[Fanfiction] Paste and Pearl
Title: Paste and Pearl
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama /Historical/Smut
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!England/Prussia
Rating/Warning(s): R/M, language, violence, sexual content
Word Count: 1,256
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - “Prussia/fem!England hate sex.” The 1920’s with its shift dresses and ragtime, paper-thin glamour and seething resentments. And a thoroughly unapologetic, apathetic object of obsession.
It had been from bad wine and irritating laughter. (Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t lose his temper quite that easily. It actually took quite a bit to drive him to rage- or just very, very careful manipulation. France knew how to do it. So did Spain.)
England had been in a dress that looked like a stylish silver silk sack. Funnily, it worked for her; she had a figure like a wood ruler dabbed with clay. Or a sword. She’d offered him a faint, tense smile earlier that night and had almost pointedly ignored him afterwards.
Tunnel vision was something Prussia was long acquainted with, if not in name.
He noted when she vanished from the tense, shrill party. The orchestra was playing something nasally and too fast; it would probably annoy Austria to new heights. That was a thought for later.
He eventually found her outside, smoking. Not in one of those fancy holders and not one of the long, slender sticks women smoked, but a man’s cigarette, an Army issue cheap fag. She looked sidelong at him, careless about the state of her dress as she leaned against a less than clean wall.
“I didn’t bring any for you,” she said.
He wrinkled his nose at her. “You’re smoking shit anyways,” he replied. He pulled his flask from the inside of his pocket and twisted off the iron top, taking a large swallow of the bitter cherry brandy and feeling its icy burn coat his throat.
Almost pointedly, he didn’t offer her a swallow.
England smoked like a man too. She held her cigarettes between index and middle finger, tucked right up to the hand and she curled her fingers inwards as she inhaled.
“I didn’t expect you to be like France, you know,” he said conversationally.
She arched a very dark eyebrow at him.
“Making war a game. Like- polo or something like that. Beat the shit out of each other, pretend that we like each other at the end.”
She snorted and he saw the red flare of the smoldering cigarette end. Gleaming softly against her silver dress was a long string of pearls. Pearls and silver.
He drew up to her; she had tucked herself into that bit of space of wall between open doors and the veranda rail. No one had lit the lights out here, for some reason; he vaguely recalled hearing complaints about it. But it meant no one came out here, even for a discreet smoke. She stared up at him and blew a long stream of acrid smoke into his face.
“Bitter, are we?” she asked.
“You have no idea, bitch,” he hissed, tasting the last bitter drops of brandy burning at the back of his throat.
“We return hatred measure for measure,” she replied. “We return injury three fold.” She spoke dispassionately which only infuriated him more.
Prussia’s hands moved around her throat, unthinking. His flask clattered onto the ground, spilling brandy in a slowly growing pool. She wasn’t a shrieking damsel in distress. He’d forgotten that she’d fought the same damn war, the same twisted war. He’d forgotten that she fought like a street thug.
Her cigarette narrowly missed his eye but seared his temple. He yelped and let go of her throat. She gasped for breath, dropping the cigarette as she brought a hand to her swiftly bruising neck.
“I hate you,” he said, hand going to the round burn upon his face. “I hate you.”
“Join the queue, Prussia,” she rasped, massaging her throat. She coughed a few times before tilting her head to spit in a decidedly unladylike manner. But then she turned back grinning, her brilliantly red lips smeared and sticky.
This made him reach again to throttle her until her face turned purple and- She stopped him short with a knife. It gleamed even in the secondhand light coming from the doors.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said simply.
“You bitch.”
“Try to learn some new words.”
They stood, staring at each other for just a little longer. Maybe she kissed him. Maybe he kissed her. But it was only a kiss on the barest of technicalities. They tried to devour each other. Their teeth tore into each other’s lips and tongues, snapping as sharply as guillotine blades. Her grip on her knife did not loosen in the slightest and he could feel its razor edge tickle his throat. Occasionally it stung, blood slowly trickling down from new and growing cuts on his neck.
He took as much as she would let him and how much of that had ever changed? Her leg ended up hooked around his waist and she rubbed up against him, teasing him and hurting him. He slammed her against the wall but she brutally shoved back, making up for lack of wall for the area she applied the greatest force.
Prussia wheezed in response.
“Bitch-” he hissed.
“Try again,” she replied.
It was perhaps a good thing that this veranda was away from the main ballroom, likely because of the busted lights. He was hard, even after the brutal collision of their hips. Snarling, he pinned her shoulders against the wall and she growled back, the sound rumbling in her throat. The knife remained where it was.
“Go ahead,” he breathed. “Give me another smile.”
“Quiet,” she rasped. But he already knew she wouldn’t do it. She was cruel. She was evil. She liked to watch her victims squirm.
He reached down to undo his trousers, pulling out his cock and stroking himself roughly a few times. Of course she was already wet when he then slipped his hand under her skirt. He thrust two fingers into her, bypassing her silk underwear. She hissed through her teeth like an irked cat, pushing against him.
Panting, he pulled his fingers out and without care, without thought, replaced them with his cock. Again, she hissed, not quite ready for him. He didn’t care.
They fucked, because he wasn’t just fucking her (even if he thought he was). She tightened her leg around his hips, meeting his increasingly brutal thrusts. And she started to laugh, low and rough. Frustrated, furious, he curled a hand around her pearls and pulled. The string snapped, sending pearls in a rattling stream to the ground, even as he thrust into her one last time, snarling curses.
Beads bounced and pinged on the ground, rolling to all the dark corners, through the pool of brandy.
“They’re paste, you know,” England said conversationally. He stared at her blankly. She forced the hand still clutching at the string open, revealing four spared pearls. Delicately picking one up, she ran it over his teeth. The smooth chill of the bead scratched at his incisors.
“Real ones are rough,” she continued, untangling herself from him. She pulled the knife away too and cleaned it on his dark jacket before making it vanish.
“Fakes,” he said vaguely. “Right.”
She smiled faintly. “No need in showing off,” she said, resting her hands on his chest and starting to push him away.
He withdrew from her. As he tucked his cock back into his trousers, he watched her pluck a handkerchief from her beaded purse and clean herself rather fastidiously. She fussed over her hair, which had started to fight its careful, cropped arrangement of flat curls, and he could see the finger marks on her throat growing darker.
The sight didn’t make him feel any warmer, even as the burn and cuts throbbed all the more.
Notes:
-This would have taken place around the early to mid-twenties, before the stock market crashes and the Great Depression.
-New head canon: France absolutely hated the 20s for the fashion and the new up-and-down figure. The chemise dress aka the flapper dress was detestable to him (or her).
-Another head canon: Victorian/Edwardian fem!England had long hair and kept it that way up until about the first World War. Then she hacked it off and looked rather like her canon self for the rest of the time. After the war, she just styled it bit more, with the 20s finger curls and waves.
-The way England smokes is based on an assertion a friend of the author makes in regards to the differences in the ways European men and women smoke, based on physiology and cigarette style.
-The trick of running a pearl along the teeth is actually a legitimate way of determining whether pearls are genuine or imitation. Imitation pearls are generally glass, which will be very smooth. Genuine pearls are made from secreted layers of nacre around an irritant, which leads to a subtly rougher surface. The author is a bit of a gemologist as well as being a biological sciences major…
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Drama /Historical/Smut
Character(s)|Pairing(s): fem!England/Prussia
Rating/Warning(s): R/M, language, violence, sexual content
Word Count: 1,256
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - “Prussia/fem!England hate sex.” The 1920’s with its shift dresses and ragtime, paper-thin glamour and seething resentments. And a thoroughly unapologetic, apathetic object of obsession.
It had been from bad wine and irritating laughter. (Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t lose his temper quite that easily. It actually took quite a bit to drive him to rage- or just very, very careful manipulation. France knew how to do it. So did Spain.)
England had been in a dress that looked like a stylish silver silk sack. Funnily, it worked for her; she had a figure like a wood ruler dabbed with clay. Or a sword. She’d offered him a faint, tense smile earlier that night and had almost pointedly ignored him afterwards.
Tunnel vision was something Prussia was long acquainted with, if not in name.
He noted when she vanished from the tense, shrill party. The orchestra was playing something nasally and too fast; it would probably annoy Austria to new heights. That was a thought for later.
He eventually found her outside, smoking. Not in one of those fancy holders and not one of the long, slender sticks women smoked, but a man’s cigarette, an Army issue cheap fag. She looked sidelong at him, careless about the state of her dress as she leaned against a less than clean wall.
“I didn’t bring any for you,” she said.
He wrinkled his nose at her. “You’re smoking shit anyways,” he replied. He pulled his flask from the inside of his pocket and twisted off the iron top, taking a large swallow of the bitter cherry brandy and feeling its icy burn coat his throat.
Almost pointedly, he didn’t offer her a swallow.
England smoked like a man too. She held her cigarettes between index and middle finger, tucked right up to the hand and she curled her fingers inwards as she inhaled.
“I didn’t expect you to be like France, you know,” he said conversationally.
She arched a very dark eyebrow at him.
“Making war a game. Like- polo or something like that. Beat the shit out of each other, pretend that we like each other at the end.”
She snorted and he saw the red flare of the smoldering cigarette end. Gleaming softly against her silver dress was a long string of pearls. Pearls and silver.
He drew up to her; she had tucked herself into that bit of space of wall between open doors and the veranda rail. No one had lit the lights out here, for some reason; he vaguely recalled hearing complaints about it. But it meant no one came out here, even for a discreet smoke. She stared up at him and blew a long stream of acrid smoke into his face.
“Bitter, are we?” she asked.
“You have no idea, bitch,” he hissed, tasting the last bitter drops of brandy burning at the back of his throat.
“We return hatred measure for measure,” she replied. “We return injury three fold.” She spoke dispassionately which only infuriated him more.
Prussia’s hands moved around her throat, unthinking. His flask clattered onto the ground, spilling brandy in a slowly growing pool. She wasn’t a shrieking damsel in distress. He’d forgotten that she’d fought the same damn war, the same twisted war. He’d forgotten that she fought like a street thug.
Her cigarette narrowly missed his eye but seared his temple. He yelped and let go of her throat. She gasped for breath, dropping the cigarette as she brought a hand to her swiftly bruising neck.
“I hate you,” he said, hand going to the round burn upon his face. “I hate you.”
“Join the queue, Prussia,” she rasped, massaging her throat. She coughed a few times before tilting her head to spit in a decidedly unladylike manner. But then she turned back grinning, her brilliantly red lips smeared and sticky.
This made him reach again to throttle her until her face turned purple and- She stopped him short with a knife. It gleamed even in the secondhand light coming from the doors.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said simply.
“You bitch.”
“Try to learn some new words.”
They stood, staring at each other for just a little longer. Maybe she kissed him. Maybe he kissed her. But it was only a kiss on the barest of technicalities. They tried to devour each other. Their teeth tore into each other’s lips and tongues, snapping as sharply as guillotine blades. Her grip on her knife did not loosen in the slightest and he could feel its razor edge tickle his throat. Occasionally it stung, blood slowly trickling down from new and growing cuts on his neck.
He took as much as she would let him and how much of that had ever changed? Her leg ended up hooked around his waist and she rubbed up against him, teasing him and hurting him. He slammed her against the wall but she brutally shoved back, making up for lack of wall for the area she applied the greatest force.
Prussia wheezed in response.
“Bitch-” he hissed.
“Try again,” she replied.
It was perhaps a good thing that this veranda was away from the main ballroom, likely because of the busted lights. He was hard, even after the brutal collision of their hips. Snarling, he pinned her shoulders against the wall and she growled back, the sound rumbling in her throat. The knife remained where it was.
“Go ahead,” he breathed. “Give me another smile.”
“Quiet,” she rasped. But he already knew she wouldn’t do it. She was cruel. She was evil. She liked to watch her victims squirm.
He reached down to undo his trousers, pulling out his cock and stroking himself roughly a few times. Of course she was already wet when he then slipped his hand under her skirt. He thrust two fingers into her, bypassing her silk underwear. She hissed through her teeth like an irked cat, pushing against him.
Panting, he pulled his fingers out and without care, without thought, replaced them with his cock. Again, she hissed, not quite ready for him. He didn’t care.
They fucked, because he wasn’t just fucking her (even if he thought he was). She tightened her leg around his hips, meeting his increasingly brutal thrusts. And she started to laugh, low and rough. Frustrated, furious, he curled a hand around her pearls and pulled. The string snapped, sending pearls in a rattling stream to the ground, even as he thrust into her one last time, snarling curses.
Beads bounced and pinged on the ground, rolling to all the dark corners, through the pool of brandy.
“They’re paste, you know,” England said conversationally. He stared at her blankly. She forced the hand still clutching at the string open, revealing four spared pearls. Delicately picking one up, she ran it over his teeth. The smooth chill of the bead scratched at his incisors.
“Real ones are rough,” she continued, untangling herself from him. She pulled the knife away too and cleaned it on his dark jacket before making it vanish.
“Fakes,” he said vaguely. “Right.”
She smiled faintly. “No need in showing off,” she said, resting her hands on his chest and starting to push him away.
He withdrew from her. As he tucked his cock back into his trousers, he watched her pluck a handkerchief from her beaded purse and clean herself rather fastidiously. She fussed over her hair, which had started to fight its careful, cropped arrangement of flat curls, and he could see the finger marks on her throat growing darker.
The sight didn’t make him feel any warmer, even as the burn and cuts throbbed all the more.
Notes:
-This would have taken place around the early to mid-twenties, before the stock market crashes and the Great Depression.
-New head canon: France absolutely hated the 20s for the fashion and the new up-and-down figure. The chemise dress aka the flapper dress was detestable to him (or her).
-Another head canon: Victorian/Edwardian fem!England had long hair and kept it that way up until about the first World War. Then she hacked it off and looked rather like her canon self for the rest of the time. After the war, she just styled it bit more, with the 20s finger curls and waves.
-The way England smokes is based on an assertion a friend of the author makes in regards to the differences in the ways European men and women smoke, based on physiology and cigarette style.
-The trick of running a pearl along the teeth is actually a legitimate way of determining whether pearls are genuine or imitation. Imitation pearls are generally glass, which will be very smooth. Genuine pearls are made from secreted layers of nacre around an irritant, which leads to a subtly rougher surface. The author is a bit of a gemologist as well as being a biological sciences major…