My Pain and Pleasure 1
anonymous
April 6 2010, 16:47:08 UTC
Author!anon here was inspired, but her exam-addled brain went in a different direction than intended... so, other fills are welcomed, but in the meanwhile, I and my physio exam jointly present this: ___________________
‘I didn’t mean it!’
‘I didn’t mean it’, Matthew wants to say, but the words don’t come out. His knuckles are stinging, and he can hear the soft drip of red hitting the floor.
One drop.
Two.
He wants to see where it came from, but the other man is covering his face, huddled up on the floor. His breathing is ragged. Matthew looks at his knuckles and doesn’t see any cuts. ‘So, it’s not my blood’, he thinks dimly.
‘It’s ok’, he wants to tell himself. It’s ok to get angry.
It’s normal. Understandable. When you live for centuries seeing the same faces over and over, you can’t help but hate them sometimes. Not always, but just sometimes, when they get too close and burn you.
He remembers Prussia limp into a meeting, clutching a crutch, teeth bared and eyes fixed on his brother. Germany doesn’t even look up.
He remembers holding tweezers, gently picking out glass from France’s back. It doesn’t need to be disinfected, France says. The spilt whiskey will have done that already.
And he remembers his brother and Ivan, glaring ice cold daggers across the table, neither bothering to hide their bruises. In his memory, he fusses over Alfred - his nose is broken and he’s missing two teeth. Somewhere across the table, Ivan is also bleeding - no one is fussing over him.
In front of him now, Ivan is bleeding again.
‘I didn’t mean it’, he tries to say again, but can’t. He knows better than to lie. He had meant it, the moment the word ‘unwanted’ had come from the Slav’s mouth.
~’Unnoticed. Unwanted. Just like me.’~
“Get up”, his voice is hoarse, and not quite as steady as he’d like it to be. “Why aren’t you getting up?”
He doesn’t understand what’s wrong. By all accounts, he should have lost a couple of teeth to the metal pipe the other carries by now. Instead, the faucet lies discarded on the floor.
“Get up”, he says again, and wishes it didn’t sound so pleading.
He can’t stand this anymore; in a single stride, he’s hovering over Ivan, leaning down and peeling the other’s hands away from his face. Matthew knows what he wants to see. The smile. The soft, gentle smile that doesn’t ever reach the other’s eyes, but shows that everything is ok, that it’s normal, that Ivan is ready to hurt.
Ivan is hiding his face, using his hands to resist Matthew, keeping his head down. Matthew feels the feeling of wrongness intensify.
The Ivan in his memory roughly wipes blood from a gash on his cheek and takes a swing of vodka. The Ivan in front of him hides his eyes under thick blonde bangs as Matthew forces his hands away; there is blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Three drips.
Four.
Matthew finally manages to maneuver Ivan’s hands together, holding them at the wrists with one of his own, and using the other to tilt Ivan’s chin up. That’s wrong, too affectionate. Ivan resists. Matthew growls impatiently, grabs the other’s hair and wrenches his head back.
He wants to see the smile again, to see that everything is normal again. Instead, he recoils as if burned. Ivan drops his head again. It doesn’t matter anymore; Matthew can’t forget his expression.
Matthew doesn’t understand; he doesn’t understand why those purple eyes are filled with so much hunger and need and want.
Re: My Pain and Pleasure 2/3
anonymous
April 6 2010, 16:48:06 UTC
Two days have passed.
Matthew pads down the stairs, yawning; there is bright sunlight pouring in through the skylight, making everything in the room shine. A picture frame catches the rays; the small oil painting in it seems to glow gold. In the painting are sunflowers.
There is noise from the kitchen. Matthew peers around the corner and sees Ivan, facing away, apple in hand. He’s wearing a sky blue apron with white trim, something France got for Matthew last year. Matthew has never worn it. He wanted to give it away, to Ukraine, maybe.
Ivan is making sweet perogies, it seems. He’s made something new every day. Matthew wonders why he doesn’t go home. He thinks it might be the same reason that he doesn’t tell the other to leave.
There’s something off kilter about the scene. About Ivan. The Russian peels the apple softly, almost tenderly.
Suddenly, the knife slips. Ivan drops the apple and slowly examines his hand. Matthew can’t see it; the window in front of Ivan only reflects his face. As if on cue, the Russian brings up his hand to eye level; a faint line of red is visible, running along the thumb.
Slowly, Ivan flicks his tongue out and laps at the blood. His eyes are half lidded in the window, cheeks rosy red like the apple. He gently sucks the pad of his thumb and Matthew sees his other arm flex, grip on the knife tightening. The ruffles on the apron flutter a little; Ivan is trembling. He licks at his thumb again, exhales softly, and brings the knife up.
For a moment, Matthew considers running away, back upstairs, and pretend he doesn’t know. In the end, the apron stops him - what if the other gets blood on it? - so he coughs awkwardly and steps into the kitchen.
Ivan jumps, drops the knife, turns around. His posture is that of a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His expression is all too familiar. Hunger and need and want.
Re: My Pain and Pleasure 3/3
anonymous
April 6 2010, 16:51:44 UTC
Two months have passed.
Matthew arches his back as he feels the other thrust inside him. He moans, and runs his hands down Ivan’s shoulder blades, nails leaving red welts in their wake. His palms are sticky with sweat and blood.
Ivan is quiet during lovemaking; years with the Mongols have taught him to keep his mouth shut or else. Matthew wants to make up for both of them, and moans louder, meeting Ivan’s eyes as he gasps and pants.
The Russian’s lips are crusted in blood from where Matthew bit him and he has a bruise on his right jawbone, but his eyes are filled with need. Matthew brushes a hand over the other’s nipple, then sharply twists it. Ivan shudders and pulls him closer.
Matthew mewls and moans as Ivan’s thrusts become more erratic. He knows he could easily finish this with a razorblade, slice open the other’s arm from shoulder to wrist and make him come. But he doesn’t, because he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do that, wouldn’t break Ivan any more than he already was. So he fists his hand in the other’s hair and pulls, hard, grazing his teeth along Ivan’s neck, and hopes that by some miracle at least some of the tenderness he feels will come through in the gesture.
It doesn’t, because Ivan stiffens under him and finishes, with a soft gasp. Gently, softly, he uses his hands to bring Matthew to completion. When Matthew collapses beside him, he doesn’t have the strength to wonder how the other could ever be so gentle, after what he does to himself.
Minutes later, he pulls himself up and reaches out to get Ivan’s bottle of vodka from the nightstand. Were he anyone else, Ivan would have hurt him for this, badly. But he’s special, different. ‘You know my secret’, he remembers Ivan whispering, eyes shining with sincerity.
Matthew gags a little, at the smell of alcohol and blood, as he pour the liquid onto a cloth and wipes down Ivan’s back with it. The other hisses happily with pain. Matthew suddenly feels like gagging again.
He wipes down the welts and bruises, cuts upon cuts upon old scars, and wonders why in the world he’s doing this.
As if in answer, the Ivan in his memory stares at him with empty eyes and taunts:
Unnoticed.
Unwanted.
Just like me.
__________________
incidentally, captcha = lovers peppered *has sudden image of Ivan tied up piggy style with apple in his mouth* Also, I had to suppress the need to give Ivan a horrible 'accent', like 'You are beink like me, da? In mother Russia, you are not cuttink apple, apple cuttink you. :o)"
Re: My Pain and Pleasure 3/3
anonymous
April 8 2010, 04:11:00 UTC
I'm practically hyperventilating. This was so good. Canada's dominant and empathetic instincts, Russia's vulnerability and contradiction, the way it's tied together emotionally at the end - so good. If I weren't afraid of being obnoxious, I'd beg for a sequel, even though there are no loose ends. I could never get enough.
___________________
‘I didn’t mean it!’
‘I didn’t mean it’, Matthew wants to say, but the words don’t come out. His knuckles are stinging, and he can hear the soft drip of red hitting the floor.
One drop.
Two.
He wants to see where it came from, but the other man is covering his face, huddled up on the floor. His breathing is ragged. Matthew looks at his knuckles and doesn’t see any cuts. ‘So, it’s not my blood’, he thinks dimly.
‘It’s ok’, he wants to tell himself. It’s ok to get angry.
It’s normal. Understandable. When you live for centuries seeing the same faces over and over, you can’t help but hate them sometimes. Not always, but just sometimes, when they get too close and burn you.
He remembers Prussia limp into a meeting, clutching a crutch, teeth bared and eyes fixed on his brother. Germany doesn’t even look up.
He remembers holding tweezers, gently picking out glass from France’s back. It doesn’t need to be disinfected, France says. The spilt whiskey will have done that already.
And he remembers his brother and Ivan, glaring ice cold daggers across the table, neither bothering to hide their bruises. In his memory, he fusses over Alfred - his nose is broken and he’s missing two teeth. Somewhere across the table, Ivan is also bleeding - no one is fussing over him.
In front of him now, Ivan is bleeding again.
‘I didn’t mean it’, he tries to say again, but can’t. He knows better than to lie. He had meant it, the moment the word ‘unwanted’ had come from the Slav’s mouth.
~’Unnoticed. Unwanted. Just like me.’~
“Get up”, his voice is hoarse, and not quite as steady as he’d like it to be. “Why aren’t you getting up?”
He doesn’t understand what’s wrong. By all accounts, he should have lost a couple of teeth to the metal pipe the other carries by now. Instead, the faucet lies discarded on the floor.
“Get up”, he says again, and wishes it didn’t sound so pleading.
He can’t stand this anymore; in a single stride, he’s hovering over Ivan, leaning down and peeling the other’s hands away from his face. Matthew knows what he wants to see. The smile. The soft, gentle smile that doesn’t ever reach the other’s eyes, but shows that everything is ok, that it’s normal, that Ivan is ready to hurt.
Ivan is hiding his face, using his hands to resist Matthew, keeping his head down. Matthew feels the feeling of wrongness intensify.
The Ivan in his memory roughly wipes blood from a gash on his cheek and takes a swing of vodka. The Ivan in front of him hides his eyes under thick blonde bangs as Matthew forces his hands away; there is blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Three drips.
Four.
Matthew finally manages to maneuver Ivan’s hands together, holding them at the wrists with one of his own, and using the other to tilt Ivan’s chin up. That’s wrong, too affectionate. Ivan resists. Matthew growls impatiently, grabs the other’s hair and wrenches his head back.
He wants to see the smile again, to see that everything is normal again. Instead, he recoils as if burned. Ivan drops his head again. It doesn’t matter anymore; Matthew can’t forget his expression.
Matthew doesn’t understand; he doesn’t understand why those purple eyes are filled with so much hunger and need and want.
Reply
Matthew pads down the stairs, yawning; there is bright sunlight pouring in through the skylight, making everything in the room shine. A picture frame catches the rays; the small oil painting in it seems to glow gold. In the painting are sunflowers.
There is noise from the kitchen. Matthew peers around the corner and sees Ivan, facing away, apple in hand. He’s wearing a sky blue apron with white trim, something France got for Matthew last year. Matthew has never worn it. He wanted to give it away, to Ukraine, maybe.
Ivan is making sweet perogies, it seems. He’s made something new every day. Matthew wonders why he doesn’t go home. He thinks it might be the same reason that he doesn’t tell the other to leave.
There’s something off kilter about the scene. About Ivan. The Russian peels the apple softly, almost tenderly.
Suddenly, the knife slips. Ivan drops the apple and slowly examines his hand. Matthew can’t see it; the window in front of Ivan only reflects his face. As if on cue, the Russian brings up his hand to eye level; a faint line of red is visible, running along the thumb.
Slowly, Ivan flicks his tongue out and laps at the blood. His eyes are half lidded in the window, cheeks rosy red like the apple. He gently sucks the pad of his thumb and Matthew sees his other arm flex, grip on the knife tightening. The ruffles on the apron flutter a little; Ivan is trembling. He licks at his thumb again, exhales softly, and brings the knife up.
For a moment, Matthew considers running away, back upstairs, and pretend he doesn’t know. In the end, the apron stops him - what if the other gets blood on it? - so he coughs awkwardly and steps into the kitchen.
Ivan jumps, drops the knife, turns around. His posture is that of a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His expression is all too familiar. Hunger and need and want.
Reply
Matthew arches his back as he feels the other thrust inside him. He moans, and runs his hands down Ivan’s shoulder blades, nails leaving red welts in their wake. His palms are sticky with sweat and blood.
Ivan is quiet during lovemaking; years with the Mongols have taught him to keep his mouth shut or else.
Matthew wants to make up for both of them, and moans louder, meeting Ivan’s eyes as he gasps and pants.
The Russian’s lips are crusted in blood from where Matthew bit him and he has a bruise on his right jawbone, but his eyes are filled with need. Matthew brushes a hand over the other’s nipple, then sharply twists it. Ivan shudders and pulls him closer.
Matthew mewls and moans as Ivan’s thrusts become more erratic. He knows he could easily finish this with a razorblade, slice open the other’s arm from shoulder to wrist and make him come. But he doesn’t, because he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do that, wouldn’t break Ivan any more than he already was. So he fists his hand in the other’s hair and pulls, hard, grazing his teeth along Ivan’s neck, and hopes that by some miracle at least some of the tenderness he feels will come through in the gesture.
It doesn’t, because Ivan stiffens under him and finishes, with a soft gasp. Gently, softly, he uses his hands to bring Matthew to completion. When Matthew collapses beside him, he doesn’t have the strength to wonder how the other could ever be so gentle, after what he does to himself.
Minutes later, he pulls himself up and reaches out to get Ivan’s bottle of vodka from the nightstand. Were he anyone else, Ivan would have hurt him for this, badly. But he’s special, different. ‘You know my secret’, he remembers Ivan whispering, eyes shining with sincerity.
Matthew gags a little, at the smell of alcohol and blood, as he pour the liquid onto a cloth and wipes down Ivan’s back with it. The other hisses happily with pain. Matthew suddenly feels like gagging again.
He wipes down the welts and bruises, cuts upon cuts upon old scars, and wonders why in the world he’s doing this.
As if in answer, the Ivan in his memory stares at him with empty eyes and taunts:
Unnoticed.
Unwanted.
Just like me.
__________________
incidentally, captcha = lovers peppered *has sudden image of Ivan tied up piggy style with apple in his mouth*
Also, I had to suppress the need to give Ivan a horrible 'accent', like 'You are beink like me, da? In mother Russia, you are not cuttink apple, apple cuttink you. :o)"
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Somehow their dysfunctional relationship is far more functional than many others I have seen around here.
And this was kind of hot. .w.
RussiaxCanada is such a rare pair.
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Anon, this was everything I wanted and MORE. Thank you so much. Everything was done just right. I even gasped aloud at one point.
So sorry that I didn't respond sooner.
But this. Asdfjkl;
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