4Title: Knee Jerk Reaction
Warnings: Mild Language
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine
A/N: So, I got a request that was literally, 'Spamerica - Oyabun Knee Attack'. That's it, so I did what I could.
"What a beautiful day," America comments to himself as he walks through the doors of the Organization of American States' headquarters. He can't help but think that today is going to be a good one. The sun was up and greeting everyone under it with a warming embrace as a gentle breeze carried away the burdens of the day. America sighs as he contemplates why it always seems that such beautiful days are seemingly destined to land on work days. It would be awesome if they could hold a meeting outside. The American can just imagine it. A Roman, or Greek style open air forum. Breezes would dance there way between the marble columns.
America tilts his head slightly to the side as he further contemplates the idea. It would definitely save money. Being open like that would allow for natural lighting, and rain, and mosquitoes… His eyes briefly narrow at the thought of the little bastards buzzing around with their high pitched noise, biting everyone. Though, to be perfectly honest, he wouldn't mind that fate befalling several of the nations he has to deal with on a regular basis.
Eventually, the North American makes his way down a majestic stone work hall adorned with busts of influential leaders of the Western Hemisphere. His previous thoughts lamenting that he has to work on such a fine day seem to quickly vanish as he gazes at the thirty five flags hanging high from both sides of the hall. He briefly wonders why he and his presidents lately seem to pay the OAS little attention. That's right, he's an 'imperialist douche bag' according to several of the other American nations.
"It isn't like they're any better," America thinks to himself with a scowl. Brazil was literally an Empire, with an Emperor at one point. The blonde's expression softens as an image of Emperor Pedro II flashes through his mind. He smiles slightly before stroking a majestic, imaginary beard while conceding, "Dude had an awesome beard, though."
Footsteps coming up from behind draw the American back to the real world. He notes that they appear to be moving rather quickly, almost as if whoever is producing them is jugging towards him. A cold chill shoots through his spine and an uncomfortable, edgy sensation washes over him. America steels himself, and before he turn to face the approaching individual, involuntarily lurches forward. He can feel a pressure behind his knees that causes them to give out. The sudden motion sends him crashing to the floor like a felled tree. Barely, America manages push his arms forward and prevent himself from face planting into the marble floors.
"What the hell!?" America shouts out loud as he finds himself staring at the multicolored veins running through the polished flooring. He can hear footsteps echoing down the hall away from him. Turning his head, the American looks behind him to see that he is all alone. Well that was definitely strange. America picks himself off the floor and begins smoothing the wrinkles out of his attire. He suddenly goes rigid as a terrible thought shoots through his body like a lightning bolt. What if the OAS Headquarters is haunted?
OoOoOoOo
"Saying that I am immature still doesn't change the fact," America says with a mirthful grin as he turns to face England. "That your 'precious' BBC has a penis obsession."
The younger nation struggles, and fails epically from boisterously laughing as his former caretaker turns several shades of red. He reminds the American of those squids in various nature programs that furiously flash several bright colors when angry. The green eyed nation's indignant, and deeply offended expression isn't helping him control himself either.
"The BBC most certainly does not have a… penis… obsession," The island nations says while pointing a finger in warning at the offending North American; almost daring him to say more. America can't help but notice the way England says penis in a hushed tone, as if one would somehow materialize simply by mentioning them. Which briefly sends the American into the truly crude, and immature recesses of his mind that he really only frequents when Prussia, Denmark, and himself go out drinking.
"Oh, really?" America challenges with a raised brow as he moves to pull out his smartphone. "I bet you that in the last two months, the BBC has had at the least, one article about a penis."
"Honestly, the one with a," England pauses briefly and appears to be checking to make sure that there are no ears nearby that can possibly be violated before continuing, "Penis obsession around here seems to be you. You're the one that steered our conversation into this gutter."
"Whatever!" America practically shouts while adopting an expression of mock offense. "You were raving about your journalists in the BBC and that reminded me to ask you about something that I noticed."
America navigates the settings menu on his phone and pulls up the App Menu. He surfs through it trying to find the one he's looking for. He could have sworn that he had the BBC News app on his phone somewhere. The blue eyed nation briefly rolls his eyes uncontrollably at something that England says. America is so focused on searching for his app that he actually isn't truly listening to the ranting nation before him. His body is just reacting from years of experience at the tone the island nation has taken.
"Ha! Let's just see here…" the North American shouts, startling the European nation out of his rant. America smiles widely as the older blonde moves closer to the American's side and tries to look at what he has pulled up on his app. The younger nation can't resist the opportunity to tease his 'older brother' and lifts the arm holding his smart phone up and out of reach from the shorter man. The azure eyed blonde sticks his tongue out playfully and swipes at that various articles and categories until he lands on an interestingly titled article. He can't help but smile obnoxiously as he notices that the picture to press on that pulls up the rest of the article is a close up of a man's, blue jean clad crotch. Turning his obnoxious smile towards England, the American shows him his smart phone. "My life with two penises."
"Give me that," England demands as he grabs America's phone and brings it to his face. He lets out what America can only describe as a strangled squawk when the title and picture of the article assail the island nation's eyes.
"Before that there was an article about some fossilized fish penis; then there was the article about a sea slug with a disposable penis…" the American says nonchalantly as he pauses briefly, to try and think about the other articles. "Oh, and the article about how size matters to voles, and the one on hirsuties coronae glandis, and…"
"I get it!" England shouts angrily as he stares at the BBC app on the American's smart phone as if it had betrayed him. America can tell that the older man just wants him to stop furthering his point.
The American smiles widely again. He is about to say something more to drive his crushing victory further through his ally's ego but is stopped by a sudden, and all too familiar pressure against the back of his knees. Instead of jerking forward like last time, two strong arms snake their way under his own and the American finds himself falling backwards with a startled yelp. Instead of falling backwards onto the hard tile flooring, the blonde finds his head landing against a remarkably firm chest. America blankly stares forward as his mind is briefly knocked offline by the sudden rush of unexpectedly lurching backwards into someone's arms. When his mental process start working again, the American tilts his head up, and consequently further into the toned chest supporting it. He his greeted with bright, green eyes and a beaming smile.
"Spain?" America squints his eyes at the face gazing down at him like he can't believe that the seemingly cheery man had just violently kicked his knees out from under him.
"Hola!" Spain says with a gleeful expression. The disoriented blonde is about to hesitantly return the greeting, but his confusion only intensifies when the brunette supporting him whips his head to the side as if he has suddenly become aware of something. "Romano~!"
The American attempts to grab out at anything as the sound of hastily retreating footsteps is accompanied by a sudden falling sensation. In less than a second, the American is sprawled on his back against the cold, hard floor; surrounded by the unmistakable laughter of his supposedly older brother. America turns to the side to see the island nation hunched forward, clutching his sides.
"Serves you right."
OoOoOoOo
America watches in horror as his drinks go sailing into the air. He is out drinking with Prussia and Denmark. South Korea had invited himself and the four nations were having a complete blast, 'derping around' and being obnoxious. The energetic Korean avatar had even decided to teach them the dance to one of his various Kpop groups. In the alcohol induced haze they had all swan dived into, it was obviously the best idea ever. So while South Korea was trying to get Denmark and Prussia to properly roll their hips to the music, America ran off to order more drinks. Due to his heavy hip-hop and Latin influences, the American had no trouble with that part of the dance.
"My booze!" America chokes out as one of his knees forcibly gives out on him. In his intoxicated state, the blonde reaches out for the precious, glass bottle encased sustenance. The action combined with the sudden and violent jerking of his knee, literally sends the American spinning as his brain seems to have found complex motor functions, such as walking, to be too much of a hassle. It doesn't take long for the American to crash into the ground as he hears the sound of glass shattering. America shelled out for the good stuff, and since they were in Europe, it meant that he is unfortunately slinging Euros around. That is like… an extra sixteen cents for every dollar.
America collects himself from the ground and has to spend a moment to steady himself. He can hear people laughing. The blonde can't really tell if they're laughing at him, or just being your usual, obnoxious tavern patrons, but in his mind he starts hearing England's voice echoing 'They're all going to laugh at you' as the laughter swirls around him. Immediately, he turns around, having to right himself after the maneuver and glares at the Mediterranean nation smirking at him.
"Spain!" America screams internally as he narrows his eyes into a fierce glare. That bastard was always humiliating lately. Without fall, the Spaniard will always somehow manage to sneak up on him and kick his knees out from under him. It has gotten to the point where America can't attend a single international get together without having to keep an eye on the tomato slinger. The blonde looks to the side and notices a few nations bellowing out laughs that seriously grate on the American's nerves.
In an inebriated haze, his mind demands vengeance and comes up with a scheme on the spot. If Spain wants to humiliate the American, then America will just have to do the same and remind the former Empire just how well the nations of the Americas are at kicking Imperial asses. With a new found, rage and alcohol induced focus, the American sets his eyes upon the Mediterranean male and stomps towards him. The blue eyed nation briefly entertains the notion that his stomping is causing the glasses in the bar to rattle like that T-Rex in 'Jurassic Park'.
Having closed the distance, the American glares down at Spain. He takes a great deal of satisfaction in the wide eyed, desperate look the Spaniard is looking up at him with. Before Spain can say anything, or turn and flee, America grabs the sides of the older nation's face and violently crashes their lips together. America likes the way Spain has frozen up in shock as he less then gently bites at the Spaniards lower lip. A sharp pain forces the Mediterranean man to open his mouth and allow a very forceful and domineering North American tongue to do whatever the hell it wants.
For whatever reason, their kind often turns sex into some sort of dominance thing. America does his best to put Spain 'in his place' with a very dominating, almost suffocating and slightly brutal kiss in front of the on looking nations present at the bar. Eventually, the American pulls away and can't help but smirk with a look of smug satisfaction at the Spaniards appearance. The shorter man looks almost shell-shocked while sporting a welt on his lower lip where the American bit it. Taking the opportunity presented, America proceeds to shove the Spaniard with enough force to knock him onto his rump. Feeling that he has adequately humiliated the brunette, he gives the one finger salute to the remaining nations and struts out the door with the grace of a sea sick drunkard disembarking from a boat.
OoOoOoOo
The American lets out an annoyed sigh as he feels the pressure against the back of his knees again. Although the bar incident was just a hazy memory, the blonde nation had hoped that Spain would stop, or at the least, ease up on his antics towards the North American. Instead, Spain seems to delight in kicking his legs out from under him more violently and then stares at the bewildered blonde with what America swears is an expectant look.
America has so far become something of an expert with regards to the Spaniard's knee attacks. There was the 'Helicopter'; which was when Spain would kick out just one of America's knees while he was moving rather quickly and would send the younger nation whirling into the ground. There was the 'Running of the Bulls' where Spain would literally charge straight into the back of the American's legs and somehow send the poor nation sailing up and over through the air. The 'Axe', the 'Cessetani Ankle-biter', which is only ever whipped out when Prussia is around. 'Cessetani' being an ancient Iberian tribe, and one of Prussia's laughs sounds like he's going to start saying 'Cessetani'… in some nerdy way, it makes sense to the American.
Then there was the 'Trust Exercise', the most common. The one that America can tell is being employed on him at this very moment. He can barely feel the Spaniard's arms as they start to wrap around his sides. This time, instead of letting gravity do all the work, the American has decided to throw his body backwards. America grunts in satisfaction as the force of himself colliding backwards into the Spaniard's chest is far greater than normal. It effectively sends the older nation stumbling backwards. The North American can't help but notice that Spain's arms wrap themselves around him tighter than usual. America wonder's if it is because the Mediterranean nation is trying to keep him from falling on his head, or if he is just instinctively trying to hold onto something to avoid falling. The American would like to believe it is the former, but feels that it is most likely the later.
Spain takes a few steps back as he tries to keep himself stabilized but fails. He crashes onto his rear and releases his hold on the American. The Spaniard places his hands onto the ground behind him and braces himself as America crashes onto him. Not wasting any time, the American scrambles up off of the older nation and turns towards the older nation with a frustrated glare.
"Why are you always doing this?" America demands as he watches Spain rise up off the ground. The American's annoyance only grows as the green eyed nation adopts a truly perplexed expression.
"I… don't know?" Spain says while looking up and to the side. America gives an exacerbated sigh as he realizes by Spain's expression that the older nation isn't lying. He truly doesn't know why he keeps attacking the younger male and looks as though he is seriously pondering the question. Annoyed, and suddenly feeling as irritable as England or Romano on a bad day, storms away from the Mediterranean nation.
OoOoOoOo
"I swear by all the maple trees in my land, that I will bash you over the head with a hockey stick if you so much as talk about Spain," America stares at his phone with wide eyes at his northern neighbor's outburst. In all honesty, he was calling to see if his brother would be willing to attend an impromptu NAFTA meeting in Washington D.C. Mexico had showed up unannounced a few days ago and it feels like a good opportunity for the three to try and fix and discuss some things about the treaty. During some years, NAFTA comes out with a higher GDP than the EU and there's only three of them. Three versus, what, twenty-seven or so nations and the three come out one trillion dollars ahead? That is something epic that should totally be improved upon. America is quickly pulled back into the moment as his brother continues to rant on the other end of the phone. Looking slightly confused, the American brings the phone back up to his ear and interrupts the Canadian. "What makes you think that I want to talk about Spain?"
"Gee… I don't know? Maybe because he is all you have ever talked about for the past several months?" Canada says with equal parts exacerbation and sarcasm. Sure, he's complained about the Spaniard's actions a few times, but he hasn't actually talked about the nation at all. At least not as far as America can recall.
"I don't always talk about Spain." The American says with a slight amount of confusion in his voice. "Sure, I complain about him always attacking me, but I don't actually talk about him."
"Pfft," The American can feel the annoyed eye roll from the other end of the line. "Yes you do. You bitch and moan about how he keeps knocking you over. Then you start rambling and talk about how surprised you are by how 'ripped' Spain feels through his clothes. You've described to me his arms, his chest, his smile, his eyes, and how you find it odd that when other nations like Venezuela and Bolivia speak Spanish, they sound like annoying, yapping Chihuahua's, but when Spain speaks it, it sounds all smooth and manly like you're being coated in butter."
"Uh," America struggles to come up with anything to say as he listens to his brother.
"I swear, you two should just get a room already. It's like watching two elementary school kids on a playground." Canada says with an indignant huff.
"What do you mean?" America inquirers.
"Really? The whole, 'kicking you back and into my arms' thing? Totally just an excuse to touch you." America can notice a slight shutter of disgust in his neighbor's voice, most likely at the thought of someone 'touching' his brother. That's not really a mental image that one would want to have… unless you have some sort of sick fetish.
Eventually, the American's cheeks begin to heat up as he remembers that, yes he has, actually discussed all those things with Canada about Spain. America hangs up on his brother mid-rant. Canada can really get going sometimes when he's ranting about America, and the blue eyed blonde is too distracted to even listen. Everything the Canadian said is flashing through the American's mind. He remembers the feel of Spain's surprisingly strong arms. His firm chest and tanned skin. America shudders as he suddenly imagines the older nation wrapping those arms around him and purring in that language of his which can make panties magically fall off of their own volition. As the American thinks of the Spaniard in a new, far more arousing light, he decides that he actually wouldn't mind if those thoughts materialized.
OoOoOoOo
America quickly turns his head to the side as he notices a tan streak blur by. The American clutches his gift tighter as he can't help but play the theme song from Jaws in his mind. He looks around the lobby of the meeting area, scanning the various faces and searching for one in particular. Unable to find the set of viridian eyes that he is looking for, the American takes a steadying breath and looks over his courtship gift… if that's what they're called. It had taken America an entire month to figure out the proper gift that would properly woo the Spaniard. Normally, it would be a lot easier as the man in these situations can just buy flowers; but for some reason that just felt wrong to the American.
After days of pulling his hair out, the blonde was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. Flowers and chocolate were far too girly. America and Spain are both men and the North American feels that he should treat the man he is intending to 'court' as just that, a man. So instead of flowers, candy, or jewelry, the American decided on something equally romantic yet totally manly. Ham. Yes, ham… the delicious, smoked, meaty goodness. No man can resist it, especially a man that is most likely the leading authority on ham in the world.
The American had made sure to buy only the highest quality Spanish jamón he could get his hands on. No expense was spared. Jamón Ibérico de Bellota, Jamón Serrano, and several varieties of each type from the various regions and in some cases, towns that were renowned for the products they produced. He didn't buy whole slabs, but neat packages containing an abundant amount of slices. The azure eyed blonde then wrapped bright, metallic yellow and red gift paper around the sheet like packages of cured meat in the telltale conical shape of a bouquet. A manly bouquet that screamed, '¡Viva España!' America nearly cried at how much it all cost, but it was for love, or well, he wasn't actually in love with Spain, but he wouldn't mind starting on that journey; and hopefully this gift would prove that point.
Drawing the bouquet closer to himself, the American looks straight ahead with a determined look and walks forward, towards the hall leading to the assembly room. He knows that Spain is running around in the crowd somewhere. America can sense it. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and the younger nation clutches his gift for Spain more securely.
"Please don't send me flying forward," America whispers to himself. A split second later he recognizes the familiar pressure assert itself against the back of his knees. The blonde closes his eyes as he feels himself lurching backwards. Strong arms slide under his own and the American briefly manages to thank whatever power(s) to be for not allowing the Spaniard to send him crashing face fist in the ground and smashing his assortment of cured meats. A genuine smile appears on the North American's face as he opens his eyes and tilts his head up to gaze upon the nation keeping him from slamming into the floor. America takes a brief moment to savor the baffled look on Spain's face. This is probably the first time that America has been genuinely happy to see the older nation.
The American, with the aid of Spain, manages to right himself. He checks to make sure that his bouquet hasn't been jostled too much before turning around. America looks at the Spaniard for a few moments as he tries to speak. A whole speech is presenting itself through his mind like a teleprompter, but all that he can manage is a goofy smile.
"Dinner," America says with a slight wince as he offers Spain the Jamón bouquet. It sounds more like a statement than a question. Spain takes the gift hesitantly and peeks inside. He gives the American a questioning look accompanied with a raised brow. Wanting to kick himself, America clarifies, "Would you like to have dinner with me… tonight?"
Silence descends as the American realizes that they are still in the lobby, surround by several nations. He starts to fidget when he notices the surprised look on Spain's face. America tries to cheer himself on, but the thought of being rejected in front of an audience is wreaking havoc on his nerves. The American suddenly stills as the older nation smiles at him in a fond way.
"Sí," the Spaniard says with nod. America's goofy smile falls and reforms several times as he looks like he is torn between wanting to say more, or break out in a victory dance. Eventually, the urge to victory dance wins out and the American twirls around excitedly once, before coming to a sudden stop while fist pumping the air and giving a victorious whoop. Spain scrunches his nose briefly in amusement at the adorable sight before grabbing the American's arm and dragging him towards the conference room. There will have to be new seating arrangements drawn up.