Heart Controllers [2/?]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 08:48:37 UTC
Oh, that Portugal always gave her another reason to bully his younger brother. Spain hated her all the more because of it, and she relished in his hatred. She would take his dear older brother from him again and again just to see him suffer, the high-mighty bastard. The control of the seas would be hers and hers alone, and if she had to sink the whole Iberian peninsula to achieve her goal, then so be it.
If Portugal really did lover her, then he would know England would never compromise her Empire for a man. No matter how much he claimed to love her, in the end Portugal was just that: a man. And men were beasts, they were monsters whose sole goal was to lead her to her crucifix.
England would rather be alone forever, without knowing love or touch, then to be beaten by her own traitorous heart.
-or so she thought, but then she met [him].
He was everything England ever wanted. So small and so precious and he [needed] her. He could not survive without her, and England felt her heart flutter in her ribcage at the love she saw in his eyes-eyes that were as blue as the sea and the skies she’d never been afraid of loving. That love was for her, a love so innocent and so wonderful she could not help but return it.
America, her darling, her precious golden-boy. He was sunshine and moonlight both and he loved England like no other man had ever loved her. America loved her without any strings attached, without any double meanings and without any restrictions. He would not hurt England with his love, he would not use her new weakness against her. America was a boy aching for a mother, and England, England who was mother country to many a colonies but never a mother to a son, had fought with tooth and nail until she could call the boy hers and hers alone.
England had loved various men in her life, but none of them had ever known the warmth of her bed but one.
America was prone to sneak into her bed at nights, a wobbling mess of tears and trembling lips; the boy was so deathly afraid of ghosts and England never could turn him away. She would cradle him in her arms and lull him to sleep, weaving him happy dreams with sweet songs of long ago. She would lay a kiss upon his brow and clutch him to her breast, happier than she’d ever been in a long, long time.
Out of all her colonies, America was by far her favorite. India may have been her most fruitful one, but America was unique in a way none of her other children were. America was so wonderful, so rich and so very, very special to her. The boy was a breath of fresh air, a safe place far away from the European continent where she could let down her shields and relax. America made her happy in ways Europe never could and probably never would. No one could compare to America, and England’s love for him was boundless.
England spoiled the boy rotten; she gave him anything and everything. She gave him her children, her language, her customs and her flag. England gave America a name, the name of perhaps the first man she ever loved. It was a great name for a great country; she just knew America would be as wonderful as his namesake.
Everything had been so perfect.
-so of course something was bound to go wrong. Something always went wrong in her life, almost as if some great cosmos had it out for her. England was used to having her happiness shattered into a thousands pieces time after time again. First it had been Rome, then the bloody blonde giants, and many more after them. England could not remember a time when someone was not out to hurt her and rip her apart.
Heart Controllers [3/?]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 08:56:11 UTC
But why did it have to be like this? Why, of all things…did it have to be [him] who hurt her like this?
She loved him, she’d always loved America. From the very first time she held that tiny little hand in hers, her heart had been his. America was her little prince who brought her flowers when she worked over time; he was the little boy who burned his hand when he’d tried to make her favorite tea; and he was England’s greatest treasure, far more valuable than any Spanish gold.
America was her darling, her precious, precious little brother.
Which was why it was unforgivable for her to desire him the way she did.
If she had ever been ashamed of anything, it was this. Her dirty little secret. Her greatest shame of all, the one thing in the world that could make her go weak at the knees and [crumble].
It was unforgivable, it was utterly unforgivable and she had no one to blame but herself.
America may not be her flesh and blood, but she’d raised him as if he were her own son. She’d held him in her arms as a toddler, had read him stories at night when he’d still been young enough to believe in her magic. America had been her little boy for so long that she had fooled herself into believing he would stay small forever. The little bundle of joy that was her source of happiness, England believed it would always be hers.
But America had grown up, and she’d remained unaware of this change until it was far too late.
How stupid she’d felt they day they met again after so many years of not seeing each other. England had barged into the house expecting her little boy to run into her arms and greet her with his sweet kisses and candy hugs; instead, she’d been greeted by a young man she almost didn’t recognize as her America.
Before her stood, not a boy, but a man.
And what a lovely young man her little boy had become.
America had always been the most adorable child in the world to England; he’d been a cherub, with his golden locks and cornflower-blue eyes and his sunny smile. The last time she’d seen him the boy had been a choir boy, with dainty little limbs and a face as pretty as a doll’s.
The man that stood before her could not be called anything but handsome.
He’d shot up like a weed in the years England had been away. His face had lost almost all vestiges of baby fat; his shoulders had broadened and no longer was his body the lanky, uncoordinated frame it had once been. Try as she might, England could not find any traces of the little angel who hid behind her skirts whenever a thunderstorm was upon them.
America was a man, handsome and strong and when he pulled England into a hug, she felt a warmth coil in her belly the likes of which she hadn’t felt in centuries. His hands were large on her dainty waist, his breath hot on her neck; when he squeezed her tighter, her breasts pressed up against the filthy flannel of his shirt.
“England,” he murmured, and even his voice was different. It was a man’s voice. “England, I missed you.”
And England felt her heart skip one, two beats; her breath caught in her throat at the same time she felt something between them break.
Just like she knew how to read the salty ocean wind and known when a storm was coming, she knew nothing would ever be the same way again.
[Historical notes: Anglo-Spanish war (1585-1604; it was an intermittent conflict between the kingdoms of Spain and England that was never formally declared. The war was brought to an end with the Treaty of London, negotiated in 1604 between representatives of Philip III and the new Scottish king of England, James I.), the Iberian Union (1580-1640; it refers to the historical political unit that governed all of the Iberian Peninsula south of the Pyrenees through a dynastic union. This union was composed of the crowns of Portugal and Spain, after the Portuguese dynastic crisis and in a personal union of the crowns, along with their respective colonial possessions. Portugal eventually overthrew Spain with England’s help), the Spanish Armada (1588; a complete naval failure by Spain that led to the English Armada and more aid to the resistance in Portugal against Spain’s rule), the Wars for America (early 1600s; we should all know what these are). I would go into more detail, but I have to get up in four hours and I want my sleep, orz. Just know that they go in order.]
This fill will get ~sexy~ at some point; I’m just building up the prompt. Also, the bonuses, they will be included. I apologize beforehand if this isn’t what OP wanted, and for any spelling errors. It is 4 am here ; ;
AAA PORTUGALLL (sorry. I'm always happy whenever Portugal is mentioned :D). But poor Portugal...he's worked so hard to prove himself different, yet he's still lumped into the same category as other men. Ouch, Igiko, harsh much? I'd much prefer if Portugal is a woman here (and the femme fatale BFFs can sail across the sea and bully Antonio together! XD) or may be he can be gay and having UST against Ottoman Empire or something. Then they bitched about men together.
Re: Heart Controllers [3/?]
anonymous
September 29 2010, 01:49:41 UTC
*Fangirl squeal* Wow, this is so amazing so far, altho I feel kind of sad because we all know what's going to be coming in a couple decades, but if I ignore that this is really sweet!
Oh, that Portugal always gave her another reason to bully his younger brother. Spain hated her all the more because of it, and she relished in his hatred. She would take his dear older brother from him again and again just to see him suffer, the high-mighty bastard. The control of the seas would be hers and hers alone, and if she had to sink the whole Iberian peninsula to achieve her goal, then so be it.
If Portugal really did lover her, then he would know England would never compromise her Empire for a man. No matter how much he claimed to love her, in the end Portugal was just that: a man. And men were beasts, they were monsters whose sole goal was to lead her to her crucifix.
England would rather be alone forever, without knowing love or touch, then to be beaten by her own traitorous heart.
-or so she thought, but then she met [him].
He was everything England ever wanted. So small and so precious and he [needed] her. He could not survive without her, and England felt her heart flutter in her ribcage at the love she saw in his eyes-eyes that were as blue as the sea and the skies she’d never been afraid of loving. That love was for her, a love so innocent and so wonderful she could not help but return it.
America, her darling, her precious golden-boy. He was sunshine and moonlight both and he loved England like no other man had ever loved her. America loved her without any strings attached, without any double meanings and without any restrictions. He would not hurt England with his love, he would not use her new weakness against her. America was a boy aching for a mother, and England, England who was mother country to many a colonies but never a mother to a son, had fought with tooth and nail until she could call the boy hers and hers alone.
England had loved various men in her life, but none of them had ever known the warmth of her bed but one.
America was prone to sneak into her bed at nights, a wobbling mess of tears and trembling lips; the boy was so deathly afraid of ghosts and England never could turn him away. She would cradle him in her arms and lull him to sleep, weaving him happy dreams with sweet songs of long ago. She would lay a kiss upon his brow and clutch him to her breast, happier than she’d ever been in a long, long time.
Out of all her colonies, America was by far her favorite. India may have been her most fruitful one, but America was unique in a way none of her other children were. America was so wonderful, so rich and so very, very special to her. The boy was a breath of fresh air, a safe place far away from the European continent where she could let down her shields and relax. America made her happy in ways Europe never could and probably never would. No one could compare to America, and England’s love for him was boundless.
England spoiled the boy rotten; she gave him anything and everything. She gave him her children, her language, her customs and her flag. England gave America a name, the name of perhaps the first man she ever loved. It was a great name for a great country; she just knew America would be as wonderful as his namesake.
Everything had been so perfect.
-so of course something was bound to go wrong. Something always went wrong in her life, almost as if some great cosmos had it out for her. England was used to having her happiness shattered into a thousands pieces time after time again. First it had been Rome, then the bloody blonde giants, and many more after them. England could not remember a time when someone was not out to hurt her and rip her apart.
She should have been used to it by now.
Reply
But why did it have to be like this? Why, of all things…did it have to be [him] who hurt her like this?
She loved him, she’d always loved America. From the very first time she held that tiny little hand in hers, her heart had been his. America was her little prince who brought her flowers when she worked over time; he was the little boy who burned his hand when he’d tried to make her favorite tea; and he was England’s greatest treasure, far more valuable than any Spanish gold.
America was her darling, her precious, precious little brother.
Which was why it was unforgivable for her to desire him the way she did.
If she had ever been ashamed of anything, it was this. Her dirty little secret. Her greatest shame of all, the one thing in the world that could make her go weak at the knees and [crumble].
It was unforgivable, it was utterly unforgivable and she had no one to blame but herself.
America may not be her flesh and blood, but she’d raised him as if he were her own son. She’d held him in her arms as a toddler, had read him stories at night when he’d still been young enough to believe in her magic. America had been her little boy for so long that she had fooled herself into believing he would stay small forever. The little bundle of joy that was her source of happiness, England believed it would always be hers.
But America had grown up, and she’d remained unaware of this change until it was far too late.
How stupid she’d felt they day they met again after so many years of not seeing each other. England had barged into the house expecting her little boy to run into her arms and greet her with his sweet kisses and candy hugs; instead, she’d been greeted by a young man she almost didn’t recognize as her America.
Before her stood, not a boy, but a man.
And what a lovely young man her little boy had become.
America had always been the most adorable child in the world to England; he’d been a cherub, with his golden locks and cornflower-blue eyes and his sunny smile. The last time she’d seen him the boy had been a choir boy, with dainty little limbs and a face as pretty as a doll’s.
The man that stood before her could not be called anything but handsome.
He’d shot up like a weed in the years England had been away. His face had lost almost all vestiges of baby fat; his shoulders had broadened and no longer was his body the lanky, uncoordinated frame it had once been. Try as she might, England could not find any traces of the little angel who hid behind her skirts whenever a thunderstorm was upon them.
America was a man, handsome and strong and when he pulled England into a hug, she felt a warmth coil in her belly the likes of which she hadn’t felt in centuries. His hands were large on her dainty waist, his breath hot on her neck; when he squeezed her tighter, her breasts pressed up against the filthy flannel of his shirt.
“England,” he murmured, and even his voice was different. It was a man’s voice. “England, I missed you.”
And England felt her heart skip one, two beats; her breath caught in her throat at the same time she felt something between them break.
Just like she knew how to read the salty ocean wind and known when a storm was coming, she knew nothing would ever be the same way again.
----
Eh…first part down? :D Next part, America’s POV~
Reply
This fill will get ~sexy~ at some point; I’m just building up the prompt. Also, the bonuses, they will be included. I apologize beforehand if this isn’t what OP wanted, and for any spelling errors. It is 4 am here ; ;
Reply
*so much incoherence*
Uhm, I'm at work right now so. Uh. I'll comment more extensively later.
Thank you Author!Anon, for filling this. ♥
Reply
Wonderful fill!!
Reply
And that is coming from someone who normally doesn't like genderbent fic at all. BUT YOU MAKE IT WORK.
I AM DYING RIGHT NOW this is so beautiful.
Reply
Reply
FemUK is a major weakness of mine...and you don't even know how happy I am to hear that we get to see Alfred's pov next
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Wow, this is so amazing so far, altho I feel kind of sad because we all know what's going to be coming in a couple decades, but if I ignore that this is really sweet!
Reply
Leave a comment