A/N: Not at all my usual style, nor is it in my normal theoretically-in-the-same-universe fic realm, but I thought I'd post this anyway just for lulz.
England knows pain. He knows it better than any other sensation and he's known it the longest. Sometimes he thinks that he can remember his mother, but that's nothing more than an occasional flash of bright red hair and even that's often accompanied by a sharper flash of sunlight upon metal. The first actual, solid memory he possesses is of him hiding in thorns, pulling arrows from his flesh.
He's spent much of his life like that, causing or recovering from injuries. He's been in war after war, battle after battle. He never died. Even after being decapitated or disemboweled he'd just wake up with a pounding headache or stomach cramps a few hours later.
Eventually, pain lost all meaning. He didn't flinch away from it. He still felt it, oh yes. But it didn't hurt. It was simply a sensation, like the wind blowing through his hair or grass tickling his feet, but more constant than either of them. It was familiar, friendly almost. It became sort of a symbol of life for him. As long as he was hurting, he knew he would be alright.
It became harder to come by as he became more powerful. He would rarely be sent to the front lines, and even if he was with the technological superiority of the British Empire he was rarely seriously injured. By the nineteenth century he was getting desperate. He eventually found a way to fulfill his needs, although he wasn't so sure that he liked being blindfolded and led into the homes of nobles even more depraved than he was. Occasionally they'd violate him as well, but it was a small price to pay, especially since they'd whip him to unconsciousness first and the only way he knew it had happened would be severe soreness the next day. Just a little extra treat while he forced himself to walk around with perfect posture.
After the World Wars he didn't know what to do with himself. Any wars had serious consequences now, and if he wasn't careful America and Russia would kill them all.
But maybe America wasn't just a real danger. They were together now, and England helped to keep him sane during the worst of the Red Scares. Maybe America could just do something similar for him.
"You want me to hurt you?" the bespectacled nation asked, staring at him through the steam rising from his hot chocolate.
England just blushed and looked away. In a tiny voice he replied, "Please."
America brushed the side of England's face with the back of his hand, "Why? You're perfectly fine; you don't need to be punished for anything."
"It's not punishment," England said, "It's just something that I need."
He could tell that America didn't get it from the expression on his face, as though he was trying to look deep into his history so that maybe he could understand. He was judging him, England knew it and couldn't bear to look at him anymore.
"I'm scared," He finally said.
England turned back in surprise, "Of what?"
"That I'll get carried away and really do some damage."
England smiled, "For a millennium and a half people have been trying to do exactly that. No one has."
"But I just… I donno." He sighed and set his cup down, "But you've seen how I get when I-" He bit his lip and looked away.
"It'll be fine," England said, "We just have to stay in control."
"That's what I'm worried about."
"We'll have a safeword. We can even address each other plainly if you'd like."
"But what if I don't stop? What if I can't?"
"America," England grabbed his chin, "You've always been such a sweet boy and you love me. I trust that you wouldn't actually hurt me. Besides, if anything does go wrong I'll be able to stop you. I'm not weak."
"I don't want you to have to even worry about that."
"I don't want to either," England said, "But I need this. Please try to understand."
They just looked at each other, waiting for the other to give up. Eventually America closed his eyes and nodded.
"We can try it. I'll need a few days to prepare myself, but I'll let you know when I can do it."
England smiled, "Thank you, darling."
"Hey," America said, "I'll try anything once for you."
Four days later, they were in America's bedroom with no light save for candles. England was naked but America was still fully clothed. There was no need to sully England's delicious pain with sex.
"Alright," America said, running his fingers along the edge of the riding crop, "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes," England said, "Oh yes, please."
"Okay," Christ, he sounded so nervous, "Brace yourself against the wall."
England nodded and got into position.
"Here we go," America's voice was starting to waver. For a moment, England felt bad for pressuring him into this.
His first strike was as unsure as he was; it barely hurt. England still gasped, hoping to spur him on. The next one was a little harder, not enough to tear his skin, but enough to sting.
"Is that it?" England snapped, trying to get him riled up.
He was rewarded with a harder hit.
He shivered, "Come on, boy! Use that strength of yours!"
This time, England felt himself start bleeding.
"Oh yes, like that! Just like that!"
America laughed and struck him again and again.
"What's so funny, brat?" He asked.
"Nothin'. This is just more fun than I thought it'd be. I feel like such a fucking sadist, though."
"Nothing wrong with that, love," England said, "As long as you get my shoulders next. They need attention too. Oh, that's the ticket." He sighed and put more of his weight on the wall, "You're doing wonderfully."
"Thanks," But then he stopped, "I think I've done enough here. You're a mess."
"Am I?" England looked back over his shoulder, but he couldn't really see.
"Don't worry, though; your blood's as pretty as the rest of you." He ran his fingers across England's back, the salt from his nervous sweat getting into his cuts and stinging.
England stood, "So that's it, then?"
America pushed him back against the wall, "Did I say that? I said I was finished with your back."
England held his breath in anticipation. What else did he have planned? The boy could be quite creative at times, so it could really be anything. He felt the snap of a wooden cane against his bottom. Or he could go with a classic. England sighed happily, accepting stroke after stroke. He didn't count. Instead he focused on the moment, every instance of sharp pain until it finally all faded into numbness.
"It's not doing me any good at this point, America," He said.
America sighed, "Good. I was starting to get tired."
England stepped away from the wall and wrapped his arms around him, "Thank you so much. You don't know how much I needed that."
"It's not a problem," America kissed his ear, "In fact, just call me up the next time you wanna do that."
"You liked it," England said, pulling away but smiling.
America blushed, "O-of course not. Since I'm the hero and all it's my duty to make sure that no one evil gets there hands on you is all."
"Right."
"But enough of that," America said, coughing, "You're bleeding and we ought to clean your wounds."
"Could we use peroxide?"
"Obviously. I mean, it kills germs better. I don't want you getting a horrible infection."
England walked off to the bathroom and America followed him. He could feel the other man's eyes on his back. America could make whatever excuses he wanted to for now. He could call it whatever he wanted as long as England got what he needed.