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THIS CAN ONLY END WELL
THIS IS TONIGHT'S PROJECT, GUYS!!1
Give me a fandom, any fandom (well, one that I know/write for) and I will write a scene from a really ridiculous Hetalia crossover* with it. You may specify your country. :'(
also make![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halcyonjazz stop smiling at me, I can sense her from here.
* Ridiculous especially in the way of "oh ha ha ha why would ANYONE ever want to cross THAT?" only because it's me and I fail at really anything funny, it will attempt to be a SERIOUS FIC! Sob.
Give me a fandom, any fandom (well, one that I know/write for) and I will write a scene from a really ridiculous Hetalia crossover* with it. You may specify your country. :'(
also make
halcyonjazz stop smiling at me, I can sense her from here.* Ridiculous especially in the way of "oh ha ha ha why would ANYONE ever want to cross THAT?" only because it's me and I fail at really anything funny, it will attempt to be a SERIOUS FIC! Sob.
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Like living stormclouds, the hawkzile formations rise and spread out, until the blue of the sky is obscured from view. There is a breathless, anticipatory silence all around him; the boy at his side--with Japan's angled eyes and his own solid jaw--looks up at him with such guarded hope that weighs in his bones. He wonders if old man Rome felt like this, at the end.
"Father?" the boy says. "Is this acceptable?"
He folds his hands behind his back (because he doesn't know what he'd do otherwise: backhand the child, perhaps, or draw him close) and stares at the filling skies.
"It's something," he says, and leaves it at that.
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I will write you something in return? :D?
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++++
The man laughs--not condescendingly, or fondly--but like there's an actual shared joke between them, secret and personal. It echoes like a living thing, warm and open. Pavel is entranced, frozen by the sound: it is not the same sort of shy hesitant warmth when Eliza Petrova had smilingly agreed to accompany him to the graduation dance, but the kind of swelling warmth when his grandmother had kissed both his cheeks and declared herself proud of everything he'd accomplished, or the approval that was deep and dark in his father's eyes. In spite of himself he leans in, like he could hear better.
"No," the man says. His eyes crinkle at the corners, cornflower blue and endlessly bright. There is a solidness to him that could devour the emptiness of space and still have the strength to take more. Pavel feels dwarfed (more than just physically, though the man is twice as broad as he is, and half again as tall), but not afraid. "No, I am no such thing. I am merely--I am one. With everyone here." He taps a large hand over his heart. "It is what we call 'community,' ja?"
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This hits the mark, and as a long time fan of the franchise (including the original series AND the Reboot) this is fantastic.
but the kind of swelling warmth when his grandmother had kissed both his cheeks and declared herself proud of everything he'd accomplished, or the approval that was deep and dark in his father's eyes <---- this, and the ending line, are my favorite parts of this. They really touch on the connection Chekov feels for his country (it's a big deal in the original series, not something that was really touched on in the movie, and I'm so glad it appeared here!) and I'm so glad to see that his country shares that connection!
And Ivan is just... I love how you portray him here. As something solid and real, that just keeps going, even in the future.
And hey, the whole government thing is kind of up to interpretation anyways. It's technically one government, but it's never explained, it would not be beyond the realm of possibility that nations, and therefore the nation-tans would still exist.
... And I babble a lot apparently! I love this. Please let me return the favor and write something for you!
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OH FINE, I'LL REQUEST TOO.
I'm going for the obvious, and saying Harry Potter :)
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++++
Graduation is a strange thing: they're adults already in everything but this one little ceremony. They stand in a rough approximation of a line, bloodied and their numbers thinned; all through the speeches (which sound so petty and simple, now) and the polite applause of gathered parents. Professor after remaining professor spoke--some longer than others--and in the end, there is only one man left.
He's not very tall, or striking--he's on the short side really, with fantastically bushy eyebrows. He doesn't speak at first, walking down the line, looking each student in the face. When he gets to Harry, he stops.
His eyes are green as Harry's--greener, perhaps, though muted and older than even Dumbledore's had been. His mouth purses into a little knot, almost thoughtful; after a moment, he offers his hand.
"Thank you," he says. His voice, like the rest of him, is nothing remarkable--it's a voice that could fade into silence in a busy room, and something in it reverberates down to Harry's soul, striking a chord that twists his stomach.
For a moment he stares. Then he reaches out, grasping the hand in turn, and squeezes. He looks into eyes that are green as the hills that unfold outwards around Hogwarts, and he says, "You're welcome."
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FMA and Germany!
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Oh gosh THERE ARE SO MANY POSSIBILITIES. :( idk man I am easy like Sunday morning.
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He gestures forward with his beer, casual as you please. "Looks like that hurt," he says. "What's the story with that?"
"Wyoming," the kid says absently; he says it like the state itself is a reason. "Two years ago," he adds, like it's not a time and place that Dean will ever forget, then lets out a hoot of delight as he fishes out a Styx tape and brandishes it--one of the few that's the original, not a mixtape patched together over the years. "This one's my favorite," he says, with a sincerity that avoids being irritating for how genuine it is. "I gave all my friends copies when it first came out--" never mind he looks younger than Sammy, nowhere near old enough for the time period-- "but Arthur, man, he hated it, he called me up just to tell me how bad my taste in music is, and I mean, like he's one to talk, you should hear some of the stuff his people put out--"
There's an answer in the kid's babble, and in the peculiar curls and whorls of his scar (like a pentagram, like a warding on a Devil's Gate); Dean drinks his beer and lets the question go for the moment.
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hm. Okami, then! This could be either very hilarious or heartbreakingly sad
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Now it seems that his fears were justified. His queen is dead; there is a gaping raw space in his chest that always follows the unexpected death of a sovereign. And the idiot doesn't even seem to care.
(he never knew Himiko as a girl, wide-eyed and delighted at the taste of summer peaches, or shaking through the vestiges of her dreams, or the wonder in her eyes when she looked at his face and knew who he was--)
"I have to go," the man says, and brushes past; he leaves Himiko as she was, sprawled and empty and wrong on the floor. His sleeves flutter and smell like sandalwood. Their arms brush for a moment.
"She died in service of her country," the foreigner says. His voice is oddly brittle. "Her last thoughts were of you."
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Oh, Ushiwaka. You are a dick, but a very pointed one. I like this a lot.
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She is lovely and bright-eyed and he thinks about how empty and silent the halls will be, without her voice or her pranks. Something itches at the back of his mind, like something he hasn't remembered to forget, but he pushes it away as he crouches down before her. She will inherit her mother's height, he thinks, and grow up tall and lovely and maybe the top of her head will reach his chin.
"Is that so, shvibzik?" he asks. He adjusts the collar of her coat, and she allows this, though she shifts her weight impatiently. "The whole wide world?"
"All of it!" She throws her arms wide open and her face lights up. "Oh, you'll see, we will show the entire world how glorious you are!" And then, like she was still very young (though she is so very young, and small, and he worries what his cold nights will do to her, when she's never known anything but the comfort of palaces and estates), she throws her arms around his neck and her entire small body against his. It's not enough to even budge him, but the ache at the back of his skull grows, and he cannot say why.
"I will miss you," she says into his shoulder. He hears the tremble in her voice, the wobble that her young bravado can't quite cover. "I will think of you all the time, you and Papa and Mama and Alexi and everyone--"
He pats her curls with his hand, then rests it against the birdlike curve of her shoulders. "I know," he says, and with complete honesty, says, "I will miss you too."
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DO YOU HAVE AN ALTERNATE
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Or failing that, Recess and America. Because somehow I feel like that would be adorable.
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The cities are not like he remembers them: busy and crowded and so modern that it feels alien--there are computers and cars and it makes his temples pound after a few hours. It takes longer than he'd like to work his way to the quieter neighborhoods, where things are slower and sleepier, though there are still trappings of technology and worse even out here.
He keeps walking.
It's a little like trying to find certain rooms in his own shop: only when he stops consciously looking for it does he find the real thing, the gates thrown open wide, and stone dogs that wuffle greeting to him as he passes.
D crosses the courtyard, like something out of memories of long ago, and knocks. He waits.
The door opens, and the man on the other side of the door is unchanged, too. If he's surprised, it doesn't show on his smooth face; he doesn't smile, but there's a pleased light in his dark eyes. They nod to each other, and D holds up the small package he has cradled to his chest this entire journey.
"It's been a long time," he says.
His country nods, and perhaps smiles just a little. Nearly everything has changed: but this, at least, is still the same.
"Come inside," he says, and D does.
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Sugino snorted. His feathers rustled as he stretched his wings, exposing more of them to the warm sun. "Don't be stupid," he said. "We're lucky these days if they can see us without our wings, these days. That time's over." He hesitated for a moment, and then his voice softened--in a way he thought Haruka didn't notice, and one he'd deny if called on--"It's for the better, anyway. You're still pining over that other stupid human, don't get your hopes up."
Haruka grunted. When he looked, though, the human was still staring. On an impulse he didn't quite understand, he lifted a hand and gave a stiff little wave. It felt awkward, like a pretense at interaction with anyone other than Sugino, or Youko, or the handful of youkai that still roamed this mountain.
To his surprise, the man waved back.
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The spirit of this is so quietly optimistic -- time has passed and some things are lost because of it, like belief. But England knows these things are real and he has no shame in acknowledging it. ♥
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The man--Matthew, he'd introduced himself--adjusts his glasses, looking a bit perplexed. "Eh?" he says. "I mean, but this is very--"
"It's cool!" Sora holds his hands up immediately, placating. "I just--usually, when people ask for us, it's 'cause there's Heartless, or Nobodies, or, I dunno, darkness covering the land--"
"We're too far north for that," says Matthew. "A little bit more, and it'll be light all the time for months." He tilts his head and his glasses gleam, obscuring his eyes for a second. "Your king thought you could use some time to relax, and my country is renowned for its beauty and serenity--"
"Er," says Sora. "I guess, I mean, I don't want to sound rude or anything, but--"
"But?" Matthew asks. His voice is very pleasant and he's smiling in a way that reminds Sora of his mother, the one time he broke her favorite vase playing blitzball in the house. The light is hitting his glasses just right, so his eyes are obscured. "Is there something wrong with a game of hockey?"
Sora looks at the stick in Matthew's hand. He considers the options.
"Nope, not at all," he says. "Hockey sounds great."
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but Sekirei and... um... France? (Or any other country I don't really know Hetalia I just wanted the crack. *runs away*)
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M-Merlin and England? Or, ee, Kingdom Hearts?
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I WILL DO MERLIN AND ENGLAND since someone else asked for Kingdom Hearts. \o/
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"Uh," Merlin says. "... me?"
"You," the druid-boy agrees; he doesn't sound terribly impressed. He looks Merlin up and down, and though the top of his head barely reaches Merlin's hip, there is something in his gaze that is harder and more imperious than Uther at his best. His eyes are green as Camelot's hills in spring, bright under heavy beetled eyebrows. "You're not very much, are you?"
"Oi!" Merlin scowls. "Cheeky, aren't you--"
"I thought you'd be bigger," the boy continues. His brows draw even further together, and for a horrified moment Merlin thinks he's going to cry. "More impressive! You're the sorceror that's going to help bring peace to the land?"
The words sink into Merlin's stomach like a stone. He's not ashamed to admit he gapes a little. "What--"
"I don't know what Albion even sees in you," the boy declares, glaring Merlin down. His tiny hands are fisted and shaking a little with some unnamed emotion. There is more going on in his wide eyes, something Merlin can't quite pinpoint. "You're going to have try harder than that if you expect the rest of us to follow."
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Epic win.
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(or tutu and germany, whichev!)
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He takes the stairs at a deliberate slow pace, listening to the echo of his boots on the floor. Only one door on the second floor was open, so he goes as directed inside.
She has a cup in her hands that smells like coffee; there is nothing for him.
"I have not yet forgiven you," she says. He stops just inside the doorway, feeling absurd and out of place in her dusty lace-edged world. "Two wars for the whole world--really, Ludwig?"
He crosses his arms behind his back and straightens to military attention. "I did as I was ordered," he says. His voice is quieter than even hers. "You should know that."
She snorts. "We are not slaves to our leaders, Ludwig," she says. Now she turns, and her blue eyes are clear and bright as they were half a century before, when she'd been young and lovely. "That's why I'm going."
He hesitates. He sighs. "You won't change your mind?"
"Never." She rises to her feet, gathering the shawl around her shoulders, and for a moment she is that young woman again, tall and lovely and enough to cow Germany's leader with a single look: the Witch-Queen who'd been an army entirely unto herself. Another woman might have softened, or reached for him; she just stares.
"I'm not sorry, Ludwig," she says. "Good-bye."
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His new student is a slip of a boy with skinned knees and a thundercloud scowl who mutters unpleasantly under his breath--but also listens, perched on the edge of the piano bench and listening as he explains the basics. The first sound his little hands make on the keys are jangling and discordant--but he listens and responds with surprising sincerity. Before too long, it seems almost like the boy has tapped into some hidden strain of prodigy--as he gains confidence, his playing improves, until nearly half a year later, he sits back and listens as the boy picks out some new lovely little song.
As he leaves, sheet music tucked under his arm, he looks the boy in the eye. "What will you call it?" he asks. "That song."
His student chews on his lip for a moment, then shrugs.
"I don't know," he says, and looks disatisfied.
"Lacie," he says a moment later, and looks uncertain.
In the uncertain silence that builds in the wake of that answer, he leaves.
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She is waiting for him, a parasol open to shade her face from the mid-afternoon sun. He watches for long breathless moments, trying to pick out similarities. She doesn't have his eyebrows, thank god, but she has the wheat-gold color of his hair, his chin and the angled slope of his shoulders.
England steps outside again. She turns towards him, angling her parasol just so that all he can see is the subtle little curve of her smile. She does not rise, but she extends a hand to him, delicate and gloved; he reaches to catch it before he can think to stop himself, then kisses over the knuckles, like any gentleman like for a lady.
"Father," she breathes. "I'm glad you're here."
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Uhh, Ouran? And because Lithuania's my favorite, Liet.
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+++++
The Ootori Foundation currently has holding in twenty-three separate countries. It has connections to the governments of fourteen of these. Kyouya's own ambition ensures that he maintains six of them personally. It's a little more difficult as high school slips by and college begins to loom on the horizon, but he manages.
Today, for example, he has brought a guest to class with him. It's not usually done, but this is the Ouran Academy, and there will always be exceptions. His guest looks young enough, with his tousled hair and wide eyes, and no one questions too closely when he speaks in charmingly-accented Japanese to say please and thank you. Tamaki loves him, declares him an honorary Host Club member, and before Kyouya's bemused eyes, his guest is swept away and stuffed into a uniform and shoved onto a couch with Haruhi, when his bemused earnestness is judged a counterpoint to her direct honesty.
At the end of the day, though, in spite of Tamaki's protests, Kyouya firmly collects his guest and they return to the Ootori estate.
"I should apologize," he says. "I didn't think he would do that."
"No," his guest says. There's an odd smile on his smooth face, almost nostalgic, definitely fond. "It's all right. It was fun. He reminded me of someone I used to live with, long ago."
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