[Axis Powers Hetalia] Piecemeal (FrUK, America)
Title: Piecemeal
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America
Rating: MA
Warnings: Guro, mentioned past shota, violence, sex, unbeta'd.
Summary: “Those were my rules, England thinks. Safeword or death--whichever came first. It doesn’t stop him from leaning back and giving France a glare fit to flay the skin right off his cheekbones and his smug, smarmy lips." Deanon for a kink meme fic, which asked for consensual guro and black humor.
____________________
“Painslut,” England purrs, and draws the knife down the chest, severs curling gold hair and splits his body in two. Above him, breathless, France shudders, eyes glazed, his armless stumps twitching and writhing.
It’s amazing that he still has enough blood in his body to make his cock so hard.
England leans back, grinds against it, grateful that blood-caked jeans guard from guts and intestines that quiver every time England so much as tightens his knees. His fingers go slippery, the very tips remembering how he cradled the large intestine in his hands and ran his fingers over the--
Deep breaths. Swallow.
England pulls once or twice at France’s cock, smirks as his movements send blood spurting from France’s mouth. “Like the taste of that, painslut?” he growls, and crawls up the bed. With a flick of his hand, he sends fingers, palms, and limbs sprawling over the floor, all thick thuds and splatters. He braces himself where France’s clavicle used to be, unzipping his pants with a sigh.
“Gonna fuck your mouth,” England growls. His cock rises from his zipper and he grabs the left side of France’s head--the side that still has hair. He forces himself to look into France’s remaining eye so he doesn’t have to look at the gaping, blood-stained scalp. “D’you like that thought, whore? Like the thought of me fucking your bloody mouth?”
He waits for France to chuckle, to answer--hell, even to spit blood all over his cockhead.
Instead, nothing happens.
He sits there, and waits, and it takes him a few moments to recognize that too-glazed sheen in France’s eye, the way his lips loll open, and his heart--
England feels no heartbeat when he touches France’s chest.
Bile scalds England’s throat, and when he looks behind him he sees France’s spend splattered all over red, cock soft against his own guts. And here’s England, England with a handful of dead and it’s not fair, it’s not sodding fair he’s still hard--
“FUCK!”
England slams France’s head against the headboard, just for spite. His fingers loosen, France slipping from them like a school of minnow back into the water, and cups his face, painting it red. Not crying. Just...sitting there. Trying to breathe. Trying not to ram his cock down France’s throat while he’s dead.
Those were my rules, England thinks. Safeword or death--whichever came first.
It doesn’t stop him from leaning back and giving France a glare fit to flay the skin right off his cheekbones and his smug, smarmy lips. And then he slides off the bed, with a sigh, and almost trips over a hand on his way to the aftercare table.
...Right. Limbs.
He’ll have to take care of those first. At least the limbs are a little bit easy--just a matter of figuring out left from right. So he harvests limbs from the floor, winces as thickened, drying blood makes a sticky sound as he pulls it into his arms.
Piled high with fingers and hands and calves and feet, he makes his way back to the bed, balancing everything in his trembling arms. Weight, he tells himself, it’s the weight of it all, and debates switching his left and right feet. He smirks to himself and imagines France, scrambling and stumbling on turned-out feet.
His smile fades when he remembers France breaking into his window, shoving him down on the mattress and holding a knife to his throat, cutting, slow enough that he could feel every drop of blood leaving his throat.
...No. That’s...a rather bad idea after all, perhaps.
He sets everything out--spaced out, of course, so he can make sure he’s got it all right. The arms are the hardest, because for a moment he can’t quite make out which way the elbows turn, out or in--but he figures it out. He makes himself figure it out, because he doesn’t want France pawing at his window, too-wide eyes glinting in the moonlight and fingers tight around his favorite dagger.
So instead, he makes a promise to himself, as he lays out fingers and lines up ankles, that he will never cut fingers off again. Whole hands, yes--but fingers are far too hard for him, he finds.
Already, he sees, the skin’s starting to knit itself up, fresh peach-pink blossoming out from raw red meat. He nudges the arms so they brush up against the shoulder, squinting his eyes and making sure they line up just so. France might have to deal with some soreness. Maybe dislocation.
Nothing that can’t be fixed. They are their lands, after all, and it would not do to have them all broken and bloodied so that their people could not go on.
The guts are the hard part. He takes his knife again, grimacing as he cuts open France’s belly once more. “To think,” he grumbles, as he sets about shoving France’s organs back inside, “that your insides are far more attractive than your fucking face.”
“At least mine...does not look like...a rotten piece of meat.”
England jolts, the knife goes a little deeper. France hisses and writhes, face twisting and tensing, all frozen rubber warming beneath a lamp. England almost feels sorry for him until he realizes France’s cock is twitching, his hips thrusting up just so--
England glares and cuts him a bit deeper than intended. “Maybe if you didn’t heal so fast, I’d be able to sew this up instead of having to just match parts up and hope for the best,” England snaps back, and just piles the rest of France’s intestines in, on top of each other. It won’t quite fit, he thinks, walking over to the aftercare table and snatching up a few odds and ends. He’ll go about with an upset belly and a gut protrusion for a few days. He’ll probably have to stop eating until his innards right themselves.
No matter.
If France could endure piecemeal, Robespierre, and the horrors of having Vichy ripped right from his stomach, he could endure some not-quite-right intestines.
He makes his way back over as France wriggles his fingers, wrists. “Everything in order?” England asks, his syllables clipped and short as he sets about sewing up France’s belly, pulling the two halves together with thread. “Nothing on wrong? Do I need to break and reset any bones?”
France works his jaw, yawning, before his hand comes up to feel at his sunken left eyelid. His lips pull down into a frown. “Angleterre,, my eye....”
“Eh?” Arthur hesitates a moment, jabbing his needle a bit too hard. France curses and gives England an image of his own fingers clenched around white bloodshot jelly, the iris so blue it hurt his eyes. “Oh, right. I, um, think I ate it.”
“You what!?”
“I was hungry, you great ponce!”
France opens his mouth, shuts it, repeats. England almost makes a frog joke--maybe a goldfish joke. But France’s face smoothes out, his smile blooming like cream in hot coffee. “Amerique never eats my eyes,” France purrs. “He even fucks me while he cuts me apart.”
England’s gut clenches, and nebby little fingers yank it down to his toes. He drops the needle and thread. “You can sew yourself up, then,” England snarls, and all but throws the eyepatch at France’s head. “At least I’m not a filthy pedophile.”
“Oh, please--none of us were ever children.” And England knows France’s face well enough that he can see that France believes that--every single bit of him. From France’s small, too-young hands learning just where to touch and please, to his insides, all ripped apart and messy and knotted with conquests--
England shudders, and does not want to be here anymore. “Right. Meeting this afternoon. You’re presenting. I’d better...prepare.” Arthur strips out of his jeans, thanking his lucky stars that it will take France ages to fix himself up, and that he can be showered and out of this house by then.
“But--the restraints--”
Arthur pauses in the doorway, his hand frozen on the knob. That’s right. The cuffs. He--
Wait. What about the fucking cuffs?
England bows his head and chuckles, the sound a deep, growling ripple that vibrates along the bow of his shoulders.
“You’ve gotten yourself out of far, far worse, France. Let’s see how you wriggle your way out of this one, you toad.”
He shuts the door behind him before France can answer.
___
In the end, France is twenty minutes late.
He slinks in when he thinks no one sees him, eyepatch tied firmly over his right eye and folders clutched tight to his front. So he can hide his bulging insides, but not his eye. England looks at his charts, listening to America’s newest idea of building a giant Bat Signal, and ignores the snickers, murmurs, and jostles that rustle the ballroom hall.
England glances up to see Prussia wink at him and form a hook with his finger, and someone digs their ribs into his side and snickers. England stares at the charts, the up-down up of the bars and his ticking-along economy.
“...and, um, here’s France, I guess, with an idea a lot less awesome than mine. ...And apparently some leftover props from his Halloween 2010 Captain Hook costume.”
The room giggles, and those who don’t giggle shift in their feet and wait for the ground to turn to quicksand. England only looks up when he hears France’s laughter, low and dark-chocolate in the air--
Looks up just in time to see France slide his fingers over the back of America’s, shaking his hand, yanking him a little closer.
Arthur’s stomach churns, and he feels something round and soft quiver in his belly. Silent and wide eyed, he watches France pull America to him, nose-to-nose. France’s eye slides its gaze all the way across the room to meet with his.
“I’d rather you shiver my timbers any day of the week, Amerique,” France purrs.
And as the room groans, shifts, and chuckles, as America turns scarlet and sputters all the way back to his seat--
England growls, curls his nails into his palm, and sets about figuring out how to castrate France with a river-smoothed stone.
__________
I am still looking for at least one beta--preferably two--for a rewrite I’m doing of one of my old unfinished kink!meme fics. FrUK, no guro, no blood, and no France being a fucking asshole. More like what I used to write.
PM or e-mail me at klinde7@gmail.com if interested.
Thank you for reading.
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England, America
Rating: MA
Warnings: Guro, mentioned past shota, violence, sex, unbeta'd.
Summary: “Those were my rules, England thinks. Safeword or death--whichever came first. It doesn’t stop him from leaning back and giving France a glare fit to flay the skin right off his cheekbones and his smug, smarmy lips." Deanon for a kink meme fic, which asked for consensual guro and black humor.
____________________
“Painslut,” England purrs, and draws the knife down the chest, severs curling gold hair and splits his body in two. Above him, breathless, France shudders, eyes glazed, his armless stumps twitching and writhing.
It’s amazing that he still has enough blood in his body to make his cock so hard.
England leans back, grinds against it, grateful that blood-caked jeans guard from guts and intestines that quiver every time England so much as tightens his knees. His fingers go slippery, the very tips remembering how he cradled the large intestine in his hands and ran his fingers over the--
Deep breaths. Swallow.
England pulls once or twice at France’s cock, smirks as his movements send blood spurting from France’s mouth. “Like the taste of that, painslut?” he growls, and crawls up the bed. With a flick of his hand, he sends fingers, palms, and limbs sprawling over the floor, all thick thuds and splatters. He braces himself where France’s clavicle used to be, unzipping his pants with a sigh.
“Gonna fuck your mouth,” England growls. His cock rises from his zipper and he grabs the left side of France’s head--the side that still has hair. He forces himself to look into France’s remaining eye so he doesn’t have to look at the gaping, blood-stained scalp. “D’you like that thought, whore? Like the thought of me fucking your bloody mouth?”
He waits for France to chuckle, to answer--hell, even to spit blood all over his cockhead.
Instead, nothing happens.
He sits there, and waits, and it takes him a few moments to recognize that too-glazed sheen in France’s eye, the way his lips loll open, and his heart--
England feels no heartbeat when he touches France’s chest.
Bile scalds England’s throat, and when he looks behind him he sees France’s spend splattered all over red, cock soft against his own guts. And here’s England, England with a handful of dead and it’s not fair, it’s not sodding fair he’s still hard--
“FUCK!”
England slams France’s head against the headboard, just for spite. His fingers loosen, France slipping from them like a school of minnow back into the water, and cups his face, painting it red. Not crying. Just...sitting there. Trying to breathe. Trying not to ram his cock down France’s throat while he’s dead.
Those were my rules, England thinks. Safeword or death--whichever came first.
It doesn’t stop him from leaning back and giving France a glare fit to flay the skin right off his cheekbones and his smug, smarmy lips. And then he slides off the bed, with a sigh, and almost trips over a hand on his way to the aftercare table.
...Right. Limbs.
He’ll have to take care of those first. At least the limbs are a little bit easy--just a matter of figuring out left from right. So he harvests limbs from the floor, winces as thickened, drying blood makes a sticky sound as he pulls it into his arms.
Piled high with fingers and hands and calves and feet, he makes his way back to the bed, balancing everything in his trembling arms. Weight, he tells himself, it’s the weight of it all, and debates switching his left and right feet. He smirks to himself and imagines France, scrambling and stumbling on turned-out feet.
His smile fades when he remembers France breaking into his window, shoving him down on the mattress and holding a knife to his throat, cutting, slow enough that he could feel every drop of blood leaving his throat.
...No. That’s...a rather bad idea after all, perhaps.
He sets everything out--spaced out, of course, so he can make sure he’s got it all right. The arms are the hardest, because for a moment he can’t quite make out which way the elbows turn, out or in--but he figures it out. He makes himself figure it out, because he doesn’t want France pawing at his window, too-wide eyes glinting in the moonlight and fingers tight around his favorite dagger.
So instead, he makes a promise to himself, as he lays out fingers and lines up ankles, that he will never cut fingers off again. Whole hands, yes--but fingers are far too hard for him, he finds.
Already, he sees, the skin’s starting to knit itself up, fresh peach-pink blossoming out from raw red meat. He nudges the arms so they brush up against the shoulder, squinting his eyes and making sure they line up just so. France might have to deal with some soreness. Maybe dislocation.
Nothing that can’t be fixed. They are their lands, after all, and it would not do to have them all broken and bloodied so that their people could not go on.
The guts are the hard part. He takes his knife again, grimacing as he cuts open France’s belly once more. “To think,” he grumbles, as he sets about shoving France’s organs back inside, “that your insides are far more attractive than your fucking face.”
“At least mine...does not look like...a rotten piece of meat.”
England jolts, the knife goes a little deeper. France hisses and writhes, face twisting and tensing, all frozen rubber warming beneath a lamp. England almost feels sorry for him until he realizes France’s cock is twitching, his hips thrusting up just so--
England glares and cuts him a bit deeper than intended. “Maybe if you didn’t heal so fast, I’d be able to sew this up instead of having to just match parts up and hope for the best,” England snaps back, and just piles the rest of France’s intestines in, on top of each other. It won’t quite fit, he thinks, walking over to the aftercare table and snatching up a few odds and ends. He’ll go about with an upset belly and a gut protrusion for a few days. He’ll probably have to stop eating until his innards right themselves.
No matter.
If France could endure piecemeal, Robespierre, and the horrors of having Vichy ripped right from his stomach, he could endure some not-quite-right intestines.
He makes his way back over as France wriggles his fingers, wrists. “Everything in order?” England asks, his syllables clipped and short as he sets about sewing up France’s belly, pulling the two halves together with thread. “Nothing on wrong? Do I need to break and reset any bones?”
France works his jaw, yawning, before his hand comes up to feel at his sunken left eyelid. His lips pull down into a frown. “Angleterre,, my eye....”
“Eh?” Arthur hesitates a moment, jabbing his needle a bit too hard. France curses and gives England an image of his own fingers clenched around white bloodshot jelly, the iris so blue it hurt his eyes. “Oh, right. I, um, think I ate it.”
“You what!?”
“I was hungry, you great ponce!”
France opens his mouth, shuts it, repeats. England almost makes a frog joke--maybe a goldfish joke. But France’s face smoothes out, his smile blooming like cream in hot coffee. “Amerique never eats my eyes,” France purrs. “He even fucks me while he cuts me apart.”
England’s gut clenches, and nebby little fingers yank it down to his toes. He drops the needle and thread. “You can sew yourself up, then,” England snarls, and all but throws the eyepatch at France’s head. “At least I’m not a filthy pedophile.”
“Oh, please--none of us were ever children.” And England knows France’s face well enough that he can see that France believes that--every single bit of him. From France’s small, too-young hands learning just where to touch and please, to his insides, all ripped apart and messy and knotted with conquests--
England shudders, and does not want to be here anymore. “Right. Meeting this afternoon. You’re presenting. I’d better...prepare.” Arthur strips out of his jeans, thanking his lucky stars that it will take France ages to fix himself up, and that he can be showered and out of this house by then.
“But--the restraints--”
Arthur pauses in the doorway, his hand frozen on the knob. That’s right. The cuffs. He--
Wait. What about the fucking cuffs?
England bows his head and chuckles, the sound a deep, growling ripple that vibrates along the bow of his shoulders.
“You’ve gotten yourself out of far, far worse, France. Let’s see how you wriggle your way out of this one, you toad.”
He shuts the door behind him before France can answer.
___
In the end, France is twenty minutes late.
He slinks in when he thinks no one sees him, eyepatch tied firmly over his right eye and folders clutched tight to his front. So he can hide his bulging insides, but not his eye. England looks at his charts, listening to America’s newest idea of building a giant Bat Signal, and ignores the snickers, murmurs, and jostles that rustle the ballroom hall.
England glances up to see Prussia wink at him and form a hook with his finger, and someone digs their ribs into his side and snickers. England stares at the charts, the up-down up of the bars and his ticking-along economy.
“...and, um, here’s France, I guess, with an idea a lot less awesome than mine. ...And apparently some leftover props from his Halloween 2010 Captain Hook costume.”
The room giggles, and those who don’t giggle shift in their feet and wait for the ground to turn to quicksand. England only looks up when he hears France’s laughter, low and dark-chocolate in the air--
Looks up just in time to see France slide his fingers over the back of America’s, shaking his hand, yanking him a little closer.
Arthur’s stomach churns, and he feels something round and soft quiver in his belly. Silent and wide eyed, he watches France pull America to him, nose-to-nose. France’s eye slides its gaze all the way across the room to meet with his.
“I’d rather you shiver my timbers any day of the week, Amerique,” France purrs.
And as the room groans, shifts, and chuckles, as America turns scarlet and sputters all the way back to his seat--
England growls, curls his nails into his palm, and sets about figuring out how to castrate France with a river-smoothed stone.
__________
I am still looking for at least one beta--preferably two--for a rewrite I’m doing of one of my old unfinished kink!meme fics. FrUK, no guro, no blood, and no France being a fucking asshole. More like what I used to write.
PM or e-mail me at klinde7@gmail.com if interested.
Thank you for reading.