The Promised Mutiny (6/14)
anonymous
May 23 2010, 23:49:57 UTC
Shaking, England struggled against America’s hold, but ended up only arching into the boot, rubbing against him with a hiss of air from his lungs. America’s smirk stayed in place and he dropped down off the bed, gripping England by his ankles and dragging him across the bed and to him. America stared at him, long and unrelenting, betraying nothing in his cold blue eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against England’s chest. England seized up, eyes narrowing-all part of the act.
“Perhaps this could be a means to teach you some proper loyalty,” America growled, hands going to England’s belt and ripping his trousers down, tossing them aside.
England sat up, intending to put up some nominal struggle against America’s attempts, but America just shoved him back down, unbuttoning England’s shirt the rest of the way and pushing it off his shoulders, pulling off the sleeves slightly so he could tie them expertly behind England’s back, pinning his arms behind him and leaving him defenseless. The knots, had England been very focused on getting away, could have been wiggled out of, but as it stood he only gave a bit of a struggle before he was being shoved down onto his back again, America standing again over him, feet on either side of England’s hips, staring down at him.
“Do you want me, traitor?” America whispered, voice aloof and head tilted to the side as if patronizing a spoilt child.
England glared at him, arched his back defiantly, chest heaving. “Go to hell.”
“Someday,” America drawled, slowly, his face rippling into a satisfied smirk. “I’ll certainly see you there.”
He tipped his hat slightly, shadowing his face as he stared down at England.
“So,” America murmured, shifting slightly so that one foot was underneath England’s back, forcing him to a sitting position, “what am I to do with you?”
“You tell me,” England said with a soft snort, “Captain.”
“I think,” America said quietly, “I know exactly what I’ll do to you.”
And he straightened his back slightly, standing up straighter. With a great show, he took his gloved hand and pressed it into the pocket of the thick jacket, brushing it back as his other hand went to undo the ties of the sash keeping his trousers up. Out slipped the bottle of lube England certainly had back in his pirating days, but he certainly wasn’t complaining-even if the cocky little bugger had planned this all along. England couldn’t deny that the combination of the younger nation in pirating clothes and the earlier pressure of the foot across his front side was definitely a deadly one.
He tipped his head back defiantly, but this only seemed to give America more pleasure. Sash undone, he sank down onto his knees, still straddling England and gripping England’s chin with the gloved fingers. He snorted, turning his nose up slightly as he regarded England. England glared back. With a smirk, America leaned in, biting at England’s lower lip until England opened his mouth with a gasp and America proceeded to dominate England’s mouth with his own. England bit back a moan, but just barely, and America swallowed the quiet hitch of his breath. England could feel the curve of a smirk against his mouth as America continued to kiss him, battling his tongue with his own.
England struggled against the shirt on his arms tying them uselessly behind his back, ignoring the overpowering urge to hold onto America. America, sensing his struggling, slipped a knee between England’s legs and pressed upwards, rubbing experimentally until England did cry out against America’s mouth and forgot all about struggling. America bit at his mouth again and drew away with a sharp breath and a smirk that had never slipped off his lips the entire time.
“Perhaps this could be a means to teach you some proper loyalty,” America growled, hands going to England’s belt and ripping his trousers down, tossing them aside.
England sat up, intending to put up some nominal struggle against America’s attempts, but America just shoved him back down, unbuttoning England’s shirt the rest of the way and pushing it off his shoulders, pulling off the sleeves slightly so he could tie them expertly behind England’s back, pinning his arms behind him and leaving him defenseless. The knots, had England been very focused on getting away, could have been wiggled out of, but as it stood he only gave a bit of a struggle before he was being shoved down onto his back again, America standing again over him, feet on either side of England’s hips, staring down at him.
“Do you want me, traitor?” America whispered, voice aloof and head tilted to the side as if patronizing a spoilt child.
England glared at him, arched his back defiantly, chest heaving. “Go to hell.”
“Someday,” America drawled, slowly, his face rippling into a satisfied smirk. “I’ll certainly see you there.”
He tipped his hat slightly, shadowing his face as he stared down at England.
“So,” America murmured, shifting slightly so that one foot was underneath England’s back, forcing him to a sitting position, “what am I to do with you?”
“You tell me,” England said with a soft snort, “Captain.”
“I think,” America said quietly, “I know exactly what I’ll do to you.”
And he straightened his back slightly, standing up straighter. With a great show, he took his gloved hand and pressed it into the pocket of the thick jacket, brushing it back as his other hand went to undo the ties of the sash keeping his trousers up. Out slipped the bottle of lube England certainly had back in his pirating days, but he certainly wasn’t complaining-even if the cocky little bugger had planned this all along. England couldn’t deny that the combination of the younger nation in pirating clothes and the earlier pressure of the foot across his front side was definitely a deadly one.
He tipped his head back defiantly, but this only seemed to give America more pleasure. Sash undone, he sank down onto his knees, still straddling England and gripping England’s chin with the gloved fingers. He snorted, turning his nose up slightly as he regarded England. England glared back. With a smirk, America leaned in, biting at England’s lower lip until England opened his mouth with a gasp and America proceeded to dominate England’s mouth with his own. England bit back a moan, but just barely, and America swallowed the quiet hitch of his breath. England could feel the curve of a smirk against his mouth as America continued to kiss him, battling his tongue with his own.
England struggled against the shirt on his arms tying them uselessly behind his back, ignoring the overpowering urge to hold onto America. America, sensing his struggling, slipped a knee between England’s legs and pressed upwards, rubbing experimentally until England did cry out against America’s mouth and forgot all about struggling. America bit at his mouth again and drew away with a sharp breath and a smirk that had never slipped off his lips the entire time.
“Bastard,” England hissed.
Reply
Leave a comment