Written, like everything I've done, for a kink meme. The request called for Sweden/Finland borderline furry; the kind /y/-safe furry that limits itself to ears, tails, and intentional behavioral shifts. It takes place in the same half-formed sex-friendly AU that can be seen in dozens of similar doujins. It's alright, I think.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Hetalia franchise. I do not profit from writing this stuff.
He couldn't possibly make himself any smaller.
His knees couldn't crush any harder against his chest.
His toes couldn't curl closer to his heels, though he tried, bending the arch of one foot painfully as he tried to bring every bit of flesh closer to his core. The other stuck out too far, too far, but he couldn't help it, couldn't force it tighter into the huddle of his body. The joint was too tender, swollen and discoloured, though he could hardly tell through the haze of panic and the dim, flickering light of the room.
His arms couldn't press flatter against the wood behind him, wood that gouged into the tips of his fingers where his nails dug in. Splinters were ground beneath them deep enough to draw blood, but again, he hardly noticed or didn't care. The pain was nothing but a buzz at the back of his mind, joined by the myriad scrapes and scratches covering his skin. They were the marks of the chase, wounds inflicted by stinging pine needles and short branches he'd been too rushed and clumsy to do anything but crash through, until one last misstep took him down. His knees were pebble-gouged and caked in dry mud from the slide, from the crawl, from hiding.
He couldn't claw or melt his way into the wall he cowered against. The rough wood behind his back refused to relent, to cave under his white-knuckled grip, to swallow him up and hide him.
He couldn't stop his heart from beating so fast, so loud, so hard that he could feel the throb from his freezing toes to his temples to the tips of his limp ears, and he couldn't stop a sob from ripping from his throat hard, so hard, when that thought rolled again through the white noise of his mind.
He can hear it.
He could hear it.
That was how he was found, how he was caught, he knew it, he knew it. He'd heard it and he'd found him – but what could he have done?
He'd tried to hold his uneven breath. He'd tried to find a place big enough to hind every in of skin, skin that was too incongruously pale to keep him safe in warmer months, but he didn't have time, he hadn't run fast enough. Couldn't run fast enough. He'd been injured from the start, limping, and he couldn't run fast enough to hide when he fell.
Couldn't hold his breath.
But even if could, even if he had, he couldn't have stopped his heart from beating.
The harsh sob that wrenched it's way out of his throat was follow by another, softer, as he realized that he'd called attention to himself. The stranger-hunter-monster was kneeling in the mouth of wide fireplace that was casting an ever-stronger glow around him, flooding the tiny cabin, table and bed and prey, with heat and light as he fed the flame. His ears turned before his face did, flicking in the direction of the harsh sound. His face, back-lit and serious-angry-hungry, was enough to inspire another choking moan.
The creature in the corner quailed, and without realizing it, started to sway almost imperceptibly back and forth, the unrelenting walls abandoned in favor of his own knees.
The creature at the fire had set a nearby pot of water onto the hearth to heat.
He thought his heart was going to burst in his chest. He thought that in a moment, the cords that held his rolling eyes in place would snap. He knew that the door was close, but closed, with locks to fumble, and he couldn't just couldn't, but he couldn't stop from flicking back to it, flicking between the door and him and that pot and knives and oh...
Oh...
He'd taken something, now, from a box beneath the table that stood between them. Leaves, dry; herbs.
Oh...
Crumbled them into the warming pot.
Oh...
"Oh..."
It dripped from his lips, unbidden, before he could stop it, and it was no surprise. He eyes had started dribbling, too.
He bit his lip in hopes of stilling the leak, the quiver, because he was calling inevitable attention to himself again. The hunter had turned away from the heat again, shoulders following without rising from his crouch.
Their eyes met for a moment that stretched into agony.
Then the wolf raised his hands, palm up, towards the cringing rabbit, fingers curling in to beckon him forwards.
"C'mere."
His head whipped to the side in a 'no' so violent that his clipped his head against the wall. What was meant to be more denial was a slur of low sound. Sighing and glaring, the wolf rose, and closed the fragile cushion of distance between them.
The rabbit tried to jerk his leg nearer when boots clomped closer, but the spasm set off another flare of pain as something was pulled farther than it was able to go. His moan climbed to a very short, shrill scream as the wolf dropped down in front of him, taking hold of his ankle just about the unnatural bulge. He braced himself against the wood on either side, trying to haul himself upright. He kicked with his free leg as hard as he could, aimless, connecting out of pure luck with a broad shoulder.
The wolf wasn't phased or thrown off-balance. He caught the flailing limb before it was able to make what would probably have been a more effective blow to his nose, and pulled, dragging the rabbit forward across the floor. The filthy long shirt that was his only clothing rucked up as he fell onto his back, and the nub of his tail was crushed by his weight.
The hand around his shin slid up and down in an awkward stroke, and the wolf said, "Y're gonna get hurt doin' tha'."
More words were overflowing, spilling from the shivering creature's mouth, mixing into wet sobs before they could be heard. Finally, he swallowed hard, and was able to hold back all but two, mercifully coherent.
"Please, please d-don't, don't –"
Something he couldn't label flickered into the already dangerous set of the predator's face, and the words were gone.
"S'fine..."
He had released the whole limb, letting it fall. Now, he lowered the sprain to the ground beside him, and straightened until he was standing, leaning over the creature on the ground.
"S'fine. C'mere.", the wolf grunted, taking a step back and nodding towards the hearth.
The only movement in response to the order was more frantic head-shaking.
"D' I need to pick y'up?"
The shake was getting disorienting, alarming to see. The rabbit had been carried from his half-hearted burrow to this place, unable to do anything but squirm against a chest much thicker than his own. Something told him that the only thing worse than complying would have been to make a problem of himself, to provoke the man who'd caught him, rushing a broken neck that would have been for the sake of shutting him up. The memory was a blur without any sense of time, and he couldn't bear that sort of proximity again.
He hauled himself over into his knees. The change brought his ankle hard against the floor, and he jerked forward and to the side, falling onto his elbows. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of the wolf stepping towards him, and crawled ahead in desperate scramble before he could take it upon himself to hurry him along.
The crawl was blind. His eyes were stinging with tears, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the fire, that pot, as he approached them. When something came down on his back, he didn't just stop; he felt his limbs slide out from under him, and he collapsed flat onto his stomach with a squeal.
"No, no! Please, please don't do this, please...", he begged, twisting onto his side, shirking the hand that had been laying on his spine. He ended up tucked into a ball, the fetal position, frozen between the danger between him and the door and the hideous lick of the fire's warmth. He could already imagine that warm become heat, heat becoming something so much more, something that boiled, blistered, cooked... but he wouldn't know, would he? I would end here, now, with hands or knives or teeth.
Or... or it wouldn't. Because the wolf was kneeling beside him holding long bands of soft cloth.
'Tourniquet' ripped through him in a long, violent shudder, and the predator grabbed him by the knee, forcing his leg out of the protective huddle.
The cloth fell in one loop around his calf, and he was hit with a wave of cold nausea. It was pure fluke that this didn't end in anything more than a gag. He thought he was going to vomit. He thought he would black out.
Resting the injured leg up on his knee, the wolf asked, "C'n y'move it?"
The rabbit didn't couldn't even make himself blink.
His captor was hunched forward, peering at his nails with the same goose-pimpling glare he'd had since he'd first laid eye on him. He prodded his toes, pinching at the ball, the arch, the heel, watching for anything that inspired a noticeable cringe. After a few minutes of examination, he looked into the rabbit's wide eyes, and repeated himself, louder.
The rabbit wiggled his toes, ignoring the low thrill of discomfort. He didn't know why he was expected to perform for this.
"D'it hurt?"
He made himself mouth a 'no'. The wolf nodded, digging his fingertips into the meat below his knee, rubbing in small, gentle circles. "S'not so bad. Sh'dn't 'a run on it."
He drew the bandage off of the rabbit's knee, having apparently decided against its use. He seemed about to set it to the side, but reconsidered, bunching up the material in his fist, and stretching over to pull over the warmed pot of water. It hadn't been nearly close enough to the flame to boil, and he was able to dip his while hand in to wet the cloth. The herbs had given it the light, astringent smell of Lady's Mantal, and with attentional called, both of them could smell it.
The rabbit was shocked by the familiar scent. He was too scared to let himself be comforted by it, and resisted the sensation of settling back into his body, of being wound down by the breaking point.
But why, why had he taken off the never-tied tourniquet? Why had he steeped disinfectant? Lady's Mantel was meant to heal, and he had been more than sure that he wouldn't have time for that. He felt something swell in his throat, fresh tears spill over, running hot over his temples and onto the floor.
The wolf had wrung out the material with one hand, the other keeping his sprained ankle firmly in place. The rabbit watched through a liquid haze as he started to paint short, excruciatingly gentle strokes of the cloth onto the injury, starting with the worst of the swelling. Each stroke and circle washed away a bit of the silty mud the chase had gotten him covered in.
When the afflicted area was down to clean, bruised skin, he worked lower, down the callused but gouged pads of the rabbit's feet. Here, where the skin was broken, the contact stung, but there was no allowance made for his attempt to pull away.
He cleaned with patience and care that had his prisoner gaping down each individual toe, then higher than he'd ventured before, to where his thighs started and the flecks of filth stopped. Caressing again the discoloured skin, he gave the rabbit's ankle a last appraisal before setting it down to the floor. He offered no explanation, but he mumbled, "'d put snow on't, 'f I could."
When he grabbed the rabbit's other ankle, he found him much easier to unfold. The creature lay unmoving as the wolf moved on the other wounded sole, marred by the edges of rocks and roots. He cleaned the mud away as thoroughly as he had on the other, paying particular attention to the scratches that has been sustained in the last slide into the last slide before he's pinned him. There was nothing deep, no serious injury besides the sprain, and that was the thing that had caught his eye, not something he'd caused.
Again, he stopped low on the thigh. The rabbit had had to turn and twist into a sit as he'd maneuvered him by the knee, and while his arms were still protectively into his chest, other parts of him had opened up beautifully.
Below the hem of the old shirt, he was able to catch a view of the tender, limp flesh between the rabbit's legs.
It was too tempting, too vulnerable and deliciously pink beneath and around the curls of pale hair, and he knew had he stared too long when the rabbit jerked his arms down, cupping and shielding his genitals from view. The poor thing was pulling his knees together, turning his face into his shoulder, and the wolf grimaced at the mess of tears and snot covering his face. He could wipe them away... but it was best to get everything that was bleeding, first.
So he grabbed one of the wrists that was set in such a pathetic guard, and overcame more instinctive resistance. He set to work on the scratched palms. There was less dirt, now, and the lines left by whipping twigs were neat, almost clean.
The arms was curled back into place as soon as it was released. When he took the other hand, he realized that the rabbit was still crying, heavy and quite. He'd been nursing him as carefully as he could, tried to keep every move calm and deliberate, but he was still crying. The wolf squeezed his wrist, trying to make him look at him. "C'n't hurt tha' bad.", he said, and he meant it as a question; if it did hurt that bad, he would need to know.
The rabbit raised bleary red eyes to him. It took two stuttered attempts at a deep breath before he managed to whisper, "You're too cruel."
The wolf frowned, and the rabbit shook. He finished the arm with smooth, broad strokes, ignoring the winces and sounds like he had earlier. He had too; it was for the injured creature's own good. That was why he had chased him when he so obviously didn't want to be chased, cleaned him when he so clearly didn't want to be touched. The rabbit still didn't seem to realize that it would be better to deal with him than to be found compromised by another predator. He was trying to finish as quickly as he could now without being rough, and meant it as a mercy.
Abandoning the cloth, but not his hold, he reached forwards, intending to use the sleeve of his own home-sewn coat to clean off the rabbit's nose. But the creature just squealed again, face the picture of complete terror, and in his attempt to lean away ended up bowing back to the floor. The wolf hunched over him, following him down and rubbing with determination. Nothing could have been farther from the comforting gesture he's had in mind, but the only alternative was to grab the rabbit's jaw to hold him in place, and he was sure that that would have been worse.
The rabbit didn't stop mewling or writhing under him, even when the scrubbing ended. He knew that he should have rocked back, put space between them, but his prey was trying to turn over, crawl away, and he couldn't allow that.
He pressed the leading shoulder back down, pinned the leg that tried to kick at him with his own in reluctance; and, because the rabbit was still flailing too much, bucking too hard, hard enough to bruise and tear the tiny tail on the other side of his pelvis, he settled more of his weight down.
The sobs coming from the creature beneath him were alarming. They were beyond anguish, low and loud and physically painful, and he wanted to stop them. He didn't have any words with which to comfort, or free hands to pet, and he bent his head, trying to communicate with the softer touch of skin on skin.
He nuzzled away a train of fast-flowing tears with his cheek, following when the rabbit cringed away because it was all he could think to offer. He opened his mouth against a cheekbone, traced a hot wet streak down the side of the rabbit's nose, down his temple, where it bled into his hair. He drank the salt and sorrow from every inch he could reach, fighting the urge to savor it, stifling the urge to bite down; he wouldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't.
It was a hard thing to fight, with the rabbit still wriggling so desperately against him, with the taste of skin and more in his nose and in his mouth, but he wouldn't, and he didn't, and eventually, the poor thing went limp. The tears were still rolling, but after a few more long laps, he forced himself to let it be.
The rabbit's shirt had rucked up in the struggle, and somewhere beneath him, those soft parts were exposed, pressed against him. He forced himself to let that be, too.
In the his mind, the moment of respite was because his prey had reached some sort of calm. He was relieved by the small victory, thrilled by it in a an unsettling way. He sighed, lungs and nostrils filling with the rich, natural smell of the little body.
The rabbit clenched his fingers in weak half-fists around the hands that pinned his shoulders down. He tugged and, shaking his head, moaned "Too cruel – washing m-me before I'm... before I'm even...", and turned into his shoulder again.
"I'm not – I'm – and licking, and I'm not even...", and the words dissolved in his mouth under the weight of more base sounds.
The wolf lifted a hand to tuck his finger's beneath his trembling chin, unhindered by the fist that still clung to him, and forced his face closer to his direction, demanding focus. He murmured, "Wha's y'r name?"
The next time the rabbit's noise resolved itself into langauge, it formed something that, after a few repetitions, developed into "Tino".
The bigger body peeled away with reluctance. The wolf sat back on his heels, weight hovering over the top of the rabbit's thighs.
The words stuck to his tongue, and with even breath, his voice was as stilted as the other's had been.
" 's no "before"."
There was a pause, for genuine thought rather than emphasis.
"Don' eat rabbits."
If that inspired any relief, it didn't show. "Tino" was still staring at him like any second would bring bloody death, like the wolf was about to reach down and rip open the smooth expanse of belly that sitting up had exposed.
He did reach down, but not to wound, not at all. He pressed his palm flat against the rabbit's – Tino's – abdomen, below his navel the hem of his grimy shirt, just brushing the start of the short trail of pubic hair.
It was a gesture on "can", and a gesture of "won't". It also didn't seem to help.
But when he moved out of the straddle, barking a last "C'mere", Tino finally complied. He let himself be guided upright by a light grip on his forearm – had too, because he was probably shaking and jerking too hard to prop himself up without it. At the wolf's urging, Tino scooted to face the fire, though he still seem frightened of the smoke and heat.
The wolf arranged his legs like a doll's, crooking one in, stretching the sprain our farther to catch more warmth. He stripped off his coat and set it under the injured foot in a loose ball to keep it raised.
He turned up the rabbit's face to confirm that though his tears had not dried, they had, at least, stopped falling. There were traces left; the colour of his eyes, his pallor, the faint liquid sheen on his cheeks, the way the wet had stuck his eyelashes together in a fan of glistening blond spikes. Those things would fade, though, and quickly.
Tino nudged his chin away from the touch. He had pulled his arms across his chest, and was holding onto his ribs like he wanted to stifle the thrum of his heart, his heaving lungs.
"I don't know what you want."
"Don' wan' 'nythin'."
He rubbed his hand along the rabbit's shoulder in a gesture that was almost paternal. It earned a cringe, but didn't deter him – that hand stayed in place as he stepped behind Tino, and hulked down to sit in the floor behind him. When he bowed away, the wolf slid an arm around his front, and pulled him firmly against his own chest. Of course, Tino hunched again as soon as he softened his grip, but not so dramatically. Just by relaxing his posture, the wolf was able to bend far enough to fit the curve of his spine, keeping their bodies spooned.
He thought that it was a perfect fit. Perfect fit, perfect feel, perfect smell, with his nose almost nuzzling the crown of the rabbit's head, that nervously twitching tail aligned almost too pleasantly with the flesh between his own legs. Perfect.
Against Tino's scalp, he repeated, "Don' wan' 'nythin'."
He threaded his free fingers through the rabbit's hair until he found the thin, sensitive flesh at the base of his floppy ears. He dragged along the soft band of fur and the velvety, capillary-webbed skin. They'd sustained no bruise, no tear, and he only stopped to pick off the tiniest bits of dirt and leaf.
It occurred to him that he hadn't checked the creature's ribs for bruising, but he couldn't bring himself to do it now; he was too content with his fingers pressed into the curve of an under-developed pectoral, and the slight dips of the undamaged ribs he'd already explored.
The rabbit's quick breath settled to a less concerning rate after a stretch of time that the wolf didn't care to measure.
He stopped petting Tino and, tucking his chin into the inviting crook of the rabbit's neck, invested himself fully into an embrace that he could only hope wasn't threatening. He imagined that it would have felt nice to be held like that, legs enclosing you on either side, the warm of the fire and a living body washing over you, breath pouring down your neck...
He resisted the urge to raise his hand, to feel the air spilling out of Tino's lips in time to the heave of his chest.
Eyes drifting shut, the wolf mumbled, " 'm Berwald."
He hoped the rabbit had caught that.
For many hours, they stayed like that, locked in place for different reasons.
Berwald listened, entranced, to the patter of Tino's heartbeat. Tino listened, exhausted, to the happy thump of Berwald's tail against the wooden floor.
END.
So, first post to this account. Did you like it? Love it? Are you now purple-faced, brimming with loathing and rage? Let me know!