America pauses, and bends down – kisses England, short and chaste, and pulls away. He smiles, full of wamrth and life and it's a smile England loves, can remember seeing it so many times, dating back to when he first spent his days living with America.
Their lips meet again and again, gentle and comforting, and they kiss like that again, but do not part this time; England's hands rummage through America's hair, and when he thinks about it, he's never touched the America's hair. It's soft, thin and his fingers move around it wish ease.
He leans closer, savors the kiss because it makes him feel so good, so safe and it reassures him, as if nothing bad will happen to him again.
America's hands wander England's back, mixed with the white cloth scarcely covering him and England parts away; America smiles again, but it's a little devilish this time.
“So, you've been dreaming about me, huh?” America smirks when he says this, and England, with a sudden jolt, remembers what he told America, and... oh for the love of – he did not just humiliate himself like that.
“W-What?! I-I was just saying that to fit the mood...!” England sputters out, but America lovingly brushes some hair away from his forehead and kisses it, and pulls England to his chest.
“I'll take that as a yes,” America says, brushes England's hair with his hands and England doesn't move, lets America hold him close and his eyes shut as he leaves America to do as he pleases.
“How do I act in your dreams? Am I still the hero?” America laughs a little when he sees this, and England can feel the vibrations of his laughter. England doesn't reply to America's question, and turns more red, contrasting his green eyes – honestly, America was very heroic in his dreams, just like he was in reality.
“Warm and kind,” England finally mumbles out; some part of him scolds himself, how embarrassing! Yet another part longs to tell America everything, even the, um, more inappropriate dreams.
America smiles and presses his lips against England's hair, and England leans into his embrace and wraps his bare arms around America; they remain like that for a while, England and America are both unaware how long, nor do they care.
“I love you too.” America whispers into England's hair, muffled, and England feels a small smirk tug at his lips; “I didn't quite catch that, Alfred.” He can feel the American grow warmer and snuggles closer to the warmth, buries his face against America's chest.
England opens his mouth to complain when America's arms are no longer around him and on his shoulder, pulls him away and ruins the sweet moment.
Instead, America kisses him, and England doesn't exactly complain and leans into the kiss, feeling America roam his mouth like an undiscovered land and finds him enjoying it. He grabs the younger nation's jacket, leans in even closer, wants more of America, wants America to just take him away.
America parts away; “I love you too.” His voice is clear, firm, proud and unrelenting; “Always have you know, even before Virginia.” He says, and England smirks. He feels the alcohol pulling his head around again now...
“So how long have you wanted this?” England asks, and stands on his knees. He loves watching America gape when he, slowly, so very slowly, lifts up his skirt, almost where his underwear is, and drops it again. America is red, so red, he looks like he was drinking too.
England snorts, giggles, he doesn't really know anymore; things are getting more exciting, and he finds himself even more drunk then earlier; shouldn't he be getting more sober? England ignores the thought.
“... You... sure?” America asks slowly, and England's smile falls, and he nods. America looks down on the wooden floor, before looking back up at England.
“If you're sure. Come on.” America stands and takes England's hand, pulls him up and guides him to the bed. England wobbles a bit, losing a little of his balance because of the wine and of course, a bit of drowsiness, before he sits.
“... Just... Just lay there. I'll go find the lubricant and stuff.” America says slowly, kisses his forehead and leaves the room, and England sits with the ticking of the clock counting how long America takes.
Hold Me Close [43/?]
Their lips meet again and again, gentle and comforting, and they kiss like that again, but do not part this time; England's hands rummage through America's hair, and when he thinks about it, he's never touched the America's hair. It's soft, thin and his fingers move around it wish ease.
He leans closer, savors the kiss because it makes him feel so good, so safe and it reassures him, as if nothing bad will happen to him again.
America's hands wander England's back, mixed with the white cloth scarcely covering him and England parts away; America smiles again, but it's a little devilish this time.
“So, you've been dreaming about me, huh?” America smirks when he says this, and England, with a sudden jolt, remembers what he told America, and... oh for the love of – he did not just humiliate himself like that.
“W-What?! I-I was just saying that to fit the mood...!” England sputters out, but America lovingly brushes some hair away from his forehead and kisses it, and pulls England to his chest.
“I'll take that as a yes,” America says, brushes England's hair with his hands and England doesn't move, lets America hold him close and his eyes shut as he leaves America to do as he pleases.
“How do I act in your dreams? Am I still the hero?” America laughs a little when he sees this, and England can feel the vibrations of his laughter. England doesn't reply to America's question, and turns more red, contrasting his green eyes – honestly, America was very heroic in his dreams, just like he was in reality.
“Warm and kind,” England finally mumbles out; some part of him scolds himself, how embarrassing! Yet another part longs to tell America everything, even the, um, more inappropriate dreams.
America smiles and presses his lips against England's hair, and England leans into his embrace and wraps his bare arms around America; they remain like that for a while, England and America are both unaware how long, nor do they care.
“I love you too.” America whispers into England's hair, muffled, and England feels a small smirk tug at his lips; “I didn't quite catch that, Alfred.” He can feel the American grow warmer and snuggles closer to the warmth, buries his face against America's chest.
England opens his mouth to complain when America's arms are no longer around him and on his shoulder, pulls him away and ruins the sweet moment.
Instead, America kisses him, and England doesn't exactly complain and leans into the kiss, feeling America roam his mouth like an undiscovered land and finds him enjoying it. He grabs the younger nation's jacket, leans in even closer, wants more of America, wants America to just take him away.
America parts away; “I love you too.” His voice is clear, firm, proud and unrelenting; “Always have you know, even before Virginia.” He says, and England smirks. He feels the alcohol pulling his head around again now...
“So how long have you wanted this?” England asks, and stands on his knees. He loves watching America gape when he, slowly, so very slowly, lifts up his skirt, almost where his underwear is, and drops it again. America is red, so red, he looks like he was drinking too.
England snorts, giggles, he doesn't really know anymore; things are getting more exciting, and he finds himself even more drunk then earlier; shouldn't he be getting more sober? England ignores the thought.
“... You... sure?” America asks slowly, and England's smile falls, and he nods. America looks down on the wooden floor, before looking back up at England.
“If you're sure. Come on.” America stands and takes England's hand, pulls him up and guides him to the bed. England wobbles a bit, losing a little of his balance because of the wine and of course, a bit of drowsiness, before he sits.
“... Just... Just lay there. I'll go find the lubricant and stuff.” America says slowly, kisses his forehead and leaves the room, and England sits with the ticking of the clock counting how long America takes.