attack -- 1/1
anonymous
April 24 2009, 22:03:09 UTC
note: hope i hit it like you wanted, i was the anon who was going to write it before. haha (:
Sometimes they light up world, fire held hostage in their hands. Searing, and burning only Ivan. Throwing blood up in waves and running circles underneath his skin so you see the veins under his skin, pallid all but for a few spots of winter-brushed skin like springtime wildflowers.
While Alfred, oh young Alfred, feels his skin tighten, losing feeling in his fingers and face during harsh winters. He’s never known anything so harsh, even in the old days he wished would he could hold on to. Hold so tight, just like feeling Ivan, Ivan, grip onto his arms when he smiles. Smiles so brilliant even against white, dove-white, snow and hills. Bare trees dotting alongside frozen rivers-hands reaching, fingers stretching to meet the clouds high above anything they could ever.
Not like they would ever reach it. Not like Alfred and Ivan could ever get over it.
Ivan licks his lips as he leans in-fast, low, attack. The crook of his neck where Alfred’s hands fit, gripping and ghosting over bones that seem to rip out of skin and bleed hard. Where the color bursts into his eyes as different, something not so innocent as the snow seems, it’s deceiving, Alfred knows.
(Ivan is like that too, he’s learned and it bits him in the gut to know there is still damage to be done.)
When Ivan bits down, hands encasing, shielding cheeks and Alfred’s face from the wind, he leaves bits of frost all over. Shallow breathing designed for such spiteful weather, small compressions of his chest underneath cloth, so small Alfred can’t see them. He hates that. And he feels the flutter of eyelashes, light gold like lightening, to know Ivan’s eyes are closed.
Alfred practically stops breathing, heart exploding inside, colliding with bones and muscle and fire. Lips opening, slight just enough to let the cold invade him, feel it against the back of his teeth and running along, sliding. Finally letting himself breath, Alfred lets out a deep sigh, breathing fast and hot. Clouds of white against grey sky, factory smoke he knows from home.
Continuing on, some rabid animal who goes back and back and back even though they know their prey is already dead, Ivan does not regard the breath rising. Creating on-going hurricanes that will destroy and collapse them, hot air rising to create a fog behind Alfred’s glasses and beads of sweat freeze over Ivan’s face, something he doesn’t mind anymore.
Fog that rises and rises like it never would end, not even if one of them stopped breathing in the mix. It continued on even if they never did, even if what they were doing never did. If they would ever last that long to enjoy and understand anything. Sometimes, Alfred regrets that he knows it can't last.
Hands keep trailing, clenching, holding tight to sides and waists, teeth tugging down, down, down on necks and scraping over bones just protected by thin sheets of flesh. All until he’s left gasping for air, lips swollen red, open and pert like the roses they grow in America, the air between them dissipating, floating away like miniature clouds they could probably be floating off on too. Alfred could be floating away like the mist if he had not already felt the exhilarating jolt of just about melting away in hands that would possibly never know the same feeling.
Sometimes they light up world, fire held hostage in their hands. Searing, and burning only Ivan. Throwing blood up in waves and running circles underneath his skin so you see the veins under his skin, pallid all but for a few spots of winter-brushed skin like springtime wildflowers.
While Alfred, oh young Alfred, feels his skin tighten, losing feeling in his fingers and face during harsh winters. He’s never known anything so harsh, even in the old days he wished would he could hold on to. Hold so tight, just like feeling Ivan, Ivan, grip onto his arms when he smiles. Smiles so brilliant even against white, dove-white, snow and hills. Bare trees dotting alongside frozen rivers-hands reaching, fingers stretching to meet the clouds high above anything they could ever.
Not like they would ever reach it. Not like Alfred and Ivan could ever get over it.
Ivan licks his lips as he leans in-fast, low, attack. The crook of his neck where Alfred’s hands fit, gripping and ghosting over bones that seem to rip out of skin and bleed hard. Where the color bursts into his eyes as different, something not so innocent as the snow seems, it’s deceiving, Alfred knows.
(Ivan is like that too, he’s learned and it bits him in the gut to know there is still damage to be done.)
When Ivan bits down, hands encasing, shielding cheeks and Alfred’s face from the wind, he leaves bits of frost all over. Shallow breathing designed for such spiteful weather, small compressions of his chest underneath cloth, so small Alfred can’t see them. He hates that. And he feels the flutter of eyelashes, light gold like lightening, to know Ivan’s eyes are closed.
Alfred practically stops breathing, heart exploding inside, colliding with bones and muscle and fire. Lips opening, slight just enough to let the cold invade him, feel it against the back of his teeth and running along, sliding. Finally letting himself breath, Alfred lets out a deep sigh, breathing fast and hot. Clouds of white against grey sky, factory smoke he knows from home.
Continuing on, some rabid animal who goes back and back and back even though they know their prey is already dead, Ivan does not regard the breath rising. Creating on-going hurricanes that will destroy and collapse them, hot air rising to create a fog behind Alfred’s glasses and beads of sweat freeze over Ivan’s face, something he doesn’t mind anymore.
Fog that rises and rises like it never would end, not even if one of them stopped breathing in the mix. It continued on even if they never did, even if what they were doing never did. If they would ever last that long to enjoy and understand anything. Sometimes, Alfred regrets that he knows it can't last.
Hands keep trailing, clenching, holding tight to sides and waists, teeth tugging down, down, down on necks and scraping over bones just protected by thin sheets of flesh. All until he’s left gasping for air, lips swollen red, open and pert like the roses they grow in America, the air between them dissipating, floating away like miniature clouds they could probably be floating off on too. Alfred could be floating away like the mist if he had not already felt the exhilarating jolt of just about melting away in hands that would possibly never know the same feeling.
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I just read this in the Hetalia community. I thought it sounded similar to what I requested :)
I like this very much, it's sooo surreal ^__^
Thank you Anon!
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if not, i don't know who you are. roflrofl.
thanks (:
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I didn't comment :)
I checked back here first to avoid an untimely de-anon-ing XD
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I need to go find this in the main Hetalia community, damn son.
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