towerofanimus | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Characters: England and all you ~~positively insufferable~~ wonderful people!
Setting: Floor Three
Format: Starting with prose/paragraph/whatever you want to call it, but I'll match.
Summary: Apparently the Shakespeare collections he brought with him aren't enough -- actually finding the library in this godawful place was a small blessing.
Warnings: Language, most likely, gosh England that's so improper (also mild suggestive themes, courtesy of him and fem!France)

The kingdom breathed a minor sigh as he turned the page, away from the inquiries of comedians and further into the tale of one 'Cesario'. A stack of books flanked each side of the open copy of Twelfth Night on the table; one stack for the books he had finished (currently, about three), and a stack for the ones that had not yet been opened.

Getting down to this floor had been a nightmare. England didn't mind stairs -- he was no lazy American, after all -- but this was just ludicrous. The place was a scientific disaster and a magical marvel. He was less disturbed by the physical impossibility than he was by the chance of hostile supernatural figures lingering about. It didn't take a mage adept to realize that a place like this could easily have them, just by looking at the way the tower defied physics and logic.

But at least he'd suffered no loss of limb nor any encounters with anyone he'd rather not meet with on the way down here. And, thus far, he'd had no significant disturbances.

Now all he needed to do was just stop thinking about the damn building and relax enough to enjoy what he was reading.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

France had grabbed a random bodice-ripper novel she'd found from the male Germany's reading pile, barely able to contain her laughter at the sheer amount of smut she'd been greeted with. "Oh, if only I could show England this..." she chuckled, a sad smile tweaking her lips for a moment before she flips a page, laughter bursting out at the mention of 'it was a very large it.' She leaned against the bookshelf - incidentally, the one with the blonde man's reading table on the other side - and proceeded to quietly read the atrociously filthy text out loud.

England was a person that very much valued quiet in a library. Libraries are places of research, learning, and knowledge, and should be treated with hushed respect. Not to say that he rejected all conversation in libraries, of course, especially if it pertained to literature; but it should be done in a non-invasive manner.

Reading aloud was a case-by-case basis. A read-aloud for children was alright. Whispering to oneself was alright.

Reading what was no less than full-blown smut out loud, even in a mumble? Not alright.

He didn't even pay the voice much attention until it started to laugh, but the second he tuned in to the first sentence, he found the rest impossible to ignore. England's face flushed with color, and he closed Twelfth Night with a prominent snap, rising from his chair to step briskly over to the bookcase and glare around the other side from the end of it.

"Do you mind, miss?" he queried in a low, but still evidently irritated voice.

France had just reached the part about the big 'it' entering the female protagonist's 'dripping wet box' when the irritated voice interrupted her. Ah, the blonde man she'd spotted earlier.

The blonde man with an obviously English accent that made an inner part of her sneer as France, while another part of her wriggled with delight.

The eyebrows almost made her visibly wince, but she controlled herself and lowered the book she'd been reading, an apologetic expression appearing on her face. "Ah, je suis désolé monsieur. I did not realize I was being so loud."

England himself had to restrain a less than savory reaction at her apology in French. Though the only reason he suppressed it was because she was actually apologizing.

He cleared his throat, doing his very best to forget exactly what he heard this woman reading. He was a gentleman, after all, even if those words were absolutely vulgar and she was French. "It's-- it's quite alright," was the reply, stumbled lightly upon when it was voiced. "Just...keep it to yourself, I suppose."

Honestly, France's people sometimes...it wasn't even well-written, for heaven's sake.

France smiled, just a bit sheepishly as she gestured at the book. "Well... I couldn't help myself. Amérique's children create such hilarious 'romances' that I wish I could tease Anglettere about shared tastes~"

England looked to the book with what he hoped was a polite sort of disinterest when she indicated it, until her gratuitous French actually reached the processing center of his brain.

"Amérique" and "Angleterre".

Amérique and Angleterre.

He blanched pretty visibly, considerable brows arching high over widened eyes. "I..." This wasn't possible. Except it really was. Which was why he finally said in a bit of a nervous voice, "Miss, if you don't terribly mind, could I ask your name?"

Oh. Oh sweet mother of God, she knew that look. Interesting that Anglettere's male self would look like her most when ~~scared~~ shocked.

Licking her lips, a bit nervous herself, she answered, "I... My name is Francisca Bonnefoy.... And, I suppose you are the other... 'England'?"

Suddenly she felt a bit...

Embarassed.
Of course it would be England to catch her giggling like a little girl over some smut. How classy.

Bonnefoy. Bonnefoy. Of course. Just his wonderful luck. He would never speak to anything French ever again if they were all going to be incarnations of the frog in some way.

Trying to at least give her the benefit of the doubt (which was really hard because this was still France after all), he nodded. He attempted to keep his voice cordial, if not a bit shaken. "That's correct, yes."

He reigned in the reflex to chime in 'of course you would be the one reading smut out loud in a library'.

Well, great. She didn't shift from foot to foot or flee, even if she wanted to. She tried to keep her voice bright as she asked with a smile, "Well, this is awkward - Do you hate France as much as my Anglettere despises me?"

.... She clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. In a small strangled voice she muttered, "Merde."

...well, if there was ever an awkward question to answer. It felt almost akin to being asked by someone's sibling if you hated their brother or sister, except much, much worse.

And god, if that was the best simile he could come up with, he must really be flustered. He bit his lip, face colored slightly in embarrassment, as he crossed his arms and averted his eyes. "Can't stand him," he answered honestly.

"And you?" prompted the kingdom shortly following that. "Do you have such dislike for this other England that the bleeding pilchard does for me?"

His reaction was as adorable as the female England's would have been, France thought, just a bit hysterically. "... Dieu, I need a drink."

She paused at his question and tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the bookcover. How to answer this... Honestly or the way she should as France?

Well, this wasn't her England, so... Truth.

"... I'll tell you because you aren't her, and I'll trust you not to tell her if you meet," she began, banishing the potential of her England never appearing. "I don't hate her, but she'll never know." She then grinned cheekily and put a finger to her lips. "Our secret."

"You aren't the only one," agreed England in a mumble, not sure if he was addressing the other-France or himself.

He chanced a look back at her when she started to speak, stifling his embarrassment in favor of courtesy. "Oh please," he started, with a brand of sarcasm that had a little less bite than he normally utilized when dealing with France. "I'm hardly a gossip."

...though that did make him wonder just a little about his own France. The thought of the frog not detesting him was downright creepy. "...well." He unfolded his arms, clearing his throat again. "As I...suppose you've not yet given me any reason to dislike you..." He set a hand lightly on his stomach and gave a cordial bow from the waist. "You may call me Arthur Kirkland, if you so desire. It's...a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Not that he ever thought he'd say that to anything French outside of diplomatic niceties.

"If I find any, I'll share if you're nice," she murmured absently.

She smiled at his response and the gentlemanly bow. Well, what do you know? Something English capable of showing manners. "The pleasure's mine... Arthur."

... She can't resist the urge now. She lifted the book with a cheeky smile. "So... How do you feel of America's 'works'? To your taste or non?"

England straightened from his bow after the introduction was reciprocated, even managing to offer something that kind of resembled a smile.

Until she had to bring up the book, anyways.

He flushed darkly and sputtered without success for a few moments before finally getting out anything coherent. "A-absolutely not! I don't like anything of America's, especially not his...his...works of that nature!"

Not that he actually read R-rated American romances, of course.

Ah, there's a reaction she's familiar with, especially when accompanied with that blush. Her smile grew and she covered her mouth to try to hide it. "But have you read some at least? Surely to formulate a just opnion, you have to read it first, oui?"

She holds the book a bit closer to Arthur's face, a blatant challenge.

He really needed to learn how to prioritize what he argued. England wondered if he would ever learn to deny the big picture first.

"I've read American 'literature', and have rarely found quality in any of it," he retorted a bit too quickly. "It only makes sense to assume that the...romances would be just as awful."

And then, remembering something, he made a quick amendment: "You proved my theory well enough, reading that trash out loud."

"I only read a short excerpt." Her smile grew and she gave up hiding it, opting to instead tap the book on England's chest.

"Care to read the whole book? Who knows, perhaps the plot is worthwile?"

"It was enough," asserted England, face still considerably red. "Quality literature should be good throughout."

He peered down at the book with a mildly indignant expression, lip curling slightly at the corner as if it disgusted him to be touched by it. "I would rather not, thank you. You're welcome to it, if you'd like."

Her smile grew and she flipped the book open again to the riveting passage she'd been reading, scanning the page before commenting with an amused voice, "The male protagonist is English you know. I wonder if all of your men use such language~?"

He bristled, shoulders tensing up at the suggestion. A France by any other name, he supposed. He willed his face to stop feeling so hot as he vehemently denied, "We most certainly do not! D-don't suggest such a ridiculous generalization!"

Ah, English through and through. She smiled innocently and dropped her arm with the book. "I was just curious of your childrens' habits compared to how they are... romanticized." She ducked her head, pretending at modesty. "I apologize if I offended you."

"Calling that 'romanticized' is an insult to all things legitimately romantic," he huffed, words still coming out a bit hastily. England sniffed with indignity, folding his arms over his chest. "A strange enough thing to be curious about," he had to add, but it was followed by a sigh and a resigned, "It's alright."

France put the book behind her back - out of sight, out of mind. "I know, I still find them hilarious to flip through though."

Not to mention they sometimes give her interesting ideas, but anyway.

"Does Francis give you this much trouble?"

As absurd as the notion was, England did appreciate not having to look at the book anymore -- when he glanced back to find that it was out of view, he turned his gaze fully back to France. A hue of pink still stood out on the British pallor of his cheeks, but it seemed he was finding his composure again.

"More, as it were," was the answer to that, delivered with a roll of the eyes. "I don't doubt he might have tried getting handsy with me by this point. Or otherwise propositioned me in some fashion."

And then, a scoff. "Or perhaps he would have just insulted me a great bit more, hell if I bother myself to know his preferences."

By his accounts, other-France is already much more tolerable than her male counterpart.

Well, since Francisca had only just met England, she wasn't going to jump his bones on the spot. She had some class.

And the eyebrows were deterring her, just a bit.

She smiled at Arthur's comments, a sad look entering her eyes before she quickly masked it. "Sounds like how I interact with Anglettere. I usually stop once she's slapped me across the face though."

Was that a wistful tone? Of course not.

"Have you seen Francis since you arrived?"