SHAMELESS AND NAMELESS USUK PORN

Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: England/America

Genre: smut, PWP, pure, unadulterated porn.

Rating: NC-17, of course

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Word count: 2,138

Warning: Did I mention it was porn? Yeah, well… duh.

Summary: America can't help but moan at that, his hands on England's hips tightening convulsively. This gives a whole know meaning to the words 'lie back and think of England'.

A/n: LAME TITLE IS LAME. It is, as you can see, complete porn with no redeeming qualities except, well, yeah… it's porn. Porn's always good, right? Enjoy.

Hm, what's America doing with Tony Stark's boxers? Ah, the mysteries of the world…

The meeting is, thankfully, over, and America is just stretching when England shoves him into a shadowy corner of the meeting room. He rubs against America, purring into a hard, passionate kiss, and America is shocked. Is this England? Repressed England, King of the Prudes?

He doesn't answer himself, but he does answer the attack, wrapping his arms around England's waist and kissing back with as much fervour, their tongues tangling, England's knee slipping between his legs, thigh rubbing against his hardening cock.

England's breath is harsh and wet when they part, and he smirks lasciviously into America's neck.

"Tonight, my place, eight o'clock," he says hoarsely. "Don't be late."

He punctuates his ultimatum with a quick grope and another, much more chaste kiss. America can only nod vaguely, flushed and dazed, as England gathers his folder and his briefcase and leaves with a smouldering gaze America would never have even dreamt of getting from England. He grins dizzily, straightens his tie and leaves the room, eagerly anticipating the night.

At eight o'clock, America is standing outside England's door. He takes a deep breath and wonders if he's underdressed. Are Levi's and a t-shirt apt for a date? He rings the doorbell, taking another deep breath through his nose.

The door is opened a moment later, and England drags him in by the collar of his bomber jacket. He's pushed against the wall and kissed again, and America is pleasantly surprised at all this debauching of his mouth. He slips a hand down to England's ass, pulling the shorter nation against himself.

"W-what's made you so feisty?" he finally asks when England pulls away. England slides a hand under the hem of America's t-shirt to skim his fingers, in an almost ticklish way, over his flat stomach. He hums and kisses along America's jaw line.

"Haven't been able to get you in bed for a week," he says, and he sounds as hungry as he acts. "We've both been too busy, and I hate that."

America has to admit he thought that himself. He's been far too distracted by thoughts of England at inappropriate moments, and of course, him being America, Captain Obvious, it's been transparent what he's been thinking about. His boss has been clearing his throat a lot during meetings. Hopefully this will quench his thirst for a while.

"Me too," he hisses, pulling England into another kiss, with plenty of nipping teeth and searching tongue. He can feel England's erection pressing into his own, and they'd better get to the bedroom, fast.

"Come on," England urges, perhaps sensing America's need or just working on his own, leading America upstairs to the master bedroom. Before he throws him on the bed, he takes off his bomber jacket and lays it on the chair in the corner.

"I know how much you're attached to that thing," England explains easily. He then pushes America towards the end of the bed and down on it with a simple movement. He doesn't leave America alone for long, however. In a moment, he's on top of him, hips tantalisingly close to America's but just not close enough. He presses his lips to America's, purring into the twist of their tongues, licking across America's teeth and pulling back to nip on his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. He's shucking up America's t-shirt as he does this, and he reluctantly leaves the other nation's mouth to slip it off, knocking his glasses askew.

America laughs. "Who are you and what have you done to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?" he demands in mock-outrage, throwing Texas to the bedside table. His watch joins them a moment later.

England growls at the sound of his full name and decides to punish America with another kiss – not that that's much of a punishment. He hands slide down America's chest and pinch his nipples, making America's whole body twitch. The younger nation slides a hand under England's shirt, dips it beneath the waistband of his pants to tease the crack of his ass with a finger. England whimpers a little at that and sits up, unbuttoning his shirt quickly and a little clumsily, throwing it off to the side unceremoniously.

America flicks an appreciative eye across that delicious expanse of pale skin and draws England down to tease at his neck. Their cocks rub together, his tongue teasing along England's throat. England uses the hand he's not leaning on to get under America's jeans and rub his hip, that spot he knows America positively loves to have touched (California). America promptly mewls into his skin, although he'll certainly deny it.

"Enough with this," England growls, leaning back again and unbuckling his belt hastily. His tailored trousers follow immediately after, and he shucks them away until he's only in his briefs.

"You're still far too dressed," he remarks to America casually, smirking. America blinks for a moment, before sitting up and scrabbling with his button and fly. England bats his hands away before he can do any damage and with America's help, he quickly gets them off. Then he raises an eyebrow.

"Captain America underpants?" he asks. The little shields on blue background are terribly obvious, especially since America made him read it in two-year-early anticipation of the movie. America blushes embarrassedly.

"They were, er, the only clean ones…"

"You should really do the washing more often, America," England remarks, kissing just above the waistband with a feral grin that probably stems from his pirate days. "Ruins the mood… but I think the best thing to do is get them off, am I right?" He slides a hand up the inside of America's thigh and teases at the base of the erection tenting those offensive boxers.

America can only nod wordlessly, hooking his thumbs in the elastic and hoisting them over his cock. England's appreciative look and subsequent feline smile is priceless. He bites the inside of his thigh gently, so close to the mark but still hundreds of miles away. America whimpers slightly, his hips moving, and England finally caves in.

He licks the head of America's erection almost pensively, sucking the crown as if tasting a new type of tea. He decides he likes it (which is pure hypocrisy, really, considering the amount of times he's done this before…) and begins to suck in earnest, humming around his mouthful. It sends pleasure flashing up and down America's body before coming to settle back in his cock. He rears slowly into England's mouth, and for once England doesn't hold him still. He lets him jerk upwards, lets him fuck his mouth unhurriedly.

Eventually, though, he holds America down and leaves him with an obscene pop. America scowls and England laughs. He divests himself of his briefs, straddles America's hips, rubbing slowly.

"Sit tight, love," he murmurs, leaning over him and reaching into his bedside drawer. He pulls out the lubricant, and America raises an eyebrow. They're certainly not in the position for England to… his eyes widen in sudden realisation.

England flicks the cap of the tube and reaches behind himself. America hisses as the cool gel makes contact with his red, aching cock and he bucks up into England's hand. Then, as soon as it had arrived, it is gone, and America's left desperate again. But the show he's about to get is entirely worth it, he decides.

England slips a finger into himself, biting his lip as he works himself loose. America can't help but moan at that, his hands on England's hips tightening convulsively. This gives a whole know meaning to the words 'lie back and think of England'.

England arches onto his finger and adds another, gasping as his hips pump the air. He lets out a low keen and that must have been his prostate. America swallows but his mouth is dry. He can't help wondering how stick-in-the-mud England can be this uninhibited.

England eventually deems his preparation enough and takes hold of America's cock. Slowly, almost painfully, he sinks down, taking him in, and America arches into it. England's hot, tight, amazing…

England stills for a moment, shuddering as he pants, and finally opens his eyes to almost glare at America.

"Now… fuck me," he orders.

America moans gratefully and thrusts up, taking it slow, sinking deeper into England. England groans and holds himself up, his weight supported on his hands on either side of America's stomach, allowing America more movement.

"Yes, that's it… Oh, fuck, yes…"

England talks dirty. He always talks dirty. America loves that. He supposes from the sounds and words of encouragement England's making he's doing good. His hips thrust harder; he gives it to England deeper. England is groaning his words, demanding more (he never begs, ever), and America gives it to him, pounding up into England's tight hole, speeding up, and groans in response.

"England… oh, fuck, so good…"

His hands on England's hips are slippery, can't really grip, and his fingers dig in to bruise. England leans forward, his leaning on a hand by the side of America's neck, and takes his leaking cock in hand, stripping in time with America's pumping hips.

"Harder… Oh, yes, that's it…"

America can feel every muscle and nerve in his body tightening irresistibly. His cock is burning, rock hard. England is far too much. The older nation clashes his mouth to America's, the kiss sloppy and open.

"Come on, America… come for me…" England hisses against his mouth, and that's all America needs. He thrusts up one final time, his legs shaking, and empties himself into England.

He lets his head fall back, eyes closed, panting, his hands tightening and loosening erratically. His orgasm is still crashing through him in waves. He hears England moan and opens his eyes.

England is still pumping his cock, fast, eyes closed, mouth open and expression pure ecstasy, and then he comes too. White ropes of release on America's stomach and chest and England gives in, slumping on America's chest as he tries to catch his breath.

America raises a hand (whoa, he's trembling) and cards it into England's hair.

"Well, that was…" How can he describe without sounding like a total virgin? Ah, screw it. "Awesome."

England snorts into America's chest. "I will admit it was very good." He raises himself up to smile at America. "I needed that. A week is far too long to go without corrupting you in some way."

"'Corrupting?'" America repeats, pouting. Heroes can't be corrupted, nor do they corrupt. England sniggers.

"Of course."

"Very funny, old man," America grumbles, snuggling down and making himself more comfortable. England shifts to the side and nuzzles America's neck. He seems very satisfied.

"You were enjoying my experience until a moment ago," he teases, sighing. He raises his arm from where it lies across America's chest.

"You're awfully sticky," he says indifferently. "Do you want to clean up?"

America buries his nose in England's hair and hums against his scalp. "Nah, if it doesn't bother you…"

"I'm not particularly fussed. It's just going to be a bugger in the morning, that's all."

"Well, I hope there will be some buggering in the morning…"

"Oh, riotous," England remarks sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He closes his eyes and breathes out. "Go to sleep, you sorry excuse for a stand-up comedian."

"Ok, ok…" He kisses England's head gently. He can feel sleep claiming him far more easily than he would have expected, and he drifts off.

When England sees he's asleep, he shimmies out from under America's arm and heads to the bathroom down the hallway. He wets a flannel he takes from the airing cupboard and sighs.

"You'll only complain like a baby in the morning," he mutters to himself, ringing the flannel out and returning to the bedroom to wipe America's chest and stomach.

Once that is done, he tosses the flannel into the linen basket, gets back into his former position against America's chest and sighs again, falling asleep as easily as America.