[ONESHOT] Besotted (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Feb. 22nd, 2009 04:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
everythingismagicTitle: Besotted [FF.NET LINK]
Pairing: EnglandxAmerica (Yes, England tops)
Rating: R for very tame sex
Genre: Romance/Humor
Word Count: 1,916
Summary: England’s eyes were heavily lidded and his breath smelled of bitter pale ale and slightly burnt scones, which would probably be just about the most unattractive combination in the world to anyone but America.
Note: Features bonus appearance by Canada! Let me know what you think. :)
Every recent day for America had left him at the very pinnacle of exhaustion. He had a new boss, and there was far more work to be done than the young country had to handle in most years. The economy left him with a (literal) headache and even the announcement of the last of the final twelve in this season’s American Idol being tonight didn’t thrill him as much as it usually did. He sat in front of his television on his decidedly cushy couch, waiting for the show to start, a cheeseburger in one hand and a two-liter of coca-cola in the other. He was pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses and willing his headache to go away when he heard a knock on the door.
Well he would be hesitant to call it a knock. It was more like an unceremonious bang, as if someone was pounding their entire arm (or heck, maybe even leg) sloppily against his door. Someone who apparently did not realize that America had a doorbell. Pushing himself up from the couch, America walked toward the door and squinted through the peephole. “What’s up with him?” He asked himself as he made out England on the other side of the door. The other country was looking down at his feet and there was a hot blush covering his cheeks, unmissable even through the miniscule peephole.
America opened the door and greeted England with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his own head as he did so. “Geez, England, you’ve had a key to my house for something like sixty-five years and even if you forgot it, I have a doorbell.”
England looked up at the taller country, the red of his cheeks not dissipating in the least. There was a gait to the way he walked, and it was then that America realized something that should have been obvious: England was plastered.
“America, you idiot,” he finally rasped out. American Idol was starting in the background, but it barely registered to America as England slumped toward him, falling into his chest and holding tight to the fabric of the younger country’s shirt.
“I’m an idiot? No way! You’re the one who barges into my house dru---“
He was cut off by England’s hot breath momentarily tingling his cheeks then his lips pressing against his own. America’s eyes widened and his cheeks reddened as well, before he returned the kiss. He reached down and cupped England’s chin, steadying the intoxicated country’s motions.
England’s eyes were heavily lidded and his breath smelled of bitter pale ale and slightly burnt scones, which would probably be just about the most unattractive combination in the world to anyone but America. And even as America hungrily returned England’s kisses, he couldn’t say that the smell was exactly pleasant. Far from it. But it would, at the very least, have a positive association from now on.
He willed himself to pull away from England and shut the door behind them. “You’re really drunk man, so maybe we should…”
“Shut the bloody hell up,” England cursed, yanking America’s shirt again. “’S’not like we’ve never done this before so what’s it matter?” He fumbled with the buttons, clumsily undoing them and even accidentally snapping one off entirely.
America fought the urge to just give in. It felt ridiculously good, England’s body pressed against his, especially after all the stress he’d been going through. And already, he barely felt the headache that had been pounding before. Stronger… urges had taken residence in his body instead. But he could predict what would happen. They’d wake up tomorrow morning in bed together, England with a massive hangover, and he’d have to deal with an infuriated country talking about how he’d been taken advantage of and he didn’t really enjoy it and whatever else he could come up with to excuse the fact that he really, really liked, nay loved America. It amazed him that no matter how many times they’d made out, slept together, and everything in between, England still found a way to deny it. And America knew he wasn’t exactly that open about it either. It had become a bit of a game for the two of them, America had decided. He didn’t think they’d like each other as much if they weren’t at each other’s throats so often.
And speaking of throats, England was at his right now, albeit in a different manner. The older country was kissing him along his neck as he continued his quest to remove America’s shirt. America had been so sidetracked thinking about why he needed to stop England to actually stop England, and the rough kisses pressed against his collarbone and the play of England’s fingers across his bare chest made it increasingly more difficult. The heat of the other country’s breath was causing his glasses to fog up, and he would have taken them off if he’d had anywhere to put them. He felt the rapid palpitations of his heart and his increasing arousal and took a deep breath and shook his head. Oh fuck it.
He slipped off his shirt the rest of the way and grabbed England underneath his legs, cradling his top half under his free arm and holding him bridal style.
“Stop it, stop it!” England slurred and kicked his legs wildly as America carried him over to the couch. “Don’t even think I’m going to let you top just because you can pick me up when I’m…” He planted a kick squarely on America’s kneecap and the younger country winced in pain, his leg buckling under him. That combined with England’s weight caused America to promptly fall onto the couch, England tumbling after and landing on top of him.
England was straddled over him, his hands pinning America’s hands above his head as a triumphant smirk crossed his features. American Idol in the background had lessened to a dull murmur in his ears; the TV may as well have been off. He imagined his face was not as red as England’s right now, but that was merely because England’s cheeks also had the flush of intoxication. America was quite sober, which to his benefit, meant that he’d remember this better. He liked that.
“You’re interrupting American Idol,” America teased and leaned up to England’s ear.
“Doesn’t matter, just ‘nother show you stole from me anyway,” he argued, moving his hands down and fiddling with the buttons and zipper on America’s jeans. “Wish you’d stop doing that. Pop Idol was so much better…”
“No way, American Idol is way more awesome.” He trailed kisses from England’s ear down to his clavicle.
“How so?” England pushed America down again, not about to let the younger country one up him again. He finished unbuttoning the pants and scooted them down America’s legs.
“’Cuz it’s got American in the title, of course,” he retorted as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Idiot, you would say that,” England grumbled as he yanked America’s stars and stripes boxers down to his knees.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Canada sighed in exasperation and stroked Kumajiro gently on the head. This was not the first time England had run across his borders toward an unplanned visit to America’s house. And he was pretty sure that it wasn’t the first time he’d done it while totally plastered either. He had heard stories about England’s drunken rampages through Europe though and was more than happy that England had at least had the decency to be clad. Canada really, really did not want to see England streaking. The thought of it made the poutine he’d eaten a couple hours earlier lurch in his stomach. He was making his way to America’s house now, feeling it only polite to warn his brother country of England’s incoming drunken visit.
The country rang the doorbell and knocked a few times, confused when there was no answer. It could have been that America wasn’t home, but the car that Germany and Italy had given him still sat in the driveway. Shaking his head, Canada tried the door. It was unlocked.
He stepped in the house and regretted it immediately.
American Idol was playing in the background still, and Simon Cowell was ripping some unfortunate young woman a new one. But neither England nor America paid Simon any mind, and they didn’t seem to notice Canada either.
England had America’s glasses clenched in his fingers; if he’d held them any tighter he probably would have snapped them. And the two were completely unclad now, although America still wore his socks and tennis shoes. His legs stuck out beyond his shorter partner despite the fact that he was on his knees. England was leaned over America and Canada didn’t have to imagine what was going on, he could see it quite clearly.
Cheeks burning in embarrassment, he attempted to run off but his feet caught on the rug inside the door and he tripped, his face hitting the welcome mat.
America and England turned to the door and their faces flushed as bright as stoplights when they saw Canada pushing himself off the ground. “I’m s-sorry!” He stuttered and buried his face in Kumajiro’s fur, running out the door and slamming it behind him.
They could hear Canada speeding away from the house as fast as he could, and England gently pulled himself out of America. They made eye contact with each other and just stared, not quite sure what to make of what had just occurred.
“Could’ve been worse,” America finally spoke after an awkward silence. “Could’ve been France.” England stifled laughter and America grinned, letting loose a laugh himself. In moments, the two were cracking up, peals of laughter resounding throughout the house.
“Did you see the look on his face?” England spoke through tears of amusement.
“How could I not? I mean seriously, that was so awesome.” The two were now sitting next to each other, England leaning against America’s bare shoulder.
“Actually, I dare say it was quite awesome.” England grabbed America’s hand in his own and handed him back his glasses, which he put back on.
“So… exactly how drunk are you?” America queried. It was hard to miss how England had become increasingly more coherent as the night went on.
“Completely pissed,” he replied quite articulately. “Can barely stand up, you know.” He shook his head mock-dramatically. “Probably won’t remember any of this in the morning.”
America shrugged and looked at him, a devious glint in his eye. “Oh then, I guess you’re too drunk to continue where we left off? Maybe you should go to bed and sleep it off. I’ll tuck you in.”
England’s thick eyebrows furrowed and he pulled his hand away from America’s. “Bollocks. You can’t take it then? Am I too much for you tonight?”
The younger country waved his hands wildly. “No, no it’s not that at all. I mean you know that I have stamina like…”
“Then turn the hell around and let’s get going again,” England commanded. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been feeling very well, been needing some sort of stimulus for your economy.”
America turned back around at England’s challenge. “Yeah, yeah but what does that have to do--- “
England kissed him deeply, his breath hot on America’s face. He flicked off America’s foggy glasses and threw them on the coffee table. “Thought you might want a bit of a stimulus package then.”
Pairing: EnglandxAmerica (Yes, England tops)
Rating: R for very tame sex
Genre: Romance/Humor
Word Count: 1,916
Summary: England’s eyes were heavily lidded and his breath smelled of bitter pale ale and slightly burnt scones, which would probably be just about the most unattractive combination in the world to anyone but America.
Note: Features bonus appearance by Canada! Let me know what you think. :)
Every recent day for America had left him at the very pinnacle of exhaustion. He had a new boss, and there was far more work to be done than the young country had to handle in most years. The economy left him with a (literal) headache and even the announcement of the last of the final twelve in this season’s American Idol being tonight didn’t thrill him as much as it usually did. He sat in front of his television on his decidedly cushy couch, waiting for the show to start, a cheeseburger in one hand and a two-liter of coca-cola in the other. He was pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses and willing his headache to go away when he heard a knock on the door.
Well he would be hesitant to call it a knock. It was more like an unceremonious bang, as if someone was pounding their entire arm (or heck, maybe even leg) sloppily against his door. Someone who apparently did not realize that America had a doorbell. Pushing himself up from the couch, America walked toward the door and squinted through the peephole. “What’s up with him?” He asked himself as he made out England on the other side of the door. The other country was looking down at his feet and there was a hot blush covering his cheeks, unmissable even through the miniscule peephole.
America opened the door and greeted England with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his own head as he did so. “Geez, England, you’ve had a key to my house for something like sixty-five years and even if you forgot it, I have a doorbell.”
England looked up at the taller country, the red of his cheeks not dissipating in the least. There was a gait to the way he walked, and it was then that America realized something that should have been obvious: England was plastered.
“America, you idiot,” he finally rasped out. American Idol was starting in the background, but it barely registered to America as England slumped toward him, falling into his chest and holding tight to the fabric of the younger country’s shirt.
“I’m an idiot? No way! You’re the one who barges into my house dru---“
He was cut off by England’s hot breath momentarily tingling his cheeks then his lips pressing against his own. America’s eyes widened and his cheeks reddened as well, before he returned the kiss. He reached down and cupped England’s chin, steadying the intoxicated country’s motions.
England’s eyes were heavily lidded and his breath smelled of bitter pale ale and slightly burnt scones, which would probably be just about the most unattractive combination in the world to anyone but America. And even as America hungrily returned England’s kisses, he couldn’t say that the smell was exactly pleasant. Far from it. But it would, at the very least, have a positive association from now on.
He willed himself to pull away from England and shut the door behind them. “You’re really drunk man, so maybe we should…”
“Shut the bloody hell up,” England cursed, yanking America’s shirt again. “’S’not like we’ve never done this before so what’s it matter?” He fumbled with the buttons, clumsily undoing them and even accidentally snapping one off entirely.
America fought the urge to just give in. It felt ridiculously good, England’s body pressed against his, especially after all the stress he’d been going through. And already, he barely felt the headache that had been pounding before. Stronger… urges had taken residence in his body instead. But he could predict what would happen. They’d wake up tomorrow morning in bed together, England with a massive hangover, and he’d have to deal with an infuriated country talking about how he’d been taken advantage of and he didn’t really enjoy it and whatever else he could come up with to excuse the fact that he really, really liked, nay loved America. It amazed him that no matter how many times they’d made out, slept together, and everything in between, England still found a way to deny it. And America knew he wasn’t exactly that open about it either. It had become a bit of a game for the two of them, America had decided. He didn’t think they’d like each other as much if they weren’t at each other’s throats so often.
And speaking of throats, England was at his right now, albeit in a different manner. The older country was kissing him along his neck as he continued his quest to remove America’s shirt. America had been so sidetracked thinking about why he needed to stop England to actually stop England, and the rough kisses pressed against his collarbone and the play of England’s fingers across his bare chest made it increasingly more difficult. The heat of the other country’s breath was causing his glasses to fog up, and he would have taken them off if he’d had anywhere to put them. He felt the rapid palpitations of his heart and his increasing arousal and took a deep breath and shook his head. Oh fuck it.
He slipped off his shirt the rest of the way and grabbed England underneath his legs, cradling his top half under his free arm and holding him bridal style.
“Stop it, stop it!” England slurred and kicked his legs wildly as America carried him over to the couch. “Don’t even think I’m going to let you top just because you can pick me up when I’m…” He planted a kick squarely on America’s kneecap and the younger country winced in pain, his leg buckling under him. That combined with England’s weight caused America to promptly fall onto the couch, England tumbling after and landing on top of him.
England was straddled over him, his hands pinning America’s hands above his head as a triumphant smirk crossed his features. American Idol in the background had lessened to a dull murmur in his ears; the TV may as well have been off. He imagined his face was not as red as England’s right now, but that was merely because England’s cheeks also had the flush of intoxication. America was quite sober, which to his benefit, meant that he’d remember this better. He liked that.
“You’re interrupting American Idol,” America teased and leaned up to England’s ear.
“Doesn’t matter, just ‘nother show you stole from me anyway,” he argued, moving his hands down and fiddling with the buttons and zipper on America’s jeans. “Wish you’d stop doing that. Pop Idol was so much better…”
“No way, American Idol is way more awesome.” He trailed kisses from England’s ear down to his clavicle.
“How so?” England pushed America down again, not about to let the younger country one up him again. He finished unbuttoning the pants and scooted them down America’s legs.
“’Cuz it’s got American in the title, of course,” he retorted as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Idiot, you would say that,” England grumbled as he yanked America’s stars and stripes boxers down to his knees.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Canada sighed in exasperation and stroked Kumajiro gently on the head. This was not the first time England had run across his borders toward an unplanned visit to America’s house. And he was pretty sure that it wasn’t the first time he’d done it while totally plastered either. He had heard stories about England’s drunken rampages through Europe though and was more than happy that England had at least had the decency to be clad. Canada really, really did not want to see England streaking. The thought of it made the poutine he’d eaten a couple hours earlier lurch in his stomach. He was making his way to America’s house now, feeling it only polite to warn his brother country of England’s incoming drunken visit.
The country rang the doorbell and knocked a few times, confused when there was no answer. It could have been that America wasn’t home, but the car that Germany and Italy had given him still sat in the driveway. Shaking his head, Canada tried the door. It was unlocked.
He stepped in the house and regretted it immediately.
American Idol was playing in the background still, and Simon Cowell was ripping some unfortunate young woman a new one. But neither England nor America paid Simon any mind, and they didn’t seem to notice Canada either.
England had America’s glasses clenched in his fingers; if he’d held them any tighter he probably would have snapped them. And the two were completely unclad now, although America still wore his socks and tennis shoes. His legs stuck out beyond his shorter partner despite the fact that he was on his knees. England was leaned over America and Canada didn’t have to imagine what was going on, he could see it quite clearly.
Cheeks burning in embarrassment, he attempted to run off but his feet caught on the rug inside the door and he tripped, his face hitting the welcome mat.
America and England turned to the door and their faces flushed as bright as stoplights when they saw Canada pushing himself off the ground. “I’m s-sorry!” He stuttered and buried his face in Kumajiro’s fur, running out the door and slamming it behind him.
They could hear Canada speeding away from the house as fast as he could, and England gently pulled himself out of America. They made eye contact with each other and just stared, not quite sure what to make of what had just occurred.
“Could’ve been worse,” America finally spoke after an awkward silence. “Could’ve been France.” England stifled laughter and America grinned, letting loose a laugh himself. In moments, the two were cracking up, peals of laughter resounding throughout the house.
“Did you see the look on his face?” England spoke through tears of amusement.
“How could I not? I mean seriously, that was so awesome.” The two were now sitting next to each other, England leaning against America’s bare shoulder.
“Actually, I dare say it was quite awesome.” England grabbed America’s hand in his own and handed him back his glasses, which he put back on.
“So… exactly how drunk are you?” America queried. It was hard to miss how England had become increasingly more coherent as the night went on.
“Completely pissed,” he replied quite articulately. “Can barely stand up, you know.” He shook his head mock-dramatically. “Probably won’t remember any of this in the morning.”
America shrugged and looked at him, a devious glint in his eye. “Oh then, I guess you’re too drunk to continue where we left off? Maybe you should go to bed and sleep it off. I’ll tuck you in.”
England’s thick eyebrows furrowed and he pulled his hand away from America’s. “Bollocks. You can’t take it then? Am I too much for you tonight?”
The younger country waved his hands wildly. “No, no it’s not that at all. I mean you know that I have stamina like…”
“Then turn the hell around and let’s get going again,” England commanded. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been feeling very well, been needing some sort of stimulus for your economy.”
America turned back around at England’s challenge. “Yeah, yeah but what does that have to do--- “
England kissed him deeply, his breath hot on America’s face. He flicked off America’s foggy glasses and threw them on the coffee table. “Thought you might want a bit of a stimulus package then.”
