conjure_lass: (Default)
[personal profile] conjure_lass
Title: Closet Case
Pairing: NYxLondon
Rating: Quite NC-17
Warnings: Fellatio, Frottage, Bad Language
Summary: Plot? Characterization? Skillful use of the English language? This story has none of those things! It does, however, have lovely boys finding out what happens when you lock yourselves in the closet at the New York Stock Exchange. The 2008 stock market crash, from an entirely new perspective.
Author's Note: Right, so I promised i'd write this forever ago, and here it is! It took me a few days to finish as i'm a little rusty, but I think you'll all like it! Or...I mean whoever decides to read this. *laughs*

October 7th, 2008
New York Stock Exchange

There are a thousand voices, sounds, footfalls, organized chaos right outside the door that New York is currently hiding out behind, but he doesn’t care. He can barely hear any of it anyway beyond the furious ringing in his ears, the way his blood is rushing through his veins, making him dizzy and lightheaded. His mind, what’s left of it, is focused on his immediate surroundings, on the feel of the body pressed up against him, of the heat and humidity between them as they slide against one another.

“Will,” New York gasps, feels the scrape of the door between his shoulder blades where he’s roughly pushed against it. His arms are around London’s shoulders, fingers trailing harsh lines down his sides before tugging at his suit jacket until he feels it pop open and can tug it down. But the sleeves gets snagged in the crooks of London’s elbows, and after a few fruitless jerks New York abandons it for the more easily traversed buttons of his shirt.

There isn’t any light in this tiny broom closet (Pine-Sol and glass cleaner and dust, oh my!), and so they’re feeling their way around, mapping out each other’s bodies even though they’ve spent entire days together naked in bed, and on the couch, and in the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway…

A nipple is exposed to his frustrated wanderings and he brushes the pad of his thumb against it, feels it pebble and harden beneath his ministrations, loving London’s gasp that sends a wave of blistering heat along his skin. Teeth set into New York’s neck in retaliation, canines digging into the soft skin of his throat and holding tight as the older man’s breath hisses through his clenched jaws, almost growling. The sound, heady and lustful, makes every drop of blood in New York’s body gather at that spot to burn, burn, burn.

He wants more, more of that, more of that, and so New York gives the nipple between his fingers a vicious twist, simultaneously tipping his head back further to allow London to mark him up, not caring in the least that he won’t be able to cover the bruises. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last, and those fuckers only wish they were getting it this good. And this often. And this hard.

Speaking of hard…

Moans are bubbling in his diaphragm like hot crude, threatening to spill over his lips, but New York holds them fast, knowing there are people walking right outside the door, knowing he has to be discreet and hating it a little. But it’s hard with London’s cock pressing up against his thigh, hard with their legs twisted together and rubbing, getting faster, making it impossible to think, making it impossible to keep it together. New York is so hard it’s painful, and he clings to London’s body for relief, brings their lips together before he can start babbling things that he might later regret.

“You, god, you,” he murmurs between open-mouthed kisses, finally getting London’s shirt open enough that he can run his hands up the other man’s chest, scrape his nails in angry lines down that pale skin, mar it up a little. He revels in the little hitches of breath, the goosebumps that litter London’s skin, the way his lips tremble and shake like he’s freezing cold. Like he’s dying.

“Me?” London replies, pulling away for a moment (lips are so cold without him, they should always be together somehow, always, always) to press a chaste kiss to New York’s cheek. His voice is simpering, made more mischievous by the lack of light; the way the dark space seems completely filled by his baritone, his sweet, sweet voice. “I’m right here, lovely.”

It’s the playful lilt of that endearment that sets him in motion, wrapping London in his arms to reverse their positions and grin at the way the older man’s breath comes out in a satisfying rush when his back slams into the door. New York doesn’t give him even a moment to regain it, diving in instantly with tongue and teeth, taking the nipple that his fingers had discovered earlier and laving it with warm attention. London’s skin is a little salty with sweat, but beneath that lingers the taste of the same Imperial Leather soap that he’d been using since the second World War, of heat and nostalgia, of a hundred haunted dreams.

So many years of waking up just before the best part…

There are sounds now; London is purring between each rattling breath, hands buried in New York’s hair, tugging at it, urging him on, guiding him down where he wants attention. And so down New York goes, onto his knees, wishing he could see London’s expression but consoling himself with the quivering thighs pressed against his spread palms, with the strong hips that thrust involuntarily towards him when he tugs the buttons of London’s pants open, loosens the fly.

“Not a sound,” New York warns, pressing a kiss against the dampened front of the other man’s boxers before drawing his cock out from between the folds of the fabric. They don’t have a lot of time if the growing chatter outside the closet is any indication, but New York is determined to have London undone and wanton, wants to watch him struggle to get himself back together in the aftermath, to see him disheveled on the floor of the stock exchange for everyone to see. New York wants him satiated, to carry that adorable smirk (I got some, aren’t I lucky?”) around all day.

And know he’s entirely responsible for it.

The flesh is full and heavy against his tongue as he slides his lips around it, tasting the bitter smear of pre-come on his palate, drawing it in further to get a better feel for it. To be honest, New York doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with this, but it doesn’t seem to matter. London’s hips are already rolling forward in waxing waves, his legs spreading wide and open, a soft repetitive keening sound shattering the silence (getting louder, so sexy, getting desperate) with each bob of New York’s head. Eventually, in an effort to maintain their secrecy, he reaches up and sharply slaps London’s inner thigh, digging fingers in and leaving little half-moons in his skin.

Fuck!” There’s a thud as the back of London’s head smacks into the door.

New York pulls away reluctantly. Just for a moment. He feels empty suddenly, like London belongs in his mouth, like he fits. He wants him back there. Wants to wrap every part of him in his arms and never let go, dragging his mouth over every inch of skin until London is a sobbing mass of want, of surrender. But they don’t have time for that…no time for the sweet romance New York would adamantly deny he loved. But later. Definitely later.

“Quiet! It was your rule, not mine.” He darts forward in the dark, nibbles along the hipbone he finds in his blind exploration. “If I had my way you’d be hollering.”

“No, no…m’sorry. More, Anthony, so good,” London mumbles brokenly, his voice creamy and thick and shaking. His entire body is shaking. The hands that fumble for the back of New York’s head, urging it to his cock, the knee that comes up awkwardly to rest on his shoulder despite the pants falling around his thighs, the belly that contracts and expands with each change of New York’s mouth and tongue and cheeks and lips.

If New York had reached into London’s chest, touched fingers to his beating heart, cupped it in his palm, he probably would have found it shaking, shuddering, fit to burst…

The desperate scrape of London’s fingernails against the wood of the door, a testament to his impending climax, brings New York back to himself, back into the feel of his mouth sliding along hard flesh, to the obscene sounds of suction and saliva, to the smell of sex and sweat and London. Always London. There’s never really been anyone else despite his attempts to fool himself otherwise.

London is fighting for every breath now, spasmodic and writhing uncontrollably, his hips thrusting in time with New York, while his hands, ever gentle, pet New York’s hair like a precious thing, affectionate even in these final moments.

God, he loves this part. The part where he feels London fall to pieces, where New York can practically hear the cogs grinding to a screeching halt, where the world shatters and comes back together in a matter of seconds. London’s knee is tightening almost painfully across his shoulder now, the heel of his sensible dress shoe digging into his back. Every muscle in London’s body is thrumming and tense. Ready. Taut like a violin string ready to snap. New York can almost picture the older man’s toes curling in his shoes.

“Just like that, just like that,” London whispers, mantra-like, mindless, affected, and beautiful. “Lovely, lovely…”

It happens suddenly, like the crack of a whip. The half-shouted, almost surprised, cry of his name that is cut off by London slapping a hand over his own mouth seconds before New York’s mouth is awash with warm spend. He takes as much as he can, feeling a bit of the liquid burst from the corner of his lips to trail down his cheek and drip off his chin as he tries to milk more orgasm from the flesh pulsing in his mouth, from the quivering body held down by his palms.

When he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against London’s thigh to catch his breath, he’s startled to discover that somewhere in the chaos every muscle in his body has become tingly and numb…except his cock. And that is very much alive, twitching, pounding rhythmically, making his mind fuzzy, unable to concentrate on his lover’s afterglow, unable to do anything other than moan pathetically in the hopes that London will pick up on his signals and give him what he needs.

Because he’s pretty damn sure that if he doesn’t get it within the next five minutes, he’ll explode in a mass of sticky goo. Or he’ll have blue balls for the rest of his life. It’s that bad.

“Mmm, let me take care of you,” London’s voice, his accent thick and slurred, slices through the darkness, sending a shot of desire straight to New York’s belly where it simmers and boils. He’s shaking violently (no longer numb, burning again, sizzling) when London draws him to his feet so that he can hike New York’s thigh up a bit, hands drifting downward to cup at his ass, pull him up London’s thigh, give him friction and pressure.

So good, so good…

New York lets out an uninhibited moan at the contact, circling his arms tightly around London’s neck and holding on for dear life as they start the dance. It isn’t going to take long, that much New York knows, and he squeezes both his thighs around the one in-between them, instinctively falling into the pace that London is setting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to make a mess of himself, coming in his pants this way, but he can’t bring himself to care. Because London is right there, massaging his ass, grinding against him steadily, getting faster by the second, and everything is short-circuiting. He feels liquid and hot and sticky, and as the first trails of pre-come begin rolling down his cock to catch in his pubic hair, as the first shudders begin to wrack his frame, he knows he’s already done for.

“Wish I could see you,” London whispers huskily in his ear, ruts into him harder, and New York is seeing stars behind his closed eyelids. Getting so close, god he aches. “I love watching you get off. You’re probably making that adorable face where you scrunch up your nose.”

“Shut…up,” New York retorts breathily, any further words being cut off by an almost painful gasp as fingernails dig into the curve of his ass, scratching along the fabric of his pants and getting him into a more solid grip. Distantly, through the buzzing in his ears, he hears London’s shoulders straining backwards, grating against the door, giving him more leverage to slide New York along his leg with increasing urgency, to bring New York to completion. They’re both panting now, frantically filling the tiny closet with noise, oblivious to anything that may be going on around them, whether they’ve been caught or whether they might be interrupted.

New York would let London finish him in the middle of the trading floor with a thousand people watching at this point.

“That’s it, Anthony, that’s it,” London coos to him, sweetly encouraging despite the fact that New York hardly needs any encouragement. The words make him feel warm though, and the tone makes him feel special. It creates the sort of shivers that have nothing to do with the climax quickly gathering speed within him.

It’s that emotion he’s wanted for centuries. They could never touch again, but as long as he had that feeling to tuck away …

Lolling his head to the side, he feels telltale tremors blossoming in his belly, working their way up his body as London’s lips attach to the skin of his throat, when his teeth snap down. New York’s eyes widen at the sudden shock of pain, and he feels the rush of orgasm smash over him like a tidal wave, wash up his spine, set every muscle into mindless contractions, wipe his mind clear, and send a torrential flood of words he would never normally say pouring from between open lips.

Long moments pass as he relearns how to breath, as he calms the furious pounding of his blood, attempting to find the pieces of his shattered consciousness and place them back together into a functioning whole. In the meantime though, he allows himself to sag against London’s body, to luxuriate in the feel of long fingers running soothingly through his hair, to bask in the breathless proclamations of adoration whispered into his skin, to lose himself in the beating of London’s heart under his ear where he rests, satiated, insanely happy.

Wrapping arms around London’s middle, he gives him a tender hug, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he’s cuddling standing up. But reality is quickly setting in, and he can feel the sticky, uncomfortable evidence of their coupling gumming up his boxers, can smell the sweat drying into an itchy smear, can hear London’s heartbeat becoming almost deafening loud against his cheek, growing louder every second, louder and…wait a minute…louder…?

“--out of there, right now! You hear me, young man?! Right now!”

Oh shit! Is that Dad?!

“They’ve been banging on the door for the better part of five minutes, I’d say,” London chuckles, his voice amused, though there’s an underlying edge of annoyance in his tone. New York grits his teeth, listens more closely to the voices outside. They are in so much shit. “I suppose we’d best clean up a bit and open the door, hmm?”

“Fuuuuck.” New York rolls his eyes, stepping back from London (he misses the heat instantly, he misses the curve of their bodies pressed together) to arrange his clothes the best he can manage in the dark. He can hear London zipping up his pants, messing around with his shirt, cursing a few times when he can’t get himself situated as well as he might like. Well…at least he didn’t have to deal with what was probably a massive wet spot on the front of his pants! New York’s face was already burning and he hadn’t even stepped foot outside the door yet.

“London! New York! I know you can hear me! Out! Now!”

“Just a minute! We’re coming!” New York yells back, fumbling around in the dark for London and clumsily drawing their mouths together. Just one more kiss before they go, just one more intimate touch. The kiss is sweet, barely more than a brushing of lips, but it’s enough to fortify him for what he imagines is going to be a very unpleasant few hours.

Then New York quickly grabs the door handle before he can second guess himself and hide out in the broom closet until everyone has gone home for the night.

“That’s the problem, boy.” England stands, arms crossed and looking menacing as the door opens. New York squints and blinks rapidly into the bright overhead lights, looking at America who is resolutely looking anywhere but New York’s pants, or neck, or disheveled hair. Pretty much just not looking at New York at all.

New York can’t say as he blames him…

“Problem?” London says, coming around from behind, giving the small of New York’s back a reassuring pat as he moves to stand in front of him slightly, hiding him from view. “I hardly think the stock exchange is going to fall to pieces while we’re…otherwise occupied.”

“You think so, do you?” England growls and grabs them both by the scruff of their necks, marching them down the hallway towards the jumble and chaos that is the stock exchange trading floor. He pauses in the large doorway, letting go of them only long enough to point up at the flashing boards on the wall, at the stocks prices scrolling across the digital screens in swift succession.

A swift succession of losses. Immense losses. Nearly the entire board, from top to bottom is registering a huge loss.

New York gapes, wide-eyed, and nervously glances over at London who is likewise gaping, and for one of the few times in his life…has no clue what to say. Now that his body is calm and his mind is clear, he can feel it. He can feel the tension in the room, the anxieties as livelihoods drip away, as savings that took a lifetime to build crack and crumble. He can feel it, and doesn’t know what to say.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?!” England shouts, shaking them both roughly.

Finally, taking a deep breath, New York grins cockily and puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “If I said it was all Iceland’s fault, would you believe me?”

And as England begins sputtering, America begins sighing, and London begins laughing uncontrollably, New York can’t help but think that things are going to be fine. Just another bump in the road. After all, optimism is in his blood, part of his soul. Things always tend to move along exactly as they should, and he always comes out on top.

Though…he really could use a clean pair of pants. The middle-aged woman who constantly flirts with him (and wears too much makeup) is snickering behind her hand, and he’s pretty sure she just took a picture of him with her camera phone.

Just another day and it isn’t time for lunch yet.

Ah, well…così è la vita.


1: New York jokingly blames the stock market crash on the Icelandic Financial Crisis.

Well, there it is! The smut I promised! Wist, this means you're honor-bound to continue the story! *laugh* I have a few chores to take care of and then i'll be around again. Talk with you later!


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