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.
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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.