Hello again! I'm on fire now~, can't make myself to stop typing...whatever I was going to type. Haha~, anyways. Welcome to this new one-shot and I really, really wanted to try this out for a verso long time now! Drums rolls please!... wait for it, wait for it! A ScotMano one-shot! I think those two are so arable together, I was like fuck, and immediately thought, "I have the most freaking best idea EVER!" *cackles*. Ahem! Anyways...let's start with the—uh—warnings! (Genius strikes again!) I don't own anything, not the pic I used. I unfortunately don't own the characters I used, they rightfully belong to mister Hidekaz Himaruya-sensei.
That's all I have to say~
Enjoy~, please do!
He smoked, he knew it was a bad habit and everyone around him tell his so. He can't stop—he wished he did, but he just can't!—it's really hard to explain. Scotland loved how the nicotine came in contact with his tongue—it had a special taste that he couldn't deduce—and how his longs burned from it. He's simply put; addicted to the taste.
If stressed? Smoke.
If mad? Smoke.
If angry? Smoke.
If feeling confused? Smoke.
If feeling distressed? Smoke.
If feeling happy? Smoke..? (#YOLO & #whynot?)
Well, for every feeling he felt is smoking his only solution and escape. An exasperate sigh escaped his lips, he felt like he needed a smoke right now—the meeting would begin in a quarter or so. The redhead pulled a pack of Marlboro cigarets—because he needed to attend a meeting in America, rubbish—and searched in his trouser for his green lighter. He lit the cigarette on, protecting it from the wind before taking a long drag from it. He leaned on the cold brick wall, skimming over the garden, his eyes flickering and studying every faces that were visible in his eyesight. He heard footsteps coming closer—it might be some kind illusion or it was his paranoia that kicked in.
He saw a brunet stomping in his direction, hands in his pockets and a weird looking hair curl bouncing wildly with every step he took. It was one of the Italian brothers, which one? He couldn't tell, because he wasn't that much acquainted to them to tell them apart. On the other hand, his little brother and one of the Italians were still very good friends and on good terms even from their childhood—they get along splendid, to say the least.
He heard the latter grumble incoherent Italian before hazel?—no amber..?—eyes looked at him and when the Italian noticed his presence. He stopped walking, his face scrunched up in what seemed to be disgust and disdain, "You know smoking isn't good, right?" The brunet deadpanned, looking at him with a dry expression in his eyes.
"Ah ken, lass, ah ken." The Scot gave in, even if they were nations and almost immune to every diseases and are practically immortal, smoke is a rare exception and it can damage them physically. "I-i' just, ah cannae stop." He explained, and it was a (very) lame excuse; he knew it and the lad probably did too. Scotland took another drag, rubbing his nape.
The Italian huffed and crossed his arms, his lips curled in a frown, he clicked his tongue in disdain. He stomped to were the redhead was leaning against, he took the cigarette away from the Scot's lips and crushed it with the sole of his brown leather boot and also taking the entire box and chucking them expertly in the nearest garbage he could find with much grace and finesse in his movement. Such a good aim, he thought. The Italian turned around and faced him once again before simply adding, "This, is a beginning, idiot." The brunet walked briskly away from him and muttering a quiet but audible "Ciao."
The redhead was stunned and he snapped back to reality mere moments ago, "Wait," he yelled, "Whit's yer name?" He called out.
His heart skipped a beat.
The brunet barely turned around, gave him a two-finger wave and a small smirk displaying on his lips before walking in the hallway along with the crowd of other nations that attended this meeting.
The Scot smiled, "A mysterious one, ay?" He mused aloud. He smirked and pulled one more cigarettes out his trouser—for emergencies, he grinned goofy—and lit it up with his lighter.
The sky was blue, the sun was shining and there were no clouds in the sky. How the fuck could it change so drastically?!
It rained cats and dogs a few seconds after he lit one, "Fuck!" Scotland cursed loudly, karma really is a bitch, eh? He heeded back inside, back in the conference room—it was almost time anyways. He was just in time when the meeting was starting again, he sat next to his younger brother. And, And just when he's back inside everything began to clear just like that! The Scot groaned, banged his head against the table and he cursed his luck and a lot of other holy beings and shit.
His younger brothers were all smirking, all had a mischievous gleam in their green eyes. Oh, what a little magic can do.
Admits all the people of countries, a pair of earthy eyes looked at the Scotsman with interest, he laughed quietly to himself and payed attention on the ranting American.
Scotland felt like something—nae, more like someone was staring at him, he peeked from his protective circle of arms, scanning the entire room but there was nobody that looked at him. It must be his imagination.
His breath hitched in his throat.
It's him; the same man from before. Next to him was somebody that could pass as a replica of him, but not quite. He was like the "lighter" version of him. The Scot snorted.
Scotland was chilling inside their shared house, the British Isles sometimes live together for a week or something—it depends on how they get along. A cigarette was pressed against his lips, he looked out the window, watching the scenery—it's raining again.
He heard the front main door open and being slammed again, "Bollocks!" He heard and a string of curses that follows.
He saw two people coming in the living room out the corners of his eye, he turned his head so he could look better at the persons. They were completely drenched to the bone, they were in a argument.
"I told you that I need an umbrella, bastard!" The Scot narrowed his eyes, he recognized that voice.
"It was good weather when you called!" England snapped, his green eyes blazing.
"Good weather my ass, Arthur!" He retorted with sarcasm. "You own me hundred Euros, bastard!" The brunet sticked his hand out.
The Brit grumbled and searched in his wallet and slammed the money indignantly in the tan hand.
The glared at each other. A loud cough interrupted their contest and made them look at the onlooker, it was him. Scotland smiled charmingly, "'Ello, fancy meeting ye 'ere. Ah didn't quite catch yer name last time. Mind tellin' yer name?"
He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Italy Romano, bastard." He answered plainly, like it was the easiest question in his life to answer.
He smiled amiable, "Nice ter meet ye! Ma name's-"
"Scotland." Romano finished his sentence, "Yeah, I know you bastard." He huffed, "Weird that you didn't recognized me the last time."
The redhead cocked his head to the side, is he supposed to know him?
The brunet rolled his eyes but didn't explain it further, instead, he hinted the unprepared Brit in the head with his fist.
"Ow! What the fuck was that for?!" England questioned angrily.
"For you being an old bastard, bastard!" Romano said.
"What I'm not!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
The Scot tuned their bickering, not wanting to hear more of it, he took another drag of his cigarette, hoping that they wouldn't see because they were to enrolled with their argument to even notice. Nope, they did—screw his luck.
Romano snatched his burning cigarette away and his wee brother throwed his box away in the trashcan there nearby. Fucking prats, no respect for their elders—it was meant to stay inside his mind then slipping past his lips.
They both snorted, "We have loads of respect, brother mine." The blond replied with sarcasm and venom.
The redhead scoffed and rolled his eyes.
"I'm going to start making dinner, bastards." Romano announced out the blue, since when was he staying here?
"I'll help you out." England offered but his offer was shot down immediately.
"No! Fuck no! Like I'm stupid to let you near the kitchen, moron." was his blunt and harsh answer.
"It's my kitchen, git!"
"Like I care." He throwed back.
"I was saying about the dessert."
The brunet sighed in exasperation, flailing his arms in the air, "Fine! Fine, you can help." He gave in, because the only thing he could do right was baking. Surprisingly, his desserts weren't shit.
The duo made their way in the kitchen, the redhead looked warily around, they wouldn't see him, just when he was trying to lit his other cigarette up a frying pan came hurling in his direction, it flied past him and smacked the wall instead of him. "Don't even think about it, bastard!" Romano warned his tone cold as ice, his voice sended chills down his spine.
When dinner came, and all the brothers were present. The Italian explained why he was here and will be staying for the whole week—something to do with running some errants with their governments, teaching Arthur how to cook properly—and it took a lot of effort for England to bribe Romano for teaching how to cook, meaning ten years free tomatoes, how could he possibly pass at such a wonderful offer?—seeing the sights and some other shit. Throughout the dinner, he would casually feel a pair of watching eyes looking at him, and that made the Scot fidget in his seat from time to time, in a blink of an eye the watchful eyes are gone. He looked around, maybe somebody saw, but no-one seemed to notice.
He sighed and raked a hand through his scarlet locks. This is going to be a long weak, he smiled—but worth it.
Scotland was sitting on a bench in the Culzean Castle's garden, the sun was out and he really did have a beautiful view of the pond and its nature that surrounded him and the castle was located behind his back. He was dressed in casual clothes; a green pullover over a white dress shirt, black washed jeans and Converse, his khaki trench coat laying neatly folded next to him—it was particularly warm for April, he felt like he would suffocate in it. He took another drag from his newly listed cigarette, the work had been more than ever and he really was stresses out lately in the past few weeks—it was mentally draining him. He took another exasperated drag, running his air in his scarlet locks ad looked in the sky; it was ocean blue with small white clouds.
Somebody sat beside, he didn't need him/her to give him/her his permission to sit down next to him because, after all, it's a public place. "Nice weather, huh?" The man said.
The redheaded Scot recognized that voice; it was smooth and suave laced with an Italian accent and impossible to miss. "'Ello, how yer doin'?" He inquired and faced the brunet that sat on the beach with him, "Fancy meeting ye 'ere." He smiled charmingly, "Whit's yer doin' 'ere?" He questioned curiously. Now he could see the Italian fully, he was dressed awfully formal for going to a place like this; a white dress shirt a few buttons undone so that his necks exposed, a black overcoat over a grey waistcoat, a pair of black slacks, some leather shoes, his wine red tie undone and a black and grey fedora resting on his brown tresses, almost completely shielding his eyes—the way he looked, was like a predator searching for its prey. He pulled that look in a very fashionable way, he could pass as a male model in the best model agency of the world.
"I have some business to arrange." Romano answered simply, but in a vague way.
Scotland snorted and took another inhale of the cancer-stick, "The Underworld is tha' wide, eh." He mused aloud, looking back at the peaceful scenery.
The brunet scowled angrily and snatched the cigarette away, crushed it between his right hand and glared at the dumb Scot who sighed in defeat. "I'm not proud of it." He muttered lowly, his voice grim and his eyes dark.
"An' ah thought tha' ye were admiring the architecture." He joked, laughing amiable.
"I was, bastard, the person who built this construction did a pretty god job." He complimented, his eyes scanning over the park.
"Ay, 'e did."
The brunet pulled his sleeve up, watching his wristwatch and stood on his feet, "I need to go, I have some business to attend." Scotland rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what he meant. "Ciao." He slowly walked away.
"Guidbye." The redhead bode him a farewell. He smirked when the Italian turned his back against him and searched for his box with cigarettes one to find out that it was gone.
This time, Romano smirked in victory, waving the box like he was saying goodbye.
"Wha-?" He said confused, he few moments later he progressed what the Italian had done to him, "Tha' sneaky wee bastard." He chuckled lowly and slumped against the wooded bench. Somehow, the nature reminded him of Romano; calm and unexpected.
This time, it was Scotland next to hold a meeting. He really was stressed to let this meeting run on wheels, hopefully everything would go smooth, but it wasn't—much to his disappointment. The least to say, it wasn't going vanilla and smooth like he prayed it to be, nope, not even one bit. He sighed, and raked his gloved hand through his scarlet hair—he really needed a smoke right now. He called that this meeting would continue in the morning, most nations nodded or grumbled in agreement—if they would be trapped in this conference room for an hour or worse, they would go completely insane and totally livid. He waited patiently for all the nations to gather their belongings and exited the room going wherever they want to. He stretched his muscles, saying contently when they popped back in their rightful places.
He saw Romano and England walking out the door together, underling talking to each other in hushed voices and they were the last to leave the conference room. His stomach twisted and churned uncomfortably, somehow, it made him feel sick, like he wanted to puke his guts out...
He raked a hand through his hair and gathered everything. He made sure to close and lock the conference room, he first dropped his stuff in his shared room with Canada, he gave a kind hello and ruffled his hair before exiting his room and made his way to the garden that should be desolated at this time—most nations must have gone somewhere or to the hotel's bar to hang around. Nobody would interrupt his alone time with his cigarette.
The Scot caressed the rose petals for awhile, admiring how well they were tended, the person who looked after the garden really did put his love in it—you could see it in the flowers. He choosed a spot were he overlook the fountain. He looked in the sky, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, he searched in his trouser for his box of cigarettes before it was yet snatched away by the same person countless times before. Scotland stood back on his foot, he made a move to get his beloved cigarettes bad but Romano stopped him by putting his hand on his firm chest and trowed it away somewhere so that wouldn't be his problem anymore.
"Whit te fuck did ye do tha' for?!" The Scot exploded, his patience gone thin, anger radiating of his body.
"Stop doing it!" Romano shot back, already irritated.
"I's one of yer business what ah can or nae!" The furious redhead hollered, towering over the smaller man but the Italian stood his ground and didn't even flinched.
He crossed his arms, his face scrunched up in disdain and huffed indignantly, "Why do you smoke so much?!" He snapped, "You know smoke can affect us!"
"Ah addicted to taste, alright?!" Scotland responded back, his eyes blazing with fire.
The brunet grabbed a fistful of his navy uniform and pulled so that the Scot was at his height, their faces were so close together that the redhead could feel his moist earth ghosting his face, Romano inhaled sharply, "How about I make you addicted to something else entirely?" He suggested deviously, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
The Scot narrowed his eyes in suspicion and cocked his head to the side, searching in his eyes what he might do next. He expected almost everything but kissing him full on his lips was the last thing he would expect.
A matter of seconds, their lips moved in sync, the Scot pulled the Italian closer to his body. The brunet tiptoed so that he could reach him and the Scot bended over slightly. Romano licked at his underlip, asking entrance that he immediately gave without any sign of hesitation. The brunet tasted like coffee, vanilla and tomatoes—an odd combination but he enjoyed it all the more. They fought for dominance and it was Scotland who won, he mapped every corner and everything in his mouth. He moved his lips away, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses, he could smell a faint whiff of cologne, lavender, tomatoes and herbs that he could name or place even if he wanted to. He licked the tan skin before sinking his teeth in the soft, smooth and silk skin, nibbling and sucking on the spot. Romano let out a breathy moan, his eyes pressed tightly together. Scotland left a few more love bites before claiming the Italian's bruised lips again in a fierce yet passionate kiss. They parted for needed air, Romano rested his forehead against the Scot's firm chest, both panted heavily and Scotland had his arms securely around his slim waist.
One kiss was all he needed to make the redhead addicted to the smell and taste. He yearned for more, needed more or else he would go crazy.
His taste; it tasted familiar.
His scent; it smelled familiar.
All too familiar... his memory hazy and foggy.
"Ello, love." He greeted, smiling lovingly at his...lover.
Romano smiled, tears of happiness welled in his eyes, he latched on his neck making the Scot stumble in progress before he regained his footing and balance. The brunet whispered, "Welcome back, Alistair."
A.N.:
Well, this is it! It's done and I have a lot of fun writing all the parts of it. I'm really satisfied with end result!
Uhm, first thought was to make a one-shot and complete it. Then I have this brilliant idea of making various one-shots of the nations bad habits. The next one shot that I have in mind are as follows;
South Italy: dangerous thoughts
France: flirting
England: daydreaming
America: obsessions
Russia: childish violence
That's all I can come up with for now, I'm open for any request. You can pm or post a review.
Hope you all enjoyed it.
Sincerely,
-JessicaStarCrossed
