Nine Things I Hate About You by Mist Over Water

Hetalia © Hidekaz Himayura
A lot of these were inspired by true stories. Let's do a competition. The first person to guess which ones were gets a request. :D
Enjoy my pain. (:

My dearest America,

I hate you, positively despise you. Let me just get that out of the way first, since I know that your ego is probably going to get in the way of you reading this letter, and stop you from understanding what I am trying to say, so I will make it as painfully obvious as I can. I, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, wish that you, the United States of America, would just drop dead so the world would forever be rid of your disgusting presence. However, I feel that you are still reading this as—how would your colloquialisms say?—"dude, America, your totally hot bod has got me rock hard for you and I need you here to help me get rid of my throbbing cock because I love you so much!… Dude". Or something. So here I am, writing nine reasons why I hate you. Enjoy.

1. That ravenous black hole you call a mouth.

You took us on our first date to a Mexican restaurant, despite me telling you that I hate spicy food (although, I must ask for the sake of the entire world and I, why is it that you are quick to spill hatred toward Mexico and his people, and yet will eat his food without question?). Your constant, shrill singing make me wish that I had declined the invitation of a date of which I was sure, and still am, was a bet between yourself and… France, I guess? You were talking at me; asking me questions and then answering them before I even so much as had a chance to even think about a way to answer.

The restaurant, dare I say it with any hint of surprise, was not a restaurant in the sense of what one may expect from a first date, but rather… A fast food restaurant. Needless to say, as I write this and look back, I have no idea why I expected anything less. Continuing your talking to yourself—which, really, was supposed to be aimed at me—we managed to find a seat, but oh no, not by the window. That would be too nice, instead, we found ourselves watching people entering and exiting the bathrooms. I think I should have looked at your choice of seating as a foreshadowing of our relationship, however, I guess you could say that we did have fun. You know. If we really, absolutely, positively had too.

Who would have guessed? Our first date and you take me to probably the only restaurant in the entire world that does not serve tea, for Christ's sake. Instead, I forced myself to lower my standards to your own for the night. After all, you drink all the Coke you want and you are still breathing, so it cannot be that bad for you, right? You went ahead and ordered for me, stating that "dude, you ain't ever been here before. The hero knows best. Trust me, a'ight, bruh?". Yet again, butchering the English language, another thing that I hate that you do with your mouth, I would like to add.

So I guess that is how I ended up eating tacos with you. Well, singular for me, plural for you. Before I even managed to get the courage to begin eating a food which was suffocated in a thick layer of grease, you had already gone through one of yours. The beef falling over the table as you munched—loudly—on your meal. Attempting to talk through each mouthful; I once made the dreadful mistake of looking to you as you spoke about other plans for the night. Instead of your, dare I say, handsome face, instead I got an eye full of your countries take on a Mexican delicacy being chewed around and around your mouth. I quickly looked down, nodding, and "mhm"-ing every once in a while to disguise my disgust as I attempted to enjoy our 'first date' meal.

"Hey, Britain, you 'kay?"

I nodded, looking up to you, eyes glazed over with a sort of concern. We had been together for thirty minutes now, and it was only at that moment had you actually let me answer a question that you asked me. To spare your feelings, or to tell you the truth? Well, a gentleman never lies. "Bloody Hell, Alfred [yup, you still had that annoying habit of referring to me by the nation of which I am the personification of around citizens, idiot], do you insist on eating like a cow? I didn't want to have to sit here and watch this pathetic excuse for food being tossed around in your mouth! Honestly, you'd be better off without that thing! You never do anything useful with it!"

Have I ever told you that you have the most adorable kicked puppy look? I forced myself to look at it for a while before the guilt was almost too much for me to bear, and I nearly had to look away. Maybe I should have just told you a lie to make you feel better about yourself; we continued eating in silence, and I could not help but notice the way you were no longer devouring your meal with a sort of animalistic haste. When we were almost finished, you looked around with almost a smirk spread across your face, dropping something to the floor, you exclaimed, "Oh no! It looks like I have dropped my napkin! I best go pick it up!" Even though I did not guess what was to follow, I now look back and have to wonder how you manage to produce the best movies. Your acting is atrocious.

So I guess I take it back. I quite in fact love your insanely huge mouth. In fact, I believe, using your words, you "suck cock like a pro… Dude".

2. Your insatiable ego.

I have no idea how we ended up there, all I know is that you had pushed me up against the wall of our hotel room; the door scarcely closed, and picked me up. I hated you doing this, and you knew that, didn't you? I hated feeling your hand travelling past my knee, and up my thigh, squeezing it as if you hoped it would bring about some overwhelming pleasure. What I did love? Your mouth. My God, America, do you know what you do with that thing? Your talk a huge amount of bullshit with it, you scoff down an uncountable number of hamburgers with it in a record breaking time, but your lips—shit your lips!—they move me in a way that nothing else can. Move me emotionally, mentally and, of course, physically. Your tongue knows where to touch, where I like it to stroke, where I like it to prod, and all the while, at least one of your hands knows that it belongs caressing the side of my face.

I guess I should tell you now, while you are not with me to be as moronic as ever and throw this in my face; I like you inside of me. But I like being in control. I like dominating you. So as you stumbled with both your hands on my arse to the bed, I began planning my attack to ensure that I would be on top of you. When your legs hit the bed, I fell onto the mattress—idiot—and you crawled on me soon after. The kiss began again; fingers met the soft silk of honey blonde hair, every now and again, teeth would collide, tongues would intertwine and dance in a sea of saliva. Any plan that had been bubbling in my conscience was instantly swept away. Claws ripping away at the cloth that prevented the much wanted skin on skin contact. "America," your swollen lips soaked up the breath and the words, "Please… I want to ride you…"

Your mouth twitched into a smirk, pulling me on top of you; our hands wrapping around the different shades of blonde that were in the room. The hungry kisses that filled our minds just moments before now gone, and instead, I tried to force myself to sit up, our lips meeting less and less as I done so, before they no longer touched. Your member throbbing against my backside, begging for entrance; I just placed my hands on your chest, feeling the thumping of anticipation against your ribs, using this as leverage to pick myself up and lower myself onto you. Inch by inch, you filled me. Both watching each other's expressions, biting our lips, neither one of us wanting to be the first to let out our laments of pleasure.

Pushing my legs apart, I sunk down even deeper; hitting a part of me I sure did not exist until we were in this position. When I began practically bouncing up and down, shifting each time, it did not seem to matter who would be the first to make noise. Your adorable little grunts and groans which I practically live for emanating from your disgusting mouth, and I… Am I not always louder? You met my thrusts, gripping onto my hips, and each time our skin would slap against each other loudly, a cry echoed around our hotel room; leaning back, trying to cram more of you in, my dick licking your stomach gently. "Al- Alfred! Oh God oh God oh God!" The pace picked up, the rhythm turned from slow, hard and romantic, to some sort of animalistic lust of heat; love completely forgotten, hard and fast, smashing into my prostate each and every time. Crying to a deity I do not believe in each time.

You were chanting a name under your breath, and I could not help but smirk; so near to completion, I continued to watch your face. Readying myself for the ever imminent coming face. The adorable moment when your face scrunches up, your body tenses, and you fill me to overflowing. The pace reached impossible speeds—and I was sure you had done some severe damage to my arse, just to let you know—and to bring you to that point of complete blinding bliss, I clenched my muscles as tightly as I was able to around you. It seemed to have worked.

"You…"

I smirked, the chanting that went along with our thrusts meeting were now audible, and I could relish the words I was sure to hear; comparing me to some sort of sex God, perhaps? Confessions of undying love that I would be able to use against you later on? You probably would sound like a sixteen year old girl writing in her diary, rather pathetically, may I add. I could imagine it—well looking back, not at that very moment, how strange would it be if I was imagining a teenage girl while practically impaling myself with six inches of, ahem, "good ol' American cock"?—giving me more to blackmail you with!

"Es…"

The pre-cum was forming at my tip, and merging with the slick sheet of sweat that had formed all over our bodies. I was trying to figure out this new addition to the words, but I forced it to the back of my mind, we were so close. I was so determined for us to reach completion together; focusing all of my energy on bringing you the most sexual gratification possible. Admittedly, trying to show off as I used my right hand to rub my left nipple, while the other ran through my hair. By now, only using my legs to ensure our rhythm continued. Your hands flew up into the air; my face scrunched up like yours, arching my back as my climax climbed higher… Higher…

"Ay!"

My eyes snapped open, any feeling of pleasure I was feeling overrun with anger as I realised what you were actually saying. No confession of undying love, no swearing that I was a deity of sex. No. As you pounded into arse over and over, my bouncing stopped, and watched you arch your back off the bed, your Adams Apple bobbing up and down as your groans echoed through the nearly silent room. All that was left was your chanting; "USA! USA!" Despite the constant jabbing at that spot, I found myself unable to enjoy this anymore; seemingly enchanted in the fact you were chanting your own name over and over. "U-S-A!" You shouted once more before burying yourself to the hilt inside of me and releasing.

Even as your hot, thick seed filled me to the brim, I continued to glare at the idiot before me. Panting, with arms over his face, and trying to recover from his orgasm. I just rolled over, your softened member slipping out easily. You trying to cuddle me, almost yelling in your obnoxiously loud voice, "Dude, how awesome was that?" I just grunted; I hope you realised that that night I tried to lay on you as much as possible to ensure you woke up covered in your own cum. The more you know, hey, America?

3. You live so far away.

If someone ever asked me if it was a good idea to be in a long distance relationship, I would laugh at them. I would never know how to answer that question. While it is a pain in the arse to have to go for so long without seeing your partner, at the same time, it gives the most wonderful experiences, and feelings that I never thought, in my life, I would have to go through. Each time you come to visit, I find myself not minding the hustle and bustle of the biggest airport in my country. I found myself hating other nations for the fact that they had planes coming to Heathrow as every time someone would walk out into arrivals, I would hope that they were from the USA; instead, I found myself getting excited over arrivals from a Singapore airline.

In the middle of Heathrow airport, surrounded by hundreds of people waiting for parents, friends, children, any relation possible, there was only me and those doors. Nobody else in the world. My heart never knowing whether it wanted to stop, speed up, drop down to my stomach, beat in my throat or whether I should vomit it up. Hands damp with apprehension as I looked on, waiting for your idiot face. Eyes darting from between the doors that were concealing you and the screen that had been saying that the plane had landed. I hate to say that I'm impatient, but I was so close to just going through the doors and then trying to find you in the customs queue.

It was soon after those thoughts crossed my mind that the recognisable twang of American speech began to fill the air as passengers of your flight entered the arrivals. Subconsciously moving closer and closer, trying to ensure that I would be able to greet you into my country. Reading posters was no longer satisfying; looking to the people around me was no longer adequate as my mind began to wander, however, not to more interesting thoughts, but to the last time we had seen each other. When I had done the nine hour plane journey to the states, where you had been looking so anxious, and every single piece of fear flushed from your face upon seeing me. I could not wait for the same to happen. Any moment…

"Britain! Hey, Britain!"

Immediately looking up, there you were. Everyone disappeared. The entire world disappeared, and in all of the cosmos that makes our universe, there was just us. In an out of character move, I allowed my weak legs to run, fighting back tears that were threatening to fall, scarcely noticing you dropping your luggage. Yelling your name over and over as I wrapped my arms around your neck, jumping and squeezing you further with legs around your waist. Nuzzling my face into your neck, kissing it roughly, "Bloody Hell, idiot, take your time." I whimpered, pulling away and practically mashing our faces together in a melody of lost kisses over the year that had passed since I had last seen you. One of your hands massaging the bottom of my back, the other wiping away the tears that I scarcely remembered allowing to fall.

Three weeks. Three perfect weeks of sightseeing, sex on the London Eye, meetings, sex on the meeting table, West End musicals, sex in the bathrooms, going out for meals, hand jobs under the table, more meetings, riding you in the Frogs seat and the very best of all… Waking up in your arms. Watching that thick expression you pull in your sleep, worshiping each inch of skin that was on show; the tan, soft skin that would make the works of William Blake flush with envy. In the half-hazed state that is first waking up, the taste and smell of morning mouth not mattering. Just us. For three weeks, there would be no England without America, no America without England. Each time we separated, we would wait anxiously for our next meeting, seeking each other out like a parent seeks their children. However, like all long distance relationships, there is no hello without a goodbye…

That was why, three weeks after you set foot in my country, we found ourselves back at Heathrow, holding hands silently as we trudged through the lines—strange irony, really, having to wait to have you taken away from me. Squeezing each other's hands every now and again, just to make sure the shadowed metal contraption had not taken you away from me yet. Unlike three weeks prior, it was obvious that we were in Heathrow airport; eyes on us. I thought my people were liberal, and yet as people watched to homosexual men waiting to say goodbye to each other, they seemed to be more conservative than even your Christian southern states.

All too soon, we were at the terminals entrance. Hands tightened at the thought of having to let go of you for an unforeseeable amount of time; the prospect of not seeing you for another year practically tearing me apart. The airport seemed to go about its daily life, my people a blur of nothingness, as your arms wrapped around me, and pulled me into your chest, I tried my best to merge with your being, so I never had to leave you again. All I managed to do was hold onto the fabric that concealed your pudgy perfection, face buried into your chest, where your head nestled into my hair. "You don't have to leave," I said, and although I had said some stupid things during this time in the past, it probably had to be one of the more idiotic ideas that I had ever had, "You can stay here."

You pushed me away, holding my face in your hands; forehead and noses pressed together. "I really can't—"

"But you belong here! You've never looked happier! You don't need to go back, I won't let you. I'll just hold on and never let you go, so you'll have to stay here with me forever." Your hands caressing my face, I tried to lean into them, but my attempts were futile; as were any attempts of not crying. You muttered words—of comfort… I think—to me, but they were soon swallowed by greedy lips. The same lips that were denying the fact that you belonged in your own country. That you never seemed so care free as you did when you were temporarily a part of my land; in my way of not coping with any emotions, these were not the words that decided to emerge. Instead, I tried to say this in the best way I knew how: kissing you.

You pulled away however, "Iggy, I'm going to be late—"

"Don't call me 'Iggy', wanker."

A laugh. I adore your laugh. You sound like such an idiot! "I'll see you soon. I love you." You kissed my forehead, and with one last running your fingers through my hair, turned for the flight.

I really do not know if I hate you or the Atlantic Ocean more, America.

4. Your shitty internet connection.

You do not make for a very beautiful mixture of coloured pixels, have I ever told you that? Whenever we would find the time between work and the time difference to spend time on video chat, you would mindlessly chatter away, all the while, I would stroke the side of your face. Imagining your soft skin under my fingers, those messy locks intertwining with my fingers. It's always at the point where I bite my lip that you pause in your nonstop talking to ask if I am ok. I always smile, and after a moment, press my forehead against yours, pretending the warmth of my laptop screen is your temple, "I miss you." Thumb running over your pixelated lips, "I wish you were here with me… I'm so lonely…"

Your laugh emanated from the speakers; that adorable laugh that could make anyone fall for you. "Haha—Aw, Iggy!"

I pulled away, taking you in. "I know. It's pathetic. I just wish you were here. I got home from seeing my boss, and all I wanted was for you to rub my back, or feet, or anything. It was just a terrible day." I sighed, that feeling of my heart growing heavy when I think about how much I hate that I act as if I am entirely dependent on your existence and presence with me. "It's days like this I can't stop thinking about the last time we saw each other. The way you kiss me, how you touch me, the way I'll try and get a mood going to seduce you and you would come out with something completely idiotic to ruin the mood…"

"Ruin the mood?" You smirked; a smirk that made me know I would like wherever you were planning on taking this. "Far from it. I'd greet you with a kiss, taking off your outer clothing, we wouldn't talk. I'd just know that your day was shit and know exactly what you'd want to make it better. I'd take you to the bedroom, take your shirt off. Tenderly and slowly taking undoing the buttons, finger tips brushing ever so gently against skin, heh, I know you like to be teased." I closed my eyes at his words, trying to imagine it was his touch as my hand reached up to re-enact his words; shivering as the tips brushed over my chest. I opened my eyes to see you leaning forward in your seat, eyes fixed on the screen. I looked up to the webcam, replicating the feeling of peering into the depths of blue pools.

"Go on."

"I'd worship you." You continued, watching as both my hands roamed my torso, "Kissing you, biting, leaving marks to show that you're mine. I would barely let my lips touch your neck, breathing so gently against it; you'd practically beg me to mark you there, to kiss you there. I'd do it. Sinking my teeth ever so gently and sucking." I held one hand to the side of my neck, letting it fall to one side, closing my eyes and moaning as I remember the feeling of you creating the marks that were beginning to fade. "I'd pull your shirt off quickly—" I complied "—and then I'd get to work on those nipples of yours." I raised an eyebrow, watching you chuckle, and lick your lips; I guess at this point you were looking at my chest. "I'd lick over one, letting the tip of my tongue run barely over it, nipping, sucking… My hand going over to the other, and teasing it, before swapping over."

"Stop." I looked back to the monitor, after finding myself moaning and getting harder, "I want you to get undressed. No teasing. Just undressed. I'll be back in a moment." I wished I could watch you as you got undressed in front of your webcam, but I was frantically looking through my bedside table drawers, muttering angrily to myself. I sniggered loud enough for you to hear when I found it, hiding it the best I could; I crawled back onto my bed. Just in time to see you pulling down your boxers, giving a rather pleasant view of your arse and when you turned around your hard member. "I would lay you down. Make sure your legs are over the side of the bed; tie your wrists together so you would be mine to completely do as I wish." I looked to the webcam atop my laptop, and with half-lidded eyes, brought the vibrator[1] into view; trying not to laugh at the way you groaned and almost wriggled with excitement, "I would kiss the inside of your thighs, licking. Nipping. Marking. Then ever so slowly—" I moved it closer to my mouth, it barely hovered over my lips "—I would take you in inch by inch—"

A sound told me you were offline. A few minutes of waiting later, I received a text, proclaiming that phone sex was imminent. Although, I should tell you Alfred, I much prefer seeing your face as I pretend to do those sinful things to you.

5. The amount of stuff you leave here.

Whenever I would come home from the airport; my house would always feel empty. Although I did enjoy having the house to myself, and to be able to finally relax in silence and tranquillity that is an America-less life. Where I would be able to read, sew, do anything I like without worrying if you would be bored or hungry or any other emotion out of the frankly narrow spectrum that you do have of feelings. It was not just the emptiness that I found myself hating. It was when you practically force me into 'I'm leaving so please let me fuck you' morning sex, where we would end up late leaving, and having to rush to pack, eat and leave.

I remember one time, in particular. I walked in the house, and fell against the door in exhaustion, looking around. The half-eaten bowl of chocolate covered cereal at the dining room table, the bin in the kitchen which was overflowing in McDonald's wrappers, the half-drunk drinks scattered all over the place. Of course, I was dreading more than anything to go back to the bedroom, but I knew I had to, and so with the philosophy of 'better late than never' I found myself in the room. A smile of sadness crept up on me as I observed the crumpled and stained bed sheets, the duvet which had been thrown about and the pillows that had been pushed against the headboard.

Picking up the pillow that you had slept on, I held it close to my face and allowed an even bigger smile to overtake my features; the fabric had captured your scent in a tight embrace, and I could only hope that it would never let it go. Taking it back to the living room, even more objects were found that reminded me that your much loved presence was no more. The blanket that just the night before we were cuddled underneath was on the sofa, where we had kissed furiously, and trying to persuade you into staying just one more night with hands and mouths. Your favourite jacket hanging by the door; the brown one with the fifty printed onto the back.

The one I kind of fell for you wearing…

I just shook my head, typical of your idiot self to forget something that we hardly ever get to see you without. That still did not stop me from placing the pillow down onto the blanket, and picked the material up. Without even thinking about it, I pulled it over my clothes and zipped it up; feeling drowned in the material, feeling as though I was wearing you in a tight embrace where we could not distinguish between you not wanting to let go or me never wanting you to take your hands off of me. It was not until I put my hand in the pocket that I fell upon the note that you left inside of it:

Take care of it. I want it to smell like you when I see you again. —America

And until that day, I had relished in wearing it whenever I was alone, whenever I was lonely. Never did I let you know that I loved it until now, I never told you that I wore practically all the time; keeping the fact that I loved feeling as though it was your warmth around me as if it were some kind of crime to be so damned sickeningly in love with you. I only ever told you that you were stupid and wasting your time for leaving it. And when I had seen you again, I tried my best not to take it back to my home when we had to part. It probably should be illegal for me to feel this way about you. And it should be illegal for you to make me feel this way, you bloody idiot.

6. You are my hero.

I know that we all have them, but for some reason, whenever you sleep by my side, I try and disguise the fact that I often wake up in a cold sweat after a nightmare. After all of my history… Is that not expected? The wars always come to me, and I relive the pain and the horror… And everything I felt back then. But sometimes my imagination takes wing, and makes them more horrible than I could ever imagine, killing the ones I love right before my eyes, although I could promise my unconscious self that that was not how the events took place. But I cannot. I am forced to wake because of my cursed imagination to the world of darkness that you detest so much, and listen to your snores.

There is always one that comes back to me whenever we are together. It is raining, and it is the Revolutionary War again. There is just the two of us; the darkness around us and you are all I can see. You fill my senses, as if you were all around me, ghosts of you touching me all over; running invisible hands through my hair, kissing my face, sucking on my neck, seducing me with their ghastly touches. The obscurity allows me to focus on you; your expressions taking over with a glare, a stern look which should not be allowed on such a beautiful face. The gun in my hands shaking, you are willing me to shoot you. Unlike the reality, there is no doubt in my mind that I am going to shoot you.

And so I do.

You fall to the floor; I scream to my dream self to do something, but he just watches. Watches the hole in your chest weep the red liquid as your breathing begins to falter. I feel no remorse. All I can think with that damned smirk upon my face is that you are my colony. You have been, you are and always will be. Lying down by your side, I bring your still body to my chest as I feel your soft locks. You are grunting in pain, but I do nothing to help but hold you. I try and control this side of myself, hoping that you can still be saved. A part of me knows that this is just a dream. A part of me knows that you are by my side, and you gained your freedom that day. But still, my fingers feel your locks, and I sing.

"Lavender blue, dilly dilly,
Lavender green
When I am King, dilly dilly,
You shall be Queen…"

Your breathing hitches and I know you are trying to bring yourself to say something, and so I run my hand along the bullet wound. Silencing you effectively as you gasp in pain, writhing around in my tight hold. The rain is washing away the blood, but it still stays somewhat, staining my own clothing. I am watching you, the impeccable skies that hide themselves in your eyes clouding over with tears, as you try to move your mouth; barely asking 'why'. I just hold you tighter, and feel you gasp against me and shudder as you take the last breath.

"England! Dude!"

You always wake me at that moment in the same way, and the first thing I see is you looking at me in a panic-striken way. Our limbs mangled together in an unintelligible mess, if anyone walked in, they would never guess whose leg was where and whose arm was whose. "It's okay, England." You whisper, running fingers down the bumps of my spin as I sobbed dryly, the light is always off. And we lay there in complete darkness as I tried to forget the images that had played out. Trying to remember that you are mine. That you are always there to make me feel better. That Alfred. F Jones, the personification of the United States of America is my hero.

7. Your pathetic excuse of a marriage proposal.

I think it is fair to say: I fucking hate global warming.

It bores me, there is pretty much no solution to it, and yet at nearly every single bloody world conference, it manages to get its greenhouse gassy ass into the agenda, persisting to cause every single bloody country in the world to argue, and yet again not find a solution to the problem that probably will not harm the world for a good few years. One thing I hate it for more than anything, is the fact that you always, without a doubt, will make a complete fool out of yourself. If I had one wish, it would be to know what on earth goes on in that thick brain of yours before you start to speak about your 'revolutionary ideas that will save our asses' (do not quote me exactly on that, I am just simply paraphrasing). "So, dude, what if we got like a," you paused for a moment, hand waving in the air, trying to think of the right words to say, "giant vacuum cleaner, and it, like, sucked all of the excess greenhouse gasses! Then every few years we can send it back into space, and we could stop global warming for good!"

"Ja." Germany's face, I wish you could have stopped being so self-involved to notice his un-amused expressions. "Now that we wasted our time, who's next?"

Your adorable little face fell, from being sure that this was the best idea that you had ever come up with, to completely devastated the other countries would be so quick to ditch your thoughts. Even as Russia was the next to be called to speak, you did not sit down. Luckily avoiding the string of German curses that were going to follow, as you began speaking, "But… I'm not done." Germany did try and stop you, but before he could even get from his native tongue to English, you began looking over at everyone. "I know that it's not very discreet, but I've been boning that sexy piece of British meat over there for a little while now—" I choked on my drink as you pointed to me "—Totes special butt buddies, us. Anyways, I just want to say how awesome it's been for the past few years where I guess we've been dating, everything you do is perfect." Dreamy expression took over, guessing that you were thinking about bedroom excursions.

"Zis is not the time to be thinking of zat!"

You shook your head, rummaging through the pockets of your suit, before pulling out a small, fanciful looking box. For some reason, from that moment, I knew what was to come.

"England," You began, walking around the rounded table, "I guess it's about time I say that I love you. Not only for your fine ass—holeahem—and dick. You're beautiful, sexy, just everything… Everything I've ever wanted. All you're missing is boobs!" You chuckled, before beginning to talk, this time your hand stroking the side of my face. To say that I was blushing would be an understatement, I was sure that you were drunk, or high. "I know you could do better than me, but you know, you kinda don't deserve. I mean, have you seen how grumpy you act? It's horrible. Digressing, oops. Anyway. England." You got down on one knee. What could I think?

Oh God.

Oh shit.

Of my fucking shitting God!

"Arthur Kirkland, personification of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Will you marry me?"

8. The fact that I love you.

Despite everything, you mean the world to me, Alfred F. Jones. And when you dropped down to one knee in the middle of your ridiculous speech in the World Meeting to ask me to marry you, everything that I have ever felt about you came rushing back. When you are gone, I find myself unable to think. I find myself unable to breathe. You have become part of my daily life that I am unable to put down for twenty-four hours without thinking about you. I do not just think about the mind-blowing sex (although, let's face it, it is something); it is the way you can turn a phrase, the way you can frustrate the living Hell out of me with a simple sentence, the way your presence can change the atmosphere of the room.

When you are not here with me, all I can think about is how much I want you with me. Just sitting at home, watching television, and falling asleep in each other's embrace. You are all that pumps through my veins; I yearn for you. Every time I have to watch your plane leave the airport, a part of me leaves with you. My people suffer as they walk through the streams of static. I cannot think, I cannot breathe, I cannot even function when you are not near me. This is my reasoning for running out on your proposal as I did; all of this… How am I supposed to let you know this without coming across as some kind of adolescent girl?

Sometimes… I feel as though we are made for each other. I fit into your embrace so perfectly; whenever we share our tender moments, we slip together, slot perfectly like a puzzle, and we are each the missing piece. My arms wrap perfectly around you, your arms instinctively travel to where I—and they—know they belong. A living, breathing blanket of protection. Our heights perfectly in-synch as to ensure that I am able to place my head against your chest and listen to the thousands of marching bands that make my favourite of them all, and at the same time, being able to have your head against mine. The hand on the bottom of my back rubbing gently, while your lips tickle the hairs on top of my head with gently whispers and soft sighs.

During our love making, you fit perfectly. Any position that suits us, anything that we want to try, our bodies were designed to withhold. Every inch, and your impeccable girth, of your length fits perfectly inside of me. If I knew that people would not be completely freaked out by the sight, I would allow you to spend the rest of our lives nestled deep in my tight heat; walking and going about my daily business with you right behind me, filling the emptiness that I never knew could feel so amazing. You are my one and only, America, do not doubt me. I am not homosexual, nor even bisexual. Rather… Americasexual. Or Alfredsexual. Whichever one you would prefer me to refer to you as.

I just love you. Bloody Hell, America, I love you.

9. The fact that out of everything, yes. Yes I will marry you, America.

Honestly, this story can, in the words of America, "suck on my jingle bells". I should have kept to doing short one shots. It was never meant to be this long, or have smut, or have romance just completely different to what I originally planned. Story, stop writing yourself.

And yes it was supposed to be ten things but I could not think of anything.