towerofanimus | (no subject)

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(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.

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England was wonderfully oblivious to France's opinion on his reaction, which was really for the best, as he had himself almost completely composed by the time she started to speak again.

Of course, her smirk shot all his hard work down the drain, and his face flared up again at the implications. "I--" A few atrociously ungraceful syllables based on no coherent sentence left him, because that was America she was talking about, and his brain couldn't even process that in any situation with any bit of reason, much less give him something intelligent to say about it.

"--I-I can't say I've ever thought about it," was what he eventually managed to spit out, shifting awkwardly on his feet and trying futilely to hide his crimson face.

She covered her mouth to stifle her chuckles and pet his red cheek gently, delighting in the feel of embarassedly hot flesh under her hand. "There there, put it out of your mind if it disturbs you so, mon cher~"

She was officially attached to this easily flustered creature, poor thing. Her new side-mission in this tower was to make sure he was flushed red as much as possible.

Edited 2011-09-12 06:41 (UTC)

Wasn't half the trouble of disturbing things the fact that they lingered with you so? But no, no, he was absolutely not going to think of America in that regard, because that just-- he merely refused to.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "No thanks to you," he grumbled with no real malice, though it certainly was an idea that was going to stick with him whether he wanted it to or not. Goddamnit.

She smiled sweetly at him. "If it makes you feel better, Amelia is quite a pretty girl. Very well-endowed." Her fingers tapped along the book, and her smile turned more genuine. "I think you'll like her, if you get to meet her."

That definitely did not make him feel better. That made it quite a bit worse, actually. His brain was stuck enough on the idea of sexualizing a male America, he didn't need a(n apparently well-endowed) female America in the equation too.

"I--" God, why was he still thinking about this? He raised a hand to adjust the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat. "I'm sure she's-- every bit as delightful as Alfred," he sputtered out, the sarcasm quite a bit less effective with how shaky his voice was.

She chose to ignore the sarcasm and chirped, "She really is! Dresses well for her figure too, all short skirts and low-cut, stomach exposing tops~"

She then frowns and sighs a bit forlornly, glancing down at her chest. "Even I can't measure up to her for size, but oh well. I can at least admire hers' with a hint of envy."

Oh god what was France saying? This was what he got for giving any France of any universe any leeway; give them an inch and they'll take a mile. He was sure his brain was close to short-circuiting itself by this point, so he tried to veer it far, far away from the topic of America.

Even if that meant steering it to a topic that was almost as awkward. "I-I assure you that you look just fine," England complimented hurriedly, even though he wasn't looking anywhere near Francisca when he said it. He was sure nearly all the blood in his body had gone to his face by then. But even complimenting France (even if, granted, it was a France he didn't hate) was better than thinking of America in a miniskirt, at least when it came to his sanity.

She raised her brow and commented, voice disguising none of her amusement, "You aren't even looking." With a drawn-out sigh and added, "Well, going bra-shopping with the girl can be quite the humbling experience. One just cannot compare."

Instead of arguing that he'd already looked before (which would further incriminate him and it wasn't like he was staring at her or anything), England lifted his head to give her a very hasty once-over before he looked away again.

"There. Y-you're perfectly-- admirable, in that regard," and the end of the sentence was a little odd-sounding, strained with a silent plea of now can we please stop talking about the bust size of our former colony?

Tempted to ignore that obvious plea, she opened her mouth, ready to make another teasing comment, but then decided against it. After all, no matter how similar he was to her England, they'd only just met - wouldn't do to scare him off completely.

She smiled and murmured a soft, "Thank you." Thinking of a topic change, she glanced around at the bookshelves before asking, "What were you doing before I ah, disturbed you? Did you come here to find some books?"

It took England a little while, but eventually he fought off the majority of the blush that had accumulated and tamed his nerves enough that he could actually sound intelligent when he answered France.

"Indeed," he affirmed, following her cue to peer around at the surrounding books. "And to get out of my room, I suppose. I was starting to feel a little cramped." To be honest, most -- if not all --of the books he'd selected were included in the veritable compendiums of Shakespeare that were in his trunk. But it never hurt to comb the library's selection.

"And you? Shall I presume you came here to read as well?" ...considering what he'd found her doing and all.

"Well, I came down here to distract myself and while I was browsing I remembered the reading pile Allemagne had built up." She quirked a smile and added, "I hadn't thought he'd enjoy such... literature. But, what do you know?"

Distract herself? Well, England couldn't exactly blame her. Though he wanted to make some sort of comforting remark -- because, to distract herself meant she had something she wanted to be distracted from -- he couldn't find anything that could be delivered with any amount of tact.

"I'm hesitant to call that tripe 'literature'," he jibed instead. "However, I've...heard wind of Germany's tastes before, so perhaps I'm a tad jaded to the impact." Though he'd at least expect Germany to pick something that wasn't god-awful, if he was going to read smutty romance novels.

"I'm a bit disappointed actually - I'd fully expected whips and chains to be mentioned..." She flipped a few pages, her face turning pink when she came across something very creative, and she snapped it shut. "Mais non, no bondage." At least.

England's face burned at the remark. He trying desperately to keep this new source of embarrassment far, far away from the previous one, but it was just a little hard when the mortification from both was still so fresh in his mind (and his face).

Determined not to put bondage and stupid, bull-stubborn, over-eating former colonies on the same train of thought, England coughed and quickly commented, "Rather strange thing to be disappointed over." ...of course, it was France. (He had to keep reminding himself of that.)

France didn't completely realize where her comment had led England's thoughts, but she noticed the blush nonetheless. She shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "It's a need for normality - if I see Germany reading smut and it is full of lederhosen used creatively in bondage situations, that is normal, and puts me in my realm of comfort. Sort of."

...well, he could...sort of understand that. In a way. A really weird way, but, he wasn't going to question French logic any more than he already did. He wished she wouldn't be so very blunt about it though, if only because the rest of his body needed blood and his face was hogging it all.

"You can never be too sure, you know-- rubbish like...that train wreck may be of the norm for Germany, as well. He could just be better practiced in hiding it," he suggested, though he couldn't say he entirely believed it. He did have some respect for Germany, after all.

Too bad for him that she quite enjoyed his blood occupying his head - Arthur was just lucky that she wasn't focused on making it occupy his 'lower' head.

"Hiding it, hm?" She chuckled and lifted the book, waving it in Arthur's face. "He was reading this in the middle of the library, with several other volumes of similar genre piled around him."

At that point, he'd probably excuse himself from the conversation completely. He recoiled from the book again, taking a couple of safe paces back from both France and that wretched bound volume of concentrated embarrassment.

"Lapse in common sense, perhaps," he suggested hastily. "Or maybe it is just the case that no one was attentive enough to notice his tastes before now." England did his best not to fumble his words, but some of them did come out a little less well-enunciated than they usually were. "Regardless, 'normal' is a strange concept in and of itself." Was the point he was trying to make with this.

She decided to have mercy on him and dropped the book on the shelf at her side, cover face-down. "Better?" she asked with a smile, finding his fumbling of language endearing.

"Much," he agreed, taking the extra step to turn his head in the direction opposite where she had set the book -- half to put more distance between it and his line of vision, and half to try and conceal his relentless blush. "Thank you."

"De rien. I would avoid that table over there in future then-" She pointed to Germany's previous table down the other end of the bookshelf, the surface of it still covered in the questionable literature. "This was only the tip of the iceberg."

He cleared his throat with an awkward "ahem", sparing the table a brief glance. "I see. I shall keep to my own area, then." It wasn't the literature he even had a problem with (though he'd die thrice over before he willingly admitted that to any of his fellow nations), it was more actually being questioned about it, by France no less.

Plus the one she had been reading was utter tripe, in all fairness. "Germany's interests certainly are...extensive," he commented lamely, tearing his gaze away from the table full of debauchery.

Well, considering how often she'd 'accidentally' walked in on the female England red-faced and quickly slipping the trashy book she'd been reading under her seat, Francisca couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this England might also indulge in smut... in private, of course.

At his remark she gave him an innocent yet searching look, responding slowly, "Well... I would say all nations have extensive... 'interests', though perhaps we don't always speak of them in the company of others?"

He didn't like that look of hers. It was far too charming. Far too innocent. Frances were not innocent, and did not make innocent inquiries. (And alright, he was maybe a tad biased, but how many would disagree with him on this matter?)

"Speak for yourself," England answered simply. His tone was calm enough, but his face was still a telling shade of pink, and he averted his gaze under the guise of turning up his nose.