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dailyusuk · 6 years

Text

Masticate

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. America, how did the world come to this?

Rated PG-13 for gore. Direct sequel to "Primal" in the Primalverse series of fanfics. Reader discretion advised.

What may the threads of steel wire which entwine themselves between strands of muscle and beads of sweat speak of the teeth which all of humanity (nation-kind) hold within themselves?

England chooses to ruminate on this as the acrid taste of blood fills his mouth. He chews, quiet.

The large corpse of some behemoth, perhaps a remnant of an ancient civilization long gone by (though he does not focus his mind uponst such sentimentalities) curves inwards in a caldera brimming with searing hot oil. England’s long hooves skitter across the crispy surface of the creature and abruptly stop as he desperately dips his (still human) hands into the soupy mixture and brings the liquid to his lips and-

The oil evaporates in a blast of steam, sending England’s hair flying about his face as he pauses to balefully inspect his bare hands (thirsty, so needy).

He is in need of water, that much is clear. Whatever monster he has found himself crawling across will not grant that much to him.

A sound. He jerks to a full stop, then slowly turns around to see China meet his gaze with eyes of ambergris.

China is a beautiful creature, fiery feathers fanned about his scaly serpentine skin, elegant long claws of lacquer, many arms extended in an approximation of nirvana. Every motion he makes towards England’s comparatively primitive form emanates light, blinding England with his iridescence.

“England,” China rasps, his voice echoing, male, female, child, adult, and neither overlapping as if five entities are speaking in disjointed unison. “I can see that you are not with your… companion.”

“I am not,” England confirms.

“Then,” China narrows his many eyes. “You are easy pickings.”

The sudden usage of the tongue of nations jerks something awake within England, and he launches himself at China, snarling and snapping with rage. China swiftly dodges and brutally locks England’s metal-framed head in a lock with his many arms of stone, heavy pearl jewelry clicking into place to lock England in a collar befitting a dog.

“I am far older than you,” China whispers. “Stronger, wiser, grander. Give up your companion’s location.”

Gears snap into place within England’s skull. China still clings to his humanity.

“I refuse,” he snarls back.

Were it not for the scent which filled England’s snout at the time, China would have cracked his head open with a vice grip, arms clicking into place to smash his brains out with the force of a thousand blades. As it were, the breaths of the great creature below chose to shift at that very moment, and the rush of sensation which comes with the aroma of budding roses and sandalwood pulls England’s skin away from his face to reveal layers and layers of tooth-lined flaps of flesh like the petals of a rose. His wings split into three and slash China’s arms into pieces, freeing England enough to allow him to bolt across the frothing surface of the lake of oil.

England’s sightless reality is snapped into focus once more when a familiar form tackles him, sending him crashing through the tenuously solid surface of the lake, furiously grappling his foe for purchase so as to not sink into the muds of forgetfulness. He snags long locks of hair and knows.

France.

England sinks his teeth into shaggy fur and twists, eliciting a muffled yowl from France and allowing him to push away from France’s thick feline form to break the surface of the lake and run, knowing that both France and China are not far behind.

He hits the edge of the oily lake and scrabbles at the smooth (skin-like) edges of the caldera, newly formed claws grappling for purchase. He gouges a foothold into the slope, pus bubbling out, and boosts his lanky steel body up the slope.

Slick, slash. He gouges one more foothold into the slope, and then another. France and China’s hot, laboured breaths are not far behind.

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. His claws slip, slick with pus and blood, and his hind legs are snapped off by a pair of jaws. He thinks that there are more primal nations (Germany? Denmark? Portugal?) below him now, frenzied therian forms pursuing meat. How did the world come to this?

At the thought of his lover his body lets out a violent gasp, thrusting steel wings out behind his back, like dark corrugated fans. Blasts of cold wind (the sea winds over Dover) burst from his feathers like exhaust fired from a pipe, sending his pursuers tumbling down the slope and giving him the boost he needs to reach the crest of the slope, claws clicking against the edge, free-

England feels a deep presence in his chest, barbs peeling away the sheets of metal and flesh encasing his core. Iridescent blood trickles from the ragged edges of his chest wound where the scorpion spine impales and pins him to the caldera slope. His grip slackens, and then they are on him.

Suddenly, his body is everywhere and nowhere, reduced to nothing but spoils, juicy meat. Japan, France, Turkey, China, Germany, Portugal, Spain - they are all on him, glassy jewel eyes glowering back at him as they pull bits and chunks away from his body, devouring. He can see and sense them from all directions as if his remains have become an eye, tactile.

France greedily sucks down his bowels, finally taking his ground-up riches of land and sea. Spain and Portugal, twin feathered dragons, take an arm for each, crunching bits of English armor and arms between their serrated teeth. Turkey, in his horrible golden armoured scorpion form, picks apart England’s chest, inspecting every ivory rib (stolen maritime English riches) he pulls out before sucking it into his maw with the sound of shells cracking. Japan gracefully reaches between the porcelain plates of England’s face and delicately rips his lymph nodes out with his long ogre claws, taking shark teeth and glassy pearls into his fox snout and ripping them into gossamer ribbons. China, ever the beast, is the most savage of them all. His many arms tear into England’s long horse legs, ripping his stolen porcelain and gunpowder caskets out bone by bone and presenting them to his many heads like temple offerings in a unified, undulating line of sacrilege.

England would scream if not for his want of a mouth.

Overhead, the corpse of the moon glows with a red bisecting stripe of blood.

In his core England knows what happens next.

He feels his savaged, bloodied husk of a torso hit the flat rim around the slope of the caldera, then feels America press his lips to his own, breathing life into him.

He opens his eyelids, and America is there by him, face intact and human. England lets out a rasping sob.

“America,” he gasps, too good to be true.

“Hush, babe,” America rumbles, the voice too deep yet reassuring. “Those beautiful legs of yours need some time to recuperate. R&R and all that.”

England ties a trembling tendril of muscle around America’s outstretched hand. The rows of shark teeth inside of his jaws are caked with old blood. Whether he died a moment or two thousand years ago, he does not know.

The frothing inside of the caldera belches a gaseous mixture of sulfur and molten flesh.

America leans down close to what remains of England’s ear, metal fingers tightening reassuringly around England’s rapidly reforming phalangeal bones. “I killed them all, you know,” he hisses lowly. “I ripped them apart at the damn seams until I found their humanity at their core. Then I would stitch them together again and reshape them with metal and clay until they begged for forgiveness and mercy underneath my hands. And then,” America mimics the motion of snapping a neck. “I would take them up on that offer.”

England hisses a breath through his copper throat. Truly, America is too good for him.

“They will come back, my dearest,” England murmurs back sweetly. “You cannot kill those bones which support the core of humanity, arrogant as you are.”

“Oh, I did,” America said nonchalantly. “In my form, nothing can escape my will.”

A thousand previous lifetimes scream in England’s skull. He recoils, pushing America away with his remaining strength.

“You did not,” he growls. Only now does he know the numbness of fear.

America smiles, distantly and yet so real. “Funny how the shape of God was, in fact, a white man made in our image? Perhaps that is why so many have failed to achieve my throne.”

For all of those visions which plagued England when he first saw metal plates straining at young America’s clothes, he did not anticipate America’s absolute power looking like this. He is ever the unassuming American everyman who England married in that controlled cage of domesticity, dressed in loose slacks and a partially unbuttoned shirt. Only his sleek metal hands and his unnaturally blue eyes betray his nature.

He smiles easily, and this time his pleasure is not faked.

“England,” he says, hand outstretched. “The love of my life. You always loved me when I called you that, right? In that American Dream of banal suburbia. When we were steeped in sin and freshly plunged into this hell we could not coexist, two lovers like us.” His speech is halted, grinding, as if he has not spoken a word in millenia. “Please. Come with me. You and I, we are perfect. As long as we are happy. We can reshape this world, rewrite it.” He wiggles his fingers at England, a familiar tic. “Come on.”

England stumbles, his legs of marble turning pink and steaming, morphing into fresh raw human legs (those legs which America ran his fingers along, reverent). He reaches his hand out, as he has always done.

And when their fingers touch, there is divine union.

#usuk #fanfic #fanfiction #blood tw #fridge horror #mod diurnal #primalverse

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dailyusuk · 6 years

Text

Primal

Blue sky. Red trails. Steel veins. A birth and a downfall. Rated PG-13 for gore, mild sexual content. USUK fanfiction set in Primalverse. Reader discretion advised. Red flesh. Ripping, ripping, salt, taste.

Tooth on bone, tooth scraping against bone, drink drink drink.

An eye looks up, balefully, at him. It wells up with tears.

Blue sky.

Coughing harshly, England jerks up, plush sheets falling around his legs as his eyes adjust to the twilight he finds himself suspended in. He covers his mouth with his hand to muffle his coughing fit and then holds his hand up to his eyes, shakingly.

There’s black blood dripping down his fingertips.

England is thrown into another harsh coughing fit at the sight of this, and only then did his husband shift beside him, apparently awakened in an instant.

“Baby?” America calls out. America rolls over to try to pull England closer with his arm, only to grasp nothing. He sees that England is sitting up, chest wracked with a coughing fit, and in an instant his arms are wrapped around England’s waist, chest pressed flush, reassuringly.

“England,” he whispers, and England heaves a deep breath. “Babycakes. It was just a dream. I’m here with you, m’kay? Do you feel me with you?”

There is saliva running down England’s chin, but he nods.

America wraps England’s bloodied hand in his own. Their wedding rings press cold against bony knuckles. “Do you need anything? I can get some tissues for you, some water, some of that horrible Marmite you like so much-”

“I’m fine,” England gasps hoarsely, his chest making one last attempt to force phlegm out but squeezing against nothing, dry heaving. “Thank you.”

Even without the dried black blood sticking to his fingers, America wouldn’t have believed him.

He had felt the beginnings of metal wings and ribs beneath England’s bedclothes.

You are not allowed to mix with another one of your kind like… like this!

I will! I love him!

You will not.

America stands up straight, his suit more firmly pressed than it ever had been in approximately 200 years of captivity.

But can you stop me, Mr. President? Can you really?

A steel-faced response.

Can you?!

Still no response. America curls back his lip and relishes in the feeling of teeth rapidly sprouting from bone, soon dislocating his jaw with their combined weight, the sensation of steel veins connecting between the highly efficient engines wrapped in flesh in his shell, the absolute joy of adamantine cannons and bombs sprouting from his spine and forming wings of-

Apprehend him.

All of a sudden, America’s heart constricts, and he drops to his knees, metal plates thickening on his skin against his will and weighing him down. Men in sleek, sterile armor rush into the Oval Office and secure a constricting web of nationium around his limbs. He struggles, but what little flesh remains in his body is not enough to resist the weight of a leader’s orders.

United States of America, you will obey.

America feels himself being lifted into the clouds, and all he sees is blue all around.

Porch, window, mudroom, den, closet, staircase, gallery (this is wrong), living room, window, gingerbread porch, study, pantry, door (too perfect), yellow wallpaper, bedroom, bathroom, closet, door, window, person (perfect).

Metallic breathing melts away from America, sinking into his skin as he seals himself in domesticity, soft cloth wrapped reassuringly like a security blanket.

He pulls a ring on, shaking.

“Honeyyyyyyy! I made breakfast for you! A la Americana, all for you!” America swaggers into the living room, where England is embroidering a rose onto a white piece of fabric, needle in, needle out. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Smell the amazingness yet?”

“If that ‘amazingness’ is your lack of a shower, then yes, I have,” England shoots back snidely.

“Whuh-wha-” America pats his torso down exaggeratedly. “Heeeeeey! I’m not sweaty!”

“You were last night,” England replies.

America blushes furiously, Florida responding a little bit to that remark. “One time isn’t enough for a shower, Artie!”

“Oh?” England sets his half-finished embroidery to the side, setting his head down on his hand in mock interest. “I recall there being more than one time last night, dear. I think it was, oh, perhaps three or four times in a row of you manhandling me and thrus-”

“The sausage and eggs will get cold if we dally any longer, sweetie! Haha!” America says too loudly, grabbing England’s hand in his own - gently - and pulling his husband to the dinner table for A Good Old American Breakfast. Without Sweat-Making. Hopefully.

Half an hour later, England complained to Alfred’s sweaty armpit that the sausage and eggs certainly were cold by that time.

76% Primal, sir. These levels have been unseen since the Cold War, sir. It’s abnormal for their kind to desire human structures such as marriage, sir.

America finds himself seated inside a large cell halfway filled with liquid nationium, wrists and ankles shackled to the adamantine walls and head covered by some sort of box filled with more liquid nationium. He growls, his blood rushing, but nothing responds. He is as flesh and blood as ever.

Is it wise, sir? To place two nations in close quarters like this is an untenable risk-

It is wise.

Sir-

The door - if there is one - opens in front of America, and he cocks his head up despite being essentially blind. Suddenly, the box melts away into a cascade of liquid nationium down his shoulders, and he is meeting England’s eyes. To an outsider, England would have looked as steely and strong as ever - but to America, who has known him as a lover for over a century, it is painfully obvious how much agony England is in to see his fiance like this.

America.

America does not respond.

England extends his hand out to America, as business as ever, but America detects the imperceptible tremble in England’s hand.

Come with me. The wedding ceremony is tomorrow.

Long ago, nations roamed the world freely, predating on humanity from the shadows. Their unbeatable strength and endless hunger for flesh made them fearsome beasts for even the best of humanity to face. From them the concept of monsters, of a great darkness, was born.

But then, when humanity learned of weaponry to drive back the darkness with, suddenly nations developed human tongues and faces and stood up on two feet to strike a deal with humanity. In exchange for allegiance with humanity as the representatives of their group identities, they would wear cages of human flesh around their nation selves and allow the people that shared their blood to augment and control their bodies as they so wished.

And so, nations reverted from their primordial, therian forms into their present-day humanoid forms, quenching their never-ending thirst for the flesh of men by waging war through men as their proxies and then feeding off of the spoils. Men in bureaucracy, animals on the battlefield.

America found that one particular story England told him to be the most peculiar one of them all.

“I do wonder what the world outside is like.”

England lazily sips his Earl Grey from an ornately painted teacup, nursing it and the question he’s left hanging in the morning air. America looks up from his creased Sunday newspaper, wondering if he’d dreamed England’s words.

“France, Germany, Spain, Russia, all the others,” England continues to ramble, speaking to nobody in particular. “They must still hold world meetings, as futile as they are. Do any of them even notice that a couple of nations have been ‘officially recused’ from every world meeting for years now?”

England politely gulps down the last dregs of his tea, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows - America catches a glimpse of a thin streak of tea running down his shaven chin, a small crack in England’s old gentlemanly habits. He sets his empty teacup down on the small table next to his armchair, hands placidly set on his lap. “I do not think so. In fact, they may breathe a sigh of relief every time we are announced to be absent on leave - our unruliness, our stolen kisses, our fights only fought for the sake of releasing old tensions.”

England is detached. He sinks into the cushions of his faded yellow chair, seemingly melting into the slightly sickly wallpaper of the armchair.

America watches England quizzically, carefully following the movements of England’s fingers, weaving through his golden locks before landing over his eyes and pressing, releasing a sigh from between his lips. Understanding that England does not anticipate a reply from his lover, America slowly turns back to his Sunday paper, pretending to be absorbed in mostly blacklined articles - the perfect image of an American husband on a Sunday afternoon, if there is one.

America’s fingers firmly grasp onto the edge of the thin paper, eliciting small crinkles from the paper as his eyes flit between what few words are still left - slightly bored but not so much so as to lead him into a dull trance. He hears the faint rustle of leaves outside, the chirping of birds, the dry buzz of cicadas-

And the whirring of a camera, perched on a tree branch just slightly above their living room window, fixating its red eye on the back of America’s head.

America and England sleep happily snuggled together, but when England awakens midway through the night he and America have each other in a strangle hold, the massive shark-like fangs of their Primal forms deforming their jaws as they coldly look into each other's eyes, squeezing red into flesh.

But when England jerks awake and starts crying out to America, his eyes shimmering with unwept tears, suddenly America releases the stranglehold and rolls over, holding his face in his hands as he suppresses his own tears, breath hitching from the shock, teeth melting back into his jaw. His heart shatters into jagged pieces as he hears England gasping for breath behind him and choking up blood from their brief but damaging encounter.

Two nations cannot stay too close to each other without their Primal forms - the monsters they once were locked under a human skin - manifesting to assert their dominance. But he would never ever hurt England, nor would he ever be dominant over him. They were lovers and equal partners.

At least, that's what "America" thought.

America feels England grasp onto the cuff of his sleep shirt from behind, grip firm yet tinged with indescribable emotion. He pulls America around to face him, his eyes rimmed with tears as he presses his forehead to his lover's. England begins to sob softly.

"Baby, baby," America whispers lowly, clasping England's slender (blood-streaked) hands into his own. His larger, more calloused palms curl around England's fingers, feminine yet hardened from years upon years of fingers curled around the barrels of guns and the hilts of swords. "Please. Look at me." England does, jerking his eyes up to look at America through his eyelashes.

"I'm human, aren't I? I'm the Am-Alfred you love and hold so dear. We've loved, made love, and stood by each other through thick and thin. Perhaps the things we once were may surface time to time, but we can stand strong." He wipes blood and snot off of England's parted lips with his thumb. "Do you trust me?"

England hiccups a sob back, then nods.

"Good," America murmurs. He slowly guides England down back to bed, his hands clasped around England's hip and shoulder. He secures his limbs around England, adjusting to make both of them comfortable under their plush sheets. Seeing England still sniffling away the remnants of his sorrows, America leans in to softly kiss away the tears with his lips.

"C'mon. Our souls won't emerge again for a long time, I'm sure. Just sleep."

But as America breathes in the soft scent of England's aftershave as he feels England doze off in his arms, he gazes, unfocused, at the wall behind England, festooned with pictures and belongings that were noticeably from this banal married life they'd built for themselves away from any all-encompassing war or prying eyes.

Could idealism and the physical love he and England shared truly suppress that rumble both of them surely felt in the pit of their stomachs, that innate desire to rip away skin and finely sown clothing to reveal raw muscle and blood-tinged steel?

America half-liddedly inspected England's face, the curves and edges that created the beautiful man he'd fallen in love with all those years ago, those thin lips that crooned sweet words to him at night and gave him well-deserved beratings by day.

He swore that he'd resist this inevitability for as long as he could, rules of the universe be damned. He would never let England come to harm (at his claws or someone else's) ever again, even if it would cost them the world.

Whenever the grey men come, America cannot resist.

It is not that he is unable to, his muscles boiling and aching beneath his crinkled dress shirt and tie every time the grey men arrive, but rather that he is obliged not to. He knows, oh he knows that if he is to resist the grey men will not hesitate to string England up and hurt him, maul him in so many ways in front of America’s eyes until America’s throat collapses from the screams he shares with his lover. Whenever he remembers this, the boiling in his throat diminishes and “America” takes over again. Sensible, reserved America.

Knowing this, the grey men do not bring nationium anymore.

Today, they are unobtrusive, holding America down to the grass of his lawn to inject him with a liquid at his elbow, roughly swabbing the hole afterwards - not that they really need to, for his wound closes only moments later - and then departing, leaving the world to refocus in his vision.

America does not know what they pump into his blood every time they visit. He watches their grey van pull out of the driveway and depart, receding into the empty horizon of blue. As he regains his breath, he looks over and sees England studying him back, eyes glazed over and wide.

Hot breath melding, the clack of tongue and teeth, sucking.

America presses England against their bed with fingers secured against England’s hips, pressing them together as close, as heatedly as he can, only breaking their sloppy kiss to tug his fingers underneath England’s frilly lingerie, hearing England’s breath catch as he slowly removes the gauzy cloth so that he can lick his way down England’s stomach, tongue pressing through strands of soft hair and along sensitive skin. England curls into him, vulnerable, legs wrapped around the back of America’s shoulders, his pleasured noises picking up into loud moans and cries as America leans up and kisses him, intimately knowing what buttons to push to draw out and intensify their shared pleasure.

They are allowed to have these carnal pleasures together, flesh melding and bodies unified into one, as sexual acts feed their inner selves without any bloodshed, any bare steel bones - instead, their hot flesh (covered in skin, not blood) rubs together as America whispers sweet nothings into the ear of his husband, the husband who he dotes on and adores.

Licking at England’s abused lips, running his teeth along tongue to elicit muffled moans of pleasure from his partner, America dimly feels that something is off, something isn’t right - but any reservations he may have fostered melt away as he presses his fingers into England’s hips, bodies tangled together flush against their picture-perfect bedspread, perhaps in a feeble attempt to melt into his ostensibly separate partner. England pulls away from the kiss too soon, breathing heavily as he redirects America’s building anticipation towards gently stroking along America’s graceful body with his fingers, exploring nooks and crannies with nails.

America loosens his embrace, hooking his arm under England’s and pressing at England’s lips for a chaste, affectionate kiss, lips warm against smooth teeth, tasting the faint sweet scent of black tea and sugar on England’s breath. He ignores the steel ribs pressing against his chest as he rolls England over onto his stomach to press further into his flesh, warm, cloying (not too far not too soon).

England’s wedding ring is cold against his back as England cries out with every well-placed kiss, nails digging into steel plating.

America reaches out for England in the night, but reaches nothing, fingers carding through air.

The grey men leer over him.

His eyes flicker about, weakly, and then close in anticipation.

Applause.

“100% Primal!” they cried. “Limitless power stands before us.”

A murmur spread through the faceless mob like a wave.

“He can be used to power the entire world!” “No, he can be used to impose our military might on all others!” “He will create world peace!” The chatter fades out into the noise of small animals, heightening in frequency and pitch until-

A plague of blood spread through the ranks, the shots and strikes of every weapon known to man resounding through the great hall until nothing was left, only the serene-faced beast of steel standing on a pedestal in the centre, gazing up at the cloudy sky above.

With swipes of tooth, slashes of claw, there is no more flesh left. The floor is barren of any sign of a massacre save for burn marks, the residue of a struggle.

The beast of steel pounds its wings through the air and takes off.

Blue skies, raw blood, an endless ocean interspersed with floating bones of man and machine alike.

Underneath a tree woven from red veins and flesh, America and England awaken, nude and sexless as if they have been stripped of all that makes them carnal beings, eyes locked onto each other’s.

Hands grasped around each other’s.

Both lean in for a kiss, turning their heads this way and that way for lips to meld -

And teeth rip into flesh.

#usuk #fanfiction #primalverse #blood tw #fridge horror #mod diurnal

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