Russia wakes up to a low rumbling and a woosh-woosh-woosh. The sunlight streams in through large windows, filtered by sheer curtains, simultaneously illuminating the emptiness of the room (devoid of furniture besides for a large, old bed and green carpet and otherwise quite devoid of color) and warming the open space with its light. He blinks blearily, uncharacteristically off-guard. He is lying face down, tangled up in a pale blue comforter, on his bed. His cheek is pressed to the mattress cover, small silk-screened sunflowers sprinkled across a wrinkled off-white field. He has a game to go to, he remembers, and reluctantly sits up, clad only in navy and gray striped boxers, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he searches for his hockey jersey, on hands and needs feeling along the carpet, before realizing that all the clothes (splayed out on the ground like the remnants of some sort of textile battlefield), thrown and forgotten in a frenzy of motion last night, were no longer there. His floor was... clean. A series of thumps and a squeal bring him out of his bafflement.
His eyes narrow as he swings the door open, movements low and quiet, creeping along down the empty hallway, down the stairs, and through the kitchen (as bare and empty as the rest of the house, save his stash of liquid warmth and strength and courage). The thumps grow louder, and he can hear muttering and cursing. He peeks from behind a corner, seeing tan, nicely toned legs dancing back and forth in front of his washing machine. Recognition lit his violet irises, and he releases the tension from his body, standing up and making his way into the small laundry room. "What are you doing, little one?" he asks, bemused.
She pauses, lean arms wrapped around the jostling machine, and turns to look at him, blond hair in a disarray and Texas slipping, precariously perched on the tip of her nose. She, he notes with a sense of testosterone driven possessiveness, is robed only in plain pink cotton underwear and his hockey jersey. She stands up suddenly, positioning herself in front of the loud machine, as if trying to hid it from his view with her body. "I was just doing the laundry," she says, her cheeks tinted pink.
The washing machine emits a couple of low thuds and rocks slightly. He approaches, smiling, so much taller than her, and reaches his arms around her, lifting the lid to the machine; it quickly stills itself. She moves out of his way, embarrassed, as he adjusts clothing, taking this one and moving it there, or pulling that one out and placing it here. "They have to be spread evenly, little one, or else the throws the balance of the machine."
He sets the lid back down, the machine starting up again and running with a steady rumble and a smooth woosh-woosh-woosh. He turns to her, grinning. "You look so good," he murmurs, and then adds, "in my shirt."
One arm warps itself possessively around her waist, the other affectionately pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She grins up at him, and lifts herself up on her toes to press a kiss against his lips, pressing herself closer to him, against his bare chest, through the thin material of the hockey jersey. Her arms settle loosely on his shoulders, around his neck. He can feel her, and he can smell his scent (his, his, only his) on her, mingling with her own (like a prairie after the rain, sweet and fresh and wide open freedom) and it drives him wild. He kisses her in return, lifting her and setting her gently on the cold metal of the washing machine, eliciting a beautiful gasp and a playful grin from her gorgeous lips. She tangles her hands in his silver hair, drawing him up towards her, now that she is higher than him; her golden legs wrap themselves around his waist, hooking behind his back to ensure he cannot leave. He cannot help notice how beautiful she is, her lips parted and swollen, smiling down at him, the rhythmic hustle of the machine providing a most delicious kind of friction between them.
His house, large though it is, is more vacant than not, the only two occupants of the large, mostly unfurnished mansion hidden away in the small laundry room, enjoying each others' company and warmth and love in the willing reprieve of a new morning.
That was really hot for all that it wasn't at all explicit. America seemed a little uncharacteristically quiet, but Ivan would totally be possessive and you did a pretty good job writing in his pov
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Fill
(Anonymous) 2010-10-21 01:47 am (UTC)(link)His eyes narrow as he swings the door open, movements low and quiet, creeping along down the empty hallway, down the stairs, and through the kitchen (as bare and empty as the rest of the house, save his stash of liquid warmth and strength and courage). The thumps grow louder, and he can hear muttering and cursing. He peeks from behind a corner, seeing tan, nicely toned legs dancing back and forth in front of his washing machine. Recognition lit his violet irises, and he releases the tension from his body, standing up and making his way into the small laundry room. "What are you doing, little one?" he asks, bemused.
She pauses, lean arms wrapped around the jostling machine, and turns to look at him, blond hair in a disarray and Texas slipping, precariously perched on the tip of her nose. She, he notes with a sense of testosterone driven possessiveness, is robed only in plain pink cotton underwear and his hockey jersey. She stands up suddenly, positioning herself in front of the loud machine, as if trying to hid it from his view with her body. "I was just doing the laundry," she says, her cheeks tinted pink.
The washing machine emits a couple of low thuds and rocks slightly. He approaches, smiling, so much taller than her, and reaches his arms around her, lifting the lid to the machine; it quickly stills itself. She moves out of his way, embarrassed, as he adjusts clothing, taking this one and moving it there, or pulling that one out and placing it here. "They have to be spread evenly, little one, or else the throws the balance of the machine."
He sets the lid back down, the machine starting up again and running with a steady rumble and a smooth woosh-woosh-woosh. He turns to her, grinning. "You look so good," he murmurs, and then adds, "in my shirt."
One arm warps itself possessively around her waist, the other affectionately pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She grins up at him, and lifts herself up on her toes to press a kiss against his lips, pressing herself closer to him, against his bare chest, through the thin material of the hockey jersey. Her arms settle loosely on his shoulders, around his neck. He can feel her, and he can smell his scent (his, his, only his) on her, mingling with her own (like a prairie after the rain, sweet and fresh and wide open freedom) and it drives him wild. He kisses her in return, lifting her and setting her gently on the cold metal of the washing machine, eliciting a beautiful gasp and a playful grin from her gorgeous lips. She tangles her hands in his silver hair, drawing him up towards her, now that she is higher than him; her golden legs wrap themselves around his waist, hooking behind his back to ensure he cannot leave. He cannot help notice how beautiful she is, her lips parted and swollen, smiling down at him, the rhythmic hustle of the machine providing a most delicious kind of friction between them.
His house, large though it is, is more vacant than not, the only two occupants of the large, mostly unfurnished mansion hidden away in the small laundry room, enjoying each others' company and warmth and love in the willing reprieve of a new morning.
OP :-)
(Anonymous) 2010-10-24 02:01 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill
(Anonymous) 2010-10-24 04:28 am (UTC)(link)America seemed a little uncharacteristically quiet, but Ivan would totally be possessive and you did a pretty good job writing in his pov