When a Curse Goes Wrong
Author's Note: Hey! What's up. The sky. My boring, boring ceiling. Whatever. So anyway, if you're actually reading this shit, wanna know how I came up with this really, really stupid story? Seeing as you're still here, I'm assuming so. So anyway, I was having some seriously bad cramps, and I was like ?hy don't men have to go through this crap, dammit? I'll have England place a curse on them so every man will have a period and go through what women do...*grumble grumble* So I'm back to my usual, cheerful, sunny disposition now, yay! But the idea stuck in my head. And yeah, this was born.
Please note! I DO make a reference to World War Two and the Holocaust. I'm aware that this may be upsetting to some people, the way it is brought up. Please keep in mind that I did not mean it for it to sound any such way. I'm assuming that the Allies may harbor some kind of vendetta against Germany for what happened in the past, but don't dare say it. Please excuse any bluntness.
Warnings: Genderbend, fail cursing (the magical kind...), naughty language, details of a woman's coming of age, England being a pissy idiot and making nasty WW2 references, etc. :|
Number of Words: 719 (After Chapter One)
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, nor do I own cursing of any kind or genderbending. Genderbendation. Whatever.
Chapter One:
Location: World Conference in London, England.
"You bloody fucking idiot! How in the name of the queen are we going to build a gigantic hero out of nothing to shield the Earth from the Sun? Not only would that stop global warming, it'd stop any heat or light from reaching the bloody planet at all!" England screamed at top volume. He was sick and tired of his son saying such stupid things, in front of people he knew!
"We'll make it out of pure awesomeness!" America declared.
"Hear, hear!" Prussia concurred in the noisy background.
England sputtered. "How in the hell are you even going to do that, you bloody wanker?"
Germany sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His doctor had told him that even though he was a nation, his body could still have human sickness and weaknesses, and that if he didn't stop screaming at a conference room full of people, his anger would raise his blood pressure to dangerously high levels. Not to mention that his yelling scared Italy. He was doing his best to keep his temper under control, but it was so hard to do, especially with this happening.
He removed his hand from his face and faced the two blondes. "Gentlemen, can we please just settle down and handle this diplomatically? You're being a bit ridiculous."
England spun on his heel, taking out all his pent-up anger on the poor German in swoop. "DON'T tell me what to do, you bloody FUCKING NAZI!"
The room went silent. Unusually so. Everyone could hear the Brit huffing in outrage, North Italy slurping his bowl of pasta, America whistling long and low at the extreme insult, and Germany simply standing there in shock. True, his boss had orchestrated the death of over 9 million people, but did England really believe that he, as the country avatar, had much choice? It hurt him, hurt more than anyone could imagine, every time each one of his people were killed in such horrible ways.
You could have heard a pin drop. But instead of a pin dropping, a chair scraped against the carpet. Italy had gotten out of his seat and was making his way towards the front of the room, twirling pasta on his fork.
Everyone thought that he was probably going to give Germany a hug, tell him that he loved him, and offer him some pasta since it made the world go 'round. But was happened next was quite a shocker.
Italy walked right past Germany, and stood in front of England. And dumped the contents of his bowl over the Brit's head.
England blinked repeatedly, tomato sauce sliding down his cheek. The long, slippery, cheese and tomato sauce-covered noodles proceeded to slide off his head into his lap. On an Armani suit. Goddammit.
The room was still frozen as if General Winter had paid a visit, even in the dead middle of summer. Italy skipped back to his seat, glomping Germany on his way back and happily swinging his now-empty bowl back and forth as he sat down.
The silence was broken by the deep, throaty laughing of one Francis Bonnefoy. He slapped the table, leaning over, unable to catch his breath. Canada patted his back as he wheezed and coughed, laughter dying down and re-erupting every time he looked at the Englishman, who was still blinking in confusion.
Alfred had already taken several pictures with his camera phone and forwarded them to everyone in his address book.
"Oh, mon ami! He really got you. Little harmless Italy! Who knew!" France choked out.
England furrowed his thick eyebrows. What the bloody hell had just happened? How had Italy, Italy of all people, embarrased him so? The little brunette had always been terrified by him. It seemed that whenever Germany was threatened, Italy had newfound strength. Or something like that.
But now it was not America who was the laughingstock of the room. No, the one all the countries were laughing at and pointing their fingers at? Yes, it was him.
His blood boiled and absolute fury raced through every vein in his body. Oh, Italy would pay. He would pay dearly for his actions.
And with those angered, evil thoughts, he stormed out of the room, concluding the meeting.