part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [16/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:22:02 UTC
America rolls onto his back, clutching at one of the toy soldiers he’d been in the middle of moving. Smiling a little, in the way one does when they don’t quite understand (rather not), even with the cool of the doorknob slipping from comprehension in England’s mind he can still make out the barest little hint of teeth as America bites his lips, should he say? America is bold.
“But England, if it was only you and me it’d be boring.”
England brow gives that crease, and in his chest his rapidly beating heart rises and twists.
Voice revealing how wounded he actually is than intended, it always was like that with England- “Is it… is it boring to be with me?”
And sometimes tears would form in his eyes and America would always always go to him, to wipe them away, kiss them away. This time America lies there still, he does not go to England, and looks rather haughtily at the ceiling avoiding England’s expression. Avoiding answering.
It is only a few swift steps before England kneels before him, bending over to drape his body over America’s smaller one. Now is the time America would really bite his lip worry it red like England likes to, and shut his eyes tight tight tight tighter England thought than how America feels inside- and how tight he is-
Instead, swallowing thickly when America’s eyes look over into his own and burn with a rebellion England has never seen before, almost startled he gives a shuddering move back until it gives way to anger, indignation fingers rigid as he clutches at America’s face shaking his head.
“What are those eyes for America? Is what we do not enough? Do you feel you are not-”
Almost spitefully England grabs America’s shoulders and slams them against the floor, hands shaking he’s never- never wanted- not like this- not without love to- but bad boys have to be punished ah then this is not the way- a million thoughts jumbled up and unrelenting this desire as England gives in half a yell half a whisper, “-you are not strong enough?”
The shove had really startled America who trembles, (as if remembering his place and no no no England thinks the back of his eyes heavy not like that darling, your place is besides me, merely-) so England kisses him, at the little juncture of the neck and shoulder he loves, on America’s fingers to the tips, the chin, the cheek, America murmuring what England hopes can only be his name.
“It will be alright, there are ways to fix this. I promise you won’t ever tire of me, I don’t tire of you!”
It’s not mutual.
It’s not mutual.
England doesn’t understand what those words even mean, if America doesn’t love him he would not have said he did. If he didn’t like this he would not have relented. If America did not want to become strong he would not work so hard to become strong.
England fumbles to pull America’s shorts down, snapping off, untying what need be to see the soft skin beneath. His hands always shake in anticipation at this part, like unwrapping a gift, a beloved and precious gift that is only for him, but this time one of America’s hands grab at his, it is a weak grab (“See? Not nearly strong enough!”) and it isn’t long before England descends, sucking at America’s small prick as he squirms against the hard floor. And clutches, clutches with all his might in his fists that small toy soldier. It is- it was his favourite one. Green eyes, and thick brow, even a little shorter than the others, England had not left that little detail out even if it meant a small piece of dignity sacrificed, all to bemuse America who’d not been thought to be able to notice intentional accuracy.
When England sees that America rather hold this small toy against him (his beating heart, his heavy chest; he’s flushed from the neck down and the room is well lit with a sufficient amount of candles for England to see) the jealousy he’d been holding back during the dinner party erupts in one vicious motion.
He pries the toy from America’s fingers. America’s fingers clutching like they’d never before, scratching, clawing, imploring (how England wants that strength, that intensity against his shoulders, his back, America’s fingernails gliding, tearing at his skin oh how-) “Why?!”
“But England, if it was only you and me it’d be boring.”
England brow gives that crease, and in his chest his rapidly beating heart rises and twists.
Voice revealing how wounded he actually is than intended, it always was like that with England- “Is it… is it boring to be with me?”
And sometimes tears would form in his eyes and America would always always go to him, to wipe them away, kiss them away. This time America lies there still, he does not go to England, and looks rather haughtily at the ceiling avoiding England’s expression. Avoiding answering.
It is only a few swift steps before England kneels before him, bending over to drape his body over America’s smaller one. Now is the time America would really bite his lip worry it red like England likes to, and shut his eyes tight tight tight tighter England thought than how America feels inside- and how tight he is-
Instead, swallowing thickly when America’s eyes look over into his own and burn with a rebellion England has never seen before, almost startled he gives a shuddering move back until it gives way to anger, indignation fingers rigid as he clutches at America’s face shaking his head.
“What are those eyes for America? Is what we do not enough? Do you feel you are not-”
Almost spitefully England grabs America’s shoulders and slams them against the floor, hands shaking he’s never- never wanted- not like this- not without love to- but bad boys have to be punished ah then this is not the way- a million thoughts jumbled up and unrelenting this desire as England gives in half a yell half a whisper, “-you are not strong enough?”
The shove had really startled America who trembles, (as if remembering his place and no no no England thinks the back of his eyes heavy not like that darling, your place is besides me, merely-) so England kisses him, at the little juncture of the neck and shoulder he loves, on America’s fingers to the tips, the chin, the cheek, America murmuring what England hopes can only be his name.
“It will be alright, there are ways to fix this. I promise you won’t ever tire of me, I don’t tire of you!”
It’s not mutual.
It’s not mutual.
England doesn’t understand what those words even mean, if America doesn’t love him he would not have said he did. If he didn’t like this he would not have relented. If America did not want to become strong he would not work so hard to become strong.
England fumbles to pull America’s shorts down, snapping off, untying what need be to see the soft skin beneath. His hands always shake in anticipation at this part, like unwrapping a gift, a beloved and precious gift that is only for him, but this time one of America’s hands grab at his, it is a weak grab (“See? Not nearly strong enough!”) and it isn’t long before England descends, sucking at America’s small prick as he squirms against the hard floor. And clutches, clutches with all his might in his fists that small toy soldier. It is- it was his favourite one. Green eyes, and thick brow, even a little shorter than the others, England had not left that little detail out even if it meant a small piece of dignity sacrificed, all to bemuse America who’d not been thought to be able to notice intentional accuracy.
When England sees that America rather hold this small toy against him (his beating heart, his heavy chest; he’s flushed from the neck down and the room is well lit with a sufficient amount of candles for England to see) the jealousy he’d been holding back during the dinner party erupts in one vicious motion.
He pries the toy from America’s fingers. America’s fingers clutching like they’d never before, scratching, clawing, imploring (how England wants that strength, that intensity against his shoulders, his back, America’s fingernails gliding, tearing at his skin oh how-) “Why?!”
“Why would you rather have this than me?”
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