Okay, so I wrote this forever ago but I forgot to post it. Silly me…
Anyway, just so you know, I might sorta be on a little bit of a hiatus. I have a job where I'm gonna be gone six days a week for a while and writing porn at work is just gross. I will attempt to keep writing, but if there's nothing for FOREVER don't worry. Work just ate my soul. It will spit it back out by mid August at the latest.
I'm working on one more right now that's almost done, but I'm not sure if I'll be finished by the time I have to leave tomorrow. We'll see.
To the rest of the world, England hated being touched. Period. Hugs resulted in punches. Gropes resulted in broken bones. Even handshakes were often met with a strained face and a bit lip. England liked his privacy, his personal space. He was even touchy about people being near him, often spending days at a time locked alone in one of his houses out in the countryside with nothing but tea and embroidery to keep him company.
God only knew how he wound up with America of all people. The younger nation, everyone knew, was a true extrovert. He loved people, and would wilt away if left alone. He admitted on a regular basis to never being happier than when he was milling around on the crowded streets of New York or Chicago or even Boston. Even though he had historically been more focused on his own hemisphere than pursuing relationships with European nations or even caring what his own neighbors thought of him, he loved his people and they loved him. He was touchy too, often greeting allies with hugs and obsessively cuddling with anyone who was more that that, especially England.
In public, England would yell at him, often kicking and punching as best he could. There was one time when America had tried to pull the smaller nation into his lap during a meeting and England had dislocated his jaw. Both of them had been pouty and awkward the rest of the conference. It was almost as bad as the time before they had finally admitted to their feelings (Canada had had to go rage mode and wield a hockey stick in their direction before either owned up to anything). No one had any idea how it was possible for the pair of them to have stayed together for more than a few days. Everyone concluded were obviously a horrid match.
Well, what did they know? They weren't there when the doors were locked and the drapes shut. They weren't witness to the tenderness that would appear when the two were out of the spotlight and didn't feel the weight of being some of the most powerful nations in the world.
America sitting on one end of his long black leather couch playing some first-person-shooter on his X-box. England personally was sick of guns after two world wars and didn't find the simulated blood and gore nearly realistic enough for his tastes (although he had enjoyed that Portal game when America wasn't leaning over his shoulder and telling him all the answers), so he was laying across the couch, head in America's lap, reading a book. It was a fairly decent one, surprisingly: a fantasy about two nymphs trapped in the modern world and trying to find their way back to their own universe. However, America wasn't really interested in it, hence the video games.
England didn't mind this kind of contact. America's attention was mostly elsewhere, but he was still there: warm and smelling of soap and open fields and just a little bit soft. The older nation also knew that were he to leave, shift, or even say anything, he would be America's focus instantly. It was a nice, comfortable feeling.
Then America's character died. Again.
"Fucking Prussia," He said, pulling off his headset, "Bastard always hacks."
"Yes, he never was one for playing by the rules, Teutonic Knight or not," England said, turning a page.
"'S not fair, I tell ya."
"No, no it isn't. But it's just a game, idiot."
America scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out at England, "Maybe if you didn't lose everything all the time."
England scoffed, "You're even more blind than you were before if you can't even tell me apart from France."
"Nope. All you Europeans just suck. That's why me and Canadia had to come and bail y'all out twice in thirty years"
"You did not 'bail us out'!" England said, shutting his book and putting it on the coffee table, "You just finally got your head out of your arse long enough to realize that the rest of the civilized world was at war and if you didn't join in you'd be attacked!"
"Psssh, same diff."
"Dear Lord, where did I go wrong to be saddled with this idiot?"
"God, why is someone as awesome as me stuck with someone with a stick the size of the entire milky way up his ass?"
The lad was staring up at the ceiling with an expression that was completely plaintive, completely earnest, and, England knew, completely faked. He sat up and pressed a kiss to America's lips until they curved upward as they were supposed to.
America apparently felt that they were too far apart, because England felt one arm wrap around his chest and the other around his waist and then found himself straddling the other nation's legs. He pulled away and scowled.
"I can move on my own, you know," he said.
"Yeah, I do. This is faster, more efficient."
"Who are you, Germany?"
America shrugged, "Mostly."
England wanted to laugh, but he turned it into a huff and pulled America forward by his oversized tee-shirt to kiss him again.
The younger blond responded as eagerly as he always did. One hand found its way into England's hair, although the other arm remained around his waist. The smaller nation placed his hands on America's cheeks, helping him tip upwards to make up for the extra height sitting on America's thighs had given England. England opened his mouth to deepen it, but America seemed to take that as an invitation to stuff his tongue into the other's mouth and attempt to ravish it as though he was trying to coat every millimeter with his saliva. Well, England wasn't going to take that. He shoved back, using his better angle and years of experience to his best advantage.
However, when he felt America's hands start to slide down past his loose waistband to cup his behind and a hardening bulge pressing against his own groin he pushed away again. America pouted.
"Hey, what gives? I was having fun."
"I could tell," England pressed a hand against America's crotch, causing the younger man to groan, "You're horny again."
America grinned, "I'm still a teenager, babe. I'm always ready for you."
England rolled his eyes and groaned in annoyance, "I feel bad enough being with you without any help. Don't remind me that I'm basically robbing my own cradle."
The larger nation laughed, "Remember: it's only creepy if you think about it."
"You're not helping."
"Neither are you," America rubbed himself against the hand the older man forgot to remove.
"Greedy, aren't you? I had you four hours ago."
"Four and a half, actually. And I want my turn," America whined.
England rolled his eyes so that he didn't look too pathetic, "Oh, I suppose."
"Sweet!" The larger nation cried. He grabbed England again and in one fluid motion stood and threw the older man over his shoulder.
"No." England said, squirming, "We are not doing this; I refuse!"
"Oh fine," America slid him around so that he was carrying him bridal-style.
"This better?"
"It's vaguely less demeaning," England sniffed, "You should still put me down."
"Nope." America said, taking him out of the sitting room towards the stairs and the master bedroom.
England huffed again but didn't say anything. Much like how he refused to tell anyone that he had feelings for America for the longest time, he refused to say aloud how he loved being carried and handled like this. It had been scary at first to have to trust another being to keep him from crashing to the ground and to allow himself to be positioned however his partner wanted him to be, but once he got over the fear there were a lot of things that were enjoyable about it. It made him feel safe because then there was a force as powerful as the other nation protecting him and caring for him. He didn't have to worry about any of his problems, because America was in control and he was the one who was taking care of everything. It was soothing too, to be able to hear the larger man's strong heart beneath his ribcage and to be more or less surrounded by the thrumming vitality that was America. England placed his head against America's chest and closed his eyes. America was wise enough not to say anything.
Once they reached the bedroom, America set him down gently on top of the large bed. He climbed on top of the older nation and began to nuzzle him sweetly.
"Close the damned door," England said.
"What, you afraid that Tony's gonna come and use his magical alien powers to rip me off of you?"
"I just prefer closed rooms."
"Whatev," America said, getting off to shut the door before coming back and slowly stripping the whole way.
"You have no idea how to savor things, do you?"
"Not with you, babe," America said, winking before he began to take off England's clothes.
England let him do it. He had absolutely no reason to complain in his mind. America wasn't treating him like some doll to play with; he was treating an idol to be worshiped. His every touch, every breath was aimed to please the older nation. America made sure to attend to every one of England's most sensitive places while he was stripping and preparing the other nation. Even once they were in the middle of the act, it didn't stop. The hand that wasn't supporting America's weight roamed all over England's body, making sure that he was totally satisfied.
Oh yes, England thought with a sigh as America stroked one nipple and liked at the other all while giving his insides a delightful massage, this was what bottoming was about: being the only thing in the universe that mattered to your lover. It was an odd sort of power, one that could only be gained by foregoing all of your authority. It was addicting, intoxicating, and entirely different from the just as wonderful feeling of being the one to pleasure one's lover.
America came first, because that was the price of youthful eagerness. He pulled out of England with a squelch, and began to pump the smaller man with both hands. England let out a contented sigh as he spilled between them, but he didn't have time to bask in the afterglow because America's strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him nearly effortlessly.
"Where the bloody hell are you taking me?" He demanded.
"Bathroom."
"Since when are you worried about being clean?"
America shrugged, "Maybe you're rubbing off on me, old man."
"It'd be about time," England grumbled.
The larger man laughed and opened the door with some careful maneuvering. Once they were inside, America stood England in the tub. He turned the tap on and warm water ran down their bodies.
"Don't seem like such a bad idea now, do it?" America asked.
"I never said it did. And speak properly, will you?"
"Of course sir," America said in a poor attempt at a posh accent, "Now please allow me to wash your back."
"Your accent is horrendous," England said.
"Hey man," America said, speaking normally, "Just tryin' to do what you asked me to."
He grabbed the soap and turned England around. A moment later, the slick block was moving against England's skin, scrubbing away sweat. America washed his hair next, and England forced himself not to sigh and the delightful feeling of having his scalp rubbed by America's strong, broad fingers. Once the suds were out of his hair, America turned him around again and handed him soap and shampoo.
England washed the younger nation's head and back with practiced movements. At some point, they began to talk. They talked about politics, the newest television programs, the crazy fads this year, and occasionally told stories about other nations.
America turned back around, giving England the chance to wash his lovely chest along with the rest of him. As America took the soap back and finished England, the older man didn't know if he'd ever felt more at peace.
America turned off the water and dried them both off with big fluffy towels, but didn't bother to get clothes before he carried England back to bed and set him down. England made a face.
"Why do we take showers if we just lay back down in filth?"
"'Cause it feels good?" America suggested.
"Maybe," England said.
"Well, I don't have anything else." He wrapped his arms around England, "Maybe we'll know in the morning." He closed his eyes and gave England a quick peck on the forehead, "G'night."
"Good night America," England said, running a hand through his lover's damp hair. However, it seemed like he had somehow fallen asleep already. England shook his head and chuckled. Silly boy.
His silly boy.