過大評価した
This has been a strange week, and it's only Tuesday.
My boss: (a) has beer in the fridge here in our office. It's Carlsberg. *judges*
(b) has a nine year old son, whose walking English to Japanese dictionary I seem to have become. Today's words were "equilateral" and "incisor".
Today, I have worked slightly late in desperation to finish the following fic. I wanted to surprise cienna with it as today is her graduation. I also dedicate this fic to my dear good son reppu as a house-warming fic. I have decided fic can be given as a house-warming fic when someone is on another continent. Hope you both enjoy this! (And everyone else too, for those of you who are so inclined towards international smut.)
Title: Bilateralism
Rating: NC-17, warnings for graphic porn, alcohol, and itchy trousers.
Words: 6,273
Summary: Hetalia. America/England. There are many who dislike America's tendency towards bilateralism. England thinks maybe it's not always such a bad thing.
Notes: Epic story of this fic in not an epic wordcount: I started this thing a couple of years ago. It lingered. Today, I sat down and wrote all the porn. The end. BET YOU NEVER IMAGINED I'D ACTUALLY FINISH IT!
.Bilateralism.
Bilateral talks, England decided, were both useless and irritatingly tedious. Particularly when you were dealing with Americans, who were pushy and rude and filled Whitehall with the smell of coffee and cheap aftershave.
He had put up with it all day, crammed into a tiny room with no windows and a dozen military leaders who all seemed to want nothing more than to piss England off. Making demands on him like he was some grovelling pathetic continental, and without even the decency of a "please," or an "if it's possible". Just, do this and, do that, and England wasn't having any of it.
On top of it all, just to add misery to annoyance and tedium, England's trousers were itchy and over-hot and he cursed whoever had thought wool was a really great idea for a military uniform. Warm as they may be, it was like having a million biting gnats all over your legs, and it was almost unbearable not to just scratch.
It was getting towards late evening when England could finally take no more of it. Absolutely nothing had been agreed, and England wanted nothing more than to go to the nearest pub and have a pint. Or twelve. To get away from the pointless circular arguments and the sound of America declaring, "But you have to! I'm America!"
And to try and forget about his fucking trousers.
England signed heavily, decided he was going to have to be the one to call a halt to these ridiculous proceedings. He stood up, planted his hands on the antique, polished table surface, and glared at the Americans.
"Enough" he said, or more like shouted. "This is getting us nowhere."
America scoffed, "That's because you won't agree to anything!"
"I won't agree to anything," England ground out, "Because your suggestions are fanciful at best and downright dangerous at worst!"
America had the nerve to pout. "They are not!"
England wondered how America could ever expect him to believe he was anything other than a brat when he talked that way.
But it was late, and England was tired and itchy, and the humans in the room looked like they were about to keel over, so England just shook his head. "They are. And this is still not getting us anywhere."
America made to speak but England held up his hand. "We refuse. That's the end of it. You come back tomorrow with something half-sensible and we'll talk."
America looked very much like he was going to argue the point, so England motioned for his military leaders to depart. "This meeting is over," he declared, turning away and making for the door.
It wasn't until he was half way down the corridor that America came bounding after him calling, "Hey, England!"
England called back, "No," and sped up.
"You don't even know what I was going to say!" America protested, catching hold of his shoulder.
"I could guess it was going to be something ridiculous so I saved us both the trouble. Now bugger off."
England shook off America's hand and strode off, hoping against hope that America would leave him alone, because if he didn't do something about his stupid itchy trousers in the next ten minutes he was going to kill something.
America though, England lamented, had never been one to do as he was told.
Instead, he quickly caught up and started to walk nonchalantly beside England, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"You got ants in your pants or something?" America said, and England could just hear the grin.
England gritted his teeth and absolutely did not respond, keeping his focus and storming as fast as he could towards the exit.
Drink.
Drink would make him forget his shitty day and his shitty trousers and shitty America. And if he moved any faster, he'd be jogging. He was already doing the demented hop-waddle of power-walkers everywhere.
"And where are you going in such a hurry anyway?" America asked, apparently not bothered that England wasn't replying to him, or that he was going at such a fast pace his own staff were starting to give him worried looks as he passed. The clip of his shoes echoed off the polished floor. "Got a hot date?" America teased.
England wanted to smack him.
"With some beer, yes. Now fuck off, America. I've had enough of your face for one day."
Or one century, England thought uncharitably.
He saw America's back straighten. "What are you saying? No one can ever get enough of me."
Which just made England laugh because sometimes he just could not understand how America could be so bloody sure of himself. He'd certainly never taught the idiot to be like that.
"You do know you are an absolute wanker, don't you?" England told him.
"If I knew what that was," America replied amiably, "I would know it, yeah."
England just shook his head, but couldn't help smiling. Just a bit.
Regardless, there was still the trouser issue, and the fact that America was still talking to him when England quite clearly remembered telling him to go away. They were almost out onto the street now, passing security and its irritating bleeping machines, out into the foyer filled with hacks and posturing career generals.
"What do you want?" England asked. "We're done for the day. Talk to me tomorrow."
America shrugged, taking back his mobile and his wallet from the security staff. "It's not about business stuff," he said.
"Then what?"
If England didn't know better, he might almost have thought that America looked sheepish. "The hotel is boring," he said as they stepped outside, down the front stone steps and out onto the busy pavement filled with milling tourists and scuttling workers. "And the military guys are no fun at all."
"I can't help it," England sneered, "if you Americans have about as much personality as a sheet of paper."
America frowned. "Jesus. You really are in a bad mood today."
"Yes," England shot back, "And your continued presence is not helping it at all."
England had to admit though, America's presence notwithstanding, the evening air was refreshing. The sun had already set, and there was the lingering cool, clean smell of atmosphere after rain. It soothed the itching in his legs a little. The streetlights overhead painted patches of orange and yellow light onto the ground, diffused around the edges by wet pavement, broken by the shadows of people moving past. It was a great relief to be outside, breathing real air, after the claustrophobia and stuffiness of the boardroom.
What was more, England could see the line pubs over the road lined up and waiting for him.
If only America would bugger off.
The idiot was saying, "You're clearly not eating enough. Well, aside from eating charcoal, but I'm pretty sure that hasn't got any actual nutritional value. Lack of food makes you grouchy."
England crossed his arms, muttering, "Charcoal, indeed. Because your food is just bursting with goodness."
America grinned brightly, then grabbed England's arm. "Of course it does. But in the absence of awesome food we'll have to make do with what you've got." He pointed to the nearest pub, directly across the street. "That place looks like it has food. We'll go there. You can buy me dinner."
America blithely dragged England by the arm across the road, completely ignoring the irate taxi drivers and buses coming towards them at the break-neck speed of all London traffic with a green light. America waved at them, smiling like a lunatic.
"Sorry, can't stop," he called out, dodging a number 38 double-decker bus. "Your Nation needs food!"
England muttered, "Sorry, sorry," and made apologetic faces at the poor bastards, then found himself contemplating having a zebra crossing put in to directly link Whitehall to the pubs. England shook his head, slightly concerned that idiocy was catching.
There were, at least, less people on the pavement over the other side of the road for America to mow down in his sudden all-encompassing mission to get to the pub. Inside, it was early yet so the place America pulled him into was still fairly empty.
"I suppose you want a drink," America sighed, practically throwing England into a chair. "Some nasty warm beer."
England raised an eyebrow. "If I'm to spend the evening with you I'll have a chaser to go with it." America shrugged and wandered off to the bar and, well, England supposed if he had booze, and America was paying, then maybe having the idiot around for the evening wouldn't be so horrendous after all.
He shouldn't, England reminded himself, count on that though. Every damn time he went out drinking with America he always seemed to end up making a tit of himself. And then when America returned with a tray of drinks and a "Don't worry, I put it on your tab," England wondered at how he had ever imagined this might be a good idea.
Still. There was beer, and it was in front of him, so he took a long drink before licking his lips and scowling at America. "You're buying the next round, you fucking cheapskate."
America just grinned, sipping at his own beer daintily before saying, "But I'm a guest."
"Guest, my arse," England scoffed. "You're an annoying bully who wants to steal my lunch money."
America had the cheek to look appalled by the very idea. "I would never steal your money, England," he said, then grinned again, "I know how much you need it."
England raised a disbelieving eyebrow because really, America wanted to get into whose economy was the crappest right now? He took another long drink of beer, mumbling into the glass, "You and I both."
***
England wasn't drunk. He really wasn't. He'd sworn to himself after his fourth beer (none of which America paid for) that he wasn't going to overdo it. He had generals to face in the morning. Boring, bland faced, stick-up-their arses American generals.
"Your generals are twats," England told America. It was, after all, useful information that America might not be aware of.
"They're just a little repressed," America laughed, bouncing an arm against England's shoulder. "Kind of like you."
England shoved America off him, took a healthy swig of beer then pointed sharply at America. "You're confusing me with someone else." Which he clearly was, because England was not repressed. Maybe a bit old fashioned at times, but no more than anyone else who wasn't as absurdly young and as ridiculously clueless as America. Also, "When I was your age I was pillaging and making magical swords and stuff. You're tame by comparison."
"I'm not sure," America said thoughtfully, dubiously, "that's something to be proud of." But he was smiling like the crazed imbecile he was, swirling his beer around. "Things are different now," he said.
England watched America down the rest of his pint, looking depressingly sober and disgustingly chipper for someone who'd had several beers and a long day in meetings so boring they made crocheting look like the height of excitement. America's shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and England could see the thick muscle of his arms. There was a time, England thought he remembered, when he had been that strong, and that confident, and possibly that naive. He didn't really think times were all that different at all.
"You really are buying this time," England announced instead of replying, tapping his nails against America's empty glass. "If I find you've put the drinks on my tab again I will have you deported. Or hung. Drawn and quartered. Having had one of those in a while. Or forced to watch the Hollyoaks omnibus, or something."
"Ah, but are you sure you can handle another drink, old man?" America asked with mock concern and a smug grin on his stupid face. He patted England's shoulder none too carefully, and England knew the bastard had just given him bruises. "You're looking a bit wobbly there. Isn't your fifth beer about the time you start crying and wondering where it all went wrong?"
Git.
"You wanted to come drinking with me," England pointed out. He was forming coherent arguments, there was no slurring and his vision was clear, so he was certain he wasn't even vaguely drunk. Much. "If you don't like the company then bugger off like I told you to do three hours ago."
"Where's the fun in that?" America smiled, wide and amused. It was like nothing England could say could offend the dense oaf anymore. Even worse, America seemed to enjoy the insults. "I know you secretly love it when I go drinking with you. Don't worry, old man," and here America winked, "I completely understand."
America slid out of his chair so fast England found himself demanding loudly, "Understand what exactly?" to America's back.
At least the cheapskate bought the next round himself.
***
"You're trying to get me arse-wiped," England concluded some time later, frowning at his pint and having no clue how many he'd drunk. That was a warning sign right there.
Another: their table was covered in a sea of empty beer glasses, puddles of spilt beer and three empty packets of pork scratchings. It was sort of pretty, England thought, the way the silvery lining of the packet reflected the dull, fingerprint-marked surface of the glasses. Maybe it would pass for modern art. "I didn't know you even liked pork scratchings," England felt he needed to add.
America was ripping a beer mat into small squares. There was a flush on his cheeks and England narrowed his eyes. Suspicious, but also in an attempt to focus better. "You're trying to get yourself drunk too," he said, pointing at America accusingly.
America looked up from his peeling, grinned at England a little madly. "And succeeding," he said, with vigour. He sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "It's what I do."
England nodded. "Your alcohol tolerance never was very good."
"No," America protested. He threw the beer mat down and picked up his glass. "Not drinking. I meant succeeding, you senile old fool. I succeed at everything I do!" As if to prove the point America downed the rest of his beer, slamming the glass back down on the table so hard the empty glasses jumped, clinking together. Melodically, England mused. America wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking wholly pleased with himself.
"You know you just un-proved your point," England said.
America looked thoughtful for a moment, stared for a long time at England, at the beer glass, then back at England.
He frowned. "There was a point?"
England rolled his eyes, but then had to shake his head when it made him dizzy. "The point, America, is that you are trying to get me drunk!"
At that America clapped his hands together like the excitable kid he was, grinning evilly England thought.
He pointed at England's glass. "Come on, England. You're letting the side down here. You've hardly touched that."
Warning signs, England reminded himself. Like the slippery feel of a glass in his hand he couldn't quite grip properly, and how every lift-to-the-mouth felt like an exercise in not dropping the entire contents all down his trousers. Those had been itchy, England remembered. He could barely feel his legs anymore.
"I'm pacing myself," England replied loftily. There was no harm in being sensible.
"I'll buy," America offered.
England slapped his hand down against the table and heard the glasses clinking together again. His hand was wet. "There you go, you see," England accused. "That's exactly what I mean!" He glowered at America and watched as the idiot's eyebrows went up.
"I have not a clue what you're talking about," America protested. He lifted his hands in surrender and had the cheek to look clueless.
"Evidence!" England wasn't buying this act at all. "You never offer to buy!" England leaned forward. America's face wasn't giving anything away. "What's your game?"
England would have sworn America rolled his eyes. Little wanker.
"Damn, you're paranoid." America took another swig of his drink and shrugged. "Just because I want to drink doesn't mean I'm up to anything."
"No, but you buying does." England felt his argument was sound, except then America sort of pitched forward, only just managing to catch himself with a hand against their sticky table before he went arse-over-tit. It was entirely possible, England conceded, that America was buying because he was pissed out of his head.
"You're drunk," England said.
America rolled his eyes. Again. The shit.
"Five… six... eight? Beers will do that to you." America looked down at the table. "How many have we had again?"
England barked out a laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seem America this off his face.
America pulled an affronted face. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," England assured him, placating.
He watched America for a moment, swaying slightly, his eyes unfocused.
"I'll have another ale," England smiled. "And two scotches."
***
"I think I'm going to puke," America said some short time after England introduced him the joys of the car bomb. England wasn't surprised.
"I might join you in that, " England agreed.
It was long past the point when England could say how many they'd had or what time it was or if they'd ever managed to get food. All he knew was that he felt nauseous, there was a forest of glasses in front of him, and he couldn't rightly say if America's gentle swaying was a product of his vision or of America's current inability to stay upright. A good night out is what England would usually call it but fuck, England was pretty sure he was supposed to be the sensible one here. Shit.
"Or take you home," England said. He wasn't even sure where America was staying, and from the lascivious way America was looking at him, England was fairly certain that had come across entirely the wrong way.
"Promise?" America slurred, and actually swayed closer towards England. Moved closed to England. Something. "You always say stuff like that," America was saying. "Saying you like me and you want to be my friend and you never are." America sounded pouty and his eyes were doing that unconvincing kicked-puppy thing. England did not find it cute.
"I don't know what you're talking about, you lightweight pansy," England shot back. "I don't like you at all."
America nodded gravely, with the kind of gravity that only a drunk man could muster. "I don't like you either." He took a long swig of beer slamming his half-empty glass down on the table. He looked green. "Yeah. Gonna puke." America stood up, stumbling and righting himself on the table before making his way unsteadily... somewhere. He definitely wasn't heading towards the toilets.
England watched him go, weaving around chairs and people and tables. It was late now and the pub was emptying out, filled now only with the heavy drinkers and the out-for-the-night types mostly drunk and laughing, or sullen and lonely in corners. America was moving towards the doors, England noticed. And really he should let the idiot puke all over himself, or trip over and break his neck, or get himself lost or arrested or mugged.
England was drunk too, and he liked it. He was at the point when everything looked great and the morning didn't matter and the people around you seemed like the best friends you'd ever had. Except for the fact that it was America he was with, and America was not his best friend. Maybe once, but not anymore. Not for a long time.
Except maybe he wanted to vomit a little bit too. It would make him feel better, he thought. Leave some room for him to finish his drink. Then home, and Aspirin and water and sleep.
Fuck, he wanted sleep.
By now America had found the doors and was heading back out onto the street. England imagined his confused face as he watched, America just standing in the doorway looking out into the night, cars speeding past and a couple of patrons sitting at a table nearby calling out, "Close the bloody door!"
There was definitely a chill to the night air, and it looked like it was drizzling again. England was glad for the warmth and cosiness of the pub.
England wondered if America would end up in a gutter if he left him on his own.
America was going to bloody well owe him some fucking enormous concessions in the morning.
***
Back alleys have a particular smell, made up of stale cigarettes, rotting garbage, piss, and a hint of vomit. England was surprised that neither of them had added to that last one yet.
England would admit though, America shoving lips against his and pretty much tongue-fucking his mouth was a much better way to spend one's time. Even if it was in a god-awful narrow passageway between the pub and a tourist shop.
They were hidden in shadows behind a tall stack of crates that held empty glass bottles, and England really hoped they didn't knock them over. America was frisky.
"I wasn't sure," America said when he finally stopped to breathe making England pause because, well, that really wasn't at all like America. He didn't give England a chance to ask what the fuck he wasn't sure about though before America was pushing England back harder against the brick wall, shoving a knee between his legs and grinding down.
This, England thought, was really not how he'd expected this night to end. Or start. Or something else. It was damned hard to concentrate with America's hot mouth on his, and the way the scratchy material of England's trousers created friction that was both chafing and enormously arousing. America tasted of beer and whisky and faintly of salt and England knew he was giving as good as he was getting, tangling his tongue with America's, biting at his lip and pulling and pushing and not letting America think for one second he was winning. Winning what though England had no idea, because he knew he really shouldn't have been doing this. He should put a stop to this because he'd always seen America as a kid. A foul-mouthed, impudent, ungrateful child. Except where he'd grown taller than England, and decisive and impetuous and stubborn in a way that always somehow managed to fray at England's nerves.
And the idiot had never, never shown an interest in him before. Not like this, with America's hands playing at England's waist, pushing aside his jumper and his shirt and shit his hands were freezing.
This would be a good time to push America away, to ask him just what exactly he was up to. But, God it was good, and England could just blame the alcohol in the morning and pretend he hadn't maybe thought about this very very occasionally, possibly, when he was very bored and America wasn't being a brat. Therefore, very very rarely. If ever, in fact. No, not at all.
Never had England thought about how it would feel to have America spreading his fingers against over the England's skin, digging in blunt nails that felt like they'd been chewed. He'd never considered what America's tongue would be like running down his neck like this, nose pushing against England's chin, puffing out warm, wet breathes. Licking and sucking, pressing their hips together like he'd done this before, which made England angry but not surprised.
"You're a fucking trollop," England told him, because America was.
Where his neck was bent back as America ran teeth along his throat England felt drops of rain against his skin, falling into his eyes. It was dark back here but he could see the dinginess of the old brick wall, the cloud of his own breath, the guttering. He could hear the traffic and the hurried footsteps of passers by. It seemed appropriate somehow.
"I'm gonna take that as an insult."
England could feel America's lips moving against his collarbone as he spoke before America bit down, startling England. And he couldn't quite believe it when his body responded by liking the sting of it, his cock getting uncomfortably hard in his restrictive, scratchy, irritating trousers. Without thinking, England's hips jerked forward, wanting more and wanting it right the fuck now.
America chuckled. "Looks like I'm not the only one whose a trollop."
"Oh, shut up," England snapped and gave into the inevitable, taking America's stupid dumb face in his hands and kissing him.
***
If England hadn't been drunk- very drunk- he was fairly certain he would never even have contemplated doing this. With America. In public of all places. Maybe in his youth, when he'd been reckless and over-confident and ridiculously smug, but not now. He was supposed to be sensible these days. Thoughtful and cautious, not reckless and discomfortingly close to being wanton.
"You keep lubricant in your pocket?" England asked, incredulous. Then frowned. "Was this planned? Were you planning to seduce me?"
Over the past several hundred years England had grown suspicious and wary and untrusting and he couldn't help but demand to know, "What? You thought you could get concessions out of me? Is this your idea of negotiation? Do you do this with all your allies?"
It was really bloody stupid to ask this now, when America had his hand down England's pants and England was still holding onto America's arse, still shoving thighs and hips against each other.
But England was going to be damned if he'd let America use him. If he was going to let America fuck him and it all be because he wanted more troops, more economic collaboration, more shitting land.
He had some morals left.
It was satisfying then to see America's face collapse into an uncharacteristic frown; into anger and maybe hurt.
"No," he said, and kissed England in a way that left England thinking America was telling the truth.
It was long past the time when either of them could just blame this on the booze. It was cold out, soberingly so, and from the first time America had kissed England- long and hard and hungrily, but still somehow cautious- England had known he meant it.
"I wasn't sure you wanted this," he said between them, breath mixed and teeth clicking against each other. "I wanted this. Want this."
England pulled back, studying America, bringing his hands up to rest on America's shoulders but not letting go.
"I like you." A pause and a grin. "Most of the time."
After a long moment looking at each other, America's grin faltered, turned wry. "The lube- man- a guy can't be prepared? Just in case? You taught me to always be ready for anything. Make sure I had spare socks. Shit like that."
England raised his eyebrows, disbelievingly. "You realise that's quite creepy? You make me sound like your father."
"Wouldn't be doing this with my dad, England," America said, and squeezed England's cock to make his point. England hissed and it took every ounce of self-control to remain still. To not start rutting against America again.
"You're still hard," America observed, and dropped to his knees, hands pushing down his pants, exposing his cock and his thighs to the cold. England would have complained, but before he could ask America what the fuck he thought he was doing- because, shit, what he looked like he was doing was too ridiculous- when America's mouth closed right over him and it was warm and wet and,
"Holy fucking Christ, America."
England's voice was about two octaves too high, and his breathing was erratic, hitching when America sucked, when his tongue pressed along the underside of his cock.
This was all such a terrible, wonderful idea.
Like how America took him deep in his mouth, played with his balls, hummed like he was having the time of his life down there. Like he was enjoying kneeling on wet, dirty concrete and couldn't get enough of it. America's fingers slid back, playing over his arse, pushing in eager and hurried and far too dry. England distinctly remembered there had been lube in their conversation somewhere.
It was good though, in some ways, to feel the burn. The roughness of it.
It had been a long time, and America was young, and maybe less experienced with this than England had thought.
And damn if that wasn't a turn-on.
Shit. England was fairly sure that meant he'd turned into a dirty old man at some point.
But America didn't seem to mind at all, speeding up and slowly down and teasing and making it so good that England could almost ignore the discomfort. Against the tender skin of his cock America hummed again, low and filthy and gleeful. At the thought that America was getting off on this England groaned, so damn ready to come it hurt. But then he remembered he was in public, dammit, so he gritted his teeth, tugged at America's hair.
"I understand," England admitted. "Fine. Stop that. Yes. Fuck me in a dingy alleyway. Show me how much you care."
England was impressed he had the coherency to say that much, not entirely sure how serious he was being.
America pulled back almost painfully slowly, making doubly obscene noises around England's cock before looking up, eyes hooded and lips swollen and smiling unashamedly.
"You understand, huh?" he asked.
"As much of your limited emotional capacity there is to understand, yes," England shot back.
Where America's mouth wasn't enveloping him anymore he was getting really cold.
They stared at each other and England knew; America wanted this. He wanted this. It wasn't like they got many opportunities to be alone. Sort of alone. Maybe they wouldn't get the chance again for years. Maybe this was all a massive mistake. Maybe he was a desperate, stupid old man. But here was America looking up at him with hope and amusement and quite a lot of lust.
It was nice to know he still had it.
***
"Only you," England gritted out, feeling the first press of America's cock against him. "Only you would buy blue bubblegum lube and think it was a brilliant idea." Damp, rough stone bit into the palm of his hands where England leaned against the wall, the grip of America's hands around his hips firm, but not painful. In this England was really very glad that America had learned some control over his strength.
America pulled back, and England felt more cold, slippery lube being pushed inside him.
Behind him, America took deep breaths, took hold of England's hips again, lower this time. England wished he could see his face, but it was too much effort to keep his head twisted around, so he let his head drop, closed his eyes, not wanting to watch a blank wall through this.
"It smelled good," America said, like that was any sort of good explanation. "I'm going in," America warned, his voice oddly serious.
"We're not going into battle," England scoffed, but the warning was a good thing because this time England knew when to relax, to breathe out and let America in. He bent his back lower, spreading his legs into a wider stance, trying to get an easier angle. A better angle.
England felt the cold touch of America's hand sliding up his spine, down, kneading and soothing.
"It's always," America ground out, sliding in further- slow and careful but unrelenting, "a battle," touching with his free hand the place where they joined, "with you."
Not entirely fair, England thought, but couldn't voice the argument because America was rocking into his now, making small thrusts that weren't deep enough for England. Were too much.
England tried to concentrate on the glide of America's fingers across his back, and on the fact that this was America, fucking into him. He took his own cock in his hand, pulled at it, working at himself to relax, to let the pain turn to the pleasure he wanted. But America was not. Fucking. Deep enough.
"Come on, America," England growled. "My arse is freezing out here. Hurry it up. Do you even know what you're doing back there?"
A challenge, England knew, would always get America to do whatever you wanted.
America laughed.
"Not enough for you, old man?" America pushed deeper, leaning over England's back, tipping himself forward in one long, slow slide of delicious agony. England knew he groaned, couldn't stop himself. "I thought maybe I'd be too much for you. Maybe I should've let you fuck me." He slid both hands up England's chest, bunching up his shirt and his jumper, stopping to play with his nipples, tugging, rubbing the pads of his thumb over the hard skin. "I wasn't sure you could take all of it."
America rolled his hips and England hissed at the movement. That was more like it; so deep England could feel America's hips against his arse. So deep England could feel America's cock rubbing over sensitive places inside him.
"You'd never be able to stand it," England scoffed dismissively, pushed himself back impossibly deeper onto America's cock. "You're a wimp. A cry-baby."
"Now who's being creepy," America quipped, grunting as England moved forwards and backwards in retaliation, fucking himself and yes, this was what he wanted. Right there. Even if the angle was awkward and the burn was still there and there wasn't much room to manoeuvre, England could do a pretty good job of getting what he was looking for. That America was panting above him, gasping and making weird keening noises, rubbing hands up and down England's sides was just an added bonus.
Still, this was not supposed to be an individual activity.
"Come on," England urged. "I could get more action out of a wet rag. Idiot. Bastard. Don't even know why I agreed to this when you can't even fuck me properly. I should've fucked you. Should've shown you how it was done."
Insults often went straight over America's head, but these he seemed to take to heart, to take personally, and England was glad for it, finding himself grinning as America finally moved.
"I'll show you," America panted, pulling out, pushing right back in again, wrapping his arms around England's waist and pulling him up, trying to get a comfortable rhythm going. A really good, fast, ruthless rhythm.
England shifted his hand, grazing the skin of his palm even more and not caring, just needing better leverage and needing it now. He wanked himself faster, matching the pace of America's thrusts, meeting them and knowing there was no way this could last long.
They'd already been fucking around for long enough, and it was only a matter of time before someone came out of the service entrance and found them. Or heard them, the way America was grunting and groaning and saying, "England, yeah, fuck."
England felt water dripping down the back of his neck where it was still drizzling. He felt the restrictiveness of his trousers around his ankles, wanted to kick the damn things off. There was no missing the slap of skin, the slick slide of America's cock inside him, shoving into him, rubbing him in just the right way, for once, that England was seeing bloody sparks behind his closed eyes.
Then, England felt America's weight on his back, leaning even more closely over him, pressing chest to back, and England wished they were naked so he could feel America's warmth instead of damp material. It made for a better angle though, and America shifted his hands up, wrapping one around England's cock, the other massaging his balls, jerking into him faster and faster.
Two hands should have been awkward and got in each other's way, but it felt good and hot and right, and America's hand was covered in his ridiculous, overly sweet-smelling lubricant, gliding effortlessly around the head of his cock. God. Fuck. Yes. England might even have been saying those things out loud but he really didn't give a shit because he was coming and it was good and he could feel America coming too.
America pushed into him twice more in long, deep strokes, helplessly panting, and grasping onto England's sensitive cock so firmly England had to push his hands away, grumbling and beginning to feel the ache in his lower back, how cold he was. Beginning to realise what a bloody mess they'd made of themselves.
America though didn't seem to care, putting his arms around England's shoulders like he was trying to hug him, pressing his nose against the back of England's neck.
"England," he said, muffled against England's collar. England shivered at the warm air of his breath against his skin. And England found he couldn't bring himself to say something that would get America off of him. That would end this.
This wasn't something England knew how to do, so he patted America's hand, slowly tried to straighten up without dislodging America's grip. He winced as America's cock pulled out of him, and America turned England around, kissed him like it was everything.
Undignified, sloppy, public, but England kissed back anyway, because that was his answer. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't give America the concessions he wanted or submit to the demands of his generals, but he would give America this, because they both wanted it. Because it was good.
And next time, America was paying for his own damned drinks.
.End.
Concrit and comments always welcomed and adored. Jen, Son, ♥.
My boss: (a) has beer in the fridge here in our office. It's Carlsberg. *judges*
(b) has a nine year old son, whose walking English to Japanese dictionary I seem to have become. Today's words were "equilateral" and "incisor".
Today, I have worked slightly late in desperation to finish the following fic. I wanted to surprise cienna with it as today is her graduation. I also dedicate this fic to my dear good son reppu as a house-warming fic. I have decided fic can be given as a house-warming fic when someone is on another continent. Hope you both enjoy this! (And everyone else too, for those of you who are so inclined towards international smut.)
Title: Bilateralism
Rating: NC-17, warnings for graphic porn, alcohol, and itchy trousers.
Words: 6,273
Summary: Hetalia. America/England. There are many who dislike America's tendency towards bilateralism. England thinks maybe it's not always such a bad thing.
Notes: Epic story of this fic in not an epic wordcount: I started this thing a couple of years ago. It lingered. Today, I sat down and wrote all the porn. The end. BET YOU NEVER IMAGINED I'D ACTUALLY FINISH IT!
.Bilateralism.
Bilateral talks, England decided, were both useless and irritatingly tedious. Particularly when you were dealing with Americans, who were pushy and rude and filled Whitehall with the smell of coffee and cheap aftershave.
He had put up with it all day, crammed into a tiny room with no windows and a dozen military leaders who all seemed to want nothing more than to piss England off. Making demands on him like he was some grovelling pathetic continental, and without even the decency of a "please," or an "if it's possible". Just, do this and, do that, and England wasn't having any of it.
On top of it all, just to add misery to annoyance and tedium, England's trousers were itchy and over-hot and he cursed whoever had thought wool was a really great idea for a military uniform. Warm as they may be, it was like having a million biting gnats all over your legs, and it was almost unbearable not to just scratch.
It was getting towards late evening when England could finally take no more of it. Absolutely nothing had been agreed, and England wanted nothing more than to go to the nearest pub and have a pint. Or twelve. To get away from the pointless circular arguments and the sound of America declaring, "But you have to! I'm America!"
And to try and forget about his fucking trousers.
England signed heavily, decided he was going to have to be the one to call a halt to these ridiculous proceedings. He stood up, planted his hands on the antique, polished table surface, and glared at the Americans.
"Enough" he said, or more like shouted. "This is getting us nowhere."
America scoffed, "That's because you won't agree to anything!"
"I won't agree to anything," England ground out, "Because your suggestions are fanciful at best and downright dangerous at worst!"
America had the nerve to pout. "They are not!"
England wondered how America could ever expect him to believe he was anything other than a brat when he talked that way.
But it was late, and England was tired and itchy, and the humans in the room looked like they were about to keel over, so England just shook his head. "They are. And this is still not getting us anywhere."
America made to speak but England held up his hand. "We refuse. That's the end of it. You come back tomorrow with something half-sensible and we'll talk."
America looked very much like he was going to argue the point, so England motioned for his military leaders to depart. "This meeting is over," he declared, turning away and making for the door.
It wasn't until he was half way down the corridor that America came bounding after him calling, "Hey, England!"
England called back, "No," and sped up.
"You don't even know what I was going to say!" America protested, catching hold of his shoulder.
"I could guess it was going to be something ridiculous so I saved us both the trouble. Now bugger off."
England shook off America's hand and strode off, hoping against hope that America would leave him alone, because if he didn't do something about his stupid itchy trousers in the next ten minutes he was going to kill something.
America though, England lamented, had never been one to do as he was told.
Instead, he quickly caught up and started to walk nonchalantly beside England, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"You got ants in your pants or something?" America said, and England could just hear the grin.
England gritted his teeth and absolutely did not respond, keeping his focus and storming as fast as he could towards the exit.
Drink.
Drink would make him forget his shitty day and his shitty trousers and shitty America. And if he moved any faster, he'd be jogging. He was already doing the demented hop-waddle of power-walkers everywhere.
"And where are you going in such a hurry anyway?" America asked, apparently not bothered that England wasn't replying to him, or that he was going at such a fast pace his own staff were starting to give him worried looks as he passed. The clip of his shoes echoed off the polished floor. "Got a hot date?" America teased.
England wanted to smack him.
"With some beer, yes. Now fuck off, America. I've had enough of your face for one day."
Or one century, England thought uncharitably.
He saw America's back straighten. "What are you saying? No one can ever get enough of me."
Which just made England laugh because sometimes he just could not understand how America could be so bloody sure of himself. He'd certainly never taught the idiot to be like that.
"You do know you are an absolute wanker, don't you?" England told him.
"If I knew what that was," America replied amiably, "I would know it, yeah."
England just shook his head, but couldn't help smiling. Just a bit.
Regardless, there was still the trouser issue, and the fact that America was still talking to him when England quite clearly remembered telling him to go away. They were almost out onto the street now, passing security and its irritating bleeping machines, out into the foyer filled with hacks and posturing career generals.
"What do you want?" England asked. "We're done for the day. Talk to me tomorrow."
America shrugged, taking back his mobile and his wallet from the security staff. "It's not about business stuff," he said.
"Then what?"
If England didn't know better, he might almost have thought that America looked sheepish. "The hotel is boring," he said as they stepped outside, down the front stone steps and out onto the busy pavement filled with milling tourists and scuttling workers. "And the military guys are no fun at all."
"I can't help it," England sneered, "if you Americans have about as much personality as a sheet of paper."
America frowned. "Jesus. You really are in a bad mood today."
"Yes," England shot back, "And your continued presence is not helping it at all."
England had to admit though, America's presence notwithstanding, the evening air was refreshing. The sun had already set, and there was the lingering cool, clean smell of atmosphere after rain. It soothed the itching in his legs a little. The streetlights overhead painted patches of orange and yellow light onto the ground, diffused around the edges by wet pavement, broken by the shadows of people moving past. It was a great relief to be outside, breathing real air, after the claustrophobia and stuffiness of the boardroom.
What was more, England could see the line pubs over the road lined up and waiting for him.
If only America would bugger off.
The idiot was saying, "You're clearly not eating enough. Well, aside from eating charcoal, but I'm pretty sure that hasn't got any actual nutritional value. Lack of food makes you grouchy."
England crossed his arms, muttering, "Charcoal, indeed. Because your food is just bursting with goodness."
America grinned brightly, then grabbed England's arm. "Of course it does. But in the absence of awesome food we'll have to make do with what you've got." He pointed to the nearest pub, directly across the street. "That place looks like it has food. We'll go there. You can buy me dinner."
America blithely dragged England by the arm across the road, completely ignoring the irate taxi drivers and buses coming towards them at the break-neck speed of all London traffic with a green light. America waved at them, smiling like a lunatic.
"Sorry, can't stop," he called out, dodging a number 38 double-decker bus. "Your Nation needs food!"
England muttered, "Sorry, sorry," and made apologetic faces at the poor bastards, then found himself contemplating having a zebra crossing put in to directly link Whitehall to the pubs. England shook his head, slightly concerned that idiocy was catching.
There were, at least, less people on the pavement over the other side of the road for America to mow down in his sudden all-encompassing mission to get to the pub. Inside, it was early yet so the place America pulled him into was still fairly empty.
"I suppose you want a drink," America sighed, practically throwing England into a chair. "Some nasty warm beer."
England raised an eyebrow. "If I'm to spend the evening with you I'll have a chaser to go with it." America shrugged and wandered off to the bar and, well, England supposed if he had booze, and America was paying, then maybe having the idiot around for the evening wouldn't be so horrendous after all.
He shouldn't, England reminded himself, count on that though. Every damn time he went out drinking with America he always seemed to end up making a tit of himself. And then when America returned with a tray of drinks and a "Don't worry, I put it on your tab," England wondered at how he had ever imagined this might be a good idea.
Still. There was beer, and it was in front of him, so he took a long drink before licking his lips and scowling at America. "You're buying the next round, you fucking cheapskate."
America just grinned, sipping at his own beer daintily before saying, "But I'm a guest."
"Guest, my arse," England scoffed. "You're an annoying bully who wants to steal my lunch money."
America had the cheek to look appalled by the very idea. "I would never steal your money, England," he said, then grinned again, "I know how much you need it."
England raised a disbelieving eyebrow because really, America wanted to get into whose economy was the crappest right now? He took another long drink of beer, mumbling into the glass, "You and I both."
***
England wasn't drunk. He really wasn't. He'd sworn to himself after his fourth beer (none of which America paid for) that he wasn't going to overdo it. He had generals to face in the morning. Boring, bland faced, stick-up-their arses American generals.
"Your generals are twats," England told America. It was, after all, useful information that America might not be aware of.
"They're just a little repressed," America laughed, bouncing an arm against England's shoulder. "Kind of like you."
England shoved America off him, took a healthy swig of beer then pointed sharply at America. "You're confusing me with someone else." Which he clearly was, because England was not repressed. Maybe a bit old fashioned at times, but no more than anyone else who wasn't as absurdly young and as ridiculously clueless as America. Also, "When I was your age I was pillaging and making magical swords and stuff. You're tame by comparison."
"I'm not sure," America said thoughtfully, dubiously, "that's something to be proud of." But he was smiling like the crazed imbecile he was, swirling his beer around. "Things are different now," he said.
England watched America down the rest of his pint, looking depressingly sober and disgustingly chipper for someone who'd had several beers and a long day in meetings so boring they made crocheting look like the height of excitement. America's shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and England could see the thick muscle of his arms. There was a time, England thought he remembered, when he had been that strong, and that confident, and possibly that naive. He didn't really think times were all that different at all.
"You really are buying this time," England announced instead of replying, tapping his nails against America's empty glass. "If I find you've put the drinks on my tab again I will have you deported. Or hung. Drawn and quartered. Having had one of those in a while. Or forced to watch the Hollyoaks omnibus, or something."
"Ah, but are you sure you can handle another drink, old man?" America asked with mock concern and a smug grin on his stupid face. He patted England's shoulder none too carefully, and England knew the bastard had just given him bruises. "You're looking a bit wobbly there. Isn't your fifth beer about the time you start crying and wondering where it all went wrong?"
Git.
"You wanted to come drinking with me," England pointed out. He was forming coherent arguments, there was no slurring and his vision was clear, so he was certain he wasn't even vaguely drunk. Much. "If you don't like the company then bugger off like I told you to do three hours ago."
"Where's the fun in that?" America smiled, wide and amused. It was like nothing England could say could offend the dense oaf anymore. Even worse, America seemed to enjoy the insults. "I know you secretly love it when I go drinking with you. Don't worry, old man," and here America winked, "I completely understand."
America slid out of his chair so fast England found himself demanding loudly, "Understand what exactly?" to America's back.
At least the cheapskate bought the next round himself.
***
"You're trying to get me arse-wiped," England concluded some time later, frowning at his pint and having no clue how many he'd drunk. That was a warning sign right there.
Another: their table was covered in a sea of empty beer glasses, puddles of spilt beer and three empty packets of pork scratchings. It was sort of pretty, England thought, the way the silvery lining of the packet reflected the dull, fingerprint-marked surface of the glasses. Maybe it would pass for modern art. "I didn't know you even liked pork scratchings," England felt he needed to add.
America was ripping a beer mat into small squares. There was a flush on his cheeks and England narrowed his eyes. Suspicious, but also in an attempt to focus better. "You're trying to get yourself drunk too," he said, pointing at America accusingly.
America looked up from his peeling, grinned at England a little madly. "And succeeding," he said, with vigour. He sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "It's what I do."
England nodded. "Your alcohol tolerance never was very good."
"No," America protested. He threw the beer mat down and picked up his glass. "Not drinking. I meant succeeding, you senile old fool. I succeed at everything I do!" As if to prove the point America downed the rest of his beer, slamming the glass back down on the table so hard the empty glasses jumped, clinking together. Melodically, England mused. America wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking wholly pleased with himself.
"You know you just un-proved your point," England said.
America looked thoughtful for a moment, stared for a long time at England, at the beer glass, then back at England.
He frowned. "There was a point?"
England rolled his eyes, but then had to shake his head when it made him dizzy. "The point, America, is that you are trying to get me drunk!"
At that America clapped his hands together like the excitable kid he was, grinning evilly England thought.
He pointed at England's glass. "Come on, England. You're letting the side down here. You've hardly touched that."
Warning signs, England reminded himself. Like the slippery feel of a glass in his hand he couldn't quite grip properly, and how every lift-to-the-mouth felt like an exercise in not dropping the entire contents all down his trousers. Those had been itchy, England remembered. He could barely feel his legs anymore.
"I'm pacing myself," England replied loftily. There was no harm in being sensible.
"I'll buy," America offered.
England slapped his hand down against the table and heard the glasses clinking together again. His hand was wet. "There you go, you see," England accused. "That's exactly what I mean!" He glowered at America and watched as the idiot's eyebrows went up.
"I have not a clue what you're talking about," America protested. He lifted his hands in surrender and had the cheek to look clueless.
"Evidence!" England wasn't buying this act at all. "You never offer to buy!" England leaned forward. America's face wasn't giving anything away. "What's your game?"
England would have sworn America rolled his eyes. Little wanker.
"Damn, you're paranoid." America took another swig of his drink and shrugged. "Just because I want to drink doesn't mean I'm up to anything."
"No, but you buying does." England felt his argument was sound, except then America sort of pitched forward, only just managing to catch himself with a hand against their sticky table before he went arse-over-tit. It was entirely possible, England conceded, that America was buying because he was pissed out of his head.
"You're drunk," England said.
America rolled his eyes. Again. The shit.
"Five… six... eight? Beers will do that to you." America looked down at the table. "How many have we had again?"
England barked out a laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seem America this off his face.
America pulled an affronted face. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," England assured him, placating.
He watched America for a moment, swaying slightly, his eyes unfocused.
"I'll have another ale," England smiled. "And two scotches."
***
"I think I'm going to puke," America said some short time after England introduced him the joys of the car bomb. England wasn't surprised.
"I might join you in that, " England agreed.
It was long past the point when England could say how many they'd had or what time it was or if they'd ever managed to get food. All he knew was that he felt nauseous, there was a forest of glasses in front of him, and he couldn't rightly say if America's gentle swaying was a product of his vision or of America's current inability to stay upright. A good night out is what England would usually call it but fuck, England was pretty sure he was supposed to be the sensible one here. Shit.
"Or take you home," England said. He wasn't even sure where America was staying, and from the lascivious way America was looking at him, England was fairly certain that had come across entirely the wrong way.
"Promise?" America slurred, and actually swayed closer towards England. Moved closed to England. Something. "You always say stuff like that," America was saying. "Saying you like me and you want to be my friend and you never are." America sounded pouty and his eyes were doing that unconvincing kicked-puppy thing. England did not find it cute.
"I don't know what you're talking about, you lightweight pansy," England shot back. "I don't like you at all."
America nodded gravely, with the kind of gravity that only a drunk man could muster. "I don't like you either." He took a long swig of beer slamming his half-empty glass down on the table. He looked green. "Yeah. Gonna puke." America stood up, stumbling and righting himself on the table before making his way unsteadily... somewhere. He definitely wasn't heading towards the toilets.
England watched him go, weaving around chairs and people and tables. It was late now and the pub was emptying out, filled now only with the heavy drinkers and the out-for-the-night types mostly drunk and laughing, or sullen and lonely in corners. America was moving towards the doors, England noticed. And really he should let the idiot puke all over himself, or trip over and break his neck, or get himself lost or arrested or mugged.
England was drunk too, and he liked it. He was at the point when everything looked great and the morning didn't matter and the people around you seemed like the best friends you'd ever had. Except for the fact that it was America he was with, and America was not his best friend. Maybe once, but not anymore. Not for a long time.
Except maybe he wanted to vomit a little bit too. It would make him feel better, he thought. Leave some room for him to finish his drink. Then home, and Aspirin and water and sleep.
Fuck, he wanted sleep.
By now America had found the doors and was heading back out onto the street. England imagined his confused face as he watched, America just standing in the doorway looking out into the night, cars speeding past and a couple of patrons sitting at a table nearby calling out, "Close the bloody door!"
There was definitely a chill to the night air, and it looked like it was drizzling again. England was glad for the warmth and cosiness of the pub.
England wondered if America would end up in a gutter if he left him on his own.
America was going to bloody well owe him some fucking enormous concessions in the morning.
***
Back alleys have a particular smell, made up of stale cigarettes, rotting garbage, piss, and a hint of vomit. England was surprised that neither of them had added to that last one yet.
England would admit though, America shoving lips against his and pretty much tongue-fucking his mouth was a much better way to spend one's time. Even if it was in a god-awful narrow passageway between the pub and a tourist shop.
They were hidden in shadows behind a tall stack of crates that held empty glass bottles, and England really hoped they didn't knock them over. America was frisky.
"I wasn't sure," America said when he finally stopped to breathe making England pause because, well, that really wasn't at all like America. He didn't give England a chance to ask what the fuck he wasn't sure about though before America was pushing England back harder against the brick wall, shoving a knee between his legs and grinding down.
This, England thought, was really not how he'd expected this night to end. Or start. Or something else. It was damned hard to concentrate with America's hot mouth on his, and the way the scratchy material of England's trousers created friction that was both chafing and enormously arousing. America tasted of beer and whisky and faintly of salt and England knew he was giving as good as he was getting, tangling his tongue with America's, biting at his lip and pulling and pushing and not letting America think for one second he was winning. Winning what though England had no idea, because he knew he really shouldn't have been doing this. He should put a stop to this because he'd always seen America as a kid. A foul-mouthed, impudent, ungrateful child. Except where he'd grown taller than England, and decisive and impetuous and stubborn in a way that always somehow managed to fray at England's nerves.
And the idiot had never, never shown an interest in him before. Not like this, with America's hands playing at England's waist, pushing aside his jumper and his shirt and shit his hands were freezing.
This would be a good time to push America away, to ask him just what exactly he was up to. But, God it was good, and England could just blame the alcohol in the morning and pretend he hadn't maybe thought about this very very occasionally, possibly, when he was very bored and America wasn't being a brat. Therefore, very very rarely. If ever, in fact. No, not at all.
Never had England thought about how it would feel to have America spreading his fingers against over the England's skin, digging in blunt nails that felt like they'd been chewed. He'd never considered what America's tongue would be like running down his neck like this, nose pushing against England's chin, puffing out warm, wet breathes. Licking and sucking, pressing their hips together like he'd done this before, which made England angry but not surprised.
"You're a fucking trollop," England told him, because America was.
Where his neck was bent back as America ran teeth along his throat England felt drops of rain against his skin, falling into his eyes. It was dark back here but he could see the dinginess of the old brick wall, the cloud of his own breath, the guttering. He could hear the traffic and the hurried footsteps of passers by. It seemed appropriate somehow.
"I'm gonna take that as an insult."
England could feel America's lips moving against his collarbone as he spoke before America bit down, startling England. And he couldn't quite believe it when his body responded by liking the sting of it, his cock getting uncomfortably hard in his restrictive, scratchy, irritating trousers. Without thinking, England's hips jerked forward, wanting more and wanting it right the fuck now.
America chuckled. "Looks like I'm not the only one whose a trollop."
"Oh, shut up," England snapped and gave into the inevitable, taking America's stupid dumb face in his hands and kissing him.
***
If England hadn't been drunk- very drunk- he was fairly certain he would never even have contemplated doing this. With America. In public of all places. Maybe in his youth, when he'd been reckless and over-confident and ridiculously smug, but not now. He was supposed to be sensible these days. Thoughtful and cautious, not reckless and discomfortingly close to being wanton.
"You keep lubricant in your pocket?" England asked, incredulous. Then frowned. "Was this planned? Were you planning to seduce me?"
Over the past several hundred years England had grown suspicious and wary and untrusting and he couldn't help but demand to know, "What? You thought you could get concessions out of me? Is this your idea of negotiation? Do you do this with all your allies?"
It was really bloody stupid to ask this now, when America had his hand down England's pants and England was still holding onto America's arse, still shoving thighs and hips against each other.
But England was going to be damned if he'd let America use him. If he was going to let America fuck him and it all be because he wanted more troops, more economic collaboration, more shitting land.
He had some morals left.
It was satisfying then to see America's face collapse into an uncharacteristic frown; into anger and maybe hurt.
"No," he said, and kissed England in a way that left England thinking America was telling the truth.
It was long past the time when either of them could just blame this on the booze. It was cold out, soberingly so, and from the first time America had kissed England- long and hard and hungrily, but still somehow cautious- England had known he meant it.
"I wasn't sure you wanted this," he said between them, breath mixed and teeth clicking against each other. "I wanted this. Want this."
England pulled back, studying America, bringing his hands up to rest on America's shoulders but not letting go.
"I like you." A pause and a grin. "Most of the time."
After a long moment looking at each other, America's grin faltered, turned wry. "The lube- man- a guy can't be prepared? Just in case? You taught me to always be ready for anything. Make sure I had spare socks. Shit like that."
England raised his eyebrows, disbelievingly. "You realise that's quite creepy? You make me sound like your father."
"Wouldn't be doing this with my dad, England," America said, and squeezed England's cock to make his point. England hissed and it took every ounce of self-control to remain still. To not start rutting against America again.
"You're still hard," America observed, and dropped to his knees, hands pushing down his pants, exposing his cock and his thighs to the cold. England would have complained, but before he could ask America what the fuck he thought he was doing- because, shit, what he looked like he was doing was too ridiculous- when America's mouth closed right over him and it was warm and wet and,
"Holy fucking Christ, America."
England's voice was about two octaves too high, and his breathing was erratic, hitching when America sucked, when his tongue pressed along the underside of his cock.
This was all such a terrible, wonderful idea.
Like how America took him deep in his mouth, played with his balls, hummed like he was having the time of his life down there. Like he was enjoying kneeling on wet, dirty concrete and couldn't get enough of it. America's fingers slid back, playing over his arse, pushing in eager and hurried and far too dry. England distinctly remembered there had been lube in their conversation somewhere.
It was good though, in some ways, to feel the burn. The roughness of it.
It had been a long time, and America was young, and maybe less experienced with this than England had thought.
And damn if that wasn't a turn-on.
Shit. England was fairly sure that meant he'd turned into a dirty old man at some point.
But America didn't seem to mind at all, speeding up and slowly down and teasing and making it so good that England could almost ignore the discomfort. Against the tender skin of his cock America hummed again, low and filthy and gleeful. At the thought that America was getting off on this England groaned, so damn ready to come it hurt. But then he remembered he was in public, dammit, so he gritted his teeth, tugged at America's hair.
"I understand," England admitted. "Fine. Stop that. Yes. Fuck me in a dingy alleyway. Show me how much you care."
England was impressed he had the coherency to say that much, not entirely sure how serious he was being.
America pulled back almost painfully slowly, making doubly obscene noises around England's cock before looking up, eyes hooded and lips swollen and smiling unashamedly.
"You understand, huh?" he asked.
"As much of your limited emotional capacity there is to understand, yes," England shot back.
Where America's mouth wasn't enveloping him anymore he was getting really cold.
They stared at each other and England knew; America wanted this. He wanted this. It wasn't like they got many opportunities to be alone. Sort of alone. Maybe they wouldn't get the chance again for years. Maybe this was all a massive mistake. Maybe he was a desperate, stupid old man. But here was America looking up at him with hope and amusement and quite a lot of lust.
It was nice to know he still had it.
***
"Only you," England gritted out, feeling the first press of America's cock against him. "Only you would buy blue bubblegum lube and think it was a brilliant idea." Damp, rough stone bit into the palm of his hands where England leaned against the wall, the grip of America's hands around his hips firm, but not painful. In this England was really very glad that America had learned some control over his strength.
America pulled back, and England felt more cold, slippery lube being pushed inside him.
Behind him, America took deep breaths, took hold of England's hips again, lower this time. England wished he could see his face, but it was too much effort to keep his head twisted around, so he let his head drop, closed his eyes, not wanting to watch a blank wall through this.
"It smelled good," America said, like that was any sort of good explanation. "I'm going in," America warned, his voice oddly serious.
"We're not going into battle," England scoffed, but the warning was a good thing because this time England knew when to relax, to breathe out and let America in. He bent his back lower, spreading his legs into a wider stance, trying to get an easier angle. A better angle.
England felt the cold touch of America's hand sliding up his spine, down, kneading and soothing.
"It's always," America ground out, sliding in further- slow and careful but unrelenting, "a battle," touching with his free hand the place where they joined, "with you."
Not entirely fair, England thought, but couldn't voice the argument because America was rocking into his now, making small thrusts that weren't deep enough for England. Were too much.
England tried to concentrate on the glide of America's fingers across his back, and on the fact that this was America, fucking into him. He took his own cock in his hand, pulled at it, working at himself to relax, to let the pain turn to the pleasure he wanted. But America was not. Fucking. Deep enough.
"Come on, America," England growled. "My arse is freezing out here. Hurry it up. Do you even know what you're doing back there?"
A challenge, England knew, would always get America to do whatever you wanted.
America laughed.
"Not enough for you, old man?" America pushed deeper, leaning over England's back, tipping himself forward in one long, slow slide of delicious agony. England knew he groaned, couldn't stop himself. "I thought maybe I'd be too much for you. Maybe I should've let you fuck me." He slid both hands up England's chest, bunching up his shirt and his jumper, stopping to play with his nipples, tugging, rubbing the pads of his thumb over the hard skin. "I wasn't sure you could take all of it."
America rolled his hips and England hissed at the movement. That was more like it; so deep England could feel America's hips against his arse. So deep England could feel America's cock rubbing over sensitive places inside him.
"You'd never be able to stand it," England scoffed dismissively, pushed himself back impossibly deeper onto America's cock. "You're a wimp. A cry-baby."
"Now who's being creepy," America quipped, grunting as England moved forwards and backwards in retaliation, fucking himself and yes, this was what he wanted. Right there. Even if the angle was awkward and the burn was still there and there wasn't much room to manoeuvre, England could do a pretty good job of getting what he was looking for. That America was panting above him, gasping and making weird keening noises, rubbing hands up and down England's sides was just an added bonus.
Still, this was not supposed to be an individual activity.
"Come on," England urged. "I could get more action out of a wet rag. Idiot. Bastard. Don't even know why I agreed to this when you can't even fuck me properly. I should've fucked you. Should've shown you how it was done."
Insults often went straight over America's head, but these he seemed to take to heart, to take personally, and England was glad for it, finding himself grinning as America finally moved.
"I'll show you," America panted, pulling out, pushing right back in again, wrapping his arms around England's waist and pulling him up, trying to get a comfortable rhythm going. A really good, fast, ruthless rhythm.
England shifted his hand, grazing the skin of his palm even more and not caring, just needing better leverage and needing it now. He wanked himself faster, matching the pace of America's thrusts, meeting them and knowing there was no way this could last long.
They'd already been fucking around for long enough, and it was only a matter of time before someone came out of the service entrance and found them. Or heard them, the way America was grunting and groaning and saying, "England, yeah, fuck."
England felt water dripping down the back of his neck where it was still drizzling. He felt the restrictiveness of his trousers around his ankles, wanted to kick the damn things off. There was no missing the slap of skin, the slick slide of America's cock inside him, shoving into him, rubbing him in just the right way, for once, that England was seeing bloody sparks behind his closed eyes.
Then, England felt America's weight on his back, leaning even more closely over him, pressing chest to back, and England wished they were naked so he could feel America's warmth instead of damp material. It made for a better angle though, and America shifted his hands up, wrapping one around England's cock, the other massaging his balls, jerking into him faster and faster.
Two hands should have been awkward and got in each other's way, but it felt good and hot and right, and America's hand was covered in his ridiculous, overly sweet-smelling lubricant, gliding effortlessly around the head of his cock. God. Fuck. Yes. England might even have been saying those things out loud but he really didn't give a shit because he was coming and it was good and he could feel America coming too.
America pushed into him twice more in long, deep strokes, helplessly panting, and grasping onto England's sensitive cock so firmly England had to push his hands away, grumbling and beginning to feel the ache in his lower back, how cold he was. Beginning to realise what a bloody mess they'd made of themselves.
America though didn't seem to care, putting his arms around England's shoulders like he was trying to hug him, pressing his nose against the back of England's neck.
"England," he said, muffled against England's collar. England shivered at the warm air of his breath against his skin. And England found he couldn't bring himself to say something that would get America off of him. That would end this.
This wasn't something England knew how to do, so he patted America's hand, slowly tried to straighten up without dislodging America's grip. He winced as America's cock pulled out of him, and America turned England around, kissed him like it was everything.
Undignified, sloppy, public, but England kissed back anyway, because that was his answer. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't give America the concessions he wanted or submit to the demands of his generals, but he would give America this, because they both wanted it. Because it was good.
And next time, America was paying for his own damned drinks.
.End.
Concrit and comments always welcomed and adored. Jen, Son, ♥.