AWAITING SPAM.
OK JIHYE. GIMME WHAT YOU GOT, BB. :D
Hell yeah, pyro_o is gonna spam me in my sleep!
That sounds... kind of weird. But only because it's 5am.
I don't know what I will be spammed with, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?
Hell yeah, pyro_o is gonna spam me in my sleep!
That sounds... kind of weird. But only because it's 5am.
I don't know what I will be spammed with, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?
Comments 101
Alfred has always loved his reflection. It has always stayed with him - it grew up with him, happy or sad, eternally near him. His reflection comes alive, sometimes, more than the usual; there's sometimes a sparkle in its eyes, a little giggle that escapes when his back is turned.
He kids himself that it's really someone else, that there's another boy living inside that world that he'll never reach.
Alfred reaches out to touch that prison, his reflection reaching out to do the same; he can almost caress his cheek, almost kiss his lips and feel the moist warmth of living breath on his face.
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He forgets himself, tonight; right now, he's only Alfred Jones, single, handsome, and very, very lonely.
He forgets that it's Russia beside him, that the tall frame he's grinding against, kissing and wrapping around isn't the Communist Bastard; instead, he makes love to Ivan Braginski. Alfred Jones loves Ivan tonight, loves him more than he loves himself.
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He doesn't think that this will work. It never has, never will. No matter how many replacements he'll try, it won't be right. Not ever again.
"Open your mouth, boy," he says - his voice is hard, eyes like steel.
This boy's gentle, he's nothing like the real thing, not like what he'd wanted - he fucks his mouth and hates this nameless boy with wide eyes and straw-blonde hair.
Only when the boy chokes does he stop; and he services himself instead, hand heavy between his thighs as the boy lays motionless, waiting.
my life, what is this, a;sjfalksf
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They take their moments when they can get them; the prying eyes of the world had never left enough privacy for them, after all.
Stolen moments, languid kisses at two in the morning; soft touches and hard, fast sex, followed by hasty exits and rumpled suits -
Sometimes, he wished there was another way.
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Vash doesn't look up when he hears a crash in the distance. He chooses, instead, to continue polishing his guns until they shine, and then his gadgets, and finally, he looks up to observe a soot-blackened figure swaying in the doorway.
"Chim-chiminey?" it inquires, before collapsing in a heap.
Vash doesn't know why he supplies this idiot with anything, really.
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The airship is dying.
The crew watches it die in half-horror, half-respect. They'll remember fondly, in later years, her decks and the swell and hum of the air balloons, the soft voice of the engine permeating the entire system, and the familiar camraderie shared between her crew.
But tonight, they'll only remember the great flames and terror, gunshots cracking and explosions blossoming in the cavernous mouths of the ship's injuries. They'll cry themselves to sleep, instead, mourning the loss of their captain in the brave struggle to find the last man and usher him out to safety.
He was a good man, they'll say. They'll make him immortal, because he died too young. Because it was such a great loss, such a tragedy.
Even the legends will remember his energy and his eyes, blue as the skies they sailed.
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The newest strain discovered, Alfred slumps in his chair, staring at the vivid magenta-and-blue dye swirling in the test tube.
"How're we doing?"
Alfred smiles at the lab tech, accepting a fresh coffee gratefully.
"It's good, haha - I think we can present this to Geneva soon, and just wait, I'll have the last laugh - "
"You can't be that obsessed about him - "
"I'm not! It's not like I devoted my life's work to disproving some asshat's Grand Unified Theory of Stupid, okay?"
Silence.
"Go away," Alfred eventually says, mock-frowning. "I don't like you anymore."
"You should."
"Why? Did you splice the newest strands of human DNA that will revolutionize modern-day biotech?"
"Actually, funny that you mention it - "
"No, really. What's up?"
"Letter for you."
Alfred takes the letter, and scans it critically before ripping it open; it's the age of biotechnology, he muses, and we're still sending letters.
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He breezes past glass doors, swiping his card key and grinning at the guard at the front desk.
The grin freezes when he sees the door of his office slightly open - pushing it cautiously, Mister Jones drops his briefcase (the coffee very nearly follows) at the sight of a snow-white mountain covering his desk.
And eating away at his carpet.
"Nancy? What's this - " he asks his secretary; the girl gives him a brusque stare and shortly replies:
"It's your paperwork, Alfred. You've been avoiding it all week."
"But I just - "
"The British Ambassador's been after you, he wanted something signed two days ago."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. And he's put a price on your head if you don't have it today, when he comes to pick it up."
"When's he - "
He needn't have asked. Even past the cubicles and ringing telephones, Alfred Jones could hear someone yelling: someone very loud, extremely angry, and exceedingly
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Arthur, admittedly, is curious.
It wasn't as if dinner at the little Brooklyn apartment was an uncommon thing - they'd always met there, every other Friday, for talk and "quality family time", as Alfred said proudly.
"No, he'll love it!"
Alfred's mother grins at him - it's an unsettling smile, really, because it either promised him a world of pain, or a world of embarrassment.
"Arthur," Alfred begins. "So I told my mom what day it is - "
Arthur's head whirled. What day? What day was it? Thursday. Yes. Thursday, it wasn't anyone's anniversary, not anyone's ball, dance, charity event -
The lights dim in the room, suddenly, the entire apartment suddenly hushed. Alfred's mother stands beside him, still beaming.
"Happy birthday, dear!"
Matthew and Alfred usher in an enormous cake, lit by candles and decorated in heavy, sweet icing.
Arthur pretends that the dimmed lights can mask the sudden glitter in his eyes.
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He'd bought that cap on a whim, as a prank, and what was the matter, it wasn't as if it was anything life-threatening. Right?
So he'd put the baseball cap on Alex's head, and presented the toddler to his papa with a mischievous grin.
Arthur hadn't expected the meltdown he'd recieved.
"It's a Red Sox cap - "
"Alfred, you're hysterical - "
"My son! Is wearing! A Red! Sox! Cap!"
Arthur quickly snatches the hat off Alex's head and shoves it into Alfred's hands (it is promptly crushed and - Arthur suspects - will be burned with great enthusiasm later tonight).
Alexander cries, at the sudden absence of his hat.
"You take care of him." Alfred glares at Arthur, arms folded. "You started it."
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"Five quid," Arthur says easily. Alfred narrows his eyes, calculating.
"Ten quid," he amends.
"... deal."
Sticking his hand out, Arthur shakes solemnly; inwardly, he's grinning at the competitive spark in Alfred's eye.
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Alfred doesn't know where he is, who he's with, why he's there. Wherever he is.
"Shh, I'll take care of you." America pulls him close - he can feel the beating of their hearts, syncopated and rhythmic. "I'm here, hey. Nothing wrong. I love you."
Alfred throws himself into those words.
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Call me your cowboy lover, America says, winking. It's an irresistable wink, too, or else Alfred might have told off America for saying something so incredibly cheesy.
As the years go by, Alfred learns to trust America; that the voices he hears are the voices of the American people, and that America, too, trusted him. Loved him.
He wraps his legs around America's waist and doesn't say a thing - he knows America will understand; and amazingly, he does. It's almost something too good to be real.
They fit together, like two halves of a whole; America eyes boring into his own, equally bright, as they shift and Alfred finally breaks his silence.
Move.America doesn't fuck him; Alfred's a romantic, he doesn't want meaningless fucking. He wants love, and he takes it from America; with every thrust of his hips and every fevered kiss, touch and groan ( ... )
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Doubling over, he gasps and reaches out - America, America, where are you -
America helps him up; they are both dusty, the smell of burning flames and the sound of crashing buildings surrounding their world.
"What's going on - "
America's eyes are flat.
The voices grow inside him; Alfred's shoulders hunch as he seeks warmth and comfort in America's arms.
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teach me.
"It's not. Not something you can teach someone. Just. Help me."
For once, America's the weak one; Alfred wraps him in his arms and cradles him.
The sound of the nation weeping scares him.
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Of course it's his idea.
It turned out, however, to be both a blessing and a curse.
Arthur Kirkland was wanted in three cities and banned from entering the state of Ohio.
Matthew Williams got nothing out of it except good sex, a cache of blackmail material, and a series of migraines.
Alfred Jones, however, got a Hawaiian hula girl dashboard accessory, fifty-three maps of the States (two of Ohio and extras of California, because Arthur and Matt had drawn all over the last few), and an endless library of mixtapes and CDs.
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Matthew kicked in his sleep - but Alfred mauled like a bear in the other bed.
He opted for the bathtub; but swore when he'd woken up, soaking, in the middle of the night, his foot tangled in the 'COLD' tap lever.
THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME, JSYK. THE WATER AND THE BATHTUB THING.
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Alfred was indiscrminately shoveling waffles down his throat, grinning like a maniac.
"Well," Arthur spits. He's got bags under his eyes, for the love of -
"Pass the syrup," Mattew says sleepily. As Arthur reaches past the (already-emptied, courtesy of Alfred and Alfred's Fifty Stomachs) boxes of cereal and discarded dishware, Matthew takes a careful look at his face.
"Arthur," he says hesitantly. "You sure you don't want to sleep some more?"
"And wake up to see that wanker - " Arthur swiftly jabs his thumb at Alfred, now picking out a mountain of muffins - "Destroy the entire breakfast nook? I think not."
Matthew keeps his mouth shut, and lets Arthur snooze in the backseat as Alfred starts the car.
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It did, however, eventually become a trending topic on twitter, no thanks to Alfred, and a popular facebook meme, courtesy - again - of Alfred.
But it was always a subject under inquiry, due to the sordid rumors that had grown and circulated around him. England preferred the infamy and notorious theories instead of the bland truth, and, in all honesty, never disclosed to anyone what the Incident in Ohio ever was.
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