Fic: "Souvenir," Hetalia, UKxUS, R-18
Oct. 21st, 2012 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jedishampooTitle: Souvenir
Author:jedishampoo
Pairing: UK/US
Rating: R-18, explicit smut
Warnings: None other than the rating.
Summary: Their history is ... complicated. But they only have an hour.
Author's Notes: This is a kink meme deanon for non-bondage necktie-tying kink. The original prompt and fill are here. This is several months old but it needed to be reworked on the orders of my lovely beta,conjure_lass. Thanks to her and to the original requester! ::waves:: It still might be meander-y and emotionally unsure but that's kind of what I was going for, so there you are, and be warned. :)
God, England can remember when America was a wee thing, a knee-tall sprite, Indian-corn hair reaching just high enough to riffle through England's fingers when he dangled his arm at his side. He can remember when he, England, was able to admit to affection -- to love -- because it was paternal. Fraternal. Something.
Now, though, he has to reach up above his own shoulders to untangle the unholy, scrunched glob of tie at America's throat. He should miss the days of leg-clinging, of hair-riffling. He does. He should.
"Your tie is an abomination to fashion," he says instead.
America's Adam's apple bobs, warm and a little sticky under England's fingers.
"I thought you'd appreciate the homage," America says, pronouncing the aitch, then, belatedly, "Like you're the expert on fashion."
"Hmph," England says to the latter, and "hmm" to the former.
The homage is a wide piece of elderly silk, hand-painted with tiny, smeared representations of a number of national flags. America wore it at the opening of his 1932 Olympics Games in Los Angeles. England noticed it then, too, though it was slightly more in fashion at the time.
England remembers how golly-gee earnest America was. He had only forty-eight stars on his flag, but the annoying bravado of hundreds. England also remembers his own uncomfortable sulk and the ashamed, satisfying wank he had in his own room later that night.
America's fingers have already unbuttoned England's shirt and worked his belt free, and are currently squeezing impatient dimples into England's belly. His jaw hangs a bit slack. His gaping lips are still shiny.
The present offers so much that the past never did, though England has ever enjoyed wallowing in what once was. But the setting is, perhaps, inappropriate for wallowing. And they only have an hour. Will anyone miss them at the buffet?
England's fingers fumble on the silk and America chuckles, a smug vibration on England's knuckles. Up close America still looks young, unlined and unsophisticated. So England feels like a horrible person as he licks America's teeth through his open lips and yanks hard at the knot in a misguidedly lustful attempt to loosen it. He catches America's choked gasp; it's an inhale of mixed blessings.
America's fingers squeeze England's ribs more tightly.
"What are you--" America says.
At the same time England bitches, "What the hell were you trying to--"
"...it was--"
"...bloody thing." At last England has found the correct silk end and loosened the noose, as it were. The knot falls apart in a wrinkled mess.
"Watch out, dude. That's an antique."
"Right. And you're the one who butchered it, putting it on," England says. He dangles the tie from two fingers and drops it onto the hotel room bed. A memory drops in, uninvited: he's on his stiffs, trying to be a good example, showing a waist-high schoolboy how to properly hang his clothing in the large mahogany wardrobe, the one hauled all the way across the Atlantic at great expense--
America still has the wardrobe in his house somewhere, still wipes it free of dust now and then, England believes. The memory is uncomfortable but not for any reasons England can articulate as he more deftly performs the job of unbuttoning America's shirt.
America proves that not all old things deserve his care by shoving England to the bed and smothering him with sheer mass and hard, sloppy kisses. England answers by hitching a thigh over America's hips and clawing his fingers into America's hair, holding him captive, tying him to the stake as they bumble against each other.
After a few minutes their mad groping settles into a rhythm that is more erotically sedate. England strokes all of America's back under his shirt, all of it, his skin, over and over, greedy in the now. Still, the urgency of love has a more steady rather than frantic growth.
But their hour is ticking past. England grips the duvet for purchase and tugs until he can roll America beneath him, can look down on his shiny face and smeared spectacles. These England removes and discovers that his fingers have brought the discarded tie with them.
"You wanna top, I guess?" America says, his breath a little harsher than usual. His cheeks are rosewater-pink and his eyes are the blue of a California sky.
And there are England's damned memories again, surprising him when the light catches the room, America, just so. How the light from a window opened onto a cloudy London sky can take England back eighty years and six thousand miles, he does not know.
He sees so clearly America's face then, in 1932, his body, just ... America, seasoned by one Great War but not yet as cynical and cocky as two would make him. England had yearned to own every twitch and turn of that young, excited body as it bounced around the coliseum by the sea.
"My first real Olympics, I'm calling it. Ain't I just arrived now--?" America said, before sneezing and waving off England's offer of a handkerchief. The economic situation had to be temporary, right?
America sniffs in the present and England drops the painted tie over America's eyes, willing the past to such a temporary hiding place. That's one problem with longevity: too many memories competing against each other.
America's nose scrunches. "Is this some kinky thing?"
"No," England says. In a way, his mind whispers. The Union Jack covers America's left eye, the Stars and Stripes -- two stars short -- his right eye. The Bleu, Blanc et Rouge dangles somewhere near his earlobe.
England's next kiss is long and gentle, belying the tight throb in his cock, the ticking away of their stolen lunch hour, his sixty minutes of heart's desire. America kisses him back but England can practically taste the "hurry up, dude" hovering on America's tongue. That it's as yet unsaid is uncharacteristic politeness, and England would pay dearly to know what emotion lurks behind it.
He can admit his own greed to himself, but wants to deny the fearful thrill he gets at each tiny evidence of feeling that belies this as anything merely physical. He could be hurt again. He remembers opening a letter, remembers the feel of the rough parchment and the chill that'd gripped his heart as he imagined America's lip-biting concentration at scrawling those messy, angry words.
England curls his tongue one last time behind America's front teeth, and feels the more pleasurable chills of desire. The tie falls between them as they sit up to remove their trousers. America's crumple into a pile on the floor, but England exits the bed to fold his crisply on a chair, making sure to remove the little foil packet of lubricant he placed there this morning in hopeful anticipation. When he turns back, America has paused in removing his shirt and is looking at his watch.
"Shit. It's twelve-twenty-five." He flops onto his back, spreads his legs, and bends his knees, looking like a bored bride. "Why don'tcha get over here and fuck me already."
England wants to do it but hates to be bossed. "I'd say go fuck yourself, but where would that leave me? With a hard cock and no warm place to put it."
America snorts. And he is warm, even the skin on his thighs is warm in the chilly, half-dark room. England nabs one leg and pulls America around, his body making fweeeef noises on the shiny duvet until his arse is near-hanging off the bed. He sees the antique tie, stuck under America's back. Italy and Belgium peep out at him -- the voyeurs -- and England pulls the silk free and tosses it at America's head. He stands between America's (warm, God) legs and slicks his own cock with lubricant.
"I'm in charge this year, and so you can shut it."
America laughs and wiggles his arse against England's thighs, his cock wobbling with his fidgets. "Yeah, and you're totally acting like it, too."
England pauses in mid-stroke. "Am I."
"Yeah."
England considers this some more, not unhappily. "How?"
America shrugs. "Just ... different."
"Different."
"Please," America says in a high and somewhat shrill voice, as perceptive and inarticulate as ever. He's squeezing his own cock and still wiggling his arse with increasingly jerky motions.
"Very well." Swiping on lubricant feels good but America will feel better, England thinks. And yes, he does, hot and dry against England's finger as he slides it inside him, like testing the waters.
"Nnnnng," America groans.
It's only a half-step forward for England to replace his finger with his cock, a short jerk of his hips to nudge in between America's arse-cheeks, hard -- America's impatience is contagious, and his moans at the rough handling sound more like promise than pain.
England's cock steals the blood from his brain for a moment, rendering him mindless. This shouldn't feel so good, and their relationship is long and complicated and should probably never have ... whatever. He doesn't care. He sighs and leans forward a bit as America knots his legs around England's waist, making a cozy, familiar refuge in the cold and impersonal room. America's body stretches around him as England works his hips in the first, few thrilling thrusts, as the ache in his belly notches up in acute bursts.
America grunts and arches his back off the bed, tilting his throat so that the light catches his Adams' apple, bobbing as he gulps and swallows the pain -- or pleasure -- that England is giving him. Whatever; their bodies work together so much better than their brains.
He clings to America's hips and rocks them into a rhythm that is more meandering than urgent. America, his-- England is glad he can only see America's chin, his chest as it swells with each next, deeper breath, the dance of muscles in his belly. Memory shouldn't be able to taunt him if he can't see the youthfulness of America's uncovered eyes, the whole of his personality in his face.
But almost before he's realized it he's leaning far forward, drawn by America's parted lips, the twitch of his fair eyelashes on his cheeks. And it's England's hand which is threaded through America's hair, holding his head steady so England can watch his expression as he fucks him, watching against all better judgment.
And there: he remembers America's apple-cheeked pride at Queen Victoria's American Exhibition, at making a splash in London after so long, his bow tie a cheeky-yellow silk--
England realizes his breath is as ragged as America's, that his hips are working too furiously. He gulps and slows to a near-excruciating shove and pull. If he stretches to his toes he can just catch America's lower lip with his teeth, then release it, marked with spit.
"Why'd you--" America huffs. He adjusts his arse into what is apparently a more comfortable angle and clutches England's shoulders, urging him.
"My feet slipped on the carpet," England lies. He might as well admit it, give into the truth, that he wants to draw this out, use up every second of their meeting break. He wants to sift through each memory as he fucks America -- even the wrong memories.
"Oh," America says, and "oh, God," as England twists his hips for a few, swirly motions and finds some buried secret. How rare that one gets so many voyages of discovery, so many vistas spread out like first sightings. The flags of Spain and Sweden peep up at England from where the Olympic tie is jammed under America's ribs.
England closes his eyes to pretend the voyeurs aren't there. After a few moments he catches a whiff of what he fancies is a sea breeze, cutting right through the recycled air of the hotel room -- now and then he'll catch those pockets of scent, like they burble up through the Thames. He rocks his hips in movements like waves. America's hands have moved to England's cheeks and his thumbs swirl over England's lips in time with the circles of England's hips. It's something that's almost too open, too intimate, for America to perpetrate between them. England catches America's fingers and twines them in his own upon the covers, his own version of the gesture.
England tastes his own sea-salty sweat as it rolls down his temples to his lips. America's mouth is slack again and needs to be kissed and England can just make it, just share his sweaty lips, catch enough of America's breath to fill his own lungs as he moves faster, and faster.
The grey daylight hides and reveals just enough for England to admit -- if even only to himself -- that their history and desire go deep and are deeply intertwined.
He sees grey daylight, and America, the ties of his toddler-gown strung upon the bed in the first house England built for him. The messy, inexpert cravat America wore the first time they met in battle as enemies; the dandified French version he sported several years later ...
The "first real Olympics" tie. Who cares if Spain and Mexico are watching, because their bodies are burning friction and America's thighs are trembling with effort and England is tippling toward the edge of climax, his nerves stretched like reaching fingers for--
"Stupid. Bloody. Thing," England says and then Ah! as he climaxes, lives those few mindless, draining, perfect moments. He feels the sting of sweat as he holds America's slackened thighs up at his hips so he can come inside him, make those last, jerky thrusts.
"Aw -- ah, man! You were too, huh, fast--" America starts to whinge after another moment, somewhat out-of-breathlessly.
"Shut it, you--" England says and drags his hand, still twined with America's, back to wank America into his own orgasm. He hasn't far to go; his cock is shiny-slick, pumped full of the blood that sometimes makes its way to his brain. England's taken America's mind and he likes it.
England's fingers ache and the hair on America's shaking legs is rubbing his hips raw when America finally climaxes. England watches; the sound of America's breath and the wobble of his chin are new memories for England to take with him.
When America's eyes have regained focus a half-minute later, England knows that America knows that they will probably be late. England sighs at the fleeting nature of the selfish pleasure their existences afford them.
"Guess that's ..." America says. He stares at England with half-lidded eyes, reflecting the light with what may be a poignant expression. England isn't sure.
They separate regardless and scramble for towels, clothes, their combs and their shoes. England is finished dressing first and catches sight of America once again butchering his homage. He looks surprised when England waves his hands away to claim the tie and smooth it out. England can have these last, few moments -- he can.
"We'll tell them I was giving you an hour-long sartorial lecture," England says.
"Wouldn't be the first time," America says, but he ducks his head so England can toss the tie around it, then raises his chin to allow England to fasten it as he pleases. England has smoothed the silk as much as he can; once he arranges the ends properly, he crosses the fat end over the slimmer one and makes a loop.
--that first time he'd pulled America into a tailored suit, threaded his tie like a gentleman's, tried to banish that wild, backcountry independence--
This is the longest America has stood still for England in a long time, and England wonders what memories, if any, are dancing through his irreverent brain. He lets his fingers brush America's throat again when he passes the flags of then-Czechoslovakia -- now Czech Republic -- and Brazil twice around the loop, creasing the silk tight as he does it. The collar of America's shirt is sweaty; perhaps they should have removed them?
"Looks like a double-Windsor there," America mumbles, a warm breath on England's nose.
"Thought it was appropriate," England says. He slips the tie-end through one last time -- India and Ireland, England probably had ties with those flags on them, once -- tidies the knot, and slides it up to meet America's buttoned collar. America's fingers brush his as he loosens the knot a little. It's those tiny intimacies that bring such exponential happiness to England's existence as it is now. He wonders if that shows as well.
"I gotta breathe," America says.
"You can breathe," England says. He pats America's shirtfront and starts to back away, but before he can second-guess himself he ruffles America's hair. America winces like he always does, like he did when he was small, when England would fuss\with his hair. Like England has just spit on his fingers to tame his stray curl. But he allows it. He snags his spectacles from the bedside table and plops them on his nose. Then he swivels and precedes England out of the room with a huff.
England smiles a small, hidden smile, for he's rather mussed America's hair and he's rather pleased with himself for it -- it's like thumbing his nose at all the years he's spent doing otherwise. That feeling, at least, is rather fraternal, even if many of his others are nowhere near so.
END
Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think, good, bad, or whatever.
.
Author:
jedishampooPairing: UK/US
Rating: R-18, explicit smut
Warnings: None other than the rating.
Summary: Their history is ... complicated. But they only have an hour.
Author's Notes: This is a kink meme deanon for non-bondage necktie-tying kink. The original prompt and fill are here. This is several months old but it needed to be reworked on the orders of my lovely beta,
conjure_lass. Thanks to her and to the original requester! ::waves:: It still might be meander-y and emotionally unsure but that's kind of what I was going for, so there you are, and be warned. :) God, England can remember when America was a wee thing, a knee-tall sprite, Indian-corn hair reaching just high enough to riffle through England's fingers when he dangled his arm at his side. He can remember when he, England, was able to admit to affection -- to love -- because it was paternal. Fraternal. Something.
Now, though, he has to reach up above his own shoulders to untangle the unholy, scrunched glob of tie at America's throat. He should miss the days of leg-clinging, of hair-riffling. He does. He should.
"Your tie is an abomination to fashion," he says instead.
America's Adam's apple bobs, warm and a little sticky under England's fingers.
"I thought you'd appreciate the homage," America says, pronouncing the aitch, then, belatedly, "Like you're the expert on fashion."
"Hmph," England says to the latter, and "hmm" to the former.
The homage is a wide piece of elderly silk, hand-painted with tiny, smeared representations of a number of national flags. America wore it at the opening of his 1932 Olympics Games in Los Angeles. England noticed it then, too, though it was slightly more in fashion at the time.
England remembers how golly-gee earnest America was. He had only forty-eight stars on his flag, but the annoying bravado of hundreds. England also remembers his own uncomfortable sulk and the ashamed, satisfying wank he had in his own room later that night.
America's fingers have already unbuttoned England's shirt and worked his belt free, and are currently squeezing impatient dimples into England's belly. His jaw hangs a bit slack. His gaping lips are still shiny.
The present offers so much that the past never did, though England has ever enjoyed wallowing in what once was. But the setting is, perhaps, inappropriate for wallowing. And they only have an hour. Will anyone miss them at the buffet?
England's fingers fumble on the silk and America chuckles, a smug vibration on England's knuckles. Up close America still looks young, unlined and unsophisticated. So England feels like a horrible person as he licks America's teeth through his open lips and yanks hard at the knot in a misguidedly lustful attempt to loosen it. He catches America's choked gasp; it's an inhale of mixed blessings.
America's fingers squeeze England's ribs more tightly.
"What are you--" America says.
At the same time England bitches, "What the hell were you trying to--"
"...it was--"
"...bloody thing." At last England has found the correct silk end and loosened the noose, as it were. The knot falls apart in a wrinkled mess.
"Watch out, dude. That's an antique."
"Right. And you're the one who butchered it, putting it on," England says. He dangles the tie from two fingers and drops it onto the hotel room bed. A memory drops in, uninvited: he's on his stiffs, trying to be a good example, showing a waist-high schoolboy how to properly hang his clothing in the large mahogany wardrobe, the one hauled all the way across the Atlantic at great expense--
America still has the wardrobe in his house somewhere, still wipes it free of dust now and then, England believes. The memory is uncomfortable but not for any reasons England can articulate as he more deftly performs the job of unbuttoning America's shirt.
America proves that not all old things deserve his care by shoving England to the bed and smothering him with sheer mass and hard, sloppy kisses. England answers by hitching a thigh over America's hips and clawing his fingers into America's hair, holding him captive, tying him to the stake as they bumble against each other.
After a few minutes their mad groping settles into a rhythm that is more erotically sedate. England strokes all of America's back under his shirt, all of it, his skin, over and over, greedy in the now. Still, the urgency of love has a more steady rather than frantic growth.
But their hour is ticking past. England grips the duvet for purchase and tugs until he can roll America beneath him, can look down on his shiny face and smeared spectacles. These England removes and discovers that his fingers have brought the discarded tie with them.
"You wanna top, I guess?" America says, his breath a little harsher than usual. His cheeks are rosewater-pink and his eyes are the blue of a California sky.
And there are England's damned memories again, surprising him when the light catches the room, America, just so. How the light from a window opened onto a cloudy London sky can take England back eighty years and six thousand miles, he does not know.
He sees so clearly America's face then, in 1932, his body, just ... America, seasoned by one Great War but not yet as cynical and cocky as two would make him. England had yearned to own every twitch and turn of that young, excited body as it bounced around the coliseum by the sea.
"My first real Olympics, I'm calling it. Ain't I just arrived now--?" America said, before sneezing and waving off England's offer of a handkerchief. The economic situation had to be temporary, right?
America sniffs in the present and England drops the painted tie over America's eyes, willing the past to such a temporary hiding place. That's one problem with longevity: too many memories competing against each other.
America's nose scrunches. "Is this some kinky thing?"
"No," England says. In a way, his mind whispers. The Union Jack covers America's left eye, the Stars and Stripes -- two stars short -- his right eye. The Bleu, Blanc et Rouge dangles somewhere near his earlobe.
England's next kiss is long and gentle, belying the tight throb in his cock, the ticking away of their stolen lunch hour, his sixty minutes of heart's desire. America kisses him back but England can practically taste the "hurry up, dude" hovering on America's tongue. That it's as yet unsaid is uncharacteristic politeness, and England would pay dearly to know what emotion lurks behind it.
He can admit his own greed to himself, but wants to deny the fearful thrill he gets at each tiny evidence of feeling that belies this as anything merely physical. He could be hurt again. He remembers opening a letter, remembers the feel of the rough parchment and the chill that'd gripped his heart as he imagined America's lip-biting concentration at scrawling those messy, angry words.
England curls his tongue one last time behind America's front teeth, and feels the more pleasurable chills of desire. The tie falls between them as they sit up to remove their trousers. America's crumple into a pile on the floor, but England exits the bed to fold his crisply on a chair, making sure to remove the little foil packet of lubricant he placed there this morning in hopeful anticipation. When he turns back, America has paused in removing his shirt and is looking at his watch.
"Shit. It's twelve-twenty-five." He flops onto his back, spreads his legs, and bends his knees, looking like a bored bride. "Why don'tcha get over here and fuck me already."
England wants to do it but hates to be bossed. "I'd say go fuck yourself, but where would that leave me? With a hard cock and no warm place to put it."
America snorts. And he is warm, even the skin on his thighs is warm in the chilly, half-dark room. England nabs one leg and pulls America around, his body making fweeeef noises on the shiny duvet until his arse is near-hanging off the bed. He sees the antique tie, stuck under America's back. Italy and Belgium peep out at him -- the voyeurs -- and England pulls the silk free and tosses it at America's head. He stands between America's (warm, God) legs and slicks his own cock with lubricant.
"I'm in charge this year, and so you can shut it."
America laughs and wiggles his arse against England's thighs, his cock wobbling with his fidgets. "Yeah, and you're totally acting like it, too."
England pauses in mid-stroke. "Am I."
"Yeah."
England considers this some more, not unhappily. "How?"
America shrugs. "Just ... different."
"Different."
"Please," America says in a high and somewhat shrill voice, as perceptive and inarticulate as ever. He's squeezing his own cock and still wiggling his arse with increasingly jerky motions.
"Very well." Swiping on lubricant feels good but America will feel better, England thinks. And yes, he does, hot and dry against England's finger as he slides it inside him, like testing the waters.
"Nnnnng," America groans.
It's only a half-step forward for England to replace his finger with his cock, a short jerk of his hips to nudge in between America's arse-cheeks, hard -- America's impatience is contagious, and his moans at the rough handling sound more like promise than pain.
England's cock steals the blood from his brain for a moment, rendering him mindless. This shouldn't feel so good, and their relationship is long and complicated and should probably never have ... whatever. He doesn't care. He sighs and leans forward a bit as America knots his legs around England's waist, making a cozy, familiar refuge in the cold and impersonal room. America's body stretches around him as England works his hips in the first, few thrilling thrusts, as the ache in his belly notches up in acute bursts.
America grunts and arches his back off the bed, tilting his throat so that the light catches his Adams' apple, bobbing as he gulps and swallows the pain -- or pleasure -- that England is giving him. Whatever; their bodies work together so much better than their brains.
He clings to America's hips and rocks them into a rhythm that is more meandering than urgent. America, his-- England is glad he can only see America's chin, his chest as it swells with each next, deeper breath, the dance of muscles in his belly. Memory shouldn't be able to taunt him if he can't see the youthfulness of America's uncovered eyes, the whole of his personality in his face.
But almost before he's realized it he's leaning far forward, drawn by America's parted lips, the twitch of his fair eyelashes on his cheeks. And it's England's hand which is threaded through America's hair, holding his head steady so England can watch his expression as he fucks him, watching against all better judgment.
And there: he remembers America's apple-cheeked pride at Queen Victoria's American Exhibition, at making a splash in London after so long, his bow tie a cheeky-yellow silk--
England realizes his breath is as ragged as America's, that his hips are working too furiously. He gulps and slows to a near-excruciating shove and pull. If he stretches to his toes he can just catch America's lower lip with his teeth, then release it, marked with spit.
"Why'd you--" America huffs. He adjusts his arse into what is apparently a more comfortable angle and clutches England's shoulders, urging him.
"My feet slipped on the carpet," England lies. He might as well admit it, give into the truth, that he wants to draw this out, use up every second of their meeting break. He wants to sift through each memory as he fucks America -- even the wrong memories.
"Oh," America says, and "oh, God," as England twists his hips for a few, swirly motions and finds some buried secret. How rare that one gets so many voyages of discovery, so many vistas spread out like first sightings. The flags of Spain and Sweden peep up at England from where the Olympic tie is jammed under America's ribs.
England closes his eyes to pretend the voyeurs aren't there. After a few moments he catches a whiff of what he fancies is a sea breeze, cutting right through the recycled air of the hotel room -- now and then he'll catch those pockets of scent, like they burble up through the Thames. He rocks his hips in movements like waves. America's hands have moved to England's cheeks and his thumbs swirl over England's lips in time with the circles of England's hips. It's something that's almost too open, too intimate, for America to perpetrate between them. England catches America's fingers and twines them in his own upon the covers, his own version of the gesture.
England tastes his own sea-salty sweat as it rolls down his temples to his lips. America's mouth is slack again and needs to be kissed and England can just make it, just share his sweaty lips, catch enough of America's breath to fill his own lungs as he moves faster, and faster.
The grey daylight hides and reveals just enough for England to admit -- if even only to himself -- that their history and desire go deep and are deeply intertwined.
He sees grey daylight, and America, the ties of his toddler-gown strung upon the bed in the first house England built for him. The messy, inexpert cravat America wore the first time they met in battle as enemies; the dandified French version he sported several years later ...
The "first real Olympics" tie. Who cares if Spain and Mexico are watching, because their bodies are burning friction and America's thighs are trembling with effort and England is tippling toward the edge of climax, his nerves stretched like reaching fingers for--
"Stupid. Bloody. Thing," England says and then Ah! as he climaxes, lives those few mindless, draining, perfect moments. He feels the sting of sweat as he holds America's slackened thighs up at his hips so he can come inside him, make those last, jerky thrusts.
"Aw -- ah, man! You were too, huh, fast--" America starts to whinge after another moment, somewhat out-of-breathlessly.
"Shut it, you--" England says and drags his hand, still twined with America's, back to wank America into his own orgasm. He hasn't far to go; his cock is shiny-slick, pumped full of the blood that sometimes makes its way to his brain. England's taken America's mind and he likes it.
England's fingers ache and the hair on America's shaking legs is rubbing his hips raw when America finally climaxes. England watches; the sound of America's breath and the wobble of his chin are new memories for England to take with him.
When America's eyes have regained focus a half-minute later, England knows that America knows that they will probably be late. England sighs at the fleeting nature of the selfish pleasure their existences afford them.
"Guess that's ..." America says. He stares at England with half-lidded eyes, reflecting the light with what may be a poignant expression. England isn't sure.
They separate regardless and scramble for towels, clothes, their combs and their shoes. England is finished dressing first and catches sight of America once again butchering his homage. He looks surprised when England waves his hands away to claim the tie and smooth it out. England can have these last, few moments -- he can.
"We'll tell them I was giving you an hour-long sartorial lecture," England says.
"Wouldn't be the first time," America says, but he ducks his head so England can toss the tie around it, then raises his chin to allow England to fasten it as he pleases. England has smoothed the silk as much as he can; once he arranges the ends properly, he crosses the fat end over the slimmer one and makes a loop.
--that first time he'd pulled America into a tailored suit, threaded his tie like a gentleman's, tried to banish that wild, backcountry independence--
This is the longest America has stood still for England in a long time, and England wonders what memories, if any, are dancing through his irreverent brain. He lets his fingers brush America's throat again when he passes the flags of then-Czechoslovakia -- now Czech Republic -- and Brazil twice around the loop, creasing the silk tight as he does it. The collar of America's shirt is sweaty; perhaps they should have removed them?
"Looks like a double-Windsor there," America mumbles, a warm breath on England's nose.
"Thought it was appropriate," England says. He slips the tie-end through one last time -- India and Ireland, England probably had ties with those flags on them, once -- tidies the knot, and slides it up to meet America's buttoned collar. America's fingers brush his as he loosens the knot a little. It's those tiny intimacies that bring such exponential happiness to England's existence as it is now. He wonders if that shows as well.
"I gotta breathe," America says.
"You can breathe," England says. He pats America's shirtfront and starts to back away, but before he can second-guess himself he ruffles America's hair. America winces like he always does, like he did when he was small, when England would fuss\with his hair. Like England has just spit on his fingers to tame his stray curl. But he allows it. He snags his spectacles from the bedside table and plops them on his nose. Then he swivels and precedes England out of the room with a huff.
England smiles a small, hidden smile, for he's rather mussed America's hair and he's rather pleased with himself for it -- it's like thumbing his nose at all the years he's spent doing otherwise. That feeling, at least, is rather fraternal, even if many of his others are nowhere near so.
END
Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think, good, bad, or whatever.
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Date: 2012-10-22 03:54 am (UTC)I really enjoyed the voyeurs! Woot!
As always, I enjoy your take on these two. Well, done!
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