Goodbye, Brother [17/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:18:45 UTC
It’s not his fault England makes him lose focus; America can’t help but be distracted by the way England moves, the slope of his shoulders, the pale pink lips that feel so soft and warm against America’s temples. It’s not like America wants to notice all these things, he just does. He’s been thinking about England for years, keeping his memory alive while he’s gone, and now that he has the empire in front of him, all flesh and bone and real, America doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
America feels different. He feels strange and awkward in this new body with its longer limbs and messy hair. He feels specially awkward with England so close to him. America feels clumsy and easily embarrassed, not sure if he should wrap his arms around England and hug him like he’d done so many times in the past. He’s bigger now, and England can no longer pick him up in his arms like before. In the past, America would have run into England’s arms and kissed him, but doing that now seems…not right anymore.
It seems too childish, too…not right. Too plain, too bland. It just doesn’t seem right for America to greet England with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Everyone greeted England like that; America didn’t want to be like everybody else to England. He wanted to be special, unique, and one of a kind to England.
“America?” England furrows his brow, concern in his voice. “Is everything alright? You look down.”
Threading his gloved fingers through America’s sun-kissed locks, England pulls him into a hug, the sweet, coppery scent of his skin making the colony feel slightly dizzy. He’s tall enough now that when England pulls him close to his breast, his chin is tucked neatly in the crook of the empire’s shoulder. America’s face flushes at the feel of England’s body pressed against his own, not sure where his hands should go.
Just when he’s about to place his hands on England’s waist, England pulls away from him. America’s hands feel empty. England looks worried. Biting his lower lip, he cups America’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “You don’t appear to have a fever. What’s the matter?”
America’s breath hitches. Their faces are so close together; he can count each and every one of England’s eyelashes. Again, the butterflies return. Again, America feels the sudden, unexplainable urge to lean up, shorten the distance between their faces and-
“Madam Epstein,” England says, no smile to be found on his face, “if you would be so kind as to give me some time alone with my boy, I would dearly appreciate it.”
The governess, who has been standing in the background, silent and wide-eyed, jumps at the being addressed. Her hands tremble, and her lip quivers before she swallows thickly and composes herself. Nodding her head, she clears her throat. “As you wish, Master Kirkland.” Her eyes go from the empire to the young colony. “And we will pick up where we left on the lesson in one hour, young master Jones.”
“No.” England shakes his head, his hands falling from America’s face. He looks refined, the soft, gentle and loving look he’d shown America gone from his face. He’s the British Empire, cold and unforgiving, and master of the house. “Alfred will no longer attend your lessons while I am here. I’ll take it upon myself to teach him proper etiquette, Madam.”
Goodbye, Brother [18/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:25:59 UTC
America doesn’t see her leave, nor does he hear her hurried, frantic footsteps. His eyes are glued on England, his attention held by England alone. The door closes behind her, and America is suddenly very conscious of how they are the only two people in the room.
“America,” England’s thick eyebrows draw together in concern. “America, what did she do?” he inquires gently, with a soothing voice that sends dizzying chills down the colony’s spine.
He feels like he’s under a spell, like the heroes in England’s stories, the ones that are led to their deaths by the bewitching siren’s song.
And so America says nothing, unable to string two words together to save his life. He’s so unaware of his surroundings he doesn’t even feel the sting of pain coming from his hands, the red crescent-shaped marks on the tender skin of his palms and his bruised knuckles. England’s emerald green eyes narrow dangerously, angrily, and before America knows what is happening, England is walking away from him and out of the library, the heavy doors falling shut with a bang after him. As he leaves, his coattails flutter aimlessly behind him, shifting and parting and giving view of long, slender legs snugly encased in the confinement of the breeches.
Struck by a sudden feeling of shame, America takes a shallow, shaky breath, clutching his chest. His heart is beating so fast he fears England will be able to hear it.
It’s England, it’s definitely England who makes his heart race like this. England is the only one who makes him feel like he can’t breathe.
[‘Would you kiss her?’ one of the boys had asked, pointing at a fair-haired girl. Then at a curly-haired girl with russet colored hair, and after that a lovely pale girl with hair the color of ink, ‘How about her?’]
Seconds turn to minutes. The doors open, England’s face is tight with anger. He slams the doors close, muttering choice words under his breath. Taking a deep, long breath, he rubs his temples. His hands are pale and elegant, if slightly bony, beneath his gloves. His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. Glaring at the doors one last time, he turns around, his expression of anger melting to one of loving affection almost immediately when he sees America right where he left him. “I apologize about that, sweetheart,” he says. One, two, three long strides and he’s back to his colony’s side, smiling sweetly at him, petting America on the head with one of those elegant, warm hands. “I had some, ah, business with Madam Epstein to take care of. But don’t you worry about it, everything is taken care of.”
Heart fluttering like crazy in his ribcage, America looks away. He can’t meet England’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, and adds seconds later, “Is she your lover?”
[America had frowned, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. He’d glanced at the girl, at the fair-haired girl, and been disappointed with her too bright, wheat-colored her, her hazel eyes, and blossoming breasts and curvy hips. ‘She’s not my type,’ he’d murmured softly, cheeks blooming with heat, his hands nervously picking at a loose thread in his shirt. England had sown it himself, every tiny little stitch and tiny little button.]
Goodbye, Brother [19/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:37:05 UTC
England blinks, completely taken by surprise. He says nothing for several, long moments, green eyes wide and eyebrows fully raised. America feels anger bubble in the pit of his stomach again, hot and acidic. He looks down at the floor, his hands clenching into tight fists. “I heard,” he begins, stopping, swallowing, and continuing, “I heard that you hired her because she was a good lay.”
England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
For a second, England looks so completely devastated that America thinks of taking the words back. This is a face he’s never seen on England before. England is so strong and so big and so majestic; he bows down to no one, and he rules the seven seas with an iron fist. France has a knack for gossip, and Canada retells his stories to America. Most of them are about England, of his conquests, his faultless victories and wins despite all the odds stacked against him. England is the kind of person who would never be afraid of anything or anyone-yet England’s expression now is one of definite fear.
The British Empire is said to have no weakness, no soft spots. But apparently, this isn’t so true after all.
“No,” England rushes to say, face distraught, eyes panicky, and he immediately pulls America into his arms. He hugs America more forcefully than usual, his arms tight around him, almost as if he were trying to fuse them together. America hugs him back, his hands tight and bruising on England’s hips. “Of course not. I would never, ever do that, love. You’re my most important, my most precious treasure, darling America. My baby, I would never abandon you. What made you think I would ever stop loving you?” he murmurs against America’s hair, not seeming to mind America’s bruising hold.
America holds him tighter.
[The boys had scoffed, hands at their hips. The loud, trouble-making of the group jabbed America with a bony elbow. ‘Then what’s your ideal girl? Everyone has one!’ he’d teased, a leer across his face.]
“Nothing. Never mind.” Smiling, America buries his face in the crook of England’s neck. He feels like he’s floating, or even walking on air. America has never felt so light before. “Forget about it.”
Everything makes sense now.
[Cheeks pink and eyes lowered, America thought of the ocean, and how vast and grand it was. Of how it was the one thing separating England from him. Of how England loved the sea so much, and of how America wished it would disappear forever. With that wish in his heart and the memory of England right next to it, he’d answered, ‘I don’t have one.’]
The heartwarming smile on England’s face sends America’s heart into a frenzy. There’s still a tinge of panic, of sadness on the empire’s face, but it is overshadowed by the happiness and love. “Really, America. You had me worried. I’m getting too old for these kind of shocks, you little cretin.”
Goodbye, Brother [20/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:48:27 UTC
Snorting, America throws his whole weight against the taller nation, standing on his tiptoes to see eye to eye with the empire. Just a bit more, a couple of more inches, and then he’d be taller. “It’s not my fault you hire hussies to tutor me, England,” he teases lightly, laughing when England playfully smacks him on the back of the head.
“Mind your language, boy. Goodness gracious, you’ve really grown since I last saw you,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice. He takes one of America’s hands in his own, entwining their fingers. England’s fingers are still a few centimeters longer, but America’s hand is thicker, bigger, and tougher from working the land.
Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin.
Bigger and bigger still he would grow. And then he would be the one to take care of England.
[Because England wasn’t a girl.]
----
Random!Author!Anon is happy you guys notice the dark undertones :D In my headcanon, America is a simple-minded guy with yandere moments (cold war anyone?); in my headcanon, England was never a pedo either, and that’s the reason why England doesn’t really think of America as a potential lover in this fill. Despite this, there will be sexy times. Take that as you will, anons~
Orz. Please ignore any grammatical errors. It’s really late, and I’m dead tired and I have to wake up for classes soon. I’ll update again this week, promise. And the OP, wherever she may be, please tell me what kind of ending you would prefer. From what I have so far, the ending is, eh, kind of revolutionary war-themed, orz, orz.
Anon, your imagery is seriously just fantastic in this fill; I'm not even exaggerating. :O America's preoccupation with England's hands comes off very realistic -- I remember being that age! ORZ -- but I love this bit the most: But when he does anything that relates to America, he rarely, if ever, wears his gloves, almost as if everything else was too filthy for him to touch without some sort of protection. I enjoy the whole dichotomy you set up between the way England treats America and everyone else.
And good god, the endearments are killing me, here; I already have a thing for endearments, but imagining in that accent with all those sweet, soft looks England used to give America ... <3 And England pressing their foreheads together is such an image, although poor America's heart is probably tired of skipping beats so often! XD
Although when England comes back in here? His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. I was stuck between 1) laughing at the fact that America noticed his pretty hands and nails first and 2) going "WTF did you do to here to get blood on BOTH sleeves?! D:"
I felt a little sorry for England here; like, "Poor man, your sweet, innocent boy is growing up already!" but then his devastation at America asking if he loves him anymore kind of hurt to imagine. T_T
Beautiful imagery here, by the way: America feels anger bubble in the pit of his stomach again, hot and acidic. He looks down at the floor, his hands clenching into tight fists. “I heard,” he begins, stopping, swallowing, and continuing, “I heard that you hired her because she was a good lay.”
England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
This is a great example of America not being quite observant enough: Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin. I enjoy how you nested two examples of America being young and inexperienced/unobservant here. He doesn't quite notice England's feelings about him growing up (and thus eventually growing away), and that's pretty straight-forward; but America not noticing what that scent is, especially after noticing the blood mysterious substance on England's cuffs? That's actually a bit subtle, as well as pretty telling. America's not just blinded by youth or inexperience; he's blinded by potentially somewhat yandere? love of England. Very cool, anon. <3
Oh yeah! I wasn't quite sure about the short little flashback moments with America and his young kinda!friends, but you tied it together really well at the end; very effective. :Db
---
I'm not the OP, but I'd encourage you to write whatever ending you want to write yourself, personally. ^_^
Re: Goodbye, Brother [20/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 07:21:43 UTC
Oh shit anon, this is DELICIOUS.
Oh man, that's like my secret!headcanon, that America has his yandere moments. And can be so damn possessive of England, even until now.
Man, why do I get this feeling this is going to be one heck of twist for the "America wanted to be independent so England would see him as an adult and they can have sexy tiems"?
/bricked
...England totally killed that governess, didn't he?
Re: Goodbye, Brother [20/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 07:33:30 UTC
God, I love this so so much! I never thought i'd love the disparity of their feelings like I do, because in essence, it's quite sad. Poor England, who feels like he's losing his boy to age, and poor America, whose feelings are so complex he probably feels like he's losing England all the time in one way or another (it doesn't help that he wants to monopolize England in every single type of love there is, and that England is often away). I think this is interesting because in this fic, the way I see it, America has been wanting to posess England in one way or another since he was a baby, and now that he's grown, he's settling into the kind of way he'd like to do it (not yet, though, he's still in that "maybe I'd like to kiss him" phase); but England's feelings remain unchanged, and he's even sad that America's growing so much (this is totally my headcanon too; England never wanted America to grow, in his heart). I wonder what will happen when those two feelings collide? Will England give in because he thinks that's the only way to tie his grown-up boy to him or keep him by his side? (which could backfire spectacularly and be the reason for America to rebell, to shake off the "boy" tag). Or will America seduce his caretaker?
America feels different. He feels strange and awkward in this new body with its longer limbs and messy hair. He feels specially awkward with England so close to him. America feels clumsy and easily embarrassed, not sure if he should wrap his arms around England and hug him like he’d done so many times in the past. He’s bigger now, and England can no longer pick him up in his arms like before. In the past, America would have run into England’s arms and kissed him, but doing that now seems…not right anymore.
It seems too childish, too…not right. Too plain, too bland. It just doesn’t seem right for America to greet England with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Everyone greeted England like that; America didn’t want to be like everybody else to England. He wanted to be special, unique, and one of a kind to England.
“America?” England furrows his brow, concern in his voice. “Is everything alright? You look down.”
Threading his gloved fingers through America’s sun-kissed locks, England pulls him into a hug, the sweet, coppery scent of his skin making the colony feel slightly dizzy. He’s tall enough now that when England pulls him close to his breast, his chin is tucked neatly in the crook of the empire’s shoulder. America’s face flushes at the feel of England’s body pressed against his own, not sure where his hands should go.
Just when he’s about to place his hands on England’s waist, England pulls away from him. America’s hands feel empty. England looks worried. Biting his lower lip, he cups America’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “You don’t appear to have a fever. What’s the matter?”
America’s breath hitches. Their faces are so close together; he can count each and every one of England’s eyelashes. Again, the butterflies return. Again, America feels the sudden, unexplainable urge to lean up, shorten the distance between their faces and-
“Madam Epstein,” England says, no smile to be found on his face, “if you would be so kind as to give me some time alone with my boy, I would dearly appreciate it.”
The governess, who has been standing in the background, silent and wide-eyed, jumps at the being addressed. Her hands tremble, and her lip quivers before she swallows thickly and composes herself. Nodding her head, she clears her throat. “As you wish, Master Kirkland.” Her eyes go from the empire to the young colony. “And we will pick up where we left on the lesson in one hour, young master Jones.”
“No.” England shakes his head, his hands falling from America’s face. He looks refined, the soft, gentle and loving look he’d shown America gone from his face. He’s the British Empire, cold and unforgiving, and master of the house. “Alfred will no longer attend your lessons while I am here. I’ll take it upon myself to teach him proper etiquette, Madam.”
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“America,” England’s thick eyebrows draw together in concern. “America, what did she do?” he inquires gently, with a soothing voice that sends dizzying chills down the colony’s spine.
He feels like he’s under a spell, like the heroes in England’s stories, the ones that are led to their deaths by the bewitching siren’s song.
And so America says nothing, unable to string two words together to save his life. He’s so unaware of his surroundings he doesn’t even feel the sting of pain coming from his hands, the red crescent-shaped marks on the tender skin of his palms and his bruised knuckles. England’s emerald green eyes narrow dangerously, angrily, and before America knows what is happening, England is walking away from him and out of the library, the heavy doors falling shut with a bang after him. As he leaves, his coattails flutter aimlessly behind him, shifting and parting and giving view of long, slender legs snugly encased in the confinement of the breeches.
Struck by a sudden feeling of shame, America takes a shallow, shaky breath, clutching his chest. His heart is beating so fast he fears England will be able to hear it.
It’s England, it’s definitely England who makes his heart race like this. England is the only one who makes him feel like he can’t breathe.
[‘Would you kiss her?’ one of the boys had asked, pointing at a fair-haired girl. Then at a curly-haired girl with russet colored hair, and after that a lovely pale girl with hair the color of ink, ‘How about her?’]
Seconds turn to minutes. The doors open, England’s face is tight with anger. He slams the doors close, muttering choice words under his breath. Taking a deep, long breath, he rubs his temples. His hands are pale and elegant, if slightly bony, beneath his gloves. His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. Glaring at the doors one last time, he turns around, his expression of anger melting to one of loving affection almost immediately when he sees America right where he left him. “I apologize about that, sweetheart,” he says. One, two, three long strides and he’s back to his colony’s side, smiling sweetly at him, petting America on the head with one of those elegant, warm hands. “I had some, ah, business with Madam Epstein to take care of. But don’t you worry about it, everything is taken care of.”
Heart fluttering like crazy in his ribcage, America looks away. He can’t meet England’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, and adds seconds later, “Is she your lover?”
[America had frowned, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. He’d glanced at the girl, at the fair-haired girl, and been disappointed with her too bright, wheat-colored her, her hazel eyes, and blossoming breasts and curvy hips. ‘She’s not my type,’ he’d murmured softly, cheeks blooming with heat, his hands nervously picking at a loose thread in his shirt. England had sown it himself, every tiny little stitch and tiny little button.]
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England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
For a second, England looks so completely devastated that America thinks of taking the words back. This is a face he’s never seen on England before. England is so strong and so big and so majestic; he bows down to no one, and he rules the seven seas with an iron fist. France has a knack for gossip, and Canada retells his stories to America. Most of them are about England, of his conquests, his faultless victories and wins despite all the odds stacked against him. England is the kind of person who would never be afraid of anything or anyone-yet England’s expression now is one of definite fear.
The British Empire is said to have no weakness, no soft spots. But apparently, this isn’t so true after all.
“No,” England rushes to say, face distraught, eyes panicky, and he immediately pulls America into his arms. He hugs America more forcefully than usual, his arms tight around him, almost as if he were trying to fuse them together. America hugs him back, his hands tight and bruising on England’s hips. “Of course not. I would never, ever do that, love. You’re my most important, my most precious treasure, darling America. My baby, I would never abandon you. What made you think I would ever stop loving you?” he murmurs against America’s hair, not seeming to mind America’s bruising hold.
America holds him tighter.
[The boys had scoffed, hands at their hips. The loud, trouble-making of the group jabbed America with a bony elbow. ‘Then what’s your ideal girl? Everyone has one!’ he’d teased, a leer across his face.]
“Nothing. Never mind.” Smiling, America buries his face in the crook of England’s neck. He feels like he’s floating, or even walking on air. America has never felt so light before. “Forget about it.”
Everything makes sense now.
[Cheeks pink and eyes lowered, America thought of the ocean, and how vast and grand it was. Of how it was the one thing separating England from him. Of how England loved the sea so much, and of how America wished it would disappear forever. With that wish in his heart and the memory of England right next to it, he’d answered, ‘I don’t have one.’]
The heartwarming smile on England’s face sends America’s heart into a frenzy. There’s still a tinge of panic, of sadness on the empire’s face, but it is overshadowed by the happiness and love. “Really, America. You had me worried. I’m getting too old for these kind of shocks, you little cretin.”
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“Mind your language, boy. Goodness gracious, you’ve really grown since I last saw you,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice. He takes one of America’s hands in his own, entwining their fingers. England’s fingers are still a few centimeters longer, but America’s hand is thicker, bigger, and tougher from working the land.
Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin.
Bigger and bigger still he would grow. And then he would be the one to take care of England.
[Because England wasn’t a girl.]
----
Random!Author!Anon is happy you guys notice the dark undertones :D In my headcanon, America is a simple-minded guy with yandere moments (cold war anyone?); in my headcanon, England was never a pedo either, and that’s the reason why England doesn’t really think of America as a potential lover in this fill. Despite this, there will be sexy times. Take that as you will, anons~
Orz. Please ignore any grammatical errors. It’s really late, and I’m dead tired and I have to wake up for classes soon. I’ll update again this week, promise. And the OP, wherever she may be, please tell me what kind of ending you would prefer. From what I have so far, the ending is, eh, kind of revolutionary war-themed, orz, orz.
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And good god, the endearments are killing me, here; I already have a thing for endearments, but imagining in that accent with all those sweet, soft looks England used to give America ... <3 And England pressing their foreheads together is such an image, although poor America's heart is probably tired of skipping beats so often! XD
Although when England comes back in here? His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. I was stuck between 1) laughing at the fact that America noticed his pretty hands and nails first and 2) going "WTF did you do to here to get blood on BOTH sleeves?! D:"
I felt a little sorry for England here; like, "Poor man, your sweet, innocent boy is growing up already!" but then his devastation at America asking if he loves him anymore kind of hurt to imagine. T_T
Beautiful imagery here, by the way: America feels anger bubble in the pit of his stomach again, hot and acidic. He looks down at the floor, his hands clenching into tight fists. “I heard,” he begins, stopping, swallowing, and continuing, “I heard that you hired her because she was a good lay.”
England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
This is a great example of America not being quite observant enough: Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin. I enjoy how you nested two examples of America being young and inexperienced/unobservant here. He doesn't quite notice England's feelings about him growing up (and thus eventually growing away), and that's pretty straight-forward; but America not noticing what that scent is, especially after noticing the blood mysterious substance on England's cuffs? That's actually a bit subtle, as well as pretty telling. America's not just blinded by youth or inexperience; he's blinded by potentially somewhat yandere? love of England. Very cool, anon. <3
Oh yeah! I wasn't quite sure about the short little flashback moments with America and his young kinda!friends, but you tied it together really well at the end; very effective. :Db
---
I'm not the OP, but I'd encourage you to write whatever ending you want to write yourself, personally. ^_^
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Oh man, that's like my secret!headcanon, that America has his yandere moments. And can be so damn possessive of England, even until now.
Man, why do I get this feeling this is going to be one heck of twist for the "America wanted to be independent so England would see him as an adult and they can have sexy tiems"?
/bricked
...England totally killed that governess, didn't he?
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I wonder what will happen when those two feelings collide? Will England give in because he thinks that's the only way to tie his grown-up boy to him or keep him by his side? (which could backfire spectacularly and be the reason for America to rebell, to shake off the "boy" tag). Or will America seduce his caretaker?
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I SUPPOSE YOU DAMNED WELL TOOK CARE OF THAT, THEN.
/FLEES
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America's POV is great here. It feels very intense. I love his awakening sense of his own desires. I'm looking forward to reading more.
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I love love love love this fill. I can't wait for more. Thank you so much anon!!!!!!
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looks like alfred isn't the only possessive one here
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I adore how much England Spoils America, the emotions in this are portrayed amazingly!
I love Empire!England too. I will be stalking this now.
Have my babies, anon.
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