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jedishampooTitle: Infinity to One (Part 2 of 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedishampoo
Pairing: Hetalia: England/America (in that order)
Rating/Warnings: NC-l7, explicit sex, language
Summary: America and England up the antes on their Halloween contest, and then another situation reaches a critical point as well. Present-day fic.
Author’s Notes: Dear readers, expect country names, some light crack, drunkenness, smut, more smut, silliness, and a minimum of politics. Thanks to my patient betasharpeslass; she Brit-picked for me but I’m US American so I write with American spelling. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. About 16,300 words. Back to Part One.
***
Infinity to One: Part 2 of 2
England was dying. He wished he’d just die, already. Instead he was waking up.
His head was in several pieces, at least. His room was too bright but he hurt too much all over to move and shut the curtains. He seemed to be on top of his covers, fully clothed. There was a foul smell wafting through his house that made him want to be sick. It wasn’t him, though his mouth tasted like shite. It might have been his drooled-upon pillow.
His roiling stomach told him it was the scent of coffee. Coffee, in his house. America. He--
Fuck. Oh, fuck. England rolled over and tried to die.
The next time he woke, America was standing over him.
“Oh, lord, g’way,” he croaked.
“Nope. I have presents.” America set down a cup and a couple of ploppy things onto England’s bedside table. “Canada e-mailed and told me how to make your tea with that boily thing. These are aspirin. Come down when you’re human again.”
Human. That was a laugh. England glared at America through one partially-opened eyelid for a few moments until he went away to leave England to die of shame, alone. He looked at the cup. He thought even tea might make him vomit but at least it would un-gum his throat. His fingers shook when he scrabbled on the table for the aspirin and shoved them in his mouth. When their bitter taste became too much to bear he crawled to a sitting position and gulped the tea. Wonder of wonders, he didn’t vomit, and America had even put the correct amount of milk in. He might have to actually congratulate America later--
America, who had... England searched his memory like a file that should never be opened. America had called him an asshole. America had refused to sleep with him and had run away like the hounds of hell were at his feet. After he’d issued such an invitation! Opened his heart, his soul, his-- England looked down. It appeared that his trousers were open, partway. At some point during the night he’d apparently attempted to have a wank. Things were a bit painful and sticky down below. He covered his burning face with his hands.
Christ, he was a right mess. No wonder America had run away. He’d been too drunk to even have a proper wank, and how pathetic was that? And he’d yelled at America for Boston and for the USS Constitution and called him and France cunts and-- well, France was a cunt, but that was neither here nor there. He’d managed to make himself the most thoroughly disgusting and unappetizing being on the planet for a night, and had expected America to say yes?
Smart lad: he’d raised him right. And it was for the best. England could just apologize and everything would be right and tight. Like always.
It was another hour before he got up and showered and tiptoed downstairs. America was in the lounge, playing with his laptop. He jumped up when he saw England.
“Hey! Guess where you’re going tonight?”
“I’m so--” England tried to say at the same time, but halted in favor of being afraid at the new information. “Where?” he asked, cautious.
“The Palace Theatre, in... Westminster? We’re going to see Les Miserables.” He pronounced it in the French manner. “I saw the movie once, but I guess this is a musical. And since we’ll be on the posh side of town, I booked us dinner reservations somewhere nice. Angelus? It’s French too, sorry, but it’s a theme. Anyway, I didn’t bring a suit but I have something I can wear, I hope. Maybe you can take me shopping, anyway, at least for pants--”
“Wait. Wait--” England interrupted with a raised palm, because his head still wasn’t up to eighty percent, let alone a hundred. And he wanted to get the apology out of the way. He collapsed onto the settee. “Plus, I’d like to-- to--"
America plopped down next to him. “I said posh,” he pointed out.
“Yes, yes, I heard that,” England said. “Just shut it for a moment. Last night, I... Ah. Was a bastard. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay. That’s just part of your charm,” America said, and he patted England’s knee. He patted it, and then squeezed it, and did not let go.
England stared at the hand for a moment. It was the sort of thing America would do, except not. Dumbfounded, he plucked America’s hand from his leg and worked up a glare. America just grinned back, all teeth and guileless blue eyes behind his spectacles.
“So what do you think?” America asked, shifting closer.
About you fondling my leg, or about you pressing yourself along my thigh? “I. I--” England swallowed. “If that’s so, I’ll need another lie-down. I feel like shite.”
“Poor England.” At that America squeezed his shoulder, and flexed his fingers in a tiny massage sort of thingum. England had woken up in some strange universe where America would not stop groping him. “Well, do that now. Then take me to Harrods. I’ve decided I want new pants for tonight and a sausage roll from Harrods.”
England gaped for a moment or two, mouth opening and closing until he was certain he appeared all too fish-like. “Bossy little twat,” he finally managed, all his good intentions flying out the window with his annoyance at how fucking massive and warm America’s fingers were and how good he looked after the night they’d had and-- Wait.
The night they’d had. For some reason, probably the fault of his chums-- ale and rye-- he’d gotten the idea last night that America was amenable to... something. And he’d been turned down. Was America now flirting with him, or fucking with him in revenge? He should ask. He would definitely ask. He glared and thought hard about how he was going to ask.
“Haha! You look like hell. You were pretty gone last night. You should lay down. I’ll call the contractors and see how they’re doing on my house, and get you up in a couple of hours.” America smiled at him again, and after one last suggestive squeeze, lifted his fingers from England’s shoulder.
America had managed to bring up the contractors and England’s drunken bastardy in practically the same breath. And only yesterday England had been unable to remember just how intelligent America was. England deflated, releasing the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stood and stretched.
“Fine. Two hours. And it’s ‘lie’ down, not ‘lay,’ idiot,” he said, and left the room before America could reply.
America’s bizarre behavior continued even after England’s nap. At Harrods, America kept trying to buy too-tight trousers and inviting England to judge their fit. He ate not one but two sausage rolls, commenting on how awesome they were and how funny it was that you just couldn’t get them in the States and that Americans ‘had always had a boner for British things,’ even back in the nineteenth century.
He seemed to be everywhere, hovering and breathing over England and shoving himself up against England in cabs and the more he did it, the more difficult it became for England to ask for an explanation because that would require nonchalantly pointing out the strange behavior while pretending that he’d just noticed it. So instead England became more cross and nasty and aroused; he was in a constant sweat and would have to shower again before dinner.
Like when they were in a grocery queue-- America wanted different coffee than what England’s house provided-- and America stood crotch-to-bum with England and chatted about the great variety of chocolates and breathed in England’s ear and made finger-licking noises. England had to elbow him away, hard.
America, who would probably have a right terrible bruise in his ribs, just smiled and said how much he was looking forward to dinner, because surely a French restaurant would have fabulous chocolate desserts and wasn’t England looking forward to it, also?
By the time they made it through their-- admittedly excellent-- dinner, England had become so randy and vitriolic that America was hardly speaking to him. At least it meant he wasn’t groping England or flirting with him or shoving things suggestively into his own mouth.
But during the show America started weeping during the first act when Fontine died, and hardly stopped afterwards. During Act Two, when Marius and his daughter finally found Jean Valjean on his deathbed, America was positively gasping for air through his tears. He sounded so pathetic that England didn’t even punch him when he clutched at England’s fingers and squeezed and squeezed and didn’t let go until after the last curtain call.
They sat in the theatre box, peeping through the curtain at the crowds and waiting for the end of the exit-rush before venturing out. America stretched out his long legs in his-- finally-- well-fitted trousers and sighed.
“All is forgiven,” he said. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them.
“What am I being forgiven for, now?” England asked, and tried not to think about how attractive America looked in his pale-cream silk button-down and very tasteful black-and-navy tie. And tried not to wonder why America had been so grabby all day, and tried not to wish he was still being so, if even a little.
“For jabbing me with your elbow and being such a jerk,” America said with a smile. He breathed onto his spectacles and polished them some more, with a silk pocket-square that matched his tie.
“What the hell?” England demanded. He felt twisted inside. Sick. America was nothing but trouble; he’d been hurting England and frightening him and astonishing him since before he’d reached waist-height. It was too much for one being to endure in one day: heartbreak, a hangover, America humping him in public and pretending he hadn’t done it.
“What?”
“Pfft. Fuck off. Just go the hell home,” England said. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat and pushed open the curtain and shoved his way through the crowds. Anything to escape America.
But America followed, calling after him and jumping into the same cab outside and tossing pound-notes at the driver. England crossed his arms over his chest as tightly as he could and scrunched into the farthest corner of the cab. Still it wasn’t enough to escape; America patted his shoulder and said I’m sorry and England dared to turn and look at America to see if all was to be explained at last.
America was leaning his head back on the seat and looking at England from the corners of his eyes, the whites shining in the dark of the cab. He sighed and the hand that had been patting England’s shoulder stilled, resting lightly somewhere on his bicep.
“So do you want me to sleep with you tonight?” America asked in a quiet voice.
England uncurled from his corner and hooked his fingers into claws, launching himself at America and fully intending to strangle him. America’s eyes widened but he caught England’s wrists and held him off, hunching to protect his vital regions as England tried to knee him somewhere painful. There was something familiar about the entire process that England couldn’t quite place but had a terrible suspicion it had happened the previous evening.
“Explain,” England ground out, face a mere few centimetres from America’s, stepping on America’s feet to keep them planted on the floor of the cab. England’s heart was racing, trying to painfully thump its way out of his chest.
“You said-- you said I could sleep with you last night. Y-- you don’t remember?” America said. He was grinning but his eyes were still wide and he was stuttering, and England realized that some façade he’d been wearing was breaking down.
“I-- I--" England started to say, but then noticed America’s eyes glancing past him. He turned his head to see the driver, goggling at them in the rear-view mirror. He stepped off America’s feet and shook his wrists until America released him. “Explain at home,” he said, and went back to his corner of the cab .
The ride was short and yet endless at the same time. America did not spend the drive touching him or yammering at him, however, and for that England had to be grateful. America had already paid the driver more than enough money, so they were able to pile out at England’s house and head straight in.
Once inside America was still silent, so England made a show of removing his coat, of brushing the rain and nonexistent detritus from the wool, of placing it correctly on a hanger and sliding it into the closet, all the while his heart thumping and his stomach twisting itself into knots. Still America did not talk, just shrugged out of his coat wearing a shifty expression that wouldn’t meet England’s gaze.
America’s arm became caught and twisted in his coat-sleeve and he looked so confuzzled that England sighed and stepped over to help him out of it. He took a deep breath. He took several. He thought about saying So what were you saying about last night?
“I. Uh,” America started to say, saving England the torture of asking. America then cracked his knuckles and watched his free hand as it clenched, unclenched. “Woo, grow some, he says. Haha. Hokay. I. Thought you might like it. If.”
He paused. England stuck his hand into America’s sleeve to fish him out of it and realized that he was touching America voluntarily and that he liked it and then he realized what America was trying to say. He wanted to laugh, he was so giddy and frightened to death, but he didn’t.
“Daft cunt,” England said, and before he could think about, it he plastered his mouth onto America’s and breathed him and--
“Oh, God. Oh myfuckinggod,” America sighed, taking the words right out of England’s mouth. He stopped blaspheming after that and clutched England’s shoulder with his free hand and thumped him on the back with the other.
England grabbed the back of America’s head with both hands and mashed their mouths together. For all England’s affection, he couldn’t be gentle, not in those first few moments. He tried not to think this is America, holy hell but did a little, anyway as they shoved their tongues at each other.
It was a minute or so before England allowed himself to slow down, curling his fingers through America’s hair and licking America’s teeth, the top of his mouth, while America moaned short little ahs at him and kneaded England’s shoulder like a cat might. It was another minute or two before England pulled back to breathe the outside of America’s lips, to look at him.
America’s eyes were closed and his spectacles had been knocked askew by their shared enthusiasm. England plucked them off and tossed them onto the sofa. He had two hundred years of pent-up, burning lust to deal with and no time to worry about the annoying details.
America opened his eyes and looked at him with no small wonder. He looked so young without his spectacles, so like himself from long ago, that England’s thighs shook with inappropriate longing.
“So, I was being clear?” America said in a whisper against England’s lips.
“As a brick wall, idiot,” England told him. He massaged his fingertips into America’s scalp and tilted his head to go in for round two, sliding his closed lips from one side of America’s mouth to the other, then slipping his tongue inside again to get everything, everywhere, all at once.
What America lacked in finesse he made up for in tasting wonderful-- heat, and chocolate and spit and red wine from the glass he’d drunk at the show. And in zeal: America pulled England closer with the hand on his back until they were pressed together from nose to knees and England could feel the heat coming off America’s body in little shudders.
“What’s wrong with you?” England asked around America’s tongue.
America rested his forehead against England’s and crawled his fingers around to the back of England’s neck. “Nothing. ‘S’nice.”
“Ah,” England breathed, and proceeded to demonstrate just how nice he could be.
After a few more minutes the brief interlude of tenderness edged back into more urgent territory. America was hupping from stimulation and England’s madly thumping heart had settled in his lower belly, throbbing in his cock against America’s hipbone or matching erection or whatever was jutting at him.
The sofa was closest-- England clutched America’s bum in one hand and stepped backwards, dragging America with him, but his heel caught on something and if America hadn’t been holding him he would have tumbled backwards onto his bottom.
America snorted quite unromantically. He still had his coat hanging from one arm and that’s what England had stepped on. England hissed through his teeth and yanked it off ungently. America rubbed his freed wrist with his other hand and England grabbed the wrist from him and popped off its cufflink.
“Don’t lose those. I just got them,” America said as England popped the one off the other cuff. England dropped them onto an end-table and then removed his own cufflinks.
“That’s why I’m removing them now, before we take this to the settee,” England explained. He was quite reasonable and steady as he pulled America around, then pushed him backwards towards the furniture item in question. While he had his hands on America’s chest he loosened America’s tie and slipped the first few buttons of his shirt out of their holes.
“Oh. Okay,” America said, and for once kept further quiet. England shoved him down to the settee and then kicked off his own shoes. America did the same, eyes never leaving England’s as England then pulled off his vest. America’s eyes were so wide and anticipatory-nervous that England’s chest ached to match his cock.
He fell into the sofa with his knees and swiveled sideways until he could press America back into the cushions and go for round three of snogging. Perhaps it was round four. He yanked off America’s tie and licked his neck and opened his shirt to stroke America’s warm skin, to survey his new empire, his again for the while. America groaned and arched his back and pulled England’s shirt-tails out of his trousers and England felt America’s huge, strong hands on his skin, lightly callused fingers kneading his spine.
At some point it had become clear to England how much America wanted him in return, and England wondered how he hadn’t seen it, how long this had been so and why the pair of them had been so bloody stupid with each other. Their governments had certainly had better relations at various times in the past. Why now was a bit of a puzzle. Still, England thought, this had little to do with what they represented; this was just now and was for him, warm skin and breaths and America’s body, his America, shifting against him in little jerks.
Positioned as he was between America’s thighs, it had also become clear that America indeed had a matching erection and was trying, from his position of buried in cushions with no leverage, to grind it into England’s abdomen. England took pity and swiveled his hips a few times, nibbling America’s neck and stroking his side as he did it. America started hupping again and England slid his hand lower, flipping America’s trouser-button open and running his thumb over the silky-hot skin of his cock.
America gasped so painfully into England’s ear that England kissed him again and caught his cock in a firmer grip, frotting his own crotch into America’s knee.
“England, oh, England,” America was gasping into England’s mouth.
England pulled back and stilled his movements for a moment. “What is it?”
America opened his eyes and looked up at him with a bit of an accusatory air. “Just saying your name. I thought you liked that.”
England chuckled. America grinned back, his teeth white in his pink, shiny face. He took the opportunity to fumble at the buttons of England’s shirt. England let him and rocked back to sit on his heels and unravel his tie. When his shirt was sufficiently open-- it was chilly in here, he felt cool air on his sweaty skin-- he dug his fingers into America’s trousers at his hips.
“Lift your bum so I can get these off.”
America looked downright apprehensive but only for a half-instant. Then he was grinning again and England wondered how he did that, how he concealed his moods so well. “Oh. Okay,” he said again, and arched his back a few centimetres.
England started pulling America’s trousers down-- the twit wore no underpants, even though it was fucking November in London. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, wondering if he should have.
“Uh, yeah,” America answered in a rather sarcastic tone. “I’m not the one who sees unicorns, remember?”
“Wise-ass,” England said with a light smack to the body-part in question. America raised his knees to his chest so that England could pull his trousers off his lower legs, and, amusingly, wrapped his hands around his vital regions as if to cover them. “With whom?”
“Not telling,” America said to the ceiling.
“Fair enough,” England said back. He didn’t really want to know, anyway.
America lowered his legs and England had a short but thorough look while he finished unbuttoning his shirt. But rather than to the more interesting bits of America’s anatomy, which seemed perfectly normal and lovely, his gaze was drawn to America’s open shirt and the bruise and scars on his bare chest. The bruise England had probably given him; the long, thin scar across his middle was hardly visible, but a rather nasty-looking gash cut across his breastbone, just under where his heart was, white against his pink, flushed skin. England’s chest ached in sympathy; he had a few scars of his own. But his desire for rather rough conquest had abated a bit.
“Stay right there,” he ordered. He dashed to the bathroom to grab a bottle from one of the drawers-- a bottle he’d bought with high hopes a few years ago. When he returned thirty seconds later, America was in the same position but his eyes were closed and he was clutching his lower lip in his teeth. He opened his eyes at England’s chuckle.
“Hi!” he said.
“Hello yourself,” England said back. “I don’t intend to hurt you, you know.”
“I know.” He held up his hands and England lowered himself between them, pressing his naked skin to America’s and snogging him again, deeply and with intent. America kissed him back at the exact right pace, learning, learning, he’d always been a quick learner, too quick, and England’s chest ached more awfully than his cock trapped inside his trousers. He kissed down America’s neck and settled his lips on his breastbone, licking down to the scar and kissing it better. America ruffled England’s hair at the nape of his neck and stroked his sides and moaned and made it clear he wanted touching and kissing lower down, but England was so hard and hot and tight he thought he might spontaneously combust; that would have to come later.
He fastened his lips on America’s mouth again to savor his moans, all for him, only for him, America, and when America hooked a thigh over England’s bottom, trying to get closer, to get off, England curled a finger behind America’s bollocks to stroke the rim of his arsehole.
America’s entire body twitched at once. He grabbed England’s bum so hard he nearly shoved a finger inside England through his trousers.
“England, England,” he whispered.
England chuckled even as his skin ignited all over to hear his name from those lips, like that, in that voice. He popped the lid from the bottle he’d shoved between the seat-cushions and upended it over America’s bare hip, spreading the slick lube over America’s skin and his own fingers.
As he shoved a slicked finger inside America, his America, it quickly became apparent to England that America had not in fact done this before, at least not like this; he was too nervous and clenched too tightly around England’s finger. Was he even aware of what they were going to do?
“Going to fuck you,” England told America’s lips.
“Uh huh,” America said. As England stretched his finger just so and pushed America’s body seized up against the sofa and England and he added, “please! Please just do it.”
“Mmm,” England said, agreeing wholeheartedly. He unfastened and yanked down his trousers to his knees and slid his burning, holy hell burning, cock into the slick puddle on America’s hip and he shoved and swirled it and America licked England’s lips.
“Any day, old guy,” he said.
“Bastard,” England ground out and hooked America’s knee up to his chest and nudged his cock into America, oh, sweet, tight and past the clenching muscle and he was inside all the way, sweet Jesus, sweet America.
America was grimace-grinning and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. England realized that he was probably hurting him, contrary to promise, but didn’t care too much because America seemed to be doing all right and it felt quite lovely being inside him.
“Relax, lad,” he said, and stretched down for a kiss, pushing America’s knee back to his ear so their mouths could meet. He rocked his hips in tiny movements back and forth, unable to not move just a little bit. America was huffing quick breaths and England kissed him until he felt the taut muscles in his captured thigh loosen some, and he was able to move inside him a little more freely. “There’s a lad.”
He knew America had started to feel good again when his erection plumped up between them and he started making little ah cries in the back of his throat. America, with his red lips and black-ringed eyes, making England laugh like he hadn’t in years. “Jesus,” he murmured into America’s temple, licking the sweat from America’s hair and feeling America’s hands wind ‘round England’s back to hold him as he fucked him.
For a while he couldn’t think of a single bad thing about America; had never been annoyed by him, had always just wanted him. He didn’t even close his eyes, just watched America’s face and wanted this to last forever. But forever wasn’t going to happen: after a few minutes his leisurely thrusts quickened on their own, as his body rushed ahead of his intentions. He watched America breathe, harsh and open-mouthed at him, and the ache in his testicles threatened to subsume his brain.
“How are you?” he thought to whisper as he ground America into the cushions. America, who was trying to grind back and failing but who was perfect and tight and slick and sweaty and beautiful all the same.
“Unh,” America said, and “please.”
“Unh,” England told him back; his thighs quivered and he nearly teetered into orgasm. Quickly he braced his forehead on America’s and grabbed America’s cock and jerked it almost violently.
“Th-- th--" America tried to say. “Oh--" and he tightened and tensed all over and dug fingers into England’s spine and pulled England’s hair, sweet lad.
England felt the sticky mess of America’s release on his hand and let go to brace it in between the settee cushions the cushions would have to be cleaned and forced a last few thrusts into America’s body, slackened and relaxed and pliable. He was fit to burst, too close to orgasm to not confess his feelings. “Jesus, I’ve loved you,” he moaned into America’s hair, knowing that later, if he had to, he could claim mere religious exultation.
“Ahh,” America breathed back and England came inside him, jerking and unrhythmic, bloody hell they’d made a mess of his settee. Their sweaty foreheads slid apart and England gave a quick kiss to America’s cheek before he buried his face in the cushion and drooled on it, dirtying it further.
He wound down, breathing hard, then more slowly, then almost normally. America’s hands, under his shirt, stroked his back, fingertips making gentle, distracted circles on his skin. England smiled inwardly and pulled his hand from between the cushions, holding America’s spectacles.
“Texas,” he said, and dropped them on America’s forehead.
America looked alarmed for a moment but a quick examination revealed that the spectacles were unharmed. He opened them and dropped them on across his nose.
“Mm, thanks,” he told England. He pried England’s fingers from the underside of his knee and swatted his hand aside, then straightened his leg. “Ow.”
“Unh,” England said, rolling off of America to sit onto the floor. He leaned back against the sofa for a moment to pull up his trousers, feeling odd as suddenly as he’d felt happy a moment ago. He felt vulnerable. It had been too lovely. He’d said too much. He wondered where they should go from here. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to pull America against him and squeeze and squeeze until neither of them had breath and couldn’t leave. But that wasn’t bloody likely.
America stood and England watched him out of the corner of his eyes, and expected him to say, “well, bye” or something equally flippant and to collect his things and leave; England’s heart jumped and he felt pathetic because America hadn’t said--
But America only arched his back and winced and said “ow” again. His spectacles lenses were smeared. He had semen and lubricant smeared across his belly and dripping down his leg. He looked endearing and ridiculous and so normal that suddenly England wasn’t afraid, anymore.
America sat on the settee again and England jumped to his feet and held out his hand. America looked up at him with a question written across his face. He opened his mouth and then shut it. Good lad.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up, then,” England said. America took his hand and England pulled.
***
America found it all so normal that it was bizarre. England yanked him around the corner and into the bathroom and tsked at him for being a mess and it was just too normal after-- after that.
“Sorry for the bruise,” England said in a low voice, and it was nearly the same voice he’d used when he’d said going to fuck you and America shivered a little in memory, and then shivered again because he was mostly naked and England was swiping at his midsection with a cold, wet washcloth.
“Aw, it doesn’t hurt,” he lied. Some sense of self-preservation kept him from saying all is forgiven again. Though that had certainly led to the desired result. In a way.
“Hmm,” England said, and ran more cold water onto the washcloth.
Holy shit, but England had certainly come across with the goods when sufficiently riled. It was like he was the England of old, who could kick his ass and care for him at the same time. France had warned him, years ago, that England was only repressed on the outside and that he was a kinky bastard...
Care for him. England had said, America distinctly remembered, that he’d loved him. Or that he’d loved Jesus.
America looked at England’s face, his green eyes clinically intent as he swabbed America down. It was the expression of an old man. America wanted to laugh.
Instead he ran his fingers through England’s blond hair, all mussed from-- from America’s grabbing it as England had screwed the living daylights out of him. To think he’d considered, at first, that he’d be the one taking charge.
England stilled when America touched him and then smirked. He looked positively evil. And hot and not like an old man at all.
“Your hands had better be clean,” England said and he yanked America closer by the neck and bit his shoulder. Not hard, but America definitely felt teeth.
Ouch, asshole, America wanted to say, but what he said was “Ah” and even that came out in a bit of a whine.
England chuckled and licked the spot he’d bitten and then licked along his collarbone, a warm wet path that grew chilly in the cool air of England’s house.
“I thought you had central heating installed in this place a few years ago,” America accused when England nudged his shirt off his shoulders and he shivered.
“Bloody pansy. You cold?” England said, and then was all business again as he stepped back to wipe America down some more.
“Maybe.”
England rubbed America’s lower belly with the cold cloth and America put his hands on England’s shoulders because he was feeling a little weak-kneed and unsteady. Then England was rubbing America’s thighs and between them and the cloth was rough and wet and he couldn’t believe he was standing naked in the bathroom and jolly old England, grumpy bastard and his first friend, was wiping come from his legs. To America’s shame his dick twitched. Visibly. Well, it felt good, even if it was fucking cold and bizarre.
England looked up, smirking at him again with his eyes. He tossed the washcloth in the sink and then he was kissing America again and, man, you knew you were being kissed when England was kissing you. You couldn’t breathe but you didn’t care. He began to feel much less cold as he breathed England and squeezed his warm shoulders through his old-man, button-down shirt.
England’s mouth slid from America’s lips to his ear and he heard a whisper. “Turn around.”
Why? America wanted to say but instead he said “Okay” and turned around. He could see himself in the mirror, naked, bruised, scarred and wet and fucked and then he could see and feel England’s hand on this stomach, fingers spread, and England’s head at his shoulder and then England’s lips and teeth on his earlobe. America shut his eyes so he could feel it all without watching. “Mmmmm...” he might have said.
Then he wasn’t being touched and he was cold. He heard England’s pants rustling to the floor and he shivered with... with lots of things. Then he was being touched again, fingers sliding up his chest and rough over both his nipples and his neck was being licked from his shoulder to jawline and he felt harsh breaths there. Other fingers were squeezing his overstimulated cock, gently and then with more force, rubbing relentlessly over the tip; all the blood and remaining heat in his body fell to the pit of his stomach to throb there and his only heat and support was England, pressed full-length against his back.
“’Ere we go,” a low, sexy voice skulked into his ear and he was hard again and swaying, back and forth, into those teasing fingers and the warm body behind him, rubbing against whatever he could reach.
Wow, this is awesome, he should have said, but all he could manage was something along the lines of “Hup. Hup, hup.” He managed to lift a hand over his shoulder to stroke England’s soft, sweaty hair. He felt his glasses being removed and heard a clink as they were placed onto something.
The voice was back. “Bend over. I haven’t had enough of you, yet, it seems,” it said, and possibly, coupla centuries, long, bloody time.
America opened his eyes for a second and saw himself, his cock jutting out hard and engulfed in England’s well-manicured fingers, and then he saw a sparkly blur for a moment because his equilibrium was too aroused to work correctly. He tilted forward and gripped the sink in both hands, cold porcelain, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh, okay,” he managed to say. Intelligent thought had left him, too, in favor of being screwed silly again.
He felt England’s fingers massaging his ass-cheeks and then spreading them to the cool air but not for long, because the thick, hard, hot of England’s cock was nudging between them and he crawled his hands further up the sides of the sink, bending over as far as he could, until his nose was touching the mirror.
“Good lad,” England said, and then “Ah!” when he pulled out and shoved back in, then again, and on the third thrust he hit something inside America, a bundle of nerves like a live wire that made his dick jump.
“Fuckingoh,” he cried, and England chuckled evilly and did it again, two more times in quick succession, and then again, and--
“How’s that?” England said between huffing breaths.
“Ahh!” England’s fingers were digging into his hips, pulling him forward, back, snap, slap, and he felt his his ass slamming into England’s thighs, the sharp ache over and over of England hitting inside him. “Ah!”
“Thought so. Fuck, America, ah!”
“Yep,” America whimpered, and hung his head and rested his head on the mirror and let his body be shaken around and fucked as it would.
“Dear lord, Jesus,” England was whispering, and America felt the sticky heat of his body press and slide along his spine in time with England’s thrusts. England was praying again, and America fancied that it was for him, his body, as England grabbed his cock in slippery, stinging fingers and yanked until America thought he might explode and die from sensation.
“Open your eyes,” England said, then. America opened his eyes and all he could see were his eyes, dark and wide in the mirror. Then there were fingers on his chin and his head was being tilted back and he could see himself, his face all pink and his mouth hanging open and saying hup, hup and it was painfully erotic and embarrassing all at once. The top of England’s head appeared over his shoulder and he felt words being spoken into his back.
“So how long has it been me?” the words said.
America looked at his own face, pink and shiny and stupid and awesome and he closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Long time,” he managed to say.
“Ah?” America’s head shook as England fucked him hard, fast, he was going to come, how could he speak--? “Tell me.”
“Always! Always,” he said, and he realized it was true, that only England could see him like this; England, England, it had always been England. There’d been that brief interlude with Ukraine, she’d been such a sweet girl and then that one time with Japan but those had merely been fun and how could he have ever wanted mere fun from England, when he could have him like this, worshipping his body, his hand on America’s cock, hot, aching friction--
“Ahgod,” he cried and came and he had to close his eyes; it was like sneezing and he couldn’t watch himself do it, like a sneeze that happened over and over as England worked an extended climax out of him and kept fucking him while he did it.
Finally England started slowing down his thrusts, chanting Jesus, love at him like he had before. America opened his eyes to watch but all he could see through the mist on the mirror was the top of England’s head, yellow-blond hair behind his own dirty-blond, and England’s hand clutching his stomach, fingers flexing over and over until he came.
America wanted to collapse and curl up on the floor but braced himself on the sink so that England could lie across his back for a minute or so. After that, England pushed off of him and moaned and America eased his aching back upright. Fuck whatever Lithuania had said years ago about becoming an adult; he was getting old and felt all of his few centuries in every aching muscle. Plus, he had more come running down his leg and he needed a shower. He looked at the ancient claw-footed tub to his right, the one with the standing shower-head and old-fashioned curtain circling it, and wondered if he could get hot water out of it. And if he could get cleaned up before England molested him again. Not that being molested was necessarily a bad thing, it was just-- his poor ass!
“Demme, but it’s bloody cold in here,” England said. It sounded so old-fashioned, like something he might have said in the eighteenth century, that America suddenly felt very young again.
“Jeeze, you’re such a fossil. Or would that be pansy?” America teased, trying to say it with England’s accent. He plinked his Texas from the sink and put them on and then grinned and stretched his arms to the ceiling to show how spry and youthful he felt. He turned around to see what England made of that.
“Prat,” England said, glaring. He slapped America’s ass and smirked when America winced. America was sure he was going to pay for that one; he hurriedly laughed.
“Haha! Just kidding, sheesh.” He looked longingly at the shower again. Hot water--! “Um. Could I-- we-- could I take a shower? And would you turn the heat on?
England narrowed his eyes, then grinned, and it was the sunniest expression America had ever seen on England’s face. It was blinding and heart-wrenching.
“Take your shower,” he said. “I’ll turn up the heat. And make tea. Fuck, but I could use a cuppa right now.”
America smiled back at him and thought, ten percent and rising.
***
The next morning was a little weird, but not as weird as America might have feared. The normal parts of it were freakily normal: England waking up grumpy and bitching about the smell of coffee first thing in the morning and about America’s stuff strewn all over his living room. The weird parts mostly involved America not being sure how to act or what to do or say but he’d eventually decided to just act like he normally did and expect everything to turn out all right. It was usually a good plan and what was expected of him.
For instance, America had woken up first, and they’d been sharing a bed but that wasn’t necessarily weird. What was unusual, for him, was lying in bed and wondering whether or not there might be morning nookie: the previous night he’d had his shower and they’d shared tea and made out a little but nothing further in the earth-shattering department. They’d both been rather beat, after all. And America’s ass still hurt.
Once America had figured out, however, that England lying face-down in his pillow and twitching now and then when America shifted on the bed was going to be the same whether or not they’d gotten busy the night before, he’d just gotten up and made coffee and chowed down a couple of stale cookies.
But then he had to decide whether or not England might like breakfast, too, and whether or not he should make it and if he should brew the tea and put the little cover-thingy on the pot to keep it warm or take a cup upstairs, like he had the day before. Eventually he settled for tea in cover-thingy, and he took his coffee into the front room to pop onto the internet and see what was up. He left his cell-phone turned off; anybody who really needed him would know where to call him.
There was an e-mail from Canada, full of the usual clever bullshit he’d never say in person and sly digs for information and griping that Tony had already beaten all his video games. America didn’t bother to reply; he wasn’t sure what to say.
There was an e-mail from Japan, discussing the English-language adaptation of the latest Studio Ghibli film and politely asking without asking if America-san would please be sure to use whatever influence he could to see that the perfect voice actors were chosen. Japan sure took his cartoon voice-actors seriously. America popped off a quick reply to say he was hanging at England’s place but he’d call Disney when he got back to the States. After he sent it he realized that he’d probably get another e-mail from Japan, being ultra-polite and inquisitive, but decided he’d just deal with that when the time came.
There was the usual junk-mail, and then holy crap, a message from France, cc’ed to England, being all nicey-nice and saying that he knew America was partying in London and that he was coming up to stay, too. He’d probably been talking with Canada. America didn’t reply to that one, either; he’d let England tell France to fuck off.
Soon after that was when the bitching had started. England had cursed as he’d come down the stairs that it was the crack of dawn and what the hell was America doing down there, typing and making so much bloody noise? What was this electronic stuff all over his parlor? All very normal and weird at the same time.
“Good morning,” America chirped, and let England find the tea himself.
England found it and stomped into the living room without thanks, and shoved some of America’s papers aside to sit on the couch. He sipped his tea and glared at nothing in particular.
“So what are we gonna do today?” America said, even more perkily and with twice the grin.
England turned his glare in America’s direction, then set down his tea and reached for the back of America’s head. America thought, yay, morning nookie, but England just slapped his ear.
“Idiot,” he said.
America covered his ear and pouted. He thought about making some smart-ass comment about England’s age and being too much strong young man for him, but his ass really did hurt and he eventually settled for something a little more normal.
“It’s nice to know you can always be counted on to be a jerk in the morning,” America said. He winced when it looked like England was going to box his ears again, but England just stood.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Going to make some breakfast.”
America considered a snarky comment about running away, but before he had a chance to say it, England continued.
“And you’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” he said, and ruffled America’s hair. Then he went into the kitchen and America grinned and patted his sore ear and realized that the knot he’d always had under his diaphragm when he was with England was not there.
“France is coming. If you log on you’ll see his e-mail,” America said, loudly.
“Nosy bastard,” England griped back. There was the sound of clinking dishes, running water, the clicking of the gas burner on England’s stove being ignited.
It was the clicking that did it: America realized the knot wasn’t in his stomach but in his throat. He sipped some coffee but it didn’t help. He found himself counting every second, listening for everything and looking at everything and touching the couch and trying to memorize every detail, every bump in the rough silk thread of the cushions and the towel England had laid on the couch at some point; he was less accustomed to sentimentality than to nostalgia.
“I have to go back,” he called into the kitchen before he could think about his reasons for saying such a thing.
The clinking of dishes stopped for a moment.
America realized what he’d said, exactly. “In three days,” he added.
The clinking started again. “Ah. Yes, of course,” England replied with a sigh in his voice. America couldn’t tell if it was a relieved sigh or what.
But America was riled up and he had to know; he had to know now. “Seriously,” he called. “So, what are we going to do from here on out?”
England kept clinking things, but didn’t pretend he didn’t know what America was talking about. “I’ve thought about this. And I suppose I don’t really know. Things are changing all the time. Damned governments. I suppose...” The clinking stopped. “I suppose we go on as we have.”
America thought about this. Weird and normal at the same time. “We see each other pretty often, right?”
“Moderately.” There was a careful shrug in England’s voice. “Ah. What are you doing for the holidays?”
At the same time, America said “How would you like to spend new year’s eve in Times Square?”
England answered first. “Been a long time since I’ve done that. I imagine that I could work it out.”
“Awesome,” America said. “I’ll see what things look like for Christmas.”
He sat back and played with the couch cushions and the fringed edges of the towel and let his mind wander over the possibilities of international relations, until England carried a tray with something that smelled only slightly horrible into the dining room between the kitchen and the living room. “We don’t eat in the front parlor here, no matter what you louts do in the States,” England pointed out.
America grabbed his coffee and headed into the dining room. “There’s always Halloween, too,” he noted.
“Ah, that’s right.” England went into the hallway to yank open a drawer in the old-fashioned desk he kept there. He pulled out his ancient little book, then grabbed a fountain pen from the desktop and made a mark inside the book. He gave America a positively evil grin. “Another win for me. I nearly forgot. Would you like to know the current score?”
“God, no,” America said. “Not until I’ve caught up.”
“Never,” England said. He went back into the dining room and sat at the table and America followed. England sipped his tea and looked up at America over the rim of his teacup. “By the way. How do you feel about fellatio?”
Fell--? Oh. Ah.
“Why, I think it’s awesome,” America told him. He twitched in his chair and tried not to look at the food on the table.
England sipped his tea and smirked. “How convenient,” he said.
END.
Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit, all appreciated!
Go Back to Infinity to One: Part 1 of 2
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Author:
jedishampooPairing: Hetalia: England/America (in that order)
Rating/Warnings: NC-l7, explicit sex, language
Summary: America and England up the antes on their Halloween contest, and then another situation reaches a critical point as well. Present-day fic.
Author’s Notes: Dear readers, expect country names, some light crack, drunkenness, smut, more smut, silliness, and a minimum of politics. Thanks to my patient beta
sharpeslass; she Brit-picked for me but I’m US American so I write with American spelling. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. About 16,300 words. Back to Part One.***
Infinity to One: Part 2 of 2
England was dying. He wished he’d just die, already. Instead he was waking up.
His head was in several pieces, at least. His room was too bright but he hurt too much all over to move and shut the curtains. He seemed to be on top of his covers, fully clothed. There was a foul smell wafting through his house that made him want to be sick. It wasn’t him, though his mouth tasted like shite. It might have been his drooled-upon pillow.
His roiling stomach told him it was the scent of coffee. Coffee, in his house. America. He--
Fuck. Oh, fuck. England rolled over and tried to die.
The next time he woke, America was standing over him.
“Oh, lord, g’way,” he croaked.
“Nope. I have presents.” America set down a cup and a couple of ploppy things onto England’s bedside table. “Canada e-mailed and told me how to make your tea with that boily thing. These are aspirin. Come down when you’re human again.”
Human. That was a laugh. England glared at America through one partially-opened eyelid for a few moments until he went away to leave England to die of shame, alone. He looked at the cup. He thought even tea might make him vomit but at least it would un-gum his throat. His fingers shook when he scrabbled on the table for the aspirin and shoved them in his mouth. When their bitter taste became too much to bear he crawled to a sitting position and gulped the tea. Wonder of wonders, he didn’t vomit, and America had even put the correct amount of milk in. He might have to actually congratulate America later--
America, who had... England searched his memory like a file that should never be opened. America had called him an asshole. America had refused to sleep with him and had run away like the hounds of hell were at his feet. After he’d issued such an invitation! Opened his heart, his soul, his-- England looked down. It appeared that his trousers were open, partway. At some point during the night he’d apparently attempted to have a wank. Things were a bit painful and sticky down below. He covered his burning face with his hands.
Christ, he was a right mess. No wonder America had run away. He’d been too drunk to even have a proper wank, and how pathetic was that? And he’d yelled at America for Boston and for the USS Constitution and called him and France cunts and-- well, France was a cunt, but that was neither here nor there. He’d managed to make himself the most thoroughly disgusting and unappetizing being on the planet for a night, and had expected America to say yes?
Smart lad: he’d raised him right. And it was for the best. England could just apologize and everything would be right and tight. Like always.
It was another hour before he got up and showered and tiptoed downstairs. America was in the lounge, playing with his laptop. He jumped up when he saw England.
“Hey! Guess where you’re going tonight?”
“I’m so--” England tried to say at the same time, but halted in favor of being afraid at the new information. “Where?” he asked, cautious.
“The Palace Theatre, in... Westminster? We’re going to see Les Miserables.” He pronounced it in the French manner. “I saw the movie once, but I guess this is a musical. And since we’ll be on the posh side of town, I booked us dinner reservations somewhere nice. Angelus? It’s French too, sorry, but it’s a theme. Anyway, I didn’t bring a suit but I have something I can wear, I hope. Maybe you can take me shopping, anyway, at least for pants--”
“Wait. Wait--” England interrupted with a raised palm, because his head still wasn’t up to eighty percent, let alone a hundred. And he wanted to get the apology out of the way. He collapsed onto the settee. “Plus, I’d like to-- to--"
America plopped down next to him. “I said posh,” he pointed out.
“Yes, yes, I heard that,” England said. “Just shut it for a moment. Last night, I... Ah. Was a bastard. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay. That’s just part of your charm,” America said, and he patted England’s knee. He patted it, and then squeezed it, and did not let go.
England stared at the hand for a moment. It was the sort of thing America would do, except not. Dumbfounded, he plucked America’s hand from his leg and worked up a glare. America just grinned back, all teeth and guileless blue eyes behind his spectacles.
“So what do you think?” America asked, shifting closer.
About you fondling my leg, or about you pressing yourself along my thigh? “I. I--” England swallowed. “If that’s so, I’ll need another lie-down. I feel like shite.”
“Poor England.” At that America squeezed his shoulder, and flexed his fingers in a tiny massage sort of thingum. England had woken up in some strange universe where America would not stop groping him. “Well, do that now. Then take me to Harrods. I’ve decided I want new pants for tonight and a sausage roll from Harrods.”
England gaped for a moment or two, mouth opening and closing until he was certain he appeared all too fish-like. “Bossy little twat,” he finally managed, all his good intentions flying out the window with his annoyance at how fucking massive and warm America’s fingers were and how good he looked after the night they’d had and-- Wait.
The night they’d had. For some reason, probably the fault of his chums-- ale and rye-- he’d gotten the idea last night that America was amenable to... something. And he’d been turned down. Was America now flirting with him, or fucking with him in revenge? He should ask. He would definitely ask. He glared and thought hard about how he was going to ask.
“Haha! You look like hell. You were pretty gone last night. You should lay down. I’ll call the contractors and see how they’re doing on my house, and get you up in a couple of hours.” America smiled at him again, and after one last suggestive squeeze, lifted his fingers from England’s shoulder.
America had managed to bring up the contractors and England’s drunken bastardy in practically the same breath. And only yesterday England had been unable to remember just how intelligent America was. England deflated, releasing the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stood and stretched.
“Fine. Two hours. And it’s ‘lie’ down, not ‘lay,’ idiot,” he said, and left the room before America could reply.
America’s bizarre behavior continued even after England’s nap. At Harrods, America kept trying to buy too-tight trousers and inviting England to judge their fit. He ate not one but two sausage rolls, commenting on how awesome they were and how funny it was that you just couldn’t get them in the States and that Americans ‘had always had a boner for British things,’ even back in the nineteenth century.
He seemed to be everywhere, hovering and breathing over England and shoving himself up against England in cabs and the more he did it, the more difficult it became for England to ask for an explanation because that would require nonchalantly pointing out the strange behavior while pretending that he’d just noticed it. So instead England became more cross and nasty and aroused; he was in a constant sweat and would have to shower again before dinner.
Like when they were in a grocery queue-- America wanted different coffee than what England’s house provided-- and America stood crotch-to-bum with England and chatted about the great variety of chocolates and breathed in England’s ear and made finger-licking noises. England had to elbow him away, hard.
America, who would probably have a right terrible bruise in his ribs, just smiled and said how much he was looking forward to dinner, because surely a French restaurant would have fabulous chocolate desserts and wasn’t England looking forward to it, also?
By the time they made it through their-- admittedly excellent-- dinner, England had become so randy and vitriolic that America was hardly speaking to him. At least it meant he wasn’t groping England or flirting with him or shoving things suggestively into his own mouth.
But during the show America started weeping during the first act when Fontine died, and hardly stopped afterwards. During Act Two, when Marius and his daughter finally found Jean Valjean on his deathbed, America was positively gasping for air through his tears. He sounded so pathetic that England didn’t even punch him when he clutched at England’s fingers and squeezed and squeezed and didn’t let go until after the last curtain call.
They sat in the theatre box, peeping through the curtain at the crowds and waiting for the end of the exit-rush before venturing out. America stretched out his long legs in his-- finally-- well-fitted trousers and sighed.
“All is forgiven,” he said. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them.
“What am I being forgiven for, now?” England asked, and tried not to think about how attractive America looked in his pale-cream silk button-down and very tasteful black-and-navy tie. And tried not to wonder why America had been so grabby all day, and tried not to wish he was still being so, if even a little.
“For jabbing me with your elbow and being such a jerk,” America said with a smile. He breathed onto his spectacles and polished them some more, with a silk pocket-square that matched his tie.
“What the hell?” England demanded. He felt twisted inside. Sick. America was nothing but trouble; he’d been hurting England and frightening him and astonishing him since before he’d reached waist-height. It was too much for one being to endure in one day: heartbreak, a hangover, America humping him in public and pretending he hadn’t done it.
“What?”
“Pfft. Fuck off. Just go the hell home,” England said. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat and pushed open the curtain and shoved his way through the crowds. Anything to escape America.
But America followed, calling after him and jumping into the same cab outside and tossing pound-notes at the driver. England crossed his arms over his chest as tightly as he could and scrunched into the farthest corner of the cab. Still it wasn’t enough to escape; America patted his shoulder and said I’m sorry and England dared to turn and look at America to see if all was to be explained at last.
America was leaning his head back on the seat and looking at England from the corners of his eyes, the whites shining in the dark of the cab. He sighed and the hand that had been patting England’s shoulder stilled, resting lightly somewhere on his bicep.
“So do you want me to sleep with you tonight?” America asked in a quiet voice.
England uncurled from his corner and hooked his fingers into claws, launching himself at America and fully intending to strangle him. America’s eyes widened but he caught England’s wrists and held him off, hunching to protect his vital regions as England tried to knee him somewhere painful. There was something familiar about the entire process that England couldn’t quite place but had a terrible suspicion it had happened the previous evening.
“Explain,” England ground out, face a mere few centimetres from America’s, stepping on America’s feet to keep them planted on the floor of the cab. England’s heart was racing, trying to painfully thump its way out of his chest.
“You said-- you said I could sleep with you last night. Y-- you don’t remember?” America said. He was grinning but his eyes were still wide and he was stuttering, and England realized that some façade he’d been wearing was breaking down.
“I-- I--" England started to say, but then noticed America’s eyes glancing past him. He turned his head to see the driver, goggling at them in the rear-view mirror. He stepped off America’s feet and shook his wrists until America released him. “Explain at home,” he said, and went back to his corner of the cab .
The ride was short and yet endless at the same time. America did not spend the drive touching him or yammering at him, however, and for that England had to be grateful. America had already paid the driver more than enough money, so they were able to pile out at England’s house and head straight in.
Once inside America was still silent, so England made a show of removing his coat, of brushing the rain and nonexistent detritus from the wool, of placing it correctly on a hanger and sliding it into the closet, all the while his heart thumping and his stomach twisting itself into knots. Still America did not talk, just shrugged out of his coat wearing a shifty expression that wouldn’t meet England’s gaze.
America’s arm became caught and twisted in his coat-sleeve and he looked so confuzzled that England sighed and stepped over to help him out of it. He took a deep breath. He took several. He thought about saying So what were you saying about last night?
“I. Uh,” America started to say, saving England the torture of asking. America then cracked his knuckles and watched his free hand as it clenched, unclenched. “Woo, grow some, he says. Haha. Hokay. I. Thought you might like it. If.”
He paused. England stuck his hand into America’s sleeve to fish him out of it and realized that he was touching America voluntarily and that he liked it and then he realized what America was trying to say. He wanted to laugh, he was so giddy and frightened to death, but he didn’t.
“Daft cunt,” England said, and before he could think about, it he plastered his mouth onto America’s and breathed him and--
“Oh, God. Oh myfuckinggod,” America sighed, taking the words right out of England’s mouth. He stopped blaspheming after that and clutched England’s shoulder with his free hand and thumped him on the back with the other.
England grabbed the back of America’s head with both hands and mashed their mouths together. For all England’s affection, he couldn’t be gentle, not in those first few moments. He tried not to think this is America, holy hell but did a little, anyway as they shoved their tongues at each other.
It was a minute or so before England allowed himself to slow down, curling his fingers through America’s hair and licking America’s teeth, the top of his mouth, while America moaned short little ahs at him and kneaded England’s shoulder like a cat might. It was another minute or two before England pulled back to breathe the outside of America’s lips, to look at him.
America’s eyes were closed and his spectacles had been knocked askew by their shared enthusiasm. England plucked them off and tossed them onto the sofa. He had two hundred years of pent-up, burning lust to deal with and no time to worry about the annoying details.
America opened his eyes and looked at him with no small wonder. He looked so young without his spectacles, so like himself from long ago, that England’s thighs shook with inappropriate longing.
“So, I was being clear?” America said in a whisper against England’s lips.
“As a brick wall, idiot,” England told him. He massaged his fingertips into America’s scalp and tilted his head to go in for round two, sliding his closed lips from one side of America’s mouth to the other, then slipping his tongue inside again to get everything, everywhere, all at once.
What America lacked in finesse he made up for in tasting wonderful-- heat, and chocolate and spit and red wine from the glass he’d drunk at the show. And in zeal: America pulled England closer with the hand on his back until they were pressed together from nose to knees and England could feel the heat coming off America’s body in little shudders.
“What’s wrong with you?” England asked around America’s tongue.
America rested his forehead against England’s and crawled his fingers around to the back of England’s neck. “Nothing. ‘S’nice.”
“Ah,” England breathed, and proceeded to demonstrate just how nice he could be.
After a few more minutes the brief interlude of tenderness edged back into more urgent territory. America was hupping from stimulation and England’s madly thumping heart had settled in his lower belly, throbbing in his cock against America’s hipbone or matching erection or whatever was jutting at him.
The sofa was closest-- England clutched America’s bum in one hand and stepped backwards, dragging America with him, but his heel caught on something and if America hadn’t been holding him he would have tumbled backwards onto his bottom.
America snorted quite unromantically. He still had his coat hanging from one arm and that’s what England had stepped on. England hissed through his teeth and yanked it off ungently. America rubbed his freed wrist with his other hand and England grabbed the wrist from him and popped off its cufflink.
“Don’t lose those. I just got them,” America said as England popped the one off the other cuff. England dropped them onto an end-table and then removed his own cufflinks.
“That’s why I’m removing them now, before we take this to the settee,” England explained. He was quite reasonable and steady as he pulled America around, then pushed him backwards towards the furniture item in question. While he had his hands on America’s chest he loosened America’s tie and slipped the first few buttons of his shirt out of their holes.
“Oh. Okay,” America said, and for once kept further quiet. England shoved him down to the settee and then kicked off his own shoes. America did the same, eyes never leaving England’s as England then pulled off his vest. America’s eyes were so wide and anticipatory-nervous that England’s chest ached to match his cock.
He fell into the sofa with his knees and swiveled sideways until he could press America back into the cushions and go for round three of snogging. Perhaps it was round four. He yanked off America’s tie and licked his neck and opened his shirt to stroke America’s warm skin, to survey his new empire, his again for the while. America groaned and arched his back and pulled England’s shirt-tails out of his trousers and England felt America’s huge, strong hands on his skin, lightly callused fingers kneading his spine.
At some point it had become clear to England how much America wanted him in return, and England wondered how he hadn’t seen it, how long this had been so and why the pair of them had been so bloody stupid with each other. Their governments had certainly had better relations at various times in the past. Why now was a bit of a puzzle. Still, England thought, this had little to do with what they represented; this was just now and was for him, warm skin and breaths and America’s body, his America, shifting against him in little jerks.
Positioned as he was between America’s thighs, it had also become clear that America indeed had a matching erection and was trying, from his position of buried in cushions with no leverage, to grind it into England’s abdomen. England took pity and swiveled his hips a few times, nibbling America’s neck and stroking his side as he did it. America started hupping again and England slid his hand lower, flipping America’s trouser-button open and running his thumb over the silky-hot skin of his cock.
America gasped so painfully into England’s ear that England kissed him again and caught his cock in a firmer grip, frotting his own crotch into America’s knee.
“England, oh, England,” America was gasping into England’s mouth.
England pulled back and stilled his movements for a moment. “What is it?”
America opened his eyes and looked up at him with a bit of an accusatory air. “Just saying your name. I thought you liked that.”
England chuckled. America grinned back, his teeth white in his pink, shiny face. He took the opportunity to fumble at the buttons of England’s shirt. England let him and rocked back to sit on his heels and unravel his tie. When his shirt was sufficiently open-- it was chilly in here, he felt cool air on his sweaty skin-- he dug his fingers into America’s trousers at his hips.
“Lift your bum so I can get these off.”
America looked downright apprehensive but only for a half-instant. Then he was grinning again and England wondered how he did that, how he concealed his moods so well. “Oh. Okay,” he said again, and arched his back a few centimetres.
England started pulling America’s trousers down-- the twit wore no underpants, even though it was fucking November in London. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked, wondering if he should have.
“Uh, yeah,” America answered in a rather sarcastic tone. “I’m not the one who sees unicorns, remember?”
“Wise-ass,” England said with a light smack to the body-part in question. America raised his knees to his chest so that England could pull his trousers off his lower legs, and, amusingly, wrapped his hands around his vital regions as if to cover them. “With whom?”
“Not telling,” America said to the ceiling.
“Fair enough,” England said back. He didn’t really want to know, anyway.
America lowered his legs and England had a short but thorough look while he finished unbuttoning his shirt. But rather than to the more interesting bits of America’s anatomy, which seemed perfectly normal and lovely, his gaze was drawn to America’s open shirt and the bruise and scars on his bare chest. The bruise England had probably given him; the long, thin scar across his middle was hardly visible, but a rather nasty-looking gash cut across his breastbone, just under where his heart was, white against his pink, flushed skin. England’s chest ached in sympathy; he had a few scars of his own. But his desire for rather rough conquest had abated a bit.
“Stay right there,” he ordered. He dashed to the bathroom to grab a bottle from one of the drawers-- a bottle he’d bought with high hopes a few years ago. When he returned thirty seconds later, America was in the same position but his eyes were closed and he was clutching his lower lip in his teeth. He opened his eyes at England’s chuckle.
“Hi!” he said.
“Hello yourself,” England said back. “I don’t intend to hurt you, you know.”
“I know.” He held up his hands and England lowered himself between them, pressing his naked skin to America’s and snogging him again, deeply and with intent. America kissed him back at the exact right pace, learning, learning, he’d always been a quick learner, too quick, and England’s chest ached more awfully than his cock trapped inside his trousers. He kissed down America’s neck and settled his lips on his breastbone, licking down to the scar and kissing it better. America ruffled England’s hair at the nape of his neck and stroked his sides and moaned and made it clear he wanted touching and kissing lower down, but England was so hard and hot and tight he thought he might spontaneously combust; that would have to come later.
He fastened his lips on America’s mouth again to savor his moans, all for him, only for him, America, and when America hooked a thigh over England’s bottom, trying to get closer, to get off, England curled a finger behind America’s bollocks to stroke the rim of his arsehole.
America’s entire body twitched at once. He grabbed England’s bum so hard he nearly shoved a finger inside England through his trousers.
“England, England,” he whispered.
England chuckled even as his skin ignited all over to hear his name from those lips, like that, in that voice. He popped the lid from the bottle he’d shoved between the seat-cushions and upended it over America’s bare hip, spreading the slick lube over America’s skin and his own fingers.
As he shoved a slicked finger inside America, his America, it quickly became apparent to England that America had not in fact done this before, at least not like this; he was too nervous and clenched too tightly around England’s finger. Was he even aware of what they were going to do?
“Going to fuck you,” England told America’s lips.
“Uh huh,” America said. As England stretched his finger just so and pushed America’s body seized up against the sofa and England and he added, “please! Please just do it.”
“Mmm,” England said, agreeing wholeheartedly. He unfastened and yanked down his trousers to his knees and slid his burning, holy hell burning, cock into the slick puddle on America’s hip and he shoved and swirled it and America licked England’s lips.
“Any day, old guy,” he said.
“Bastard,” England ground out and hooked America’s knee up to his chest and nudged his cock into America, oh, sweet, tight and past the clenching muscle and he was inside all the way, sweet Jesus, sweet America.
America was grimace-grinning and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. England realized that he was probably hurting him, contrary to promise, but didn’t care too much because America seemed to be doing all right and it felt quite lovely being inside him.
“Relax, lad,” he said, and stretched down for a kiss, pushing America’s knee back to his ear so their mouths could meet. He rocked his hips in tiny movements back and forth, unable to not move just a little bit. America was huffing quick breaths and England kissed him until he felt the taut muscles in his captured thigh loosen some, and he was able to move inside him a little more freely. “There’s a lad.”
He knew America had started to feel good again when his erection plumped up between them and he started making little ah cries in the back of his throat. America, with his red lips and black-ringed eyes, making England laugh like he hadn’t in years. “Jesus,” he murmured into America’s temple, licking the sweat from America’s hair and feeling America’s hands wind ‘round England’s back to hold him as he fucked him.
For a while he couldn’t think of a single bad thing about America; had never been annoyed by him, had always just wanted him. He didn’t even close his eyes, just watched America’s face and wanted this to last forever. But forever wasn’t going to happen: after a few minutes his leisurely thrusts quickened on their own, as his body rushed ahead of his intentions. He watched America breathe, harsh and open-mouthed at him, and the ache in his testicles threatened to subsume his brain.
“How are you?” he thought to whisper as he ground America into the cushions. America, who was trying to grind back and failing but who was perfect and tight and slick and sweaty and beautiful all the same.
“Unh,” America said, and “please.”
“Unh,” England told him back; his thighs quivered and he nearly teetered into orgasm. Quickly he braced his forehead on America’s and grabbed America’s cock and jerked it almost violently.
“Th-- th--" America tried to say. “Oh--" and he tightened and tensed all over and dug fingers into England’s spine and pulled England’s hair, sweet lad.
England felt the sticky mess of America’s release on his hand and let go to brace it in between the settee cushions the cushions would have to be cleaned and forced a last few thrusts into America’s body, slackened and relaxed and pliable. He was fit to burst, too close to orgasm to not confess his feelings. “Jesus, I’ve loved you,” he moaned into America’s hair, knowing that later, if he had to, he could claim mere religious exultation.
“Ahh,” America breathed back and England came inside him, jerking and unrhythmic, bloody hell they’d made a mess of his settee. Their sweaty foreheads slid apart and England gave a quick kiss to America’s cheek before he buried his face in the cushion and drooled on it, dirtying it further.
He wound down, breathing hard, then more slowly, then almost normally. America’s hands, under his shirt, stroked his back, fingertips making gentle, distracted circles on his skin. England smiled inwardly and pulled his hand from between the cushions, holding America’s spectacles.
“Texas,” he said, and dropped them on America’s forehead.
America looked alarmed for a moment but a quick examination revealed that the spectacles were unharmed. He opened them and dropped them on across his nose.
“Mm, thanks,” he told England. He pried England’s fingers from the underside of his knee and swatted his hand aside, then straightened his leg. “Ow.”
“Unh,” England said, rolling off of America to sit onto the floor. He leaned back against the sofa for a moment to pull up his trousers, feeling odd as suddenly as he’d felt happy a moment ago. He felt vulnerable. It had been too lovely. He’d said too much. He wondered where they should go from here. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to pull America against him and squeeze and squeeze until neither of them had breath and couldn’t leave. But that wasn’t bloody likely.
America stood and England watched him out of the corner of his eyes, and expected him to say, “well, bye” or something equally flippant and to collect his things and leave; England’s heart jumped and he felt pathetic because America hadn’t said--
But America only arched his back and winced and said “ow” again. His spectacles lenses were smeared. He had semen and lubricant smeared across his belly and dripping down his leg. He looked endearing and ridiculous and so normal that suddenly England wasn’t afraid, anymore.
America sat on the settee again and England jumped to his feet and held out his hand. America looked up at him with a question written across his face. He opened his mouth and then shut it. Good lad.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up, then,” England said. America took his hand and England pulled.
***
America found it all so normal that it was bizarre. England yanked him around the corner and into the bathroom and tsked at him for being a mess and it was just too normal after-- after that.
“Sorry for the bruise,” England said in a low voice, and it was nearly the same voice he’d used when he’d said going to fuck you and America shivered a little in memory, and then shivered again because he was mostly naked and England was swiping at his midsection with a cold, wet washcloth.
“Aw, it doesn’t hurt,” he lied. Some sense of self-preservation kept him from saying all is forgiven again. Though that had certainly led to the desired result. In a way.
“Hmm,” England said, and ran more cold water onto the washcloth.
Holy shit, but England had certainly come across with the goods when sufficiently riled. It was like he was the England of old, who could kick his ass and care for him at the same time. France had warned him, years ago, that England was only repressed on the outside and that he was a kinky bastard...
Care for him. England had said, America distinctly remembered, that he’d loved him. Or that he’d loved Jesus.
America looked at England’s face, his green eyes clinically intent as he swabbed America down. It was the expression of an old man. America wanted to laugh.
Instead he ran his fingers through England’s blond hair, all mussed from-- from America’s grabbing it as England had screwed the living daylights out of him. To think he’d considered, at first, that he’d be the one taking charge.
England stilled when America touched him and then smirked. He looked positively evil. And hot and not like an old man at all.
“Your hands had better be clean,” England said and he yanked America closer by the neck and bit his shoulder. Not hard, but America definitely felt teeth.
Ouch, asshole, America wanted to say, but what he said was “Ah” and even that came out in a bit of a whine.
England chuckled and licked the spot he’d bitten and then licked along his collarbone, a warm wet path that grew chilly in the cool air of England’s house.
“I thought you had central heating installed in this place a few years ago,” America accused when England nudged his shirt off his shoulders and he shivered.
“Bloody pansy. You cold?” England said, and then was all business again as he stepped back to wipe America down some more.
“Maybe.”
England rubbed America’s lower belly with the cold cloth and America put his hands on England’s shoulders because he was feeling a little weak-kneed and unsteady. Then England was rubbing America’s thighs and between them and the cloth was rough and wet and he couldn’t believe he was standing naked in the bathroom and jolly old England, grumpy bastard and his first friend, was wiping come from his legs. To America’s shame his dick twitched. Visibly. Well, it felt good, even if it was fucking cold and bizarre.
England looked up, smirking at him again with his eyes. He tossed the washcloth in the sink and then he was kissing America again and, man, you knew you were being kissed when England was kissing you. You couldn’t breathe but you didn’t care. He began to feel much less cold as he breathed England and squeezed his warm shoulders through his old-man, button-down shirt.
England’s mouth slid from America’s lips to his ear and he heard a whisper. “Turn around.”
Why? America wanted to say but instead he said “Okay” and turned around. He could see himself in the mirror, naked, bruised, scarred and wet and fucked and then he could see and feel England’s hand on this stomach, fingers spread, and England’s head at his shoulder and then England’s lips and teeth on his earlobe. America shut his eyes so he could feel it all without watching. “Mmmmm...” he might have said.
Then he wasn’t being touched and he was cold. He heard England’s pants rustling to the floor and he shivered with... with lots of things. Then he was being touched again, fingers sliding up his chest and rough over both his nipples and his neck was being licked from his shoulder to jawline and he felt harsh breaths there. Other fingers were squeezing his overstimulated cock, gently and then with more force, rubbing relentlessly over the tip; all the blood and remaining heat in his body fell to the pit of his stomach to throb there and his only heat and support was England, pressed full-length against his back.
“’Ere we go,” a low, sexy voice skulked into his ear and he was hard again and swaying, back and forth, into those teasing fingers and the warm body behind him, rubbing against whatever he could reach.
Wow, this is awesome, he should have said, but all he could manage was something along the lines of “Hup. Hup, hup.” He managed to lift a hand over his shoulder to stroke England’s soft, sweaty hair. He felt his glasses being removed and heard a clink as they were placed onto something.
The voice was back. “Bend over. I haven’t had enough of you, yet, it seems,” it said, and possibly, coupla centuries, long, bloody time.
America opened his eyes for a second and saw himself, his cock jutting out hard and engulfed in England’s well-manicured fingers, and then he saw a sparkly blur for a moment because his equilibrium was too aroused to work correctly. He tilted forward and gripped the sink in both hands, cold porcelain, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh, okay,” he managed to say. Intelligent thought had left him, too, in favor of being screwed silly again.
He felt England’s fingers massaging his ass-cheeks and then spreading them to the cool air but not for long, because the thick, hard, hot of England’s cock was nudging between them and he crawled his hands further up the sides of the sink, bending over as far as he could, until his nose was touching the mirror.
“Good lad,” England said, and then “Ah!” when he pulled out and shoved back in, then again, and on the third thrust he hit something inside America, a bundle of nerves like a live wire that made his dick jump.
“Fuckingoh,” he cried, and England chuckled evilly and did it again, two more times in quick succession, and then again, and--
“How’s that?” England said between huffing breaths.
“Ahh!” England’s fingers were digging into his hips, pulling him forward, back, snap, slap, and he felt his his ass slamming into England’s thighs, the sharp ache over and over of England hitting inside him. “Ah!”
“Thought so. Fuck, America, ah!”
“Yep,” America whimpered, and hung his head and rested his head on the mirror and let his body be shaken around and fucked as it would.
“Dear lord, Jesus,” England was whispering, and America felt the sticky heat of his body press and slide along his spine in time with England’s thrusts. England was praying again, and America fancied that it was for him, his body, as England grabbed his cock in slippery, stinging fingers and yanked until America thought he might explode and die from sensation.
“Open your eyes,” England said, then. America opened his eyes and all he could see were his eyes, dark and wide in the mirror. Then there were fingers on his chin and his head was being tilted back and he could see himself, his face all pink and his mouth hanging open and saying hup, hup and it was painfully erotic and embarrassing all at once. The top of England’s head appeared over his shoulder and he felt words being spoken into his back.
“So how long has it been me?” the words said.
America looked at his own face, pink and shiny and stupid and awesome and he closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Long time,” he managed to say.
“Ah?” America’s head shook as England fucked him hard, fast, he was going to come, how could he speak--? “Tell me.”
“Always! Always,” he said, and he realized it was true, that only England could see him like this; England, England, it had always been England. There’d been that brief interlude with Ukraine, she’d been such a sweet girl and then that one time with Japan but those had merely been fun and how could he have ever wanted mere fun from England, when he could have him like this, worshipping his body, his hand on America’s cock, hot, aching friction--
“Ahgod,” he cried and came and he had to close his eyes; it was like sneezing and he couldn’t watch himself do it, like a sneeze that happened over and over as England worked an extended climax out of him and kept fucking him while he did it.
Finally England started slowing down his thrusts, chanting Jesus, love at him like he had before. America opened his eyes to watch but all he could see through the mist on the mirror was the top of England’s head, yellow-blond hair behind his own dirty-blond, and England’s hand clutching his stomach, fingers flexing over and over until he came.
America wanted to collapse and curl up on the floor but braced himself on the sink so that England could lie across his back for a minute or so. After that, England pushed off of him and moaned and America eased his aching back upright. Fuck whatever Lithuania had said years ago about becoming an adult; he was getting old and felt all of his few centuries in every aching muscle. Plus, he had more come running down his leg and he needed a shower. He looked at the ancient claw-footed tub to his right, the one with the standing shower-head and old-fashioned curtain circling it, and wondered if he could get hot water out of it. And if he could get cleaned up before England molested him again. Not that being molested was necessarily a bad thing, it was just-- his poor ass!
“Demme, but it’s bloody cold in here,” England said. It sounded so old-fashioned, like something he might have said in the eighteenth century, that America suddenly felt very young again.
“Jeeze, you’re such a fossil. Or would that be pansy?” America teased, trying to say it with England’s accent. He plinked his Texas from the sink and put them on and then grinned and stretched his arms to the ceiling to show how spry and youthful he felt. He turned around to see what England made of that.
“Prat,” England said, glaring. He slapped America’s ass and smirked when America winced. America was sure he was going to pay for that one; he hurriedly laughed.
“Haha! Just kidding, sheesh.” He looked longingly at the shower again. Hot water--! “Um. Could I-- we-- could I take a shower? And would you turn the heat on?
England narrowed his eyes, then grinned, and it was the sunniest expression America had ever seen on England’s face. It was blinding and heart-wrenching.
“Take your shower,” he said. “I’ll turn up the heat. And make tea. Fuck, but I could use a cuppa right now.”
America smiled back at him and thought, ten percent and rising.
***
The next morning was a little weird, but not as weird as America might have feared. The normal parts of it were freakily normal: England waking up grumpy and bitching about the smell of coffee first thing in the morning and about America’s stuff strewn all over his living room. The weird parts mostly involved America not being sure how to act or what to do or say but he’d eventually decided to just act like he normally did and expect everything to turn out all right. It was usually a good plan and what was expected of him.
For instance, America had woken up first, and they’d been sharing a bed but that wasn’t necessarily weird. What was unusual, for him, was lying in bed and wondering whether or not there might be morning nookie: the previous night he’d had his shower and they’d shared tea and made out a little but nothing further in the earth-shattering department. They’d both been rather beat, after all. And America’s ass still hurt.
Once America had figured out, however, that England lying face-down in his pillow and twitching now and then when America shifted on the bed was going to be the same whether or not they’d gotten busy the night before, he’d just gotten up and made coffee and chowed down a couple of stale cookies.
But then he had to decide whether or not England might like breakfast, too, and whether or not he should make it and if he should brew the tea and put the little cover-thingy on the pot to keep it warm or take a cup upstairs, like he had the day before. Eventually he settled for tea in cover-thingy, and he took his coffee into the front room to pop onto the internet and see what was up. He left his cell-phone turned off; anybody who really needed him would know where to call him.
There was an e-mail from Canada, full of the usual clever bullshit he’d never say in person and sly digs for information and griping that Tony had already beaten all his video games. America didn’t bother to reply; he wasn’t sure what to say.
There was an e-mail from Japan, discussing the English-language adaptation of the latest Studio Ghibli film and politely asking without asking if America-san would please be sure to use whatever influence he could to see that the perfect voice actors were chosen. Japan sure took his cartoon voice-actors seriously. America popped off a quick reply to say he was hanging at England’s place but he’d call Disney when he got back to the States. After he sent it he realized that he’d probably get another e-mail from Japan, being ultra-polite and inquisitive, but decided he’d just deal with that when the time came.
There was the usual junk-mail, and then holy crap, a message from France, cc’ed to England, being all nicey-nice and saying that he knew America was partying in London and that he was coming up to stay, too. He’d probably been talking with Canada. America didn’t reply to that one, either; he’d let England tell France to fuck off.
Soon after that was when the bitching had started. England had cursed as he’d come down the stairs that it was the crack of dawn and what the hell was America doing down there, typing and making so much bloody noise? What was this electronic stuff all over his parlor? All very normal and weird at the same time.
“Good morning,” America chirped, and let England find the tea himself.
England found it and stomped into the living room without thanks, and shoved some of America’s papers aside to sit on the couch. He sipped his tea and glared at nothing in particular.
“So what are we gonna do today?” America said, even more perkily and with twice the grin.
England turned his glare in America’s direction, then set down his tea and reached for the back of America’s head. America thought, yay, morning nookie, but England just slapped his ear.
“Idiot,” he said.
America covered his ear and pouted. He thought about making some smart-ass comment about England’s age and being too much strong young man for him, but his ass really did hurt and he eventually settled for something a little more normal.
“It’s nice to know you can always be counted on to be a jerk in the morning,” America said. He winced when it looked like England was going to box his ears again, but England just stood.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Going to make some breakfast.”
America considered a snarky comment about running away, but before he had a chance to say it, England continued.
“And you’ll eat it and you’ll like it,” he said, and ruffled America’s hair. Then he went into the kitchen and America grinned and patted his sore ear and realized that the knot he’d always had under his diaphragm when he was with England was not there.
“France is coming. If you log on you’ll see his e-mail,” America said, loudly.
“Nosy bastard,” England griped back. There was the sound of clinking dishes, running water, the clicking of the gas burner on England’s stove being ignited.
It was the clicking that did it: America realized the knot wasn’t in his stomach but in his throat. He sipped some coffee but it didn’t help. He found himself counting every second, listening for everything and looking at everything and touching the couch and trying to memorize every detail, every bump in the rough silk thread of the cushions and the towel England had laid on the couch at some point; he was less accustomed to sentimentality than to nostalgia.
“I have to go back,” he called into the kitchen before he could think about his reasons for saying such a thing.
The clinking of dishes stopped for a moment.
America realized what he’d said, exactly. “In three days,” he added.
The clinking started again. “Ah. Yes, of course,” England replied with a sigh in his voice. America couldn’t tell if it was a relieved sigh or what.
But America was riled up and he had to know; he had to know now. “Seriously,” he called. “So, what are we going to do from here on out?”
England kept clinking things, but didn’t pretend he didn’t know what America was talking about. “I’ve thought about this. And I suppose I don’t really know. Things are changing all the time. Damned governments. I suppose...” The clinking stopped. “I suppose we go on as we have.”
America thought about this. Weird and normal at the same time. “We see each other pretty often, right?”
“Moderately.” There was a careful shrug in England’s voice. “Ah. What are you doing for the holidays?”
At the same time, America said “How would you like to spend new year’s eve in Times Square?”
England answered first. “Been a long time since I’ve done that. I imagine that I could work it out.”
“Awesome,” America said. “I’ll see what things look like for Christmas.”
He sat back and played with the couch cushions and the fringed edges of the towel and let his mind wander over the possibilities of international relations, until England carried a tray with something that smelled only slightly horrible into the dining room between the kitchen and the living room. “We don’t eat in the front parlor here, no matter what you louts do in the States,” England pointed out.
America grabbed his coffee and headed into the dining room. “There’s always Halloween, too,” he noted.
“Ah, that’s right.” England went into the hallway to yank open a drawer in the old-fashioned desk he kept there. He pulled out his ancient little book, then grabbed a fountain pen from the desktop and made a mark inside the book. He gave America a positively evil grin. “Another win for me. I nearly forgot. Would you like to know the current score?”
“God, no,” America said. “Not until I’ve caught up.”
“Never,” England said. He went back into the dining room and sat at the table and America followed. England sipped his tea and looked up at America over the rim of his teacup. “By the way. How do you feel about fellatio?”
Fell--? Oh. Ah.
“Why, I think it’s awesome,” America told him. He twitched in his chair and tried not to look at the food on the table.
England sipped his tea and smirked. “How convenient,” he said.
END.
Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit, all appreciated!
Go Back to Infinity to One: Part 1 of 2
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 07:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 07:41 am (UTC)lol at England destroying America's house. They sure do take their Halloween seriously! Crossdressing America, man, someone needs to draw a fanart of that. I totally would if I could draw for shit.
Canada being more snarky online then in RL totally fits xD And pfft, at America being forward.
That was an awesome way to end things. I misread it the first time as Feliciano and was all 'lol wut?' Trust England to use the formal term xD
I can't think of a single thing to crit for this. Their characterisation was perfect :3
I still have no idea what 'hup' means though 8D
no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 07:52 am (UTC)/BRAIN EXPLODES
THIS IS WHY ENGLAND NEEDS TO TOP SO MUCH FUCKING MORE
MIRROR!SEX FTW.
also I love their banter, Iggy being drunk (of I love him being drunk, and how you didn't overdraw it), Alfred trying to be nice, Canada being his snarky self. oh my sweet sweet lord.
*whimpers* that is so fucking hot man I don't even
no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 07:54 am (UTC)*mems*
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 07:52 am (UTC)MORE FICand really this fic. yeeeehes. my brain is kinda mush right now excuse me. and i loooove tony, lol at everyone all being 'the UST is so obvious' it is. ♥
no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 09:29 am (UTC)Eeee, this is too much fun! Zomg. *_* First, your England voice is superb; I utterly love it, and he sounds very authentic in his POV scenes. You also did marvels with the Brit references - I seriously grinned all the way through this fic. And your America is too adorkable for words, man. Fantastic stuff! I'm so pleased you're writing awesome, hot Hetalia fic. *dances*
Also, America's IM conversation with Canada made me laugh so hard. :D
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Date: 2009-12-28 06:29 am (UTC)SQUEE!
::hugs::
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Date: 2009-12-27 09:43 am (UTC)That was right in the beginning when I could still keep track of favorite lines, which then became favorite paragraphs, which then just became GUH. I can't even remember the last time reading a fanfic has made me so happy. Your writing, your humor, and your characterizations are all brilliant, and I will be coming back to reread this several times, all 16,000+ words of it. GAWD I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WANT TO CRY.
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Date: 2009-12-28 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-27 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 06:46 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for reading! :)
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Date: 2009-12-27 09:00 pm (UTC)Damn. I love how Halloween silliness leads to ultimate sexytiems. The only thing I'm complaining about is closure. Like are they going steady or is this just an on-going booty call? Either way, this was awesome to the brain-fucking level.
Cheers.
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Date: 2009-12-28 07:20 pm (UTC)Oh, I'd say they're still faffing around with saying what really matters. At least for a while. But hanging out now and then and getting sex and maybe holding hands in private.
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Date: 2009-12-27 11:58 pm (UTC)So cute and hilarious and sexy, and I loved everything from the first line to the last line. And like
So ridiculous and awesome. Your talent, it is shiny! And your readers are ever so very grateful. &hearts
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Date: 2009-12-28 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 01:59 am (UTC)This was the most delicious, gut wrenching, hot, amazing piece of fanfiction I've ever read. EVER. And I love you for it. This pairing is my favourite, along with France/England.
Seriously- I want to smooch you.
-melts into a puddle of goo-
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Date: 2009-12-28 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 05:02 am (UTC)There's just so much yes in this, I loved it.
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Date: 2009-12-28 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 02:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 12:32 am (UTC)You tied it all together so well, the percentage-thing in Al's head was just brilliant, just like every other bloody thing in this fic! Gah! *_*
Fantastic fic, well done! *applauds* :D
Request: Sequel with fellatio? Hee hee hee 8D~~
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Date: 2009-12-29 02:53 am (UTC)Your icon... mesmerizing. ;)
BJ sequel, eh? Hee, I'll have to think about it.
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From:no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 05:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 05:52 am (UTC)That was freaking awesome!
I love weird-ass England, and drunk-ass England, and old-ass England, and vulnerable England, and going to fuck you England and ... just love your England all around.
America is so sweet and ... I like how you make him silly, but self-aware at the same time.
Lordy, I thought the first time around was the hottest thing ever, and then I got to the second time around and ... *dies from the sheer force of the porn* :P
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Date: 2009-12-29 05:21 pm (UTC)::hugs::
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Date: 2009-12-31 09:49 pm (UTC)Ohh and the smut was written so well :3 which is always good
I just love your England. The fact that even when confronted with it, he still can't quite comprehend America's crush on him. ANd then he turns into such a kinky bastard, but still stays the kranky old man we know and love and god this is so fantastic. Really. :3 I love it.
(failll I have no USxUK icons D: I need some)
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Date: 2010-01-01 07:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-02 06:45 am (UTC)I love the UST and the slow build, so much teasing, I thought I would explode before England did. I really enjoyed then entire scene in the bar--hehe.
Well, hell, now I have to watch the entire series, don't I?
Thank you for writing and sharing.
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Date: 2010-01-02 09:03 am (UTC)The Halloween scaring contest hasn't been animated that I know of, but it's a hysterical strip: http://aph.starry-sky.com/hllp.html
::giant hugs for Des::
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Date: 2010-01-04 10:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-05 12:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-08 12:51 am (UTC)...
lksjdlksjlksjkdjslk
I am madly in love with this. Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. Yes, I will take three to go, please. I love your England. I love your America. I love your England fucking your America, and I laughed, and my breath caught, and I felt all messed up for the boys, and it was fantastic, thank you, thank you, thank you.
For being awesome an' all. ♥
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Date: 2010-01-08 06:27 pm (UTC)Thank you so much-- I'm really glad you enjoyed it, because it was quite fun to write. :)
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Date: 2010-02-22 07:47 pm (UTC)Tell me there's more, please! tell me we have a fic about the next time they meet, or when other nations or their bosses finally learn of these new developments...
Oh, and let me tell you that you did wonders with characterization. You managed to capture everything the characters are, both their kickass and ridiculous traits, England with his cape and his magic and his wit being great, but being sometimes old, and cranky, and an ass, and emotionally stuntedXD. And America grinning and charming right and left, and being childish with his Halloween and his innocence about sex, which is all present but in the physical aspect, but also being cunning and smirky occasionally, and leading them both to his goals (sexy sex and confessing tiems), and being generally awesome and sneaky hen he wants to.
I'm off to stalk your journal. Awesome piece!
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Date: 2010-02-23 04:14 am (UTC)Thank you again, truly! ♥♥
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Date: 2010-09-20 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-21 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-09 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-10 06:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:my heart's so full...
Date: 2011-08-28 05:22 am (UTC)lol. Just when I think I can’t love the two of them or Hetalia fandom any more than I already do...(<--stop saying more!)
Thanks for sharing and please be my friend?
Re: my heart's so full...
Date: 2011-08-28 05:27 am (UTC)Re: my heart's so full...
From:Re: my heart's so full...
From:Re: my heart's so full...
From: