A/N: This story is part of my Secret Santa gift exchange for the usxuk community on livejournal along with a picture I drew to go with this story. Written for the prompt: "England wears some decorative woad, and America sports Native American paint." Since no specific tribe was chosen, I ended up going with an Iroquoian inspired markings for America.

Lastly, my headcanon states that England is a son of Britannia/Albion, but is also a relative of Germania, since the Angles and the Saxons were Germanic tribes that settled there/invaded. I know this isn't a terribly popular opinion in fanon, but that's my headcanon and until someone presents to me a good reason why I shouldn't believe it or Hima-papa says otherwise, it'll be my headcanon.

Beta-read by the lovely Ellarose C.

His brothers are going to kill him if they ever find out about this. When they were young, Scotland found him once, face half smeared with woad. His eldest brother's fury landed England with an aching backside and a long tirade. Woad was their mother's plant for her warriors, warriors who fought against his people when he was first born, they insist; when he bitterly reminds them that he was her son as well, it usually ends in fist fights or drunken shouting. All the same, it became some sort of unwritten law that should he ever try and adorn himself with it, vengeance would fall swiftly upon him.

But then, even his brothers have to admit, America can be damn persuasive when he wants to be.

"Stop wiggling!" America tuts, slapping his clean shoulder as pulls the brush away from his twitching body. England blushes, but forces himself to still, even as the carpet rubs uncomfortably against the flesh of his legs his pants don't cover. "And you say I can't sit still," he grumbles before reapplying the paint again.

This is too much for England; he tosses a glare over his shoulder where America sits behind him. "That's because you can't."

"Hey, I sat through getting painted like this in the first place!"

"Those designs are not half as intricate as mine."

"You wanted them this intricate, bub," America quips; England has to grip his ankles to keep to keep from shivering as America twirls the brush on his shoulder with a flourish. "Blame yourself."

England makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat because there's no way to reply to that. When America arrived on his doorstep, grinning sheepishly as England gawked at the paint covering his jaw, highlighting the corner of his eyes and looping around his neck before vanishing down past his collar, England was admittedly intrigued. After a half assed explanation, something about one of his relatives—Iroquois, England thinks, but America rattled off the name so fast he didn't catch it—playing a prank on him by not explaining that the paint wouldn't wash off for awhile, England managed to talk him into seeing the rest of the markings. Really, they aren't bad at all; if England's brothers played such a prank on him, he would have wound up covered in obscene pictures and curses words. America's shoulders are painted black, his arms circled with rings, and long black streaks run down his chest and stomach. Simple, but striking; England had to wrap his hands around his teacup to keep from reaching out to trace the marks even as America tried to shrug his shirt back on.

England doesn't quite remember how they turned their conversation of relatives and their pranks to talking him into painting himself, but the next thing England recalls is insisting that if anyone would be putting any kind of stain on him, it would be by his own hand. Somewhere along the way, it went from cautious swirls and dots to intricate knots and animals, like the looped bands on his arm or the lion on his deltoid that he's quite proud of. For his back though, he warily hands America the brush.

Each stroke of the brush fights to send shivers down his spine, the warmth of the paint tickling his senses nearly as much as America's fingertips dancing up and down his sides. To keep his mind off the tantalizing touches, he tries to think of anything else but the only thought that came to mind was trying to decide if this is the best or worst decision he's ever made.

Just above the small of his back, the brush glides above his spine, catapulting him firmly back to the present. Behind him, America mutters about something—no doubt grumbling that he twitched again—and settles his hand firmly on England's hip, pinning him in place. England doesn't bother to hide his shudder. "Dude, knock it off. I can't get it even if you keep moving."

Muttering nonsense, England points his burning face forward and tries to think of anything to distract him again. Nothing helps; the hot paint just heightens the warmth of America's hands and breath at his back. Even the paint that he applied to himself smolders with the same heat as the marks on his back, like the warmth coming from America's fingers. Even as America finishes up, England's ears still burn.

"Done," America practically sings with a final sweep of the brush, again dancing over his spine. "There, was that so bad? I never realized how ticklish you were before."

"Not ticklish," England grumbles—and most certainly does not pout, thank you very much!—as he turns his head away from America, who shuffles around to his side. Before he can 'properly explain himself' (read: lie), America snatches his chin and forces him to turn his face to him.

"Your face is all red, man," he says, arching an eyebrow. "You having an allergic reaction?"

Glaring, England slaps the hand away. "Certainly not!" When America raises his other eyebrow in pointed suspicion, England scrambles for an excuse. "It's just… the paint is hot."

America stares for a long moment. "The paint… is hot."

He feels the heat creeping down his neck and really has to fight not to squirm. "Yes."

Finally, America glances away and shrugs. "If you say so."

England blinks; this is almost too good to be true. America usually badgers him into blurting the truth if he thinks England isn't being completely honest. Either the fumes have gotten to America, or America has deemed the mysterious affliction beneath him. The thought is little comfort.

Before he can puzzle over it long, however, England is pulled back to reality when his chin gets tugged forward. America grins at him while his fingers grip England's chin with a tight pinch.

"What are you doing?" England stutters, but America's only reply is to hold up the wet brush.

"We aren't finished yet, sweetheart!" the superpower announces, moving the brush to hover over England's cheek. "Now you really gotta hold still, or it'll look super bad."

England's eyes go round wide as the truth hits him like a lorry. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Alfred, no."

America's shit eating grin only grows. "Oh, so you don't trust me?"

"Of course I don't!"

Astonishingly, America actually pauses, gazing at him quietly. For a moment, England feels genuinely guilty—America rarely wears that serious expression on his face, and mostly only ever points it at him when England has genuinely insulted him. But then America's smile quirks back up and England's stomach knots itself. "Whatever! If you squirm and it smears, it'll be on your face."

England's jaw would have dropped open if America didn't have such a firm hold of it. Quickly, before England can protest, America paints a broad stroke that curves up his cheek bone, damage done. He longs to yell, but if he dares open his mouth or move his jaw, he'll only end up with a smear on his face. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, England reluctantly settles in to wait as America works on his face.

He can't tell if it's the woad that warms his cheeks now or a thick blush; America's face before him is curiously focused as he works. It's nearly as distracting as the fingers that have loosened their hold on England's chin to gently press against England's jaw, carefully turning his face in whatever direction pleases America. He tries his best not to move; thankfully, America keeps the brush away from his nose, so he's spared the smell, but looking up at him, it's all he can do not to crawl up into America's lap and snog him senseless.

Taking the brush, America presses the bristles flat against his cheek, dragging it down his face, neck, and then shoulder with lessening pressure until the brush barely touches in a flourished swirl. America inspects his mark for a moment before glancing up; their eyes meet at last and before England can stop himself, his fingers tangle in America's hair, dragging him closer.

The warmth that has been humming throughout his body now blossoms in his lips as well, especially as America hums something against his mouth. America is for once careful and rests his hands where there isn't wet woad, one hand still pressed to England's jaw while the other settles onto his hip again. He is wonderfully warm all over, warmer still wherever America's body presses against him, his lips to his hands to his knee nudging England's shin.

England is seriously considering just saying damn the paint and any smear when America pulls back. At first, England bites back a groan, but when he opens his eyes America smirks at him. And then he laughs, the cheeky bastard. "I thought so," he sings again. "You are a horny, old bastard, ain'tcha, Artie?"

England gapes. I've been duped, he realizes to his horror, spluttering as he tries to reel back from America's grip. "Why, you-you-you little shit!"

"Got you!" America booms with laughter, trying to tug him back forward to nuzzle his nose against his clean cheek. "Hook, line, and sinker! So, this what get's you hot, Artie? I totally gotta remember it next time a RenFaire rolls into town."

England can't even flail properly in America's grip. "Like hell you will! Let me go—I can't believe-"

"Oh, I can. It's just so you. Don't worry, I won't tell."

"That's not the point," England snarls.

America shifts his face so that England's vision is filled with those ever blue eyes boring into him, pinning him as surely as his hands are. "If you say so, babe," he quips, leaning in and kissing him again before England can retort. Then again, it is too hard to argue with America when he nibbles at England's lip so nicely like that, drawing a soft sigh as he rubs soothing circles into England's hip. At last he pulls back, only after England's had his fill, humming some tuneless song again. "Should finish up your paint or you'll never get all dry."

Half dizzy and all warm, England nods against America's fingers. It's only then it hits him; America's fingers are on his jaw and on his hip.

There is no brush in either.

For the first time since they started, a chill shoots down England's spine as his eyes fly open and he looks down. He need not look far—just at their sides, next to America's knee, lies the brush. Under it, the carpet is now liberally splattered and dripping with woad.

"What are you—oh. Whoops," America blinks down at the brush. "That was, um, an accident."

"You oaf!" England snaps, snatching up the brush—too late. The woad has done its damage. England groans at the sight. "Do you know how hard that will be to get out? You're paying to fix it!"

America snorts. "Ah, your carpet sucks anyway—I got rug burn just sitting here."

"That's not the point!"

America ignores him in favor of examining the brush. Before England can yell at him again, he glances up. "Hey, Artie, how hard is it to get this stuff off?"

"It's a dye, you idiot—of course it's going to be hard to get off. I'm going to have to scrub this carpet for ages before-"

"No, I mean, how hard is it to wash off of you?"

England pauses. The warmth vanishes from his body.

His brothers really are going to kill him.

America snickers. "Hey, you can come hide out in my house 'til it wears off."

England considers him for a moment before slapping him upside the head. Stupid git boyfriends, always causing him trouble.