Rating/Warnings: R-l8 (sex, use of the word “buggery”)
Summary: Sex against a wall and discussion of “love at first sight.”
Author’s Notes: This is something short I posted months ago on the kink meme and totally forgot to deanon. Here’s the Kink meme link. The original prompt was for UKUS wallsex, and there was an artfill too at the original request. I was trying out a little angst and a different writing style. This was never beta-read so feel free to point out any mistakes! And obfuscation – eschew it!
I love this, America wanted to say, don’t you? – but the reply to that could be anything, including anything he didn’t want to hear, so he didn’t say it. Just said something like uh, God, and slid in his own back-sweat down the wall until England had to hold him up a little, wiry arm muscles all straining and shiny just to keep America’s thigh high enough to fuck him deep.
The wall was at England’s house, one of the old plaster walls that thumped dust from the ceiling like snow. England’s jeans scrunched in a circle around his feet on a wooden floor that creaked. Even if they didn’t talk it was all noisy enough to cover anything awkward America might whisper.
Once America had, when he’d been feeling a lot good about himself – wait, yeah, it had been 1969, the first moon landing, England had been there with him in California when the video feed had come down– anyway – he’d been all breathless and babbling and crying a little, maybe, and “I always knew we’d be there someday, ‘cause looking up in the sky, it was love at first sight for me and the moon, yep” and England had been all, “I know the feeling.” And America had been giddy, remembering England standing beside him as he’d looked at the moon. He’d said something like “kinda like when you first saw me, ha ha” and England was all, “no, that wasn’t love at first sight.”
Now, if England had been red-faced and “wot?” and snitty in his England kind of way when he’d said it, America could have just laughed and punched his shoulder or something. But England had been watching the screen in awe, his voice whispery and certain.
He must have felt America staring at him, ‘cause he’d turned and stared back and then raised his big-ass eyebrows. He’d used his serious voice, the one that made America’s stomach catch itself tight for painful half-seconds. “My first experiences in the new world were of starvation and disease and strife and natives and Spaniards.”
America had just laughed and said “groovy” to cover his slip and hadn’t said anything about “don’t forget cute lil’ me” and had just clenched his fingers and bandaged the trickle of blood with watching the coolest TV ever: footage from Apollo 11, the first manned moon landing. That was the thrill of love, the love of thrill, of exploration and being the first.
He’d have bet anything that Spain had fallen in love at first sight; see how his guys searched for youth so he could love him forever? But then he could never ask Spain just to be sure because Spain’s answer would always be a sigh and “Sí.” Because Spain had loved nearly everybody at least once.
But England loved him now, right? Because when his eyelids were all closed gentle like that and his lips slack and shiny around his open mouth he looked sort of, ha ha, like an angel. Even as he courted hell with buggery, what a great word, delicious buggery, that pounded America deep inside and gave him the throbby, full kind of tightness that would swell in his gut until he could finally explode, not-caring messy over England’s fingers and his taut stomach. God, he wanted to come. He would, he would, England would make sure of it. England was the trustiest.
England’s bad serious was all dire pronouncement, eerie-tinged and mysterious, like the ancient stones and chalk horses in his head were being breathed out, reminding America of things older than himself. Good serious England was ah, ah, Am– and wet, slick lips on his cheek.
England had protected and cared for him when he’d first found him, and since then had almost always stood by him. Even when England had stood against him he’d done it bent and bleeding and hugging his chest like holding his heart in lest it fall out, squeezing his eyes shut so America couldn’t see how much it hurt.
Nothing totally ever showed in America’s eyes; he’d checked in a mirror. But England tried too hard. Things, emotions, snuck out of his eyes when he tried hardest to hide them, quick bursts of yes, yes.
“Yes, yes,” America breathed, crawling his fingers from England’s shoulder to squelch through his hair, to press their foreheads together. England’s eyes opened, shut. His lips pressed together and turned up at the ends, not knowing his eyes had just exposed him.
“You love it, don’t you,” his breath whooshed out, smug and hot on America’s lips. “Love getting fucked hard.”
“Not as much as you love doing it,” America managed to huff out between moans; moans were all right when fucking but not when talking.
“Idiot,” England said and yeah, there were his red cheeks, painted with blood from his exposed heart. England couldn’t hide, not when he’d always been there, always said please and please and yes and yes, of course and yes, I will.
There were many things they couldn’t do or say, but reaching out and saying “yes, I’m here” had never been one of them. And America could be weak when they weren’t talking. When he was sure that England was making love to him.
England wrenched his head to the side and kissed America at last at last while he fucked him and there was white dust on his lips. White chalk, ancient dust, all America’s, always, just waiting for him to be found and loved. England’s tongue in his mouth, hard and sure as his cock as it knocked him nearly breathless and found his secrets and America moaned all he wanted.
England had been all pink and huffy at how America had spent today’s meeting chatting with China and India and Brazil, even though he’d swear he wasn’t miffed at all and that America could always work on improving his foreign relations.
And he’d let America come to his place. There had been weak tea and scones that tasted like ass and America had hugged England while pretending to teach him to dance a samba, and had verbally kissed him with tales of Carnivale and hedonism until England had finally stopped spluttering and taken the fucking hint.
He’d kissed America back, as hard as his fingers on America’s skin under his shirt. After a while, as they’d found themselves in welcome, agreed territory, his mouth and hands had become softer, more lingering. Loving. Like now.
“First sight,” America assured the inside of England’s mouth, muffled and safe. His back slid further down the wall, caught by England’s thrusts, more fluid and slow, off-time.
“I’m here,” England whispered clearly over America’s mouth. He hooked America’s thigh over his elbow and gripped his cock in rough, stinging fingers, pure delicious buggering torture. America loved and hated England like this, his chin over America’s shoulder, staring his feelings into the old plaster. They might be something America didn’t want to see, anyway, because he felt too good.
Good was the understatement of the day, sí, sí sí, I do, as he came hard, all messy and sticky. England sighed his climax into the wall and dug around America’s heart with blunt, tea-stained fingernails.
JThanks for reading! Again, please feel free to leave concrit and all comments are so appreciated.