No Sleep For the Wicked [3/?]
anonymous
May 30 2009, 08:45:18 UTC
“Quit moving.”
“I can’t! I’m a living being you know.”
“Yes. But there are many ways to arrange that otherwise.”
America makes some sort of displeased sound in his throat, and it grows silent once again. Their backs are pressed against the other’s and Russia won’t share his quilt. Which America loudly protests to for a few minutes before Russia proceeds to (with little feeling, though America would have to disagree) kick his shin, and kick it hard all the while threatening to kick him out.
It was needless to say America quieted then, but as if the dark, the silence, were two fabrics pressed over the other and smothering he did not stay silent for long.
Russia feels America turn in the bed, and fingers catch themselves to the back of his night shirt. America’s breath is choppily felt against the back of his neck, he thinks a forehead is being leaned against it, fingers that tighten and loosen and tighten- “Russia.”
Russia tries to ignore him, eyes shut in the manner only those feigning sleep may accomplish (and America knows a sleeping face too well, England always always fell to sleep before he, and so trembling in the dark America had always, with arms wrapped around him, willed his fear away behind the darkness of his lids and that-) He’s not exactly sure he can do it anymore.
(What if it won’t work because England is not there? Like when he had tried to in his room, knowing that if no one was beside him it wouldn’t work- and then he thought of Lithuania, and how when they’d slept side by side it was easy…)
So maybe, he thought someone else-
“Russia, are you asleep?”
Russia feigns sleep a few more stoic moments before, turning onto his back. America pulling his fingers away too swiftly for Russia to crush them beneath him, America’s lips catch at his ear-
“Yes.”
“Hey! You can’t talk if you’re asleep!”
A pause.
“I’m talking in my sleep.”
America fidgets, his whole body seems to and those lips slide up in Russia’s hair-
“Liar.”
Russia regards it, them there, and turns his head. America is still wearing his glasses and Russia thinks they must be uncomfortable. He pulls back a little. Just so he can see better in the dark, and pulls them from America’s face. America’s brow looks trampled as if to say: “I want to see!”
But only eyes may do that.
And there is nothing to see in the dark.
(America just likes to know, that if something is there, in the dark, he’ll be ready but if he can’t see-!)
“Russia!”
Russia sets the glasses on the nightstand.
America’s arm is trembling, (the rest of him, the rest of him! And the movement darkly coils in Russia chest) as America leans closer, eyes darting around to peer at every corner of the room before they come back to try to focus on Russia, and Russia doesn’t know if America can see his smile, sharper under the dark.
He remembers how Ukraine used to get him and Belarus to sleep at night, when they worried over their crops, the stomach of their people, their stomachs. She’d tell them a story, a story that might chase them into the vibrant colours of their dreams and stay there until morning washed it away in the bright light that came with day and the morbid shading of their room.
“Shall I tell you a story?”
That breath against his neck again, his ear, should he lean closer it will not just be breath- When America does not answer, Russia continues, to elaborate.
“When I was young-“ (it is odd to say, that he can say, and to America it is befitting, America who is much younger than him and has barely just seen a passage of time-) “my older sister would tell us a story, as a means to help us fall to sleep.”
Writer!Anon! This is so cute! Don't worry about it not being exactly as I requested, I can't really see where it's deviated any :)
America’s breath is choppily felt against the back of his neck, he thinks a forehead is being leaned against it, fingers that tighten and loosen and tighten-
This has gotta be my favorite part I love little things like this <3
No Sleep For the Wicked [4/?]
anonymous
May 30 2009, 16:43:01 UTC
i’m sorry. it turns out anon went to sleep. BUT HERE IS SOME MORE.
Russia does not think America has ever thought words as carefully as these, and while he grips Russia’s arm too tightly (does he even know what he’s doing?) he replies, “…what kind of story?”
Russia rolls onto his side to face America, their foreheads do not touch but their noses brush against the other, America in his anxiety forgets about normal proximity and is startled into awareness now, almost pulls back… but by then Russia has brought a hand against his neck, and so their faces- with that breath mingling- with it Russia will tell a story.
“You’ll just have to hear and find out.”
“…right?”
Because that’s what a hero would do?
But the taunt never comes out and instead Russia begins, trying to set his voice like Ukraine had, a mutual timbre that only gave way with the story, and finds it harder than it should seem. But whether all the stories America had been told in the past where told like this or told by a poorer sort it doesn’t really matter when that hand is fisting at his night clothes, again, again, but only this time at his hip.
“Long ago,” because all stories in Russia start out this way, “there was a young woman, she was very sad. Her husband was away at war. And her child had died from fever. She was too lonely.”
America’s grip loosens, “Poor woman.”
“But, soon in the night. Right after she blew out her candle, she would hear- a baby cry.”
“A baby?”
“Yes.”
“In the night?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the neighbor’s?”
“No, her neighbors had no babies for children.”
“But-“
“America, I can’t tell the story if you keep interrupting.”
“Oh right.”
America settles himself closer.
“Every night, for seven nights the woman would hear this baby cry, the cries always rising in intensity with each night. ‘Ah, whose baby could it be? Where is this baby?’ she’d say to herself and she would search around her house, through the rooms, in the garden, and never find anything. She’d ask her fellow villagers, ‘Did you hear that crying?’ and they would shake her heads. Looking down on her, they thought ‘She has gone mad.’”
No Sleep For the Wicked [5/?]
anonymous
May 30 2009, 16:46:21 UTC
He moistens his lips.
“But on the eighth night when she heard the crying once more, she realised, ‘It must be my baby!’ she had not looked under the covered crib since her child’s passing. And when she uncovered it-”
“No!” America starts next to him violently, burying his face in the crook of Russia’s neck, he shudders- “After all this is a scary story! Not again!”
Russia clears his throat in the silent way one might do, America has caved back to trembling. ‘Again?’ Russia thinks, but instead of saying anything, his fingers curl at the base of America’s hair, reaching up, his arm pressing on the length of America’s shoulders as a mean to pull him closer and America does. Given that earlier he had moved closer to begin with and had been waiting for this moment, this moment when he’d need to pull their bodies closer- pull them so they were touching-
“Shall I stop?”
Russia wonders if the usual means of slipping gin into someone’s drink was, after all the better method than his sister’s- when he feels America shake his head.
“No. Continue. I want to see how it ends.”
Don’t we all?
His fingers curl, “Beneath the sheet, inside the crib, the woman saw it of course- a baby! But it was unlike her baby for it was a boy, and instead of hair fair he had dark coarse hair that curled, and golden eyes-” to which his hand raked through America’s hair, tangling themselves and set to stay.
“Nonetheless she was rejoiced, for when she lifted the babe into her arms he clung on to her as if she were his own mother. Over time she fully believed it so and forgot her sorrows.”
“The villagers murmured, for where had she gotten a baby? And she acted as though the babe had always been there.”
America shifted, a leg aside his, the ankle trailing up- “Maybe the baby is like us?”
“What do you mean?”
Now it is Russia’s lips in America’s hair.
“You know… a nation?”
“Only our leaders and other nations may see to us. Are you saying this woman was to be a leader?”
“Oh! Maybe? It’s not like all bosses have to come from royalty or-“
“I know that.”
“You didn’t used to.”
“…yes.”
“…even if she wasn’t, perhaps the baby wasn’t a nation yet, I-“
“The baby wasn’t a nation, America.”
“Oh.”
Russia’s mouth is hard and unmoving, when America takes notice of this- “Are you mad?”
“A little.”
America gives a small smile, and it’s too shy for Russia to comprehend. He takes it that America wants him to continue. -- TBC.
You actually scared ME whit that story... xD Good thing it wasn't a ghost or a zombie... but a baby... I'm not actually an America!Fan but in this fic he's so cute :3
Re: No Sleep For the Wicked [6/?]
anonymous
May 30 2009, 19:09:01 UTC
“The baby grew into a child, he could go to school, and play with the other children now. The young woman was very proud of him, though he grew quickly and ate a lot. She worried each day if she had enough food. If she could afford even more food. For with each day that passed her child grew ever more alarmingly.”
“The villagers tried to keep their children away from hers. How could a child grow so quickly? In just a matter of weeks that should have been years?”
(“See he could have been a nation!” “It often goes the other way around America, hush.”)
“And he kept eating and eating. Oh how he ate! Soon she had to bring out the food she’d been saving for the winter. But even then it was not enough. And soon the children her boy had played with started to go missing-“
“No!”
“-for you know already…? He had eaten them and soon he ate them all, and then he started on the villagers- devouring them when they came for him- came with pitch forks and knives and their anger- growing more, more-!“
“No no no! Russia, this is a horrible story!”
“Did you not say you wanted to see how it ends?”
But America can’t really see anything without his glasses, in the dark. Russia grips his hair tighter until America let’s out a hiss of pain.
And it is horrible, horrible when America’s hip slide against his own, and it is horrible, horrible that his lips find the soft space beneath America’s ear and kisses it, horrible that those lips slide to America’s neck- his throat- with a throbbing pulse that beats wildly (from fear? And Russia wants to ask ‘What are you afraid of?’), horrible that breath sure with the other coming out softly and swift, rushed- does.
“America, who has your sympathy more? The villagers? The mother? The monster?”
Russia draws back, America beneath him now. The quilt falling away from his shoulders, fingers hot (from the surface they touch) as he unbuttons America’s shirt, slowly, forcibly. America’s fingers sunk against the mattress and clutching, his eyes as alarmed and his voice- “Don’t you mean the child?”
And Russia’s fingers pause as he leans forward, coolly.
Speaking with his lips scraping against America’s, “Of course.”
And kisses him.
Kisses him until, until he must continue, to say, with lips aching- America’s mouth is so warm- “Then you understand don’t you? There are many a nation among us who is as the child, to take, to devour, you too know this well- you know this well-“
And Russia isn’t sure if he’s talking about anyone else, America? Himself? Just because now America is reaching up, stretching up from the mattress, a hand clasping at his shoulder heavy as if Russia might leave, might move from this spot- the other hand with balance, support- coming to touch against his cheek “You are cold, cold Russia!” he says and it is with too much the riddle of curiosity when (the quilt no longer is wrapped around him after all) America comes forward to kiss him, taking in first his bottom lip and-
Russia’s breath is like the staggering step, he kisses him back, once twice, their tongues touching, whose in whose mouth, he’s not sure any more- “The- the husband!” he says, as America lies back down and Russia presses atop of him, “-he, comes home-”
“And?” America’s voice hitches as his own, his hands slid beneath his shirt, fingers and palms scorching over his belly, his breast, is that his own heart beating? “What happens next?”
-- TBC. …i’m sorry this dissolved into wtfbbq smut. D:
No Sleep For the Wicked [7/?]
anonymous
May 30 2009, 19:31:03 UTC
He comes home and- and the mother tells her child though now it is just them and the empty village- ‘Look my boy! Your father has come home! You must go greet him’ and so her child does, but the father- the father knows it is not his child- and- and the child-“
And America’s finger are touching the points of his hip- oh this boy- clutching at him-
“-the child looks like a monster now, he’s towered and bloated, and when the father turns from him- he eats him-“ (America gives a small gasp at this from where he is pressing his mouth tightly against Russia’s shoulder, horrified-“No way!”)- “ his mother weeps into her hands, ‘How could you! How could you! Your own father!’ but the monster shakes his head, he only has a mother and that is she! That-”
He’s not sure he understands this, this was not the result big sister Ukraine would get, but then- she’s never had to tell a story to America- “-isn’t the end?” America asks, when he drew the quilt up over them Russia doesn’t know either. It cuffs at the back of his neck, America peers up at him, swallowing loudly.
“No,” Russia tells him, “that’s not the end.”
“The monster he-“
“Russia I want Texas!”
Russia thinks he might have made that choking noise.
“What-“
“My glasses!”
Right.
“America, your glasses aren’t going to do anything-“
“I need to see!”
“See what?”
You can’t escape your own imagination, affirmation by sight will not take away the chill on your spine, the crept knowledge of what you thought and envisioned yourself- but America’s hands are clenching over his back, he’s shaking his head to over whatever reasons Russia has speculated for himself-
“I want to see your face!”
Russia pauses, blurry disbelief marking his features.
“…are you sure?”
It was more often than none that other’s didn’t want to see his face, not the other way around. And given America’s state Russia thinks it would have been better this way. Russia reaches over and plucks America’s glasses - Texas- from the nightstand and returns them to America’s face.
“Well?”
America blinks up at him.
He turns his face away, “Ah, maybe you were right-“
“America,”
“Joking joking- ow! Don’t bite my ear! I’m sorry I won’t joke anymore!”
But his laughter feels forced.
-- TBC. russia has been in scary story mode... for the most part, you think his face isn't going to be scary..?
“I can’t! I’m a living being you know.”
“Yes. But there are many ways to arrange that otherwise.”
America makes some sort of displeased sound in his throat, and it grows silent once again. Their backs are pressed against the other’s and Russia won’t share his quilt. Which America loudly protests to for a few minutes before Russia proceeds to (with little feeling, though America would have to disagree) kick his shin, and kick it hard all the while threatening to kick him out.
It was needless to say America quieted then, but as if the dark, the silence, were two fabrics pressed over the other and smothering he did not stay silent for long.
Russia feels America turn in the bed, and fingers catch themselves to the back of his night shirt. America’s breath is choppily felt against the back of his neck, he thinks a forehead is being leaned against it, fingers that tighten and loosen and tighten- “Russia.”
Russia tries to ignore him, eyes shut in the manner only those feigning sleep may accomplish (and America knows a sleeping face too well, England always always fell to sleep before he, and so trembling in the dark America had always, with arms wrapped around him, willed his fear away behind the darkness of his lids and that-)
He’s not exactly sure he can do it anymore.
(What if it won’t work because England is not there? Like when he had tried to in his room, knowing that if no one was beside him it wouldn’t work- and then he thought of Lithuania, and how when they’d slept side by side it was easy…)
So maybe, he thought someone else-
“Russia, are you asleep?”
Russia feigns sleep a few more stoic moments before, turning onto his back. America pulling his fingers away too swiftly for Russia to crush them beneath him, America’s lips catch at his ear-
“Yes.”
“Hey! You can’t talk if you’re asleep!”
A pause.
“I’m talking in my sleep.”
America fidgets, his whole body seems to and those lips slide up in Russia’s hair-
“Liar.”
Russia regards it, them there, and turns his head. America is still wearing his glasses and Russia thinks they must be uncomfortable. He pulls back a little. Just so he can see better in the dark, and pulls them from America’s face. America’s brow looks trampled as if to say: “I want to see!”
But only eyes may do that.
And there is nothing to see in the dark.
(America just likes to know, that if something is there, in the dark, he’ll be ready but if he can’t see-!)
“Russia!”
Russia sets the glasses on the nightstand.
America’s arm is trembling, (the rest of him, the rest of him! And the movement darkly coils in Russia chest) as America leans closer, eyes darting around to peer at every corner of the room before they come back to try to focus on Russia, and Russia doesn’t know if America can see his smile, sharper under the dark.
He remembers how Ukraine used to get him and Belarus to sleep at night, when they worried over their crops, the stomach of their people, their stomachs. She’d tell them a story, a story that might chase them into the vibrant colours of their dreams and stay there until morning washed it away in the bright light that came with day and the morbid shading of their room.
“Shall I tell you a story?”
That breath against his neck again, his ear, should he lean closer it will not just be breath-
When America does not answer, Russia continues, to elaborate.
“When I was young-“ (it is odd to say, that he can say, and to America it is befitting, America who is much younger than him and has barely just seen a passage of time-) “my older sister would tell us a story, as a means to help us fall to sleep.”
America cannot sleep. That is why he is here.
If America sleeps, Russia will sleep.
--
TBC.
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America’s breath is choppily felt against the back of his neck, he thinks a forehead is being leaned against it, fingers that tighten and loosen and tighten-
This has gotta be my favorite part I love little things like this <3
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F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5!
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Russia does not think America has ever thought words as carefully as these, and while he grips Russia’s arm too tightly (does he even know what he’s doing?) he replies, “…what kind of story?”
Russia rolls onto his side to face America, their foreheads do not touch but their noses brush against the other, America in his anxiety forgets about normal proximity and is startled into awareness now, almost pulls back… but by then Russia has brought a hand against his neck, and so their faces- with that breath mingling- with it Russia will tell a story.
“You’ll just have to hear and find out.”
“…right?”
Because that’s what a hero would do?
But the taunt never comes out and instead Russia begins, trying to set his voice like Ukraine had, a mutual timbre that only gave way with the story, and finds it harder than it should seem. But whether all the stories America had been told in the past where told like this or told by a poorer sort it doesn’t really matter when that hand is fisting at his night clothes, again, again, but only this time at his hip.
“Long ago,” because all stories in Russia start out this way, “there was a young woman, she was very sad. Her husband was away at war. And her child had died from fever. She was too lonely.”
America’s grip loosens, “Poor woman.”
“But, soon in the night. Right after she blew out her candle, she would hear- a baby cry.”
“A baby?”
“Yes.”
“In the night?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the neighbor’s?”
“No, her neighbors had no babies for children.”
“But-“
“America, I can’t tell the story if you keep interrupting.”
“Oh right.”
America settles himself closer.
“Every night, for seven nights the woman would hear this baby cry, the cries
always rising in intensity with each night. ‘Ah, whose baby could it be? Where is this baby?’ she’d say to herself and she would search around her house, through the rooms, in the garden, and never find anything. She’d ask her fellow villagers, ‘Did you hear that crying?’ and they would shake her heads. Looking down on her, they thought ‘She has gone mad.’”
--
TBC.
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“But on the eighth night when she heard the crying once more, she realised, ‘It must be my baby!’ she had not looked under the covered crib since her child’s passing. And when she uncovered it-”
“No!” America starts next to him violently, burying his face in the crook of Russia’s neck, he shudders- “After all this is a scary story! Not again!”
Russia clears his throat in the silent way one might do, America has caved back to trembling. ‘Again?’ Russia thinks, but instead of saying anything, his fingers curl at the base of America’s hair, reaching up, his arm pressing on the length of America’s shoulders as a mean to pull him closer and America does. Given that earlier he had moved closer to begin with and had been waiting for this moment, this moment when he’d need to pull their bodies closer- pull them so they were touching-
“Shall I stop?”
Russia wonders if the usual means of slipping gin into someone’s drink was, after all the better method than his sister’s- when he feels America shake
his head.
“No. Continue. I want to see how it ends.”
Don’t we all?
His fingers curl, “Beneath the sheet, inside the crib, the woman saw it of course- a baby! But it was unlike her baby for it was a boy, and instead of hair fair he had dark coarse hair that curled, and golden eyes-” to which his hand raked through America’s hair, tangling themselves and set to stay.
“Nonetheless she was rejoiced, for when she lifted the babe into her arms he clung on to her as if she were his own mother. Over time she fully believed it so and forgot her sorrows.”
“The villagers murmured, for where had she gotten a baby? And she acted as though the babe had always been there.”
America shifted, a leg aside his, the ankle trailing up- “Maybe the baby is like us?”
“What do you mean?”
Now it is Russia’s lips in America’s hair.
“You know… a nation?”
“Only our leaders and other nations may see to us. Are you saying this woman was to be a leader?”
“Oh! Maybe? It’s not like all bosses have to come from royalty or-“
“I know that.”
“You didn’t used to.”
“…yes.”
“…even if she wasn’t, perhaps the baby wasn’t a nation yet, I-“
“The baby wasn’t a nation, America.”
“Oh.”
Russia’s mouth is hard and unmoving, when America takes notice of this- “Are you mad?”
“A little.”
America gives a small smile, and it’s too shy for Russia to comprehend. He takes it that America wants him to continue.
--
TBC.
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You actually scared ME whit that story... xD Good thing it wasn't a ghost or a zombie... but a baby... I'm not actually an America!Fan but in this fic he's so cute :3
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/F5s foreverrrrrr
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F5F5F5F5F5F5 alongside everyone else!
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“The villagers tried to keep their children away from hers. How could a child grow so quickly? In just a matter of weeks that should have been years?”
(“See he could have been a nation!”
“It often goes the other way around America, hush.”)
“And he kept eating and eating. Oh how he ate! Soon she had to bring out the food she’d been saving for the winter. But even then it was not enough. And soon the children her boy had played with started to go missing-“
“No!”
“-for you know already…? He had eaten them and soon he ate them all, and then he started on the villagers- devouring them when they came for him- came with pitch forks and knives and their anger- growing more, more-!“
“No no no! Russia, this is a horrible story!”
“Did you not say you wanted to see how it ends?”
But America can’t really see anything without his glasses, in the dark. Russia grips his hair tighter until America let’s out a hiss of pain.
And it is horrible, horrible when America’s hip slide against his own, and it is horrible, horrible that his lips find the soft space beneath America’s ear and kisses it, horrible that those lips slide to America’s neck- his throat- with a throbbing pulse that beats wildly (from fear? And Russia wants to ask ‘What are you afraid of?’), horrible that breath sure with the other coming out softly and swift, rushed- does.
“America, who has your sympathy more? The villagers? The mother? The monster?”
Russia draws back, America beneath him now. The quilt falling away from his shoulders, fingers hot (from the surface they touch) as he unbuttons America’s shirt, slowly, forcibly. America’s fingers sunk against the mattress and clutching, his eyes as alarmed and his voice- “Don’t you mean the child?”
And Russia’s fingers pause as he leans forward, coolly.
Speaking with his lips scraping against America’s, “Of course.”
And kisses him.
Kisses him until, until he must continue, to say, with lips aching- America’s mouth is so warm- “Then you understand don’t you? There are many a nation among us who is as the child, to take, to devour, you too know this well- you know this well-“
And Russia isn’t sure if he’s talking about anyone else, America? Himself? Just because now America is reaching up, stretching up from the mattress, a hand clasping at his shoulder heavy as if Russia might leave, might move from this spot- the other hand with balance, support- coming to touch against his cheek “You are cold, cold Russia!” he says and it is with too much the riddle of curiosity when (the quilt no longer is wrapped around him after all) America comes forward to kiss him, taking in first his bottom lip and-
Russia’s breath is like the staggering step, he kisses him back, once twice, their tongues touching, whose in whose mouth, he’s not sure any more- “The- the husband!” he says, as America lies back down and Russia presses atop of him, “-he, comes home-”
“And?” America’s voice hitches as his own, his hands slid beneath his shirt, fingers and palms scorching over his belly, his breast, is that his own heart beating? “What happens next?”
--
TBC.
…i’m sorry this dissolved into wtfbbq smut. D:
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And America’s finger are touching the points of his hip- oh this boy- clutching at him-
“-the child looks like a monster now, he’s towered and bloated, and when the father turns from him- he eats him-“ (America gives a small gasp at this from where he is pressing his mouth tightly against Russia’s shoulder, horrified-“No way!”)- “ his mother weeps into her hands, ‘How could you! How could you! Your own father!’ but the monster shakes his head, he only has a mother and that is she! That-”
He’s not sure he understands this, this was not the result big sister Ukraine would get, but then- she’s never had to tell a story to America- “-isn’t the end?” America asks, when he drew the quilt up over them Russia doesn’t know either. It cuffs at the back of his neck, America peers up at him, swallowing loudly.
“No,” Russia tells him, “that’s not the end.”
“The monster he-“
“Russia I want Texas!”
Russia thinks he might have made that choking noise.
“What-“
“My glasses!”
Right.
“America, your glasses aren’t going to do anything-“
“I need to see!”
“See what?”
You can’t escape your own imagination, affirmation by sight will not take away the chill on your spine, the crept knowledge of what you thought and envisioned yourself- but America’s hands are clenching over his back, he’s shaking his head to over whatever reasons Russia has speculated for himself-
“I want to see your face!”
Russia pauses, blurry disbelief marking his features.
“…are you sure?”
It was more often than none that other’s didn’t want to see his face, not the other way around. And given America’s state Russia thinks it would have been better this way. Russia reaches over and plucks America’s glasses - Texas- from the nightstand and returns them to America’s face.
“Well?”
America blinks up at him.
He turns his face away, “Ah, maybe you were right-“
“America,”
“Joking joking- ow! Don’t bite my ear! I’m sorry I won’t joke anymore!”
But his laughter feels forced.
--
TBC.
russia has been in scary story mode... for the most part, you think his face isn't going to be scary..?
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I love you.
Ps: Never apologize for Rus/US smut, no matter how crazy it is.
Sincerley,
anonymous
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I love how this got insanely cute to now insanely hot!
And yet, he's telling a messed up story at the same time.
ILU author!anon!!!
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