Truth or Dare Hetalia-Style [1/a few]
anonymous
March 21 2010, 02:26:52 UTC
It was all because of the bosses, really. The Nations had gotten into one of their many disagreements, yelling so loudly that not one neutral party could get a word in edgewise. Thus, it was suggested that they spend some time together, bonding-or being kept out of the hair of the bosses, depending on your point of view. To the bosses, this meant locking the poor Nations into the building, leaving sleeping bags, personalized night clothes, and food at strategic locations, and, of course, making sure the bars on the windows were secure enough that no Nation could break through and leave. To the Nations, this signified a night of pure torture at the hands of the people they were supposed to trust most. They cried. They pleaded. They bargained. The bosses didn’t listen.
Thus, they were forced into a sleepover, whether they liked it or not.
---
“What now? This is so totally lame,” a bored Poland asked after the Nations had changed into their pajamas. Everyone was staring at each other, not sure how they should interact without politics or disagreements as an excuse. A couple of minor arguments had already broken out, and it was only Switzerland’s gunslinger skills that prevented them from getting too out of hand.
“I know!” America shouted a minute later, smacking his fist into an open palm for emphasis. “We can play truth or dare!” There was groaning, but America ignored it, instead choosing to point a finger at England. “England! Truth or dare?”
England scowled. “Don’t just announce a ridiculous game and assume we’re all playing, git.” At America’s crestfallen look, however, England sighed and turned away, grumbling, “Truth.”
America grinned. The fake puppy dog pout worked every time. “Is it true,” America paused for effect, feeling encouraged by the curious looks he was getting. “Is it true that McDonald’s is your favorite fast food restaurant?”
“What the hell kind of bloody question is that?!” England shouted, taking a step back in shock, flushing. How did he know to ask that? Who told him?
“Just answer the question!” Someone who sounded an awful lot like a snickering Prussia shouted.
Glaring at no one in particular, England sighed. Might as well get the truth out there and move on quickly. “Yes.”
Of course, the truth couldn’t be taken quietly. Oh no. America shouted a triumphant “I knew it!” and before long, the whole room had descended into laughter.
Scowling again, England quickly looked for his victim, a devious look flitting across his face when he noticed a particular Nation in his birthday suit.
“France,” he said gruffly, and all laughter stopped almost immediately. “Truth or dare?”
France gave such a smile that would have been almost swoon-worthy if shown to the right person. Given that the smile was shown to England, however, he merely received a glare for his efforts. “Dare, if you would. I’m not afraid like someone.”
England resisted the urge to roll his eyes…barely. “I dare you to keep your clothes on for at least ten minutes.”
Gasps were heard throughout the room. France merely laughed. “Ten minutes? Certainly.” And then, as if he were putting on a show, he ever so slowly and sensually pulled on his rose-printed satin pajamas.
England gave up on trying not to roll his eyes as he pulled out a stopwatch. “Time starting…now.” The seconds ticked by, many eyes focused on France.
One minute passed. Two. Three, and now France was starting to get twitchy. Four minutes. Five.
At six minutes on the dot, the intensity of the stares finally broke France. He couldn’t stand the fact that he finally had everyone’s attention, and yet he was showing nothing.
“Je me rends!” he shouted, throwing off his pajamas and simultaneously donning a rose.
“I knew you couldn’t do it, you perverted frog,” England said smugly, crossing his arms.
“Why should I hide my body? It’s a work of art,” France sang, trying to move closer to Veneziano. The glares shot by both Germany and Romano, however, sent him scuttling closer to Spain.
“Espagne,” he said smoothly, ignoring Romano’s shout of disapproval. “Truth or dare?”
Thus, they were forced into a sleepover, whether they liked it or not.
---
“What now? This is so totally lame,” a bored Poland asked after the Nations had changed into their pajamas. Everyone was staring at each other, not sure how they should interact without politics or disagreements as an excuse. A couple of minor arguments had already broken out, and it was only Switzerland’s gunslinger skills that prevented them from getting too out of hand.
“I know!” America shouted a minute later, smacking his fist into an open palm for emphasis. “We can play truth or dare!” There was groaning, but America ignored it, instead choosing to point a finger at England. “England! Truth or dare?”
England scowled. “Don’t just announce a ridiculous game and assume we’re all playing, git.” At America’s crestfallen look, however, England sighed and turned away, grumbling, “Truth.”
America grinned. The fake puppy dog pout worked every time. “Is it true,” America paused for effect, feeling encouraged by the curious looks he was getting. “Is it true that McDonald’s is your favorite fast food restaurant?”
“What the hell kind of bloody question is that?!” England shouted, taking a step back in shock, flushing. How did he know to ask that? Who told him?
“Just answer the question!” Someone who sounded an awful lot like a snickering Prussia shouted.
Glaring at no one in particular, England sighed. Might as well get the truth out there and move on quickly. “Yes.”
Of course, the truth couldn’t be taken quietly. Oh no. America shouted a triumphant “I knew it!” and before long, the whole room had descended into laughter.
Scowling again, England quickly looked for his victim, a devious look flitting across his face when he noticed a particular Nation in his birthday suit.
“France,” he said gruffly, and all laughter stopped almost immediately. “Truth or dare?”
France gave such a smile that would have been almost swoon-worthy if shown to the right person. Given that the smile was shown to England, however, he merely received a glare for his efforts. “Dare, if you would. I’m not afraid like someone.”
England resisted the urge to roll his eyes…barely. “I dare you to keep your clothes on for at least ten minutes.”
Gasps were heard throughout the room. France merely laughed. “Ten minutes? Certainly.” And then, as if he were putting on a show, he ever so slowly and sensually pulled on his rose-printed satin pajamas.
England gave up on trying not to roll his eyes as he pulled out a stopwatch. “Time starting…now.” The seconds ticked by, many eyes focused on France.
One minute passed. Two. Three, and now France was starting to get twitchy. Four minutes. Five.
At six minutes on the dot, the intensity of the stares finally broke France. He couldn’t stand the fact that he finally had everyone’s attention, and yet he was showing nothing.
“Je me rends!” he shouted, throwing off his pajamas and simultaneously donning a rose.
“I knew you couldn’t do it, you perverted frog,” England said smugly, crossing his arms.
“Why should I hide my body? It’s a work of art,” France sang, trying to move closer to Veneziano. The glares shot by both Germany and Romano, however, sent him scuttling closer to Spain.
“Espagne,” he said smoothly, ignoring Romano’s shout of disapproval. “Truth or dare?”
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