The International Awesome Pirate Weekend: Director's Cut [1] (Hetalia, England/America/Japan)
Title: The International Awesome Pirate Weekend: Director's Cut
Authors: Mithrigil and Puella Nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, England, Japan. Threesome and then two.
Words: a lot
Rating: Not Safe For Work. Or C-Span.
Summary: Remember The International Awesome Pirate Weekend? Well, this is "how England got Japan's fundoshi" and "what America meant by he fucked me within an inch of my life".
"Ascertain that his wrists are crossed beneath the ropes." England re-crosses his legs, settles comfortably atop the house-shrine that Japan had been attending when they barged in. He raps his heel against a reverence lamp and snuffs it. "You've hog-tied before, this is similar."
It's pretty easy to move Japan's arms to check. America isn't sure how much he's resisting; he feels the muscles in Japan's arms ripple and shudder when he lifts his wrists -- which are, in fact, crossed -- but he doesn't know how much of that's reflex. His mouth feels dry as cotton, so he wets his lips, tugs the rope a little tighter. "Like, uh, like that?"
England smirks approvingly. "Good. Now wind the rope between each of his fingers."
America glances down at Japan -- he's not really saying anything, it's kind of unnerving. "Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"That's the idea," England says, shaking his head with his eyebrows raised as if America really should know.
Japan's icy silence continues. Even his breath is barely a whisper, measured in and out.
"Right." America clears his throat, starts winding the rope, mutters, "Sorry," under his breath just loud enough for Japan to hear. It's tricky work, really detailed, especially since Japan's fingers are so small. His hands clench when America starts, and America has to pry them back open "-- why do we want to make him uncomfortable, again?"
"Because that is what we do to prisoners," England lectures, tapping his sabre on the vertex of the shrine. "Especially those who give us a particularly hard time."
At the remark -- and at what America's doing to him -- Japan wrenches his shoulders, tightening the ropes, but he doesn't cry out, barely grimaces.
America nods, finishes tying off Japan's fingers -- Japan would say something if this really wasn't okay, wouldn't he? Not just pretend not-okay, like the way he's pretending to be their captive right now, but actually not okay. "I think that's it for his hands..."
When America glances over, England stands up enough to uncouple the sheath of his sabre from the belt, and slides it to America. "Bar his knees apart with this."
America takes up the sheath, hopes his hands aren't actually shaking or anything. "With the same rope?"
"There should still be enough. Take the ends of that, secure his hands to the middle of the bar and each other. Then extend them out, one rope to either side, and brace them behind his knees."
Japan seems to be staying pretty still for this. America easily brings Japan's hands down and loops the ropes around his wrists one more time before he binds them to the sheath, slides it behind Japan's knees and secures it there. It's not going to cut off Japan's circulation or anything, is it? America grits his teeth, focuses on making sure the knots are tight, making sure the bindings won't slip. "Is this right?"
"Yes," England says, his breath and voice low. "Yes that's very good. Turn him to face me."
America can't quite look at Japan when he does it, complies -- complies, he hates that word, it means he's taking England's orders again, isn't he? But it's because he wants to, so that makes it -- he's not sure what to think about that, so he doesn't, just flips Japan around so he's displayed to England. Displayed. Um. "There you go."
"Very good." England still has his naked sword in hand, and taps it on the floor, the shrine, his thigh, making no pretense about looking Japan up and down. "America, see if you can't do something about his kimono. Undo it, cut it to ribbons, I don't particularly care."
He has to look at Japan now, and he's not sure whether his face is red or not, but it feels hot in the dark, hot and weirdly tight. "I have no idea how those knots work," he admits.
Japan's shoulders shiver. "Please do not cut it," he says, his voice small and chillingly polite. "If it must be removed, I -- I will guide America-san."
America's shivering, too. He nods. "Okay, tell me how to get it loose..."
Japan still speaks quietly, but not hesitantly. "The knot in the back first, the -- the wide sash. Find both ends and pull them down."
America has to fumble with the sash for a while before he finds the ends, there's a lot of material all bunched together and it's a lot to sort through, but he does what Japan says and pulls them down, "There. What comes after that?" He hopes this won't take too long, he hates undoing knots. Tying them, yeah, he likes that, but undoing them, not so much.
"Unwind it. It is just a sash. When it is gone, there are -- two ties on the inside part, like in a bathrobe."
America might've unwound a little too fast because the sash gets kind of tangled when he tries to whip it off, but it's nothing he can't sort out, and the ties underneath don't look that hard to undo. "So there's no special trick with these, huh? I just tug them loose?"
Japan's skin is warm to the touch, but shaking against America's fingers. "Yes. They are like the laces of shoes."
Up on the dais, England seems to settle, even as he leans forward with a corner of his tongue poking from his smirk. "Bare him to me, America."
Shoelaces. Right. He tugs the ties loose and slides the rest of the obi off, slips the kimono down Japan's shoulders and parts it so England can see. "That good?"
England laughs. "Oh, Japan. I see you haven't given up on traditional undergarments. That's good -- we owe them to your brother."
Oh, America thinks. Those must be the fun-thing. Also, no matter what else America has ever done to Japan, this is the first time he's seen him look almost angry.
"The better to coerce you through," England says, and motions with his sword. "America, I don't care what he says, just get them off. Shred them if you have to. It's all the same to China."
With his hands or with an actual sword? He wouldn't want a sword anywhere near his, uh, area, but Japan's into some kinky stuff so maybe -- well, whatever. He reaches down the front of the cloth -- Japan's hard, okay, okay it's still pretend and he wants this -- and starts untangling it, biting his lip. The cloth comes undone in a weird coil and America tugs it out and tries not to chafe Japan there.
"Much, much better." England withdraws his sword, and uncrosses his legs to run the heel of his hand against himself at the sight of Japan, bound and stirring and slick with sweat. "It seems we find ourselves in this position yet again, Japan. I'm starting to consider that you might enjoy it."
The sheath shudders but doesn't unseat when Japan shifts backward, as much as he can, almost against America's chest. "And I begin to consider that Igirisu-san enjoys my resistance," he says.
"You begin to consider? And here I thought you well-aware." England's tone is dangerous, and when he catches America's eyes again, England's seem to be almost hot from the inside. "America, touch him. Give him something to resist."
America's hand hovers over Japan's chest. How? he almost wants to ask, but now that England's like this America honestly doesn't know what he'll answer. He brushes his fingers over Japan's sternum, flicks a nipple. Japan's chest is warmer than America thought it would be, he always expects Japan's skin to feel like marble because of how pale it is, even though it doesn't. "Like that?"
"However you like," England tells him pointedly. "Take your pleasure from him."
-- oh. Ah. He's, well, he's not used to thinking of it like that, exactly. Yeah, take what you want, but that's because taking what you want makes everyone happy, and everyone else is taking what they want, too, and if they want it enough they can get it...where is he even going with this? He doesn't know. He rests his chin on Japan's shoulder, presses his lips to Japan's ear. He can't do the slow teasing thing, that's boring, but maybe Japan can still feel good, too? It seems like a shiver ripples through Japan but it's a hot one, and he doesn't flinch away. The ropes seem to strain and his partitioned fingers crack, grasp at nothing.
America pulls away long enough to ask, "Those ropes are gonna hold, right, England?"
"You tied them, you should know." England smirks. Somehow, so do the feathers of his tricorn. "But I do expect a good show out of you."
"A good show?" America echoes. "What do you mean a good show?"
"Fuck him," England says.
Under America's touch, Japan's muscles tense because his hips shift forward. Hips shifting forward, America thinks, repeats to himself, that's good. He keeps his chin nestled in the crook of Japan's shoulder, slides his hand down Japan's chest, through the sweat gathering there, stops right above where the hair frames Japan's groin --
"Oh, don't touch him yet, not there," England warns. "Save that for when he's yielded to you."
"Yielded to me? I mean, he's already tied up and stuff..." But America does withdraw his hand, starts tracing patterns on Japan's chest again.
England asks, his tone almost sweet, leading, "Japan, who is your master?"
Japan doesn't hesitate. "I serve my Emperor and my self."
"America, you see he has not yielded," England says, and then when he recrosses his legs he props his sword along his calf, balances it. "Show him our kindness, perhaps he will see otherwise."
"Right," America breathes, and lowers his head to nuzzle Japan's neck, nip his collarbone. He's not exactly sure what his hand's doing on Japan's chest, but he thinks he's circling one of Japan's nipples with the tip of his finger. They're so small, small and hard, and America can't resist pinching one. Japan yelps when he does that -- a good yelp, probably, a thin intake of air -- "You like that?" America asks, doesn't know if he'll get an answer, but still. He sucks up the sweat gathering on Japan's neck, keeps twisting and rolling with the one hand and snakes his other hand around to join the first one in teasing Japan like this.
He doesn't get an answer with words, but Japan is writhing, or as much as he can, his shoulders and neck twisting and his torso strained to take in more of that touch. America stops kissing his neck long enough to look up at England and he's honestly not sure what he'll find there and he can't remember the last time that was true.
What America sees is England -- England inclined forward over his crossed legs, tracing the blade of his sabre with longing, gentle fingers, almost in time with how America's touching Japan. His smile, if you can call it a smile, is appreciative but unwholesome, and the hand that isn't stroking the sword is clenching in and out like the talon of a hawk.
America's throat dries, his hands still for the barest second, but he feels Japan's breath ghost against his ear and he remembers, right, this. He rocks his hips forward, grinds them into Japan's back, lets go of his nipples and skims his palms down Japan's arms, to where his wrists are tied together. Japan's arms flinch, but only once, and then he leans back on them, turns enough to wedge his shoulder against America's chest.
"If I tell America-san to stop," he asks quietly, "will it be heard?"
America's hands freeze where they are, and he's not sure how far he jerks back but he does. "I --"
"Do not," England commands from the dais, "unless he actually does tell you. At which point I will take over and you can watch."
Japan's lips are parted, but only breath emerges, hot and faster than before.
"Well, Japan?" England taps his fingers on the blade. "Do you want America to stop?"
America strokes his arms, lightly, doesn't dare touch him too hard now, listens.
Sound rattles in Japan's throat. His shoulders realign, is back straightens, and his muscles under America's hands steady. "I do not," he says, low and clear.
England reaches into the cuff of one tall boot, pulls out a flask, probably of rum, and throws it to America. America catches it easily. "Reward his acceptance of our might."
America takes a deep swig, breathes into the burn, and tips some of the contents of the flask down Japan's throat, between his parted lips. Japan swallows audibly, twice, and then tries to turn his face away, but America's grip is firm.
England, meanwhile, has procured another bottle, this one smaller and corked. "That should loosen your tongue -- this one will loosen that tight arse of yours. Can't have my America getting made to bleed when he's having you, can I?"
America's pretty sure England can hear him swallow, too; he grips the back of Japan's neck -- he's not sure how hard -- and lets the flask clatter to the side. He doesn't take up the smaller bottle, not yet, just keeps petting Japan in hesitant almost-circles. He knows -- or he thinks he knows, he'd come up with something at any rate if it was just him doing this, but England wants...what England wants is so much...
"Kiss him," England commands. "Bare his throat and kiss him."
The ropes between Japan's fingers shift and scrape and tighten.
-- wait, kiss him? He's not sure if he says that part out loud or not, but. Kiss him? His hand knots in Japan's hair -- "You're sure?"
"Show him our kindness, America. We've shared spirits with him, haven't we?" It's hard to tell if the We is royal. "Fuck him with your tongue, as a preamble to the rest."
America shifts forward so the angle's a little less awkward. He still has to tug on Japan's hair and wrench his neck around so their lips can even meet but Japan doesn't say anything so he guesses he's not pulling too hard. He leans in. Japan's breath is hot on his lips and America swallows again, harder. Right. Kiss him. So he does, seals his mouth over Japan's and shoves his tongue past his teeth and Japan might've whimpered but the sound's lost in the kiss...if you can call it that, America's not sure you can. And, well, Japan's definitely not a bad kisser. He's a good kisser, actually. A methodical kisser. Even when he's meant to be protesting he doesn't bite, and isn't passive -- his resistance is there but not token, more a challenge of America's control, winning over the kiss rather than succumbing to it or accepting it.
"Harder," England says. "Stop his breath."
America pulls Japan's head back and presses forward -- his tongue's tangling with Japan's and their teeth almost clash and his lips are almost mashed up to Japan's, almost hard enough to bruise if he decided to bite. He does decide, catches Japan's lower lip in his teeth and pulls, sucks. Japan cries out, lurches forward and wrenches in America's grasp, tries to break out but there's too much to hold him by. America uses it, there's so much of Japan to use and the thought hits him like a cold wave so he buries his tongue in Japan's mouth again, Japan's warmer than he looks and that might help --
-- and the resistance really starts, almost as if Japan is panicked, America's never seen Japan panicked -- he's pushing with his shoulders and knees and behind but it's all futile, the hands and ropes only tighten --
"Well," England says, approvingly. "You seem to have a knack for this, America."
America half-freezes for a second. Should he turn around and answer or should he keep kissing Japan? Well, he usually goes with how he's feeling, and kissing Japan's actually starting to feel good except Japan's pushing back but maybe that's a Japan thing, maybe that's just how he kisses? So he keeps it up, tents his fingers deeper in Japan's hair and rocks forward, grinds into his hip.
Japan's skin is warming, flushed red-gold in places -- his hands clench and he's hard, now. And up on the dais, England scrapes his blade along the wood and sets it down, frees both hands so he can trail his fingers along his own thighs.
"Are you enjoying yourself, America?"
He breaks off the kiss. His lips are still throbbing, and he's still got his hand knotted in Japan's hair, he's still rubbing his palm in circles on Japan's chest. "He's -- he's a good kisser."
"That's not an answer." England is smirking, tracing idle patterns on his thigh and hipbone. "Are you enjoying it, America? Does it get you hard?"
"I'm -- yeah," he says; he can't exactly deny it, not with the weight of his erection pressed against Japan's hip like this, not with the flush crawling over his skin.
"Show us," England orders, "show Japan. Let him know what's going to violate him."
Japan's not shivering -- his breath is coming in quick heavy rasps but that's not a no, still not a no.
"I'm -- I'm not going to hurt him," America protests, but he's still fumbling with his belt, slipping it through the loops, hissing when he tugs his pants past his flushed skin and bares himself to his knees. "I have, I mean, I have the oil and everything..."
"Pain or none, it's still a violation," England's saying calmly, dangerously, as he traces the strain in his breeches pointedly. "You're going to stretch him, invade him, stimulate his body in a way no one ever intended, no matter how good it feels. And you will make it feel good, I am sure, the little wretch knows how to take his pleasure from this, same as you."
America's mouth dries at the sight of that, but still -- "But I don't want to --"
"Hurt him?" England laughs. "No more than you've hurt anyone else you've had."
"I haven't," America says, and repeats it to himself, "I haven't."
"Then you won't now." Each word comes crisp, dripping. "Slick him up and show him kindness."
America grabs the bottle and yanks the cork loose. There's enough in here for this, more than enough, so he's generous with it. He splays his fingers across the small of Japan's back and tips him over so he's lying on it, flat on the floor and staring up at America, and at England past him, America doesn't doubt. He crouches between Japan's legs, has to almost touch Japan's knees to his chest so the sheath won't be in the way of America's hands, but Japan's flexible. Really flexible. America wets his lips, rubs his slicked knuckle against Japan's hole but doesn't press in, not yet, because Japan is panting, keeping himself steady and spread and relaxed.
And now that his face is pressed close enough to the floor that England can't see his mouth but America can hear, he whispers: "I do want this, America-san. Do not be afraid for your honor."
America barely nods at all, but it's enough, it's more than enough -- he nudges the first finger in and christ Japan's tight, tight and hot; America adjusts to the feel before he starts to circle his finger, spread the slick around. Japan shudders, twists his head and body sharply to the side. It looks and feels like protest and England's show but when he does, America's finger pushes in deeper and closer to where it needs to be, and he cries out.
Up on the shrine, England spreads his legs a little wider, lets Japan see what he's doing. "My, Japan, are you pretending at ownership?"
"I do not pretend," Japan hisses when America's finger swipes him there again.
America feels Japan shudder when he brushes against the gland, so he starts to knead it, slowly or at least slowly enough, as he impels the next finger in -- his other hand travels up and down Japan's thigh, stroking, holding him open for this. Japan's skin is soft and smooth and even, or the parts of it America's touching are, and America's hands leave flushed red streaks across him.
Japan rocks his ass up against America's fingers, encourages, impels, even as he glares up into England's eyes. "I pretend nothing."
England's smirk widens with the breach of his legs, the slow circle of his hips. "Good. Let's see if we can't get an honest submission of you, then."
America's breath shortens, gets sharper, and he pushes his fingers in deeper, harder, keeps the pressure up and sighs into the heat rising from between Japan's legs. In fact...he bends again and presses a kiss to the head of Japan's cock, and the taste isn't exactly what he's had before: sour and sharp and a little bitter, almost like metal.
"Oh that's nice," England purrs, above, "that's a pleasant image, America. Good initiative."
America'd respond but his tongue's tracing Japan's length right now, dragging along the underside from base to tip. When Japan shudders, America works a third finger into him, laps up the sweat gathering on his skin. Japan's shifting and with his face almost buried in Japan's hips America can feel the shudders, the twitches, the ripples under his skin as he tries to keep his legs where they are.
Japan moans, skirls his hips between America's hand and tongue, and he can't help the sounds that are escaping him with his ragged breath. England's not saying anything, America doesn't think -- Japan's Japan, he's quiet enough for America to hear England over if England had anything to say. America hollows his cheeks and presses up with his tongue, mouths at the base of Japan's shaft; he can take Japan deeper than he can take most men but now's probably not the time to make a joke about that and it's not like he can talk with a cock in his mouth anyway. And Japan seems to be thrusting to keep it there, not pushing deeper but keeping America from withdrawing -- steady, steady and swollen --
England seems closer. "America, is that sufficient?"
America keeps sucking until he feels the small of Japan's back arching, lifting -- he withdraws, says "I think so" into the hollow of Japan's thigh.
"Whenever you're ready, then," England says, imperiously, and strokes himself firmly through his trousers. "Fuck him. Make this chattel know our might."
Do not be afraid for your honor, Japan says, so America nods, pulls away and settles back on his knees, he misses the heat but it won't be gone for long and his cock surges at the thought and twitches hard when he slicks it -- he braces his hands on Japan's hips and grips harder, harder until his fingers stop shaking, until he's calm or calm enough, until he can align himself with Japan, align but not thrust in. The excess oil's dripping from America's fingers down Japan's legs -- America's not sure why he notices that but he does.
"I --" Japan grits out, exhaling once, "-- I do not -- serve you, Igirisu-san."
England laughs, sharp and almost mirthful, and takes a cocksure step off the dais. "No. Of course not. Tonight, you serve America. Tell him how it feels, if you can."
America pushes himself in slowly, slowly, almost too goddamn slowly but Japan's so small and tight around him and it feels -- heat surges behind his eyes for a second and he breathes out, ragged, insensible. His hips shudder, twitch but don't thrust, not yet, he's still settling, still getting a feel for this, for everything, for everything going on right now. "Feels good..."
"Oh, be more explicit about it," England chides before Japan's even cut off his own gasp. "Describe it for me, America."
"He's -- he's tight." America's voice cracks when his hips start to cant forward, shallow and uneven. "Hot, but -- dry heat, except what I put in -- he's shaking, I can feel --"
England's coming down from the steps, coming closer, looming over them -- "Shaking? Oh, does the prisoner want something of us?"
Japan is biting his lip, hands clenched but the rest of him open. He stifles even his breath now, a picture of resistance if not for his cock, hard and slick with America's spit.
"I -- I don't know if he does," America admits as he quakes, thrusts deeper this time -- he's not quite angling his strokes yet, he's not -- he's not calculating it that much, he's just doing what feels good, what feels good for him and Japan, that's what he always does, isn't it? His breath rattles; his knees grind against the floorboards when he gathers himself, steadies, keeps rocking -- a rhythm, he needs a rhythm. And Japan seems to be starting one, his hips meeting America's thrusts --
And England's gloves clamp on America's shoulders, hot and sudden and hard. "You shouldn't care," he whispers. "Does it feel good for you?"
"Y-yeah," America stammers, and his hips are interrupted just like his voice was for a second, but it does feel good -- he tries to return to the rhythm he and Japan were setting earlier, that felt good, too, unless -- unless England's going to change it --
America distinctly hears breeches being unfastened.
-- yeah he is. Figures, just as it's getting good. America grits his teeth and doesn't speed up, exactly, but he pushes in harder, angles down, drives against the gland -- his hands start to slacken on Japan's hips, probably because of how much his palms keep sweating. Japan can't bite his lip anymore --
"Japan," England says menacingly over both of them as they fuck, "either give me your sovereignty, or I take your silence."
-- uh, he's not being serious, is he? This is still the pretend-pirate-thing, right? Fuck England's terrifying when he likes this and why is that making America go faster, deeper, why is America flushing all over at the low tones of England's voice commanding...
...and Japan has never given anything but silence, silence and motion --
"I see." England rounds the two of them, kneels by Japan's head and grabs his hair. He pulls Japan's face into his lap where his breeches are undone, and that makes Japan roll over onto his side, smacks one of his bound knees into the ground and leaves the other one in the air -- America yelps and grabs Japan's thigh before it collapses, this angle's so different -- "Stifle yourself on this, then, if you want control."
America almost stills at the sight of England's cock in Japan's mouth. He can't even tell if it's a good still or a bad still, it's just a roaring in his ears, white noise and rushing blood, and then he's driving forward again, setting a faster pace -- not too fast, he doesn't think, or not too fast for him, but something harder, something more.
Japan seems so desperate to breathe with how America is pounding into him and England is yanking on his hair, but the grip doesn't allow him to move how he needs to, England is holding his face pinned and fucking his mouth with no regard for America's thrusting, two rhythms, two completely disparate motions and wants and people and America looks up, a little off to the side of England's eyes -- or that's what he thinks, at least, sweat's blurring his vision -- he's shivering, plunging in and out of Japan and he's not sure what the rhythm is or should be or what feels right or what doesn't, but he keeps moving, impelling his hips forward, bracing his hands on Japan's pelvis, because that's support and he needs something like that.
England is watching him. America, not Japan.
And it's -- England's eyes are hot, like sand just before it melts and turns into something else, like the gold in his ears -- his hands are gripping Japan's hair and cock but his eyes are demanding something of America and his thrusts are deliberately out-of-synch --
"I -- I want to come," America says, and he's not sure if it's a whisper or a moan or something in-between; he's burning inside, scorched breath and boiling blood and sweatslick hands, slick everything, slick inside Japan or slick enough, Japan clenching around him and making choked sounds around England's cock -- "I'm -- I'm almost --"
"What's stopping you?" England whispers, challengingly, his voice gone hoarse and the words half-broken by the motions of his hips. Japan is surging under them both, struggling, their rhythms are jarring him, overwhelming him, and his eyes are tearing at the corners but that could be sweat and England snarls, "What do you need, America?"
"Nothing," he gasps, "nothing's stopping --" -- and it's true, Japan's not and England isn't either and he -- he wants this and he can take it and he's sinking even deeper into Japan, bearing down and pushing forward and grabbing and grasping and holding but he doesn't have to hold back and he doesn't know how he should feel about that or even how he does feel about that, but he doesn't want to stop, he can't -- "I need to --"
"Then do it," England -- barks, almost, it's an order, and just to emphasize he fucks Japan's mouth mercilessly, shows how hard he is, how hard this makes him --
And America trembles and seizes and does, spills hard into Japan and his hips are still shuddering after -- there's not calm after this, just aftershocks, echoes of what's just happened and the weird ringing -- hollowness, almost, of what's left; his breath's stuck somewhere, he thinks, and there's sound in the air and he's not sure if it's his.
It might be -- England is grunting as he yanks up on Japan's body and forces himself deeper, pulling higher on his knees and letting go of Japan's cock so he can brace himself and thrust down. Using Japan. Using Japan while America's still in him and his sweat drips and splatters on Japan's face and chest and bindings. "Is that--enough for you?" he's groaning to Japan between the harsh jerks of his hips, down and in.
Japan is still clenching around what of America hasn't pulled out yet, and gagging on England's length, obscene sputtering sounds. He strains against the ropes and the sheathe but not away, in, always in --
The fog in America's mind starts to clear -- he gropes forward with the hand that isn't holding Japan's thigh in place, almost blindly, skirts his fingers over Japan's pelvis and his knuckles brush Japan's cock, he's still so stiff and slick. America grabs him there, doesn't pull out but jerks his fist over Japan's length in whatever kind of rhythm he can manage right now, whatever that ends up being --
-- and one of England's hands swats America's away, and England growls. "Not before me."
America blinks, stunned, curls his hand on Japan's hip again. "Okay," he manages, "okay, not before you..."
"America," England is chiding, chiding him even as he's plunging down on Japan's gaping, choking mouth, "his pleasure is -- a reward -- for serving us. Ours -- is foregone --" but the way he's hitching and his breath is coming short means not so foregone, Japan is gasping and England can't seriously intend to keep doing this without -- without taking care of Japan too, can he?
America's hand clenches, tightens. "But he -- he has, he is --" and not even that sounds right and Japan keeps straining as England pushes him down and yanks him back up again, Japan's lips are swollen and red and raw around England's cock and England's skin absorbs all the sound and the spit from his mouth, he's taking everything Japan's giving -- there's heat stirring in the pit of America's stomach, slow and churning.
"Mine," England reminds America, gasping for air and close himself, dripping with sweat and his teeth set in a grimace to catch it, "mine -- bound -- subservient," and each word is punctuated with a thrust that looks more painful than the one before, "and he -- knows it --"
And this time Japan can't block the high, needy sound that breaks past his abused and raw throat -- hoarse and high and shuddering like his hips with want.
"Then -- then we should take care of him," America says, "if he's ours -- yours -- you should look after him..."
"I will, England grits out, but that collapses to a groan, and his thrusts get faster, shallower, more like shuddering -- Japan seems to know what that means and relaxes his cheeks, buries his face in England's lap -- and the next time England pushes the whole way in it's because he's coming, filling Japan's throat and forcing him close to swallow it.
America watches and the heat in his stomach spreads to his groin, a little. He strokes Japan's hip absently, caresses almost as a counterpoint to the spasms still rocking England's body.
When he's spent, England doesn't pull out so much as push Japan away -- Japan twists more onto his side, England's come still dripping out of his mouth and his hips still rocking forward, erection unaddressed. England asks him with -- tenderness, strange and warped tenderness, "Do you want us now?"
Japan coughs violently, tries to bring his knees fully up to his chest. "I --"
"Say it," England offers, and pets his cheek. "Say it and we'll let you come."
America waits, tensing...he'd look down at Japan but he can't break his gaze away from England, not now.
Japan shivers and throbs and tightens in on himself -- but America can hear the whisper. "Yes, Eikoku."
America's fingers brush against Japan's shaft again. "Both of us?" he asks England, huskily.
England thrusts back his hand to entwine with America's. "You're part of me too, aren't you? He asked for that."
"Yeah, yeah, he did." America works him steadily -- he can't tell who's guiding, leading, setting the rhythm, whether it's him or England, but whatever they fall into feels right and Japan gets even tighter inside and that's almost enough to make America hard again. But Japan had been close, already so close -- his eyes are vacant on the ceiling as he pulses up into their grasp, and his moans are soft and half-cough but there. When he comes, it's with a groan of relief, and the shock that ripples through his muscle is almost incongruously strong from the small, aching sound he makes.
Finally, America settles back on his heels -- he does end up mostly slipping out of Japan but well, he guesses it's kind of time. He still keeps his fingers laced with England's though -- their knuckles, both sets, are smeared with Japan's come.
England raises both their hands to his mouth, and sucks on those fingers, two at a time. Figures, he loves doing that -- not that America's complaining, mind. He closes his eyes, kind of pets England's tongue a little with his knuckles. It's nice. Softer than, well, what they just did. And England is smirking when he pries America's hand out of his mouth and then bows his head to take care of Japan, cleaning him off with his tongue. "You belong to me," he's murmuring around the scoop and swell of his tongue. "You both do, now."
Okay the pirate thing is clearly getting to his head; America wants to remind him that they had this argument a few centuries ago but then England does something really distracting to Japan with his tongue and are they going to untie him soon? "So is this how you seize booty?" he asks instead.
"Precisely," England purrs, licking a long trail from the head of Japan's cock down, and then up around his navel.
America curls his fist around himself to clean off, or at least get clean enough. He strokes his hand -- his clean one -- on Japan's thigh, asks, "So what do we do to captives after this part?"
"If they're good like this one?" England arches his back like a cat (strange, with the feathers in his hat) and pulls up to crouch and then stand. "We clean them up, let them take a well-deserved rest, and put them to work."
Japan is dazed, now -- his breathing is starting to stabilize and slow, and he looks first America, then England, almost in the eyes. America gives him a tentative smile. "Sounds like a good business model. You know. As these kinds of things go. I'm just kind of talking right now. I don't know."
"Does it feel that good, then?" England asks. "Still?"
"...yeah," America admits.
"It should. It does for me, more than you might ever know." And then England leans down to drag America up by his collar and kiss him, possessively, painfully, with teeth and sharp swipes of his tongue.
And America moans into that after the first startled moment passes, grabs England's shoulders and clings, parts his lips for England's teeth and yields -- yields his mouth to that tongue, and after one more brutal surge and one more harsh bite England pushes their mouths apart, lets America back down to his knees.
"Untie the prisoner and see him to the Queene," England says, and turns on his heel to leave them both there. "I expect you within the hour."
"...Aye aye, captain."
--
On to Part Two
so much porn omg
Authors: Mithrigil and Puella Nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: America, England, Japan. Threesome and then two.
Words: a lot
Rating: Not Safe For Work. Or C-Span.
Summary: Remember The International Awesome Pirate Weekend? Well, this is "how England got Japan's fundoshi" and "what America meant by he fucked me within an inch of my life".
"Ascertain that his wrists are crossed beneath the ropes." England re-crosses his legs, settles comfortably atop the house-shrine that Japan had been attending when they barged in. He raps his heel against a reverence lamp and snuffs it. "You've hog-tied before, this is similar."
It's pretty easy to move Japan's arms to check. America isn't sure how much he's resisting; he feels the muscles in Japan's arms ripple and shudder when he lifts his wrists -- which are, in fact, crossed -- but he doesn't know how much of that's reflex. His mouth feels dry as cotton, so he wets his lips, tugs the rope a little tighter. "Like, uh, like that?"
England smirks approvingly. "Good. Now wind the rope between each of his fingers."
America glances down at Japan -- he's not really saying anything, it's kind of unnerving. "Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"That's the idea," England says, shaking his head with his eyebrows raised as if America really should know.
Japan's icy silence continues. Even his breath is barely a whisper, measured in and out.
"Right." America clears his throat, starts winding the rope, mutters, "Sorry," under his breath just loud enough for Japan to hear. It's tricky work, really detailed, especially since Japan's fingers are so small. His hands clench when America starts, and America has to pry them back open "-- why do we want to make him uncomfortable, again?"
"Because that is what we do to prisoners," England lectures, tapping his sabre on the vertex of the shrine. "Especially those who give us a particularly hard time."
At the remark -- and at what America's doing to him -- Japan wrenches his shoulders, tightening the ropes, but he doesn't cry out, barely grimaces.
America nods, finishes tying off Japan's fingers -- Japan would say something if this really wasn't okay, wouldn't he? Not just pretend not-okay, like the way he's pretending to be their captive right now, but actually not okay. "I think that's it for his hands..."
When America glances over, England stands up enough to uncouple the sheath of his sabre from the belt, and slides it to America. "Bar his knees apart with this."
America takes up the sheath, hopes his hands aren't actually shaking or anything. "With the same rope?"
"There should still be enough. Take the ends of that, secure his hands to the middle of the bar and each other. Then extend them out, one rope to either side, and brace them behind his knees."
Japan seems to be staying pretty still for this. America easily brings Japan's hands down and loops the ropes around his wrists one more time before he binds them to the sheath, slides it behind Japan's knees and secures it there. It's not going to cut off Japan's circulation or anything, is it? America grits his teeth, focuses on making sure the knots are tight, making sure the bindings won't slip. "Is this right?"
"Yes," England says, his breath and voice low. "Yes that's very good. Turn him to face me."
America can't quite look at Japan when he does it, complies -- complies, he hates that word, it means he's taking England's orders again, isn't he? But it's because he wants to, so that makes it -- he's not sure what to think about that, so he doesn't, just flips Japan around so he's displayed to England. Displayed. Um. "There you go."
"Very good." England still has his naked sword in hand, and taps it on the floor, the shrine, his thigh, making no pretense about looking Japan up and down. "America, see if you can't do something about his kimono. Undo it, cut it to ribbons, I don't particularly care."
He has to look at Japan now, and he's not sure whether his face is red or not, but it feels hot in the dark, hot and weirdly tight. "I have no idea how those knots work," he admits.
Japan's shoulders shiver. "Please do not cut it," he says, his voice small and chillingly polite. "If it must be removed, I -- I will guide America-san."
America's shivering, too. He nods. "Okay, tell me how to get it loose..."
Japan still speaks quietly, but not hesitantly. "The knot in the back first, the -- the wide sash. Find both ends and pull them down."
America has to fumble with the sash for a while before he finds the ends, there's a lot of material all bunched together and it's a lot to sort through, but he does what Japan says and pulls them down, "There. What comes after that?" He hopes this won't take too long, he hates undoing knots. Tying them, yeah, he likes that, but undoing them, not so much.
"Unwind it. It is just a sash. When it is gone, there are -- two ties on the inside part, like in a bathrobe."
America might've unwound a little too fast because the sash gets kind of tangled when he tries to whip it off, but it's nothing he can't sort out, and the ties underneath don't look that hard to undo. "So there's no special trick with these, huh? I just tug them loose?"
Japan's skin is warm to the touch, but shaking against America's fingers. "Yes. They are like the laces of shoes."
Up on the dais, England seems to settle, even as he leans forward with a corner of his tongue poking from his smirk. "Bare him to me, America."
Shoelaces. Right. He tugs the ties loose and slides the rest of the obi off, slips the kimono down Japan's shoulders and parts it so England can see. "That good?"
England laughs. "Oh, Japan. I see you haven't given up on traditional undergarments. That's good -- we owe them to your brother."
Oh, America thinks. Those must be the fun-thing. Also, no matter what else America has ever done to Japan, this is the first time he's seen him look almost angry.
"The better to coerce you through," England says, and motions with his sword. "America, I don't care what he says, just get them off. Shred them if you have to. It's all the same to China."
With his hands or with an actual sword? He wouldn't want a sword anywhere near his, uh, area, but Japan's into some kinky stuff so maybe -- well, whatever. He reaches down the front of the cloth -- Japan's hard, okay, okay it's still pretend and he wants this -- and starts untangling it, biting his lip. The cloth comes undone in a weird coil and America tugs it out and tries not to chafe Japan there.
"Much, much better." England withdraws his sword, and uncrosses his legs to run the heel of his hand against himself at the sight of Japan, bound and stirring and slick with sweat. "It seems we find ourselves in this position yet again, Japan. I'm starting to consider that you might enjoy it."
The sheath shudders but doesn't unseat when Japan shifts backward, as much as he can, almost against America's chest. "And I begin to consider that Igirisu-san enjoys my resistance," he says.
"You begin to consider? And here I thought you well-aware." England's tone is dangerous, and when he catches America's eyes again, England's seem to be almost hot from the inside. "America, touch him. Give him something to resist."
America's hand hovers over Japan's chest. How? he almost wants to ask, but now that England's like this America honestly doesn't know what he'll answer. He brushes his fingers over Japan's sternum, flicks a nipple. Japan's chest is warmer than America thought it would be, he always expects Japan's skin to feel like marble because of how pale it is, even though it doesn't. "Like that?"
"However you like," England tells him pointedly. "Take your pleasure from him."
-- oh. Ah. He's, well, he's not used to thinking of it like that, exactly. Yeah, take what you want, but that's because taking what you want makes everyone happy, and everyone else is taking what they want, too, and if they want it enough they can get it...where is he even going with this? He doesn't know. He rests his chin on Japan's shoulder, presses his lips to Japan's ear. He can't do the slow teasing thing, that's boring, but maybe Japan can still feel good, too? It seems like a shiver ripples through Japan but it's a hot one, and he doesn't flinch away. The ropes seem to strain and his partitioned fingers crack, grasp at nothing.
America pulls away long enough to ask, "Those ropes are gonna hold, right, England?"
"You tied them, you should know." England smirks. Somehow, so do the feathers of his tricorn. "But I do expect a good show out of you."
"A good show?" America echoes. "What do you mean a good show?"
"Fuck him," England says.
Under America's touch, Japan's muscles tense because his hips shift forward. Hips shifting forward, America thinks, repeats to himself, that's good. He keeps his chin nestled in the crook of Japan's shoulder, slides his hand down Japan's chest, through the sweat gathering there, stops right above where the hair frames Japan's groin --
"Oh, don't touch him yet, not there," England warns. "Save that for when he's yielded to you."
"Yielded to me? I mean, he's already tied up and stuff..." But America does withdraw his hand, starts tracing patterns on Japan's chest again.
England asks, his tone almost sweet, leading, "Japan, who is your master?"
Japan doesn't hesitate. "I serve my Emperor and my self."
"America, you see he has not yielded," England says, and then when he recrosses his legs he props his sword along his calf, balances it. "Show him our kindness, perhaps he will see otherwise."
"Right," America breathes, and lowers his head to nuzzle Japan's neck, nip his collarbone. He's not exactly sure what his hand's doing on Japan's chest, but he thinks he's circling one of Japan's nipples with the tip of his finger. They're so small, small and hard, and America can't resist pinching one. Japan yelps when he does that -- a good yelp, probably, a thin intake of air -- "You like that?" America asks, doesn't know if he'll get an answer, but still. He sucks up the sweat gathering on Japan's neck, keeps twisting and rolling with the one hand and snakes his other hand around to join the first one in teasing Japan like this.
He doesn't get an answer with words, but Japan is writhing, or as much as he can, his shoulders and neck twisting and his torso strained to take in more of that touch. America stops kissing his neck long enough to look up at England and he's honestly not sure what he'll find there and he can't remember the last time that was true.
What America sees is England -- England inclined forward over his crossed legs, tracing the blade of his sabre with longing, gentle fingers, almost in time with how America's touching Japan. His smile, if you can call it a smile, is appreciative but unwholesome, and the hand that isn't stroking the sword is clenching in and out like the talon of a hawk.
America's throat dries, his hands still for the barest second, but he feels Japan's breath ghost against his ear and he remembers, right, this. He rocks his hips forward, grinds them into Japan's back, lets go of his nipples and skims his palms down Japan's arms, to where his wrists are tied together. Japan's arms flinch, but only once, and then he leans back on them, turns enough to wedge his shoulder against America's chest.
"If I tell America-san to stop," he asks quietly, "will it be heard?"
America's hands freeze where they are, and he's not sure how far he jerks back but he does. "I --"
"Do not," England commands from the dais, "unless he actually does tell you. At which point I will take over and you can watch."
Japan's lips are parted, but only breath emerges, hot and faster than before.
"Well, Japan?" England taps his fingers on the blade. "Do you want America to stop?"
America strokes his arms, lightly, doesn't dare touch him too hard now, listens.
Sound rattles in Japan's throat. His shoulders realign, is back straightens, and his muscles under America's hands steady. "I do not," he says, low and clear.
England reaches into the cuff of one tall boot, pulls out a flask, probably of rum, and throws it to America. America catches it easily. "Reward his acceptance of our might."
America takes a deep swig, breathes into the burn, and tips some of the contents of the flask down Japan's throat, between his parted lips. Japan swallows audibly, twice, and then tries to turn his face away, but America's grip is firm.
England, meanwhile, has procured another bottle, this one smaller and corked. "That should loosen your tongue -- this one will loosen that tight arse of yours. Can't have my America getting made to bleed when he's having you, can I?"
America's pretty sure England can hear him swallow, too; he grips the back of Japan's neck -- he's not sure how hard -- and lets the flask clatter to the side. He doesn't take up the smaller bottle, not yet, just keeps petting Japan in hesitant almost-circles. He knows -- or he thinks he knows, he'd come up with something at any rate if it was just him doing this, but England wants...what England wants is so much...
"Kiss him," England commands. "Bare his throat and kiss him."
The ropes between Japan's fingers shift and scrape and tighten.
-- wait, kiss him? He's not sure if he says that part out loud or not, but. Kiss him? His hand knots in Japan's hair -- "You're sure?"
"Show him our kindness, America. We've shared spirits with him, haven't we?" It's hard to tell if the We is royal. "Fuck him with your tongue, as a preamble to the rest."
America shifts forward so the angle's a little less awkward. He still has to tug on Japan's hair and wrench his neck around so their lips can even meet but Japan doesn't say anything so he guesses he's not pulling too hard. He leans in. Japan's breath is hot on his lips and America swallows again, harder. Right. Kiss him. So he does, seals his mouth over Japan's and shoves his tongue past his teeth and Japan might've whimpered but the sound's lost in the kiss...if you can call it that, America's not sure you can. And, well, Japan's definitely not a bad kisser. He's a good kisser, actually. A methodical kisser. Even when he's meant to be protesting he doesn't bite, and isn't passive -- his resistance is there but not token, more a challenge of America's control, winning over the kiss rather than succumbing to it or accepting it.
"Harder," England says. "Stop his breath."
America pulls Japan's head back and presses forward -- his tongue's tangling with Japan's and their teeth almost clash and his lips are almost mashed up to Japan's, almost hard enough to bruise if he decided to bite. He does decide, catches Japan's lower lip in his teeth and pulls, sucks. Japan cries out, lurches forward and wrenches in America's grasp, tries to break out but there's too much to hold him by. America uses it, there's so much of Japan to use and the thought hits him like a cold wave so he buries his tongue in Japan's mouth again, Japan's warmer than he looks and that might help --
-- and the resistance really starts, almost as if Japan is panicked, America's never seen Japan panicked -- he's pushing with his shoulders and knees and behind but it's all futile, the hands and ropes only tighten --
"Well," England says, approvingly. "You seem to have a knack for this, America."
America half-freezes for a second. Should he turn around and answer or should he keep kissing Japan? Well, he usually goes with how he's feeling, and kissing Japan's actually starting to feel good except Japan's pushing back but maybe that's a Japan thing, maybe that's just how he kisses? So he keeps it up, tents his fingers deeper in Japan's hair and rocks forward, grinds into his hip.
Japan's skin is warming, flushed red-gold in places -- his hands clench and he's hard, now. And up on the dais, England scrapes his blade along the wood and sets it down, frees both hands so he can trail his fingers along his own thighs.
"Are you enjoying yourself, America?"
He breaks off the kiss. His lips are still throbbing, and he's still got his hand knotted in Japan's hair, he's still rubbing his palm in circles on Japan's chest. "He's -- he's a good kisser."
"That's not an answer." England is smirking, tracing idle patterns on his thigh and hipbone. "Are you enjoying it, America? Does it get you hard?"
"I'm -- yeah," he says; he can't exactly deny it, not with the weight of his erection pressed against Japan's hip like this, not with the flush crawling over his skin.
"Show us," England orders, "show Japan. Let him know what's going to violate him."
Japan's not shivering -- his breath is coming in quick heavy rasps but that's not a no, still not a no.
"I'm -- I'm not going to hurt him," America protests, but he's still fumbling with his belt, slipping it through the loops, hissing when he tugs his pants past his flushed skin and bares himself to his knees. "I have, I mean, I have the oil and everything..."
"Pain or none, it's still a violation," England's saying calmly, dangerously, as he traces the strain in his breeches pointedly. "You're going to stretch him, invade him, stimulate his body in a way no one ever intended, no matter how good it feels. And you will make it feel good, I am sure, the little wretch knows how to take his pleasure from this, same as you."
America's mouth dries at the sight of that, but still -- "But I don't want to --"
"Hurt him?" England laughs. "No more than you've hurt anyone else you've had."
"I haven't," America says, and repeats it to himself, "I haven't."
"Then you won't now." Each word comes crisp, dripping. "Slick him up and show him kindness."
America grabs the bottle and yanks the cork loose. There's enough in here for this, more than enough, so he's generous with it. He splays his fingers across the small of Japan's back and tips him over so he's lying on it, flat on the floor and staring up at America, and at England past him, America doesn't doubt. He crouches between Japan's legs, has to almost touch Japan's knees to his chest so the sheath won't be in the way of America's hands, but Japan's flexible. Really flexible. America wets his lips, rubs his slicked knuckle against Japan's hole but doesn't press in, not yet, because Japan is panting, keeping himself steady and spread and relaxed.
And now that his face is pressed close enough to the floor that England can't see his mouth but America can hear, he whispers: "I do want this, America-san. Do not be afraid for your honor."
America barely nods at all, but it's enough, it's more than enough -- he nudges the first finger in and christ Japan's tight, tight and hot; America adjusts to the feel before he starts to circle his finger, spread the slick around. Japan shudders, twists his head and body sharply to the side. It looks and feels like protest and England's show but when he does, America's finger pushes in deeper and closer to where it needs to be, and he cries out.
Up on the shrine, England spreads his legs a little wider, lets Japan see what he's doing. "My, Japan, are you pretending at ownership?"
"I do not pretend," Japan hisses when America's finger swipes him there again.
America feels Japan shudder when he brushes against the gland, so he starts to knead it, slowly or at least slowly enough, as he impels the next finger in -- his other hand travels up and down Japan's thigh, stroking, holding him open for this. Japan's skin is soft and smooth and even, or the parts of it America's touching are, and America's hands leave flushed red streaks across him.
Japan rocks his ass up against America's fingers, encourages, impels, even as he glares up into England's eyes. "I pretend nothing."
England's smirk widens with the breach of his legs, the slow circle of his hips. "Good. Let's see if we can't get an honest submission of you, then."
America's breath shortens, gets sharper, and he pushes his fingers in deeper, harder, keeps the pressure up and sighs into the heat rising from between Japan's legs. In fact...he bends again and presses a kiss to the head of Japan's cock, and the taste isn't exactly what he's had before: sour and sharp and a little bitter, almost like metal.
"Oh that's nice," England purrs, above, "that's a pleasant image, America. Good initiative."
America'd respond but his tongue's tracing Japan's length right now, dragging along the underside from base to tip. When Japan shudders, America works a third finger into him, laps up the sweat gathering on his skin. Japan's shifting and with his face almost buried in Japan's hips America can feel the shudders, the twitches, the ripples under his skin as he tries to keep his legs where they are.
Japan moans, skirls his hips between America's hand and tongue, and he can't help the sounds that are escaping him with his ragged breath. England's not saying anything, America doesn't think -- Japan's Japan, he's quiet enough for America to hear England over if England had anything to say. America hollows his cheeks and presses up with his tongue, mouths at the base of Japan's shaft; he can take Japan deeper than he can take most men but now's probably not the time to make a joke about that and it's not like he can talk with a cock in his mouth anyway. And Japan seems to be thrusting to keep it there, not pushing deeper but keeping America from withdrawing -- steady, steady and swollen --
England seems closer. "America, is that sufficient?"
America keeps sucking until he feels the small of Japan's back arching, lifting -- he withdraws, says "I think so" into the hollow of Japan's thigh.
"Whenever you're ready, then," England says, imperiously, and strokes himself firmly through his trousers. "Fuck him. Make this chattel know our might."
Do not be afraid for your honor, Japan says, so America nods, pulls away and settles back on his knees, he misses the heat but it won't be gone for long and his cock surges at the thought and twitches hard when he slicks it -- he braces his hands on Japan's hips and grips harder, harder until his fingers stop shaking, until he's calm or calm enough, until he can align himself with Japan, align but not thrust in. The excess oil's dripping from America's fingers down Japan's legs -- America's not sure why he notices that but he does.
"I --" Japan grits out, exhaling once, "-- I do not -- serve you, Igirisu-san."
England laughs, sharp and almost mirthful, and takes a cocksure step off the dais. "No. Of course not. Tonight, you serve America. Tell him how it feels, if you can."
America pushes himself in slowly, slowly, almost too goddamn slowly but Japan's so small and tight around him and it feels -- heat surges behind his eyes for a second and he breathes out, ragged, insensible. His hips shudder, twitch but don't thrust, not yet, he's still settling, still getting a feel for this, for everything, for everything going on right now. "Feels good..."
"Oh, be more explicit about it," England chides before Japan's even cut off his own gasp. "Describe it for me, America."
"He's -- he's tight." America's voice cracks when his hips start to cant forward, shallow and uneven. "Hot, but -- dry heat, except what I put in -- he's shaking, I can feel --"
England's coming down from the steps, coming closer, looming over them -- "Shaking? Oh, does the prisoner want something of us?"
Japan is biting his lip, hands clenched but the rest of him open. He stifles even his breath now, a picture of resistance if not for his cock, hard and slick with America's spit.
"I -- I don't know if he does," America admits as he quakes, thrusts deeper this time -- he's not quite angling his strokes yet, he's not -- he's not calculating it that much, he's just doing what feels good, what feels good for him and Japan, that's what he always does, isn't it? His breath rattles; his knees grind against the floorboards when he gathers himself, steadies, keeps rocking -- a rhythm, he needs a rhythm. And Japan seems to be starting one, his hips meeting America's thrusts --
And England's gloves clamp on America's shoulders, hot and sudden and hard. "You shouldn't care," he whispers. "Does it feel good for you?"
"Y-yeah," America stammers, and his hips are interrupted just like his voice was for a second, but it does feel good -- he tries to return to the rhythm he and Japan were setting earlier, that felt good, too, unless -- unless England's going to change it --
America distinctly hears breeches being unfastened.
-- yeah he is. Figures, just as it's getting good. America grits his teeth and doesn't speed up, exactly, but he pushes in harder, angles down, drives against the gland -- his hands start to slacken on Japan's hips, probably because of how much his palms keep sweating. Japan can't bite his lip anymore --
"Japan," England says menacingly over both of them as they fuck, "either give me your sovereignty, or I take your silence."
-- uh, he's not being serious, is he? This is still the pretend-pirate-thing, right? Fuck England's terrifying when he likes this and why is that making America go faster, deeper, why is America flushing all over at the low tones of England's voice commanding...
...and Japan has never given anything but silence, silence and motion --
"I see." England rounds the two of them, kneels by Japan's head and grabs his hair. He pulls Japan's face into his lap where his breeches are undone, and that makes Japan roll over onto his side, smacks one of his bound knees into the ground and leaves the other one in the air -- America yelps and grabs Japan's thigh before it collapses, this angle's so different -- "Stifle yourself on this, then, if you want control."
America almost stills at the sight of England's cock in Japan's mouth. He can't even tell if it's a good still or a bad still, it's just a roaring in his ears, white noise and rushing blood, and then he's driving forward again, setting a faster pace -- not too fast, he doesn't think, or not too fast for him, but something harder, something more.
Japan seems so desperate to breathe with how America is pounding into him and England is yanking on his hair, but the grip doesn't allow him to move how he needs to, England is holding his face pinned and fucking his mouth with no regard for America's thrusting, two rhythms, two completely disparate motions and wants and people and America looks up, a little off to the side of England's eyes -- or that's what he thinks, at least, sweat's blurring his vision -- he's shivering, plunging in and out of Japan and he's not sure what the rhythm is or should be or what feels right or what doesn't, but he keeps moving, impelling his hips forward, bracing his hands on Japan's pelvis, because that's support and he needs something like that.
England is watching him. America, not Japan.
And it's -- England's eyes are hot, like sand just before it melts and turns into something else, like the gold in his ears -- his hands are gripping Japan's hair and cock but his eyes are demanding something of America and his thrusts are deliberately out-of-synch --
"I -- I want to come," America says, and he's not sure if it's a whisper or a moan or something in-between; he's burning inside, scorched breath and boiling blood and sweatslick hands, slick everything, slick inside Japan or slick enough, Japan clenching around him and making choked sounds around England's cock -- "I'm -- I'm almost --"
"What's stopping you?" England whispers, challengingly, his voice gone hoarse and the words half-broken by the motions of his hips. Japan is surging under them both, struggling, their rhythms are jarring him, overwhelming him, and his eyes are tearing at the corners but that could be sweat and England snarls, "What do you need, America?"
"Nothing," he gasps, "nothing's stopping --" -- and it's true, Japan's not and England isn't either and he -- he wants this and he can take it and he's sinking even deeper into Japan, bearing down and pushing forward and grabbing and grasping and holding but he doesn't have to hold back and he doesn't know how he should feel about that or even how he does feel about that, but he doesn't want to stop, he can't -- "I need to --"
"Then do it," England -- barks, almost, it's an order, and just to emphasize he fucks Japan's mouth mercilessly, shows how hard he is, how hard this makes him --
And America trembles and seizes and does, spills hard into Japan and his hips are still shuddering after -- there's not calm after this, just aftershocks, echoes of what's just happened and the weird ringing -- hollowness, almost, of what's left; his breath's stuck somewhere, he thinks, and there's sound in the air and he's not sure if it's his.
It might be -- England is grunting as he yanks up on Japan's body and forces himself deeper, pulling higher on his knees and letting go of Japan's cock so he can brace himself and thrust down. Using Japan. Using Japan while America's still in him and his sweat drips and splatters on Japan's face and chest and bindings. "Is that--enough for you?" he's groaning to Japan between the harsh jerks of his hips, down and in.
Japan is still clenching around what of America hasn't pulled out yet, and gagging on England's length, obscene sputtering sounds. He strains against the ropes and the sheathe but not away, in, always in --
The fog in America's mind starts to clear -- he gropes forward with the hand that isn't holding Japan's thigh in place, almost blindly, skirts his fingers over Japan's pelvis and his knuckles brush Japan's cock, he's still so stiff and slick. America grabs him there, doesn't pull out but jerks his fist over Japan's length in whatever kind of rhythm he can manage right now, whatever that ends up being --
-- and one of England's hands swats America's away, and England growls. "Not before me."
America blinks, stunned, curls his hand on Japan's hip again. "Okay," he manages, "okay, not before you..."
"America," England is chiding, chiding him even as he's plunging down on Japan's gaping, choking mouth, "his pleasure is -- a reward -- for serving us. Ours -- is foregone --" but the way he's hitching and his breath is coming short means not so foregone, Japan is gasping and England can't seriously intend to keep doing this without -- without taking care of Japan too, can he?
America's hand clenches, tightens. "But he -- he has, he is --" and not even that sounds right and Japan keeps straining as England pushes him down and yanks him back up again, Japan's lips are swollen and red and raw around England's cock and England's skin absorbs all the sound and the spit from his mouth, he's taking everything Japan's giving -- there's heat stirring in the pit of America's stomach, slow and churning.
"Mine," England reminds America, gasping for air and close himself, dripping with sweat and his teeth set in a grimace to catch it, "mine -- bound -- subservient," and each word is punctuated with a thrust that looks more painful than the one before, "and he -- knows it --"
And this time Japan can't block the high, needy sound that breaks past his abused and raw throat -- hoarse and high and shuddering like his hips with want.
"Then -- then we should take care of him," America says, "if he's ours -- yours -- you should look after him..."
"I will, England grits out, but that collapses to a groan, and his thrusts get faster, shallower, more like shuddering -- Japan seems to know what that means and relaxes his cheeks, buries his face in England's lap -- and the next time England pushes the whole way in it's because he's coming, filling Japan's throat and forcing him close to swallow it.
America watches and the heat in his stomach spreads to his groin, a little. He strokes Japan's hip absently, caresses almost as a counterpoint to the spasms still rocking England's body.
When he's spent, England doesn't pull out so much as push Japan away -- Japan twists more onto his side, England's come still dripping out of his mouth and his hips still rocking forward, erection unaddressed. England asks him with -- tenderness, strange and warped tenderness, "Do you want us now?"
Japan coughs violently, tries to bring his knees fully up to his chest. "I --"
"Say it," England offers, and pets his cheek. "Say it and we'll let you come."
America waits, tensing...he'd look down at Japan but he can't break his gaze away from England, not now.
Japan shivers and throbs and tightens in on himself -- but America can hear the whisper. "Yes, Eikoku."
America's fingers brush against Japan's shaft again. "Both of us?" he asks England, huskily.
England thrusts back his hand to entwine with America's. "You're part of me too, aren't you? He asked for that."
"Yeah, yeah, he did." America works him steadily -- he can't tell who's guiding, leading, setting the rhythm, whether it's him or England, but whatever they fall into feels right and Japan gets even tighter inside and that's almost enough to make America hard again. But Japan had been close, already so close -- his eyes are vacant on the ceiling as he pulses up into their grasp, and his moans are soft and half-cough but there. When he comes, it's with a groan of relief, and the shock that ripples through his muscle is almost incongruously strong from the small, aching sound he makes.
Finally, America settles back on his heels -- he does end up mostly slipping out of Japan but well, he guesses it's kind of time. He still keeps his fingers laced with England's though -- their knuckles, both sets, are smeared with Japan's come.
England raises both their hands to his mouth, and sucks on those fingers, two at a time. Figures, he loves doing that -- not that America's complaining, mind. He closes his eyes, kind of pets England's tongue a little with his knuckles. It's nice. Softer than, well, what they just did. And England is smirking when he pries America's hand out of his mouth and then bows his head to take care of Japan, cleaning him off with his tongue. "You belong to me," he's murmuring around the scoop and swell of his tongue. "You both do, now."
Okay the pirate thing is clearly getting to his head; America wants to remind him that they had this argument a few centuries ago but then England does something really distracting to Japan with his tongue and are they going to untie him soon? "So is this how you seize booty?" he asks instead.
"Precisely," England purrs, licking a long trail from the head of Japan's cock down, and then up around his navel.
America curls his fist around himself to clean off, or at least get clean enough. He strokes his hand -- his clean one -- on Japan's thigh, asks, "So what do we do to captives after this part?"
"If they're good like this one?" England arches his back like a cat (strange, with the feathers in his hat) and pulls up to crouch and then stand. "We clean them up, let them take a well-deserved rest, and put them to work."
Japan is dazed, now -- his breathing is starting to stabilize and slow, and he looks first America, then England, almost in the eyes. America gives him a tentative smile. "Sounds like a good business model. You know. As these kinds of things go. I'm just kind of talking right now. I don't know."
"Does it feel that good, then?" England asks. "Still?"
"...yeah," America admits.
"It should. It does for me, more than you might ever know." And then England leans down to drag America up by his collar and kiss him, possessively, painfully, with teeth and sharp swipes of his tongue.
And America moans into that after the first startled moment passes, grabs England's shoulders and clings, parts his lips for England's teeth and yields -- yields his mouth to that tongue, and after one more brutal surge and one more harsh bite England pushes their mouths apart, lets America back down to his knees.
"Untie the prisoner and see him to the Queene," England says, and turns on his heel to leave them both there. "I expect you within the hour."
"...Aye aye, captain."
--
On to Part Two
so much porn omg