Chapter Text
“... and you, you goddamned fucking-”
America clicks his tongue against his teeth. It’s such a small sound, but England hears and his mouth snaps shut immediately. Visibly braced to retaliate with an even more furious volley of insults, France looks momentarily thrown before following England’s - wary, but you can hardly tell, really - gaze to America’s unimpressed face.
“Ah, Amerique!” His smile is conspiratorial, his eyes flicking back and forth between them with open delight. America knows full well what France is thinking, what he’s assuming, and does nothing to dissuade it. He even smiles back, big and bright and friendly, slinging an arm over England’s slim shoulders carelessly enough to disguise his tiny flinch. America tries not to preen at that, but not very hard; France would probably just take it as pride in his conquest anyway.
England’s normally much better at controlling his reactions. Stiff upper lip and all that. America’s tested it extensively - sending him into meetings with plugs and dildos stuffed in his ass, cock cages around the house on his days off, nipple clamps when it’s cold out enough to warrant thick sweaters that can hide them and so on. The works, really. America’s very imaginative when he wants to be and he’s found that photographing England in dirty costumes and compromising positions is even better when the man is fully conscious and painfully aware of what he's doing. (Blackmail has been a very useful tool and it’s a bit of a vicious cycle; wear this and pose like that and give me even more dirt on you so I won't share what I do have on you so far.)
Actual physical pain doesn't faze him much though, which is a pity. America’s roughed him up a little before; even whipped his whole back bloody once and England hadn't made a sound through it all.
Figging had had quite the effect though. America still fondly remembers the way England’s body had jerked and twitched, spasming in those cuffs as America bent him over with the peeled ginger still up his ass and then spanked him to honest-to-god tears. Again and again, for hours and hours and hours, because America had felt like being mean and well, he had a nice thick ginger root right there, didn't he? Just had to peel it again when the effects wore off and it was good as new! It was the first time England had ever broken and begged him to stop and god, hadn't that been a power trip?
He still drugs England sometimes, just for the hell of it. England’s adorable when he’s high out of his mind; narcotics make him a little loopy but in a good way. They make him all happy and smiley and fuzzy around the edges and he’ll keep trying to curl up in America’s lap and nuzzle his cheek like a particularly affectionate cat and it’ll be as if England didn't absolutely hate his guts. (Hmm, cats. England would be so cute with little cat ears and a tail…)
Right now, England is straight-backed and stiff against America’s side. He's probably in pain. America had been gentle and he’d been prepping England’s body for months beforehand, but an entire fist was probably a bit too much for someone of England’s size to take without some tearing. (Especially one of America’s fists. He did have pretty big hands.)
France doesn't seem to notice. No one ever does.
America lets his hand wander scandalously low on England’s hip, curling around so his fingers are brushing the front of those smart, perfectly pressed slacks. England doesn't stop him. France keeps talking, but he’s staring at the movement of America’s hand without appearing to be staring and one of his eyebrows go up at the lack of an explosive response from their English counterpart before he shakes his head a little and visibly dismisses it with a chuckle.
He doesn't ask.
No one does.
America presses his cheek into England’s hair and smiles.