Tsuki no kimi: This is Kimi, if it wasn't obvious from the giant letters spelling out TSUKI NO KIMI at the beginning here. Durhur. Jewel of the Crown is actually an RP that I did with mah wife, KumaKichii, and I... like how it turned out? Well, England does get OOC n'stuff which is a li'l annoying but for the most part, he was OK. British slang... writing out British slang was FUN ;; 33. Okay, now I have to let Kichii talk.

KumaKichii: Ahh. I enjoyed writing India. Heh. Maybe it's because I get into playing serious-ish characters n'shnit. Uh… If anyone was wondering and/or cares, this is RimaxNagi. I changed my penname. For a lot of reason

—that doesn't matter right now. ANYWAY. Yes I feel like Kimi and I did a good job on this… immensely long… THING.

Tsuki no kimi: Hee, you're so cute. I hope your fans don't kill us. We're too sexy to die.

KumaKichii: Any killing of Kimi or myself is not tolerated. Thank you. -shot- Enjoy the immensely long THING.


England appraised the girl in front of him, arching a thick eyebrow at the rather sullen-looking adolescent in front of him. So this was what he had fought so hard to get with his ever-powerful Honourable (With a U, Alfred!) East India Company? He hadn't learned much about her, yet; only her name and a quick once-over of her history that was now blurring together in the Englishman's mind with all his other colony's stories. One thing he was sure about; her history would certainly get more interesting with a powerful nation like the British Empire involved. Leaning back in his armchair with a soft creak, he pushed a piece of paper towards her with two pale fingers. "Sign, please," were the only words that escaped through his lips. He just wanted to get it over with; the rich and powerful country signed over to him quickly and silently before anyone, namely that accursed frog, could snatch her away.

Staring silently at the piece of paper as if it had insulted her, the coffee-skinned girl made no move whatsoever to pick up the pen that would, inevitably, seal her fate. Her dark gaze rose from the sheet of paper to glare loathingly at the blond who was appraising her carefully. India was almost positive that the anger radiating off of her in waves was nearly tangible, though she had no intention of expressing it.

Letting out a tiny sigh, he continued staring expectantly at the soon-to-be colony as she simply started dumbly at the paper. Lord God Almighty, he was almost a little frightened of the Oriental nation now; she was staring hard enough to burn a hole through the paper! Shuddering, he turned his head away and focused on a vibrant tapestry hanging on the wall instead. "Don't you know how to write?" he scoffed quietly. Biting back the retort that threatened to escape, she continued to glare at the side of his head. Remaining unresponsive, she picked up the pen, but made no move to sign her name. Instead, she stared numbly at it while twirling it silently in her hand. Holding off on signing the paper was, in a way, a last act of defiance against the man that was, to be blunt, forcing her into an agreement that she hadn't agreed on to begin with.

England would grudgingly give her this; she was very good at dawdling. Tapping his fingernails on the teak wood of the desk, he took several deep breaths and told himself not to yell at her. After all, she was a lady—albeit a very uncivilized one that should be converted to the Holy Faith – and he was an ENGLISH GENTLEMEN. It was harder than it sounded; the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner was killing his eardrums, and it was all he could do not to stand up and scream at her to just sign the damn paper already.

No, no; he would not rush her; his boss had especially said that we had to keep the nation complacent and happy to an extent. All the better to trade with, after all.

He lost to temptation.

Quietly straightening up, he said coldly, "Well, hurry up, woman."

The coffee-skinned girl's penetrating eyes were immediately on him, and shooting him the scariest glare she hoped he'd ever seen. The pure loathing in her stare was unmistakable, but her voice portrayed absolutely no emotion as she murmured, "I have a name. Aren't you supposed to be a gentleman?" It was the first time she'd spoken since she'd entered the room, and she thought her own voice sounded loud in comparison to the silence.

Silence.

The clock ticked louder.

"I-I am a gentlemen! Don't misunderstand! I'm certainly more civilized than you!" England stammered a few completely unrelated statements in succession, pulling at his stiff collar agitatedly. Standing up, the chair making no noise against the Persian rug, he glared. "Now, sign the paper. Or I have guards waiting outside that will help convince you." Take that; the insolent girl would feel the wrath of Britannia.

Flicking her long, black hair over her shoulder, India gripped the pen hard in her dark-coloured fist while glaring in a rather intimidating way at the blonde. She glanced at the piece of paper, then pulled it a bit closer to her, sighing in defeat. "Na chhot, na chooche, nakhre noor jahan ke..." she muttered darkly to herself, and began to sign her name. In her frustration, she pressed too hard on the document and succeeded in tearing it slightly.

England watched with stony jaded eyes as she twirled the pen incessantly between her long, darkly tanned fingers before reluctantly putting the quill end to paper and writing, muttering obscenities in her native language under her breath. At least, he assumed they were obscenities; he couldn't speak Hindu or Sanskrit or whatever the bloody hell they spoke down here. That's what the translators were for, wasn't it? Besides, India's boss managed to stumble along perfectly fine in rough English.

Soon she'd be his. The thought was delightful. Pepper, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg... not to mention rice and grains. This coupled with the sugar of that boy he stole from Portugal, and the lumber of what's-his-face... it was going to make him rich.

England was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of paper tearing – for one terrible minute, he thought that she had torn the form in two – but she was simply so furious that the metal end of the pen was tearing through the paper. "Be careful!" he said sharply, glaring at her, and her only response was to mutter her native... mutterings, even more pronounced. Getting genuinely irritated now, he barked, "And watch your language!"

The paper hadn't torn too much—just a small tear along the line upon which she was supposed to sign her name. She was a bit relieved, but she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sheer annoyance at the bushy-eyebrowed pansy who was barking at her. He was starting to sound like a small, angry dog.

How the hell did he even know what she was saying? He didn't. And it annoyed her that the blonde fool was making assumptions. Before she could stop herself, her head snapped up and she glared daggers at him from her seat in the uncomfortable chair.

"Chup kar, hijra haraami!" She barked in her native tongue. She knew that he could only be mildly sure that she was insulting him. But the hatred in her eyes, coupled with the harsh way with which she'd spoken, left no room to doubt it.

"You-!" He stood straight up, collar standing up at a mildly odd angle from him pulling at it. "From now on, you will speak the Queen's English and nothing better. Do you understand me? One word of that heathen language of yours and you," he lowered his voice to little above a whisper, cheeks flushed and panting heavily, "Will be very sorry."

Slowly falling back into his seat, he fixed the Union of India with a frosty stare. "Now, finish signing the bloody paper." God, he needed some fucking booze.

Stunned at his sudden outburst, her hand faltered and the pen fell to the floor, hardly making a sound as it impacted with the rug. Although she knew it was in her best interest to retrieve it immediately and just do what the bastard wanted, the part of her that was loyal to her own country refused to let her do so.

Furthermore, she was a human being. Or to him, she was a dog that could be kicked and punished if it didn't obey its orders. She clenched her darkly-tanned fist, anger rising inside her. She felt tears sting her eyes; she would not cry. She refused to cry. She would show absolutely no weakness whatsoever to this person who had decided that she was only something of monetary value with no human life.

She wanted to scream at him, as he had done to her. To ask him how, in what way, was his country so much greater than her own. Oh, how she wanted to. How she wanted to slap him—how satisfying it would be. But she didn't. She wouldn't. Instead, she clenched her teeth. She let her dark bangs cover her eyes as she bent to pick up the pen. She did not meet his gaze.

England was used to colonies, and the furious struggle and hate they held for him. He was used to it – but that didn't mean it didn't shock him when he could feel it radiate off the oriental in powerful waves. It almost exhilarated him; it was probably the reason he let the elegant, self-satisfied smile of a noble grace his features.

Leaning forward to that his lips almost brushed the variety of earrings she wore, he breathed, "I'm glad you're finally shutting the hell up and obeying your sovereign country, Miss Advani." Pulling back, he added, "And if I were you, I'd keep signing those papers. There are several more underneath."

Her eyes still hidden by her thick, coal-black hair, India finished signing the first form. When the blonde across from her informed her that there were more underneath, she nodded slowly. "Ha," she acknowledged in Hindi, then her eyes widened upon remembering his earlier threat of the consequences that using her native tongue would bring. Not knowing what to anticipate, she flinched and shut her eyes, expecting to be struck.

England felt utterly confused, mistaking the 'ha' for a sarcastic laugh, but from the way her body suddenly convulsed and her eyes squeezed shut, she was expecting to be hit. He had to blink a couple times to finally understand that she had spoken some kind of assent in her own language; but the reaction? He dimly remembered his boss lecturing him on her history, saying something about several of the Middle-East section invading her a great deal. That nutter in the mask, Turkey, not to mention Persia and god-knows-who-else. With this in mind, England reluctantly ignored the outburst. "Nearly done?"

Relieved that he, at the moment, had no plans to strike her, she gave a small nod, afraid to speak for fear of lapsing back into her own language. She scribbled her name quickly on the remaining forms and pushed them toward him, staring down at her lap.

He took the form off the table, putting them into his briefcase carefully so as not to wrinkle them. He did need to take them back to the others, after all; and perhaps he would wave them in that wine freak's face just for the fun of it. "Ha, ha, you frog! I got the colony! Now all you have is a little crappy island called Pondicherry! What kind of screwed up name is that?"

Smirking, he moved his emerald eyes over to where the girl – not the girl, India, his colony – was sitting, looking rather resentful. "Thank you – though it took you long enough," he sniffed distastefully. "Now, before we go over some things - WHERE IS MY TEA."

The coffee-skinned girl stared at him blankly and shrugged. She had no idea what he was talking about, to be honest. And she was damned if he was going to treat her like a slave and force her to do anything he wanted.

It didn't take a genius to realize that India had no idea what he was talking about; sighing, he stood up. "Stupid Yao," he muttered to himself. "All bent out of shape about his tea, with his bloody rebellions – " Standing up, he gestured frantically to one of the guards outside, who was quickly dispatched and sent running. The said guard, quite frankly, had no idea what the short little five-foot-nine fiend with the monstrous eyebrows even was to order him around; possibly some kind of small-time military general? Either way, he did what the island nation asked. Damn straight. Happy with a porcelain cup in front of him, he sipped daintily (Not girly! Daintily!) and eyed his new colony appreciatively. "Now, you know what is expected of you, correct?"

Still not meeting the blonde's gaze, India twirled a strand of coal-black hair around her darkly-tanned fingers. She was silent for several moments, not really sure if he'd been asking a rhetorical question—should she know what was expected of her? She didn't. "Enlighten me."

"Still rather rude, but that'll be solved in time. Once you realize that Britannia has the whole world in their fist, you'll treat me differently." Rolling his eyes, he laid his pale hands on the table as a kind of point; they were pale on the outside, but clearly calloused on the palms. "You see this, India? This is from working out on the fields, through famine and drought, since before Rome. I've worked hard to build this empire, and you're not taking it away from me." He carefully let the sleeves of his frock-coat fall over his hands. "There will be no rebelling; you will be wasting your time. I see that look in your eyes; you're dying to slap me, aren't you? But you won't dare, not to the British Empire whom the sun never sets on. Understand?"

Clenching her darkened fists, India bit down on her lip hard enough that she thought it may bleed. So far, he'd been wrong in everything he'd done—in everything he said. But this time, for the first time, he was a hundred percent correct: she WAS dying to slap him. Or rather, ninety-nine percent correct. He'd said that she wouldn't dare lay a hand on him.

This was the point at which he had made his mistake. There had to be a line somewhere—and there was. A line that India had unconsciously laid down. And this blonde bastard had just crossed it. There would be consequences for this, she knew. She didn't care. Sometimes, the satisfaction of an action far outweighed the consequences.

Rising to her feet swiftly, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face in a quick, whiplike movement. The resulting sound was a sharp crack unlike anything she'd heard before. She should slap people more often.

The island nation's eyes widened as he felt a hand strike his face; it took several long, tense moments for England to realize that she had – had slapped him. He slowly opened his mouth, only to have his usual colourful vocabulary fail him. Finally, he just said in a low voice, "Did you just – hit me?"

The dark-skinned girl's eyes suddenly widened at her own actions. Had she hit him? The answer, obviously, was yes. She had. To an extent, she was glad she'd done it. However, she'd been too blinded by her own fury to really think about what she was going to do—but someone didn't really think about slapping a person before they did it, did they? At this point, she wished that she had.

She'd known that there would be consequences, but she didn't know what they would be. And by the look on the dominant country's face, they were going to be severe. Lowering her hand, she bowed her head, waiting for him to condemn her.

Finding his voice again, he stood up so abruptly that the chair was knocked over and, with a loud clatter, fell to the floor. Fuming, he closed the distance between them, forcing India's chin up with a pale hand; Ivory against a pale honey-brown. "Look at me," he snarled, "Look. At. Me. I am your sovereign, and you do. Not. Slap. Me." With every word that escaped past his lips, he dealt another blow to her face. "Do you understand?" Breathing hard, he took a step back. On the outside, he was as coolly indifferent as ever; on the inside, he was reeling from horror. The last time he had lost his temper like that — images flashed before his mind's eye. Documents, arguments, stars and stripes, gunpowder, cold blue eyes staring hatefully at him over the edge of a bayonet. He tried to repress a shudder.

India sank to the floor, her eyes wide and staring at nothing. Her darkened skin was taking on a reddish tint, though it wouldn't turn the scarlet that his fair flesh had when she'd struck him. Granted, he'd hit her one hell of a hot harder than she'd dared to slap him—and more than once.

The strong-spirited girl now stared at the rug, tears threatening to spill down her burning, stinging cheeks in a torrent; thus far, she'd refused to let herself cry. But now, she wasn't sure she could maintain that resolve.

She lifted her head to stare at him from the floor, trying to show that she still had the dignity she was fighting to hard to hold onto. She tried to show the hate she expressed for him in her eyes. But she was sure that the only thing he could see was the eyes of a frightened child on the verge of tears. The eyes of a dog whilst being abused by its master. She was aware that he knew he'd won. He knew she couldn't fight back. The pitiful look in her eyes that she tried to hide made her feel weak and unable to defend herself. But she couldn't do anything about it.

He knew from the minute she sank to the floor, that he had won. He had not only legally, but physically conquered the fierce nation. Almost self-possessed, he started walking resolutely and slowly towards the fallen nation, until his shins were only about a foot apart from her forehead. "Have you given up yet, India?" he breathed softly. "Have you finally realized the power of the British Empire?"

She would not show weakness. She couldn't. She refused to acknowledge his presence—refused to let him know that he had, indeed, beaten her. Her spirit had been crushed; there was nothing left to fight for. But her stubborn mind refused to let her give up. However, her mind couldn't control her body's involuntary actions. Even though she willed herself not to be weak, not to cry, tiny, hot tears slid down her still-stinging cheeks and fell silently to the rug. He had won.

The nation grinned; the wicked leer of a conqueror, the side he had only dared to show South Africa and Brazil and now her. In a split-second, he had swung one leg over her waist and pushed her into the floor; after so many conquests, he had learned to make quick work of it. He almost chastised himself for being so careful as he pushed her; but when it came down to it, even if she was a pagan, she was a woman first, he thought resentfully. Letting a hand trail down her side, he murmured, "is this your first time?" – in case she hadn't really guessed what was happening by now.

The dark-skinned girl's eyes widened. This bipolar sonofabitch had just, to be blunt, beaten her, and now he was attempting rape? What kind of whore did he take her for? She wasn't about to be used like some kind of toy—she was damned if he was going to strip her of her last ounce of dignity... Or for that matter, her clothes.

"Randhwa!" she snarled, and taking advantage of his position, she recoiled her leg, her knee striking home with as much force she could muster. She'd like to see him try anything now.

He let out a gasp of pain as she kneed him right there. Oh bloody FUCK, she had definitely put a serious dent in Big Ben now; she— she destroyed a national monument! Unforgivable!

Grimacing, he gave her a glare that would usually send Brazil running for the sugarcane fields. "You—you—" he sputtered, before wincing at the tingle that shot through his spine as he tried to stand up. God, had he actually gotten turned on by the other nation for a brief moment – no, second, millisecond – there? No, no, no, no, she was a colony; it was WRONG and UNPROFESSIONAL. Shit. Gnawing on his lip furiously, he got up, more slowly this time. "If you really don't want it that much, I suppose I can let you go today," he said, trying for a lofty tone. "But it will happen someday. After all, you belong to me; you have nowhere else to go."

She gave him the most intimidating glare she could, resisting the urge to burst into wild laughter. "Next time, I'll cut it off. Don't fuck with me. I mean that literally."

Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't even dream of fucking with you now, England thought sarcastically, almost groaning to himself at the pun. Looks like his British Comedy wasn't in tip-top shape today after that escapade. Dusting off his pants irritably, he awkwardly took his hat from the hatstand in the corner, and put it on his head distractedly. "I really wouldn't put it past a barbarian like you," he said coldly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. We still have to discuss more trade routes. Eight-thirty AM sharp, please. A lady must be punctual, and I'm determined to turn you into one, whatever your opinion." He silently opened the door and left, reflecting on the horrible afternoon.