Part 2 (Untitled so far)
anonymous
October 26 2009, 04:44:39 UTC
“I can't wait until - that is, the meeting is today, America. You'll just have to man up and go.” Mid-sentence, England's voice had changed to the crisp tones he used while scolding, but before that it'd been flustered and stumbling. A quick glance up from staring at his shoes revealed that England wasn't blushing anymore, wasn't awkward; but he was rather remarkably tense, and -
“Are those your nipples?” blurted Alfred, staring at two hard nubs poking through the fabric of his dress shirt.
Instantly the blood returned to England's face. “That's none of your - “
“They are,” continued America in awe, ignoring him. His lust-addled brain only had one further thought. “Can I touch them?”
“No, you must certainly cannot! For the love of God, what's gotten into you? It's just a mite cold in here, that's all! It has nothing at all to do with your, er, state.”
“Right,” said Alfred dryly as he advanced, England flattening against the door with what looked a lot more like desire than outrage. “That's exactly what this is, huh? You don't want me at all.”
There was an advantage to guys being formal, thought America, his palm rubbing up hard against England's stiff cock, still trapped in his pants. Thinner fabric meant there was barely anything between their skin. Still, that little bit was too much. “I need to get your shirt off,” he half-muttered, unbuttoning as he spoke.
England was saying something in protest, but America ignored it, ignored everything except the need blazing through his body. He was never hornier than on Valentine's Day, and while usually he could contain it or find some hot blonde to drag into bed, he'd been shit out of luck this year. If England was going to stand there with pointy nipples and an obviously matching erection, well, wasn't the solution obvious?
His tie was off and his shirt unbuttoned, slid down behind his back. England's arms were trapped in the sleeves, the fabric twisting against the door, but America didn't care: his goal was right in front of him. Never one to hesitate, he brought his mouth to the left nipple, licking and nipping immediately. His right hand crawled its way up an expanse of pale skin, teasing absently at scar tissue before plucking the other nipple like a guitar string. Even from the awkward angle, America could see it stand out, plump and red, and he feverishly went to work chewing and plucking to make them match.
England veritably thrashed against the door under him, breathing hugely and pushing back against him half-heartedly. “I didn't come here for this - I swore I'd never ask you to - to - “
“Shut up, England,” said Alfred, raising his head and admiring the glistening nubs of flesh. He tweaked them and turned them as he spoke. “Do you want this or not? Cause I'm seriously aching here and if you're not going to put out, at least leave me to my hand.”
“Are those your nipples?” blurted Alfred, staring at two hard nubs poking through the fabric of his dress shirt.
Instantly the blood returned to England's face. “That's none of your - “
“They are,” continued America in awe, ignoring him. His lust-addled brain only had one further thought. “Can I touch them?”
“No, you must certainly cannot! For the love of God, what's gotten into you? It's just a mite cold in here, that's all! It has nothing at all to do with your, er, state.”
“Right,” said Alfred dryly as he advanced, England flattening against the door with what looked a lot more like desire than outrage. “That's exactly what this is, huh? You don't want me at all.”
There was an advantage to guys being formal, thought America, his palm rubbing up hard against England's stiff cock, still trapped in his pants. Thinner fabric meant there was barely anything between their skin. Still, that little bit was too much. “I need to get your shirt off,” he half-muttered, unbuttoning as he spoke.
England was saying something in protest, but America ignored it, ignored everything except the need blazing through his body. He was never hornier than on Valentine's Day, and while usually he could contain it or find some hot blonde to drag into bed, he'd been shit out of luck this year. If England was going to stand there with pointy nipples and an obviously matching erection, well, wasn't the solution obvious?
His tie was off and his shirt unbuttoned, slid down behind his back. England's arms were trapped in the sleeves, the fabric twisting against the door, but America didn't care: his goal was right in front of him. Never one to hesitate, he brought his mouth to the left nipple, licking and nipping immediately. His right hand crawled its way up an expanse of pale skin, teasing absently at scar tissue before plucking the other nipple like a guitar string. Even from the awkward angle, America could see it stand out, plump and red, and he feverishly went to work chewing and plucking to make them match.
England veritably thrashed against the door under him, breathing hugely and pushing back against him half-heartedly. “I didn't come here for this - I swore I'd never ask you to - to - “
“Shut up, England,” said Alfred, raising his head and admiring the glistening nubs of flesh. He tweaked them and turned them as he spoke. “Do you want this or not? Cause I'm seriously aching here and if you're not going to put out, at least leave me to my hand.”
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