Misplaced Soil | USUK | 7/?
anonymous
April 29 2010, 19:21:00 UTC
“Whatever, if you’re wearing your jacket it’s not like anybody’s gonna notice,” America said, and pulled a shirt down off a hanger, holding it out to him. “Come on, don’t make me get it on you myself. I’m much more talented at getting things off you.”
“Yes, yes, you perfectly lewd creature,” England said with a roll of his eyes, walking forward to take the proffered shirt. He took America’s hand before he could pull it back and pressed a sloppy kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you, darling.”
“Yeah, yeah,” America said, and England delighted in the way his face seemed to heat up with pleasure at the sentiment. He quickly turned away, pulling out a red tie. “Yours is on the lampshade.”
“Ah, so it is,” England said when he turned and saw his paisley tie draped forlornly over the lamp. He shrugged into America’s shirt and pulled the tie from its haphazard position, slipping it around his collar and working on a proper knot.
Fully dressed now, England fluffed up the pillows and pulled the sheets and blankets back to their proper positions, ignoring America’s quiet snort of amusement at the action. He felt more than heard America come up behind him, and felt hands touch his hips, where the bruises were already forming, keeping his touch light in a silent apology America never actually spoke but England knew was there.
England lifted a hand behind him to cup America’s cheek, thumb smoothing over his skin and then pausing. “Ah,” he said quietly, turning his head to look up at the other nation. “You missed a spot shaving.”
“Huh? I did?” America asked, lifting his hand to touch where England’s fingers were. “Ah, shit.”
America pulled away, retreating to the bathroom. England followed after him, smiling despite himself and arms crossed. He leaned against the doorframe as America examined his reflection, hand smoothing over his cheek before moving to get the small patch of shadow he’d managed to miss before.
“So what’s your meeting about today, anyway?” America asked his reflection, glasses slipping down over his nose as he concentrated, scrunching up his face a little and trying to stretch the skin to as smooth as possible.
“Oh,” England said quietly, and hesitated for a half a moment. He cleared his throat. “Mostly just policy complications and whatnot.”
“‘Bout what?” America asked, straightening now and inspecting the rest of his face for any part of his face he might have missed before, razor poised precariously in two fingers as he did so. England focused on how it wiggled with America’s tiny movements.
“Yes, yes, you perfectly lewd creature,” England said with a roll of his eyes, walking forward to take the proffered shirt. He took America’s hand before he could pull it back and pressed a sloppy kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you, darling.”
“Yeah, yeah,” America said, and England delighted in the way his face seemed to heat up with pleasure at the sentiment. He quickly turned away, pulling out a red tie. “Yours is on the lampshade.”
“Ah, so it is,” England said when he turned and saw his paisley tie draped forlornly over the lamp. He shrugged into America’s shirt and pulled the tie from its haphazard position, slipping it around his collar and working on a proper knot.
Fully dressed now, England fluffed up the pillows and pulled the sheets and blankets back to their proper positions, ignoring America’s quiet snort of amusement at the action. He felt more than heard America come up behind him, and felt hands touch his hips, where the bruises were already forming, keeping his touch light in a silent apology America never actually spoke but England knew was there.
England lifted a hand behind him to cup America’s cheek, thumb smoothing over his skin and then pausing. “Ah,” he said quietly, turning his head to look up at the other nation. “You missed a spot shaving.”
“Huh? I did?” America asked, lifting his hand to touch where England’s fingers were. “Ah, shit.”
America pulled away, retreating to the bathroom. England followed after him, smiling despite himself and arms crossed. He leaned against the doorframe as America examined his reflection, hand smoothing over his cheek before moving to get the small patch of shadow he’d managed to miss before.
“So what’s your meeting about today, anyway?” America asked his reflection, glasses slipping down over his nose as he concentrated, scrunching up his face a little and trying to stretch the skin to as smooth as possible.
“Oh,” England said quietly, and hesitated for a half a moment. He cleared his throat. “Mostly just policy complications and whatnot.”
“‘Bout what?” America asked, straightening now and inspecting the rest of his face for any part of his face he might have missed before, razor poised precariously in two fingers as he did so. England focused on how it wiggled with America’s tiny movements.
“The war,” England said honestly.
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