Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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Writing on each other in bed. Bonus if one uses it as an excuse to jokingly (re)claim the other
(this is FLUFF. There's some angst to spice things up, but it's mostly FLUFF and it will give cavities, probably. Because it's FLUFF)
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Well, not ordinary, not really. His bedroom was awesome. He had flags on the wall and posters and a really cool sound system and his bed was big enough to host the Olympics, even if he usually slept by himself. He even had a fluffy rabbit ( ... )
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“If you write anything dirty, I’ll be very annoyed.”
“I know,” Alfred beamed “Don’t worry, is nothing bad.”
He bit the pen again. He had written ‘The Awesome America Will Protect You’, but now he had more space and he was a little out of ideas. And he had to be careful, because Arthur would be reading it later. He smiled. He pressed the pen against one of Arthur’s buttocks, but the Englishman screamed.
“Not there! Write on my back, you- you pervert!”
“Just two words, I swear! And then you can write whatever you want in any place you want.”
Arthur paused:
“Whatever I want?”
“Any place you want.”
Arthur gave in. So Alfred scribbled as fast as he could, before Arthur could change his mind, “America’s Property”. “Ha,” he said, unable to hold back “I just claimed your vital regions ( ... )
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“Oh no, it’s never just a poem! Write something else, I hated this one!”
“Stop screaming at me! Like I said, it’s only a poem, and a very beautiful one, by the way!”
“No, I want another.”
“All right.” He took the pen again, crossed “Which one?”
“I dunno. A nice one.”
Arthur nodded.
He wrote on his chest again, and this time Alfred had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t move. The soft pressure of the pen, the way Arthur’s hand brushed over his skin, it was sheer agony and it was totally unfair, this. There was nothing less heroic than being ticklish. What a stupid weakness to have.
“There,” Arthur said. “Never seek to tell thy Love/ Love that never told can be/ For the gentle wind doth move/ Silently, invisibly.”
Alfred considered it carefully, a little suspicious:
“I don’t know. What the rest of it says?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s the part I picked.”
Alfred whimpered.
“Arthur...”
“Well, what did you write? You never told me ( ... )
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“Don’t be daft,” he said “I don’t need you to convince me of anything.”
“Right,” Alfred smiled “Then you can start thinking about your next poem, and I want a happy one this time.”
“You just don’t understand poetry.”
Alfred pulled Arthur’s leg over his lap and started writing on his thigh, hiding a smile when Arthur started to squirm. So, then. Love poems. There was only one choice he could make, really, and he was reading aloud when as he wrote it:
“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints…”
“That’s practically a cliché,” Arthur said, but Alfred could feel his smile behind the grumpiness, so he kept going “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!” he pressed a little on the exclamation point “and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. See, that’s a good one ( ... )
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And poor Arthur! My god that man needs a hug. (Also, the idea of overprotective Alfred leaving a mark is funny.)
I hope you write more stories in this vein because I really needed the smiles. :D
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LOL at Alfred's version of being kind and considerate
and LOL at his claiming of England's vital regions. Really England. YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT WOULD BE SOMETHING LIKE THAT. What else did you think he'd write on your arse?
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I'm so glad someone requested this.
I was smiling the whole time.
Lovely.
Just lovely. :)
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And I loved this line too, as a person who can bear a knife more easily than a tickling touch:
"There was nothing less heroic than being ticklish."
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(reCAPTCHA: Toronto clannish. Canada wants in on the action? xD)
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Poems:
Sonnets CXVI, CXXXII, from Shakespeare, Advice to Husbands by Ogden Nash, Love’s Secret by William Blake, The More Loving One by Auden and, of course, How Do I Love Thee, by E. B. Browning. The title comes from this one.
(BTW, someone should totally write about these two and Shakespeare's CXX. Just- check it out, will you. It's so THEM.)
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England was muttering something again as he read a book ( ... )
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