If You'd Kill For Them, They're Family [1]
Title: If You'd Kill For Them, They're Family - Part 1
Originally posted: 2/8/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,600 words.
Characters/Pairings: N.Italy, Russia. Implied Germany/Italy.
Premise: Russia was partly responsible for the partitioning of Germany. You don't fuck with an Italian's famiglia. That's right: Mafiatalia.
Time period: 1953
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 2/10, but it's the "what the fuck was that?" kind of funny.
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 8/10
Would I like it?: It's basically porn for that bit of the venn diagram where Hetalia fans and Godfather fans intersect.
Russia was just on his way home. His boots crunched through a shell of fresh and brittle snow as he trudged from the Kremlin to his house along silent Moscow streets. A match flare drew his eye as he passed through the murk between two distant streetlamps. He stopped and squinted into the darkness.
Italy leaned in the mouth of an alleyway. He didn't glance at Russia. He flicked his spent match into the snow and raised a cigar to his lips. He took a thoughtful drag, head bent, a hand cupped around the swirl of smoke. He didn't look like himself. He wore a sharp grey suit that made him look taller than normal. He must be cold, but he didn't shiver. Just stood, slouched, quietly smoking, snowflakes settling across his shoulders and on his long curl of hair, with a funny not-expression like he would have stood there in the deserted Moscow street forever.
He spoke up without looking towards Russia. "Hey, Russia. Can I, um, can I talk to you for a minute?"
That soft, dazed voice, same as ever--how could he suspect anything from that voice? He came towards Italy, already curious. "You haven't visited me in a long time, comrade--"
He saw Italy nod to someone over his shoulder as he drew close. Too late, he spun--and everything went dark as a sack closed around his face. He put up a fight, not that it mattered. Italy must have brought half a dozen goons with him.
"Just knock him out," Italy ordered. "And make sure to get the pipe off him, it's probably in his coat somewhere."
Something struck him in the back of the head. He hit the ground and lost track of time.
***
He opened his eyes. Felt like vomiting. Closed them again. Cold, something, concrete against his cheek. From this, Russia surmised that he was lying down. His head fucking hurt. He tried to touch it to feel if there was blood, and encountered a stubborn resistance. He tugged a few more times, frustrated, before he pieced together that his hands were tied together behind his back.
This was relevant to his interests. He blinked a few times and dredged up the last thing he could remember. If anything, it left him even more confused about his situation.
Italy?
Really?
"Mm? Are you awake, Russia?"
With a sick slosh of disorienting nausea, Russia heaved himself to his knees. By the time the walls stopped circling, Italy stood in front of him, backlit by the warehouse windows. What was with that suit? His silhouette could have been cut with a knife.
Russia made himself smile. "You're dead, fuckhead." His voice sounded slurred in his own ears.
Italy brought his cigar to his lips and took a drag. The burning paper illuminated a hurt expression. "Russia is always so mean," he lamented.
"Untie me now."
Italy's eyes widened. "Uaah, are you uncomfortable, Russia? Sorry!" he looked off to the side. "Untie Russia! He's supposed to be our guest! We should be nice!"
Dark figures converged from Russia's peripheral vision, and he felt them yank at the rope. His arms dropped forward, numb from shoulders to fingertips.
"Is that better? Are you cold?" Italy smiled, and it was that same idiot, happy smile he always had. "I had to take your coat, I hope that's okay--! I didn't know what Russia might be hiding in it. But you can have it back when you leave!"
"What do you think you're doing, shalava?" Russia growled.
"Ahh…? I just wanted to talk." he pouted. "These guys, they're just friends of mine. They can be a little, mm, you know, excitable. They were worried about me going to talk to Russia by myself, because Russia is so scary."
Russia didn't feel especially scary at the moment. He wasn't even sure he could stand. He hurt everywhere. Italy's 'friends' must have worked him over for a while after he lost consciousness. How the hell long had he been out? Still, he managed a bloody-toothed grin. "So send them out. We can be civilized, da?"
Italy looked thrilled by the suggestion. He nodded vigorously. "Mm, mm! I don't want Russia to be upset because of my friends. It's okay, you can all go now." He turned an encouraging look to his array of subordinates. Silently, they fell back and out of Russia's field of vision. He heard a door rattle open, and a few seconds later, roll shut.
Russia staggered to his feet and did his best to loom over little Italy. He worked his mouth for a few seconds, then spat blood on the floor between them. "What did you want to talk about?" he asked pleasantly.
Italy cringed. "Well, uhm, to be honest…um. I'm not very happy with you, right now. Or, um, lately."
Russia kept smiling, despite the crimson headache pounding behind his left eye. "Da? Why?"
Italy took a couple mincing steps forward, working his hands together. He looked down, that stupid curl falling into his eyes. "Well, uhm. It's sort of…personal?"
Russia leaned down to him, resting one hand heavily on Italy's shoulder. "Tell me your troubles," he coaxed. And keep running your idiot mouth until I get my balance back and I can break your teeth down your throat for--
"Well, um, you see, Russia…" Italy looked up at him with those big, soft, puppy brown eyes--
Russia couldn't quite remember what happened next. Italy had pivoted, and his elbow had come up sharply, and then Russia's head had snapped back and his nose made a hideous crunch. Blood poured into his mouth. He gagged and staggered back, nearly fell.
"It's just that it's all your fault," Italy finished.
Russia lurched forward in a rage. Italy danced neatly out of the way and drew a small, gleaming pistol from within his smart jacket. He gripped it by the barrel and slammed the grip into Russia's back, right above his right kidney.
"Tebe pizd'ets," Russia roared, his knee buckling. "I will break you with my bare--"
Italy made a soft, reproving sound: chk chk chk chk. "Mm, no, because Russia is busy with America right now." He planted a thousand dollar Salvatore Ferragamo shoe between Russia's shoulders and shoved him to the floor. He walked around him and kicked the other nation in the ribs. Dazed and bewildered, Russia curled up like a half-crushed centipede. "I think when we leave, we won't ever talk about this again, si? But it was really important to me that you know how very, ah, sad you have made me." He kicked Russia again. And again. There was a wet click from somewhere inside Russia's chest. He kicked him again.
Russia shrank back and coughed blood onto the concrete floor. "What--" he rasped. "What the fuck did I do to you?"
Italy sighed and crouched beside his head. He snarled his fingers into Russia's hair and lifted the other nation's ear to his mouth. "Germany was partitioned because of you," he whispered. "Russia took half of Germany away. And now, when he thinks I can't see, Germany looks so empty. He looks so sad." Italy's breath is wet and hot against Russia's neck. "Germany is like family to me. I hate it when mi famiglia is sad."
He slammed Russia's head into the floor. The world went white, then black, then red, then spun crazily before reaching an unsteady equilibrium.
"He--" Russia managed.
Italy cracked his head into the concrete again.
This was insane. In a fair fight, in any normal fight, Russia would crush this little idiot. There would be nothing left but a smear of grease on the pavement. But Italy didn't seem to have the most remote interest in 'fair.' Later, much later, Russia would decide that he felt some bizarre respect for Italy over that. Just then, he wanted to hurt the little shit more than he had ever wanted to hurt anyone in his life.
"It was his fault," Russia rasped. "He broke the treaty, he invaded--"
"I don't care!"
"He invaded me, he murdered my people--"
"I don't care!"
"France was just as responsible for having Germany partitioned--"
"Oh, I'm going to make time for France," Italy said, with hideous venom.
Russia tried to push the other man away, too dazed to do more than paw at him clumsily. "Germany, he brought everything on himself."
Italy snapped Russia's head into the floor one last time, and put out his cigar on Russia's face. Blood seeped across the concrete. He stood.
The last thing Russia remembered before he sank into icy unconsciousness for a long, long time was Italy, straightening the cuffs of his suit and holstering his Beretta. "You should remember that I could have killed you, tu figlio di puttana," he informed him. "Stay the fuck away from Germany. And don't even think about coming after Romano, either. Otherwise, next time, I'll fuck you with mia pistola before I pull the trigger."
Italy stepped on him as he walked over Russia towards the door. There was another sickening click of ribs cracking.
"Never, ever fuck with an Italian's famiglia."
All Russia could think through the sticky smear of pain was that this was the last thing he had ever expected.
Continue to Part 2.
Originally posted: 2/8/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,600 words.
Characters/Pairings: N.Italy, Russia. Implied Germany/Italy.
Premise: Russia was partly responsible for the partitioning of Germany. You don't fuck with an Italian's famiglia. That's right: Mafiatalia.
Time period: 1953
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 2/10, but it's the "what the fuck was that?" kind of funny.
Wrist slashiness: 0/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 8/10
Would I like it?: It's basically porn for that bit of the venn diagram where Hetalia fans and Godfather fans intersect.
Russia was just on his way home. His boots crunched through a shell of fresh and brittle snow as he trudged from the Kremlin to his house along silent Moscow streets. A match flare drew his eye as he passed through the murk between two distant streetlamps. He stopped and squinted into the darkness.
Italy leaned in the mouth of an alleyway. He didn't glance at Russia. He flicked his spent match into the snow and raised a cigar to his lips. He took a thoughtful drag, head bent, a hand cupped around the swirl of smoke. He didn't look like himself. He wore a sharp grey suit that made him look taller than normal. He must be cold, but he didn't shiver. Just stood, slouched, quietly smoking, snowflakes settling across his shoulders and on his long curl of hair, with a funny not-expression like he would have stood there in the deserted Moscow street forever.
He spoke up without looking towards Russia. "Hey, Russia. Can I, um, can I talk to you for a minute?"
That soft, dazed voice, same as ever--how could he suspect anything from that voice? He came towards Italy, already curious. "You haven't visited me in a long time, comrade--"
He saw Italy nod to someone over his shoulder as he drew close. Too late, he spun--and everything went dark as a sack closed around his face. He put up a fight, not that it mattered. Italy must have brought half a dozen goons with him.
"Just knock him out," Italy ordered. "And make sure to get the pipe off him, it's probably in his coat somewhere."
Something struck him in the back of the head. He hit the ground and lost track of time.
***
He opened his eyes. Felt like vomiting. Closed them again. Cold, something, concrete against his cheek. From this, Russia surmised that he was lying down. His head fucking hurt. He tried to touch it to feel if there was blood, and encountered a stubborn resistance. He tugged a few more times, frustrated, before he pieced together that his hands were tied together behind his back.
This was relevant to his interests. He blinked a few times and dredged up the last thing he could remember. If anything, it left him even more confused about his situation.
Italy?
Really?
"Mm? Are you awake, Russia?"
With a sick slosh of disorienting nausea, Russia heaved himself to his knees. By the time the walls stopped circling, Italy stood in front of him, backlit by the warehouse windows. What was with that suit? His silhouette could have been cut with a knife.
Russia made himself smile. "You're dead, fuckhead." His voice sounded slurred in his own ears.
Italy brought his cigar to his lips and took a drag. The burning paper illuminated a hurt expression. "Russia is always so mean," he lamented.
"Untie me now."
Italy's eyes widened. "Uaah, are you uncomfortable, Russia? Sorry!" he looked off to the side. "Untie Russia! He's supposed to be our guest! We should be nice!"
Dark figures converged from Russia's peripheral vision, and he felt them yank at the rope. His arms dropped forward, numb from shoulders to fingertips.
"Is that better? Are you cold?" Italy smiled, and it was that same idiot, happy smile he always had. "I had to take your coat, I hope that's okay--! I didn't know what Russia might be hiding in it. But you can have it back when you leave!"
"What do you think you're doing, shalava?" Russia growled.
"Ahh…? I just wanted to talk." he pouted. "These guys, they're just friends of mine. They can be a little, mm, you know, excitable. They were worried about me going to talk to Russia by myself, because Russia is so scary."
Russia didn't feel especially scary at the moment. He wasn't even sure he could stand. He hurt everywhere. Italy's 'friends' must have worked him over for a while after he lost consciousness. How the hell long had he been out? Still, he managed a bloody-toothed grin. "So send them out. We can be civilized, da?"
Italy looked thrilled by the suggestion. He nodded vigorously. "Mm, mm! I don't want Russia to be upset because of my friends. It's okay, you can all go now." He turned an encouraging look to his array of subordinates. Silently, they fell back and out of Russia's field of vision. He heard a door rattle open, and a few seconds later, roll shut.
Russia staggered to his feet and did his best to loom over little Italy. He worked his mouth for a few seconds, then spat blood on the floor between them. "What did you want to talk about?" he asked pleasantly.
Italy cringed. "Well, uhm, to be honest…um. I'm not very happy with you, right now. Or, um, lately."
Russia kept smiling, despite the crimson headache pounding behind his left eye. "Da? Why?"
Italy took a couple mincing steps forward, working his hands together. He looked down, that stupid curl falling into his eyes. "Well, uhm. It's sort of…personal?"
Russia leaned down to him, resting one hand heavily on Italy's shoulder. "Tell me your troubles," he coaxed. And keep running your idiot mouth until I get my balance back and I can break your teeth down your throat for--
"Well, um, you see, Russia…" Italy looked up at him with those big, soft, puppy brown eyes--
Russia couldn't quite remember what happened next. Italy had pivoted, and his elbow had come up sharply, and then Russia's head had snapped back and his nose made a hideous crunch. Blood poured into his mouth. He gagged and staggered back, nearly fell.
"It's just that it's all your fault," Italy finished.
Russia lurched forward in a rage. Italy danced neatly out of the way and drew a small, gleaming pistol from within his smart jacket. He gripped it by the barrel and slammed the grip into Russia's back, right above his right kidney.
"Tebe pizd'ets," Russia roared, his knee buckling. "I will break you with my bare--"
Italy made a soft, reproving sound: chk chk chk chk. "Mm, no, because Russia is busy with America right now." He planted a thousand dollar Salvatore Ferragamo shoe between Russia's shoulders and shoved him to the floor. He walked around him and kicked the other nation in the ribs. Dazed and bewildered, Russia curled up like a half-crushed centipede. "I think when we leave, we won't ever talk about this again, si? But it was really important to me that you know how very, ah, sad you have made me." He kicked Russia again. And again. There was a wet click from somewhere inside Russia's chest. He kicked him again.
Russia shrank back and coughed blood onto the concrete floor. "What--" he rasped. "What the fuck did I do to you?"
Italy sighed and crouched beside his head. He snarled his fingers into Russia's hair and lifted the other nation's ear to his mouth. "Germany was partitioned because of you," he whispered. "Russia took half of Germany away. And now, when he thinks I can't see, Germany looks so empty. He looks so sad." Italy's breath is wet and hot against Russia's neck. "Germany is like family to me. I hate it when mi famiglia is sad."
He slammed Russia's head into the floor. The world went white, then black, then red, then spun crazily before reaching an unsteady equilibrium.
"He--" Russia managed.
Italy cracked his head into the concrete again.
This was insane. In a fair fight, in any normal fight, Russia would crush this little idiot. There would be nothing left but a smear of grease on the pavement. But Italy didn't seem to have the most remote interest in 'fair.' Later, much later, Russia would decide that he felt some bizarre respect for Italy over that. Just then, he wanted to hurt the little shit more than he had ever wanted to hurt anyone in his life.
"It was his fault," Russia rasped. "He broke the treaty, he invaded--"
"I don't care!"
"He invaded me, he murdered my people--"
"I don't care!"
"France was just as responsible for having Germany partitioned--"
"Oh, I'm going to make time for France," Italy said, with hideous venom.
Russia tried to push the other man away, too dazed to do more than paw at him clumsily. "Germany, he brought everything on himself."
Italy snapped Russia's head into the floor one last time, and put out his cigar on Russia's face. Blood seeped across the concrete. He stood.
The last thing Russia remembered before he sank into icy unconsciousness for a long, long time was Italy, straightening the cuffs of his suit and holstering his Beretta. "You should remember that I could have killed you, tu figlio di puttana," he informed him. "Stay the fuck away from Germany. And don't even think about coming after Romano, either. Otherwise, next time, I'll fuck you with mia pistola before I pull the trigger."
Italy stepped on him as he walked over Russia towards the door. There was another sickening click of ribs cracking.
"Never, ever fuck with an Italian's famiglia."
All Russia could think through the sticky smear of pain was that this was the last thing he had ever expected.
Continue to Part 2.