[ oneshot ] Why Not to Drink Anything in England's House [ England/America, Hetalia ]
Title: Why Not to Drink Anything in England’s House
Author: frostberryjam
Rated: PG-13
Pairing: England/America
Words: 1400.
Warnings: Semi/faux-shota.
Summary: America drinks one of England’s magic potions on accident. England is highly entertained.
Author Notes: Written for tanya_tsuki for Christmas. Proof I probably shouldn't try to write comedy.
"This isn't funny."
"You and I possess different opinions as to that." England managed to reply with a straight face.
"Bite me, England. This is not funny. What if Korea sees me? China? Russia?"
"You're not fighting with Russia at the moment."
"Change me back, now!"
England sipped his tea. It was the only thing keeping him from laughing until his sides threatened to burst. "I told you already. It will wear off. There is nothing to do but exhibit a modicum of patience. You do possess some, don't you?"
America glared at him mutinously and resumed pacing back and forth underneath the window.
Not the United States of America as the rest of the world knew him. Most nations wouldn't even recognize the slender, fifteen-year-old as one of the World's current Superpowers.
Once they did though...
That could be troublesome.
It was however in the meanwhile, England decided, absolutely hilarious to see a teenage America treading a path through his carpet. He didn't even mind. He could get it replaced. This though. This was special.
Texas was too big for America's face now. They threatened to fall off at any moment, clinging to dear life to the end of his nose. They magnified the bright blue eyes, highlighted the skinniness of teenagers at that age -- England found himself tracing with his eyes the line of America's hip that kept peeking out because his clothes no longer fit quite right and removed his gaze promptly.
He set down the frail China cup, the soft click of ceramic on metal loud in the otherwise quiet room. "How many times have I told you not to meddle with my things?"
America whirled around to look at him, flushed. "It was in your fridge, Arthur! It wasn't in one of your spooky little closets you think I don't know about. It was in your fridge. In a sunny yellow pitcher. It was next to the orange juice! What was I supposed to think it was?'
America was yelling by the last word, agitated. England's lips tried to twist out of the flat line he'd forced them into. The other nation noticed and gave a growl. "You planned this?"
"No." England said honestly. Hadn't imagined his lover would pop in for an unexpected visit, which was why he'd left the potion in the fridge. It had needed to be kept chilled and he'd considered it to be a marvelous solution and another mark for the advancement of technology to improve the use of magic. "How could I have machinated events into this?"
If he had wanted to have a teenage America running around, all he would have had to do was season one of his horrible hamburgers with a dash of the potion and voila. No need for roundabout lollygagging.
America was not mollified. "Why the hell did you brew that in the first place?" He pointed at the older country accusingly. England's temper would have flared except the sleeve completely covered the teenager's hand, only his finger peeking out. And the hand he had to use to keep his pants up only added to the absurdity.
He didn't want to admit that he'd brewed it in the case of his nightmare about Sealand growing up came true. So England served himself another cup of tea. "That is none of your business."
"It's not my business?" The glasses lost the war and took a tumble, suffering through a cushioned carpet landing. America failed to notice, staring at him with an open mouth. "What if France sees me like this? Do you know what that pervert tries to do to me when I can fight him off?"
"...France is not going to see you like this." England said flatly and slowly, setting the cup down before his fingers broke off the fragile arm. "What sort of things does he try to do to you?"
"Does it matter?" America asked plaintively. "His hands just go everywhere, like he's a damn octopus. Japan's tentacle monsters have nothing on that guy. Anyway. England, I have a meeting in six hours, tell me this wears off by then."
"Magic doesn't run by your schedule, Alfred." England had begun to scowl, imagining France's reaction if he did somehow happen to see America's current reversed age He had barely managed to keep the leech's tentacl--hands--off America the first time around, and he had a suspicion that perversion only accrued with age.
"Get away from the window."
"What?"
"You don't want anyone to see you, do you?" England asked tightly, not particularly amused any longer.
"It's foggy as hell outside, England. You're lucky if you can see your feet." Still, despite the whine, America did move away, which meant he moved closer his lover, coming to stand by his chair.
Up close it was discerning to see America as he had been. England studied him without saying a word, his guts twisting themselves into hard knots. There was no innocence or adoration in America's eyes but other than that -- it was as unnerving as if the past had come to visit.
And he'd never liked that, and the whole thing was really no longer amusing.
"Perhaps I could whip up something to expedite the process." He murmured to himself, not enjoying the notion of having a ghost of their past haunting them for days.
"Perhaps? Goddamn it, if there was something yo--" America stopped and inhaled. "You know what? I'm just going to be happy with whatever you can do. Okay? And you're going to have to call my Boss and tell him I can't go because he'll have a heart attack if he sees me like this and over the phone even my voice is different, and I swear if you don't stop staring at me like that I'll call you a pedo."
England jumped in his seat, startled. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Pedo. Pedophiliac. Pedobear, I think they're called now a days or something, God only knows why." America sighed, and the oversized shirt slid down one shoulder as if tugged down by a phantom lover‘s hand. "You don't really want to be getting all down and dirty with me now, do you?"
England gulped and shook his head. He made to get up, except his knees seemed to have locked together. "Get that filthy thought out of your head right now. That really isn't funny."
America examined him. Without the glasses anymore the image was complete, and England felt horrible for staring at the line of America's throat and his bare clavicle. He shifted under the gaze and made to get up again.
America pressed a small hand on his chest. No matter what age he was at the moment, he was still strong enough to keep England pinned down. "Well, you know, it's not really wrong." He drawled pensively. "I'm not really fourteen or fifteen or whatever it is I seem to be, and we have been doing each other for years..."
"Relationship. We've been in a special relationship." England snapped succinctly, scowling to hide his panic as America put one knee on the chair and then he was straddling his lap and letting go of his pants. They pooled low on his hips, barely keeping him decent.
"Right. Special relationship. We've been screwing like bunnies." The other chuckled dismissively, the hand on England's chest gliding up to touch his throat, fingers brushing against the underside of his jaw. America grinned at him, full of delighted mischief. "I have nothing to do for at least six hours."
"Well, I do." The former Empire choked out -- but his traitorous hands were on America's waist now, underneath the shirt, measuring how far they could reach and grip the smooth warm skin. "I have meetings and work to do, so if it would please you to climb off me--"
"Shut up, Arthur." America sighed against his mouth before he kissed him.
England flailed in shame until America’s fingers expertly wormed into his trousers and curled around his hardened length, demonstrating his full expertise hadn’t gone anywhere.
Japanese Horror Movie-Style Omake:
Neither of them noticed the sweaty face flattened against the glass window, fog swirling around it eerily. Fingers pressed against the cold glass, scratching faintly as if the creature wanted to put his hands through and touch both of them.
The face eventually went away, leaving only blood, drool, and a single long blond strand on the window.
Author: frostberryjam
Rated: PG-13
Pairing: England/America
Words: 1400.
Warnings: Semi/faux-shota.
Summary: America drinks one of England’s magic potions on accident. England is highly entertained.
Author Notes: Written for tanya_tsuki for Christmas. Proof I probably shouldn't try to write comedy.
"This isn't funny."
"You and I possess different opinions as to that." England managed to reply with a straight face.
"Bite me, England. This is not funny. What if Korea sees me? China? Russia?"
"You're not fighting with Russia at the moment."
"Change me back, now!"
England sipped his tea. It was the only thing keeping him from laughing until his sides threatened to burst. "I told you already. It will wear off. There is nothing to do but exhibit a modicum of patience. You do possess some, don't you?"
America glared at him mutinously and resumed pacing back and forth underneath the window.
Not the United States of America as the rest of the world knew him. Most nations wouldn't even recognize the slender, fifteen-year-old as one of the World's current Superpowers.
Once they did though...
That could be troublesome.
It was however in the meanwhile, England decided, absolutely hilarious to see a teenage America treading a path through his carpet. He didn't even mind. He could get it replaced. This though. This was special.
Texas was too big for America's face now. They threatened to fall off at any moment, clinging to dear life to the end of his nose. They magnified the bright blue eyes, highlighted the skinniness of teenagers at that age -- England found himself tracing with his eyes the line of America's hip that kept peeking out because his clothes no longer fit quite right and removed his gaze promptly.
He set down the frail China cup, the soft click of ceramic on metal loud in the otherwise quiet room. "How many times have I told you not to meddle with my things?"
America whirled around to look at him, flushed. "It was in your fridge, Arthur! It wasn't in one of your spooky little closets you think I don't know about. It was in your fridge. In a sunny yellow pitcher. It was next to the orange juice! What was I supposed to think it was?'
America was yelling by the last word, agitated. England's lips tried to twist out of the flat line he'd forced them into. The other nation noticed and gave a growl. "You planned this?"
"No." England said honestly. Hadn't imagined his lover would pop in for an unexpected visit, which was why he'd left the potion in the fridge. It had needed to be kept chilled and he'd considered it to be a marvelous solution and another mark for the advancement of technology to improve the use of magic. "How could I have machinated events into this?"
If he had wanted to have a teenage America running around, all he would have had to do was season one of his horrible hamburgers with a dash of the potion and voila. No need for roundabout lollygagging.
America was not mollified. "Why the hell did you brew that in the first place?" He pointed at the older country accusingly. England's temper would have flared except the sleeve completely covered the teenager's hand, only his finger peeking out. And the hand he had to use to keep his pants up only added to the absurdity.
He didn't want to admit that he'd brewed it in the case of his nightmare about Sealand growing up came true. So England served himself another cup of tea. "That is none of your business."
"It's not my business?" The glasses lost the war and took a tumble, suffering through a cushioned carpet landing. America failed to notice, staring at him with an open mouth. "What if France sees me like this? Do you know what that pervert tries to do to me when I can fight him off?"
"...France is not going to see you like this." England said flatly and slowly, setting the cup down before his fingers broke off the fragile arm. "What sort of things does he try to do to you?"
"Does it matter?" America asked plaintively. "His hands just go everywhere, like he's a damn octopus. Japan's tentacle monsters have nothing on that guy. Anyway. England, I have a meeting in six hours, tell me this wears off by then."
"Magic doesn't run by your schedule, Alfred." England had begun to scowl, imagining France's reaction if he did somehow happen to see America's current reversed age He had barely managed to keep the leech's tentacl--hands--off America the first time around, and he had a suspicion that perversion only accrued with age.
"Get away from the window."
"What?"
"You don't want anyone to see you, do you?" England asked tightly, not particularly amused any longer.
"It's foggy as hell outside, England. You're lucky if you can see your feet." Still, despite the whine, America did move away, which meant he moved closer his lover, coming to stand by his chair.
Up close it was discerning to see America as he had been. England studied him without saying a word, his guts twisting themselves into hard knots. There was no innocence or adoration in America's eyes but other than that -- it was as unnerving as if the past had come to visit.
And he'd never liked that, and the whole thing was really no longer amusing.
"Perhaps I could whip up something to expedite the process." He murmured to himself, not enjoying the notion of having a ghost of their past haunting them for days.
"Perhaps? Goddamn it, if there was something yo--" America stopped and inhaled. "You know what? I'm just going to be happy with whatever you can do. Okay? And you're going to have to call my Boss and tell him I can't go because he'll have a heart attack if he sees me like this and over the phone even my voice is different, and I swear if you don't stop staring at me like that I'll call you a pedo."
England jumped in his seat, startled. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Pedo. Pedophiliac. Pedobear, I think they're called now a days or something, God only knows why." America sighed, and the oversized shirt slid down one shoulder as if tugged down by a phantom lover‘s hand. "You don't really want to be getting all down and dirty with me now, do you?"
England gulped and shook his head. He made to get up, except his knees seemed to have locked together. "Get that filthy thought out of your head right now. That really isn't funny."
America examined him. Without the glasses anymore the image was complete, and England felt horrible for staring at the line of America's throat and his bare clavicle. He shifted under the gaze and made to get up again.
America pressed a small hand on his chest. No matter what age he was at the moment, he was still strong enough to keep England pinned down. "Well, you know, it's not really wrong." He drawled pensively. "I'm not really fourteen or fifteen or whatever it is I seem to be, and we have been doing each other for years..."
"Relationship. We've been in a special relationship." England snapped succinctly, scowling to hide his panic as America put one knee on the chair and then he was straddling his lap and letting go of his pants. They pooled low on his hips, barely keeping him decent.
"Right. Special relationship. We've been screwing like bunnies." The other chuckled dismissively, the hand on England's chest gliding up to touch his throat, fingers brushing against the underside of his jaw. America grinned at him, full of delighted mischief. "I have nothing to do for at least six hours."
"Well, I do." The former Empire choked out -- but his traitorous hands were on America's waist now, underneath the shirt, measuring how far they could reach and grip the smooth warm skin. "I have meetings and work to do, so if it would please you to climb off me--"
"Shut up, Arthur." America sighed against his mouth before he kissed him.
England flailed in shame until America’s fingers expertly wormed into his trousers and curled around his hardened length, demonstrating his full expertise hadn’t gone anywhere.
Japanese Horror Movie-Style Omake:
Neither of them noticed the sweaty face flattened against the glass window, fog swirling around it eerily. Fingers pressed against the cold glass, scratching faintly as if the creature wanted to put his hands through and touch both of them.
The face eventually went away, leaving only blood, drool, and a single long blond strand on the window.