America->England, America is seperate from British!America
anonymous
September 22 2011, 15:40:27 UTC
In more detail: British America (the colony) and America himself were two seperate people, the latter appearing during the revolutionary war. Cue British America (who's like a son) dying in a sobbing England's arms. He then goes after the new America, but can't kill him because the two Americas look so alike. What's worse is new America has all of old America's memories, and believes he was the colony now made independent. But when he tries to patch things up with England, England is completely horrified and the awful truth comes out.
Bonus: The line "You're not my son" Bonus 2: Angst. I like angst, couldn't you tell?
captcha: "1984" Well...that's not at all creepy. Try to keep Orwell out of it?
Ooh, um. I don't know. It's really up to author anon. Could be that Colony America and England were father and son/brother type relationship but New!America wants something more, freaking out England even further. It's all up to you!
He was angry. He was outraged. He was confused. And he was heartbroken.
But they’re just words, and they’re words he finds easy to label himself as because letters mean very little to him. He can charm with the best of them and inspire with speeches when he has to, but words are now so trivial to him after centuries of use. They are a form of communication and nothing else, no better than animalistic noises made by more primitive species- he prefers to let his body do the talking.
A pull of a trigger and a smile as the life fades from the eyes of his enemy. An impatient stamp of the foot and a frown of irritation.
A kiss goodbye to his beloved son.
"The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world..."
Oh, fuck them.
They dared ask for assistance from King Louis XVI of goddamn France, and that man was
( ... )
“Friendship isn’t about how useful someone is,” the America that is not England’s son says, tilting its head to one side and grabbing England’s wrist to slow him down. “It’s about being close to someone and hanging out with them, stuff like that. And for an old guy you’re kinda fun, and you did raise me so I guess it’d be good to be closer...”
“I didn’t raise you,” England says, snatching back his hand with an expression of disgust at being touched by this stranger that’s taken on his son’s face. “Get out of my Parliament and leave me alone.”
The America that is not England’s son is disappointed, but not angry. Sad, but not miserable. “It doesn’t have to be like this, England. I still really love you.”
England cringes at the statement. “I don’t know you.”
He doesn’t storm away in a theatrical manner; he simply ignores the America that is not his son until it leaves.The America that was England’s son died like a dog
( ... )
A hand on England’s shoulder. A hand that wasn’t America’s.
Shocked at the contact, England turned his head and looked up to see who it was that had crept up behind him.
And it was America, but how could it be? Because America was in England’s arms (a corpse) his beautiful child lost to the world and torn from his grip. America had been murdered, slaughtered, by one of his own men- it was a disgrace.
“Who are you?” England whispered, fingertips digging into the shoulders of his lifeless son.
Except America wasn’t in England’s arms any longer. There was no body. It couldn’t have just disappeared, it can’t have because England wanted to bury him and honour the life that had ended much too soon. Though America’s body had gone, evaporated to join the October breeze and disappear with the sombre rain. And someone with America’s face and voice and smile was standing behind England, offering him a hand and telling him to stand up
( ... )
He had many things to do (assisting Greece with his own war of Independence was one of priority). He was just a little bit more cautious about forming bonds with anyone, though he didn’t stop colonising.
American and British Governments stayed close. That sickened England to the core. He was expected to get to know this imposter in his son’s place, and he was expected to befriend him. England kept his distance; America decided to try and get closer.
It’s no different now.
Every time the America who is not England’s son dares to say, “C’mon, let’s make up already, England!”, a part of England ignites with rage and burns to ashes. It’s probably his compassion.
Regardless of what people might think, it’s not the War of Independence that irks him. New America wanted to leave, fine, let him have his own place in the world without the option of calling upon England’s assistance. It’s the fact that whoever this man is, he claims to be England’s brother- the brother than evolved into something like a son. He
( ... )
America raises a hand, interrupting again. “England. Please. Tell me.”
He has the concerned expression of anxiety that England’s America wore. England never could say no that expression.
So England swallows. Prepares himself to make the announcement. “You claim you’re still my son. You’re not.”
“Thank God,” America says with a grin, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his light hair. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
England is horrified. “What?”
“I’m so glad,” America says, “that you’ve stopped seeing me as your kid. I had a feeling you were still totally hung up on me being a ‘rebellious son’ but now that you don’t see me as family...” His grin turns into a smirk. “It won’t be incest if we sleep together, right?”
His horror intensifying, England almost drops his tea, setting the cup down on the table in front of him. “What?”
America winks. “England, I can’t wait any longer. There’s so much tension between us and we should
( ... )
“I don’t regret raising America,” England says. “He was so innocent-”
“So you’re a fucking paedophile now?” America asks, grinning with half-antipathy and half-amusement. “You miss when I was a kid ‘cause you got off on how innocent I was?”
“I never laid a hand on my child,” England says, unable to process what he’s being accused of. “I never had those thoughts about him. And that’s exactly what I mean- you’re too sickening to be the boy I remember. The way you speak to me is atrocious. The things you’re saying are dreadful.”
“I wasn’t innocent,” America says, and he’s grinning. “All through puberty I spent my time thinking about you. In loads of different ways...”
“Stop,” England says. “Stop, that’s not the boy I knew.”
“But it is, though,” America says. “You shouldn’t have been such a goddamn tease
( ... )
I COME BEARING NOTES. The Revolution ones are probably obvious but I'll just include them for the sake of people that might not know much about it
( ... )
Oh God, this was perfect, and painful, and everything I thought it would be and more.
Poor England, poor America. If they could just sit down and talk things through properly; if England could explain why he didn't see America as a son (though to be fair, Alfred went off on an alarming tangent fast, you can't blame Arthur for freaking out).
British America (the colony) and America himself were two seperate people, the latter appearing during the revolutionary war.
Cue British America (who's like a son) dying in a sobbing England's arms. He then goes after the new America, but can't kill him because the two Americas look so alike.
What's worse is new America has all of old America's memories, and believes he was the colony now made independent. But when he tries to patch things up with England, England is completely horrified and the awful truth comes out.
Bonus: The line "You're not my son"
Bonus 2: Angst. I like angst, couldn't you tell?
captcha: "1984" Well...that's not at all creepy. Try to keep Orwell out of it?
Reply
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Could be that Colony America and England were father and son/brother type relationship but New!America wants something more, freaking out England even further. It's all up to you!
Reply
He was angry. He was outraged. He was confused. And he was heartbroken.
But they’re just words, and they’re words he finds easy to label himself as because letters mean very little to him. He can charm with the best of them and inspire with speeches when he has to, but words are now so trivial to him after centuries of use. They are a form of communication and nothing else, no better than animalistic noises made by more primitive species- he prefers to let his body do the talking.
A pull of a trigger and a smile as the life fades from the eyes of his enemy. An impatient stamp of the foot and a frown of irritation.
A kiss goodbye to his beloved son.
"The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world..."
Oh, fuck them.
They dared ask for assistance from King Louis XVI of goddamn France, and that man was ( ... )
Reply
“I didn’t raise you,” England says, snatching back his hand with an expression of disgust at being touched by this stranger that’s taken on his son’s face. “Get out of my Parliament and leave me alone.”
The America that is not England’s son is disappointed, but not angry. Sad, but not miserable. “It doesn’t have to be like this, England. I still really love you.”
England cringes at the statement. “I don’t know you.”
He doesn’t storm away in a theatrical manner; he simply ignores the America that is not his son until it leaves.The America that was England’s son died like a dog ( ... )
Reply
Shocked at the contact, England turned his head and looked up to see who it was that had crept up behind him.
And it was America, but how could it be? Because America was in England’s arms (a corpse) his beautiful child lost to the world and torn from his grip. America had been murdered, slaughtered, by one of his own men- it was a disgrace.
“Who are you?” England whispered, fingertips digging into the shoulders of his lifeless son.
Except America wasn’t in England’s arms any longer. There was no body. It couldn’t have just disappeared, it can’t have because England wanted to bury him and honour the life that had ended much too soon. Though America’s body had gone, evaporated to join the October breeze and disappear with the sombre rain. And someone with America’s face and voice and smile was standing behind England, offering him a hand and telling him to stand up ( ... )
Reply
He had many things to do (assisting Greece with his own war of Independence was one of priority). He was just a little bit more cautious about forming bonds with anyone, though he didn’t stop colonising.
American and British Governments stayed close. That sickened England to the core. He was expected to get to know this imposter in his son’s place, and he was expected to befriend him. England kept his distance; America decided to try and get closer.
It’s no different now.
Every time the America who is not England’s son dares to say, “C’mon, let’s make up already, England!”, a part of England ignites with rage and burns to ashes. It’s probably his compassion.
Regardless of what people might think, it’s not the War of Independence that irks him. New America wanted to leave, fine, let him have his own place in the world without the option of calling upon England’s assistance. It’s the fact that whoever this man is, he claims to be England’s brother- the brother than evolved into something like a son. He ( ... )
Reply
“I don’t have to tell you anything-”
America raises a hand, interrupting again. “England. Please. Tell me.”
He has the concerned expression of anxiety that England’s America wore. England never could say no that expression.
So England swallows. Prepares himself to make the announcement. “You claim you’re still my son. You’re not.”
“Thank God,” America says with a grin, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his light hair. “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
England is horrified. “What?”
“I’m so glad,” America says, “that you’ve stopped seeing me as your kid. I had a feeling you were still totally hung up on me being a ‘rebellious son’ but now that you don’t see me as family...” His grin turns into a smirk. “It won’t be incest if we sleep together, right?”
His horror intensifying, England almost drops his tea, setting the cup down on the table in front of him. “What?”
America winks. “England, I can’t wait any longer. There’s so much tension between us and we should ( ... )
Reply
“So you’re a fucking paedophile now?” America asks, grinning with half-antipathy and half-amusement. “You miss when I was a kid ‘cause you got off on how innocent I was?”
“I never laid a hand on my child,” England says, unable to process what he’s being accused of. “I never had those thoughts about him. And that’s exactly what I mean- you’re too sickening to be the boy I remember. The way you speak to me is atrocious. The things you’re saying are dreadful.”
“I wasn’t innocent,” America says, and he’s grinning. “All through puberty I spent my time thinking about you. In loads of different ways...”
“Stop,” England says. “Stop, that’s not the boy I knew.”
“But it is, though,” America says. “You shouldn’t have been such a goddamn tease ( ... )
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Poor England, poor America. If they could just sit down and talk things through properly; if England could explain why he didn't see America as a son (though to be fair, Alfred went off on an alarming tangent fast, you can't blame Arthur for freaking out).
Thanks so, so much for doing this.
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