DeAnnon from the kink meme number two. The request was America and England roleplaying as strangers, and I couldn't help myself. If you can tell me where the title of the story comes from, you get a cookie.

Anyway, Happy Easter: have some pronz

America scanned the crowd again and checked his watch for the twentieth time that evening. Dammit, England was supposed to be here by now. He was never late. Never. Hell, America had rushed to get ready so that he'd be able to be at the club when England would show up half an hour early. And here he was, on his third rum and coke (thank god for the fake IDs the fudged his age upwards), and starting to feel as though he'd been stood up.

"You waiting for someone, sir?" The bartender asked.

"No-" America said too hastily, "No one at all!"

"Alright," the bartender said, most likely not believing him but also probably tired of hearing sob stories from drunkards that decided to get wasted in a brightly-lit dance club and not in a smoky bar.

America, for his part, turned and stared out at the crowed, looking out for that familiar messy head of blond hair bobbing up and down or perhaps a flash of green too deep to be either the lights or the outrageous clothes that most of the people were wearing. He wondered if England wasn't watching from nearby, enjoying seeing the younger nation nervous for once.

Scowling, America took another swig of his drink. He noticed that he was getting down to just ice cubes. Dammit, he didn't wanna have to pay for another drink, and he'd slip up if he had too many more. If there was one thing that he didn't want to do, it was slip up. Slipping up meant that the loser had to bottom for a week and fulfill any requests that the other had (well, within reason. One time America had asked England to walk around in a sexy nurse outfit, and with that look on his face America couldn't make him).

It was then that he finally saw his target. The island nation was standing across the room. He hadn't noticed him before: if it weren't for those big, fat (gorgeous, perfect) eyebrows, he'd be unrecognizable. He had a carefree smile upon his face, eyes closed with laughter. He was dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and had a shiny, shiny green shirt on. And dear God, was that a cocktail in his hand? (America remembered the first time he'd taken the other man to a speakeasy back in the '20s. England had hated every single one of the fruity drinks America had given him, opting instead to just ask for a bottle of bootlegged whisky, not caring how expensive it was.) He had a small herd of men around him, all hanging on every word that he said and staring at him like he was the sexiest creature that ever lived. (They were right, with the obvious exception of America of course, but still). But all that was nothing, nothing compared with what he had done to his head. Black locks had been carefully arranged and gelled into place, making the man across the room look nothing like the one America had woken up next to that morning.

Of course, that was the point, but it was just not fair. All America had done was leave Texas at home and wear a tee-shirt that was neither stained or from an event that had taken place before he theoretically should have been born with an open short-sleeved button up over it. The younger nation glared at his stupid boyfriend for going out of his stupid way to stupidly show him up.

Stupid.

And more men just kept coming over! America scowled. His lover had what, twelve guys around him now? Thirteen? Yeah, England was hot, but seriously? It must be the accent. Chicks for sure flipped for a British accent, maybe gay guys did too. Or maybe it was that England was smiling and carefree for once. America had to admit, as cute as his boyfriend was all flustered and pouty, there was something about his smile that was absolutely gorgeous.

As dictated by Murphy's Law, that was the moment that England opened his big green eyes and looked directly at America. He closed his mouth and just stared for a moment, but then a smirk crept onto his face and he walked towards the bar, shooing away any of his posse that tried to follow him.

America turned back around and looked purposefully away. As England got very close the younger nation could smell a very not-England-y cologne. It was musky, but kind of sweet at the same time: something he'd expect from France. However, there was something about the way that it blended with England's own smell, which America could only detect because he was so attuned to it, that drove him wild.

"'Ello there, love," England said. America noticed that he had poshed up his way of speaking to be closer to what most Americans thought a British accent should be.

The younger man didn't turn. England had first seen him mad, so that's how he'd play it.

"Oh, come now, why so cold? I can't offend you just by existing."

America just grunted.

"At least look at me, beautiful," England said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

America looked up and glared at him. "You dyed your hair," America wanted to say, "You dyed your hair so that you could pretend to be a stranger for one night. It's not fair! I wanna come up with the cool ideas!" However, he settled on, "Whaddya want?"

"I just wanted to talk."

"I'm sure."

"Well, alright, when I first saw you, I just wanted a shag. I don't know how you don't have men hanging off of you. But then," he sat down and his accent returned to normal, "You didn't turn into a mushy pile of goo when I started speaking. I'm slightly intrigued."

"Well, sorry if some of us Americans base our choices of partners on more than what piece of dirt they were born on," Honestly, he'd heard the accent since he was a baby. It was hardly a highly erotic experience. Well, okay, just hearing it when it wasn't all roughed up by sex or the promise thereofwasn't a highly erotic experience.

England laughed, "Well, then, care to fill me in on what 'more' you use and how a sexy young thing like yourself came to be sitting all pissy at a club in downtown Detroit?"

"Why? 'S not like you care." He drank the last of his rum and coke.

"Would you like another?" England asked, "I'll pay."

"No, I'm fine without it, and I'm fine without you. Perfectly fine." "England, you're not getting me drunk tonight."

"Alright, then. If you'd like, I could tell you some about myself."

"I don't care," America said.

"Well, I want you to know."

America rolled his eyes, "If you insist, I can pretend to listen to you for a while,"

Actually, he kinda wanted to know what sort of thing England had come up with. If there was once thing that America had to say England was a boss at, it was coming up with stories. The scenarios he'd plan and the characters he'd make up were totally beast. Sometimes America felt envious of the ex-empire's creativity. Then he made an awesome ray gun or something and he felt better.

"My name's James. I come from the West End of London, and I always wished that I was from somewhere else so that all the times I went abroad I could laugh at the looks on people's faces when they realized that there was more to Britain than just London."

America had to suppress a laugh as he remembered all the times that the smaller nation had flipped out when people heard that he was from Britain and asked him questions like "what part of London are you from?" There was one time in particular that America could remember where this poor girl had faked knowing about British culture to try to pick him up. Her therapy and hospital bills probably ended up costing the feds more than all the fast food America had ever eaten.

America saw England's suave smile twitch a little bit upwards, threatening to become a self-assured smirk. Dammit, this wasn't good. He was gonna break character if this kept up. He had to come up with something to annoy England and fast.

His brain was reeling as England rattled off more about his imaginary life in London and how he'd ended up in the Midwest. How the hell was he going to get England to break before he did? At least the fact that England paused now and then to take a sip from his cocktail bought him a little bit of time.

"So what about you?" England asked, "What's your story, love?"

"Me?" America asked. Shit! He didn't have a new idea yet. Shit, shit shit!

England smiled, "Who else?"

"Well, my name's Will. I've lived here my whole life. And well…" America took a deep breath. If all else failed fall back on the for sure way to get England riled up: good old-fashioned insults, "I just broke up with my boyfriend," He put on his best puppy-about-to-cry face.

"Oh, poor poppet," England said, reaching out a hand to stroke America's face. He always had been putty in the younger man's hands whenever he acted disappointed.

America slapped the hand away, "I don't need pity from you! Especially you. 'Cause, James," He gave a melodramatic sigh learned from years of watching movies by Marilyn Monroe and Marilyn Monroe wannabes, "You're a lot like he was. He was built like you, British, and he used the same pet names as you."

A look that clearly said, "Well bugger me," or some other equally British-y term for "this ain't gonna end well," flashed across his eyes. It didn't reach his mouth, though, so it didn't quite count, since it could be explained away.

"He was British too, the bastard. We met in college, and he said he'd be good for me forever."

"What'd he do to you, love?" England asked, looking sincerely concerned. America knew he was afraid that it'd end up some parallel to the revolution. Honestly, England should have known better. There was no way that the younger man would hurt his lover like that.

America barked a laugh, "Nothing really. It just started being obvious that we weren't meant for each other. I mean, I like cock, but this guy was gay. He embroidered. What kind of man embroiders? And it wasn't even cool stuff like coats of arms or dragons or that kind of shit. He made things like fluffy bunnies. He wanted to put doilies and flower-patterned things everywhere in our apartment so that it looked like my grandma's house." England closed his eyes, and although he kept the cool smile America could see his jaw twitch and his fist tighten. Good, "And then the fucker would try to cook. You'da think he would've learned after about the third time that we needed to put out a burning stove, but no. Every morning it was tea and charcoal for breakfast." England's smile started twitching, and America could tell how badly he wanted to start screaming at the top of his lungs. But that was something for a different day, so he decided to stop there, "And, well, he couldn't stand to live with me either, I donno why, so we split up."

"I see. I pity that man. If he was foolish enough to give up a prize like you, he deserves it. However, it was quite fortunate for me, I suppose." He smiled in a way that was almost sincere.

Dammit.

"Well, let's forget him tonight, shall we?" He asked, leaning closer to America.

"I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman."

"I never said that." England said, raising an eyebrow.

Oh, like Hell he was going down that easy. "Well you're from West End, right?" America asked, recovering easily, "That's where the rich people live, right."

"That's true, I suppose. However, I was simply asking if you'd like to dance for a while."

"Sounds nice," America said, standing up and allowing England to lead him into the forest of bodies that covered the dance floor.

Sure, he could have fought for a lot longer, but since tonight was supposed to end in a "one night stand" they'd have to get to the romancing eventually. Besides, everyone knew that England sucked at dancing. This would be a lot of fun, especially since "James" seemed like the type to lead. However, to his dismay, England pulled it off. It helped that he claimed that a lot of random movements were the hottest moves back in the UK. America couldn't help but laugh at him. England blushed, but looked sheepish instead of doing his normal, "Well it's not my fault that blah, blah, blah, bitch, bitch, bitch," routine. Maybe in spite of his real identity, "James" was sort of a dork. America taught him a couple of American moves, which England managed to copy without looking too proud of himself.

The minutes on the floor turned into hours, but America barely seemed to notice. He'd almost slipped and said "England" a couple of times, but he could tell that England almost forgot to call him "Will," so that was okay. Honestly, it felt natural: not quite like he was with England himself, but more like a different part of himself was with a different part of his lover. It was in times like this that he loved role-playing. It was a chance to see England in a whole new light that excited him in a brand new way, and he knew that it was the same for the other man.

Eventually, America noticed the time. Shit, was it really two-thirty already? Man, he could have been having sex like forever ago.

"What's wrong, darling?" England asked.

"This place'll be closing soon."

"That's a shame, I was having a good time," England said, frowning.

"Me too. But I guess it's all gotta end eventually, right?"

England smiled, "Maybe, but this doesn't have to end yet."

"What do you mean?" America asked, feigning ignorance.

"How would you feel if I took you back to my hotel?"

America smiled back, "Sounds like a plan."

The two left, holding hands, and got into America's car. England wanted to drive, but America made a quip about driving on the wrong side of the street, and the older man grudgingly gave him directions to the hotel, even though America had helped him pick it in the first place.

Once they reached their destination, the two of them quietly slunk through the hallways. It was kind of fun to do that, run and giggle like a pair of horny teenagers, even though they'd probably be waking plenty of the guests up with loud gay sex soon enough anyway.

They got into England's room and just stood there, looking at each other. Both of them liked to do that sometimes, just stare at the other and both think about how lucky they were.

"You're beautiful," England whispered.

"You're sexy," America countered.

They heard a click as the door closed, and then it was all over. America shucked his shirt and kicked off his shoes as he leaned forwards to catch the Briton in their supposed first kiss. He felt those thin yet strong arms wrap around him and found his own hands pressed against England's chest. America opened his mouth and England positively shoved his tongue down his throat. The blond laughed into the kiss and unbuttoned his lover's shirt, making sure to go teasingly slow and carefully feel the slightly yielding chest and belly beneath. Once he'd reached the bottom, he undid the other man's jeans. England let out a grateful moan and slid his hands around under America's shirt, eventually gathering it at America's mid-chest. They broke the kiss for just a moment so that England could slide the cotton up over the blond's head.

America wrapped his arms around the Briton and pulled him towards the bed. Once he felt the back of his knees butting up against the mattress he fell backwards, bringing England down on top of him. Typically they'd fight for dominance even if they were planning on diabetes-inducing lovemaking, but America had the feeling that his character was just more inclined to take a submissive role to England's this time.

The older nation kicked off his shoes and the pair wriggled and crawled until they had America's head nestled in the pillows and both of them fully on the bed. Once England could be sure that his lover was comfortable, he started to slide down his body, leaving a trail of kisses and love-bites. However, he stopped when he got to his nipples.

"How do you like it, love?" Oh, that's right; they'd never cleared up how they wanted to do it. Dammit, of all the things to have forgotten when they were planning this morning…

America supposed it didn't really matter and winked at him, "How d'ya want it?"

"Like this," England said, biting on America's nipple and tugging slightly. One hand came up to caress the other one and the conflicting sensations made America positively burn.

"Oh," he said, "Oh, that's good."

"So you like it a little rough?" England asked, letting go.

"More than enough to do it with a hot Brit for a night. I never got it with my ex, y'know?"

England almost laughed; America could see it at the edges of his lips and eyes. Apparently encouraged that he finally had some distinction from America's imaginary ex, the older man continued downwards, dragging his teeth along America's belly. The blond couldn't decide if it was more arousing or tickling and just let out a drawn-out whine. Which was totally manly for a whine. Yeah.

The smaller nation stopped at America's pants, undoing them and tugging them off his hips. His fingers danced back and forth across the waistband of the other man's boxers, occasionally detouring to get close to the bulge but never quite touching it.

"Should I free you now or wait until later?" he asked, looking up at America lazily.

"Now," the younger man moaned, "Dear God, James, do it now!"

"Alright," England said.

There was quick friction as the underwear was pulled down to join his jeans around his mid-thigh, and then England's tongue was on him, licking gently like a cat.

"D-dammit, are you gonna let me get off or just tease me?"

"I don't see why I can't do both." England said, lifting his head, "But I just wanted to see you stand up, and look," he ran a finger along America's hardened length, "You are."

America hissed through his teeth, "Bastard."

England laughed, "It's not like I'm forcing you to just lay there. Now come on, I'll help you the rest of the way out of your trousers."

England slid his legs off of the bed and backed slowly, pulling America's pants with him. The younger man propped himself up with his elbows and watched as the denim peeled away from his legs like old skin from a snake. England made quick work of his socks and stood back up. America smirked when he saw the big old tent in the other man's pants too, but then the smile fell when he realized his lover wasn't moving.

"Come back here," he said.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Watch and see."

First off, the Briton went to his suitcase. He pulled out a familiar bottle and not-so-familiar metallic packet (although it made sense to use a rubber since they were supposed to be strangers). He tossed both to America.

"What are you givin' these to me for?"

"Well, the condom is so that I don't forget it when I come back to bed. You can just put it on the table for now. But as for the lube," he looked at America hungrily, "I want you to prepare yourself."

"Kinky, are we?" America asked, placing the packet on the bedside table and uncapping the lube.

"Maybe a little bit."

America allowed himself to laugh at that, and coated his fingers in the gel.

"Good boy," England said, reaching down to start to pull his skinny jeans off.

"Hey, I wanted to do that," America said, circling his own entrance.

"It takes practice to get someone out of these trousers," England said, gripping his waistband.

Wasn't that the truth? Back in the '70s, when England had picked up a habit of dying his hair traffic-light green and wearing painted-on leather pants, every time they had sex for the first year or so America had to try to wrestle them off of him while the older nation just sat back and laughed at him. It almost made America smile fondly, but he remembered just in time that Will wouldn't respond like that.

"Come on, honey," America said, "You got to strip me."

"Yes, well you wore normal blue jeans."

"Ja-ames," America whined. He blushed as he realized he had used the same pattern as when he was trying to convince England to do something.

The green-eyed nation smirked back, "Aren't you supposed to be preparing yourself, love?"

America rolled his eyes and slipped one finger inside. He slid the digit around, looking for the right angle to distract himself from the fact that he wasn't going to be able to coax that tight, tight cotton off of those long, slim legs. Oh, ah, there it was.

He let out a sigh and his eyes fluttered closed. His free hand went up to play with his cock and another finger went in to join the first. The preparation wouldn't take very long; America was more than used to this sort of treatment. By the time he'd gotten the third and last finger inside of himself, England had just joined him. America still hadn't opened his eyes, but he knew that the other man was naked from the different texture where their legs rubbed.

"Will," England breathed, "Dear lord, you're sexy like that."

Oh God, there was the highly erotic roughed-up-by-the-promise-of-sex accent. America cracked open one eye. England was kneeling above him, looking down with his green eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and a blush across his cheeks. The younger man smiled.

"Well, I think you're sexy like that."

The Brit smiled and his blush deepened. He leaned down to capture America's lips in his own. At about the same time, both men remembered that they were supposed to be doing this kind of rough. Without much warning, England shoved his tongue into America's mouth and began to ruthlessly claim every square inch. America moaned into the muscle and his hands left his vital regions to bury themselves in England's hair. The younger nation was pleased to report that new color or not, it still had that light feathery texture that he loved so much.

America felt England shift his weight onto one hand, as the other reached for the equipment on the table. The older man fell back into a kneeling position as he prepared himself. He blushed as he realized America was staring, as though the other man hadn't seen it hundreds of times.

England got back into position and America helped by slinging his legs up over the other man's shoulders. They looked at each other, and America nodded. England returned the gesture and slowly pushed himself in.

Both let out a groan at the sensation. It had been a little bit less than a day since America had been with England, but he never got tired of it. America bent down and gave the older man a sloppy kiss.

"Move," He commanded when they pulled apart.

With a soft moan, England began to slowly thrust in and out. But it was too shallow, too light.

"James, I'm not made of glass."

"Right, right," He said, but he looked honestly nervous.

America was confused for a moment, but then he remembered: once England really started to get going, he would start to let things slip: his past, "magic" words, America's real name… The possibilities of breaking character were endless.

So, of course, America egged him on further, "Come on, James, Faerie-boy went in harder than that! I'm not some chick! Fuck me!"

England glared down at him, "You Americans really have no idea of how to savor things, do you?"

"It's more that you Brits have no idea of how to have fun," America said, grinning, "Now come on, don't make me ride you."

But then England did something he hadn't been expecting. He stopped and pulled out.

"What's that about?" America asked.

"I think I rather like the idea," England said, rolling the two of them over.

"But I-"

"I'm not doing a good enough job? Then do it yourself."

"Stop being a little bitch and do me already!"

"Will," England said, looking at him lustfully.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to know a secret?"

America rolled his eyes, "Sure."

"We Brits think that Americans are sexy," He leaned up so that he was right next to America's ear, "And do you know which Americans we really like?"

The blond couldn't help but shiver. Oh, he knew where England was going with this, but he still said, "No."

England chuckled, "Cowboys," And then licked his ear.

America groaned. Well, how could he say no to that? He sat up and carefully lowered himself onto England's cock.

"Oh, love," The older nation said, "That's marvelous."

"Thanks," America grunted, "You mind if I get started?"

England's head fell back against the pillows, "Go right ahead."

Once he got a rhythm going, America reached down and began to tease and lick at England's chest, paying special attention to that one his collar bone that drove him wild. England himself just laid back and let it all wash over him, eyes dark with desire and face red with exertion and lust.

It was no secret that they both enjoyed the position, if not for the way that they could admire each other's bodies then for the simple novelty of America being a cowboy. Although perhaps the novelty had faded after the first twenty or so times that England had required that they do it while America was in full cowboy gear (minus the jeans that were supposed to go under the chaps, of course. The leather had chafed like hell, but neither really cared).

Tonight, it was probably all about the odd combination of new and old. It was the familiarity of the position and feel of the other's body against the newly calculated masks that both of them wore. It was the way that those gorgeous green eyes and lovely bushy eyebrows were under pitch-black hair (although it was now back to its usual level of messy). It was the way that the light from the lamp on the bedside table reflected off of a cross that was in the spot on America's chest where his dog tags usually hung, although the silver color and position remained.

America couldn't tell how long they were moving together, but eventually the thrusts started to get sloppy, the bucks of England's hips not matching up to when America came down. The Brit beneath him was a beautiful shade of red and his eyes were half-closed. America didn't need a mirror to know that he looked the same way. England had been holding the younger man's hips, gently helping him ride, but America could handle it himself. He grabbed both of the smaller nation's hands. One he simply held onto for dear life, but the other he brought over his sorely neglected cock.

The younger nation leaned down so that he was at England's level, "Can you wait for me, sweetheart?" He whispered

"I- I should be able to."

"Awesome. Together, then!"

The two kissed and after a few more moments of sloppy movement each brought the other over the edge. America was fairly sure that England screamed his real name, but had no idea what came out of his own mouth as he spilled all over their joined hands. They'd both made it to orgasm without faltering so no one won this particular round, but America couldn't really bring himself to care.

The younger man pulled himself up, and England fell out with a squelching noise. America winced. Why was it that after-sex always had to be so gross and unsexy? It just wasn't fair.

"So," he said, rolling off and plopping down next to his lover, "Black hair, huh?"

England shrugged, "I wanted to try something new. Do you like it?"

"It's different, I gotta say."

"Yes, but is that a good different, or a bad one?" England asked, scowling at him.

"…I sorta wanna refuse to answer so that you get all pissy."

"If you do that-"

"Nah, it's okay. I like the color on James," America said, not particularly in the mood to fight when he felt so spent. He lifted a hand and lazily ran it through the locks, "But my England is blond."

England blushed but instead of commenting on it said, "Oh lovely, you rubbed the hand with come all over it through my hair."

America looked at his fingers, "Oh yeah. Sorry about that…"

England shrugged, "Oh well, it's not the first time. But now we need to take a shower."

America grinned. He'd said "we." "Awesome! Can we just lay here for a while, though? If we're gonna have super awesome shower sex, we're gonna need to recharge a little."

England rolled his eyes, "I don't know how much you're going to want sex when I get wet: this dye washes out."

America thought for a moment, wondering if it would be off-putting to make love to someone who had color running down their body.

Not of it was England, he decided.

He looked at the bedside table: three-twenty-two. Well, the night wasn't young, but it wasn't so late that they had to go to sleep just yet. He sat up.

"What is it?"

"Let's go take that shower."

"Already?"

"Sure. I can scrub your head for a couple of minutes while we wait to get back in the game."

England rolled his eyes, and disposed of the condom in the trashcan he had put next to the bed earlier, "So what did you think?"

"I liked it. James is a lot more of a gentleman that you are."

"What did you say, wanker?" England demanded, glaring.

America stood and stuck out his tongue, "You wanna get me, you gotta get up."

"You are such a prat, you know that?"

"I donno what that word means, but I probably am," America grinned.

England sighed and held out his arms, "Oh, help me up, you great stupid thing."

"No problem, douche bag." America said, pulling the elder nation into a sitting position.

"You know what I think?" England asked as he got to his feet.

"Normally?" he asked, walking towards the bathroom, "'I can too cook, wanker,' 'my imaginary friends are better company than anything that really exists,' 'I am so lucky to have the sexiest and more heroic boyfriend on earth,' 'I'm totally jealous of America's awesome ideas and body so-'"

"Belt up!" England shouted, running over to America and punching him in the arm.

The younger nation just laughed, "Okay, okay. What do you think, England?"

"I was going to say that I'm surprised that the building we were in didn't collapse: you managed to come up with someone who was even more of a spoiled brat than you are. I didn't think that much whining could be held in one space."

"I had to divide by zero to do it," America said, beaming and holding up a finger.

England couldn't help but laugh at the younger nation, and America smiled at the noise. "Come on, you silly sod," He said, tugging the taller man into the bathroom and shutting the door, "Get this out of my hair."

"Gladly," America said, guiding them into the shower and closing the curtain.

Oh, it had definitely been a good night, and it seemed like it was only going to get better.