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.
Austria can’t remember a time when the room has been silent while he’s been sitting in front of his piano, but there’s silence today. He strokes the keys like one might stroke a dying pet, sighing from the very bottom of his heart.
He tries to play, something insultingly simple for someone of his skill. His fingers fumble. The notes sound sour.
“Out of touch, are you?”
Austria looks up in surprise. He didn’t hear anyone coming in, but then he has been rather lost in his own thoughts. “I just…I can’t seem to play today, Arthur.”
“I suppose you’ve been too busy causing trouble to practice.”
“Oh. Francis. Is there…do you two need something?”
Austria looks wistfully at his piano, almost willing it to speak to him, for him. England and France look serious. He knows he’s about to hear news he won’t like.
“The thing is, Roderich, we decided, we have to take control of you,” France said.
“W-What?” Austria looks at them in puzzlement, his hand touching the polished wood of the piano, seeking comfort. “What are you saying?” He is the very picture of a man defeated, looking up at them with broken eyes.
“You made life very difficult for us against Ludwig,” England reminds him with a frosty glare. Austria wilts beneath it, both of his hands on the piano wood now.
“But he made me. I couldn’t go against him. You know that.” They stare at him, gazes hard. Austria stands, one hand slamming down to make the piano roar. “Don’t you think I suffered enough? I lost Franz! I lost Elisaveta! Do you know how that feels?”
“Do you know how many soldiers I lost? Thousands. Thousands of thousands. And you helped!” England snapped back. “Anyway, that’s how it is, Roderich. We’re taking control of you. Me, Francis and Alfred, we decided.”
“You can’t,” Austria tells him, without any authority in his voice. It’s only a little short of a plea. He backs away from them as they advance, forced to abandon his piano and travel back over the huge rug that Hungary had loved so dearly…
“Don’t do this,” He tries again but they keep coming. England reaches him first, marching him back and shoving him against the wall, kissing him roughly. He seems perfectly willing and able to make a kiss out of nothing; Austria closes his eyes tightly and keeps his mouth shut, afraid but still with his dignity in tact. England eventually tires of his one-sided kiss and stands back.
“Won’t he co-operate?”
America’s strange drawl - when did he arrive? Austria has no idea, but he knows that America is as unfeeling as England, taking his turn at molesting Austria’s body with his own, grinning at him. And then France, with no words but a sickening smile, gently pushes America away and descends on Austria’s lips.
His tongue is like a knife, prying the lips open and testing the teeth clenched beneath. “Roderich, you might as well make this easy on yourself…” He says softly, with enough menace to make Austria shiver.
“I won’t-!” He opens his mouth just enough for France to force his tongue inside, and for a second he feels the wicked slug thrust into his mouth before he bites instinctively. France jerks away like he’s been scalded, cursing vividly in his own language.
“He is most certainly not co-operating, Alfred. How to ensure that he does?”
“I have a few ideas.” England’s voice is even, but his eyes are terrifying and his ‘ideas’ couldn’t be more obvious as he licks his lips. Austria looks for a way out, but the three of them are surrounding him like a wolf pack.
They look as if they want nothing less than blood.
Austria knows that they wouldn’t hesitate to spill it.
Reply
“I’m afraid you can’t be trusted any more, Roderich,” England tells him, his hands slipping open the buttons of Austria’s shirt. Austria can’t even raise his hands to stop him. He can’t do anything, powerless and drained. This is inevitable, and he is so tired of fighting.
They undress him, stand him upright and naked in the middle of the room. He feels skinny and pale under their appraising looks, his arms wrapping uncomfortably around his body, ashamed.
He isn’t worth taking. But he knows they’ll take him all the same.
England approaches him first, kissing his tight lips before guiding him down onto the floor. It’s been many years since a man touched Austria - because of Hungary, Hungary - and it hurts. He cries as England pulls his head back by the hair and fucks him like a dog, his glasses falling away to clatter over by America’s feet.
He wishes he could say something. He wishes he could make them stop. But there are three of them, so powerful, and he is so alone. No more Elisaveta. No more alliance. He sobs quietly as England growls obscenities in his ear, and flops bonelessly to the ground when England comes and finally leaves him alone.
Of course, the others want their turn; soon America is picking him up, repositioning him, laying him flat on his back and hooking his legs up over his shoulders, thrusting deep inside him and making him scream hoarsely, stiffening like a corpse. America is huge, and he seems to like how much he’s hurting him. Austria cries harder, tears running down the sides of his face to land in his hair and ears. He rocks with every sharp movement of America’s hips, his skin scraping the rug uncomfortably. It’s the least of his problems; something is torn inside of him - it hurts unimaginably - but even the blood doesn’t make them stop.
Funny, he’d thought that was all they’d want.
America finishes with him and leaves him lying on his back, his arms crossing his body. He rolls onto his side, trying to cover himself up, but France is there as well, pulling him open, devouring him with his eyes alone. France pulls him into his lap, mocking him with a soft kiss before moving Austria onto his cock.
It hurts so much that Austria can’t even scream - his eyes roll and he hisses, flopping against France’s body like so much dead weight. He certainly feels dead, or somewhere close to that. He jerks like a ragged puppet, blind without his glasses and lost without his empire, trying not to die of fear and pain as France abuses his body.
France comes, and it stings. He tries to crawl towards his glasses when he’s released but his wrists give and he falls onto his front, sobbing desperately. No-one speaks, but footsteps start to shuffle across the rug. He can’t even find it in himself to be glad that they’re going away. He hears the sound of his glasses crunching under a careless boot.
If he had the strength he would cry harder, but he is too drained, too tired, too hurt, lying in the middle of Hungary’s rug and weeping against his fragile arms.
At length he crawls far enough to reach his piano, standing on shaking legs and supporting himself on it like a toddler learning to walk, collapsing over it. It clangs, speaking to him of anger and fear. He nods, and sits down to play again.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment