Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 20-22/?
Why were butterflies so beautiful?
They floated and flittered about, placing light, chaste kisses on vibrantly blooming flowers, heavy with morning dew and renewed life.
Wings gracefully fluttered, a spectrum of colors and more, anything one could have ever imagined present on small, paper-thin canvases; intricate designs dusted each, catching the eye and holding it prisoner with its beauty.
But such fickle creatures.
Try to get close to them, try to love them and they would fly away, whispers of laughter echoing through the skies; they were bound to no one but the ever open, limitless horizon, serving their master dutifully until the end of their too ephemeral life.
It wasn’t fair.
Such delicacy and splendor should be forever appreciated, ever frozen in time to be admired and looked upon. Never touching of course; soiled hands were not allowed to mar the untainted beings.
But he could touch all he wanted.
All that was needed was a net and patience; patience, patience, endless patience-if one was too hasty, the butterfly would become frightened and fly away and if one was too slow, one would fail to catch the impish creature. One had to draw the net ever so gently-so carefully-
And one would have art worthy of being called a prize.
Fragile; marvelous; an awe-inspiring organism that one could then control, tame to the life of being only a work of art.
But how were such things displayed?
A smile.
He supposed that was what the pins and inescapable, latched box were for.
His own butterfly now lay entrapped in his snare, drawn in by warmth and a soft embrace; exquisite crimsons, azures and pearly whites painted his wings, the slight appendages marked with stripes and stars.
Such a rarity.
He simply had to keep this one in the collection.
Now; where to place that final pin?
A murmur; heated breath against cool skin.
“Mother is sure that the little patriot has a good reason for being late, da?”
The playful creature immediately stiffened, its entire body tensing with surprise and fear.
Ah ah; too late to escape now, my toy.
His prize.
His love.
You belong to me.
“Ivan,” a fearful, cracked voice whispered; tears of frustration, exasperation, leaked from cobalt eyes, dotting the silky sheets below, “I-I c-can explain-”
Why was there never escape?
“Mother does not doubt his child; but you are so cold,” the Russian purred into the flesh, his fingers dancing around icy hands, “Let Mother warm you up first, da?”
Pressing his lips against the nape of Alfred’s neck, he kissed tenderly, grazing his teeth along the surface. He could feel the shivers course through the American’s body, leaving him trembling in the embrace.
“Still cold?”
Ivan didn’t wait for an answer as he bit into the flesh, earning a weak cry from his charge; lapping up the miniscule rubies of blood, he continued to nip around to the side, leaving angry, crimson marks in his wake.
“A-ah; I-Ivan,” Alfred gasped, trying to slowly shift away towards the side of the bed; if he could just get away…
With a feral, primal growl, the elder country pulled the American closer, burying his head in the younger’s crook.
“Mother knows just what makes the little rebel warm,” Ivan murmured, the words setting Alfred’s skin ablaze, “Mother knows the little one; what he likes, how he acts; where to touch…”
Dexterous digits ran along marble smooth skin, tracing lines, marking the surface with invisible, binding threads. Interweaving their legs, Ivan pressed upward with his knee, causing a strangled moan to fall from the bespectacled man’s lips.
No-no, he didn’t want this-
“I-Ivan-I-vaan, please,” Alfred mumbled weakly, hating his meek, lowly tone, “P-please; n-no-no…
The American could feel the grin widen on his captor’s face as wet kisses trailed down his back.
“Ah, how I’ve missed this; it’s always more fun when the little patriot pretends to put up a fight.” Vibrations spread outward from his spine as Ivan chuckled darkly into the soft tissue.
“But perhaps you are not pretending anymore, da?”
The younger country whimpered into his pillow, the elder having begun to slowly knead and push with his knee. Mind swimming, Alfred’s breath came in short, panting gasps; he couldn’t-couldn’t breathe-
Lips captured his, forcing air back into his lungs as Ivan claimed the blonde’s mouth for his own; dazedly, a far-away sensation warned him that something was wrapping around his wrists, but all he could think of was the demanding mouth, agile hands slipping ever lower.
The Russian pulled away, trailing his tongue along the American’s lower lip for a final taste. Limp and shaking, Alfred realized that the only thing keeping him upright was the material tightly binding his hands to a ring behind the headboard. Wearily, the charge looked to the violet-eyed man, glassy sightss slowly taking in his appearance.
Platinum blonde hair seemed perfectly in place, the almost white strands falling gracefully over his forehead. The usual scarf was absent, lovingly tied around now aching wrists, and sculpted muscles were just visible beneath a disheveled shirt. Leaning back to admire his work, Ivan smirked, eyes glittering with madness in the dark.
In sharp contrast, the younger looked like a broken marionette, bruised lips and ruffled hair complimenting his needy pants and glazed eyes.
“Mother has spoiled the little rebel,” the Russian posed thoughtfully, “too much freedom, not enough discipline; how you say-? ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’ da? But don’t worry,”
Clink.
“Mother’s kisses make everything better.”
And then came the pipe.
~~~
His mind was numb; his body felt dead and heavy, the furious tremors unnoticed by the dazed man. Flames licked up and down his appendages, charring them with searing black fire, leaving him burned and broken.
Purple, blue bruises flowered over his entire frame, decorating his skin with blooming tattoo-like patterns. Red colored the creations, dripping and trailing along the swelling flesh.
He truly was a piece of art.
“I’m sorry.”
Lavender irises glimmered, a smile slowly spreading across the elder’s countenance.
“Mother is always right; Mother knows best; I just wanted to make him happy; that’s why I went looking for those people Mother spoke of: the Resistance. Mother would have been proud of me, yes; but it was so scary outside, and I got lost-”
Tears streaked down the younger's deathly alabaster cheeks, his head hanging low.
Genuinely surprised, Ivan patted the country’s lowered head, ruffling the matted, sweat-slicked hair; he certainly hadn’t expected that answer. Perhaps he had jumped to conclusions; his butterfly was still trapped in its case after all.
“Mother knows, little kitten,” the Russian said, brushing the salty streaks away, “You’ve taken your punishment for leaving without permission like a good boy; Mother will make you warm again, da?”
Gotcha.
A small smile wormed across the American’s face, hidden by his long, straw locks, as Ivan began to touch him once more.
It would be the last time.
They floated and flittered about, placing light, chaste kisses on vibrantly blooming flowers, heavy with morning dew and renewed life.
Wings gracefully fluttered, a spectrum of colors and more, anything one could have ever imagined present on small, paper-thin canvases; intricate designs dusted each, catching the eye and holding it prisoner with its beauty.
But such fickle creatures.
Try to get close to them, try to love them and they would fly away, whispers of laughter echoing through the skies; they were bound to no one but the ever open, limitless horizon, serving their master dutifully until the end of their too ephemeral life.
It wasn’t fair.
Such delicacy and splendor should be forever appreciated, ever frozen in time to be admired and looked upon. Never touching of course; soiled hands were not allowed to mar the untainted beings.
But he could touch all he wanted.
All that was needed was a net and patience; patience, patience, endless patience-if one was too hasty, the butterfly would become frightened and fly away and if one was too slow, one would fail to catch the impish creature. One had to draw the net ever so gently-so carefully-
And one would have art worthy of being called a prize.
Fragile; marvelous; an awe-inspiring organism that one could then control, tame to the life of being only a work of art.
But how were such things displayed?
A smile.
He supposed that was what the pins and inescapable, latched box were for.
His own butterfly now lay entrapped in his snare, drawn in by warmth and a soft embrace; exquisite crimsons, azures and pearly whites painted his wings, the slight appendages marked with stripes and stars.
Such a rarity.
He simply had to keep this one in the collection.
Now; where to place that final pin?
A murmur; heated breath against cool skin.
“Mother is sure that the little patriot has a good reason for being late, da?”
The playful creature immediately stiffened, its entire body tensing with surprise and fear.
Ah ah; too late to escape now, my toy.
His prize.
His love.
You belong to me.
“Ivan,” a fearful, cracked voice whispered; tears of frustration, exasperation, leaked from cobalt eyes, dotting the silky sheets below, “I-I c-can explain-”
Why was there never escape?
“Mother does not doubt his child; but you are so cold,” the Russian purred into the flesh, his fingers dancing around icy hands, “Let Mother warm you up first, da?”
Pressing his lips against the nape of Alfred’s neck, he kissed tenderly, grazing his teeth along the surface. He could feel the shivers course through the American’s body, leaving him trembling in the embrace.
“Still cold?”
Ivan didn’t wait for an answer as he bit into the flesh, earning a weak cry from his charge; lapping up the miniscule rubies of blood, he continued to nip around to the side, leaving angry, crimson marks in his wake.
“A-ah; I-Ivan,” Alfred gasped, trying to slowly shift away towards the side of the bed; if he could just get away…
With a feral, primal growl, the elder country pulled the American closer, burying his head in the younger’s crook.
“Mother knows just what makes the little rebel warm,” Ivan murmured, the words setting Alfred’s skin ablaze, “Mother knows the little one; what he likes, how he acts; where to touch…”
Dexterous digits ran along marble smooth skin, tracing lines, marking the surface with invisible, binding threads. Interweaving their legs, Ivan pressed upward with his knee, causing a strangled moan to fall from the bespectacled man’s lips.
No-no, he didn’t want this-
“I-Ivan-I-vaan, please,” Alfred mumbled weakly, hating his meek, lowly tone, “P-please; n-no-no…
The American could feel the grin widen on his captor’s face as wet kisses trailed down his back.
“Ah, how I’ve missed this; it’s always more fun when the little patriot pretends to put up a fight.” Vibrations spread outward from his spine as Ivan chuckled darkly into the soft tissue.
“But perhaps you are not pretending anymore, da?”
The younger country whimpered into his pillow, the elder having begun to slowly knead and push with his knee. Mind swimming, Alfred’s breath came in short, panting gasps; he couldn’t-couldn’t breathe-
Lips captured his, forcing air back into his lungs as Ivan claimed the blonde’s mouth for his own; dazedly, a far-away sensation warned him that something was wrapping around his wrists, but all he could think of was the demanding mouth, agile hands slipping ever lower.
The Russian pulled away, trailing his tongue along the American’s lower lip for a final taste. Limp and shaking, Alfred realized that the only thing keeping him upright was the material tightly binding his hands to a ring behind the headboard. Wearily, the charge looked to the violet-eyed man, glassy sightss slowly taking in his appearance.
Platinum blonde hair seemed perfectly in place, the almost white strands falling gracefully over his forehead. The usual scarf was absent, lovingly tied around now aching wrists, and sculpted muscles were just visible beneath a disheveled shirt. Leaning back to admire his work, Ivan smirked, eyes glittering with madness in the dark.
In sharp contrast, the younger looked like a broken marionette, bruised lips and ruffled hair complimenting his needy pants and glazed eyes.
“Mother has spoiled the little rebel,” the Russian posed thoughtfully, “too much freedom, not enough discipline; how you say-? ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’ da? But don’t worry,”
Clink.
“Mother’s kisses make everything better.”
And then came the pipe.
~~~
His mind was numb; his body felt dead and heavy, the furious tremors unnoticed by the dazed man. Flames licked up and down his appendages, charring them with searing black fire, leaving him burned and broken.
Purple, blue bruises flowered over his entire frame, decorating his skin with blooming tattoo-like patterns. Red colored the creations, dripping and trailing along the swelling flesh.
He truly was a piece of art.
“I’m sorry.”
Lavender irises glimmered, a smile slowly spreading across the elder’s countenance.
“Mother is always right; Mother knows best; I just wanted to make him happy; that’s why I went looking for those people Mother spoke of: the Resistance. Mother would have been proud of me, yes; but it was so scary outside, and I got lost-”
Tears streaked down the younger's deathly alabaster cheeks, his head hanging low.
Genuinely surprised, Ivan patted the country’s lowered head, ruffling the matted, sweat-slicked hair; he certainly hadn’t expected that answer. Perhaps he had jumped to conclusions; his butterfly was still trapped in its case after all.
“Mother knows, little kitten,” the Russian said, brushing the salty streaks away, “You’ve taken your punishment for leaving without permission like a good boy; Mother will make you warm again, da?”
Gotcha.
A small smile wormed across the American’s face, hidden by his long, straw locks, as Ivan began to touch him once more.
It would be the last time.