Late!anon comes bearing late!fill?(1)
anonymous
November 24 2009, 01:38:59 UTC
Tonight was going to be a good night. England could feel it. Every now and again he and America managed to set aside their difference and come together in a reasonable, agreeable manner. They had to get used to working with each other - their "special relationship" had come into play several times in the last decade alone.
They'd gone through all the customary habits tonight. America flew into London exuberant and ignorant, breezed past security checkpoints with an indignation that implied his own weren't actually three times worse, and managed to look as if he'd never even left his own country, the bastard. England would find him at the aeroport's McDo stand and watch in undisguised horror (because no matter how many times he saw it, he would never get used to it) as his former colony gorged on a handful of greasy burgers.
"As a pick-me-up," America said, though most of the words were lost in the jumble of beef and god knows what all lodged in his mouth.
And England would sigh theatrically because it was expected of him, and America would swallow his last mouthful and together they'd hit up a bar or something . They'd tried visiting Stone Henge and a few of the more 'magical' locales in the British countryside, but after the third disastrous attempt they gave it up as a bad job and settled on more mundane locations for their 'male bonding'.
Which would all inevitably lead back to England's house, like as not with at least one of the two completely smashed beyond all reckoning. But every now and again they'd manage the evening, maybe not entirely sober, but at the very least with only a pleasant buzz in their veins.
And on such nights they'd drop trou and fuck.
Oh, America would start it. He always did. You couldn't exactly expect a gentleman of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland's calibre to just, just throw himself on another nation (no matter how goddamn blue his bloody eyes were).
But tonight was looking pretty decent. Head spinning pleasantly, England had pressed his lips feverishly onto the American's - but only after he'd been getting those looks all night; it was the American's fault entirely! And now the two were smashed up against one of the walls in England's bedroom which would have been extremely satisfying if it weren't for the picture frame jabbing him in the small of his back.
"Fuck," panted the US, and oh, they would.
England flipped their positions grinding his hips into the younger nations, pressing his back against that very self-same painting. The American didn't even have the decency to look uncomfortable, just kept making those same keening sounds and damn but it was driving England crazy.
Times like these he could almost forget about the Revolution. Times like these it was just like it was supposed to be. The heat, and the friction, all warm pleasure and need and more, more, more.
"Unh, Mine, America. You're mine,"
And then the scene BREAKS.
America shoves hard against England's chest, and without even using all his strength England knows it's going to leave bruises. As it is, he winds up a good few feet away from the other nation.
"What the fuck, England?" he demands, but England can only gape at him. It doesn't help that America's hair is disarrayed from England's wandering hands, that his shirt has somehow gotten lost in the heat of the moment, that his cheeks are flushed with what's probably anger but just looks like the same want (obsession, possession) that England knows is mirrored on his own face.
Re: Late!anon comes bearing late!fill?(2)
anonymous
November 24 2009, 01:40:28 UTC
"Hang on, hang on! What's wrong?" England says frantically trying to get a grip on reality.
"Dammit, I'm nobody's colony England! I don't belong to you anymore and I- fuck man, this was fun, but now, damn, I don't even…" America starts out fiery, but his words trail off until he's just staring at the ground by England's feet.
Without a second glance he's turned on his heel and out the door, stalking madly into the night.
And oh- oh - England sees what the problem is. And it hurts. Because he thinks about the what'ifs often enough. What if he'd pulled the trigger? What if he'd quashed that little rebellion before it was a bit of a problem? What if, in every sense of the word, America was his. But America, but the United fucking States of America doesn't seem to agree. He's so goddamn free.
And it hurts.
But it hurts even more, a few days later when America's boss casually announces to the world that the "special relationship" between the US and the UK is over. That America is seeking new ties with different countries. That England is still in the 'in crowd', it's just that the crowd has gotten bigger.
Because he doesn't want a bigger crowd. He wants America.
And it hurts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------ So I know this has already been filled, but… I really wanted to write this. Anon is neither american nor brit and hopes this at least sounds like English…
Also, was going to have more possessive!England in there, but... Um. Failure is my only setting. orz
Re: Late!anon comes bearing late!fill?(2)
anonymous
November 24 2009, 14:09:32 UTC
OP here, and this was fantastic anon! *happy sighs* I'm so glad you went ahead and did a second fill, because it really was wonderful. America's reaction was perfect and in character, and I love how you tied in the 'end of the special relationship' thing!
They'd gone through all the customary habits tonight. America flew into London exuberant and ignorant, breezed past security checkpoints with an indignation that implied his own weren't actually three times worse, and managed to look as if he'd never even left his own country, the bastard. England would find him at the aeroport's McDo stand and watch in undisguised horror (because no matter how many times he saw it, he would never get used to it) as his former colony gorged on a handful of greasy burgers.
"As a pick-me-up," America said, though most of the words were lost in the jumble of beef and god knows what all lodged in his mouth.
And England would sigh theatrically because it was expected of him, and America would swallow his last mouthful and together they'd hit up a bar or something . They'd tried visiting Stone Henge and a few of the more 'magical' locales in the British countryside, but after the third disastrous attempt they gave it up as a bad job and settled on more mundane locations for their 'male bonding'.
Which would all inevitably lead back to England's house, like as not with at least one of the two completely smashed beyond all reckoning. But every now and again they'd manage the evening, maybe not entirely sober, but at the very least with only a pleasant buzz in their veins.
And on such nights they'd drop trou and fuck.
Oh, America would start it. He always did. You couldn't exactly expect a gentleman of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland's calibre to just, just throw himself on another nation (no matter how goddamn blue his bloody eyes were).
But tonight was looking pretty decent. Head spinning pleasantly, England had pressed his lips feverishly onto the American's - but only after he'd been getting those looks all night; it was the American's fault entirely! And now the two were smashed up against one of the walls in England's bedroom which would have been extremely satisfying if it weren't for the picture frame jabbing him in the small of his back.
"Fuck," panted the US, and oh, they would.
England flipped their positions grinding his hips into the younger nations, pressing his back against that very self-same painting. The American didn't even have the decency to look uncomfortable, just kept making those same keening sounds and damn but it was driving England crazy.
Times like these he could almost forget about the Revolution. Times like these it was just like it was supposed to be. The heat, and the friction, all warm pleasure and need and more, more, more.
"Unh, Mine, America. You're mine,"
And then the scene BREAKS.
America shoves hard against England's chest, and without even using all his strength England knows it's going to leave bruises. As it is, he winds up a good few feet away from the other nation.
"What the fuck, England?" he demands, but England can only gape at him. It doesn't help that America's hair is disarrayed from England's wandering hands, that his shirt has somehow gotten lost in the heat of the moment, that his cheeks are flushed with what's probably anger but just looks like the same want (obsession, possession) that England knows is mirrored on his own face.
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"Dammit, I'm nobody's colony England! I don't belong to you anymore and I- fuck man, this was fun, but now, damn, I don't even…" America starts out fiery, but his words trail off until he's just staring at the ground by England's feet.
Without a second glance he's turned on his heel and out the door, stalking madly into the night.
And oh- oh - England sees what the problem is. And it hurts. Because he thinks about the what'ifs often enough. What if he'd pulled the trigger? What if he'd quashed that little rebellion before it was a bit of a problem? What if, in every sense of the word, America was his. But America, but the United fucking States of America doesn't seem to agree. He's so goddamn free.
And it hurts.
But it hurts even more, a few days later when America's boss casually announces to the world that the "special relationship" between the US and the UK is over. That America is seeking new ties with different countries. That England is still in the 'in crowd', it's just that the crowd has gotten bigger.
Because he doesn't want a bigger crowd. He wants America.
And it hurts.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So I know this has already been filled, but… I really wanted to write this. Anon is neither american nor brit and hopes this at least sounds like English…
Also, was going to have more possessive!England in there, but... Um. Failure is my only setting. orz
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