Drabble dump
Forgive grammar mistakes and bad english, in general. I wasn't feeling too good during these two instances, that were written one after the other. so.
Have fun.
It wasn't with care that John's hand told Joey's face to fuck off. It was with care, though, that John's hand took Joey's arm and pulled it towards his own, now larger body.
The same care that made his hands grip tighter on Joey's still slim arms and his mouth mash against his. THe rain tortured their cheeks, it had been a few minutes already since Joey had left the umbrella fall down.
It wasn't more than a kiss, than a true, passionate kiss, to make up for those times where there hadn't been any. For the months that stretched into years, for the moment everything had been no, and in that denial that harassed both of these boy's hearts.
John didn't want to let go. His teacher, Joey, whereas once he had been so tall, and old, and so responsible, was trying to push him away, they were getting wet...
And John knew, even if he was older now, even if he grew a few inces, that didn't mean his heart had changed. The feeling of longing, the will to be together again, the secret envy and jealousy... a kiss wouldn't heal all this.
John prayed to whatever deity he secretly worshipped, that his teacher would understand that waht he felt was pure and strong, and that...int he end, he was enough of a man for him. They weren't teacher and student anymore, they were John and Joey, adult males, people like everyone else was.
With this kiss, at this moment, "us" and "we" wasn't so wrong.
Russia's strikes weren't elegant or danced (or even planned), but they were strong, blunt, bone-crushing.
Bones cracked under the strenght of his fist, under the grip of his fingers. Russia pushed an arm up, bending it oddly to see the bone separate from the flesh, looking white and yellow and red and it satisfied him.
He screamed, once, even if his anger wasn't loud, when he was about to laugh and cry, and he couldn't feel which one to choose. Alone, he brought his teeth, finally, to alfred's broken, separated arm.
The limb was deliciously raw. They tasted like fat and pollution, but also of Alfred's descrtuction, of Alfred's hatred, of his fear. Of his tears and regrets. His salt, was the dissapointment, the main taste was that of America's broken pride.
They weren't friends anymore. America took from him, even if he couldn't remember exactly what, but he did, and Ivan believed in equivalent exchange.
An arm was enough. Ivan knew this, but he was a greedy child, and only wished for more. Russia had learned patience in the cold winters, but America was still writing in pain.
So he stopped. He knew America would heal his snooty ass, so he set for Germany. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, the train waited for him, and he knew Latvia was hiding his blond head. Lithuania faced things head on, sitting at the window and not even averting his gaze. Estonia was absent.
Have fun.
It wasn't with care that John's hand told Joey's face to fuck off. It was with care, though, that John's hand took Joey's arm and pulled it towards his own, now larger body.
The same care that made his hands grip tighter on Joey's still slim arms and his mouth mash against his. THe rain tortured their cheeks, it had been a few minutes already since Joey had left the umbrella fall down.
It wasn't more than a kiss, than a true, passionate kiss, to make up for those times where there hadn't been any. For the months that stretched into years, for the moment everything had been no, and in that denial that harassed both of these boy's hearts.
John didn't want to let go. His teacher, Joey, whereas once he had been so tall, and old, and so responsible, was trying to push him away, they were getting wet...
And John knew, even if he was older now, even if he grew a few inces, that didn't mean his heart had changed. The feeling of longing, the will to be together again, the secret envy and jealousy... a kiss wouldn't heal all this.
John prayed to whatever deity he secretly worshipped, that his teacher would understand that waht he felt was pure and strong, and that...int he end, he was enough of a man for him. They weren't teacher and student anymore, they were John and Joey, adult males, people like everyone else was.
With this kiss, at this moment, "us" and "we" wasn't so wrong.
Russia's strikes weren't elegant or danced (or even planned), but they were strong, blunt, bone-crushing.
Bones cracked under the strenght of his fist, under the grip of his fingers. Russia pushed an arm up, bending it oddly to see the bone separate from the flesh, looking white and yellow and red and it satisfied him.
He screamed, once, even if his anger wasn't loud, when he was about to laugh and cry, and he couldn't feel which one to choose. Alone, he brought his teeth, finally, to alfred's broken, separated arm.
The limb was deliciously raw. They tasted like fat and pollution, but also of Alfred's descrtuction, of Alfred's hatred, of his fear. Of his tears and regrets. His salt, was the dissapointment, the main taste was that of America's broken pride.
They weren't friends anymore. America took from him, even if he couldn't remember exactly what, but he did, and Ivan believed in equivalent exchange.
An arm was enough. Ivan knew this, but he was a greedy child, and only wished for more. Russia had learned patience in the cold winters, but America was still writing in pain.
So he stopped. He knew America would heal his snooty ass, so he set for Germany. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, the train waited for him, and he knew Latvia was hiding his blond head. Lithuania faced things head on, sitting at the window and not even averting his gaze. Estonia was absent.