[APH Fic] Slowly, Slowly [US/UK]
Title: Slowly, Slowly
Genre: Romance/Fluff. Oh God, the FLUFF.
Characters: America, England
Rating: PG-13 to be safe. Some descriptive kissing.
Warnings: Super fluffy, post-WWII, maybe a bit OOC on America's part in some places, un-beta'd.
Summary: America and England are still getting used to their brand-new relationship, and are still testing their emotional and physical boundaries with each other. But everyday they get a little bit closer.
Notes: This was another of those "I-wrote-this-in-my-head-at-7:30-a.m." fics. Just got it transcribed to the computer so it'll stop turning around in my brain and I can at least TRY to get work done. Fluffy fluffy fluff.
Original post
One eye opened first, and then the other fluttered open, the eyelids blinking lazily in the dim morning light. America groaned and rolled over in his bed, glancing at the alarm clock sitting patiently on his bedside table. It was about 9:30 in the morning, and the sound of soft voices was wafting upstairs. America thrust the duvet off of himself, slid his feet into his slippers and groggily hobbled downstairs to the kitchen, where a kettle was whistling on the stove, the radio was tuned to the news, and snow drifted lazily past the beige-and-blue curtains hanging from the kitchen window.
Sitting just beyond the doorway, at the dining room table, England was reading the newspaper, a teacup perched between his fingers, lost in the article he was reading. America rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, pulling his glasses out of his breast pocket to see clearer.
“It’s coming down in droves,” England offered without turning around. “Just heard it on the radio.”
“I wonder if I’ll be able to go to the market,” America wondered, his voice tired and cranky. “I need to get more eggs. And other things...” America fumbled with the door of the icebox and yanked it open, half-concentrating on what he was looking at. England turned around, lowering the paper and staring at him.
“Come and sit over here, you git,” he said, although the remark wasn’t as biting as it normally would have been. It was early, it was cold, it was snowing, they were both tired, and 1955 was only a day’s breath away-New Year’s.
America plopped into the chair next to England, leaning on the table. England ruffled his paper and went back to reading it, the only sounds being the voices on the radio chattering about New Year’s Eve activities.
America wanted to just lean against England and fall back asleep, but he kept his distance, their legs but an inch apart in their separate chairs. America was never certain just how much he was allowed to touch his boyfriend-England had never been one for much physical contact, and their relationship was just so new-everything was awkward. America had invited England to go on holiday in D.C. with him, to spend New Year’s together, but their relationship was so frustratingly new, and they still had so many things to work past before they could fall into that comfortable, loving equilibrium of a relationship, that America half wanted the holiday to end already. They had been sleeping in separate rooms the entire time England was here, only once sharing a bed, and that was because they both fell asleep while listening to the radio a few nights earlier.
Ever since the war ended, they’d been dancing around each other’s tender feelings, confessions always on the tips of their tongues, and it took one night of drinking, swaggering, and exuberance in occupied Berlin two months ago, where all the countries were celebrating, well, something, when England had fallen into his lap, and America dropped his mug and kissed him senseless, to many cheers from the others and with one firm whack to the back of the head from Germany for taking so long. It seemed as if even the looming threats of the Cold War and the many, many reformation tasks all throughout war-torn Europe (and the problem that was currently the Korean War) couldn’t belay their happiness. But that had been two months ago, they had spent some time apart with just phone calls and letters, and they still weren’t used to the fact that, essentially, their bodies were monuments to each other.
“It’s Korea that’s making you a tad under the weather, innit?” England asked gently. America sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought.
“Korea is... something,” America offered, and England clicked his tongue and continued reading. Early morning conversations were always like this, and America was always tired lately because of Korea, and Russia, and Europe... so many problems. The 20th century had been nothing but a glorified shit show so far, with breathtaking highs and devastating lows.
America just wanted to reach out and touch England’s hair, run his fingers down his neck, caress his cheek with the utmost care. But he refrained. He had only done things like that once, and it was a very tender, private moment, lying in his arms, his head in the crook of England’s neck, England laying kisses along his brow. It had been after a fevered night of drinking, the only time they really felt comfortable physically with each other, when their inhibitions were gone and their guards were down. They had yet to sleep together (that wouldn’t come for awhile, if their actions now were any indication) but laying together, kissing deeply into the darkened night-that happened. America laid his arm on England’s shoulder and laid his head on his arm, half staring at England’s newspaper. England stiffened a bit, then relaxed, his shoulder drooping a little bit, and America felt England’s head on top of his own.
“...they’re estimating several hundred thousand people to be in Times’ Square tonight, watching the good ol’ ball drop right in the heart of the Big Apple,” a radio caster was saying (America couldn’t recognize him from the voice.) “It’s sure to be an incredible New Year’s Eve festival, wouldn’t you say?”
“1955. Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even made it this far,” the other caster said, the two laughed jovially.
“One day we’ll go see that,” America said, more awake than he had been. He felt calmer and happier with England by his side, accepting the little bit of contact that America was offering.
“That’ll be something, won’t it?” England remarked, laying the newspaper down on the table. He moved a little bit and turned his head to look at America, and a smile crept along his tired face. America sat up straighter, his arm still on his shoulder, and looked back at him, mirroring his warm smile.
It was almost like clockwork, the way they leaned in, their lips brushing gently and then making full contact. England’s hands were still clamped around his newspaper, lying mostly flat along the long, hardwood dining room table, his mind refocused someplace else.
America accepted him, and gently touched his chin with his fingertips, but England didn’t pull away. As a matter of fact, he leaned closer, his thigh brushing America’s, and turned his head, laying a hand on America’s neck. America was surprised by this sudden forwardness, but he took it and ran with it, a new found energy rushing through his body, like electricity.
A soft moan escaped from the back of England’s throat, and America took it as an invitation, using his own tongue to part his lover’s lips, using it as an excuse to explore more of him. England was hesitant at first, but then seemed to get used to it, gently rubbing a small portion of America’s neck as they went. America had to keep himself from launching onto the smaller man, simply because his desire was growing with every passing moment, but this was something to be savored. It wasn’t often that England was so affectionate.
England pulled away but they were so close their noses touched, and neither of them opened their eyes, England hovering right before his lips.
“I love you, America,” he whispered, and pulled him back towards him, his other hand getting lost in his hair, the paper entirely abandoned on the table. They kissed several more times, deep kisses, exploring each other’s mouths, lips, tastes. America pulled away and kissed the corner of his lips, his cheek, his dimples, the side of his mouth, everywhere he could reach. He pressed his nose into the side of England’s.
“Love you too,” he said back. “And when we’re here... call me Alfred.” He kissed his cheek gently. England put a finger under his chin, lifting his head, emerald eyes half-lidded, that heart-breaking smile on his face.
“Alright,” England said slowly. “Then I suppose you may call me Arthur.” They sat in a moment of awkward silence when America realized England wanted to say more. “...I know I can be stodgy,” he started, and America shifted himself, their knees bumping together, laying his forehead on England’s so they were so close he could feel England’s breath on his face. “I just...”
“It’s okay,” America answered. “I understand.”
“...I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
“Me, too.” America leaned in and kissed the corner of England’s mouth, taking him by surprise. America could practically feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. “We have forever, you know. I don’t want to rush something this good. The 20th century hasn’t been very kind to either of us,” he continued, his eyes fluttering open, his azure eyes meeting England’s shining gems, “so I want to make sure the good parts are perfect.”
They sat in silence for awhile, foreheads together, eyes closed, and enjoying each other’s comforting presence. Their knees were pressed together and their hands were clasped in their laps, England gently rubbing America’s forefinger in his hand.
Some commercial jingle was playing over the radio in the kitchen. Wind rattled the windows gently, and America felt England shiver slightly. Reluctantly, America pulled away from his lover and stood up, stretching his arms over his head.
“It’s a bit drafty in here,” America muttered. He looked over at the sleeping fireplace, still filled with the remains of last night’s blaze. The sofa nearby had a blanket folded neatly on top-a down quilt he had gotten from someone. America nodded to the sofa.
“What say you and I sit under that blanket with some hot drinks?” America offered, and England smiled up at him, his cheeks pink still. America felt his own cheeks go hot and shuffled into the kitchen, wondering when he had become such a sap.
When I fell in love, I suppose, he thought to himself. How clichéd do I sound right now? Ugh.
“...Alfred?” America turned around from the sink, surprised to see England-Arthur- standing in the doorway. He was looking away from the younger man, seemingly staring at the tile underneath the garbage pail in the corner.
“...Would you mind terribly if... I stayed a few more days?” he asked tentatively. “I just looked outside and, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, but with this snow...”
“You can stay as long as you want to,” America replied. His eyes twinkled. England smiled in response and retreated to the living room, yawning as he went. America turned back to the sink and turned the radio off, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet and re-filling the kettle.
It was going to take a long time to get used to this intimacy, this unheeded emotion... but they had the rest of forever. Because America knew, standing at the counter, sifting through the box of tea he had specifically bought for England, that there would never, ever be anyone else like this in his life.
Forever could never possibly last long enough.
Good lord the fluff. In other news, who wants more snow? Because apparently, we do. LOTS of it too.
Genre: Romance/Fluff. Oh God, the FLUFF.
Characters: America, England
Rating: PG-13 to be safe. Some descriptive kissing.
Warnings: Super fluffy, post-WWII, maybe a bit OOC on America's part in some places, un-beta'd.
Summary: America and England are still getting used to their brand-new relationship, and are still testing their emotional and physical boundaries with each other. But everyday they get a little bit closer.
Notes: This was another of those "I-wrote-this-in-my-head-at-7:30-a.m." fics. Just got it transcribed to the computer so it'll stop turning around in my brain and I can at least TRY to get work done. Fluffy fluffy fluff.
Original post
One eye opened first, and then the other fluttered open, the eyelids blinking lazily in the dim morning light. America groaned and rolled over in his bed, glancing at the alarm clock sitting patiently on his bedside table. It was about 9:30 in the morning, and the sound of soft voices was wafting upstairs. America thrust the duvet off of himself, slid his feet into his slippers and groggily hobbled downstairs to the kitchen, where a kettle was whistling on the stove, the radio was tuned to the news, and snow drifted lazily past the beige-and-blue curtains hanging from the kitchen window.
Sitting just beyond the doorway, at the dining room table, England was reading the newspaper, a teacup perched between his fingers, lost in the article he was reading. America rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, pulling his glasses out of his breast pocket to see clearer.
“It’s coming down in droves,” England offered without turning around. “Just heard it on the radio.”
“I wonder if I’ll be able to go to the market,” America wondered, his voice tired and cranky. “I need to get more eggs. And other things...” America fumbled with the door of the icebox and yanked it open, half-concentrating on what he was looking at. England turned around, lowering the paper and staring at him.
“Come and sit over here, you git,” he said, although the remark wasn’t as biting as it normally would have been. It was early, it was cold, it was snowing, they were both tired, and 1955 was only a day’s breath away-New Year’s.
America plopped into the chair next to England, leaning on the table. England ruffled his paper and went back to reading it, the only sounds being the voices on the radio chattering about New Year’s Eve activities.
America wanted to just lean against England and fall back asleep, but he kept his distance, their legs but an inch apart in their separate chairs. America was never certain just how much he was allowed to touch his boyfriend-England had never been one for much physical contact, and their relationship was just so new-everything was awkward. America had invited England to go on holiday in D.C. with him, to spend New Year’s together, but their relationship was so frustratingly new, and they still had so many things to work past before they could fall into that comfortable, loving equilibrium of a relationship, that America half wanted the holiday to end already. They had been sleeping in separate rooms the entire time England was here, only once sharing a bed, and that was because they both fell asleep while listening to the radio a few nights earlier.
Ever since the war ended, they’d been dancing around each other’s tender feelings, confessions always on the tips of their tongues, and it took one night of drinking, swaggering, and exuberance in occupied Berlin two months ago, where all the countries were celebrating, well, something, when England had fallen into his lap, and America dropped his mug and kissed him senseless, to many cheers from the others and with one firm whack to the back of the head from Germany for taking so long. It seemed as if even the looming threats of the Cold War and the many, many reformation tasks all throughout war-torn Europe (and the problem that was currently the Korean War) couldn’t belay their happiness. But that had been two months ago, they had spent some time apart with just phone calls and letters, and they still weren’t used to the fact that, essentially, their bodies were monuments to each other.
“It’s Korea that’s making you a tad under the weather, innit?” England asked gently. America sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought.
“Korea is... something,” America offered, and England clicked his tongue and continued reading. Early morning conversations were always like this, and America was always tired lately because of Korea, and Russia, and Europe... so many problems. The 20th century had been nothing but a glorified shit show so far, with breathtaking highs and devastating lows.
America just wanted to reach out and touch England’s hair, run his fingers down his neck, caress his cheek with the utmost care. But he refrained. He had only done things like that once, and it was a very tender, private moment, lying in his arms, his head in the crook of England’s neck, England laying kisses along his brow. It had been after a fevered night of drinking, the only time they really felt comfortable physically with each other, when their inhibitions were gone and their guards were down. They had yet to sleep together (that wouldn’t come for awhile, if their actions now were any indication) but laying together, kissing deeply into the darkened night-that happened. America laid his arm on England’s shoulder and laid his head on his arm, half staring at England’s newspaper. England stiffened a bit, then relaxed, his shoulder drooping a little bit, and America felt England’s head on top of his own.
“...they’re estimating several hundred thousand people to be in Times’ Square tonight, watching the good ol’ ball drop right in the heart of the Big Apple,” a radio caster was saying (America couldn’t recognize him from the voice.) “It’s sure to be an incredible New Year’s Eve festival, wouldn’t you say?”
“1955. Sometimes I’m surprised we’ve even made it this far,” the other caster said, the two laughed jovially.
“One day we’ll go see that,” America said, more awake than he had been. He felt calmer and happier with England by his side, accepting the little bit of contact that America was offering.
“That’ll be something, won’t it?” England remarked, laying the newspaper down on the table. He moved a little bit and turned his head to look at America, and a smile crept along his tired face. America sat up straighter, his arm still on his shoulder, and looked back at him, mirroring his warm smile.
It was almost like clockwork, the way they leaned in, their lips brushing gently and then making full contact. England’s hands were still clamped around his newspaper, lying mostly flat along the long, hardwood dining room table, his mind refocused someplace else.
America accepted him, and gently touched his chin with his fingertips, but England didn’t pull away. As a matter of fact, he leaned closer, his thigh brushing America’s, and turned his head, laying a hand on America’s neck. America was surprised by this sudden forwardness, but he took it and ran with it, a new found energy rushing through his body, like electricity.
A soft moan escaped from the back of England’s throat, and America took it as an invitation, using his own tongue to part his lover’s lips, using it as an excuse to explore more of him. England was hesitant at first, but then seemed to get used to it, gently rubbing a small portion of America’s neck as they went. America had to keep himself from launching onto the smaller man, simply because his desire was growing with every passing moment, but this was something to be savored. It wasn’t often that England was so affectionate.
England pulled away but they were so close their noses touched, and neither of them opened their eyes, England hovering right before his lips.
“I love you, America,” he whispered, and pulled him back towards him, his other hand getting lost in his hair, the paper entirely abandoned on the table. They kissed several more times, deep kisses, exploring each other’s mouths, lips, tastes. America pulled away and kissed the corner of his lips, his cheek, his dimples, the side of his mouth, everywhere he could reach. He pressed his nose into the side of England’s.
“Love you too,” he said back. “And when we’re here... call me Alfred.” He kissed his cheek gently. England put a finger under his chin, lifting his head, emerald eyes half-lidded, that heart-breaking smile on his face.
“Alright,” England said slowly. “Then I suppose you may call me Arthur.” They sat in a moment of awkward silence when America realized England wanted to say more. “...I know I can be stodgy,” he started, and America shifted himself, their knees bumping together, laying his forehead on England’s so they were so close he could feel England’s breath on his face. “I just...”
“It’s okay,” America answered. “I understand.”
“...I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
“Me, too.” America leaned in and kissed the corner of England’s mouth, taking him by surprise. America could practically feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. “We have forever, you know. I don’t want to rush something this good. The 20th century hasn’t been very kind to either of us,” he continued, his eyes fluttering open, his azure eyes meeting England’s shining gems, “so I want to make sure the good parts are perfect.”
They sat in silence for awhile, foreheads together, eyes closed, and enjoying each other’s comforting presence. Their knees were pressed together and their hands were clasped in their laps, England gently rubbing America’s forefinger in his hand.
Some commercial jingle was playing over the radio in the kitchen. Wind rattled the windows gently, and America felt England shiver slightly. Reluctantly, America pulled away from his lover and stood up, stretching his arms over his head.
“It’s a bit drafty in here,” America muttered. He looked over at the sleeping fireplace, still filled with the remains of last night’s blaze. The sofa nearby had a blanket folded neatly on top-a down quilt he had gotten from someone. America nodded to the sofa.
“What say you and I sit under that blanket with some hot drinks?” America offered, and England smiled up at him, his cheeks pink still. America felt his own cheeks go hot and shuffled into the kitchen, wondering when he had become such a sap.
When I fell in love, I suppose, he thought to himself. How clichéd do I sound right now? Ugh.
“...Alfred?” America turned around from the sink, surprised to see England-Arthur- standing in the doorway. He was looking away from the younger man, seemingly staring at the tile underneath the garbage pail in the corner.
“...Would you mind terribly if... I stayed a few more days?” he asked tentatively. “I just looked outside and, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, but with this snow...”
“You can stay as long as you want to,” America replied. His eyes twinkled. England smiled in response and retreated to the living room, yawning as he went. America turned back to the sink and turned the radio off, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet and re-filling the kettle.
It was going to take a long time to get used to this intimacy, this unheeded emotion... but they had the rest of forever. Because America knew, standing at the counter, sifting through the box of tea he had specifically bought for England, that there would never, ever be anyone else like this in his life.
Forever could never possibly last long enough.
Good lord the fluff. In other news, who wants more snow? Because apparently, we do. LOTS of it too.