Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters, nor will I ever do so. This is not for profit. The only thing I claim is the idea behind this fanfiction; everything else does not belong to me.

This is not a kink meme deanon; this is something that I've been thinking about for a while, thanks to Literature class. So I present to you a wonderful English poem in the form of a hopefully-wonderful English sex dream.

In an attempt to imitate the "non-linearity" of dreams, I made generous use of run-on sentences, and so they are intentional. However, as I started writing this at 11:45 at night and ended at 1 in the morning, I would appreciate it if any unclear portions or typos are pointed out to me, as my own spell-check is not the greatest at the current time. I also apologize for any formatting fails, as I am using a computer with a keyboard that does not like me. Please let me know if I made an error.

I will not give you that "first story, be nice!" crap. Be brutal. This is my first lime and I need to know if I'm doing it right. Enjoy.

Spring

Had England been conscious, he might have admitted that his overcooking of what once might have been beef stew probably did not help his current situation.
However, the fact remained that England could not admit or even think up such a thing, as he was unconscious, sleeping in his bed, and more than a little hot and bothered. Sweat sunk into his sheets as he shifted, groaning from his less-than innocent dreams.

I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,

He sits in one of his nicer wrought-iron chairs sipping his tea and trying to hide a smile as the American prances around his yard. Really, prances, the boy hasn't done that for two hundred years and now that he's back to doing it again, running around with his arms spread in imitation of a bird and trying to climb his trees and crouching down to eagerly collect stray flowers, England regards him with even more fondness but with the affection of a would-be lover instead of a older brother or father even, he wants to simply immobilize his boy - yes, his boy, that's what he'll always be even if he is his love, too - and take him, claim him completely, wrench from him those pleasured cries and those screams of his name-

And suddenly that's what he's doing, when he moved he has no idea but he's suddenly right in front of America laughing boldly who takes no heed of the vine England's wrapping - how is he wrapping it, he's standing in front of the charming classless American but the vine responds to him he can feel America, touch America - wrapping around the wrist of the hand he's rubbing the back of his head with and England wonders when his garden began to obey his every whim because now the ivy is peeling itself off the tree and encircling his ankles and how has America not noticed yet?

Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.

It is only when Arthur's vines binding America's hands fasten him to Arthur's tree that the boy notices and his bright blue eyes fly open in surprise, gasping as his head hits not bark but a sturdy, if artless, weaving of soft mossy branches that cushions him and his back, growing outward from the tree and upward as Alfred, with a few startled exclamations, finds himself being forced to lay almost flat while England's ivy around his ankles fastens ever tighter. Alfred yelps in surprise and tugs against his binds but it is all futile and England can't help but wonder with detached amusement where America's strength went as he caresses Alfred's exposed waist -when did it become exposed? Alfred had been wearing- ah, of course, in his haste and eagerness England's firmer branches have begun to divest the boy of his thin cotton tee and jeans, to the sound of sweet-satisfying utterances of surprise and would-be modesty - and reveals a chest with a fine amount of firm muscle to the sun, and England thinks that America looks so precious, so fragile, as he can do nothing but watch as England's strong branches and vines undress him and leave his shirt and jeans and boxers in a torn pile on the ground, scattered with leaves, and as a young bean shoot tickles one of America's arms the boy looks up at England with an endearing amount of uncertainty and innocence, eyes brighter than usual.

Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise:

England grins predatorally and with no small amount of triumph as he likens Alfred to a chaste maiden and brings up a vine of grapes -since when has he had grapes or fruits or most anything in this newfound Garden of Eden?- around the boy's newly-exposed groin, tickling his member with the small cool fruits as he grows his ways along, earning him a gasp and a squirm, and crawling up his chest and branching off in every direction to fasten his strong firm midsection to his sloppy hammock of branches and moss, to shade the boy from the sun with a sudden burst of frondy ferns, to creep up to Alfred's positively delicious face and entice him with the juiciest, ripest bunch of grapes he has ever laid eyes on, dangling just out of his reach.

He cranes his neck to reach them but finds he cannot because England has put a gentle but strong collar of flower-stems about his neck, bound to his hammock, and irises and daffodils and azaleas burst from them as lavender and jasmine wreath themselves in a crown about his head, and Arthur chuckles as Alfred blushes at these attentions and cranes his moist tongue upwards out of his mouth, still craving refreshment.

"Hold still, poppet," Arthur chuckles and he dangles his grapevine teasingly over Alfred's mouth, dangling one or two of the sweet little fruits into his love's mouth where they are received with murmurs of satisfaction that sing in Arthur's ears. Alfred whines so cutely as Arthur removes his grapevine, only to gasp yet again in surprise as more flower-stems come to settle and worm their way along his inner thighs, bluebell-shaded eyes attempting vainly to fix themselves on the bunches of clovers, both flower and leaf, teasing his member lightly into rising, ever so slowly.

Her belley, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced

A forsythia helps to coax him while England runs little mums along the indents of his abdominal muscles, to happy hummings and sweet, sharp intakes of breath and quiet little keenings, and the pine needles brush along his face and leave him smelling so dark green like one of his mysterious forests, while England runs vine after vine along Alfred's cock in an unceasing rhythm, the boy's pleasured cries the music that swelled as he rose closer and closer-

And abruptly England's allegro of ministrations slows to a more moderate tempo as he coils his way up to America's head, making sure to run woody fingers along his chest, his stomach, dangerously close to his groin, but not quite there, and sweeps the boy's head into his hands with leaves wide as a palm's and as exotic-smelling, too, a mix of citrus tangy and the vaguely milk sugar of coconut, caressing Alfred's cheeks and brushing away the stray moisture that has leaked out the corners of his eyes and America looks up into England's face with adoration and pure pleasure and bliss, and England's face closes in on America's who accepts his silent question and allows the older Nation to seal their rosy lips together in a kiss that quickly progresses from innocent to something passionate and deep, tongues twisting around each other and worming into each other's mouths, feeling intimately the contours of teeth and gums while two seas merge and mix, sloppily but heartfelt, and with a mess they break apart, breathless but amazed, greenest grass gazing into sky blue with love, love and lust.

About her head I writhing hung
And with rich clusters (hid Amoung
The leaves) her temples i behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.

Once again the two conjoin and dance and Arthur splits his attention between the intimations in front of him and with adorning Alfred's hair with evermore flowers that will only accentuate the beauty Arthur thinks is Alfred, with his pleasantly sun-bathed skin that seems to radiate the star's warmth and his wheat hair and his breathtaking form, and embraces the boy completely. Overcome by passion, England wraps vine after vine around America until the boy is almost joined completely to the hammock, immobile but still so exposed to England's loving gaze.

My curls about her neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
(All parts there made one prisoner).

If Alfred had looked tempting before, he looked positively ravishing now, defenseless and delicious before Arthur's eyes, hands strung up to the tree and ankles bound far apart, leaving no room to leave anything to the imagination, breathless from their kiss, eyes darkening with want and need but still so bright, unable to move an inch and in so much need of love and relief. "Ah... Arthur..." he whimpers, and the sound goes straight to England's own erect cock. "Please... please..."

"Of course, love," Arthur murmurs, and his tendrils and vines once again devote their attention to Alfred' cock, red as a ripe apple and filled with need and seed fit to burst. The caresses, the tickles, the small ghosts of touches and the strong, rhythmic movements of Arthur's vines soon has the boy's tip leaking and eyes tearing, moaning and keening with pleasure, and it is not long before, with a cry of "Arthur!", that Alfred spills over the edge and white shoots out in a spray, and Arthur, with a chuckle, places a rosebud over the tip, which at his whim quickly blossoms to full bloom.

He allows Alfred to see his handiwork as he lessens the binds about his neck. Alfred pouts at him but twitches with a smile as he sees Arthur's little joke. "England," he whines, "I'm not France..."

England laughs softly again. "I'm sorry, dear," he says, and crawls up to Alfred with an apology kiss before settling himself and his creeping fingers around Alfred's waist, continuing the languid strokes on his skin. "You are more beautiful than France and all his roses and everything in his so-called country of love." His eyes darken with mischief as he locks eyes with the blushing America. With another vine, he reaches once again at the boy's genitalia and brushes against his opening, causing Alfred to shudder with nervous anticipation. "Will you let me make it up to you?"

Alfred flushes darken and takes a little shaky breath before nodding. With a sense of triumph, Arthur reaches to prepare Alfred's hole which appears to have seen little to no use for this purpose, and with a swelling sense of pleasure he inserts once finger and then two, allowing the sepals of the blooms to open and grow within, mildly surprised at finding the boy's prostate with the endeavor, and feels his cock, large and throbbing, almost reach completion as Alfred tries unsuccessfully to thrust his hips into the touch with another loud, carnal cry, and with an overwhelming amount of pleasure and need Arthur too cries out and all of a sudden it's a flurry of limbs and vines as he tangles with America, winds within and without America, becomes America, and he goes to insert his most precious vine into Alfred's eager hold and

But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy i awoke,
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.

England woke with a start, panting as he sat up in bed, slightly uncomfortable with the stickiness of the sweat coating his body and gluing his pajamas and sheets to his person. His face flushed with even more heat that spread throughout his already hot body as he recalled the dream, and how wonderful it had felt, and how amazing Alf- America had been, and England jumped as he noticed a lump underneath his sheets, a souvenir from his subconscious.

England turned to his nightstand and growled at the book of English poetry that lay there innocently. "Herrick, I am never reading you before bedtime again."

"The Vine", by Robert Herrick

I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise:
Her belley, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced
About her head I writhing hung
And with rich clusters (hid Amoung
The leaves) her temples i behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
ANd arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
( All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy i awoke,
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.

Sorry there was no actual sex. But there was no actual sex in the poem, either. I'm pretty sure my Literature class wouldn't have been allowed to read it had there been sex.

I find it hilarious that Herrick also wrote another wonderful poem called "To the Virgins, Make Much of Time", which basically encouraged women of the time to find husbands and get laid before they became ugly old women, since back in Herrick's time, before Shakespeare, people didn't live all that long.

Hear that, Alfred? Go get laid by Arthur. Who is really hot when he tops, especially when the person's he's topping happens to be a bottoming Alfred. But hey, that's just me. I love it when my country is the bitch~

As I said before, I hope you enjoyed it. ~Random-Hime