In Vino Veritas (4b/?)
anonymous
October 6 2010, 15:05:32 UTC
“We can't...” He finally told Alfred, pulling away with a soft gasp, and tried to catch his breath (and willpower) once more. “I can't. I don't want to hurt you, Alfred. I didn't bring anything with me.”
“Pocket,” Alfred breathed, obviously flustered, face a bright rosy shade, “Your pocket--”
Arthur blinked, trying to think through the heat, and electric energy that was nearly overwhelming. Alfred's face nuzzled against his neck, clumsily brushing lips against the exposed skin. His pocket?
Arthur awkwardly pulled one arm away from the rough embrace to reach into the aforementioned pocket, then froze as he found an object that he didn't immediately recognize, and knew very well that he hadn't put in that pocket.
Oh god.
Fucking Francis.
Arthur could feel his face flame red, as he wondered how many of the people in that room thought that he was taking Alfred back to his hotel room to do exactly this--
But France had slipped it in his pocket without a word, or suggestive comment.
At least not to him.
“Did the frog tell you--” Arthur almost whimpered himself, as teeth found a sensitive spot. “Alfred...”
“Saw him.” Hot breath, so close, “He's not as subtle as he thinks he is, or maybe he just wanted me to see..”
“Then what was he whispering in your ear?”
Arthur could almost feel the blush, as the face was buried against his shoulder.
“He said, 'Perhaps tonight you won't have to just lie back and dream of England--'”
Shit. The perverted bastard...but he'd never known Francis to use the promise of sex to hurt an ally like this-- not in recent times, not after the war. In fact, he couldn't remember the Frog to do more than grope him when he'd been too pissed to put up a fight. (That marriage proposal fiasco had been when both of them had been dead sober, not that Arthur cared to remember it, or the half-assed appology that had come much too late.)
England pushed Alfred away, and carefully removed his glasses, and set them on the nightstand.
“Love,” Arthur asked the flushing face, his own equally flushed, despite the blood that had been steadily rushing southwards. “Are you sure?”
“I've never been more sure about anything.” America said, hands a shade steadier than they had been, as he reached to touch Arthur's face, “England, please. Even if it's for just one night, it's better than another century of just wanting from a distance.”
England closed his eyes for a moment; he'd done worse in his time. Much worse-- but the guilt that was trying to prod him with that cold shower he'd thought about earlier was because he actually cared.
Lips touched his own tentatively, the sweet taste and smell of Alfred filling his senses.
Oh lord, was it too much to hope that neither of them would regret this in the morning?
England gave in to the burning desire, hungrily tasting what was offered to him, knowing that one night would never be enough, no matter what the ever optimistic Alfred believed..
“Pocket,” Alfred breathed, obviously flustered, face a bright rosy shade, “Your pocket--”
Arthur blinked, trying to think through the heat, and electric energy that was nearly overwhelming. Alfred's face nuzzled against his neck, clumsily brushing lips against the exposed skin. His pocket?
Arthur awkwardly pulled one arm away from the rough embrace to reach into the aforementioned pocket, then froze as he found an object that he didn't immediately recognize, and knew very well that he hadn't put in that pocket.
Oh god.
Fucking Francis.
Arthur could feel his face flame red, as he wondered how many of the people in that room thought that he was taking Alfred back to his hotel room to do exactly this--
But France had slipped it in his pocket without a word, or suggestive comment.
At least not to him.
“Did the frog tell you--” Arthur almost whimpered himself, as teeth found a sensitive spot. “Alfred...”
“Saw him.” Hot breath, so close, “He's not as subtle as he thinks he is, or maybe he just wanted me to see..”
“Then what was he whispering in your ear?”
Arthur could almost feel the blush, as the face was buried against his shoulder.
“He said, 'Perhaps tonight you won't have to just lie back and dream of England--'”
Shit. The perverted bastard...but he'd never known Francis to use the promise of sex to hurt an ally like this-- not in recent times, not after the war. In fact, he couldn't remember the Frog to do more than grope him when he'd been too pissed to put up a fight. (That marriage proposal fiasco had been when both of them had been dead sober, not that Arthur cared to remember it, or the half-assed appology that had come much too late.)
England pushed Alfred away, and carefully removed his glasses, and set them on the nightstand.
“Love,” Arthur asked the flushing face, his own equally flushed, despite the blood that had been steadily rushing southwards. “Are you sure?”
“I've never been more sure about anything.” America said, hands a shade steadier than they had been, as he reached to touch Arthur's face, “England, please. Even if it's for just one night, it's better than another century of just wanting from a distance.”
England closed his eyes for a moment; he'd done worse in his time. Much worse-- but the guilt that was trying to prod him with that cold shower he'd thought about earlier was because he actually cared.
Lips touched his own tentatively, the sweet taste and smell of Alfred filling his senses.
Oh lord, was it too much to hope that neither of them would regret this in the morning?
England gave in to the burning desire, hungrily tasting what was offered to him, knowing that one night would never be enough, no matter what the ever optimistic Alfred believed..
Reply
your writing makes me hnnng so much
Reply
hopefully it'll keep tickling your fancy... First time I've written anything like this...
Reply
Leave a comment