UK + USA AND CUM ON UPPER BODY (:D)
It had been a long day at work, and England had never been happier to get home. His boss had been railing him all day, his office had been drafty, and his favorite deli had run out of the sandwiches he liked, so he'd been forced to get one with the less appetizing (English) one.
But now he was home, and guess what else was home?
Some ass.
I'm-on-vacation-so-I-think-I'll-come-over-and-visit-you, America had said, and England, of course, had been all like, well-if-you-really-want-to-then-I-guess-I-have-no-other-choice-but-to-make-up-a-room-for-you. America had been at his house for a few days now, and England was thinking about offering him a full-time key —he'd kind of gotten used to having guaranteed sex upon coming home, and he wasn't sure he would be able to revert to the old days of having to call and wait and loose the mood after an hour long flight. . .
"America," He called as he walked through the door, bouquet or roses in hand. "I'm home! I hope you're oiled up, cuz' I've got a famous, historical clock tower building in my pants, and I'm not feeling very patient."
"What?" America asked. He sounded like he was in their room, so England discarded his briefcase and jacket and made his way to, you know, get some. "I don't get your weird metaphors."
"It's a Big Ben joke," England clarified. America was lying on his stomach on their bed, reading a magazine. He barely looked up as England came in. He put the flowers on the bed side table and kissed America's cheek. "How was your day, beautiful?" (He's so embarrassing, America thought with an internal blush.)
"S'alright." America shrugged. When he saw the flowers, a small smile sneaked onto his face. America was never one for unnecessary displays of affection —unless they were directed at him. Then he was putty in your hands. Luckily, England was very skilled in the art of wooing.
America buried his face in the red petals and inhaled appreciatively. "Roses: my national flower."
"I know." England grinned. He knew because the rose was his national flower too. Not that there was any correlation between those two things. Purely coincidental.
England crawled on the bed and hovered over America's back. "Hey," He said in his most horny-but-not-drunk voice. He plucked at the waistline to America's pants. "Why don't I help you out of these?"
America seemed to consider it a moment, then said, "Nah."
There was silence from above him for a moment, and then England gave a dry chuckle. "That was funny, America. For a second there, it sounded like you said you didn't. . ."
"Yeah, I'm not really in the mood." America said, setting the roses aside and going back to his magazine. "Maybe later."
"No, I don't think you understand," England flipped America over so that he was looking up at him. "I bought you fucking roses, so you have to put out. Those are the rules. Do you even know what I've been through today? I had to eat a sauerkraut sandwich. You know what sauerkraut tastes like? No you wouldn't."
"Look, you can bitch all you want, but you ain't getting any tonight, so you better just get used to it." With that, America flopped back on his stomach and continued his magazine.
"Fuck my life."
"Not tonight."
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
This must be what priests feel like, England mused. Constant agony.
It was about ten at night, and his cock was ready to break through his pajamas. I know what you're going to say: England, there's no way you maintained an erection for four hours! Well, he didn't; this was a new one. He'd been getting them consecutively all day long. He'd get his mind off it and it would go away, then America would walk in without a shirt on and it would be back again. He felt like he was about to die.
"Hey, America," He whispered. America was sleeping with his back to him. "Hey, America, wake up."
"Whaaaaaat?" He whined.
"Do you want to have se—?"
"No. Now go to sleep."
"I'm dying over here, man."
"Then just . . . take care of it yourself."
"I don't want to get out of bed. . . I'm sleeeeepy."
"Then don't get out of bed!"
England blinked, then sat up. "You mean that, America? You wouldn't mind?"
"If it'll shut you up."
England turned and hovered over America again. He stared at him intensely. "Take off your shirt."
"I told you I—."
"I just want to see you. I won't touch, I promise."
America's face exploded with fire. Erotic Ambassador. . .
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was sometime past midnight. There were no lights on in the small room England and America shared, but their eyes had adjusted to the dark enough for them to see. Not that America wanted to see anything in the current situation he was in.
"Hey," England panted. "Quit that. Look at me."
So freaking embarrassing, America thought, blushing furiously. England straddled America, one hand propping himself up, the other around his cock. How could he blame America for not wanting to look? "This is pretty much the same of having sex, you know."
"My point exactly." England grinned, his cheeks slightly red. "And you don't even have to do any work."
While America did enjoy not doing any work, he did not enjoy being as useful as a magazine page. He wanted to say this, he wanted to argue his point and rail at the older man for being such a creeper, but every time he lifted his head and looked into England's eyes, he lost his train of thought.
England groaned and threw his head back. "Hey . . . part your legs a little, would you?"
America felt like his head was going to explode from all the heated pressure that was building up in there. "Hey! No grinding! That's one of the rules!"
England smirked down at him. "I know . . . but it's kind of hard not to when it feels like I'm sitting on a tire iron."
"LIES!" America screamed, but he did part his legs a little.
England was getting close, America could tell. Whenever he was about to cum, he'd clench his entire body up and hardly move at all. Then he would moan kind of quietly, then relax and ride out the afterglow. It was a strange thing to witness without lust clogging his own brain. Frustrating. Another interesting difference was, usually, when they were doing it together, England would either cum in his ass, or on the bed. That was not the case, this time. America wanted to be disgusted by the sticky whiteness that was splattered on his chest like a crime scene, but couldn't quiet muster up the will.
"Sorry," England laughed breathlessly. He rolled off America and just lay next to him while he tried to catch his breath. "Was going to try and. . . angle it away. . . but got distracted." He laughed again. "But I'm sated now. So thank you." He closed his eyes like he was going to go to sleep. Like that was going to happen anytime tonight.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" America hissed, grabbing England's arm and jerking him back towards him. "You can't go to sleep yet!"
"Can't you just take a shower in the morning?" England whined.
"That's not what I'm talking about!" America cried. He grabbed England's shoulders and threw him back on his back. "You're not aloud to go to sleep until you have legit sex with me!"
"What?" England cried. "But you said you weren't in the mood!"
"That was before you jacked off to my face, now TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!"
"Actually, I don't really think I'm in the mood anymore. . ."