Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Slow Like Honey	By : FrankenFreddie Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 965 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers nor do I own the characters. This is purely for entertainment- I make no money from it.

Chapter List
- 1-Slow Like Honey
- 1
When I’ve got a fighting spirit he does these things. When I fail to react he does them, too. It’s only because he cares, he tells me, it’s only because he doesn’t want to see me destroy myself. I tell myself that I’m unsure of his sincerity. When I’m suffocating with my legs still trapped under his knees, my arms trapped under him, tell me, am I supposed to see anything other than blobs of light on the ceiling? Am I supposed to see this affection and care that Francis talks about? When my bruised ribs throb under his anchoring yet somehow absentminded position and I can feel his thick skin grate over mine like canvas, strangely still soft as petals… What does it take to get through that thick skin? Something sharp, for which nails are a poor substitute. Thick, stinging scratches well up on his throat and he only smiles and reciprocates; my teacher, my tamer. I will end up a small corpse before I ever escape him, I think. Do I want to escape him at all? I tell myself I do.
I bet if I could really get through his skin, I would find no soul waiting to be corrected. It’s as if he’s unafraid of anything. The way he chuckles when I spit at him, the way he smiles when I try to retain my pride. It’s like he doesn’t give a damn, so why should I believe a word he says?
“I’m here to help you. You’re not healing yourself. I ‘hurt’ you because I care. Because there are things you need to know about yourself and things you need to hear that you may not want to. Wouldn’t you rather have me hurt you than some stranger if it means you’ll be better in the end? Wouldn’t you rather I help you recover than let you kill yourself?”
Is it true?
“Gil, mon chéri… You can’t have happiness without pain. I’m sure you know that. But you’re retaining the pain and soon enough you’ll supernova. Then what will you do? You’ll shrivel up and disappear. You think you’re completely broken now that you’ve lost your empire? You’re just breaking yourself more.”
That’s what he said to me years ago. Since then I’ve staggered out of the initial shock of losing my position. And as I age my ego swells just so he can try to crush it. No longer does my self worth flutter like a small bird- no, it’s pulsating like lava around my bones and boiling up through my viscera. I’ve become something to myself again, something that I can hurt too, as it seems. Something that I hurt on a regular basis, but I would never dare say that out loud. Do I even need to? He calls my esteem ‘overcompensation’, says it’s like a weed growing in a patch of roses, making a net over the top of the blooms and suffocating them. He sees right through me every time.
And the fights are more violent as he patiently tries to convert me, and I fight and fight even though I can’t match his underhandedness. Pinned against the walls, cuffed to the bed, held so tightly that his hands bloom bruises on my skin, fucked to the point of nausea, then kissed tenderly until my snarling face melts into the blankness of confusion and distrust and exhaustion. I don’t push him away with shaking arms once he’s finally finished anymore. I can’t. Staring at his dark, lusty, knowing eyes, trying to deny that I ever needed this, that I ever needed him. Trying to reach some sort of legitimate, sincere loathing in me that I know died a long time ago…
“You can take it. You’re strong. You don’t need me to be strong, I just coax it out of your stubbornness. But you depend on me, don’t you. Why is it impossible for you to allow yourself to feel anything but remorse? You may not think of it this way but I’m your family too. And by the looks of it I may be the only one who can make you be honest with yourself.”
How bad can he possibly be? He hurts, but it’s all for the sake of mending. Is it even considered hurting anymore? He’s still just a person. He still thinks, feels. He still… what could possibly be wrong with him? Maybe I’m expecting him to hurt me. Really hurt me. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I fuck myself over and ruin everything before it has a chance to work for me. Maybe love really is like this. Maybe he could be a lot worse than this, this constant teasing and his forcing me to open my insides and really look for the first time in years.
Maybe he’s actually being gentle with me.
The urge to fight won’t go away. Because… to cause pain is to love between us. When I dig my nails in him, doesn’t he do those fantastic things with his mouth against me? When I bruise him, doesn’t he bruise me back and kiss me? Doesn’t he smile? To fight and to struggle is his greatest pleasure, it would seem.
And it’s mine too. Isn’t that something? To think that the attention I hated the most at one point would be something that I craved. But it’s a game. It’s all this cat and mouse affair that I wouldn’t change for anything. It’s our language.
That’s why I run to him in the middle of the night, in the worst of storms, crying my eyes out but insisting it’s the rain, isn’t it? That’s why I spit when he comes after me. That’s why I slam doors in his face. That’s why I snarl at him as he drags me to the bed, why I kick, curse, swing at him. That’s why I’m already hard when he pins me down. That’s why I aggravate the bruises I left on him yesterday as he fucks me until I want to vomit. That’s why I stay awake at night and watch him sleep, noticing how easy it would be to silence him in his slumber and noticing that that urge has long since gone away. That’s why I sit at the bedroom window and watch him leave for work at the crack of dawn, chest aching as the dim morning light illuminates his pale skin and dark, flushed bruises I can see just over his collar.
I made those marks. He made mine. No one else can make those marks on my skin but him. No one else can cauterize the wounds time and my own fears tear into my insides but him. No one can hurt me and love me like him. No one can push my buttons but him, and no one can push his the way I can.
Would telling him this kill me? I feel like I might. But when I look back into those dark eyes that see right into me as he wakes up in the morning and smiles, I begin to think that I don’t have to tell him at all. Francis already knows.
Doesn’t he always, though?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Alright guys. In my headcanon, Prussia still hangs out with France and Spain- they're all best friends. But Prussia has a lot of fucked up feelings about his entire history and how far he's fallen. Sure, everyone feels a little shitty sometimes. When the light bits of depression fall over him he can count on going to Spain's place for a little lighthearted fun.
But there are times when the hurt is so deeply engrained in him, in his denial, in his overcompensation when he can't bounce back from it. Those are the times when he goes to France, the only man with enough patience and intuitiveness to be able to see that Prussia can't help himself, that he needs someone to hold him down and force him to open up and really look at himself. Prussia is unable to be vulnerable to anyone because he's too proud, even if it hurts him. France forces him into vulnerability as a painful sort of healing process.
Ffffffffff long ramble is long, I'm sorry.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Slow Like Honey