A/N: I have no idea what happened with this. None whatsoever. This is so inconsistent on nearly every literary level. I'll just blame laziness and lack of desire to finish this piece, and be on my way.

Warnings: Lots of language; adult content.

Iridescence of a Paperweight

England was stuck.

He'd managed to wedge himself between two tall filing cabinets in the effort of retrieving what appeared to be a fallen document, only to realize that, despite his narrow shoulders and slim (neither slender nor small, thank you very much) frame, he couldn't slither out as easily as he'd gotten in.

"Bollocks to this," he growled, glaring maliciously at the grey filing cabinet he'd been facing for the past ten or so minutes. This was utter tripe. He couldn't even bend his knee enough to kick the damn thing to properly express his displeasure. The air, laden with dust, was suffocating, especially when partnered with whatever moldy stench was tainting it. And just for the sake of icing that cock of a cake, the document now lay just beneath his foot, sporting dirt from the bottom ridges of his shoe. Ah, yes. And the remainder of the nations had returned to their rooms for the evening, leaving England stranded there until sometime next morning whenever the conference resumed. Of course, he could always give one of them a ring on his mobile, which he had brought with him for just such an emergency; alas, it was in his briefcase, tucked away in a small leather pocket, idling where he'd left it earlier on his chair, which was on the other side of the room altogether.

…Goddamn everything everywhere, England thought with no little bitter.

It wasn't really too much longer until his mind abruptly halted, though, allowing his senses to take over momentarily instead; the room had only just begun to bathe in the night sky's array of light when he heard it.

His shoulders and lower back were aching, his leg had started working its way into a cramp, and he couldn't for the life of him get comfortable. He should've been thrilled to high heaven upon hearing that delightful sound, those heavy footfalls thundering clearly down the corridor and toward this very room. However, they were a bit too heavy, a bit too rushed; more like stomps than an average gait. And soon enough there was a voice accompanying them.

"I'm gonna fucking nuke that bastard!"

…Of course. Of all the people to indirectly be coming to his rescue, it had to be America—huffing and cursing like a teenager, gone red in the face over some juvenile matter, England imagined. He'd appeared irate earlier that day, having left the conference early for whatever reason—having left England to abandon their dinner plans as he couldn't even locate the man hours later for their reservation. He groaned. He might prefer remaining crammed in that pocket of space till morning if it would be America who'd find him.

Suddenly, the footsteps came to a halt. England stiffened, straining to hear something, anything from beyond the closed doors of the conference room. The night was quiet, the lackadaisical heaving of heavy winds outside the nearby windows the only sound he could ascertain. Had America left? Walked right on down the hall, past the room, and England, fool he was, hadn't even noticed? Well, he refused to yell out for assistance; America ought to have known to return to the conference room and seek England out himself, really, because—

The door creaked open, the slow sound clawing into the otherwise rather quiet evening.

England's breathing fumbled. He couldn't see the door from here. America had sounded rather…upset before; perchance he was still as angered, would it be wise for England to call out to him now? While the boy was usually all foolish teeth and joy, he also went off the deep end of the opposing spectrum when it came to his anger—as too many a country had come to witness. …But that was only in military tact, was it not?

"America—"

"Son of a bitch!" America crowed, unknowingly silencing England's own mumbled words. He, presumably, slammed his fist against the door, slamming it shut, if the loud subsequent banging of startled wood was anything to go by.

England, exasperated, tried to ignore all of this and focus on the file cabinet. Just look at that lovely shade of grey; it reminded him of home. And that thick film of dust adoring the surface: simply fabulous, truly.

The outcry of glass shattering against the wall adjacent to England's nook caused him to jump (or rather, his body attempted to jump, but the cabinets were having none of it, so he did no more than squirm), and he had to resist the urge to chastise America from where he stood. Such a childish thing, that nation was—no sense of, of anything! England wiggled his shoulders, mouth set into a firm frown, and waited. And waited some more, until all he could hear was America's heavy breathing. Was the lad finished? Well, good—all very well and good. Now he could probably clear his throat and, as dignifiedly as one could manage like this, request assistance.

However, the angered footfalls resumed their quest, and England stilled as they neared him. A mantra of low curses and ill-bred promises was pouring from America's lips, and, quiet as the voice was, England could hear it clearly. …Just how close exactly was the boy to him? He hoped the idiot wouldn't do anything rash; goodness knows he may take his rage out on England even once aware of his presence. America wasn't known for his self-control, after all; it certainly wasn't that which had gotten him into his current position of power.

England's eyes trailed wayward, trying to peer between the two cabinets he was squashed between, into the darkness blanketing the (once again quiet) room. He could vaguely distinguish the alignment of chairs where they'd all been seated earlier, a dying potted fern, some nice glass-shaded lamps, a destroyed ball-point pen on the floor nearby, America about to make a grab for that grey filing cabinet England was shoved up against, and— oh.

"Fucking hell," England choked, fumbling over the carpet as he pressed himself against the cabinet behind him, watching, mortified, as his frontal barrier was lifted from the ground and soon after met harshly with the room's opposing wall. Cringing from the sharp sound, England crumpled against the file cabinet behind him, fingers clawing at the wall. Oh Jesus, oh shit, oh hell—

"I know you're hidin' there, you sonuvabitch Red!"

-oh, fuck. There was no way England wouldn't be spending the remainder of the conference in a hospital.

America's hand wrapped itself tightly around England's wrist, yanking the smaller man from his "hidin'" place, and whipping him against the side of the nearest table. England cried out breathlessly, his ribs rattling in pain from the contact. He slumped to the floor. "America, you little-fuck…"

Strands of moonlight illuminated America's hellishly pleased grin, glasses glinting, lips curled upward over nacre teeth to reveal a sadistic smile that sat below liquid cobalt orbs, narrowed in spite. England might have considered pissing himself if he wasn't ready to kill the boy and then ravish him indecently afterward. He looked at the room without really seeing it, but it registered in his mind that the door had been torn clean (well no, not exactly "clean", seeing as there were bolts and screws littering the nearby floor) off its hinges, a rather expensive-looking vase had been shattered nearby, and there was an absolutely ridiculous dent marring the wall where England's lovely grey file cabinet had been chucked.

Splendid. Well, it could be worse, he supposed.

"I oughtta take the pipe of yours and shove it so far up your ass you'll hafta shit out of it through your mouth, Braginski!"

England, patting at his side and determining nothing was broken or punctured, made a face. "You twat, that doesn't even make sense. If you're going to be threatening, at least be witty about—oh hell, are you having another hallucinogen phase? Damn all those hippies of y-oi!"

America had gotten a hold on his tie and was tugging at it, lifting England from where he'd been left on the floor. "Sorry, I don't speak communist. Try again, a little nicer now, and tell me how much better I am than you. Sound good?"

"…America, put me down, you nutter," England ordered, flushed, smacking at the hand around his tie. This was certainly not how he'd anticipated his retrieval to be. Why couldn't Canada have found him? Hell, even France would've been better than this. Or maybe, oh, an America who was apologetic or horny rather than drunken into a stupor of rage. Yes, that sounded simply marvelous.

But America was miles away; if he wouldn't recognize England by sight, surely sound wouldn't be of much assistance, either. He scowled and dropped England once more, earning a startled yelp. "Yeah, yeah. You're lucky I'm nice enough to letcha sort yourself out before I beat the shit out of you. You have forty-five seconds." He crossed his arms over his bare chest, muscles tensed and—wait, bare chest? England paused in fixing his tie to squint at the other nation. His dress shirt was flowing over his belt, and most of the top and middle buttons seemed to have been popped off; his collar was a mess, and his tie was hanging undone around his neck. What exposed skin there was had been endowed with beads of sweat, hairs on end, tendons taut.

And boy, did he look knackered, right mad, angry, and unfairly sexy all at once.

England opened his mouth, then closed it again. "America…" He began lowly, unsure if he should bother getting to his feet. (While it wasn't becoming to kneel on the floor, it was preferable when poised against being shoved down again.) "Look at me."

America's brow wrinkled. His nose did the same second later. "Nah, I'll pass."

Cheeks reddening, England glowered up at him. "I beg your par—that was an iorder/i, now fucking ilook at me/i. Good boy. No—don't, just, don't. No talking on your part. Thank you." America looked more baffled than frustrated at that, which was much nicer than that façade of rage he'd just been sporting. England sighed, leaning against the table and trying to look as dignified as possible. "Sit."

"Uh," America said, still looking at England, apparently flabbergasted. An aggravated sigh from the other did it, though, and in another moment he was on his bum about arms-length across from England. "…What?" Cobalt eyes narrowed once more, accusing. He leaned away. "Is this a trick?"

England deadpanned. "No. Shut the fuck up."

"Hey!" Jolly good, England, rile the boy up again. "Don't fucking tell me what to do, you commie…communist!" America, ruffled and bristled and looking like he was going to pounce- oh god, it was like a come-hither bedroom face one might find adorned on Stalin. …No, England, that's not attractive, he berated himself, paling at the thought.

"America," he said slowly. "I know how difficult this must be for you to do, but use your goddamn brain. Do I look like Russia to you?"

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked away patiently.

"…Nnno."

"Did I feel heavy enough to be Russia?"

"…I guess not." (England would pretend he wasn't insulted by the lack of certainty there.)

"And do I even fucking sound like him to you,poppet?"

"Well, now that you mention it—"

"Good," England praised, smiling sardonically as he elongated his response, speaking slowly as though to a child. "Then why the hell did you just assault me, hm?"

"Becaaauuuse…" America trailed off, eyes crossing in scrutiny. "Um…oh. Ha ha." Slowly, he appeared sheepish. All the rage from before had spilled into a nervous smile, and…really, the boy was just going to smile at him as if that made it okay? "Heyyy there, England." Oh, for heaven's sake-! America shifted awkwardly in place. "I, uh, have this condition, y'see…"

England's brow crinkled in disbelief. "No."

"Yeah. Ha. Um. It was really Tony's fault, back during the height of the Cold War, when he thought it would be good to put me into alien-training-stuff in case we had to go head-to-head in battle. The effects never wore off and every so often I turn into, like, an anti-commie monster. It's pretty trippy." America tried a smile. "And it seemed like a good idea at the time, I swear."

Still encompassed in apathetic humiliation, England just stared. "I'll try to ignore just how ridiculous that explanation is. Was there even a trigger for why you apparently just had to up and destroy everything in sight just now?"

Slowly, America shrugged.

"...I'm going to strangle you, boy."

"Ha, even though you totally just saw me tear apart the room and—holy shit," America cut himself off as abrupt realization swarmed him, scooting forward and grasping England by the shoulders, suddenly frantic. "Did I hurt you? Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so sorry, I thought this room would'a been empty by now!" Since it was so delightfully brought up, England had assumed a dazed sort of expression, eyes wandering once more over the aforementioned room, drinking in the damage that that ridiculous nation had caused—with his ridiculously tight muscles and ridiculously sweaty tan skin, and—

"Fuck," England cursed—and those ridiculously molten eyes. America grimaced, thinking he was in pain.

"I didn't damage your ribs, did I, old man? …Shit, were one of your lungs punctured? Oh my god, what if a rib shot up and shanked your heart? That's only cool when it's done intentionally. God damn it—"

"America," England interrupted, shoving said nation's arms off of him and wriggling forward. "Shut up and break something."

America looked him over, mortified.

England ducked his head, scowling. "Not me, you—you imbecile! A chair or a table, just—something, anything."

"England?" America looked positively lost, eyes wide and confused, fingers twitching as they clearly wanted to grab hold of England and check again for any injuries. "Are you sure I didn't hurt y—"

"Yes, America, I'm sure."

"—Because that's a really weird question for you to be asking any time, and if I gave you brain damage my president will totally make me help out with those civil war reenactments again, and—"

"America…"

"—he'll even try to ban Mickey D's in D.C., I bet, and he'll tell the public that aliens aren't real and that—"

England punched him square in the jaw, effectively silencing his banter momentarily. America reeled back, eyes pouting while his lips snarled. "What the fuck was that for?"

"That," England said, settling back with a smirk, "was for being a twit. Now, break something. And mean it. Pretend it's Russia if you want, I don't care; I'll even pay for all of the furniture you've ruined, just do it."

Buckling under the idiosyncrasy of such a request, America's arm reflexively shot out and smashed against the nearest chair, blowing the leg into splintering bits before the poor thing fell back with a thud, dead. England grinned. America absently wrung his hand out, uncertain.

"…Okay, done?"

"No," England objected immediately, hopping to his feet. His eyes had long since adjusted perfectly to the encompassing darkness, but he didn't need to look down to see just where exactly all the blood from his previously blushing cheeks was rushing to. Now that America was under control, he intended to enjoy this, like he ought to have been doing at this time, anyway, had his partner not rushed out of the conference like a displeased toddler. "Up you go, boy. Try your hand at that table just behind you—and with more vigor. Go after it like you went after the good Disney animators during that Cold War of yours."

Becoming more uncomfortable by the minute, America bit the inside of his cheek. This was…different. "Uh, no, it's okay. I'm cool now. Anger's all gone, I promise. And I'm pretty sure we agreed never to talk about that again, thanks. Shouldn't we be having some serious discussion about the repercussions of this on our already screwy relationship?"

But England was having none of it; he'd already snatched a particularly lovely glass paperweight off of the desk behind him, and gave no warning before chucking it at America's face. America, of course, caught it, but not without a dramatic yelp and tumble.

"England…" He said lowly, warningly, when he'd recovered.

"Break it," England ordered, moving to stare America down, akimbo. He smiled, though neither friendly nor malicious in his manner. America had to tilt his head upward to see him properly, and see him properly he did. "Smash it into a million little pieces like it was Russia's own heart. Bash on, then. Let me see."

"…England, do you have a hard-on goin' right now?" America asked. When England floundered, America relaxed. "Because you were totally just using your bedroom voice, and your pants are lookin' really kinda tight." Slowly, he grinned. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say seeing me break shit turns you on."

England, red-faced, huffed. Damn that boy—he often forgot America wasn't necessarily oblivious, just a bit slow at first. "Well, it's a good thing you idon't/i know any better, then, isn't it?" He dragged a palm down his cheek, as if to ward off the blood beneath his skin, and turned around to hop onto the wooden table he'd been so brutally slammed against earlier. With crossed legs and lazily clasped fingers, he waited expectantly. "Well then?"

America, bless him, tried his best to not laugh in exasperation as he got to his feet. While he often teased England for being a dirty pervert, the random kinks he harbored never ceased to be surprising. But there England sat, clearly waiting, hoping for America to push forward and give his consent; America couldn't deny him, not when he was portraying himself in such a moment of vulnerability, silently asking for America's acceptance (even if he still looked all prickly and stuffy as he often did). "You," he said, standing before England and leaning forward to rest his palms on either side of England's hips on the table, brushing their noses together, admiring the deep red beneath rich green eyes and the humor in that annoyed frown, "are absolutely barmy, my good fellow."

"Shut your mouth up," England ordered, discomfited and perhaps just the slightest bit amused. He brought his arms around America's neck, pushing their foreheads together and sifting his fingers through that sunglow hair, so much softer and fairer than his own. "You owe me a spot of courtesy, I think." He sniffed when America raised a brow. "For standing me up at that posh restaurant and for attempting to…what was it, shank a rib into my heart or some other such rubbish?" His fingertips pressed against the back of America's neck, smoothing over the baby-down hairs that nestled there. America shivered.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled, breathing in through his nose and tilting his chin up, kissing the height of England's cheekbone. "Crazy old man. Crazy, kinky old man…" His voice trailed off into a chuckle, the pleasant sound brushing England's skin like cotton. "This really is kinda messed up, I hope ya know."

"Courtesy," England reminded him. He hooked one leg around America's thigh, fingers burrowing in his wrinkled collar, breath garnering goosebumps on America's skin as he sucked in air and kissed beneath the harsh curve of his jawbone. "I ought to be very angry with you, as I'm sure you're aware." America scoffed in agreement, palming at the small of England's back, trying to push their bodies together despite the unhelpful height of the table. "You are a like a violent, rude little toddler."

"Mm," America hummed, lips ghosting England's forehead, just below the fringe that was tickling his nose, "pedophile problems resurfacing, England? 'Sides, you're not much better; I bet my jaw's bruised from your bony knuckles."

England rolled his eyes, ignoring that pedophile nonsense (really, he never would hear the end of it). "Oh, you're fine. I'm the one who might've been killed tonight." He sighed when America angled his head to lather England's neck in kisses, mouth soft and warm. "And it seems I also would have been spending the evening alone had you not-ah, there, yes…had you not, ha…oh, fuck it." His fingers curled around America's shoulders, shoving him back enough to get a good look at him. With his face pink and sweaty, eyes glassy, lips red—America truly was lovely. No, he wouldn't have been happy if he'd missed out on this tonight because of some stupid alien technological mishap— or one of America's tantrums, whichever the true fault was. Thankfully, though, he thought sardonically, the world had ways of working itself out.

After an odd moment or so, America tried to push back toward England, eyes fixed on the other's mouth, but was stopped by England's hands. He hesitated. "You…okay?" It was awkward for both of them when such things were said, as if it breached an unspoken agreement of pride. So when America said it then, uncertain as it was, England drew his hands back in reflex. "Oh," America said. "Shit. Sorry, are you having a late panic attack or something? Um—"

"America," England cut him off, both hands he'd just removed slithering beneath the loose fabric of America's dress shirt, earning a choked sound. The heart fluttering beneath his hand rhymed in messy cacophony with his own. America looked at him questioningly in an uncharacteristic moment of concern. England's lips twitched. "Go fetch the paperweight, would you?"

America deflated in relief. "Jackass." But he was smiling slightly as he brushed England's arms away from his chest and went to grab the paperweight. "I almost pissed myself thinking I'd scarred you for life or something. Like, we could never have sex again just because of, y'know, what just happened."

"That would be a suitable punishment if I were indeed that weak," England said, fingers going to his shirt to begin divesting himself of his clothing. "But perhaps we can try it another time. Right now, I want to see you destroy that bloody little paperweight and fuck me, understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir," America chimed, mock-salute and serious frown to boot. He rolled the paperweight between his palms, admiring the smooth crystalline surface: clear and cold and like a gorgeous one-way looking-glass that tried to distort what you thought you saw there. Kinda like England's eyes, America decided, if you squinted and tried real hard to see it. "You're seriously weird for wanting me to do this, I hope you know. Not that I'm complaining," he added when England grunted. "'Cos, y'know, we get to…yeah. I just wouldn't have thought you'd want to see me all crazy-like."

England shrugged, already slipped out of his shirt and tie (both of which now lay discarded on the floor) and moving onto his belt buckle, giving it his full concentration and only half-listening to America. "Yes, a normal person would have been utterly mortified, I'm sure. Now can we hurry this along before I resort to using me ol' hand instead?" He glanced up, eyes darkened and aglow beneath his eyelashes, clearly not about to do any such thing—impatient as he was, he would wait, just as always; America knew that (that, and England sounded totally sarcastic and grammatically improper just then, so there you go).

"Sure. Watch your eyes, I don't wanna have to pluck glass shards out of 'em."

"More punishments from your president would ensue, I assume?" England drawled, dropping his belt atop his shirt on the floor.

"Nah," America shook his head. "I just wouldn't be able to look at them without gagging, and that'd be a real shame since they're actually kinda pretty on you."

Despite himself, England felt his face flush. "Charming."

"Ain't I?" America agreed, shimmying further away from England and looking around for a suitable area to "destroy" the paperweight. Finally, he settled on the wall adjacent to the door he'd so gracefully, err, unhinged earlier, and stood perhaps ten feet from it, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. He looked over his shoulder at England, who appeared to be trying to subdue his lack of patience. "You ready?" He teased.

"Hurry the fuck up."

America laughed, the delightful sound fluttering from wall to wall and all too terribly happy in its contrast against the earlier menacing, throaty vocalization America had assumed in his anger. England had to force his lips to remain downward. "You'll ruin the mood, laughing like that."

"And breaking stuff will bolster it?"

"Immensely," England replied dryly.

"Whaaatever." America turned his attention back to the wall, as if trying to determine the smartest way to approach a situation like this, before he decided, fuck it, he definitely was starting to get horny (i.e. had been really quite ready to have his way with England since he'd calmed down), and the sooner (and the better) he did this, the sooner his and England's lower regions could start spending some quality time together.

Breathing in deeply for show, America clutched the paperweight in one hand, reeled his arm back, lifted one leg up toward his waist, narrowed his eyes, stuck his tongue out in concentration, growled something about "communist bastards" for England's sake, and launched that motherfucker at the poor wall in true-blue baseball pitcher fashion. England, still over on the table, choked on an intake of air when the paperweight bypassed simply shattering, and instead shot ithrough/i the wall, molding a round crater in the wood and smashing something quite…fragile-sounding in the room over.

"…You are still paying for all the damages, right?" America ventured, whistling at the results of his handiwork and glancing back at England. "Cos as awesome as that was, I don't think my boss would appreciate me racking up the already trillion-something dollar debt we're rockin'." When England made no immediate snarky reply, America made his way toward him. The elder was very, very aware of him, eyes wide and fixated, but wasn't responding. "Eeengland? …Oh God, did I really break you this time?" He groaned, clasping England's bony, bare shoulders. "Seriously? You'd better still be up for sex, because I've got a stiffy working its way up right now, an'-Jesus!" America gasped when England's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his crotch.

England palmed him through his slacks, taking both loose ends of his tie in one hand and giving it a right good downward tug, smashing their mouths together, teeth clacking and lips bruising. While it was America who was receiving such nice attention, it was England who moaned, nipping at his lips and smooching at the reddening skin. "Bloody fuck," he gasped out between kisses, suddenly urgent for contact. "You are so…so…"

"Unbelievably sexy?" America supplied once his mouth was freed, snatching England's hand from his pants and keeping it at bay. He smiled impishly when England pulled back, 'tsk'ing.

"Ridiculous is what I was going to say," he said, voice thick as he wriggled his wrist from America's hold to brush away the loose tie and work at the remainder of his shirt buttons. He shoved the crisp white fabric aside, allowing America a chuckle as he tugged out of the sleeves while England kissed at his chest. "You and that stupid—mm, strength of yours." His mouth trailed up America's sternum, sucking at the clavicle and moaning when America's hands – those damn stupid, ridiculous hands that had nearly destroyed both the room and England himself- clutched at his backside through his pants, fondling and squeezing as they pleased. Salty sweat clung to England's tongue, which he had collected from America's skin, and the taste sat in his mouth even as he veered back up to claim America's lips. America chuckled.

"I don't think I've seen you this horny in a long time. Or at least, not this desperate." He cracked a grin, and England scowled, fidgeting with the tremors that consumed his bones as he forced himself to not continue his affectionate assault. Even while sporting a nice tent in one's pants, a man had to uphold his pride (among other things).

"You want to bottom, right?"

That England was embarrassed was obvious to anyone but him, apparently because even while England stuttered, America just grinned and pushed him onto his back on the table.

He got on his hands and knees, suspending his body above England's. The hook of his nose nestled against England's throat, his lips laying soft kisses along the skin they found there. "And I bet you'll want to ride me," he decided shortly afterward, assuming that England had decided to not dignify him with an actual response and had chosen instead to just stiffen (in more ways than one, he noticed cheerfully) and try not to sigh in sated pleasure (which he was totally failing to do). So he went with it, his own hands picking up where England's had left off earlier and making quick work of removing England's pants. England, to his credit, shimmied when necessary to get the damned things off, and growled, demanding that America "get his arse back up here and kiss him—kiss him now". And America did just that, coming back into England's arms.

Spindly, cold fingers clawed and hooked at his skin while England's tongue moved in devilish ways against his own, curses and gasps swallowed by what little space there was between them. America had managed to get England completely naked, save for his argyle socks, though he himself was still in his boxers—boxers that currently hosted not only his swollen cock, but England's hand, as well.

"England," America breathed against his mouth, gratefully nipping at his lower lip when England palmed his cockhead. "Oh, fuck. Yes, ah—shit," he cursed again, though in realization this time around. "Lube?"

"Briefcase," England answered quickly, quietly, as if he'd been waiting all along for America to ask and had known exactly when he would. "Condoms, as well." The arm he had around America's neck tightened, his erection pushing against America's hip which kindly ground down against his hardened flesh. He took America's lips against his again, lingering and kissing him slowly. "Should be by the- mm, the door."

America shifted, his biceps lifting him gratefully up from the table, no longer forced to support his upper body weight. He ducked his head, laying a quick smooch at the corner of England's mouth and sighing, indulging himself a moment longer in rolling his hips against England's hand before slipping away from him entirely to fetch their necessities.

Even as he got to his feet, panting, America's lips stretched into a grin and he joked, "Want me to break something along the way?"

A ragged intake of breath on England's part was really all the answer America needed, but he decided that putting off the lube and condom retrieval for just a moment longer couldn't hurt when England licked his palm and reached down, grasping his own cock and swirling his thumb over the puce head, pumping. "Yes," he said, acidic eyes becoming increasingly unfocused as he touched himself. "Yes, fuck yes."

America blushed an angry shade of scarlet, nearly tripping over numerous chairs and almost slicing his foot open on glass fragments from the broken vase as he finally got moving. England's hitched breathing and the slap of skin-on-skin was far too distracting, and his own erection throbbed in his underwear. He'd located the briefcase easily enough, but it took a few minutes of frustrated fumbling with the zippers thanks to some sudden choruses of America's name being moaned, the sound of wood creaking beneath England's body as he probably curled his toes and arched his hips upward, back bowing and portraying the jut of his ribs, the dips of his pelvic bones, the swollen red of his cock- so vibrant beneath the pale contours of his cold, long fingers as he—

"America," England gasped, trying to sound warning and urge him to return quickly, though only succeeding in sounding lusty and, well…desperate, as America had said. But he was desperate for America, so it was okay (in America's mind it was, at least; England would beg to differ).

"Oh, fucking hell…'Merica…"

…It was a lot more than okay, actually.

"Wait for me, damn it!" He cried, clearly having underestimated just how lascivious England was at the moment.

A guttural bark of anger burst forth from America's throat as he at last damned the briefcase and its zippers to all hell and fisted both hands tightly in the leather, emitting a string of caveman-like grunts as he tore the (ahem, expensive) fabric apart. A chunky cell phone flew overhead, landing somewhere behind him with a lifeless thud; some papers, startled, fluttered into the air in a fright before coming back down in a bundle of tremors. A packet of cigarettes burst open before reaching the floor, and a few cassette tapes tumbled out, accompanied by a couple of pocket-sized books and a vintage Playboy magazine, which was all well and good, but where was the goddamn-

"Found it!" America called, jubilant once more as he scooped up the unopened pack of condoms and travel-sized bottle of lubricant from the wreckage that was once England's briefcase. However, the smile that had begun to pull at his lips quickly dissipated upon hearing another loud, rather needy moan float across the room. "Aw, shit—England, don't you dare finish without me, you jackass!" He scrambled to his feet with a scowl on his face, once more almost tripping over everything possible in his endeavor across the floor before he dove back onto the table with expert dexterity, resuming his suspended position above England. Smacking the flabbergasted man's hand away from his wet cock, damn it, America growled, hoarse and possessive and annoyed.

"Oh, God," England choked, melting into the wood of the table beneath him, apparently only, to his horror, further turned on by the way America's impatiently displeased cobalt eyes snarled at him, the way his muscles were tensed as they were before: agitated, ready to tear something -or someone- in two. "Fuck me," he demanded, hooking his arms around America's neck and swinging one leg over America's hip, foot pushing against America's back to bring him lower, "hard, against this blasted table. Christ." He pushed himself up on his elbows, crushing his mouth against America's in a wet, sloppy kiss, decorating the air with soft sounds of hurried, meeting lips smacking.

No longer terribly upset (as the danger of England selfishly indulging in a complete jerk-off was long gone), America breathed in sharply through his nose, pulling away from England's yearning mouth just long enough to tug his glasses off and cast them aside before diving back in, groaning and tangling his fingers in England's mussed hair, cushioning his head above the hard wood of the table. "No cowboy position?" He teased against the man's lips, even as they continued to gift his own with hushed kisses.

America just gave a sheepish laugh and fiddled with popping the lube open when England realized himself enough to glower—not the "America-what-the-hell-have-you-done-I-am-going-to-castrate-you" glower, but the "America-if-you-don't-shut-up-so-we-can-fuck-I-am-going-to-castrate-you" glower. He figured it was a step up from the former one.

Even then, though, England couldn't be assed enough with irritation, it seemed, because to the best of America's knowledge, his cock was suddenly tugged out of his boxers and being fondled very poignantly by those same cold fingers as before, and was it just him or was England smirking?

"Fuck," he said, throat choking over the single syllable. He spilled the lube clumsily all over his palm and chucked the half-emptied bottle to the floor with another curse.

England looked like a damn shark. How the man could be so aroused, beg to be fucked, and still look like a fucking predator was beyond America.

"Yes," England drawled in agreement, sliding further up the table and spreading his legs. His fingers, prying beneath the fabric, dragged over America's testicles, fondling and cradling the skin. America bit his lip, trying to concentrate. "Fuck, indeed."

Far too distracted to multitask properly, America decided to shirk opening the pack of condoms and dumped them on England's chest, leaving him to deal with it. His fingers were slick and wet with the cheap lubricant, trembling as his unsoiled hand gently set England's head down and instead grabbed one of England's legs and lifted it over America's shoulder. He shut his eyes when England's hand- lovely and affectionate and oh God-fell away from his cock, presumably to work on retrieving one of the condoms. "Look, if the table breaks—"

"I'll most likely ejaculate then and there," England interrupted, blunt. America gawped. England merely gave a sultry grin, waving a freed condom at America. The rest of the pack had fallen to the floor.

Somehow, America laughed. He wouldn't bother pointing out that he had no intention of breaking the table. His fingers parted England's ass cheeks, smoothing between them lengthwise and earning a soft hum from England. "If you weren't so stupidly horny right now, you wouldn't have been able to say something like that. Not without hyperventilating."

"I wouldn't have felt compelled to say something like that had I not been."

Of course, even in bed (or in this case, naked on a table) England's oratory was top-notch eloquence in refuting America.

America rolled his eyes, pushing his index finger inside England's tensed hole, and cricked the digit. England hissed, and he smiled.

"Y'know, maybe if you're good, I'll break some more stuff. Maybe even yell naughty words while doin' it."

England smirked at him with liquid eyes and chuckled.

Another finger pushed in, steadily joined by a couple of others; the treatment was something England took too often for it to always be immaculately painful all the way through (though America always took care to slow his movements when England's mouth so much as twitched the wrong way).

That breathy laugh buckled under a moan that slowly drew itself from England's throat. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, and the muscles in his calf tightened over America's shoulder. "Fuck. Fuck, America, do you intend to shove your entire bloody fist up there?" He rolled his hips, pushing back against America's fingers and fucking himself on them despite his words. He hit America in the chest with the condom, letting his head lull back, giving America a rather nice view of his sharp mandible. "Hurry up, damn you."

Eyes sweeping over England's arced form, America licked his lips and slowly withdrew his fingers in favor of shoving his boxers onto the floor. He rolled the condom over his erection, heedlessly pumping it as a means to an end. He looked back up to find England's eyes on him, red mouth open and wet, and vulnerable with want.

A convoluted form of England's name, some arbitrary curse, and a gasp tumbled from America's mouth as he got to his feet on the floor, fingers digging into England's hips and dragging him closer to the edge of the table. England made a sound of surprise, but made no effort to resist. When his hips had been drawn over the edge of the wood, America flipped him with little preamble (but with more than little vigilance) onto his stomach, not releasing his hipbones until his toes spread out in support on the carpet. Curse that ridiculous boy—trying to be gentle with him, as if earlier he hadn't brutally slammed his ribcage against the very table they were about to have a round on.

England, bemused, found that America must have been thinking the same thing when one of America's hands slipped around to cup his side, fingers hooking over each protruding rib as they dragged along his skin. England lifted his upper body, gripping the edge of the table. He tilted his head back at America, brow raised, and pushed his hips back, finding purchase when he brushed against America's erection—clad in the nuisance necessity of a condom, but America's all the same.

"Come along, then," he invited softly, dipping his back and rolling his shoulders, threaded muscles lissome as they contracted beneath his skin.

And so America moved into him, pushing so slowly and dropping kisses against his shoulder so lovingly that England was almost -almost- brought to foregoing the desire for rough sex—because America, so sweet and so lovely, made something wreathe into serpentines in his stomach till his heart gasped deeply in his chest, willing him to cry out for that bumbling boy in a way that was far too pleasantly embarrassing to be normal; almost allayed his hunger for America to snarl at him and empress his nails into his skin, glower at him with darkly incandescent eyes that thundered with lust and rapacious want.

Almost.

"America," he grunted, using the table as leverage to deftly hook his leg around America's thigh and impel himself against America in a quick thrust. He curled his hips, breath unhinged as his body condensed away from America's before slamming back unto him, bringing him inside and clumsily fucking himself on America's cock in sloppy rhythm.

Whatever stupefied response America had been kindling was quickly doused, as he gripped England's hips and saddled forward, causing England's leg to slide down till his foot was planted on the floor once more. "God, England," he breathed, amused. He smiled when England turned his head to glare at him, and beamed when he thrust into the poor man, sending him into a tizzy of gasps and groans.

"You want it rough?" America asked. He tried to be teasing about it, but he sounded more breathless than he would've liked to, as England continued to slowly push back and nudge America's dick into him.

"Mm," England confirmed agreeably. "Fuck me."

"Oh. Uh- right." America dug the pads of his fingers into England's hips, dragging him against him in intervals as he hastened his pace, now certain of what England expected from him. He released a shaky breath when England moaned low in his throat, and shoved his hips forward until his sac slapped noisily against England's skin, and England shoved right back, welcoming America's hard cock and clenching around it. "Oh, shit, England," he growled, roughly grabbing England's ass and fucking him, spreading his legs and reveling in how the poor man hurtled forward against the table with each snap of his hips, the wooden legs crying out protests as England cried out avidities.

England choked on every other intake of air that he made; this didn't seem to bother him much, though, as his nails dug into the wood of the table, scraping and urgent, just as America's dug into the flesh clinging near his hips and buttocks. "America, yes, oh—" He hissed, making no move to grasp his own erection as it pivoted between his legs with America's movements. This was enough. "Fuck, harder."

The smell of mingled sweat and sex clung to the air, hanging from the darkened atmosphere of the torn room—left to silence but for the shuffle of skin on skin and clutched breath…and the telltale squeaking of the table. For, violent ends are sure to come in such matters, and come they did with a particularly harsh thrust on America's part, which pushed England into the table—and into the table some more until there was suddenly no more table to be pushed into, toppling England save for America's hands on his hips and England's hands blindly grasping back at America's lest he should fall on his face.

America stared down at the busted table incredulously, as it gave one final angry creak and gave out, its legs snapping, falling to the floor. "Seriously?" The skin beneath his fingers trembled, though America couldn't be sure if it was from fright, exhaustion, amusement, or sheer arousal—so he just gripped England's hips more tightly and smoothed his thumbs over the angular bones that jutted out. He pressed his mouth to England's shoulder, relieving it of its perspiration. England shivered and drew a breath.

"You broke it. You actually fucking broke it."

The derision between amusement and disdain in England's tone led America to smartly wind one hand around England's front and grip him, slowly, from the tip down to the bed of nestled blond hairs, earning a startled, albeit pleased, "oh."

"Shouldn't that have just turned you on even more?" America teased, rubbing England's cock and rolling his hips, his mouth still idle on England's tensed skin.

"Oh, God," England answered, eyes wayward as he pushed against America, as if he'd forgotten just what they were doing—though that was entirely plausible, as he'd just gone from being fucked quite thoroughly against a table, to flailing unexpectedly when said table suddenly collapsed beneath them.

Pleased, America attempted coaxing England into shifting position so that they might continue, but England had plans of his own. He stood and turned, ignoring (or perhaps silently relishing) America's groan at the loss of a hole to fuck, and smirked, throwing his arms around America's neck and pressing their mouths together, parting his lips and sliding his tongue over America's teeth. With a leg hooked around America's hip, he ground their erections together, sliding between warmth and wetness. He nipped at America's lips, moaning low in his throat when the man finally had enough sense to take England in his arms and finagle his way to a nearby chair.

("Smart lad," England smirked. America ignored the jab, focusing on how breathless and utterly beautiful England could be.)

Finally seated, America pulled England onto his lap, chest heaving, mind spun between a flurry of senses—namely the striking coldness of the wooden chair beneath his bare ass, and England's stupidly hard and hot prick nestled against his stomach. But England's fingers were around America once more, cold even through the rubbery condom, slicking and pumping as their tongues slid around one another until he levered his hips forward, toes pressed firmly into the carpet below, and took America inside him once more—so unbearably warm and small, so very right.

England's clammy palms were sentinels, covering America's scarlet cheeks as he kissed him, and curling into America's damp hair at the back of his neck. He suckled at and grazed his teeth over America's reddened, plump lips, and let America take him slowly now, moving gently together until their lost breath and slow caresses dimmed beneath the window's molten sky.

x x x

"So…"

England's ears turned red. "Not a word, America."

America grinned and pushed his glasses back onto his nose, letting England flitter about and try to smooth out what was left of his trashed shirt, even though they'd likely just be going to bed after this. They'd finally turned on one of the small glass-shaded lamps in the room (it was a miracle America hadn't broken it, as it sat so close to the door), and it gave a warm golden hue that faded into the further corners of the room. England had redressed himself as best as he could, and apparently allowed embarrassment to swarm over him now that they'd thoroughly spent their time.

"Fine, fine. But I really don't think ya have to dote on my shirt. It's a goner."

Whipping his head around, England glared at America—funny how in that moment, the fact that he was shirtless didn't bother him in the least—and his nostrils flared unkindly. "You are a brute. Hush." And he returned to his tending, mostly to pacify himself till he had the dignity to walk out with his head high and go to his room.

"Oookay. Anyway…" America leaned back against one of the file cabinets, eying England with his arms folded across his chest. Randy and insatiable one moment, flustered and proper the next: perhaps it was saddest that America actually didn't have a preference to the former or latter. Both were enjoyable in their own ways.

His nose wrinkled when one of the drawer handles dug into his spine, and he stuck one hip out to attain relief. It worked, but when his eyes flickered over to the damage the room conveyed, he suddenly recalled something quite important. "Hey, England…"

An unintelligible grunt was all he received, but he took it for what it was worth and let his eyes lead his feet into the little nook he'd found England in earlier that evening. "What were you doing over here, anyway?" He asked, peering over his shoulder to see England's rumpled white shirt hanging tersely from his back. For a moment, his chest recoiled and burned with the thought that perhaps England had been hiding from him, and had stood huddled between barriers of metal in panic. However, the thought ebbed away when England turned to look at him, his own annoyed expression pouring away into a soft smile at the guilt licking at America's pallor. He soon turned away, though his voice carried with it reassurance and warmth.

"I was trying to reach something, a document, and I—" The hesitation, momentary as it was and followed by humble confidence, caught America's attention readily. "I got stuck between some filing cabinets. Silly, isn't it?" A strained chuckle and suddenly America was caught beneath waves of affection for the other man.

A few quick strides took him to where England was, and though he knew his sudden presence was of no surprise to England, he still tensed when America pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, just above his shirt collar. He relaxed not a moment later, though, when he tilted his head around and met America's lips in a brief kiss, or two, or three.

To mock England now for such a lame folly, jokingly or not, would be devastating to their progress—even America realized this. He could have just as easily lied, but nearly every other answer given would have insinuated that he was afraid of America—too shaken to come out and face the enraged man. But that wasn't the case at all—fearful had he been, he still leveled with America when he was found, and he would have done so anyway once he'd deemed that America was clear-headed enough to not immediately seek injury to him.

Damn England and his honest courtesy.

"You're ridiculous," America said gratefully, lips still pressed against the corner of England's mouth, which he kissed decidedly just then. His arms squeezed England's waist in a brief hug, before his fingers hiked up the front of his shirt—too slowly and innocently for England to misconstrue as lewd—and brushed over England's bruised skin above his ribs. "Sorry." The word was hardly even a whisper, but America physically wilted over England, and so he was met with another light kiss and a hand placed over his own.

"Hush, love. I'm all right. Just remember that you owe me a nice dinner." England smiled, pulling back enough for America to see the faint glow dance in his eyes, and then kissed his jaw before disentangling himself from America. He fixed his shirt, standing before America with an easy expression on his face (not quite a grin, but more than a smile and something warm tumbling about behind his shamrock gaze). "Would you go grab the document for me? It should still be by the filing cabinet. Then we can retire to our rooms. Or perhaps just yours, or mine. No need for two." The offer was clear, laced with pseudo bemusement. When America nodded eagerly, England chuckled. "I'll finish cleaning up here. Hurry up."

Quickly, America returned to the little cranny and crouched down in the shadows, squinting and feeling around until his palm splayed over a piece of parchment, milky in the slivers of moonlight and effervescent artificial light. He had half a mind to grin, that is, until he picked it up. Document his ass.

"Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

Oh. He was content—to be answering with a "yes", rather than a snapped "what, America?" Of course he'd be content now that he had actual reason not to be.

"How long were you stuck there for?"

America stood when he heard England's Oxfords tapping at the carpet. "Long enough. Why?"

He shimmied out of the little hiding place to see England by the door—his belongings and shredded briefcase (a sure sign that England was emotionally and physically sated: he didn't yell at America when he probably deserved it) in hand, with America's ruined shirt hung over his shoulder. England raised a brow. "Out with it."

America inhaled sharply through his nose, crumpling the parchment in his hand. "Uh. Y'know what, never mind. Let's just forget all about this and head back to my room. I got a suite this time just in case you decided to spend the night. It's got a real nice bathroom with this huge bathtub and jets and—"

"America," England murmured testily, voice suddenly filled with suspicious ire. "Give it here. Now."

America made to pout, but couldn't bring himself even to that when England stuck out his free hand expectantly, mood soured. He closed the distance between them just enough to slip the paper into England's waiting hand, and then took a good few strides backward again. England's eyebrows shot up before his features hardened at the motion.

America bit his lip and looked around for the nearest exit, finding that he had two choices: the window closest to the back of the room (he could totally survive a four story fall—really, he could; he just might not be able to actually escape England after it), and the open (ahem, destroyed) door just to the left of where England stood. On tip-toes, America tried to sidle his way back around England while the man read, the impatient tapping of his dress shoe slowing until halting completely. The toe of America's own shoe managed to breach the open doorway before a hand shot out and latched onto one of his belt loops, and he yelped, turning to see England staring at him with a vicious burning in his features—and that lovely glass-shaded lamp in his other hand, belongings be damned.

"I'm going to castrate the shit out of you."

All the way down the otherwise silent hall, America's screams could be heard—England's impassioned cries of rage and lamp not far behind. And for whatever poor soul who awoke first the next morning, there awaited a plethora of indecent and destroyed items—as well as a note littered with dirt from the bottom of one person's shoe, that just barely marred a taunting missive and argument in two distinct handwritings, written in alternating broken English and Russian, concerning England's performance in bed, which America had carelessly cast aside just earlier that day.