2011 Sweethearts Entries:Across the Universe, Pop Culture, Day 8
Well it has been awhile since I was supposed to post these up.
AN: I hope this works all right.
Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.- A Game of You, Neil Gaiman
Title: Luz Sin Gravedad (PrincipleDancer!Amelia/Instructor's Son!Arthur)
Genre: Slice of Life
Word Count: 560
Rating/Warnings: G
Summary: Arthur watched Amelia dance, looking through the windows of the hall.
Setting her duffel bag on the bench, Amelia quickly unzipped it to draw out her spray bottle, several hair bands and her box of hair pins. Using the mirrors on the walls, she misted her hair, brushed her waves back to a ponytail and snapped on the hair band. With both hands, she quickly twirled her hair into a tight bun, placing another hair band and using hair pins to ensure the bun would stay for the practice.
Peering lazily around the room, she adjusted her skirt over her leotard and set her stuff back into the bag. Amelia riffled through her bag until she found her box of pointe shoes. She plopped down on the floor and slipped each shoe on, securing them as she did so. She grabbed her practice CD and turned on the CD player.
The first notes signaled the beginning of her practice. Her mind traced every step of her workout, full of patterns that she had learned from her beginning classes. Amelia began to exercise on the barre. She sighed as she turned toward the barre moving from demi-plie's and then into grand plie's before moving to the center of the room.
She slowed her movements, releasing the tension in her body, flowing into the music. She stretched and worked her way through the starting positions of her upcoming recital. Gliding, she tried to push away the stress from working non-stop with her dancing these past few months. She was focused on mastering her role.
Luckily, her pointe shoes weren't painful on her toes since that blister went away. Dancing had been a part of her life for years and while her feet gained strength, she knew she still needed to work on it.
She needed to buy the costume for the seasonal play now that she thought about it. She still need the recital and that special exhibition one too. Amelia knew she was lucky she didn't do much outside of school but ballet, considering how much time and money went to her dancing. She twirled.
*~~~~~~~*
Arthur watched Amelia dance, looking through the windows of the hall. He had met her through his father. Their parents would met up and leave their children to play amongst themselves. She was always getting in trouble for climbing trees, "liberating" cookies,and wrestling with his older brothers. The thing that stood out the most was her clumsiness. She was forever tripping over air and walked with none of the grace or poise he saw now.
He didn't know why he thought of those things now. It had been a long time since they played together even if she still talked to his older brothers. She was still here, dancing as always even if her twirling of yesterday were nothing on her pirouettes now. Amelia had finally achieved the elegance she had pursued all her life.
Her hair, tightly bound in a bun, pulled away from her eyes. She had bought contacts and rarely wore her glasses. Her arms flowed gracefully as basic movements drew her closer to the center of the room. More unnervering was the sheer ecstasy on her face but her expression is delicate. He knew if he went inside the practice room, his presence would distract her and she would retreat to polite glitter smiles and apprehensive wariness, so he watched from the hall.
Title: Your Magic or Mine? ( Theoritical Mathematician!Alfred/ Traditionalist Botanist!Arthur)
Genre: Humor
Word Count: 947
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: "I can't believe you two have never met before, considering the article and following letter debates and close distance of your offices on campus." The editor's brown eyes slyly lingered over nuances in their meeting.
No!
Arthur Kirkland gritted his teeth to stop the tumbling thoughts out of his mouth. His shocked brain continued to pile them up and added even more to the dam of his teeth.
No! This man could not be Alfred F. Jones.
This year had been especially tiring since the release of that man's article. To Arthur's horror, the utter disregard of tradition in that article was something others in the academic circles agreed on! The amount of letters prompted from that letter had been astonishing, but very few addressed the magnitude of the changes suggested. Certainly,many letters expressing their concern on the denial of heritage,to ignore centuries of casting experience, but their rebuttals only amounted to there. So Arthur threw himself into research and wrote a corresponding article,intent to bring out the ramifications of using universal mathematical equations to cast since the man responsible refused to look into the widespread changes without nary a thought.
Only the problem presented now was his sore neglect. When he took in his next breath, the man next to him, to his never ending dismay, muddled his thoughts as the editor continued to discuss the upcoming debate.
Quite honestly, his expectations regarding the infamous man's appearance had never strayed from a man so high up his Mathematical Cloud 9, possessing awkward social skills and only speaking in equations. Obviously a total math geek complete with the thick glasses, dishevelled jeans and wrinkled button-down or an elder man with the same inclinations only with a jacket with leather elbows.
Instead the man he stumbled over corresponding polite talk and kept gawking over ( oh the embarrassment) the last hour or so, the slightly taller than him,tanned blonde with wire rim glasses and brilliant blue eyes with warm hands did not fit into his practitioner so divorced from the artistry of spell casting vision. With that man's "How do you do, Mr. Kirkland?" firmly in his mind ,he recalled his admittedly not sexy tenor voice but charming nonetheless.
Slightly blushing, he looked down at his slacks and fought against beating himself up for wearing his usual. He probably looked shabby compared to the impeccable navy suit and crisp white shirt- at least the red tie replete with mathematical symbols was a vestige of his previous musings.
Still, he struggled to keep track of the editor's ramblings. The editor from the Hippocrene, a publication of great accord among the magic practitioner community, was well-known as a shrewd man not to underestimate, part scholar, part newshound. That was one of the things he clung to as his concentration wavered. It would not do to have some article over him mooning over his competitor.
"I can't believe you two have never met before, considering the articles and following letter debates and close distance of your offices on campus." The editor's brown eyes slyly lingered over nuances in their meeting.
Dr. Jones cleared his throat and pushed his wire rim glasses up his nose. "The mathematics and botany departments rarely mix and I was researching my discovery at Tony's."
"I've spent much time researching as well as keeping up with my classes." Arthur put in. He had only briefly thought of the man, concentrating on opposing the article. There were better uses to his time, after all.
"Nonetheless, I appreciate your cooperation in putting together the event so quickly even with the time constraints and as I understand Dr. Jones' travel plans. Fortunate for us the campus allowed our use of their auditorium. Trying to find a place in the middle of December would be a terror as this discussion should be held at a location owned and staffed by practitioners."
Arthur kept his attention ostensibly on the editor, resolved to keep a distance towards his rival regardless of his previous attention.
"So, who wants to go first in the debate?" The editor beamed, still scrutinizing both.
"Let Dr. Jones speak first." Arthur primly replied. " His article was the catalyst to the letter debates."
The editor's expression brightened. "Excellent suggestion, Dr. Kirkland. Is that okay with you, Dr.Jones?"
Jones grinned and quickly nodded."Peachy."
"Brilliant! We'll start with Dr. Jones and his last year's article ' A Mathematical Basis for Spell-Casting.'"
Snidely, Arthur intervened. "You mean his standardising of casting with completely theoretical research."
Jones frowned, his eyes fierce. " Tradition-simply because we've always done something in that particular way- does not mean it is the best path. It's an unorganized, unproductive, energy wasting method"
"Magic is learning to manipulate the force behind all those letters in your equation's stand! There are subtleties to practicing magic as each person should make their own individual refinements, by practicing!"
"I researched and drew on ancient and present Masters for hard data. What I learned lead to my basic equation, one that could possibly encompass every spell-"
"Theory is all well and good but working magic is not easy or as simple! Your equation is merely one of many fads!"
"With the formula,a practitioner will possess the ability for efficient, less haphazard spell work and the better allotment of their energy! The process will be understood better so help can be given to everyone! The artistry in spell casting can become more than just a visible prejudice against the lower levels!!"
The editor just chuckled as his eyes glowed in anticipation.
Jones pressed his fingers over his magic center as Arthur fumed in silence. The cocky gleam in Jones' eyes telling him, he was not going to win. Arthur narrowed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed down. He knew he was one level higher than the brat beside him. He huffed in irritation,as if he would just give up without a fight.
Title: Apartment Number 512
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 529
Rating/Warnings: PG for one word and suggestiveness
Summary: Arthur always missed his chances by the slimmest of margins, while Alfred always got what he wanted. Over and over, Alfred found himself secretly astonished at how neither of these outcomes ever made either of them happy.
The funny thing about kisses is how they brand the skin and bounded people together with quiet tethers. Arthur hadn't even realized he was kissing Alfred and that his hands were tangled in his hair, until Alfred pulled away.
Slowly, his lips left Arthur's, and Alfred immediately felt like this was the only time he's ever been right about anything, ever. He couldn't believe it took him this long to figure out why they felt they would mess up and actually go about trying to fail and how could they be so scared of nothing but something going right.
"No, you are afraid." Calm blue locked deep green. Alfred breathed shakily and his hands are still clamped onto Arthur's forearms and he has no intention of letting go. " I would make you ecstatic," He whispered, feeling Arthur tremble. "Yeah, I will hurt you and make you angry sometimes, but I'd make you so damn happy the rest of the time and you know I make you feel more than anyone else. With me, you'd actually feel something and not just confine yourself into contentment or should bes."
Now it was Arthur's turn to stand there in silence. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come out, so they stood, affection replaced with wary caution.
Arthur always missed his chances by the slimmest of margins, while Alfred always got what he wanted. Over and over, Alfred found himself secretly astonished at how neither of these outcomes ever made either of them happy.
At first, loneliness had led to five dates. Despite how different they were, their flaws hinged correspondingly. So then they were together for whatever came up next, even if neither knew what next was, They persuaded each other to see what next was together because it's far less frightening to have someone next to you while trying to figure things out. They never said this, of course.
Arthur knew he was doing a bad job stunningly well as he quickly latched onto any reason this would never work out. He wasn't used to things like this working out. There was even a formula but this time Arthur relished the vacation from screw ups.
On his skin, he held memories of tanned skin, blonde hair and a voice whispering secrets. Sometimes he wrote letters, but the pages never matched up to anything he wanted to write. He just went off tangent and ended up where he didn't want to go and he seldom said what he wanted to say. Alfred still understood even when he failed miserable at saying anything. He always did somehow know.
Alfred knew if Arthur went away this time, he wouldn't find him again. Alfred hoped in waiting for Arthur to make a move or say something but there was only a hitched breath and then Arthur drew his arms around Alfred and settled himself closer. Closing his eyes in relief, Alfred held Arthur more tightly and kissed his forehead.
Embracing, Arthur wondered into the crook of Alfred's neck and Alfred tangled his fingers in Arthur's hair. They were right back, but that was okay. There were worst places to be.
Title: Always Humming (Deaf!Alfred/Arthur)
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 510
Rating/Warnings: G
Summary: A kiss on the nose, a soft smile and quick signs are my thanks.
I sit on the bed, grumpy like a bird, as Alfred had signed earlier. Honestly he uses the oddest things to describe a person. Still taken by the morning as he is, Alfred is wiggly with damp hair as he signs happily with open expressions about the day insofar. I only grumble and sleepy sign back as I shuffle my way to the shower. This morning had been a terribly lazy one as I actually struggled to awake. Only Alfred's mischievous spelling game had fully awaken me with his nuzzling and good morning kisses
As I step into the shower, I know Alfred is ironing my suit. He is very thoughtful about many particular things. My shower time goes by and Alfred rushes me to change quickly. I button up my work shirt and meander into the bathroom.
Tenderly, I brush my hand through Alfred's hair. He leans into the intimacy but keeps brushing his teeth, sparing me a quick glance. My eyes crease as I sigh. The time to leave is almost here. Breakfast is tucked fast in Alfred's lunch bag with the intentions of stopping me from being creative in the kitchen. There are times my ventures work and others they fail miserable.
The whole affair of getting ready this early is lovely with Alfred's infectious joy and silliness. It's endearing. Over the sounds of his gargles, I fix my tie properly and wait for Alfred to let me fix his. A kiss on the nose, a soft smile and quick signs are my thanks.
From my peripheral vision, I see Alfred rush to get his satchel as I do a quick pat check. It wouldn't do to remember half way there that we forget something.
A sparkling smile greets me as I look up again. Bouncing off the balls of his feet, he quickly leaves the apartment, visibly teasing me to follow. I chuckle and quickly follow, my suitcase bumping against my thigh, and turn to lock the door.
I grasp his hand and his eyes widen in lovely joy. It's a shame those glasses hide his eyes. Racing down the steps and taking a few two at a time, I try to slow down as Alfred smiles and quickly signs a win to his favor. I shake my head and sign back, Humph, that was a tie. Alfred's eyes crinkle as he grins. I scoff and motion him to get in the car.
Sometimes when we drive to work, Alfred hums lightly. It is difficult to catch but if I stay silent and listen, he even starts to sing some of the words, somewhere lost in Jupiter.
It is so achingly wretchedly beautiful the sound of Alfred's voice, not hushed by society's shame. Every time he accidentally laughs out loud, only to notice his discretion and turn those eyes, desperate and halting, to me, I confess I hold a grudge to all who can not see what they are doing and so I patiently wait for the day I will hear him talk without his hands.
Title: Intoxicated
Genre: America being a dork/Humor
Word Count: 557
Rating/Warnings: PG, language and slightly suggestive
Summary: Dressed in a white dress shirt not buttoned all the way up, blue tie looped around his neck, his boxers loose on his hips, white crew socks, he pushed up his black shades. He looked so cool.
AN: For the Sweethearts Week Prompt Day 9 XD I don't own any of the following songs. A quick one so have mercy on me if I messed up too badly.
Tony was out and Whale was at the refuge visiting friends. The door was locked and the curtains pulled close and his stereo was waiting. He grinned into the mirror as he combed the gel into his damp hair.
Dressed in a white dress shirt not buttoned all the way up, blue tie looped around his neck, his boxers loose on his hips, white crew socks, he pushed up his black shades. He looked so cool.
Hand outstretched, he clicked the play button and tossed the remote on the nearest sofa. The speakers hissed in the silence, before the guitar sang out. He slid to the center of the living room, empty of all his furniture, and struck a pose.
The guitar screeched and the singer started to belt out words, "Whoa, black betty (bam a lam)!" He tapped his foot on the floor, cocking his hip to the side. Then he whirled to face the empty room as "I said!" the singer started to belt out more words.
Using his fingers, he played the drums and head banged only to air guitar when the solo started. Laughing, he ran to his sofa and bounced up. Despite almost falling to the floor, he continued to race his fingers to the beat, letting himself fall, pushing with his foot to slid on the floor on the ending note, grinning wildly to the ceiling.
" Sweet Cherry Pie!" thumped out its first stanza. Pushing his hair away from his forehead, he whooped and got up.
He jumped around and quickly grabbed the remote to use as a microphone. He started to belt out the song with them. Trying to remember an old music video to mimic their moves only made America lose his step laughing too much so he just gave up and started to bounce around. "Swing it!"
His socked feet rapidly slid across the floor as the song changed and he tapped his foot to the new rhythm.
"Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe hey hey!"
Laughing, utterly infected by the sound, America threw his head back,swaying as he sang along the singer.
"Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' flash a little light!"
Eyes closed, he was gone in his own world as he strutted around, his fingers twirling as his arms followed the beat and sway of his hips.
"I'm a hot, sticky sweet from my head to my feet yeah!"
Raising his hands to run them through his hair, he undulated his body as the chorus started and he pressed his back to the wall and dipped down low and wiggled his way back up again to shake his ass.
It's only when he started to swing his hips in earnest that he noticed England sitting on the sofa. Startled, He dropped the remote as the song continued to whine its way to the chorus. He fidgeted, shuffling his feet, heat on his cheeks and very aware of his state of dress.
There was a very suggestive smirk and England's eyes smoldered. Belatedly, America noticed the suitcase next the door. What time was it? Shit did he move the clock?
" . . . ah . . . when did you get here?" America pushed his shades up and nervously ruffled his hair.
England chuckled as his eyes twinkled slyly, pupils dilated. ' Next time you dance, I get to watch."
*~~~~~~~*
AN: I have no excuse.
The Order of the Songs:
Black Betty- Ram Jam
Sweet Cherry Pie- Warrant
Pour Some Sugar On Me- Def Leppard
Title: attack of the body snatchers Somewhere, This Equals Something.
Genre: Dramatic fail humor
Word Count: 651
Rating/Warnings: G, cute I suppose.
Summary: "Not like this! Purely hypothetical here, that is to say I did misplace some doilies at America's apartment and suppose one evening America kissed me. He kissed me and that wasn't supposed to happen!" England reeled back, abruptly rigid, cheeks a blotched red. "Why am I telling you this?!?" He stammered.
Note: For Sweetheart Week. Critique would be nice. Be as mean as you can be. I'll get the characters better IC that way.
According to Hungary's earlier confrontation, Canada now knew America was acting all sorts of cute towards England. Though he didn't know what "all sorts of cute" was, the search for England's whereabouts only heightened his suspicion.England stood, staring, in front of a vending machine. The odd look on his face only made Canada want to throttle his conscience. " England? What's up?"
He opened his mouth, brow furrowed, and then closed it as he stared at the money in his hand.
" Eh, do you need help with something?" 'Please say no.'
" I have a -" England looked up. " I don't get it." Canada remembered the snickers of the others near Hungary when she exclaimed about how adorable America and England were and felt his stomach drop slowly into the cracks of the floor.
Suddenly, England focused his full attention on Canada. It was a bit unnerving." There is something in America's fizzy drink." Canada was torn between laughing and fading into the walls.
"Er. . . in his drink?" Arriving late had finally came back in vengeance. He looked around hopefully but only heard the buzz of the lights and England's footsteps as he paced and ran his hand through his mussed hair.
"Yes! The cup is the same one he always brings so he couldn't just buy one every time he drinks something for the meetings! The design is too specific!" England, flustered, waved his blinder in Canada's direction. "There's something wrong with him! He's-" The blush on his cheeks answered that part for Canada's overwhelming train wreck need to know.
" He sent flowers and chocolates! Tony is probably behind this somehow!"
" America hasn't been possessed by Tony. He's just willfully oblivious " ' so are you' " and possibly shortsighted." England didn't look convinced, though he had no trouble accepting the latter statement. He shifted and darted another look down the hall.
Canada looked at him in disbelief. When did flirting change into a mostly harmless thing except in France's case to a change in tactics? America has been courting England for years. Lovino's underground betting rings were legendary regarding them. "England, I think we should go-"
"Not like this! Purely hypothetical here, that is to say I did misplace some doilies at America's apartment and suppose one evening America kissed me. He kissed me and that wasn't supposed to happen!" England reeled back, abruptly rigid, cheeks a blotched red. "Why am I telling you this?!?" He stammered.
There was an embarrassed silence. Both of them stock still. England ,on the verge of hyperventilating, judging by how tightly wound up he was, narrowed his eyes at the coke sign on the vending machine. Canada thought his morning had been protecting him from this mess. No alarm waking him on time this morning to the traffic jam and consequently the detour from the road construction and the nearly forgotten cell had all been signs. His brain was breaking.
"Look England, I'll call America." He ignored England's twitch.
Canada sighed, wearily scrolling through his contact list and America picked up after two rings.
"Hey!"
"How's everything working out for you?" he asked exhausted. America laughed.
"Great! He doesn't suspect a thing!" He sounded entirely too smug.
" You. . ." Canada blinked and shook his head, dropping his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. ' I'll see you later." If England called him later, he wouldn't be surprised. He would probably hide in some poor janitor's closet, whispering about buying off judges and America trying to hold his hand and restraining orders. How in the World did he keep getting himself involved with what was one of the most messed up relationships ever.
*~~~~~~~~~~~*
"I'm ignoring you." England fixed his eyes on his binder. He walked a bit faster than America so he should be able to shake that ninny off.
"You won't last!" America boasted. He sauntered behind him, all vivacious step and blinding smile.
AN: I hope this works all right.
Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.- A Game of You, Neil Gaiman
Title: Luz Sin Gravedad (PrincipleDancer!Amelia/Instructor's Son!Arthur)
Genre: Slice of Life
Word Count: 560
Rating/Warnings: G
Summary: Arthur watched Amelia dance, looking through the windows of the hall.
Setting her duffel bag on the bench, Amelia quickly unzipped it to draw out her spray bottle, several hair bands and her box of hair pins. Using the mirrors on the walls, she misted her hair, brushed her waves back to a ponytail and snapped on the hair band. With both hands, she quickly twirled her hair into a tight bun, placing another hair band and using hair pins to ensure the bun would stay for the practice.
Peering lazily around the room, she adjusted her skirt over her leotard and set her stuff back into the bag. Amelia riffled through her bag until she found her box of pointe shoes. She plopped down on the floor and slipped each shoe on, securing them as she did so. She grabbed her practice CD and turned on the CD player.
The first notes signaled the beginning of her practice. Her mind traced every step of her workout, full of patterns that she had learned from her beginning classes. Amelia began to exercise on the barre. She sighed as she turned toward the barre moving from demi-plie's and then into grand plie's before moving to the center of the room.
She slowed her movements, releasing the tension in her body, flowing into the music. She stretched and worked her way through the starting positions of her upcoming recital. Gliding, she tried to push away the stress from working non-stop with her dancing these past few months. She was focused on mastering her role.
Luckily, her pointe shoes weren't painful on her toes since that blister went away. Dancing had been a part of her life for years and while her feet gained strength, she knew she still needed to work on it.
She needed to buy the costume for the seasonal play now that she thought about it. She still need the recital and that special exhibition one too. Amelia knew she was lucky she didn't do much outside of school but ballet, considering how much time and money went to her dancing. She twirled.
*~~~~~~~*
Arthur watched Amelia dance, looking through the windows of the hall. He had met her through his father. Their parents would met up and leave their children to play amongst themselves. She was always getting in trouble for climbing trees, "liberating" cookies,and wrestling with his older brothers. The thing that stood out the most was her clumsiness. She was forever tripping over air and walked with none of the grace or poise he saw now.
He didn't know why he thought of those things now. It had been a long time since they played together even if she still talked to his older brothers. She was still here, dancing as always even if her twirling of yesterday were nothing on her pirouettes now. Amelia had finally achieved the elegance she had pursued all her life.
Her hair, tightly bound in a bun, pulled away from her eyes. She had bought contacts and rarely wore her glasses. Her arms flowed gracefully as basic movements drew her closer to the center of the room. More unnervering was the sheer ecstasy on her face but her expression is delicate. He knew if he went inside the practice room, his presence would distract her and she would retreat to polite glitter smiles and apprehensive wariness, so he watched from the hall.
Title: Your Magic or Mine? ( Theoritical Mathematician!Alfred/ Traditionalist Botanist!Arthur)
Genre: Humor
Word Count: 947
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: "I can't believe you two have never met before, considering the article and following letter debates and close distance of your offices on campus." The editor's brown eyes slyly lingered over nuances in their meeting.
No!
Arthur Kirkland gritted his teeth to stop the tumbling thoughts out of his mouth. His shocked brain continued to pile them up and added even more to the dam of his teeth.
No! This man could not be Alfred F. Jones.
This year had been especially tiring since the release of that man's article. To Arthur's horror, the utter disregard of tradition in that article was something others in the academic circles agreed on! The amount of letters prompted from that letter had been astonishing, but very few addressed the magnitude of the changes suggested. Certainly,many letters expressing their concern on the denial of heritage,to ignore centuries of casting experience, but their rebuttals only amounted to there. So Arthur threw himself into research and wrote a corresponding article,intent to bring out the ramifications of using universal mathematical equations to cast since the man responsible refused to look into the widespread changes without nary a thought.
Only the problem presented now was his sore neglect. When he took in his next breath, the man next to him, to his never ending dismay, muddled his thoughts as the editor continued to discuss the upcoming debate.
Quite honestly, his expectations regarding the infamous man's appearance had never strayed from a man so high up his Mathematical Cloud 9, possessing awkward social skills and only speaking in equations. Obviously a total math geek complete with the thick glasses, dishevelled jeans and wrinkled button-down or an elder man with the same inclinations only with a jacket with leather elbows.
Instead the man he stumbled over corresponding polite talk and kept gawking over ( oh the embarrassment) the last hour or so, the slightly taller than him,tanned blonde with wire rim glasses and brilliant blue eyes with warm hands did not fit into his practitioner so divorced from the artistry of spell casting vision. With that man's "How do you do, Mr. Kirkland?" firmly in his mind ,he recalled his admittedly not sexy tenor voice but charming nonetheless.
Slightly blushing, he looked down at his slacks and fought against beating himself up for wearing his usual. He probably looked shabby compared to the impeccable navy suit and crisp white shirt- at least the red tie replete with mathematical symbols was a vestige of his previous musings.
Still, he struggled to keep track of the editor's ramblings. The editor from the Hippocrene, a publication of great accord among the magic practitioner community, was well-known as a shrewd man not to underestimate, part scholar, part newshound. That was one of the things he clung to as his concentration wavered. It would not do to have some article over him mooning over his competitor.
"I can't believe you two have never met before, considering the articles and following letter debates and close distance of your offices on campus." The editor's brown eyes slyly lingered over nuances in their meeting.
Dr. Jones cleared his throat and pushed his wire rim glasses up his nose. "The mathematics and botany departments rarely mix and I was researching my discovery at Tony's."
"I've spent much time researching as well as keeping up with my classes." Arthur put in. He had only briefly thought of the man, concentrating on opposing the article. There were better uses to his time, after all.
"Nonetheless, I appreciate your cooperation in putting together the event so quickly even with the time constraints and as I understand Dr. Jones' travel plans. Fortunate for us the campus allowed our use of their auditorium. Trying to find a place in the middle of December would be a terror as this discussion should be held at a location owned and staffed by practitioners."
Arthur kept his attention ostensibly on the editor, resolved to keep a distance towards his rival regardless of his previous attention.
"So, who wants to go first in the debate?" The editor beamed, still scrutinizing both.
"Let Dr. Jones speak first." Arthur primly replied. " His article was the catalyst to the letter debates."
The editor's expression brightened. "Excellent suggestion, Dr. Kirkland. Is that okay with you, Dr.Jones?"
Jones grinned and quickly nodded."Peachy."
"Brilliant! We'll start with Dr. Jones and his last year's article ' A Mathematical Basis for Spell-Casting.'"
Snidely, Arthur intervened. "You mean his standardising of casting with completely theoretical research."
Jones frowned, his eyes fierce. " Tradition-simply because we've always done something in that particular way- does not mean it is the best path. It's an unorganized, unproductive, energy wasting method"
"Magic is learning to manipulate the force behind all those letters in your equation's stand! There are subtleties to practicing magic as each person should make their own individual refinements, by practicing!"
"I researched and drew on ancient and present Masters for hard data. What I learned lead to my basic equation, one that could possibly encompass every spell-"
"Theory is all well and good but working magic is not easy or as simple! Your equation is merely one of many fads!"
"With the formula,a practitioner will possess the ability for efficient, less haphazard spell work and the better allotment of their energy! The process will be understood better so help can be given to everyone! The artistry in spell casting can become more than just a visible prejudice against the lower levels!!"
The editor just chuckled as his eyes glowed in anticipation.
Jones pressed his fingers over his magic center as Arthur fumed in silence. The cocky gleam in Jones' eyes telling him, he was not going to win. Arthur narrowed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed down. He knew he was one level higher than the brat beside him. He huffed in irritation,as if he would just give up without a fight.
Title: Apartment Number 512
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 529
Rating/Warnings: PG for one word and suggestiveness
Summary: Arthur always missed his chances by the slimmest of margins, while Alfred always got what he wanted. Over and over, Alfred found himself secretly astonished at how neither of these outcomes ever made either of them happy.
The funny thing about kisses is how they brand the skin and bounded people together with quiet tethers. Arthur hadn't even realized he was kissing Alfred and that his hands were tangled in his hair, until Alfred pulled away.
Slowly, his lips left Arthur's, and Alfred immediately felt like this was the only time he's ever been right about anything, ever. He couldn't believe it took him this long to figure out why they felt they would mess up and actually go about trying to fail and how could they be so scared of nothing but something going right.
"No, you are afraid." Calm blue locked deep green. Alfred breathed shakily and his hands are still clamped onto Arthur's forearms and he has no intention of letting go. " I would make you ecstatic," He whispered, feeling Arthur tremble. "Yeah, I will hurt you and make you angry sometimes, but I'd make you so damn happy the rest of the time and you know I make you feel more than anyone else. With me, you'd actually feel something and not just confine yourself into contentment or should bes."
Now it was Arthur's turn to stand there in silence. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come out, so they stood, affection replaced with wary caution.
Arthur always missed his chances by the slimmest of margins, while Alfred always got what he wanted. Over and over, Alfred found himself secretly astonished at how neither of these outcomes ever made either of them happy.
At first, loneliness had led to five dates. Despite how different they were, their flaws hinged correspondingly. So then they were together for whatever came up next, even if neither knew what next was, They persuaded each other to see what next was together because it's far less frightening to have someone next to you while trying to figure things out. They never said this, of course.
Arthur knew he was doing a bad job stunningly well as he quickly latched onto any reason this would never work out. He wasn't used to things like this working out. There was even a formula but this time Arthur relished the vacation from screw ups.
On his skin, he held memories of tanned skin, blonde hair and a voice whispering secrets. Sometimes he wrote letters, but the pages never matched up to anything he wanted to write. He just went off tangent and ended up where he didn't want to go and he seldom said what he wanted to say. Alfred still understood even when he failed miserable at saying anything. He always did somehow know.
Alfred knew if Arthur went away this time, he wouldn't find him again. Alfred hoped in waiting for Arthur to make a move or say something but there was only a hitched breath and then Arthur drew his arms around Alfred and settled himself closer. Closing his eyes in relief, Alfred held Arthur more tightly and kissed his forehead.
Embracing, Arthur wondered into the crook of Alfred's neck and Alfred tangled his fingers in Arthur's hair. They were right back, but that was okay. There were worst places to be.
Title: Always Humming (Deaf!Alfred/Arthur)
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 510
Rating/Warnings: G
Summary: A kiss on the nose, a soft smile and quick signs are my thanks.
I sit on the bed, grumpy like a bird, as Alfred had signed earlier. Honestly he uses the oddest things to describe a person. Still taken by the morning as he is, Alfred is wiggly with damp hair as he signs happily with open expressions about the day insofar. I only grumble and sleepy sign back as I shuffle my way to the shower. This morning had been a terribly lazy one as I actually struggled to awake. Only Alfred's mischievous spelling game had fully awaken me with his nuzzling and good morning kisses
As I step into the shower, I know Alfred is ironing my suit. He is very thoughtful about many particular things. My shower time goes by and Alfred rushes me to change quickly. I button up my work shirt and meander into the bathroom.
Tenderly, I brush my hand through Alfred's hair. He leans into the intimacy but keeps brushing his teeth, sparing me a quick glance. My eyes crease as I sigh. The time to leave is almost here. Breakfast is tucked fast in Alfred's lunch bag with the intentions of stopping me from being creative in the kitchen. There are times my ventures work and others they fail miserable.
The whole affair of getting ready this early is lovely with Alfred's infectious joy and silliness. It's endearing. Over the sounds of his gargles, I fix my tie properly and wait for Alfred to let me fix his. A kiss on the nose, a soft smile and quick signs are my thanks.
From my peripheral vision, I see Alfred rush to get his satchel as I do a quick pat check. It wouldn't do to remember half way there that we forget something.
A sparkling smile greets me as I look up again. Bouncing off the balls of his feet, he quickly leaves the apartment, visibly teasing me to follow. I chuckle and quickly follow, my suitcase bumping against my thigh, and turn to lock the door.
I grasp his hand and his eyes widen in lovely joy. It's a shame those glasses hide his eyes. Racing down the steps and taking a few two at a time, I try to slow down as Alfred smiles and quickly signs a win to his favor. I shake my head and sign back, Humph, that was a tie. Alfred's eyes crinkle as he grins. I scoff and motion him to get in the car.
Sometimes when we drive to work, Alfred hums lightly. It is difficult to catch but if I stay silent and listen, he even starts to sing some of the words, somewhere lost in Jupiter.
It is so achingly wretchedly beautiful the sound of Alfred's voice, not hushed by society's shame. Every time he accidentally laughs out loud, only to notice his discretion and turn those eyes, desperate and halting, to me, I confess I hold a grudge to all who can not see what they are doing and so I patiently wait for the day I will hear him talk without his hands.
Title: Intoxicated
Genre: America being a dork/Humor
Word Count: 557
Rating/Warnings: PG, language and slightly suggestive
Summary: Dressed in a white dress shirt not buttoned all the way up, blue tie looped around his neck, his boxers loose on his hips, white crew socks, he pushed up his black shades. He looked so cool.
AN: For the Sweethearts Week Prompt Day 9 XD I don't own any of the following songs. A quick one so have mercy on me if I messed up too badly.
Tony was out and Whale was at the refuge visiting friends. The door was locked and the curtains pulled close and his stereo was waiting. He grinned into the mirror as he combed the gel into his damp hair.
Dressed in a white dress shirt not buttoned all the way up, blue tie looped around his neck, his boxers loose on his hips, white crew socks, he pushed up his black shades. He looked so cool.
Hand outstretched, he clicked the play button and tossed the remote on the nearest sofa. The speakers hissed in the silence, before the guitar sang out. He slid to the center of the living room, empty of all his furniture, and struck a pose.
The guitar screeched and the singer started to belt out words, "Whoa, black betty (bam a lam)!" He tapped his foot on the floor, cocking his hip to the side. Then he whirled to face the empty room as "I said!" the singer started to belt out more words.
Using his fingers, he played the drums and head banged only to air guitar when the solo started. Laughing, he ran to his sofa and bounced up. Despite almost falling to the floor, he continued to race his fingers to the beat, letting himself fall, pushing with his foot to slid on the floor on the ending note, grinning wildly to the ceiling.
" Sweet Cherry Pie!" thumped out its first stanza. Pushing his hair away from his forehead, he whooped and got up.
He jumped around and quickly grabbed the remote to use as a microphone. He started to belt out the song with them. Trying to remember an old music video to mimic their moves only made America lose his step laughing too much so he just gave up and started to bounce around. "Swing it!"
His socked feet rapidly slid across the floor as the song changed and he tapped his foot to the new rhythm.
"Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe hey hey!"
Laughing, utterly infected by the sound, America threw his head back,swaying as he sang along the singer.
"Razzle 'n' a dazzle 'n' flash a little light!"
Eyes closed, he was gone in his own world as he strutted around, his fingers twirling as his arms followed the beat and sway of his hips.
"I'm a hot, sticky sweet from my head to my feet yeah!"
Raising his hands to run them through his hair, he undulated his body as the chorus started and he pressed his back to the wall and dipped down low and wiggled his way back up again to shake his ass.
It's only when he started to swing his hips in earnest that he noticed England sitting on the sofa. Startled, He dropped the remote as the song continued to whine its way to the chorus. He fidgeted, shuffling his feet, heat on his cheeks and very aware of his state of dress.
There was a very suggestive smirk and England's eyes smoldered. Belatedly, America noticed the suitcase next the door. What time was it? Shit did he move the clock?
" . . . ah . . . when did you get here?" America pushed his shades up and nervously ruffled his hair.
England chuckled as his eyes twinkled slyly, pupils dilated. ' Next time you dance, I get to watch."
*~~~~~~~*
AN: I have no excuse.
The Order of the Songs:
Black Betty- Ram Jam
Sweet Cherry Pie- Warrant
Pour Some Sugar On Me- Def Leppard
Title: attack of the body snatchers Somewhere, This Equals Something.
Genre: Dramatic fail humor
Word Count: 651
Rating/Warnings: G, cute I suppose.
Summary: "Not like this! Purely hypothetical here, that is to say I did misplace some doilies at America's apartment and suppose one evening America kissed me. He kissed me and that wasn't supposed to happen!" England reeled back, abruptly rigid, cheeks a blotched red. "Why am I telling you this?!?" He stammered.
Note: For Sweetheart Week. Critique would be nice. Be as mean as you can be. I'll get the characters better IC that way.
According to Hungary's earlier confrontation, Canada now knew America was acting all sorts of cute towards England. Though he didn't know what "all sorts of cute" was, the search for England's whereabouts only heightened his suspicion.England stood, staring, in front of a vending machine. The odd look on his face only made Canada want to throttle his conscience. " England? What's up?"
He opened his mouth, brow furrowed, and then closed it as he stared at the money in his hand.
" Eh, do you need help with something?" 'Please say no.'
" I have a -" England looked up. " I don't get it." Canada remembered the snickers of the others near Hungary when she exclaimed about how adorable America and England were and felt his stomach drop slowly into the cracks of the floor.
Suddenly, England focused his full attention on Canada. It was a bit unnerving." There is something in America's fizzy drink." Canada was torn between laughing and fading into the walls.
"Er. . . in his drink?" Arriving late had finally came back in vengeance. He looked around hopefully but only heard the buzz of the lights and England's footsteps as he paced and ran his hand through his mussed hair.
"Yes! The cup is the same one he always brings so he couldn't just buy one every time he drinks something for the meetings! The design is too specific!" England, flustered, waved his blinder in Canada's direction. "There's something wrong with him! He's-" The blush on his cheeks answered that part for Canada's overwhelming train wreck need to know.
" He sent flowers and chocolates! Tony is probably behind this somehow!"
" America hasn't been possessed by Tony. He's just willfully oblivious " ' so are you' " and possibly shortsighted." England didn't look convinced, though he had no trouble accepting the latter statement. He shifted and darted another look down the hall.
Canada looked at him in disbelief. When did flirting change into a mostly harmless thing except in France's case to a change in tactics? America has been courting England for years. Lovino's underground betting rings were legendary regarding them. "England, I think we should go-"
"Not like this! Purely hypothetical here, that is to say I did misplace some doilies at America's apartment and suppose one evening America kissed me. He kissed me and that wasn't supposed to happen!" England reeled back, abruptly rigid, cheeks a blotched red. "Why am I telling you this?!?" He stammered.
There was an embarrassed silence. Both of them stock still. England ,on the verge of hyperventilating, judging by how tightly wound up he was, narrowed his eyes at the coke sign on the vending machine. Canada thought his morning had been protecting him from this mess. No alarm waking him on time this morning to the traffic jam and consequently the detour from the road construction and the nearly forgotten cell had all been signs. His brain was breaking.
"Look England, I'll call America." He ignored England's twitch.
Canada sighed, wearily scrolling through his contact list and America picked up after two rings.
"Hey!"
"How's everything working out for you?" he asked exhausted. America laughed.
"Great! He doesn't suspect a thing!" He sounded entirely too smug.
" You. . ." Canada blinked and shook his head, dropping his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. ' I'll see you later." If England called him later, he wouldn't be surprised. He would probably hide in some poor janitor's closet, whispering about buying off judges and America trying to hold his hand and restraining orders. How in the World did he keep getting himself involved with what was one of the most messed up relationships ever.
*~~~~~~~~~~~*
"I'm ignoring you." England fixed his eyes on his binder. He walked a bit faster than America so he should be able to shake that ninny off.
"You won't last!" America boasted. He sauntered behind him, all vivacious step and blinding smile.