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..?
“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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Please do continue anon!!! <3
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