Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED
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hetalia kink meme
part 9
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( Christmas Reveals )
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One more tug - America twisted his fist in Russia's scarf, and Russia tried to swallow, tried to get more air in his lungs, but the scarf was too tight to allow him the least bit of movement, and black haze was drifting across his vision and oh, it was so good. He was shaking, and he didn't know when he'd started. Or where it was going to end. His arms kept tugging, and Russia didn't have America's strength and right now he really didn't have the concentration, so his arms didn't move an inch. America's leather belt rubbed against his wrists. His bindings were just tight enough to be painful.
America grinned, and the light glinted off his glasses. He never bothered to take his glasses off. "How's that?"
Perfect, Russia would have said, if he had the air to speak. He settled for arching off the bed. He wanted America to touch him so badly.
"Right, then," America declared, in the same happy tone he would have used for Let's cancel the meeting and go out for ice-cream! or All your ass are belong to me!. Russia closed his eyes and twisted his neck. As best as he could. America only tugged the scarf a little harder.
It really was painful, and Russia squirmed in earnest as America climbed over him, knees spread to either side of his hips, his weight keeping Russia pinned to the bed, unable to object. Unable to do anthing. He tried to take a breath to protest how much abuse America was heaping on the innocent scarf, but of course, it didn't work. A dark thrill wriggled through him, and he shifted, feeling America's jeans scraping against the delicate skin of his thighs. Another blink brought only darkness, and Russia thrashed back and forth. His neck hurt. It had to have been a minute or more since he took a breath.
The edge of fear was so intense, the sort of feeling he could only get from this. Russia couldn't really see the room anymore, jus little red flashes. When it was the other way round there was red too, red all over the sheets from the gashes he left in America's body, but he liked this red better, he thought. A minute? No, it must be more than that by now. Two, maybe three minutes. He wondered how much longer America would keep him on the edge. His lungs hurt, his neck hurt - oh god, his neck hurt - his wrists hurt -
Suddenly it all transmuted. The excitement was fear-fueled, and it was gone in an instant, replaced by nothing but fear. He clenched his hands and tried to blink three times, the signal to let go, but he couldn't feel anything, didn't know if the intention had made it all the way to his muscles.
He would have been gasping for breath, wanted to gasp for breath, but the scarf still dug into his neck and he could almost make out America laughing through the pounding blood in his ears.
He couldn't see anything but red and grey spots, and then he couldn't see anything at all.
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" - god, please, I'm so sorry, please - "
Russia drifted back toward awareness. His thoughts reassembled themselves from bits and pieces, minor observations. He observed that he could feel his hands again, and that his arms were sprawled over his head, but not tied. He observed that there was a celing somewere above him, painted pale yellow. He observed that his scarf was still wrapped around his neck, but so loosely he could hardly feel it. The ends were draped over his chest.
America's bluury face swam into his vision, and a hand rested on his chest. "Jesus," he whispered.
Russia blinked at him. "No. Russia, yes?" The words came out very cracked, barely making it through his voicebox. He lowered a hand and prodded experimentally at his neck. There would be a lot of brusing, he was sure, there generally was.
America burst into a grin. "You're - you're okay!"
"Was I not?" He blinks twice - he almost blinks three times, but catches himself. America would not find the irony amusing, not just now. America would not be so panicked if he has only passed out; he'd done that before. And the familiar dark feeling, the kind only beings like them are unlucky enough to experience - Russia's mouth twists into a smile, and his shoulders twitch toward a laugh. "America, did you kill me?"
"Not on purpose!" America protests, so fast it msut be instinctual, because then he's collapsed on top of Russia, holding onto his shoulders. "Oh god oh god oh god, I didn't mean to - "
Well, this is an amusing turn of events. From a certain angle, at least.
Around the lump of pain in his throat, Russia murmurs, "I got better, yes?" America nods against his chest, fervently and repeatedly. "Well, then. No harm done. Perhaps it was cathartic, yes?"
And that, just as he'd hoped - because America was just so lovely when he was on the edge of hysteria - got a helpless, sobbing giggle. "I guess so. God knows I fantasized about it enough, you know?"
"Then I shall kill you, and we will be even."
The look on America's face is so flabbergasted that Russia takes a moment just to savor it. His chest hurts, the bruises on his neck will linger for days and hurt whenever he breathes, and he didn't even get off on it, but it was worth it for that. "Oh, not right now," he clarifies. "Next time, yes? I'll let you bleed out for once."
And America - is that a blush?
"Okay," he says, almost too quiet for Russia to hear over his own stuttering heart. "Okay. Fair enough."
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PFFFF TVTropes, you ruined my life!!
So, anyway, how deliciously twisted this little story was. Hot and somewhat funny in a very dark way. Masochistic nations are the happiest masochists in the world, they can go further than anyone!
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Anon, you made this shameless breathplay fangirl very, very pleased. :D AND you managed to play it along with my headcanon. Wins!
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He blinks, once, to get the sweat out of his eyes. Not three times. His glasses shift, and Russia nudges them back into face. He looks happy, not that America can really focus on him right now.
"Go on, then," he manages, and lets his head fall back, his body slump against the tile and his legs fall open. Russia's smile only gets brighter. He picks up the knife from wherever it was he set it down, and presses the tip between America's ribs.
He's so careful. It's like he's carving a turkey, which America is not going to say aloud, the puns would throw him right out of his headspace and he can't believe he's going through with this but stopping now, blinking three times, would - it'd be cheating. Somehow. The knife tip drags down, paralelling his ribs, until it nudges up against his breastbone and stops. The pain doesn't burn or sting or anything, it just is. It hurts. Oh god it hurts, and the thrill of it makes him jerk against the ropes again, try to kick out, but his feet meet the edge of the tub, hard. It barely registers.
Russia strokes the hair out of his face, and cuts deep between two more ribs. He says something, but there's a buzzing in America's head and it doesn't register. He must have made some noise, because Russia laughs and repeats: "You have such lovely red blood. Maybe you're a little redder than you thought, yes?"
"Asshole," America mumbles. There must be a better insult, but he can't think of it. He shifts his hips; he must be sitting in half an inch of blood by now. Of course the drain's closed. Just for that little extra bit of humilation. Russia adds a shallow slice down his arm. Wasn't there a Chinese execution method like this? Death of a thousand cuts? Well, they'll get to it. China would think this is so funny, America thinks. The thought comes from a long way off.
Russia raises the knife again, and what blood is left in America's body all seems to be headed for his cock.
And oh god, Russia stops to stroke it, his big strong hands, and it's so distracting that America doesn't notice how blurry his vision is, and the sudden pull of the knife against his inner thigh comes as a complete shock.
Russia is happily humming as he opens the other femoral artery. "There you go," he says. "Easy." He pats America's hair with his other hand.
America would laugh, but his vision is already going black as he spins out of conciousness.
*
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Russia is holding his hand. "Ah!" he declares, and a flush spreads over his cheeks. "You're back!" There's still a spalatter of blood on his forearms; his shirt was discarded long ago, but he still wears the scarf. America almost laughs.
He settles for whispering, "Yeah. Back." Shaking his head would be a bad idea just now, so he forces himself to grin. Returning from the undiscouvered bourne is never fun; he's done it often enough, but it's disorienting even without the blood loss. "Have a good time screwing my corpse?"
Russia glowers. "I would not do such a thing," he says, and pats America's shoulder. "I have standards."
Standards. Right. Of course.
America keeps slipping when he tries to get up, so Russia helpfully wraps an arm behind his shoulders. Of course he doens't lean on it. Heroes don't need help, and if his head rests on Russia's shoulder, they don't mention it.
But when they curl up in Russia's bed and for once there's no blood on the sheets, he does give him a kiss, because that's just polite. It makes Russia giggle, too, and America likes that look on him. Russia pulls him close to his chest, and he's very nearly purring. "Get some sleep," he murmurs. "I will bring you borscht when you wake up. Lots of iron, good for blood loss, yes?"
"Da," America mumbles back, and breathes in a little deeper just to feel his ribs sting.
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Specially when you take off everything but your scarf. Mmmm
And I LOL'd like, 6 times, which is too many for such a short pieceXD. Russia and his standards, America thinking of bathtub pieces, Russia giggling after severing someone's femoral arteries, and China, and god THIS
"You have such lovely red blood. Maybe you're a little redder than you thought, yes?"
LOOOOOOOOL
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