It only occurred to America in the first place because it was the first time in a . . . while that England had actually worn boots. Big tall boots, the kind that came up to your knees, not the combat ones he saw on him often enough even today. But for the investiture ceremony for the Order of the Garter England had gotten all dressed up in clothes that reminded America of a long time ago, and he had worn tall boots along with them. There was a long cloak and some kind of gold garland thingy and everything. And a hat with a freaking huge feather in it. America thought the feather was awesome. (America was at the ceremony because it was good for foreign relations, and all that, and because England was his boyfriend. Coincidentally, England looked pretty damn hot in boots, but seriously, America would have come even if they’d made England wear yellow denim overalls or something. Not that England didn’t look hot all the time, as far as America was concerned, and he would have in yellow denim overalls, too, he thought loyally
( ... )
“Always,” England murmured, and it was almost a moan and almost a prayer, but instead it was something in between, and it was awesome. Perfect. Made America feel lighter than air. Like he could fly without a plane, and the Wright brothers had just been redundantly replicating that feeling in metal and wood. He bent his head and lifted England’s foot so he could kiss the heel of it, trailing his lips over the callused underside, up the sensitive arch, nipped lightly at the calluses above. England’s toes curled and America grinned (they were so cute and slender) and slid up to suck the littlest one into his mouth, pressing his thumb lightly into the arch again, rubbing it in circles
( ... )
Re: Order 8.b/?
anonymous
May 28 2010, 20:41:54 UTC
England did moan at that, as America shifted up onto his heels again and slid his hands up under his other trouser leg, pushing it up. “I-I won’t be responsible for my own actions if you . . . keep up this . . . snail’s pace,” England gasped out. One hand was up near his mouth, curled against his lips; America could see it when he glanced up, fisted tightly. A thrill ran down his spine at that, at the thickened desire in England’s voice
( ... )
Re: Order 8.b/?
anonymous
May 29 2010, 01:53:21 UTC
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my GOD.
This is GORGEOUS. It's so sweet, the way America is lavishing attention on England... And hnng. I never knew I had a foot fetish until now. I love this fill. Srs. You're an amazing writer. I always wanna leave long comments on fills I love but I never can dammit.
Re: Order 1/?
anonymous
June 14 2010, 20:11:52 UTC
America had been teasing England so long that he was almost surprised when England moved, his hand coming down and fisting in the front of America’s shirt to tug him upward. He crashed their lips together, desperately, his tongue slipping deeply, hungrily, into America’s mouth as he sucked at America’s tongue. America braced his hands on the cushion of the seat on either side of England’s hips and kissed back, tangling their tongues eagerly, pressing up into England’s mouth, letting the warmth and desire swirling within him sweep him away. He curled his hands around England’s hips, anchoring himself as England’s kiss pushed his head back, as he lost himself in the heat and sweetness of England’s mouth. England’s hands came up and tangled in America’s hair, tugging him closer, deeper into that scorching heat. His thumb skimmed down over the back of America’s neck, under his collar, and America tilted his head willingly, eagerly, further into the kiss. He was breathless and lightheaded, dizzy, by the time England pulled away,
( ... )
Anon failed at numbering AGAIN. Above should have been Order 9a, continued below.
England’s hands pressed, palms flat, against America’s chest, trailed down as if mapping each inch of skin, then dropped to his belt. He pulled away and pressed his lips against America’s cheek in a wet, sloppy kiss. “Should tease you,” he whispered into his skin. “Leave you . . . half clothed. Take my sodding sweet . . . time about it. See how you like it.”
America gasped for breath as stars exploded in his brain at that. “I,” he said, “uh, I . . . “ he swallowed. England was so fucking hot it just . . . blew him away sometimes. “You could just . . . show me. I mean. How it . . . how it felt,” he said. He was pretty sure he wasn’t quite getting his point across, how much he wanted . . . wanted England, everything about England, everything England could give him, would give him, just . . . wanted. “How you want me to feel. Be . . .” he swallowed. “Show me what you want me to . . . do. Be you. You know. The you who . . . who . . .”
( ... )
England blew out his breath, warm and heavy against America’s skin, his forehead coming to rest on America’s breastbone. America could feel England’s lashes flutter against his skin, and the feeling sent a little tingling shiver through him. England took another breath, and blew it out. His head shifted, tilting, until his cheek was resting against America’s skin, moving until it was just over America’s heart, and America slid his arms up and curled them around England’s shoulders, cupping his hand around the back of his head, slipping his fingers into England’s hair. Desire still pounded, thrummed through him, aching, but it somehow didn’t matter, and there was just warmth, the warmth between them, warmth and England’s unsteady breathing for a moment, and the way he’d leaned forward to rest against America. America wanted to say something, he always did, almost found himself wanting to talk, to fill the silences up with words, words that told England how he felt, how awesome everything was going to be, but he didn’t know what to
( ... )
Author anon, I could wax lyrical about the subtle glimpses of deeper meaning and emotion. How that even without his glasses, America can still focus on England's lips. How their emotional needs and physical needs are both being met, and how focused they are on each other's pleasure.
I could also go on to tell you how utterly delicious your writing is, and exquisitely slow to build up anticipation.
I am utterly slavish for your writing, and eagerly await more.
...oh wow. i can't even begin to describe how hot and yet sweet and loving this fill is. Seriously, the little gestures and breathy moans and they have not even gotten to the sex yet.
in other words, the foreplay so far is just complete win. ♥ ♥ ♥
The way you describe kisses is so graphic and hot! In fact, this whole fic is so sensual...and I totally swooned when England reached his emotional limit capacity and had to take a few minutes of breathing harshly against America; so hot and sweet and UNF. And America is so loving here, with those kisses and hugs and whispers to "make love to him". Does that mean Ukemerica? Wohoo!
Oh man, the emotions that they're talking about, the emotions that their actions show, everything going on between them...I'm simply breathless. The details, anon, are what make this even more beautiful. America describing exactly what England smells like, being so close to notice his pores and twitches of skin, knowing the meaning behind the little gestures (and knowing how he had used to get them wrong). Wow, just, mm.
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anon doing a good job, keep going!
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And you know, its damn hot. Absolutely damn hot. <3
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This is GORGEOUS. It's so sweet, the way America is lavishing attention on England... And hnng. I never knew I had a foot fetish until now. I love this fill. Srs. You're an amazing writer. I always wanna leave long comments on fills I love but I never can dammit.
MOAR.
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you suceeded.
Q /// Q moarrrrrrrrrr!
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and GOD this foot kink. Why did I never know it was so sexy until now? just... wonderfully written anon
/looking forward to update
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England’s hands pressed, palms flat, against America’s chest, trailed down as if mapping each inch of skin, then dropped to his belt. He pulled away and pressed his lips against America’s cheek in a wet, sloppy kiss. “Should tease you,” he whispered into his skin. “Leave you . . . half clothed. Take my sodding sweet . . . time about it. See how you like it.”
America gasped for breath as stars exploded in his brain at that. “I,” he said, “uh, I . . . “ he swallowed. England was so fucking hot it just . . . blew him away sometimes. “You could just . . . show me. I mean. How it . . . how it felt,” he said. He was pretty sure he wasn’t quite getting his point across, how much he wanted . . . wanted England, everything about England, everything England could give him, would give him, just . . . wanted. “How you want me to feel. Be . . .” he swallowed. “Show me what you want me to . . . do. Be you. You know. The you who . . . who . . .” ( ... )
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Author anon, I could wax lyrical about the subtle glimpses of deeper meaning and emotion. How that even without his glasses, America can still focus on England's lips. How their emotional needs and physical needs are both being met, and how focused they are on each other's pleasure.
I could also go on to tell you how utterly delicious your writing is, and exquisitely slow to build up anticipation.
I am utterly slavish for your writing, and eagerly await more.
<3 <3 <3
Reply
in other words, the foreplay so far is just complete win. ♥ ♥ ♥
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The details, anon, are what make this even more beautiful. America describing exactly what England smells like, being so close to notice his pores and twitches of skin, knowing the meaning behind the little gestures (and knowing how he had used to get them wrong).
Wow, just, mm.
Reply
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