now this is about as common as jackalope pie
OKAY NO DEATH NOTE OR RPG FOR AN ENTIRE POST.
FUCK YES.
... now what.
Actually lol I did stupid things to my Japanese quizzes on Monday, what the fuck lmfao why can't I read fjljflkdjf /annoyed with self
At least I will never forget the Japanese for 'musical appreciation' as long as I live or something. B| No teacher like failure!!
........ okay yeah since I have nothing to post about I might as well just toss these (really old) drabbles out. Unedited because I'm lazy right now I might take a chainsaw to them later; written in a day for aphanon_meme, quality ranges from decent to horrendous. AND LET'S NOT EVEN TALK ABOUT MY INABILITY TO STAY ON-PROMPT, OK? OK.
Request: Austria/Switzerland/Liechtenstein, weekend at a ski resort.
"tiny dancer"
It being a tacit point of contention, as such things always were, whether Switzerland or Austria had the best vantage on the Alps, their getaways were always arranged and arbitered by a third party. By the time they worked up the injured dignity to speak to each other again, Liechtenstein had been and done.
She left her deft, small-fingered touch all across the slipping-sliding border of their relationship, bright ribbons peeking in Switzerland's fresh-aired kitchens and bright smiles lost in the light of lazy Austrian towns.
Switzerland taught her to ski, guiding her into reaches below meadows she'd roamed since birth. Austria took her hand and invited her upward, taught her to glide pianissimo across the roof of his world and the moments she must never take another step into.
Liechtenstein kept her fingers light, her eyes on her brother, her steps in time to the rhythm of the three of them so that when the snow melted -- when her brother looked back, when she'd found her footing -- she could dance into their arms and take his hand.
*
Request: Poland talking to Lithuania about who's so totally hot omg and Liet getting annoyed by this \o/
"ohmigod liet you prune"
"Poland, pass the shears."
Rustle. Thunk.
"Poland, the -- stop making that face -- shears, please."
"... Poland."
A titter and a tumble later Lithuania found himself facedown and fast friends with the bush he'd been so intent on trimming, patience fleeing fast. It was Poland, always Poland, Poland who'd insisted on bringing ridiculous ornamental flowers to his garden, Poland who carved funny things into his trees, Poland who brought all productivity to a standstill the moment he sashayed into the yard.
"That's, like, pretty much my actual name, Liet, watch out or you'll wear it out." Poland's elbow, in the sore muscles of his back.
Lithuania gritted his teeth and counted to ten, since he didn't make a habit of being snappy.
"So, y'know how that little cousin or brother or whatever of yours, what's-his-name shaky kid?" Only Poland could make it sound like he was snapping gum on an empty mouth full of vowels. "Ha, totally got you, didn't I? The guy next to him who's, y'know, always screaming? Like, seriously? I've never seen anybody dress up so nice, can you believe--"
And before Lithuania could muster any input, Poland had rolled and knocked the breath straight out of him, head pillowed on his hands and breath stirring at the back of Lithuania's neck.
"And, like, that guy from up north was so totally checking us out yesterday, I mean I'd definitely check out where his axe goes, I mean who wouldn't?"
"Poland--"
"Liet, I thought I totally told you--"
Between one moment and the next, Lithuania managed to lose track of himself. Once he'd stopped pressing Poland into the dirt, he couldn't find it in himself to apologize, either -- not to Poland, not to Poland's smirk.
"I thought I totally told you, right? All work and no play makes boys so dull."
*
Request: France/England please? someting based on the song "singing in the rain"
"turning eighteen hundred and waterloo"
Rain, on what some would call that dour little island, had always and never been something that came and went. Rain had dogged his steps through millennia, laughed in the fog like a ghost over his shoulder, never left his muskets dry and held blood mist over mud like libation.
He counted it a blessing that the heavens at least cleaned his boots better than spit.
In a handful of days following the 18th century that blurred, watery, all into each other, England extracted a battered umbrella from the depths of a house and went into town, and then promptly forgot why he was there. The air tasted septic and he'd probably swallowed down all the misbegotten sorrows on earth about ten steps in, but there was something absolutely and arrestingly idiotic about it.
Or perhaps just the single and hatless mad dog drifting in lazy circles down the street, dressed neither for the weather nor for himself.
"I thought," intoned England, carefully dry save for his umbrella, "that we had tanned the shamelessness out of your hide, impossibly French though it is."
His words drifted and slid wetly from France's underdressed shoulders like most else, and anyhow, he had better things to do, "than stand here and watch a fool get himself systematically drunk on rainwater--"
It was a strange thing, watching France smile at him under any old conditions, and England had thought, foolishly enough, that he couldn't possibly hate it -- its gentle, mad, maddening reminder of a leer -- any more than he already did. They were all madder than taxes and had been mad for far longer than eighteen centuries and would be mad for a long time to come.
And France -- hair plastered against his cheeks by England's wayward hand and mouth caught red in his ruined sneer, touches and blows below the belt and water, water over their teeth and all words and seeping into the drainage -- the maddest waste of them all.
*
Request: America/Poland, stealing fries from each other? ;3;
"speak easy"
"So, like..." Poland licked his lips, licked them again, and went on in the face of all that was rational, Bubblegum Rule #32. "Like, are we here for business or p-- or, what, like, you're proposing something else on the fly?"
His "business partner" grinned widely at him and reached shiny greasy fingers across the table again, drew his prize against his lips and watched him flush and shift, once, twice, three times before throwing back his head and licking it up in a rush of ketchup and laughter.
Poland smoothed his skirt again, smoothed his leggings, and glared meaningfully at his lap.
"Don't worry," said America, hearty and sleek shaved clean off Wall Street, "I take care of guests--" Fingers, blunt digging fingers with potato strips hanging off the ends that Poland caught himself licking his lips at. "--immigrants, anyone who washes up, I take care of."
That snapped Poland's eyes up, lips still shiny enough to smile and he snapped out picking fingers, made a battlefield of America's ketchup and smeared salt stickily on his mouth to make up for the lack of something to curl his tongue through.
"You've, like, totally lost your stupid marbles if you think I'm washed up," sticky sweet, "maybe you've got that big fat jerk Russia on your big fat mind?"
America had very white, even teeth, and they made a snicking sound when they ripped into soggy french fry. Poland kept his tongue in. America pushed his glasses into his nose with his middle finger and sucked, lips wet and shiny.
*
Request: Russia/Bulgaria, Dressing Up
"doornail stigmata"
Moon: this is a night full, cradled in a hush stroked with the cries of wolves in the cold.
Fingers: these are his, limned against the spare dark lines of Bulgaria's body, elephant movements over familiar ground - he is a sailor not by blood or sweat but soul, eyes to the West, weight bearing south, back slung to the East.
Bulgaria groans beneath him, but does not struggle, his only protest the creaking of his bones. Russia breathes in, winds a knot, breathes out in noxious blasts and Bulgaria merely wrinkles his nose.
His closet is full of skeletons and scarves, Siberian graves. Bones sprinkle to dust on the floor of his bedroom and Russia does not pause but says his hello to each, a pleasing ceremony ended with the noose of the scarf against Bulgaria's throat, his hip, his crown, his tongue. The slow mummification makes Russia and all his bottled ghosts laugh, does not make them any warmer.
Eventually, Bulgaria winds jackal fingers in Russia's own scarf, growls something into cloth. Russia has not bound his fingers because he can easily break both wrists, has never done so, remembers the touch of their pliable bones, lovingly.
"We are almost one, comrade," he explains laughingly. "You look very fashionable, very ready for Moscow's winter."
The cut of Bulgaria's breath he ignores, bearing against his chest with hands busy -- the scarf must go between Bulgaria's legs, once, twice, three times, tied very gently with both of Russia's hands.
He leans back, all smiles, and watches Bulgaria's hot desperate breath in the air.
FUCK YES.
... now what.
Actually lol I did stupid things to my Japanese quizzes on Monday, what the fuck lmfao why can't I read fjljflkdjf /annoyed with self
At least I will never forget the Japanese for 'musical appreciation' as long as I live or something. B| No teacher like failure!!
........ okay yeah since I have nothing to post about I might as well just toss these (really old) drabbles out. Unedited because I'm lazy right now I might take a chainsaw to them later; written in a day for aphanon_meme, quality ranges from decent to horrendous. AND LET'S NOT EVEN TALK ABOUT MY INABILITY TO STAY ON-PROMPT, OK? OK.
Request: Austria/Switzerland/Liechtenstein, weekend at a ski resort.
"tiny dancer"
It being a tacit point of contention, as such things always were, whether Switzerland or Austria had the best vantage on the Alps, their getaways were always arranged and arbitered by a third party. By the time they worked up the injured dignity to speak to each other again, Liechtenstein had been and done.
She left her deft, small-fingered touch all across the slipping-sliding border of their relationship, bright ribbons peeking in Switzerland's fresh-aired kitchens and bright smiles lost in the light of lazy Austrian towns.
Switzerland taught her to ski, guiding her into reaches below meadows she'd roamed since birth. Austria took her hand and invited her upward, taught her to glide pianissimo across the roof of his world and the moments she must never take another step into.
Liechtenstein kept her fingers light, her eyes on her brother, her steps in time to the rhythm of the three of them so that when the snow melted -- when her brother looked back, when she'd found her footing -- she could dance into their arms and take his hand.
*
Request: Poland talking to Lithuania about who's so totally hot omg and Liet getting annoyed by this \o/
"ohmigod liet you prune"
"Poland, pass the shears."
Rustle. Thunk.
"Poland, the -- stop making that face -- shears, please."
"... Poland."
A titter and a tumble later Lithuania found himself facedown and fast friends with the bush he'd been so intent on trimming, patience fleeing fast. It was Poland, always Poland, Poland who'd insisted on bringing ridiculous ornamental flowers to his garden, Poland who carved funny things into his trees, Poland who brought all productivity to a standstill the moment he sashayed into the yard.
"That's, like, pretty much my actual name, Liet, watch out or you'll wear it out." Poland's elbow, in the sore muscles of his back.
Lithuania gritted his teeth and counted to ten, since he didn't make a habit of being snappy.
"So, y'know how that little cousin or brother or whatever of yours, what's-his-name shaky kid?" Only Poland could make it sound like he was snapping gum on an empty mouth full of vowels. "Ha, totally got you, didn't I? The guy next to him who's, y'know, always screaming? Like, seriously? I've never seen anybody dress up so nice, can you believe--"
And before Lithuania could muster any input, Poland had rolled and knocked the breath straight out of him, head pillowed on his hands and breath stirring at the back of Lithuania's neck.
"And, like, that guy from up north was so totally checking us out yesterday, I mean I'd definitely check out where his axe goes, I mean who wouldn't?"
"Poland--"
"Liet, I thought I totally told you--"
Between one moment and the next, Lithuania managed to lose track of himself. Once he'd stopped pressing Poland into the dirt, he couldn't find it in himself to apologize, either -- not to Poland, not to Poland's smirk.
"I thought I totally told you, right? All work and no play makes boys so dull."
*
Request: France/England please? someting based on the song "singing in the rain"
"turning eighteen hundred and waterloo"
Rain, on what some would call that dour little island, had always and never been something that came and went. Rain had dogged his steps through millennia, laughed in the fog like a ghost over his shoulder, never left his muskets dry and held blood mist over mud like libation.
He counted it a blessing that the heavens at least cleaned his boots better than spit.
In a handful of days following the 18th century that blurred, watery, all into each other, England extracted a battered umbrella from the depths of a house and went into town, and then promptly forgot why he was there. The air tasted septic and he'd probably swallowed down all the misbegotten sorrows on earth about ten steps in, but there was something absolutely and arrestingly idiotic about it.
Or perhaps just the single and hatless mad dog drifting in lazy circles down the street, dressed neither for the weather nor for himself.
"I thought," intoned England, carefully dry save for his umbrella, "that we had tanned the shamelessness out of your hide, impossibly French though it is."
His words drifted and slid wetly from France's underdressed shoulders like most else, and anyhow, he had better things to do, "than stand here and watch a fool get himself systematically drunk on rainwater--"
It was a strange thing, watching France smile at him under any old conditions, and England had thought, foolishly enough, that he couldn't possibly hate it -- its gentle, mad, maddening reminder of a leer -- any more than he already did. They were all madder than taxes and had been mad for far longer than eighteen centuries and would be mad for a long time to come.
And France -- hair plastered against his cheeks by England's wayward hand and mouth caught red in his ruined sneer, touches and blows below the belt and water, water over their teeth and all words and seeping into the drainage -- the maddest waste of them all.
*
Request: America/Poland, stealing fries from each other? ;3;
"speak easy"
"So, like..." Poland licked his lips, licked them again, and went on in the face of all that was rational, Bubblegum Rule #32. "Like, are we here for business or p-- or, what, like, you're proposing something else on the fly?"
His "business partner" grinned widely at him and reached shiny greasy fingers across the table again, drew his prize against his lips and watched him flush and shift, once, twice, three times before throwing back his head and licking it up in a rush of ketchup and laughter.
Poland smoothed his skirt again, smoothed his leggings, and glared meaningfully at his lap.
"Don't worry," said America, hearty and sleek shaved clean off Wall Street, "I take care of guests--" Fingers, blunt digging fingers with potato strips hanging off the ends that Poland caught himself licking his lips at. "--immigrants, anyone who washes up, I take care of."
That snapped Poland's eyes up, lips still shiny enough to smile and he snapped out picking fingers, made a battlefield of America's ketchup and smeared salt stickily on his mouth to make up for the lack of something to curl his tongue through.
"You've, like, totally lost your stupid marbles if you think I'm washed up," sticky sweet, "maybe you've got that big fat jerk Russia on your big fat mind?"
America had very white, even teeth, and they made a snicking sound when they ripped into soggy french fry. Poland kept his tongue in. America pushed his glasses into his nose with his middle finger and sucked, lips wet and shiny.
*
Request: Russia/Bulgaria, Dressing Up
"doornail stigmata"
Moon: this is a night full, cradled in a hush stroked with the cries of wolves in the cold.
Fingers: these are his, limned against the spare dark lines of Bulgaria's body, elephant movements over familiar ground - he is a sailor not by blood or sweat but soul, eyes to the West, weight bearing south, back slung to the East.
Bulgaria groans beneath him, but does not struggle, his only protest the creaking of his bones. Russia breathes in, winds a knot, breathes out in noxious blasts and Bulgaria merely wrinkles his nose.
His closet is full of skeletons and scarves, Siberian graves. Bones sprinkle to dust on the floor of his bedroom and Russia does not pause but says his hello to each, a pleasing ceremony ended with the noose of the scarf against Bulgaria's throat, his hip, his crown, his tongue. The slow mummification makes Russia and all his bottled ghosts laugh, does not make them any warmer.
Eventually, Bulgaria winds jackal fingers in Russia's own scarf, growls something into cloth. Russia has not bound his fingers because he can easily break both wrists, has never done so, remembers the touch of their pliable bones, lovingly.
"We are almost one, comrade," he explains laughingly. "You look very fashionable, very ready for Moscow's winter."
The cut of Bulgaria's breath he ignores, bearing against his chest with hands busy -- the scarf must go between Bulgaria's legs, once, twice, three times, tied very gently with both of Russia's hands.
He leans back, all smiles, and watches Bulgaria's hot desperate breath in the air.