America in Love [3b/?]
anonymous
June 27 2010, 21:57:01 UTC
“Angleterre, think of who you are saying it to. Of course I don’t think it pathetic. However, I do think it pathetic that you have yet to tell him and that you are discounting him from being the one sending you the poems.”
“Oh, really now. Think about it, France. What are the chances that America could also be in love with me and trying to woo me through Shakespeare?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass. “Like you falling in love with him in the first place.”
“Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?” England asked, fed up and frustrated with France insisting that it was America. It couldn’t be.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any idea, other than your one true love,” England glared and France continued on oblivious, “and it is most certainly not me. My advice…forget all about it and confess your love to Amerique. You will be ten times happier.”
“I can’t do that! It won’t be returned, it won’t be. And I’m curious as to who this is.”
“It’s possibly who you refuse to consider.”
“It is not America, you crazy French frog! I told you why it can’t be him,” he said, standing up and draining his wine glass. He stuffed the notes in his pocket and walked towards the door.
“And they are silly and ultimately meaningless reasons. Don’t discount him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. You love him, don’t you?”
“No thanks for the help, you crazy bastard,” England said, leaving France’s room. It wasn’t America, no matter how his heart hoped. Thinking it was would only lead to his heart being broken. He’d much rather keep his love safe and sheltered in his own heart, than have it exposed and rejected and broken beyond repair.
What he didn’t see was France reaching for his cell phone.
And when he got back to his room, stuck in the door was a tiny slip of paper. It read:
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Re: America in Love [3b/?]
anonymous
June 29 2010, 04:51:09 UTC
Cupid. Painted. Blind.
That is beyond my favorite quote from Midsummer's. I love you. That is all.
But really, if England were a bit less desperate, this last quote would really make the entire "who-is-it?" question beyond simple - only America would insult him and make a love confession in the same moment. /sweatdrop
Re: America in Love [3b/?]
anonymous
June 29 2010, 09:14:25 UTC
... gdi, I love France sometimes. <3 I'm almost happy football distracted me from checking for updates for a bit, because I'm already dying of suspense. Anon, if I knew who you were, I might just have to resort to-- I was going to say "bribery," but you can't bribe someone to write something they're already writing. Er. I might have to shower you with love? I dunno. <3
Thanks for pampering the romantic I didn't even know was in me with this fic, anon. It makes me happy to read it. I mean, I still facepalm at England, but still! The happiness. *_* And I need something cheerful to read, after my teams being slaughtered at the World Cup. >_<
... *goes off to reread A Midsummer Night's Dream* :D
Captcha: "woodwork commentaries" Mwahaha, that must mean America is going to lure England into his lair to see his dubious "etchings" commentaries on Shakespeare. ... Or not!
Yes, yes it is. I liked Shakespeare before, but I'd only read a few of the plays in school, and two of them weren't really romantic (Julius Caesar and Macbeth).
I'm having tons of fun picking out all the lines, too. Especially Sonnet 151. *snicker*
Re: Author!anon
anonymous
July 11 2010, 11:02:34 UTC
Upon reading this I got out my old copy of 'Sonnets of William Shakespear' (when I say old I mean it was printed in 1913, 97 year old!) When I flicked through it I found this one that made me think of Colonial America and Empire England. So I thought I would share it with everyone.
Sonnet 58
That god forbid that made me first your slave I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! O! let me suffer, being at your beck, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your character is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will' to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
I love midsummer's nights dream. It has always been my favorite play.
Re: America in Love [3b/?]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 22:45:26 UTC
Wow... This is so beautiful... I kept it for like a week in my bookmarks for reading and now I regret not reading it sooner. Waiting impatiently for updates ^^ <3
America in Love [4a/?]
anonymous
July 31 2010, 00:49:37 UTC
I am back, my dear anons, after being pretty sick for a while, and then distracted for a week by a new fandom. But I come bearing the next part-it is admittedly short, but I like it enough to post it.
---------- England wasn’t quite sure what to make of this one. It broke form from the previous ones because it wasn’t a sonnet, but the main idea was still intact. It also happened to be something he had been talking about to France not twenty minutes ago. But he believed France when he said it wasn’t him.
But he didn’t believe that France didn’t know who it was. But he knew that, when questioned, France would insist it was America, when it couldn’t be America. He had learned not to hope too much from that. So that’s how he found himself in the meeting scheduled for one in the afternoon, looking at that tiny slip of paper.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
It was actually quite insulting. At least, the first two lines were. But to imagine that he had any beauty was an exercise in futility. Not with his large eyebrows and dirty blond hair, and his short, scrawny stature. The exact opposite of bright yellow haired, blue eyes, tall, muscular America. But his secret admirer said, in those last two lines, that they didn’t care about those things and that love had made them blind to all imperfections.
It hadn’t made England blind, though. He could see easily enough, thank you very much. The only person who counted would never love him, because of his looks, his prickly personality, his unwillingness to come out with a simple confession and to say three words.
But in reverse, he supposed it applied to him, in a way. There were many nations sitting around the table that wouldn’t be inclined to even look twice at America for who he truly was, just for his body. But to him, that was only a perk. America was…so many other things. He could try to put what exactly drew him to the Nation in words, but it wouldn’t ever be elegant or coherent. It would be more like words and thoughts and him throwing himself at America. Yes, like that.
“Hm. That’s a nice poem. Where’d you get it from?” America asked over his shoulder, breathing in his ear. England started to answer, but froze, realizing whom exactly was in his personal space. America’s lips were right next to his ear, he could lean a tiny bit to left and his lips would be brushing England’s earlobe…
“Nowhere,” England said, shoving it into a pocket. “It’s nothing, America. Don’t worry about it. Now go sit down and stop breathing in my ear. I don’t want your hamburger breath all over me,” he told him in an even tone. In his mind, he was flustered and extremely turned on and going ‘yes, yes, yes, I want your breath-even if it’s hamburger breath-all over me, even on my co-‘
And that thought needed to stop before it got out of hand. He waved his hand irritably, shooing America away along with his breath-his hot, wonderful, moist-
America in Love [4b/?]
anonymous
July 31 2010, 00:56:05 UTC
He stopped himself again and looked up to see France smirking at him from across the table. ‘Having fun, Angleterre?’ he mouthed.
‘Bite me, you wine bastard,’ he mouthed back, pressing a pen into a paper, which really didn’t need to be written on. He couldn’t stand to look to his side where America was sitting now, because then he would possibly undress him with his eyes, trying to imagine all the dips of his muscles and the feel of shin…
‘I rather think you would like Amerique to do it, or perhaps...’ France leaned over, sliding his pen into his mouth in an obscene fashion. ‘Perhaps Amerique would like to do it to you.’
England almost broke his pen when he gripped down hard at the thought-America crossing those last few inches and his teeth closing around his earlobe, biting and tugging-
A flash of heat in his stomach, and tried to stop his thoughts before they snowballed out of control-America kissing him, America pressing him against a bed, America stripping him down to nothing but bare skin, America’s brilliant smile, America whispering sweet nothings in his ear as they made love, America holding him afterwards, running a careless hand through his golden sweat-slicked hair-
England came back to himself flushed and terrible aroused and staring at France’s knowing, smug smirk. The glare that England gave him was so full of malice and evil than four seats down, Spain passed out from sheer, unadulterated fear. France’s smile only grew wider and England realized that no amount of glaring was going to get rid of his tight trousers.
“I need…to go to the bathroom,” he mumbled as a general excuse, even though the meeting hadn’t really started yet, and fled before anyone could see him. He needed to go calm down. Or have a shameless wank in a bathroom stall with inappropriate thoughts and name-calling (mostly aborted attempts at saying ‘America’ until he snapped and all it was a single hushed whisper of ‘Alfred’ before he came all over his hand, he’d done this before…).
He had never hated William Shakespeare so much in his entire life.
Of course, he didn’t see France nod at America, leaning back and grinning, while America looked after him, licking his lips with an utterly filthy grin on his face.
--------- Captcha: That's unicorn Truuuuust me, there are NO unicorns here.
Re: America in Love [4b/?]
anonymous
July 31 2010, 02:42:42 UTC
W00t, you're back! Sorry you were ill; hopefully the new fandom distracted you from the misery of being sick?
And god I love this fic! Oh America, honey, I think you've got your approach adjusted just right, now. After all, it's hard for England to be in denial when he's completely unable to think. >:D (Pfft, and France must still feel somewhat sadistic towards his old frenemy; he's enjoying the show way too much. XD ... France is a brave, brave man for the way he doesn't back down from England's rage. Unwise, but brave!)
Re: America in Love [4b/?]
anonymous
July 31 2010, 05:41:18 UTC
I love this fill dearly and I'm excited about the developments -- *waggles eyebrows suggestively* -- this chapter, so I'm sorry to make such an inane comment, but! Your Captcha gave me the most horrific/hilarious mental pictures of England's cute little unicorn in the corner of the bathroom stall while he's having a wank. Either watching or ... I don't care to imagine the rest. OTL
“Oh, really now. Think about it, France. What are the chances that America could also be in love with me and trying to woo me through Shakespeare?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass. “Like you falling in love with him in the first place.”
“Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?” England asked, fed up and frustrated with France insisting that it was America. It couldn’t be.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any idea, other than your one true love,” England glared and France continued on oblivious, “and it is most certainly not me. My advice…forget all about it and confess your love to Amerique. You will be ten times happier.”
“I can’t do that! It won’t be returned, it won’t be. And I’m curious as to who this is.”
“It’s possibly who you refuse to consider.”
“It is not America, you crazy French frog! I told you why it can’t be him,” he said, standing up and draining his wine glass. He stuffed the notes in his pocket and walked towards the door.
“And they are silly and ultimately meaningless reasons. Don’t discount him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. You love him, don’t you?”
“No thanks for the help, you crazy bastard,” England said, leaving France’s room. It wasn’t America, no matter how his heart hoped. Thinking it was would only lead to his heart being broken. He’d much rather keep his love safe and sheltered in his own heart, than have it exposed and rejected and broken beyond repair.
What he didn’t see was France reaching for his cell phone.
And when he got back to his room, stuck in the door was a tiny slip of paper. It read:
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Reply
That is beyond my favorite quote from Midsummer's. I love you. That is all.
But really, if England were a bit less desperate, this last quote would really make the entire "who-is-it?" question beyond simple - only America would insult him and make a love confession in the same moment. /sweatdrop
Reply
Thanks for pampering the romantic I didn't even know was in me with this fic, anon. It makes me happy to read it. I mean, I still facepalm at England, but still! The happiness. *_* And I need something cheerful to read, after my teams being slaughtered at the World Cup. >_<
... *goes off to reread A Midsummer Night's Dream* :D
Captcha: "woodwork commentaries" Mwahaha, that must mean America is going to lure England into his lair to see his dubious "etchings" commentaries on Shakespeare. ... Or not!
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So, um, Anon? Is writing this being weirdly educational already?
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I'm having tons of fun picking out all the lines, too. Especially Sonnet 151. *snicker*
Reply
When I flicked through it I found this one that made me think of Colonial America and Empire England. So I thought I would share it with everyone.
Sonnet 58
That god forbid that made me first your slave
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O! let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your character is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will' to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
I love midsummer's nights dream. It has always been my favorite play.
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This is so beautiful... I kept it for like a week in my bookmarks for reading and now I regret not reading it sooner.
Waiting impatiently for updates ^^
<3
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----------
England wasn’t quite sure what to make of this one. It broke form from the previous ones because it wasn’t a sonnet, but the main idea was still intact. It also happened to be something he had been talking about to France not twenty minutes ago. But he believed France when he said it wasn’t him.
But he didn’t believe that France didn’t know who it was. But he knew that, when questioned, France would insist it was America, when it couldn’t be America. He had learned not to hope too much from that. So that’s how he found himself in the meeting scheduled for one in the afternoon, looking at that tiny slip of paper.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
It was actually quite insulting. At least, the first two lines were. But to imagine that he had any beauty was an exercise in futility. Not with his large eyebrows and dirty blond hair, and his short, scrawny stature. The exact opposite of bright yellow haired, blue eyes, tall, muscular America. But his secret admirer said, in those last two lines, that they didn’t care about those things and that love had made them blind to all imperfections.
It hadn’t made England blind, though. He could see easily enough, thank you very much. The only person who counted would never love him, because of his looks, his prickly personality, his unwillingness to come out with a simple confession and to say three words.
But in reverse, he supposed it applied to him, in a way. There were many nations sitting around the table that wouldn’t be inclined to even look twice at America for who he truly was, just for his body. But to him, that was only a perk. America was…so many other things. He could try to put what exactly drew him to the Nation in words, but it wouldn’t ever be elegant or coherent. It would be more like words and thoughts and him throwing himself at America. Yes, like that.
“Hm. That’s a nice poem. Where’d you get it from?” America asked over his shoulder, breathing in his ear. England started to answer, but froze, realizing whom exactly was in his personal space. America’s lips were right next to his ear, he could lean a tiny bit to left and his lips would be brushing England’s earlobe…
“Nowhere,” England said, shoving it into a pocket. “It’s nothing, America. Don’t worry about it. Now go sit down and stop breathing in my ear. I don’t want your hamburger breath all over me,” he told him in an even tone. In his mind, he was flustered and extremely turned on and going ‘yes, yes, yes, I want your breath-even if it’s hamburger breath-all over me, even on my co-‘
And that thought needed to stop before it got out of hand. He waved his hand irritably, shooing America away along with his breath-his hot, wonderful, moist-
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‘Bite me, you wine bastard,’ he mouthed back, pressing a pen into a paper, which really didn’t need to be written on. He couldn’t stand to look to his side where America was sitting now, because then he would possibly undress him with his eyes, trying to imagine all the dips of his muscles and the feel of shin…
‘I rather think you would like Amerique to do it, or perhaps...’ France leaned over, sliding his pen into his mouth in an obscene fashion. ‘Perhaps Amerique would like to do it to you.’
England almost broke his pen when he gripped down hard at the thought-America crossing those last few inches and his teeth closing around his earlobe, biting and tugging-
A flash of heat in his stomach, and tried to stop his thoughts before they snowballed out of control-America kissing him, America pressing him against a bed, America stripping him down to nothing but bare skin, America’s brilliant smile, America whispering sweet nothings in his ear as they made love, America holding him afterwards, running a careless hand through his golden sweat-slicked hair-
England came back to himself flushed and terrible aroused and staring at France’s knowing, smug smirk. The glare that England gave him was so full of malice and evil than four seats down, Spain passed out from sheer, unadulterated fear. France’s smile only grew wider and England realized that no amount of glaring was going to get rid of his tight trousers.
“I need…to go to the bathroom,” he mumbled as a general excuse, even though the meeting hadn’t really started yet, and fled before anyone could see him. He needed to go calm down. Or have a shameless wank in a bathroom stall with inappropriate thoughts and name-calling (mostly aborted attempts at saying ‘America’ until he snapped and all it was a single hushed whisper of ‘Alfred’ before he came all over his hand, he’d done this before…).
He had never hated William Shakespeare so much in his entire life.
Of course, he didn’t see France nod at America, leaning back and grinning, while America looked after him, licking his lips with an utterly filthy grin on his face.
---------
Captcha: That's unicorn
Truuuuust me, there are NO unicorns here.
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And god I love this fic! Oh America, honey, I think you've got your approach adjusted just right, now. After all, it's hard for England to be in denial when he's completely unable to think. >:D (Pfft, and France must still feel somewhat sadistic towards his old frenemy; he's enjoying the show way too much. XD ... France is a brave, brave man for the way he doesn't back down from England's rage. Unwise, but brave!)
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