In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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hetalia kink meme
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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“Don’t do it Matthew. Stay away.” His voice was steadily calm, and he didn’t even wince as a burning pain seared the flesh on his cheek.
“Leave the boy out of it! He has nothing to do with this Ivan! This is between me and you.” His voice was raised now, and his discomfort was plain.
He heard Canada’s slow, hesitant footsteps approach and broke out in a cold sweat. The bitter taste of bile invaded his mouth, and he swallowed desperately to rid himself of the rancid liquid that rose in his throat
Canada was a child. Just an innocent child. He didn’t deserve this, any of this. England was more than happy to take all of the punishments Russia could administer, as long as he kept his dirty, gloved hands from Canada.
“Sing for me. Sing like the caged bird that you are.”
From his position on the floor, England shook his head. His nose dragged against frigid concrete, and he felt the grainy texture of cold dirt brush against his lips. He refused to oblige Russia’s insane requests. It was a matter of principle more than anything else. He needed to show that he could be strong, that he wasn’t simply another broken captive.
All he could do was listen. Listen to the revoltingly sweet voice of his captor.
“Come Canada. Sit here… No. There. Good. Now, see this? Right. I’d like you to take this. Right. Yes, hold it like that. Now, press that button. Good. Hold it like that. Right. On three, let go of the button and press it on his leg. Yes. Right. Ah-deen, dvah, tree!”
A burning, red hot pain pieced both his legs. He bit his lip, tasting bitter blood and bile. A gasp tore itself from his mouth. He jerked violently, trying to escape the burning pain, but the hand on his back was too strong for his weakened form.
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Finally, the source of the pain was taken away. He felt rough, calloused hands stroke his long, filthy hair.
“There we go. Is your tongue a little looser now? Will you sing for us now?”
England shook his head, feeling the large hand tug painfully at his repulsive hair.
“Why not? Oh. Maybe the little blind rat has yet to find his voice? Maybe we should cure the rat’s blindness so he can once again squeak?”
The hand moved down, grabbing tightly the piece of cheap fabric that bound his eyes. The knot was untied slowly, and after an age of anticipation his emerald eyes were uncovered.
Brightness.
Unbearable brightness. His eyes stung and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He tried to close his eyelids, to return to the blessed blackness, but damned fingers stretched his skin and forced his abused eyes wide. Eventually, blurry shapes made themselves known against the brilliance. He made a small sound, somewhere in the back of his throat. A pitiful whimper that caused his captor to let loose a childlike giggle.
For the first time in months, he could see.
He could see the squalid hole he was being kept in. He could see the clean and hateful face of his insane captor. He could see the madness dance in the cold violet eyes. His head turned of it’s own accord, and he finally looked upon the sniveling form of Canada.
He was thinner than England remembered, much thinner. The simple clothes he wore were draped over his bony frame. His hair was long, and stained a dirty straw colour by dirt and sweat. He looked up at England, his wide eyes streaming crystal tears.
“C-Canada…”
Canada’s slender arms reached out to him, and he folded into the embrace gratefully. His hand found the other’s hair, and he stroked it while muttering incoherent comforts.
“Je t’aime l’Angleterre.”
“I love you too Canada.”
“Ya tyebya lyooblyoo vsye!”
Both captives turned to face their wildly grinning jailor. In his hands he held a bottle of alcohol, flavoured vodka. He tossed the container to them with little concern. Canada caught it just before it smashed into his head.
“Drink.”
The bottle was discarded to the floor. Neither country trusted Russia enough not to drug the bittersweet alcohol. For a moment silence reigned, nothing but the steady drip of melting snow was heard.
“Your tongue feel a little looser now? Do you need some more persuasion?”
He gripped Canada tighter, feeling the bones of the other country grind against his arms. He shivered as a piece of Canada’s clothing brushed against the fresh burns on his legs. A growl came from behind him, and he was grabbed roughly by the shoulders. Russia threw him away from Canada, furious at being ignored.
“Maybe if you don’t respond to your own pain, you might respond to someone else’s.”
England struggled furiously against the rough ropes that bound him, a high pitched, frantic noise coming from his mouth.
Canada’s slight form was picked up by the large country, self-pitying sobs coming forth from the child’s lips.
“Please! Hurt me, not Canada! He’s a child! A fucking child! What the hell has he done to you? For fuck’s sake, listen to me!”
Russia pretended not to listen, and a shiny pocketknife was extracted from his pocket and held in his gloved hands. The blade was drawn slowly across Canada’s cheek, grey flesh was stained by crimson.
“So beautiful.”
England could only watch as Canada was forced to his knees, his trousers cut open with little care. A cut was opened on his leg and spewed forth scarlet fluid. Canada cried out in pain, screaming for England, screaming to be released.
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“I’ll sing! Ivan! I’ll sing! Please, leave him go!”
Russia didn’t respond.
England closed his eyes and curled into a ball, listening to Canada’s shrieks and Russia’s moans. He sobbed loudly to himself, and screamed for Russia to stop.
But then Canada’s yells grew quieter, and finally stopped completely after a bit. They were replaced by pleasured groans and shouts of:
“Fuck! Fuck me! Faster! Faster!”
England’s eyes burned as tears pooled behind closed lids.
“Je t’aime Canada. Je t’aime.”
His whispered words were obscured by the screams of passion emanating from the bodies next to him. Russia could torture him like no other, twisting his heart with his large hands.
In an effort to drown out the noise, he sang loudly and tonelessly to himself. A song that he’d been taught in his youth.
“'Ô ai fel yna rwyt ti'n darparu? Cei gweirio'th gwely ar bigau'r drain.
Oni choeli 'ngeiria bydd chwerw'r chwara os mentri gyda'r bachgen maen.”
Russia always got what he wanted.
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I guess that's what comes of me being British and watching satirical news shows... ^^'
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I'm beginning to print off stories to re-read later, and thats what I'm doing with this one.
Poor England and Canada T__T, but this story is delicious abuse at the same time.
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Ivan's Song: Dark Eyes (Russian: Очи чёрные, Ochi chyornye; English translation: Black Eyes; French translation: Les yeux noirs)
Matthew's Song: Alouette (English: Skylark (I think...))
Arthur's First Song: My Lodging It Is On The Cold Ground
Arthur's Second Song: Bachgen Maen (English: Can be translated to either 'The Slender Lad' or 'The Stone Boy')
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Oh god. I don't know what to say, except that this story seriously made the remainder of my month. I never expected anything nearly as epic as this story, but hooly fuck, I'm so happy! The UKxCanada stuff going on was depressing and sweet in their loyalty to one another, and baaaww...I loved it. Free interwebs for you, ect, ect.
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What is this?
“'Ô ai fel yna rwyt ti'n darparu? Cei gweirio'th gwely ar bigau'r drain.
Oni choeli 'ngeiria bydd chwerw'r chwara os mentri gyda'r bachgen maen.”
Sorry, but I'm having the hardest time translating it. What is it?
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Authoress can translate it for you though.
“'Ô ai fel yna rwyt ti'n darparu? Cei gweirio'th gwely ar bigau'r drain.
Oni choeli 'ngeiria bydd chwerw'r chwara os mentri gyda'r bachgen maen.”
"Oh is that how you're going to be then? Then you can go make your bed on nails.
But hear my words, the laughter will turn to tears if you go with that stone boy."
That's just Authoresses version of the translation though. There's a lot of ways the words could be taken, and Authoress has never been a very good translator.
Also, there's two idioms there that I changed.
Wneud dy welu ar brigau'r drain = Make your bed on thorn branches
Chwerw'r chwara = Bitter the play
I changed them into the English equivilents instead.
I hope that helps at all.
Authoress is sorry for her bad translation skills.
Note:
Os mae yna unrhywun arall yn darllen hon, sy'n siarad Cymraeg rhygl (dwi yn... Ond... Wel... Dwi'm mor dda ynddo...) odw i 'di cyfiaethu fe'n iawn? Dwi'm ise striwo'r gân o gwbl! Dwi'n CARU'r gân yma <3
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