A/N: Can't tell you why, but I've been in a very fluffy mood recently and I think it's coming out in fic form… Also, I'm not quite sure whether to label this as pornographic or not, but it's definitely more soft-core than hardcore.

America tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel completely unrelated to the music playing in the background. He was so excited he barely able to keep his mind on the road. After all, he was on his way to the airport to pick up England.

He loved it when England came to visit. It wasn't even just a question of having his lover in his house, using his soap and wearing some of his clothes when there wasn't a meeting (and on some days when he was really lucky when there was) and all that jazz. The thing that he probably loved the most was that the next day England would be jet-lagged and sleep the morning away if left undisturbed.

England was always so cute when he slept: hair a complete mess, too-big borrowed pajamas scrunched up around his middle, usually drooling just a bit. America would ignore any and all of his urges to get up to eat or use the bathroom just to watch him sleep. England always looked so peaceful and happy with a big dopey smile on his face that America didn't want to miss a single second.

He pulled into the lot and parked. He almost-ran the entire way to the terminal. What if England's plane got there early? It never actually happened, but if it ever did and he wasn't there he'd feel terrible. So he just flashed the TSA agents his FBI badge and waltzed right in to wait for England right at the gate.

Maybe he shouldn't have run, he realized after about thirty minutes of just sitting there. England's plane had landed, but who knew how long it would take for him to actually get off? America was starting to fidget, not even content to play games on his phone anymore. He shoved it back in his pocket and stood up. No matter how much time passed since he had seen England, it was always far too long.

His mind jumped ahead to the next morning, this time to after England would wake up. He was always so content on the first morning. It usually took a minute or two for him to even remember to affix his nearly-perpetual almost-scowl to his face. Even once he had the expression in place, he still couldn't hide how warm and happy and lazy he felt.

Of course, that was the perfect time for America to strike. They'd kiss and very slowly America would ease his way on top of his partner. Oh, he loved how England felt first thing in the morning. He was so warm and accepting, letting America lead without any commands, just taking what America gave him without question. And he was so loose too, America almost licked his lips before remembering he was in public, America could just bury himself deep and almost melt into his lover. Through the entire thing, England would be holding him loosely and smiling and whispering things so sweet he couldn't normally say them even when they made love.

America smiled happily to himself. Soon he'd have his England to hold and snuggle and have sex with.

He had to stand and pace when people started to come out. He felt just like he did when he was a little kid. Back then there was no way of knowing even what day England was coming. He could be delayed for weeks by weather that America had no way of knowing about after years of getting nothing but letters.

Damn, little him was patient. He could never handle that now.

And then out came England, carrying a briefcase and wheeling a little black carry-on behind him. As usual, he was dressed far too nicely for plane riding, with dress pants on the bottom and his normal sweater-over-button-down-with-a-tie on the top. As soon as he saw America, he gave a bright smile that didn't quite reach down to his mouth. America, of course, ran over and gave him a hug that would break the ribs of a lesser man.

"What the- Bloody hell, Alfred! Let me go!"

America obeyed his instructions, grinning.

"Christ, boy. That used to be cute, but now it's just painful."

America shrugged and took England's carry-on, "Lets you know you lived through the flight. Now let's go get your luggage."

"This is all I have."

"Really?"

England blushed, "I got tired of having to haul several days' worth of clothes I didn't even wear back and forth across the ocean."

America laughed in a way that was slightly obnoxious even to his own ears.

"Just belt up and take me home, idiot."

"Alright, bro. Just take a chill pill," America said, even though he couldn't help but smile at the way England referred to America's house as home.

He walked away and with a huff England fell into step with him, "So why did you make me come all the way out here? It's an extra three hours with the transfer, you know."

"Well," America said, smiling, "You haven't been here yet."

"But, honestly, Minnesota?"

"Hey, I like Minnesota. It's a nice place. Lots of lakes and trees and stuff and I've got a nice house in some old suburbs here. I thought we could go for a walk in the woods and look at all the leaves changing color."

"This is just part of your plot to sleep with me in every single one of your houses, isn't it?"

"Actually," America thought, "I just want you to see everything: all of my homes, all of my states, all of me." But that was a little too gay to say in public, so he just said, "Duh."

England sighed but kept walking until they got to America's truck.

"My God, what is this thing?" England asked, wrinkling his nose.

"'76 Ford f-150," he said, grinning and petting the door, "Red with a couple of rust spots, but what can ya do in the Midwest?"

England scoffed, "I meant that with your obsession for new technology I didn't think you'd bother to keep something this old."

America shrugged, "It was a birthday present. Kind of funny story, actually-"

England sighed and climbed into the passenger seat.

America laughed and got in as well.

"Hey, you know I wired this to play iPods and stuff?"

"How would I have?"

America rolled his eyes, "Sorry that I didn't know you weren't smart enough to understand rhetorical questions. But I was trying to be nice and let us listen to your old-people music for once."

England let out a harsh laugh as he pulled out his brick of a first-generation iPod, "If I remember correctly the last time we listened to yours it was a combination of Glenn Miller and Bruce Springsteen."

"Miller and Springsteen rock, man."

England let out a real chuckle as he plugged in his music.

"The Beatles? See? Old people music."

"Of course, judging by all of your teenagers who walk around wearing tee-shirts of them. Would you prefer Sex Pistols instead?"

America thought for a moment. It might trigger a desire in his boyfriend to act like he had in the '70s. The question was just whether or not he would be better off with England being his punkish sex-god self or his happier-than-he'd-like-to-admit cuddle-bunny self. America looked over at him, only to see him leaning back in his seat and looking out the window with a content expression on his face, eyes already half-closed.

The younger nation smiled and looked back to the road. It wouldn't be the same without the tight pants and piercings anyway.

About ten minutes later, there was a loud thunk. America turned to look at his lover. He'd fallen asleep, head lolled on his shoulder. His hands were sitting on his lap empty, probably meaning that his iPod had fallen on the ground and made the noise. America turned back to the road, but took one of England's hands in his own. He gently rubbed his partner's pointer finger with his own and the smaller nation muttered something happily in his sleep.

This was going to be a good week.

America's prediction was only enforced after they got to his house. He went to start on dinner (for some reason, England didn't want to go out like they usually did) while England went upstairs to "freshen up." He hadn't been expecting to cook so nothing was thawed out, but he was America, dammit. He could do whatever he put his mind to. Thankfully, he had some steak sandwich meat in the freezer. He could fry it up with some onions and red peppers and put it in his hotdog buns with some provolone and call it a night. He'd gotten the sandwiches together and was just about to pop 'em in the toaster oven to make the cheese all melty and delicious when he heard England shout down to him.

"America! I need you to help me find something!"

"All your bathroom stuff is on the counter, all my clothes are in the dresser which is right next to the window! What else do you need?"

"You forgot to get my razor out and I can't find it!"

"Just use mine!"

"I can't find that either!"

"It's on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet!"

"It's not there!"

"Goddammit, England! I'm cooking!"

"Just turn off whatever you're using and come help me, you bastard!"

"Fine!"

America tromped up the stairs. At least he had decided to need him when he didn't actually have anything in the oven.

"Okay," America said, opening the bathroom door, "I'm he-"

Holy hell…

England was wearing a short cream tunic with a neck opening that plunged to his sternum, a green sash tied around his waist, a pair of strappy heals that matched the sash, an alluring grin, and nothing else.

They wouldn't be eating dinner for a while.

It was already full morning when America awoke the next day. He blinked, not expecting to have slept in so late. Of course, England had really tired him out: first with that shirt, then once downstairs when they had been cuddling and watching old movies (it was the cuddling that did it, not the movies, really!) and then finally when they decided to go to bed. He just hoped that England would be up for another round.

He rolled over, hoping to see a still-sleeping England, but was instead greeted by an empty expanse of mattress. While America was still staring at the bed England walked in, naked except for a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was half sticking up and half weighted down with water.

"Good morning, love," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You're up," America replied, frowning.

"Yes. There's a first time for everything, I suppose." England said, stroking America's side fondly, "You know, you're an absolute mess when you sleep. Your limbs and hair go everywhere, not to mention that you have an absolutely thick look on your face."

"Thanks," America said, sarcastically.

"Don't," England pet his hair, "It's endearing."

He got down next to America and kissed him.

"You taste like mint," America said when they parted.

"And you taste like morning mouth."

America groaned in annoyance.

"Hush," he placed a finger on America's lips, "As I said, it's endearing."

He wiggled back under the blankets until he was on top of the younger nation. As they kissed again, America realized three things. One: England was trying to have sex with him. Two: He wanted to top. And three: America didn't really mind.

In fact, he was enjoying himself. He liked laying there on his back as England kissed him and began to tug at his pajamas. He was being so nice and gentle and America didn't think that it was possible to feel so relaxed with a boner. Even when England eased his fingers into place, America just accepted it with a pleased noise.

He felt almost like he was in a haze. He still felt every ounce of pleasure, but it wasn't hot and tight like it usually was. It was warm and soft, almost more like laying in the sun than sex. The act itself seemed far happier than usual, not weighted down with the trappings of passion or lust. England had this really gentle, reassuring smile on his face the entire time. It didn't even falter as he eased his way inside America. They exchanged sweet words that America only half-remembered a moment after they were said.

There was nothing America could really compare it to. They'd experimented after he had been hypnotized, taken aphrodisiacs, when he was drunk, and even once or twice when he was high, but it was nothing like this. There wasn't the overwhelming sense of contentment, of safety, of belonging.

He pulled England close and whimpered as he came, the other man following a moment later.

"Nap time," America mumbled, not letting England roll away or even pull out.

With a soft laugh, England allowed himself to lie there, "Bollocks, I'm going to need another shower."

"That's okay. We'll take one together so we don't waste water."

"That line again?"

"It's a good one."

England kissed him, smile still on his lips. "Sleep well, love."

It wasn't until America awoke again an hour and a half later, hungry, sticky, and with England's softened cock still up his ass that he realized he'd had the tables turned on him and his lover had stolen his favorite part of the visit. England just told him to shut up and let go and then reminded him that there was always tomorrow.