i only want to think you perfect;

[wingborne]

↳Grave of Stars
WWII - London Blitz; England returns the star that fell on his head to the sky. Juxtaposition of elements of fantasy with elements of war. Sense of distance, great loss. Unspoken tragedy has occurred to England, star used as recuperation.
Themes: Loss of innocence, warfare, price of a life; magic
Style: Old-timey what ho
Research: All the things, pantyhose, mythology of famous fairies, stars
Status: never starting

↳some pirate thing
STUPID ROMANCE don't judge me for what I dig. America keeps accidentally slipping back in time, meets pirate England. He's already in a relationship with modern day England, but he falls in love with pirate England more and stuff happens thoughts hard.
Themes: romance romance romance
Style: Modern, postmodern??
Research: Pirates!!!!!
Status: never starting

↳some time loop thing
STUPID ROMANCE don't judge me!!!! blah blah england dies blah blah america builds a time machine blah blah except england dies progressively more gruesome deaths until America realizes what's going on, that England is actually remembering each time, but he's willing to go through his own death a million times just for one more second. Ultimately it ends with some sort of REST IN PEACE but idk it's all trash trash trash
Themes: romance romance romance
Style: Modern
Research: nothing!! except maybe style
Status: TRASHED BITS:

December 24th

A hazy pop tune ascends from the tinny stereo. Arthur leans forward to adjust it, twisting it halfway to the right, then to the left, and frowning at the crackling static. He mutters something about the degradation of American music, but settles into his seat to listen to the high-pitched song about love. It’s a snowy day, and the flakes splatter onto the windshield fast and hard, like small ice baseballs and the windshield wipers are losing the fight.

“Fuck this shit,” Arthur mumbles into his gloved knuckles. “Good God, man, just admit that you’re lost.”

“I’m not lost.” At the wheel, Alfred expertly turns up the volume of his radio without taking his eyes off the gray road. He drives slowly, watching intensely for the back-lit red flare of the van ahead of him. It’s too difficult to see the turns, and he feels more confident in following the other car. But he wasn’t lost.

“I’m getting the map.” Arthur bends forward to the compartment, but gets swatted back for his efforts. Alfred doesn’t want him to see the fossilized remains of McDonalds scraps, swaddled forever in faintly greasy wrappers.

“I got this, seriously. Stop back-seat driving.”

“Maybe if you were actually doing some real driving, then we wouldn’t have this problem.” But Arthur settles into his seat. It’s been a long flight from England, and judging by the fill of his briefcase, he had been working for the flight. Alfred sneaks glances at the passenger seat, watching his lids slowly flutter and fall, and then slump against the window. It’s hard to see, except for the orange glow of the lights that speed by the highway.

It’s Christmas Eve, and they’re finally spending Christmas together. Alfred knows that Arthur loves him, in a desperately cute puppy sort of way. He doesn’t mind it, but it makes him sometimes uncomfortable when Arthur touches his hand because he doesn’t know which way to take it, or how to react when Arthur shows up to his birthday party, drunk and with a suspiciously thoughtful present. But earlier in the week, Arthur tugged on his jacket and said that he would spend Christmas with him, since they were doing cleaning in his house and it was no use staying anywhere else.

Alfred doesn’t mind that, either. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives into the town, where the store windows are lit up with red and yellow and blue lights, raveled with silver bristly tinsels. He loved the smell of Christmas, the way the snow gives the air a stiff smell, and how the ice frames the edges of all the windows like misty cobwebs. He likes to shovel his driveway, and build snowmen in his front yard.

But he stares a little wistfully when he sees a father and his daughter walk down the sidewalk. It’s a red light, so he allows his stare to linger, watching the girl hop into the snow with her bright pink boots, dulled only by the night. They stop in front of a window with a small train rolling around a plastic mountain, and she stares intensely at it, and says something to her father. She was probably asking for it, and something stirs in Alfred’s stomach, a little warm, but mostly sad.

For some reason, he glances sideways over at Arthur, who had fallen asleep. His head nodded occasionally, but the shadows cast on his face said that he was asleep. A mysterious disappointment falls over him, as if he was expecting something, settling into the chill of his bones. Maybe he wanted a present from—no, that would be stupid.

The light turns green, and he presses the pedal underneath his boot. The car moves, with a slight start, and smoothly rolls over the line.

Over the slight tin of the music, he hears a loud honk from his right. It’s more like a scream, a wild yell of a flattened noise, and Alfred turns his head just in time to catch sight of two blindingly bright lights. There’s no time to move, no time to do anything. Just before everything goes dark, he sees the light illuminate Arthur’s sleeping face, tired and exhausted under the brightness, and the last thing he hears is the crunch of metal and bone.

December 24th

It’s routine.

Three sharp knocks, and no answer. Alfred hears Francis sigh outside his door, but he still doesn’t turn the knob. He can even smell the glistening good food, but he doesn’t want it. It’s not black, burnt, and disgusting, so he doesn’t want it. Instead, he hunches over his computer, pressing enter to run his thousandth diagnostic test. The computer flashes at him, the same mechanical color that coolly bathes the room. His curtains are drawn, and he waits with his chin on his knees.

“Still not coming out? It’s going to be Christmas, soon, Alfred.” It’s Matthew, who comes over sometimes. He’s the one who brings him food the most successfully, mostly by slipping them through the window so they would land on his table, and he’s forced to either eat it or throw it away, and he doesn’t throw good burgers away.

“You haven’t come out of there in months. Starting tomorrow, that will change, I assure you.” That’s Francis, tired and deflated. The last time Alfred had caught sight of him, he looked older, with gray tinting his small goatee. He moves like an old baseball player, all his joints tired with age. He hadn’t been like that one year ago. Instinctively, Alfred glances at the calendar on his wall, where he keeps track of the days since the accident.

“He needs to stop blaming himself.” Matthew had always been the cunning one. Alfred wonders, briefly, if Matthew had plotted to speak about all that in front of his doorway, where he knew Alfred could eavesdrop. But he had the luxury to wonder only because the computer was running the code.

“The Hero Ego took a blast.” A pause. “But, ah, he shouldn’t act like a child. Big brother has suffered a lot, too. Even if it’s, ah, petty, especially around this time of year.” It’s no secret that Francis is bitter towards the matter. But the difference—the difference between Alfred and Francis was that, that Alfred could actually do it. Alfred was actually doing something about it, and Francis was an old man who resigned himself to nothing. That’s why he would win.

“I know.” Alfred hears the clanking of dishes as the meal is wheeled away. “He’ll snap out of it soon. Maybe he’ll come out tomorrow.”

“Is he still hung up on that stupid idea of his? It’ll never work. Not in a million years. That boy must learn how to allow Arthur to finally rest in peace.”

And that was where Francis was really stupid.

Alfred took a deep breath as he looked over the watch, with little red wires that spun like spindles wildly into the supercomputer. It always felt warm in the room, with the large black towers and their rippling green lights. Alfred sometimes felt like Godzilla amongst tiny buildings, and then he would remember how Arthur said that he was obsessed about it, and then he tried to forget. It was three months later, and Alfred would still flinch every time he remembered something about him. They came wildly, appearing without any warning, to ruin his life. He could pick up a toothpaste and the certain color would spiral him downward, out of control, recalling the moments in his life where Arthur had worn a certain vest in a certain style.

He hadn’t gone to the funeral. January had gone flashed by quickly, just a mess of loud colors and noisy people, and there were periods of absolute silence that rose above the rest, like when he was sitting inside the hospital and Matthew had come to him and held his hand and said it wasn’t his fault and it had gone silent. But he had been driven back to his house, and he had laid in bed. The next month passed by slowly and painfully, but he was thankful for that. If life hadn’t dragged itself out for him, he would have never had that epiphany, late at night, when he was staring at the digital red numbers of the clock flicker, and through the blurriness without his glasses, he had thought he saw the number flash back.

It was possible to change the past.

Arthur wouldn’t have to die that night.

With slow deliberation, he picked up the watch. The screen was lit an unearthly green, iridescent against his flesh. He watched as the gray numbers flickered to 00:00, and READY ran on and off the bottom screen. If his calculations were right, then he could only go back one year. It seemed so arbitrary, just three hundred and sixty-five days, but his computer went on the fritz when he tried to program even further back. It hadn’t even been used before, but he had no more time. He was running out of time to save Arthur from that driver, and he would do it.

He gently unhooked the red wires with his fumbling fingers, and strapped it onto his wrist. Against his logical mind, he smoothed down the front of his shirt for the potato chip crumbs. He had invented the time machine. Now, he had to fix time.

He swiftly pressed the button on his watch.

December 24th

It felt cold and he was drenched in sweat. Breathing heavily, he became aware of himself. Reaching out his hand, he felt a surge of relief to see all his fingers still intact. When he looked down, his ten toes wiggled on their way to the market. He was wearing a sloppy t-shirt and white and blue striped boxers, and he was lying inside his thick covers. Outside, the snow coated his house.

He reached for his glasses, and then for the calendar.

It was 2011.

He breathed through his nose, and then ran his fingers over his face. With a bit of Tony’s help, he had managed it. He had actually managed to go back in time. He felt around his wrist, to the lumpy watch with the eerie green glow. It was Christmas Eve, and he was going to pick up Arthur from the airport.

Quickly, he snatched his cell phone, and rolled over onto his stomach. He listened to the ring tone until a familiar British voice said, “Hullo?”

“Arthur.” Alfred wrapped himself in the blankets, and tried not to shiver. But he couldn’t help himself. It had been a year since he had last spoken to him at all, last heard his voice. It felt like the dams were breaking in his heart, everything crumbling away, and the long nights from slaving away over tiny computer code worth every second. It was too much, and he wiggled his hand out into the biting cold air to press against his eyes and try to sound normal. He couldn’t even remember normal. His voice came out hoarse and broken, because it was Arthur on the other end of the line. Boring dreary Arthur with the bad cooking and the bad luck to come to Christmas at his house.

“Good timing. You’re not still slothing in bed, are you? Bloody parky out here. If I have to wait for much longer—”

“Actually,” Alfred said quickly, and his voice trembled at the end of the note. “Uh, sorry. Something in my throat. But, uh, actually, I can’t come pick you up. I can, tomorrow, but not tonight. Sorry.”

“What? That’s fucking absurd. We made plans. I told you to clear out your little scheduling book, and you assured me that it would be perfectly fine! You are not abandoning me here at the airport! I’m not going to spend Christmas at the airline terminal!”

Even though Arthur was shouting, it was a relief. Alfred hadn’t been scolded for an entire year. Not to his face, not loudly. He sat in his room, listening only to the silence. He imagined Arthur, furious, waiting in the crowd, and it was a relief that lifted the boulders off his shoulders. Arthur would be angry at him for a little while, but he was just irresponsible Alfred. Everything would be fine, and Arthur would still be alive.

“It’s really important. I’m sorry, but can you go to a nearby hotel or something? I’m sure there’s some around…”

“And they’re expensive and probably full-up. I don’t think even a manger would take me in. It’s a bother, but I’ll take a cab to your house. That’s where you are, right? Playing video games? And not actually calling me from Tokyo?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I’m home, but you don’t have to—”

“I didn’t sit on my ass for nine hours just to come here and sit on my ass for another twelve. I’m going over to your house, and I expect a warm cup of tea to be waiting when I get there. It’s cold out here, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah.” Alfred’s voice cracked, and he realized too late that he was crying. He couldn’t understand why. Arthur was alive, and not dead. Not gone from his life anymore. He would never have to wake up in the morning, half-expecting to hear Arthur’s voice telling him that he had made breakfast and that he was late, and only hear the birds instead. Never again would his heartbeat flutter with hope that the person tapping his shoulder would be a shorter Englishman, and instead turning out to be somebody ambiguous, disappointing.

“… Alfred? Not that I care, but you sound—strange.”

“It must be the reception.” He didn’t want to hang up. It felt like a surge of want, suppressed over the years, was washing over him again. The same raw feeling he had felt when he had sat in the hospital. The numbness, then the overwhelming sense of despair, and then a single thought. He had never told Arthur—

“You have crappy cell phone coverage, then. Will that be all? Thanks to your little shenanigans, if I don’t catch a cab quickly, I won’t get there in time for Christmas. And I’m not spending Christmas in a stinking cab, understand?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon, then.” He didn’t hang up, though, and waited until he heard the familiar click in his ear. The dial tone felt comforting, and he slowly shut it off. It had been a terrible fourth of July for him, after Arthur had died. He had called Arthur’s cell phone, whose bills he still paid. He had held his breath, and listened to Arthur drolly rattle on and tell him leave a message but he probably wouldn’t answer back nosy brats. A message beyond the grave. He had called twenty times, and listened until he fell asleep, memorizing every slant of intonation until it felt like the worst kind of music in his head.

kink meme prompts don't judge me bro

↳some misfits thing
idk I just wanted to write something in misfits style.
Themes: misfts!!!!
Style: modern!!
Research: prolly rewatch some bits
Status:

The morning sky was the color of a dark pink cunt when the six young delinquents wandered into the Juvie Center, the wayward home for lost souls, the last safe haven, the little gray building that had FUCKERS in horrifying Gatorade green on the wall, the abomination and embarrassment of all respectable adults. It had all the effectiveness of cutting a lawn with a small pair of sewing scissors, but like an overenthusiastic teenage boy with a copy of National Geographic, desperate for that last spurt of cum, it functioned on hope alone.

None of them knew each other. None of them wanted to know each other. There were six of them and they all disliked each other immediately, and all for very good reasons. One was wearing lacy pink panties, one parted his curly hair awkwardly, one snapped his chewing gum at the mirror, one solemnly

oh what crap

↳some yandere hong kong thing
idk I just wanted to write something with yandere hong kong.
Themes: yandere!!!!
Style: modern to postmodern!!
Research: n/a n/a n/a
Status: probably start this one soon

↳some suicide thing
Some prompt about some sadness but then I got tired of it blarrgggh
Themes: sadness!!!!!
Style: modern!!
Research: n/a n/a n/a
Status: TRASHED:

England bought Sealand ice cream.

America noticed.

-

It was double chocolate chip, and when Sealand asked for the second scoop, England mechanically paid. He had a lost look in his face, and he didn’t look at his wallet. When Sealand turned away, happy with his food, England tried to touch his back, to lead him away. But he let his hand fall to his side, and spoke a few soft words to him.

They sat down at a bench, on a bright day, and England looked down at the grass, and spoke in a low murmur. Sealand wiggled, impatient, and England seemed to give up, halfway.

England tilted his head back to the sky, and watched the clouds with unmoving eyes.

-

America pulled Sealand aside, and the boy wiggled under his grip. He asked what England had told him.

Sealand said he wasn’t really paying attention.

America told him to remember, and he unconsciously tightened his grip.

Sealand pushed him away, said angrily that it was something about growing up, taking responsibility if he became a nation, and then he ran off.

America watched him, drawn lips and angry eyes.

-

America didn’t like England.

He didn’t like him because England was a jerk. He was a hypocritical jerk, who wanted to be loved without loving in return. Sometimes, America would talk about something serious, serious to him, about his genuine fears for his county, and England would just stare at the table, giving monosyllabic answers, disinterested, detached.

But that wasn’t enough for England. He didn’t just blow him off, but he wanted people to pay attention to him. He drank more than he should, and more than he could, and people were called to pry him off the edge of the building, to steer him out of the roadway, to make him put down the knife that was pressed across his throat. He drank until he was stank of ale, and sometimes even America got the call, that England had swallowed his sleeping pills, that he should come and pick him up, that England did this or England did that.

France could take care of him.

They were old men. They could be old men together. America refused to give in, though. Not to the man who had betrayed him. He knew France was faintly worried, but it was a stupid worry. England had fought in enough wars to know the value of life. He was just a drunk old man, stupid, deluded, and he was stupid when he was drunk. That was all.

So America didn’t know why he was knocking on England’s door in the late evening.

-

(It was because nobody else saw England buy Sealand ice cream.)

-

The door was unlocked, so he entered the dark house. When his eyes focused, he could see England sitting on his sofa, blanket half-covering his legs. He was staring down at the knife on the table. It had a serrated edge, and a black handle.

America pushed the door shut. Sat down, told him angrily to answer the door next time.

[s] England said what do you know brat you’re the one disturbing me I can do what I want

England said you have no right anymore not after you put on your blue uniform and betrayed me

England said he was fucking sick and tired of people barging into his house this wasn’t an open house [/s]

England sat there, unmoving, unspeaking, with his pale hands curled in front of him.

-

America tried to talk about the weather. He tried not to talk about the white scars scrawled on wrists, or about the knife on the table. England seemed disinterested. He didn’t answer at first, but as America persisted, he began to slowly give short one-word answers, then clipped sentences, though he sometimes faded in the middle of his sentences, staring at his reflection in the knife.

America asked him if he was drunk, and England said no. Then, he added his first superfluous words in the conversation, that he wanted it done right, so he wouldn’t drink.

America asked him what done right.

But England didn’t answer.

-

America was nineteen.

-

America was nineteen and he didn’t really understand or really want to understand, so he said, that if he wanted to walk out of this house, go back home, watch an episode of Andy Griffith and sit on his sofa eating strawberry ice cream and go to bed, would he see England tomorrow.

No, said England.

The day after that.

No, said England.

America said, bitterly, that he hated him, and he didn’t move from his chair.

-

England had the nerve to tell him to go. Watch Andy Griffith. Everything would be fine. He would just be busy, the next few days, but America didn’t need to worry. He encouraged America to go, and he smiled in a wretched way, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

America said he was thirsty, so England should make them some tea.

-

He didn’t remember who suggested to play Scrabble. It was probably him, because England didn’t suggest anything anymore. England sat there and used American spelling, and he didn’t berate America for making up words, and sometimes he murmured that he couldn’t spell any words, even though that never happened to him. He was losing interest in the game.

America stretched, and asked which way to the bathroom.

When he went down the long hallway, dark, he thought this house was big. He accidentally went to the second story, and then the third. He could hear the grandfather clock in the hall, but it was dark, and he traveled down the cold hallway with his bare feet. He opened doors, but it was like a haunted house, where white sheets covered the furniture, and the moon watched quietly from the windows. He went to the fourth floor, thought the house was too big and too cold for a single person.

He couldn’t find the bathroom.

-

On the top floor, he found a room. It must have been where England slept, and he entered, because he thought England would have a little conjoining bathroom. He was right, and he washed up in the small space, elbows brushing against the tiles.

England’s room was small, modest. The bed was unmade, and heavily slept in, sheets spilling to the floor. America picked up the ends, shoved them back onto the mattress, and looked at the desk. It only had one piece of paper on it, scribbled with a single phrase, over and over again.

Please let me die. Please let me die. Please let me die.

-

When he returned to the living room, England was still sitting. He thought he felt relieved at that. England didn’t move when he entered the room. He didn’t seem to notice at all, staring down at the words on the Scrabble board.

America didn’t remember whose turn it was. But he didn’t want to win, anyway, so he just on the other side. England finally stirred, moving his thin hands to the edges of the blanket. He looked gaunt and distant, as if he wasn’t seeing America when he looked at him.

He told him that he should go. It was getting late. He’d book his flight.

America asked if it was a problem to stay the night, and England said it was.

America said too bad.

-


crap crap crap

↳some dark magic england thing
dark magic england he does some sort of sacrifice to keep magic alive in his country except one day he disappears and it's up to france and america to save him!!
Themes: magicccc
Style: Modern
Research: magic
Status: blargh I started somewhere..... where did i put it... idk but it was pretty good i guess

↳some doctor who space whale thing
whales
Themes: memories, forgetting, being forgotten
Style: modern i guess
Research: doctor who!!!
Status: to edit and stuff i guess

He sits there, cigarette lighted, and the world burns around him. But he doesn’t give a fuck. Tells himself that, tells it to himself enough then maybe it’d be true. It’s the end of the world, and he’s faced enough end of the worlds that he’s sick and tired of them. London Bridge is falling down, the Eye’s gone up in flames, and Manchester United won’t be playing this Saturday. There isn’t anymore Saturdays.

His roads have been torn up, his shops closed down, his people screaming. There are robberies for flat screen tellies for shows that don’t matter. He sits in the middle of the street as the smog rolls around his feat, pea green soup. Scotland’s gone, and that’s fine. America, France, Japan, they’ve all gone. It’s just him, and he’s alone and forgotten by the very earth that raised him. His eyes are turned to the sky, but it’s gray from the heavy smoke billowing from his ruins. He used to see stars, navigate through rocky oceans to leave his blood-stained mark on the earth. That’s all gone now.

Somewhere, he hears a child scream. He allows the cigarette to drop into his lap, to roll off next to the chunk of broken road. His ribs have caved in, and his hands are bloody pulps of flesh, barely held together with thin stretches of flesh. He can hardly see through the blood matting his hair, but he stands on his broken ankle and limps to the sound. If it’s a cave-in, he’ll dig them up with his lost hands, scraping the rock with his bones. If it’s a robbery, then he’ll fight them to the death with his broken teeth and swollen tongue.

But it’s a child who’s lying on the side of the road, near the sharp jutting of a road. His stomach is bloodied, and the small hands try desperately to grasp at the secrets of his body. England releases his numb grasp of the knife, and stumbles towards him, dragging his ankle. He kneels down, gently pushing back the child’s hair. A dusky blond, and the boy has the deepest blue eyes. He breathes through his teeth, rustling through his pockets for any scrap that could help. He knows it’s too late for the boy. The child’s practically gone, whimpering and twisting in pain, and any help would be too late.

Still. But still, he tears the remains of his jacket off his scarred back, and wraps the boy within it. The world burns around him, but he tightly grasps the child’s small hand.

“It’ll be all right,” he lies with hoarse breath, and the child’s whimpering seems to quiet. The boy painfully searches his face, and England thinks he makes a gruesome sight, blood and raw bone jutting from his face. But he clutches his hand, tightly, and makes his false promises.

“Stay here. I’ll get help.” There’s no help, not anymore, but he’ll find it. Struggling, he tries to stand, and finds his ankle collapsing underneath him. He sprawls into the dirt, and his choked breath strangles his thin throat.

“Don’t go,” the boy whispers. His face is grimy, and England wonders if he’s ten, or nine, or even less. He shouldn’t be dying in the middle of the road that would soon turn to tar. He should be learning his letters, and annoying his parents, and running around the parks, making that very racket that the neighbors complain about. But he’s not, because he’s dying, hand small and limpid.

“It’s all right. I won’t be long.” England half-crawls to the boy again, hand still loosely grasping his. Gently, he brushes back the boy’s hair, and tries to shut off the screaming wails of the bombs. Big Ben is broken, a bleeding gash on the gray skyline. His castles have crumbled, and his boy is dying. His boys are dying, and he feels wretched, insides twisted as the Underground has collapsed inward, trapping the cars and leaving the broken to die.

“It won’t hurt long,” England whispers through his bloody lips. His children are dead, and his skies are gray lined with red. “You’ve been very strong.”

The boy gives a choked cry, flinching with pain. England feels for his pulse, but the skin is damp and cold. It’s a terrible sort of miracle that he’s even conscious enough to scream. He dampens his lips with his cracked tongue, tasting the saltiness of his blood.

“It’s going to be all right,” he promises. “You’re safe.” He wants to say more, but the child’s eyes are fluttering. He knows the sign, but he still clenches harder onto the small hand, trying to draw him back to the painful life. His back hurts, and his eyes ache, and the boy slowly slips from life, without another word. He hears a broken “no” pass his own lips, and he curses himself for his own selfishness, curses the empty world for the empty pain. He’s angry, smashing his fist onto the rock near the child’s head, enough so that his finger twists and snaps and cracks, and only then does he allow himself to viciously cry. He used to send the children to the countryside, but there’s no more countryside to send.

He’ll die broken and bruised, sitting in the middle of the road with a child’s lost body.

-

But he doesn’t die.

England sits in the sick bay, hands bandaged and ankle taped. It’s not enough, and he sneaks off while the Queen talks to her people through the telly, calm and majestic, and armed to the teeth. He sits in the open area, where his citizens are slowly rebuilding their lives. A broken swell of pride rises in his heart, and he has to laugh. He must look hysterical, barely holding a glass of water in his broken hands, and just laughing.

There’s little trophies of life everywhere, signs of nationalism and pride. He half-expects God Save the Queen to erupt on the speakers at any moment, and he stares at the little flags, blue, red, white, and then at the teddy bears dressed like guards. They don’t have the royal guards anymore, though. They don’t have much, even if everybody’s thankful. They’re forgetting, in the way that one day, only their parents will remember the Sex Pistols, or someone says a line of Shakespeare and they attribute it to an episode of The Weakest Link. He doubts they’ll have even that much.

He survives. He perseveres. It’s humanity and it’s him, and his laughter catches in his throat and rattles inside his broken rib. The food tastes strange and the water isn’t right, and he’ll never walk on land again. There are no more sunsets and no more sitting on the beach in the cold evenings. He’s gotten his wish, and he’ll never have to deal with anyone again. All of them, gone. Just him, in the stars, alone.

If he clutches the glass hard enough, so that the pain shoots up his arms and burns his nerves, he can forget what they have done to the whale.

-

America would never have any of it.

But America isn’t here.

-

Forget or protest.

Even one percent, says the man long dead. They have that technology. England sits at the chair, mended hands folded over his lap. Even he’s got a vote, because the population is small enough for that, and all the papers are drawn up for it.

He can press forget.

Forget that he’s become the country of culling children, the country that tortures animals and the country that floats cold and alone in space. And it’s cold, burning cold to the touch when he presses his hands against the walls. The stars are closer than ever, but he remembers so much more. He remembers the wars that left the white-lined scars on his body, and the friendships that left the red bleeding wounds on his heart. He tells himself that he’s happy. The silence of space fills his ears, enough to suffocate him.

It’s not about space. He can conquer space. Being small was inconsequential. He’s always been small, but he’s always been stronger. But he’s started to talk to himself, enough that he’s sick of his own voice. It started off small, then it grew, until he’s muttering to himself as he buys his fish and chips, and tells himself that it tastes different even as he eats it. He strikes up conversations with strangers, and ends them abruptly because he’s unsatisfied.

But he can forget it all. Start over again, anew, and actually believe the lies fed to himself. He doesn’t have to think about the pulsing pink brain in the dungeons, not how he can hear the screams at night when he sleeps, not even about his own past. He can choose to forget all the other countries in the world, and it would only take a button.

As always, though, he stands up and leaves the room. He can do that, because he’s England.

-

So he doesn’t press Forget.

-

He’s lonely and miserable. It’s just a matter of forgetting, and forgetting comes with time. It doesn’t come with machines. Every time it comes to vote, he’ll sit there and stare at the telly, then at the buttons. They look absurd. It’s all absurd.

They just have to wait for the world to stop burning.

-

Screaming wakes him up. He sits up in his bed, grasping his hair with his hands. Tries to forget.

His mind is screaming with memories, and he grits his teeth. A high, keening scream rings in his mind, and his body is wracked in phantom pains when he tries to lie down and sleep. Slowly, he folds his arms over his head, shaking and sweating. He wants to forget.

It’s just a matter of forgetting.

-

If he forgets, he wants to forget in bits and pieces.

They’ll fall away, just like how the Queen’s mask falls to the floor. It’ll start with the screaming, then with the children, then with the countries. He can’t decide the order, but he imagines it vividly, enough that he can almost taste it between his teeth. He can taste the happiness, and it tastes like bad fish and chips that he can’t remember that it’s bad. It’ll taste like space air because he won’t remember the fresh air that blew in the winds on the ground. It’ll taste like the horrid smell of burnt brain in the dank dungeons, because he’ll never have tasted burgers and truffles and sushi.

He wouldn’t miss them, because he wouldn’t remember them.

And he wouldn’t remember to think about them, wonder if they’re even in space anymore, if they’ve gone and died or dissolved while he wasn’t looking. Not remember, with cold pangs in his heart, that he won’t see them again. He won’t remember the false last good-byes, and he won’t remember sitting on an upturned road, feet in the dirt and dust, and watching the starships rise up into the atmosphere, burning until they became stars.

-

Because they’ll forget him.

It wouldn’t matter anymore, that he was England, or that he’s still England. It wouldn’t matter to them, on their own starships, because they’ll find new friends and easily cover up his presence. He doesn’t want to be forgotten, because he doesn’t give a damn about leaving his mark through history. He wishes on them, viciously, to look out the windows, and feel the same pang of pain that passes over him every time he remembers them.

But they’ll forget him.

-

In the dungeons, he sits with the abandoned children.

For some reason, it comforts him.

The crown prince doesn’t say anything, just offers him some bad bangers and mash. It still makes him sick to his stomach, but he eats the entire plate until he vomits.

-

Storms never came to the Starship UK.

But one came.

-

He recognized him. He’s known him all his life, and he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a different face, this time, but he recognizes it all the same. A brief image of trenches, sounds of horses screaming, men’s intestines in the mud. But he studies the face, and watches him bump into a crying girl. He does it four times.

It’s the first time England’s laughed in years, and it hurts, shaking him to his toes.

He goes to stand by the crying girl, who’s wearing a bright red coat. She knows him well, so she doesn’t startle at his appearance. But he doesn’t want to get seen or noticed, so he bends his head to murmur to her.

“All right there, love?”

The girl has an open, honest face, and she bites her bottom lip as she nods. She has a quick mind, and he already notices the way her hand rested in her pocket, fingers curled where her ID was missing. He can’t help but smile at her wit.

“It’s going to be all right.” He’s not used to his own voice, not since he stopped talking to himself. It’s a little hoarse, but it must be reassuring, because her eyes swiftly dart over to him. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to comfort her at all. He’s not used to it.

But he takes her hand, and gives it a squeeze, and says, “Promise.”

He doesn’t want her to question his credentials, so he releases her hand and hastily steps away. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he has a feeling about a hallway. When he turns again, he can see the girl following a red-headed woman, and he has to smirk to himself.

-

He stands at the end of the hallway, watching the Doctor sonic the walls of the small aisle. They don’t talk to each other, not at first, because the Doctor is busy and England is in no hurry. It’s been a while since he’s within his company again, and his heart pounds despite himself. It’s the Doctor, who saves all the worlds, and destroys all in the same breath. It’s the Doctor, who travels through time in a blue box that England hasn’t forgotten. It’s the Doctor, and he’s come.

“So,” the Doctor said, spinning the screwdriver over his fingers.

“So.” It’s a different face, but it’s always a different face. He assumes he’s seen enough of them by then to try and keep track, but it’s always out of order.

“So, there’s something wrong. You know there’s something wrong. It’s in your eyes, it’s always in your eyes. But you won’t tell me.” The Doctor points the screwdriver directly at him, and England doesn’t flinch, just leans against the door and watches him. “Now, that’s curious. And I know curious. So. What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“I’m not telling you that you’re trespassing.” England points to the sign. “But I’ll tell you now. No entering. It doesn’t say no entering, except for doctors.”

“Well, it should. What if someone needed help in here?”

“Then we’d get a real doctor, one with some medical knowledge.” England smirked. “It’s that Scottish girl again.”

“You’ve met her? Oh, that’s good. No need for pesky introductions.” The Doctor returned to rattling the boxes, tapping on the walls, listening to the echoes against the cold and creaking steel.

“She’s nice enough. Pity that’s she’s Scottish.”

“Oh, don’t let her hear you say that. If she hears you—”

“I know.” England rubbed his upper chin in memory of the darkened bruise. “I still mean it, though.”

“Stubborn as always, even in space. I mean, you’re surrounded by millions of stars, and there’s other planets, billions of other life forms, and you’re not even the least bit excited about it.” The Doctor only popped out his head from his task for a moment. “I don’t even know how you do it.”

“America was always the excited one. Aliens, all that.” England let the memory pass without words, tried not to remember America, didn’t taste burgers. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as I’m always doing, of course.” The Doctor reappeared again, twiddling the screwdriver within his fingers. “Except with a cool new screwdriver.”

“Old new screwdriver. And those old clothes. That same old bowtie.” England’s hand reached to touch his own tie, smoothing it down handsomely, even as the Doctor frowned.

“Bowties are cool,” the Doctor reprimanded, and stopped fiddling around with the walls. He tilted his head, eyes piercing into him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Certainly. I’ll tell all the state secrets to the man who renamed the Virgin Queen. She was my wife, you know.”

“They’re all your wives. In some countries, they have rules against that.” The Doctor holds up a screw, and glances at the screwdriver in his other hand. It almost seems like he’s come to a conclusion when he shrugs and throws away the screw. “Not compatible,” he explains briefly to England, before disappearing into the mess again.

“It must be nice,” he said. “Traveling with her.”

“Aha.” The Doctor smiles, the one he wears when he knows something, but he’s not holding anything in his hands. Instead, he points the screwdriver at England again. “That’s what you’re not telling me. Part of it, anyway.”

“What?” England recoiled, as if he was going to be soniced. “That I like your new companion? It’s no surprise.”

“Not a surprise, never a surprise, but you usually don’t say it. You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said shortly. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

“Scotland’s gone and up and left. Were there any Welsh onboard? I don’t remember. Too busy looking at water, you know how it goes.”

“Welsh?” England tilted his head. It was the first thing that the Doctor said that even interested him. “What’s Welsh?”

“What’s Welsh. That’s what he says, what’s Welsh.” The Doctor slowly frowns. “You know, Wales?”

England stiffens at the mention. He didn’t think the Doctor would so quickly figure out the space whale, not when he was still poking around the machinery and the loose spark plugs. But he sees the Queen approaching down the corridor, and he hastily backpedals, disappearing into the drifting smoke. It was curious, though, that the Doctor said whales. England glanced out a passing window, and wondered if there were legions of whales drifting in space, just waiting to be found, waiting to find the Starship UK.

He’s getting too old for lost hope, so he grabs an extra cloak from the storage, flipping it over his face. He would go done to the dungeon, because the Doctor would figure it all out soon enough. And because he promised to play checkers with a child with blond hair and blue eyes.

-

“Nobody human,” the Doctor said, “has anything to say to me today.”

-

It was over, quickly, and for a second, he thought he was going to die. Several seconds, as the world tossed around him, rattling and breaking and falling apart. The end of England, the end of Starship UK, and he thought, briefly, that he would be forgotten. Lost amidst the stars and supernovas, a speck of dust that would eventually vanish into the black holes on the other side of galaxies. He caught a child from being tossed around, and he thought, for a second, that he really was, like the Doctor said, lonely.

He didn’t want to be forgotten.

-

Protest.

Not Forget.

-

“It’s gorgeous.” The Doctor didn’t turn his head at his approach, still staring at the blue space ahead of them. The white dust drifted slowly across the spirals of the universe. England turned his head to look, as well, and thought the universe was large enough to conquer.

“A happy ending, for once.” England snorted. “It was impossible.”

“And it happened. But you wanted it, too.” The Doctor slightly turned, faintly grinning. He was still angry, he could tell, but he had two large hearts that were bigger on the inside, so England, human, was allowed to stand next to him.

“I always thought I’d be happier alone.” England stretched out his palms to the glass panes. “Too bad the world doesn’t work like that.”

“But you never forgot.” The Doctor glanced at him knowingly, and England felt irritated all over again.

“I could never forget. But they’ll forget me.” England rapped his knuckles on the glass. He thought about the flags, fluttering in the sky, as the spaceships ascended into the upper atmospheres, and how they all left their broken rock behind. He thought about the gray smog, and he thought about how they would never remember that one, miserable old man, from centuries ago, who scowled at them and lectured them and scolded them. And they’d never know how happy that unhappy old man had been, doing it.

“Impossible.” The Doctor rocked back and forth, eyes still fixated on the stars above. “Is that what you really think? Because that’s stupid.”

“It isn’t,” England said, and resisted the urge to flick the Doctor in the ear.

“You don’t think,” the Doctor said, finally turning his gaze onto him until his eyes seemed to stare through him, “that they’ll remember you? They won’t remember their friend? That, at some moments, when they turn the corner of the road, they’ll see that shade of blue, just that right shade of blue, that makes their heart ache just that much more? Because that’s just stupid. It doesn’t work like that. If it did, the universe wouldn’t be the universe anymore.”

“I’m not very memorable.” It was a lie, and he wasn’t sure why he said it if he knew it was a lie. But the Doctor only grinned, tapping the tip of his long nose.

“You were a good friend, England. You won’t be forgotten.”

England struggled to keep his face still, even as it felt like the words he had been waiting his entire life to hear had finally been said. The dam gates burst from his heart, and an overwhelming sense of emotions flooded him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, the universe seemed flooded with the still blue color that stretched through the stars, covering the atmosphere.

He saw Amy was approaching, even though the Doctor had returned his gaze to the universe. England shifted away silently, leaving them in peace. It was enough, he thought. This would be enough.

-

He sat with the pointed bit of the whale curled around him, like a cat. When he pet the shiny, sticky covering, it almost seemed like the whale was purring underneath him. He had grown rather fond of it, and the whale had grown rather fond of him. It clenched too tightly on his hips, sometimes, and left sticky trails on his cloak, but it was also warm to his touch.

Though he was alone on the ship, perhaps he wasn’t forgotten. Maybe, somewhere, America would be reaching for a burger and remember his childhood. Or France would reach to scratch the back of his hand and touch the scar he had given him. Japan might look at the stars, and remember the night of their alliance. It was all foolish hopes, but he clung onto them, nevertheless. He felt old, and he thought the silence would kill him.

He sat directly facing the crack in the wall, and he glanced at it, silently. Sometimes, he had the strange feeling that he hadn’t always been alone on the ship. But the whale mewled, and he returned to petting the hard, sticky shell, and closed his eyes to rest.

He wouldn’t be forgotten.

↳something where america punches england
america's superstrength is really super!! meaning that when he accidentally hits someone or just jostles them it kills them so i guess just a series of england putting up with it
Themes: STUPID ROMANCE GO AWAY
Style: Modern
Research: love teach me how to
Status: never starting it's an idea that goes nowhere really and it's not even a kink meme prompt why is this here but i like the idea of america punching through england's gut unf


↳nations become mortal
some ensemble thing where everybody gets to look cool and some people die and it's all good
Themes: mortality!!
Style: Modern
Research: how to write more than two characters
Status: lmao like i'm good enough to write it but

Immortality - a fate worse than death. – Edgar A. Shoaff

Part I

It should have been an ordinary day.

America should have spent the rest of his time leaning on his elbows, eating his hamburger, watching the clock, waiting for the Andy Griffith Show to come on so he could go to his room and prop his feet on the couch and listen to the whistling. Just like England to his left should have spent the rest of his day bickering with France, and Spain on his right should have spent the rest of the day doodling little pictures on the side of his printed double-spaced front-and-back notes.

It had been an ordinary day. Nothing had been out of ordinary. Even huddled under the table, leg bleeding from the tear, he couldn’t remember anything that was strange. The security guard was the same as always. The security itself was the same as always. They had to try Switzerland three times before he finally cleared the station, as always. The meeting started on time, as always.

Then America had suddenly thought that his soda tasted strange. When he next looked up, a bomb had erupted from the south partition of the room, knocking over the conference table like it was flipping a penny. The scorching heat burned against his jacket. He landed on his side, head pounding against the back wall. Immediately, there were shouts, and some anguished sounds. For a second, he was back in war again. Then he felt a hand grab his collar and drag him outside, until he was able to stand and half-stumble with them into a doorway, where the door slammed shut and locked afterward.

“Move it,” England hissed, blood dripping on the left half of his face. When America fumbled to help pull a table over the door, England made another exasperated sound and said, “Damnit, move the damn vending machines! Come on already!”

With his super strength, it didn’t take very long to pull out the coke and snack machines and prop them against the door. In the meanwhile, Spain had taken out the security camera in the room, tugging it off with a single rough pull and dropping it to the floor, where his scuffed-up boots easily grinded the delicate machinery to little white-and-black pieces across the floor.

“Stay down,” England breathed into America’s ear, pulling him behind the table on the far side of the room. “Be quiet.”

“What’s…” America winced as he tried to adjust his leg.

“I hear nothing,” Spain said softly. His jovial smile had turned into a straight line, deep in thought. “The snack room, Angleterre? Really?”

“Oh, like you had a better idea.” England pushed America lightly against the wall and pressed his fingers across America’s thigh, ripping the jeans near the bloody wound. “Did you see anyone else in there?”

“No.” Spain scowled. “If I had seen my Romano—”

“What’s going on?” America winced again as England’s fingers pressed along his ribs and arms, checking for breaks. He was softer when he felt the back of America’s head, but his face no less drawn and serious.

“We’ve been attacked.” Spain’s eyes flickered to America for a second longer than they should have, too quickly replaced be the typical easy smile. “Or one of us has been targeted. They are fools to attack a UN meeting, but…”

“High-profile.” England finally sat back against the table. “And I’m bloody well stuck with the two biggest idiots in the world.”

“Ahaha,” Spain said mirthlessly with his smile, “and I enjoy being with you, too, idioto.” For a second, America thought he saw a sort of pirate glint in Spain’s eyes as he looked at England, and something feral and predatory in England’s returning smile.

“How’d they even plant a bomb in there?” America sat up, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his leg. “It’s… fuck, don’t they have machines for that? Even Switzerland can’t get anything past them, and—”

“I don’t know. It’s good security,” England said. “I haven’t gotten anything past them.”

Spain nodded in agreement. America had once tried to bring a tank, Spain tried to bring in his sword, and England his knife. As far as America knew, none of them had ever succeeded. But now he was unsure. The UN was as tightly secured as it went. America once got beeped when he had forgotten he had slipped England’s scone into his back pocket and forgotten about it.

England was testing the weight of a butter knife in his hand, slipping it into his belt. His eyebrows were drawn in thick.

“Something wrong?” Spain’s eyes burned beneath his half-lidded stare. It was clearly annoying him that he had been separated from his friends, left with the man he often knocked knees with and the man that he hated.

“They could have killed us.” England spun the butter knife in between his fingers, the blade glinting against the light. “Just set up the bomb on the other side of the room. We don’t usually sit on the south end when we start the meetings. Germany brings in those bloody projectors, we watch those stupid slides…”

“Ah,” Spain said. “Like when I brought in pictures of Romano.”

“Your obsession’s pretty creepy, dude,” America told him, but England’s soft talking hissed over the both of them.

“They want us alive.” England held the knife in his hand, the blade sharp at Spain’s direction. “Why?”

“You think I had something to do with this?”

“No.”

“Then you just think that your precious little America couldn’t be behind this,” Spain said, pandering.

“Hey, I’d never—”

“Oh, keep your bloody trap down—”

“As if I want to be in here with—”

It was then the speaker crackled to life. America had nearly forgotten the UN had any speakers, but one was placed in every room. Their gazes were drawn to it as if the speaker itself was present, and not just a small white box next to a broken clock.

“We… the HFG.”

“What?” America whispered, only to be hushed by his two companions. The static was too loud. The explosion must have damaged a nearby power surge that connected the speakers together, leaving them only with small words drifting amidst the static.

“Drug… turns you countries… mortal. We re… You can… die.”

And it was like all of America’s blood turned into ice.

--

CRAP CRAP CRAP

↳something where russia and england get together and do pot
Themes: pot
Style: Modern
Research: pot
Status: TRASHED but here

↳something where england calls france on a sex line
Themes: sex
Style: Modern
Research: sex lines but i did that already so ace
Status: TRASHED but here


↳angels
where england comes down as a guardian angel or something like that because america is lonely and stuff like that happens and england realizes why he died which is probably something tragic or scone-related and he dies if he stays on earth too long and america is afraid of being lonely again
Themes: sex with wings!! also i guess loneliness mortality stuffs
Style: Modern
Research: how to write long fics crying
Status: TRASHED but here

↳when alfred grows up
basically arthur is alfred's step-dad and one night alfred sees his father and england going at it and he falls in lust and seduces him when he's an adult what can i say i'm addicted to trashy stuff
Themes: growing up, dealing with love, Oedipus complex, jocasta
Style: Modern
Research: how to write long fics crying
Status: TRASHED but here and here

↳that titantic thing
the titantic
Themes: there were a bunch of themes, but basically memory, ship sinks, stuff like that
Style: Modern
Research: titantic but i already did that
Status: TRASHED but what a load of crap


↳peripheral vision
england gets transversed through worlds!! america follows him. it's going to be called peripheral vision because it's not from their point of view but the worlds they fall through and england apparently can't stop himself because he murdered someone but who did he murder?? who knows i just want to write like pride and prejudice
Themes: werlds
Style: Modern
Research: all the worlds crying
Status: like i could ever start