All the nations knew that when America became difficult and downright unreasonable, which was happening more and more often lately, it was England's job to step in. Considering England wasn't exactly a saint himself, it was a little like letting the cat guard the cream, but sometimes history is funny like that. Maybe it was some sort of divine karma; England was an awful prat growing up, and now he was responsible for an exhaustingly energetic country like America.
Most of the time, the boy-wonder muscled his way through delicate situations with horrifying ease. If he couldn't solve a problem with his brute strength, he'd fall back on his boyish charm. America was naïve, but to many of the jaded older nations, such naivety—such optimism—was alluring. For the most part, England just stayed out of his way. Other nations had criticized England for giving the boy too much independence and letting him speak too freely. England's response to that was usually to pointedly raise one impressive eyebrow and remind the speaker that he very rarely let America do anything. That was like saying he moved out of the path of a charging bull and let it go by. There was no stopping America, for better or worse.
The comparison of America to a hot-headed bull was incredibly fitting at the moment. They were in yet another world nation meeting, where nothing had been accomplished because America was having one of his "teenager" moments. England shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The glares of several rather powerful countries weren't aimed at his young former charge; they were glaring at him, with the implication clear as day that he should somehow control the boy. Across the table, France gave him a particularly annoying look that just screamed, 'If I had raised him, he wouldn't behave like this.' England pointedly ignored the scene America was causing just a little longer in direct protest to that infuriating insinuation. If France had raised the boy, he'd be a foppish man-whore. Perhaps America was a little too enthusiastic about his morals and ethics, but at least he had them. England liked to think that was partially due to him, though the boy went overboard with it most of the time.
At the front of the conference room, America finally blew his top completely and threw his chair to the ground, yelling and banging his fist on the table in the general direction of Mexico. The two of them were at each other's throats over some ridiculous notion America had gotten that he called Manifest Destiny. It basically consisted of his overly-enthusiastic charge growing as rapidly and awkwardly as he could, and stepping all over the people who had the misfortune of living near him. Canada was practically hiding under the conference table.
'Bloody teenager,' England thought with a reluctant sigh.
He had a feeling he'd regret this later, but something was going on with America and it looked like intervention was a necessary evil. America was so far gone on his hissy fit that he didn't even notice England approaching him until the shorter nation had latched rather firmly onto his forearm and was dragging him out of the room.
England rarely resorted to getting physical with America. For starters, the boy thought nothing of hurling around buffalo for sport. It was a gamble on England's part that America would even let himself be moved at all. Lately, though, despite fiercely demanding his independence before and showing no small amount of scorn for England, America seemed to occasionally need the boundaries that only England could claim to enforce. England was the only authority figure that America recognized, and so England was the only one that could have done what he just did. That didn't mean there wouldn't be repercussions.
"You better have a damn good reason for pullin' me out of there! Did you hear what Mexico—that—that—tyrant— was sayin'? He was the one who ignored the rights of his people! Did he think he could trample all over the liberty of men and I wouldn't intervene? I don't care if I have to go to war with him again! This time I'll annex his whole damned nation! Just watch me!"
England had already intervened in America's fight with Mexico and supported his expansion efforts…reluctantly. While all the other nations saw America as being greedy and demanding more land, England knew the boy just couldn't resist helping an underdog. Absorbing the Wild West, however, hadn't exactly calmed America down.
America shoved off England's hold and glared at him sullenly for not rising to the bait. For a few moments, England just waited, watching to see if America would regain control of his temper or not. The boy's glare finally cooled and he shoved his hands into his pockets.
"You're so eager to fight over any little thing, America. Most of the older nations have gone through what you're feeling now, so we're tolerant to an extent," England began. America, however, tossed his blond hair dismissively, petulantly crossing his arms.
"None of you care about anythin' important! I'm talkin' about justice here! Freedom and liberty! I have a destiny, England. I'm here for a reason, but I just can't quite figure out what or how I'm supposed to go about it. You jus' don't understand!" America vented, as he paced up and down the tastefully decorated hallway. England almost smiled in exasperated fondness. The boy looked so out of place whenever he was in Europe. The place was too slow for him, too set in the old ways. His impatience with his new peers made it so that the boy could hardly sit still.
"I do understand, America. I may not share all your notions about freedom and liberty and destiny, but I can remember what it was like to be uncertain. I remember being afraid," England admitted quietly.
"I'm not afraid!" America retorted hotly. "I'm not afraid of anythin', and 'specially war," he added in a more petulant tone. England leaned against the wall behind him, his smile widening. He must have looked patronizing, because America waved at him dismissively and started to retreat down the hall. England rolled his eyes.
"I wasn't done talking to you, lad," England said casually.
"Yeah? Well maybe I'm done talkin' to you," America grunted over his shoulder. Despite his incendiary words, America walked more slowly than he usually did, as if waiting to be called back. England pushed off the wall to take a more authoritative stance.
"America, you're going to tell me whatever it is that's bothering you for your own good. I don't want to hear about liberty and justice and all of that other nonsense. That may be your justification for picking all these fights, but it's not the true reason deep down. Talk to me. I'll listen."
America stopped almost instantly. England saw the way the younger nation's fists clenched in his pockets. His suit looked scruffier than usual, one of the few indicators he'd been brawling. The fabric was worn, and the hems were a little frayed. The once soft, tailored suit now looked dusty and stiff. The tall blond had traded in his shiny black dress shoes for a rougher pair of brown leather ones meant for riding horses, adorned with wickedly sharp spurs. His pants were different—a little more form-fitting. England wouldn't have thought it possible, but the boy looked even stronger than usual. The long, lean muscles of his legs were a thing of beauty, and there was nothing childish about his rough, callused hands. In some ways, England supposed, there were benefits to America spending so much of his time in the unruly western frontier.
America half-turned, allowing England to glimpse the dull metal of a colt revolver in a holster beneath his bomber jacket. He scowled in disapproval.
"You aren't supposed to come to these meetings armed. They could kick you out over something like that, you know," England fussed. For a moment, all the hostility drained away and England saw the little boy America had once been.
"I forgot to show it to you, didn't I? It's totally replaced the old holster pistols we were usin'. You get six shots, and it can take out a horse at fifty yards! It's got a charge of more than 60 grains in each chamber—that's double your typical revolver. I keep tellin' you to come shootin' with me some time. I'll get you one of your very own. I promise you won't leave home without it once you get the feel for it."
England was grateful for the momentary break in the tension. He gave the extended gun a wary but appreciative glance that seemed to pacify America. England liked a good fox hunt more than anyone, but he had the sneaking suspicion America didn't hunt small, harmless game with his beloved revolver. America tucked the revolver away again and seemed more inclined to talk rationally now that his temper had cooled.
"I don't really know what's going on with me. I wish I knew. I'm just so damned restless all the time. I'm not scared…just...torn in a hundred different directions."
"That's understandable. You're growing faster than any of us foresaw. You have power, but not necessarily the maturity to best wield it yet. And before you protest that you're all grown up, I'm not saying you aren't. Trust me—I can see very well that you're a man now," England said, unable to help his gaze from slipping down America's broad chest. America looked a little confused by his words, though he must have caught some of the intent, because a light blush replaced the indignant retort England had seen coming. To recover from the strange moment, England continued speaking more hurriedly.
"I just mean that we all go through a period of figuring out who we are. I was a pirate, and far less honorable than you at one time. We all expect you to have some growing pains, but please believe me when I say it's just a phase. You'll settle down in due time, and you'll regret it severely if you've burned all your bridges."
"So I should apologize to Mexico before I leave? Is that what you're sayin'?" America didn't sound excited about that at all.
"An apology to the entire gathering would not be unwarranted. You did throw your chair and cause a rather large scene."
America had the grace to look a little embarrassed.
"Sorry, England," America said softly, meek as a lamb. The last of the tension left England's posture. Not all of his confrontations with America ended so peaceably, but it happened often enough to keep giving England hope. Then England did something strange. Maybe it was the soft way America had apologized, like a scolded little boy, or maybe it was the sad slump to the other nation's broad shoulders, but England moved forward rather suddenly and embraced him.
The last time he'd done so, America had barely reached his chest. Now his cheek pressed against the soft leather of the taller nation's bomber jacket. With startling embarrassment, England realized it was the first time they'd touched at all since America had declared independence from him.
Just when England was beginning to feel ridiculously foolish, America's strong arms wrapped around him with an almost crushing need. England struggled comically for air in the circle of America's steel arms and finally just resigned himself to the embrace. He leaned into the warmth of the boy and breathed his scent in deeply. He smelled like cornflower blue skies and gun powder.
"Well isn't this touching? All America needed was a hug from his mamma," Mexico spat as he exited the room. Mexico stormed off down the hall, not waiting for the fallout from his insulting comment. His temper igniting instantly, America's hand shot towards the hidden holster and England's green eyes went wide with alarm.
"America! Not here! What the bloody hell are you thinking?"
Blushing a red shade so deep he rivaled his own flag, America reluctantly released the hilt of his revolver.
"Damn Mexico! I'm not apologizing!" Then, raising his voice so that Mexico could hear him, America flashed a rather inappropriate hand gesture and yelled, "Go suck on a cactus, you tyrant!"
England sighed. In America's book, calling someone a tyrant was just about the worst he could dish out. It hadn't been that long since England was on the receiving end of America's favorite insult, and England couldn't help but feel a wince of sympathy for Mexico. At least he hadn't been neighbors with America when they were fighting.
"Just forget about it. You already beat him. He's just bitter."
Once again, America's mood shifted from enraged to curious in a heartbeat. It was hard to keep up with how quickly the boy changed his passions.
"Are you bitter?" America asked. England was a little surprised. They'd somehow reached a mutual agreement not to discuss the war between them. This was the first time America had brought it up.
"I think the other nations will be filing out soon. That's not exactly a conversation I want to have for anyone to hear. Can you pay me a visit before returning home, or are you short on time?" England asked, hoping to postpone what would surely be an emotional discussion. It was easy to think America was just a muscle bound brute, but England knew how sensitive the boy truly was beneath all his boasting and bluster. America had a soft heart, and no doubt secretly still cared about England's opinion of him, even if he didn't care about anyone else's lately.
"I've got time enough for this." America's expression seemed to think there was something huge between them—more than brotherly camaraderie. If England wasn't totally mistaken (it had happened before) America was looking at him in a way that was entirely new, and yet it was the oldest emotion of all. It was the tender look of someone who was in love.
America was suddenly gone, leaving England alone to deal with a realization that hit him like a ton of bricks. If he was becoming aware of America's sexual appeal, no doubt America was, too. He'd never heard the boy speak of a crush on any of their fellow nations, though he seemed a little creeped out by Russia's stalker. England had never caught him sneaking glances at Ukraine's tits during a meeting, or trying to sweet-talk Liechtenstein.
All of France's rather blunt innuendos about America's enthusiasm had gone right over the boy's head, so England had happily concluded the boy was more interested in his silly heroic notions than he was in sex. Clearly though, America had been doing some growing and changing.
The almost desperate reaction to his awkward hug, the strangely soft and tender look he'd given him, and asking England what his opinion of him was…all of that was highly abnormal behavior for America.
"Oh, England, you're almost as naïve as your boy. Don't tell me it's just now occurring to you that America is working through some serious sexual frustration. I happened to oversee that hug of yours. Tsk tsk, England! You're being absolutely naughty…how refreshing!" France teased, emerging from a nearby shadow. England bristled with indignation at the needling words of his old rival.
England settled for a haughty glare of dismissal and left, his mind returning to what might await him when he reached home, and found America there waiting.
America had been waiting for him, but not for very long according to Arthur's servant. All afternoon, as England had concluded his business with allies, colonies, and enemies, his mind had raced with thoughts of America.
America…who was no longer a scrawny lad desperate for independence, but now a hot-blooded young man desperate for something else. The way America had looked at him in the hallway—so tenderly—was it possible? Was there any chance at all they could be something more to each other once again? Was England even open to the idea?
America stood as soon as England entered the study, and his drink (something alcoholic) sloshed a bit over the rim of the tumbler. America cursed and fumbled with the glass, trying to wipe up the spilled alcohol and blushing in embarrassment even as he did so.
For a moment, England simply drank in the sight of him. If he had to guess his age, he'd say not a day over nineteen. During the Revolution, he'd resembled a sixteen-year-old. Of course, this was purely a trick of immortality. In actuality, America must have been approaching his eightieth birthday. Just eighty measly years. In that light, he was still a baby compared to England's numerous centuries of existence. They were so very different, the two of them. America had been right. It truly just wasn't meant to be between them.
England felt the usual melancholy wash over him that he felt whenever he thought about America for too long. As if sensing it, America rushed forward and spilled more of the drink all over again.
"Damn. Let me just put this down. I'm sorry I spilled it on your fancy lookin' rug, but hey…hey now! Don't frown like that! I'll get you a new one! How would you like a big cowhide in here? It'd look real good. I've got a couple at my place now."
"Oh, America…it isn't the rug and you know it. I don't know if I can talk to you about this yet. It's not easy to do, and it's only been a few decades since…since…" England trailed off.
Though they had never discussed it, America had seen England get drunk since his fight for independence, and he knew that he had no clue what to do with the emotional little country when he was in such a state.
"Don't you see, England? I only wanted to be independent so I could be strong…like you! I wanted…aw hell. I'm makin' a right mess of this, ain't I?" Alfred asked. The boy's unusual dialect had become more exaggerated when he got emotional since his expansion efforts.
England sighed and turned away from his former colony.
"I'm not bitter. I would never begrudge you any happiness or success, America. That's all you need to know," England said softly. His former charge touched his shoulder lightly, and England turned to glance into sincere, honest blue eyes. Who was America now that he was no longer his ward? Who had he become on the western frontier?
"I'm not stupid, you know? I know the others…well…they don't really like me very much," America said in a rare moment of reflection. Then the boy's eyes lit with that fire that was so common in him these days. "An' I don't need 'em! I don't need anybody!"
England's eyes closed in pain. There was the truth of it. America's light touch on his shoulder moved to his face, and England's green eyes shot open in surprise.
"I don't need anyone…but I want you. Just you. England, I can't hardly sleep for wantin'! I want my land to reach from sea to sea, and I want freedom, and justice! And I want everyone to come to my shores—everyone brave enough to want those things, too. I've got shiploads of new Americans, comin' in by the boatfuls, and I'm learning all their languages and ways because I want them—I want everyone—to take me serious! But it's so much, and it's all so fast, and I just…I just…" America trailed off, and his harsh breaths slowed.
England blinked, more than a little taken aback, and realized America had gripped his upper arms almost desperately. His blue eyes begged England to understand the turmoil, and the tumble of growth, and the power and the struggle and wildness that was threatening at every moment to overwhelm the young man.
England softened in the boy's hold. He looked up at America from under his lashes and he tilted his head back so America could kiss him.
It was bloody awful, as far as kisses went. To be fair, England had been spending all his time lately with nations even older and more experienced than himself, and he had forgotten what the first time felt like. America kept hitting his teeth, and he obviously didn't know what to do with his large, clumsy hands, and his brand new glasses were poking England's cheek bone rather uncomfortably.
But England let him claim and expand and take—as all ambitious young nations must do. When America finally realized he wouldn't run away, he released his arms (they'd be bruised later, for sure) and England could try to make it a little better. He pulled away from the kiss long enough to slip off America's glasses and set them on the nearby side table, next to the mostly spilled glass of alcohol. America allowed this diversion, but only for a moment. As soon as England turned again America was stealing a second kiss, and then a third, and a fourth, and each kiss was just as wild and desperate as the first.
"Like this, America," England said kindly, showing by example how to kiss with passion and heat, so that the pleasure began to build and spark. He guided America's hands to curl around his lower back, and cheeky boy that he was, America took that as an invitation to begin squeezing and fondling England's arse.
"Oh…err…goodness. Not so rough, lad! Easy…easy…" England coaxed, trying to cool some of the boy's fire but realizing just how futile such a task was. It was America, after all. The boy didn't know the meaning of the word restraint.
The flushed teen awkwardly forced him backwards, till England's back was against the wall, and pressed more intimately up against him. England felt America's hardness against his hip bone and had to bite back a smile. There was one benefit of youth he missed—no doubt the breeze had to merely blow across America's pants at the right angle to make the young man hard and ready.
England, by comparison, was not at all aroused. The situation was just so bloody awkward, and America was so comically earnest and clumsy, in the very same fashion he'd been with his drink earlier…it was all he could do not to laugh at the boy outright. A small, jaded part of England's mind sighed and thought, 'He should have gone to France. I'm hardly the one to have patience with this sort of thing.' But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind that he was angry at the notion. If America was going to have sex with another nation, it had better be with him and nobody else. England had taught him everything else, after all. He could teach him this one final lesson.
"You're not…am I doin' it wrong?" America asked, perhaps catching a bit of England's amused smile when he finally surfaced for air. "You do want me, dontcha England? Because I don't think I could stand it if we couldn't…please…just give me a chance! I'll make it better! Just hold still—" America's hands moved around his front and England only had a moment to panic (it was not a good thing to hear the phrase "just hold still" while in a vulnerable position with America) before America was roughly gripping his limp cock through his trousers and rubbing, no doubt in the same harsh way he did to himself.
"A-America! J-just hold on a moment! That's painful!" England bit out, managing to catch America's wrist and rescue his poor cock from the molestation. He huffed out a deep breath of air and tried to get the boy's full attention by staring boldly up into his scared, excited blue eyes. He tried to relax, and the humor of the situation struck him again. It must have showed on his face.
"Nobody takes me serious, England. N-not you, too, okay? I'll do it how you say, jus'…jus' don't laugh at me. Not now…not like this."
Oh, if America wasn't the most beautiful…the most ridiculous…the most insufferable child in the whole of the world. A damn broke somewhere in England's heart and his rivers, his very arteries, flooded with affection for the young nation, his little Alfred.
"I won't deny you this, America, but I can't pretend this isn't just a little bit funny. If this is going to be any fun at all, you'll have to shake off all that worry and stress and seriousness. It doesn't suit you. Come now…I'll take you to bed," Arthur reassured gently. Blushing with embarrassment and vulnerability, America let go of some of his tension. He reluctantly gave England a small smile, just the barest quirk of his lips.
"I guess it is a bit funny…me an' you together like this…"
"That it is, but the world is a funny place. Right there. There's that sunny grin I adore," England said, smiling himself and kissing the sweet expression on America's lips. The young nation's smile broadened, and he let England take him by the hand and lead him through the house to his master bedroom, meek as a little lamb.
"England…I've never…" America said haltingly. England rolled his eyes since America was behind him and couldn't see.
'As if that isn't painfully obvious, my love,' England thought. When he turned to face America, there was no trace of mockery in his expression.
"When you're with a lover…or, err, me…as it were…start with gentle kissing, like we did before. You can nip a bit, but not too hard. Let's try that some more, shall we? You can put your hands on my hips, or run them up and down my back, if you prefer," England said. America nodded energetically, just a little bleary eyed without his glasses, and dove towards him again. England grunted a bit as he was momentarily lifted off his feet.
"Mmnf—I said gently, America!"
America blushed in apology and tried again, clearly holding himself back, pressing his open mouth softly to England's and carefully shifting his lips against England's.
'That's…that's actually quite nice,' England thought pleasantly. America broke the kiss first.
"Like that, England?"
"Y-yes…just like that. You may—only if you wish, mind you—put your…err…tongue in my…as the French do. It sounds quite improper, but it really is—nngh!" England's reluctant praise of the French kissing technique was interrupted by America's eager, wet kiss. His mouth was filled with the American's curious tongue, practically licking at his tonsils. It was too much at first, but then Alfred seemed to remember Arthur had a tongue, too, and he tangled his up with Arthur's with erotic abandon and energy that no other lover had ever shown. England melted into the dominating kiss a bit, delighting in the way the clumsy hands now smoothly and confidently rubbed patterns on his back. England knew it to be the boy's first French kiss, but he certainly took to it like a fish to water.
England supposed having an awfully big mouth paid off in times such as these.
When this kiss ended, America's embarrassment was fading…replaced with a rather jaunty cockiness. He knew he'd done well by the way Arthur had melted so trustingly into his muscular hold.
"There's French in me, too, ya know. I can talk French to ya, if ya want," America offered huskily. England blinked rapidly and shook his head in horror, his previous enjoyment of the kiss forgotten at such an appalling offer.
"Gods no, America! The last thing I want to hear in bed is smarmy frog speak! If you're going to suggest such awful things we can stop right this instant!"
Now it was America's turn to laugh. "Hey now…you were the one that wanted me to French kiss ya, darlin'."
On an ordinary day, England thought America's new way of speaking was rather ridiculous—quaint if he was feeling charitable. He knew the roughened explorers and cowboys of the west spoke differently because of a lack of good schooling, but America didn't have that excuse. He was just too easily influenced by the capricious ways of his mixed-bag of citizens.
Now, though, something about the rough country-speak sounded deliciously good to his ears. The husky pitch of America's voice as he'd called him his darling…it went straight to England's cock, and he felt the first twitch of excitement.
"Don't you dare start talking in French. Keep speaking just as you are. Your accent is…I can hardly believe it…but it's rather a turn-on," England praised. America's growing smirk nearly reached his ear lobe. He'd spent enough time lately around wild cowboys who rolled into small little towns, and ruffled the women-folk's feathers with their honeyed promises and their rough hands. That was behavior he could easily imitate. America relaxed, finally having a bit of inspiration to go by.
He startled England when he easily picked him up. He pressed a few, hot wet kisses up England's neck, as he'd seen the cowboys do to the saloon girls, and nibbled on the smaller nation's ear.
"I've waited an awful long time for this, sugar. Have you been waitin' for me?"
England squeezed his thighs around America's hard abs and felt his cock twitch again, his excitement seemingly linked to those ridiculous pet names America kept spouting off. One of America's big hands wrapped around his leg while the other arm supported his weight and moved his leg up a little higher.
"Mind the gun, England," America reminded. The blood rushed southward and England moaned, rolling his hips forward seeking friction. America carried him to the bed and dropped him there. His confidence faltered and he seemed confused. England was aroused by his innocence now, too.
"Strip for me…but leave the boots on," England suggested, as he began tearing off his own tie and waistcoat. England watched in wide-eyed appreciation as he saw America's grown body in the nude for the first time. "Oh," he gasped softly, "I certainly raised a beautiful nation, didn't I?" England said, almost too softly to be heard.
America heard, though. His confident grin was boyish, and oh-so-very-sexy. Fully aware of his own appeal, America dropped his hand to his gorgeous cock, which was bloody perfect just like the rest of him, and gave it a few slow tugs for show. He took a few steps back, so England could see the boots, and America…well…he preened. There was no other word for it, and Arthur realized it was something the boy possessed naturally that England could have never taught—confidence. Bold, breathtaking, unshakeable confidence that he was free and beautiful and England better damn well appreciate it.
And, oh, England felt very appreciative.
"Get over here now, America. I want you to fuck me. Mmm…I want your beautiful cock so much," England begged, and felt no shame in doing so. His country was built on beautifully written words—it should have surprised no one that England talked dirty in bed, and talked quite a bit at that.
"Yes sir," America answered, and it was perfectly obvious that his respectful, obedient reply was an inside joke. America was many things—respectful and obedient, not so much.
"England…you're just a sight for sore eyes! I've been out on the trails an' I get so lonesome I feel like I'll die. Say you'll come back with me! We'll take a horse an' just go—you and me—an' I'll take you to where the wildflowers grow so thick, you'd think God himself painted 'em right there on the ground. I'll lay you down in all those soft flowers an'—an'…"
"Make love to me?" England offered, caught up in America's beautiful fantasy. Hearing those words on England's lips was apparently the permission America had been waiting for. As he covered England's slender frame with his own larger, broader one, kissing him hotly and wetly wherever his lips landed and all over seemingly all at once, his sweet, pure-hearted promises flowed from his lips like honey.
"I love you so much, England. I've missed you—jus' the sight of you—an' at night I think about how much I love you when I…you know…an' I wish it was you touchin' me, always, because you're…you're just everything! You're perfect, an' I really, really love you. You gotta understand! I'll never love anyone else like I love you! Please…please say that you love me, too. Say you forgive me for what I done to you or I…I…I just won't be able to bear it, England!"
England felt tears dampen his lashes as those sweet, sweet words washed over him…because he knew America was too young to know that love like the humans felt was not the same for them. They lived so long, and alliances changed things, and wars so often twisted love into hatred. England would not be America's only love, but it was special to know he was his first. England was surprised the innocent, boyish claims of adoration rushed past his defenses to the place that had grieved so deeply at America's betrayal. The pain of that loss eased under the onslaught of America's pure, sweet promises, youthful and naïve as they may have been.
"I have always loved you, America, and never stopped…not even when…not even when you left me. I forgive you. I couldn't possibly stay mad at you, my love. Never with you," England replied with an honesty that was deeper than first love, though nowhere near as sweet and simple.
America kissed him then, kissed away his tears, even kissed his eyebrows of all things—as if the boy just wanted to worship his body forever and ever. His need, however, eventually proved too pressing. Brushing aside the boy's sweet concerns, England used the slick in his bedside drawer and prepared himself quickly. America would have to learn how to do that another day—England couldn't wait much longer.
Just the sight of England fingering himself proved too much for the young nation. Biting his lip in embarrassment, he thrust a few times against England's bent thigh, blue eyes hungry at the sight of England's fingers deep inside, and came with a soft cry.
"I'm sorry! Jus' give me a second. It'll come back," America ensured in a rush. England gave him a mild glare but continued to work himself over, stretching and finally giving into the urge to moan when his fingers found that sweet spot inside. His cock, fully erect now, began to bead with pre-cum.
Watching the show, America was already pumping himself again, and England realized it was probably better that he'd gotten the first one out of the way. Otherwise, the fun would have been over before it even truly started.
Arthur pulled his fingers free from his loosened hole and paid some attention to his dick. He played with the tip, spreading the pre-cum and carefully pressing against the little slit. The knowledge that America was watching him touch himself in such a way made him even harder.
"Are you ready again, love?"
"Yeah, can I put it in now?" America asked.
"Yes, but carefully. Remember your strength," England said with a hint of worry coloring his voice. America's cock truly was a thing of beauty—larger than any of England's previous lovers. With America's wild strength, he could split England in two if he wasn't cautious.
"Okay…jus' tell me…if I'm hurtin' you," Alfred insisted. He lined himself up and groaned in pleasure as he sank in, inch by glorious inch.
"Oh, Alfred!" England praised, and the use of his human name—meant to be reserved for intimate moments such as this—sent America to a new level of pleasure. Taking the same liberty, he pressed an open mouthed kiss against the hollow of England's throat and chanted his name over and over again.
"Arthur…Arthur…Arthur…you're so damned tight!"
"Faster, Alfred, harder!" England said, forgetting all about his own request for gentleness. America obliged, and soon their sweat-slickened bodies were working a bit awkwardly towards a decent rhythm…when America slipped out on accident, and began thrusting against England's cock instead of in his hole.
"Damn it!" America cursed.
"No, do that for a bit—feels good," England encouraged. He reached down between their bodies to wrap his hand around both their dicks at once. This felt so pleasurable to both of them that America nearly came before he realized it wasn't how he wished.
"I wanna…inside you!" America insisted, not even having the words to express himself, or perhaps still a little too puritanical to scream them at the height of passion. Beyond the point of caring, England spread his legs wider in invitation and then locked them around America's sturdy hip bones when the youthful nation was back inside him once more. His thrusts lost all rhythm entirely and were almost jarring as America enthusiastically slammed into him, but just being with America in such a way was enough to make up for the lack of finesse. England continued to fist himself and came powerfully. His orgasm tore through him and the muscles in his arse squeezed and released as he rode out his pleasure. The constriction on top of the wet heat surrounding his dick put America over the edge a second time. He shot his load deep into England and collapsed on top of him just as soon as he was sated.
"Oof!" England grunted, unable to comfortably support the boy's weight. If he'd been a human instead of a nation, he likely would have a broken rib or three.
"Oh, sorry!" America said, rolling off to the side. While England was huffing and struggling to catch his breath—America, who had done the majority of the work—hadn't even broken a proper sweat. "That was fast, too, huh? Hold on, it'll come back," America assured him. England's eyes widened in alarm. Was he really getting old?
'God, I just want to take a kip! I can't keep up with him,' England fretted.
"America…that was wonderful…truly…but I think that's enough for now, don't you? Don't you want to rest a bit?" England suggested, his eyelids already drooping sleepily. That was the most exercise he'd gotten in quite awhile—too cooped up lately with paperwork, negotiations, and ceremonial functions.
America seemed disappointed…and a little embarrassed. The reason for this became rapidly apparent. America was already hard again and was rubbing a bit excitedly against England's thigh.
'Oh sweet lord—help me!' England thought in exhausted desperation.
"Can't you just…let me…jus' once more?" America pleaded. England thought the request rather insensitive, but he reminded himself of America's youth and allowed the boy to have another go. Of course, it was less enjoyable when he was not aroused, and almost a little painful as his nerves felt overwrought. At least America's pacing improved, though, and England didn't feel quite so much like he was being randomly jabbed. It seemed America's stamina was improving, too, so England tried to hurry him along by teasing America's ticklish sides with his blunt nails and clenching around America's frenzied thrusts. The boy finally sated himself and slipped out again. This time, England was quick to wrap himself up in the blanket. America looked rather disappointed.
"We're done, America. Now settle down and lie with me for a bit," England prompted. "You can remove the boots now," he added with a blush. America, however, was wiggling out of his hold.
"I wish I could stay—you know I do, honey—but I'm gonna miss my boat if I don't get down to the dock. This was great, though. You're somethin' else, you know that? You'll come visit me soon, won't you?"
"Well, yes, but…must you really leave right this moment? A good lover takes the time to—"
"Teach me next time, okay? I'm all hyped up now. I don't even wanna get on that boat. I bet I could just swim it, what with the way I'm feelin' right now!"
"America, you can't possibly be serious…you're not serious, are you?" England asked, sitting up in alarm. It was unnatural. Three rounds as quickly as they'd gone and America still wasn't worn out? It was bloody unfair, that's what it was. Like a toddler that simply refused to go to sleep. England realized he was pouting at the injustice of it all and tried to change his expression. He needn't have worried—like a typical self-centered teenager, America didn't seem to care what England was feeling now that he was sated.
"Ha! I guess I won't swim it—but I totally could some day, for sure! Gosh, I feel so much better now, England. I've been wantin' to do that for forever now! I'm a real man now—I even feel different! It's like—I'm even stronger! I'll reach the west coast for sure now!" America boasted. England closed his eyes in defeat.
"Oh, go on you bloody git. Get back to your revolvers and your horses. I can tell you're itching to leave, so don't linger on my account," England said waspishly. He remembered America's sweet words, promised so sincerely in the heat of passion…
"You really do get me, don't cha, England? I'm glad it was you. I really do love you," America said, leaning over him to press a kiss against his frown. England cracked one eye open.
"You're a wanker. Leave."
"Heh, alright old man. I'll let you sleep, but remember—you promised you'd come visit soon! It'll be even better next time!"
In a huff, England rolled onto his side, creating a cocoon with the thick blanket, and waved America off dismissively. To his pillow, he whispered darkly, "Ha! Not-bloody-likely!"
Completely oblivious to the darkening atmosphere, America left the nation's home with a huge, cocky grin on his face. Things would be different the next time he came back to Europe. Everyone would know he was a man now, for sure, and that the Great British Empire was his sweetheart and nobody else's.
Before that day came, though, he had a dream to accomplish back home—a destiny.
A/N: I'm cleaning up one-shots I've written randomly as I work on my longer fic, and this one needed a lot of work. And by lots of work, I mean ten pages of smut tacked onto the end. That being said, I'm quite pleased with it. I hope you enjoyed my cowboy!America making his early debut on the world stage!