When I heard that Ireland was possibly going to be a girl, I thought to myself, 'Hhm, so, what if Northern Ireland was also a girl? And the two could be like… Oh, sisters who fight?' I thought about it, and believed it was a plausible idea (even though most would probably see Northern Ireland as a boy). Then, ages later, I got the idea for this story. I believe that England and Northern Ireland would get along really, really well since Northern Ireland fought to be united with the UK and blah blah… Fanfiction is a great place! You can write your ideas down and put them up! I love it! Please enjoy! ^.^

It was cold and lonely. Northern Ireland felt like she was the one in the coffin, not her sister, Ireland. The church air moved over her skin like it was whispering words of distaste and hatred. She could have sworn the walls were leaning down and looking at her with disgust, watching her every move in case she did something out of the ordinary. They were ready to shoot her down, and leave her to rot. She was scared.

Yet, there was something she should have been more focused on. The coffin in front of her. Within which was her older sister.

She had never in all of her wildest thoughts believed for a split second that her sister would die before she did. Northern Ireland had always believed that she, being the smaller and seemingly more vulnerable, would die first.

It was numbing to think that she would never see her sister again.

It was weird that this was the case. She and her sister never got on, in fact, they went to war so often that Northern Ireland probably couldn't use the hairs on her head to count them. Catholics and Protestants couldn't get on.

And she was the only Protestant in this church. She could feel the eyes of every person in the congregation on her back, like a hundred pairs of branding irons searing her skin.

The priest had been the only one who was even remotely nice to her. He greeted her with a handshake, and expressed his gratitude at her attendance (she was weary of his sincerity, as he was expected to say this), and his sorrow at the loss of her sister.

When she had arrived, most of the guests had already taken their seats, and she walked slowly to the front of the aisle, where her seat as a family member was. As she made her way up, Northern Ireland heard the whisperings and quiet sneers. She looked to the carpet the whole time, her eyes heavy from a sleepless night before.

She saw the other who would be sitting with her at the front, Ireland's right-hand man. Northern Ireland couldn't remember his name at that moment, she couldn't feel her head. He was cold, but shook her hand and beckoned for her to sit.

The service was a typical Catholic service, and Northern Ireland felt more and more alone as it progressed. She nearly broke down when 'We Shall Sleep, but not Forever' played. She didn't sing, she kept her head down, making a futile attempt at trying not to hear the music. Trying not to look at the coffin.

When the service was finally over, Northern Ireland rushed out of the church, and breathed as if she had been underwater for a near fatal amount of time. She ran round the corner of the building and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. She choked and gasped between sobs, and crouched over, clutching the soaked tissue in her hand.

Northern Ireland was never going to see her sister again. Yes they fought, yes they hated each other's beliefs, but they were sisters. They were related, and Northern Ireland couldn't imagine never seeing her again. Deep within her heart, naturally, she loved her older sister, even in spite of the immense divide of their political beliefs.

Who would be Ireland now? She thought it would be that guy she was always with. Her right-hand-man. She didn't really care. It was going to be someone else to fight and fend off.

There was another reason Northern Ireland was upset. It involved England. He wasn't with her. England had gone on a two-week business trip in Germany, and wouldn't be back for a few more days. England had been gone five days when Northern Ireland received the news. Ireland had been killed in a training accident.

England couldn't come back to support Northern Ireland, because it was a really important meeting. Even so, he attempted to re-arrange it in order come back to support her. Northern Ireland knew the importance of this business trip, and insisted in her strongest voice that he should stay, and that she could attend the funeral on her own. Northern Ireland even insisted that her boss shouldn't come along, even though that would mean some support, and protection, for her. She was feeling a painful mix of loneliness and a desire to be alone. It mixed like meat and jam.

Home was just as lonely. England's mansion was old and scary when Northern Ireland was alone. He went on business trips and meetings all the time, but two weeks was the longest he had to be away for, and Northern Ireland wasn't in a strong state. She curled up on the living room sofa and sobbed. She felt like she was going to snap. She wanted England to hold her and kiss her. She wanted him to tell her everything was going to be Ok, and that he would be there for her.

But he wouldn't be home for another few days, and with each hour engraving more pain in Northern Ireland's heart, a few days were not looking safe.

The room became a vacuum in which her pain remained, unable to escape. Her oxygen cut off, and her means of communication destroyed by her state. She couldn't talk to England over the phone. It would only serve to remind her that he wasn't physically with her, and her voice couldn't remain strong. Northern Ireland knew she couldn't keep - or even create in the first place - a happy façade.

The phone could have possibly rang, she didn't know. She thought she heard a ringing, but didn't answer it. For the next twenty four hours, Northern Ireland's world became a mess of emotion. She remained on the sofa, her tear stained face pressed into the cushion, and falling in and out of an uneasy pattern of slumber.

It wasn't until the full day had ticked over did Northern Ireland actually notice that time was passing. She stared at the clock and noticed the cramps and calls from her stomach, and the fact that she hadn't changed out of the colourless funeral clothes.

Northern Ireland sat up, her joints creaking painfully with the new movement. She eventually worked out just how long she had been curled up there. The young girl gasped, and let out a choke of disbelief.

My God. A day. A whole day I've been here. Oh… Did… Maybe England's tried to contact me! Sh-Shit!

If he had, and she hadn't responded, then he would undoubtedly get worried. Northern Ireland leapt from the sofa and grabbed the phone in the hall. The light was flashing, and she knew what that meant. She pressed the answer phone button, and England's voice came after she was informed of three new messages.

'Hey, North, I'm just calling to check if you're Ok. Call me when you get this message. Love you.'

Beep.

'North? Hey, darling, are you there? I thought you'd be back by now. Call me. Or, just… just let me know you're Ok if you're not in the mood to talk. Just let my phone ring or something so I know you got the message. Love you.'

Beep.

'North? You're scaring me now. Please, please just let me know how you're doing. Please respond in some shape or form. If you don't, I'm sending someone round to check up on you. North, I love you. I want to hear from you. Please.'

Beep.

The automated telephone voice that followed was only a buzz to Northern Ireland. She discovered that he had tried to call her eleven times. Her heart leapt, and she had to steady herself on the telephone table. She breathed, and feared she was going to throw up. She had to call him. He was worrying. Fuck the façade. She wanted to reassure him she was Ok. Well, in the 'alive and kicking' sense as opposed to the emotional sense.

She dialled his number with shaky fingers, having to try twice because of a nervous slip of the hand.

It rang and rang, and she knew that he was probably in a meeting and had it on silent. He would have answered right away when he saw it was her. She was about to prepare a message for the answer phone, when England's worried yet relieved voice sounded.

'North? North is that you?'

She stuttered. 'Ah… Y-Yeah. It's me.'

'Oh, thank you Jesus. Thank God you're Ok. I was so worried about you. I was going to send Scotland over to check up on you. I'm sorry I didn't answer right away. I was in a meeting, but I asked them to let me keep my phone on so that I would get you if you called.'

Northern Ireland gasped silently, and felt tears sting her eyes. She was so grateful that England would go to such a length for her. He had run out of a meeting to answer her phone call. 'Th-Thank you. England… I-I'm so sorry I didn't respond. I… haven't been… feeling too good since… well, you know.'

'Yes of course,' he replied. 'North, don't apologise. Are you eating properly at least?'

She paused for only two seconds, but that was as good as an answer for England. He sighed.

'North, please eat. Even just a slice of toast. Please take care of yourself…'

She remained silent as best she could, but Northern Ireland uttered a squeak of a sob. She began to cry, and heard England's comforting words down the phone.

'Shh… I'll be home in a few days… No, I need to come home now… North, I'm getting the next plane out of here.'

'N-No…!' Northern Ireland attempted to sound forceful, but it was impossible. It was as if someone had numbed her throat. 'Your meeting…!'

'They can cope without me now. It'll be no problem getting out of it. I'll be with you in a few hours. I'll soon be with you to take care of you.'

England was in Germany for the meeting, so his flight would be a few hours to London. Northern Ireland made a last, pathetic attempt to protest, but England ignored her and hung up after saying a final 'I love you.'

The house was silent again, and Northern Ireland decided to wobble her way to the kitchen to do as England suggested - make some toast.

She tried to eat, but it was so difficult. A slice of toast went down her throat like a lump of coal. It took Northern Ireland an hour to eat the slice. She didn't feel much better, and her stomach complained. She couldn't face anymore, and headed up the stairs. She was still in her funeral wear, so decided to throw it off in a clumsy heap on her room's floor. It was replaced it with a night gown. She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the bathroom.

Northern Ireland didn't look at herself in the mirror. She didn't want to face herself and the pale, grizzly state she probably looked. Her long fair hair was taken out of the ponytail it was in, and she let it fall loose wherever it wanted around her shoulders and down her back.

As she walked from the bathroom, she glanced at the door to England's room. Her eyes welled with tears, but she fought them back. Her loneliness was prominent in her heart, but she reminded herself that he would be home in a matter of hours. That still didn't erase her current sense of despair, however. The young girl opened the door of his room, and lay on his double bed without getting under the covers. She hugged a pillow, and snuggled up to it.

When she was lonely, and England was away on business meetings, Northern Ireland would always come into his room and sleep in his bed. She did this especially when she was a little girl. Even if England was there, she would crawl into his bed - either before they went to sleep or in the middle of the night - and sleep in his bed with him. In her very early childhood, before she even became a country and was only a province called Ulster, there was rarely a night when Northern Ireland actually slept in her own bed. As she grew up, she did it less frequently, but when she grew into a young adult (about the same time as becoming a country), and they confessed their feelings for each other, she began to sleep in his bed again, and occasionally, he would sleep in her bed. They both slept in his bed permanently now, and only used her room as storage for her possessions and clothes.

She thought about England, and their history together. All the times he had helped her during 'The Troubles', and all the times she worked alongside him on political issues. All the times they embraced and kissed and made love.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she fell asleep, still clutching the pillow.

'Nngh…'

Northern Ireland made a small noise as she stirred. She had been unsure for a while now, but was now certain that the touch she felt upon her head was not a dream. It was real. A gentle movement was being made over the top of her head, running slowly over her hair, and lifting off to repeat. Someone was stroking her hair.

She opened her eyes, blurry with sleep and stale tears, and cast her head upwards, her neck paining slightly under the strain.

Her vision presented to her the one her heart had been aching for. England was sitting beside her, stroking her head, and possessing a smile which conveyed love and reassurance in a beautiful blend. Northern Ireland began to sob, both from happiness and despair. She threw herself forward (awkwardly, because of the way she was lying) and clutched England like he would vanish into thin air if she didn't. England clutched her back, and moved her so that she wasn't in as awkward a position. She was curled by his side, with her head resting on his lap. She was still emitting choked sobs, clutching the bottom of his jacket. England continued to stroke the top of her head, and uttered soothing words and sounds.

When Northern Ireland had calmed down somewhat, England began to speak. Softly and gently, still soothing her.

'North. I'm so sorry. I should have come home as soon as you told me about Ireland, no matter what you said. God, I'm so sorry,' he said, his voice began to sound as if it was going to crack into sobs.

She looked up and locked with his eyes. 'E-England… no, you shouldn't be apologising. I should have been stronger…'

England quickly shook his head, and scooped Northern Ireland up, placing her gently on the bed and lying down beside her. She took advantage of the equal levels of their heads and wrapped her arms around his neck. They began to kiss, slowly and cautiously at first, but when Northern Ireland began to grow in need, she deepened the kiss, and England quickly followed.

She needed to be as close with him as she could. She needed to touch him, and she needed to be touched back. Northern Ireland moved her body closer to him, and she ran her fingers slowly through his hair. She moaned softly against his mouth, trying to present her desire to him without words.

England broke away, and held Northern Ireland closely in his arms. He stared into her eyes, searching. He didn't need to search for long, as Northern Ireland's eyes glittered with lust.

'North… are you sure?' he asked quietly. 'I don't want you to do something you aren't completely sure about. I understand if you're too upset.'

Northern Ireland gave an amused breath, and moved in for another passionate kiss. 'Please…' she mumbled against his lips. 'Please touch me… Kiss me… make love to me… I need you, England…'

He obliged, and he moved so that he was leaning over her. He threw off his jacket, and pulled off his tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were already undone. Northern Ireland pulled him down for a deep kiss. England moved his hand over her thigh, and pushed her gown up. He toyed with the fabric of her panties in a teasing manner.

She squeaked, and began to hurriedly unbutton his shirt, tossing it aside when it was completely undone. England responded by pulling her night gown over her head, exposing her chest as well. He caressed and licked the area, arousing small moans from the girl.

He then stood up on his knees, undoing his belt and unbuttoning his pants. Northern Ireland sat up when he had rid himself of them. She moved her hand over his boxers, being rewarded with England's low grunts and moans.

'N-North…' he breathed.

She pulled them down, and he pulled her panties down to accompany his boxers on the abandoned heap on the floor.

They were fully exposed to each other now, and Northern Ireland lay back as England leaned over her, kissing her neck and jaw line.

England's cheek was against hers. Northern Ireland took in his scent, and the body heat emanating from him. It made her want him more. It drove her wild with an animalistic desire. She wanted - needed - him. She cooed and moaned in his ear, which was returned by more tongue-assisted and clumsy kisses.

England massaged the inside of her thighs, and between her legs for a time. Northern Ireland could feel herself heat up, growing more desperate and lustful. She clawed at his back, leaving red streaks over his skin, which served to make England more driven.

He repositioned himself slightly, and put his hand on Northern Ireland's cheek, telling her he was going to do it now. She cooed and nodded slightly, moving her hands over his chest.

He kissed her once more before entering. She squeaked as he thrust into her, and wrapped her arms around him. He began to gain a rhythm of movement. Their grunts filled the room. A tear ran from Northern Ireland's eye, and she turned her head away in an attempt to hide it from England. It was a tear of happiness, but happiness that couldn't completely mask the fact that she was still grieving. It was a confusing mix. She knew she needed England's love, and it was almost too much for her when she got it. England leaned in, cradling her by moving his arms under her back as he slowed his thrusts. He hugged her and kissed her tear, her attempt to hide it a failure. He mumbled reassuring words in her ear while she kissed him gently on his cheek.

'Nngh… England…' she murmured between little kisses. She loved him so much. So much she wanted to pour it out and serve it to him to show him just how much. 'Nngh! Ah!'

England's thrusts got wilder and more forceful. Northern Ireland gripped him tighter, enjoying his notion.

Then, almost as soon as his thrusts became more animalistic, he pulled her up from the bed. Northern Ireland yelped in shock of the sudden movement, and she clumsily tightened her grip around his neck, and wrapped her legs around his waist in an attempt to hold on. She didn't really need to, though, as England had a good grip on her. When he stood up from the bed, he supported her by holding her thighs.

Northern Ireland didn't ask what he was doing, for she knew. Their favourite.

England gently pushed Northern Ireland against the wall. It was cool compared to the bed, so a shiver was sent rolling through her body. She sighed, arching her head back.

England continued to support her thighs and restarted his rhythm of thrusting. She was looking down on him slightly now, and took this opportunity to kiss him on the forehead and on the eyebrows (her personal favourite place on his face to kiss, next to his lips of course, she had told him).

Being made love to this way made Northern Ireland's heart swell and take off on a flight inside her chest. She was being held and loved, something only England - her England - could do. The one she remembered fighting so hard to be with, and to continue to be with. The one who supported her in the same way she supported him. The one who helped her during 'the troubles.' The one she had comforted during so many nights on the battlefield. The one she would never stop loving.

They were soon washed away by a mass of sparks, each shattering over their entire bodies to produce the kind of pleasure only gained by this kind of love. Their cries filled the room and the walls appeared to shake around them. England buried his head in the base of Northern Ireland's neck, muffling his cries of pleasure so that her own ones to the ceiling seemed even louder.

'North?' England asked.

She opened her eyes. They were both lying in his bed, still naked, with the covers thrown clumsily over them. North's heartbeat was still struggling to settle down, and she could still feel a thin coat of now cool sweat on her skin.

'Hhm?'

'I'll always be here for you,' he whispered, stroking her face. 'Please know that. No matter what those other douche bags do, you'll always be top on my list.'

'Your list?' she chuckled. She assumed the 'douche bags' he was talking about were America, France and the likes. All the allies of World War Two probably made that list. 'I'm top on your list of idiots, or 'douche bags', to take care of?'

England's face flared, and he groaned, hiding a smile. 'N-No! You know what I mean…! No matter what else I have to sort out, I'll always have time for you. You're my… You're my girl… I love you so much… And- and I'm sorry I wasn't there for you during the…'

Northern Ireland finished for him. 'The funeral. No, England, don't apologise. Please. You're here with me now. I love you so much, England.'

He blushed. Northern Ireland loved it when he blushed. She snuggled up to him, feeling the warmth of his chest.

'How do you feel now?' he asked, proceeding to stroke her hair.

'So… much better,' she replied, feeling her eyes become heavier. 'So much better with you here… Thank you, England.'

Ok! Thanks for reading! What do you all think of a female Northern Ireland?

Any of you who have read my other story 'The Italian Girl' may have realised that the way I describe the sex scenes in both stories is somewhat… ah… similar. I tend to describe sex scenes with just enough that I don't have to use the words commonly associated with them. Don't get me wrong! I'm not against those kinds of words, it's just I personally don't like using them in stories (I'll happily use them for swearing, of course ^.^). I like to leave some to the imagination, also.

Whoa! A/N is too long! R and R! Thanks so much!