Scars

Fanfic I did for the kink meme - I hope it's ok. First time writing for the fandom and all...

-----

Toris takes all the time in the world when he strips himself of his shirt. It's enough to prevent the white, rough fabric from scratching his back, but no matter how carefully he does so, it won't ever stop the cold air of the night to hit his frail skin – it's a small 'gift' from Russia, from Ivan, reminding him of the marks that were engraved on his body. There's no escape from that, he knows.

Even when he tries to forget during the day, when the sun shines brightly and provides some comfort (but not heat, not the kind he needs, not the warmth of an embrace, neither the hot blood trickling down his whipped back), at night, every time he takes off his clothes before going to sleep, the cold does more than send shivers down his spine.

Liet wonders if it is normal feeling so, but he doesn't know. Yes, it's accepted to remember. You don't forget abuse like that, but he ponders if it's okay to forgive (It's not like he wants to, he says to himself, he's only curious). He knows Russia's cruelty, he knows Russia's madness, and he knows it better than anyone. He also knows Russia's loneliness, and he can guess there's no one closer to the cold man like himself.

It feels special to be the only one who stood next to him. It feels unique – because Ivan wanted him, and Ivan took him. When he remembers the wounds that aren't much scars now, because they're still opened and Ivan hadn't let him any time to heal, Toris wonders if they mean what he wishes they do.

He has to admit himself, with a small blush covering his cheeks, he sort of likes them. Liet loves when they sting, when the night is so cold they burn like when they were made. That's why when he's half naked and they remind him of the pain he let his hands slip – and he's unsure why he wants that, why he feel like he does – under his pants and underwear, and when Toris touches himself he can feel he's almost hard.

Wrapping his fingers around his sex feels so good, so warm and right and wonderful, even if in his mind all he can see is Ivan and his mad eyes, his smile as chilling as Russia's winter. Yes, he fears the man, he feared him from the first time he knew something was missing in the blue eyes and the nauseatingly sweet, fake smile. But still, what did he had but the certainty Ivan wanted him? No matter how or why. It was Ivan who marked his back, who whipped him until his throat was too dry to cry or scream anymore.

Liet is sure the other wants him, wants him so much, because he hadn't stopped all the times Liet begged for him to. And it felt good to be desired, even if Ivan's only desire was to punish him for something he wasn't quite aware of having done, but he knew he must have had.

Toris' body aches for the touch of Ivan. Every memory he has from the blond brings him closer to the edge. It's vivid in his mind how Ivan placed the strong, callused hand on his shoulder to support himself every time he brought the whip against the already red skin. How the man's body brushed against him sometimes. Even when he pictures the scene over and over again in his head he stills feel the same, desiring, needing, wanting, as much as Ivan did.

Toris can vividly remember the whip hitting him multiple times, how Ivan didn't seem to ignore, to notice him. It didn't matter - Toris was sure Ivan cared. Because if the didn't, why would Ivan be doing that?

The mere thought makes his head spin and his hands move faster, and in due time his pants are around his ankles, and he can feel how exposed he is, how exposed he was in the night Ivan took him to his room. The man had taken all of his clothes off, and when Toris was prompted to his knees, bending forwards with the hands on the bed, Ivan had started.

He could see to well the red spraying on Ivan's white linens, on his scarf and clothes. Every place Ivan's whip touched became fiery hot, first slow, almost teasingly, then harsh and painful, when Toris refused to do more than whimper quietly. Ivan had said something then, hadn't he? About Liet always suffering silently. The tone in his voice denoted pride, some sort of affection.

Toris hoped so.

But even hopes don't matter anymore, not in this moment, not when he imagines Ivan's whispers, when his actions are more important than any word he might have not told. He thinks about them again – meaningless, hidden between the burning pain, but still said so delicately in his ear – and the whip flying in the air, curving in an arch and distending before hitting him. Toris can't even have a second thought before he finds himself in the tip of his toes, his head leaning backwards and lips parting when he gasps for air. It all ends too soon, hands stained, body in a mess. He's red and panting and still doesn't feel fulfilled. Ivan isn't there. Ivan isn't touching him anymore, the slashes are still aching in his back, but the other still isn't there. Toris thinks it's okay, he waits for himself to feel fine. Maybe if he waits enough the wounds Ivan inflicted on him might finally heal. And then, well, then he will have the scars to keep his company.