Capital - America X London!Reader

Capital

America really shouldn't have.

Insulted his friend Britain, that is, on one or two topics the bushy browed gentleman deemed 'sensitive', at the last World Meeting, which happened to be in the U.S.A.

1. His cooking.

2. His capital.

Mr. Britain was tad overprotective of his capital, whom had only recently, like, 200 years recently, scored itself a personification. Ms. (Name) Kirkland, or rather, London. Arthur brought her into conversation often, offering praise that the blonde American couldn't bring himself to believe.

Mr. Alfred F. Jones had slipped these exact words past his loose lips: "Dude, you're fucking exaggerating. If she's related to you, she can't possibly be anything like you make her out to be. chill, Iggy."

Coincidently, the next World Meeting had been put into Arthur's capable hands. It was to be held in Britain, in fact, London. And if you know the British personification himself, you'll know he has a taste for proving he's right. That's why he (Arthur) decided to bring his darling little London along, just to give that American prick a bit of food for thought on what was, is, and most likely always will be the English nationality.

Interestingly, Alfred had arrived earliest, heeding bushy-brow's promise. The one that jogged in and out of his brain. Usually, Mr. Hero preferred to let himself in fashionably late, like any proper protagonist. He supposed he was nervous about something or other - which wasn't against his awesomely American hero code. Heroes get nervous to!

He paced the meeting room impatiently, running his hands along the lengthy drapes decorating the windows, nibbling his bottom lip. But you see, in reality, no one reading this story really cared about what Mr. America was thinking about, even though the work was supposed to keep in said country's point of view. No, all anyone cared about was themselves. What exactly was happening to them whilst the blue eyed blonde muddled with his psych?

Well aren't we a little pushy today, hmm?

I'll tell you, don't worry, still attempting to keep with the rule of 'America's Point of View.' You're fucking welcome.

Outside of the alleged meeting room, Ms. London, accompanied by the majestic presence Mr. Britain, was being escorted down the hallway to her and the nation whom she belonged, their destination. You have one guess as to where that was, bro. Yeah.

She walked a step or two behind her emerald eyed guardian she was accustom to calling 'big brother', her posture straight and elegant, though she was slightly shorter than her elder counterpart. At her side hung a reasonably sized blue and white decorated bag, which wouldn't have been mentioned in the story if it was a purse, so don't go jumping to conclusions like a naïve little foolish fool who is foolish.

London's appearance differed more than a bit from Britain's. She retained some similarities, of course, being a capital, a city derived from the country itself. She kept her (hairlength), (haircolour) tresses (neatlycombed/messyinacontolledway), and had a (silver/gold) lip ring on her lower lip. The resemblances between her and the Brit beside her, well, they rested in her eyebrows. They weren't ridiculously thick, but slightly larger than anyone who didn't inherit the famous 'Kirkland brows', but they managed to compliment her features in a weird but wonderful way.

America hadn't seen London yet, so I don't know why I'm describing you to yourself, reader. I do grammar such very goody, yes?

Bu there you have it. A punkish Brit who hadn't bothered to dress fancy, or even try for a uniform, but instead went with ripped skinny jeans and a (favouriteband) T-shirt, much to Britain's annoyance, as he often praised how ladylike (Name) was. More like how ladylike she could be if she felt like it.