FrostedIce1

Petrichor (n.) a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. A gentle sigh escapes your pink lips. Hands resting on your keyboard, you searched your mind for ideas on what to write. Writer's block. You looked over to the window of your room, rain coming down hard and thunder echoing in the distance. And as your laptop seared your bare thighs, your boyfriend lay on your shins, facing you with eyes closed and a pillow under his head. You shut your laptop lightly, trying not to disrupt his easy breathing. Slowly, you reached across your computer, planting your hand on his black locks gen

Open Chair – Jealous!America X Reader For the first time in the obnoxious boy’s history, America was the first to arrive at a meeting. Often he wandered in late or what he called “fashionably late”, though that was only an excuse which he had been using for over a century now.  This excuse, however, did not settle well with most of the countries and frequently ended with Germany or England berating him for it. He snickered to himself as he made his way through the empty room, imaging the awestricken faces of those two when they saw he had appeared before them. He could barely contain himself as he thought about the b

   It was quite a sight when Alfred Jones, the human personification of America, got drunk. He could really hold his liquor, unlike Arthur Kirkland, his technical older brother. So it took a lot of drinks to get the blue eyed, dark blonde haired country wasted.   But that is exactly what happened tonight. Alfred showed up at your door, no doubt driven here by a few of the other countries and then plopped down at your door before they all took off running.   Your name is (Name) (Last), the personification of (country), and you were really good friends with Alfred. You'd met a long time ago when he first became a country, you were also stil

  You elicited a small moan as you rolled onto your side. Your cramps had been particularly bad for the duration of the afternoon causing you to want to do nothing more than lay on the couch.   There was a particular someone, however, that you wouldn't mind seeing. And he should be getting in from work and training soon.    Aforementioned someone opened the door and walked into the living room about ten minutes later. You sighed in relief. Germany. Ludwig. He was always there for you when you needed him.   "Hallo mein liebe." He said, taking a seat next to you on the couch. "Hi." You mumbled, your head pushed into a pillow.   "Are you

AmericaXReader      You slowly sit down on the floor of your tent and sigh. It had been a long day, you had wanted to do something for your country and now here you were on the battlefront during WWII as a nurse. A long sigh escapes your lips and you wipe your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt. "Hey ___, Dude! How are you?!" a voice very familiar to you shouted happily as he entered the tent. You look up and smile a little, your friend Alfred had gone to the battle front also. He wore a US Army Air Force officer's uniform, and a vintage leather flight jacket. He has a mix of brown-blond hair, vivid blue eyes, ha

~: Love grew through ink hearts and crumpled paper. :~ Your hands ached every time you stretched a finger.  With most of the population sent off to war in Europe, the factories had been left with barely any stable employees.  And since they still needed to operate, more than a few women had rushed for the better job.  Most of your coworkers always rambled about how important they felt and how this was their chance to show the men that they could contribute.  But you just wanted everyone to come back.   Your life had been fine and war free.  You would give anything for everyone to show up, you actually missed the low tension job at the local

He abruptly woke up at his desk, hair tousled and his favorite cap on the floor. He quickly picked it up, ran his fingers through his hair a few times, and placed the cap snugly on his head. He sighed as he looked at his desk, cluttered with blueprints, pens, and a never-ending stack of coffee cups that his friends would so graciously bring to him every day. "Tadashi? Again?" Speak of the devil. He looked over at his friend, standing by his workroom door and holding two cups of the glorious substance. He smiled weakly. "Sorry, Honey Lemon. I promise I won't do it again." "Tadashi, you said that to me last time, too. And the last several