Firwater [Canada/England]
Jan. 26th, 2009 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Firwater
Characters/Pairing: Canada/England
Rating: 13+
Length: 500
Summary: Around the time of the War of 1812, England is posessive.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Firwater
Smoke and shadows and dim candle-light. The table is strewn with maps and papers. He lingers there, elegant fingers tracing over routes, brows furrowed, lips moving slightly as he whispers to himself. Planning.
Rising, he snuffs out the candles one by one, his movements slow, unsteady. He snuffs them out until the only remaining light comes from the candlestick set on the mantle, next to where I stand watching.
He turns. He steps near, comes close to me. All night a bottle has been at his right hand and as he draws me into his arms I can smell the devil-drink on his breath. I do not pull away – no, even if I wanted to, I would not. Could not.
“Do you think he will succeed?” His voice is slow, thick with liquor.
“I...” Trying to speak, I waver, stumble over my words. My voice is stuck in my throat. I cannot bear to weave my fears into words, to speak of the nightmares I have of this very thing, so I say only, “I hope he will not.”
“He will not.” He echoes it, his breath a brush by the ear, tickling. Hands slip through my hair, wrapping his fingers in it, lingering on the strands as if touching fine silk. Unwilling to stir, accustomed to this, I allow it.
“He will not,” he repeats again, “because you are mine. Even if he does succeed, you will still be mine. I own you.”
“Yes....”
Quiet. He is quiet. He seems to be considering. “Say it,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Say it.”
My mouth is dry. “I...” My voice catches. I wet my lips. I try again. “You own me. I belong to you, I always will, and-“
He presses a finger to my lips. “Shhhh.” I obey; not a word escapes. “You are,” he says, tracing the outline of my mouth with his forefinger, brushing his thumb over my lower lip, rough and chapped by wind. “You are mine, and if he thinks he can take you from me, if he dares do it, I will make that ungrateful bastard regret it.”
With a shaking hand he reaches above me and pinches out the candle, plunging us into inky black. The rest of him is shaking, too; his grip is firm, but as he pulls me closer, I can feel him trembling. His breath rattles and whether it is from the drink or from uncertainty, I do not know. I slide my arms around his shoulders and hold him, as he holds me, and as he leans against me, I support him.
“I will burn all he holds dear,” he whispers, breath husky against my ear. “His skies will be bright with fire and his streets will be slick with Yankee blood if he dares to take what is mine.”
In the dark a soft mouth closes over my own. Flicking my tongue, I taste the liquor on his lips.
In the morning, I fear, he will not remember this.
Characters/Pairing: Canada/England
Rating: 13+
Length: 500
Summary: Around the time of the War of 1812, England is posessive.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Firwater
Smoke and shadows and dim candle-light. The table is strewn with maps and papers. He lingers there, elegant fingers tracing over routes, brows furrowed, lips moving slightly as he whispers to himself. Planning.
Rising, he snuffs out the candles one by one, his movements slow, unsteady. He snuffs them out until the only remaining light comes from the candlestick set on the mantle, next to where I stand watching.
He turns. He steps near, comes close to me. All night a bottle has been at his right hand and as he draws me into his arms I can smell the devil-drink on his breath. I do not pull away – no, even if I wanted to, I would not. Could not.
“Do you think he will succeed?” His voice is slow, thick with liquor.
“I...” Trying to speak, I waver, stumble over my words. My voice is stuck in my throat. I cannot bear to weave my fears into words, to speak of the nightmares I have of this very thing, so I say only, “I hope he will not.”
“He will not.” He echoes it, his breath a brush by the ear, tickling. Hands slip through my hair, wrapping his fingers in it, lingering on the strands as if touching fine silk. Unwilling to stir, accustomed to this, I allow it.
“He will not,” he repeats again, “because you are mine. Even if he does succeed, you will still be mine. I own you.”
“Yes....”
Quiet. He is quiet. He seems to be considering. “Say it,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Say it.”
My mouth is dry. “I...” My voice catches. I wet my lips. I try again. “You own me. I belong to you, I always will, and-“
He presses a finger to my lips. “Shhhh.” I obey; not a word escapes. “You are,” he says, tracing the outline of my mouth with his forefinger, brushing his thumb over my lower lip, rough and chapped by wind. “You are mine, and if he thinks he can take you from me, if he dares do it, I will make that ungrateful bastard regret it.”
With a shaking hand he reaches above me and pinches out the candle, plunging us into inky black. The rest of him is shaking, too; his grip is firm, but as he pulls me closer, I can feel him trembling. His breath rattles and whether it is from the drink or from uncertainty, I do not know. I slide my arms around his shoulders and hold him, as he holds me, and as he leans against me, I support him.
“I will burn all he holds dear,” he whispers, breath husky against my ear. “His skies will be bright with fire and his streets will be slick with Yankee blood if he dares to take what is mine.”
In the dark a soft mouth closes over my own. Flicking my tongue, I taste the liquor on his lips.
In the morning, I fear, he will not remember this.
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