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Entry tags:
take me away from time and season;
Summary: fapfapfap
dedicated to my bff orange who is the russia to my belarus
Ivan Braginski--no, brother--shivered in the cool night air. His hands, large as hams and strong as oxen, had turned faintly pink under the constriction of his frayed scarf. He could have easily ripped through the weary threads, but Natalia knew what was precious about brother.
She knew everything about brother.
She knew that he licked his lips nervously as she prowled along the walls, she knew his eyes flickered to the picture of the sunflowers on the wall--the colors dulled by the evening--almost guiltily, as if the act to be performed should no be done in front of his flowers. She knew he was almost spilling from the bed, but she also knew the windows and doors were securely jammed. She knew brother must love her.
He would love her now, at least.
“Brother,” she said, finally sitting down on their bed. The sheets crumpled as she leaned forward.
“Sister,” he said almost stupidly, “What are you doing?”
“Loving brother.” Her hands seemed so small against brother’s white, tightly-composed face. She stroked the side of his head lightly, reassuringly.
“Нет,” he said. “Нет, Нет, Нет, Нет--is not way to love.” He laughed loudly, but nervously. “We will get married, Да? Then--will discuss--with forms--”
She smiled sweetly, and began at his coat, roughly, almost angrily. This place inside her--there was a place inside her, that was so empty and needing. Didn’t brother see? Didn’t brother know? She didn’t need this. She didn’t need his long brown coat tossed on the floor in a crumpled ball, or this bed, or this cold silent room with its blue striped wallpaper.
She just needed his love.
Ivan seemed to have made up his mind about something, because he didn’t move as she worked along his shirt, and with a bit of wrangling behind his back, managed to toss it onto the floor as well. She savored the moment, the sweetness in the air, but also the chill that had crept into her hands so that she could barely feel her own fingers.
As she began to flex her fingers, Ivan suddenly threw himself onto her, and she found himself underneath his mighty mass. If he was big-boned, then the bones must have weighed tons. (His bones were the bricks of his buildings--the small huts built from the poor, to every church in Saint Petersburg, and the strong proud castles of Moscow.) He threw himself onto her, and then suddenly rolled off, and she realized that he was about to run, likely to continue through the walls, plaster still sticking to his straw-colored hair.
But she was also strong with endurance, and she gripped the sides of his arms with her numb fingers, and a fiery strength blazed through her blood so that her muscles became iron. The strength had been unexpected, and even Ivan could not fight back in time as she threw him onto the bed. Her fingers still on his arms, she crawled on top him, though her fragile weight could not trap him forever. Her long hair draped on both sides of his face as she leaned close, her breath coming out in furious short bursts, her body pressed against his futilely.
“Brother,” she said, but this time her voice came out almost meekly instead, to her surprise. There was a high-pitched keel to her voice, almost a plea for--something.
He didn’t move. Though her strength alone could not have held him, there was something in her face that pinned him to the bed, stronger than any iron poles (used to build back the buildings destroyed from the first war, the second war--so many wars.) She twisted her face grotesquely, feeling as if she had been scalded.
“Sister,” he said again, but sadly.
She dove for his neck, his thick gentle neck. Leaving a trail of wet kisses, she began to make her way downwards, descending quickly, feeling his warmth underneath her. She yanked away her black gloves, tossed carelessly to some empty floor space, and began to cradle his head in her small hands. Using her thumb to run along the baseline of his head, she felt his downy hair, the color of straw.
“I have heard you,” she said against his bare chest, lingering on his sharp collar bones. “Becoming one with Estonia.” And here she began to nip, still descending, but biting into his warm chest. He grunted sharply above her.
“Latvia.” Another sharp bite.
His skin was so warm, so warm. She felt so cold, even when her hot breath rolled over his nipple, even as the warm excitement rolled in her body, accumulating in her stomach, even as her hands trailed over his side.
“Lithuania.” The bite, this time, was the sharpest, deep into his nipple, and his yell was the loudest so far. He tried to jerk away from her, but she pressed against him, looking up angrily.
“Sister--”
“Why has brother not become one with me?” She ran her drying tongue down his muscled stomach, his heavy thick muscles because he was brother and he had endured, he had been strong, he had been those walls with his hands. She allowed herself another moment’s reprieve.
He smelled like snow.
“Does brother not love me?” she asked, the only time she had ever meant that question. Because she had seen the look in her brother’s eyes, and it had not been love, but pity.
The silence stretched a little too long. “Belt is little difficult,” he finally said. “Use second clasp.”
She did not move for a moment. And then, angrily, she snapped off the belt, metal crunching under her hand. The cloth of his pants felt rough against her hands as she yanked them down to his knees, and then the red boxers that followed. Her breath came out in uneven sudden puffs, and her hands trembled. She wasn’t well--she knew this, and she didn’t need anyone to tell her. She didn’t listen to them, anyway, only brother, brother--brother--
She took his pink cock into her mouth, and began to run her tongue along the side, though she felt short on breath and her hands trembled. She lingered on the head before she began to move erratically, occasionally even pressing her teeth downwards and scraping off the wetness, even as she heard brother make small grunts above.
Needing stability, she placed her hands on his strong thighs, feeling his muscles ripple and press against her palms. He had strong muscles (the muscles of the workhorses from his time, the cannons and the tanks, and the rifle butts against the soldiers’ hands as they worked as one, all one, all become one).
She extracted herself after he had become half-hard, finding her breath pressed too hard against her lungs. She was about to wipe her mouth with her hand, but stopped and leaned over to his face again, before lunging forward to his lips.
She delivered a quick bite to the bottom of his lip, tasting his delicious blood (the spirit of his people, the revolting, bloody revolution of his children, the Bolshevists and their ideas, the blood of those who lost their lives under the years, the so many years--) and she wondered, as her tongue flicked against the sides of his moist mouth, if he could taste himself, like she could taste him, and she needed any part of him to hold on to--she needed to watch him sleep--to stay behind him--she needed him.
Finally, he grunted, and she drew back slowly, some strands of hair splayed across her face now.
“Should be quick, sister,” he said softly. “Would be nice.” A slight lift of his hip indicated all she needed. She felt another moment’s thrill, a broken thrill, that in the triumphant sight of his straining cock, it was she that he had asked.
Hitching the hem of her dress, she rolled down her underwear until it lay as a soggy mess on one side of the bed. Breathing heavily, she touched the head of his cock, and began to lower herself.
“Careful,” he said. “Will be painful.”
“Will be pain from brother,” she said, “Good pain.” She had a brief glimpse, of a moment, of a sense of déjà vu, that she had endured pain from brother before--but it was forgotten, because she had brother inside her, and she almost gasped from delight. All her senses tingled intimately, and she stroked brother’s hair in her hands, feeling the thickness and thinness alike. There was pain (had she felt pain before?) but she had brother in her!
Brother.
Her hands went out roaming on his body as she raised and lowered herself jaggedly, trying to find a place to adjust herself, but there were too many options. And her hands roamed across the rocky Ural Mountains, plunging her fingers into Lake Baikal and feeling another wet thrill as his tongue licked her fingers, and feeling the frigid snow of the long winters of the tundra, the winters that never ended, and heard the howl of blood-thirsty wolves as they raced through thick forests, and the snow, so much snow, cold against her fingers, until--
She saw a field of sunflowers, their colors brilliant, all turned towards the shining sun on the cloudless blue day.
He had come with a grunt, and now lay there, unmoving, unwilling. She hoisted herself away, finding no steady ground on the rolling bed. She gasped, trying to find her rhythm of breathing again, and only seeing the blue oceans on the wall swim before her eyes.
There was a small sound, and when she looked, she saw that brother had begun to cry. It was quiet, stopped occasionally by a small grunt, but tears still rolled down his cheeks. Now she was the one whose motions seemed stupid, as she used her fingers to wipe away the tears. But it was futile. He did not stop crying, but instead turned away from her hand. She drifted her hand across his hair before she drew back.
She sat on her side of the bed, not touching him. The room was quiet save for his choked sobs, and the shaking of his shoulders made the bed tremble.
She felt broken, and she thought she was--she most definitely was--because she loved brother with a love that was too dark and too ugly to understand, and she was the stupid child who only knew to cling onto tighter and tighter, and perhaps it was Chernobyl, but it was even before that, deeply ingrained in her heart, and she did not know why she loved, or perhaps she did not want to know, blocking parts of her past in protection, but she simply did not know.
She glanced to the painting of the sunflowers hanging on the wall, yellow petals diluted to a sad blue, and wondered briefly how to say “sunflower” in Belarusian.
dedicated to my bff orange who is the russia to my belarus
Ivan Braginski--no, brother--shivered in the cool night air. His hands, large as hams and strong as oxen, had turned faintly pink under the constriction of his frayed scarf. He could have easily ripped through the weary threads, but Natalia knew what was precious about brother.
She knew everything about brother.
She knew that he licked his lips nervously as she prowled along the walls, she knew his eyes flickered to the picture of the sunflowers on the wall--the colors dulled by the evening--almost guiltily, as if the act to be performed should no be done in front of his flowers. She knew he was almost spilling from the bed, but she also knew the windows and doors were securely jammed. She knew brother must love her.
He would love her now, at least.
“Brother,” she said, finally sitting down on their bed. The sheets crumpled as she leaned forward.
“Sister,” he said almost stupidly, “What are you doing?”
“Loving brother.” Her hands seemed so small against brother’s white, tightly-composed face. She stroked the side of his head lightly, reassuringly.
“Нет,” he said. “Нет, Нет, Нет, Нет--is not way to love.” He laughed loudly, but nervously. “We will get married, Да? Then--will discuss--with forms--”
She smiled sweetly, and began at his coat, roughly, almost angrily. This place inside her--there was a place inside her, that was so empty and needing. Didn’t brother see? Didn’t brother know? She didn’t need this. She didn’t need his long brown coat tossed on the floor in a crumpled ball, or this bed, or this cold silent room with its blue striped wallpaper.
She just needed his love.
Ivan seemed to have made up his mind about something, because he didn’t move as she worked along his shirt, and with a bit of wrangling behind his back, managed to toss it onto the floor as well. She savored the moment, the sweetness in the air, but also the chill that had crept into her hands so that she could barely feel her own fingers.
As she began to flex her fingers, Ivan suddenly threw himself onto her, and she found himself underneath his mighty mass. If he was big-boned, then the bones must have weighed tons. (His bones were the bricks of his buildings--the small huts built from the poor, to every church in Saint Petersburg, and the strong proud castles of Moscow.) He threw himself onto her, and then suddenly rolled off, and she realized that he was about to run, likely to continue through the walls, plaster still sticking to his straw-colored hair.
But she was also strong with endurance, and she gripped the sides of his arms with her numb fingers, and a fiery strength blazed through her blood so that her muscles became iron. The strength had been unexpected, and even Ivan could not fight back in time as she threw him onto the bed. Her fingers still on his arms, she crawled on top him, though her fragile weight could not trap him forever. Her long hair draped on both sides of his face as she leaned close, her breath coming out in furious short bursts, her body pressed against his futilely.
“Brother,” she said, but this time her voice came out almost meekly instead, to her surprise. There was a high-pitched keel to her voice, almost a plea for--something.
He didn’t move. Though her strength alone could not have held him, there was something in her face that pinned him to the bed, stronger than any iron poles (used to build back the buildings destroyed from the first war, the second war--so many wars.) She twisted her face grotesquely, feeling as if she had been scalded.
“Sister,” he said again, but sadly.
She dove for his neck, his thick gentle neck. Leaving a trail of wet kisses, she began to make her way downwards, descending quickly, feeling his warmth underneath her. She yanked away her black gloves, tossed carelessly to some empty floor space, and began to cradle his head in her small hands. Using her thumb to run along the baseline of his head, she felt his downy hair, the color of straw.
“I have heard you,” she said against his bare chest, lingering on his sharp collar bones. “Becoming one with Estonia.” And here she began to nip, still descending, but biting into his warm chest. He grunted sharply above her.
“Latvia.” Another sharp bite.
His skin was so warm, so warm. She felt so cold, even when her hot breath rolled over his nipple, even as the warm excitement rolled in her body, accumulating in her stomach, even as her hands trailed over his side.
“Lithuania.” The bite, this time, was the sharpest, deep into his nipple, and his yell was the loudest so far. He tried to jerk away from her, but she pressed against him, looking up angrily.
“Sister--”
“Why has brother not become one with me?” She ran her drying tongue down his muscled stomach, his heavy thick muscles because he was brother and he had endured, he had been strong, he had been those walls with his hands. She allowed herself another moment’s reprieve.
He smelled like snow.
“Does brother not love me?” she asked, the only time she had ever meant that question. Because she had seen the look in her brother’s eyes, and it had not been love, but pity.
The silence stretched a little too long. “Belt is little difficult,” he finally said. “Use second clasp.”
She did not move for a moment. And then, angrily, she snapped off the belt, metal crunching under her hand. The cloth of his pants felt rough against her hands as she yanked them down to his knees, and then the red boxers that followed. Her breath came out in uneven sudden puffs, and her hands trembled. She wasn’t well--she knew this, and she didn’t need anyone to tell her. She didn’t listen to them, anyway, only brother, brother--brother--
She took his pink cock into her mouth, and began to run her tongue along the side, though she felt short on breath and her hands trembled. She lingered on the head before she began to move erratically, occasionally even pressing her teeth downwards and scraping off the wetness, even as she heard brother make small grunts above.
Needing stability, she placed her hands on his strong thighs, feeling his muscles ripple and press against her palms. He had strong muscles (the muscles of the workhorses from his time, the cannons and the tanks, and the rifle butts against the soldiers’ hands as they worked as one, all one, all become one).
She extracted herself after he had become half-hard, finding her breath pressed too hard against her lungs. She was about to wipe her mouth with her hand, but stopped and leaned over to his face again, before lunging forward to his lips.
She delivered a quick bite to the bottom of his lip, tasting his delicious blood (the spirit of his people, the revolting, bloody revolution of his children, the Bolshevists and their ideas, the blood of those who lost their lives under the years, the so many years--) and she wondered, as her tongue flicked against the sides of his moist mouth, if he could taste himself, like she could taste him, and she needed any part of him to hold on to--she needed to watch him sleep--to stay behind him--she needed him.
Finally, he grunted, and she drew back slowly, some strands of hair splayed across her face now.
“Should be quick, sister,” he said softly. “Would be nice.” A slight lift of his hip indicated all she needed. She felt another moment’s thrill, a broken thrill, that in the triumphant sight of his straining cock, it was she that he had asked.
Hitching the hem of her dress, she rolled down her underwear until it lay as a soggy mess on one side of the bed. Breathing heavily, she touched the head of his cock, and began to lower herself.
“Careful,” he said. “Will be painful.”
“Will be pain from brother,” she said, “Good pain.” She had a brief glimpse, of a moment, of a sense of déjà vu, that she had endured pain from brother before--but it was forgotten, because she had brother inside her, and she almost gasped from delight. All her senses tingled intimately, and she stroked brother’s hair in her hands, feeling the thickness and thinness alike. There was pain (had she felt pain before?) but she had brother in her!
Brother.
Her hands went out roaming on his body as she raised and lowered herself jaggedly, trying to find a place to adjust herself, but there were too many options. And her hands roamed across the rocky Ural Mountains, plunging her fingers into Lake Baikal and feeling another wet thrill as his tongue licked her fingers, and feeling the frigid snow of the long winters of the tundra, the winters that never ended, and heard the howl of blood-thirsty wolves as they raced through thick forests, and the snow, so much snow, cold against her fingers, until--
She saw a field of sunflowers, their colors brilliant, all turned towards the shining sun on the cloudless blue day.
He had come with a grunt, and now lay there, unmoving, unwilling. She hoisted herself away, finding no steady ground on the rolling bed. She gasped, trying to find her rhythm of breathing again, and only seeing the blue oceans on the wall swim before her eyes.
There was a small sound, and when she looked, she saw that brother had begun to cry. It was quiet, stopped occasionally by a small grunt, but tears still rolled down his cheeks. Now she was the one whose motions seemed stupid, as she used her fingers to wipe away the tears. But it was futile. He did not stop crying, but instead turned away from her hand. She drifted her hand across his hair before she drew back.
She sat on her side of the bed, not touching him. The room was quiet save for his choked sobs, and the shaking of his shoulders made the bed tremble.
She felt broken, and she thought she was--she most definitely was--because she loved brother with a love that was too dark and too ugly to understand, and she was the stupid child who only knew to cling onto tighter and tighter, and perhaps it was Chernobyl, but it was even before that, deeply ingrained in her heart, and she did not know why she loved, or perhaps she did not want to know, blocking parts of her past in protection, but she simply did not know.
She glanced to the painting of the sunflowers hanging on the wall, yellow petals diluted to a sad blue, and wondered briefly how to say “sunflower” in Belarusian.