Gods above and below, please forgive me for this. I've never done PWP before, but this was just begging to be written. I apologize in advance for any impending purple prose, sappiness, geographic innuendo or similar offenses against literature. And for the horrible OOC-ness. Please Mapletea fandom, forgive me for this awful attempt at- I lack words for it… m(_ _)m Gomen nasai.

Vikings and Celts

England wasn't used to voicing his feelings; then again, this instance might have something to do with the empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. And however much he'd had back at the pub. If he'd been able to think straight he probably would've been swearing to avoid "family bonding nights" with Ireland for the next century.

As it was, England was not swearing off contact with his older brother. No, he was standing under the window of a hotel room in his union jack underwear and thanking all the gods he'd ever worshipped that he was in his own country and not that which belonged to the object of his affections.

"Oh Canada," he belted out, swaying where he stood. "Our home and native land- hic- true patriot love in all our- hic- buns co- hehehe, I said buns…" England dissolved into a fit of giggles and grinned up at the window.

As if on cue, it opened.

"Who's- oh maple! Stay right there England, I'll be down in a sec."

Happy that all was going according to plan, the drunken former empire dropped his empty bottle and waited for the promised company. He was not disappointed. Canada arrived as Flying Mint Bunny started licking drops of whiskey from the mouth of the bottle.

"Oh maple, you're a mess! Come on England; let's get you inside before someone sees. What would the queen think?"

England wasn't sure how to answer that, so he mumbled something incoherent about gin while trying to follow Canada inside. However, his body was no longer used to imbibing copious quantities of alcohol; it had been a couple of centuries since his days as a rum-infused pirate. England's legs rebelled against further use and he collapsed within a few steps.

Somewhere above him he heard a sigh, then a pair of strong arms descended to lift him up. England giggled and rested his head on the shoulder that appeared before him. He was being carried like a toddler. Normally this would've bothered him, but not when he was that drunk.

When did Canada get so strong, he wondered, and big? England wasn't used to being this high off the ground. Canada was no Sweden of course, but he was still over six feet whereas England was not. The island nation decided that it was unfair that cold nations always seemed to be the tallest.

Mmmm, Canada smells better than all those fishy Nordics though. All maple-y and sweet. Through a superb act of drunken denial England was able to ignore how much his thoughts sounded like something America would say. Not that he would likely remember the next morning anyways.

"I love you Canada," England mumbled into the North American's shoulder, "You smell like breakfast."

"That's nice." Canada set England down on a couch. When did we get inside? "Now why don't you just stay here for the night? Can't have you getting lost or arrested during conference week, eh?"

"Good- hic- plan." England sat up and attempted to grin lewdly. The effect was somewhat spoiled by his inability to remain upright without swaying. His hand flew out to steady himself, earning a yelp from the younger nation.

"England, what are you doing?"

The former empire blinked at his hand. Then he grinned and began to rub what it had landed on. "Invadin' Southern Ontario."

Canada pulled away, biting back a moan. "No, bad England. You're drunk and I'm practically your son. That'd be incest, eh?"

"Nope," England giggled gleefully. "I- hic- I checked. Your father was- hic- Iceland and your mother was- hic- Iroquois. I'm jus' th'nasty Celtic babysitter."

"How about I get you a glass of water and you sleep this of eh? You'll feel better in the morning."

At this England stood up, affronted, and placed one hand on his hip. The other began fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. After a moment he switched to both hands on his buttons, his desire to be naked greater than his desire to be dramatic.

"No," England pouted, "Celts don't sleep." Which was not true, but sounded good at the time.

Canada blanched. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a drunken England who bleached his hair and ran into battle naked. Not that there were any battles nearby, but still… The northern nation immediately grabbed his soused companion and pinned him to the couch. Unfortunately, while this did prevent England from removing his clothes, it put both of them in a very awkward position. One that England immediately began to make the most of.

"Welcome back Southern Ontario." England pressed the palm of his hand into the aforementioned region. Canada growled and shifted to grab the offending hand only to be assaulted by another sliding under his shirt.

"Mmmm, and there be the Canadian Shield. Big, strong, rocky…"

He was stronger than England, he could do this! Or that's what Canada thought as he grabbed the older nation's other hand and removed it from his stomach. But he'd underestimated how far England was willing to go. As Canada attempted to wrestle the drunken nation into some semblance of decency, warm lips closed over his ero-curl and began to suck.

"O-oh maple! Baffin Island!" Canada melted, all thoughts of resistance forgotten. England squirmed free victoriously.

"And now to have my way wi' th'pretty foreigner," he giggled, quickly divesting Canada of all his clothes.

It was something even his sober mind had wished for; nearly a hundred years he'd desired it. Canada had grown up so big and beautiful. Licking Baffin Island again, England knelt shakily to kiss the Canadian Shield and stroke the fertile expanse of Southern Ontario. Canada moaned at the contact.

When England's fingers began a delicate exploration of the St. Lawrence Seaway though, he felt something change. The young nation beneath him, though still warm and willing, was no longer a pile of mush. Nor, England was surprised to note, actually underneath him. A familiar tantalizing, terrifying light came into the northern nation`s eyes and England suddenly found himself on his back on the bed, the world`s second largest country looming over him.

England took a moment to admire the hands that had moved him so easily. So big, but finely built at the same time. Strong hands that would have looked beautiful on the hilt of a well-made sword. It's almost a pity he's never invaded someone. He'd make such a fine warri- oh!

Something was moving in the Thames River, disturbing England's focus. Not that he minded; it felt good. He realized belatedly where Canada's other hand had gone.

It had been a long time since anyone had invaded the Thames. Ancient Rome had done it a few times, and there had been that one fling with France, but that was almost a thousand years ago. England whined and squirmed at the familiar/unfamiliar sensation of Canada exploring the river and stretching its floodplains. It felt so good.

And then once he'd been stretched for several minutes, Southern Ontario invaded. Right up to Lake Superior.

England yelled, an ancient battle cry tearing loose. Canada was big, really big! Bigger than Ancient Rome; far bigger than France. It hurt, but at the same time it felt so good.

Canada was stronger than either of his previous lovers too. Once England had adjusted and Canada started moving the older nation experienced an earthquake of brutal force. But it was exactly what his drunken mind wanted. His sober mind would have wanted it too, though that part of him wouldn't have been as thrilled with Canada's ability to channel so many different immigrants.

"Ah! Maple! Je- je t'aime! Ich lie-liebe dich! Aishiteru!" Drunk England however found the many different languages hot.

All too soon it was ending. The Thames was flooded with runoff from a beautiful northern glacier and the Canadian Shield was coated in the salty spray of the Channel. Both nations collapsed in a heap of pleasure.

Canada returned to his senses quickly though, and he was mortified. The northern nation turned as red as his maple leaf and began stammering apologies with varying levels of intelligibility. England ignored the words in favour of staring at his partner's flushed face.

"-And again, I'm really sorry and I hope you're not mad at me but it was kind of your fault because you touched my ero-curl. You know how I get when people play with Baffin Island. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

England placed a finger on Canada's lips. "Shut up- hic- lovable git. 'M not mad. Love you. Wanted- hic- hundred years. Pretty. Smart. Special. Sleep now." And with those last few words England dragged the covers over them and cuddled into Canada's side for the night.

The next morning England woke up in more pain than any time since the Norse raids in his youth. Everything hurt, everything. Damn North American super strength mixed with damn Viking size.

Part of England was horrified by what he'd done. Is it rape if Canada was willing? But with the other nation lying, smiling and peaceful, beside him and a fuzzy memory of the previous night's actions and apologies, England couldn't even tell whose virtue he should be worried for. He just hoped Canada would accept his affections when he was sober.

He was really sore, especially below the waist. Trying to find a position that didn't hurt, England ended up with his face pressed into Canada's hair. The smell of maple syrup surrounded him. He smiled and whispered an old English prayer that had helped him with the pain of northern invasion in the past.

"Deliver us, O Lord, from the wrath of the Norsemen." It was probably the first time England had ever said that particular prayer with a smile.

I'm just going to go crawl in a hole and die now. That was the first time that I've ever tried to write smut. I will never touch a computer at four in the morning again. Or look at a map the same way either. My mind is such a strange place… T-T