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"Seriously England, come onnn," America whined, putting on his best pout that had successfully gotten him out of 99% of his scrapes with England since the 1700s (except that whole disagreement that had led to a war thing, but he never brought that up if he didn't have to).
Of course, it didn't always mean his former caretaker would give in right away. Sometimes he needed to really milk it to get a positive reaction. And England could be really stubborn about it. It was her trademark, pretty much. America loved her regardless, but it sure could be frustrating when he really wanted something.
"No, America. I can't believe you can't handle a few hours. Stop being a child," she hissed quietly, huffing as she tucked a stray lock of silky blonde hair behind her ear and went back to smiling politely at the other guests passing by.
That sort of stung, but he tried to ignore it. "Englaaaaand. Come on, you and I both know this party totally blows."
"I can tell you something that won't be getting blown if you don't hush."
That made him snap his mouth shut. Damn England for bringing sex into things. Even though that was exactly why he wanted to leave. It really wasn't his fault that France had invited them all over to his house for this lame party. Parties were supposed to be fun, exciting, filled with loud music and too much booze. He would always know that he'd thrown a good party if they ended up with at least one visit from the cops.
But this wasn't that kind of party. It was the frou frou fancy type party that people only went to in order to be polite. You stood around sipping from a cocktail and waiting for the butlers to come by with trays that had those little fancy crackers with cheese or overpriced fish eggs on them and tried not to look bored out of your mind. The only way America survived them was if England was with him. A long time ago he'd thought these types of things were just up her alley, stuffy and old fashioned as she was, but he'd long since learned the truth. She hated them just as much he did, but she was too polite to say so in the company save for a few, America included.
What really made this worse was that this was supposed to be one of their nights off. They'd been in world meetings all week, and the one night that they wouldn't have to spend poring over slides and documents in preparation for the next day, America had planned to spend it fucking her into the stiff hotel mattress that they hadn't had a chance to properly christen yet. That was only natural, considering they hadn't even been on the same continent together for the past three months. England hadn't quite known about his plan, which perhaps explained why she had taken France up on the offer to come here instead. That, or she wanted to torture him (and America was more inclined towards the latter). Not that England was keen on doing anything that involved France, but since he had invited everyone, it would have been rude and improper to turn it down for no real reason.
Or so she had explained to him in the car on the way over, during which America had complained the entire time. He'd been at it for a while now, and it wasn't working. Not yet, anyway. He sighed exaggeratedly and leaned back against the mantle above the fireplace, downing his glass of champagne in one go and pretending not to notice the look England was giving him from the corner of her eye.
At the very least, she looked really good that night. Stunning, really. It was hard to get England into anything that wasn't two steps away from being more suitable for a convent, which was rather ridiculous considering her more sordid and open past. She had literally gone from one extreme to another, and America was only sorry he hadn't even been born yet when she was on the opposite spectrum. It wasn't to say that he didn't like her in whatever she wore, or that she didn't know how to dress "down", so to speak, but rather she did so so rarely that it was honestly a treat when she did.
Like tonight-- France had insisted that it was a black tie affair, and that everyone needed to wear something nice ("yes, even you, Amerique, no t-shirts"), and he had mentioned it in just enough time before everyone left their respective countries, enough for America to remember to bring something that wasn't his work suit, even if he had planned on skipping the entire affair.
England, it seemed, had actually surprised everyone. It was a simple black dress and cream shawl, nothing any one would normally write home about, but America was completely enamored. It was a satin, pretty number that came just above her knees, strapless, and suited her slim figure very nicely. A string of tasteful pearls adorned her neck. She'd forgone her usual pigtails for an up-do befitting the sexy librarian trope to a tee, and she'd even changed the frames of her glasses. America had been thinking about the bit of cleavage and the small spirals of hair that tickled her throat all evening.
Really he was still thinking about it. And England knew it, damn her. Every so often another nation would come up to compliment and speak with her, and she would smile politely and converse and then nudge him sharply when they weren't looking while he was very busy looking at her. But he couldn't help it! All he wanted to do was take her back to the hotel and show her how much he liked that dress on her and how badly he wanted her out of it at the same time. Funny how that worked.
He sighed and grabbed another drink from a passing tray, trying very hard not to sulk. He managed well enough when Japan came by, who was ever so gracious and made no mention of America's impatient foot tapping and his constant tugging of his suit collar during their conversation. He almost missed the smirk on England's face. Almost. He ignored it.
---
He should have known that it would be because of the alcohol, in the end.
Enough free cocktails and England was done for. America had to be thankful that she at least waited until Prussia had succumbed first, nothing was more embarrassing than having your lover be the first one to start stripping when everyone else was still mildly sober.
She ranted and raved and swore as he tried to drag her out the front door, and France had mockingly remarked that no amount of pearls could tame the inner pirate (or perhaps they had been what had drawn it out), but America had ignored him. England was beautiful no matter what, she just... couldn't hold her damn drink. It was ridiculous. Though as soon as they reached the cool night air outside, she seemed to content herself with burrowing under his arm and staying there, still muttering about stupid frogs and their 'bloody' parties and what a positively foolish idea the whole thing had been.
America laughed and murmured "I told you so", which had only gotten him cursed at for his efforts.
They made it back to the hotel in one piece, and America had never been more thankful that his flight was much later the next afternoon. Not only was he exhausted, but he was not going home without having sexed up her up properly, and there would be none of that tonight, not with her completely sloshed out of her mind. It was an unspoken rule of his, one which England tried without fail to break. She rubbed up against him shamelessly while humming some old sea shanty and kept murmuring "America" in that way that made his entire body shudder and pulse with want of her.
But he said no. "Time for bed, England."
"But I thought you wanted me."
"Baby, believe me, I want you. But you need to sleep this off."
She kissed him sloppily. "Mm, but you're so sexy, America..."
He had to laugh again, England always made him laugh when she was like this. Well, most of the time. When she wasn't sobbing about something or other. She claimed to be brutally honest when she was sober, but a bit of drink always brought out the real honesty.
He had to wrestle her into bed, because goddamn, England could be strong, even if many underestimated her because of her stature. She wasn't exactly fighting the 'getting into bed' part, but trying to get him on top of her, and once more America almost lost his resolve when the bun in her hair came undone and all that pretty blond silk fell across the pillows like a curtain. She was blushing pink and panting and smiling and England was always beautiful, even when her pretty eyes were glazed over and she was talking in that ridiculous cockney accent that was so inappropriate for a lady like her to use and begging him to bugger her silly. He knew he wouldn't be able to come out of things unscathed if he tried to undress either of them, so he settled for slipping off both of their glasses and setting them aside.
He flicked off the lights. She mewled and whined when he finally gave up and draped himself over her but did nothing more, hugging her to himself and closing his eyes. There was one more pitiful "Americaaaa" from somewhere underneath him before she snuggled against his chest and promptly passed out. He followed right after her.
A squeak made him stir some hours later, and he woke up once he felt hands pushing at him weakly.
"Muh?" he said intelligently into the pillow.
"Get off of me, you great oaf."
During the night he had slid away a bit, so it was good that he hadn't suffocated her, but he was still half laying on her. He shifted and felt her ease away before mumbling under her breath and grabbing the covers. He couldn't help but smile stupidly when she pulled them up over both of them, tucking him in on one side as she shifted closer to him again. He knew she probably wasn't drunk anymore, but the hangover probably hadn't hit yet, which explained her languid sweetness as she leaned up to kiss the light stubble on his chin and fell right back to sleep.
Then morning brought new challenges.
"Oh god, what hit me."
"Probably that last martini," America mumbled against her neck sleepily, chuckling when she swore softly, but of course he heard it, being so close to her.
"I want to die..." she half moaned, squeezing her eyes shut against the light filtering in oh so innocently from the window.
"No you don't," America responded, not quite half-awake yet, but enough that he didn't mind kissing her neck softly, as a means to soothe her.
"I'm never drinking again."
"That's a lie."
"Well aren't you the contrary one this morning?" she muttered, and he knew she probably wanted to slap him away at that point, but couldn't be bothered to move. So America moved for her, shifting over her much like last night to block some of the light as he peppered kisses all over her face. She scowled for a bit but stopped when he reached her nose and pecked it, with a boyish grin. There was a clear question in her eyes, eyes that were much too lucid for having just woken up and being plagued with what was surely a massive headache, but that was fine.
"Morning nookie?" he asked with all the honey sweetness he could muster in one breath.
The unimpressed raise of her eyebrow only deterred him a bit. "My skull feels like it wants to split in two, my mouth feels like sandpaper, neither of us have showered properly, and you want sex?"
"I've heard it's good for hangovers. And I always want sex," America said, completely serious.
"Don't I know it," England muttered, but she didn't protest when America leaned down to kiss her, a soft, open mouthed one with only a bit of tongue. She did kind of taste like sandpaper, but it wasn't as though he tasted much better, he was sure. He didn't care about things like that, because love and affection from England in the mornings was just as good as love and affection in the afternoons and evenings. All of it was perfect.
She seemed to agree with him, though she made a face when he pulled back. "Ugh, let me brush my teeth first at least, love--"
"I don't care," he murmured, leaning in and sealing the mouths together more firmly this time. Her hand found its way to his shoulder and he wondered if she would simply shove him off and run to the bathroom anyway, but she kissed him back and this time didn't cringe at all when he licked at her lips upon pulling away, only to drag his kisses lower, focusing on her neck again.
Finally he was going to get what he had been dreaming about all damn week--
"America," England murmured, and he should have known something was amiss at the sound of amusement in her tone, rather than the blatant arousal that it should have been. When he finally paused to look up at her, she pecked him on the cheek. "I have to go."
When he didn't react right away, she raised her eyebrows in a very obvious way.
With a completely over dramatic eye roll, he groaned and rolled off of her. She lightly patted him on the back and sat up, and not without a slight gasp. He glanced at her and saw her touch the crown of her head with a wince as she stood, shakily, and wobbled towards the bathroom. He waited, and waited. He didn't get up until he heard the sound of running water, and just as he opened the door, she emerged, looking more coherent but still deliciously rumpled in that dress that had to be by some famous designer, tsk. She'd lecture him later about it, surely.
He ducked down to kiss her and she placed her fingers on his mouth and gestured at the bathroom. With another exaggerated sigh, he went in and brushed his teeth with all the vigor of an overexcited child knowing that if he did his chores he was sure to get a treat. And wasn't that just their relationship in a nutshell? No wonder all the other nations thought he had an Oedipus-complex (which was utter bullshit, England had been more like a sister back then, not a mother, and either way they were clearly just jealous, so most people shut up when he explained this, probably too surprised that he actually knew what an Oedipus-complex was).
When he came back out, England was at the tiny hot water dispenser preparing to make a cup of tea, running a hand through her hair, and America came up behind her. This time he was pleased when she turned around to meet him, reaching up to kiss him soundly and only pulling back to whisper "That's much better, isn't it, my darling?"
"Much. Nookie now?"
She stared at him and it was an expression torn between amusement and censure. "Do you ever think of anything else?"
Which was incredibly hypocritical of her to say, considering her actions only 7 hours before. Not to mention the way she was sliding a leg between his as he backed her up against the dresser, quite intentionally.
"You deny me all week and all last night--you know I'd rather fuck you when you're in your right mind just so I can make you lose it--what do you expect?" he said with a huff, leaning into the curl of her fingers as she stroked them down his cheek.
"Well you were being rather petulant, but I suppose it's my weakness that I only find it cute when you're so desperate," she said, and America was gripping the side of the dresser as he felt that leg slide up, up and up.
His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. "You gonna tease me or am I going to have to take matters into my own hands?"
Her smile was oh so sinful and full of secrets. America quite loved that about England, who was so good at being proper but even better at surprising him, at keeping all the cards to herself until the very last moment. It's what made her so utterly desirable, even when she could be so difficult. Part of her allure, the reason eyes followed her across rooms and gazes lingered. Alfred had chased much of this away once he'd declared England his better half, and as far as he was concerned, it was wholly permanent. She seemed to agree, and according to everyone she'd been holding a torch for him for centuries anyway. They were in it for the long haul.
America moved first, and England met him halfway, their mouths sliding together, all lips and tongue and breath. She had her hands braced on his shoulders, dragging neatly trimmed nails down the white dress shirt and tugging gently at the buttons. America knew she liked it when he wore tuxes, suits, anything that wasn't a t-shirt and jeans, and it always took her some time to get him out of it. Again, funny that it was always the opposite for him.
"You looked gorgeous last night," he murmured against her cheek as his hands sloped downwards over the curve of her waist and trailing to her hip. He used his strength to lift her off the floor and seat her on top of the dresser, grinning at her noise of pleasant surprise. She spread her legs wider and pulled him towards her, guiding his hands to the hem of her dress.
"It's Armani," she said, knowing he wouldn't know anything about the name other than what he learned from watching America's Next Top Model re-runs. But it was enough to know that it was very high end.
"Trying to impress me?" he asked, and she nibbled down on his bottom lip none too gently.
"Don't flatter yourself, boy," she said with a sharp upturn of her lips, and America knew it was the truth. Well, England didn't have to impress anyone, but that didn't mean she didn't like it when America noticed.
He went for her smooth neck, kissing against the soft tremble of her throat. She ran her long, graceful fingers through his hair. Such a simple gesture, one that spoke volumes and he'd always known since he was young. A gesture of comfort, of congratulations, of love. Of passion, as it was now, and he grasped one hand at her back to find the zipper on the dress ("Armani, huh."). The sound of the the zipper sent shivers down both their spines.
"You have no idea how badly I wanted to tear you out of this last night," he growled against her shoulder, and she 'tsk'ed at him.
"Are you going to wax on about how badly you wanted to shag me or are you going to actually do it?" England asked softly, invitingly, and America decided she was right, he was wasting time-- not that he would ever tell her so out loud.
The dress came off (and not easily at all, despite appearances), leaving her in her satin black bra and panties that were so simple and yet looked ridiculously sexy on her. Her skin was pale and with patches of adorable freckles here and there that America always liked to kiss on his way down. She unclasped the bra herself since she always complained that he never knew how to do it without tearing it to pieces, and he immediately stopped to linger on her breasts. Small, round, and firm, fitting perfectly in his hands.
As he squeezed, she arched into him, her hair falling about her shoulders and in her face just the way he loved it. He flicked his tongue over a nipple and spread her thighs apart to press a hand against her. Not quite wet yet, but getting there. He'd make sure of it. He pulled her into another kiss just as she was playing with buttons on his shirt, flicking them open one by one until it fell open, and by then he had decided to move down, dragging her panties down and off and tossing them over his shoulder.
For a full moment they just looked at each other, gaze only broken when England glanced down at his pants. She smirked and started to reach for them, but he was faster, grabbing her about the waist and lifting her off the dresser. She laughed breathlessly and wrapped her arms about his neck as he moved them, walking over to the bed and spreading her across it. She teased him with a mixture of playful taunts and sweet encouragements, and he answered them with kisses and sliding down her body to lift both of her legs over his shoulders and lick hotly at her inner thighs.
With a sigh she spread open smoothly like the flowers she loved so much, and her womanly musk and the softness of her skin made him salivate. He licked the seam of her hip and down in between, deliberately stalling and grinning when she tugged more than a little insistently on his hair. It was only a few moments more before he obliged her, quite happily wrapping his tongue around her clit and sucking, her gasp of ecstasy the sexiest thing he'd heard in goddamned months.
That was how long it had been since he'd had her in his arms, since he'd been able to have her just like this, with his face buried between her legs and her body and voice singing beneath him. He slid a palm up along her stomach as he continued to pleasure her with his mouth, and she released her hand from his hair to grasp his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly. As he parted the folds of her womanhood and slid his tongue inside, she lifted herself off the bed a few inches, begging with only a soft whine and a whispered "America".
He fucked her just like that, moaning right along when she did, doubling his efforts until he felt her splash on his tongue, greedily tasting and savoring it as she shook slightly. He felt every tremor of her body, every hitch of her soft breath as she came down from her climax. As he pulled away, he couldn't help the way he licked his lips, not unlike a cat who'd just finished off the most satisfying bowl of cream. And he didn't give her time to catch her breath, crawling up her body again and smiling when she kissed him before he could kiss her, licking at his mouth and murmuring praises.
He liked it when England praised him, for anything. It so rarely happened, but when it did, it was better than any aphrodisiac.
She reached down, wrapping her hands around his aching member and spreading her legs wider in another clear invitation. He let her stroke him for a few blissful moments before guiding himself to her opening and watching her lovely face relax as he pushed into her slick heat with a soft groan.
"God you feel so good..." he almost whimpered, which would have been totally pathetic, but she only smiled at him and kissed at his face while he concentrated on letting her adjust around his girth, enjoying the way her walls sucked his cock deeper. He almost forgot himself until she cupped his cheek and murmured against his lips.
"Fuck me, America."
And he most definitely didn't need to be told twice. That was only when he wanted to be disobedient. Not right now, not when all he wanted was to completely let himself go, feel and fill every part of her while she marked him and made him hers in her own way. He fucked her, pounded her into the sheets and drew every last moan and gasp from her throat with every snap of his hips. It was harder and perhaps sloppier than usual but it didn't matter, at all.
"Fuck, I can't--" his grip tightened on her hip as drops of sweat tricked down the sides of his face.
"Then don't," she answered back, flawlessly in control while her lashes fluttered and her body rocked against his and all of her flushed a beautiful pink.
He came when she did, after her breathless cry of his name and the tightening of her legs around his waist. As she melted into the sheets, he went down with her, kissing and murmuring fervently as she ran her fingers through his hair. He didn't pull out, and didn't plan to, not just yet. Maybe never, if he had his way, everything else be damned.
"Good god, I needed that..." England said with a soft sigh, after the haze of afterglow began to fade.
"I told you so," America replied, shamelessly pleased with himself, particularly at the fact that he'd gotten to say that twice in one visit. He didn't say anything else when England rolled her eyes, she simply pinched him on the ass and rolled on top of him, sprawling across his chest. 'You make for a good pillow. Damnably good,' she'd said to him once. He thought of that every time.
"My head still hurts. You told me sex was supposed to help, but I suppose it's my fault for listening to you. I've certainly had enough experience to know that that's never worked for me once."
"Well it kinda did, you forgot about it for a little while, right?"
Her groan of annoyance made him laugh, and he kissed the top of her fair head and whispered 'I love you' without a hint of cheek. She traced the words against his skin with a fingertip.
And in the end, they both missed their flights, but neither of them were unsatisfied. America counted it as a win. Definitely.