daemon_angelus: (fantasy defense | bowmaster)


'why are my hands around england's neck?' )




because i told myself i'd do my fst-fic thing and i still haven't gotten round to experimenting with my stock pictures and the new textures i got from [livejournal.com profile] nivani and pixiv.

i felt like having a little ColdWarInsanity today.
(red symbolism inspired by RobinRocks's For Better, For Worse)









ONE. Disturbia - Rihanna

It's a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you
It's too close for comfort






it crawls, itches, gnaws at him, under his skin, in every breath he inhales and it's an itch he just can't scratch oh but how he's dying to, dying to -

-meric-a-

there's sound, bubbling through the haze of his own mind (as he drowns, dives deeper and deeper and deeper into that red - no not red any colour but red goddammit! - hot fury and they hiss paranoia but he knows better, because he knows what russia will do, how cruel and sick that bastard really is -

know thyself, know thy enemy, england had once lectured him, and he doesn't realise the mocking twist of england's lips as he said it then, as england says it now in his clogged mind -)

a-mer---america!

his eyes are open but he doesn't see, doesn't see until the panicked syllables of his own name cut through the madness-driven fog blinding his own vision and he takes in the scene in front of (below) him in sections, like a three-times-three grid of a camera screen.

there's england (top centre square, click) and he's gasping for breath, eyes wide wild frantic panicked - america can't remember when he'd ever seen those green eyes so wide with something akin to fear - breathing in short sharp takes through his nose, chest heaving (he feels the heavy movement under his thighs - 'm sitting on him? -)

the bedsheets are a rumpled mess (top and centre left, top and centre right squares, click again) and america's knees are pressed against england's sides (bottom right and left squares, click) and -

centre square.

why are my hands around england's neck?

(there's no click.)

there's nothing and everything in america's mind, swirling amassing and it's all fogged up again -

ame- al-alfred! england's voice and fingers claw at his thoughts what the bloody fuck -

shutupshutupshutupshutup!

england does and the next thing america registers (the haze dissipates but only just, he can feel it coming, rushing back almost instantaneously) is a sharp then throbbing pain halfway between his left cheek and nose.

america frowns, slightly, more in confusion than anger (but nowadays he can't really tell the difference anyway) and steel blue eyes flicker to the balled up fist and deadly green eyes.

arthur is seething in silent barely concealed fury. 'what the fuck is wrong with you' the englishman doesn't seem to care about the ugly angry red (why red!) trails tattooing his pale neck.

america's frown deepens. the itch is back with even more force and god does he want to kill it.

'i'll make it go away. all the red. okay arthur? is that okay?' cold fingers reach out to england's neck again but he doesn't flinch away, and the american's actions are creepily tender, wanting to ease the raw red stains back to their original pale cream (bloody bloody stains go away i say-)

he continues rubbing at the grotesque tendrils in that hateful colour, obsessively, and england lets him, wondering if america will only succeed in rubbing his skin rawer still.

the bloody fool.







um, this is sort of dedicated to [livejournal.com profile] redchocolates for being the awesome Iggy to my Ame :] ♥ oh and i hope you don't think it's creepy if i dedicate coldwarcrazy!america to you D:

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July 2017

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