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Entry tags:
Evil WiP Day: Never You Mind
Title: Never You Mind
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Genre: D/s,
Rating: Adult
Summary: They don't get to play often enough.
Notes: I couldn't help but do a fill for this - the prompt was amazing.
It isn't often they get to play. Not like this, oh rarely like this. Too often they're wrapped up in what means to be a nation; two nations really, the two largest on the planet. Many times their eyes will meet from across the room, over the heads of their current head of state.
One blond head will tilt just so, revealing the strong leather collar he's wearing under his crisp white shirt. "Will you meet me tonight?"
The other blond head will incline slightly to the other side. "Yes."
Too often it never happens. One will be whisked away to handle a crisis here or a problem there - 'Sorry' the text message will say, leaving the other to sigh and sleep alone.
But when they get to play, the play is always worth the wait.
They don't speak. They don't have to anymore, this kind of play has happened over a period of time long enough that words are unneeded anymore. They read each other's bodies well enough.
That scar, that one right there? It's the death of the Tsars.
The one right over his heart? 1812.
There's a scar for the Mongol invasion on his neck.
Over there, on his hands, and just under his mouth, a scar for the deaths of his native population by the Europeans.
Neither one ever felt the need to tell any other nation what they did when they got a few hours to themselves. Why should they? It was their own business and no one else's after all.
Perhaps that's why they get caught.
He's kneeling in front of him, arms tangled in a few feet of tanned hide, hands tied to his collar.
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Genre: D/s,
Rating: Adult
Summary: They don't get to play often enough.
Notes: I couldn't help but do a fill for this - the prompt was amazing.
It isn't often they get to play. Not like this, oh rarely like this. Too often they're wrapped up in what means to be a nation; two nations really, the two largest on the planet. Many times their eyes will meet from across the room, over the heads of their current head of state.
One blond head will tilt just so, revealing the strong leather collar he's wearing under his crisp white shirt. "Will you meet me tonight?"
The other blond head will incline slightly to the other side. "Yes."
Too often it never happens. One will be whisked away to handle a crisis here or a problem there - 'Sorry' the text message will say, leaving the other to sigh and sleep alone.
But when they get to play, the play is always worth the wait.
They don't speak. They don't have to anymore, this kind of play has happened over a period of time long enough that words are unneeded anymore. They read each other's bodies well enough.
That scar, that one right there? It's the death of the Tsars.
The one right over his heart? 1812.
There's a scar for the Mongol invasion on his neck.
Over there, on his hands, and just under his mouth, a scar for the deaths of his native population by the Europeans.
Neither one ever felt the need to tell any other nation what they did when they got a few hours to themselves. Why should they? It was their own business and no one else's after all.
Perhaps that's why they get caught.
He's kneeling in front of him, arms tangled in a few feet of tanned hide, hands tied to his collar.