Here you go, OP… Sorry if it’s not exactly what you wanted… D: It's rather shameless PWP. *dies* _______
2 April 1917. Washington, D.C.
It is difficult not to give in to the overwhelming sense of shame and disgust bubbling in his chest as he feels America’s gloved hands glide through his hair, long fingers carefully tracing the soft contours of his face, brushing gently over his downturned lips. The hands that explore him as unrelenting as their owner, the touch deceptively gentle. America’s blue eyes are clouded with a flurry of emotions: rage, betrayal, shock…lust. England steels himself against the wandering fingers that curl around the back of his neck and thread through his hair. “Do you believe me, now?” he grits out, his eyes sliding shut in an attempt to hide from the hungry eyes of America. America makes no effort to reply and instead lazily drags his fingers down Arthur’s chest to the buttons of his jacket, leisurely undoing them one by one. “America,” England says sharply, willing his voice to stay strong and even, “Understand that Germany is not thinking in your best interests, as revealed by the Zimmerma—aann…” His voice hitches as America places a feathery kiss on his neck, just beneath his ear. England flinches away from the unexpected touch, and America laughs breathily in his ear when the grass-coloured eyes snap open in surprise.
“Still talking politics, Arthur,” he murmurs, voice husky. “So persistent…” Lips are suddenly at his neck again, placing light kisses on shivering skin. England shudders and wills himself to be silent. To suppress the gasp at the tongue outlining the shell of his ear. To maintain the stoic persona he had worked so painstaking to build. To not give in to the hot mouth smirking against his neck.
“B-be quiet,” England hisses, inwardly cursing the stammer in his voice. “The Zimmermann Telegram,” he begins again, glaring furiously at the ceiling—at anything but America. “I alerted you to it in February, and you denied its legitimacy.” The lips on his skin still, and England feels a small surge of relief. “Now I have given you substantial proof of Germany’s treachery and confirmed our suspicions.” He swallows and continues, “Maybe now you’ll see that this war is something you cannot possibly avoid. It is in your best interests to—mmf!”
America messily crushes their lips together and a tongue forcefully pushes into England’s mouth. Recoiling in horror, England’s hands fly to America’s broad chest, fingers digging into the leather jacket as he feebly tries to push the other man off him. America chuckles into England’s mouth and slips his tongue alongside Arthur’s, sending electricity shooting up the slighter man’s spine. Repulsed, England savagely bites down on the invading tongue, sending America reeling backward, a hand clapped over his mouth, eyes wide and livid.
England glowers up at America, forcefully shoving the seed of apprehension in the farthest corner of his mind. “You,” England growls, clenching his shaking hands into fists, “are joining us. This ‘neutrality’ of yours is complete bollocks! We are dying out there, and there is nothing for you to gain by sitting by idly and waiting for more attacks like Lusitania and the possibility of making an enemy of Mexico!”
Shocked, America stands, hand still at his mouth, expression unreadable. Then his face stones over and he carefully wipes a trail of sickly pink saliva from his mouth. His eyes lower to stare down at the pink drops on his glove. His face darkens. Slowly, slowly, he raises his gaze to England’s pale and defiant face. His mouth thins into a grave line and he shakes his head, blue eyes hard. “England.”
Instinctually, fear wells up inside Arthur and he unconsciously shrinks into himself, green eyes watching the larger man cautiously. He licks his lips. “Ameri—”
And suddenly his back is slammed into a wall and America is staring down at him, his body pinning England, leaving him immobile. “England,” America says again, his voice barely a whisper, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
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Part 1/5
(Anonymous) 2009-03-06 06:40 am (UTC)(link)_______
2 April 1917. Washington, D.C.
It is difficult not to give in to the overwhelming sense of shame and disgust bubbling in his chest as he feels America’s gloved hands glide through his hair, long fingers carefully tracing the soft contours of his face, brushing gently over his downturned lips. The hands that explore him as unrelenting as their owner, the touch deceptively gentle. America’s blue eyes are clouded with a flurry of emotions: rage, betrayal, shock…lust. England steels himself against the wandering fingers that curl around the back of his neck and thread through his hair. “Do you believe me, now?” he grits out, his eyes sliding shut in an attempt to hide from the hungry eyes of America. America makes no effort to reply and instead lazily drags his fingers down Arthur’s chest to the buttons of his jacket, leisurely undoing them one by one. “America,” England says sharply, willing his voice to stay strong and even, “Understand that Germany is not thinking in your best interests, as revealed by the Zimmerma—aann…” His voice hitches as America places a feathery kiss on his neck, just beneath his ear. England flinches away from the unexpected touch, and America laughs breathily in his ear when the grass-coloured eyes snap open in surprise.
“Still talking politics, Arthur,” he murmurs, voice husky. “So persistent…” Lips are suddenly at his neck again, placing light kisses on shivering skin. England shudders and wills himself to be silent. To suppress the gasp at the tongue outlining the shell of his ear. To maintain the stoic persona he had worked so painstaking to build. To not give in to the hot mouth smirking against his neck.
“B-be quiet,” England hisses, inwardly cursing the stammer in his voice. “The Zimmermann Telegram,” he begins again, glaring furiously at the ceiling—at anything but America. “I alerted you to it in February, and you denied its legitimacy.” The lips on his skin still, and England feels a small surge of relief. “Now I have given you substantial proof of Germany’s treachery and confirmed our suspicions.” He swallows and continues, “Maybe now you’ll see that this war is something you cannot possibly avoid. It is in your best interests to—mmf!”
America messily crushes their lips together and a tongue forcefully pushes into England’s mouth. Recoiling in horror, England’s hands fly to America’s broad chest, fingers digging into the leather jacket as he feebly tries to push the other man off him. America chuckles into England’s mouth and slips his tongue alongside Arthur’s, sending electricity shooting up the slighter man’s spine. Repulsed, England savagely bites down on the invading tongue, sending America reeling backward, a hand clapped over his mouth, eyes wide and livid.
England glowers up at America, forcefully shoving the seed of apprehension in the farthest corner of his mind. “You,” England growls, clenching his shaking hands into fists, “are joining us. This ‘neutrality’ of yours is complete bollocks! We are dying out there, and there is nothing for you to gain by sitting by idly and waiting for more attacks like Lusitania and the possibility of making an enemy of Mexico!”
Shocked, America stands, hand still at his mouth, expression unreadable. Then his face stones over and he carefully wipes a trail of sickly pink saliva from his mouth. His eyes lower to stare down at the pink drops on his glove. His face darkens. Slowly, slowly, he raises his gaze to England’s pale and defiant face. His mouth thins into a grave line and he shakes his head, blue eyes hard. “England.”
Instinctually, fear wells up inside Arthur and he unconsciously shrinks into himself, green eyes watching the larger man cautiously. He licks his lips. “Ameri—”
And suddenly his back is slammed into a wall and America is staring down at him, his body pinning England, leaving him immobile. “England,” America says again, his voice barely a whisper, “You shouldn’t have done that.”