Author Note: I do not own Hetalia or any of the countries but I am Russian, American, Irish, and a bit of Indian. Not to mention my grandmother is jewish, so there. Suck it. Hope that you enjoy the story, please leave reviews and comments if you want. No flames, I will go a mix of Spetnaz and Green berets on your butt.
England smirked at his cleverness. The plan was absolutely without a doubt flaw proof, with a flick of a wrist and a few important words he would rein superior…. At the next G8 meeting that is. He had studied the perplexing incantation for weeks in his private study, and now following his gut and ability to correctly pronounce the text, he was positive that he finally had it down. He was not doing anything extreme or that drastic, he was simply casting a spell over America. Every time England tried to pitch his opinion or ideals to the rest of the eight members, Alfred would contradict and interrupt him. There was only so much the Britain could stand before mentally snapping. Now it was his turn for revenge. England opened the leather-bound book and cleared his throat before steadily reading the text of his spell book; he kept his eyes transfixed out the window toward the direction of the United States. A maleficent aura formed around his figure and a spontaneous wind began to swirl around the private room, causing text books to soar off the shelves and papers to lift up in the air. However, he stopped in the middle of chant when the book became hot to the touch and scorch the palms of his hands. He glanced down worriedly and dropped it in surprise, backtracking a bit before something hit him square in the gut. He instantly was thrown backward and slammed straight into the wall, as if he was hit with the grill of the truck. England stared at the book in awe, watching as the bloody thing stopped its rampage and then closed up all on its own. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull he sat on his hunches and rubbed his torso and abdomen, checking for any injuries that he could feel. Luckily, he felt known but had a foreboding feeling in the back of his mind that he would have a large bruise in the morning. Arthur then limped out the room and reminded himself mentally to clean it up later.
"Well, bloody hell." He sighed, "That's what you get for trying to curse someone England. I'll work on it more tomorrow but for now it is off to bed." He winced and coughed, shedding his clothes as he lumbered to the bedroom. Maybe he would get a maid, less cleaning up from his bollocks plans.
He stopped in the threshold of his bedroom to scan the area, his bedspread was of course personalized just for him; the comforter was the British flag. The royal blue, striking red, and pure white representing his country. Which he held much pride for. An isolated office desk was located in the adjacent corner, the top littered with paperwork and some paid bills. Besides that, there was a television set with a few documentaries and maybe one box-set of a famous television show in America. He could not deny. They did have interesting shows. He glanced at the off-white colored walls and scrutinized a few pictures of the other nations and himself before shuffling over to the bed. Arthur collapsed on to the bed with a little too much enthusiasm, feeling almost completely drained. He stared at the wall for a few minutes and then turned his head to the left before attempting to get comfortable. He kicked off his shoes and listened them hit the floor and then averted his eyes away from the wall to the digital clock that rested on a nightstand. It was around the time that he would make dinner. Letting out a lethargic sigh he let his eyes flutter close, leaving himself to his thoughts for a few minutes. This all happened because America did not pay attention to him, not to his ideals or to anything he wanted. He yawned. England was always second in his mind, no matter in what form he would never be seen for what he really was. Arthur rolled over onto his back and then snapped his eyes open, feeling his face get warm with slight agitation.
"That stupid git. For once, could he not think of himself…" and think about me for once. England then felt a presence to his right and glanced over at the corner of his eye, his friends; the unicorn and the other mythical creatures cooed and tried to console him. He gave them a reassuring smile before turning onto his side once more and pulling the pillow over his head, letting sleep take him away from his troubles.
Unfortunately a peaceful repose was not a comfort either. His dreams were out of complete category being sane. This first was the occasional revolutionary war, while the second was completely idiotic. France was murdered and turned into a giant pizza pie and Italy ate him, while the pepperoni France screamed bloody murder. Then Germany got in a fist-fight with Sealand and they both declared it a draw went to get hot chocolate together. To prevent these dreams from scarring his mind forever, England forced himself awake by opening his eyes and was immediately greeted with a pounding headache. Go figure. The blinding light of the breathtaking dawn seeped through the blinds and crawled across the floor and onto the bedspread. Hitting England directly in the face making his headache worse. Sometimes he wished the breathtaking dawn, wasn't so breathtaking. Arthur urged his aching body to sit up and then as soon as he did, he felt an annoying weight pressing down on his chest. He closed his eyes once more and waited to get accustom to the unusual defect in gravity, maybe his skirmish last night had taken a mighty toll on him. He placed a hand over his heart when he was greeted with something abnormal to say the least. His heart stopped at bit but then continued to beat; it wasn't a tumor or a growth because it was… warm and soft to the touch. Maybe his shirt had gotten balled up to his chest in his slumber; he pulled the hem of the white tank with his free hand and then frowned.
"That is weird, then what the fuck his th-aaahhhh!" He removed his hand from his chest in fright and wiped it on the blanket, as if the thing he had just groped was tainted with poison. He then glanced down and began to hyperventilate. There they were, protruding from his once manly chest was a pair of developed b-cup sized breasts. England than screamed at the top of his lungs, loud enough to wake up the poor queen of England.