[Fanfic] How America got England to be Robin

[vemela.livejournal.com]

Title: How America got England to be Robin [one-shot]
Rating: M
Warnings: Sexual situations, bad language
Summary: America doesn't always play fair. England finds out the hard way.
Notes: I wrote this in about three hours. I'm rather impressed with myself seeing as it's almost 2,000 words long! I was just completely inspired by the Hetaween finale (specifically the appearance of America and England as Batman and Robin) and I couldn't help myself. I hope you enjoy this!



“Excuse me?” England’s brows were furrowed.
 
“I want you to dress up as a superhero with me,” America repeated (for the fourth time), seemingly oblivious to the way that England was grinding his teeth in anger. “It’ll be really cool! There’s gonna’ be smoke and lights and shit!”
 
England grimaced. “And what exactly made you think that I would agree to this lunacy?”
 
“Uh… because you love me?” his voice gradually ascended in pitch as England’s scowl only continued to grow.
 
“No.”
 
“But-”
 
“I said no, America. There is no way in hell that you will get me wearing that ridiculous, unflattering outfit!” England was about to turn away when America reached out, grabbing his arm. This was where being a superpower (and inhumanly strong) came in useful; he was able to hold England in place with complete ease. But the Brit struggled anyway.
 
“Come on, babe,” he pouted. “At least take a look at the costume. I picked it out ‘specially for you.” America was an expert at making the ‘kicked puppy’ face that never failed to work on England, much to his chagrin.
 
Green eyes met blue and England visibly began to relax, his protests coming to a halt. He heaved a sigh, holding the American’s gaze.
 
“Fine… just – just show me the bloody costume.”
 
“Is that a yes, you’ll do it?” America grinned.
 
“No, it’s a maybe.”
 
“Awesome.”
 
America promptly lead England into the adjacent, dragging him by his arm which he had not yet let go of. The room was small, filled with boxes and whatnot. There was a wall covered by a curtain, which was presumably covering windows from what England could tell by the draft.
 
America switched on the light and let go of England, bouncing towards the middle of the room in his excitement. England shut the door behind them and followed him, clearly reluctant to find out what was waiting for him in the bag in the middle of the room. England was beginning to find America’s perpetual smile irritating.
 
“Just show me, for God’s sake!”
 
“Naw, you need to try it on to see,” America held the bag close to his chest, as though shielding it from the other’s gaze. “You’re gonna’ look cute, I promise.”
 
“Why do I feel as though I shouldn’t believe you?”
 
America just laughed at him. “Arthur,” he said in a much softer tone, all of a sudden. He took a small step towards the other nation “Artie,” he leaned down to him, inches away from pressing his lips against England’s (who was currently flushed a brilliant red colour).
 
“Yes?” England tried to keep his voice level, not to show any emotion towards the tantalizingly close American.
 
“I wanna’ kiss you.”
 
“Oh get stuffed.”
 
“No, really, I do. I’ve missed you so much. I wanna’ kiss you.” He sounded so earnest that England felt his heart beginning to melt a little. How could he refuse him?
 
“Yeah…?” his lips began to quirk up into a smile
 
“Yeah. Pretty bad, actually.” America leaned ever closer; England could feel America’s shallow breathing upon his face as he waited in turn with baited breath.
 
“I see,” the Brit murmured, much quieter than he had been a few moments before. “Well, perhaps you might like to do something about that urge, lad?”
 
“Hmm, yeah, I think I will. Close your eyes,” America looked at England with such affection, such love that it was hard to deny him. England did as he was asked and, as promised, America kissed him tenderly.
 
What had initially started as a loving kiss soon began to become more frenzied, as most things tended two with the both of them. America dropped the bag in his arms to the ground and began to back England up against a wall. The Brit couldn’t find it in himself to complain about the possibility of being walked in on, not when America’s lips were so warm and nice upon his own. He hit the wall with a grunt but America was there, whispering sweet nothings and pressing closer and closer to him.
 
America took off England’s hat and threw it across the room. It was the start of clothes being torn off of England’s body; America never gave England the chance to get to his suit by kissing him senseless and groping him in a less than appropriate manner. It felt wonderful. America managed to strip the Brit down to be in nothing but his underwear (which were predictably in the style of the Union Jack) in less than five minutes.
 
England was panting, unable to keep up with him. America was frisky today. He allowed the American to move him, turning him to face the wall. England put his arms out to brace himself against the brick wall. He could feel the delicious breath of his boyfriend against his ear, making him shiver.
 
“You’re so fucking hot, Arthur.”
 
“Imbecile,” England returned, breathless. He could feel America’s clothed chest against his back, tie sliding across his spine.
 
“Your imbecile,” America corrected; it was obvious that he was smirking. “Hang on a second.” England felt his heat disappear as he moved away.
 
“Alright, darling…” he mumbled. England reserved his endearments for times like these, in the throes of passion – which they soon would be, of course. He could hear America scuffling about in the room but didn’t bother to look around. He trusted America to come back to him.
 
England grew impatient.
 
“Alfred,” he keened.
 
“Just a sec, babe.”
 
It was then that he heard the door open and then slam shut. Then there was the sound of a lock.
 
Panicked, England turned to see that he was now in an empty room and… the sod had taken his clothes. All that was left was the bag in the middle of the room. He could hear America laughing on the other side of the door, which he sprinted to. He began pounding on the door with his fists.
 
“America! America, you arsehole! You have my clothes!”
 
“No shit, Sherlock,” America guffawed.
 
“Alfred F. Jones, you open this door right now or so help me I’ll-”
 
“Dude, I have a door to protect me. I’m pretty sure that you’re screwed. I bet that the costume doesn’t sound so bad now, huh?”
 
“You are a fucking twat, Alfred!”
 
“Yeah, yeah. Just get dressed okay, Artie? I’ll be back!”
 
England could hear his heavy footfalls as the American ran off, laughing like a hyena.
 
“Tosser!” England yelled finally and then slumped against the door. He should have seen it coming. That damn American.
 
Now came the task of examining the costume and the very prospect made Arthur cringe. He had been perfectly happy in his Sherlock Holmes costume and would have liked to stay like that for the rest of the evening. He had looked dignified and elegant – and much better than that bloody frog did in his costume ripped-off of from Peter Pan.
 
He approached the bag, eyeing it closely before he finally sat down beside it, wincing as the cold, concrete floor touched his bare skin. He pulled out what appeared to be some sort of leotard. Then some tights. And then finally a cape.
 
Fucking fabulous.
 
He was going to be the laughing stock of the nations for the next decade but if he wanted to leave the room, he knew that he didn’t have much of a choice. England grumbled whilst clambering to his feet, starting to pull on the tights. God, this felt strange. Really strange. By jerking the fabric too harshly, he managed to catch the hair on his legs on the fabric and it was as painful as sin. From that moment onwards, he proceeded with caution. He was much more delicate, treating the fabric with the delicacy and care that it required not to ladder or pull at his body hair anymore than it had already. A man wearing tights, who would have thought it (or more specifically, who in their right mind could have imagined England wearing tights willingly)?
 
After much scrutiny, he came to the conclusion that the tights only made his legs look slimmer and much ganglier than they usually did.
 
“Keep calm and carry on, Arthur. You know the drill,” he breathed out slowly, trying to calm himself down lest he ripped the costume and ended up without anything to wear at all. As he pulled on the leotard, he realised which ‘superhero’ it was for.
 
Robin.
 
Robin was not a superhero – he was a sidekick who was only good at standing at the back and stating the bloody obvious! So, not only had America locked him in a room without any clothes, but he’d lied to him, too. Someone wasn’t going to be having sex for a long, long time that was for sure.
 
Something else he noticed about the costume was how uncomfortably tight it was at his hips. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and then set about trying to resolve the unsightly problem. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he pulled at the fabric and adjusted its position, it still clung horribly. England wondered fleetingly if this was some sort of elaborate, kinky fetish of America’s. He hoped not. There was no way in hell that he was yelling ‘holy Florida!’ mid-coital.
 
Lord knew. Ah well, at least he could use the cape as some sort of protection, to cover his dignity. He pulled on the shoes that were at the bottom of the bag when the so-called curtain began to rise.
 
England gawked as he watched the curtain slowly rise and was soon have to squint from the bright light that appeared. Everything was smoky and illuminated. It was like something from a 1980’s music video. He was almost anticipating Barbara Streisand to appear.
 
Bloody hell, how much had he been drinking?
 
“England!” it was America’s voice.
 
England should have known he was up to something. Without hesitation, England stormed forwards into the fog, searching blindly for the other nation with a face so stormy that it probably would have scared the shit out of Italy, had he been around.
 
America was stood in his own costume; Batman. Of course. England was America’s lapdog after all, right? They weren’t even wearing costumes from the same version of Batman, for Christ’s sake! England was fuming with rage. He held up a fist, ready to punch America.
 
“America, you bastard! Why would you do this to me?!”
 
America was silent and just smiled at him, slightly amused it seemed. His eyes trailed over his costume. Him and his stupid smug face in that mask, it only enraged England more.
 
“Told you you’d look good in that.”
 
“Piss off. Where are we?” The smoke was beginning to disappear, revealing faces some way away.
 
“On stage. Nice cock by the way,” America grinned and turned to the audience, flashing his too-white-to-be-true teeth at the rest of the nations. England dropped his hand and scrambled to cover his crotch with his cape, suddenly thankful for that part of the costume.
 
“Are you an idiot?!”

~
 

The remainder of the night consisted of another costume change and England refusing to talk to America and getting drunk outside the venue with the other nations. England spent the majority of the time with the others complaining about how shit American beer was.
 
No one disagreed.


A/N: Hope you enjoyed this! I had fun writing it!