Lol i really did leave this a little late.
Me on Xmas: Imma write a oneshot!
Me 5mins later: Screw it.
Me on New Year's Eve: OK time to watch Epic Movie!
Me on New Year's Eve: This time there are no excuses! *determined face*
So I wrote it and BOOM! You're pregnant.
New Year
Pounding headache. Pain. So much pain.
Have I just been attacked by a giant walrus wielding a chainsaw and a lightsaber?
Possible, but I think it was something more along the lines of a fucking hangover. Dammit.
And I have no fucking idea whatsoever what happened last night.
I really should move some time, I think. But no. Opening my eyes would be a bad idea, and motion would make me nauseous. This bed is comfortable and warm, and, upon preliminary observation, I seem to be surrounded by cushions.
On the other hand, I have no idea where I am, or what happened last night, but I am fairly sure I don't own this many cushions.
Curiosity killed the cat, you say? Yeah, if my brain were a cat, it would be dead right now.
"Jesus!" I yell, batting at the light. Why is it that the first thing on the morning after the light is actually more evil than fucking Sauron?
A tired groan comes from my right and I freeze, and slowly inch my eyes to the left.
Oh.
Fuck.
England.
I'm dancing under flashing lights, music beating into my ears. There's a couple of random girls in sunglasses and not much else grinding up against me, which I suppose I should take as a complement, but seeing as they are stupider than I am they would probably grind up against a goat with leprosy if they could.
One of them sticks her tongue in my ear, which is fucking random, because why the FUCK would anyone want to TASTE the inside of someone's fucking EAR? Queue drink break.
"Bourbon on the rocks," I yell at the bartender. At least I think that's what I said. I'm drunk as fuck by that point so I'm not entirely sure.
"And then I said, yeah, bitch, I'm sure you've got a motherfucking wand but I don't want to see it."
"Hey! Iggy!"
England's bleary-eyed and muss-haired, and his tie is around his head. And let me tell you, he looks damn sexy. Maybe it's something about the way his shirt is half-unbuttoned over his lithe, muscular chest, or how his eyebrows look like velvet, or the way his pale skin looks almost fluorescent in this lighting. Or maybe I'm just incredibly horny.
Yeah, probably a combination of all 4… Especially the eyebrows, damn those sexy bitches.
He continues talking without even looking in my direction, instead waving and jabbing fingers at the empty air in a vaguely accusatory fashion.
"And it's all your fault that I had no eyebrows that one time! I'm the laughing stock of the entire fucking universe because you told me you'd wax them for me!"
"Iggy! Hey, Iggy!"
"And you, Nigella," he said, whacking the table emphatically, "Can shut the fuck up. I mean I'm sure you think it would taste better with more lard than a fucking pig, but I don't bloody agree! Damn you and your cooking and your fucking heritage! Why couldn't you be American you inconsiderate bitch?!"
"England," I said, pulling on his tie so he had to look at me. "Who the fuck is Nigella?"
He looks at me, blinking. "I dunno, sexy," he says, leaning close and kissing me on my open mouth. "Wanna get out of here?"
"Oh," I said softly. "Right. That's what happened."
He turned over in his sleep, muttering slightly as his eyes flutter open.
There's a hicky the size of Russia on his neck.
Wait… Was that me? Oh fuck…
His little pointy nose twitches in a rabbit-like way, which is strangely attractive, and then his eyes blinked open. He had a momentary oh-fuck-the-death-star-is-shooting-lasers-into-my-eyes moment, which was so cute I'm not even going to say, and then his hazy eyes focus on me, and I know I'm fucked.
"America! What is this?" he yells, and then we both wince, because it's way louder than either of us want to put up with.
"Well, to be honest, I think it's exactly what it looks like."
He frowns. "Are you taking the piss?"
I blink. "Dude, just what the fuck with the weird slang."
"That's not the point!" he yells again, and sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I bet you did this on purpose! I bet you just wanted to make me look stupid!"
I feel my face crease up in confusion; what the fuck did I do now? I mean, he's not the only one who's just woken up with a massive hangover, in bed with a naked guy, with no memory of how we got there. On the other hand, he probably hasn't just royally fucked up any chance of getting with his crush. So I think he has the upper hand in this situation.
"Iggy, what are you talking about?"
He shakes his head and shifts over in the bed, away from me, out of my reach.
"Admit it. As soon as I kick you out you'll go over to all the others and relate the tale of how you got me drunk and fucked me, and how easy I was, and how it wasn't even that good!"
"Wait, when did this start being about you? I'm involved in this too!"
"Yes, well, we all know why, don't we?"
"What?"
"You just want to belittle me, you always-"
I kiss him.
Okay, in my defence, I do not do this on a whim. I have reasons.
1) He was yelling and I just wanted him to shut up;
2) It seemed like a good idea at the time;
3) He seemed to think I was using him as a prostitute or something; and,
4) As I have already said, he looks cuter than a fucking bunny rabbit swimming in rainbows and shitting out the squees of deranged fangirls at this time in the morning.
So I don't think I really deserve the bitch-slap that came next. And man, can England bitch-slap. Seriously, if they had a bitch-slapping contest he'd win the Most Sexy While Bitch-Slapping and Most Pain Initiated By A Single Bitch Slap awards at the same time.
"What the fuck, dude?"
"I could ask you the same thing!" He says, cheeks even redder than mine.
"No, I think that what I did was in this situation, perfectly normal and justified! What you did, on the other hand, is nuts!"
"It was out of line!"
"I kissed you, for fuck's sake! I like you and I wanted to kiss you! I don't want to live in a world where that is out of line!"
"Oh for god's sake," he huffs, and turns his back on me.
"Look, England, we did this the wrong way. I like you, and I would never want to do anything to hurt you. Please will you go out with me?" I ask, and I hope I sound genuine and not , because I feel a combination of the two. I mean, jeez, I just got bitch-slapped. I think I have license to be pissed.
He looks back at me, and the uncertainty and confusion in his eyes are obvious.
"Do you really mean that?"
I smile and kiss him on the forehead, hoping he won't nut me as I whisper, "'Course. Heroes don't lie."
"You really like me?"
Since he hasn't nutted me, I kiss him gently on the lips and say, "I really, really like you."
His eyes soften, but as much of a romantic as I may call him he can't let a soppy moment like this go unruined.
"And I really, really hate your nasty alcoholic morning breath."
I smile, thinking that this is going much better than I have ever hoped. I still have my balls, and I've only been slapped once, and I'm not missing any significant amounts of skin or blood.
"Well," I say, winking. "Want to take a shower?"
He shakes his head, and as we slip off the bed I realise he needn't have worried about being taken advantage of. And that I won't be able to sit down for the rest of the day.
Don't ask me where this came from or what it was inspired by, I was watching the Lion King when suddenly I had this mental image of a drunken England yelling about Nigella and America kissing him to shut him the fuck up, so I guess this is what you got.
HAPPY NEW YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR BITCHES!