This was created out of a roleplay I did with Hannaadi88

I was Scotland and she was England.

I hope you can all understand the Scottish dialect, I got help writing it from my Scottish friends so it should be pretty accurate :)

Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed roleplaying it.

Thank you Hannaadi88 for editing this, putting up with me when I whine and for all the fun times :)

Warnings: Bad language, abuse, Scottish dialect (I have to live with it as the only English person in a Scottish community ^^') and general darkness

Disclaimer: Neither I nor Hannaadi88 own Axis Powers Hetalia. Or Scotland :D

Loving To Hurt You


Arthur Kirkland lifted his gaze from the book, eyebrow raised in confusion. He had been in the process of setting down his teacup when his older brother stormed in, surprising the Englishman so that he dropped the delicate china. The expression on the other's face was anything but pleased. Arthur shivered- those looks never foretold good.

Alasdair's sea blue eyes flashed dangerously.

He was severely pissed off. All day, things had been happening to increase his anger until his famously short temper was this close to exploding. Glasgow had been playing up, Edinburgh's economy was still falling . . . And everyone knew how close Scotland's economy was tied to England's.

He knew who to blame.

He strode to the window, staring out with eyes that danced like a tempest. His breathing was heavy, dripping with anger as he clenched the windowsill with both hands.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur stood up and stepped over the broken shards, walking over to his sibling. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "Alasdair, are you all right?" he voiced his concern.

The hand on his shoulder was like the final straw and something inside Alasdair snapped.

He knocked Arthur's hand away and then grabbed his wrist, spinning the Englishman around and slipping his other arm around his waist. Now Alasdair had his back to the window, with Arthur's back fitting perfectly into the Scot's front.

"Am ah alrecht?" He drawled quietly into Arthur's ear, his whisky and cigarette breath dancing on the Englishman's soft skin. "Nae Arthur, aam nae alrecht"

The Brit gasped at the sudden change of positions, pressed close to the other's body. As usual, Alasdair's breath consisted of things Arthur both loved and hated- just like his brother.

It was awkward and wrong. Loving your brother in any way but the normal, familial affection was a sin. Especially if such a brother hurt you. Both mentally and physically. But just like a drug, no matter how bad it is for you, you can't stop wanting more.

And Arthur was addicted.

Shivering, he tried to pull away. "What is wrong, then?" he asked, trying to distract the Scotsman.

Arthur words neither distracted nor calmed the Scot. If anything, they made him worse. He squeezed the arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer and pinning both the Englishman's arms to his sides.

"Yoo're wrang Arthur," He growled dangerously. "Yoo're fallin' doon an' takin' me wi' ye. An aam sick o' et"

It was true, every fight, every scrap, every feckin' little drop in economy and Scotland was dragged down alongside of it.

"Falling? Hardly. It is not my fault that you are so dependent on both my economy and myself, Alasdair. Start finding other sources and support. Why do you think it is that I am the one holding us all together, not you?"

The moment those words left his mouth Arthur froze, biting his lip hard. He would have covered his mouth with his hand if that had been to his disposal. Unfortunately, it was not.

Even though it was the British nation that was on top of things on the outside, inside he was helpless against those he loved. He couldn't struggle, much the less shoot them. He knew that what he had said was only going to provoke his brother. Why, then, had he said it? He shut his eyes, bracing himself.

Alasdair's eyes blazed with a blue fire. The wee, feckin' bastard!

He grabbed Arthur's wrist and threw him onto the sofa, on his back. Then, hardly giving Arthur time to blink, he straddled the younger Nation's waist and looked down on him with that wild glint in his eyes.

"Yoo've gart sure Ah was kept dependent since William Wallace fought tae be rid ay yer feckin' King'! Naethin' changed did it, Arthur. Ye still tried tae rule under th' impression 'at Ah was daein' things mah way." He snapped, centuries of bottled up spite spilling forth like whisky down the throat.

Speaking of . . .

Alasdair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bottle of the 'Uisge Beatha', the 'Water of Life'. Pinning Arthur's wrists above his head with one large hand, he yanked out the stopper with his teeth and took a swig, feeling the warm, amber liquid slide smoothly down his throat, giving fuel to his anger.

Ah. So that was it. Arthur had a feeling that the other would bring up William Wallace. He always did. But arguing over him wouldn't be of any help now. If the Englishman was to avoid violence, he was going to have to sweeten his words and bite back the insults.

Alasdair drank. Oh dear lord. It was worse when the Scotsman was drunk. It was a shared trait of the Anglo siblings to loose themselves to drink and react harshly to whoever blocked their path. Arthur grimaced, wishing he could pull the bottle away from the other. But before he could do anything, it was flung aside, empty.

"Drinking isn't going to solve anything." The Brit snapped.

Alasdair's blue eyes, matching his flag, looked down on England. Disregarding Arthur's last remark about the alcohol-honestly, the Englishman should heed his own words- he drank enough. Alasdair leaned down, putting his hands either side of Arthur's face and drawled.

"Ah wanted freedom, but noo aam mair restricted than ever," His eyes flashed. "Ah cannae make a body move withit yer feckin', erse ay a government squealin' loch a virgin."

Sucking in his breath, the British personification felt his cheeks redden in anger.

"Rightfully so. Face the facts, Alasdair- you do not have what it takes to be an independent country. With all your drinking and nasty habits, you wouldn't be fit to own a thing, much less represent a nation. You may say you want freedom," the Englishman gazed up, stony faced, "but you are very comfortable with simply accepting the money I give you. Admit it."

He didn't care if he offended the Scotsman. It was the bloody truth, and both of them knew it.

Alasdair sat up and stared down at the Englishman. Not saying a word, his expression almost blank. Then a lopsided smirk played on his lips. His eyes glittered and he reached up to his neck, pulling off his tie and then snaking it around Arthur's wrists, tying it tightly.

"Shaa we plaey a gaem, ma wee hen?" He said mockingly.

He left Arthur and strode across the room. He went to the large cabinet in the corner and opened the glass doors, totally disregarding the flimsy lock placed upon it. The Scot pulled out a tall bottle of his most expensive, single malt whisky. He then walked slowly back to Arthur, his hips swaying dangerously as he did.

"Ah dae ken hoo much ye leik to play Arthur"

The moment Alasdair tied his hands together, the Englishman broke into a cold sweat. His mind was screaming bloody murder, every fiber in his body urging him to obey his instincts and get out of there. But something sinister, out of his command in the pit of his stomach, responded immensely to the mere action. Excitement was building up, and Arthur could do nothing about it.

Even so, the nation was able to sit up as his brother left him momentarily. He could have run-

Fuck, why not?

Standing up- staggering a bit as his balance was challenged by his bound arms- he rushed to the door, only to find that it was locked. The key was in the door, but he seemed unable to open it with his hands.

The footsteps behind him grew louder.

Alasdair's smirk grew. His little bunny was trying to escape hmm? Now he couldn't stand for that. He slowly, slowly wrapped his arms around Arthur from behind, the whisky bottle clinking on the Englishman's belt buckle.

Scotland ran his mouth up Arthur's neck, giving a little bite to the soft skin. "An' whaur dae ye hink yoo're aff tae?" He murmured, poking his tongue out to run along the English Nation's jaw line.

Arthur shivered, freezing when the Scotsman began demonstrating on his skin. The pale expanse was being ravished, marked and ruined. And he couldn't do anything about it.

Breath hitched in his throat, the Englishman tried not to show the other what his actions were doing to him. "O-out of here. Away from y-you..."

If only.

Alasdair chuckled softly, trailing his hot, wet, whisky tainted tongue over Arthur's ear and then burying his nose in the Englishman's blond hair. He breathed deeply, inhaling the English Nation's scent.

"Ye cannae gettae way frae me Arthur, ye gart sure ay 'at yerself" He muttered. "Ye cannae gettae way frae someain who's locked in th' sam cage as ye."

"Nngh..." Arthur was, for once, speechless. What the other had said was true enough- yet it made no sense to him. On the other hand, it explained everything. Why oh why did he have to face these contradictions every single day?

Instead, the Englishman simply sighed and hung his head. He gazed at the floor, glassy-eyed.

Alasdair grinned triumphantly, feeling an enormous sense of achievement that he had rendered the, usually eloquent, Arthur speechless. He breathed in deeply again, then moved his mouth down to nip at the soft curve of Arthur's ear.

"Open it" He commanded, lifting the whisky bottle to Arthur's mouth whilst keeping the English Nation crushed between himself and the door.

Crushed between punisher and locked salvation, the Englishman felt his shoulders droop. His posture slacked, seeing no reason to inspire awe in anyone at the moment. But he didn't want to drink, either. Arthur shut his mouth tightly, shaking his head violently.

Alasdair rolled his eyes and tutted at Arthur. "Tha willnae dae Arthur" He said in a tone of mock disappointment. He slipped his fingers into the Englishman's mouth, forcing his jaws apart and then shoving the bottle in.

"Open. It." He commanded again, his tone becoming harsh and military.

The fiery liquid gushed down Arthur's throat, chocking and burning him. Eyes opened wide, surprise evident in those green orbs (though, he really should have expected this). His gasps for breath only did him worse, helping the drink go down his windpipe as well.

His hands were useless. He couldn't move. He couldn't even make any noise, the Whiskey suffocating him. If Alasdair didn't stop soon, the Englishman would probably go limp in his arms.

Alasdair smirked, revealing snowy white, pointed teeth, then he pulled the bottle from Arthur's mouth and stepped back, leaving the Englishman to stand on his own. "Tut tut Arthur, lae some fur me eh?" He drawled before taking a long swig from the bottle, leaving only a quarter of the expensive stuff left.

Arthur gagged and fell forwards, hitting his head on the door and landing on his knees. He leaned forward, spitting out the rest of the stuff. He was already starting to feel a bit woozy. "B-bastard..." He mumbled, his forehead pressed against the firm wood.

A loud, harsh laugh forced it's way out of Alasdair's throat. It turned him right on to see Arthur on his knees, the Englishman cursing him only added to the twisted appeal.

"Puir baeby," He slurred, meandering over to Arthur and putting a hand on his head and threading his fingers gently through the dusty, blond locks. "Ye ken we're only jist startin' dorn't ye?"

A headache was brewing in the depth of Arthur's mind. It ravaged his thoughts, nothing coherent able to push through. All he knew was that he was on his knees. And that Alasdair was saying... something.

"We are?" he asked numbly, not sure if that was the attitude he was aiming for.

Tightening his fingers in Arthur's hair, Scotland dragged England to his feet until the blonde's feet were hardly touching the floor. "Ay coorse," He hissed in his ear. "We've still got a quarter bottle huir uv whisky, an ye will help me finish it, mah loove"

The Englishman gasped in pain as his hair was tugged at, brutally pulling him up. He was now facing the one he both loved and hated intensely. And apparently, he wanted him to finish the bottle. Sneaking a glance at it, Arthur groaned. He never would be able to do it. How could he get out of it?

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the Scotsman's.

The kiss startled the Scot into being gentle. He kissed his brother deeply, running his tongue over Arthur's bottom lip before he realized what he was doing and frowned. He bit Arthur's lip sharply, pulling away with the rusty, salty taste of blood in his mouth.

"Whore" He said, pulling a leather clad hand back and slapping Arthur's cheek before dropping him to the floor.

Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes, on the verge of falling. Arthur fell to the floor, stunned. In silence, he gently brought his hands (as they were tied together, still) to his raw cheek, feeling it gently and pulling back with a wince as it stung.

He looked up at his older brother, a single tear streaking down his red cheek.

That single, glittering tear shook Alasdair. Deep deep down, he knew he was wrong, hurting Arthur. He was taking out all his frustrations on the one he thought was responsible. He was laying the blame on someone else when, by all rights, it should be him taking responsibility for his own mistakes.

Maybe he, (he clenched his fist around the bottle), he was wrong?

He sighed heavily and wearily, suddenly feeling much less like going through with this. He plonked himself down in front of Arthur, setting the bottle away and tilting his head at him. But he couldn't bring himself to speak, much less apologize.

Arthur, not sure what was happening, was just as shocked to see Alasdair dropping to his knees next to him as he had been when the other had slapped him.

And they said he was bipolar.

Licking his lips, the Englishman took in a deep breath. "Can you... untie me?"

Alasdair regarded Arthur with darkened eyes. Then he leaned forward and silently untied English Nation's wrists. As he pulled back, he placed an apologetic kiss on Arthur's reddened cheek, still not comfortable with apologizing through words. He then sat back, leaning on his palms and watching Arthur with a look like a tired wolf.

His hands freed, the Brit rubbed them attentively together, restoring the warmth that was lost when the blood flow was forced to a halt, never reaching the fingertips. Color was slowly restored to the pale digits.

Arthur, a smile on his lips, crawled on all fours to his older brother, curling up in his arms. His head nestled against the strong, firm chest. The Englishman sighed in content.

Alasdair looked down at the Englishman, curled up like a little kitten on his lap.

All his.

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Arthur, holding him close and pressing a rare, gentle kiss to his forehead.

The island nation was touched. He was being loved. It reminded him of those long ago memories... painful, but fond memories.

"You know," he started absently, "Alfred used to cuddle up with me like this. Before he... before he left."

Scotland froze at the mention of America.

The obnoxious little brat, who hadn't gotten any better since he staged his 'Revolution' and ran off from Arthur. Still as loud, brash and plain stupid as ever. And yet, Arthur was still enamored with the boy.

Huh, Alasdair'd soon change that. Arthur was his, aaall his.

He pushed the Englishman out of his lap, making him land on his back and, once again, he straddled the blond. "Ah dinnae give a dahm aboot tha' brat" he growled.


Arthur panicked. This contradicted the normal routine. They were supposed to continue cuddling, forgiving each other for brash words and violence. The Scotsman wasn't supposed to go violent again. What could have triggered his anger?

Oh. That was it. Alfred. The Englishman grinned smugly, the idea of his elder brother being jealous of the American bringing a smile to his face. "Oh, but you should. If not for him, my economy would be in ruins. And when mine goes down..." he looked up, catching his gaze, "you go too."

"Besides, he is very... generous while helping me out. To be frank, I quite enjoy our 'meetings'." He added with a dirty smirk. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. The other would most likely hurt him even more.

But perhaps he wanted Alasdair to be jealous?