The Art of Seduction, as Executed by Two Anglophones [04/??]
anonymous
June 16 2011, 21:12:03 UTC
America pauses for another half of a moment, and relaxes when he realizes the ruffling he heard was just himself. "Well you're my brother! 'Sides, I've seen France around you."
Canada moans. "That doesn't mean anything! He was visiting Québec! But that's just France-he's like that with anyone."
America groans as he relaxes a little bit. "I guess…" he relents. France propositions pretty much everyone, and the best thing to do with France is ignore him. If that doesn't work, then calling the local police department usually works pretty well. But America isn't sure that he wants to ignore England, and he sure as hell doesn't want him arrested. "What if…" he begins. He worries his lip and feels his face flame up a little bit. "What if I don't mind it?"
"Then why are you calling me?"
"Cuz I dunno what to do!" America insists. He hears his voice rise much too loud and he mentally beats himself for it. He can hear Canada whimpering out a feeble maple at the sudden change in volume, and he sighs.
"W-well…" Canada begins. America's barely listening, trying to come up with an idea. He is a hero, and heroes can solve just about anything. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks…. "Why don't you just play him at his own game?"
"Got it!" he announces, once again louder than he really needs to be, but quiets down as he continues. "I'll just play him at his own game! How does that sound, Canadia?"
"…Familiar, and it's not Canadia-!"
There's a knocking at the door, and America jumps nearly three feet into the air before standing suddenly on his feet.
"America? Are you in there?" England's voice calls out.
"Shit! Canada, I'll call you back later!" America whispers quickly into his phone's mouthpiece. Whatever Canada is saying is cut off as America hangs up, shoving the phone deep into a pocket. He stumbles not-so-graciously out of the tub, falling, but he thanks whoever's listening for not letting his head hit the edge of the sink's counter or the tile floor. This doesn't stop him from swearing, and it catches England's attention.
"America! Are you all right?! Answer me, America! America!" England's concern is punctuated by a few bangs on the door.
"C-coming…!" America stands with a swiftness he'd not known he possesses and tries to straighten his shirt and Texas out as he takes a few strides to the door. He fumbles as he unlocks it, trying to act smooth as he swings the door open.
"Hey, England, what do you nee-" America freezes. "-d."
England stands there, the bottom of his fist poised to hit the door once more. He's stopped though, but this doesn't stop America. England is posed there, arm bent back and dressed in only a pair of red, grey, and blue boxer-briefs.
Boxer-briefs. Since when does England wear boxer-fucking-briefs? If America isn't positive that England is doing this on purpose, he'd likely question if England knows what he's doing. After all, the older nation is standing there paused in mid-action, his muscles (though not terribly showy) are flexed; his chest, while not particularly built, is strong, with a few scars decorating him here and there, a few delving past the waistband of the … boxer-briefs. America's eyes fixate for a moment on a certain area and then shoot back up. His face is red, he knows that, but now there's finally some color on England's face as well.
England relaxes, bringing his arms to cross beneath his chest. "What was that yelling for?"
"Yelling?" America asks. "What yelling?" America searches his mind, trying to honestly recall any yelling he's done in the last few minutes. His call to his brother finally registers, but really, now, "I wasn't yelling."
"No, you were," England continues on. "By normal standards you were yelling. It was probably just a mere whisper by your standards."
A moment passes and their eyes lock on to each other. England has to put no effort into actually speaking-his eyes do it for him, making a promise to show America what a real yell is. (If that is, in fact, what his eyes are saying.)
America feels a shiver run down his spine, and England has that smirk on his face from earlier. "Are you feeling all right, America?"
Canada moans. "That doesn't mean anything! He was visiting Québec! But that's just France-he's like that with anyone."
America groans as he relaxes a little bit. "I guess…" he relents. France propositions pretty much everyone, and the best thing to do with France is ignore him. If that doesn't work, then calling the local police department usually works pretty well. But America isn't sure that he wants to ignore England, and he sure as hell doesn't want him arrested. "What if…" he begins. He worries his lip and feels his face flame up a little bit. "What if I don't mind it?"
"Then why are you calling me?"
"Cuz I dunno what to do!" America insists. He hears his voice rise much too loud and he mentally beats himself for it. He can hear Canada whimpering out a feeble maple at the sudden change in volume, and he sighs.
"W-well…" Canada begins. America's barely listening, trying to come up with an idea. He is a hero, and heroes can solve just about anything. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks…. "Why don't you just play him at his own game?"
"Got it!" he announces, once again louder than he really needs to be, but quiets down as he continues. "I'll just play him at his own game! How does that sound, Canadia?"
"…Familiar, and it's not Canadia-!"
There's a knocking at the door, and America jumps nearly three feet into the air before standing suddenly on his feet.
"America? Are you in there?" England's voice calls out.
"Shit! Canada, I'll call you back later!" America whispers quickly into his phone's mouthpiece. Whatever Canada is saying is cut off as America hangs up, shoving the phone deep into a pocket. He stumbles not-so-graciously out of the tub, falling, but he thanks whoever's listening for not letting his head hit the edge of the sink's counter or the tile floor. This doesn't stop him from swearing, and it catches England's attention.
"America! Are you all right?! Answer me, America! America!" England's concern is punctuated by a few bangs on the door.
"C-coming…!" America stands with a swiftness he'd not known he possesses and tries to straighten his shirt and Texas out as he takes a few strides to the door. He fumbles as he unlocks it, trying to act smooth as he swings the door open.
"Hey, England, what do you nee-" America freezes. "-d."
England stands there, the bottom of his fist poised to hit the door once more. He's stopped though, but this doesn't stop America. England is posed there, arm bent back and dressed in only a pair of red, grey, and blue boxer-briefs.
Boxer-briefs. Since when does England wear boxer-fucking-briefs? If America isn't positive that England is doing this on purpose, he'd likely question if England knows what he's doing. After all, the older nation is standing there paused in mid-action, his muscles (though not terribly showy) are flexed; his chest, while not particularly built, is strong, with a few scars decorating him here and there, a few delving past the waistband of the … boxer-briefs. America's eyes fixate for a moment on a certain area and then shoot back up. His face is red, he knows that, but now there's finally some color on England's face as well.
England relaxes, bringing his arms to cross beneath his chest. "What was that yelling for?"
"Yelling?" America asks. "What yelling?" America searches his mind, trying to honestly recall any yelling he's done in the last few minutes. His call to his brother finally registers, but really, now, "I wasn't yelling."
"No, you were," England continues on. "By normal standards you were yelling. It was probably just a mere whisper by your standards."
A moment passes and their eyes lock on to each other. England has to put no effort into actually speaking-his eyes do it for him, making a promise to show America what a real yell is. (If that is, in fact, what his eyes are saying.)
America feels a shiver run down his spine, and England has that smirk on his face from earlier. "Are you feeling all right, America?"
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