The metal door pinged closed and America gripped England’s ass, silencing him, and kneaded it, guiding his leg up to settle against his hip. The material of his jeans pulled at skin and muscle, but the hands wandering across the round of his ass and the firm plane under his upper thigh distracted him from the slight discomfort. Tension melted away in the waves of soft and firm pressure. They both hissed when their groins again.

It was as America pressed him against the wall of the elevator, and another beep sounded, that England realized they had not yet kissed. That wasn’t fair. Still, the hands explored, and he shivered at the warm panting breath so close to his ear. He tried to amend this with a hand to the man’s neck, attempting to direct his head over and close the great distance between their mouths. His plan came to nought as his lips met a firm jaw instead.

“Mine,” America buried his face further against the junction of his neck and shoulder, and whimpered, sharp contrast to the firm clasp he had on his ass. It was almost as though he was sulking, a child holding a treasured toy close that another boy had attempted to steal away on the playground.

“America? America, are you okay?

“Yeah. S-sorry.” Despite his apology—the second within only a few minutes— he did not let go, but his hands stilled.

“What for?”

“Cause I can’t help myself.” He pouted. “Cause I’m no better than them. Tried...so hard.”

“Of course you did. This wasn’t your fault.” He kissed America’s cheek. “Now, what do you say to giving me my leg back, hm?”

“Oh, yeah.” He released his leg, separated himself from England, and leaned back against the metal wall. “It’s just...I mean... I wasn’t expecting...during the meeting...”

“Hmm?” England smiled. “Try using real sentences.”

America growled at his half-hearted instruction. “Your legs... hunngh.” He squeezed his eyes shut and turning his face away. “They’re...they’re...fuck, England. You’re legs are so damn amazing in those jeans.”

His cheeks burned to spite him. “Well, yes...well...I agreed to it. I lost the bet.” He looked away. “I thought I would make it too.”

“No fighting with France?! Really, England?” They both laughed. “That’s more than a little ridiculous even by my standards.

“Now see here!” But he laughed again. “I guess you are right.”

America spun around and scooped England up into his arms again, kissing him hard on the mouth, hands cupping the muscles just below his buttocks, as the lift doors slid up with another ding. “I’m kinda glad my boss made me get a hotel room even though we are in London.”

“Put me down.” England wiggled from his grasp; he would not be carried like a woman. “Heh, yes well.”

“We would never make it to your flat.”

“No, we wouldn’t.” He grabbed America’s hand and pulled him along the hotel corridor.

He grinned, pulling his room card out of his wallet, and inserting in into the slot.

They came together again in a mass of limbs, touch and grasping, against the closed door. America wrapped his arms around England’s back and fingered the waist of his jeans a moment, pressing him against the door. He kissed him, hard and deep. His hands sunk down, squashing his hand between skin and fabric to cup the firm, soft flesh of his backside—nothing between England and his jeans. They both gasped into the kiss. America pushed them off the door and propelled them both toward the bed.

“Fuck, England,” he laid him down on the bed, hands never leaving his legs. “I...I had no idea. You’re...you’re not...not wearing any...”

“Ah, no.” England gave a nervous, breathy chuckle. “Never was any room in these.” He wiggled his hips.

“Right, yeah. And, you really do have a perfect ass. So small and round and firm and perky.”

England gave him a soft punch to the arm. “Do not describe any part of my body as such, let alone my arse.”

“ Hey!” His small smile didn’t falter.

“Now, get me out of these, git. They’re bloody tight.”