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Author's Note: I live! Okay so this is a de-anon from the minvasion again, and it was actually one of my interesting prompts:
"So like, england and america wake up and their having sex with each other. America wakes up strapped in a chair and England sitting on top of him. And england is blindfolded so he doesn't know that it's America that's inside him. At first they both panic, but in the end they both go through with it. America is either too embarassed to say anything or whatever a!a wants."
So that moment when you're writing borderline comedy smut and suddenly get hit with the fact your characters are bubbling with guilt? Yeah. That one.
The two characters are essentially raping each other, and comforting each other through that. It was definitely an interesting exercise, but came out fairly angsty at the same time.
Old writing is old.
Hear no Evil.
England groaned, and shuffled against the insistently uncomfortable warmth down his front, the insistently uncomfortable sensation, that flared out from his body in a feverish little wave-
-England jerked his eyes open, but there was only the odd and demanding grey of a blindfold. Licking his lips, uneasily England shifted, finding his movements restricted by the handcuffs at his wrists, and the terrified pants of the person under him. England tried to scrape the floor with a foot, and therefore, get enough leverage to wriggle out of this person's lap, and his toes barely touched the cold ground, catching at them
It hurt.
England licked his lips again, grazing them with his teeth.
The last thing he could remember was getting caught by Axis, or at least, probably Axis. Where was he? Somewhere in Europe? France, maybe?
Okay, it really hurt. England stopped struggling, slumping into the other person, who was breathing a little heavier, even though it sounded like something was wrong with the quick gasps. Resting his head in the crook of a shoulder, England twisted his neck slightly, and felt another heavy strip of material.
"Ahem." England gulped audibly. "Can you nod if you're gagged?" There was a series of quick jerks by England head, jostling him. Christ that hurt. Burned, a little, and England whined. Instantly the movements stopped.
England was pretty sure whoever was under him was currently playing the part of his lover.
They were fucking.
And it hurt. England breathed out heavily, swallowed. "I've got a blindfold on too." England informed the person. A quick shake of the head. England laid his cheek on the other person, nuzzling. Only the gag, apparently, and the faint rattle of some form of implement.
England shook at the handcuffs.
"I can't get off you." England mumbled. "Sorry. I can't reach the floor." There was a shift, that sent a flare of cool desire up England's spine, and England bit down on the physical sensation. But by his heel was smooth skin. "Is that for me to-?" A nod, and England nodded back. "Okay." He braced his toes on the adjusted leg, and tried to push up, instantly a distinctly uncomfortable, pained noise was heard from behind the gag and England stopped.
"Sorry..." England paused. "Who is this?" The person under him froze up, so tense England had to fight not to moan. "I can't hold this against you." England reassured quickly. There was a sudden writhe, and England felt hands on his back.
Several quick taps, slower ones. Morse code.
Sorry.
"I forgive you." England sighed. "It would still be nice to know who I'm fucking." There was a shiver. "So you noticed?" Sarcasm did not suit the situation, but England was flushed, he simply didn't know how else to react but with snippy remarks.
A few more taps, Awkward.
England considered the size of the hands thumbing at his back in short, jerky sentences. The strength and width of the shoulders.
"America." He decided.
A nod.
America shifted under him, and England clung on for dear life. He hummed under his breath, and suddenly a shy series of taps at his lower back. You look like your enjoying this.
Wrinkling his nose, England rolled his eyes under the blindfold. "Y-O-U apostrophe R-E."
Fuck you.
England gawked at him. "You already are!"
O.
They waited uncomfortably against each other for a few moments.
"Isn't there more to that message?" England finally muttered.
Oh.
England sighed. "Right, right," He paused. "I'm going to try and get your gag off, if that's alright? Then you can get mine off." England's handcuffs jangled as he shifted forward, and how he wished he was wearing something. He was practically grinding America as he felt around with his teeth for the edges of the gag. "By the way, why don't you simply break free?"
My head hurts. Esugde- America's fingers stuttered, and he rubbed slightly. That rub means forget the last sentence. Drugs. America's arms raised away from England's sides for a second, then flopped back, boneless. America was definitely not in the clearest of minds, and certainly was physically everywhere from whatever he'd been affected by.
England bit down on the gag and yanked. Hard. A wail of pain came past, muffled by the gag, but very clearly reflecting pain. England tugged a bit harder, and finally the gag came away, along with a small splash of blood and a half-scream from America. "Hush, hush, I'm sorry," England could smell the coppery scent of blood, and it made his head spin. He licked soothingly at the corner of America's mouth, trying to stem the blood back. Normally the bacteria of the human mouth would leave America with an infection, but America wasn't human, and neither was England. Finally, America stopped whimpering, long enough to lick his lips, brushing England's tongue. They jerked simultaneously.
"S-sorry." America coughed. England shivered, panting very lightly.
"It's perfectly okay, lad." England made a tiny cough himself. "Can you get my blindfold?"
"Yeah, should be able to," America tipped his chin up, as England lowered his head. The combined movement sent a shot of pleasure up England, as America jerked near to something, sweet, a little too reactive in England. England moaned. "Christ, England," America struggled to hide his embarrassment behind a gruff voice, and settled on trying to get a good grip on England's blindfold. The continuous half-jerks from America tugged two more moans from England's throat, despite his best efforts to stop.
Finally the blind fold fell away, tumbling down onto England's mouth. England tipped his head back up, mouth a heated, open, moaning pant. America stared, eyes widening, and England shook off the haze of arousal, green eyes narrowed.
"Didn't I teach you it's rude to stare."
"You're hard."
England was, his erection digging into the smooth plane of America's stomach, and England twisted as best he could. Bad move. They both moaned, the sound tremulous. "You can hardly talk," England bit out. "Eager little boy, you've been hard since I woke up."
"I can't help it!"
"I could say the same thing!"
The two glared, mid-yell, eyes locked. Then looked down again, trying not to focus on the other's being there. "We should try to..." America's expression was lost, somewhere between lust, humiliation, and a wandering look probably from whatever had been used to suppress his capacity to escape.
England nodded, and tried to wriggle up to get his hands over America's head. He pressed flushly down on America, his own groin pressed into America's warmth, even as America slid out of him by a couple of inches. England jerked back up. "Damn it, I can't-"
America thrust on automatic, just once, gasping for air quickly. "D-don't do that!" He whined, opening his eyes again to stare at England. A hasty punch to a coil of nerves in England. England could hear the blood pounding in his ears.
England blinked, the flush already coiling over his cheeks brightening, and spreading a little further across his face. "We're not going to get anything done until we sated." His voice sounded a bit foreign, even if it was talking sense. Well some form of sense. England ground into America, his back muscles rippling slightly as he rocked forward. "So damn it, come already." America half-yelped, and half-moaned at the movement. England rocked back.
"W-wait." America whined. "D-don't." His head lolled back, leaving his throat exposed and England promptly bit it. The strength turned to jelly in his arms, America simply writhed, eliciting a sharp keen from England. "England." America said with as much authority as he could muster under the circumstances. "Please, stop."
England slowed, tried to stop, and instead could only lightly roll his hips against America.
"I..." He squeezed his eyes shut, and America gazed up at him with wide eyes.
"England?"
"Y-you're everywhere," England stuttered, voice bobbing up and down from the frantic desire in it. "Too much, it's too..."
Hazily, America shut his eyes; his head hurt too much. "Is that a compliment?" England nodded against him, limp, flung over him, and writhing, minute, tiny grinds pinning their hips together.
"Clear my head." England begged, teeth chattering from a small cocktail of hormones bubbling in his veins. Throttling his thoughts. America gave an experimental shove of his hips, the movement slurred and the thrust clumsy. England yelled something that could have been a hiss of pain, or cry of encouragement. Was probably both. Then rocked towards America with a crashing kiss.
America returned it, pity washing up through him alongside guilt and what was definitely desire. Desire for England's thin body pressed like this on him.
England's toes scraped, grazing at the air, the muscles in his legs tightening, and his breath falling into America's mouth with short, sharp bursts and trembles of his diaphragm. America could feel the corner of his mouth bleeding again, and England could definitely taste it, for he was soon licking at it. Trying to help and only exposing the wound more than necessary.
America seemed to finally locate a half-rhythm, punching his thrusts in a half-step that reminded England of swing-dancing. Only ever half-placed on the beat. England ground back, meeting the thrusts and pushing them back onto a firm rhythm. England ripped their lips apart, the slightest fleck of blood, and actively screamed. The sound helpless, and everything America was so sure England wasn't. A sound that belonged with scratched muskets, and kneeling in the mud, paralyzed with affection. America could feel England's come pooling stickily across his stomach, and gathered in the hollows of America's hips, along England's thighs.
The steady slip of the warm come was not something America expected to cause him to arch into England's body. Taunt as a bow, and muscles tightened, crying out England's name of all things, and spilling into England with a convulsive shiver. When America swam out from the heady, hazy physical pleasure he'd so completely drowned in, and blinked his eyes open, he found England staring at him as though he'd seen a ghost.
A mumble of apology from both sides.
Some feeling they'd finally ruined their relationship; finally snapped it. America didn't mean to, but quietly, he began to cry. He didn't mean to, really he didn't. He couldn't even pretend he wasn't with his eyes streaming, nose running slightly, and face flushed, breath a hitching series of sobs.
"It's okay," England mumbled, pressing his face into the crook of America's neck so he didn't have to see, only to find the slightly sticky feel of a dried lovebite there. "It's okay." The way England's voice cracked. England knew exactly why America was crying, and the slightly damp sniffle that followed. England was crying about it too. They curled against each other, as best as they could, still carnally locked. England still penetrated. America slept, overcome, and England waited for a bit, mulling and muddling over the ache in his chest, finally falling asleep himself.
America woke, and mulled over his own ache.
They slid in and out of sleep, sometimes greeting, and sometimes just watching the other, or ignoring the other. Occasionally England could feel America harden slightly in him, or America felt a dig along his stomach, and England ground against America in his sleep. Come dried on America's stomach, and dripped down England's thighs, waking him with how cold and congealed it was.
They drew up quiet borderlines between them, uncomfortably understanding what they'd tossed to the floor in a compromising moment. Uncomfortable at how easy it was, and uncomfortable at how hard it was to then pick it up again.
May your quills be ever sharp.