Revolutionary war femmeslash, as non- or dub-con as anon wishes to make it, either one initiating. -----
Seeing Red
England didn’t know who initiated it. No, that was a lie. England did know--it was she who started the whole thing. Standing across an empty, bloody field from a uniformed America, the heat of the battle raging behind them, surrounding them, almost drowning them, was enough to set aflame the spark that England has. She dashes towards America, tossing her gun carelessly onto the sidelines in favor of a fist fight. Much like savages.
America follows suit, reaching out, running towards each other with fists bare. Biting, clawing, kicking--America thinks maybe there’s a bruise forming on her cheek from that vicious kick England managed to get in. It is starting to hurt her a bit.
Insults follow--
“Bleeding ingrate!”
“Ha! You’ll be the one bleeding!”
“I’m CURSING, you dumbfuck!”
“BITCH!”
They're fighting like wild animals, all over each other, trying to get their hands on each other, and it's chaotic, heated.
This one, England is not sure. It’s too hard to tell--too hard to know who started ripping the other’s clothes off, desperately grabbing. (Am I fighting to get away from England? Or to stay with her...?) America presses her lips onto England’s--too harshly and it bruises her lips. The both of them still, breathing hard into the other's face.
A resounding clap, almost like thunder, and America’s other-unblemished cheek is on fire.
“Bitch,” England hisses, voice laced with hate and fury “don’t you dare touch me like that.” Even from her position underneath America, England still looked as if she were in control. (Menacing.)
And maybe she was, America thinks as their roles reverse.
Seeing Red (2/2)
anonymous
January 6 2010, 04:09:53 UTC
Now it’s America whose on her back--glaring and trying to push England off--
--but the cold air makes her want England's angry warmth. (And back to the old times when England would hold America close to her bosom.)
England doesn't care for America's uniform--she pulls the thick cloth as hard as she can and rips it--the buttons fly in every direction. (America vaguely thinks she heard a soldier swear but thinks are happening to quick for her to keep up.)
England doesn't stop there--she rips the cloth into long strips and before America realizes it, her wrists are immobile above her head, held by the remains of her own uniform.
America wants to spit something back (Or does she?) and she starts to when England stuffs a large wad of blue cloth into her mouth. Now muffled and arms useless, all America could do was kick.
"Oh no America," England starts and smiles. America's belly lurches because she recognizes that smile--
England's hands are cold, almost ghostly, as they run down America's naked hips, before finally ripping off the rest of America's upper uniform.
Utterly humilated to be half-naked on the battlefield, America struggles as England cups her hands under America's breasts, running her fingers over the nipples.
Instinctively, America moans into her gag and is horrified. (Because she no longer wants to struggle, to leave England.)
"That's right, America..."
England takes off the rest of America's clothes with ease America didn't know existed. She circles around America's buttocks, lifting her hips off the dirty and bloody grass, prodding into the hole in the back.
America flinches and tries to back away, tries to kick England off--brings her arms down to hit England and she succeeds--England falls over America, causing her breasts to fall right into America's face.
England curses and puts more pressure on her breasts.
America can't move because there's this odd warmth in the pit of her stomach and she doesn't like it but no matter how many times she tells herself this, it won't go away.
England moves--she gets up, takes one of her fingers, and sticks it into her mouth--sucking and licking until it is completely wet and slick.
America sees red when England inserts that finger into her, carefully massaging the lips...and then another finger...
America closes her eyes, clenches them tightly shut as England thursts with three wet, slick fingers. She can't but moan around her gag, can't help but move her hips closer to the moving fingers, in time with the rhythm--
--and then she sees stars.
Vaguely, she swears she heard England screaming (her name?) as well. England removes the gag and the only words that come of out America's mouth are
"I hate you".
Engand smiles in return, leans over, and kisses America's forehead, whispering, "and I love you too dear," with that sick, twisted grin.
America is left like that, resorting to biting off her bonds and gather what is left of her (dignity) uniform to cover herself.
"I hate you," she repeats to herself, "IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou..."
But she truly isn't sure and that's what scares her the most.
Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=12538890#t12538890
USxUK
Revolutionary war femmeslash, as non- or dub-con as anon wishes to make it, either one initiating.
-----
Seeing Red
England didn’t know who initiated it. No, that was a lie. England did know--it was she who started the whole thing. Standing across an empty, bloody field from a uniformed America, the heat of the battle raging behind them, surrounding them, almost drowning them, was enough to set aflame the spark that England has. She dashes towards America, tossing her gun carelessly onto the sidelines in favor of a fist fight. Much like savages.
America follows suit, reaching out, running towards each other with fists bare. Biting, clawing, kicking--America thinks maybe there’s a bruise forming on her cheek from that vicious kick England managed to get in. It is starting to hurt her a bit.
Insults follow--
“Bleeding ingrate!”
“Ha! You’ll be the one bleeding!”
“I’m CURSING, you dumbfuck!”
“BITCH!”
They're fighting like wild animals, all over each other, trying to get their hands on each other, and it's chaotic, heated.
This one, England is not sure. It’s too hard to tell--too hard to know who started ripping the other’s clothes off, desperately grabbing. (Am I fighting to get away from England? Or to stay with her...?) America presses her lips onto England’s--too harshly and it bruises her lips. The both of them still, breathing hard into the other's face.
A resounding clap, almost like thunder, and America’s other-unblemished cheek is on fire.
“Bitch,” England hisses, voice laced with hate and fury “don’t you dare touch me like that.” Even from her position underneath America, England still looked as if she were in control. (Menacing.)
And maybe she was, America thinks as their roles reverse.
Reply
--but the cold air makes her want England's angry warmth. (And back to the old times when England would hold America close to her bosom.)
England doesn't care for America's uniform--she pulls the thick cloth as hard as she can and rips it--the buttons fly in every direction. (America vaguely thinks she heard a soldier swear but thinks are happening to quick for her to keep up.)
England doesn't stop there--she rips the cloth into long strips and before America realizes it, her wrists are immobile above her head, held by the remains of her own uniform.
America wants to spit something back (Or does she?) and she starts to when England stuffs a large wad of blue cloth into her mouth. Now muffled and arms useless, all America could do was kick.
"Oh no America," England starts and smiles. America's belly lurches because she recognizes that smile--
England's hands are cold, almost ghostly, as they run down America's naked hips, before finally ripping off the rest of America's upper uniform.
Utterly humilated to be half-naked on the battlefield, America struggles as England cups her hands under America's breasts, running her fingers over the nipples.
Instinctively, America moans into her gag and is horrified. (Because she no longer wants to struggle, to leave England.)
"That's right, America..."
England takes off the rest of America's clothes with ease America didn't know existed. She circles around America's buttocks, lifting her hips off the dirty and bloody grass, prodding into the hole in the back.
America flinches and tries to back away, tries to kick England off--brings her arms down to hit England and she succeeds--England falls over America, causing her breasts to fall right into America's face.
England curses and puts more pressure on her breasts.
America can't move because there's this odd warmth in the pit of her stomach and she doesn't like it but no matter how many times she tells herself this, it won't go away.
England moves--she gets up, takes one of her fingers, and sticks it into her mouth--sucking and licking until it is completely wet and slick.
America sees red when England inserts that finger into her, carefully massaging the lips...and then another finger...
America closes her eyes, clenches them tightly shut as England thursts with three wet, slick fingers. She can't but moan around her gag, can't help but move her hips closer to the moving fingers, in time with the rhythm--
--and then she sees stars.
Vaguely, she swears she heard England screaming (her name?) as well. England removes the gag and the only words that come of out America's mouth are
"I hate you".
Engand smiles in return, leans over, and kisses America's forehead, whispering, "and I love you too dear," with that sick, twisted grin.
America is left like that, resorting to biting off her bonds and gather what is left of her (dignity) uniform to cover herself.
"I hate you," she repeats to herself, "IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou..."
But she truly isn't sure and that's what scares her the most.
-----
Hope this is to your liking, OP!
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