Leather and Lace 2/5
anonymous
January 7 2010, 19:39:16 UTC
She slides one hand beneath his head, and he tenses when he realizes she’s tying a ribbon around his neck. It’s long. All of them must be long. And why won’t they break? He jerks the ones holding his arms and legs in place again, but they still won’t snap. Belarus knots the one at his throat almost too tight. It pinches, and makes him aware of every breath he takes. She flips her long hair up and binds the other end of the thing around her own neck, so the two of them are leashed together. Bound at the pulse, bound at the breath.
“Sister,” he begs her. “Undo this. Please, please.”
“I’ll undo it when we’re done.”
“What are you going to do?” But he knows, of course. And she knows that he does, so she doesn’t answer.
She picks up her skirts and stands on the bed. The springs creak. Russia flinches as she steps over him, so that she has one foot planted on the mattress on either side of his chest. When he refuses to look up at her, she lifts a boot and touches the toe of it against his cheek. Gentle, not gentle. Belarus forces him to turn his face from side to side. He can smell the leather and lace. There is a moment where she places her wooden heel against his temple and he thinks-she could kill him. Very easily. It wouldn’t take much strength at all, for her to stomp down and put that heel through his skull.
There is a moment of silence.
“I love you,” she says, soft as a coo. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you very much. I love you. Look up at me.”
So when she lifts her boot away, he does.
He tries to imagine her like a flower. Something decorated, something small and frail, something sweet. Was she like that as a child? She had seemed that way to him. In a way, she still does. Because however frightening she becomes, Russia knows that once she was a tiny girl who needed protecting.
“Sister,” he begs her. “Undo this. Please, please.”
“I’ll undo it when we’re done.”
“What are you going to do?” But he knows, of course. And she knows that he does, so she doesn’t answer.
She picks up her skirts and stands on the bed. The springs creak. Russia flinches as she steps over him, so that she has one foot planted on the mattress on either side of his chest. When he refuses to look up at her, she lifts a boot and touches the toe of it against his cheek. Gentle, not gentle. Belarus forces him to turn his face from side to side. He can smell the leather and lace. There is a moment where she places her wooden heel against his temple and he thinks-she could kill him. Very easily. It wouldn’t take much strength at all, for her to stomp down and put that heel through his skull.
There is a moment of silence.
“I love you,” she says, soft as a coo. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you very much. I love you. Look up at me.”
So when she lifts her boot away, he does.
He tries to imagine her like a flower. Something decorated, something small and frail, something sweet. Was she like that as a child? She had seemed that way to him. In a way, she still does. Because however frightening she becomes, Russia knows that once she was a tiny girl who needed protecting.
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