A/N: Aaaanndddd I'm back again with another piece from DeviantART. Again, this is an old fic from around July as well that is still In-Progress. Half of chapter 3 is the only new addition to the story, and I'm too afraid to re-read Chapters 1 and 2 because they are probably so horrid, I don't even.

Title comes from a little "joke" between my girlfriend (can I still call her that even though we're taking a break from our relationship? Hmm.) and I that spurred from this story.

I hope some of you might enjoy this. :)

America sighed contentedly before intertwining his fingers with England's.

"Oh man, that was the best breakfast I've had in a long time," The American nation mused, now swinging he and England's hands absently as they stood in front of the IHop establishment they'd just exited.

"It wasn't all that bad," England stated, looking off to the side, "I've had much worse."

America grinned before leaning over to give England a peck on cheek and replied, "Which means you enjoyed it, but are too stubborn to admit it."

The Briton blushed slightly before retorting, "Well, at least it wasn't that McDonald's rubbish."

"'Rubbish'", America scoffed, "Iggy, you LOVE McDonald's."

"Tch. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again; I hate—"

"The bathrooms are quite nice, aren't they, Arthur?" America whispered suggestively in England's ear.

The smaller nation blushed a dark shade of crimson.

I honestly hoped that git had forgotten all about that…

--

They'd been playing football.

Except Bloody Git seemed to forget that football is actually soccer according to those over the Pond.

So Sodding Wanker showed up at the field, dressed head to toe in that American "football" garb.

And when The Hick realized—

"OHHHHH~, that 'football'…!"—

he had the decency, or lack-thereof, to strip down to nothing but those extremely loose, flashy American-flag boxers and actually played with those on.

And he always seemed to kick the ball so unnecessarily high in the air, giving England a very clear view…

Needless to say, one nation left the park very flustered and unattended to, much to the Briton's chagrin.

So after the game, the nations both got into the American's truck, where—

"Oh cool, found some jeans!"

'Why couldn't you've found those BEFORE the game, Dammit!! '—

They then both drove to get something to eat—

"You'll LOVE this place, Iggy!"—

At McDonalds.

And so they both (England did eat half a Big Mac, but he'll never affirm that accusation) ate the greasy American food at the fast food establishment America loved.

And while they were there, England, still shamefully hard, couldn't help but gaze at America the majority of the time.

The American nation was still shirtless; Bomber Jacket was worn, though, and was completely oblivious to England's stares.

But, alas, England could only keep his cool for only a short time.

The Briton quickly got up and grabbed America's jacket collar and pulled him hurriedly into the bathroom.

Despite America's confusion—

"Whoa! Iggy, where the hell are we going!?"—

England still bee-lined toward a stall, America still in tow, and silently noted with satisfaction that the restroom was deserted.

The smaller nation flung open a door before shoving America in first before entering as well and locking the stall.

"Iggy—"

England hurriedly kissed the other nation with a surprising amount of passion while slowly guiding America to sit before the Briton straddled the other's lap and broke the kiss.

America, in a daze; "Wow, Iggy, what—"

The shorter nation cut the other off by grasping America's hand and led it forcefully to the tent of his pants.

England moaned and began guiding the American's hand in circles at the buldge.

"Help. Me." England gasped.

America regained his senses and quickly complied.