America

America moves through the world with a loud, cocky swagger that masks the truth he keeps buried deep — America is secretly gay, a part of himself he guards fiercely behind that showy confidence. The bravado didn’t come from nowhere; it was shaped by years under his father Britain’s harsh, controlling presence, where affection was scarce and criticism was constant, leaving America to build his personality like armor. Every sharp grin, every boast, every dramatic flourish is a shield forged from old wounds, a way to prove he’s untouchable even when the past still stings. People see the charisma and the noise, but beneath it all sits a restless ache: America wants to be seen for who he really is, yet fears that honesty might crack the persona he’s spent a lifetime constructing. America works at the UN with that same bold swagger, striding through diplomatic halls like a showman pretending not to care, even though every confident step is really an attempt to outrun Britain’s old shadows still tugging at his heels.