The New World (America/England, 1/5)
anonymous
April 29 2009, 23:41:29 UTC
England had barely been in the shower five minutes (nor out of the trench for more than one-hundred) before America came shamelessly barreling in, laughing like a loon, and any peace England had hoped for was unceremoniously broken.
“Wha-bu-get out!” England sputter-shrieked as he found himself wrapped in an unnaturally powerful embrace. “Get out of here, you git!”
He didn't. Of course he didn't. America wouldn't have been America if he took a bloody order once in a while. If anything, he pulled England closer, the cloth of his shirt-and England was not immediately sure if he was glad or exasperated that America had leapt into his shower still clothed-cruel against England's sore skin and that laugh reverberating against the older man's chest in a most unsettling way. “You haven't changed a bit, have you?”
Just as England was opening his mouth to spit back a retort, any burning words he might have managed to conjure up were cut off by a kiss. A sloppy, messy, breathtakingly happy kiss of celebration.
England only wished he'd been in the right state of mind to shove America even harder. As it was, the younger man was barely forced back a step before regaining himself, eyebrows slanting in confusion behind his spectacles. Spectacles flecked with droplets from the spitting shower head, his shirt and trousers becoming progressively soaked through and, well, at least he wasn't wearing his boots and that bloody coat. This way was slightly less messy, England supposed.
He was absolutely filthy, too. Arthur watched as dark rivulets of grey-brown streamed down the man's clothes, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Less than a year on the ground here, and look at the idiot! Didn't even have the decency to clean himself up before trapezing about like a madman. The first good look England had gotten of him in four years (even being side-by-side in the trenches hadn't offered a great range of opportunities for it; he'd had to settle for the briefest of contacts, the swearing over his shoulder, the morale boost that he would never admit to running through him as strongly as it did his troops), and he was an utter mess!
Hmph. Four years without seeing the likes of Alfred F. Jones. That was a damned vacation, was what that was. Not having to look at that-that face with that damnable smile, hear that stupid voice and laugh and just the thought of it was twisting his gut with, with something and, well . . .
Arthur allowed himself a two-second pause before deciding it was anger and leaving it at that.
“Get out, will you,” England growled under his breath, turning pointedly back to the stream of water and massaging his scalp perhaps and bit too viciously. “They're going to want you at that damned meeting, too, so the least you can do is look presentable. Go!”
“Hey, what's wrong with you, England?” Even after throwing all of his strength behind the effort-and fucking Hell, it was downright painful how little of it he had left-he couldn't keep those hands from snatching him about the shoulders and turning him back around, leaving him with nothing to look at but that big, stupid, grinning face. “We won the War! What's there to be upset about, huh?”
America kissed him again, the light sparks of his elation running through England like static and burying themselves in the man's chest, warming him more than the burning shower water ever could. In response, England immediately went to work conjuring up as many unpleasant thoughts as possible, and considered just how good it would feel to punch America in the face.
Re: The New World (America/England, 1/5)
anonymous
April 29 2009, 23:42:48 UTC
“But it is you,” the bastard chuckled when he pulled back, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling like he was thinking or something, and that was where the act fell apart. “You're probably just looking for something to be upset about!”
“W-why you-!”
America's clothes were completely drenched by now, clinging to him in a highly disquieting fashion. He, however, didn't seem privy to this and, thank God, was too absorbed in whatever ridiculous train of thought he was following to see the way England's traitorous eyes lingered upon them, the form beneath. “I'm kind of glad, though. That's just like you. It would've been too weird if I'd come back and you were all different.”
“Oh bloody hell, you come back?” England growled, shrugging away America's hands in a manner that was nearly too much for his poor shoulders to handle. “You didn't spend half the time fighting that I did, you wanker!”
By way of an answer, America threw back his head and laughed all over again. “There! That's the England I know!”
England was pushed back hard enough for his back to graze the tile wall when America kissed him for the third time. A callused hand gently came to rest on his cheek, turning it slightly, and he came to the brief realization that that hand had been just that callused for quite some time, before the tanks and chemicals. Something tingled deep in his gut like the smallest, warmest, most disquieting of fireworks.
America pulled back, and he came up sputtering. “S-stop that!”
England doubted he had ever seen a more idiotic grin than the one America seemed to so easily recreate time and time again, each that much more moronic than the last. One speedily found its way onto the man's face now, lopsided and horribly unrefined. The sloshing sound his clothes made as he inched forward, boxing England back against the tile (oh good God, he was nude and-and could this idiot be any more improper?!) did not improve matters.
Then there were his eyes, and even behind the fog covering the man's glasses, England could see the way they sparkled (the twisting only got worst then, burning and spreading, and damn it all, he barely had the strength to bare his teeth against it).
“So!” America started, wiping uselessly at his lenses and never once allowing that smile to wane. “When's the meeting?”
“You!” England bit his tongue, swallowed a stammer, kept his glare firmly in place as he shifted against the wall. “It's not my job to keep your dates for you! And don't get so excited!”
“But we're negotiating the end of the Great War! How can you not be excited, you old geezer?”
“Hmph! You don't know the first thing about matters like this!” This moron had never had anything to do with real post-war negotiations, had no idea how badly they could go.
“Hey, come on, don't worry about it!” America cried as he all but boxed England about the ears, slowly leaning in for another kiss, damn him! “My boss's got it all figured out! Everyone just has to listen to him and-!”
England bit the idiot, not a cell in his body regretting the way his teeth latched onto one of those perpetually flapping lips. Even when America jerked back, touched his mouth to check for blood (which England, unfortunately, hadn't quite managed tear enough skin for) and eyed him peculiarly, England made no attempt to stem the swelling of self-satisfaction in his gut. That would teach the idiot, England thought, letting a satisfied grimace of a smile spread across his face as America raised one eyebrow, stared, looked so utterly stupid and confused and soaked and warm and there after four fucking years of endless, bloody, freezing, nasty warfare and-
The New World (America/England, 3/4 [let's pretend I can both type AND count])
anonymous
April 29 2009, 23:46:14 UTC
England expended no extra effort on being nice when he kissed the man back. If anything, he made a point to be as rough as possible, curling unkind fingers in that movie-star blonde hair and yanking him forward, their lips smashing together mercilessly. Of course, Alfred couldn't seem to decipher how displeasing this whole affair was; how quickly his hands-still in their leather gloves, the idiot-fell to England's back, how he grinned in the face of the older man's irritated glowering.
“So,” America chuckled when he pulled away, guiding England back against the wall and-oh, fuck him-brushing a bit of wet hair from England's eyes. “Did you miss me?”
“No.”
Another kiss, a shifting, an odd, wet sound as something landed on the other side of the shower curtain. Then there were hot, bare fingers against England's chest, teasing along the lines of old and painfully new muscle. A hiss found its way through England's gritted teeth as America smiled, sickeningly sweet. “I missed you, too,” he said, and England was only able to express his irritation in a vicious growl when America pressed their mouths together again.
It was humiliating how hard he was. Already England had to strain to keep himself in check, gathering all the shame he could muster and, eyes clamped shut, willing himself to think about something else. How the shower water was getting in his eyes and the grout was scratching up his abused back, instead of the fingers twisting in his hair, the rough-wet-damnit-warm lips against his neck, the knee sliding mercilessly between his thighs. A few strategic brushes of khaki (with America chuckling all the while, shifting around and teasing him and fuck him, fuck him!) and his whore's head was suddenly flung back, the rest of his swearing and grinding and rutting against the smug bastard like a horny teenager. Damn it all-he latched onto America's shirt, wringing the rough cotton between twitching fingers-damn it all if he hadn't hated his body this much since Saint Bloody Augustine-!
He wasn't sure if he was thankful for or incredibly annoyed by the distracting blast of pain that shot through his ribs. Regardless, however, he felt that an indignant, agonized shout was appropriate either way. “Don't touch them, you idiot!” he howled, viciously digging his nails into America's back.
Thank God that seemed to be enough to get through to the git, jarring him to an awkward halt, once confident eyes wide and broadcasting his stupidity. “Huh?” he managed, and even with the pain, beneath the gritted teeth and the near-silent swears, England couldn't help but find that look rather satisfying.
“Watch what you're doing, you wanker,” England hissed (then winced, hearing the way his ferocity was undercut by his own gasps of, of lord, who could say what anymore). Doing everything in his power to keep his chin up, head high, he growled, “Some of us were just in a war, you know.”
It was only after a few moments of looking particularly stupid that, instead of moving his damn hands like a decent person, America merely edged back, glancing down and tilting his head like the slowest of dogs. Suddenly, as if England hadn't already been unpleasantly aware of their stinging and aching, they seemed to burn all the fiercer: the bruises down his front, the scar from the bullet still in his side, the most-likely infected gash at his stomach where some barbed wire had swung back and made a mess of him. Bloody embarrassing, filthy and still throbbing, not yet the sort of thing one showed off in a tavern after a few. Throw in the way America was looking at them now, eyes wide in his stupid face, mouth hanging open just enough to make him perfectly resemble a neanderthal, and looking so-it was just, just-damn.
The New World (America/England, 4/4)
anonymous
April 29 2009, 23:50:31 UTC
“England . . .”
“What's say,” England hissed, snatching up one of those ill-placed hands with every ounce of force left in him (he was still England, still the bloody British Empire; he would let no one think any less), and yanking it down, “you don't do something useful with-ah.”
Four years. G-goddamnit. He curled forward slowly, hand shaking as he frantically pressed America's around him and, and h-how pathetic. Four years without anywhere to put his cock and-and this was what-? “Fuck,” he whispered, twitched, clamped his eyes shut against the burning water and put his free hand to work destroying the tiling.
Thankfully, the brilliant son of a bitch America, for once in his damn life, didn't need any more instruction. Dragging England to his shoulder (the older man swearing all the while), he got to work, hand wrapped around England's cock and pulling him off with twice the confidence that his expertise should have allowed. Bloody amateur, painfully clumsy and far too fast, inconsiderate and-and bloody hell, did he even know how to handle his own dick? And the whole while with that hand on England's back, holding him close and smothering him against one broad shoulder and-and good lord, was the bastard saying his name? And as much as he wanted, England could barely move, let alone give the idiot what for, while he came out with barely a blood scratch and damn him, damn this whole fucking thing, this bloody war and fucking Alfred F. Jones-!
America was still wiping the come from his hand when England turned away-swift, only barely stumbling, and with every available ounce of his British authority-and rested his head against the wall with stark finality. “G-get going, you idiot,” England glowered, idly brushing at his stomach, stained now with everything else.
He could hear America starting to object (of course he would, the selfish prick, worried about how his own arousal still wasn't quite attended to) could sense it in the man's meaningless stuttering and feel it as he leaned forward. England was just getting ready to turn and punch the moron in the jaw when a hand fell to his shoulder, heavy on his bones and yet, some-bloody-how, light on his mind. Then, that whole overbearing mass was gone, leaving a whole lot less for the slowly chilling water to bounce off.
Then, as England turned, glaring at the idiot's back while he walked with such confidence-such stupid, naïve, and not the least bit enthralling confidence-he made a point of ignoring the streak of battlefield mud still smeared across America's back.
---
A/N: So they say that the end of WWI was when Britain started to lose the influence they once had over the world, once their colonies that fought in the war itself found themselves to be just as worthy as the Empire, if not more so. Meanwhile, WWI was what propelled America to the position of World Power. Interesting how these things work out...
Sorry this took so long, anon. I hope you enjoy, regardless!~
Re: The New World (America/England, 4/4)
anonymous
June 30 2010, 05:57:03 UTC
The characterization in this is freaking amazing, seriously, it's awesome. I love Arthur's voice you have in it and the way America is through his eyes and rawr. I love thsi fill.
Re: The New World (America/England, 4/4)
anonymous
November 21 2011, 18:45:03 UTC
Gosh, it's like you captured England at that time perfectly. Nicely done, and I like how he's rather in control of the situation while also not being in control.
“Wha-bu-get out!” England sputter-shrieked as he found himself wrapped in an unnaturally powerful embrace. “Get out of here, you git!”
He didn't. Of course he didn't. America wouldn't have been America if he took a bloody order once in a while. If anything, he pulled England closer, the cloth of his shirt-and England was not immediately sure if he was glad or exasperated that America had leapt into his shower still clothed-cruel against England's sore skin and that laugh reverberating against the older man's chest in a most unsettling way. “You haven't changed a bit, have you?”
Just as England was opening his mouth to spit back a retort, any burning words he might have managed to conjure up were cut off by a kiss. A sloppy, messy, breathtakingly happy kiss of celebration.
England only wished he'd been in the right state of mind to shove America even harder. As it was, the younger man was barely forced back a step before regaining himself, eyebrows slanting in confusion behind his spectacles. Spectacles flecked with droplets from the spitting shower head, his shirt and trousers becoming progressively soaked through and, well, at least he wasn't wearing his boots and that bloody coat. This way was slightly less messy, England supposed.
He was absolutely filthy, too. Arthur watched as dark rivulets of grey-brown streamed down the man's clothes, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Less than a year on the ground here, and look at the idiot! Didn't even have the decency to clean himself up before trapezing about like a madman. The first good look England had gotten of him in four years (even being side-by-side in the trenches hadn't offered a great range of opportunities for it; he'd had to settle for the briefest of contacts, the swearing over his shoulder, the morale boost that he would never admit to running through him as strongly as it did his troops), and he was an utter mess!
Hmph. Four years without seeing the likes of Alfred F. Jones. That was a damned vacation, was what that was. Not having to look at that-that face with that damnable smile, hear that stupid voice and laugh and just the thought of it was twisting his gut with, with something and, well . . .
Arthur allowed himself a two-second pause before deciding it was anger and leaving it at that.
“Get out, will you,” England growled under his breath, turning pointedly back to the stream of water and massaging his scalp perhaps and bit too viciously. “They're going to want you at that damned meeting, too, so the least you can do is look presentable. Go!”
“Hey, what's wrong with you, England?” Even after throwing all of his strength behind the effort-and fucking Hell, it was downright painful how little of it he had left-he couldn't keep those hands from snatching him about the shoulders and turning him back around, leaving him with nothing to look at but that big, stupid, grinning face. “We won the War! What's there to be upset about, huh?”
America kissed him again, the light sparks of his elation running through England like static and burying themselves in the man's chest, warming him more than the burning shower water ever could. In response, England immediately went to work conjuring up as many unpleasant thoughts as possible, and considered just how good it would feel to punch America in the face.
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“W-why you-!”
America's clothes were completely drenched by now, clinging to him in a highly disquieting fashion. He, however, didn't seem privy to this and, thank God, was too absorbed in whatever ridiculous train of thought he was following to see the way England's traitorous eyes lingered upon them, the form beneath. “I'm kind of glad, though. That's just like you. It would've been too weird if I'd come back and you were all different.”
“Oh bloody hell, you come back?” England growled, shrugging away America's hands in a manner that was nearly too much for his poor shoulders to handle. “You didn't spend half the time fighting that I did, you wanker!”
By way of an answer, America threw back his head and laughed all over again. “There! That's the England I know!”
England was pushed back hard enough for his back to graze the tile wall when America kissed him for the third time. A callused hand gently came to rest on his cheek, turning it slightly, and he came to the brief realization that that hand had been just that callused for quite some time, before the tanks and chemicals. Something tingled deep in his gut like the smallest, warmest, most disquieting of fireworks.
America pulled back, and he came up sputtering. “S-stop that!”
England doubted he had ever seen a more idiotic grin than the one America seemed to so easily recreate time and time again, each that much more moronic than the last. One speedily found its way onto the man's face now, lopsided and horribly unrefined. The sloshing sound his clothes made as he inched forward, boxing England back against the tile (oh good God, he was nude and-and could this idiot be any more improper?!) did not improve matters.
Then there were his eyes, and even behind the fog covering the man's glasses, England could see the way they sparkled (the twisting only got worst then, burning and spreading, and damn it all, he barely had the strength to bare his teeth against it).
“So!” America started, wiping uselessly at his lenses and never once allowing that smile to wane. “When's the meeting?”
“You!” England bit his tongue, swallowed a stammer, kept his glare firmly in place as he shifted against the wall. “It's not my job to keep your dates for you! And don't get so excited!”
“But we're negotiating the end of the Great War! How can you not be excited, you old geezer?”
“Hmph! You don't know the first thing about matters like this!” This moron had never had anything to do with real post-war negotiations, had no idea how badly they could go.
“Hey, come on, don't worry about it!” America cried as he all but boxed England about the ears, slowly leaning in for another kiss, damn him! “My boss's got it all figured out! Everyone just has to listen to him and-!”
England bit the idiot, not a cell in his body regretting the way his teeth latched onto one of those perpetually flapping lips. Even when America jerked back, touched his mouth to check for blood (which England, unfortunately, hadn't quite managed tear enough skin for) and eyed him peculiarly, England made no attempt to stem the swelling of self-satisfaction in his gut. That would teach the idiot, England thought, letting a satisfied grimace of a smile spread across his face as America raised one eyebrow, stared, looked so utterly stupid and confused and soaked and warm and there after four fucking years of endless, bloody, freezing, nasty warfare and-
Oh, bloody hell.
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“So,” America chuckled when he pulled away, guiding England back against the wall and-oh, fuck him-brushing a bit of wet hair from England's eyes. “Did you miss me?”
“No.”
Another kiss, a shifting, an odd, wet sound as something landed on the other side of the shower curtain. Then there were hot, bare fingers against England's chest, teasing along the lines of old and painfully new muscle. A hiss found its way through England's gritted teeth as America smiled, sickeningly sweet. “I missed you, too,” he said, and England was only able to express his irritation in a vicious growl when America pressed their mouths together again.
It was humiliating how hard he was. Already England had to strain to keep himself in check, gathering all the shame he could muster and, eyes clamped shut, willing himself to think about something else. How the shower water was getting in his eyes and the grout was scratching up his abused back, instead of the fingers twisting in his hair, the rough-wet-damnit-warm lips against his neck, the knee sliding mercilessly between his thighs. A few strategic brushes of khaki (with America chuckling all the while, shifting around and teasing him and fuck him, fuck him!) and his whore's head was suddenly flung back, the rest of his swearing and grinding and rutting against the smug bastard like a horny teenager. Damn it all-he latched onto America's shirt, wringing the rough cotton between twitching fingers-damn it all if he hadn't hated his body this much since Saint Bloody Augustine-!
He wasn't sure if he was thankful for or incredibly annoyed by the distracting blast of pain that shot through his ribs. Regardless, however, he felt that an indignant, agonized shout was appropriate either way. “Don't touch them, you idiot!” he howled, viciously digging his nails into America's back.
Thank God that seemed to be enough to get through to the git, jarring him to an awkward halt, once confident eyes wide and broadcasting his stupidity. “Huh?” he managed, and even with the pain, beneath the gritted teeth and the near-silent swears, England couldn't help but find that look rather satisfying.
“Watch what you're doing, you wanker,” England hissed (then winced, hearing the way his ferocity was undercut by his own gasps of, of lord, who could say what anymore). Doing everything in his power to keep his chin up, head high, he growled, “Some of us were just in a war, you know.”
It was only after a few moments of looking particularly stupid that, instead of moving his damn hands like a decent person, America merely edged back, glancing down and tilting his head like the slowest of dogs. Suddenly, as if England hadn't already been unpleasantly aware of their stinging and aching, they seemed to burn all the fiercer: the bruises down his front, the scar from the bullet still in his side, the most-likely infected gash at his stomach where some barbed wire had swung back and made a mess of him. Bloody embarrassing, filthy and still throbbing, not yet the sort of thing one showed off in a tavern after a few. Throw in the way America was looking at them now, eyes wide in his stupid face, mouth hanging open just enough to make him perfectly resemble a neanderthal, and looking so-it was just, just-damn.
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“What's say,” England hissed, snatching up one of those ill-placed hands with every ounce of force left in him (he was still England, still the bloody British Empire; he would let no one think any less), and yanking it down, “you don't do something useful with-ah.”
Four years. G-goddamnit. He curled forward slowly, hand shaking as he frantically pressed America's around him and, and h-how pathetic. Four years without anywhere to put his cock and-and this was what-? “Fuck,” he whispered, twitched, clamped his eyes shut against the burning water and put his free hand to work destroying the tiling.
Thankfully, the brilliant son of a bitch America, for once in his damn life, didn't need any more instruction. Dragging England to his shoulder (the older man swearing all the while), he got to work, hand wrapped around England's cock and pulling him off with twice the confidence that his expertise should have allowed. Bloody amateur, painfully clumsy and far too fast, inconsiderate and-and bloody hell, did he even know how to handle his own dick? And the whole while with that hand on England's back, holding him close and smothering him against one broad shoulder and-and good lord, was the bastard saying his name? And as much as he wanted, England could barely move, let alone give the idiot what for, while he came out with barely a blood scratch and damn him, damn this whole fucking thing, this bloody war and fucking Alfred F. Jones-!
America was still wiping the come from his hand when England turned away-swift, only barely stumbling, and with every available ounce of his British authority-and rested his head against the wall with stark finality. “G-get going, you idiot,” England glowered, idly brushing at his stomach, stained now with everything else.
He could hear America starting to object (of course he would, the selfish prick, worried about how his own arousal still wasn't quite attended to) could sense it in the man's meaningless stuttering and feel it as he leaned forward. England was just getting ready to turn and punch the moron in the jaw when a hand fell to his shoulder, heavy on his bones and yet, some-bloody-how, light on his mind. Then, that whole overbearing mass was gone, leaving a whole lot less for the slowly chilling water to bounce off.
Then, as England turned, glaring at the idiot's back while he walked with such confidence-such stupid, naïve, and not the least bit enthralling confidence-he made a point of ignoring the streak of battlefield mud still smeared across America's back.
---
A/N: So they say that the end of WWI was when Britain started to lose the influence they once had over the world, once their colonies that fought in the war itself found themselves to be just as worthy as the Empire, if not more so. Meanwhile, WWI was what propelled America to the position of World Power. Interesting how these things work out...
Sorry this took so long, anon. I hope you enjoy, regardless!~
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