Iridescence of a Paperweight [9/13]
anonymous
February 24 2011, 22:27:31 UTC
“America,” England gasped, trying to sound warning and urge him to return quickly, though only succeeding in sounding lusty and, well…desperate, as America had said. But he was desperate for America, so it was okay (in America’s mind it was, at least; England would beg to differ).
“Oh, fucking hell…’Merica…”
…It was a lot more than okay, actually.
“Wait for me, damn it!” He cried, clearly having underestimated just how lascivious England was at the moment.
A guttural bark of anger burst forth from America’s throat as he at last damned the briefcase and its zippers to all hell and fisted both hands tightly in the leather, emitting a string of caveman-like grunts as he tore the (ahem, expensive) fabric apart. A chunky cell phone flew overhead, landing somewhere behind him with a lifeless thud; some papers, startled, fluttered into the air in a fright before coming back down in a bundle of tremors. A packet of cigarettes burst open before reaching the floor, and a few cassette tapes tumbled out, accompanied by a couple of pocket-sized books and a vintage Playboy magazine, which was all well and good, but where was the goddamned--
“Found it!” America called, jubilant once more as he scooped up the unopened pack of condoms and travel-sized bottle of lubricant from the wreckage that was once England’s briefcase. However, the smile that had begun to pull at his lips quickly dissipated upon hearing another loud, rather needy moan float across the room. “Aw, shit-England, don’t you dare finish without me, you jackass!” He scrambled to his feet with a scowl on his face, once more almost tripping over everything possible in his endeavor across the floor before he dove back onto the table with expert dexterity, resuming his suspended position above England. Smacking the flabbergasted man’s hand away from his wet cock, damn it, America growled, hoarse and possessive and annoyed.
“Oh, God,” England choked, melting into the wood of the table beneath him, apparently only, to his horror, further turned on by the way America’s impatiently displeased cobalt eyes snarled at him, the way his muscles were tensed as they were before: agitated, ready to tear something --or someone-- in two. “Fuck me,” he demanded, hooking his arms around America’s neck and swinging one leg over America’s hip, foot pushing against America’s back to bring him lower, “hard, against this blasted table. Christ.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, crushing his mouth against America’s in a wet, sloppy kiss, decorating the air with soft sounds of hurried, meeting lips smacking.
No longer terribly upset (as the danger of England selfishly indulging in a complete jerk-off was long gone), America breathed in sharply through his nose, pulling away from England’s yearning mouth just long enough to tug his glasses off and cast them aside before diving back in, groaning and tangling his fingers in England’s mussed hair, cushioning his head above the hard wood of the table. “No cowboy position?” He teased against the man’s lips, even as they continued to gift his own with hushed kisses.
America just gave a sheepish laugh and fiddled with popping the lube open when England realized himself enough to glower-not the “America-what-the-hell-have-you-done-I-am-going-to-castrate-you” glower, but the “America-if-you-don’t-shut-up-so-we-can-fuck-I-am-going-to-castrate-you” glower. He figured it was a step up from the former one.
Even then, though, England couldn’t be assed enough with irritation, it seemed, because to the best of America’s knowledge, his cock was suddenly tugged out of his boxers and being fondled very poignantly by those same cold fingers as before, and was it just him or was England smirking?
“Oh, fucking hell…’Merica…”
…It was a lot more than okay, actually.
“Wait for me, damn it!” He cried, clearly having underestimated just how lascivious England was at the moment.
A guttural bark of anger burst forth from America’s throat as he at last damned the briefcase and its zippers to all hell and fisted both hands tightly in the leather, emitting a string of caveman-like grunts as he tore the (ahem, expensive) fabric apart. A chunky cell phone flew overhead, landing somewhere behind him with a lifeless thud; some papers, startled, fluttered into the air in a fright before coming back down in a bundle of tremors. A packet of cigarettes burst open before reaching the floor, and a few cassette tapes tumbled out, accompanied by a couple of pocket-sized books and a vintage Playboy magazine, which was all well and good, but where was the goddamned--
“Found it!” America called, jubilant once more as he scooped up the unopened pack of condoms and travel-sized bottle of lubricant from the wreckage that was once England’s briefcase. However, the smile that had begun to pull at his lips quickly dissipated upon hearing another loud, rather needy moan float across the room. “Aw, shit-England, don’t you dare finish without me, you jackass!” He scrambled to his feet with a scowl on his face, once more almost tripping over everything possible in his endeavor across the floor before he dove back onto the table with expert dexterity, resuming his suspended position above England. Smacking the flabbergasted man’s hand away from his wet cock, damn it, America growled, hoarse and possessive and annoyed.
“Oh, God,” England choked, melting into the wood of the table beneath him, apparently only, to his horror, further turned on by the way America’s impatiently displeased cobalt eyes snarled at him, the way his muscles were tensed as they were before: agitated, ready to tear something --or someone-- in two. “Fuck me,” he demanded, hooking his arms around America’s neck and swinging one leg over America’s hip, foot pushing against America’s back to bring him lower, “hard, against this blasted table. Christ.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, crushing his mouth against America’s in a wet, sloppy kiss, decorating the air with soft sounds of hurried, meeting lips smacking.
No longer terribly upset (as the danger of England selfishly indulging in a complete jerk-off was long gone), America breathed in sharply through his nose, pulling away from England’s yearning mouth just long enough to tug his glasses off and cast them aside before diving back in, groaning and tangling his fingers in England’s mussed hair, cushioning his head above the hard wood of the table. “No cowboy position?” He teased against the man’s lips, even as they continued to gift his own with hushed kisses.
America just gave a sheepish laugh and fiddled with popping the lube open when England realized himself enough to glower-not the “America-what-the-hell-have-you-done-I-am-going-to-castrate-you” glower, but the “America-if-you-don’t-shut-up-so-we-can-fuck-I-am-going-to-castrate-you” glower. He figured it was a step up from the former one.
Even then, though, England couldn’t be assed enough with irritation, it seemed, because to the best of America’s knowledge, his cock was suddenly tugged out of his boxers and being fondled very poignantly by those same cold fingers as before, and was it just him or was England smirking?
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