Substitutes - 2c/??
anonymous
January 2 2012, 12:58:51 UTC
Canada lifted his arm as if to reach out and touch America, but his strength failed quickly, and he had barely raised it off the ground before the weight of the shackles pulled it back down. “I. . . I know,” he breathed out, eyes shining in a way that seemed to say I know how strong you are, but I will never stand by and let -anyone- hurt you if I can help it.
“No. . .” America pulled away, squeezing his eyes shut with his hands over them, trying desperately to block out the guilt and self-loathing that formed in his gut at the look in Canada's eyes. “No. . . please. I can't do this,” he sobbed. “I can't- I just . .” Moving his hands, he looked up to Russia with teary eyes. “Please, Russia. Please don't make me hurt him. Just leave him be. Please.”
“If you do not wish to do it. . .” Russia trailed off, eyes bright with anticipation
“No!” Hands shaking, America shook his head. He couldn't just let Russia have his way with Canada. He couldn't sit back and watch Russia continue to hurt Canada. “N-no.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I-”
“No talking. You will fuck Litva now, or I will think you are only stalling.” The tone in Russia's voice made it very clear that to be thought trying to stall for time would result in a very harsh punishment for both America and Canada.
America stood, and then slowly, as slowly as he dared, undid his jeans, shoving them and his underwear down to the floor. It was too cold to be bare, but he tried his best not to shiver, stepping out of his clothes and walking over to where Canada still laid on the floor, eyes wide with pain and fear and . . . was that understanding in his eyes? It hurt, to know that Canada knew what was about to happen -what America was going to have to do to him to keep him safe from Russia- and yet he did not seem to hold a shred of blame for America.
“I'm sorry,” America knelt down, gently unbuttoning the flap of Canada's jeans and rolling them down until they would not move any further. He had to move Canada, lifting him as carefully as possible (not carefully enough - Canada's stifled moans echoing in his ears) in order to pull away the denim pants and the maple-leaf boxers beneath them. They'd been his Christmas present to Canada not a year ago, a running joke between them; who could find the most ridiculous design on a pair of flag-decorated boxers for the other - America had won with a bunch of smiley-face maple leaves with too big smiles.
America did his best not to look at the limp flesh at Canada's groin, hands shaking as he pulled the pants down as far as they would go, trying not to let the loose chain between his hands touch Canada's bare skin.. At the top of Canada's thighs, he had to start peeling what was left of Canada's jeans from the shredded skin of his legs. It was all he could do not to be sick as clotting wounds stuck to the fabric and tore open beneath his hands. Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks, mumbled apologies falling from his lips unguided.
What had they done to deserve this? Certainly Canada had done nothing to justify the torment Russia had inflicted on him, the pain America was causing him. The pain America would cause him.
Behind him Russia was pacing, his footsteps even and sharp against the floor, a warning should America dare to stop.
Step, step. Step, step.
Step, step. Step, step.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
The words repeated in America's head, a subtle distraction that kept him from turning and throwing himself at Russia. For Canada. He couldn't outfight Russia, not with Canada unprotected on the floor and his own arms shackled together, and it would be Canada who paid the price for any stupid reactions.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
This was for Canada. For his brother who must have known Russia would not be lenient when he'd caught the whip in his hands. For the light that lingered even now in those violet eyes, that America feared would be extinguished at his hands.
“No. . .” America pulled away, squeezing his eyes shut with his hands over them, trying desperately to block out the guilt and self-loathing that formed in his gut at the look in Canada's eyes. “No. . . please. I can't do this,” he sobbed. “I can't- I just . .” Moving his hands, he looked up to Russia with teary eyes. “Please, Russia. Please don't make me hurt him. Just leave him be. Please.”
“If you do not wish to do it. . .” Russia trailed off, eyes bright with anticipation
“No!” Hands shaking, America shook his head. He couldn't just let Russia have his way with Canada. He couldn't sit back and watch Russia continue to hurt Canada. “N-no.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I-”
“No talking. You will fuck Litva now, or I will think you are only stalling.” The tone in Russia's voice made it very clear that to be thought trying to stall for time would result in a very harsh punishment for both America and Canada.
America stood, and then slowly, as slowly as he dared, undid his jeans, shoving them and his underwear down to the floor. It was too cold to be bare, but he tried his best not to shiver, stepping out of his clothes and walking over to where Canada still laid on the floor, eyes wide with pain and fear and . . . was that understanding in his eyes? It hurt, to know that Canada knew what was about to happen -what America was going to have to do to him to keep him safe from Russia- and yet he did not seem to hold a shred of blame for America.
“I'm sorry,” America knelt down, gently unbuttoning the flap of Canada's jeans and rolling them down until they would not move any further. He had to move Canada, lifting him as carefully as possible (not carefully enough - Canada's stifled moans echoing in his ears) in order to pull away the denim pants and the maple-leaf boxers beneath them. They'd been his Christmas present to Canada not a year ago, a running joke between them; who could find the most ridiculous design on a pair of flag-decorated boxers for the other - America had won with a bunch of smiley-face maple leaves with too big smiles.
America did his best not to look at the limp flesh at Canada's groin, hands shaking as he pulled the pants down as far as they would go, trying not to let the loose chain between his hands touch Canada's bare skin.. At the top of Canada's thighs, he had to start peeling what was left of Canada's jeans from the shredded skin of his legs. It was all he could do not to be sick as clotting wounds stuck to the fabric and tore open beneath his hands. Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks, mumbled apologies falling from his lips unguided.
What had they done to deserve this? Certainly Canada had done nothing to justify the torment Russia had inflicted on him, the pain America was causing him. The pain America would cause him.
Behind him Russia was pacing, his footsteps even and sharp against the floor, a warning should America dare to stop.
Step, step. Step, step.
Step, step. Step, step.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
The words repeated in America's head, a subtle distraction that kept him from turning and throwing himself at Russia. For Canada. He couldn't outfight Russia, not with Canada unprotected on the floor and his own arms shackled together, and it would be Canada who paid the price for any stupid reactions.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
This was for Canada. For his brother who must have known Russia would not be lenient when he'd caught the whip in his hands. For the light that lingered even now in those violet eyes, that America feared would be extinguished at his hands.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
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