In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
axis powers
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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The blow startles him more than hurts him at first, making him stumble backwards. He raises a hand to his cheek, staring at the other who had hit him. America is shaking in anger, looking at him like something small and slimy on the bottom of a formerly-clean shoe. “You dare to defy me?” he asked quietly. He pauses for a second as it looks like his own words have startled him, as though giving him a sense of déjà vu, but the expression passes as Cuba spits at his feet. “Mierda, America, you can’t treat me like trash!” Two more blows fall across his face in quick succession, making him whimper and stumble further back until he hits a wall. The knee to his stomach knocks the air out of him easily. Really he’s never been a fighter.
“You fucking commie bastard,” snarls the voice in his ear as he’s hauled back upright by the dreadlocks. “You think I wouldn’t notice you switching sides like that?” The Caribbean nation starts to shake his head in denial of the accusation, but a fist smashes into his eye with dead accuracy, snapping his head back into the wall. “Don’t deny it!” America shouts, throwing him to the ground again. His arms are wrenched behind his back again, despite his struggles, and he can feel the too-tight bite of metal handcuffs and knows this isn’t going to be pretty. “I’m not a communist!” he manages, before another sharp blow to the same eye silences him with a cry of pain.
Hands are fumbling with his belt again, sliding his pants down; he’s being bent over crudely on the floor, and the fact that this makes him hard is like a shard of ice in his gut. He kicks out sloppily behind himself, ending up only with his face on the floor as a pair of fingers thrust inside him with barely any lubrication. “N-no soy comunista,” he moans again, but then his breath is lost in a scream as he’s being roughly invaded. Alfred is shouting something above him, but all he can hear is his own keening as he’s bucked by the fierce, angry thrusts.
Considering how easily he was turned on before, it doesn’t take long before his stomach is filled with molten electricity and he finds himself uncontrollably arching up to meet the thrusts. He hates it, he hates America, hates how he can bring him so low so easily, hates his pretension and arrogant lies. He realizes he’s crying silently as his hair is yanked hard enough to loosen several clumps, tears stinging his swelling face, and he struggles helplessly against his own and the other’s pleasure. At least, until his face is introduced to the floor firmly several times, stunning him and leaving limp and choking slightly on tears and blood and mucus. As usual, America climaxes and Cuba doesn’t.
The Caribbean nation shifts a little, anticipating that he’ll be released soon, but instead what breath he has is smashed out of him with a kick to the ribs. “Am-merica,” he stutters, but a hand on the scruff of his shirt is yanking him up and dragging him. He’s so dizzy and disoriented he doesn’t even know where he’s being taken, stumblingly, held up only by America’s monster strength; then he’s falling, and something hard and flat and unyielding smashes into his chest. The table, he realizes. He’s bent over the table. He tries to move, to straighten up, but a hand in the small of his back keeps him down.
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Quick as blinking, America is back behind him again, pressing his stomach hard down onto the table’s edge. Cuba yelps and jerks a little instinctively as something cold and metallic presses against his thigh, but it just traces burningly up until it’s in line with his entrance. His eyes widen, and he finds his words enough to cry “No!” but America just speaks over him. “Well, I can’t oblige you by being that commie faggot, but I can give you a pipe up your ass.” Cuba starts to struggle again, metal cuffs cutting into his abused wrists, but those hands don’t budge an inch.
Fortunately he is somewhat lubricated by America’s come and, he suspects, his own blood by this point, so when the metal presses inside him it only sort of hurts. The metal is too cold, making his thighs quiver, and the other’s chuckle as he squirms away from it makes him want to throw up. It impales him deeper and deeper, barely pausing to let him adjust, until finally he lets out a dry sob and bucks back against it, desperate to end this torment. Then it stops moving completely.
“Please,” he moans hoarsely, but America just smacks him on the ass, saying “No, you don’t get to come,” and Cuba can hear the superior sneer in his voice. There’s a ripping sound, then something - tape? - is pressed to his thighs and around the pole. He shifts his hips a little, confirming that America has taped the object into him. He growls a little, legs giving out and leaving him collapsed on the table’s surface. America laughs behind him, surprisingly innocent, like a boy who’s pulled off a good prank.
The footsteps behind him are retreating. No, hijo de puta, you would not dare, he thinks with a furious wriggle. But America’s laugh is drifting away behind him. “Let whoever finds you like that take care of the mess,” he taunts, and then the door is opening and closing and he’s gone. Cuba is left alone, handcuffed and bent over the table with his pants around his knees and a piece of metal stuck immovably up his ass, one eye swelling shut. “Te odio, America,” he whimpers into the silence.
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