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Title: Holidays in the Sun
Author:
jedishampoo
Pairing: England/America
Rating: NC-l7, sex, language
Summary: Poolside shenanigans: it’s traditional.
Author’s Notes: Unapologetic PWP, written for a request for a request
on the
usxuk
Love Weekend post! I… I tried to add some romance to the smut
but I fail at romance. I’m workin’ on it. Beta
after the fact by darlin’
sharpeslass;
thanks and apologies to all who’ve seen this already on the meme.
And thanks to the mods of the comm and the requester for a great
prompt! :) About 3100 words.
So maybe it was hot for Memorial Day weekend in Washington. But it wasn’t
that hot. Seriously; it had barely reached ninety. It was a great day.
Tomorrow would be a great day, too, if a much more serious and reflective
one. But today? America had a pool. He had margaritas. He had England here
with him.
America hung onto the concrete edge of the pool and kicked his feet lazily
under the water. He looked at England, who was sitting stubbornly in the
wide circle of shade provided by the deck umbrella. England was looking back
in his sort-of way, glancing around at everything to show that he was not
ogling America in the pool.
“The pool is nice and cold. Really freakin’ cold,” America called over. “You
should get in.”
England just snorted and continued to not-look and to fan himself with one
of the Japanese paper fans that was supposed to be decorating the wall of
the Asian-themed guest-room.
“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” America said.
“It’s not the humidity, it’s the damned sunlight,” England said. “There’s
too much of it.”
“But the sun is our life-giver,” America joked. He hauled himself out of the
pool and sat on the edge, giving England a nice view of his wet, tanned abs.
“And I have sunscreen. It’s under the table.”
“Curse your damned life-giver. And your sunscreen.” England shook his fist
at the sun and then yanked his hand back under the umbrella as if afraid the
mere strip of briefly exposed skin had received too much vitamin D. He
grabbed his margarita and licked some salt off the rim of the glass, then
took a healthy gulp from it.
America sighed and stretched out on his back, offering an even better view
of his lightly-browned and gleaming bod. England was being totally pathetic.
He’d gotten off the plane that morning bitching about the weather. He’d been
in one of those moods, obviously, and so America had foregone asking
for immediate sex and had instead suited up to catch some rays, splash
around and maybe do some barbecuing. He’d ordered England into a pair of
shorts. It was Memorial Day weekend. It was part of the tradition.
But when they’d first come outside, England had huddled in the strip of
shade that clung to the house and refused to move. So America had unfurled
the big umbrella and yanked cushions off a couple of lawn chairs and tossed
them onto the concrete underneath it for England to sit on.
England had moved under the umbrella but still fanned himself and bitched
that America’s pitcher of lemonade was paltry stuff in this weather and
wasn’t this supposed to be a serious holiday? So America had gone into the
kitchen and whipped up a batch of his famous margaritas and told England
that tomorrow would be plenty serious, but today was for relaxing and that
was the American way. England had hmphed and pronounced the
margaritas ‘nearly as good as Mexico’s.’ Still, he’d refused to come out of
the shade.
America looked up into the blue sky and thought about how England had licked
the salt off his margarita glass. England interrupted the tasty erotic
fantasy by griping again.
“You know, it’s a damned unhealthy climate. That’s why the settlers in New
England prospered so much at first, and the colonists in Virginia… Well.”
England paused and slurped. “If I had known, I’d have thought twice about
sending them here. Bloody swamp. Those poor bastards.”
America sighed. He rolled to his side and felt the grit on the concrete
settling into the lotioned-up skin on his shoulder and thighs. He looked at
England, who was staring into his margarita as if the souls of the dead were
swirling around inside. Something clenched under America’s breastbone. The
two of them shared too much history, sometimes-- good and bad.
“We’ll remember them too, tomorrow, if you want,” he said, feeling
more pensive than he would have liked.
England glanced up with startlement in his green eyes. His shoulders slumped
a little in his half-opened white shirt. “S-- hell. Sorry. It’s my job to
ruin your party, innit?” he said.
“Yep,” America said. He watched as England licked more salt from the rim of
his glass and then poured more margarita down his gullet. He watched as some
drops dribbled out of the glass and down England’s chin, to trail in sexy
little rivulets down his throat and eventually disappear under the second
button of his shirt. America felt a little better. It really was very warm
out.
“Well, if you won’t come to the party, then the party has to come to you!
Haha!” America hauled himself to his feet and jogged over to throw himself
onto the other cushion. He put on his glasses and stretched out, settling
back onto his elbows. He gave England a sultry look.
England just glared and after a quick survey up and down the length of
America, he finished his drink. His blond hair was a bit frizzled-looking;
some of it stuck in sweaty tendrils to his nape and temples.
Talk about licking the salt off; America might like to do some of that
himself. Whod’ve thought that, in the seventeenth century? From then to now,
oh, how things had changed in his world. But the mid-Atlantic weather was
still sultry in summer and America still had his dearest, most important
companion.
“Poor England. Good thing my people invented modern air conditioning, too,
right?” he said. He refilled England’s empty glass, but rudely took a sip
before handing it over.
England just stared at him. Or rather, at his mouth. And stared some more.
“Are you ever gonna kiss me or something?” America finally whined. “I’m a
little horny over here.”
England narrowed his eyes. “Idiot. You think I came all the way out here
just for that?”
“Uh, yeah,” America said. He narrowed his eyes back. Stand-off.
They both came up off their cushions at the same time, but America was
faster; he pinned England back onto the cushion and kissed his lips and his
nose and his cheeks and finally his lips again, and got a little tongue
action on the second pass and mmm, inhaled the air of England and
felt great.
England was no slouch: he’d taught America some of the better stuff he knew,
after all. He kissed America back with lips that might swallow all America’s
breath and grabbed a handful of his hair and ran his palm up and down
America’s back. After a couple of minutes of heating up the already-sticky
atmosphere together, America felt England’s hand inside his swim trunks,
grabbing his ass and pressing him crotch-to-hard-crotch into England.
America shuddered and his bare knee slipped off the cushion to scrape
against the concrete patio.
“Ouch,” America pulled his mouth away for a moment to say. He removed his
glasses and set them aside before they met the same fate as his probably
bleeding knee.
“Mmmm,” England said. He rolled them both onto their sides and shoved a
bare, hairy leg between America’s, bringing them stomach to stomach. He
kissed America from his chin to his ear, shoving his tongue just under
America’s jawbone and man, it was hot out here, hot and thick in
America’s belly and between his thighs. America licked his lips and wondered
if England could feel the thumping of his pulse, hot and crazy through his
heart and out to every inch of his body.
“Mmmm,” America said back. “You taste like salt and tequila.”
“Hmm? You taste like bleach and coconut,” England said, his breath puffing
against America’s jugular and sending little trembles throughout his body to
join the rushing of his blood.
“Ah! Ahhh. Chlorine and sunscreen. ‘S traditional.”
“There are worse traditions, I suppose,” England told him. He leveraged
America onto his back until he was jammed up against the umbrella-pole. Then
he climbed aboard and started licking America’s chin, his neck. “Though
you’ve never lived until you’ve licked lambic and orange off a girl at a
Belgian carnival.”
America thought about that. About doing it, about being it. He wondered if
he had any lambic to pour on himself. England fastened his mouth over
America’s Adam’s apple and swirled his tongue and America could feel his own
low moans thrumming onto England’s lips. “Ah! Should I be jealous?”
“Depends. Of me or for me?” England whispered.
America thought about it some more. “Both.”
“Then yes.” England crawled back and sucked on America’s breastbone, soft
and wet and oh, God. America wasn’t getting in on any of this licking
action but he was good, all good here, thanks. He brushed some of the sweat
from England’s temples and sucked it off his fingers.
“Saucy,” England told him. He’d edged back until he was hunched over and
sitting on America’s feet, pale fingers gripping America’s hipbones. He bent
his head started slurping a circle, soft and wet, around America’s navel,
his chin bumping into the aching erection trapped under America’s shorts.
God, England made him so hot. Whod’ve thought, all those-- well,
America had thought, plenty, for lots and lots of years--
“I believe your knee is bleeding. Shall I lick that clean for you?” England
murmured into the skin over America’s quivering stomach.
“Eh-- eww! No-- oh! Oh,” America huffed, cut off when England yanked
his shorts down and kissed his erection, all along the bottom of it and oh,
hell, he loved that grumpy, kinky old bastard, he did, so much. And not just
because he was good to have sex with, but for lots of things, things he
tried to think about in the brief moments when he could think.
“Can’t think,” he mumbled stupidly.
“Do you ever? Be still,” England said to America’s dick and then he was all
sucking heat.
“Nngh,” America said. He looked down but could only see the top of England’s
blond head, and his pale forearms resting along America’s thighs, and his
thumbs, pressing into America’s stomach, holding him down as his body
twitched.
England just did shit like that. Was all grouchy and what are you
looking at, git? and then awesome oral sex on a sunny Saturday
afternoon. He had America’s cock in his mouth and was humming some song,
some song America thought he should know.
America’s throat caught and his chest ached and his cock ached and he
couldn’t not be touching England: he slipped a hand around England’s sweaty
neck and held on, but lightly, because he knew that any pressure would end
all the good and probably get him killed. He rolled his head back and tried
to breathe, but his eyes stung and he was all over tight and molten.
England was humming and his hand joined his awesome mouth and stroked
America from his cock to his ass and America yelped and clenched his fingers
in England’s hair, a move that earned him a slap. He was too close, though;
a couple of minutes and he was wrenched tight and languid at the same time.
He’d been horny since he’d picked up Mr. Groucho from the airport, and--
He tried to sit up. “Better ah, ah-- stop, uh,” he said, trying to give
warning.
“Mmmph mrrph,” England said, and it sounded like shut the fuck up, idiot,
and that was it, America’s testicles twitched into England’s hand and he
came, gasping as his toes curled.
England took the shot in the mouth but didn’t swallow; he slapped America’s
butt and propped himself up on his hands, then spat it all into a drooly
mess on America’s stomach.
“I said, shut it, you idiot,” England told him after that astonishingly
messy move. But it had been an astonishingly good blowjob, so America just
smiled and tried to unbutton England’s shirt, starting from that second
tauntily-fastened button.
“I know,” he said. And then, “oh! It was ‘Come on Eileen.’”
“What?” England sat on America’s thighs and started unbuttoning his shirt
from the bottom up. When their hands met in the middle, England shrugged his
arms out of the long sleeves and tossed the shirt onto a bare lawn-chair
nearby. He glared suspiciously at the sunlight that had briefly touched his
pale arm and then he looked back at America.
“You were humming ‘Come on Eileen,’ weren’t you?” America accused.
“I suppose I was.” England’s lips quirked up in a small smile that melted
the rest of America’s insides. He leaned forward again and hooked a foot
into the waistband of America’s swim-trunks, currently sitting at half-mast
on his thighs. “Right. Off with these.”
“Oh, fine,” America said, and, when his shorts were off and he was all naked
in his own backyard, he sat up and pulled England’s shoulders close and
started kissing him, no matter where he’d just had his lips; America had
done worse. He held England’s face still and licked his temples and his chin
and got some of the action he’d coveted earlier. He was relaxed and awesome
and he loved the way England sighed in pleasure when America nibbled on his
shoulder and ran his hands over all the sweaty, sticky skin he could reach.
For a bit, anyway, and then England shoved him back onto the cushion and
looked him up and down with definite prurient intent.
“Oh, bollocks,” he said and frowned when he eyeballed America’s floppy-happy
dick area.
“Those too,” America said, and laughed and squeezed England’s butt, because
England looked so irate. England swirled his finger in the mess on America’s
stomach and started glancing around.
“Where did you say the suntan oil was?”
“Why? Are you going to--” America stopped talking and started thinking.
England was smearing come and spit around on his finger and looking around
for the sunscreen. Oh. “Haha. You’re not seriously thinking-- that
stuff? In me? Are you?”
“Shouldn’t I?” England mumbled. His green gaze was dark and intent, and his
chest was visibly moving with his rapid breathing.
“’S right here,” America said, taking pity. He grabbed the lotion from under
the table, behind the margarita pitcher. He shoved the bottle into England’s
hands. “Do your worst.”
“Or my best,” England said, and shook the bottle while America pulled his
own, borrowed, swim-trunks off of England and breathed his name at him and
ran fingers over the hot, dry skin of his exposed cock.
England was nicer than America deserved, sometimes. He put up with his
bullshit and his super-power attitude and his recessions and he kissed
America while he shoved a finger coated with a cocktail of god-knew-what
into America’s ass.
“Oh! That’s good. Yeah,” he told England when his finger hit that spot right
by his prostate and America’s happy-floppy dick became more interested in
the proceedings. He wanted to give back, give back, give back-- "All is
good.”
“’Course it is,” England smirked, and hoicked America’s knees to his ears
and then kissed him as he nudged his cock inside. His breath came in short,
sweaty ahs against America’s lips as he stretched him out, in and
out. Sometimes it was America on top but often it was like this, letting
England move inside him and show him how to love without knowing he was
doing it.
There was a lesson in there, somewhere, America was sure of it.
After a while England found a rhythm, in and out, his thrusts matching his
ahs and his fingers scrunching the cushion next to America’s ears. America
rolled his head back and let his body build that nice heat again, become hot
and crumbling inside to match the outside, giving back.
“Ah,” America moaned, and held onto England’s sides and ran thumbs up and
down his ribs, imagining the wild thumping of his ancient heart underneath
them. “Admit it. Part of you comes to see me for this.”
“Lord! Among other things. Oh, lord, America,” England sighed, and laid his
sweaty cheek alongside America’s as he jerked inside him.
“Love me that much,” America said, and he wasn’t sure if it was a question
or a command, but it didn’t matter because England had grabbed America’s
half-cocked cock. He stroked it with strong fingers in time with his
thrusts, urgently because England sounded close; his mantra of ‘Meh-- Meh--
Me--" was all off-time and after another few moments he was grinding his
nose into America’s ear.
“Yes, love, ah,” he moaned at him and then halted the slamming of his
thighs into America’s ass. Yeah, though, it was clear England loved him lots
because he kissed him and kept on stroking his dick while America breathed
more of England and finally came again, answering yes back.
After that America lay naked and sweaty in his backyard under an umbrella
with a naked and sweaty England breathing and grunting nonsense on top of
him, and wondered what this sort of thing meant for the world when it was
done just for them and not for a Higher Purpose. If anything. He briefly
imagined legions of his people tuning into Masterpiece Theater or something,
while folks in the UK got a hankering for a good Hollywood action-flick.
“Now I smell like a coconut. Need a bath,” England bitched. He rolled off
America to loll on the other cushion. America looked down at himself and
agreed. Until he noticed England eyeing the pool as if weighing the curse of
the life-giver versus all that lovely, cool water.
“That stuff’s not going into my nice, clean pool,” America warned. He sat up
and took a sip of England’s margarita.
“Eh,” England said. He was examining the bottoms of his feet, and America
had no idea why. He never found out because England didn’t explain. Finally
he stopped the whatever-it-was and pulled up his borrowed shorts, then
reached out a hand for his drink. America passed it over.
“Still cold,” America said.
“Mmm. Perhaps I’ll get in the pool. Yes, yes, after we have a
clean-up. If you can positively assure me that the stuff in that bottle will
keep me from getting burned.”
“Works for me,” America said without a trace of irony.
“Good,” England said, without any return irony. He grinned at America, at
the pool, at the damned life-giver. “Holidays in the sun. Hah. I don’t want
a holiday in the sun. Da-da-da da-da.”
England was singing something America didn’t recognize. At least that meant
America might not get whatever song it was in his head. Today he had ‘Come
on Eileen’ and margaritas and sex in the great outdoors and England. And
tomorrow he would have England with him, too, when he visited the graves of
fallen soldiers and remembered those colonists in Virginia and in New
England and everywhere.
End. Thank you for reading! Comments, concrit, all appreciated.
Note: Holidays in the Sun is a song by the Sex Pistols.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kP_X0gmgtk0
And I know everyone’s heard Come on Eileen, by Dexy’s Midnight Runners. :)
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