Some notes before the fic...
anonymous
March 16 2009, 17:37:48 UTC
Some notes before you read: I have very little knowledge of the Cold War save the Non-Aligned Movement (which really was a place for people not wanting to get involved) and the Détente that I happened to study in my International Relations class. So this fic is based on research off Wikipedia, which isn’t all that reliable, I know. But this is an AU, so I’m not all that concerned about accuracy of detail. Secondly, I based the fic on the events of the Soviet War with Afghanistan (1979-1989). Though I had a choice between this, Vietnam War and Korea War, but I picked the one closest to home for me. The one that affected my country the most, anyway. Not that this has anything to do with the story, but it made it easier to plot. According to the prompt, there’s yandere!Russia, so violence, dub-con (though the consent is forced, it is not exactly nonconsensual) and um, angst. Please enjoy.
I'm writing more, but it's already gotten over 2K words, so I thought I'd post. My neck hurts anyway. >.>; and the fic's going to be looooong. Please
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Retributions (Russia/America, England/America--some Russia/England?) [Part 1]
anonymous
March 16 2009, 17:39:21 UTC
The first thought he had upon waking up was exactly how thirsty he was. His eyes were stuck together because of dryness and his body felt oddly constricted. He squinted his eyes and cracked them open, not heeding to the slight burn of skin pulling. It took a few seconds before the scene before him became clear, as dim as the room was. He was standing upright, he gathered, tied to a wall by his hands and feet. The room had poor lighting and every open surface was buried under a few inches of dirt; the room itself made out of mud bricks, and coloured with cheap - now off-white - plaster.
The main source of light in the room was an overhead bulb that flickered and burned weakly, casting a sickly pale glow, and there was a window too, but it was carefully barred and secured. Through the iron netting that covered the window, he could see that it was near evening-but where exactly, he could not say. He pulled his eyes away from the window and continued surveying the room, hoping to get a clue
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Re: Retributions (Russia/America, England/America--some Russia/England?) [Part 1]
anonymous
March 16 2009, 17:49:15 UTC
HTML fail. Nooooooooooooooo!
After a tense meeting, as was the norm with China nowadays-clad in stiff uniform, hair tied securely behind, and he remembered the feel of them on his fingers, the touch of that skin, but knew very well that that China did not exist anymore, not as he was now, dyed in red-he was making his way back home, until
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His parched throat went drier as the familiar features manifested themselves in the uneven patches of illumination, that crooked smile and those eyes-those damned eyes that spoke of nothing but innocence and wonder and hid thousands of cruelties behind. Dirty blond hair framed the man’s round face, matting to his forehead in clumps and his face was streaked with mud. He had also lost weight because the large coat just seemed to hang over his shoulders. It brought a sick satisfaction to his gut to see the other not doing so well
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He was not expecting that punch. It hit him squarely in the jaw, loosening a tooth or two and smacked his head against the wall behind him. Dots filled his vision as a new swelling formed on the back of his head.
“Lying is bad, England,” Russia chided him, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he reached out to cup his jaw, fingering the bruise he had just created there and England saw how torn his fingers were, too and despite everything, felt pity swell somewhere in his chest for a split-second. Russia was a mess. And they-he and America-were the ones who landed him in it. It was Russia's fault to begin with, though. Yet, England felt that maybe it wasn’t so much Russia's fault this time around. Just maybe.
Those fingers shook as they ghosted over England's clammy skin and the violet eyes clouded over with pain and sorrow. “Why?” he asked in a miserable voice. “Why did you do these things to me, England? Why are you helping these-these people against me. I’m not fighting you, am I? I didn’t even do anything this time. They asked
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Russia's trademark faucet, a long-sharp knife, and a whip were removed from the trunk and then Russia locked and pushed it back under the bed again. Cradling them carefully into his arms, Russia stood up and dragged the stool with his other hand until he was close enough. After depositing his burden on the stool, he looked back at England, smiling so gently that no one could have guessed what he was about to do. England could guess though, because he was right there, and on the other side of it
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When England came to again, there hadn’t been a single change in his position. His physical condition, however, had deteriorated by several degrees. Halfway through-as Russia called it-the preparation, he had lost consciousness, unable to take the pain. The man’s hands had been relentless, striking with measured force-mathematically accurate, not hard enough to break him completely and yet not holding back either. Never hitting the vital areas and never hitting twice at the same place unless it was with another device of his
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Russia's smile only widened as he grabbed his cheeks with his fingers, scratching the bruises he’d made earlier-and it hurt-and forced open his mouth. “Drink,” the taller nation murmured and something cold and wet trickled down his throat. He coughed and sputtered, wincing as it spilled over his skin and drenched his clothes.
“Shit-what the fu-mmph-” he struggled to breathe as water-it was water-Russia was giving him water, oh God-as the entire jar was upturned and emptied into his mouth. Then Russia sealed their lips together and held him until water spurted out of England's nose, burning his nostrils and eyes
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“America-kun,” Russia's cloyingly sweet voice halted his steps. “Please don’t go there…yet.” America remained frozen for a few seconds, eyes transfixed on England's form, and then his face twisted. Without any warning, he about-faced on his heel and pounced on Russia-or attempted to, because Russia held up the Makarov right between his eyes. A low growl escaped America’s throat, face contorting in anger and making him look like some sort of trapped wild beast.
“You used him first, America-kun,” Russia pointed out and pushed him back until he sat into the chair again. “Right, so like I was saying before you interrupted me so rudely, you like England enough if you come here into the middle of nowhere-alone, unless you didn’t keep your word and then I’ll have to kill you both right here, consequences be damned-so, I’ll release him and let you take him away, on one condition
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“No, comrade, it’s I who is going to do the fucking around here. This is one fight you will not win. I will not allow you to win.” The pressure on America’s chest increased steadily until the man screamed, thrashed and tried to throw him off despite the gun pointing at him
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SUPER BONUS POINTS for dirty talking and america trying to be noble and save england
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I'm writing more, but it's already gotten over 2K words, so I thought I'd post. My neck hurts anyway. >.>; and the fic's going to be looooong. Please ( ... )
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The main source of light in the room was an overhead bulb that flickered and burned weakly, casting a sickly pale glow, and there was a window too, but it was carefully barred and secured. Through the iron netting that covered the window, he could see that it was near evening-but where exactly, he could not say. He pulled his eyes away from the window and continued surveying the room, hoping to get a clue ( ... )
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After a tense meeting, as was the norm with China nowadays-clad in stiff uniform, hair tied securely behind, and he remembered the feel of them on his fingers, the touch of that skin, but knew very well that that China did not exist anymore, not as he was now, dyed in red-he was making his way back home, until ( ... )
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“Lying is bad, England,” Russia chided him, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he reached out to cup his jaw, fingering the bruise he had just created there and England saw how torn his fingers were, too and despite everything, felt pity swell somewhere in his chest for a split-second. Russia was a mess. And they-he and America-were the ones who landed him in it. It was Russia's fault to begin with, though. Yet, England felt that maybe it wasn’t so much Russia's fault this time around. Just maybe.
Those fingers shook as they ghosted over England's clammy skin and the violet eyes clouded over with pain and sorrow. “Why?” he asked in a miserable voice. “Why did you do these things to me, England? Why are you helping these-these people against me. I’m not fighting you, am I? I didn’t even do anything this time. They asked ( ... )
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typical tsundere!england, not knowing that he IS america's weakness.
OMG, I CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE!especially the sexings I'm drooling...
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“Shit-what the fu-mmph-” he struggled to breathe as water-it was water-Russia was giving him water, oh God-as the entire jar was upturned and emptied into his mouth. Then Russia sealed their lips together and held him until water spurted out of England's nose, burning his nostrils and eyes ( ... )
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and spellchecking
and other things fic related.
p.s.
THIS IS SO HOT
*continues reading*
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“What the fuck did you do to him ( ... )
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