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280 Meters Below the Surface

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June 1942- The Coast of Florida

 

America shifted his bag on his shoulder. It was heavy, and the muscles were beginning to ache. Irritated, he turned to his Secretary of War- Henry Lewis Stimson.

“Remind me again, why the hell you’re shipping me off on a submarine?”

“It’ll be good for you. Besides, the Cobalt is a fine vessel. You’ll like it. You need to get out of the Oval Office for a while.”

“Why? So that Roosevelt can commit war crimes without me trying to stop him?”

“Don’t be cynical. He’s a good man, and you two have agreed on most decisions so far.”

The personification rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Whatever. At least I’ll get to spend time with my people. I like fighting beside them.”

“Well, some of your people. And some other people.”

He raised a brow. “Other people? Hang on, is this a shared sub? What other nation’s bubbleheads are in there?”

“They’re not just humans.”

“There’s another nation? Henry, I’m going to be living in a confined space underwater for months. You can’t just stick me with some random person without asking me first.”

The Secretary frowned. “It’s not like I put you and Japan together or something.”

“Japan’s our enemy right now.”

“I know. That was the joke. Nevermind. Just get going. The commander isn’t going to wait forever, even for someone as important as you,” Stimson replied, straightening his cuffs and preparing to leave.

“Wait!” America cried, “Who’s the nation on the sub?”

“England, now go!” He answered, stalking off.

“England! But he’s- we’re- I-”

A man in a uniform approached America nervously. “Sir, the commander would like me to inform you that it is time to depart.”

Reluctantly, America followed the sailor down the hatch and into the submarine. It smelled bad inside, which, combined with the humidity, made him want to puke. They wound through tight halls and past equipment that America sort of remembered operating during the last major war.

“The commander asked me to show you around,” America’s citizen told him as he began giving him a tour. “Right in there is the medical bay. And over there is…”

America’s mind quickly drifted. The bag on his back was large and uncomfortable. Already, he was regretting ever listening to his Secretary of War. When had Stimson ever had a good surprise for him? This was ridiculous. And each time they turned a corner, he was paranoid that England would be standing there, all stiff and- ‘Hello, my former colony. You appear to have put on some weight.’

Ugh. He could already hear England saying something like that.

“...And your sleeping quarters are right down there. Um, I needed to inform you that Secretary Stimson radioed the commander rather soon to your boarding date. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough singular bunks, despite being the least crowded submarine within a close enough distance to be able to pick you up, Mr. America.”

“Just America is fine. And what exactly do you mean.”

“Well, you see, we sent many radio messages, and Winston Churchill recommended a shared bunk situation.”

Ah, shit. England’s boss had been able to tell that America liked England from the first day they met and had been trying to get them together ever since. This was going to be bad.

“I’m sharing with someone?”

The man nodded uncomfortably. “I’m very sorry if that upsets you, sir, but since this is a shared vehicle, President Roosevelt and the Prime Minister have equal and ultimate say over what happens here and, well, the President hasn’t involved himself in our affairs, what Churchill says goes. I think that’s unfair, considering that this is our vessel, but don’t tell any of the Brits I said that.”

“I heard that!” Said a man turning the corner. “Don’t worry. You’re kind of right.”

He smirked, smacked the American man’s ass as he passed, and headed into another room, leaving America’s citizen with a red face. “Um, sharing bunks isn’t uncommon here. The rest of the crew won’t find it odd.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think he paid any attention to who I was talking to and-”

“It’s alright. I’m, um, like you. Not that England and I are together. We’re not. I just, um-”

“I’ll just show you to your bunk,” the soldier replied. The two made their way through the submarine- both embarrassed until they came to a room with four beds on the walls. Each had a curtain in front of it that could be drawn for privacy.

One had a redheaded man in it that was reading a book. He scrambled out when he saw them enter and extended his hand for a shake. “You must be America. I’m David; I’m from Texas. We’re roommates.”

America took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“I think David can take it from here,” America’s guide said. “Good luck.”

He smiled, waving as the soldier left. “Thanks!”

“That bunk right there belongs to a guy named Andy,” David said, jumping right into his explanations and pointing to bed one across from the one he got up from. “He’s a spitfire from Sussex. You’ll like him. Um, the one above me is yours and England’s. And that one above Andy’s belongs to Lewis and Jim. They get loud at night, so I have earplugs if you want them.”

He laughed nervously, glancing at the three empty beds. Roommates. Great. “Cool. I hope to meet them soon.”

“Oh, well, there’s Lewis and Jim right now!” David declared, pointing to two brown-haired men coming down the hall to enter their room. “Hey, boys! This is America.”

They grinned and waved. The first one introduced himself as Lewis from Minnesota, and the second was Jim from Wyoming. It was while Jim was in the middle of explaining his jobs on board when another man entered. He said that he was Andy, but most of America’s attention was on England, who came in with him.

When the two nations looked at each other, the humans quieted down, glancing between them.

“America,” England greeted. He looked healthier than when America had last seen him in person, which had been before America joined the war.

“Hey, England.”

He frowned. “You’ve… lost weight.”

That was unexpected. He gave a nervous laugh. “Oh. Well, you know, I’ve been busy. War, you know?”

“Certainly. I wasn’t doing very well before you decided to finally help out with Germany and his band of fascists.” He glanced at the bed, and America could have sworn his cheeks got a little pink. “I suppose we’re bunkmates, then.”

“Not for long. I’ll only be here for a few months, and then I’m going to go to move to the Air Force or back to D.C.”

“I see.”

The Englishman that was with England burst out laughing, and the rest of the humans followed suit as the man gasped, “Oh my god, the sexual tension between you two could be cut with a knife!”

That time, America was sure England’s face heated up when he snapped, “Don’t be absurd, Andrew.”

He stifled his laughed at the sharp remark from his country, opting to merely snicker and say, “Yeah, okay.”

The room fell uncomfortably quiet until America announced, “Well, it’s almost dinner time, isn’t it? Let’s go grab some grub.”

***

America was up late that night, locked in a game of poker with two of his people that he almost lost. The submariners certainly were good at the game, he’d give them that, but a couple of centuries of practice gave him the advantage.

When he came back to his bunk, the curtain in front of his bed was drawn, meaning England was likely inside, reading or stewing over his current hate of Germany and Italy. Japan, too, although America was fairly certain that Japan was more of his problem to deal with than England’s.

Sighing, he changed into his pajamas and stored his things before climbing up the small ladder to the bed and pulling the curtain back. England glanced up from (America had guessed correctly), a book momentarily before returning to his reading.

“Where have you been?” The European personification asked.

“Playing poker with some of my boys.”

“Did you gamble away your manners? Get in and shut the curtain.”

He chuckled and did as told, rolling in beside England in the cramped bed. The ceiling was far enough above them that you could sit up- a luxury on a submarine, and the bed was wide enough that they could both fit once they squished.

Each place along America’s side that England touched felt hot. His stomach twisted as he glanced up at England’s face from his reclining position. Those hypnotizing green eyes flickered over the pages with so much intent that America found himself asking, “What are you reading?”

“The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis.”

“What’s it about?”

“Theology. Heaven, hell, demons, and their perspective on humanity. Lewis is a religious man- one of mine.”

He furrowed his brow. “But, you’re not.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean that it’s not a fascinating book.”

America snatched the book from his hands, scanning the pages. “This looks boring to me.”

“America! Give it back!” He said, reaching for the book.

“No, I want to figure it out. What’s so interesting about this book- what is so intriguing that you’re ignoring me, your favorite personification?”

He scowled. “Oh, I didn’t know that you were Canada.”

America’s jaw dropped. “You did not just call Canada your favorite.”

“Why not? He was a loyal colony for many years; he’s probably the kindest nation I know, he’s respectful, he’s quiet, he actually has been consistently helping me during this war, far better than he gets credit for, and-”

Glaring at him, America shoved the book back into England’s hands and got under the covers, flopping down on his side, facing away from England.

England regarded him with irritation before deciding that it wasn’t worth causing grudges with his bunkmate. “Calm down, America. I’m joking.”

He rolled over to face England, hopeful. “So, I am your favorite?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

“Don’t be foolish. Now, I’m reading. Be quiet.” He said, reopening his book and searching for the page he had lost.

America sat up and was about to speak when England’s eyes went wide. In a flash, he set the book down, slapped a hand over America’s mouth, and pinned him to the bed.

Shocked, America didn’t even respond, and first, then he began struggling, protests muffled by England’s hand as the former empire straddled him, refusing to let him up.

“Shhh!” England whispered. The lights cut out, and all noise on the submarine abruptly stopped, at which point, America understood.

An enemy submarine was nearby.

It was dead silent as each man on board froze, knowing that a single sound could give them away. Now that everyone was quiet, he could hear the water rushing by outside the vessel, each creak of the hull from the pressure as water searched for a way into what was beginning to feel like a metal coffin.

Had the enemy spotted them? Was it a German U-Boat? Could this be it? What if he dropped something? What if the book fell off the bed? Was it close to the edge? Could it thunk against the floor and send out a soundwave that alerted the enemy of their whereabouts?

In the darkness, America couldn’t see a thing. He could only hear the tiny sounds that suddenly seemed deafening, feel England’s weight on top of him, and smell the bitter scent of tea that hung on all of his clothes.

Which was when he realized that they couldn’t move. England needed to stay as still as possible for what could be hours, meaning that he was going to stay there, pressing America into the mattress until the threat passed.

It felt like days before the lights flickered on and the machines whirred to life. For a second, he didn’t dare blink despite being aware that they weren’t in danger anymore (well, as ‘not in danger’ as one can be in the middle of a war while on a submarine). Soon people came down the hall, calling that it was a false alarm.

England removed his hand from America’s mouth, allowing him to suck in a large breath while the European climbed off of him and returned to his side of the bed- closer to the wall. Luckily, with the curtain drawn, none of the other men could have seen them in such a compromising position once the lights returned, but America felt no less awkward.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over. I’m going to bed.” England announced, tucking himself in.

He always knew just what to say.

***

A month later, it was another late night for America, who returned to their bunk to find, as usual, the curtain over his bed closed, just like it had been most nights for the past month he spent on the submarine. What was unusual, though, was the time. Even a ‘late’ night normally ended within a semi-decent timeframe. But this night was late.

All of America’s bunkmates appeared to be asleep as they tended to leave their curtains open. After getting into his sleepwear, he assumed he’d need to be careful when getting into bed beside England (who he’d been crushing on more and more since they got paired together) because the Brit was likely asleep.

With the utmost care, America eased himself into bed and got under the covers.

“Where were you?” England whispered, sitting up and startling the Amerian.

He flinched. “Oh, hey. I was with Roger.”

“Roger? The sonar guy? The one that groped your ass last week?”

“Yeah, he’s cool. It turns out he’s only a bit of a perv. Tonight he only grabbed me four times,” America joked.

The edge in England’s voice was undeniable when he murmured, “I see. So you’re just letting anyone on the submarine feel you up these days?”

America laughed quietly. “Yeah, I mean, I let Andy fuck me four days ago.”

It went quiet. Then, England replied, “You…”

“England. Relax. I’m joking. Why do you care, anyway?”

His tone was dark. “Because I don’t like the idea of them putting their hands on you.”

“Why not? You know, I’m independent, I can make my own decisions, and that includes who I have sex with. And even if I haven’t hooked up with Andy, if I wanted to, I could.”

A hand suddenly seized America’s hip, and, once again, he found himself pinned down by his ally, who hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

America dry swallowed, suddenly finding heat shooting south. “No?”

“No.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure I’m convinced. Perhaps you’ll have to change my mind.”

“America-” He warned.

“Come on, England. Persuade me.”

Slowly, England leaned down and bit into America’s neck, causing him to gasp and arch, already submitting to his ministrations. The Brit’s tongue traced the bite mark he left, lapping gently in apology for being so rough before sucking on a different patch of skin. America’s head fell to the side, giving him better access.

Shaky exhales filled the bunk until England pulled of America’s shirt and sucked at his collarbone. Then, America moaned. England was quick to silence him with a kiss, muttering, “Hush, now, love. You wouldn’t want to wake our roommates, now would you?”

Quietly, America whimpered. England only chuckled in response, returning to America’s chest and licking a trail down to his right nipple, which he took between his teeth briefly before going to the other, barely giving them any attention.

America squirmed uncomfortably, accidentally rubbing their erections together. A sound was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. The last thing he needed in this was for a bunch of rumors to fly around the submarine about him and England. He’d never live it down, and their bosses would surely hear about it. He doubted Roosevelt would be pleased with him for sleeping with England. He’d always said that sleeping with other nations was bad for negotiations.

Now, though, which England peeling off his shirt and removing America’s pants, he couldn’t’ care less about negotiations. The League of Nations could shove it up their asses.

“E- England,” America whispered as England’s hands crept downward. “I don’t have lube.”

“I do.”

He would have laughed if England hadn’t just taken off his pants and America’s underwear. “When- why- oh, that’s good- um-”

“The day I heard you were going to be my bunkmate, I bought some from one of the crewmembers.”

“You p- planned-”

“No, just hoped. Now, stop talking and grab the bottle. It’s under my pillow.”

America did as instructed, removing the bottle and handing it to England. “I can’t believe I never noticed it was there.”

“I only put it there after that day when I pinned you down during the false alarm. I knew once the lights came on and your face was all red that it was only a matter of time. And I told you to stop talking.”

The cap could be heard, but America couldn’t see a thing in the near-total darkness, especially with the curtain shut. He did, however, feel it when England’s first finger pressed into his entrance.

He gasped but bit his lip before he could make any more noise. England wiggled it deeper and smirked as he inserted the second. “You’re too tight to have fucked Andy.”

“I t- told you I was joking, Eng- ah!” He exclaimed as England’s fingers found his prostate.

“America, you need to be quiet, remember?” England taunted, massaging the gland and kissing down America’s neck.

The third finger came after too long, in America’s ecstatic opinion, but, eventually, it came, stretching him more and causing him to moan a little bit. It wasn’t loud, though, and England’s lips quickly silenced him, devouring all the sounds he made.

Then, England was taking off his underwear, slicking himself up, and aligning with America’s entrance. “Ready?”

“Mhmm,” He hummed in affirmation.

Boldly, England put a hand over America’s mouth, just like before, as he pressed in. Which, as it turns out, was a good idea because he groaned and keened, opening up for him and spreading his legs a little wider.

England exhaled slowly, refusing to be vocal. Then, just as slowly, he began moving in and out. The personification below him was on cloud nine, choking back moans and allowing his eyes to roll back when England thrust into his prostate.

The hand over his mouth didn’t remove itself. If anything, its grip got tighter, forcing America to breathe through his nose and, more importantly, not to wake up the sleeping humans in the same room.

England’s thrusts got faster as he continued. With each one, he struck America’s prostate, and he couldn’t think about much else other than the walls constricting around him as America tightened and came, splattering his bare stomach.

The squeeze was too much for England, sending him over the edge inside of America, as deep as possible.

Climax achieved, England withdrew before he got too sensitive, and he peeled his hand off America’s mouth.

“T- That was… amazing,” America whispered as England fell onto his own side of the bed, redressing.

“Did I change your mind about Andy?”

“Yeah,” He panted, “A million times, yeah. Although, I never intended to hook up with him anyway.”

“I know. Now get dressed and go to sleep. We have work to do tomorrow.”

Maybe Chuchill’s meddling was a good thing, after all.