I don't know if you've noticed… but there has been a rather sudden incline of UKUS fanfics. As a person that frankly loathes UKUS, I had to do something. Especially when my beloved, beloved USUK keeps getting mislabelled… be careful of the order, guys. Some have strict preferences, like I do.

This is an RP with my newest plaything – I mean, RP buddy – StarSpangledSilence from here on FF. (Not my girlfriend, but I do adore this one. Just not quite the same way).

Without further ado!

Coalescence – The Process of Becoming One

As he held onto his cocktail glass - cocktail glass, really! Since when did he ever drink pina coladas so frequently? - a certain pair of curious green eyes surveyed the crowd. Nation after nation laughed, drunk, and conversed with their friends and neighbouring countries. All in all, it was a friendly and joyous occasion, with a few mishaps like broken glasses - to which a few of the Southern European countries cheered for particularly - and tipsy shouts to add some spice into their evening.

The annual get-together was ordinarily America's idea, and to be honest it was a good one; no humans allowed, they kept themselves to themselves, happiness getting shared through the bundles of those that bothered to come, or at least out of those invited. Naturally, a few middle Eastern countries were noticeably missing, along with a certain Russian. It was nice. For the most part.

England watched the proceedings from the next floor, taking pride in a little bit of 'quiet time' as people below him tugged one another to the designated dance floor for a little bit of Salsa along with the fast paced music. He was waiting carefully for the sudden moment where it switches to a waltz, and the couples/non-couples that had paired together tried to dance with one another in a romantic way. Last time when France and Prussia were making fun of Spain's flamenco style dancing, it had turned into a slow, ballroom number. Gave him quite a laugh, honestly. A good disguise for the utterly bitter mood he was currently in.

America was, as ever, proud of his party idea. Every year, it had been a huge success- not one nation declined, and all were invited. Some needed persuading to come- "Kiku, it'll be fun! We'll serve free sake!"- but in the end, everyone came. And when they came, they danced, they laughed, they occasionally cried and fought as all nations do when locked up together, and they got dead drunk. This party was no different, of course. America's bright blue orbs gleamed as they probed the crowd of people, searching for someone else to talk to, a glass of champagne (fancy, yeah?) in his hand.

His search was short. The corners of his lips pulled up seeing one pair of overly bushy, wildly grown English eyebrows (they were attractive in a weird way), and a pair of brilliantly green eyes, mere splinters of radioactive emerald. Of course America went over, taking a bold swig of his drink, tasting the alcohol. "Iggy!"

Instantaneously, England's head slumped on top of the balcony banister and a loud, shrill groan left his lips. Trust; if anyone would interrupt his momentary tranquillity, it would be that man - the loudmouth of the world, the confidence trickster with nothing of note up his sleeves, one of the downright stupidest people that England had ever had the (dis)pleasure of being acquainted with. He was also special. The golden boy; the King of the hour. Re-surfacing, his eyes reduced to pin pricks to narrow their gaze.

"Lord and Heaven above." He commented, swirling his cloudy drink in one hand. "I have not nearly had enough drink to tolerate you for a single moment, America. Especially not when you use that blasted nickname. Piss off, will you?"

It was a normal enough greeting for a drunk England. Had he not been drunk, it would have been prim and proper and stiff like something was stuck up his ass. But in the wrong direction. "Good to see ya too, Iggy," came the cheerful reply, as the American took a long drink from his tall glass of bubbly, almost cider-like champagne. "You got something on your face- oh, wait, it's just the eyebrows! Haha!" And he laughed, casually, tossing his golden bangs back, sweaty from the partying atmosphere.

He honestly hadn't meant it. Personally, he found the eyebrows adorable and an inevitable addition to the Briton's face. And let's face it- even America knew that England was dead sexy for such an old man, such eyes, eyes that could dream, a fine, shaped nose, lips that weren't too full or too pinched (unless he was glaring at America- whole other story), a pointed chin. It all suited him well. If only he weren't such a priss.

The eyebrows, features of the moment, furrowed darkly almost instantaneously. He scowled deeply, bubbling of annoyance murmuring through him; knuckles tightening on the cocktail glass. "I think you need your glasses fixed, America. Or are you seeing double already? My eyebrows are absolutely bleeding fine, and I do not want to have another argument about this. I already smacked France around the head this morning, America. I suggest you get on your bike too!"

It delighted him to see England this angry. But America was also confused. On his bike? Maybe the Englishman had had just a little too much to drink that night... "Hey, Iggy, I don't have a bike. But if you wanted a ride, I'm sure I could find something!" stifling a laugh at how bright and innocent that sounded, America finished off his glass and set it on the ground, crossing his arms.

England stared at him blankly, as if he could not get the meaning of the joke. What was he—Oh. Oh, that blasted—"On your bike! Hop it! It means to jolly well fuck off and leave me in peace, alright?" The chronically British accent slurred, and gave a wild pointing gesture to further ram the point home. "It was lovely and peaceful until you came and ruined it."

"Hop...it?" America shook his head and reached over, tilting the Briton's finger down (it had been pointing somewhere to his left.) "I think you've had a little too much to drink, now. You were always back with self control, you know?" Conversationally, America reached in, took his arm, and began to lead him away from the banister.

The resistance was not immediate, but strong all the same. England whipped his arm away, swivelling around and pointing his finger accusingly at the American. "I suggest you not try me, lad." He scathed, and reached to place his drink down next to America's. "You have a party to run - why don't you go and be a social butterfly somewhere else?"

"Woah, chill." America's hands went up, but his expression became kind of skeptical, challenging. "I was going to help run that party by making sure my guests weren't all drunk and lonely out here. But you know what? Whatever." He turned away, just a bit, before turning back. He took England's drinking glass back up. "You're not having anymore."

England watched, utterly bewildered as his glass was snatched. He had only put it down so that he could interact without distractions and having one hand full! He reached out and placed a hand on America's shoulder, turning him around abruptly. "Excuse me? Where on Earth are you going with that?" England asked, unamused. He held out his hand. "Give me my drink, America."

The American smirked and drew away, holding the glass high up. The remaining liquid inside sloshed around the curved sides, warning. "I was going to dump it. You've drunk too much again. It's not even my birthday yet," he challenged, blue gems glinting.

If England's face represented a clock, he would have just struck the hour; whole expression flinching at that one mention. He held out his hand even more insistently, taking a step forwards. "You will give me back my drink, America, or God help me I will lose my patience."

America stepped back one, but his expression hadn't changed. "Ooh. Scary." He knew it was all just making the Brit madder, but it gave him some dark, internal satisfaction deep down. "I'm not gonna give it back. You lose your patience all the time."

"Are you determined to make me want to throw you off of this indoor balcony of yours, America? Because don't think I won't!" England snapped, and made a lunge for his pina colada. Fine, it was not like he was desperate for the drink - it was all out of principle. America had absolutely no right to deny it to him; thus, he started acting stubbornly like a child, only wanting something when it was taken away.

America's eyes widened, and he caught England around the waist, where he'd been seconds away from either tumbling down a set of stairs or falling clear off a railing, both of which would have been unusually painful. "Dude!" The drink splattered as America staggered back from the impact, dragging them both onto the floor, the sweet liquid dripping everywhere. "You need some anger management or something, crap, did you see that?" Good thing he'd been a hero.

Straightening up, England shot daggers in the form of glares at America; wiping down his now somewhat wet shirt. "Oh! Now look what you've done!" He growled as if it was all America's fault that his nice three piece ensemble was mortifyingly maimed by effectively water.

"What I've done?" America looked at him incredulously, some of the drink dipping down his hair, down his nose, and yes, his own button up and jeans were pretty messed up too. He got up and looked England in the eye. "I think I just saved you, that's what I've done! You're too damn drunk!"

"I'm not drunk, you moron!" England continued, ripping his tailored glove off of his hand and chucking it straight at America's boisterous, stupid face. "I only had two and a half pina coladas! Do you even know how many units there are in a pina colada? Only about two!"

"Look, you're even stripping!" Accused the American, holding up the glove as shameful evidence. "You are drunk! You just tore that off and threw it at my face!" it was kind of a girly thing to do, America mentally noted, but didn't say it aloud. "You're drunk! Accept it, British one!"

"I threw it at your face because I think it looks prettier when I can't see it! And I am not stripping - I just had nothing else to throw at you!" England further complained, and roughly staggered to his feet.

America glared. "Well, I think your face looks better when your eyebrows aren't growing all over it!" He went there. And just glared. It frustrated him, honestly, how badly they always fought with each other every time they saw each other, regardless of how it started.

England bristled and stared at him wide-eyedly, as if he was just about to run over and smack him - white hot temper turning almost too scorching to bear. "One more word, America."

"Bingo." The American stood his ground.

That was it. England stormed straight over to him and smack the bastard, he very well did. The noise was even audible over the music that nations were still obliviously dancing to on the floor below. Huffing, England held his now stinging hand in the air; ready to strike twice, unlike lightning, if needed be.

Did England just... Hit him? If America weren't so frustrated, he would have laughed. Instead, he caught the Englishman's wrist before his next strike and slammed him up against the wall, blue eyes narrowed, looming over him. "That was a really bad move. You're pissing me off, Arthur."

Had he not been so hot-headed, England would have realised that he had gone far, far over the line. As it happened, he merely narrowed his eyes further until they were almost detesting slits, and shook his wrists to try escape. "Maybe you should have held your tongue in the first place," he grumbled.

"Or maybe you should stop being so damn selfish and realise-" His grip on that bony wrist tightened. "-that I'm not always fucking trying to do you in. Maybe, you could stop acting like you got something stuck up that tight ass of yours. Maybe you'll learn a couple of things!" They glared at each other there, seething in the dim light.

England tried not to let it show on his face that America's grip was hurting a lot, cutting off the circulation to his hand. He could not stop himself from wincing, but maintained his supposed strength. "You should realise yourself, America, that I was perfectly happy until you came along. Who is the problem-child now?"

And he was still arguing! God, would it kill the man to get along? "Shut the fuck up!" America pressed their foreheads together, an intimate gesture that lacked all the intimacy in the world. "Is it a sin to talk to you now? You're getting old, that's it. Every time I come near you start bitching on me like some damn cat!"

"It's only because you, you damn idiot, make me so restless." England gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply, displaying his scathing discomfort, breathing in America's scent because he was just so... so close...

"So it's my fault again? Dirty liar. You make me just as restless, just as frustrated, just as-" A glare, he couldn't finish the sentence, only pushed him harder into the wall, his glasses slipping from the sweat that had formed, the tension forming hot air all around them both, thickening the invisible steam that trapped both men.

"...As...?" England prompted, panting from overexertion over America's lips.

Just as fucking horny, for one thing. There was nothing hotter than England when he was set on edge. A seconds hesitation, then America roughly crushed their lips together, all need and anger, forcing his tongue inside of his mouth.

America was the golden boy; the shining star of the moment, the superpower of the world. He infuriated him entirely, and he was at times stupid beyond compare. But he was also he most attractive nation England had the (dis)pleasure of knowing in a long, long time. He was incomparable - and he loathed it. He loathed the fact that he loved America so much.

England instantly begun kissing back, tilting his head so America could get better access to his opened mouth. Arms wrapped around his neck, tugging the other man closer onto him. It was nonsensical - it was pathetic, annoying, and ruthlessly agitating - but it was also right.

Ooh- that felt nice. The American pulled that slim form close, and they stayed that way, flush against each other, kissing as if their lives depended on it. America devoured that mouth- dominating the kiss entirely, claiming, possessive arms came around him, he could taste that alcohol on his lips.

Years of sexual frustration burst into fireworks.

England was the one that broke it; which was amazing, since it was his head forced up against the wall. Maybe America just knew exactly when he needed oxygen. He panted, eyes will narrow but they were half-lidded in another fashion entirely. "...United States of America..." His low pitched voice whispered, along with audible breaths. "That was one hell of a kiss."

America took in the way England looked up, alluringly, through those long, translucent lashes, felt himself weaken just that much. "Arthur Kirkland." His voice was stronger, but filled with the same want. "I'll show you much more than a kiss." His blue eyes, usually the colour of summer skies, darkened.

"You better," England growled under his breath, deliberately pushing up against him, chest aligned to chest. His hands fisted in America's clothing, putting at the fabric hard enough for there to be a few clicks from stretched threads. "Or I'll never forgive you for your imprudence."

"I've been known for being imprudent, y'know."

The American slid his hands down, squeezing the Brit's ass before lifting so that England's legs could wrap around. His previous fury flooded his body with adrenaline, a trickle of sweat running down his neck, and America carried England to his bedroom. A large portrait of Washington stood across from the four poster, his star spangled sheets messily made from this morning, and that's where America deposited him.

England snorted, looking at the gigantic portrait of the first president of independent America. He rolled his eyes and laid back, legs still wrapped fully around America's hips. "Two things; firstly, what about all the other guests?"

"Screw the other guests." America didn't bat an eye, but his hands twitched with want at the sight of the disheveled Englishman laid out in front of him. "What's the other?"

"George is watching me." England said, indicating to the portrait behind the American, smirking dangerously.

And he was. George Washington's soulful eyes looked at them both, his expression somber, almost curious. America snorted. "Well, he did tell us to screw the British and start over." But he detached himself from England and drew the curtains around that portrait. Having your dad watch as you were about to have sex would have been too awkward, especially in their case.

Then he closed the door, but left it unlocked, heading back to his Englishman, wanting. "Now we play."

"So," England mused, rolling over onto his stomach and glancing at America over his shoulder, gazing through thick sets of darkish blond eyelashes. "Do you take frustrated Britons back to your bedside often?"

England was just asking for it. Slowly, America crawled over him, his weight entirely on his elbows as he leaned down to brush his lips against the nape of England's neck, that glimpse of skin. "Maybe I do, but I never seen one as good as this." He lowered his hips just a bit, getting his half hard length rub against his ass.

"That's a no, then." England interpreted, letting out a long, simmering 'mmm' as America rocked his erection over the clothed and most protruding curve on his body. He flipped back over and grabbed America's collar, roughly pulling him up and over the top of him. Emerald eyes bore onto cerulean so darkly, so intensely. "But that's okay. Neither do I." He tittered and sealed their mouths again in another incessant, pushy kiss.

And who was America to start an argument when they could be fucking? He returned the kiss, slipping their tongues together, mind filled with that dark green, enchanted, caught, almost. Then he pulled back and his fingers began to impatiently tug at the Englishman's suit, fumbling with the buttons, frustration growing. "You're still the same in bed, you know that? It's a good thing you're sexy as hell."

"Sexy as hell - that's a new one." The Briton mumbled, amused.

England watched America clumsily fumble with the buttons and rolled his eyes. He nudged those long, slender hands away and got to finishing it himself. Once done, he parted the fabric to reveal a soft body - not devoid of muscle but not overloaded; rather, a plethora of sleek curves as the line of his body moved down fluidly to his hips, and pallid skin, only tainted by scars of wars left far, far behind.

America's eyes took that all in, every inch of that pale, silky skin, and his arousal only grew. Maybe- just maybe there was a reason all these countries wanted to have trade relations with the Briton, despite how disagreeable he could be. A tongue traced up the curve of England's neck, and America suckled that soft skin, moving to that milky throat, hands roaming to his heart's content.

Sighing in satisfaction, England tilted his head to give the other nation more access; licking his own lips as he imagined what it would be like to watch it occurring - an out-of-body experience. Yet, being right in the front seat was the most gratifying of all. America's tongue performed wonders, allowing the hairs on the back of his neck to bristle and stand on end. "Most attentive a man, aren't you?"

"What, you never knew that?" came the slightly muffled reply, as America kissed down to a pink nipple, and curled his tongue about it, teasing it to hardness, hands now at the Briton's belt. If he had known that his England were this- that England were this good, and vice versa, it might have saved a lot of controversy. Texas fogged up.

America's work earned a sharp intake of breath, and England was disarmed and powerless to resist as the tongue slipped over his skin - of which tasted vaguely alcoholic after their earlier accident. He smiled crookedly, hands slowly making their way up from America's shoulders and clutching in his perfectly blond hair.

"Not bad, huh?" America whispered, his mouth lavishing that one abused nub with kisses and nibbles, lifting a hand and flicking the other, wanting to make the Brit lose it. His other hand slipped in his pants, under that loosened belt, and slowly stroked him through that thin layer of fabric.

"...Better if you stopped treating me like this isn't a spur of the moment shag." England snapped at him, shuffling uncomfortably as America's palm glided over his covered skin. While not quite as solid as America, he was still developing in hardness; stimulation helping wonders. But hot as it was, it was disconcerting too. So delicate were those hands; frustratingly so. He was treating him like a lover. Oblivious to how it hurt.

A small frown appeared on the American's face, his jaw set, a small sigh. "Right. Was just...warming up, 's all." He'd finally gotten the opportunity to touch the man, and...it was about the closest to a rejection as they could get in their position. America yanked down England's dress pants, a little bitterly, and leaned in to kiss once more.

This was nothing gentle and longing. This was ferocious, a deep kiss, almost like a war between their lips.

Like surging battles and rough seas. Their tongues clashed for dominance, although the victor was obvious. Fight back as he might, England went willingly as America's tongue delve into his mouth and tasted him for all that he was worth. He merely sucked in return, taking in as much of America as he could get, while he deliberately spread his legs for the other to accommodate him in-between.

And America did, he pushes their hips together, searching for that spark of friction, the spark of pleasure that would soon make him forget it all. And it was such a good kiss, the best he'd ever- they pulled back, panting, that one string of translucent saliva slicking them together. And America was the first to break that connection this time, determined. He pulled down England's boxers, leaving him naked, and frankly, vulnerable on the bed below him.

It was immediately clear that England found this to be entirely unfair - and not for bad reason. He squirmed unhappily; curling his knees to cover his crotch and folding his hands over his body to conceal that from view too, making him arch and seem more flexible than ever. "This is not right—!" He complained, eyes raking up and down the American. "You haven't taken a single thing off yet!"

The American involuntarily licked his lips, watching as England writhed around and hid himself from view. Then he sighed and raised an eyebrow. "Well- who says you get to see me all naked anyway? Isn't that...a lover's privilege?" he countered, watching his flexible partner.

"Who said you could see me entirely naked, you greedy thief? Stealing my humanity!" England growled in response, tightening his legs in half and bringing his knees all the way to touch his chest. He swallowed slowly, and let his eyes befall America again. "You say only a lover gets to see you in your splendour?"

America hesitated, thought it over. Then nodded, and just stripped. The black shirt slipped off of his broad shoulders, and he pulled off his jeans and boxers in one. "Only."

He was quiet for the first time.

England was frozen and silent too, looking on as America ridded himself and them of all barriers. A startled heart erupted in the Englishman's chest, suddenly thumping so vigorously that it could be seen making his ribcage jolt. Goosebumps were on his arms. The implications were so immense.

Slowly, green orbs rolled upwards, catching America in the eyes. "...Alfred...?" He murmured, breathless.

It was like time had frozen. America finally met those green eyes again, and for a moment- something soft and pure and magical. But that disappeared, and America broke that silence. "Look, Arthur- even if you push me away again, it doesn't mean we can't fuck, alright? So we may as well just get it over with." It was a little bitter, but for him, America pulled on a small smile.

"...Shut up." England commanded, and slid closer. His fingertips lifted into the air and he delicately brushed them against the American's soft cheek, feeling the curvature of his skin and buzzing at the way it radiated heat. Did he realise he was blushing profusely? Like he had made a startling discovery but would not speak of it?

England should know. He felt exactly the same.

Soft lips pressed against America's; not pushy, forceful, nor clashing. This time it was chaste. Genteel, even. Questioning.

America had felt like an island through all this, and he'd just been devoured by feeling. First rage, then confusion, then, at those soft, warm lips against his own, a nameless, overwhelming emotion that made him ache. He kissed back, his own lips moving against the electricity, and this kiss, ever so soft, felt more alive than any of the previous.

He pushed England back on the bed, towering over him, much softer now.

Much slower this time, England sunk back against the sheets and broke the kiss; brilliant eyes glimmering, as if with hope. Crushing hope, that tugged even his own heart knowing he was not a man that easily received everything he wanted. Or needed; if not only now, after the prospects were jangled straight, cruelly, in front of his face. "...I am not deaf, Alfred." He whispered. "I am a poet at heart. I know implications when I see them."

America looked into those glistening green gems. "You might be a poet, and you can see implications-" He tilted his head. "But I'm an artist. I feel things before I see them, and I believe in dreams." And every time they touched- wasn't it electrifying, liberating? Wasn't it special? America's eyes had softened now, looking at the Englishman- no less lust, but just...a hint more.

"Even dreams that can so easily become real...?" England murmured, arching upwards and leaning into those lips; merely millimetres away, but without letting their bodies touch. No contact, apart from a nurturing hand smoothing down America's cheek, tilting his chin upwards.

"But was it really that easy?" One eye cracked open, showing just a splinter of brilliant blue. The line between them had been so fragile nowadays, the tension and pulling from both of them had reduced it to little wisps clinging together. "I want you," America let him know.

"Good." England slurred, naked legs beginning to stroke a path up America's calves, thighs, and finally his hips; wrapping around him in a perfect hold, erections delicately rubbing. "...Because I need you."

The American nation let out a low groan and pushed down, never knowing the full potential of eroticism that England had. Quickly, he shifted back, and nudged those long legs of his wider apart, rubbing at that small entrance with a finger. "I don't think I have lube."

"I have a mouth, and I am not afraid to use it." England pointed out, although still pressed himself down to chase more stimulation from the fingertip rubbing his needy entrance, which even twitched with want.

America saw it, giving a small smirk. "Desperate?" He lifted three fingers up to said mouth, and pressed them in. He immediately felt the wet muscled glide over them, shivering.

"Impatient." England answered, before his mouth was filled to the brim with fingers. He sucked lightly, letting America judge how soaked they were while he enjoyed the moment. Swirling his tongue over the rough underside made him bristle, taste buds so sensitive and ticklish. Getting an idea from the sensitivity, England forced his tongue into the gap between two fingers, licking the crevice right at the end in order to make America squirm.

America slipped his fingers away before his thoughts turned too devious and stared at England. Had he done that on purpose, the sly little...? Nonetheless, he placed his dripping fingers now at that tiny hole, rubbing around it, just slipping in before gliding right back out. Finally, after teasing a few more seconds, his first finger slid in.

Never before had a man been so terribly teasing to him, and England almost gurgled with pleasure by the time a finger had even been inserted inside of him up to the first knuckle. There was so many nerves on the rim of his entrance that he almost craved the stimulation again when the saliva slick digit plunged in his body. "Aaah..." He sighed, drawling as he spanned his legs further apart. He knew his vices by now; impossibly tight, suffocating heat being the most alluring of them all. He was good, even for seconds.

He was going to be tight. America could tell this by the time the first finger was inside, and he twisted it around just slightly to loosen the taut muscles. A long while of probing and spreading, and then he pressed in that second finger- the two digits immediately clamped together by his tight opening.

England stayed still, merely concentrating on not letting his muscles tighten and constrict around America's digits any more than natural; knowing that if he did not relax, it would hurt a lot more. Instead he watched the expressions flit over America's face, amusement and longing far too clear. The discomfort of his erection was getting to him, he knew. England could see it; that dusky pink head throbbing hotly in the cool, crisp air, waiting to be rammed home and delivered. Somehow. How America fitted that glorious cock of his in his trousers, he would never know.

America's concentration was evident. He had managed to scissor the entrance wide enough to snugly fit two fingers, and he now added a third, cramming inside now. "How...Arthur, you're not a virgin, are you?" Either that, or he hadn't had any action in over a couple of decades. He licked his lips in anticipation, his cock twitching after noticing just how tight it was after just three fingers. Fuck.

England felt like he could have exploded into a fit of laughter, but managed to hold himself steady. He shook his head. "No. No, I'm not." He said with some amusement, bucking down against the intruding objects spreading him wide apart, swallowing them further inside; but not far enough. "It's been a few months?" He affirmed, as if that was clarification enough.

"Months...?" breathed America, mystified. It was true that England was small, slender, with curves that could make America drool if he thought about them long- well. He was unbearably tight, and he finally managed to squeeze in a third finger, trying to spread them apart and stretch properly.

"You're so...so, so tight."

England snorted, shaking his head. Too much nostalgia of insults far past by now. 'Too uptight even for the stick up his ass' was one that reoccurred. "I could joke about how I find it hard to 'open up'," England begun, licking his lips as his lower half was pushed purposefully apart. Heat was building in his stomach, stacking and stacking. "But even that would be tasteless."

"I wouldn't have joked about it if I knew it meant I'd never get in it," America told him. He'd never have said anything if he'd known that maybe England didn't hate his guts out. The finger were pulled out. "I want you. Now." And yes, his erection was needy and had beads of pre-cum forming by now. He spread that, hoping it would provide As good enough lubricant.

England saw his straining need and sat up, sucking a long, preparing breath. America was large and experience told him far, far too many times that this was going to hurt. The biggest boys always did. "How do you want to do this...?" The Briton purred, lightly stroking his fingertips from America's collar bones right the way down to his stomach. "Missionary? Behind? Riding?"

The American's breath hitched, grew heavier. That silky, seductive voice- voice of a young god, honestly- "Anything, fuck, anything-" Images blurred, those hazed green eyes and those long fingers, his smile, everything- "Come on, ride me then..." The American first pulled him over, kiss blazing through them. "So I'll go deeper-"

England pushed him towards the headboard, making the American settle sitting up, resting against the cushions just in case he jarred and banged himself otherwise. Lips sealed over America's, and while guided by the other's hands, he soon had himself positioned over the top of his cock; ready to plunge his heat-oozing head inside of his body with not a moment to spare. Grasping hold of both America's cheeks, he angled his face so England could kiss him deeply, rubbing the pre-cumming shaft under his eager entrance.

A groan, feeling that tight hole at his sensitive head, and he was kissing England, they were really going to do this, weren't they- America let out a curse, feeling that suffocating heat clench and descend around his dark red, straining cock; it was heaven, was hell, they both moaned into the kiss, and kissed harder yet, easing through the penetration.

"A-Alfred—!" He had to gasp to stop himself from crying out, stifling his attempt at noise. Just as he predicted; it hurt. A combination of no real lubricant, him being too small, and America just being far, far too large for his body. As he pushed down, devouring America's cock into his barely accepting body, England remembered his limps trembling - almost as much as the oscillating heart ramming away in his chest.

But it felt oddly good. Maybe he was a masochist. Or maybe it was just because it was him. He could bear it, just. Trying not to make any more noises than a few struggling breaths, England pressed their lips together so frantically, so desperately, that it was like he was trying to merge the two of them as one.

America pressed back against him, as if that would ease some of the burn of penetrating, because even he could feel how he had barely managed to cram himself inside. And, oh, the bliss- He ravished England's mouth entirely, taking it all, eyes half lidded and swirling with lust. In all his relevantly, reasonably short life- America had never felt so completed, or so pleasured in such a way. It was almost dirty- here was his caretaker, the man who had raised him and bathed him, his worst enemy, his closest ally- with him, in his bed, doing such filthy, wonderful things. With a small noise, America bucked up.

"...Ngn... T-There. That's all of you..." England declared, trying not to let his voice break out into a not so prideful whimper. He laughed shakily, just as amazed as America was that they were doing this. They were having sex. The Briton found America's hands and forcibly clasped them at his hips, laying his own on top. Using America's added strength, he slid himself up on that throbbing shaft, twitching with need, and slumped back down again heavily. A bitter moan left his lips, and he tossed his head back. "Oh, oh… United States...!" Formal title bubbling from his mouth scandalously, but seductively.

Did he really just call him that? It was the stupidest, sexiest, most arousing thing he'd ever heard up to now, and America let out a slightly animalistic, wanting growl, his hands guiding the slender hips in movement and weight.

"E-England...oh, God, Englaaand..." He could feel every inch of that beautiful hole clinging onto him as England was lifted up, and then at the down, all the heat flushed back and sent pleasurable jolts back up his spine.

England rose and repeated the motion, picking up a steady pace, starting to get a feel for it as he effectively balanced and bounced his hips over America's erection. The difficulty and pain was written all over his face, eyebrows turned upwards as if worriedly and his lower lip trembling slightly; but he continued all the same. Letting America's hands keep guiding him solo, England wrapped his arms around his chest and neck, clinging on for lineage and comfort. He buried his head on America's shoulder, stifling his noises.

It was then that America heard a small whimper, coming somewhere from his left, where England had been hiding his face now as they moved. And now another one- high pitched and pained. America stopped moving after that. "England...? Arthur?" He was questioning. "You okay there?"

A slow nod was the response, and England re-surfaced. His cheeks were sporting a burning red blush, dustings of pink, and those lids were at half mast. "I'm fine, Alfred." He murmured, stroking his finger underneath America's chin. "Because it's you. Don't stop now."

He was beautiful like that, his face a sinful scarlet, dark green standing out, his sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead- which America slowly brushed away. Even he knew that it wasn't very functional or realistic to cram something that big up a man and expect him to just feel good. "Alright." He gave those parted lips a soft kiss. "But if you cant take it anymore...let me know."

England exhaled a laugh, and shook his head. "As if I'd do that." He whispered against America's lips, before they pushed back together; fitting like pieces of a puzzle, clinging and needing. By now, while the pain was not entirely subsiding, England was getting used to it. He slammed his body up and down on America's cock, more and more pre-cum protruding from the other's tip making his descend and ascend gradually easier.

A contented hum escaped America's lips as England sank back down on him, and he pushed up, just so- "Masochist. You've always been that way..." Their cadence grew wilder, heated breathing and eventually, America had to close his eyes at that blazing pleasure. This was most definitely a treat, he'd never had anyone so tight and so warm around him before, and it just made a world of difference that it was England.

Pulling his arms back from hugging around America's torso, England leant back and got a better feel for what he was doing. The rises and slumps were gaining in pace, muscles contorting and clamping with faster degrees of heat. Then there was a sudden call from British lungs, and England's eyes flew open; though they were unseeing. A plethora of stars and black and white shimmering through his vision like a head rush. "A-Alfred...!"

There. That was it. That one angle that was finally discovered as America shifted them, gazing at his partner, whose eyes were still quite wide, the pleasure in them evident, his expression now rather wild. Like that, in that angle, America bucked up into him, felt those snug walls constricting. "You like that?" America's voice had grown somewhat hoarse.

"Is there anyone in the world who would not like that?" England moaned through belated breath, panting loudly as another combined thrust up from one and down from the other plunged America deep into his body again, jamming his prostate dead-on. "Alfred, I-I can't—" He gritted out through his teeth, legs beginning to tremble too much for him to lift himself up from the immediate pleasure.

America's hands, calloused and slightly rough but strong, came and lifted England's shaking hips, guiding him through the entire process. It was all the more arousing, now that he could hear, practically feel England's satisfaction radiating from that supple form, and, much more quickly, America began thrusting up.

England called out for more; even if it was not verbally, the way his expression was tugged into silent joy and lungs ceased, almost voluntarily causing asphyxiation from pleasure, were perfect signs. The world shuddered deliriously around him, and he could not concentrate on anything other than those hands, that cock – his face; that was the most alluring of all. America looked downright gorgeous, arousal written all over him. It was not another thrust that made England reach his inevitable climax, but the way his lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. He shouted America's name, spilling across their chests.

He clenched. Ever so tightly, he clenched, and oh, the way he called out his name, desperately, as if, maybe, America were the one most dear to him, most beloved- The American felt his ironclad, heroic heart flutter before he came as well, shooting the warm fluid up and deep into England- before it gushed out from lack of space. America pulled England down to him.

Once it was over, England stayed in his position; warmed by the essence dripping out of him. He leant down and captured America's lips, delicately cupping his chin. This time was more romantic than before, post-coital caringly. Slowly, he lifted and slid America out of him, cum spilling down his thighs, before he laid down next to him; still huffing for breath. "Alfred, I..."

America really liked that kiss. Hollywood dreams and American hopes bursting as he gazed into those green eyes, and then took in that supple, slender form, all pale skin and fine features, scattered scars and faraway fights. "Yeah?" He didn't sound annoying, or loud this time. It was soft.

As England wrapped his arms around America's torso, slyly pressing their naked forms together, he closed his eyes and relaxed. He flopped his head on the other's shoulder, enjoying this. Not fighting for once, not acting discomforted. It was nice. "...Nothing." He said, deciding against ruining it. Why take the risk?

America looked at him, carefully, sweat soaked skin on skin, soothing, comfortable. He didn't want to ruin it either, as he was afraid to do if he should kill that silence with words. But then, really, when would he get another chance? Wasn't that what being American was about, taking opportunities?

He took a breath, and tilted his head down a bit. "Well. I've...I've got something I want to say to you."

As America looked down, England gazed up; the whole Earth in their eyes of earthly green and sea blue. "Do you?"

The man swallowed, clearing his throat. Then he gave a nervous laugh. "I'm kind of scared to say it. Promise...not to run out of the room screaming?" His arm instinctively curled around that slim figure.

"That's certainly a first. You, afraid to let your words be heard." England said adoringly, trying to ignore the ache of his hips as he shimmied closer, extending his neck to give the American a kiss underneath the jut of his jaw. "I cannot promise until I know, Alfred."

That kiss comforted him a but, that sweet disposition more so. "Well." He swallowed. "I guess there's no other way to say it. You can't hate without passion, and you can't be angry without passion. We've been through all that, so I guess the last part...would just be...I...Aw, you're making me sound like a girl!" He complained.

"Just say it, Alfred!" England prompted, nudging him. "Christ—Why are you making it so difficult? It's like you're trying to tell me that you love me!"

America froze, breathing turning a bit shallow. "No, course not! I just...ha..." His smile never faded.

The slimmer framed man paused, broke away, stared, heart pumping faster. Breathless. "Alfred—Alfred, you weren't...?"

America laughed, widely, freely. "Course not! To...to you? Never! Why would I... Was just gonna ask...spaceship..." His eyes went slightly cold.

England lost his patience. Why waffle with words, terminology, when there was something between them that he could feel? Attentive, controlling, insistent-But there. Theirs. He grabbed hold of America's chin and wrenched it upwards so they looked eye to eye, straightening himself out. "...Say it."

America bit his lip, looking at those startling green gems. Then looked away. Their line was delicate enough, and England, yes England had made it clear enough what he thought of the matter.

He looked down. "It was nothing."

"Oh, like bloody hell was it nothing." England growled, and forced their lips together almost bruisingly. The clash softened quickly, till the Briton was merely making love to him with his lips, deepening the kiss until it made a fierce, sticky pop when he parted it again. "I... I think I might... you, America—Alfred—I..."

"I love you." Alfred opened his eyes and struggled up, reaching for his clothes, pulling his shirt back over his head, messing up that gelled hair.

"You love me," England sighed mystically, as if he just could not believe it. How could he be hearing those words? After all the hatred they had been through? The fights, the clash, the chaos... the... the feelings. Feelings of annoyance, frustration... longing. Since when did his world start revolving all around him?

Glancing up, England was startled to see America beginning to get changed. "...Alfred, wait—!" After shouting it on the spur of the moment, he went utterly silent; mouth open and tongue-tied, staring up frantically at him, afraid he'd just leave.

America stopped, underpants halfway on, then shrugged and proceeded to dress. He'd known what would happen. England would regain his full motherly senses and start by loving hugs and gentle kisses, then explain, in pity, how sorry, how very sorry he was. No, he'd already left his pride back there, he might as well leave like a man. "Look, Arthur. England. It's okay, alright? I got it...I just had to put it out there."

"No Alfred, fucking heck. It's not okay! You're trying to walk out on me without even listening to me!" England snapped at him. Feelings of hope from the discovery boiling and converting to feelings of anger in such quick succession - one of the things that made him special. "Stop it, stay there, and listen!"

Well, at that, America stopped. So it was worse than that, England was pissed off. Dreading it, America turned, stiffly, and stared.

With some difficulty, England tried to raise himself to his feet. The going was unsteady since he was standing on a bed, and his body was still trembling from their sex. Evidence of that, by now, was trailing down his thighs. A furious finger was pointed in America's direction. "I am... I'm in love with you, Jones!" He scathed, and then weakly smiled - too overwhelmed not to. "I love you, you bastard. As if you are too stupid to see that...!"

A moment of silence. America's mouth was slightly open, and he stared at his godlike British love, hardly daring to believe it- maybe his happily ever after was just around the corner, was even closer than he'd thought... A small smile spread on his face, before he was laughing, jumping on the bed, and pulling that silly, loveable Brit of his into his arms.

Said Brit exclaimed in surprise, wind almost knocked straight out of him as America overbalanced and pulled him down onto the bed. They landed with a soft flump, and England barked out a laugh. What was that, they say, about 'falling in love'? "...You are the most difficult man alive." He said adoringly.

America had his arms wrapped around that warm, breathing figure, and he leaned in boldly and kissed England on the cheek. "And you complain like a girl!" He whispered, affectionately.

England snorted in annoyance. "I don't get it." He verbalised. "Why you? Why, of everyone, did it have to be you?"

Special. His golden boy. King of the hour, probably king of his heart as well.

A small pout, as America moved down, nuzzling his cheek and his neck in total devotion, blue eyes bright in the close darkness now. The sun had set close to an hour before- "You got lucky," he murmured. "And got the hero." The stars were shining.

"Well, mm. In that case... poor, neglected little world." England smirked, leaning over so their eyes could meet and connect. "...I'm going to have to keep the 'hero' all for myself." He said seductively, before sealing their feelings with a kiss, clamping on for dear, dear love - making sure that he knew that he was all his.

While this is a one-shot, StarSpangledSilence and I intend to make this into a series of related one-shots. Call this the start of the relationship. Life will go on from there.

(If there is any particular situation you'd like to see, we'll see what we can do?)

I asked her what she wanted to put as a afterword. She replied; 'Uh... 'dont judge me I love Zoe?'', so I guess that's what I'll put xD. FYI, that's my name.

Thank you for having the patience to read this, even to those who skimmed. (You know who you are). Cheers~!