http://lady-phenyx.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
lady-phenyx.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hetalia2011-06-05 12:47 pm
lady-phenyx.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2011-06-05 12:47 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfic: Bet Me
Title: Bet Me
Genre: Gen
Pairing(s): hints of USUK
Rating/Warnings: G
Prompt: Fanart or Fanfiction 29 - World War period or a certain circumstance where England has to fight, with or without weapon, and he's so graceful in his movement it looks like dancing, a bloody dance though it may be. In short, he is beautiful in his lethality. America's view point.
Summary: America dragged everyone to the shooting range – and finds himself watching England.
England leaned against the fence and sighed, squinting against the sunlight. Somehow America had gotten the idea in his head that going to a firing range would be a good ‘field trip’ or ‘bonding exercise’ for the nations – never mind that putting them all together near weaponry was usually a bad idea, let alone rapid fire or modern weaponry – and dragged them all, somehow, to this outdoor firing range. Sealand had tried to sneak along, but had to give up when even the humans refused to let him in. America and Russia were having an unofficial accuracy contest, and had switched from handguns to shotguns as they hadn’t been satisfied with the handgun results. In the next lane over, Switzerland was walking Lichtenstein through using a handgun more suited to her size. England sighed and turned away, the sight of America with the long gun in his hands next to Switzerland’s teaching moment reminding him suddenly of teaching a smaller America about the handling of guns, small hands copying his movements and small eyes watching him with love and admiration.
Germany was trying without success to get Italy to shoot, which was only leading to the small brunette hiding behind him from the loud noises. Privately, England wondered how much of Italy’s freakout was for Germany’s attention – surely he couldn’t be that hopeless.
He strode toward the entrance back into the supply area, but stopped abruptly and scowled. The self-named Bad Touch Trio was lounging by the entrance, and he would have to push past them to get in. Prussia was sulking, Germany having refused to allow the unpredictable former nation to get his hands on any of the weapons. France and Spain were lounging next to him, watching the other nations shoot, commenting on their style while pretending not to but obviously keeping the sulking country company. Maybe if he just went around the other side…
Too late. France had already spotted him and lazily stood up, swaggering his way over to the other blonde, Spain and Prussia following looking for entertainment.
“Oh mon petit lapin, surely you are not leaving already!”
“Bugger off, frog.”
“Oh, you wound me, Angleterre,” France said dramatically as England tried to walk away, suddenly finding himself in the center of the Bad Touch Trio.
“What do you want, France,” England sighed, realizing he was not getting out of this situation easily. Prussia smirked and leaned on England’s shoulder, not budging under the glare he received.
“What’s the matter? You too much of a boring old man to play with the guns?”
“That attitude is exactly why you are being kept away from them!” England snapped, shoving Prussia off his shoulder. Prussia pouted, in an awesome way of course.
“The awesome me is totally awesome with guns! West just doesn’t want me showing him up in front of his little Italy!” Prussia protested. England rolled his eyes.
“Ah, but mon petit lapin,” France began, ignoring England’s automatic “Don’t call me that!”, “Why are you not joining everyone? We keep our friend company, why do you not shoot with the others? Oh, could it be you have forgotten how, Angleterre?” he teased, and England flushed.
“What you implying, frog? I have better aim with a longbow than you do with a shotgun, I’ll have you know!”
“They have an old-fashioned English longbow inside,” Spain piped up, happily oblivious smile that England very firmly distrusted in place.
“Well that settles it then! Let us put our money where our mouths are, as Amérique says, and prove it,” France declared with his trademark leer.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you!” England declared hotly, pushing out from the ring of the Bad Touch Trio.
“Awww, is little England gonna run away?” Prussia taunted and England stopped short, fists clenching. Spain broke in before England could give Prussia the verbal lashing he deserved.
“A bet, maybe?”
“You cannot possibly be suggesting I use so inelegant a weapon as a shotgun, Espange, even for a bet,” France protested mildly. Spain shrugged.
“So use a different gun, it’s the same idea.”
“Very well, then. Angleterre, I challenge you to an accuracy contest.” England snorted.
“Why on Earth should I take part in a silly bet?” he demanded.
“Because after I win, I shall be spending the night in your bed making you scream out my name, mon petit lapin,” France draped his arm over the fuming England as he spoke, only to find an elbow to his ribs.
“I don’t bloody think so, you tosser!” England turned away with a huff, crossing his arms. “And there isn’t anything you could offer me worth risking that for.”
France pouted while Prussia and Spain conferred. “The awesome me has it! So, if France wins, he spends the night in England’s bed, which is totally lame, by the way, France. Why do you want to spend the night in the boring old man’s bed anyway? OW!” England punched him in the ribs for that, and he prudently leaned out of the way of the other nation’s fists, “Right, so anyway, if England wins, you leave him alone for the rest of the conference. No groping or provoking. Sound worth it now, England?” England frowned, but…no groping for the rest of the week? No jokes from France at his expense?
“Fine,” he snorted. “Not that France would be able to keep up his half of the bargain, but if it’ll make the three of you lay off than fine.”
Prussia crowed and led the way into the storage area, with France protesting that he could not possibly leave his petit lapin alone for that long.
“Than you need to win, obviously! Now tell the awesome me why you want in his bed so bad,” Prussia demanded casually as England strode away from the trio toward the rack of bows.
He took his time about choosing a bow – there was no way he was going to lose to the frog of all people, let alone let the frog win a night of sex – so he had to choose just the right one. Picking up an English longbow, he strung it and pulled the string back for a test. Perfect – just the right weight. He picked up arrows and an arm guard before turning back to the trio, who were still arguing while they headed outside.
The two opponents set up in silence, France checking the safety on the revolver he’d chosen and going over safety procedures before he began loading it. England strapped the arm guard over his arm and stuck his arrows point first into the grass by him before he began limbering the bow and his arm.
“Hey guys, what’re you doin’?” America called over, his competition with Russia over. It had been too close to call, so he’d been sulking – not that he’d admit to it, heroes don’t sulk! – but the distraction was welcome.
“Yo America! The grumpy old man and France are gonna have an accuracy contest,” Prussia proclaimed cheerfully. America looked over France and England again. The bow England was holding was almost as tall as he was, and America watched him in surprise as England pulled the string back almost to his ear, testing the pull of it. A bow like that had to have a major weight to the pull – if he remembered right. Bows had gone mostly out of style by the time America came around, only the natives used them and after a few failed attempts to use them himself America had switched over completely to guns.
“Hey Artie, isn’t that bow a little too big for you? Sure you don’t want me to find you a gun or something?” he called over, bright smile in place.
“I was using these before you even came into being, you bloody git!”
“Whatever you say, old man,” America laughed. If he were honest with himself, though, the bow looked natural in England’s hand in a way the pistol didn’t in France’s – even if it did still look like the pull was too heavy.
With a flourish France took aim and fired the weapon in his hand, squeezing off five careful shots. All landed within the inner circle, with three hitting the bulls-eye.
Prussia and Spain cheered while France swaggered over to England and draped an arm around his shoulders.
“What say you, mon cher? Shall we call it done and head off to your bed?”
“Get your hands off me or I’ll use you as the target, wanker!” England growled and France backed off, laughing.
America watched as England adjusted the gloves and bracer he was wearing, wondering when he’d put those on – his eyes were distracted for a moment by the flash of wrist between glove and sleeve, what was wrong with him, this was England, and he’d seen his arms earlier today, good grief – before England fitted arrow to bow, standing slightly akimbo, at ease and utterly natural, turning his glare to the target.
France stepped back a pace, and for a second America wondered if he remembered being on the wrong side of that intent stare. His own mouth and throat had gone dry as he wondered for a moment what it would be like to have that focus, that intensity on him, and not with violence in mind.
In one smooth motion England lifted the bow and drew the arrow back to his ear. He paused for just a moment, perfectly balanced, and America found he had stopped breathing. England released the arrow and it flew toward the target. Before it had hit he already had another on the string and released, the movement so graceful for a moment America remembered the last time he had seen England dance, all dangerous grace and swift movement, a lion pretending to be a housecat, and wondered how he hid it from everyone else. Even as America had his moment England finished the last of his arrows, all five thudding into the target in close succession.
There was silence from the watching nations, and no one needed to check to see who had won the contest – the five arrows were clustered too closely together for that. Still Prussia swaggered over to the target before tugging on one of the arrows. He frowned and pulled harder, yanking harder and harder and falling over when the arrow finally came loose from the target.
“Dude, what the hell?” Prussia exclaims as he examines the arrow he holds and the other arrows still buried deeply in the target. England doesn’t bother answering him, just flashing a smirk at France that makes all the blood in America’s body head south before flipping France the V-sign.
“Eat it, frog.”
Genre: Gen
Pairing(s): hints of USUK
Rating/Warnings: G
Prompt: Fanart or Fanfiction 29 - World War period or a certain circumstance where England has to fight, with or without weapon, and he's so graceful in his movement it looks like dancing, a bloody dance though it may be. In short, he is beautiful in his lethality. America's view point.
Summary: America dragged everyone to the shooting range – and finds himself watching England.
England leaned against the fence and sighed, squinting against the sunlight. Somehow America had gotten the idea in his head that going to a firing range would be a good ‘field trip’ or ‘bonding exercise’ for the nations – never mind that putting them all together near weaponry was usually a bad idea, let alone rapid fire or modern weaponry – and dragged them all, somehow, to this outdoor firing range. Sealand had tried to sneak along, but had to give up when even the humans refused to let him in. America and Russia were having an unofficial accuracy contest, and had switched from handguns to shotguns as they hadn’t been satisfied with the handgun results. In the next lane over, Switzerland was walking Lichtenstein through using a handgun more suited to her size. England sighed and turned away, the sight of America with the long gun in his hands next to Switzerland’s teaching moment reminding him suddenly of teaching a smaller America about the handling of guns, small hands copying his movements and small eyes watching him with love and admiration.
Germany was trying without success to get Italy to shoot, which was only leading to the small brunette hiding behind him from the loud noises. Privately, England wondered how much of Italy’s freakout was for Germany’s attention – surely he couldn’t be that hopeless.
He strode toward the entrance back into the supply area, but stopped abruptly and scowled. The self-named Bad Touch Trio was lounging by the entrance, and he would have to push past them to get in. Prussia was sulking, Germany having refused to allow the unpredictable former nation to get his hands on any of the weapons. France and Spain were lounging next to him, watching the other nations shoot, commenting on their style while pretending not to but obviously keeping the sulking country company. Maybe if he just went around the other side…
Too late. France had already spotted him and lazily stood up, swaggering his way over to the other blonde, Spain and Prussia following looking for entertainment.
“Oh mon petit lapin, surely you are not leaving already!”
“Bugger off, frog.”
“Oh, you wound me, Angleterre,” France said dramatically as England tried to walk away, suddenly finding himself in the center of the Bad Touch Trio.
“What do you want, France,” England sighed, realizing he was not getting out of this situation easily. Prussia smirked and leaned on England’s shoulder, not budging under the glare he received.
“What’s the matter? You too much of a boring old man to play with the guns?”
“That attitude is exactly why you are being kept away from them!” England snapped, shoving Prussia off his shoulder. Prussia pouted, in an awesome way of course.
“The awesome me is totally awesome with guns! West just doesn’t want me showing him up in front of his little Italy!” Prussia protested. England rolled his eyes.
“Ah, but mon petit lapin,” France began, ignoring England’s automatic “Don’t call me that!”, “Why are you not joining everyone? We keep our friend company, why do you not shoot with the others? Oh, could it be you have forgotten how, Angleterre?” he teased, and England flushed.
“What you implying, frog? I have better aim with a longbow than you do with a shotgun, I’ll have you know!”
“They have an old-fashioned English longbow inside,” Spain piped up, happily oblivious smile that England very firmly distrusted in place.
“Well that settles it then! Let us put our money where our mouths are, as Amérique says, and prove it,” France declared with his trademark leer.
“I don’t need to prove anything to you!” England declared hotly, pushing out from the ring of the Bad Touch Trio.
“Awww, is little England gonna run away?” Prussia taunted and England stopped short, fists clenching. Spain broke in before England could give Prussia the verbal lashing he deserved.
“A bet, maybe?”
“You cannot possibly be suggesting I use so inelegant a weapon as a shotgun, Espange, even for a bet,” France protested mildly. Spain shrugged.
“So use a different gun, it’s the same idea.”
“Very well, then. Angleterre, I challenge you to an accuracy contest.” England snorted.
“Why on Earth should I take part in a silly bet?” he demanded.
“Because after I win, I shall be spending the night in your bed making you scream out my name, mon petit lapin,” France draped his arm over the fuming England as he spoke, only to find an elbow to his ribs.
“I don’t bloody think so, you tosser!” England turned away with a huff, crossing his arms. “And there isn’t anything you could offer me worth risking that for.”
France pouted while Prussia and Spain conferred. “The awesome me has it! So, if France wins, he spends the night in England’s bed, which is totally lame, by the way, France. Why do you want to spend the night in the boring old man’s bed anyway? OW!” England punched him in the ribs for that, and he prudently leaned out of the way of the other nation’s fists, “Right, so anyway, if England wins, you leave him alone for the rest of the conference. No groping or provoking. Sound worth it now, England?” England frowned, but…no groping for the rest of the week? No jokes from France at his expense?
“Fine,” he snorted. “Not that France would be able to keep up his half of the bargain, but if it’ll make the three of you lay off than fine.”
Prussia crowed and led the way into the storage area, with France protesting that he could not possibly leave his petit lapin alone for that long.
“Than you need to win, obviously! Now tell the awesome me why you want in his bed so bad,” Prussia demanded casually as England strode away from the trio toward the rack of bows.
He took his time about choosing a bow – there was no way he was going to lose to the frog of all people, let alone let the frog win a night of sex – so he had to choose just the right one. Picking up an English longbow, he strung it and pulled the string back for a test. Perfect – just the right weight. He picked up arrows and an arm guard before turning back to the trio, who were still arguing while they headed outside.
The two opponents set up in silence, France checking the safety on the revolver he’d chosen and going over safety procedures before he began loading it. England strapped the arm guard over his arm and stuck his arrows point first into the grass by him before he began limbering the bow and his arm.
“Hey guys, what’re you doin’?” America called over, his competition with Russia over. It had been too close to call, so he’d been sulking – not that he’d admit to it, heroes don’t sulk! – but the distraction was welcome.
“Yo America! The grumpy old man and France are gonna have an accuracy contest,” Prussia proclaimed cheerfully. America looked over France and England again. The bow England was holding was almost as tall as he was, and America watched him in surprise as England pulled the string back almost to his ear, testing the pull of it. A bow like that had to have a major weight to the pull – if he remembered right. Bows had gone mostly out of style by the time America came around, only the natives used them and after a few failed attempts to use them himself America had switched over completely to guns.
“Hey Artie, isn’t that bow a little too big for you? Sure you don’t want me to find you a gun or something?” he called over, bright smile in place.
“I was using these before you even came into being, you bloody git!”
“Whatever you say, old man,” America laughed. If he were honest with himself, though, the bow looked natural in England’s hand in a way the pistol didn’t in France’s – even if it did still look like the pull was too heavy.
With a flourish France took aim and fired the weapon in his hand, squeezing off five careful shots. All landed within the inner circle, with three hitting the bulls-eye.
Prussia and Spain cheered while France swaggered over to England and draped an arm around his shoulders.
“What say you, mon cher? Shall we call it done and head off to your bed?”
“Get your hands off me or I’ll use you as the target, wanker!” England growled and France backed off, laughing.
America watched as England adjusted the gloves and bracer he was wearing, wondering when he’d put those on – his eyes were distracted for a moment by the flash of wrist between glove and sleeve, what was wrong with him, this was England, and he’d seen his arms earlier today, good grief – before England fitted arrow to bow, standing slightly akimbo, at ease and utterly natural, turning his glare to the target.
France stepped back a pace, and for a second America wondered if he remembered being on the wrong side of that intent stare. His own mouth and throat had gone dry as he wondered for a moment what it would be like to have that focus, that intensity on him, and not with violence in mind.
In one smooth motion England lifted the bow and drew the arrow back to his ear. He paused for just a moment, perfectly balanced, and America found he had stopped breathing. England released the arrow and it flew toward the target. Before it had hit he already had another on the string and released, the movement so graceful for a moment America remembered the last time he had seen England dance, all dangerous grace and swift movement, a lion pretending to be a housecat, and wondered how he hid it from everyone else. Even as America had his moment England finished the last of his arrows, all five thudding into the target in close succession.
There was silence from the watching nations, and no one needed to check to see who had won the contest – the five arrows were clustered too closely together for that. Still Prussia swaggered over to the target before tugging on one of the arrows. He frowned and pulled harder, yanking harder and harder and falling over when the arrow finally came loose from the target.
“Dude, what the hell?” Prussia exclaims as he examines the arrow he holds and the other arrows still buried deeply in the target. England doesn’t bother answering him, just flashing a smirk at France that makes all the blood in America’s body head south before flipping France the V-sign.
“Eat it, frog.”
no subject
Hmm, maybe leave a line between paragraphs? Some are spaced, most are not. It's great writing but slightly hard on the eyes XD
no subject
Thanks for the note about my formatting - I was having trouble with my lj-cut and didn't notice the paragraph spacing got changed! Fixed it now, should be easier to read. :)
no subject
no subject
no subject