Organized by Collection
Depressed! America x Dead! Reader: Too LateHe sat on the porch step with his head in his hands, the man with the blue eyes. Those eyes, once full of enthusiasm and life had lost their spark. As he had lost his love. The man’s name was Alfred Jones, and a month ago you wouldn’t have been able to shut him up. These days you had to beg him to utter a word. He had lost his love, he had lost his _________.
More Like This
___________ had been his everything. On that fateful day Alfred had planned to propose, but it was not to be. His happiness, his love –hell, his LIFE – was stolen from him. All that was left was an immortal shell (for he could not die), the spirit inside had long since died out. As Alfred blinked back his tears he reminisced; it had been a beautiful, golden day...
The sun shone on ________’s hair, bouncing off it, seemingly creating a halo above her head. That depiction wasn’t too far off. Alfred was almost blinded by her beauty and soul, almost as if she was actually a
Romano X Pregnant!Reader Request!"Ho... Ly... CRAAAAAP! Hungary! COME HERE NOW! OHMIGOSH THIS IS INCREDIBLE!" You yell like an idiot.
More Like This
Hungary comes running up to you, "__! Who died?"
"N-No-one! This isn't DEATH, you moron! This is NEW LIFE!"
"You're pregnant?" She asks.
"You DOUCHE! Romano, duh!"
"Oh, sorry. In all the excitement I forgot." Hungary said sheepishly.
"I don't want to tell him, yet... Goodness knows how he'll react... I'll go ask Spain and Italy for advice." You nod, and walk over to the Spain residence.
"__? Is that you?" Spain calls.
"Yep... I um... Need help..." You say, walking into the kitchen and finding Italy and Spain in there, like you'd counted on.
"Husband trouble?" Italy asks, grinning.
"Uh... Kind of." You squeak.
"What's he done now? He's upstairs, If he's-"
"He's not done anything, Tonio." You say, using his real name to calm him down, "I'm pregnant." You whisper the last part.
"Well, that's what you wanted, right? Congratulations! Hey! I'm go
Britain x Dead! Reader - Mumma is Okay
More Like This
Arthur clung to the frayed picture of you, his knees bunched against his sore chest. He whispered to you, of really what remained of you, praying to someone – something – an unknown deity at that point, begging for your return. He could feel the damage of the smoke to his lungs as he breathed, each breath coming out more and more shallow than the last.
“Oh, __________ ,” Silent tears sprung in his eyes, but he wiped them away, remembering how you always liked to see him happy. Even when he failed at cooking, fought with Francis, or accidentally swore himself into a fight with you, you had always longed to see the innocent irises of the Brit green with jubilance, and not with unneeded spite. You were aware of how easily he was angered and you were saddened by this. “Will you forgive me?” He spoke quietly, subconsciously afraid of disturbing the others around him.
What a silly notion, he thought absentmindedly. Afraid of waking the deceased