Lepidopterology [Soviet Union/America/Russia] 6/?
anonymous
January 27 2011, 06:24:21 UTC
America’s shaken out of the memory by the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet. He turns to see Russia crossing the room, his hand slipping into his pocket. Soviet Union’s boot taps lightly under his chin, America watches Russia casually pull out a switchblade before he turns back to his task. The muscles in his back tighten involuntarily and his mouth becomes sloppy on Soviet Union’s shoe, strings of saliva dripping from his tongue.
Russia stops behind him. There is a soft shhk - America’s fingers grip the carpet - and the cool kiss of metal on the small of his back. He shivers despite himself. Abruptly the knife lifts and catches on his shirt. America winces as the seams of his sleeves press into his shoulders. There is a terrific ripping noise as the fabric of his shirt starts to give way, and America rams forward into Soviet Union’s boots from the force of it. His own saliva is already cool; it dries quickly where it’s smeared across his forehead. He stays that way, immobile but for his hand, which slides up to cup the toe of Soviet Union’s left shoe, while Russia rips through the rest of his shirt. It’s comforting, although he knows he shouldn’t trust Soviet Union. But better the devil that you know.
No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than Soviet Union’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug up, once, twice. America’s spine straightens reluctantly. The halves of the shirt slither off his arms and fall to the floor, and he is acutely conscious of how his pants cling to his hips. His tie, which for some reason Russia has left intact, hangs limply around his neck.
Apparently Soviet Union’s boots are clean enough now, because he doesn’t force America down to his feet again. America takes the opportunity to gather the pieces of his shirt and fling them out of the way. Soviet Union and Russia lock eyes again for a long moment above him. They’re both leaning down in order to reach him, and America thinks it might look funny if they weren’t so tall and broad-shouldered; as it is they loom over him.
Soviet Union’s hand abruptly tightens in his hair and forces his line of vision down again. He doesn’t have to wait long. The sound of Russia dropping to his knees is the only warning America has before he feels the bite of the knife on his back. It travels slowly up his spine, too light to break the skin, but enough to give him a warning. America holds very still. The knife inches agonizingly slowly up to the nape of his neck, where Russia turns it, slides it forward along his throat. America swallows against the flat of the blade, trying to ignore the charge that runs down to his cock.
He’s almost forgotten about Soviet Union, and he’s reminded very quickly why that’s dangerous when a thumb sweeps roughly over his lips. “Open,” Soviet Union orders him without preamble, and America inches his mouth open cautiously. The gun swings into sight again and presses against his lips. Fuck, America thinks solidly, and for a while it’s the only thought that sticks. The knife disappears from his throat as he takes in the gun, the metal freezing against his tongue. It’s only when the blade carves into his side that he notices it again. His teeth clack painfully against the gun, and from around the barrel he chokes out a tangled mess of a curse.
It’s hard to focus on both of them at once. America is acutely aware that there’s a Makarov PM in his mouth, probably loaded, with the safety off. At the same time, he can feel Russia continually skimming the switchblade over the rest of his body. It’s random and abrasive. The blade scrapes along his skin sometimes, others it cuts into him mercilessly. He has no idea if there’s any meaning to it; a pattern, words, or just whatever spot Russia feels like claiming. All the while he sucks and laps at the barrel of the gun, and Soviet Union’s hand keeps his head rigidly pointing forward. America takes in the military stiffness of Soviet Union’s uniform pants, the absolute stillness of his body. His own trembles.
The Makarov was a handgun used by the Soviet Union's military from 1951 to 1991.
Re: Lepidopterology [Soviet Union/America/Russia] 6/?
anonymous
January 27 2011, 06:56:31 UTC
Oh my... Gun play AND knife play??? You are spoiling us now, author!anon! I love how even though the two Russians haven't spoken much, I can still feel the intimidation and the pressure building! Can't wait for the next chapter!
Russia stops behind him. There is a soft shhk - America’s fingers grip the carpet - and the cool kiss of metal on the small of his back. He shivers despite himself. Abruptly the knife lifts and catches on his shirt. America winces as the seams of his sleeves press into his shoulders. There is a terrific ripping noise as the fabric of his shirt starts to give way, and America rams forward into Soviet Union’s boots from the force of it. His own saliva is already cool; it dries quickly where it’s smeared across his forehead. He stays that way, immobile but for his hand, which slides up to cup the toe of Soviet Union’s left shoe, while Russia rips through the rest of his shirt. It’s comforting, although he knows he shouldn’t trust Soviet Union. But better the devil that you know.
No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than Soviet Union’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug up, once, twice. America’s spine straightens reluctantly. The halves of the shirt slither off his arms and fall to the floor, and he is acutely conscious of how his pants cling to his hips. His tie, which for some reason Russia has left intact, hangs limply around his neck.
Apparently Soviet Union’s boots are clean enough now, because he doesn’t force America down to his feet again. America takes the opportunity to gather the pieces of his shirt and fling them out of the way. Soviet Union and Russia lock eyes again for a long moment above him. They’re both leaning down in order to reach him, and America thinks it might look funny if they weren’t so tall and broad-shouldered; as it is they loom over him.
Soviet Union’s hand abruptly tightens in his hair and forces his line of vision down again. He doesn’t have to wait long. The sound of Russia dropping to his knees is the only warning America has before he feels the bite of the knife on his back. It travels slowly up his spine, too light to break the skin, but enough to give him a warning. America holds very still. The knife inches agonizingly slowly up to the nape of his neck, where Russia turns it, slides it forward along his throat. America swallows against the flat of the blade, trying to ignore the charge that runs down to his cock.
He’s almost forgotten about Soviet Union, and he’s reminded very quickly why that’s dangerous when a thumb sweeps roughly over his lips. “Open,” Soviet Union orders him without preamble, and America inches his mouth open cautiously. The gun swings into sight again and presses against his lips.
Fuck, America thinks solidly, and for a while it’s the only thought that sticks. The knife disappears from his throat as he takes in the gun, the metal freezing against his tongue. It’s only when the blade carves into his side that he notices it again. His teeth clack painfully against the gun, and from around the barrel he chokes out a tangled mess of a curse.
It’s hard to focus on both of them at once. America is acutely aware that there’s a Makarov PM in his mouth, probably loaded, with the safety off. At the same time, he can feel Russia continually skimming the switchblade over the rest of his body. It’s random and abrasive. The blade scrapes along his skin sometimes, others it cuts into him mercilessly. He has no idea if there’s any meaning to it; a pattern, words, or just whatever spot Russia feels like claiming. All the while he sucks and laps at the barrel of the gun, and Soviet Union’s hand keeps his head rigidly pointing forward. America takes in the military stiffness of Soviet Union’s uniform pants, the absolute stillness of his body. His own trembles.
The Makarov was a handgun used by the Soviet Union's military from 1951 to 1991.
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I love how even though the two Russians haven't spoken much, I can still feel the intimidation and the pressure building! Can't wait for the next chapter!
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