Chapter Text
America really doesn't know what’s going on between him and England nowadays.
They fight and they fuck and then they fight some more and sometimes they do both at the same time just for kicks and it’s all quite a bit of a mess. England doesn't really seem to know what to make of it either, and the others are all useless because they all think that it’s love or some shit, won't stop mooning on and on about rose petals and candlelit dinners and they keep doing the old wink-wink-nudge routine every time he and England start sniping at each other in public. It’s fucking annoying because America might not know what it is, exactly, but he does know what it isn't and whatever they've got isn't like that at all.
There's the physical part, of course.
He can admit that England can be… attractive when he isn't acting like he's got a stick up his ass and they've got some kind of chemistry, at least, judging from the way they go at each other in arguments and then in bed (or over a desk or against a wall) once America peels off those stuffy suits of England’s and gets his hands on pale, pale skin and his fingers tangled in blond hair.
England did have a bit of a mouth on him (pink lips and poisoned words, deadly as any knife sliding between your ribs ) but for a while, America had quite liked England’s mouth, liked sharp teeth and snarling lips, the spitfire fury that made him so fun to kiss. He usually loses, of course, but he likes to fight anyway, bites and claws and leaves America’s back raw and bloody from his nails. He's even more beautiful when he comes, those venomous green eyes sliding closed and that obstinate mouth falling open as the moans he can't fight back anymore come pouring out.
It’s always a fight with them, one way or another. But it’s getting old now, the constant hostility. America’s getting sick of it but England doesn't seem like he’ll be letting go of it anytime soon. He still keeps himself cold and closed off up until America’s buried in the heat of him and he can't keep up the facade anymore. (Wearing him down was part of the fun though. Had been part of the fun, at least.)
That’s not the point though.
The point was this: America had what he wanted and it wasn't enough.
He had wanted England so much; as a child, a colony, trailing behind his empire and begging for the barest scraps of his attention. Then he had wanted the exact opposite; distance and deliverance, freedom from the oppressor. And then, as the years passed and their standoff eased into something almost like camaraderie, (although America doubts anyone else would call it that,) a mutual understanding enforced with barbed words and frosty indifference across meeting rooms that broke down more often than not into screaming matches and hands fisted in collars and angry bruises. The sex was new, though, and not an entirely surprising development. Not to America at least, but he doubts that any of the others realise that since half of them seem to think he’s some sort of oblivious idiot. England’s certainly called him that before, and worse. Nowadays, America likes to smile back, all teeth, as he sunnily reminds England of which idiot managed to make you scream last night again? It has mixed results; the first time he’d tried it, France (and Hungary) had lit up with unholy delight, Canada had snorted coffee out his nose (which had looked painful) and Germany had looked about ready to murder them on the spot. Or have an aneurysm. Or both. It had all been pretty entertaining. England had actually been shocked into silence for a good few seconds, flushing red in mingled fury and embarrassment.
England, England, England.
It all circled back to him some way or another. Their histories were far too entwined for anything else and America wouldn't have it any other way, really. But sometimes he just wants what neither of them can give and it’s infuriating because it’s been years of this and America still catches himself daydreaming of waking up to soft kisses and long-fingered hands in his, boxes of tea in his cupboards and old books on his shelves next to video games and comics. It’s ridiculous because, for goodness’ sake, they can't even tolerate each other most of the time. Conversations turn into arguments, turn into shouting, turn into fistfights and someone walking away with a broken nose or black eye.
They couldn't even have sex that wasn't fast-paced and frenzied, with taunts and jabs filling the air as often as gasps and moans. America had tried to be gentle that first time, but England had made it clear he didn't want gentle from America, had hissed and spat and swore until America forced him onto his hands and knees and then fucked him quiet. God, they were a mess. Some of the gossip he catches during world meetings make him want to laugh because a relationship? Them? Ridiculous, all of it. America isn't even sure which of them he hates more now; England for, well, everything or himself for wanting something more anyway. (Stupid England, with his pretty eyes and pretty face that America usually only got to see caught in frigid disapproval or twisted in a snarl -)
All right, to be fair, there is one time outside of sex where they manage to get along with minimal bloodshed.
Namely, when they’re both drunk as fuck.
America really shouldn't have invited England back to his place for even more alcohol after the bar they'd gone to had kicked them out (Prussia’s fault, mostly, but since no one had stopped him from building the failed Molotov cocktail - for what, America didn't even know - he supposes that the rest of them weren't exactly innocent.) Then again, England shouldn't have accepted either, so this one was probably on both of them.
But it was America’s kitchen counter suffering right now though, so maybe England could get more of the blame this time. America eyes the beer stains and rings of condensation smeared over his (formerly) nice clean counter and sighs. He isn't surprised though. England tends to be a belligerent drunk, all wild gestures and loud noises. He's in the middle of another tirade (about what, America doesn't know but since it was miraculously not directed at him this time, he doesn't really care), waving his glass around with more force than necessary and almost toppling off his stool in the process. America catches him even though he’s had just as much as England because 1) his tolerance is way higher and 2) he doesn't actually want England to crack his head open even if it’s for no reason other than saving his (still) nice clean - and most importantly, white - floors. And maybe even 3) because he’s been England’s designated babysitter after drinking sprees for decades and some habits are just too ingrained to shake.
It doesn't stop England from hissing and taking a swipe at America’s hand (once he actually notices it wrapped around his elbow.) He misses, almost falling for real this time, and America rolls his eyes and almosts lets him. Stubborn old bastard. He wrinkles his nose as England flails some more and ends up spilling half his drink on the floor.
“You're cleaning that up,” America tells him and England scoffs before downing what’s left in his glass and then taking a swig directly from the bottle. He slams it back on the counter when he'd done. Rude. He was a terrible houseguest. Why had America invited him again?
Oh yeah, because it had been a while and he had wanted sex.
England yells - slurs, really - something that might have been Old English or Welsh or whichever of his stupid languages at one of America’s innocent cabinet doors and then tries to hurl himself to his feet, which was clearly a disastrous idea because his legs buckle immediately and he would have gotten intimately acquaintanced with the unforgiving corner of the kitchen counter if America hadn't caught him. Again. This time, he doesn't even bother trying to return England to his own stool, just drags the man forward so he’s settled between America’s legs and propped up on America’s chest. Really, the things he did for the old man. England’s warm at least, even though he’s all elbows and pointy edges, slurring clumsy protests at their new position because the man could - and would - complain about literally anything.
“God, shut up,” America says over him, feeling inexplicably tired. “I should have just fucking let you fall.”
“Y’shut up,” England returns childishly, struggling half-heartedly against the arm that America has wrapped around his waist. He gives up after a minute and slumps, his pointy chin digging into America’s shoulder. “And give me that bottle, damnit.”
America hands it over without protest; he doesn't much like… what was this again? Definitely ain’t beer, but he thinks that they polished off all the six-packs he has in his fridge a while ago. He squints at it. Green bottle, fancy-ish red stopper. Buchanan’s something. Oh. Whiskey. He's not sure how it ended up in his kitchen, sure didn't remember getting it, but England’s draining what’s left of it at a rate that’s honestly pretty impressive. He lolls forward again once he's done and America carefully extracts the bottle from his fingers before they ended up with broken glass all over the floor. “Happy now?” It’s muffled into England’s hair. America can't remember the last time they were so close when they weren't fucking.
Fortunately, that was a problem that seemed like it’d soon be remedied, judging by the way England’s looking at his mouth.
America puts the bottle safely away, anticipation settling in his gut. That’d be good. England’s a good kisser even if he bites too hard and too much. America always bites back anyway, so it’s fair; they both walk away with stinging lips and the taste of copper in their mouths.
America banishes the fleeting desire for anything softer and sweeter (he's drunk, okay?) and leans in first, slides a hand up to tangle in fluffy hair and drags England in for a kiss that’s milder than usual, for some reason. Almost lazy, even; England parts his lips readily when America licks at the seam, lets America push his tongue into his mouth without fuss. It’s weird. He pushes a little more, half-expecting sharp teeth to come down and almost bite off his tongue, but England just tips his head back, almost sighing when America runs a hand down his back through his dress shirt. His hands come up, curling into America’s hair with uncharacteristic gentleness and America doesn't really know what to make of it. He pulls away after a minute of this, studies England’s face with more than passing interest for the first time tonight.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
England looked fine, at least, if rather heavily flushed. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he blinks slowly a few times before giving a questioning hum. He doesn't even try to hit America for the question. It’s practically calm for him. America can't even decide if he likes it or is just rightfully creeped out. England does not do calm around him; his only two modes in America’s presence are mad and madder. (It said a lot about their relationship actually.)
And here he is practically melting in America’s arms, peering up hazily at him with pinpoint pupils drowned in a sea of green, lips parted and his face so very red. It’s a good look on him actually. America’s starting to lean towards liking the change. It was just… oddly satisfying? America can definitely appreciate not getting half-mauled. Deciding not to ask, he dips his head to drag his tongue over England’s throat, nosing his way down to bite lightly at his collarbone. England actually moans. Christ.
America sits back to stare at him, slightly incredulous. (And turned on. Ridiculously turned on.) “What the - Are you that drunk?”
Another low moan is his only answer as England presses closer, soft lips latching on the hinge of America’s jaw and well, if that was how he wanted to play it - America lets his hands wander lower, cups and kneads at the frankly amazing ass hiding under loose slacks and England actually jerks a little, almost purring, and god, this was so weird. England never liked acknowledging when America did something to him that felt good, would probably bite his own lip bloody if he thought it would help hide his reactions. It was… really hot, actually. Definitely nice to be appreciated for once. America pulls him in a whole lot closer, scooting forward on his stool so he can hook a leg in England’s, grinding their lower bodies together and feeling the telltale bulge against his thigh. Hmm. Half-hard, which isn't bad considering how much alcohol England had slugged back. America had been almost expecting him to not even be able to get it up.
He tugs lightly at England’s hair to coax him back, exposing that pale, pretty neck that America plans to cover with bruises and lovebites. He nuzzles into it, lips curling at the sheer novelty that was a docile England, who hadn't resisted beyond a single whine when America moved him. That had been hot too. He definitely likes having England so vocal. America scrapes his teeth over that pale throat and England moans again, hips rocking.
“God, I should have gotten you this drunk ages ago. Is this why France likes to take you bar-hopping, sweetheart?”
England doesn't even react to the nickname. America smiles faintly, moves the fingers still splayed over England’s ass in slow purposeful circles, letting them drift towards his cleft. England doesn't react to that either. He probably won't even be standing without America’s help. The thought is inexplicably arousing. Somehow. America doesn't think too much about it, just presses his lips to England’s ear, nipping at the soft cartilage even as the stray thought of just how much he could get away with, with England like this surfaces. There's a faint whisper of wrongness and don't but it’s all too easy to let the heat of England’s skin distract him. America goes on kissing England's neck. “Sweetheart,” he says into it, almost sing-song. “Can I take your belt off? I just wanna tie you up a little bit. Moan for me if it’s okay?”
(See? He asked. That made it okay.)
He digs his fingers a bit more firmly into England’s ass and oh yes, England moans so prettily, head falling back. That was permission if he’d ever heard it. America has to prop England up between his legs and the kitchen island so he can unbuckle his belt, then draws England close again so he can tuck England’s arms behind his back and wrap the belt securely around his wrists.
England would have killed him if he even suggested this sober. Drunk England just whines in mild confusion when he tries to move and finds himself unexpectedly restrained, but America soothes him with a kiss, sucking playfully at his lower lip. God, if only it was this easy to placate him normally. He lets England continue leaning against the kitchen island for support, starts fingering the buttons of his shirt next. “Can I take your shirt off too?” He doesn't really know why he keeps asking; it’s just that every simple question - and England’s nonsensical answers - make his cock twitch in his pants. “Baby? Is that okay?”
England’s nipples are visible through the thin fabric. America brushes the pad of a finger over one of them and England shifts restlessly, letting out a tiny sound as his head lolls back on his shoulder. America has to suppress a shiver. “Taking that as a yes,” he tells the insensate man with a bright smile and starts unbuttoning. He slips England’s tie off easily; it had been draped loosely around his neck, the knot long since undone. The red had looked nice against all that pale skin and white fabric but it would just get in the way. He can't exactly take England’s shirt off entirely with the man’s hands tied, so he just untucks it carelessly and pushes the sides behind England’s back to bare even more skin.
And because America’s never really gotten to just look at England before, (they'd always been in too much of a hurry for that,) that’s what he does now, admires the creamy skin and traces the faded scars as England stares sightlessly up at the ceiling, clearly struggling just to keep his eyes open. His flush has spread to his chest, America is delighted to note.
“Pretty,” he says absently, eyes dipping, drawn to the dusky pink nipples framed by white cotton and silver scars. God, even blackout drunk in his kitchen and slumped against the side of the counter, England’s beautiful in a way that had taken America years to accept, all pale skin and fine features. Like a painting brought to life. Or an angel brought down to walk the earth. He pauses when England squirms again, hips shifting just enough to draw America’s eyes to the bulge in his pants.
The corner of America’s mouth tips up.
“You're no angel though,” he murmurs and lets his finger circle one little nub.
This - this was all wrong, he knows. Forget all the bullshit about heroism that he likes to sprout in public, it wasn't even something that anyone with any modicum of decency would do. That was all right though. America doesn't think he's been a decent person for a while, let alone a hero, and there seem to be no lows that he won't sink to when it comes to England. Arthur. America rolls the name on his tongue for a moment, considering even as he teases that nipple with the faintest of touches. England’s started to pant; soft, gasping breaths through his open mouth as his hips lift, searching for pressure, friction, anything that America might deign to give him.
Not Arthur, he decides after a minute or so. Arthur had been a mentor, a caretaker and friend. His eyes had been warm and he had loved Alfred and Alfred had loved him right back, but America isn't Alfred anymore, just like how England isn't Arthur.
He catches that nipple between his thumb and forefinger, still gentle as he plucks and plays with it, coaxes out a few trembling moans from England before he finally pinches and twists forcefully enough that England arches, crying out as he struggles weakly against his restraints. God, he’s so pretty. America watches, sinking his teeth into his own bottom lip until he can't take it any longer and bends forward to put his mouth to England’s bared chest, kissing along his clavicle, then down his sternum. He keeps it achingly slow, pinching and pulling all the while, until England’s soft cries have turned into loud moans. Beautiful. America almost wants to take his time, explore all the skin on display but he takes that little nub into his mouth just to hear England’s slurred moan. He sucks at it, even scores his teeth over the sensitive flesh, and England writhes in his grasp, momentarily slipping lower with a strangled cry as his legs give out before America catches him again. “So responsive,” America says, flicking his tongue out lazily. “It’s a damned shame you aren't like this all the time, sweetheart. We’d probably get along so much better, don't ya think?”
He tugs England into his lap when the man doesn't seem able to stand anymore, spreads those long, long legs and caresses the firm thighs cradling his hips. It makes England shudder slightly, tipping back until he's half lying on the counter. “Gorgeous,” America tells him, both pet name and a compliment as he strokes his thumbs over England’s hipbones, presses forward to kiss at England’s throat again. “I’m gonna unzip your pants, yeah? Gonna touch you - wrap my hand ‘round your cock, really make you moan for me.”
He rubs a hand over straining fabric as he talks, presses down gently just to make England gasp and whine. His eyes are fully shut now, sweat shining on his brow and America watches his face, transfixed by the clear pleasure on those normally stern features. The zipper is loud in the stillness of his kitchen. So is England’s moan when America gets his cock out, not even bothering to push his trousers or boxers down properly. He's not quite fully hard yet. Getting there though, so America helps him out a little; squeezes and strokes, brushing his thumb over the sensitive slit to catch a bit of precome as England squirms in his lap, moaning deliriously as America touches him. He's practically draped over the counter by this point, gone boneless and pliant and it’s gotten so fucking hot in here America can barely breathe. He angles his hand, pumps England’s cock a bit too quickly, his nails scraping over tender skin but all it does is make England jolt and then he moans and America pauses. Blinks. Then smiles, slow and sharp.
“Oh? You like that, beautiful?”
He does it again, scrapes his nails over that cock and England does, makes even more of those pretty sounds; god, America should’ve known he’d like a little pain. The way he always ordered America to fuck him a bit too hard, the way he bit at America’s mouth just to invite retaliation… Little things, really, but god. He plays with England’s balls with his free hand; gently at first, but more and more roughly when it seems that he likes that too. “Bit of a pain slut, aren't you?” England moans some more and America shivers. Was all of Europe like this? With their sadistic little games, all those fucking innuendoes, invading this and invading that. It’s a thought, but America’s never really been interested in anyone other than England and he's got the man writhing in his lap right now, gasping and god help him, mewling, even, as America torments him.
He pinches gently at a spot just under the swollen head and England’s whole body spasms, his back arching, head falling back to give America a nice view of his throat where the pale skin is already darkening with faint bruises and bite marks. It’s tempting enough that America cranes forward to add to his handiwork; presses their chests flush and sinks his teeth into the crook of England’s neck, being less careful now that he knows England likes it.
England doesn't disappoint; his throat works under America’s lips, thrumming with a low moan. It makes America smile, fingers sliding over England’s dripping cock, smearing pre-come over his skin. “Will you even remember this tomorrow?” He digs a nail into England’s slit and the sound he gets is obscene. “The way I made you moan for me - god, I bet you'd be begging by now if you could talk -” America teases a little more, gives him a few more minutes of this before letting go of his cock, earning a discontented whine that cuts off when America grabs his ass none-too-gently, giving it a good squeeze as he lifts England up onto the counter. “Relax, baby,” he says, “just making us comfier. See, it’s easier like this, yeah?”
He stands but goes on stroking England’s cock, keeping him distracted as America drags his trousers and underwear off, leaving him naked save for his unbuttoned shirt and socks. He probably needn't have bothered though; sprawled over the countertop with his back arched awkwardly because of his bound arms, England barely seems to notice. He doesn't seem to care that his legs are dangling off the counter either, is too busy squirming restlessly, lifting his hips into the contact, already so needy that America can only imagine how he’d react when he’s being fingered.
He hums a little, pressing himself between England’s spread thighs to grind his own clothed erection against England’s. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Give me a minute and then I'll do something that’ll make you feel really good, okay?”
England just whines, eyes fluttering and America rubs a hand against his hip even as he leans across the counter to grab his own wallet from where he’d tossed it when they’d first stumbled into the kitchen. He digs through it distractedly, flicking through various cards and old receipts before he finds the packet of lube he always stashes in there. Two of them, in fact, and America grins triumphantly as he drops one of them by England’s elbow and rips open the other. “There we go. Now, I’m gonna need you to relax, okay?”
He even warms the lube between his hands before reaching between England’s legs, cooing soothingly when the man twitches, making a soft, almost questioning sound at the sensation of slick fingers circling his entrance. “Relax, sweetheart. Promise I’ll be gentle.” For now. He’s patient, touching and pushing and petting teasingly until England goes obligingly lax enough for America to slip a single finger in. God, his cock’s throbbing, trapped in his jeans, and all he wants to bury himself inside that tight heat, but he plans to enjoy this, to spin it out for as long as he can. And that meant getting England good and ready for his cock, getting him hot and needy and fucking begging for it.
He adds another finger when that tight hole loosens up a little and has to bite his own lip when England makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat, not quite a moan. He tries to be patient, working his fingers in and out, stroking England from the inside in slow, gentle motions, but it’s agonising in the best possible way. England doesn't seem too sure about the fingers in his ass at first; keeps furrowing his brows and tossing his head, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to open them. America watches for every flash of dazed green with an odd, excited pulse in his belly, in his cock. He isn't even sure why the possibility of - of what? Lucidity? A flash of awareness? England catching him doing this? (Asking him to stop? Begging him to stop?) turns him on so goddamned much. The obvious conclusion is that he’s as much of a pervert as France. America supposes he doesn't really care as long as England kept moving like that and making those sounds - Christ, just like that, yeah as America curls his fingers and almost makes England fall off the counter, his whole body locking up as he moans.
Prostate thus located, America proceeds to abuse his knowledge shamelessly; prods and rubs and circles the little bundle of nerves until England’s almost screaming in pleasure, writhing as America teases him. It’s all immensely satisfying. England’s actually crying now, tears leaking out his tightly closed eyes and trickling into his hair. God, this was amazing. America doesn't even try not to stare, dragging the fingers of his free hand over England’s taut stomach through the puddle of precome from his leaking cock. This alone makes him shudder, hips lifting in a clear plea for more that America obliges willingly. He wraps his hand around England’s cock again and England chokes out a cry, something so slurred that it’s indecipherable but the meaning is clear when his body arches in that familiar way -
America has a split second to decide whether he wants to let England come so soon. It’s not a popular decision, judging from the immediate moan of protest when he clamps down sharply around the base of England’s cock, just barely in time to forestall the orgasm.
America just laughs, a little strained as England goes tight around his fingers, that gorgeous body shining with sweat and wracked with fine tremors. “Aww, don't be like that, baby. ‘M just looking out for you, is all.” He bends, kisses a trembling thigh in apology. “If you come so soon, you'll be too sensitive when I fuck you later and it might hurt, y’know?”
England doesn't seem to take this as an acceptable excuse. If he's even capable of coherent thought at the moment. “God, you're hot like this,” America tells him, adding another finger. The added stretch makes England whine, tensing up instinctively until America nails him in the prostate. Then he practically collapses, almost spasming in pleasure. Especially when America leans over to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking at one, then the other. Then, it’s back to the first one to blow lightly on it before catching the tip between his teeth, teasing. Again and again, alternating between them until England’s nipples are swollen and red, filthy with saliva, and he's a limp, trembling mess spread out over the counter, mewling with every movement of America’s fingers inside him.
“You wanna come, sweetheart?” No response. England looked wrecked. Too bad America’s not done with him yet. Not by a long shot.
He straightens again, runs an appreciative eye over the man he's spent most of the past hour ruining. “I’m gonna break you, gorgeous. Fuck you till you're screaming, god, you'll be my filthy little mess -”
He angles his hand roughly and England makes another of those sounds, soft and trembling and sweet, almost mindless with pleasure. America swallows hard. He slips his fingers out of England, almost regretting it when it makes him whine in distress. America calms him with whispered nonsense, murmurs of soon, baby, be a little patient for me, okay?
He strips in record time, shucks off everything - jeans and shirt and boxers - without bothering to see where they land. That didn't matter anyway; England was waiting for him, loose and needy and his, all his for tonight. He snags the other packet of lube from the counter, coats his cock with it with brisk efficiency. He probably has a condom somewhere, but honestly, he’s not gonna bother when England’s too out of it to bitch at him for not using one.
The counter was just a bit too high for him to fuck England properly on it, so America just picks him up, smothering the small sleepy murmur with a kiss as he takes the few steps necessary to press England up against the wall. It’s a little tricky because of his bound arms, but America’s strong enough to pin him there by his upper back so it’ll work. England’s lost enough coordination that he can't quite wrap his legs around America’s waist though, so America just hooks England’s right knee over his arm and lowers his other leg to the ground. This oughta be good, judging from England’s reaction to just being fingered but when America glances up, he finds the man’s face slack, his breathing a bit too regular. Oh, damnit.
“Rude,” he chides, aligning himself and rubbing the head of his cock at that loosened rim just to see if that provoked any reaction. Nope. England barely stirs. “Really, baby? Did you go and fall asleep on me now?”
That was a little annoying. America clicks his tongue but pushes in anyway, gasping a little himself at the wet heat enveloping his cock. England twitches at the intrusion, a small strangled whimper slipping out of his throat when America simply loosens his grip and lets gravity do the rest. Too drunk to hold himself up, England just slides lower down the wall and further onto America’s cock, burying it so fucking deep that America can't breathe for a moment, just presses his face into England’s shoulder with a groan. A-all right, maybe he didn't quite think that one through. He gives a cautious thrust, rocking his hips, and England shudders a little, his throat working. It’s not much, but a reaction had been what America had been waiting for so he grins.
“Back with us, sweetheart? Y’know, I really can't decide if I wanna take my time, fuck you nice and slow,” he presses kisses to England’s neck, lapping at a drop of sweat rolling down it. “Or… just do it hard and fast, finish myself off and leave you like this .” He strokes a finger down the shaft of England’s cock, teasing. It gets him a small, helpless whine, though he doubts that England’s really aware of him or what he's saying. The man was barely conscious anyway, there wasn't actually much point in putting in so much effort to pleasure him. Bit of a pity, since America liked hearing England’s little cries but ah well. Mind made up, he stops trying to be considerate, just starts up a harsh, punishing rhythm that knocks England a few inches up the wall with every thrust and makes him thrash weakly and keen.
It doesn't take long for America to finish at this pace - one last quick jerk of his hips and he's spilling inside England with a moan. He doesn't drop England, thankfully, even as the rush of white-hot pleasure threatens to make his legs buckle; he just tips forward and props them both up against the wall to wait until his muscles stopped twitching and trembling so badly. Oh, that had been good. One of the best orgasms he’d had in a while really.
England’s still hard, his leaking cock pressed to America’s stomach. Ah good, he didn't fall back to sleep, says a distant part of America’s brain. He's shaking instead, letting out these soft, gasping mewls, so goddamned gorgeous like this that America can't resist kissing him, drinking in those goddamned sounds. He could be nice and finish England off right now, it won't even be too difficult, with his evident arousal.
Too bad America’s not nice then.
“You don't look like you're doing too good, sweetheart,” America coos, sated and satisfied and smiling at the desperation clear in every quiver of England’s muscles, the strain lining his features. “What’s wrong, hmm?” He doesn't expect a reply, just sets a hand on the curve of England’s ass thoughtfully, fingertips just barely brushing his rim, where he’s still stretched obscenely around America’s softening cock. What to do with him, what to do… ah.
His cock slips out when he spins them around, but America only hums at the soft whimper from England and sets him back down on the counter. He unwinds the belt from around England’s wrists next, and takes off the sweat-soaked dress shirt, ignoring the dark pink marks left on his wrists and forearms that would probably fade by tomorrow.
England won't quit squirming though, so America pins a hand to his belly to keep him still, lets it drift tantalisingly close to his straining cock. “Shh, sweetheart,” he says with just a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Relax, I’ll let you come soon, okay? I’m not that mean.”
Another whine. So needy. That was good though, America quite liked it. He drags England’s ankles up, setting his heels on the counter, socks and all, so that England’s splayed out for him, open and vulnerable with nowhere to escape when America trails his fingers down the curve of one thigh and starts stroking his perineum. This gets a ragged moan that stutters when America rubs gently at where he's soft and wet and loose, making him pant and arch, flushed pink against the black marble of the countertop.
“You know, sweetheart, you really liked me fingering you earlier,” America says conversationally over those little cries. “So… wanna see if you can come just from me playing with your ass?”
He could probably manage it, America decides, raking his eyes over England’s body appreciatively, admiring him sprawled out and so utterly debauched. Used, even. America shivers slightly. “God, I’ve said this already, but you're so fucking pretty, sweetheart. I almost wanna take a picture, keep it as a little souvenir -”
He pauses, fingers stilling. Because, well… he could. England was scarcely conscious and so drunk America didn't doubt that his memories of the entire night would be a useless blur. He wouldn't remember and it wasn't like he could object in this state. There was nothing stopping America from doing whatever he goddamned wanted to the man. And well, he’d already come this far…
All right then. “Change of plans, sweetheart,” America says, looking up.
Where had he left his phone again?