Chapter Rating: M for smexy times and LOTS of sport euphemisms.

London Olympics 2012 – Bedroom Olympics

When the door bell rang multiple times in quick succession, England knew precisely who was waiting at the door. Only one nation would be so impatient as to think that pressing the bell repeatedly would make England reach the door any faster.

He walked down the stairs at a leisurely pace—no need to rush to see America or let the other nation know just how excited England was for his visit, America's ego was already ridiculously large. By the time England opened the door, America had rung the bell another 16 times, filling the old mansion house with a cacophony of ringing bells.

"England, finally! I thought you'd fallen down the stairs or something, it took you so long. I was about to rush in to save the day like a hero!" America blurted out and then laughed in his characteristically loud manner, all before England even had a chance to say hello. America stood impatiently on the stoop, casually holding more duffel bags full of sports equipment than one person should be able to carry, but he did have that ridiculous strength of his.

The older nation prepared to level some well-deserved criticism at America's lack of manners when he took another look at America's sport supplies. "Are you carrying a basketball hoop stand?" he asked in surprise.

"Yup! I need to practice and basketball is kinda my thing, you know," America responded with a grin and without so much as a by-your-leave, he dumped most of his bags into the entryway, before carrying the hoop stand towards the backyard.

"Be careful with that!" England called out, wincing as the basketball hoop nearly took out one of his favorite antique lamps.

"No worries, mate, I've got it under control," America said as he carried the hoop through the kitchen and towards the back door. England winced as the hoop stand bumped against the stove. He had just had his kitchen remodeled after his most recent kitchen mishap and he wanted to keep it in pristine condition. Unfortunately, he still had no idea how that kettle of water had set fire to the entire room. The basketball hoop brushed against a doorframe and knocked some pots and pans, but thankfully avoided any permanent damage.

England heaved a sigh of relief and followed America outside. He leaned against the doorframe and resumed his usual criticism. "Honestly, it's bad enough that Australia insists on using that ridiculous lingo of his, don't you start."

America glanced over from his makeshift basketball court and grinned again, adopting a horrible Australian accent. "Aww, c'mon, mate, don't be such a wowser. Australia and I went scuba diving last week and it was totally awesome. He taught me 'strine so I could blend in!"

England snorted. America's Australian accent was even worse than his atrocious English one, which was really saying something. "If you want to learn a new language so badly, might I suggest the Queen's English?" England asked, crisply enunciating his beautiful accent. He never missed a chance to remind America why it was called English instead of American (even if a few clueless Americans did insist that they 'spoke American').

America just laughed. "Aw, you're just a whinging pom who's upset ya don't have fun lingo like us. You gotta learn to loosen up."

"Well, 'drongo,' perhaps I would rather be thought stodgy than be incomprehensible." England replied with a frown on his face but a smile in his eyes. Two could play at this game of Australian insults.

"Drongo, huh? I like it! Sometimes I get bored of being a toss-pot, and a pillock, and a git, and a bloody idiot, and an insufferable twit." With each insult, America walked a few steps closer, until he was just a few inches away from England. "Did I forget any?" he asked, grinning.

"You're daft." England leaned forward and their lips met in a soft kiss.

"I missed you," America said when they pulled apart. He gave England that special, soft smile that America reserved just for puppies and his boyfriend. It was not nearly as wide as America's usual brash grin, but it was a thousand times sweeter.

"Me too," England agreed, responding with his own genuinely affectionate smile. "Silly fool," he added after a second, although he wasn't sure if he meant America or himself.

America lifted up the basketball that he had been holding at his side. "Did you want to shoot some hoops?" he asked.

"Mmm, I was thinking of something a tad more gymnastic," replied England, making his meaning clear with a quirk of his lips and a slight arch of his eyebrows.

"Ooh, sounds like a plan, babe," America agreed eagerly. He glanced back and tossed the basketball so that it swished through the hoop. "He shoots... he scores!" he exclaimed happily. England shook his head at his show-off boyfriend, then tugged him inside so they could enjoy England's favorite type of aerobics.

As soon as America shut the door behind him, England pounced. He pinned America against the kitchen counter and began to smother him with kisses and playful nips. He started at America's mouth, then worked his way south along his boyfriend's jaw and to his neck. He licked the collarbone sticking out alluringly beneath America's white cotton t-shirt, before returning to the other nation's lips. America responded eagerly, hungrily inserting his tongue into England's mouth as he wrapped his hands around the other nation's lean waist, lifting up the shirt to caress the pale skin underneath.

England moaned with pleasure, not even caring that all it took was a bit of snogging to make him half-hard. Remembering his desire to keep his newly-remodeled kitchen clean and pristine, he pressed his thighs against America and murmured, "Bedroom." Even clueless America would understand that message.

America responded with a noise half-way between a grunt and a moan, but he clearly understood the point. He lifted England up, allowing England to wrap his legs around America's waist. England continued smothering him with kisses as the American stumbled his way up the stairs. America always claimed that he liked to carry the Brit around as a form of weight-lifting practice, but England suspected that America just liked the opportunity to have his hands all over England's bum. Not that England was complaining, mind you. He liked having America's hands on his ass just as much as America did. Perhaps even more. They tumbled together past the open bedroom door and onto the clean sheets of England's four-poster bed.

Once on the bed, England kicked off his shoes with a single, practiced motion and they began the frenzied task of undressing each other while maintaining as much contact as possible. From his position underneath the larger nation, England unbuttoned America's jeans and pulled down on the zipper. He was half-tempted to use his teeth, but his lips were too busy kissing America's neck. Soon England's trousers, America's jeans, and both of their boxers lay crumbled together on the floor next to the bed. America rolled onto his back, giving England enough room to lose his sweater vest and dress shirt. America slipped off his shirt immediately afterward and they were finally, gloriously naked together on the bed, bodies already glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

America was closest to the night table, so he quickly twisted to reach the table drawer, from which he pulled out a condom and lube. "Pitcher or catcher tonight, babe?" he asked with a husky voice and a wink.

England groaned at the euphemism. "Baseball isn't even an Olympic sport anymore," he retorted. For some reason, the younger nation liked to use sport euphemisms whenever they got together for sporting events. At the 2010 FIFA World Cup he even referred to them as "kicker and goalie," which England had noted was a horrible metaphor since the whole point of a goalie was to keep the ball out. Thankfully, that put an end to the football euphemisms. America could use whatever dirty lingo he wanted based on his own national sport, but England preferred to keep football out of their sex life.

America grinned. "Who said anything about baseball?" he asked innocently. Only America could manage to look so innocent while holding out a condom and a bottle of lube.

England grabbed the lube and pushed America back onto the bed, before straddling the larger nation. America moaned and jerked his hips upward, but England wasn't going to let him off that easily. He leaned forward and whispered teasingly into America's ear, "You know, equestrianism is an Olympic sport."

"Y'ain't… got… a horse," America managed to pant, attempting to return England's teasing despite the level of need made obvious by his every moan and panting breath. America knew England liked the verbal foreplay almost as much as the physical stuff, so he did his best to oblige.

"No, but I've got a cowboy," England purred. He slicked up his fingers with lube and reached behind his back to slide one into himself. Even that single digit left him writhing in pleasure, which in turn elicited a lusty moan from America.

"Fuck yeah!" America cried enthusiastically. He slid his broad, callused hands up England's thighs, triggering a shiver of pleasure from the British nation. Then America began rubbing England with those wonderful hands, bringing a new wave of desire with each jerk. It threatened to send England over the edge right then and there, and he was still on his first finger.

England used his free hand to lift America's hands onto his lean waist. "Hold your horses, cowboy," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. America firmly grasped England's waist as England inserted his second finger.

America grinned. "Wish… I'd brought… my cowboy hat."

"Nnh… I wish I had spurs." England tightened his legs around America as he forced in the third finger.

"Ooh, kinky."

Seeing the expectant look on England's face, America hastily unwrapped the condom and slipped it on. England coated it with lube. The lube bottle was then flung into the sheets as England lowered himself carefully downward in a single motion. He paused for a second, growing accustomed to the width, before setting a rough and breathless tempo. America quickly matched the galloping pace, grinding with his hips and resuming the rubbing motion once more with his large hands.

England moaned in pleasure each time he hit his prostrate and underneath him, he could hear America calling his name. The sound of pounding blood filled his ears. England felt himself rapidly building to climax and seconds after he felt America jolt, his own vision filled with white. He fell forward, limply landing on America's broad chest. They lay entwined for a glorious eternity, enjoying the warmth and proximity. It felt good to be so close, given the entire ocean that normally lay between them.

Eventually, England rolled over onto his side and simply drank in the view. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, as he trailed his fingers through America's hair. Over sixty years into their special relationship and he still felt a little like a giddy schoolgirl as they lay gazing into each other's eyes. He was too reserved to show it often, but sometimes the words just slipped out.

"Same to you, beautiful." America smiled back, his blue eyes radiating honest affection. "And ya know, if sex was an Olympic event, you'd definitely take the gold."

England chuckled. "I appreciate the thought… but darling, for the love of all that's holy, don't ever, ever, suggest that idea to France."

A/N

If you can't watch the Olympic equestrian events now without thinking about smexy, smexy USUK, then my mission is accomplished. You're welcome ;)