Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [1/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 02:43:39 UTC
Written in about twenty minutes as part of an attempt to just get myself writing for this fandom. I hope you enjoy this, nonetheless. ___
His head slams back against the wall, shattering plaster and thoughts and sending pain down to the roots of his teeth. Every bone vibrates, and America grits his throbbing teeth as England grabs him in two hands and throws him on the bed.
America lets him. Lets the limey climb on him, fisting hair between calloused fingers and pulling back. America lets the limey bastard, lets him bite, suck, rip away a chunk of flesh and blood. From the corner of his widened eyes, America watches England swallow said chunk, lower his head down to suckle the blood down.
His laughter blooms out of his throat, petals made of delirium and black, hot worms writhing in the pit of his stomach. “Miss being an empire, Iggy?” he breathes, and his voice is a jagged edge of steel slicing through skin, red-hot, fuck.
He almost celebrates when England stills. Turns to marble, fingers curled in his bomber jacket and his anger scented with ceylon tea.
Three. Two.
One.
England catches him across the left cheek with his palm, sets the skin there flickering with pain and heat. “Fuck you,” England says, grinding the words out on his backhand swing, bone hitting bone, least it hurt this fucker, too. “Fuck you--”
America lets him--lets his limbs go loose and easy so England can flick him over on the bed, shove his ass into the air with the heel of his palm and send pain shooting up his spine, too.
“Yeah, okay,” America grits out over his shoulder. “Yeah, you just go ahead and fucking try, you fucking fairy--”
England’s eyes darken. Glitter.
He removes a knife from his pocket. One flick of his wrist makes a steel blade gleam in the light. Second flick, and England will pay for those jeans he just cut and tore apart with his thumbs, he will pay in quid or teeth or boiling blood on America’s hands, on his tongue.
England brings his palm to his mouth. Hazy now, unclear, he watches England pull back, thin strand of spit still connected to his lips. “You don’t deserve lube,” England grinds, doesn’t even look at his cock as he slicks it up.
America glances down at England’s cock, snickers. “There’s not enough of you there to tear me, anyway.”
“I hope you bleed,” England says, and oh, he’s throwing his teeth and nose into it, and America smiles and sneers. “I hope I tear you up so much inside that you’ll never heal.”
America’s expression twists as England grabs his hips.
“Fuck y--”
England shoves himself in, shoves America’s face into the pillow as he starts thrusting and fucking away. He doesn’t let America up even when the screams and shouts start.
America screws his eyes shut, the worms in his gut twisting and burrowing deeper, towards where England’s sliding inside him. Easier now, slicker, even as his skin shrieks and his fingers spasm. Yeah. Yeah, America can take this. He’s taken worse from England before, he’s taken a musket down his nose and horrible cooking and--
America lets the sweet, sweet hatred boil up in him, boil through him and down to the center. He cannot even scream when he comes, soiling the sheets.
He lies there until England finishes with a muffled grunt and stiffened muscles (repressed to the very end, France’s greatest failure). He doesn’t even wait. Frees America from his cock and fingers, shoves him over. America’s eyes squeeze shut, and breath rushes through his nose and into his lungs. Blood tinges the air a scarlet smell, motel-seedy.
Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [2/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 02:44:40 UTC
“Hey,” America says to England’s back, still floating and panting. “Hey, you--you pay for these pants, you hear?”
England pauses. “I’m sure China will give you a pair.”
“That’s not the point, England,” America says, and his voice pitches higher, more frustrated. “You’re missing the point.”
England’s fingers pause on the knob. He turns, looks back at America, green eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled up as though he’s realized what his own grilled cheese smells like.
“How about this, America--you tell me the fucking point of this, I’ll buy you a new pair of bloody jeans.”
Silence. America licks his lips, and his mouth falls open--but the words box themselves up in his throat. Or maybe aren’t even there at all.
England’s sneer is shadows and highlights, white teeth and narrowed, triumphant eyebrows.
Re: Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [2/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 15:30:10 UTC
This is so... painful, and cruel, and empty and it hurts to read because it just feels so real. Hetalia always makes the best transition from light-heartedness to darker themes but only in the hands of a competent author, and you, anon, are far more than just competent. Bravo.
___
His head slams back against the wall, shattering plaster and thoughts and sending pain down to the roots of his teeth. Every bone vibrates, and America grits his throbbing teeth as England grabs him in two hands and throws him on the bed.
America lets him. Lets the limey climb on him, fisting hair between calloused fingers and pulling back. America lets the limey bastard, lets him bite, suck, rip away a chunk of flesh and blood. From the corner of his widened eyes, America watches England swallow said chunk, lower his head down to suckle the blood down.
His laughter blooms out of his throat, petals made of delirium and black, hot worms writhing in the pit of his stomach. “Miss being an empire, Iggy?” he breathes, and his voice is a jagged edge of steel slicing through skin, red-hot, fuck.
He almost celebrates when England stills. Turns to marble, fingers curled in his bomber jacket and his anger scented with ceylon tea.
Three. Two.
One.
England catches him across the left cheek with his palm, sets the skin there flickering with pain and heat. “Fuck you,” England says, grinding the words out on his backhand swing, bone hitting bone, least it hurt this fucker, too. “Fuck you--”
America lets him--lets his limbs go loose and easy so England can flick him over on the bed, shove his ass into the air with the heel of his palm and send pain shooting up his spine, too.
“Yeah, okay,” America grits out over his shoulder. “Yeah, you just go ahead and fucking try, you fucking fairy--”
England’s eyes darken. Glitter.
He removes a knife from his pocket. One flick of his wrist makes a steel blade gleam in the light. Second flick, and England will pay for those jeans he just cut and tore apart with his thumbs, he will pay in quid or teeth or boiling blood on America’s hands, on his tongue.
England brings his palm to his mouth. Hazy now, unclear, he watches England pull back, thin strand of spit still connected to his lips. “You don’t deserve lube,” England grinds, doesn’t even look at his cock as he slicks it up.
America glances down at England’s cock, snickers. “There’s not enough of you there to tear me, anyway.”
“I hope you bleed,” England says, and oh, he’s throwing his teeth and nose into it, and America smiles and sneers. “I hope I tear you up so much inside that you’ll never heal.”
America’s expression twists as England grabs his hips.
“Fuck y--”
England shoves himself in, shoves America’s face into the pillow as he starts thrusting and fucking away. He doesn’t let America up even when the screams and shouts start.
America screws his eyes shut, the worms in his gut twisting and burrowing deeper, towards where England’s sliding inside him. Easier now, slicker, even as his skin shrieks and his fingers spasm. Yeah. Yeah, America can take this. He’s taken worse from England before, he’s taken a musket down his nose and horrible cooking and--
America lets the sweet, sweet hatred boil up in him, boil through him and down to the center. He cannot even scream when he comes, soiling the sheets.
He lies there until England finishes with a muffled grunt and stiffened muscles (repressed to the very end, France’s greatest failure). He doesn’t even wait. Frees America from his cock and fingers, shoves him over. America’s eyes squeeze shut, and breath rushes through his nose and into his lungs. Blood tinges the air a scarlet smell, motel-seedy.
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England pauses. “I’m sure China will give you a pair.”
“That’s not the point, England,” America says, and his voice pitches higher, more frustrated. “You’re missing the point.”
England’s fingers pause on the knob. He turns, looks back at America, green eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled up as though he’s realized what his own grilled cheese smells like.
“How about this, America--you tell me the fucking point of this, I’ll buy you a new pair of bloody jeans.”
Silence. America licks his lips, and his mouth falls open--but the words box themselves up in his throat. Or maybe aren’t even there at all.
England’s sneer is shadows and highlights, white teeth and narrowed, triumphant eyebrows.
“That’s what I thought.”
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click.
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I only got one paragraph in before I was like "ASKDJFDFJGSOAGJFJCKFHG OMG HE BIT OFF HIS FLESH AND ATE IT!!!1 D8"
Damn, just... damn.
You write the best aggressive England evar. Trufax.
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