No love. No fore-play. Just rough, burning, painful Sodomy. Don't care if it's consensual or rape or whatever. Would like for receiving nation to be on all fours.
Bonuses: - The receiving nation is begging for it at some point. - The giving nation is doing it on a twisted whim.
Filled with UK/US, in that order. Warnings for possible OOC and unbeta'd writing. I did it in about twenty minutes.
Title comes from the lyrics of "Sweet Sacrifice" by Evanescence, because this was the closest to an angry!song I could find in my library, and I needed an angry!song for this.
Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [1/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 02:43:39 UTC
Written in about twenty minutes as part of an attempt to just get myself writing for this fandom. I hope you enjoy this, nonetheless. ___
His head slams back against the wall, shattering plaster and thoughts and sending pain down to the roots of his teeth. Every bone vibrates, and America grits his throbbing teeth as England grabs him in two hands and throws him on the bed.
America lets him. Lets the limey climb on him, fisting hair between calloused fingers and pulling back. America lets the limey bastard, lets him bite, suck, rip away a chunk of flesh and blood. From the corner of his widened eyes, America watches England swallow said chunk, lower his head down to suckle the blood down.
His laughter blooms out of his throat, petals made of delirium and black, hot worms writhing in the pit of his stomach. “Miss being an empire, Iggy?” he breathes, and his voice is a jagged edge of steel slicing through skin, red-hot, fuckHe almost celebrates when England stills. Turns to marble, fingers curled in his bomber jacket and his
( ... )
Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [2/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 02:44:40 UTC
“Hey,” America says to England’s back, still floating and panting. “Hey, you--you pay for these pants, you hear?”
England pauses. “I’m sure China will give you a pair.”
“That’s not the point, England,” America says, and his voice pitches higher, more frustrated. “You’re missing the point.”
England’s fingers pause on the knob. He turns, looks back at America, green eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled up as though he’s realized what his own grilled cheese smells like.
“How about this, America--you tell me the fucking point of this, I’ll buy you a new pair of bloody jeans.”
Silence. America licks his lips, and his mouth falls open--but the words box themselves up in his throat. Or maybe aren’t even there at all.
England’s sneer is shadows and highlights, white teeth and narrowed, triumphant eyebrows.
Re: Poor, Sweet Innocent Thing [2/2]
anonymous
September 20 2011, 15:30:10 UTC
This is so... painful, and cruel, and empty and it hurts to read because it just feels so real. Hetalia always makes the best transition from light-heartedness to darker themes but only in the hands of a competent author, and you, anon, are far more than just competent. Bravo.
No love. No fore-play. Just rough, burning, painful Sodomy.
Don't care if it's consensual or rape or whatever.
Would like for receiving nation to be on all fours.
Bonuses:
- The receiving nation is begging for it at some point.
- The giving nation is doing it on a twisted whim.
Filled with UK/US, in that order. Warnings for possible OOC and unbeta'd writing. I did it in about twenty minutes.
Title comes from the lyrics of "Sweet Sacrifice" by Evanescence, because this was the closest to an angry!song I could find in my library, and I needed an angry!song for this.
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___
His head slams back against the wall, shattering plaster and thoughts and sending pain down to the roots of his teeth. Every bone vibrates, and America grits his throbbing teeth as England grabs him in two hands and throws him on the bed.
America lets him. Lets the limey climb on him, fisting hair between calloused fingers and pulling back. America lets the limey bastard, lets him bite, suck, rip away a chunk of flesh and blood. From the corner of his widened eyes, America watches England swallow said chunk, lower his head down to suckle the blood down.
His laughter blooms out of his throat, petals made of delirium and black, hot worms writhing in the pit of his stomach. “Miss being an empire, Iggy?” he breathes, and his voice is a jagged edge of steel slicing through skin, red-hot, fuckHe almost celebrates when England stills. Turns to marble, fingers curled in his bomber jacket and his ( ... )
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England pauses. “I’m sure China will give you a pair.”
“That’s not the point, England,” America says, and his voice pitches higher, more frustrated. “You’re missing the point.”
England’s fingers pause on the knob. He turns, looks back at America, green eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled up as though he’s realized what his own grilled cheese smells like.
“How about this, America--you tell me the fucking point of this, I’ll buy you a new pair of bloody jeans.”
Silence. America licks his lips, and his mouth falls open--but the words box themselves up in his throat. Or maybe aren’t even there at all.
England’s sneer is shadows and highlights, white teeth and narrowed, triumphant eyebrows.
“That’s what I thought.”
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click.
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I only got one paragraph in before I was like "ASKDJFDFJGSOAGJFJCKFHG OMG HE BIT OFF HIS FLESH AND ATE IT!!!1 D8"
Damn, just... damn.
You write the best aggressive England evar. Trufax.
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