AN: Hey all, I'm Escritoria, the author of this fic. As of now I get to be a genie-whatever you ask for, I deliver. But like all genies, I have a few limitations, so here are my three rules:

1) I won't do yaoi. I'm sorry, I just don't like writing it. If I'm asked to do a guyxguy pairing, I will fem!ify one of them. You can pick which you like, or I will pick, either way, but someone will end up as a girl. That goes the same but backwards for yuri pairings.

2) If you want me to do a crossover, PM me to see if I know what you're talking about xD I'm fairly new to the world of anime, so I might not know what it is.

3) If I am asked to do an incest pairing, they will magically transfer to an alternate universe where they are not related. And the fem!ifying will still go for that.

Other than that, your wish is my command! Leave me a review or PM me your prompt. It can be as vague or as specific as you want, long or short, characterxcharacter or characterxreader, AU or regular—anything goes!

This first chapter is a prompt of my own devising, just so you guys can get a little preview.

Prompt: Britain makes dinner for the Allies. BEWARE.

France sighed, tossing his golden hair as he and his friends walked the long gravel driveway to Britain's house. "Remind me, how did I get dragged into this?"

China was cradling his panda in his overlong sleeves, murmuring to it gently as he walked, but he looked up when France spoke. "Remember, France, aru? Last time America and England went out drinking England got drunk and was crying because no one likes his food, aru. So America felt bad for him and convinced us all to let England make dinner for us, aru."

"Aw, c'mon guys! Take one for the team! Britain looked seriously bummed out, and he's our ally so we have to make him feel better!" America said loudly. When everyone looked at him like he was nuts, he added, "Just pour a whole bunch of salt on everything when he's not looking and it'll be bearable."

"Its blandness is not the only thing wrong with Angleterre's food," Francis muttered darkly.

"Eh, it's not so bad," Russia chimed in cheerfully, swinging his pipe as he walked. "Once you have eaten raw flesh for whole winter, nothing tastes so bad anymore."

Everyone else was too scared to ask what type of raw flesh Russia had been forced to eat all winter. For that matter, they were too scared to ask if he'd been forced to do it at all. Nervously, China tucked his panda into the woven basket on his back.

"My palette will be ruined," whined France after a moment of awkward mortal-terror-of-Russia-induced silence. "I'll never have the same taste for the delicacies of my country again!"

"Your portions are so small it's a wonder you taste them at all!" exclaimed America.

"The most delicious things don't need to be supersized," snapped France. "Which explains why everything in your country's so overly huge."

"Nah, that's just in Texas," America said with an offhanded wave.

"Shh, aru! I'm about to ring the bell, aru." When everyone had fallen silent, the Chinese man rang the doorbell and waited for Britain to answer.

In just a few seconds they heard him call cheerfully, "Coming!" The man himself appeared at the door not long after, massive eyebrows and all, wiping his hands on a dishrag and grinning wider than any of them could remember ever seeing before. "Come in, chaps, come in! So good of you to come tonight."

Frankly, France was kind of freaked out by how happy England looked. The Brit always seemed to be moping and sulking about something. France kept telling him to take a hint from the French and lighten up a little, but this was just odd. "Erm, thanks for inviting us."

"My pleasure!" Britain gave France a wide grin, which made France blink. He hadn't gotten a smile from England in… Well, a very long time. He was actually pretty good-looking when he wasn't scowling all over the place like the whole world was against him. France's mind was instantly filled with dirty fantasies.

America shot France a look. He knew what the most perverted of the Allies (and possibly all the nations) was thinking. No one gave America any credit for brains, not that he deserved much anyway, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what France was thinking. His thought patterns didn't deviate from his favorite pastime much, so it was usually a pretty solid bet that he was thinking about sex no matter what time it was or what was going on.

As he led them to the dining room, England narrated the tour of his home cheerfully, telling them about the suits of armor posted at the juncture of hallways and at regular intervals in between, the delicate vases and paintings nestled into alcoves, and occasional sculpture or tapestry. Some of them were older than America was—England had been around for a long time, and the relics of his grand history were all very well preserved here in his home. It was better than any museum, and the guide much more well-informed than your average museum staff.

When they reached the dining room, the Allies felt like they were kneeling before a guillotine, about to face the death penalty—all except Russia, of course, who would eat anything with gusto since his raw-flesh-fed winter. But they all swallowed their fear and forced themselves to smile at Britain as he declared, "All right then, I'm off to see to the food!" and vanished through a door between a grandfather clock and a faded tapestry.

"Okay, here's the game plan!" stage-whispered America. He wasn't capable of regular whispering—France had tried to teach him once, but it hadn't worked. The closest he'd gotten was the loud whisper America used now. "We all gotta man up and eat the stuff, got it? Even if it's horrible we gotta swallow and smile at him so he doesn't start crying again."

Everyone shuddered simultaneously. As terrifying as the idea of eating Britain's food was, the sight of him bawling like a baby was the stuff of nightmares. Even Russia was a little weirded out by the sight of the snobby nation breaking down into tears.

China's panda whimpered in the basket. The eldest nation turned towards the door, hissing, "He's coming, aru!"

The others scrambled into their seats. Russia set his pipe next to his place setting, grinning that eerie empty smile at his allies.

"Well, here it is!" Britain swept into the room, followed by several servants bearing their dinners on silver dome-covered trays.

"I made it all myself," England said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "These fellows are just here to serve us."

"Oh," said America, trying to be tactful. Too bad—he'd hoped that he could at least blame any burnt or shapelessly mushy stuff on a bad cook. Unfortunately he couldn't say that to Britain. Jeez, I have to stop going drinking with that guy! I always end up in situations like this when he gets drunk.

"Well, let's get this over with," said Russia, smiling creepily up at his waiter as his plate was set before him. All the other Allies shot him terrified looks.

Luckily, England didn't seem to notice. "Well, enjoy!"

When the dome was lifted off America's plate, for a minute he thought that Britain was serving charred boot soles for dinner. Then he realized that it was meat of some kind. There were also some mashed potatoes that were a sickly gray color that didn't look healthy to eat, and some squishy, mushy green stuff that may have been a vegetable once.

"Ah…" France poked gingerly at the pile of green mush. "Bon apetit?"

Russia was the first to find the courage to put the food in his mouth. He sawed a hunk off the meat thing and popped it into his mouth, chewing and nodding thoughtfully.

The rest of the Allies reluctantly followed suit. America almost choked on the dry meat, but he managed to get it down with the help of a gulp of water. To his left, China wore a poker face that would have put Hong Kong to shame as he put some of the vegetable mush into his mouth. Francis didn't even bother to conceal the revulsion on his face as he swallowed a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"Yum!" America managed, baring his teeth at England in what he hoped passed for a grin.

"Delicious, aru," choked China.

"Da!" Russia was already finished with his boot-sole filet and was cheerfully starting on the sickly-looking potatoes.

France buried his face in his glass of wine so he wouldn't have to add a comment.

To everyone's relief, England glowed with pride at the fake praise. "Thank you! Well, dig in, there's plenty!"

Francis groaned into his wine. America kicked him under the table, making him slop wine across his stubbly chin.

He swore in French and shot America a furtive glare when England wasn't looking, absorbed with talking to his waiter. France dabbed the reddish liquid off his skin with his napkin. "Do you know how hard winestains are to remove?" he hissed.

"No," the younger nation said bluntly.

"Ah, I forget, you are not classy enough for wine. You only drink beer and other such garbage."

"Am too classy enough for wine! I just throw things away if they get stained cuz it's a pain to get them out!"

"Shh, aru!" China warned. England was turning back to his dinner.

France didn't touch another bite the whole meal. Instead, when Britain was distracted, he stuffed another piece of his meal into the napkin on his lap. Russia actually cleaned his plate, to everyone's horror—as weird as he was, they didn't want him to die or grow an extra eye or anything, and who knew what British food could do to you? China fed his veggies to his panda, who was sitting at his feet and didn't look happy about what his master was feeding him, but poor America was left to actually eat the stuff on his own. By the time he was finished, he felt sick to his stomach and was longingly daydreaming about the McDonald's he would pass to get home.

"Ahh," sighed Britain, setting his napkin on his empty plate. "That hit the spot! Is anyone still hungry?"

The Allies fell over themselves to protest. "Nah, I feel full enough to save the world!" America assured him. "Oh wait, I always feel like that! Cuz I'm the hero!" France groaned theatrically.

"Well, in that case I suppose we should call it a night." England smiled widely at his Allies. "This was lovely; we should do it again sometime!"

For a second everyone was quiet. Nobody actually wanted to eat a boot sole more than once in his life, but of course they couldn't tell Britain that. And he looked so happy…

"Totally, Iggy!" cried America.

"I agree, Angleterre."

"I think so too, aru!"

"Da."

If eating dinner at Britain's house every once in a while could make the perpetually gloomy nation grin like that...

Maybe boot soles weren't so bad after all.

AN: So there you go! Review and request and you won't have to eat Britain's food (unless you live in England, in which case it's kinda unavoidable...)!