#rip my spine from my body and reshape it like clay

[piece-of-moss]

Take a rolling pin to my spine please and thank you

popping my back isnt enough i need to be picked up and slammed against the wall like a wet trout

[dailyusuk]

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.