[ oneshot ] Cleanliness is Next To // This Beat is Sick [ England/America ]
Title: Cleanliness is Next To...
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: England/America.
Word Count: 900
Warnings: Plain smut. Plot not needed here.
Summary: Alfred and Arthur in a shower, enjoying themselves.
Author Notes: Written for kink meme. Newly edited version.
Alfred laughs between inhaled gasps, the water sluicing down his face in mockery of tears. “I am not--” He swallows, drinks the tepid water and attempts to not slip on slick wet tiles as Arthur twists wickedly knowing fingers inside of him.
"Getting blamed for this?” Arthur finishes for him before biting the curve of Alfred's buttocks, digits relentlessly shifting to a feral beat. Alfred’s been ready to accept him for a while -- now he's merely enjoying the hitching intensity of Alfred’s voice.
“Right. That.” The American agrees breathlessly. They're not going to be late for the meeting at this pace, they're going to miss it entirely and Francis is going to look at them sideways with suspicion and envy. Shoulders flex as he shifts to lay hands flat on the smooth wall, the nozzle right above his head. The steady waterfall beats against his skin, and he feels like he’s going to burst if something doesn’t happen.
Arthur can’t be bothered to think about the meeting at the moment. It’ll be business as usual. Bickering, degrading name-calling with nothing getting done in the end. No, thank you. He prefers to have Alfred squirming under his control. Arthur’s free hand migrates south and grips Alfred’s cock, luring a distinctly satisfying whine from the younger.
Arthur smiles beatifically and withdraws his fingers, copiously thick with lube. He doesn’t bother to anoint his cock.
He rises from his knees and molds himself to Alfred’s body, knows those amazingly blue eyes are closed from the way his lover’s head is tilted back. He nibbles on the back of the nape, resists the urge to leave an incriminating mark, rubs his cheek against the soaked strands. So sweet and trusting and his.
Alfred chokes as Arthur suddenly slides his cock in deep without warning.
“Jesus!” His legs are parted as far as they can go without it becoming dangerous and he’s tense, gripping Arthur tightly inside of him even as the other strokes his erection lazily, massaging head to root with a calloused palm.
Green eyes glitter with amusement that even hunger can’t vanquish entirely, and Arthur chuckles wickedly even as he feels like he’s found a little piece of heaven that he’s willing to go to hell for. “I don’t see him.” He blows in Alfred’s ear. “Do you?”
“W-what?” Alfred stutters, confused, and then groans, not caring. “Move already, won’t you?”
“As you please.” There’s a time for making jokes at Alfred’s expense and there’s a time for buggering his lover into wordless ecstasy (and they do not happen to coincide). Arthur begins moving his hips. Long and lean thrusts, demonstrating considerable control even as his hand clamps harshly on the other blonde’s shoulder, revealing that he’d love to go harder, rougher -- if he didn’t think that would result in a lot of difficult-to-explain-away-innocently multihued bruises.
Meeting each thrust is Alfred pushing back against him, impatient, always eager, throwing his head back even more. The water streams across both of their bodies now, intimate touches of a ghostly third lover with them in the shower. Their murmurs and groans are dulled by the steady white noise, the slap and glide of flesh.
The free hand moves down to Alfred’s torso, toying with his nipples even as its companion resumes moving across the engorged shaft. Alfred can’t move, is effectively tied up, because his hands on the wall are the only thing keeping him from being fucked against it. He’s speaking without realizing it; ‘Yesyesyesyes’ and the other can hear the heartfelt mantra.
Arthur buries his face into the curve of Alfred’s throat, his thrusts becoming rougher, hands moving now randomly, without purpose, simply wanting to touch as Alfred jerks in his arms and a cry vibrates from his throat, a relieved, almost mute thing. Arthur reaches down again as his hips move quicker, helping the other ride out the waves of his orgasm because he himself is so close--
Alfred risks removing an arm from the wall and reaches behind to grip Arthur’s hair, yanking the man’s face from his throat and capturing his mouth in a kiss, keeping his eyes open to witness the all-consuming lust that has turned bright green eyes into near black.
Arthur gasps into his mouth and pushes against him, hard, almost shoves him into the wall. Alfred can feel the heat and wetness being released inside of him and sighs, satisfied, softening his grip on Arthur’s hair but not his kiss, playfully licking and invading the other’s mouth until he comes down from his high.
“We are really going to be late.” Alfred murmurs with the edges of his lips curving as he reaches for the soap, feeling Arthur withdraw from him carefully, still panting.
It’s a waste of water to take two showers in a row but so worth it, Alfred’s smile implies
Title: This Beat Is Sick
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: APH does not belong to moi.
Warnings: Faint spoilers to the Revolutionary war.
Pairing: UK/USA
Summary: America has a song stuck in his head, and England really wants him to shut up and focus.
Author Notes: Written for the kink meme, rewrite.
"This was not--" America's head tilts back, his hair so shiny and golden that England's fingers itch to card through it, see if the temptation matches up to the hype.
Then his former colony's hips come down again, riding his lap, and England moans incoherently.
"--what I meant."
America. Loudmouth until the end.
"Shut the bloody hell up." England snarls; he's about two minutes away from coming so hard that he might come close to dying (and wouldn't that be a stitch, a country dying from fantastic sex) and America laughs in a way that both makes England want to kiss him and gag him.
"I want to take a ride on your disco stick~" Hips move, roll, and America has a sinuous way of sliding and gliding and grinding, taking all of him in, so unselfconscious of his taking and giving of pleasure that England wonders where the hell he learned that, but he knows it's only America, raw, wild, at his most basic core. "Let's have some fun, this beat is sick~"
England is scowling, pretending that those words aren't sexy, that he watches those lips come together and doesn't think about them on his cock, and it's all ridiculously pretentious when he has the younger by his waist and is slowly pushing up to meet him with the slap of flesh, their bodies perspiring.
England's feet dig into the bed, seeking purchase, and America stops singing as he tosses his head back again. Knowing fingers wrap around his erection, ignored until now, as England is too close to the edge and doesn't want to come before America does.
No; he wants to come with America.
A needy, painful, savagely satisfied sound rips from his boy's throat and England clenches his teeth as America clamps down on him and spurts in his hand. England closes his eyes and stops resisting the inevitable, pulling America harder against him as he climaxes.
It leaves him breathless to realize that America is allowing him to claim him again, even if momentarily, and it's all tied up with thoughts of rifles in the rain and boots stuck in mud and tears in his eyes because of unending loss, flashes of these thoughts as he slumps on the bed, trying to gasp for breath.
Then America comes down on his chest, warm, utterly sated, still sensuous but sluggish now. He licks at one of England's nipples, gathering the sweat on his tongue, and England's heart skips a beat.
Shit.
He covers his face. There's a frailty about him at that moment that he can't afford. So he goes on the offense. "Your taste in music is deplorable.”
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: England/America.
Word Count: 900
Warnings: Plain smut. Plot not needed here.
Summary: Alfred and Arthur in a shower, enjoying themselves.
Author Notes: Written for kink meme. Newly edited version.
Alfred laughs between inhaled gasps, the water sluicing down his face in mockery of tears. “I am not--” He swallows, drinks the tepid water and attempts to not slip on slick wet tiles as Arthur twists wickedly knowing fingers inside of him.
"Getting blamed for this?” Arthur finishes for him before biting the curve of Alfred's buttocks, digits relentlessly shifting to a feral beat. Alfred’s been ready to accept him for a while -- now he's merely enjoying the hitching intensity of Alfred’s voice.
“Right. That.” The American agrees breathlessly. They're not going to be late for the meeting at this pace, they're going to miss it entirely and Francis is going to look at them sideways with suspicion and envy. Shoulders flex as he shifts to lay hands flat on the smooth wall, the nozzle right above his head. The steady waterfall beats against his skin, and he feels like he’s going to burst if something doesn’t happen.
Arthur can’t be bothered to think about the meeting at the moment. It’ll be business as usual. Bickering, degrading name-calling with nothing getting done in the end. No, thank you. He prefers to have Alfred squirming under his control. Arthur’s free hand migrates south and grips Alfred’s cock, luring a distinctly satisfying whine from the younger.
Arthur smiles beatifically and withdraws his fingers, copiously thick with lube. He doesn’t bother to anoint his cock.
He rises from his knees and molds himself to Alfred’s body, knows those amazingly blue eyes are closed from the way his lover’s head is tilted back. He nibbles on the back of the nape, resists the urge to leave an incriminating mark, rubs his cheek against the soaked strands. So sweet and trusting and his.
Alfred chokes as Arthur suddenly slides his cock in deep without warning.
“Jesus!” His legs are parted as far as they can go without it becoming dangerous and he’s tense, gripping Arthur tightly inside of him even as the other strokes his erection lazily, massaging head to root with a calloused palm.
Green eyes glitter with amusement that even hunger can’t vanquish entirely, and Arthur chuckles wickedly even as he feels like he’s found a little piece of heaven that he’s willing to go to hell for. “I don’t see him.” He blows in Alfred’s ear. “Do you?”
“W-what?” Alfred stutters, confused, and then groans, not caring. “Move already, won’t you?”
“As you please.” There’s a time for making jokes at Alfred’s expense and there’s a time for buggering his lover into wordless ecstasy (and they do not happen to coincide). Arthur begins moving his hips. Long and lean thrusts, demonstrating considerable control even as his hand clamps harshly on the other blonde’s shoulder, revealing that he’d love to go harder, rougher -- if he didn’t think that would result in a lot of difficult-to-explain-away-innocently multihued bruises.
Meeting each thrust is Alfred pushing back against him, impatient, always eager, throwing his head back even more. The water streams across both of their bodies now, intimate touches of a ghostly third lover with them in the shower. Their murmurs and groans are dulled by the steady white noise, the slap and glide of flesh.
The free hand moves down to Alfred’s torso, toying with his nipples even as its companion resumes moving across the engorged shaft. Alfred can’t move, is effectively tied up, because his hands on the wall are the only thing keeping him from being fucked against it. He’s speaking without realizing it; ‘Yesyesyesyes’ and the other can hear the heartfelt mantra.
Arthur buries his face into the curve of Alfred’s throat, his thrusts becoming rougher, hands moving now randomly, without purpose, simply wanting to touch as Alfred jerks in his arms and a cry vibrates from his throat, a relieved, almost mute thing. Arthur reaches down again as his hips move quicker, helping the other ride out the waves of his orgasm because he himself is so close--
Alfred risks removing an arm from the wall and reaches behind to grip Arthur’s hair, yanking the man’s face from his throat and capturing his mouth in a kiss, keeping his eyes open to witness the all-consuming lust that has turned bright green eyes into near black.
Arthur gasps into his mouth and pushes against him, hard, almost shoves him into the wall. Alfred can feel the heat and wetness being released inside of him and sighs, satisfied, softening his grip on Arthur’s hair but not his kiss, playfully licking and invading the other’s mouth until he comes down from his high.
“We are really going to be late.” Alfred murmurs with the edges of his lips curving as he reaches for the soap, feeling Arthur withdraw from him carefully, still panting.
It’s a waste of water to take two showers in a row but so worth it, Alfred’s smile implies
Title: This Beat Is Sick
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: APH does not belong to moi.
Warnings: Faint spoilers to the Revolutionary war.
Pairing: UK/USA
Summary: America has a song stuck in his head, and England really wants him to shut up and focus.
Author Notes: Written for the kink meme, rewrite.
"This was not--" America's head tilts back, his hair so shiny and golden that England's fingers itch to card through it, see if the temptation matches up to the hype.
Then his former colony's hips come down again, riding his lap, and England moans incoherently.
"--what I meant."
America. Loudmouth until the end.
"Shut the bloody hell up." England snarls; he's about two minutes away from coming so hard that he might come close to dying (and wouldn't that be a stitch, a country dying from fantastic sex) and America laughs in a way that both makes England want to kiss him and gag him.
"I want to take a ride on your disco stick~" Hips move, roll, and America has a sinuous way of sliding and gliding and grinding, taking all of him in, so unselfconscious of his taking and giving of pleasure that England wonders where the hell he learned that, but he knows it's only America, raw, wild, at his most basic core. "Let's have some fun, this beat is sick~"
England is scowling, pretending that those words aren't sexy, that he watches those lips come together and doesn't think about them on his cock, and it's all ridiculously pretentious when he has the younger by his waist and is slowly pushing up to meet him with the slap of flesh, their bodies perspiring.
England's feet dig into the bed, seeking purchase, and America stops singing as he tosses his head back again. Knowing fingers wrap around his erection, ignored until now, as England is too close to the edge and doesn't want to come before America does.
No; he wants to come with America.
A needy, painful, savagely satisfied sound rips from his boy's throat and England clenches his teeth as America clamps down on him and spurts in his hand. England closes his eyes and stops resisting the inevitable, pulling America harder against him as he climaxes.
It leaves him breathless to realize that America is allowing him to claim him again, even if momentarily, and it's all tied up with thoughts of rifles in the rain and boots stuck in mud and tears in his eyes because of unending loss, flashes of these thoughts as he slumps on the bed, trying to gasp for breath.
Then America comes down on his chest, warm, utterly sated, still sensuous but sluggish now. He licks at one of England's nipples, gathering the sweat on his tongue, and England's heart skips a beat.
Shit.
He covers his face. There's a frailty about him at that moment that he can't afford. So he goes on the offense. "Your taste in music is deplorable.”