As I Tell You ~One~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 18:23:51 UTC
She has always been small, slender, almost frail-looking; nowadays, he towers over her, feels so very big and strong and unstoppable until she looks at him, just one quick, insignificant glance from those evergeen eyes; and that makes the pounding in his chest and the trembling of his limbs even worse because he knows how pathetic it is.
She has always--at least as long as he has known her--been calm and quiet, for the most part. She is impatient but controlled where he is accomodating but wild. He sometimes thinks he likes her, England, Britain, with her quick temper and condescending smile and lovely hair and little breasts. But then he reminds himself that he didn't ask her to own him; didn't beg to be dominated; certainly didn't demand to be in such a state that he falls to pieces from her telling him to, or denying him when he does ask.
America was once under the impression that men were the stronger sex. Perhaps, he later decided, that only applied to human men, because no matter what he did (and no matter what he does), he is powerless against her. When he was young, he thought nothing of the ease with which she lifted him. But once it had started--when had it started?--there was no going back.
"Alfred," she calls, ah, by his human name. How unusual an occurrence since the first time he found himself in her bed.
"Yeah?" he answers, not looking up; deliberately rebelling, if only just. He looks up when she pulls him by the hair.
"No," she says, eyebrows raised irritably. She takes on the look of a disappointed school teacher dealing with a particularly slow child, and shakes his head back and forth as she tuts. He frowns, cheeks colouring. "No, no. What have I taught you, my boy?"
He swallows the urge to be rude or smart-mouthed. Things are already looking bad. "Answer properly when called," he mumbles, gaze falling away from her, "and--"
"And look me in the eye when you speak," she interjects, yanking him up again. He winces, and does as she tells him.
As I Tell You ~Two~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 18:49:03 UTC
She pulls him to his feet, and looks at him, and he knows that he will never understand how she can stand before him, small and slender and frail-looking with hands on hips and eyes beckoning, and make him feel like a child in trouble with his mother.
And that's exactly how he feels every time she comes to him like this, with her eyes half-lidded and her pink, unpainted lips drawn into a seductive, self-assured smirk. He's sure now that he's completely unsure, that he doesn't know at all how he feels toward her. Maybe he loved her once, but he certainly doesn't now, because what they have is not love; what they have is nothing more than what it ought to be: a colony serving an empire.
Sometimes he wishes it were more, but mostly he tries not to think about it.
She drags him upstairs, though she hardly needs to. He would follow if she told him to, and they both know it, but he doesn't say a word. Speaking out against the mother country is for foolhardy rebels, not good little colonies.
They pause in the hallway and she kisses him once, softly, a mockery of affection. He doesn't bother to respond.
"Go and wait for me," she tells him in a whisper against his ear. He tries not to shiver, and almost succeeds, but he knows as he staggers away that she saw, and knew.
As I Tell You ~Three~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 19:12:26 UTC
When he reaches her bedroom, there is nothing new. It looks as it always does, always has--tidy, quaint, and unassuming. For a moment, he considers how it might be different, if only... And then she's behind him, sharp and sudden, biting his shoulder through his shirt, and he's moaning before he knows what's going on.
He hates himself the instant she starts to laugh. It's always this way, isn't it? Humiliation. She likes to see him blush, stammer, beg, cry. Maybe even loves it, but that's the only thing she could feel that way for. Frowning, fighting the tears that threaten early, America is certain she could not love him.
"What do you have today, my darling?" she asks, slipping past him to perch on the edge of her bed, legs crossed elegantly, a leather riding crop in her hand. He shuts his eyes, stomach filling with dread, and lets his trembling fingers begin to unbutton his shirt. He won't look at her, not yet, not now. If she'll only allow him a moment to collect himself...
"Oh, don't be so bashful," she teases, commands, and he forces his gaze onto her. She's fully dressed and waiting, ever watchful, with the look of a hungry predator on her pretty face. He shudders, wanting more than anything to continue examining the carpet, but he doesn't, because she wants him to look at her. His shirt slips from his shoulders, and he is aware of the chill of the place.
As I Tell You ~Four~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 19:32:28 UTC
He has always found her attractive, and she has always known. Even though she was skinny, even though she had an average face and a foul temper, he had found her terribly pretty as a boy. Once puberty hit, he had found himself wanting her in ways he had never known, and when at last she came to him, when he had been wanting for many years without having, he found all the physical pleasure that he had once imagined and more.
But she didn't love him the way he came to love her. To her, their bedding was business with a bonus. It was sex for the sake of empire, not for love, and not even just for sex.
He wanted desperately for it to be more, but mostly he tried to ignore the desire as he had for years gone by.
He leaves their encounters drained and more lonely than ever, while she appears livelier. As time passes, the weariness and loneliness become worse. As time passes, he isn't satisfied, just tired, and she doesn't stay to help.
When she pulls him into the sheets, speaking softly and tenderly, he allows himself to think it could be more. But when she throws him down and works him over, he knows he's only fooling himself for a brief, precious moment.
He adores her, and despises her. He loves the feel of her slightly calloused hands roughing him up, punishing or rewarding, and the feel of her warmth enveloping him until his toes curl and his vision blurs. He hates the feel of the whip or the crop or the boot biting into his flesh the way her teeth and nails sometimes do. He loves seeing the pleasure on her face when she thinks he isn't looking, and the way she sometimes gazes at him as though he's the only thing in the world. He hates the way she treats him like a child, and hates how she'll never admit that he matters to her.
As I Tell You ~Five~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 20:23:55 UTC
She is straddling his lap, and he has his head thrown back into the goose-feather pillows that smell like her hair. The end of the crop is trailing cruelly over his heat-moistened skin, and she is smiling as he squirms. He can't stand how everything about her that used to make him so happy now makes him want to cry. He hasn't quite cried yet, and maybe he won't; she's being surprisingly kind this time.
He is startled into yelping by a sharp pain on the side of his face, and he realizes after a moment that she struck him with the crop. He looks up, wide-eyed, to find her scowling.
"England?" he ventures, bracing inwardly for another attack.
"You looked away," she deadpans, looking suddenly furious. Fear grips him.
"I-I'm sorry...I didn't--"
He gasps and tastes copper as she slaps him, delivering a far more fierce wound than the crop managed. "You didn't what?" she hisses, rocking slightly. His breath hitches as blood gathers in the corner of his mouth, heat in the pit of his stomach. His eyes flick about anxiously.
"I-I-I didn't m-mean to...ah!"
"Pay attention!" she growls, raking her nails down his torso. He writhes and cries out, tears stinging his eyes and split lip.
He howls, quailing before her anger and begging wordlessly for her to stop, please, it's not my fault, this isn't how it's supposed to be. She ignores him in favour of shutting him up with a rough kiss. He responds pleadingly, baring his mouth for her as he has bared everything else. She takes it, as she might well have taken it permission or no.
She pulls away to lap at the blood trailing down his chin, and he whimpers against her smooth shoulder. Their hips--for he cannot stop his own jerky search for satisfaction--come together perfectly, and she takes a long, deep breath as he screams.
Re: As I Tell You ~Five~
anonymous
October 15 2010, 02:45:37 UTC
ohgod wow. this is POWERFUL anon. Poor America! The progression from desire to despair; the way he's trying not to want her to love him and how he's failing - I just - actual tears standing in my eyes, anon! Please say this continues?
As I Tell You ~Six~
anonymous
October 15 2010, 16:45:26 UTC
"A-aagh..." He starts to say her name, her most intimate and personal name, but his whimper is cut off by a fortunate hiccup. He isn't allowed to address her in such a fashion, after all, being a mere colony. He pants heavily for a moment before prying open his stinging eyes to find her smirking.
"My darling," she says, and it hurts because they both know that the words are meaningless. He turns away, breaking again as she slips from the bed. She stands, naked and shameless, and looks him over. All the shame, all the graspless love and desperate anguish belong to him, the loyal colony; empires do not have time or reason to feel such things.
He presses his face into the pillows and cries because he feels disgusting. She's kneeling nearby in the next moment, gripping his face and smearing the remaining blood across his cheek. The salt of his tears burns the miniature wound, but he doesn't care. Her touch is the worst of the pain. He refuses to meet her gaze, as he often does once they've finished, but she is speaking to him, and he can't help listening.
"My beloved America," she purrs, and something cracks within him. He doesn't hear what else she says; the roar in his ears is too loud.
"You're lying!" he shouts, voice cracking pitifully. He glares madly up at her through his tears, trembling limbs refusing to respond. Her previously mocking expression has grown cold.
As I Tell You ~Seven~
anonymous
October 15 2010, 17:28:22 UTC
(A/N: In case it isn't clear, when she slapped him, his lip bled because it was cut on his tooth/teeth. Oh, mild language warning! Also, Artha is apparently a feminine form of Arthur, so.)
"Nothing you say is true!" he gasps, struggling out of her grasp and into a sitting position. He knows it's wrong; she says plenty of truthful things, but at the moment, he's too sad and angry to be realistic.
She backs away from the bed, tensed and alert as though expecting him to attack. She's scowling; if he hadn't made such an aggressive display so unexpectedly, if he hadn't said things he'd never dared before, she would be smirking.
But she is scowling. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's trying to do by shouting and advancing on her as he is now. He thinks he sees a flicker of fear in her eyes, but he's probably only imagining things. She's angry and confused, that's all.
Because empires have no fear; no love; no unnecessary emotions that might get in the way of properly governing their colonies.
"I don't mean a thing to you," he growls, and her furrowed brow softens slightly. "Not a damn thing." The words, never before spoken, are somehow unfamiliar to him, and the ache begins anew as he rounds on her, losing steam. "All this time, you've just been using me, and you won't even call it what it is. It's always...always some stupid fucking deal with you, some..." He flinches when she lifts her hands, but she doesn't touch him, doesn't interrupt. Her expression is blank, vaguely thoughtful.
He concludes breathlessly, voice small. "What am I to you, Artha?"
Her eyes and words are empty when she answers. "My colony."
Re: As I Tell You ~Two~
anonymous
October 14 2010, 19:13:04 UTC
Previous!writer anon says:
This... THIS. It's so pretty and subtle and carries such a good hint of poor Al's descent into thinking that he has no say in anything akdlk. I love the fem!England approach, too! Mother Country she is indeed.
She has always--at least as long as he has known her--been calm and quiet, for the most part. She is impatient but controlled where he is accomodating but wild. He sometimes thinks he likes her, England, Britain, with her quick temper and condescending smile and lovely hair and little breasts. But then he reminds himself that he didn't ask her to own him; didn't beg to be dominated; certainly didn't demand to be in such a state that he falls to pieces from her telling him to, or denying him when he does ask.
America was once under the impression that men were the stronger sex. Perhaps, he later decided, that only applied to human men, because no matter what he did (and no matter what he does), he is powerless against her. When he was young, he thought nothing of the ease with which she lifted him. But once it had started--when had it started?--there was no going back.
"Alfred," she calls, ah, by his human name. How unusual an occurrence since the first time he found himself in her bed.
"Yeah?" he answers, not looking up; deliberately rebelling, if only just. He looks up when she pulls him by the hair.
"No," she says, eyebrows raised irritably. She takes on the look of a disappointed school teacher dealing with a particularly slow child, and shakes his head back and forth as she tuts. He frowns, cheeks colouring. "No, no. What have I taught you, my boy?"
He swallows the urge to be rude or smart-mouthed. Things are already looking bad. "Answer properly when called," he mumbles, gaze falling away from her, "and--"
"And look me in the eye when you speak," she interjects, yanking him up again. He winces, and does as she tells him.
Reply
And that's exactly how he feels every time she comes to him like this, with her eyes half-lidded and her pink, unpainted lips drawn into a seductive, self-assured smirk. He's sure now that he's completely unsure, that he doesn't know at all how he feels toward her. Maybe he loved her once, but he certainly doesn't now, because what they have is not love; what they have is nothing more than what it ought to be: a colony serving an empire.
Sometimes he wishes it were more, but mostly he tries not to think about it.
She drags him upstairs, though she hardly needs to. He would follow if she told him to, and they both know it, but he doesn't say a word. Speaking out against the mother country is for foolhardy rebels, not good little colonies.
They pause in the hallway and she kisses him once, softly, a mockery of affection. He doesn't bother to respond.
"Go and wait for me," she tells him in a whisper against his ear. He tries not to shiver, and almost succeeds, but he knows as he staggers away that she saw, and knew.
Reply
He hates himself the instant she starts to laugh. It's always this way, isn't it? Humiliation. She likes to see him blush, stammer, beg, cry. Maybe even loves it, but that's the only thing she could feel that way for. Frowning, fighting the tears that threaten early, America is certain she could not love him.
"What do you have today, my darling?" she asks, slipping past him to perch on the edge of her bed, legs crossed elegantly, a leather riding crop in her hand. He shuts his eyes, stomach filling with dread, and lets his trembling fingers begin to unbutton his shirt. He won't look at her, not yet, not now. If she'll only allow him a moment to collect himself...
"Oh, don't be so bashful," she teases, commands, and he forces his gaze onto her. She's fully dressed and waiting, ever watchful, with the look of a hungry predator on her pretty face. He shudders, wanting more than anything to continue examining the carpet, but he doesn't, because she wants him to look at her. His shirt slips from his shoulders, and he is aware of the chill of the place.
Reply
But she didn't love him the way he came to love her. To her, their bedding was business with a bonus. It was sex for the sake of empire, not for love, and not even just for sex.
He wanted desperately for it to be more, but mostly he tried to ignore the desire as he had for years gone by.
He leaves their encounters drained and more lonely than ever, while she appears livelier. As time passes, the weariness and loneliness become worse. As time passes, he isn't satisfied, just tired, and she doesn't stay to help.
When she pulls him into the sheets, speaking softly and tenderly, he allows himself to think it could be more. But when she throws him down and works him over, he knows he's only fooling himself for a brief, precious moment.
He adores her, and despises her. He loves the feel of her slightly calloused hands roughing him up, punishing or rewarding, and the feel of her warmth enveloping him until his toes curl and his vision blurs. He hates the feel of the whip or the crop or the boot biting into his flesh the way her teeth and nails sometimes do. He loves seeing the pleasure on her face when she thinks he isn't looking, and the way she sometimes gazes at him as though he's the only thing in the world. He hates the way she treats him like a child, and hates how she'll never admit that he matters to her.
Hates even more the idea that he truly doesn't.
Reply
He is startled into yelping by a sharp pain on the side of his face, and he realizes after a moment that she struck him with the crop. He looks up, wide-eyed, to find her scowling.
"England?" he ventures, bracing inwardly for another attack.
"You looked away," she deadpans, looking suddenly furious. Fear grips him.
"I-I'm sorry...I didn't--"
He gasps and tastes copper as she slaps him, delivering a far more fierce wound than the crop managed. "You didn't what?" she hisses, rocking slightly. His breath hitches as blood gathers in the corner of his mouth, heat in the pit of his stomach. His eyes flick about anxiously.
"I-I-I didn't m-mean to...ah!"
"Pay attention!" she growls, raking her nails down his torso. He writhes and cries out, tears stinging his eyes and split lip.
He howls, quailing before her anger and begging wordlessly for her to stop, please, it's not my fault, this isn't how it's supposed to be. She ignores him in favour of shutting him up with a rough kiss. He responds pleadingly, baring his mouth for her as he has bared everything else. She takes it, as she might well have taken it permission or no.
She pulls away to lap at the blood trailing down his chin, and he whimpers against her smooth shoulder. Their hips--for he cannot stop his own jerky search for satisfaction--come together perfectly, and she takes a long, deep breath as he screams.
Reply
Reply
I'm honoured.
-will be continuing soon-
Reply
"My darling," she says, and it hurts because they both know that the words are meaningless. He turns away, breaking again as she slips from the bed. She stands, naked and shameless, and looks him over. All the shame, all the graspless love and desperate anguish belong to him, the loyal colony; empires do not have time or reason to feel such things.
He presses his face into the pillows and cries because he feels disgusting. She's kneeling nearby in the next moment, gripping his face and smearing the remaining blood across his cheek. The salt of his tears burns the miniature wound, but he doesn't care. Her touch is the worst of the pain. He refuses to meet her gaze, as he often does once they've finished, but she is speaking to him, and he can't help listening.
"My beloved America," she purrs, and something cracks within him. He doesn't hear what else she says; the roar in his ears is too loud.
"You're lying!" he shouts, voice cracking pitifully. He glares madly up at her through his tears, trembling limbs refusing to respond. Her previously mocking expression has grown cold.
"What?" she snaps, but it not really a question.
Reply
Oh, mild language warning!
Also, Artha is apparently a feminine form of Arthur, so.)
"Nothing you say is true!" he gasps, struggling out of her grasp and into a sitting position. He knows it's wrong; she says plenty of truthful things, but at the moment, he's too sad and angry to be realistic.
She backs away from the bed, tensed and alert as though expecting him to attack. She's scowling; if he hadn't made such an aggressive display so unexpectedly, if he hadn't said things he'd never dared before, she would be smirking.
But she is scowling. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's trying to do by shouting and advancing on her as he is now. He thinks he sees a flicker of fear in her eyes, but he's probably only imagining things. She's angry and confused, that's all.
Because empires have no fear; no love; no unnecessary emotions that might get in the way of properly governing their colonies.
"I don't mean a thing to you," he growls, and her furrowed brow softens slightly. "Not a damn thing." The words, never before spoken, are somehow unfamiliar to him, and the ache begins anew as he rounds on her, losing steam. "All this time, you've just been using me, and you won't even call it what it is. It's always...always some stupid fucking deal with you, some..." He flinches when she lifts her hands, but she doesn't touch him, doesn't interrupt. Her expression is blank, vaguely thoughtful.
He concludes breathlessly, voice small. "What am I to you, Artha?"
Her eyes and words are empty when she answers. "My colony."
Reply
This... THIS. It's so pretty and subtle and carries such a good hint of poor Al's descent into thinking that he has no say in anything akdlk. I love the fem!England approach, too! Mother Country she is indeed.
This is wonderful. <3
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment