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“So,” mumbled Sweden. “Fig’red I ought to say...” he trailed off, completely unable to continue.
“Sweden? Did you say something?” asked Finland, brightly.
“Think’n about what Belgium said... I... sayin’ stuff we... you know, need to –admit.”
“Oh, are you worried about the whole dying in 48 hours thing? I didn’t think you could be scared of anything!”
Sweden met his eyes with an imploring gaze. Finland, for some indeterminate reason, seemed to flinch, terrified. Probably, thought Sweden, out of fear for the idea of being blown apart by missiles. “No, I was actually talkin’ ‘bout... uh...”
“It’ll be OK!” Finland assured him, in a curiously squeaky tone. “Don’t be scared, because that won’t do anything. I mean, it’s almost nice to know that there’s no point in being scared. Right? I don’t know. Oh, sorry – you were saying something, weren’t you? Sweden?”
“I... you...” Sweden tried, but as per usual, the words simply dried up, moving from scant to nonexistent. “Never mind. Too embarr’sing anyway,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Do you ever get the feeling that we had so much time we never got anything done?” continued Finland, obliviously. “I mean, we never even notice as years pass – they go by so quickly. It stops being so important if you stop thinking about it for a while. We just sort of keep going, huh? It’s a shame we never really thought about it properly.” He then did a strange sort of nervous double take. “I mean, you probably don’t think that! It’s probably just me being silly!”
Sweden glanced at Finland, who seemed flustered, to say the least. “Remember at the start of 2009?” asked Sweden. “I said ‘good things’n bad things all pass in time’. I think s’true still. And s’pity if we can’t find the right words in that time. But that doesn’t mean the words come eas’ly, all the same.”
“Words,” said Finland, forgetting to be nervous. “Yeah. When you most want to say something important, it’s always impossible to actually do it.”
Sweden nodded, vigorously. “S’true.”
“Why is that, I wonder?”
Sweden did not know, or dare to risk an opinion.
They sat together in silent contemplation for a while, neither particularly fazed by the fact that their shoulders were brushing.
“Sweden? Did you say something?” asked Finland, brightly.
“Think’n about what Belgium said... I... sayin’ stuff we... you know, need to –admit.”
“Oh, are you worried about the whole dying in 48 hours thing? I didn’t think you could be scared of anything!”
Sweden met his eyes with an imploring gaze. Finland, for some indeterminate reason, seemed to flinch, terrified. Probably, thought Sweden, out of fear for the idea of being blown apart by missiles. “No, I was actually talkin’ ‘bout... uh...”
“It’ll be OK!” Finland assured him, in a curiously squeaky tone. “Don’t be scared, because that won’t do anything. I mean, it’s almost nice to know that there’s no point in being scared. Right? I don’t know. Oh, sorry – you were saying something, weren’t you? Sweden?”
“I... you...” Sweden tried, but as per usual, the words simply dried up, moving from scant to nonexistent. “Never mind. Too embarr’sing anyway,” he said, almost inaudibly.
“Do you ever get the feeling that we had so much time we never got anything done?” continued Finland, obliviously. “I mean, we never even notice as years pass – they go by so quickly. It stops being so important if you stop thinking about it for a while. We just sort of keep going, huh? It’s a shame we never really thought about it properly.” He then did a strange sort of nervous double take. “I mean, you probably don’t think that! It’s probably just me being silly!”
Sweden glanced at Finland, who seemed flustered, to say the least. “Remember at the start of 2009?” asked Sweden. “I said ‘good things’n bad things all pass in time’. I think s’true still. And s’pity if we can’t find the right words in that time. But that doesn’t mean the words come eas’ly, all the same.”
“Words,” said Finland, forgetting to be nervous. “Yeah. When you most want to say something important, it’s always impossible to actually do it.”
Sweden nodded, vigorously. “S’true.”
“Why is that, I wonder?”
Sweden did not know, or dare to risk an opinion.
They sat together in silent contemplation for a while, neither particularly fazed by the fact that their shoulders were brushing.
Author!Anon apologises for the sluggishness of the fill, but she will hopefully be able to update more once her workload is lifted. D:
thank you both for your words of appreciation and encourgement! it means a lot to this first-time filler :)
thank you both for your words of appreciation and encourgement! it means a lot to this first-time filler :)
The room was blissfully empty and lavishly decorated with the painted portraits of England’s past Prime Ministers all haloed in golden frames. Slipping himself languidly into the decidedly decadent chair Arthur had offered him, Ivan sighed a sweet relief. He was glad to be finally away from the hustle bustle of the ongoing party that had been interrupting the precious time that he could have spent with Arthur alone and unwatched. Well almost unwatched, he pondered. The acrylic eyes of all but the currently appointed Anthony Eden judged Ivan with aversion.
Arthur of course felt differently about the situation. He was ill at ease at being in alone with Ivan afraid that Alfred would get the wrong impression, equally afraid that Alfred would get the right one…. Instinctively he drifted towards the painting of Churchill, seeking safety from the reflection of a man who had pulled him through the war and kept him going, before remembering his guest and sensibilities.
‘Khrushchev was rather tense when we past him,’ he commented nervously, busying himself with preparing Ivan’s drink from across the other side of the room. Again he felt the pierce of Ivan’s gaze upon his person.
‘Maybe a reaction to the cold reception we got when arriving,’ Ivan stated pointedly. ‘He had been expecting a warmer welcome from your Englishmen but it seems that they have forgotten their manners since the last war. Even Nikolai was heartbroken. He was looking forward to meeting his fellow English comrades.’
‘Yes well….. I have no control over that, what the public feel is up to them. And stop calling us, Comrade. We may be Socialist but we are not Communist, and never will be’.
His normally nimble fingers struggled to find purchase on the bottle.
‘Never? If I remember correctly, Comrade, you once said you’d never forgive Germany for World War Two, that you wouldn’t forgive Ludwig and Gilbert for all the pain they caused. The bombings, the murders….how they both left you to rot and burn alone. If never truly meant never you wouldn’t be currently arming its west against me, but you are aren’t you…..’ it wasn’t a question. ‘What is that if not forgiveness?’ He pressed on his voice turning bitterer by the word.
The following ‘What is that of never, Arthur?’ however came more softy, almost hopeful.
Arthur of course felt differently about the situation. He was ill at ease at being in alone with Ivan afraid that Alfred would get the wrong impression, equally afraid that Alfred would get the right one…. Instinctively he drifted towards the painting of Churchill, seeking safety from the reflection of a man who had pulled him through the war and kept him going, before remembering his guest and sensibilities.
‘Khrushchev was rather tense when we past him,’ he commented nervously, busying himself with preparing Ivan’s drink from across the other side of the room. Again he felt the pierce of Ivan’s gaze upon his person.
‘Maybe a reaction to the cold reception we got when arriving,’ Ivan stated pointedly. ‘He had been expecting a warmer welcome from your Englishmen but it seems that they have forgotten their manners since the last war. Even Nikolai was heartbroken. He was looking forward to meeting his fellow English comrades.’
‘Yes well….. I have no control over that, what the public feel is up to them. And stop calling us, Comrade. We may be Socialist but we are not Communist, and never will be’.
His normally nimble fingers struggled to find purchase on the bottle.
‘Never? If I remember correctly, Comrade, you once said you’d never forgive Germany for World War Two, that you wouldn’t forgive Ludwig and Gilbert for all the pain they caused. The bombings, the murders….how they both left you to rot and burn alone. If never truly meant never you wouldn’t be currently arming its west against me, but you are aren’t you…..’ it wasn’t a question. ‘What is that if not forgiveness?’ He pressed on his voice turning bitterer by the word.
The following ‘What is that of never, Arthur?’ however came more softy, almost hopeful.
‘It’s not the same…’ Arthur replied firm acutely aware that this conversion was turning dangerous. ‘Do you want this drink or not?’
‘I helped you Arthur, held you close and beat back the German boots ready to tread down and lay waste to your green fields. Yet now you give me nothing and them everything. Why is this? Is Communism so bad? Do you hate me?’ Ivan turned cold again.
The temperature in the room plummeted as an oncoming warning, yet Arthur wasn’t going to leave this comment unchecked and foolhardily argued back.
‘You turned because the allies were winning and for no other reason, no matter how you romanticise it now. And I haven’t forgotten what they did, but what you are doing out there is wrong, maybe not as bad as they did, but still wrong. And this whole fucking disagreement between you and….is wrong.’ He purposefully left out the names Alfred and America from his sentence, unwilling to add a fuse to an already ticking bomb. ‘Its not even a war, just two children arguing over semantics’.
‘Wrong?’ Ivan was now standing and moving towards Arthur. ‘No, Capitalism is wrong, it hurts its people and allows evil to prevail, and this is more than arguing over definitions. You know this to be true Arthur I have seen it, know how happy you were the first day you turned Socialist….’
‘Socialist doesn’t mean Communist. I am not your ally’ Arthur declared again with less vigour. Ivan was a hairbreadth away from him now. It almost seemed like Ivan’s larger body was sapping away Arthur’s energy and stealing his gravity. ‘I am not your ally…’
Cold fingers brushed at Arthur’s cheek palming his jaw, adapting to the contours of his face when Arthur subconsciously leaned into it. Lifting his chin, Ivan peered deep into his emerald orbs, deciphering all the things being left unsaid. Arthur had always spoken in circles, saying one thing and meaning another, yet meaning the opposite of that as well. An enigmatical gift that hadn’t quite reached his eyes though.
‘Not my ally…… but not my enemy either, yes?’
Arthur’s mouth had gone dry.
‘Russia wants England on its side and England wants Russia, despite its outward protests. This is why we are here, why England let us in. But you won’t let me in will you’.
‘No’. Arthur had found his voice again but it was weak, scarcely above a whisper. ‘I can’t’.
‘No,’ Ivan agreed. ‘But you will’.
The bottle of vodka remained unopened in testament.
‘I helped you Arthur, held you close and beat back the German boots ready to tread down and lay waste to your green fields. Yet now you give me nothing and them everything. Why is this? Is Communism so bad? Do you hate me?’ Ivan turned cold again.
The temperature in the room plummeted as an oncoming warning, yet Arthur wasn’t going to leave this comment unchecked and foolhardily argued back.
‘You turned because the allies were winning and for no other reason, no matter how you romanticise it now. And I haven’t forgotten what they did, but what you are doing out there is wrong, maybe not as bad as they did, but still wrong. And this whole fucking disagreement between you and….is wrong.’ He purposefully left out the names Alfred and America from his sentence, unwilling to add a fuse to an already ticking bomb. ‘Its not even a war, just two children arguing over semantics’.
‘Wrong?’ Ivan was now standing and moving towards Arthur. ‘No, Capitalism is wrong, it hurts its people and allows evil to prevail, and this is more than arguing over definitions. You know this to be true Arthur I have seen it, know how happy you were the first day you turned Socialist….’
‘Socialist doesn’t mean Communist. I am not your ally’ Arthur declared again with less vigour. Ivan was a hairbreadth away from him now. It almost seemed like Ivan’s larger body was sapping away Arthur’s energy and stealing his gravity. ‘I am not your ally…’
Cold fingers brushed at Arthur’s cheek palming his jaw, adapting to the contours of his face when Arthur subconsciously leaned into it. Lifting his chin, Ivan peered deep into his emerald orbs, deciphering all the things being left unsaid. Arthur had always spoken in circles, saying one thing and meaning another, yet meaning the opposite of that as well. An enigmatical gift that hadn’t quite reached his eyes though.
‘Not my ally…… but not my enemy either, yes?’
Arthur’s mouth had gone dry.
‘Russia wants England on its side and England wants Russia, despite its outward protests. This is why we are here, why England let us in. But you won’t let me in will you’.
‘No’. Arthur had found his voice again but it was weak, scarcely above a whisper. ‘I can’t’.
‘No,’ Ivan agreed. ‘But you will’.
The bottle of vodka remained unopened in testament.
Oh man, being a mother myself makes me feel so much for Native America. How could you ask that, Al? Now I'm really in love with your story.
=D <3<3<3
^are my thoughts right now.
It's okay, I know how RL gets (life sucks for me too XD)! You're still wonderful anyway!
^are my thoughts right now.
It's okay, I know how RL gets (life sucks for me too XD)! You're still wonderful anyway!
WHOSE soap box wonder? and pauses each word?
lol americas the only one named...I think I loveyouuu
lol americas the only one named...I think I loveyouuu
This is beautiful, man. I'm hardcore stalking this fill now.
SPAAAAAIIINNNN!!!!
OH GOSH ROMANO YOU FUCKING JERK HE JUST THREW HIMSELF IN FRONT OF A CHARGING BULL FOR YOU...
*is super freaking excited for more you have no idea*
OH GOSH ROMANO YOU FUCKING JERK HE JUST THREW HIMSELF IN FRONT OF A CHARGING BULL FOR YOU...
*is super freaking excited for more you have no idea*
Ahaha, I read that comic, and I was wondering if that was where you got it! You used it wonderfully here!
Oh, Spain, how silly, yet how absolutely lovely you are. And Romano, you tsundere, you.
But WAH, that last line makes me hurt for Spain! You, author!anon, are made of epic win :)
Oh, Spain, how silly, yet how absolutely lovely you are. And Romano, you tsundere, you.
But WAH, that last line makes me hurt for Spain! You, author!anon, are made of epic win :)
This is a beautiful, well-written trainwreck, and I can't look away. *_* Ouch my heart. D: Very curious, though, why modern!Canada hasn't spoken to Australia and New Zealand in a while, and if Arthur has any idea of his impact on his former colonies to the modern day. *plops down to wait*
And since you asked, I would rather not to see main pairings, because it's so hard to do well in a situation like this, with characters as damaged as this. But! One, this is your story, and two, based on how you've treated the characters thus far I'm sure you'll handle it well, whatever way you decide to go. :)
And btw, thanks for the extra warnings, beyond what's considered normal triggers - book burning makes me really uncomfortable, and I'm glad I could know what I was getting into before reading that piece. ♥
And since you asked, I would rather not to see main pairings, because it's so hard to do well in a situation like this, with characters as damaged as this. But! One, this is your story, and two, based on how you've treated the characters thus far I'm sure you'll handle it well, whatever way you decide to go. :)
And btw, thanks for the extra warnings, beyond what's considered normal triggers - book burning makes me really uncomfortable, and I'm glad I could know what I was getting into before reading that piece. ♥
This sounds so much like this manga:
http://www.mangaupdates.com/series.html?id=293
http://www.mangaupdates.com/series.html?id=293
Ivan becomes aware of "it" at a bar. A little bit dark, and dingy, but it's the only one in Copenhagen with enough varieties of beer and wine to begin to satisfy the nations.
They're a few drinks in. Alfred is holding Ivan up by his collar, yelling about sovereign airspace and pulling the hem of Ivan's shirt free of his pants, when a particularly vicious shake sends Ivan's heart out of his chest and down to the table. Ivan's first thought as it splats on the wood is "Not again." He ignores the stares from the other nations - surely they've seen this enough times by now - and gently pries Alfred's fingers from his shirt. But he pauses when he catches the way Arthur stiffens, doesn't look at Ivan.
He follows Arthur's gaze across the table, to Alfred's younger brother- Matthew, that's his name. He has just enough time to see the way Matthew bites his lip, looking almost hungry before Arthur and Francis break the stillness and physically drag Matthew from the bar. He sees Matthew make some sort of noise, something not a word, but it's lost in the laughter of the other nations as they get over their initial shock.
Alfred sets Ivan down with a laugh, and hands Ivan back his heart with an extra squeeze. Wipes his palms on Ivan's shirt (Ivan pretends not to notice). Makes a comment about how that's a nifty party trick, and the gathering returns to chattering.
The next morning, Arthur looks tired. Matthew is subdued, but Ivan can't forget the way Matthew had looked at his heart. Can't chase away the images that appear when he masturbates, just before he orgasms: of Matthew biting into the ventricle, his eyelashes fluttering as Ivan's blood runs down his chin. Fantasies of being consumed are not new to Ivan, haven't been new since the 1930s, but this.. having someone eating his flesh.. that is new.
Ivan pays attention from then on, to Matthew and those around him, and puts Matthew's story together, piece by piece.
"I'm just always hungry," Matthew says when asked, plate full of steak at a G8 dinner.
"You think that because I'm young, my people haven't starved?" he asks during a meeting on international aid. "That their life was easy before electricity and grocery stores?"
He leans close to Alfred, hisses "We've all made sacrifices for our people, Al." Ivan can barely hear him.
"Francis," he murmurs as he twists away from the wandering hand, "it's not my fault you introduced me to Arthur while I was still impressionable."
It's almost a year after Copenhagen when Alfred tells ghost stories over a beer. Arthur doesn't comment on Alfred's stories of devils or witches, adds a few stories of his brother's sidhe to go along with Ivan's tales of Baba Yaga. But when Alfred describes a Wendigo - a tall, thin creature with sharp teeth and an insatiable appetite for human flesh - Arthur pales, excuses himself.
"Wuss," Alfred mutters into his beer.
Ivan raises an eyebrow, and Alfred snorts.
"Ghosts and shit don't scare him, but as soon as Wendigos appear he gets antsy. He says it's cause he an' Francis ran into one before they found me."
"I'm surprised that you are surprised," Ivan says quietly. "I would think cannibalswould be more terrifying than harmless ghosts."
He wags his finger. "Ghosts aren't harmless, not even a little bit. But Wendigos are easy, just light them on fire. Psssh, and they're dead."
When Ivan returns home, he looks for information these spirits, these Wendigos. Matches the tales to the things he's seen, heard of Matthew. Considers.
* * *
They're a few drinks in. Alfred is holding Ivan up by his collar, yelling about sovereign airspace and pulling the hem of Ivan's shirt free of his pants, when a particularly vicious shake sends Ivan's heart out of his chest and down to the table. Ivan's first thought as it splats on the wood is "Not again." He ignores the stares from the other nations - surely they've seen this enough times by now - and gently pries Alfred's fingers from his shirt. But he pauses when he catches the way Arthur stiffens, doesn't look at Ivan.
He follows Arthur's gaze across the table, to Alfred's younger brother- Matthew, that's his name. He has just enough time to see the way Matthew bites his lip, looking almost hungry before Arthur and Francis break the stillness and physically drag Matthew from the bar. He sees Matthew make some sort of noise, something not a word, but it's lost in the laughter of the other nations as they get over their initial shock.
Alfred sets Ivan down with a laugh, and hands Ivan back his heart with an extra squeeze. Wipes his palms on Ivan's shirt (Ivan pretends not to notice). Makes a comment about how that's a nifty party trick, and the gathering returns to chattering.
The next morning, Arthur looks tired. Matthew is subdued, but Ivan can't forget the way Matthew had looked at his heart. Can't chase away the images that appear when he masturbates, just before he orgasms: of Matthew biting into the ventricle, his eyelashes fluttering as Ivan's blood runs down his chin. Fantasies of being consumed are not new to Ivan, haven't been new since the 1930s, but this.. having someone eating his flesh.. that is new.
Ivan pays attention from then on, to Matthew and those around him, and puts Matthew's story together, piece by piece.
"I'm just always hungry," Matthew says when asked, plate full of steak at a G8 dinner.
"You think that because I'm young, my people haven't starved?" he asks during a meeting on international aid. "That their life was easy before electricity and grocery stores?"
He leans close to Alfred, hisses "We've all made sacrifices for our people, Al." Ivan can barely hear him.
"Francis," he murmurs as he twists away from the wandering hand, "it's not my fault you introduced me to Arthur while I was still impressionable."
It's almost a year after Copenhagen when Alfred tells ghost stories over a beer. Arthur doesn't comment on Alfred's stories of devils or witches, adds a few stories of his brother's sidhe to go along with Ivan's tales of Baba Yaga. But when Alfred describes a Wendigo - a tall, thin creature with sharp teeth and an insatiable appetite for human flesh - Arthur pales, excuses himself.
"Wuss," Alfred mutters into his beer.
Ivan raises an eyebrow, and Alfred snorts.
"Ghosts and shit don't scare him, but as soon as Wendigos appear he gets antsy. He says it's cause he an' Francis ran into one before they found me."
"I'm surprised that you are surprised," Ivan says quietly. "I would think cannibals
He wags his finger. "Ghosts aren't harmless, not even a little bit. But Wendigos are easy, just light them on fire. Psssh, and they're dead."
When Ivan returns home, he looks for information these spirits, these Wendigos. Matches the tales to the things he's seen, heard of Matthew. Considers.
* * *
It takes Ivan months of hockey games and drinking and companionable silences, but eventually he pulls Matthew to him, piece by piece.
And nothing happens.
At first Ivan waits, doesn't push. Lets Matthew sleep over without more than a touch for invitation. But it's not enough, not anymore, not after a year and a half of seeing Matthew's face behind his eyelids.
So, on a warm spring morning, Ivan lifts Matthew from the guest bed and ties him to his sturdiest armchair. Sits on the coffee table and waits for him to wake up.
He sees Matthew's eyelashes flutter, waking gently until he pulls against the rope; then he startles, snaps his head up to face Ivan.
"What is this." It's not a question, it's a demand, and Ivan is happy to comply.
"You are not human."
"Neither of us is human, Ivan," he says automatically, too quickly. "That's how this works."
"Aa, but you are less human than I." He raises his hand, waits for Matthew to close his mouth. "I have been watching you, and Arthur. Did you think that no one would figure it out, that you have different.. needs than the rest of us?"
No response.
He clucks his tongue, once. "Don't be so cold, Matthew, I simply have a proposition for you."
A deep breath. "And if I disagree?"
"Then I will release you and we need never speak of this again." He cups Matthew's cheeks with his hands, forces his gaze to meet Ivan's. "I want you to consume me."
Matthew's nostrils flare, and he tries to look away; Ivan doesn't let him.
"In times of trouble," he continues, "Mother Russia will give anything to keep her children safe, alive for another day. Anything. And when the troubles are over, Russia misses being able to provide for her children so.. directly."
"You don't know what you're asking," he whispers.
He leans back just long enough to take his knife from his pants pocket, flip it open, and make a slice along the side of his hand. Matthew makes a small noise, half needy and half pained; Ivan smears his blood across Matthew's lips, smiles when Matthew's tongue peeks out, just a little.
"I do know." With his good hand he undoes the knots at Matthew's wrists and ankles. "Take your time deciding, little one."
And nothing happens.
At first Ivan waits, doesn't push. Lets Matthew sleep over without more than a touch for invitation. But it's not enough, not anymore, not after a year and a half of seeing Matthew's face behind his eyelids.
So, on a warm spring morning, Ivan lifts Matthew from the guest bed and ties him to his sturdiest armchair. Sits on the coffee table and waits for him to wake up.
He sees Matthew's eyelashes flutter, waking gently until he pulls against the rope; then he startles, snaps his head up to face Ivan.
"What is this." It's not a question, it's a demand, and Ivan is happy to comply.
"You are not human."
"Neither of us is human, Ivan," he says automatically, too quickly. "That's how this works."
"Aa, but you are less human than I." He raises his hand, waits for Matthew to close his mouth. "I have been watching you, and Arthur. Did you think that no one would figure it out, that you have different.. needs than the rest of us?"
No response.
He clucks his tongue, once. "Don't be so cold, Matthew, I simply have a proposition for you."
A deep breath. "And if I disagree?"
"Then I will release you and we need never speak of this again." He cups Matthew's cheeks with his hands, forces his gaze to meet Ivan's. "I want you to consume me."
Matthew's nostrils flare, and he tries to look away; Ivan doesn't let him.
"In times of trouble," he continues, "Mother Russia will give anything to keep her children safe, alive for another day. Anything. And when the troubles are over, Russia misses being able to provide for her children so.. directly."
"You don't know what you're asking," he whispers.
He leans back just long enough to take his knife from his pants pocket, flip it open, and make a slice along the side of his hand. Matthew makes a small noise, half needy and half pained; Ivan smears his blood across Matthew's lips, smiles when Matthew's tongue peeks out, just a little.
"I do know." With his good hand he undoes the knots at Matthew's wrists and ankles. "Take your time deciding, little one."
This is all kinds of good Authornon :D
Please do go on :)
Please do go on :)
I was inspired to write this particular story, but it’s a little short and there’s no full-blown sex, so I fully encourage anyone else to do a proper fill if they want to!
Also, this should probably be a lot darker than it is, but I’m a pussy like that.
---------------------
England is thrown into the cold, dark room and stumbles blindly before his shoulder hits the wall. His hand endures a scrape and starts to bleed, but he barely feels it. He hears shuffling near his feet and looks down to see the outline of his ally on the floor, slumped in one small corner of the room. The door is shut behind them, and his eyes adjust slowly to the light streaming in through a barred window. He quickly kneels to America’s side and examines him, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
America doesn’t show any signs of serious injury, but his arms are heavily restrained, and there is a ragged cloth wrapped in several layers around his mouth. England wonders how the pointed lack of noise had escaped his attention. He reaches behind America’s back to determine the strength of his bindings, feeling where his eyes can’t see and ignoring the pulse in his stomach as his face touches America’s coat. There are handcuffs, chains and possibly other devices holding America’s arms firmly behind his back, at an incapacitating angle. This would be overkill for an ordinary prisoner, but it’s obvious that their captors have gotten a taste of America’s brute strength and obnoxiously loud mouth.
There is no way for England to unbind America on his own. There is no discernable means of escape for the time being, but they’ve been through the drills. Their rescue is a top priority. They’ll have to wait it out in this holding cell.
An angry grunt from America reminds England that he hasn’t removed the gag. He narrows his eyes and touches the back of America’s head, feeling for the knot.
“You’re very welcome,” he sneers sarcastically. “I had to see that you weren’t injured. Funnily enough, overactive mouth isn’t my main concern.”
America yells out muffled instructions, telling him to pull the gag out from the front and untie the knot later, but England pretends not to understand. The gag is simple enough, and America seems to be breathing fine. It feels like they’ve been arguing nonstop ever since this mission started, and now that they’re both prisoners, England isn’t exactly eager to launch into the bickering.
As his fingers brush against America’s hair, he’s almost glad of the darkness that hides the color in his cheeks. Despite their clashing opinions, having America as an ally has been somewhat thrilling. Their unsteady, newfound political alliance is a constant source of grief, irritation and the occasional moments of elation. Of course, now that they’ve both been captured, everything they’ve worked for is in danger.
There is more fumbling, and stifled grunts of anger. England nearly manages to release the knot when they hear the door opening, and squint through the light flowing in.
A man steps into the room without closing the door. His dark leather coat sways with his stride, and his boots tread heavily against the floor. His uniform denotes a fairly high rank. He could be in charge of the base. England glances past him in search of a possible escape route, but there are too many officers in the following rooms. Even if he were armed, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
The man in the coat studies the scene in front of him carefully and frowns. Apparently, cooperation between prisoners doesn’t go over well here. England scoots away from America.
In response, the man pulls out a gun and points it at England. America stiffens in place and a defensive growl rumbles from behind the gag, but it doesn’t distract the man from his target.
Also, this should probably be a lot darker than it is, but I’m a pussy like that.
---------------------
England is thrown into the cold, dark room and stumbles blindly before his shoulder hits the wall. His hand endures a scrape and starts to bleed, but he barely feels it. He hears shuffling near his feet and looks down to see the outline of his ally on the floor, slumped in one small corner of the room. The door is shut behind them, and his eyes adjust slowly to the light streaming in through a barred window. He quickly kneels to America’s side and examines him, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
America doesn’t show any signs of serious injury, but his arms are heavily restrained, and there is a ragged cloth wrapped in several layers around his mouth. England wonders how the pointed lack of noise had escaped his attention. He reaches behind America’s back to determine the strength of his bindings, feeling where his eyes can’t see and ignoring the pulse in his stomach as his face touches America’s coat. There are handcuffs, chains and possibly other devices holding America’s arms firmly behind his back, at an incapacitating angle. This would be overkill for an ordinary prisoner, but it’s obvious that their captors have gotten a taste of America’s brute strength and obnoxiously loud mouth.
There is no way for England to unbind America on his own. There is no discernable means of escape for the time being, but they’ve been through the drills. Their rescue is a top priority. They’ll have to wait it out in this holding cell.
An angry grunt from America reminds England that he hasn’t removed the gag. He narrows his eyes and touches the back of America’s head, feeling for the knot.
“You’re very welcome,” he sneers sarcastically. “I had to see that you weren’t injured. Funnily enough, overactive mouth isn’t my main concern.”
America yells out muffled instructions, telling him to pull the gag out from the front and untie the knot later, but England pretends not to understand. The gag is simple enough, and America seems to be breathing fine. It feels like they’ve been arguing nonstop ever since this mission started, and now that they’re both prisoners, England isn’t exactly eager to launch into the bickering.
As his fingers brush against America’s hair, he’s almost glad of the darkness that hides the color in his cheeks. Despite their clashing opinions, having America as an ally has been somewhat thrilling. Their unsteady, newfound political alliance is a constant source of grief, irritation and the occasional moments of elation. Of course, now that they’ve both been captured, everything they’ve worked for is in danger.
There is more fumbling, and stifled grunts of anger. England nearly manages to release the knot when they hear the door opening, and squint through the light flowing in.
A man steps into the room without closing the door. His dark leather coat sways with his stride, and his boots tread heavily against the floor. His uniform denotes a fairly high rank. He could be in charge of the base. England glances past him in search of a possible escape route, but there are too many officers in the following rooms. Even if he were armed, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
The man in the coat studies the scene in front of him carefully and frowns. Apparently, cooperation between prisoners doesn’t go over well here. England scoots away from America.
In response, the man pulls out a gun and points it at England. America stiffens in place and a defensive growl rumbles from behind the gag, but it doesn’t distract the man from his target.
“You are both important men,” he states in a thick accent. He probably doesn’t know just how important they are.
“We are. Killing us without orders to do so would be rather unwise,” England replies bluntly.
“Indeed. However, you injured my top officer’s jaw when we took you in. We don’t let that sort of behavior go unpunished.” He nods towards the restrained America.
“Your officer already retaliated with the butt of his gun.” England instinctively touches the place on his jaw where a deep bruise is developing. The man does not look impressed.
“It is still too good for a filthy Tommy. How dare you touch one of my men with your vile person? You should know your place.”
England knows better than to respond to the taunts, but America seems close to pouncing, with or without the use of his arms.
The man is about to take another step when someone comes up behind him and whispers hurriedly in his ear. He replies in his native tongue and gestures for the officer to leave.
“I will be back soon.” He lowers the gun and keeps his eyes on the prisoners as he walks toward the door. “If you remove that gag, I will blow your hands off.”
The door is closed and locked. Once again, the room is dark. America and England listen as the footsteps fade away.
“Hey!” America says through the fabric. “Why’d you have to talk back?!”
England can just make out what he’s saying, but looks away. America repeats the question, louder and with greater rage.
“What was I supposed to do, let him shoot us without argument?” England snaps back angrily, brushing off his uniform and scanning the room once again for anything that might be useful.
“You took it too far!” America yells, just barely audible.
“I’m sure he already had a plan in mind. I doubt I changed the course of it.”
America rests his head back against the wall. “If he hurts you…”
“You’ll what? Kick your shoe at him? And while we’re on that, you’re the one who looked like you were about to attack. You shouldn’t act so recklessly. Oh, but that’s probably too much to ask. Look who I’m talking to.”
America grumbles until he can think of a suitable response to throw back.
They bicker back and forth, working around America’s temporary handicap to yell at each other in the most dire of situations. After several more minutes of heated argument, they hear the creak of the door.
“We can hear your yelling from across the building,” the man says as he walks in, voice raised in irritation. “It is becoming increasingly difficult not to shoot you dead right here.”
The prisoners are silent, stubbornly looking away from each other.
The man takes out the gun again and subtly pushes his coat back to reveal a glimpse of several more weapons at his disposal. He aims the gun at England’s forehead once more. “Well, the good thing is that I’ve figured out a suitable punishment for a disgraceful creature such as yourself. Since it seems you’re just as loud as he is, we’ll find a more deserving use for that mouth.” He walks forward and addresses England directly. “Suck his cock.”
England stares up at him.
No. H-he can’t mean…
“Are you going to try my patience? Should I put the bullet in your skull now?” The man waves his gun toward America. England continues to stare in disbelief, so the man cocks the gun threateningly. “Get to it.”
England’s mind can’t process it. He slowly begins to crawl toward America, who is staring wide-eyed and shaking his head as he struggles fruitlessly against his restraints. When England doesn’t move fast enough, the man points the gun at America instead.
“Don’t!” England exclaims as his palms move quickly against the stone floor.
America, for his part, barely bats an eyelash when the gun is trained on him. He just glances from England to their captor, as if in a daze.
“We are. Killing us without orders to do so would be rather unwise,” England replies bluntly.
“Indeed. However, you injured my top officer’s jaw when we took you in. We don’t let that sort of behavior go unpunished.” He nods towards the restrained America.
“Your officer already retaliated with the butt of his gun.” England instinctively touches the place on his jaw where a deep bruise is developing. The man does not look impressed.
“It is still too good for a filthy Tommy. How dare you touch one of my men with your vile person? You should know your place.”
England knows better than to respond to the taunts, but America seems close to pouncing, with or without the use of his arms.
The man is about to take another step when someone comes up behind him and whispers hurriedly in his ear. He replies in his native tongue and gestures for the officer to leave.
“I will be back soon.” He lowers the gun and keeps his eyes on the prisoners as he walks toward the door. “If you remove that gag, I will blow your hands off.”
The door is closed and locked. Once again, the room is dark. America and England listen as the footsteps fade away.
“Hey!” America says through the fabric. “Why’d you have to talk back?!”
England can just make out what he’s saying, but looks away. America repeats the question, louder and with greater rage.
“What was I supposed to do, let him shoot us without argument?” England snaps back angrily, brushing off his uniform and scanning the room once again for anything that might be useful.
“You took it too far!” America yells, just barely audible.
“I’m sure he already had a plan in mind. I doubt I changed the course of it.”
America rests his head back against the wall. “If he hurts you…”
“You’ll what? Kick your shoe at him? And while we’re on that, you’re the one who looked like you were about to attack. You shouldn’t act so recklessly. Oh, but that’s probably too much to ask. Look who I’m talking to.”
America grumbles until he can think of a suitable response to throw back.
They bicker back and forth, working around America’s temporary handicap to yell at each other in the most dire of situations. After several more minutes of heated argument, they hear the creak of the door.
“We can hear your yelling from across the building,” the man says as he walks in, voice raised in irritation. “It is becoming increasingly difficult not to shoot you dead right here.”
The prisoners are silent, stubbornly looking away from each other.
The man takes out the gun again and subtly pushes his coat back to reveal a glimpse of several more weapons at his disposal. He aims the gun at England’s forehead once more. “Well, the good thing is that I’ve figured out a suitable punishment for a disgraceful creature such as yourself. Since it seems you’re just as loud as he is, we’ll find a more deserving use for that mouth.” He walks forward and addresses England directly. “Suck his cock.”
England stares up at him.
No. H-he can’t mean…
“Are you going to try my patience? Should I put the bullet in your skull now?” The man waves his gun toward America. England continues to stare in disbelief, so the man cocks the gun threateningly. “Get to it.”
England’s mind can’t process it. He slowly begins to crawl toward America, who is staring wide-eyed and shaking his head as he struggles fruitlessly against his restraints. When England doesn’t move fast enough, the man points the gun at America instead.
“Don’t!” England exclaims as his palms move quickly against the stone floor.
America, for his part, barely bats an eyelash when the gun is trained on him. He just glances from England to their captor, as if in a daze.
So awesome! Oh Romano...so freaking hard to impress *shakes head* Poor Spain! I'm waiting for more~
England is in front of his sprawled legs. Their eyes meet, and the moment is more shatteringly uncomfortable than they could have imagined. In that instant, it feels like both men have stopped breathing.
England takes a deep breath and presses forward to bend over his crotch. His heart is racing unbelievably fast. He pauses for just a moment, as a string of thoughts race through his behind, somewhere behind the fear.
They haven’t even had a chance to talk about the past or work out their differences. England has only recently come to terms with the fact that the child he raised is now a fully-fledged adult.
Their friendship is so new and tentative. So precariously balanced.
“Continue,” the voice behind him says sternly.
His eyeline is now somewhere around America’s stomach, and he doesn’t dare glance higher.
America fidgets nervously, and England fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. Some part of him acknowledges that America is astonishingly well-suited to this uniform. A drop of sweat falls from his jaw.
“FASTER.” The yell echoes through the room and jolts through England.
“I know!” England yells back tensely as he tries to concentrate. He should know better than to raise his voice to the amoral man with the gun, but his rational mind isn’t functioning correctly.
After another tense moment, he manages to undo each button, and pulls back the front flaps. He can see a patch of hair trailing down past olive-green underwear, and feels a deep pang of guilt at his desire to rake his fingers through it. England finally glances up. America’s face is completely heated. His eyes are half-closed and studying the wall. A few wisps of hair stick up against the stone surface. He looks tousled and embarrassed and it’s absolutely sexy, and England wishes that he’d realized his feelings on that matter at a different time.
England knows that he can’t stall anymore. He seems to be disassociating with his body, because it’s starting to move automatically.
This isn’t right. Even if there’s a part of him that secretly does want to touch America, it shouldn’t be like this. But he doesn’t have a choice.
He takes another breath and reaches America’s underwear. There is an obvious bulge. Some part of him wonders how he’s managed to get hard already. He unbuttons the cotton drawers and pulls out America’s semi-hard cock.
Oh. The boy certainly has grown.
He barely has time to appreciate it before their captor issues his next gruff command.
“Lick. Now.”
England closes his eyes and lets his tongue brush against the thick cock in front of him. America gasps behind his gag and his hips rock gently. He licks again, slower this time, and America’s cock rises to full attention. England continues to lick, and has to stop himself from being too gentle and attentive in his actions.
He should only do what he’s told. He should not be enjoying this.
The soft, muffled sounds coming from America are so lovely, and there is something dangerously alluring about the way America tries to hold in his moans. It reaffirms England’s wish that this was happening in another place and time.
He curls his tongue around the tip and strokes, perhaps a bit too lovingly. America’s shuddering breath begins to stir his own arousal.
A boot squeaks sharply against the floor.
“Put it in your mouth.”
The cold, harsh tone of the instructions says that this is not about pleasure or uncovering warm, fluffy feelings. It is purely degradation.
England positions himself and engulfs America’s cock in his mouth. The taste should not be so appealing to him. He wishes it wasn’t.
“Move.”
This command is even angrier. He starts to move his head swiftly, spurred on by his sense of self-preservation and, to a more complicated degree, the gratifying noises coming from America.
England takes a deep breath and presses forward to bend over his crotch. His heart is racing unbelievably fast. He pauses for just a moment, as a string of thoughts race through his behind, somewhere behind the fear.
They haven’t even had a chance to talk about the past or work out their differences. England has only recently come to terms with the fact that the child he raised is now a fully-fledged adult.
Their friendship is so new and tentative. So precariously balanced.
“Continue,” the voice behind him says sternly.
His eyeline is now somewhere around America’s stomach, and he doesn’t dare glance higher.
America fidgets nervously, and England fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. Some part of him acknowledges that America is astonishingly well-suited to this uniform. A drop of sweat falls from his jaw.
“FASTER.” The yell echoes through the room and jolts through England.
“I know!” England yells back tensely as he tries to concentrate. He should know better than to raise his voice to the amoral man with the gun, but his rational mind isn’t functioning correctly.
After another tense moment, he manages to undo each button, and pulls back the front flaps. He can see a patch of hair trailing down past olive-green underwear, and feels a deep pang of guilt at his desire to rake his fingers through it. England finally glances up. America’s face is completely heated. His eyes are half-closed and studying the wall. A few wisps of hair stick up against the stone surface. He looks tousled and embarrassed and it’s absolutely sexy, and England wishes that he’d realized his feelings on that matter at a different time.
England knows that he can’t stall anymore. He seems to be disassociating with his body, because it’s starting to move automatically.
This isn’t right. Even if there’s a part of him that secretly does want to touch America, it shouldn’t be like this. But he doesn’t have a choice.
He takes another breath and reaches America’s underwear. There is an obvious bulge. Some part of him wonders how he’s managed to get hard already. He unbuttons the cotton drawers and pulls out America’s semi-hard cock.
Oh. The boy certainly has grown.
He barely has time to appreciate it before their captor issues his next gruff command.
“Lick. Now.”
England closes his eyes and lets his tongue brush against the thick cock in front of him. America gasps behind his gag and his hips rock gently. He licks again, slower this time, and America’s cock rises to full attention. England continues to lick, and has to stop himself from being too gentle and attentive in his actions.
He should only do what he’s told. He should not be enjoying this.
The soft, muffled sounds coming from America are so lovely, and there is something dangerously alluring about the way America tries to hold in his moans. It reaffirms England’s wish that this was happening in another place and time.
He curls his tongue around the tip and strokes, perhaps a bit too lovingly. America’s shuddering breath begins to stir his own arousal.
A boot squeaks sharply against the floor.
“Put it in your mouth.”
The cold, harsh tone of the instructions says that this is not about pleasure or uncovering warm, fluffy feelings. It is purely degradation.
England positions himself and engulfs America’s cock in his mouth. The taste should not be so appealing to him. He wishes it wasn’t.
“Move.”
This command is even angrier. He starts to move his head swiftly, spurred on by his sense of self-preservation and, to a more complicated degree, the gratifying noises coming from America.
There is a shuffling of feet as officers walk near the room. With a shiver down his body, he realizes that several more people have entered the room. Derisive laughter fills the small space, but England knows he isn’t allowed to stop. He continues to work America’s cock, hunching slightly to block the view of the officers, in some foolish attempt to protect America’s dignity.
Another voice issues the command this time. “Deeper,” it says with an air of amusement. England doesn’t have to look back to know that there are multiple guns pointed at them now.
He takes America in deeper, as far as he can without choking. He almost gags, and the laughter grows louder. The cock slips from his mouth and he coughs and tries to catch his breath. Almost immediately, he is kicked from behind with a heavy boot and slams into America’s stomach. He quickly pulls himself up without being told, and instinctively checks to see if America is okay.
America is glaring at the assaulting officer with absolute hatred in his eyes. England knows he must be distracted before he does something very stupid.
He gets into position and tries again, guiding America’s cock back into his mouth, just deep enough not to risk choking. America’s back arches away from the wall as a blissful groan is drawn from his lips. It seems to be enough for the officers, who don’t threaten them again. As England gets back into a rhythm, he wills the crowd of people to leave. He suddenly can’t stand the thought that America might come in front of them.
A shout calls from outside. The receding sound of footsteps makes it clear that the officers are leaving. Soon the room is almost quiet, aside from the wet sounds coming from England’s mouth and America’s shuddering, involuntary moans of pleasure.
Though their captor is still watching, there is now something akin to intimacy between the prisoners. England can feel his pants growing uncomfortably tight. If this were happening in another situation, he would already be pleasuring himself. Instead he focuses entirely on America, and he becomes acutely aware of every hitched breath and every time America’s hips rise just so. England notices that his moans are becoming louder and more desperate, so he speeds up.
“Swallow it. All of it,” their captor says, also anticipating the end.
America whimpers and groans several more times before he comes, shaking with intensity. The orgasm seems to rock through him, and it leaves him exhausted, straining to breath through the gag. England swallows his release, running his tongue along his teeth to be thorough.
Another voice issues the command this time. “Deeper,” it says with an air of amusement. England doesn’t have to look back to know that there are multiple guns pointed at them now.
He takes America in deeper, as far as he can without choking. He almost gags, and the laughter grows louder. The cock slips from his mouth and he coughs and tries to catch his breath. Almost immediately, he is kicked from behind with a heavy boot and slams into America’s stomach. He quickly pulls himself up without being told, and instinctively checks to see if America is okay.
America is glaring at the assaulting officer with absolute hatred in his eyes. England knows he must be distracted before he does something very stupid.
He gets into position and tries again, guiding America’s cock back into his mouth, just deep enough not to risk choking. America’s back arches away from the wall as a blissful groan is drawn from his lips. It seems to be enough for the officers, who don’t threaten them again. As England gets back into a rhythm, he wills the crowd of people to leave. He suddenly can’t stand the thought that America might come in front of them.
A shout calls from outside. The receding sound of footsteps makes it clear that the officers are leaving. Soon the room is almost quiet, aside from the wet sounds coming from England’s mouth and America’s shuddering, involuntary moans of pleasure.
Though their captor is still watching, there is now something akin to intimacy between the prisoners. England can feel his pants growing uncomfortably tight. If this were happening in another situation, he would already be pleasuring himself. Instead he focuses entirely on America, and he becomes acutely aware of every hitched breath and every time America’s hips rise just so. England notices that his moans are becoming louder and more desperate, so he speeds up.
“Swallow it. All of it,” their captor says, also anticipating the end.
America whimpers and groans several more times before he comes, shaking with intensity. The orgasm seems to rock through him, and it leaves him exhausted, straining to breath through the gag. England swallows his release, running his tongue along his teeth to be thorough.
“Let me see.”
England turns around obediently and opens his mouth, displaying a clean tongue.
The man nods, and seems satisfied with the punishment. Another call comes from outside, and he turns and yells something back before pointing the gun away.
“You will live, for now.” He leaves quickly, closing the door behind him. They hear the lock.
England waits for a moment before turning back to fix America’s clothes. Not a word or a sound escapes from them. When he’s done with that, he crawls to the opposite side of the room.
For the first time in months, there is absolute silence between them.
England wants to speak, but reality is setting in and his arousal is lessening by the second in the bleak darkness. He knows he should, at the very least, apologize for what has happened. For violating him, voluntarily or not. The words don’t come.
There is activity outside their cell, but they don’t discuss it. They wait quietly, stewing in their own minds for what seems like hours.
America is slumped into his corner, still unable to move his arms, studying the texture of the stone and tracing patterns in it with his eyes.
England can still taste America on his tongue. He picks at the wound on his hand, but he’s so wracked with guilt that he can’t feel the sting.
The light outside the window changes slowly. It is now evening, and neither man has broken the silence.
A flurry of noise outside the door is what finally disrupts their isolation. Several men come crashing through the door. Their men. England heaves a huge sigh of relief for both the rescue and the distraction. He gets up and makes sure that the men get to work on America’s restraints before finding the man in charge of the rescue and getting up to speed.
Once they’re out, they dive back into the thick of the battle, planning and strategizing. For some time, they can’t look each other in the eye. It takes time to get back into the routine of things. But they’re alive. They survived. They pretend like nothing happened, and try to move past it. They repress and repress, until that gnawing shame is nothing more than an occasional flutter. The memory is locked away, set aside for the sake of the war and that confusing tangle of feelings, never to be discussed or acknowledged. All that remains of it are brief glimpses that come to life whenever they accidentally brush against each other, or on those nights when they’re alone, and they suddenly find themselves with nothing to say.
England turns around obediently and opens his mouth, displaying a clean tongue.
The man nods, and seems satisfied with the punishment. Another call comes from outside, and he turns and yells something back before pointing the gun away.
“You will live, for now.” He leaves quickly, closing the door behind him. They hear the lock.
England waits for a moment before turning back to fix America’s clothes. Not a word or a sound escapes from them. When he’s done with that, he crawls to the opposite side of the room.
For the first time in months, there is absolute silence between them.
England wants to speak, but reality is setting in and his arousal is lessening by the second in the bleak darkness. He knows he should, at the very least, apologize for what has happened. For violating him, voluntarily or not. The words don’t come.
There is activity outside their cell, but they don’t discuss it. They wait quietly, stewing in their own minds for what seems like hours.
America is slumped into his corner, still unable to move his arms, studying the texture of the stone and tracing patterns in it with his eyes.
England can still taste America on his tongue. He picks at the wound on his hand, but he’s so wracked with guilt that he can’t feel the sting.
The light outside the window changes slowly. It is now evening, and neither man has broken the silence.
A flurry of noise outside the door is what finally disrupts their isolation. Several men come crashing through the door. Their men. England heaves a huge sigh of relief for both the rescue and the distraction. He gets up and makes sure that the men get to work on America’s restraints before finding the man in charge of the rescue and getting up to speed.
Once they’re out, they dive back into the thick of the battle, planning and strategizing. For some time, they can’t look each other in the eye. It takes time to get back into the routine of things. But they’re alive. They survived. They pretend like nothing happened, and try to move past it. They repress and repress, until that gnawing shame is nothing more than an occasional flutter. The memory is locked away, set aside for the sake of the war and that confusing tangle of feelings, never to be discussed or acknowledged. All that remains of it are brief glimpses that come to life whenever they accidentally brush against each other, or on those nights when they’re alone, and they suddenly find themselves with nothing to say.
Aw~
This is so cute :) Awkward!Ludwig and amiably-seductive!Antonio are a sweet couple
This is so cute :) Awkward!Ludwig and amiably-seductive!Antonio are a sweet couple
A/N: Hey there, OP! I certainly hope this fill works for you. Please enjoy!
---
England’s heart drums a fervid crescendo in his ribcage as descends lower down the staircase to his basement. The temperature continues to drop with every step he takes, in harmony with every excited rasp of breath. Motes, dust, and cobwebs flutter in the air lazily. Every bit of speck is familiar to England – they are as ancient as him, after all. He pays no heed to them – minor nuisances they are, surely, but they serve their own purpose.
Everything – the chill, the dirt, the cloying aroma of mold – is unwelcoming as they can be. And with good reason. England takes great effort to make this area of his home as dingy and inaccessible as possible. He doesn’t want any thieving rapscallions to set foot in there. As it is currently the home to an assortment of highly unpredictable magical items, it will only be a matter of time before he discovers a stray corpse in there – an innocent victim of misguided curiosity.
That’s why he takes precautions. England is fully aware that he’s a Nation, but that doesn’t protect him, his home, and his possessions from prying eyes and rumor mills.
The eerie creak of floorboards tells England that he’s nearly at the end of the corridor, his destination. Everything in his sight is pitch-black; he relies at the sounds and smells of his surroundings as his guides. After all, he knows the layout of the place unlike any other – he made regular trips to this special room every so often, so much so that every nook and cranny is already ingrained in him.
Nothing much changes, too, thankfully. England supposes that it helps somewhat.
He twists the tarnished old doorknob located at the very end. The very feeling of it under the pads of his fingers sends gooseflesh across his skin; whether it’s anticipation or arousal – England can’t tell. Perhaps a little of both?
Still trawling through the darkness, England effortlessly finds the gas lamp located at the far corner of the chamber and lights it on. The glow is barely discernible from the rest of the room, but England deems it fit for his intentions. Visibility is the least of his worries with what he’s about to accomplish.
With a furtive glance, he scans the rows upon rows of books stacked on the olden basswood shelves - spell-books, potion formulae, tomes on magical creatures - each with their own diluted history long-forgotten by the modern populace.
But not England.
Everything is as novel as they were years ago. And as dangerous, with the most lethal of them just sitting innocently in the middle of the room.
Faded crimson cushions, smooth and ornate wooden curlicues – Busby’s Chair remains to be as mundane as ever to the naked eye.
England’s heart drums a fervid crescendo in his ribcage as descends lower down the staircase to his basement. The temperature continues to drop with every step he takes, in harmony with every excited rasp of breath. Motes, dust, and cobwebs flutter in the air lazily. Every bit of speck is familiar to England – they are as ancient as him, after all. He pays no heed to them – minor nuisances they are, surely, but they serve their own purpose.
Everything – the chill, the dirt, the cloying aroma of mold – is unwelcoming as they can be. And with good reason. England takes great effort to make this area of his home as dingy and inaccessible as possible. He doesn’t want any thieving rapscallions to set foot in there. As it is currently the home to an assortment of highly unpredictable magical items, it will only be a matter of time before he discovers a stray corpse in there – an innocent victim of misguided curiosity.
That’s why he takes precautions. England is fully aware that he’s a Nation, but that doesn’t protect him, his home, and his possessions from prying eyes and rumor mills.
The eerie creak of floorboards tells England that he’s nearly at the end of the corridor, his destination. Everything in his sight is pitch-black; he relies at the sounds and smells of his surroundings as his guides. After all, he knows the layout of the place unlike any other – he made regular trips to this special room every so often, so much so that every nook and cranny is already ingrained in him.
Nothing much changes, too, thankfully. England supposes that it helps somewhat.
He twists the tarnished old doorknob located at the very end. The very feeling of it under the pads of his fingers sends gooseflesh across his skin; whether it’s anticipation or arousal – England can’t tell. Perhaps a little of both?
Still trawling through the darkness, England effortlessly finds the gas lamp located at the far corner of the chamber and lights it on. The glow is barely discernible from the rest of the room, but England deems it fit for his intentions. Visibility is the least of his worries with what he’s about to accomplish.
With a furtive glance, he scans the rows upon rows of books stacked on the olden basswood shelves - spell-books, potion formulae, tomes on magical creatures - each with their own diluted history long-forgotten by the modern populace.
But not England.
Everything is as novel as they were years ago. And as dangerous, with the most lethal of them just sitting innocently in the middle of the room.
Faded crimson cushions, smooth and ornate wooden curlicues – Busby’s Chair remains to be as mundane as ever to the naked eye.
England has become acquainted with Busby’s Chair over the centuries; he knows of its mysterious powers, its rap sheet of nearly sixty-one unfortunate victims to date lingering in the back of his mind. Most people whisper and say that Busby’s Chair bestows an inordinate amount of bad luck – a curse – to those who sit on it.
Upon further studying of its arcane intricacies, England already knew better than ‘most people’. ‘Bad luck’ is simply the commoner’s term for it. What they don’t know is that the so-called curse of Busby’s Chair is actually an unlocking spell of sorts.
It releases any semblance of control of the victim over his earthly vices and desires. It endows the victim with a senseless, listless feeling of invulnerability. Invincibility. Immortality. The things that every human seems to yearn for.
The poor chap leaves unscathed, but slowly drowning in that twisted delusion. England likens it to a state of a permanent high.
The unlucky fellow gets overeager; reckless; irrational, in time. Then, things start to take a turn for the worse. Car accidents, crimes of passion, despair over misguided investments, suicides – the usual repercussions of the curse, as people fondly call it, are just the thinly veiled manifestations of the victim’s slow downward spiral to insanity.
The caster of this spell truly had a wicked mind, England muses sometimes.
Evil begets evil. Such a succinct, yet, logical way of explaining it.
Of course, England would know very much about it. Research and morbid curiosity is a powerful combination.
There was a time in the past where England purposefully sat on Busby’s Chair, just to test what it felt like. He rationalized everything at first, of course.
All those human needs – invincibility, immortality, invulnerability – did not apply to him. He was near immortal and invulnerable as any human can be, since his very physical being is attuned to his country. Being the Nation himself, food, income and power comes in a fabulous silver platter. Temptations of that ludicrous sort escaped him.
However, Busby’s Chair was intelligent in its own right. It knew how to pick on weaknesses and to aggravate them. It knew everything.
England shakes his mop of blond hair.
That was then, and this is now.
Still, England cannot help but return and to succumb himself again and again to its own brand of madness. It’s a fucking addiction.
He begins to unbutton his military uniform slowly and steadily. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling nervous over committing an act of decadence that he’s done before. It’s similar to watching a pornographic flick for the first time – all that chastity disappearing in a guilty second of bliss.
Upon further studying of its arcane intricacies, England already knew better than ‘most people’. ‘Bad luck’ is simply the commoner’s term for it. What they don’t know is that the so-called curse of Busby’s Chair is actually an unlocking spell of sorts.
It releases any semblance of control of the victim over his earthly vices and desires. It endows the victim with a senseless, listless feeling of invulnerability. Invincibility. Immortality. The things that every human seems to yearn for.
The poor chap leaves unscathed, but slowly drowning in that twisted delusion. England likens it to a state of a permanent high.
The unlucky fellow gets overeager; reckless; irrational, in time. Then, things start to take a turn for the worse. Car accidents, crimes of passion, despair over misguided investments, suicides – the usual repercussions of the curse, as people fondly call it, are just the thinly veiled manifestations of the victim’s slow downward spiral to insanity.
The caster of this spell truly had a wicked mind, England muses sometimes.
Evil begets evil. Such a succinct, yet, logical way of explaining it.
Of course, England would know very much about it. Research and morbid curiosity is a powerful combination.
There was a time in the past where England purposefully sat on Busby’s Chair, just to test what it felt like. He rationalized everything at first, of course.
All those human needs – invincibility, immortality, invulnerability – did not apply to him. He was near immortal and invulnerable as any human can be, since his very physical being is attuned to his country. Being the Nation himself, food, income and power comes in a fabulous silver platter. Temptations of that ludicrous sort escaped him.
However, Busby’s Chair was intelligent in its own right. It knew how to pick on weaknesses and to aggravate them. It knew everything.
England shakes his mop of blond hair.
That was then, and this is now.
Still, England cannot help but return and to succumb himself again and again to its own brand of madness. It’s a fucking addiction.
He begins to unbutton his military uniform slowly and steadily. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling nervous over committing an act of decadence that he’s done before. It’s similar to watching a pornographic flick for the first time – all that chastity disappearing in a guilty second of bliss.
Page 281 of 359
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