“Here,” England says. “Tell me if it tastes like it’s out-of-date to you. Who knows what kind of things you‘ve left rotting in your fridge for years?”
“So romantic.”
America shoots out his tongue anyway, licking the chocolate from the offered finger. He’s meticulous, and England thinks it isn’t fair because the sensation shouldn’t be as good as it is. His hips jerk forward, cock almost making contact with America‘s - not quite.
Shudders jolt through England’s spine and America notices; he keeps working for more than he needs to. The syrup is long gone by the time he finally stops but England doesn’t care. America’s tongue is so wet and hot and fuck, England’s cock is screaming at him to find somewhere just as good to plunge into. He’s not exactly at tears-of-frustration levels, but he thinks he might end up that way if he doesn’t relieve the coiling need from himself.
But not right now. That would take America completely by surprise and ruin the entire evening.
“Right,” England says, attempting to regain composure. “Any good?”
“Tastes fine to me,” America says, and the gleam in his eyes tells England that America knows exactly what he’s doing to him.
“Lovely,” England says.
He picks up the bottle again, and decides to get even by drizzling a good amount of the syrup over America’s cock. That takes America by surprise. But it’s in a much better way than shoving a dick in his mouth would have done. America hisses and his legs twitch, jostling England in the process. Such a movement provides him just a little bit of relief to the ache condensing in his balls, desperate to spread through his cock - but he can’t touch himself or enlist America‘s help, not yet.
“England, that’s fucking cold.”
“Probably because you took it straight from the fridge.”
America doesn’t argue back, just hisses once more. England’s resistance falls to that sound, and he slinks back, now between America‘s legs, looking up at his face all the while. Fond of surprising him, England leans down and takes as much of America’s cock into his mouth as he can.
With a shout, America’s hands fly to England’s hair, gathering as much as they can. England retracts his head a little, suckling on America’s cockhead, where the majority of the poured syrup seems to have settled. The taste isn’t unpleasant, the overwhelming flavour of chocolate mixed with the indescribable taste that makes up America.
England lets America’s cockhead slip from his mouth before he turns his attention to the shaft, licking away the rest of the syrup present and the first few drops of precum escaping the dusky tip. He glances up at America’s face and his heart aches at how content the lad looks, the soft smile on his face corresponding with the soft movements of his fingers through England’s hair, gently rubbing in small, soothing circles.
“Stop it,” England says, withdrawing his mouth when he’s finished cleaning off America’s cock. At the absence of England’s tongue, America lets out a disappointed whimper, and England almost feels bad for letting go. Almost.
“Stop what?” America asks, furrowing his brow.
“Stop being so… so…”
“Perfect?” America suggests. “Attractive? Sexy?”
Though England nods internally, he has to keep up appearances. “I was going to say bothersome.”
“Close enough.”
America props himself up on his elbows and watches England expectantly. England watches him back, still in awe of America in these moments; in awe of how such a truly beautiful man could possibly want England when he could have anyone in the world. It annoys him how much America makes him feel, so to distract himself he lifts the syrup bottle to hold it over America‘s stomach, nearly tipping it forward.
“Would it encourage you to fix your diet,” England says, joking, “if I poured this all over you and made you sick of chocolate for the rest of your life?”
America looks eager as he says, “Go for it, dude, that’s why we’re here."
saccharine, supercilious [9/?]
“So romantic.”
America shoots out his tongue anyway, licking the chocolate from the offered finger. He’s meticulous, and England thinks it isn’t fair because the sensation shouldn’t be as good as it is. His hips jerk forward, cock almost making contact with America‘s - not quite.
Shudders jolt through England’s spine and America notices; he keeps working for more than he needs to. The syrup is long gone by the time he finally stops but England doesn’t care. America’s tongue is so wet and hot and fuck, England’s cock is screaming at him to find somewhere just as good to plunge into. He’s not exactly at tears-of-frustration levels, but he thinks he might end up that way if he doesn’t relieve the coiling need from himself.
But not right now. That would take America completely by surprise and ruin the entire evening.
“Right,” England says, attempting to regain composure. “Any good?”
“Tastes fine to me,” America says, and the gleam in his eyes tells England that America knows exactly what he’s doing to him.
“Lovely,” England says.
He picks up the bottle again, and decides to get even by drizzling a good amount of the syrup over America’s cock. That takes America by surprise. But it’s in a much better way than shoving a dick in his mouth would have done. America hisses and his legs twitch, jostling England in the process. Such a movement provides him just a little bit of relief to the ache condensing in his balls, desperate to spread through his cock - but he can’t touch himself or enlist America‘s help, not yet.
“England, that’s fucking cold.”
“Probably because you took it straight from the fridge.”
America doesn’t argue back, just hisses once more. England’s resistance falls to that sound, and he slinks back, now between America‘s legs, looking up at his face all the while. Fond of surprising him, England leans down and takes as much of America’s cock into his mouth as he can.
With a shout, America’s hands fly to England’s hair, gathering as much as they can. England retracts his head a little, suckling on America’s cockhead, where the majority of the poured syrup seems to have settled. The taste isn’t unpleasant, the overwhelming flavour of chocolate mixed with the indescribable taste that makes up America.
England lets America’s cockhead slip from his mouth before he turns his attention to the shaft, licking away the rest of the syrup present and the first few drops of precum escaping the dusky tip. He glances up at America’s face and his heart aches at how content the lad looks, the soft smile on his face corresponding with the soft movements of his fingers through England’s hair, gently rubbing in small, soothing circles.
“Stop it,” England says, withdrawing his mouth when he’s finished cleaning off America’s cock. At the absence of England’s tongue, America lets out a disappointed whimper, and England almost feels bad for letting go. Almost.
“Stop what?” America asks, furrowing his brow.
“Stop being so… so…”
“Perfect?” America suggests. “Attractive? Sexy?”
Though England nods internally, he has to keep up appearances. “I was going to say bothersome.”
“Close enough.”
America props himself up on his elbows and watches England expectantly. England watches him back, still in awe of America in these moments; in awe of how such a truly beautiful man could possibly want England when he could have anyone in the world. It annoys him how much America makes him feel, so to distract himself he lifts the syrup bottle to hold it over America‘s stomach, nearly tipping it forward.
“Would it encourage you to fix your diet,” England says, joking, “if I poured this all over you and made you sick of chocolate for the rest of your life?”
America looks eager as he says, “Go for it, dude, that’s why we’re here."