US/UK: Wolf caught the rabbit
anonymous
August 25 2009, 15:41:32 UTC
Anons, sorry to add to the ever growing pile of requests but this anon just found a new kink.
Holy sh-- I will never look at rabbit!England the same way again.
Preferably AU (fairytail-ish where people with extra appendages seems normal) and human names? I just want to see the events that lead to the picture...and maybe up until the end of it. ;)
Oh! And humor, if possible. (Haha. Arthur being dub-con'd is funny? What. Is. Wrong. With. Me.)
Company With Wolves (part 1)
anonymous
August 26 2009, 20:58:17 UTC
Ulula cum lupis, cum quibus esse cupis. Translation: "Who keeps company with wolves, will learn to howl." - proverb
***
Once upon a time, there was a rabbit. His name was England. He had been born with the floppy, fuzzy ears of a rabbit, and a little fuzzy tail, and all the speed and agility and quick reflexes of a rabbit. He had eyes as green as new spring grass, and sandy-pale hair, and he was beloved by all the magical creatures of the land. The fairies had fluttered by his crib, and unicorns strolled up to him to lay their heads in his lap.
He was a wizard, a powerful magic-worker by the time he was very young. But all the time he spent studying spells, and his own natural inclination to be brutally honest, and sharp-witted (and sharp-tongued), and observant, meant he had very few friends. "Friendless England!" the other animals called him. His brothers, wizards themselves, mocked him and threw hexes and stones at him. As a result, he grew surly, and even more apt to use his sharp tongue, unfriendly and untrusting.
Because he grew to be a powerful little wizard, soon very few animals attacked him. His brothers were cowed and defeated by his spells, and promised with grumbles and frowns to swear never to harass him again. (they broke that promise multiple times, but they maintained he deserved it. He usually did.)
He had only one friend, if friend he could be called. Actually he was more an enemy who kept popping up again, and by sheer familiarity was the closest person to England the Wizard Bunny. His name was France the Peacock. (France the Cock, England usually called him.) He was beautiful - and knew it. He was witty, AND diplomatic and charming enough to keep it from cutting as England's did - and he knew that too. He was cultured, artistic, learned about philosophy, the arts - and he knew that too.
England found him infuriating. France found England "quaintly amusing," and lived in hope that one day he would live up to the rabbits' supposed status as symbols of playful and fertile sexuality.
And this was his only 'friend'. Truly did England live a sad and lonely life.
But one day, as England walked the woods in search of certain magic herbs, he heard a tiny whimpering. Cautiously - because he was out farther than he'd ever been before, in a new area of the woods where there were trees and plnats he'd never even seen before, almost a whole new world compared to the comforting oak forest he lived and grew up in - he approached the sound.
He found a tiny cub curled up in the hollow of a tree, helpless and needy as only a tiny abandoned baby could be, staring up at him with great big teary blue eyes. England caught his breath, reached out a hand. The little cub growled, the pale-golden ears pinning flat to his skull. England swallowed hard, but continued to reach for him.
Suddenly, like a lick of flickering lightning, the cub lunged, sank tiny needle-thin fangs into England's hand. England winced but did not withdraw, gathering the tiny thing into his arms and cradling him to his chest.
"Don't worry," he crooned, nuzzling the sweet-scented, sun-hued hair. "I'll take care of you. Poor little fellow, you're all alone, aren't you…"
Slowly the tinny, high-pitched growling petered out, became confused whimpering. As England continued to pet and soothe the cub, he gradually relaxed, nuzzling into England's chest. Timidly, a tiny pink tongue shot out and lapped at the little beads of blood welling from his small bitemarks, apologetically - and England's heart melted.
"I'll call you America," he promised, and the newly-named America licked his hand again.
Company With Wolves (part 2)
anonymous
August 27 2009, 10:06:09 UTC
America became the focus and center of England's universe. The tiny wolf pup was old enough to be away from his mother, but barely so. The fairies, almost as fascinated by him as England was, daily brought crystal vases full of unicorn milk. (England was worried for a bit, but the unicorns assured him they liked being milked. England delicately decided not to inquire further.)
Fed on unicorn's milk, the puppy grew rapidly, and it wasn't long until he could toddle about on his own. He followed after England as faithful as a little shadow, dogging his steps with worshipful eyes, and crying whenever England wasn't in his immediate eyeshot. Sometimes he'd just sit at England's feet as the older male sat and read up on his scrolls of sorcery, just sat and watched him quietly with big wondering eyes for hours upon hours.
England paid back his worship and adoration with adoration and worship, completely in love with this tiny mote of sun-gold fluff he'd plucked out of the wilderness. Every little sneeze worried him as others worried about cubs on their death-beds. Every little feat was praised like heroic achievements were. He wore hand-embroidered clothes and hand-tooled shoes (when he remembered).
He grew fast, and learned quickly. His cleverness was a joy to England. Soon he was taking little America out for walks in the woods, teaching him about what plants were good to eat and what were poison, which were good for magic and for healing, for protection and for charms, which grew near water and which didn't need water; taught him how to find trails and navigate by sun and stars and flowing water. He taught him knowledge of trees and stones and the sky, of wind and streams and snow.
And he showed him off. Oh, how proud he was of his golden boy, his America, walking proudly beside the cub - HIS cub, who loved England best of all the world. What did he care about taunts of foolish woodland creatures? He wasn't friendless - he had America.
The other animals watched with bemusement. No one could quite believe that England could take good care of anyone, much less such a tiny cub. More than one person wondered if he was using magicks to keep the cub at his side. England was mean, selfish, self-centered; greedy, absent-minded, and scatterbrained. Hardly a good choice for a father-figure for such a little mite, was he? Some tried to take the pretty little thing away from England.
His wrath was terrible and swift when they tried. They were not helped by the fact that America always howled and wailed as if being beaten with thorned sticks when someone took him away from his beloved "Engwaaaand", and that his despairing cries of his guardian's name always brought England running. Many a broken bone, a black eye, or a burned-down home could be attributed to attempts to take America away from England. Soon enough, people stopped trying.
Still, people whispered doubtfully if the "poor little child" was all right with England. And, well, there was also the fact that…
"Mon ami," France pointed out, when England was watching America romp in a field full of wildflowers. "You seem to have forgotten something. You are a rabbit. He is a WOLF."
"Don't be racist, France," England snapped.
"It is NOT being racist to point out that your kind and his are natural enemies. Some wolves still EAT rabbits like yourself."
"America won't," England said, full of confidence. "He doesn't eat animals like us, talking animals, anyway. Who's raised him? Not rabbit-eating wolves. No wolves at all. I did, France - it's me who raised him! And - " he chuckled, watching America trip and stumble into a copse of bluebells. "He's a terrible hunter. Did I tell you about the time he came home crying because a bluejay - a bluejay, France - had pecked him on the nose for trying to filch its eggs?"
"Yes, you have," France said, his tone long-suffering.
"Well, then you see my point. And even if he did make a habit of eating talking animals for breakfast lunch and dinner, he still wouldn't touch me. You know why? Because he loves me."
"He is clumsy now, because he is a child. But children grow up, England…"
Re: Company With Wolves (part 2)
anonymous
August 27 2009, 17:50:18 UTC
Oh, he'll grow up all right, England. Just you wait and see... I'm wondering if there's going to be a Revolution parallel here, or if it'll just be America growing up naturally. Love the banter between England and France, btw. So in-character!
Captcha: 69 adrenal ...I'm not sure I want to know what that means.
Company With Wolves (part 3)
anonymous
August 29 2009, 04:31:38 UTC
As France had predicted, America did in fact grow - grew like a weed in the sun, tall and straight and stubborn-strong, bathed in gold. And unnaturally quickly, too - sometimes England felt, with a touch of wistful regret, that it had all happened overnight, like magic, a transformation as sudden and complete as an alchemic ritual rather than any natural. How else - how else had his tiny, fubsy, clumsy ball of fluff turned into this sleek-moving youth, all long limbs and oversized hands and feet, romping all over the woods and tumbling headfirst into trouble all the time?
America was better able to take care of himself now - able to entertain himself, to find his own food, and most certainly to defend himself. As England's gift was magical strength, America's was physical - he was fast, powerful, agile. Once he'd gotten into a fight with France, when he saw the peacock laying hands on his guardian's vital regions. With a snarl rippling like angry thunder from his lifted lips, he'd pounced on the jewel-hued peacock, and thrashed him. Although, as France often said, "I am a lover, not a fighter," England was reassured; if he could take France on, he could take anyone in the woods.
(Of course, France had taken this as further proof that America would grow up into a ravening hunter-beast. England had retorted that if America hunted France, it was no concern to him. He didn't mention how America had spent the night spitting out feathers and making faces, and chowing down on England's scones to drown out the taste of France in his mouth. That each scone had been covered in enough cream and jam to have outweighted two scones had escaped England's notice.)
So England felt safe in returning to some of his old way; spending days searching for esoteric, rare spell-components like mandrake root and black mistletoe visible only by the light of the full moon; or locking himself up in secret, hidden libraries to pore over ancient, brittle scrolls and books, studying the unicorn herds - in short, being the same study-obsessed wizard he had been since very young.
Unlike before, though, England had a reason to look forward to coming back; a certain bright-eyed, wagging-tailed wolfcub who would pounce on him the moment he crossed his threshold.
That was, until America stopped waiting for him to come back. England felt the sinking feeling in his stomach the first time he returned home and there had been no overenthusiastic wolfcub to tackle him in the name of overzealous affection. The house had been empty; the kitchen filled with the scent of strange and new dishes; foods England hadn't taught America to eat.
He'd been worried to death, had begun casting scrying spells for his wayward puppy, but it had only turned out that America was fishing in the nearby river.
And then America began to go on his own exploratory trips, began - began to make friends who weren't England! Spain, a young bull with great curving horns, taught America how to tame and ride the wild horses who ran the mountains where Spain lived; Germany and Prussia, the two eagle brothers, wrestled with him and hiked with him and taught him to make sausages; and he even began to talk with FRANCE, talk weird and stupid, useless things like philosophy and how to make a roux!
England was afraid he was losing his wolfcub. His attempts to make America stay safe, close to home, limit his involvement with those cruel, dangerous animals who had tormented England during his childhood, only drove a wedge between him and America. They began to argue - they, who had never had a cross word between them before!
So he turned to the one thing that had never let him down. He disappeared into the depths of his personal library and researched spells - then he went on a journey to gather things, silver wolfsbane cut by a silver sickle, mandrake and Kingmark root, mystrile harvested from the bottom of the sea, the blood of a dragon killed by silver, a thread woven from spidersilk and unicorn hair twisted together.
And from these things he forged a silver collar, and fastened it on America's neck as he slept.
Holy sh-- I will never look at rabbit!England the same way again.
Preferably AU (fairytail-ish where people with extra appendages seems normal) and human names? I just want to see the events that lead to the picture...and maybe up until the end of it. ;)
Oh! And humor, if possible. (Haha. Arthur being dub-con'd is funny? What. Is. Wrong. With. Me.)
You can shoot me now.
I regret nothing.
Reply
Translation: "Who keeps company with wolves, will learn to howl."
- proverb
***
Once upon a time, there was a rabbit. His name was England. He had been born with the floppy, fuzzy ears of a rabbit, and a little fuzzy tail, and all the speed and agility and quick reflexes of a rabbit. He had eyes as green as new spring grass, and sandy-pale hair, and he was beloved by all the magical creatures of the land. The fairies had fluttered by his crib, and unicorns strolled up to him to lay their heads in his lap.
He was a wizard, a powerful magic-worker by the time he was very young. But all the time he spent studying spells, and his own natural inclination to be brutally honest, and sharp-witted (and sharp-tongued), and observant, meant he had very few friends. "Friendless England!" the other animals called him. His brothers, wizards themselves, mocked him and threw hexes and stones at him. As a result, he grew surly, and even more apt to use his sharp tongue, unfriendly and untrusting.
Because he grew to be a powerful little wizard, soon very few animals attacked him. His brothers were cowed and defeated by his spells, and promised with grumbles and frowns to swear never to harass him again. (they broke that promise multiple times, but they maintained he deserved it. He usually did.)
He had only one friend, if friend he could be called. Actually he was more an enemy who kept popping up again, and by sheer familiarity was the closest person to England the Wizard Bunny. His name was France the Peacock. (France the Cock, England usually called him.) He was beautiful - and knew it. He was witty, AND diplomatic and charming enough to keep it from cutting as England's did - and he knew that too. He was cultured, artistic, learned about philosophy, the arts - and he knew that too.
England found him infuriating. France found England "quaintly amusing," and lived in hope that one day he would live up to the rabbits' supposed status as symbols of playful and fertile sexuality.
And this was his only 'friend'. Truly did England live a sad and lonely life.
But one day, as England walked the woods in search of certain magic herbs, he heard a tiny whimpering. Cautiously - because he was out farther than he'd ever been before, in a new area of the woods where there were trees and plnats he'd never even seen before, almost a whole new world compared to the comforting oak forest he lived and grew up in - he approached the sound.
He found a tiny cub curled up in the hollow of a tree, helpless and needy as only a tiny abandoned baby could be, staring up at him with great big teary blue eyes. England caught his breath, reached out a hand. The little cub growled, the pale-golden ears pinning flat to his skull. England swallowed hard, but continued to reach for him.
Suddenly, like a lick of flickering lightning, the cub lunged, sank tiny needle-thin fangs into England's hand. England winced but did not withdraw, gathering the tiny thing into his arms and cradling him to his chest.
"Don't worry," he crooned, nuzzling the sweet-scented, sun-hued hair. "I'll take care of you. Poor little fellow, you're all alone, aren't you…"
Slowly the tinny, high-pitched growling petered out, became confused whimpering. As England continued to pet and soothe the cub, he gradually relaxed, nuzzling into England's chest. Timidly, a tiny pink tongue shot out and lapped at the little beads of blood welling from his small bitemarks, apologetically - and England's heart melted.
"I'll call you America," he promised, and the newly-named America licked his hand again.
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reCAPTCHA: "fragrant $3-million." Uh, I'll give you a fragrant $3 million to continue this.
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OMG~ Fuck! Seriously, oh he will not like it one bit... XDDDDDDDDDD
recaptcha: tables Iceland's. Wait what? France the peacock to be served on to Iceland?!
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Fed on unicorn's milk, the puppy grew rapidly, and it wasn't long until he could toddle about on his own. He followed after England as faithful as a little shadow, dogging his steps with worshipful eyes, and crying whenever England wasn't in his immediate eyeshot. Sometimes he'd just sit at England's feet as the older male sat and read up on his scrolls of sorcery, just sat and watched him quietly with big wondering eyes for hours upon hours.
England paid back his worship and adoration with adoration and worship, completely in love with this tiny mote of sun-gold fluff he'd plucked out of the wilderness. Every little sneeze worried him as others worried about cubs on their death-beds. Every little feat was praised like heroic achievements were. He wore hand-embroidered clothes and hand-tooled shoes (when he remembered).
He grew fast, and learned quickly. His cleverness was a joy to England. Soon he was taking little America out for walks in the woods, teaching him about what plants were good to eat and what were poison, which were good for magic and for healing, for protection and for charms, which grew near water and which didn't need water; taught him how to find trails and navigate by sun and stars and flowing water. He taught him knowledge of trees and stones and the sky, of wind and streams and snow.
And he showed him off. Oh, how proud he was of his golden boy, his America, walking proudly beside the cub - HIS cub, who loved England best of all the world. What did he care about taunts of foolish woodland creatures? He wasn't friendless - he had America.
The other animals watched with bemusement. No one could quite believe that England could take good care of anyone, much less such a tiny cub. More than one person wondered if he was using magicks to keep the cub at his side. England was mean, selfish, self-centered; greedy, absent-minded, and scatterbrained. Hardly a good choice for a father-figure for such a little mite, was he? Some tried to take the pretty little thing away from England.
His wrath was terrible and swift when they tried. They were not helped by the fact that America always howled and wailed as if being beaten with thorned sticks when someone took him away from his beloved "Engwaaaand", and that his despairing cries of his guardian's name always brought England running. Many a broken bone, a black eye, or a burned-down home could be attributed to attempts to take America away from England. Soon enough, people stopped trying.
Still, people whispered doubtfully if the "poor little child" was all right with England. And, well, there was also the fact that…
"Mon ami," France pointed out, when England was watching America romp in a field full of wildflowers. "You seem to have forgotten something. You are a rabbit. He is a WOLF."
"Don't be racist, France," England snapped.
"It is NOT being racist to point out that your kind and his are natural enemies. Some wolves still EAT rabbits like yourself."
"America won't," England said, full of confidence. "He doesn't eat animals like us, talking animals, anyway. Who's raised him? Not rabbit-eating wolves. No wolves at all. I did, France - it's me who raised him! And - " he chuckled, watching America trip and stumble into a copse of bluebells. "He's a terrible hunter. Did I tell you about the time he came home crying because a bluejay - a bluejay, France - had pecked him on the nose for trying to filch its eggs?"
"Yes, you have," France said, his tone long-suffering.
"Well, then you see my point. And even if he did make a habit of eating talking animals for breakfast lunch and dinner, he still wouldn't touch me. You know why? Because he loves me."
"He is clumsy now, because he is a child. But children grow up, England…"
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Captcha: 69 adrenal ...I'm not sure I want to know what that means.
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America was better able to take care of himself now - able to entertain himself, to find his own food, and most certainly to defend himself. As England's gift was magical strength, America's was physical - he was fast, powerful, agile. Once he'd gotten into a fight with France, when he saw the peacock laying hands on his guardian's vital regions. With a snarl rippling like angry thunder from his lifted lips, he'd pounced on the jewel-hued peacock, and thrashed him. Although, as France often said, "I am a lover, not a fighter," England was reassured; if he could take France on, he could take anyone in the woods.
(Of course, France had taken this as further proof that America would grow up into a ravening hunter-beast. England had retorted that if America hunted France, it was no concern to him. He didn't mention how America had spent the night spitting out feathers and making faces, and chowing down on England's scones to drown out the taste of France in his mouth. That each scone had been covered in enough cream and jam to have outweighted two scones had escaped England's notice.)
So England felt safe in returning to some of his old way; spending days searching for esoteric, rare spell-components like mandrake root and black mistletoe visible only by the light of the full moon; or locking himself up in secret, hidden libraries to pore over ancient, brittle scrolls and books, studying the unicorn herds - in short, being the same study-obsessed wizard he had been since very young.
Unlike before, though, England had a reason to look forward to coming back; a certain bright-eyed, wagging-tailed wolfcub who would pounce on him the moment he crossed his threshold.
That was, until America stopped waiting for him to come back. England felt the sinking feeling in his stomach the first time he returned home and there had been no overenthusiastic wolfcub to tackle him in the name of overzealous affection. The house had been empty; the kitchen filled with the scent of strange and new dishes; foods England hadn't taught America to eat.
He'd been worried to death, had begun casting scrying spells for his wayward puppy, but it had only turned out that America was fishing in the nearby river.
And then America began to go on his own exploratory trips, began - began to make friends who weren't England! Spain, a young bull with great curving horns, taught America how to tame and ride the wild horses who ran the mountains where Spain lived; Germany and Prussia, the two eagle brothers, wrestled with him and hiked with him and taught him to make sausages; and he even began to talk with FRANCE, talk weird and stupid, useless things like philosophy and how to make a roux!
England was afraid he was losing his wolfcub. His attempts to make America stay safe, close to home, limit his involvement with those cruel, dangerous animals who had tormented England during his childhood, only drove a wedge between him and America. They began to argue - they, who had never had a cross word between them before!
So he turned to the one thing that had never let him down. He disappeared into the depths of his personal library and researched spells - then he went on a journey to gather things, silver wolfsbane cut by a silver sickle, mandrake and Kingmark root, mystrile harvested from the bottom of the sea, the blood of a dragon killed by silver, a thread woven from spidersilk and unicorn hair twisted together.
And from these things he forged a silver collar, and fastened it on America's neck as he slept.
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Great job Writer-Anon! :)
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If there's one thing that's bound to make America/Alfred utterly loathe/detest/HATE England with a firey passion, it's being caged.
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