Location, Location, Location [2d/2]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:34:06 UTC
“Don’t ask permission.” England managed weakly, but still America didn’t move. With a tired, affectionate sigh, England sat back on America’s stomach, and gestured for America to sit up, and dutifully the younger nation leant up on his elbows. “I really want to kiss you,” England said, and then added even as euphoria spread over America’s face - as it always did whenever England admitted that, like it was something to marvel at. “Back.” England eyed America for a few daring moments, and then, gingerly, nervously, America leaned forward and pressed gently against England, mouth-to-mouth.
And England kissed him back, pulling America with him as he searched for a good angle, licking along America’s lips. America’s entire body shivered under England, but he opened his mouth. Still reserved, England kissed him with an ever-increasing enthusiasm until America responded openly.
Finally pulling away with a huff, England caught his breath, his hands pressed flushly on America’s chest, coiling and stroking at America. “Bedroom.” England mumbled, looking down.
He didn’t want America on the hard ground by the pool, with only a discarded towel to the side and a forgotten water bottle next to them.
He wanted America on the expanse of a too-big bed (even for Alfred and his everywhere limbs) with too-crisp white sheets curling about them. A little nest of love. Homely, even. Too much lube, and too much gentleness, and too much plain, open love.
Looking each other in the eyes.
(Water was a terrible lubricant anyways, coagulant probably, England added as an afterthought.)
America nodded, and England slipped off America, almost falling in the pool, but only knocking the water bottle in. America pulled England up to his feet, and stared at him levelly for a few seconds.
“I want to see your eyes.” America decided quietly.
With the choice between kissing America senseless and putting a spanner in the plain and open lovemaking idea, or trotting away, giving America the best over-the-shoulder that look he could manage under the circumstances, England went for the second option. America blushed with a remarkably shyness at England’s clumsy, albeit heartfelt come hither eyes, and darted after England.
There was no doubt America wanted to pull England up into his arms, and carry him up the stairs, but reticence held America back again, and in the end his hand rested on England’s hip, but made no bid to grab. England bit the inside of his cheek, eyes a flicker of pain; America was still too nervy and upset.
England slowed, pressing his body against America’s for as long as he could, even when America jumped. The hand on his waist tightened reflexively, but let go too soon, too quick. Gently, England brushed his hand over America’s, caught it as America flinched and pulled his lover gently up the stairs.
When did we get inside? America’s mind mumbled, too caught on overthinking every single flutter of England’s eyelashes, let alone grabbing America by the hand.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” England reassured, twisting round, and backing into the bedroom door, both hands on America’s now, and with infinite affection, pulled America after him into the room. “Everything’s okay.”
The bed hit the back of England’s legs, and he flopped back on it, wriggling up and over the bed, pulling America ever-insistently after him.
And then, crouching over England, America stopped, amongst bunched, and crisp white bedding, on the soft mattress, blue eyes stained with fear. England ran his palms along America’s arms, and made another shushing noise, and what might have been a ‘there, there’. Patiently, England’s hands ran down again to America’s hands, and peeled one away from where America had begun to grip the sheets under them in what might have been terror - which of course, America would deny. England pulled the hand along his stomach, and settled it over his heart; let the thrum-hum-hum slide into America’s fingertips.
Location, Location, Location [2e/2]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:36:47 UTC
“You make my heart race,” England sighed, half-laughing at the corny statement. America and his Hollywood. England and his Courtly Love. “Like the sound of rain. Like sparrow wings. Make me spout poetic crap.”
“It’s not crap.” America whispered, unable to hide adoration. Strange sentences stitched and tied together so carefully; the odd patterns of nouns and verbs, meticulously, and openly selected, that was half the affection. The effort, the choices. England’s choice to pull words from halfway across the dictionary and etymology together to try and fail to clearly say I love you.
And then hands raised again to pull America down to kiss him. America gave a shuddery groan, pressed close; chest to chest and heartbeat against heartbeat, hand sliding away across England’s side. Slide over again, and rubbed the tiniest circle on England’s hipbone, and flickered fingertips over his ribcage. England carded his hands in America’s hair, finding a handhold, and arching against him, panting a gasp into America’s mouth, tiny laugh as the brush on his side tickled, and America gave another tiny moan, alongside England’s much louder, surer one.
With another jarring stop, America tried to pull away, and England pulled America - softly, sweetly, but firmly - back to him.
“How can you bear to have me touch you?” The blue-eyed nation squeezed the words out, even as they came cutting up his throat, knives in his lungs, and sharp on his tongue; like he’d bitten it. Bitten it clean off. So much guilt, fear and unhappiness.
“I don’t know how I bear you to not touch me.” England breathed the words into the curve of America’s neck, kissed at the dip of his throat, and ran his smooth, but calloused palms across America’s diaphragm. “I exist through the skin of you; live where you touch me.”
“That’s so weird.” America gave the tiniest, scaredest laugh, though scaredest was almost certainly not a word, and his body trembled with a quick draw of breath, and England could feel it in his hands.
Indelicately, England slid his hands lower, brushing along America’s hip, and wriggled slightly; America was hard. Delicately, he didn’t mention it, even as America winced, and clearly knew that England knew, and England knew he knew that he knew. Knew.
Knew the confirmation of America’s desire filled his body with a melting, liquid heat, and it spilled out his mouth in a long, arching, tremulous moan.
America’s eyes widened, and he pulled away again; this time England let him, green eyes sparkling with a very exact knew. America wanted him, and would be back, and sure enough, America curled back over England, kissing him with more fierceness on the mouth than before. Licked the corner of it as he slid away, and scattered a kiss on England’s jaw. Then another, down his neck, and against his chest.
England fisted his hands in America’s hair, huffed and panted, and America mumbled a fistful of words, none joined together, just an armful of emotion.
“Christ, you - love, Arthur - god, you’re so,” Swallow, tense. “I love, oh, you.”
“I love you too.” England laughed, laugh trembling in the air, and shivering with each kiss America left over his sternum, heart, light stripe of a lick over his left nipple, slightest brush to the right, and another moan. Love blending into pleasure and lust. Still mostly love, when America swears and all it is, is a sharp, sharp love you so, too, so, too much.
Hand tapping out to the side, and scratching at the drawer, clumsy with desire, England dug about for some lubricant, brow furrowing and expression incredibly serious, so serious, that America giggled, and nuzzled his nose against England’s, before smoothly reaching over. “It’s’kay, I’ll get it.” And then, lost again, America looked down at the translucent pool of lubricant in his cupped palm. Unable to move, sitting on his heels, before his eyes flicked up to England, impossibly open.
Location, Location, Location [2f/2]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:39:20 UTC
And England waited, rubbed a comforting hand on whatever part of America he could reach; elbow, waist, stomach. Until, shakily, America smiled, teeth flashing in the nervous gesture. “You okay?” England asked softly.
“Are you?” America asked back, eyes hardening very slightly.
“That depends.”
“On what?” America’s voice jerked about like a puppet on a string; the answer in complete control of most of his feelings right at that moment.
“Are you okay?”
America gave England a quizzical look. “Are you?”
England clicked his tongue in disapproval, now glowering up at America, and wriggled down until his erection pressed against America’s stomach. “I’m fine.” England growled, now actively rubbing against America, trying to apply pressure to America, who struggled not to gasp, or whimper.
“Right, right,” America sighed patiently, tolerantly - probably lovingly, if not for his amused eyeroll, that quickly turned into a pleasured one, his toes curling. “Ahn- wait.” America blinked down at England. “Did you wanna top or bottom?” Then hastily added: “I don’t mind; it’s up to you tonight babe.” England was measuring out a perfect reply, when America went a put his foot in his mouth, down his throat and choked noisily, and messily on it. Metaphorically speaking. “Because I can totally take it, I mean, really I don’t think you’d want me at all inside you for a bit, and that’s totally cool and I’m just saying I’m all down and good with you inside me, yeah. Anything you want doll, anything-”
“I want you to shut up.” England interrupted, reaching up to push America’s two hands together. “Warm up that stuff, and do something manly and decisive.” America pulled a face.
“I’m just worried about-”
England’s eyes softened, even as he interrupted and called America a ‘wet cardigan knitted by his mam’. America’s eyes echoed the softness with his prim response that England was known for his knitting, and somehow, one of America’s (idiot boy, England supposed at a later point) fingers found its ways inside England as America cheerily asked England if - later - he could be shown how to do a basic pearl stitch. “Yeah, sure,” England panted distractedly, somewhere in his brain registering that knitting was a highly unsexy topic to discuss whilst America was experimentally curling a finger up England’s (awesome, America insisted) ass. Most of his brain was overtaken by simple registration of physical activity - finger, ass, curling, too much lube, he’d thought as much, oh. Oh. OhOhOhOhhhh.
England writhed as America slid the finger out, and pushed it back in to the second and more fierce resistance. America half-giggled, eyes looking far too innocent and filled with an almost childlike wonder, even as he curled a spare hand, sticky with unused lube on England’s chest to steady himself as he pulled his finger out once again - a crack of an expletive from England, and America added another finger. England’s voice cracked with the slightest grain of pain and they stopped.
England forced his eyes open, green against blue, and America stared dully down at England, frightened, and nervous and England’s entire body shuddering around America’s two pointer fingers, even as his eyes were just as frightened, just as nervous.
“Gorgeous,” America breathed, clumsy, but not interested in tact. Not at this point. “I’m hurting you.”
“Yess,” England hissed.
“You’re really tense.” America couldn’t keep his voice completely level, but he was trying. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“N-no - want,” Pant, force the words out. England’s eyes fluttered shut. “J-just… talk… talk to me.”
Location, Location, Location [2g/2]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:41:10 UTC
“What about?”
England’s eyes blared angrily open, unable to repress the mixture of fear that manifested in furious pride. The impossible lust sitting coiled in his stomach did not help matters. “About whatever you want!” And America shifted his hand from England’s chest down a little lower, wrapping around him. England shivered, breath hitched, tension slid a little looser.
“I love you, i-is that enough?” America stammered, for some reason reaching for a heart-to-heart at a terrible moment in time, drawing his fingers back, and then pushing them in again and stretching, scissoring them slowly and carefully, other hand finding a half-rhythm to the preparation. “To justify - I screwed up so bad-”
“We.” England gasped out. “We screwed uh-hah-hah.” England’s interruption was interrupted itself by a few sharp inhales, and then a long guttural moan; America had managed to brush England’s prostrate, drawing pleasure out of the nerve bundle.
“Fine.” America couldn’t help but smile a little as England moaned and writhed under him, a jellied mass of arousal. “We screwed up, is it enough? Is… love enough fo-”
“Love’s enough!” England snapped, trying to grab America by the hair, and in arguably defense, America gave England another jerk of his fingers, and England flopped back, keening with as much restraint as he could find, but unable to stop the sharp, tiny, squeaking cries.
“Aww, you’re cute when you chirrup.” America sighed, and pressed a third finger in, even as he curled over England, kissing him snugly on the mouth, and smiling as England moaned around the curve of his lips. America pushed down at England, as the moan tailed off, and slid his tongue ungracefully into England’s mouth, licking along the tongue within, and shoving down on it playfully. England’s attempts to fight back entirely stopped by several good shoves of America’s hand, and twitch of his fingers on England’s cock.
And England responded by reaching after America’s own groin, scraping and scrabbling after it, mewling piteously into the kiss, before biting down on America’s tongue with enough bite to let England coil his fingers round America. America groaned vividly into England’s mouth in reply. And England’s fingers scrambled for the lubricant America had left to the side - if needed, if wanted - and his fingers all but choke it. Too much lube, too many sheets, too much bed, and England dragged his slick fingers across America, America shaking like a skeleton leaf in a gale.
“I want you…” England snarled out, teeth bared, and eyes flushed with something far closer to love. Tempered by desire, but only somewhat. England wants a lot more, and with more complexity than America’s physical response; he craved America’s peace, contentment, trust. With a muffled groan that splays somewhere between Arthur, a cuss, and a purr of encouragement, America drew his hands away, leaving them sticky on England’s hip bones and slid, all but glid home. Slowly, patiently, smoothly, and England rocked under America, moaning up at America, the sounds reverberating and dancing on the ceiling.
America stared at England until green eyes flitted open again, and green against blue, America felt England arch against him, even as he curled down to meet England halfway. They clumsily brushed faces - any part of their bodies, lips to cheek, brushing the nose with a messy kiss, and the curve of a throat (pulse fluttering in the neck like a flag in the wind) to eyelashes. Faces crashing gently into each other like butterflies, touching by chance, or sycamore speeds, spiraling into strange unified ballet. Messy, untidy, and poetic.
Location, Location, Location [2h/2]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:42:42 UTC
America threw his head back, almost audible with the speed, and gave a long, long drawn-out cry, shuddering and shaking. Entire body jerking slowly with thorough, deep thrusts that fizzled into quick, breathy movements. The brief glitter of blue eyes, almost forcibly opened to meet England’s eyes is - though England would never quite say it - exactly what tosses England right over the brink, and he’s moaning, groaning, howling, keening, crying out, entire body all over the place, shaking and squirming, warmth splattering down between their stomachs, chest to chest and heartbeat to heartbeat.
Fingers sticky, they combed the hair out of each other’s eyes, and America reluctantly pulled away from England. Feeling a few heartbeat short from the aching loss of England. He made up for it in quick, soft, strokes of England’s face, kissing England on the nose more times than strictly necessary, and breathed deeply against England’s collarbones; “Thank you.”
“No problem, darling.” Is the breathy reply, and America curled into a splayed, sloppy, and sugary ball on England’s chest, kissing England once, twice over the heart and drifting into sleep with England’s arms about his shoulders, and England twisting ever so slightly to kiss his forehead.
Location, Location, Location [BONUS]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 16:45:39 UTC
The night creaked through the room, and America gave a half-yawn, rolling slightly the other way, and curling his arms about the pillow that England had very cunningly placed there. Meanwhile, England was scrambling all about the room in search of one of his shirts. Failing to find it, he picked up a stray of America’s and pulled the oversized (too much, too much) button-up over his head, gave his hair a scruff, and carefully slipped downstairs and outside.
Walking past the pool determinedly, England sized up the door of the sauna. It was dark, but not hot - no, instead the darkness lathered a slight chill on his bare legs, and with that in mind, he seized the door handle and wrenched it open. And there, on the bench where America had let them drop, are the two pieces of Texas.
Picking them up gently, England tapped them once with his second and third fingers, and murmured under his breath; “Oculus repairo.”
A satisfied smile crept over his face as the glasses are repaired, and England clicked the sauna switch off - all but blushing at the energy wastage - and retreating back upstairs to the sleeping America. Perched the glasses on the bedside table, and forcibly wrestled the pillow away from the sleeping America, and curled America back across him, snuggled up to the warm just-right heat of America and settled down to get back to sleep.
_______________
Uhm, yeah. There goes my third attempt at smut... I hope it didn't show too badly, and yeah for herpyderpy dialogue? .///.;;; Oh gosh, and I'll reply to your comments when it's not 3am. Have a bonus!
Re: Location, Location, Location [BONUS]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 17:33:28 UTC
I can't even start counting the many reasons why this fic was absolutely and completely beautiful.
The wonderful play with trust issues, poetic but not sappy descriptions of sex, total equality between both England and America, THE BONUS!!!, and above all this wonderful warm feeling that it had left somewhere around my solar plexus.
This was a piece of art and a fic that I will surely come back to whenever I will need my (daily) dose of hurt comfort. Thank you very much for filling this, authoranon, I loved the original prompt and dearly wished a skilled, creative writer would pick it - and look, my wish got fulfilled.
Re: Location, Location, Location [BONUS]
anonymous
September 4 2011, 19:47:28 UTC
You're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I wish I was a quarter of this good on my third attempt. Hell, I wish I was half this good now. Never ever stop ever. You are a complete master at giving their thoughts and feelings realistic voice and... Dear lord, I am not nearly articulate to comment on this properly, so have an e-heart: <3
Re: Location, Location, Location [BONUS]
anonymous
September 5 2011, 00:20:27 UTC
Anon this was absolutely brilliant! You have a wonderful talent for writing, the imagery and the phrases you chose were just as great as the actual smut. (which I love dearly.. heh.)
Re: Location, Location, Location [BONUS]
anonymous
October 13 2011, 07:48:26 UTC
What in the world did you just do to my snuggle reflex? I want to snuggle them both so bad. D: It can't help that it's one in the morning, rapidly going on two. I had trouble reading without jumping forward in the paragraphs cuz I was so enthralled by the depth and complexity that you had through the entire thing. Sometimes speedy read capabilities cause problems. XD
And I kept cracking up at the title and then feeling like a terrible person for laughing at the wroooong damn time. (Achmed the dead terrorist. YouTube it.) I think I have minor mood whiplash now. And there is probably and accidental that's-what-she-said in this comment somewhere.
And England kissed him back, pulling America with him as he searched for a good angle, licking along America’s lips. America’s entire body shivered under England, but he opened his mouth. Still reserved, England kissed him with an ever-increasing enthusiasm until America responded openly.
Finally pulling away with a huff, England caught his breath, his hands pressed flushly on America’s chest, coiling and stroking at America. “Bedroom.” England mumbled, looking down.
He didn’t want America on the hard ground by the pool, with only a discarded towel to the side and a forgotten water bottle next to them.
He wanted America on the expanse of a too-big bed (even for Alfred and his everywhere limbs) with too-crisp white sheets curling about them. A little nest of love. Homely, even. Too much lube, and too much gentleness, and too much plain, open love.
Looking each other in the eyes.
(Water was a terrible lubricant anyways, coagulant probably, England added as an afterthought.)
America nodded, and England slipped off America, almost falling in the pool, but only knocking the water bottle in. America pulled England up to his feet, and stared at him levelly for a few seconds.
“I want to see your eyes.” America decided quietly.
With the choice between kissing America senseless and putting a spanner in the plain and open lovemaking idea, or trotting away, giving America the best over-the-shoulder that look he could manage under the circumstances, England went for the second option. America blushed with a remarkably shyness at England’s clumsy, albeit heartfelt come hither eyes, and darted after England.
There was no doubt America wanted to pull England up into his arms, and carry him up the stairs, but reticence held America back again, and in the end his hand rested on England’s hip, but made no bid to grab. England bit the inside of his cheek, eyes a flicker of pain; America was still too nervy and upset.
England slowed, pressing his body against America’s for as long as he could, even when America jumped. The hand on his waist tightened reflexively, but let go too soon, too quick. Gently, England brushed his hand over America’s, caught it as America flinched and pulled his lover gently up the stairs.
When did we get inside? America’s mind mumbled, too caught on overthinking every single flutter of England’s eyelashes, let alone grabbing America by the hand.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” England reassured, twisting round, and backing into the bedroom door, both hands on America’s now, and with infinite affection, pulled America after him into the room. “Everything’s okay.”
The bed hit the back of England’s legs, and he flopped back on it, wriggling up and over the bed, pulling America ever-insistently after him.
And then, crouching over England, America stopped, amongst bunched, and crisp white bedding, on the soft mattress, blue eyes stained with fear. England ran his palms along America’s arms, and made another shushing noise, and what might have been a ‘there, there’. Patiently, England’s hands ran down again to America’s hands, and peeled one away from where America had begun to grip the sheets under them in what might have been terror - which of course, America would deny. England pulled the hand along his stomach, and settled it over his heart; let the thrum-hum-hum slide into America’s fingertips.
Reply
“It’s not crap.” America whispered, unable to hide adoration. Strange sentences stitched and tied together so carefully; the odd patterns of nouns and verbs, meticulously, and openly selected, that was half the affection. The effort, the choices. England’s choice to pull words from halfway across the dictionary and etymology together to try and fail to clearly say I love you.
And then hands raised again to pull America down to kiss him. America gave a shuddery groan, pressed close; chest to chest and heartbeat against heartbeat, hand sliding away across England’s side. Slide over again, and rubbed the tiniest circle on England’s hipbone, and flickered fingertips over his ribcage. England carded his hands in America’s hair, finding a handhold, and arching against him, panting a gasp into America’s mouth, tiny laugh as the brush on his side tickled, and America gave another tiny moan, alongside England’s much louder, surer one.
With another jarring stop, America tried to pull away, and England pulled America - softly, sweetly, but firmly - back to him.
“How can you bear to have me touch you?” The blue-eyed nation squeezed the words out, even as they came cutting up his throat, knives in his lungs, and sharp on his tongue; like he’d bitten it. Bitten it clean off. So much guilt, fear and unhappiness.
“I don’t know how I bear you to not touch me.” England breathed the words into the curve of America’s neck, kissed at the dip of his throat, and ran his smooth, but calloused palms across America’s diaphragm. “I exist through the skin of you; live where you touch me.”
“That’s so weird.” America gave the tiniest, scaredest laugh, though scaredest was almost certainly not a word, and his body trembled with a quick draw of breath, and England could feel it in his hands.
Indelicately, England slid his hands lower, brushing along America’s hip, and wriggled slightly; America was hard. Delicately, he didn’t mention it, even as America winced, and clearly knew that England knew, and England knew he knew that he knew. Knew.
Knew the confirmation of America’s desire filled his body with a melting, liquid heat, and it spilled out his mouth in a long, arching, tremulous moan.
America’s eyes widened, and he pulled away again; this time England let him, green eyes sparkling with a very exact knew. America wanted him, and would be back, and sure enough, America curled back over England, kissing him with more fierceness on the mouth than before. Licked the corner of it as he slid away, and scattered a kiss on England’s jaw. Then another, down his neck, and against his chest.
England fisted his hands in America’s hair, huffed and panted, and America mumbled a fistful of words, none joined together, just an armful of emotion.
“Christ, you - love, Arthur - god, you’re so,” Swallow, tense. “I love, oh, you.”
“I love you too.” England laughed, laugh trembling in the air, and shivering with each kiss America left over his sternum, heart, light stripe of a lick over his left nipple, slightest brush to the right, and another moan. Love blending into pleasure and lust. Still mostly love, when America swears and all it is, is a sharp, sharp love you so, too, so, too much.
Hand tapping out to the side, and scratching at the drawer, clumsy with desire, England dug about for some lubricant, brow furrowing and expression incredibly serious, so serious, that America giggled, and nuzzled his nose against England’s, before smoothly reaching over. “It’s’kay, I’ll get it.” And then, lost again, America looked down at the translucent pool of lubricant in his cupped palm. Unable to move, sitting on his heels, before his eyes flicked up to England, impossibly open.
Reply
“Are you?” America asked back, eyes hardening very slightly.
“That depends.”
“On what?” America’s voice jerked about like a puppet on a string; the answer in complete control of most of his feelings right at that moment.
“Are you okay?”
America gave England a quizzical look. “Are you?”
England clicked his tongue in disapproval, now glowering up at America, and wriggled down until his erection pressed against America’s stomach. “I’m fine.” England growled, now actively rubbing against America, trying to apply pressure to America, who struggled not to gasp, or whimper.
“Right, right,” America sighed patiently, tolerantly - probably lovingly, if not for his amused eyeroll, that quickly turned into a pleasured one, his toes curling. “Ahn- wait.” America blinked down at England. “Did you wanna top or bottom?” Then hastily added: “I don’t mind; it’s up to you tonight babe.” England was measuring out a perfect reply, when America went a put his foot in his mouth, down his throat and choked noisily, and messily on it. Metaphorically speaking. “Because I can totally take it, I mean, really I don’t think you’d want me at all inside you for a bit, and that’s totally cool and I’m just saying I’m all down and good with you inside me, yeah. Anything you want doll, anything-”
“I want you to shut up.” England interrupted, reaching up to push America’s two hands together. “Warm up that stuff, and do something manly and decisive.” America pulled a face.
“I’m just worried about-”
England’s eyes softened, even as he interrupted and called America a ‘wet cardigan knitted by his mam’. America’s eyes echoed the softness with his prim response that England was known for his knitting, and somehow, one of America’s (idiot boy, England supposed at a later point) fingers found its ways inside England as America cheerily asked England if - later - he could be shown how to do a basic pearl stitch. “Yeah, sure,” England panted distractedly, somewhere in his brain registering that knitting was a highly unsexy topic to discuss whilst America was experimentally curling a finger up England’s (awesome, America insisted) ass. Most of his brain was overtaken by simple registration of physical activity - finger, ass, curling, too much lube, he’d thought as much, oh. Oh. OhOhOhOhhhh.
England writhed as America slid the finger out, and pushed it back in to the second and more fierce resistance. America half-giggled, eyes looking far too innocent and filled with an almost childlike wonder, even as he curled a spare hand, sticky with unused lube on England’s chest to steady himself as he pulled his finger out once again - a crack of an expletive from England, and America added another finger. England’s voice cracked with the slightest grain of pain and they stopped.
England forced his eyes open, green against blue, and America stared dully down at England, frightened, and nervous and England’s entire body shuddering around America’s two pointer fingers, even as his eyes were just as frightened, just as nervous.
“Gorgeous,” America breathed, clumsy, but not interested in tact. Not at this point. “I’m hurting you.”
“Yess,” England hissed.
“You’re really tense.” America couldn’t keep his voice completely level, but he was trying. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“N-no - want,” Pant, force the words out. England’s eyes fluttered shut. “J-just… talk… talk to me.”
Reply
England’s eyes blared angrily open, unable to repress the mixture of fear that manifested in furious pride. The impossible lust sitting coiled in his stomach did not help matters. “About whatever you want!” And America shifted his hand from England’s chest down a little lower, wrapping around him. England shivered, breath hitched, tension slid a little looser.
“I love you, i-is that enough?” America stammered, for some reason reaching for a heart-to-heart at a terrible moment in time, drawing his fingers back, and then pushing them in again and stretching, scissoring them slowly and carefully, other hand finding a half-rhythm to the preparation. “To justify - I screwed up so bad-”
“We.” England gasped out. “We screwed uh-hah-hah.” England’s interruption was interrupted itself by a few sharp inhales, and then a long guttural moan; America had managed to brush England’s prostrate, drawing pleasure out of the nerve bundle.
“Fine.” America couldn’t help but smile a little as England moaned and writhed under him, a jellied mass of arousal. “We screwed up, is it enough? Is… love enough fo-”
“Love’s enough!” England snapped, trying to grab America by the hair, and in arguably defense, America gave England another jerk of his fingers, and England flopped back, keening with as much restraint as he could find, but unable to stop the sharp, tiny, squeaking cries.
“Aww, you’re cute when you chirrup.” America sighed, and pressed a third finger in, even as he curled over England, kissing him snugly on the mouth, and smiling as England moaned around the curve of his lips. America pushed down at England, as the moan tailed off, and slid his tongue ungracefully into England’s mouth, licking along the tongue within, and shoving down on it playfully. England’s attempts to fight back entirely stopped by several good shoves of America’s hand, and twitch of his fingers on England’s cock.
And England responded by reaching after America’s own groin, scraping and scrabbling after it, mewling piteously into the kiss, before biting down on America’s tongue with enough bite to let England coil his fingers round America. America groaned vividly into England’s mouth in reply. And England’s fingers scrambled for the lubricant America had left to the side - if needed, if wanted - and his fingers all but choke it. Too much lube, too many sheets, too much bed, and England dragged his slick fingers across America, America shaking like a skeleton leaf in a gale.
“I want you…” England snarled out, teeth bared, and eyes flushed with something far closer to love. Tempered by desire, but only somewhat. England wants a lot more, and with more complexity than America’s physical response; he craved America’s peace, contentment, trust. With a muffled groan that splays somewhere between Arthur, a cuss, and a purr of encouragement, America drew his hands away, leaving them sticky on England’s hip bones and slid, all but glid home. Slowly, patiently, smoothly, and England rocked under America, moaning up at America, the sounds reverberating and dancing on the ceiling.
America stared at England until green eyes flitted open again, and green against blue, America felt England arch against him, even as he curled down to meet England halfway. They clumsily brushed faces - any part of their bodies, lips to cheek, brushing the nose with a messy kiss, and the curve of a throat (pulse fluttering in the neck like a flag in the wind) to eyelashes. Faces crashing gently into each other like butterflies, touching by chance, or sycamore speeds, spiraling into strange unified ballet. Messy, untidy, and poetic.
Reply
Fingers sticky, they combed the hair out of each other’s eyes, and America reluctantly pulled away from England. Feeling a few heartbeat short from the aching loss of England. He made up for it in quick, soft, strokes of England’s face, kissing England on the nose more times than strictly necessary, and breathed deeply against England’s collarbones; “Thank you.”
“No problem, darling.” Is the breathy reply, and America curled into a splayed, sloppy, and sugary ball on England’s chest, kissing England once, twice over the heart and drifting into sleep with England’s arms about his shoulders, and England twisting ever so slightly to kiss his forehead.
enfin.
Reply
Walking past the pool determinedly, England sized up the door of the sauna. It was dark, but not hot - no, instead the darkness lathered a slight chill on his bare legs, and with that in mind, he seized the door handle and wrenched it open. And there, on the bench where America had let them drop, are the two pieces of Texas.
Picking them up gently, England tapped them once with his second and third fingers, and murmured under his breath; “Oculus repairo.”
A satisfied smile crept over his face as the glasses are repaired, and England clicked the sauna switch off - all but blushing at the energy wastage - and retreating back upstairs to the sleeping America. Perched the glasses on the bedside table, and forcibly wrestled the pillow away from the sleeping America, and curled America back across him, snuggled up to the warm just-right heat of America and settled down to get back to sleep.
_______________
Uhm, yeah. There goes my third attempt at smut... I hope it didn't show too badly, and yeah for herpyderpy dialogue? .///.;;; Oh gosh, and I'll reply to your comments when it's not 3am. Have a bonus!
Reply
The wonderful play with trust issues, poetic but not sappy descriptions of sex, total equality between both England and America, THE BONUS!!!, and above all this wonderful warm feeling that it had left somewhere around my solar plexus.
This was a piece of art and a fic that I will surely come back to whenever I will need my (daily) dose of hurt comfort. Thank you very much for filling this, authoranon, I loved the original prompt and dearly wished a skilled, creative writer would pick it - and look, my wish got fulfilled.
Reply
Reply
Reply
And heh, I like the little bonus spell. Sneaky--love it.
Reply
And I kept cracking up at the title and then feeling like a terrible person for laughing at the wroooong damn time. (Achmed the dead terrorist. YouTube it.) I think I have minor mood whiplash now. And there is probably and accidental that's-what-she-said in this comment somewhere.
I am soooo gonna be late for work tomorrow. >_>
Reply
Leave a comment