TBH this is just a little something I wrote ages ago, I'm not completely happy with it, but I'm posting it to prove to you I'm not actually dead... and because my thirst for EngIre reared it's ugly head again.

I've had absolutely no writing inspiration recently and I hate it... but with any luck I'll get my spark back soon.

Enjoy! ;)

EU galas were at best... necessary and tedious. At worst they were the source of mockery and embarrassment for every nation involved. Most nations made bets on the number of fistfights, drunkenly revealed government secrets, drunker come-ons, and vaguely sober rejections happened in the night. It was mostly a way of entertaining themselves while their bosses actually did work and made connections elsewhere.

Yeah, sure, they were supposed to do the same, but not one of them ever did. Even Germany, after a single sip of beer, gave into the call of fucking about as only nations can.

So naturally, the betting pool began as soon as Ireland approached England. Non-threateningly, and holding out a glass of what was probably whiskey which England sniffed at suspiciously before taking a cautious sip.

Four bets that it was poisoned. Three that it was drugged. One that Ireland had spat in it. And one that they were secretly fucking.

The betting pool was always small to begin with, but as soon as the room rounded on their targets for the night, it usually began to grow, and fast. Netherlands always kept careful count.

When England sipped at it, and Ireland made a comment which actually made the other island laugh, the bets changed.

Five bets that it was poisoned. Nine that it was drugged. Four that Ireland had spat in it. Three that they were secretly fucking. And one that Ireland wished they were secretly fucking.

England raised his eyebrow at the Irishman, which prompted the other to look irritated and reply with something else that made England laugh, and after that they seemed to slip into easy conversation. The longer they did, the more the bets changed.

Poisoned had been ruled out. Drugged as well. Spat in was seeming unlikey, but had gained two bets, and Netherlands had promised that he would ask Ireland about it later. The secretly fucking theory was gaining popularity, and two more people had put in money for it. But not as much as the pining theory, apparently people liked a good sob-story, because that one had gained four more bets, despite the fact that England seemed to be reciprocating.

England leant in to whisper something in Ireland's ear, and Ireland turned back to him with shock written on his face, before he smiled and leaned back to whisper something in return.

Three more bets for 'secretly fucking'.

England bit his lip, raising a hand to hide the action, but just a little too late.

One more bet for 'secretly fucking'.

A new betting pool began, in regards to whether or not they'd be shagging by the end of tonight or not. The stats were currently 14 'yes's and 5 'no's.

Ireland took England's glass from him, their hands brushing deliberately, and something else was whispered which made England smile, or perhaps it more of a smirk, but either way, it was hard to miss the hint of 'come hither'.

Make that 18 'yes's.

Ireland wandered over to the bar, presumably to buy them a re-fill, and those of the countries that were watching England might have noticed the way he leant back against the table, his eyes wandering, without a hint of subtlety, over Ireland's form.

20 'yes's. And that was everyone's bets placed. Now to wait.

When Ireland got back, England tossed back his drink in a single gulp, making Ireland smile amusedly into his own glass and make a comment which made England laugh and shake his head, throwing an arm over his shoulder, and whispering something in his ear which made his mouth twitch into a smile and finish off his own drink in one short gulp. He nodded, and the two of them were rather suddenly, and without warning, kissing like horny teenagers.

If there was any doubt as to the intentions of the kiss, Ireland's hands, which had originally fallen on England's hips, reached down and firmly grabbed England's arse, making the man in question jump a little in surprise, but instead of pulling back, he just seemed to laugh and dive back in with renewed vigour. England's body curved into Ireland's, his hands curling into his hair as his arms curled around his neck, and Ireland's hands found firmer purchase on England's arse.

The few 'no' betters rather reluctantly handed over their money.

England pulled out of the kiss to mutter something, to which Ireland seemed the opposite of opposed, before the two of them turned to grin at Netherlands, each of them sending a wink in his direction.

It took only several seconds after that for the two of them to scramble out of the room, most likely in search of an empty room. Netherlands supposed the first betting pool would have to wait until the morning, when he could track Ireland down, but right now, he was rather happily counting out winnings, and with any luck, there would be another bet on something else in not too long.

If their bosses only knew how to profit off of this, the EU might not be down shit creek.

Netherlands resolved never to tell them. That way he could take his healthy share of winnings every time.

What is it they say about trusting the bookie?