Misplaced Soil | USUK | 11/?
anonymous
April 29 2010, 19:24:00 UTC
“So get outta here. You clearly just want to isolate me anyway, right? Fuck you.”
“That isn’t what this is about-”
“I don’t care. Try not to get run over by a car out there, you asshole.”
England ruffled up. Fine then. if America wanted to be that, England could play that game. He sneered at him, whipped his head away and grumbled low under his breath.
“Fine,” England snapped. “Heaven knows I can’t stand being under the same roof as you right now-”
“Then leave!” America shouted.
England stomped from the room and half-expected, half-hoped, that America would follow after him. But he didn’t. He didn’t.
England ducked his head, fought back the ridiculous urge to cry or to turn around and apologize truly this time.
Instead he glanced over at the kitchen as he stomped his way to the front door. He opened the door and before shutting it with a loud slam he shouted, glad his voice didn’t crack:
“And for fuck’s sake, buy an electric kettle!”
---
/hides from thrown tomatoes That's all for now!
Author!anon realizes belatedly that perhaps she should have done the 1.a/? style of updating as opposed to individual numbers. Oops!
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 11/?
anonymous
April 29 2010, 23:08:05 UTC
This is all kinds of amazing. Especially in the way you're taking such a vague prompt and incorporating it, quotes and all, into a story which has taken an entirely different direction!
And uh... did you just finish a rather long fill involving ghost dogs and Colin Firth...?
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 11/?
anonymous
April 30 2010, 00:18:05 UTC
FUCK. YEAH
I'm so glad that, finally, we have a fic focusing on the more unsavory aspects of the Special Relationship. Authoranon researched, and it shows her work ^_~ I'm really interested in their little dispute, because quite frankly, both are right in their own way, and both are wrong too. I'm fascinated that the inequality in the 'wonderful' Special Relationshp was brought up, the "You use me" thing going both ways, in a way. I think I love it so much because of the deceptively loving routine at the beginning, and the fact that America has a darker side in this fic that I'm equal parts turned on by and terrified of; it shows when they're having sex (as well as England's tolerant affection of his selfishness, which also extends to his atittude in politics concenring America's own atittude), and it also shows in their argument, where America uses his built in a vaguely threatening and constricting manner first, and then arrogantly and self-assuredly reasserts his own power and dominance over the other. The way America talks to England here would be unthinkable in the reverse...the "you won't do it", "I won't let you"...and I'm also glad you show England being more dependant and feeling more awful about their argument. and why the hell do I find all this so hot, anyway? clearly something's wrong with me
On another side, I love the little details and the banter you place in your writing ♥
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 11/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 09:33:05 UTC
No tomatoes for you, anon. Except maybe in sauce form, with pasta, because you've just made it from cute to awesome. Been wanting a fic to address the things you have here, so: *applause*
... but I'm holding you to that Happy Ending, ok? (=_=)b
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 12/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:09:28 UTC
Fighting was normal in a healthy relationship-England knew that. But England also knew that it probably wasn’t healthy to go from one extreme to the other in his relationship with America: wanting to coddle the little bastard one moment and then wanting to smash his face in. It was probably also unhealthy how many times England found he wanted to smash America’s face in on a regular basis.
Stomping outside, waiting for the bus, and riding towards his destination left England with plenty of time to fest his rage (he could have taken the limousine, but if he was going to talk about global warming, he may as well practice what he preached). Except within fifteen minutes he was slumped against the window and muttering obscenities to himself and fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. Cars honked outside and he watched indifferently as pedestrians dove for safety in the face of the onslaught of city buses, cars, and bicyclists. England muttered curses under his breath and his fellow bus patrons gave him slightly deranged looks, undoubtedly trying to determine whether or not England really was from England (damn America and his citizen’s obsessions with his accent-it wasn’t that damned exotic, honestly).
He made it to his meeting only a few minutes late, but it seemed the rest of his men were running behind schedule regardless, so it left England a few precious moments to boil some water (once again with a cauldron of a kettle, what was with the lack of electric kettles? Surely they existed) and make himself a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Except it wasn’t very soothing and he left the teabag in for too long, leaving the tea to taste bitter and unpleasant. England drank it anyway.
“Are you alright, sir?” one of his aides asked later, peering at his unpressed pants, his wrinkled shirt, and the slightly lopsided tie.
England stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’m quite alright.”
Possibly embarrassed, the aide nodded and didn’t pressed the issue. England remained sitting, letting the men around him drone on and feeling all the words rush over his head. His fingers traced the lip of his teacup and felt the dread pooling in his stomach, ushered in by the bitter taste of chamomile. He was utterly defeated.
“Sir,” another aide said after a break in the meeting. England glanced at him and then at the clock-two hours had passed but England hadn’t noticed any time moving, nor could he remember what anyone had spoken about for the past two hours. “Sir,” his aide said again and England’s attention flickered back. “Sir, do you have the papers?”
“The what?” England asked and then the words registered and he shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course. Of course, they’re right here…”
He opened his briefcase and stared. And then stared longer. And then continued to stare, as if continuing to stare would mean that the papers would magically appear in his briefcase, as they should be, and everything would be just as it was meant to be.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 13/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:10:28 UTC
But no, in England’s mind eye, he could see the papers sitting in their silly manila folder precariously and perfectly innocently on the kitchen table in America’s apartment.
“Oh,” England said softly.
“Sir?” asked the aide.
England shook his head. “Fuck.”
The aide looked startled, reeling back at the sudden curse and blinking owlishly at England, who muttered a few more profanities.
“God damn it.” England sighed. “I left them behind.”
He continued to spout out some blasphemy towards God before he shook his head with a sigh, pressing a hand to his face.
“I’m distracted today.”
“Er… yes,” the aide agreed. He shuffled the papers he did hold. “Well… where you’re staying isn’t too far from here, is it? If we take our lunch break now, you can pop over and pick the papers up, can’t you?”
The other aides in the room agreed, with small nods and sympathetic looks at England, who did indeed look incredibly out of it and flustered, unprofessional looking in his wrinkled suit and his morose expressions, worse than usual. England nodded his agreement, clipped his briefcase shut, turned on his heel, and left the building to go back, albeit hesitantly, towards he apartment. Not that America would be there-he would have left for his meeting over an hour ago.
The ride back on the city bus was just as tense as before, only England couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust, and the bile rising in his throat. The city smelled like sour milk and it left England to mutter more obscenities about color-coded milk cartons of two percent and one percent and sixty-eight percent or whatever stupid coding system America used to label his milk. America, America-
The bus stopped at his stop and England remembered to scramble off the bus in time before he was whisked away down more city blocks in the wrong direction. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair-and wondered why he was making himself presentable for something that would take less than a minute. He knew exactly where the papers were, exactly where he needed to go and how to get back. He’d spend more time waiting for the bus than he would capturing the papers and wrangling them into his briefcase.
So of course America was there when England opened the door.
They stared at each other in surprise, England’s hand still on the door handle. When he saw another body he thought perhaps he’d walked right into the wrong room and was about to shut the door with a quick apology before green eyes locked with the baby blue ones, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.
And then the tense silence followed.
“Ba-England.” That was America’s voice, all right, saturated with surprise.
“Bengland?” England repeated, slightly dazed. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
America puffed up and looked away. “Yeah. I added a B to your name.”
“Oh?”
“The B’s for Bitch.” America turned away completely now, crossing his arms.
“Oh,” England muttered. “Of course.”
Of course it would come down to something like this. England felt the anger return full-force, and hated that he’d actually felt remorseful earlier in the day. America didn’t deserve any sympathy-the idiot always expected everything to be handed to him on a silver platter and-
England was too tired to think about it, so he sighed and walked towards the kitchen. “What are you still doing here?”
“Boss thought I looked like I needed the day off,” America said, still not looking at England. England tried not to think about why it was that America’s boss would give the boy the day off, just how one looked like they needed it… or why America looked that way. He made a beeline for the manila folder waiting for him. America called after him, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 14/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:11:20 UTC
“Forgot these,” England said, snatching up the papers and waving it over his shoulder before clicking open his briefcase and slipping the papers inside.
“Oh, the details for how you’re going to just abandon me?”
“Can we not talk about this, please?” England said with a sigh. “And for your information, that is not what these papers are for.”
“Whatever, England.”
“America,” England said calmly, closing his briefcase and straightening, already moving towards the front door again. “Stop behaving like a child.”
“Only if you stop behaving like a Grade A Douchebag,” America protested, in what was, naturally, an incredibly childish manner.
England rolled his eyes, slipped his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not. If you would just think for once in your life, you would realize-”
“I thought you were here to apologize,” America admitted, crossing his arms and trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall, hip jutted out slightly.
England felt his entire body twitch. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone’s to apologize, it’ll be you,” England snapped, staring at the man he inexplicably loved. (Really, England had to wonder just how much of a masochist he was.)
“Yeah right.”
“See, it’s that stubborn nature of yours that makes you so unbearable.”
“Fuck you!”
“America,” England said, tense, looking desperately at his feet before lifting his gaze and staring at America-angry, so angry, but trying so hard to get him to understand. “America, listen to me-”
America snorted.
England’s brow furrowed. “How it is now-it isn’t equal. Think about it. Just think.”
“Whatever,” America said. “You got your papers. Leave me alone. I’m going to go kill some commies.”
And with that, America stalked away, undoubtedly to go play one of his video games. England lowered his eyes and closed the door behind him.
---
The rest of the meetings went on without much incident. It was clear that England’s mind was elsewhere, so the men working around him did their best to work around the issues and present the facts. England stared vacantly at the papers, at the powerpoint slides. It wasn’t clear whether anything even made it into his consciousness. He stayed, hunched slightly, hand in his chin and staring morosely at the table-ignoring his heart.
“Perhaps it’s foggy in London,” he heard one of his aides whisper and England closed his eyes, letting them believe that was the reason. It was sunny in London today, but there was smog. But that didn’t seem to register in England’s heart.
When they broke for a few minutes, for coffee and the wash room, England spent his time at the window, looking out over the American cityscape, his eyes hooded and his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t fight back the things in his heart, the things he knew would never be but that he could not help but shake, something where he woke up in the morning and it existed.
Time could take its toll on the best of them, and England felt far too old despite looking so young. And being with America, who was infinitely younger in both body and spirit left him to feel a bit like a setting sun. Or just something that was falling-something easily forgotten, discarded, and replaced.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:13:11 UTC
He knew that America cared-it was impossible to forgot the way those blue eyes looked at him as he bent over England (impossible baby blue). Impossible to forget the soft touch of hands smoothing over the bruises he left (apologetic, trying so hard to curb his strength), impossible to forget the soft touch of his lips to his (for good luck, for good bye, for hello again). Impossible to forget those moments when he bent his laws for him, when he found a way to always fly back to him even when his people said no (soft hands wrapping bandages around him, quiet lips brushing over his sweating forehead, the softly whispered words that America was always too proud to admit to saying the next morning…).
“Fuck,” he whispered as he felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes.
He forced himself to remember his faults, also impossible to forget-
Obnoxious, self-centered, dismissive, entitled…
Blue eyes that seemed to light up whenever they saw him, a smile only for him, fingers lacing together between the sheets, the honeyed, soured taste of a kiss in the morning, the smell of coffee spilling onto pillowcases…
Forgetful, dismissive, entitled, taking advantage as he saw fit, poking his nose into others business, throwing fits when others didn’t do what he wanted-
Keeping tea in the cupboard for him, buying union jack boxers just to see England’s face when he finally took his clothes off, resting quietly in his lap as England did his needlework-
“Fuck,” England hissed.
Focus, focus-
Always making fun of him on July fourth, always leaving him to drink alone, demanding so much from him and his people, knowing nothing about his own culture, butchering the English language, pollution, hypocrisy, flirting with other nations…
Laughing, laughing, laughing in his ear as England straddled him, drinking his tea. Laughing, so softly, fingers curled in his hair, face split into a smile just for him-
Fuck.
---
That's all for now! Short little update today. Not much to do with the article this round, but I promise we'll return to it soon.
Thanks everyone for such nice comments. You've all been way too nice to me thus far and I really appreciate it.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:24:07 UTC
... hmmmm I think I might know who you are, anon~ (And if I'm right, I think you should deanon once this is done! And even if I'm wrong, it'd still be great to know the awesome person who's writing this!)
This installment was great. Don't be so hard on yourself. Can't wait for more.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 06:28:34 UTC
Just found this fill and it has instantly become a top favourite! Hell, normally I don't even like USUK that much, but their relationship dynamic is so real and so human. I can't get enough! I eagerly await next update! Oh, and also the smut is wonderful. Everything about this fill makes me so happy and sad and upset and conflicted and tl;dr anon I think I love you and this is best ever. ♥♥♥
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 13:04:36 UTC
*sobs* Ahhh, England! Ah, America! That last bit when he's remembering, despite himself, Alfred being adorable, I got all teary. Y'know, I was kinda expecting something cracky, what with the Cracked article, but it's not, and yet it fits SO WELL. Is the bit where the British author of the article goads his wife into leaving him going to be involved? I laughed when I read that but I have a feeling I'll sob when you do it - and that's not an insult, that's a compliment to your powers of writing.
Small request: reading this late at night kind of inspired me to write a small fic, not really following this except the 'america and england break up over England's withdrawing support' could I post it?
“That isn’t what this is about-”
“I don’t care. Try not to get run over by a car out there, you asshole.”
England ruffled up. Fine then. if America wanted to be that, England could play that game. He sneered at him, whipped his head away and grumbled low under his breath.
“Fine,” England snapped. “Heaven knows I can’t stand being under the same roof as you right now-”
“Then leave!” America shouted.
England stomped from the room and half-expected, half-hoped, that America would follow after him. But he didn’t. He didn’t.
England ducked his head, fought back the ridiculous urge to cry or to turn around and apologize truly this time.
Instead he glanced over at the kitchen as he stomped his way to the front door. He opened the door and before shutting it with a loud slam he shouted, glad his voice didn’t crack:
“And for fuck’s sake, buy an electric kettle!”
---
/hides from thrown tomatoes
That's all for now!
Author!anon realizes belatedly that perhaps she should have done the 1.a/? style of updating as opposed to individual numbers. Oops!
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And uh... did you just finish a rather long fill involving ghost dogs and Colin Firth...?
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And hee, no this is anon's first time posting to the kink meme (though not my first time writing the pairing).
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I'm so glad that, finally, we have a fic focusing on the more unsavory aspects of the Special Relationship. Authoranon researched, and it shows her work ^_~
I'm really interested in their little dispute, because quite frankly, both are right in their own way, and both are wrong too. I'm fascinated that the inequality in the 'wonderful' Special Relationshp was brought up, the "You use me" thing going both ways, in a way. I think I love it so much because of the deceptively loving routine at the beginning, and the fact that America has a darker side in this fic that I'm equal parts turned on by and terrified of; it shows when they're having sex (as well as England's tolerant affection of his selfishness, which also extends to his atittude in politics concenring America's own atittude), and it also shows in their argument, where America uses his built in a vaguely threatening and constricting manner first, and then arrogantly and self-assuredly reasserts his own power and dominance over the other. The way America talks to England here would be unthinkable in the reverse...the "you won't do it", "I won't let you"...and I'm also glad you show England being more dependant and feeling more awful about their argument. and why the hell do I find all this so hot, anyway? clearly something's wrong with me
On another side, I love the little details and the banter you place in your writing ♥
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Oh my God, please fix this! DDDD:
although I love their insults...
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... but I'm holding you to that Happy Ending, ok? (=_=)b
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Stomping outside, waiting for the bus, and riding towards his destination left England with plenty of time to fest his rage (he could have taken the limousine, but if he was going to talk about global warming, he may as well practice what he preached). Except within fifteen minutes he was slumped against the window and muttering obscenities to himself and fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. Cars honked outside and he watched indifferently as pedestrians dove for safety in the face of the onslaught of city buses, cars, and bicyclists. England muttered curses under his breath and his fellow bus patrons gave him slightly deranged looks, undoubtedly trying to determine whether or not England really was from England (damn America and his citizen’s obsessions with his accent-it wasn’t that damned exotic, honestly).
He made it to his meeting only a few minutes late, but it seemed the rest of his men were running behind schedule regardless, so it left England a few precious moments to boil some water (once again with a cauldron of a kettle, what was with the lack of electric kettles? Surely they existed) and make himself a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Except it wasn’t very soothing and he left the teabag in for too long, leaving the tea to taste bitter and unpleasant. England drank it anyway.
“Are you alright, sir?” one of his aides asked later, peering at his unpressed pants, his wrinkled shirt, and the slightly lopsided tie.
England stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’m quite alright.”
Possibly embarrassed, the aide nodded and didn’t pressed the issue. England remained sitting, letting the men around him drone on and feeling all the words rush over his head. His fingers traced the lip of his teacup and felt the dread pooling in his stomach, ushered in by the bitter taste of chamomile. He was utterly defeated.
“Sir,” another aide said after a break in the meeting. England glanced at him and then at the clock-two hours had passed but England hadn’t noticed any time moving, nor could he remember what anyone had spoken about for the past two hours. “Sir,” his aide said again and England’s attention flickered back. “Sir, do you have the papers?”
“The what?” England asked and then the words registered and he shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course. Of course, they’re right here…”
He opened his briefcase and stared. And then stared longer. And then continued to stare, as if continuing to stare would mean that the papers would magically appear in his briefcase, as they should be, and everything would be just as it was meant to be.
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“Oh,” England said softly.
“Sir?” asked the aide.
England shook his head. “Fuck.”
The aide looked startled, reeling back at the sudden curse and blinking owlishly at England, who muttered a few more profanities.
“God damn it.” England sighed. “I left them behind.”
He continued to spout out some blasphemy towards God before he shook his head with a sigh, pressing a hand to his face.
“I’m distracted today.”
“Er… yes,” the aide agreed. He shuffled the papers he did hold. “Well… where you’re staying isn’t too far from here, is it? If we take our lunch break now, you can pop over and pick the papers up, can’t you?”
The other aides in the room agreed, with small nods and sympathetic looks at England, who did indeed look incredibly out of it and flustered, unprofessional looking in his wrinkled suit and his morose expressions, worse than usual. England nodded his agreement, clipped his briefcase shut, turned on his heel, and left the building to go back, albeit hesitantly, towards he apartment. Not that America would be there-he would have left for his meeting over an hour ago.
The ride back on the city bus was just as tense as before, only England couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust, and the bile rising in his throat. The city smelled like sour milk and it left England to mutter more obscenities about color-coded milk cartons of two percent and one percent and sixty-eight percent or whatever stupid coding system America used to label his milk. America, America-
The bus stopped at his stop and England remembered to scramble off the bus in time before he was whisked away down more city blocks in the wrong direction. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair-and wondered why he was making himself presentable for something that would take less than a minute. He knew exactly where the papers were, exactly where he needed to go and how to get back. He’d spend more time waiting for the bus than he would capturing the papers and wrangling them into his briefcase.
So of course America was there when England opened the door.
They stared at each other in surprise, England’s hand still on the door handle. When he saw another body he thought perhaps he’d walked right into the wrong room and was about to shut the door with a quick apology before green eyes locked with the baby blue ones, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.
And then the tense silence followed.
“Ba-England.” That was America’s voice, all right, saturated with surprise.
“Bengland?” England repeated, slightly dazed. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
America puffed up and looked away. “Yeah. I added a B to your name.”
“Oh?”
“The B’s for Bitch.” America turned away completely now, crossing his arms.
“Oh,” England muttered. “Of course.”
Of course it would come down to something like this. England felt the anger return full-force, and hated that he’d actually felt remorseful earlier in the day. America didn’t deserve any sympathy-the idiot always expected everything to be handed to him on a silver platter and-
England was too tired to think about it, so he sighed and walked towards the kitchen. “What are you still doing here?”
“Boss thought I looked like I needed the day off,” America said, still not looking at England. England tried not to think about why it was that America’s boss would give the boy the day off, just how one looked like they needed it… or why America looked that way. He made a beeline for the manila folder waiting for him. America called after him, “What the hell are you doing here?”
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“Oh, the details for how you’re going to just abandon me?”
“Can we not talk about this, please?” England said with a sigh. “And for your information, that is not what these papers are for.”
“Whatever, England.”
“America,” England said calmly, closing his briefcase and straightening, already moving towards the front door again. “Stop behaving like a child.”
“Only if you stop behaving like a Grade A Douchebag,” America protested, in what was, naturally, an incredibly childish manner.
England rolled his eyes, slipped his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not. If you would just think for once in your life, you would realize-”
“I thought you were here to apologize,” America admitted, crossing his arms and trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall, hip jutted out slightly.
England felt his entire body twitch. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone’s to apologize, it’ll be you,” England snapped, staring at the man he inexplicably loved. (Really, England had to wonder just how much of a masochist he was.)
“Yeah right.”
“See, it’s that stubborn nature of yours that makes you so unbearable.”
“Fuck you!”
“America,” England said, tense, looking desperately at his feet before lifting his gaze and staring at America-angry, so angry, but trying so hard to get him to understand. “America, listen to me-”
America snorted.
England’s brow furrowed. “How it is now-it isn’t equal. Think about it. Just think.”
“Whatever,” America said. “You got your papers. Leave me alone. I’m going to go kill some commies.”
And with that, America stalked away, undoubtedly to go play one of his video games. England lowered his eyes and closed the door behind him.
---
The rest of the meetings went on without much incident. It was clear that England’s mind was elsewhere, so the men working around him did their best to work around the issues and present the facts. England stared vacantly at the papers, at the powerpoint slides. It wasn’t clear whether anything even made it into his consciousness. He stayed, hunched slightly, hand in his chin and staring morosely at the table-ignoring his heart.
“Perhaps it’s foggy in London,” he heard one of his aides whisper and England closed his eyes, letting them believe that was the reason. It was sunny in London today, but there was smog. But that didn’t seem to register in England’s heart.
When they broke for a few minutes, for coffee and the wash room, England spent his time at the window, looking out over the American cityscape, his eyes hooded and his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t fight back the things in his heart, the things he knew would never be but that he could not help but shake, something where he woke up in the morning and it existed.
Time could take its toll on the best of them, and England felt far too old despite looking so young. And being with America, who was infinitely younger in both body and spirit left him to feel a bit like a setting sun. Or just something that was falling-something easily forgotten, discarded, and replaced.
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He knew that America cared-it was impossible to forgot the way those blue eyes looked at him as he bent over England (impossible baby blue). Impossible to forget the soft touch of hands smoothing over the bruises he left (apologetic, trying so hard to curb his strength), impossible to forget the soft touch of his lips to his (for good luck, for good bye, for hello again). Impossible to forget those moments when he bent his laws for him, when he found a way to always fly back to him even when his people said no (soft hands wrapping bandages around him, quiet lips brushing over his sweating forehead, the softly whispered words that America was always too proud to admit to saying the next morning…).
“Fuck,” he whispered as he felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes.
He forced himself to remember his faults, also impossible to forget-
Obnoxious, self-centered, dismissive, entitled…
Blue eyes that seemed to light up whenever they saw him, a smile only for him, fingers lacing together between the sheets, the honeyed, soured taste of a kiss in the morning, the smell of coffee spilling onto pillowcases…
Forgetful, dismissive, entitled, taking advantage as he saw fit, poking his nose into others business, throwing fits when others didn’t do what he wanted-
Keeping tea in the cupboard for him, buying union jack boxers just to see England’s face when he finally took his clothes off, resting quietly in his lap as England did his needlework-
“Fuck,” England hissed.
Focus, focus-
Always making fun of him on July fourth, always leaving him to drink alone, demanding so much from him and his people, knowing nothing about his own culture, butchering the English language, pollution, hypocrisy, flirting with other nations…
Laughing, laughing, laughing in his ear as England straddled him, drinking his tea. Laughing, so softly, fingers curled in his hair, face split into a smile just for him-
Fuck.
---
That's all for now! Short little update today. Not much to do with the article this round, but I promise we'll return to it soon.
Thanks everyone for such nice comments. You've all been way too nice to me thus far and I really appreciate it.
Reply
(And if I'm right, I think you should deanon once this is done! And even if I'm wrong, it'd still be great to know the awesome person who's writing this!)
This installment was great. Don't be so hard on yourself. Can't wait for more.
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♥
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laagjngaøæaåæergknjkv :') <3 Perfect.
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Small request: reading this late at night kind of inspired me to write a small fic, not really following this except the 'america and england break up over England's withdrawing support' could I post it?
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