No More
I HAVE NOTHING TO WRITE SO I WROTE THESE WOW CONTRADICTIONS.
Title: No More
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Russia/America
Word Count: 200-something
The bed is unmade, just like everything is. It doesn't matter that they don't see each other--they look into each other's eyes, faces nearly meshed together, and still they can't see what they're looking at. Their bodies feel, their voices raise and raise and raise until crescendo is reached, tangled and out of tune and thrashing, violent, beautiful. Then it stops. Stops again, quietly whispered, and they have another beginning to waste; the kind of beginning so many would have cherished. They throw it away, and return to the unmade bed.
His eyes are blue, blue like sky, blue like water, blue like sadness, blue like his eyes. They peek at violet, glare at madness, smile in the face of death, and he doesn't look away when he tells the man above him that he'd wish he would die. Killing him slowly just because he can. Sitting pretty even though he's on bottom, he moans to the night and steals even the coldest heart. The bed rocks, their breath is short, and it moves in a sinful tandem--back and forth. In, out, in, out. A sigh, a creak, a gasp, a groan; he can have it every other way and picks this way. It's not love, but it's only the most special disgust that drives him to bed. Pity. His eyes are blue, blue like sky, blue like water, blue like pity.
"Don't go. Say you'll stay."
And he goes, taking his blue with him. The bed is still unmade; it always is; leaving him empty just because he knows he can. It doesn't smell like him. It doesn't leave his memory. He leaves unshed blood, invisible scars that never reached the surface. He doesn't say what he wants to say, isn't brave enough; he watches the window and forgets to make the bed.
Title: No More
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Russia/America
Word Count: 200-something
The bed is unmade, just like everything is. It doesn't matter that they don't see each other--they look into each other's eyes, faces nearly meshed together, and still they can't see what they're looking at. Their bodies feel, their voices raise and raise and raise until crescendo is reached, tangled and out of tune and thrashing, violent, beautiful. Then it stops. Stops again, quietly whispered, and they have another beginning to waste; the kind of beginning so many would have cherished. They throw it away, and return to the unmade bed.
His eyes are blue, blue like sky, blue like water, blue like sadness, blue like his eyes. They peek at violet, glare at madness, smile in the face of death, and he doesn't look away when he tells the man above him that he'd wish he would die. Killing him slowly just because he can. Sitting pretty even though he's on bottom, he moans to the night and steals even the coldest heart. The bed rocks, their breath is short, and it moves in a sinful tandem--back and forth. In, out, in, out. A sigh, a creak, a gasp, a groan; he can have it every other way and picks this way. It's not love, but it's only the most special disgust that drives him to bed. Pity. His eyes are blue, blue like sky, blue like water, blue like pity.
"Don't go. Say you'll stay."
And he goes, taking his blue with him. The bed is still unmade; it always is; leaving him empty just because he knows he can. It doesn't smell like him. It doesn't leave his memory. He leaves unshed blood, invisible scars that never reached the surface. He doesn't say what he wants to say, isn't brave enough; he watches the window and forgets to make the bed.