfectly aware of that."
Notes:
1) War of the Austrian succession
2) Battle of Kunersdorf
3) First Coalition against Napoleon
4) Seven-Weeks War
5) Fall of the Soviet Union
6) Hungary joins the European Union
Please see Wikipedia for details!
1) War of the Austrian succession
2) Battle of Kunersdorf
3) First Coalition against Napoleon
4) Seven-Weeks War
5) Fall of the Soviet Union
6) Hungary joins the European Union
Please see Wikipedia for details!
My gosh, totally hawt central European goings-on AND historical refrencetasticness? My world has also broken.
trufax: author anon decided to write the prompt, opened wikipedia's history of austria and found inspiration for every single scene.
I ttaly love this fandom *heart*
I ttaly love this fandom *heart*
Requester here.
PERFECT. Love how you've embedded this in historical context, and the interaction between the three is lovely.
PERFECT. Love how you've embedded this in historical context, and the interaction between the three is lovely.
ho ho! This is totally hot! You wrote them all perfectly <3
Hi anons!
hope my request it's not strange, I would like to see a fic about Rome and England when he was under his rule with the name Britannia; can be interactions as family, sort of mentor, fluffy, angsty etc, I just want to see those two interacting together during this period (and to sse chibi!iggy). hope my request it's not too confusing
hope my request it's not strange, I would like to see a fic about Rome and England when he was under his rule with the name Britannia; can be interactions as family, sort of mentor, fluffy, angsty etc, I just want to see those two interacting together during this period (and to sse chibi!iggy). hope my request it's not too confusing
Japan/America; non-con. Can be Pearl Harbor or with POW!America.
Bonus points for yandere!Japan.
Bonus points for yandere!Japan.
First-time request fill, I hope you enjoy it. D: Going with POW!America, because it's hot.
------
The air is hot, and humid, and sticky, and although America is long used to such climates, it doesn't make it any more bearable. There are spiders the size of his palms crawling on the prison walls, and more bugs than he can put names to scurrying in and out of the buildings.
A particularly large one has made its residence in the left corner under his prison cot, and he has named it Mister Samsa. He likes to think that England will call him cultured for doing so. Samsa is the only company America has these days, for the guards pass him by without any words, and the only sign there is a world outside of the cell is the glass of water and bowl of rice shoved into the room once a day. He is hungry, but he is a nation, and doesn't really need food, so he eats it and places a few grains on the floor for Samsa to eat. He might as well be kind to his cellmate.
The days have passed like this, too many that he cares to count, but the monotony of counting raindrops and talking out loud to a bug is brought to an end by his cell door, quite suddenly and without warning, opening, and in steps Japan.
No matter how many times he sees him, America is always fairly amazed by the lack of expression on his face. No matter the situations, the Asian nation controls his face carefully, expression always either blank or a distant expression of worry that is the only sign he is feeling an emotion strongly.
His face is blank today, so there will be no change in America's situation. Not that America was expecting one, for the other Allies are mainly busy with wiping up the fight in Europe as Germany falters, slowly but surely losing as Russia steamrolls over him. At least, that was the situation last he heard before his command was captured in the tropical Pacific islands that Japan and he are having their own little war in. Perhaps the tide has changed, perhaps not. America is stuck here, and this is his situation.
Japan turns to the guards. "Watashi wa kore kara hitori de itte hoshii."
The guards simply salute, turning and leaving as Japan steps fully into the cell, door swinging shut behind him. He looks at America with those unreadable dark eyes.
"You will not surrender, will you?" The words are clipped, almost sad. America shrugs.
"You brought me into this war, I'm not backing out of it."
If Japan were more open, a cool smile would probably quirk his lips right about now. His expression remains blank, however. "There is much talk of how it is less brought you into the war, and more just opened the door for you."
America bristles at that, because he knows the controversy surrounding that attack, he knows it, but his own intentions are pure, damn it. He's in this war to stop the world-wide suffering, and that's more than can be said for the nation in front of him.
Then again, no one can ever really say it's the nation's fault, not with the bosses they have, or with popular sentiment, or with how badly the last war ended, and America thinks that perhaps he should have been more involved with the last treaty, making it fair to everyone instead of getting disgusted with Europe and leaving, refusing to sign the treaty. He had just wanted to be left alone again, and look where that had got him.
No, he couldn't be alone, not anymore. Look where it got the world. He made a mental note to never be absent from international affairs and treaty signings again. He would make sure this didn't happen again, that was his job. To be a hero.
Japan crosses the distance between them, reaching out and grabbing America's hair with detached calm, twisting the golden strands so that America is forced to look up at him.
------
------
The air is hot, and humid, and sticky, and although America is long used to such climates, it doesn't make it any more bearable. There are spiders the size of his palms crawling on the prison walls, and more bugs than he can put names to scurrying in and out of the buildings.
A particularly large one has made its residence in the left corner under his prison cot, and he has named it Mister Samsa. He likes to think that England will call him cultured for doing so. Samsa is the only company America has these days, for the guards pass him by without any words, and the only sign there is a world outside of the cell is the glass of water and bowl of rice shoved into the room once a day. He is hungry, but he is a nation, and doesn't really need food, so he eats it and places a few grains on the floor for Samsa to eat. He might as well be kind to his cellmate.
The days have passed like this, too many that he cares to count, but the monotony of counting raindrops and talking out loud to a bug is brought to an end by his cell door, quite suddenly and without warning, opening, and in steps Japan.
No matter how many times he sees him, America is always fairly amazed by the lack of expression on his face. No matter the situations, the Asian nation controls his face carefully, expression always either blank or a distant expression of worry that is the only sign he is feeling an emotion strongly.
His face is blank today, so there will be no change in America's situation. Not that America was expecting one, for the other Allies are mainly busy with wiping up the fight in Europe as Germany falters, slowly but surely losing as Russia steamrolls over him. At least, that was the situation last he heard before his command was captured in the tropical Pacific islands that Japan and he are having their own little war in. Perhaps the tide has changed, perhaps not. America is stuck here, and this is his situation.
Japan turns to the guards. "Watashi wa kore kara hitori de itte hoshii."
The guards simply salute, turning and leaving as Japan steps fully into the cell, door swinging shut behind him. He looks at America with those unreadable dark eyes.
"You will not surrender, will you?" The words are clipped, almost sad. America shrugs.
"You brought me into this war, I'm not backing out of it."
If Japan were more open, a cool smile would probably quirk his lips right about now. His expression remains blank, however. "There is much talk of how it is less brought you into the war, and more just opened the door for you."
America bristles at that, because he knows the controversy surrounding that attack, he knows it, but his own intentions are pure, damn it. He's in this war to stop the world-wide suffering, and that's more than can be said for the nation in front of him.
Then again, no one can ever really say it's the nation's fault, not with the bosses they have, or with popular sentiment, or with how badly the last war ended, and America thinks that perhaps he should have been more involved with the last treaty, making it fair to everyone instead of getting disgusted with Europe and leaving, refusing to sign the treaty. He had just wanted to be left alone again, and look where that had got him.
No, he couldn't be alone, not anymore. Look where it got the world. He made a mental note to never be absent from international affairs and treaty signings again. He would make sure this didn't happen again, that was his job. To be a hero.
Japan crosses the distance between them, reaching out and grabbing America's hair with detached calm, twisting the golden strands so that America is forced to look up at him.
------
------
"Germany-san is losing," He states without emotion; coldly, coolly. "That is not my problem. He could not win anyways, because he could never take you by force. His boss has gone more crazy than before. He would see you and spare you, because you are bright-colored and fair and you have taken in so many of Germany's people for centuries. He would raze and cleanse you like he has done to others, but you would still be treated preferentially, because of your coloring."
There is a smile now, so soft and faint America almost misses it, and the emotions behind it make him wish he had. "It seems silly, to decide worth based on outside colors, but that is humanity for you. And that is why Germany will lose, because his campaign is based on an insane man's wishes. My boss, however, is quite sane."
America has remained quiet up until now, because while he knows common sense isn't exactly his forte, he isn't stupid. But he can't let this go. "And attacking and killing and conquering your brother's houses is better?"
There is no change in Japan's expression as he backhands America, more force behind that hit than a normal human could ever hope to accomplish. America swallows the resulting blood and ignores the hair that came out forcefully in Japan's hand.
"I am protecting them, saving them. They are backwards, floundering around in their outdated cultures. I have taken the best of both worlds, of Western and Eastern, and I will guide my brothers to the path of enlightenment. I am the only one who recognized the West's power, and I am the only one fit to lead them. Once I have absorbed everything you Europeans have to offer, I will rule you too."
The island nation pushes him over, then, back onto the cot, eyes bright with some sort of emotion America cannot name and does not want to. It reminds him too much of days long ago and England, proud England, looking over America's land with those eyes. Hungry with want and need and other emotions that were too dark to speak of openly.
If this is imperialism, America wants no part of it.
Japan's hand, the same one that hit America, now cups his cheek in a deceptively gentle touch, turning his face this way and that, voice almost amused. "And you...you will be by my side. it is only fitting. You opened me up again to the outside world, coming in just to make friends with whales. You let me see how wonderful the West could be. You let me see how backwards my brothers and I had let ourselves become. And so I determined that I would follow you, rise up to you."
He leans over America, nose to nose. "And I will capture you and surpass you. The sun will set on the West, and rise in the East. I am known as the Land of the Rising Sun, east of everything. However, if I go east from my islands, my lands....if I go far enough, I find you. You rose like the sun and illuminated me, as my Amaterasu, and I will reflect your brilliance with my mirror and send you back into the sky, out of the twilight of the West."
With this strange proclamation, hot lips capture his own.
His first instinct is to fight back, and so he does, shoving upwards with a muffled cry. Japan pulls back enough to slam him against the cot again, the metal creaking dangerously, as the Asian nation pulls out the katana that is always on his side nowadays and holds it against America's throat, face close and dangerous.
"I would not be doing that, America-san."
America stares up at him flatly. "You're right, your boss isn't crazy. You're the one that's gone crazy."
There is a sharp sting on his throat, and he knows that Japan has pressed the katana hard enough against his throat to draw blood. He decides to fall silent.
"Do not speak that way of your future ruler, O-kami. I am here to return the splendor of the sun from the tarnished hands of the West. I will not allow them to soil you any longer."
This time, America does not fight back when Japan leans in to kiss him again. With the blade pressed against his throat, there is no move fast enough that he can think of to dislodge Japan without giving himself a second smile, and he is a POW besides, there is nowhere to run away even if he did get the other nation off of him.
------
"Germany-san is losing," He states without emotion; coldly, coolly. "That is not my problem. He could not win anyways, because he could never take you by force. His boss has gone more crazy than before. He would see you and spare you, because you are bright-colored and fair and you have taken in so many of Germany's people for centuries. He would raze and cleanse you like he has done to others, but you would still be treated preferentially, because of your coloring."
There is a smile now, so soft and faint America almost misses it, and the emotions behind it make him wish he had. "It seems silly, to decide worth based on outside colors, but that is humanity for you. And that is why Germany will lose, because his campaign is based on an insane man's wishes. My boss, however, is quite sane."
America has remained quiet up until now, because while he knows common sense isn't exactly his forte, he isn't stupid. But he can't let this go. "And attacking and killing and conquering your brother's houses is better?"
There is no change in Japan's expression as he backhands America, more force behind that hit than a normal human could ever hope to accomplish. America swallows the resulting blood and ignores the hair that came out forcefully in Japan's hand.
"I am protecting them, saving them. They are backwards, floundering around in their outdated cultures. I have taken the best of both worlds, of Western and Eastern, and I will guide my brothers to the path of enlightenment. I am the only one who recognized the West's power, and I am the only one fit to lead them. Once I have absorbed everything you Europeans have to offer, I will rule you too."
The island nation pushes him over, then, back onto the cot, eyes bright with some sort of emotion America cannot name and does not want to. It reminds him too much of days long ago and England, proud England, looking over America's land with those eyes. Hungry with want and need and other emotions that were too dark to speak of openly.
If this is imperialism, America wants no part of it.
Japan's hand, the same one that hit America, now cups his cheek in a deceptively gentle touch, turning his face this way and that, voice almost amused. "And you...you will be by my side. it is only fitting. You opened me up again to the outside world, coming in just to make friends with whales. You let me see how wonderful the West could be. You let me see how backwards my brothers and I had let ourselves become. And so I determined that I would follow you, rise up to you."
He leans over America, nose to nose. "And I will capture you and surpass you. The sun will set on the West, and rise in the East. I am known as the Land of the Rising Sun, east of everything. However, if I go east from my islands, my lands....if I go far enough, I find you. You rose like the sun and illuminated me, as my Amaterasu, and I will reflect your brilliance with my mirror and send you back into the sky, out of the twilight of the West."
With this strange proclamation, hot lips capture his own.
His first instinct is to fight back, and so he does, shoving upwards with a muffled cry. Japan pulls back enough to slam him against the cot again, the metal creaking dangerously, as the Asian nation pulls out the katana that is always on his side nowadays and holds it against America's throat, face close and dangerous.
"I would not be doing that, America-san."
America stares up at him flatly. "You're right, your boss isn't crazy. You're the one that's gone crazy."
There is a sharp sting on his throat, and he knows that Japan has pressed the katana hard enough against his throat to draw blood. He decides to fall silent.
"Do not speak that way of your future ruler, O-kami. I am here to return the splendor of the sun from the tarnished hands of the West. I will not allow them to soil you any longer."
This time, America does not fight back when Japan leans in to kiss him again. With the blade pressed against his throat, there is no move fast enough that he can think of to dislodge Japan without giving himself a second smile, and he is a POW besides, there is nowhere to run away even if he did get the other nation off of him.
------
------
There are few times in his life that America has felt helpless, and this is one of them.
He makes a hopeless sound as Japan continues kissing him, tongue invading his mouth and tasting the blood from bitten lips and cheeks in long strokes, the free hand tugging at the buttons to his stained military uniform, tearing them open viciously.
This is not the Japan America knows, not the shy figure that had sat quietly in front of him as he tried to make new friends, and America has to wonder if this is really his fault.
If he had stayed away, perhaps things would not have come to this.
Wars happened because he stayed out of things. Wars happened because he didn't stay out of things.
There is something to be said about himself in that, but America can't bring himself to think of it with Japan's tongue hot in his mouth and the slim hand running intricate designs on his chest and the flash of cool metal against his throat, a warning of what would happen if he disobeyed.
Japan moves his kisses from his mouth to his chin, his jawline, his neck, trailing blood down his skin, and America has to fight to try to keep the blush off his face and his mind going places it shouldn't, but it is very hard with Japan on top of him, pressing and insistent and apparently trying to suck his collarbone off.
But he is very sure he does not want this.
Perhaps he can at least get Japan to stop, to listen, and with that thought in mind he waits. He waits until Japan shifts slightly, intending to lick down his chest in whatever little script is in his head, and the blade of the katana retracts just enough so that America will not immediately be decapitated if he moves. So he grabs the blade with one hand, ignoring the cut into his fingers, shoving it upwards and away and shoving his hand between himself and Japan in the other instant, pushing upwards to try to dislodge the smaller nation. He is physical stronger and bigger, and Japan indeed gets knocked back, sliding halfway down America's legs, and the surprise on his face makes America think he has succeeded for a moment.
Then the katana slams down into the cot next to his head, and he has a feeling he has just made things worse.
"I was going to go slow, to savor you," Japan states, too calmly for the flush spread across his face. "But it seems you need a lesson instead."
He grabs America, twisting his arms in somehow just the perfect way to flip America over neatly in some sort of martial arts move, he has so many that America forgets all their names, and he is suddenly pinned face-down in the dirty sheets of his cot and feeling rather detached from the panic in his head.
There is a clink of metal, and suddenly his hands are bound together. He hadn't known Japan was carrying handcuffs, but apparently he was. The katana is back, suddenly, now with the sharp tip pressed against the back of his neck, and America decides that not moving is the better option.
------
There are few times in his life that America has felt helpless, and this is one of them.
He makes a hopeless sound as Japan continues kissing him, tongue invading his mouth and tasting the blood from bitten lips and cheeks in long strokes, the free hand tugging at the buttons to his stained military uniform, tearing them open viciously.
This is not the Japan America knows, not the shy figure that had sat quietly in front of him as he tried to make new friends, and America has to wonder if this is really his fault.
If he had stayed away, perhaps things would not have come to this.
Wars happened because he stayed out of things. Wars happened because he didn't stay out of things.
There is something to be said about himself in that, but America can't bring himself to think of it with Japan's tongue hot in his mouth and the slim hand running intricate designs on his chest and the flash of cool metal against his throat, a warning of what would happen if he disobeyed.
Japan moves his kisses from his mouth to his chin, his jawline, his neck, trailing blood down his skin, and America has to fight to try to keep the blush off his face and his mind going places it shouldn't, but it is very hard with Japan on top of him, pressing and insistent and apparently trying to suck his collarbone off.
But he is very sure he does not want this.
Perhaps he can at least get Japan to stop, to listen, and with that thought in mind he waits. He waits until Japan shifts slightly, intending to lick down his chest in whatever little script is in his head, and the blade of the katana retracts just enough so that America will not immediately be decapitated if he moves. So he grabs the blade with one hand, ignoring the cut into his fingers, shoving it upwards and away and shoving his hand between himself and Japan in the other instant, pushing upwards to try to dislodge the smaller nation. He is physical stronger and bigger, and Japan indeed gets knocked back, sliding halfway down America's legs, and the surprise on his face makes America think he has succeeded for a moment.
Then the katana slams down into the cot next to his head, and he has a feeling he has just made things worse.
"I was going to go slow, to savor you," Japan states, too calmly for the flush spread across his face. "But it seems you need a lesson instead."
He grabs America, twisting his arms in somehow just the perfect way to flip America over neatly in some sort of martial arts move, he has so many that America forgets all their names, and he is suddenly pinned face-down in the dirty sheets of his cot and feeling rather detached from the panic in his head.
There is a clink of metal, and suddenly his hands are bound together. He hadn't known Japan was carrying handcuffs, but apparently he was. The katana is back, suddenly, now with the sharp tip pressed against the back of his neck, and America decides that not moving is the better option.
------
Anon. Oh, Anon. I have this add-on for Firefox that allows me to highlight text on webpages, which I've found useful for noting the lines I want to comment on in fic. By the time I was done reading part 2, more than half the page was in color, and I knew I wouldn't be able to say everything I want to you. I got chills listening to Japan in that section, not just for what he was saying but because I understood the logic and the desire of his ambitions, and also the ruthlessness of the determination to achieve them.
But I think what I really want to say to you, dear Author!Anon, is thank you for America. This, this is the America I fell in love with when I was a little girl. I wasn't born in time to know this America as anything but the past, history. Your writing--I feel like I'm there, and that's why I must thank you.
Brilliant, Anon.
But I think what I really want to say to you, dear Author!Anon, is thank you for America. This, this is the America I fell in love with when I was a little girl. I wasn't born in time to know this America as anything but the past, history. Your writing--I feel like I'm there, and that's why I must thank you.
Brilliant, Anon.
------
The katana trails downwards, catching in the collar of his uniform, and without much preamble Japan hooks it in the fabric and drags down, slicing a long tear in the shirt. There is shifting movement, and Japan now grabs it with one hand, yanking upwards, and his strength is enough to tear it completely in half, leaving his back exposed.
He tries not to shiver, because it's fucking humid and hot, but the temperature is not the reason his muscles convulse. He tries to think of any number of apologies that might turn this situation into anything slightly more closer to some definition of "okay", but none come to mind that sound sincere enough. After all, they are at war, and his ships and planes are attacking Japan's even as the smaller nations hands and mouth begin tracing searing patterns on his back.
Japan moves quickly, much more quickly down his back, and soon he is sneaking hands in front of America's hips, unlatching his belt and trousers with deceptive gentleness, and America's breath hitches. He isn't even close to being truly aroused, and doesn't want to be, but it seems Japan is going ahead with his plan anyways.
He almost feels like crying, but buries his face in the sheets again and tells himself that innocent thousands are dying at this very moment, in Europe and Asia, and his lands are relatively untouched. It is that thought that has him bite back a harsh cry as two fingers, slicked with spit only, slide into him.
The tears spring to his eyes anyways, because it is rough and it hurts and the indignity of being face-down on a dirty bunk in the middle of a useless jungle, captured with someone's fingers up his ass, is almost unbearable.
But he is strong, or so he tells himself, and so he closes his eyes and forces himself to make no more than a whimper as the fingers begin moving about stretching him only enough to not rip anything should anything larger be introduced, and that thought causes him to shudder again in poorly-disguised fear.
This is not the Japan America knew, and that point is very clear now.
------
The katana trails downwards, catching in the collar of his uniform, and without much preamble Japan hooks it in the fabric and drags down, slicing a long tear in the shirt. There is shifting movement, and Japan now grabs it with one hand, yanking upwards, and his strength is enough to tear it completely in half, leaving his back exposed.
He tries not to shiver, because it's fucking humid and hot, but the temperature is not the reason his muscles convulse. He tries to think of any number of apologies that might turn this situation into anything slightly more closer to some definition of "okay", but none come to mind that sound sincere enough. After all, they are at war, and his ships and planes are attacking Japan's even as the smaller nations hands and mouth begin tracing searing patterns on his back.
Japan moves quickly, much more quickly down his back, and soon he is sneaking hands in front of America's hips, unlatching his belt and trousers with deceptive gentleness, and America's breath hitches. He isn't even close to being truly aroused, and doesn't want to be, but it seems Japan is going ahead with his plan anyways.
He almost feels like crying, but buries his face in the sheets again and tells himself that innocent thousands are dying at this very moment, in Europe and Asia, and his lands are relatively untouched. It is that thought that has him bite back a harsh cry as two fingers, slicked with spit only, slide into him.
The tears spring to his eyes anyways, because it is rough and it hurts and the indignity of being face-down on a dirty bunk in the middle of a useless jungle, captured with someone's fingers up his ass, is almost unbearable.
But he is strong, or so he tells himself, and so he closes his eyes and forces himself to make no more than a whimper as the fingers begin moving about stretching him only enough to not rip anything should anything larger be introduced, and that thought causes him to shudder again in poorly-disguised fear.
This is not the Japan America knew, and that point is very clear now.
------
------
The finger pull out, and America does not dare look behind himself at the sound of another belt clinking, fabric rustling, and Japan's soft sound of pleasure.
There is a period of silence for a moment, and Mister Samsa takes the opportunity to crawl up the wall in front of America. He watches the bug, grateful for the little distraction it provides. Samsa does not care about what is happening in front of him, and America envies that.
Then there are hands on America's hips, breath hot on his ears with words in his ears, "I will make you shine again", and then there is pain.
It is hot-white, and America cannot stop himself from crying out this time, because it hurts a lot more than the fingers did, so different than any encounter he's had before. There is no kindness to this, no sensuality, merely the pain of Japan pressing into him harshly, not waiting for him to get adjusted before he digs his fingers into America's hips, thrusting in.
Thye sparks of pain clear from his eyes little by little, and there is someone pleading "stop, stop", in a broken little voice, and it takes America a moment to realize it is himself. He bites off the words with a choked whimper, and forces himself to train his eyes on Samsa again. He will be Samsa, for a little while, and endure this without emotion, or so he tells himself, ignoring the tears that fall from his eyes. He will endure this, he is America, free and proud, no matter the circumstances...
His body is responding to the activity slowly, turning some of it into pleasure, but Japan does not seem to care and America doesn't want him to, because it's easier to ignore only pain.
Instead, he merely watches his little bug friend, listing in his mind the ways he can make up his terrible mistakes to Japan when the Allies win the war, because they will and America has a trick up his sleeve to make Japan submit. It is not ready yet, but when it is, America will use it and make Japan surrender, make the island nation fall.
And when he falls, America will be there, to pick him back up and set him on the right track this time. Make sure that Japan will never drop to this level again. He will hold Japan up, even higher than himself even. This will not happen again.
Japan's breath is ragged, now, the thrusts erratic, and America closes his eyes with another whimper, as it is starting to feel good and he doesn't want it to. But soon, almost too soon, Japan is stiffening, crying out in that soft voice of his, and there is warmth suddenly deep inside America as Japan finds release in his little world.
------
The finger pull out, and America does not dare look behind himself at the sound of another belt clinking, fabric rustling, and Japan's soft sound of pleasure.
There is a period of silence for a moment, and Mister Samsa takes the opportunity to crawl up the wall in front of America. He watches the bug, grateful for the little distraction it provides. Samsa does not care about what is happening in front of him, and America envies that.
Then there are hands on America's hips, breath hot on his ears with words in his ears, "I will make you shine again", and then there is pain.
It is hot-white, and America cannot stop himself from crying out this time, because it hurts a lot more than the fingers did, so different than any encounter he's had before. There is no kindness to this, no sensuality, merely the pain of Japan pressing into him harshly, not waiting for him to get adjusted before he digs his fingers into America's hips, thrusting in.
Thye sparks of pain clear from his eyes little by little, and there is someone pleading "stop, stop", in a broken little voice, and it takes America a moment to realize it is himself. He bites off the words with a choked whimper, and forces himself to train his eyes on Samsa again. He will be Samsa, for a little while, and endure this without emotion, or so he tells himself, ignoring the tears that fall from his eyes. He will endure this, he is America, free and proud, no matter the circumstances...
His body is responding to the activity slowly, turning some of it into pleasure, but Japan does not seem to care and America doesn't want him to, because it's easier to ignore only pain.
Instead, he merely watches his little bug friend, listing in his mind the ways he can make up his terrible mistakes to Japan when the Allies win the war, because they will and America has a trick up his sleeve to make Japan submit. It is not ready yet, but when it is, America will use it and make Japan surrender, make the island nation fall.
And when he falls, America will be there, to pick him back up and set him on the right track this time. Make sure that Japan will never drop to this level again. He will hold Japan up, even higher than himself even. This will not happen again.
Japan's breath is ragged, now, the thrusts erratic, and America closes his eyes with another whimper, as it is starting to feel good and he doesn't want it to. But soon, almost too soon, Japan is stiffening, crying out in that soft voice of his, and there is warmth suddenly deep inside America as Japan finds release in his little world.
------
------
Japan's breath is harsh, panting for a few minutes as he slumps over America, and America doesn't see the need to break the silence.
Then, mechanically, he pulls out of America, standing up straight and there is rustling that America assumes is Japan cleaning himself off and straightening his clothes. He does not want to look.
"The sun will win this war," Japan states calmly, as if the past five minutes haven't happened. The handcuffs are removed suddenly, and America slumps forward against the cot more than he already was. Mister Samsa returns to his hiding place under the cot as Japan strides out of the room, heels clacking in military precision.
The cell door swings shut, lock falling heavily in place, and the footsteps disappear completely.
America, ignoring his state of dress and the half-erection the slight arousal left him in, crawls into the cot and buries his face in his arms, allowing himself to cry softly because there isn't anything else to do here besides go crazy.
Yes, the sun will win the war, he will burn Japan with the secret he has been building over the past year, and then he will make sure Japan will never have reason to be burned again. Especially not by him. Icarus had learned that lesson, long ago.
------
So I generally fail at non-con, and America was really quiet during the entire thing. D: I am sorry! I tried. >:
Japan's breath is harsh, panting for a few minutes as he slumps over America, and America doesn't see the need to break the silence.
Then, mechanically, he pulls out of America, standing up straight and there is rustling that America assumes is Japan cleaning himself off and straightening his clothes. He does not want to look.
"The sun will win this war," Japan states calmly, as if the past five minutes haven't happened. The handcuffs are removed suddenly, and America slumps forward against the cot more than he already was. Mister Samsa returns to his hiding place under the cot as Japan strides out of the room, heels clacking in military precision.
The cell door swings shut, lock falling heavily in place, and the footsteps disappear completely.
America, ignoring his state of dress and the half-erection the slight arousal left him in, crawls into the cot and buries his face in his arms, allowing himself to cry softly because there isn't anything else to do here besides go crazy.
Yes, the sun will win the war, he will burn Japan with the secret he has been building over the past year, and then he will make sure Japan will never have reason to be burned again. Especially not by him. Icarus had learned that lesson, long ago.
------
So I generally fail at non-con, and America was really quiet during the entire thing. D: I am sorry! I tried. >:
I did not think that this failed at all! It is very good, especially for a first fanfiction.
I really liked the inclusion of Mr. Samsa. Naming a spider just seemed so..Alfred like. Also I really liked how you wrote Kiku's personality, as well as Alfred's naivety during all of it.
Overall, very very good job!
I really liked the inclusion of Mr. Samsa. Naming a spider just seemed so..Alfred like. Also I really liked how you wrote Kiku's personality, as well as Alfred's naivety during all of it.
Overall, very very good job!
Ahaha, I didn't mean first fill as in first fic, just first fanfic written here on the kink meme. Which can be as harrowing as a first fic, I guess. XD;;
Thank you, though! I'm glad it turned out okay...they're not my OTP, but I was struck with inspiration, so~
Thank you, though! I'm glad it turned out okay...they're not my OTP, but I was struck with inspiration, so~
*purrs* No, this was really good. You so don't fail! In fact, it's one of the better non-cons I've seen. America would be quiet I think, doing his best to grit his teeth and take himself away from the situation, to not give in to his captor. I don't think he'd be bawling or screaming about it; doesn't seem in character. This, with his reactions and thoughts, was much better. I loved it!
Haha, I was writing and had to force myself to write America resisting at all, because he was really passive about it, actually. I had to edit and make sure he did SOMETHING instead of lay there. I agree, it's not in his character to flail and scream over serious things. I was trying to find a balance between "too much" and "too little".
Glad you liked it! ♥
Glad you liked it! ♥
Gaaaaaaah, the sun imagery in this was amazing: America as both West and East, Japan as the bringer of the sun, the sun-heat of the atomic bomb....excellent job anon.
The sun imagery came really easily, once I started writing. It really fits this couple! Glad you liked it~
This is so not fail. This is...disturbing, hot and oddly perfectly fit together. The characters, their reactions, everything about this is perfect.
Thank you, I tried! For first time at writing non-con, I think it ended up well. I'm glad people like it!
YOU CALLED THE BUG MR SAMSA YOU CALLED HIM SAMSA I LOVE YOU YOU KAFKA FAN YOU.
But *ahem.* The rest of the fic was also excellent.
*gigglesnort*Mr Samsa*/giggleshort*
But *ahem.* The rest of the fic was also excellent.
*gigglesnort*Mr Samsa*/giggleshort*
I HAD TO DO IT. XD ♥ I LOVE YOU TOO. ♥
IN FACT, SHE WOULD LIKE TO TAKE A MOMENT TO PROPOSE MARRIAGE TO WRITER!ANON.
Seriously, ILU. I have a major kink for America being topped. And I love the little details with Mr. Samsa.Incidentally, I think Mr. Samsa/America has become a new OTP of sorts for me. And I love how subtle yandere!Japan is. Now that I think about it, he would be a "quiet" yandere. The kind that is more fond of psychological torture. I'm willing to bet that this won't be the only time Japan pays America a "visit". I've even got my own ideas for a continuation. >=3
Again, ILU. You've inspired me to try to make some more fills of my own!
reCAPTCHA: showed nonfiction. Whut? Did this really happen?
Seriously, ILU. I have a major kink for America being topped. And I love the little details with Mr. Samsa.
Again, ILU. You've inspired me to try to make some more fills of my own!
reCAPTCHA: showed nonfiction. Whut? Did this really happen?
♥ ♥ ♥ WRITER!ANON IS FLATTERED BY MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. ♥
Yandere!Japan is very quiet, very subtle, and never smiles but merely pulls everyone close and makes sure they cannot leave with force. He's like one of those "Oh but you can't leave my dollhouse, you'll get hurt!" people, only not so outgoing. It's actually really creepy. XD;; Oh? A continuation? ♥
♥ ♥ Glad to be inspiration!
XDD I wish!
Yandere!Japan is very quiet, very subtle, and never smiles but merely pulls everyone close and makes sure they cannot leave with force. He's like one of those "Oh but you can't leave my dollhouse, you'll get hurt!" people, only not so outgoing. It's actually really creepy. XD;; Oh? A continuation? ♥
♥ ♥ Glad to be inspiration!
XDD I wish!
You certainly delivered on this, author!anon. Wow... just wow... The complexity and characterization is just astounding, both of them. Japan was perfectly chilling and almost sympathetic, his dialogue being just so- in character, as well as his pointed obsession with America, to dominate him and yet love him. That is the complete and utter definition of yandere.
I have to say that I'm loving the POW!America even more now. Well done!
I have to say that I'm loving the POW!America even more now. Well done!
This is the anon who commented above to part 3. I've just finished the rest, and I'm having a really hard time not crying. I'm even more at a loss for words now. I assure you that you are not fail at noncon, at least in my book. I was a little reluctant at the prompt because while I love dubcon, noncon is not very sexy to me. So to me, you handled this perfectly. More than perfectly, if there can be such a thing? Because even as I ache for America (Alfred, oh Alfred...), I also have pangs for Japan. For what's to come. That last paragraph is extraordinary, Anon.
asjkdhsakdjhaskjd
American's nuclear i bet if this had a sequel he'd regret doing that very much.....or maybe not he'd probably just feel a bit guilty LOL
anywya about the fic very well written and the sequence of events is amazing!
and the brothers and the sun!!!!! *praises the fic*
American's nuclear i bet if this had a sequel he'd regret doing that very much.....or maybe not he'd probably just feel a bit guilty LOL
anywya about the fic very well written and the sequence of events is amazing!
and the brothers and the sun!!!!! *praises the fic*
This was actually good anon so don't get so hard on yourself. I was a little bothered when Japan called America "European" ('cause he's an American nation, not a European one) but it made more sense when Japan spoke of ridding him of Europe.
Japan was amazing in this. I tend to love the batshit!nations best, so maybe I'm biased. Non-con is a favorite of mine. ^_~
I loved how, in the end, America wanted to do the same thing to Japan as Japan was doing to him, if maybe not by the same means. Their intentions to better the other and be with them where futile but mutual.
Japan was amazing in this. I tend to love the batshit!nations best, so maybe I'm biased. Non-con is a favorite of mine. ^_~
I loved how, in the end, America wanted to do the same thing to Japan as Japan was doing to him, if maybe not by the same means. Their intentions to better the other and be with them where futile but mutual.
Russia/America in the cold war. Bonus if either is a stalker to the other.
Canada/America. America gets hooked on prescription painkillers after tending to severe war injuries, and relies on Canada to feed his addiction. Anon would prefer at some point that Canada's all "stop this, I'm not going to be your enabler anymore. You have to get off this stuff, it's killin' you man!" Doesn't have to be direct quote, but something of that nature.
Matthew had been doing this for years now.
He could only vaguely remember the start of this, somewhere along the Civil War, which tore Alfred apart, piece by piece. Matthew could still remember the screams at night that Alfred let out from the immense pain from the gaping wounds and mental strain. Until the medication arrived, Matthew would cover his ears with his pillow, having a heavy feeling in his chest.
The painkillers took affect immediately, leaving the nights quiet again and Matthew relieved as the heavy feeling in his chest going away slowly.
Then came the World War. Blood and tears were shed, and Matthew could remember how cold it was in trenches as his men and him were bombed by Germans, using the Zepplin. He could hear the bombs crashing, and the sound rung in his ears still, long after the war was over. Alfred, he had suffered the same pain as he had, maybe worse.
Then the medication came again. He remembered seeing Alfred pop another pill in his mouth from time-to-time, his brother's face starting with pain and switching to relief. Matthew knew that this was to help him, but... he couldn't help but feel worried. He swore he saw Alfred intake more than he should've, but he turned his head the other way, trying to ignore it.
The first World War had ended, and Matthew was glad. His people wouldn't have to suffer anymore, or any other people for that matter. But it took time to resettle after it.
Alfred was back to his cheerful self again, and Matthew noticed something wasn't right. Alfred still kept asking for a supply of painkillers every month or so, even long after the war. Matthew couldn't help but comply to his brother's needs, always wondering wether he should ask Alfred about it. But the mentality the Canadian had only thought that the action would cause more a wall between them.
But Matthew had to say, Alfred was one of the few people he trusted, even if the American's actions were rash.
Then in a sudden flurry of time, the Second World War had started. It had only been 21 years since the first, and Matthew thought it was much too soon.
The Germans, Italians and Japanese had teamed up and become the Axis Powers, while the English, French, Russians, Chinese and Americans had an alliance set up and became the Allied forces against Nazi Germany and the Oriental Japanese. Sometimes Matthew wondered why he wasn't invited into the Allied powers. He helped a great deal in the war if he remembered correctly.
Matthew also remembered thinking how similar the trenches were to the trenches in the first War. He remembered looking around the dark and muddy trench and seeing his men hold their guns tightly to their chests, while some of them repeated silent prayers for themselves and their families.
Matthew would remember all these men after the war was over, he would make sure the rest of his people remembered too.
Even when Matthew was in the worst of situations in the middle of the war, he would idly think of his brother, knowing how hard he was hit during the attack at Pearl Harbor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the loud sounds of gunshots and bombs falling onto the wet and soft earth and obliterating everything in it's path.
The world held their breaths when the Americans had dropped the bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Matthew swore that the whole could hear the traumatic, resounding boom of the nuclear explosion.
Even after that, Alfred had continued to ask.
Now Matthew was really worried.
He could only vaguely remember the start of this, somewhere along the Civil War, which tore Alfred apart, piece by piece. Matthew could still remember the screams at night that Alfred let out from the immense pain from the gaping wounds and mental strain. Until the medication arrived, Matthew would cover his ears with his pillow, having a heavy feeling in his chest.
The painkillers took affect immediately, leaving the nights quiet again and Matthew relieved as the heavy feeling in his chest going away slowly.
Then came the World War. Blood and tears were shed, and Matthew could remember how cold it was in trenches as his men and him were bombed by Germans, using the Zepplin. He could hear the bombs crashing, and the sound rung in his ears still, long after the war was over. Alfred, he had suffered the same pain as he had, maybe worse.
Then the medication came again. He remembered seeing Alfred pop another pill in his mouth from time-to-time, his brother's face starting with pain and switching to relief. Matthew knew that this was to help him, but... he couldn't help but feel worried. He swore he saw Alfred intake more than he should've, but he turned his head the other way, trying to ignore it.
The first World War had ended, and Matthew was glad. His people wouldn't have to suffer anymore, or any other people for that matter. But it took time to resettle after it.
Alfred was back to his cheerful self again, and Matthew noticed something wasn't right. Alfred still kept asking for a supply of painkillers every month or so, even long after the war. Matthew couldn't help but comply to his brother's needs, always wondering wether he should ask Alfred about it. But the mentality the Canadian had only thought that the action would cause more a wall between them.
But Matthew had to say, Alfred was one of the few people he trusted, even if the American's actions were rash.
Then in a sudden flurry of time, the Second World War had started. It had only been 21 years since the first, and Matthew thought it was much too soon.
The Germans, Italians and Japanese had teamed up and become the Axis Powers, while the English, French, Russians, Chinese and Americans had an alliance set up and became the Allied forces against Nazi Germany and the Oriental Japanese. Sometimes Matthew wondered why he wasn't invited into the Allied powers. He helped a great deal in the war if he remembered correctly.
Matthew also remembered thinking how similar the trenches were to the trenches in the first War. He remembered looking around the dark and muddy trench and seeing his men hold their guns tightly to their chests, while some of them repeated silent prayers for themselves and their families.
Matthew would remember all these men after the war was over, he would make sure the rest of his people remembered too.
Even when Matthew was in the worst of situations in the middle of the war, he would idly think of his brother, knowing how hard he was hit during the attack at Pearl Harbor. But his thoughts were interrupted by the loud sounds of gunshots and bombs falling onto the wet and soft earth and obliterating everything in it's path.
The world held their breaths when the Americans had dropped the bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Matthew swore that the whole could hear the traumatic, resounding boom of the nuclear explosion.
Even after that, Alfred had continued to ask.
Now Matthew was really worried.
Ignore my grammar failures. ^^;
-------------
It was long after World War 2 and Matthew was curious as to why his brother continued to ask him for a supply of painkillers. When the Canadian hesitated even more a mere moment, the American would go ballistic on him, eyes wide and nostrils flared, teeth bared.
Matthew, out of fear and worry for his brother's mental health, continued to give him his fix, until the world was also starting to get affected by this.
Alfred started distancing himself from the other nations, except for Matthew who supplied his addiction. He wouldn't let England, much less France talk to him, Matthew, the only thing blocking the older nations's way. Matthew was scared of what might become of his brother, watching as dark rings around his eyes built and how thin he was getting.
Matthew couldn't take it anymore. He'd had it with supplying his brother's needs, and having to face his addicted brother with a fake smile.
That's why he was at Alfred's front door, behind Francis and Arthur who were ready to do anything to get rid of Alfred's problem, like any parent would. The three knocks Arthur made were quick and steady, matching the pace of his heart at the moment; it was so loud he could hear it through his ears.
Alfred opened the door, but what at the sight of him right now almost made Matthew want to break down and cry, because he knew, he himself had done this to Alfred. The American's eyelids drooped lazily over his blue coloured irises, dark purple rings around his eyes that made him seem twice as pale as he already was from the lack of sunlight. His hair was mussed and he looked like he hadn't shaven in a day or two.
Then the American noticed Matthew's blonde curls poking from behind Arthur's and Francis's shoulders, a small grin appeared on his face. The small grin made Matthew's heart break, and he couldn't help but give his brother a reluctant smile in return.
"Hey Matt, just in time! I was about to go over and ask since I--"
"Alfred, we need to talk." Arthur said, his voice sharp and stern. Matthew could imagine the Englishman's massive brows furrowing down on his green emerald eyes. He could also imagine a similar expression on Francis's face.
Alfred suddenly frowned, his blue eyes shifted from Arthur to Francis, then back to Matthew.
"Matt, why did you bring them here?" Alfred ask, his tone accusing.
"I-I was worried about you Alfred. Something's not right, and I-I'm scared that you'll end up never breaking this habit." Matthew managed to mumble, wanting to gaze away from Alfred's blue eyes but not finding the will power to.
"Alfred, sit down on the couch." Arthur ordered, and Alfred was about to retort, but Arthur barked this time. "Alfred! Sit down on the couch!" Matthew managed to hear the clack of his brother's teeth and he closed his mouth again, and heading inside the house and falling on the couch. The three other nations followed after him, and watched sas Alfred looked up at them lazily, Matthew hiding slightly behind Arthur's shoulder.
"What did you want to talk about, dad?" He said, almost sneering at Arthur. Matthew chewed on his bottom lip nervously; this was a good thing right?
"Alfred, you have a problem. We know about your addiction." Arthur continued, crossing his arms in a frustrated way.
"I do not have an addiction." Alfred spat, scowling at Arthur.
-------------
It was long after World War 2 and Matthew was curious as to why his brother continued to ask him for a supply of painkillers. When the Canadian hesitated even more a mere moment, the American would go ballistic on him, eyes wide and nostrils flared, teeth bared.
Matthew, out of fear and worry for his brother's mental health, continued to give him his fix, until the world was also starting to get affected by this.
Alfred started distancing himself from the other nations, except for Matthew who supplied his addiction. He wouldn't let England, much less France talk to him, Matthew, the only thing blocking the older nations's way. Matthew was scared of what might become of his brother, watching as dark rings around his eyes built and how thin he was getting.
Matthew couldn't take it anymore. He'd had it with supplying his brother's needs, and having to face his addicted brother with a fake smile.
That's why he was at Alfred's front door, behind Francis and Arthur who were ready to do anything to get rid of Alfred's problem, like any parent would. The three knocks Arthur made were quick and steady, matching the pace of his heart at the moment; it was so loud he could hear it through his ears.
Alfred opened the door, but what at the sight of him right now almost made Matthew want to break down and cry, because he knew, he himself had done this to Alfred. The American's eyelids drooped lazily over his blue coloured irises, dark purple rings around his eyes that made him seem twice as pale as he already was from the lack of sunlight. His hair was mussed and he looked like he hadn't shaven in a day or two.
Then the American noticed Matthew's blonde curls poking from behind Arthur's and Francis's shoulders, a small grin appeared on his face. The small grin made Matthew's heart break, and he couldn't help but give his brother a reluctant smile in return.
"Hey Matt, just in time! I was about to go over and ask since I--"
"Alfred, we need to talk." Arthur said, his voice sharp and stern. Matthew could imagine the Englishman's massive brows furrowing down on his green emerald eyes. He could also imagine a similar expression on Francis's face.
Alfred suddenly frowned, his blue eyes shifted from Arthur to Francis, then back to Matthew.
"Matt, why did you bring them here?" Alfred ask, his tone accusing.
"I-I was worried about you Alfred. Something's not right, and I-I'm scared that you'll end up never breaking this habit." Matthew managed to mumble, wanting to gaze away from Alfred's blue eyes but not finding the will power to.
"Alfred, sit down on the couch." Arthur ordered, and Alfred was about to retort, but Arthur barked this time. "Alfred! Sit down on the couch!" Matthew managed to hear the clack of his brother's teeth and he closed his mouth again, and heading inside the house and falling on the couch. The three other nations followed after him, and watched sas Alfred looked up at them lazily, Matthew hiding slightly behind Arthur's shoulder.
"What did you want to talk about, dad?" He said, almost sneering at Arthur. Matthew chewed on his bottom lip nervously; this was a good thing right?
"Alfred, you have a problem. We know about your addiction." Arthur continued, crossing his arms in a frustrated way.
"I do not have an addiction." Alfred spat, scowling at Arthur.
"Mon cher, yes, you do." Francis said, enforcing the words that Arthur had said. "Mathieu has approached us with this problem, and we want to help you."
"I don't need help. I'm fine by myself." Alfred growled his eyes meeting Matthew's, the blue hues now mad and disappointed.
"No, you are not. Alfred, just admit it, you have an drug problem!" Arthur said, his voice having an added touch of anger to it.
Matthew watched as Alfred grinded his teeth together, coming together to a realization. He truly had a problem, but that wouldn't stop the pain from coming back like it always did, and what he need for it was his fix.
"So what if I do? Arthur I need it. It's what keeps me from dying, it's what keeps me alive." Alfred said, now standing up. His eyes were wild and his teeth were bared, as if he would attack Arthur and Francis at the moment. "And both of you can't stop me."
He started to walk towards the door and both Arthur and Francis jumped and held him down on the couch, Alfred growling and moving around wildly, flailing his arms and kicking his legs.
"Matthew! Say something that'll knock some sense into this boy!" Arthur managed to say while heaving and pushing down Alfred roughly, a cry of pain escaping the American's lips. Matthew was just about to run out the door, he couldn't take seeing Alfred in this state of mental and physical health. But the Canadian truly did want to help him, but he just didn't know how... !
"A-Alfred, I've had it being your supplier! I know you think it'll help you, but really... it's just killing you! You need to calm down, and stop this problem before it gets too bad that you can't look back anymore. Please Alfred... " Matthew watched as his brother calmed, looking at Matthew with an expression of shock. The Canadian could see tears getting Alfred's eyes wet and glossy, and his movement stopped, but Francis and Arthur still held him down.
Matthew watched as Alfred completely stopped and room was silent, only hearing each other's breathing in the room. Francis and Arthur let go Alfred and watched him and sat down and covered his face with hands, and watching as water dripped from the gaps in the fingers.
"It's... it's just so hard. I've seen so much on battlefield... I don't want to remember, but I can't... " Alfred managed the say in a cracked voice through his tears, the three other nations hearing his quiet sobs and silently watching him.
In a flurry of movement, the three were surrounding Alfred, their arms enclosed around the insecure nation as he cried outloud. Matthew buried his face in the mess of blonde hair his brother had kept, a smile playing on his lips. He was truly helping his brother through this, even if it meant it would take time.
And all of them knew they had that time.
Even Alfred.
--------------
Thank you for reading and I hope OP likes! x3
"I don't need help. I'm fine by myself." Alfred growled his eyes meeting Matthew's, the blue hues now mad and disappointed.
"No, you are not. Alfred, just admit it, you have an drug problem!" Arthur said, his voice having an added touch of anger to it.
Matthew watched as Alfred grinded his teeth together, coming together to a realization. He truly had a problem, but that wouldn't stop the pain from coming back like it always did, and what he need for it was his fix.
"So what if I do? Arthur I need it. It's what keeps me from dying, it's what keeps me alive." Alfred said, now standing up. His eyes were wild and his teeth were bared, as if he would attack Arthur and Francis at the moment. "And both of you can't stop me."
He started to walk towards the door and both Arthur and Francis jumped and held him down on the couch, Alfred growling and moving around wildly, flailing his arms and kicking his legs.
"Matthew! Say something that'll knock some sense into this boy!" Arthur managed to say while heaving and pushing down Alfred roughly, a cry of pain escaping the American's lips. Matthew was just about to run out the door, he couldn't take seeing Alfred in this state of mental and physical health. But the Canadian truly did want to help him, but he just didn't know how... !
"A-Alfred, I've had it being your supplier! I know you think it'll help you, but really... it's just killing you! You need to calm down, and stop this problem before it gets too bad that you can't look back anymore. Please Alfred... " Matthew watched as his brother calmed, looking at Matthew with an expression of shock. The Canadian could see tears getting Alfred's eyes wet and glossy, and his movement stopped, but Francis and Arthur still held him down.
Matthew watched as Alfred completely stopped and room was silent, only hearing each other's breathing in the room. Francis and Arthur let go Alfred and watched him and sat down and covered his face with hands, and watching as water dripped from the gaps in the fingers.
"It's... it's just so hard. I've seen so much on battlefield... I don't want to remember, but I can't... " Alfred managed the say in a cracked voice through his tears, the three other nations hearing his quiet sobs and silently watching him.
In a flurry of movement, the three were surrounding Alfred, their arms enclosed around the insecure nation as he cried outloud. Matthew buried his face in the mess of blonde hair his brother had kept, a smile playing on his lips. He was truly helping his brother through this, even if it meant it would take time.
And all of them knew they had that time.
Even Alfred.
--------------
Thank you for reading and I hope OP likes! x3
This was good, poor Alfred...-hugs-
Raiding!Prussia/peachmaker!Canada
- in which Canada agrees to do Prussia a favor in order to stop his region-seizing of another country. What the favor is is be up to anon! I'm fine with anything, as long as they interact a lot. It's okay if it's not historically accurate (idk how it could be anyway).
- in which Canada agrees to do Prussia a favor in order to stop his region-seizing of another country. What the favor is is be up to anon! I'm fine with anything, as long as they interact a lot. It's okay if it's not historically accurate (idk how it could be anyway).
Mmmmmmmm peach cobbler.
By which I mean, seconded. For either peace or peaches, we need more of these two. ;D
By which I mean, seconded. For either peace or peaches, we need more of these two. ;D
Original request here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7651543#t7651543
It had been a quiet day, and he'd been content to spend it quietly at home, doing some long-overdue tidying, cooking up some delicious food, and catching up on his reading. At around midnight, he eased himself off the divan, put away his book and started to prepare for bed. Just as he was drifing off to sleep, a nice, quiet end to a nice, quiet day, someone pressed the doorbell.
And pressed it. And pressed it, and pressed it and abandoned it in favour of banging on the door.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that it was close to one in the morning, and that whoeever was at the door was probably drunk, since sober people tended not to visit in the middle of the night. Sane people preferred not to visit him in his home at all, because crowds, at least, offered some protection from inappropriate molestations. Muttering a curse under his breath, he got out of bed and headed downstairs, wondering who it could possibly be.
The smell of alcohol hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he wrinkled his nose. England had one hand raised, as if expecting the door to still be there. Glazed green eyes blinked and tried to focus.
"Oh, God, you've multiplied."
Then England fell over onto him and threw up.
It had been a quiet day, and he'd been content to spend it quietly at home, doing some long-overdue tidying, cooking up some delicious food, and catching up on his reading. At around midnight, he eased himself off the divan, put away his book and started to prepare for bed. Just as he was drifing off to sleep, a nice, quiet end to a nice, quiet day, someone pressed the doorbell.
And pressed it. And pressed it, and pressed it and abandoned it in favour of banging on the door.
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that it was close to one in the morning, and that whoeever was at the door was probably drunk, since sober people tended not to visit in the middle of the night. Sane people preferred not to visit him in his home at all, because crowds, at least, offered some protection from inappropriate molestations. Muttering a curse under his breath, he got out of bed and headed downstairs, wondering who it could possibly be.
The smell of alcohol hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he wrinkled his nose. England had one hand raised, as if expecting the door to still be there. Glazed green eyes blinked and tried to focus.
"Oh, God, you've multiplied."
Then England fell over onto him and threw up.
He should have known, really. Should have just gone back to sleep and let that bloody pirate rot outside his door. It figured that on the one day he decided to keep things quiet, England had to go party enough for two. Fortunately, the lobby was marble, which meant no wet carpeting to clean up. Unfortunately, it still meant that he had vomit all over his favourite silk dressing gown and his fluffy bedroom slippers. With a small noise of disgust, he dropped England into the pool of his own vomit and started pulling off his clothes.
There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
There was no saving the dressing gown, he noted rather irritably, using it to wipe off his legs so that he didn't trek vomit all over the rest of his house. If England had decided to throw up outside, things would have been much easier: he could have used the hose, and possibly chased the stupid drunk away. But no, England was England, and England always had to cause trouble for him, so here he was, rummaging around his rather cold kitchen, in the nude, for cleaning instruments before the vomit ate away at his marble floor.
A pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, and his hand snapped out for a knife before he realised that it was only England. The smell of alcohol, sweat and vomit caught up with its owner and he felt slightly nauseous having to breathe it in.
If England had trekked the vomit all over his carpet, someone was going to get hurt. Badly. In more ways than one.
"France. Fraaaaaaance, Fraaaaance, France," mumbled England against his shoulder. "Fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
"What?" he snapped, and the arms around him hugged him tighter.
"Je t'aime. God, you're so hot, I want to fuck you."
On a scale of one to ten, with one being sober and ten being smashed, England probably rated about fourteen if he was saying stuff like that. Perfect, just perfect. This meant that he wouldn't even be able to get England to clean up after himself, not until at least the morning. Somewhere between the door and here, England had somehow lost all of his clothes, and France could only hope that he'd left them all at the lobby, where it was easy to clean.
Once upon a time, if someone had had the gall to wander around his house naked, he would have bent him or her over the nearest convenient object and had his way. But time had changed. Actions now had repercussions that he would rather not face, so he had been relatively good. In fact, he had been enjoying his mellower life, safe in the knowledge that war within Europe was becoming less likely with every passing day.
But England was really trying his patience, pressing sloppy kisses against his back and running clumsy hands up and down his front.
OMG England speaks French!!!
I love seeing France being so... thoughtful. Wonderful, please continue
I love seeing France being so... thoughtful. Wonderful, please continue
Yes he does... French is a common second language in the UK, from what I understand.... hehe.....
oh so awesome! More please, this is perfect!
D'aww, I have a tooth-ache because of England, anon.
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=7766743#t7766743
Original Request up there ^^
I wanted to try lol
---------
'It's quiet without America', England thinks as he takes a sip from his tea. 'That's almost unatural.' A pause. And then an eye roll. 'Rubbish! I ought to be enjoying this while I can!'
He and several Nations were at the moment conducting a meeting in a stuffy room and the heat on at full blast. And everyone noticed a certain loudmouth Nation missing. Because, really, silence speaks for itself.
England was trying his hardest not to nod off ('That's just undignified, thank you very much.') while everyone else was doing their... thing. He blamed the warm air and it's ability to distract.
Germany sat at the head of the ridiculously long table droning on about some current affair that needed attention. The Italy brothers were having a debate (in writing) about the best way to prepare chicken alfredo. France was trying to make lewd eye sex with whoever had the misfortune of glancing his way ('I will not look at that wanker. No.').
Canada really was asleep, making a half-hearted attempt at hiding it by placing a sheet of paper over his head. Japan, polite as always, sat up straight and sipped his beverage in order to stay awake. China was doodling a panda army on some notes while Korea poked his shoulder. And Russia just sat smiling ominously without showing any signs of the hot air affecting him. They kind of forgot why they were here, basically.
But hey, it could be worse. There could have been some chaos and disorder. People could have been throwing chairs and shouting. It was peaceful for once, without the usual frantic atmosphere. Peaceful enough to nap-er...bask in. This was nice. This was better...
'This is boring,' England sighed.
America is annoying, with his burger obsession, belief in aliens, silly bomber jacket, cocky grin and overdone bombast. But it was never dull with him around.
(England would rather cap himself in the knees before he'd ever admit this).
Sometimes the younger country wouldn't be around. This was the fourth meeting he's missed and no one (at least no one in this room) knew the reason behind these disappearances. There were also times when America would call up England to cancel a pre-arranged rendezvous. These calls usually went along the lines of 'Hey Arthur! I can't make it that day 'cuz some stuffs come up, so I'll see you later 'kay?' and he'd hang up leaving England sputtering with indignation.
'Damn it all, I'm out of tea!' groused the former empire.
'Where the bloody hell are you America?'
Original Request up there ^^
I wanted to try lol
---------
'It's quiet without America', England thinks as he takes a sip from his tea. 'That's almost unatural.' A pause. And then an eye roll. 'Rubbish! I ought to be enjoying this while I can!'
He and several Nations were at the moment conducting a meeting in a stuffy room and the heat on at full blast. And everyone noticed a certain loudmouth Nation missing. Because, really, silence speaks for itself.
England was trying his hardest not to nod off ('That's just undignified, thank you very much.') while everyone else was doing their... thing. He blamed the warm air and it's ability to distract.
Germany sat at the head of the ridiculously long table droning on about some current affair that needed attention. The Italy brothers were having a debate (in writing) about the best way to prepare chicken alfredo. France was trying to make lewd eye sex with whoever had the misfortune of glancing his way ('I will not look at that wanker. No.').
Canada really was asleep, making a half-hearted attempt at hiding it by placing a sheet of paper over his head. Japan, polite as always, sat up straight and sipped his beverage in order to stay awake. China was doodling a panda army on some notes while Korea poked his shoulder. And Russia just sat smiling ominously without showing any signs of the hot air affecting him. They kind of forgot why they were here, basically.
But hey, it could be worse. There could have been some chaos and disorder. People could have been throwing chairs and shouting. It was peaceful for once, without the usual frantic atmosphere. Peaceful enough to nap-er...bask in. This was nice. This was better...
'This is boring,' England sighed.
America is annoying, with his burger obsession, belief in aliens, silly bomber jacket, cocky grin and overdone bombast. But it was never dull with him around.
(England would rather cap himself in the knees before he'd ever admit this).
Sometimes the younger country wouldn't be around. This was the fourth meeting he's missed and no one (at least no one in this room) knew the reason behind these disappearances. There were also times when America would call up England to cancel a pre-arranged rendezvous. These calls usually went along the lines of 'Hey Arthur! I can't make it that day 'cuz some stuffs come up, so I'll see you later 'kay?' and he'd hang up leaving England sputtering with indignation.
'Damn it all, I'm out of tea!' groused the former empire.
'Where the bloody hell are you America?'
Thank you ! :0 writer anon its great!
Writer!anon here!
Thanx!! I'm still writing out the other parts^^
They'll be up soon!
Thanx!! I'm still writing out the other parts^^
They'll be up soon!
OOO! Yes please continue! :D
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