HIIIIIIIIIIIII.
Heylo to meghan182, neffervescent, puella_nerdii, shinigami39, sparkism, starchains, szeras, and xiaa from the APH friending meme! <333333333 Hahahh, you guys are awesome.
And, welcome back to nakasty!! <3333 I REALLY MISSED YOU kjdghkjsdf
So, uhh. HIIIII. I don't really have an introductory post, so I'll just blab about myself here.
I AM A STUDENT. I, uhh. Like to change icons, huhuhh. This is a writing journal, so I'm supposed to write, but I don't think I do it too well. :/ I can't really write for Hetalia yet, 'cause my World History really sucks. But I'm working on it.
And,
I LOVE HETALIA ♥ ♥ And UK.
edit;ohohohh, THANK YOU, FRIENDS ( *W*)
Ohkaye. Here's something to burn your eyes with.
"Sir..."
America motions for his men to stand down. Obediently, they take a few steps back, warily watching the Englishman, unmoving on his knees.
He takes a deep breath, looking up at the sky - an ominous, purplish-black. Everything is going downhill, he thinks. Everything's not going his way. This was supposed to be diplomatic. This was supposed to end, maybe with a heated argument, but not with guns. Not with tears. He had expected England to reliate, but certainly not to the point of threatening to shoot. This is, after all, the man who raised him.
England is still on his knees, his smart red uniform drenched, sandy hair soppy, face pressed into his hands, thin shoulders shaking. America takes a step forward, his mouth half-open, wanting to say something, but not know what.
"We," he begins, tentatively, softly, "aren't brothers anymore. Not family."
There are loud splats as England's hands fall on the muddy ground, and he attempts to push himself up on quivering legs.
"But," America walks over, more confident with each step, his hands slipping beneath England's arms, helping the man to his feet, "we're friends."
England flinches, stumbling over a small boulder as he looks up at America questioningly.
"W-What...?"
"I'm not your little kid anymore," America says, gently, but firmly, brushing some hair out of England's eyes. "And I'm not going to follow your orders anymore. But I'll be your ally. When you need me, I'll come."
There is a small, quiet hiccup. America winds his arms, slowly, around England's waist, and pulls the man closer.
"Stop crying, it's not like you," America mumbles, forehead against wet hair. "Stop crying."
England's fingers curl tightly into the front of his shirt, trembling. "Idiot," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Idiot. I hate you. Idiot. Git," he adds, for good measure.
"I love you, too," America says dryly.
But he holds onto England, all the same, till the smaller man is mashed against his chest, grumbling, in between his hiccups, about how he can't breathe. The rain is still falling, and his men are watching, looking as if their eyes may pop out of their skull any second now -
When England gets one of his arms free, he starts banging his fist on his captor's chest.
America lets out something akin to a strangled sob, obliviously squeezing England, and thinks he's feeling a little better.
And, welcome back to nakasty!! <3333 I REALLY MISSED YOU kjdghkjsdf
So, uhh. HIIIII. I don't really have an introductory post, so I'll just blab about myself here.
I AM A STUDENT. I, uhh. Like to change icons, huhuhh. This is a writing journal, so I'm supposed to write, but I don't think I do it too well. :/ I can't really write for Hetalia yet, 'cause my World History really sucks. But I'm working on it.
And,
I LOVE HETALIA ♥ ♥ And UK.
edit;ohohohh, THANK YOU, FRIENDS ( *W*)
Ohkaye. Here's something to burn your eyes with.
"Sir..."
America motions for his men to stand down. Obediently, they take a few steps back, warily watching the Englishman, unmoving on his knees.
He takes a deep breath, looking up at the sky - an ominous, purplish-black. Everything is going downhill, he thinks. Everything's not going his way. This was supposed to be diplomatic. This was supposed to end, maybe with a heated argument, but not with guns. Not with tears. He had expected England to reliate, but certainly not to the point of threatening to shoot. This is, after all, the man who raised him.
England is still on his knees, his smart red uniform drenched, sandy hair soppy, face pressed into his hands, thin shoulders shaking. America takes a step forward, his mouth half-open, wanting to say something, but not know what.
"We," he begins, tentatively, softly, "aren't brothers anymore. Not family."
There are loud splats as England's hands fall on the muddy ground, and he attempts to push himself up on quivering legs.
"But," America walks over, more confident with each step, his hands slipping beneath England's arms, helping the man to his feet, "we're friends."
England flinches, stumbling over a small boulder as he looks up at America questioningly.
"W-What...?"
"I'm not your little kid anymore," America says, gently, but firmly, brushing some hair out of England's eyes. "And I'm not going to follow your orders anymore. But I'll be your ally. When you need me, I'll come."
There is a small, quiet hiccup. America winds his arms, slowly, around England's waist, and pulls the man closer.
"Stop crying, it's not like you," America mumbles, forehead against wet hair. "Stop crying."
England's fingers curl tightly into the front of his shirt, trembling. "Idiot," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Idiot. I hate you. Idiot. Git," he adds, for good measure.
"I love you, too," America says dryly.
But he holds onto England, all the same, till the smaller man is mashed against his chest, grumbling, in between his hiccups, about how he can't breathe. The rain is still falling, and his men are watching, looking as if their eyes may pop out of their skull any second now -
When England gets one of his arms free, he starts banging his fist on his captor's chest.
America lets out something akin to a strangled sob, obliviously squeezing England, and thinks he's feeling a little better.