Bad Dreams 4a/?
anonymous
June 26 2009, 04:19:54 UTC
It was the Revolutionary War. It had to be the Revolutionary War, or right after. He was in his uniform, and he ached as only a country engaged in war could; he could feel the dried blood pasted into his hair, sticking to his skin, baked into his clothes.
He could also tell it was the Revolutionary war because America was wearing his uniform; given, this was hard to focus on, because the things America was doing were more distracting. England was backed up against a wall, America's body tightly pressed against his. America's breath was on his neck, and America's hands... Well, America's hands were on a voyage of exploration, trying to find the most expedient way under England's red jacket. England assumed he wouldn't be able to move, even before he tried and found out he was right. He didn't like the direction his dreams were taking, this one in particular.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, to live through the terrifying, stunning immobility. America was inches away from his neck, his breathing hot and heavy, his hands fumbling on England's jacket. He was mumbling something. England could barely hear what he was saying through the fog that filled his head. He strained to hear the words- at least they would be a distraction from his powerlessness-
“I'm so sorry England, please forgive me, oh god I can't stop, oh god help me-”
England was dumbstruck. He was sorry? He was pinning an immobilized England against the wall, feeling him up, and apparently intending to do something vicious to his neck, and he was sorry?
England's reason and his heart fought for control. His heart won. After several seconds of intense struggle, he managed to form words. “Shh... Shh... It's alright... Don't worry about it...”
America looked up from his fixed position on England's neck, and the pressure on England's limbs was immediately lessened. He looked up at America. Tear tracks blazed trails down the encrusted dirt on his face, leading down from eyes that burned like flames. England could have ran. He probably should have ran. Instead, he wrapped America in the kind of hug he hadn't given him since America had been a little boy. “Alfred... My Alfred... Don't worry, I'll protect you, It's OK...” America gave a choked sob.
“You smell... So good...” He leaned back over England's neck and went in for the kill.
At first, it was a sharp pain, a slashing, a tearing, like a bayonet wound except a thousand times worse and concentrated in those two spots. The pain gradually subsided to a low, steady throb, and England was suddenly aware of America's mouth at his wound, lapping at the hot blood that was trickling down his neck. He continued whispering words of comfort, trying to calm America, whose body was still shaking with sobs. America still needed him. Even if everything else had changed, America still needed him.
After what seemed like hours, America left his place on England's neck. His eyes were once again as blue as the uniform he wore, marred only by the slightest tint of red. He was still close against Arthur, his hands wrapped around the older nation. “Arthur...”
“Don't worry about it, you git,” Arthur said quietly. “Just... Make me forget about it. Like you did before.”
“You remember that?”
“Only when you're... Feeding off of me.” England shivered at the memory. “I don't want to remember this in the morning, alright?”
America seemed to be struggling for words. “Arthur, I wish-” England started when America's mouth was suddenly pressed against his. He could taste the sharp iron of his own blood on America's tongue when it suddenly found itself wrapped up in his, feel the sharp, serrated edge of America's fangs on his lower lip as America seemed to be trying to devour his entire mouth. England was too startled to move.
He'd had dreams like this.
Of course, usually he wasn't the one preparing to take it up the ass.
He could also tell it was the Revolutionary war because America was wearing his uniform; given, this was hard to focus on, because the things America was doing were more distracting.
England was backed up against a wall, America's body tightly pressed against his. America's breath was on his neck, and America's hands... Well, America's hands were on a voyage of exploration, trying to find the most expedient way under England's red jacket. England assumed he wouldn't be able to move, even before he tried and found out he was right. He didn't like the direction his dreams were taking, this one in particular.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, to live through the terrifying, stunning immobility. America was inches away from his neck, his breathing hot and heavy, his hands fumbling on England's jacket. He was mumbling something. England could barely hear what he was saying through the fog that filled his head. He strained to hear the words- at least they would be a distraction from his powerlessness-
“I'm so sorry England, please forgive me, oh god I can't stop, oh god help me-”
England was dumbstruck. He was sorry? He was pinning an immobilized England against the wall, feeling him up, and apparently intending to do something vicious to his neck, and he was sorry?
England's reason and his heart fought for control. His heart won. After several seconds of intense struggle, he managed to form words. “Shh... Shh... It's alright... Don't worry about it...”
America looked up from his fixed position on England's neck, and the pressure on England's limbs was immediately lessened. He looked up at America. Tear tracks blazed trails down the encrusted dirt on his face, leading down from eyes that burned like flames. England could have ran. He probably should have ran. Instead, he wrapped America in the kind of hug he hadn't given him since America had been a little boy. “Alfred... My Alfred... Don't worry, I'll protect you, It's OK...” America gave a choked sob.
“You smell... So good...” He leaned back over England's neck and went in for the kill.
At first, it was a sharp pain, a slashing, a tearing, like a bayonet wound except a thousand times worse and concentrated in those two spots. The pain gradually subsided to a low, steady throb, and England was suddenly aware of America's mouth at his wound, lapping at the hot blood that was trickling down his neck. He continued whispering words of comfort, trying to calm America, whose body was still shaking with sobs. America still needed him. Even if everything else had changed, America still needed him.
After what seemed like hours, America left his place on England's neck. His eyes were once again as blue as the uniform he wore, marred only by the slightest tint of red. He was still close against Arthur, his hands wrapped around the older nation. “Arthur...”
“Don't worry about it, you git,” Arthur said quietly. “Just... Make me forget about it. Like you did before.”
“You remember that?”
“Only when you're... Feeding off of me.” England shivered at the memory. “I don't want to remember this in the morning, alright?”
America seemed to be struggling for words. “Arthur, I wish-” England started when America's mouth was suddenly pressed against his. He could taste the sharp iron of his own blood on America's tongue when it suddenly found itself wrapped up in his, feel the sharp, serrated edge of America's fangs on his lower lip as America seemed to be trying to devour his entire mouth. England was too startled to move.
He'd had dreams like this.
Of course, usually he wasn't the one preparing to take it up the ass.
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