[Hetalia] In Which England Gets An Education And Everyone But America Is Traumatized
Title: In Which England Gets An Education And Everyone But America Is Traumatized
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Warnings: Genderbend, use of country and human names
Rating: PG-13 (discussion of lady bits and England's mouth)
Pairing: England/America
Word Count: 1014
Summary: America decides to go bra shopping, and that it's England's duty to accompany her (unless he'd rather that France do so). Of course, Arthur cannot help but be flustered. Hijinks ensue.
[Originally posted here for the Hetalia Kink Meme.]
"Oh my god!" America squealed, thrusting another skimpy piece of fabric and lace into her companion’s face. "Isn't this so cute!"
If England's cheeks flushed any warmer, they might just burst into flame. He couldn't believe that he let America drag him along on this shopping trip in the first place, let alone into this store full of ladies' unmentionables. "I-It's cute, yes. Um, are you sure you wouldn't rather me wait outside until you've finished? There aren't many men in here, and I don't know that touching all of these things is exactly... proper. For a gentleman."
"Come on, Arthur, you touch my panties all the time, so I don't wanna hear you complaining now." Another garment caught her attention, drawing her to it with a happy squeak.
He sputtered. "But that's the... the laundry! It's not the same!" Oh heavens and the Queen, this girl would embarrass him into an early grave.
America didn't seem to hear him, too caught up in the shimmering silver undergarment and the tiny little scrap of fabric that masqueraded as panties. "Now this one is a little plainer than the last one, but it's got this cute little flag on it that I thought you might like. Whatcha think, Iggy?" The younger blonde flashed him one of those glowing smiles that always sent a flutter of heat through his stomach as she held the bra before her. The familiar standard of the United Kingdom splayed haphazardly over one cup in all of its red, white, and blue glory; normally he would have protested such a irreverent use of his colors, but the thought of his flag pressed so intimately against his lover's bosom... well, let's just say that his cheeks weren't fading back to their normal color anytime soon.
"If that's what you want," the older Nation coughed into his hand, eyes not quite meeting America's face. "Why don't you just pick up your size and we can be going?"
"Arthuuur," she drawled out in that petulant tone she'd perfected over many years of practice. "I can't just grab one of these off the rack. I've gotta try a few on and see what size fits best, and if it's even comfortable to begin with. You can't imagine how many times I've tried to go with my gut and ended up with the itchiest, most torturous piece of shit known to man, or had the underwire pop out to skewer my gazongas. I absolutely refuse to have something like that cupping the girls." America sighed, fingering through the rack. "Now if I can just find a couple around my size..."
No, he most certainly did not contemplate offering his hands as a substitute for any breast cupping once they returned home. Not at all. Though he did desperately wish to correct the colorful colloquialism describing certain aspects of the female anatomy, but dash it all, he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud; damn his Victorian sensibilities and all that. "I had no idea that this could be such a daunting task."
How did he ever get dragged into this? Oh, that's right: he'd initially refused, his lover had pursed her lips in that cute little pout of hers, and she'd then proceeded to off-handedly threaten suggest bringing France along instead. Not even Italy could have surrendered faster than England did in that moment; like hell he would let the grabby-handed wino get into his darling's underthings.
"You have no idea how hard it can be. When you've got boobs like mine, it's next to impossible to find anything, let alone something pretty, unless you go to these specialty stores. It's like they think only old ladies end up with thundertits!" She glared down at her most prominent mountain range, grumbling under her breath and searching farther back into the rack of brightly-colored garments. "Not fair at all."
England absolutely could not let that slide. "My dear," he hissed, eyes darting back and forth to assure himself that no one else heard his words, "I know for a fact that you excelled in your anatomy lessons, so I would greatly appreciate it if you... if you stopped calling them those dreadful names! It's just not right!"
She blinked, confused for only a moment before a cheeky smirk spread across her face. "Aww, Iggy, you mean you don't like it when I call 'em my honkers?"
"No!"
"My tatas?"
"Bloody hell-"
She pressed her hands beneath her chest, bouncing the soft mounds right in England's face. "My bazookas? Jugs? Splazoingas?"
Mouthing at the air like a fish out of water, unable or unwilling to form words, he finally sank down beneath the level of the racks with the slightest hint of a whimper.
"What about knockers?" With that America bent over to plop her ample chest right down into England's face, unsuccessfully muffling his sudden outraged sputtering and inadvertently giving any onlookers the impression that the young man had enthusiastically begun to motorboat his partner in the middle of the lingerie store. "I know you're a big fan of that one, you used to have a magazine and everything!"
After a moment a rather red-faced clerk cautiously sidled up next to the pair, unable to look either in the eye. "E-er, excuse me, but you can't do that in here... If you can't control yourselves, we're going to have to ask you to, ah, leave."
"Oh, don't worry!" Either suddenly realizing just how bad England's position looked or simply unwilling to be kicked out of the store before she'd made her purchase, the young Nation pulled away from her lover with a rather Ukraine-esque boing, completely oblivious to how close her activities had left her bosom to spilling out of her low cut shirt. "He's not doing anything kinky; he's British!"
That was more than enough. Slipping away from America's distracted grasp, the older Nation fled the store as though the Wild Hunt itself were galloping at his heels.
For once in his life, England was proud to say that Italy’s famed retreats had nothing on his.
----------------------------------------------------
Author’s notes:
Knockers & Nipples- a British vintage skin magazine.
Brits are rumored to be incredibly kinky, which makes America's comment all the more humorous (for anyone but England).
Italy’s retreats- (Episode 19) Italian tanks are rumored to advance sixty kilometers a week on a battlefield, but retreat sixty kilometers in a single day. England figured he had this beaten by a long shot.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Warnings: Genderbend, use of country and human names
Rating: PG-13 (discussion of lady bits and England's mouth)
Pairing: England/America
Word Count: 1014
Summary: America decides to go bra shopping, and that it's England's duty to accompany her (unless he'd rather that France do so). Of course, Arthur cannot help but be flustered. Hijinks ensue.
[Originally posted here for the Hetalia Kink Meme.]
"Oh my god!" America squealed, thrusting another skimpy piece of fabric and lace into her companion’s face. "Isn't this so cute!"
If England's cheeks flushed any warmer, they might just burst into flame. He couldn't believe that he let America drag him along on this shopping trip in the first place, let alone into this store full of ladies' unmentionables. "I-It's cute, yes. Um, are you sure you wouldn't rather me wait outside until you've finished? There aren't many men in here, and I don't know that touching all of these things is exactly... proper. For a gentleman."
"Come on, Arthur, you touch my panties all the time, so I don't wanna hear you complaining now." Another garment caught her attention, drawing her to it with a happy squeak.
He sputtered. "But that's the... the laundry! It's not the same!" Oh heavens and the Queen, this girl would embarrass him into an early grave.
America didn't seem to hear him, too caught up in the shimmering silver undergarment and the tiny little scrap of fabric that masqueraded as panties. "Now this one is a little plainer than the last one, but it's got this cute little flag on it that I thought you might like. Whatcha think, Iggy?" The younger blonde flashed him one of those glowing smiles that always sent a flutter of heat through his stomach as she held the bra before her. The familiar standard of the United Kingdom splayed haphazardly over one cup in all of its red, white, and blue glory; normally he would have protested such a irreverent use of his colors, but the thought of his flag pressed so intimately against his lover's bosom... well, let's just say that his cheeks weren't fading back to their normal color anytime soon.
"If that's what you want," the older Nation coughed into his hand, eyes not quite meeting America's face. "Why don't you just pick up your size and we can be going?"
"Arthuuur," she drawled out in that petulant tone she'd perfected over many years of practice. "I can't just grab one of these off the rack. I've gotta try a few on and see what size fits best, and if it's even comfortable to begin with. You can't imagine how many times I've tried to go with my gut and ended up with the itchiest, most torturous piece of shit known to man, or had the underwire pop out to skewer my gazongas. I absolutely refuse to have something like that cupping the girls." America sighed, fingering through the rack. "Now if I can just find a couple around my size..."
No, he most certainly did not contemplate offering his hands as a substitute for any breast cupping once they returned home. Not at all. Though he did desperately wish to correct the colorful colloquialism describing certain aspects of the female anatomy, but dash it all, he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud; damn his Victorian sensibilities and all that. "I had no idea that this could be such a daunting task."
How did he ever get dragged into this? Oh, that's right: he'd initially refused, his lover had pursed her lips in that cute little pout of hers, and she'd then proceeded to off-handedly threaten suggest bringing France along instead. Not even Italy could have surrendered faster than England did in that moment; like hell he would let the grabby-handed wino get into his darling's underthings.
"You have no idea how hard it can be. When you've got boobs like mine, it's next to impossible to find anything, let alone something pretty, unless you go to these specialty stores. It's like they think only old ladies end up with thundertits!" She glared down at her most prominent mountain range, grumbling under her breath and searching farther back into the rack of brightly-colored garments. "Not fair at all."
England absolutely could not let that slide. "My dear," he hissed, eyes darting back and forth to assure himself that no one else heard his words, "I know for a fact that you excelled in your anatomy lessons, so I would greatly appreciate it if you... if you stopped calling them those dreadful names! It's just not right!"
She blinked, confused for only a moment before a cheeky smirk spread across her face. "Aww, Iggy, you mean you don't like it when I call 'em my honkers?"
"No!"
"My tatas?"
"Bloody hell-"
She pressed her hands beneath her chest, bouncing the soft mounds right in England's face. "My bazookas? Jugs? Splazoingas?"
Mouthing at the air like a fish out of water, unable or unwilling to form words, he finally sank down beneath the level of the racks with the slightest hint of a whimper.
"What about knockers?" With that America bent over to plop her ample chest right down into England's face, unsuccessfully muffling his sudden outraged sputtering and inadvertently giving any onlookers the impression that the young man had enthusiastically begun to motorboat his partner in the middle of the lingerie store. "I know you're a big fan of that one, you used to have a magazine and everything!"
After a moment a rather red-faced clerk cautiously sidled up next to the pair, unable to look either in the eye. "E-er, excuse me, but you can't do that in here... If you can't control yourselves, we're going to have to ask you to, ah, leave."
"Oh, don't worry!" Either suddenly realizing just how bad England's position looked or simply unwilling to be kicked out of the store before she'd made her purchase, the young Nation pulled away from her lover with a rather Ukraine-esque boing, completely oblivious to how close her activities had left her bosom to spilling out of her low cut shirt. "He's not doing anything kinky; he's British!"
That was more than enough. Slipping away from America's distracted grasp, the older Nation fled the store as though the Wild Hunt itself were galloping at his heels.
For once in his life, England was proud to say that Italy’s famed retreats had nothing on his.
----------------------------------------------------
Author’s notes:
Knockers & Nipples- a British vintage skin magazine.
Brits are rumored to be incredibly kinky, which makes America's comment all the more humorous (for anyone but England).
Italy’s retreats- (Episode 19) Italian tanks are rumored to advance sixty kilometers a week on a battlefield, but retreat sixty kilometers in a single day. England figured he had this beaten by a long shot.