[Fic] Never Us, Always Them
Title: Never Us, Always Them
Author/Artist: Moi, aka DestinyShiva.
Characters: England primarily, mentions of America and other non-specified characters.
Pairing(s): America/England, ???/England.
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, angst and one-sided feelings.
Summary: "I suppose my deceit is sabotage against no one but myself. Now, can you not see? Can you see how much I am pleading for you? Lying for you? Desperate for you? ...Letting myself be ------ for you?"
"If you loved someone, you couldn't let lies come between you. No matter what happened - even if you'd already lost each other forever - you owed each other the truth."
- Claudia Gray.
"Can you feel it?"
This is me...
I am nothing but a liar. The words that come out of my mouth are nothing but filth. You know it, don't you? How everything I say is meaningless? Even if they were fine, you would not pay attention - would you? You never pay attention. Maybe that is the one piece of truth I can speak.
Of course I can feel it. Every single time his fingers thrust into my body. How could you possibly ignore the sensation of someone opening you up, spreading you wider and wider with each added digit? It stings - God, does it sting. Yet it is good. Pain has always been good, has it not? Aches are satisfying. Makes you feel real. Makes you feel like you are alive.
Internally, I am dead, am I not?
How many times have you been the one to murder me, my dear? Just how many times have you killed me by now? It is an easy figure, my love. Count the times you betrayed me. Count each time I have cried over you. Count every single moment my heart broke because you were just too damned idiotic to care!
"A-ah... Yes!"
I say "yes," but the words are disconnected from my thoughts.
It is the feeling that makes me moan. One, two, three fingers pressed firmly against my prostate while I rock repetitively onto that hand. I can hear them moan too. Then they tell me how tight I am. How I am practically sucking them inside of me. Some of them tell me they like it when my body is so eager. Others tell me I am a polluted whore.
Perhaps I am. But although whores are doing it for the money, I am doing it for a completely different reason. Either way, it still pays. I pay every time I think of you. Every time I imagine your face. Do you think this is compensation enough to cover the costs you cause me, darling?
No matter how much I try to believe this is real... it is just sabotage, is it not?
"You're ready for me..."
Who the fuck are they to judge that? I am never ready for anyone, or anything. Or at least, I am ready no longer. These days are different from the past, you see. You tell me that far too clearly every time the two of us meet eye to eye, do you not? When you live your life believing somehow everything is being handed to you on a lovely, hand-crafted, silver plate, and then that plate is knocked straight out of your hands - you can't help but feel scandalised, can you?
You would want to demand that it gets fixed. You would want to receive it, regardless of the past failure. Well, no such thing as that exists. Let me tell you. There is one shot at everything. Either you have something or you do not. Once I had you, now I do not.
There is no way for me to receive you now. You have already slipped far, far out of my fingers. I really should not touch something dirtied now, should I? Nor should you. Not if you knew just how dirtied I have become.
Yes. Here we are.
Yet, there is never a we, is there?
Them. It is always them. Or they.
Or I, alone.
Do I always shout, moan, and scream when they penetrate me? Yes - I think I do. My lips shudder along with my lower half, fighting with the exact same reaction. My vocal chords work on their own, and I break down into either deep sobs or escapades of ecstasy. They know how to twist me so well - they have manipulated me that many times. If they want me to feel good, I do. If they want to hurt me, they do. I let them. I let them plunge straight in and start fucking my hole until blood is staining the mattress.
I wonder if you would do that to me - my one, untouched person. Thrust in deep, wait for me to scream so you could swallow it in your lips. Anything to cause me pain; everything to make sure I would never stop crying. Maybe that is why I welcome them doing it to me. So I could see this happening with your face tacked to my memories.
I would be crushed, you know I would. You would like that, would you not? You enjoy seeing me broken. How many arguments have the two of us had that prove that fact too strongly, dear? You see what you have to do to decimate what you have already ruined.
Bugger this; have I not made it clear enough I want to have you inside me, whatever the cost?
Yet I cannot pluck up the courage. What was that fairytale you liked telling? Of the girl, the scarecrow, tin man, dog, and of me? The cowardly lion? Maybe you do not quite realise the extent of how much that is true. You are the Dorothy. And they; they are the ones with no hearts.
Right now, I can feel them inside of me.
"More! Oh-Ooh, please, more...!"
Listen to me beg. Am I not cute, my darling? Do you not just want to shoot me dead?
I take each penetrating thrust willingly. Whether it hurts like nothing I have ever known, or perhaps know all too well, or it does not hurt at all; my head is always tilted back. My mouth is always open and sucking in breath faster than my body can process it. I sip the air as if the one molecule of oxygen is one in a billion. Perhaps it is; I am no physician. Either way, it feels terribly scarce. These lips of mine are always trying to seek something they cannot seem to find.
Sometimes they penetrate me there too. Force me to take them in my mouth, filling even my throat with their sweaty lengths. Apart from light murmuring, I cannot make a noise. I bet you would love to do that to me. Not so much have me swallow your cock and suck you in with tightness, wetness, and hollowed cheeks - but have me shut up. Oh, you loathe it when I speak against you - do you not?
Not that you pay heed anyway. That is it. Go about your business as if I have not made one single murmur. Treat me just like everyone treats your brother. Why is it everyone nearby you seems to get drowned in wake of your radiance. It is so thick and viscous. I cannot escape, love. Need I remind you I cannot swim? I will just let you sink me deeper and deeper. You will realise I have gone and died far, far too late. Every single time you do. Do you not? Do not lie to me.
That is who I am. Not you. I have already told you, my sweet. I am a liar. One fucked up, little liar.
I'm lying when I say I hope you love me.
Or was I lying about that?
Yet I do not lie to them when I say how good it feels. My God; it is so disgusting - so sticky, so violent, so scarring. However, good Lord, there is a reason Heaven is supposedly white. Every single time I am delivered to white, hot bliss; I know a little more about how tainted this drab, dark world is. I want to be up there. Living in the clouds.
Would you be the one to deliver me there? No? ...I thought not.
How many times has this happened now?
It is becoming absurd.
While they thrust into my body, I cannot help but dissolve. They do not care if they are holding onto the pieces of what makes me myself or not. As far as they are concerned, they would want to crush and break it, too. Oh, but do not worry. My dearest, do not worry. None of them want to have me destroyed as much as you do. As much as you must.
With each thrust, I rock forwards onto their hard length and rock back when they are dragging it out. As I said, you should either have something, or you should not. In, and out. In or out. The apex of every motion is just me receiving another silver-coated platter. Yet of course, it has to stack and stack until it all tumbles down.
Crash. Crash. Silence.
It is no good. Every time I am with someone else - it never feels right.
Every time, I imagine your face.
Your face creasing up with anger. Or melting with infatuation. Is the second even possible between the two of us? Between you and me? Of course it is not. Not since back then. The time for fair exchanges is over. You smiled at me and received a smile in return. You realise; if you betray me, this means I cannot betray you too. The world around us is in a stalemate.
You. I keep seeing you.
My one and only person.
The one I can look at, but can never again touch.
"Ah-! Ah, oh... yes. Yes, yes...! More, give me more! Yes!"
It does not matter who it is they are - the people that are inside of me. They all act the same, and frankly it is getting monotonous. Or perhaps that is only in my head. I think I see something clearly, but I do not. I am even more blind than you - are I not? This is just one long, sick joke.
Yet it does not matter if it is different for them. It is always the same for me. It is the same fact for you, too. Pehaps if I help you see clearly, or as clouded as my own foresight, then you will pay attention to what horror has to be found here. Now, let me lay down the pure, inconceivable facts.
It is always the same. It is always them having sex with me.
It is never we.
Us.
For example, we never make love.
Do you understand this clearly enough? Perhaps I should spell it out for you even more.
We never make love. Not when we means them and I or you and I. There is not such a word as we in the first place to me. Everyone knows I am on my own, dearest. You lot can congregate in your little groups all you want. Pretend something in your petty lives have any sort of meaning. Yet I know far better than any it is too impossible to give yourself a reason to live. "Do it for your friends?" Do not make me laugh. Everyone is on their own in the very beginning, and it is on their own everyone will end.
Can you not understand that?
We never make love. Love is such a false thing anyway, is it not? You loathe me, I loathe you. Perhaps love is the little hatred between us that makes me want to strangle you and also embrace you. Yet I do not strangle you, now do I? Nor embrace you. Never. Never.
You, my one and only person.
Will I ever be able to touch you? Embrace you like I want to, deep, deep down?
...and will I ever make you see?
This is hopeless, love. I am a liar. I am such a liar. Hate me. Hate me, please. I am begging you. Hear me. Listen to me. Perhaps you will finally notice this niggling feeling deep down inside.
Can you not see? Those spectacles on your head are not just for show, you know. Or maybe you can see clearly and it is just a nightmarish tomfoolery. Just to avoid it.
I know if you look, you will see it. Darling, please. Please.
I need you.
"Are you crying?"
"...N-no. Er-rather, it's just the pain. Don't stop..."
Do not stop trying to fool me, those people I cannot adore. These people that wear your face in my head. Because this... this is the only way.
If I can never be with you, and I can always be with them...
Will it ever comprise as always with you?
I suppose my deceit is sabotage against no one but myself. Now, can you not see? Can you see how much I am pleading for you? Lying for you? Desperate for you?
Letting myself be fucked for you?
I need you. Yet...
Will you ever, ever need me, too?
Author/Artist: Moi, aka DestinyShiva.
Characters: England primarily, mentions of America and other non-specified characters.
Pairing(s): America/England, ???/England.
Rating: M
Warnings: Sex, angst and one-sided feelings.
Summary: "I suppose my deceit is sabotage against no one but myself. Now, can you not see? Can you see how much I am pleading for you? Lying for you? Desperate for you? ...Letting myself be ------ for you?"
"If you loved someone, you couldn't let lies come between you. No matter what happened - even if you'd already lost each other forever - you owed each other the truth."
- Claudia Gray.
"Can you feel it?"
This is me...
I am nothing but a liar. The words that come out of my mouth are nothing but filth. You know it, don't you? How everything I say is meaningless? Even if they were fine, you would not pay attention - would you? You never pay attention. Maybe that is the one piece of truth I can speak.
Of course I can feel it. Every single time his fingers thrust into my body. How could you possibly ignore the sensation of someone opening you up, spreading you wider and wider with each added digit? It stings - God, does it sting. Yet it is good. Pain has always been good, has it not? Aches are satisfying. Makes you feel real. Makes you feel like you are alive.
Internally, I am dead, am I not?
How many times have you been the one to murder me, my dear? Just how many times have you killed me by now? It is an easy figure, my love. Count the times you betrayed me. Count each time I have cried over you. Count every single moment my heart broke because you were just too damned idiotic to care!
"A-ah... Yes!"
I say "yes," but the words are disconnected from my thoughts.
It is the feeling that makes me moan. One, two, three fingers pressed firmly against my prostate while I rock repetitively onto that hand. I can hear them moan too. Then they tell me how tight I am. How I am practically sucking them inside of me. Some of them tell me they like it when my body is so eager. Others tell me I am a polluted whore.
Perhaps I am. But although whores are doing it for the money, I am doing it for a completely different reason. Either way, it still pays. I pay every time I think of you. Every time I imagine your face. Do you think this is compensation enough to cover the costs you cause me, darling?
No matter how much I try to believe this is real... it is just sabotage, is it not?
"You're ready for me..."
Who the fuck are they to judge that? I am never ready for anyone, or anything. Or at least, I am ready no longer. These days are different from the past, you see. You tell me that far too clearly every time the two of us meet eye to eye, do you not? When you live your life believing somehow everything is being handed to you on a lovely, hand-crafted, silver plate, and then that plate is knocked straight out of your hands - you can't help but feel scandalised, can you?
You would want to demand that it gets fixed. You would want to receive it, regardless of the past failure. Well, no such thing as that exists. Let me tell you. There is one shot at everything. Either you have something or you do not. Once I had you, now I do not.
There is no way for me to receive you now. You have already slipped far, far out of my fingers. I really should not touch something dirtied now, should I? Nor should you. Not if you knew just how dirtied I have become.
Yes. Here we are.
Yet, there is never a we, is there?
Them. It is always them. Or they.
Or I, alone.
Do I always shout, moan, and scream when they penetrate me? Yes - I think I do. My lips shudder along with my lower half, fighting with the exact same reaction. My vocal chords work on their own, and I break down into either deep sobs or escapades of ecstasy. They know how to twist me so well - they have manipulated me that many times. If they want me to feel good, I do. If they want to hurt me, they do. I let them. I let them plunge straight in and start fucking my hole until blood is staining the mattress.
I wonder if you would do that to me - my one, untouched person. Thrust in deep, wait for me to scream so you could swallow it in your lips. Anything to cause me pain; everything to make sure I would never stop crying. Maybe that is why I welcome them doing it to me. So I could see this happening with your face tacked to my memories.
I would be crushed, you know I would. You would like that, would you not? You enjoy seeing me broken. How many arguments have the two of us had that prove that fact too strongly, dear? You see what you have to do to decimate what you have already ruined.
Bugger this; have I not made it clear enough I want to have you inside me, whatever the cost?
Yet I cannot pluck up the courage. What was that fairytale you liked telling? Of the girl, the scarecrow, tin man, dog, and of me? The cowardly lion? Maybe you do not quite realise the extent of how much that is true. You are the Dorothy. And they; they are the ones with no hearts.
Right now, I can feel them inside of me.
"More! Oh-Ooh, please, more...!"
Listen to me beg. Am I not cute, my darling? Do you not just want to shoot me dead?
I take each penetrating thrust willingly. Whether it hurts like nothing I have ever known, or perhaps know all too well, or it does not hurt at all; my head is always tilted back. My mouth is always open and sucking in breath faster than my body can process it. I sip the air as if the one molecule of oxygen is one in a billion. Perhaps it is; I am no physician. Either way, it feels terribly scarce. These lips of mine are always trying to seek something they cannot seem to find.
Sometimes they penetrate me there too. Force me to take them in my mouth, filling even my throat with their sweaty lengths. Apart from light murmuring, I cannot make a noise. I bet you would love to do that to me. Not so much have me swallow your cock and suck you in with tightness, wetness, and hollowed cheeks - but have me shut up. Oh, you loathe it when I speak against you - do you not?
Not that you pay heed anyway. That is it. Go about your business as if I have not made one single murmur. Treat me just like everyone treats your brother. Why is it everyone nearby you seems to get drowned in wake of your radiance. It is so thick and viscous. I cannot escape, love. Need I remind you I cannot swim? I will just let you sink me deeper and deeper. You will realise I have gone and died far, far too late. Every single time you do. Do you not? Do not lie to me.
That is who I am. Not you. I have already told you, my sweet. I am a liar. One fucked up, little liar.
I'm lying when I say I hope you love me.
Or was I lying about that?
Yet I do not lie to them when I say how good it feels. My God; it is so disgusting - so sticky, so violent, so scarring. However, good Lord, there is a reason Heaven is supposedly white. Every single time I am delivered to white, hot bliss; I know a little more about how tainted this drab, dark world is. I want to be up there. Living in the clouds.
Would you be the one to deliver me there? No? ...I thought not.
How many times has this happened now?
It is becoming absurd.
While they thrust into my body, I cannot help but dissolve. They do not care if they are holding onto the pieces of what makes me myself or not. As far as they are concerned, they would want to crush and break it, too. Oh, but do not worry. My dearest, do not worry. None of them want to have me destroyed as much as you do. As much as you must.
With each thrust, I rock forwards onto their hard length and rock back when they are dragging it out. As I said, you should either have something, or you should not. In, and out. In or out. The apex of every motion is just me receiving another silver-coated platter. Yet of course, it has to stack and stack until it all tumbles down.
Crash. Crash. Silence.
It is no good. Every time I am with someone else - it never feels right.
Every time, I imagine your face.
Your face creasing up with anger. Or melting with infatuation. Is the second even possible between the two of us? Between you and me? Of course it is not. Not since back then. The time for fair exchanges is over. You smiled at me and received a smile in return. You realise; if you betray me, this means I cannot betray you too. The world around us is in a stalemate.
You. I keep seeing you.
My one and only person.
The one I can look at, but can never again touch.
"Ah-! Ah, oh... yes. Yes, yes...! More, give me more! Yes!"
It does not matter who it is they are - the people that are inside of me. They all act the same, and frankly it is getting monotonous. Or perhaps that is only in my head. I think I see something clearly, but I do not. I am even more blind than you - are I not? This is just one long, sick joke.
Yet it does not matter if it is different for them. It is always the same for me. It is the same fact for you, too. Pehaps if I help you see clearly, or as clouded as my own foresight, then you will pay attention to what horror has to be found here. Now, let me lay down the pure, inconceivable facts.
It is always the same. It is always them having sex with me.
It is never we.
Us.
For example, we never make love.
Do you understand this clearly enough? Perhaps I should spell it out for you even more.
We never make love. Not when we means them and I or you and I. There is not such a word as we in the first place to me. Everyone knows I am on my own, dearest. You lot can congregate in your little groups all you want. Pretend something in your petty lives have any sort of meaning. Yet I know far better than any it is too impossible to give yourself a reason to live. "Do it for your friends?" Do not make me laugh. Everyone is on their own in the very beginning, and it is on their own everyone will end.
Can you not understand that?
We never make love. Love is such a false thing anyway, is it not? You loathe me, I loathe you. Perhaps love is the little hatred between us that makes me want to strangle you and also embrace you. Yet I do not strangle you, now do I? Nor embrace you. Never. Never.
You, my one and only person.
Will I ever be able to touch you? Embrace you like I want to, deep, deep down?
...and will I ever make you see?
This is hopeless, love. I am a liar. I am such a liar. Hate me. Hate me, please. I am begging you. Hear me. Listen to me. Perhaps you will finally notice this niggling feeling deep down inside.
Can you not see? Those spectacles on your head are not just for show, you know. Or maybe you can see clearly and it is just a nightmarish tomfoolery. Just to avoid it.
I know if you look, you will see it. Darling, please. Please.
I need you.
"Are you crying?"
"...N-no. Er-rather, it's just the pain. Don't stop..."
Do not stop trying to fool me, those people I cannot adore. These people that wear your face in my head. Because this... this is the only way.
If I can never be with you, and I can always be with them...
Will it ever comprise as always with you?
I suppose my deceit is sabotage against no one but myself. Now, can you not see? Can you see how much I am pleading for you? Lying for you? Desperate for you?
Letting myself be fucked for you?
I need you. Yet...
Will you ever, ever need me, too?