America knew that smell. He sniffed the air just to make sure and started to drool. He swallowed quickly. No one needed to know that he was secretly fond of anything England cooked, especially England himself.

He didn't lie when he said England's scones tasted terrible. They were all burnt and dry but still doughy in the middle, not to mention that the dough was all salty. But there were some (okay, few enough that America could count them on one hand) things that weren't too bad. One of them, America's absolute favorite, was his beef stew.

It wasn't just the flavor or the texture that really got him (although both were surprisingly good for England's cooking), but the memories associated with it. After all, it was the first thing England ever made for him. Before that he'd mostly stolen crops or scavenged in the woods or been given food by the Indians, so it was also the first European food he ever ate. But then England had taken him to that huge house in Virginia and made stew just for him.

America knew that it didn't look or smell nearly as good as France's cooking had, but it was special. He'd watched England working hard in the kitchen, slicing up ingredients with a plain white apron tied around his front. The rest of the day while it was cooking England held him and they spoke softly (England did a lot more talking than America, admittedly, but America had asked him a million questions). Every time after that when England came he'd make that same stew on their first day together.

It didn't taste like the beef or the carrots or pepper to America anymore. It tasted like friendship, like love, like England. Whenever America was sad or lonely there was nothing better. Not even hamburgers could beat it for comfort food.

England knew it, too. Under cone of silence and wrapped in the post-orgasm haze, America had admitted it once. Leaky memory or not, that was one detail England never forgot. Now every time that they were together he'd make it at least once (usually more than once, much to America's stomach's glee).

America peeked around the corner of his apartment's kitchenette, like a child playing a game with his mother (According to Austria, exactly like a child and his mother. America would just offend him and laugh as he marched away muttering the words "Oedipus Complex" under his breath). If England noticed he didn't show it, standing at the stove and stirring the stew in the big black pot. He hummed a happy tune under his breath that came from eons before America was even an idea as he bustled about, pulling bowls and cups from the cupboards. The moment he paused, America came over and wrapped his arms around England from behind.

"Hey there," He said.

"Welcome home," England replied, sighing pleasantly and leaning back against America's chest.

"You made me dinner," America said, looking down at the simmering liquid.

"I decided you need something healthier in your diet. If you have a heart attack and die I won't be able to fuck you without someone pressing charges."

America sighed melodramatically, "Oh, woe is me! I am nothing but a toy for the man who owns my heart!"

"You're exactly right. Now be a good lad and get out spoons and a bread knife while I fill the bowls."

America grinned and did as instructed. After all, it just meant less time until he could have that awesome stew. He even cut some slices of bread to distract himself (after making sure that England had bought it instead of making it). England was moving so damn slow. He was teasing him, America knew it. He just had to sit and wait until England placed a steaming bowl in front of him and at a snail's place sat down across from him.

"Fucking finally," he thought picking up his spoon.

He had missed this. Every time he thought he remembered how good it was and every time he was wrong. He loved how the thick broth felt as it went down his throat, warm and smooth. Anything solid just melted in his mouth after being boiled for so long. He didn't even bother to pay attention to England, just focusing on how amazing the food felt in his mouth.

When he reached for his third helping, though, he realized that England was just staring at him, not even pretending to eat, face an expression of complete awe, blush on his cheeks. America felt more than a little bit flustered.

"What's wrong?" He asked, trying to make England stop staring like that, "Did I get some on my face?"

England shook his head, blush getting even redder and staring down at his own bowl. This time America was the one watching him, confused. Normally England only used that look when America was turning him way on, but he'd never really shown an inclination towards this kind of thing before. In fact, once or twice America had suggested trying out some whipped cream or chocolate or something just for the sake of it and England had said no.

Then England looked up with that expression that always sent the most pleasant chills up America's spine: the I-know-exactly-what-I-want-and-by-God-I'm-going-to-get-it-because-I'm-the-United-bloody-Kingdom-of-Great-Britain-and-motherfucking-Northern-Ireland look, the America-you'd-better-be-naked-in-the-next-thirty-seconds-because-I'm-going-to-do-the-most-delightfully-sinful-things-to-you look. "Come here, love," he said.

America obeyed without even thinking about it, too captivated by the ravenousness in England's eyes that seemed to have very little to do with the fact that he'd barely finished half of his own stew.

England pushed his chair back and patted his lap, "Up here, lad."

America situated himself just above England's knees and blinked down at him. Usually he'd whine when America wanted to sit in his lap, complaining about his circulation being cut off or that he couldn't see anything with America's (sexy) back in the way. This time England just reached up to pet his cheek.

"Open up," he said.

Oh, so that's what he was planning. Well, it was worth a try. He opened his mouth and England took a piece of meat and placed it on his tongue. He retracted his fingers allowing America to chew and swallow. Even as England watched America's throat, he began to fish around for another chunk to feed him. It was a piece of carrot next meaning he barely had to chew before England had something at his lips again. England got piece after piece, eventually starting to dip bread into the broth and give him that instead.

America didn't want to admit it, but he was enjoying it too. His pants were starting to feel tight, but he was a little bit grossed out to find that it wasn't just from England's stare. It just felt so damn good to swallow all of it, especially when England was giving it to him piece by piece. It wasn't bad enough to stop, though, not in a million years.

Then one time England didn't take his fingers away. America looked down at him and cocked his head as best he could with his mouth so full.

"Go on then," He sounded so excited, "Eat it."

Well, it was a piece of potato, so maybe… With some careful tongue movements he managed to mush it up enough for him to swallow. In the process, he ended up giving the fingers a fairly thorough licking, which sent shudders down England's entire body.

But even that wasn't enough for England. Next he popped a hunk of something into his mouth, chewing it for a few moments before leaning up and kissing America. Sensing where he was going, America used his tongue to scoop everything into his own mouth, making sure to carefully search England before allowing himself to swallow.

They did that more times than America cared to count. At some point England started petting him, just running his hands up and down along America's sides. The combination of all those different sensations was too much and America couldn't help but moan into England's mouth. But then his hands started roaming to the front, not to relieve any of the pressure in America's groin, but to feel his stomach.

With what was most certainly not a squeak, America pulled away and frowned. He knew that England thought he only ate burgers when he wasn't around, but really? Teasing him about his weight in the middle of what was totally gonna be sex? That just wasn't fair. He'd only gained a couple of pounds, and it was late fall, okay? His northern bits got really, really cold in the winter. He needed the insulation.

"What is it, America?" England asked, legit concern on his face.

"Don't do that."

"Why?"

"Come on, we're gonna have sexy-time soon, right? Don't make fun of me."

"I'm doing no such thing," He placed his palms back on America's softer-than-he'd-like-to-admit stomach, "It's rather cute and I for one think it adds to the atmosphere."

"What atmosphere?" America was just gonna ignore the cute thing.

"Your dependence," England said, gently poking his nose, "You're sitting on my lap and not only am I feeding you but I'm chewing your food for you. This," he applied pressure to America's belly, "Just makes you more vulnerable, sweeter."

"Oh, so you're just planning on fattening me up, you sick twisted little fetishist." America grinned down at him, knowing that it wasn't true.

"Oh drat, you've figured it out. You'd better go to the gym after this and get your six-pack back to stop me."

Laughing, America stood and took England's hand, leading them to his bed (which was really just a pair of twin mattresses sitting off near the corner of the flat that had been shoved together to be big enough for both of them covered in a nest of various blankets), "Seriously, though, what is it with you and my stomach?"

"Well," England said, tugging off his apron and starting on the t-shirt he was wearing beneath it, "It's the most fun for me. It drives you mad because I'm so close to your cock," he circled his own erection with a smile, prominent beneath the black denim of his jeans, "but," he popped open the button, "I'm not quite there," he slid the zipper down and America realized that he'd better start fumbling with his own clothes as England pulled off his pants and underwear, "Not to mention that you're insanely ticklish there."

"No!" America shouted. He'd just pulled his shirt off so he quickly pulled his arms down to protect his sides.

England's smile twitched, threatening to break out into a grin, "Not tonight, dear."

America scowled and went for his belt, "You did that one time. It sucked."

"Only from your perspective. I rather enjoyed it."

"Like I said, you're a sick twisted little fetishist," he stuck out his tongue.

"You're such a child sometimes," England said, helping America with his socks and shoes.

"A child who needs daddy, right?" America asked looking down at England, who wrinkled his nose. "No?"

"No. If you talk like that I can't help but think of when you were scarcely up to my knee."

"Sorry, bro."

And then America winced at his bad word choice.

"Hey," he said, trying to get things back on track, "You know, even after all that I'm still hungry."

"Should we go back?" England said, dirty smile returning.

"Nah," America said, pulling England down on top of him, "I'm tired of stew."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I want something else."

"What were you thinking?" England looked back to the kitchenette, taking him literally. No, bad England.

"Well," America stroked his back, "I was hoping for something hot and salty that I could just suck on for a while."

For a moment England's face went from mildly flushed to tomato, signaling that he got it. However, he quickly regained his composure, "You're in luck, pet. I've just the thing."

"Really?"

"Yes, and even better, we'll shut that mouth of yours." He turned around and backed up so that the boys were all dangling over America's face.

He didn't want to give him everything right away, so he went for the balls first: taking one into his mouth, then the other, then the entire sac. England let out a soft groan and America buried his nose into the wiry pubic hair above him. Since they were staying together, England had cleaned himself up, shaving some parts and trimming everything else, but he'd left enough that there was still that delicious musky smell that America loved.

England's mouth closed around him, going right to the main event while he used a hand to tease America's balls instead. America gave him one last suck before moving to catch up, teasing the tip with licks and the occasional scrape of teeth. England groaned on his cock and America smiled as both carnal pleasure and pride surged through him. He finally took the head into hid mouth and began to slowly work his way down, lips slowly reaching out to cover more flesh as his tongue laved over the skin. England started sucking and humming, making it hard not to just swallow him and keep sucking or to let go in favor of making all sorts of wanton noises. But he persevered and soon he'd worked his way all the way to the base, easily deep-throating him. Then he sucked hard. England let out a deep moan that shook America too his core, making him moan in return and sending them in a vicious cycle of vibrations helped out by only the occasional suck when one of them had enough control.

Usually it was England who had the skill. America was too distracted. There was so much pleasure that he got just from having something so big and solid and hot in his mouth. He was far beyond rational thought, barely even noting the fantastic feeling around his cock. All he could hold onto was the thick scent, the living flesh in his throat and the overwhelming feeling of pure good. He didn't care about any sort of description for it, it was enough that it was good. He pulled the hips above him lower, wanting more good.

He got it. His partner shuddered and then something white-hot went down his throat. It was almost like the broth but thicker, warmer, better. He moaned one last time and then good was replaced by awesome as a complete wave of bliss washed over him. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

By the time he remembered that the real world needed attention, England had already flipped around and covered them with one of the blankets. Green eyes looked back with lazy happiness and America knew that he had the same expression on his face. They kissed again, but this time slowly and contently. They pulled each other close, moving a little until they found a position that suited them both. America ran a hand down England's spine, letting his eyes fall closed and basking in England's warmth. He could smell the stew on him, sticking to his skin after tending it all day.

He shook off his sleepiness and said, "Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

"How do you really feel?"

"I love you, moron. I thought you already knew that."

"No, not that. I mean… uh…"

"Well, I thought that it went rather well. It was cute in an incredibly sexy sort of way," he traced patterns on America's back, "I just need to be sure that I eat before we start because today I barely got any."

"Yeah, I know you liked it, but that's still not what I'm talking about."

England pulled away and stared at him for a few moments, trying to decode the question. America suddenly found the fact that there was a random pillowcase in their nest very interesting.

"Oh, you're talking about your weight, aren't you?"

America blushed and nodded, still staring down at the linens.

"Look at me."

He didn't move.

"America, please. This is serious." He placed a hand beneath America's chin and guided his face back forward. "I'm old," he said, America was about to interrupt and say that no matter how much he actually teased at sixteen-hundred England was relatively young, but he just kept going, "I'm old and if there's one thing that I've learned it's that standards change. People always claim that certain attributes are the end all-be all of beauty. At the moment, pop culture says that it's being tan and thin. I've lived long enough to have simpler tastes," He traced his fingers all the way from America's cheek down to rest on his hip, "You can do whatever you'd like to your body. As long as you don't look unnatural I'll always think you're lovely. Look at yourself: your eyes are clear and bright, your skin is soft and smooth, and your hair's clean and shiny. You seem perfectly healthy to me."

They just stared at each other for a moment. America watched the easy smile on England's face until he unconsciously returned it. He wrapped his arms around England and pulled him close.

"You're so sexy when you're telling me I'm sexy."

"Pig," England deadpanned.

"Love you too."

England kissed his cheek, "Jesus, America. You'd think that after three hundred years you would know you're unfairly attractive."

"I'm a moron, remember?"

"There's never been a word strong enough to describe what you are. Now come on, I think it's time for a shower."

England untangled himself and stood, offering his hand. America took it and allowed his lover to help him to his feet.