In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
axis powers
hetalia kink meme
VIEW THIS PART ON DREAMWIDTH
Masterlist of kink memes | Masterlist of Kinks
Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
STOP! DO NOT REQUEST HERE!
NEW REQUESTS GO IN THE MOST RECENT PART!
New fills for this part go HERE .
Get information at the News Post HERE.
He is determined not to fail this time, not to let his words mix together on the way to his mouth, not to trip over them and lose this opportunity, perhaps the only one he will ever get, and he spends so much time outlining what he wants to say, and memorising every word of it, that he does fail.
He fails to take in his surroundings, his opposition, and he fails to realise that he's walked directly into the lion's jaws.
His eyes are cast downward, and his hair obscures his face, the ends almost curling around his chin. He doesn't look up until he absolutely has to, until his words are already half-spoken in a language he does not use, ever, in this place, but that feels more perfect than anything else.
"Laba diena."
He meets Russia's wild gaze, and his heart stutters frantically. His mouth is twisted into a depraved, desperate smile, more painful than anything Lithuania can remember seeing, and on the table in front of him rests an empty bottle, and a gun.
"Liet?" Russia asks, and there is something wrong with his voice. "Did you see the courtyard? The blood?"
He stands frozen in place as Russia reaches out with unsteady fingers to stroke the barrel of the gun, inadvertently sending the bottle crashing to the ground. It does not break, but Lithuania thinks that he might, and he flinches hard.
In Russia's voice, in everything about him, Lithuania had always found surety, surety of strength and of purpose. He was unyielding as cold iron, unbreakable even, but now he finds that even Russia can be pushed past his melting point, until he is soft and malleable, brittle.
But no less dangerous.
"Do you think that I would spare you, my little Lithuania?"
"Russia?" He doesn't mean for it to be a question, but it is, and Lithuania is clinging to the tatters of the script he prepared, completely undone by the smile than seems unable to leave Russia's face.
Russia pushes himself laboriously to his feet, clutching the gun to his chest as though it were a blanket, and stumbling only slightly as he aims it at Lithuania's heart.
"Put t-that d-d-down." He takes a step back, and Russia advances.
"Everyone is against me. Don't you see? The people. The people," Russia drops the gun suddenly, and Lithuania shudders in relief or in dread, he knows not which, but Russia isn't finished, "Everyone hate me. Do you know what it feels like to be hated, Lithuania?"
He swallows. Russia stumbles into him, and Lithuania is consumed by his arms, by the weight of him, pressing Lithuania hard against the wall. "I could show you. You would like that, wouldn't you?" Russia's embrace nearly crushes him. "Liet?"
"Prašom," he pleads sharply, the sound muffled by Russia's scarf.
He feels the world go sideways, and his feet leave the ground, and it takes him several seconds to realise that Russia has flung him across the room.
His head swims as he sits up, and his hair is falling into his eyes, blocking his vision until he can push it aside. Russia looms over him, laughing in a way that is dark and twisted, and so deeply, fundamentally wrong that Lithuania wants nothing more than to hide from it forever.
Russia kicks him in the stomach violently, and Lithuania moans around the horrible pain. "Speaking to me in that peasant language," Russia continues to laugh.
He feels anger flare in his chest, deeper and warmer than the pain from Russia's assault, and he struggles to his feet. His hands ball themselves into fists. "It's mine. It's my language, and I'll use it if I want to."
Russia takes a step back, as though Lithuania had physically attacked him, and his eyes widen. Lithuania thinks that, for a brief moment, he can see the clarity of his Russia, of the nation that ruled him so absolutely, but it is gone in seconds, clouded over by drink and madness.
Between them the divide sharpens. Lithuania is more scared than he has been in decades.
His fists shake, almost imperceptibly, but it's enough to break the careful balance. It's enough to draw attention to himself, and Russia wastes no time.
He weaves forward, and Lithuania sees his fist, aimed at his temple, before he passes out.
Reply
His voice rises in a choked cry.
He tugs at the bonds binding his arms, then tries his legs, but everything holds firm. He is on a bed, covered with sheets of some low-grade material. It scratches at his thighs uncomfortably.
He cries, softly, "Padėkite!"
"When you speak like a dog, who will help? The other dogs?" Russia glares at him through red-rimmed eyes, out of the darkness, appearing silently as a ghost.
"Let me go! Please, let me go," Lithuania begs.
"Liet," Russia cajoles softly, close enough now that he catches sight of the short, many-tailed whip in Russia's hands, "Don't you love me?"
He screams.
Russia brings the whip down lightning fast over his stomach. He screams again, louder and infinitely more shocked, and then the whip is coming down again, and again.
He feels each strike like its own, separate lifetime. Russia does not even have enough mercy to pause between them, and he never catches his breath, until he is hyperventilating. His stomach is a field of intersecting stripes of pain, each one as distinct and horrible as the next.
Blood spots pool up in the overlapping areas, and Lithuania's body shakes of its own accord.
"Please stop. P-please," he moans.
"You don't like it? But you look so beautiful like this, Liet." Russia does stop, though, dropping the whip to the floor and settling onto the bed, stretching out next to Lithuania's prone body as a lover would.
He blinks sudden tears from his eyes, surprised and angry with himself that they come now, after the torture has stopped. Russia seems to blink into him, and the action is so childish, so fragile.
Had Russia ever truly been strong?
"Liet," Russia says, sighs almost, and settles his hand on Lithuania's wounded stomach.
He screams again. Russia seems honestly shocked by his reaction, but he does not remove his hand. His calluses catch on his open skin, aggravating it horribly.
Russia hums, something familiar, a nursery rhyme from centuries past.
Lithuania sobs as quietly as he can, closing his eyes to stave off his tears. He wants to go home, so very, very badly wants to forget all of this, to turn back the clock and make things right.
He opens his eyes reflexively when Russia laces his fingers into his hair, brushing it away from his face, finding and removing hidden tangles. It makes him wince, but the action itself is deceptively kind.
"L-let me go," he pleads.
"But then you'll leave," Russia tells him, "And I will be alone."
"We're so c-close, t-though." He swallows. Russia's fingers tighten on his scalp. "W-we'll always be t-together."
"Yes," Russia muses. "That is true, isn't it?"
"J-just w-wanted a-a a piece of m-myself back," Lithuania mumbles as the pain and stress become too much, and he passes out for the second time, Russia still petting his hair as if he were a child.
Reply
Lithuania uncurls himself slowly, carefully, hissing silently in pain as his scabs pull. He feels some of them open and begin to bleed sluggishly.
He has a moment of irrational worry about staining the sheets.
Russia seems to know the exact moment he wakes up, because within minutes he is walking, no, skipping out of the darkness and into the small circle of candlelight that barely illuminates the bed.
"Did you sleep well?" Russia asks him, and Lithuania's throat closes up so that he cannot answer.
He stares down at the sheets, for some reason - torture, it was the torture, of course it was - unable to meet Russia's eyes. He nods his head, up and down, like a marionette.
Russia pats him on the shoulder. "Do you still wish to leave me?"
Lithuania shudders, wishing he could pull his arms around himself, bury his face in them. "I would like to see my people," he answers, quiet and desperate.
He feels the pressure increase on his shoulder momentarily, and then pull away altogether. Russia stands and circles him, passing out of Lithuania's range of view.
"Your people like you. Of course they do," Russia mutters, petulant as a scorned child, "Lithuania is too cute not to like. Why," Russia pauses, and Lithuania feels a thousand awful emotions fill the silence, "Why do they hate me, Liet?"
"T-they," Lithuania stutters, "They don't. They're just upset."
Russia is in front of him again, and as Lithuania stares into his deep eyes, red from tears, bruised from insomnia, dilated from the vodka who's smell is ever-present, he feels nothing but pity, nothing but a desperate wish that things were better for both of them.
He knows he can never be the one to put Russia back together, never heal the psychological wounds that started him on this terrifying path of insanity, but in that second, he wishes it were possible.
His eyes close, partly so that he does not have to stare any longer into those eyes, and partly so that he cannot see, only feel, himself doing what he does next.
Russia's lips are wet like melting snow, and he kisses innocently now.
Lithuania remembers how he tugged Lithuania against him in the seventeenth century, business-like and matter-of-fact. Lithuania was Russia's.
He is not so sure now.
Russia kisses him again and again, taking and tasting his mouth as if it could give him back everything he lost, but of course it isn't that simple, and Lithuania cries freshly when Russia grows aggravated and demanding.
He wants to know why this isn't working.
Why?
Why isn't Lithuania everything Russia wants?
He keeps his mouth closed, doesn't even bother to beg Russia to stop when he moves away from Lithuania's mouth, lower.
He screams when Russia enters him without preparation. He knows those wounds, not the ones on his stomach, will be truly horrific, but there isn't anything he can do.
Russia frees his hands when he finishes, moving immediately to the vodka beside the bed, and drinking straight from the bottle. "Now you can hate me too," he says generously, happily, even. His words are already beginning to slur.
Lithuania gathers his clothing to his chest, limping from the room, and prays that Russia speaks the truth.
Reply
Russia's last line and Liet's response are particularly interesting. I love the contrast between pity/sympathy and hatred.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment