School. FML. & Some kink meme fills.
This is one of those variety posts with multiple cuts for the sake of everyone's (in)sanity.
Ugh.
So, hell has started again.
My schedule is;
1. Speech/Health (fuck you too, TEA)
2. PE Dance, should be Pre-Cal soon
3. Pre-AP Japanese 3
4. AP English Language
5. Pre-Cal, should be AP European History soon
6. AP US History
7. Pre-AP Physics
So, like, about 2 and 5. I just put in a schedule change request to get me out of PE Dance - which I took last year and the new teacher completely sucks, thank you very much you bitch I hurt. Hopefully, hopefully, HOPEFULLY I'll get put into AP Euro because my dean likes me and the class is tiny. So. -crosses fingers-
But I really, really want to take that class. C'mon, half of the reason I like Hetalia is for the history. And I swear to you I will sit in both of those history classes and will associate everything with Hetalia. Unashamedly. (THANK YOU TCE AND KINK MEME. xDDDD)
I love the physics teacher (who is also the AP Euro teacher) and the APUSH teacher is, if spacey, amusing. Japanese is, as always, lols. Speech sucks FREAKING BALLS, I got to make myself look like a total nerd in front of the class on day 3. (Hobbies? Reading, writing, and art! What makes me unique? I'm a mythology nut! 8DDD) English is English. We're already writing OERs, ew. But I got to write metaphors and was praised for them. 8D Pre-Cal... omg I love the option to take prep. LIKE YOU HAVE NO IDEA.
All in all, junior year will either suck or rock.
With (hopefully) 2 history classes, I'm leaning towards rock. 8DDD
Next, we have a short cosplay update: It is nearly there. As you all know, boots are in and amazing. All that needs to be done is hand sew on the lovely fake collar and ribbon. |D
Finally, I move on to a couple lame kink meme fills that won't be shared on the comm. Just 'cause.
Title: Special Delivery!
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: OC!Ireland, Sealand
Rating: G
Word Count: 600
Warnings: Uh, sugary sweet and an apparent tendency to influence headcanon?
Summary: The request asked for Ireland bringing Sealand's forgotten lunchbox.
Ireland let out a very small, very soft happy sigh as she watched Sealand dash out of the house. The micronation's energy was contagious - she barely needed tea in the morning anymore, not with him running around, making a mess, and in general being a little boy.
She loved every minute of it.
It wasn't until about an hour later, right as she was in the middle of attempting to squelch the mindlessly happy smile on her face (Arthur was due down any minute; it would not do to have him see her like this) when she spotted something bright blue on the kitchen table that didn't belong there.
"...huh?"
It was, of course, Sealand's lunchbox, blue as his hat, decorated by Sealand himself (he wouldn't let anyone touch it, that boy) filled to the brim with delicious food prepared by Ireland.
And then it gets through to her that Sealand has already left and his lunchbox was still here. She racked her still sleep-addled brain for where he was headed today (oh, shit, a meeting with his 'boss', and lunch was always promptly at noon) and glanced at the clock.
12:30.
"Shit."
Ireland ignored England's protests over her language (when had he come downstairs, anyway?) and bustled about the kitchen, slipping on shoes even as she grabbed the lunchbox and hustled out the door. She briefly debated about whether or not she should wait for the bus - for some reason, Sealand and his boss met at an office in London rather than actually on the fort.
If she had been thinking clearly, she would have realized that the bus would take only a couple minutes to arrive, while the office was about ten minutes away by foot. Regardless, after about thirty seconds of waiting (impatient waiting - Ireland had a habit of fidgeting when anticipating something, and the fidgeting annoyed even her) she took off in what she thought was the right direction at a brisk walk.
Thirty minutes later, she arrived at the office, panting, hair frazzled, and ridiculously annoyed. If she were at home, truly home, rather than stuck at that bastard's house, she would never have gotten lost. Sealand was close, and he was surely hungry, and a hungry Sealand tended to be rather frightening in his crabbiness.
Ireland dashed into the office building and ignored the receptionist and security guard's inquiries (as in, shouts, not that she cared), preferring to hunt down the right office herself.
It certainly didn't take long. She could hear wailing echoing through the halls, and as she strained to identify the voice and location, she picked out the words too.
"I HATE this back office, it's SO MUSTY, and I'm STARVING, you jerk, why don't you ever have any FOOD?!"
And then Ireland was there, struggling to catch her breath, shoving the lunchbox into Sealand's hands and wheezing out apologies to the people in the room in between breathes.
She was so focused on keeping her lungs full and her body upright that she didn't notice the look of pure delight wash over the little micronation's face. She had, in fact, taken his silence as a lack of gratitude until his skinny arms were around her waist and his face was buried in... well, she'd have to talk to him about that later, but he was shouting 'thank you' again and again and his tone was so elated and grateful that she forgot to breathe. If there's anything good about staying in that bastard's house, she thought, it is this little guy here.
And then Ireland proceeded to pass out.
Title: Lines
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: England
Rating: PG
Word Count: 719
Warnings: Quite sad. Potato famine, so obviously, not very pleasant?
Summary: England hopped on a boat before he knew it. Once he was there, he couldn't turn back, not with those lines of people, not even his people, that needed his help.
It took England a long time to even hear about the problem.
It took him even longer to realize how bad it was.
Once he did, it took him less than a second to decide to help.
It was 1847, and England was hopping on a boat headed to Dublin. In the boat is enough food to feed a city, he thinks.
It never occurred to him that they weren't even his people.
He picks the slums - the poorest of the poor, the hungriest of the hungry. The ones that will surely die without him.
They stare as he distributes the food. They stare at his robust build, not withered or bloated like themselves. They start at the sound of his English accent on the rare occasion that he speaks. They do not like it - this much is evident in their hard stares, their mumbled thanks. They do not like that it is a Brit saving them, but they allow themselves to be saved nonetheless.
He does not speak directly to them. He does not intervene in fights, he does not shout instructions; he does not try to control them, for he knows they would hate him even more for it.
England is careful with the food and makes note of everyone who passes by him to keep them from getting more than they should. Eventually he comes to notice a woman that comes every day at the same time, without fail. She is meek, thin - a broken beauty. She is covered in bruises and has a newborn with her every time. The child is cute, if thin, but God does he scream. He screams and wails and cries but his big blue eyes remind England so much of America that he must struggle not to give the woman more.
He finally does break down one day. His supplies are pathetically low - nigh on gone, really - and he is being harder and harder. The woman has been in line for hours. He knows this because her babe has screamed the entire time, and when she approaches him, England can see the fresh, delicately painful designs marring her skin. Her baby matches.
England gives her an extra piece and speaks for the first time in days. His voice is low and soft so that others do not hear.
“Don't let him know.”
The relief in her eyes is palpable.
She is back the next day, same time as always, baby screaming again. England surprises even himself when she gets to the door.
“May I hold him?”
The woman is so startled that she complies. The boy has been screaming, screaming, screaming, and England is stunned the poor thing's voice isn't long gone. But as he is exchanged between the two, between woman and nation, he abruptly quiets. He rocks the baby gently and croons to it like he did to little America, that adorable little toddler long gone. The people in line fuss about the hold-up until they see what he is doing.
The woman in front of him is shocked to the point of tears, but the wariness in her eyes has only gotten stronger. She speaks as she watches him, voice hoarse as if she is breaking a long vow of silence.
“Why do you care?”
England does not glance up. He had been expecting the question, even from those who did not know what he was. He does not answer for a long time, instead choosing to chatter with the baby. Finally, he looks up at the woman and meets her eyes, hope meeting misery and pride meeting sadness.
“Because you are all worth it. Every last life, no matter whose you are.”
He knows the woman will not catch the meaning behind the emphasis on 'whose' but he does, and it really hits him then that these people are not his, that Ireland and her people are not really his and never will be.
It also hits him that he really couldn't care less, and as he slips the woman some extra bread, he wonders how people could possibly care when there is a line of people needing food, in it a bruised woman with a tiny child, all of them needing his help.
They are his in name only.
He loves them all anyway.
Title: Just Add Alcohol
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: England, France
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 427
Warnings: Naked and drunk England. Pure crack.
Summary: England gets drunk - as per usual - and has a huge FML moment - as per usual.
France gave a drunken little giggle as the scene unfolded before him. Or rather, undressed, as that was certainly what his favorite English gentleman was doing. He watched as one of the world's most prestigious nations shed one article of clothing after another - first the shirt, then the pants, then the shoes....
And then down went the boxers.
France let loose a snort as England revealed himself in such a spectacular manner - he still, however, had on socks. They were both ridiculously drunk (or 'hammered,' as England would say if he were capable of coherency) but France had centuries of practice when it came to keeping his wits when under the influence.
It seemed England just didn't even try. Or course, if one could define 'keeping one's wits' as knowing just when to pull out the camera, well... that was debatable.
Regardless, recognizing an opportunity in true France style, the camera phone came out just in time to find England climbing his wardrobe (though France was admittedly was unsure of when they had ended up at England's house) and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“I WANT TO GOOOO TO NARRRNIAAAAA~”
Even in his intensely inebriated state, France's face met his palm with remarkable force.
But there England was, naked, on camera, screaming about a fictional world.
Perfect.
At the next world meeting, France was prepared. He had the best footage since he found America and Russia getting it on in the middle of the Cold War, and he certainly wasn't going to let it go to waste.
England would be so pissed. France grinned in anticipation, startling several other nations that knew his reputation and were very, very afraid of what that grin might mean.
The nations gathered at the tables, picking their seats like teenagers in a cafeteria, all already bored and anxious to get the meeting over with - fortunately for them, nobody was expecting what was first on the agenda. France grinned again, and right on cue, the video began to play.
“I WANT TO GOOOO TO NARRRNIAAAAA~”
There was a stunned silence.
England's eyes went wide, then wider, then wider than humanly possible.
Five, six, seven, eight, and the room exploded with laughter.
When the video cut to France's face, England passed out - whether from relief of his junk no longer being on display or from extreme embarrassment, he'll never tell, but the rest of the world heard France's words.
“Quick and easy recipe for delusional Englishman: just add alcohol!”
The video, to England's utmost shame, would be talked about for weeks.
Now don't you all hate me for my super long and retarded post?
...
Love y'all too. =]
Ugh.
So, hell has started again.
My schedule is;
1. Speech/Health (fuck you too, TEA)
2. PE Dance, should be Pre-Cal soon
3. Pre-AP Japanese 3
4. AP English Language
5. Pre-Cal, should be AP European History soon
6. AP US History
7. Pre-AP Physics
So, like, about 2 and 5. I just put in a schedule change request to get me out of PE Dance - which I took last year and the new teacher completely sucks, thank you very much you bitch I hurt. Hopefully, hopefully, HOPEFULLY I'll get put into AP Euro because my dean likes me and the class is tiny. So. -crosses fingers-
But I really, really want to take that class. C'mon, half of the reason I like Hetalia is for the history. And I swear to you I will sit in both of those history classes and will associate everything with Hetalia. Unashamedly. (THANK YOU TCE AND KINK MEME. xDDDD)
I love the physics teacher (who is also the AP Euro teacher) and the APUSH teacher is, if spacey, amusing. Japanese is, as always, lols. Speech sucks FREAKING BALLS, I got to make myself look like a total nerd in front of the class on day 3. (Hobbies? Reading, writing, and art! What makes me unique? I'm a mythology nut! 8DDD) English is English. We're already writing OERs, ew. But I got to write metaphors and was praised for them. 8D Pre-Cal... omg I love the option to take prep. LIKE YOU HAVE NO IDEA.
All in all, junior year will either suck or rock.
With (hopefully) 2 history classes, I'm leaning towards rock. 8DDD
Next, we have a short cosplay update: It is nearly there. As you all know, boots are in and amazing. All that needs to be done is hand sew on the lovely fake collar and ribbon. |D
Finally, I move on to a couple lame kink meme fills that won't be shared on the comm. Just 'cause.
Title: Special Delivery!
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: OC!Ireland, Sealand
Rating: G
Word Count: 600
Warnings: Uh, sugary sweet and an apparent tendency to influence headcanon?
Summary: The request asked for Ireland bringing Sealand's forgotten lunchbox.
Ireland let out a very small, very soft happy sigh as she watched Sealand dash out of the house. The micronation's energy was contagious - she barely needed tea in the morning anymore, not with him running around, making a mess, and in general being a little boy.
She loved every minute of it.
It wasn't until about an hour later, right as she was in the middle of attempting to squelch the mindlessly happy smile on her face (Arthur was due down any minute; it would not do to have him see her like this) when she spotted something bright blue on the kitchen table that didn't belong there.
"...huh?"
It was, of course, Sealand's lunchbox, blue as his hat, decorated by Sealand himself (he wouldn't let anyone touch it, that boy) filled to the brim with delicious food prepared by Ireland.
And then it gets through to her that Sealand has already left and his lunchbox was still here. She racked her still sleep-addled brain for where he was headed today (oh, shit, a meeting with his 'boss', and lunch was always promptly at noon) and glanced at the clock.
12:30.
"Shit."
Ireland ignored England's protests over her language (when had he come downstairs, anyway?) and bustled about the kitchen, slipping on shoes even as she grabbed the lunchbox and hustled out the door. She briefly debated about whether or not she should wait for the bus - for some reason, Sealand and his boss met at an office in London rather than actually on the fort.
If she had been thinking clearly, she would have realized that the bus would take only a couple minutes to arrive, while the office was about ten minutes away by foot. Regardless, after about thirty seconds of waiting (impatient waiting - Ireland had a habit of fidgeting when anticipating something, and the fidgeting annoyed even her) she took off in what she thought was the right direction at a brisk walk.
Thirty minutes later, she arrived at the office, panting, hair frazzled, and ridiculously annoyed. If she were at home, truly home, rather than stuck at that bastard's house, she would never have gotten lost. Sealand was close, and he was surely hungry, and a hungry Sealand tended to be rather frightening in his crabbiness.
Ireland dashed into the office building and ignored the receptionist and security guard's inquiries (as in, shouts, not that she cared), preferring to hunt down the right office herself.
It certainly didn't take long. She could hear wailing echoing through the halls, and as she strained to identify the voice and location, she picked out the words too.
"I HATE this back office, it's SO MUSTY, and I'm STARVING, you jerk, why don't you ever have any FOOD?!"
And then Ireland was there, struggling to catch her breath, shoving the lunchbox into Sealand's hands and wheezing out apologies to the people in the room in between breathes.
She was so focused on keeping her lungs full and her body upright that she didn't notice the look of pure delight wash over the little micronation's face. She had, in fact, taken his silence as a lack of gratitude until his skinny arms were around her waist and his face was buried in... well, she'd have to talk to him about that later, but he was shouting 'thank you' again and again and his tone was so elated and grateful that she forgot to breathe. If there's anything good about staying in that bastard's house, she thought, it is this little guy here.
And then Ireland proceeded to pass out.
Title: Lines
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: England
Rating: PG
Word Count: 719
Warnings: Quite sad. Potato famine, so obviously, not very pleasant?
Summary: England hopped on a boat before he knew it. Once he was there, he couldn't turn back, not with those lines of people, not even his people, that needed his help.
It took England a long time to even hear about the problem.
It took him even longer to realize how bad it was.
Once he did, it took him less than a second to decide to help.
It was 1847, and England was hopping on a boat headed to Dublin. In the boat is enough food to feed a city, he thinks.
It never occurred to him that they weren't even his people.
He picks the slums - the poorest of the poor, the hungriest of the hungry. The ones that will surely die without him.
They stare as he distributes the food. They stare at his robust build, not withered or bloated like themselves. They start at the sound of his English accent on the rare occasion that he speaks. They do not like it - this much is evident in their hard stares, their mumbled thanks. They do not like that it is a Brit saving them, but they allow themselves to be saved nonetheless.
He does not speak directly to them. He does not intervene in fights, he does not shout instructions; he does not try to control them, for he knows they would hate him even more for it.
England is careful with the food and makes note of everyone who passes by him to keep them from getting more than they should. Eventually he comes to notice a woman that comes every day at the same time, without fail. She is meek, thin - a broken beauty. She is covered in bruises and has a newborn with her every time. The child is cute, if thin, but God does he scream. He screams and wails and cries but his big blue eyes remind England so much of America that he must struggle not to give the woman more.
He finally does break down one day. His supplies are pathetically low - nigh on gone, really - and he is being harder and harder. The woman has been in line for hours. He knows this because her babe has screamed the entire time, and when she approaches him, England can see the fresh, delicately painful designs marring her skin. Her baby matches.
England gives her an extra piece and speaks for the first time in days. His voice is low and soft so that others do not hear.
“Don't let him know.”
The relief in her eyes is palpable.
She is back the next day, same time as always, baby screaming again. England surprises even himself when she gets to the door.
“May I hold him?”
The woman is so startled that she complies. The boy has been screaming, screaming, screaming, and England is stunned the poor thing's voice isn't long gone. But as he is exchanged between the two, between woman and nation, he abruptly quiets. He rocks the baby gently and croons to it like he did to little America, that adorable little toddler long gone. The people in line fuss about the hold-up until they see what he is doing.
The woman in front of him is shocked to the point of tears, but the wariness in her eyes has only gotten stronger. She speaks as she watches him, voice hoarse as if she is breaking a long vow of silence.
“Why do you care?”
England does not glance up. He had been expecting the question, even from those who did not know what he was. He does not answer for a long time, instead choosing to chatter with the baby. Finally, he looks up at the woman and meets her eyes, hope meeting misery and pride meeting sadness.
“Because you are all worth it. Every last life, no matter whose you are.”
He knows the woman will not catch the meaning behind the emphasis on 'whose' but he does, and it really hits him then that these people are not his, that Ireland and her people are not really his and never will be.
It also hits him that he really couldn't care less, and as he slips the woman some extra bread, he wonders how people could possibly care when there is a line of people needing food, in it a bruised woman with a tiny child, all of them needing his help.
They are his in name only.
He loves them all anyway.
Title: Just Add Alcohol
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: England, France
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 427
Warnings: Naked and drunk England. Pure crack.
Summary: England gets drunk - as per usual - and has a huge FML moment - as per usual.
France gave a drunken little giggle as the scene unfolded before him. Or rather, undressed, as that was certainly what his favorite English gentleman was doing. He watched as one of the world's most prestigious nations shed one article of clothing after another - first the shirt, then the pants, then the shoes....
And then down went the boxers.
France let loose a snort as England revealed himself in such a spectacular manner - he still, however, had on socks. They were both ridiculously drunk (or 'hammered,' as England would say if he were capable of coherency) but France had centuries of practice when it came to keeping his wits when under the influence.
It seemed England just didn't even try. Or course, if one could define 'keeping one's wits' as knowing just when to pull out the camera, well... that was debatable.
Regardless, recognizing an opportunity in true France style, the camera phone came out just in time to find England climbing his wardrobe (though France was admittedly was unsure of when they had ended up at England's house) and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“I WANT TO GOOOO TO NARRRNIAAAAA~”
Even in his intensely inebriated state, France's face met his palm with remarkable force.
But there England was, naked, on camera, screaming about a fictional world.
Perfect.
At the next world meeting, France was prepared. He had the best footage since he found America and Russia getting it on in the middle of the Cold War, and he certainly wasn't going to let it go to waste.
England would be so pissed. France grinned in anticipation, startling several other nations that knew his reputation and were very, very afraid of what that grin might mean.
The nations gathered at the tables, picking their seats like teenagers in a cafeteria, all already bored and anxious to get the meeting over with - fortunately for them, nobody was expecting what was first on the agenda. France grinned again, and right on cue, the video began to play.
“I WANT TO GOOOO TO NARRRNIAAAAA~”
There was a stunned silence.
England's eyes went wide, then wider, then wider than humanly possible.
Five, six, seven, eight, and the room exploded with laughter.
When the video cut to France's face, England passed out - whether from relief of his junk no longer being on display or from extreme embarrassment, he'll never tell, but the rest of the world heard France's words.
“Quick and easy recipe for delusional Englishman: just add alcohol!”
The video, to England's utmost shame, would be talked about for weeks.
Now don't you all hate me for my super long and retarded post?
...
Love y'all too. =]