Beauty is Relative, Babe. 2/?
Title Beauty is Relative, Babe.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M overall for disturbing content and sensitive topics.
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating M for sexy scenes.
Warnings Poorly written smut and more ungodly amounts of fluff.
America took a sharp inhale, his barely conscious mind reeling from the heady scent of fresh ink scrawled on aged parchment, Earl Grey taken with a tease of honey and slight undertones of freshly fallen rain on asphalt. Every bit of it was so very England and, as he’d found every time he was presented with the particular assault on his senses, America couldn’t get enough. Murmuring a few sleep-ladled words of affection, he burrowed his nose into the base of the exposed neck. A small, sleepy sound of content sounded before the room lapsed once more into a comfortable silence.
“Wha’ time is it?” America yawned, though his eyes cinched shut against the prospect of leaving the haven of warm duvets and downy pillows.
“I imagine early evening,” came the groggy reply. “I suppose I should have thought better than to come up and wake you for lunch; only you can make something as simple as sleeping appear to be an unimaginable bliss.” America chuckled.
“So you felt the need to join me in my bliss,” he drawled, turning the small island over until he was faced with green eyes at half-mast. “But damn, if I don’t feel cheated out of this. I’d kill for some bliss right about now.” He traced a small pattern with his tongue against the other’s throat.
“It figures that you would turn a comment with absolutely no sexual intent behind it into something v-vile!” The last bit came as a stuttered cry as the tongue made its leisurely way up a path to the delicate flesh behind the lobe of an ear. America only hummed in agreement.
“You’re too tense,” he murmured into the ear, licking the rim in what was surely a “soothing” afterthought. Fingers sifted through the unkempt blonde hair that tickled his nose.
“I can’t h-help it!” England growled, hands going up to cup the back of the younger country’s head as a pair of lips and a set of teeth began to work together to apply just the right amount of suction and pressure to his collarbone (That’s jutting out too distinctly to be healthy, a voice whispered to America.) to make him moan. “It’s hard to unwind when someone is putting a-all! his efforts into winding you up.”
America licked at the mark left on the pale skin. “Sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
England grit his teeth and was preparing to answer with a biting remark when he promptly threw his head back in a silent, open-mouthed cry. He tried to keep hold of some small bit of mental clarity to keep from clawing savagely at the nation’s scalp, but as deft fingers encircled the head of his hardening length from beneath the waistband of his boxers, he lost all sense of courtesy. He heaved a sharp breath, biting his lower lip to keep a moan inside the confines of his diaphragm (Where it should stay, thank you very much!) and canted his hips ever so slightly as the fingers worked the sensitive glands and coaxed the now dripping member to maximum hardness.
“Sadly, I think you’re right,” the small island gasped.
“You look so fucking hot right now.” The breath wafted across his lips and England’s eyes snapped open (When had I shut them? he thought in a hazily.) in startled response. America’s gaze was intense as he closed the distance between them for a kiss that was too wet, too hot, too fucking good -
England barely caught the sob before it could wrench free of his throat when the hand drew away. But then the mouth was going lower, nibbling and sucking and teasing all along its path, from one peaked nipple to the next to the hollow of his ribcage connecting to his stomach (Which isn’t supposed to be that pronounced, America’s mind supplied dimly.) until England was sure he’d faint from the sheer pleasure of it all. He choked out a gasp as the hand wrapped firmly around his dribbling prick once more, though something had joined it; something warm and throbbing almost in unison to his heart and, “Oh, God, America!”
The taller nation swallowed up the cry that followed, eagerly mapping out the insides of his lover’s mouth with reckless abandon as he moved his hand slowly, so slowly. He reveled in the sharp jerks and shuddering of the body beneath his own, quite certain that his was acting in kind, even if he couldn’t feel a thing other than that sweet promise of the precipice of ecstasy. He couldn’t hold back the guttural moans and gasps as they rocked in unison under his hand; couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice as he breathed the nation’s name repeatedly. Their mingled breath and noise sank into each other’s skin and lit every nerve alight with a wonderful fire that spread until their skin was humming with pleasure that was nearly tangible.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” moaned England. He wrapped his arms around America’s neck, panting heavily into the younger’s shoulder between open-mouthed kisses.
“God, I - I - fuck, England!”
They came within seconds of one another with a sharp cry, bodies trembling and chests heaving for air as white ecstasy spurted out between their bodies. Struggling for rational thought through the waves of aftershocks, America rolled onto his side, pressing lazy kisses up the (Far too bony!) wrist of his lover. Slowly, the labored breathing gave way into something calmer and sated, and the two found each other’s eyes through the receding madness.
“That,” America announced, “Was awesome. Definitely a keeper in the ‘welcome home’ category.”
England snorted as he faced and curled up against the younger. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
America frowned. “You sure you’re okay?” He swept a few sweaty locks from the heated brow. He didn’t miss the flinch, however slight it was.
“I’ve said before - I’m fine.” The annoyed edge in the sleepy voice might have been adorable were the situation different. “What’s bringing on this unnecessary concern?”
“Other than the fact that you’re losing weight that you really can’t afford to lose,” America ignored the indignant shout (“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”), “Nothing, I guess. But you’re looking a little pale, England. You’d tell me if something were wrong, right?” The worried tone caused the smaller nation to recoil.
“I’m perfectly fine, America.” He stooped over the side of the bed to retrieve his shirt that he had discarded haphazardly earlier in the afternoon (You’re not supposed to see the ridges of a spine like that.) before leaving the sanctum of warmth.
“Then what’s up with your bones peaking out to say hello? Doesn’t exactly seem healthy to me.” The slight stiffening of the older nation went by unnoticed.
“And what would you know about health, you twit?” England bit, sharp green eyes boring into blue as he roughly shoved his arms through the sleeves of the button-up. “Or haven’t you seen the documentary - that your own people made - of your bloody fast food industry?”
“That was a while ago!” America demurred huffily. “We’ve gone under a lot of fine-tuning since then.”
“Oh, yes, because it takes governmental analysis to realize that food should not be super-sized.” The edge of the voice was swiftly forming ice.
“Hey.” Green eyes twitched and fingers stilled mid-button at the placating tone. “Any other day I would love to get into an open debate over the quality food offered at McDonald’s. But I have three days to spend with you. I don’t want to spend a minute of it arguing.” America missed the eyes as they averted.
“I’m fine, America.” The voice was softer, if not the slightest bit faltering. “I’ll admit I’ve been a bit... ill since we’ve last seen each other. But I’m better.” America tried not to acknowledge the slight clenching in his chest at the hesitancy in the voice.
“Then maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to visit bliss earlier,” America murmured, slipping Texas up the bridge of his nose from its place on the bedside table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
“It’s alright.” The quiet reply accompanied with the pained glint in the emerald eyes set the larger nation on edge. England resumed buttoning his shirt.
“You’ll tell me if I’m pushing you too far, right?” America shuffled over to the far side of the bed and took a slightly clammy hand into his own. “I know how hard it is for you old-timers to keep up with us whippersnappers. I wouldn’t want to make it worse for you.” The jibe nudged a small smile from the small island.
“How very thoughtful of you,” he said, the sardonic twist in his words lilting them into almost a laugh. “It’s good to know you haven’t completely lost your sense of etiquette over the years.”
“What can I say? I’m going to need more than determination to get rid of those lessons you gave me.” A gentle tug prompted an embrace. “I think they have their own little space in my brain. Like an inoperable tumor.”
“You’re comparing me to a tumor?”
America chuckled. “But you’re my tumor.”
“If you’re trying to wax on poetic romanticism, I suggest you pay Hollywood a visit,” England mumbled. He smiled nonetheless.
“You love my improv skills,” America said into the other’s neck, trying, trying to overlook the ashen color of the flesh.
“They have their charm,” England agreed softly, running a hand idly down the strong back beneath his fingers. “However crude they may appear.”
America sighed. This was how things were supposed to be. Exchanging gentle jokes with each other, holding each other, being together - it was how he’d spend the rest of his life, should he ever have the choice. He’d never said such aloud before, but he liked to believe that it was there, surrounding England in an unspoken promise. England had to know that he loved him so unconditionally; had to know he would do anything for him. It was with these reassurances that America allowed himself to be led downstairs by a too-thin hand that only had the slightest tremors running through the fingers.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M overall for disturbing content and sensitive topics.
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating M for sexy scenes.
Warnings Poorly written smut and more ungodly amounts of fluff.
America took a sharp inhale, his barely conscious mind reeling from the heady scent of fresh ink scrawled on aged parchment, Earl Grey taken with a tease of honey and slight undertones of freshly fallen rain on asphalt. Every bit of it was so very England and, as he’d found every time he was presented with the particular assault on his senses, America couldn’t get enough. Murmuring a few sleep-ladled words of affection, he burrowed his nose into the base of the exposed neck. A small, sleepy sound of content sounded before the room lapsed once more into a comfortable silence.
“Wha’ time is it?” America yawned, though his eyes cinched shut against the prospect of leaving the haven of warm duvets and downy pillows.
“I imagine early evening,” came the groggy reply. “I suppose I should have thought better than to come up and wake you for lunch; only you can make something as simple as sleeping appear to be an unimaginable bliss.” America chuckled.
“So you felt the need to join me in my bliss,” he drawled, turning the small island over until he was faced with green eyes at half-mast. “But damn, if I don’t feel cheated out of this. I’d kill for some bliss right about now.” He traced a small pattern with his tongue against the other’s throat.
“It figures that you would turn a comment with absolutely no sexual intent behind it into something v-vile!” The last bit came as a stuttered cry as the tongue made its leisurely way up a path to the delicate flesh behind the lobe of an ear. America only hummed in agreement.
“You’re too tense,” he murmured into the ear, licking the rim in what was surely a “soothing” afterthought. Fingers sifted through the unkempt blonde hair that tickled his nose.
“I can’t h-help it!” England growled, hands going up to cup the back of the younger country’s head as a pair of lips and a set of teeth began to work together to apply just the right amount of suction and pressure to his collarbone (That’s jutting out too distinctly to be healthy, a voice whispered to America.) to make him moan. “It’s hard to unwind when someone is putting a-all! his efforts into winding you up.”
America licked at the mark left on the pale skin. “Sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
England grit his teeth and was preparing to answer with a biting remark when he promptly threw his head back in a silent, open-mouthed cry. He tried to keep hold of some small bit of mental clarity to keep from clawing savagely at the nation’s scalp, but as deft fingers encircled the head of his hardening length from beneath the waistband of his boxers, he lost all sense of courtesy. He heaved a sharp breath, biting his lower lip to keep a moan inside the confines of his diaphragm (Where it should stay, thank you very much!) and canted his hips ever so slightly as the fingers worked the sensitive glands and coaxed the now dripping member to maximum hardness.
“Sadly, I think you’re right,” the small island gasped.
“You look so fucking hot right now.” The breath wafted across his lips and England’s eyes snapped open (When had I shut them? he thought in a hazily.) in startled response. America’s gaze was intense as he closed the distance between them for a kiss that was too wet, too hot, too fucking good -
England barely caught the sob before it could wrench free of his throat when the hand drew away. But then the mouth was going lower, nibbling and sucking and teasing all along its path, from one peaked nipple to the next to the hollow of his ribcage connecting to his stomach (Which isn’t supposed to be that pronounced, America’s mind supplied dimly.) until England was sure he’d faint from the sheer pleasure of it all. He choked out a gasp as the hand wrapped firmly around his dribbling prick once more, though something had joined it; something warm and throbbing almost in unison to his heart and, “Oh, God, America!”
The taller nation swallowed up the cry that followed, eagerly mapping out the insides of his lover’s mouth with reckless abandon as he moved his hand slowly, so slowly. He reveled in the sharp jerks and shuddering of the body beneath his own, quite certain that his was acting in kind, even if he couldn’t feel a thing other than that sweet promise of the precipice of ecstasy. He couldn’t hold back the guttural moans and gasps as they rocked in unison under his hand; couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice as he breathed the nation’s name repeatedly. Their mingled breath and noise sank into each other’s skin and lit every nerve alight with a wonderful fire that spread until their skin was humming with pleasure that was nearly tangible.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” moaned England. He wrapped his arms around America’s neck, panting heavily into the younger’s shoulder between open-mouthed kisses.
“God, I - I - fuck, England!”
They came within seconds of one another with a sharp cry, bodies trembling and chests heaving for air as white ecstasy spurted out between their bodies. Struggling for rational thought through the waves of aftershocks, America rolled onto his side, pressing lazy kisses up the (Far too bony!) wrist of his lover. Slowly, the labored breathing gave way into something calmer and sated, and the two found each other’s eyes through the receding madness.
“That,” America announced, “Was awesome. Definitely a keeper in the ‘welcome home’ category.”
England snorted as he faced and curled up against the younger. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
America frowned. “You sure you’re okay?” He swept a few sweaty locks from the heated brow. He didn’t miss the flinch, however slight it was.
“I’ve said before - I’m fine.” The annoyed edge in the sleepy voice might have been adorable were the situation different. “What’s bringing on this unnecessary concern?”
“Other than the fact that you’re losing weight that you really can’t afford to lose,” America ignored the indignant shout (“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”), “Nothing, I guess. But you’re looking a little pale, England. You’d tell me if something were wrong, right?” The worried tone caused the smaller nation to recoil.
“I’m perfectly fine, America.” He stooped over the side of the bed to retrieve his shirt that he had discarded haphazardly earlier in the afternoon (You’re not supposed to see the ridges of a spine like that.) before leaving the sanctum of warmth.
“Then what’s up with your bones peaking out to say hello? Doesn’t exactly seem healthy to me.” The slight stiffening of the older nation went by unnoticed.
“And what would you know about health, you twit?” England bit, sharp green eyes boring into blue as he roughly shoved his arms through the sleeves of the button-up. “Or haven’t you seen the documentary - that your own people made - of your bloody fast food industry?”
“That was a while ago!” America demurred huffily. “We’ve gone under a lot of fine-tuning since then.”
“Oh, yes, because it takes governmental analysis to realize that food should not be super-sized.” The edge of the voice was swiftly forming ice.
“Hey.” Green eyes twitched and fingers stilled mid-button at the placating tone. “Any other day I would love to get into an open debate over the quality food offered at McDonald’s. But I have three days to spend with you. I don’t want to spend a minute of it arguing.” America missed the eyes as they averted.
“I’m fine, America.” The voice was softer, if not the slightest bit faltering. “I’ll admit I’ve been a bit... ill since we’ve last seen each other. But I’m better.” America tried not to acknowledge the slight clenching in his chest at the hesitancy in the voice.
“Then maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to visit bliss earlier,” America murmured, slipping Texas up the bridge of his nose from its place on the bedside table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”
“It’s alright.” The quiet reply accompanied with the pained glint in the emerald eyes set the larger nation on edge. England resumed buttoning his shirt.
“You’ll tell me if I’m pushing you too far, right?” America shuffled over to the far side of the bed and took a slightly clammy hand into his own. “I know how hard it is for you old-timers to keep up with us whippersnappers. I wouldn’t want to make it worse for you.” The jibe nudged a small smile from the small island.
“How very thoughtful of you,” he said, the sardonic twist in his words lilting them into almost a laugh. “It’s good to know you haven’t completely lost your sense of etiquette over the years.”
“What can I say? I’m going to need more than determination to get rid of those lessons you gave me.” A gentle tug prompted an embrace. “I think they have their own little space in my brain. Like an inoperable tumor.”
“You’re comparing me to a tumor?”
America chuckled. “But you’re my tumor.”
“If you’re trying to wax on poetic romanticism, I suggest you pay Hollywood a visit,” England mumbled. He smiled nonetheless.
“You love my improv skills,” America said into the other’s neck, trying, trying to overlook the ashen color of the flesh.
“They have their charm,” England agreed softly, running a hand idly down the strong back beneath his fingers. “However crude they may appear.”
America sighed. This was how things were supposed to be. Exchanging gentle jokes with each other, holding each other, being together - it was how he’d spend the rest of his life, should he ever have the choice. He’d never said such aloud before, but he liked to believe that it was there, surrounding England in an unspoken promise. England had to know that he loved him so unconditionally; had to know he would do anything for him. It was with these reassurances that America allowed himself to be led downstairs by a too-thin hand that only had the slightest tremors running through the fingers.