Here is another de-anon from the kink meme. I'm including the original request so you know what you're getting into before you start reading, because of the subject matter
Request: "Via some cruel twist of fate England has been turned into a woman. What I want to see is fem!England having really bad PMS to the point she(he?) feels physically nauseated and sick. America, never having to really deal with these issues before freaks out trying to make it better.
Bonus: Moodswings(clingy, upset, pissed off)
Bonusx2: England throws up on America (feel free to ignore this entirely if its not your thing)"
A lot of women have very differing symptoms when it comes to their monthly cycle and I could only write on what I suffer through (which includes some rather extreme symptoms), and what I talk about with my family and girl friends. I will include individual warnings at the beginnings of each chapter if needed, because I really like all my readers, and don't want people reading anything they aren't comfortable with reading. So, you will be dually warned. And, I don't want flames for not informing readers about some of this stuff: blood and such. There will still be some things left as surprises, so don't worry that I'll give everything away.
Disclaimer for the story: I do not own Hetalia.
Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits, Please
Chapter 1 - Turn and Face the Strange
"Ouch!" England's hip collides into a bookcase, tripping over the cuffs of his pajamas in his rush to cease the incessant ringing of his mobile phone – the sixth call in half an hour, from America most likely. He had tried to ignore it at three o'clock in the morning, as he had tried to ignore the knocking that joined it five minutes ago. Just as he thinks he sees the illusive mobile on far end of the room, near the bay window, the ringing ceases, leaving the room in darkness. He tries to locate it by the faint luminescence of the charger's light and stumbles as he rights himself, feeling his center of gravity wobble—he should be fast asleep and the air feels thick. He bunches up the waistband of his pajamas in his hand—why is that necessary?—and plops down in the window seat, instead of sinking down into it as usual.
"What is it, prat?" He huffs, voice husky from sleep, yet oddly squeaky. Maybe a cold? He clears it with a thick swallow.
"What's the matter with you, Artie? You sick? Your voice sounds-"
"What!? It's," England checks the time on his mobile, "it's three thirty in the morning on the bleeding weekend! Why're you even calling me?"
"Let me in?"
"Give me one, good reason I should? I should still be asleep in m'bed, you boor."
"Please, y-"
"You tack on 'please,' but I still see no reason I shouldn't leave y'out in the cold." He tucks his knees underneath him, because it feel strangely uncomfortable the way they dangle off the side with only his toes touching the floor. England sniffles, the pain in his hip still smarts, and he rubs at it
"Really…do you have a cold, Artie? Did you forg-"
"Don' call me that! Why're you here?"
"How can you ask me that?!"
England starts at the genuine chagrin in America's voice. "You! You're! What?! Ugh! You aren't being very convincing. You aren't even making sense." He won't be getting much sleep tonight.
"Wait, Arthur! Wait!" He's pouting now, too, no doubt. "I did ask you to pick me up. I know I did. We had a conversation about it day before yesterday and everything!"
That couldn't be right. "But that's tomorrow!" England knows he can be absentminded, but rarely so badly.
"Today is tomorrow! I mean tomorrow is. Check the date!"
"Fine!" He is in no mood to check the date; however, he'll just let the idiot in and be done with it. "Just dandy. I'll be right down." He ends the inane conversation, and tosses the phone onto the window seat. Not bothering to turn on any lights in his bedroom or the hallway, he stomps off to let America inside. He sighs and steps down the first step, only to miss it, and grapples at the banister with a yelp.
"England!" America calls from the outside and bangs on the door.
He rights himself, and goes down another step, slowly reaching the midpoint landing, and turns. England hastens his descent, driven insane by the impatient knocking, and misses the next step. How strange to have forgotten the height of steps he has climbed up and down for decades—centuries? England adjusts his steps, bending his knees, stretching his legs down as he knows he always does and misses the next step as well, tumbling down the remaining five with a wail. His head and shoulder collide with the last banister rail, the really large ornate one, as America storms through the front door.
"England!?"
At least he didn't shoulder the door open; he must have found the spare key in the time it took to estimate the steps. England laughs without understanding, and his vision peppers with light. The sensation of his laughter hurts and dark spots grow to fill his vision.
The next thing England knows, he is on his back on the sofa and America is staring down at him.
"What the hell happened?" America eyes, uncharacteristically wide, bore into him, sharp with suspicion and distrust, as though this is a new Cold War and he is Russia. The thought is distressing.
"You woke me from a rather peaceful sleep." He dully indulges America this game.
Eyes narrow, mouth taught, this is not their usual stare down—playful, rarely serious, even when accompanied with shouting. America now is silent. A silent America is scary.
"Don't look at me like that. All I know is that my head hurts and I should still be in bed." England glances over at his grandfather clock in the far corner of the room just as it chimes four o'clock; the force of the sound, usually soothing, draws him in on himself, knees to chest. Curling his arms over his head, he hides his face into the fabric of the sofa. "Nng!" The chimes echo through his skull.
He can feel America twitch closer, in instinct to comfort perhaps, but the movement stops short. America doesn't touch him.
"Huh?" He glances at the hand fixed in the air, hovering over his shoulder, and watches it recoil in slow-motion.
The cold stare remains. "Who are you?"
"What are you sa-"
"Why are you here?"
"Why? What? I-I…" He swallows words that will not come.
His hands twitch. America grabs his shoulders and shakes.
"England," he whispers, grasping what he can of America's words and speaking almost mindlessly.
"Where is England?" Each word is punctuated with a firm shake.
"Ow! Stop it! Do you have a screw loose? Let go, you twit! I'm right here!" he screams, and wriggles out of the grip.
"Are you one of England's mystical invisible voodoo creatures that finally decided to let me see you? Why play tricks on me? What happened to England?! What did you do to him?"
"Voodoo creatures!?" England's eyes narrow, and the last remnants of concussion clear from his mind. "Now see here! They are faeries, Alfred! Faeries, you ponce! I have introduced you to Mint! And lower your voice immediately or see yourself back out into the cold."
Suddenly, America looks cornered, stuck between his previous disbelief and acceptance of fact, and England jumps on it.
"I most certainly am, England. I don't know why you can't see what's plainly in front of your face, and I don't know why you're insulting me in the wee hours of Saturday morning." England crosses his arms, and fiddles with them to get them flush against his chest. "If you don't stop staring at me like that, I'll leave you here to collect flies in your mouth."
"E-England?" They both blink. America voice sounds small, like when he was a colony.
If he wasn't so mad he would hug the man gawking at him until something snapped. "Yes, England." What kind of farce is this? A bad dream? He'll wake up eventually. Maybe he should try pinching himself.
The younger nation collapses onto an empty cushion on the sofa. "Arthur?" They both blink again.
"Yes, Arthur." He speaks slowly, purposefully. "Really, this is ridiculous, Alfred. Please, stop."
"Sat-Saturday? Wait." America's voice still sounds small and uncertain, but sense seems to catch up with him, at last. "Ar-Arthur…It's not Saturday."
"Well, of course it's Saturday."
"No." America sounds as sure of himself as he has been since their phone call. "Here," he pulls his phone from his pocket. "It's Sunday."
England sighs and looks at the date displayed in the background. "Sunday? It's Sunday?"
"Arth-Ar…England. Wh-what happened to you?" America looks away, and England finally realizes that America has averted his gaze through most of their conversation thus far—except while he was shaking him.
He wants to insist that he look at him now, but can't force him to demand that.
"I-I'm fine, Alfred. I mean, other than falling down the stairs. I'll be just fine."
"But, how…what? You look like. You look…?" The words break down into muttering and England can't understand him anymore; the words sound like static.
"Alfred, you're not making sense."
"'Cause this doesn't make sense!" America gestures at England, waving his arms.
"Now come with me upstairs and we'll both go to bed. I know how you get when you're jet-lagged—"
America straightens, the former annoyance returning to his eyes. "Jet lag doesn't cause hallucinations, England!"
"Hallucinations? What are you talking about?"
America looks at him now, and he notices how far down his head must tilt. England looks up at him, farther than usual. Slowly, he rises, teetering slightly as he straightens; his balance is still all wrong. America quickly steadies him, hand at his waist, but pulls it away as though he has been burned, and his cheeks pink.
"What is the matter with you, Alfred? Now come on." He reaches down and pulls on his arms, watching small hands unable to wrap around thick biceps that are larger than they used to feel. Small hands, unrecognizable hands, though they still carry all his scars. He squeezes; those hands are his. He steps away, and lands on the couch with an oof.
He stares up at America. For a moment, the clock stops ticking and America forms soundless words. The sounds catch up with him as England stumbles to his feet and trips up the stairs, because walking, running, moving is so strange, like something is missing and something is there that shouldn't be, and everything is all wrong.
"England why do you look like a girl?" America's question echoes in his ears as he stares into the bathroom mirror. America is right. England grapples at the door with a scream, slamming the offending image behind him to be forgotten. The door at his back cracks only slight as he falls against it; he slides to the floor.
It cannot be so easily forgotten. His center of balance. His voice. His hands. He does not just look like a girl; he is a girl.
"E-England?" America still sounds miffed, definitely confused and concerned. He taps on the bedroom door, with his strength it rattles the knob, causing England to flinch and hug himself. "Can…can I come in?"
England stares at the door. He is surprised that tactless questions about his mental well-being didn't find its way off America's tongue.
"Please?"
He pulls his legs close and hugs them, and swallows hard, but still cannot reply. England leans back against the bathroom door and stares blindly at a spot on the rug in the general direction of the bedroom door. Everything is too hazy and strange, including the way the room blurs and how his thighs bulge against her shins and how her hair falls across his shoulders and into his face. In the wake of such peculiarities that he-she-he can't yet process, England presses his face against the knees of his pajamas, unable to will himself to speak.
He screams as the bedroom door slams inward, the fittings of handle and lock mangled. "Alfred! What the hell?"
"I thought you had passed out or died or something!"
He stares up at him. "But you-! My door! What?"
"You didn't answer. I was worried." He stops at the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should kneel down to England's level, and she isn't sure that she likes the apprehensive frown on the other nation's face. America looks as lost as England feels, and she-he-she half wishes that he would bend down and just pick her up and put her back in the bed, but that thought is wrong and vicious, and he shakes his head to be rid of it.
"It was only a few seconds!"
"It was five minutes!"
"You couldn't wait five minutes?"
"I did. I even gave you plenty of warnings that I was gonna break the door down and you never said anything."
"But I. You!" England scowls.
"I did. That's why I was so worried. You'd've been all fussy and yelling if you heard I was thinking of breaking down one of your doors. England," he grunts out a sigh. "Damn it, why didn't you say anything?!"
England tries hard not to pout. Normally, he wouldn't think twice about pursing his lips together, but wasn't sure how that would appear in this new form.
"Come on. At least get up off the floor?"
She promptly stares at her knees; at least those look normal covered up by pajama bottoms, except for the damp spots.
America stands at the foot of the bed, leaning bodily on one of its posts, keeping his distance.
"Alfred, go to bed before you fall asleep on your feet. I'll be fine." England sinks underneath the covers and leans against the pillows.
"But who did this to you? Or...was it something you did?" His reluctance in asking that question is evident.
"No," he growls, averting his gaze. "This was nothing I've done. I can assure you."
"Then, Ar…then what happened?" America cannot say his name. Or just will not?
"We will discuss this further in the morning. I have a terrible headache. And, you will as well if you don't waltz yourself right out of here, and make yourself at home in your bed that I just put fresh linens on yesterday afternoon." Still America remains at the bedside. "Go on! If you don't, so help me, Alfred, I will wallop you within an inch of your life, superpower or otherwise."
"Yeah…" He gives a pensive stare toward the other side of the bedroom for a long moment. Suddenly, he pushes himself off the bedpost. "See you in the morning, England."
"Goodnight, Alfred."
"I'll fix the door tomorrow." He pads across the room and props the door closed with hardly a sound and then his footsteps disappear down the hallway, except for the occasional squeak of the old wood flooring.
The room turns dark and quiet. England is sleepy, which is a surprise. His headache remains and serves only to muddle his thoughts, and make him feel lonely. As he settles down in bed, he wonders why he sent America away. He wishes he hadn't dismissed Alfred, while the other nation looked so pathetic, but he had no comfort to give. Alfred had stared so intently at the armchair across the room maybe he had wanted to stay despite his obvious discomfort—if only for the company. Best not feed the boy's hero complex; although the way his eyes light up when America can be of use makes his face look attractive. Where that thought came from, leaves England puzzled as sleep—and exhaustion—catches up with him. He rolls against her chest and grumbles a last time before sleep takes its hold.
I hope you enjoyed reading. If you noticed anything amiss that I might have passed over when I edited, please let me know. Stay tuned for the next chapter. I only have editing to do, so I hope it won't take me too long between updates.
The list of songs and artists that I used for the chapter titles is listed at the end of Chapter 10.