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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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.
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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.
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Russia's last line and Liet's response are particularly interesting. I love the contrast between pity/sympathy and hatred.
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