Blame it on the Alcohol [1/5]
anonymous
March 7 2010, 20:21:08 UTC
England is drunk. Not that he would admit it, even as his words become mumbled and slurred and increasingly unintelligible.
Not even as the faces around him swim together, blurring like a water damaged painting.
Not even when he starts picturing what a certain former colony of his would look like shirtless and handcuffed…
“Mon dieu, it seems l’Angleterre is more drunk then usual,” he hears the frog croak.
“Whassat, you bloody wanker? Thas not true, get over ‘ere, say it to my facshe.” England growls and throws out a sloppy punch, his fist connecting with air. The chuckles that emanate from the group around him make his face flush crimson with fury.
“Why you laughing?” he hiccups. “I’ll take alla you on at once, y’hear? I,” He stands up on wobbly feet, the stool clattering to the floor. “I’ll fight you! Ish not smart to mess with the British Empire!” And with that, England loses his footing and falls onto his backside. The other countries, all pretty drunk themselves, laugh uproariously.
He faintly registers a giggling America helping him to his feet, cheeks rose pink, his eyes ocean blue under those glasses. “Ey America, since when d’you look good?” He licks his lips, marveling at how the other’s cheeks darken in color. So cute. He trails his fingertips across those luscious lips.
The room is fuzzy, blending like watercolors, and even in his drunken state, he registers that the other members are ready to head home.
He knows who he wants to go home with.
“I think it is time we headed ‘ome, non?” France grins, then winds his arm around Canada’s slim waist. “But, I think, we should accompany each other back. Wouldn’t want anyone getting lost, especially like zis.” He nips at poor Canada’s ear, causing the younger to squeak and stumble, still caught in France’s death grip.
This seems like a good idea to all of the mildly drunk nations in the bar, and they split into groups. England grabs America’s tie, running his hand along his creamy neck, and in turn causing America to squeak in surprise, then quickly compose himself.
They exit the bar, going in separate directions through the chilled city streets.
I know you wanted more dub-con, but I was just kinda in the mood for some non-con. Sorry! orz ;_;
Blame it on the Alcohol [2/5]
anonymous
March 7 2010, 20:31:38 UTC
America half carries, half walks England back into his house and up to his room. “You shouldn’t drink so much, old man.” He teases, dropping him onto the bed with a grunt. He pulls the covers around the elder’s body.
The alcohol is wearing off, just enough to bring some coherency into England’s brain. “Whassat, you git?” He gets up and grabs America’s arm, gripping it tightly.
“Ow! Hey, lemme go. That hurts.” America pouts, his plump lips looking so delectable in the soft light of his room. England stares at him, not letting go. America tugs at his arm, trying to loosen the iron grip. “Let go, England.”
England kisses him, tasting the liquor on both of their tongues, taking a hold of America’s head and crushing their lips together.
America makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and pulls away. “What are you doing?” he gasps for breath, struggling against the grip.
“Kissing you, git. Now stop struggling.” But the youth struggles out of his hold and backs away.
“You’re drunk, England. You’re drunk, and you don’t-”
England lets out a frustrated groan, already feeling heat pooling in his stomach as those ocean eyes widen and his hands start to tremble. “I’m not.” And he stumbles forward, gripping America’s shoulders and all but throwing him on the bed. “I like you, bastard.” He straddles his hips, untying the tie around his neck and forcing the other’s hands above his head. “Now, behave.”
America puts up a feeble resistance, body jerking to the sides and arms shaking as his hands are incapacitated and tied to the headboard. “Y-you do?” he murmurs, “I mean, I like you too, but England- mmph!”
England silences him with a forceful kiss, molding their lips together none to gently, nibbling at the soft skin.
Then he gets to work. His hands are clumsy, still under the influence, as he fumbles with the buttons on the shirt. America gasps and breaks the kiss as the cold fingers touch his now bare skin.
“Stop, England! Don’t…” he lets out a moan and quickly bites his lip as fingers dance over his nipples.
“See? You like this.” England slurs, now pressing sloppy kisses along the creamy smooth neck. His tongue trails circles on the warm flesh, causing badly muffled gasps to spill from America.
“Dammit, England, stop!” America’s voice is getting higher, more desperate, and he begins to struggle against his bindings and England’s weight.
It’s then England realizes that in order to properly remove the shirt, he would need to untie America’s hands. He really should have thought about this before hand, but there is still fuzz in his brain from the liquor. He sighs, and just leaves the shirt splayed open, the sculpted body underneath revealed to the world.
Well, to him, anyway.
He presses warm, drunken kisses to America’s collarbone, slowly trailing down to lap at a nipple. He swirls his tongue around it, tasting the warm skin and feeling the tremors coursing through America’s body.
Tremors that he’s causing. He suckles at the sensitive skin and America cries out, and that’s enough to let his drunken lust take over.
The clothes are shed in a matter of moments. Every layer, peeled away in a rush and carelessly heaped on the ground.
England admires his handiwork, eyes greedily drinking in the sight of America, lying on the bed. His cheeks are pink, flushed with alcohol and arousal, eyes wide, glasses askew on his nose, hair disheveled. England almost purrs, and drunkenly runs his thumb along those trembling lips, swollen from the kisses.
America bites back a whimper, feeling like an animal in a cage under those hungry eyes. He tugs at the bindings and squeezes his thighs together.
England growls, low and predatory and wrenches those supple thighs apart, pressing soft nips and kisses to their sweet skin.
“Oh God, England, you’re drunk, get off.”
“’M not drunk,” England slurs, settling himself between America’s legs. He has him. America is his again, and it’s wonderful. He grins lopsidedly, taking two fingers and putting them in his mouth. He faintly wonders if he’s forgotten something, but decides he hasn’t, and reaches to press those fingers into the other’s tight entrance.
Blame it on the Alcohol [3/5]
anonymous
March 7 2010, 20:37:35 UTC
America hisses in pain, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as the fingers begin to scissor inside of him, stretching and loosening his body. Another finger is added, stretching him even farther until he’s sure he’s going to break.
But he doesn’t, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the fingers end their intrusion.
England plants one more kiss to those soft, swollen lips and tastes the metallic tang of blood. He grimaces and pulls back, finally positioning himself at America’s entrance.
America starts to thrash against the bindings, but England grabs his hips and grins down at the sizable erection between his legs.
“Excited?” He slurs, touching the tip and America sucks in a breath, muffling a moan.
England moves in, slowly, oh so slowly, America’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head viciously.
There’s a groan of pleasure, and he pulls nearly all the way back out. Then England plunges in, violent and brutal and without mercy.
America cries out, voice choked in what is either pain or pleasure. England doesn’t care either way; he just knows he wants America to cry out again. He wants to make America cry out. He wants to make him scream.
“E-england! H-hurts, stop, dammit!”
He thrusts in clumsily, no rhythm or pattern, savoring the hot tightness around his length, the shudders he can feel in the other’s body. The little gasps and cries that issue from America’s mouth make him plunge in faster, and they increase in volume and frequency and oh god, who knew he could make those sounds?
Suddenly, he feels himself hit something, and he knows it’s good because America is crying out and cursing and shaking his head violently, and he tries to hit it again and he does.
“Oh God, stopstopsto-ah!”
America is beautiful when he’s being fucked. The way his head tilts to the side, rose red color blooming on his cheeks, eyes closed tight, lips trembling, and his voice when he really feels the pleasure… How his whole body shudders, flushed pink with arousal.
England feels that familiar feeling pooling low in his stomach, he knows he’s close, even through the haze that’s filled his brain. He’s close, and America is too, because he’s crying out and moaning and gasping at every vicious thrust, thrashing his head to the side.
He builds up speed, relishing every sound America makes even as he starts to lose his mercy and rhythm and the cries aren’t entirely pleasured anymore, he feels his body tightening and clenching and-
With one more tight thrust, it’s over.
England slumps over onto America’s chest, feeling it rise and fall heavily, feeling the sticky white on their stomachs.
He pulls out, the sound sickeningly wet in the silent room. There is silence for a while, broken only by their heavy breathing.
“England,” America’s voice is hoarse and shaky. “Untie me.”
“Where’re your manners? Say please,” England slurs, head blurred by sex and alcohol.
“Please. Please, just untie me.”
England nods slowly, confusion worming its way through the haze at the complacency. With fumbling fingers, he unties the tie around America’s wrists.
America is up in a moment, mumbling something incoherent and pulling on his discarded clothing. England can hear his footsteps running away from the room, and then the click of the front door.
He is confused for a bit, but then shrugs and collapses onto the stained sheets. He’s asleep instantaneously.
Blame it on the Alcohol [4/5]
anonymous
March 7 2010, 20:43:07 UTC
Someone is slamming his head against the ground. They’re taking rocks and pounding them into his skull, with hammers and bullets and oh god it hurts…
England struggles out of bed and over to the bathroom, managing to make it to the toilet before he vomits up the contents of last night’s dinner.
Faintly, he hears someone chanting something over and over…
Stop, stop, stop.
He looks down and sees the now dried white, still on his stomach.
England, don’t-
His knuckles are white from gripping the edges of the toilet bowl.
England!
He vomits into the toilet again. What did he do? He vaguely remembers America, hands tied to the headboard, writhing and squirming under him, eyes confused and betrayed and-
He hunches over, dry-heaving. Oh God. Oh no, no, no…
The telephone. England stumbles up, grabbing his cell phone and punching in America’s number but hangs up before the first ring. No, he can’t call. America probably doesn’t want to see him, to talk to him, ever again…
England crawls back into bed, curling up under the dirty covers and clenching his hands around his head, the pounding in his head starting another, very different assault on his conscience.
For a long, long while, England is curled up under the covers, trying desperately to salvage any memories from last night and then trying just as hard to repress them once he starts to remember.
He feels horrible, terrible, worthless. He belongs with the scum of the earth, rotting in a cell somewhere.
The telephone rings, and the sharp notes cause England to groan audibly and curl up into an even tighter ball. “Go away,” he grits his teeth. Then he shoots up, out of bed. Maybe it’s America.
He picks up the receiver and tries not to sound too desperate when he answers “Hello?”
“England, is that you? You sound like hell.” It’s not America. It’s Canada. There is some faint muttering in the background, in French. He knows France is there and just made some cheeky comment. He wants to strangle the frog.
“Yes, yes it’s me you git. What do you want?”
There’s silence on the other end, and England knows Canada is biting his lip, worried. “Have you seen America?” he says, finally. “I know it’s probably nothing, but he isn’t picking up his cell, and you were the last one to see him…”
England’s stomach clenches and he fights off the urge to vomit. “No, I haven’t,” he says, a little too harshly. “What would make you think I knew where he was?”
“Oh, nothing, I just-”
“Well I don’t! Now if you would kindly go, I’m busy nursing a headache that has absolutely fucking nothing to do with alcohol, okay?” he hangs up.
Canada sighs, wondering if he should bother trying again later.
England tries to eat something but finds he just can't keep it down.
Blame it on the Alcohol [5/5]
anonymous
March 7 2010, 20:49:52 UTC
The next day, hangover gone and rational thought fully returned, England goes to visit America. He stands on the door step for a long time, staring at the bell as if it were the only thing in the world.
He should leave.
America doesn’t want to see him, he hates him, and after what he’s done, he deserves every cruel punishment thought up by man.
He’s so sorry. England just needs to say those words. He was drunk, he didn’t mean it...
His finger jerks forward on its own and rings the bell. There’s no turning back now, and he chews his bottom lip until it starts to bleed. He waits. And waits. And waits, and just as he’s about to leave, the door creaks open.
Good God, America is a mess. His hair is disheveled and he has bags under his eyes and it’s all England’s fault…
“England?” America manages after a moment or two. “H-hey. What brings you over here?”
“I, uh, you see, I was in the area and…” he takes a deep breath and ignores how America visibly pales when he asks “May I come in?”
He is allowed entry, and America vanishes into the kitchen, muttering something about making coffee.
England doesn’t have the heart to ask for tea.
They sit in silence, staring at the floor, the furniture, not meeting each other’s gaze. He shouldn’t have come, this was a bad idea, oh God why did he come? He did horrible things to someone who loved him, who trusted him…
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and takes a long sip of coffee, wincing at the bitter taste.
America looks up, eyes blank.
England takes a deep breath. “I truly am sorry, what I did was unforgivable. I don’t expect you to forgive me, in fact, I’m not sure I deserve your forgiveness. However, know that I-”
“It’s okay.” America looks down, not meeting England’s eyes. “I-I think… I think it would be best for us both to just put it behind us. Y’know? It’s best for both of our countries… Don’t want to start any problems.”
England thinks his heart will tear in two right then and there. “Y-yeah. Sure, America, sure. I-”
“Well, glad that’s settled!” America flashes him one of those prize winning grins, but this time there are shadows hiding in it, obscuring the bright lights he usually radiates. “Sorry to rush you out, but you kinda arrived at a bad time, and I have some work to finish up…”
England nods, feeling the now-familiar bile rising in his throat. He reaches a hand out to America, to touch him, to be assured that America will let him.
He doesn’t. He flinches away, looking at the tile floor.
“I-I’ll see you later, then.” England forces out, grinning through clenched teeth.
America nods, a small smile on his face, like maybe if he pretends, everything will just go away.
And maybe, if England smiles back, he can do the same.
Well, that was fun. x_x Sorry about the fact that the ending failed. I tried to think about what I would do in that situation, but tbh I've never gotten drunk and raped anyone.
Oh and I've never written smut before. So sorry if that sucked, too.
OP-anon here~!
anonymous
March 8 2010, 04:53:10 UTC
OH MY LORD. I love you, dear Author!Anon. You may have my wonderful wifey. And my screwed up children. And my cute dog. And my evil cat. And my hawt porn. Which my wifey does not know of. So shhh. ;3; This OP is very, very happy you filled this, midear Author!anon, and she wishes that you would keep writing smut for the kink_meme, because you are DAMN good at it. <3 This just made my night. If my wifey were home right now, she'd be getting molested. *3* Just have to wait then, won't she, da? ^3^ But you, anon. You can take me. Right here. Right now. Just because of this fill. I will worship your body forever. *3* ...fff. Thank you for filling. <3
Not even as the faces around him swim together, blurring like a water damaged painting.
Not even when he starts picturing what a certain former colony of his would look like shirtless and handcuffed…
“Mon dieu, it seems l’Angleterre is more drunk then usual,” he hears the frog croak.
“Whassat, you bloody wanker? Thas not true, get over ‘ere, say it to my facshe.” England growls and throws out a sloppy punch, his fist connecting with air. The chuckles that emanate from the group around him make his face flush crimson with fury.
“Why you laughing?” he hiccups. “I’ll take alla you on at once, y’hear? I,” He stands up on wobbly feet, the stool clattering to the floor. “I’ll fight you! Ish not smart to mess with the British Empire!” And with that, England loses his footing and falls onto his backside. The other countries, all pretty drunk themselves, laugh uproariously.
He faintly registers a giggling America helping him to his feet, cheeks rose pink, his eyes ocean blue under those glasses. “Ey America, since when d’you look good?” He licks his lips, marveling at how the other’s cheeks darken in color. So cute. He trails his fingertips across those luscious lips.
The room is fuzzy, blending like watercolors, and even in his drunken state, he registers that the other members are ready to head home.
He knows who he wants to go home with.
“I think it is time we headed ‘ome, non?” France grins, then winds his arm around Canada’s slim waist. “But, I think, we should accompany each other back. Wouldn’t want anyone getting lost, especially like zis.” He nips at poor Canada’s ear, causing the younger to squeak and stumble, still caught in France’s death grip.
This seems like a good idea to all of the mildly drunk nations in the bar, and they split into groups. England grabs America’s tie, running his hand along his creamy neck, and in turn causing America to squeak in surprise, then quickly compose himself.
They exit the bar, going in separate directions through the chilled city streets.
I know you wanted more dub-con, but I was just kinda in the mood for some non-con. Sorry! orz ;_;
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The alcohol is wearing off, just enough to bring some coherency into England’s brain. “Whassat, you git?” He gets up and grabs America’s arm, gripping it tightly.
“Ow! Hey, lemme go. That hurts.” America pouts, his plump lips looking so delectable in the soft light of his room. England stares at him, not letting go. America tugs at his arm, trying to loosen the iron grip. “Let go, England.”
England kisses him, tasting the liquor on both of their tongues, taking a hold of America’s head and crushing their lips together.
America makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and pulls away. “What are you doing?” he gasps for breath, struggling against the grip.
“Kissing you, git. Now stop struggling.” But the youth struggles out of his hold and backs away.
“You’re drunk, England. You’re drunk, and you don’t-”
England lets out a frustrated groan, already feeling heat pooling in his stomach as those ocean eyes widen and his hands start to tremble. “I’m not.” And he stumbles forward, gripping America’s shoulders and all but throwing him on the bed. “I like you, bastard.” He straddles his hips, untying the tie around his neck and forcing the other’s hands above his head. “Now, behave.”
America puts up a feeble resistance, body jerking to the sides and arms shaking as his hands are incapacitated and tied to the headboard. “Y-you do?” he murmurs, “I mean, I like you too, but England- mmph!”
England silences him with a forceful kiss, molding their lips together none to gently, nibbling at the soft skin.
Then he gets to work. His hands are clumsy, still under the influence, as he fumbles with the buttons on the shirt. America gasps and breaks the kiss as the cold fingers touch his now bare skin.
“Stop, England! Don’t…” he lets out a moan and quickly bites his lip as fingers dance over his nipples.
“See? You like this.” England slurs, now pressing sloppy kisses along the creamy smooth neck. His tongue trails circles on the warm flesh, causing badly muffled gasps to spill from America.
“Dammit, England, stop!” America’s voice is getting higher, more desperate, and he begins to struggle against his bindings and England’s weight.
It’s then England realizes that in order to properly remove the shirt, he would need to untie America’s hands. He really should have thought about this before hand, but there is still fuzz in his brain from the liquor. He sighs, and just leaves the shirt splayed open, the sculpted body underneath revealed to the world.
Well, to him, anyway.
He presses warm, drunken kisses to America’s collarbone, slowly trailing down to lap at a nipple. He swirls his tongue around it, tasting the warm skin and feeling the tremors coursing through America’s body.
Tremors that he’s causing. He suckles at the sensitive skin and America cries out, and that’s enough to let his drunken lust take over.
The clothes are shed in a matter of moments. Every layer, peeled away in a rush and carelessly heaped on the ground.
England admires his handiwork, eyes greedily drinking in the sight of America, lying on the bed. His cheeks are pink, flushed with alcohol and arousal, eyes wide, glasses askew on his nose, hair disheveled. England almost purrs, and drunkenly runs his thumb along those trembling lips, swollen from the kisses.
America bites back a whimper, feeling like an animal in a cage under those hungry eyes. He tugs at the bindings and squeezes his thighs together.
England growls, low and predatory and wrenches those supple thighs apart, pressing soft nips and kisses to their sweet skin.
“Oh God, England, you’re drunk, get off.”
“’M not drunk,” England slurs, settling himself between America’s legs. He has him. America is his again, and it’s wonderful. He grins lopsidedly, taking two fingers and putting them in his mouth. He faintly wonders if he’s forgotten something, but decides he hasn’t, and reaches to press those fingers into the other’s tight entrance.
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But he doesn’t, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the fingers end their intrusion.
England plants one more kiss to those soft, swollen lips and tastes the metallic tang of blood. He grimaces and pulls back, finally positioning himself at America’s entrance.
America starts to thrash against the bindings, but England grabs his hips and grins down at the sizable erection between his legs.
“Excited?” He slurs, touching the tip and America sucks in a breath, muffling a moan.
England moves in, slowly, oh so slowly, America’s eyes grow wide and he shakes his head viciously.
There’s a groan of pleasure, and he pulls nearly all the way back out. Then England plunges in, violent and brutal and without mercy.
America cries out, voice choked in what is either pain or pleasure. England doesn’t care either way; he just knows he wants America to cry out again. He wants to make America cry out. He wants to make him scream.
“E-england! H-hurts, stop, dammit!”
He thrusts in clumsily, no rhythm or pattern, savoring the hot tightness around his length, the shudders he can feel in the other’s body. The little gasps and cries that issue from America’s mouth make him plunge in faster, and they increase in volume and frequency and oh god, who knew he could make those sounds?
Suddenly, he feels himself hit something, and he knows it’s good because America is crying out and cursing and shaking his head violently, and he tries to hit it again and he does.
“Oh God, stopstopsto-ah!”
America is beautiful when he’s being fucked. The way his head tilts to the side, rose red color blooming on his cheeks, eyes closed tight, lips trembling, and his voice when he really feels the pleasure… How his whole body shudders, flushed pink with arousal.
England feels that familiar feeling pooling low in his stomach, he knows he’s close, even through the haze that’s filled his brain. He’s close, and America is too, because he’s crying out and moaning and gasping at every vicious thrust, thrashing his head to the side.
He builds up speed, relishing every sound America makes even as he starts to lose his mercy and rhythm and the cries aren’t entirely pleasured anymore, he feels his body tightening and clenching and-
With one more tight thrust, it’s over.
England slumps over onto America’s chest, feeling it rise and fall heavily, feeling the sticky white on their stomachs.
He pulls out, the sound sickeningly wet in the silent room. There is silence for a while, broken only by their heavy breathing.
“England,” America’s voice is hoarse and shaky. “Untie me.”
“Where’re your manners? Say please,” England slurs, head blurred by sex and alcohol.
“Please. Please, just untie me.”
England nods slowly, confusion worming its way through the haze at the complacency. With fumbling fingers, he unties the tie around America’s wrists.
America is up in a moment, mumbling something incoherent and pulling on his discarded clothing. England can hear his footsteps running away from the room, and then the click of the front door.
He is confused for a bit, but then shrugs and collapses onto the stained sheets. He’s asleep instantaneously.
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England struggles out of bed and over to the bathroom, managing to make it to the toilet before he vomits up the contents of last night’s dinner.
Faintly, he hears someone chanting something over and over…
Stop, stop, stop.
He looks down and sees the now dried white, still on his stomach.
England, don’t-
His knuckles are white from gripping the edges of the toilet bowl.
England!
He vomits into the toilet again. What did he do? He vaguely remembers America, hands tied to the headboard, writhing and squirming under him, eyes confused and betrayed and-
He hunches over, dry-heaving. Oh God. Oh no, no, no…
The telephone. England stumbles up, grabbing his cell phone and punching in America’s number but hangs up before the first ring. No, he can’t call. America probably doesn’t want to see him, to talk to him, ever again…
England crawls back into bed, curling up under the dirty covers and clenching his hands around his head, the pounding in his head starting another, very different assault on his conscience.
For a long, long while, England is curled up under the covers, trying desperately to salvage any memories from last night and then trying just as hard to repress them once he starts to remember.
He feels horrible, terrible, worthless. He belongs with the scum of the earth, rotting in a cell somewhere.
The telephone rings, and the sharp notes cause England to groan audibly and curl up into an even tighter ball. “Go away,” he grits his teeth. Then he shoots up, out of bed. Maybe it’s America.
He picks up the receiver and tries not to sound too desperate when he answers “Hello?”
“England, is that you? You sound like hell.” It’s not America. It’s Canada. There is some faint muttering in the background, in French. He knows France is there and just made some cheeky comment. He wants to strangle the frog.
“Yes, yes it’s me you git. What do you want?”
There’s silence on the other end, and England knows Canada is biting his lip, worried. “Have you seen America?” he says, finally. “I know it’s probably nothing, but he isn’t picking up his cell, and you were the last one to see him…”
England’s stomach clenches and he fights off the urge to vomit. “No, I haven’t,” he says, a little too harshly. “What would make you think I knew where he was?”
“Oh, nothing, I just-”
“Well I don’t! Now if you would kindly go, I’m busy nursing a headache that has absolutely fucking nothing to do with alcohol, okay?” he hangs up.
Canada sighs, wondering if he should bother trying again later.
England tries to eat something but finds he just can't keep it down.
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He should leave.
America doesn’t want to see him, he hates him, and after what he’s done, he deserves every cruel punishment thought up by man.
He’s so sorry. England just needs to say those words. He was drunk, he didn’t mean it...
His finger jerks forward on its own and rings the bell. There’s no turning back now, and he chews his bottom lip until it starts to bleed.
He waits. And waits. And waits, and just as he’s about to leave, the door creaks open.
Good God, America is a mess. His hair is disheveled and he has bags under his eyes and it’s all England’s fault…
“England?” America manages after a moment or two. “H-hey. What brings you over here?”
“I, uh, you see, I was in the area and…” he takes a deep breath and ignores how America visibly pales when he asks “May I come in?”
He is allowed entry, and America vanishes into the kitchen, muttering something about making coffee.
England doesn’t have the heart to ask for tea.
They sit in silence, staring at the floor, the furniture, not meeting each other’s gaze. He shouldn’t have come, this was a bad idea, oh God why did he come? He did horrible things to someone who loved him, who trusted him…
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and takes a long sip of coffee, wincing at the bitter taste.
America looks up, eyes blank.
England takes a deep breath. “I truly am sorry, what I did was unforgivable. I don’t expect you to forgive me, in fact, I’m not sure I deserve your forgiveness. However, know that I-”
“It’s okay.” America looks down, not meeting England’s eyes. “I-I think… I think it would be best for us both to just put it behind us. Y’know? It’s best for both of our countries… Don’t want to start any problems.”
England thinks his heart will tear in two right then and there. “Y-yeah. Sure, America, sure. I-”
“Well, glad that’s settled!” America flashes him one of those prize winning grins, but this time there are shadows hiding in it, obscuring the bright lights he usually radiates. “Sorry to rush you out, but you kinda arrived at a bad time, and I have some work to finish up…”
England nods, feeling the now-familiar bile rising in his throat. He reaches a hand out to America, to touch him, to be assured that America will let him.
He doesn’t. He flinches away, looking at the tile floor.
“I-I’ll see you later, then.” England forces out, grinning through clenched teeth.
America nods, a small smile on his face, like maybe if he pretends, everything will just go away.
And maybe, if England smiles back, he can do the same.
Well, that was fun. x_x Sorry about the fact that the ending failed. I tried to think about what I would do in that situation, but tbh I've never gotten drunk and raped anyone.
Oh and I've never written smut before. So sorry if that sucked, too.
Constructive crit wantedappreciated.
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The end made me really sad, but oddly in a good way. It all seemed well done. Have an internet cookie!
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-noms on cookie-
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(It's the last paragraph, you see. You used it in something else, I remember. ^^ That was a good fill too.)
Oh this fill is dirty and I'm going to HELL, but I loved it. xD <3
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dammit.
On another note, thank you! ^^
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I love you, dear Author!Anon.
You may have my wonderful wifey. And my screwed up children. And my cute dog. And my evil cat. And my hawt porn. Which my wifey does not know of. So shhh.
;3;
This OP is very, very happy you filled this, midear Author!anon, and she wishes that you would keep writing smut for the kink_meme, because you are DAMN good at it. <3
This just made my night. If my wifey were home right now, she'd be getting molested. *3*
Just have to wait then, won't she, da? ^3^
But you, anon. You can take me. Right here. Right now. Just because of this fill. I will worship your body forever. *3*
...fff. Thank you for filling. <3
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But very realistic, IC, and even like this, those two are still so adorable. :) I feel a little bad for both of them though.
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