58 - "Act Naturally"
Title: "Act Naturally"
Characters: England/America
Rating: R for sex, and recreational drug use.
Summary: 1964 - The British Invasion is in full swing, and America drops by England's place to pick up a few new albums. He...gets distracted.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London. August 1964.
Somehow, America had spent eight hours at England's house. He'd only come by to borrow some records.
But then England had invited him inside, and something really cool had been playing in the living room, and America had made him talk about it (who were The Rolling Stones?). And by the time England had finished answering him, they had cracked open a couple of beers, so America sat down, and they got to talking. They started talking about the new Beatles movie, and how that was great, and then they were talking about the Beatles, and that was a two hour conversation every single time they had it so, all right, by then it was lunch, and England asked if he wanted to stay. And America still didn't have the records he'd come by for, so he said yes, and they'd ordered something in because Jesus Christ just because England had suddenly gotten cool over the last few years didn't mean America wanted to have anything to do with Marmite.
And then it had turned out that England was in possession of a really excellent stash of weed so, oh, that explained what had happened to the three hours after that.
America wasn't sure how they'd ended up stretched out on England's bed, surrounded by album covers, while twilight turned the street outside all dim and orange. He was sure that England really needed to smoke more pot, like, in general, because America didn't know if he'd ever seen England this relaxed in his life and it was--
Uh.
Really, um, hot, actually.
America rested his cheek on his crooked arm. "So, can I just borrow all of these? I mean...do you have a box."
England didn't lift his head. He gave America an upside-down smirk and waved a hand towards the closet, trailing sweet-smelling smoke from the joint in his fingers. "I have plenty. But you need to take care of them. The albums, not the box. No smudging the covers, no leaving the records on all night...Think you can manage?"
"What if I want to make out with them?" America tugged the joint out of England's hand, inhaled, then passed it back to him. He turned over a bright red cover: Please Please Me. "Not that I would, if that's weird. But, you know. I get these urges sometimes."
"To snog album covers?" England raised an eyebrow--and man, it was like he could do that even better when he was high. America admired the sharp edge of his profile. England held his joint between his lips, pushed up on his elbows, and plucked the album from America's hands. "You could be forgiven for wanting to taste this one," he mumbled, turning it over, admiring the gloss of the cover shine. "The red looks a bit like candy." Another drag. "Not a bad tune, either."
"I'm just saying, I want to make out with your music scene, like, collectively." America hitched himself up on one arm. Their shoulders almost touched.
England twitched the album down to the bed beside him and blew a lungful of smoke into America's face. He grinned. "I never would have guessed."
"Oh, like you don't." America's pulse jumped a notch. He grinned back.
"I'd never deny it," England replied airily. "An entire generation of ungovernable little bastards...I'm rather proud of them, actually."
America couldn't think of what to say, so he squirmed down an inch on the bed and shuffled through a few more albums, eyes fixed on track listings and label stamps. His face felt warm. He could feel England's weight across the bed.
A few hot, quiet moments passed. England shifted, took the joint in his first two fingers, and pressed it to America's lips. "Tell me," he purred. "What is it you like best about my music?" His thumb lingered at the corner of America's mouth.
Another hot twitch in the pit of America's stomach. His lips parted; England held the joint for him as he took a drag. America could feel his pulse beating in his lips. Half the line of his body softened--his shoulder sank down: he shifted his weight over his right arm, and opened himself towards England. "Don't know," he mumbled, and smoke spilled out over England's hand. "It's--it's new, I like new...And it really pisses a lot of people off. Mostly because it makes decent respectable kids want to take their clothes off, which is also kind of new, although...not really as much..." That too-warm feeling kept spreading down. America didn't know what he was saying.
"Mm." England brought the joint back to his own lips, and sucked down another breath with an air of finality. He tossed the butt into the eight-hour-old mug of tea on the bedside table. When he turned back to America, his gaze was heavy-lidded and dark. "And would you consider yourself a 'decent, respectable kid'?"
America's pulse thumped harder. A slow grin rolled across his lips. "Usually." Why was he so nervous? "Not that you ever did."
"Decent, possibly." England's fingertips curled just barely into the hem of America's t-shirt. "Respectable? Never."
America hooked two fingers into the front of England's collar. A giddy red buzz flushed up the inside of his skull. "'S the other way around for you, innit?"
England pushed a callused palm across America's stomach, riding his shirt out of the way as he did. "You don't think I'm decent?"
"I don't think you've been a hundred percent decent a single day in your entire life," America said. His toes were curled up inside his socks, oh God, oh God. His eyes dropped, and he tugged off his glasses and pitched them under the bed. His forelock fell into his face.
England scraped America's hair off his forehead with his fingernails, grinning like a wolf. He slipped a leg between America's thighs and breathed against his ear. "I think you're absolutely right."
A flash went off in America's stomach, like the wince-pop of flared-out light bulb. He dragged in a serrated breath, and the next thing he knew he had pushed their mouths together. England murmured, deep and hungry, and closed his teeth on America's lower lip. Their bodies twisted together, crinkled the coverlet, a tight skid of denim and leather in the dim red light.
America's arm fell around England's waist; his fingers tightened against lean, hot muscle. America flushed so hard his ears hurt. England's kisses were rough, biting things, and he felt across America's ribs, stroked between them with knuckles and fingernails. England's right hand scoured up the back of America's thigh, dragged him in.
America broke, rasping, his hands knotted up in England's clothes, his knee locked across England's hip. This was-- They hadn't-- Okay, thinking, not really--working right now. America sucked in a staggered breath as England nudged harder between his legs. But this was--okay, this was--oh, Jesus, England laid a sharp row of kisses down the side of his neck, and America's spine went rigid. He pushed his hands under the hem of England's shirt.
Okay. This was okay. He'd known this was coming. He wanted this.
They shifted, legs tangling, as England tugged America's shirt over his head. He pitched it over the side of the bed, then paused, both hands pressed palms-down on America's chest, and stared at him. A few heartbeats thumped past before England went for America's neck again, licking and tasting from the curve of his shoulder on up, his breath gone heavy.
"England--" Shouldn't they say something? Or, or--it had been like a hundred and fifty fucking years, maybe they should--America didn't know. Hooded green eyes gazed up at him, expectant, and America wet his lips and lowered his voice and managed, "...Slow down a bit, okay?"
A flicker went through England's expression. He pushed himself up and touched beneath America's chin. England kissed him, gentle; deep, long and full of warmth. He licked his lips when they parted.
"Slow enough for you?" He murmured.
America let out a shaky breath. His hand skidded up England's back, inside his shirt. He nodded. England tasted like old dark woods and brine.
England arched into America's touch, sleek and graceful as a cat--their hips nudged together, as England's spine flexed--but he didn't kiss America again. Instead, he exhaled, and shoved his tawny mess of hair back from his face. "What's the matter?"
America's hand followed England's into his hair. It was thick and rough, sea-scoured. "Nothing," he protested. "I-it's just..."
It's just that I'm in love with Russia.
It's just that we've been pretending this never happened since 1803.
"I just..." He bit his lip. "Wanted things to slow down."
England watched him, head tilted. Then, with a little smile: "How slow?" England touched a gentle kiss to the corner of America's jaw. "Like this?" A soft drag of his tongue over the same spot. "This?" There was--something gentle in his voice.
England, in that supremely stilted way of his, was trying to soothe him.
America's eyes closed. "Let's just play it by ear," he mumbled, and buried his nose into England's hair.
England made a small sound of agreement, then tightened in America's arms, unspooled as America placed a soft bite against his throat. They got England's shirt open; his skin was pale under America's fingers, and--he twitched a bit as America's hand traced down his side. He gave a muffled hitch of laughter.
America stopped. A second later, he grinned and ran his fingertips back up England's side, experimental. "Are you ticklish?"
"Not…ticklish-- 'Keenly aware of being touched in certain areas.'" England bent away from America's nails like a stalk of grass in a strong breeze.
"'Keenly aware' in a way that makes you giggle." America ducked his head and kissed down England's throat.
"I-I didn't--" England ran his fingers into America's hair and held him in against his neck. "This is a blatant assault on my dignity, you know," he breathed.
"What can I say, I'm good at those." America turned his head so England was tugging at his hair. England obliged. A nice shiver spilled down his neck. He pressed his fingers inside the hem of England's pants and felt the hot turn of his hip.
A warm sigh slipped past England's lips, and his grip in America's hair tightened. "Do you intend to get those off of me," he managed. "In the near future, do you think?" He shoved one hand into the back pocket of America's jeans.
"Oh, so pointing out that you're ticklish is an 'assault on your dignity,' but getting your pants off--" America groaned and braced his forehead on the line of England's shoulder as England dragged him in. He got to work on belt buckles.
It turned into a tangle as England tried to 'help' and forced his fingers to America's zipper just as America was drawing England's belt out of its loops. Their wrists knocked together; they struggled their pants down one-handed, sharing hitched laughs and quiet curses. England nipped America's lower lip again, and America's breath fluttered out. He scraped himself out of his boots--tricky, and totally not fair, since England wasn't wearing any so he didn't have to think about trying to get them off without kicking up half the coverlet, but--but--
England's hand closed around America first, and America suddenly didn't mind about the boots. He dropped onto his back; wrapped one hand around England cock, the other in the back of England's collar, and drew him in for another messy, ragged-breathed kiss. He wanted to say England--
He wanted to say--well, he wanted to say a lot of things...
There were a lot of things they'd spent a lot of time not saying.
America tugged England's shirt down his back and lay a quiet line of nips down England's shoulder. Their hips arched together; whimpered sounds sped out of them both.
America didn't say anything.
England half-sat up and shrugged out of his shirt, then clambered back over America, gripped him and dropped a biting, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone; something like an apology for having let him go at all. He clamped a hand against one of America's knees, and urged his legs open wider, so their bodies could grind together, heavy and slick with sweat.
America's insides skipped, hard, black, unexpected: he buried his face against England's neck. England went still over him. A second later, a rush of air, and he wrapped his arms around America's back and held him tight. America felt a long kiss pressed against his hair.
America gasped twice, then managed to keep himself silent. His fingers cramped against England's spine. His heart raced for ten or fifteen seconds, and England just held him, just pressed his cheek against America's hair, didn't--didn't push. That ugly swerve inside of him broke: America shuddered down to his bones as it flooded out of him.
He unstuck himself from the dark curve of England's neck and met his eyes. "I'm good," he whispered.
"Are you certain?" England watched him as he untangled an arm and reached into the half-closed top drawer of the side table. A few moments of clunking and groping, and then he drew back with a small tube in his hand. He popped the top one handed--his other arm stayed wrapped around America--and waited.
America nodded. His hair rumpled on the coverlet. He met England's eyes and gave him a weak smile. "'S all just kind of weird, you know--in a way."
England frowned, and stroked America's hair back down. "It's...very strange," he agreed, and his gaze turned aside to the section of pillowcase next to America's left ear.
A small silence: full of things they wouldn't say.
"Come on," America murmured. A smile turned up the corner of his mouth. He rose onto one elbow and gathered England in by the back of his neck for a kiss. A moment, and he rocked their hips together.
England gasped open against him, then tugged out of the circle of America's arms to sit back on his heels and slick up his hands. He touched a kiss to the side of America's knee as he opened him; the kisses turned to nips every time he pushed in deeper.
America curled half-up, pressed against England's hand, and kissed across his hair. He panted, quiet, hot, twinging now and then into soft little sounds. All that thinking dissolved thick and warm, and his stomach unknotted in relief. They spent a few minutes like that, until America mumbled, quiet and meaningless, and England nodded in comprehension. He drew up on his knees. England gripped America's shoulder with one hand and--
Pressed--
Steadied himself on America's arm through that hot resistance. Their lips met, desperate and clumsy.
America clamped England's head between his hands and kissed him until his lungs hurt, his throat hurt, until rough, unsteady whines slipped through his teeth. He ground down against England. I-it was okay, it was okay, it was good, America clenched and twinged and surged his hips up against England's in a crimson rush. England caught up his leg, shoved it in as close to his chest as it would go, and leaned in over it with every thrust. He pressed his tongue past America's lips; America strained up to meet him, dug his heel into England's ass and dragged him in closer, rougher. A deep burn. A groan jumped past his lips.
America fumbled one hand down off England's back to wrap around himself. Four rhythms: England surging into him, America's hand on his cock, England's shredded gasping, America's throat-caught noises. None of them quite merged into each other. America's nails slipped down England's back as he sucked in a breath. They hadn't bothered to crawl beneath the covers, and now the quilts raked up beneath them with every lunge, the pillows cramping and crushing against the headboard. England pitched forward, harder, and rocked up into America's nails as he dragged back out. His groan cracked open an inch from America's ear.
America's neck snapped into an arch, and his teeth closed sharp on England's neck. Hot-red surged behind his eyes, and he caught his nails into England's back again--and again, when England kept seething and arching back against it, and again. America's twisted his wrist harder, squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the headboard vibrating through the pillow against his skull. England jerked his hand from America's shoulder and shoved it between them, gripped where America's fingers were wrapped around himself. "H-Here," he gasped. "Let me--"
America shuddered and gave England his place, then wrapped his hand around England's, felt the hard tendons stand out in England's fist as England ground him open. His stomach plunged beneath the red heat in his groin, his eyes tightened-- "Christ--" A hard lurched gasp, split into three, and he clung in harder around England's back-- "There--"
England bobbed his head in half a nod before ducking in to lap at America's pulse, hips angled and crushing against that spot inside him. He bit at America's throat--bruised him, over and over, tensed from lips to fingertips, his breath staggering on curses and, once, something that might have been America's name. America's shoulders jerked an inch down the sweat-crumpled coverlet; back arched, eyes shut, nails clamped into the bed of England's spine.
A second later, not as England filled him, but the instant America felt him pull away--God, America cried out, ragged and breath-swollen, and the world zipped shut, hot and red. England rushed into him again, Christ, and America jerked, half-spent--
England's fingers cramped around America's cock, too tight, and he shuddered and went rigid, half-collapsed against America's chest. He watched America's face until he'd finished.
A heaving, breath-ragged minute passed in silence.
America turned his head; he could feel the prickle of England's damp hair against his nose. His heels sunk down to the bed. England bit his shoulder, gentle, a kiss with teeth, and stretched against him. He wiped his hand in his own abandoned shirt.
America shivered, and a little laugh escaped him. He nuzzled his knuckles into the back of England's neck while his heart hopped and pattered like rain bouncing off a tin roof.
"Something funny?" England mumbled. He pushed his neck into America's hand.
"Probably somewhere." America worked his head across the pillow so he could kiss the turn of England's jaw.
England snorted on a laugh. He touched down America's cheek, his jaw, until his fingertips lingered on the raw stains decorating his throat. "You don't mind these, do you?"
America shook his head and smiled. The inside tendons of his thighs ached, and he was starting to mind that, a little. "'S sensitive."
Then England's caress paused over America's cigarette burn. America blinked.
It was as though England's fingers were attracted by the unexpectedness of it. They traced the scar once, twice, skimmed the edge. "This is a burn, isn't it?"
America caught England's hand and drew him firmly away from it. "Yes."
Not there.
England's eyes flicked from the burn to America's face. "I see." His voice betrayed nothing, and he directed his attentions elsewhere, touched a kiss to America's sternum. He made no move to reach for the mark again.
"England..." America hesitated. His hand drew down England's back to curl around his shoulder blade. "I'm, um. I'm glad this happened."
England stilled. America felt him breathing for a few seconds, before he levered himself up an inch and pulled out. He nestled their hips together as he lay back down. "As am I," he murmured. "I had been...anticipating something like it, and--" A little smile. "I was not disappointed."
"Me too," America mumbled, and nudged a kiss against England's lips. He cupped the turn of England's jaw. "I mean, me neither. But I mean--" Another kiss. "I also figured that sooner or later we'd, um..."
It faded out into a quiet spate of kisses and fingers twining gently into hair. No, America wasn't disappointed.
That wasn't the right word.
He didn't feel like working out what the right word was, and after a few minutes England's nails caught against his bruises, and so he didn't have to.
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--The British Invasion is the term used to describe the massive surge of Anglomania which gripped the United States from 1964 to 1966, as British music took over American airwaves and British artists set the trends for American culture. Rarely in world history has one actual historical nation wanted to bone another nation so badly.
--"We've been pretending this never happened since 1803." -- Jay's Treaty, a strange little codependent curlicue of post-Revolutionary US-UK relations, expired in 1803. As did (in TCE canon) America and England's supremely dysfunctional sex life.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: England/America
Rating: R for sex, and recreational drug use.
Summary: 1964 - The British Invasion is in full swing, and America drops by England's place to pick up a few new albums. He...gets distracted.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
London. August 1964.
Somehow, America had spent eight hours at England's house. He'd only come by to borrow some records.
But then England had invited him inside, and something really cool had been playing in the living room, and America had made him talk about it (who were The Rolling Stones?). And by the time England had finished answering him, they had cracked open a couple of beers, so America sat down, and they got to talking. They started talking about the new Beatles movie, and how that was great, and then they were talking about the Beatles, and that was a two hour conversation every single time they had it so, all right, by then it was lunch, and England asked if he wanted to stay. And America still didn't have the records he'd come by for, so he said yes, and they'd ordered something in because Jesus Christ just because England had suddenly gotten cool over the last few years didn't mean America wanted to have anything to do with Marmite.
And then it had turned out that England was in possession of a really excellent stash of weed so, oh, that explained what had happened to the three hours after that.
America wasn't sure how they'd ended up stretched out on England's bed, surrounded by album covers, while twilight turned the street outside all dim and orange. He was sure that England really needed to smoke more pot, like, in general, because America didn't know if he'd ever seen England this relaxed in his life and it was--
Uh.
Really, um, hot, actually.
America rested his cheek on his crooked arm. "So, can I just borrow all of these? I mean...do you have a box."
England didn't lift his head. He gave America an upside-down smirk and waved a hand towards the closet, trailing sweet-smelling smoke from the joint in his fingers. "I have plenty. But you need to take care of them. The albums, not the box. No smudging the covers, no leaving the records on all night...Think you can manage?"
"What if I want to make out with them?" America tugged the joint out of England's hand, inhaled, then passed it back to him. He turned over a bright red cover: Please Please Me. "Not that I would, if that's weird. But, you know. I get these urges sometimes."
"To snog album covers?" England raised an eyebrow--and man, it was like he could do that even better when he was high. America admired the sharp edge of his profile. England held his joint between his lips, pushed up on his elbows, and plucked the album from America's hands. "You could be forgiven for wanting to taste this one," he mumbled, turning it over, admiring the gloss of the cover shine. "The red looks a bit like candy." Another drag. "Not a bad tune, either."
"I'm just saying, I want to make out with your music scene, like, collectively." America hitched himself up on one arm. Their shoulders almost touched.
England twitched the album down to the bed beside him and blew a lungful of smoke into America's face. He grinned. "I never would have guessed."
"Oh, like you don't." America's pulse jumped a notch. He grinned back.
"I'd never deny it," England replied airily. "An entire generation of ungovernable little bastards...I'm rather proud of them, actually."
America couldn't think of what to say, so he squirmed down an inch on the bed and shuffled through a few more albums, eyes fixed on track listings and label stamps. His face felt warm. He could feel England's weight across the bed.
A few hot, quiet moments passed. England shifted, took the joint in his first two fingers, and pressed it to America's lips. "Tell me," he purred. "What is it you like best about my music?" His thumb lingered at the corner of America's mouth.
Another hot twitch in the pit of America's stomach. His lips parted; England held the joint for him as he took a drag. America could feel his pulse beating in his lips. Half the line of his body softened--his shoulder sank down: he shifted his weight over his right arm, and opened himself towards England. "Don't know," he mumbled, and smoke spilled out over England's hand. "It's--it's new, I like new...And it really pisses a lot of people off. Mostly because it makes decent respectable kids want to take their clothes off, which is also kind of new, although...not really as much..." That too-warm feeling kept spreading down. America didn't know what he was saying.
"Mm." England brought the joint back to his own lips, and sucked down another breath with an air of finality. He tossed the butt into the eight-hour-old mug of tea on the bedside table. When he turned back to America, his gaze was heavy-lidded and dark. "And would you consider yourself a 'decent, respectable kid'?"
America's pulse thumped harder. A slow grin rolled across his lips. "Usually." Why was he so nervous? "Not that you ever did."
"Decent, possibly." England's fingertips curled just barely into the hem of America's t-shirt. "Respectable? Never."
America hooked two fingers into the front of England's collar. A giddy red buzz flushed up the inside of his skull. "'S the other way around for you, innit?"
England pushed a callused palm across America's stomach, riding his shirt out of the way as he did. "You don't think I'm decent?"
"I don't think you've been a hundred percent decent a single day in your entire life," America said. His toes were curled up inside his socks, oh God, oh God. His eyes dropped, and he tugged off his glasses and pitched them under the bed. His forelock fell into his face.
England scraped America's hair off his forehead with his fingernails, grinning like a wolf. He slipped a leg between America's thighs and breathed against his ear. "I think you're absolutely right."
A flash went off in America's stomach, like the wince-pop of flared-out light bulb. He dragged in a serrated breath, and the next thing he knew he had pushed their mouths together. England murmured, deep and hungry, and closed his teeth on America's lower lip. Their bodies twisted together, crinkled the coverlet, a tight skid of denim and leather in the dim red light.
America's arm fell around England's waist; his fingers tightened against lean, hot muscle. America flushed so hard his ears hurt. England's kisses were rough, biting things, and he felt across America's ribs, stroked between them with knuckles and fingernails. England's right hand scoured up the back of America's thigh, dragged him in.
America broke, rasping, his hands knotted up in England's clothes, his knee locked across England's hip. This was-- They hadn't-- Okay, thinking, not really--working right now. America sucked in a staggered breath as England nudged harder between his legs. But this was--okay, this was--oh, Jesus, England laid a sharp row of kisses down the side of his neck, and America's spine went rigid. He pushed his hands under the hem of England's shirt.
Okay. This was okay. He'd known this was coming. He wanted this.
They shifted, legs tangling, as England tugged America's shirt over his head. He pitched it over the side of the bed, then paused, both hands pressed palms-down on America's chest, and stared at him. A few heartbeats thumped past before England went for America's neck again, licking and tasting from the curve of his shoulder on up, his breath gone heavy.
"England--" Shouldn't they say something? Or, or--it had been like a hundred and fifty fucking years, maybe they should--America didn't know. Hooded green eyes gazed up at him, expectant, and America wet his lips and lowered his voice and managed, "...Slow down a bit, okay?"
A flicker went through England's expression. He pushed himself up and touched beneath America's chin. England kissed him, gentle; deep, long and full of warmth. He licked his lips when they parted.
"Slow enough for you?" He murmured.
America let out a shaky breath. His hand skidded up England's back, inside his shirt. He nodded. England tasted like old dark woods and brine.
England arched into America's touch, sleek and graceful as a cat--their hips nudged together, as England's spine flexed--but he didn't kiss America again. Instead, he exhaled, and shoved his tawny mess of hair back from his face. "What's the matter?"
America's hand followed England's into his hair. It was thick and rough, sea-scoured. "Nothing," he protested. "I-it's just..."
It's just that I'm in love with Russia.
It's just that we've been pretending this never happened since 1803.
"I just..." He bit his lip. "Wanted things to slow down."
England watched him, head tilted. Then, with a little smile: "How slow?" England touched a gentle kiss to the corner of America's jaw. "Like this?" A soft drag of his tongue over the same spot. "This?" There was--something gentle in his voice.
England, in that supremely stilted way of his, was trying to soothe him.
America's eyes closed. "Let's just play it by ear," he mumbled, and buried his nose into England's hair.
England made a small sound of agreement, then tightened in America's arms, unspooled as America placed a soft bite against his throat. They got England's shirt open; his skin was pale under America's fingers, and--he twitched a bit as America's hand traced down his side. He gave a muffled hitch of laughter.
America stopped. A second later, he grinned and ran his fingertips back up England's side, experimental. "Are you ticklish?"
"Not…ticklish-- 'Keenly aware of being touched in certain areas.'" England bent away from America's nails like a stalk of grass in a strong breeze.
"'Keenly aware' in a way that makes you giggle." America ducked his head and kissed down England's throat.
"I-I didn't--" England ran his fingers into America's hair and held him in against his neck. "This is a blatant assault on my dignity, you know," he breathed.
"What can I say, I'm good at those." America turned his head so England was tugging at his hair. England obliged. A nice shiver spilled down his neck. He pressed his fingers inside the hem of England's pants and felt the hot turn of his hip.
A warm sigh slipped past England's lips, and his grip in America's hair tightened. "Do you intend to get those off of me," he managed. "In the near future, do you think?" He shoved one hand into the back pocket of America's jeans.
"Oh, so pointing out that you're ticklish is an 'assault on your dignity,' but getting your pants off--" America groaned and braced his forehead on the line of England's shoulder as England dragged him in. He got to work on belt buckles.
It turned into a tangle as England tried to 'help' and forced his fingers to America's zipper just as America was drawing England's belt out of its loops. Their wrists knocked together; they struggled their pants down one-handed, sharing hitched laughs and quiet curses. England nipped America's lower lip again, and America's breath fluttered out. He scraped himself out of his boots--tricky, and totally not fair, since England wasn't wearing any so he didn't have to think about trying to get them off without kicking up half the coverlet, but--but--
England's hand closed around America first, and America suddenly didn't mind about the boots. He dropped onto his back; wrapped one hand around England cock, the other in the back of England's collar, and drew him in for another messy, ragged-breathed kiss. He wanted to say England--
He wanted to say--well, he wanted to say a lot of things...
There were a lot of things they'd spent a lot of time not saying.
America tugged England's shirt down his back and lay a quiet line of nips down England's shoulder. Their hips arched together; whimpered sounds sped out of them both.
America didn't say anything.
England half-sat up and shrugged out of his shirt, then clambered back over America, gripped him and dropped a biting, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone; something like an apology for having let him go at all. He clamped a hand against one of America's knees, and urged his legs open wider, so their bodies could grind together, heavy and slick with sweat.
America's insides skipped, hard, black, unexpected: he buried his face against England's neck. England went still over him. A second later, a rush of air, and he wrapped his arms around America's back and held him tight. America felt a long kiss pressed against his hair.
America gasped twice, then managed to keep himself silent. His fingers cramped against England's spine. His heart raced for ten or fifteen seconds, and England just held him, just pressed his cheek against America's hair, didn't--didn't push. That ugly swerve inside of him broke: America shuddered down to his bones as it flooded out of him.
He unstuck himself from the dark curve of England's neck and met his eyes. "I'm good," he whispered.
"Are you certain?" England watched him as he untangled an arm and reached into the half-closed top drawer of the side table. A few moments of clunking and groping, and then he drew back with a small tube in his hand. He popped the top one handed--his other arm stayed wrapped around America--and waited.
America nodded. His hair rumpled on the coverlet. He met England's eyes and gave him a weak smile. "'S all just kind of weird, you know--in a way."
England frowned, and stroked America's hair back down. "It's...very strange," he agreed, and his gaze turned aside to the section of pillowcase next to America's left ear.
A small silence: full of things they wouldn't say.
"Come on," America murmured. A smile turned up the corner of his mouth. He rose onto one elbow and gathered England in by the back of his neck for a kiss. A moment, and he rocked their hips together.
England gasped open against him, then tugged out of the circle of America's arms to sit back on his heels and slick up his hands. He touched a kiss to the side of America's knee as he opened him; the kisses turned to nips every time he pushed in deeper.
America curled half-up, pressed against England's hand, and kissed across his hair. He panted, quiet, hot, twinging now and then into soft little sounds. All that thinking dissolved thick and warm, and his stomach unknotted in relief. They spent a few minutes like that, until America mumbled, quiet and meaningless, and England nodded in comprehension. He drew up on his knees. England gripped America's shoulder with one hand and--
Pressed--
Steadied himself on America's arm through that hot resistance. Their lips met, desperate and clumsy.
America clamped England's head between his hands and kissed him until his lungs hurt, his throat hurt, until rough, unsteady whines slipped through his teeth. He ground down against England. I-it was okay, it was okay, it was good, America clenched and twinged and surged his hips up against England's in a crimson rush. England caught up his leg, shoved it in as close to his chest as it would go, and leaned in over it with every thrust. He pressed his tongue past America's lips; America strained up to meet him, dug his heel into England's ass and dragged him in closer, rougher. A deep burn. A groan jumped past his lips.
America fumbled one hand down off England's back to wrap around himself. Four rhythms: England surging into him, America's hand on his cock, England's shredded gasping, America's throat-caught noises. None of them quite merged into each other. America's nails slipped down England's back as he sucked in a breath. They hadn't bothered to crawl beneath the covers, and now the quilts raked up beneath them with every lunge, the pillows cramping and crushing against the headboard. England pitched forward, harder, and rocked up into America's nails as he dragged back out. His groan cracked open an inch from America's ear.
America's neck snapped into an arch, and his teeth closed sharp on England's neck. Hot-red surged behind his eyes, and he caught his nails into England's back again--and again, when England kept seething and arching back against it, and again. America's twisted his wrist harder, squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel the headboard vibrating through the pillow against his skull. England jerked his hand from America's shoulder and shoved it between them, gripped where America's fingers were wrapped around himself. "H-Here," he gasped. "Let me--"
America shuddered and gave England his place, then wrapped his hand around England's, felt the hard tendons stand out in England's fist as England ground him open. His stomach plunged beneath the red heat in his groin, his eyes tightened-- "Christ--" A hard lurched gasp, split into three, and he clung in harder around England's back-- "There--"
England bobbed his head in half a nod before ducking in to lap at America's pulse, hips angled and crushing against that spot inside him. He bit at America's throat--bruised him, over and over, tensed from lips to fingertips, his breath staggering on curses and, once, something that might have been America's name. America's shoulders jerked an inch down the sweat-crumpled coverlet; back arched, eyes shut, nails clamped into the bed of England's spine.
A second later, not as England filled him, but the instant America felt him pull away--God, America cried out, ragged and breath-swollen, and the world zipped shut, hot and red. England rushed into him again, Christ, and America jerked, half-spent--
England's fingers cramped around America's cock, too tight, and he shuddered and went rigid, half-collapsed against America's chest. He watched America's face until he'd finished.
A heaving, breath-ragged minute passed in silence.
America turned his head; he could feel the prickle of England's damp hair against his nose. His heels sunk down to the bed. England bit his shoulder, gentle, a kiss with teeth, and stretched against him. He wiped his hand in his own abandoned shirt.
America shivered, and a little laugh escaped him. He nuzzled his knuckles into the back of England's neck while his heart hopped and pattered like rain bouncing off a tin roof.
"Something funny?" England mumbled. He pushed his neck into America's hand.
"Probably somewhere." America worked his head across the pillow so he could kiss the turn of England's jaw.
England snorted on a laugh. He touched down America's cheek, his jaw, until his fingertips lingered on the raw stains decorating his throat. "You don't mind these, do you?"
America shook his head and smiled. The inside tendons of his thighs ached, and he was starting to mind that, a little. "'S sensitive."
Then England's caress paused over America's cigarette burn. America blinked.
It was as though England's fingers were attracted by the unexpectedness of it. They traced the scar once, twice, skimmed the edge. "This is a burn, isn't it?"
America caught England's hand and drew him firmly away from it. "Yes."
Not there.
England's eyes flicked from the burn to America's face. "I see." His voice betrayed nothing, and he directed his attentions elsewhere, touched a kiss to America's sternum. He made no move to reach for the mark again.
"England..." America hesitated. His hand drew down England's back to curl around his shoulder blade. "I'm, um. I'm glad this happened."
England stilled. America felt him breathing for a few seconds, before he levered himself up an inch and pulled out. He nestled their hips together as he lay back down. "As am I," he murmured. "I had been...anticipating something like it, and--" A little smile. "I was not disappointed."
"Me too," America mumbled, and nudged a kiss against England's lips. He cupped the turn of England's jaw. "I mean, me neither. But I mean--" Another kiss. "I also figured that sooner or later we'd, um..."
It faded out into a quiet spate of kisses and fingers twining gently into hair. No, America wasn't disappointed.
That wasn't the right word.
He didn't feel like working out what the right word was, and after a few minutes England's nails caught against his bruises, and so he didn't have to.
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--The British Invasion is the term used to describe the massive surge of Anglomania which gripped the United States from 1964 to 1966, as British music took over American airwaves and British artists set the trends for American culture. Rarely in world history has one actual historical nation wanted to bone another nation so badly.
--"We've been pretending this never happened since 1803." -- Jay's Treaty, a strange little codependent curlicue of post-Revolutionary US-UK relations, expired in 1803. As did (in TCE canon) America and England's supremely dysfunctional sex life.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.