A/N: Well, initially I was planning for this to just be bondage with America as a bottom, but that idea kind of got away with me and it became more about a combination of America's insecurities and the depth of England's affection. However, there is still not one, but two sex scenes for you to enjoy, so I'm sure you'll have fun anyway.

America sat leaning against England's window, feeling the spring chill throughout the world beyond and watching the water bead upon the far side of the glass. It felt good, all cool and smooth against his cheek and the part of his arm that his tee-shirt didn't cover. He had stolen one of England's fuzzy blankets and had it on his lap. If only England hadn't left him alone in bed with nothing to wake up to but a post-it note on the door saying he had gone to go get some stuff from the store it would have been perfect.

In spite of the fact that he was still kind of irked about that, he still felt excitement bubbling in his belly as he saw England's slick black car pull up. He threw the blanket off and bolted out of the room and down the stairs to meet England at the back door. England, who had been looking kind of grumpy (as always) and was carrying four bags of groceries smiled as America ran into the kitchen, slipping on his socks just a little. Once he regained his balance, America smiled too. He was always happy to see him, but it was really funny that even on a day like today when they were planning on staying home almost the entire time England was dressed up with the tie, the sweater vest, the sensible trousers (read: dress pants), and leather shoes. The best part was that knowing him he had probably only done that because he was going to the grocery store.

"Good morning, love," England said as he set his bags down in the table, "How did you sleep last night?"

"Like a rock," America said, "At least, I think so since you left."

England blushed, "I just thought that I'd pop out and grab those things you wanted. With how soundly you were sleeping I thought for sure you'd still be asleep when I got back and-"

"It's okay," America said, shrugging, "I get it. Thanks for getting me my stuff."

The older man looked away and began to fiddle with the tablecloth, "It was nothing. I just wish I could have been there."

America just smiled, "You don't have to worry about it. I was just giving you a hard time. If I were you I would've left too. I was so exhausted last night…" He stretched to emphasize his point.

"How was your trip?" England asked.

America stiffened. So that's what this was about. He still had to play it cool, though. He ran a hand through his hair, "Well, Western Europe was fine, so were Japan and Leit. But most of Asia and Eastern Europe, they just don't get that it's the twenty-first century. It's okay, though. You do what you gotta. My people help me, I help 'em back."


"England, it's okay. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a chore that I don't like. So don't worry about it. Come on, let's get this stuff put away and then we can go down to the basement. I got myself ready but we've gotta set some stuff up if we're gonna… you know," He grinned.

"This is why I'm worried!" England said, slapping his hand down on the table. The smile fell off of America's face. "You go around the world and are forced to fuck a dozen countries you don't want and then you come here and ask me for that! I don't think it's right." America started to say something, but England caught it before he did, "Not morally. Morally it's acceptable. What I mean is that it can't be healthy."

"What are you talking about? I'm fine."

"I know that you feel that way, but it just seems like... like you're feeling mentally abused, so you come to me for physical abuse."

America threw up his hands to try to get England to stop. "No! That's not how it is at all."

"Then what?"

America tried to tell him. He really did. But when he opened his mouth to say it but nothing came out. It was just like whenever he tried to tell the other man his real feelings when not in the throes of passion or right afterwards, or somewhere near a really nasty battle, or high or drunk. So instead he just said, "Why do you need to know so much?"

"Well, most importantly it's my responsibility," He said, "And goddamnit, America, I want you to want this."

The younger nation just looked at him and bit his lip. Why was England so much better at this than he was? It was his turn to fiddle with the table cloth now, "I can't tell you now; you know how I get."

"Then when, America, when?"

"After. I promise that I'll be able to tell you after."

"You'd better keep that promise." England said, wrapping his arms around him.

"I always try," America said, leaning in to kiss him.

It was returned with passion, but not really the joy he would have liked. It tasted so sad and bittersweet. "No," he thought, "Don't be sad. I hate it when you're sad." But, just like always, he couldn't say it. Although to be fair, that he had someone else's tongue in his mouth wasn't doing much to help.

However, unusually for him, he started thinking about the situation. Was it better to try to get England to be happy first, or to lead him into sex and hope that the endorphins boosted his mood as much as they loosened America's tongue? He decided to try to comfort him for at least a little while, petting his sides and occasionally pausing to rub little circles with his thumbs. He just hoped that his message was getting through.

England still wasn't smiling, but he seemed more excited than sad now, so it was something. America smiled into the kiss, lingered for a moment, and then broke the connection.

"Come on," he said, still smiling, "Basement time."

The older man nodded and followed him through the hall and down the steps.

Most of the basement was an unfinished room that just held bookshelves and big plastic bins full of a bunch of the crap that England had accumulated over the last thousand years or so that he actually had a house to store it all. It was a little bit dusty because, according to England anyway, he only went down to look at his crap about once a month on average and only sometimes had the foresight to grab his cleaning stuff. It wasn't those things that America was interested in, though, but rather the small, innocent looking door to his right. He tugged it open and it opened conspicuously smoothly for something that looked so unused.

England always was weird about people knowing he was kinky.

In comparison, the room behind the door was much better kept. The walls and floor were still stone, but there wasn't a speck of dust. Only a low stainless steal table and matching cupboards (plus a handful of torches for mood lighting) furnished the room. The only things that betrayed that it was anything more than additional storage, other than the level of cleanliness, were the pulleys and other rigging attached to the ceiling and the hoops for restraints upon the wall. Even the ropes were all hidden away in the cupboards.

America took his old Zippo lighter from his pocket and went to work lighting the torches as England stood back and watched, skeptical look on his face. The best cure for that, America had learned, was to just ignore that his lover felt that way.

"You make me do all the work?" He asked, looking back over his shoulder.

England huffed, "You intend to just sit back the entire time, why should I help now?"

His only answer was a smile, but he left to help his partner anyway, even though he was muttering bad words under his breath the entire time.

"I've got this," He said, "You go and pick out what you want."

America nodded and headed over to the wall covered in cabinets. But what to get? He threw the doors open to the first one ("Don't destroy my things!" England shouted). Rope was always good, always important. Oh, dammit. He'd gotten rid of all the really old, rough kind. Or maybe he kept it somewhere else so that America didn't get it for this. That'd be like him. America carefully went through and picked the hardest kind he could. After all, if he wanted to be comfy, why the hell would he be doing this? He left all the harnesses were they were, though. He didn't have the patience to deal with all of that right then. Maybe later in the week. But that was all he needed from that one. He shut the doors carefully to make sure that they'd stay shut and then moved to the next one he needed.

Once he'd gathered all of the necessary stuff, he brought it over to England, who was sitting on the table.

"My, you're low budget today," England said, eyeing the relatively small pile.

"Yeah, well," America replied, shrugging, "I just need you to do your thing right now. I don't want any distracting crap."

England raised an eyebrow at him, "You are so strange."

"Would I sleep with you if I wasn't?" England slid America's glasses from his face and walked away with them.

"Then I must be stark raving mad." He shouted over his shoulder. He placed the glasses almost reverently on the counter in the attached bathroom.

America laughed and started taking off his shirt, "I got myself most of the way ready this morning while you were gone. All I've gotta do is lube up and get this stuff on."

England came back and unbuttoned America's fly for him.

"I get to do you too?" America asked, eyeing the hem of England's sweater.

"No," He said, "Well, unless you want me naked already."

"I always want you naked," America replied with a smirk.


"And don't you know it," He threw his shirt to the corner of the room

England rolled his eyes and pulled off America's pants and underwear in one sharp tug.

"So what do you want me to do with the rope?" England asked as America leaned on the table to peel his socks off.

"Huh? Oh!" He stood up, one sock still on, "I was thinking that you could tie my hands over my head like this," he held his arms up to demonstrate, just in case England was thinking of something else, "and then we'll have it threaded through one of the pulleys on the ceiling so that you can tug me around. Nothing too fancy."

"Christ," England said standing on the table, "you really are making this simple today."

"Simple is good," America replied, leaning down to pull off his other sock.

"America, you forgot a threader."

"Oh, oops. Hang on a sec." He walked over to the first cabinet and grabbed one of the large metal hooks he'd made specifically for getting the rope over the pulleys, "Catch," he said, throwing it to England.

"Thank you," the other man replied as he caught it. He tied the end of the rope around the large "eye" and reached up, hooking it over the pulley and then pulling it so that the rope rested on top of the wheel, "Up," England commanded.

America climbed onto the table and kneeled, holding his hands up obediently to be bound. He wasn't really paying much attention as England wrapped the rope around his wrists. The other man knew his knots. Instead he focused on the feeling of the cord around him, snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. It was so nice. He'd missed being restrained. He didn't even know what it was about the feeling. All he knew was that it was very tempting to make England stop just so that he could change the plan and make him keep keep tying knots everywhere tighter and tighter so that he'd stop America from moving except to breathe. But no, that was for another time. England fastened the other end to the table, stopping America from being able to go lower.

"How many lashes?" he asked.


"Really? That many?"

"I'm feeling adventurous today."

"Alright, but this is even more important than usual, then."

America felt a metal ring slide around his finger and something heavy drop against his palm. he wrapped his fingers around the piece of plastic, which was shaped perfectly to the inside of his hand. His thumb traced the button on the side and then pressed it. An ear-splitting screech filled the room until America pressed it again.

"Did I say I was ready for you to test it?" England asked, clutching his ears.

"No," America said, smiling.

England sighed, "You really do always deserve to be punished. It's such a cliché thing for a masochist to say, but you actually do.

America laughed and turned it on again. However, he shut it off when England glared at him. He didn't really wanna make the guy mad. The last time he did that, England had left him all tied up and he had to sit there for hours or else feel the wrath that his lover would undoubtedly have had if he'd ruined so much of his gear.

England tied the blindfold around his face next, making America wonder why on earth he'd insisted on keeping his clothes. Maybe it was to help him stay in character or something.

"Open," England said in his ear.

America complied and felt a ball gag being inserted. England fastened it around his head and America shook his head and pushed at it to see if it was in there solidly.

"So are we all set then?" England asked.

America nodded to give him an okay.

"Alright, I'll be back in a few minutes." He left a small kiss on America's cheek and then departed.

A door opened and shut and then America was alone. He wriggled in excitement. This was gonna be awesome! But he had to stay in character. He struggled against his bonds enough to put on a show, but not to actually strain the ropes. He had no idea of why he'd been tied up this time, but it didn't really matter. It was all just pretence anyway. But, Christ, was the suspense getting to him. He wanted England back and he wanted it now. He'd never been too patient, especially when tied up and helpless. Horrible as it was, it wasn't even the sex he was looking forward to. It was the pain, and the fact that it was England who was going to inflict it. He was half-hard already just with the concept.

When the door opened again he felt his whole body spring to attention. Oh, God, England had slammed it. He must have been pissed. America turned toward the door, even if he couldn't see a thing. He wished he could, though. England must have been beautiful. His hair would be ruffled and messier than usual. All of his clothes would be a mess too. His tie was probably be crooked or undone and hanging down undone and limpy. He probably would have foregone the sweater vest too, but even if he didn't his sleeves would be bunched up to his elbows. And he'd be glaring. His glares during sex were amazing. They were just as passionate as any of his other looks in bed. America didn't really even have to picture it. He could just feelit on his skin, making him feel captured and dehumanized and really fucking horny.

Thankfully his arousal was hidden behind his legs at the moment because he had no idea of how well that meshed with what England had in mind and he was totally hard by that point.

The hard soles of England's shoes made a harsh clacking noise against the flagstones as he came closer and closer to America. America tensed up and started to struggle against his bonds, as though he wasn't looking forward to the torture.

"You know what's coming, don't you, you little bitch?" England asked, "You should. Even someone as ignorant as you should know the seriousness of your crime."

It was gonna be one of those unspecified cause situations again, wasn't it? That was perfectly fine, but it made it a little bit harder to keep a straight face because one time afterwards he'd asked England what his crime was and he'd said "jaywalking." It had stuck as the secret identity of every crime. (It was now very fun to tease England whenever he jaywalked by saying "Oh no! You know what they'll do to you!")

America started making noise around his gag, pretending to beg for forgiveness and mercy and things like that. England let out a harsh laugh and slapped him hard across the face. America groaned.

"You think that I'll let you off easy after all the others? You think that you'll get away with any less than you deserve? You're a fool then. But of course, I knew that much already, cunt. Now stand!" he tugged hard on the other end of the rope, forcing America to his feet. "Turn so you're away from me," his voice was so commanding that America didn't even think about it. He was too busy being thankful his partner hadn't commented on his erection. America felt two of the cuffs beneath the table being attached to his ankles, holding his legs far apart.

"It doesn't look as though you've ever gotten a whipping before." he said, tracing America's back. "At least not a proper one."

America almost laughed. England himself had given him more than he could count. He just healed too well. He remembered at that point, though, that he was supposed to be struggling and pulled on the ropes, trying to get away. His reward was a hard smack with the riding crop.

He let out a high-pitched noise. Theoretically, it should have been one of pain, but in reality it was pure pleasure. His heart beat faster and he felt adrenaline course through his veins as England struck him again and again, slowly moving closer and closer to his ass. He felt like he had a fire inside of him and he felt alive. He was aware of every strike, where it was, if it broke the skin, what insult was given with it. But even more than each strike, he was aware of England. He couldn't see him, couldn't even feel his touch, but he still knew what was happening. He knew the snarl on his face, the winding up and subsequent release of those sinewy muscles, the precision with which he was calculating his every move and every word. But even more than that, he felt loved. He knew that every single little detail England planned was made for him, all for him, just so that his desire to be punished would be met. It was so beautifully different from the treatment he'd been given on his tour, where neither he nor the person he'd been coerced into fucking wanted to be there, where a lot of times his partner actually wanted to beat the hell out of him, or at least dominate him until he was in pain for days (and not the good kind either).

He was panting hard around the ball gag now. He was dripping precome onto the table and feeling as close to coming as if England had been thrusting into him instead of just hitting him.

Then, all of a sudden, England stopped. America whined and leaned back towards him. Not fair! He wanted more.

"No," England said softly, "'Buzzer,' America, I can't keep this up. I can't hurt you anymore. I know you said thirty, but-" he took a deep breath, "Would it be alright for me to stop here?"

Christ, was England expecting him to say no? America didn't even want to think about how he could possibly think that. Instead he nodded. England let out a relieved sigh. A warm, lightly calloused hand wrapped around America's cock and began to rhythmically pump it.

"When we resume," England whispered huskily in his ear, "you came from me beating you alone."

Ooh, that sounded good. America bobbed his head enthusiastically.

"Wonderful," England whispered, "Now come."

As willingly as he had accepted everything else that morning, America emptied out onto England's hand and the table.

"You disgusting, filthy, slut!" England shouted, "I didn't think that you could be any more of a waste of air than before, but now this? How am I to punish you when you're whore enough to come just from a whipping?"

America let out a groan. Sometimes he didn't even need the whippings. Sometimes it was enough just to be yelled at like that.

"Oh, but I have an idea." America heard a zipper going down, "If punishment arouses you, does sex torture you?"

Nope. Not in the slightest, but it was hot concept, so he still pulled away in a mock attempt of escape. England let out a harsh laugh that sent a tingle down America's spine in all the right ways.

"Well, this seems promising,"

He traced his fingers along America's abused ass, not bothering with all the cuts and welts but instead going strait for between his cheeks. America let out a cry of protest, and England laughed again. He eased one finger in and, even though it didn't really burn since he'd given himself an enema and fingered himself open earlier, the friction was not pleasant. He let out a warning (and out of character) growl. England knew better than to try to do things dry, but he might have gotten lost in the moment and forgotten.

"Do you really think I'm going to take you dry? You're less intelligent than the average pigeon's shit. I don't want a raw dick. So take this act of charity, because it's more than you deserve, twat."

He removed his finger and America let out a sigh of relief. He heard the rope being moved in the pulley and slack above his head. Was England letting him go? He'd better not.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a harsh shove on his back, forcing him down onto his knees. He almost sang from the feeling of having his wounds pushed on. Once he was on the ground, England slid three slick fingers into him. America screamed bloody murder. It didn't hurt, but he liked being vocal during his pretend-rape scenes. At least now he understood the single digit: it was to judge to see how fast England could go. And it seemed like he wasn't going to even spend too long on his fingers. They weren't stretching as much as rubbing his inner walls to coat him in the lube. He screamed louder and began to tug harder.

"No!" He tried to say "No! Stop! Please, please! Leave me alone! Help! Somebody help me! Get away! No! Stop it!"

He got even louder as England's fingers slipped out and his cockhead found his opening.

"'Buzzer!'" England shouted, loud enough to be heard.

America's shouts subsided, and he turned to look over his shoulder.

"Alright. So I still have your consent?"

America rolled his eyes behind his blindfold, but nodded. He could see the smile sweet smile spread across England's face.

"Sometimes you're just too convincing, darling, but as you are alright, shut the fuck up and take it like a man!"

America took that as his cue to start shouting again. England just plunged deeply into him, completely sheathing himself in one go. The younger nation let out a groan. This, this was why he had opted for the blindfold. The feelings were so much more intense when he lost one of his other senses. England felt so big, so hard, and so hot. He began to thrust in and out in measured, practiced strokes. The friction was just right, just enough to have the lightest tinge of pain, but not to actually hurt or to impede his pace. America tried to resist for as long as he could, but his body was starting to betray his character. He was back in the game and too much blood had rushed south for America to pretend that he didn't like it beyond some occasional shouts of "Stop!" or "No!" But now even those were slipping into "England!" and "Yes!" The fire that was burning inside of him had gone from a little campfire to a blazing inferno. It was just getting bigger and bigger and hotter and hotter. England was digging his thumbs into America's shoulders, right where two of the largest cuts were and it made him cry out in pure ecstasy. It didn't send out enough of a wave of pain, though. Maybe he was healing already. Too bad.

But all that didn't matter then because England started going faster and faster and harder and harder, almost like a train piston. His sweat and America's own were starting to get into the open cuts, only making America's heart beat faster. The ropes felt tighter now, more constricting. His jaw was sore in the most excellent way.

And England, oh England. He was behind all of this. Every one of those little things was all because of England. Because it was finally his lover who he was with, and he finally had a partner who would top him in one of the best ways possible and oh, God England was good at this. He was always so good at this. He wanted to be with England forever and ever and ever. Even if both of them sunk into the sea or the sun expanded like crazy there had better be a nation-heaven or something because he never wanted to stop. And right now he really wanted to tell Congress to make gay marriage legal nationwide just so that the two of them could be up there on the altar together and so that everyone could see how much they loved each other. And oh God England had better not stop. And, fuck, he was coming.

His arms gave out and his head rested against his arm. England's top half followed him down but his arms held America's hips in place for one, two, three more thrusts before he buried himself in deep and came.

Both of them just sat there panting for a moment before England turned his head and kissed America's cheek. He popped the ball gag out and then America could return the somewhat sleepy kiss. England took the blindfold off next and America opened his eyes to see his lover. Not that he could really make much out since his head was too close and the rest was too far away without glasses, but he could tell that he was right about his appearance. England's tie was limp and the top three buttons were undone, but both his shirt and his pants were still on although the later had been pulled down to his knees. There were red blotches all over his shirt, probably America's blood.

"You were amazing," America said when they pulled away, "It was just perfect, England."

The older nation smiled his real smile, which always made America melt just a little bit and said, "You were lovely too."

"Mmm," Was America's only reply as they leaned in to kiss again.

"Come on," England said, sliding off of America and then the table all together, "Let's get you untied and then clean you up.

"Sounds good," America replied, sitting up and offering England his wrists. The skin on his back resisted his movements, most likely because it was probably caked with blood, but it was still all good.

The older nation only pulled on like two loops and then the entire thing was loose. America got it off and stood next to his boyfriend. He jumped.

"Oh God! Cold floor!"

England rolled his eyes, "What do you expect? It's March and it's a stone floor in the basement."

America pouted, "But England-"

The smaller nation sighed, "Oh, just come with me, you great stupid thing. We need to get clean if we're going to see that film later."

"Oh, Alright," America said, allowing himself to be led from the room like a dog.

England brought him into the bathroom and America paused in front of the mirror to look at his reflection. He turned around and saw nothing but brownish red and crimson all down his back.

"Holy shit..." He said, "No wonder you stopped."

"Didn't it hurt?" England asked, walking over and looking at the America in the mirror.

"Not as bad as it should've."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He wrapped his arms around England, "I loved the entire thing."

"Yes, but why?" England asked.

America opened his mouth but choked on the air when he saw England's huge green eyes looking so intensely at him. He didn't know why he couldn't say it. England had always loved him, always accepted him, but he still just could never say what he felt. Hell, if England hadn't come up and kissed him straight on the lips in '45 they probably would never have gotten together.

"Come on," he said instead, "Let's get me cleaned up."


"Please." America said, holding England's hands.

England said, "You're not going to leave until I get my answer."

"I know. But please."

"...Okay." He pulled back the shower curtain and ushered America instead, stepping in in front of him and turning it on. Warm water flowed out of the head, feeling relaxing on America's sore body. The larger nation let out a soft sigh.

"Turn around, will you?" England asked, holding onto a soft washcloth.

"'Kay," America said, doing as he was told.

He decided to sit too, making England kneel behind him. The older nation grumbled as he got down to America's level, but then started to make warm, soft circles on his back. It was very relaxing, the constant but gentle pressure of the water on his back and shoulders, England's measured ministrations, the feel of the hardened blood falling away.

"It's because you make me feel powerless." He said.

"What?" England asked.

"That's why."

"What are you- oh." England stopped rubbing, "And you like being powerless?"

"Sometimes." Then all of a sudden, it was like a dam broke and everything just came pouring out, "Don't get me wrong, I love my life. I love all my nice houses with the carpet and the hardwood floors. I love my iPhone. I love being able to come and see you pretty much wherever I want. I love the everyday stuff that I do. But it's scary. All these guys who are so much older than me have to do whatever I want and I know they hate it. There's lots of people out there who hate me for what I've become, or even just what I've always been. And even worse than that are the people like India and China, who don't even really hate me and are really nice most of the time but still look at me like they want me dead just because theywant my position.

"You're not like that, though." America really wanted to look back, but was afraid that he'd lose his nerve, and if he stopped he'd probably never start again, "You're not like that, though, because when you look at me you don't see the richest country in the world or the strongest country in the world. You just see the guy who winds up on your doorstep every month wanting to spend time with you. And the fact that you're willing to do all that, to dominate me with sex and ropes and whips and probably anything else I can think of just proves that. All you're worried about is making sure that the two of us have a good time, and it don't matter what's going on in the outside world. Even some day years from now when we're both just faded, old, ex-superpowers, nothing will have changed between us. And that's why, no matter what my bosses do, you've always been my favorite."

Finally finished, he looked back over his shoulder. England had the hand that wasn't holding the cloth clamped over his mouth. His eyes were all watery.

America debated between ruining the moment for them both and deepening it. He could almost see it, fragile and thin as a thread of spider's silk, just dangling in front of him. He decided that this was one of those times that he'd laugh at in a movie or book, but just couldn't help but adore in real life. He eased the hand away from England's mouth, threaded his fingers through his lover's hair and pulled him forward for a closed-mouthed kiss. England wrapped one hand around his waist and the other around the back of his neck and pulled back.

It was perfect and wonderful and amazing, even with a hell of a weird position, right up until the part where America's body started to react to the fact that they were kissing passionately and naked. Fuck, he was no virgin high school kid, getting hard over a little kiss! He started to get flustered and wriggle around a bit. Unluckily, it was that which made England notice that his cock was half mast.

The older nation laughed gently, "You're insatiable, aren't you? Three times in less than two hours is quite a feat."

"Shut up." America said, blushing and crossing his legs to try to hide himself.

"It's quite alright, love," England said, kissing his temple," Assuming that you're up for another round."

America bit his lower lip, still feeling a little bit humiliated, but he still turned around and pulled England down so that the older man was lying on top of him.

"I can, but only like this."

"Alright," England said, "Whatever you want."

He stood for a moment, grabbing a bottle from a high shelf.

Oh God, this was gonna turn into that perfect romantic movie-sex, wasn't it? Aw Hell to the no. America's dignity could only handle that last thing before bed so that they could bask in the afterglow and whisper words of love and passion that would make both of them blanche in any other situation and then fall asleep in each other's arm and not move the entire night so that the first thing they'd see the next day was the other's face, just like all of those stories of true love. Even thinking about it made him start to go soft, probably because his dick was trying to shrink into a clit or something.

So instead, he scoffed and said, "I still love that you have lube in the shower."

"Belt up. It's only because you do things like this."

"Yeah, yeah," America said, spurred on by the fact that England had helped him to break the tension. He arched his back, "You gonna just bitch at me, or you gonna do me?"

"Well, if you mean shove my cock up your arse for the second time today until I make you come all over me for the third time today, I believe I would prefer to do you."

"Less words, more dick."

"So demanding," England said, coating his cock in the lube.

"It's 'cause you spoiled me too much."

The smaller nation slid three fingers into America's already stretched out hole, "I still do."

America groaned, "Oh yeah, and it's awesome."

England's lips twitched up into a smile and he pulled his fingers away, since America was still pretty slick from before.

"I love you," He whispered, kneeling down over America.

"I love you too," America replied, wrapping his legs around his lover's waist.

They kissed again and England lined himself up and pushed in. America sighed into the kiss, gladly accepting him again. He felt so safe, being able to look up and see England hovering above him, eyes half-lidded, arms coming down on either side of him. Realistically, there was no way that England's slim body could protect him completely, but it didn't matter in the slightest. America couldn't help but have this wonderful, warm feeling. It seemed like all that bad stuff from his past like Pearl Harbor, 9/11, even the Civil War couldn't have happened in the same world. He was too safe here, too loved.

It was then that America had a revelation. It was never the physical sensation he got off to when he had sex with England. That was really, really good, but it was all sort of a side show. It was England. It was every little thing about him. Every thread of muscle, every strand of hair, every patch of skin, every smile, every breath, every heartbeat.

He was almost disgusted with himself, but couldn't be when England smiled down at him and wrapped a hand around his cock. All he could do was feel the pleasure that coursed through his veins at every pump. He was vaguely aware that he was saying something and was about ninety percent sure that it was England's name. He smiled to himself. That would just fit everything, wouldn't it?

And then he was one hundred percent sure that he screamed England's name as he came on both of their stomachs. England himself came maybe a second later with a cry of America's name.

"Damn I feel gay," America said.

England laughed, "Shouldn't you?" He pulled his cock out.

"You know what I mean."

"I do," England said with a frown, "And that you do mean that is something we have to work on later. For now, let's finish our bloody shower."

He got to his feet, shaking some of the water from his hair. He held a hand out for America. The younger nation took it, yet again allowing England to lead him.

After all, with how often standards changed, what else is there to really follow but your own heart?