Changing (6/9)
anonymous
April 1 2009, 03:50:04 UTC
From the look that crossed America’s face, it almost seemed like he was ready to demand to know what was going on, but then he blurted out, “Habeas corpus. We’re shutting down Guantanamo and all undisclosed illegal prisons and moving detainees into legal, uh… legal channels.”
“Oh god,” England breathed. He grabbed America by the hips and shoved him back until he was sitting fully on the conference table, and then he was climbing on top of him as he said, “Do you have any idea how reasonable you sound right now?”
When America replied, his voice cracked. “I hope really reasonable, since I was briefed by-”
“I don’t want to hear about anyone briefing you.” England sat down on America, roughly, right on his groin. America swore and England ignored it, because he was too busy grabbing at the front of America’s jacket in an attempt to push it down off his shoulders. “Not when I’m about to debrief you.”
“What?”
America was so thick. So painfully thick. He had England’s very obvious erection digging very obviously into his lower abdomen, and his body was responding and England knew it was because he could feel it, and he still sat there under him and asked what. “Policy, America! Come on!” He rolled his hips. America gasped sharply, eyes slipping shut.
“Fuck! I just… I… Iraq!” England’s breath caught in his throat. Someone had taught America to pronounce Iraq correctly. “We’re pulling out of Iraq!”
“Enough!” England ordered, and he shoved America roughly down onto his back. “I don’t want to hear anything more about pulling out.” America managed to get out about half of England’s name before he was silenced by England’s lips and then by his tongue. It took a moment, but then England felt America’s hands on him.
On his ass, to be more precise. He tried and failed to suppress a shiver that ran down his spine, then tried and succeeded to open the top buttons of America’s shirt without popping them off entirely. When he broke off their kiss, it was with an audible sigh from America but was also only because he was desperate to bite America’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure why, except that he had a thing for biting and America’s neck was asking for it. Taunting him, really.
“How long have-ahh!” America’s hips bucked up helplessly against England’s as sharp teeth closed on the skin just under his left ear, and he drew a couple short breaths before he finished in a taut voice, “How long have you been sitting there with a hard-on?”
“Since you said aggressive diplomacy,” England murmured, punctuating it with little nips and heated kisses down the side of America’s neck. That had been hot, and not just because he previously hadn’t been sure if the word diplomacy was even in American dictionaries anymore.
“Really,” America replied. He was working a leg up between England’s, propping his foot on the table to give him more leverage to grind their lower bodies together. His response wasn’t a question; there was an intrigued note to his tone, rather, like he was thinking that he’d just come across a piece of valuable information he needed to file away for future reference. “You liked that, huh?”
“It made me want to hand myself over to a military junta just so I could be on the receiving end of some,” England admitted readily. He’d admit a lot of things readily to the right person when he was either drunk or being dry humped.
Suddenly, America’s hands were off his ass and on his shoulders and before England could make sense of what was happening he was on his back and all his papers and his bottled water were being shoved to the floor by wayward limbs, and America was on top of him. He blinked, and America grinned. “Receiving end? I can be aggressive.”
“Oh god,” England breathed. He grabbed America by the hips and shoved him back until he was sitting fully on the conference table, and then he was climbing on top of him as he said, “Do you have any idea how reasonable you sound right now?”
When America replied, his voice cracked. “I hope really reasonable, since I was briefed by-”
“I don’t want to hear about anyone briefing you.” England sat down on America, roughly, right on his groin. America swore and England ignored it, because he was too busy grabbing at the front of America’s jacket in an attempt to push it down off his shoulders. “Not when I’m about to debrief you.”
“What?”
America was so thick. So painfully thick. He had England’s very obvious erection digging very obviously into his lower abdomen, and his body was responding and England knew it was because he could feel it, and he still sat there under him and asked what. “Policy, America! Come on!” He rolled his hips. America gasped sharply, eyes slipping shut.
“Fuck! I just… I… Iraq!” England’s breath caught in his throat. Someone had taught America to pronounce Iraq correctly. “We’re pulling out of Iraq!”
“Enough!” England ordered, and he shoved America roughly down onto his back. “I don’t want to hear anything more about pulling out.” America managed to get out about half of England’s name before he was silenced by England’s lips and then by his tongue. It took a moment, but then England felt America’s hands on him.
On his ass, to be more precise. He tried and failed to suppress a shiver that ran down his spine, then tried and succeeded to open the top buttons of America’s shirt without popping them off entirely. When he broke off their kiss, it was with an audible sigh from America but was also only because he was desperate to bite America’s neck. He wasn’t entirely sure why, except that he had a thing for biting and America’s neck was asking for it. Taunting him, really.
“How long have-ahh!” America’s hips bucked up helplessly against England’s as sharp teeth closed on the skin just under his left ear, and he drew a couple short breaths before he finished in a taut voice, “How long have you been sitting there with a hard-on?”
“Since you said aggressive diplomacy,” England murmured, punctuating it with little nips and heated kisses down the side of America’s neck. That had been hot, and not just because he previously hadn’t been sure if the word diplomacy was even in American dictionaries anymore.
“Really,” America replied. He was working a leg up between England’s, propping his foot on the table to give him more leverage to grind their lower bodies together. His response wasn’t a question; there was an intrigued note to his tone, rather, like he was thinking that he’d just come across a piece of valuable information he needed to file away for future reference. “You liked that, huh?”
“It made me want to hand myself over to a military junta just so I could be on the receiving end of some,” England admitted readily. He’d admit a lot of things readily to the right person when he was either drunk or being dry humped.
Suddenly, America’s hands were off his ass and on his shoulders and before England could make sense of what was happening he was on his back and all his papers and his bottled water were being shoved to the floor by wayward limbs, and America was on top of him. He blinked, and America grinned. “Receiving end? I can be aggressive.”
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