"Oof," England says, as his back hits the cushions. "Wait—France? Wait—what're you doing?"

"What did I tell you?" breathes France. "Stop talking already—"

"No—no," moans England, "I can't, this is—why're you kissing me?"

"Why did you kiss me?"

"I—I don't know," England whines. "I'm—I'm drunk, I don't know…"

"Well then," says France, impatiently, working his way out of his jacket and kicking off his boots, "I'll just keep going until you figure things out."

"That's crap," England protests, faintly, as France covers his lips with his own again and probes his tongue deep into his mouth. England writhes beneath him, his brain starting to feel like cotton candy, but he's got to stop this, somehow, because his erection is just going to get harder to explain the longer this goes on.

"France," England moans again, "you don't—you don't even feel guilty for doing this to me—?"

"You kissed me, idiot," France reminds him, again.

"Yeah, but Christ," hisses England, as France starts slobbering all over his neck. "France, m'not—m'not some bloody poof—"

"I am." France fumbles with his buttons, and the old sofa creaks when he moves. "God I need this—England, you're fucking beautiful, you know that?"

"W—wait—" England protests, feeling the beginnings of panic, "France, you're bent? Bent bent? I thought—thought you liked—"

"Tits are fine by me, don't get me wrong, but men are much more—I need a good cock in my mouth," France mutters, and finally frees the last button on his shirt and strips it off. "Don't take it up the ass, though."

"Ohhhouuh," says England, like a dying animal. "Well, that's—"

"I'm generally on the other end of things," France amends.

England feels a part of his brain shrivel at these words and suddenly finds himself fearing for the sanctity of his backside.

"No, France, shit, I don't want—get the fuck off me—"

But France has him by the mouth again already and he goes back to being completely boneless, losing all motivation to shove him away. England feels France moving against him and he gasps into the kiss, turning an impressive shade of maroon as his back arches up against his will.

"Jesus Christ, England," France says as he pulls back again, looking mildly awed. He took his sweet time noticing, but apparently now he has. "How can you even get it up if you're so damn drunk? You're hard as fuck."

"Wha—what?" England sputters. "Am I supposed to just—ignore that you're—rubbing—?"

"You sad bastard." France laughs, and England can't tell if he just doesn't get it, or if he's the one who's missing something. "If you were this desperate you could have just asked—"

England knows he'd like to snarl out something nasty in reply, but France is shifting down his hips and forcing his sweater up as far as it will go.

"H-hold on," England croaks, "I don't—France, I don't understand this—"

"Then allow me to explain," France says, and starts running his hands down England's bare sides. "You're so sex deprived you had your tongue down my throat earlier, which was a little surprising I must say, but now you've managed to turn me on and I was thinking I wanted to suck you off."

"Oh God no," England yelps, fighting to sit up.

"Why not?" France says, and shoves England down again, pinning him to the sofa by the arms. "This isn't even real, this is just working off steam."

"How the fuck is that even—"

"England, c'mon," says France. "We're just helping each other out here. How about it?"

A small voice is the back of England's brain is screaming for him to stop, saying, America, America, think about America but there seems to be some sort of unfortunate disconnect between his brain and his groin because he's also thinking, oh God, it's France but somehow I'm hard and I want this, have I gone insane. So instead England nods, not even entirely sure what he's just agreed to.

"Right then," mutters France, and his breathing goes shallow as he reaches down for England's fly.

"France," England protests immediately, and he turns even redder than before. "I'm not—"

France gives him a strange, heady look with dilated eyes, and England wonders why he's chosen now, of all times, to notice that France is actually very handsome.

"Don't be a girl," France snaps. "They're coming off."

I shouldn't, why am I letting him, England thinks helplessly, but his hands aren't listening either. He rucks down his trousers, hesitating before his underwear follows, revealing pale thighs and a swollen, dripping prick.

"Oh," says France, like he's just gotten the wind knocked out of him. "Not bad."

"Just don't fuck me," England pleads, and France wrenches his gaze upward, suddenly laughing, though shakily.

"God, you are a girl—"

"France," England groans.

"It's alright," says France, impatiently, and England feels a hand pressing to his navel, trailing down the path of honey-colored hairs to his waistline. "Jesus, calm down. It's a blowjob, not a moral dilemma."

"Just—" England says, and God if something doesn't happen soon he's going to explode. "Get on with it."

France says nothing, just moves to a good position and pauses. England tries to breathe and gazes down, seeing that France is giving him one last careful look just before he presses his lips to the tip of his cock.

England gasps and his head falls back; his hips give an involuntarily jerk—France's mouth is already moving, slowly but speeding up, and his lips and tongue are sliding down the side of his length. England throws out a hand to grab at the back of the couch and nearly knocks a lamp over.

"Oh, Christ… oooh Christ…"

"Good?" asks France, lifting up his head up again just to smirk at him. "That's what people tell me."

England hisses, "don't you even."

France laughs and dips his head again and when he begins to suck and swallow around him like he's intent on making him come, that's when it's perfect, positively, absolutely brilliant. France's tongue is hot and wet, swirling down his cock, and England lets out a stream of curse words and feels the slight curve of France's mouth around his prick like he's smiling, pleased with himself.

"Oh shit, France, I'm gonna—"

He's been at it for barely two minutes and the sensation in England's groin is beginning to build too dangerously fast, winding up far too tight. He reaches out and weaves his fingers into France's hair, wanting more of anything, of everything, and then yes, oh yes, one more hard suck and orgasm rips out of him, sending waves of pleasure up his spine and causing the muscles of his thighs to tense and flutter.

England sighs when it's over, and even as the sensation begins to fade he thinks that his heartbeat won't be anywhere near normal for a good month or so. France lets him rest for a moment before sitting, still breathing hard through his nose, and England would say something if only he wasn't watching him wipe the cum that's dribbled down his chin back into his mouth.

"Oh don't," says England, mildly appalled. "S'got to taste awful."

"Saving time," France mutters, and he's now fighting to unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper. "Hell, I've got to—England, lend a hand?"

Somehow England isn't sure what he's asking for at first, but then France brings his trousers down to his knees and oh, that. Good Lord the rumors were absolutely right.

"L-lend you a—with—with my hand?"

"Christ England, with something," France says, impatiently, and England still has no idea what he's doing when he brings his arm forward and touches France's cock with two sweaty fingers. He strokes downward and eventually France closes his eyes and his expression crinkles up, so England assumes he must be doing something right and he adds the rest of his fingers. He curls his whole hand around him, letting France fuck circle of his hand, and he feels his own blood beginning to pulse as France strains closer and gasps.

"God that's good," France says, after a while, and he wets his lips when he puts his hands up behind England's head to hold the arm of the sofa. "Just, harder, I'm not quite getting there—"

England nods, tightening his fingers and moving faster, his free hand straying downward to stroke at his own hardening prick—God, why is he even getting hard again just from watching France's teeth pull at his lip, the way his too-long hair falls over his face—but he can't manage both at once, so France begins to push more vigorously, saying, "England, move your hand," like it's going to kill him if he doesn't.

"Don't be so—"

Selfish, England wants to say, but the word doesn't quite make it out of his mouth because suddenly France is pushing down, aligning their hips, and his cock is riding against his own.

"Ng, fuck—!"

"You're not cooperating," France says, like it's a proper explanation, and he makes an undignified sound when he clasps his hand around England's and forces his fingers to speed up again. England breathes, short and stuttered, as France thrusts into his hand and against his cock; he has no idea how long this has gone on but this time, this time his brain is shutting down. All he knows that it feels good, too good, he wants more of it, and when France pushes down on him, England hisses and bucks his hips, feeling himself coming completely undone.

"Shit," says France, grunting, and England whines as he ruts against him, dragging his erection over him and stroking so hard it almost hurts. France is pulling and sucking his bottom lip, moaning like he's been wanting this for ages, and England is nearly there again, it's just a little way off, one more thrust away.

"Nm, I'm gonna—"

France hisses out before he's coming in hot, white spurts over England's stomach, then muttering French curses. England presses his hips up, thinking he won't remember otherwise, but France closes his fingers around his prick and strokes him, hard, until England finally comes again, cock jerking, hips shaking.

"Great bloody fuck," England groans a minute later, and France grins at him through his hair.

"Yeah," he says, with barely any breath, "yeah, I'd say so."