(no subject)
Title: Little Practicalities ( Part 1 )
Author: Sai
Character(s) or Pairing(s): PrussiaxEngland, implied USUK and implied France/Prussia
Rating: NC17
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Prussia's mouth, England's mouth, drunk sex
Notes: Written for the kinkmeme; parts 1-8
Original request:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=26936590#t26936590
Looking back now, Arthur wondered why he ever let himself fall in with that East German prat. They were such complete opposites, barely even capable of getting along during meetings.
It seemed at times that Prussia went out of his way to be obnoxious, always kicking him under the table, jerking his chair out from under him when he was making to sit down, flicking paper wads at him when he was talking or making infuriating comments about his eyebrows, like there was something wrong with them. They were just a little thicker than average, certainly nothing to make rude comments about.
But Gilbert wouldn’t let it drop; Arthur strongly suspected that he was the one responsible for drawing large eyebrows over the UK on the massive map in the conference room. Insufferable bastard…
England sniffed and glanced up over his papers once more. The bastard was staring at him again, smirking. God, he hated that smirk. It wasn’t particularly cruel right now, but it could be. He’d seen it, watched it crawl across Prussia’s face time and time again, watched how the corner of his mouth would start to curl up and his eyes would narrow, something malicious sparking in them. It toned down when he was just teasing, but only slightly, still threatening the cruelty he knew full well Gilbert was capable of.
It was so terribly disarming to have that look turned his direction that Arthur felt himself going a bit red in the face. Stupid, arrogant, narcissistic bloody bastard was just crossing lines now.
Arthur damn well knew why ignorant git was looking at him like that too, and it made him want to throw all his papers in Gilbert’s face. Not his tea, though..that would be a terrible waste of a good drink. But if he remembered correctly, that was the exact same look Prussia shot him ten seconds before his back hit the mattress in the ex-nation’s bedroom last night. ..afterward too, when they were both exhausted, clutching each other like two familiar lovers and panting. Gilbert had his forehead against the other nation's, but when he managed to settle down a little, he pulled back, looked down at Arthur, and fucking smirked.
Arthur could have slapped him.
Shit. England ducked his head again, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to soothe away the remnants of his hangover. How did they go from one casual, accidental sloppy fuck to this..this routine? Prussia wasn’t even good company! He was rude, drank and swore constantly, and his sense of humor was absolutely filthy. And those damn birds he kept in his room made an awful fuss first thing in the morning.
Awful, but they were really unbearable when paired with Prussia singing at the top of his lungs in the shower while England was trying to drag himself out of bed and find his clothes.
Imagine waking up to that every morning- ..wait, no, don’t imagine that, because that wasn’t going to happen. Their drunken fucks were only that, just a casual fling and certainly nothing to get attached to.
Sighing, England laid his papers back down and arranged them in a neat little stack. Honestly, when would Alfred learn that his tardiness tied up the entire mee- fucking hell, Prussia was still looking at him!
Arthur rolled his eyes, jerked his chair around, and refused to acknowledge the other man. How the hell did he let it get this way?
--
Prussia, on the other hand, remembered their first evening together just fine. That was why he was smirking at Arthur. Yeah, last night as still fresh on his mind, but if he thought too hard about that, he was going to end up making West real awkward real fast.
Nothing like popping a boner during a world conference to upset his brother. He had done it a few times, back when he and France were fucking around and Francis insisted on slipping him filthy notes under the table all the time.
Anyway, that flustered expression England kept shooting him was what reminded Prussia of all that. Nearly a month ago, he thought, maybe a little longer, but anything that lasted more than a week was a fucking record for him. He didn’t bother with that established relationship bullshit. Fucking around with that sourpuss was about as close as he’d been to one in a long time. And that was just fine. Sex was sex, no use dicking around with flowers and dates and sappy stupid love letters or whatever the hell people did when they were in love.
That look Arthur kept shooting him, like he was expecting Gilbert to get up out of his seat, crawl across the conference table, and fuck him in the mouth in front of everyone? That wasn’t exactly the look of love. That was the look of something like ‘Don’t you dare embarrass me, you tosser. Yeah, I remember what you did with your tongue last night and how you made me moan your name more than once, but I don’t want to think about that here. In public. Sitting beside Francis.’ …that was what Gilbert imagined, anyway.
Funny how he worried about appearances so much. He tried so hard that first night to come off like it wouldn’t make a shit bit of difference to him if Gilbert fucked him or not, he was still going to wake up with a horrible hangover. What was one more pain, even if it was in his ass? And even now, when they were meeting on a regular basis just to get drunk and screw around, England refused to drop that stuffy, holier-than-thou, stick-up-his-ass thing he had going on. Well, whatever. Prussia figured he could work around that stick just fine, maybe even shake it loose for him.
His attitude was more of a draw than a turnoff though. England shrugging when Prussia asked if he’d like to come home with him instead of going back alone tonight was like some kind of weird, English bait. And he hadn’t given a shit about appearances then, had he? So no, maybe that wasn’t entirely true, if he was willing to get sloppy-drunk in public. Besides, the man wore sweatervests, for fuck’s sake.
He hadn’t had on one of those weird useless sweater things that night a month ago though. Gilbert remembered staggering into that particular bar late one evening, clutching the wall with one hand and France with the other. They’d lost Antonio somewhere along the way, probably while passing by that stripclub with the neon pink ‘BARELY LEGAL’ sign flashing in the window.
France left him propped against the bar about twenty minutes later to chase this pretty ltalian number into the women’s restroom, but it took Gilbert a good ten minutes more - ten minutes that he wasted swearing belligerently when the bartender refused to serve him anything more - to notice that three seats to his left sat a very familiar man trying too damn hard to make himself look small.
So Prussia, out of the kindness of his heart, bought England a drink with the last of his beer money. Real sweet of him, wasn’t it?
Yeah, a real genuine act of charity, even if he was just doing it so he could slam the small glass down in front of Arthur and snatch his bottle of scotch when he was looking the other direction. That worked just long enough for Prussia to get a good, long draw before England snatched the bottle back, scowling at him.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doing, Gilbert?” he slurred, tucking the bottle against his chest and rocking back on the bar chair so hard he looked about ready to tip over onto the floor.
Frozen in their trademark crooked smirk, Prussia’s lips tightened. Barely a minute over here and Arthur was already getting his digs in. Using his human name was evidently Arthur’s own special way of telling Prussia that he no longer qualified for
Plenty of the other nations liked to mutter about him when he acted out, calling him all sorts of things in their various languages, all related to his former nation status. He didn’t give a shit. He still had a spot in this world thanks to West; the rest of them could go take a flying fuck for all he cared.
And Arthur could go right along with the rest of them if he wanted get so damn hot about a stolen drink.
“I bought you a-“ Leaning against the bar now, arms folded on the sticky top, Gilbert pointed to where he’d left that glass, only to see that it was already empty, added to the litter of its twin brothers and sisters in front of England. Sneaky bastard… “..shot. Yeah, bought you one, got one off you. Makes us even!”
Arthur’s brows furrowed so intensely that Prussia almost took a step back, sure he was going to let some kind of fairy assault brigade out of those things. He snickered, opening his mouth to ask if that was what Arthur planned, but the other nation ran right over him.
“If we are even, then kindly find someone else to harass. I have a lot of work left to do here.” Up came the half empty scotch bottle, wiggling in Prussia’s face, apparently to indicate that while there was booze left in that bottle, Arthur wasn't going anywhere. To further drive his point home, he titled the bottle and smacked Gilbert in the face.
Maybe if England hadn’t assaulted him, Prussia would have turned around and chased France down to make him share whatever he’d found. Or maybe he would have just rolled his eyes and gone to sulk at the bartender until Francis showed up again.
But Arthur hit him right in the fucking nose with that thing! Yeah, it wasn’t any worse than a tap and was more likely a result of the drunken nation’s unsteady hands, but it was the principal of the thing! Couldn’t just let that fly, could he?
“No fuckin’ way. I'm kinda impressed with the way you're puttin' that shit back, Arthur. I think I just found myself a new drinking buddy,” Gilbert said finally, and dropped into the seat right next to Arthur while the other groaned, swearing at him.
“Sod off, Beilschmidt,” Arthur snapped, butchering Gilbert’s last name so badly that he thought for a moment England called him Smith something.
He laughed and patted Arthur on the back so hard the nation lurched forward and knocked a couple glasses over. “I can’t understand shit you say with that weird fuckin’ accent. You look like you could use some company, so I’ll pretend that was you begging me to stay here and drink with you, which works out awesome for me, ‘cause that’s what I was planning on doing anyway.”
“I don’t need company. Especially not yours.” England slapped his hand away, trying and failing to glare at him. Those bright green eyes weren’t focusing too well. Of course, Gilbert wasn’t much better off, but everyone knew Germans could hold their booze way better than any Englishman.
By the way Arthur kept slouching in his seat, almost tipping his bottle over and slurring his threats, Gilbert bet on him handling maybe three more stiff drinks before going down for the count. Possibly less if he refused shots.
Those glass tumblers sitting in front of him, still sticky with scotch residue and a half-melted ice cubes, weren’t exactly small. Arthur had four of them there already, along with a few empty beers and two shot glass. …the bartender really needed to get a jump on cleaning up.
In the end, Arthur handled three shots and a scotch and a half. Gilbert - who managed to harass Arthur into buying him drinks - however went from sitting up, harassing and occasionally poking the Englishman in the shoulder, to leaning over, cheek resting on something cold and sticky.
God, he hadn’t been that destroyed in…well, days, but that was in the safety of Francis’ flat, not stranded in a bar in Copenhagen with only Eyebrows for company. And not very good company at that. Arthur kept rattling on about Alfred and Francis, mumbling into the hand supporting his chin.
Gilbert didn’t contribute. He really couldn’t - England was talking too fast for his booze-soaked mind to keep up. He stayed quiet until crimson slid open and found Arthur looking down at him, clearly expecting an answer to a question Gilbert never heard in the first place.
“What, man?”
Arthur sighed, hiccupping in the middle of it. “I asked what hotel you’re staying in. You’re arse-over-tit and Francis took off with that girl an hour ago.”
“Fuck, man, hell if I know. Big one, right outside…th’..conference place.” Whatever England said after that, Prussia didn’t hear. He knew when the other nation pulled his arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up, though, because Arthur kept swearing at him. They were leaving the bar, apparently..
“Ignorant bastard. Ought to just leave you here, let the police come an’ get you. Don’t know why I’m helping you..you’re terrible at conversation.”
"Th'fuck..," Gilbert slurred as England shoved him into a cab, climbing in behind him and barely getting the door shut before the driver took off. "You're...all you talked about's 'merica, man." Gilbert's head rolled to one side so he could look up at Arthur, blinking slowly.
"You got it bad for him, don't'cha?"
Whatever expression flitted across England's face, Prussia couldn't see it. He stayed turned towards the window. "That's absurd. He's a pompous ass, only out to help himself. I can't stand him anymore."
"Anymore? So..ya used to..to stand him. What happen, he call it quits on ya?"
Silence stretched on for so long after that that Gilbert started to wonder if maybe Arthur had fallen asleep over there, using his eyebrows for a pillow, when England finally spoke up again, much quieter than before.
"Just shut the hell up, Beilschmidt."
"Aw, hell, Artie, take it easy. Shit happens, feelings get hurt, 's'not the end of the world. Know the best way to get 'im outta yer head?" Gilbert straightened up and leaned over, one bleary red eye squinting, brow arching, so that he looked as though he was about to divulge some centuries-old secret and shoot the cab driver afterward for overhearing.
"No. But I'm sure you with all your infinite wisdom and ego are going to tell me." Sighing, Arthur turned back from the window and scowled, ready to plant a hand in the middle of Gilbert's face and shove him back over to his side.
“Fuckin’ right.” And he was going to illustrate the whole thing by lifting his hands and waving them around as he talked. “You do what Francis does. You go out an’ find somethin’ pretty, take it home for the night, an’ call it a cab in the morning. Simple as that.” On this last sentence, Arthur had to duck to the side, nearly cracking his head on the glass, to avoid Prussia's right hand slashing a line through the air.
“I wasn’t aware France’s perversion was just him trying to forget someone,” England muttered and glanced over just in time to catch Gilbert making a rather…irritated face, if there was any word for it at all. But he went right back to smirking as soon as he noticed Arthur looking his way.
“Here lately? Yeah. Yeah, he’s been trying pretty damn hard. Isn’t ‘bout makin’ a connection or findin’ love. Awesome if you can, I mean, there isn’t anythin’ like havin’ a bitch ‘can handle her bourbon. But you just…”
His hands fell back to his lap, pale, slender birds finally at rest, twining together so England couldn’t see the imprint in one of his fingers where there was a ring missing, one he’d worn for quite awhile.
“You just give yourself somethin’ else to think about for awhile. Sleep around. Or find somebody and just see ‘em on a casual basis. You invest a lot of emotion in somebody, that’s when you’re gonna get burned.”
England slowly shook his head as Prussia closed his eyes, evidently exhausted by that massive show of creative brainpower. Gilbert sighed. Arthur was just too stubborn and stingy to listen. Probably real old-fashioned, too, with all those hang-ups about premarital sex or something.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence, due in part to Prussia nodding off sitting up, chin on his chest, and Arthur making a very concentrated effort to ignore that side of the cab. That was what Gilbert assumed at the time, right before he fell asleep.
Despite this awkward silence, England helped Prussia out of the cab. He sort of had to, since the driver stopped, Arthur got out and headed for the hotel, and Gilbert stayed in there, sleeping and drooling a little on his shirt.
When he opened the door, the ex-nation slid out, forcing England to either catch him or let him whack his stupid opinionated head on the pavement.
He chose the former, thankfully, waking Prussia up in the process so that when they stumbled inside and onto an elevator, they were leaning on each other for support. Up twelve floors in total silence, save for Prussia yawning widely several times, and England 'tch'ing' at the beer smell rolling off him.
In fact, Arthur didn't speak again until he got Gilbert propped against the wall beside his door and started attempting to fumble his keycard in the door. "You can stay here for the night, or I can phone your brother to come get you. I'm sure I have his number somewhere."
Gilbert watched Arthur try to get that card in three more times, failing twice and pulling it out too soon on the last, before he grabbed Arthur's hand and helped out. The other nation tensed as the door popped open, staring down at Gilbert's hand on his own even when the ex-nation spoke up again.
"If I stay here, are you gonna do dirty things to me in my sleep?"
He couldn’t really focus well enough to see, but Gilbert imagined the look on Arthur’s face was part disgust, part exasperation. It would be if he’d done his job tonight.
“Honestly, you are the most obnoxious, arrogant, perverted, disgusting excuse for a nation I have ever come across. How you’ve managed to be such an insufferable wanker and exist for so long is just..just beyond me.”
Gilbert blinked, smirk growing wider, and shoved Arthur in through the door, backing him up against the wall just inside. “So that means yes, huh? All that sweet-talkin’, that’s your way of sayin’ you wanna fuck me, right? You could’ve put it into poetry form, y’know. Been all like ‘roses are red, violets are blue, I’m gonna screw you into a wall’ and really won my heart over.”
Arthur didn’t push him away. He was scowling, hands on Gilbert’s chest apparently intending to push him back out the door. But he didn’t. Instead, those hands slowly turned to fists, knotting into his shirt-front until he had something to jerk Gilbert forward with. “Do you ever shut up?”
“What” was all he got out before Arthur silenced the rest with a forceful kiss, lips and tongue coaxing a slow, somewhat shocked response out of the ex-nation. The entire moment felt too surreal, too much like some drunken hallucination. Where were the fuckin' unicorns and pink elephants? In a matter of minutes Arthur went from bitching him out to pushing him backwards into the dark hotel room, fumbling with shirt buttons and tripping both of them up with his clumsy missteps.
Gilbert let Arthur push him until the mattress bumped the backs of his knees, even helped with the last few buttons on his shirt and shrugged the item off, tossing it aside carelessly. He waited until the other man paused, drawing back to catch a breath, then grabbed England by the front of his shirt, whipped him around, and pushed him onto his back, all in one pretty, practiced motion that shouldn't have been so graceful, drunk as he was. One surprise as payback for the first.
Arthur coughed, exhaling scotch-breath right in Gilbert's face. "No..."
"Aw, come on, I'm not gonna hurt you." Gilbert rolled his eyes. Typical reaction, shouldn't have expected anything different from such a stuffy -
"I prefer to be on top."
Staring, Gilbert rose up, open-mouthed, blank expression breaking into a sloppy, drunk grin. Like "Too bad. I don't bottom for anybody but-"
Arthur timed his second interruption - this time with a kiss - perfectly, meeting Gilbert's mouth, arm slung around his neck, with such force that their teeth clicked. "You misunderstand. I'll show you."
And quick as Prussia had flipped him around, England locked his knees around the ex-nation's waist and rolled them, switching their positions so quickly it left Gilbert blinking, waiting for the room to slide back into focus.
Months later, Gilbert would still remember the smirk Arthur wore sitting up there, straddling his hips. Before that night, Arthur was just another opinionated country taking up a chair around the conference table. He'd pick at the other nation once in awhile, if they just so happened to cross paths, and England would shoot him scathing glares any time he spoke out during a meeting, especially after his nation status was revoked and no one saw any reason for him to tag along.
But that was the extent of their interaction. Gilbert had never seen Arthur's mouth curl at one corner like that, bright green eyes darkening in a way that looked positively threatening and really made wearing pants extremely uncomfortable. Slight as the other nation was, all of his weight was situated right on Gilbert's crotch, creating this just..unbelievably intense friction, but so infrequently it was more frustrating than pleasant.
For once in his life, Gilbert couldn't find a single thing to say, caught up in the way Arthur was watching him and rocking his hips now and then, so slowly that it had to be a deliberate tease.
But Arthur wasn’t about to let him get straight to what he wanted. Sort of pissed him off, actually, when he reached up to help with his clothes and had his hands slapped away.
There weren’t actual rules for this sort of thing, but the suggested ones said that they were supposed to climb all over each other, rip clothes, pull hair and leave terribly embarrassing bite marks and bruises, roll around the sheets for half the night because they were both too drunk to stay hard the entire time, and collapse in the sheets after a really sloppy fuck that ended with somebody getting come in the somebody’s hair while that person made a wet, sticky mess of the pillows so that they both had to sleep flat on the mattress.
Something along those lines, not this long, drawn out thing Arthur seemed to be aiming for.
Not that Gilbert could complain much. Every inch of flesh bared made him want more, hands twitching on England’s hips, wanting to help strip all that unnecessary fabric away and explore the body beneath to his heart’s content.
…aw, fuck, now he was starting to enjoy this slow bullshit.
There went coat and jacket, flung aside just as carelessly as Gilbert had tossed his own shirt earlier. He couldn't help snickering quietly. "Livin' dangerously? Your clothes are gonna get all wrinkled."
"Better wrinkled than ripped."
"True" was all Gilbert came up with before they fell to kissing again. Arthur's body, like most other nations, was a network of delicate scars, dark line and patches against pale skin shivering under his touch, rising up in light goosebumps when hie thumb grazed the hard bud of a nipple.
Prussia kept his hands from lingering too long over any scar, but Arthur didn't seem to care, didn't flinch or shoot him nasty glances anytime his free-roaming hand landed on an imperfection. The scars didn't detract from the overall picture though. Arthur had an incredible body - slender, lithely muscled, obviously agile - and was exactly the sort of person - physically - Gilbert would make a conquest of when he went out drinking.
The difference now was that all those sharp angles and slight curves his hands played over belonged to someone familiar, a man he'd seen across a table for several centuries now, one he never imagined capable of such a breathtaking kiss.
Arthur bit at the soft dip between his collarbones, nipped a trail over both hard ridges and inward, tracing a Y-incision pattern of kisses and bites down Gilbert's sternum. Each one made his skin prickle as cool air touched the spit-damp imprints of his lips.
Lower and lower, biting, sucking and teasing, until he had Prussia's zipper between his teeth, green flicking up to watch the ex-nation as it buzzed downward.
Gilbert had expectations. Sort of. Once, when they were on better terms, he and France went around the conference table arguing over what sort of blowjob they thought each nation would give. Italy ranked lowest, thanks to his ever-present attention issues. Francis rated himself highest, naturally, but Gilbert disagreed and said Latvia would probably give a great beej - he was like a natural vibrator.
Arthur fell in the lower digits, right about three, if he remembered correctly. Francis had smirked, watching the perpetually irritated nation through half-lidded blue, and murmured about how the quiet ones had a way of surprising you.
He was right. He was one fucking hundred percent right. Arthur pulled his pants and shorts down and off, flinging them so carelessly they landed on the lamp on the bedside table, making Prussia smirk. What he did with his lips and tongue wiped that expression clean. His mouth, hot and wet, closed over the head of Gilbert's erection and sucked in a way that got him moaning, hips arching up off the bed. As he slid downward, Arthur's tongue moved along the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein there at a faster pace than what his head bobbed.
And his hands...his hands never stopped moving. They were up Prussia’s thighs, stroking the sensitive inner curves where they joined his body, dragging so lightly his skin prickled, cock twitching, aching, in Arthur’s mouth.
Then one wrapped snug around the base and stroked along with his head-bobbing, tightening at the base and loosening at the tip so that it felt like a second mouth, wet and sloppy, gripping the head of his dick.
Arthur kept at this until Gilbert really starting tugging on his hair and the pitch of his moans took on a more desperate, hitching edge. When he pulled back, licking his lips and smirking, Prussia whined, twitching his hips up even as Arthur climbed up to straddle him again.
“I don’t suppose you carry lube on a daily basis.”
A day or so later, when the memory came back to him, Prussia would laugh aloud to himself over how dryly Arthur managed to ask that. As it happened, he did have just that, in his pants, and directed Arthur that way, nearly laughing himself hoarse when the other man crawled to the end of the bed and fell straight into the floor.
By Arthur’s comment earlier, Gilbert expected another wrestling match for dominance. As it turned out, when Arthur said he preferred being on top, he meant he preferred riding on top . A good lube job and some awkward, poorly coordinated positioning later, that was exactly what he did.
Both hands pressed flat on Gilbert’s stomach as he lowered down, taking the ex-nation’s cock in so slowly that Gilbert was digging into the bed sheets, struggling not to thrust up into him. Had to let him get adjusted though. Otherwise Arthur would probably bitch him out, hit him with his purse and leave, and he’d get stuck here blue-balled. Besides, he was sort of pretty like that, pink-faced and panting, thighs trembling even when he went still, flush against Gilbert’s hips.
Smirking, Gilbert twitched upwards and Arthur cried out, entire body going rigid. Must have hit the right spot first try then. The first rock back and forth made Prussia moan and grab for the slender jut of his hips, thumbs digging into the sharp angles of bone.
The first slow, shallow thrust he tried, Arthur’s head fell back and a high, breathy noise that was half sigh, half moan ruined the room’s dark, quiet calm. They fell into a rhythm that way, with England alternating between slow grinding with Prussia buried deep inside, or bending forward, back arching as he moved his ass in ways Gilbert had only seen in porno flicks. Arthur was so fucking drunk he couldn’t walk a straight line from one side of the room to the other, but he knew exactly how to work his body to get Gilbert moaning and arching up into the warm, snug walls hugged tight around his cock.
When it got to be too much, Gilbert slowed him down, slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss while he hips snapped up against the other nation. He knew exactly when his strokes hit home because Arthur's eyes would close and his soft, modest noises grew sharper and more intense.
It wasn't graceful - Arthur kept slipping off when he got too enthusiastic, and Gilbert's attempts to change position resulted in Arthur accidentally rolling off the bed and taking out the bedside table - or romantic, or even all that long. That in itself spoke volumes, because Prussia was entirely used to fucking a bar trophy all night long; alcohol usually made it next to impossible for him to get off in any short amount of time.
Half an hour into it, Arthur paused, thighs squeezing around Gilbert to get him to stop. The entire time, England kept his closed, panting and rocking without once making any sort of eye contact. He glanced down at Prussia then and blushed red, then climbed down and settled onto the bed beside him, facing the opposite wall.
For a moment, Gilbert thought the bastard had gotten sleepy or bored and considered kicking the Englishman off the bed. He'd survive, what with those hair-bags built into his face.
But England squirmed back against him, ass nudging up against his cock until Gilbert got the idea and eased into him again, a hand gripping his hip to hold him still. Now this part he remembered extremely well. This part was something he rarely ever did because his partners tended to go lax on him, or roll the wrong direction and pinch his dick.
Arthur, apparently, was different. Arthur knew what to do. Without missing a beat his leg lifted, hooked back over Prussia's and he drove himself back against the other man, urging him on.
This was how they remained for the next half hour, Arthur squirming, crying out softly and clutching the sheets or the arm Gilbert had over him to stay steady, while the ex-nation pounded into him, unable to hold back. He couldn't pick up that slow pace again, not with this new angle intensifying all the ways Arthur's body moved around him.
Numb fingers fumbled over his hip, wrapped around and stroked him in time with the quickening pace, until Arthur tensed and drove back against him. breath caught in his throat, Gilbert drove hard up into him and remained there, rocking steadily throughout Arthur's orgasm. When he came, those tight muscles hugged around Gilbert's cock spasmed and tensed, pulling him deeper, flexing around him until the tight tension coiled in his middle sprang loose and he came, spilling inside England, face pressed to the sweat-slick nape of his neck.
He smelled like that Polo men's cologne. Oddly enough, seconds after coming, the only thing Gilbert could think was how he'd always pegged Art for a Burberry Brit sort of guy. Based on the name alone, of course.
Several long, quiet moments later Arthur pulled away and went to shower. Exhaustion and boozed caught up with Gilbert by the time he returned, and come morning, Prussia woke to find the bed empty. The entire room had been set to rights again, and on the folded pile of his clothes left on the foot of the bed, there was a single white slip of hotel stationary with a parting note:
"I trust you will keep your sodding mouth shut about this. If you can manage that, I will be in the same pub quarter after seven this evening."
Gilbert blinked, read the note a few times over, and slipped it into his wallet.
Later that night, he and Arthur drank together, exchanged the same sort of pleasantries as the night before, and returned to Arthur's room for a repeat of events. The third night of the meetings went the same way, only come morning, Arthur was the one waking up alone to a disaster of a room, both beds torn apart from switching positions and locations all night long, clothes left exactly where they'd been discard, and a note spit-glued to his forehead with Gilbert's phone number scrawled on the paper and nothing more.
God, he hoped that was spit.
Author: Sai
Character(s) or Pairing(s): PrussiaxEngland, implied USUK and implied France/Prussia
Rating: NC17
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Prussia's mouth, England's mouth, drunk sex
Notes: Written for the kinkmeme; parts 1-8
Original request:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/12046.html?thread=26936590#t26936590
Looking back now, Arthur wondered why he ever let himself fall in with that East German prat. They were such complete opposites, barely even capable of getting along during meetings.
It seemed at times that Prussia went out of his way to be obnoxious, always kicking him under the table, jerking his chair out from under him when he was making to sit down, flicking paper wads at him when he was talking or making infuriating comments about his eyebrows, like there was something wrong with them. They were just a little thicker than average, certainly nothing to make rude comments about.
But Gilbert wouldn’t let it drop; Arthur strongly suspected that he was the one responsible for drawing large eyebrows over the UK on the massive map in the conference room. Insufferable bastard…
England sniffed and glanced up over his papers once more. The bastard was staring at him again, smirking. God, he hated that smirk. It wasn’t particularly cruel right now, but it could be. He’d seen it, watched it crawl across Prussia’s face time and time again, watched how the corner of his mouth would start to curl up and his eyes would narrow, something malicious sparking in them. It toned down when he was just teasing, but only slightly, still threatening the cruelty he knew full well Gilbert was capable of.
It was so terribly disarming to have that look turned his direction that Arthur felt himself going a bit red in the face. Stupid, arrogant, narcissistic bloody bastard was just crossing lines now.
Arthur damn well knew why ignorant git was looking at him like that too, and it made him want to throw all his papers in Gilbert’s face. Not his tea, though..that would be a terrible waste of a good drink. But if he remembered correctly, that was the exact same look Prussia shot him ten seconds before his back hit the mattress in the ex-nation’s bedroom last night. ..afterward too, when they were both exhausted, clutching each other like two familiar lovers and panting. Gilbert had his forehead against the other nation's, but when he managed to settle down a little, he pulled back, looked down at Arthur, and fucking smirked.
Arthur could have slapped him.
Shit. England ducked his head again, rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to soothe away the remnants of his hangover. How did they go from one casual, accidental sloppy fuck to this..this routine? Prussia wasn’t even good company! He was rude, drank and swore constantly, and his sense of humor was absolutely filthy. And those damn birds he kept in his room made an awful fuss first thing in the morning.
Awful, but they were really unbearable when paired with Prussia singing at the top of his lungs in the shower while England was trying to drag himself out of bed and find his clothes.
Imagine waking up to that every morning- ..wait, no, don’t imagine that, because that wasn’t going to happen. Their drunken fucks were only that, just a casual fling and certainly nothing to get attached to.
Sighing, England laid his papers back down and arranged them in a neat little stack. Honestly, when would Alfred learn that his tardiness tied up the entire mee- fucking hell, Prussia was still looking at him!
Arthur rolled his eyes, jerked his chair around, and refused to acknowledge the other man. How the hell did he let it get this way?
--
Prussia, on the other hand, remembered their first evening together just fine. That was why he was smirking at Arthur. Yeah, last night as still fresh on his mind, but if he thought too hard about that, he was going to end up making West real awkward real fast.
Nothing like popping a boner during a world conference to upset his brother. He had done it a few times, back when he and France were fucking around and Francis insisted on slipping him filthy notes under the table all the time.
Anyway, that flustered expression England kept shooting him was what reminded Prussia of all that. Nearly a month ago, he thought, maybe a little longer, but anything that lasted more than a week was a fucking record for him. He didn’t bother with that established relationship bullshit. Fucking around with that sourpuss was about as close as he’d been to one in a long time. And that was just fine. Sex was sex, no use dicking around with flowers and dates and sappy stupid love letters or whatever the hell people did when they were in love.
That look Arthur kept shooting him, like he was expecting Gilbert to get up out of his seat, crawl across the conference table, and fuck him in the mouth in front of everyone? That wasn’t exactly the look of love. That was the look of something like ‘Don’t you dare embarrass me, you tosser. Yeah, I remember what you did with your tongue last night and how you made me moan your name more than once, but I don’t want to think about that here. In public. Sitting beside Francis.’ …that was what Gilbert imagined, anyway.
Funny how he worried about appearances so much. He tried so hard that first night to come off like it wouldn’t make a shit bit of difference to him if Gilbert fucked him or not, he was still going to wake up with a horrible hangover. What was one more pain, even if it was in his ass? And even now, when they were meeting on a regular basis just to get drunk and screw around, England refused to drop that stuffy, holier-than-thou, stick-up-his-ass thing he had going on. Well, whatever. Prussia figured he could work around that stick just fine, maybe even shake it loose for him.
His attitude was more of a draw than a turnoff though. England shrugging when Prussia asked if he’d like to come home with him instead of going back alone tonight was like some kind of weird, English bait. And he hadn’t given a shit about appearances then, had he? So no, maybe that wasn’t entirely true, if he was willing to get sloppy-drunk in public. Besides, the man wore sweatervests, for fuck’s sake.
He hadn’t had on one of those weird useless sweater things that night a month ago though. Gilbert remembered staggering into that particular bar late one evening, clutching the wall with one hand and France with the other. They’d lost Antonio somewhere along the way, probably while passing by that stripclub with the neon pink ‘BARELY LEGAL’ sign flashing in the window.
France left him propped against the bar about twenty minutes later to chase this pretty ltalian number into the women’s restroom, but it took Gilbert a good ten minutes more - ten minutes that he wasted swearing belligerently when the bartender refused to serve him anything more - to notice that three seats to his left sat a very familiar man trying too damn hard to make himself look small.
So Prussia, out of the kindness of his heart, bought England a drink with the last of his beer money. Real sweet of him, wasn’t it?
Yeah, a real genuine act of charity, even if he was just doing it so he could slam the small glass down in front of Arthur and snatch his bottle of scotch when he was looking the other direction. That worked just long enough for Prussia to get a good, long draw before England snatched the bottle back, scowling at him.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doing, Gilbert?” he slurred, tucking the bottle against his chest and rocking back on the bar chair so hard he looked about ready to tip over onto the floor.
Frozen in their trademark crooked smirk, Prussia’s lips tightened. Barely a minute over here and Arthur was already getting his digs in. Using his human name was evidently Arthur’s own special way of telling Prussia that he no longer qualified for
Plenty of the other nations liked to mutter about him when he acted out, calling him all sorts of things in their various languages, all related to his former nation status. He didn’t give a shit. He still had a spot in this world thanks to West; the rest of them could go take a flying fuck for all he cared.
And Arthur could go right along with the rest of them if he wanted get so damn hot about a stolen drink.
“I bought you a-“ Leaning against the bar now, arms folded on the sticky top, Gilbert pointed to where he’d left that glass, only to see that it was already empty, added to the litter of its twin brothers and sisters in front of England. Sneaky bastard… “..shot. Yeah, bought you one, got one off you. Makes us even!”
Arthur’s brows furrowed so intensely that Prussia almost took a step back, sure he was going to let some kind of fairy assault brigade out of those things. He snickered, opening his mouth to ask if that was what Arthur planned, but the other nation ran right over him.
“If we are even, then kindly find someone else to harass. I have a lot of work left to do here.” Up came the half empty scotch bottle, wiggling in Prussia’s face, apparently to indicate that while there was booze left in that bottle, Arthur wasn't going anywhere. To further drive his point home, he titled the bottle and smacked Gilbert in the face.
Maybe if England hadn’t assaulted him, Prussia would have turned around and chased France down to make him share whatever he’d found. Or maybe he would have just rolled his eyes and gone to sulk at the bartender until Francis showed up again.
But Arthur hit him right in the fucking nose with that thing! Yeah, it wasn’t any worse than a tap and was more likely a result of the drunken nation’s unsteady hands, but it was the principal of the thing! Couldn’t just let that fly, could he?
“No fuckin’ way. I'm kinda impressed with the way you're puttin' that shit back, Arthur. I think I just found myself a new drinking buddy,” Gilbert said finally, and dropped into the seat right next to Arthur while the other groaned, swearing at him.
“Sod off, Beilschmidt,” Arthur snapped, butchering Gilbert’s last name so badly that he thought for a moment England called him Smith something.
He laughed and patted Arthur on the back so hard the nation lurched forward and knocked a couple glasses over. “I can’t understand shit you say with that weird fuckin’ accent. You look like you could use some company, so I’ll pretend that was you begging me to stay here and drink with you, which works out awesome for me, ‘cause that’s what I was planning on doing anyway.”
“I don’t need company. Especially not yours.” England slapped his hand away, trying and failing to glare at him. Those bright green eyes weren’t focusing too well. Of course, Gilbert wasn’t much better off, but everyone knew Germans could hold their booze way better than any Englishman.
By the way Arthur kept slouching in his seat, almost tipping his bottle over and slurring his threats, Gilbert bet on him handling maybe three more stiff drinks before going down for the count. Possibly less if he refused shots.
Those glass tumblers sitting in front of him, still sticky with scotch residue and a half-melted ice cubes, weren’t exactly small. Arthur had four of them there already, along with a few empty beers and two shot glass. …the bartender really needed to get a jump on cleaning up.
In the end, Arthur handled three shots and a scotch and a half. Gilbert - who managed to harass Arthur into buying him drinks - however went from sitting up, harassing and occasionally poking the Englishman in the shoulder, to leaning over, cheek resting on something cold and sticky.
God, he hadn’t been that destroyed in…well, days, but that was in the safety of Francis’ flat, not stranded in a bar in Copenhagen with only Eyebrows for company. And not very good company at that. Arthur kept rattling on about Alfred and Francis, mumbling into the hand supporting his chin.
Gilbert didn’t contribute. He really couldn’t - England was talking too fast for his booze-soaked mind to keep up. He stayed quiet until crimson slid open and found Arthur looking down at him, clearly expecting an answer to a question Gilbert never heard in the first place.
“What, man?”
Arthur sighed, hiccupping in the middle of it. “I asked what hotel you’re staying in. You’re arse-over-tit and Francis took off with that girl an hour ago.”
“Fuck, man, hell if I know. Big one, right outside…th’..conference place.” Whatever England said after that, Prussia didn’t hear. He knew when the other nation pulled his arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up, though, because Arthur kept swearing at him. They were leaving the bar, apparently..
“Ignorant bastard. Ought to just leave you here, let the police come an’ get you. Don’t know why I’m helping you..you’re terrible at conversation.”
"Th'fuck..," Gilbert slurred as England shoved him into a cab, climbing in behind him and barely getting the door shut before the driver took off. "You're...all you talked about's 'merica, man." Gilbert's head rolled to one side so he could look up at Arthur, blinking slowly.
"You got it bad for him, don't'cha?"
Whatever expression flitted across England's face, Prussia couldn't see it. He stayed turned towards the window. "That's absurd. He's a pompous ass, only out to help himself. I can't stand him anymore."
"Anymore? So..ya used to..to stand him. What happen, he call it quits on ya?"
Silence stretched on for so long after that that Gilbert started to wonder if maybe Arthur had fallen asleep over there, using his eyebrows for a pillow, when England finally spoke up again, much quieter than before.
"Just shut the hell up, Beilschmidt."
"Aw, hell, Artie, take it easy. Shit happens, feelings get hurt, 's'not the end of the world. Know the best way to get 'im outta yer head?" Gilbert straightened up and leaned over, one bleary red eye squinting, brow arching, so that he looked as though he was about to divulge some centuries-old secret and shoot the cab driver afterward for overhearing.
"No. But I'm sure you with all your infinite wisdom and ego are going to tell me." Sighing, Arthur turned back from the window and scowled, ready to plant a hand in the middle of Gilbert's face and shove him back over to his side.
“Fuckin’ right.” And he was going to illustrate the whole thing by lifting his hands and waving them around as he talked. “You do what Francis does. You go out an’ find somethin’ pretty, take it home for the night, an’ call it a cab in the morning. Simple as that.” On this last sentence, Arthur had to duck to the side, nearly cracking his head on the glass, to avoid Prussia's right hand slashing a line through the air.
“I wasn’t aware France’s perversion was just him trying to forget someone,” England muttered and glanced over just in time to catch Gilbert making a rather…irritated face, if there was any word for it at all. But he went right back to smirking as soon as he noticed Arthur looking his way.
“Here lately? Yeah. Yeah, he’s been trying pretty damn hard. Isn’t ‘bout makin’ a connection or findin’ love. Awesome if you can, I mean, there isn’t anythin’ like havin’ a bitch ‘can handle her bourbon. But you just…”
His hands fell back to his lap, pale, slender birds finally at rest, twining together so England couldn’t see the imprint in one of his fingers where there was a ring missing, one he’d worn for quite awhile.
“You just give yourself somethin’ else to think about for awhile. Sleep around. Or find somebody and just see ‘em on a casual basis. You invest a lot of emotion in somebody, that’s when you’re gonna get burned.”
England slowly shook his head as Prussia closed his eyes, evidently exhausted by that massive show of creative brainpower. Gilbert sighed. Arthur was just too stubborn and stingy to listen. Probably real old-fashioned, too, with all those hang-ups about premarital sex or something.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence, due in part to Prussia nodding off sitting up, chin on his chest, and Arthur making a very concentrated effort to ignore that side of the cab. That was what Gilbert assumed at the time, right before he fell asleep.
Despite this awkward silence, England helped Prussia out of the cab. He sort of had to, since the driver stopped, Arthur got out and headed for the hotel, and Gilbert stayed in there, sleeping and drooling a little on his shirt.
When he opened the door, the ex-nation slid out, forcing England to either catch him or let him whack his stupid opinionated head on the pavement.
He chose the former, thankfully, waking Prussia up in the process so that when they stumbled inside and onto an elevator, they were leaning on each other for support. Up twelve floors in total silence, save for Prussia yawning widely several times, and England 'tch'ing' at the beer smell rolling off him.
In fact, Arthur didn't speak again until he got Gilbert propped against the wall beside his door and started attempting to fumble his keycard in the door. "You can stay here for the night, or I can phone your brother to come get you. I'm sure I have his number somewhere."
Gilbert watched Arthur try to get that card in three more times, failing twice and pulling it out too soon on the last, before he grabbed Arthur's hand and helped out. The other nation tensed as the door popped open, staring down at Gilbert's hand on his own even when the ex-nation spoke up again.
"If I stay here, are you gonna do dirty things to me in my sleep?"
He couldn’t really focus well enough to see, but Gilbert imagined the look on Arthur’s face was part disgust, part exasperation. It would be if he’d done his job tonight.
“Honestly, you are the most obnoxious, arrogant, perverted, disgusting excuse for a nation I have ever come across. How you’ve managed to be such an insufferable wanker and exist for so long is just..just beyond me.”
Gilbert blinked, smirk growing wider, and shoved Arthur in through the door, backing him up against the wall just inside. “So that means yes, huh? All that sweet-talkin’, that’s your way of sayin’ you wanna fuck me, right? You could’ve put it into poetry form, y’know. Been all like ‘roses are red, violets are blue, I’m gonna screw you into a wall’ and really won my heart over.”
Arthur didn’t push him away. He was scowling, hands on Gilbert’s chest apparently intending to push him back out the door. But he didn’t. Instead, those hands slowly turned to fists, knotting into his shirt-front until he had something to jerk Gilbert forward with. “Do you ever shut up?”
“What” was all he got out before Arthur silenced the rest with a forceful kiss, lips and tongue coaxing a slow, somewhat shocked response out of the ex-nation. The entire moment felt too surreal, too much like some drunken hallucination. Where were the fuckin' unicorns and pink elephants? In a matter of minutes Arthur went from bitching him out to pushing him backwards into the dark hotel room, fumbling with shirt buttons and tripping both of them up with his clumsy missteps.
Gilbert let Arthur push him until the mattress bumped the backs of his knees, even helped with the last few buttons on his shirt and shrugged the item off, tossing it aside carelessly. He waited until the other man paused, drawing back to catch a breath, then grabbed England by the front of his shirt, whipped him around, and pushed him onto his back, all in one pretty, practiced motion that shouldn't have been so graceful, drunk as he was. One surprise as payback for the first.
Arthur coughed, exhaling scotch-breath right in Gilbert's face. "No..."
"Aw, come on, I'm not gonna hurt you." Gilbert rolled his eyes. Typical reaction, shouldn't have expected anything different from such a stuffy -
"I prefer to be on top."
Staring, Gilbert rose up, open-mouthed, blank expression breaking into a sloppy, drunk grin. Like "Too bad. I don't bottom for anybody but-"
Arthur timed his second interruption - this time with a kiss - perfectly, meeting Gilbert's mouth, arm slung around his neck, with such force that their teeth clicked. "You misunderstand. I'll show you."
And quick as Prussia had flipped him around, England locked his knees around the ex-nation's waist and rolled them, switching their positions so quickly it left Gilbert blinking, waiting for the room to slide back into focus.
Months later, Gilbert would still remember the smirk Arthur wore sitting up there, straddling his hips. Before that night, Arthur was just another opinionated country taking up a chair around the conference table. He'd pick at the other nation once in awhile, if they just so happened to cross paths, and England would shoot him scathing glares any time he spoke out during a meeting, especially after his nation status was revoked and no one saw any reason for him to tag along.
But that was the extent of their interaction. Gilbert had never seen Arthur's mouth curl at one corner like that, bright green eyes darkening in a way that looked positively threatening and really made wearing pants extremely uncomfortable. Slight as the other nation was, all of his weight was situated right on Gilbert's crotch, creating this just..unbelievably intense friction, but so infrequently it was more frustrating than pleasant.
For once in his life, Gilbert couldn't find a single thing to say, caught up in the way Arthur was watching him and rocking his hips now and then, so slowly that it had to be a deliberate tease.
But Arthur wasn’t about to let him get straight to what he wanted. Sort of pissed him off, actually, when he reached up to help with his clothes and had his hands slapped away.
There weren’t actual rules for this sort of thing, but the suggested ones said that they were supposed to climb all over each other, rip clothes, pull hair and leave terribly embarrassing bite marks and bruises, roll around the sheets for half the night because they were both too drunk to stay hard the entire time, and collapse in the sheets after a really sloppy fuck that ended with somebody getting come in the somebody’s hair while that person made a wet, sticky mess of the pillows so that they both had to sleep flat on the mattress.
Something along those lines, not this long, drawn out thing Arthur seemed to be aiming for.
Not that Gilbert could complain much. Every inch of flesh bared made him want more, hands twitching on England’s hips, wanting to help strip all that unnecessary fabric away and explore the body beneath to his heart’s content.
…aw, fuck, now he was starting to enjoy this slow bullshit.
There went coat and jacket, flung aside just as carelessly as Gilbert had tossed his own shirt earlier. He couldn't help snickering quietly. "Livin' dangerously? Your clothes are gonna get all wrinkled."
"Better wrinkled than ripped."
"True" was all Gilbert came up with before they fell to kissing again. Arthur's body, like most other nations, was a network of delicate scars, dark line and patches against pale skin shivering under his touch, rising up in light goosebumps when hie thumb grazed the hard bud of a nipple.
Prussia kept his hands from lingering too long over any scar, but Arthur didn't seem to care, didn't flinch or shoot him nasty glances anytime his free-roaming hand landed on an imperfection. The scars didn't detract from the overall picture though. Arthur had an incredible body - slender, lithely muscled, obviously agile - and was exactly the sort of person - physically - Gilbert would make a conquest of when he went out drinking.
The difference now was that all those sharp angles and slight curves his hands played over belonged to someone familiar, a man he'd seen across a table for several centuries now, one he never imagined capable of such a breathtaking kiss.
Arthur bit at the soft dip between his collarbones, nipped a trail over both hard ridges and inward, tracing a Y-incision pattern of kisses and bites down Gilbert's sternum. Each one made his skin prickle as cool air touched the spit-damp imprints of his lips.
Lower and lower, biting, sucking and teasing, until he had Prussia's zipper between his teeth, green flicking up to watch the ex-nation as it buzzed downward.
Gilbert had expectations. Sort of. Once, when they were on better terms, he and France went around the conference table arguing over what sort of blowjob they thought each nation would give. Italy ranked lowest, thanks to his ever-present attention issues. Francis rated himself highest, naturally, but Gilbert disagreed and said Latvia would probably give a great beej - he was like a natural vibrator.
Arthur fell in the lower digits, right about three, if he remembered correctly. Francis had smirked, watching the perpetually irritated nation through half-lidded blue, and murmured about how the quiet ones had a way of surprising you.
He was right. He was one fucking hundred percent right. Arthur pulled his pants and shorts down and off, flinging them so carelessly they landed on the lamp on the bedside table, making Prussia smirk. What he did with his lips and tongue wiped that expression clean. His mouth, hot and wet, closed over the head of Gilbert's erection and sucked in a way that got him moaning, hips arching up off the bed. As he slid downward, Arthur's tongue moved along the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein there at a faster pace than what his head bobbed.
And his hands...his hands never stopped moving. They were up Prussia’s thighs, stroking the sensitive inner curves where they joined his body, dragging so lightly his skin prickled, cock twitching, aching, in Arthur’s mouth.
Then one wrapped snug around the base and stroked along with his head-bobbing, tightening at the base and loosening at the tip so that it felt like a second mouth, wet and sloppy, gripping the head of his dick.
Arthur kept at this until Gilbert really starting tugging on his hair and the pitch of his moans took on a more desperate, hitching edge. When he pulled back, licking his lips and smirking, Prussia whined, twitching his hips up even as Arthur climbed up to straddle him again.
“I don’t suppose you carry lube on a daily basis.”
A day or so later, when the memory came back to him, Prussia would laugh aloud to himself over how dryly Arthur managed to ask that. As it happened, he did have just that, in his pants, and directed Arthur that way, nearly laughing himself hoarse when the other man crawled to the end of the bed and fell straight into the floor.
By Arthur’s comment earlier, Gilbert expected another wrestling match for dominance. As it turned out, when Arthur said he preferred being on top, he meant he preferred riding on top . A good lube job and some awkward, poorly coordinated positioning later, that was exactly what he did.
Both hands pressed flat on Gilbert’s stomach as he lowered down, taking the ex-nation’s cock in so slowly that Gilbert was digging into the bed sheets, struggling not to thrust up into him. Had to let him get adjusted though. Otherwise Arthur would probably bitch him out, hit him with his purse and leave, and he’d get stuck here blue-balled. Besides, he was sort of pretty like that, pink-faced and panting, thighs trembling even when he went still, flush against Gilbert’s hips.
Smirking, Gilbert twitched upwards and Arthur cried out, entire body going rigid. Must have hit the right spot first try then. The first rock back and forth made Prussia moan and grab for the slender jut of his hips, thumbs digging into the sharp angles of bone.
The first slow, shallow thrust he tried, Arthur’s head fell back and a high, breathy noise that was half sigh, half moan ruined the room’s dark, quiet calm. They fell into a rhythm that way, with England alternating between slow grinding with Prussia buried deep inside, or bending forward, back arching as he moved his ass in ways Gilbert had only seen in porno flicks. Arthur was so fucking drunk he couldn’t walk a straight line from one side of the room to the other, but he knew exactly how to work his body to get Gilbert moaning and arching up into the warm, snug walls hugged tight around his cock.
When it got to be too much, Gilbert slowed him down, slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss while he hips snapped up against the other nation. He knew exactly when his strokes hit home because Arthur's eyes would close and his soft, modest noises grew sharper and more intense.
It wasn't graceful - Arthur kept slipping off when he got too enthusiastic, and Gilbert's attempts to change position resulted in Arthur accidentally rolling off the bed and taking out the bedside table - or romantic, or even all that long. That in itself spoke volumes, because Prussia was entirely used to fucking a bar trophy all night long; alcohol usually made it next to impossible for him to get off in any short amount of time.
Half an hour into it, Arthur paused, thighs squeezing around Gilbert to get him to stop. The entire time, England kept his closed, panting and rocking without once making any sort of eye contact. He glanced down at Prussia then and blushed red, then climbed down and settled onto the bed beside him, facing the opposite wall.
For a moment, Gilbert thought the bastard had gotten sleepy or bored and considered kicking the Englishman off the bed. He'd survive, what with those hair-bags built into his face.
But England squirmed back against him, ass nudging up against his cock until Gilbert got the idea and eased into him again, a hand gripping his hip to hold him still. Now this part he remembered extremely well. This part was something he rarely ever did because his partners tended to go lax on him, or roll the wrong direction and pinch his dick.
Arthur, apparently, was different. Arthur knew what to do. Without missing a beat his leg lifted, hooked back over Prussia's and he drove himself back against the other man, urging him on.
This was how they remained for the next half hour, Arthur squirming, crying out softly and clutching the sheets or the arm Gilbert had over him to stay steady, while the ex-nation pounded into him, unable to hold back. He couldn't pick up that slow pace again, not with this new angle intensifying all the ways Arthur's body moved around him.
Numb fingers fumbled over his hip, wrapped around and stroked him in time with the quickening pace, until Arthur tensed and drove back against him. breath caught in his throat, Gilbert drove hard up into him and remained there, rocking steadily throughout Arthur's orgasm. When he came, those tight muscles hugged around Gilbert's cock spasmed and tensed, pulling him deeper, flexing around him until the tight tension coiled in his middle sprang loose and he came, spilling inside England, face pressed to the sweat-slick nape of his neck.
He smelled like that Polo men's cologne. Oddly enough, seconds after coming, the only thing Gilbert could think was how he'd always pegged Art for a Burberry Brit sort of guy. Based on the name alone, of course.
Several long, quiet moments later Arthur pulled away and went to shower. Exhaustion and boozed caught up with Gilbert by the time he returned, and come morning, Prussia woke to find the bed empty. The entire room had been set to rights again, and on the folded pile of his clothes left on the foot of the bed, there was a single white slip of hotel stationary with a parting note:
"I trust you will keep your sodding mouth shut about this. If you can manage that, I will be in the same pub quarter after seven this evening."
Gilbert blinked, read the note a few times over, and slipped it into his wallet.
Later that night, he and Arthur drank together, exchanged the same sort of pleasantries as the night before, and returned to Arthur's room for a repeat of events. The third night of the meetings went the same way, only come morning, Arthur was the one waking up alone to a disaster of a room, both beds torn apart from switching positions and locations all night long, clothes left exactly where they'd been discard, and a note spit-glued to his forehead with Gilbert's phone number scrawled on the paper and nothing more.
God, he hoped that was spit.