Better than Lime (Axis Powers Hetalia, America/England)
...I don't know how to preface this one, really, other than "this is porn, Mith and I have rather a lot of it, hopefully the porn market has not become too oversaturated as of late."
Title: Better than Lime
Authors: puella_nerdii and mithrigil
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/America
Rating: NC-17 because sometimes we do let them have sex
Warnings: alcohol, England getting grabby
Timestamp: Sometime after Self-Evident.
Summary: England comes over to help America make rum -- and to teach him about the rest of the Royal Navy's traditions.
“So this,” England says as he slides the shotglass across, “is black rum.”
America peers at it, sniffs-whew, smells strong, he thinks the alcohol might've burned the inside of his nose a little-and coughs. "It comes in black?"
“Heavy on the molasses and spice,” England says. "Once you get past the burn it tastes rather like caramel."
He twirls the shotglass between his fingers; the rum sloshes around inside. "Bottoms up," he says, and downs the whole thing in one go. It’s stronger than he expected, and England wasn't kidding about heavy on the spice-he coughs a little, but once that fades the caramel does start to seep in. The molasses lingers on the back of his tongue, and it's pretty nice.
“That good?” England smirks at him, already preparing the next one. “Chase that down to eradicate the flavour before you drink this next. I don't want you to conflate the two.”
"I didn't know you were this much of a snob about booze," he says, and reaches for a can of Coke. "This work for a chaser?"
“It'll do. And I'm not a snob about alcohol, I just know a lot.”
"Yeah, yeah," America says after he gulps some of the Coke down. "I know you're not a snob. I mean, you drink warm beer."
“It's better that way!” England scoffs and slides the next across. “This is overproof. Stronger than Bacardi.”
"Maybe I shouldn't be taking booze advice from you if you really think warm beer's better." He picks up the next shotglass, studies it. "Stronger than Bacardi?"
“A hundred and sixty-five proof,” England says, sitting back on his stool with something that might just be pride.
“Holy shit." And America means that in the best way possible. "Is this the kind you want me to make?"
“You'll make the one best suited to you. That means you should try all of them to figure out which that one is.” There are at least ten bottles in front of England, and twice as many shotglasses including the ones they've already been through. “Sometimes you've got to kiss a lot of frogs.”
"Are you telling me to kiss France?" America asks, and polishes off the shot of overproof before England can respond. Or sputter.-actually, America's the one sputtering, there's water in his eyes and fire in his throat, burning right down to the pit of his stomach-
And England is grinning instead of sputtering, leaning an elbow on the table. "So, which is worse, that or the piss you call Everclear?"
"Hey, Everclear is-christ my throat-Everclear is awesome." The heat's getting a little less scorching now, at least. He wrinkles his nose, tries to shake it all off and ends up half-dislodging his glasses. "This is just spicier."
"Which means it has actual flavour, unlike that glorified moonshine." England sighs, but pours the next round, and America hopes this one's a little gentler. Then again, he can't imagine much harder stuff than what he just had; not anything legal, at any rate. "I gather you're not letting a barrel of this sit in your basement for a year."
"It's not bad, it's just..." America thumps his chest. "It just hits pretty hard, you know?"
England rolls his eyes and doesn't conceal it. "Here. This one's an amber. You might be able to taste Bourbon in it."
America can, actually, mixed in somewhere with the gold. "It's kind of like chocolate mousse," he says. "Or the stuff in it. You know what I mean."
"So the Overproof didn't kill your taste buds." England smirks. "Yes. They often mix this kind with chocolate."
"Nah, I can still taste lots of stuff." He sets the shotglass down with a rattle. England's really smirky today-well, more smirky than he usually is. And he's usually pretty smirky. He chugs the Coke again, wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Okay, lay the next one on me."
"Premium dark," England says with a bit of pride in it. "Bermudan, aged ten years."
"The good stuff? Awesome." And it is pretty good stuff: rich and tangy, and when that fades there's an aftertaste that's almost cloyingly sweet, like he's stuffed a bunch of sugar cubes in his mouth and they're breaking down in it.
“Bermudan rum is good for that, yes. Even the brands." England seems to consider a moment, and then asks, "When's the last time you had ginger beer?"
"Dunno. Couple of years ago? I think Canada gave me some then." He scratches the back of his neck; his blood's starting to prickle there, not in a bad way, he just feels kind of warm. Nice warm, though. Good warm.
"Remind me next time to bring you some Gosling with that. They call it a Dark and Stormy. Overproof black with ginger beer."
"Dark and stormy. Heh." He frowns, wrinkles his nose, which is kind of starting to fizz again, or burn, or some combination of those. "Isn't dark and stormy more of Germany's thing?"
"Sturm und Drang is something else entirely." England pours the next one, which is almost clear even if America's eyesight isn't really. "Demerara rum. From half-refined sugar."
America whips off his glasses, rubs them on his shirt, puts them back on more-or-less straight. "Demerara," he repeats, almost rolling the r's in it. You know, for that whole exotic sound. "So it's sweet?"
"Sweet, a little crisp, less spicy than the others. It's from Guyana."
"Here's to Guyana, then," he says, hoisting the glass. England's right, it's not as spicy. It still tingles going down, but it's not a low throbbing burn and it doesn't linger as long. His eyes drift half-closed. "Mm. It's nice."
England nods, his smirk lightening to almost a smile. "Thought you might like that one. It's almost too good for the cocktails most people put it in."
"Hey don't knock cocktails, cocktails are awesome. Awesome like-you know, like awesome things." He swears that made sense in his head. He shakes it. Whatever. Time for more Coke.
"You're a paragon of eloquence tonight," England snarks at him, pouring the next shot. It's clear, but the bottle is labeled in gold and green.
"'M always a paragon of-that." America lowers his chin almost to the table so he can peer at the bottle better. Even with his glasses on everything's fuzzy around the edges, a few inches out-of-focus. Things swim away when he tries to pin them down. "What's the label say?"
"That you might have almost had enough," England teases. But then he reads it before America can jump on that. "Wray and Nephew. This is the most popular rum in Jamaica. And it's 140-proof."
"Heh. Go Jamaica, right?" He grins. It feels sloppy, lopsided, like one corner of his mouth's higher than the other, but he's-he's just not too worried about that, right now, or about much of anything. He's chilling with England-chilling even though there's a flush crawling all over his skin and making his cheeks and nose tingle and his chest expand-and they're drinking rum and America's going to make his own and everything's pretty good. Including the Wray and Nephew. Why's it called that, anyway?
England watches him drink, leans closer across the table, over all the used glasses. Either his head is tilted sideways or...or everything else is. "The entire population can't be wrong. I do like that one; it's got a nostalgic little kick to it."
"Everything you do's all-you get a nostalgia kick from everything," America counters, and he leans in, too, sweeps one of the empty shotglasses aside with the flat of his hand. Not angrily or anything, it just sort of tumbles out of the way. "Okay. What next?"
England leans even closer. "Pusser Blue, or I fuck you senseless."
Pusser. America snorts, and can't stop snorting, so when he says "Sounds nice" it comes out all garbled.
England tsks, pulls back to pour dark gold rum from a blue-labeled bottle into the next shotglass. "Pusser's used to be the de facto drink of the Royal Navy."
"Rum, sodomy, and the lash," America quotes-well, he quotes someone, he just doesn't remember who-and reaches for the glass.
England watches him drink it. "You'll get all three tonight," he says, darkly and quietly but not enough to miss.
"Mmm." Pusser Blue tastes like-well, it tastes like rum. Good rum, the kind that makes you burn on the inside. The tastes are all kind of running and sloshing together now, blending and melding like he's a-a blender. No, a cocktail. Right. "Mm," he says again when his throat's clearer. Clearish. "No canings. No gods, no kings, no canings."
"There are other things I can lash you with." England takes a deep swig straight from the blue-labeled bottle, then sets it down on the table. "I do have hands, you know."
"Mhm." America smiles lazily at him, props his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. His face gets kind of smooshed against his fingers. It feels funny; it must look funny, too, and that makes him smile even more. "I like your hands."
And instead of pouring the next glass, England sticks his left hand forward, puts his fingers against America's lower lip.
America's lips slide open almost without him telling them to, and he licks the tips of England's fingers, hums to himself under his breath-just sound, no tune. Some of the rum's flavor's soaked into England's hands, and America starts to suck on his fingers to drink more of it down.
"Like that," England whispers, eyebrows lowered like they're smirking too, and he traces America's teeth, rubs them and his tongue. "Taste it."
He can't say I am to England but he thinks it, pushes in and up on England's hand with his cheeks and teeth, swirls his tongue around and tastes and tastes and tastes again. He dips his tongue in the spaces between England's fingers, mouths at those, too, closes his eyes because it feels better that way, it makes England's skin feel even-warmer? Almost. Warmer, or like there's more of him, or both.
England's still got his fingers in America's mouth when he slips off the stool and rounds the table, spins America round and round in the process, or maybe only the once but it feels like more than that, his head's still reeling, and stands between America's legs, close enough to press against. "Rum," he says, "sodomy," he says but insinuates, "and the lash-" And that word cuts through and America winces, tries to tense but his muscles want to flop instead...but instead of smacking America, England's other hand gropes America through his trousers, firm and solid.
America yelps around England's fingers and can't tell if he shifts towards or away from that touch, but either way England's got him pretty good. England's hands tent into near-talons and keep the pressure up and America sucks on his fingers-the ones in his mouth, not the ones near his crotch, those he's just kind of aimlessly rubbing against. England pets America's tongue, strokes him there and lower, harshly in both. "Going to fuck you until it sobers you up," he hisses over America's head. "How do you like that?"
He says something around England's hand, some kind of strangled moan that could be a yes except his tongue's not moving the way he wants it to, England's pinning it there and groping and stroking and it's making America's skin tingle all over like-like he's being soaked in steam or something.
England's smirking, pulling his fingers out of America's mouth and using them to push America's hair off his face, slick it back and then yank back on it to bare America's throat, bite it on the bulge, hard enough, ah, and that bite makes him melt into the chair, almost. "I need to hear that yes."
He fumbles around, tries to grip England's back but his hands slip down it and land in funny places and he can't tell his hands to grip the way he should, some kind of-some kind of counterbalance thing to how England's pulling him back so he doesn't topple. England's teeth almost knead his throat, force the words out that way. "Yes-"
"Yes what?" England snarls, clawing at the back of America's neck, pushing his collar down.
"Ah-yes, yeah, I like it-"
England pushes himself over America and bends him back half-onto the table, traps his hand between them, curled over America's cock. He's gnawing on America's neck, pulsing his hands in time with his teeth. America's arching up, writhing, pushing into his hands and mouth and it's not exactly fitting with how England's biting him, he doesn't think, there's this kind of gap between when England claws or nips him and when America realizes he's done it but it's not something he minds, exactly, it's just that everything's kind of...kind of like ripples, and the part where the heat ripples out over his skin feels really good. "Mm, yeah, that..."
The hand between his legs shifts up, curls around the waist of his pants and starts pulling the buttons undone, pop pop pop pop. "You don't even know what's coming to you, do you," England murmurs against him, licking the welt he's left on America's throat, and isn't it kind of funny how the heat makes him shiver? "You haven't a clue."
"You said you were gonna fuck me," America half-slurs, blinking up at him. He reaches up, plants his palm on where he thinks England's cheek is, or one of his cheeks, there are two of them-actually there are four because people usually have two cheeks and now there are two Englands layered just over each other like those images in 3D movies you need special glasses to see. Maybe he needs his glasses to see England right? He starts laughing and probably doesn't hide that giant snort too well.
England pulls back enough that America can count all the teeth in his grin, and it’s just one grin now, one England. That makes things easier. Also he’s getting the last of the buttons on America’s fly undone. And all he says is "Good," before he-
-that's weird, America could've sworn he was on the table but now he's on the floor and England's pressing him there, laying him out flat. Uh. Well. That was fast. Not bad fast or anything, necessarily, he's just not used to England not being...he was going somewhere with that. He was, but England's hands cupping his ass kind of made him forget, and it's hard to remember stuff when England's gripping his hips and dragging him out of his pants and yanking down his shorts and holding his cock so tightly it really can't just be him, can't be teasing him at the tip and curled around the base that unmoving. He tries to shift himself up onto his elbows so he can kind of make out what's going on, kind of, but everything's still hazy and the blood's rushing away from his head and towards his cock and getting trapped there, almost, like he's swelling and flushing without relief and then there are those featherlight touches on the head and he's not sure what to think-if he even should think.
And that something is still holding him even when England's hands are teasing him other places now, stroking his hips and thighs and stomach, pushing up his shirt and scratching at his chest, pinching and tickling and just touching him, everywhere and there too. America grinds up but there's nothing for him to grind into so he moans instead, deep in his throat, and at least the sound has friction even if his cock doesn't, or not the right kind. He pounds his heels into the floor, stretches out and squirms around for more of England's hands, yeah, actually he thinks he says that one out loud, "yeah, feels like you've got hands all over, ah, all over me and-England, my cock-" There's something about his cock...
"-is getting all the attention in the world," England says, and his mouth is up on one of America's nipples, briefly catching it in his teeth and pinching it like his fingers are on America's earlobe and in the crook of his elbow.
America works it out in his head: earlobe, crook of his elbow, cock-there's somewhere England can't be touching him, not with his hands, and he's not complaining or anything, he's still wriggling under England and bucking his chest up when England bites him there, but-"You did something...you put something..."
"I said you'd be getting the lash with your rum," England says, and shoves his knee up between America's legs to press against whatever else is on his cock and there's not just the weight of his leg pressing in, there's something harder, cooler, something his cock's throbbing against and every time he swells it tightens around him more. "And you said I wasn't to cane you with it."
"Well no," he says, he does remember that more or less clearly, and he guesses this isn't-oh. Oh. Hard and cool and gripping his cock, it all clicks. "You-" he says when he can catch enough breath, "that's a, um, you just-do you carry around cock rings or something?"
"Only for you," England says in the shell of his ear, and then bites it. He gnaws there, always gnawing, grinds up with his teeth, slowly, the way he's pushing up and in with his knee and bracing with his hands. They're spread on America's skin, palming him smoothly through the sweat.
America shouts, bucks his hips and brings his knees up, he can't keep his legs stretched flat on the ground anymore. It feels like he's dragging his heels through something-water, maybe-but it's still easy to curl in on himself, sink down and down and down and let England pull him back up again.
"Which is why I insisted you say yes." All the Ss in it leave trails of breath on America's skin, make his hair prickle. "So I can touch you," England says, and does, brushes one hand up America's shaft, "and touch you, and touch you..."
He's not whining, no really, he's not whining, he's just letting out this high keening noise trapped in his throat. He tries to rub more of himself against England but he must've got the distance wrong or England must've moved because there's nothing new grinding on his cock, nothing that's enough.
England withdraws to only his hands, one scant touch after another--his fingertips and then his nails and then his knuckles, just swipes and scrapes on America's shaft, nothing more, nothing more. "And touch you," he punctuates all of them with, "and touch you, until you can't take it, and then fuck you to prove you can."
America moans because yeah there are words for what he wants to do to England but they slip away from him when he tries to grab them so he grabs England instead, swipes at his shoulders and grips the cloth of his shirt and says, "Don't stop, don't stop..."
"That's the point. I won't have to." England hisses, and then curls one hand fully around America's cock, strokes up hard and then traces the head with his thumb, slow teasing circles. God, America just whets himself on that touch, those hands, he's not even sure how hard he's pulling on England's shirt but he's kind of using that to lift himself up so he can arch off the ground just a little, enough for-something, leverage, anything. "Really, I do like this arrangement." England sounds like he's discussing a trade agreement but dark, smirking and whispering, pressing slow kisses to America's forehead and cheek and chin. "You get what you always demand, no teasing, just touching; I get to take it at my pace. It's ingenious, I say."
"Still teasing if I can't-" But the stupid words thing trips him up again and he tries to twist his neck around so England'll at least kiss him right but his head flops to the side instead, everything about him feels all floppy and loose-limbed and shivery...except his cock, that's solid as a post, and that's keeping him anchored.
"Oh, you can," England murmurs before taking America by the chin in his free hand, and turning it up so that they're lip-to-lip if not eye-to-eye. At least they kind of match. "When I say you can."
This time, America just moans, moans and aches and he'd say he slumps except his hips are still shaking.
But England still has that grip on his face, and kisses him as he topples over: square on the mouth, and hard, demanding, his tongue shoving in the way his fingers were before and tracing the same places. He bites America's lip and kneads in time with his hand on America's shaft, forceful and tight. So tight-America can't even breathe, gasps into England's mouth and chokes and feels dizzy when England laughs against his lips, dark and warm. It makes him think of the rum, and when he does that his skin prickles again, heats up under England's touches, and he licks England's tongue when he can, half-sucks on all the parts of England's mouth pressed up against his.
England hums smugly into that, and America can feel that buzz on his teeth. But he doesn't taunt him any more like that, he starts stroking America harder, faster, tighter at the base, but then he pulls back around the head and barely touches at all where it's most sensitive. America's hips are quaking and he's half resting his weight on them and half-not, but nothing under him really feels solid so he's not sure if he wants to rest on it, not with the way the world shudders and tilts. England's hand burns and America can't quite-he can't fuck it right, can't tell if the skin on his cock's starting to scream or sing.
England gives America his tongue to fuck, shoves it deep into America's mouth and pushes America down again with the force of it. America takes it, can't do a whole lot more than that with England pinning him and that ring trapping his shaft. England's hand rakes faster, fingers spreading out to tease more of him at once, god, it feels like all of him's pulsing under England, shuddering up into his hands and mouth and ow his teeth. He forgot about those. Well. Until England bit him, because now they're tugging on his lip and sucking-can teeth suck? His head's swimming around, all his thoughts are sloshing inside and spilling over each other until they all run together...
And then all at once, England pulls back and lets go, lets America thud to the floor and leaves his thumb circling the tip of America's cock.
He's pretty sure he cries out then-"England," he says, flails out with his heels but only hits the ground and England's smirk stretches even wider, "England get-get back-"
"Where?" England's thumb twists, that one nail scraping just under the slit and then smoothing out the wetness with the pad of his thumb; America yelps. "Get back to what?" England asks.
"When-Ah, when you were all touching me, and-and stuff like that..." He lifts his hand in the air, waves it around or at least lets it flop there, tries to show England like that what he meant.
England catches that hand and brings it to his mouth, sucks on America's fingers the way he's not sucking on America's cock, where his other hand's still idling, teasing. America tries to curl his fingers in England's mouth, move his feet closer to his chest or farther from it, just something, but the constant throbbing keeps distracting him and pulling his mind back to his cock and England's hand there isn't helping-isn't helping enough, that's the problem, god he wants to come so bad...
But all England does is tease him, suck him one place and trace him the other and there just isn't enough pressure, isn't enough anything.
"Harder," America gasps, "harder, c'mon..."
England drills his nails into America's wrist when he pries his hand away. Spit flies through the air, spatters on America's cheek. "You want it harder," England snaps, "you'll get it," and his wet hand pins America down by the chest, right on his sternum-the other curls around his shaft and starts jerking him off like there's no time to savor it.
And America thumps his fists against the floor, wails; the speed and the force almost knock him flat on his back except he's already lying down but if he wasn't he'd be stretched out even more than he is now. England's hand works him up and down and part of him's pinned but the parts that aren't are shuddering, rising.
"Harder," England says, like it's hateful. "More. You're only asking for it," he says, and the rhythm of his strokes picks up and shoves down, "and I wonder how much you really want to take."
"I can, I can take it," he says, stuttering over the words, his breath's coming in faster every time England speeds up and he keeps tripping over that, over the heat rolling up and down the length of him, from his curled-up toes to the sweat-slicked hair at the back of his neck.
"Well, then," England says, and he's smirking, how can America still see that he's smirking? "I'd like to see it," and England bows his head to start licking the parts of America's cock that his hand isn't jerking.
"Oh god," he thinks he hears himself say, "oh god oh god," and then the words just kind of dissolve and he swivels his hips up but England's hand slams into his sternum and forces him back down, so it's England who ends up deciding when he wants to give America more of that wet heat, and it sears him so much that it's almost cold instead...
And England keeps kissing and sucking him there, slicking him up so his hand can move faster, twisting his tongue around the head before his thumb does the same thing and then licking, god, licking between his fingers as he pulls up and down. There's something wet gathering at the corners of America's eyes from it, from how he aches under that ring and how his hips seize and thrash and won't stay still but can't move England, either, or get him to take this thing off oh christ the soreness is, it's slipping down his legs and up his chest and making him tighten everywhere and isn't booze supposed to make you looser?
But then England's mouth engulfs him completely, his hand stills and America wants to shout don't but doesn't because England's tongue is licking a sharp seam up until it can't lick anymore and the tip reaches just under the metal ring, oh-
And that time he shouts, it's not drawn out but it's a-how does he even slip his tongue under there, it's too tight, too tight and hot, there's red bursting behind his eyes but his legs keep stretching further and further apart and he still can't push everything into England's mouth that he wants to, still can't-can't take, except maybe he can, he can't even tell...
The walls of England's mouth draw in, and he's laughing somehow, America can feel laughter through the throbbing of his blood. He bucks into that, what England's offering, but the ring's squeezing him even tighter and that makes him gasp so hard he almost chokes on it and everything in his head's getting blocked like that, compressed and cut off and, and other things, see, he can't even think what they are.
England withdraws again and how-how can he leave America with nothing like that, it's not fair-but this time he plunges back down, thank god, not around America's cock but along it, kissing underneath until he comes to the ring again and circles it with his tongue and lips. That ring, that stupid ring, America just wants-"England, stop," he says, but no, he doesn't want him to stop the touching, just the part where it's not enough. "I mean. Don't stop, just-it hurts, I want to-"
"You want to be fucked?" England says, hissing against America's swollen skin, and America tightens all over when England's breath brushes him but maybe he's pulling more of himself together? Maybe. "You want me to put you on your hands and knees and see how much you can take?"
"I-yeah," he says, because he literally can't think of the words for anything else. "Yeah, do it, god, fuck me-"
And England yanks up on America's shoulders, but they hit the table and America barely has time to register that. There's a clatter, something spills and drips, but England places America on all fours and somewhere in the chaos of sound there's also a belt buckle being undone and cloth coming down and something uncapping. And there's something wet dripping into America's hair, too, something sticky that makes his scalp tingle-it's the rum, his hair's getting soaked with the rum, and he laughs except there's no sound except this thin high moan that dribbles out of him.
England must notice it too, because then his hand is tangled there, holding America still while the rum pours down onto him. It drizzles down his cheek and America tries to swipe it up with his tongue but his mouth won't make the right shapes for it and just kind of hangs open instead, slackjawed while he pants. England's other hand is coated with something cold and working its fingers into America's ass, two right at the start, spreading, twining. America seizes around Engand's fingers at first and his breath catches somewhere in his chest but then that lets go and so do his muscles, slowly, as long as he keeps breathing even if it's shallow he can ride this through. The rum's gumming up his skin when it dries, he feels that, too.
England twists his fingers, finds America's prostate and kneads at it pitilessly, pushes his hips and his own cock against his working hand to taunt him further, and America's elbows are going to collapse right under him soon if England keeps this up. His head heats up and his thoughts fly away to somewhere else and he thinks he hears his knees thumping against the ground and he keeps muttering, "England-oh-"
"Say you want it," England says, and spreads his fingers inside, gets good and deep.
What else can he say when England rubs him there-oh-"Nn-I want it, I want it so bad-"
England pulls back sharp on America's hair so that his back arches-his fingers slip out, and a moment later his cock starts sliding in, with his fingers spread beside it to keep America's ass spread and slick it up too. It's so much it's so much and England pushing in pushes more sound out of his throat, broken-up moans, and his breath's falling in hot dizzy swirls and his head's as rich and warm as the rum is and the feeling drips down until it soaks his skin all the way through-"Yes-"
Once he's seated deep and solid England just stays, like he can't get over the heat either-he starts fucking America slow and shallow, barely thrusting at all.
America pushes back as much as he can manage but holding himself upright's hard enough so mostly he focuses on that, on letting England's hands and hips propel him forward and back. The one's still snarled in his hair and the rum's-not clotting, that's not the word, it's drying but it's still sticky or at least it feels dryer but everything feels dry now: the air he's breathing, his mouth, his cock-that's burning with a horrible searing dry heat.
England's hips are pulsing forward now, almost thrusting but still only like he's riding, riding and using America's hair as the rein-still shallow but faster now, a little faster, like he's trying to rub America inside with his cock the way he had with his fingers. "You like that?" he murmurs, voice hoarse and accent thick, "you like it in you?"
America's back dips, and that makes him thrust out his ass more, makes his head arch back into England's hand, makes the weight get concentrated on his hands and knees and sends shivers rolling up his arms, legs, chest. Everywhere, just everywhere, he feels it all over, and England's sliding smooth and steady in and out and every time America thinks he's about to drift off the tug on his shaft brings him back and he-he doesn't whimper but he could-"Mm-yeah, feels-"
England grabs him on the flank with his other hand, shoves him forward. The sound their slick skin makes slapping together echoes off the underside of the table, rings in America's ears. "Ah-" he gasps, shit if he could just-if he could touch himself, even, if the ring wasn't in the way or if he wouldn't topple over if he moved his hand because he honestly thinks he could collapse, that England would drive him into the ground like this. Not in-not in a bad way, the only bad thing now is the pressure building up behind his eyes since his hips aren't grinding against anything but air, but-England's strokes hit the gland and keep battering at him there and America's fists clench and so does his ass, oh god he wants to come-
-but that thrust only gives way to another, harder, demanding, England's even forcing America's hips back and forward to his own rhythm. And all that does is shove him deeper, faster each time, and he's groaning or laughing or something between.
They aren't even words, the sounds streaming from his mouth, just moans, the world's shaking around his head even though England's holding it in place-his head or the world, or both, America can't even tell and England's in him so deep and America doesn't know if he's shouting or whispering but either way his throat's scratched raw and the rest of him feels like that, too, red and aching.
And the rhythm's slipping, breaking, England shoves himself in deep and America writhes but England doesn't come, doesn't end this, just stops and holds on and leans over America's back, sweat dripping off his chin and mixing with the sticky rum. "I'm close, you know," he says, half-breathless in America's ear. "I could finish."
America digs his nails into something, the floorboards or his hands, and groans-christ he's so stuffed full everywhere, he can barely breathe. He feels England pulsing or maybe that's just him, he can't even tell and everything's blurring and running together and the tightness in his cock's spreading itself out all over him and drawing his neck taut, stretching his skin out. "What do you-what d'you want me to-"
"Oh, nothing new." England's voice is all smirky; he starts rolling his hips in deep and circling, teasing. He can't-it's not fair, he can't think when England does that-"I mean, you'll never beg, so there's no point in drawing it out for that..."
"It hurts, it-it's so much, I need-I can't-oh god-"
"It hurts?" When England hisses like that it's almost a chuckle, but his voice is thick and his breath's grinding the way his hips are. "Show me where it hurts, America."
"My-" He squeezes his eyes shut, tighter tighter like everything in him's gathering tighter. "My cock-"
The hand on America's hip slips lower and in, cupping the side of America's balls. "All that kissing it made nothing better?" England grinds in, strokes the metal ring, everything harsh.
And America cries out and bucks into that touch, into the pressure, but it's still not enough and it's just making him choke and gasp and swell and-"Can't-I can't come like this-"
"Oh that's what you want," England says like he's pretending he's surprised, and then he pulls out -no no no-and thrusts in once, deep, so deep, something bruises and stretches and aches and England strokes America's sac gently, god, he's so swollen, so tight. America doesn't even know how he's keeping himself upright, everything's spinning and shaking and seizing in his head and outside it and the two aren't the same thing but it feels like they are or could be and England's buried in him, England's everywhere, England's pressing down on his back and cupping his balls and he still wants, he needs more.
"And how do you propose I do that for you?" England asks, somewhere-somewhere in all that.
"Don't-I don't care I just want to-want you to-"
England thrusts again: steady, slow, in, how is he so steady right now, but at the end his fingertips stroke around the ring until they stop at the base. He yanks on America's hair with his other hand, pulls so that his chin turns up sharp and he's vulnerable, exposed-"You want me to-make sure you come, don't you."
"Yes, yes, yes," he can't say yes enough-
And England flicks something open, something open around him-
-and that's enough to send America toppling over the edge-he shouts, he thinks he shouts louder than he has in his life and he comes so hard his teeth ache and he swears he can't hear anything for...at least half a minute, maybe longer, he can't even tell, he's too sore and breathless and giddy, giddy everywhere...
Somewhere in that haze England is still grinding his hips and pushing and forcing America's ass back and open-he comes in the middle of all that, moans raggedly and collapses on America's back, shoving them both to the floor. Oof.
America's not even going to try to stop that, he still feels floppy all over and it's a good floppy and England's warm and also America's really sore but it's maybe starting to ebb a little or at least the heat from the burn's starting to feel good. Sweet, even. Like a hot tub. Or something.
England's petting him like he's a cat or something, up and down his sides, his neck, his hair. He's kissing something away, too, licking the smear of rum off his neck. "Fuck," he murmurs, "that was the Pusser Blue."
"Heh," America says weakly, "Pusser."
But England keeps sucking that up, kisses America's hair and tongues the shell of his ear. "Better with sodomy than lime," he says.
"Mmhmm," America says, lets his head flop to the side so England can kiss more of it. It's nice. Everything's pretty nice.
So England keeps touching, drawing his lips and hands through America's sticking sweat and America kind of lets him. It's weird, a little, but England's weird and England's touching him and petting him, just him, just him in England's arms. "I do love it when you're almost mine."
"That's cause you're possessive. And obsessive. And stuff." Hey, they kind of sound the same.
There's a thudding sound and a kind of roll like a heavy coin on the floor. England's dropped the ring, and then he just starts caressing America's sides again. "Am not obsessive."
"Are so," America counters, mostly because he has to.
England slips off him, but turns America over onto his back so he can sprawl on top of him again and kiss more of the drying rum away. "Am not."
America blinks up at him, smiles even though it feels really bleary, slides his palm down England's cheek. "Yeah you are. But it's okay."
"Oh?" That swipe of his lips becomes a kiss between America's eyes. "All of a sudden you like being possessed?"
"Naaaaah." He wrinkles up his nose. "Not that, just-you want me. You want me a lot. I want you to-you know. Like the song."
England pulls back, looks him in the eyes. "Song?"
He clears out his throat as best he can. "I want you to want me," he sings. Not sure he's in the right key, but oh well, no big. "I need you to need me. You know, that one."
"From that Shakespeare parody. Right. That." But England smirks. "Well, good. Because I want you a great deal."
America's grinning from ear to ear, and he just kind of says, "Me too." He just-he just feels like he can say it. Right now. Yeah.
"Mm." England pulls his hands up, cups America's cheeks, strokes him and holds him and kisses his forehead again. "And I like making you say it."
"'Course you do. Kinky old man."
"Inconsiderate lout."
"Yeah, yeah."
.
Title: Better than Lime
Authors: puella_nerdii and mithrigil
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: England/America
Rating: NC-17 because sometimes we do let them have sex
Warnings: alcohol, England getting grabby
Timestamp: Sometime after Self-Evident.
Summary: England comes over to help America make rum -- and to teach him about the rest of the Royal Navy's traditions.
“So this,” England says as he slides the shotglass across, “is black rum.”
America peers at it, sniffs-whew, smells strong, he thinks the alcohol might've burned the inside of his nose a little-and coughs. "It comes in black?"
“Heavy on the molasses and spice,” England says. "Once you get past the burn it tastes rather like caramel."
He twirls the shotglass between his fingers; the rum sloshes around inside. "Bottoms up," he says, and downs the whole thing in one go. It’s stronger than he expected, and England wasn't kidding about heavy on the spice-he coughs a little, but once that fades the caramel does start to seep in. The molasses lingers on the back of his tongue, and it's pretty nice.
“That good?” England smirks at him, already preparing the next one. “Chase that down to eradicate the flavour before you drink this next. I don't want you to conflate the two.”
"I didn't know you were this much of a snob about booze," he says, and reaches for a can of Coke. "This work for a chaser?"
“It'll do. And I'm not a snob about alcohol, I just know a lot.”
"Yeah, yeah," America says after he gulps some of the Coke down. "I know you're not a snob. I mean, you drink warm beer."
“It's better that way!” England scoffs and slides the next across. “This is overproof. Stronger than Bacardi.”
"Maybe I shouldn't be taking booze advice from you if you really think warm beer's better." He picks up the next shotglass, studies it. "Stronger than Bacardi?"
“A hundred and sixty-five proof,” England says, sitting back on his stool with something that might just be pride.
“Holy shit." And America means that in the best way possible. "Is this the kind you want me to make?"
“You'll make the one best suited to you. That means you should try all of them to figure out which that one is.” There are at least ten bottles in front of England, and twice as many shotglasses including the ones they've already been through. “Sometimes you've got to kiss a lot of frogs.”
"Are you telling me to kiss France?" America asks, and polishes off the shot of overproof before England can respond. Or sputter.-actually, America's the one sputtering, there's water in his eyes and fire in his throat, burning right down to the pit of his stomach-
And England is grinning instead of sputtering, leaning an elbow on the table. "So, which is worse, that or the piss you call Everclear?"
"Hey, Everclear is-christ my throat-Everclear is awesome." The heat's getting a little less scorching now, at least. He wrinkles his nose, tries to shake it all off and ends up half-dislodging his glasses. "This is just spicier."
"Which means it has actual flavour, unlike that glorified moonshine." England sighs, but pours the next round, and America hopes this one's a little gentler. Then again, he can't imagine much harder stuff than what he just had; not anything legal, at any rate. "I gather you're not letting a barrel of this sit in your basement for a year."
"It's not bad, it's just..." America thumps his chest. "It just hits pretty hard, you know?"
England rolls his eyes and doesn't conceal it. "Here. This one's an amber. You might be able to taste Bourbon in it."
America can, actually, mixed in somewhere with the gold. "It's kind of like chocolate mousse," he says. "Or the stuff in it. You know what I mean."
"So the Overproof didn't kill your taste buds." England smirks. "Yes. They often mix this kind with chocolate."
"Nah, I can still taste lots of stuff." He sets the shotglass down with a rattle. England's really smirky today-well, more smirky than he usually is. And he's usually pretty smirky. He chugs the Coke again, wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Okay, lay the next one on me."
"Premium dark," England says with a bit of pride in it. "Bermudan, aged ten years."
"The good stuff? Awesome." And it is pretty good stuff: rich and tangy, and when that fades there's an aftertaste that's almost cloyingly sweet, like he's stuffed a bunch of sugar cubes in his mouth and they're breaking down in it.
“Bermudan rum is good for that, yes. Even the brands." England seems to consider a moment, and then asks, "When's the last time you had ginger beer?"
"Dunno. Couple of years ago? I think Canada gave me some then." He scratches the back of his neck; his blood's starting to prickle there, not in a bad way, he just feels kind of warm. Nice warm, though. Good warm.
"Remind me next time to bring you some Gosling with that. They call it a Dark and Stormy. Overproof black with ginger beer."
"Dark and stormy. Heh." He frowns, wrinkles his nose, which is kind of starting to fizz again, or burn, or some combination of those. "Isn't dark and stormy more of Germany's thing?"
"Sturm und Drang is something else entirely." England pours the next one, which is almost clear even if America's eyesight isn't really. "Demerara rum. From half-refined sugar."
America whips off his glasses, rubs them on his shirt, puts them back on more-or-less straight. "Demerara," he repeats, almost rolling the r's in it. You know, for that whole exotic sound. "So it's sweet?"
"Sweet, a little crisp, less spicy than the others. It's from Guyana."
"Here's to Guyana, then," he says, hoisting the glass. England's right, it's not as spicy. It still tingles going down, but it's not a low throbbing burn and it doesn't linger as long. His eyes drift half-closed. "Mm. It's nice."
England nods, his smirk lightening to almost a smile. "Thought you might like that one. It's almost too good for the cocktails most people put it in."
"Hey don't knock cocktails, cocktails are awesome. Awesome like-you know, like awesome things." He swears that made sense in his head. He shakes it. Whatever. Time for more Coke.
"You're a paragon of eloquence tonight," England snarks at him, pouring the next shot. It's clear, but the bottle is labeled in gold and green.
"'M always a paragon of-that." America lowers his chin almost to the table so he can peer at the bottle better. Even with his glasses on everything's fuzzy around the edges, a few inches out-of-focus. Things swim away when he tries to pin them down. "What's the label say?"
"That you might have almost had enough," England teases. But then he reads it before America can jump on that. "Wray and Nephew. This is the most popular rum in Jamaica. And it's 140-proof."
"Heh. Go Jamaica, right?" He grins. It feels sloppy, lopsided, like one corner of his mouth's higher than the other, but he's-he's just not too worried about that, right now, or about much of anything. He's chilling with England-chilling even though there's a flush crawling all over his skin and making his cheeks and nose tingle and his chest expand-and they're drinking rum and America's going to make his own and everything's pretty good. Including the Wray and Nephew. Why's it called that, anyway?
England watches him drink, leans closer across the table, over all the used glasses. Either his head is tilted sideways or...or everything else is. "The entire population can't be wrong. I do like that one; it's got a nostalgic little kick to it."
"Everything you do's all-you get a nostalgia kick from everything," America counters, and he leans in, too, sweeps one of the empty shotglasses aside with the flat of his hand. Not angrily or anything, it just sort of tumbles out of the way. "Okay. What next?"
England leans even closer. "Pusser Blue, or I fuck you senseless."
Pusser. America snorts, and can't stop snorting, so when he says "Sounds nice" it comes out all garbled.
England tsks, pulls back to pour dark gold rum from a blue-labeled bottle into the next shotglass. "Pusser's used to be the de facto drink of the Royal Navy."
"Rum, sodomy, and the lash," America quotes-well, he quotes someone, he just doesn't remember who-and reaches for the glass.
England watches him drink it. "You'll get all three tonight," he says, darkly and quietly but not enough to miss.
"Mmm." Pusser Blue tastes like-well, it tastes like rum. Good rum, the kind that makes you burn on the inside. The tastes are all kind of running and sloshing together now, blending and melding like he's a-a blender. No, a cocktail. Right. "Mm," he says again when his throat's clearer. Clearish. "No canings. No gods, no kings, no canings."
"There are other things I can lash you with." England takes a deep swig straight from the blue-labeled bottle, then sets it down on the table. "I do have hands, you know."
"Mhm." America smiles lazily at him, props his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. His face gets kind of smooshed against his fingers. It feels funny; it must look funny, too, and that makes him smile even more. "I like your hands."
And instead of pouring the next glass, England sticks his left hand forward, puts his fingers against America's lower lip.
America's lips slide open almost without him telling them to, and he licks the tips of England's fingers, hums to himself under his breath-just sound, no tune. Some of the rum's flavor's soaked into England's hands, and America starts to suck on his fingers to drink more of it down.
"Like that," England whispers, eyebrows lowered like they're smirking too, and he traces America's teeth, rubs them and his tongue. "Taste it."
He can't say I am to England but he thinks it, pushes in and up on England's hand with his cheeks and teeth, swirls his tongue around and tastes and tastes and tastes again. He dips his tongue in the spaces between England's fingers, mouths at those, too, closes his eyes because it feels better that way, it makes England's skin feel even-warmer? Almost. Warmer, or like there's more of him, or both.
England's still got his fingers in America's mouth when he slips off the stool and rounds the table, spins America round and round in the process, or maybe only the once but it feels like more than that, his head's still reeling, and stands between America's legs, close enough to press against. "Rum," he says, "sodomy," he says but insinuates, "and the lash-" And that word cuts through and America winces, tries to tense but his muscles want to flop instead...but instead of smacking America, England's other hand gropes America through his trousers, firm and solid.
America yelps around England's fingers and can't tell if he shifts towards or away from that touch, but either way England's got him pretty good. England's hands tent into near-talons and keep the pressure up and America sucks on his fingers-the ones in his mouth, not the ones near his crotch, those he's just kind of aimlessly rubbing against. England pets America's tongue, strokes him there and lower, harshly in both. "Going to fuck you until it sobers you up," he hisses over America's head. "How do you like that?"
He says something around England's hand, some kind of strangled moan that could be a yes except his tongue's not moving the way he wants it to, England's pinning it there and groping and stroking and it's making America's skin tingle all over like-like he's being soaked in steam or something.
England's smirking, pulling his fingers out of America's mouth and using them to push America's hair off his face, slick it back and then yank back on it to bare America's throat, bite it on the bulge, hard enough, ah, and that bite makes him melt into the chair, almost. "I need to hear that yes."
He fumbles around, tries to grip England's back but his hands slip down it and land in funny places and he can't tell his hands to grip the way he should, some kind of-some kind of counterbalance thing to how England's pulling him back so he doesn't topple. England's teeth almost knead his throat, force the words out that way. "Yes-"
"Yes what?" England snarls, clawing at the back of America's neck, pushing his collar down.
"Ah-yes, yeah, I like it-"
England pushes himself over America and bends him back half-onto the table, traps his hand between them, curled over America's cock. He's gnawing on America's neck, pulsing his hands in time with his teeth. America's arching up, writhing, pushing into his hands and mouth and it's not exactly fitting with how England's biting him, he doesn't think, there's this kind of gap between when England claws or nips him and when America realizes he's done it but it's not something he minds, exactly, it's just that everything's kind of...kind of like ripples, and the part where the heat ripples out over his skin feels really good. "Mm, yeah, that..."
The hand between his legs shifts up, curls around the waist of his pants and starts pulling the buttons undone, pop pop pop pop. "You don't even know what's coming to you, do you," England murmurs against him, licking the welt he's left on America's throat, and isn't it kind of funny how the heat makes him shiver? "You haven't a clue."
"You said you were gonna fuck me," America half-slurs, blinking up at him. He reaches up, plants his palm on where he thinks England's cheek is, or one of his cheeks, there are two of them-actually there are four because people usually have two cheeks and now there are two Englands layered just over each other like those images in 3D movies you need special glasses to see. Maybe he needs his glasses to see England right? He starts laughing and probably doesn't hide that giant snort too well.
England pulls back enough that America can count all the teeth in his grin, and it’s just one grin now, one England. That makes things easier. Also he’s getting the last of the buttons on America’s fly undone. And all he says is "Good," before he-
-that's weird, America could've sworn he was on the table but now he's on the floor and England's pressing him there, laying him out flat. Uh. Well. That was fast. Not bad fast or anything, necessarily, he's just not used to England not being...he was going somewhere with that. He was, but England's hands cupping his ass kind of made him forget, and it's hard to remember stuff when England's gripping his hips and dragging him out of his pants and yanking down his shorts and holding his cock so tightly it really can't just be him, can't be teasing him at the tip and curled around the base that unmoving. He tries to shift himself up onto his elbows so he can kind of make out what's going on, kind of, but everything's still hazy and the blood's rushing away from his head and towards his cock and getting trapped there, almost, like he's swelling and flushing without relief and then there are those featherlight touches on the head and he's not sure what to think-if he even should think.
And that something is still holding him even when England's hands are teasing him other places now, stroking his hips and thighs and stomach, pushing up his shirt and scratching at his chest, pinching and tickling and just touching him, everywhere and there too. America grinds up but there's nothing for him to grind into so he moans instead, deep in his throat, and at least the sound has friction even if his cock doesn't, or not the right kind. He pounds his heels into the floor, stretches out and squirms around for more of England's hands, yeah, actually he thinks he says that one out loud, "yeah, feels like you've got hands all over, ah, all over me and-England, my cock-" There's something about his cock...
"-is getting all the attention in the world," England says, and his mouth is up on one of America's nipples, briefly catching it in his teeth and pinching it like his fingers are on America's earlobe and in the crook of his elbow.
America works it out in his head: earlobe, crook of his elbow, cock-there's somewhere England can't be touching him, not with his hands, and he's not complaining or anything, he's still wriggling under England and bucking his chest up when England bites him there, but-"You did something...you put something..."
"I said you'd be getting the lash with your rum," England says, and shoves his knee up between America's legs to press against whatever else is on his cock and there's not just the weight of his leg pressing in, there's something harder, cooler, something his cock's throbbing against and every time he swells it tightens around him more. "And you said I wasn't to cane you with it."
"Well no," he says, he does remember that more or less clearly, and he guesses this isn't-oh. Oh. Hard and cool and gripping his cock, it all clicks. "You-" he says when he can catch enough breath, "that's a, um, you just-do you carry around cock rings or something?"
"Only for you," England says in the shell of his ear, and then bites it. He gnaws there, always gnawing, grinds up with his teeth, slowly, the way he's pushing up and in with his knee and bracing with his hands. They're spread on America's skin, palming him smoothly through the sweat.
America shouts, bucks his hips and brings his knees up, he can't keep his legs stretched flat on the ground anymore. It feels like he's dragging his heels through something-water, maybe-but it's still easy to curl in on himself, sink down and down and down and let England pull him back up again.
"Which is why I insisted you say yes." All the Ss in it leave trails of breath on America's skin, make his hair prickle. "So I can touch you," England says, and does, brushes one hand up America's shaft, "and touch you, and touch you..."
He's not whining, no really, he's not whining, he's just letting out this high keening noise trapped in his throat. He tries to rub more of himself against England but he must've got the distance wrong or England must've moved because there's nothing new grinding on his cock, nothing that's enough.
England withdraws to only his hands, one scant touch after another--his fingertips and then his nails and then his knuckles, just swipes and scrapes on America's shaft, nothing more, nothing more. "And touch you," he punctuates all of them with, "and touch you, until you can't take it, and then fuck you to prove you can."
America moans because yeah there are words for what he wants to do to England but they slip away from him when he tries to grab them so he grabs England instead, swipes at his shoulders and grips the cloth of his shirt and says, "Don't stop, don't stop..."
"That's the point. I won't have to." England hisses, and then curls one hand fully around America's cock, strokes up hard and then traces the head with his thumb, slow teasing circles. God, America just whets himself on that touch, those hands, he's not even sure how hard he's pulling on England's shirt but he's kind of using that to lift himself up so he can arch off the ground just a little, enough for-something, leverage, anything. "Really, I do like this arrangement." England sounds like he's discussing a trade agreement but dark, smirking and whispering, pressing slow kisses to America's forehead and cheek and chin. "You get what you always demand, no teasing, just touching; I get to take it at my pace. It's ingenious, I say."
"Still teasing if I can't-" But the stupid words thing trips him up again and he tries to twist his neck around so England'll at least kiss him right but his head flops to the side instead, everything about him feels all floppy and loose-limbed and shivery...except his cock, that's solid as a post, and that's keeping him anchored.
"Oh, you can," England murmurs before taking America by the chin in his free hand, and turning it up so that they're lip-to-lip if not eye-to-eye. At least they kind of match. "When I say you can."
This time, America just moans, moans and aches and he'd say he slumps except his hips are still shaking.
But England still has that grip on his face, and kisses him as he topples over: square on the mouth, and hard, demanding, his tongue shoving in the way his fingers were before and tracing the same places. He bites America's lip and kneads in time with his hand on America's shaft, forceful and tight. So tight-America can't even breathe, gasps into England's mouth and chokes and feels dizzy when England laughs against his lips, dark and warm. It makes him think of the rum, and when he does that his skin prickles again, heats up under England's touches, and he licks England's tongue when he can, half-sucks on all the parts of England's mouth pressed up against his.
England hums smugly into that, and America can feel that buzz on his teeth. But he doesn't taunt him any more like that, he starts stroking America harder, faster, tighter at the base, but then he pulls back around the head and barely touches at all where it's most sensitive. America's hips are quaking and he's half resting his weight on them and half-not, but nothing under him really feels solid so he's not sure if he wants to rest on it, not with the way the world shudders and tilts. England's hand burns and America can't quite-he can't fuck it right, can't tell if the skin on his cock's starting to scream or sing.
England gives America his tongue to fuck, shoves it deep into America's mouth and pushes America down again with the force of it. America takes it, can't do a whole lot more than that with England pinning him and that ring trapping his shaft. England's hand rakes faster, fingers spreading out to tease more of him at once, god, it feels like all of him's pulsing under England, shuddering up into his hands and mouth and ow his teeth. He forgot about those. Well. Until England bit him, because now they're tugging on his lip and sucking-can teeth suck? His head's swimming around, all his thoughts are sloshing inside and spilling over each other until they all run together...
And then all at once, England pulls back and lets go, lets America thud to the floor and leaves his thumb circling the tip of America's cock.
He's pretty sure he cries out then-"England," he says, flails out with his heels but only hits the ground and England's smirk stretches even wider, "England get-get back-"
"Where?" England's thumb twists, that one nail scraping just under the slit and then smoothing out the wetness with the pad of his thumb; America yelps. "Get back to what?" England asks.
"When-Ah, when you were all touching me, and-and stuff like that..." He lifts his hand in the air, waves it around or at least lets it flop there, tries to show England like that what he meant.
England catches that hand and brings it to his mouth, sucks on America's fingers the way he's not sucking on America's cock, where his other hand's still idling, teasing. America tries to curl his fingers in England's mouth, move his feet closer to his chest or farther from it, just something, but the constant throbbing keeps distracting him and pulling his mind back to his cock and England's hand there isn't helping-isn't helping enough, that's the problem, god he wants to come so bad...
But all England does is tease him, suck him one place and trace him the other and there just isn't enough pressure, isn't enough anything.
"Harder," America gasps, "harder, c'mon..."
England drills his nails into America's wrist when he pries his hand away. Spit flies through the air, spatters on America's cheek. "You want it harder," England snaps, "you'll get it," and his wet hand pins America down by the chest, right on his sternum-the other curls around his shaft and starts jerking him off like there's no time to savor it.
And America thumps his fists against the floor, wails; the speed and the force almost knock him flat on his back except he's already lying down but if he wasn't he'd be stretched out even more than he is now. England's hand works him up and down and part of him's pinned but the parts that aren't are shuddering, rising.
"Harder," England says, like it's hateful. "More. You're only asking for it," he says, and the rhythm of his strokes picks up and shoves down, "and I wonder how much you really want to take."
"I can, I can take it," he says, stuttering over the words, his breath's coming in faster every time England speeds up and he keeps tripping over that, over the heat rolling up and down the length of him, from his curled-up toes to the sweat-slicked hair at the back of his neck.
"Well, then," England says, and he's smirking, how can America still see that he's smirking? "I'd like to see it," and England bows his head to start licking the parts of America's cock that his hand isn't jerking.
"Oh god," he thinks he hears himself say, "oh god oh god," and then the words just kind of dissolve and he swivels his hips up but England's hand slams into his sternum and forces him back down, so it's England who ends up deciding when he wants to give America more of that wet heat, and it sears him so much that it's almost cold instead...
And England keeps kissing and sucking him there, slicking him up so his hand can move faster, twisting his tongue around the head before his thumb does the same thing and then licking, god, licking between his fingers as he pulls up and down. There's something wet gathering at the corners of America's eyes from it, from how he aches under that ring and how his hips seize and thrash and won't stay still but can't move England, either, or get him to take this thing off oh christ the soreness is, it's slipping down his legs and up his chest and making him tighten everywhere and isn't booze supposed to make you looser?
But then England's mouth engulfs him completely, his hand stills and America wants to shout don't but doesn't because England's tongue is licking a sharp seam up until it can't lick anymore and the tip reaches just under the metal ring, oh-
And that time he shouts, it's not drawn out but it's a-how does he even slip his tongue under there, it's too tight, too tight and hot, there's red bursting behind his eyes but his legs keep stretching further and further apart and he still can't push everything into England's mouth that he wants to, still can't-can't take, except maybe he can, he can't even tell...
The walls of England's mouth draw in, and he's laughing somehow, America can feel laughter through the throbbing of his blood. He bucks into that, what England's offering, but the ring's squeezing him even tighter and that makes him gasp so hard he almost chokes on it and everything in his head's getting blocked like that, compressed and cut off and, and other things, see, he can't even think what they are.
England withdraws again and how-how can he leave America with nothing like that, it's not fair-but this time he plunges back down, thank god, not around America's cock but along it, kissing underneath until he comes to the ring again and circles it with his tongue and lips. That ring, that stupid ring, America just wants-"England, stop," he says, but no, he doesn't want him to stop the touching, just the part where it's not enough. "I mean. Don't stop, just-it hurts, I want to-"
"You want to be fucked?" England says, hissing against America's swollen skin, and America tightens all over when England's breath brushes him but maybe he's pulling more of himself together? Maybe. "You want me to put you on your hands and knees and see how much you can take?"
"I-yeah," he says, because he literally can't think of the words for anything else. "Yeah, do it, god, fuck me-"
And England yanks up on America's shoulders, but they hit the table and America barely has time to register that. There's a clatter, something spills and drips, but England places America on all fours and somewhere in the chaos of sound there's also a belt buckle being undone and cloth coming down and something uncapping. And there's something wet dripping into America's hair, too, something sticky that makes his scalp tingle-it's the rum, his hair's getting soaked with the rum, and he laughs except there's no sound except this thin high moan that dribbles out of him.
England must notice it too, because then his hand is tangled there, holding America still while the rum pours down onto him. It drizzles down his cheek and America tries to swipe it up with his tongue but his mouth won't make the right shapes for it and just kind of hangs open instead, slackjawed while he pants. England's other hand is coated with something cold and working its fingers into America's ass, two right at the start, spreading, twining. America seizes around Engand's fingers at first and his breath catches somewhere in his chest but then that lets go and so do his muscles, slowly, as long as he keeps breathing even if it's shallow he can ride this through. The rum's gumming up his skin when it dries, he feels that, too.
England twists his fingers, finds America's prostate and kneads at it pitilessly, pushes his hips and his own cock against his working hand to taunt him further, and America's elbows are going to collapse right under him soon if England keeps this up. His head heats up and his thoughts fly away to somewhere else and he thinks he hears his knees thumping against the ground and he keeps muttering, "England-oh-"
"Say you want it," England says, and spreads his fingers inside, gets good and deep.
What else can he say when England rubs him there-oh-"Nn-I want it, I want it so bad-"
England pulls back sharp on America's hair so that his back arches-his fingers slip out, and a moment later his cock starts sliding in, with his fingers spread beside it to keep America's ass spread and slick it up too. It's so much it's so much and England pushing in pushes more sound out of his throat, broken-up moans, and his breath's falling in hot dizzy swirls and his head's as rich and warm as the rum is and the feeling drips down until it soaks his skin all the way through-"Yes-"
Once he's seated deep and solid England just stays, like he can't get over the heat either-he starts fucking America slow and shallow, barely thrusting at all.
America pushes back as much as he can manage but holding himself upright's hard enough so mostly he focuses on that, on letting England's hands and hips propel him forward and back. The one's still snarled in his hair and the rum's-not clotting, that's not the word, it's drying but it's still sticky or at least it feels dryer but everything feels dry now: the air he's breathing, his mouth, his cock-that's burning with a horrible searing dry heat.
England's hips are pulsing forward now, almost thrusting but still only like he's riding, riding and using America's hair as the rein-still shallow but faster now, a little faster, like he's trying to rub America inside with his cock the way he had with his fingers. "You like that?" he murmurs, voice hoarse and accent thick, "you like it in you?"
America's back dips, and that makes him thrust out his ass more, makes his head arch back into England's hand, makes the weight get concentrated on his hands and knees and sends shivers rolling up his arms, legs, chest. Everywhere, just everywhere, he feels it all over, and England's sliding smooth and steady in and out and every time America thinks he's about to drift off the tug on his shaft brings him back and he-he doesn't whimper but he could-"Mm-yeah, feels-"
England grabs him on the flank with his other hand, shoves him forward. The sound their slick skin makes slapping together echoes off the underside of the table, rings in America's ears. "Ah-" he gasps, shit if he could just-if he could touch himself, even, if the ring wasn't in the way or if he wouldn't topple over if he moved his hand because he honestly thinks he could collapse, that England would drive him into the ground like this. Not in-not in a bad way, the only bad thing now is the pressure building up behind his eyes since his hips aren't grinding against anything but air, but-England's strokes hit the gland and keep battering at him there and America's fists clench and so does his ass, oh god he wants to come-
-but that thrust only gives way to another, harder, demanding, England's even forcing America's hips back and forward to his own rhythm. And all that does is shove him deeper, faster each time, and he's groaning or laughing or something between.
They aren't even words, the sounds streaming from his mouth, just moans, the world's shaking around his head even though England's holding it in place-his head or the world, or both, America can't even tell and England's in him so deep and America doesn't know if he's shouting or whispering but either way his throat's scratched raw and the rest of him feels like that, too, red and aching.
And the rhythm's slipping, breaking, England shoves himself in deep and America writhes but England doesn't come, doesn't end this, just stops and holds on and leans over America's back, sweat dripping off his chin and mixing with the sticky rum. "I'm close, you know," he says, half-breathless in America's ear. "I could finish."
America digs his nails into something, the floorboards or his hands, and groans-christ he's so stuffed full everywhere, he can barely breathe. He feels England pulsing or maybe that's just him, he can't even tell and everything's blurring and running together and the tightness in his cock's spreading itself out all over him and drawing his neck taut, stretching his skin out. "What do you-what d'you want me to-"
"Oh, nothing new." England's voice is all smirky; he starts rolling his hips in deep and circling, teasing. He can't-it's not fair, he can't think when England does that-"I mean, you'll never beg, so there's no point in drawing it out for that..."
"It hurts, it-it's so much, I need-I can't-oh god-"
"It hurts?" When England hisses like that it's almost a chuckle, but his voice is thick and his breath's grinding the way his hips are. "Show me where it hurts, America."
"My-" He squeezes his eyes shut, tighter tighter like everything in him's gathering tighter. "My cock-"
The hand on America's hip slips lower and in, cupping the side of America's balls. "All that kissing it made nothing better?" England grinds in, strokes the metal ring, everything harsh.
And America cries out and bucks into that touch, into the pressure, but it's still not enough and it's just making him choke and gasp and swell and-"Can't-I can't come like this-"
"Oh that's what you want," England says like he's pretending he's surprised, and then he pulls out -no no no-and thrusts in once, deep, so deep, something bruises and stretches and aches and England strokes America's sac gently, god, he's so swollen, so tight. America doesn't even know how he's keeping himself upright, everything's spinning and shaking and seizing in his head and outside it and the two aren't the same thing but it feels like they are or could be and England's buried in him, England's everywhere, England's pressing down on his back and cupping his balls and he still wants, he needs more.
"And how do you propose I do that for you?" England asks, somewhere-somewhere in all that.
"Don't-I don't care I just want to-want you to-"
England thrusts again: steady, slow, in, how is he so steady right now, but at the end his fingertips stroke around the ring until they stop at the base. He yanks on America's hair with his other hand, pulls so that his chin turns up sharp and he's vulnerable, exposed-"You want me to-make sure you come, don't you."
"Yes, yes, yes," he can't say yes enough-
And England flicks something open, something open around him-
-and that's enough to send America toppling over the edge-he shouts, he thinks he shouts louder than he has in his life and he comes so hard his teeth ache and he swears he can't hear anything for...at least half a minute, maybe longer, he can't even tell, he's too sore and breathless and giddy, giddy everywhere...
Somewhere in that haze England is still grinding his hips and pushing and forcing America's ass back and open-he comes in the middle of all that, moans raggedly and collapses on America's back, shoving them both to the floor. Oof.
America's not even going to try to stop that, he still feels floppy all over and it's a good floppy and England's warm and also America's really sore but it's maybe starting to ebb a little or at least the heat from the burn's starting to feel good. Sweet, even. Like a hot tub. Or something.
England's petting him like he's a cat or something, up and down his sides, his neck, his hair. He's kissing something away, too, licking the smear of rum off his neck. "Fuck," he murmurs, "that was the Pusser Blue."
"Heh," America says weakly, "Pusser."
But England keeps sucking that up, kisses America's hair and tongues the shell of his ear. "Better with sodomy than lime," he says.
"Mmhmm," America says, lets his head flop to the side so England can kiss more of it. It's nice. Everything's pretty nice.
So England keeps touching, drawing his lips and hands through America's sticking sweat and America kind of lets him. It's weird, a little, but England's weird and England's touching him and petting him, just him, just him in England's arms. "I do love it when you're almost mine."
"That's cause you're possessive. And obsessive. And stuff." Hey, they kind of sound the same.
There's a thudding sound and a kind of roll like a heavy coin on the floor. England's dropped the ring, and then he just starts caressing America's sides again. "Am not obsessive."
"Are so," America counters, mostly because he has to.
England slips off him, but turns America over onto his back so he can sprawl on top of him again and kiss more of the drying rum away. "Am not."
America blinks up at him, smiles even though it feels really bleary, slides his palm down England's cheek. "Yeah you are. But it's okay."
"Oh?" That swipe of his lips becomes a kiss between America's eyes. "All of a sudden you like being possessed?"
"Naaaaah." He wrinkles up his nose. "Not that, just-you want me. You want me a lot. I want you to-you know. Like the song."
England pulls back, looks him in the eyes. "Song?"
He clears out his throat as best he can. "I want you to want me," he sings. Not sure he's in the right key, but oh well, no big. "I need you to need me. You know, that one."
"From that Shakespeare parody. Right. That." But England smirks. "Well, good. Because I want you a great deal."
America's grinning from ear to ear, and he just kind of says, "Me too." He just-he just feels like he can say it. Right now. Yeah.
"Mm." England pulls his hands up, cups America's cheeks, strokes him and holds him and kisses his forehead again. "And I like making you say it."
"'Course you do. Kinky old man."
"Inconsiderate lout."
"Yeah, yeah."
.