buyan | I’m trying to suffocate this picture of perfection in my mind

The thing is, this was always in the cards. Russia’s lost count of the amount of times he’s wound up with his hand wrapped tight around Netherlands’ neck. He’s counted bruises, pressed fingertips to outlines while the other nation slept, curled tight, and it -- it was always going to come down to this. He knows it in his bones, knows it in the quick-patter of his pulse against the press of palm to windpipe.

Still. Netherlands’ hand is warm as it settles against the bared column of his throat and Russia sucks in a surprised breath, feels it fill his lungs around the brief curl of panic. But there’s no real pressure to it, not yet, and the look in those eyes is assessing, cautious. Russia can’t help the way he reaches out, trails fingertips over the crook of elbow, along the line of forearm to settle against the turn of wrist, cold as ice but warming slowly. It's a comfort to feel Netherlands' pulse quick against his fingertips.

“You’re good.”

It’s already somewhat breathless, mouth tugging up in a reckless grin. Netherlands knows his fears, knows these issues, and that’s enough for a panic as well. But they’ve become two halves of a coin, separated only by a thin line, and Russia aches for the trust lingering upon the tip of his tongue like honey, cloying and sweet. And Netherlands is warm and steady beneath his fingertips, nestled close as he is. Russia can’t help the way he wants to reach out and drag him closer until the press of their ribs borders on painful. He doesn’t, but he fidgets, fingertips cool where they rest. His eyes are dark, mouth parted to taste the sip of air upon his tongue.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He settles his hand and it's a cautious thing - reaching, feeling, where they fail at it. Eyes searching even as Russia murmurs the okay. He should trust the okay, but sometimes they can't trust themselves. He hovers there instead, warm hand and warm breath across a cold neck, cold lips, cold press of fingertips to his own thundering pulse.

The press only makes him want to breathe it in - warmth, asters and geraniums and yes, sunflowers - he breathes it out instead. Dips his head down and doesn't move his hand and breathes out, out, warm and smoke-scented, presses his mouth, tentatively, across the first scar he comes across.

His hips - his arousal - shift tight and short against Russia's broad thigh below. His mouth stays.

It's dizzying. This isn't the first time they've been so close, because Russia's lost count of how many times they wind up curled together in bed, but it's more trust placed in another being's hands than he's done in a while. He's hyper aware of the fine boned fingers ringing his throat, of the thundering pulse split between them in such a small space.

But he trusts Netherlands, painfully so sometimes, and so Russia tips his head up so he can press his mouth to the pale scars curving along his neck, gathered at the hollow of his throat like latticework. Instead, comes the faintest of touches to the curving lines of his fingers against Netherlands' wrist. Old scars, faded with age and growth -- it tempers his grin into something softer, warmer. All Russia can see is pale hair and pale skin, Netherlands' brow heavy even as he presses close. An impossible ache nestles beneath his ribs, fondness etched into every line of bone.

So he reaches up at traces the line of Netherlands' jaw with the pad of his thumb, hums low in the back of his throat as the warmth of Netherlands' breath sinks into his skin.

Russia's lips meet his skin and his own breath comes out in stutters, hot little staccato things that beat down harder than he can imagine. After all - he knows. Knows what's at stake, what's open to him, here. Breathes it out hot and heavy and it's almost too much, that level of trust. Russia bares his throat - bares his past - like he bares the back of his head, open to whatever might come to it.

Long fingers don't wind their way through his hair, touch his pulse instead, touch their scars, instead. Theirs. Created by them and born by him - Russia hums and touches and Netherlands shudders, thrusts again and really can't help it.

He sucks at the first thick line he comes to, like it'll wipe away what was there before.

They've never been good at talking, never been good at sharing what's between them with little more than half sentences and too searching gazes. It had been enough, really. But there's another layer to that now, and Russia nearly trembles at the feeling of being stripped bare beneath Netherlands' gaze, beneath his mouth.

The cradle of his hand against throat doesn't lift, doesn't change pressure, and it's somehow a comfort to know Netherlands understands so completely.

Still, Russia shudders, instinctively wanting to tip his chin down to hide away, limbs curling in close. But it means so much more, now. Netherlands tastes the lines of scarring, as if he could wipe it all away with a simple press of his mouth to skin, and it almost seems as if he might be perfectly capable of doing so. Russia's heart beats staccato against his ribs, trembling. He doesn't reach up to tangle a hand in Netherlands' hair, doesn't trace scars; almost doesn't dare to do so, not yet. Instead, his hands trace feather-soft down the line of Netherlands' back, pulling him in ever closer against the cradle of his body, hips rocking up to meet the next thrust.

A shudder in return, and he doesn't pull his hand away - just keeps it there, warm, steady, sure, like if he keeps it there for long enough it'll ground the both of them, reassure them that whatever happens no one is leaving. He thumbs at Russia's pulse, pressing once, twice, leaves that there too, taking measure. Breath, heartbeat, tension. The rest of his fingers remain splayed out and solid and light all at once.

The thunder against his tongue is an entirely different thing. It's good, it's alive - he ventures enough to scrape his teeth, not quite a bite, thumb still there to assess where his eyes can't, head buried as it is, crook of his nose in the stray, fine hairs that used to curl up from Russia's nape and now scatter themselves up and across like they might be able to cover up the past themselves.

A part of him wonders -- wishes, really -- if they might pres together until their ribs ached and joined, more one being than two. He wants to keep Netherlands here with him forever, wants to keep him safe and contented behind the arch of rib. Instead, he noses against temple, presses a faint kiss to hairline and takes a moment to breath around the press of palm to throat. The gentled touch eases, fingertips possessive where they press in against the curve of back, against rung of vertebra.

It drags a soft sound from him, muffled behind the layer of teeth as it is, pulse thundering against the pad of Netherlands' thumb. A warm flush is settling upon him, ears and cheeks pinked at the scrape of teeth and warm press of skin to skin. Netherlands can probably feel the way Russia's throat works beneath his palm as he swallows.

The nose, the kiss, they're good, but the feeling of Russia's breath working its way up his palm, that they can do this while he holds his hand down and Russia forces it up and through and that he allows it - and that they both know he's allowing it, they're good - that means more than anything.

Trust, yes - oh, there's trust that neither would like to address, just act it out here and now, and that's bigger - and there's also that small thrill that's a little more. Russia doesn't bow to anyone. Russia doesn't trust anyone, doesn't even trust himself. He'd be a liar if he said that the idea of controlling Russia didn't sing up his spine

but that's minor. So minor. It's there and after this long of them he can't even place the odd sensation, buried so deep he has to wonder where it's coming from, assigns it to that vast category of Too Many Feelings that they never talk about.

Instead, Russia huffs and he wants to make it better. Licks his lips and rocks back upright on his hips with his hand on (a beautiful, beautiful that he is not memorizing every single line of right now excuse you very much) throat, tight but not too tight, pauses there.

"You look... good."

Yeah that's romance, here.

This is a rush, bright and honeyed, nearly painful for the intensity that is forgoing the perpetually strict unbowing line of shoulder and mind. He submits to this and it's not necessarily easy, but it's good. He lets Netherlands press him into the soft yield of the mattress; his weight a warm, familiar force, hand a brand to the delicate skin at his throat.

But still, it makes him gasp with laughter, bright and burbling under the warm press of Netherlands' fingers ringing his throat.

"Oh, do I?"

But the way he looks up at Netherlands, coy beneath the thick curtain of his lashes, means this is a joke. Russia nibbles at his lower lip, teeth a flash of white against the flush of his mouth, and shifts, his hips lifting up, plaintive, inviting.

I’m trying to suffocate this picture of perfection in my mind

random icons forever

always

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject