Loyalty to the Crown
Title: Loyalty to the Crown
Originally posted: 1/30/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: UK/colonial!US
Premise: England would like for America to remember just who it was to win the French & Indian War for him.
Time period: 1763
Smuttiness: 5/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 6/10
Lolhistoryness: 7/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's pretty uberdysfunctional. If that does it for you, eyy.
England collapsed into a chair at America's dining table and rucked his hand through his hair. He let out a long, unsteady breath, and gave the colony a perfunctory smile as he slid into the chair across from him. America wore the same too-energetic, idiot grin he seemed to smear around more and more these past few decades. England dismissed it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, after a pause, "That should about do it."
"That was great," America agreed.
England ignored him. He massaged his forehead and fixed his stare in the middle distance. "Of course, you haven't seen much fighting since that sod ran out of stockpiled wine in Montreal and decided it was high time he surrendered it, but--now the treaty's signed, and all France is left with on this side of the ocean is an island too small to piss off without putting one foot in the surf."
"This is just great. That thing at Havannah--and now Canada's ours! I have some friends who wanted to head up that way, get into furs? I'm sure Canada won't mind if some of my people decide to help themselves to--"
England looked up. His forearm dropped by the side of the table. "This is not great," he replied tersely. "And you're not taking anything off your brother."
America visibly brought himself up short. He frowned a little. "But I thought--"
"And you're not going west, either," England interrupted him again.
The colony's eyes clouded further. His fingertips beating a hyperactive tattoo on the tabletop. "But wasn't all this to--I mean, I thought the whole point of the war was so I could expand my territory. Wasn't it?" England gave him a weary look. He went on quickly, "Well, I mean, you had to help Prussia, and everything, but that was just…you know…"
England grimaced. He's a teenager. Of course he thinks everything is about him. "Whatever the case, I need you to not antagonize anyone for a while. You--"
"When do I ever antagonize anybody?" America sounded astonished.
"--Need to be respectful of your neighbors," he went on. "Don't harass Canada about his opinions."
America scowled. His forelock fell across his face. "But he's a papist."
"I don't care," England snapped. He noticed his fingers curling into a fist on the table, and examined his fingernails. "And for now, neither do you. I can't afford to dig you out of another war."
"Dig me out of--" he cut his protest short and tried a different one. "If it comes to that, I can afford to raise my own--"
"You certainly can't. You have to pay me back for this war."
America's finger-drumming stopped. "Wait, what?"
England fixed him with a stare. "You have to pay for all this new territory."
"But--why do I have to pay for new land that you won't even let me settle?" a note of challenge crept into his voice.
"You have to pay for the war that won you this new land, that you will eventually settle. Don't be so impatient."
He should have known better than to try. America was at the age that understood nothing but impatience. The youth sat straighter and folded his arms. "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to always tell me what to do. I can take care of myself."
England snorted and tugged the front of his jacket straight. "Oh, yes. You can take care of yourself so well that the prime minister had to personally baby-sit your war effort, or else you would have lost to France."
A muscle in his jaw shifted. "But France is gone now."
"I'm raising your taxes," England returned brusquely. He suddenly wanted a drink. He pushed out of his chair and crossed to the liquor cabinet. America's eyes tracked him, and the empire spared a glance back. America was as easy to see through as ever. England imagined he could see the steam rising off him as his petulant hostility boiled over.
"Maybe I just won't pay them," he announced.
Another brief, expressionless glance over his shoulder, and then England turned his attention to fixing his drink. He despised that defiant pout. Glass clinked gently against glass. He turned back to the younger man when he was sure he could keep an even voice. "Don't be idiotic."
"I don't see how it's idiotic." America's pose was all prideful resistance now: back straight, arms folded, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He glared at England from just below a too-long fringe of golden hair. "France is gone. Maybe I don't need you to protect me all the time anymore."
England waited. Took a drink.
"Maybe--" America hesitated, and for a moment England believed the little simpleton might have scrounged together the good sense to not finish that sentence. He kept speaking--too quickly, but clear and loud: "Maybe I'd be better off on my own."
England sighed to himself, then finished his drink and set the glass back on the cabinet with a quiet clink. He crossed the room to where America perched in his chair, all vibrating nervous energy. His hands were hooked in his pockets. "Say that again?" he asked, mild.
America set his sights on the far wall, refusing to look up at the older nation. "Maybe I'd be--"
A crack rang through the room as the back of England's hand connected with America's face. The younger man was knocked half into the table. His hand came up at once to cup his cheek, and he stared at England in shock. "E-England," he stammered.
England slapped him again, then planted his boot at the edge of America's chair, between his legs, and shoved him back into the table. He placed one hand on either side of his young ward, on the table edge, and leaned in close. He could smell the other man at this distance: a tang of sweat and wheat and iron. "You belong to me," he informed him.
America shrank back an inch, then rallied himself and tried to sit up again. England's sheer proximity made it impossible, but he tried. "Th-that's not how it is. You--you look after me--"
"I've done everything for you. I've protected you, paid your debts, smoothed your way with the rest of Europe--did you think it was for charity?"
America tried to elbow England's arm aside so he could stand; England struck his boot onto the edge of the chair again. A spark of anger flashed across the young nation's face. "That's just your job! I'm a part of the British Empire!"
"That's right. You are." He gripped the stubborn child's jaw and forced him to meet his eyes. "And I am the British Empire. You exist for my benefit. So far you've scarcely been worth the effort." A flash of something passed through America's face--a long blink, a shamed stiffening of the neck. "I am finished with your impudence, your…unreasonable defiance! Do you have any idea of the trouble you've caused me?" America feebly tried to push him away again; England shoved him hard back into his chair, hard enough that the young man's teeth slammed together. America raised his hand to his mouth, and his fingers came away touched with watery blood. A seam of red gleamed between his lips. "If you had any notion of the generosity I've shown you--the sacrifices I've made for you, you ungrateful little bastard--"
"I--"
England tightened his hold on the other man's jaw. He knew there would be bruises, pale blue fingerprints in a few hours. "Did you think you were really that special? You would be nothing without me. A despised backwater. I have made you everything that you are! And you answer me with this…pathetic disrespect?"
The defiance had drained out of America. His eyes fell and he swallowed.
England leaned in and spoke against his ear. His hand dropped to the other nation's collar, drew him in close. America flushed wherever his breath touched. "You should be willing to do anything for me. I do own you, after all."
America closed his eyes for a moment, and something shivering and liquid seemed to pass through him. "I…would. Of course I would."
England threaded his fingers into the younger man's hair and twisted tight. A shudder passed through his ward, and he slumped an inch forward. "I think now would be a good time to demonstrate it."
America tugged back. England allowed it, his hand still knotted in the other's hair. America gave him an odd smile; a little bitter, a little shy, and it lingered once his gaze dropped away over England's shoulder. "You know I'm loyal to the crown," he mumbled.
England's fingers tightened in his hair. A reluctant flush blossomed on America's cheeks. "Do I?"
America still wouldn't look straight at him, and a flinch flickered across his eyes, but that strange smile softened. For some reason, it made England angrier. "You should. Sir. I've always…" The colony trailed off, and shrugged.
England finally pushed off the table. "Then prove it. Kneel."
America's gaze flew to his, and then he flushed deeper. He nodded a little and slid onto the floor. He hesitated a long moment, unsure of himself, or of what to do next, his eyes fixed on the floor between England's feet. England smiled to himself, unseen. That hideous pout was gone. For the moment there was nothing left here but subservience.
"Go on," he ordered, when it seemed like America lacked the spine to take the next step.
America mumbled something; it might have been "yes, sir." He kept his eyes fixed downwards, and fumbled with the catch of England's breeches. England felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight of the younger nation's awkwardness; it meant he was still innocent. Good; that means I've kept France from charting any more 'unexplored territories.' His eyelids fluttered closed as America's warm, soft mouth closed around him.
America took his cue from the soft, harsh sounds which escaped his suzerain state. His exploration was slow--cautious--harrowing. England stopped him briefly to drag his vacated chair over and leaned against it shakily. This was…unfamiliar: the hesitant caresses of a virgin. The others--everyone in Europe--they had all been made to play this part before, again and again, throughout history (and he blocked any thought of his own turns at humiliated subjugation, which rose in his distant memory like docking pylons at low tide). He could not remember if he had ever felt anything so gentle, so halting: so sweetly unsure.
He directed America with terse instructions:
"Establish a rhythm, damn it; this is no good."
"Not with your lips--use your tongue."
"Idiot, mind your teeth--"
"Ahh--there…there." One hand curled tighter around the back of the chair; the other snarled in America's hair. The colony made no sound of protest, but a shudder fell between his shoulder blades.
"Take it deeper."
"Deeper. …Yes--" His knuckles went white.
"Not so fast--I've nearly--I…fuck…ahh…"
The world went silent and red as he came, and he held America's face tight to his groin. The colony spluttered quietly, and made a wet coughing sound, but recovered. England held his eyes closed and wilted back against the chair, and relished the pounding of his heart, the little twitches, the dissipating heat.
Then he pulled away and refastened his britches. America stayed on his knees, hands on his thighs, head bowed. He moved a bit woodenly when he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. England raked a hand through his hair to fix it once his clothing was straightened. He glanced towards the door.
Then America muttered an extraordinary thing: "I'm sorry."
England's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
The young nation kept his gaze nailed to the floor, but the empire could see his cheeks heat. "I…I'm sorry, that I…haven't been…worth the effort." The words seemed to choke him.
England wasn't sure what to say.
America squeezed his eyes tighter shut. "I'm…I'm sorry I've disappointed you." More silence from the nation that ruled him. America seemed to fold in on himself a little. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I just want…wanted…"
That silence stretched on for years; for eternity.
So soft, a whisper then: "I just want you to be…to…"
When he couldn't even finish then, England realized he knew what America was trying to say anyway.
I just want you to be proud of me.
I just want you to love me.
The epiphany was cold and hot and dim and bright at once, and he felt himself flush and back away a step, towards the door. He knew he couldn't acknowledge it, but--he knew something had to be said. He wracked his mind for words, but everything was smothered beneath a surging, scarlet tide of embarrassment. He didn't even know why he was so embarassed, he just...
"You're…not a disappointment," he managed at last, his voice gruff, his arms folded. Little as it was, for the moment it seemed to be enough; America risked a quick glance at him, and some of the tension fell away from his shoulders. England rallied. "Just…do as you're bloody told from now on, all right?"
A shuddering breath escaped the colony, and he gave a quick nod. "Yes, sir."
"Fine." And with that, he left, without looking back at America, who still knelt on the floor.
This, too, was something perhaps best ignored.
Originally posted: 1/30/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 2,300 words.
Characters/Pairings: UK/colonial!US
Premise: England would like for America to remember just who it was to win the French & Indian War for him.
Time period: 1763
Smuttiness: 5/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 6/10
Lolhistoryness: 7/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's pretty uberdysfunctional. If that does it for you, eyy.
England collapsed into a chair at America's dining table and rucked his hand through his hair. He let out a long, unsteady breath, and gave the colony a perfunctory smile as he slid into the chair across from him. America wore the same too-energetic, idiot grin he seemed to smear around more and more these past few decades. England dismissed it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, after a pause, "That should about do it."
"That was great," America agreed.
England ignored him. He massaged his forehead and fixed his stare in the middle distance. "Of course, you haven't seen much fighting since that sod ran out of stockpiled wine in Montreal and decided it was high time he surrendered it, but--now the treaty's signed, and all France is left with on this side of the ocean is an island too small to piss off without putting one foot in the surf."
"This is just great. That thing at Havannah--and now Canada's ours! I have some friends who wanted to head up that way, get into furs? I'm sure Canada won't mind if some of my people decide to help themselves to--"
England looked up. His forearm dropped by the side of the table. "This is not great," he replied tersely. "And you're not taking anything off your brother."
America visibly brought himself up short. He frowned a little. "But I thought--"
"And you're not going west, either," England interrupted him again.
The colony's eyes clouded further. His fingertips beating a hyperactive tattoo on the tabletop. "But wasn't all this to--I mean, I thought the whole point of the war was so I could expand my territory. Wasn't it?" England gave him a weary look. He went on quickly, "Well, I mean, you had to help Prussia, and everything, but that was just…you know…"
England grimaced. He's a teenager. Of course he thinks everything is about him. "Whatever the case, I need you to not antagonize anyone for a while. You--"
"When do I ever antagonize anybody?" America sounded astonished.
"--Need to be respectful of your neighbors," he went on. "Don't harass Canada about his opinions."
America scowled. His forelock fell across his face. "But he's a papist."
"I don't care," England snapped. He noticed his fingers curling into a fist on the table, and examined his fingernails. "And for now, neither do you. I can't afford to dig you out of another war."
"Dig me out of--" he cut his protest short and tried a different one. "If it comes to that, I can afford to raise my own--"
"You certainly can't. You have to pay me back for this war."
America's finger-drumming stopped. "Wait, what?"
England fixed him with a stare. "You have to pay for all this new territory."
"But--why do I have to pay for new land that you won't even let me settle?" a note of challenge crept into his voice.
"You have to pay for the war that won you this new land, that you will eventually settle. Don't be so impatient."
He should have known better than to try. America was at the age that understood nothing but impatience. The youth sat straighter and folded his arms. "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to always tell me what to do. I can take care of myself."
England snorted and tugged the front of his jacket straight. "Oh, yes. You can take care of yourself so well that the prime minister had to personally baby-sit your war effort, or else you would have lost to France."
A muscle in his jaw shifted. "But France is gone now."
"I'm raising your taxes," England returned brusquely. He suddenly wanted a drink. He pushed out of his chair and crossed to the liquor cabinet. America's eyes tracked him, and the empire spared a glance back. America was as easy to see through as ever. England imagined he could see the steam rising off him as his petulant hostility boiled over.
"Maybe I just won't pay them," he announced.
Another brief, expressionless glance over his shoulder, and then England turned his attention to fixing his drink. He despised that defiant pout. Glass clinked gently against glass. He turned back to the younger man when he was sure he could keep an even voice. "Don't be idiotic."
"I don't see how it's idiotic." America's pose was all prideful resistance now: back straight, arms folded, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He glared at England from just below a too-long fringe of golden hair. "France is gone. Maybe I don't need you to protect me all the time anymore."
England waited. Took a drink.
"Maybe--" America hesitated, and for a moment England believed the little simpleton might have scrounged together the good sense to not finish that sentence. He kept speaking--too quickly, but clear and loud: "Maybe I'd be better off on my own."
England sighed to himself, then finished his drink and set the glass back on the cabinet with a quiet clink. He crossed the room to where America perched in his chair, all vibrating nervous energy. His hands were hooked in his pockets. "Say that again?" he asked, mild.
America set his sights on the far wall, refusing to look up at the older nation. "Maybe I'd be--"
A crack rang through the room as the back of England's hand connected with America's face. The younger man was knocked half into the table. His hand came up at once to cup his cheek, and he stared at England in shock. "E-England," he stammered.
England slapped him again, then planted his boot at the edge of America's chair, between his legs, and shoved him back into the table. He placed one hand on either side of his young ward, on the table edge, and leaned in close. He could smell the other man at this distance: a tang of sweat and wheat and iron. "You belong to me," he informed him.
America shrank back an inch, then rallied himself and tried to sit up again. England's sheer proximity made it impossible, but he tried. "Th-that's not how it is. You--you look after me--"
"I've done everything for you. I've protected you, paid your debts, smoothed your way with the rest of Europe--did you think it was for charity?"
America tried to elbow England's arm aside so he could stand; England struck his boot onto the edge of the chair again. A spark of anger flashed across the young nation's face. "That's just your job! I'm a part of the British Empire!"
"That's right. You are." He gripped the stubborn child's jaw and forced him to meet his eyes. "And I am the British Empire. You exist for my benefit. So far you've scarcely been worth the effort." A flash of something passed through America's face--a long blink, a shamed stiffening of the neck. "I am finished with your impudence, your…unreasonable defiance! Do you have any idea of the trouble you've caused me?" America feebly tried to push him away again; England shoved him hard back into his chair, hard enough that the young man's teeth slammed together. America raised his hand to his mouth, and his fingers came away touched with watery blood. A seam of red gleamed between his lips. "If you had any notion of the generosity I've shown you--the sacrifices I've made for you, you ungrateful little bastard--"
"I--"
England tightened his hold on the other man's jaw. He knew there would be bruises, pale blue fingerprints in a few hours. "Did you think you were really that special? You would be nothing without me. A despised backwater. I have made you everything that you are! And you answer me with this…pathetic disrespect?"
The defiance had drained out of America. His eyes fell and he swallowed.
England leaned in and spoke against his ear. His hand dropped to the other nation's collar, drew him in close. America flushed wherever his breath touched. "You should be willing to do anything for me. I do own you, after all."
America closed his eyes for a moment, and something shivering and liquid seemed to pass through him. "I…would. Of course I would."
England threaded his fingers into the younger man's hair and twisted tight. A shudder passed through his ward, and he slumped an inch forward. "I think now would be a good time to demonstrate it."
America tugged back. England allowed it, his hand still knotted in the other's hair. America gave him an odd smile; a little bitter, a little shy, and it lingered once his gaze dropped away over England's shoulder. "You know I'm loyal to the crown," he mumbled.
England's fingers tightened in his hair. A reluctant flush blossomed on America's cheeks. "Do I?"
America still wouldn't look straight at him, and a flinch flickered across his eyes, but that strange smile softened. For some reason, it made England angrier. "You should. Sir. I've always…" The colony trailed off, and shrugged.
England finally pushed off the table. "Then prove it. Kneel."
America's gaze flew to his, and then he flushed deeper. He nodded a little and slid onto the floor. He hesitated a long moment, unsure of himself, or of what to do next, his eyes fixed on the floor between England's feet. England smiled to himself, unseen. That hideous pout was gone. For the moment there was nothing left here but subservience.
"Go on," he ordered, when it seemed like America lacked the spine to take the next step.
America mumbled something; it might have been "yes, sir." He kept his eyes fixed downwards, and fumbled with the catch of England's breeches. England felt a rush of satisfaction at the sight of the younger nation's awkwardness; it meant he was still innocent. Good; that means I've kept France from charting any more 'unexplored territories.' His eyelids fluttered closed as America's warm, soft mouth closed around him.
America took his cue from the soft, harsh sounds which escaped his suzerain state. His exploration was slow--cautious--harrowing. England stopped him briefly to drag his vacated chair over and leaned against it shakily. This was…unfamiliar: the hesitant caresses of a virgin. The others--everyone in Europe--they had all been made to play this part before, again and again, throughout history (and he blocked any thought of his own turns at humiliated subjugation, which rose in his distant memory like docking pylons at low tide). He could not remember if he had ever felt anything so gentle, so halting: so sweetly unsure.
He directed America with terse instructions:
"Establish a rhythm, damn it; this is no good."
"Not with your lips--use your tongue."
"Idiot, mind your teeth--"
"Ahh--there…there." One hand curled tighter around the back of the chair; the other snarled in America's hair. The colony made no sound of protest, but a shudder fell between his shoulder blades.
"Take it deeper."
"Deeper. …Yes--" His knuckles went white.
"Not so fast--I've nearly--I…fuck…ahh…"
The world went silent and red as he came, and he held America's face tight to his groin. The colony spluttered quietly, and made a wet coughing sound, but recovered. England held his eyes closed and wilted back against the chair, and relished the pounding of his heart, the little twitches, the dissipating heat.
Then he pulled away and refastened his britches. America stayed on his knees, hands on his thighs, head bowed. He moved a bit woodenly when he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. England raked a hand through his hair to fix it once his clothing was straightened. He glanced towards the door.
Then America muttered an extraordinary thing: "I'm sorry."
England's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
The young nation kept his gaze nailed to the floor, but the empire could see his cheeks heat. "I…I'm sorry, that I…haven't been…worth the effort." The words seemed to choke him.
England wasn't sure what to say.
America squeezed his eyes tighter shut. "I'm…I'm sorry I've disappointed you." More silence from the nation that ruled him. America seemed to fold in on himself a little. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I just want…wanted…"
That silence stretched on for years; for eternity.
So soft, a whisper then: "I just want you to be…to…"
When he couldn't even finish then, England realized he knew what America was trying to say anyway.
I just want you to be proud of me.
I just want you to love me.
The epiphany was cold and hot and dim and bright at once, and he felt himself flush and back away a step, towards the door. He knew he couldn't acknowledge it, but--he knew something had to be said. He wracked his mind for words, but everything was smothered beneath a surging, scarlet tide of embarrassment. He didn't even know why he was so embarassed, he just...
"You're…not a disappointment," he managed at last, his voice gruff, his arms folded. Little as it was, for the moment it seemed to be enough; America risked a quick glance at him, and some of the tension fell away from his shoulders. England rallied. "Just…do as you're bloody told from now on, all right?"
A shuddering breath escaped the colony, and he gave a quick nod. "Yes, sir."
"Fine." And with that, he left, without looking back at America, who still knelt on the floor.
This, too, was something perhaps best ignored.