crack the shutters open wide;

[wingborne]

Prompt

necrophilia

If he could love, he would imagine romance as something like this.

Splayed out on a surgeon’s table, his stretched skin rolling with the tightening muscles. Bones protruding, muscles rippling, breath filling his lungs. He closes his eyes and feels England's fingers dig into his stomach, tearing apart the stitched-together flesh. The prickle of pain, the hazy web of agony that smothers him when the fingers tear away at his skin. Rip apart his white slabs of flapping skin, show the muscle that emerged like raw meat with little bits of white bone, shiny and slick and soft to the touch, sucking in the fingers that touched him. White maggots slowly crawl over the muscles, feasting on the decaying fringes of flesh.

“Does it hurt?” England whispers, breathing into his ear. The stench of smoked brains fill the room, and pink intestines hang out to smoke, blood still clinging to the ends and dripping onto the cement floor. The tea sits in the corner of the dark room, forgotten, as two eyeballs float amongst the sea of tea. France laughs breathlessly, catching sight of the blue pupils that stare endlessly into the night.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” France hisses, leaning forward. England’s fingers sink into the hunks of muscles, coating his good coat with blood to the elbow patches. He gently curls his fingers around England’s eyeball, tearing into his good skin with his nails, scratching at the thick black stitches that hold England’s skull together. A pale worm falls from the socket, sprawling dead into the mass of organs.

England twists his fingers deeper into the ribs, and France stretches approvingly at the sharp pain that stab his spine. He twists his head, feeling the neck bone crack against the weight. England’s fingers catch his own eyeball, but he dangles the white sphere from the thin red ribbon of muscle that stretches from the dark hole in his face. In his other eye, he looks delighted, and France knows his little caterpillar is sadistic, and he loves him for that.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” England rolls his eyeball between his fingers. “Is that why you’ve brought me here?”

“I brought you here,” France says, “so you could fuck me.” He’s pleased when England laughs, short and harsh, and pries open France’s mouth. He lets England’s fingers, stitched from seven different men, explore the cavities of his mouth, running his finger along the jaw bone that juts out and the raw muscle that keeps his chin together, and at the flesh that swings open and dangles to his neck, rotting and blackened at the sides. Gently, England pries away a tooth, wiggling it first in the soft pink caverns of the gum, then abruptly shoving it until it breaks through the flesh. He flicks away the tooth, and the strums of pain and heat run through France’s head, and he feels dizzy and intoxicated. England carefully place his eyeball inside France’s mouth, and then runs his fingers through France’s hair, pulling harshly until France hears his neck snap again. France uses his half-tongue to suck at the soft membrane, gently biting on its side.

“Is this where you bring all your lovers?” England asks, turning his head, using his good eye to examine the room. Machetes dangle from the meat hooks, and arms and legs, and black sewing thread. Eyeballs lull about in jars of amber. Blood pools around the floor, making sucking sounds to the shoes that walked across it. It was France’s basement, and he was proud of it.

France opens his mouth to answer, letting the flattened eyeball to swing to and fro in front of England. “Yes. I’ve had many men here and feasted on their raw bodies.” He laughs openly at England’s face turning red. “Does that upset you?”

“No,” England says shortly, but France won’t leave it at that, because England’s fingers are damp with his blood, some already drying and caking underneath his nails, black as the night outside the basement windows.

“Did you want to be the first one to fuck me here?" France asks. "As if you were someone special?”

“I want nothing to do with you,” England snarls, and he tears off his forearm below the elbow joint, ripping his good coat and leaving only the raw pulpy muscles behind, and the white broken bone that gleams obscenely cleanly despite the blood. He takes his hand and hits France with it, slapping him in the face, and France grabs England by the ear, digging in his fingers until it comes off, white flesh folding in his hand, and they both tumble down to the bloodied ground, biting and gnawing at each other.

England straddles him, smashing France’s face with his disembodied arm, and his face is screwed up angrily. And France, he drops the disembodied ear and sinks his teeth into the rotting black flesh of England’s shoulder, tearing at the fabric that smells like life and the skin that smells like death, until he hits the shoulder bone, sharp beneath the surface, and he swallows the blood that smears down his face, watches the fine spray of red against the stainless steel table. England growls, gripping back France’s hair to tear back the scalp, revealing the yellowing skull with black fracture lines, deep like abysses. France shoves his leg outward, to England’s weak knee cap, which splinters sickly and his leg falls away, black stitching frayed at the ends and the trousers long enough to cover the bloody end, with the white knob bone sticking out sickly against the crude mashed muscles. But France won’t leave it at that, and he reaches out with both hands to grasp England’s face, and draws him in deeper. He kisses him, fully, and he feels the thrill curl up inside his stomach, the strumming warm against his belly, as he tastes tea and eyeballs. England kisses back, but angrily, tearing at France’s lower lip until France only his teeth to support his chin, and it’s all anatomy and all bone and all blood.

“I’m going to be the only one you’ll ever bring here again,” England whispers, “but it’s not because I like you.” His little caterpillar was always such a liar, but France doesn’t mind, not when England reaches for France’s collar, tearing off his shirt and breaking his collarbone, caving in the rotted flesh that barely hid the blackening muscle. France hisses as England digs his fingers into the cavity of his chest, finishing his earlier job by prying away at the rib cage, snapping them off, and throwing them to the side of the room. His face is splattered with blood, and he looks maniacal and keening.

France hisses and twists under the pleasurable pain, feeling his body being dissected under England’s hands. His previous lovers had tried to be gentle, but this was England, who was never gentle and never kind. He grunts in agony and arousal when he finally feels England’s thin fingers seek out his heart. England’s fingers curl against the ventricles, fingers cutting into the pumps, wrinkling the membrane. The first cut spurts out blood wildly, drenching the lungs and stomach and the cracked rib bones, which emerge like tombstones from the bloody pulps. He watches lustfully, with half-lidded eyes. England finally pries out the heart, the muscles thick and still spurting blood as he holds it with his only hand.

“You won’t need this,” England says, and it’s a promise in his voice. His good eye glints again, and France feels the warmth run to his cock, and he hisses as England bites into his heart, blood gushing and dribbling down his white chin and long neck. It’s no longer connected to him, but he feels the pleasure rhythm strike the cavity of his chest, and he rubs his growing erection against England desperately, even as England finishes off his meal, licking the remaining scraps of raw meat off his fingers.

“What will you do to me?” France whispers, and England laughs again. He reaches for France’s arms, and France allows him to crush the bones in his wrists. He feels them splinter, knows the splices float in his blood stream, watches as England ties the hands together in a grotesque bow, where his purple fingers are cracked at bad angles, and he sees one nail has been torn off completely in the mess. He doesn’t try to move, not when England’s hands slide down past the bloody chest, to the edges of his trousers.

“What do you want me to do?” England hovers over him, thigh pressed against France’s arousal, and France groans and rolls his hips, wanting friction, any friction, for any sort of release. He’s hot and sweating, and needy, warmth swirling down from the hole in his chest and down his legs, and he watches as England bends down to unbutton France’s trousers with his teeth and tongue, because he only has one hand, and it’s busy palming himself through his own pants. France leans back and closes his eyes again when he feels the warm breath whisper around the flayed flesh and into the soft red layers, revealed underneath.

“Do you need…” France licks his upper lip, with the tongue that dangles out the side of his fallen face. “Do you need instructions, hm? Shall I tell you—ah—step-by-step how to fuck a man?”

“Fucking prat.” But it’s enough, it’s enough when England pulls down France’s pants and France breathes through his nose when the cool air finally hits his cock, half-erect and hard. England leans forward to suck it, barely supporting himself on the arm. France expects to feel teeth, braces himself for the harsh bite and the gnawing that would give him pain and pleasure. He jolts when he only feels gentle tongue. When he looks down, England is looking back, one green eye and one pulpy white and red, breathing heavily over his cock.

If France had hands, he would have reached down to run through England’s hair. Instead, he only grunts and thrusts emptily into the warm caverns of England’s mouth. England doesn’t give a good blowjob, but an amateur and frustrating one. France doesn't complain, because it's enough to feel the tongue trailing over the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, to see England struggle to deep throat it, eyelid flickering in pain when it hits the back of his mouth, and France’s breath hitches as England draws his tongue slowly over the dusky cockhead, to the slit that’s wet and damp. It’s enough, he thinks, it’s enough, and England has grown bored and thinks the same.

He straddles France’s legs, parting them with his bony hard knees. France watches as England’s hand lingers on his inner thigh, tracing along the stitches of flesh that has already grown dark and foul and rotting. His hand descend deeper, tracing swirling patterns against the sensitive heat, and then France feels the jolting sense of pain that makes him cry out and thrusts his hips deeper into the disjointed fingers that are barely tied to the knuckles. England breathes heavily, sweating and hard, as he digs his fingers into France’s cock at the base, prying it away from the body. It’s all flesh and it’s all skin and it’s all lust, and France hits his head so hard against the base of the surgeon’s table that he can feel his skull crack and splatter bits of brain into his long and thick hair.

“Do you hate this?” England’s tongue lingers against the dismembered cock, swirling the same familiar patterns he had done earlier. France pants, watching parts of his chest rise and fall and spurt, as England sucks at the pink organ that he dangles from his hand, blood sticky on his fingers, staining his white shirt and splattering against his eye and nose. France groans and leans back, rubbing brain against the steel table, phantom erection still pulsing through his balls.

“Or would you have liked me to hold you? Called you love, dear, poppet?” England’s smile is a menace to the back of France's eyelids, a Cheshire cat, and France tenses the muscles in his thigh when he feels England’s hand seek out his hole, feels him running his fingers around the opening, and he knows what’s going to happen next and he allows his moans to reverberate through his body, strumming against his missing heart and lost feelings in his fingers.

“You love this,” England breathes, and he’s thrusting France’s cock into him, and France twists and groans and lifts his hips from the cold cement floor, only to bring them back down enough to dislocate them into his thin stretched-out flesh, watches England fuck him, the way England’s single eye intensely bores into him, and it’s all pain and all pleasure and all la petite mort and he’s tight against himself, and he laughs and twists his head, and feels the warmth linger along his belly, and his cock fits perfectly inside him and it’s wrong and twisted and he loves it, loves the pain that runs white hot through his body, and the blood that splatters on his thighs and runs down his calves to his feet, and he thrusts against himself weakly, and it makes no sense but he’s suddenly relieved, and he’s gasping and panting and sore against his own self, and he can feel England breathing heavily above him.

It’s over, all too quickly, and England drops the twisted and mutilated cock to the floor, and leans against the cement wall. With his hand, he unbuttons his own trousers, run his bloody fingers against his cock, breathing shallowly. France watches, and sees the white mess mingle with the blood, and England lean back against the wall with his eye closed. He comes with a groan in his hand, and then moves no more. The flattened eyeball still dangles, miraculously, from the empty socket in his head, and it stares blindly at France.

“I hate you,” England whispers into the thin air. He’s a sight, hair tussled and eyeball drooping with half an arm and half a leg, cock limp against his blood-stained fingers. France chuckles, deep in his throat.

“You would’ve liked it, wouldn’t you?”

“Liked what?” The mashed eyeball, oozing fluid from a cut, swivels its pupil to stare at France. The green color glints, even in the dimness.

“To hold me. To call me love, dear. Poppet.” It’s cruel because France knows what England feels towards him, knows how England’s eyes flicker towards him, why England wants to scratch out his own eyes, and they’re both bloody messes in a cement basement. France breathes as England slowly uncurls himself, eye fixated on the row of barely-clean saws hanging from the wall, all shining in the hazy sallow moonlight.

“It doesn’t matter,” England says quietly. “We can’t do that.”

They can’t, because they’re all bits and pieces. It’s all skin and all muscle and all bone and no love. Because England took out France's heart and crunched into the soft meat because he didn’t want France to love him, but he didn’t take out his own, already lost in dark love, already pumping the infectious pain through his body. France pretends he doesn’t know and England pretends that he’s not pretending, because they’re only bits and pieces and broken skin and cracked bones and half-hearts, and the dark shadows on the serrated edge of the bloody saw resemble black birds rowing to a forgotten home.