Blue Dawn
It was a blue, blue dawn, and England was finding the nape of Portugal's neck to be his most favourite place that morning. He moved his lips over the purpling bruises, flitting from one to another with long slow drags of his tongue as he revisited each of them with a new suckle. His hand smoothed down the plains of Portugal's stomach, feeling the firmness of his toned muscles as he inched his way lower and lower, until Portugal caught him by the wrist. He stopped then, looking up into Portugal's dark brown eyes lidded with sleep and the hazy stirrings of lust. Slowly, he smiled.
Portugal watched as a slow, suggestive grin split England's lips. England looked completely dishevelled with his hair tousled, mouth dry and cracking, and cheek scratched from rough play. But there was a new wicked gleam in those green eyes. He loosened his hold on England's wrist, and that hand immediately jumped for its prize, fingertips combing through his pubic hair before wrapping around his arousal.
They were in a ship; whose it was and where it was headed, neither knew nor cared. Portugal briefly recalled rifling through a case of rum sometime in the night and the sourness on his breath betrayed as much. England appeared to be drunk still as he propped himself up, slinging a white naked leg over to straddle Portugal. He looked utterly ravishing.
As England slid down the length of Portugal's arousal, hand gently guiding it in as he stretched to accommodate it inside himself, Portugal let out contented sigh. Then, growing impatient, he gripped England by his hips – pale flesh already bruised by overly-eager fingers – and dragged him down in one swift motion. England gasped and came to a still, shuddering.
"Perdoe-me," Portugal murmured.
He sat up. His hands moved from England's hips to slide up his back, blindly feeling the flesh-deep wounds that had been gouged out the night before. He kissed England wherever he could reach as the latter drew hitching breaths, lapping at a bead of sweat rolling down his chest, pausing at a nipple to give it a teasing swirl of his tongue. He felt England tremble deliciously at that.
England took to rocking his hips, slowly at first but growing in pace, and Portugal groaned. He was deaf to all but the sighs falling from England's lips, and the wet filthy squelches as England slid along his length, his muscles clenching at unexpected intervals. He clung tight to England, leaving fresh scratches down his back.
"Oh god!" England gasped.
Portugal had taken hold of his neglected member and stroked. And as he cried once more, their lips came smashing together. He was drowning in a sea of sensations; Portugal's lips and tongue exploring his mouth, Portugal's calloused hand jerking at his length, Portugal hot and hard inside of him, slamming into that sweet, sweet spot that frayed at his nerves…
It wasn't long before he came. Hot, white streaks of cum shot from him, roping to their chests and stomachs, and he slumped against Portugal, spent. But Portugal was not quite finished with him.
He flipped their positions so it was England slammed against the headboard, and quickly he pumped into England, searching for his own release.
The waves beat mercilessly at the hull of the ship which creaked with each roll of the waves.
When he came, it was to soft, feathery kisses England was peppering to his nose, cheeks, eyelids. He caught England's lips with his own and they kissed, their fervour slowly tapering into a more languid exploration.
"Tu és lindo," Portugal sighed when at last they parted lips.
England broke into a crooked smile. "Well, aren't you the flatterer," he said.