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metamorphosis2010-04-17 11:20 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-17 11:20 am
Entry tags:
70;
Title: Possession
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
Written during a game, at first. For 30smiles' prompt 'Farewell'.
He hated to see him like this – battered, beaten, crying – because of someone besides him.
It was an odd sort of ownership, an odd sort of possessiveness and love. Spain didn't appreciate it at all, not even when England titled his face and kissed him, held him softly and whispered his apologies. He unhooked the shackles and kissed the tears, muttered sweet nothings into his skin and rocked him gently, feeling the rough fabric under his fingers bunch up when Spain reared back and yelled at him that he didn't understand, that he never understood, that he was just a damn dirty dog who was loyal to a sinning bastard, a vengeful lady, to nothing.
England snapped at those moments and beat him until he was bloody, until he was bruised and scorched and crying because of him. He took those moments and treasured them, loved the way the grin would settle on his face and his prisoner – his prisoner – would glare up, still defiant through bitter and betrayed tears. He loved the way he could bend over and kiss him, still, and still feel the cold warmth and love and the way it was returned with no hesitation. He hated the way he could bend over and kiss him, still, and still feel the questions and salty tears and hatred, of slight resistance to going any farther than lips touching.
He drew away and spit on Spain, leaving him to dodge and slam against the wall in his frenzy. England laughed, then, laughed because he had nothing to lose, unlike Spain, who had everything. He laughed because when he glanced down from the corner of his eyes, he could see the pained expression, he could see, Spain curling up into himself and staring at him with those sunken, haunted sage eyes, daring him to laugh harder, daring him to fall to the ground and just die of laughter.
He'd done it once, too. Just fell laughing and died laughing and woke up laughing, woke up right in his bed with his crew worriedly sitting around him, worried that he'd gone mad in his three-week coma, worried that he wouldn't have woken up. But he had, and as soon as his fit was over he treated them to a wonderful feast and sent them back to working as they were, and he had come down to Spain's cell only to find he wasn't there and stepped out yowling and kicking and screaming like a child who had lost his favourite play-toy. His crew guiltily admitted to letting him off on Tortuga because he'd been refusing to eat until he got off and besides, he was a waste of space and made fun of the way they talked and poked fun at their card games and cheated when he played.
As soon as England had got him back, though, he beat Spain black and blue and red and green and purple. Then he left him on European soil, yelling he had better things to do than spend the night with a mutt who couldn't even stand. Then he had returned to Spain's beautiful harbors, just to see if there was a prettier ship to commandeer than the one he had at the moment and had found Spain crying against a crate in an enclosed space and had yanked him up, jerked him along, and held him and kissed him until he stop and then spit and beat him battered and bruised.
England loved to kneel after he kissed Spain, after he had batted him, he loved to kneel and just stare at the sunken eyes and wonder how it happened. Spain never told him why he looked as shitty as he did, and England never asked.
Except one day, when he was fresh from a good night's sleep and had wandered down into a sleepy Spain's arms and had cupped his face and frowned at the bags under his eyes. He had asked, then, but Spain hadn't answered. He just held England and stared off into space, pressing a single kiss into his neck and muttering for him to continue not worrying because it wasn't a dog's business to know what was going on in the world. Then he told him to just forget he saw them and he smiled that old smile, the one England really liked (not the plainly false ones he held, nor the bitters, sad ones he showed at times) and kissed England back to sleep and held him out to be collected with rough apologies to whichever crew member came to feed him that day.
That's how it usually went. Sometimes England brought a book and just sat close at hand, flipped the pages and mouthed the words, pretty forest eyes squinting slightly in the lack-of light, like he'd done when he was a kid and had just started learning to read, and never quite grew out of the habit. Spain craned his neck to look at the book, so England would tell him what it was and read a little of it out loud and invite Spain to read over his shoulder, which always earned him a great laugh at 'accidentally' slamming the bookend into Spain's face. Spain would bite him, then, hard and angry, right on the neck, when made England's eyes close halfway and a pained gasp bubble out of his mouth, and he could never figure out what it was that made him feel that way in any sense...
England's farewells are usually short; a kiss to the forehead when he thinks Spain's asleep (but he isn't but can fake it just as well), or a swift kick and a jeer if he's awake (and he always is), stepping quietly or stomping out.
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG-13
Written during a game, at first. For 30smiles' prompt 'Farewell'.
He hated to see him like this – battered, beaten, crying – because of someone besides him.
It was an odd sort of ownership, an odd sort of possessiveness and love. Spain didn't appreciate it at all, not even when England titled his face and kissed him, held him softly and whispered his apologies. He unhooked the shackles and kissed the tears, muttered sweet nothings into his skin and rocked him gently, feeling the rough fabric under his fingers bunch up when Spain reared back and yelled at him that he didn't understand, that he never understood, that he was just a damn dirty dog who was loyal to a sinning bastard, a vengeful lady, to nothing.
England snapped at those moments and beat him until he was bloody, until he was bruised and scorched and crying because of him. He took those moments and treasured them, loved the way the grin would settle on his face and his prisoner – his prisoner – would glare up, still defiant through bitter and betrayed tears. He loved the way he could bend over and kiss him, still, and still feel the cold warmth and love and the way it was returned with no hesitation. He hated the way he could bend over and kiss him, still, and still feel the questions and salty tears and hatred, of slight resistance to going any farther than lips touching.
He drew away and spit on Spain, leaving him to dodge and slam against the wall in his frenzy. England laughed, then, laughed because he had nothing to lose, unlike Spain, who had everything. He laughed because when he glanced down from the corner of his eyes, he could see the pained expression, he could see, Spain curling up into himself and staring at him with those sunken, haunted sage eyes, daring him to laugh harder, daring him to fall to the ground and just die of laughter.
He'd done it once, too. Just fell laughing and died laughing and woke up laughing, woke up right in his bed with his crew worriedly sitting around him, worried that he'd gone mad in his three-week coma, worried that he wouldn't have woken up. But he had, and as soon as his fit was over he treated them to a wonderful feast and sent them back to working as they were, and he had come down to Spain's cell only to find he wasn't there and stepped out yowling and kicking and screaming like a child who had lost his favourite play-toy. His crew guiltily admitted to letting him off on Tortuga because he'd been refusing to eat until he got off and besides, he was a waste of space and made fun of the way they talked and poked fun at their card games and cheated when he played.
As soon as England had got him back, though, he beat Spain black and blue and red and green and purple. Then he left him on European soil, yelling he had better things to do than spend the night with a mutt who couldn't even stand. Then he had returned to Spain's beautiful harbors, just to see if there was a prettier ship to commandeer than the one he had at the moment and had found Spain crying against a crate in an enclosed space and had yanked him up, jerked him along, and held him and kissed him until he stop and then spit and beat him battered and bruised.
England loved to kneel after he kissed Spain, after he had batted him, he loved to kneel and just stare at the sunken eyes and wonder how it happened. Spain never told him why he looked as shitty as he did, and England never asked.
Except one day, when he was fresh from a good night's sleep and had wandered down into a sleepy Spain's arms and had cupped his face and frowned at the bags under his eyes. He had asked, then, but Spain hadn't answered. He just held England and stared off into space, pressing a single kiss into his neck and muttering for him to continue not worrying because it wasn't a dog's business to know what was going on in the world. Then he told him to just forget he saw them and he smiled that old smile, the one England really liked (not the plainly false ones he held, nor the bitters, sad ones he showed at times) and kissed England back to sleep and held him out to be collected with rough apologies to whichever crew member came to feed him that day.
That's how it usually went. Sometimes England brought a book and just sat close at hand, flipped the pages and mouthed the words, pretty forest eyes squinting slightly in the lack-of light, like he'd done when he was a kid and had just started learning to read, and never quite grew out of the habit. Spain craned his neck to look at the book, so England would tell him what it was and read a little of it out loud and invite Spain to read over his shoulder, which always earned him a great laugh at 'accidentally' slamming the bookend into Spain's face. Spain would bite him, then, hard and angry, right on the neck, when made England's eyes close halfway and a pained gasp bubble out of his mouth, and he could never figure out what it was that made him feel that way in any sense...
England's farewells are usually short; a kiss to the forehead when he thinks Spain's asleep (but he isn't but can fake it just as well), or a swift kick and a jeer if he's awake (and he always is), stepping quietly or stomping out.