"Catharsis"
Title: Catharsis
Author: wizzard890
Rating: R
Summary: Killing a monarch is nothing special; England’s had to dispose of some of his own throughout the years. But to accompany the executioners, to see the confusion and fear in those children’s faces, to ignore their mother’s cries for help...that’s something else entirely.
Author's Notes: This was written entirely for the awesome creator of plot bunnies, twistedsheets10. It started out as comfort sex, really. I just... kind of fail at that. And, by extension, so does England.
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He doesn’t understand why he’s here.
Even now, with rapidly-cooling sheets tangled about his legs and the huge bulk of Russia nestled against his side, England is at a complete loss. This is nothing, not an alliance, an invasion. There’s no solid political reason for his actions. His foolishness.
Russia’s breath is warm and sleepy on his neck, and England feels a sudden rush of-something. Pity, perhaps. Although he’s not in the habit of sleeping with everyone he pities.
The first kiss is sudden, but not entirely unexpected. Russia stumbles against him, and his hands, curled tentatively at the nape of England’s neck, are cold.
He’s babbling, mumbling something into England’s mouth. “I lost her...You trusted me with her, and I-” He chokes, and buries his face in the other Nation’s neck.
England stands stiffly, arms at his sides. I never trusted you, he thinks, and twitches at the flutter of Russia’s eyelashes against his skin.
He knows Russia is mad. Years ago, when England was just a boy, he had watched the same thing happen to Rome. The signs are unmistakable: paronoia, murder, desperation.
Killing a monarch is nothing special; England’s had to dispose of some of his own throughout the years. But to accompany the executioners, to see the confusion and fear in those children’s faces, to ignore their mother’s cries for help...that’s something else entirely.
“You will not touch me,” he says at length, and pulls Russia’s scarf from his neck in one sharp tug. The other Nation snarls, pulls back, but it’s the work of a moment for England to tie his wrists together, looping the fabric around them much too tightly.
“England,” Russia’s deep voice is cracked, raw, and for a second there’s a trace of who he used to be, “her death was quick. I swear it.”
England jerks Russia’s bound hands toward him, digs his teeth into the juncture of the thumb and wrist. It’s not a teasing bite, not playful, because this isn’t a game, it never has been. “Liar!” he hisses. “I know about the little ‘photography session’ in the basement. Your precious Sasha, my Alix, was forced to watch her children die!” He doesn’t lick the blood off Russia’s hand, just watches it drip lazily onto the Oriental rug. “I heard you shot her yourself.”
Russia’s fists catch him across the jaw.
The bruise is splashed across the left side of England’s face, dark and livid. Revenge. Maybe that’s what this is. The memory of Russia moaning beneath him is too fresh to reflect upon further.
There’s a brief, if one-sided scuffle. England mentally berates himself for letting his guard down, and tangles his fingers in Russia’s hair, slamming the other Nation’s face into the wall. A twist, a pull, and Russia is out of his grip, blood streaming from a gash in his temple, a wild light in his eyes.
“Don’t be a fool, Russia,” England snarls, bracing himself for another rush, “you’re weak, juggling too much at once. You can’t even begin to fight me now.” He dives at the scarf, dodges another blow, and soon has Russia pulled flush up against him, bleeding and growling and breathing hard.
Russia’s cut has scabbed over rather well, England sees. He has to resist running a finger over it, though whether to tear it open or soothe the pain he cannot tell.
He lunges forward, covers Russia’s lips with his own, and the kiss is cruel. Or so he tells himself. The scarf is gathered in his left hand, and Russia is suddenly pliant and exhausted. Too heavy with sorrow, perhaps, to fight anymore.
And when England starts for the bedroom, the other Nation follows, tethered neatly. If this must be done (and it must), it will be in a civilized manner.
Russia’s blood splatters on the tile floor.
The huge mattress shifts as Russia curls tighter into himself, and England winces as an arm snakes around his waist.
England pins Russia to the bed and takes him roughly, with little preparation. He’s rewarded with a sharp, not entirely pained gasp. Brilliant. The other Nation is hard, probably has been since blood blossomed on his face, and England reaches down to wrap a hand around his length.
“Russia,” he breathes, coupling his harsh thrusts with long, gentle strokes, “I want an apology.”
Their eyes lock, and England has to stop himself from looking away. It’s like staring into the bottom of a well.
“No.” Russia groans and fists his hands in the sheets. “I didn’t...It wasn’t my f-”
“Oh? Why was the Tzar killed so neatly, then? Why did you spare him the sight of his family speared on bayonets, clubbed to death? Did Alix not deserve that same mercy?”
“She...I...”
The other Nation’s breath is coming in short bursts, and England can tell he’s close. He pulls his hand away, savoring the desperate mewling noise that Russia tries to swallow. “Just say it.”
Neither of them are ever going to forget this. They’ll never mention it, of course, but things can’t possibly be the same.
“I’m sorry.”
The dim hatred in Russia’s eyes sends England over the edge. He comes, shaking. And then, because he’s not a monster, he leans down, slick with sweat, and runs his tongue up Russia’s cock.
There’s a shudder, a growl, and Russia goes limp beneath him.
He’d won. It wasn’t what he’d set out to accomplish (what that was, exactly, still isn’t clear, even to him), but it was something. Russia’s fingers are twisted into gentle claws against his hipbone, and England wonders if this wasn’t the right thing to do.
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-Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova, the last Tsarina of Russia, was born Princess Viktoria Alix Helena Luise Beatrice of Hesse. She was the daughter of Grand Duke Louis IV of Hesse and by Rhine and his wife Princess Alice of the United Kingdom. So Alix was, by extension, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria.
-The members of the Romanov family were famously executed by the Bolsheviks after spending many months under house arrest. They were taken into the basement on the evening of July 16th, on the pretense of sitting for a portrait, proof that the family was still alive.
-There is no definitive record of what order in which the family died. The only fact that seems to stay the same is that the Tsar was killed first, shot in the head.
-The British considered helping the Romanovs escape, what with Alexandra being Queen Victoria's granddaughter and everything. But things just never seemed to come together. The British couldn't really bring themselves to care that much (Yes, it was about as big a dick move as sounds.)
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Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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Author: wizzard890
Rating: R
Summary: Killing a monarch is nothing special; England’s had to dispose of some of his own throughout the years. But to accompany the executioners, to see the confusion and fear in those children’s faces, to ignore their mother’s cries for help...that’s something else entirely.
Author's Notes: This was written entirely for the awesome creator of plot bunnies, twistedsheets10. It started out as comfort sex, really. I just... kind of fail at that. And, by extension, so does England.
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He doesn’t understand why he’s here.
Even now, with rapidly-cooling sheets tangled about his legs and the huge bulk of Russia nestled against his side, England is at a complete loss. This is nothing, not an alliance, an invasion. There’s no solid political reason for his actions. His foolishness.
Russia’s breath is warm and sleepy on his neck, and England feels a sudden rush of-something. Pity, perhaps. Although he’s not in the habit of sleeping with everyone he pities.
The first kiss is sudden, but not entirely unexpected. Russia stumbles against him, and his hands, curled tentatively at the nape of England’s neck, are cold.
He’s babbling, mumbling something into England’s mouth. “I lost her...You trusted me with her, and I-” He chokes, and buries his face in the other Nation’s neck.
England stands stiffly, arms at his sides. I never trusted you, he thinks, and twitches at the flutter of Russia’s eyelashes against his skin.
He knows Russia is mad. Years ago, when England was just a boy, he had watched the same thing happen to Rome. The signs are unmistakable: paronoia, murder, desperation.
Killing a monarch is nothing special; England’s had to dispose of some of his own throughout the years. But to accompany the executioners, to see the confusion and fear in those children’s faces, to ignore their mother’s cries for help...that’s something else entirely.
“You will not touch me,” he says at length, and pulls Russia’s scarf from his neck in one sharp tug. The other Nation snarls, pulls back, but it’s the work of a moment for England to tie his wrists together, looping the fabric around them much too tightly.
“England,” Russia’s deep voice is cracked, raw, and for a second there’s a trace of who he used to be, “her death was quick. I swear it.”
England jerks Russia’s bound hands toward him, digs his teeth into the juncture of the thumb and wrist. It’s not a teasing bite, not playful, because this isn’t a game, it never has been. “Liar!” he hisses. “I know about the little ‘photography session’ in the basement. Your precious Sasha, my Alix, was forced to watch her children die!” He doesn’t lick the blood off Russia’s hand, just watches it drip lazily onto the Oriental rug. “I heard you shot her yourself.”
Russia’s fists catch him across the jaw.
The bruise is splashed across the left side of England’s face, dark and livid. Revenge. Maybe that’s what this is. The memory of Russia moaning beneath him is too fresh to reflect upon further.
There’s a brief, if one-sided scuffle. England mentally berates himself for letting his guard down, and tangles his fingers in Russia’s hair, slamming the other Nation’s face into the wall. A twist, a pull, and Russia is out of his grip, blood streaming from a gash in his temple, a wild light in his eyes.
“Don’t be a fool, Russia,” England snarls, bracing himself for another rush, “you’re weak, juggling too much at once. You can’t even begin to fight me now.” He dives at the scarf, dodges another blow, and soon has Russia pulled flush up against him, bleeding and growling and breathing hard.
Russia’s cut has scabbed over rather well, England sees. He has to resist running a finger over it, though whether to tear it open or soothe the pain he cannot tell.
He lunges forward, covers Russia’s lips with his own, and the kiss is cruel. Or so he tells himself. The scarf is gathered in his left hand, and Russia is suddenly pliant and exhausted. Too heavy with sorrow, perhaps, to fight anymore.
And when England starts for the bedroom, the other Nation follows, tethered neatly. If this must be done (and it must), it will be in a civilized manner.
Russia’s blood splatters on the tile floor.
The huge mattress shifts as Russia curls tighter into himself, and England winces as an arm snakes around his waist.
England pins Russia to the bed and takes him roughly, with little preparation. He’s rewarded with a sharp, not entirely pained gasp. Brilliant. The other Nation is hard, probably has been since blood blossomed on his face, and England reaches down to wrap a hand around his length.
“Russia,” he breathes, coupling his harsh thrusts with long, gentle strokes, “I want an apology.”
Their eyes lock, and England has to stop himself from looking away. It’s like staring into the bottom of a well.
“No.” Russia groans and fists his hands in the sheets. “I didn’t...It wasn’t my f-”
“Oh? Why was the Tzar killed so neatly, then? Why did you spare him the sight of his family speared on bayonets, clubbed to death? Did Alix not deserve that same mercy?”
“She...I...”
The other Nation’s breath is coming in short bursts, and England can tell he’s close. He pulls his hand away, savoring the desperate mewling noise that Russia tries to swallow. “Just say it.”
Neither of them are ever going to forget this. They’ll never mention it, of course, but things can’t possibly be the same.
“I’m sorry.”
The dim hatred in Russia’s eyes sends England over the edge. He comes, shaking. And then, because he’s not a monster, he leans down, slick with sweat, and runs his tongue up Russia’s cock.
There’s a shudder, a growl, and Russia goes limp beneath him.
He’d won. It wasn’t what he’d set out to accomplish (what that was, exactly, still isn’t clear, even to him), but it was something. Russia’s fingers are twisted into gentle claws against his hipbone, and England wonders if this wasn’t the right thing to do.
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-Alexandra Feodorovna Romanova, the last Tsarina of Russia, was born Princess Viktoria Alix Helena Luise Beatrice of Hesse. She was the daughter of Grand Duke Louis IV of Hesse and by Rhine and his wife Princess Alice of the United Kingdom. So Alix was, by extension, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria.
-The members of the Romanov family were famously executed by the Bolsheviks after spending many months under house arrest. They were taken into the basement on the evening of July 16th, on the pretense of sitting for a portrait, proof that the family was still alive.
-There is no definitive record of what order in which the family died. The only fact that seems to stay the same is that the Tsar was killed first, shot in the head.
-The British considered helping the Romanovs escape, what with Alexandra being Queen Victoria's granddaughter and everything. But things just never seemed to come together. The British couldn't really bring themselves to care that much (Yes, it was about as big a dick move as sounds.)
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Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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