Russia %^&* You Pt.1
anonymous
January 30 2009, 17:36:41 UTC
Teeth gnashing, Alfred F. Jones, aka. United States of America, hugged himself in an attempt to ward off the chill of January winter air in Moscow, Russia's house.
"Th-th-th-the h-hell is wrong with you, Braginsky! C-can't you raise the thermostat for your guest?" He shivered uncontrollably. He admitted to himself (and not to anybody else, mind you), that it was indeed, a huge mistake to go for an important holiday economic visit to Russia at this time of the year with only one thick coat. He should have worn two! Or even three!
Blame Canada! For convincing him that Moscow is really, a very nice place to spend your New Year holiday for a couple of days before heading off to Europe and the Scandinavian countries. Ivan Braginsky, Russia himself, can even bring you around for a short tour in the capital city, Canada had said excitedly. Imitating England in his mind, he exclaimed 'Bollocks!!!'. He then proceeded to promise himself to choke slam his brother the next time they meet again, given that he can survive the stupid Russian winter.
Russia flashed one of that creepy smile of his to America, "I must deeply apologize to you, Alfred. My heater broke just this morning." He raised his hands and shook his head as if it was such an unfortunate incident.
America fumed and swore silently, betting against no one in particular that the day must be one of the chilliest in months on top of the broken heater, just because he's there. Fuck Russia, and fuck you too, Ivan!!
Suddenly, Russia's head shot up and he looked at America with a pained expression, "That's not a very nice thing to say, Alfred." Then America realized that he had accidentally said the colourful sentence out loud. He cursed at the cold air. It totally froze his brain over, he theorized.
"I-I d-d-didn't mean that, Ivan!" His teeth were still chattering, much to his irritation. It was very, very cold in Russia's living room.
He was too busy feeling sorry for his sorry body temperature, he didn't notice that Russia had left the sofa he was sitting on. The big man was already right in front of him when his voice reached America's ears.
"I didn't do anything bad to you, do I? So, why are you saying such things to me?" His voice took on a questioning tone, ever childish. It was as if America had betrayed his trust.
"I-I'm sorry. I really didn't mean what I'd said." America felt bad for a very short moment and apologized to his longtime rival. That very short moment then replaced by a sense of ultimate suspicion. The Russian always moves around noiseless and undetected, making him unable to put up any defense on time to receive the attack.
True enough, he was just starting to ask why Russia was suddenly standing in front of him, "Iva-aaaaa!" when Russia swiftly pushed him down on the sofa, faces close and noses almost touching. His hands were pinned by gloved ones solidly on top of his head. America could smell the alcohol in Russia's breath, and he almost gagging out.
Definitely not an enjoyable stench, but Russia's eyes mesmerized him, those purple orbs dancing with so many emotions, and so many lost ones too. America lowered his line of sight and focused on Russia's lips instead, never mind the vodka-breath.
"Ivan?" He frowned and tried to tug his hands free from Russia's grip. It was a futile attempt. He looked back at the Russian again, eyes meeting.
"Let me go. What the hell are you doing, hey!" His voice is with more force now. America truly didn't like his current position as of now, things were getting out of his hands.
"Th-th-th-the h-hell is wrong with you, Braginsky! C-can't you raise the thermostat for your guest?" He shivered uncontrollably. He admitted to himself (and not to anybody else, mind you), that it was indeed, a huge mistake to go for an important holiday economic visit to Russia at this time of the year with only one thick coat. He should have worn two! Or even three!
Blame Canada! For convincing him that Moscow is really, a very nice place to spend your New Year holiday for a couple of days before heading off to Europe and the Scandinavian countries. Ivan Braginsky, Russia himself, can even bring you around for a short tour in the capital city, Canada had said excitedly. Imitating England in his mind, he exclaimed 'Bollocks!!!'. He then proceeded to promise himself to choke slam his brother the next time they meet again, given that he can survive the stupid Russian winter.
Russia flashed one of that creepy smile of his to America, "I must deeply apologize to you, Alfred. My heater broke just this morning." He raised his hands and shook his head as if it was such an unfortunate incident.
America fumed and swore silently, betting against no one in particular that the day must be one of the chilliest in months on top of the broken heater, just because he's there. Fuck Russia, and fuck you too, Ivan!!
Suddenly, Russia's head shot up and he looked at America with a pained expression, "That's not a very nice thing to say, Alfred." Then America realized that he had accidentally said the colourful sentence out loud. He cursed at the cold air. It totally froze his brain over, he theorized.
"I-I d-d-didn't mean that, Ivan!" His teeth were still chattering, much to his irritation. It was very, very cold in Russia's living room.
He was too busy feeling sorry for his sorry body temperature, he didn't notice that Russia had left the sofa he was sitting on. The big man was already right in front of him when his voice reached America's ears.
"I didn't do anything bad to you, do I? So, why are you saying such things to me?" His voice took on a questioning tone, ever childish. It was as if America had betrayed his trust.
"I-I'm sorry. I really didn't mean what I'd said." America felt bad for a very short moment and apologized to his longtime rival. That very short moment then replaced by a sense of ultimate suspicion. The Russian always moves around noiseless and undetected, making him unable to put up any defense on time to receive the attack.
True enough, he was just starting to ask why Russia was suddenly standing in front of him, "Iva-aaaaa!" when Russia swiftly pushed him down on the sofa, faces close and noses almost touching. His hands were pinned by gloved ones solidly on top of his head. America could smell the alcohol in Russia's breath, and he almost gagging out.
Definitely not an enjoyable stench, but Russia's eyes mesmerized him, those purple orbs dancing with so many emotions, and so many lost ones too. America lowered his line of sight and focused on Russia's lips instead, never mind the vodka-breath.
"Ivan?" He frowned and tried to tug his hands free from Russia's grip. It was a futile attempt. He looked back at the Russian again, eyes meeting.
"Let me go. What the hell are you doing, hey!" His voice is with more force now. America truly didn't like his current position as of now, things were getting out of his hands.
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