Warning- This story will contain mentions of non-con, forced oral, verbal, mental and physical abuse as well as corrupt doctors, mental disorders and psychiatric hospitals. There may be (minor) character death later on in the story, too. Remember that I am not a psychologist (although I'd like to be one) and anything I mention in this story may/may not apply to real life. Please do not take any of the medicines/etc. mentioned as they may not be the correct solution. Additionally, there will be a lot of swearing. If this is not for you, then please don't read.
Remember to be sensible when reading stories like this: they are fictional and you should never repeat anything that is mentioned in these stories.
Also, I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers. The only thing that belongs to me is the story line.
Our Little Secret
Chapter One - Arthur and Doctor Jones
"You're a crazy little fuck, aren't you?"
Doctor Jones' voice dripped with venom. His calloused hands were buried deep within Arthur's thick, dirty blonde hair as he harshly thrust into the latter's swollen mouth. Arthur wanted so badly for it all to stop. He was getting dizzy and his vision was blurring due to the lack of oxygen. Doctor Jones was hurting him again, and he always dreaded the two-hour sessions three times a week. Fat tears rolled down Arthur's face as the doctor once again degraded him.
"Oh, fuck. You're good with your mouth, Artie. I'll fucking give you that." He gasped, white starting to take over his vision as he came close. "No wonder…you're good." A deep, hearty groan came from the doctor's mouth as he came down Arthur's abused throat, his hot fluid shooting to the back. "What with all the practice you had with your father." The doctor panted, getting his breath back. Now that he thought about it, Arthur might need some oxygen, too. "There, you little slut." He said as he slid his now-soft member from the smaller one's mouth, making a small pop. Doctor Jones ruffled the messy mop of hair on top of his patient's head and smirked as Arthur gasped loudly; he wanted so desperately to fill his small lungs to the brim with the oxygen, the same oxygen he was deprived of not many moments before. "What do you say, whore?"
"T-thank you, D-doctor Jones…" Arthur whispered. His throat was so sore, why did the doctor do this to him? His doctor, of all people. The one person in the asylum he was supposed to be able to trust. There was no way in Hell that Arthur would even consider trusting Alfred Jones. No way. Definitely not after everything the demon Yank did to him.
"What? I can't hear you, Artie." Alfred hissed, his hands once again fisting the younger's hair as he dragged him upwards, only a couple of inches away and below his own face.
"Thank you, Doctor Jones!" Arthur repeated, louder this time, yet not too loud. The Doctor constantly reminded Arthur that if anyone on the floor ever heard his screams or his shouts, he would be taken far away. He would personally get Arthur sent away; away to a place with no escape. No asylum; nowhere to go – a place where people would hear his screams, hear his shouts, could hear him begging for mercy, but would not help him. "Thank you, thank you!"
Alfred smirked, happy with today's outcome. Two hours well spent, if he did say so himself. He grinned lopsidedly, his pearly whites gleaming in the light and practically blinding Arthur. "Did you enjoy yourself, Arthur? I know you did." He ruffled the English boy's hair rather roughly and zipped his black suit pants up before sitting back down in his chair. "You'd better leave now. Don't want anyone getting suspicious, do we?" Arthur shook his head no. "Good. Now get out. I'll see you on Friday."
Arthur wiped away his salty tears with the smooth heel of his hands and wiped his mouth. He felt dirty. As Arthur was let out of the Doctor's soundproof office, Alfred cleared his throat, making Arthur look back at the blue-eyed devil. "Oh, and Arthur? Don't forget; this is our little secret."
Ivan, the big lean Russian orderly, was waiting outside for the patient. If a doctor needed help while with a patient in a session, the doctor would have to simply press a panic button located underneath their desk. Ivan had a bleeper, as did the rest of the orderlies, so if anything serious did happen, he would be at their aid straight away.
Ivan, however, passionately hated Doctor Jones with the intensity of a thousand suns. He was American – for starters – and there was just a way about him that Ivan disliked the moment he had met the doctor. He was arrogant, cocky, demanding, and ruthless and always got what he wanted. Ivan did not like that. It did not do well to be a spoilt brat, and that is what the American was: a spoilt brat. Ivan sighed and smoothed down his white uniform. What was taking Arthur so long? His session ended ten minutes ago!
Just as he was about to knock on Doctor Jones' door, it buzzed, which signaled that someone was about to come out. The Russian stood straight and waited for Arthur Kirkland to come out. Once he did, Ivan smiled softly – though a little childishly – at the boy before fixing him in a straitjacket (he was a big man, he could do by himself) and escorting him back to his cell.
Arthur inwardly sighed once Ivan took the straitjacket off him and did not put up a fight. He was too tired for that; too bored. He usually fought against the restraints. Well, when he first arrived at the asylum he would. That was three years ago, and Arthur was nineteen now. Doctor Jones had only been Arthur's doctor for the past year at the Ashcliffe Psychiatric Hospital, and that one year was enough to last a lifetime. Hell, the first couple of months were enough!
Arthur missed his first doctor.
Doctor… Damn, what was it again?
Doctor… Doctor Bonnefoy!
That was it.
Doctor Francis Bonnefoy.
Arthur missed Doctor Bonnefoy so much; he was nothing like Doctor Jones. He wasn't sadistic, American, nor was he spawn of Satan. No; Doctor Bonnefoy was gentle, kind, softly spoken, never raised his voice and certainly did not abuse Arthur. Arthur smiled softly as the doctor's image was once again in his mind.
His shoulder length blonde hair that was always tied up with either a purple, blue or red ribbon. His wise, understanding and captivating eyes were an incredible shade of blue: cerulean, a lovely shade, Arthur thought. They were nothing like his forest green ones.
They were so incredibly bright when you considered the doctor's profession. It must have been rather hard to listen to mentally unstable patients all-day: screaming, rambling, giving the silent treatment… All of them were things that could eventually turn the doctors mad, too. The endless nights that Arthur had spent awake, lying on his hard bed, as the Lithuanian across the corridor, Toris, would scream blood-curdling screams. He would scream so loud and for so long that the day after, he would not come out. Even his own boyfriend, a Polish boy of the same age named Feliks, would be uncomfortable the day after.
Arthur often wondered what happened to his French doctor. Why had he left him? Had he not cared? Yes, Arthur knew that Doctor Bonnefoy would not have had the foggiest about Arthur's next doctor (not the German substitute doctor he had for half a year), but that still left Arthur wondering day after day. Where had he gone? Would he come back? What would it be like if he had not had Doctor Jones? What if Doctor Bonnefoy had stayed and not left Arthur in the hands of a sadistic rapist? What if?
"Urgh. Not again." Arthur groaned when Vash, a Swiss man in his late thirties-early forties, started yelling about gunshots. Vash had previously served in the army and during a war, his best friend and colleague had died trying to save him. Since that day, Vash continuously heard the sound of guns cocking and firing, explosions… He'd scream, and although Arthur pitied the man to no end, it was really bloody annoying. Soon, his shouts awoke other patients who started shouting and screaming. It was like Hell on Earth.
After a full hour, Arthur realized he would be getting no sleep and decided to talk to the fairies that perched themselves on the side of his bed. Tink, Ella, Belle, Luke and Lucy were his main - and only - friends. Well, his longest friends. The fairies had always been a part of Arthur. Ever since he was but two years old. He faintly remembered them then, although his childhood was but a bit of a blur. He remembered Flying Mint Bunny. Oh, that cute little thing! He was Arthur's friend, too. He hadn't seen him in a while, though.
He hadn't realized how late it'd gotten until he looked out of the small - really small - window in Arthur's room. There weren't many windows in the patient's rooms; not many of them were stable enough for it, but for some reason, they thought Arthur was.
That, or they were just taunting him. Giving him a slice of what life could be life outside of this mental institute. Out of the asylum. Out of the hospital. Arthur sighed. As much as he missed the outside world - having the wind blowing through your hair, the rain hit your face in cold yet pleasant splashes, the sun beaming down on your body - he had nothing out there for him. There was literally nothing. No family, no friends. At least, no real ones. And it was all Arthur's fault... If only... If only he had not been born. Yes. If he hadn't been born, then he wouldn't be here and his family wouldn't be dead. Everything was Arthur's fault. Always. At least, that is what he heard from his Father day in and day out. You're pathetic, Arthur. A good-for-nothing! All you're good for is a rough fuck. Nothing else. No-one could love you. Hell, I certainly don't love you. Arthur briefly wondered what it would be like to have someone love him.
No one would want to touch filth like you. Doctor Jones' would spit. His words spun through Arthur's head same with the words from his father. They made him feel worthless; so, so worthless.
Who did he have?