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Swing a Little More	By : chelonianmobile Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1223 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfic, I don't own Hetalia or its characters and no profit is made from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Swing a Little More
- 1
They'd lost their muskets, somewhere along the way. Their swords clashed, their eyes fixed on each other, their feet skipping between roots and rocks and never tripping. The battle carried on outside the treeline; they'd worked their way away from the main battlefield, not exactly fleeing or pursuing, just looking for cover and less of a crowd.

Ireland's hair had come unbound; its vivid orange was stained mottled scarlet, and the drying blood pulled her curls straight with its weight. Her eyes, as green as her brother's, flashed with rage.

"Why must you be so difficult?" England sighed, parrying a wild stab from Ireland. "All I want is what's best for you, Ireland my dear."

"Yeah, like you wanted what's best for that colony brat of yours!" snapped Ireland. England stumbled, stung by the reminder, and Ireland's sword nicked his shoulder before he could dodge. "If you want what's best for us, give us freedom!"

England laughed drily. "And to think you were so sweet when we were little. Remember?"

"Oh yeah, I remember you back then as well. Always were a mummy's boy, weren't you?"

"Yes, well, I maintain our dear mother was drunk when she had you - or at least when she decided to keep you," England sneered.

"Prob'ly," Ireland said, smirking. "Makes me wonder what she was on with you. Eye of newt?"

England redoubled his attack, forcing Ireland to retreat, but she ducked forward under the swordblade and barged straight into him, dropping her sword and clawing at his eyes. They landed on the ground, England striking his head on a treeroot and swearing, then grabbing at his sister's throat and rolling over on top of her. He dived down and pressed his lips to hers, laughing softly into her mouth.

He would have pulled away after that - he wasn't a monster, after all, he only meant to distract her - but next thing he knew her legs were wrapped around his waist and her fingers in his hair, and she was kissing back.

"So that's how it's gonna be, is it, brother?" she said, grinning wickedly as he pulled away. "Well, don't you be makin' promises you can't keep, now!" The knife plucked from her boot sliced through his belt.

"What?"

"Way I'm seein' it, we both get what we want. You can go brag to your men you forced me, and I can tell mine you couldn't get it up."

"Hey!" England, stung by the remark, shoved her flat on her back and tore her jacket open. She dropped her knife in surprise. Her legs locked around his waist again, and she managed to shove his breeches down just enough, cackling when seeing he was still limp. He put a stop to that by sinking his teeth into her collarbone, hard enough to leave droplets of blood rising amid the freckles, and rip her own breeches apart enough to allow access. She made a noise which might have arisen from pain or amusement or arousal, and which went some way towards solving his problem. He wiped the blood and mud off his fingers as well as he could and shoved one into her, still dry, and she got her revenge by tearing at his hair hard enough to pull some out.

"Stop that, you ungrateful bitch, or I'll take you dry!" he snapped, rubbing roughly with one hand while prising her hands out of his hair with the other.

"Like you'll last long enough?" she snarled back, nails tearing a gash across his cheek. Even as she said it, he felt her becoming slick under his fingers, and he had to laugh. She joined his laughter, and he looked oddly at her; it was strange, he remembered when they were tiny and Mama was still alive, her and so many of their relatives who had been lost to time ...

Not wanting to remember that now, he shoved into her, distracting himself with her gasp, and let her claim his mouth again. She smelled like sweet grass and gunpowder, tasted like whiskey and blood, and she gnawed on his lip till his own blood ran down his chin and dripped onto her breasts. Her hands slid under his jacket and her nails tore hot lines down his back. He pulled his mouth away from hers and bit sharply at her ear, then her neck, then her nipple. The hand not propping him up pressed against her clit, rubbing in rough circles, increasing the pressure until she screamed and tightened around him.

He'd always thought her plain, by nations' standards, with her mass of orange frizz and her chalk-pale skin besmirched with freckles and her eyebrows that rivalled his own. Now, flushed red and panting, she was as beautiful as their forgotten sister Avalon, whose face had struck men dumb, though he wouldn't have told her that even if they were on good terms.

Finally, he pulled away, finishing with a shout and leaving white spatters among the red on her breasts and belly. He remained on all fours over her for a moment, both of them breathing heavily. Just as she grabbed her knife again, he leapt up, and the blade struck only empty air. He picked up his dropped sword and held the tip to Ireland's throat.

She laughed harshly again. "Gonna stick me with the other sword now, brother?"

He looked at the blade in his hand, then back at Ireland, half-smiling. "No. Go on, go back to your men."

One bushy red eyebrow raised. "Oh, so now I'm a whore paid in life instead of coin?" she said bitterly.

"No!" England sheathed his sword and helped her up. "Consider it a gift to a worthy opponent ... dear sister."

Ireland grinned back at him mirthlessly and shook his hand, using her other hand to rebutton her breeches with a practiced motion. She tugged her jacket closed, scowled down at the missing buttons, and said "We'll have this out again, brother," with a wink. Then she was gone, fleeing into the wood.

~

This isn't the last time it happens, not by far. Over the centuries they meet many times, in battle or in resentful truce, and sometimes they fuck again. They like to think it means nothing important.

In 1916, Ireland bears a child. Bears one, not finds one. By 1921, he's grown enough to take his own land, and England and Ireland come to an uneasy agreement. Both contest it in the future, and the boy fights for and against both of them depending on his mortals' whims. England doesn't know what the boy himself wants; he's hard to read, and England doesn't see him often.

Northern Ireland's hair is red, but not like his mother's sunset orange; his is deep mahogany, the colour of the blood spilled to birth him. His eyes are green - of course, he is part of the Emerald Isle - and his bushy eyebrows - not a giveaway, his mother has them too - are locked in a constant scowl. Once he's grown enough to wield a gun, he's quite the little marksman. England has the feeling he'd be good with a sword too, though he has less opportunity to see that.

England is never sure how to feel about Northern Ireland, but somewhere deep in the mess of emotions is a substantial amount of pride.
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Swing a Little More