Of Norwich and Birmingham (3/?)
anonymous
July 6 2011, 15:08:59 UTC
England almost yelps out of sheer surprise, but America quickly covers his mouth with one hand and raises an index finger to his mouth with the other.
Shh.
He does his best to glare backwards at America, who has settled on burying his face in the nape of his neck and muttering something like 'sorry' while doing exactly the opposite with his free hand. Once again, he's reached inside his shirt and begins to slowly, gently massage his chest in repeated circular movements, sliding his fingers back and forth on England's already erect nipples and pinching them, pulling and twisting them upward as if they're supposed to do anything. There's a dull sense of pain, but at the same time there's also a very much not-dull sense of something else feeding straight to the growing fire at the bottom of his stomach. Without thinking, he bites down on America's fingers to stifle his own voice and the git, apparently taking this as some sort of cue, slides said fingers into his mouth and runs his tongue down the back of England's ear.
"Sorry," he breathes. "It's my fault, I know. I'll make it up to you later, I promise."
Before England could initiate some kind of retort---he isn't exactly sure what, maybe elbowing the bastard in the ribs or something---America sidesteps away from him in one smooth flowing movement and proceeds to check the door. In this abrupt swing of things England feels---feels, before he can summon the currently vacationing Spirits of Coherent Thought---suddenly empty and disappointed, and he almost says, don't mind the fucking door, come back here and hold me, you twit, but he doesn't have to. In the same smooth flow of seconds the twit is back in front of him and looking into his eyes with an intense, halfway adoring, halfway scrutinizing look, and before he knows it America's hand is on his shoulder and his shoulder is pushed back up against the wall.
"There're people walking outside, I think," America said, stating the obvious with a heat that drips with beautiful secrets. "If we make any loud noises, they're going to hear."
"I know that, Sherlock. So sorry I didn't build these things with soundproof walls," he quips. With America's breath on his ear and his hand once again beneath his shirt, back on his already-hard nipples, it's hard to sound nonchalant. At least he's been keeping his public bathrooms clean since the Drunken Incident of '05, and he isn't wearing anything irreplacable. "Are we done pretending to be health service inspectors now, or are you going to get us arrested for public inde---"
The sentence turns into an audible grasp that he has to silence with one hand, as it's the point where America bends down and bites the nape of his neck, sucking hard to make a publicly noticeable mark. Smart-aleck answer, some part of England's brain says, but with the nibbling, the push of America's knee on his crotch and the rhythmic kneading motions on the top of his nipple, that part of the brain is becoming awfully difficult to hear.
"Just a little," America says. "Just a little, okay? We're not doing it all the way. I just---look, you know I can't stand just looking when I see you like that. Please?"
Shh.
He does his best to glare backwards at America, who has settled on burying his face in the nape of his neck and muttering something like 'sorry' while doing exactly the opposite with his free hand. Once again, he's reached inside his shirt and begins to slowly, gently massage his chest in repeated circular movements, sliding his fingers back and forth on England's already erect nipples and pinching them, pulling and twisting them upward as if they're supposed to do anything. There's a dull sense of pain, but at the same time there's also a very much not-dull sense of something else feeding straight to the growing fire at the bottom of his stomach. Without thinking, he bites down on America's fingers to stifle his own voice and the git, apparently taking this as some sort of cue, slides said fingers into his mouth and runs his tongue down the back of England's ear.
"Sorry," he breathes. "It's my fault, I know. I'll make it up to you later, I promise."
Before England could initiate some kind of retort---he isn't exactly sure what, maybe elbowing the bastard in the ribs or something---America sidesteps away from him in one smooth flowing movement and proceeds to check the door. In this abrupt swing of things England feels---feels, before he can summon the currently vacationing Spirits of Coherent Thought---suddenly empty and disappointed, and he almost says, don't mind the fucking door, come back here and hold me, you twit, but he doesn't have to. In the same smooth flow of seconds the twit is back in front of him and looking into his eyes with an intense, halfway adoring, halfway scrutinizing look, and before he knows it America's hand is on his shoulder and his shoulder is pushed back up against the wall.
"There're people walking outside, I think," America said, stating the obvious with a heat that drips with beautiful secrets. "If we make any loud noises, they're going to hear."
"I know that, Sherlock. So sorry I didn't build these things with soundproof walls," he quips. With America's breath on his ear and his hand once again beneath his shirt, back on his already-hard nipples, it's hard to sound nonchalant. At least he's been keeping his public bathrooms clean since the Drunken Incident of '05, and he isn't wearing anything irreplacable. "Are we done pretending to be health service inspectors now, or are you going to get us arrested for public inde---"
The sentence turns into an audible grasp that he has to silence with one hand, as it's the point where America bends down and bites the nape of his neck, sucking hard to make a publicly noticeable mark. Smart-aleck answer, some part of England's brain says, but with the nibbling, the push of America's knee on his crotch and the rhythmic kneading motions on the top of his nipple, that part of the brain is becoming awfully difficult to hear.
"Just a little," America says. "Just a little, okay? We're not doing it all the way. I just---look, you know I can't stand just looking when I see you like that. Please?"
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