England gave a choked noise. “I . . . I . . . do I?” he managed.
“Sure do,” America said, and ran his thumbs over the back of England’s calf through the leather before he pulled off the boot and set it beside the other. “Really unfairly sexy.”
“I-I see,” England whispered. America nodded and skimmed his hand down over England’s still stockinged foot, curling his fingers loosely around his ankle. England had corded, wiry ankles that felt slender under America’s wide palms. Slender, but not fragile at all; he could feel the strength in them, too, as he cupped his hand around England’s ankle, brushing his thumb over the knob of bone, feeling the ribbing of England’s white sock under his fingers. The socks covered his ankles completely, running up under the edge of his pants, and America followed the fabric up with both hands, pushing England’s trousers up as he went.
“These too,” America said, and ducked his head to press a kiss just under England’s knee, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cloth of the sock.
“Th-the boots require them,” England said, “the . . . high socks, that is . . . .” His voice was thick and ragged, strangled with breath, and America kissed the top of his bony knee and reached up with one hand to rub a circle into England’s hip before trailing his hand back down England’s thigh to slip under his knee. He pushed his fingers up under the edge of England’s pants to curl around the top of the sock and began to pull it down, following the edge with his mouth. He felt very warm himself, heat prickling all the way down his spine into his knees where he knelt with them braced against the floor, the warmth of England’s pale skin, slightly prickling with hair under his mouth, like a brand against his lips. He kept his fingers curled and gentle, rubbing his knuckles against the tensed muscle of England’s leg. After a moment, England let out a long sigh, and the muscles began to relax. America smiled against his skin and lifted his head to bite lightly, playfully at the top of England’s thigh through the fabric of his trousers with just enough force to make it felt. He grinned even wider at the choked little sound of surprise he made, the tiny jerk of his body. He lifted his hand, leaving England’s sock halfway rolled down his leg, and braced it under his thigh as he grinned up at him.
“You-” England nearly yelped, sitting up straight once more from where he’d been beginning to slump back into the chair. “Just what do you think y-you’re playing at, Mr. Jones?” His voice was almost formal, or would have been if it hadn’t been so breathless beneath the crispness of his accent. America grinned hugely at that, biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Jones, God-England was so funny sometimes. He put his other hand on top of England’s other thigh, rubbing little circles through his pants into his skin on the inside with his thumb, and blinked a few times, slowly, up at him.
“Well, I dunno, what do you think?” he asked, not even trying to hide his gigantic grin. He slid his hand up a little more.
England sputtered at him, his face very red and his hair tousled all over the place. His breathing was very uneven. “Are you trying to seduce me through my boots?” he said, the words even more mostly breath and less clipped than they’d been before.
America blinked at him innocently. “C’mon, man,” he said, “does it look like I’m trying to seduce you?”
“Good God, America, leave off,” England said with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, it rather bloody does.”
“Sure do,” America said, and ran his thumbs over the back of England’s calf through the leather before he pulled off the boot and set it beside the other. “Really unfairly sexy.”
“I-I see,” England whispered. America nodded and skimmed his hand down over England’s still stockinged foot, curling his fingers loosely around his ankle. England had corded, wiry ankles that felt slender under America’s wide palms. Slender, but not fragile at all; he could feel the strength in them, too, as he cupped his hand around England’s ankle, brushing his thumb over the knob of bone, feeling the ribbing of England’s white sock under his fingers. The socks covered his ankles completely, running up under the edge of his pants, and America followed the fabric up with both hands, pushing England’s trousers up as he went.
“These too,” America said, and ducked his head to press a kiss just under England’s knee, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cloth of the sock.
“Th-the boots require them,” England said, “the . . . high socks, that is . . . .” His voice was thick and ragged, strangled with breath, and America kissed the top of his bony knee and reached up with one hand to rub a circle into England’s hip before trailing his hand back down England’s thigh to slip under his knee. He pushed his fingers up under the edge of England’s pants to curl around the top of the sock and began to pull it down, following the edge with his mouth. He felt very warm himself, heat prickling all the way down his spine into his knees where he knelt with them braced against the floor, the warmth of England’s pale skin, slightly prickling with hair under his mouth, like a brand against his lips. He kept his fingers curled and gentle, rubbing his knuckles against the tensed muscle of England’s leg. After a moment, England let out a long sigh, and the muscles began to relax. America smiled against his skin and lifted his head to bite lightly, playfully at the top of England’s thigh through the fabric of his trousers with just enough force to make it felt. He grinned even wider at the choked little sound of surprise he made, the tiny jerk of his body. He lifted his hand, leaving England’s sock halfway rolled down his leg, and braced it under his thigh as he grinned up at him.
“You-” England nearly yelped, sitting up straight once more from where he’d been beginning to slump back into the chair. “Just what do you think y-you’re playing at, Mr. Jones?” His voice was almost formal, or would have been if it hadn’t been so breathless beneath the crispness of his accent. America grinned hugely at that, biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Jones, God-England was so funny sometimes. He put his other hand on top of England’s other thigh, rubbing little circles through his pants into his skin on the inside with his thumb, and blinked a few times, slowly, up at him.
“Well, I dunno, what do you think?” he asked, not even trying to hide his gigantic grin. He slid his hand up a little more.
England sputtered at him, his face very red and his hair tousled all over the place. His breathing was very uneven. “Are you trying to seduce me through my boots?” he said, the words even more mostly breath and less clipped than they’d been before.
America blinked at him innocently. “C’mon, man,” he said, “does it look like I’m trying to seduce you?”
“Good God, America, leave off,” England said with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, it rather bloody does.”
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