[Fanfic, One-shot] Only a Love as Odd as You, My Dear
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Title: Only a Love as Odd as You, My Dear
Pairing: France/fem!England
Summary: England didn't make a very exciting woman yet she was the hostile Helen to France's perfervid Paris.
Rating: PG-13
Warning/s: Aw shucks, where should I start? Lacks Brit English. Lacks French. Lacks a lot of things. Possibly a plot. But what it lacks in everything else, it makes up in what initially appears to be purple prose.
Note/s: It's more of bits and pieces of things that try to meld together.
The spells Britannia Angel cast were made with what he liked to call a combination of white magic and good will, but that didn't mean that these spells created any good. Most of the time, it created more chaos. Not that Britannia Angel ever had to deal with the consequences of a back fire himself, and certainly not that Britannia Angel knew it.
Not until today, of course.
England, whom many believed was the aforementioned angel of sorts yet still vehemently denied all claims, woke up with the feeling that his head was being bulldozed. Give or take a couple of minutes later, once he was in front of his bathroom mirror, that same feeling in his head intensified. Had he been a lesser being, he would've fainted. Had he not been acquainted with his invisible-to-everyone-except-him acquaintances, he would've screamed.
Instead, he took everything in stride.
Or so that was what he would've wanted to happen.
A shrill scream that didn't sound manly at all escaped from his slender throat that was rid of a very prominent -- well redundantly put -- Adam's apple. His hands rose to cup his pleasantly, fortunately small (though a part of him was a wee bit ticked off that he'd only gotten that size) breasts, feeling somewhat pert nipples through his nightgown.
"What in the name of God?" he asked to no one in particular.
"A lot of things happened last night, Artie," a fairy said.
"Like what, Thatcher?" Though the appearance of the fairy was a bit surprising, knowing about what happened to him was still a bonus too good to ignore.
"You got drunk with that friend of yours."
"... I don't have any friends!" Sadly for him, his indignation sounded more of a helpless wail.
The fairy chuckled and perched on the top of Arthur's messy hair. Hair that had grown overnight and would possibly take ages to comb enough to make it decent. Not that Arthur was vain, of course. He just didn't like looking haggard.
"Now, now, dear. You know that blond man with the blue eyes and has this lovely red rose around with him most of the time. You seemed chummy with him," the fairy said.
"Chummy? I don't think that's the case but. But a rose? Blond? Oh good fucking lord. Was it France?!"
"Don't curse the name of the lord, dear. I'm not sure if it was this France, all I know is that he's quite the charmer, that he is." Then, with a flutter of her wings, the fairy flew out of the room as fast as she'd came in, leaving England to deal with his vexing circumstances all alone. Rude of her, really, but rather considerate at the same time.
As soon as he'd slammed the door, effectively confining himself within the four nicely tiled walls of his bathroom, England decided to pay a visit to France soon. Very soon indeed. The he now turned a she -- and will be referred to as such in the future -- cracked her knuckles and a wicked smile reminiscent of the ones she'd toted around when she was a pirate appeared on her face.
France had been enjoying his modest breakfast when his door, which he was certainly sure was locked, opened with a particularly loud bang that, he was sure, managed to get his neighbors out of the sex-driven stupor they'd gotten in since the beginning of the weekend. He thought that it would be better to ignore his door at the moment in favor of calmly walking toward one of his well-prepared escape routes.
Before he could even drop the piece of bread he was holding, an incensed-looking female stood in front of him with her hands on her hips.
"France, you idiot!" she exclaimed.
France wasn't quite sure if he fell in love then or if he fell in love later, but one thing he was sure of was that he was in love. Irrevocably, as cheesy as it sounded, in love with this stranger of a woman that appeared to have literally knocked (or kicked) his door off its hinges. With this woman with blond pigtailed hair and the thick eyebrows, and the physique that couldn't hold a candle to the other busty, curvy women France had seen. Perhaps her lovely accent -- put on top of that crude English, making the language seem divine -- also played a major role.
Let it never be said that France did not believe in love at first sight. He believed in all sorts of love as he wouldn't be the country of love without that sort of philosophy swimming in his mind.
"I will do a draw and quarter on you in the most excruciating way imaginable to mankind. I will gut you with a-- Oh, goddamn it all, could you give me an aspirin?" she asked as she crumbled into a heavily hung-over heap on top of one of his chairs.
Lucky devil, that chair was. Having her arm around its backrest, having her deliciously flat chest partly splayed on the very same backrest, and having her well-rounded bottom atop its red seat. Oh how France dearly wished he was that chair.
"Of course, ma chérie," he said, eying the chair with distaste while juggling a stare of adoration aimed at his goddess.
A wink later and he could be seen handing her a glass of water and an array of pills that were sure to have her in a pleasant mood, though he wouldn't mind it if she turned out to be a perpetually sour character. As long as she didn't carry out the draw and quarter threat, things would be fine; France would rather bestow his love on his loved one while he was alive after all.
It took more than a while for the pills to settle down and for her to open her mouth, thus giving him an earful of her wondrous voice that shamed the angels who sang choruses in heaven.
"Just what the hell happened last night? Thatcher told me that I was off drinking with you of all people, and now I'm like this the very next day! Undo this ridiculous spell this instant, France, or I'll reenact Trafalgar this very instant and you wouldn't even have Spain to lick wounds with," the woman said, being the very epitome of the words 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'
"... Say what?" France asked. It just wasn't possible. His love-- His pure, monogamous love.
"Last night. Drinking. With me. What do you remember?"
"Is that you?" His eyes were wide, unbelieving.
"It's England, goddamn it all!"
France, as manly a character he was, sobbed. Tears poured down his cheeks, trembles escaped his lips. General sniffling was made through his suddenly runny nose.
"How could you do this to me?" he cried.
"What?! You were obviously the one who did something to me!" England exclaimed.
"If you wanted to know about last night, the only thing I could remember was that you turned into that alter-ego of yours with the wings and the fake halo and the toga a-and the star-shaped wand." His heart was inconsolable. To fall in love with such a brute. It was truly a star-crossed love.
"I do not have an alter-ego, frog." She huffed.
"You called yourself Britannia Angel and was being incredibly cute." Certainly more grope-friendly than the usual England, what with the lack of clothing underneath the flimsy-looking cloth.
"You did this to me. You cast a spell, I know you did. Don't deny it!"
"I don't believe in such nonsense and you know that also."
"Fix this!"
"I rather like you that way." France let out a particularly loud sob before grasping the idea that, yes, England could stay in that amazing form for the rest of eternity and France wouldn't certainly mind one bit.
"Undo this wretched spell, you fetid frog, or so help me--!"
"Not before you comfort me!"
England took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "We aren't going anywhere," she stated.
"Of course not." France was still lamenting.
The day ended a stalemate, though not before England put in a few physical jabs and France managed a consolation grope or two. She left the trendy house in a storm, saying that she was much better off asking the fairies how to undo the spell rather than conversing with brain-dead France.
At the world meeting, England had marched inside the room with squared shoulders and seemingly robotic movements. She was very much aware that every pair of eyes in the room was looking at her, staring at her, dissecting her very being. She sat on her appointed chair -- unfortunately seated right beside France who appeared to be the only nation not looking at her -- and barked, "The meeting, then."
The one who'd broken the atmosphere was America and a callous remark that went along the lines of, "Femmy England is so uncute."
She wore her usual get-up, of course. Coat and tie and a barrel of clothing. The only difference was that her hair was in pigtails. Her hair was in pigtails. It looked a bit odd, but it didn't look off. It had its own charm, of course.
And the women were always looking for an addition to win the votes over to their side.
"I have decided that my hesitation and withdrawal are injustices made on love. I have also decided to go with what my heart says," France said as he dropped a bouquet of flowers right on England's table before sitting beside her, a sickeningly charming smile on his face.
"Seychelles is on the other side, blind bat," England said, glaring at him.
"You misunderstand. The flowers are for you."
"I have no time for your stupid jokes." She pushed the flowers to France's table only to have it pushed back to her side.
"But these are a summation of my feelings." France seemed dead-set on having her accept the damn things.
"Well then, how shallow can your feelings be." She growled, still having not a single petal on her table.
"You wouldn't take them in if they were anything more than flowers." He gave a particularly strong nudge. He'd picked roses, too. England liked roses -- a fact France knew no matter how she loved to cover it up; she had more than just several patches of her garden devoted to roses -- a whole lot. He was sure that if he did put them in the bin later on, she'd only come by and pick them up after making sure no one was there. Then she'd put them in a vase.
Rather than having her go through the whole trouble of being sneaky, he was insisting that she get the flowers now. It didn't always have to be no pain, no gain.
"You mean, I wouldn't take them if they came from you," she said.
"Your coldness is very inviting," he remarked. He found everything about her inviting. And he wasn't even sure if it was only because England was a woman now. (Frankly, he'd be horrified if he found out that he really did-- But that was an impossible thought not worth pondering on. It was just too terrible.)
He put his hands on top of the bouquet, not letting England budge it even for a single inch. They were stuck in this position, with England glaring at France and France straining to keep on smiling no matter what, until Germany decided that it was now time to start the meeting.
In the end, the bouquet sat mangled and untouched on England's desk for the whole meeting, almost as if she was fervently denying its existence.
France wouldn't tease her about it later on, of course, but he saw her cradle the bouquet in her arms when everyone had gone away. It made him smile a bit.
"Silly little Angleterre," he said as he strolled along the hallway, finding his way to the room he was staying in for the duration of the meeting.
Male or female, he was sure that England would still be emotionally stunted like that and that was a feature of the younger nation that he had liked even then. Because there was no denying that even though it was exasperating, it was still rather cute. Very much unlike the facade England donned.
"Oi, perverted frog!" England yelled just as France was about to exit the building.
He, at hearing the voice of his current object of affections, turned around, an expectant grin on his face.
"I-It's not like I'm saying thanks or anything, but it's just-- Bah, never mind!" England said. She threw a rose that came from the bouquet at him before resolutely turning around and walking away, possibly going to the other exit. It would inconvenience her, but going out the same way as France would be akin to suicide. Not to mention she just didn't roll that way.
France deftly caught the flower and called after England. "Merci bien. How about lunch?"
"Not in a million years!"
"... In the next millennium then?"
"Never. Just shut up!"
"Ah, moi aussi, je t'aime!"
"Stop with the French!"
"You can't just help but love the language of love." France was beginning to follow her now.
England snorted, seemingly ignoring France the way she'd ignored the flowers. "I still don't forgive you for turning me into a woman."
"That was all your doing." He was catching up with her strides.
"I'm sure that this is your fault." Because, really, if things went wrong, it was usually France's (or America's for that matter) fault. "I'm still waiting for you to spit out whatever the hell you've specifically done to me so that the fairies can help me find a spell to reverse it."
"Consider yourself female for the rest of your life then." He was walking beside her now. One hand lazily in the pocket of his pants, and the other hand's fingers toying with the stem of the rose.
She had harrumphed before delivering a swift kick to the back of his knees that toppled him over and led to him falling gracelessly to the ground. A surprise attack was a surprise and England often played dirty.
"You're cruel," France said with a groan.
"Your just desserts," England said in a voice that suggested she was feeling cocky that moment.
As he propped himself on his elbows and looked at her walk away, France had to wonder what exactly made her so unimaginably appealing to him.
She was far from being the most beautiful, she was far from being the most kind. Life with her would be no bed of roses. Her alter-ego was a wand-wielding, self-proclaimed angel. And she was England, first and foremost.
Then he stood up, dusted off the invisible dirt on his clothing, before looking at the rose and shrugging. He jogged after her.
Title: Only a Love as Odd as You, My Dear
Pairing: France/fem!England
Summary: England didn't make a very exciting woman yet she was the hostile Helen to France's perfervid Paris.
Rating: PG-13
Warning/s: Aw shucks, where should I start? Lacks Brit English. Lacks French. Lacks a lot of things. Possibly a plot. But what it lacks in everything else, it makes up in what initially appears to be purple prose.
Note/s: It's more of bits and pieces of things that try to meld together.
The spells Britannia Angel cast were made with what he liked to call a combination of white magic and good will, but that didn't mean that these spells created any good. Most of the time, it created more chaos. Not that Britannia Angel ever had to deal with the consequences of a back fire himself, and certainly not that Britannia Angel knew it.
Not until today, of course.
England, whom many believed was the aforementioned angel of sorts yet still vehemently denied all claims, woke up with the feeling that his head was being bulldozed. Give or take a couple of minutes later, once he was in front of his bathroom mirror, that same feeling in his head intensified. Had he been a lesser being, he would've fainted. Had he not been acquainted with his invisible-to-everyone-except-him acquaintances, he would've screamed.
Instead, he took everything in stride.
Or so that was what he would've wanted to happen.
A shrill scream that didn't sound manly at all escaped from his slender throat that was rid of a very prominent -- well redundantly put -- Adam's apple. His hands rose to cup his pleasantly, fortunately small (though a part of him was a wee bit ticked off that he'd only gotten that size) breasts, feeling somewhat pert nipples through his nightgown.
"What in the name of God?" he asked to no one in particular.
"A lot of things happened last night, Artie," a fairy said.
"Like what, Thatcher?" Though the appearance of the fairy was a bit surprising, knowing about what happened to him was still a bonus too good to ignore.
"You got drunk with that friend of yours."
"... I don't have any friends!" Sadly for him, his indignation sounded more of a helpless wail.
The fairy chuckled and perched on the top of Arthur's messy hair. Hair that had grown overnight and would possibly take ages to comb enough to make it decent. Not that Arthur was vain, of course. He just didn't like looking haggard.
"Now, now, dear. You know that blond man with the blue eyes and has this lovely red rose around with him most of the time. You seemed chummy with him," the fairy said.
"Chummy? I don't think that's the case but. But a rose? Blond? Oh good fucking lord. Was it France?!"
"Don't curse the name of the lord, dear. I'm not sure if it was this France, all I know is that he's quite the charmer, that he is." Then, with a flutter of her wings, the fairy flew out of the room as fast as she'd came in, leaving England to deal with his vexing circumstances all alone. Rude of her, really, but rather considerate at the same time.
As soon as he'd slammed the door, effectively confining himself within the four nicely tiled walls of his bathroom, England decided to pay a visit to France soon. Very soon indeed. The he now turned a she -- and will be referred to as such in the future -- cracked her knuckles and a wicked smile reminiscent of the ones she'd toted around when she was a pirate appeared on her face.
France had been enjoying his modest breakfast when his door, which he was certainly sure was locked, opened with a particularly loud bang that, he was sure, managed to get his neighbors out of the sex-driven stupor they'd gotten in since the beginning of the weekend. He thought that it would be better to ignore his door at the moment in favor of calmly walking toward one of his well-prepared escape routes.
Before he could even drop the piece of bread he was holding, an incensed-looking female stood in front of him with her hands on her hips.
"France, you idiot!" she exclaimed.
France wasn't quite sure if he fell in love then or if he fell in love later, but one thing he was sure of was that he was in love. Irrevocably, as cheesy as it sounded, in love with this stranger of a woman that appeared to have literally knocked (or kicked) his door off its hinges. With this woman with blond pigtailed hair and the thick eyebrows, and the physique that couldn't hold a candle to the other busty, curvy women France had seen. Perhaps her lovely accent -- put on top of that crude English, making the language seem divine -- also played a major role.
Let it never be said that France did not believe in love at first sight. He believed in all sorts of love as he wouldn't be the country of love without that sort of philosophy swimming in his mind.
"I will do a draw and quarter on you in the most excruciating way imaginable to mankind. I will gut you with a-- Oh, goddamn it all, could you give me an aspirin?" she asked as she crumbled into a heavily hung-over heap on top of one of his chairs.
Lucky devil, that chair was. Having her arm around its backrest, having her deliciously flat chest partly splayed on the very same backrest, and having her well-rounded bottom atop its red seat. Oh how France dearly wished he was that chair.
"Of course, ma chérie," he said, eying the chair with distaste while juggling a stare of adoration aimed at his goddess.
A wink later and he could be seen handing her a glass of water and an array of pills that were sure to have her in a pleasant mood, though he wouldn't mind it if she turned out to be a perpetually sour character. As long as she didn't carry out the draw and quarter threat, things would be fine; France would rather bestow his love on his loved one while he was alive after all.
It took more than a while for the pills to settle down and for her to open her mouth, thus giving him an earful of her wondrous voice that shamed the angels who sang choruses in heaven.
"Just what the hell happened last night? Thatcher told me that I was off drinking with you of all people, and now I'm like this the very next day! Undo this ridiculous spell this instant, France, or I'll reenact Trafalgar this very instant and you wouldn't even have Spain to lick wounds with," the woman said, being the very epitome of the words 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'
"... Say what?" France asked. It just wasn't possible. His love-- His pure, monogamous love.
"Last night. Drinking. With me. What do you remember?"
"Is that you?" His eyes were wide, unbelieving.
"It's England, goddamn it all!"
France, as manly a character he was, sobbed. Tears poured down his cheeks, trembles escaped his lips. General sniffling was made through his suddenly runny nose.
"How could you do this to me?" he cried.
"What?! You were obviously the one who did something to me!" England exclaimed.
"If you wanted to know about last night, the only thing I could remember was that you turned into that alter-ego of yours with the wings and the fake halo and the toga a-and the star-shaped wand." His heart was inconsolable. To fall in love with such a brute. It was truly a star-crossed love.
"I do not have an alter-ego, frog." She huffed.
"You called yourself Britannia Angel and was being incredibly cute." Certainly more grope-friendly than the usual England, what with the lack of clothing underneath the flimsy-looking cloth.
"You did this to me. You cast a spell, I know you did. Don't deny it!"
"I don't believe in such nonsense and you know that also."
"Fix this!"
"I rather like you that way." France let out a particularly loud sob before grasping the idea that, yes, England could stay in that amazing form for the rest of eternity and France wouldn't certainly mind one bit.
"Undo this wretched spell, you fetid frog, or so help me--!"
"Not before you comfort me!"
England took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "We aren't going anywhere," she stated.
"Of course not." France was still lamenting.
The day ended a stalemate, though not before England put in a few physical jabs and France managed a consolation grope or two. She left the trendy house in a storm, saying that she was much better off asking the fairies how to undo the spell rather than conversing with brain-dead France.
At the world meeting, England had marched inside the room with squared shoulders and seemingly robotic movements. She was very much aware that every pair of eyes in the room was looking at her, staring at her, dissecting her very being. She sat on her appointed chair -- unfortunately seated right beside France who appeared to be the only nation not looking at her -- and barked, "The meeting, then."
The one who'd broken the atmosphere was America and a callous remark that went along the lines of, "Femmy England is so uncute."
She wore her usual get-up, of course. Coat and tie and a barrel of clothing. The only difference was that her hair was in pigtails. Her hair was in pigtails. It looked a bit odd, but it didn't look off. It had its own charm, of course.
And the women were always looking for an addition to win the votes over to their side.
"I have decided that my hesitation and withdrawal are injustices made on love. I have also decided to go with what my heart says," France said as he dropped a bouquet of flowers right on England's table before sitting beside her, a sickeningly charming smile on his face.
"Seychelles is on the other side, blind bat," England said, glaring at him.
"You misunderstand. The flowers are for you."
"I have no time for your stupid jokes." She pushed the flowers to France's table only to have it pushed back to her side.
"But these are a summation of my feelings." France seemed dead-set on having her accept the damn things.
"Well then, how shallow can your feelings be." She growled, still having not a single petal on her table.
"You wouldn't take them in if they were anything more than flowers." He gave a particularly strong nudge. He'd picked roses, too. England liked roses -- a fact France knew no matter how she loved to cover it up; she had more than just several patches of her garden devoted to roses -- a whole lot. He was sure that if he did put them in the bin later on, she'd only come by and pick them up after making sure no one was there. Then she'd put them in a vase.
Rather than having her go through the whole trouble of being sneaky, he was insisting that she get the flowers now. It didn't always have to be no pain, no gain.
"You mean, I wouldn't take them if they came from you," she said.
"Your coldness is very inviting," he remarked. He found everything about her inviting. And he wasn't even sure if it was only because England was a woman now. (Frankly, he'd be horrified if he found out that he really did-- But that was an impossible thought not worth pondering on. It was just too terrible.)
He put his hands on top of the bouquet, not letting England budge it even for a single inch. They were stuck in this position, with England glaring at France and France straining to keep on smiling no matter what, until Germany decided that it was now time to start the meeting.
In the end, the bouquet sat mangled and untouched on England's desk for the whole meeting, almost as if she was fervently denying its existence.
France wouldn't tease her about it later on, of course, but he saw her cradle the bouquet in her arms when everyone had gone away. It made him smile a bit.
"Silly little Angleterre," he said as he strolled along the hallway, finding his way to the room he was staying in for the duration of the meeting.
Male or female, he was sure that England would still be emotionally stunted like that and that was a feature of the younger nation that he had liked even then. Because there was no denying that even though it was exasperating, it was still rather cute. Very much unlike the facade England donned.
"Oi, perverted frog!" England yelled just as France was about to exit the building.
He, at hearing the voice of his current object of affections, turned around, an expectant grin on his face.
"I-It's not like I'm saying thanks or anything, but it's just-- Bah, never mind!" England said. She threw a rose that came from the bouquet at him before resolutely turning around and walking away, possibly going to the other exit. It would inconvenience her, but going out the same way as France would be akin to suicide. Not to mention she just didn't roll that way.
France deftly caught the flower and called after England. "Merci bien. How about lunch?"
"Not in a million years!"
"... In the next millennium then?"
"Never. Just shut up!"
"Ah, moi aussi, je t'aime!"
"Stop with the French!"
"You can't just help but love the language of love." France was beginning to follow her now.
England snorted, seemingly ignoring France the way she'd ignored the flowers. "I still don't forgive you for turning me into a woman."
"That was all your doing." He was catching up with her strides.
"I'm sure that this is your fault." Because, really, if things went wrong, it was usually France's (or America's for that matter) fault. "I'm still waiting for you to spit out whatever the hell you've specifically done to me so that the fairies can help me find a spell to reverse it."
"Consider yourself female for the rest of your life then." He was walking beside her now. One hand lazily in the pocket of his pants, and the other hand's fingers toying with the stem of the rose.
She had harrumphed before delivering a swift kick to the back of his knees that toppled him over and led to him falling gracelessly to the ground. A surprise attack was a surprise and England often played dirty.
"You're cruel," France said with a groan.
"Your just desserts," England said in a voice that suggested she was feeling cocky that moment.
As he propped himself on his elbows and looked at her walk away, France had to wonder what exactly made her so unimaginably appealing to him.
She was far from being the most beautiful, she was far from being the most kind. Life with her would be no bed of roses. Her alter-ego was a wand-wielding, self-proclaimed angel. And she was England, first and foremost.
Then he stood up, dusted off the invisible dirt on his clothing, before looking at the rose and shrugging. He jogged after her.