[Summary] The English language has been known to follow others down dark alleyways and beat them unconscious, taking words like loose pocket change. England. Kink meme fill
[Disclaimer] Hetalia and all its likeness does not belong to me. No profits are being made off this story.
I'll Have The Last Words
England sipped some night time tea. It was cold this time of year, and he wasn't wasteful of heat in the large home where he lived alone. He sat in his overstuffed paisley patterned armchair with a blanket draped lightly across his legs.
The warm liquid trickled down his throat as he took another drink. It heated him from the inside out.
The doorbell rang.
Funny.
Someone was visiting him.
Laughable. Comedic, even.
He knew who it was.
But America never rang the doorbell. Well, not his doorbell, unless it was for one thing…
England got up from his seat. He stepped slowly and purposely along the carpet. It took thirty-five long steps to reach the front door from his sitting room, and he wanted to prolong those thirty-five for as long as possible. He waited for the bell to sound again and at least those steps were worth maybe fifty-six now, or even better… He waited to hear the bell.
It rang. Seventy-one.
England knew what America wanted tonight.
The doorbell began to ring in an obnoxious and annoying tune. There it was – that telltale sign of false propriety.
He didn't want to give it up, not now, not in the middle of the bloody night (although it was really only half past ten, really), not to America.
But over the ages, it seemed like England had become easy.
He opened the door.
"You know why I'm here." America said on his doorstep. It was his no-nonsense all-business tone of voice that the island country didn't hear too often. Of course, except for times like these.
"I do know." His large eyebrows furrowed together into a cozy scowl. "Well, come on then. You're letting in the draft."
America just shrugged and let his large duffle bag on his shoulder fall to the floor with a thump. It sounded half-full by now, and it made England feel bitter, like his tea was coming back up in an sour spike of envy.
"I see you've got around before you came here." He noted carefully and America rolled his head, gratefully popping the stress points on his neck.
"Let's make this quick, alright? I want to get home in time for dinner."
Oh, that pesky time difference. England would have preferred not to go to bed like this but then again, he couldn't exactly say no.
America grinned, the low light of the foyer glinting a bit wickedly across the lenses of his glasses.
England shrugged off his housecoat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, meticulously, stalling for time again. It took three rolls to get a shirt sleeve to his elbow, but he counted to five instead.
He didn't get to even three on his second sleeve because America grabbed him by the collar and pulled him forward straight into his large fist.
"Urk—" England coughed and held his gut, staggering forward a bit as America stepped back, surveying his fist. On each finger spelled out the word Privilege.
The shorter nation coughed again and the words Damn and Strong came flying out of his mouth.
America caught the words expertly and stuffed them in his pocket without even reading them.
England ripped his fingers through his hair roughly. He should have never become so soft. Ever since the United States of America had been given English as a weapon, the language had become disgustingly polluted.
"You're just going to sound like an idiot." He breathed out harshly. "You never use my words properly."
America didn't spare him any words, only followed up with a brutal jab to the nose.
The UK saw stars as his vision blackened for a moment and then he was heavily breathing into his hand. The words Flowing and Blood rolled down in a red river on his upper lip.
America's lips curled up on one side. England gasped and shuddered when America's finger ran through the blood and words on his face. "Not quite the ones I was looking for."
The fist came forward again and this time the UK caught it in his own hand, squeezing the other nation's knuckles until his own became fierce white.
America's eyes widened and then slanted low behind his glasses.
That one moment of weakness was all England needed as he whipped out and took America by the outstretched arm. He twisted and heaved the other nation over his shoulder, sending him into the glass hallway table.
The land of the free groaned and England panted. America was heavier than he looked. The star spangled nation dragged himself up and shook the broken glass off. Words like Rubber, Lift, and Torch fell from his ears.
England clucked his tongue, crunching through the glass and toeing the words with his slippered foot. "You've really turned them into something else, haven't you?"
"They're not just yours. There's no use defending the purity of the English language." The younger nation smirked good-naturedly. He brushed broken glass off his shoulders and cracked his neck again. "Besides… this is American."
Something inside England snapped and he saw red. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and the drying blood smeared across his ear and into his straw-coloured hair. "You think you can take pride in manhandling some spare bit of language from me?"
America's bland expression and the presence of his obnoxiously large duffle bag made the former empire suddenly burst into laughter.
"Take them! Those words are like chump change in my pocket." England flung some actual coins from his linty pants pocket at the other nation.
A twenty pence nailed America in the nose.
"Hey! That's a cheap shot." The taller nation complained, and a full pound clocked him heavily in the head as a reply.
"Come on, I'm not really stealing these from you. Last time I checked" America's grin became dark and mocking. "You gave 'em to me."
England finished counting to five on his other sleeve. His large eyebrows were low and stern. "You can talk the hind legs off a donkey but do you really believe those are your own words coming out of your mouth?"
Luckily for the yank-harbouring nation, his super strength made it easy for him to be intimidating and he backed the UK up against the wall. "They're not all yours."
England didn't have much choice as America shook him against the wallpaper, slamming him so that the picture frames rattled. England's words spilled around their feet.
America dropped the older nation and retrieved his duffle. He swept the strings of letters up with his arm and dropped them in. They mixed around with other words like Dangerous Exploits.
The tall blonde picked out a word from his haul with the very tips of his fingers like one would pluck a fly from their soup. "How'd Tuque get in here? Ugh!" He tossed it. "Maybe I'll call that one Knitted Cap."
"Don't just toss it!" England caught the word and turned it over in his hands. He laughed humourlessly, because he would always help America like this, even when it hurt him to do so.
He stooped to place it neatly in the sack.
"Fine, maybe Canada can use it." The United States relented.
England scoffed and crossed his arms tightly as he watched his stash of words be raided. He couldn't really do anything about it. He did give America most of it back in the day. He mused over the image of the idiotic blond nation trying to make it on his own, building his vocabulary in the back alleys of language.
It had been a bloody dirty job. Dirtier than this now. More bloody than this.
He sniffed and rubbed his cheek.
America had it easy. He didn't know.
"I always have this terribly nauseating feeling when you come here with that sack." England said, eyebrows lowered like half-mast as he watched America. The country had no finesse; he just scooped everything in sight into his own vocabulary.
"Not so much that you're taking it." England continued and bit the side of his bottom lip, teeth crushing down on it harder and harder as more words were shoved brutishly into the sack. "It's likely after you go back to your house all these words will have been plagiarised and left as a badly pronounced, badly spelled, plebeian tongue."
America didn't seem very phased. His fingernails combed the last of the words that were stuck in the carpet. "You know what they say about it, don't you?" He spoke loudly as if he was still in his own house. America never had any manners. "English is anything but a damsel in distress. You don't have to defend it. Pfft. It's about as pure as a cribhouse whore."
England watched the words in the bag slide against themselves. They tangled together, making nonsensical reasonable links, like Mixed Feelings and Not Stirred.
"I used to be the worst." He agreed.
"You still are." America laughed.
He wiped his knuckles off on his pants' leg, and England stood up on top of Sudden, Burning, Bitter, Purpose.
"Where are you going?" The US asked as the short nation marched away.
There was a determined expression laced tightly onto England's face. "Going to see a man about a dog."
America smirked as he slung his haul over his shoulder, his blond hair falling just a little bit into his blue eyes. "You know I'll be back."
England wasn't facing him any longer. "Yes."
The nation at the door paused and then threw it out there, a word he'd picked up on a different raid from that night.
"Sayonara." He laughed, glasses glinting in the foyer light.
England's hand on the banister tightened until it was bloody white. He grinned back over his own shoulder.
"Arrivederci."
The door slammed shut.
The sound galvanized the short blond into action, his hands already going to the edge of his sweater vest. He tossed it somewhere on the floor behind him, goal clear.
He took the stairs two at a time, no need to count up the steps to the hallway cupboard which he knew he needed to open. As he reached the top of the landing, England looked back over his shoulder. "You cleaned up tonight, didn't you? But that used to be me. That still is me."
He touched his nose and it felt tender and raw and a little too small, just like him, to represent his greatest weapon. Language was a powerful, powerful thing. It made people listen. It made people shut up. It taught lessons.
"I'll take something for myself tonight." He whispered.
The cupboard flew open. He stepped inside and began pulling his ammunition down in armfuls.
"Sir! Sir! What are you doing?" A tiny voice fluttered by his ear.
England waved at it and bit his lip, tearing through a tartan cover on one of his chests.
"You can't let that upstart colony get you down!"
His vision flashed red and he bared his teeth. "America get me down? Don't be absurd. No."
The flying mint bunny looked at him with tearful eyes. "Be careful! It's so easy for you to become addicted!"
"I'm going on a word bender." The nation said with a gruff snort as he pulled out a dusty jar. Fierce words swirled inside of it like the dark entrails of some long dead animal. "I'm not out to take the piss."
He poured the words out into his hand, a black puddle of paragraphs, and then slammed the empty jar over the flying sprite. The tiny winged rabbit bounced around inside.
Mister Unicorn neighed to his left, "Protect the purity."
The country let out a snort of dark amusement. For once England didn't buckle under the peer pressure. "English is far from pure. America keeps up that tradition." He grinned darkly. "I made sure of that– A very long time ago." His lip curled up.
"I feel like expanding my vocabulary tonight."
He slung himself with even older friends. Words like Metaphor, Simile, and Onomatopoeia hung from his belt like grenades.
Crack, crack, crack, went his knuckles in delight. He'd punched Greece in the ribs years and years ago for those little gems.
The history of countries had always been written in the blood, sweat, and tears of those who fought.
Mister Unicorn watched his country with sad, sparkling eyes. "I meant your purity, Sir England. Yours."
The words fell on deaf ears.
As it turned out, the history of language was just the same.
Big Ben struck eleven as he stepped out into the frosty air. His overcoat held the words that would help him along tonight.
The wind whistled by like a night watchman on his last rounds. His still sore nose stung, but he'd cleaned himself up and he was going to do this quick and painfully.
By the time the last bell tolled, he was gone.
The streets were dead black in Italy tonight.
England walked down the uneven patches of stone that made up the walkway. He wanted to make an example. He wanted to regain even the briefest lingering feeling of power. It was difficult, so very difficult, to stand tall and proud and strong against America these days.
He'd do his best.
English was his.
His dirty cribhouse whore of a language. His loose tongue and his loose hand on the handle of his wooden club now. He felt like demonstrating.
He found Italy sitting on his garden bench amongst the olive trees, gazing up at the beautiful clear ebony sky.
"England!" He greeted. "What are you doing here so late at night?"
England whipped the club out to drag against the stone. The club could have very well been a bat or a stick or a place where he'd go to dance, but right now it was very much a club. He cracked it on the wall beside Italy's head.
"Tonight, you and I will be having words."
North Italy cowered, waving his tiny white flag.
The club swung down onto the brunette's fingers, flattening them against the slab of stone. Italy cried out in pain and words broke free from his palm under the weapon.
England rooted through the loot, tossing things like Artisan, Balcony and Dome into the recesses of his coat.
That wasn't nearly enough, he thought. The club slammed down on Italy's other hand. Words spilled across the white flag and England sopped them up, stuffing the stained cloth in his pocket.
Italy moaned in pain and was crying. "Y-You didn't have to go that far. I don't mind sharing."
"On second thought…" England stooped down and snatched up Fiasco as well. He stood and smirked proudly, seeing his shadow's figure loom over the other country.
The Italian speaking nation whimpered as the word was yanked out of him.
"What are you doing?" Germany came out of the brush, angry expression renting his face.
"Oh good." England delighted in killing two birds with one stone. "Take out your vocabulary."
"What?" Germany started forward and then noticed Italy lying on the ground. He twisted his fingers into tight fists.
"So, that's it then."
"Yes," England replied. "You know why I'm here."
The tall blond took another step closer but England lifted his club high. From its surface dripped words like Parmesan and Alfredo. Cold dismay filled Germany's eyes.
"I'll give you what you want. Then you must leave."
Germany clawed at his own chest and tore free from beneath his shirt, beneath his skin, words that couldn't be easily manipulated. Doppelganger, Poltergeist, Schadenfreude.
Still, England relished in taking them.
"W-Why!" Italy's small voice called out to the country as he left.
"Because," Beady green eyes hooded by large dark eyebrows stared over a shoulder and a feral grin ripped across England's face.
"…It's English."
The clocks struck twelve in France.
He ran down the steps of the country's house. He couldn't get in through the front. France never opened up for him but he didn't need it. He just needed the right words to make himself feel better, stronger— more powerful.
His hands clenched in his waistcoat pocket. If he had to use the run-on tonight, he would.
It didn't really matter. What words he couldn't get face to face made little difference to him. English was a language perfectly happy going through the backdoor.
France lay in his decadent bed, the bed curtains a bit sheer but draped thickly in the cover of darkness. England walked purposely forward without much of a sound; he was still wearing his house slippers.
He threw the curtains back and France jumped awake, blinking owlishly in surprise.
"Angleterre. A midnight visit?"
England strung the words from his pocket together tightly. It was a run-on sentence with no meaning. He gave it meaning as the words lashed out from his hand and swung so the rope wrapped around France's neck.
Hang Hang Hang Hang Hang Hang Hang Hanging Hanging With A Rope.
"Bonjour." England grinned widely as France choked and his eyes widened. France gagged, clawing at England's mishmash of letters coiled around his neck.
The French speaking nation couldn't say a word.
"You know why I'm here." England tightened his hold. No words escaped the French speaking nation's lips.
He loosened the noose like he wanted France's tongue loosened and leaned in close. His knees were dug deep in the mattress and France's ankles were wrapped up in the sheets.
France struggled before words began trickling out the side of his mouth.
England ran his fingers through the words: Brilliant Mortality.
He continued to wring the vocabulary out of France until he was satisfied. Only then did he allow France to breathe properly.
The long-haired nation clutched at his throat in annoyance and fear. "Is that necessary each time?"
"There is no going gently into this good night." England told him in a quiet voice.
"Non," France smoothed back his hair. Still, a few long strands fell into his eyes. "There is no gentle about it with English."
England's hand shot out and caught France's cheeks. He squeezed them together so that the other country's lips were puckered.
"Shut up."
The clock read one.
The keys jangled in his grasp as he opened his door and stepped into his foyer. It was still covered in bits of broken glass.
England dropped his coat on the doormat. His spoils of the night swirled madly in little jars. The country counted each step as he went up the stairs and opened the hallway cupboard.
His green eyes shone, alive with the cold light of the moon. The jars were all lined up, proudly added to his collection. But he felt filthy just looking at them.
He slammed the cupboard door shut and walked back down the stairs. There were twenty-two, and it took forty steps to reach his paisley print armchair. The tea was cold but still bitter, nothing could change its distinctive taste.
England covered his legs with the blanket and sat. It was cold this time of year, and he wasn't wasteful of heat in the large home where he lived alone.
The doorbell rang.
He took the thirty-five steps he knew by heart towards the front door.
Half of Europe stood on his step. France, Italy, and Germany looked gratified to see him.
"You know why we're here." Germany said. Behind him, Spain and South Italy were snapping their own literal literary weapons.
England's eyebrows furrowed together into a cozy scowl.
"Alright. Let's make this quick. But I have to warn you…"
Crack, crack, crack, went his knuckles.
A run-on sentence whipped out and lashed the short nation in his cheek. He held his stinging face, and stepped back to allow the confrontational nations in. Fair trade. English always gave it up. It was easy.
A dark gleam sparked in his eye and England grinned into the night. "I'll have the last words."
The End