Minvade 4: The Spaces You Inhabit [b]
anonymous
September 13 2011, 14:28:41 UTC
"Bless you." England tipped his head up to look at America, and America is still sneezing, eyes running, and there's some snot, and it's not gross, it's not wrong, it's not something that made him scrape his palms on his shirt like the plague is all over him again. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm not." America's body jerked as he gave a final sneeze, and England's wince is open and flawed, because his leg hurt, god, it hurt. And itches. There's a bullet buried there, and that's going to burn for weeks. "Weren't for me, you'd be sipping tea now."
"We're going to live."
"Fuck, stop saying that, Britain." America snapped. "Why d'ya gotta keep saying the obvious?"
"Because your heart is punching me in the ribcage." England muttered. "Forget it."
America had had a few broken ribs a few hours ago, but they're mostly gone. That's scary. "We don't have limits." England looked back at his eyes, and America can't help but be furious that humans are colourblind in the dark. "So, they'll like - they're gonna keep goin' and-" England shuddered in the knot of his arms. "H-hey, don't shake like that."
"Some hero you are." England traded bodyheat with America by pressing closer, and shaking into the spaces he took up in the universe. Came to harbour, but only trembled like a badly-moored boat.
"Night." America answered, because he can't feel his chest. Maybe he got kicked harder than that. He felt cold, which is not absurd in the cold extremes of the night and darkness.
"Night, m'dear." England yawned, and shook away against America, until exhausted he slept.
America woke to unbearable heat. The air in the room snipped his lungs up into ribbons, with how unnaturally thick it was. There are gunshots. But those are secondary nature. Secondary characteristics. And they're fading. And America shared the weight of the heat, waking England with a frantic, last-ditched rub of his hands under England's uniform. The world felt like it was ending, and if they're going to go, they're going out like gunpowder near a fire.
England woke, writhed away from America's hands as they grazed his chest, lodged under his uniform. "What-?" He kicked out, and rolled away, palmed back sweaty hair. "Oh, you." England lamely stated, eyes tired and strained, and obviously saying they expected it was somebody else touching him. Somebody who was a stranger.
It's not that hot, and it's not day, and there are no gunshots; America woke up and it was all a dream. And England is still rolled into a sharp, porcupine of a ball in front of him in the half-light. They still are a mess. They're still captive. It's just not the end of the world. And America's heart is fighting like he's the one who woke up to molestation.
"Let's fuck." America begged between chattered teeth.
England's expression fell open, and he opened his mouth, shut it, and then gives a single tense nod. America surged forward, met England half-way between them, and America groaned at the concrete on his back and side, and under his legs and making his shoulders stiff. At England's dry mouth, wet tongue, and the way they're rolling on the floor like they're two teenagers playing grown-ups in silly decisions. The difference is mostly that this isn't a silly decision, not for America, this is the best he's made in a long-not-long life.
England's hand travelled up his thigh, like a knife, trying to cut through his clothes, and America rubbed his calloused palms on the dried sweat on England's torso. Feline flexible, even recovering from a shooting injury, England pried America out of his pants. America gives the highest noise he can make, and its pitched, whiny, and sugary on the air. Giggled stupidly, so stupidly, when he felt the hard space between England's legs; calling the stove black, even as he rubbed and frotted himself against England.
For several minutes, it's nothing but animal desire.
Minvade 4: The Spaces You Inhabit [c]
anonymous
September 13 2011, 14:30:03 UTC
And then as the panic of the dream fled into America's more-and-more alert mind, it's very different. It's a little fear, and a lot of desperation - a just in case swipe of America's hands on England's cheeks, thumbs rested on the corner of England's eyes. England panted over him, tongue lolled a little out of his mouth, sweaty and right in America's cupped hands.
"I don't-" America talked, and it was abruptly one of his worst decisions. "Feel totally comfortable saying I love you like this; but I really really really like you, and that's why we should..." America swallowed round a lump of tears; so not smooth. They can't be smooth on rough-hewn ground, hands a rough shape on the other's hips like brands. "We s-should make lov- -really really like. We should make likelikelikelikelikefucking like you."
England only gave another tense nod, and pressed down and America swore in his mouth. And then gasped his name. Felt each jutted curve of England's exposed shoulders, and peeled the last of the shirt away. Left them pulse to pulse, the beat thrumming into step, because this is the military. Saluting kisses on the high curve of America's cheek, and England's collarbone.
Water is a shit lubricant, dry and gone and useless, so is blood, and there is blood. America suspected there would be blood, so, he tried to persuade England into fucking him.
England shook his head, even as he pressed America to the floor, and hooked a foot, pale and thin leg shaking over America's shoulder. Base of the foot, from toe to heel placed firmly on the ground. America twisted to kiss at the joint, that pokes out from the ankle. England's hands slipped on America's sweat, and his sweat, and they're constantly shuffling from the floor, to America's legs, as England forced America into him.
He's not screaming, and that's - that's to his credit, because America knows there's blood, and it's dry and rough, and desert sex. England's face is screwed up in pain, and he's just not hard anymore, because it's not arousing right then; it's agony. The way England tried to breathe through and focus on sailing knots, maybe ceylon tea, and ignore the splitting feeling. The burn that radiates out from where America is sinking into his skin. England is sweating, melting, dissolving in America's hands.
America rubbed his hands on England - hip, curve, shoulder, sharp. Held England's limp head up so they could meet eyes in the dim, almost nothing-to-see, and everything-to-feel. The tight clench of England's body, and his bunched muscles; England's hands must be cramping. And the acrid smell of blood. America is tearing England open. America hotly told England that he loves him, and England is almost boneless on America, finally penetrated.
They don't thrust, or jerk; they don't move. They feel.
The hungry heat of England that possesses America, and the pulse of America juddered inside England. England groaned, and America thumbed at his cock, because England's coming back into desire. Because god, he wanted England to feel good. If he could do this sort of first over again, he'd have roses and lubricant and dinner and pillows and a shower and lubricant, did he mention he'd have lube?
They're not close enough, even with America inside England, and they find an awkward way to wrap their arms about each other and just hold them together. They cling, and America is desperate to inhabit the exact space England inhabits in the universe, just anything to live inside that painful heartbeat and gasping air. England is there and America can be here-and-there, needs to be with him. Keep them together. It's so much better than being apart.
No movement, aside from a tectonic shiveriness from America, and England tightening and loosening around America (in walls, and arms, and teeth on America's neck to dull the pain) they curl so close as to form a single huddled shape in the darkness. Pushing and pulling themselves together, and mewling in the gasped dark here and there, sweat a thin sheet between their bodies and they burn it thinner.
It's simply not perfect, but the details hold them together. The microadjustments to keep America completely inside England, and the way America is pretty sure England is gasping his name.
Re: Minvade 4: The Spaces You Inhabit [c]
anonymous
September 14 2011, 01:19:02 UTC
*Op is dead from happiness*
I loved everything about this fill; the unknown, the desperation, the need to simple feel. Truly wonderful. Thank you very much for writing this for me, a!a
<3
suitable iernetin - Yes, Captcha, it was very suitable
Re: Minvade 4: The Spaces You Inhabit [c]
anonymous
September 14 2011, 20:03:43 UTC
Oh, nice - very interestingly done and unique, anon! It wasn't sexy per se, but the way America verbally and non-verbally told England how he felt seemed very him.
I have no idea what the "minvade" is supposed to mean, though... wth
"I'm not." America's body jerked as he gave a final sneeze, and England's wince is open and flawed, because his leg hurt, god, it hurt. And itches. There's a bullet buried there, and that's going to burn for weeks. "Weren't for me, you'd be sipping tea now."
"We're going to live."
"Fuck, stop saying that, Britain." America snapped. "Why d'ya gotta keep saying the obvious?"
"Because your heart is punching me in the ribcage." England muttered. "Forget it."
America had had a few broken ribs a few hours ago, but they're mostly gone. That's scary. "We don't have limits." England looked back at his eyes, and America can't help but be furious that humans are colourblind in the dark. "So, they'll like - they're gonna keep goin' and-" England shuddered in the knot of his arms. "H-hey, don't shake like that."
"Some hero you are." England traded bodyheat with America by pressing closer, and shaking into the spaces he took up in the universe. Came to harbour, but only trembled like a badly-moored boat.
"Night." America answered, because he can't feel his chest. Maybe he got kicked harder than that. He felt cold, which is not absurd in the cold extremes of the night and darkness.
"Night, m'dear." England yawned, and shook away against America, until exhausted he slept.
America woke to unbearable heat. The air in the room snipped his lungs up into ribbons, with how unnaturally thick it was. There are gunshots. But those are secondary nature. Secondary characteristics. And they're fading. And America shared the weight of the heat, waking England with a frantic, last-ditched rub of his hands under England's uniform. The world felt like it was ending, and if they're going to go, they're going out like gunpowder near a fire.
England woke, writhed away from America's hands as they grazed his chest, lodged under his uniform. "What-?" He kicked out, and rolled away, palmed back sweaty hair. "Oh, you." England lamely stated, eyes tired and strained, and obviously saying they expected it was somebody else touching him. Somebody who was a stranger.
It's not that hot, and it's not day, and there are no gunshots; America woke up and it was all a dream. And England is still rolled into a sharp, porcupine of a ball in front of him in the half-light. They still are a mess. They're still captive. It's just not the end of the world. And America's heart is fighting like he's the one who woke up to molestation.
"Let's fuck." America begged between chattered teeth.
England's expression fell open, and he opened his mouth, shut it, and then gives a single tense nod. America surged forward, met England half-way between them, and America groaned at the concrete on his back and side, and under his legs and making his shoulders stiff. At England's dry mouth, wet tongue, and the way they're rolling on the floor like they're two teenagers playing grown-ups in silly decisions. The difference is mostly that this isn't a silly decision, not for America, this is the best he's made in a long-not-long life.
England's hand travelled up his thigh, like a knife, trying to cut through his clothes, and America rubbed his calloused palms on the dried sweat on England's torso. Feline flexible, even recovering from a shooting injury, England pried America out of his pants. America gives the highest noise he can make, and its pitched, whiny, and sugary on the air. Giggled stupidly, so stupidly, when he felt the hard space between England's legs; calling the stove black, even as he rubbed and frotted himself against England.
For several minutes, it's nothing but animal desire.
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"I don't-" America talked, and it was abruptly one of his worst decisions. "Feel totally comfortable saying I love you like this; but I really really really like you, and that's why we should..." America swallowed round a lump of tears; so not smooth. They can't be smooth on rough-hewn ground, hands a rough shape on the other's hips like brands. "We s-should make lov- -really really like. We should make likelikelikelikelikefucking like you."
England only gave another tense nod, and pressed down and America swore in his mouth. And then gasped his name. Felt each jutted curve of England's exposed shoulders, and peeled the last of the shirt away. Left them pulse to pulse, the beat thrumming into step, because this is the military. Saluting kisses on the high curve of America's cheek, and England's collarbone.
Water is a shit lubricant, dry and gone and useless, so is blood, and there is blood. America suspected there would be blood, so, he tried to persuade England into fucking him.
England shook his head, even as he pressed America to the floor, and hooked a foot, pale and thin leg shaking over America's shoulder. Base of the foot, from toe to heel placed firmly on the ground. America twisted to kiss at the joint, that pokes out from the ankle. England's hands slipped on America's sweat, and his sweat, and they're constantly shuffling from the floor, to America's legs, as England forced America into him.
He's not screaming, and that's - that's to his credit, because America knows there's blood, and it's dry and rough, and desert sex. England's face is screwed up in pain, and he's just not hard anymore, because it's not arousing right then; it's agony. The way England tried to breathe through and focus on sailing knots, maybe ceylon tea, and ignore the splitting feeling. The burn that radiates out from where America is sinking into his skin. England is sweating, melting, dissolving in America's hands.
America rubbed his hands on England - hip, curve, shoulder, sharp. Held England's limp head up so they could meet eyes in the dim, almost nothing-to-see, and everything-to-feel. The tight clench of England's body, and his bunched muscles; England's hands must be cramping. And the acrid smell of blood. America is tearing England open. America hotly told England that he loves him, and England is almost boneless on America, finally penetrated.
They don't thrust, or jerk; they don't move. They feel.
The hungry heat of England that possesses America, and the pulse of America juddered inside England. England groaned, and America thumbed at his cock, because England's coming back into desire. Because god, he wanted England to feel good. If he could do this sort of first over again, he'd have roses and lubricant and dinner and pillows and a shower and lubricant, did he mention he'd have lube?
They're not close enough, even with America inside England, and they find an awkward way to wrap their arms about each other and just hold them together. They cling, and America is desperate to inhabit the exact space England inhabits in the universe, just anything to live inside that painful heartbeat and gasping air. England is there and America can be here-and-there, needs to be with him. Keep them together. It's so much better than being apart.
No movement, aside from a tectonic shiveriness from America, and England tightening and loosening around America (in walls, and arms, and teeth on America's neck to dull the pain) they curl so close as to form a single huddled shape in the darkness. Pushing and pulling themselves together, and mewling in the gasped dark here and there, sweat a thin sheet between their bodies and they burn it thinner.
It's simply not perfect, but the details hold them together. The microadjustments to keep America completely inside England, and the way America is pretty sure England is gasping his name.
Reply
I loved everything about this fill; the unknown, the desperation, the need to simple feel. Truly wonderful. Thank you very much for writing this for me, a!a
<3
suitable iernetin - Yes, Captcha, it was very suitable
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I have no idea what the "minvade" is supposed to mean, though... wth
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