Rose Petals Not Included - Part I
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:18:55 UTC
Just want to say, first off, that I’m not the anon who promised this ages ago, but I saw the unfilled request recently and fell in love and--well--this is what happened.
The general assumption was that America’s opinion on Shakespeare was non-existent--why would anyone expect him of all people to know enough about the famous playwright to form an opinion? But Shakespeare was one thing he did have an informed opinion about. It’s just that no one knew it, not that America minded. It was for the best that his nerdy tendancies were kept on the ‘down low’. Though in reality, America had devoured the works of William Shakespeare over the course of a few years spent hiding out in Folger Library when politics and meetings got to be too much, and he needed a refuge where no one would think to look for him
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part II
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:19:49 UTC
That was something that couldn’t be argued with, and America didn’t open his mouth again, lest their plans be stalled or derailed entirely--and wouldn’t that be a crying shame.
For the rest of the night America didn’t think--couldn’t, really. Generally one can’t do much of it while being thoroughly screwed. But afterwards while he and England lay in bed, breath caught, skin cooled and sweat dried, his mind wandered back to what England had said against his cheek. He’d felt it more than he’d heard it, but he knew he recognized the phrase. The thought of England speaking poetry while they ground against each other and groaned seemed odd--funny, too, but odd.
Then again, England was an odd nation.
Many weeks passed and America didn’t give any more thought to England’s ‘sex poetry’. It had been a strange occurrence, and hadn’t happened again since--or, that is, not for a while. Over a month later, while in the very throes of pleasure, England spoke his ‘sex poetry’ for the second time, and that time America could see him say it, see
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part IV
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:21:55 UTC
“Maybe.. I might, uhm.” America mumbled. “Yeah. Yeah, I know Willy’s stuff.”
A pause.
“I--so you--‘Willy’Now that he’d jumped, he might as well embrace the plunge, right? So America chuckled, only a little awkwardly, smoothing his bangs back, Nantucket popping right back up as his hand fell away. “Yeah, Willy. Me and the guy are close, you see
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part V
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:23:18 UTC
Belatedly, America breathed. “Oh.”
Something had burst in America’s brain. And his heart, too--something happened there. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was sharp, like someone had tugged on his heartstrings (and wasn’t that cheesy). All he could think was how England associated the words of Shakespeare with him. Words sown together at the hands of a genius in his own right, poetry of surpassing beauty that talked of love, the purest forms of it, and the incredible loveliness of the object of one’s affections--all that associated with him; focused on him. England thought Shakespeare’s writing was fitting to describe him, what England thought of him, how he feltIf America were a girl, he would have blushed the brightest shade of red imaginable and promptly melted into the bed with an enchanted sigh. But seeing as he was not, he only blushed as bright as a tomato and rubbed a hand over his heart, which seemed to be having trouble calming down now that it began beating again
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part VI
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:24:19 UTC
America was right on the second account, and when England did finally speak, his voice low, it made America’s breath catch. “They do not love.. that do not show their love.”
For a long moment the younger nation played back that sentence in his mind. Always, America was captivated by England’s voice; it never remained the same, just as America’s did not, though there was always a roughness to it. Even when his words were crisp, accent less pronounced, something would rumble now and again, deep in his throat, something that reminded America of waves crashing along a shore, however oddly thoughtful or poetic or some shit that sounded. There were times when while talking with him, America would find himself listening to how England spoke rather than what he was saying. (He had yet to figure out if England knew that was the reason he sometimes seemed so spacey.) Never before had America been so enraptured than when England spoke that one line, however.
England’s voice had gone low, vowels slightly drawn out and gentle. And there was
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part VII
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:25:07 UTC
England just smiled again before closing the short distance to kiss him. Tenderly and oh-so-slowly England kissed him, taking his time to coax America into parting his lips for him; not that there was much coaxing needed. America opened his mouth readily, pressed his body as flush against the other’s as he could, and England took him in, held him close
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part VIII
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:26:19 UTC
America blushed darker and felt England smile against the side of his face. “Uh, if you want--”
“Thou art more lovely,” England stroked a hand over America’s hair, trailed it down his neck and over his shoulder, “and more temperate.” (America decided opening his mouth and commenting on that would spoil the--) “Well, I wouldn’t say you’re more temperate, but you are certainly more lovely.” (--oh come on).
“Spoiling the mood, Artie,” America nudged the side of England’s face with his nose.
“I’m doing no such thing,” the Englishman responded. “That’s your specialty. Now quiet while I’m romancing you
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part IX
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:27:29 UTC
England’s eyes closed, face turned against America’s palm, and he breathed deeply, “Love comforteth.. like sunshine after rain.Because his cheeks burned, his heart couldn’t pick a rhythm and stick with it, and because it was the way America worked, he opened his mouth, gasped quietly, and babbled: “..This is like that romantic scene you see in the movies or in one of those books with Fabio on the cover, that you think to yourself, ‘that’d never happen, that’s too sappy and dumb
( ... )
Rose Petals Not Included - Part X
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:28:23 UTC
America tried to look offended, but while he was flushed pink, hair sticking to his forehead, only managing to speak between pants, he figured (rightly) that he hadn’t accomplished looking anything of the sort. “Fine--nn. Right back at you, sweetheart..”
“I am never boist--”
“Turbulent, yeah you a--” England gave a sharp thrust, the rest of America’s sentence lost in a gasp.
“My, my,” England moaned, letting his head hang down close to America’s. “You know vocabulary..”
His movements changed then; shuddering, England slowed his pace, planted his hands beside America’s body and rocked his hips, pressing his length deeper, rubbing relentlessly over the younger man’s sweet spot, and any and all coherency left America instantly.
Below him America writhed, soon reduced to breathy moans and gasps, eyes fixed on England’s face but nearly unseeing. He closed his eyes tightly once England ducked his head to kiss him deeply, breathing loudly and unevenly through his nose against America’s flushed, warm cheek.
Rose Petals Not Included - Part XI
anonymous
October 26 2010, 05:29:16 UTC
America woke when the warm body beside him shifted away, leaving him to grope blindly for England while his brain, sluggish at the early hour, processed where he was, what was happening, and why on earth England would be moving“’Morning, love,” he felt the bed dip with England’s weight, then warm breath on his cheek before lips were pressed to his forehead
( ... )
Re: writer anon - one last thing
anonymous
October 26 2010, 08:35:53 UTC
WHERE ARE ALL THE COMMENTS. I EXPECTED HEAPS OF PRAISE. Ahh, I love this story so much. It was adorable AND sexy (I'm such a sucker for top!England and them being awkward yet romantic with each other). I'm super happy that it became as long as it did, Author Anon. Thanks so much. ♥
England reciting Shakespearian poetry. During sex.
Arthur being the big romance fag that he is.
America being all embarrassed and girly about it would be lovely.
Reply
The general assumption was that America’s opinion on Shakespeare was non-existent--why would anyone expect him of all people to know enough about the famous playwright to form an opinion? But Shakespeare was one thing he did have an informed opinion about. It’s just that no one knew it, not that America minded. It was for the best that his nerdy tendancies were kept on the ‘down low’. Though in reality, America had devoured the works of William Shakespeare over the course of a few years spent hiding out in Folger Library when politics and meetings got to be too much, and he needed a refuge where no one would think to look for him ( ... )
Reply
For the rest of the night America didn’t think--couldn’t, really. Generally one can’t do much of it while being thoroughly screwed. But afterwards while he and England lay in bed, breath caught, skin cooled and sweat dried, his mind wandered back to what England had said against his cheek. He’d felt it more than he’d heard it, but he knew he recognized the phrase. The thought of England speaking poetry while they ground against each other and groaned seemed odd--funny, too, but odd.
Then again, England was an odd nation.
Many weeks passed and America didn’t give any more thought to England’s ‘sex poetry’. It had been a strange occurrence, and hadn’t happened again since--or, that is, not for a while. Over a month later, while in the very throes of pleasure, England spoke his ‘sex poetry’ for the second time, and that time America could see him say it, see ( ... )
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A pause.
“I--so you--‘Willy’Now that he’d jumped, he might as well embrace the plunge, right? So America chuckled, only a little awkwardly, smoothing his bangs back, Nantucket popping right back up as his hand fell away. “Yeah, Willy. Me and the guy are close, you see ( ... )
Reply
Something had burst in America’s brain. And his heart, too--something happened there. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was sharp, like someone had tugged on his heartstrings (and wasn’t that cheesy). All he could think was how England associated the words of Shakespeare with him. Words sown together at the hands of a genius in his own right, poetry of surpassing beauty that talked of love, the purest forms of it, and the incredible loveliness of the object of one’s affections--all that associated with him; focused on him. England thought Shakespeare’s writing was fitting to describe him, what England thought of him, how he feltIf America were a girl, he would have blushed the brightest shade of red imaginable and promptly melted into the bed with an enchanted sigh. But seeing as he was not, he only blushed as bright as a tomato and rubbed a hand over his heart, which seemed to be having trouble calming down now that it began beating again ( ... )
Reply
For a long moment the younger nation played back that sentence in his mind. Always, America was captivated by England’s voice; it never remained the same, just as America’s did not, though there was always a roughness to it. Even when his words were crisp, accent less pronounced, something would rumble now and again, deep in his throat, something that reminded America of waves crashing along a shore, however oddly thoughtful or poetic or some shit that sounded. There were times when while talking with him, America would find himself listening to how England spoke rather than what he was saying. (He had yet to figure out if England knew that was the reason he sometimes seemed so spacey.) Never before had America been so enraptured than when England spoke that one line, however.
England’s voice had gone low, vowels slightly drawn out and gentle. And there was ( ... )
Reply
Reply
“Thou art more lovely,” England stroked a hand over America’s hair, trailed it down his neck and over his shoulder, “and more temperate.” (America decided opening his mouth and commenting on that would spoil the--) “Well, I wouldn’t say you’re more temperate, but you are certainly more lovely.” (--oh come on).
“Spoiling the mood, Artie,” America nudged the side of England’s face with his nose.
“I’m doing no such thing,” the Englishman responded. “That’s your specialty. Now quiet while I’m romancing you ( ... )
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“I am never boist--”
“Turbulent, yeah you a--” England gave a sharp thrust, the rest of America’s sentence lost in a gasp.
“My, my,” England moaned, letting his head hang down close to America’s. “You know vocabulary..”
His movements changed then; shuddering, England slowed his pace, planted his hands beside America’s body and rocked his hips, pressing his length deeper, rubbing relentlessly over the younger man’s sweet spot, and any and all coherency left America instantly.
Below him America writhed, soon reduced to breathy moans and gasps, eyes fixed on England’s face but nearly unseeing. He closed his eyes tightly once England ducked his head to kiss him deeply, breathing loudly and unevenly through his nose against America’s flushed, warm cheek.
“This,” England finally ( ... )
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Now I'm done.
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