Author's Notes: This was taken originally from a request on the kink meme for a US/UK dance + size kink. When I wrote that, I inserted a mention of this particular scene and it just wouldn't leave my head. I had to write it. It's not very good and it's honestly the first time I've ever tried writing anything for it, but yes. Ah well. :P Please review! :D Flames are rather mean, but constructive criticism would be much appreciated and taken to heart. :D

Here is a link to the original US/UK fill, along with this as a bonus, hehe. Please remove the spaces:

http:// hetalia-kink. / ?thread=34955383#t34955383

It still amused England to no end how the dancers on the floor parted immediately to accommodate his passing. The people knew that there, at least, he was a master. It wasn't arrogance- it was fact. In the way Italy was a painter, China a businessman, and Austria a pianist, England was a dancer.

Oh, he wasn't the only good dancer out there, of course. But when England moved, the dance would inevitably capture parts of himself- the gentleman, the rascal, the mystery. It was spellbinding, to see someone transform a dance into something so personal, so sincere and yet deceptive in its movements and grace. No one could captivate a crowd like England could.

He moved quickly, loosening the top button of his shirt as he neared his destination. It was getting stiflingly hot in the lavishly decorated ballroom where France was holding his birthday party, as humans and nations alike laughed and danced the night away, with free-flowing French wine to sustain them. He approached the musicians' area, quickly whispering to the conductor a request for a song.

"A waltz, then, sir?"

England thought for a moment, then smirked. "No. A tango."

He slipped away again, finding France without difficulty. He was the only man in a powder blue suit- typically flamboyant, England sniffed- and he was, as usual, surrounded by ample-bosomed girls with scandalously cut dresses and gowns.

He stomped his foot, making his heel click loudly against the floor, and the first notes of the tango started. He smiled- excellent timing.

France's head whipped around to gaze at him, and England stretched a hand out, fingers beckoning, a lazy smirk on his face. When France took a step forward, England quickly stripped himself of his suit jacket, leaving his upper body covered with nothing but his white shirt and black waistcoat. France followed suit- but he lacked a waistcoat and his shirt was deliberately, mockingly thin, just enough to tease without being scandalous just yet. England gave him a slow once-over with his eyes, then gave a dark grin to show his approval.

France flew forward, intent on beginning the dance, but he was stopped by a light touch, a small hand splayed out across his chest. So, we are to play by his rules? I think not. They circled each other, slowly, deliberately, waiting for someone to break the tension. England withdrew his hand and raised his arms above his head, hips swaying and snapping in just the right way to make France's mind reel. He lowered his arms again, trailing the right along his neck while stretching the other out to France, in a clear, wordless invitation.

France took it. In a moment he had his arm wrapped around England's back, his other hand grasping England's fingers in a bruising grip, and he lowered them until their knees were almost flat against the floor. In retaliation, England hooked a leg around his own outstretched one, rubbing it against the fabric of his trousers tantalizingly.

Slowly, France brought them both up again, England's arm outstretched to keep their balance. England kept France's leg trapped within the curve of his own, hips pressed together, and then he arched his back and dipped himself downwards, almost letting the tips of his hair graze the floor. He heard France's sharp intake of breath, and smirked- that must have been quite the sight.

It was a mutual, hate-driven power play, a show of force between the two of them. Blazing green eyes locked with malevolent blue, and in that moment they understood each other far more than they had ever expected they would. This wasn't just a dance- it was a fight, but more intimate and personal than any they had ever had before.

France continued to lead, spinning them around at dizzying speeds, but England was with him all the way, swaying his hips and throwing in complicated footwork to make him lose his rhythm. France simply held him through the fast-paced twists and turns and sways, but his mouth dropped open in shock when an impatient England kicked his leg out and hooked it around his shoulder.

England's heel pressed insistently on his back and he was forced to move closer. "Since when did you get so flexible?" he breathed, and England answered with a suggestive wink.

The position must have been uncomfortable for England, but he took his time in freeing France from the hold, slowly stretching out his leg to the side and allowing it to fall back to the floor, sweeping around his other leg. He twisted his body, and now they were chest-to-back, France's breath tickling his ear. He shivered, and he could feel the smirk of triumph curve on his rival's lips.

They moved together, swaying and inching along with tiny steps. England had his arm up to grasp the back of France's neck, but he let go and turned them around so that ihe/i was the one behind France now, and he pressed a hand against the other man's chest, the other slipping down to caress the side of his thigh.

He heard a grunt and suddenly France whirled around and stalked forward, fire in his eyes. England's face was frozen in a disdainful sneer, even as he backed away and bent his knees, sinking so he was looking directly up at France. He said nothing, then his mouth quirked up into an impish grin and he raised a hand for the other nation to take.

France grabbed it roughly, pressing a harsh kiss against the knuckles before tugging England towards him, wrapping another arm around his back and molding their bodies together.

England stifled a shocked gasp as he felt something hard against his hip. He smirked, and turned triumphant green eyes toward his enemy. He kicked and wrapped his leg around France's again, slowly travelling up until he hooked it around his waist. France moved backward, and England's other leg stretched out behind him. England brought his hand up to the other nation's face, closer, closer, almost caressing- but snatched it away just as the fingers were about to trace his lips, grasping France's throat in a loose but threatening hold.

They whirled around the floor again, tension and hatred and desire staining the atmosphere. They had acquired a large but silent audience, who gazed in awe at the two nations locked in a desperate embrace.

Soon, the music reached its final strains, and the dancers began their last steps. Although he had fallen naturally into the female position, England dominated the dance with a series of fast, complicated twists and arrested kicks, unpredictable and executed with perfect precision. France was now having a harder time keeping up, growing steadily more flushed with every step. The music reached its peak, and both dancers dropped, arms around each other and a pair of hands clasped tight enough to bruise, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, gazes still burning.

They rose slowly, not moving from their embrace, still giddy and breathless from the thrill of the dance. France had his eyes on England's coloured cheeks and parted lips, pale pink and moist and perfectly beautiful, and he very much liked beautiful things-

His leaning forward was interrupted by a finger against his mouth and a sly whisper in his ear.

"Happy birthday, frog."

And England pushed him away and walked off, tipping the musicians generously and leaving a confused,flustered, and still-aroused Frenchman behind him.

England sighed deeply, retrieving his suit jacket. He smiled. It was going to be a very pleasant evening, indeed.