Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed! It's appreciated. :) If you want to, you can suggest prompts for me to write. I'll select those that give me inspiration. Enjoy.

I, America, am the world's only superpower – shut up, China, your GDP per capita is still fuck lower than mine, so there – and therefore, the honour of narrating this most dark and harrowing tale falls to me. Me. Me. Me.

This tale is christened thus….: How France Got England to Let Him Call Him a Rabbit

And it began like so: on a dark and stormy night, with big scary alien ships landing in random giant craters –

Russia interjects: It was not dark or stormy, America. It was the middle of England's summer. It was quite unpleasantly hot and sunny. And aliens live only in your house and in your head.

Oh, whatever. Details. And aliens do so exist. But, back to the story. On that dark and stormy day, we were wrapped up in this World Meeting that was, like, so unbelievably boring, and the only entertaining thing going on was France and England having it out again.

(Cut to Meeting Room in some random hotel:

France: Mon lapin, I am bored. Entertain me.

England: I'm not a walking bloody TV. Listen to Germany if you're so bored.

France: But, mon lapin, Ludwig is the reason why I am so bored.

England: ….

France: Mon lapin –

England: …

France: Oh, mon lapin…

England: …

France: Mon laaaaapiiiiiiin…

England: …Shut the hell up! And if you call me that again, I shall rip off your head and feed it to the sharks. And then your bloody remains can sink down to Davy Jones' locker and rot there.

France: …But you used to love rabbits so much, Angleterre! Do you remember when you were but a child –

England: Shut up.

France: But what shall I call you instead?

Germany: Pay attention, please, France and England.

England: Call me whatever you want, you damn frog. You've gotten us into trouble as it is.

End Scene)

And that is how the 'most delightful game' or 'bloody nightmare' depending on whether you listen to France or England – but then again, you're listening to me, right? Me. So we're calling it the England and France Being Stupid Show, or EFBSS.

Russia cuts in: I do not think England is going to be pleased, America. And you have promised him that you will eat his scones the next time you visit him.

Oh. Fuck. Well, then, we can just call it The Show.

(Cut to England's house in England on a rainy day:

France: Mon canard! I brought you some wonderful food, so that you will not starve on your inedible British contrivings. Look, there are chicken sandwiches, and fruit tarts, and some divine chocolate ice-cream, and oh, isn't that a coincidence, there's roasted duck. Shall we feast?

England: … You called me a duck.

France: Ah, yes. Does it please you?

England: And you brought duck to eat.

France: You are slow on the uptake, mon canard. Has it been raining more than usual?

England: …

End of scene – apologies for the slight disruption caused by France screaming and running away from sword-wielding England)

Well, that was the first of France's new endearments for England. Not one of his smarter moments, but then again, no-one's as smart as me, huh, Russia?

Russia: …as you say, dorogoy.

(Cut to France's house during an after-boring-meeting party:

England: Your garden's improved since I last saw it, frog.

France: Ah yes, I planted several rose bushes, since you will not have roses in your garden. An adorable eccentricity.

England: Why have you got such a ton of cabbages, though? Have you gone on a cabbage-recipe spree?

France: Well, I was thinking of you, actually, Angleterre. You see, I have thought of a new name by which to call you! It is mon chou.

England: …Cabbage.

France: That is true. Is it not brilliant? Cabbage is green, and your eyes are green. Cabbage is stiff and old-fashioned in the traditions of healthy eating, and you are so strung up all the time. Cabbage is –

England: I'm going to rip you to pieces and cook you like cabbage, you bloody frog!

France: But, mon chou, your cooking, it is terrible. I would not wish to go in such a way.

End of scene, viewers who vomited from the violent swinging of the camera are asked to take note that it was Prussia holding it and he kind of got caught up in the chase-and-kill France debacle)

That was totally hilarious, wasn't it, Russia? I spilled my drink laughing.

Russia: You spilled it on me.

I know. Your hair goes all sort of dark blond when it's wet.

(Cut to the White House on a gorgeous autumn day:

America: Aw, come on, Iggy, my boss won't mind it if you turn up not-so-stuffily-dressed all the time. You look like something out of a Vistonian novel or something.

England: Victorian novel, America. And I'm not stuffily dressed, I'll have you know. Most businesspeople in this century wear this form of attire. It's merely a suit. You, on the other hand, do need to reconsider your dress. That stupid clown nose and big rubber Pikachu shoes are completely inappropriate.

France: Don't be like that, Sourcils. I believe that America's people have a predilection of Kiku's Pokémon. He is reflecting his citizens.

England: Even so – what did you call me?

America: He called you sor-cee, saucy? Oh, wow, that's so not you, huh, Iggy?

France: It is not actually pronounced that way, Amerique. It is –

England: You called me 'Eyebrows', you bloody frog!

France: Well, Sourcils, I was thinking of what must be your most defining feature, and of course, you know that you have monstrous eyebrows – you really should do something about them – and so –

England: …France.

End scene. France didn't manage to get away, so the rest of the film is censored. Ooooh. Ow. Oh. Ouch. Didn't know legs could bend that way)

Haha! See, me the hero was involved in that one. The grand finale! Nothing else after that. England just gave up and let France call him a rabbit. Not that I see the connection, mind you. Rabbits are cute fluffy white things. England's – well – not.

Russia: Your fate still lies in England's scones, remember, America?

Fine, fine. Hey, why can't I call you something? Don't Russians have endearment things too? What are they? Spit it out. Spit it out.

Russia: …

France: You can call him by a diminutive, Amerique. Vanya.

But your name's Ivan, isn't it, Ivan?

Russia: …

England: America! If you don't think I'm not going to kill you after that stupid tale. It did not happen like that, you great buffoon – come back here –