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All of a sudden, Alfred kicked his heels into the mare’s flanks and launched them in a full speed gallop which took them flying over the fields.
“See? Isn’t this the best?!” Alfred yelled as the wind ran through his hair.
“Slow down you madman!” Arthur squeezed his waist and cried for dear life.
“Aww, but what’s the fun in that?” Alfred laughed and urged the horse to go faster.
“I swear, if you do not slow down this instant I will castrate you!”
“Sorry, can’t hear you!”
“Alfred!”
“Yee-ha!” he kicked his spurs and lowered his body against the horse as it galloped on. Never mind the ball, this was how to have fun.
"A-aagh..." He starts to say her name, her most intimate and personal name, but his whimper is cut off by a fortunate hiccup. He isn't allowed to address her in such a fashion, after all, being a mere colony. He pants heavily for a moment before prying open his stinging eyes to find her smirking.
"My darling," she says, and it hurts because they both know that the words are meaningless. He turns away, breaking again as she slips from the bed. She stands, naked and shameless, and looks him over. All the shame, all the graspless love and desperate anguish belong to him, the loyal colony; empires do not have time or reason to feel such things.
He presses his face into the pillows and cries because he feels disgusting. She's kneeling nearby in the next moment, gripping his face and smearing the remaining blood across his cheek. The salt of his tears burns the miniature wound, but he doesn't care. Her touch is the worst of the pain. He refuses to meet her gaze, as he often does once they've finished, but she is speaking to him, and he can't help listening.
"My beloved America," she purrs, and something cracks within him. He doesn't hear what else she says; the roar in his ears is too loud.
"You're lying!" he shouts, voice cracking pitifully. He glares madly up at her through his tears, trembling limbs refusing to respond. Her previously mocking expression has grown cold.
"What?" she snaps, but it not really a question.
"My darling," she says, and it hurts because they both know that the words are meaningless. He turns away, breaking again as she slips from the bed. She stands, naked and shameless, and looks him over. All the shame, all the graspless love and desperate anguish belong to him, the loyal colony; empires do not have time or reason to feel such things.
He presses his face into the pillows and cries because he feels disgusting. She's kneeling nearby in the next moment, gripping his face and smearing the remaining blood across his cheek. The salt of his tears burns the miniature wound, but he doesn't care. Her touch is the worst of the pain. He refuses to meet her gaze, as he often does once they've finished, but she is speaking to him, and he can't help listening.
"My beloved America," she purrs, and something cracks within him. He doesn't hear what else she says; the roar in his ears is too loud.
"You're lying!" he shouts, voice cracking pitifully. He glares madly up at her through his tears, trembling limbs refusing to respond. Her previously mocking expression has grown cold.
"What?" she snaps, but it not really a question.
Although he could also fill the role of their glorified/favorite victim/plaything, lol
I believe England's the Trio's pet. He is an honorary mascot that has the great honor of being played with, teased and pranked at all times. But he's still a member, that wayXD
I believe England's the Trio's pet. He is an honorary mascot that has the great honor of being played with, teased and pranked at all times. But he's still a member, that wayXD
Just a note - the above two fills are much better than this one, which is neither clever nor funny and was written very quickly, but it isn't about America's child. I definitely didn't want to offend anyone (and if I have, throw something heavy at me).
-
Dimitris had just been fired.
It was for the usual reason. Not because he was idle, not because he was distracted, not because the business had closed down. He worked harder than anyone he knew, with unmatched concentration, and this had only been a small taverna, tucked into a corner of a rural town. He'd moved all the way from Athens to take up that modest job, it wasn't as if he hadn't put his soul into it.
No. It was because of the cats.
In every other respect, he was a normal citizen of Greece, living on whatever he could save between his many and varied jobs. What singled him out in a crowd, every time, was the sea of cats around his feet. Wherever he went he would hear a tell-tale mew, followed by a sea of fur and waving tails twining around his ankles. They were there now, as he pulled his car up on the side of the road and began to walk down the dusty path. They came bounding out of nowhere, the dirt, the scrub, all to rub against his legs and declare their undying love for him, even when he tried to nudge them away. He could travel as far as he liked but they always found a way to follow him, infiltrating his workplace until he was dismissed again.
It had always been like this, ever since he was a child. His mother, Sophia, had thought they would make good companions, after his father was forced to leave them when he was an infant, but even she admitted it became too much when they started waiting on the steps outside. Every morning they would curl up to bathe in the sun until Dimitris appeared. Nothing dissuaded them.
Add twenty years. He dragged his feet as he walked. Where he was going he didn't know. Anywhere. The road went on into the nothing of blue sky above barren ground. At this time of day, in this quiet place, it was empty, apart from the occasional tree sprouting from the stone and, beneath one of them, a man.
Dimitris watched him without taking much in. The stranger was lying on the ground in what little shade was cast by the branches, breathing as slowly as the rare breeze. Any sound was masked by the chirp of insects and the cats jostling amongst themselves. He could have been a statue. There was certainly something familiar about him, an everyday, common quality, the example of your average man, much like Dimitris. He even had a cat asleep on his chest.
Since he seemed content where he was, napping in the balmy afternoon, Dimitris walked on. Soon he was left in silence. Complete silence.
He frowned before he realised something was wrong, then glanced down, at his feet. Nothing. No warm weight of fur, nothing mewling at him, no tails knotting around his legs. The cats were gone. It threw him so much that he stopped in his tracks, staring dumbly at the heat haze on the horizon until a hand tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned to see the stranger. Cats dripped from his shoulders but he seemed oblivious to them, eyes still half shut.
“Are these yours?” he murmured. Each word seemed to travel a long distance before it left his lips. “I... like them.”
Dimitris shrugged, and then added, before this opportunity vanished,
“Please, keep them. They seem to like you more anyway.” Which, he added mentally, should not have been possible, but that was unimportant. For whatever reason, this man had much more affinity for the furry devils.
If he expected an answer, one wasn't forthcoming. Instead the main raised a hand, inching it through the air, slowly, slowly, and then stroked it across one of the cats. The feline yawned and snuggled into his arm. Unsure whether it would be polite to just walk on, Dimitris said,
“Thankyou.”
After another infinite pause, the deep, drowsy voice spoke again.
“It was the least I could do.”
It wasn't worth waiting for, and a bizarre sentiment to boot, but Dimitris nodded.
“Well – goodbye.”
He took another step and the hand fell on his shoulder.
“Send my love to Sophia,” said the man. A minute later, both he and the cats were gone, leaving Dimitris stood alone in the road with the dust.
-
Dimitris had just been fired.
It was for the usual reason. Not because he was idle, not because he was distracted, not because the business had closed down. He worked harder than anyone he knew, with unmatched concentration, and this had only been a small taverna, tucked into a corner of a rural town. He'd moved all the way from Athens to take up that modest job, it wasn't as if he hadn't put his soul into it.
No. It was because of the cats.
In every other respect, he was a normal citizen of Greece, living on whatever he could save between his many and varied jobs. What singled him out in a crowd, every time, was the sea of cats around his feet. Wherever he went he would hear a tell-tale mew, followed by a sea of fur and waving tails twining around his ankles. They were there now, as he pulled his car up on the side of the road and began to walk down the dusty path. They came bounding out of nowhere, the dirt, the scrub, all to rub against his legs and declare their undying love for him, even when he tried to nudge them away. He could travel as far as he liked but they always found a way to follow him, infiltrating his workplace until he was dismissed again.
It had always been like this, ever since he was a child. His mother, Sophia, had thought they would make good companions, after his father was forced to leave them when he was an infant, but even she admitted it became too much when they started waiting on the steps outside. Every morning they would curl up to bathe in the sun until Dimitris appeared. Nothing dissuaded them.
Add twenty years. He dragged his feet as he walked. Where he was going he didn't know. Anywhere. The road went on into the nothing of blue sky above barren ground. At this time of day, in this quiet place, it was empty, apart from the occasional tree sprouting from the stone and, beneath one of them, a man.
Dimitris watched him without taking much in. The stranger was lying on the ground in what little shade was cast by the branches, breathing as slowly as the rare breeze. Any sound was masked by the chirp of insects and the cats jostling amongst themselves. He could have been a statue. There was certainly something familiar about him, an everyday, common quality, the example of your average man, much like Dimitris. He even had a cat asleep on his chest.
Since he seemed content where he was, napping in the balmy afternoon, Dimitris walked on. Soon he was left in silence. Complete silence.
He frowned before he realised something was wrong, then glanced down, at his feet. Nothing. No warm weight of fur, nothing mewling at him, no tails knotting around his legs. The cats were gone. It threw him so much that he stopped in his tracks, staring dumbly at the heat haze on the horizon until a hand tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned to see the stranger. Cats dripped from his shoulders but he seemed oblivious to them, eyes still half shut.
“Are these yours?” he murmured. Each word seemed to travel a long distance before it left his lips. “I... like them.”
Dimitris shrugged, and then added, before this opportunity vanished,
“Please, keep them. They seem to like you more anyway.” Which, he added mentally, should not have been possible, but that was unimportant. For whatever reason, this man had much more affinity for the furry devils.
If he expected an answer, one wasn't forthcoming. Instead the main raised a hand, inching it through the air, slowly, slowly, and then stroked it across one of the cats. The feline yawned and snuggled into his arm. Unsure whether it would be polite to just walk on, Dimitris said,
“Thankyou.”
After another infinite pause, the deep, drowsy voice spoke again.
“It was the least I could do.”
It wasn't worth waiting for, and a bizarre sentiment to boot, but Dimitris nodded.
“Well – goodbye.”
He took another step and the hand fell on his shoulder.
“Send my love to Sophia,” said the man. A minute later, both he and the cats were gone, leaving Dimitris stood alone in the road with the dust.
oh my.
I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
Hahaha, glad to know my dirtiness was well-receivedXD
I'm off to ead the new part now...did you post it in the Fill List? Because I found it rechecking this on my own, not through there. Sorry if you did and I just missed it!
I'm off to ead the new part now...did you post it in the Fill List? Because I found it rechecking this on my own, not through there. Sorry if you did and I just missed it!
(A/N: In case it isn't clear, when she slapped him, his lip bled because it was cut on his tooth/teeth.
Oh, mild language warning!
Also, Artha is apparently a feminine form of Arthur, so.)
"Nothing you say is true!" he gasps, struggling out of her grasp and into a sitting position. He knows it's wrong; she says plenty of truthful things, but at the moment, he's too sad and angry to be realistic.
She backs away from the bed, tensed and alert as though expecting him to attack. She's scowling; if he hadn't made such an aggressive display so unexpectedly, if he hadn't said things he'd never dared before, she would be smirking.
But she is scowling. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's trying to do by shouting and advancing on her as he is now. He thinks he sees a flicker of fear in her eyes, but he's probably only imagining things. She's angry and confused, that's all.
Because empires have no fear; no love; no unnecessary emotions that might get in the way of properly governing their colonies.
"I don't mean a thing to you," he growls, and her furrowed brow softens slightly. "Not a damn thing." The words, never before spoken, are somehow unfamiliar to him, and the ache begins anew as he rounds on her, losing steam. "All this time, you've just been using me, and you won't even call it what it is. It's always...always some stupid fucking deal with you, some..." He flinches when she lifts her hands, but she doesn't touch him, doesn't interrupt. Her expression is blank, vaguely thoughtful.
He concludes breathlessly, voice small. "What am I to you, Artha?"
Her eyes and words are empty when she answers. "My colony."
Oh, mild language warning!
Also, Artha is apparently a feminine form of Arthur, so.)
"Nothing you say is true!" he gasps, struggling out of her grasp and into a sitting position. He knows it's wrong; she says plenty of truthful things, but at the moment, he's too sad and angry to be realistic.
She backs away from the bed, tensed and alert as though expecting him to attack. She's scowling; if he hadn't made such an aggressive display so unexpectedly, if he hadn't said things he'd never dared before, she would be smirking.
But she is scowling. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's trying to do by shouting and advancing on her as he is now. He thinks he sees a flicker of fear in her eyes, but he's probably only imagining things. She's angry and confused, that's all.
Because empires have no fear; no love; no unnecessary emotions that might get in the way of properly governing their colonies.
"I don't mean a thing to you," he growls, and her furrowed brow softens slightly. "Not a damn thing." The words, never before spoken, are somehow unfamiliar to him, and the ache begins anew as he rounds on her, losing steam. "All this time, you've just been using me, and you won't even call it what it is. It's always...always some stupid fucking deal with you, some..." He flinches when she lifts her hands, but she doesn't touch him, doesn't interrupt. Her expression is blank, vaguely thoughtful.
He concludes breathlessly, voice small. "What am I to you, Artha?"
Her eyes and words are empty when she answers. "My colony."
It was raining again in London. Looking down from the third story of his flat, England beheld a sea of umbrellas muddling together in the street below. They passed another so closely, it was nearly impossible to catch sight of the people beneath them. The roads had a steady flow of traffic, busses and cars filing by with the changing of the lights, windshield wipers moving at a continuous pace that was neither too fast nor too slow. All in all, a typical view for a nation so used to the rain.
Which led England to recall that late night no two months before where America had offered him something he hadn't considered. Not in a long time, at least. It was raining then, as well. For whatever reason, no matter how accustomed to the frequency of showers he was, England felt fixated on that particular day, on that particular rain fall. Probably- definitely- because it had something to do with America.
Today he had a similar feeling of significance. It wasn't something he could easily explain. It wasn't nation's intuition; that feeling was usually followed with fright and foreboding, and the events tied to those emotions horrific and terrible. Any nation could relate to that feeling. This one was linked solely on America. It was an old anxiety mingled with memories of true happiness and twisted of sorrow. It made him long for, dread, desire his former colony in a way he'd scarey felt for anyone else save for few.
The one common denominator for that feeling wholly America was the rain.
The whistling of the kettle broke his reverie, making England jump and hurry over to set it aside from the heat. Sighing in frustration, England grabbed a cup from the cupboard and set it aside, searching for just the right tea to sooth his feverish fancies, but that would only be a temporary solution. The remedy for such an occasion was so simple, yet approximately 5320 kilometers away, give or take, across the Atlantic. America had his own issues to attend to, though. As England recalled, his presidential elections were near and especially trying to put up with.
America hated elections. He really resented what it did to his people, driving ideological wedges between them and twisting facts into fiction for political gain. To many, it would seem that the last superpower lived for these events, but in truth, America was more than happy to be done with them.
The only time England could remember where America was excited and thrilled for elections was when John F. Kennedy ran for president. England suspected, but never dared said aloud, that America was in love with the young politician. He had looked at that man with eyes England once held for his beloved Elizabeth. Unlike his queen, however, America's former leader had a family, a lovely wife and two children. Infidelity occurred, as it usually did with most persons of such power, but weather or not America had ever been one of Kennedy's flames, England didn't know. And part of him, a jealous, hypocritical part, didn't want to know.
Apart from JFK, America put up a good front, an easy smile, and never let anyone, England included, in on his true opinion of the candidates. What he must be going through now with tensions high over policy and social issues, England didn't envy him.
England sighed again and grabbed his tin of earl grey, opening it and inhaling the scent of the tea leaves within before grabbing a bag and putting it aside. Much as he longed to see America, it would have to wait until his bloody elections were done. And there was still that matter of their sex life that needed to be taken care of. It was a matter of urgency to England, but priority for America. Bizarrely enough, it was England who was now growing impatient and the younger man who was bidding his time, making certain that when the moment was right, it was really right. For how much more England could get a hold of himself, though... When all his dreams taunted him with visions of dazed blue eyes, smooth, defined muscles, and locks of golden hair strewn about haphazardly-
Which led England to recall that late night no two months before where America had offered him something he hadn't considered. Not in a long time, at least. It was raining then, as well. For whatever reason, no matter how accustomed to the frequency of showers he was, England felt fixated on that particular day, on that particular rain fall. Probably- definitely- because it had something to do with America.
Today he had a similar feeling of significance. It wasn't something he could easily explain. It wasn't nation's intuition; that feeling was usually followed with fright and foreboding, and the events tied to those emotions horrific and terrible. Any nation could relate to that feeling. This one was linked solely on America. It was an old anxiety mingled with memories of true happiness and twisted of sorrow. It made him long for, dread, desire his former colony in a way he'd scarey felt for anyone else save for few.
The one common denominator for that feeling wholly America was the rain.
The whistling of the kettle broke his reverie, making England jump and hurry over to set it aside from the heat. Sighing in frustration, England grabbed a cup from the cupboard and set it aside, searching for just the right tea to sooth his feverish fancies, but that would only be a temporary solution. The remedy for such an occasion was so simple, yet approximately 5320 kilometers away, give or take, across the Atlantic. America had his own issues to attend to, though. As England recalled, his presidential elections were near and especially trying to put up with.
America hated elections. He really resented what it did to his people, driving ideological wedges between them and twisting facts into fiction for political gain. To many, it would seem that the last superpower lived for these events, but in truth, America was more than happy to be done with them.
The only time England could remember where America was excited and thrilled for elections was when John F. Kennedy ran for president. England suspected, but never dared said aloud, that America was in love with the young politician. He had looked at that man with eyes England once held for his beloved Elizabeth. Unlike his queen, however, America's former leader had a family, a lovely wife and two children. Infidelity occurred, as it usually did with most persons of such power, but weather or not America had ever been one of Kennedy's flames, England didn't know. And part of him, a jealous, hypocritical part, didn't want to know.
Apart from JFK, America put up a good front, an easy smile, and never let anyone, England included, in on his true opinion of the candidates. What he must be going through now with tensions high over policy and social issues, England didn't envy him.
England sighed again and grabbed his tin of earl grey, opening it and inhaling the scent of the tea leaves within before grabbing a bag and putting it aside. Much as he longed to see America, it would have to wait until his bloody elections were done. And there was still that matter of their sex life that needed to be taken care of. It was a matter of urgency to England, but priority for America. Bizarrely enough, it was England who was now growing impatient and the younger man who was bidding his time, making certain that when the moment was right, it was really right. For how much more England could get a hold of himself, though... When all his dreams taunted him with visions of dazed blue eyes, smooth, defined muscles, and locks of golden hair strewn about haphazardly-
England shut his eyes and sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, tea in one hand while the other massaged his temples. Relax. That what he needed to do. Sip his tea and wait out the rain until all thoughts of America dissipated like the steam rising from his cup.
The the pocket of his trousers began to vibrate.
Groaning in vexation, England snatched the cellular out of his pocket and glared at the flashing screen. His scowl was gone the minute he saw America's name blinking. He cursed, spilling the tea over his tablecloth and he glanced at the text.
sorry for springing this up last minute but if u wanna come visit i'm game.
England felt his breath hitch as he stared down at the message. All thought of scolding the younger man for his atrocious grammar lost as his fingers worked on their own to swiftly reply.
What time?
He waited a few moments, eyes never blinking or roaming away from the phone until it vibrated again.
tonight. i'm at the house.
***
England had known immediately what house he was referring to. The old colonial situated in the woods not an hour away from Boston looked just the same as it had when he first built it all those years ago. The stone chimney had smoke rising from the top as England parked the rental outside on the gravel driveway. The sun setting behind the woods left the sky twilight pink and purple as he approached the red painted wooden door, his boots clicked against the porch in that familiar stomp.
Breathing in the air, still moist from a previous shower and smelling of pine and autumn, England adjusted his coat, fingering the red fabric idly. Eyeing the door with purpose, he raise a hand an knocked.
Another mini-update. I just want to thank everyone for their kind comments (especially you, op!). I'm so happy and surprised to see people enjoying what I've done with this prompt. Hopefully I won't suck too hard when we get to the next bits >>;;
The the pocket of his trousers began to vibrate.
Groaning in vexation, England snatched the cellular out of his pocket and glared at the flashing screen. His scowl was gone the minute he saw America's name blinking. He cursed, spilling the tea over his tablecloth and he glanced at the text.
sorry for springing this up last minute but if u wanna come visit i'm game.
England felt his breath hitch as he stared down at the message. All thought of scolding the younger man for his atrocious grammar lost as his fingers worked on their own to swiftly reply.
What time?
He waited a few moments, eyes never blinking or roaming away from the phone until it vibrated again.
tonight. i'm at the house.
***
England had known immediately what house he was referring to. The old colonial situated in the woods not an hour away from Boston looked just the same as it had when he first built it all those years ago. The stone chimney had smoke rising from the top as England parked the rental outside on the gravel driveway. The sun setting behind the woods left the sky twilight pink and purple as he approached the red painted wooden door, his boots clicked against the porch in that familiar stomp.
Breathing in the air, still moist from a previous shower and smelling of pine and autumn, England adjusted his coat, fingering the red fabric idly. Eyeing the door with purpose, he raise a hand an knocked.
Another mini-update. I just want to thank everyone for their kind comments (especially you, op!). I'm so happy and surprised to see people enjoying what I've done with this prompt. Hopefully I won't suck too hard when we get to the next bits >>;;
Wow! I'll...have to try that at some point *hides away*
That was really really hot, author anon. I like how lighthearted it started, and you made the transition really smooth into sexy and a little desperate. Like another reviewer said, I like how deviously you convey that Arthur's still in charge, lol (and I also like when little traits of the characters show through little things, like Arthur's anal retentive personality cutting the pearsXD).But I have to confess that Alfred being unable to control his bucking when he came made me damned hot, this anon has a strong forceful blowjob kink
I'm glad you liked my suggestions, and in case you don't look above to my reply to your replyXD...post this to the Fills Page!
That was really really hot, author anon. I like how lighthearted it started, and you made the transition really smooth into sexy and a little desperate. Like another reviewer said, I like how deviously you convey that Arthur's still in charge, lol (and I also like when little traits of the characters show through little things, like Arthur's anal retentive personality cutting the pearsXD).
I'm glad you liked my suggestions, and in case you don't look above to my reply to your replyXD...post this to the Fills Page!
“I am eternally grateful for your heartfelt concern regarding my condition after I have braved the insolence and brazen disrespect of those banditti riff-raffs!”
Wow, there's a lot of sophisticated words in one sentence. I kind of got lost around the middle, hehe.
I could totally see Arthur fanning himself like it's practically normal for a guy to do.^^
There was nothing that Arthur had that he did not have himself…but even so it felt as if he was violating something to look at him while he was undressing.
It seems that poor Alfred is starting to get little confused about his feelings towards Arthur, doesn't it? XD
Wow, there's a lot of sophisticated words in one sentence. I kind of got lost around the middle, hehe.
I could totally see Arthur fanning himself like it's practically normal for a guy to do.^^
There was nothing that Arthur had that he did not have himself…but even so it felt as if he was violating something to look at him while he was undressing.
It seems that poor Alfred is starting to get little confused about his feelings towards Arthur, doesn't it? XD
(Hokay, it looks like we're going to finish tonight! Which means a colossal amount of posting. Sad to say that it was too late to work in any tearful goodbyes, but hopefully I filled the cheesiness quotient with... well, let's just say that America is the largest of Large Hams. Enjoy, people! :) )
Tony, who had survived Vogon poetry, was hardly the sort of alien who would allow himself to succumb to such indignity as being dangled upside down from the ceiling by a gaggle of dimwits with the emotional capacity of traumatised lemmings. And yet, here he was. Being dangled upside down from the ceiling. By a gaggle of dimwits. With the emotional capacity of –
Egocentric rummaged through his pockets. “What’s this?” he asked, gaping at what he found. “Licence to... break the Fourth Wall? Huh?”
Oh Yarghlfrax, no! Please no. Not Egocentric. He was the last person in the galaxy to be trusted with Fourth Wall-breaking powers!
Egocentric pocketed the card, looking sickeningly smug. Tony anticipated genuine world destruction.
-
“Everyone!” yelled Ireland, springing up onto the desk, the better to address the room. Said room fell duly silent-ish; most of them were marvelling at the sight of Tony’s levitating. “Listen up! Can any of you remember if the alien ever gave us a reason for doing this to us? No! It was completely out of the blue! Doesn’t that strike you as just a little suspicious? Particularly seeing as he hasn’t even tried to escape – he’s just been sitting in this room the whole time whilst we sob on each others’ shoulders!”
Murmurs of confusion.
“Think about it,” Belgium urged them. Ireland gave her a hand up onto the table. “Thanks, Ireland,” she added. Then, addressing the crowd once more: “Don’t you think these missiles would have shown up on satellite by now? Are we really just going to take Tony’s word for it?”
Loud cries of dissent!
Tony gave a defeated sigh from the ceiling.
“So,” said France, smoothly. “Alien. We believe all your talk of deadly missiles to be nothing but an elaborate ruse. Is there anything you can do to persuade us otherwise, or are we to conclude that we have been lied to this whole time?”
Tony was silent. This had been... unanticipated.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Huh?” said Romano, indignantly.
Ireland reached up and shook the alien, enough to make him feel a little dizzy. Something else fell from his pockets. Ireland stooped and grabbed it from the floor, examined it and held it triumphantly aloft. “The so-called button to destroy the Earth, huh?” she said, derisively. “It’s nothing but a jammy dodger!” With that, she took a savage bite out the offending biscuit.
“It was all a lie,” admitted Tony, quietly. Really, there was little else he could do in this situation.
The room burst into deafening yells of equal parts righteous anger and triumph.
(“Why did we have to come up with an incredibly convoluted plan to achieve this end anyway?” asked England. “Couldn’t we have just approached him and told him we knew he was deceiving us?
“Quiet, Angleterre and stop trying to apply logic to this situation,” France responded, instantly.)
“So!” said Ireland. “What do you think we should do with him? Any ideas?”
“Water torture!” China yelled, instantly.
(“Would someone tell me what is going on?” asked Germany, bewildered. Feliciano simply beamed at him.)
“Send him to the coldest part of Siberia with no clothing or provisions!” offered Russia.
(“Whoa,” said America. “Remind me never to piss you off. Except – oh, wait. I already... yeah.”)
“Guillotine!” suggested France, with glee. He found himself pinned by a disbelieving look from England. “Apologies,” France muttered, chastened. “I got a little carried away. How about we force him to eat your cooking instead?”
The room dissolved into a flurry of readily voiced proposals for vengeance.
“Force-feed him potatoes till he chokes!”
“Chain him to two ponies and get them to, like, pull in opposite directions!”
“Let him go,” said a confident voice from the back of the room.
Silence immediately fell.
Tony, who had survived Vogon poetry, was hardly the sort of alien who would allow himself to succumb to such indignity as being dangled upside down from the ceiling by a gaggle of dimwits with the emotional capacity of traumatised lemmings. And yet, here he was. Being dangled upside down from the ceiling. By a gaggle of dimwits. With the emotional capacity of –
Egocentric rummaged through his pockets. “What’s this?” he asked, gaping at what he found. “Licence to... break the Fourth Wall? Huh?”
Oh Yarghlfrax, no! Please no. Not Egocentric. He was the last person in the galaxy to be trusted with Fourth Wall-breaking powers!
Egocentric pocketed the card, looking sickeningly smug. Tony anticipated genuine world destruction.
-
“Everyone!” yelled Ireland, springing up onto the desk, the better to address the room. Said room fell duly silent-ish; most of them were marvelling at the sight of Tony’s levitating. “Listen up! Can any of you remember if the alien ever gave us a reason for doing this to us? No! It was completely out of the blue! Doesn’t that strike you as just a little suspicious? Particularly seeing as he hasn’t even tried to escape – he’s just been sitting in this room the whole time whilst we sob on each others’ shoulders!”
Murmurs of confusion.
“Think about it,” Belgium urged them. Ireland gave her a hand up onto the table. “Thanks, Ireland,” she added. Then, addressing the crowd once more: “Don’t you think these missiles would have shown up on satellite by now? Are we really just going to take Tony’s word for it?”
Loud cries of dissent!
Tony gave a defeated sigh from the ceiling.
“So,” said France, smoothly. “Alien. We believe all your talk of deadly missiles to be nothing but an elaborate ruse. Is there anything you can do to persuade us otherwise, or are we to conclude that we have been lied to this whole time?”
Tony was silent. This had been... unanticipated.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Huh?” said Romano, indignantly.
Ireland reached up and shook the alien, enough to make him feel a little dizzy. Something else fell from his pockets. Ireland stooped and grabbed it from the floor, examined it and held it triumphantly aloft. “The so-called button to destroy the Earth, huh?” she said, derisively. “It’s nothing but a jammy dodger!” With that, she took a savage bite out the offending biscuit.
“It was all a lie,” admitted Tony, quietly. Really, there was little else he could do in this situation.
The room burst into deafening yells of equal parts righteous anger and triumph.
(“Why did we have to come up with an incredibly convoluted plan to achieve this end anyway?” asked England. “Couldn’t we have just approached him and told him we knew he was deceiving us?
“Quiet, Angleterre and stop trying to apply logic to this situation,” France responded, instantly.)
“So!” said Ireland. “What do you think we should do with him? Any ideas?”
“Water torture!” China yelled, instantly.
(“Would someone tell me what is going on?” asked Germany, bewildered. Feliciano simply beamed at him.)
“Send him to the coldest part of Siberia with no clothing or provisions!” offered Russia.
(“Whoa,” said America. “Remind me never to piss you off. Except – oh, wait. I already... yeah.”)
“Guillotine!” suggested France, with glee. He found himself pinned by a disbelieving look from England. “Apologies,” France muttered, chastened. “I got a little carried away. How about we force him to eat your cooking instead?”
The room dissolved into a flurry of readily voiced proposals for vengeance.
“Force-feed him potatoes till he chokes!”
“Chain him to two ponies and get them to, like, pull in opposite directions!”
“Let him go,” said a confident voice from the back of the room.
Silence immediately fell.
“Wha – America?”
America – as, indeed, America it was – strode to the front. “Let him go,” he repeated.
Faces gaped at him, eyes wide and shocked.
“Look, I know none of us really liked being strung along like this,” admitted America. “Sure – it made us blurt out a lot of things we’d never say normally – never even begin to admit to ourselves, maybe! But maybe that’s good.” He eyed the individual nations in the crowd. “Maybe we needed that. ‘Cause there was so much stuff we’d all just been bottling up for years, maybe decades – hell, maybe even centuries. And we always thought that maybe – just maybe maybe, if we ever plucked up the courage, just a little idea on the edge of our minds – maybe we’d say it someday. Now we all know that ‘someday’ when you have eternity means, to all extents and purposes, ‘never’. Face it. We were never going to admit all those things. We were just going to keep dancing till we dropped. And yeah, sure, maybe...” here, his gaze flickered tentatively towards England. “Uh. Maybe stuff didn’t turn out the way we hoped. Actually, it might have been hell to have admitted all these things. But you know what?” Now he was staring at England boldly, with a fixed gaze. A smile slowly curled across his face. “It was worth it. Because a secret kept for centuries is a secret that you’ve got to let out, otherwise it’s just unhealthy. And kinda psychologically damaging. And stubborn. And... yeah.” He faltered a little, but kept going. “So Tony here?” he looked at the alien, affectionately. “Tony saw all that. Tony realised things couldn’t carry on like this. Think about it. You guys might be really mad about this, but really Tony gave us the best gift he could ever have given!”
Cheers. Actual heartfelt cheers. They looked impressed with him! Proud, even! Including – including from England.
(Germany held his head in his hands, uncomprehending, as Feliciano applauded enthusiastically. He wondered if it was worth putting the headphones back in, but accepted that the damage had already been done.)
Now America was grinning outright. “And you know what else?” he said, voice raised just enough to render himself audible above the noise. “You know what else? Now that we’ve all moved on from what’s been bugging us for centuries, we can finally move forward! Because... because now we can actually value the future.” Yes, now he was looking at Russia – and not even tentatively. Their eyes met, both acknowledging – well, perhaps they were acknowledging the fact that there was, just possibly, opportunity there. Together. Possibly.
The crowd... hell, there was no other way to describe it. The crowd went wild. America laughed out loud. Happily, he grabbed the string that bound Tony to the ceiling and let him down.
Tony struggled to his feet. That had been... hah. Un – unexpected. He looked at his utterly heroic hero of a host, with inquiring eyes.
“Thanks buddy,” America muttered. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m still completely mad at you! But, you know. In a good way.”
Tony looked up at him, eyes suspiciously shiny. Probably some kind of weird alien anatomy thing. Yeah. Because America’s eyes were totally dry. Completely dry.
“I’m proud of you,” said Tony, sincerely.
America knelt down and hugged his friend. “Me too. Heh. So how was that for an awesome speech, huh?”
America – as, indeed, America it was – strode to the front. “Let him go,” he repeated.
Faces gaped at him, eyes wide and shocked.
“Look, I know none of us really liked being strung along like this,” admitted America. “Sure – it made us blurt out a lot of things we’d never say normally – never even begin to admit to ourselves, maybe! But maybe that’s good.” He eyed the individual nations in the crowd. “Maybe we needed that. ‘Cause there was so much stuff we’d all just been bottling up for years, maybe decades – hell, maybe even centuries. And we always thought that maybe – just maybe maybe, if we ever plucked up the courage, just a little idea on the edge of our minds – maybe we’d say it someday. Now we all know that ‘someday’ when you have eternity means, to all extents and purposes, ‘never’. Face it. We were never going to admit all those things. We were just going to keep dancing till we dropped. And yeah, sure, maybe...” here, his gaze flickered tentatively towards England. “Uh. Maybe stuff didn’t turn out the way we hoped. Actually, it might have been hell to have admitted all these things. But you know what?” Now he was staring at England boldly, with a fixed gaze. A smile slowly curled across his face. “It was worth it. Because a secret kept for centuries is a secret that you’ve got to let out, otherwise it’s just unhealthy. And kinda psychologically damaging. And stubborn. And... yeah.” He faltered a little, but kept going. “So Tony here?” he looked at the alien, affectionately. “Tony saw all that. Tony realised things couldn’t carry on like this. Think about it. You guys might be really mad about this, but really Tony gave us the best gift he could ever have given!”
Cheers. Actual heartfelt cheers. They looked impressed with him! Proud, even! Including – including from England.
(Germany held his head in his hands, uncomprehending, as Feliciano applauded enthusiastically. He wondered if it was worth putting the headphones back in, but accepted that the damage had already been done.)
Now America was grinning outright. “And you know what else?” he said, voice raised just enough to render himself audible above the noise. “You know what else? Now that we’ve all moved on from what’s been bugging us for centuries, we can finally move forward! Because... because now we can actually value the future.” Yes, now he was looking at Russia – and not even tentatively. Their eyes met, both acknowledging – well, perhaps they were acknowledging the fact that there was, just possibly, opportunity there. Together. Possibly.
The crowd... hell, there was no other way to describe it. The crowd went wild. America laughed out loud. Happily, he grabbed the string that bound Tony to the ceiling and let him down.
Tony struggled to his feet. That had been... hah. Un – unexpected. He looked at his utterly heroic hero of a host, with inquiring eyes.
“Thanks buddy,” America muttered. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m still completely mad at you! But, you know. In a good way.”
Tony looked up at him, eyes suspiciously shiny. Probably some kind of weird alien anatomy thing. Yeah. Because America’s eyes were totally dry. Completely dry.
“I’m proud of you,” said Tony, sincerely.
America knelt down and hugged his friend. “Me too. Heh. So how was that for an awesome speech, huh?”
When the doors were finally opened, the cheers of relief were so enthusiastic that they were practically screams. There was a mad rush to the exit; none of the nations had any doubts as to where they were heading. Obviously the pub.
Belgium and Ireland lingered at the back, watching the others. They smiled at how so many of them were walking in couples. England and France were practically glued together, bickering ecstatically. America and Russia were trying to give the impression that they were walking with their respective siblings, but though they were at opposite ends of the group, they moved in perfect parallel and may as well have been shoulder to shoulder. Poland was talking animatedly with Lithuania, who listened contentedly. Feliciano was running in circles around Germany, breathlessly giving him a summary of what had transpired. Austria and Hungary were arm in arm, both completely at ease with each other. Romano was showering Spain with the fondest of insults; Spain’s smile was so wide that they may as well have been the most effusive praise. Finland and Sweden were holding hands so tentatively that it was open for debate whether or not they had actually noticed.
“So,” said Ireland. The sentence ended there.
“Yes,” said Belgium, uncertain as to exactly what she was agreeing with, but certain that agreeing was the right thing to do.
“I don’t suppose,” said Ireland. And ended there. “Um,” she added, as an afterthought. “You know, I always thought you were -” And ended.
Belgium gave her a sideways glance. “So can I buy you a drink?”
“That sounds – yeah. That sounds nice,” said Ireland. Blushing as red as her hair. “Ah, screw it,” she said, and clumsily grabbed Belgium’s hand.
Belgium squeezed Ireland’s hand in response, somehow managing to dispel the awkwardness, or at least transform it into something rather sweet. “My thoughts exactly. So let’s go already.”
Belgium and Ireland lingered at the back, watching the others. They smiled at how so many of them were walking in couples. England and France were practically glued together, bickering ecstatically. America and Russia were trying to give the impression that they were walking with their respective siblings, but though they were at opposite ends of the group, they moved in perfect parallel and may as well have been shoulder to shoulder. Poland was talking animatedly with Lithuania, who listened contentedly. Feliciano was running in circles around Germany, breathlessly giving him a summary of what had transpired. Austria and Hungary were arm in arm, both completely at ease with each other. Romano was showering Spain with the fondest of insults; Spain’s smile was so wide that they may as well have been the most effusive praise. Finland and Sweden were holding hands so tentatively that it was open for debate whether or not they had actually noticed.
“So,” said Ireland. The sentence ended there.
“Yes,” said Belgium, uncertain as to exactly what she was agreeing with, but certain that agreeing was the right thing to do.
“I don’t suppose,” said Ireland. And ended there. “Um,” she added, as an afterthought. “You know, I always thought you were -” And ended.
Belgium gave her a sideways glance. “So can I buy you a drink?”
“That sounds – yeah. That sounds nice,” said Ireland. Blushing as red as her hair. “Ah, screw it,” she said, and clumsily grabbed Belgium’s hand.
Belgium squeezed Ireland’s hand in response, somehow managing to dispel the awkwardness, or at least transform it into something rather sweet. “My thoughts exactly. So let’s go already.”
“So, admit it, Angleterre,” said France, as they exited the building. “You’re regretting having admitted you care now, aren’t you? Earlier, it was fine – a few hours to live, the action was absolutely bereft of consequences. Now... it’s very, very different.”
England rolled his eyes. This again. It wasn’t different enough to alter the fact that they were still together, was it? “I don’t care about the bloody consequences. In fact, I welcome the consequences. I’m glad that it turns out we can live long enough to actually have consequences!”
“Political consequences included?” asked France, with an air of ingenuousness that wasn’t fooling anyone.
Oh. “Oh godDAMNit.” England’s look was one of abject horror. Truly, he had not thought of that. Damn frog and his bloody perspicacity. Fucking international stage.
“My thoughts exactly,” said France, chirpily. “As always, you manage to convey the present mood with astonishing precision and eloquence.”
“Bugger off.”
“But in all seriousness, cher, what are we to do?”
England gave the matter some thought, giving all the pros and cons due consideration. After evaluating every option, he reached his decision. “Screw it. Screw ‘em all. Forget about it. Consequences and political upheaval be damned. We’re together and that’s that.” He would have folded his arms with stubborn finality, but was somewhat hampered by the fact that France had seized both his hands and pulled him towards him. He settled for wrinkling his eyebrows with an adequately obdurate air instead.
“Again,” said France, with tongue perhaps less in cheek than before, “your talent for summarising the situation is... impressive. You know, I imagined you would abandon the idea of our, ahem, togetherness, immediately upon being reminded of the political ramifications.” A slow, catlike smile spread across his face. “Your response was a pleasant surprise. If uncharacteristic. Forgive me, but you are not known for loyalty towards your allies.”
“Yes, you idiot – and by the way, I recognised the implicit insult and thoroughly resent it – but for one thing, you’re not my ally – it’s just that I lo... no. No, I refuse to say it.”
“You may as well have done,” said France, smugly.
“Shut up. I have to keep you on your toes somehow. Suffice to say that we’re – we’re very much dancing. And, damn it, this time I’ll lead.” With that, England yanked France forward by the collar of that stupid frilly shirt he was wearing and set about kissing the arrogant smile off his face. Which, overall, encountered little success, in terms of the originally stated aim – centuries of failed attempts had taught England that there was nothing on Earth that could erase France’s arrogance - but England nonetheless felt there was little cause for complaint.
In fact, none at all.
(Political upheaval? Hell. He welcomed it.)
England rolled his eyes. This again. It wasn’t different enough to alter the fact that they were still together, was it? “I don’t care about the bloody consequences. In fact, I welcome the consequences. I’m glad that it turns out we can live long enough to actually have consequences!”
“Political consequences included?” asked France, with an air of ingenuousness that wasn’t fooling anyone.
Oh. “Oh godDAMNit.” England’s look was one of abject horror. Truly, he had not thought of that. Damn frog and his bloody perspicacity. Fucking international stage.
“My thoughts exactly,” said France, chirpily. “As always, you manage to convey the present mood with astonishing precision and eloquence.”
“Bugger off.”
“But in all seriousness, cher, what are we to do?”
England gave the matter some thought, giving all the pros and cons due consideration. After evaluating every option, he reached his decision. “Screw it. Screw ‘em all. Forget about it. Consequences and political upheaval be damned. We’re together and that’s that.” He would have folded his arms with stubborn finality, but was somewhat hampered by the fact that France had seized both his hands and pulled him towards him. He settled for wrinkling his eyebrows with an adequately obdurate air instead.
“Again,” said France, with tongue perhaps less in cheek than before, “your talent for summarising the situation is... impressive. You know, I imagined you would abandon the idea of our, ahem, togetherness, immediately upon being reminded of the political ramifications.” A slow, catlike smile spread across his face. “Your response was a pleasant surprise. If uncharacteristic. Forgive me, but you are not known for loyalty towards your allies.”
“Yes, you idiot – and by the way, I recognised the implicit insult and thoroughly resent it – but for one thing, you’re not my ally – it’s just that I lo... no. No, I refuse to say it.”
“You may as well have done,” said France, smugly.
“Shut up. I have to keep you on your toes somehow. Suffice to say that we’re – we’re very much dancing. And, damn it, this time I’ll lead.” With that, England yanked France forward by the collar of that stupid frilly shirt he was wearing and set about kissing the arrogant smile off his face. Which, overall, encountered little success, in terms of the originally stated aim – centuries of failed attempts had taught England that there was nothing on Earth that could erase France’s arrogance - but England nonetheless felt there was little cause for complaint.
In fact, none at all.
(Political upheaval? Hell. He welcomed it.)
Tony walked alongside his Most Heroic of Heroes (and brother), head held high, which brought it to a level with America’s knee. That, he felt, had gone spectacularly well. Slight technical difficulties notwithstanding. However, he felt there was something he needed to assert.
“You know I’d never actually hurt any of you?” Tony inquired, suddenly.
“Duh!” said America. “You couldn’t, anyway. All you have is jammy dodgers.” They laughed together.
“Are you going to speak to Scarf Psychop – to Russia, that is?”
“Heh.” America thought for a second. “Nah. Not yet, anyway. Not ready yet. If this – uh, thing – happens at all, it’ll happen slowly. Also, I want to make him be the one to talk to me.”
“Don’t postpone it for too long,” Tony warned.
“I don’t think we will,” said America, in a tone that almost bordered on serious. The seriousness faded and he added: “So no pulling the same trick again!”
“Once was enough. Probably.” Again, they smiled.
The moment passed, but a sly grin still remained on Tony’s face, as he paused to finger the actual missile-launching button in his inside pocket. Luckily it had not fallen out during his brief encounter with the ceiling. He shuddered to think what would happen if it had fallen into the clumsy hands of any of the nations. Well. World destruction would happen. For real. He made a note to be more careful in the future, lest he actually lose it.
Well, no matter either way. Would he ever really destroy Earth, with all its history, its constant fascinations and it’s wonderful, wonderful dysfunction? To borrow a phrase from Heroic Host: as if! Never.
He doubted if it was even possible. The world and its nations were just too strong together.
Rolling his (slightly luminous) eyes at his own sentimentality, Tony ran to catch up with America again, incapable, despite his best efforts at cynicism, of brushing away the persistent notion that things were (Yarghlfrax willing) about to take a turn for the better.
Alternatively, things might just go back to the standard, denial-ridden, post-faux-apocalypse state of being.
But somehow he doubted it.
Fin.
“You know I’d never actually hurt any of you?” Tony inquired, suddenly.
“Duh!” said America. “You couldn’t, anyway. All you have is jammy dodgers.” They laughed together.
“Are you going to speak to Scarf Psychop – to Russia, that is?”
“Heh.” America thought for a second. “Nah. Not yet, anyway. Not ready yet. If this – uh, thing – happens at all, it’ll happen slowly. Also, I want to make him be the one to talk to me.”
“Don’t postpone it for too long,” Tony warned.
“I don’t think we will,” said America, in a tone that almost bordered on serious. The seriousness faded and he added: “So no pulling the same trick again!”
“Once was enough. Probably.” Again, they smiled.
The moment passed, but a sly grin still remained on Tony’s face, as he paused to finger the actual missile-launching button in his inside pocket. Luckily it had not fallen out during his brief encounter with the ceiling. He shuddered to think what would happen if it had fallen into the clumsy hands of any of the nations. Well. World destruction would happen. For real. He made a note to be more careful in the future, lest he actually lose it.
Well, no matter either way. Would he ever really destroy Earth, with all its history, its constant fascinations and it’s wonderful, wonderful dysfunction? To borrow a phrase from Heroic Host: as if! Never.
He doubted if it was even possible. The world and its nations were just too strong together.
Rolling his (slightly luminous) eyes at his own sentimentality, Tony ran to catch up with America again, incapable, despite his best efforts at cynicism, of brushing away the persistent notion that things were (Yarghlfrax willing) about to take a turn for the better.
Alternatively, things might just go back to the standard, denial-ridden, post-faux-apocalypse state of being.
But somehow he doubted it.
Fin.
Dude, this both awesome and hilarious
I hate to imagine everybody's reactions when they realize that Ara and Alfred are bothe missing. And went missing around the same time. Scandalous. I do hope that Arthur hid the dress well or it'll be even worse lmao.
I'm pretty excited for Alfred to meet Arthur's brothers and what their reactions will be. Do they know that he knows? It doesn't seem like it...
I am awaiting the next update with great excitement
I hate to imagine everybody's reactions when they realize that Ara and Alfred are bothe missing. And went missing around the same time. Scandalous. I do hope that Arthur hid the dress well or it'll be even worse lmao.
I'm pretty excited for Alfred to meet Arthur's brothers and what their reactions will be. Do they know that he knows? It doesn't seem like it...
I am awaiting the next update with great excitement
lol this sounds like it could be truly great. I don't see much China/America
Poor Dimitris. The other two got knowledge and charisma respectively, he ended up a moggy magnet. Nice of his Dad to fix that for him though.
You broke my heart. This is absolutely brilliant, such a wonderful take on the prompt. So great!
Yaaay, update!!
Can I just say--I absolutely love this fill.
It's sexy from the get-go, even without explicit sex...and I love how you have them exploring each other's weaknesses--especially painful triggers to suppressed memories. It's such a loving, adventurous atmosphere--loving every chapter of this :)
Can't wait for more~
Can I just say--I absolutely love this fill.
It's sexy from the get-go, even without explicit sex...and I love how you have them exploring each other's weaknesses--especially painful triggers to suppressed memories. It's such a loving, adventurous atmosphere--loving every chapter of this :)
Can't wait for more~
Geebus, yeah that's hella hot. Glad you liked, anon and I hope I didn't increase your panties-bill by too much. lol
Pfffffffft. The emergency meeting made me crack the hell up.
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