Pride. It was the one thing about her that irritated him, even to this day. With those legs that had sprung out of such an awkward, young body, the chest that had developed, the skillful way she brought so many into her bed... it all led to a pride that made her America, and yet stole her dignity. He wondered if she ever thought of him as she snuck away with the Russian following her like a sunflower following the sun.
He decided to sneak into her room one night, open the door and walk in as he had years and years ago. One hand on her back was all it took for her to be a mass of teeth, nails, and skills that she had not had before she had met the Asian nations. It was still all too easy to subdue her, to take her breath away and leave her begging for more and more until she was hoarse.
"You see, my dear," he whispered in her ear, his body on top of hers, "you are still my colony, and you will be always. Remember what your duty is, colony?"
Swallow. Her muscles worked underneath his body as she tensed, ready to flee and declare herself free, independent, the need to be acknowledged in every movement she made. He waited, patient, as he had always been until her body slumped and all of her energy left her.
"My purpose is to enrich the mother country," she whispered and he chuckled, placing a kiss on her collar bone.
I love the darkness in this story, it's so twisted and still fascinatingly hot. Boy, England is such a bastard. I think this fic may introduce modifications to my headcanon, because I now believe the colonial period has left something in the colonies bodies and minds that will always respond to their former masters, in a way. I loved this story, author anon
A/N: Again, here I am, with a second fill! It's a sequel. Keep in mind that I loooove second person but it's so hard to write, so I hope this works!
OP: I'm glad you're alright, and that you like it! As I promised, here's more~!
First!anon: Thank you~!
Interesting-head-canon!anon: You made that my head canon now too! I think that's a fantastic idea, and it makes so much sense! You'll see it in this fill. >>
You never do figure out what brings you back to him so many times, but it is a festering something in the back of your mind that controls you and pushes you towards him. He never lets you try and turn away, admitting you into his home with a smile and a brush along that scar you made to impress him long ago. It hurts, but it is a good burn, no matter how much you wish it was a bad burn.
And, oh, you wish it was a bad burn.
Now you are sitting on his couch while he goes and fetches tea--after all, how else does a proper gentleman treat guests?--and playing with your hands. You wonder what those hands will be ordered to do as he comes back and hands you the tea, eyes watching you carefully. He has always made good tea, one of his only specialties, but this batch is bitter and leaves a burnt taste in your mouth. As you go to set it down his eyes flash; your mouth curves up into a resigned smirk as you down the rest of the tea. It would be one of those nights that made you regret being his.
"Was the tea not to your liking?" he asks, now, taking the empty cup and staring into it. "I can make something else, if you like," he studies you and you return his gaze with your own. You are America, you are a superpower, and you are stronger than he is. What is he, but an island that fell years and years ago, a defeated empire that has no use left? Contempt fills you and you stand, ready to leave; there are many other superpowers in this world that you can turn to, other than this upstart island.
"Sit," and your legs give way to his command, and you avoid his eyes as he sits next to you, breath on your ear. "You seem to forget the rules of the game, my dear," a thrill goes through you and you snarl, push him away and retreat to the chair he had just vacated. It smells like him, like tea and the sea and rain, and you try not to inhale. The smell comforts you in ways that it should not, and pulls back memories of your childhood, when you were scared and he was there.
"Fuck off," you say, a noncommittal gesture either way. He makes a queer sound in his throat, almost like a laugh, before disappearing into the kitchen. Sooner than you like he comes out again, holding out a plate of the most burnt food you have ever seen, and you have seen what happens when a McDonald's employee leaves the fries in the grease trap for too long. "You expect me to eat that?"
"I expect you to do a lot of things," he coos and drops the plate in your lap, the lumps of burnt food--coal, it has to be coal--clattering about the plate. "But for right now, I do expect you to eat this. It's all part of the game, my dear. It will always be part of the game."
You raise it to your lips and bite into it, the char sliding around your teeth and scraping at your tongue. It tastes like fire, like when New York burned at you. You finish the horrid things and shove the plate towards him, ignoring as he sets it down on the table and shifts to straddle you. You cannot help but love the way that you are in control, here, and you grab his hands and move them behind his body.
"You're so young," he clacks his tongue on his teeth as you tie his hands with his tie, fingers shaking. "So young..." he sighs as you lean back, looking at him, waiting. "You never were good at playing the female, were you?" he chuckles and his hands are free, stroking your neck, and you wonder why you are not surprised. "Dear girl, you were always so foolish."
"Ar--" and he silences you with a fierce and hungry kiss, the first of the night, his tongue scraping along your throat. You spitefully are grateful that all his awful skills at this are giving him is the taste of char.
"No names," he whispers as he pulls away, stroking your cheek, binding your hands behind you like you did to his. He does it better. Or is it that you just do not care enough to stop him? Either way the silk feels nice on your hands as he lifts you and places you down on his lap, your roles reversed. You dimly remember when he did this a long time ago, back when you were his and he was the mighty conquerer.
Sometimes you wonder when that changed.
"Kiss me," he commands and your body complies, even if your mind shuts it out and wonders why you come here if it means pain and domination. Guilt fills you at the idea of wanting this, wanting him to be the man he was, and wanting to be week. You are a hero, after all. Heroes are never weak, nor are they dominated so willingly. But then his hands find your chest and you cannot stop your moan.
"There we are..." he breaths and lowers his mouth to mouth at your breasts through the heavy fabric of your jacket. Your breath hitches and he moves the jacket off of you, pulling it off of your shoulders and arms, throwing it onto the couch. He stops, leaning back, placing his arms behind his head and you scowl. "Now, now," he scolded, "smile, dear girl. You should be happy to pleasure me."
Your lips stretch into a mirthless grin and he shrugs. "Good enough," he chuckles at your anger and trails his fingertips along your lips. "Kiss me," you obey and he stops you, one finger on your forehead. It is all that is needed and you stare, confused. "Not on my lips," he shakes his head. "You know where I want you to kiss me."
Humiliation curls in your stomach and you move his pants down with your mouth a little more roughly than intended. It only serves to harden him the rest of the way as you manage to free his erection, staring at it in fascination.
"It's small," you say, "it's always been small." A pearl of wisdom--or is it stupidity?--has you add: "Ivan's bigger."
"Oh?" his voice is dangerous and you smirk up at him, ever the defiant colony. "Kiss it," he orders and your head snaps down to obey. "Lick it," your tongue flicks out, as if on its own accord. "Good girl. Take it in," you listen and he moans, moans louder as you add tongue and just a scrape of teeth, like he wants it. His hands tighten in your hair and move you up and down his length, shoving it into the back of your throat. You whimper, the feeling of it thick in your mouth, even if you have had thicker. He is still the one who raised you and introduced you to what you do now. If there is any shame, any guilt, or any expertise about the subject, it is his fault.
It tastes like sea and salt as he comes, your tongue lapping at it, holding it in your cheeks until it leaks out of your cheeks. "Swallow," he snarls and you force it down your throat. It burns as it heads to your stomach, like alcohol, but it feels like they are moving as they land in your stomach. At least they will be dissolved down there, you sneer to yourself.
"Shall we continue?" it is a question, a sincere one, and there is something in his eyes that is all at once tender and terrifying. You laugh, trying to put distance between that look and yourself, and his eyes deaden.
"You're asking me now?" you mock and he snorts, the illusion that this could be anything more than just an awful agreement between the both of you is gone. "I don't know what else you could do, old man," his eyes flash, and all humor is taken out of the situation. He means business, and, in fact, so do you.
"Upstairs," he orders and you move, your feet only slightly willing. His hand traces along your back one you are in his room, just touching that damn scar, teasing at it until you cannot bite back that gasp. "You can be more vocal, my dear," he whispered into your ear as his mouth traveled towards your spit curl. You let out a loud moan as his mouth envelops it, his hands all too happily stripping you of your clothes. His clothes have been lost somewhere and you turn your mouth towards his muscles, licking them over, whining as he pulls you back.
"I never ordered you to do that, did I?" he purred, moving his mouth down your hair, your jaw, your throat. You groan, pushing against the bed, seeking friction that he denies by placing you on top of him. "Soon enough, dear girl," he chuckles and releases your hands, holding them. "You can feel. Slowly," he warns and you comply, stroking his chest, teasing him as you move your hands down to his abs, feeling along them, surprised.
"I didn't think you still had them," you say, longing for control as you lower your mouth to them, eyes on his, waiting for permission. He waves a hand, encouraging you, and as you lick along those wonderfully hard abs he rakes his nails along your scar, eliciting a scream from your lips.
"Yes," he does it again and you scream again. Comply, obey, listen, do as you are told. You can feel your wetness as you move, sliding along his body and the sheets, eliminating what friction you could have had. He teases you, slips his fingers into that wetness before pulling them out and pressing them into your mouth. "Lick," and you taste yourself, swirling it around before swallowing. He pushes his fingers in and keep them there, now, twisting and stretching until you shriek and jerk your hips forward as the pleasure builds. A slap pulls you out of the pleasure and he pushes you into the mattress, your positions reversed.
"Sing for me," he whispers as he presses into you and you arch into him, screaming at the pleasure, intense as it is. Only he can pull this from you. How many times have you tried to find it in other arms, only to come back here, rain making you wet and shivering as he smiles and accepts you into his home, into his bed? Too many times, your body answers as your hips start to roll up and still on their own. "Ah, you have learned, after all," he whispers as he pounds into you, sliding in and out, a perfect fit. He is your master, after all, is he not? Of course he fits into you like a hand into a glove. You were made to please him.
No matter whether you believe that or not.
He makes you come, as you always do, your hips disobeying as you snap them into his, he crying out as he slams into you and releases. You know that British immigrants are gawking at your cities and retreating to drink tea and eat awful food, and you reach out to hold him. He draws away, just for a moment, before relenting--as he always does--and holding you close, pulling out with a wet sound.
"I love you," he tells you, as he always does, and you smile, too tired to argue your point that he does not--which you know is true. How could he love a slave? "Say you love me," he confirms your worry and you chuckle, nuzzling his throat.
"I love you too," you lie, and he seems satisfied.
I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
Ah, but there is something between the lines! If you read carefully, you'll see England wanting to make it something more than it is, while America doesn't, because she's been used too many times.
As for the pattern... oh god, I can only imagine what would happen if someone came and disrupted it. England'd be furious and totally want to bring it back to the way it was, while America'd be happy at being an equal. Having her as a subordinate is better than not having her at all.
This is actually set around modern times, though it could easily be after the Civil War, or during World War I, 'cause I'd like to do the Cold War and WWII in this setting too, now. xD
Ah, the balance being disrupted... it would be crazy and angsty and I want to do it now, but I've spammed this poor request enough with my love for angsty England/America.
I seriously love the subtlety of the darkness here. It was also very hot, the way it was written, the way the sex happens, and of course, the complete and total domination, down to what she has to eat when she's there. It was interesting, getting into her head, her bitterness and the desire to obey and submit she can't suppress. The Russia reference was really hot too. All in all, an excellent fill, author anon!
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Re: Purpose II
(Anonymous) 2010-10-13 03:15 am (UTC)(link)Pride. It was the one thing about her that irritated him, even to this day. With those legs that had sprung out of such an awkward, young body, the chest that had developed, the skillful way she brought so many into her bed... it all led to a pride that made her America, and yet stole her dignity. He wondered if she ever thought of him as she snuck away with the Russian following her like a sunflower following the sun.
He decided to sneak into her room one night, open the door and walk in as he had years and years ago. One hand on her back was all it took for her to be a mass of teeth, nails, and skills that she had not had before she had met the Asian nations. It was still all too easy to subdue her, to take her breath away and leave her begging for more and more until she was hoarse.
"You see, my dear," he whispered in her ear, his body on top of hers, "you are still my colony, and you will be always. Remember what your duty is, colony?"
Swallow. Her muscles worked underneath his body as she tensed, ready to flee and declare herself free, independent, the need to be acknowledged in every movement she made. He waited, patient, as he had always been until her body slumped and all of her energy left her.
"My purpose is to enrich the mother country," she whispered and he chuckled, placing a kiss on her collar bone.
"That's my girl."
Re: Purpose II
(Anonymous) 2010-10-13 09:16 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2010-10-13 01:30 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Purpose II
(Anonymous) 2010-10-13 01:33 pm (UTC)(link)Almost
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 05:57 am (UTC)(link)OP: I'm glad you're alright, and that you like it! As I promised, here's more~!
First!anon: Thank you~!
Interesting-head-canon!anon: You made that my head canon now too! I think that's a fantastic idea, and it makes so much sense! You'll see it in this fill. >>
You never do figure out what brings you back to him so many times, but it is a festering something in the back of your mind that controls you and pushes you towards him. He never lets you try and turn away, admitting you into his home with a smile and a brush along that scar you made to impress him long ago. It hurts, but it is a good burn, no matter how much you wish it was a bad burn.
And, oh, you wish it was a bad burn.
Now you are sitting on his couch while he goes and fetches tea--after all, how else does a proper gentleman treat guests?--and playing with your hands. You wonder what those hands will be ordered to do as he comes back and hands you the tea, eyes watching you carefully. He has always made good tea, one of his only specialties, but this batch is bitter and leaves a burnt taste in your mouth. As you go to set it down his eyes flash; your mouth curves up into a resigned smirk as you down the rest of the tea. It would be one of those nights that made you regret being his.
"Was the tea not to your liking?" he asks, now, taking the empty cup and staring into it. "I can make something else, if you like," he studies you and you return his gaze with your own. You are America, you are a superpower, and you are stronger than he is. What is he, but an island that fell years and years ago, a defeated empire that has no use left? Contempt fills you and you stand, ready to leave; there are many other superpowers in this world that you can turn to, other than this upstart island.
"Sit," and your legs give way to his command, and you avoid his eyes as he sits next to you, breath on your ear. "You seem to forget the rules of the game, my dear," a thrill goes through you and you snarl, push him away and retreat to the chair he had just vacated. It smells like him, like tea and the sea and rain, and you try not to inhale. The smell comforts you in ways that it should not, and pulls back memories of your childhood, when you were scared and he was there.
"Fuck off," you say, a noncommittal gesture either way. He makes a queer sound in his throat, almost like a laugh, before disappearing into the kitchen. Sooner than you like he comes out again, holding out a plate of the most burnt food you have ever seen, and you have seen what happens when a McDonald's employee leaves the fries in the grease trap for too long. "You expect me to eat that?"
"I expect you to do a lot of things," he coos and drops the plate in your lap, the lumps of burnt food--coal, it has to be coal--clattering about the plate. "But for right now, I do expect you to eat this. It's all part of the game, my dear. It will always be part of the game."
Almost II
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 06:00 am (UTC)(link)"You're so young," he clacks his tongue on his teeth as you tie his hands with his tie, fingers shaking. "So young..." he sighs as you lean back, looking at him, waiting. "You never were good at playing the female, were you?" he chuckles and his hands are free, stroking your neck, and you wonder why you are not surprised. "Dear girl, you were always so foolish."
"Ar--" and he silences you with a fierce and hungry kiss, the first of the night, his tongue scraping along your throat. You spitefully are grateful that all his awful skills at this are giving him is the taste of char.
"No names," he whispers as he pulls away, stroking your cheek, binding your hands behind you like you did to his. He does it better. Or is it that you just do not care enough to stop him? Either way the silk feels nice on your hands as he lifts you and places you down on his lap, your roles reversed. You dimly remember when he did this a long time ago, back when you were his and he was the mighty conquerer.
Sometimes you wonder when that changed.
"Kiss me," he commands and your body complies, even if your mind shuts it out and wonders why you come here if it means pain and domination. Guilt fills you at the idea of wanting this, wanting him to be the man he was, and wanting to be week. You are a hero, after all. Heroes are never weak, nor are they dominated so willingly. But then his hands find your chest and you cannot stop your moan.
"There we are..." he breaths and lowers his mouth to mouth at your breasts through the heavy fabric of your jacket. Your breath hitches and he moves the jacket off of you, pulling it off of your shoulders and arms, throwing it onto the couch. He stops, leaning back, placing his arms behind his head and you scowl. "Now, now," he scolded, "smile, dear girl. You should be happy to pleasure me."
Your lips stretch into a mirthless grin and he shrugs. "Good enough," he chuckles at your anger and trails his fingertips along your lips. "Kiss me," you obey and he stops you, one finger on your forehead. It is all that is needed and you stare, confused. "Not on my lips," he shakes his head. "You know where I want you to kiss me."
Humiliation curls in your stomach and you move his pants down with your mouth a little more roughly than intended. It only serves to harden him the rest of the way as you manage to free his erection, staring at it in fascination.
"It's small," you say, "it's always been small." A pearl of wisdom--or is it stupidity?--has you add: "Ivan's bigger."
Re: Almost III
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 06:01 am (UTC)(link)It tastes like sea and salt as he comes, your tongue lapping at it, holding it in your cheeks until it leaks out of your cheeks. "Swallow," he snarls and you force it down your throat. It burns as it heads to your stomach, like alcohol, but it feels like they are moving as they land in your stomach. At least they will be dissolved down there, you sneer to yourself.
"Shall we continue?" it is a question, a sincere one, and there is something in his eyes that is all at once tender and terrifying. You laugh, trying to put distance between that look and yourself, and his eyes deaden.
"You're asking me now?" you mock and he snorts, the illusion that this could be anything more than just an awful agreement between the both of you is gone. "I don't know what else you could do, old man," his eyes flash, and all humor is taken out of the situation. He means business, and, in fact, so do you.
"Upstairs," he orders and you move, your feet only slightly willing. His hand traces along your back one you are in his room, just touching that damn scar, teasing at it until you cannot bite back that gasp. "You can be more vocal, my dear," he whispered into your ear as his mouth traveled towards your spit curl. You let out a loud moan as his mouth envelops it, his hands all too happily stripping you of your clothes. His clothes have been lost somewhere and you turn your mouth towards his muscles, licking them over, whining as he pulls you back.
"I never ordered you to do that, did I?" he purred, moving his mouth down your hair, your jaw, your throat. You groan, pushing against the bed, seeking friction that he denies by placing you on top of him. "Soon enough, dear girl," he chuckles and releases your hands, holding them. "You can feel. Slowly," he warns and you comply, stroking his chest, teasing him as you move your hands down to his abs, feeling along them, surprised.
"I didn't think you still had them," you say, longing for control as you lower your mouth to them, eyes on his, waiting for permission. He waves a hand, encouraging you, and as you lick along those wonderfully hard abs he rakes his nails along your scar, eliciting a scream from your lips.
Almost IV
(Anonymous) 2010-10-14 06:03 am (UTC)(link)"Sing for me," he whispers as he presses into you and you arch into him, screaming at the pleasure, intense as it is. Only he can pull this from you. How many times have you tried to find it in other arms, only to come back here, rain making you wet and shivering as he smiles and accepts you into his home, into his bed? Too many times, your body answers as your hips start to roll up and still on their own. "Ah, you have learned, after all," he whispers as he pounds into you, sliding in and out, a perfect fit. He is your master, after all, is he not? Of course he fits into you like a hand into a glove. You were made to please him.
No matter whether you believe that or not.
He makes you come, as you always do, your hips disobeying as you snap them into his, he crying out as he slams into you and releases. You know that British immigrants are gawking at your cities and retreating to drink tea and eat awful food, and you reach out to hold him. He draws away, just for a moment, before relenting--as he always does--and holding you close, pulling out with a wet sound.
"I love you," he tells you, as he always does, and you smile, too tired to argue your point that he does not--which you know is true. How could he love a slave? "Say you love me," he confirms your worry and you chuckle, nuzzling his throat.
"I love you too," you lie, and he seems satisfied.
It is almost enough.
Re: Almost IV
(Anonymous) 2010-10-15 05:13 pm (UTC)(link)I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
Writer!Anon
(Anonymous) 2010-10-15 10:29 pm (UTC)(link)As for the pattern... oh god, I can only imagine what would happen if someone came and disrupted it. England'd be furious and totally want to bring it back to the way it was, while America'd be happy at being an equal. Having her as a subordinate is better than not having her at all.
This is actually set around modern times, though it could easily be after the Civil War, or during World War I, 'cause I'd like to do the Cold War and WWII in this setting too, now. xD
Ah, the balance being disrupted... it would be crazy and angsty and I want to do it now, but I've spammed this poor request enough with my love for angsty England/America.
And thank you for all the compliments!!
Re: Almost IV
(Anonymous) 2010-10-16 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)