Fill 1/?
anonymous
September 18 2011, 00:10:43 UTC
Nothing good can be said about these meetings.
It’s a bunch of politicians pretending to get along, journalists looking for some sordid story to print in tomorrow’s newspaper, a few nations that group together purely to reminisce about ‘better days’ and how all these ‘new’ nations are ruining the planet...
America flops down into his usual chair and stares up at the ceiling, waiting for France to finish gushing about how beautiful Paris is in the Springtime. Who knows why they keep inviting France to these things, because he never contributes anything meaningful.
Then again, neither does America, but as the current leading economy he’s forced to attend (and it sucks).
“Good morning,” a familiar voice greets.
Alright, America thinks, so there are a few good things that can be said about these meetings. Like being able to freely hang out with England.
“You’re kinda late,” America says in reply, as England sits down in the empty chair next to him.
“Oh, sorry,” England sneers, already irritated. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed a few minutes spare, thank you.”
America laughs. “It’s good to see you again, too.”
“Sorry,” England says and it’s a genuine apology this time, his tone of voice mellow. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“What’s the matter?” America asks, concerned. “Are you okay?”
England nods, once. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I’m just a bit... stressed.”
Their conversation is not overhead by anyone as the Conference attendees are occupied with something else- France is still addressing the crowd, attempting to embrace the clearly-uncomfortable President of Argentina as Argentina himself glares at France angrily.
“Why are you stressed?” America questions as he places a hand on England’s shoulder. “I could help get rid of stress, if y’know what I mean.”
“That’s a tempting offer,” England says with a smirk, “but I’ll have to take you up on it later.”
America grins. “Why not now?”
“Because we’re in public,” England snaps, shocked. “And the meeting is about to start, once someone gets a-hold of things...”
Shrugging, America raises his hands. “I was just kidding.”
“Oh,” England says, embarrassed. “Again... sorry.”
As if on cue to interrupt the awkward conversation, Germany stands up and slams his hands flat against the table to draw attention to himself, shouting, “France! Cease and desist from scaring that poor woman and take your seat!”
Once Germany gets involved, everyone automatically knows that it’s time to stop chattering amongst themselves and sit down to settle in for the meeting to get underway. There are a few moments of shuffling and quietening down before Germany starts to speak again, beginning an introductory speech for the Conference.
England turns away from America and focuses his eyes on the whiteboard that takes up pride of place at the top of the meeting table. Italy has moved to stand in front of it, writing down things that Germany tells him to, and a few nations around the table have begun to take notes.
Internally, America sighs. These meetings bore him to tears and he wishes he could do something a bit more stimulating. Either that, or he could always secretly leave.
Fill 2/?
anonymous
September 18 2011, 00:11:51 UTC
“Hey England,” America whispers, safe in the knowledge that no-one apart from England will hear him over the sound of Germany’s droning voice. “I’m gonna sneak out.”
“That’s a silly idea,” England whispers back, but he doesn’t try to stop him.
“See you later,” America replies, and England merely smiles a farewell before looking back over at Italy and Germany.
Once he’s sure nobody’s looking, America slides down from his seat and slips onto the floor, crouching on his hands and knees as he sits inches away from the legs of whoever it is that had been sitting opposite him. America shifts 180° in an attempt to gain his bearings and accidentally brushes his nose against the fabric of England’s trousers as he moves to face them.
“What are you doing?” England whispers, bending down to look under the table.
“I told you, I’m crawling out of here,” America answers. “You gonna come with?”
“I can’t,” England says, shaking his head. “I’ll see you later, love.”
England’s head disappears from view again as he sits up straight again. So far, Germany hasn’t stopped talking about the Eurozone economy so that must mean nobody aside from England has seen America slip under the table. Thinking of what his next move should be, America crouches for a while in the relatively roomy space; he knows Germany talks far too much and it will take him at least another twenty minutes to finish his speech.
It would take far too much planning, effort and stealth for America to actually crawl out of the Conference room under the cover of the meeting table. It was a stupid idea to begin with. America knows he has to think of something else to do with his time or risk death from monotony.
And then England’s legs move and America gets an idea. England had previously been sitting with one leg over the other but now he’s placed both feet on the ground, stretching out his limbs in an effort to get comfortable because he knows he’s going to be sitting for a long time. The movement was purely innocent but America sees it as temptation.
Taking great care not to let out a sound, America inches forward and places his hands on England’s clothed ankles. England’s legs tense up but he doesn’t do anything, even as America gently moves England’s legs apart and shuffles to sit between them.
“America,” England murmurs, so that only America can hear him, “what are you doing?”
“You’ll see,” America whispers, and then he places one hand on England’s crotch.
As expected, England lets out a small gasp of surprise and tries to move away, but America’s holding his left leg in place and resting against his right one so he can’t. America smirks, palming England’s soft cock through the fabric of his trousers, kneading gently with his knuckles and teasing it with strokes from his fingertips.
“Blimey,” England whispers, and America fights back a laugh.
It doesn’t take long for England to gradually harden, impatiently bucking his hips forward into America’s fingers and letting out a wince as his erection is held back by his trousers. America lets go of his grip on England’s leg and uses both hands to unfasten England’s belt, slipping down his trousers just far enough to equally tug down his boxers.
Thankfully, the Conference attendees continue to not notice a thing; Germany keeps talking, Italy keeps writing and most of the nations keep scribbling in their notebooks, pretending to be actively taking an interest in the facts and figures filling the whiteboard.
“If we get caught,” England mutters, “I’m going to murder you.”
His words aren’t very arousing but his tone of voice is; America decides to reward him by gripping his stiff cock with both hands and firmly sliding back the skin to swipe over the tip.
England hisses; Germany stops talking.
“What’s wrong?” Germany barks.
“Nothing,” England says, his voice higher than usual.
“Alright,” Germany says, and he launches back into whatever he was saying before.
“That was close,” America whispers, languidly running his fingers up and down the shaft of England’s cock; his movements are slower and they’re torturous that way, but at least there’s less chance of England making any sudden noises.
Fill 3/3
anonymous
September 18 2011, 00:12:44 UTC
England doesn’t reply to America’s statement, keening forward into America’s touch as his thighs lift from the chair. Running a thumb back and forth across the tip and rubbing a hand up and down the length, America settles into a set rhythm that he knows is guaranteed to get England off; he’s done this to him so many times before, but never in the middle of a public Conference, and America finds the not-so-much-exhibitionism to be something of a turn on.
A pant escapes England’s throat and his fingers dig into the armrests of his chair; America grins and curls his tongue around the base of England’s cock without a second thought. When England gasps, America trails his tongue along the span of it and laps at the pink head, precome trickling down against his lips as England’s cock twitches once.
The feel of soft pliable muscle against his hot rigid skin is enough to make England’s leg quiver in time and America works faster, suddenly deciding that the quicker he brings England to climax the better. He wants to see it, to feel it happening, because a part of him wants the other nations to notice what’s happening. He wants to know how England would react if all eyes were on him at such a vital moment.
“I’m going to mur-murder you,” England repeats. “I’m going to...”
He comes, hands flying away from the armrests to grip America’s hair, heels that had previously been digging into the carpet rising up as his legs elevate. His body shifts and though America can’t see it he knows England is screaming a silent scream, fluid releasing into America’s throat that he gladly takes.
“England!” Germany snaps. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” England says, quickly, breathing drawn and voice breaking. “Honestly Germany, I don’t know why you think I’m... think I’m doing something.”
“You were pulling faces,” Germany pouts, sounding very much like a tantrum-prone child.
“I’m sorry, I’ll stop,” England says, tone settling.
America bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. Pulling faces indeed.
England’s hands stroke America’s hair as America readjusts England’s clothing, ending his movements by fastening England’s belt and sneaking up to re-take his seat. As he does so England stares at him, face flushed and grinning like a lunatic.
It’s a bunch of politicians pretending to get along, journalists looking for some sordid story to print in tomorrow’s newspaper, a few nations that group together purely to reminisce about ‘better days’ and how all these ‘new’ nations are ruining the planet...
America flops down into his usual chair and stares up at the ceiling, waiting for France to finish gushing about how beautiful Paris is in the Springtime. Who knows why they keep inviting France to these things, because he never contributes anything meaningful.
Then again, neither does America, but as the current leading economy he’s forced to attend (and it sucks).
“Good morning,” a familiar voice greets.
Alright, America thinks, so there are a few good things that can be said about these meetings. Like being able to freely hang out with England.
“You’re kinda late,” America says in reply, as England sits down in the empty chair next to him.
“Oh, sorry,” England sneers, already irritated. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed a few minutes spare, thank you.”
America laughs. “It’s good to see you again, too.”
“Sorry,” England says and it’s a genuine apology this time, his tone of voice mellow. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“What’s the matter?” America asks, concerned. “Are you okay?”
England nods, once. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I’m just a bit... stressed.”
Their conversation is not overhead by anyone as the Conference attendees are occupied with something else- France is still addressing the crowd, attempting to embrace the clearly-uncomfortable President of Argentina as Argentina himself glares at France angrily.
“Why are you stressed?” America questions as he places a hand on England’s shoulder. “I could help get rid of stress, if y’know what I mean.”
“That’s a tempting offer,” England says with a smirk, “but I’ll have to take you up on it later.”
America grins. “Why not now?”
“Because we’re in public,” England snaps, shocked. “And the meeting is about to start, once someone gets a-hold of things...”
Shrugging, America raises his hands. “I was just kidding.”
“Oh,” England says, embarrassed. “Again... sorry.”
As if on cue to interrupt the awkward conversation, Germany stands up and slams his hands flat against the table to draw attention to himself, shouting, “France! Cease and desist from scaring that poor woman and take your seat!”
Once Germany gets involved, everyone automatically knows that it’s time to stop chattering amongst themselves and sit down to settle in for the meeting to get underway. There are a few moments of shuffling and quietening down before Germany starts to speak again, beginning an introductory speech for the Conference.
England turns away from America and focuses his eyes on the whiteboard that takes up pride of place at the top of the meeting table. Italy has moved to stand in front of it, writing down things that Germany tells him to, and a few nations around the table have begun to take notes.
Internally, America sighs. These meetings bore him to tears and he wishes he could do something a bit more stimulating. Either that, or he could always secretly leave.
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“That’s a silly idea,” England whispers back, but he doesn’t try to stop him.
“See you later,” America replies, and England merely smiles a farewell before looking back over at Italy and Germany.
Once he’s sure nobody’s looking, America slides down from his seat and slips onto the floor, crouching on his hands and knees as he sits inches away from the legs of whoever it is that had been sitting opposite him. America shifts 180° in an attempt to gain his bearings and accidentally brushes his nose against the fabric of England’s trousers as he moves to face them.
“What are you doing?” England whispers, bending down to look under the table.
“I told you, I’m crawling out of here,” America answers. “You gonna come with?”
“I can’t,” England says, shaking his head. “I’ll see you later, love.”
England’s head disappears from view again as he sits up straight again. So far, Germany hasn’t stopped talking about the Eurozone economy so that must mean nobody aside from England has seen America slip under the table. Thinking of what his next move should be, America crouches for a while in the relatively roomy space; he knows Germany talks far too much and it will take him at least another twenty minutes to finish his speech.
It would take far too much planning, effort and stealth for America to actually crawl out of the Conference room under the cover of the meeting table. It was a stupid idea to begin with. America knows he has to think of something else to do with his time or risk death from monotony.
And then England’s legs move and America gets an idea. England had previously been sitting with one leg over the other but now he’s placed both feet on the ground, stretching out his limbs in an effort to get comfortable because he knows he’s going to be sitting for a long time. The movement was purely innocent but America sees it as temptation.
Taking great care not to let out a sound, America inches forward and places his hands on England’s clothed ankles. England’s legs tense up but he doesn’t do anything, even as America gently moves England’s legs apart and shuffles to sit between them.
“America,” England murmurs, so that only America can hear him, “what are you doing?”
“You’ll see,” America whispers, and then he places one hand on England’s crotch.
As expected, England lets out a small gasp of surprise and tries to move away, but America’s holding his left leg in place and resting against his right one so he can’t. America smirks, palming England’s soft cock through the fabric of his trousers, kneading gently with his knuckles and teasing it with strokes from his fingertips.
“Blimey,” England whispers, and America fights back a laugh.
It doesn’t take long for England to gradually harden, impatiently bucking his hips forward into America’s fingers and letting out a wince as his erection is held back by his trousers. America lets go of his grip on England’s leg and uses both hands to unfasten England’s belt, slipping down his trousers just far enough to equally tug down his boxers.
Thankfully, the Conference attendees continue to not notice a thing; Germany keeps talking, Italy keeps writing and most of the nations keep scribbling in their notebooks, pretending to be actively taking an interest in the facts and figures filling the whiteboard.
“If we get caught,” England mutters, “I’m going to murder you.”
His words aren’t very arousing but his tone of voice is; America decides to reward him by gripping his stiff cock with both hands and firmly sliding back the skin to swipe over the tip.
England hisses; Germany stops talking.
“What’s wrong?” Germany barks.
“Nothing,” England says, his voice higher than usual.
“Alright,” Germany says, and he launches back into whatever he was saying before.
“That was close,” America whispers, languidly running his fingers up and down the shaft of England’s cock; his movements are slower and they’re torturous that way, but at least there’s less chance of England making any sudden noises.
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A pant escapes England’s throat and his fingers dig into the armrests of his chair; America grins and curls his tongue around the base of England’s cock without a second thought. When England gasps, America trails his tongue along the span of it and laps at the pink head, precome trickling down against his lips as England’s cock twitches once.
The feel of soft pliable muscle against his hot rigid skin is enough to make England’s leg quiver in time and America works faster, suddenly deciding that the quicker he brings England to climax the better. He wants to see it, to feel it happening, because a part of him wants the other nations to notice what’s happening. He wants to know how England would react if all eyes were on him at such a vital moment.
“I’m going to mur-murder you,” England repeats. “I’m going to...”
He comes, hands flying away from the armrests to grip America’s hair, heels that had previously been digging into the carpet rising up as his legs elevate. His body shifts and though America can’t see it he knows England is screaming a silent scream, fluid releasing into America’s throat that he gladly takes.
“England!” Germany snaps. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” England says, quickly, breathing drawn and voice breaking. “Honestly Germany, I don’t know why you think I’m... think I’m doing something.”
“You were pulling faces,” Germany pouts, sounding very much like a tantrum-prone child.
“I’m sorry, I’ll stop,” England says, tone settling.
America bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. Pulling faces indeed.
England’s hands stroke America’s hair as America readjusts England’s clothing, ending his movements by fastening England’s belt and sneaking up to re-take his seat. As he does so England stares at him, face flushed and grinning like a lunatic.
“Idiot,” he mouths.
“Love you too,” America mouths back.
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