(no subject)

It’s hairy. Hairy and disgusting. Hairy and digusting and just flat out unsightly. Switzerland doesn’t want to be doing this. Switzerland can’t believe he’s doing it. Rubbing England’s coarse ass hairs like he would comfort a sick goat. It’s downright sickening. But damn it all, England has power. England has influence—England can do more for Switzerland and Liechtenstein with one fist than Switzerland could do with all his might. There is a war going on outside, and the only thing Switzerland has to protect himself is patriotism and dying hope.

So Switzerland will massage England’s hairy ass until he comes. He’ll rub England’s hairy ass until he comes twenty times in ten minutes, if that’s what it takes to guarantee his and Liechtenstein’s safety.

It’s all he can do.

(no subject)

It’s not something she’s embarrassed of, but Liechtenstein doesn’t like to admit it, either. She is, all considering, fairly inexperienced in intimate matters. Though all sorts of hijinks may have occurred while she lived in Austria’s house, she blissfully remained unaware of them. It was a proper sort of national childhood. However, when it came time for her to venture out into the world of sex and other such things, she had very little knowledge to rely on. Belgium, the kind and helpful country she was, had been happy to discreetly give her a few lessons, but some things Liechtenstein could not bring herself to ask anyone about. There was one quirk about England, that above all other things, she could not figure out, nor could she even think of the words to use to ask about even if she did manage to pull up the courage. She knew that body hair wasn’t uncommon, especially on men, but… in such an odd place, in such an odd shape! It wouldn’t be really much of a problem if she could just… avoid it, but England seemed to get more pleasure out of her rubbing the hair on his rear than he ever got out of the actual act of intercourse, or even receiving oral! He liked it, and he seemed almost hesitant to ask her to touch him there. Surely, he knew that it was an odd sort of thing… that or he was unaware of the oddity, but embarrassed because he never lasted very long when she rubbed him like that.

But still, he had always been very kind to her. He was a gentleman, and he treated her like a princess. And sometimes, when he had been drinking just a little and was mostly still sober, he’d go even farther and not treat her like a fragile little thing. She would deal with it—or learn to, shortly. It wasn’t really that big of a deal—surely, other male nations out there had similar quirks.

Right?

(no subject)

There are quirks, and then there are quirks. America has a possibly unhealthy obsession with butter in the bedroom (or dining room table), France is, well, France, and England happens to have an extreme erotic spot in the form of what appears to be an extra set of eyebrows on his ass. Considering the weird things France has suggested to him and the insane amount of calories America has consumed during sex, it’s remarkably tolerable. Canada, though no one ever remembers this, happens to be one of the best lovers in the world and is more than happy to indulge England in his kinks and quirks, provided they don’t involve dressing up like America and crying. That one might be a little too weird. But massaging England’s tender, but firm and supple, cheeks with a gentleness England has rarely known? It’s pleasurable, both to England and to Canada. Really, the only problem with rubbing him off like that is that he tends to not last very long, and so Canada is often left unsatisfied.

Actually, when he thinks about it, it’s not too different from when he and England get it on in less-kinky fashion. It’s not something he really likes to focus on—if he wanted an attentive partner, he might seek out Ukraine or someone more willing to attend to him and remember whose name to call out in the middle of things. Instead, he likes to remember the aftermath—England, when exhausted and satisfied, has the odd and remarkably cute habit of curling up to his partner like a kitten.

It almost makes the entire thing worth it.

(no subject)

Encounters of the intimate sort are infrequent between North Italy and England. There are some very good reasons for this; notably that England is not a pretty girl to Italy’s tastes and also that England, though at times extremely needy and libidinous, considers Italy far too annoying to be worth any amount of effort, regardless of randiness. The last encounter, both countries being quite drunk, went something like so:

“Veee,” Italy, groaned, staring blearily at the sight before him. He had had quite a bit of wine, but he had never hallucinated before! Well, there was that one time where he thought Germany’s manly and muscular chest might secretly be hiding some beautiful breasts, but Italy doesn’t really remember that very well. But this? What was this? “England, did you stick caterpillars in your underwear?” Italy asked, poking at the little hairs. Was it some kind of British aphrodisiac? No wonder no one ever got any there…

“I-idiot!” England grunted, clenching his teeth. Normally, he didn’t prefer to be very forward, but some indecency was required when handling Italy. “Just stick it in!” All the while, the part of England that was slowly sobering up was desperately trying to remember where the nearest spot he could get a cup of tea was.

Italy didn’t obey—England’s first mistake was trying to engage in a tryst with Italy. One of the (many) other mistakes he made was trying to order him around. “Are these handles,” Italy asked, now trying to tug at the little butt hairs. It took a little focus, but Italy was soon able to get a good grasp on England’s rear. England, caught between extreme pain and extreme pleasure, could only let out a small, girlish, squeal. Italy giggled at the sound, continuing to tug.

Eventually, England was able to gather enough strength and presence of mind to rear back up, consequently backwardsly headbutting Italy. Italy, unused to any sort of pain, let alone concussive blows in the middle of sex, was promptly knocked out. England, not particularly caring at this point, left him there on the floor of the hotel, collecting his things and sneaking out the complimentary soaps and shampoos as he left.

The maids could clean up the rest.