[Fanfiction] "Lamplight"
England/Portugal
His face is shoved unceremoniously against a roughened brick wall, and for a moment he is terrified (though he shouldn’t be, because there are very few things the world can do to him any longer that he would be thrown by). Afonso grits his teeth against the offense of the feel of fingers tangling in his long hair and yanking his head back and the hand that snakes over his hip to trace teasing patterns over his thigh with a delicate fingertip, far too close to private boundaries for his comfort.
“Now, now, pet,” a low voice murmurs in his ear, lips and the bare edge of a piercing brushing coolly against the lobe and making him shudder, “this isn’t going to be much of laugh if you’re so tense.”
The grip in his tightens, pulling him away from the wall and turning him swiftly, only to have his back against the wall instead. The beginnings of the foulest words he can muster are on the tip of his tongue when he catches sight of green eyes staring at him through narrow slits, lit technicolour-bright and glowing in the flickering light of the streetlamp. The anxiety that had been gnawing at his stomach swiftly became a light fluttering that spread like quicksilver and left his limbs shaking.
Afonso gave a short breathless laugh, causing the jade stare to narrow further. The fingers in his hair loosened and swept over his cheekbone to glide beneath his chin, impatiently tilting it upwards and sending his head scraping against the brick again.
Any complaints he might’ve had about this rough treatment were forgotten as his “assailant’s” mouth closed over the junction of his throat and shoulder possessively.
“You’re late,” came the mumble a moment later. Afonso felt the beginnings of a bruise blossoming on his skin, and found he could only smile back calmly instead.
“My apologies, Inglaterra. It seems you found a few ways to amuse yourself in my absence.”
England gave a lazy, catlike smirk and pressed himself against Portugal in ways that were indecent by any standard.
“A few ways, certainly,” he murmured silkily, fingers resuming their mocking patterns over Portugal’s thighs, this time a few significant inches to the left. Afonso bit his lip sharply and inhaled through his nose.
“O-oh?”
“I decided to go to the club,” England said calmly, as if it should’ve been obvious. It was, if one judged by his attire, which was at once so very England and so very absurd. “But that can only entertain for so long.
“So I went to the pub,” he breathed into Afonso’s ear, “had a few pints to take off the edge. I spent a bit of time in the back room as well, and you can take that however you please.”
Afonso’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt and flooded swiftly downwards.
“Oh God,” he whispered hoarsely, grip tightening reflexively on England’s shirt hem.
“Quietly,” England chided him. “We’ve only two rules for the night. The first is no names.”
After a brief pause, he glanced back into Portugal’s wide eyes and graced him with another far-too-pleased cat-like smile.
“The final is that you don’t drop me.”
His face is shoved unceremoniously against a roughened brick wall, and for a moment he is terrified (though he shouldn’t be, because there are very few things the world can do to him any longer that he would be thrown by). Afonso grits his teeth against the offense of the feel of fingers tangling in his long hair and yanking his head back and the hand that snakes over his hip to trace teasing patterns over his thigh with a delicate fingertip, far too close to private boundaries for his comfort.
“Now, now, pet,” a low voice murmurs in his ear, lips and the bare edge of a piercing brushing coolly against the lobe and making him shudder, “this isn’t going to be much of laugh if you’re so tense.”
The grip in his tightens, pulling him away from the wall and turning him swiftly, only to have his back against the wall instead. The beginnings of the foulest words he can muster are on the tip of his tongue when he catches sight of green eyes staring at him through narrow slits, lit technicolour-bright and glowing in the flickering light of the streetlamp. The anxiety that had been gnawing at his stomach swiftly became a light fluttering that spread like quicksilver and left his limbs shaking.
Afonso gave a short breathless laugh, causing the jade stare to narrow further. The fingers in his hair loosened and swept over his cheekbone to glide beneath his chin, impatiently tilting it upwards and sending his head scraping against the brick again.
Any complaints he might’ve had about this rough treatment were forgotten as his “assailant’s” mouth closed over the junction of his throat and shoulder possessively.
“You’re late,” came the mumble a moment later. Afonso felt the beginnings of a bruise blossoming on his skin, and found he could only smile back calmly instead.
“My apologies, Inglaterra. It seems you found a few ways to amuse yourself in my absence.”
England gave a lazy, catlike smirk and pressed himself against Portugal in ways that were indecent by any standard.
“A few ways, certainly,” he murmured silkily, fingers resuming their mocking patterns over Portugal’s thighs, this time a few significant inches to the left. Afonso bit his lip sharply and inhaled through his nose.
“O-oh?”
“I decided to go to the club,” England said calmly, as if it should’ve been obvious. It was, if one judged by his attire, which was at once so very England and so very absurd. “But that can only entertain for so long.
“So I went to the pub,” he breathed into Afonso’s ear, “had a few pints to take off the edge. I spent a bit of time in the back room as well, and you can take that however you please.”
Afonso’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt and flooded swiftly downwards.
“Oh God,” he whispered hoarsely, grip tightening reflexively on England’s shirt hem.
“Quietly,” England chided him. “We’ve only two rules for the night. The first is no names.”
After a brief pause, he glanced back into Portugal’s wide eyes and graced him with another far-too-pleased cat-like smile.
“The final is that you don’t drop me.”