With each release of breath America pushes his cock inside further and soon England’s arse is full, full and burning, and his knees are jelly again but have nowhere to wobble except, humiliatingly, on America’s sweaty shoulders. Just as England’s fingers are about to snap the headboard into splinters America sighs. He leans forward and kisses England’s nose with a loud smack. His voice when he speaks is as shaky as England’s thighs.
“Well, that wasn’t easy. Damn, you’re so tight. God.”
“What did you expect?” England whispers. He liked that silly kiss on the nose. He likes having America’s jealousy, his focus.
“Hope I never have to wait a thousand years to find out for myself.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” England admits.
America’s eyes are shiny and his face is shiny as are his lips when he pushes -- ah-- just far enough forward to kiss England on the lips. It is a fine thing that they are so very alike while being so very different at the same time; at least they have one or two workings modes of communication.
England discovers that he can, in fact, do yoga, and pushes his tailbone down, adjusting to the feeling of someone inside him, learning it again. It’s America and England’s glad and getting gladder for a loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions.
America’s groaning a little in the back of his throat. He talks against England’s lips. “Can I move now?”
“Selfish,” England says, but yanks on the headboard to jerk his arse up and force America in more deeply.
“Unh,” America says, and eases his cock out a little and then back in, starting to rock ever so slowly back and forth, swaying like the slow coach to Nowherehampton. He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort. England keeps his eyes open, greedy to watch, because he always likes to watch America during sex, no matter who’s jiggling what into whom.
He watches the swing of America’s hair; his eyelashes, so rarely unhidden by his glasses; the flex of muscles in his chest; his hand next to England’s head on the bedcovers. His fingers dig into and squeeze the sheets, clenching in time with his movements, and soon he’s got a gentle rhythm going. The painful, stretching burn in England’s arse is becoming a better burn, one that steals his breaths and heartbeats here and there.
“Good, good,” he whispers, because he’d threatened to give direction, after all.
“Hah -- hah,” is America’s smug reply. Encouraged, he notches up his pace, adjusts the thrust of his hips, hips that England loves to watch but can barely see from this angle, curse it. But oh, he can feel them. The burn is being knocked into his belly, bit by bit, a pulsing buzz that swirls into a spinning nebula of erotic ache.
America pins it with a sweaty hand spread on England’s sweaty abdomen. England’s stomach muscles twitch and God, everything’s twitching. He’s hard again.
“Hah -- ah,” America laughs again and over-thrusts a couple of times in quick succession, knocking England’s crown back into the headboard. He says oops and that breaks his rhythm. Breathing hard, he grinds to a shaky halt and his cock slips out.
“Ouch, dammit.” With the halt of sensation elsewhere England can suddenly feel the protest of his hamstrings. When he lets one of his legs drop he can feel it sigh with relief.
“Looked painful,” America says. He’s cleverly clumsy again, fussing about for a bit until he settles England’s legs over his elbows.
“It was. Ah--” England says as his arse is lifted into the air and America dives straight in, cock first. England would complain about feeling something like a helicopter’s haul except it feels marvelous, America’s cock pressing buttons England’s forgotten he had, over and over and then again. He forgets to hold the headboard and lets his arms flop onto the bed, then closes his eyes and wallows in his own pleasure.
But he can feel it all, the friction of being fucked hard, America’s fingers squeezing England’s knees as they slip in the sweat of his arms, and he can hear it all, the steady smack of America’s bollocks on his arse, America’s sharp huhs of effort.
America is very good, actually, has a rhythm that’s quick without rushing past all sensation, and he keeps it up for long minutes and then more minutes, and England says pithy and approving things like “yes, yes, there” and “oh.” For as long as America can do it, England will encourage him, because he’s remembering how much he can take and it is a lot.
“Hah! Like -- hah -- Just like France, bringing an invasion force right up the Chunnel,” America huffs.
“Jesus,” England sighs again.
“You didn’t lose your hard-on after that one, did you? You old -- hah -- perv.”
England covers his face with his hand and groans his pain through his fingers. America carries on.
“This is so hot. You are. Hah. This rocket’s hot in the bomb shelter, hah -- it’s gonna blow--”
“You!” England has had enough. He flails his knees out of America’s slippery grip. America loses his balance on a misplaced thrust and falls, face-first.
“Hey!”
“Come here, you,” England says, allowing himself a grin. America looks discombobulated, but then, he deserved that. England hauls on his shoulders until he and America are nose-to-nose. “My bomb shelter withstood seventy-six nights of this shite once, you know.”
America’s eyes get wide again, as if he imagines Germany with his cock out … “Really?”
England slaps his shoulder. “You can’t even play along in your own fantasy world of dreadful innuendo.”
“Good grief.”
“Hmph.” England shifts his thighs to capture America between them again, and locks his ankles high on America’s back. England’s going for the tried and true, his favorite position when their roles are reversed: face to face and close. His hands have plenty of prisoner to reach and grab onto.
He mwahs a peck onto America’s bemused lips, and feels his face burn after he’s done it. What a soppy old thing he is. His next words rush to cover his security breach.
“Now. Do it, do it hard, and do it for as long as you can. We’ll see how long you can last.”
America’s an athlete, a competitor, and he resists a challenge the way England resists tea. He props himself on his hands and angles his cock back inside England with a wince and an ah-ah-ah.
“Pin’s been pulled on this grenade already, dude, but just you watch.”
Dear boy, he has mountainous strength and more control than England’s given him credit for. There are more than a few good minutes of being buggered silly by America, close, so close that England can taste the sweat dripping off America’s eyebrows, can shove it back into America’s mouth with his tongue, can feel America’s grunts of effort in the back of his own throat. He can feel every inch of America’s cock as his thrusts become long and tight and faster, chafing England’s insides in hard lines along his oversensitized prostate. Still England urges him faster and harder, his fingers digging into America’s pistoning hips. He’s building to one of those orgasms that starts deep and tears its way out …
And America cries out “Oh, God, England -- Kaboom,” and jerks short, then again, in the throes of climax. England groans because he’s this close and he wants to come with America’s cock inside him. That requires that he wedge his hand between them quicker than Bob’s your uncle and wank himself, hard and fast. He kisses America’s open, gaping mouth to show that it’s all right, and his hand is so sweaty that it burns.
America looks shaky but he gets a hand in there, too. He and England bump hands and twist fingers around England’s cock, and there are two rhythms going and it’s something England’s never felt before, something totally new in a forever lifetime. It’s more than good and he comes again, messy over their twined, zigzagging fingers.
America is panting and tries to collapse, so England rolls over atop him and kisses him, hard and noisy and slippery, until he’s snogged away America’s incipient hyperventilation.
“I’m getting used to the way you do that,” America says, only a little breathily.
“Hmmm.” That’s England’s way of saying thank you and I love you, for saying those things aloud is so difficult. So final. Vulnerable. Then he kisses America again because while fucking is fucking and is all very nice, there’s nothing quite as intimate and lovely as a kiss.
America fights his way back to the surface once England’s decided that he can.
“So how was that for finesse?” he asks.
England pretends to ponder what was quite an amazing shag. “Hmm. Well, you expressed yourself,” he says.
“Hey hey hey hey. So can I tell Spain that Portsmouth is closed for repairs?”
England remembers he’s supposed to be irritated, but then he remembers something America said and suddenly it strikes him -- he barks a laugh and when he tries to shut his mouth to prevent a repeat he snorts, definitely swine-like. “Really, America?” he finally manages. “Nuclear submarine of love?”
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.”
England rolls off America, for the only place to bury his own snorts is into the pillow. Once those are six feet under and he’s regained some dignity, he looks up again. “Well, send it back to dry-dock. Because later, after I’ve had some tea, I’m going to fuck you even sillier.”
America props himself on an elbow and looks decidedly not-displeased. “Only if you tell me who else offered to invade you.” At England’s look, he widens his eyes. “I’ll just ask around if you don’t tell me, and my questions might cause people to have questions and I’m not promising that I won’t just threaten to kick their asses …”
“Blackmailer.” England says. Then, “Fine. Also after I’ve had some tea.”
“Unless you want them to …” America says.
England shakes his head. “No.”
America smiles. “Good. Because I also only want …”
England’s heart stops at America’s lengthy pause.
“… to tell them to fuck off,” America finishes.
England’s heart starts again. He would be upset at hoping (fearing) for so much nothing, but even a fool can read one’s own body language on someone else.
“What will I do with you, Watson?” he asks.
America’s brow furrows.
“Never mind. Tea?” England says, and plays with America’s stray curl, the one that refuses to lay down when it’s told.
I love the whole thing, from Arthur's snarky but hopelessly in love POV, the references to Sherlock Holmes (discombobulated omg), Alfred proving himself in the way he showcases his love, the dorky invasion references (can't say enough of that!)
You manage to write something so hot, something so endearing, something realistic (the two boys bickering, so unmistakably silly and boyish. the two feel so real like people in the flesh, with their own characters), without being overly sappy! You're so awesome!
Bwuh bwuuhh that was so cute and massively hot and funny. And it's such a relief to find honestly good writing on the kink meme nowadays. Can't find a single thing to criticize, seriously.
The description of the blowjob took my breath away. And the sex in general - so realistic and varied and hottttt. The constant innuendos made me giggle embarrassedly. America, y u so silly? But you obviously really care for England and you can sure show him a good time, so we forgive you.
Ahhh I want a sequel where England carries through on his threat to screw America sillier. And America gets to act all possessive over England in front of all the other countries. Failing that, links to other things you've written <33
Thank you so much, anon! And I'm sure I'll write England screwing America silly again, because it's my favorite thing to write. ♥ And yeah, I've filled ... a buncha things. I'll deanon this sometime but lessee, the last thing I wrote on the meme was this: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21125.html?thread=85625989#t85625989
I LOVE YOU. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE NOW, BECAUSE YOU DE-ANONED THAT LINK, AND I LOVE YOUR WORK.
WHY AM I SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR FIGURING THIS OUT? I WAS LITERALLY JUST READING/RE-READING THROUGH ALL YOUR US/UK STORIES TODAY. AH, WELL, UK/US MOSTLY, CAUSE THAT IS PRIMARILY WHAT YOUR STORIES CONTAIN. WHICH I LOVE YOU EVEN MORE FOR.
(AS A FEM!ENGLAND COSPLAYER WHO GETS TEASED CONSTANTLY BECAUSE 'AMERICA ALLWWAAAYYS TOPS', I APRECIATE YOU PROVING MY AMERICA AND PRUSSIA ....AND CANADA, WRONG. HA, TAKE THAT!)
Sleepy!Anon out! -to sleep, of course. Or read more smut and put off sleeping. Both sound good right now.-
Loved it! The whole thing is just fantastic, with all the terrible innuendo's that Alfred comes up with too the hot sex. I cant really think of anything else to say, but this was really really good <3
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.” is easily my faveourite line in this. It had me giggling insanely for some reason.
Hi OP -- thank you, and if you enjoyed it then I'm so happy. I'm sorry there wasn't more of the rest of the nations but I really liked your smut bonus. :)
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Rolling Over, Dover (Part 5 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 12:21 am (UTC)(link)“Well, that wasn’t easy. Damn, you’re so tight. God.”
“What did you expect?” England whispers. He liked that silly kiss on the nose. He likes having America’s jealousy, his focus.
“Hope I never have to wait a thousand years to find out for myself.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” England admits.
America’s eyes are shiny and his face is shiny as are his lips when he pushes -- ah-- just far enough forward to kiss England on the lips. It is a fine thing that they are so very alike while being so very different at the same time; at least they have one or two workings modes of communication.
England discovers that he can, in fact, do yoga, and pushes his tailbone down, adjusting to the feeling of someone inside him, learning it again. It’s America and England’s glad and getting gladder for a loving fuck of nothing to do with invasions.
America’s groaning a little in the back of his throat. He talks against England’s lips. “Can I move now?”
“Selfish,” England says, but yanks on the headboard to jerk his arse up and force America in more deeply.
“Unh,” America says, and eases his cock out a little and then back in, starting to rock ever so slowly back and forth, swaying like the slow coach to Nowherehampton. He squeezes his eyes shut with the effort. England keeps his eyes open, greedy to watch, because he always likes to watch America during sex, no matter who’s jiggling what into whom.
He watches the swing of America’s hair; his eyelashes, so rarely unhidden by his glasses; the flex of muscles in his chest; his hand next to England’s head on the bedcovers. His fingers dig into and squeeze the sheets, clenching in time with his movements, and soon he’s got a gentle rhythm going. The painful, stretching burn in England’s arse is becoming a better burn, one that steals his breaths and heartbeats here and there.
“Good, good,” he whispers, because he’d threatened to give direction, after all.
“Hah -- hah,” is America’s smug reply. Encouraged, he notches up his pace, adjusts the thrust of his hips, hips that England loves to watch but can barely see from this angle, curse it. But oh, he can feel them. The burn is being knocked into his belly, bit by bit, a pulsing buzz that swirls into a spinning nebula of erotic ache.
America pins it with a sweaty hand spread on England’s sweaty abdomen. England’s stomach muscles twitch and God, everything’s twitching. He’s hard again.
“Hah -- ah,” America laughs again and over-thrusts a couple of times in quick succession, knocking England’s crown back into the headboard. He says oops and that breaks his rhythm. Breathing hard, he grinds to a shaky halt and his cock slips out.
“Ouch, dammit.” With the halt of sensation elsewhere England can suddenly feel the protest of his hamstrings. When he lets one of his legs drop he can feel it sigh with relief.
“Looked painful,” America says. He’s cleverly clumsy again, fussing about for a bit until he settles England’s legs over his elbows.
“It was. Ah--” England says as his arse is lifted into the air and America dives straight in, cock first. England would complain about feeling something like a helicopter’s haul except it feels marvelous, America’s cock pressing buttons England’s forgotten he had, over and over and then again. He forgets to hold the headboard and lets his arms flop onto the bed, then closes his eyes and wallows in his own pleasure.
But he can feel it all, the friction of being fucked hard, America’s fingers squeezing England’s knees as they slip in the sweat of his arms, and he can hear it all, the steady smack of America’s bollocks on his arse, America’s sharp huhs of effort.
Rolling Over, Dover (Part 6 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 12:22 am (UTC)(link)“Hah! Like -- hah -- Just like France, bringing an invasion force right up the Chunnel,” America huffs.
“Jesus,” England sighs again.
“You didn’t lose your hard-on after that one, did you? You old -- hah -- perv.”
England covers his face with his hand and groans his pain through his fingers. America carries on.
“This is so hot. You are. Hah. This rocket’s hot in the bomb shelter, hah -- it’s gonna blow--”
“You!” England has had enough. He flails his knees out of America’s slippery grip. America loses his balance on a misplaced thrust and falls, face-first.
“Hey!”
“Come here, you,” England says, allowing himself a grin. America looks discombobulated, but then, he deserved that. England hauls on his shoulders until he and America are nose-to-nose. “My bomb shelter withstood seventy-six nights of this shite once, you know.”
America’s eyes get wide again, as if he imagines Germany with his cock out … “Really?”
England slaps his shoulder. “You can’t even play along in your own fantasy world of dreadful innuendo.”
“Good grief.”
“Hmph.” England shifts his thighs to capture America between them again, and locks his ankles high on America’s back. England’s going for the tried and true, his favorite position when their roles are reversed: face to face and close. His hands have plenty of prisoner to reach and grab onto.
He mwahs a peck onto America’s bemused lips, and feels his face burn after he’s done it. What a soppy old thing he is. His next words rush to cover his security breach.
“Now. Do it, do it hard, and do it for as long as you can. We’ll see how long you can last.”
America’s an athlete, a competitor, and he resists a challenge the way England resists tea. He props himself on his hands and angles his cock back inside England with a wince and an ah-ah-ah.
“Pin’s been pulled on this grenade already, dude, but just you watch.”
Dear boy, he has mountainous strength and more control than England’s given him credit for. There are more than a few good minutes of being buggered silly by America, close, so close that England can taste the sweat dripping off America’s eyebrows, can shove it back into America’s mouth with his tongue, can feel America’s grunts of effort in the back of his own throat. He can feel every inch of America’s cock as his thrusts become long and tight and faster, chafing England’s insides in hard lines along his oversensitized prostate. Still England urges him faster and harder, his fingers digging into America’s pistoning hips. He’s building to one of those orgasms that starts deep and tears its way out …
And America cries out “Oh, God, England -- Kaboom,” and jerks short, then again, in the throes of climax. England groans because he’s this close and he wants to come with America’s cock inside him. That requires that he wedge his hand between them quicker than Bob’s your uncle and wank himself, hard and fast. He kisses America’s open, gaping mouth to show that it’s all right, and his hand is so sweaty that it burns.
America looks shaky but he gets a hand in there, too. He and England bump hands and twist fingers around England’s cock, and there are two rhythms going and it’s something England’s never felt before, something totally new in a forever lifetime. It’s more than good and he comes again, messy over their twined, zigzagging fingers.
America is panting and tries to collapse, so England rolls over atop him and kisses him, hard and noisy and slippery, until he’s snogged away America’s incipient hyperventilation.
Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 12:24 am (UTC)(link)“Hmmm.” That’s England’s way of saying thank you and I love you, for saying those things aloud is so difficult. So final. Vulnerable. Then he kisses America again because while fucking is fucking and is all very nice, there’s nothing quite as intimate and lovely as a kiss.
America fights his way back to the surface once England’s decided that he can.
“So how was that for finesse?” he asks.
England pretends to ponder what was quite an amazing shag. “Hmm. Well, you expressed yourself,” he says.
“Hey hey hey hey. So can I tell Spain that Portsmouth is closed for repairs?”
England remembers he’s supposed to be irritated, but then he remembers something America said and suddenly it strikes him -- he barks a laugh and when he tries to shut his mouth to prevent a repeat he snorts, definitely swine-like. “Really, America?” he finally manages. “Nuclear submarine of love?”
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.”
England rolls off America, for the only place to bury his own snorts is into the pillow. Once those are six feet under and he’s regained some dignity, he looks up again. “Well, send it back to dry-dock. Because later, after I’ve had some tea, I’m going to fuck you even sillier.”
America props himself on an elbow and looks decidedly not-displeased. “Only if you tell me who else offered to invade you.” At England’s look, he widens his eyes. “I’ll just ask around if you don’t tell me, and my questions might cause people to have questions and I’m not promising that I won’t just threaten to kick their asses …”
“Blackmailer.” England says. Then, “Fine. Also after I’ve had some tea.”
“Unless you want them to …” America says.
England shakes his head. “No.”
America smiles. “Good. Because I also only want …”
England’s heart stops at America’s lengthy pause.
“… to tell them to fuck off,” America finishes.
England’s heart starts again. He would be upset at hoping (fearing) for so much nothing, but even a fool can read one’s own body language on someone else.
“What will I do with you, Watson?” he asks.
America’s brow furrows.
“Never mind. Tea?” England says, and plays with America’s stray curl, the one that refuses to lay down when it’s told.
End
Thank you for reading, and OP, hope this is okay!
Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 03:37 am (UTC)(link)A fic of such amazitudenessity I have not come across for... AGES! o3o ♥
BBL, re-reading forever. :Q__
Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 03:14 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 07:11 pm (UTC)(link)I love the whole thing, from Arthur's snarky but hopelessly in love POV, the references to Sherlock Holmes (discombobulated omg), Alfred proving himself in the way he showcases his love, the dorky invasion references (can't say enough of that!)
You manage to write something so hot, something so endearing, something realistic (the two boys bickering, so unmistakably silly and boyish. the two feel so real like people in the flesh, with their own characters), without being overly sappy! You're so awesome!
Great job! Thanks so much for sharing!
Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 03:56 am (UTC)(link)The description of the blowjob took my breath away. And the sex in general - so realistic and varied and hottttt. The constant innuendos made me giggle embarrassedly. America, y u so silly? But you obviously really care for England and you can sure show him a good time, so we forgive you.
Ahhh I want a sequel where England carries through on his threat to screw America sillier. And America gets to act all possessive over England in front of all the other countries. Failing that, links to other things you've written <33
a!a
(Anonymous) 2012-02-14 03:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: a!a
(Anonymous) 2012-02-28 04:02 am (UTC)(link)I LOVE YOU. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE NOW, BECAUSE YOU DE-ANONED THAT LINK, AND I LOVE YOUR WORK.
WHY AM I SO PROUD OF MYSELF FOR FIGURING THIS OUT? I WAS LITERALLY JUST READING/RE-READING THROUGH ALL YOUR US/UK STORIES TODAY. AH, WELL, UK/US MOSTLY, CAUSE THAT IS PRIMARILY WHAT YOUR STORIES CONTAIN. WHICH I LOVE YOU EVEN MORE FOR.
(AS A FEM!ENGLAND COSPLAYER WHO GETS TEASED CONSTANTLY BECAUSE 'AMERICA ALLWWAAAYYS TOPS', I APRECIATE YOU PROVING MY AMERICA AND PRUSSIA ....AND CANADA, WRONG. HA, TAKE THAT!)
Sleepy!Anon out!
-to sleep, of course. Or read more smut and put off sleeping. Both sound good right now.-
Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 10:27 am (UTC)(link)a!a
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 05:32 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you!-- and yeaah, I have, I'm afraid ... and I tried to change up the style a little but I was mostly fail at that
Re: Rolling Over, Dover (Part 7 of 7)
(Anonymous) 2012-02-12 02:12 pm (UTC)(link)You are hilarious. your America is so adorkable it hurts--I am in love.
The innuendos and the affection in this fic are the most heartwarming things, I swear. *__*
So much love.
OP
(Anonymous) 2012-02-14 01:47 am (UTC)(link)The whole thing is just fantastic, with all the terrible innuendo's that Alfred comes up with too the hot sex.
I cant really think of anything else to say, but this was really really good <3
America waggles his eyebrows. “It fires missiles of atomic passion.” is easily my faveourite line in this. It had me giggling insanely for some reason.
a!a
(Anonymous) 2012-02-14 03:31 pm (UTC)(link)