Some random UKUS-that's England as the seme-drabbles. I'll add that other one if I can find it.
Note: They're each it's a collection of one-shots. Enjoy.
Cooks Gone Wild
Arthur pushed Alfred against the kitchen counter, holding the spatula dangerously high.
"What did you say, you little twit?" He growled in his ear, forcing Alfred into the wooden-topped counter behind him, causing Alfred to become flustered and confused.
"Wh-what do you mean, Arthur?" He scrambled. He'd have kept his composure normally but this Brit wacko came at him out of nowhere. He didn't even do anything!
"You know EXACTLY what I MEAN, you IDIOT WANKER," Arthur roared into that twit's ear. "What in the bloody hell did you say about my cooking?" He proceeded to raise the spatula even higher. He was decked out in his normal clothes, but with a dark apron tied only around the waist.
"What, that it sucks?" Alfred tried to scoff, flipping his head back in a way that, had he had longer hair, would have cause his hair to swish. In this case it only flowed a little, slight fsshh sounds emitting quietly. He tried to downplay Arthur's sudden pissy mood even though it was kind of making him get a little hot and sweaty.
"My food is NOT terrible," Arthur insisted, grabbing the lapel of Alfred's IDIOTIC bomber jacket that he secretly loved and pushing him almost entirely over the counter top.
"Whoa bro, whatever you say!" Alfred put up his palms defensively. He had no clue what the fuck was pissing the Brit weirdo off so much, but whatever it was… it was kind of hot, he had to admit.
"No, I don't think so," Arthur was REALLY pissed now. He normally didn't get this mad when people insulted his cooking but THIS IDIOTIC TWIT just drove him over the EDGE. So far, in fact, he knew EXACTLY how Alfred F. Jones was going to get it.
He pulled Alfred up, lifting him against the counter. With Alfred sitting on it, dazed and confused still, Arthur threw the spatula back into the bubbling pot on the stove, the doughy, paste-like concoction utterly forgotten. Arthur pushed Alfred back onto the surprisingly wide counters and climbed on top of him, straightening them out to where they lied parallel to the counter's edge.
He straddled him, frankly in a quite pissed manner. Pinning Alfred's hands onto the counter, he leaned towards him, a smirk crossing his face for a second. He leaned down and lightly, with the tip of his tongue, licked the length of his lover's face, along the cheek, then slowly moved toward his mouth, inserting his tongue and kissing this twit with all his might. Something beneath him, on his lower half, started to rise, and caused him to smirk.
"You've got a little friend there, Alfred." He flashed a cocky grin.
"Uh…" Alfred muttered. He wasn't sure how this started happening, but somehow Arthur had gone from pissed to seductive and pissed. Could you blame him for finding it hot? And for Eduardo finding it hot.
"Maybe I should help you with that," Arthur leaned down, making their lips meet again as his hand snaked down the length of Alfred's waist, slowly tracing to the button of his pants. "That is, if you don't mind."
Alfred decided to not seem like a total blubbering uke and reached his hand around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer. "I don't mind," he murmured against Arthur's lips, then thrust his tongue back into them.
Arther's hand undid the button, then unzipped the zipper to Alfred's denim jeans. He reached a hand into the boxers he wore from the waist, not even bothering to remove everything. He traced a trail with his finger under Alfred's pants until he suddenly grasped his hand harshly around Alfred's shaft, pumping slowly, then harder and harder, twisting his tongue inside Alfred's mouth and using his other hand to make sure the wanker stayed pinned, not allowing his escape. Alfred began to shake and throb under Arthur's touch and soon became spent, arching his back up at the climax, but falling once he was finished, still tongue wrestling the Brit.
"Your food was cooking this whole time, wasn't it?" he wondered aloud, smirking against Arthur's lips.
"Bloody hell," Arthur spat, jumping off the counter and running to the pot on the stove in the middle of the island, using the spatula to attempt to stir the whatever the bloody hell it was anymore from sticking to the bottom of the pan.
"Maybe this is why it always sucks," Alfred whistled behind him, jeans already rezipped and rebuttoned and pretending as if nothing had happened.