Past-Part Fills Part 7
!!! Discussion about moving the kink meme to Dreamwidth!!!
Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20026.html?thread=74724410#t74724410
Parts 1-7
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=87494882#t87494882
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It’s a scary sight, or so Alfred thinks as he lingers in his bedroom doorway, too scared to contemplate walking inside the room itself. He’s aware that if he moves, even slightly, he’s liable to suffer an ambush before Emma dresses him up like a mannequin plaything.
Every single item of clothing his grandmother bought for him has been strewn across the room, on both the bed and the floor, with Emma perched on the edge of the mattress to examine each garment individually. She has no pattern to her exploration, a magpie choosing the shiniest things in a collection to hoard them.
There is a gleam in Emma’s eyes is that should not be there; it’s almost predatory, and it reminds Alfred of the way werewolves leer at their victims before attacking. Alfred has never seen a werewolf in action, so he can’t judge the accuracy of his assumption, but he saw a TV documentary about them once and the dramatisation sequences gave him nightmares for a month.
“You are such a cute ( ... )
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It’s too late to salvage the situation, because Emma has already snapped out of her haze, turning her attention to where Alfred stands.
“What’s the racket for?” she asks, dropping the cardigan to the floor along with the others.
Alfred reddens. “Nothin’.”
Emma displays her default expression of concern, moving to kneel before her ward, when she lets out an “Ow” and stares at the floor ( ... )
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Instantly Bonnefoy recognises the child, simply from his alarming eyes. They are a shade away from being red, and though his hair is usually an intense platinum it has darkened in the storms, the locks of his fringe sending rivulets down his cheeks. The child’s clothes visibly cling to him due to saturation from rainfall.
“Gilbert,” Bonnefoy mutters, thinking of all the occasions he’s had to play host to the irritating Weillschmidt child for the sake of his son. “Who let you in? Did you really walk all this way by yourself ( ... )
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Her house is tall and narrow, one unit of a long, terraced road. Neighbouring, there are houses just like hers for what feels like miles, each one made from reddish bricks and grey slab roofing. Symmetrically-planted trees line the pavement, and though every single row house in the area has a porch, only Emma’s has been decorated with flowering plant pots and blooming miniature shrubs.
As with many places, Alfred has never been to the outskirts of the city - or at least, not until now. His life revolves around the countryside-postcard scenery of the village, and the urbanised heart of accommodation and retail that is the city’s core. That’s why Emma’s house impresses him so much - it’s new, fresh, and to him it’s almost heavenly.
Then again, it wouldn’t surprise Alfred if it is Heaven, because he should be dead anyway. When Emma said to hold on, it certainly wasn’t an overestimation ( ... )
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“If you weren’t doing something stupid, I would be worried,” Emma replies, grinning. “Feel free to be nosy! I can tell you want to be.”
She flicks a mounted light-switches before walking to the stairs. The switch sets off the bulb in the attic and Alfred stares up to find the darkness above him illuminated; he sees the outlines of cardboard storage boxes and can’t contain his urge to pry, leaping onto the ladder’s second rung, Arthur jumping around excitedly in his coat pocket.
“This has gotta be quick,” Alfred says, flopping onto the attic’s floor as he takes Arthur out into the open. “We hafta find the doll before Emma gets back, okay?”
First the toy soldier jumps up, and then it’s Arthur sitting up, running a hand through his obstinate hair. Alfred is overjoyed to finally see him after a whole morning of not being able to, but his joy is crushed when Arthur snaps coldly, “Don’t patronise me, Sir; my ( ... )
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“Do you like tinsel, then?” she asks while stepping neatly over the clutter to cross the floor. “I don’t. It makes me sneeze, but Elizaveta is very insistent that I keep some around.”
Alfred follows behind without speaking, wrapping his arms tightly around the bottle in lieu of Arthur. He thinks he’s just about to cry, and then something soft and musky-smelling is thrust towards his already-occupied hands.
“Here,” Emma says. “I can’t believe you didn’t spot her! She is the first thing I see every time I come in here.” She laughs. “This attic is her queendom ( ... )
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“That’s just a fucking doll, Alfred! It’s not like me at all. It’s never been alive.” He lets out an inhuman, shrieking sort of noise, thumping his fist against the wall, and the outburst scares Alfred into shuffling away. “That’s just a fucking doll.”
Alfred’s lip quivers. “But Emma said-”
“I don’t flaming care what Emma said!” Arthur cuts in. “I can’t believe you, I... Why promise me something that wouldn’t come true?!”
“I didn’t think-”
“You never do!”
Arthur’s fury is close to burning and Alfred supposes he should feel guilty, perhaps, or like a failure. But he doesn’t. Though this was supposed to be a reunion and Alfred was supposed to be the heroic crusader, rekindling a decades-old relationship... Alfred finds himself thinking he prefers Arthur if Arthur isn’t with anyone.
Because Arthur is Alfred’s soldier, Alfred’s friend. Not the friend and soldier of some useless ‘princess’.
“Alf-reeed,” a feminine voice calls, diffusing the row before it can implode. Arthur fades ( ... )
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There’s no other explanation for why their library bookcases would be so damn tall. There is no other logical explanation, anyway, because the bookcases’ top shelves are literally impossible to reach, unless the person trying to reach them happens to be a giant.
Bonnefoy stares despondently up at the distant top ledge, his gaze fixed on one anthology in particular. It’s a collection of children’s stories, made from numerous yellowing pages containing fairy tales and folklore. Not the sort of literature he usually takes interest in, but there is one story in particular within the book that he really wants to read.
The butler can remember young Alfred being offered the hardback in question a few times, and the short story Bonnefoy wants to read is one he remembers reading when he was just a knee-high boy himself. It depressed him greatly at the time; The Steadfast Tin Soldier. It would be nice to read it again, and it’s not like he’s actually going to do ( ... )
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His eyes widen with delight when he sees the object lain on the floor, right beside his head.
There, miraculously dislodged during Bonnefoy’s tumble, is the copy of Fairy Tales Told for Children. The title is cringe-worthy considering how old Bonnefoy technically is, but he doesn’t care - all he cares about is whiling away the hours, and in his learned opinion, ironic entertainment is the best way for him to do so ( ... )
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Unwilling to do anything of the sort, Alfred’s mother sucks in air through her teeth. “How could you not tell him?”
“I wanted to do it tomorrow! Give me a break!”
“So he doesn’t even knowDesperate to avert an argument, Alfred raises a hand and clasps his mother’s shoulder. “Know about what? Tell me ( ... )
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And Monaco and Molossia as Alfred's parents? Yes, brilliant choice. If you didn't have my eternal love before you have it now.
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I used to cry so much with the Steadfast Tin Soldier! Children stories can be so terrible D: I kind of love Bonnefoy here. I can see France in him and that's great in an AU, where warping characters to fit the story is so common and so tempting. Loved Gilbert, too ( ... )
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