Re: UK/US and a really weird tattoo.
anonymous
April 14 2010, 10:08:07 UTC
vi; England is fucking him into the wall, literally, one palm pressed flat to the wall and bracing himself, forehead rubbing against the nape of his neck and grunting, and it’s the arm with the tattoo right in front of his face America keeps staring at, not the one going down on him inside his shorts. If he stretched his neck a little-just like this, then his nose would touch it. Would the snake try to bite?
As England growls and grunts and rocks his hips the snake, it seems, is also winding and wriggling around his wrist, slithering to and fro and in and out and that fucking skill is still grinning right at him, he swears. Good thing it doesn’t pant too.
America doesn’t quite dare to touch it; if he’s able to feel the smooth surface of scales under the tips of his fingers like hell he’s going to find out whether the same applies to bones.
But.
He wonders…
“England,” he doesn’t say but slurs, “where did you get tha-” and he really wants to know, really means to ask England, can’t let that go but England-god, England, he’s touching him all over there and America knows it’s to make him-
fuck you character limit you are killing me ;;
anonymous
April 14 2010, 10:11:57 UTC
Lips pressing to his ear and England snapping, “Can’t you keep your fucking mouth shut for a fucking minute?”
Really? That’s how long it takes you, he’s going to say at first but his words get all tangled up in moans and grunts and America decides it’s not worth the fuck. Figuratively. Somewhere between getting fucked by England’s fingers and fucking them back, he manages to snort.
“Enjoying yourself, I see?”
God, your accent’s dripping, America thinks.
“Yeah,” he says after a while, and England’s glancing right at him, all smug and so fucking British. “Yeah,” America repeats before he stretches his neck, snake and skull hovering in front of his face. He hesitates and so does England, and for the blink of an eye America is certain it’s not his heart that is throbbing in his ears.
Closing the final distance seems to take forever, somehow, even if it’s just seconds at best, and yet America can’t bring himself to touch the skull; he aims for England’s wrist, instead, gut twisting at the thought of kissing the snake’s head.
If that fucking thing actually is going to bite him, he swears-he’s going to rip England’s fucking arm off.
It turns the thing isn’t biting. He half wishes it would just to make him stop. Just to give him an excuse to. There’s no way back now, is there? Past the point of no return; how fast that had happened.
Re: fuck you character limit you are killing me ;;
anonymous
April 14 2010, 10:16:53 UTC
England’s breath is ragged and America opens his mouth, slightly, dragging teeth over flesh first and slowly starts sucking and pulling then and watching England react out of the corner of his eyes. England’s inhaling sharply and the… the snake. It moves. That damn thing moves; he feels it slither and twist against his tongue, and he wonders, briefly: does England feel it too?
So damn fucking creepy, England and his weird hobbies. And where the hell did he get that thing in the first place?
vii; “I mean, it’s creepy and all, sure, but still not something to hide, you know,” he says and hopes his tone is chatty enough to annoy England all the more. Bastard deserves it. “Least of all to get all cranky when one is trying to touch you.” England’s giving him The Look now, so it’s working, and America makes sure to sound even more enthusiastic than before.
“It’s kind of awesome how it moves and stuff. Where did you get it? I kinda want one like that too. ‘cept not that scary, but I guess a wriggling Elivs would be neat.”
England says nothing as he pulls his arm out of America’s shorts.
Says nothing as he smears America’s come over his face-cheeks, precisely; it’s sticky and thick and absolutely not what he wants to have in his face. Not while he’s making a point of paying England back, at least. Little fucker.
and lastly... hopefully...
anonymous
April 14 2010, 10:18:48 UTC
“Really,” England says dryly, “where did you get all that spunk from, America?”
“Beats m-” he starts, but one of England’s fingers placed on his lips and he keeps quiet.
England leans in to lick along his jaw, and whispers, “Let’s better clean you up, then.”
“Sure.” A grin. It’s not his; it’s the skull’s. “Fine by me.”
1963, and the term Beatlemania was coined. Apparently, the creator of the tattoo in question is said to have became active as such in the 1960's as well. Poor England, rising one morning and realizing one homicidal maniac's trademark carved itself in his arm just by half of his people becoming scared and said homicidal maniac becoming more powerful each day. Yeah, I don't know either.
Ahahaha! He already thought it was creepy back then but thirty years later this is driving him up the wall and he's pissed off England didn't tell him what the hell he really was mouth fucking all along. But he'll get his revenge eventually as nobody stands a chance against his BFF Mary Sue. And by the time JKR sets out to bring the series to an end, he has successfully invaded her fantasy. Makes HP fandom appear in another light altogether. *snort*
vi;
England is fucking him into the wall, literally, one palm pressed flat to the wall and bracing himself, forehead rubbing against the nape of his neck and grunting, and it’s the arm with the tattoo right in front of his face America keeps staring at, not the one going down on him inside his shorts. If he stretched his neck a little-just like this, then his nose would touch it. Would the snake try to bite?
As England growls and grunts and rocks his hips the snake, it seems, is also winding and wriggling around his wrist, slithering to and fro and in and out and that fucking skill is still grinning right at him, he swears. Good thing it doesn’t pant too.
America doesn’t quite dare to touch it; if he’s able to feel the smooth surface of scales under the tips of his fingers like hell he’s going to find out whether the same applies to bones.
But.
He wonders…
“England,” he doesn’t say but slurs, “where did you get tha-” and he really wants to know, really means to ask England, can’t let that go but England-god, England, he’s touching him all over there and America knows it’s to make him-
Reply
Lips pressing to his ear and England snapping, “Can’t you keep your fucking mouth shut for a fucking minute?”
Really? That’s how long it takes you, he’s going to say at first but his words get all tangled up in moans and grunts and America decides it’s not worth the fuck. Figuratively. Somewhere between getting fucked by England’s fingers and fucking them back, he manages to snort.
“Enjoying yourself, I see?”
God, your accent’s dripping, America thinks.
“Yeah,” he says after a while, and England’s glancing right at him, all smug and so fucking British. “Yeah,” America repeats before he stretches his neck, snake and skull hovering in front of his face. He hesitates and so does England, and for the blink of an eye America is certain it’s not his heart that is throbbing in his ears.
Closing the final distance seems to take forever, somehow, even if it’s just seconds at best, and yet America can’t bring himself to touch the skull; he aims for England’s wrist, instead, gut twisting at the thought of kissing the snake’s head.
If that fucking thing actually is going to bite him, he swears-he’s going to rip England’s fucking arm off.
It turns the thing isn’t biting. He half wishes it would just to make him stop. Just to give him an excuse to. There’s no way back now, is there? Past the point of no return; how fast that had happened.
Reply
England’s breath is ragged and America opens his mouth, slightly, dragging teeth over flesh first and slowly starts sucking and pulling then and watching England react out of the corner of his eyes. England’s inhaling sharply and the… the snake. It moves. That damn thing moves; he feels it slither and twist against his tongue, and he wonders, briefly: does England feel it too?
So damn fucking creepy, England and his weird hobbies. And where the hell did he get that thing in the first place?
vii;
“I mean, it’s creepy and all, sure, but still not something to hide, you know,” he says and hopes his tone is chatty enough to annoy England all the more. Bastard deserves it. “Least of all to get all cranky when one is trying to touch you.” England’s giving him The Look now, so it’s working, and America makes sure to sound even more enthusiastic than before.
“It’s kind of awesome how it moves and stuff. Where did you get it? I kinda want one like that too. ‘cept not that scary, but I guess a wriggling Elivs would be neat.”
England says nothing as he pulls his arm out of America’s shorts.
Says nothing as he smears America’s come over his face-cheeks, precisely; it’s sticky and thick and absolutely not what he wants to have in his face. Not while he’s making a point of paying England back, at least. Little fucker.
Reply
“Really,” England says dryly, “where did you get all that spunk from, America?”
“Beats m-” he starts, but one of England’s fingers placed on his lips and he keeps quiet.
England leans in to lick along his jaw, and whispers, “Let’s better clean you up, then.”
“Sure.” A grin. It’s not his; it’s the skull’s. “Fine by me.”
1963, and the term Beatlemania was coined.
Apparently, the creator of the tattoo in question is said to have became active as such in the 1960's as well.
Poor England, rising one morning and realizing one homicidal maniac's trademark carved itself in his arm just by half of his people becoming scared and said homicidal maniac becoming more powerful each day. Yeah, I don't know either.
Reply
This is kind of strangely awesome, anon; not to mention hot and just a little creepy. GJ :Db
Reply
So awesome, anon!
Reply
That was awesome, anon ^^
Reply
Reply
Shows how much of a Harry Potter nerd I am, but. xD Awesome fill!
Reply
Leave a comment