I love you all much. I really do. I got, like, eight reviews since the last posting. That's almost more than my total reviews on my top stories (11 and 12 or something like that). So thank you all sososososososo muuuuuch! *hugs*

Oh, and thanks to TheNinjaWangsta for requesting this! It was actually pretty fun to write, even if it isn't really like the others. I may have found another new kink thanks to you…

Here we are!

Title: Cops n' Vandals

Pairing: USUK. Oh, and a bit of HungaryxYaoi is implied. XD

Rating: T

Genre(s): Angst, and lots of it, along with Hurt/Comfort, and Romance too!

Dedications: MataHari-Chan, TheNinjaWangsta (who requested this one), NewMoonBloodTears, Alphine, StardustRudie, Lovely Hikari, MirrorTearz16, and tintenstern! Let's give 'em a big hand, shall we? And of course, everyone who fav'd and alerted!

Inspiration: The request, of course, and some of it also came from Part Right, Half Wrong, a Third Crazy by Save the Rave. It's amazing, but it's also AmeriCan, so if you don't like that pairing, you might not want to read it.

Warnings: The rating is, of course, T. I've gotten lots of reviews saying my stuff is cute and adorable and sweet, and this…isn't. It's really not. Contains smoking (WHICH IS BAD) and graffiti (WHICH UNLESS SOMEONE'S HIRED YOU TO DO IT OR IT'S YOUR OWN PROPERTY IS BAD) and people getting arrested and divorce. Sadness abounds, I suppose. Oh, and the mouth of a cussy teenager. This is Punk!Arthur and Cop!Alfred, after all.

Summary: Arthur doesn't really care anymore, not since his dad made him leave his mother and move to Wichita. He does graffiti to try to express his inner angst, but is soon caught by a policeman who doesn't know how to keep his bloody nose out of other people's business!

Disclaimer: Wow! Today I learned I actually DO own Hetalia! Oh, wait, no, I don't. Damn…

BEGIN!

Scowling, 17-year-old Arthur Kirkland took a final drag on his cigarette, then threw it to the ground and crushed it under his heel.

Time to get to work.

He shook his can of green spray paint and then uncapped it and started to paint a giant "A" for "ANARCHY". Arthur was rather fond of the Sex Pistols (but if you said it like that to his face he'd punch you in yours), his favorite song being Anarchy in the UK, of course. However, he didn't live in the UK anymore, thanks to his parents getting a divorce and his father moving him to Wichita. Stupid bloody parents…

Suddenly, he saw the faint lights of a car in the distance. Bloody hell…this bridge was usually deserted! Well, hopefully they wouldn't notice him…

Obviously, that wasn't going to happen, as the car slowed to a stop right next to him. The driver rolled down his window. "You need a lift?" he asked Arthur.

Arthur just scoffed. Who the hell did this wanker think he was?" Probably some kind of child molester. Seriously, who drives around at night and stops for a 17-year-old under a bridge? Only a child molester.

…Or a cop, something in his mind said.

Hm. If it was a cop…well, Arthur knew his father would be getting a phone call he wouldn't like. But he deserved it.

The man in the car, receiving only Arthur's little scoff as an answer, gave a soft sigh with a sad smile. "I see. Well, I hope I don't see you here again." He rolled his window back up and drove off.

"That was bloody weird," muttered Arthur, and he went back to his graffiti.

The next night, Arthur was back at the bridge again. He'd written all of "ANARCHY" the previous night, but now he was going to add stuff to it. A missile here, a botched up Constitution there.

Arthur didn't think of himself as a vandal…no, to Arthur, he was an artist.

The car showed up again. It was earlier than the previous night, so Arthur could see better.

The car was a police cruiser, of course, manned by a man with wheat-colored hair and baby blue eyes. He looked genuinely disappointed to see Arthur again, and something about it made Arthur's chest ache. Just for a second, though. Why the hell should he care what some bleeding policeman thought of him?

"…You going to arrest me?" asked Arthur roughly, glaring at the policeman.

He shrugged. "I already gave you a warning, kid. It's time for you to take the ride of shame." He got out of his car and cuffed Arthur, rattling of the boy's rights. Arthur didn't know if his being in the States on a green card changed anything, but he didn't care and let himself get pushed into the cruiser.

"So…" said the policeman awkwardly on the way to the station, "your stuff...it was actually pretty awesome. You could get people to pay you to do that kind of stuff, you know."

Arthur snorted. "Whatever."

Several minutes passed, filled only with silence. "You…like the Sex Pistols? Your shirt…" An, so he was wearing that T-shirt. His mother had given it to him as some sort amends for sending him with his father to the middle of the States.

"What about them?" snapped Arthur. The policeman chuckled.

"Nothing. I actually don't really know them, except Anarchy in the UK is on Guitar Hero. I totally beast at that song…"

"Why the hell should I bloody care?" yelled Arthur. "Why does it matter if I like them? Huh?"

"You've got a British accent," said the cop cheerfully. "That's cool."

"Of course I have a bloody British accent, wanker," hissed Arthur, "I just moved here from London six months ago."

"Hm." The policeman thought to himself for a bit, then finally asked, "Why did you move, exactly?"

Why the hell was he asking? "Divorce," he replied shortly. "Mum's in London."

"Oh. My parents got a divorce when I was six. My mom took my brother to live with her in Canada. I stayed in D.C. with my dad. 'Course, I didn't spray paint bridges or anything like that…" he added, with an underlying sly tone.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean, you git? You want to say that to my face?" shouted Arthur.

The policeman pulled the car over abruptly and turned around, looking Arthur straight in the eye. "It's supposed to mean you need to find a healthier way of expressing this. You're obviously troubled, but vandalism isn't going to solve your problems."

Arthur finally decided to keep his mouth shut and just glare at the policeman with all of his might.

The officer sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. "…Sorry. Look, whatever. I'll just take you down to get processed, and then I'll hopefully never see you again."

Hopefully? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

The officer gave him a lopsided smile, and Arthur realized he'd voiced those thoughts. Dammit. "Oh, it means I don't want to see you get arrested ever again. I mean, if I saw you rescue a kitten from a burning building or something—" Arthur almost burst into loud laughter, "—then I would be damn glad to see you."

"Stupid policeman…"

"Oh, and call me Alfred. Please. I insist." He winked at Arthur, who felt his face heating up.

"W-Wanker! I'll call you whatever I like!" retorted Arthur. "Got it?"

"Okay." Alfred turned back around and pulled back onto the road.

"…And…my name is Arthur," muttered the British teenager.

"Hm~ I see."

Neither spoke another word for the rest of the ride, and after processing Arthur and making sure the one he called was his father, Alfred disappeared.

About half an hour later, Arthur's father, Roger, came to pick up his delinquent, looking very worried. Of course, Arthur wasn't bothered by it. Why would he be?

On the way out, Arthur spotted Alfred chatting with some (very pretty) female officer with long brown hair that was decorated with some orange blossoms. He narrowed his eyes and marched over to the pair.

"Oh, Ar—" The teenager cut him off by pulling the American forward by his collar and roughly smashing their lips together. An excited squeal escaped the female officer, and he smirked. After about ten seconds, he let go of Alfred and pulled back, wiping his lips. "Wanker," he muttered in a way that made it sound like the whole thing was Alfred's doing. Then, he turned around and left the station with his father, who could not stop gaping like a fish.

He could feel Alfred's eyes on him the whole time.

PLEASEDON'TKILLMEITWASAREQUEST. I-If you wanna kill someone…kill TheNinjaWangsta. NODON'TDOTHATEITHER. That wouldn't be very nice. It was a request, after all, and it's my job to cater to your every whim, readers…

Speaking of requests, I WANT MOAR. Most people ask for reviews (reviews are earned by your amount of talent and luck in getting good readers, you shouldn't have to ask for them, in my opinion), and I ask for requests. Soon I'll run out of pre-writtens, and I don't want that to happen…I mean, I've been working on one (don't worry, the beginning will be fluffy, for all of you out there who love my fluff) but soon it will be done, and I really do want some requests.

Also, please vote on my poll!

And, a final note…if one has been taking violin for six years and is now nine, what good solos would they have? I need a happy one, and a sad one if you can think of one. Otherwise I'll use my oboe solo from last year, but…yeah, that's for oboe.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, even if it isn't quite like the others.