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The International Awesome Pirate Weekend: Director's Cut [2] (Hetalia, England/America/Japan)
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America's not sure if the tossing and turning's the ship, the hammock, him, or some combination of the three, but either way he keeps jerking awake at the oddest hours whenever the thing gives a really violent lurch, and when he tries to settle back to sleep the side-to-side motion's more offputting than lulling. Finally he manages to keep his eyes screwed shut for long enough that his limbs get heavy, drape over the sides of the hammock, his fingers almost brushing the planks -- okay, maybe he can sleep like this. As long as he doesn't fall out or anything.

And then something -- something snarls and grabs America's hair and yanks him closer for their lips to crash together, upside-down and violent.

-- well that's one way to wake up. America seizes, snaps his head back and his legs out and yeah, the hammock dunks him onto the floor then but the figure -- England, it has to be England -- England's still got a death-grip on his hair and he's hauling America upright by it and, "Son of a bitch --"

England drags America almost to standing, leans close enough that America can look him in the eyes. They're, okay they're not glowing but -- "Should I have gotten in with you?" England asks before pushing America back down, pushing them both back down until the hammock is half-supporting their weight. He snarls his hand in America's hair and kisses him greedily, his other hand thrust out to make sure the hammock holds steady, for now.

"England," America tries to say, but England's kissing him too hard and fast and plunging his tongue into America's mouth and America ends up half-moaning around it instead until he wrenches his head to the side, gathers enough air, says "England I was sleeping --"

"You aren't now," is all England says before he captures that mouth again, grinds his hips against America's until the hammock creaks, rhythmically.

Point. The hammock groans and America's sure the ropes are going to snap but they don't yet, they just snare his back and brace it against England's weight bearing down on him -- America's hips are moving too, arching to meet England's, it's habit more than anything because god knows America's brain still isn't quite here and what the hell is England doing...

England wedges America's legs apart, shifts from this grinding to a long slow pull of his hips up the spread of America's legs, pelvis, belly -- like he's claiming them, almost, a nuzzle of his body while their mouths are more darkly occupied. He bites America's lips and then kisses the swell, circles his tongue on America's chin in the dark. America shudders, tilts his head back until he's sure it's going to fall or would if England's hand wasn't there anchoring him. "England, look, it's not that I don't appreciate this but --"

"But?" England raises his eyebrow, challenging, and eases the pressure of his hips a little, pulls back enough that his eyes can be seen. "Not here?"

"Well I mean it's kind of late and I think this thing's going to break --"

"Well then." England tosses his head and then runs his fingers over the hammock's hook, keeping America trapped against it with not-quite-still hips. "Then you can brace yourself, or suggest somewhere else for me to have you. Against that post? Over that barrel? Here on the floor on your hands and knees? I'm open to anything," he adds, breath breaching America's lips.

"The -- the floor, I guess," America says, though he's admittedly not really thinking about the answer when he says it, he's more focused on how he can't see anything in the dark and how he really can't see anything in the dark with his glasses off and England's eyes are still almost glowing and that's kind of unsettling and he's twisting America's hair hard enough to pull it out by the roots, it feels like.

"I've got you," England whispers, rolls America onto his stomach so the ropes support his chest, and then they don't -- America hears the chink of the hammock being unhooked and the ropes sag and drop and America plummets to the ground --

-- well, not quite, England jerks hard on his hair and hooks one of his forearms around America's waist, but his knees and elbows smack the planks pretty hard and his nose almost does too and England's weight rests heavy on his back, and not just resting but pressing, grinding him into the ground.

But England's hands are caressing him now, tracing not gentle but reverent paths down America's cheeks and neck and spine, reaching to rub all the places he might have hurt. He lets go of America's hair to card his nails down his scalp, not a scratch but a sharper touch -- and America does shiver, it's the contrast, the gentleness after the shock, and he's shifting into the paths England's tracing, arching his back before he realizes he's doing it, and he chokes on something when England's nails trace his scalp, he's just not sure what. "England --"

"Yes?" England keeps petting him, trapping him against the floor with his body but keeping his hands to the barest of touches: the shell of an ear, the spur of a bone, the standing hairs on America's forearms.

"What's this about -- ah." England's hands are so light and the rest of him's so overbearing, solid, it's weird --

"I thought that was quite clear," England says, tracing his fingertips over America's ribs, one after the other. "I intend to fuck you."

"Yeah, I -- ah -- I got that part." America's palms maybe aren't as solid as they should be, on the ground. "But walking in here in the middle of the night and -- and the rest --"

"What rest?" England puts his lips near the highest bones at America's neck and breathes.

Even that's almost enough to make his eyes flutter shut. "The way you're -- what you're doing, the -- the grabbing me and everything else --"

"Grabbing you, kissing you, waking you?" America feels England's smirk pressed into the back of his neck, and then it's gone, England pulls away and there's just the wetness and tingling his mouth left behind and America half-shivering from the absence. England taunts, "Should I ask you to forgive my eagerness?"

"It's not the eagerness --"

"Good." England kisses him there between the bones of his neck, like it's a reward. "We have an understanding, then."

"I -- I guess --" It's the demanding thing, though, England's not just asking, he's taking, that's what's different, that's -- he's too tired to think about that, to process it, that must be why his limbs feel like they're mired in fog, why the things going through his head aren't matching up quite right.

One of England's hands works its way under them both, teases at the soft skin just below America's navel. "Consent," England says, and it's hard to tell if it's a command or an offer or a request. He nudges America's abdomen up off the floor, strokes in the gaps between his muscles and down, down, a fraction of an inch lower with each gentle touch.

Oh hell, is the bastard going to do this slow? America hates it when he inches along like this, especially when he's hard and ready and it's at least three in the morning and he doesn't know whether he wants to get off or go back to sleep more. He rocks up into England's hand, though, encourages him, yeah, keep touching me, come on, let's do this. "Well yeah I -- oh --"

That gets America a firm sucking kiss more toward the side of his neck, and America feels and hears England's smile as he murmurs approval. His hips press higher and his hand caresses lower, lower, almost, almost but still not there. Shit, he's going to go slow, isn't he. "Good. I expect to make you enjoy it."

Well, he almost sounds normal now? Maybe if America jokes or something he can break whatever it is that's gathering in this room, whatever's making his stomach tighten and the spit on the back of his neck chill. "Not if you go all slow I won't."

England pulls back his knee and whacks America soundly in the hamstring, and America barely has time to gasp "ow" before England pries his hand aside and elbows him down flat on the shoulderblade. He lays his arm over the back of America's neck, grabs on his hair, and whispers, tenderly in his ear: "And here I thought you were complaining about my earlier behavior," before prying America's face up from the floor and seizing his mouth.

"I --" he starts to say but the sound's swallowed, burned away by the pain spiking in his back and leg and then the whisper chills him, there's so much going on in his head and running around and he still can't see and he doesn't know what to do with all of it, it's too much, why can't he figure out how to make it simpler, because now there's not the -- he always knows what the right thing to do is, but what is it now?

England rolls America over brutally, drops him on his back and then pounces, claims America's body and mouth, presses their tongues and groins together to match the heat. While America's arms are still struggling and confused England grabs them by the wrists and pins them with his own, out sideward, in the shape of a cross. The ship tosses beneath them and England rides with the motion, grinds against America and lets the waves strengthen that. America surges beneath him but it's like the ship itself is keeping him pinned down, is forcing him in place; his nails bite into his palms and England's teeth catch his lips and his tongue's pressing in thick enough to suffocate -- but America doesn't, somehow, the darkness doesn't get any, well, it doesn't get lighter but it doesn't grow, either, and heat starts to pool and gather in America's groin, swelling with the rough thrusts. England's coaxing him with his own circling hips, and it's like his tongue is mirroring that, tracing the walls of America's mouth. His thumbs do the same thing, rounding the pulse points of America's wrists, kneading the skin and the bones beneath, all to the rock of the waves.

And oh does America feel the pull and drag of that, the ebb and flow of pressure, England's thumbs jabbing and circling and tracing. America's tongue tangles with England's but England's the one guding, impelling, forcing all of this forward and there's nowhere for America to pull back even if he wanted to (does he want to?) The gestures only get stronger, more forceful and urgent until it's almost as if England's rocking the ship as America ruts back along the planks and the sprawled net of the hammock. America's swollen, everywhere, the sides of his throat and his wrists and his cock and he's making stuttered sounds into England's mouth and shifting his hips up, he feels England rubbing against his thigh. The sheer sweltering heat of it makes him harder and the planks are starting to scrape the skin England's exposed but there's so much adrenaline running through him right now that he barely minds, he's almost giddy.

Somewhere along the line, those relentless touches shift to England taking, scooping motions with his fingers and tongue and sharp thrusts of his hips, implying what and how through his clothes and America's shorts. America still can't touch England back or even use his legs to guide him, really, England's got them pinned too well, but he indicates that it's good with how he rolls his hips back, how he sucks on England's tongue, how he shifts into his hands -- he's going to be pretty banged up tomorrow morning and he's probably gonna go to sleep sore but that's okay, he likes it rough, he's never minded it rough, if England just wanted to rough him up he could've asked. (Is that -- that is what England wants, right?)

England pulls back, humming approvingly, and raises himself up to his knees to withdraw his hips until only the minutest seam of his breeches is pressed to the front of America's shorts. All his weight's in the grip of America's wrists and now his tongue and hips are doing what his hands were before, the ghost of touch where there'd been violence and the lack of contact's enough to make America gasp again -- his wrists twitch but England keeps them fixed to the planks -- his hips buck under England's but the friction's still not enough -- "Why -- hey, don't stop, it's getting good --"

Laughing -- and there's something almost horrible about the sound, something harsh and cold -- England nips America's lips and scrapes both of America's arms along the floor, matching them over America's head and taking them in the same right hand. He works his left between their bodies where they're not touching anymore, claws down America's chest to settle just above his groin. "Getting good," he rasps into America's mouth, feigning offense, "you haven't known good." And then he pins their hips together again, now with his hand trapped and intimating more between.

"What, you're saying you weren't good when I was with you before?" -- that's better, if he could just get his hand a little lower...the claw-marks are still burning on America's chest, throbbing, and he squirms his hips around so England's hand will be positioned a little better, a little closer...and England must know precisely what America's trying to do and doesn't let him, keeps his fingertips out of that reach. Shit.

"Good," England growls, "isn't only getting what you want."

"England come on, you said you wanted to fuck me..." America's not whining, he isn't, but he's at least as hard as the mast on this ship and England must be too, so come on come on --

"It's getting what you deserve," England finishes, and tents his fingers so that the nails press in to the soft flesh just over America's cock, "and don't you deserve more than just to be fucked, America?"

"What do you -- oh christ --" America didn't think he could get harder but he is and he's close but it's still not right and oh jesus how long is he going to make America wait? "-- what do you have in mind?"

England relents his nails to a gentle caress just slightly out of time with his hips and their upward motion. He bears down with everything else, harsh and rough and everywhere, sucking on America's exposed throat, kneading shoulder with shoulder, thigh with thigh.

"-- ah --" America writhes and pushes up into England's touch and rocks back as much as he can, which isn't actually that much, and that's all he can do unless he breaks out of this hold or unless England speeds the hell up but the flush spreading over his skin feels so good now, if only England would touch him a little lower everything would be absolutely damn perfect.

"Louder," England commands him, grinding down harder -- like a challenge, America can hear that dark smirky note in his voice --

And America grits his teeth, grins. "You don't care if I -- if I wake everyone else up?"

England pinches America at the base of his cock to answer that.

"Oh hell --" he shouts, christ that hurt, you don't, ah, you don't do that, not there, ow --

-- but maybe that's the sound that England wanted and now he encircles America there, curls a loose fist and strokes him through the cloth of his shorts and affixes his hips right on top of that, which keeps America from thrusting.

"There, yeah --" At least it's something, something to relieve the pressure and something to whet himself against, almost, or something he could use if he could move but at least he's being touched, at least England's paying attention. England pets him there, swipes and wriggles of his fingers that start to insinuate through the flap of his shorts -- America feels the heat coming off England's fingers and he's hot too, hot and hard and aching. America keeps twisting, or trying to, just a few more inches and he'll be there, England will finally be touching him and America can almost feel the heat from England's hand taking shape but the pressure's still not enough.

England grips America's wrists tightly but keeps the hand on his shorts loose and gentle and not quite there, cupping him and tapping his fingers. He reaches lower, to where America's shorts are chafing at his skin, and trails his touch over America's inner thighs, a little farther back to where they join -- America jumps -- and England hooks his fingers through the crotch of the shorts and tugs, lets the elastic inch down.

"Ah, ah, oh god --" How long is this going to go on? America's mouth is dry, dry and burning like the rest of him. He's practically seizing in England's hand, bucking and shuddering into anything he can touch, which still isn't enough, nowhere near enough, and it's worse because of how close England's fingers are, how much he could be touching but isn't. England tugs the shorts down a little more with each thrust of his hips against his hand. "There, right there --" the waistband of his boxers compresses and chafes a little but at least it's something, at least it's pressure, at least England's baring more of his skin and bringing his hand closer, somewhere America can almost reach if he could just shift down a little and circle his hips right --

"Tell me where," England hisses against America's cheek. "Loudly. Now."

"My -- my cock," America almost chokes over the words, "touch my cock," he's going to explode if England doesn't, he swears.

With a pause and a smug little 'hmph' sound, England yanks America's shorts down violently to trap his thighs, and while America's still winded from that he starts beneath, brushes his fingers on America's balls and then up to drape his fist around his length --

"Yes," America says, and he keeps saying it, "yes," until it practically doesn't mean anything anymore, it's just sound, sound to urge England to keep doing this, to keep him here and touching America, stroking him, taking him in hand -- the elastic pins his thighs together when he tries to spread them apart so he can thrust, and America clenches his teeth and shakes all over.

And England does touch him, does rake his fist up and down, harder and faster than he usually does for America -- twinges of nail press in but mostly it's just his fingers in their loose grasp, the swift twists around the head to spread the sweat and make this easier, faster, and America's fingers flex and contract, flex and contract -- he tries to dig his heels into the planks for traction but the way his legs are trapped makes that hard. Sure, the ship's supporting him, but he's not supporting himself, he's just letting the sea and England rock him back and forth and up and down and god can't both of them go faster, he might moan faster, he's not sure.

"What was that?" England murmurs, kneading his thumb about the head, in time with the same harsh swipes on America's wrists.

"Ah -- faster -- go faster --" christ America almost wails when England's thumb nudges him like that, presses -- it's so much, it's overwhelming, but it's still not enough, still not what he needs, and the contrast's making him dizzy and giddy and leaving his mouth hanging open as he pants for more, more.

"Faster?" England almost laughs, doesn't stop but doesn't speed up either. "Fast enough to make you come? Already. Aren't you demanding," he chides, and licks the smear of his breath off America's cheek. It's the same pattern as the drier motions of his hand on America's length.

"I want to, ah, you're driving me -- you're driving me crazy here --" already, why is England saying already, it feels like it's been ages since England kissed him awake and threw him to the ground and pinned him here or maybe time's getting lost in the things that keep crashing through his body, the heat and the need and the burning want of it all.

England's hand stills, but his fingers don't, circling the head and tapping on the shaft, tracing the slit and veins -- "You consented to my fucking you," England reminds America, and then nips the shell of his ear, "I don't expect to be denied."

"No no, I want you to," he tries to say, to reassure him. And he does want it, the thought of England inside him makes him ache even more than he already did; he looks up, or somewhere up, into the blurred darkness engulfing him, drawing him down, doesn't even try to stop his hips from shaking or his lips from shivering.

"Say it again," England commands him, stroking harsh, more a pull than a caress, each time. "Explicitly."

"Want you to -- ah --" god it feels like his entire body's being dragged up "-- you know -- you know what I --"

England stops, and growls. "Say it."

"Goddamnit England I want you to fuck me," America gasps, "England, fuck me --"

For that he gets a kiss, bruising and devouring. England lets off his cock and gives America his hip to whet himself on instead. It sounds like England's rummaging around in his boot for something and brings it up to their faces, but America can't see what it is in the dark. He breaks the kiss, demands of America, "Open your mouth," and America's so busy frotting himself against England's hip that he almost doesn't hear that.

But he does, barely, and he parts his lips again. They're still stinging from that earlier kiss, flushed and swollen, and England places the cork of whatever that was on America's bottom teeth, taps it once. "Bite down."

America nods, bites -- the cork tastes awful, like boot leather and oil mixed with, well, cork, but he doesn't spit it out, just tightens his teeth on the damn thing. It must be what they used on Japan earlier, it smells like it and it worked okay, so --

England twists the phial, sharply enough that America's chin doesn't quite jerk with it, but it uncaps, and a little bit of the oil drip onto America's face and chest. "Spit," he commands. America's glad to do it. He tries to shake off some of the drops of oil clinging to his face but that doesn't really work. England then taps the bottom of the bottle against America's neck, just under his chin. "Press your chin to your chest," he says, he grinds up with his hipbone, and America rocks against that more firmly.

He keeps doing that even when he tucks his chin like England tells him to, though he's not sure what's prompting that one -- but the friction on his cock almost burns the question out of his mind. Almost. "Why tuck -- why tuck my chin --"

England taps America's cheek with the oil on his fingertips and pulls back, lets his hand down between America's legs again, press two wet fingers at his arse. "A good enough reason for you?" Oh, he must have needed America to hold it so it could pour --

"Y -- aah, yeah --" America chokes out, rolls his hips back as much as he can so the angle will be better, finally finally. England jerks up onto his knees, spreading America's legs apart and pinning them with his own. He slides one finger in and puts even more weight on America's trapped wrists, and America squrims and gasps and grinds down. He starts out slower, just breathing, getting used to the pressure but he's done all this before, he knows how to adjust and once he has he moves as much as he can, sees how much of England's finger he can take and it's the best kind of heat, it is. England circles that finger inside him, but he's holding back and only the tip of his finger even close to touches America's prostate and America could almost scream but he doesn't, not yet. England traces the pucker there, scrapes America's inner thighs with his nails. "God yes, oh, yeah, more," he pants, throws himself into the thrusts and shifts and his thighs tremble when England scrapes up them but in a good way, all the motion's good right now because it brings him into contact with England, England and his hands, and he needs that, needs what that touch is offering and needs the thrills shooting through him that it provokes.

"More, more, more," England repeats with a cluck of his tongue. "Always more with you." He sighs, America feels that, and with that laden breath he thrusts the second finger into America's ass and stops being delicate about it, pushing in and withdrawing, letting the tip of his longer finger actually press -- yes -- on the gland at the apex of each push.

America thrashes in England's grasp, gets throaty whenever England kneads the gland -- oh god more there, blood's rushing to the surface of his skin everywhere and his hips are stuttering in this high needy way and it's not enough to come from but it's enough to drown him in whatever he's feeling, everything he's feeling.

England stops thrusting, curls both fingers down -- the three that are still outside, he scratches America's thighs with, even as he presses the two inside to America's prostate and flickers the tips back and forth, almost -- almost tickling, and America squirms and wriggles and absolutely none of this is fair. "More of what?"

"More of you, more of you touching --" Something's hammering at his ribs, his blood or his breath or both, and England's knuckles push down and his nails drag and America's legs jerk and twitch from all the teasing --

"More of me." England smirks, pushes his fingers in deep, breathes the words into him. "Do you know who I am, America?"

"You're, ah, you're England," he says. The words catch and die a few times before he can get them out, the pressure inside him's too overwhelming, too wonderfully solid.

"More than that," he chides, twists his hand, thrusts hard before withdrawing -- there's a slick sound somewhere in the dark, the slap of skin on skin --

America shakes again, or continues shaking, he's not sure if he's stopped moving since England got serious about touching him even if he's been drawing it out like this -- his wrists are almost numb, England's been grasping them for so long. He makes himself relax enough for -- for what's coming, encourages his muscles to ease, unclench, loosen like that, that's better --

Almost all at once, England lets his knees off America's thighs, wedges himself beneath America to pull him into his lap and his cock's nudging but not in, not there, not yet. All too calmly, almost purring, he asks again. "Do you know who I am?"

"The -- the United Kingdom, Great Britain, the British Isles..." England has as many names as America does, is he really going to make America go through all of them? Can America even concentrate enough to -- no, no he can't, not with England leaning over him like this and so close and god when is England going to fuck him already?

England starts pushing in, slowly, settling, seating himself deep -- yes yes yes, that, he's full everywhere, beautifully blisteringly full and the stings and aches from it are so slow, shuddering, sweet -- England's talking and America barely hears him through the fog filling his head at first but then the words slice through and they aren't enough to halt the burn but they pull him out of the heat a little, a little. "Conquered," America repeats, England said something about conquering so, so yeah, but America's half-dazed, the words are still shapes, they're not -- they're not sinking in the way they should be.

"Conquered," England says again, pulling out and thrusting brutally, "you're mine, America," and again, taking his own from it, until all those gasps of mine are just breath --

There's -- there's something cold crawling up his neck now, in between the searing thrusts. This is more than just England, and England was saying that earlier, wasn't he, do you know who I am, the -- he's talking about conquering and he's battering America with each push of his hips, whispering mine, he's acting like -- he must think he's -- oh christ. "The British Empire," America gasps at last, "you've been trying to say you're the --"

America doesn't get to say it again, not with how hard he's plowed into at that -- England folds onto America and thrusts without compunction or courtesy, rams America's ass until the sounds are less like flesh and more like bone. After every thrust England grinds up obscenely with his hip, swerving, tilting, taking, and America barely even has time to moan, his breath gets driven out of him too fast. England slams into him fast and unyielding and America's not sure if he's thrusting back or just accommodating and responding, he doesn't know what's moving him, just that he's moving and his ears are roaring like he's listening to the sea and he's stiff and sore and burning everywhere.

One hand is like a vice on America's wrists -- the other is holding his legs up and open -- they both tent up to nails, like England wants America not just around him but under him, in him, on every part of his skin. He bites at America's thigh, faster each time, more, more for him to -- America doesn't even know, to gather and suck and consume, maybe. The floor lurches sharply and England uses that to force America to take him deeper -- and America does, shudders from the force of each new thrust and the clawing pressure of England's hands, the scraping and dragging going on inside him, England's plunging in and out with abandon and taking him, claiming him, using him and America doesn't know how long he's been hard but he's sure he's going to burst from it soon. "Touch me," he says, "touch me --"

And England doesn't listen.

The thrusting doesn't stop -- not the biting either, or the clawing, the hoarse broken sounds that drill out of England's throat and into America's flesh. America cries out from the speed, yeah it's fast and he likes fast but it's just making him swell and tighten everywhere and there's no outlet for it and he's shaking so much, all over. "England, England, come -- come on, touch me --"

It doesn't relent, he doesn't relent, and England has him and has him and has him and fucks him raw.

He'd -- he'd break England's hold on his hands but his arms won't obey him, they might've fallen asleep, and it's weird to think of them falling asleep because the rest of him is tingling, surging, alive -- soreness spirals from his groin and radiates through the rest of him until he's stretching and scrabbling everywhere, searching for the contact he isn't getting.

England finds the breath between thrusts, somehow, "Did you -- want -- something?" and the next plunge down makes America scream.

-- He screams until his throat's wrung raw from it, "England, touch me, England, I need you to -- I want to -- I want to come --"

"And how -- do you get --" England tightens, bites, talons, drives his cock all the way in -- "-- what you want?"

"I -- aah -- I ask --" oh god it feels like he's getting speared from all directions.

"Ask," England growls -- and then stops, to wait for his answer.

"Will you --" no no don't stop don't "-- will you touch me?"

But his hands keep withdrawing, his teeth receding to lips and tongue, his cock pulling out slowly enough to burn --

"No no no don't stop," America's saying it out loud, he's actually -- "England, no, no --"

"You presume to command me, England murmurs huskily in the dark, and nearly all of that touch is gone, just the tips of his fingers and the swollen wetness at the head of his cock, pressed barely at all to America's ass.

"No, I'm not commanding, I'm -- I'm asking, England, I'm asking," he's babbling, he's almost begging, but he can't let England go away and leave him here like this, he can't --

"Ask, England snarls again, a low whisper, and his mouth is still near enough America's leg that he can feel it, just not touching--

"E-england," he knows what -- he knows what England wants but he can't, not that, he's never -- not during this, saying please is too much like begging even if he's begging already but saying that is just -- his head doesn't even make sense anymore, he's too crazy with wanting.

England thrusts in once, sharply, and withdraws to the same -- "Ask."

The words clog in his throat, they won't -- oh god that thrust, that's what he's missing, that's what he needs, that's -- "I need you -- I want you to touch me -- I -- I need -- England, England," he squeezes his eyes closed and grits his teeth and what comes out is more air than sound but it's still "please..."

The sound hangs in the air for a moment, broken and blissful, and England's whispering, "Yes."

He thrusts in again -- he lets his hand off America's knee and works it between them to touch the head of America's cock, fold his hand about it and pump as he thrusts in and out, finally, America could almost cry, it feels so -- England's coming, he's laughing, and America wails when he feels the slickness spreading inside him, the hand finally finally closing around his cock and yes oh god he's -- he's going to break soon, he can't take much more of this, and the pleasure of being touched drowns out the -- the whatever he felt after he said please -- and they're back where they started, hips and thumbs and tongue circling slowly -- but now it's not to tease but to give, he kneads America's flesh, urgent touches that stir and sap the heat.

He writhes in England's hands, in England's hands, England caresses and strokes and urges him and America responds, surges and stiffens and grinds his back into the planks, rocks with the sea and the ship and the motion of England's hands over him, on him, grabbing -- grabbing, and sliding, he's pulling out, but it's not over -- he bows his head to engulf America's cock with his mouth, to slide his hand down and take this from him too --

The sudden heat of his mouth is what does it -- America gasps or moans or does something between the two but either way he's coming and coming hard, seizing and stilling and spilling; something white-hot flares behind his eyes and dies down and the waves from -- from that, the aftershocks, they're still coursing through him and knocking the breath out of him again and again and again.

Everything, England takes everything down, and keeps licking and sucking and kissing even after it's done -- America is still shuddering in his mouth -- and between the kisses and nuzzles and scrapes, again he murmurs, "Mine. Mine."

America's too wound-up to argue right now -- wow is it really three in the morning? Later than that? He doesn't know, his brain's still kind of off somewhere else but his body likes what England's mouth is doing and he presses his hips towards England's mouth, offers more of himself up.

England presses his brow to America's groin, withdraws to kiss up his length to the head of his cock again, lick up the last of America's come. He swirls his tongue about the head -- and then lets go of everything, lets America thud to the deck and the twisted net of the hammock.

"Oof," America says, and his brain doesn't register much more than that, except England's not here anymore and it's kind of late and cold and wow and I can't see where he went.

"America," he says in the dark -- higher than he'd been, he must be standing.

"Mm?" he says, then thinks he should actually say something instead of just muttering. "Yeah?"

"Thank you." And then the footsteps start to taper away, blend into the rocking of the ship.

America blinks. And blinks again. And then the blinking dissipates, and his eyes just sort of drift shut...normally he'd be all for a round two or something, but well. He should probably pull up his shorts before he falls back asleep. And move his hands from where they're still stretched above his head, his palms pressed together. And...and other things...

...plenty of other things...

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SO MUCH PORN GUYS. SO MUCH PORN.