always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style (measuringlife) wrote,
always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style

fic; heart-shaped bruises

Title: heart-shaped bruises
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Cuba/Belarus
Rating: PG-13? Light R?
Word count: 1222
Author's note: Hetalia random pairing generator: Cuba/Belarus - Schmoop & Knife-play / Kink meme: rare pair challenge. Title comes from a song by The Macabees.

Her brother sends her down here to oversee the good comradeship (and their eternal fight against capitalism, and America) and he's smitten from the first time he lays eyes on her. She's got skin like snow and the temperament to match it. He's never met such a stone cold bitch and he absolutely loves it.

Her elaborate outfits are too warm here, so he has a special version made, sleeveless, with black ruffles at the skirt. He even convinces her to have splash of red at the low neck. A rose pattern sewn in there. She keeps an elaborate lacy parasol with her at all times to shade herself from the sun, as her skin burns at the slightest provocation.

She's like touching ice, and everything about her is aloof, and uncaring, and yet he can't get enough of her.


He's playing cards with Paulo and Jorge and they get a little drunk and start passing the knife around. He's told them a million times they're gonna cut their fucking fingers off, but do they listen? Never.

She takes the knife from his hand and licks the blade. She plays the knife game better than he's ever seen. She never stabs her fingers, and she stares him down the whole time. Even he nicks a digit when he tries, and Paulo has nearly chopped em off at least three times.

Then she just leaves without a word, all the men here left speechless.

He can't speak for Paulo and Jorge, but he's so hard his pants are uncomfortable. For weeks after that image haunts his dreams.


He has to keep her in the best ventilated places, because under the heat she becomes fragile in a beautiful way that almost makes him forget that if he ever tries to help her up, she'll gut him. She beds down in iceboxes and comes up looking like a snow queen, or some myth girl – the kind that sucks you to death and throws away the husk. He knows she's the type who will leave scars on him, frostbite, but all he can think is that a few more scars won't make much difference.


When the nights are cooler he teaches her to dance and she stares him down in a way so intense that warmth pools to his abdomen and all he can think of is how all that intensity would be in bed.

He twirls her in a tango, dipping her. If he gets some vodka in her, she'll dance a traditional dance in her high, spindly boots and never fall once. He tries it, but he's a disgrace and she looks at him in scorn. Still, it was a try (and he can always blame it on the alcohol)

She doesn't say much, but she doesn't need to the way her body talks when she's dancing, when they're dancing. She's a fast learner and a perfectionist who refuses to accept defeat. In the office this makes her something of a pain in the ass as she tries to restructure his life, but on the dance floor it's amazing.

He wants her. He think she wants him too, though he's pretty sure Paulo and Jorge would laugh and say it's just wishful thinking.


She steals the cigar right from his mouth, and before he can protest, she puts in her own and takes a drag. Her lips are red and chapped around them, and all he can think of is her lips around him.

She takes a deep drag and then turns so she doesn't exhale all that smoke in his face.

Coming from her, it's almost gentle.


He's used to he pointing that knife at him. She's even stabbed him a few times, and they've screamed at each other – or he's screamed and she's simply stared back, cold and hateful. This time is different. She takes the knife and points it to his throat, and he freezes. He's Then she goes a little lower, down to his chest and carves a little heart there.

He smiles at her and she doesn't smile, but the looks almost a little bit softer, like she's considering something.

And when he takes a chance and pulls her close, his arms about her fragile waist and crushes their lips together, it's like melting ice between them.

He waits for the disemboweling, but it never comes. She simply shifts her head, as if considering, and then pulls him down for another kiss.


She's all teeth and claws, and she brings the knives to bed. He has this dream of making her yowl like a cat in heat, but he's the one that's doing the screaming.

When she straddles him, they are a contrast. His tanned skin to her pale, his muscled body to her spindly, deceptive body. He leaves bruises all over that perfect skin, and she skims his skin with the blade, puts it to his throat while he's in her. Her hair fans out and brushes over his skin. She pulls at his hair when he eats her out, and he twirls it around his fingers as she sucks him.

It's as good as he imagined, better, even. Every time she's done with him, he's bleeding and feeling more alive than he's ever felt before.

He's never gonna live this down when she leaves, he thinks. Nothing can match this high.


She doesn't cuddle. After sex she goes to her own bed, and sitting at night, talking about commradeship and utopias, all she talks about is her brother's plans, her brother's will.

And even if they're tight, he thinks fuck your brother. The worst part is he knows, she wants to.

He wonders if she's mentally replacing him. They're nothing alike, him and her brother. If she is replacing him, it'd be pretty fucking hard. He makes it as hard as possible. He tries to brand the image of her in his mind.

It pisses him off. Makes him want to punch the wall even if his hand shatters because the pain would let him forget how fucking inevitable it is.

Goodbye is always only a breath away on her lips.


They go on like this, fucking like wildcats and clawing at each other. Her brother is so there, it's like he's watching them fuck.

She's like a statue, a cold, stone statue and he can't tell anything about her except that obsession with her brother. That's all he knows and all he hears.


She puts on her usual dress and leaves the dress he had made for her. It's on the bed with no note goodbye. She doesn't kiss him, or say anything except that she was called away.

Her brother called her back.

Her hair fans out in the wind on the ship, the ship. He watches her a long time, but not on the dock where she can see him, no.

He traces over the heart she carved in his arm and feels like settle in to what it was before she was here.

Never has he longed for the cold of winter more.
Tags: fic, het, hetalia, kink meme

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