Drabble dump~ 8! Pidge-needs-to-destress-from-exams edition!
Warning: Mood whiplash imminent.
Rome often had ideas. Big ideas, ideas that would change things. Greece could certainly appreciate having heating under the floors, and water on demand without having to trudge down to the local stream or well. However, sometimes he was just a little bit cliched, or just plain stole them, wittingly or not.
China had come over for a visit, something to do with silk, when Rome burst into the room with an excited grin on his face, bouncing up and down like an overgrown puppy.
“I am a genius, an absolute genius!” he cried, twirling around the room and sweeping Egypt into the dance with him. She rolled her eyes, but allowed it. “I have invented the fastest way to transfer messages ever!”
China, sitting on a mound of pillows next to Greece, blinked at the giddy empire. “What might that be, aru?”
Egypt was spun out of Rome’s hold, the larger Nation turning to China with a grin. “See, I’ve put these beacons on the tops of mountains, and each one, when lit, can be seen by the next one along. The message that someone needs help will transfer from one end of the chain to the other in the fastest time possible!”
A silence settled. Rome puffed out his chest, satisfied he’d awed them into silence, when China made an odd noise.
“Pfffahahahaha!” the Asian laughed, falling back on his pillows. “Hahaha! Oh man, aru! I can’t believe it! I thought you were past the whole ‘man make fire, fire good’ stage, aru!”
Rome pouted, shoulders slumping. “Ve, Greece, what’s he laughing about?”
Greece was trying to hold back giggles. “Roma, it’s very nice that you’ve invented this and had this idea yourself, but I’m afraid China got there before you.”
“Approximately 1000 years before you.” Egypt spoke up, fixing her headdress.
“Oh.” The brunette looked severely put out by this news. “I see.” He’d liked this idea, he really had. Stupid Asian brat stealing his ideas before he’d even thought of them. Why was he even trading with him in the first place?
Greece patted him on the shoulder. “There there, I still think it’s a good idea, no matter who invented it.”
Rome sniffed. “You do?”
“Yes dear.” She smiled, though it had an edge to it. “No-one will accuse you of plagiarism here, even if you did steal my gods and re-name them stupid things.”
The pout returned full force. "Why is everyone raining on my parade? That's it, Germania is more fun to talk to than you guys. I'm gonna go find him!" And with a loud "hmph!" he stormed out of the room.
China watched him go. "So I probably shouldn't tell him about the aqueducts, metalwork or anything else like that, aru?"
xoxoxoxoxoxox
They were lying on a sunny patch of grass when Gallia rolled onto his stomach and looked at Scotia in the funny way which made the red head's stomach do flip-flops.
"Caledonii," he said in the tone he usually used to get what he wanted. The Pictish Nation found it very hard to refuse that tone, and while it would have usually frustrated him, he was a little distracted by the fluttering of Gallia's pretty blonde eyelashes over his pretty blue eyes.
"What?"
"Have you ever had a butterfly kiss before?"
Scotia blinked.
"Didn't think you could kiss a butterfly."
Gallia's giggle made a few butterflies manifest in his stomach regardless. "Not literally, silly. Come here."
The red head spluttered as he was pulled by the braids very close to Gallia's face. His eyes squeezed shut on reflex, but all he felt was the soft flutter of something vaguely ticklish. Cracking one eye open, he found all he could see was the top of the blonde's head, along with some decorative ribbons which nearly poked him in the eye. The fluttering against his cheek stopped, and the European Nation sat back, smiling.
"What was that?" Scotia asked, feeling his face heat up.
"My eyelashes." Gallia pointed to them, as though Scotia needed any sort of directions around the face he stared at entirely too much to be healthy. "It felt nice, right? Like a butterfly."
The heat spreading across Scotia's cheeks had nothing to do with the sunny day.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
There were times when Aine wondered what it would be like to die. Not vanish, like Nations did, but die, bleeding out on the floor, drowning in the sea, burning in a house fire. If she did, would she see heaven? Or hell? Was there such a place for people-- beings like them? She wasn’t usually one to doubt her faith, but there was a niggling feeling at the back of her mind when she rode with the Dullahan and listened to the Banshee scream at night that she wondered, was there really a benevolent being up there?
If God was a loving father, why did he let his children do--
His hands are on her mouth so she can’t scream, he’s trapped her arms above her head and tied them there with his tie, her skirt is ripped and ruined and she can’t tear her eyes from the mad greed in his eyes, taking her everything, and she could still feel the horrible heat.
-- horrible things to each other? Maybe God was dead. Maybe he’d died in the war, with millions of soldiers. Maybe he choked on mustard gas and rainwater puddles and gunfire. Or maybe before, in one of the many, many wars in history, without anyone noticing, God had laid down one day and died, his children too busy in-fighting for them to notice his passing. Too busy--
Pain rockets through her body, and every movement he makes dirties her, marks her, splits her into bits and pieces for him to grab at more easily. Bloody fingernails scratch at the already-there cracks, opening them to gaping fissures until they separate entirely, families and lives and loved ones ruined by petty bickering over a God that may as well be dead.
-- picking at pointless issues when they were all from the same source. Because one team thought worshiping God was done one way, and the other team disagreed and a whole other team argued that wasn’t even the right God. The God that gave them all life.
Had God given life to what was in her rapidly swelling stomach, or was this the spawn of hell instead?--
Writhing and struggling is useless, but she tries anyway, because she has no other option, never has. But there’s the shift, the sudden numbness and then adjustment as her body realigns itself with the land, her territory shrinking, cities being reassigned, people deciding which side of the border they belong on. Inches of strength leave her, transfer to something- something within her that is not really her, something foreign but familiar, wanted and unwanted. He looks so smugly satisfied when he sees the look of realization on her face and utters.
“I’ll be back for that later.”
--“Aine?” the soft voice made Ireland jump. India looked through the doorway at her, taking in the way she clutched at her abdomen, curled up on the hard wood floor next to the dresser, only halfway clothed. Aine blinked, and Maya was suddenly much closer, but moving in slow motion. “Aine, slow down your breathing, you’ll faint.”
Becoming suddenly aware of the shaking in her body and her own hyperventilation, she tried to calm down, but the room was already spinning. India’s work-worn hands touched her shoulders, gently soothing her.
“Stay with me, Aine, slow, deep breaths.” How considerate, she’d even switched out of that accent. Aine found nothing wrong with India’s language, it was actually quite pretty. It suited her. “Aine? Eyes open, focus on me.”
She wasn’t aware she’d shut them.
“Maya,” her vision swam into focus eventually, and what she saw nearly made her stop breathing all together. There was a large purple bruise swelling on India’s cheek, and her bottom lip was split. Her hair, usually put into a loose plait or hanging straight and unruffled down her back, was heavily messed up, to the point where it looked like someone had grabbed her by it. Under her dark skin, Aine could see more bruises around her neck. “You fought him again?”
India’s smile was weak, but oddly serene. “Not with violence. I’m trying something a friend taught me.” She sat back, folding her legs in that strange, upside-down way that Aine could never quite bend her own legs into. “I said no, and he got angry. I let him hit me. I didn’t hit him back. Eventually he stopped.” The smile became more of a grin. “It ends with me having the moral high ground, and him having no excuse nor reason to continue hitting me.”
Aine stared. “And it… worked?”
“It will eventually, if I keep it up.” She shrugged. “He’s going to realize that what he does is wrong. He will learn that he can’t just break people into doing what he wants. Because we will not break.” Even if there was some of him in her eyes, Maya’s gaze was a kind one, and also determined. “Right?”
The red head drew a shuddering breath before answering. “He already broke me.” She lifted her hands off the bump of her stomach. “It’s his and it- it hates me already.”
“It’s also yours.” Maya placed a tanned hand atop the swell. “And it may not love you now, but I don’t think it will like him very much either. For all his practice, he’s not exactly fantastic with children.”
“Mine…” the thought hadn’t really crossed her mind that the child was also hers, but of course it was.
Ah, what an unholy child this would be, the offspring of two siblings.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
England was very, very drunk by this point. The world cup had literally just started and he was already on a bender. Wales had dumped him on Portugal's doorstep, saying he couldn't stand one more moment of him and had to go find his lost patience somewhere, then left. And now Portugal had to deal with his very drunk husband, who was now lounging on the sofa.
"Brat of a colony thinksh he can beat me..." he slurred, glaring at the ceiling like America would manifest there somehow. "I invented thish shport." He stopped, then giggled. "Hehe, shport, Port. You rhyme."
"That's nice dear." Portugal replied, channel hopping and sitting on the sofa next to him, by his head. England looked at him upside down with a goofy smile that was quite unlike him.
"Y' wanna know why I call y' Port, like?" it was really hard to understand him when his accent went all Geordie, but the Iberian Nation deciphered the meaning and returned the look.
"Because it's an abbreviation of Portugal?"
Arthur shook his head, though he looked rather sick afterward. "Nah, see, y'know how I'm always out a' sea an' stuff?" Well, he wasn't anymore, but Portugal nodded. "Well, it's real lonely out there, but I always know that I have a Port to come back to."
It was a terrible pun.
Arthur woke up in bed the next morning, feeling immensely satisfied with himself for reasons he could only guess at by the single clue that he still had a certain dark haired Nation attached to his waist, very much naked.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
And now, I go to sleep.
Rome often had ideas. Big ideas, ideas that would change things. Greece could certainly appreciate having heating under the floors, and water on demand without having to trudge down to the local stream or well. However, sometimes he was just a little bit cliched, or just plain stole them, wittingly or not.
China had come over for a visit, something to do with silk, when Rome burst into the room with an excited grin on his face, bouncing up and down like an overgrown puppy.
“I am a genius, an absolute genius!” he cried, twirling around the room and sweeping Egypt into the dance with him. She rolled her eyes, but allowed it. “I have invented the fastest way to transfer messages ever!”
China, sitting on a mound of pillows next to Greece, blinked at the giddy empire. “What might that be, aru?”
Egypt was spun out of Rome’s hold, the larger Nation turning to China with a grin. “See, I’ve put these beacons on the tops of mountains, and each one, when lit, can be seen by the next one along. The message that someone needs help will transfer from one end of the chain to the other in the fastest time possible!”
A silence settled. Rome puffed out his chest, satisfied he’d awed them into silence, when China made an odd noise.
“Pfffahahahaha!” the Asian laughed, falling back on his pillows. “Hahaha! Oh man, aru! I can’t believe it! I thought you were past the whole ‘man make fire, fire good’ stage, aru!”
Rome pouted, shoulders slumping. “Ve, Greece, what’s he laughing about?”
Greece was trying to hold back giggles. “Roma, it’s very nice that you’ve invented this and had this idea yourself, but I’m afraid China got there before you.”
“Approximately 1000 years before you.” Egypt spoke up, fixing her headdress.
“Oh.” The brunette looked severely put out by this news. “I see.” He’d liked this idea, he really had. Stupid Asian brat stealing his ideas before he’d even thought of them. Why was he even trading with him in the first place?
Greece patted him on the shoulder. “There there, I still think it’s a good idea, no matter who invented it.”
Rome sniffed. “You do?”
“Yes dear.” She smiled, though it had an edge to it. “No-one will accuse you of plagiarism here, even if you did steal my gods and re-name them stupid things.”
The pout returned full force. "Why is everyone raining on my parade? That's it, Germania is more fun to talk to than you guys. I'm gonna go find him!" And with a loud "hmph!" he stormed out of the room.
China watched him go. "So I probably shouldn't tell him about the aqueducts, metalwork or anything else like that, aru?"
xoxoxoxoxoxox
They were lying on a sunny patch of grass when Gallia rolled onto his stomach and looked at Scotia in the funny way which made the red head's stomach do flip-flops.
"Caledonii," he said in the tone he usually used to get what he wanted. The Pictish Nation found it very hard to refuse that tone, and while it would have usually frustrated him, he was a little distracted by the fluttering of Gallia's pretty blonde eyelashes over his pretty blue eyes.
"What?"
"Have you ever had a butterfly kiss before?"
Scotia blinked.
"Didn't think you could kiss a butterfly."
Gallia's giggle made a few butterflies manifest in his stomach regardless. "Not literally, silly. Come here."
The red head spluttered as he was pulled by the braids very close to Gallia's face. His eyes squeezed shut on reflex, but all he felt was the soft flutter of something vaguely ticklish. Cracking one eye open, he found all he could see was the top of the blonde's head, along with some decorative ribbons which nearly poked him in the eye. The fluttering against his cheek stopped, and the European Nation sat back, smiling.
"What was that?" Scotia asked, feeling his face heat up.
"My eyelashes." Gallia pointed to them, as though Scotia needed any sort of directions around the face he stared at entirely too much to be healthy. "It felt nice, right? Like a butterfly."
The heat spreading across Scotia's cheeks had nothing to do with the sunny day.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
There were times when Aine wondered what it would be like to die. Not vanish, like Nations did, but die, bleeding out on the floor, drowning in the sea, burning in a house fire. If she did, would she see heaven? Or hell? Was there such a place for people-- beings like them? She wasn’t usually one to doubt her faith, but there was a niggling feeling at the back of her mind when she rode with the Dullahan and listened to the Banshee scream at night that she wondered, was there really a benevolent being up there?
If God was a loving father, why did he let his children do--
His hands are on her mouth so she can’t scream, he’s trapped her arms above her head and tied them there with his tie, her skirt is ripped and ruined and she can’t tear her eyes from the mad greed in his eyes, taking her everything, and she could still feel the horrible heat.
-- horrible things to each other? Maybe God was dead. Maybe he’d died in the war, with millions of soldiers. Maybe he choked on mustard gas and rainwater puddles and gunfire. Or maybe before, in one of the many, many wars in history, without anyone noticing, God had laid down one day and died, his children too busy in-fighting for them to notice his passing. Too busy--
Pain rockets through her body, and every movement he makes dirties her, marks her, splits her into bits and pieces for him to grab at more easily. Bloody fingernails scratch at the already-there cracks, opening them to gaping fissures until they separate entirely, families and lives and loved ones ruined by petty bickering over a God that may as well be dead.
-- picking at pointless issues when they were all from the same source. Because one team thought worshiping God was done one way, and the other team disagreed and a whole other team argued that wasn’t even the right God. The God that gave them all life.
Had God given life to what was in her rapidly swelling stomach, or was this the spawn of hell instead?--
Writhing and struggling is useless, but she tries anyway, because she has no other option, never has. But there’s the shift, the sudden numbness and then adjustment as her body realigns itself with the land, her territory shrinking, cities being reassigned, people deciding which side of the border they belong on. Inches of strength leave her, transfer to something- something within her that is not really her, something foreign but familiar, wanted and unwanted. He looks so smugly satisfied when he sees the look of realization on her face and utters.
“I’ll be back for that later.”
--“Aine?” the soft voice made Ireland jump. India looked through the doorway at her, taking in the way she clutched at her abdomen, curled up on the hard wood floor next to the dresser, only halfway clothed. Aine blinked, and Maya was suddenly much closer, but moving in slow motion. “Aine, slow down your breathing, you’ll faint.”
Becoming suddenly aware of the shaking in her body and her own hyperventilation, she tried to calm down, but the room was already spinning. India’s work-worn hands touched her shoulders, gently soothing her.
“Stay with me, Aine, slow, deep breaths.” How considerate, she’d even switched out of that accent. Aine found nothing wrong with India’s language, it was actually quite pretty. It suited her. “Aine? Eyes open, focus on me.”
She wasn’t aware she’d shut them.
“Maya,” her vision swam into focus eventually, and what she saw nearly made her stop breathing all together. There was a large purple bruise swelling on India’s cheek, and her bottom lip was split. Her hair, usually put into a loose plait or hanging straight and unruffled down her back, was heavily messed up, to the point where it looked like someone had grabbed her by it. Under her dark skin, Aine could see more bruises around her neck. “You fought him again?”
India’s smile was weak, but oddly serene. “Not with violence. I’m trying something a friend taught me.” She sat back, folding her legs in that strange, upside-down way that Aine could never quite bend her own legs into. “I said no, and he got angry. I let him hit me. I didn’t hit him back. Eventually he stopped.” The smile became more of a grin. “It ends with me having the moral high ground, and him having no excuse nor reason to continue hitting me.”
Aine stared. “And it… worked?”
“It will eventually, if I keep it up.” She shrugged. “He’s going to realize that what he does is wrong. He will learn that he can’t just break people into doing what he wants. Because we will not break.” Even if there was some of him in her eyes, Maya’s gaze was a kind one, and also determined. “Right?”
The red head drew a shuddering breath before answering. “He already broke me.” She lifted her hands off the bump of her stomach. “It’s his and it- it hates me already.”
“It’s also yours.” Maya placed a tanned hand atop the swell. “And it may not love you now, but I don’t think it will like him very much either. For all his practice, he’s not exactly fantastic with children.”
“Mine…” the thought hadn’t really crossed her mind that the child was also hers, but of course it was.
Ah, what an unholy child this would be, the offspring of two siblings.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
England was very, very drunk by this point. The world cup had literally just started and he was already on a bender. Wales had dumped him on Portugal's doorstep, saying he couldn't stand one more moment of him and had to go find his lost patience somewhere, then left. And now Portugal had to deal with his very drunk husband, who was now lounging on the sofa.
"Brat of a colony thinksh he can beat me..." he slurred, glaring at the ceiling like America would manifest there somehow. "I invented thish shport." He stopped, then giggled. "Hehe, shport, Port. You rhyme."
"That's nice dear." Portugal replied, channel hopping and sitting on the sofa next to him, by his head. England looked at him upside down with a goofy smile that was quite unlike him.
"Y' wanna know why I call y' Port, like?" it was really hard to understand him when his accent went all Geordie, but the Iberian Nation deciphered the meaning and returned the look.
"Because it's an abbreviation of Portugal?"
Arthur shook his head, though he looked rather sick afterward. "Nah, see, y'know how I'm always out a' sea an' stuff?" Well, he wasn't anymore, but Portugal nodded. "Well, it's real lonely out there, but I always know that I have a Port to come back to."
It was a terrible pun.
Arthur woke up in bed the next morning, feeling immensely satisfied with himself for reasons he could only guess at by the single clue that he still had a certain dark haired Nation attached to his waist, very much naked.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
And now, I go to sleep.