hetalia_kink | Hetalia Kink meme part 15

Hetalia Kink meme part 15

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hetalia kink meme
part 15

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Ahh yeah that is the super duper delayed Christmas reveal for 2009 LOL...just found the time to finish it now...
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Second fill here. Warnings: Oedipal complex, torture murder, domestic abuse, small hints of dissociative identity disorder, and all around creepiness. On another side note, the title comes from the game ‘Demon-Hide-and-Seek’, which is like hide and seek, except not really. It usually ends with the last person to be found gruesomely murdered, so, yeah, not very popular at parties…

Also, I apologize for any mistakes. It's one in the morning over here.

--

[Prologue}

Mother is beautiful.

She is warm smiles and kind eyes and you love to kiss her soft cheek in greeting every morning. Your earliest memory is of her wearing a pink apron, the bow tied around her petite waist bouncing merrily while she sang and cooked you breakfast.

(—your real earliest memory is of her crying, the left side of her face black-and-blue, her cheeks wet with hot, pained tears. But you don’t like to think about that. You avoid it, try to forget it, never think about it. Because when you do you see red and your hand slips, your head hurts and your memory gets a little foggy. Mother wears makeup the next morning when you wake up—)

The smell of chocolate milk and delicious freshly baked cookies is as familiar to you as her face.

Gentle green eyes, milky white skin, bubbly short hair the color of sunflowers—she likes to pin her bangs back with colorful hairpins and it lets you see more of her face, button nose, cupid bow lips, heart-shaped face and all. She smells like sugar and freshly planted roses, red ones, her favorites, the one she plants every spring in the backyard.

She smiles so much there are laugh lines on her face but it only makes her look even more beautiful in your eyes. Besides, you like to see her smile. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s always been you and her, together. You’re the man of the house, and you wouldn’t have that any other way either.

(—there was someone else before. You don’t like to think about that either. It makes something ugly rear its head deep in your chest, makes your head feel like its splitting in two and you’ve never been a fan of pain. You avoid it. You don’t speak of it. Never. Even when mother looks wistful at her left hand, at her empty ring finger, at something that is no longer there and you think good because he never deserved her in the first place, not with what he did—)

She is small and frail; and it’s no long before you’re reaching over her head for the top cabinet. She smiles at your proudly—that melting smile you love so much—and your heart flutters happily in your ribcage. Every time you look at her face you can never understand why your friends complain about their own mothers to you. Your mother is wonderful. There isn’t anything you can’t talk to her about, anything you won’t share with her. For a long time, since preschool to your first year of high school, she was the only woman you bothered buying chocolates for every Valentine’s Day.

(—mother never tires of telling you how handsome you are. She croons and pets your hair, hums in appreciation whenever you dress nice. There are pictures of you in every room of the house, four in hers. She never tires of looking at your face, of telling you how handsome you are. You don’t like your face much. In fact, you don’t like your face at all. You hate looking at yourself in the mirror every morning and sometimes you wonder if the only reasons she loves you so much is because you look so alike to—)

That changed when you entered high school and you joined the football team. The first girl you kiss—on the lips, not on the cheek, like you did with mother—is the captain of the varsity cheerleading squad. She’s three years older than you and at first, when she grabs your hands and settles them on her chest, you don’t know what to do. Practice is over, you’re behind the bleachers outside on the football field and the most popular girl in school is sticking her tongue down your throat.

She makes a little sound of impatience and instructs you on how to kiss her. You don’t mind, because she’s pretty and you like her, and soon you’re kissing her back, your hands busy with her shirt.

Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like candy apples.

(—mother smells like sugar, because she bakes every day. She’s always baking. She makes food enough for three people. You like it that she cooks a lot. You’re a growing boy and you love her cooking after all. But you don’t like it when she sets a third plate on the dinner table. You don’t like it. Why can’t she see that you don’t like it? She and you make two people, not three, and the plates keep breaking every time she makes that mistake—)

You date for a full two months before you break up with her. You wince when she shrieks at you, green eyes flashing dangerously, rosy cheeks splashed with hot tears. Her makeup is running. You can’t help but think she’d look much prettier if she didn’t cake herself in the stuff.

It makes you uncomfortable to see her cry. Hell, you don’t like to see women cry, period. Especially if you were the cause of their tears. You’d made mother cry, once, and you still regret it up to this day. The memory of those pretty, gentle green eyes wet with tears, puffy and red, make you feel like a perverse villain.

(—crying green eyes, crying green eyes, that sight used to be so familiar to you—)

It’s the same sight now, green eyes and everything.

But your grades are beginning to slip—most specifically, your grade in English—and you don’t have time for both a girlfriend and a tutor. Practice is important too, of course, though it’ll be awkward from now what with your now ex-girlfriend glaring at your frostily from across the field.

Mother smiles teasingly at you when you tell her the details later. She calls you her little Romeo and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though inwardly you preen at her praise. Your cheeks heat up. She teases you even more because of it.

You think you’re done with girls for a while; you change your mind when you meet with your English tutor the next day. She’s the exact opposite of your first girlfriend, short messy hair, make-up-free face, oval-shaped glasses and all.

Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like brand new books and a hundred different brands of lip balm.

Your English grade picks up, you date her for a little over two months, and then she’s crying in a similar manner to your last girlfriend when you broke up with her. It’s as awkward as it was the last time, too.

Making girls cry—pretty girls, with their pretty green eyes and milky white skin—is not one of your hobbies, yet somehow, you always end up on the receiving end of a frosty, bitter, green-eyed glare.

Pretty soon, your football buddies start making catcalls when they see you, and it’s not long before you’re dating again. This time, you’re determined to make it work, your stubbornness kicking in high gear. You take her out on dates every weekend, buy her candy and stuffed bears. She likes the attention; you like it that she smiles instead of cries. Mother cheers you on from the sidelines. The moral support makes you feel more sure of yourself.

(—you’ve never brought any of your girlfriends home to mother. She avoids the topic whenever you ask. Although supportive of your relationships, she gets a fretful little look on her face every time you date someone new. She asks questions every day, about your dates, about what you do, on how you treat them. Her favorite questions is if you like them. You laugh and answer ‘yes’. She makes you promise to treat them right and never make them cry. To be a good man to them. You can’t help but find that last part funny, so very funny, specially when you take into consideration the sorry excuse for a pathetic human being she chose—)

Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like almonds and cheery blossoms.

She cries in a similar fashion to the last two when you break up with her two months later.

This time, you decide to stop dating for real. You pout and frown and decide that it’s for the best. Mother reminds you that you’re young and that you have your whole life ahead of you to find your true love. Her reassurance makes you feel better.

The next two months are filled with twinkling green eyes and the smell of sugar and freshly planted roses, the red kind, the ones mother likes best.

One day, you accidentally bump into someone before first period even begins.

Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like clean soap and antiseptic. You join the science club that year, your new girlfriend showing you the ropes.

Your chest is warm with bright new hope and you walk home with a new spring to your step. Crossing your fingers, smiling widely, you hope for this time to work for sure. She’s nice and pretty, and really, really smart. She’s kind of bossy, but that’s okay. You like her a lot, and that’s all that matters.

Your smile drops from your face when you come home to find mother—sitting demurely in the living room, cheeks pink and cupid bow lips smiling shyly—with a man you haven’t seen in years.

Lies. You have seen him. Every morning in the bathroom mirror in fact. You don’t look a thing like mother, with her frail looks and pretty green eyes. Your coloring is different too, but this man looks like an exact copy of you—or at least, what you will look like twenty years from now on.

You never needed nor wanted a father. Never. You were fine being together with mother, just the two of you. Together. You were fine when he left all those years ago, without a goodbye or without an excuse.

Why did he have to come back and ruin everything?

Dinner is tense that night. You don’t speak, shoulders tense and hands gripping your fork and knife too tightly. You don’t eat either. The sight of father’s face is enough to make you sick.

It does make you sick in fact.

Every time you look at his face—every time you look at your face in the mirror—you remember broken sobs, purple-blue-red bruises on a pretty heart-shaped face, and teary green eyes. You remember hiding under the covers, eyes wide, the hands on your ears not enough to block out the muffled screams coming from the room next to yours. You remember a lot of things you tried hard to forget over the years.

But you’ve always had such sharp memory.

You’ve grown taller again, dear, mother says from across the table, we’ll have to go shopping again soon.

He smiles a smile you are familiar with too, mother’s favorite actually, cheeky dimples and all, the one you know drives the girls in school wild. We can all go. Together, like a true family, he says, laying a hand on mother’s frail shoulder, his thumb tracing circles on the bare skin; and you feel the sudden, violent birth of a horrible monster come to life in your chest and the urge to pick up your knife is great and—

Her eyes—mother’s eyes, wide and warm and such a pretty shade of green—implore you, beg you, not to say anything cruel. You’ve always been the good son, the perfect student, the star football player. So you bite your tongue and say nothing.

For a second, you ponder the idea of gouging his eyes out.

The thought leaves you smiling.

You don’t like him. He knows you don’t like him. Mother knows you don’t like him. She comes to you at night clutching her sleeping gown to her chest and begs you to understand.

He’s changed, she says, pleading with you, pretty green eyes heartbreakingly sad. He’s been sober for years, dear. Can’t you please—

He beat you, you would deadpan, staring blandly at the ceiling. There’s a sick taste in your mouth. You had new bruises almost every day.

Pretty green eyes widen. Her bottom lip trembles. She whispers, I didn’t think you’d remember. I thought you’d forgotten. You were so small…

You laugh, bitter and sardonic. You came up with the lamest excuses too. I never believed you when you said you fell.

Her eyes close, her little face pained. You startle when her hands, so small, so delicate, clutch yours. I believe him. He’s your father, why can’t you believe in him too?

You’re up in a flash, eyes blazing, and you don’t remember what you did to make her cry so hard—the memory is hazy, all fog and no sunshine—but the next thing you know she’s shoved up against the wall, your hands on each side of her frail skull. You’re shouting cruel, vicious things—malicious things, hurtful, spiteful things—at her face, and her shoulders shake with her sobs.

She cries harder when you bring up the past, digging up old, dusty memories of past abuse, of broken noses and split lips. Your remember the other things, the torn blouses and limps in the mornings and the muffled screams at night; and feel even more sick when she only defends him.

You don’t like to make girls cry because he would always make mother cry. You swore not to be like him. You swore to be the exact opposite of him, a perfect, decent man, a man who would make mother happy and never make her shed any tears.

He prefers blue eyes; you prefer green. He doesn’t love mother; you love mother more than anyone.

If only she could see that.

Deep inside, the monster begins to hate her a little; but it loves her too. You love her too.

And you’ve always been selfish, always terribly spoilt, little-boy-in-the-sandbox-who-doesn’t-like-to-share-his-toys.

Father doesn’t deserve her.

Her eyes are puffy and red when she leaves your room to go back to him.

The monster in your chest, scaly and horrible and mean, does not like to make her cry any more than you. You do agree, though, that her pretty green eyes look even prettier when they’re full of tears. The monster and you don’t agree on a lot of things, but at least you can agree on that.

Soon, you begin to come home as late as possible. You don’t want to see his face any more than you have to. The sight of mother and him together is enough to make you retch. You’ve always had a quick temper when pushed, but you’re easy going and laid back for most of the time. Your friends ask questions when your temper becomes as capricious as the weather. You snap at them more often. You’re more violent during practice. Your grades don’t slip but your fists often do.

You no longer care so much about making girls cry.

The year comes and goes again; and this time, you’ve broken up with twice the amount of girls than you did the past two years. Your friends say you have a fondness for blond, green-eyed girls.

You just like green eyes is all. You’re fond of brown but prefer green. You dislike blue. It’s the color of his eyes.

You hate father. You wishes he would dissappear again and never come back this time. Father makes you see red; father makes you angry, so angry sometimes that you break things without meaning to; father makes your head hurt so much it feels like its splitting in two. Father makes you wish…makes you wish…

At night, when you’re the only one awake, you think about hurting him. The way he hurt mother before he left, the way he hurt mother because he left. The way he hurt you by hurting mother. You squeeze your eyes shut to try to run away from the memories.

It’s useless; the memories are right there, laughing at you, taunting you. You’d been useless, too weak to do anything. Too weak to protect mother from the man she loved—still loves—more than you.

You remember how happy you’d been when he finally left. You remember how much mother cried. You curl your mouth in disgust.

It’s not fair. You were the one who took care of her, who made her smile, who was there whenever she needed support—so why does she still love that man more than she loves you? He was the one hurt her, who left her pretty face blue and purple whenever he drank too much. All you ever did was be perfect. For her. To make her happy.

It’s always been about her. No one else has ever mattered.

It’s no fair.

And it’s enough to make you want to hurt her, too.

It’s enough to make you want to hurt them both.

And really, why not?

--

The sight of her face makes you so, so angry. The sight of her face makes you do crazy things. The sight of her face makes you so angry you do crazy things, things that make no sense, all fog and no sunshine.

The sight of her face—gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all—makes you see red; makes your head feel like its splitting in two and it’s just easier to let the monster—scaly and horrible and mean—croon evil things in your ear and persuade you to do something about it.

So it’s understandable that her face is the first part to go.

Gentle green eyes, cupid bow lips, button-like nose and all.

It peels off like the skin of an apple.

You leave her eyes alone for now. You’ve always loved green eyes best after all. You don’t spare father’s. Father is the first to go; you’ve always hated him. You tell him so before he chokes on the tourniquet, body convulsing and eyes rolling on the back of his head. The sight of him disgusts you. You hate blue eyes. You hate the color of his hair, his skin, the way he smiles.

Unlike father, mother is beautiful. The red looks so nice against her milky pale skin, her pink fingernails scratching desperately at the floor until they break. She yanks at the rope on her wrists until the skin turns red, and the handkerchief stuffed in her mouth quickly turns the same color too. The red mixes with the salty water on her face.

Gentle green eyes, milky white skin, bubbly short hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey—

When you kiss her, she tastes like copper.

She smells like sugar and freshly planted roses. You wish you could take her scent and seal it away in a bottle forever. Keep it with you forever. Love it forever.

You settle for keeping her eyes in a jar.

---

Orz. Orz. So obviously never written serial-killer fics before. Next part will have Arthur in it, promise! /lame author-anon is lame ~~to identify myself from the two lovely other author-anons, I shall call myself lame-author-anon from now on~~

;A; lame-author-anon can't do math so early in the morning apparently fffff

Ho--ly shit. Pardon my language but dude how Alfred is thinking is SCARY a-a-nnd CREEPY.

Don't call yourself lame author anon! Because you're not! D':

Letting readers become Alfred is very effective, I may say. Because sometimes its hard to figure and/or barely imagine what goes on inside a killer's head! Please do continue, this really woken me up from my nap! XD

This is wonderful! Well. ^^; Not wonderful that Alfred is a serial killer but so wonderfully written and insightful. Who knows what goes on inside a serial killer's mind? You're done so well to make it believable, and I feel sorry for him if anything else...

If you can make people feel sorry for evfen a serial killer you're doing really well in your writing.

T-t-t-terrifying!! You built this up so *well*! So ... Believable it is downright *creepy*! O_O

The sympathy for arthur already is SKY HIGH. Oh *arthur* look who your going to fall for!!!

Now I wish that Arthur would NEVER meet this guy

You did an amazing job in showing Alfred's slow descent into madness. That last line truly freaked me out O___O

Please update soon not-lame-anon!! This is amazing!

Lame author non is not lame.

This has me quite literally on the edge of my seat, anon. While reading, I can practically hear a soft, childlike narrative growing into a mad, raging shout. The characterization of Mother and Father and all the pretty girls with green eyes and blond hair...Alfred's gradual descent to the breaking point...

It's beautiful.

-needs to update my own ffff-

Excellent transition and becoming of a serial killer monster. I got shudders, anon. Really good. I'm afraid for Arthur, though, this obviously doens't bode well for him

A question, are you going to have him genderbent? Just asking because Afred has only dated girls so far...

my god /stalks this

Al's so creepy...

holy. crap. I cannot wait to see how this will go. That was really, really good. o_o
and anon, you are NOT lame!! D

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Hetalia Kink meme part 15

KakuRenBo [Prologue part I]

KakuRenBo [Prologue part II]

KakuRenBo [Prologue part III]

KakuRenBo [Prologue part VI]

KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Second to last part should be part IV /fails

OP

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]

Re: KakuRenBo [Prologue part V]