yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-04-21 04:26 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-21 04:26 pm
Entry tags:
77;
Title: What Merciful Masters Are We
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG
For LJ's 30smiles' prompt 'Mercy'.
“You don’t know the meaning of mercy.”
He spat on the ground, lips set in a hard frown. He crosses over to the other nation and yanks him up by his rich, dark hair and stares into the tired, if defiant, green eyes.
“How could you, a dog, understand what it is to be merciful?”
“I could say the same for you.”
England turned on his heel and paced the length of the room eyes searching for something – and found, bringing it hard upon Spain’s calves and thighs. Obscenities streamed back in forth between them – English, Spanish, Latin, and Gaelic – until both of them were tired and bleeding, leaning against the wall for support and glaring at each other. England moved first, wiping the leather whip on his white shirt and staining it, taking careful note of how many lashes he had given and which places looked sorest. He had a cut above his right eye from when it had lashed back and caught him. Spain was worse; clothes in tatters and soaked in crimson blood, welts and injuries torn on every part of his backside and legs. He couldn’t feel anything except raw anger and humiliation and the warm fluid running down his legs.
“…is this mercy to you, Inglaterra?”
His voice was raw from screaming.
“It could have been worse. I could have killed you, if I hadn’t had mercy.”
“Even that would have been more merciful than this.”
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG
For LJ's 30smiles' prompt 'Mercy'.
“You don’t know the meaning of mercy.”
He spat on the ground, lips set in a hard frown. He crosses over to the other nation and yanks him up by his rich, dark hair and stares into the tired, if defiant, green eyes.
“How could you, a dog, understand what it is to be merciful?”
“I could say the same for you.”
England turned on his heel and paced the length of the room eyes searching for something – and found, bringing it hard upon Spain’s calves and thighs. Obscenities streamed back in forth between them – English, Spanish, Latin, and Gaelic – until both of them were tired and bleeding, leaning against the wall for support and glaring at each other. England moved first, wiping the leather whip on his white shirt and staining it, taking careful note of how many lashes he had given and which places looked sorest. He had a cut above his right eye from when it had lashed back and caught him. Spain was worse; clothes in tatters and soaked in crimson blood, welts and injuries torn on every part of his backside and legs. He couldn’t feel anything except raw anger and humiliation and the warm fluid running down his legs.
“…is this mercy to you, Inglaterra?”
His voice was raw from screaming.
“It could have been worse. I could have killed you, if I hadn’t had mercy.”
“Even that would have been more merciful than this.”