Re: Order 1/?
anonymous
June 14 2010, 20:11:52 UTC
America had been teasing England so long that he was almost surprised when England moved, his hand coming down and fisting in the front of America’s shirt to tug him upward. He crashed their lips together, desperately, his tongue slipping deeply, hungrily, into America’s mouth as he sucked at America’s tongue. America braced his hands on the cushion of the seat on either side of England’s hips and kissed back, tangling their tongues eagerly, pressing up into England’s mouth, letting the warmth and desire swirling within him sweep him away. He curled his hands around England’s hips, anchoring himself as England’s kiss pushed his head back, as he lost himself in the heat and sweetness of England’s mouth. England’s hands came up and tangled in America’s hair, tugging him closer, deeper into that scorching heat. His thumb skimmed down over the back of America’s neck, under his collar, and America tilted his head willingly, eagerly, further into the kiss. He was breathless and lightheaded, dizzy, by the time England pulled away, only to press his open mouth, quick and wet, over America’s jaw. Without Texas he could see nothing but a jumbled, blurred picture of flushed skin and brilliant green eyes, the kiss-swollen plumpness of England’s lips before he bent his head again to America’s jaw, but despite the sensations now sweeping over him, washing him away, America tried to focus on everything he could see. Heat tingled, fizzling warm and radiant in America’s skin wherever England’s mouth touched, and he let his head tip back as England fumbled with America’s tie, wrenching it clumsily open and then tearing open America’s shirt buttons, nipping down his neck, his teeth not quite forceful enough to mark the sensitive skin on the underside of America’s jaw or down his neck beneath his ear. There was a low moan that resonated in America’s ears, and America only realized he’d made the sound himself a long moment later. Heat from England’s mouth flushed warm down through his skin, flooded through his body. America’s hands skimmed up England’s back, clutching desperately to steady himself.
“You are . . . wearing far . . . too much clothing,” England gasped hoarsely, raggedly, against America’s ear. He yanked America’s shirt unceremoniously out of his trousers and began tearing open the buttons with a single-minded ferocity. America didn’t really care if England ripped the shirt or tore off the buttons. England’s quick, callused hands brushed occasionally against the skin of America’s chest with his movements, sending rippling heat through him. America could barely manage to breathe evenly.
“Mmm,” America said in response, he thought intelligently enough, considering, tilting his head forward again enough to press clumsy kisses over England’s cheek, back into his hair. Close enough to see the fineness of the pores of England’s skin, the darkness of his lashes even at the awkward angle, the red of the flush that ran back into his hairline.
“It’s . . . bloody unfair,” England added in a roughened tone. He finished with the last of the buttons and slipped his hands into America’s open shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, down his arms. England’s hands skimmed quickly but-reverently was silly, right? But that was what it felt like, and-well, skimmed up the planes of America’s chest, over the rounded muscle of America’s shoulders, England’s hands ridged with callus but not as scarred as America’s, slim and warm against his skin. America dropped his arms from around England and let the shirt slide off them, to the floor, teetering off balance on his heels and then pressing back into England for another kiss as he again wrapped his arms around England’s slim, sturdy waist. The heat of skin on skin arced through him like a shock, even as their mouths found each other again, their lips brushing together before America opened his mouth and England kissed slowly, softly at his bottom lip, sucked on it, before tilting his head to slide his tongue into America’s mouth. America let his eyes slip closed, losing himself in the warmth of England’s skin against his, the wet welcome fire of his mouth.
Anon failed at numbering AGAIN. Above should have been Order 9a, continued below.
England’s hands pressed, palms flat, against America’s chest, trailed down as if mapping each inch of skin, then dropped to his belt. He pulled away and pressed his lips against America’s cheek in a wet, sloppy kiss. “Should tease you,” he whispered into his skin. “Leave you . . . half clothed. Take my sodding sweet . . . time about it. See how you like it.”
America gasped for breath as stars exploded in his brain at that. “I,” he said, “uh, I . . . “ he swallowed. England was so fucking hot it just . . . blew him away sometimes. “You could just . . . show me. I mean. How it . . . how it felt,” he said. He was pretty sure he wasn’t quite getting his point across, how much he wanted . . . wanted England, everything about England, everything England could give him, would give him, just . . . wanted. “How you want me to feel. Be . . .” he swallowed. “Show me what you want me to . . . do. Be you. You know. The you who . . . who . . .” Who had ruled the world, while America himself had been moving west, growing into himself, growing up. The knight, the soldier, every part of the country that America loved, even those parts, all of England, the brave bold explorer, the one who had found America in the beginning. “Who the sun never sets on.” His voice had dropped, gone low and rough without his permission. He swallowed, his skin prickling all over, his nerve endings burning with his flush so deeply it hurt.
There was a moment of silence, and then England swallowed. “You want that,” he said, and it was like their first time all over again, because when England said that, he was saying you want me, America knew he was, this time he knew. And he nodded, firmly, as clearly as he could. “Me to love you,” England said a moment later, more thickly, more deeply, and his hands moved, but not to undo America’s belt buckle, instead his fingers brushing gently up the planes of America’s chest. “Me to make love to you,” he said, and his voice was a whisper, and his head was bent the way he bent it when eye contact might be a little bit too much, that America used to think meant he was lying or hiding something but that he knew now just meant he was being England and repressed and weird and sometimes a little overwhelmed because his emotions, they were really strong, really intense, and all America felt now was honored, because England couldn’t quite handle how he felt about America, sometimes.
“Yes,” America said, and his throat was dry, it came out choked and small. He swallowed, licked his lips. “Yes,” he said again, firmly. “England . . . yes. Make love to me.” His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, an incoherent stream of Please, England yes, want you, want this, you, so much, don’t hold back, want you, love you love you love you.
England blew out his breath, warm and heavy against America’s skin, his forehead coming to rest on America’s breastbone. America could feel England’s lashes flutter against his skin, and the feeling sent a little tingling shiver through him. England took another breath, and blew it out. His head shifted, tilting, until his cheek was resting against America’s skin, moving until it was just over America’s heart, and America slid his arms up and curled them around England’s shoulders, cupping his hand around the back of his head, slipping his fingers into England’s hair. Desire still pounded, thrummed through him, aching, but it somehow didn’t matter, and there was just warmth, the warmth between them, warmth and England’s unsteady breathing for a moment, and the way he’d leaned forward to rest against America. America wanted to say something, he always did, almost found himself wanting to talk, to fill the silences up with words, words that told England how he felt, how awesome everything was going to be, but he didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t, and he thought that was okay, that was enough, because sometimes England didn’t like to talk, even if he was better with words, and the way he felt in America’s arms, his slim, sturdy form trembling slightly with his breaths, fitting the way he did in the circle of America’s arms around his shoulders, that was already perfect. America pressed his nose into England’s hair, and smelled soap and sweat and English hay, and breathed too. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, just breathing, but then England opened his mouth and sucked in more air, and his breath sounded wet. He swallowed, and made a gruff, rough sort of noise, and cleared his throat, turning his face more closely into America’s skin, pressing his nose and mouth there for a moment. America kissed his hair and loosened his hold a bit, skimming his hands down over England’s shoulders and back.
“Mm,” England said hoarsely. “Right. Trousers off, then.” And he sat back with a slight huff through his nose, and it was so freaking England that America just grinned, hugely like a total idiot, but he couldn’t stop.
“Yep,” he said, holding England more tightly as England’s quick fingers undid his belt buckle and tugged the belt open. “Off.” He grinned, crooked but he could feel how wide the smile was, spreading over his face.
Author anon, I could wax lyrical about the subtle glimpses of deeper meaning and emotion. How that even without his glasses, America can still focus on England's lips. How their emotional needs and physical needs are both being met, and how focused they are on each other's pleasure.
I could also go on to tell you how utterly delicious your writing is, and exquisitely slow to build up anticipation.
I am utterly slavish for your writing, and eagerly await more.
...oh wow. i can't even begin to describe how hot and yet sweet and loving this fill is. Seriously, the little gestures and breathy moans and they have not even gotten to the sex yet.
in other words, the foreplay so far is just complete win. ♥ ♥ ♥
The way you describe kisses is so graphic and hot! In fact, this whole fic is so sensual...and I totally swooned when England reached his emotional limit capacity and had to take a few minutes of breathing harshly against America; so hot and sweet and UNF. And America is so loving here, with those kisses and hugs and whispers to "make love to him". Does that mean Ukemerica? Wohoo!
Oh man, the emotions that they're talking about, the emotions that their actions show, everything going on between them...I'm simply breathless. The details, anon, are what make this even more beautiful. America describing exactly what England smells like, being so close to notice his pores and twitches of skin, knowing the meaning behind the little gestures (and knowing how he had used to get them wrong). Wow, just, mm.
Order 10a/?
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:01:26 UTC
England’s fingers played over the top button of America’s trousers, his thumb brushing over America’s navel in a quick touch that sent a spark tingling into America’s skin. America swallowed, and it felt thick, sticking in his throat. He shifted his hands to bring them around, brushing down over England’s chest to start working on his belt. His fingers didn’t seem to want to push and pull the way he wanted them to, but he managed to get it open with only a little bit of fumbling and hurried to undo the buttons of England’s fly. He slid his hand forward to cup the heated erection straining England’s briefs, squeezing lightly. England groaned, and his eyes slipped closed, his breath going gasping and uneven. America grinned, even as he felt his own breath hitch in his throat, his arousal throbbing almost painfully trapped as it was behind his own fly and boxers. He shifted a bit on his knees, aimlessly seeking to relieve the pressure but trying not to let his hips jerk too obviously, and leaned closer to England, squeezing a bit more with his fingers, pressing his hand flat. England’s back arched at that, his hips twitching forward into America’s hand, and America rolled the heel of his hand obligingly, pressing his lips to England’s cheek as he gasped raggedly for his own breaths.
“Cheeky bugger,” England murmured breathlessly, and a moment later America heard the snick of a zipper as if through a fog, and the pressure on his own erection eased slightly, suddenly. And then England’s hands cupped his hips, warm skin against skin, and he was pushing America’s pants and boxers down at the same time. England shifted to spit into his palm, and then his slick hand curved around America’s erection and America moaned, unable to keep his hips from jerking forward at that welcome warmth and slickness and friction right where he wanted it most. “Oh, oh-God,” he heard himself moan.
“Go on,” England mumbled, and pressed a breathless, open-mouthed kiss to America’s shoulder, nipping gently. “Hadn’t realized you were so . . . .”
America groaned. “You didn’t realize?” he gasped out. “God, I was halfway to turned on by you-that-how you-when the ceremony started, and I . . .” he choked back a whine as England’s fingers tightened and rubbed and gave up, just letting himself thrust forward into the friction of England’s hand, “and there’s travel lube in my back pocket,” he finished in a rush, trying to twist around and reach for it but only managing to knock his hand against his own bare ass as his pants slipped down his thighs. He caught them with one hand after a few tries and finally fished the packet of lube out of his back pocket with the other, slapping it into England’s free hand with a breathless, triumphant, “Ha!”
“Y-you had lubricant in your bloody pocket?” England was saying, sounding dumbfounded, his hand stilling on America. “Good lord, America, what where you thinking?”
America tried not to sound like he was whining, he really did, but England’s hand had stopped, and it just wasn’t fair. “You got all mad the last time, when we ran out, and I thought, well, be prepared, right? So . . . yeah, lube, and I mean, I thought maybe you’d forget to buy some again, so when we got home, and, well . . . I wasn’t thinking anything like this . . . but it came in handy, didn’t it?” he finished.
“I suppose it did, at that,” England allowed, sounding reluctant. He tore the packet open, and America forget how to breathe for the space of a stuttering couple of heartbeats, even as he reached down to quickly yank off his own shoes. He tossed them aside, preoccupied by watching England with the packet of lube in his hand.
“How are we gonna-” America started, then trailed off, not quite sure how he wanted to end that question.
Order 10b/?
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:04:49 UTC
England looked up at him then, his eyes a darker green than normal, and swallowed thickly, which made America do the same on instinct. England leaned forward to slide his free hand up America’s chest and curl it around his neck, tugging him down for another breathless kiss, this one slow and warm, England’s tongue carefully, thoroughly mapping out the inside of America’s mouth. It was almost, America thought, like an answer to his question, one without words, as England pulled America close, flush against his body, his other hand caressing the curve of America’s hip with his palm, the heel of his hand, as he brought him close. America went eagerly, still sucking on England’s tongue in his mouth, feeling warm and lightheaded as England stroked his hand down over America’s skin, the round of his ass. He pulled away from the kiss just long enough to press his lips against the side of America’s mouth. “All right?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Mm-mmhm,” American answered unevenly, warm all over, and it wasn’t like England wasn’t on top sometimes, but for some reason his insides were all knotted up and liquidy at this, his stomach doing cartwheels. It wasn’t unpleasant, far from it, but he did feel more than a little dizzy.
“Mmm,” England said, and kissed him again, and his fingers slipped down between the cheeks of America’s ass, one slick finger circling the opening there. America gasped, and England just kissed him, gently, coaxing his mouth open, drawing America’s tongue into the kiss as he pushed the finger into him. They were so close together already, flush together all along their bodies, England’s knees framing America’s hips, their tongues twisting together, America’s hand tangling in England’s hair as he kissed him back just as deeply, and now they were even more intimately connected. America gasped again, the lightheaded feeling, warm and dizzy and almost bubbly, all through him now, even as England pushed his finger in a bit further and America began to feel slightly stretched. He curled his other arm more tightly around England’s waist, only to have England nudge America’s hips closer into him with his own knees and linked his heels over the backs of America’s thighs, the hand around the nape of America’s neck skimming down over his back. America relaxed into the hold, unable to help himself from rubbing his arousal slightly against England’s chest. He could feel England’s smile against his lips. He kept at it, then, pleasure coiling in his groin even as England slid his finger further into him, searching and stretching, then stiffened, feeling his back flex as pleasure exploded within him from that pressure inside. England’s finger returned to the same spot, slid over it again, and America moaned, letting his head drop to England’s shoulder as he gasped for breath. “Mmm,” England said again, and pressed on that spot once more. America’s answering moan sounded ragged even to his own ears, and he tugged England even closer with both arms around him. England slid his finger nearly out of him, then back in, hitting that spot again, and America gasped. His arms tightened.
“Oh, god, England, yes, right there,” he babbled into the skin of England’s shoulder, “please, right there, so good . . .”
“Widen up a bit, then,” England said, nudging America’s legs more widely apart with his own. America shifted his knees further apart willingly, and England made a soft noise, then pulled his finger nearly out entirely, adding another as he slid it back in.
America heard himself gasp, his breath hitch a bit, then felt his muscles relaxing, the pleasure overriding any discomfort entirely. “So good,” he mumbled again.
Order 10c/11
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:10:04 UTC
“Still?” England asked raggedly, against America’s temple, crooking his fingers inside him more deeply.
“’mazing, just amazing” America moaned, “more,” and England spread his fingers wide, both of them brushing over that spot inside of him. America moaned appreciatively despite the stretch and burn, and England pressed harder, then scissored them again. America could feel his muscles tighten, then relax, and breathed out with it, concentrating on letting that tension flow away as England sucked gently at his earlobe, teeth nicking it gently, then shifted his mouth back over his neck, down the muscle in his shoulder blade. England bit lightly at America’s shoulder, teeth sinking into America’s skin, as he stretched his fingers more widely, then sucked at the mark until America was squirming against him from the combination of sensations. “England-” he gasped, his hands tightening around England again.
England slid another finger into him in response, kissing his shoulder as he gave a ragged gasp. “Oh, fuck, England, right there; that feels so good,” America groaned out, and England shifted all three fingers more deeply into him, stroking, stretching. America let his breath out as his muscles relaxed again, turning his head to kiss England once more.
The kiss was open-mouthed, slow, almost clumsy, as they pressed softly open kisses over each others’ mouths, and England took his time stretching America with his three fingers, stroking his prostate again and again until America’s erection was throbbing, and he could no longer control his desire to rock forward against England’s chest and let his hips jerk forward, grinding his erection against England’s skin. After long moments of friction and the slow, even strokes of England’s fingers inside him, America finally pulled away from the kiss enough to look into England’s eyes. “I’m ready,” he said breathlessly. “Hell, I’m . . . so ready, England.”
“You’re certain,” England said, and America wriggled against him pointedly, reminding him of his aching erection.
“Not the first time I’ve done this, yanno,” he said, unable to keep himself from grinning, widely, he thought, and probably a little dopily, but he didn’t care. “C’mon. I’m ready for you.” He slid his hands up England’s back.
England flexed his fingers inside America, making him moan, his back arch. “All right,” he said, and bussed his cheek gently over America’s, leaving a kiss at the base of his jaw. “Up onto the chair, does that . . . does it suit you?” He sounded just as breathless as America, America realized after a moment, and a kind of pleased, warm pride spread through him. This was supposed to be for England’s benefit, after all.
“Sure,” he said eagerly. “Facing the back, or what?” He gasped as England’s fingers brushed gently inside him again. “Freaking tease,” he said, flushed and grinning.
“You’re one to talk,” England said, reaching up with his free hand to run the backs of his fingers gently over America’s cheek before leaning forward to kiss him, his fingers curling firm around America’s jaw, pulling him into the kiss.
“Mmm,” America said, kissing him back. “S’ good with me.” He kissed England again, deep and sweet, for another long moment, before pulling away to rest their foreheads together. “Hey,” he said, “I gotta move, you know.” He nipped lightly at England’s bottom lip.
Re: Order 10d/11
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:14:47 UTC
England nipped at America’s right back, scissoring his fingers one more time in a way that made America gasp again before sliding them carefully out of him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, America noticed, and smiled as he stood up, wavering a little as his legs proved shaky. England steadied him with his hands on his thighs, then slipped out of the chair himself as America shed his pants and boxers completely and straddled it, draping his legs over the arms and realizing with relief that he could brace his feet against the floor. He could hear England’s pants hit the floor a moment later, and braced his hands against the back of the chair, resting his cheek against the soft velvet of the cloak England had been wearing during the ceremony. It smelled old, like an old building, stuffy, and a little like England, and he buried his nose in it and inhaled that scent, crossing his arms and getting comfortable.
A warm hand on his shoulder made him jump a bit, and then England ran his palm down to America’s hip. “You’re quite . . . comfortable?” he asked, and America nodded, because he was-he’d spread his legs pretty wide apart, but then he’d always been flexible. England rubbed his hip gently, and America sighed, because that felt good, England’s hands on him always did, and then England’s other hand was on him, too, a moment later, curling around his waist, and then he could feel the whole of England’s chest against his back, England’s head resting just between his shoulders. His hands adjusted America just slightly over the arms of the chair, and America went willingly, laughing as he wobbled a little. “Whoa!” he said, and he could feel England’s blush.
Order 11a/11
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:16:07 UTC
“Ready?” England asked, his fingers brushing gently at America’s entrance as if to make certain that he was prepared, and when America just groaned impatiently, he seemed to take that as a yes. There were a few more moments of preparation, the sound of what America figured was the lube packet falling to the floor, and then heat and firmness was pressing into him. He gasped and leaned forward at the stretching feeling, more than England’s fingers but not painfully so, welcome after England’s teasing fingers, resting his cheek in velvet as he turned to watch England.
England’s mouth was open slightly, breathlessly, his face flushed and his eyes cast down, both hands braced on America’s hips. It was the most beautiful thing America had seen in a long time, and his breath caught in his throat both at the warm fullness of England inside him and at the look on his face. There was a slight trickle of sweat down the side of England’s cheek, starting at his hairline, and his eyes had never looked more green, his lip swollen from kisses, looking as if he’d bitten them. America just watched him a moment longer as England pressed more deeply into him, and his body adjusted, more quickly than he’d expected. England gasped, and then leaned forward, resting his face against America’s back, his fingers tightening on his hips.
“You can go faster,” America heard himself whisper, hoarsely. “I’m good. I’m ready. Just go on. Not gonna hurt me.” He reached back and tugged on one of England’s hands, lacing their fingers and bringing their entwined hands up to his lips to run them over England’s knuckles. “Never gonna hurt me. C’mon.” He bit lightly at England’s knuckles, and England gave a ragged gasp that must have been a kind of agreement, because then he was pushing all the way into America, as far as he could go, and it was perfect, and then he pulled out and pushed back in again, hard enough to rock America forward against the back of the chair. America braced his arm against it, and England pulled out and thrust back into him again with just as much force, and America thought that he’d never felt anything so totally, awesomely amazing in his life. England was all heat and fire and force and America wanted it, wanted all of it, all of him, and England was giving it to him with each driving stroke, and then England was even closer to him, holding him, steadying him, with their clasped hands as his other hand slid down America’s chest to close around his erection and stroke. It took him once, twice, to get the strokes in time with his thrusts, but after a few moments it was all America could manage to steady himself against the back of the chair and gasp out encouragements, over and over again, his cheek sliding back and forth over the softness of the velvet cloak as he rocked back against England’s cock, and forward into his hand, moving with the press of England’s hips, the insistent heat of his cock inside him. England was in charge, and America was matching him, easily rocking back and forth against him, and it was perfect, everything was perfect. “You are so awesome, England,” he gasped out.
England gasped, and pressed his face into America’s shoulder as his hips twisted against him, his mouth against his spine, and the heat of his body, sweat beginning to slick both of them now, was burning into America, was hot and hard and perfect inside him, the warmth of England’s callused hand stroking firmly up and down his arousal, pushing America closer and closer to the edge, until he couldn’t seem to think about anything except how close he was to England, the heat coiling in his groin, up through his erection, the warmth and the pleasure sparking through him with every hard thrust of England inside him, the force and intensity of England’s every movement. England had never been quite so fierce before, and it felt incredible. England was mouthing words against America’s skin, impossible to make out, but his breath, the touch of his lips, soft except where they were just a little bit chapped, sent shivers through America’s entire body, every inch of skin tingling with it.
Order 11b/11
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:17:48 UTC
“I love you, England,” America gasped into the cloak, riding high on pleasure, feeling light with it. “So . . . so sexy like this, giving me . . . everything I could ever want . . . . Sexiest empire ever. My . . . my empire.” He squeezed England’s hand, tightly, pressing it closer to his chest, his heart pounding fiercely against their hands, like it would pound right out of his chest.
England moaned. “You . . .” he whispered. “So beautiful . . . oh . . . oh, America.“
“Yeah,” America said, and his breath hitched on a groan that was nearly a yell as England hit that spot inside of him with the fiercest stroke yet. “’S . . . for you. My . . . my beautiful England.”
England gave a hoarse sound, not quite a shout, and thrust deep inside of America, then slumped against him, his body taut and trembling and his breath coming in deep, ragged gasps, but his hand on America’s arousal didn’t stop moving, and he thrust a few more times inside of America, riding out his climax, until America was a white-hot fire of pleasure, and England pressed his lips to his shoulder and whispered, “I do so love you, America,” and the words thrilled through him, his whole body, and before America knew what was happening, he was seeing white stars behind his eyes and shouting, his climax taking him by surprise. He slumped down into the chair, and England followed him, and for a moment they just lay there, little aftershocks of pleasure spiraling through America’s nerve-endings to explode and tingle all over his body. He felt raw with the force of his orgasm, light and heavy at the same time. After a long moment, he could feel England pull out of him and curl beside him in the chair, and he managed to roll himself over enough to slide his arms around him. He slid his leg between both of England’s, and curled his arms close around his chest, and they just lay there. America could hear England’s heart beating. He ran one hand up into England’s always messy hair, even more tousled now and damp with sweat, and stroked his fingers through it sleepily.
England slid his arms around America in return, pillowing his head in America’s shoulder. “So bloody warm it’s ridiculous,” he mumbled.
“I’m here to warm you up,” America said in return, kissing him without much conscious thought involved in it the motion, soft and open-mouthed.
“I can handle the cold,” England said, but he snuggled closer, and America grinned.
Order 11c/11
anonymous
August 10 2010, 08:19:18 UTC
“Mmph,” England said, a noncommittal sound of vague agreement or disagreement, and let himself rest against America for a long moment. America just kept stroking his hair, and England relaxed under the touch, melting almost bonelessly against him until, after some time, his eyes opened groggily, distracting America with the way his lashes fluttered over his cheeks. One hand skimmed gently over America’s side. “You’re all right?” he said.
“Sure,” America said with a sleepy grin. Sure, he was a little sore, but it was a good kind of sore, like playing a good game after work kind of sore, and the warmth it had left deep inside him hadn’t faded yet. He could feel himself blush, just slightly. “We should do it like that more often.”
England turned red and made a totally cute sputtering noise, then coughed, and leaned forward, much to America’s surprise, to kiss him on the cheek, his hand skimming warmly over America’s stomach, up his chest, almost idly. “That . . . that would be lovely,” he said. America felt his cheeks heat in a surprised, pleased blush.
“I-I was awesome, then?” he said, feeling himself blush even more deeply, and his grin felt tentative, almost awkward, but heroes didn’t get awkward over stuff like this, or bashful, and he was a hero, so-
“Good lord, you bloody well know you were, you cheeky prat,” England said, but he smiled softly while he said it, and looked down, blushing slightly, so America just grinned.
“I was totally awesome,” he said with a grin that he hid in England’s tousled hair.
“Yes,” England huffed, “well, perhaps.” America just laughed and held him more closely.
“You were awesome, too,” he breathed into England’s ear, and laughed as England turned even redder and shoved at him as he slid up and out of the chair, then cursed and stumbled.
“Good lord, what’s happened to my clothes,” he mumbled, lifting one hand to shove it through his hair, looking bleary-eyed. Bleary-eyed and blurry.
America sat bolt upright, his heart catching in his throat. “Ohmygod, Texas!” he said, leaning over the side of the chair. “Where’d it go?”
England bent, giving America an awesome view of his backside and hip and the muscles flexing in his back, and picked up the glasses from the floor, handing them carefully to America, who relaxed as he slid them on and grinned hugely at England. “Thanks!” he said. “You’re awesome.” He caught England’s wrist and pressed a kiss against his wrist. “So, you wanna go again, or should we head home?”
England turned bright red and sputtered. “A-again?” he said. “Good lord, America, you’d best warn me if you expect more than-” he peered over at him suspiciously. “You’re taking the mickey,” he said, sounding resigned.
America just laughed, curling over his stomach even as England scowled and swore at him. He kept laughing until England threw his pants at him and they hit him in the face.
“You are . . . wearing far . . . too much clothing,” England gasped hoarsely, raggedly, against America’s ear. He yanked America’s shirt unceremoniously out of his trousers and began tearing open the buttons with a single-minded ferocity. America didn’t really care if England ripped the shirt or tore off the buttons. England’s quick, callused hands brushed occasionally against the skin of America’s chest with his movements, sending rippling heat through him. America could barely manage to breathe evenly.
“Mmm,” America said in response, he thought intelligently enough, considering, tilting his head forward again enough to press clumsy kisses over England’s cheek, back into his hair. Close enough to see the fineness of the pores of England’s skin, the darkness of his lashes even at the awkward angle, the red of the flush that ran back into his hairline.
“It’s . . . bloody unfair,” England added in a roughened tone. He finished with the last of the buttons and slipped his hands into America’s open shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, down his arms. England’s hands skimmed quickly but-reverently was silly, right? But that was what it felt like, and-well, skimmed up the planes of America’s chest, over the rounded muscle of America’s shoulders, England’s hands ridged with callus but not as scarred as America’s, slim and warm against his skin. America dropped his arms from around England and let the shirt slide off them, to the floor, teetering off balance on his heels and then pressing back into England for another kiss as he again wrapped his arms around England’s slim, sturdy waist. The heat of skin on skin arced through him like a shock, even as their mouths found each other again, their lips brushing together before America opened his mouth and England kissed slowly, softly at his bottom lip, sucked on it, before tilting his head to slide his tongue into America’s mouth. America let his eyes slip closed, losing himself in the warmth of England’s skin against his, the wet welcome fire of his mouth.
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England’s hands pressed, palms flat, against America’s chest, trailed down as if mapping each inch of skin, then dropped to his belt. He pulled away and pressed his lips against America’s cheek in a wet, sloppy kiss. “Should tease you,” he whispered into his skin. “Leave you . . . half clothed. Take my sodding sweet . . . time about it. See how you like it.”
America gasped for breath as stars exploded in his brain at that. “I,” he said, “uh, I . . . “ he swallowed. England was so fucking hot it just . . . blew him away sometimes. “You could just . . . show me. I mean. How it . . . how it felt,” he said. He was pretty sure he wasn’t quite getting his point across, how much he wanted . . . wanted England, everything about England, everything England could give him, would give him, just . . . wanted. “How you want me to feel. Be . . .” he swallowed. “Show me what you want me to . . . do. Be you. You know. The you who . . . who . . .” Who had ruled the world, while America himself had been moving west, growing into himself, growing up. The knight, the soldier, every part of the country that America loved, even those parts, all of England, the brave bold explorer, the one who had found America in the beginning. “Who the sun never sets on.” His voice had dropped, gone low and rough without his permission. He swallowed, his skin prickling all over, his nerve endings burning with his flush so deeply it hurt.
There was a moment of silence, and then England swallowed. “You want that,” he said, and it was like their first time all over again, because when England said that, he was saying you want me, America knew he was, this time he knew. And he nodded, firmly, as clearly as he could. “Me to love you,” England said a moment later, more thickly, more deeply, and his hands moved, but not to undo America’s belt buckle, instead his fingers brushing gently up the planes of America’s chest. “Me to make love to you,” he said, and his voice was a whisper, and his head was bent the way he bent it when eye contact might be a little bit too much, that America used to think meant he was lying or hiding something but that he knew now just meant he was being England and repressed and weird and sometimes a little overwhelmed because his emotions, they were really strong, really intense, and all America felt now was honored, because England couldn’t quite handle how he felt about America, sometimes.
“Yes,” America said, and his throat was dry, it came out choked and small. He swallowed, licked his lips. “Yes,” he said again, firmly. “England . . . yes. Make love to me.” His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, an incoherent stream of Please, England yes, want you, want this, you, so much, don’t hold back, want you, love you love you love you.
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“Mm,” England said hoarsely. “Right. Trousers off, then.” And he sat back with a slight huff through his nose, and it was so freaking England that America just grinned, hugely like a total idiot, but he couldn’t stop.
“Yep,” he said, holding England more tightly as England’s quick fingers undid his belt buckle and tugged the belt open. “Off.” He grinned, crooked but he could feel how wide the smile was, spreading over his face.
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Author anon, I could wax lyrical about the subtle glimpses of deeper meaning and emotion. How that even without his glasses, America can still focus on England's lips. How their emotional needs and physical needs are both being met, and how focused they are on each other's pleasure.
I could also go on to tell you how utterly delicious your writing is, and exquisitely slow to build up anticipation.
I am utterly slavish for your writing, and eagerly await more.
<3 <3 <3
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in other words, the foreplay so far is just complete win. ♥ ♥ ♥
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The details, anon, are what make this even more beautiful. America describing exactly what England smells like, being so close to notice his pores and twitches of skin, knowing the meaning behind the little gestures (and knowing how he had used to get them wrong).
Wow, just, mm.
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“Cheeky bugger,” England murmured breathlessly, and a moment later America heard the snick of a zipper as if through a fog, and the pressure on his own erection eased slightly, suddenly. And then England’s hands cupped his hips, warm skin against skin, and he was pushing America’s pants and boxers down at the same time. England shifted to spit into his palm, and then his slick hand curved around America’s erection and America moaned, unable to keep his hips from jerking forward at that welcome warmth and slickness and friction right where he wanted it most. “Oh, oh-God,” he heard himself moan.
“Go on,” England mumbled, and pressed a breathless, open-mouthed kiss to America’s shoulder, nipping gently. “Hadn’t realized you were so . . . .”
America groaned. “You didn’t realize?” he gasped out. “God, I was halfway to turned on by you-that-how you-when the ceremony started, and I . . .” he choked back a whine as England’s fingers tightened and rubbed and gave up, just letting himself thrust forward into the friction of England’s hand, “and there’s travel lube in my back pocket,” he finished in a rush, trying to twist around and reach for it but only managing to knock his hand against his own bare ass as his pants slipped down his thighs. He caught them with one hand after a few tries and finally fished the packet of lube out of his back pocket with the other, slapping it into England’s free hand with a breathless, triumphant, “Ha!”
“Y-you had lubricant in your bloody pocket?” England was saying, sounding dumbfounded, his hand stilling on America. “Good lord, America, what where you thinking?”
America tried not to sound like he was whining, he really did, but England’s hand had stopped, and it just wasn’t fair. “You got all mad the last time, when we ran out, and I thought, well, be prepared, right? So . . . yeah, lube, and I mean, I thought maybe you’d forget to buy some again, so when we got home, and, well . . . I wasn’t thinking anything like this . . . but it came in handy, didn’t it?” he finished.
“I suppose it did, at that,” England allowed, sounding reluctant. He tore the packet open, and America forget how to breathe for the space of a stuttering couple of heartbeats, even as he reached down to quickly yank off his own shoes. He tossed them aside, preoccupied by watching England with the packet of lube in his hand.
“How are we gonna-” America started, then trailed off, not quite sure how he wanted to end that question.
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“Mm-mmhm,” American answered unevenly, warm all over, and it wasn’t like England wasn’t on top sometimes, but for some reason his insides were all knotted up and liquidy at this, his stomach doing cartwheels. It wasn’t unpleasant, far from it, but he did feel more than a little dizzy.
“Mmm,” England said, and kissed him again, and his fingers slipped down between the cheeks of America’s ass, one slick finger circling the opening there. America gasped, and England just kissed him, gently, coaxing his mouth open, drawing America’s tongue into the kiss as he pushed the finger into him. They were so close together already, flush together all along their bodies, England’s knees framing America’s hips, their tongues twisting together, America’s hand tangling in England’s hair as he kissed him back just as deeply, and now they were even more intimately connected. America gasped again, the lightheaded feeling, warm and dizzy and almost bubbly, all through him now, even as England pushed his finger in a bit further and America began to feel slightly stretched. He curled his other arm more tightly around England’s waist, only to have England nudge America’s hips closer into him with his own knees and linked his heels over the backs of America’s thighs, the hand around the nape of America’s neck skimming down over his back. America relaxed into the hold, unable to help himself from rubbing his arousal slightly against England’s chest. He could feel England’s smile against his lips. He kept at it, then, pleasure coiling in his groin even as England slid his finger further into him, searching and stretching, then stiffened, feeling his back flex as pleasure exploded within him from that pressure inside. England’s finger returned to the same spot, slid over it again, and America moaned, letting his head drop to England’s shoulder as he gasped for breath. “Mmm,” England said again, and pressed on that spot once more. America’s answering moan sounded ragged even to his own ears, and he tugged England even closer with both arms around him. England slid his finger nearly out of him, then back in, hitting that spot again, and America gasped. His arms tightened.
“Oh, god, England, yes, right there,” he babbled into the skin of England’s shoulder, “please, right there, so good . . .”
“Widen up a bit, then,” England said, nudging America’s legs more widely apart with his own. America shifted his knees further apart willingly, and England made a soft noise, then pulled his finger nearly out entirely, adding another as he slid it back in.
America heard himself gasp, his breath hitch a bit, then felt his muscles relaxing, the pleasure overriding any discomfort entirely. “So good,” he mumbled again.
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“’mazing, just amazing” America moaned, “more,” and England spread his fingers wide, both of them brushing over that spot inside of him. America moaned appreciatively despite the stretch and burn, and England pressed harder, then scissored them again. America could feel his muscles tighten, then relax, and breathed out with it, concentrating on letting that tension flow away as England sucked gently at his earlobe, teeth nicking it gently, then shifted his mouth back over his neck, down the muscle in his shoulder blade. England bit lightly at America’s shoulder, teeth sinking into America’s skin, as he stretched his fingers more widely, then sucked at the mark until America was squirming against him from the combination of sensations. “England-” he gasped, his hands tightening around England again.
England slid another finger into him in response, kissing his shoulder as he gave a ragged gasp. “Oh, fuck, England, right there; that feels so good,” America groaned out, and England shifted all three fingers more deeply into him, stroking, stretching. America let his breath out as his muscles relaxed again, turning his head to kiss England once more.
The kiss was open-mouthed, slow, almost clumsy, as they pressed softly open kisses over each others’ mouths, and England took his time stretching America with his three fingers, stroking his prostate again and again until America’s erection was throbbing, and he could no longer control his desire to rock forward against England’s chest and let his hips jerk forward, grinding his erection against England’s skin. After long moments of friction and the slow, even strokes of England’s fingers inside him, America finally pulled away from the kiss enough to look into England’s eyes. “I’m ready,” he said breathlessly. “Hell, I’m . . . so ready, England.”
“You’re certain,” England said, and America wriggled against him pointedly, reminding him of his aching erection.
“Not the first time I’ve done this, yanno,” he said, unable to keep himself from grinning, widely, he thought, and probably a little dopily, but he didn’t care. “C’mon. I’m ready for you.” He slid his hands up England’s back.
England flexed his fingers inside America, making him moan, his back arch. “All right,” he said, and bussed his cheek gently over America’s, leaving a kiss at the base of his jaw. “Up onto the chair, does that . . . does it suit you?” He sounded just as breathless as America, America realized after a moment, and a kind of pleased, warm pride spread through him. This was supposed to be for England’s benefit, after all.
“Sure,” he said eagerly. “Facing the back, or what?” He gasped as England’s fingers brushed gently inside him again. “Freaking tease,” he said, flushed and grinning.
“You’re one to talk,” England said, reaching up with his free hand to run the backs of his fingers gently over America’s cheek before leaning forward to kiss him, his fingers curling firm around America’s jaw, pulling him into the kiss.
“Mmm,” America said, kissing him back. “S’ good with me.” He kissed England again, deep and sweet, for another long moment, before pulling away to rest their foreheads together. “Hey,” he said, “I gotta move, you know.” He nipped lightly at England’s bottom lip.
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A warm hand on his shoulder made him jump a bit, and then England ran his palm down to America’s hip. “You’re quite . . . comfortable?” he asked, and America nodded, because he was-he’d spread his legs pretty wide apart, but then he’d always been flexible. England rubbed his hip gently, and America sighed, because that felt good, England’s hands on him always did, and then England’s other hand was on him, too, a moment later, curling around his waist, and then he could feel the whole of England’s chest against his back, England’s head resting just between his shoulders. His hands adjusted America just slightly over the arms of the chair, and America went willingly, laughing as he wobbled a little. “Whoa!” he said, and he could feel England’s blush.
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England’s mouth was open slightly, breathlessly, his face flushed and his eyes cast down, both hands braced on America’s hips. It was the most beautiful thing America had seen in a long time, and his breath caught in his throat both at the warm fullness of England inside him and at the look on his face. There was a slight trickle of sweat down the side of England’s cheek, starting at his hairline, and his eyes had never looked more green, his lip swollen from kisses, looking as if he’d bitten them. America just watched him a moment longer as England pressed more deeply into him, and his body adjusted, more quickly than he’d expected. England gasped, and then leaned forward, resting his face against America’s back, his fingers tightening on his hips.
“You can go faster,” America heard himself whisper, hoarsely. “I’m good. I’m ready. Just go on. Not gonna hurt me.” He reached back and tugged on one of England’s hands, lacing their fingers and bringing their entwined hands up to his lips to run them over England’s knuckles. “Never gonna hurt me. C’mon.” He bit lightly at England’s knuckles, and England gave a ragged gasp that must have been a kind of agreement, because then he was pushing all the way into America, as far as he could go, and it was perfect, and then he pulled out and pushed back in again, hard enough to rock America forward against the back of the chair. America braced his arm against it, and England pulled out and thrust back into him again with just as much force, and America thought that he’d never felt anything so totally, awesomely amazing in his life. England was all heat and fire and force and America wanted it, wanted all of it, all of him, and England was giving it to him with each driving stroke, and then England was even closer to him, holding him, steadying him, with their clasped hands as his other hand slid down America’s chest to close around his erection and stroke. It took him once, twice, to get the strokes in time with his thrusts, but after a few moments it was all America could manage to steady himself against the back of the chair and gasp out encouragements, over and over again, his cheek sliding back and forth over the softness of the velvet cloak as he rocked back against England’s cock, and forward into his hand, moving with the press of England’s hips, the insistent heat of his cock inside him. England was in charge, and America was matching him, easily rocking back and forth against him, and it was perfect, everything was perfect. “You are so awesome, England,” he gasped out.
England gasped, and pressed his face into America’s shoulder as his hips twisted against him, his mouth against his spine, and the heat of his body, sweat beginning to slick both of them now, was burning into America, was hot and hard and perfect inside him, the warmth of England’s callused hand stroking firmly up and down his arousal, pushing America closer and closer to the edge, until he couldn’t seem to think about anything except how close he was to England, the heat coiling in his groin, up through his erection, the warmth and the pleasure sparking through him with every hard thrust of England inside him, the force and intensity of England’s every movement. England had never been quite so fierce before, and it felt incredible. England was mouthing words against America’s skin, impossible to make out, but his breath, the touch of his lips, soft except where they were just a little bit chapped, sent shivers through America’s entire body, every inch of skin tingling with it.
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England moaned. “You . . .” he whispered. “So beautiful . . . oh . . . oh, America.“
“Yeah,” America said, and his breath hitched on a groan that was nearly a yell as England hit that spot inside of him with the fiercest stroke yet. “’S . . . for you. My . . . my beautiful England.”
England gave a hoarse sound, not quite a shout, and thrust deep inside of America, then slumped against him, his body taut and trembling and his breath coming in deep, ragged gasps, but his hand on America’s arousal didn’t stop moving, and he thrust a few more times inside of America, riding out his climax, until America was a white-hot fire of pleasure, and England pressed his lips to his shoulder and whispered, “I do so love you, America,” and the words thrilled through him, his whole body, and before America knew what was happening, he was seeing white stars behind his eyes and shouting, his climax taking him by surprise. He slumped down into the chair, and England followed him, and for a moment they just lay there, little aftershocks of pleasure spiraling through America’s nerve-endings to explode and tingle all over his body. He felt raw with the force of his orgasm, light and heavy at the same time. After a long moment, he could feel England pull out of him and curl beside him in the chair, and he managed to roll himself over enough to slide his arms around him. He slid his leg between both of England’s, and curled his arms close around his chest, and they just lay there. America could hear England’s heart beating. He ran one hand up into England’s always messy hair, even more tousled now and damp with sweat, and stroked his fingers through it sleepily.
England slid his arms around America in return, pillowing his head in America’s shoulder. “So bloody warm it’s ridiculous,” he mumbled.
“I’m here to warm you up,” America said in return, kissing him without much conscious thought involved in it the motion, soft and open-mouthed.
“I can handle the cold,” England said, but he snuggled closer, and America grinned.
“But now you don’t have to,” he said.
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“Sure,” America said with a sleepy grin. Sure, he was a little sore, but it was a good kind of sore, like playing a good game after work kind of sore, and the warmth it had left deep inside him hadn’t faded yet. He could feel himself blush, just slightly. “We should do it like that more often.”
England turned red and made a totally cute sputtering noise, then coughed, and leaned forward, much to America’s surprise, to kiss him on the cheek, his hand skimming warmly over America’s stomach, up his chest, almost idly. “That . . . that would be lovely,” he said. America felt his cheeks heat in a surprised, pleased blush.
“I-I was awesome, then?” he said, feeling himself blush even more deeply, and his grin felt tentative, almost awkward, but heroes didn’t get awkward over stuff like this, or bashful, and he was a hero, so-
“Good lord, you bloody well know you were, you cheeky prat,” England said, but he smiled softly while he said it, and looked down, blushing slightly, so America just grinned.
“I was totally awesome,” he said with a grin that he hid in England’s tousled hair.
“Yes,” England huffed, “well, perhaps.” America just laughed and held him more closely.
“You were awesome, too,” he breathed into England’s ear, and laughed as England turned even redder and shoved at him as he slid up and out of the chair, then cursed and stumbled.
“Good lord, what’s happened to my clothes,” he mumbled, lifting one hand to shove it through his hair, looking bleary-eyed. Bleary-eyed and blurry.
America sat bolt upright, his heart catching in his throat. “Ohmygod, Texas!” he said, leaning over the side of the chair. “Where’d it go?”
England bent, giving America an awesome view of his backside and hip and the muscles flexing in his back, and picked up the glasses from the floor, handing them carefully to America, who relaxed as he slid them on and grinned hugely at England. “Thanks!” he said. “You’re awesome.” He caught England’s wrist and pressed a kiss against his wrist. “So, you wanna go again, or should we head home?”
England turned bright red and sputtered. “A-again?” he said. “Good lord, America, you’d best warn me if you expect more than-” he peered over at him suspiciously. “You’re taking the mickey,” he said, sounding resigned.
America just laughed, curling over his stomach even as England scowled and swore at him. He kept laughing until England threw his pants at him and they hit him in the face.
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This fill has been a pleasure to read, so thank you so much for writing it.
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