He sees him spread out in the shade under the wing of a Hurricane, arms pillowing his head and eyes closed, not asleep but caught in that trance state of every pilot waiting for the call. He double-takes, and ends up transfixed by the bunched lines and waxed leather of America's flight jacket.
It looks well-used, not to mention well-loved, and under the strain of constant attack it infuriates England beyond reason. He shouldn't be allowed to wear it, to call himself a pilot –
He shouldn't be allowed to be here on England's bomb-scared land without doing something to help.
His heart is pounding in the middle of his throat. His stomach turns somersaults, and quite suddenly he finds himself marching in long strides over to America's make-shift bed.
He doesn't bother with niceties, demanding immediately, "Get out!"
"England?"
He shivers suddenly at the slow smile consuming America's face as he sits up, running a hand through his messy hair, and staring up at England with eyes as wide and blue as the sky itself.
His fists clench and unclench, and he manages to say again, "Get out of here!"
"Don't be so mean, England."
He traces the line of America's arms as he stretches them above his head, trying to scowl.
His jacket rides up, and England's stomach somersaults again as another couple inches of khaki fabric are revealed. It should look bland and unappealing, but on America it turns into something eye-catching and dangerous.
England opens his mouth, closes it, and tries to ignore America's returning smile as he fails to respond. "You shouldn't be here, America."
"Lighten up! I'm just checking on some guys."
"Excuse me?"
He steps back as America springs suddenly to his feet, dodging the wing and spinning to lean against the Hurricane's fuselage, almost directly beneath the cockpit.
He ruffles his hair again, the motion almost nervous, and England gestures impatiently for an answer.
"Two of mine are here, okay?"
England feels his expression freeze on his face in surprise, and he stares as America continues in a blushing mutter, "I wanna make sure you're taking good care of 'em."
"I didn't know."
"They're tricky devils," America laughs, "They keep following Canada around."
England flushes, and says, "I'll be having a word with him."
He stops paying attention about the time he notices America's body framed by the glinting silver of the Hurricane, though, and now he finds himself stepping slowly closer.
He licks his lips, marvelling, infatuated with the idea that America would break his own laws to be here.
Damn the fact America won't formally enter the war.
He wants to be here.
England knows, now, giddy with the information, and his fingers grasp, fold themselves into the fur lining America's weathered flight jacket, tugging him down the extra inch to meet England's lips.
"England, what are –"
His protests die as England's tongue threads its way into his mouth, and England's heart jumps as America suddenly hugs him close, practically crushing their bodies together, and leaning back against the fuselage, letting it support their weight as they continue to kiss.
He slips the first button of America's uniform jacket from its hole, and continues on with the second. He bites lightly into the kiss, and America hums, sliding a hand around the back of England's neck and digging in with blunt nails.
England's fingers catch and tug at America's dog tags, urging him to take England's mouth deeper.
"England, I, I want to be here, all of this waiting is driving me nuts," America says, forcing England to open his eyes and look at him, at that expression too bright to be believed.
"Don't," he orders, and pushes America back against the Hurricane, grinding their hips together until they can both forget the circumstances, the outside world, everything except rapid-building pleasure.
"Fine, be that way," America groans, unbuckling England's belt and reaching inside his trousers for his cock. His eyes roll back and he shouts hoarsely into the junction of America's neck and shoulder.
He begins to stroke him, too light and too slow, driving England mad until he bites down at that soft skin beneath his mouth and tugs hard on the chains around America's neck.
America's breath hitches, and the nails at England's neck dig deeper.
"Faster," England pleads.
"Harder," America cajoles, nevertheless complying. England bites again at America's neck, and shivers as America thrusts reflexively into his hip.
England's breath comes short as America's stokes get faster and rougher, his thumb stimulating the head of England's cock and spreading pre-come down his shaft.
"Fuck me," England gasps, feeling his whole body shake.
He gets a grin and a wink in reply, and then America ceases his stroking, brings that hand up to his mouth and begins to suck his fingers into his mouth one by one, using his other hand to gently steer England around until he's the one pressed up against the flesh-warmed metal of the Hurricane.
"You asked for it," America laughs, a second before sinking to his knees and swallowing down England's cock.
"Fuck, oh, oh Christ."
His entire body is on fire, or it feels that way, warm sun beating down from above, the Hurricane at his back, and America on his knees, nose pressed against the dark-blond curls at England's groin.
He shudders all over, and manages to stutter out, "I'm going t –" before he comes, thrusting into the back of America's throat. America pulls off, and spits into the grass.
"Tried to warn you," England pants, hooking an arm over the Hurricane's wing to support his shaking knees.
America smirks. "Let me pay you back."
England stares down at him, kneeling in the grass, erection obvious through his khaki trousers. He should leave him there, some spiteful, bitter, isolated part of him says, but the other part is too busy falling on top of him, knocking them both flat on the ground, and crushing their lips together.
He sucks at America's tongue, and America thrusts against his hips, moaning into England's mouth.
England makes quick work of his belt and trousers, freeing America's cock, and sliding down to straddle his knees.
Both of them have rolled beneath the Hurricane's wing now, mirroring America's original position. It feels right, right and good, and England has no problems lowering himself to suck and lick at America's cock.
America moans, head thrown back in the grass, and hands reaching to thread themselves into England's hair.
England hollows his cheeks, taking as much of America's cock as he can without gagging, and digging his nails into America's clothed hips in victory as America shakes and thrusts into England's mouth.
"Bit faster, ah, there," America mutters to himself, moaning and repeating the same nonsense over and over, until England can feel bitterness welling at the base of his throat and America's breath hitches as moans, "I'm gonna come, oh God, oh fuck, England!"
England swallows as much as he can, eventually pulling back and swallowing again as he regains his breath. America sighs, and leans up and forward to give England a quick peck on the lips.
"Thank you," he says, and then, stumbling over his jacket buttons, adds, "Please. Please don't forget this."
"You're more likely to forget it than I am," England mocks, blushing irritably as he tucks himself back into his trousers and rubs at the scratches on his neck.
America just smiles a somewhat more serious smile, and says again, "Thanks."
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no subject
(Anonymous) 2009-03-12 04:20 am (UTC)(link)Bonus for WWII era and bomber jacket love. Double bonus for plane sex.
The Few [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 07:58 am (UTC)(link)He sees him spread out in the shade under the wing of a Hurricane, arms pillowing his head and eyes closed, not asleep but caught in that trance state of every pilot waiting for the call. He double-takes, and ends up transfixed by the bunched lines and waxed leather of America's flight jacket.
It looks well-used, not to mention well-loved, and under the strain of constant attack it infuriates England beyond reason. He shouldn't be allowed to wear it, to call himself a pilot –
He shouldn't be allowed to be here on England's bomb-scared land without doing something to help.
His heart is pounding in the middle of his throat. His stomach turns somersaults, and quite suddenly he finds himself marching in long strides over to America's make-shift bed.
He doesn't bother with niceties, demanding immediately, "Get out!"
"England?"
He shivers suddenly at the slow smile consuming America's face as he sits up, running a hand through his messy hair, and staring up at England with eyes as wide and blue as the sky itself.
His fists clench and unclench, and he manages to say again, "Get out of here!"
"Don't be so mean, England."
He traces the line of America's arms as he stretches them above his head, trying to scowl.
His jacket rides up, and England's stomach somersaults again as another couple inches of khaki fabric are revealed. It should look bland and unappealing, but on America it turns into something eye-catching and dangerous.
England opens his mouth, closes it, and tries to ignore America's returning smile as he fails to respond. "You shouldn't be here, America."
"Lighten up! I'm just checking on some guys."
"Excuse me?"
He steps back as America springs suddenly to his feet, dodging the wing and spinning to lean against the Hurricane's fuselage, almost directly beneath the cockpit.
He ruffles his hair again, the motion almost nervous, and England gestures impatiently for an answer.
"Two of mine are here, okay?"
England feels his expression freeze on his face in surprise, and he stares as America continues in a blushing mutter, "I wanna make sure you're taking good care of 'em."
"I didn't know."
"They're tricky devils," America laughs, "They keep following Canada around."
England flushes, and says, "I'll be having a word with him."
He stops paying attention about the time he notices America's body framed by the glinting silver of the Hurricane, though, and now he finds himself stepping slowly closer.
He licks his lips, marvelling, infatuated with the idea that America would break his own laws to be here.
Damn the fact America won't formally enter the war.
He wants to be here.
England knows, now, giddy with the information, and his fingers grasp, fold themselves into the fur lining America's weathered flight jacket, tugging him down the extra inch to meet England's lips.
"England, what are –"
His protests die as England's tongue threads its way into his mouth, and England's heart jumps as America suddenly hugs him close, practically crushing their bodies together, and leaning back against the fuselage, letting it support their weight as they continue to kiss.
He slips the first button of America's uniform jacket from its hole, and continues on with the second. He bites lightly into the kiss, and America hums, sliding a hand around the back of England's neck and digging in with blunt nails.
England's fingers catch and tug at America's dog tags, urging him to take England's mouth deeper.
"England, I, I want to be here, all of this waiting is driving me nuts," America says, forcing England to open his eyes and look at him, at that expression too bright to be believed.
The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 08:02 am (UTC)(link)It's too important.
"Don't," he orders, and pushes America back against the Hurricane, grinding their hips together until they can both forget the circumstances, the outside world, everything except rapid-building pleasure.
"Fine, be that way," America groans, unbuckling England's belt and reaching inside his trousers for his cock. His eyes roll back and he shouts hoarsely into the junction of America's neck and shoulder.
He begins to stroke him, too light and too slow, driving England mad until he bites down at that soft skin beneath his mouth and tugs hard on the chains around America's neck.
America's breath hitches, and the nails at England's neck dig deeper.
"Faster," England pleads.
"Harder," America cajoles, nevertheless complying. England bites again at America's neck, and shivers as America thrusts reflexively into his hip.
England's breath comes short as America's stokes get faster and rougher, his thumb stimulating the head of England's cock and spreading pre-come down his shaft.
"Fuck me," England gasps, feeling his whole body shake.
He gets a grin and a wink in reply, and then America ceases his stroking, brings that hand up to his mouth and begins to suck his fingers into his mouth one by one, using his other hand to gently steer England around until he's the one pressed up against the flesh-warmed metal of the Hurricane.
"You asked for it," America laughs, a second before sinking to his knees and swallowing down England's cock.
"Fuck, oh, oh Christ."
His entire body is on fire, or it feels that way, warm sun beating down from above, the Hurricane at his back, and America on his knees, nose pressed against the dark-blond curls at England's groin.
He shudders all over, and manages to stutter out, "I'm going t –" before he comes, thrusting into the back of America's throat. America pulls off, and spits into the grass.
"Tried to warn you," England pants, hooking an arm over the Hurricane's wing to support his shaking knees.
America smirks. "Let me pay you back."
England stares down at him, kneeling in the grass, erection obvious through his khaki trousers. He should leave him there, some spiteful, bitter, isolated part of him says, but the other part is too busy falling on top of him, knocking them both flat on the ground, and crushing their lips together.
He sucks at America's tongue, and America thrusts against his hips, moaning into England's mouth.
England makes quick work of his belt and trousers, freeing America's cock, and sliding down to straddle his knees.
Both of them have rolled beneath the Hurricane's wing now, mirroring America's original position. It feels right, right and good, and England has no problems lowering himself to suck and lick at America's cock.
America moans, head thrown back in the grass, and hands reaching to thread themselves into England's hair.
England hollows his cheeks, taking as much of America's cock as he can without gagging, and digging his nails into America's clothed hips in victory as America shakes and thrusts into England's mouth.
"Bit faster, ah, there," America mutters to himself, moaning and repeating the same nonsense over and over, until England can feel bitterness welling at the base of his throat and America's breath hitches as moans, "I'm gonna come, oh God, oh fuck, England!"
England swallows as much as he can, eventually pulling back and swallowing again as he regains his breath. America sighs, and leans up and forward to give England a quick peck on the lips.
"Thank you," he says, and then, stumbling over his jacket buttons, adds, "Please. Please don't forget this."
"You're more likely to forget it than I am," England mocks, blushing irritably as he tucks himself back into his trousers and rubs at the scratches on his neck.
America just smiles a somewhat more serious smile, and says again, "Thanks."
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 08:17 am (UTC)(link)*jaw remains open*
JESUS.
*explodes from the hotness*
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 09:51 am (UTC)(link)I adored it... America and England were so IC, and it felt so natural.
Great job.
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 11:09 am (UTC)(link)im surprised the plane withstood the hotness.
I would have been a puddle of squishy goo from the start.
<--op
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 01:23 pm (UTC)(link)OMG this was amazing! The planes! The uniforms! The history! Gah, exactly what I wanted, thank you awesome and amazing anon.
<--*back to askfdlfdaakdfl*
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 01:43 pm (UTC)(link)God the uniforms and jacket...THE PLANE
*is ded from hottness explosion*
srsly. ILU. The end.
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 04:36 pm (UTC)(link)I'm pretty glad my roommate is out right now, since I kept interjecting "OH HOT" throughout the fic.
Re: The Few [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 12:00 pm (UTC)(link)Which is to reiterate the above commenters: HOT.