Five Some
Well. I'm not saying anything. Just. Have fic.
Title: This Would Be The Beginning
Rating: So very R. For phone sex and language.
Word count: 1,509
Summary/Notes: Shocking as it may be, Hetalia の America/England. America phones. He's got tea on his mind.
Oh, and of course, my dearest cienna beta'd, America-picked, encouraged and cajouled. Lovingly. Avec tea.
This Would Be the Beginning.
It's America calling. England recognises the number on the telephone display.
England answers with, "America," and America interrupts, "Hi, hey, England. I had this great idea."
England thinks that's probably not a good thing but he has a cup of tea and the weather's good, so for the sake of relative harmony and his good mood he asks, "And what might that be?"
America says, "You know you said you wouldn't sleep with me last time I was over because you don't keep lube in the house in case France comes over unannounced..."
America trails off, and he sounds so happy that England just knows this isn't going to be anything he wants to hear. He puts his tea cup down on the hall table next to the phone, regretting not picking up the cordless phone (because now he has to stand and listen to America jabber on about some absolute rubbish for who knows how long). He feels his good mood slipping away.
England says, slowly, cautiously, "Yeeees."
"Well, you always have tea, right?” America quickly responds. England is almost convinced he can hear America grinning.
Yes, England decides. Yes, he really doesn't want to hear this.
England considers hanging up, then reconsiders because, well, America will only call him again. And if he pulls the phone out America will just call his mobile, and if he turns that off America will only get on a plane to harass him in person.
So England says, "Of course."
"So how about we use that?" America says excitably. "As a lube, I mean. It's liquid, right? And you'll like the taste, and I don't mind it."
England looks forlornly at his cooling cup of tea and thinks, I could see that coming. I really could. He can't seem to take his eyes off it now. He is definitely not considering its potential lubricating properties.
It's a wonder why he didn't just say no from the moment he picked up the phone. That really would have saved him a lot of trouble, and by now he really should know better. He makes a mental note for next time.
Which there will not be. Ever. Because they will never be having a conversation about tea for this purpose ever ever again. England hopes.
However, the damage is done now, and England would think that America was drunk except for the fact that he sounds perfectly sober. And really, this is not even close to the most ridiculous thing America has ever said.
Even so, England thinks, I'll use logic. It might work. (Stranger things have happened.)
"America, tea is hot," he explains.
"Yeah I know, but we could put ice cubes in it!" America replies, instantly, like he's already thought this through and has made a list of arguments in support of his idea.
"Don't worry," America says, worryingly. "I've thought this through."
England shudders, and he can't decide if it's the thought of ice cubes in certain delicate regions, or the ominous ramifications of America thinking this through.
"Freezing cold objects in particular areas of the anatomy will not help," England says, trying to somehow put this delicately.
"You think it'll ruin your hard-on?" America asks, and England wonders why he even thought to bother. This was America, after all.
England says, "I never said that. I just don't think it will be entirely comfortable."
America laughs. "We fuck each other in the ass. How comfortable can it be?"
"Comfortable enough not to freeze my knob off," England retorts. He leans against the door frame, feeling entirely too exhausted from this conversation. It's getting late, but he imagines it's still pretty early wherever America is in his ridiculously over-sized country.
"Good point, good point," America concedes. There's a pause in which England assumes America is contemplating this dilemma, then, "How about we just add cold water then?"
England sighs, deeply. "Look," he says. "You're rather missing the point."
America asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Which is?"
"That tea would make a highly ineffective lubricant," England tries to explain. Calmly. He's not even sure why he's still talking to America. Except that maybe he hasn't talked to the idiot in days and maybe, just a little bit, he's enjoying it. Except he's not, because, "It's also a hideous waste of good tea."
"We could use bad tea?" America persists.
“What," England snorts, "Like your tea."
"Hey now," America says. "No need to get bitchy."
"It's only the truth," England replies, feeling just a little bit smug. He wonders if America is just playing with him; if this is all some weird over-thought out ploy to make fun of him. Or maybe just to talk to him. He wouldn't put it past America who, for all his bombast was still nothing more than a loud, annoying brat. And no matter what anyone else said, England wasn't going to take responsibility for that.
On the phone America says, "Whatever," dismissively, then grumps, "I was only trying to be helpful."
England says, "And not succeeding at all. Leave the tea out of this. And get off the phone whilst you're at it. I'm busy." It's a lie, and America will likely know it, but he can't stop himself from saying it anyway.
Also, he really would like to drink his tea that was getting cold at some point.
"Busy thinking about me fucking you," America retorts suddenly, sounding annoyed and not a little bit put out.
England chokes, and thinks, tea, tea, tea, tea.
"I am not," is just about the best reply he can come up with because he wasn't thinking about it before but he is now.
Along with the tea.
"I bet," America goes on. "You want to pour tea over me and then lick it all off." America pauses, then says, in a lower tone, "slowly."
"Pour it over you and watch you burn, more like," England snaps, because this really is beyond the pail and, shit, his trousers are feeling a little tight and maybe putting down the phone right about now would be a good idea after all.
"You wouldn't," America says, and he sounds so sure of it. "You would lick me, and while you were licking me I would suck you off, real slow. Just the way you like it."
England wants to say, "Do not," except he does, and he wants that, and, "Fucking hell, America, why are you even calling me about this? If you wanted sex, you know where I am."
"I do," America purrs. "You would drink your tea out of my belly button, and follow it with your tongue as it drips down my thighs."
America's starting to sound a bit breathy now. "Your hands would hold my cock and your thumb would stroke along it. I like it when you do that, you know. I would hold your hips still as I lick you and taste you. You would moan and move your hands faster on me, and I would take you deeper in my mouth and it would be wet and hot."
"I would not," England protests. He's going to put the phone down. He really is. Any minute. And he is most certainly not going to touch himself.
Also, where the fuck did America learn to talk so dirtily. “Has France been teaching you weird things again?” England asks suspiciously. America just ignores him.
"Then I would put my fingers in you,” he says, or more like breathes, “One at a time, and they would be covered in tea, England. I would keep moving them until you whimper and then I'll know I've found your happy place." He clicks his tongue. "You'd writhe and squirm and fuck yourself on my fingers and you won't be able to stop yourself because it's going to be so damn good."
England thinks, happy place? But America isn't stopping, and England is looking at the tea in his teacup, staining the white porcelain and he's thinking of sheets twisted around his ankles and America's annoying, big mouth around his cock. England grimaces, realising he's either going to have to knock his head against the wall or hump it if he wants to prevent himself from exploding.
"You would taste tea," America is saying, "And you would feel my fingers in you, twisting and fucking you, and my tongue would be on your cock, sucking, moving up and down slowly, then fast. My lips would kiss you and slide against your skin and you'd want more and you'd beg for it, so I'd take your balls in my other hand and then you would come in my mouth, trying to thrust into me. You would come so hard it fucking hurt."
No, England thinks, sort of fuzzily, no he would not, except what he says is, "Fuck," and "America," and "How long are flights again?"
America laughs, "I know, right? Lucky for you I'm outside your door."
England says, "You fucking bastard," then really does slam the phone down.
.And this would not be the End.
Concrit? Comments? Err. Possibly.
Title: This Would Be The Beginning
Rating: So very R. For phone sex and language.
Word count: 1,509
Summary/Notes: Shocking as it may be, Hetalia の America/England. America phones. He's got tea on his mind.
Oh, and of course, my dearest cienna beta'd, America-picked, encouraged and cajouled. Lovingly. Avec tea.
This Would Be the Beginning.
It's America calling. England recognises the number on the telephone display.
England answers with, "America," and America interrupts, "Hi, hey, England. I had this great idea."
England thinks that's probably not a good thing but he has a cup of tea and the weather's good, so for the sake of relative harmony and his good mood he asks, "And what might that be?"
America says, "You know you said you wouldn't sleep with me last time I was over because you don't keep lube in the house in case France comes over unannounced..."
America trails off, and he sounds so happy that England just knows this isn't going to be anything he wants to hear. He puts his tea cup down on the hall table next to the phone, regretting not picking up the cordless phone (because now he has to stand and listen to America jabber on about some absolute rubbish for who knows how long). He feels his good mood slipping away.
England says, slowly, cautiously, "Yeeees."
"Well, you always have tea, right?” America quickly responds. England is almost convinced he can hear America grinning.
Yes, England decides. Yes, he really doesn't want to hear this.
England considers hanging up, then reconsiders because, well, America will only call him again. And if he pulls the phone out America will just call his mobile, and if he turns that off America will only get on a plane to harass him in person.
So England says, "Of course."
"So how about we use that?" America says excitably. "As a lube, I mean. It's liquid, right? And you'll like the taste, and I don't mind it."
England looks forlornly at his cooling cup of tea and thinks, I could see that coming. I really could. He can't seem to take his eyes off it now. He is definitely not considering its potential lubricating properties.
It's a wonder why he didn't just say no from the moment he picked up the phone. That really would have saved him a lot of trouble, and by now he really should know better. He makes a mental note for next time.
Which there will not be. Ever. Because they will never be having a conversation about tea for this purpose ever ever again. England hopes.
However, the damage is done now, and England would think that America was drunk except for the fact that he sounds perfectly sober. And really, this is not even close to the most ridiculous thing America has ever said.
Even so, England thinks, I'll use logic. It might work. (Stranger things have happened.)
"America, tea is hot," he explains.
"Yeah I know, but we could put ice cubes in it!" America replies, instantly, like he's already thought this through and has made a list of arguments in support of his idea.
"Don't worry," America says, worryingly. "I've thought this through."
England shudders, and he can't decide if it's the thought of ice cubes in certain delicate regions, or the ominous ramifications of America thinking this through.
"Freezing cold objects in particular areas of the anatomy will not help," England says, trying to somehow put this delicately.
"You think it'll ruin your hard-on?" America asks, and England wonders why he even thought to bother. This was America, after all.
England says, "I never said that. I just don't think it will be entirely comfortable."
America laughs. "We fuck each other in the ass. How comfortable can it be?"
"Comfortable enough not to freeze my knob off," England retorts. He leans against the door frame, feeling entirely too exhausted from this conversation. It's getting late, but he imagines it's still pretty early wherever America is in his ridiculously over-sized country.
"Good point, good point," America concedes. There's a pause in which England assumes America is contemplating this dilemma, then, "How about we just add cold water then?"
England sighs, deeply. "Look," he says. "You're rather missing the point."
America asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Which is?"
"That tea would make a highly ineffective lubricant," England tries to explain. Calmly. He's not even sure why he's still talking to America. Except that maybe he hasn't talked to the idiot in days and maybe, just a little bit, he's enjoying it. Except he's not, because, "It's also a hideous waste of good tea."
"We could use bad tea?" America persists.
“What," England snorts, "Like your tea."
"Hey now," America says. "No need to get bitchy."
"It's only the truth," England replies, feeling just a little bit smug. He wonders if America is just playing with him; if this is all some weird over-thought out ploy to make fun of him. Or maybe just to talk to him. He wouldn't put it past America who, for all his bombast was still nothing more than a loud, annoying brat. And no matter what anyone else said, England wasn't going to take responsibility for that.
On the phone America says, "Whatever," dismissively, then grumps, "I was only trying to be helpful."
England says, "And not succeeding at all. Leave the tea out of this. And get off the phone whilst you're at it. I'm busy." It's a lie, and America will likely know it, but he can't stop himself from saying it anyway.
Also, he really would like to drink his tea that was getting cold at some point.
"Busy thinking about me fucking you," America retorts suddenly, sounding annoyed and not a little bit put out.
England chokes, and thinks, tea, tea, tea, tea.
"I am not," is just about the best reply he can come up with because he wasn't thinking about it before but he is now.
Along with the tea.
"I bet," America goes on. "You want to pour tea over me and then lick it all off." America pauses, then says, in a lower tone, "slowly."
"Pour it over you and watch you burn, more like," England snaps, because this really is beyond the pail and, shit, his trousers are feeling a little tight and maybe putting down the phone right about now would be a good idea after all.
"You wouldn't," America says, and he sounds so sure of it. "You would lick me, and while you were licking me I would suck you off, real slow. Just the way you like it."
England wants to say, "Do not," except he does, and he wants that, and, "Fucking hell, America, why are you even calling me about this? If you wanted sex, you know where I am."
"I do," America purrs. "You would drink your tea out of my belly button, and follow it with your tongue as it drips down my thighs."
America's starting to sound a bit breathy now. "Your hands would hold my cock and your thumb would stroke along it. I like it when you do that, you know. I would hold your hips still as I lick you and taste you. You would moan and move your hands faster on me, and I would take you deeper in my mouth and it would be wet and hot."
"I would not," England protests. He's going to put the phone down. He really is. Any minute. And he is most certainly not going to touch himself.
Also, where the fuck did America learn to talk so dirtily. “Has France been teaching you weird things again?” England asks suspiciously. America just ignores him.
"Then I would put my fingers in you,” he says, or more like breathes, “One at a time, and they would be covered in tea, England. I would keep moving them until you whimper and then I'll know I've found your happy place." He clicks his tongue. "You'd writhe and squirm and fuck yourself on my fingers and you won't be able to stop yourself because it's going to be so damn good."
England thinks, happy place? But America isn't stopping, and England is looking at the tea in his teacup, staining the white porcelain and he's thinking of sheets twisted around his ankles and America's annoying, big mouth around his cock. England grimaces, realising he's either going to have to knock his head against the wall or hump it if he wants to prevent himself from exploding.
"You would taste tea," America is saying, "And you would feel my fingers in you, twisting and fucking you, and my tongue would be on your cock, sucking, moving up and down slowly, then fast. My lips would kiss you and slide against your skin and you'd want more and you'd beg for it, so I'd take your balls in my other hand and then you would come in my mouth, trying to thrust into me. You would come so hard it fucking hurt."
No, England thinks, sort of fuzzily, no he would not, except what he says is, "Fuck," and "America," and "How long are flights again?"
America laughs, "I know, right? Lucky for you I'm outside your door."
England says, "You fucking bastard," then really does slam the phone down.
.And this would not be the End.
Concrit? Comments? Err. Possibly.