(![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
usxuk Oct. 6th, 2009 08:23 am)
sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com posting in usxuk Oct. 6th, 2009 08:23 am)Title: A Record of the Rare Occurrence Known as British Affection, 4/5
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
sakuratsukikage
Characters, Pairings: America, England, unsubtle hints of America/England
Rating: PG
Warnings: brief sexual themes, the Beatles--or their music, anyway (the choice of the song has no particular significance), brief language
Summary: Five fics on the theme of England expressing affection to America. This fourth one takes place in 1964. All of this is to fill a request for my dear friendottful . I hope you like this one, too! Crossposted to my personal journal and ![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
hetalia .
British Invasion
America had never in his life imagined that England had so much as held a guitar, let alone possessed one. A harpsichord, maybe. A violin, sure, that he could imagine. But a guitar? Nah.
So when he approached the front door of England’s house to hear the metallic twang of an acoustic guitar—played with at least some kind of rapidity and skill—he kind of thought something really . . . kooky was going on in there.
So he ran forward and yanked the door open. Hey, he was the hero, right? He wasn’t sure what was going on, or what guitar music could have to do with England in danger, but if he was, in any way, America was getting in there and—
Whatever he'd been expecting, though, the sight that met his eyes was quite different. He ran down the hallway full tilt and took a careening turn into England’s living room, only to find England standing there with his back to the door (perfectly safe), a guitar in his hands and music America sure as heck didn’t recognize coming out of it. He was wearing the clothing America was used to—one of the sweater vests that made him look like an old man, a formal shirt, and slacks, but his tie was loose, his head nodding back and forth in time with the music, and—
America's eyes focused on England’s hands, and he took a deep breath that sort of hitched in his throat until he had to swallow, hard. Okay, so he wasn’t really used to even seeing England’s hands, anymore; even though the war had been a good almost twenty years ago, they’d still spent an awful lot of their time around each other in military uniform, and England just wore gloves a lot anyway, so—
And he definitely wasn’t used to seeing England’s hands like this, the fingers of his left curled over the frets of the guitar and pressing firm, the blunt curves of his knuckles bent sharply with the pressure. His other hand strummed quickly over the strings, and America found his eyes drawn irresistibly to the short, rounded nails and slim, roughened fingers. England’s left hand released to skim over the metal strings into another configuration—and it struck America that England was not just playing the guitar, he was belting out lyrics, his voice smoother, almost, than it was when he spoke, lighter, but having lost none of the depth and brusqueness that America associated with it so strongly, that huskiness easing into an easy strength of tone that tugged at something in America. It was weird that he hadn’t noticed that right away—England singing like this, putting his heart into it, was even stranger, almost, than seeing him play the guitar, and the combination was—the combination was—
"Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy,” England sang, and straightened up, tossing his hair back out of his face, “I don’t care too much for money; money can’t buy me lo-ove—” and then he made noise, he kind of screamed, actually, and America jumped and felt a sudden burst of terror that England would realize he was there and stop, but England didn’t notice, instead moving his fingers quickly over the strings, biting his lip for a moment as if in concentration as he coaxed new sounds out of the old instrument and sort of . . . bouncing on his heels, swaying back and forth as his fingers shifted quickly. “Buy me love, everybody tells me so,” England broke in again after a moment, and turned on his heel to spin—
America yelped, and jumped back—even though he was too awesome to yelp, he was startled, okay?—and England’s hand slipped on the guitar, the last sequence of notes trailing off into silence. Wide green eyes framed with thick, furrowed eyebrows stared, shocked into his.
America bit his lip and shifted uneasily, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth. “Uh . . .” he said.
England's cheeks flushed, very slightly, and America swallowed and tried to think of something to say—some awesome excuse for his coming in here and staring at England like—like—like he was pretty sure he had been doing, which wasn’t good at all, because—it’d just been shock, after all, that was all, that was all it could have been, and why wasn’t any of this coming out of his mouth—but instead something else was, something else completely, “I . . . uh . . . um, I just sorta . . . God, an old man like you, what’s happened to you—I can’t believe someone as stiff and square as you would even try playing something as—as groovin’ as that!”
England's lips firmed, his jaw setting into a determined line that America recognized, and his brows drew down into a stubborn scrunch that America knew meant trouble, and if he hadn’t been the awesome hero that he was, he might have been a little unnerved by the poisonous green glare now directed toward him.
England didn’t say anything, not really, he just lifted the guitar and placed his left hand back on the frets and rocked back, strumming his fingers down once before he curved them back up into the positions they’d had before, and belted out, “Can’t buy me lo—” his voice faded to breath for a half-moment before slipping back into its full force, “—ove, no, no, no, no! Say you don’t need no diamond rings, and I’ll be satisfied—” he raised his head and grinned, half a smirk and half a wide, teasing smile, and America’s breath sort of stuttered and caught in his throat, torn between staring at England’s face and his hands, as they strummed and plucked at the strings, and England just grinned more widely, and rolled his shoulders back and rocked up and down, and . . . and oh, god. “Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy—” England’s voice darkened, thickened up, softening over the last word. America swallowed. “I don’t care too much for money—“ his hand strummed down, over the strings, strong and sure, “money can’t buy me love, can’t buy me love—” he took several steps forward, his voice softening, almost crooning over the words “-ove, love, can’t buy me love—” he leaned forward, his smirk widening again, and then his lips were against America’s cheek, one tingling second of a wet, warm, messy kiss—and then England pulled away and the air sparked cold against America’s skin and America’s heart turned over and thudded somewhere in his throat. He suddenly felt strange and light and dizzy. England’s voice was husky and rough over the last few repeated words, and then he ended the song with one more strum of his nails over the strings. The metallic thrum echoed around them in the room for a brief moment.
There was silence. They stared at one another. America wasn’t sure which of them was more quickly shading into a deeper flush. England turned his back, quickly, and lowered the guitar carefully to the ground. “Well, what?” he said, his tone edging into hostile, and his voice was a little hoarser than usual, but back to the stiff, stodgy tones America recognized. “You can stop your bloody staring, you twat.”
America took a deep breath. He had to be cool. He had to show England that no matter what he played on the guitar, or sang, goddamnit, the way his voice had—America was too awesome to be blown away—
"Oh, my God, England,” he babbled, “that was the best—that was so—fuck. That was so—so fuckin’ awesome, what kinda music was that?”
England turned back around, and even though he was flushed bright, color high across his cheeks, he had that wide, wild smirk curving his lips again. “It’s mine,” he said. “Brilliant, eh?”
All America could do was agree.
Author:
sakuratsukikage Characters, Pairings: America, England, unsubtle hints of America/England
Rating: PG
Warnings: brief sexual themes, the Beatles--or their music, anyway (the choice of the song has no particular significance), brief language
Summary: Five fics on the theme of England expressing affection to America. This fourth one takes place in 1964. All of this is to fill a request for my dear friend
ottful . I hope you like this one, too! Crossposted to my personal journal and hetalia .British Invasion
America had never in his life imagined that England had so much as held a guitar, let alone possessed one. A harpsichord, maybe. A violin, sure, that he could imagine. But a guitar? Nah.
So when he approached the front door of England’s house to hear the metallic twang of an acoustic guitar—played with at least some kind of rapidity and skill—he kind of thought something really . . . kooky was going on in there.
So he ran forward and yanked the door open. Hey, he was the hero, right? He wasn’t sure what was going on, or what guitar music could have to do with England in danger, but if he was, in any way, America was getting in there and—
Whatever he'd been expecting, though, the sight that met his eyes was quite different. He ran down the hallway full tilt and took a careening turn into England’s living room, only to find England standing there with his back to the door (perfectly safe), a guitar in his hands and music America sure as heck didn’t recognize coming out of it. He was wearing the clothing America was used to—one of the sweater vests that made him look like an old man, a formal shirt, and slacks, but his tie was loose, his head nodding back and forth in time with the music, and—
America's eyes focused on England’s hands, and he took a deep breath that sort of hitched in his throat until he had to swallow, hard. Okay, so he wasn’t really used to even seeing England’s hands, anymore; even though the war had been a good almost twenty years ago, they’d still spent an awful lot of their time around each other in military uniform, and England just wore gloves a lot anyway, so—
And he definitely wasn’t used to seeing England’s hands like this, the fingers of his left curled over the frets of the guitar and pressing firm, the blunt curves of his knuckles bent sharply with the pressure. His other hand strummed quickly over the strings, and America found his eyes drawn irresistibly to the short, rounded nails and slim, roughened fingers. England’s left hand released to skim over the metal strings into another configuration—and it struck America that England was not just playing the guitar, he was belting out lyrics, his voice smoother, almost, than it was when he spoke, lighter, but having lost none of the depth and brusqueness that America associated with it so strongly, that huskiness easing into an easy strength of tone that tugged at something in America. It was weird that he hadn’t noticed that right away—England singing like this, putting his heart into it, was even stranger, almost, than seeing him play the guitar, and the combination was—the combination was—
"Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy,” England sang, and straightened up, tossing his hair back out of his face, “I don’t care too much for money; money can’t buy me lo-ove—” and then he made noise, he kind of screamed, actually, and America jumped and felt a sudden burst of terror that England would realize he was there and stop, but England didn’t notice, instead moving his fingers quickly over the strings, biting his lip for a moment as if in concentration as he coaxed new sounds out of the old instrument and sort of . . . bouncing on his heels, swaying back and forth as his fingers shifted quickly. “Buy me love, everybody tells me so,” England broke in again after a moment, and turned on his heel to spin—
America yelped, and jumped back—even though he was too awesome to yelp, he was startled, okay?—and England’s hand slipped on the guitar, the last sequence of notes trailing off into silence. Wide green eyes framed with thick, furrowed eyebrows stared, shocked into his.
America bit his lip and shifted uneasily, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth. “Uh . . .” he said.
England's cheeks flushed, very slightly, and America swallowed and tried to think of something to say—some awesome excuse for his coming in here and staring at England like—like—like he was pretty sure he had been doing, which wasn’t good at all, because—it’d just been shock, after all, that was all, that was all it could have been, and why wasn’t any of this coming out of his mouth—but instead something else was, something else completely, “I . . . uh . . . um, I just sorta . . . God, an old man like you, what’s happened to you—I can’t believe someone as stiff and square as you would even try playing something as—as groovin’ as that!”
England's lips firmed, his jaw setting into a determined line that America recognized, and his brows drew down into a stubborn scrunch that America knew meant trouble, and if he hadn’t been the awesome hero that he was, he might have been a little unnerved by the poisonous green glare now directed toward him.
England didn’t say anything, not really, he just lifted the guitar and placed his left hand back on the frets and rocked back, strumming his fingers down once before he curved them back up into the positions they’d had before, and belted out, “Can’t buy me lo—” his voice faded to breath for a half-moment before slipping back into its full force, “—ove, no, no, no, no! Say you don’t need no diamond rings, and I’ll be satisfied—” he raised his head and grinned, half a smirk and half a wide, teasing smile, and America’s breath sort of stuttered and caught in his throat, torn between staring at England’s face and his hands, as they strummed and plucked at the strings, and England just grinned more widely, and rolled his shoulders back and rocked up and down, and . . . and oh, god. “Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can’t buy—” England’s voice darkened, thickened up, softening over the last word. America swallowed. “I don’t care too much for money—“ his hand strummed down, over the strings, strong and sure, “money can’t buy me love, can’t buy me love—” he took several steps forward, his voice softening, almost crooning over the words “-ove, love, can’t buy me love—” he leaned forward, his smirk widening again, and then his lips were against America’s cheek, one tingling second of a wet, warm, messy kiss—and then England pulled away and the air sparked cold against America’s skin and America’s heart turned over and thudded somewhere in his throat. He suddenly felt strange and light and dizzy. England’s voice was husky and rough over the last few repeated words, and then he ended the song with one more strum of his nails over the strings. The metallic thrum echoed around them in the room for a brief moment.
There was silence. They stared at one another. America wasn’t sure which of them was more quickly shading into a deeper flush. England turned his back, quickly, and lowered the guitar carefully to the ground. “Well, what?” he said, his tone edging into hostile, and his voice was a little hoarser than usual, but back to the stiff, stodgy tones America recognized. “You can stop your bloody staring, you twat.”
America took a deep breath. He had to be cool. He had to show England that no matter what he played on the guitar, or sang, goddamnit, the way his voice had—America was too awesome to be blown away—
"Oh, my God, England,” he babbled, “that was the best—that was so—fuck. That was so—so fuckin’ awesome, what kinda music was that?”
England turned back around, and even though he was flushed bright, color high across his cheeks, he had that wide, wild smirk curving his lips again. “It’s mine,” he said. “Brilliant, eh?”
All America could do was agree.
Tags:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
There's no smut whatsoever, but the imagery inspired by those words... so hot... :D
From:
no subject
I was waiting for this! Hells yeah.
America staring and being like wtf, who is this hot musician and what has he done with england?
so funny and hot.
ahh
♥
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
And yes. America loves England's music. XD All our awesome rock bands are inspired by theirs, haha. American!commenter would know.
... Oddly enough, right now I am listening to "Hey Jude"... n_n
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
XD
:D :D :D
XD
(ROCKER!ENGLAND HELL YES)
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
I'm grinning like mad. I could picture everything and damn, it was so good. England smirking and then the kiss.
And I love british rock... way too much, so yes, this is perfect.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject