A/N- Yay, another oneshot! I've been reading 'the worst of the worst' fanfic-wise recently, including such gems as 'My Immortal', 'Cloud mows the lawn' and 'legolas by laura', so I guess this is inspired by them. I wanted to try my hand at writing 'badfic', but I didn't want to write a troll fic, so I thought I'd (not so) cleverly weave it into another Hetalia oneshot. Also, I wanted to write drunk England again. Tee hee.

Oh, and I got a Pottermore account! First day of the quill challenge too! I owe my Dad's vigilance for that. Oh and happy 20th birthday to the Travelling Man stores! Without them, my manga and trading card collection would be much smaller. And I wouldn't have my cool bag or 'Release the attack kittens!' t-shirt.

So, without further ado, please enjoy!

Disclaimer- I do not claim to own Hetalia. I just enjoy forcing alcohol down their throats and sauce down their.. well... heh heh...

ooo

America's Wrytigns

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Darkness filled the room, the sun's rays unable to penetrate the thick black curtains pulled firmly across the unwashed windows. Unwashed, of course, because the owner had been not only too lazy to go outside and clean them, but because he had been inspired. And now he was working on his masterpiece.

Occasional, uneven breaths filled the shadowy confines, sometimes interrupted by a sudden gasping intake as yet another idea struck the man. His glasses had slid down his nose, but his fingers were too hard at work, frantically smashing at the keys before him, to push them back up. It was going to be his greatest work yet. A piece of literary craftsmanship that would rival Shakespeare, or any other bearded git that caterpillar-eyebrowed jerk could come up with. Seriously, it wasn't fair that he got so many of the greats, while things like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was not on the classic literature curriculum. The addition of zombies was pure genius! It made the book way more readable.

But he was getting off the point. Simply put, he was now penning something far greater and far superior to anything ever written before. It would surpass Tolkien, Pratchett, Rowling… all of them. It would-

Oh wait, that reminded him.

Saving his work, he opened his web browser and brought up his e-mail. He clicked refresh.

Damn it. His Pottermore e-mail hadn't come through. He'd stayed up all night just to wait for the right time! He'd even bribed England with the promise of only drinking tea for a month just to find out the timing of the next clue! Why was his verification taking so long? !

Sighing, he minimised the software and returned to his work.

Tap tap tap tap.

Mashing the enter button with his finger, he paused.

Hmm, what to write next? He scratched his chin in thought, finally nudging his glasses up in the process. Blue eyes flittered back and forth as he re-read his prose, scouring it for ideas.

It seemed he had hit what those in the industry called 'Writer's Block', or as he liked to think of it, 'Stupid Motherf- Piece of S- Block'. It's wasn't fair. Heroes should just be able to fly around it or something, right?

Bashing his head a couple of times to see if it would knock any ideas loose, he groaned again in frustration and stood up to go get a beer out of the fridge. Hey, maybe if he got drunk enough he'd start seeing things and get some inspiration? Of course if he were that drunk the chances of him remembering it when he was sober again would be slim. Heh, maybe a cola would be better then.

Creaking open the refrigerator (man, he really needed to get that thing replaced), he heard a noise from the front door. Grabbing a can of whatever was closest and snapping the fridge shut, he turned and checked the nearby clock. Eleven-forty six at night. Who on earth was on his porch at this hour? It was almost midnight!

His can fizzed and hissed as he popped it open and took a swig as he headed over to the door, hearing a fumbled knock on the wood as he approached. With a click, he unlocked the door and opened it a few inches to check who was outside.

"Argh!" America cried out as the ajar door was suddenly flung wide open, smashing into his face as whoever had been outside suddenly tumbled into it. His can flew out of his hand and rolled a few feet away, spraying soda all over the carpet.

Tilting his head to one side as he was pinned to the ground by a sprawling mass, he attempted to spit out the blonde hair which had fallen into his surprised mouth. Whoever had tumbled onto him was clearly pissed, judging by the stench of booze emanating from them and the half-empty bottle of beer which had joined his soda can on the carpet.

America's eyes suddenly did a double take. His gaze flickered over the writing on the bottle. 'Fuller's 1845 Bottle Conditioned Ale'.

Oh great. It was England on top of him.

Suddenly, he heard a moan. This was followed by some shaky movements as somehow the Brit managed to push himself up and onto his knees, finally giving America some wiggle-room. A couple of seconds later, the American had successfully freed himself, and the transatlantic pair were sat opposite each other across a growing pond of carbonated soft drink and alcohol.

"Urgh, my head…" England moaned, face pointed to the ground and one hand clutching his forehead.

America stared at him for a moment, taking in the sight of the man's dishevelled appearance. His clothes were crumpled and dirty, his shirt stained with what was probably ale from the bottle. He had torn one sleeve, and blood had clotted around the scrape it revealed. There was also what looked like mud, or at least that's what America hoped it was, all over the legs of his jeans.

Wait, jeans? Wasn't England supposed to be a gentleman?

The Yank shook his head before standing up and grasping England tightly by one shoulder, hauling him to his feet. For a second he thought the man would fall over again, but he managed to catch his balance after a moment.

Finally, the Englishman looked up and locked eyes with America.

"Huh, America? S'that you? What're you doin' 'ere? Sh'dn't you be 'n bed? S'late…"

America's brow creased slightly in concern. He really hoped England wasn't going to go on one of his drunk, depressive rants again. It had been bad enough the last time they'd gone out drinking together and he'd started whining. What had he said again? Something about telling him what to tell him what to do? Anyway, there was that, and then there was also what he'd heard from Canada with regards to his birthday.

Ah, yes, that reminded him.

"Hey England, I am all grown up y'know. I can stay up as late as I want. Besides, what are you doing here, anyway? Oh, and don't blow chunks all over my carpet."

England mumbled for a moment before becoming slightly more coherent.

"I j'st came by t' visit, s'all. Ar'n't I 'llowed t' do that? 'N I was wond'ring 'f you had 'ny booze…"

America gave England a stern gaze. "Dude, you really shouldn't have any more beer-"

"SHADDUP!" England suddenly yelled, shoving America to one side and striding forwards into his front room. "Kitchen's this way, ri'?"

America hurried after him. "England! What the hell are you doing? !"

But before he could stop him, the Brit had already yanked open the fridge door and was gutting the contents, throwing things on to the floor out of his way on his quest for more liver damage.

"Wah! My pickle jar!" America cried out as it smashed onto the ground.

England finally gave up as he reached the bottom shelf and discovered a distinct lack of alcohol.

"Where the bloody 'ell's your booze? !"

"I ran out," America snapped, crouching down to clean up some of the mess the Brit had made. He certainly wasn't going to tell him about the hidden stash in his fridge's awesome secret compartment. "Jeez, you've got glass everywhere. This is gonna cost a fortune to replace. And my wieners are ruined."

"Stupid 'Merica…" England mumbled, folding his arms rather overdramatically and pouting. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of something. As America had knelt down, and was stretching out to clear up the mess, his jeans had pulled down a little, as is sometimes wont to happen in situations such as these. He had, as England's mind so graciously thought it, 'got builder's bum'.

Some of America's arse was on display. England couldn't help but giggle slightly. Yes, giggle. Well, he was drunk, after all.

And then, he got an idea. Glancing around for a brief second, he noticed one of the few products which had been fortunate enough to cling on to a place in the fridge. While America's attention was diverted elsewhere, he sneakily reached out an arm and grabbed it, then made a big show of courteously moving out of the American's way so he could clean around where his feet had been. Stepping around behind America, he grinned evilly as he quietly opened the lid of the bottle.

"This is gonna be bloody brilliant…" he whispered.

Two seconds later, America practically shrieked as the cold ketchup dribbled down his ass-crack.

"WHAT THE HELL? !"

He leapt to his feet and span around to see an England who was doubled-up and howling with laughter. For a second, he half considered punching the Brit's lights out, but when the man swayed and almost collapsed into the nearby counter, he forced himself to remember that England was drunk and that he was completely under the influence of alcohol.

As England propped himself up against the worktop, still chuckling, his green gaze locked with America's. After a few moments, his breathing began to return to normal and his laughter died down.

"Um, America," he said, voice sounding slightly remorseful.

"Yes?"

"… You've got red on your pants."

"I know."

A pause thickened the air.

"…Are you on your period?"

England burst out laughing again.

America gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. England was being even more of a pain than his drunk self usually was tonight. Just what had he been drinking?

Just as America was about to give in and let the Brit meet Mr Fist, said man suddenly keeled over, passing out on the kitchen floor. America winced at the crack as his head hit the ground. Kneeling down, he checked for bleeding or damage. Finding none, he sighed and slid his arms under the man, hoisting him up. Grunting a little, he carried the unconscious Englishman over to his sofa and fetched a blanket from the stack of freshly-washed laundry, draping it over him. Poor guy was already drooling in his sleep. He stood watching the man for a moment, then let out a sigh and returned to his laptop. He clicked 'save' on his work before closing the program and shutting the machine down. He was too tired to work anymore; he'd finish it up tomorrow. Pushing his seat under the desk, he gave one last glance towards the peacefully sleeping body of England, before heading upstairs to bed.

ooo

The next morning, England awoke to both a pounding headache and the tapping of keys. With a moan he began to move, propping himself up with one elbow as he inched open his eyelids and blearily surveyed his surroundings.

America's house. Oh great.

"A-America? Is that you…?" he croaked, throat dry as the Sahara Desert.

"Yeah, I'm over here, dude," the man in question replied. England's eyes tracked over to the source of the noise.

"Oh, you're typing…" he stated. He'd wondered what that sound had been.

"Why am I here? What happened?" he asked after a minute.

America didn't even pause in his typing. He replied, "You were drunk. You passed out here. I put you on the sofa and left you to sleep."

England blinked. "Th-thank you." As he shifted one hand, he noticed the blanket. America must have put this on him too. For some reason, he felt a slight blush forming on his cheeks, but he closed his eyes and managed to dismiss it.

After a few more minutes of sitting there while America typed, England decided he should probably try to stand up. Ever so slowly, he inched around, swinging his legs round and carefully rising to his feet. Once he had checked his balance, and was sure he wasn't likely to fall, he made his way over to America. Standing behind him, he asked, "What are you typing?"

Finally, America paused. "I'm just writing."

England leaned down over America's shoulder.

"Can I read it?"

"Seems like you're going to anyway," America griped, but moved to one side. "Go ahead dude."

"Thanks," England replied absentmindedly, as he moved in closer.

Suddenly, America's ego got the better of him. "It's totally the most awesome thing ever written!"

England chuckled. America blinked in shock. The Brit seemed completely oblivious to his unusual pleasantness.

"Let's see then…" England muttered as his emerald eyes began to flicker across the screen.

ooo

Harry washes the dishes

A Harry Potter fanfic from the United States of America

A/N Thnx 4 ur sprrot evry1!111 N if u flam den u r a prep!11!

1 day Hrry was mowig the sidhes. Suddenlt a hude meteorite burnifn da sky.

Nooooo sed ginny. She was harry's girlfrend. they dd it evry nite. (AN- Just lik I od!)

suddenlt harry wiped out his wnad and sad EXPRESSIARMUS!111

Da metetalite brew up ento hundredzz of gnat pieses.

evry1 loaved happly eva afta.

THE EDN.

ooo

There was silence in the room for a moment after England had finished reading. America waited eagerly, metaphorical tail wagging, for England's opinion.

"Well…" England began, eyes still locked straight ahead at the screen. "That was… something."

"It's awesome, right?" America babbled, grinning like an idiot.

"I suppose you could say it's that…" the Brit agreed, but his tone sounded unconvinced, as if he were about to qualify his statement.

"What do you mean 'suppose'?"

England sighed and turned to face his former colony. With the smile of a father who was about to tell his son that no matter what happened, it was trying that counts and he'd always love him, he placed one hand on the American's shoulder and said,

"America… don't give up your day job."

Blue eyes stared at him for a long moment.

"…I don't have a day job…"

THE END.