Re: England/Russia - America is NOT involved (prt 7 )
anonymous
January 11 2011, 18:18:52 UTC
Sorry for delay! Real life has been a nightmare recently!!! D: _______________________________________________________________________
Ivan was sitting in his makeshift workshop, which he had thrown haphazardly together in one of the many rooms of his house, busy carving a new doll when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Putting down his tool reverently he strolled towards the door and out into the expansive corridor. The door bell rang again impatiently. Smiling to himself Ivan wondered who it was that was so desperate to see him. Opening the door he smiled benevolently at his unknown guest.
‘How may I help you,’ asked Ivan charmingly. He squinted his eyes at the covered figure, presently shivering under a thick coat, long scarf and ushanka, all of which covered any recognisable features, standing at his door.
‘You could let me in for a start, its bloody freezing,’ said a male voice from behind the scarf, irritable and British.
‘Arthur!’ Ivan explained happily, ‘I didn’t realise you were coming so soon! Come in you look freezing’.
With pleasantries done with Arthur pushed his way past Ivan into the warmness of the house. ‘Yes I had forgotten how cold Russia can get’. Gloved hands wrung together for friction and warmth. It had been many years since his last visit to Russia and Arthur had truly forgotten how biting Russia was this time of year. Hastily he took of his coat, scarf and hat, glad to rid of the snow ridden things.
‘It has been a while since your last visit hasn’t it, too long.’ Ivan parodied Arthur’s thoughts, taking his discarded outwear and putting them up to dry. Idly he noticed that the usual red and gold badge had been torn off the hat, but that did little to discourage his good mood. Arthur was here in the flesh………. and by the looks of it still freezing. Arthur’s shirt, also wet with the troublesome snow, was causing the smaller man to shiver. ‘How rude of me, I will get you a spare set of clothes. Would you like to go through to the entertaining room, it is warmer. You do remember how to get there yes? Down the corridor, fourth…..’
‘Yes, yes I remember’ Arthur cut in. ‘Thank you’.
Wearisome from his long journey to Russia Arthur made his way absentmindedly towards the entertaining room (or lounge as he would have preferred to call it), subconsciously remembering each corner and inch of the house, using his memories as a map.
In all these years the house hadn’t changed much keeping its fine Imperialist décor and feel. However despite its grandeur and familiarity Arthur couldn’t help but notice a few radical changes. Stalin’s portrait now stood proudly in each room plaguing every spare surface, some photographs lovely decorated with the communist flag. Many of the old trinkets and dolls had also been removed from their shelves, replaced with weaponry, photographs of the Soviet states and Soviet propaganda. Finally Arthur reached his destination and flopped boneless into the fraying couch.
A gentle hand at his shoulder startled him. Ivan stood next to him jumper in hand, soft expression on his face. Arthur blushed embarrassedly. Had he been asleep? How long had he been asleep? And more importantly how long had Ivan been standing there watching him sleep?
‘Here’, Ivan said offering Arthur the jumper. ‘Maybe I should get Ravis to make up the spare guest room, you look tired’.
Taking the jumper Arthur shook his head, there was no way he spending the night. ‘I’m only here to reason with you Ivan, not stay’.
Ivan’s expression dropped a little. ‘Reason with me? What have I done?’ he asked taken aback, eyes wide and puppy like.
‘Don’t play games Ivan; you know exactly what you have done’ Arthur snapped not fooled by the look of innocence adorning Ivan’s strong features. ‘And can you turn your back I can’t change with you staring at me like that….’ An almost sheepish expression past Arthur’s face.
Re: England/Russia - America is NOT involved (prt 7c )
anonymous
January 11 2011, 18:23:08 UTC
Please read after part 7 b... stupid anon posting was stupid :( _____________________________________________________________________________
Calloused hands were at once at his back, marking and soothing him with wet heat, strong fingers pushing and kneading away at the incorrigible knots that had formed unchecked throughout the Cold War, shutting up any further comments. Confident digits trailed across his spine, placating palms pushed at his shoulders and sturdy thumbs caressed the acres of skin before them, finding soft skin and hard bone in their wake. Ivan’s voice sighed behind him concernedly as they found those valley shadowed ribs.
‘This is no good Arthur, you are missing meals. Missing meals make you sick, Leningrad taught us that much. Must you be so irresponsible for your own health?’
‘I’m not missing meals’ came a sulky muffled reply, the previously acidic tongue mollified by each sweep of Ivan’s hands and surprised by the warmth of the vodka against his skin.
Ivan grunted a noncommittal sound and delicately poured more vodka into his hands, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid, before meticulously rubbing it into every inch of Arthur he could reach. ‘You need more meat on you, maybe I should ask Katyusha to make you some good Russian food, yes? Make you stronger, healthy’.
Again Ivan poured vodka onto his hands and set to work. With each top up of vodka his hands trailed southwards towards once more familiar ground, familiar but uncharted- last time he touched Arthur like this they were in a dug out, clothed and jig-sawed together to retain heat. Daringly Ivan’s fingers moved to excavate the skin of Arthur’s lower back and hips, reading these new pages by Braille and memorising them. Ivan smiled, despite the fond memory of Arthur being so close to him back at the foxhole skin would always win over scratchy uniforms.
Dipping into the hollows of Arthur’s hips Ivan explored this territory slow and calm, savouring the smoothness there, conquering….. That thought startled him, pleased him even but almost broke his resolution. Reluctantly Ivan drew his hands away from the expanse of skin and slowed down his breathing, trying to keep his less comradely thoughts in check. All this warm and vulnerable skin lay out and open under him was almost too much to handle and made him want more, more skin, more contact, more Arthur. But he wouldn’t, not until Arthur surrendered himself willingly to him. Despondently he rested his forehead against Arthur’s back.
‘Better?’ he murmured into the alcohol drenched skin, his own deep Russian vowels reverberating back onto his lips, the taste of sweet vodka and Arthur almost kissing them.
His question was answered by a groggy ‘hmmmmm’ and the subconscious push of Arthur’s buttocks against his chest as he tried to bury himself into the bed.
Ivan stayed like that, mouth against Arthur’s back, until Arthur’s breathing slowed (which in all reality didn’t take more than a minuet) and fell into a dead like sleep, only then did Ivan leave.
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Ivan was sitting in his makeshift workshop, which he had thrown haphazardly together in one of the many rooms of his house, busy carving a new doll when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Putting down his tool reverently he strolled towards the door and out into the expansive corridor. The door bell rang again impatiently. Smiling to himself Ivan wondered who it was that was so desperate to see him. Opening the door he smiled benevolently at his unknown guest.
‘How may I help you,’ asked Ivan charmingly. He squinted his eyes at the covered figure, presently shivering under a thick coat, long scarf and ushanka, all of which covered any recognisable features, standing at his door.
‘You could let me in for a start, its bloody freezing,’ said a male voice from behind the scarf, irritable and British.
‘Arthur!’ Ivan explained happily, ‘I didn’t realise you were coming so soon! Come in you look freezing’.
With pleasantries done with Arthur pushed his way past Ivan into the warmness of the house. ‘Yes I had forgotten how cold Russia can get’. Gloved hands wrung together for friction and warmth. It had been many years since his last visit to Russia and Arthur had truly forgotten how biting Russia was this time of year. Hastily he took of his coat, scarf and hat, glad to rid of the snow ridden things.
‘It has been a while since your last visit hasn’t it, too long.’ Ivan parodied Arthur’s thoughts, taking his discarded outwear and putting them up to dry. Idly he noticed that the usual red and gold badge had been torn off the hat, but that did little to discourage his good mood. Arthur was here in the flesh………. and by the looks of it still freezing. Arthur’s shirt, also wet with the troublesome snow, was causing the smaller man to shiver. ‘How rude of me, I will get you a spare set of clothes. Would you like to go through to the entertaining room, it is warmer. You do remember how to get there yes? Down the corridor, fourth…..’
‘Yes, yes I remember’ Arthur cut in. ‘Thank you’.
Wearisome from his long journey to Russia Arthur made his way absentmindedly towards the entertaining room (or lounge as he would have preferred to call it), subconsciously remembering each corner and inch of the house, using his memories as a map.
In all these years the house hadn’t changed much keeping its fine Imperialist décor and feel. However despite its grandeur and familiarity Arthur couldn’t help but notice a few radical changes. Stalin’s portrait now stood proudly in each room plaguing every spare surface, some photographs lovely decorated with the communist flag. Many of the old trinkets and dolls had also been removed from their shelves, replaced with weaponry, photographs of the Soviet states and Soviet propaganda. Finally Arthur reached his destination and flopped boneless into the fraying couch.
A gentle hand at his shoulder startled him. Ivan stood next to him jumper in hand, soft expression on his face. Arthur blushed embarrassedly. Had he been asleep? How long had he been asleep? And more importantly how long had Ivan been standing there watching him sleep?
‘Here’, Ivan said offering Arthur the jumper. ‘Maybe I should get Ravis to make up the spare guest room, you look tired’.
Taking the jumper Arthur shook his head, there was no way he spending the night. ‘I’m only here to reason with you Ivan, not stay’.
Ivan’s expression dropped a little. ‘Reason with me? What have I done?’ he asked taken aback, eyes wide and puppy like.
‘Don’t play games Ivan; you know exactly what you have done’ Arthur snapped not fooled by the look of innocence adorning Ivan’s strong features. ‘And can you turn your back I can’t change with you staring at me like that….’ An almost sheepish expression past Arthur’s face.
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Calloused hands were at once at his back, marking and soothing him with wet heat, strong fingers pushing and kneading away at the incorrigible knots that had formed unchecked throughout the Cold War, shutting up any further comments. Confident digits trailed across his spine, placating palms pushed at his shoulders and sturdy thumbs caressed the acres of skin before them, finding soft skin and hard bone in their wake. Ivan’s voice sighed behind him concernedly as they found those valley shadowed ribs.
‘This is no good Arthur, you are missing meals. Missing meals make you sick, Leningrad taught us that much. Must you be so irresponsible for your own health?’
‘I’m not missing meals’ came a sulky muffled reply, the previously acidic tongue mollified by each sweep of Ivan’s hands and surprised by the warmth of the vodka against his skin.
Ivan grunted a noncommittal sound and delicately poured more vodka into his hands, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid, before meticulously rubbing it into every inch of Arthur he could reach. ‘You need more meat on you, maybe I should ask Katyusha to make you some good Russian food, yes? Make you stronger, healthy’.
Again Ivan poured vodka onto his hands and set to work. With each top up of vodka his hands trailed southwards towards once more familiar ground, familiar but uncharted- last time he touched Arthur like this they were in a dug out, clothed and jig-sawed together to retain heat. Daringly Ivan’s fingers moved to excavate the skin of Arthur’s lower back and hips, reading these new pages by Braille and memorising them. Ivan smiled, despite the fond memory of Arthur being so close to him back at the foxhole skin would always win over scratchy uniforms.
Dipping into the hollows of Arthur’s hips Ivan explored this territory slow and calm, savouring the smoothness there, conquering….. That thought startled him, pleased him even but almost broke his resolution. Reluctantly Ivan drew his hands away from the expanse of skin and slowed down his breathing, trying to keep his less comradely thoughts in check. All this warm and vulnerable skin lay out and open under him was almost too much to handle and made him want more, more skin, more contact, more Arthur. But he wouldn’t, not until Arthur surrendered himself willingly to him. Despondently he rested his forehead against Arthur’s back.
‘Better?’ he murmured into the alcohol drenched skin, his own deep Russian vowels reverberating back onto his lips, the taste of sweet vodka and Arthur almost kissing them.
His question was answered by a groggy ‘hmmmmm’ and the subconscious push of Arthur’s buttocks against his chest as he tried to bury himself into the bed.
Ivan stayed like that, mouth against Arthur’s back, until Arthur’s breathing slowed (which in all reality didn’t take more than a minuet) and fell into a dead like sleep, only then did Ivan leave.
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