…I honestly have no idea what I’m doing with this, so, uh, just hang on for the ride and I hope you enjoy? :D also fail title is fail ___
She’s usually the first to wake up in the morning, so it’s no surprise that the first thing she sees when her eyes flutter open is America, fast asleep, snoring a little and drooling on his pillow.
England wrinkles her nose a little in disgust. There’s nothing cute about that. Nothing at all. There’s nothing cute about the way his hair frizzes every which way, or in his cheeks when he sleeps without his glasses, or -
America sighs and rolls over - and right on top of her. England blushes and is grateful that he wore his wifebeater and boxers to bed and she her bra and panties. It’s all that’s separating her from warm skin taut muscles smooth planes of -
England feels his lips quirk against her neck, and a blush blazes across her cheekbones.
“Y-you wanker!” she shouts, grabbing his pillow and beating him with it. America keeps the act up for a bit more before he gives in and giggles into the curve of her neck and shoulder.
“Get - the hell off of -”
He lifts his head and presses his lips to hers. They’re always so soft, and it gives him time to take the pillow from her hand and throw it into a corner of the room. He eases back, and they press brief, chaste kisses between them, and she feels his smile against that softness.
“What’re you so mad about?” he mumbles - teasing, always teasing.
She frowns and hides her face in his shoulder. “Bloody bastard,” she mutters. He chuckles in her ear, and she tries to hide the shiver in her body as he twirls one of her pigtails in his hand.
He leans back and grins down at her, and even as she glares back she feels something inside of her warm at how bright he seems. He smirks and rubs a hand along her bare hip.
“You know, when we tell the other Nations that we’re sleeping together, I don’t think this is what they have in mind,” America says with a small chuckle.
England feels the smile drain off her face. “…ah,” she says. “I…I see.”
America blinks at her. “En - England?” he asks as she slips out from underneath him, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and stands. “H-hey, Iggy!”
“I’ll let you know when the shower’s open,” she says over her shoulder. “Go ahead and make the bed.”
“Iggy, what’s your problem -”
England shuts the door on his annoyed shot and leans against it. It’s only then that she bows her head and scrapes her nails along the door, feeling queasy and nervous in the pit of her stomach.
She starts when she hears knocks from behind her. “Iggy?” America asks. He doesn’t sound annoyed anymore, but she still doesn’t want to talk to him.
“Go away, America.”
“England.” Her next retort dies in her throat at the pointed lack of nickname. “England, I…I don’t understand why you’re so angry all the time, but…heroes don’t pressure people into doing things they don’t want to do.”
It’s awkward - just like everything about this idiot. Her vision’s only blurry because she’s not wearing her glasses.
“Iggy?”
England fights down the cramps in her throat. “Make the bed, America. We’ll talk later.”
“…all right.” She hears him slide his palm down the door.
She sighs and pulls her pigtails out, shedding her bra and panties as she steps into the shower. She sinks into thought as she turns the taps to just the right temperature; she saturates herself in them when the shower spray hits her neck and back, closing her eyes.
For all that Alfred is an idiot, though, there are some basic things he’s improving and maturing in. Understanding that maybe pressuring others into doing what he wants with force is one of them.
And she feels frustrated and angry, because if she’d been assaulted or was a virgin, then maybe she’d have an excuse as to why she felt so afraid. But she is neither.
England sighs and soaks in the warmth. It’s a Sunday, and their bosses aren’t meeting until tomorrow; they have the whole day to themselves.
Re: Just That Good [2]
anonymous
June 6 2009, 04:51:34 UTC
She sighs and thinks of how nice lounging here in America’s house sounded. Sounded being the key word.
Maybe she’ll just lounge here a little longer in the shower. ___
She frowns when she steps out of the shower in her blue robe, toweling off her hair.
Is that… hamburger?
“He wouldn’t,” she mutters, throwing the towel on the ground and storming over to the door. “He would not.”
She makes her way down the steps, walks through the dining room and into the kitchen to find -
America flicks his spatula and sends something into the air; it lands with perfect aim on the skillet.
“Shower’s open?” America asks, smiling up at England. “Sorry, but I’m still making breakfast. And you probably used all the hot water, too, so….”
England’s not listening. She’s too busy gawking at -
Oh dear Lord, what possessed him to -
Why can’t he cook breakfast like a normal person -
“America,” she says, and marvels at how even and patient she sounds. “Why are you cooking hamburgers for breakfast?”
America blinks and grins. “Isn’t it great? I thought I’d surprise you by making breakfast, but then I don’t know how to make scones or pancakes and they’d get burnt anyway, because they’re not awesome. And hamburgers are really easy to make, and they are awesome -”
“- And they’re a lunch food!” England snaps, cutting him off. She opens her mouth to shout again, to tell him how bloody daft he can be at times -
“I…I’m sorry,” America says, and oh God, he’s giving her those eyes. “About this morning. I wanted to make up for it, but this is all I’m really good at making, besides apple pie….”
England watches him for a bit more, and her resolve melts and dissolves. She can’t stay angry at him for a reason like that.
“…Cheddar,” she says, turning away.
“Huh?”
“I want cheddar on mine.”
Silence. She doesn’t turn around, because she just knows that he’ll be wearing that shit-eating grin with slightly furrowed brows.
“You just don’t want to make your scones, do you.”
England whirls around and glares at him. “For the love of the Queen, America, shut up!” ___
They end up eating on America’s balcony. It takes a few minutes more, but he brings up a pitcher of lemonade half-filled with ice as well as her burger with cheddar cheese and his own piled high with - yes, she’s seeing that right - blue cheese and onions.
“I am not going to kiss you for a good, long while, boy,” she mutters, and Alfred just laughs and takes a bite of his burger.
She decides to dig into her own. Just for sustenance. It’s not like the meat is cooked just right, so that it’s still a little juicy to compliment the flavor of the cheddar.
They eat in silence and look over America’s little neighborhood. Couples are lounging, talking, walking on the ground below them and speaking in low, hushed voices. The morning sun isn’t oppressive in its heat yet, and it’s comfortable, just sitting here and eating.
England takes a bite and feels some of the hamburger juice dribble down the corners of her mouth. She blinks, wiping it away with her thumb and looking at it before poking her tongue out to lick it clean.
She happens to glance up at Alfred during that time. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her.
England drops her hand to her lap and wishes that this idiot had taken the time to grab some damn napkins on the way up.
“America,” she says, each syllable pointed and direct.
America blinks at her, and his eyes clear. It’s not endearing how he flushes and drops his eyes.
“I…uh. I’m sorry, Iggy, I don’t know what….”
“It’s all right,” she says, and looks out over the street again. “Though…I don’t suppose it’d kill you to buy paper napkins next time, would it?”
“Hey, I’m trying to be more eco-friendly. Stop whining.”
“Mm.”
They fall silent for a few moments more, both painfully aware of the elephant sitting right behind them on the balcony.
Re: Just That Good [2]
anonymous
June 6 2009, 05:28:35 UTC
Oh, anon. I love you. I`ve been WANTING this prompt for so long, I`ve been wanting to see it filled, and then you do and post stuff of such deliciousness.... I love the way you set it up, America and England together but not sleeping together (at least the way the other nations think, as Al put it). It`s making for a really interesting read. And the slice of life-ness of it, America making her burgers.
I also found the part where Al is staring at her licking burger juice off her thumb with cloudy eyes incredibly hot, so much so it surprised me. Oh please update soon.
Re: Just That Good [3]
anonymous
June 6 2009, 16:31:03 UTC
“I -”
“Listen -”
They stop speaking at the same time, blushing and looking away. “Y…you first,” America says, clearing his throat.
“Th-that’s quite all right, you can….”
“It wouldn’t be chivalrous to speak before a lady.”
“Since when have you ever been chivalrous?”
“I….” He stops, blinks, then laughs. “I…guess you got me there.” He rubs the back of his neck. (Because he’s such an idiot, it’s not endearing.) “Listen, England, I’m sorry for that joke. I wasn’t thinking.”
She bites her lip and looks back up at the sky. That blue is so much less intense.
“But I want you to know that I was serious. I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do, all right? I mean, I remember what it was like to be a virgin, too.”
England blinks, processes this, and slides her gaze back over to America.
“What?” he asks.
“…Are you implying that I’m a virgin?”
“You…are, right?”
England takes off her glasses and rubs her forehead before the migraine starts.
“No, America. No I’m not.”
America’s eyebrows lift. “R…really?”
“Really.” England rolls her eyes and sighs. “Honestly, America, if you actually focused on what happens beyond your own backyard, you’d know these things.”
She does not feel guilty about the ever-so-slight kicked puppy look he shoots her. “Iggy…who was it?”
“Who was what? Oh…you mean….”
England chews her lip and looks down into her lap.
“…England?” His voice sounds so quiet and shy. “Hey, what’s the matter with -”
“France,” she says, and her fingers curl into the armrests as she says her ex’s name. “France was my first.”
America doesn’t speak. England wishes the sky would just suck her up.
“He…I was a teenager when we first did it,” she says, and feels her cheeks grow warm.
“England,” America says, and her head jerks up at the undercurrent of anger in that voice. “Did that bastard - if he - I swear I’ll castrate him -”
“America, no.” England reaches over and takes his hand. “Everything was consensual. I wanted it. And France…well, you know how he is,” she says.
She watches the frown drop off his face, watches his eyes as they drop to their joined hands. She blushes and pulls it back, looking away again.
“So…you wanted it. Did…did he hurt you at all? Is that why you -”
“No, he didn’t hurt me,” she says, quick and practiced. “He always made sure of that. He just….”
Her face flushes, this time with shame.
“It was boring.”
The silence hangs heavy even in the wind.
America breaks it first. “…boring,” he says, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“I…I just don’t get what’s so great about it,” she mutters. “I mean, I just sort of lay there, and it felt weird, but….” She chuckles, drops her face into her hands. “God, there’s something wrong with me.”
“England….”
“He tried different things, he tried to make me like it, but…nothing worked. It was just…boring. Like a chore. It was part of the reason why things between us fell out, I think.”
She curls her knees in towards her chest and hides her face. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, feeling her throat tighten. “I don’t. I don’t get why I can’t like this.”
Her voice trails off into a whisper, then silence. She hears America’s chair shift, but she doesn’t look up.
“England,” he whispers, and she gasps at the feel of knuckles on the nape of her neck. She jolts up and whirls around.
“Wh-what are you trying to -”
America silences her with a kiss. She struggles against him for a moment, flounders; then she relaxes, sighing into his mouth.
He grins at her as he pulls away, nipping her lower lip. “Francis Bonnefoy isn’t Alfred F. Jones,” America murmurs. “France sounds like he was a very selfish lover.” His tongue pokes out to lick at her mouth. “Do you want me to show you what it can be like?”
England blusters and tries to pull away. “It - it won’t be any different. I mean - you’re one to talk! Look at how you behave on a regular basis!”
Re: Just That Good [4]
anonymous
June 6 2009, 17:32:31 UTC
America’s smile dims a little (but not completely, because he is America and always shines so bright). “If you really don’t want to, I won’t,” he murmurs, tracing a fingertip down her spine. “But if you give me a chance, I bet I could show you how it could be.”
Always so cocky -
“All right,” she says. Just to prove him wrong.
He pulls back and holds out his hand. “All right, then,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”
“Such a gentleman,” she mutters, slipping her own hand into his and standing. They leave their half-empty pitcher of lemonade on the table, their focus zeroing in on each other as they slide the glass door shut.
Then America gathers her into his arms and kisses her. And this is something England feels comfortable with; letting his tongue twine with hers, letting his hands cup the small of her back. She sighs and returns the kiss, her hands coming up to tangle in the cloth of his t-shirt.
“Get on the bed,” he murmurs. She looks back after a few steps to see him closing the curtains in front of the door, and then doing the same to all his room’s many windows.
Her mouth feels dry; she chews her lip as she lies back on the bed, thumbs the material and waits for him to finish.
When he closes the last set, he turns around and just stands there, grinning at her.
“What?”
“You look so good like that.”
England blinks and looks down the plane of her body; in the darkness of the room, the slivers of sunlight stand in stark contrast on her chest, across her hips. She feels herself flush and closes her eyes, hearing America chuckle like the shadows and darkness in the room. His feet scuff on the carpet as he walks over to her; the bed dips, and she feels his legs on either side of her hips.
“You okay?” he asks, his breath whispering across her lips.
“Yes, I’m - of course I’m fine,” she spits out as he settles on top of her. “Just - just get on with itmmmph.”
America kisses her to shut her up - he was the only child of her colonies who could shut up her scolding with a kiss on the cheek, and dear God in heaven, she does not need to be thinking about that right now.
He breaks their kiss and trails his lips across her cheek. “Tell me,” he purrs. “Tell me what you like…what you want….”
England sighs and rolls her eyes. “Does it matter? It’ll all be the same, anyway, so you might as -”
His hand slips under her robe to fondle a breast; she gasps and arches as he pinches her nipple, and then flicks his thumb across it.
“Did he do that to you?” America asks into the skin just below her ear. “Did he try to make you feel like this? Or did he assume he was just that good?”
“Ah….” England fists the coverlet in her hands as he undoes the knot to her robe with nimble fingers, spreads it out and away from her body to bare her for him. “A - America, don’t be s-so tactless -”
“I want to know,” he growls, and presses a wet, slow kiss to the dip beneath her throat. “Tell me, Iggy.”
“I - I refuse to play into this, America, it’s not right to - ah!”
Her entire body jolts and shivers; when the shocks stop, she blinks down at him with dazed eyes.
He grins at her, and even then, doesn’t relinquish the nipple caught between his teeth.
“A-ah, you are - I can’t believe - fine! No, no he didn’t!”
Alfred’s mouth leaves her breast, and he slides down on the bed to rest his head against her stomach, press dry, soft kisses into the flesh below her ribcage.
“Do you touch yourself?” he asks. “Do you touch yourself when you think of me, England?”
“Are you asking me if I masturbate?” she asks, and America cocks an eye at her.
“If I didn’t love you so much, that would have killed the mood.”
She kicks him in the shin. “Sh-shut up!” She glares at him for a little longer before hiding under blonde lashes. “…I do,” she murmurs, and feels her entire body blush.
America’s smile dims again as he thinks this over. “Can I watch?” he murmurs.
“…Excuse me?”
“Do you come when you touch yourself?” he asks, and gives her a sincere, open look. “If you do, I…I want to watch. You know your body best, Iggy. I need you to show me how you like it.”
Re: Just That Good [5]
anonymous
June 7 2009, 04:46:27 UTC
Part of her almost slaps him, gathers the robe around her body and stomps off. The part that is touched by his gentle eyes and soft voice defeats it.
“…Only if you take your clothes off.” She thinks, but then amends herself. “Your shirt, at least.”
America blinks at her, looks genuinely surprised for a moment. Then the whites of his teeth break through even the dusky darkness of the room.
“You got a deal,” he murmurs, leaning back and pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. England watches, shy, licks her lips with the tip of her tongue as she watches the muscles of America’s stomach tense and shift. Appalacian Mountains, indeed, she thinks, and watches him flick his t-shirt away with his hand.
He plants his hands on the bed again and shifts a leg between hers; when his fingers brush and press the inside of her thighs, she parts them and lets him settle in between.
“All right,” he murmurs, scooting back on the bed and planting his hands on his chin. “Show me.”
Her smile fades as embarrassment and nerves simmer low in her belly. She looks at the ceiling and tries to relax without success.
“Iggy?” America asks. “Iggy, are you okay -”
“You’ll laugh,” she blurts out, and doesn’t look at him.
A pause. Then fingers splay across her knee, curl in and squeeze. Her eyes flutter open to see a hint of dark, earnest eyes and no hint of a teasing smile.
She wants to believe that face.
“All right,” she mutters. “You - you have to promise.”
He grins and recedes back into the shadows, away from the sharp little cracks of light. “Don’t rush it,” he murmurs, and his voice sends skittering shivers down her skin.
“I - I know that,” she growls, and looks at the cracks in his ceiling and tries to hide how flustered she feels.
England tries to summon up crusty old memories - memories of stricter years when the Word was law, when she had only her bed and the night to satisfy her hungers. She smoothes a hand down over her stomach to cup and curl between her legs. It’s warm, stoked by the heartbeat thrumming through her pulse right now.
Fingers, she thinks, and fingers herself before sliding in, just a little, waiting for that little spark of lust deep inside her belly.
She’s not entirely surprised when it doesn’t come. Then again, she didn’t really expect anything different.
She probes deeper, fingers curling and twisting inside. She feels something shiver and rise through her, something that makes her body flutter a bit in warmth. Nothing big - but this is the closest she’s ever gotten.
“Fuck.”
The swear word jerks England into waking, and she looks down the plane of her body to where America lays. The smile has dropped off his face, and he’s watching her through half-lidded eyes with red darkening on his cheekbones. Not just watching, she realizes, but studying.
Her breath hitches and she shuts her eyes, moving her fingers a little faster. She remembers his teeth on her nipple, how it sent a streak of wet lust to thrum through her and make her hot.
She bites her lip, reaches up with her free hand, and tries to mimic that motion. It’s not his teeth, it’s not America - but it still makes her moan and shift on the bed, her hips canting up a little into her own hand.
“Yeah,” America says, so soft it’s almost a sigh. “Keep going.”
“I….” She shivers out a breath and swallows, tries again. “I - Ame -”
Her body stiffens and spasms. She lets out a soft groan as her fingers grow wet. Her climax is not intense, or particularly strong - but it’s the best she’s ever been able to do.
She’s not panting when she finally relaxes against the sheets. Her eyes flutter open to watch him.
She almost cowers at the look in his eyes.
“…th…that’s it,” she says, blushing and looking away. “…Not much of a bloody show, was it?”
She doesn’t look up at him when he crawls up her body again, but she lets him take her chin in his hand and kiss her, sensual and lush. He straddles on of her thighs; this makes her frown into the kiss as he cups the back of her knee and pulls her leg into a bend. What is he -
She makes a soft, startled sound and breaks the kiss when she feels the hard, hot thing in his pants brush against her thigh.
Re: Just That Good [5]
anonymous
June 7 2009, 05:10:45 UTC
*worships* I love this fill. It's sexy, and it's sexy in a NEW way - realistic, England's worries and little quirks and glancing America's reactions out of her eyes, with her bias, and the little things, like asking him to take off his shirt first Mmmm shirtless America and how awkward she feels masturbating in front of him (and imagining how wild America feels, in contrast to her emotions) ... oh anon, please update soon.
Recaptcha agrees: Leo buildups. It is quite a build-up~
Re: Just That Good [6]
anonymous
June 7 2009, 14:56:13 UTC
“That,” he murmurs to the corner of her mouth, “was fucking hot. …For a start, at any rate.”
England sputters and flushes in anger. “You sodding wanker, you promised me that you wouldn’t -”
“I’m not laughing,” America says, and lifts his head to look into her eyes. Her anger simmers, stubborn, for a few moments more. It snuffs out at the look in his eyes, that softness that tells her he’s being sincere. “I’m really not. I’m flattered that you’d trust me enough to show me what you like.”
They kiss again, chaste, brush of lips and mingling of breaths.
“Do you want me to show you what I learned to do?”
England blinks and wonders when his gentle smile turned back into his trademark grin - cocky, self-assured, and a little smug. “What?” she asks.
“Y’know. Are you open for some advice?” I bet I can make you come again, his eyes and body seem to say. Bet I can show you what you’ve been missing out on.
England meets that gaze head-on. “Fine. Try, if that’s what you want.” She huffs and looks away. “Not - not that it’ll be any different.”
America presses his smile to her lips. She opens her mouth and lets it in, all warmth and wetness and twisting tongues.
America was the one to break their kiss and smear it along her cheek, down the curve of her jaw. She tilted her head back and he tongued and kissed his way down her throat.
“You told me,” America says, “that your first time was when you were a teenager.” His fingertips and lips trail down her belly, slow, agonizing. “You said that France tried and tried to make you like this. I have no idea what he did. I only know that he bored you.”
America takes her wrist, and England makes a soft sound when she realizes her fingers are still buried inside of her. He takes them out and holds it up, studying her slick fingers with slightly dangerous and dark eyes that made her shudder.
“Whatever the case,” America said, “he was a self-centered, egotistical bastard.”
England forgets to breathe as America takes her pointer finger into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Maybe he just assumed that he was good enough to make you come just by fucking you,” he says, his lips moving on her fingertip. “Maybe he thought he’d prove his own title of the country of love if he could make you come that way.” He paused to suck her middle finger down, swirl his tongue around it. “Maybe he was just interested in getting off in the meantime.”
He suckled her ring finger last; she shifted and squirmed on the bed, hot with blush and lust.
“Whatever the case,” America says, “he never once thought about you. If he’d stopped to think, he’d have realized that it takes time to prepare a lady, and that there’s an easier way to do it.”
England feels her breath quicken as America shifts back again and dips his head between her legs. She jolts and cries out when he spreads her wide; she feels his breath, right there, adding to the slick wetness.
“He never showed you this.”
He moves before England has a chance to protest; his tongue flicks out, and the very tip flicks something that startles her. She cries out softly and arches her hips, seeking hot, wet, more.
America is all too happy to oblige as he swipes the flat of his tongue over that, making another soft sound escape her throat.
America is right; touching herself had gotten her blood pumping, but not by much. But this, this is different; America uses his tongue and his fingers to bring her to a slow boil, to make her whimper and clutch the coverlet.
She makes the mistake of looking down, and realizes America has been watching her. Those eyes stand out in the sliver of sun, blue and sparkling and dangerous.
He could never do this to you, could he? his eyes ask. He never took the time to bring you off like this. He never made it this good.
“Ame - America,” she whines, and her fingers thread through his soft gold hair. “Alfred,” she says, her voice quavering.
…I honestly have no idea what I’m doing with this, so, uh, just hang on for the ride and I hope you enjoy? :D also fail title is fail
___
She’s usually the first to wake up in the morning, so it’s no surprise that the first thing she sees when her eyes flutter open is America, fast asleep, snoring a little and drooling on his pillow.
England wrinkles her nose a little in disgust. There’s nothing cute about that. Nothing at all. There’s nothing cute about the way his hair frizzes every which way, or in his cheeks when he sleeps without his glasses, or -
America sighs and rolls over - and right on top of her. England blushes and is grateful that he wore his wifebeater and boxers to bed and she her bra and panties. It’s all that’s separating her from warm skin taut muscles smooth planes of -
England feels his lips quirk against her neck, and a blush blazes across her cheekbones.
“Y-you wanker!” she shouts, grabbing his pillow and beating him with it. America keeps the act up for a bit more before he gives in and giggles into the curve of her neck and shoulder.
“Get - the hell off of -”
He lifts his head and presses his lips to hers. They’re always so soft, and it gives him time to take the pillow from her hand and throw it into a corner of the room. He eases back, and they press brief, chaste kisses between them, and she feels his smile against that softness.
“What’re you so mad about?” he mumbles - teasing, always teasing.
She frowns and hides her face in his shoulder. “Bloody bastard,” she mutters. He chuckles in her ear, and she tries to hide the shiver in her body as he twirls one of her pigtails in his hand.
He leans back and grins down at her, and even as she glares back she feels something inside of her warm at how bright he seems. He smirks and rubs a hand along her bare hip.
“You know, when we tell the other Nations that we’re sleeping together, I don’t think this is what they have in mind,” America says with a small chuckle.
England feels the smile drain off her face. “…ah,” she says. “I…I see.”
America blinks at her. “En - England?” he asks as she slips out from underneath him, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and stands. “H-hey, Iggy!”
“I’ll let you know when the shower’s open,” she says over her shoulder. “Go ahead and make the bed.”
“Iggy, what’s your problem -”
England shuts the door on his annoyed shot and leans against it. It’s only then that she bows her head and scrapes her nails along the door, feeling queasy and nervous in the pit of her stomach.
She starts when she hears knocks from behind her. “Iggy?” America asks. He doesn’t sound annoyed anymore, but she still doesn’t want to talk to him.
“Go away, America.”
“England.” Her next retort dies in her throat at the pointed lack of nickname. “England, I…I don’t understand why you’re so angry all the time, but…heroes don’t pressure people into doing things they don’t want to do.”
It’s awkward - just like everything about this idiot. Her vision’s only blurry because she’s not wearing her glasses.
“Iggy?”
England fights down the cramps in her throat. “Make the bed, America. We’ll talk later.”
“…all right.” She hears him slide his palm down the door.
She sighs and pulls her pigtails out, shedding her bra and panties as she steps into the shower. She sinks into thought as she turns the taps to just the right temperature; she saturates herself in them when the shower spray hits her neck and back, closing her eyes.
For all that Alfred is an idiot, though, there are some basic things he’s improving and maturing in. Understanding that maybe pressuring others into doing what he wants with force is one of them.
And she feels frustrated and angry, because if she’d been assaulted or was a virgin, then maybe she’d have an excuse as to why she felt so afraid. But she is neither.
England sighs and soaks in the warmth. It’s a Sunday, and their bosses aren’t meeting until tomorrow; they have the whole day to themselves.
Reply
Maybe she’ll just lounge here a little longer in the shower.
___
She frowns when she steps out of the shower in her blue robe, toweling off her hair.
Is that… hamburger?
“He wouldn’t,” she mutters, throwing the towel on the ground and storming over to the door. “He would not.”
She makes her way down the steps, walks through the dining room and into the kitchen to find -
America flicks his spatula and sends something into the air; it lands with perfect aim on the skillet.
“Shower’s open?” America asks, smiling up at England. “Sorry, but I’m still making breakfast. And you probably used all the hot water, too, so….”
England’s not listening. She’s too busy gawking at -
Oh dear Lord, what possessed him to -
Why can’t he cook breakfast like a normal person -
“America,” she says, and marvels at how even and patient she sounds. “Why are you cooking hamburgers for breakfast?”
America blinks and grins. “Isn’t it great? I thought I’d surprise you by making breakfast, but then I don’t know how to make scones or pancakes and they’d get burnt anyway, because they’re not awesome. And hamburgers are really easy to make, and they are awesome -”
“- And they’re a lunch food!” England snaps, cutting him off. She opens her mouth to shout again, to tell him how bloody daft he can be at times -
“I…I’m sorry,” America says, and oh God, he’s giving her those eyes. “About this morning. I wanted to make up for it, but this is all I’m really good at making, besides apple pie….”
England watches him for a bit more, and her resolve melts and dissolves. She can’t stay angry at him for a reason like that.
“…Cheddar,” she says, turning away.
“Huh?”
“I want cheddar on mine.”
Silence. She doesn’t turn around, because she just knows that he’ll be wearing that shit-eating grin with slightly furrowed brows.
“You just don’t want to make your scones, do you.”
England whirls around and glares at him. “For the love of the Queen, America, shut up!”
___
They end up eating on America’s balcony. It takes a few minutes more, but he brings up a pitcher of lemonade half-filled with ice as well as her burger with cheddar cheese and his own piled high with - yes, she’s seeing that right - blue cheese and onions.
“I am not going to kiss you for a good, long while, boy,” she mutters, and Alfred just laughs and takes a bite of his burger.
She decides to dig into her own. Just for sustenance. It’s not like the meat is cooked just right, so that it’s still a little juicy to compliment the flavor of the cheddar.
They eat in silence and look over America’s little neighborhood. Couples are lounging, talking, walking on the ground below them and speaking in low, hushed voices. The morning sun isn’t oppressive in its heat yet, and it’s comfortable, just sitting here and eating.
England takes a bite and feels some of the hamburger juice dribble down the corners of her mouth. She blinks, wiping it away with her thumb and looking at it before poking her tongue out to lick it clean.
She happens to glance up at Alfred during that time. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her.
England drops her hand to her lap and wishes that this idiot had taken the time to grab some damn napkins on the way up.
“America,” she says, each syllable pointed and direct.
America blinks at her, and his eyes clear. It’s not endearing how he flushes and drops his eyes.
“I…uh. I’m sorry, Iggy, I don’t know what….”
“It’s all right,” she says, and looks out over the street again. “Though…I don’t suppose it’d kill you to buy paper napkins next time, would it?”
“Hey, I’m trying to be more eco-friendly. Stop whining.”
“Mm.”
They fall silent for a few moments more, both painfully aware of the elephant sitting right behind them on the balcony.
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I also found the part where Al is staring at her licking burger juice off her thumb with cloudy eyes incredibly hot, so much so it surprised me. Oh please update soon.
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“Listen -”
They stop speaking at the same time, blushing and looking away. “Y…you first,” America says, clearing his throat.
“Th-that’s quite all right, you can….”
“It wouldn’t be chivalrous to speak before a lady.”
“Since when have you ever been chivalrous?”
“I….” He stops, blinks, then laughs. “I…guess you got me there.” He rubs the back of his neck. (Because he’s such an idiot, it’s not endearing.) “Listen, England, I’m sorry for that joke. I wasn’t thinking.”
She bites her lip and looks back up at the sky. That blue is so much less intense.
“But I want you to know that I was serious. I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do, all right? I mean, I remember what it was like to be a virgin, too.”
England blinks, processes this, and slides her gaze back over to America.
“What?” he asks.
“…Are you implying that I’m a virgin?”
“You…are, right?”
England takes off her glasses and rubs her forehead before the migraine starts.
“No, America. No I’m not.”
America’s eyebrows lift. “R…really?”
“Really.” England rolls her eyes and sighs. “Honestly, America, if you actually focused on what happens beyond your own backyard, you’d know these things.”
She does not feel guilty about the ever-so-slight kicked puppy look he shoots her. “Iggy…who was it?”
“Who was what? Oh…you mean….”
England chews her lip and looks down into her lap.
“…England?” His voice sounds so quiet and shy. “Hey, what’s the matter with -”
“France,” she says, and her fingers curl into the armrests as she says her ex’s name. “France was my first.”
America doesn’t speak. England wishes the sky would just suck her up.
“He…I was a teenager when we first did it,” she says, and feels her cheeks grow warm.
“England,” America says, and her head jerks up at the undercurrent of anger in that voice. “Did that bastard - if he - I swear I’ll castrate him -”
“America, no.” England reaches over and takes his hand. “Everything was consensual. I wanted it. And France…well, you know how he is,” she says.
She watches the frown drop off his face, watches his eyes as they drop to their joined hands. She blushes and pulls it back, looking away again.
“So…you wanted it. Did…did he hurt you at all? Is that why you -”
“No, he didn’t hurt me,” she says, quick and practiced. “He always made sure of that. He just….”
Her face flushes, this time with shame.
“It was boring.”
The silence hangs heavy even in the wind.
America breaks it first. “…boring,” he says, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“I…I just don’t get what’s so great about it,” she mutters. “I mean, I just sort of lay there, and it felt weird, but….” She chuckles, drops her face into her hands. “God, there’s something wrong with me.”
“England….”
“He tried different things, he tried to make me like it, but…nothing worked. It was just…boring. Like a chore. It was part of the reason why things between us fell out, I think.”
She curls her knees in towards her chest and hides her face. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, feeling her throat tighten. “I don’t. I don’t get why I can’t like this.”
Her voice trails off into a whisper, then silence. She hears America’s chair shift, but she doesn’t look up.
“England,” he whispers, and she gasps at the feel of knuckles on the nape of her neck. She jolts up and whirls around.
“Wh-what are you trying to -”
America silences her with a kiss. She struggles against him for a moment, flounders; then she relaxes, sighing into his mouth.
He grins at her as he pulls away, nipping her lower lip. “Francis Bonnefoy isn’t Alfred F. Jones,” America murmurs. “France sounds like he was a very selfish lover.” His tongue pokes out to lick at her mouth. “Do you want me to show you what it can be like?”
England blusters and tries to pull away. “It - it won’t be any different. I mean - you’re one to talk! Look at how you behave on a regular basis!”
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Always so cocky -
“All right,” she says. Just to prove him wrong.
He pulls back and holds out his hand. “All right, then,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”
“Such a gentleman,” she mutters, slipping her own hand into his and standing. They leave their half-empty pitcher of lemonade on the table, their focus zeroing in on each other as they slide the glass door shut.
Then America gathers her into his arms and kisses her. And this is something England feels comfortable with; letting his tongue twine with hers, letting his hands cup the small of her back. She sighs and returns the kiss, her hands coming up to tangle in the cloth of his t-shirt.
“Get on the bed,” he murmurs. She looks back after a few steps to see him closing the curtains in front of the door, and then doing the same to all his room’s many windows.
Her mouth feels dry; she chews her lip as she lies back on the bed, thumbs the material and waits for him to finish.
When he closes the last set, he turns around and just stands there, grinning at her.
“What?”
“You look so good like that.”
England blinks and looks down the plane of her body; in the darkness of the room, the slivers of sunlight stand in stark contrast on her chest, across her hips. She feels herself flush and closes her eyes, hearing America chuckle like the shadows and darkness in the room. His feet scuff on the carpet as he walks over to her; the bed dips, and she feels his legs on either side of her hips.
“You okay?” he asks, his breath whispering across her lips.
“Yes, I’m - of course I’m fine,” she spits out as he settles on top of her. “Just - just get on with itmmmph.”
America kisses her to shut her up - he was the only child of her colonies who could shut up her scolding with a kiss on the cheek, and dear God in heaven, she does not need to be thinking about that right now.
He breaks their kiss and trails his lips across her cheek. “Tell me,” he purrs. “Tell me what you like…what you want….”
England sighs and rolls her eyes. “Does it matter? It’ll all be the same, anyway, so you might as -”
His hand slips under her robe to fondle a breast; she gasps and arches as he pinches her nipple, and then flicks his thumb across it.
“Did he do that to you?” America asks into the skin just below her ear. “Did he try to make you feel like this? Or did he assume he was just that good?”
“Ah….” England fists the coverlet in her hands as he undoes the knot to her robe with nimble fingers, spreads it out and away from her body to bare her for him. “A - America, don’t be s-so tactless -”
“I want to know,” he growls, and presses a wet, slow kiss to the dip beneath her throat. “Tell me, Iggy.”
“I - I refuse to play into this, America, it’s not right to - ah!”
Her entire body jolts and shivers; when the shocks stop, she blinks down at him with dazed eyes.
He grins at her, and even then, doesn’t relinquish the nipple caught between his teeth.
“A-ah, you are - I can’t believe - fine! No, no he didn’t!”
Alfred’s mouth leaves her breast, and he slides down on the bed to rest his head against her stomach, press dry, soft kisses into the flesh below her ribcage.
“Do you touch yourself?” he asks. “Do you touch yourself when you think of me, England?”
“Are you asking me if I masturbate?” she asks, and America cocks an eye at her.
“If I didn’t love you so much, that would have killed the mood.”
She kicks him in the shin. “Sh-shut up!” She glares at him for a little longer before hiding under blonde lashes. “…I do,” she murmurs, and feels her entire body blush.
America’s smile dims again as he thinks this over. “Can I watch?” he murmurs.
“…Excuse me?”
“Do you come when you touch yourself?” he asks, and gives her a sincere, open look. “If you do, I…I want to watch. You know your body best, Iggy. I need you to show me how you like it.”
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And yes, I can so totally see him standing there and admiring the image England makes in his bed. Oh author-anon, please update~
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Keep it up!!! *tries not to drool*
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Mmm. I love the route your going with this. HELL YES FAPPING.
♥♥♥
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“…Only if you take your clothes off.” She thinks, but then amends herself. “Your shirt, at least.”
America blinks at her, looks genuinely surprised for a moment. Then the whites of his teeth break through even the dusky darkness of the room.
“You got a deal,” he murmurs, leaning back and pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. England watches, shy, licks her lips with the tip of her tongue as she watches the muscles of America’s stomach tense and shift. Appalacian Mountains, indeed, she thinks, and watches him flick his t-shirt away with his hand.
He plants his hands on the bed again and shifts a leg between hers; when his fingers brush and press the inside of her thighs, she parts them and lets him settle in between.
“All right,” he murmurs, scooting back on the bed and planting his hands on his chin. “Show me.”
Her smile fades as embarrassment and nerves simmer low in her belly. She looks at the ceiling and tries to relax without success.
“Iggy?” America asks. “Iggy, are you okay -”
“You’ll laugh,” she blurts out, and doesn’t look at him.
A pause. Then fingers splay across her knee, curl in and squeeze. Her eyes flutter open to see a hint of dark, earnest eyes and no hint of a teasing smile.
She wants to believe that face.
“All right,” she mutters. “You - you have to promise.”
He grins and recedes back into the shadows, away from the sharp little cracks of light. “Don’t rush it,” he murmurs, and his voice sends skittering shivers down her skin.
“I - I know that,” she growls, and looks at the cracks in his ceiling and tries to hide how flustered she feels.
England tries to summon up crusty old memories - memories of stricter years when the Word was law, when she had only her bed and the night to satisfy her hungers. She smoothes a hand down over her stomach to cup and curl between her legs. It’s warm, stoked by the heartbeat thrumming through her pulse right now.
Fingers, she thinks, and fingers herself before sliding in, just a little, waiting for that little spark of lust deep inside her belly.
She’s not entirely surprised when it doesn’t come. Then again, she didn’t really expect anything different.
She probes deeper, fingers curling and twisting inside. She feels something shiver and rise through her, something that makes her body flutter a bit in warmth. Nothing big - but this is the closest she’s ever gotten.
“Fuck.”
The swear word jerks England into waking, and she looks down the plane of her body to where America lays. The smile has dropped off his face, and he’s watching her through half-lidded eyes with red darkening on his cheekbones. Not just watching, she realizes, but studying.
Her breath hitches and she shuts her eyes, moving her fingers a little faster. She remembers his teeth on her nipple, how it sent a streak of wet lust to thrum through her and make her hot.
She bites her lip, reaches up with her free hand, and tries to mimic that motion. It’s not his teeth, it’s not America - but it still makes her moan and shift on the bed, her hips canting up a little into her own hand.
“Yeah,” America says, so soft it’s almost a sigh. “Keep going.”
“I….” She shivers out a breath and swallows, tries again. “I - Ame -”
Her body stiffens and spasms. She lets out a soft groan as her fingers grow wet. Her climax is not intense, or particularly strong - but it’s the best she’s ever been able to do.
She’s not panting when she finally relaxes against the sheets. Her eyes flutter open to watch him.
She almost cowers at the look in his eyes.
“…th…that’s it,” she says, blushing and looking away. “…Not much of a bloody show, was it?”
She doesn’t look up at him when he crawls up her body again, but she lets him take her chin in his hand and kiss her, sensual and lush. He straddles on of her thighs; this makes her frown into the kiss as he cups the back of her knee and pulls her leg into a bend. What is he -
She makes a soft, startled sound and breaks the kiss when she feels the hard, hot thing in his pants brush against her thigh.
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Recaptcha agrees: Leo buildups. It is quite a build-up~
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Because that's what makes this so sexy, the realism. ♥
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England sputters and flushes in anger. “You sodding wanker, you promised me that you wouldn’t -”
“I’m not laughing,” America says, and lifts his head to look into her eyes. Her anger simmers, stubborn, for a few moments more. It snuffs out at the look in his eyes, that softness that tells her he’s being sincere. “I’m really not. I’m flattered that you’d trust me enough to show me what you like.”
They kiss again, chaste, brush of lips and mingling of breaths.
“Do you want me to show you what I learned to do?”
England blinks and wonders when his gentle smile turned back into his trademark grin - cocky, self-assured, and a little smug. “What?” she asks.
“Y’know. Are you open for some advice?” I bet I can make you come again, his eyes and body seem to say. Bet I can show you what you’ve been missing out on.
England meets that gaze head-on. “Fine. Try, if that’s what you want.” She huffs and looks away. “Not - not that it’ll be any different.”
America presses his smile to her lips. She opens her mouth and lets it in, all warmth and wetness and twisting tongues.
America was the one to break their kiss and smear it along her cheek, down the curve of her jaw. She tilted her head back and he tongued and kissed his way down her throat.
“You told me,” America says, “that your first time was when you were a teenager.” His fingertips and lips trail down her belly, slow, agonizing. “You said that France tried and tried to make you like this. I have no idea what he did. I only know that he bored you.”
America takes her wrist, and England makes a soft sound when she realizes her fingers are still buried inside of her. He takes them out and holds it up, studying her slick fingers with slightly dangerous and dark eyes that made her shudder.
“Whatever the case,” America said, “he was a self-centered, egotistical bastard.”
England forgets to breathe as America takes her pointer finger into his mouth and sucks it clean.
“Maybe he just assumed that he was good enough to make you come just by fucking you,” he says, his lips moving on her fingertip. “Maybe he thought he’d prove his own title of the country of love if he could make you come that way.” He paused to suck her middle finger down, swirl his tongue around it. “Maybe he was just interested in getting off in the meantime.”
He suckled her ring finger last; she shifted and squirmed on the bed, hot with blush and lust.
“Whatever the case,” America says, “he never once thought about you. If he’d stopped to think, he’d have realized that it takes time to prepare a lady, and that there’s an easier way to do it.”
England feels her breath quicken as America shifts back again and dips his head between her legs. She jolts and cries out when he spreads her wide; she feels his breath, right there, adding to the slick wetness.
“He never showed you this.”
He moves before England has a chance to protest; his tongue flicks out, and the very tip flicks something that startles her. She cries out softly and arches her hips, seeking hot, wet, more.
America is all too happy to oblige as he swipes the flat of his tongue over that, making another soft sound escape her throat.
America is right; touching herself had gotten her blood pumping, but not by much. But this, this is different; America uses his tongue and his fingers to bring her to a slow boil, to make her whimper and clutch the coverlet.
She makes the mistake of looking down, and realizes America has been watching her. Those eyes stand out in the sliver of sun, blue and sparkling and dangerous.
He could never do this to you, could he? his eyes ask. He never took the time to bring you off like this. He never made it this good.
“Ame - America,” she whines, and her fingers thread through his soft gold hair. “Alfred,” she says, her voice quavering.
“Mmm.”
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