Worn and Frayed by Use (Axis Powers Hetalia, China/England)
So I have been referring to this one obliquely a lot lately.
Oh, China. You are so very angry. And something of a hypocrite.
Title: Worn and Frayed by Use
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: China/England (yes in that order)
Rating: Hard R (D/s, painplay, and kink that -- kind of fails at being safe and sane because of the people involved)
Timestamp: Let's call it late-'90s-to-early-'00s.
Summary: "My brother takes pleasure in this." "And you don't?" This is not China's kind of imperialism.
Also Known As: The one with spanking. And Buddhism.
"Will you?" England asks, turning his head so that he looks at a point in the air above China's left shoulder. His slacks hang at his knees, his belt and tie are both unthreaded, and he clenches his jaw the same way he clenches his fists around the table's edge, gripping until his skin drains of color. China observes all of this, makes note of it as though he intends to inventory the experience later, parcel England's aspect into discrete packages and bring each piece of him up for careful review. The spit gathering at the corners of his mouth, the red flush across his thighs, the shaking of his hands: each is its own experience.
Dividing England like this, China admits, is satisfying.
He sucks his breath in through his teeth, fingers the handle of the rattan cane he selected, and waits. England does the same. Both of them, China thinks, have made their peace with silence.
But England breaks it first. "I know you aren't your brother," he begins-
-China does not permit him to finish. He brings the cane down on the widest part of England's thighs and watches as England squirms, struggles to bring himself to stillness. When China lifts the cane, a livid red mark swells where it rested. It's even; it's unbroken; it's good. "My brother," China says, "takes pleasure in this."
"And you-oh Christ," he says when China lays into him again, four strokes in quick succession, "-you don't?"
China touches his free hand to his hair, curls his fingers through it briefly. "I'm four thousand years old," he says, and aims the next series of strokes higher, against the curve of England's backside. England grunts.
"And what's-oh-what's that got to do with-"
He peers between England's legs and nudges England's growing erection with the tip of his cane. England almost whines at that, high and thin. "I have mastered, and invented, all the techniques I care to learn," he continues, dispassionate. He withdraws the cane now, and strikes England across the same skin he reddened earlier. "I experimented with many of them before you came into being. I shared what I knew with my siblings, when the time came." He pauses, briefly, and leans down, blows on the rising welts before he straightens once more. "I enjoyed teaching them."
"But the teaching more than the-sweet fuck- "
The cane falls between each syllable of China's speech. "The act is an act. Sometimes pleasurable-" He delivers the hardest smack yet to the top of England's thighs, below the flesh of his buttocks. "Sometimes not. I never feared it, as you learned to do."
As you wanted me to learn to do.
The thought invigorates China's arm; he has done this often enough that he can control where the blows land, even at the speed he accelerates to, and he levels the cane against England's backside and thighs until his own hand aches and England's cries ring through the room. He doesn't break the skin, though blood suffuses the area, darkening it. So much red these days. "Pain, too, is," China murmurs over the echo of those sounds. "I neither welcome nor fear it."
England's harsh high breathing tells China he does both. China sucks in air through his teeth again. The contradictions of the Western world...
"And-" England says as he struggles to re-establish his grip on the table. Blood dribbles down his chin, presumably from a bitten lip. "And visiting pain on others-"
"When it is merited, it is merited." He delivers a stinging blow to England before the man has a chance to regain his balance. "In such cases, I won't hesitate."
England keeps his chest from colliding with the table, barely. His hips hitch; he balances on the balls of his feet as though in excitement, or anticipation. China presses his lips together, and England says, “Then decide. Is it?”
Is it indeed.
China withholds his answer and looks instead at the red lines striping England’s skin, livid and angry. Old scars swell beneath the welts, and China traces one with the cane: a jagged white curve hooked around the edge of England’s thigh, the skin around it still puckered. Another artifact of English discipline? England shivers, and still China says nothing. He stares at the handle of the cane and at the shape of his hand around it, his lip curling. What does England see in all this, he wonders, but resolves not to ask. England would want to explain, to show him, to guide him towards what he thinks of as understanding. He always has. China’s stomach churns; his hand remains steady.
“Is it merited,” China repeats at last, swinging the cane, and the crack of bamboo on flesh splinters in the air. England grunts, nearly ruts his hips against the table’s edge. His skin reddens everywhere it’s been bared, not only the places China has struck. His breaths whistle, reminding China more of squeals. This exercise is akin, he thinks, to disciplining a pig, and one does not attempt to correct a pig’s behavior. It serves no purpose. One cannot make a pig human.
“If it is,” England says, “then sweet Christ, get on with it.”
If that was meant to goad China into continuing, it nearly succeeds-China rears his arm back, then lets it fall and steps back from where England is prostrate over the table. A crude tool, he decides once his hand steadies again, but effective.
And England chuckles, soft and low. “Do you mean to make me wait, then?” Very well, China can almost hear him drawl after, as though he means to indulge China in this, as though the anticipation itself is its own kind of reward, as though China’s actions are irrelevant next to what England makes of them.
China crosses to the door before the indignation registers on his face.
England must sense the threat in it, because he calls, “Damn it all, China, you said you’d do it-”
China turns. England is panting now and shaking with the force of it, trying to curl his toes under so he can turn and see where China went. His sweat shimmers on the table’s surface, soaks into the wood beneath. China is thankful that the table is new and not even his; one of America’s men designed it, or Sweden’s, or one of Sweden’s men in America. The origin matters little these days. “I did,” China says. “And I will honor our agreement,” which is more than England has ever done. England knows the remark for what it is; China sees him flinch.
“Then call it what you like-punishment, proving your strength, enlightenment, whatever you need to, just-just bring it to bear on me.” England nearly collapses at that, his knees sagging, his elbows buckling, his hands no longer pressed to the table’s edge but pressed together, clasped.
He needs this.
The thought is a slap.
“I have no name for it,” China says quietly, masking the bile rising in his throat. This abasement is indulgence, not humility. “This behavior,” and what England asks of him, expects of him, requires of him, “is not mine.”
England swears, stutters over it, finally manages to say, “For the-”
China waits for him to continue. He doesn’t tap his foot against the ground, or do the same with his cane. There’s no need to; he is in no hurry. Not now, not here.
“What do you want of me?” England says at last, and plants his elbows on the table with a solid sound, though he doesn’t bring himself to his feet.
“I want nothing of you,” China says without deception. He never has.
England turns his head enough that China can see his smile settling in. A smile, or a grimace, or even a smirk: to China, the expressions blend together. “Shall I beg you?”
He doesn’t look away. To do so now would be unforgivable, irredeemable. He holds England’s gaze and lets that steadiness find expression in the rest of him. “You would beg me?” he repeats; a delaying tactic, but a time-honored one. England making supplication, entreating-no, China cannot picture it, not with any semblance of sincerity, the man never has known his place though he sees more than fit to tell China his-
No. China closes his eyes briefly, then opens them, takes in the shade of England’s skin and the deeper hue of the wood he braces himself on and the rich red of the walls, which washes everything in a rose-colored glow. If he will savage England, he will not do it in a wild frenzy. This is not the wild, this is his home, and he will not subject it to that disrespect.
England is speaking now. “I would,” he says. “I’d ask you to lash me until I couldn’t tell whether or not you’d stopped, and then I’d beg you to fuck me through the burn.”
Would he, would he indeed. China’s jaw works soundlessly. These games England plays… “Are you begging me now?”
“Yes.” England’s voice is almost a whisper. He shudders, and the muscles under his skin ripple and shift. “Please, China.”
It is custom more than anything else that makes China say, “I’ll consider it.” Custom, at least, is comforting. England has requested; he has refused. The cycle should repeat.
And it does. “Please,” England says again. “Please do this.”
For you. China rests the end of the cane across the flat of his palm and rubs the bamboo, feels it for splinters. The cane isn’t as old as he would like it to be. Is anything, in these times? Even the stripes across England’s thighs are losing their color, lightening to a mottled pink. “You have a meeting tomorrow,” he says. “You’ll have to sit for a very long time.”
England snorts. “And I’ll savor every second of it, if only you give me something to savor.” Heat creeps into his voice, the same kind of heat mottling the backs of his hands. “Please, China. I know what I’m asking of you.”
And still you ask, China thinks.
“I’m not like you,” England continues, as though China needed to be told that. “I want it, I-need it, you’ve no idea how much-” He spreads his legs wider, lifts his backside into the air and gives China a better view of his erection, purple-red and straining, rubbing against the table’s edge. “Please-do what you like with me after, do what you like with me during, only do this, please. Beat me, use me, make me like it…”
To offer himself like this-the back of China’s throat closes. No, this is not humility. It can’t be. “You say you know what you ask,” he says. It seems the safest response, though it is far from a safe one.
“Yes,” England hisses, his breath seething through his teeth. “I don’t deserve this, I’ve no right to ask for it, but still-I-no, this unworthy one entreats the king of heaven to do as he sees fit-”
China cracks the cane across England’s thighs before he knows his arm is moving, and England howls.
He pulls his arm back slowly, forces it steady. The knot in his stomach eases; the giddying heat coursing through him takes longer to. He will-he will not give England everything he wants. He will not light into him like a savage. And so China keeps a silent count of each stroke, directs the blows to England’s backside and thighs, smacks old welts and raises new ones. He keeps each sound sharp, quick, precise. It is how this ought to be done. England pushes his hips back and rocks into the flurry of blows, welcomes each hit with a gasp or grunt or groan and rubs himself against the cane when China allows it to linger long enough. China snatches the cane back up, aims the next strike nearly at the backs of England’s knees, and England pitches forward onto the table, cursing. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, yes…”
China waits until England’s cries build and his hips nearly slam into the desk from how hard his legs shudder, then levies another blow across that same spot, then another, then another. England’s voice breaks when his skin does, and the blood trickling down his thighs should not stand out against his skin so starkly, not after how China’s reddened it. But he’s no stranger to the sight of blood, not even blood during this act. He will wash the cane later. For now, he delivers a hard blow to England’s backside, leverages his whole arm into it.
England whimpers and moans and begs even after China sets aside the cane and picks up the oil instead, slicking his fingers with it and feeling the flesh he has abused from the inside. Twenty-two strokes, China thinks as he seats himself in England, recalling the count from earlier. Not an inauspicious number. He does not keep a count of these strokes, but he directs them well, and England moans and clenches tight around him, clawing at the table like a cat. It is enough; China feels himself gathering, about to release-
“Please,” England says now, “god, please, yes, please, please-”
-four times he says please. And earlier, China remembers even as he shudders through his release, grips England by the hair and wrenches his head back. England begged him four times for this. Why did China not remember then?
He pulls out almost faster than he can bear and releases England’s hair, turns to the wall: barren, save for a light switch and the red paint. China rests his fist on the wall and focuses on his own breathing, not England’s panting; doubtless England is doing what he needs to, and China doesn’t need to be complicit in that as well.
England begged, and China granted him what he was so sure he wanted…
What England wanted. England has always loved hearing them beg. China remembers…
…and the force of that is enough to send him from the room for good. He manages not to slam the door in his wake, but only just, and it’s just as well that England will not see how his arm shakes, will not compare that to any other kind of trembling he has seen China perform. He can still hear the sounds of England shifting within the room, perhaps cleaning himself off, perhaps putting his clothes on again. It would be courteous to assist him; China is his host, and a host provides for his guests. China ought to remember that.
He rests his hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn it.
Yes, China remembers. China has never forgotten any of it.
.
Oh, China. You are so very angry. And something of a hypocrite.
Title: Worn and Frayed by Use
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: China/England (yes in that order)
Rating: Hard R (D/s, painplay, and kink that -- kind of fails at being safe and sane because of the people involved)
Timestamp: Let's call it late-'90s-to-early-'00s.
Summary: "My brother takes pleasure in this." "And you don't?" This is not China's kind of imperialism.
Also Known As: The one with spanking. And Buddhism.
"Will you?" England asks, turning his head so that he looks at a point in the air above China's left shoulder. His slacks hang at his knees, his belt and tie are both unthreaded, and he clenches his jaw the same way he clenches his fists around the table's edge, gripping until his skin drains of color. China observes all of this, makes note of it as though he intends to inventory the experience later, parcel England's aspect into discrete packages and bring each piece of him up for careful review. The spit gathering at the corners of his mouth, the red flush across his thighs, the shaking of his hands: each is its own experience.
Dividing England like this, China admits, is satisfying.
He sucks his breath in through his teeth, fingers the handle of the rattan cane he selected, and waits. England does the same. Both of them, China thinks, have made their peace with silence.
But England breaks it first. "I know you aren't your brother," he begins-
-China does not permit him to finish. He brings the cane down on the widest part of England's thighs and watches as England squirms, struggles to bring himself to stillness. When China lifts the cane, a livid red mark swells where it rested. It's even; it's unbroken; it's good. "My brother," China says, "takes pleasure in this."
"And you-oh Christ," he says when China lays into him again, four strokes in quick succession, "-you don't?"
China touches his free hand to his hair, curls his fingers through it briefly. "I'm four thousand years old," he says, and aims the next series of strokes higher, against the curve of England's backside. England grunts.
"And what's-oh-what's that got to do with-"
He peers between England's legs and nudges England's growing erection with the tip of his cane. England almost whines at that, high and thin. "I have mastered, and invented, all the techniques I care to learn," he continues, dispassionate. He withdraws the cane now, and strikes England across the same skin he reddened earlier. "I experimented with many of them before you came into being. I shared what I knew with my siblings, when the time came." He pauses, briefly, and leans down, blows on the rising welts before he straightens once more. "I enjoyed teaching them."
"But the teaching more than the-sweet fuck- "
The cane falls between each syllable of China's speech. "The act is an act. Sometimes pleasurable-" He delivers the hardest smack yet to the top of England's thighs, below the flesh of his buttocks. "Sometimes not. I never feared it, as you learned to do."
As you wanted me to learn to do.
The thought invigorates China's arm; he has done this often enough that he can control where the blows land, even at the speed he accelerates to, and he levels the cane against England's backside and thighs until his own hand aches and England's cries ring through the room. He doesn't break the skin, though blood suffuses the area, darkening it. So much red these days. "Pain, too, is," China murmurs over the echo of those sounds. "I neither welcome nor fear it."
England's harsh high breathing tells China he does both. China sucks in air through his teeth again. The contradictions of the Western world...
"And-" England says as he struggles to re-establish his grip on the table. Blood dribbles down his chin, presumably from a bitten lip. "And visiting pain on others-"
"When it is merited, it is merited." He delivers a stinging blow to England before the man has a chance to regain his balance. "In such cases, I won't hesitate."
England keeps his chest from colliding with the table, barely. His hips hitch; he balances on the balls of his feet as though in excitement, or anticipation. China presses his lips together, and England says, “Then decide. Is it?”
Is it indeed.
China withholds his answer and looks instead at the red lines striping England’s skin, livid and angry. Old scars swell beneath the welts, and China traces one with the cane: a jagged white curve hooked around the edge of England’s thigh, the skin around it still puckered. Another artifact of English discipline? England shivers, and still China says nothing. He stares at the handle of the cane and at the shape of his hand around it, his lip curling. What does England see in all this, he wonders, but resolves not to ask. England would want to explain, to show him, to guide him towards what he thinks of as understanding. He always has. China’s stomach churns; his hand remains steady.
“Is it merited,” China repeats at last, swinging the cane, and the crack of bamboo on flesh splinters in the air. England grunts, nearly ruts his hips against the table’s edge. His skin reddens everywhere it’s been bared, not only the places China has struck. His breaths whistle, reminding China more of squeals. This exercise is akin, he thinks, to disciplining a pig, and one does not attempt to correct a pig’s behavior. It serves no purpose. One cannot make a pig human.
“If it is,” England says, “then sweet Christ, get on with it.”
If that was meant to goad China into continuing, it nearly succeeds-China rears his arm back, then lets it fall and steps back from where England is prostrate over the table. A crude tool, he decides once his hand steadies again, but effective.
And England chuckles, soft and low. “Do you mean to make me wait, then?” Very well, China can almost hear him drawl after, as though he means to indulge China in this, as though the anticipation itself is its own kind of reward, as though China’s actions are irrelevant next to what England makes of them.
China crosses to the door before the indignation registers on his face.
England must sense the threat in it, because he calls, “Damn it all, China, you said you’d do it-”
China turns. England is panting now and shaking with the force of it, trying to curl his toes under so he can turn and see where China went. His sweat shimmers on the table’s surface, soaks into the wood beneath. China is thankful that the table is new and not even his; one of America’s men designed it, or Sweden’s, or one of Sweden’s men in America. The origin matters little these days. “I did,” China says. “And I will honor our agreement,” which is more than England has ever done. England knows the remark for what it is; China sees him flinch.
“Then call it what you like-punishment, proving your strength, enlightenment, whatever you need to, just-just bring it to bear on me.” England nearly collapses at that, his knees sagging, his elbows buckling, his hands no longer pressed to the table’s edge but pressed together, clasped.
He needs this.
The thought is a slap.
“I have no name for it,” China says quietly, masking the bile rising in his throat. This abasement is indulgence, not humility. “This behavior,” and what England asks of him, expects of him, requires of him, “is not mine.”
England swears, stutters over it, finally manages to say, “For the-”
China waits for him to continue. He doesn’t tap his foot against the ground, or do the same with his cane. There’s no need to; he is in no hurry. Not now, not here.
“What do you want of me?” England says at last, and plants his elbows on the table with a solid sound, though he doesn’t bring himself to his feet.
“I want nothing of you,” China says without deception. He never has.
England turns his head enough that China can see his smile settling in. A smile, or a grimace, or even a smirk: to China, the expressions blend together. “Shall I beg you?”
He doesn’t look away. To do so now would be unforgivable, irredeemable. He holds England’s gaze and lets that steadiness find expression in the rest of him. “You would beg me?” he repeats; a delaying tactic, but a time-honored one. England making supplication, entreating-no, China cannot picture it, not with any semblance of sincerity, the man never has known his place though he sees more than fit to tell China his-
No. China closes his eyes briefly, then opens them, takes in the shade of England’s skin and the deeper hue of the wood he braces himself on and the rich red of the walls, which washes everything in a rose-colored glow. If he will savage England, he will not do it in a wild frenzy. This is not the wild, this is his home, and he will not subject it to that disrespect.
England is speaking now. “I would,” he says. “I’d ask you to lash me until I couldn’t tell whether or not you’d stopped, and then I’d beg you to fuck me through the burn.”
Would he, would he indeed. China’s jaw works soundlessly. These games England plays… “Are you begging me now?”
“Yes.” England’s voice is almost a whisper. He shudders, and the muscles under his skin ripple and shift. “Please, China.”
It is custom more than anything else that makes China say, “I’ll consider it.” Custom, at least, is comforting. England has requested; he has refused. The cycle should repeat.
And it does. “Please,” England says again. “Please do this.”
For you. China rests the end of the cane across the flat of his palm and rubs the bamboo, feels it for splinters. The cane isn’t as old as he would like it to be. Is anything, in these times? Even the stripes across England’s thighs are losing their color, lightening to a mottled pink. “You have a meeting tomorrow,” he says. “You’ll have to sit for a very long time.”
England snorts. “And I’ll savor every second of it, if only you give me something to savor.” Heat creeps into his voice, the same kind of heat mottling the backs of his hands. “Please, China. I know what I’m asking of you.”
And still you ask, China thinks.
“I’m not like you,” England continues, as though China needed to be told that. “I want it, I-need it, you’ve no idea how much-” He spreads his legs wider, lifts his backside into the air and gives China a better view of his erection, purple-red and straining, rubbing against the table’s edge. “Please-do what you like with me after, do what you like with me during, only do this, please. Beat me, use me, make me like it…”
To offer himself like this-the back of China’s throat closes. No, this is not humility. It can’t be. “You say you know what you ask,” he says. It seems the safest response, though it is far from a safe one.
“Yes,” England hisses, his breath seething through his teeth. “I don’t deserve this, I’ve no right to ask for it, but still-I-no, this unworthy one entreats the king of heaven to do as he sees fit-”
China cracks the cane across England’s thighs before he knows his arm is moving, and England howls.
He pulls his arm back slowly, forces it steady. The knot in his stomach eases; the giddying heat coursing through him takes longer to. He will-he will not give England everything he wants. He will not light into him like a savage. And so China keeps a silent count of each stroke, directs the blows to England’s backside and thighs, smacks old welts and raises new ones. He keeps each sound sharp, quick, precise. It is how this ought to be done. England pushes his hips back and rocks into the flurry of blows, welcomes each hit with a gasp or grunt or groan and rubs himself against the cane when China allows it to linger long enough. China snatches the cane back up, aims the next strike nearly at the backs of England’s knees, and England pitches forward onto the table, cursing. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, yes…”
China waits until England’s cries build and his hips nearly slam into the desk from how hard his legs shudder, then levies another blow across that same spot, then another, then another. England’s voice breaks when his skin does, and the blood trickling down his thighs should not stand out against his skin so starkly, not after how China’s reddened it. But he’s no stranger to the sight of blood, not even blood during this act. He will wash the cane later. For now, he delivers a hard blow to England’s backside, leverages his whole arm into it.
England whimpers and moans and begs even after China sets aside the cane and picks up the oil instead, slicking his fingers with it and feeling the flesh he has abused from the inside. Twenty-two strokes, China thinks as he seats himself in England, recalling the count from earlier. Not an inauspicious number. He does not keep a count of these strokes, but he directs them well, and England moans and clenches tight around him, clawing at the table like a cat. It is enough; China feels himself gathering, about to release-
“Please,” England says now, “god, please, yes, please, please-”
-four times he says please. And earlier, China remembers even as he shudders through his release, grips England by the hair and wrenches his head back. England begged him four times for this. Why did China not remember then?
He pulls out almost faster than he can bear and releases England’s hair, turns to the wall: barren, save for a light switch and the red paint. China rests his fist on the wall and focuses on his own breathing, not England’s panting; doubtless England is doing what he needs to, and China doesn’t need to be complicit in that as well.
England begged, and China granted him what he was so sure he wanted…
What England wanted. England has always loved hearing them beg. China remembers…
…and the force of that is enough to send him from the room for good. He manages not to slam the door in his wake, but only just, and it’s just as well that England will not see how his arm shakes, will not compare that to any other kind of trembling he has seen China perform. He can still hear the sounds of England shifting within the room, perhaps cleaning himself off, perhaps putting his clothes on again. It would be courteous to assist him; China is his host, and a host provides for his guests. China ought to remember that.
He rests his hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn it.
Yes, China remembers. China has never forgotten any of it.
.