*shrugging emoji* I was listening to sappy shit and then I wrote sappy shit what can I say?
I'm in love with the idea that Scotty's a big teddy bear, all fearsome on the outside, but he just loves cuddles and soft kisses... Ahhh...
Enjoy! ;)
Scotland was very particular about his kisses.
He liked long, slow kisses. He liked them gentle, quiet, more of a silent conversation of endless 'I love you's than a quick and hasty yelling match of 'I want you's. He liked to feel his partners lips and their tongue, all while their breath puffed against his face and their heart beat again his fingers. He liked ones that cut deep into the heart without injury, that ripped out the soul but always promised to return it.
He liked them gentle.
He liked them slow.
He liked them warm.
But despite all that, he liked kissing England.
England, whose style of kissing was quick and deep. Who kissed like a hurricane, in a whirlwind of passion and what he could feel, deep down, was fear, even through the haze of suffocating love. He kissed as if he wanted all of you, as if he wanted more than anything to be one with you, be as close as possible. He kissed like it was the last time they ever would.
(Sometimes Scotland worried that he should be concerned about that, England's insistent and constant fear that he wasn't enough, that he could never be enough, because everyone else had left him, why should Scotland stay? What did he have that made Scotland stay while everyone else had gone? And in truth, his constant threats to leave the union probably didn't help matters).
England's kisses were rough.
England's kisses were fast.
England's kisses were hot.
But even still, he loved kissing England.
He loved kissing England and he loved England's kisses.
And he wanted more than anything to tell England that his kisses were all he needed.
But he just didn't have the words.
He didn't have the words in any language he'd ever spoken to express to England that his kisses were... His kisses were too rough, and he wanted them gentle. His kisses were too fast, and he wanted them slow. His kisses were too hot, and he wanted them warm. His kisses were everything he hated but he couldn't claim that they were anything but perfect.
And somehow, somewhere, somewhen, they had become everything he loved.
Scotland was very particular about his kisses.
He liked his kisses gentle.
But he loved England's kisses rough.
He liked his kisses slow.
But he loved England's kisses fast.
He liked his kisses warm.
But he loved England's kisses hot.
And he didn't know what it was about England's kisses that made him excuse -love- all these things. But he loved England's kisses more than he liked any others, no matter how gentle or slow or warm.
He loved England's pulsing and undiluted love that poured into every press of lips. He loved the shake that came to his always steady hand when he clamped his fingers into his shirt. He loved how he was sure England was never going to let him go, not until his fingers couldn't hold on any longer.
Scotland was very particular about his kisses.
And England's kisses were the ones the hated the most.
Rough, fast, hot.
And yet, they were so very England, and that made them everything he needed.