~Author's Notes: Yes, I know that Russia (Ivan Braganski) is older than England (Arthur Kirkland as his accepted age is 26, but I remembered that after I had finished writing the story.
Hetalia and its respectable characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, but the story line is my own.
Enjoy!
Costume Party
"Hey, Arthur, ya hear about the party tomorrow?" The older man looked up from his work at Alfred. The American was wearing his usual attire: tan pants and top with a darker tan bomber jacket thrown over his shoulders.
"Huh?" the older man replied brilliantly.
"C'mon, man! The rockin' party at Ludwig's! You gotta go, bro!" the teen wailed, swinging his arms like a child.
"Uh, I don't think so, Alfred," he replied, going back to the paperwork on his desk. The younger man was always trying to drag him to parties and they always ended badly for the Englishman.
"C'moooon! Please, please, please! It'll be fun, I promise! You never do anything fun, Arthur!"
"How many times do I have to tell you: I don't do fun."
"Unless you're drunk." The younger man's teasing brought a blush to Arthur's face.
"Shut up, git," the shorter man hissed playfully at his friend.
"So you're coming to the party tomorrow night, right?"
"Fine," the Brit groaned.
"It's a costume party by the way, bro!"
"W-What?" the older man called to the leaving teen. He sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers. "I don't have a costume, idiot." His green eyes widened and a deep blush spread across his cheeks. "Oh, God, yes I do. I am not wearing that. No way. Oh, but then Alfred would get upset… Guess I must," he finished with a sigh.
The Brit sat at the small bar, legs crossed shyly and a glass of scotch in his hand. He wore the only costume he had: the embarrassingly short, pink nurse's uniform.
Over twenty shot glasses lay strewed across the bar. Their owner was stretched across the table in a seemingly uncomfortable position. The Brit tipped the almost empty scotch bottle to his parted lips, downing the dark liquor in a single gulp.
"Who wants a little show, hmm?" the drunkard teased, twisting himself on the bar.
"Arthur, I think you need to leave," Ludwig said quietly, but sternly.
"Whaaaat? But I just started to have fun! You can't kick me out now!" the drunken blond protested.
"It's alright, Ludwig. I can take him home." Both men turned to look at the tall, white-haired Russian. Although it was a costume party, Ivan was dressed in his normal outfit.
"Huh? I'm not leaving with this guy! I can drive myself, thank you," the Brit said defiantly, furthering his point by stumbling off the counter. He was dismissed by the younger men.
"That would be great, Ivan, thank you," the German commented, gently rubbing his forehead. With that, the taller man scooped up Arthur and carried him bridal-style out the door, adding to the blond's agitation.
The tall Russian carried the older Englishman through the door of his large home. Bu this time, Arthur had stopped fighting and he just rested in the taller man's arms, large hands supporting his knees and back. A light blush dusted the Brit's cheeks partially because of the alcohol and partially because he knew that anyone who looked could see right up the short skirt.
Instead of taking him to one of the many empty rooms, Ivan dragged the older man to his own bedroom. Thick, blue curtains hung from near the ceiling to the floor and crumpled at the bottom. At the center of the oversized room sat a large bed, draped with navy satin. The whole room had a very royal feel. The Russian carried his slight companion to the bed and dropped him in the center. Arthur bounced slightly on the soft mattress and blushed as the younger man crawled on after him. Even through the alcohol's haze, the Englishman could see the hunger in the younger's eyes.
"I-Ivan, wh-what are,"—Arthur stammered. His words were cut short by a pair of dark lips claiming his own. His green eyes grew wide, but he could not stop himself from melting into the kiss even if just barely.
"Ivan, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" the Brit snapped, blushing deeply and desperately trying to keep himself from claiming his assaulter's parted lip with his own once again. The Russian simply chuckled, his amethyst eyes sparkling in amusement.
"Nothing you seem to be opposed to." The deep blush spread farther across the older man's face and he turned away, embarrassed. "What is it? The great pirate has no comeback?" Ivan teased, grasping his captive's exposed thigh. "I must say, though," he chuckled. "You look dead sexy in a miniskirt." Arthur tried to scoot backwards, but the large hand held a firm grip on his leg. The Russian leaned in toward his prey, gently laying the older man on his back. He let his lips hover here inches above the Englishman's. After only moments of the cruel teasing, the older man could take it no longer. He reached up; stealing the younger's lips in his own. Ivan took this opportunity to slide his hands under his uke's skirt.
"S-stop… Ivan, wait, what do you think you're doing?" Arthur stammered.
"What does it look like I'm doing? Do you want me to stop?" the Russian purred teasingly, brushing his long fingers against the older man's excitement. The Englishman gasped and trembled under the feathery touch. "It seems cruel to stop with you like this, but I will if you want me to," he whispered, his warm breath brushing Arthur's ear.
"N-No… please… don't stop…"
The Russian man was slightly taken aback by the older man's plea, his amethyst eyes widening slightly. A moment later, though, the hungry grin was back. He caught the Brit's lips with his own as he pushed the dress up his hips. The older man shivered as a long finger brushed aside his underwear. The Englishman gasped and pulled back slightly, a hint of worry clouding his expression.
"Don't worry, Arthur," the younger man purred, pushing his finger deep into the older man's recesses. "I'll be gentle." He leaned in, letting his lips hover above the moaning Brit. "Unless you don't want me to be." The older man was too drunk to protest and wanted it too much to resist so he just blushed and bit his lip gently. Ivan chuckled and began to thrust his finger in and out of the slight man. Arthur trembled and wrapped his arms around his seme's neck and shoulders.
The Russian smirked at his captive's soft moans. He gently pressed a second finger against the Englishman's entrance. When the older man did not object, he began to push it inside; joining the first. The slight man gasped and groaned softly, a deep blush spreading across his face. The taller man brushed the same spot a second time and got the same reaction.
"Found it," he purred mischievously, abusing the Brit's sweet spot with his fingers. The older man writhed under the Russian, moaning from the intense pleasure.
"Ah, s-stop, Ivan, I'm g-gonna"—his words were cut short as the younger man captured his lips in his own. One final brush of Arthur's sweet spot sent over the edge, soaking his underwear in his release.
The Brit tried to relax and fall asleep on the large bed, but the taller Russian would have none of that.
"Tired already, captain?" Ivan teased, referring back to the older man's pirating days. The drunken Englishman chuckled defiantly.
"It'll take more than that to tire a pirate, commie."
"Oh, will it now?" the younger man teased, brushing the Brit's sweet spot with his fingers again. Ivan began to scissor his fingers and he added a third, stretching his captive's recesses even further. The white-haired man reveled in the moans and protests that filled the room. "You know how to ride someone, right, Arthur?" the Russian man teased.
"Course I do, git!" the drunkard replied instantly. Only after he said it did the Englishman realize his mistake "I mean, uh"—
The younger man could not help but to laugh.
"If you're so accustomed to it, why don't you show me how good you are at it?"
"You… you want me to ride you…?" the blond asked with a deep rosy blush spread across his face. The Russian led the older man to a chair in the corner that he hadn't noticed before. The chair was tall and ornate with dark wood and burgundy fabric. The Englishman thought it looked eerily familiar.
"Wait… is that Busby's Chair?" he asked, confused; pointing to the chair. The taller man simply nodded. "Why the bloody hell is Busby's Chair in your room?" he yelled, much to the Russian's surprise.
"It's comfortable," the younger man said innocently.
"Comfortable? It kills people! The only reason you're not dead yet is"—once again, the older man was cut off by a kiss.
"You talk too much, Arthur," Ivan purred, sitting onto the chair. He beckoned the older man to come sit on his lap. The drunken Brit sighed softly and walked over to crawl up onto the Russian. "Wait." Arthur paused instantly. Had he done something wrong? He looked at the smirking man, confused now. "Your underwear: it's got to go."
"Oh, right…" The older man blushed, pulling his underwear off and dropping it to the floor. He then started to pull the pink dress off when he was stopped again.
"The dress stays," the Russian chuckled mischievously. Arthur wet his lips and crawled onto the younger man, placing his legs on either side. Ivan was right. This chair really was comfortable.
The Englishman placed his hand on the Russian's shoulder and in turn felt a large hand rest on his waist. The short dress hiked up as Arthur spread his legs, exposing himself to hungry amethyst eyes.
The Russian watched intently as the older man situated himself comfortably. The Brit blushed and began to undo the button on Ivan's pants, brushing the long scarf to the side. The taller man lifted himself out of the seat slightly, allowing the Englishman to pull the pants down past his knees.
Arthur blushed and gaped at the pulsing member between the younger man's thighs.
"See something you like?" the Russian man chuckled, but a soft blush had spread across his pale skin. The drunken Brit let the younger man capture his lips in a passionate kiss as he lowered himself onto the Russian's excitement. Both men let out soft, pleasured puffs as Ivan was fully seated inside the slight man's recesses. The older man paused to get himself acclimated to the large intrusion. Ivan knew he had to wait until the older man was ready to move, but the stillness was driving him mad. Finally, it seemed, the Brit began to move, picking himself up and dropping himself down onto the Russian. Both men groaned softly. Ivan let his hands trail down to the older man's slight hips and his nails dug in slightly. The older man moaned louder, arching his back slightly and picking up the pace. The taller man blushed and let his nails dig in a little further. Arthur shivered and moaned, his own nails involuntarily leaving long scratches on the younger's back and shoulders. The Russian bucked his hips upwards, matching the blond's downward thrusts.
"I-Ivan, I"—The older man was cut off once again by another passionate kiss.
"I told you that you talked too much, pirate," the younger man purred, thrusting up to meet the older man's hips. They kept this pace as both men raced toward climax; they both went over at roughly the same time.
The Englishman slumped onto the younger man, exhausted by the day's events.
"Good night, Arthur," Ivan purred.
The Englishman awoke the next morning in the large bed; the navy comforter barely still covering him. For a moment he wondered where he was. He sat up and winced gently as he did. Then he remembered the party, Ludwig telling him to leave, then…
"Oh God," the Brit groaned. "That bloody American!"