England is sitting in America's living room, predictably curled up with a post-supper cup of tea, when America rounds the corner. Soft, yellow light, bathes the room, easy on the eyes for a quiet evening. It softens her face and sinks into her hair, lulling him into a sense of domesticity. As he steps forward, England catches his movement. At first, she only gives him the barest of assessments, before a familiar furrow finds itself between her eyebrows. "Bringing in the post this late?" she asks, mug halfway to her lips.

America grins. "Nah, I've had this one waiting for a while." He crosses the living room in two long strides before plopping down ungracefully next to England (who reflexively leans forward, holding her tea carefully out of reach). In between them is a simple gift-wrapped box.

Nothing is ever simple with America.

Setting her tea down (away from America), England shifts on the couch, turning to face her gifter. "Do I even want to know what this is about?" she grouses, but her fingers trace the edges of the lid with carefully restrained excitement.

"What," America says, leaning back with mock affront, hand placed over his heart, "a guy can't buy a gift for the gal he likes? And you say romance is dead, England." She scoffs at his melodrama, but America is already shaking his head, committed to the routine. "I thought you, of all people, would appreciate a little sentiment...but if you're really against it…"

"Alright, enough with the theatrics!" she cuts in, yet there's a smile playing on her lips. "You really ought to work on your guilt-tripping, it's absolutely awful."

Laughing, America pushes the box closer to her. "It worked, didn't it?"

"I suppose it did," England concedes. She looks up at America through her eyelashes, and America is suddenly aware of the closeness between them. If it wasn't for what was in the box, he might have leaned in to steal a kiss. "Thank you, really," she says. "I do appreciate it."

America returns the smile, and hopes it looks equally melting and not at all conniving. "I'm glad. When I first saw this, I knew I had to get it for you."

He nudges the box even closer, and, poker face in place, watches as England lifts up the cover of the box...and stares.

Inside is a single bra.

America observes, with glee, as her face transforms from fondness to confusion.

The cups of the bra have tea cups jutting out of them.

"Wha—" she begins to say, before realization dawns across her face, abruptly blanking her features.

She looks at America. Back to the box. Back to America, whose face is now in an ear-splitting grin, and who is shaking from restrained laughter.

"I should have known better," she mutters, halfway standing up off the sofa. America jumps up to cut her off from leaving the room, finally succumbing to howling peals of laughter as he pushes her back down on the couch. "Ugh—get off," she grunts, but America is shaking too hard from his mirth to listen properly.

"It's just—ain't it—isn't it great?!" America chokes out, gesturing to the box. "It's perfect for you. C'mon, you've got to wear it,"

"Hilarious. Your sense of humor continues to astound me," England deadpans. "...did you really buy a brassiere with tea cups attached? Where on earth did you even find such a thing?"

Seeing that England has transitioned from denial to acceptance, America lifts the teacup bra out of the box, pushing the container away so he can sit. "It's a long story," he handwaves away. "But onto the more important issue—England, it's pretty much your national duty to wear it."

"Absolutely not," says England. "You know, just because I drink tea doesn't mean that I'm obsessed with it!"

America stares at her. "You literally went to war over tea. You drink multiple cups every single day. Hell, you and China even set up tea stations in meeting rooms because breaks aren't enough for y'all. You're drinking tea right now!"

"That's just a coincidence," she insists. "I suppose to someone like you, who can't appreciate the appeal of a proper cuppa—"

"—there isn't any, by the way—"

"—it might come off as obsession, but really, there is nothing unreasonable about it."

America disagrees, but the conversation is getting away from his real purpose: seeing England half naked in this bra. Never let anyone say America couldn't prioritize when he really needed to. "So it isn't completely unreasonable," he lies through his teeth. "But—"

England is crossing her arms and settling back on the sofa, fully prepared to continue being stubborn. Fuck it, he isn't above begging at this point. "...alright," he says, affecting a defeated tone. "If you're really against it, I won't push."

England is squinting at him, obviously in disbelief. America dramatically slows his movements and turns to stuff the bra back into the box, letting the teacups obnoxiously clink against each other. "It's just a gag gift, anyway. Thought it be funny ya know, but I know British humor is like advanced, or whatever, so guess it isn't…"

An arm reaches around him to snatch the box out of his hands. "I'll wear it," England huffs. "Just this once. And I thought I told you to cease the theatrics."

America beams, and doesn't mention that it's worked twice now. "Aw, England, you're the best!" He grins, and leans in quickly to peck at her lips. Red splotches appear on her cheeks, and she looks away in pretend annoyance, but he can see her suppress the curves of a smile.

"Well, turn around, at the very least," she demands with mock modesty (as if last night never occurred…), and America is in a good enough mood that he obliges.

He can hear the clinking of the cups as she puzzles out how to wear the garment. Finally, she announces that he can turn back around.

"Ta da," England says, waving her hands with mock pizzazz.

It's...it's better than expected.

The overall look is surprisingly attractive. The cups jut out, affecting a busty illusion, but oddly seem to accentuate the roundness of her breasts. Covered in the soft glow of the lamp, hair down and loose over her shoulders, America is distracted for a brief second.

England raises an expectant eyebrow. "Does it match your expectations?"

"Oh yeah, it's great," America says in a faraway voice. He reaches out to hook his fingers through the handles of the teacups, fitting his hands over the curve of her breasts. He tugs downwards, and England winces as the straps dig into her shoulders.

After a moment, America says, "You gotta admit, it is pretty funny though."

England eyes America. "...there's some humor in it."

"And you look pretty fucking hot wearing it."

She swats him lightly over the head. "Git," she mutters, but lets him kiss her again anyway.

This story was inspired by a tumblr post I once read (see story cover image). This is a non-explicit version of the fic. If you would like to read the explicit version, please find me on tumblr or AO3 under the same name (anglaland).