After America has a very close call with a terrorist the frightened States decide that they need to protect their father/mother personally. As in a paranoid fifty man secrete service all day every day. Alfred is not happy with the invasion of his privacy and loss of freedom but decides to humor them until the immediate threat has passed and they calm down. Then comes the next World Meeting and the States insist on coming.
I would like to see as many states as anon can make work interacting with other nations as well as America. Pairings, if any, are up to the author but cockblocking Sates would be love. Outside Nations point of view of the various states would be very welcome.
Bonus points for patronizing States doing things "For his own Good" like taking his burgers or making him go green. Their only doing it because they love him.
This is the first time I’ve ever done a fill. Hopefully this is up to your satisfaction, anon. There is no distinct time this is set. Pairings: Hints of America x S. Mexico; Mexico (North and South) & Texas; New York & China; New York & Italy (there are more family/friendship relationships.) Lastly, every State’s personality or what they like is based off the stereotype of that State.
After everything he’s been through in the last twenty-four hours, he was not the least bit happy to be here. He was hungry, tired, and had a hangover; the cursed morning light permeating the room did nothing to quell his growing headache. Head on his good arm, he clenched his jaw, bit his tongue, and fended off the impulsive thought to say, “SHUT UP!”
The whole morning had been like this: states rushing in through one door, gradually filling the room with grating chatter, and the hair-rising chill of eyes boring into him. Despite the congregating occupants, he still remained as the focal point.
Tug of wars and claims to unoccupied seats, claiming they were saved for a friend, had initiated arguments here and there when they finally started taking their seats. America cinched his greasy blonde hair into a fist. Usually, he was level-headed. Usually, he would join in with their bickering’s with his own jokes. Usually, he isn’t in the presence of all his states at the same time in a conference room. Insistently close to him, none were spread-out. Every shift was like a domino effect, and several times New York’s bony shoulder dug into his ribs, or Texas’s Stetson smacked his temple when he finally leaned up to take in everything.
Various pairs of eyes peered over at him, the room falling into a quiet murmur. Rose-tinted light and the shadows of flags danced across the table top. Through the closed doors he heard the sounds of footsteps and the murmur of guards standing outside. The collective of America’s ‘children’ and himself all in one room made feasible an attack like the night before.
America has been through war, and as a nation, he could bleed. It wouldn’t be the first time he has been shot, the first time he has ‘died’ and gone back to work the next day. So the night before hadn’t been an exception.
After he had snuck out from an hours-long meeting with his leaders and relocating himself to a seedy bar in Greenwich Village, he was in need of poison. To forget was his goal; the meeting with his leaders brought with it restlessness in all of his being. It had been like marching ants under his skin and his legs ached with the urge to move. The warm fuzziness that had traveled through his veins had shooed away the dismal remembrance of his leaders’ warnings of terrorist groups. And a drunken America, at two in the morning, was vulnerable to what had occurred that early morning. In the midst of intoxicated driving and trying to find the end call button from a butt dial to someone in his contacts, the world shattered.
The radio had been blasting. His glasses laid somewhere near the gas pedal; the world neutral smudges of color. His speed was above the speed limit, his steering shaky. The fading effects of alcohol lodged bile in his throat, and he blinked fervently to keep his drooping lids open. It was like a dream, everything was. It reminded him of that remake of the Dredd movie when they pushed Ma-Ma out the top story window. Everything was in slow motion, the whole world ethereal. He half wondered if someone spiked his alcohol.
He had been taking a corner from ten to sixty miles per hour when he had heard the distinct sound of glass breaking. His heart leaped; it felt like hot water falling over him. Something screamed and his right shoulder burned excruciatingly. Black ink, glinting crimson in the streetlamps, poured out from a hole in his jacket. Heat, wet and thick, seeped down his back.
His body had fallen limp, like a fainting goat, and his hold on the steering wheel fell. His foot pressed into a speed of eighty miles per hour. Darkness was growing, the pain spreading. The last thing he remembers is a red light and a lone pickup truck honking its horn as it pulled out in front of him.
The memory melted out of the blonde’s grasp, and he muttered something awful when he smelled what he could easily identify as McDonald’s breakfast food. He eyed Texas, the barer of the food, which he carried in a Wegmans bag. “Before we git started, who asked for the South Style Chicken Biscuit?”
Nausea lurched in America’s stomach at the pungent smell that hit him of sausage, pancakes and all things greasy. A chair squeaked, and Tennessee’s voice rose above the buzz of whispers. “Give it hyar Texas! Thet's mine.”
He tossed it over to her, and proceeded to hand out McDonald’s food to all the States present. Steak, Egg & Cheese Biscuit for Arizona, Fruit ‘N Yogurt for Vermont – “It’s the closest thing I can get to ice-cream!” – Fruit & Maple Oatmeal for Maine and so on. The only person who didn’t get what they wanted was Pennsylvania, with her ‘no technology’ rule. Texas just bought her Cinnamon Melts to share with New York.
“An’ last but not least…’merica.” America looked up from where he hid his face in the cushion of his arm. His stomach rolled at what was shoved under his nose. “I know how hungry ye must be, what with last night’s attack an’ stuff.” A Big Breakfast with Hotcakes was set before him. His cheeks turned green at the sight: However tempting in sight, it smelled bad to him then, with his hang over still prominent.
Oregon got him, though. “Texas, I don’t think America wants food right now,” she said, waving her hands dramatically. Her sunglasses shielded what would most likely be bloodshot eyes.
America pointed towards her. “See, Oregon gets me.”
“It’s Oreg-EN,” Oregon snapped. At Washington’s mimicking of her correction, she turned on him, and knocked his coffee out of his hand. It spilled over the table, splattering people’s foods. The pickier of the bunch raised their hackles in anger. “I’ve told you all God knows how many times how to pronounce my name!”
South Carolina, next to his sister, glared over at her. “Don’t use the Lord’s name en vain!” Tennessee seconded his protest.
North Carolina rubbed her twin brother’s back. Alabama strummed his banjo, humming some song obnoxiously. Alaska just smiled creepily out at the arguing states in a Russia-like fashion. Florida munched on an orange. And Wisconsin, ever-passionate about her dairy products, was describing the different type of cheese they make to Iowa. North and South Dakota, twin sisters, listened with neutral faces to Wyoming's evil cackling as they threatened everyone with his super volcano. Nevada had Tony situated in his lap forcefully; Utah was yelling something about Mormons. Basically, the conference room in the United Nations building was in chaos.
America, watching the chaos with fervent cheeks, dropped his head into his arm once again, groaning.
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part 7 repost: Security Duty State-Tans
(Anonymous) 2010-02-02 09:34 am (UTC)(link)After America has a very close call with a terrorist the frightened States decide that they need to protect their father/mother personally. As in a paranoid fifty man secrete service all day every day. Alfred is not happy with the invasion of his privacy and loss of freedom but decides to humor them until the immediate threat has passed and they calm down. Then comes the next World Meeting and the States insist on coming.
I would like to see as many states as anon can make work interacting with other nations as well as America. Pairings, if any, are up to the author but cockblocking Sates would be love. Outside Nations point of view of the various states would be very welcome.
Bonus points for patronizing States doing things "For his own Good" like taking his burgers or making him go green. Their only doing it because they love him.
Re: part 7 repost: Security Duty State-Tans
(Anonymous) 2010-02-07 06:31 am (UTC)(link)Re: part 7 repost: Security Duty State-Tans
(Anonymous) 2010-02-14 02:33 am (UTC)(link)Re: part 7 repost: Security Duty State-Tans
(Anonymous) 2014-11-19 11:15 pm (UTC)(link)After everything he’s been through in the last twenty-four hours, he was not the least bit happy to be here. He was hungry, tired, and had a hangover; the cursed morning light permeating the room did nothing to quell his growing headache. Head on his good arm, he clenched his jaw, bit his tongue, and fended off the impulsive thought to say, “SHUT UP!”
The whole morning had been like this: states rushing in through one door, gradually filling the room with grating chatter, and the hair-rising chill of eyes boring into him. Despite the congregating occupants, he still remained as the focal point.
Tug of wars and claims to unoccupied seats, claiming they were saved for a friend, had initiated arguments here and there when they finally started taking their seats. America cinched his greasy blonde hair into a fist. Usually, he was level-headed. Usually, he would join in with their bickering’s with his own jokes. Usually, he isn’t in the presence of all his states at the same time in a conference room. Insistently close to him, none were spread-out. Every shift was like a domino effect, and several times New York’s bony shoulder dug into his ribs, or Texas’s Stetson smacked his temple when he finally leaned up to take in everything.
Various pairs of eyes peered over at him, the room falling into a quiet murmur. Rose-tinted light and the shadows of flags danced across the table top. Through the closed doors he heard the sounds of footsteps and the murmur of guards standing outside. The collective of America’s ‘children’ and himself all in one room made feasible an attack like the night before.
America has been through war, and as a nation, he could bleed. It wouldn’t be the first time he has been shot, the first time he has ‘died’ and gone back to work the next day. So the night before hadn’t been an exception.
After he had snuck out from an hours-long meeting with his leaders and relocating himself to a seedy bar in Greenwich Village, he was in need of poison. To forget was his goal; the meeting with his leaders brought with it restlessness in all of his being. It had been like marching ants under his skin and his legs ached with the urge to move. The warm fuzziness that had traveled through his veins had shooed away the dismal remembrance of his leaders’ warnings of terrorist groups. And a drunken America, at two in the morning, was vulnerable to what had occurred that early morning.
In the midst of intoxicated driving and trying to find the end call button from a butt dial to someone in his contacts, the world shattered.
The radio had been blasting. His glasses laid somewhere near the gas pedal; the world neutral smudges of color. His speed was above the speed limit, his steering shaky. The fading effects of alcohol lodged bile in his throat, and he blinked fervently to keep his drooping lids open. It was like a dream, everything was. It reminded him of that remake of the Dredd movie when they pushed Ma-Ma out the top story window. Everything was in slow motion, the whole world ethereal. He half wondered if someone spiked his alcohol.
He had been taking a corner from ten to sixty miles per hour when he had heard the distinct sound of glass breaking. His heart leaped; it felt like hot water falling over him. Something screamed and his right shoulder burned excruciatingly. Black ink, glinting crimson in the streetlamps, poured out from a hole in his jacket. Heat, wet and thick, seeped down his back.
His body had fallen limp, like a fainting goat, and his hold on the steering wheel fell. His foot pressed into a speed of eighty miles per hour. Darkness was growing, the pain spreading. The last thing he remembers is a red light and a lone pickup truck honking its horn as it pulled out in front of him.
The memory melted out of the blonde’s grasp, and he muttered something awful when he smelled what he could easily identify as McDonald’s breakfast food. He eyed Texas, the barer of the food, which he carried in a Wegmans bag.
“Before we git started, who asked for the South Style Chicken Biscuit?”
Nausea lurched in America’s stomach at the pungent smell that hit him of sausage, pancakes and all things greasy.
A chair squeaked, and Tennessee’s voice rose above the buzz of whispers. “Give it hyar Texas! Thet's mine.”
He tossed it over to her, and proceeded to hand out McDonald’s food to all the States present. Steak, Egg & Cheese Biscuit for Arizona, Fruit ‘N Yogurt for Vermont – “It’s the closest thing I can get to ice-cream!” – Fruit & Maple Oatmeal for Maine and so on. The only person who didn’t get what they wanted was Pennsylvania, with her ‘no technology’ rule. Texas just bought her Cinnamon Melts to share with New York.
“An’ last but not least…’merica.” America looked up from where he hid his face in the cushion of his arm. His stomach rolled at what was shoved under his nose. “I know how hungry ye must be, what with last night’s attack an’ stuff.” A Big Breakfast with Hotcakes was set before him. His cheeks turned green at the sight: However tempting in sight, it smelled bad to him then, with his hang over still prominent.
Oregon got him, though. “Texas, I don’t think America wants food right now,” she said, waving her hands dramatically. Her sunglasses shielded what would most likely be bloodshot eyes.
America pointed towards her. “See, Oregon gets me.”
“It’s Oreg-EN,” Oregon snapped. At Washington’s mimicking of her correction, she turned on him, and knocked his coffee out of his hand. It spilled over the table, splattering people’s foods. The pickier of the bunch raised their hackles in anger. “I’ve told you all God knows how many times how to pronounce my name!”
South Carolina, next to his sister, glared over at her. “Don’t use the Lord’s name en vain!” Tennessee seconded his protest.
North Carolina rubbed her twin brother’s back. Alabama strummed his banjo, humming some song obnoxiously. Alaska just smiled creepily out at the arguing states in a Russia-like fashion. Florida munched on an orange. And Wisconsin, ever-passionate about her dairy products, was describing the different type of cheese they make to Iowa. North and South Dakota, twin sisters, listened with neutral faces to Wyoming's evil cackling as they threatened everyone with his super volcano. Nevada had Tony situated in his lap forcefully; Utah was yelling something about Mormons. Basically, the conference room in the United Nations building was in chaos.
America, watching the chaos with fervent cheeks, dropped his head into his arm once again, groaning.
This was going to be a long day.