APH: Working out the Kinks
Title: Working out the Kinks
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal, France/Portugal/England, Mama Greece + teen!Spain & Portugal + Rome voyeuring, Portugal/India/England (OCs)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: PWP, various pairings
Summary: Shortfics. Sex, and lots of it.
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England/fem!Port + titfucking
The waves roll outside the open window, lapping gently against the side of the ship. It creaks ominously, riding the swell, and England tilts his head up towards the ceiling to watch baubles and trinkets and gifts from faraway lands clink together, making odd little tinkling sounds as they sway with the tide. The feather cushions are soft under his head as Portugal motions for him to lie back, kisses him tender and sweet with her painted lips, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek when she pulls back to smile at him.
He palms her thigh, skin tan and smooth and bare; and when his fingers tickle the underside of her knee she laughs, draws her legs back in towards herself and leans over him. His starched tunic billows across her straightened shoulders, too big perhaps by far, but she adjusts the cuffs and collar lovingly all the same. Gold bangles and rings catch his eye as she does so, pushing dark, curly hair over her shoulder; all of her jewellery singing, making her skin glow.
There are many things England would like to tell her; to be able to serenade her with poetry and song and to know that she would appreciate it with far greater understanding than his contemporaries just because she understood him, and that, in itself, required little to no words at all between them. Which was just as well, because he doubted that there were that many words that could have adequately described the feeling of her breasts around his cock.
They are not quite on the same level as Ukraine's, but sizeable all the same, much like her sisters, and for all her cared at that moment more than ample, especially when she would look up at him from under her lashes, all false demureness and innocent smiles, squeezing them together. She shifts around on her knees over the mattress and lifts herself up a little, then back down again, rolling her breasts over his length and humming damn her, under her breath.
England gritted his teeth and fisted the sheets, drew his legs up. He pressed his knees in close to Portugal's sides and glared at her with all he could muster. "Port..." he hissed.
Which wasn't much, let's be honest. She just laughed again, soft and rich, cupping her breasts around him and moving up and down up and down, tongue sweeping over the head and across the sides in accordance to her rhythm. Every now and again her necklaces would sparkle, shift and slide across her breasts, cool metal sweeping across his arousal and making him jerk. At the very least, England thought somewhere in the hazy corner of his mind, the way she squeezed her damp thighs together was indication enough that she was getting off on fucking his cock between her breasts as much as he was.
England/Portugal + talking about dildos
“You’ve been smoking again,” England murmured against the corner of his mouth as his tongue traced the flush of Portugal’s neck; dipped into his clavicle. His hand curved over Portugal’s chest, palm flat against the heaving skin, lines and calluses creating dips that he can mould his hands around. He brushes his thumb over a hard nipple.
“It was just the one.”
“Perhaps,” England replied, grazing teeth over Portugal’s ear and pushing dark curls away from his sweaty brow, “if ‘just the one’ equated to running your tongue along the inside of a used cannon.”
Portugal huffed and shifted his hips, not quite wiggling though the rolling motion that travels like a wave from spine to arse to thighs is pendulous, and the teeth in his smile is the only indication of a response he gives in kind, because the back of his hand is shielding his eyes, forearm tense and pressing against the bridge of his nose.
“That’s charming. Though I could count the number of cannons who have given you tongue on one hand,” he replies, and shifts, rocking his hips in a steady downward motion again and making a low noise in his throat when England kisses him again, a circling of tongues, lingering lips and old tobacco. “Really, If it bothers you that much, I could get a…”
England grips his knee in his hand, fingers tight and teeth scraping gently over the skin when he moves his mouth over it, “No,” he says. “No, it’s fine. It adds to the experience. I haven’t had a smoke in years,” he trails off contemplatively, kisses Portugal’s knee again, down the inner curve of his thigh, “so really I’m saving money, considering their atrocious prices these days.”
Portugal’s heel digs gently into the small of his back, but he let the jibe go. Though if England’s calculations were right then he’d been ‘quitting’ for a straight decade or so and still showed no signs of actually stopping. He mouthed at his thigh, tongue curling over an old, faded bullet wound before soothing the skin with his thumb.
“Am I to understand you just keep these…devices, on hand?” Portugal asks, more curious than judging, his fingers inadvertently curling into his palm when England leans up again and kisses them; he crooks them over England’s lips, presses just past his teeth and touches without really seeing, shuddering when he sucks at the tips. His back arches a little off the mattress, cock flushed and hard against his belly and England presses himself against that heat, that warmth radiating from his skin until he feels soaked in it.
He doesn’t answer straight away, instead mouthing down Portugal’s wrist and arm and down his chest, where the skin tightens almost invariably on contact. He strokes his cock, hot and heavy in his hand, spreads the precome with his fingertips across the flushed head and as he circles the foreskin with his short, rounded nails he waits for a response, a moan, a cry; but Portugal makes no further sounds except for a hitch of breath, a purse of lips, a sigh,
“Inglaterra…”
“Port,” England says in the same put-upon tone, a little indignant that he was not yet writhing in the sheets and crying out his name when all he wanted to do was kiss him all over, take in every last intoxicating inch until it imprinted itself in his own flesh and the heat coiled and burst, spreading over them like quicksilver. He clears his throat, noses Portugal’s hair and breathes, because he always seemed to smell like the sea, even now, like a saltwater wind blowing over the Atlantic, even with the hint of lavender that lingered from his clothes. England kisses his cheek.
“Just trust me love,” he says against his ear and palms his ribs with pressure just hard enough to feel the swell of his breath.
“Look at me,” England says again, firmer this time, and leans over. He strokes Portugal’s arousal more slowly now, his fist curling loosely around it until it is no more than a caress. He kisses the clenched fingers of his hand until they relax, “Come on poppet, let me take care of you.”
“You said that not even a half hour ago,” Portugal murmured, and lifted his hand just high enough to peer at England with dark eyes, “and look where we are now.”
England fondles the head of his cock, catches the wetness on his fingers and shifts when Portugal’s legs tighten around his waist. He is not so far gone yet to be breathless with want, but with every subsequent touch now his hands become fists, thighs and hips sending trembles over his stomach and the harder his cock swells, the tighter the steel ring around it cinches.
The flush to his skin is beautiful; delicious, and when England dips his head to blow gently over his arousal he twitches and it deepens. It is exquisite.
“Not quite as befitting as gold on your skin,” England tells him, and Portugal notes that he has been lavishing more attention on his vital regions than to his actual face, “but it suits you all the same.”
He rolls his hips again, spreads his legs further in the hopes it would take some of the pressure off, but it doesn’t, and England follows the movement with fixation, glides cool hands over Portugal’s damp thighs.
“I would be insulted,” Portugal replied, “as to what you are insinuating about my staying power, but on the other hand I am far more concerned about what these things were doing in your dresser to begin with.”
England arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”
“You were spluttering incoherently over the rubber penis I unearthed in your sock drawer.”
This time it was England who flushed, until his ears burned red and a lovely rosy hue began to spread down his neck and chest. “That was - Well, you oughtn’t to go poking around if you’re not going to like what you find…”
“On the contrary dear,” Portugal said, and in a sinuous move that made his back arch further off the bed and rubbed his cock right up against England’s belly, reached behind him and pulled the aforementioned toy out from behind the pillows. “I found it all rather interesting.”
England spread his hand palm open as if to grab it, but did not move other than to press his lips together and roll off to the side. He rubbed his face. “I wish you wouldn’t go through my things as you are wont to do,” he sighed, although it was only half-hearted.
“My feet were cold,” Portugal replied, tracing the thick veins of the soft, silicone cock in his hand, “I was only looking for a pair of socks. It’s rather big though, Inglaterra. Don’t you think so?” He made a fist around the toy as if measuring its girth and turned his head, sweaty curls framing his reddened cheeks and offsetting the sparkle of mirth in his hazel eyes.
“I suppose it is rather...sizeable,” England conceded with a sort of red-faced gruffness as he ran his fingers through Portugal’s hair and over his chest, tracing soft patterns over the raised scar tissue over the other’s heart, white and starburst shaped against otherwise tanned skin. He pressed his cheek to it. “I couldn’t tell you just from looking at it though, seeing how I’ve never used it myself.”
There was a long silence.
“I haven’t,” England groused, lifting his head as Portugal’s chest shuddered slightly in what could only be barely concealed laughter. “It was a spur of the moment purchase and I haven’t decided what to do with it yet, but I assure you -”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t meu amor,” Portugal soothed, and shook the toy gently in England’s face, where it bounced up and down mere inches from his nose. He grinned. “It’s not the same as lacquered wood or carved ivory, but I’m sure it fulfils its purpose.”
England stopped staring at the object being waved at him. “You had an ivory dildo?”
Portugal shrugged and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the base of the toy. “It was a long time ago. There was more in India than just spices, as you well know. The carvings on it were quite pretty. Very, ah…stimulating. What are these buttons for?”
The expression on England’s face looked caught somewhere between affronted and surprised. “You had an ivory dildo and you’re only mentioning it now?”
Portugal turned his head and smiled. “In my defence Inglaterra, I had to wait an awfully long time to have sex with you.” He turned the toy tentatively in his hands, examining it from every angle. “It wasn’t quite as large as this though.”
“Yes, well… you could have brought it up you know,” the other nation muttered.
France/Portugal/England + that one time threesome
Portugal made a half-whimpering sound and clung to England’s hips with tight hands, rubbing his cheek against his cock and thighs in turn, his lower half tensing as France casually lifted one of his legs over his shoulder and continued to fuck him in earnest, jerking the head of his wet erection in almost perfect rhythm. “You are so good, mon ange,” he crooned, and bent forward over Portugal’s spread body with a grin, “So lovely.”
Portugal’s fingers trembled over England’s cock for all of five seconds before he steadied himself, but his jaw was still set, cheeks still richly flushed as he lowered his head and continued laving licks and kisses over his lover’s erection, lips occasionally leaving the off-vibration of a moan against the skin as he fought to keep pace with France. France, who had Portugal open so wide in front of England, was making him make the most beautiful faces and sighs, which he did now when England petted at his curls and kissed him. “Inglaterra,” he whispered, eyelashes fluttering against England’s cheek; he kissed those too, “Inglaterra, oh meu amor please...”
England swallowed and clutched Portugal’s hair gently in his fist, holding him close and glaring over his shoulder. “If you come in his arse frog, I swear to God I will rip your balls off.”
France, to his credit, only smirked and licked along the underside of Portugal’s thigh. “I wasn’t aware there were rules Angleterre.”
Portugal groaned again, his arousal bouncing and dripping against his belly as every one of France’s thrusts drove him forward on the sheets. England could see the muscles along his back tense until his rear did the same, gripping France inside him in a way he knew very well must have felt amazing, if the lecherous grin on the bastard’s face was any indication.
“There bloody well are now.”
Mama Greece, Portugal (Lusitania), Spain (Hispania) and Rome + learning how to pleasure a woman
She was rubbing at her breasts and making low, throaty moans, dark hair spilling across her shoulders as she laid a delicately perfumed hand on top of their heads to urge them forward. “Yes,” Grecia sighed, licking her flushed lips and tousling their curls, “Such good boys. Oh, such amazing boys. Rome has taught you so well.”
Lusitania flushed all the way to his ears, because in effect, Grecia was still a girl, and he didn’t fancy doing this to any others, but at least Grecia was soft and warm and curiously wet. She smelled really, really nice too. He ducked his head and sucked at the flushed lips of her womanhood, as next to him Hispania balanced himself with a hand on her shapely thighs. His brother’s cheeks and mouth were wet with Grecia’s come, but he gave Lusitania a small grin all the same as he spread her open with his fingers and flicked his tongue rapidly over her clitoris. Grecia’s moan became louder that time, and she bucked up into their mouths before falling back onto the pillows with a sigh. “Rome,” she moaned, “Oh Rome you must let me have them, you must, ooooh yes!” She threw her head back as Lusitania laved his tongue over her, ducking under his brother’s chin and carefully sliding his fingers into her entrance like Rome had instructed him to. She was even wetter here, and clenched around his knuckles with muscles he didn’t even think women would possess in such places.
“Harder,” she told him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, “You’re doing so well.” Hispania watched him with curious eyes; he was rolling her clit between his teeth, alternating between pulling and sucking. Their eyes met and they both shrugged. It couldn’t hurt. Rome always praised them on a job well done. Lusitania moved his fingers in and out, slowly at first, then harder when he realized he could control the sounds Grecia made with nothing more than a few carefully placed rubs with his fingers against her inner walls. She was quivering beneath them soon enough, pinching her nipples and arching and holding them in place with hands that were surprisingly strong. Lusitania’s tongue soon joined his fingers, though it seemed that no matter how much he sucked at her wetness, it only seemed to increase.
Another set of fingers join his own, lean and calloused, as Hispania wriggled his own digits inside her, with expression betraying his curiosity although Grecia was insistent that he stay where he was. They finger fucked her at an uneven pace, hands gliding together and catching at times, and maybe once or twice they changed places, because Hispania wanted to eat her out or because Lusitania wanted to try his hand at sucking her clit, because Rome promised them a great many things if they did well, and they did so want to do well. They were still unfamiliar with gauging a woman’s orgasm, but all at once Grecia suddenly arched like a bow, pressing her womanhood up against their tongues and crying out as she shook, wetness gushing out against their chins until she stopped and sagged on the bed.
She only seemed to twitch more if they tried to continue, so in the end they wiped their mouths on their sleeves and curled up next to her when she beckoned. Her breasts were soft when they laid their cheeks against them, and she kissed their foreheads with painted lips and murmured breathlessly how well they were coming along. They didn’t even notice Rome emerging from behind one of the columns until he was already there, in front of them and grinning.
Hispania looked at Lusitania, who looked back at his brother before they both relaxed against Grecia and closed their eyes, breathing evening out as their hearts stopped hammering so much. Rome looked happy, so they could relax.
“I told you didn’t I?” the Roman Empire told the woman on the bed with a grin. “Like peas in a pod. They work so much better together than they do apart.”
Portugal/India/England + voyeurism
Her dark skin blended smooth against Portugal’s tan, henna-patterned hands curled against his shoulders as she moved, hard tight nipples brushing against his chest. Sweat fell away from their bodies in beads. India swept her thick black hair over her shoulder and rolled her hips, thighs pressing against Portugal’s sides as he spread the soft skin of her bottom between his calloused fingers, opening her up and driving his cock deeper inside her.
His long dark curls fell into his eyes as he grinned up at her from the pillows, smacked her arse with the flat of his palm and arched with a low hum of pleasure as she rode in his lap. His fingers danced lightly over her body, eliciting tingles wherever they touched, and India had to grit back a moan as his thumb circled her clitoris in too light, then too firm strokes, catching her wetness on the pads of the digits and rubbing her generously until she jerked and tightened around him.
She leaned over and kissed him, mouths and tongues merging briefly before she pulled back, heavy golden earrings jangling as she sat up and started moving in short staccato bursts. Portugal may have been a bastard, but he was a bastard with experience in women, which is more than what India could say for all the nations she had taken to her bed. She didn’t ask him where he had learned, and he never offered up the information, which suited India just fine. Nonetheless her face flushed as she focused on the fact that he was inside of her, because Portugal had a tendency to thrust shallowly, fucking with that spot just inside her that made her womanhood ache, and then follow through with his fingers until the tension was too great and she came.
He had made her come twice already today and India could not remember having being wetter, despite the fact that a part of her wanted to shove her hand in his face and push it down until his smirk was smothered in the pillows; he had stamina, and for what it was worth, she liked that.
“You...don’t mind that he’s watching?” she asked him in a low voice that ended on a hiss, because Portugal chose that time to abandon his fondling of her womanhood to cup her breasts in his hands instead. She shuddered when he rolled her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs.
“Why would I mind?” he replied, and turned his head to smile widely at England, who was sitting rather stiffly in a great stuffed armchair in a corner next to the bed. He was pulling at his trousers uncomfortably. “I think this is far better than having him skulking behind doors don’t you?”
India shot England an amused look. “In a manner of speaking,” she said dryly. He scowled at her.
“Oh belt up.” He was eyeing her greedily with his eyes all the same; in much the same way he was eyeing Portugal. But they were different kinds of greed she noticed, though that did not make it any different. She shook her head and pushed her hair behind her ears again with her hand; her bangles tinkled.
“Did you want a turn, Arthur?” she simpered, leaning back with her hands on Portugal’s thighs, eyeing him from under her lashes and spreading her legs so that he could see how his lover’s cock was stretching her, how dark her womanhood had turned from arousal in spite of this, how turned on she herself felt to see him watching her like this, rolling her hips so that Portugal slid in and out, in and deeper.
But to her surprise England did not reply, he just covered his mouth with the palm of his hand and propped it up on the armchair. His eyes were watching her levelly, dark and full of lust. Portugal turned his head away from him and chuckled, low in his chest.
“You don’t have to stay quiet for my sake, meu amor.”
England waved him off with his hand. “On the contrary, Port,” he said. “I think you work better that way. It’s always pleasure enough to see you... in so deep, like this.” A smirk curled behind his palm.
Portugal swallowed; India felt him swell a little inside her, and her cheeks pinked. It was curious, the level of power England’s mere words had over this man. All the same she thought; arching when he bucked suddenly, picking up the pace and making her bounce up and down so hard she could feel her teeth clack; with England’s eyes boring into her back like fire...
...in this she didn’t blame him in the slightest.
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Yeahhhhh... I don't even know. Porn, lots of it. I have been on a roll apparently orz;;;
They're all just short WIPs testing the waters for bigger scenarios I want to try some day though aaaah, they've been piling up lmao.
No history, FOR ONCE.
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal, France/Portugal/England, Mama Greece + teen!Spain & Portugal + Rome voyeuring, Portugal/India/England (OCs)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: PWP, various pairings
Summary: Shortfics. Sex, and lots of it.
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England/fem!Port + titfucking
The waves roll outside the open window, lapping gently against the side of the ship. It creaks ominously, riding the swell, and England tilts his head up towards the ceiling to watch baubles and trinkets and gifts from faraway lands clink together, making odd little tinkling sounds as they sway with the tide. The feather cushions are soft under his head as Portugal motions for him to lie back, kisses him tender and sweet with her painted lips, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek when she pulls back to smile at him.
He palms her thigh, skin tan and smooth and bare; and when his fingers tickle the underside of her knee she laughs, draws her legs back in towards herself and leans over him. His starched tunic billows across her straightened shoulders, too big perhaps by far, but she adjusts the cuffs and collar lovingly all the same. Gold bangles and rings catch his eye as she does so, pushing dark, curly hair over her shoulder; all of her jewellery singing, making her skin glow.
There are many things England would like to tell her; to be able to serenade her with poetry and song and to know that she would appreciate it with far greater understanding than his contemporaries just because she understood him, and that, in itself, required little to no words at all between them. Which was just as well, because he doubted that there were that many words that could have adequately described the feeling of her breasts around his cock.
They are not quite on the same level as Ukraine's, but sizeable all the same, much like her sisters, and for all her cared at that moment more than ample, especially when she would look up at him from under her lashes, all false demureness and innocent smiles, squeezing them together. She shifts around on her knees over the mattress and lifts herself up a little, then back down again, rolling her breasts over his length and humming damn her, under her breath.
England gritted his teeth and fisted the sheets, drew his legs up. He pressed his knees in close to Portugal's sides and glared at her with all he could muster. "Port..." he hissed.
Which wasn't much, let's be honest. She just laughed again, soft and rich, cupping her breasts around him and moving up and down up and down, tongue sweeping over the head and across the sides in accordance to her rhythm. Every now and again her necklaces would sparkle, shift and slide across her breasts, cool metal sweeping across his arousal and making him jerk. At the very least, England thought somewhere in the hazy corner of his mind, the way she squeezed her damp thighs together was indication enough that she was getting off on fucking his cock between her breasts as much as he was.
England/Portugal + talking about dildos
“You’ve been smoking again,” England murmured against the corner of his mouth as his tongue traced the flush of Portugal’s neck; dipped into his clavicle. His hand curved over Portugal’s chest, palm flat against the heaving skin, lines and calluses creating dips that he can mould his hands around. He brushes his thumb over a hard nipple.
“It was just the one.”
“Perhaps,” England replied, grazing teeth over Portugal’s ear and pushing dark curls away from his sweaty brow, “if ‘just the one’ equated to running your tongue along the inside of a used cannon.”
Portugal huffed and shifted his hips, not quite wiggling though the rolling motion that travels like a wave from spine to arse to thighs is pendulous, and the teeth in his smile is the only indication of a response he gives in kind, because the back of his hand is shielding his eyes, forearm tense and pressing against the bridge of his nose.
“That’s charming. Though I could count the number of cannons who have given you tongue on one hand,” he replies, and shifts, rocking his hips in a steady downward motion again and making a low noise in his throat when England kisses him again, a circling of tongues, lingering lips and old tobacco. “Really, If it bothers you that much, I could get a…”
England grips his knee in his hand, fingers tight and teeth scraping gently over the skin when he moves his mouth over it, “No,” he says. “No, it’s fine. It adds to the experience. I haven’t had a smoke in years,” he trails off contemplatively, kisses Portugal’s knee again, down the inner curve of his thigh, “so really I’m saving money, considering their atrocious prices these days.”
Portugal’s heel digs gently into the small of his back, but he let the jibe go. Though if England’s calculations were right then he’d been ‘quitting’ for a straight decade or so and still showed no signs of actually stopping. He mouthed at his thigh, tongue curling over an old, faded bullet wound before soothing the skin with his thumb.
“Am I to understand you just keep these…devices, on hand?” Portugal asks, more curious than judging, his fingers inadvertently curling into his palm when England leans up again and kisses them; he crooks them over England’s lips, presses just past his teeth and touches without really seeing, shuddering when he sucks at the tips. His back arches a little off the mattress, cock flushed and hard against his belly and England presses himself against that heat, that warmth radiating from his skin until he feels soaked in it.
He doesn’t answer straight away, instead mouthing down Portugal’s wrist and arm and down his chest, where the skin tightens almost invariably on contact. He strokes his cock, hot and heavy in his hand, spreads the precome with his fingertips across the flushed head and as he circles the foreskin with his short, rounded nails he waits for a response, a moan, a cry; but Portugal makes no further sounds except for a hitch of breath, a purse of lips, a sigh,
“Inglaterra…”
“Port,” England says in the same put-upon tone, a little indignant that he was not yet writhing in the sheets and crying out his name when all he wanted to do was kiss him all over, take in every last intoxicating inch until it imprinted itself in his own flesh and the heat coiled and burst, spreading over them like quicksilver. He clears his throat, noses Portugal’s hair and breathes, because he always seemed to smell like the sea, even now, like a saltwater wind blowing over the Atlantic, even with the hint of lavender that lingered from his clothes. England kisses his cheek.
“Just trust me love,” he says against his ear and palms his ribs with pressure just hard enough to feel the swell of his breath.
“Look at me,” England says again, firmer this time, and leans over. He strokes Portugal’s arousal more slowly now, his fist curling loosely around it until it is no more than a caress. He kisses the clenched fingers of his hand until they relax, “Come on poppet, let me take care of you.”
“You said that not even a half hour ago,” Portugal murmured, and lifted his hand just high enough to peer at England with dark eyes, “and look where we are now.”
England fondles the head of his cock, catches the wetness on his fingers and shifts when Portugal’s legs tighten around his waist. He is not so far gone yet to be breathless with want, but with every subsequent touch now his hands become fists, thighs and hips sending trembles over his stomach and the harder his cock swells, the tighter the steel ring around it cinches.
The flush to his skin is beautiful; delicious, and when England dips his head to blow gently over his arousal he twitches and it deepens. It is exquisite.
“Not quite as befitting as gold on your skin,” England tells him, and Portugal notes that he has been lavishing more attention on his vital regions than to his actual face, “but it suits you all the same.”
He rolls his hips again, spreads his legs further in the hopes it would take some of the pressure off, but it doesn’t, and England follows the movement with fixation, glides cool hands over Portugal’s damp thighs.
“I would be insulted,” Portugal replied, “as to what you are insinuating about my staying power, but on the other hand I am far more concerned about what these things were doing in your dresser to begin with.”
England arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”
“You were spluttering incoherently over the rubber penis I unearthed in your sock drawer.”
This time it was England who flushed, until his ears burned red and a lovely rosy hue began to spread down his neck and chest. “That was - Well, you oughtn’t to go poking around if you’re not going to like what you find…”
“On the contrary dear,” Portugal said, and in a sinuous move that made his back arch further off the bed and rubbed his cock right up against England’s belly, reached behind him and pulled the aforementioned toy out from behind the pillows. “I found it all rather interesting.”
England spread his hand palm open as if to grab it, but did not move other than to press his lips together and roll off to the side. He rubbed his face. “I wish you wouldn’t go through my things as you are wont to do,” he sighed, although it was only half-hearted.
“My feet were cold,” Portugal replied, tracing the thick veins of the soft, silicone cock in his hand, “I was only looking for a pair of socks. It’s rather big though, Inglaterra. Don’t you think so?” He made a fist around the toy as if measuring its girth and turned his head, sweaty curls framing his reddened cheeks and offsetting the sparkle of mirth in his hazel eyes.
“I suppose it is rather...sizeable,” England conceded with a sort of red-faced gruffness as he ran his fingers through Portugal’s hair and over his chest, tracing soft patterns over the raised scar tissue over the other’s heart, white and starburst shaped against otherwise tanned skin. He pressed his cheek to it. “I couldn’t tell you just from looking at it though, seeing how I’ve never used it myself.”
There was a long silence.
“I haven’t,” England groused, lifting his head as Portugal’s chest shuddered slightly in what could only be barely concealed laughter. “It was a spur of the moment purchase and I haven’t decided what to do with it yet, but I assure you -”
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t meu amor,” Portugal soothed, and shook the toy gently in England’s face, where it bounced up and down mere inches from his nose. He grinned. “It’s not the same as lacquered wood or carved ivory, but I’m sure it fulfils its purpose.”
England stopped staring at the object being waved at him. “You had an ivory dildo?”
Portugal shrugged and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the base of the toy. “It was a long time ago. There was more in India than just spices, as you well know. The carvings on it were quite pretty. Very, ah…stimulating. What are these buttons for?”
The expression on England’s face looked caught somewhere between affronted and surprised. “You had an ivory dildo and you’re only mentioning it now?”
Portugal turned his head and smiled. “In my defence Inglaterra, I had to wait an awfully long time to have sex with you.” He turned the toy tentatively in his hands, examining it from every angle. “It wasn’t quite as large as this though.”
“Yes, well… you could have brought it up you know,” the other nation muttered.
France/Portugal/England + that one time threesome
Portugal made a half-whimpering sound and clung to England’s hips with tight hands, rubbing his cheek against his cock and thighs in turn, his lower half tensing as France casually lifted one of his legs over his shoulder and continued to fuck him in earnest, jerking the head of his wet erection in almost perfect rhythm. “You are so good, mon ange,” he crooned, and bent forward over Portugal’s spread body with a grin, “So lovely.”
Portugal’s fingers trembled over England’s cock for all of five seconds before he steadied himself, but his jaw was still set, cheeks still richly flushed as he lowered his head and continued laving licks and kisses over his lover’s erection, lips occasionally leaving the off-vibration of a moan against the skin as he fought to keep pace with France. France, who had Portugal open so wide in front of England, was making him make the most beautiful faces and sighs, which he did now when England petted at his curls and kissed him. “Inglaterra,” he whispered, eyelashes fluttering against England’s cheek; he kissed those too, “Inglaterra, oh meu amor please...”
England swallowed and clutched Portugal’s hair gently in his fist, holding him close and glaring over his shoulder. “If you come in his arse frog, I swear to God I will rip your balls off.”
France, to his credit, only smirked and licked along the underside of Portugal’s thigh. “I wasn’t aware there were rules Angleterre.”
Portugal groaned again, his arousal bouncing and dripping against his belly as every one of France’s thrusts drove him forward on the sheets. England could see the muscles along his back tense until his rear did the same, gripping France inside him in a way he knew very well must have felt amazing, if the lecherous grin on the bastard’s face was any indication.
“There bloody well are now.”
Mama Greece, Portugal (Lusitania), Spain (Hispania) and Rome + learning how to pleasure a woman
She was rubbing at her breasts and making low, throaty moans, dark hair spilling across her shoulders as she laid a delicately perfumed hand on top of their heads to urge them forward. “Yes,” Grecia sighed, licking her flushed lips and tousling their curls, “Such good boys. Oh, such amazing boys. Rome has taught you so well.”
Lusitania flushed all the way to his ears, because in effect, Grecia was still a girl, and he didn’t fancy doing this to any others, but at least Grecia was soft and warm and curiously wet. She smelled really, really nice too. He ducked his head and sucked at the flushed lips of her womanhood, as next to him Hispania balanced himself with a hand on her shapely thighs. His brother’s cheeks and mouth were wet with Grecia’s come, but he gave Lusitania a small grin all the same as he spread her open with his fingers and flicked his tongue rapidly over her clitoris. Grecia’s moan became louder that time, and she bucked up into their mouths before falling back onto the pillows with a sigh. “Rome,” she moaned, “Oh Rome you must let me have them, you must, ooooh yes!” She threw her head back as Lusitania laved his tongue over her, ducking under his brother’s chin and carefully sliding his fingers into her entrance like Rome had instructed him to. She was even wetter here, and clenched around his knuckles with muscles he didn’t even think women would possess in such places.
“Harder,” she told him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, “You’re doing so well.” Hispania watched him with curious eyes; he was rolling her clit between his teeth, alternating between pulling and sucking. Their eyes met and they both shrugged. It couldn’t hurt. Rome always praised them on a job well done. Lusitania moved his fingers in and out, slowly at first, then harder when he realized he could control the sounds Grecia made with nothing more than a few carefully placed rubs with his fingers against her inner walls. She was quivering beneath them soon enough, pinching her nipples and arching and holding them in place with hands that were surprisingly strong. Lusitania’s tongue soon joined his fingers, though it seemed that no matter how much he sucked at her wetness, it only seemed to increase.
Another set of fingers join his own, lean and calloused, as Hispania wriggled his own digits inside her, with expression betraying his curiosity although Grecia was insistent that he stay where he was. They finger fucked her at an uneven pace, hands gliding together and catching at times, and maybe once or twice they changed places, because Hispania wanted to eat her out or because Lusitania wanted to try his hand at sucking her clit, because Rome promised them a great many things if they did well, and they did so want to do well. They were still unfamiliar with gauging a woman’s orgasm, but all at once Grecia suddenly arched like a bow, pressing her womanhood up against their tongues and crying out as she shook, wetness gushing out against their chins until she stopped and sagged on the bed.
She only seemed to twitch more if they tried to continue, so in the end they wiped their mouths on their sleeves and curled up next to her when she beckoned. Her breasts were soft when they laid their cheeks against them, and she kissed their foreheads with painted lips and murmured breathlessly how well they were coming along. They didn’t even notice Rome emerging from behind one of the columns until he was already there, in front of them and grinning.
Hispania looked at Lusitania, who looked back at his brother before they both relaxed against Grecia and closed their eyes, breathing evening out as their hearts stopped hammering so much. Rome looked happy, so they could relax.
“I told you didn’t I?” the Roman Empire told the woman on the bed with a grin. “Like peas in a pod. They work so much better together than they do apart.”
Portugal/India/England + voyeurism
Her dark skin blended smooth against Portugal’s tan, henna-patterned hands curled against his shoulders as she moved, hard tight nipples brushing against his chest. Sweat fell away from their bodies in beads. India swept her thick black hair over her shoulder and rolled her hips, thighs pressing against Portugal’s sides as he spread the soft skin of her bottom between his calloused fingers, opening her up and driving his cock deeper inside her.
His long dark curls fell into his eyes as he grinned up at her from the pillows, smacked her arse with the flat of his palm and arched with a low hum of pleasure as she rode in his lap. His fingers danced lightly over her body, eliciting tingles wherever they touched, and India had to grit back a moan as his thumb circled her clitoris in too light, then too firm strokes, catching her wetness on the pads of the digits and rubbing her generously until she jerked and tightened around him.
She leaned over and kissed him, mouths and tongues merging briefly before she pulled back, heavy golden earrings jangling as she sat up and started moving in short staccato bursts. Portugal may have been a bastard, but he was a bastard with experience in women, which is more than what India could say for all the nations she had taken to her bed. She didn’t ask him where he had learned, and he never offered up the information, which suited India just fine. Nonetheless her face flushed as she focused on the fact that he was inside of her, because Portugal had a tendency to thrust shallowly, fucking with that spot just inside her that made her womanhood ache, and then follow through with his fingers until the tension was too great and she came.
He had made her come twice already today and India could not remember having being wetter, despite the fact that a part of her wanted to shove her hand in his face and push it down until his smirk was smothered in the pillows; he had stamina, and for what it was worth, she liked that.
“You...don’t mind that he’s watching?” she asked him in a low voice that ended on a hiss, because Portugal chose that time to abandon his fondling of her womanhood to cup her breasts in his hands instead. She shuddered when he rolled her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs.
“Why would I mind?” he replied, and turned his head to smile widely at England, who was sitting rather stiffly in a great stuffed armchair in a corner next to the bed. He was pulling at his trousers uncomfortably. “I think this is far better than having him skulking behind doors don’t you?”
India shot England an amused look. “In a manner of speaking,” she said dryly. He scowled at her.
“Oh belt up.” He was eyeing her greedily with his eyes all the same; in much the same way he was eyeing Portugal. But they were different kinds of greed she noticed, though that did not make it any different. She shook her head and pushed her hair behind her ears again with her hand; her bangles tinkled.
“Did you want a turn, Arthur?” she simpered, leaning back with her hands on Portugal’s thighs, eyeing him from under her lashes and spreading her legs so that he could see how his lover’s cock was stretching her, how dark her womanhood had turned from arousal in spite of this, how turned on she herself felt to see him watching her like this, rolling her hips so that Portugal slid in and out, in and deeper.
But to her surprise England did not reply, he just covered his mouth with the palm of his hand and propped it up on the armchair. His eyes were watching her levelly, dark and full of lust. Portugal turned his head away from him and chuckled, low in his chest.
“You don’t have to stay quiet for my sake, meu amor.”
England waved him off with his hand. “On the contrary, Port,” he said. “I think you work better that way. It’s always pleasure enough to see you... in so deep, like this.” A smirk curled behind his palm.
Portugal swallowed; India felt him swell a little inside her, and her cheeks pinked. It was curious, the level of power England’s mere words had over this man. All the same she thought; arching when he bucked suddenly, picking up the pace and making her bounce up and down so hard she could feel her teeth clack; with England’s eyes boring into her back like fire...
...in this she didn’t blame him in the slightest.
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Yeahhhhh... I don't even know. Porn, lots of it. I have been on a roll apparently orz;;;
They're all just short WIPs testing the waters for bigger scenarios I want to try some day though aaaah, they've been piling up lmao.
No history, FOR ONCE.