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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Russia is still giggling, even as he lunges and catches the pot. His hand must burn to hold it, but he takes a second to cradle it, before he stands and rounds the table. He sets it on the side bar as he walks, and then he settles down beside China’s chair. Even kneeling, Russia is huge. He looks up at China from around China’s shoulder, smiling blithely at him, reaching up and taking one of his hands.
China snatches his hand back, but Russia persists, grabbing it and holding it on the verge of too-tight, thumb running over the back of China’s knuckles.
“You were having love of me, once,” Russia whispers. He presses his lips to China’s knuckles, and China cannot, will not, say the words that linger on his tongue like a curse-that, truthfully, he has never stopped loving the boy kneeling at his feet, that he misses the soft, easy laughter Russia had before he went mad, and he even misses the dark, twisted man he has become, the man that betrayed him and made his people hate him.
Russia turns China’s hand gently over, and the kiss moves from his knuckles to the palm of his hand, to his wrist, and Russia pushes his sleeve up his arm to trail kisses over tender flesh.
And China supposes: when the world looks down on you, when the others think you are a monster, then it only makes sense to lie with another who shares the same fate. China slides his arm from Russia’s grip, and as the pale Eurasian looks up at him, China bends until their brows touch.
“I have been,” China begins, soft and conspiratorial; he bites out, “hurt.” Russia lifts his arms and wraps them around China, touching the scars he knows to be on his back through his shirt.
“I know,” Russia whispers back, tracing the scar over China’s spine. It is a more soothing than any other touch has been, since he got it. It makes him shiver, and his eyes slide shut as he sighs out his breath. Russia murmurs, barely a breath, “I have been hurting you as well. Mne ochen' zhal'.”
China cannot say which of them moves first, only that when their lips touch, it is almost virginal and chaste. China remembers their first kiss, hundreds of years ago. It was not even a kiss like this, but a kiss like a grandfather gives to his favorite grandson, pressed to Russia’s brow as he bathed the child when he was still a series of tribes across the tundra.
Russia touches his face, sighing into the kiss, tilting his head, and China remembers when they changed the first time. China remembers the young man he was, the kisses they shared when Russia would visit him as he became an Empire, still a wild child, and China the father made to tame the beast in the growing boy. Kisses on the cheek and nothing more than that, though China had burned then, ached.
When China opens his mouth to Russia, he remembers the first of their true kisses. He remembers the opium in his veins, and the feeling of being torn apart, but how he had smiled and laughed. They had been there-Portugal and France and England, America looking on with contempt, and Russia, still looking so young. He remembered, intermittently, Germany, Korea, Japan, the loss of Hong Kong, and always, always Russia. A comfort and balm, with sweet, cold-chapped lips and shaking hands as he’d gone mad.
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Russia takes his fingers and kisses them. They tumble back together on the floor of the dinning room, wriggling out of their clothing and pressing their flesh together. China pushes the chair away from him before either of them can hurt themselves or each other. Russia kisses his collarbone, and whispers nothingness.
They have nothing for it. Russia sucks on his own fingers a moment, before pressing, pleading for it. China closes his eyes, takes the burn of it as a sign that he can still feel much of anything any longer, and grips Russia’s shoulders like he’s a lifeline.
For a moment, China wonders how many times this make. He is old, he realizes, and Russia is young even if he has lines on his face. He wonders how many times they have been like this, and cannot come up with a number.
Russia does not slick himself, just presses and presses and it is a miserable hurt, but China knows that Russia is trying to be gentle.
“Yìfēng,” China whispered, gripping Russia’s hair with one hand and scraping his nails over Russia’s shoulder blades with the other. “Move. Move, do it.”
“You are sure?”
“Shì.”
Everything is slow and painful at first, and China bites his lip and groans, waiting for it to pass. He digs his nails into Russia’s skin, until Russia is groaning and panting and biting out words China doesn’t understand any more. All he can decipher of the litany Russia whispers is ljubov’ and plotnyj, and Jao, which he remembers is how Russia says his name.
But the pain passes, slowly at first, but quickly over taken by the burning pleasure in his veins. Russia pens him in with his arms, and China scrapes his nails down Russia’s side, watching him arch, feeling him throb inside him. Everything is white hot and focused on the cool of the ground beneath his shoulders and hips, and on where Russia’s body touches his, points like on the map, much more dense and personal than anyone would care to speak of or admit to.
He touches Russia’s face, drags him close, and whispers against his lips, “Wǒ ài nǐ.”
Russia’s face is still, stoic, and China squeezes his eyes shut as Russia whispers back, “Ja znaju. Ja ljublju tebja tozhe.”
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“Ja tebja ljublju,” Russian murmured against China’s throat, and repeated it until his voice was rough and China had tears spilling down his cheek with the rapture of the words. “Nikogda ne zabudu. Ja zdes’ dlja vas. Ja tebja ljublju.”
China opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He throbbed between them, squeezed Russia tight with arms and body, until Russia was keening against his chest like a wounded thing, throbbing inside him. Everything felt blissfully warm and comfortable, as he slumped into Russia’s arms, and then they slid together onto the floor.
The floor of his dining room.
The dining room where his boss was going to be the next day.
China swore-quite impressively, if the face Russia made was any indication-and pushed at Russia’s shoulders.
“Get off, I need to clean the room. Good grief, we made a mess, and now I have to clean and-”
“Get Tibet to be doing it,” Russia whispered, and pillowed back down onto China’s shoulder.
“Ivan!”
“Jao,” Russia whispered, apparently falling asleep now. “Does this mean we are being friendly again?”
“I-.” China chewed on his lip a moment, and found that he was stroking Russia’s hair like a child’s. He kissed Russia’s brow, and murmured, “I suppose so.”
“Horoshij,” Russia mumbled, and hummed as he nuzzled China’s chest. “I have always been liking your home.”
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*brb going to go never read Russia/Chinese history the same way again*
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But what I loved the most were China's memories of a young Russia. I believe it's the first time I've seen that explored on a fic, so thumbs up for incorporating such an aspect to the story.
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PS: the Mandarin was fine. ;D
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my favourite part was probably the "And China supposes: when the world looks down on you, when the others think you are a monster, then it only makes sense to lie with another who shares the same fate." line.
the ending was adorable as well.
thank you for such a wonderful fic! *O*
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Also I fail at finding an online translator for romanized Russian, can anon tell me what Ivan is saying in part 5?
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for the love of sweet mama jesus, why so damn EPIC?!
you're gonna make me die. for serial.
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Author!Anon, I can't tell you how hawt this was... Here, have my first-born ^^
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