“Are you sure? Because if you aren't, you can just-”
“America.”
America looked up from his nervously twisting hands in his lap. Russia was perched next to America on the edge of his oversized bed, staring at the far wall. There wasn't anything there to look at but blank wall, but he kept looking at that spot anyway. He hadn't looked America in the eye all evening.
“I-I just-”
“You have been asking me to let you...do this for ages, da? And now I let you.”
“I know, but-”
“Do you not want to do this anymore?”
“No, I do want to...I want to see your neck-”
“Then get it over with.”
America swallowed hard. He did want this. He had wanted it for the longest time, ever since he learned that Russia's neck was off limits. It had been centuries ago, when he was so much younger; he tried to steal the scarf as a joke and Russia had erupted into a fit of anger that scared America almost to tears. It wasn't until later that he realized that Russia had been scared too, much more than America. The closer they became, the more he wanted answers. He never kept any secrets from Russia, and it didn't seem fair that Russia always hid so many things. He asked again and again, as often as he dared, about the scarf, what he was hiding...
Russia finally caved in, after years of questions, and told him everything. He started off perfectly calm, explaining his childhood (there was so much he had never told America, so much), how the Mongol Empire grew and started to want Russia for himself...but the calm fell apart as the story went on, and by the end Russia was shaking violently in America's arms as the words continued to spill out of him uncontrollably, telling every horror he wanted to forget. America just held him and cried, cried because Russia couldn't.
He knew it at all now, the scars that were hidden behind the scarf, the scars Russia couldn't bear to let anyone touch or even see. He knew the older country probably wanted to go to his grave without letting a single person catch sight of those ugly memories of the Mongol yolk, and yet...America wanted to see. It was part curiosity and part that he wanted Russia to trust him enough to let him see everything, trust him with this most secret and fragile part of himself. He tried to explain this to Russia, but wasn't that surprised when his request was refused. Maybe he should have let it go...but he wanted to see, wanted to more than anything. He asked again and again, casually slipping it into a conversation or mentioning it offhandedly, fearing that Russia would pull back if he pushed too hard. To his surprise, Russia finally agreed one day, 'to shut America up', he said. He tried to make it sound like it was nothing, but the strain in his voice and smile gave him away, even as he insisted that it was no trouble, he could let America look under the scarf if he really wanted...
Russia was as still as a statue now, continuing to stare at the wall and breathe in a slow, calculated way. America gulped again and inched closer.
[Part 7] Achilles' Heel (2/3)
anonymous
December 21 2009, 08:43:40 UTC
“Maybe you should...um, take your shirt off first?” he asked meekly, and was relieved when Russia reluctantly nodded and started fiddling with the buttons on the front of his shirt. The garment was quickly shed and tossed off the side of the bed. America took a deep breath and brushed a hand against Russia's bare arm. The elder country jerked back, panic flashing across his face as he met America's eyes for the first time all night...and quickly dropped his eyes down, flushing angrily.
“It-it's okay,” America whispered. “I'm not going to hurt you-”
“I know that,” Russia snarled, clenching his hands into fists.
“D-do you want to do this another time? We don't have to do this tonight...”
“Nyet.” An uneven inhale and shaky exhale. “Get it over with.”
America nodded and tried again, resting his hands against Russia's arms and shoulders before moving up to the scarf. Russia had gone completely rigid, all tension and taut muscle under America's hands, and he gave another little involuntary twitch as America started tugging on the fabric.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said softly, licking his lips nervously. “Just...just say so, I'll quit as soon as you say. But you have to tell me, I won't know if you don't say anything.”
America waited until Russia gave a little nod before continuing, unwrapping the scarf delicately until Russia's neck was completely exposed. His breath caught in his chest. There they were: the scars, awful and twisted and beautiful. They wrapped all the way around Russia's neck like a web of thin collars, twisting together and rising up slightly over the normal skin, pale and discolored from where they hadn't been allowed to heal before they were torn open all over again. He reached a trembling hand out to touch them, but Russia jumped and gave a little yelp of pain when he did.
“Stop!”
America immediately withdrew his hand, fighting a strange wave of guilty nausea as he watched Russia hunch over and hug his elbows. He didn't want this. He wanted Russia to trust him, to be more comfortable with him than anyone else...
“I-I'm sorry,” America mumbled. “We don't have to do this anymore. We can stop here-”
“N-nyet,” Russia whispered. “It-it is fine. I'm fine now.”
“No, really. I don't want to do this if it's only going to upset you-”
“It isn't.”
“You don't have to pretend you're all right. I know you're scared right now. Hell, I am too.”
“I'm not-” Russia began, but gave up the lie before it was completely out of his mouth. “I-I don't mind...if you want to continue. It is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Russia finally looked up and gave America a wobbly smile. “You promised not to hurt me, da? Then it is fine.”
America smiled back, and slowly reached up to touch Russia's neck again. The older country winced again, but shook his head when America paused.
“Fine. It is fine. Go on.”
America nodded and continued to explore with his fingers, running over the smooth texture of scar tissue, inching around to Russia's back to get a better look at the thickest scars that were near the top of his spine. They were almost like ribbons, weird white ribbons, and he leaned in to kiss them. A jolt ran through Russia's body at the contact and a tiny whimper escaped his mouth, but he didn't tell America to stop. It occurred to America that it would be the easiest thing in the world to hurt Russia right now, if he really wanted to. The scars under his finger suddenly felt as fragile as eggshells, and that knowledge made this all mean so much more.
[Part 7] Achilles' Heel (3/3)
anonymous
December 21 2009, 08:45:47 UTC
“God,” America whispered against Russia's neck, pressing a hundred little kisses over the ribbons of scars. “God, you're so beautiful.”
“N-nyet...nyet...I'm...my neck is...”
“Beautiful,” America repeated, touching the scars with his fingers that his mouth couldn't reach.
“S-stop,” Russia whimpered weakly. A little red flag went off in America's head; he had promised to stop if Russia asked him to, but he was too captivated to acknowledge what Russia had just said, or the trembles that were running stronger and stronger up and down his spine.
“Love you,” he gasped between kisses. “I love you, neck and scars and everything.”
A huge shudder took Russia's entire body all at once. America finally stopped and leaned back; the shaking had gotten too hard to just be shivers. Russia leaned over, bringing his shoulders almost up to his ears, still shaking and making a funny little choked sound... America scooted around to see his face and stopped cold when he saw tears leaking from Russia's tightly shut eyes, trembling lips pressed together in failed attempt to stop the little gasping sobs that kept escaping.
“Oh...” All the air rushed out of America's lungs on that single syllable. He had fucked up. He had really fucked up. He...he made Russia cry. He just made the biggest goddamn country in the entire world, who had survived Mongols and Nazis and revolutions and Joseph Fucking Stalin cry.
“I-I'm so sorry,” America choked. Suddenly he wanted to cry too. “I'm so, so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I really didn't-”
Purple eyes flickered open, causing even more tears to spill down Russia's flushed face. He tried to brush them away with shaking fingers and sniffed hard. “You...you...” he tried, but didn't seem able to force words out through the tears.
America gulped and snatched the discarded scarf up from the bed, pushing it back into Russia's hands. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “Just...take your scarf back. I-I'll leave you alone now. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked-”
“Nyet!” Russia finally choked out, hugging the scarf to his chest. “I-I don't...st-stay, please...”
“Y-you still want me around? Even after I-”
“You d-did....nothing wrong. Nothing.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Russia ducked his head, flushing with shame as he wiped tears away on his scarf. “It...” He swallowed, sniffled and tried again. “It was...so much. All at once. Y-you said I was beautiful, even...even when you were...looking at my neck...and you s-said you...” His eyes overflowed again. “L-loved me.”
“Because I do!” America cried miserably. “It's true, I meant it, really, so please don't cry anymore, please...”
“It's n-not...not...b-because I d-don't believe you.”
“Then why-”
“H-happy. I-I am...just very happy. Relieved. Th-that you could...look at m-my neck and not....b-be disgusted-”
America grabbed Russia's shoulder and tugged him into a fierce hug, careful to avoid his neck now. “You're so fucking stupid,” he whispered, blinking back his own tears. “H-how could I be disgusted? How could you think I'd...I'd love you less or anything...God, you're so...”
There were no more words; Russia just slumped against America and let himself be held until the tears went dry. It was quite a long time until he realized that his neck was still exposed, the scarf still bunched up in his hands. Somehow, wrapped up in America's arms, he didn't even care.
Re: [Part 7] Achilles' Heel (3/3)
anonymous
December 21 2009, 12:04:14 UTC
"He had fucked up. He had really fucked up. He...he made Russia cry. He just made the biggest goddamn country in the entire world, who had survived Mongols and Nazis and revolutions and Joseph Fucking Stalin cry."
Re: [Part 7] Achilles' Heel (3/3)
anonymous
December 21 2009, 14:46:38 UTC
It's so rare to find a story that doesn't reek of sex when involving these two. But you anon, you have delivered. There are so many parts I love, it'd take me a long time to put 'em all. xD;
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/10960.html?thread=21615824#t21615824
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Are you sure this is okay?”
“Da.”
“Really? You're 110% cool with this?”
“Da.”
“Are you sure? Because if you aren't, you can just-”
“America.”
America looked up from his nervously twisting hands in his lap. Russia was perched next to America on the edge of his oversized bed, staring at the far wall. There wasn't anything there to look at but blank wall, but he kept looking at that spot anyway. He hadn't looked America in the eye all evening.
“I-I just-”
“You have been asking me to let you...do this for ages, da? And now I let you.”
“I know, but-”
“Do you not want to do this anymore?”
“No, I do want to...I want to see your neck-”
“Then get it over with.”
America swallowed hard. He did want this. He had wanted it for the longest time, ever since he learned that Russia's neck was off limits. It had been centuries ago, when he was so much younger; he tried to steal the scarf as a joke and Russia had erupted into a fit of anger that scared America almost to tears. It wasn't until later that he realized that Russia had been scared too, much more than America. The closer they became, the more he wanted answers. He never kept any secrets from Russia, and it didn't seem fair that Russia always hid so many things. He asked again and again, as often as he dared, about the scarf, what he was hiding...
Russia finally caved in, after years of questions, and told him everything. He started off perfectly calm, explaining his childhood (there was so much he had never told America, so much), how the Mongol Empire grew and started to want Russia for himself...but the calm fell apart as the story went on, and by the end Russia was shaking violently in America's arms as the words continued to spill out of him uncontrollably, telling every horror he wanted to forget. America just held him and cried, cried because Russia couldn't.
He knew it at all now, the scars that were hidden behind the scarf, the scars Russia couldn't bear to let anyone touch or even see. He knew the older country probably wanted to go to his grave without letting a single person catch sight of those ugly memories of the Mongol yolk, and yet...America wanted to see. It was part curiosity and part that he wanted Russia to trust him enough to let him see everything, trust him with this most secret and fragile part of himself. He tried to explain this to Russia, but wasn't that surprised when his request was refused. Maybe he should have let it go...but he wanted to see, wanted to more than anything. He asked again and again, casually slipping it into a conversation or mentioning it offhandedly, fearing that Russia would pull back if he pushed too hard. To his surprise, Russia finally agreed one day, 'to shut America up', he said. He tried to make it sound like it was nothing, but the strain in his voice and smile gave him away, even as he insisted that it was no trouble, he could let America look under the scarf if he really wanted...
Russia was as still as a statue now, continuing to stare at the wall and breathe in a slow, calculated way. America gulped again and inched closer.
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“It-it's okay,” America whispered. “I'm not going to hurt you-”
“I know that,” Russia snarled, clenching his hands into fists.
“D-do you want to do this another time? We don't have to do this tonight...”
“Nyet.” An uneven inhale and shaky exhale. “Get it over with.”
America nodded and tried again, resting his hands against Russia's arms and shoulders before moving up to the scarf. Russia had gone completely rigid, all tension and taut muscle under America's hands, and he gave another little involuntary twitch as America started tugging on the fabric.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said softly, licking his lips nervously. “Just...just say so, I'll quit as soon as you say. But you have to tell me, I won't know if you don't say anything.”
America waited until Russia gave a little nod before continuing, unwrapping the scarf delicately until Russia's neck was completely exposed. His breath caught in his chest. There they were: the scars, awful and twisted and beautiful. They wrapped all the way around Russia's neck like a web of thin collars, twisting together and rising up slightly over the normal skin, pale and discolored from where they hadn't been allowed to heal before they were torn open all over again. He reached a trembling hand out to touch them, but Russia jumped and gave a little yelp of pain when he did.
“Stop!”
America immediately withdrew his hand, fighting a strange wave of guilty nausea as he watched Russia hunch over and hug his elbows. He didn't want this. He wanted Russia to trust him, to be more comfortable with him than anyone else...
“I-I'm sorry,” America mumbled. “We don't have to do this anymore. We can stop here-”
“N-nyet,” Russia whispered. “It-it is fine. I'm fine now.”
“No, really. I don't want to do this if it's only going to upset you-”
“It isn't.”
“You don't have to pretend you're all right. I know you're scared right now. Hell, I am too.”
“I'm not-” Russia began, but gave up the lie before it was completely out of his mouth. “I-I don't mind...if you want to continue. It is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Russia finally looked up and gave America a wobbly smile. “You promised not to hurt me, da? Then it is fine.”
America smiled back, and slowly reached up to touch Russia's neck again. The older country winced again, but shook his head when America paused.
“Fine. It is fine. Go on.”
America nodded and continued to explore with his fingers, running over the smooth texture of scar tissue, inching around to Russia's back to get a better look at the thickest scars that were near the top of his spine. They were almost like ribbons, weird white ribbons, and he leaned in to kiss them. A jolt ran through Russia's body at the contact and a tiny whimper escaped his mouth, but he didn't tell America to stop. It occurred to America that it would be the easiest thing in the world to hurt Russia right now, if he really wanted to. The scars under his finger suddenly felt as fragile as eggshells, and that knowledge made this all mean so much more.
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“N-nyet...nyet...I'm...my neck is...”
“Beautiful,” America repeated, touching the scars with his fingers that his mouth couldn't reach.
“S-stop,” Russia whimpered weakly. A little red flag went off in America's head; he had promised to stop if Russia asked him to, but he was too captivated to acknowledge what Russia had just said, or the trembles that were running stronger and stronger up and down his spine.
“Love you,” he gasped between kisses. “I love you, neck and scars and everything.”
A huge shudder took Russia's entire body all at once. America finally stopped and leaned back; the shaking had gotten too hard to just be shivers. Russia leaned over, bringing his shoulders almost up to his ears, still shaking and making a funny little choked sound... America scooted around to see his face and stopped cold when he saw tears leaking from Russia's tightly shut eyes, trembling lips pressed together in failed attempt to stop the little gasping sobs that kept escaping.
“Oh...” All the air rushed out of America's lungs on that single syllable. He had fucked up. He had really fucked up. He...he made Russia cry. He just made the biggest goddamn country in the entire world, who had survived Mongols and Nazis and revolutions and Joseph Fucking Stalin cry.
“I-I'm so sorry,” America choked. Suddenly he wanted to cry too. “I'm so, so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I really didn't-”
Purple eyes flickered open, causing even more tears to spill down Russia's flushed face. He tried to brush them away with shaking fingers and sniffed hard. “You...you...” he tried, but didn't seem able to force words out through the tears.
America gulped and snatched the discarded scarf up from the bed, pushing it back into Russia's hands. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “Just...take your scarf back. I-I'll leave you alone now. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked-”
“Nyet!” Russia finally choked out, hugging the scarf to his chest. “I-I don't...st-stay, please...”
“Y-you still want me around? Even after I-”
“You d-did....nothing wrong. Nothing.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Russia ducked his head, flushing with shame as he wiped tears away on his scarf. “It...” He swallowed, sniffled and tried again. “It was...so much. All at once. Y-you said I was beautiful, even...even when you were...looking at my neck...and you s-said you...” His eyes overflowed again. “L-loved me.”
“Because I do!” America cried miserably. “It's true, I meant it, really, so please don't cry anymore, please...”
“It's n-not...not...b-because I d-don't believe you.”
“Then why-”
“H-happy. I-I am...just very happy. Relieved. Th-that you could...look at m-my neck and not....b-be disgusted-”
America grabbed Russia's shoulder and tugged him into a fierce hug, careful to avoid his neck now. “You're so fucking stupid,” he whispered, blinking back his own tears. “H-how could I be disgusted? How could you think I'd...I'd love you less or anything...God, you're so...”
There were no more words; Russia just slumped against America and let himself be held until the tears went dry. It was quite a long time until he realized that his neck was still exposed, the scarf still bunched up in his hands. Somehow, wrapped up in America's arms, he didn't even care.
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alkshfjlghfjlhsdKASDJFKD!!!
Keysmash, Anon! Keysmashing is my only way to most accurately declare the absolute LOVE I have for this! ♥♥♥
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This line made the entire fill for me, anon.
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Very nice!
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THAT WAS AMAZING
IT WAS SO...SO-
It was beautiful *sparkly eyes*
Is it weird that I love it when Russia is all vulnerable and weepy? XD
Great job anon! I wish there were more Russia/America fics like this!
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Oh Author!Anon. I'm fuckin' bawling over here.
Love you man. <3
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