Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8125952.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      England_(Hetalia)/Scotland_(Hetalia), England_(Hetalia)_&_Scotland_
      (Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Scotland_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Psychological_Trauma, Rape, Nightmares, Explicit_Sexual_Content,
      Sibling_Incest, Memories, Underage_Sex, I'm_Sorry, ScotEng, Alternate
      Age, Past, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-24 Words: 2392
****** Open and Undying ******
by alba9
Summary
     Arthur wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night panting heavily.
     With a shaking sigh, he acknowledges that it wasn't just a nightmare,
     but rather a memory, a memory from his distant past. Returning to
     consciousness every now and then, always there, reminding the one
     wound that never forgets, open and undying.
     Warning: Dark! Rape/Non/con elements, ScotEng.
Notes
     Hiiii :)
     Warning: this is DARK, ScotEng, extremely explicit and violent! It
     contains graphic descriptions of Rape/Non consensual elements,
     Underage, Explicit sexual content, Sibling incest, Nightmare,
     Reference to abuse.
     I don't want to offend anyone, so if you have any issues with it,
     please don't read!
     Sensitive material! Read with caution!
     I don't own Hetalia
"Where the fuck are ye?" The small country ran desperately into the woods for
hiding, trying not to be found. The cold breeze of the night blew his hair
about and chilled his limbs, he put the green hood over his head and kept on
running until he came across a cliff stopping his escape. In a panic, his eyes
shifted nervously from the right to the left and just happened to measure the
distance down the cliff, looking helplessly for a way out. "So, there ye are."
The dreadful sound of a too well-known voice found him. Turning to face his
older brother, England could make out the bright green eyes very similar to his
own illuminated by the dim light allowed by the night. The elder ran long
fingers through his fiery red hair. England's heart continued to race fervently
and he took an unconscious step back. Scotland snickered. "Where the hell do
you think ye're going?" His emerald hues narrowed dangerously while he pushed
himself forward and strode over to his youngest sibling.
"Leave me alone, you sick bastard..." He tried uselessly to sound threatening.
Scotland's eyes lighted up in surprise, "Ooh, do ye think of me that way?" He
started walking faster, "Aye, I'm impressed. I never thought ye were bold
enough to say that to me." One step forward. One step back. The boy froze at
the sight of his brother, without moving as the older man advanced closer and
closer. In part, he knew it was reasonably best to stay still; running away in
the forest at night to take shelter wouldn't be a brilliant idea: the older
country knew the place, the wild nature, and he would have eventually taken
him. His entire body tensed as he stood in front of the man: Scotland was
already in front of him, and this provided the opportunity for him to grab a
handful of the fabric at the back of England's coat and pull him hard towards
himself. He had his hair clutched tightly in his hand and yanked the younger up
until he was dangling on his tippy toes. Fiery emeralds met pain filled ones as
Scotland pulled him forward so that England could smell his brother's breath.
"Ye're coming with me, aye?"
Arthur waked up suddenly in the middle of the night panting heavily. His
thoughts disordered and confused: for a moment he wasn't even sure where he
was. He went to sit up on the bed sides and groaned with the effort. He moved
back and forth, and suddenly it all came back to him. He stood still a while
longer in the vain, almost childish hope that it was just a terrible fantasy, a
nightmare that would soon dissolve and allow him to forget. With a shaking
sigh, he acknowledged that it had not been a bad dream, but rather a memory, a
memory from his past. It was always there, usually buried, but returning to
consciousness every now and then. Arthur sat up uncertainly and stared with
passing but nevertheless puzzled fake interest at the furniture of the room of
his home. He tried to shake off the last fog of his nightmare but instead, he
started shivering, with every muscle tensed, crouching on the bed like a cat.
Arthur closed his eyes tightly and pressed his hands to his ears as tears
started to wet the bed linens. He would not remember that time. And yet it was
a memory he was not able to forget. There was no use to try and suppress it.
Always there, reminding the one wound that never forgets, open and undying,
always alive, always inside.
The closest door was yanked open, England was grabbed around the neck and,
sooner than he could process what was happening, he was thrown on the bed.
Scotland climbed over the boy smirking, grabbing his trembling face with a
hand. England felt suddenly himself forced to hold still. His eyes opened wide,
looking deep into green ones. Hot breath poured over him as the other was about
to speak. "Oh no. Are ye scared of me?" He said it mockingly, caressing him
almost tenderly. As soon as the words came out, Scotland stared carelessly at
his sibling for a moment tracing the younger's throat before chuckling
bitterly. He dug his nails into his cheeks and pulled him up higher putting in
contact his mouth with his ear, "I'll take pleasure in this, England.”
A cold hand pushed him face down onto the bed; Scotland snaked his hands around
his body upsetting him and making him giddy. He moaned in pain and discomfort.
"Stop this." He squeaked. He snapped his green eyes open since an unwelcome
cold hand brushed along his stomach and began to take his clothes off. The boy
shivered as the cold air reached his suddenly bare abdomen and his back.
England bucked up, twisted his hand in an attempt to reverse the pin, to free
himself, but nothing worked; Scotland was an immovable weight on his back. He
continued to struggle anyway, jerking against the solid grip on his arms,
kicking back with his feet, with his elbows, with whatever he could move, but
succeeding in doing little besides scraping his face raw against the bed.
Desperation drove him on until he lost all sense of reason until he was reduced
to nothing. After flailing for awhile, every muscle in his body was eventually
shaking and weak. His body was trembling. A sickness welling up inside of him,
consuming him. He was sweating, his skin burning as he strained against the
other country, frantically trying to get away. Panic and desperation mixed
together and made it impossible for England to see past anything other than the
horror that was about to befall him; he stiffened, his muscles bunching and he
wished desperately that he could stop this. His instinct screamed, raged; every
nerve shouted run, he should had run into the woods at any cost.
Scotland looked down at him cruelly, widened his buttocks and approached a long
thin finger to his brother. He entered him with a sneer on his face. England
cried out in sudden pain but it wasn't long before a second finger joined the
other. Scotland began working the fingers in and out of his younger brother's
fragile body. It burnt. Tears were forming in his eyes and he flushed for the
way he was being touched: too intimate, too pressing, wrong. A sense of
wrongness upset him…that atrocious feeling of something…moving inside him…
Scotland stopped, "Mh, nay. That's not the right way..." he sounded
disappointed, "I want ye to feel this, brother." At first, England did not
understand what the other even meant by that; but he panicked when the fingers
slid out of him and he felt something much bigger pressing against his
entrance. "Don't. Please, don't". England's panic was evident in his pleading
voice as he begged the older man to stop. "I know you wouldn't do this to
me..." In spite of everything, in his heart laid still a faint, tiny hope which
persuaded him to think that, maybe, he would be able to take his older brother
as a model and that deep down he cared about him. Scotland chuckled. Hell, he
was wrong.
The pain was immense. It felt like he was being torn apart.
He sank involuntarily onto the bed, tears starting to fall from his eyes as the
burning of shortly before became so much worse. He cried out, feeling raw,
stretched open to the point where it was too much, unnatural. Pain was shooting
up his spine from the growing intrusion. "Aaaahh...t-take it out!" Scotland was
an unyielding, awful presence inside of him, stabbing and sharp even without
any movement. "P-please...it hurts too much…" "Already?" One red eyebrow raised
in odd surprise, as Scotland observed England with a pathetic look. "But I'm
doing this for you." He seemed amused, however, England didn't have the force
to get through Scotland's vicious mind, he just wanted this pain and
humiliation to finish. “Please.” He begged keeping his eyes closed tightly. He
sucked on his lips as Scotland pulled out, and the drag of dry skin inside him
hurt just as much as the push in did, like sandpaper scraping his skin from the
inside. The blonde released a slow sigh of relief, but it didn't last long.
Unexpectedly, Scotland slammed brutally the whole length back again, in one
single violent thrust.
He shoved in, and England shattered under him. He gasped in shock, suddenly
longing for air; a scream tore through him and he could feel the slow trickle
of blood inside him. He was frozen, breathing ponderously as agony was shot
through him.
Scotland was not that kind, wasting no time before thrusting backwards and
forward, deeper and deeper.
The agony tipped the younger country over the edge, causing him to scream out
again and again. He struggled to catch his breath between his cries in order to
breathe through the pain, but the terrible ache was building faster than he
could get ahead of.
Scotland increased his pace and began to moan with pleasure, smirking viciously
as the small boy whined and writhed in pain under him. He reached his ear, "How
do ye feel, brother?” he hissed. England flinched, somehow that word sounded
too monstrous.
Moving inside him produced a sucking, loathsome sound that had the blonde
flinching and wincing, as though he would cover his ears if that could block it
out. But he could do nothing aside from his own attempts at grounding himself
with his fingers into the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down hard on
the inside of his bottom lip trying to stem the flow of pointless pleads and
pained whimpers. Scotland pulled out and then pushed back in again with a groan
of pleasure. "Ye're too tight.", his lips were pressed harshly. England
scratched and whined, thrashing with his hips in delicious panic while a thick
long finger slid in alongside the throbbing presence already inside him. He’d
thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but he was wrong. It felt like he was
trying to split him in two.
Somehow, a second finger was added. As he was forced open again, England made a
high, breaking sound making him groan and clench his hands. If he didn't think
he would go so far, he was a fool. His body was cramping around the intrusion
and pulsating for the fullness, trying to expel the unwanted flesh filling him.
It took the elder a long, aching moment inside that gripping heat, he grunted
for the tightness while the younger was impossibly full and struggling to
breathe.
“P-please, please, S-scotland,” he moaned, his voice was wrecked. He gave a
broken-sounding whine, of something cracking beneath unbelievable strain. “Stop
it...! It is too much...you'll break me...”
“Oh, lad, I thought ye had realized it by now,” And Scotland couldn't help but
laugh piercingly, plunging deeper into that impossibly tight and swollen grip,
“That is exactly the point of all this.” Tears were streaming down the boy's
face, all thoughts of bravery and dignity forgotten as Scotland ruthlessly
forced himself into him, breaking him.
The sound of footsteps approaching the door interrupted the red-haired. England
realized what was happening and squirmed. A glimmer of hope sparkled in his
green eyes, he turned his head in order to glance up at Scotland; his eyes
dazed. "Keep yer mouth shut." Scotland was still straddling him, but covered
his mouth with one hand, and pinned his wrists with the other.
Someone waited at the doorway, "Scotland. That's enough." It was Ireland.
Scotland sneered fiercely, and resumed looking at the blonde underneath him,
"I'm almost done." He pronounced those words coolly, as for something trivial
and irrelevant. Ireland heard his reply and left all of a sudden like he had
come. England' eyes widened and darkened, filling with pure hatred and disgust.
He gazed at the man above him with nothing but loathing. The elder nation
reciprocated the gaze haughtily and it pleased him greatly that England wasn't
so far gone that he couldn't hold onto his hate. Shall him remain that way:
helpless and unable to do anything.
Spreading his legs even more, Scotland entered him once again, the abuse from
before eased his way a bit but the boy pinned under him still sobbed,
trembling, and feeling his stretched flesh clench and pucker. The Scotsman's
hands found old prominent bruises all over the smaller body, that had been worn
into his skin until they had remained with familiarity.
The brutal pace Scotland was setting was all about punishment and control;
England clenched his fists and bit his lip and the inside of his already raw
cheek to hold back the sounds escaping his mouth, and soon the bitter, metallic
taste of blood invaded his mouth. He gave up begging and even struggling
against the other, as he mercilessly shoved himself into him harder and harder,
and pounded fast into him, gripping his hips tightly. He merely stayed still,
letting his tears streaming down his face; until Scotland got as deep as
possible, and with a ruthless and pleased smirk on his thin lips came there,
and did not move until he had completely emptied himself inside his younger
brother. A dry sob came out from England's parted lips, as soon as he felt that
unfamiliar fluid filling him. The red-head man got slowly out of him but there
was nothing the younger could do as he felt blood pooling under him in a warm
sticky mess. Licking up the salty tears on his cheeks, the Scottish man made
his way up to the blonde's ear, who could only cringe and flinch involuntarily
at the contact, "I'm all ye have." A murmur in his ear promised him. Scotland
left the room.
England could taste blood; the copper-and-iron taste still clung to his senses,
even after he had stopped biting his lip, even after he had shakily swallowed,
trying to dilute the sharp taste. His world narrowed down, he endeavored to
spread sweltering air into his starving lungs. True to his word, Scotland
hollowed him from the inside out.
Always there, open and undying, always alive, always inside.
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