[Part 15] USUK, Fear as an excuse to cuddle - Somnum (3/?)
anonymous
June 17 2011, 02:16:22 UTC
England’s eyes shoot open, breath hitches and stills being very, very baffled at America’s actions. He grits his teeth, fists ball at the other’s bare chest - confused, confused, confused. His heart beat picks up.
The blonde hair feels soft, albeit damaged from constant winds, rain, and general lack of care. Each strand is mindlessly handled, thoroughly rubbed between fingers, and let go to fall back into place. The motion is repeated with intent, striving to map out each string of hair, categorize it to thin, brittle, strong, or smooth, and places it before moving on.
America lets out a held-in breath against England’s forehead, blowing at the fringed bangs that lay there. Slowly, surely, carefully, with him in mind, the larger man adjusts to pull the other closer.
“A-America . . . What are you . . ?” England quivers out, recoiling against the other, body heat picking up at the anticipating anxiety and the strange, strange actions.
“I told you . . . I wanted to sleep like we would before. We would cuddle-” America chokes at his admittance, “a-and then fall asleep. It . . . calms me, so.” He squeezes England, one hand still at the base of his neck.
England hesitantly and slowly nods. America bites his cheek, feeling bad that he didn’t tell the whole truth.
‘No. I’m lying. I’m such a liar. I’m not scared. It’s not because we used to do this before. This is all an excuse. I am selfishly using this as an excuse to feel you, to smell you, to hear you. All my stupid, selfish desires.’
A faltering breath leaves America, as if defeated.
‘I want this. I want this all to be mine - mine to touch, spoil, and keep.’
A hand smooths down England’s backside - a shudder from the owner, a squeeze from the actor. The sandy-blonde rests his head between the junction of the other’s neck and shoulder, gently motioning a nuzzle, delighting in the smell (old, antique, almost like dust and wood polish, and faint, faint use of cologne - perhaps England was rummaging through his attic again, he usually smelled of the sea), feeling the warm pulsing in his neck (he was very much alive, and here, here, here for America to appreciate and breath in and hear and feel), and through his own breath, he swears he could taste him (salt, cologne, embroidery threads). Taking another breath, America subtly, very subtly, pecks the neck - the other man stirs, frowns, but America continues his soft stroking upon England’s back.
England’s eyes flutter in a subdued tone. (Due to pleasure? Comfort?) He exhales gently against America’s exposed neck - shudders shock through his body and an abrupt twitch startles the smaller man. America apologizes with a tenderer kiss on his neck, breathing hotly there before trailing his head down England’s collarbone, purposely letting his hair brush the Briton's cheeks and lips ghost past. England sighs contently and wets his lips, his arm gradually reaching across, underneath the blankets, to lightly grip America’s waist.
The blonde hair feels soft, albeit damaged from constant winds, rain, and general lack of care. Each strand is mindlessly handled, thoroughly rubbed between fingers, and let go to fall back into place. The motion is repeated with intent, striving to map out each string of hair, categorize it to thin, brittle, strong, or smooth, and places it before moving on.
America lets out a held-in breath against England’s forehead, blowing at the fringed bangs that lay there. Slowly, surely, carefully, with him in mind, the larger man adjusts to pull the other closer.
“A-America . . . What are you . . ?” England quivers out, recoiling against the other, body heat picking up at the anticipating anxiety and the strange, strange actions.
“I told you . . . I wanted to sleep like we would before. We would cuddle-” America chokes at his admittance, “a-and then fall asleep. It . . . calms me, so.” He squeezes England, one hand still at the base of his neck.
England hesitantly and slowly nods. America bites his cheek, feeling bad that he didn’t tell the whole truth.
‘No. I’m lying. I’m such a liar. I’m not scared. It’s not because we used to do this before. This is all an excuse. I am selfishly using this as an excuse to feel you, to smell you, to hear you. All my stupid, selfish desires.’
A faltering breath leaves America, as if defeated.
‘I want this. I want this all to be mine - mine to touch, spoil, and keep.’
A hand smooths down England’s backside - a shudder from the owner, a squeeze from the actor. The sandy-blonde rests his head between the junction of the other’s neck and shoulder, gently motioning a nuzzle, delighting in the smell (old, antique, almost like dust and wood polish, and faint, faint use of cologne - perhaps England was rummaging through his attic again, he usually smelled of the sea), feeling the warm pulsing in his neck (he was very much alive, and here, here, here for America to appreciate and breath in and hear and feel), and through his own breath, he swears he could taste him (salt, cologne, embroidery threads). Taking another breath, America subtly, very subtly, pecks the neck - the other man stirs, frowns, but America continues his soft stroking upon England’s back.
England’s eyes flutter in a subdued tone. (Due to pleasure? Comfort?) He exhales gently against America’s exposed neck - shudders shock through his body and an abrupt twitch startles the smaller man. America apologizes with a tenderer kiss on his neck, breathing hotly there before trailing his head down England’s collarbone, purposely letting his hair brush the Briton's cheeks and lips ghost past. England sighs contently and wets his lips, his arm gradually reaching across, underneath the blankets, to lightly grip America’s waist.
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