Puerto Memoria (3/4)
anonymous
June 4 2010, 22:31:35 UTC
Piracy was intoxicating, in its own way. Once you accepted that laws were only words, it became easy to ignore them , stride forwards and take whatever you wanted without even a trace of guilt. Why more people didn't follow that route was a mystery. Everything you could wish for, as long as you were prepared to fight for it? Why not?
On nation watched Spain with particular interest as these thoughts ran through his head. No matter how much time passed, those days would always be fresh in his mind. Spain, England and France, out on the high seas. Wind in their hair, if it wasn't flattened down by a tricorn hat and the weight of an absurdly large waterfall of feathers. Salt on the tip of their tongues. Sometimes the salt of the sea, sometimes - on those rare times - times when it was impossible to do anything else, salt in sweat on skin, when thrown inescapably together with one of the the other two. Licking away the blood from the wounds. Yes. Sand, too, burning sand, sticking to their damp limbs as they tumbled across a beach.
Going anywhere. Doing anything. The only limitation was the extent of an individual's bloody-minded arrogance and England, for one, had an inexhaustible supply of that.
He swallowed now. Rather than salt, he tasted tea. He wished he didn't feel a pang of disappointment. It took forever to convince everyone that he had finally matured, not helped by how damn attractive rock music or a couple of pints were. It was difficult to be taken seriously as a reasonable nation in the days when his idea of negotiation was to shoot people until he got what he wanted and, if they still refused to yield it, set fire to them.
Spain sat there and glittered. He seemed unconcerned about the whole affair, though he did keep glancing at France. How he could be so casual left England mystified. He was having trouble concealing his own thoughts of what he would be doing if the room was empty but for the two of them. He'd have the shirt off, for a start, because the technical plundering of Spain and France simultaneously was too enjoyable to pass up. The coins were a romantic touch, he'd find a use for them, unlike the pantaloons, which could be thrown aside...
“Hey, England. England. England.”
He became aware of someone poking him repeatedly in the shoulder.
“Hm? What?”
“A sentient car which can climb mountains, what do you think?”
It wasn't a brigantine skidding across the crest of a wave, that was certain. He sighed and forced himself back into the meeting room, away from exotic pirating adventures into the dull, everyday discussion of why giant cyborg cars were a bad idea.
Puerto Memoria (4/4)
anonymous
June 4 2010, 22:35:32 UTC
England was still lost and without a map in his own daydream when the meeting finished. As the last nation to leave the room he turned off the lights and paused to look back at the chalkboard. Covered in doodles, it meant nothing to him; the meeting, from Spain's entrance to its culmination, had gone over his head. There was probably a logic to the squiggle distantly resembling a banana, or the note in the corner about black-footed lemurs, but he couldn't see it.
He did see, when he picked up his teacup, a small white square tucked under the china. Someone must have passed it to him when he wasn't paying attention. He almost threw it straight into the trash when he recognized the swirl of France's handwriting, but one name in what, to him, was an illegible string of curls, caught his eye. Spain. Perhaps it was worth a closer look.
France had always mocked England for his abysmal writing; England, in turn, took every opportunity to complain that France's elaborate hand was far too impractical for this day and age. Both were satisfied with the chance to complain. If England studied the paper closely, he could make out its message.
I'm going to delay Spain after the meeting. A bientôt.
They were nowhere in the corridor, but England could hear, from the broom closet opposite the meeting room, a series of familiar voices.
“Eh? I don't-”
“You trust me, Spain, I know you do. Would I hurt you?”
“Kind of. You did that time when-”
“That was then, this is now.”
“Ow.”
It was for Spain's own safety, England told himself. All right, it hadn't exactly been a scream of terror, but it was still a plea for help. A note of minor discomfort. He ought to make sure, anyway. No one deserved to be shut up in a cupboard with France.
He opened the door on the two to find France with a mouthful of Spain's silk shirt, gripping it between his teeth as he raised his head to Spain's mouth, pressing the other nation back against the wall. Spain, from his corner, only appeared mildly discomfited by this, which matched his response to England's intrusion.
“Hi.”
France spat the silk from his mouth, but kept his arms pinned around Spain while he addressed England.
“You did come. Are you going to tell me to be more polite?”
“Yes.” England inched his way into the closet and closed the door behind him. They were plunged into the dim kind of darkness found in the holds of ships. “You should be more polite. You ought to share your plunder.”
“I don't want to be plunder.”
“We'll see about that.”
“We'll board your ship.”
“We'll dock in your bay.”
“We'll loot your treasure.”
They were the kind of sentences which required quotation marks after every other word. At first, they found Spain curiously unresistant. His jacket and shirt slid off his shoulders as if he hadn't been intending to keep them anyway, while being crammed into a closet with two other nations stripping him to his bare skin mumbling nautical euphemisms was an everyday occurrence.
There was just one moment, however, when it subtly changed. Spain stiffened and, in the moment's hesitation from England and France, pushed suddenly forwards. They found themselves pinned to the wall themselves by either one of his hands.
“You forgot something,” he said. His voice was a low growl, but the way he leaned in and let the words fall, hot, onto their faces, made it intimate if not even affectionate. “I can fight back.”
“Espagne! Very daring.”
“Anyone could beat that frog.”
“This time, I'm going to defeat your armada.”
His hands were beginning to work at the comparatively modest uniforms. His dancing prowess was evident, too; whenever the others tried to reassert their power, he would wriggle away, bending around them, until they finished in a knot of arms and legs and hot, sweating skin, clothes draped haphazardly and with no regards for who their actual owner was.
“I'll plunder your village.”
“I'll make you work my block and tackle.”
“I'll explore your undiscovered lands...”
-
Later, when Romano marched grumpily back along the corridor to find out where his bastard of a companion had gone, he would find only a discarded, forgotten pair of pantaloons in the cupboard.
Re: Puerto Memoria (4/4)
anonymous
June 4 2010, 23:08:45 UTC
THIS REUNITES ALL MY SECRET KINKS ^^
Oh, God, Spain. You are gorgeous. The description of the outfit was...mmmm, yummy, with the gold and the coat and UNF. America's reaction was adorable! He's jealous of the other's wardrobe, so cute ^^ (I'm also amused at the fact he doesn't know about England's "Darker Days", and at France trying to open his mouth and England stopping him xD. Do you think America takes you seriously now, England? *snort* ) The whole closet shenanigans was extremely hot; preceded by England's melancholic mind wanderings about the old days and his desire to dominate the others, France of course gets there before anybody else, and then England appears, and the nautical innuendo begins...and Spain fighting back. Rawr <3
“Bonjour, mon capitaine,” murmured France, unable and unwilling to hide a smirk.
France stole the show around hereXD
also, I'm a little confused: was Russia sitting on top of America? Lol
also: did Spain just pull an Italy and leave the closet pantless?XD
Re: Puerto Memoria (4/4)
anonymous
June 4 2010, 23:29:26 UTC
Oh dear anon: "The coins were a romantic touch, he'd find a use for them, unlike the pantaloons, which could be thrown aside..." This line is pure gold.
Re: Puerto Memoria (4/4)
anonymous
June 5 2010, 10:06:34 UTC
“No, it's amazing, I wish England had this sort of thing. He's so boring.”
The cup of tea was raised again in silence, hiding England's face. France got as far as opening his mouth before a sudden stamp on his foot, from a mysterious, unknown source, turned whatever he was going to say into a moan of agony.
Oh god, why so clueless, America? XD And England, why so ... on the ball? XP
Re: Puerto Memoria (4/4)
anonymous
June 5 2010, 20:15:24 UTC
Oh authornon! Both funny AND hot. :Dbb And oh yay for Spain and France as pirates too for a change and not just England. This fandom needs moar pirate!Spain and pirate!France.
On nation watched Spain with particular interest as these thoughts ran through his head. No matter how much time passed, those days would always be fresh in his mind. Spain, England and France, out on the high seas. Wind in their hair, if it wasn't flattened down by a tricorn hat and the weight of an absurdly large waterfall of feathers. Salt on the tip of their tongues. Sometimes the salt of the sea, sometimes - on those rare times - times when it was impossible to do anything else, salt in sweat on skin, when thrown inescapably together with one of the the other two. Licking away the blood from the wounds. Yes. Sand, too, burning sand, sticking to their damp limbs as they tumbled across a beach.
Going anywhere. Doing anything. The only limitation was the extent of an individual's bloody-minded arrogance and England, for one, had an inexhaustible supply of that.
He swallowed now. Rather than salt, he tasted tea. He wished he didn't feel a pang of disappointment. It took forever to convince everyone that he had finally matured, not helped by how damn attractive rock music or a couple of pints were. It was difficult to be taken seriously as a reasonable nation in the days when his idea of negotiation was to shoot people until he got what he wanted and, if they still refused to yield it, set fire to them.
Spain sat there and glittered. He seemed unconcerned about the whole affair, though he did keep glancing at France. How he could be so casual left England mystified. He was having trouble concealing his own thoughts of what he would be doing if the room was empty but for the two of them. He'd have the shirt off, for a start, because the technical plundering of Spain and France simultaneously was too enjoyable to pass up. The coins were a romantic touch, he'd find a use for them, unlike the pantaloons, which could be thrown aside...
“Hey, England. England. England.”
He became aware of someone poking him repeatedly in the shoulder.
“Hm? What?”
“A sentient car which can climb mountains, what do you think?”
It wasn't a brigantine skidding across the crest of a wave, that was certain. He sighed and forced himself back into the meeting room, away from exotic pirating adventures into the dull, everyday discussion of why giant cyborg cars were a bad idea.
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He did see, when he picked up his teacup, a small white square tucked under the china. Someone must have passed it to him when he wasn't paying attention. He almost threw it straight into the trash when he recognized the swirl of France's handwriting, but one name in what, to him, was an illegible string of curls, caught his eye. Spain. Perhaps it was worth a closer look.
France had always mocked England for his abysmal writing; England, in turn, took every opportunity to complain that France's elaborate hand was far too impractical for this day and age. Both were satisfied with the chance to complain. If England studied the paper closely, he could make out its message.
I'm going to delay Spain after the meeting.
A bientôt.
They were nowhere in the corridor, but England could hear, from the broom closet opposite the meeting room, a series of familiar voices.
“Eh? I don't-”
“You trust me, Spain, I know you do. Would I hurt you?”
“Kind of. You did that time when-”
“That was then, this is now.”
“Ow.”
It was for Spain's own safety, England told himself. All right, it hadn't exactly been a scream of terror, but it was still a plea for help. A note of minor discomfort. He ought to make sure, anyway. No one deserved to be shut up in a cupboard with France.
He opened the door on the two to find France with a mouthful of Spain's silk shirt, gripping it between his teeth as he raised his head to Spain's mouth, pressing the other nation back against the wall. Spain, from his corner, only appeared mildly discomfited by this, which matched his response to England's intrusion.
“Hi.”
France spat the silk from his mouth, but kept his arms pinned around Spain while he addressed England.
“You did come. Are you going to tell me to be more polite?”
“Yes.” England inched his way into the closet and closed the door behind him. They were plunged into the dim kind of darkness found in the holds of ships. “You should be more polite. You ought to share your plunder.”
“I don't want to be plunder.”
“We'll see about that.”
“We'll board your ship.”
“We'll dock in your bay.”
“We'll loot your treasure.”
They were the kind of sentences which required quotation marks after every other word. At first, they found Spain curiously unresistant. His jacket and shirt slid off his shoulders as if he hadn't been intending to keep them anyway, while being crammed into a closet with two other nations stripping him to his bare skin mumbling nautical euphemisms was an everyday occurrence.
There was just one moment, however, when it subtly changed. Spain stiffened and, in the moment's hesitation from England and France, pushed suddenly forwards. They found themselves pinned to the wall themselves by either one of his hands.
“You forgot something,” he said. His voice was a low growl, but the way he leaned in and let the words fall, hot, onto their faces, made it intimate if not even affectionate. “I can fight back.”
“Espagne! Very daring.”
“Anyone could beat that frog.”
“This time, I'm going to defeat your armada.”
His hands were beginning to work at the comparatively modest uniforms. His dancing prowess was evident, too; whenever the others tried to reassert their power, he would wriggle away, bending around them, until they finished in a knot of arms and legs and hot, sweating skin, clothes draped haphazardly and with no regards for who their actual owner was.
“I'll plunder your village.”
“I'll make you work my block and tackle.”
“I'll explore your undiscovered lands...”
-
Later, when Romano marched grumpily back along the corridor to find out where his bastard of a companion had gone, he would find only a discarded, forgotten pair of pantaloons in the cupboard.
Reply
Oh, God, Spain. You are gorgeous. The description of the outfit was...mmmm, yummy, with the gold and the coat and UNF. America's reaction was adorable! He's jealous of the other's wardrobe, so cute ^^ (I'm also amused at the fact he doesn't know about England's "Darker Days", and at France trying to open his mouth and England stopping him xD. Do you think America takes you seriously now, England? *snort* )
The whole closet shenanigans was extremely hot; preceded by England's melancholic mind wanderings about the old days and his desire to dominate the others, France of course gets there before anybody else, and then England appears, and the nautical innuendo begins...and Spain fighting back. Rawr <3
“Bonjour, mon capitaine,” murmured France, unable and unwilling to hide a smirk.
France stole the show around hereXD
also, I'm a little confused: was Russia sitting on top of America? Lol
also: did Spain just pull an Italy and leave the closet pantless?XD
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/melting
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The cup of tea was raised again in silence, hiding England's face. France got as far as opening his mouth before a sudden stamp on his foot, from a mysterious, unknown source, turned whatever he was going to say into a moan of agony.
Oh god, why so clueless, America? XD And England, why so ... on the ball? XP
Aaaaaaaand then the epic dialogue at the end. ORZ
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