Mi Inglaterra [1/?]
anonymous
November 16 2009, 22:05:33 UTC
(A/N Urgh, sorry it's been a while between fills, I was sick, then I got writers blocks, then school swamped me, then I got a better idea for the next chapter, so I re-wrote it and...
Orz)
Spain softly stroked the trails of tears that had run down England’s cheek. The blonde nation flinched slightly from Spain’s touch, his manacled wrists limp in his laps as he knelt on the cold stone floor.
“Oh Inglattera, why did you side with her against me? You knew that you would lose.”
England’s head jerked up to meet Spain’s, he green eyes shining in the oily torchlight. “Portugal, she-“
England was silenced as Spain sharply slapped him. He lifted his wrists to touch his cheek and lowered his gaze.
Spain stood, circled England for a moment, before striding out of the cell.
The blonde nation wiped away the trickle of tears that ran down his dirty cheeks.
He jumped as something touched his back, and jerked round to see Spain kneeling behind him with a damp cloth, cleaning out his wounds.
He turned round and tried not to concentrate on the pain.
Spain gritted his teeth as he wiped the dried and fresh blood from old scars.
He pressed slightly harder than he normally would, and wished that he could rip out every scar that the smaller nation had, every area that would remind him that somebody had dared to touch England.
Somebody had hurt him, made England think about somebody who wasn’t Spain.
Every scar was a symbol that England wasn’t yet truly his.
Spain wanted to rip out every scar that somebody had given England and replace them with ones that he had made, so that every inch of skin would remind England of who he truly was.
He wanted to carve his name into England's back, brand him with his mark.
He wiped away the last of the blood and stood, heading for the door.
England’s voice paused him in his tracks.
“España,” England stammered, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar language, “g-gracias.”
Spain didn’t turn to look at the nation kneeling behind him. He walked out, looked the door behind him.
Yet all the while a smile curved his lips.
(A/N Uh, again, I hope you like it? And sorry for the delay.)
G-God... OP is so happy you updated again! -Hug Author!Anon- This OP is kind of worried that you drop the story... But, nonetheless, this is another good part!
Re: Mi Inglaterra [1/?]
anonymous
November 18 2009, 01:08:14 UTC
A-an update. I'm kind of pleased. ♥♥ I like England fumbling with Spanish a lot, a lot, and probably Spain thinking it a characteristic of his possession of England. Really good.
Orz)
Spain softly stroked the trails of tears that had run down England’s cheek. The blonde nation flinched slightly from Spain’s touch, his manacled wrists limp in his laps as he knelt on the cold stone floor.
“Oh Inglattera, why did you side with her against me? You knew that you would lose.”
England’s head jerked up to meet Spain’s, he green eyes shining in the oily torchlight. “Portugal, she-“
England was silenced as Spain sharply slapped him. He lifted his wrists to touch his cheek and lowered his gaze.
Spain stood, circled England for a moment, before striding out of the cell.
The blonde nation wiped away the trickle of tears that ran down his dirty cheeks.
He jumped as something touched his back, and jerked round to see Spain kneeling behind him with a damp cloth, cleaning out his wounds.
He turned round and tried not to concentrate on the pain.
Spain gritted his teeth as he wiped the dried and fresh blood from old scars.
He pressed slightly harder than he normally would, and wished that he could rip out every scar that the smaller nation had, every area that would remind him that somebody had dared to touch England.
Somebody had hurt him, made England think about somebody who wasn’t Spain.
Every scar was a symbol that England wasn’t yet truly his.
Spain wanted to rip out every scar that somebody had given England and replace them with ones that he had made, so that every inch of skin would remind England of who he truly was.
He wanted to carve his name into England's back, brand him with his mark.
He wiped away the last of the blood and stood, heading for the door.
England’s voice paused him in his tracks.
“España,” England stammered, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar language, “g-gracias.”
Spain didn’t turn to look at the nation kneeling behind him. He walked out, looked the door behind him.
Yet all the while a smile curved his lips.
(A/N Uh, again, I hope you like it? And sorry for the delay.)
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