[APH] Yves Saint Laurent, England/femMerica, collab
Written together with shibbyone *Kisskiss* Love you, darling. ♥ If you like this, go check her out! THAT'S AN ORDER, BITCHES. *Menaces*
Title: Yves Saint Laurent
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya
Characters/Pairing: England, Fem!Merica (some shades of England/Fem!Merica)
Warnings: Genderbending (if that bugs you), some sexuality, Fem!Merica being a saucy little whore.
Comments: shibbyone and I have been writing this on-and-off for...umm, I think since like, February lolol. Originally inspired by this clip. Enjoy, everyone!
"Well?” America prompted, striking a dramatic pose in the doorway. "What d'ya think?"
England glanced up from behind the two-day-old edition of the New York Times he had been reading to entertain himself, as he waited to accompany his former colony to the World Conference. His eyes traveled from the smart jacket and tie, to the half-heeled pumps on her feet, before resting somewhere around her midsection, considerable brow furrowing as he took in America's choice of bottoms. He sniffed, once, and returned the newspaper to its former spot in front of his face. "I think you should put some clothes on."
All at once, the excited, hopeful look on America's face deflated into an adorable pout. She looked down, smoothing the material of the skirt almost self-consciously. "You don't like it?” England ducked behind the paper to hide the slight flush on his cheeks; this was going to take a while.
"I just think you should wear something that actually functions as clothing.” He ruffled the newspaper in his hands as if to emphasize the point, trying to sound casual. "You are the United States of America; it is not in your job description to show the entire World Conference your vital regions."
America frowned, looking down again. Okay, so maybe the skirt was a bit on the short side, but so what? She had seen women on the Red Carpet wearing worse. "It covers most of my thighs."
"You're going to a Conference, America, not a pub.” England sighed, at last closing and folding the newspaper. "You fought an entire war over your right to wear trousers; why don't you go put some on?"
America placed her hands on her hips, swinging them so the hem of the skirt seemed to stretch just so across her thighs. She pouted out her lower lip and gave England that look, the one that he abhorred.
"You're just upset because I have better taste than you," she accused, leaning forwards a little bit. "I'm going to walk in looking amazing and you're just going to look so drab in comparison to me, and all the other nations'll be saying 'England, how did someone who looks like him raise a bombshell like that-' "
England sputtered, trying to resist the urge to open the newspaper again, if just so he would have something to hide his brilliantly red face behind.
"I...this has nothing to do with taste!” He stood, and dragged his hand down the length of his face, groaning in exasperation. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment! If you show up to the World Conference dressed like, like...that, everyone is either going to be averting their eyes in horror, or watching eagerly for the inevitable moment when you fall out of that skimpy scrap of fabric you call a skirt!” America huffed, crossing her arms underneath her (considerable) bosom.
"For Chrissakes, England, nothing's going to fall out of my skirt! Here, look!” And-oh dear God-America turned away from England, bending over at the waist until she was looking at him from between her own legs. "See? It's decent!"
There were several words England could think of to describe that pose; "decent" was not one of them. Not even close.
"That is enough!" England stomped a foot against the floor, though the soft carpet lessened the noise he'd hoped to make for dramatic emphasis. "If you insist on attending the Conference dressed like a harlot-" America gave a little scandalized gasp. "-then I most certainly will not be seen arriving with you!"
That said, England snatched up his jacket from where it lay draped along the back of the couch, shoving his arms into the sleeves with as much disapproval as he could muster. "I suggest you go right back upstairs and change into some more suitable attire. Until then, good day." And he marched out the door, ignoring the pout America was throwing at his back.
England arrived to the meeting sans America, as promised. He wasn't sure just when America would be arriving but he did not care, he would not be showing up with- with that skinny little bumpkin of a girl.
He entered the meeting room without celebration, wearing his modest suit and tie, and carrying his briefcase. There were some whispers about why he was alone- "What happened to coming with America? I thought he was at her house-" but he ignored them and took his seat, placing his briefcase on the desk and re-positioning the little Union Jack signifying his place. He was trying his best to ignore the other nations and their confused looks. It did not matter how nicely the suit hugged America's curves, or how the cut of the skirt really did elongate those tanned legs. He arrived alone on principle, damn it! Of course, his reverie was disrupted by a loud voice and the click of heels.
"...and of course, he was such a prick about the entire thing!" and with that the door swung open and in entered America, still wearing the same suit jacket, with a blouse cut far too low, her bob sweeping at her collar bone and her skirt- it had somehow gotten even shorter than earlier. England felt his face heat up as he remembered her stunt from earlier. There's no way she could bend over like that now.
There, now everyone will see how ridiculous she looks, England thought to himself. She had entered with Canada, who looked flustered and was running a hand through his hair. Several nations turned to see America, and there was an audible gasp through the room. All eyes were on America and her incredibly short skirt. She practically sauntered into the room, bumping her hip up gently, her pumps clicking as she walked to her desk.
Naturally, France was the first one to break the spell.
"Oh, America, you look ravishing," he cooed. "Your outfit, it is Yves Saint Laurent, oui?” America's eyes practically glittered and she did a little twirl for France.
"Of course!" she exclaimed, and suddenly she was accosted by everything with a sensible amount of testosterone in the room. Even Sweden had a slight blush across his stony face. Lithuania, who had been sitting right by the door with Poland, was looking at America with a fond smile; Poland was hanging on his arm, glaring at America. Italy had bounced up to America, holding her hand and cooing over her appearance.
“Lieeeet, you said I couldn’t wear something like that to meetings!” he complained, and Lithuania sighed. Italy had bounced up to America, holding her hand and cooing over her appearance.
“Ve~, you should come see me in Milan sometime!” he said enthusiastically. “We can go shopping together!” Behind them, Poland gave an exclamation of “me, too!” America laughed, patting Italy on the arm indulgingly, making some remark like, “sure, dude.”
One by one, the other nations at the conference turned to look at America’s grand entrance if they had not already done so. England was about three seconds away from getting up and marching over to the crowd, when Germany slammed his hands on the table and stood up.
“Alright, everyone, that’s enough!” he boomed, picking up his folder and walking towards the front of the room. “If everyone could kindly take their seats-their proper seats-” he glanced at France, who’s hands were inching towards America’s exposed thigh- “we can begin now.” He shot everyone a pointed look, and the crowd dispersed to low mutters as they sat down in their seats.
America took her seat directly across the table from England; and, after glancing across to make sure he was looking, slipped the tip of her pen into her mouth, pursing her lips around the cap seductively. England swallowed.
“Oh, Angleterre,” France sighed, settling into his chair next to England; he seemed not to have noticed her little move with the pen. “America looks lovely today, doesn’t she?” England let out a noncommittal grunt. France leaned closer. “I wonder, where does she get her sense of taste from? Certainly not from...well...”
England flushed, looking deliberately away from France, only to lock eyes with America, who was now sliding her tongue along the length of the writing utensil. Oh, yes, he thought, burying his face in his hand;, this was going to be a long conference.
Title: Yves Saint Laurent
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya
Characters/Pairing: England, Fem!Merica (some shades of England/Fem!Merica)
Warnings: Genderbending (if that bugs you), some sexuality, Fem!Merica being a saucy little whore.
Comments: shibbyone and I have been writing this on-and-off for...umm, I think since like, February lolol. Originally inspired by this clip. Enjoy, everyone!
"Well?” America prompted, striking a dramatic pose in the doorway. "What d'ya think?"
England glanced up from behind the two-day-old edition of the New York Times he had been reading to entertain himself, as he waited to accompany his former colony to the World Conference. His eyes traveled from the smart jacket and tie, to the half-heeled pumps on her feet, before resting somewhere around her midsection, considerable brow furrowing as he took in America's choice of bottoms. He sniffed, once, and returned the newspaper to its former spot in front of his face. "I think you should put some clothes on."
All at once, the excited, hopeful look on America's face deflated into an adorable pout. She looked down, smoothing the material of the skirt almost self-consciously. "You don't like it?” England ducked behind the paper to hide the slight flush on his cheeks; this was going to take a while.
"I just think you should wear something that actually functions as clothing.” He ruffled the newspaper in his hands as if to emphasize the point, trying to sound casual. "You are the United States of America; it is not in your job description to show the entire World Conference your vital regions."
America frowned, looking down again. Okay, so maybe the skirt was a bit on the short side, but so what? She had seen women on the Red Carpet wearing worse. "It covers most of my thighs."
"You're going to a Conference, America, not a pub.” England sighed, at last closing and folding the newspaper. "You fought an entire war over your right to wear trousers; why don't you go put some on?"
America placed her hands on her hips, swinging them so the hem of the skirt seemed to stretch just so across her thighs. She pouted out her lower lip and gave England that look, the one that he abhorred.
"You're just upset because I have better taste than you," she accused, leaning forwards a little bit. "I'm going to walk in looking amazing and you're just going to look so drab in comparison to me, and all the other nations'll be saying 'England, how did someone who looks like him raise a bombshell like that-' "
England sputtered, trying to resist the urge to open the newspaper again, if just so he would have something to hide his brilliantly red face behind.
"I...this has nothing to do with taste!” He stood, and dragged his hand down the length of his face, groaning in exasperation. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment! If you show up to the World Conference dressed like, like...that, everyone is either going to be averting their eyes in horror, or watching eagerly for the inevitable moment when you fall out of that skimpy scrap of fabric you call a skirt!” America huffed, crossing her arms underneath her (considerable) bosom.
"For Chrissakes, England, nothing's going to fall out of my skirt! Here, look!” And-oh dear God-America turned away from England, bending over at the waist until she was looking at him from between her own legs. "See? It's decent!"
There were several words England could think of to describe that pose; "decent" was not one of them. Not even close.
"That is enough!" England stomped a foot against the floor, though the soft carpet lessened the noise he'd hoped to make for dramatic emphasis. "If you insist on attending the Conference dressed like a harlot-" America gave a little scandalized gasp. "-then I most certainly will not be seen arriving with you!"
That said, England snatched up his jacket from where it lay draped along the back of the couch, shoving his arms into the sleeves with as much disapproval as he could muster. "I suggest you go right back upstairs and change into some more suitable attire. Until then, good day." And he marched out the door, ignoring the pout America was throwing at his back.
England arrived to the meeting sans America, as promised. He wasn't sure just when America would be arriving but he did not care, he would not be showing up with- with that skinny little bumpkin of a girl.
He entered the meeting room without celebration, wearing his modest suit and tie, and carrying his briefcase. There were some whispers about why he was alone- "What happened to coming with America? I thought he was at her house-" but he ignored them and took his seat, placing his briefcase on the desk and re-positioning the little Union Jack signifying his place. He was trying his best to ignore the other nations and their confused looks. It did not matter how nicely the suit hugged America's curves, or how the cut of the skirt really did elongate those tanned legs. He arrived alone on principle, damn it! Of course, his reverie was disrupted by a loud voice and the click of heels.
"...and of course, he was such a prick about the entire thing!" and with that the door swung open and in entered America, still wearing the same suit jacket, with a blouse cut far too low, her bob sweeping at her collar bone and her skirt- it had somehow gotten even shorter than earlier. England felt his face heat up as he remembered her stunt from earlier. There's no way she could bend over like that now.
There, now everyone will see how ridiculous she looks, England thought to himself. She had entered with Canada, who looked flustered and was running a hand through his hair. Several nations turned to see America, and there was an audible gasp through the room. All eyes were on America and her incredibly short skirt. She practically sauntered into the room, bumping her hip up gently, her pumps clicking as she walked to her desk.
Naturally, France was the first one to break the spell.
"Oh, America, you look ravishing," he cooed. "Your outfit, it is Yves Saint Laurent, oui?” America's eyes practically glittered and she did a little twirl for France.
"Of course!" she exclaimed, and suddenly she was accosted by everything with a sensible amount of testosterone in the room. Even Sweden had a slight blush across his stony face. Lithuania, who had been sitting right by the door with Poland, was looking at America with a fond smile; Poland was hanging on his arm, glaring at America. Italy had bounced up to America, holding her hand and cooing over her appearance.
“Lieeeet, you said I couldn’t wear something like that to meetings!” he complained, and Lithuania sighed. Italy had bounced up to America, holding her hand and cooing over her appearance.
“Ve~, you should come see me in Milan sometime!” he said enthusiastically. “We can go shopping together!” Behind them, Poland gave an exclamation of “me, too!” America laughed, patting Italy on the arm indulgingly, making some remark like, “sure, dude.”
One by one, the other nations at the conference turned to look at America’s grand entrance if they had not already done so. England was about three seconds away from getting up and marching over to the crowd, when Germany slammed his hands on the table and stood up.
“Alright, everyone, that’s enough!” he boomed, picking up his folder and walking towards the front of the room. “If everyone could kindly take their seats-their proper seats-” he glanced at France, who’s hands were inching towards America’s exposed thigh- “we can begin now.” He shot everyone a pointed look, and the crowd dispersed to low mutters as they sat down in their seats.
America took her seat directly across the table from England; and, after glancing across to make sure he was looking, slipped the tip of her pen into her mouth, pursing her lips around the cap seductively. England swallowed.
“Oh, Angleterre,” France sighed, settling into his chair next to England; he seemed not to have noticed her little move with the pen. “America looks lovely today, doesn’t she?” England let out a noncommittal grunt. France leaned closer. “I wonder, where does she get her sense of taste from? Certainly not from...well...”
England flushed, looking deliberately away from France, only to lock eyes with America, who was now sliding her tongue along the length of the writing utensil. Oh, yes, he thought, burying his face in his hand;, this was going to be a long conference.