Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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England was still smirking the next day, sitting on the roof of the building adjacent to the building they held their meetings in, with the map, his spellbook, and a pair of binoculars. He would have to skip this meeting, but Canada graciously promised to write notes for him. He had quirked his eyebrow when he saw the spellbook, but thankfully did not ask.
He was waiting impatiently for America to come in, because America had to be in his sight for the spell to work. And had to be in sight for his plan to work. This would be so much easier to do if he could go to the meeting, to see up close, but it would look suspicious if he pulled out a map of America in a world meeting. And America started reacting.
No, no, it was better to stay here. Prussia spied on meetings in this spot, so it must be a good one. And with binoculars, hopefully he could see well. He was a great spy, after all. As long as he didn’t get caught. At least, not until he wanted to get caught.
And there he was, waltzing in ten minutes before the meeting eating a hamburger. England flipped open his spellbook to the marked page. It was a fairly simple spell, since the map was technically a picture of America. To be honest, it was kind of like what witches who lived in America’s Louisiana did. What was it called? Voodoo? What a silly name, but of course, Louisiana used to be French…
He was getting distracted, though. Time for the spell. His fingers traced under the letters as he enunciated them the correct way, in a long-forgotten language with more vowels than one could shake a stick at. He book glowed in his hands slightly, and then the map glowed. America glowed too, but it was faint, and nobody was paying attention.
The book was snapped shut and set aside, binoculars up and map in front of him.
It was show time.
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America was having a good day so far. Well, until he stepped into the meeting room and his mood suddenly plummeted. England’s chair was vacant.
“Where’s England?” he asked, mostly to himself. What if England had gotten sick and had Swine Flu or something? He might need help! And America was stuck here in this damn meeting. But he couldn’t leave now; it was almost ready to start. But right after this, he would go and find England and help him like the hero he was.
A tingly sensation came over him, and he stopped, feeling weird for just a second. It went away, and he looked around, because if felt as if someone was giving him a mildly electric shock. But there was nobody around him. America shrugged and went to sit down at his seat near the head of the table.
Damn, no England next to him, so he couldn’t sneak his hand onto England’s thigh. No England next to him so he could whisper naughty things into his ear. This was going to be a looong and boring meeting. Of course, he had the suspicious feeling that England was mad at him. He had stormed out last time after America had refused to tell him once again what he liked. America felt himself blushing as he thought about it. It was just…really embarrassing.
…Really embarrassing. And he had a feeling it shouldn’t be, but it was for him and it was driving England up the wall.
That’s when he felt-he couldn’t explain it any way else-a hand slide down his spine. He turned around quickly, but there was nobody behind him. As soon as he turned around, it happened again, only he knew there was nobody behind him. He shifted uneasily. Were there ghosts in the room?
But that made no sense. What ghost would be haunting their meeting room? It wasn’t like anybody had died here or something. It was probably just his imagination.
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Then the hand-it had to be a hand-was suddenly on his stomach, caressing him. It was warm, and he could feel his face heat up. And he suddenly wished he were invisible like his brother. Because that… his stomach was one of the most sensitive parts on him. And there was nobody there and it was like he was blindfolded and couldn’t see…
And that was one of his secret kinks, being blindfolded, not being able to see who was touching him… There was something about it, something about having his body explored while he was in total darkness that made him crazy. And the fingers now tiptoeing across him didn’t help. He was hunched over now; trying to look normal while he bit his thumb, keeping gasps and groans in.
He stared at the black lacquered table, stared at his flushed reflection. It was so smooth… and it seemed almost criminal to wonder what it would feel like to be bent over that table and taken from behind. That was the thing: he loved to bottom. Yet somehow with England he always ended up topping and he hadn’t had the nerve to tell him that he’d rather be fucked than to fuck.
A kiss to his ahoge, and he literally had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from moaning. Oh god, that spot… And he didn’t know why. It was hair, for god’s sake! It was dead, there should be no feeling in it, but if done the right way, it felt like he was getting the greatest handjob ever. It was weird and crazy and people could take advantage of it, so he kept that fact to himself, even away from England.
America slipped off his jacket and quietly undid the top button of his shirt. His clothes were too tight and too confining, and he wanted to be in his room, so he could take them all off and help those ghostly, perhaps all-in-his-imagination hands explore his body. Or even better, be with England. Right now, in his state of mind, the sex would be worth the flu. Even if it was hopelessly normal and nothing like this.
Lips were kissing him all over, on his face, chest, stomach, …oh. Those damn lips were kissing the inside of his arm, brushing the skin.
He remembered, in his confused, hazy teenage years with Puritan still running through his mind, he had dragged fingers back and forth on that smooth skin, pulse beating underneath his fingers. It got him hot and horny and hard, a compromise between being a needy teenager and the Puritans in his body, on his land. Because if he didn’t touch himself, except on the arm, it wasn’t masturbation, it couldn’t be, and he would do it until he cried out and came. He would feel ashamed afterwards, though, no matter how much he tried to convince himself.
That was why he couldn’t tell England, because it was too embarrassing, because he knew he shouldn’t feel ashamed now, because there were much worse things he could be turned on by, but it was still lingering.
Didn’t mean it didn’t feel skin tingling, shiver inducing, and cock twitchingly wonderful. But it had to be his secret, his guilty pleasure, even as the lips that might be his imagination continued to kiss mercilessly. All of it did: his love for blindfolds, wanting to bottom, his damn crazy hair, his arms… Even as he leaned back, not even caring now who saw him in the meeting, if they knew why he was flushed, if they knew why he was panting. Even though there was no reason, there was nobody touching him, and it was probably all in his head.
America had the sneaking suspicion that he was finally going crazy.
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Somehow this got slightly angsty, but in a good way. I promise there will be more complete and utter map smut next part. England is not going to let America get away that easily, trust me.
captcha: slink him ...Is that what they're calling sex now? XD
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I can't wait for the next part.
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RECAPTCHA SAYS 18 SHAKER, WHICH I IMAGINE IS ITS WAY OF EXPRESSING GLEE AT THIS FILL
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Gah. one of my favorite kinks as well Alfred blindfolds >:]
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Author!anon has made reader!anon very happy by updating so fast!!! This was perfect in every sense of the word. Blindfold!kink, secretive!America, AHOGE!! All on my list of turn on's. Thank you!! * Q*
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*U* CONTINUE AWAY ANON.
YOU'RE HITTING ALL MY KINKS HERE.
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That's all I have to say, really.
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Seriously loving this fill <3
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Well, he knew Nantucket was a go, since America had literally jumped in his seat when he had kissed it. Who had thought that little flyaway hair would cause such a reaction? He pressed a thumb gently against it, and watched America lean back even farther, shifting in his seat and yanking at his shirt.
God, how he wanted to touch him. Touch him and find out all his secrets, everything. But sadly, America was in a meeting, and England was on the roof. But he still had the map. With a wicked grin, he splayed his fingers over the map and pressed. Watching America try not to squirm in public was utterly satisfying. He peppered kisses, and lingered on the Mideast, because from what he could see, wherever it was drove him mad.
He gripped the armrests tightly, and England hoped he wouldn’t lose it enough to break the chair. Though that would give him a confirmation that yes, that was it. America was always tightly controlled during sex, tense and he only lost it in the midst of orgasm. (“You know how strong I am Iggy, I don’t want to…hurt you.”)
It pissed England off. What was the point of sex if you didn’t enjoy it, didn’t relax? And he wasn’t made of fragile stuff-he could take rough sex. He actually enjoyed rough sex. But there were at that point in their relationship that they were still discovering one another. Only America wasn’t willing to share at the moment. So England had to…help him along.
Then Germany called the end of the meeting, and one by one they filed out of the room. Except for America. England leaned forward, clenching the binoculars tightly in his hands. He wasn’t…he wouldn’t…
America stood up and started to pull his white dress shirt out of his pants.
He would.
The tails of his shirt hung around his hips as hands inched his pants down. Ever. So. Slowly. England started to breathe heavily. He was going to… right in the meeting room. And England had driven him to that.
He caught a glimpse of skin and the curve of America’s ass as he palmed a hand on the table, other hand drifting down. England cursed, because he couldn’t see with America’s back turned to him. But seeing him in that dress shirt, pants around his ankles, panting and thrusting into his hand with wild abandon, made England shiver.
He wanted to…wanted… England looked at the map, and started to touch everywhere, anywhere, helping him along. America gasped, unheard words pouring out of his mouth. Maybe he was calling for him, calling for England.
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Looking up, he saw America tilt his head back, eyes closed, mouth half open and he came across the table, white strings of cum staining the dark surface. He collapsed back into his chair, looking spent and wonderful in that damn white dress shirt.
England pressed his ear to the map, and tried to hear his heartbeat.
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America slumped in his chair; feeling like his bones had turned to mush. He stared at the table, his cum streaking the surface. He would have to clean that up before he left. Would also have to have some semblance of normalcy when leaving.
He lifted himself up to yank his pants back up and button them. He brushed his sweat-soaked bangs out of his face. Not even bothering to tuck his shirt in, he put on his jacket. His hair was probably a mess, and he raked his hand through it, trying to avoid his ahoge. So soon after orgasm, it would still be extremely sensitive.
Deciding to let the poor janitors clean it up-they had quite possibly cleaned up worse, especially in that closet on the third floor-he walked out, still recovering from jerking off. It was so… intense. He couldn’t stand it, and had to do something about it. The ghostly hands and lips had teased him into a state he hadn’t been in a long time.
He felt guilty, though, that it hadn’t been England to get him like that, that he would go have sex with England and not feel like this.
And he knew it was his fault they weren’t like this.
But it was so embarrassing. And anyway, England was supposedly ‘an English gentleman’. He got embarrassed when France dropped one too many innuendos and yelled at him. As long as he could remember, England had been a prude. He wouldn’t be able to handle America’s kinks, discovered in over two hundreds years of exploration alone.
He tried to ignore the shame in that tiny part of his brain as he thought that. Damn Puritans. They had been kinky too! They had done sheep! But it had been against their morals, which was haunting America now. Less so now, but still there.
But he shouldn’t think about this. He should probably go find England to see if he was all right. And try to ignore the fact that his body was thrumming and wanting England. And there were still those ghostly touches that were just mere brushes now, which were probably all in his mind, from holding back.
He wasn’t quite sure he imagined, though, that little brush of hair, that nose pressing, and that kiss to his stomach, with the whispered words ‘Love you’ against his skin.
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Oh, America, you silly Nation. England, a prude? *cough* Riiiight. >D
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Oh wow this is really hot. Really REALLY hot. Words cannot describe how hot this is.
Can't wait to see more!
Captcha says: "The supermen" lol yes, US/UK is really super, Captcha.
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They had done sheep!
This would be the part where I laughed hysterically...in the middle of work. whoops.
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Hot and sweet, and you talk about America's Puritan background... awesome.
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