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Author's Note: De-anon from Kinkmeme.
Prompt was the use of a safeword failing. I went for what is essentially a mixture of heatplay and breathplay, or rather, sauna, blind-fold. You know. My third attempt at pr0n, and none too good, and the mood changes drastically all over it, but it should be alright.
Part two involves comfort, this is part one and is the scenario set-up.
Centigrade, and Centimetres.
Real estate, now that England thinks about it, has something absolutely right: it's all about location. If it wasn't all about location, then this probably wouldn't count as something new, and even then, he'd been a bit dubious.
A sauna? Okay, and?
What's your point, America, he'd said.
Because a simple change of location shouldn't change things this much. Because getting pinned in America's bed, in his bed, on the couch, in a car, hell – in a public toilet, is the same as getting pinned just about anywhere else. If we're drawing parallels, maybe the breakfast table; horizontal, hard surface under him, odd level from the ground, weird burning smell from the kitchen?
But no, location is dead important, and the sauna is completely different.
The air is dry and swollen, scraping his throat, and it's painful, actually painful to breathe. Not to mention the smell, what is it, whatever it is, it's everywhere, everywhere. And the heat. The Heat. It's crawling inside his skin, isn't it?
Twisting against the soft wood of the lower-bench, green eyes alert, and eyelashes crackling in the dry, thickened girth of the heat, England gave a harsh, raspy pant, fingers clenched tightly around Texas.
Here, America had said, and pressed the folded glasses into England's fingers, gently curling them around the cool metal. Gets pretty dry in there, America had explained, y'know, so if you need to safeword and can't manage to say it, just toss em on the floor.
Their safeword was stars-and-stripes.
America had been very persuasive in his reasons why it should be the safe word (persuasive like a tongue sloppily slid down England's ear – was it meant to be a turn on or off? Oh god, what was it doing? OhgodOhgodOhgod!)
America pulled back, carefully tipping England's head – fingers gentle – and met England's eyes, gauging the expression. England clawed for air, chest heaving against America's fingertips, rib cage straining in the dense, dry heat; but he was more than fine, struggling in the temperature, and hair damp in his gleaming green eyes, delicate jade, the colour flushed with increased blood vessels, and pupils wide like a rabbit in headlights; cat in the dark. America's querying, checking, careful expression tumbled into a smirk. A single, soft thumb away of England's bangs, and then America leant down to nip sharply at the corner of England's soft mouth.
Bites slithered down the side of his jaw; hard on the taunt muscles of his neck; angry reddening shade on his collar bone, and America's teeth closed on the salty, flicker pulse at his neck, scraping and grazing and pressurizing – pressure up, and up and up.
Step by step, because England can't quite fall off the deep end. Can't quite kick himself under that quickly. And this is something new.
America rechecks England's eyes once more, glancing up from his crouch over England's chest.
England pants and shivers, breath mewing thinly.
America squeezed his eyes shut tightly, Fuck, He wants it, comes the single thought, before America pulls away from how much he just wants to tell England that he's beautiful, so, so beautiful when he's like this – so, so beautiful that he lets himself get like this around America – for America – so, so, intensely beautiful that he lets America be with him like this.
America bottled up that thought, that crowd of emotion, and pushed England's head to the wood again. To the side, the heel of America's hand holding England's cheek to the bench, and he bites harder this time. Scratching England's chest in his haste to pinch at England's chest, and his fingers are tight on England's right nipple, tighten;
And there it is – England hissed and moaned and writhed; snapping their hips together in a jarring thrust. Ground, and gave a half-moan against the wood.
America's already there, pointy and sharp, biting and squeezing and tight in all those lovely ways – and its so, too hot and warm and overpoweringly searing. Every line of contact between them is scalding; burning almost. A flash of America's nails ragged down his chest is scorching his skin, and the sweat of America and England seeps like vinegar into the faint scratch, making it feel crimson.
Owch, is the dull thought.
Swept past, by America locking England's hips with a press of his knees, one grinding too fast and sharp and sudden into England's crotch. England fought to sit up, but America yanked him down by the hair –
England yelped, wriggled, and eyes opened wide. Green eyes against blue, and England can feel a swelling swarm of something, and it's not pleasure. Timidly, he tightened his grip on the glasses – where is he? Sauna. Yeah. And then America's too-large hand is sliding across his eyes, sweaty and damp and too-large. Too dark.
There's a too-large grind between his legs, against him, and England gave a twitch – a tremble? Something between them.
It's dark, is the thought.
Dark means too hot, and searing, sizzling, tripping warmth, scored into his skin with scratches. Dark means he can feel the heavy shape against him – America, not shape, and he forces himself to coherence. Swallowed about the dry, irritation of his throat. Coughed and hacked, juddered against shape – America – and the air is too hot.
Oh god, And he's being moved, adjusted, and his legs are limp with sweat as he's moved. Where is he?
He's in too hot, too dark, too large, too much.
With a dry, dense cry, he gave a full on struggle. Trying to claw and roll out of the touch, but the too large pulled him, first soft and then strength is applie – it's America, America, - America applies his strength, pushing and pulling England from the edge.
Too much shape, and damp, muffled skin pressure is being pushed down until the air in England's chest bubbled up, choking out of him in a spittle of coughs. Too much too little, and he gasped for air, fuckfuckfuck. He's moved again, up into the risen heat and another gulp of air is too much, he can't even keep the air down and it's too dark and he can't get out from under the too much heat and weight of the darkness. Sweaty, too big darkness.
He struggles harder, thrashing now – and bites, scratches, burning fingernails are pulled down his body, leaving him shaking and exposed, panting, whimpering. He can feel it, but it's far – the sting of acid on his skin, sensitive, too sensitive, too dark, sensitive, is all that he can feel, and he thrashed against the new pain, fingers clenching around something hot and hard and else in his hand. Pushed down, into the cool-hot wood (it's so hot, and damp and hot and dark) and the thumb of the hand over his eyes, stifling his vision in damp and engulfing black heat, is hooked in his mouth. What does the growing, crowding heat want?
A strangled moan erupts from somewhere in his chest, wriggling past his dry throat and into the air and he clutches tighter on the hard metal in his hand. Clinging, and shuddering, laid bare against the hotness. It's too hot, it's too hot!
His legs are nudged apart hard, and something clicked; whimpering, whining, throat sore and skin flushed with the too much heat (he feels like he's burning up; charred to a crisp) England spread his legs wider. Maybe it'll go away if he just opens and splays himself bare?
And slick pressure now, slicker and more heated, and England's groaning, voice tight and coiled in his chest; trying not to anger the heat and toohot and darkness. The thumb hooked in his mouth angles and there's another pressure right over his mouth, something wet in his mouth, and he's so dry and heated, that he tongues it right back. Getting slobber all over his face, too hot, too hot. The tongue in his mouth is too hot, and the teeth that graze his lips bruise too hard. Everything is just too something.
There's another heat, burning and stretching and pulling and splitting, stinging that rushes up his spine from his hips, and he tries to spread his legs further apart. Let it.
His voice is steely, hot like metal in his neck, and he can't breathe – can't even swallow – around the wail that waits there. Instead England bit down on it, shut his eyes even tighter, and, shaking like a dry, skeleton of a leaf, pressed himself into the wood, letting the invading pressure further in.
Listening, not to England's whines and moans, but to a cracking sound, as England's tightened fingers manage to snap the bridge of his glasses in two. Halfway pressed into England's body, and skin flushed from exertion and the hot air of the sauna, he felt his entire body go cold with a horrible premonition. England gave another stifled whimper, and America was startled back into action, pulling his hand sharply away from England's eyes – they're shut so tightly, and now England's biting his lip, shaking and apparently unable to stop.
"England?" No reply. "S…Stars and stripes." America stammered out, eyes blown wide with panic.
The sweat felt like melting ice as it ran down America's legs, and he rested his weight on his palms, not putting any of it on the shivery England. No response, aside from the continuous whirring whimpers. The whimpers didn't spike up or alter – a single, unstopping noise. And two halves of a pair of glasses clenched in between his pale, clenched fist.
"E-England?" America tried again, gently touching his knuckles to England's cheek, and when England shied away from the soft, caring touch, America gulped audibly. Pulled back as though he'd be whipped between the shoulder blades, and sitting up, pulled England (unresisting, noise rising in pitch, and eyes still clamped shut) into his arms. "England, babe," America stroked gently at England's trembling arms and back, fitting England into his arms, as he quickly scooted to the next level down. "Come on." He murmured, gently unfurling England's fingers from the two pieces of Texas; barely noticing as they clattered to the bench, his gaze lodged on the deep, uncomfortable flush on England's face, and the way it fell down his neck, down his chest, blossomed in the curve of his throat, making the scratch-marks and bite-marks difficult to discern and finally pooled in a long line America had made with his nail across England's side.
"Sweetie," America reached to the side, looking for the water bottle he'd brought with him, and England gave another shudder. America pressed the water bottle quickly to England's forehead, and then poured a small palmful of it into his hand and flicked it on England's face. "It's'kay."
Guilt had exploded, crawling and clawing in America's stomach, somewhere in his chest. The emotion snarled and spread through his nerves and along his skin, like a physical thing, and America was soon shaking as hard as England. Despite this, he swallowed around the obstructing, horrible, persistent guilt, and mumbled, stumbling across the words: "Honey, sweetheart, gorgeous; can you open your eyes." Please, I need you to look at me.
America pressed the water bottle back against England's forehead, and the slighter man gave a moan of relief, pressing into the cool container, eyelashes fluttering slightly. His face is still that same uncomfortably bright colour, and England is all but nuzzling the water container. America gave another swallow, guilt thickening and congealing somewhere in between his ribs. "Right! It's too warm in here!" America squawked suddenly, all but throwing the water bottle to the side, and England gave an uncomfortable nrrh. America bit his lip, but jumped to his feet and kicking the door open (and off its hinges) jogged, trying hard not to run, and promptly plunged into the cold water of the pool.
With a quick kick of his legs, America pulled them both up into the air, and England's arms wrapped tightly around America's neck, clinging on for dear life, and shivering in the temperature shock. "A-Amer'i-?" Voice raspy, and then England gave a hiccough, shuddered against America and, pulled back, hands curling on America's chest. Green eyes flared wide, but coherent, and alert.
And then England gave an odd mewling sound, curled against America, and took deep, shuddery gasps of air, breathing harshly and shallowly, hyperventilating, until his head dizzily flopped against the crook of America's neck. America stroked at England's shoulders, heart hammering, and the guilt bubbling helplessly in the pit of his stomach – he'd never be hungry ever again, or at least for a week. Numbly, he continued to stroke at England's cooling skin, feeling his breath hitch and tumble, and the constant, frightened (frightened, panicked; America can't bite back the self-loathing he feels; terrified, scared; he caused this.) drum of his heart that American can feel thud against his front. Mile an hour beats. Clunking and rattling against his chest sharply, he feels England's pulse race.
May your quills be ever sharp.