Fic: Rolling Over, Dover, USxUK, R-18
Mar. 9th, 2012 10:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jedishampooTitle: Rolling Over, Dover
Author:jedishampoo
Pairing: US x UK (implied England usually on top)
Rating/Warnings: sex, language
Summary: England hasn’t been invaded since 1066; America decides to give it a try.
Author’s Notes: Yes, I wrote America on top. And bad invasion innuendo ahoy! This is a deanon from the kink meme; Here’s the kink meme link to prompt and fic. Beta-read by the awesomeconjure_lass (thanks! ::wave::) but of course any remaining mistakes and/or cheesiness are mine alone.
Rolling Over, Dover
“So it’s not just a me thing. It’s an everybody thing.”
America has followed England to his hotel room and now he sprawls on the tiny sofa, seeping into it, stamping it with his Italian leather shoes, smirking a relaxed and pleased confidence like the cat with the canary, the Texan with the black spring in his garden.
“Stop being foolish,” England says. But who is more foolish? The fool or the fool who’s weak-kneed and silly for the other fool? England’s only face-saving, saving grace is the fact that nobody else will ever know the full truth of it. He stomps over to the electric kettle. This time the staff have remembered the kettle, at least, but stomping puts on a good show of annoyance. He scoops some tea into the infuser.
“Oh, come off it, England,” America says, pooh-poohing with a wave of his hand. “I heard everyone talking. I don’t know why people think I can’t hear ‘em when I’m standing right there. Ten-sixty-six, huh? God, you’re old. That’s before I was born.”
“Not long enough ago,” England says. He wishes he had a something on the rocks to toss back as he says it -- for effect -- but the tea will have to do, and he has to wait for that. Still, England detects something in the aural atmosphere. “Are you jealous?”
America snorts, nothing so aristocratic as a scoff but a honk through the nose like a swine. England finds it wholly adorable.
“Are you not?” England presses. He turns to look at America on the sofa. America is pink and growing pinker, his smile capsizing.
“Hell, no,” America says. He kicks off his shoes and hugs his knees to his chest. “It was France, right? Normans. Normandy. I’ve been to Normandy. It’s some sweet justice that they were the last to invade you, and we showed up there to help ‘em nine hundred years later.”
The water in the teapot burbles and England sighs. “That wasn’t the only time I’ve been there since. Kindly remember that history doesn’t revolve around your presence. And the only reason the Normans were successful is because I had to fend off Norway at the same time.” What bloody battles and bloody awful, sleep-deprived days those were. He wishes again for something stronger than tea, and not just for effect.
“Norway and France? At the same time? Sheesh! You … you dog.”
England laughs to himself, for he is channeling Sherlock Holmes; he can almost see the jealous pout in America’s words. The tea steeps and England rubs his fingers along the glass-covered wooden table, rubbing America’s skin already in his mind, that thin skin at the join of his hips and his belly, oh, he’ll have it tonight, he’ll praise it with such reverence that America will forget all about invasions and innuendo when he’s on his knees having the sauce knocked out of him.
England brings the cool pad of his thumb to his lips. America deserves every second of discomfort England can give him: Lord knows he’s provided England with discomfort enough for several centuries. “Did you know, Spain offered earlier to -- ah, how did he put it? -- dock at Portsmouth tonight. He attempted to corner me in the hallway during break.”
America draws a harsh breath, something like the hissing of an egg frying on a Cadillac in the desert sun. “That sumbitch,” America says.
England pours tea, cools it with a little milk from the tiny room fridge, and sips it so he can watch America over the rim of his cup. “I turned him down. Forcefully. All of them. But then, they hardly know about--”
“--about us,” America finishes. “Hmph. I’ll show them.” At England’s look he snorts again. “I promise I won’t tell anything, though I don’t know why I’m such a goddamned secret from the world, seriously.”
“You don’t have the necessary tact to do anything covertly.”
“You don’t think I can do anything.”
England won’t argue, though he should.
America continues. “If it’s not just me, then let me do you.”
England spits tea onto the lovely carpet and wonders why his knees have chosen this exact moment to become wobbly jelly. Likely it was all the talk everyone left from the meeting had over dinner about cocks and vital regions and who’d been jiggling what into whom and Jesus, but Hungary and Belgium were the filthiest by far.
But that doesn’t mean England wants to take that particular tome out of Fantasy and shove it willy-nilly onto the Nonfiction shelf. Things are fine as they are. He hopes.
“Surely I’ve given you no cause to complain?” England croaks, for perhaps he has -- you never know with America, after all. What might set him off.
“No, dude, ‘course not. I’d just kinda like to. Hah. Express my …” America pauses and looks away. “Self.”
England’s legs have bones again: he’s going to win this one, as always. He tells himself he’s not disappointed in the slightest. “You are well-enough expressed already, America.”
But has America -- normally an oblivious Watson at the best of times -- seen something? His eyes have narrowed and his slender limbs are tensed, no longer part of the sofa cushions but perched atop it.
“I’ll make it good. I promise.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really. You just don’t trust me, right? You should. I totally rock.” America’s hip-thrust off the sofa is vulgar and sinuous and England’s various body parts have a discussion about whether or not they are aroused by such a ridiculous thing (the consensus is yes).
But that wouldn’t be … America has mountainous strength but a mere thimbleful of self-control. He could break England in half, most likely, and so what if England might very well enjoy the process of being snapped in twain?
England decides that a direct answer is best. “You’re like a bull in the marketplace. No finesse.”
“Bulls? You’re totally thinking about Spain, aren’t you?” America says, and doesn’t spring from the couch so much as ooze off of it. He’ll make the knees of his suit shiny if he continues shuffling on them across the lovely rug like that. “And you can tell -- no, I’ll tell Spain that a Carnival cruise could ram his fishing fleet into smithereens before he’s made it further north than the Bay of Biscay.” His drool is going to stain the front of England’s trousers if he persists with chewing England’s zipper-pull down like that.
“You know where the Bay of Biscay is?” England’s voice is slurry and thick and he sets down his cup and relaxes his arse-cheeks into America’s strong, clutching fingers, squeezing in time with the circles America’s tongue makes on his cock (the clear winner, by the way, of the internal debate).
England lolls his head back to his shoulders and admires the ceiling patterns, loops and whorls, all curve where America’s tongue has started drawing harsh straight lines along the underside of his cock. There is a brief and unpleasant throbby spell where America pauses to remove his glasses and mumble last time you jizzed all over ‘em dude, I’d tell you to jerk off more, but I know you’ve probably already done it twice today ‘cause you’re an old perv but he says perv as he rolls up the England’s foreskin and holds it in place with his lips.
“Thrice,” England says. He brushes America’s closed eyelids with his thumbs and musses America’s hair while America sucks him off at a lovely rhythm. England lets his hips roll in America’s squeezing fingers -- America, who is fucking his own mouth on England’s cock. He must be very jealous indeed.
England is a following fool, his head floating in a swirly heaven while his loins pulse with little waves of heat that intensify, one after the other, then again, and then even more.
One of America’s hands goes missing for a bit and returns with a glop of lubricant smeared on his middle finger. This is a new thing for America but England decides to trust the sly finger and America’s muffled question, and widens his rather loopy stance so America can probe between his thighs.
England pats America’s hair; his America is very clumsily clever, jabbing inside his arsehole like pressing a button, sending muffled buzz-shocks of pleasure to his bollocks, which are resting on America’s palm. They tighten with the mind-whorling stimulation, and grow so heavy that England wants to sink to the floor and take America with him,
keep America with him forever -- he’ll never escape again. No matter what, America is his prize for the centuries of pain, and he’ll guard the prize like a miser, swallow the combination to the lock and never tell a soul …
“Ah! Ah--there, luv,” he moans, nearly a song, and comes. America’s forehead wrinkles as he winces but clever boy, he coughs it all right down and keeps a sucking pressure going even for a few beats after it has become uncomfortable.
England sinks to his knees, ungracefully because of his trousers at half-mast, but there’s no mind to be paid. He wants to kiss the choking tears from the corners of America’s eyes, to kiss his red, chafed lips, his filthy mouth that tastes of semen. America opens his mouth wide and gives it up and hugs England hard, no doubt smearing lubricant over the back of England’s very sharp suit.
Once that’s been said -- it takes a while -- England pulls back so he can get America out of his jacket. His fingers are so boneless he fumbles at the buttons. America hangs his forearms over England’s shoulders and watches.
“So. You gonna let me?” he says, and Sherlock Holmes detects the smug smile behind the words.
“Sycophant,” he accuses, but his body is not immune to that smile, and his belly is already throbbing again at the thought of America fucking him. “Yes.”
“Ha ha!”
“But!” England’s pointed finger in front of America’s nose says volumes about waiting and patience, but he’s going to back it up anyway. “I reserve the right to give directions and to tell you when you’re being inconsiderate and--”
“You don’t control the invasion, man,” America laughs, and makes more rude gestures with his hips.
England rolls his eyes. “And no silly innuendo because you know very well that it doesn’t mean a thing about sexual relations -- it just happens that it’s been a while since I’ve trusted -- since I’ve wanted to relin-- oh, never mind.”
“I’ll try,” America says. He begins to tear himself out of his own clothing. “Trust me.”
“Very well,” England says, reserving judgment. He has to slap America’s hands away so he can remove his own clothing, slap his hands away again when he tries to drag England over to the bed. Really, he’s more grabby than airport security at JFK International.
England will also reserve his own measure of control, thank you, and he crawls onto the bed without assistance and flattens himself atop it, knees-up, like a maiden bride. Perhaps it is a hint? It has been a very long time.
America cocks his head like a puppy, then shakes it. He says something like “weeeeeoooo!” and springs, making a flying, cock-wobbling leap onto the bed, bouncing on the springs and grinning like he hadn’t narrowly missed England’s groin with his knee when he’d come in for that sloppy landing.
England pokes America’s chest. “I’ve already lost patience.”
“B-fifty-two in your airspace,” America says.
“Stop that,” England says.
“Prepare to have your defenses penetrated, England!” England would say stop that again but America kisses him, slow, intent, slower than England might have ever expected of him, and England’s finger on America’s chest becomes a caress, ceiling patterns on his ribs. America’s hums and his smile and the focus in his eyes when he pauses to sit back on his haunches are also less ironic than England has ever seen them. It makes his heart want to seep raw emotion. Perhaps it does.
America doesn’t reveal what’s been revealed, if anything. He picks up the tube of lubricant from next to England’s head; he must have brought it with him on his flight in.
“Operation Sea Lion Two,” he says, and seems to narrowly avoid giggling as he squelches a fair amount onto his fingers. “Better grease up the cliffs of Dover if I wanna succeed where Germany didn’t.”
England sighs and wonders how he’s possibly endured America this long, fool he or not. “You realize I can still change my mind? Or simply shoot you.”
“Aww, come on, England,” America says, waggling his lubed-up fingers in the direction of England’s arse. To his credit, he kisses England again while he jams -- no, this time he glides his finger up there, swirling it, stretching the muscles bit by bit, and then he does it a little bit more. The kissing certainly doesn’t hurt, and England likes America’s hair, likes trying to tame it, so he buries his fingers in it and takes deep breaths. He can’t fool his heart or body into thinking he doesn’t want it because he does, so he may as well enjoy it. Before long he’s more than relaxed, is arching his hips, pushing his bottom down onto America’s finger and huffing into his mouth.
“God, England,” America says, and it’s the second time in very few minutes that he’s said England’s name and England’s not used to hearing it like that.
“Get on with it, you,” he says.
“Hmm,” America says and shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Time for the warship to ram its way into dock?” America pulls his hand out of England’s arse and fingers his own cock, coating it with glops of lubricant, and he winces as he touches himself. England should feel smug because pleasure and pain are irretrievably combined and soon he’ll be proof of that, but instead his heart stutters a bit; America has been hard for a good long time and is showing unexpected restraint.
Still, England can’t resist offering repayment for the silliness. “You’re sending a mere schooner to face the might of Her Majesty’s Navy?”
“What? This is the nuclear submarine of love, dude. It’s the … the USS Seawolf, and it’s in a hurry to get to Surrey, if you know what I mean.”
England resists a laugh but ends up choking on something -- his own spit, his own racing heart, perhaps -- as America starts rearranging their limbs, his own and England’s for him. Restraint? Humbug; he seems to want England to yoga himself into a knot with his right ankle crammed behind his neck. England decides that the maiden act isn’t working, is giving America the incorrect idea.
“Here, wait--” he says, and America slides backwards on the sheets, propelled by England’s feet on his shoulders. Once unentangled England stretches his arms behind him, searching for the headboard. He gets a firm grip on the bottom of it and pulls himself into a slide backwards, and then uses the leverage to swing his feet into the air until his toes are nearly brushing the wallpaper. The pose is terribly exposed but he’s chosen it for himself, and it should offer the easiest inland access -- and now America has him doing it, buggeritall. “There. I’ll need assistance holding it, of course …”
America crawls up and pokes his head between England’s quivering thighs, staring at him with wide eyes. “You are a dog. I didn’t even know you could do that. I’m not sure I could do it,” he says. Perhaps awe has tempered his rush for he is gentle again; his shoulders rest on England’s thighs without pressure, and he glides a soft hand over the expanse of England’s bottom, giving his testicles a gentle flip along the way. “You were almost hard again there for a minute, though. Hopefully the ol’ reverse D-day’ll get you going.”
“Jesus Christ,” England says.
“Okay, okay. I mean my loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions and everything to do with being considerate.”
England grits his teeth because further griping will only encourage the fool, the fool whose fingers are gently circling his arsehole again, who’s audibly holding his breath as he presses forward, guiding his cock into England’s vulnerable nethers. England’s nethers tighten in protest: no matter how much they loved America’s fingers they’re not so sure about the USS Seawolf. America whispers come on, come on in a voice that sounds like it’s afraid something’s not going to happen. England takes deep, slow, breaths and rubs spirals into the back of the wooden headboard like he’d fingered the table earlier, like he’d planned to do America’s skin and will again.
With each release of breath America pushes his cock inside further and soon England’s arse is full, full and burning, and his knees are jelly again but have nowhere to wobble except, humiliatingly, on America’s sweaty shoulders. Just as England’s fingers are about to snap the headboard into splinters, America sighs. He leans forward and kisses England’s nose with a loud smack. His voice when he speaks is as shaky as England’s thighs.
“Well, that wasn’t easy. Damn, you’re so tight. God.”
“What did you expect?” England whispers. He liked that silly kiss on the nose. He likes having America’s jealousy, his focus.
“Hope I never have to wait a thousand years to find out for myself.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” England admits.
America’s eyes are shiny and his face is shiny as are his lips when he pushes -- ah-- just far enough forward to kiss England on the lips. It is a fine thing that they are so very alike while being so very different at the same time; at least they have one or two workings modes of communication.
England discovers that he can, in fact, do yoga, and pushes his tailbone down, adjusting to the feeling of someone inside him, learning it again. It’s America, and England’s glad and getting gladder for a loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions.
America’s groaning a little in the back of his throat. He talks against England’s lips. “Can I move now?”
“Selfish,” England says, but yanks on the headboard to jerk his arse up and force America in more deeply.
“Unh,” America says, and eases his cock out a little and then back in, starting to rock ever so slowly back and forth, swaying like the slow coach to Nowherehampton. He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort. England keeps his eyes open, greedy to watch, because he always likes to watch America during sex, no matter who’s jiggling what into whom.
He watches the swing of America’s hair; his eyelashes, so rarely unhidden by his glasses; the flex of muscles in his chest; his hand next to England’s head on the bedcovers. His fingers dig into and squeeze the sheets, clenching in time with his movements, and soon he’s got a gentle rhythm going. The painful, stretching burn in England’s arse is becoming a better burn, one that steals his breaths and heartbeats here and there.
“Good, good,” he whispers, because he’d threatened to give direction, after all.
“Hah -- hah,” is America’s smug reply. Encouraged, he notches up his pace, adjusts the thrust of his hips, hips that England loves to watch but can barely see from this angle, curse it. But oh, he can feel them. The burn is being knocked into his belly, bit by bit, a pulsing buzz that swirls into a cluster of erotic ache.
America presses it as if he knows, a sweaty hand spread on England’s sweaty abdomen. England’s stomach muscles twitch and God, everything’s twitching. He’s hard again.
“Hah -- ah,” America laughs again and over-thrusts a couple of times in quick succession, knocking England’s crown back into the headboard. He says oops and that breaks his rhythm. Breathing hard, he grinds to a shaky halt and his cock slips out.
“Ouch, dammit.” With the halt of sensation elsewhere England can suddenly feel the protest of his hamstrings. When he lets one of his legs drop he can feel it sigh with relief.
“Looked painful,” America says. He’s cleverly clumsy again, fussing about for a bit until he settles England’s legs over his elbows.
“It was. Ah--” England says as his arse is lifted into the air and America dives straight in, cock first. England would complain about feeling something like a helicopter’s haul except it feels marvelous, America’s cock pressing buttons England’s forgotten he had, over and over and then again. He forgets to hold the headboard and lets his arms flop onto the bed, closing his eyes to wallows in his own pleasure.
But he can feel it all, the friction of being fucked hard, America’s fingers squeezing England’s knees as they slip in the sweat of his arms, and he can hear it all, the steady smack of America’s bollocks on his arse, America’s sharp huhs of effort.
America is very good, actually, has a rhythm that’s quick without rushing past all sensation. He keeps it up for long minutes and then more minutes, and England says pithy and approving things like “yes, yes, there” and “oh.” For as long as America can do it, England will encourage him, because he’s remembering how much he can take and it is a lot.
“Hah! Like -- hah -- Just like France, bringing an invasion force right up the Chunnel,” America huffs.
“Jesus,” England sighs again.
“You didn’t lose your hard-on after that one, did you? You old -- hah -- perv.”
England covers his face with his hand and groans his pain through his fingers. America carries on.
“This is so hot. You are. Hah. This rocket’s hot in the bomb shelter, hah -- it’s gonna blow--”
“You!” England has had enough. He flails his knees out of America’s slippery grip. America loses his balance on a misplaced thrust and falls, face-first.
“Hey!”
“Come here, you,” England says, allowing himself a grin. America looks discombobulated, but then, he deserved that. England hauls on his shoulders until he and America are nose-to-nose. “My bomb shelter withstood seventy-six nights of this shite once, you know.”
America’s eyes get wide again, as if he imagines Germany with his cock out … “Really?”
England slaps his shoulder. “You can’t even play along in your own fantasy world of dreadful innuendo.”
“Good grief.”
“Hmph.” England shifts his thighs to capture America between them again, and locks his ankles high on America’s back. England’s going for the tried and true, his favorite position when their roles are reversed: face to face and close. His hands have plenty of prisoner to reach and grab onto.
He mwahs a peck onto America’s bemused lips, and feels his face burn after he’s done it. What a soppy old thing he is. His next words rush to cover his security breach.
“Now. Do it, do it hard, and do it for as long as you can. We’ll see how long you can last.”
America’s an athlete, a competitor, and he resists a challenge the way England resists tea. He props himself on his hands and angles his cock back inside England with a wince and an ah-ah-ah.
“Pin’s been pulled on this grenade already, dude, but just you watch.”
Dear boy, he has mountainous strength and more control than England’s given him credit for. There are more than a few good minutes of being buggered silly by America, close, so close that England can taste the sweat dripping off America’s eyebrows, can shove it back into America’s mouth with his tongue, can feel America’s grunts of effort in the back of his own throat. He can feel every inch of America’s cock as his thrusts become long and tight and faster, chafing England’s insides in hard lines along his oversensitized prostate. Still England urges him faster and harder, his fingers digging into America’s pistoning hips. He’s building to one of those orgasms that starts deep and tears its way out …
And America cries out “Oh, God, England -- Kaboom,” and jerks short, then again, in the throes of climax. England groans because he’s this close and he wants to come with America’s cock inside him. That requires that he wedge his hand between them quicker than Bob’s your uncle and wank himself, hard and fast. He kisses America’s open, gaping mouth to show that it’s all right, and his hand is so sweaty that it burns.
America looks shaky but he gets a hand in there, too. He and England bump and twist fingers around England’s cock, and there are two rhythms going and it’s something England’s never felt before, something totally new in a forever lifetime. It’s more than good and he comes again, messy over their twined, zigzagging fingers.
America is panting and tries to collapse, so England rolls over atop him and kisses him, hard and noisy and slippery, until he’s snogged away America’s incipient hyperventilation.
“I’m getting used to the way you do that,” America says, only a little breathily.
“Hmmm.” That’s England’s way of saying thank you and I love you, for saying those things aloud is so difficult. So final. Vulnerable. Then he kisses America again because while fucking is fucking and is all very nice, there’s nothing quite as intimate and lovely as a kiss.
America fights his way back to the surface once England’s decided that he can.
“So how was that for finesse?” he asks.
England pretends to ponder what was quite an amazing shag. “Hmm. Well, you expressed yourself,” he says.
“Hey hey hey hey. So can I tell Spain that Portsmouth is closed for repairs?”
England remembers he’s supposed to be irritated, but then he remembers something America said and suddenly it strikes him -- he barks a laugh and when he tries to shut his mouth to prevent a repeat he snorts, definitely swine-like. “Really, America?” he finally manages. “Nuclear submarine of love?”
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.”
England rolls off America, for the only place to bury his own snorts is into the pillow. Once those are six feet under and he’s regained some dignity, he looks up again. “Well, send it back to dry-dock. Because later, after I’ve had some tea, I’m going to fuck you even sillier.”
America props himself on an elbow and looks decidedly not-displeased. “Only if you tell me who else offered to invade you.” At England’s look, he widens his eyes. “I’ll just ask around if you don’t tell me, and my questions might cause people to have questions and I’m not promising that I won’t just threaten to kick their asses …”
“Blackmailer.” England says. Then, “Fine. Also after I’ve had some tea.”
“Unless you want them to …” America says.
England shakes his head. “No.”
America smiles. “Good. Because I also only want …”
England’s heart stops at America’s lengthy pause.
“… to tell them to fuck off,” America finishes.
England’s heart starts again. He would be upset at hoping (fearing) for so much nothing, but even a fool can read one’s own body language on someone else.
“What will I do with you, Watson?” he asks.
America’s brow furrows.
“Never mind. Tea?” England says, and plays with America’s stray curl, the one that refuses to lay down when it’s told.
End
Thank you for reading! I love comments -- please, please leave them. Or concrit. Flames. Just say anything you like, really. ♥
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Author:
jedishampooPairing: US x UK (implied England usually on top)
Rating/Warnings: sex, language
Summary: England hasn’t been invaded since 1066; America decides to give it a try.
Author’s Notes: Yes, I wrote America on top. And bad invasion innuendo ahoy! This is a deanon from the kink meme; Here’s the kink meme link to prompt and fic. Beta-read by the awesome
conjure_lass (thanks! ::wave::) but of course any remaining mistakes and/or cheesiness are mine alone. Rolling Over, Dover
“So it’s not just a me thing. It’s an everybody thing.”
America has followed England to his hotel room and now he sprawls on the tiny sofa, seeping into it, stamping it with his Italian leather shoes, smirking a relaxed and pleased confidence like the cat with the canary, the Texan with the black spring in his garden.
“Stop being foolish,” England says. But who is more foolish? The fool or the fool who’s weak-kneed and silly for the other fool? England’s only face-saving, saving grace is the fact that nobody else will ever know the full truth of it. He stomps over to the electric kettle. This time the staff have remembered the kettle, at least, but stomping puts on a good show of annoyance. He scoops some tea into the infuser.
“Oh, come off it, England,” America says, pooh-poohing with a wave of his hand. “I heard everyone talking. I don’t know why people think I can’t hear ‘em when I’m standing right there. Ten-sixty-six, huh? God, you’re old. That’s before I was born.”
“Not long enough ago,” England says. He wishes he had a something on the rocks to toss back as he says it -- for effect -- but the tea will have to do, and he has to wait for that. Still, England detects something in the aural atmosphere. “Are you jealous?”
America snorts, nothing so aristocratic as a scoff but a honk through the nose like a swine. England finds it wholly adorable.
“Are you not?” England presses. He turns to look at America on the sofa. America is pink and growing pinker, his smile capsizing.
“Hell, no,” America says. He kicks off his shoes and hugs his knees to his chest. “It was France, right? Normans. Normandy. I’ve been to Normandy. It’s some sweet justice that they were the last to invade you, and we showed up there to help ‘em nine hundred years later.”
The water in the teapot burbles and England sighs. “That wasn’t the only time I’ve been there since. Kindly remember that history doesn’t revolve around your presence. And the only reason the Normans were successful is because I had to fend off Norway at the same time.” What bloody battles and bloody awful, sleep-deprived days those were. He wishes again for something stronger than tea, and not just for effect.
“Norway and France? At the same time? Sheesh! You … you dog.”
England laughs to himself, for he is channeling Sherlock Holmes; he can almost see the jealous pout in America’s words. The tea steeps and England rubs his fingers along the glass-covered wooden table, rubbing America’s skin already in his mind, that thin skin at the join of his hips and his belly, oh, he’ll have it tonight, he’ll praise it with such reverence that America will forget all about invasions and innuendo when he’s on his knees having the sauce knocked out of him.
England brings the cool pad of his thumb to his lips. America deserves every second of discomfort England can give him: Lord knows he’s provided England with discomfort enough for several centuries. “Did you know, Spain offered earlier to -- ah, how did he put it? -- dock at Portsmouth tonight. He attempted to corner me in the hallway during break.”
America draws a harsh breath, something like the hissing of an egg frying on a Cadillac in the desert sun. “That sumbitch,” America says.
England pours tea, cools it with a little milk from the tiny room fridge, and sips it so he can watch America over the rim of his cup. “I turned him down. Forcefully. All of them. But then, they hardly know about--”
“--about us,” America finishes. “Hmph. I’ll show them.” At England’s look he snorts again. “I promise I won’t tell anything, though I don’t know why I’m such a goddamned secret from the world, seriously.”
“You don’t have the necessary tact to do anything covertly.”
“You don’t think I can do anything.”
England won’t argue, though he should.
America continues. “If it’s not just me, then let me do you.”
England spits tea onto the lovely carpet and wonders why his knees have chosen this exact moment to become wobbly jelly. Likely it was all the talk everyone left from the meeting had over dinner about cocks and vital regions and who’d been jiggling what into whom and Jesus, but Hungary and Belgium were the filthiest by far.
But that doesn’t mean England wants to take that particular tome out of Fantasy and shove it willy-nilly onto the Nonfiction shelf. Things are fine as they are. He hopes.
“Surely I’ve given you no cause to complain?” England croaks, for perhaps he has -- you never know with America, after all. What might set him off.
“No, dude, ‘course not. I’d just kinda like to. Hah. Express my …” America pauses and looks away. “Self.”
England’s legs have bones again: he’s going to win this one, as always. He tells himself he’s not disappointed in the slightest. “You are well-enough expressed already, America.”
But has America -- normally an oblivious Watson at the best of times -- seen something? His eyes have narrowed and his slender limbs are tensed, no longer part of the sofa cushions but perched atop it.
“I’ll make it good. I promise.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really. You just don’t trust me, right? You should. I totally rock.” America’s hip-thrust off the sofa is vulgar and sinuous and England’s various body parts have a discussion about whether or not they are aroused by such a ridiculous thing (the consensus is yes).
But that wouldn’t be … America has mountainous strength but a mere thimbleful of self-control. He could break England in half, most likely, and so what if England might very well enjoy the process of being snapped in twain?
England decides that a direct answer is best. “You’re like a bull in the marketplace. No finesse.”
“Bulls? You’re totally thinking about Spain, aren’t you?” America says, and doesn’t spring from the couch so much as ooze off of it. He’ll make the knees of his suit shiny if he continues shuffling on them across the lovely rug like that. “And you can tell -- no, I’ll tell Spain that a Carnival cruise could ram his fishing fleet into smithereens before he’s made it further north than the Bay of Biscay.” His drool is going to stain the front of England’s trousers if he persists with chewing England’s zipper-pull down like that.
“You know where the Bay of Biscay is?” England’s voice is slurry and thick and he sets down his cup and relaxes his arse-cheeks into America’s strong, clutching fingers, squeezing in time with the circles America’s tongue makes on his cock (the clear winner, by the way, of the internal debate).
England lolls his head back to his shoulders and admires the ceiling patterns, loops and whorls, all curve where America’s tongue has started drawing harsh straight lines along the underside of his cock. There is a brief and unpleasant throbby spell where America pauses to remove his glasses and mumble last time you jizzed all over ‘em dude, I’d tell you to jerk off more, but I know you’ve probably already done it twice today ‘cause you’re an old perv but he says perv as he rolls up the England’s foreskin and holds it in place with his lips.
“Thrice,” England says. He brushes America’s closed eyelids with his thumbs and musses America’s hair while America sucks him off at a lovely rhythm. England lets his hips roll in America’s squeezing fingers -- America, who is fucking his own mouth on England’s cock. He must be very jealous indeed.
England is a following fool, his head floating in a swirly heaven while his loins pulse with little waves of heat that intensify, one after the other, then again, and then even more.
One of America’s hands goes missing for a bit and returns with a glop of lubricant smeared on his middle finger. This is a new thing for America but England decides to trust the sly finger and America’s muffled question, and widens his rather loopy stance so America can probe between his thighs.
England pats America’s hair; his America is very clumsily clever, jabbing inside his arsehole like pressing a button, sending muffled buzz-shocks of pleasure to his bollocks, which are resting on America’s palm. They tighten with the mind-whorling stimulation, and grow so heavy that England wants to sink to the floor and take America with him,
keep America with him forever -- he’ll never escape again. No matter what, America is his prize for the centuries of pain, and he’ll guard the prize like a miser, swallow the combination to the lock and never tell a soul …
“Ah! Ah--there, luv,” he moans, nearly a song, and comes. America’s forehead wrinkles as he winces but clever boy, he coughs it all right down and keeps a sucking pressure going even for a few beats after it has become uncomfortable.
England sinks to his knees, ungracefully because of his trousers at half-mast, but there’s no mind to be paid. He wants to kiss the choking tears from the corners of America’s eyes, to kiss his red, chafed lips, his filthy mouth that tastes of semen. America opens his mouth wide and gives it up and hugs England hard, no doubt smearing lubricant over the back of England’s very sharp suit.
Once that’s been said -- it takes a while -- England pulls back so he can get America out of his jacket. His fingers are so boneless he fumbles at the buttons. America hangs his forearms over England’s shoulders and watches.
“So. You gonna let me?” he says, and Sherlock Holmes detects the smug smile behind the words.
“Sycophant,” he accuses, but his body is not immune to that smile, and his belly is already throbbing again at the thought of America fucking him. “Yes.”
“Ha ha!”
“But!” England’s pointed finger in front of America’s nose says volumes about waiting and patience, but he’s going to back it up anyway. “I reserve the right to give directions and to tell you when you’re being inconsiderate and--”
“You don’t control the invasion, man,” America laughs, and makes more rude gestures with his hips.
England rolls his eyes. “And no silly innuendo because you know very well that it doesn’t mean a thing about sexual relations -- it just happens that it’s been a while since I’ve trusted -- since I’ve wanted to relin-- oh, never mind.”
“I’ll try,” America says. He begins to tear himself out of his own clothing. “Trust me.”
“Very well,” England says, reserving judgment. He has to slap America’s hands away so he can remove his own clothing, slap his hands away again when he tries to drag England over to the bed. Really, he’s more grabby than airport security at JFK International.
England will also reserve his own measure of control, thank you, and he crawls onto the bed without assistance and flattens himself atop it, knees-up, like a maiden bride. Perhaps it is a hint? It has been a very long time.
America cocks his head like a puppy, then shakes it. He says something like “weeeeeoooo!” and springs, making a flying, cock-wobbling leap onto the bed, bouncing on the springs and grinning like he hadn’t narrowly missed England’s groin with his knee when he’d come in for that sloppy landing.
England pokes America’s chest. “I’ve already lost patience.”
“B-fifty-two in your airspace,” America says.
“Stop that,” England says.
“Prepare to have your defenses penetrated, England!” England would say stop that again but America kisses him, slow, intent, slower than England might have ever expected of him, and England’s finger on America’s chest becomes a caress, ceiling patterns on his ribs. America’s hums and his smile and the focus in his eyes when he pauses to sit back on his haunches are also less ironic than England has ever seen them. It makes his heart want to seep raw emotion. Perhaps it does.
America doesn’t reveal what’s been revealed, if anything. He picks up the tube of lubricant from next to England’s head; he must have brought it with him on his flight in.
“Operation Sea Lion Two,” he says, and seems to narrowly avoid giggling as he squelches a fair amount onto his fingers. “Better grease up the cliffs of Dover if I wanna succeed where Germany didn’t.”
England sighs and wonders how he’s possibly endured America this long, fool he or not. “You realize I can still change my mind? Or simply shoot you.”
“Aww, come on, England,” America says, waggling his lubed-up fingers in the direction of England’s arse. To his credit, he kisses England again while he jams -- no, this time he glides his finger up there, swirling it, stretching the muscles bit by bit, and then he does it a little bit more. The kissing certainly doesn’t hurt, and England likes America’s hair, likes trying to tame it, so he buries his fingers in it and takes deep breaths. He can’t fool his heart or body into thinking he doesn’t want it because he does, so he may as well enjoy it. Before long he’s more than relaxed, is arching his hips, pushing his bottom down onto America’s finger and huffing into his mouth.
“God, England,” America says, and it’s the second time in very few minutes that he’s said England’s name and England’s not used to hearing it like that.
“Get on with it, you,” he says.
“Hmm,” America says and shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Time for the warship to ram its way into dock?” America pulls his hand out of England’s arse and fingers his own cock, coating it with glops of lubricant, and he winces as he touches himself. England should feel smug because pleasure and pain are irretrievably combined and soon he’ll be proof of that, but instead his heart stutters a bit; America has been hard for a good long time and is showing unexpected restraint.
Still, England can’t resist offering repayment for the silliness. “You’re sending a mere schooner to face the might of Her Majesty’s Navy?”
“What? This is the nuclear submarine of love, dude. It’s the … the USS Seawolf, and it’s in a hurry to get to Surrey, if you know what I mean.”
England resists a laugh but ends up choking on something -- his own spit, his own racing heart, perhaps -- as America starts rearranging their limbs, his own and England’s for him. Restraint? Humbug; he seems to want England to yoga himself into a knot with his right ankle crammed behind his neck. England decides that the maiden act isn’t working, is giving America the incorrect idea.
“Here, wait--” he says, and America slides backwards on the sheets, propelled by England’s feet on his shoulders. Once unentangled England stretches his arms behind him, searching for the headboard. He gets a firm grip on the bottom of it and pulls himself into a slide backwards, and then uses the leverage to swing his feet into the air until his toes are nearly brushing the wallpaper. The pose is terribly exposed but he’s chosen it for himself, and it should offer the easiest inland access -- and now America has him doing it, buggeritall. “There. I’ll need assistance holding it, of course …”
America crawls up and pokes his head between England’s quivering thighs, staring at him with wide eyes. “You are a dog. I didn’t even know you could do that. I’m not sure I could do it,” he says. Perhaps awe has tempered his rush for he is gentle again; his shoulders rest on England’s thighs without pressure, and he glides a soft hand over the expanse of England’s bottom, giving his testicles a gentle flip along the way. “You were almost hard again there for a minute, though. Hopefully the ol’ reverse D-day’ll get you going.”
“Jesus Christ,” England says.
“Okay, okay. I mean my loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions and everything to do with being considerate.”
England grits his teeth because further griping will only encourage the fool, the fool whose fingers are gently circling his arsehole again, who’s audibly holding his breath as he presses forward, guiding his cock into England’s vulnerable nethers. England’s nethers tighten in protest: no matter how much they loved America’s fingers they’re not so sure about the USS Seawolf. America whispers come on, come on in a voice that sounds like it’s afraid something’s not going to happen. England takes deep, slow, breaths and rubs spirals into the back of the wooden headboard like he’d fingered the table earlier, like he’d planned to do America’s skin and will again.
With each release of breath America pushes his cock inside further and soon England’s arse is full, full and burning, and his knees are jelly again but have nowhere to wobble except, humiliatingly, on America’s sweaty shoulders. Just as England’s fingers are about to snap the headboard into splinters, America sighs. He leans forward and kisses England’s nose with a loud smack. His voice when he speaks is as shaky as England’s thighs.
“Well, that wasn’t easy. Damn, you’re so tight. God.”
“What did you expect?” England whispers. He liked that silly kiss on the nose. He likes having America’s jealousy, his focus.
“Hope I never have to wait a thousand years to find out for myself.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” England admits.
America’s eyes are shiny and his face is shiny as are his lips when he pushes -- ah-- just far enough forward to kiss England on the lips. It is a fine thing that they are so very alike while being so very different at the same time; at least they have one or two workings modes of communication.
England discovers that he can, in fact, do yoga, and pushes his tailbone down, adjusting to the feeling of someone inside him, learning it again. It’s America, and England’s glad and getting gladder for a loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions.
America’s groaning a little in the back of his throat. He talks against England’s lips. “Can I move now?”
“Selfish,” England says, but yanks on the headboard to jerk his arse up and force America in more deeply.
“Unh,” America says, and eases his cock out a little and then back in, starting to rock ever so slowly back and forth, swaying like the slow coach to Nowherehampton. He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort. England keeps his eyes open, greedy to watch, because he always likes to watch America during sex, no matter who’s jiggling what into whom.
He watches the swing of America’s hair; his eyelashes, so rarely unhidden by his glasses; the flex of muscles in his chest; his hand next to England’s head on the bedcovers. His fingers dig into and squeeze the sheets, clenching in time with his movements, and soon he’s got a gentle rhythm going. The painful, stretching burn in England’s arse is becoming a better burn, one that steals his breaths and heartbeats here and there.
“Good, good,” he whispers, because he’d threatened to give direction, after all.
“Hah -- hah,” is America’s smug reply. Encouraged, he notches up his pace, adjusts the thrust of his hips, hips that England loves to watch but can barely see from this angle, curse it. But oh, he can feel them. The burn is being knocked into his belly, bit by bit, a pulsing buzz that swirls into a cluster of erotic ache.
America presses it as if he knows, a sweaty hand spread on England’s sweaty abdomen. England’s stomach muscles twitch and God, everything’s twitching. He’s hard again.
“Hah -- ah,” America laughs again and over-thrusts a couple of times in quick succession, knocking England’s crown back into the headboard. He says oops and that breaks his rhythm. Breathing hard, he grinds to a shaky halt and his cock slips out.
“Ouch, dammit.” With the halt of sensation elsewhere England can suddenly feel the protest of his hamstrings. When he lets one of his legs drop he can feel it sigh with relief.
“Looked painful,” America says. He’s cleverly clumsy again, fussing about for a bit until he settles England’s legs over his elbows.
“It was. Ah--” England says as his arse is lifted into the air and America dives straight in, cock first. England would complain about feeling something like a helicopter’s haul except it feels marvelous, America’s cock pressing buttons England’s forgotten he had, over and over and then again. He forgets to hold the headboard and lets his arms flop onto the bed, closing his eyes to wallows in his own pleasure.
But he can feel it all, the friction of being fucked hard, America’s fingers squeezing England’s knees as they slip in the sweat of his arms, and he can hear it all, the steady smack of America’s bollocks on his arse, America’s sharp huhs of effort.
America is very good, actually, has a rhythm that’s quick without rushing past all sensation. He keeps it up for long minutes and then more minutes, and England says pithy and approving things like “yes, yes, there” and “oh.” For as long as America can do it, England will encourage him, because he’s remembering how much he can take and it is a lot.
“Hah! Like -- hah -- Just like France, bringing an invasion force right up the Chunnel,” America huffs.
“Jesus,” England sighs again.
“You didn’t lose your hard-on after that one, did you? You old -- hah -- perv.”
England covers his face with his hand and groans his pain through his fingers. America carries on.
“This is so hot. You are. Hah. This rocket’s hot in the bomb shelter, hah -- it’s gonna blow--”
“You!” England has had enough. He flails his knees out of America’s slippery grip. America loses his balance on a misplaced thrust and falls, face-first.
“Hey!”
“Come here, you,” England says, allowing himself a grin. America looks discombobulated, but then, he deserved that. England hauls on his shoulders until he and America are nose-to-nose. “My bomb shelter withstood seventy-six nights of this shite once, you know.”
America’s eyes get wide again, as if he imagines Germany with his cock out … “Really?”
England slaps his shoulder. “You can’t even play along in your own fantasy world of dreadful innuendo.”
“Good grief.”
“Hmph.” England shifts his thighs to capture America between them again, and locks his ankles high on America’s back. England’s going for the tried and true, his favorite position when their roles are reversed: face to face and close. His hands have plenty of prisoner to reach and grab onto.
He mwahs a peck onto America’s bemused lips, and feels his face burn after he’s done it. What a soppy old thing he is. His next words rush to cover his security breach.
“Now. Do it, do it hard, and do it for as long as you can. We’ll see how long you can last.”
America’s an athlete, a competitor, and he resists a challenge the way England resists tea. He props himself on his hands and angles his cock back inside England with a wince and an ah-ah-ah.
“Pin’s been pulled on this grenade already, dude, but just you watch.”
Dear boy, he has mountainous strength and more control than England’s given him credit for. There are more than a few good minutes of being buggered silly by America, close, so close that England can taste the sweat dripping off America’s eyebrows, can shove it back into America’s mouth with his tongue, can feel America’s grunts of effort in the back of his own throat. He can feel every inch of America’s cock as his thrusts become long and tight and faster, chafing England’s insides in hard lines along his oversensitized prostate. Still England urges him faster and harder, his fingers digging into America’s pistoning hips. He’s building to one of those orgasms that starts deep and tears its way out …
And America cries out “Oh, God, England -- Kaboom,” and jerks short, then again, in the throes of climax. England groans because he’s this close and he wants to come with America’s cock inside him. That requires that he wedge his hand between them quicker than Bob’s your uncle and wank himself, hard and fast. He kisses America’s open, gaping mouth to show that it’s all right, and his hand is so sweaty that it burns.
America looks shaky but he gets a hand in there, too. He and England bump and twist fingers around England’s cock, and there are two rhythms going and it’s something England’s never felt before, something totally new in a forever lifetime. It’s more than good and he comes again, messy over their twined, zigzagging fingers.
America is panting and tries to collapse, so England rolls over atop him and kisses him, hard and noisy and slippery, until he’s snogged away America’s incipient hyperventilation.
“I’m getting used to the way you do that,” America says, only a little breathily.
“Hmmm.” That’s England’s way of saying thank you and I love you, for saying those things aloud is so difficult. So final. Vulnerable. Then he kisses America again because while fucking is fucking and is all very nice, there’s nothing quite as intimate and lovely as a kiss.
America fights his way back to the surface once England’s decided that he can.
“So how was that for finesse?” he asks.
England pretends to ponder what was quite an amazing shag. “Hmm. Well, you expressed yourself,” he says.
“Hey hey hey hey. So can I tell Spain that Portsmouth is closed for repairs?”
England remembers he’s supposed to be irritated, but then he remembers something America said and suddenly it strikes him -- he barks a laugh and when he tries to shut his mouth to prevent a repeat he snorts, definitely swine-like. “Really, America?” he finally manages. “Nuclear submarine of love?”
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.”
England rolls off America, for the only place to bury his own snorts is into the pillow. Once those are six feet under and he’s regained some dignity, he looks up again. “Well, send it back to dry-dock. Because later, after I’ve had some tea, I’m going to fuck you even sillier.”
America props himself on an elbow and looks decidedly not-displeased. “Only if you tell me who else offered to invade you.” At England’s look, he widens his eyes. “I’ll just ask around if you don’t tell me, and my questions might cause people to have questions and I’m not promising that I won’t just threaten to kick their asses …”
“Blackmailer.” England says. Then, “Fine. Also after I’ve had some tea.”
“Unless you want them to …” America says.
England shakes his head. “No.”
America smiles. “Good. Because I also only want …”
England’s heart stops at America’s lengthy pause.
“… to tell them to fuck off,” America finishes.
England’s heart starts again. He would be upset at hoping (fearing) for so much nothing, but even a fool can read one’s own body language on someone else.
“What will I do with you, Watson?” he asks.
America’s brow furrows.
“Never mind. Tea?” England says, and plays with America’s stray curl, the one that refuses to lay down when it’s told.
End
Thank you for reading! I love comments -- please, please leave them. Or concrit. Flames. Just say anything you like, really. ♥
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