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Anyway you'd de-anon...? :)
Glad you like the art.
Glad you like the art.
I actually never use my lj, so, XD
But yeah, I'd give you my ff.net account
But yeah, I'd give you my ff.net account
Holy crap you updated fast! Not that I'm complaining, but damn. You're going to spoil me at this rate XD
Everyone else said a lot of what I wanted to say already, so I won't repeat. I do want to add however that I find the way you write Sweden positively adorable. I was waiting to see him in this fic and it was worth the anticipation, because he's so cute and IC. The sandwich sharing attempt made me grin like an idiot. <3 It's subtle,and I don't know if you did it on purpose or not, but I love how America's POV sort of 'filters' out the scary-loomy-glarey aspect of Sweden. Any other Nation sitting with him for lunch would have had trouble overlooking that, but since America likes him the way he does, he's unphased and it's really quite sweet. (It may or may not also be due in part to how America fancies himself indestructible, but I'll ignore that to keep the d'aww pure).
Denmaaarrk, poor dear. You just want your family back together again. *pets* (Do try not to drive them crazy this time, yeah? America will not hesitate to kick you where the sun doesn't shine if you get too bossy. Just ask England.)
Did I mention yet that I love you? If not, ILU. If so, ILU AGAIN.
Everyone else said a lot of what I wanted to say already, so I won't repeat. I do want to add however that I find the way you write Sweden positively adorable. I was waiting to see him in this fic and it was worth the anticipation, because he's so cute and IC. The sandwich sharing attempt made me grin like an idiot. <3 It's subtle,
Denmaaarrk, poor dear. You just want your family back together again. *pets* (Do try not to drive them crazy this time, yeah? America will not hesitate to kick you where the sun doesn't shine if you get too bossy. Just ask England.)
Did I mention yet that I love you? If not, ILU. If so, ILU AGAIN.
I'd love your ff.net account. Definately.
The interactions are very interesting. I love how you portray the characters' thought processes.
It really is an amazing fill, authoranon, and I look forward to how you're going to continue it!
It really is an amazing fill, authoranon, and I look forward to how you're going to continue it!
This is really sensual and lovely, anon. Awesome job.
I started writing this immediately after OP posted, but I accidentally lost it when I was almost completed. I had to rewrite it entirely....I think it's actually better in some places, but I'm still very :/ about losing the original draft.
Anyways, this prompt was too good to pass up so yes, 1800+ words rewritten all at once so I wouldn't lose the details. AFTER THIS, I'M GOING OUT TO SNUGGLE KITTIES AND HAVE ICE CREAM, OR SOMETHING.
The title is from what the yuki-onna was named in the tale.
--
Everything surrounding him is white, save for the pale blue strip of sky. He is snow-blinded, rime gathers in his brows and frost in his lashes. His leg is twisted beneath him, useless. It's too painful to drag himself down, or even move.
The sun turns everything brilliant until there is just a white haze beyond.
Not by fire, but by ice, he thinks. He tries to think of the rest of the poem, but his mind is too hazy.
He doesn't remember much, only barely the path he has taken here, and his footprints slowly being devoured by the winds.
He's been to the springs of Hokkaido, to far off shrines and the lights of Tokyo. Today is his last day of the trip, and perhaps, his life. By the time the sun goes down it will be too cold and only a matter of time before his heart beats backwards, stops.
He wonders if this is what Asphodel feels like. A monochrome, numbed, non-feeling. A pale, wispy single string left to life. He has never done anything so vile as the be banished to Tartarus. It was Dante who exiled the deepest pits of hell to ice, not the Greeks.
In the corner of his eye he notices a splotch of black coming closer. He turns his head, and winces with the effort.
Someone is there, a specter, he thinks. His guide has surely long abandoned him, or returned to find help.
The kimono is white and gauzy, icicles hang from the sleeves. The walks upon the snow with no sound, as if he is floating. His skin is pale, as pale as the snow around him, even ethereally so. His hair is dark, in the way of the Japanese, and in a bowl cut with sharp, flat bangs. The kimono is tied loose enough that he can see his collarbone, his neck.
A fever dream, a snow mirage.
I am dying he thinks.
The specter bends and brushes the sleeve across him. His gaze is unlike anything Herakles has felt. The gaze reflects the esoteric knowledge of centuries, of fallen civilizations and the new lands that came in their stead.
"You're beautiful," the specter murmurs. "So warm...."
Herakles wants to reply you're beautiful too. but his throat is swollen and dry; he can't get a word out. His gaze is hypnotic, enthralling. Herakles can't look away from his dark almond-shaped eyes with all their mystery. There even seems a hint of sadness in their depths. He thinks he would do anything for him, anything he asks. When the specter looks away, the feeling lessens, but the mark of it is still there, like a brand cold under his skin.
The specter bends and for a minute seems to consider kissing him. He tries to part his chapped, frost-covered lips. That simple act is painful.
Instead the specter touches the side of his neck. The feel of the specter's fingers on him fills him with the heat of wanting, and then steals the warmth, like touching metal. It is colder than the snow around him, unimaginably chilling.
"No, much too beautiful," the specter murmurs. "I'll let you survive, but you must never tell anyone about me."
When he wakes it is not the cold, ascetic white of the mountain, but the sterile whiteness of a hospital. His leg is set. He is mostly unharmed by frostbite, save for a mark on his neck which mystifies the doctors.
It resembles the brush of fingers.
*
Anyways, this prompt was too good to pass up so yes, 1800+ words rewritten all at once so I wouldn't lose the details. AFTER THIS, I'M GOING OUT TO SNUGGLE KITTIES AND HAVE ICE CREAM, OR SOMETHING.
The title is from what the yuki-onna was named in the tale.
--
Everything surrounding him is white, save for the pale blue strip of sky. He is snow-blinded, rime gathers in his brows and frost in his lashes. His leg is twisted beneath him, useless. It's too painful to drag himself down, or even move.
The sun turns everything brilliant until there is just a white haze beyond.
Not by fire, but by ice, he thinks. He tries to think of the rest of the poem, but his mind is too hazy.
He doesn't remember much, only barely the path he has taken here, and his footprints slowly being devoured by the winds.
He's been to the springs of Hokkaido, to far off shrines and the lights of Tokyo. Today is his last day of the trip, and perhaps, his life. By the time the sun goes down it will be too cold and only a matter of time before his heart beats backwards, stops.
He wonders if this is what Asphodel feels like. A monochrome, numbed, non-feeling. A pale, wispy single string left to life. He has never done anything so vile as the be banished to Tartarus. It was Dante who exiled the deepest pits of hell to ice, not the Greeks.
In the corner of his eye he notices a splotch of black coming closer. He turns his head, and winces with the effort.
Someone is there, a specter, he thinks. His guide has surely long abandoned him, or returned to find help.
The kimono is white and gauzy, icicles hang from the sleeves. The walks upon the snow with no sound, as if he is floating. His skin is pale, as pale as the snow around him, even ethereally so. His hair is dark, in the way of the Japanese, and in a bowl cut with sharp, flat bangs. The kimono is tied loose enough that he can see his collarbone, his neck.
A fever dream, a snow mirage.
I am dying he thinks.
The specter bends and brushes the sleeve across him. His gaze is unlike anything Herakles has felt. The gaze reflects the esoteric knowledge of centuries, of fallen civilizations and the new lands that came in their stead.
"You're beautiful," the specter murmurs. "So warm...."
Herakles wants to reply you're beautiful too. but his throat is swollen and dry; he can't get a word out. His gaze is hypnotic, enthralling. Herakles can't look away from his dark almond-shaped eyes with all their mystery. There even seems a hint of sadness in their depths. He thinks he would do anything for him, anything he asks. When the specter looks away, the feeling lessens, but the mark of it is still there, like a brand cold under his skin.
The specter bends and for a minute seems to consider kissing him. He tries to part his chapped, frost-covered lips. That simple act is painful.
Instead the specter touches the side of his neck. The feel of the specter's fingers on him fills him with the heat of wanting, and then steals the warmth, like touching metal. It is colder than the snow around him, unimaginably chilling.
"No, much too beautiful," the specter murmurs. "I'll let you survive, but you must never tell anyone about me."
When he wakes it is not the cold, ascetic white of the mountain, but the sterile whiteness of a hospital. His leg is set. He is mostly unharmed by frostbite, save for a mark on his neck which mystifies the doctors.
It resembles the brush of fingers.
*
Years pass. Herakles returns home, of course. He always walks with a limp, but that doesn't affect him much, except when the weather turns cold and he feels like all the heat has been sucked out of his body again.
He keeps his word to the specter. Even if it is only a dream.
He sees the specter in passing, between chronicles and myths turned to metal car skeletons, cities to gossamer plains. Always only in his dreaming state, at his most lucid. Lovers come and lovers pass. He doesn't keep them for long. They come together in the dark and he thinks of cold fingers, cold lips and pale skin.
They ask what happened to your neck?
He answers only that he had an accident while traveling, the same reason he limps.
He is unsatisfied with them, for they are entirely mortal and filled with mortal fallacies. They snort when they laugh, they chew with their mouths open, they ask too much of him. Though in truth, he thinks, these are excuses. They are mortal, not ethereal in pale, inhuman beauty, and they do not touch him in a way that chills him and excites him, stealing all the heat as soon as it is created. They are not a fever dream felt on the edge of death.
Sometimes he thinks he sees ghostly pale white in the distance, in the corner of his eyes, but when he looks, it's just mist.
He is haunted in his dreams, in his waking hours he longs to be haunted, his leg and mark aching with the coming of an approaching storm.
*
Herakles naps in a shady corner outside, several cats snuggled beside him. On a waking moment, he notices the traveler. Asian travelers are commonplace here. He notices this one only because of how much clothing he wears. Long sleeves, and a big floppy hat. It's entirely too hot, and Herakles can only think that he is on the verge of heatstroke.
He closes his eyes again. He opens them some time later to a touch, groggy and disoriented from just waking. The Asian traveler clears his throat.
"Kali....méra," he says in a clumsy attempt at Herakles' native tongue.
"Good afternoon," Herakles says.
"Oh...you speak English...good."
"Do you need directions?" Herakles says.
"I need a guide. Will you be mine?"
Herakles notices that his skin is very pale, and his expression reserved and hinting at sadness. He feels that old foolish heartbeat rising in him.
"Of course, let me simply attend to a few things."
He's taken jobs like this before, of course. His limp is just enough to limit his work so that he takes occasional odd jobs. Herakles doesn't need much to live on, but he takes care of cats. They aren't exactly his, but he feeds them nonetheless, and he doesn't want them getting hungry.
He has a neighbor who has taken care of this before, a few words to her and she will do it – perhaps with a dinar pressed into her hand, for she certainly doesn't do it for free.
When those loose ends are filled, he returns to find the traveler still waiting for him.
"I didn't ask your name," he says.
"Honda Kiku."
"What order is that?" Herakles asks.
"What?"
"I remember when I was traveling there that the surname was important, but I've forgotten whether it was listed first or second."
"Surname first, personal name second," he says.
"I also remember certain things...what should I call you?"
He seems to think on this a moment. He expects 'Honda', but instead the traveler replies "Kiku."
"What do you wish to see?" Herakles asks.
"What does...a typical tourist see?" Kiku asks haltingly.
"The Acropolis, the ruins at Delphi, Athens..."
"Yes, those. If you will take me there, I will be very thankful," Kiku says. He says it in a stilted manner, as if he's been isolated away and has forgotten how to interact with humans.
He ducks his head, looking down.
"You shouldn't wear something so thick...you're going to get heat exhaustion."
He touches Kiku's arm. It's drenched and wet with sweat, and yet no unpleasant order permeates from him. In fact, it does not feel sticky, only wet and cool, like cold water .
"I burn easily," Kiku explains.
He leaves it at that and readies his things.
*
He keeps his word to the specter. Even if it is only a dream.
He sees the specter in passing, between chronicles and myths turned to metal car skeletons, cities to gossamer plains. Always only in his dreaming state, at his most lucid. Lovers come and lovers pass. He doesn't keep them for long. They come together in the dark and he thinks of cold fingers, cold lips and pale skin.
They ask what happened to your neck?
He answers only that he had an accident while traveling, the same reason he limps.
He is unsatisfied with them, for they are entirely mortal and filled with mortal fallacies. They snort when they laugh, they chew with their mouths open, they ask too much of him. Though in truth, he thinks, these are excuses. They are mortal, not ethereal in pale, inhuman beauty, and they do not touch him in a way that chills him and excites him, stealing all the heat as soon as it is created. They are not a fever dream felt on the edge of death.
Sometimes he thinks he sees ghostly pale white in the distance, in the corner of his eyes, but when he looks, it's just mist.
He is haunted in his dreams, in his waking hours he longs to be haunted, his leg and mark aching with the coming of an approaching storm.
*
Herakles naps in a shady corner outside, several cats snuggled beside him. On a waking moment, he notices the traveler. Asian travelers are commonplace here. He notices this one only because of how much clothing he wears. Long sleeves, and a big floppy hat. It's entirely too hot, and Herakles can only think that he is on the verge of heatstroke.
He closes his eyes again. He opens them some time later to a touch, groggy and disoriented from just waking. The Asian traveler clears his throat.
"Kali....méra," he says in a clumsy attempt at Herakles' native tongue.
"Good afternoon," Herakles says.
"Oh...you speak English...good."
"Do you need directions?" Herakles says.
"I need a guide. Will you be mine?"
Herakles notices that his skin is very pale, and his expression reserved and hinting at sadness. He feels that old foolish heartbeat rising in him.
"Of course, let me simply attend to a few things."
He's taken jobs like this before, of course. His limp is just enough to limit his work so that he takes occasional odd jobs. Herakles doesn't need much to live on, but he takes care of cats. They aren't exactly his, but he feeds them nonetheless, and he doesn't want them getting hungry.
He has a neighbor who has taken care of this before, a few words to her and she will do it – perhaps with a dinar pressed into her hand, for she certainly doesn't do it for free.
When those loose ends are filled, he returns to find the traveler still waiting for him.
"I didn't ask your name," he says.
"Honda Kiku."
"What order is that?" Herakles asks.
"What?"
"I remember when I was traveling there that the surname was important, but I've forgotten whether it was listed first or second."
"Surname first, personal name second," he says.
"I also remember certain things...what should I call you?"
He seems to think on this a moment. He expects 'Honda', but instead the traveler replies "Kiku."
"What do you wish to see?" Herakles asks.
"What does...a typical tourist see?" Kiku asks haltingly.
"The Acropolis, the ruins at Delphi, Athens..."
"Yes, those. If you will take me there, I will be very thankful," Kiku says. He says it in a stilted manner, as if he's been isolated away and has forgotten how to interact with humans.
He ducks his head, looking down.
"You shouldn't wear something so thick...you're going to get heat exhaustion."
He touches Kiku's arm. It's drenched and wet with sweat, and yet no unpleasant order permeates from him. In fact, it does not feel sticky, only wet and cool, like cold water .
"I burn easily," Kiku explains.
He leaves it at that and readies his things.
*
Not the original anon who offered to fill. This is just 1 in the morning randomness.
I can't do crack OTL
---
Matthew didn’t want to be up this early on a Saturday morning for work, but, god dammit, if he was going to be here so was his ass of a co-worker. It was currently 7 AM, Rob was half an hour late, and Matthew had had enough. Whipping out his iPhone (which he had saved up for doing overtime), the man quickly punched in the familiar number, too tired and annoyed to flip through his contacts, and pressed ‘call’.
Boy, was he going to give Rob a piece of his mind.
---
Seven in the morning at Alfred’s house was a quiet time. No random nation roamed the halls, yelling at America for something he could not control; Tony was either asleep or in the basement, where he would not disturb the slumbering nation; and no obscenely loud music was blasted through the house.
Except for today.
‘Don’t call my name, don’t call my name. Alejandro. I’m not’cha babe, I’m not’cha babe, Fernan-’
“Shit…” America mumbled. He usually turned his phone off on Friday nights. Nothing was so urgent that it deserved a call before noon on a Saturday. Hauling himself out of bed, the blonde grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and fumbled for his iPhone, ignoring whatever number was on the screen and tapping the ‘talk’ button.
“Hey, this is Matthew and-” Whatever the caller said next was lost to America, he stopped listening after he heard ‘Matthew’.
“Oh hey babe! I didn’t expect you to call this early.” He exclaimed, pulling himself upright and dangling his legs off the edge of the bed. “But I’m totally not mad though. Yanno, cause it’s you. But, man, if Arthur or Francis had called I would have flown across the Atlantic to punch them myself!” A confused ‘What?’ did not stop America from gabbing on.
“So, I was thinking we could go out Thursday night. I have business up in Ontario anyway so…unless you’re busy or something. Which is fine, I mean. As long as you’re not with that bastard Ivan. I’m telling ya’, Matt, he’s not a good guy. Fucking Ruskie.”
“Oh oh oh! I forgot I had something important to tell you! I have this totally awesome new legislation about to go through the Senate. And I like, helped write it and everything—just like the old days! That’s kinda why I wanted to visit you, too. You’d be so proud of me.” America smiled and giggled into the phone, lying down on the bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, however, he shut his eyes and missed what Matthew said back to him. All he heard was yelling and some pretty nasty curses.
“What’s up with the yelling, Mattie? It’s only like, 7:05. Even earlier if you’re not in the same time zone as I am. Tell you what, babe, since you obviously haven’t had your morning tea and pancakes—or whatever you Canadians do—I’ll call you back in a few hours, okay? I’m pretty tired myself, actually, so I’d like to get some more sleep, too. Kay love you bye!”
With that, America hit ‘end’ and placed the phone face down on his nightstand, shedding his glasses and pulling the blankets up again. He loved the man, he really did, but Canadians could just be so weird sometimes. He didn’t dwell on it, however, as he dropped off within minutes.
---
After hearing a ‘click’ on the other end of the line, Matthew pulled the phone away from his ear and just stared at it for a good minute. What the hell had he just heard? This person—definitely not Rob—had just called him not only ‘Mattie’ but ‘babe’?
“What the flying f-” He stopped himself. He was not going to get this angry this early in the morning. He was not. That asshole—or whoever he had just spoken to on the phone—was not worth it. He’d just complain to his boss, that was it. The lazy Rob would get what was coming to him soon enough. Sighing, Matthew turned around and fished the keys to the ice rink out of his pocket, glancing at his phone one more time, as if his co-worker would magically appear from it.
One digit.
One fucking digit.
Matthew gave his phone a good, hard glare for a few seconds before shoving it back into his pocket. Fucking inaccurate touch screen button things.
He decided an early morning skate along with shooting a puck into the walls was a good way to blow off steam.
I can't do crack OTL
---
Matthew didn’t want to be up this early on a Saturday morning for work, but, god dammit, if he was going to be here so was his ass of a co-worker. It was currently 7 AM, Rob was half an hour late, and Matthew had had enough. Whipping out his iPhone (which he had saved up for doing overtime), the man quickly punched in the familiar number, too tired and annoyed to flip through his contacts, and pressed ‘call’.
Boy, was he going to give Rob a piece of his mind.
---
Seven in the morning at Alfred’s house was a quiet time. No random nation roamed the halls, yelling at America for something he could not control; Tony was either asleep or in the basement, where he would not disturb the slumbering nation; and no obscenely loud music was blasted through the house.
Except for today.
‘Don’t call my name, don’t call my name. Alejandro. I’m not’cha babe, I’m not’cha babe, Fernan-’
“Shit…” America mumbled. He usually turned his phone off on Friday nights. Nothing was so urgent that it deserved a call before noon on a Saturday. Hauling himself out of bed, the blonde grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and fumbled for his iPhone, ignoring whatever number was on the screen and tapping the ‘talk’ button.
“Hey, this is Matthew and-” Whatever the caller said next was lost to America, he stopped listening after he heard ‘Matthew’.
“Oh hey babe! I didn’t expect you to call this early.” He exclaimed, pulling himself upright and dangling his legs off the edge of the bed. “But I’m totally not mad though. Yanno, cause it’s you. But, man, if Arthur or Francis had called I would have flown across the Atlantic to punch them myself!” A confused ‘What?’ did not stop America from gabbing on.
“So, I was thinking we could go out Thursday night. I have business up in Ontario anyway so…unless you’re busy or something. Which is fine, I mean. As long as you’re not with that bastard Ivan. I’m telling ya’, Matt, he’s not a good guy. Fucking Ruskie.”
“Oh oh oh! I forgot I had something important to tell you! I have this totally awesome new legislation about to go through the Senate. And I like, helped write it and everything—just like the old days! That’s kinda why I wanted to visit you, too. You’d be so proud of me.” America smiled and giggled into the phone, lying down on the bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, however, he shut his eyes and missed what Matthew said back to him. All he heard was yelling and some pretty nasty curses.
“What’s up with the yelling, Mattie? It’s only like, 7:05. Even earlier if you’re not in the same time zone as I am. Tell you what, babe, since you obviously haven’t had your morning tea and pancakes—or whatever you Canadians do—I’ll call you back in a few hours, okay? I’m pretty tired myself, actually, so I’d like to get some more sleep, too. Kay love you bye!”
With that, America hit ‘end’ and placed the phone face down on his nightstand, shedding his glasses and pulling the blankets up again. He loved the man, he really did, but Canadians could just be so weird sometimes. He didn’t dwell on it, however, as he dropped off within minutes.
---
After hearing a ‘click’ on the other end of the line, Matthew pulled the phone away from his ear and just stared at it for a good minute. What the hell had he just heard? This person—definitely not Rob—had just called him not only ‘Mattie’ but ‘babe’?
“What the flying f-” He stopped himself. He was not going to get this angry this early in the morning. He was not. That asshole—or whoever he had just spoken to on the phone—was not worth it. He’d just complain to his boss, that was it. The lazy Rob would get what was coming to him soon enough. Sighing, Matthew turned around and fished the keys to the ice rink out of his pocket, glancing at his phone one more time, as if his co-worker would magically appear from it.
One digit.
One fucking digit.
Matthew gave his phone a good, hard glare for a few seconds before shoving it back into his pocket. Fucking inaccurate touch screen button things.
He decided an early morning skate along with shooting a puck into the walls was a good way to blow off steam.
Canada glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall. 8:30. 8:30 was a perfectly decent time to call, right? Shoving a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, the northern nation opened the contacts on his phone and selected America—nearly at the top, of course—and hit ‘talk’. Bringing the phone up to his ear, he took another bite of his breakfast.
“Hel-oof, oh shit-What.” Matthew furrowed his brows. Someone was having a bad morning.
“Hey Al, its—”
“Ugh, do I even know you? You don’t sound familiar. Look, it’s only 8:30 in the morning and I. Am. Tired. Goodbye.”
After hearing the other nation hang up Canada only stared forward, a bit shocked, but also a bit not. Placing the phone down on the kitchen table he sighed. Below the table, Kumajirou nudged Canada’s legs with his cold nose, and Canada let him finish his pancakes.
“Fuck it, I’m going back to bed, eh.”
\o/ Suck ending is suck.
Damn Character limits.
“Hel-oof, oh shit-What.” Matthew furrowed his brows. Someone was having a bad morning.
“Hey Al, its—”
“Ugh, do I even know you? You don’t sound familiar. Look, it’s only 8:30 in the morning and I. Am. Tired. Goodbye.”
After hearing the other nation hang up Canada only stared forward, a bit shocked, but also a bit not. Placing the phone down on the kitchen table he sighed. Below the table, Kumajirou nudged Canada’s legs with his cold nose, and Canada let him finish his pancakes.
“Fuck it, I’m going back to bed, eh.”
\o/ Suck ending is suck.
Damn Character limits.
It takes three days, three hot, tension drenched days before the first kiss. It's against ancient pillars that have seen the fall and rise of civilizations. Kiku's skin is cool to the touch, and he can't stop touching him. It's like an addict, a disease as they come together, bones grinding desperate. At night they sleep entwined together, and Kiku's skin is as cold as marble. In the night his breath makes no white gasps; it isn't warm enough.
He straddles Herakles and touches his face, nuzzles tight against him. Frost laces up his skin, mist echos in his breath.
He's beautiful like bare trees and cold winds, like frost on windows. He's beautiful in a stark way that makes Herakles feel like he could be devoured, and if it is, if he is to be swallowed up and left to ice, then so be it.
At least he will have died happy.
*
"Do you have anything to return to?" Herakles asks on the sixteenth day of their trip.
"No....I have nothing," Kiku replies.
So he stays in Herakles arms. The trip becomes irregular. Herakles has only the cats, and he left enough to take care of them. He is not without resources, and something in his mind knew he might not come back.
*
In the hotel room he's ordered, Kiku strips down from his armor of clothes. Between the sheets they lay together, sleepy, sated and still awake.
"Tell me about your world," Kiku says.
And he tells about minuscule things, ordinary things. Kiku is fascinated. He's so naive in ways, so reserved. He's innocent and jaded, a compound of paradoxes woven together.
The overpowering sadness seems to ease when he's near Herakles. He feels drawn to Kiku, as if his wanderlust has been sated. As if all the other lovers are just faint memories before this, final one.
It's crazy, he's known him only a short span of time. But isn't it just as crazy to find a facsimile of the boy of his fever dreams? An ethereal boy with so many mysteries that they are the very fiber of them, that unraveling them means unraveling Kiku himself.
He's enthralled in the deepest sense. As if there was a line between them, pulling them together.
When Kiku looks him in the eyes, he feels like he can never refuse him, never leave him. He kisses the back of his palms and tastes rime.
*
He straddles Herakles and touches his face, nuzzles tight against him. Frost laces up his skin, mist echos in his breath.
He's beautiful like bare trees and cold winds, like frost on windows. He's beautiful in a stark way that makes Herakles feel like he could be devoured, and if it is, if he is to be swallowed up and left to ice, then so be it.
At least he will have died happy.
*
"Do you have anything to return to?" Herakles asks on the sixteenth day of their trip.
"No....I have nothing," Kiku replies.
So he stays in Herakles arms. The trip becomes irregular. Herakles has only the cats, and he left enough to take care of them. He is not without resources, and something in his mind knew he might not come back.
*
In the hotel room he's ordered, Kiku strips down from his armor of clothes. Between the sheets they lay together, sleepy, sated and still awake.
"Tell me about your world," Kiku says.
And he tells about minuscule things, ordinary things. Kiku is fascinated. He's so naive in ways, so reserved. He's innocent and jaded, a compound of paradoxes woven together.
The overpowering sadness seems to ease when he's near Herakles. He feels drawn to Kiku, as if his wanderlust has been sated. As if all the other lovers are just faint memories before this, final one.
It's crazy, he's known him only a short span of time. But isn't it just as crazy to find a facsimile of the boy of his fever dreams? An ethereal boy with so many mysteries that they are the very fiber of them, that unraveling them means unraveling Kiku himself.
He's enthralled in the deepest sense. As if there was a line between them, pulling them together.
When Kiku looks him in the eyes, he feels like he can never refuse him, never leave him. He kisses the back of his palms and tastes rime.
*
PFFFFTTTTT. Alfred, way to go there buddy. I suspect he'll be making up for THAT when he's in Ontario XD Brilliant anon. I love it.
England was drunk, much to Russia’s bemused pleasure. The large nation had slipped only a bit of vodka into the tea as it was steeping simply for the taste and to feed his own addiction. Truthfully, the man’s inability to hold his liquor was as amusing as it was endearing. He had been under the impression that England frequented the pubs within his own borders, so he was entirely unprepared for the loud and tipsy mess the gentleman turned into after the second cup of brew. England hadn’t even seemed to be aware of the extra kick present in the brown liquid.
At first, Russia had been uncertain as to whether or not he should add a little happy to the otherwise droll swill, but then he had remembered America complaining once about how sour England’s temper became once he was fed a little alcohol… And wasn’t that what Russia had brought the former empire here for? He wanted to find England’s triggers and file them away to be pulled later when he was in need of amusement. At the moment, he wanted to see how far into a rage England could push himself when intoxicated.
And if it helped the slender British man open up to Russia’s advances later on, well. He wouldn’t be complaining if that was a result.
The taxi ride to Russia’s home had been enjoyable. Russia had taken thorough pleasure in the stressed and edgy waves radiating off the Englishman’s body as they sat side-by-side in the backseat. England had tried to conceal it by affecting an air of relaxed indifference, but the way he held his shoulders straight and rigid and his legs crossed and unmoving spoke more of nervousness than it did of superior posture.
Russia had taken note, as it was the perfect opening for later on.
Upon arrival, Russia had directed England up the stairs and into the lounge to sit in his very own chair. It was high-backed and cushy; rather throne-like in its construction, really, and quite comfortable to sit in. It was created for the day when the world would eventually become one with Russia. On that day, Russia would – of course – require a throne to symbolize his status as their ‘mother,’ and naturally it would have to be a comfortable place to sit!
But England – oh, yes. England could sit here for just the once while Russia served him tea and syrupy khalva. Russia was truly fascinated by the man and was feeling rather inclined to humor him, wait on him, and serve him just the once. Certainly he’d known him for centuries and had been enchanted by previous harsh comments tossed about by the blonde, but it hadn’t crossed his mind until now how very strange it was that such a feisty personality could dwell within an otherwise frail and drab-looking England.
And England was blossoming under the attention, unfurling his strong and vibrant petals the more Russia catered to his whims. Russia would have liked to think of him as a sunflower, but the poor brute was more of an evening primrose – yellow and green and showing its colors only when least expected, and – ah, wasn’t the British national flower a rose?
How disgustingly fitting.
At first, Russia had been uncertain as to whether or not he should add a little happy to the otherwise droll swill, but then he had remembered America complaining once about how sour England’s temper became once he was fed a little alcohol… And wasn’t that what Russia had brought the former empire here for? He wanted to find England’s triggers and file them away to be pulled later when he was in need of amusement. At the moment, he wanted to see how far into a rage England could push himself when intoxicated.
And if it helped the slender British man open up to Russia’s advances later on, well. He wouldn’t be complaining if that was a result.
The taxi ride to Russia’s home had been enjoyable. Russia had taken thorough pleasure in the stressed and edgy waves radiating off the Englishman’s body as they sat side-by-side in the backseat. England had tried to conceal it by affecting an air of relaxed indifference, but the way he held his shoulders straight and rigid and his legs crossed and unmoving spoke more of nervousness than it did of superior posture.
Russia had taken note, as it was the perfect opening for later on.
Upon arrival, Russia had directed England up the stairs and into the lounge to sit in his very own chair. It was high-backed and cushy; rather throne-like in its construction, really, and quite comfortable to sit in. It was created for the day when the world would eventually become one with Russia. On that day, Russia would – of course – require a throne to symbolize his status as their ‘mother,’ and naturally it would have to be a comfortable place to sit!
But England – oh, yes. England could sit here for just the once while Russia served him tea and syrupy khalva. Russia was truly fascinated by the man and was feeling rather inclined to humor him, wait on him, and serve him just the once. Certainly he’d known him for centuries and had been enchanted by previous harsh comments tossed about by the blonde, but it hadn’t crossed his mind until now how very strange it was that such a feisty personality could dwell within an otherwise frail and drab-looking England.
And England was blossoming under the attention, unfurling his strong and vibrant petals the more Russia catered to his whims. Russia would have liked to think of him as a sunflower, but the poor brute was more of an evening primrose – yellow and green and showing its colors only when least expected, and – ah, wasn’t the British national flower a rose?
How disgustingly fitting.
America’s testimony had proven true. While England accepted Russia’s ‘victory’ in their game – ungracious as it may have been – he was prone more and more to badmouthing the more he imbibed.
“That blasted America,” he was currently saying over the brim of his teacup. “He won’t even take a side in this business with Argentina, and quite frankly if he doesn’t do it soon I fancy I’ll turn him over my knee. As much as I hate to admit it, that damned fool is crucial to our success.”
Fascinating. But not gold.
“Perhaps England worries too much, yes?” he supplied. The teapot clinked against the china of tiny, dainty England-sized teacups as large hands refilled their contents for the fourth time. He’d chosen these cups for a reason, and true to form, they fit perfectly in the island nation’s slim hands. They were sure to look comically miniscule in his own, but it would do no good to worry over such frivolities. That was England’s job today.
“Too much stress will cause you to fray at the edges,” Russia continued, sipping noisily from his own cup. No matter how many he drank, he couldn’t seem to feel that warming numbness that came from drinking his beloved liquor straight. Depressing, he thought, but a necessary compromise if he were to make England feel at home.
England scoffed and set his cup down on its saucer, opposing Russia by disregarding the drink altogether for the first time since arriving. “Oh, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? You’ve been fraying at the edges since your union dissolved, and yet here you are, bold as brass and smiling as you please.”
Well, didn’t that have a bite to it! Rather than feeling upset or angered, though, Russia felt – euphoric. There were the stinging words Russia had been looking for.
“Comrade England is right,” he laughed. “Then again, that means this one also knows how to deal with such things, yes? After all, this one is still here and smiling.”
The look England sent him was dubious at best.
“… Go on,” he urged after a moment of silence. He had clearly been expecting Russia to continue on his own, but when no further explanation was provided, he roused himself to prompt him.
“Ah. Well.”
And now it was Russia’s turn to set down the small china cup and saucer on the table. Perhaps he could persuade England to see things his way.
“That blasted America,” he was currently saying over the brim of his teacup. “He won’t even take a side in this business with Argentina, and quite frankly if he doesn’t do it soon I fancy I’ll turn him over my knee. As much as I hate to admit it, that damned fool is crucial to our success.”
Fascinating. But not gold.
“Perhaps England worries too much, yes?” he supplied. The teapot clinked against the china of tiny, dainty England-sized teacups as large hands refilled their contents for the fourth time. He’d chosen these cups for a reason, and true to form, they fit perfectly in the island nation’s slim hands. They were sure to look comically miniscule in his own, but it would do no good to worry over such frivolities. That was England’s job today.
“Too much stress will cause you to fray at the edges,” Russia continued, sipping noisily from his own cup. No matter how many he drank, he couldn’t seem to feel that warming numbness that came from drinking his beloved liquor straight. Depressing, he thought, but a necessary compromise if he were to make England feel at home.
England scoffed and set his cup down on its saucer, opposing Russia by disregarding the drink altogether for the first time since arriving. “Oh, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? You’ve been fraying at the edges since your union dissolved, and yet here you are, bold as brass and smiling as you please.”
Well, didn’t that have a bite to it! Rather than feeling upset or angered, though, Russia felt – euphoric. There were the stinging words Russia had been looking for.
“Comrade England is right,” he laughed. “Then again, that means this one also knows how to deal with such things, yes? After all, this one is still here and smiling.”
The look England sent him was dubious at best.
“… Go on,” he urged after a moment of silence. He had clearly been expecting Russia to continue on his own, but when no further explanation was provided, he roused himself to prompt him.
“Ah. Well.”
And now it was Russia’s turn to set down the small china cup and saucer on the table. Perhaps he could persuade England to see things his way.
“Lithuania is – ah, how to say – very skilled with hands,” he reported, holding a hand out to England in demonstration. “He is not here, however, as comrade England has so kindly observed. I believe, though, that this one will be more than enough to satisfy you.”
If England had been dubious before, the look he now wore was of scandalized appall.
“You’re as mad as the rest of them,” he said. A furious red was quickly claiming territory on the otherwise fair cheeks, and the hands holding the china shook so that the dishes chinked together intermittently though England looked not at all afraid.
What a curiously delightful reaction.
“A masseuse is surely a common profession, yes?” Russia asked innocently enough. A masseuse indeed. He’d take any excuse at this point to lay hands on that slender form sitting in his chair at that moment. To feel the fire and the unrelenting strength of pride as it burned him and he broke it—
No. He couldn’t break this; something so small and frail and yet home to some otherworldly and bitter scorn deserved admiration and respect. And, oh, how Russia revered that; to be able to show that anger without having it consume and drive its wielder into insanity. Poor England was so very, very tiny, whereas Russia was so very big – and yet Russia, big as he was and with all the room in the world to hold it in, had been steered into madness by his own torments.
Strength.
England had strength enough to protect himself from the siren’s singing. And Russia… did not? What a troublesome thought. No, Russia was the strongest of them all. It was why he was so big, why he overpowered even China and had been one of the world’s largest superpowers – the only superpower to rival the British Empire, even, until after WWII. That had been when that troublesome America came along.
So what was England, then? He wasn’t a superpower still. Then he must be –
Otherworldly, he thought with mounting childish glee. He’s otherworldly. A little angel with a darkened heart, sent to earth to repent.
Sent to me.
And what was it his humans did with their angels?
They worship them.
tbc
If England had been dubious before, the look he now wore was of scandalized appall.
“You’re as mad as the rest of them,” he said. A furious red was quickly claiming territory on the otherwise fair cheeks, and the hands holding the china shook so that the dishes chinked together intermittently though England looked not at all afraid.
What a curiously delightful reaction.
“A masseuse is surely a common profession, yes?” Russia asked innocently enough. A masseuse indeed. He’d take any excuse at this point to lay hands on that slender form sitting in his chair at that moment. To feel the fire and the unrelenting strength of pride as it burned him and he broke it—
No. He couldn’t break this; something so small and frail and yet home to some otherworldly and bitter scorn deserved admiration and respect. And, oh, how Russia revered that; to be able to show that anger without having it consume and drive its wielder into insanity. Poor England was so very, very tiny, whereas Russia was so very big – and yet Russia, big as he was and with all the room in the world to hold it in, had been steered into madness by his own torments.
Strength.
England had strength enough to protect himself from the siren’s singing. And Russia… did not? What a troublesome thought. No, Russia was the strongest of them all. It was why he was so big, why he overpowered even China and had been one of the world’s largest superpowers – the only superpower to rival the British Empire, even, until after WWII. That had been when that troublesome America came along.
So what was England, then? He wasn’t a superpower still. Then he must be –
Otherworldly, he thought with mounting childish glee. He’s otherworldly. A little angel with a darkened heart, sent to earth to repent.
Sent to me.
And what was it his humans did with their angels?
They worship them.
tbc
...I have a feeling they'll all try to get dibs on Alfred now! Maybe Ivan's possessiveness will work out for the better in that aspect unless his into foursomes which I would be I'm wondering is Canada in jail too?? The Baltics?? O.O I'm addicted to this delicious piece of dark deliciousness!
They're two nobodies traveling across Greece, and the countries beyond. Kiku is fascinated by the buildings, he takes endless pictures, much to Herakles amusement.
They see lot of the world when they can pull themselves from the motel rooms, when they can untangle from each other long enough to step into the dark. Herakles turns them nocturnal, for the weather is cooler then, and he does not have to armor himself against the sun. They walk by streetlights, starlight, down the Reine and the Thames. They visit the Louvre barely before closing, when the morning workers are yawning and checking their watches and the night watchmen are coming to duty. They see the Eiffel tower lit up, sparkling proud, rising above the horizon.
Time becomes meaningless to them. A year, an hour, what is the difference, really? Neither has marked it, so much that it seems every watch stopped the day that they met. Kiku always seems to have just enough money to cover their trips. They rarely spend to excess are they are so drunk on each other.
How long is this time? This blissful, captured moment? Two seasons of the year, and no longer.
*
Kiku becomes brittle in heat, as if he might break. His cheeks flush until there is actual color in them, and he grows disoriented. Sweat floods off of him, Herakles is reminded of melting ice, of the perspiration that comes from cold drinks on glasses. Again, it is not sticky, nor does it contain any odor.
It's as if Kiku is fading away right in front of his eyes.
*
He broaches the question one day when they're hiding out in the air. Kiku sallow and skeletal lying on the bed. Herakles can't help himself anymore.
"Have we met before?" Herakles asks.
Kiku stiffens. "I told you never to tell anyone..."
"Tell anyone what?" Herakles lies.
He is not without wiles. He was raised on Odysseus and the tales of ancient Greek gods. He stares back at Kiku, pointed, acknowledging the lie and the not-question between them. The dark expression on Kiku's face fades like storm clouds dissipating.
"No....you have not met Kiku before," he says. He says it pointedly, accenting the Kiku. Herakles knows that it is a razor-thin line that he treads there. He does not ask for more.
"We could move somewhere colder," Herakles says.
"No...my power would grown too strong then and I would kill you," Kiku says. "This keeps me in check."
They skirt around the knowledge of what he is. They do not speak aloud the words. It's always there. He climbs on the covers and kisses Kiku's neck, and doesn't ask anything more than simply another moment, another day, more time.
That's all, just that is what he desires.
*
One day when the heat is unbearable, when summer has taken in its reign, Kiku looks so pale as to be translucent.
"Kiku?" Herakles says, his voice growing desperate
Like Kiku once found him, on the edge of death, he now finds Kiku on the verge of fading away. He remembers what Kiku once told him, long ago when they were tangled together.
"Snow never dies. It merely transforms. It's the same sky, the same water. It always returns."
He brushes Kiku's cheek, his other arm tight around him. His hand goes through to nothingness. Kiku turns into mist, in his arms and rises up until there is nothing left. Moisture stays against his arms where he'd held him, like the remains of a kiss, and drying tears.
He turns over and sleeps a long time, but when he awakes, Kiku is not there.
It is not a dream, no matter how much he wishes it to be.
*
They see lot of the world when they can pull themselves from the motel rooms, when they can untangle from each other long enough to step into the dark. Herakles turns them nocturnal, for the weather is cooler then, and he does not have to armor himself against the sun. They walk by streetlights, starlight, down the Reine and the Thames. They visit the Louvre barely before closing, when the morning workers are yawning and checking their watches and the night watchmen are coming to duty. They see the Eiffel tower lit up, sparkling proud, rising above the horizon.
Time becomes meaningless to them. A year, an hour, what is the difference, really? Neither has marked it, so much that it seems every watch stopped the day that they met. Kiku always seems to have just enough money to cover their trips. They rarely spend to excess are they are so drunk on each other.
How long is this time? This blissful, captured moment? Two seasons of the year, and no longer.
*
Kiku becomes brittle in heat, as if he might break. His cheeks flush until there is actual color in them, and he grows disoriented. Sweat floods off of him, Herakles is reminded of melting ice, of the perspiration that comes from cold drinks on glasses. Again, it is not sticky, nor does it contain any odor.
It's as if Kiku is fading away right in front of his eyes.
*
He broaches the question one day when they're hiding out in the air. Kiku sallow and skeletal lying on the bed. Herakles can't help himself anymore.
"Have we met before?" Herakles asks.
Kiku stiffens. "I told you never to tell anyone..."
"Tell anyone what?" Herakles lies.
He is not without wiles. He was raised on Odysseus and the tales of ancient Greek gods. He stares back at Kiku, pointed, acknowledging the lie and the not-question between them. The dark expression on Kiku's face fades like storm clouds dissipating.
"No....you have not met Kiku before," he says. He says it pointedly, accenting the Kiku. Herakles knows that it is a razor-thin line that he treads there. He does not ask for more.
"We could move somewhere colder," Herakles says.
"No...my power would grown too strong then and I would kill you," Kiku says. "This keeps me in check."
They skirt around the knowledge of what he is. They do not speak aloud the words. It's always there. He climbs on the covers and kisses Kiku's neck, and doesn't ask anything more than simply another moment, another day, more time.
That's all, just that is what he desires.
*
One day when the heat is unbearable, when summer has taken in its reign, Kiku looks so pale as to be translucent.
"Kiku?" Herakles says, his voice growing desperate
Like Kiku once found him, on the edge of death, he now finds Kiku on the verge of fading away. He remembers what Kiku once told him, long ago when they were tangled together.
"Snow never dies. It merely transforms. It's the same sky, the same water. It always returns."
He brushes Kiku's cheek, his other arm tight around him. His hand goes through to nothingness. Kiku turns into mist, in his arms and rises up until there is nothing left. Moisture stays against his arms where he'd held him, like the remains of a kiss, and drying tears.
He turns over and sleeps a long time, but when he awakes, Kiku is not there.
It is not a dream, no matter how much he wishes it to be.
*
*
He travels the world. He seeks out every cold place, every dark cave and cold mountain where frost and snow. He sleeps with other people who he barely remembers the names of because he is human with human needs and human fallacies. Their touches in the dark are too hot, he feels sweaty and barely sated at the end.
Kiku understands, he thinks.
He notices the cracks of the world he has always missed: the flitting of gossamer wings, the cat-like slivers of golden eyes of races that most call myths. He meets others like Kiku Snow-women with the same sort of beauty, yet instead of sadness, there's the fierceness of a howling winter wind in their eyes. They keep their distance from him. He touches the mark and wonders if he has been branded by Kiku, marked with ownership. He feels the cold brand of his fingers under his skin, on his heart. Already he is haunted to never love anyone else.
Penelope waited twenty years for Odysseus' return`, weaving a`her loom with only her wiles to keep her. Orpheus traveled the ends of the earth,and he, he will keep looking. When he closes his eyes he can see it now: Kiku, pale and wearing a crown of flurries, his ever present sadness lifting, the weight gone.
The season will turn back now, it is only a matter of time.
Like Hades from the depths, he waits for the season he loves to return, he seeks it out. When most of the world is holding its breath, waiting for spring again, he waits for winter and the soft fall of snow.
He travels the world. He seeks out every cold place, every dark cave and cold mountain where frost and snow. He sleeps with other people who he barely remembers the names of because he is human with human needs and human fallacies. Their touches in the dark are too hot, he feels sweaty and barely sated at the end.
Kiku understands, he thinks.
He notices the cracks of the world he has always missed: the flitting of gossamer wings, the cat-like slivers of golden eyes of races that most call myths. He meets others like Kiku Snow-women with the same sort of beauty, yet instead of sadness, there's the fierceness of a howling winter wind in their eyes. They keep their distance from him. He touches the mark and wonders if he has been branded by Kiku, marked with ownership. He feels the cold brand of his fingers under his skin, on his heart. Already he is haunted to never love anyone else.
Penelope waited twenty years for Odysseus' return`, weaving a`her loom with only her wiles to keep her. Orpheus traveled the ends of the earth,and he, he will keep looking. When he closes his eyes he can see it now: Kiku, pale and wearing a crown of flurries, his ever present sadness lifting, the weight gone.
The season will turn back now, it is only a matter of time.
Like Hades from the depths, he waits for the season he loves to return, he seeks it out. When most of the world is holding its breath, waiting for spring again, he waits for winter and the soft fall of snow.
asd,knmsaskllk
So. Fucking. Hot.
This is very awesome and well-done so far! I can't wait to see more~. I will stalk the fill list for this, you realize. STALK. EVERY. DAY.
So. Fucking. Hot.
This is very awesome and well-done so far! I can't wait to see more~. I will stalk the fill list for this, you realize. STALK. EVERY. DAY.
AAAAHGH. AAAAAGGHH. OH MY GOD. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AUTHORANON.
Eroguro is very hard to write but you pulled it off so perfectly. I'm shivering in quite a good way. The way you described the cries of pain... ho man I think I just... AGH. have my babies please.
Eroguro is very hard to write but you pulled it off so perfectly. I'm shivering in quite a good way. The way you described the cries of pain... ho man I think I just... AGH. have my babies please.
Pfff. I love you anon.
This is the Author!Anon BTW.
This is the Author!Anon BTW.
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