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hetalia2009-12-21 12:50 pm
quincytastic.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-12-21 12:50 pm
Entry tags:
[Fic] Ran Right Into It
Delurking wtih something very silly. Written as a secret santa exchange on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hetaliterate .
Title: Ran Right Into It
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quincytastic
Pairing: Russia/Lithuania and America/Lithuania
Rating: Pg-13 for MURDERRR
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and I also do not own Chicago.
Summary: "He ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times." (If you'd have been there, if you'd have heard it...) Hetalia/Chicago crossover just happened all over this fanfiction. Contains murder and sassy Lithuania. I also have employed gratuitous 20's slang. You were warned.
“So you want to know how I got here,” he mumbles, green eyes trailing across each girl’s face, fixated upon his relaxed face, cigarette in hand. It’d been a few weeks before Toris warmed up to the place, but now he struts around like he owns the joint, playing cards, smoking and joking with the ladies. He still felt embarrassed for being mistaken for a girl enough that he wound up in the women’s prison. He still hated the place. But even now he didn’t regret it.
“Oh please, Toris, tell us,” one girl pleads, hands on his knee, looking up at him with baby blue eyes and ruby red pouted lips.
“Well…I guess I can tell you girls.” He sits up straight and removes the girl’s hands from his knee.
“You see, it’s hard to remember in exact detail…”
It’s the 14th of June, and Toris Lorinaitis is cutting up potatoes to cook when the milkman pokes his head in through the window. A handsome gentleman, blue eyes sparkling and a strong chin; he’s the kind of man who looks like he belongs in recruitment posters. He hooks his long, gangly arms through the window and watches Toris cut potatoes for a few minutes, waiting to see if the brunette will notice him, before clearing his throat. Startled, Toris yelps and his hand slips with the knife, cutting his finger open clean across the side. He scowls at the young milkman as his finger begins to bleed.
“Mr. Jones!” He clutches his finger to stop the bleeding.
“Aw shucks. Call me Al,” he croons, flashing smiles worth a thousand bucks. Toris doesn’t return the favour.
“Mr. Jones,” Toris snips back, looking at his finger and wincing as the blood continues to drip, “we already got our milk yesterday.”
“I know you already got your milk. Maybe I just wanted to stop for some chit-chat, Toris.” He leans back out of the window and looks around before ducking in his window again, upper half of his body squished in the door.
“Ivan wouldn’t like that. He already thinks you’re stuck on me,” Toris warns, reaching for a dishtowel to put on his finger. Al stops him, grabs his hands, sticky red splattered across his fingers and palms.
“That sap? Like I care what some Red thinks about me,” Al scoffs, putting Toris’ cut finger in his mouth, sucking the digit with a smirk.
“So is that when you did him in?” A girl in the back asks, bemusement in her voice.
“No, I didn’t off the milkman,” Toris explains, “even if I should’ve.” The girl in the front that was previously leaning on Toris nods. “So then what?” Toris sighs and continues, brushing a hair from his eyes.
Al’s actions garner a startled cry from Toris, who struggles to push Al’s head away from his hand. “What are you doing, Mr. Jones?” Toris’ face burns with shame. Al smiles, as if it was all just a clever ruse.
“Oh, baby, don’t play dumb. Maybe that bear you live with is right, huh? Maybe I do carry a torch for you? You’re quite the sheik yourself, Toris. And I know I’m a better catch than that palooka Braginski,” Al says with a sneer, taking his hands again and kissing the palms.
“Pipe down, fly boy!” Toris yanks his hands back, washing them under the hot sink water, as if to wash off the infidelity.
“Don’t be like this, doll,” he cooes, pulling himself out of the window. Toris scoffs and turns his back to Al again, continuing to cut up potatoes. “Scram, will ya? I got to make dinner for Ivan.”
“Scram?” Al’s tone is incredulous. He obviously wasn’t expecting reaction.
“Yeah! Scram, I said!” Toris grips his knife tightly and fists a hand in his apron, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting for the sound of Al’s feet distancing him from the once-peaceful household; Toris would be lying if he said he didn’t think Al was attractive – he was a real prize, that was certain. But it was hard enough living with Ivan without having to be actually guilty of something, Toris reckons, so he purses his lips and waits for Alfred to take the hint.
“Well…I guess I’ll be hitting the road. I didn’t know a moll could be such a flat tire,” Alfred grumbles, and disentangles himself from the window, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and sulking off.
Toris frowns on that last comment and shuts the window with a satisfying ‘click.’ He didn’t know Ivan’s profession was so obvious – it wasn’t as if he was always talking about Ivan’s life or the things he does. Maybe the pinstripe suits gave it away.
“Whoa,” one girl stops him, disbelief on her face, “your man was not that sort of boy…was he?”
Toris laughs and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Sure was,” he tells them, nodding, “satin spats, cigars, ruby cuffs and everything. I opened our closet one time and an automatic fell out like it belonged there the whole time.”
This sends an appreciative murmur from throughout the group. A gangster’s girl is a pampered girl, the kind who gets a new ring every week and never runs low on liquor.
“Now stop interrupting,” he chides and leans back in the chair, hooking his arms over the back of it.
Toris watches the window warily for the rest of the afternoon, bandaging his finger and makes sure to hurry to finish dinner after that kind of distraction. He puts the potatoes and beets on the table with such a precise air that you know he’s done it before, that he’s been here for years. Toris looks down at his hands with an almost guilty feeling in his stomach, guilty not for flirting with the milkman, but for making the milkman leave. He did have such big, strong hands… Toris shakes his head, clutching the knife he’d used to fix the beets. He has Ivan – Ivan made sure that was all he’d need. He puts the knife on the counter for a moment to get the brandy out of the fridge – Ivan likes brandy with his chicken. Pouring a glass on some ice, he sets Ivan’s place (he’ll be home any moment) and returns to the counter to carve the chicken.
Toris is quiet for a moment as he sits up and takes another suck on the cigarette, the heady air of tobacco surrounding him. “What then? What?” The blonde girl tugs his flannel sleeve and fidgets nervously.
“Shush, doll,” he tells her, tapping the ash off his cigarette and continuing.
Cutting the chicken up with a practiced hand, he slides the slices onto a separate plate, carefully slicing around the brittle bones. Carving with a quiet, calm air, he’s sent into a startled shock when the door slams open; he nearly slices his finger clear off. Wary, he tenses up, sensing the mood change from good to worst in less than a second.
“I-Ivan..?” There’s a loud thump as he throws his coat on the rack, Toris can recognize that. His eyes are livid as he storms into the kitchen.
“You’ve been screwing the milkman,” he screams, pointing to the window where that very same infamous, goddamned milkman had sucked on Toris’ finger just a few hours prior.
“N-no, I—“ “
You’ve been screwing the goddamn milkman! The milkman! You’re screwing with the milkman!” Ivan's reaching in his vest, where his pistol is, so Toris knows what’s next, knows it’s either him or Ivan, and he grabs that knife that’s been his companion all day and brings it up once — twice — thrice — ten times…right into Ivan’s pinstripe-clad chest, right through that vest, that cold heart, ignoring his screams because he didn’t screw the milkman and he was tired of taking the blame for everything. It was Ivan’s turn to be the guilty one, he tells himself as he wipes that knife of Russian blood and steps over a stiff, cold hand.
“Oh my,” a younger girl whispers, eyes wide, breaking the silence following this gruesome conclusion.
“Ten times?” Another one’s voice is full of disbelief. “He only ran into my knife,” Toris explained, “he only ran into my knife ten times.”
“That’s it, girls,” he says languidly, stretching and letting his cigarette drop to the floor, digging his heel into the ground where it fell. He watches them all disperse and looks down at his attire—flannel shirt, flannel pants, in ugly tangerine, shoes worn and battered. Rows upon rows of cells surrounded him, identical in every single way.
“Lights out,” a guard says from somewhere far away, and the lights flicker off in the room, leave him in the dark. It’s 15 July, and Toris Lorinaitis is a single man in a woman’s prison with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back. His permanently ex-boyfriend Ivan Braginski put him here, put him here when he ran into his knife just ten times. Toris thinks he could have used another ten runs, himself.
hetaliterate . Title: Ran Right Into It
Author:
quincytastic Pairing: Russia/Lithuania and America/Lithuania
Rating: Pg-13 for MURDERRR
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia and I also do not own Chicago.
Summary: "He ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times." (If you'd have been there, if you'd have heard it...) Hetalia/Chicago crossover just happened all over this fanfiction. Contains murder and sassy Lithuania. I also have employed gratuitous 20's slang. You were warned.
“So you want to know how I got here,” he mumbles, green eyes trailing across each girl’s face, fixated upon his relaxed face, cigarette in hand. It’d been a few weeks before Toris warmed up to the place, but now he struts around like he owns the joint, playing cards, smoking and joking with the ladies. He still felt embarrassed for being mistaken for a girl enough that he wound up in the women’s prison. He still hated the place. But even now he didn’t regret it.
“Oh please, Toris, tell us,” one girl pleads, hands on his knee, looking up at him with baby blue eyes and ruby red pouted lips.
“Well…I guess I can tell you girls.” He sits up straight and removes the girl’s hands from his knee.
“You see, it’s hard to remember in exact detail…”
It’s the 14th of June, and Toris Lorinaitis is cutting up potatoes to cook when the milkman pokes his head in through the window. A handsome gentleman, blue eyes sparkling and a strong chin; he’s the kind of man who looks like he belongs in recruitment posters. He hooks his long, gangly arms through the window and watches Toris cut potatoes for a few minutes, waiting to see if the brunette will notice him, before clearing his throat. Startled, Toris yelps and his hand slips with the knife, cutting his finger open clean across the side. He scowls at the young milkman as his finger begins to bleed.
“Mr. Jones!” He clutches his finger to stop the bleeding.
“Aw shucks. Call me Al,” he croons, flashing smiles worth a thousand bucks. Toris doesn’t return the favour.
“Mr. Jones,” Toris snips back, looking at his finger and wincing as the blood continues to drip, “we already got our milk yesterday.”
“I know you already got your milk. Maybe I just wanted to stop for some chit-chat, Toris.” He leans back out of the window and looks around before ducking in his window again, upper half of his body squished in the door.
“Ivan wouldn’t like that. He already thinks you’re stuck on me,” Toris warns, reaching for a dishtowel to put on his finger. Al stops him, grabs his hands, sticky red splattered across his fingers and palms.
“That sap? Like I care what some Red thinks about me,” Al scoffs, putting Toris’ cut finger in his mouth, sucking the digit with a smirk.
“So is that when you did him in?” A girl in the back asks, bemusement in her voice.
“No, I didn’t off the milkman,” Toris explains, “even if I should’ve.” The girl in the front that was previously leaning on Toris nods. “So then what?” Toris sighs and continues, brushing a hair from his eyes.
Al’s actions garner a startled cry from Toris, who struggles to push Al’s head away from his hand. “What are you doing, Mr. Jones?” Toris’ face burns with shame. Al smiles, as if it was all just a clever ruse.
“Oh, baby, don’t play dumb. Maybe that bear you live with is right, huh? Maybe I do carry a torch for you? You’re quite the sheik yourself, Toris. And I know I’m a better catch than that palooka Braginski,” Al says with a sneer, taking his hands again and kissing the palms.
“Pipe down, fly boy!” Toris yanks his hands back, washing them under the hot sink water, as if to wash off the infidelity.
“Don’t be like this, doll,” he cooes, pulling himself out of the window. Toris scoffs and turns his back to Al again, continuing to cut up potatoes. “Scram, will ya? I got to make dinner for Ivan.”
“Scram?” Al’s tone is incredulous. He obviously wasn’t expecting reaction.
“Yeah! Scram, I said!” Toris grips his knife tightly and fists a hand in his apron, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting for the sound of Al’s feet distancing him from the once-peaceful household; Toris would be lying if he said he didn’t think Al was attractive – he was a real prize, that was certain. But it was hard enough living with Ivan without having to be actually guilty of something, Toris reckons, so he purses his lips and waits for Alfred to take the hint.
“Well…I guess I’ll be hitting the road. I didn’t know a moll could be such a flat tire,” Alfred grumbles, and disentangles himself from the window, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and sulking off.
Toris frowns on that last comment and shuts the window with a satisfying ‘click.’ He didn’t know Ivan’s profession was so obvious – it wasn’t as if he was always talking about Ivan’s life or the things he does. Maybe the pinstripe suits gave it away.
“Whoa,” one girl stops him, disbelief on her face, “your man was not that sort of boy…was he?”
Toris laughs and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Sure was,” he tells them, nodding, “satin spats, cigars, ruby cuffs and everything. I opened our closet one time and an automatic fell out like it belonged there the whole time.”
This sends an appreciative murmur from throughout the group. A gangster’s girl is a pampered girl, the kind who gets a new ring every week and never runs low on liquor.
“Now stop interrupting,” he chides and leans back in the chair, hooking his arms over the back of it.
Toris watches the window warily for the rest of the afternoon, bandaging his finger and makes sure to hurry to finish dinner after that kind of distraction. He puts the potatoes and beets on the table with such a precise air that you know he’s done it before, that he’s been here for years. Toris looks down at his hands with an almost guilty feeling in his stomach, guilty not for flirting with the milkman, but for making the milkman leave. He did have such big, strong hands… Toris shakes his head, clutching the knife he’d used to fix the beets. He has Ivan – Ivan made sure that was all he’d need. He puts the knife on the counter for a moment to get the brandy out of the fridge – Ivan likes brandy with his chicken. Pouring a glass on some ice, he sets Ivan’s place (he’ll be home any moment) and returns to the counter to carve the chicken.
Toris is quiet for a moment as he sits up and takes another suck on the cigarette, the heady air of tobacco surrounding him. “What then? What?” The blonde girl tugs his flannel sleeve and fidgets nervously.
“Shush, doll,” he tells her, tapping the ash off his cigarette and continuing.
Cutting the chicken up with a practiced hand, he slides the slices onto a separate plate, carefully slicing around the brittle bones. Carving with a quiet, calm air, he’s sent into a startled shock when the door slams open; he nearly slices his finger clear off. Wary, he tenses up, sensing the mood change from good to worst in less than a second.
“I-Ivan..?” There’s a loud thump as he throws his coat on the rack, Toris can recognize that. His eyes are livid as he storms into the kitchen.
“You’ve been screwing the milkman,” he screams, pointing to the window where that very same infamous, goddamned milkman had sucked on Toris’ finger just a few hours prior.
“N-no, I—“ “
You’ve been screwing the goddamn milkman! The milkman! You’re screwing with the milkman!” Ivan's reaching in his vest, where his pistol is, so Toris knows what’s next, knows it’s either him or Ivan, and he grabs that knife that’s been his companion all day and brings it up once — twice — thrice — ten times…right into Ivan’s pinstripe-clad chest, right through that vest, that cold heart, ignoring his screams because he didn’t screw the milkman and he was tired of taking the blame for everything. It was Ivan’s turn to be the guilty one, he tells himself as he wipes that knife of Russian blood and steps over a stiff, cold hand.
“Oh my,” a younger girl whispers, eyes wide, breaking the silence following this gruesome conclusion.
“Ten times?” Another one’s voice is full of disbelief. “He only ran into my knife,” Toris explained, “he only ran into my knife ten times.”
“That’s it, girls,” he says languidly, stretching and letting his cigarette drop to the floor, digging his heel into the ground where it fell. He watches them all disperse and looks down at his attire—flannel shirt, flannel pants, in ugly tangerine, shoes worn and battered. Rows upon rows of cells surrounded him, identical in every single way.
“Lights out,” a guard says from somewhere far away, and the lights flicker off in the room, leave him in the dark. It’s 15 July, and Toris Lorinaitis is a single man in a woman’s prison with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back. His permanently ex-boyfriend Ivan Braginski put him here, put him here when he ran into his knife just ten times. Toris thinks he could have used another ten runs, himself.
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But this fic was awesome. D'aww poor Toris.
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Really, great job. Whoever this is for is one lucky person~ *will have to ask around later*
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Just wanted to give you the heads up that there's a US/Leit:
http://community.livejournal.com/usxliet/
and a Russia/Leit one:
http://community.livejournal.com/love_tap/
if you wanna crosspost there c:
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Good job~