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.
“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.
Reply
“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!~
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment