Kiss Like a Whisper - Oneshot
Fic: Kiss Like a Whisper
Genre: humor, romance, smut, barely there angst
Pairings: USUK
Rating: M
Summary: “I woke up this morning, to a kiss just like a whisper…” from Glowing by The Script.
I LIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND I GIVE YOU PORN!!!!!!
xposted to tumblr here
Kiss Like a Whisper
England may have carried his age in his bones and shoulders, but that didn’t mean that his senses were any less sharp than they’d always been. In some ways, he’d actually grown more observant over time-his eyes were more likely to train in on patterns and pathways his body and mind still remembered, his nose was more attune to certain smells, and his ears were always able to pick out classical music whenever it played. And, most importantly of all, his bullshit-meter was as infallible as it had always been. Which made him almost laugh at the comical way America was going about being an utter arse in an attempt to push England away-the only thing that kept the laughter in was England didn’t know why he was doing it.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true-he had plenty ideas as to what could be bothering America enough for him to take it out on England (the nation was a roiling ‘hot mess,’ as Canada was so fond to point out). Whether it was his constantly shifting economy, the vitriol political climate, or the push for civil liberties among his LGBT community, England knew there was plenty to keep America’s mind snappish and his temper close to the surface. And that didn’t even take into account the storms on the eastern seaboard or the almost poisonous presidential campaign and election he had just finished. However, for as many issues as America seemed to constantly have, a curse England knew only too well from his days as the reigning empire on earth, generally the younger nation never let it bother him too much.
The thing about America, or one of the things England couldn’t help but admire most about him, was that no matter how gloomy things seemed to be for him, no matter how heavy the clouds were that settled around his shoulders, his optimism always shown through, like a gentle beam of sunlight on a rainy day. And no, he was not likening America’s smile to a sunbeam-well, at least not entirely. England only had so much power against similes and metaphors. America almost always saw the good that could come from a bad situation; even if the good was some unachievable dream, he still reached for it and kept pushing for new. It was something England wished he could do more of-for the longest time, he attributed it to America’s youth and naiveté, but as America grew up fast under the mantle of being a super-power, England admitted it was just part of who he was.
There were days that England wasn’t even sure how he and America, with all of his figurative sunshine and rainbows, came to be. Historically yes, he remembered how they came together-it was hard to forget getting snogged under mistletoe (England still suspected set up by France) on Christmas while Prime Minister Thatcher snickered at him. Oh, the teasing he’d endured those first few months at her hands-England still held one of his fondest spots in his heart for Mags. But, yes, he knew the hows. Following a post-war depression and a terrifying nuclear stand-off, England had found himself the weakest he’d been since he was a fledgling and America shooting him shy looks at every national summit he attended. England, who had been unattractively (thank you, Portugal, for the ever-loving honesty) pining for years, hadn’t known what to do after being feared and loathed by other nations for the longest time so he had tried to ignore him. They danced around each other all through the seventies and most of the early eighties-until Christmas 1985 when the other nations couldn’t stand them anymore and threw a party with much too much alcohol and hidden mistletoe and the rest, as humans said, was history.
So the hows of how England and America became the Special Relationship (America still sniggered whenever he tried to call it the Unique Relationship, which never failed to set England off because honestly), were easy enough to follow and most saw that it was all just an inevitability that they’d be together. Not England though-it was never ‘inevitable’ that he and America would wind up together, not in his mind, not after all the wars and heartache between them. There was so much sorrow in their souls and both of their hands were bloody with it-those first few years had been as equally awful as they had been wonderful. And even after the Revolution was behind them and locked back away in America’s broom closet, even after they’d both forgiven each other for mistakes neither of them were entirely sorry for, even after they were happy and as in love as anyone could be, England still wondered.
Wondered what America could see in him when he was so bright and the most England generally could hope for was cloudy with a chance for sunshine. He was loyal yes, to a fault sometimes, and he was stronger than anyone thought to give him credit for, even now, but America was just so much more than England could have ever hoped for him to be and it was hard for him to wrap his mind around how much America felt for him. Sometimes, he truly didn’t know how he deserved it-most days he just honestly thought America should count himself bloody lucky that England put up with him. He didn’t let himself get too distracted by the whys though, not after they’d been together for nearly three decades (and tied together for over three centuries), but the doubts liked to crop up every now and then.
Especially when America was being an idiot and pushing England away at every turn, most times in ridiculous fashions (the incident with the tea cozy and the remote came to England’s mind-he had really only been able to stare at America when he’d brandished the remote and cozy as a sword and shield when England had commented that he didn’t want to watch Keeping up with the Kardishians). The doubts weren’t enough to upset him or push America away in turn, but they did annoy him. And England, never one to wallow, decided that if America was being a bloody moron and wasn’t about to quit anytime soon on his own, than England would belt up and snap him out of it himself. Because, frankly, even though he was prone to thoughts as to why America was with him sometimes, for the most part he just accepted what America saw in him because he was the bloody United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
Which all led up to this moment, sitting across from America at their shared kitchen table at their townhouse in New York (which was fine, but England would always prefer the house in Devon personally), pointedly not reacting to anything America was doing to try and make him mad. So far, that list included the following actions: switching out the sugar for creamer (which made his tea a mess that morning), mocking everything from his national anthem (rich considering America’s own anthem had been a cobbled together version of England’s) to his accent, flicking his cereal out of the bowl and onto the table, sighing heavily and noisy which always meant he thought England was being boring, stacking up McDonald’s burgers in the fridge, and switching over the channels on England’s radio to all rap stations. Normally, England’s reaction would have been swift, loud, and often ending up with them either fighting on the floor and then him storming out, or having sex, depending on just how mad England was. This time though, this time he took a deep breath and ignored every single thing America did to try and make him mad (though it about killed him when he saw all those disgusting fast-food burgers surrounding is perfectly delicious scones, America the fiend).
The result was sitting in front of him, a confused, mess of a nation who had a look on his face that suggested someone had hit him in the face with a fish and then walked away without any explanation. England couldn’t help it; he smirked slightly into his too sweet Earl Grey. America caught the smirk and his eyes narrowed at England suspiciously. England set his tea down and met the stare calmly; he wasn’t going to say a word until America did, and then he was going to verbally eviscerate him in the name of their love. True to form, America huffed and leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms in front of him and spoke first (the lad still didn’t have an ounce of self-control).
“So…it has come to this.”
“America, don’t quote those ridiculous internet momos at the table.”
“Memes! They’re called memes! Holy balls, why are you acting so weird?! I have done nothing but be a complete and total tool this morning-”
“For the past few weeks, actually.”
“-and you’re just sitting there and drinking your tea and not even getting angry! Who are you and what have you done with England? Are you like an alien pod-nation thing? Is this how you plan to take over the world because lemme tell you, Mr. Weirdo Iggy, I’ve watched all the alien movies there are and I know exactly how to take you down, whether it’s germs or a computer virus followed up with a healthy helping of a nuclear warhead!” England set his paper down and fixed America with a look.
“America. Please, for the love of the queen and my sanity, stop.” America grinned wide and leaned across the table a little.
“Ah-ha! So you are England, you’re just acting freaking weird! So, what is it? Is this like some kind of weird silent treatment because I’m such an ‘ignorant, obnoxious, and twittering twat?’ It is, isn’t it? This is how you break-up with nations; you ignore them until they eventually go away!”
“America-”
“Well, I am heartbroken, Iggy, heartbroken! But, I can’t stop you-remember me and all of our good times!”
“America, honestly, will you just-”
“I mean, I can’t really blame you and-this probably is for the best and-you know what? This is a hell of a lot harder than I thought it was going to be so I’m just gonna go and-”
“America! Would you shut the hell up and sit down, Christ. I’m not bloody leaving you and you look like you’re about to have a fit, so sit.”
“But, Iggy-”
“Sit!”
America sat back down and stared at England as if the rug had just been pulled out from under him after he had arranged all the furniture on top of it just the way he wanted and he wasn’t quite sure how it happened. England took one last sip of his tea and then got up from his seat and walked over to America’s side of the table; he watched America with calm and hopefully understanding eyes (though he really didn’t understand what was going on) and tried not to cross his arms in front of his chest. He settled in front of America, settling back against the edge of the table and fitting snuggly in between America’s legs in the space they made from his seat. America looked more than a little chagrinned but his jaw was shut tight and he had a stubborn glint in his eyes.
“Now then, do you want to tell me what the hell has been going on inside your head for the last few weeks and why you were trying to annoy me into leaving you? Which, I’ll have you know, was a nearly impossible undertaking as I’ve had to deal with your dirty socks covering the bathroom floor for the last thirty years-if that didn’t drive me away, I think you’re bloody well stuck with me, just as I am with you.” His voice went soft at the end there of its own accord. When America made no move to speak up, England pressed on.
“You’re not exactly subtle, love-I’ve known there was something going on for quite some time and I knew you’d been acting like a berk in an attempt to try and push me away, to try and get me to leave, and while I can make up my own conjecture as to why you’ve been doing this, I’d much rather have the truth from you. I’ve been your partner for nearly thirty years and have stood by you through everything, even if I didn’t always agree with you-I deserve the truth.”
America’s eyes lost most of the forced hardness and he sighed, big, heavy and in a way that made him shrink in a little in on himself. He rubbed at his eyes from under his glasses, an endearing thing England never failed to find attractive and heart-warming, and blinked up at England with tired eyes that had too much red looking back at him. “I didn’t-it’s not like I woke up one morning and decided that ‘hey, you’re pretty fucked up as countries go, let’s try and cut England out of that while you still can.’ But-after, you know, unconsciously doing it for a little bit, the rest of my head kinda thought it was a good idea.”
Lord above, his lad was an utter fool. “So, you decided that because you’re a ‘roiling hot mess’ at the moment, which I fail to see as any different from how you’ve been for the past hundred or so years, you tried to make me break up with you and dissolve our union because you didn’t want me to get caught in our crosshairs anymore. Have I got that right?”
“Well, when you say it like it sounds stupid-”
“That’s because it is stupid, America.”
“-but I guess, yes? Maybe? I knew I’d never be able to do it so I thought maybe if I bugged you enough, acted like a big enough jerk-you wouldn’t want to stick around me anymore.” America looked awful, like a child caught in a terrible lie, and part of England just wanted to wrap him up tight because just how much self-loathing was America touting about in his baggage lately? However, there was another part of him that wanted to be heard-the part that was fucking pissed that America had tried to manipulate England into leaving him and had thought that England would value their relationship so little. So, he voiced that part first and slapped America right across the face.
“Shit! What the hell-I mean, goddamn that fucking hurts!
“That is for trying to trick me into leaving you because you’re too much of a coward to be the bad guy yourself AND for even thinking I would leave you for something so petty in the first place! Am I that shallow to you, do you really think I value us so little that a couple of poorly planned weeks and terrible insults would make me call it quits? Christ, America, sometimes you make me so mad I wish I could throttle you.” It felt good, getting that out in an angry hiss that made America cringe back and fill up with more guilt. He deserved all the guilt at the moment, all of it.
Then, because after getting his quick and immediate anger out he felt much more level-headed and sad for America, sad that he honestly thought he was so much of a wreck that he didn’t deserve to have England by his side, he slid down to sit on America’s thigh and wrapped his arms around his neck. He tucked America’s head into his neck and gently stroked the back of his neck, combing through the fine hair that tapered off there and pressed his lips against the side of his head. America didn’t struggle, instead he shuddered and sunk into England’s arms, his own hands worming to the back of England’s shirt and tightening into fists in the fabric. England didn’t make any effort to start trying to talk; he just pressed soft, open mouthed kisses to Alfred’s temple and hair and murmured soft sounds that could’ve been songs more than words.
Sometimes, England forgot that as much as he couldn’t believe he and America were together, or why America would want to be with him and all of his history (much of it too stained in blood to even see the truth anymore), America had the same thoughts about himself. He wondered how England could love someone after he’d hurt him so badly, or why England would want to be allied with someone who caused as many fires as those he put out. For the most part, like England, he knew that England stayed with him because he not only loved him, but because he was the United States of America and all of the good that was associated with that name. But, in dark moments, moments where the rest of the world, and America himself, saw a divided nation, political vitriol, civil rights being denied, England forgot that America wondered too.
And, being a bit thick sometimes, he didn’t always let sleeping dogs lie when he should.
“I’m sorry, Arthur. Really, I am-I don’t know why I thought this was such a good idea but-I know you don’t think so little of us, I know and I don’t either.” The words America finally spoke were quiet and intimate, two other sides of himself he didn’t let many people outside of England see, parts of him that England treasured. England shushed him when he started to babble because, honestly, he understood where America’s intentions had been. There was a reason why for so many years, England simply let himself pine for America after the war, even when he could tell that his feelings were mutual. What would a young, powerful nation like America want with a washed up empire like England? He remembered that question haunting him for years until others stepped in and America had enough of it.
“I know, love. Don’t try anything this asinine again and I’ll call it even, all right?” America snorted and nodded against England’s lips, tightening his hold on him until it was getting a little awkward sitting side-saddled in America’s lap. “And I expect you to fix everything you switched up or ruined in the last few weeks-if there is still sugar in the cream tin, I will not be very amused tomorrow.”
“You still haven’t figured out how to change the password on your email, have you?” America’s voice was gaining back a little of its teasing lilt-England pulled back a little and glared at him.
“No, and if I’ve missed any important emails I swear I will put a ban on fast-food in this household for the foreseeable future.”
“Don’t worry, I kept an eye on it-you didn’t miss anything important.” America ducked his head down a little and bit his lip shyly. “I was trying to make you mad, not trying to make you homicidal.”
“It was a near thing-you courted death dangerously close with your muddy shoes yesterday.” America chuckled and adjusted England in his lap so that he was straddling America’s legs (England would never admit it out loud, but he found America’s strength and his ability to move England about like a rag doll incredibly sexy-it was nice to let someone else have control every once in a while). England adjusted his own hold on America and let the younger nation lean in close enough that their mouths brushed together.
“Well, lucky me then.”
“Yes, lucky you.” Their words kissed along with their lips and England found himself wanting more-in all of madness of the past few weeks, England hadn’t really noticed the lack of touching between the pair of them. He did now though. Heat licked up his front and pooled in his belly, then lower until he could feel himself getting hard; he rocked into America and swallowed up the muffled moan down his throat.
They were both a little too frenzied for coordination so eventually, they wound up on the floor of their kitchen, England still straddling America and grinding down hard with every one of America’s upward thrusts. They weren’t going to last very long, something that they both acknowledged in a slight pause of motion where they could’ve decided to get up and head to bed-they wanted fast though. They wanted fast and hard and too much too soon and so England dove back down and kissed America sloppily, let America lick into his mouth and leaned into the big, firm grip America kept on his hip and arse. He steadied himself with one hand plastered against the kitchen floor above America’s shoulder and the other tugged and yanked at America’s hair, tilting his head this way and that way so he could kiss whatever he fancied, be it his mouth, his jaw, his neck, or the parts of his chest and clavicle he could reach without moving off of America’s cock.
They both reached their peaks fast; it rose up in England like one large, powerful swell until cresting and he felt like the breath was knocked out of him when it was done, slipping against his release in his sleep pants. He shivered as America followed shortly after and felt another pang of arousal shoot through him at the site; he let out a soft sound at how it left him shaking in oversensitivity. He felt dazed and more than a little light-headed and had to fight to push himself up so that he was upright on top of America; a glance down told him America wasn’t much better, if the dopey grin on his face was any indication. England sniffed at the stickiness in his pants and how it was starting to feel more uncomfortable than hot. America giggled a little and then, England was up and in the air, legs going around America’s hips on instinct as America went from fully laying down on the ground to standing and holding England steady against him.
England rolled his eyes and brushed a soft whisper of a kiss against America’s mouth. “Show-off.”
“Awesome is actually the word you’re looking for.” England pinched the back of America’s neck in retaliation, reveling in the small yelp as America walked them both towards their bedroom. “Oh, come on, you like it when I flex my hot body for you.”
“I like it when you put your mouth to better uses than blathering on and boosting your own ego.”
America smiled at him, his usual sunshine bursting through some of the darkness that had settled around his eyes that morning, and he leaned forward to kiss England as instructed (England didn’t even mind the way their mutual release pressed and chaffed together when he tightened his legs around America). And when America leaned back and breathed out, England was fairly sure he could almost feel America blowing out some of the doubts and wonders in the one exhale. They weren’t done talking about things, and England certainly felt like he had some more yelling to do about America trying to be a sneaky, manipulating bastard, but for now, now they could simply revel in each other and leave the rest where it belonged, out of mind.
So, England leaned in and kissed America again, harder this time, a little less sweet, and whispered breaths that carried words and sentiments into him, filled him up with those instead of his misgivings and dreads. There wasn’t much England could to convince America that he deserved this, that he deserved them, than to keep repeating it until eventually, the assurances outnumbered the uncertainties and doubts. Deep down, he knows that America knew that this confrontation was the only way his plan was going to end, that England wasn’t going to leave him because of a couple of ill-devised pranks (and a few inventive ones-he’s still not sure how America got into his magic trunk and spray-painted his supply jars all neon colors). America just needed to hear it, have it reinforced into him. England understood-sometimes he needed it reinforced too.
He figured that after the next several hours they’ll spend fucking and loving and pressing each other, they can finish what they started in the kitchen (the serious talk mind you, not the floor-fucking…well, probably not the floor-fucking). England is old enough and has weathered enough battles to know that America isn’t quite as much as a mess as he seems to think he is (or Canada teases him to be-England honestly thinks that’s just how they bond, by antagonizing one another). And even if he does become that much of a mess, England certainly isn’t going anywhere-they’d past the point of no return some smelly socks and leftover scones ago, and if it was England’s turn to remind America of that, he’d do so happily.
They were the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the United States of America-they deserved each other and piss off on anyone who dared say otherwise. England grinned and pressed it into America’s mouth, soft as a whisper.
Fin