Band Tees Are Sexy. Yep.
anonymous
January 24 2009, 23:14:10 UTC
America, walking around in his boxers, hair messed up and one of England's band t-shirts. Something from his punk days, like The Sex Pistols or The Clash.
Whether this is art, or a night-before-then-morning-after fic, or even just Alfred walking around it doesn't matter! I would just love to see this.
God Save the Queen (1/2)
anonymous
February 20 2009, 07:44:51 UTC
England wakes up to the smell of coffee, and that pisses him off. Even now he can only associate the overly strong aroma with America, which is, of course, what he finds so irritating. He rolls onto his side to check the alarm clock: 10:30 a.m.
“Fuck,” groans England, pulling the covers back over his head.
“Again?” rings America’s voice, from a few steps away. The offending smells of vanilla and almond are seeping through England’s blanket. Reluctantly, England emerges and accepts the mug being handed to him, only because he needs the caffeine.
“Not that, you douche,” grumbles England, already pulling on his pants, whereas America is strolling about in red, white and blue striped boxers. “I have a meeting in two hours. This tastes disgusting. Where is my shirt?” He picks up a crumpled white dress shirt, but it’s at least a size too big. “Here, this must be yours.” It’s only when he turns to hand America the shirt that he sees what the other man is already wearing.
For a moment, England is too shocked to speak. Then he turns away and asks
( ... )
God Save the Queen (2/2)
anonymous
February 20 2009, 07:47:38 UTC
A small part of him secretly wishes that those kids had achieved something, had really changed him. But in the end that’s all they were, kids in leather jackets with spiked up hair, and England still sees kids dressed in the same clothes but the spirit is gone, or has relocated, and England can’t find it. Isn’t sure if he wants to. Or maybe it hasn’t changed, but England doesn’t see what he used to see in it. “It’s all a load of bollocks,” he says bitterly. In the end it’s all the same. In the end, England has always been exactly the same.
He can feel America’s hand on his shoulder, and wonders how long it’s been there. “Are you alright? You’re really weird this morning.” America frowns. “Hey, it’s never good to get all nostalgic. Thinking about the past too much is pointless.” He hesitates, fiddles with his coffee mug. “I shouldn’t have worn the shirt,” he says sheepishly.
America is young; as much as he has been through, England doesn’t expect him to understand. Not about this. “I’m fine,” he says. “I need to get going.” He leaves
( ... )
Re: God Save the Queen (2/2)
anonymous
February 20 2009, 11:17:59 UTC
Not OP but love it. <3 Just made me go 'awwww~' all the way through. (A-and I'm really crap at writing comments that make sense, but.) I really enjoyed it, so thank you, writer-anon!
Whether this is art, or a night-before-then-morning-after fic, or even just Alfred walking around it doesn't matter! I would just love to see this.
Reply
England wakes up to the smell of coffee, and that pisses him off. Even now he can only associate the overly strong aroma with America, which is, of course, what he finds so irritating. He rolls onto his side to check the alarm clock: 10:30 a.m.
“Fuck,” groans England, pulling the covers back over his head.
“Again?” rings America’s voice, from a few steps away. The offending smells of vanilla and almond are seeping through England’s blanket. Reluctantly, England emerges and accepts the mug being handed to him, only because he needs the caffeine.
“Not that, you douche,” grumbles England, already pulling on his pants, whereas America is strolling about in red, white and blue striped boxers. “I have a meeting in two hours. This tastes disgusting. Where is my shirt?” He picks up a crumpled white dress shirt, but it’s at least a size too big. “Here, this must be yours.” It’s only when he turns to hand America the shirt that he sees what the other man is already wearing.
For a moment, England is too shocked to speak. Then he turns away and asks ( ... )
Reply
A small part of him secretly wishes that those kids had achieved something, had really changed him. But in the end that’s all they were, kids in leather jackets with spiked up hair, and England still sees kids dressed in the same clothes but the spirit is gone, or has relocated, and England can’t find it. Isn’t sure if he wants to. Or maybe it hasn’t changed, but England doesn’t see what he used to see in it. “It’s all a load of bollocks,” he says bitterly. In the end it’s all the same. In the end, England has always been exactly the same.
He can feel America’s hand on his shoulder, and wonders how long it’s been there. “Are you alright? You’re really weird this morning.” America frowns. “Hey, it’s never good to get all nostalgic. Thinking about the past too much is pointless.” He hesitates, fiddles with his coffee mug. “I shouldn’t have worn the shirt,” he says sheepishly.
America is young; as much as he has been through, England doesn’t expect him to understand. Not about this. “I’m fine,” he says. “I need to get going.” He leaves ( ... )
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