The Beautiful Word II (More Hetalia oneshots)

Run/ 2p F.A.C.E.

Character:
Francois Bonnefoy/2p France
Allen F. Jones/2p America
James Matthieu Williams(Matt)/2p Canada
Oliver Kirkland/ 2p England

Song: Run Boy Run
Woodkids

Warning: mentions of torture, violence, cursing, and some blood.
*~*~*~*~*~*
***Reader is a little sister/daughter of the 2p FACE family. It is in no way meant to be romantic.
Sequel to Dollhouse which is in the other book.
Requested by Piper_the_sad_bean.
I really enjoyed writing this one***

~Run boy run! This world is not made for you
Run boy run! They're trying to catch you

Run boy run! Running is a victory
Run boy run! Beauty lays behind the hills~

You push your body against the rough brick wall of the building as you hid in alley way, hidden in the dark shadows casted by the harsh light of the streetlights.

You were hiding.
You were running.

You had never thought you have to run like this. Slipping through the crowd, living in the shadows. You never thought you'd be the prey.

Your family had always told you that you were going to the best of the family.
The best hunter, the best killer.

Oh, how cruel fate can be.

Instead of the golden murderer you were destined to be, you turned into the rebellious runaway they never expected.

They were family. Oliver, Francisco, Allen, and Matt.
You never thought they would hurt you, never.
But after last time you had a run in with them, years after your mental break, you were proven wrong.

~*~flashback~*~
You held the bloody body of your lover tightly, cradling his head to your chest as you cried.

" It's okay, Arthur." You cooed shakily, "You're gonna be okay."

Your bloody hands pushed blood matted blond hair for Arthur's pale face as he smiled weakly at you, emerald eyes fading of life. His palm pressed against your cheek weakly, and you held it there even after it went limp.

"Please, don't leave me, please." You sobbed, kissing his face in a desperate attempt to somehow give him life, "Arthur, please, please don't go."

"Oh, (y/n)," a sweet, yet saddened British voice said, "I'm terribly sorry for that."

You looked up at the strawberry blonde man who stood just feet from you, his hands dripping the blood of the deadman you held close to you.
His blue eyes swirled with hues of pink, and his maniac smile showed the slight gap between his front teeth.

Your father.
Oliver Kirkland.

You watched him with leaking (e/c) eyes for a few moments, before turning you attention back to Arthur, cooing and pleading to unhearing ears.

"Poppet, let's go home," Oliver says gently, sounding just as much like a caring parent as he had when he wasn't drunk all those yours ago, "We can play dolls, and forget this whole sharade ever happened."

You ignored him.

"(y/n)," he placed a hand on your shoulder, "Poppet, did you hear me-"

Smack

Your hand collided with your father pale, freckled cheek knocking him back.
He held his face with a look of surprise as you snarled at him, protectively holding Arthur to your chest.

"Don't fucking touch me, you bastard!"

"Don't you dare use that language with me, I am your father-"