V-E Day [4/?]
anonymous
October 5 2009, 22:52:42 UTC
England ran up the stairs, and slammed the door behind him. He leaned heavily on it, and started to laugh giddily. Did America think he didn’t get those references? Of course he did. Almost everybody knew about that movie. He wasn’t stupid, or completely culturally inept. ‘As you wish.’ Did he really mean it? He might not have meant it.
Still, England felt lightheaded and happy and was still giggling like a madman. What if all this time, he had been wrong? All this time. Look at what he had wasted. Ever since that kiss sixty-four years ago… He could have been sleeping in America’s arms since then. He could have had the real thing, not a damn dream.
Well, no more. If he had to throw out all his unfashionable clothes, if he had to eat fast food, if he had to drop all pretensions of being a gentleman, he would do it. Just to make America look at him, to want him, to love him.
Marching over to his closet, he started rummaging through his clothes, an unlikely grin on his face. Soon, however, the grin started to fade.
“God bloody damn it, do I have anything that doesn’t make me look like a repressed, grumpy old man?” he grumbled, flicking through his clothes. Sweater vest, sweater vest, dress shirt, old frumpy t-shirt, another dress shirt… And then he saw it.
England pulled it off the hanger with near reverence, feeling the old cloth between his fingers. It had been years since he had worn it, but it still was in good shape. It was his Sex Pistols band shirt. He peered back in, and yanked out a pair of skintight jeans with paint splatters on them and rips in the knees. Oh, yes. The Sex Pistols, god bless their little black anti-establishment souls, were about to help their country get laid.
Ten minutes later, and an awful lot of work on his part to wriggle into those jeans, he was messing up his hair in the mirror, contemplating if he should go total punk, or just this was enough. No, no, he wanted to make America want him, not scare the poor bugger away. Of course, he had the notion America was damn hard to scare away; after all, he was still here, sixty-four years after…
England suddenly gripped the edge of his dresser, knees going weak. Had America meant it, or was he just screwing around as usual?
‘Haha, gotcha. Nice joke, huh?’
“Oh god, I can’t do this,” he said quietly, a look of horror reflecting back at him in the mirror. He couldn’t take America leaving him again. The only thing to do was to not hope. Don’t expect anything from the man. Act like normal. Yes, he was going to act like normal old England, who was desperately trying to win America over.
Business as usual, he supposed.
He smelled the bacon cooking before he even made it to the bottom of the stairs, and when he stepped into the kitchen, the smell was overpowering, combined with eggs and just a hint of coffee, which England wrinkled his nose at.
He turned to look at America, who had dropped his cup of coffee. Damn slob, he’ll be cleaning that smell out of the table for weeks. “So, I see you actually listened and made breakfast.”
“Y-yeah, Iggy-England. Of course I did!” he said, trying to mop up the coffee with a napkin. England rolled his eyes, yet noticed how cute America looked, concentrating on cleaning up that table. His pink tongue was sticking out and licking his collarbone, followed by openmouthed kisses, breath hot and moist on his skin…
“Iggy, are you going to eat?” England refocused his eyes on America’s, instead of staring at his tongue like an idiot. He ignored the shivers of want coursing down his spine, telling himself that America might not even want him, and sat down to eat.
America watched him, peering across the table, making England want to either ask him what the hell he was staring at or go across the table to kiss the living daylights out of him.
V-E Day [4b/?]
anonymous
October 5 2009, 22:53:55 UTC
That should be part b up there...
---------
“The Sex Pistols?” America asked quite suddenly.
“They’re a British punk band,” England said. He was already resigned to the fact that America would never know anything about his culture that didn’t have something specifically to do with America.
“I know. Don't be told what you want/ Don't be told what you need/ There's no future, no future/ No future for you,” America sang. England dropped his fork, fluffy eggs still on them.
“How did you know those lyrics?” he asked. America just shrugged, a small smile on his face.
“What I want to know is why you’re wearing their shirt? I mean, do you really want to be seen in it outside of a punk concert?”
“That’s none of your bloody business!” I’m wearing it for you. This shirt, these pants, they’re for you. So you won’t think I’m a boring old man.
“Well, fine then,” America said. “Now, come on, Iggy, hurry up, let’s go!” He was up in a second, running towards the door like an over-enthusiastic dog. England sighed, scraped up what was left on his plate into his mouth, and dumped the dishes in the sink. He doubted America would wait for him to clean them.
It was then he realized that he hadn’t been correcting America when he called him ‘Iggy.’
Re: V-E Day [4b/?]
anonymous
October 5 2009, 23:27:37 UTC
Stalker!anon F5 your fill like no other writer!anon.
/fap
Ffff, why so damn cute, Iggy? God, I love this line to death: The Sex Pistols, god bless their little black anti-establishment souls, were about to help their country get laid.
In need of moar, plz? My F5 button is near breakage.
Re: V-E Day [4b/?]
anonymous
October 6 2009, 07:48:02 UTC
OH GOD AUTHOR-ANON! This just keeps getting better and better... I agree with the other reviewers, I'm stalking this madly, and this brilliant, gorgeous, HOT story really has all the exact reasons why I like this pairing. Thank you for writing this and please continue!!! Geezus, the characterizations are spot on and everything just seems so true. NEED MORE
Still, England felt lightheaded and happy and was still giggling like a madman. What if all this time, he had been wrong? All this time. Look at what he had wasted. Ever since that kiss sixty-four years ago… He could have been sleeping in America’s arms since then. He could have had the real thing, not a damn dream.
Well, no more. If he had to throw out all his unfashionable clothes, if he had to eat fast food, if he had to drop all pretensions of being a gentleman, he would do it. Just to make America look at him, to want him, to love him.
Marching over to his closet, he started rummaging through his clothes, an unlikely grin on his face. Soon, however, the grin started to fade.
“God bloody damn it, do I have anything that doesn’t make me look like a repressed, grumpy old man?” he grumbled, flicking through his clothes. Sweater vest, sweater vest, dress shirt, old frumpy t-shirt, another dress shirt… And then he saw it.
England pulled it off the hanger with near reverence, feeling the old cloth between his fingers. It had been years since he had worn it, but it still was in good shape. It was his Sex Pistols band shirt. He peered back in, and yanked out a pair of skintight jeans with paint splatters on them and rips in the knees. Oh, yes. The Sex Pistols, god bless their little black anti-establishment souls, were about to help their country get laid.
Ten minutes later, and an awful lot of work on his part to wriggle into those jeans, he was messing up his hair in the mirror, contemplating if he should go total punk, or just this was enough. No, no, he wanted to make America want him, not scare the poor bugger away. Of course, he had the notion America was damn hard to scare away; after all, he was still here, sixty-four years after…
England suddenly gripped the edge of his dresser, knees going weak. Had America meant it, or was he just screwing around as usual?
‘Haha, gotcha. Nice joke, huh?’
“Oh god, I can’t do this,” he said quietly, a look of horror reflecting back at him in the mirror. He couldn’t take America leaving him again. The only thing to do was to not hope. Don’t expect anything from the man. Act like normal. Yes, he was going to act like normal old England, who was desperately trying to win America over.
Business as usual, he supposed.
He smelled the bacon cooking before he even made it to the bottom of the stairs, and when he stepped into the kitchen, the smell was overpowering, combined with eggs and just a hint of coffee, which England wrinkled his nose at.
He turned to look at America, who had dropped his cup of coffee. Damn slob, he’ll be cleaning that smell out of the table for weeks. “So, I see you actually listened and made breakfast.”
“Y-yeah, Iggy-England. Of course I did!” he said, trying to mop up the coffee with a napkin. England rolled his eyes, yet noticed how cute America looked, concentrating on cleaning up that table. His pink tongue was sticking out and licking his collarbone, followed by openmouthed kisses, breath hot and moist on his skin…
“Iggy, are you going to eat?” England refocused his eyes on America’s, instead of staring at his tongue like an idiot. He ignored the shivers of want coursing down his spine, telling himself that America might not even want him, and sat down to eat.
America watched him, peering across the table, making England want to either ask him what the hell he was staring at or go across the table to kiss the living daylights out of him.
Reply
---------
“The Sex Pistols?” America asked quite suddenly.
“They’re a British punk band,” England said. He was already resigned to the fact that America would never know anything about his culture that didn’t have something specifically to do with America.
“I know. Don't be told what you want/ Don't be told what you need/ There's no future, no future/ No future for you,” America sang. England dropped his fork, fluffy eggs still on them.
“How did you know those lyrics?” he asked. America just shrugged, a small smile on his face.
“What I want to know is why you’re wearing their shirt? I mean, do you really want to be seen in it outside of a punk concert?”
“That’s none of your bloody business!” I’m wearing it for you. This shirt, these pants, they’re for you. So you won’t think I’m a boring old man.
“Well, fine then,” America said. “Now, come on, Iggy, hurry up, let’s go!” He was up in a second, running towards the door like an over-enthusiastic dog. England sighed, scraped up what was left on his plate into his mouth, and dumped the dishes in the sink. He doubted America would wait for him to clean them.
It was then he realized that he hadn’t been correcting America when he called him ‘Iggy.’
Reply
/fap
Ffff, why so damn cute, Iggy? God, I love this line to death: The Sex Pistols, god bless their little black anti-establishment souls, were about to help their country get laid.
In need of moar, plz? My F5 button is near breakage.
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