A t-rated story on my account? What is this, I don't even...
Well, this is fairly different from what I usually write (mainly dialogue-driven and full of banter, plus non-pornographic). However, it was requested a week or so ago and I couldn't resist writing about this part of their relationship.
Enjoy my paltry offerings~
America couldn't help but to smile to himself as he put out the plates. They were nothing special, just two old undecorated dinner plates made of slightly yellowed porcelain. Anything else would be too fancy. Yeah, America had slaved over England's stove all day to cook all sorts of different amazing foods and the older nation wasn't even aware his lover was in the country, but there was no reason to recognize it with the good china. It just didn't feel right. It was like how England would never buy America fancy quilts or comforters no matter how much the older nation complained about his choice of bedspread, but would be more than willing to embroider or fix any piece of cloth he felt needed it. So England would eat like a king off of dishes from before the 80's and then out of cheap Tupperware once it became clear that even with America's appetite they couldn't finish it all in one night.
The noise of the lock turning shot through the house. America straightened up. His smile broke into a full-out grin. Now came from the fun part. But should he go to England or let him stumble in to try to find dinner? Well, his sense of smell had probably been so dulled by his terrible cooking that England had no idea anyone had touched his kitchen.
As he heard England's massive front door swing open, America quickly grabbed a pair of glasses, which he'd fill with his homemade margaritas later, and set them down on the table. He'd better go find his boyfriend, or the guy might never make it.
America walked through the halls, surrounded by silence except for his own footsteps. That was weird. Usually England talked to himself or his imaginary friends whenever he was alone. What's more, the older nation had the habit of announcing his return home no matter who he expected to hear it. However, the only way America knew England was back was because of the noises his door made.
Something was wrong.
The young nation picked up his pace, running now through England's hallway to see his boyfriend for himself. He only stopped when he was right around the corner from the front door.
England was just standing in his doorway, dripping wet, even though no matter how hard it was raining the older nation always showed up dry. Both his jaw and his fists were clenched tightly, and he was shaking. His eyes were shut and his even breaths were being forced to maintain their pattern.
America took a step forward and softly called his name. The smaller nation opened his eyes and the rhythm of his breaths broke. America smiled comfortingly and walked closer to his boyfriend. He took England into his arms and hugged him. The older man looked away and gritted his teeth again. He wasn't shaking this time, though. Progress.
However, England was still too closed off for America's heroic-ness to help. America ran his knuckles across the cheek turned away from him, bringing England's face back forwards. He looked earnestly into his deep green eyes, trying to search for what was wrong there because it would never come out of his mouth.
England closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath before allowing the younger nation to see.
And he did see. He saw the hurt, the anger, and above all the stress it was taking to hold it back. His first instinct was to do some super-secret Cold War-era spying to find out what England's problem was and fix it, but realized it would do no good. It was hurt, not anguish; anger, not fury. He wasn't dealing with a calamity, he was dealing with life.
Yeah, not exactly a logical step to the normal person, but America wasn't a normal person. He was a nation, just like England. He knew what it was like when none of the people in charge of him could get along, when his own people talked about him with words full of hatred instead of love, or when his boss made him or his people do things that didn't match his morals or personality. Times like that could be worse to deal with than times like 9/11 or Pearl Harbor.
Ignoring the way that the dampness from his boyfriend's clothing was soaking into his own, heroes had to make sacrifices after all, America held England more tightly and leaned in to kiss him. It was a sweet, chaste kiss, made to be assuring and not arousing. With nothing more than a soft brush of lips, England's body began to relax.
When he pulled away, America whispered he would be right back. He ran a hand through England's hair, prying some of it from where it was plastered to his head with water, and let him go. Then he sped off to the kitchen and turned off England's stove. He didn't wanna burn anything and he wasn't sure how long it would take. Thankfully, there was enough room in England's fridge for most of the pots and pans filled with deliciousness because he didn't think they'd be coming back down to eat later. The only thing that he left out was a small pot full of New England clam chowder, because of everything he made England would probably appreciate it most tonight. It was warm and easy to eat, the perfect kind of comfort food. Plus if it was cold it'd still taste fine microwaved, and if it got left out until morning it wasn't as big of a loss.
He quickly returned to England, not lingering a second more than necessary. England hadn't moved much, but his sopping wet coat was now dripping from the coat rack instead of his shoulders and his shoes were tipped up against the wall to help the water run out. However, there was still an impressive puddle on the linoleum floor that seemed to have just come out of his clothes-clothes, which were all soaked even though he had had coat on outside.
England was still holding back, trying not to emote. After all, if any feelings came out they would be in serious violence or tears and neither was something England wanted. He didn't wanna break anything in his own house, and he really didn't wanna cry because he hated being thought of as weak, especially now that he saw himself as just a vestigial empire who needed to fight with all he had to be seen as anything next to the hyperpower he was dating.
America wasn't sure what he'd have to do to make England happy again, but with how soaked he was a bath seemed like a good way to start. He held out his hand and without more than a moment's hesitation England took it.
The younger nation smiled broadly and turned to lead England up the stairs to the bathroom. After all, his tub was a miracle worker. Through most of the time that they had been allies, England's bathtub had been one of those old claw-footed ones. Admittedly, it was kind of cool, but it was so eighteen hundreds. Then, one day, he'd stumbled into the bathroom, hoping to take a shower and he saw that. That was a massive tub with jets and the whole works that three grown men could sit in comfortably (or, as he found out that night, two grown men could have sex in comfortably). It was sleek and white and fucking awesome. He loved every second of any bath he took in it and knew that England felt the same. It was a pain in the ass to clean properly, though, which was why most of the time they used the shower, which was still pretty slick, but not as slick as the frickin' Whirlpool.
However, tonight the tub was more than warranted. America messed with the control panel, making the bath fill with warm water and bubbles. He turned back to England and pulled him close again, just holding him for a moment. After he felt the other nation had been reassured enough, America pulled away. He reached out and took off England's suit jacket, followed by his tie, his button down, his pants, and finally his underwear. He was very careful while stripping him to make it as non-sexual as possible.
It wasn't easy; it had been a long time since they'd been together and America missed all of the things they did in bed, no matter how kinky or vanilla, but England deserved it. He deserved to be treated with love that had no trace of lust once in a while. It was love, after all, that kept them together after all those years of arguing and love that England needed right then.
As soon as he was naked, England left America and eased himself into the tub with a long sigh. He closed his eyes, but still frowned. That made America's own smile falter for a moment, but he shook it off. England was really upset, so it was going to take a lot more than hot water to make him forget his troubles.
America took off his wet tee-shirt and knelt beside the bath. He picked up a bar of soap and began to wash England's arm. However, as soon as he reached the wrist, he found his hand in the Brit's steely grip. The smaller nation was glaring at him and gave his arm a sharp tug, which he interpreted to mean he wanted him in the tub.
He stood and England loosened his grip. The younger man undid his jeans and slid them down along with his boxers. Leaving Texas on, America stepped into the tub and sat down across from England. The older blond just huffed and looked away, but that was okay because it meant that he was starting to act more like himself. America took the soap and continued on his mission to clean his lover.
It went pretty well overall. England kept a straight face and just stared at the wall, but he didn't resist as America moved him about to get everywhere. He didn't even react when America lifted one of his long, thin legs out of the water to wash it, although he did look back when the younger man placed a kiss on top of his foot. America let him go as soon as he saw the look on his face, still upset but with affection beginning to show through. Again, progress.
However, once America turned him around to start washing his back and hair England started shaking again. America pulled away for a moment, afraid that he had moved to quickly. It was then that the Brit's breaths began to catch over and over again. America pulled him close and placed his head in the crook of the older nation's neck. England turned around and buried his face in America's chest, sobbing earnestly now but refusing to let him see. It didn't matter that he could feel England's tears, hot and wet as they were rubbed onto his skin, he couldn't see him cry and that was all that mattered.
America leaned back and just let him sob. It would do no good to say anything, because that would force him to stop before he was done. No matter how much it broke his heart to hear his love crying like that, America knew that it was the right thing to do. England needed to let out all of his pain, his anger, his anxiety. Tears are kind of like blood, America reasoned, no one likes it when they're coming out but they need to to allow actual healing because they remove what needs to go, either sadness or infected material, and stop themselves when they've done their job.
For now, all he could do was wait. He rubbed small circles on England's back to let him know that he was there and kept his breaths deep and steady to let him know he wasn't judging him. America didn't know how long he had been sitting there, but it didn't really matter. Eventually, England's sobbing stopped and his breath slowed. America wondered if he was asleep, but he didn't want to look and risk waking him if he was and upsetting him if he wasn't.
After what felt like an eternity, England lifted his head. His eyes were puffy and red, but he still looked very relieved. America smiled. Part one was done, now he had to get to part two: the actual comfort bit. He turned England back around and began work on his hair, kneading his scalp and running his fingers through the short, somewhat cat-like hair much more than strictly necessary. He allowed England to rinse the suds off himself, because otherwise he'd end up with soap in his eyes and they were irritated enough as it was from the crying.
England seemed to want to return the favor and wash him too, because as soon as his hair was shampoo-free he grabbed the soap and went at America. He relaxed further as he regained control of something, even if it was just how clean his boyfriend was. America was just fine with that, because it just meant that he got to sit in the tub longer with the really nice jets massaging his back. However, as soon as he was done England got out of the tub, and America felt compelled to accompany him.
After draining the tub, the pair walked through the door that attached England's bathroom to his bedroom. America went right to his suitcase and began to dig through it. He soon found what he was looking for: a pair of worn flannel pants and an oversized tee-shirt that served as his pajamas. He stood up and held them out to England, who had been getting out his own sleepwear.
The smaller nation took them without a second thought. He loved them. He loved wearing something so big and warm, especially when it smelled like the boyfriend he rarely got to see. It was a very special treat for him to be surrounded by something that was so reminiscent of America, especially when he felt like crap. Not that he had ever said it, of course. It had taken a lot of work for America to figure that out, but he was glad he did. Partially because when he got them back after staying over for a while they'd smell like England.
As England dressed, America resumed his partner's search for his pajamas. After all, he wasn't expecting to have to share when he packed, it'd be too obvious if he let him wear his stuff every time, and only had one set. He managed to find a pair of green cotton pants and a button up top that went with it, but he ignored that part to grab one of his many tee-shirts instead. Although they wore the same sized pants, there was enough of a difference in broadness between their shoulders and circumference of their arms that something that fit England well was just a little bit tight on America.
Just as he pulled the shirt over his head, America heard England's stomach grumble. The older blond blushed profusely, and America passed up the chance to tease him about it. It was late, after all, and who knew if he even ate lunch? It'd just be cruel to make fun of him now.
He urged England back downstairs with him. Thankfully, the clam chowder was still hot. America spooned up a bowl for each of them and set them down on the table. He sat down across from his boyfriend to control the urge to try to feed him.
He watched England eat, slowly at first, but as time went on he went faster and faster. It seemed like his hunger had surpassed his dignity and he managed to wolf down three whole bowls, which was especially surprising since it was America's cooking.
On a normal day, the younger nation would have been rather distracted. England was amazingly sexy when he was hungry. Most of the time when he ate England would be doing it mindlessly, focusing instead on the paper or the TV or America. Not when he actually needed food. He'd get so intense. One hundred percent of his attention was focused on eating everything in front of him and he couldn't be distracted by anything. And then there was the way that the chords of his neck worked to push everything down into his stomach and the absolute fury of his movements. It was almost as oddly arousing as watching him in battle.
But it didn't feel that way that night. There were no intense waves of lust that flowed over America as he watched spoonful after spoonful disappear down England's throat. It was an entirely different feeling: relief, satisfaction, fulfillment, something like that. Every drop of chowder that went into the smaller nation seemed to calm him down, bring him closer to his normal British-y self. America, having already finished, smiled pleasantly. It was official, food solved everything!
However, even after England set his spoon down in the bowl and sat back contentedly, he still didn't smile. Well, the hero couldn't leave his boyfriend like that! He picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink before shoving what was left of the clam chowder back into the fridge with the rest of his awesome food.
England scowled, most likely at how America was going to leave the dishes in the skink, but the younger nation paid no attention. He just grabbed his hand and led him back upstairs. When England noticed America was making a beeline for the bedroom he stopped walking. America looked back to see England glaring at him, in a stance that said, "Move me, I dare you." He let go of England's hand in favor of locking eyes with him for a few moments and making sure that his face was sweet, gentile, and above all sincere.
England was afraid, he knew. England had said it was stupid many, many times, but he couldn't take comfort sex. He could give it very well when America had one of those days, but he couldn't be on the receiving end. Centuries upon centuries of being used as a toy and using others in return were far more deeply engrained in him than the handful of decades that he'd spent loving and being loved by America. And that was okay. America would just keep working on getting England to remember it.
For now, though, he just had to see if England would come back to his room so that they could snuggle. After a few minutes of staring contests, England seemed to realize that America wasn't planning on sexing him up and too his hand back. America beamed and turned to start leading again. He guided them into England's room and right onto his bed. He sat behind the older nation and cooed softly at him. He was smacked gently for his troubles, which made him laugh.
America set his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders and started to rub them. He was gentile at first, but he began to push harder as he realized how very tense the other man's muscles were. A quick skim down England's back showed him that the island nation was just as bad everywhere else.
He told him so.
England just shrugged and lay on his stomach, looking back over his shoulder and waiting for America to get on with it.
America gladly complied, straddling his lover's hips and setting his hands to work on loosening his kinks.
Every now and then, England would let out a sigh or a groan or even a little yelp when America was working on a particularly bad knot. Eventually his eyes slid closed. America smiled to himself. The massage must be working if he was relaxing enough to trust America to work him over with little supervision.
It wasn't until England hadn't moved for half an hour that America realized he had fallen asleep. He had been so intensely focused on fixing the other nation's back that he'd failed to notice that he was unconscious. But that was okay; it meant that he would feel even awesomer when he woke up. Maybe if America was lucky England would feel so awesome and so thankful that he'd get some morning nookie. That'd be pretty sweet, but there was no point elaborating because England was asleep and that was one of the few times he was unabashedly cute.
America pulled the blanket away from under England so that he could cover the both of them. He wrapped his arms around the older nation and tangled their legs together. England wriggled around in his sleep, finding a comfortable position. This new position was apparently on his side with his fists balled in America's shirt, even more tangled than before, with their faces only a couple of inches apart. The fact that England was so close that America could barely focus his eyes on him reminded him that he had to take his glasses off. England whimpered as America pulled away for a moment, but was pacified the moment he returned.
America thought to himself about how cute England was, but couldn't think of any decent comparison. He ran one hand through his partner's hair and pressed a gentile closed-mouthed kiss to his lips. England didn't return the kiss. How could he when he was asleep? But America felt the tips of his lips turn upward.
That tiny movement made everything ever worth it.