It may be weird, but the thought about Russia x Russia is too sexy to ignore. I don't know how it came to be or why, but somehow Russia copied himself (maybe in hope of two brains taking over the world's better than one?) - as long as the "real" Russia is forced to be the uke by the more sadistic copy <3
Anon must apologize for the…whatever this is. The other Russia didn’t turn out to be very sadistic, I’m sorry. *whimpers* and-and then there’s the ending. *shoots self* Hope the OP likes it anyway. Written at 4 AM...so there are bound to be errors. -- It is the most beautiful thing in the world. Perhaps rivalling the beauty of sunshine and sunflowers and the warmth he has felt on his visits to south. They look exactly the same, but now there are two of them. The men who have led him here are talking, describing in ecstatic voices exactly how they made it possible, but he doesn’t really pay attention. The notion of someone sharing his face, being him is so unique, he cannot pull his eyes away.
The first touch is a bit hesitant, he doesn’t want to damage this beautiful thing—and the skin is warm under his touch, hair soft and lips moist. His mouth opens, eyes widen and all he can do is stare as eyes identical to his flutter open, looking directly into his. He gets up, leaning on two strong, bare arms and he hurries forward to support him. The other smiles—white, pearly teeth and eyes crinkling—and leans forward, resting his forehead on his chest.
“Россия,” the voice is huskier than his, but that’s not a problem—it’ll soon mirror his, he knows. He loves the way it sounds already, the way his…their name rolls off that tongue. His fingers grip those arms tighter and he turns to the men watching them with wonder and curiosity on their faces.
“Leave us,” he orders. He’s smiling so hard it hurts—he’s actually happy. Because this, this is something wonderful and he cannot wait to test it out.
The men obey instantly and scamper away; only one or two brave enough to linger because of curiosity, but they also do not stay long. His smile is threatening to split his face into two, and the mere sight of it drains their faces of colour.
Good. He just wants to be alone with this…new invention of theirs.
The man in his arms has gathered enough energy by now, for he’s looking up, violet eyes open wide and searching his face—but he has not moved away. He will not go away, he realises, because he is himself, and he can count on that.
He will never leave him. He will never let him be lonely, he’ll always be there and support him in the harsh days of winter, and he’ll always be there when everyone will become one with him. He’ll be his alone, and they’ll never be parted.
He sobs before he can understand, salty tears dripping over the other’s face and the other smiles—it’s so kind—and wipes them away. Pulls him closer and crushes their mouths together, swallows his cries and pitiful whimpers.
“Россия,” the name is repeated like a mantra. “I’m here.” Fingers in his hair, undoing his scarf, unwrapping it from his neck, brushing tenderly against his throat and he bares it, giving in. Because he will not betray him, and if—somehow, this were to happen, there won’t be a him anymore.
He’s pulled over on the hard slab, his coat and scarf already discarded and lying somewhere on the floor. The other him is already stark naked, but his skin is warm, so very warm and he reaches out to touch in wonder. The first kiss is pressed at his throat by the other, mouthing the soft—tender, vulnerable part of him and each word against it falls like a prayer.
He groans, wiggles out of his trousers, and straddles the other’s hips, giving him better access to explore his neck and chest. His fingers fist in the blond hair, shining almost white in the bright light overhead. “Please,” he begs, unsure as to what he wants—but figures the other would understand regardless. “Please.” A thousand pleas go with it and his other self tenses, grips him all too tightly against himself and then his world tilts off his axis.
He’s disoriented for a few seconds, head ringing—and it takes him a while to figure out that it’s because of the impact against the stone slab. The other is looming over him, face gentle and sweet but hands rough and cruel as he’s divested of his underwear.
“I’m here,” he repeats. “I’ll never leave you.” He punctuates it with a biting, bruising kiss on his throat, the swell of his Adam’s apple and it is his scream that fills the lab. His fingers scrabble for purchase on the smooth skin of the other’s back, and he just barely grabs on as his erection is grabbed by strong hands. His eyes clench shut as sweet words wash over, followed by rough touches and rougher kisses.
“Я тебя люблю.” His eyes snap open at that, breath leaving his lungs in a gush and he gasps, struggling to just breathe. His other self is worshipping his body, his skin, marking him for all to see and those words pour out in an unremitting flow.
Я тебя люблю…
He sobs, because he has always longed for someone to say that to him—even if in a different language, even if in a different way. He just wanted for someone to tell him that and it’s ironic that, in the end, it’s he—he himself that has done that.
Я тебя люблю…
This is the cruelest thing anyone could have done to him, he realises, as he’s swallowed by his own self. The pressure is too much, the warmth around him, encasing him—those hands teasing his backside and that voice whispering those words every time he’s released.
Я тебя люблю…
“Just!” he’s shouting now, not caring if anyone outside hears him, he just wants to—he just doesn’t want to be alone anymore. It hurts too much… “Please,” he pleads, arching his body and hiding his face with his hands.
He understands. Obviously he does. Because something wet and warm slides into his entrance, warm air tickling his skin and raising goosebumps, and fingers slowly prying him open.
“I’ll be one with you,” he feels it more than he hears it. “Because I am you, Россия—and that’s our beginning.” There’s a laugh, almost unfamiliar in its lilt—already matching him but still not him. Yet.
They are becoming one.
Then he feels like he’s being torn apart in two as the other enters him, not holding back at all and he can only bite his lips and groan—moan, because it feels so good in that pain. He’s full, so complete…not alone, never alone.
He pulls the other close, making him slide even deeper inside and kisses him, trying to meld them into one. His hands are everywhere, grasping at the growing warmth, and holding onto the pain that blossoms inside him. But there’s also pleasure, mind numbing, so filling that he could die.
The thrusts are so powerful that each sends him reeling back to the stone wall behind them, his back slides over the cold table due to sweat and he’s trapped. He does his best to push back, to give as much as he gets, to reassure the other just as the other does to him. He gets a loving smile in rewards and those words whispered against his lips. Then those lips are lapping up the stray tears on his cheeks and a hand grabs him.
“Россия,” the voice is husky now, laden with arousal and slurred with pleasure, “Я тебя люблю.” He half-screams and those words are followed by a merciless thrust that makes his head connect with the wall. He sees stars, and not just because of the pain—because warmth is flooding inside him and his stomach feels funny, and then he’s also spurting his release between them. He cannot see—cannot feel for a few seconds but just that beautiful, wonderful heat and thatfulfillment that makes his chest swell.
“Я тебя люблю,” he repeats this time and wraps his arms around the rapidly cooling body that’s growing stiffer with each passing second. He’s been betrayed again—and this time—like time and time again, by himself. He holds on stubbornly though, making no sound and shedding no tears.
Because his heart is not there anymore.
~Fin~
*is murdered for making Russia suffer* I’m sorrrrrrrrrry! Russian shamelessly ganked off Google and Wikipedia. Россия = Russia and Я тебя люблю = I love you—I think. And yes, the clone!Russia dies at the end—just in case anyone is morbidly curious.
Brb, bawwwwwwwwwwwing eyes out! So so sad! Often I don't like Russia...but you've just reminded me why I should! And i love how you've taken a cracky request and just made it so haunting!
asdjghdjfgkf; THANK YOU. I thought I had completely butchered the request. I should have just written crack, y'know...but angst just grips my innards. >.>;
Russia is really...I really love him. He's done some bad things, but who hasn't? ANYWAY, thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed. XD
This is painful. Heart-gripping. The emotion in it – it's just the way you express things – is just incredibly powerful. I think I'll say that some things you write are twisted – terribly so, dear. But then, it's beautiful – and you write beautifully. I love your word usage as well as your imagery. Love the way you can express pain.
But then, this far from being bad. So far from being awful. Russia's pain – and loneliness – tears me from inside out. I love the way you blended the Russian with the smut. It just makes this whole piece more ... painful to read.
I just love Russia ... guh, this piece makes me feel sad. I shouldn't have re-read this tonight.
Blame this on CG and Lelouch... .
I'm kind of upset I can't leave you a better comment. But then my eloquence just crawled and died in some ditch. I don't know, I can only say this is beautiful . And I just repeated myself.
It was too much to hope for that the clone would spring forth from a test tube, fully formed and immediately useful, but that it could be created at all was already a miracle in itself. Another of him, another Russia, a copy that could actually take his place as a nation.
The baby lay quietly in its cot, wrapped warmly in fleece, asleep. He couldn't help but bend over to give it a kiss.
"I love you," he whispered fiercely, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
---
There was no way of creating an exact copy, of course. Even if they were physically identical, there was still the environment to factor in, the people, the upbringing. It didn't stop Russia from trying.
It took three years to quench the fire in the child's eyes ...three years it took to take the Rus... and it was almost a pity to watch the brilliant violet dull, but it was the only way. He needed this copy to know him, to be him, to feel what he felt, to go through what he had gone through.
Perhaps he was being a little impatient, he conceded, as he watched the small blond boy crawl desperately out of his reach. On the other hand, he did not have that much time. Keeping this project secret was getting harder by the day, since he had to spend more and more time here. In two steps, he tangled his gloved fingers in that soft, blond hair, and, for once, the boy did not cry out. Even as he visited the same violence upon the boy, as he tore into the tightness, all he got were tears, but not a sound.
"I love you," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from cracking because he was so close.
---
These days, the only way to tell them apart was the scarf, unless you knew what to look for. Russia's eyes were blazing with excitement and he seemed so much more alive while the copy moved with a quiet serenity, eyes as glassy as a lake on a still winter day.
After nearly two decades of hard work, it was as ready as it would ever be. A copy, carefully moulded into his image, filled with his vision, his ideas, his hopes and dreams. Moulded to become Russia. And that meant that he could leave. He could stop being Russia. He could go south, take a holiday, go for a swim at a beach that was not frozen. He would be done with Winter, done with the cold, done with disobedient children, done with politics, done with EVERYTHING. And he could live.
He was already planning it. Clothes, cash, a passport, a real human name. All he had to do was to pass himself on.
The copy stood still before him, and he reflected that he loved it with all his heart. He loved it because it was his ticket out of his 'life'. Cool violet eyes watched him as he pulled the pants up, following the zip with his palm. They watched him as he ran his hands up the bare chest, pausing over the many, many little scars. Those cold, cold eyes met his when he stood up, face to face with his copy.
"I love you," he whispered, his heart soaring so high it ached.
A small, quiet smile appeared on the copy's face, mirroring his perfectly. "I know," it whispered back, expression never changing as it grabbed Russia's scarf from both ends and pulled. "While I hate you." It's tone was conversational, almost cheerful, but its eyes burned in rage. "I. Hate. Russia."
It slammed Russia's face against its knee, loosening its grip on the scarf and grabbing him by the hair instead. When Russia tried to get his breath back, the copy stole it again with a bloody kiss. Physically, they were evenly matched, but the copy had the element of surprise. It wasn't going to happen agai...
His thoughts were cut off by a knee to the gut and he fell facedown on the carpeted floor, stunned. A knee was pressed into the small of his back and his arms were pulled back to be bound at the elbow and the wrist with his own scarf. He managed to get one breath in before the loose end of the scarf was looped around his neck and the copy was pulling again. This time, it was enough to choke him, but not so tight that he couldn't breathe at all.
"I know what you're planning," said the copy in a sing-song voice, leaning so close he could feel its breath against the back of his neck. "You're going to leave. You're going to leave me here alone to take your place, so that I will be Russia and you can go away." One hand threaded into his hair, jerking his head backward. "But you see, I'm not you.
If his nose hadn't already been broken before, it definitely was now as his copy slammed his face into the ground. The carpeting was essentially useless, except to show him how badly he was bleeding.
The scarf was released and he took the opportunity to gasp for breath through the blood, groggy from the multiple blows to the head. Vaguely, he heard the sound of a zip and he pressed his hips to the ground to keep the copy from reaching his. The copy retaliated by kicking him in the side, causing him to curl up instinctively in pain. It was no use: he'd taught it too well.
"I hate you," hissed the copy, stripping him of his pants and spreading his legs. Russia kicked out, felt his foot contact, then nearly screamed when the copy dug its nails into his sensitive flesh. He did scream when the copy penetrated him, but the sound was cut off by the scarf and he choked on it, gagging impotently.
He heard the copy say something, but he was too busy seeing spots to try to comprehend. His lungs were burning and it hurt even more than what the copy was doing to him. Just as he thought he might pass out, he was allowed to breathe again.
"I hate you, I'm not you, I don't want to be you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you..." over and over again, the copy's whispered refrain reached his ears, sounding more and more like a desperate prayer with each clumsy thrust. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of them in the mirror.
It had been an interesting experience, observing from the outside his its reaction to his own history. And now this. This was an outside perspective of his present. Did he really look like that to the others? The copy's face was flushed, twisted in pain and pleasure from the friction between them. Blood was smeared on his lips, across the lower part of his face, from their earlier kiss, giving him a truly demented look. Then tears...
He thought he'd beaten all the tears out of the youth ...himself a long time ago.
He felt the copy pull out and pull him to his knees. His thighs were wet with blood and his entire lower back hurt, hurt like hell and the copy was grabbing his face, forcing his mouth open. When he bit down on the cock shoved into his mouth, the copy relieved him of most of his front teeth against the hardwood table before fucking his throat with abandon.
The carpet beneath then was soaked with blood by the time the copy was done, coming shudderingly onto Russia's face. Pulling back and letting Russia collapse onto the floor, he took a moment to calm himself and observe the carnage.
Then Russia began laughing.
The copy frowned, giving the fallen nation a casual kick. "What's so fucking funny?"
Crazed violet eyes gazed up at him as laughter bubbled through the blood filling the nation's mouth. "You said, you didn't want to be me?" Russia choked out between hysterical giggles. "Look."
Look.
The copy turned to where Russia was looking at, catching sight of himself in the mirror, of the blood on his lips, on his hands, splattered across his bare body, catching sight of the wild look in his violet eyes. The same look Russia was giving him.
"No..."
"You don't want to be me?" laughed Russia, entire body shaking from pain? From mirth? From rage? "Just look at yourself! You're already...."
The last thing he saw was the mirror shattering around him as he was thrown into it. Then just blessed darkness.
OP here - OMG I LOVE YOU So filled with feelings ;___; That poor copy.. It's hard, the endning leaves feelings for both of them that it almost break hearts- So amazing~<3
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Russia x Russia
(Anonymous) 2009-03-05 09:06 am (UTC)(link)I don't know how it came to be or why, but somehow Russia copied himself (maybe in hope of two brains taking over the world's better than one?) - as long as the "real" Russia is forced to be the uke by the more sadistic copy <3
BONUS if other countries somehow finds out later~
Russia x Russia Selfcest [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-14 11:41 pm (UTC)(link)--
It is the most beautiful thing in the world. Perhaps rivalling the beauty of sunshine and sunflowers and the warmth he has felt on his visits to south. They look exactly the same, but now there are two of them. The men who have led him here are talking, describing in ecstatic voices exactly how they made it possible, but he doesn’t really pay attention. The notion of someone sharing his face, being him is so unique, he cannot pull his eyes away.
The first touch is a bit hesitant, he doesn’t want to damage this beautiful thing—and the skin is warm under his touch, hair soft and lips moist. His mouth opens, eyes widen and all he can do is stare as eyes identical to his flutter open, looking directly into his. He gets up, leaning on two strong, bare arms and he hurries forward to support him. The other smiles—white, pearly teeth and eyes crinkling—and leans forward, resting his forehead on his chest.
“Россия,” the voice is huskier than his, but that’s not a problem—it’ll soon mirror his, he knows. He loves the way it sounds already, the way his…their name rolls off that tongue. His fingers grip those arms tighter and he turns to the men watching them with wonder and curiosity on their faces.
“Leave us,” he orders. He’s smiling so hard it hurts—he’s actually happy. Because this, this is something wonderful and he cannot wait to test it out.
The men obey instantly and scamper away; only one or two brave enough to linger because of curiosity, but they also do not stay long. His smile is threatening to split his face into two, and the mere sight of it drains their faces of colour.
Good. He just wants to be alone with this…new invention of theirs.
The man in his arms has gathered enough energy by now, for he’s looking up, violet eyes open wide and searching his face—but he has not moved away. He will not go away, he realises, because he is himself, and he can count on that.
He will never leave him. He will never let him be lonely, he’ll always be there and support him in the harsh days of winter, and he’ll always be there when everyone will become one with him. He’ll be his alone, and they’ll never be parted.
He sobs before he can understand, salty tears dripping over the other’s face and the other smiles—it’s so kind—and wipes them away. Pulls him closer and crushes their mouths together, swallows his cries and pitiful whimpers.
“Россия,” the name is repeated like a mantra. “I’m here.” Fingers in his hair, undoing his scarf, unwrapping it from his neck, brushing tenderly against his throat and he bares it, giving in. Because he will not betray him, and if—somehow, this were to happen, there won’t be a him anymore.
He’s pulled over on the hard slab, his coat and scarf already discarded and lying somewhere on the floor. The other him is already stark naked, but his skin is warm, so very warm and he reaches out to touch in wonder. The first kiss is pressed at his throat by the other, mouthing the soft—tender, vulnerable part of him and each word against it falls like a prayer.
He groans, wiggles out of his trousers, and straddles the other’s hips, giving him better access to explore his neck and chest. His fingers fist in the blond hair, shining almost white in the bright light overhead. “Please,” he begs, unsure as to what he wants—but figures the other would understand regardless. “Please.” A thousand pleas go with it and his other self tenses, grips him all too tightly against himself and then his world tilts off his axis.
Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-14 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m here,” he repeats. “I’ll never leave you.” He punctuates it with a biting, bruising kiss on his throat, the swell of his Adam’s apple and it is his scream that fills the lab. His fingers scrabble for purchase on the smooth skin of the other’s back, and he just barely grabs on as his erection is grabbed by strong hands. His eyes clench shut as sweet words wash over, followed by rough touches and rougher kisses.
“Я тебя люблю.” His eyes snap open at that, breath leaving his lungs in a gush and he gasps, struggling to just breathe. His other self is worshipping his body, his skin, marking him for all to see and those words pour out in an unremitting flow.
Я тебя люблю…
He sobs, because he has always longed for someone to say that to him—even if in a different language, even if in a different way. He just wanted for someone to tell him that and it’s ironic that, in the end, it’s he—he himself that has done that.
Я тебя люблю…
This is the cruelest thing anyone could have done to him, he realises, as he’s swallowed by his own self. The pressure is too much, the warmth around him, encasing him—those hands teasing his backside and that voice whispering those words every time he’s released.
Я тебя люблю…
“Just!” he’s shouting now, not caring if anyone outside hears him, he just wants to—he just doesn’t want to be alone anymore. It hurts too much… “Please,” he pleads, arching his body and hiding his face with his hands.
He understands. Obviously he does. Because something wet and warm slides into his entrance, warm air tickling his skin and raising goosebumps, and fingers slowly prying him open.
“I’ll be one with you,” he feels it more than he hears it. “Because I am you, Россия—and that’s our beginning.” There’s a laugh, almost unfamiliar in its lilt—already matching him but still not him. Yet.
They are becoming one.
Then he feels like he’s being torn apart in two as the other enters him, not holding back at all and he can only bite his lips and groan—moan, because it feels so good in that pain. He’s full, so complete…not alone, never alone.
He pulls the other close, making him slide even deeper inside and kisses him, trying to meld them into one. His hands are everywhere, grasping at the growing warmth, and holding onto the pain that blossoms inside him. But there’s also pleasure, mind numbing, so filling that he could die.
The thrusts are so powerful that each sends him reeling back to the stone wall behind them, his back slides over the cold table due to sweat and he’s trapped. He does his best to push back, to give as much as he gets, to reassure the other just as the other does to him. He gets a loving smile in rewards and those words whispered against his lips. Then those lips are lapping up the stray tears on his cheeks and a hand grabs him.
“Россия,” the voice is husky now, laden with arousal and slurred with pleasure, “Я тебя люблю.” He half-screams and those words are followed by a merciless thrust that makes his head connect with the wall. He sees stars, and not just because of the pain—because warmth is flooding inside him and his stomach feels funny, and then he’s also spurting his release between them. He cannot see—cannot feel for a few seconds but just that beautiful, wonderful heat and thatfulfillment that makes his chest swell.
“Я тебя люблю,” he repeats this time and wraps his arms around the rapidly cooling body that’s growing stiffer with each passing second. He’s been betrayed again—and this time—like time and time again, by himself. He holds on stubbornly though, making no sound and shedding no tears.
Because his heart is not there anymore.
~Fin~
*is murdered for making Russia suffer* I’m sorrrrrrrrrry! Russian shamelessly ganked off Google and Wikipedia. Россия = Russia and Я тебя люблю = I love you—I think. And yes, the clone!Russia dies at the end—just in case anyone is
morbidlycurious.Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 06:45 am (UTC)(link)Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 08:28 am (UTC)(link)Russia is really...I really love him. He's done some bad things, but who hasn't? ANYWAY, thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed. XD
Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 12:26 pm (UTC)(link);__; It's so sad and wonderful <3 Russia's perfectly captured, and GOD DO I LOVE HIM!
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DOING THIS REQUEST! It means a lot, I'm so thrilled <3<3<3<3
Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 02:38 pm (UTC)(link)I also love Russia very much, hence I torture him. *shot* XDDD
Thank you very, very much for the prompt.
Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-15 11:06 pm (UTC)(link)But then, this far from being bad. So far from being awful. Russia's pain – and loneliness – tears me from inside out. I love the way you blended the Russian with the smut. It just makes this whole piece more ... painful to read.
I just love Russia ... guh, this piece makes me feel sad. I shouldn't have re-read this tonight.
Blame this on CG and Lelouch....I'm kind of upset I can't leave you a better comment. But then my eloquence just crawled and died in some ditch. I don't know, I can only say this is beautiful . And I just repeated myself.
Re: Russia x Russia Selfcest [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 07:53 pm (UTC)(link)I do write twisted stuff because I'm pretty twisted myself. Teehee. AND RUSSIA IS LOVE ANYWAY. *cough*
Your review is love, m'd'r. Makes me want to squish you. XD Thank you. ♥
1/2
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 06:46 am (UTC)(link)The baby lay quietly in its cot, wrapped warmly in fleece, asleep. He couldn't help but bend over to give it a kiss.
"I love you," he whispered fiercely, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
---
There was no way of creating an exact copy, of course. Even if they were physically identical, there was still the environment to factor in, the people, the upbringing. It didn't stop Russia from trying.
It took three years to quench the fire in the child's eyes ...three years it took to take the Rus... and it was almost a pity to watch the brilliant violet dull, but it was the only way. He needed this copy to know him, to be him, to feel what he felt, to go through what he had gone through.
Perhaps he was being a little impatient, he conceded, as he watched the small blond boy crawl desperately out of his reach. On the other hand, he did not have that much time. Keeping this project secret was getting harder by the day, since he had to spend more and more time here. In two steps, he tangled his gloved fingers in that soft, blond hair, and, for once, the boy did not cry out. Even as he visited the same violence upon the boy, as he tore into the tightness, all he got were tears, but not a sound.
"I love you," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from cracking because he was so close.
---
These days, the only way to tell them apart was the scarf, unless you knew what to look for. Russia's eyes were blazing with excitement and he seemed so much more alive while the copy moved with a quiet serenity, eyes as glassy as a lake on a still winter day.
After nearly two decades of hard work, it was as ready as it would ever be. A copy, carefully moulded into his image, filled with his vision, his ideas, his hopes and dreams. Moulded to become Russia. And that meant that he could leave. He could stop being Russia. He could go south, take a holiday, go for a swim at a beach that was not frozen. He would be done with Winter, done with the cold, done with disobedient children, done with politics, done with EVERYTHING. And he could live.
He was already planning it. Clothes, cash, a passport, a real human name. All he had to do was to pass himself on.
The copy stood still before him, and he reflected that he loved it with all his heart. He loved it because it was his ticket out of his 'life'. Cool violet eyes watched him as he pulled the pants up, following the zip with his palm. They watched him as he ran his hands up the bare chest, pausing over the many, many little scars. Those cold, cold eyes met his when he stood up, face to face with his copy.
"I love you," he whispered, his heart soaring so high it ached.
Re: 1/2
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 07:57 am (UTC)(link)poor mini!russia
no one saw my fail!
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 02:55 pm (UTC)(link)2/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 06:48 am (UTC)(link)It slammed Russia's face against its knee, loosening its grip on the scarf and grabbing him by the hair instead. When Russia tried to get his breath back, the copy stole it again with a bloody kiss. Physically, they were evenly matched, but the copy had the element of surprise. It wasn't going to happen agai...
His thoughts were cut off by a knee to the gut and he fell facedown on the carpeted floor, stunned. A knee was pressed into the small of his back and his arms were pulled back to be bound at the elbow and the wrist with his own scarf. He managed to get one breath in before the loose end of the scarf was looped around his neck and the copy was pulling again. This time, it was enough to choke him, but not so tight that he couldn't breathe at all.
"I know what you're planning," said the copy in a sing-song voice, leaning so close he could feel its breath against the back of his neck. "You're going to leave. You're going to leave me here alone to take your place, so that I will be Russia and you can go away." One hand threaded into his hair, jerking his head backward. "But you see, I'm not you.
If his nose hadn't already been broken before, it definitely was now as his copy slammed his face into the ground. The carpeting was essentially useless, except to show him how badly he was bleeding.
The scarf was released and he took the opportunity to gasp for breath through the blood, groggy from the multiple blows to the head. Vaguely, he heard the sound of a zip and he pressed his hips to the ground to keep the copy from reaching his. The copy retaliated by kicking him in the side, causing him to curl up instinctively in pain. It was no use: he'd taught it too well.
"I hate you," hissed the copy, stripping him of his pants and spreading his legs. Russia kicked out, felt his foot contact, then nearly screamed when the copy dug its nails into his sensitive flesh. He did scream when the copy penetrated him, but the sound was cut off by the scarf and he choked on it, gagging impotently.
He heard the copy say something, but he was too busy seeing spots to try to comprehend. His lungs were burning and it hurt even more than what the copy was doing to him. Just as he thought he might pass out, he was allowed to breathe again.
"I hate you, I'm not you, I don't want to be you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you..." over and over again, the copy's whispered refrain reached his ears, sounding more and more like a desperate prayer with each clumsy thrust. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of them in the mirror.
It had been an interesting experience, observing from the outside his its reaction to his own history. And now this. This was an outside perspective of his present. Did he really look like that to the others? The copy's face was flushed, twisted in pain and pleasure from the friction between them. Blood was smeared on his lips, across the lower part of his face, from their earlier kiss, giving him a truly demented look. Then tears...
He thought he'd beaten all the tears out of the youth ...himself a long time ago.
3/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 06:50 am (UTC)(link)The carpet beneath then was soaked with blood by the time the copy was done, coming shudderingly onto Russia's face. Pulling back and letting Russia collapse onto the floor, he took a moment to calm himself and observe the carnage.
Then Russia began laughing.
The copy frowned, giving the fallen nation a casual kick. "What's so fucking funny?"
Crazed violet eyes gazed up at him as laughter bubbled through the blood filling the nation's mouth. "You said, you didn't want to be me?" Russia choked out between hysterical giggles. "Look."
Look.
The copy turned to where Russia was looking at, catching sight of himself in the mirror, of the blood on his lips, on his hands, splattered across his bare body, catching sight of the wild look in his violet eyes. The same look Russia was giving him.
"No..."
"You don't want to be me?" laughed Russia, entire body shaking from pain? From mirth? From rage? "Just look at yourself! You're already...."
The last thing he saw was the mirror shattering around him as he was thrown into it. Then just blessed darkness.
Re: 3/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-20 04:29 pm (UTC)(link)Seriously. How do you do it?
writer!anon
(Anonymous) 2009-03-22 04:47 pm (UTC)(link)Re: 3/3
(Anonymous) 2009-03-20 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)So filled with feelings ;___; That poor copy.. It's hard, the endning leaves feelings for both of them that it almost break hearts- So amazing~<3
writer!anon is glad
(Anonymous) 2009-03-22 04:51 pm (UTC)(link)