Come night, we love [1/2]
anonymous
November 30 2010, 08:01:21 UTC
i. One can not go on knowing Russia without acknowledging his extreme affinity for holding hands. Refusal to do so will inevitably get you nowhere faster than a broken lift; his refusal to do so resulted in twisted fingers and a loud ‘bloody fucking hell’ in the middle of a meeting which ended in a very patronizing talk with Russia that included such points as 'you should not cry out in the middle of such an important meeting' and 'vulgar words should be limited to a filthy mind'. All the while holding hands with his irate self.
There was also the small smile that lifted his features after the outburst, and the calm question 'what is wrong, England?' that further drove home the point that when Russia offers you his hand, you take it. Preferably as fast as you can.
And yet, despite his need for 'yes' in life as well as little acknowledgment of how much he could hurt if he twisted his arm that way, one also learns that Russia has a temperament of a child who must be appeased at all costs. Unfortunately, England has been labelled the bad parent of the world and finds that he does not have it in him to appease every little thing Russia demands of a... fucker. 'Fucker' because they are not lovers and 'one who engages in copulation' doesn't quite do it.
Russia himself never says 'lovers'. They are 'acquaintances', 'friends', and 'nations'. Russia has never used 'love'.
Regardless, Russia shows up on his doorstep every so often. Sometimes he has a chess set. Other times he brings tea. Still other times, Russia only brings his open hands.
England invites him in every so often when he appears, and they kiss as 'friends' do as the doors close.
ii. There is a weakening in Russia’s skin. Where the pads of his fingers meet is where the shudders come from; there is an undeniable sense of pleasure from lingering hands, and when his lips brush his jaw, Russia’s eyes begin to roll.
Whether Russia is aware of it or not is another matter.
Keeping a firm grip on his scarf, Russia traces the outline of his chin. “You are in a hurry today, England.” And sits on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for something that he will not initiate. Sniffling a little, England tries not to let that highlight his being nude already, clothes in a pile by his foot.
“I’ve got an appointment later,” he lies, unbuttoning the other’s half-open shirt; for some reason Russia refuses to undress himself. “It’s purely convenience.”
“Convenience? You are not excited with me?” Giggling, Russia shrugs off his open shirt. “I am certainly excited to be with you.”
‘Excited’ is not the word, but ‘anxious’ isn’t a good one either. “I’m sure,” he scoffs. And he leaves it at that.
Reaching upwards with his hand to run his fingers over the smooth scar beneath Russia’s collarbone- his knuckles brush his heart almost but not quite- he settles a kiss on the avenue where bone meets vein. As he makes his way down, only pausing where his tongue makes its own trail, his hand already finds its way even further down.
Though he’s been prepared for this, Russia’s startled gasp whenever he touches anywhere near his crotch never fails to jerk him back to a reality where he is going to sleep with Russia. Then he remembers he is already naked and Russia might as well be, so he finds himself saying ‘I won’t do anything you won’t like.’
It’s always surprising how Russia nods in agreement.
iii. “It’s not as if this is the first-”
“I want to make sure you are comfortable.” While Russia looming over him might otherwise be terrifying, all he can think about now is just put it in already because his mind has transfixed itself on the other nation’s tongue that made him buck his hips and utter a quiet ‘Christ’ before anything had even begun.
One can not go on knowing Russia without acknowledging his extreme affinity for holding hands. Refusal to do so will inevitably get you nowhere faster than a broken lift; his refusal to do so resulted in twisted fingers and a loud ‘bloody fucking hell’ in the middle of a meeting which ended in a very patronizing talk with Russia that included such points as 'you should not cry out in the middle of such an important meeting' and 'vulgar words should be limited to a filthy mind'. All the while holding hands with his irate self.
There was also the small smile that lifted his features after the outburst, and the calm question 'what is wrong, England?' that further drove home the point that when Russia offers you his hand, you take it. Preferably as fast as you can.
And yet, despite his need for 'yes' in life as well as little acknowledgment of how much he could hurt if he twisted his arm that way, one also learns that Russia has a temperament of a child who must be appeased at all costs. Unfortunately, England has been labelled the bad parent of the world and finds that he does not have it in him to appease every little thing Russia demands of a... fucker. 'Fucker' because they are not lovers and 'one who engages in copulation' doesn't quite do it.
Russia himself never says 'lovers'. They are 'acquaintances', 'friends', and 'nations'. Russia has never used 'love'.
Regardless, Russia shows up on his doorstep every so often. Sometimes he has a chess set. Other times he brings tea. Still other times, Russia only brings his open hands.
England invites him in every so often when he appears, and they kiss as 'friends' do as the doors close.
ii.
There is a weakening in Russia’s skin. Where the pads of his fingers meet is where the shudders come from; there is an undeniable sense of pleasure from lingering hands, and when his lips brush his jaw, Russia’s eyes begin to roll.
Whether Russia is aware of it or not is another matter.
Keeping a firm grip on his scarf, Russia traces the outline of his chin. “You are in a hurry today, England.” And sits on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for something that he will not initiate. Sniffling a little, England tries not to let that highlight his being nude already, clothes in a pile by his foot.
“I’ve got an appointment later,” he lies, unbuttoning the other’s half-open shirt; for some reason Russia refuses to undress himself. “It’s purely convenience.”
“Convenience? You are not excited with me?” Giggling, Russia shrugs off his open shirt. “I am certainly excited to be with you.”
‘Excited’ is not the word, but ‘anxious’ isn’t a good one either. “I’m sure,” he scoffs. And he leaves it at that.
Reaching upwards with his hand to run his fingers over the smooth scar beneath Russia’s collarbone- his knuckles brush his heart almost but not quite- he settles a kiss on the avenue where bone meets vein. As he makes his way down, only pausing where his tongue makes its own trail, his hand already finds its way even further down.
Though he’s been prepared for this, Russia’s startled gasp whenever he touches anywhere near his crotch never fails to jerk him back to a reality where he is going to sleep with Russia. Then he remembers he is already naked and Russia might as well be, so he finds himself saying ‘I won’t do anything you won’t like.’
It’s always surprising how Russia nods in agreement.
iii.
“It’s not as if this is the first-”
“I want to make sure you are comfortable.” While Russia looming over him might otherwise be terrifying, all he can think about now is just put it in already because his mind has transfixed itself on the other nation’s tongue that made him buck his hips and utter a quiet ‘Christ’ before anything had even begun.
“I am comfortable so if you’d just-”
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