USUK Literal 6a/?
anonymous
August 10 2011, 18:58:30 UTC
They left the bedroom for forty minutes. It was originally going to be more like five or ten minutes, to let America catch his breath and recover a bit before the next round, but someone decided a shot of bourbon would perk America up faster. When one glass was poured in the isles’ household, at least three more glasses were poured, and so they all took turns while ten minutes became twenty, became forty.
Wales and America stood there clad only in their boxers when Northern Ireland, who had redressed himself fully, glanced at the clock and muttered the time quietly.
“It’s that late?” America asked. Northern Ireland jumped, apparently not intending for anyone to hear him.
“Uh, yeah…” he said, and quickly went back to nursing his second glass.
“I guess we should get back to it, soon,” Wales mused quietly and turned to look at Scotland. America, standing beside Wales, foolishly followed his gaze and noticed the older nation was still in his kilt.
Once the second bottle was empty, they went back to the bedroom. A window in the corner had been opened to let it air out while they had drank, and now cold night air circulated through the room, diluting the smell of sweat and musk that had prevailed before.
America slipped out of his boxers and turned to look back at Scotland, finding the old nation similarly tugging off his shirt and reaching down to take off his kilt.
“Uh, hey, wait,” America said, “Can you leave that on?”
Scotland looked up to stare at him while the brothers behind them snickered.
“Fetishists…” Scotland muttered, but let the kilt stay.
He picked up a new bottle of lube, which America now saw was stored in a box under the couch on which Wales and Northern Ireland sat, then he lumbered up onto the bed beside America.
America swallowed.
Scotland was the largest of the isle’s brothers. While Ireland about matched him height-wise, Scotland was wider and had a natural strength that rivaled America’s. England had been the only one to truly conquer him, despite the numerous invasions.
He wasn’t exactly known as a nation especially known for tossing out ‘foreign relations’ willy-nilly.
Still, when Scotland lay back on the bed, mostly naked, he crossed his arms behind his head and reclined like there was nothing to submission in the world. “Well?” he said.
“Uh,” was America’s witty response, “nice abs.”
“Yers too.”
“I’m kind of scared to touch you because you look like you’re waiting to bite me.”
“Huh, ye ken? I like biting.”
“…well don’t bite me.”
“Well, I cannae-“
“Uh, guys?” They both turned to look to Wales, who was holding a sleepy-looking Northern Ireland on his shoulder. “As much fun as this is, we’re going to be here forever if you keep it up.”
Wales and America stood there clad only in their boxers when Northern Ireland, who had redressed himself fully, glanced at the clock and muttered the time quietly.
“It’s that late?” America asked. Northern Ireland jumped, apparently not intending for anyone to hear him.
“Uh, yeah…” he said, and quickly went back to nursing his second glass.
“I guess we should get back to it, soon,” Wales mused quietly and turned to look at Scotland. America, standing beside Wales, foolishly followed his gaze and noticed the older nation was still in his kilt.
Once the second bottle was empty, they went back to the bedroom. A window in the corner had been opened to let it air out while they had drank, and now cold night air circulated through the room, diluting the smell of sweat and musk that had prevailed before.
America slipped out of his boxers and turned to look back at Scotland, finding the old nation similarly tugging off his shirt and reaching down to take off his kilt.
“Uh, hey, wait,” America said, “Can you leave that on?”
Scotland looked up to stare at him while the brothers behind them snickered.
“Fetishists…” Scotland muttered, but let the kilt stay.
He picked up a new bottle of lube, which America now saw was stored in a box under the couch on which Wales and Northern Ireland sat, then he lumbered up onto the bed beside America.
America swallowed.
Scotland was the largest of the isle’s brothers. While Ireland about matched him height-wise, Scotland was wider and had a natural strength that rivaled America’s. England had been the only one to truly conquer him, despite the numerous invasions.
He wasn’t exactly known as a nation especially known for tossing out ‘foreign relations’ willy-nilly.
Still, when Scotland lay back on the bed, mostly naked, he crossed his arms behind his head and reclined like there was nothing to submission in the world. “Well?” he said.
“Uh,” was America’s witty response, “nice abs.”
“Yers too.”
“I’m kind of scared to touch you because you look like you’re waiting to bite me.”
“Huh, ye ken? I like biting.”
“…well don’t bite me.”
“Well, I cannae-“
“Uh, guys?” They both turned to look to Wales, who was holding a sleepy-looking Northern Ireland on his shoulder. “As much fun as this is, we’re going to be here forever if you keep it up.”
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