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hetalia2009-10-18 08:26 pm
sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-10-18 08:26 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfiction] I've Got a Bad Feeling
TITLE: I've Got a Bad Feeling
AUTHOR/ARTIST:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
sakuratsukikage
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America, England, America/England
RATING: pure G
NOTES (optional): The prompt mentioned Star Wars. My Other Fandom. I couldn't help myself.
SUMMARY: The prompt was England and America talking about why so many of America's movies have British villains.
My fill for![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
hetaliasunshine !
I've Got a Bad Feeling
America thought of Star Wars as (awesome, but that was beside the point)—as a compromise movie. England had let him make it over at his place, to start out with, so he couldn’t hate it that much, right? And it had tons of British people in it—like Obi-Wan! Who was even kind of like England only . . . not hot—except when he was played by Ewan McGregor he was a little bit hot—and England was a lot snarkier and snappier and more bad-tempered, but Obi-Wan was definitely cool and . . . pretty British—and he was pretty sure the guys inside the Chewbacca and Darth Vader suits were British, too, though he wasn’t sure how England would feel about that—and who could say no to a movie about awesome rebels defeating an evil empire and restoring freedom and justice to the galaxy, right? Besides, lightsabers. So when England shot down Indiana Jones as a movie choice for their monthly Saturday movie night for the billionth time, America was sure he’d agree to Star Wars. (Even though he didn’t get why England didn’t want to watch Indiana Jones. Indy was awesome! And he had an awesome last name, too. And he was an archaeologist, which was also awesome, and—well, anyway, Star Wars was just as awesome and it had Harrison Ford, too, anyway.)
And England did agree to Star Wars. He didn’t even complain. Well, for the first half hour or so. Okay, so he snapped at America when he said England was a lot like Obi-Wan, and demanded who America was like (Luke—the hero, duh. And he was a pilot! Even though that wasn’t until later). England said he wasn’t like Obi-Wan, so America suggested C-3P0, and England turned bright red and yelled, but America managed to convince him to keep watching the movie.
It struck him a little bit later that England was a lot more like Leia than either of them, when she raised her chin and stared Darth Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin in the face, and so he elbowed England and said. “Heeeey, England.”
England sounded disgruntled. “What?” he snapped.
"I changed my mind,” America said.
I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board, Leia said, and America couldn’t hold back a giggle, because he could so imagine England saying that. Not to America, of course. To someone nasty and evil. Who smelled bad, obviously.
“Changed your mind to what?” England demanded. He was frowning and tapping his fingers against the arm of the couch, and that usually wasn’t a good sign. “You wanted Indiana Jones and the Flying Nutcracker after all? Be quiet, America, I’m trying to watch the film.”
America laughed out loud—um, the flying what? “I knew you’d like it!” he crowed. “You’re getting into it, aren’t you? Aren’t you, England?”
"Be quiet,” England snapped, and glared at him. “This is a serious scene. Her home planet is to be destroyed and—” he trailed off.
"Okay, okay, okay!” America said. “I was just going to say that I changed my mind. I don’t think you’re like Obi-Wan anymore. Or Threepio. I think you’re like Leia. She’s a princess and everything!”
"I'm not a princess,” England said, sounding disgruntled. “Whatever gave you that mad notion?”
"You act like a princess,” America retorted. “You totally do. Besides, you’re a lot more like Leia than Obi-Wan. You’re snotty and clever and pretty! It’s perfect.” He considered a moment, ignoring the shade of puce England’s face was turning. “And you’re short.”
England sputtered uselessly, then spat out, “I’m merely not—not a lumbering oversized giant like you. And I’m not—pretty? Yes. That. Stop spouting rubbish.”
America grinned, and leaned into England’s side, reaching over to tousle his hair. “You totally are,” he said.
England glared up at his hand, his eyebrows scrunching, but didn’t shrug it off.
Then name the system! Tarkin snapped, and England’s eyes returned to the screen. He was looking at Leia and biting the inside of his lip, leaning forward a bit, his green eyes wide, like he actually cared what Leia said. America grinned a little more, and stealthily—completely stealthily—dropped his hand to curl around England’s shoulders.
England's fingers started tapping against the arm of the couch again. America didn’t pull his arm away. They kept tapping.
Dantooine, Leia said, defeated. They’re on Dantooine.
"What is it?” America burst out. He pulled his arm away, his cheeks burning.
"Why is it,” England said slowly, “that all the villains in this film have British accents?”
America blinked, looked at the television, looked back at England, and stared. “But—uh, what?” he said. England hadn’t minded his arm around his shoulders, then?
"This film,” England said. His voice was testy and annoyed and sharp and beginning to sound dangerous. “So many of your films, in fact, seem to make the villains British. Why is that?”
"Uh," America said. “Um, I don’t know? D’you really think so?” This was really not at all where he’d been expecting the conversation to end up.
"Yes," England snapped. “I do.” His fingers were moving very quickly now, and he sounded . . . upset. “Take this Tarkin bloke, just as an example. And all the other tossers in the khaki uniforms. They all have standard British accents. And Han Solo and Luke Skywalker and the other heroes all have standard American accents. Don’t you think that . . . implies something?”
"Like you’re . . . stodgy and imposing and aristocratic?” America tried. “C’mon, England, it doesn’t mean anything.” He leaned forward again and tried to put his arm around England’s shoulders, because England complaining about accents meant that England hadn’t been complaining about his arm.
England leaned forward, slipping out from under his arm, and grabbed the remote. He pressed the pause button and the movie froze, Tarkin right in the middle of saying, You may fire when ready, in, yeah, now that America thought about it, a . . . really British way.
England turned back to him and glared and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you certain?” he demanded. “Because in my opinion, any trend this pronounced comes from—from deep-seated psychological issues!”
"Um," America replied. “Um, England, what?”
England was red-faced and his brows were screwed up and he actually looked . . . kind of upset. “Issues!” he repeated. “With—with me.”
"Of course I have issues with you!” America said and laughed. “For one thing, you make fun of all my movies. And you get upset over the weirdest stuff.”
England made a weird little choking noise and stood up and America thought, um, oops, and reached up frantically to loop one arm around his waist and tug him back down.
"Let go of me!” England snapped, and his voice was choked and thick and that was not the way England’s voice was supposed to sound when they watched movies together, not at all. Or ever.
America tugged England down and patted his shoulder a little. “It’s okay, England,” he said. “So I have issues with you. Pretty sure you already knew that. It’s not like I don’t like you or anything.”
England rounded on him, eyes blazing. “This isn’t—isn’t a matter of you . . . simply complaining about my cooking or some such thing!” he burst out. “You’ve made me into a villain in one of your favorite films! And then you’ve done it again, and again, and—and this film is about a ragtag collection of Americans defeating an—an organized Imperial British government, and—”
"Um, what?” America burst out. He could hear how high his voice had gotten, but he ignored it and sat up straight. “Wait, what? England, are you seriously—seriously—suggesting that Star Wars is some kind of . . . of metaphor for my independence?”
"Isn't it?” England demanded. He was bright red in the face and his eyes were shimmering a little. “Subconsciously or not, you—you chose to include these themes, and—”
America put his hands on England’s shoulders. “England,” he said. “Are you actually saying that you empathize with the Empire?”
"N-no," England stammered, “I—well, perhaps, a bit, I mean, it’s obviously how you—how you see me, so I—”
"No!" America said. “It isn’t like that at all! You’re being crazy, England. You’re nothing like the Empire! They’re evil and stuff and—and use the Dark Side. And blow up planets. And killed Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, and—you aren’t evil. You were never evil. You never will be evil. You just . . . aren’t evil. You don’t do things like that.”
"But I was an Empire,” England insisted. “And you—you—”
"But you’re Princess Leia!” America said loudly, cutting through England’s . “She’s a good guy—she was a good guy before Luke was, and way before Han was, you know?” And he pulled England tight into his arms, and pressed his face into England’s hair. “And you’re my princess!” He took a deep breath and tried to steady his breathing. No big deal, right? Because he was an awesome hero and everything he was saying totally made sense, and . . . .
"I am not,” England said into his shoulder.
"You are, too,” America said, very quickly, into his hair.
England's shoulders relaxed. “Mmmph,” he said. “I’d . . . I’ll admit, I’d rather be your . . . your princess than your . . . Tarkin.”
America grinned. He pressed his hands tight against England’s back and touched his lips to the top of his head. “Well,” he said. “You are, so there.”
England didn’t pull away. He didn’t even yelp, or . . . or anything, just sort of stayed there pressed into America, and didn’t argue. “Very well,” he said finally, and just as America was getting ready to express his feeling about that—a shout of hell yes seemed appropriate—“Why do they all have British accents?” England asked almost, not quite, or maybe just a little bit plaintively, into his shoulder.
America sighed. “I don’t even know,” he said. “I guess I’ve always been a little . . . .” He trailed off. “Well, it’s . . . sophisticated and imposing and shit,” he said, finally.
“Sophisticated?” England said, disbelief in his voice.
"Well, yeah! Like . . . high-class,” America said, uncomfortable. “Look, do you want to watch the rest of the movie, or should we watch Indiana Jones instead?”
"Fine," England said, and sat up. America immediately sighed at the loss of his body, and moved forward to curl himself firmly around England as England pushed play and sat back, linking his arm tightly about England’s side.
This time England didn't pull away.
"I can’t be Leia if you’re Luke,” he said, after a moment. “They’re . . . he’s her brother.”
"Well, yeah . . .” America said, then sat bolt upright and stared down at England with a grin. “That’s awesome!” he said. “You’ve seen Star Wars before!”
England crossed his arms. “Come now,” he said. “You made it in my studios. Did you really think I wouldn’t at least take a look?”
America didn’t even try to curb the massive grin spreading over his face. “Oh, my god,” he said. “This is so fuckin’ awesome. I can’t even believe it, England.” He bounced up and down, and hugged England close, and said, “That’s all right! ‘Cause I can totally be Han.”
England blushed, and looked up at him, and turned away.
America just grinned, and tugged him close, and rested their heads together, and rubbed England’s shoulder a little when he tensed at Alderaan being destroyed.
This was going to be awesome.
He could be just like Han, after all. Even if his princess had a real British accent.
AUTHOR/ARTIST:
sakuratsukikage CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America, England, America/England
RATING: pure G
NOTES (optional): The prompt mentioned Star Wars. My Other Fandom. I couldn't help myself.
SUMMARY: The prompt was England and America talking about why so many of America's movies have British villains.
My fill for
hetaliasunshine !I've Got a Bad Feeling
America thought of Star Wars as (awesome, but that was beside the point)—as a compromise movie. England had let him make it over at his place, to start out with, so he couldn’t hate it that much, right? And it had tons of British people in it—like Obi-Wan! Who was even kind of like England only . . . not hot—except when he was played by Ewan McGregor he was a little bit hot—and England was a lot snarkier and snappier and more bad-tempered, but Obi-Wan was definitely cool and . . . pretty British—and he was pretty sure the guys inside the Chewbacca and Darth Vader suits were British, too, though he wasn’t sure how England would feel about that—and who could say no to a movie about awesome rebels defeating an evil empire and restoring freedom and justice to the galaxy, right? Besides, lightsabers. So when England shot down Indiana Jones as a movie choice for their monthly Saturday movie night for the billionth time, America was sure he’d agree to Star Wars. (Even though he didn’t get why England didn’t want to watch Indiana Jones. Indy was awesome! And he had an awesome last name, too. And he was an archaeologist, which was also awesome, and—well, anyway, Star Wars was just as awesome and it had Harrison Ford, too, anyway.)
And England did agree to Star Wars. He didn’t even complain. Well, for the first half hour or so. Okay, so he snapped at America when he said England was a lot like Obi-Wan, and demanded who America was like (Luke—the hero, duh. And he was a pilot! Even though that wasn’t until later). England said he wasn’t like Obi-Wan, so America suggested C-3P0, and England turned bright red and yelled, but America managed to convince him to keep watching the movie.
It struck him a little bit later that England was a lot more like Leia than either of them, when she raised her chin and stared Darth Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin in the face, and so he elbowed England and said. “Heeeey, England.”
England sounded disgruntled. “What?” he snapped.
"I changed my mind,” America said.
I recognized your foul stench when I was brought on board, Leia said, and America couldn’t hold back a giggle, because he could so imagine England saying that. Not to America, of course. To someone nasty and evil. Who smelled bad, obviously.
“Changed your mind to what?” England demanded. He was frowning and tapping his fingers against the arm of the couch, and that usually wasn’t a good sign. “You wanted Indiana Jones and the Flying Nutcracker after all? Be quiet, America, I’m trying to watch the film.”
America laughed out loud—um, the flying what? “I knew you’d like it!” he crowed. “You’re getting into it, aren’t you? Aren’t you, England?”
"Be quiet,” England snapped, and glared at him. “This is a serious scene. Her home planet is to be destroyed and—” he trailed off.
"Okay, okay, okay!” America said. “I was just going to say that I changed my mind. I don’t think you’re like Obi-Wan anymore. Or Threepio. I think you’re like Leia. She’s a princess and everything!”
"I'm not a princess,” England said, sounding disgruntled. “Whatever gave you that mad notion?”
"You act like a princess,” America retorted. “You totally do. Besides, you’re a lot more like Leia than Obi-Wan. You’re snotty and clever and pretty! It’s perfect.” He considered a moment, ignoring the shade of puce England’s face was turning. “And you’re short.”
England sputtered uselessly, then spat out, “I’m merely not—not a lumbering oversized giant like you. And I’m not—pretty? Yes. That. Stop spouting rubbish.”
America grinned, and leaned into England’s side, reaching over to tousle his hair. “You totally are,” he said.
England glared up at his hand, his eyebrows scrunching, but didn’t shrug it off.
Then name the system! Tarkin snapped, and England’s eyes returned to the screen. He was looking at Leia and biting the inside of his lip, leaning forward a bit, his green eyes wide, like he actually cared what Leia said. America grinned a little more, and stealthily—completely stealthily—dropped his hand to curl around England’s shoulders.
England's fingers started tapping against the arm of the couch again. America didn’t pull his arm away. They kept tapping.
Dantooine, Leia said, defeated. They’re on Dantooine.
"What is it?” America burst out. He pulled his arm away, his cheeks burning.
"Why is it,” England said slowly, “that all the villains in this film have British accents?”
America blinked, looked at the television, looked back at England, and stared. “But—uh, what?” he said. England hadn’t minded his arm around his shoulders, then?
"This film,” England said. His voice was testy and annoyed and sharp and beginning to sound dangerous. “So many of your films, in fact, seem to make the villains British. Why is that?”
"Uh," America said. “Um, I don’t know? D’you really think so?” This was really not at all where he’d been expecting the conversation to end up.
"Yes," England snapped. “I do.” His fingers were moving very quickly now, and he sounded . . . upset. “Take this Tarkin bloke, just as an example. And all the other tossers in the khaki uniforms. They all have standard British accents. And Han Solo and Luke Skywalker and the other heroes all have standard American accents. Don’t you think that . . . implies something?”
"Like you’re . . . stodgy and imposing and aristocratic?” America tried. “C’mon, England, it doesn’t mean anything.” He leaned forward again and tried to put his arm around England’s shoulders, because England complaining about accents meant that England hadn’t been complaining about his arm.
England leaned forward, slipping out from under his arm, and grabbed the remote. He pressed the pause button and the movie froze, Tarkin right in the middle of saying, You may fire when ready, in, yeah, now that America thought about it, a . . . really British way.
England turned back to him and glared and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you certain?” he demanded. “Because in my opinion, any trend this pronounced comes from—from deep-seated psychological issues!”
"Um," America replied. “Um, England, what?”
England was red-faced and his brows were screwed up and he actually looked . . . kind of upset. “Issues!” he repeated. “With—with me.”
"Of course I have issues with you!” America said and laughed. “For one thing, you make fun of all my movies. And you get upset over the weirdest stuff.”
England made a weird little choking noise and stood up and America thought, um, oops, and reached up frantically to loop one arm around his waist and tug him back down.
"Let go of me!” England snapped, and his voice was choked and thick and that was not the way England’s voice was supposed to sound when they watched movies together, not at all. Or ever.
America tugged England down and patted his shoulder a little. “It’s okay, England,” he said. “So I have issues with you. Pretty sure you already knew that. It’s not like I don’t like you or anything.”
England rounded on him, eyes blazing. “This isn’t—isn’t a matter of you . . . simply complaining about my cooking or some such thing!” he burst out. “You’ve made me into a villain in one of your favorite films! And then you’ve done it again, and again, and—and this film is about a ragtag collection of Americans defeating an—an organized Imperial British government, and—”
"Um, what?” America burst out. He could hear how high his voice had gotten, but he ignored it and sat up straight. “Wait, what? England, are you seriously—seriously—suggesting that Star Wars is some kind of . . . of metaphor for my independence?”
"Isn't it?” England demanded. He was bright red in the face and his eyes were shimmering a little. “Subconsciously or not, you—you chose to include these themes, and—”
America put his hands on England’s shoulders. “England,” he said. “Are you actually saying that you empathize with the Empire?”
"N-no," England stammered, “I—well, perhaps, a bit, I mean, it’s obviously how you—how you see me, so I—”
"No!" America said. “It isn’t like that at all! You’re being crazy, England. You’re nothing like the Empire! They’re evil and stuff and—and use the Dark Side. And blow up planets. And killed Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, and—you aren’t evil. You were never evil. You never will be evil. You just . . . aren’t evil. You don’t do things like that.”
"But I was an Empire,” England insisted. “And you—you—”
"But you’re Princess Leia!” America said loudly, cutting through England’s . “She’s a good guy—she was a good guy before Luke was, and way before Han was, you know?” And he pulled England tight into his arms, and pressed his face into England’s hair. “And you’re my princess!” He took a deep breath and tried to steady his breathing. No big deal, right? Because he was an awesome hero and everything he was saying totally made sense, and . . . .
"I am not,” England said into his shoulder.
"You are, too,” America said, very quickly, into his hair.
England's shoulders relaxed. “Mmmph,” he said. “I’d . . . I’ll admit, I’d rather be your . . . your princess than your . . . Tarkin.”
America grinned. He pressed his hands tight against England’s back and touched his lips to the top of his head. “Well,” he said. “You are, so there.”
England didn’t pull away. He didn’t even yelp, or . . . or anything, just sort of stayed there pressed into America, and didn’t argue. “Very well,” he said finally, and just as America was getting ready to express his feeling about that—a shout of hell yes seemed appropriate—“Why do they all have British accents?” England asked almost, not quite, or maybe just a little bit plaintively, into his shoulder.
America sighed. “I don’t even know,” he said. “I guess I’ve always been a little . . . .” He trailed off. “Well, it’s . . . sophisticated and imposing and shit,” he said, finally.
“Sophisticated?” England said, disbelief in his voice.
"Well, yeah! Like . . . high-class,” America said, uncomfortable. “Look, do you want to watch the rest of the movie, or should we watch Indiana Jones instead?”
"Fine," England said, and sat up. America immediately sighed at the loss of his body, and moved forward to curl himself firmly around England as England pushed play and sat back, linking his arm tightly about England’s side.
This time England didn't pull away.
"I can’t be Leia if you’re Luke,” he said, after a moment. “They’re . . . he’s her brother.”
"Well, yeah . . .” America said, then sat bolt upright and stared down at England with a grin. “That’s awesome!” he said. “You’ve seen Star Wars before!”
England crossed his arms. “Come now,” he said. “You made it in my studios. Did you really think I wouldn’t at least take a look?”
America didn’t even try to curb the massive grin spreading over his face. “Oh, my god,” he said. “This is so fuckin’ awesome. I can’t even believe it, England.” He bounced up and down, and hugged England close, and said, “That’s all right! ‘Cause I can totally be Han.”
England blushed, and looked up at him, and turned away.
America just grinned, and tugged him close, and rested their heads together, and rubbed England’s shoulder a little when he tensed at Alderaan being destroyed.
This was going to be awesome.
He could be just like Han, after all. Even if his princess had a real British accent.
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AHHH AHHHH!
STAR WARS AND HETALIA. I LOVE YOU
MARRY ME AHHH
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(But better a Tarkan than an Ahkbar... ,^3^)
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And, yes, Alfred could totally be Han. Perfect for his princess. <3
That was a really cute story. Thank you for making me smile this evening. :)
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Also it was so adorable! Thanks for making me smile.
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to do before I had to go to school.
But...d'awww. <333 It was so adorable xD <333
Thanks for writing and being awesome.
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THIS.IS.EPIC.WIN &hearts
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