Overprotective UK brothers
anonymous
February 20 2010, 06:38:01 UTC
This is gonna be a little long, so please bear with me.
Everyone knows that England doesn't have a very good relationship with his brothers, with all the bullying, arrow-shooting and everything. Well, in my head-canon, they secretly really ADORE their little brother, they were like that because they're SO tsundere (much more than England and even Romano) that the only way they can show they care is by being mean to their loved ones, just like two nations we all know very well. And, obviously, they are very protective of him, in that "No-one-hurts-or-upsets-my-brother-except-for-me" kind of way (that's why they were ok with being all together as the United Kingdom).
So, when Scotland, Wales and N. Ireland go to visit their beloved little brother one day, just to find him in the middle of some "couple quality time" with America, that's enough to make them get VERY protective of England and extremely distrustful of America. And to make matters worse, a very annoyed England tells them America is there to ask for the Queen and PM's blessings to officially date him. And of course, none of the older brothers is willing to let that happen.
So, Author-anons, your mission (should you decide to accept it) is to make America suffer the wrath of his lover's brothers and see if he can survive long enough to get his reward (in the form of a very sexy brtitish boyfriend).
BONUS:
-While England is mortified about his brothers finding them in their couple quality time, America, totally unable to read the atmosphere, is just all "Hey bros, I didn't expect you here, how's it goin'?"
-Scotland, Wales and N. Ireland manage to get Ireland and Sealand to help with their plan to scare America off. Sealand is also helping because he's afraid that America is trying to steal his brother from him.
-Not only they get help from Ireland and Sealand, but also from some of England's magical friends, because they believe that America is going to hurt him and worried that he's going to abandon him again (if one of those friends is a ghost or a dragon, I'll love you forever!)
The Battle (for) Britain [1a/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 01:05:36 UTC
“Graham, would you kindly turn that rubbish down before I nick you in the gob?”
Scotland grinned widely, a deep laugh rumbling in his throat as he reached down to tap the volume knob, turning the car radio down a single notch. “There, it’s down,” he said, tauntingly, his smile deceivingly pleasant. Northern Ireland, in the back seat, looked unamused, reaching forward to turn it down herself only to be slapped away by her brother.
“My car, my rules,” he said.
“Yr Alban,” Wales murmured quietly from the passenger seat, his thumb pointing absently in the other direction. “I think you missed the turn.”
“Let ‘im drive around again,” Northern Ireland cawed from the back seat, sitting back with her arms crossed. “It’s not like we even want to go.”
Scotland huffed from the front, looking in the rearview mirror for the turn he had in fact missed and turning the wheel to steer them sharply down a side-street. Northern Ireland shrieked as she was thrown across the back seat.
“What the bloody fuck, Albain?!”
“You know our Arthur,” Scotland growled. “If we show up half a second past tea, he’ll throw us out.”
This time, the brakes were applied as England’s house came into view, and Scotland turned into the driveway swiftly, his little electric car fitting nicely next to England’s pristine Bentley. The three unloaded, the only sounds those of car doors slamming and feet pounding up the walk to England’s front door, which was torn open without warning or ceremony.
“Hey, shrimp!” Scotland bellowed. “Come out here and help with my bags, like a gentleman!”
“I hear the telly,” Northern Ireland said, and strode in the direction of the living room, Wales following slowly behind.
Northern Ireland’s indignant cry had Scotland in the living room door in an instant, his toothy grin slipping off his face like a lead weight.
England was lying flat on his couch, curled up into himself with fury and embarrassment, giving a wide-eyed glare to his siblings that clearly threatened physical violence. Underneath him, with his hands wrapped around England’s waist, was America, a dumb smile slipping over his face.
“Hey! England, you didn’t tell me your brothers were coming over! Long time no see, you gu-”
There was a sickening crash as America was suddenly propelled across the room and into the opposite wall. Scotland stood next to where he’d ripped America from underneath England, his face red and nostrils flared.
“Graham,” England screamed, sitting up from where he was awkwardly dumped on the cushions and attempting to stand. Scotland’s arm held him firmly down. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”
Across the room, America gave a small, weak groan and rolled over into his back on the floor. The wall above him bore a great hole where it had been knocked in by his skull.
At the sight of it, England gasped slightly, and in immediate reaction took Scotland’s arm in both his hands and ripped it away. Scotland turned to push England down, leaning the entirety of his weight on England as the smaller struggled to upend him. England tore free only briefly enough to send a square fist into the underside of Scotland’s jaw, but Scotland remained stolid. He held both England’s wrists tightly in one hand, sending the message with a heavy palm across England’s chest that he was not to get up.
“No one moves,” Scotland said darkly, dangerously, “until I know why you were laying with that gormless mug.”
England’s mouth imitated that of a fish for a moment, and he fruitlessly pulled against Scotland’s grip, trying desperately to sit up. “Why I was laying with-don’t be an arsehole, Graham, he’s m-my-God and the Queen, America, are you all right?”
America gave another mild groan and rolled onto his side, running a hand under his bleeding nose.
The Battle (for) Britain [1b/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 01:07:53 UTC
“England,” Northern Ireland said from the doorway, darkly as well, her eyes trained dangerously on America’s wobbly form. “You have ten seconds, or the lad gets worse than a bloody nose.”
“Siobhan, I swear to God, if you touch him-”
“Nine seconds.”
“H-h’es-he’s over for the weekend, you slapper! All right? If you would kindly let me up, brother, I would be better willing to explain.”
The room froze for an agonizing moment, and finally Scotland levered back off of England and stood up. In a second England was on the floor next to America, helping him to sit up and wiping at his gushing nose with his handkerchief. America pushed him away gently, assuring that he was fine, while warily eyeing the siblings for any sudden movements.
When he was sure the bleeding in America’s nose was somewhat quelled, England turned on his siblings, the lot of which were giving extremely dirty looks to America-Wales included, one smoldering eye peeking from under his long, tousled, dark hair.
“Now listen, you lot,” England growled. “You’ve no right to come bursting into my home without so much as a ring, and interrupt my-ah, p-privacy. If you would kindly leave now, I won’t make more trouble than necessary.”
“Not until you tell us why he’s here, Lloegr,” Wales muttered, his lip curling up in a slight sneer around the pronoun. England stared for a moment in disconcertion-Wales was the quiet brother, it wasn’t like him to be so bitter.
“Well… he’s-he’s come to-”
“Why don’t we let the lad explain?”
All eyes turned to Northern Ireland, who leaned her weight onto one foot, a small, dirty smirk curling over her mouth. “Go on, then,” she said, lifting her chin in America’s direction. “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
America looked for a moment like a deer caught in a headlight’s beam, his eyes wide and flicking nervously between the siblings and England. He wetted his lips nervously, his tongue catching the blood left there, and sat up a bit, holding himself a bit taller.
“I came to ask the Queen for England’s hand in… uh… dating.”
He only faltered a moment at the odd wording, before puffing himself back up, looking daringly at Northern Ireland, who was back to sneering.
Before the sound could even register, there was a great crash, and America was on his back again, his hand covering a cheek that was quickly turning an angry red color.
England gave a loud shout and tackled Scotland onto his back, perching himself on Scotland’s chest and driving his tightly-balled fists, again and again, into Scotland’s eye and jaw and nose. Scotland’s hands grabbed and fisted violently around England’s arms, dragging them away as they came back to hit him. It was Northern Ireland who finally pried England off of him, and she tossed England to the side, his head colliding with the floor. He retreated slightly, going to crouch in front of America, who was alert again and staring at the brawl as if he couldn’t believe England was capable of such a thing.
Scotland pressed the heel of his hand to his bleeding nose as he sat up, and he and England glared at each other, in a stalemate. For a moment the only sound in the room was that of heavy breathing.
“Get out,” England muttered, his voice quiet and threatening. “Get out of my house.”
“Sorry, bràthair,” Scotland said, standing up. “But I’m afraid we’ve come to stay.”
“Uh, England, I can come back later, if it’s not-”
“No,” England said, placing a firm hand on America’s knee as he attempted to stand. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t let them think they’ve won.”
America sat back down reluctantly, looking as if he might’ve preferred to leave, his pride be damned.
The Battle (for) Britain [1c/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 01:12:04 UTC
Scotland chuckled, taking a step closer to where the two sat. England leaned up onto his knees slightly, placing himself in front of America.
“Him or us, Arthur.”
“You make it sound as if it’s a difficult decision.”
“What happened to bro’s before ho’s?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Graham. I said get out and I meant it.”
“Siobhan.”
“No, Graham, don’t you da-”
The remainder of England’s sentence was muffled in the carpet as Graham grabbed the back of his neck and shoved his face down into it, momentarily incapacitating him to allow Northern Ireland to grab America by the scruff of his t-shirt and haul him from the floor.
“Um,” America said, only resisting slightly as Northern Ireland manhandled him out of the room and to the open front door. “A hero like me would never hit a girl, but I was invited, you can’t just kick me out-”
Northern Ireland chuckled lightly as she shoved him over the threshold and onto the front porch. “I can, actually,” she said, leaning against the door with her hip cocked. “Sorry,” she said insincerely, “but this is for England’s own good. The best of Britain to you laddie, we’re expecting thunderstorms tonight.”
And with that, the door was slammed in America’s face, leaving him in the twilight under an overcast sky, the only sounds those of the evening traffic and England’s muffled screams of rage, filtering out from inside the house.
----------
Author Anon apologizes for the extreme switching between human names and country names and country names in difficult languages. ||OTL Worry not, America will suffer far more than this at the hands of the UK brothers. *hugs him apologetically* Let me know if you want anything translated or explained, and I'll be happy to! ^^;
Re: The Battle (for) Britain [1c/?]
anonymous
March 16 2010, 06:48:47 UTC
Oh, UK brothers. You are all so violent to each other. I really love your take on Scotland, N. Ireland and Wales, especially the personal touches when they're speaking in their own languages/dialects? <-- doesn't really know the difference, but appreciates them =D
America, the sweet Irish girl would happily scratch your eyes out. *hugs him* I hope he manages to hold his own.
And I don't fancy being one of the other UK siblings when England gets down and serious, if he's already out breaking noses. Then again, three on one.
Fantastic start, author!anon. I really look forward to seeing more! =DDDDDD
Re: The Battle (for) Britain [1c/?]
anonymous
March 21 2010, 05:40:52 UTC
YES A FILL FOR THIS. Excellent start so far. I find it absolutely hilarious that America was the the only civilized one here. I'm trying to find sympathy for England, but I'm really finding way too much amusement in his predictament.
OP (finally!) here
anonymous
March 20 2010, 07:39:34 UTC
Hey guys, sorry about showing up just now, but I have been very busy with school and work, so I hadn't been able to stop by these days, but I finally had a little time today.
Author-anon, you have just made me immensely happy with your fill! I liked the way you described England's brothers (and sister), all so protective of England in their own ways(loved Wales, by the way!). I also liked that England stood his ground and even fought Scotland when he started to hit America, after all he IS a very strong character, he wouldn't just let his siblings walk all over him.
And poor America, kicked out of his lovers house when he was invited in the fist place! The worst thing is, this is only the top of the iceberg, it's just about to get worse.
Author-anon, thank you so much and please continue soon, I'm very eager to know what othe thins you're planning for this fill. Well done!!
I'm not stalking either of them. Nope. Why would you think that? I don't think they're both FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE AND CHECKING IF THEY'VE UPDATED LIKE EVERYDAY. Nuh-uh.
If it didn't come through that I love both of the fills, I absolutely do. <3
The Battle (for) Britain [2a/?]
anonymous
May 9 2010, 00:05:15 UTC
America woke long before the suns rays tinted the clouded sky, and he had to look around for a long moment before he remembered where he was. The sweet thought of being in bed with England beside him left a dull ache as it fled.
The first of his movements made him immediately aware that his nose had been bleeding again, and he cursed as he wiped it with the back of his hand, and the action reminded him of his sore cheek, which throbbed when he touched it.
The thunderstorms hadn’t stopped until long after midnight, and though he was a hero and was not afraid of thunderstorms, the noise did not make falling asleep any easier. His eyes were slightly sore from a lack of being closed.
He propped himself up slightly on the backseat of England’s Bentley, his bomber jacket falling from where it had been draped over his shoulder. He shivered slightly at the loss of warmth, and stretched his sore back while he stared out the rain-smattered window at the streetlights illuminating the wet pavement.
The knocking at the car window nearly made him screech, and his heart thudded painfully fast in his chest. He breathed a sigh when he realized it was England, and leaned across the seat to open the door.
“Thanks for leaving your car unlocked,” he muttered as England climbed in out of the mist, his jacket pulled tightly over his pajamas.
England was uncomfortable as he sat on the seat next to America, looking at him with some mix of pity and sadness. “You look wretched,” he muttered, producing a small tin from his jacket pocket and unscrewing the lid.
“The thunder made it kind of hard to sleep-jeez, that’s cold!”
“Sorry,” England muttered, warming the ointment in-between his fingers for a moment before continuing to spread it over America’s cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. “It will help with the bruises.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” America contested, as England ripped open a plaster. England scowled slightly, and held America’s chin in his hand to prevent him moving as he stuck it gingerly over America’s nose.
“It will, if you don’t keep still.”
America huffed a bit, but sat back quietly for the ministrations, his eyes drooping a bit in tiredness. “What time is it?” he asked quietly after a while.
“About four,” England replied, rubbing the last of the ointment onto America’s forehead. “I had to make sure they’d be asleep. They have me under house arrest.”
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“Goodness, no,” England scoffed, setting the tin on the floor. “Though I can’t assure that the opposite is true.”
A faint smile passed between them, and England moved slightly closer, running this thumb over the arch of America’s bruised cheekbone. “My poor America,” he whispered, pushing up onto his knees to brush a faint kiss over the aching skin.
“Uh, thanks for… back there,” America said softly, closing his eyes to the light touch of England’s lips. “Not that I’m a damsel or anything, you know. Just don’t want to start this relationship by beating up the in-laws.”
The Battle (for) Britain [2b/?]
anonymous
May 9 2010, 00:07:17 UTC
“I know,” England said, smiling softly. “You’re the big, strong hero. I know.”
America grinned softly. “You bet.”
England’s smile softened, and he looked down to America’s hand, which he stroked lightly with his fingers. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry they hurt you. I won’t let it happen again.”
America rubbed small circles in England’s side, smiling softly. “I’ve had worse,” he assured England, who didn’t look comforted by the thought.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll get a hotel room or something. Can I borrow your car?”
“Yes, I brought you the keys.”
“I’ll be back later,” America said, running one hand over England’s hair, playing the ends between his fingers. “Don’t worry. A hero doesn’t give up that easy.”
England looked down at the upholstery, his fists clenched tightly on his legs. “It’s not worth it,” he whispered, his chest moving with a hitching breath. “Nothing’s worth putting up with them.”
“You are,” America murmured easily, moving forward to wrap his arms around England’s form and rest his cheek against England’s hair. “You’re worth it.”
England leaned his weight into America slightly, pressing the heat of his face against the cool surface of America’s exposed arm. America stroked at his side for a long while, as the rain picked up slightly, pattering against the roof above them.
“Thank you,” England said, almost silently, putting one hand around America’s waist. America smiled softly, pressing a kiss to England’s hair.
“I’m gonna do this right,” he said. “I promise. I’m not gonna fuck up with you again. Never again.”
England shook his head, burying it in America’s shoulder and grasping tightly at his back, his arms tight around America’s middle.
“You better get back,” America said, releasing him reluctantly.
“And you should leave,” England hummed, discontentedly. “If they come out and find you’re still here, I don’t know what they’ll do.”
“Yeah, I’ll get.”
England nodded, sitting back from America for only a moment before leaning into him again, resting silently against his chest. America held him obligingly for another while, enjoying the feeling of England in his arms that he’d been missing all night.
“I’ll see you later?” England asked, unsure and unwilling to let go.
“Yeah. Real soon.”
“All right,” England muttered, and a brief look between them initiated a soft kiss that flowed into light, desperate passion before ebbing back to soft and comforting.
With one despondent look back, England climbed from the car and retreated into the house, and America watched him go through the raindrops on the window, making the image distorted as through pebbled glass. Knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping again before dawn, he crawled awkwardly into the driver’s seat and started the car, pulling out of the driveway and heading for town. He’d need a load of caffeine to get him through the day to come; that much he knew for sure.
---------------------------------------
England had crept silently back into the house after meeting America, shaking the water from his hair and hanging his coat closest to the heat vent to dry it before the morning. He snuck successfully past his sleeping siblings’ rooms and into his own, but it took little more than the milky light of the moon coming in the window and the absence of America’s heat and soft snoring to make sleep entirely elusive.
It seemed he had only been dozing half an hour when the sun crested the far hills and thrust its rays into England’s bedroom, and he lay in bed silently for a long while, staring up at the cleared sky and wondering where America was, and if he’d gotten out of the driveway by now.
Eventually the sounds of his brothers destroying his kitchen dragged him out of his bed, and he washed his face quickly with freezing water before climbing down to the first floor, where smoke clung to the ceiling and the smells of charred bread and meat permeated the air.
The Battle (for) Britain [2c/?]
anonymous
May 9 2010, 00:11:06 UTC
“No, no, Wales, you’re going to burn it like that-”
“Cymru. And it’s already burnt, yr Alban.”
“Well then don’t burn it any more! Give the bloody thing to me, I’ll do it-just hold this, would you?”
England watched his brothers silently from the doorway, his arms wrapped around himself, praying for once that they wouldn’t hear him, that he would go unnoticed.
He wasn’t so lucky. A hearty slap on his back made him jump and suddenly his sister’s mane of untamed, fire-red hair was in his face, framing a face that read morning glory. He simply glared at her, wondering to himself how she could be so happy on this godforsaken, sunny morning.
“Top of the morning, you little git,” she said, ruffling his hair until he ripped his head away from her hand. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the bush backwards. Rough night?”
England didn’t give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, and he simply stood silently and gave his dirtiest glare until she hopped away to inspect the progress on breakfast.
“Bloody Christ, Wales-”
“Cymru.”
“-give me that bloody thing before you set fire to the house. Here, Siobhan, get a plate, I’ll give you some of this-hey, look! It’s the shrimp! Hard night last night, I’m guessing?”
England sneered, his eyes narrowing in Scotland’s direction. He felt a modicum of sick satisfaction at the swollen, purple bruises around his brother’s eye and nose, but the wide grin on Scotland’s face caused it to dissipate. “Bite me, Graham,” he spat.
The room went quiet, suddenly, all of England’s siblings turning to stare at him, and England tilted his head up defiantly at them, his gaze hardened.
“Now Arthur, no need for dirty words,” Scotland said, setting the frying pan he was holding onto the countertop and turning to face his brother. “We simply want to know what you were doing outside last night.”
England stiffened, sticking his chin up in the air to keep his siblings below his nose. “I couldn’t sleep,” he lied. “I went out for a fag.”
“Really,” his sister clipped, giving a shit-eating smile. “Must’ve been hard to light it out in the rain.”
Caught in his lie, England reverted to glaring, his arms crossed firmly around himself. The four stared each other down for a long, tense while, the faint sizzling of burned bacon on the stove the only sound.
“You had no right to kick him out,” England muttered after a long, pregnant silence, quietly but deep with spite.
At this, Scotland exploded. “We had every right to kick him out, and you know it, Arthur,” he practically shouted, moving to stand right in front of England and get in his face. “As long as we’re here that bloody Yank will not set one toe into this house, and that’s a promise.”
“Don’t you forget whose house this is, Graham,” England said, keeping his voice low and dark, and glaring directly back into Scotland’s eyes. “I don’t seem to recall giving you any control over who I do and do not allow into my home.”
“We’re your goddamn siblings, Arthur. We’re entitled to do whatever we think is best for you, whether you agree with us or not.”
At this, England’s mouth curled in a sneer, and his whole body shook with contained rage.
“You’re entitled to nothing,” he spat, voice raising. “I control you, and if you lazy sods can’t even be arsed to go to World Meetings for yourselves, then I don’t see why you should have any right to govern my life!”
“You little bastard-where are you bloody going?”
England turned on the staircase to throw one last furious glare. “I’m not hungry. I’m going upstairs,” he said, managing not to yell at the top of his lungs-and scream and throw things-before hurrying up the stairs and slamming his bedroom door as hard as his strength would allow.
---------------------------------- Anon really, really want to commit seppuku for making OP wait this long for an update. And all the other readers!
As is the common excuse, school has been completely kicking my ass lately, and I really have had no quality time to sit down and finish/revise this. So honestly, sorry if it sucks. ;_____;
I will try my damndest to get the next chapter up promptly, as in a couple weeks tops. Again, I apologiiiize. DX
The Battle (for) Britain [3a/?]
anonymous
May 11 2010, 00:49:35 UTC
“Uhn, yes? Hullo?”
“Fergus. It’s me, Siobhan.”
“Siobhan? Do you know what time it is?”
“We need your help.”
“With what?”
“We’re at Art’s house, and that damn Yank is here. Says he wants to date Art.”
“…I’ll be right there.”
---------------------------------------------
Getting a hotel room in London at five in the morning was no big deal-despite the strange look the receptionist had given the drowsy, bruised and bloodied American who came wandering in at five a.m. and tried to pay in American money-and Alfred had collapsed, exhausted, into the fluffy bed without a second thought. But sleep was only merciful for so long, and by eight the next morning he was wide awake, blinking into the sunlight streaming in the hotel room windows, curled up around a pillow that he had pulled close in his sleep, dreaming it was Arthur.
And his face was throbbing.
He tossed the pillow aside scornfully and got up to pad into the bathroom, his eyes taking in the full sight of his nose and cheekbone, splattered with an ugly pink and blue bruise that had crawled over the right side of his face and into his eye socket.
It was better than it could be, he thought to himself. Nations recovered quickly from injuries their human bodies sustained, and it looked rather like the salve England had applied the night before-with his careful, delicate fingers, which Alfred could only imagine running through his hair or stroking his jaw with a roil of melancholy in his belly-had made much of the stiffness and soreness go away.
He showered quickly, the warm water doing little to ease his stiff muscles, and, at a loss for what to do, wandered down into the tea shoppe in the lobby of the hotel.
He ordered English Breakfast and sipped on it absently, not really tasting it in his mouth. He knew he should go back there before the day was out, that he had to stand up to England’s siblings sooner or later, and that if he had to picture England locked up in his room-while he, the hero, dawdled and pondered the options-for any longer, he would go crazy.
He tossed the tea into the bin and ordered a black coffee with a double shot of espresso, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing decisively.
“Yes, this is Alfred F. Jones. 10 Downing Street, please.”
He was going to be the hero, dammit. He was going to do this right, no matter what it took.
The Battle (for) Britain [3b/?]
anonymous
May 11 2010, 00:51:45 UTC
England fantasized.
He could go down and begin a fistfight with those three arsewipes-Scotland would be the challenge, being almost double England’s weight, but Wales had never been a fighter, and Northern Ireland had a weak knee that he knew he could take advantage of if he needed to. But he was very nearly weak with hunger now-having refused to risk going to the kitchen lest he need to put up with seeing those wankers again-and two hours of sleep could only get a bloke so far in a three-to-one matchup.
He could crawl down the drainpipe and make a break for it-he had been a delinquent, after all, and had broken out of far worse places than his own house-but he didn’t even know where America was, and the dolt wasn’t picking up his mobile.
He could go down and demonstrate to them just how far up their arses his foot could really go if he gave it a good old college try, but that would inevitably result in his first option becoming reality, and he wasn’t exactly up for dealing with that.
Just then, his stomach gave a decisively angry rumble, and he winced, setting down the book he hadn’t really been reading to rub at it. He wouldn’t go down there and face those sodding idiots again just for a bite of food. If he starved to death on their watch, then it would be their funerals once America came back to get him.
America would be back to get him. He had promised. This wasn’t the kind of challenge America backed down from-England reckoned there wasn’t a challenge in the world America would back down from-and really, in the end, this was America’s battle. England knew that America needed to prove himself, needed to prove he was serious about all this-this relationship business. He knew America would burst in at any moment now, that fierce, foolhardy determination thrumming in every fiber of his being, ready to take on whoever dared challenge him. America-his America-would never back down.
Though he was loathe to admit it, the only thing he had left to do was wait for his stomach to stop growling, and for his knight to come for him.
----------------------------------------
Northern Ireland practically pranced to the front of the house when, late that night, a knock sounded at the door.
“Someone call for backup?” Ireland said when the door was opened, his hair-red, like his baby sister’s-mussed under his cap and his eyes half-lidded but alight with determination.
Northern Ireland flung her arms around him, pulling him inside out of the chill of the night. “Thanks for coming so soon, Fergus,” she chirped. Ireland grinned, and it was very nearly demonic.
“Anything for our dear brother,” he cackled. “I hope it’s all right that I brought reinforcements.”
Sealand popped out from behind Ireland right on cue, pulling a giant swirl lolly from his mouth to shout “reinforcements! That’s me!”
“Very good, laddie,” she giggled, scooping the squealing boy into her arms and scampering into the living room where Scotland and Wales were watching a football game on television.
“Ah,” Scotland said with a grin. “Fergus.”
“Did you call the fae yet?” Fergus asked, taking his cap off to reveal the entirety of his untamed hair.
“We did,” Wales nodded, a slight smile curving over his mouth. “They’re in.”
Everyone knows that England doesn't have a very good relationship with his brothers, with all the bullying, arrow-shooting and everything. Well, in my head-canon, they secretly really ADORE their little brother, they were like that because they're SO tsundere (much more than England and even Romano) that the only way they can show they care is by being mean to their loved ones, just like two nations we all know very well. And, obviously, they are very protective of him, in that "No-one-hurts-or-upsets-my-brother-except-for-me" kind of way (that's why they were ok with being all together as the United Kingdom).
So, when Scotland, Wales and N. Ireland go to visit their beloved little brother one day, just to find him in the middle of some "couple quality time" with America, that's enough to make them get VERY protective of England and extremely distrustful of America. And to make matters worse, a very annoyed England tells them America is there to ask for the Queen and PM's blessings to officially date him. And of course, none of the older brothers is willing to let that happen.
So, Author-anons, your mission (should you decide to accept it) is to make America suffer the wrath of his lover's brothers and see if he can survive long enough to get his reward (in the form of a very sexy brtitish boyfriend).
BONUS:
-While England is mortified about his brothers finding them in their couple quality time, America, totally unable to read the atmosphere, is just all "Hey bros, I didn't expect you here, how's it goin'?"
-Scotland, Wales and N. Ireland manage to get Ireland and Sealand to help with their plan to scare America off. Sealand is also helping because he's afraid that America is trying to steal his brother from him.
-Not only they get help from Ireland and Sealand, but also from some of England's magical friends, because they believe that America is going to hurt him and worried that he's going to abandon him again (if one of those friends is a ghost or a dragon, I'll love you forever!)
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Scotland grinned widely, a deep laugh rumbling in his throat as he reached down to tap the volume knob, turning the car radio down a single notch. “There, it’s down,” he said, tauntingly, his smile deceivingly pleasant. Northern Ireland, in the back seat, looked unamused, reaching forward to turn it down herself only to be slapped away by her brother.
“My car, my rules,” he said.
“Yr Alban,” Wales murmured quietly from the passenger seat, his thumb pointing absently in the other direction. “I think you missed the turn.”
“Let ‘im drive around again,” Northern Ireland cawed from the back seat, sitting back with her arms crossed. “It’s not like we even want to go.”
Scotland huffed from the front, looking in the rearview mirror for the turn he had in fact missed and turning the wheel to steer them sharply down a side-street. Northern Ireland shrieked as she was thrown across the back seat.
“What the bloody fuck, Albain?!”
“You know our Arthur,” Scotland growled. “If we show up half a second past tea, he’ll throw us out.”
This time, the brakes were applied as England’s house came into view, and Scotland turned into the driveway swiftly, his little electric car fitting nicely next to England’s pristine Bentley. The three unloaded, the only sounds those of car doors slamming and feet pounding up the walk to England’s front door, which was torn open without warning or ceremony.
“Hey, shrimp!” Scotland bellowed. “Come out here and help with my bags, like a gentleman!”
“I hear the telly,” Northern Ireland said, and strode in the direction of the living room, Wales following slowly behind.
Northern Ireland’s indignant cry had Scotland in the living room door in an instant, his toothy grin slipping off his face like a lead weight.
England was lying flat on his couch, curled up into himself with fury and embarrassment, giving a wide-eyed glare to his siblings that clearly threatened physical violence. Underneath him, with his hands wrapped around England’s waist, was America, a dumb smile slipping over his face.
“Hey! England, you didn’t tell me your brothers were coming over! Long time no see, you gu-”
There was a sickening crash as America was suddenly propelled across the room and into the opposite wall. Scotland stood next to where he’d ripped America from underneath England, his face red and nostrils flared.
“Graham,” England screamed, sitting up from where he was awkwardly dumped on the cushions and attempting to stand. Scotland’s arm held him firmly down. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”
Across the room, America gave a small, weak groan and rolled over into his back on the floor. The wall above him bore a great hole where it had been knocked in by his skull.
At the sight of it, England gasped slightly, and in immediate reaction took Scotland’s arm in both his hands and ripped it away. Scotland turned to push England down, leaning the entirety of his weight on England as the smaller struggled to upend him. England tore free only briefly enough to send a square fist into the underside of Scotland’s jaw, but Scotland remained stolid. He held both England’s wrists tightly in one hand, sending the message with a heavy palm across England’s chest that he was not to get up.
“No one moves,” Scotland said darkly, dangerously, “until I know why you were laying with that gormless mug.”
England’s mouth imitated that of a fish for a moment, and he fruitlessly pulled against Scotland’s grip, trying desperately to sit up. “Why I was laying with-don’t be an arsehole, Graham, he’s m-my-God and the Queen, America, are you all right?”
America gave another mild groan and rolled onto his side, running a hand under his bleeding nose.
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“Siobhan, I swear to God, if you touch him-”
“Nine seconds.”
“H-h’es-he’s over for the weekend, you slapper! All right? If you would kindly let me up, brother, I would be better willing to explain.”
The room froze for an agonizing moment, and finally Scotland levered back off of England and stood up. In a second England was on the floor next to America, helping him to sit up and wiping at his gushing nose with his handkerchief. America pushed him away gently, assuring that he was fine, while warily eyeing the siblings for any sudden movements.
When he was sure the bleeding in America’s nose was somewhat quelled, England turned on his siblings, the lot of which were giving extremely dirty looks to America-Wales included, one smoldering eye peeking from under his long, tousled, dark hair.
“Now listen, you lot,” England growled. “You’ve no right to come bursting into my home without so much as a ring, and interrupt my-ah, p-privacy. If you would kindly leave now, I won’t make more trouble than necessary.”
“Not until you tell us why he’s here, Lloegr,” Wales muttered, his lip curling up in a slight sneer around the pronoun. England stared for a moment in disconcertion-Wales was the quiet brother, it wasn’t like him to be so bitter.
“Well… he’s-he’s come to-”
“Why don’t we let the lad explain?”
All eyes turned to Northern Ireland, who leaned her weight onto one foot, a small, dirty smirk curling over her mouth. “Go on, then,” she said, lifting her chin in America’s direction. “What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
America looked for a moment like a deer caught in a headlight’s beam, his eyes wide and flicking nervously between the siblings and England. He wetted his lips nervously, his tongue catching the blood left there, and sat up a bit, holding himself a bit taller.
“I came to ask the Queen for England’s hand in… uh… dating.”
He only faltered a moment at the odd wording, before puffing himself back up, looking daringly at Northern Ireland, who was back to sneering.
Before the sound could even register, there was a great crash, and America was on his back again, his hand covering a cheek that was quickly turning an angry red color.
England gave a loud shout and tackled Scotland onto his back, perching himself on Scotland’s chest and driving his tightly-balled fists, again and again, into Scotland’s eye and jaw and nose. Scotland’s hands grabbed and fisted violently around England’s arms, dragging them away as they came back to hit him. It was Northern Ireland who finally pried England off of him, and she tossed England to the side, his head colliding with the floor. He retreated slightly, going to crouch in front of America, who was alert again and staring at the brawl as if he couldn’t believe England was capable of such a thing.
Scotland pressed the heel of his hand to his bleeding nose as he sat up, and he and England glared at each other, in a stalemate. For a moment the only sound in the room was that of heavy breathing.
“Get out,” England muttered, his voice quiet and threatening. “Get out of my house.”
“Sorry, bràthair,” Scotland said, standing up. “But I’m afraid we’ve come to stay.”
“Uh, England, I can come back later, if it’s not-”
“No,” England said, placing a firm hand on America’s knee as he attempted to stand. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t let them think they’ve won.”
America sat back down reluctantly, looking as if he might’ve preferred to leave, his pride be damned.
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“Him or us, Arthur.”
“You make it sound as if it’s a difficult decision.”
“What happened to bro’s before ho’s?”
“Don’t make me laugh, Graham. I said get out and I meant it.”
“Siobhan.”
“No, Graham, don’t you da-”
The remainder of England’s sentence was muffled in the carpet as Graham grabbed the back of his neck and shoved his face down into it, momentarily incapacitating him to allow Northern Ireland to grab America by the scruff of his t-shirt and haul him from the floor.
“Um,” America said, only resisting slightly as Northern Ireland manhandled him out of the room and to the open front door. “A hero like me would never hit a girl, but I was invited, you can’t just kick me out-”
Northern Ireland chuckled lightly as she shoved him over the threshold and onto the front porch. “I can, actually,” she said, leaning against the door with her hip cocked. “Sorry,” she said insincerely, “but this is for England’s own good. The best of Britain to you laddie, we’re expecting thunderstorms tonight.”
And with that, the door was slammed in America’s face, leaving him in the twilight under an overcast sky, the only sounds those of the evening traffic and England’s muffled screams of rage, filtering out from inside the house.
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Author Anon apologizes for the extreme switching between human names and country names and country names in difficult languages. ||OTL
Worry not, America will suffer far more than this at the hands of the UK brothers. *hugs him apologetically*
Let me know if you want anything translated or explained, and I'll be happy to! ^^;
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I lol'd here. Even in awkward situations, America holds fast to his can't-read-atmosphere-ness values. :)
I also gaped at the fact that England starting beating up Scotland. O.O Way to go Iggy! Show the fandom that you're not some defenseless uke! >:D
This fill is going to be good, I just know it. :)
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America, the sweet Irish girl would happily scratch your eyes out. *hugs him* I hope he manages to hold his own.
And I don't fancy being one of the other UK siblings when England gets down and serious, if he's already out breaking noses. Then again, three on one.
Fantastic start, author!anon. I really look forward to seeing more! =DDDDDD
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Poor America though. X)
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This anon is eagerly awaiting more.
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Author-anon, you have just made me immensely happy with your fill! I liked the way you described England's brothers (and sister), all so protective of England in their own ways(loved Wales, by the way!). I also liked that England stood his ground and even fought Scotland when he started to hit America, after all he IS a very strong character, he wouldn't just let his siblings walk all over him.
And poor America, kicked out of his lovers house when he was invited in the fist place! The worst thing is, this is only the top of the iceberg, it's just about to get worse.
Author-anon, thank you so much and please continue soon, I'm very eager to know what othe thins you're planning for this fill. Well done!!
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http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=39030937#t39030937
I'm not stalking either of them. Nope. Why would you think that? I don't think they're both FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE AND CHECKING IF THEY'VE UPDATED LIKE EVERYDAY. Nuh-uh.
If it didn't come through that I love both of the fills, I absolutely do. <3
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The first of his movements made him immediately aware that his nose had been bleeding again, and he cursed as he wiped it with the back of his hand, and the action reminded him of his sore cheek, which throbbed when he touched it.
The thunderstorms hadn’t stopped until long after midnight, and though he was a hero and was not afraid of thunderstorms, the noise did not make falling asleep any easier. His eyes were slightly sore from a lack of being closed.
He propped himself up slightly on the backseat of England’s Bentley, his bomber jacket falling from where it had been draped over his shoulder. He shivered slightly at the loss of warmth, and stretched his sore back while he stared out the rain-smattered window at the streetlights illuminating the wet pavement.
The knocking at the car window nearly made him screech, and his heart thudded painfully fast in his chest. He breathed a sigh when he realized it was England, and leaned across the seat to open the door.
“Thanks for leaving your car unlocked,” he muttered as England climbed in out of the mist, his jacket pulled tightly over his pajamas.
England was uncomfortable as he sat on the seat next to America, looking at him with some mix of pity and sadness. “You look wretched,” he muttered, producing a small tin from his jacket pocket and unscrewing the lid.
“The thunder made it kind of hard to sleep-jeez, that’s cold!”
“Sorry,” England muttered, warming the ointment in-between his fingers for a moment before continuing to spread it over America’s cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. “It will help with the bruises.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” America contested, as England ripped open a plaster. England scowled slightly, and held America’s chin in his hand to prevent him moving as he stuck it gingerly over America’s nose.
“It will, if you don’t keep still.”
America huffed a bit, but sat back quietly for the ministrations, his eyes drooping a bit in tiredness. “What time is it?” he asked quietly after a while.
“About four,” England replied, rubbing the last of the ointment onto America’s forehead. “I had to make sure they’d be asleep. They have me under house arrest.”
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“Goodness, no,” England scoffed, setting the tin on the floor. “Though I can’t assure that the opposite is true.”
A faint smile passed between them, and England moved slightly closer, running this thumb over the arch of America’s bruised cheekbone. “My poor America,” he whispered, pushing up onto his knees to brush a faint kiss over the aching skin.
“Uh, thanks for… back there,” America said softly, closing his eyes to the light touch of England’s lips. “Not that I’m a damsel or anything, you know. Just don’t want to start this relationship by beating up the in-laws.”
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America grinned softly. “You bet.”
England’s smile softened, and he looked down to America’s hand, which he stroked lightly with his fingers. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry they hurt you. I won’t let it happen again.”
America rubbed small circles in England’s side, smiling softly. “I’ve had worse,” he assured England, who didn’t look comforted by the thought.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll get a hotel room or something. Can I borrow your car?”
“Yes, I brought you the keys.”
“I’ll be back later,” America said, running one hand over England’s hair, playing the ends between his fingers. “Don’t worry. A hero doesn’t give up that easy.”
England looked down at the upholstery, his fists clenched tightly on his legs. “It’s not worth it,” he whispered, his chest moving with a hitching breath. “Nothing’s worth putting up with them.”
“You are,” America murmured easily, moving forward to wrap his arms around England’s form and rest his cheek against England’s hair. “You’re worth it.”
England leaned his weight into America slightly, pressing the heat of his face against the cool surface of America’s exposed arm. America stroked at his side for a long while, as the rain picked up slightly, pattering against the roof above them.
“Thank you,” England said, almost silently, putting one hand around America’s waist. America smiled softly, pressing a kiss to England’s hair.
“I’m gonna do this right,” he said. “I promise. I’m not gonna fuck up with you again. Never again.”
England shook his head, burying it in America’s shoulder and grasping tightly at his back, his arms tight around America’s middle.
“You better get back,” America said, releasing him reluctantly.
“And you should leave,” England hummed, discontentedly. “If they come out and find you’re still here, I don’t know what they’ll do.”
“Yeah, I’ll get.”
England nodded, sitting back from America for only a moment before leaning into him again, resting silently against his chest. America held him obligingly for another while, enjoying the feeling of England in his arms that he’d been missing all night.
“I’ll see you later?” England asked, unsure and unwilling to let go.
“Yeah. Real soon.”
“All right,” England muttered, and a brief look between them initiated a soft kiss that flowed into light, desperate passion before ebbing back to soft and comforting.
With one despondent look back, England climbed from the car and retreated into the house, and America watched him go through the raindrops on the window, making the image distorted as through pebbled glass. Knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping again before dawn, he crawled awkwardly into the driver’s seat and started the car, pulling out of the driveway and heading for town. He’d need a load of caffeine to get him through the day to come; that much he knew for sure.
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England had crept silently back into the house after meeting America, shaking the water from his hair and hanging his coat closest to the heat vent to dry it before the morning. He snuck successfully past his sleeping siblings’ rooms and into his own, but it took little more than the milky light of the moon coming in the window and the absence of America’s heat and soft snoring to make sleep entirely elusive.
It seemed he had only been dozing half an hour when the sun crested the far hills and thrust its rays into England’s bedroom, and he lay in bed silently for a long while, staring up at the cleared sky and wondering where America was, and if he’d gotten out of the driveway by now.
Eventually the sounds of his brothers destroying his kitchen dragged him out of his bed, and he washed his face quickly with freezing water before climbing down to the first floor, where smoke clung to the ceiling and the smells of charred bread and meat permeated the air.
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“Cymru. And it’s already burnt, yr Alban.”
“Well then don’t burn it any more! Give the bloody thing to me, I’ll do it-just hold this, would you?”
England watched his brothers silently from the doorway, his arms wrapped around himself, praying for once that they wouldn’t hear him, that he would go unnoticed.
He wasn’t so lucky. A hearty slap on his back made him jump and suddenly his sister’s mane of untamed, fire-red hair was in his face, framing a face that read morning glory. He simply glared at her, wondering to himself how she could be so happy on this godforsaken, sunny morning.
“Top of the morning, you little git,” she said, ruffling his hair until he ripped his head away from her hand. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the bush backwards. Rough night?”
England didn’t give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him, and he simply stood silently and gave his dirtiest glare until she hopped away to inspect the progress on breakfast.
“Bloody Christ, Wales-”
“Cymru.”
“-give me that bloody thing before you set fire to the house. Here, Siobhan, get a plate, I’ll give you some of this-hey, look! It’s the shrimp! Hard night last night, I’m guessing?”
England sneered, his eyes narrowing in Scotland’s direction. He felt a modicum of sick satisfaction at the swollen, purple bruises around his brother’s eye and nose, but the wide grin on Scotland’s face caused it to dissipate. “Bite me, Graham,” he spat.
The room went quiet, suddenly, all of England’s siblings turning to stare at him, and England tilted his head up defiantly at them, his gaze hardened.
“Now Arthur, no need for dirty words,” Scotland said, setting the frying pan he was holding onto the countertop and turning to face his brother. “We simply want to know what you were doing outside last night.”
England stiffened, sticking his chin up in the air to keep his siblings below his nose. “I couldn’t sleep,” he lied. “I went out for a fag.”
“Really,” his sister clipped, giving a shit-eating smile. “Must’ve been hard to light it out in the rain.”
Caught in his lie, England reverted to glaring, his arms crossed firmly around himself. The four stared each other down for a long, tense while, the faint sizzling of burned bacon on the stove the only sound.
“You had no right to kick him out,” England muttered after a long, pregnant silence, quietly but deep with spite.
At this, Scotland exploded. “We had every right to kick him out, and you know it, Arthur,” he practically shouted, moving to stand right in front of England and get in his face. “As long as we’re here that bloody Yank will not set one toe into this house, and that’s a promise.”
“Don’t you forget whose house this is, Graham,” England said, keeping his voice low and dark, and glaring directly back into Scotland’s eyes. “I don’t seem to recall giving you any control over who I do and do not allow into my home.”
“We’re your goddamn siblings, Arthur. We’re entitled to do whatever we think is best for you, whether you agree with us or not.”
At this, England’s mouth curled in a sneer, and his whole body shook with contained rage.
“You’re entitled to nothing,” he spat, voice raising. “I control you, and if you lazy sods can’t even be arsed to go to World Meetings for yourselves, then I don’t see why you should have any right to govern my life!”
“You little bastard-where are you bloody going?”
England turned on the staircase to throw one last furious glare. “I’m not hungry. I’m going upstairs,” he said, managing not to yell at the top of his lungs-and scream and throw things-before hurrying up the stairs and slamming his bedroom door as hard as his strength would allow.
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Anon really, really want to commit seppuku for making OP wait this long for an update. And all the other readers!
As is the common excuse, school has been completely kicking my ass lately, and I really have had no quality time to sit down and finish/revise this. So honestly, sorry if it sucks. ;_____;
I will try my damndest to get the next chapter up promptly, as in a couple weeks tops. Again, I apologiiiize. DX
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“Fergus. It’s me, Siobhan.”
“Siobhan? Do you know what time it is?”
“We need your help.”
“With what?”
“We’re at Art’s house, and that damn Yank is here. Says he wants to date Art.”
“…I’ll be right there.”
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Getting a hotel room in London at five in the morning was no big deal-despite the strange look the receptionist had given the drowsy, bruised and bloodied American who came wandering in at five a.m. and tried to pay in American money-and Alfred had collapsed, exhausted, into the fluffy bed without a second thought. But sleep was only merciful for so long, and by eight the next morning he was wide awake, blinking into the sunlight streaming in the hotel room windows, curled up around a pillow that he had pulled close in his sleep, dreaming it was Arthur.
And his face was throbbing.
He tossed the pillow aside scornfully and got up to pad into the bathroom, his eyes taking in the full sight of his nose and cheekbone, splattered with an ugly pink and blue bruise that had crawled over the right side of his face and into his eye socket.
It was better than it could be, he thought to himself. Nations recovered quickly from injuries their human bodies sustained, and it looked rather like the salve England had applied the night before-with his careful, delicate fingers, which Alfred could only imagine running through his hair or stroking his jaw with a roil of melancholy in his belly-had made much of the stiffness and soreness go away.
He showered quickly, the warm water doing little to ease his stiff muscles, and, at a loss for what to do, wandered down into the tea shoppe in the lobby of the hotel.
He ordered English Breakfast and sipped on it absently, not really tasting it in his mouth. He knew he should go back there before the day was out, that he had to stand up to England’s siblings sooner or later, and that if he had to picture England locked up in his room-while he, the hero, dawdled and pondered the options-for any longer, he would go crazy.
He tossed the tea into the bin and ordered a black coffee with a double shot of espresso, taking his phone out of his pocket and dialing decisively.
“Yes, this is Alfred F. Jones. 10 Downing Street, please.”
He was going to be the hero, dammit. He was going to do this right, no matter what it took.
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He could go down and begin a fistfight with those three arsewipes-Scotland would be the challenge, being almost double England’s weight, but Wales had never been a fighter, and Northern Ireland had a weak knee that he knew he could take advantage of if he needed to. But he was very nearly weak with hunger now-having refused to risk going to the kitchen lest he need to put up with seeing those wankers again-and two hours of sleep could only get a bloke so far in a three-to-one matchup.
He could crawl down the drainpipe and make a break for it-he had been a delinquent, after all, and had broken out of far worse places than his own house-but he didn’t even know where America was, and the dolt wasn’t picking up his mobile.
He could go down and demonstrate to them just how far up their arses his foot could really go if he gave it a good old college try, but that would inevitably result in his first option becoming reality, and he wasn’t exactly up for dealing with that.
Just then, his stomach gave a decisively angry rumble, and he winced, setting down the book he hadn’t really been reading to rub at it. He wouldn’t go down there and face those sodding idiots again just for a bite of food. If he starved to death on their watch, then it would be their funerals once America came back to get him.
America would be back to get him. He had promised. This wasn’t the kind of challenge America backed down from-England reckoned there wasn’t a challenge in the world America would back down from-and really, in the end, this was America’s battle. England knew that America needed to prove himself, needed to prove he was serious about all this-this relationship business. He knew America would burst in at any moment now, that fierce, foolhardy determination thrumming in every fiber of his being, ready to take on whoever dared challenge him. America-his America-would never back down.
Though he was loathe to admit it, the only thing he had left to do was wait for his stomach to stop growling, and for his knight to come for him.
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Northern Ireland practically pranced to the front of the house when, late that night, a knock sounded at the door.
“Someone call for backup?” Ireland said when the door was opened, his hair-red, like his baby sister’s-mussed under his cap and his eyes half-lidded but alight with determination.
Northern Ireland flung her arms around him, pulling him inside out of the chill of the night. “Thanks for coming so soon, Fergus,” she chirped. Ireland grinned, and it was very nearly demonic.
“Anything for our dear brother,” he cackled. “I hope it’s all right that I brought reinforcements.”
Sealand popped out from behind Ireland right on cue, pulling a giant swirl lolly from his mouth to shout “reinforcements! That’s me!”
“Very good, laddie,” she giggled, scooping the squealing boy into her arms and scampering into the living room where Scotland and Wales were watching a football game on television.
“Ah,” Scotland said with a grin. “Fergus.”
“Did you call the fae yet?” Fergus asked, taking his cap off to reveal the entirety of his untamed hair.
“We did,” Wales nodded, a slight smile curving over his mouth. “They’re in.”
Ireland’s grin twisted evilly.
“That Yank is going down.”
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