He tromped down the hallway, his boot heels muffled by the carpet, his doublet flying behind him, it's navy blue reminiscent of the sea itself. He stood with his back straight, head held high, and his familiar pirate smirk splitting low across his face. A pearl drop glistened brightly from his ear, gold bracelets inlaid with precious stones clinking delicately around his wrists. His clothes held the faint, nostalgic scent of fresh air and sea salt.
God, he felt good.
He threw open the wooden doors, letting the loud crash announce his appearance and stop conversation. With a smooth, smug smirk, he said, "Ahoy, mateys."
The room stared at him, slightly shocked by his get-up and tone. Was England usually this.... suave?
He sat down in his chair, lean grace and rugged charm. "We'd best be gettin' started, hmm?"
///
England stayed silent for most of the meeting, reclining in his chair and staring people down like king of the world. After the meeting ended, and the countries filed out with soft murmurs and quick glances in his direction, he turned his attention toward America, whom he'd been ignoring. Silence hung in the air.
Finally, America burst. "What's wrong with you today, Iggy?"
"What d'ye mean?"
America gestured at his appearance and then pointed to his throat, respectively, as his said, "Well, you're clothing for one, and you're talking all funny. Someone hit you on the head, old man?" He sat back and waited for the fireworks, pleased that he was going to get some of old England back, because this was sort of unnerving.
England's expression didn't change; arrogant smirk and cool condescension. Slowly, he stood up, removing his feet from the table and walking with precise steps toward America. "Do ye know what today is?"
America's brow furrowed and he frowned. "No."
With one hand brace on the table and another on the arm of America's chair, England hovered over him, trapping him. "Today... is International Talk Like a Pirate Day..." he murmured, drawing out the words. And then, as an afterthought: "Matey."
Removing the hand that rested on the chair arm, England started to unbutton America's shirt, nimble fingers making quick work of the details. All the while, he hummed quietly under his breath. "To the mast nail our flag it is dark as the grave... or the death which it bears as it sweeps o'er the wave..."
America was too shocked to respond and, frankly, was finding this new England unbearably sexy. Blood rushed to his face and, admittedly, other places further south. When England had finished the buttons and removed the shirt, the fingertips that brushed America's super-sensitive skin sent shivers down his spin and he couldn't help the small arch his back went into.
"So excited already, ya scallywag?" He started fiddling with a nipple almost absent-mindedly. Alfred let out a quiet moan. Suddenly, England stopped, and straightened. "Now... stand up, remove yer britches, an bend o'er th' table."
Ahoy, Matey~ (1/2)
God, he felt good.
He threw open the wooden doors, letting the loud crash announce his appearance and stop conversation. With a smooth, smug smirk, he said, "Ahoy, mateys."
The room stared at him, slightly shocked by his get-up and tone. Was England usually this.... suave?
He sat down in his chair, lean grace and rugged charm. "We'd best be gettin' started, hmm?"
///
England stayed silent for most of the meeting, reclining in his chair and staring people down like king of the world. After the meeting ended, and the countries filed out with soft murmurs and quick glances in his direction, he turned his attention toward America, whom he'd been ignoring. Silence hung in the air.
Finally, America burst. "What's wrong with you today, Iggy?"
"What d'ye mean?"
America gestured at his appearance and then pointed to his throat, respectively, as his said, "Well, you're clothing for one, and you're talking all funny. Someone hit you on the head, old man?" He sat back and waited for the fireworks, pleased that he was going to get some of old England back, because this was sort of unnerving.
England's expression didn't change; arrogant smirk and cool condescension. Slowly, he stood up, removing his feet from the table and walking with precise steps toward America. "Do ye know what today is?"
America's brow furrowed and he frowned. "No."
With one hand brace on the table and another on the arm of America's chair, England hovered over him, trapping him. "Today... is International Talk Like a Pirate Day..." he murmured, drawing out the words. And then, as an afterthought: "Matey."
Removing the hand that rested on the chair arm, England started to unbutton America's shirt, nimble fingers making quick work of the details. All the while, he hummed quietly under his breath. "To the mast nail our flag it is dark as the grave... or the death which it bears as it sweeps o'er the wave..."
America was too shocked to respond and, frankly, was finding this new England unbearably sexy. Blood rushed to his face and, admittedly, other places further south. When England had finished the buttons and removed the shirt, the fingertips that brushed America's super-sensitive skin sent shivers down his spin and he couldn't help the small arch his back went into.
"So excited already, ya scallywag?" He started fiddling with a nipple almost absent-mindedly. Alfred let out a quiet moan. Suddenly, England stopped, and straightened. "Now... stand up, remove yer britches, an bend o'er th' table."