Warning(s): Slash, strong language, asphyxiation kink, mild sexual situation, hints of orgasm denial
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He grasps at the thick wrists, black spots and white stars dancing in his vision the longer those leather clad hands clamp down around his neck. He needs air, desperately, his lungs burn with too much carbon dioxide and a complete lack of fresh, pure oxygen. His lips gape open, releasing strained, weak little noises from their blue tinted flesh. The purple eyes leer with token lust and violent wanting, smothering him even more with the desire fracturing those rich amethyst orbs.
He doesn't pull at the wrists, doesn't squeeze and try to break the hard bone so those fingers would relinquish their hold on his throat. He wants them there, the warm, soft worn leather rubbing sweet friction against skin bitten and sucked red from the smirking lips above him. Those hands take his control from him, wrench it away so completely that he's left stumbling and tumbling, pushed so off balance that it feels like the world's moorings have been shattered. He craves the helplessness in a world where so many look to him for strength; a shining example of freedom and trust, love and hope. He can't stand to feel that all the time, can't tolerate how they ask so much for guidance. He needs his moments, stolen away and hidden, where someone else is in power.
The heavy weight on his hips shift, grinding downwards and the cold bite of a zipper presses against his naked flesh, his sensitive skin flushed red and the vulnerable organ dripping clear fluid. He tries to swallow, a broken moan rising up in his chest but the band around his neck cuts it off completely. The darkness is creeping in around his eyes, taunting and tempting, luring him into the coolness that would encase him completely and take him away for a little while.
There's enough strength in his body to buck upwards, hips slamming into hips and he can feel an answering hardness trapped in the tight confines of the other's jeans. He wants this just as much, the frigid bastard that plagues him, causes the problems, makes everyone look to him for that loathed guidance he doesn't want to give. He hates him, fiercely, deeply, passionately. But he's the only one that offers relief, sweet release. No one has his strength, there isn't another in the world that can match him blow for blow, taking just as much as is taken away. Only he is allowed this-this complete surrender, when they are not the leaders but are men.
Fabric tickles his bare chest, the end of that pale pink scarf wrapped around his thick neck – his scarred neck. He knows what's hidden under the cherished scarf, has taken hours to map out every raised and sucken line, every divot left by centuries ago battles. He knows how they taste and how they feel, and he wonders if he is the only one to have seen them. Probably. Just like him, only he is given the pleasure, the privilege of seeing the other as something else.
The hands at his neck squeeze even harder, forcibly reminding him of their presence and bringing him back down. His body burns, oh it burns so much. He releases the wrists and lifts his hands up to claw at the chest above him, nails dragging red lines over pale skin. The other hisses in pained pleasure and leans down to fan his free breath over his face. The dark is coming closer, blocking out everything but his face. He should be fighting for his life, fighting to drag in a breath of air but all he can do is try to whimper and arch upwards for more friction. He's hard, so very dearly and achingly hard. For a normal person such a thing would be flagging, interest waning like his breath and his life. But no, it's hard and wet, craving attention that it does not receive.
Tidal waves crash in his ears, echoed by the thumping of his heart that increases with each passing second, louder and louder, faster and faster. He can't see, can't hear, can't breath. But oh, he can feel. The hard chest laid out over his, the answering heart beating a mirror against his breast. Cold lips that whisper arctic air over his face. They touch his mouth, open with a silent scream, and a slick tongue slips inside. A moan, and he knows only because it rumbles along his chest and his mouth.
Too much, not enough, he's so hard, he wants to come, but he needs more. But the blackness is coming over him, drowning him, chocking his more thoroughly than the hands at his neck. Seconds turn to hours turn to days and months.
Then the world stops.
"Wake up now Alfred." The husky voice whispers in his ear, smug and lusty. Ivan smiles and bites the shell, hard, leaving the imprints of his teeth to match the marks splattered all over the long line of Alfred's tanned throat. The skin is bruised by teeth and tongue, and more vividly by fingers. Long, red lines that will fade to bruises by tomorrow band around Alfred's neck, a bright claim of ownership.
Alfred isn't breathing yet, chest still with assumed death. But he cannot die, not like this, never so easily. Their kind do not vanish from the earth with such grace, such simple eloquence. It's a shame that it is so, that Ivan can never feel the life vanish from Alfred's body when the bones of his spine snap into tiny fragments. Alfred is just as immortal as them all, just as hardy and tough. But he isn't tough, issn't robust or strong. He is weak, so very, very weak that it took so little for Ivan to break his mind and form it into something else. It wasn't intentional but the results are greatly appreciated.
When faced with the outside, Ivan sees nothing but a cracked and flawed front that Alfred puts up for everyone else. He smiles, laughs and jokes, crystal eyes sparkling with life. But then he looks away, turns to Ivan and Ivan sees the hate, the revulsion, the weakness that is hidden from everyone but him. Alfred hates the others, hates Ivan. But most of all hates himself, for what he is and what he has to pretend to be. He is a parody, a joke that the others will laugh at and mock while secretly fearing what Alfred can do to them. They don't know what the man – boy – is truly like, only Ivan does. And Ivan thrills in tearing him apart.
Ivan is still agonizingly hard when the first gasp expands Alfred's lungs and forces his chest outwards so much that his ribs appeare beneath the skin. The gasp is quickly followed by a hacking cough, throat bruised and raw from its violent treatment at Ivan's hands. Ivan grins from where he sits still astride the shorter male. How long has passed since Alfred had fallen away from the world? Couldn't be more than 10 minutes.
Alfred raises a hand to rub at the abused flesh of his neck, wincing at the soreness he must feel there. Ivan grins and leans down, lining his broader body over Alfred's, resting his weight on one forearm pressed in the soft mattress next to the honey blond head. The skivvy motel room is dark, curtains drawn and lights turned off since long before they stumbled in grasping at flesh and tearing at clothes. Outside a siren wurrs past, shrieking into the night.
"We are not finished dear sunflower," Ivan coos to to his captive. Alfred levels up at him a venomous glare, hot like the center of a flame. But Ivan does not fear the heat nor the fire. He craves the burn that the miniature sun beneath him ravages him with. He is wary only of the cold that pervades his home, that attacks him every day of every year. He yearns for the hands that are too hot to press blisters into his pale flesh. The very hands the lift up and wind deep into his platinum hair and pull down his head for a kiss that's more teeth and tongue that lips.
Alfred's breath is harsh still, body making up for the minutes that it lacked precious oxygen. Ivan grins into Alfred's mouth and he knows it angers the other because Alfred growls and bite his tongue until Ivan tastes iron. The taste is more arousing than it ever should be and Ivan groans deep, hands gripping tight to Alfred's hips and pinning him as he rocks their hips together. The rough fabric of his jeans hurts Alfred but the other blond just arches up, fighting Ivan's hands and searching for more. Ivan laughs and releases one thoroughly bruised hip to reach between them and pop open the button of his jeans.
"Bastard," is spat into the kiss-that-is-not-a-kiss and Ivan chuckles. He stops the hand before it can slide between their sweat slicked bodies.
"Stay," Ivan orders, speaking to Alfred as if he were a canine. The other growls like one but is obedient while Ivan lets go of the hand. It stays on the bed, fingers twisting in cheap, stained motel sheets. Ivan moves down and finally grasps onto Alfred with gloved hands, squeezing the flesh and earning a whimper of sheer need. A whimper than quickly turns into a sharp gasp and a furious cry when Ivan's fingers touch the band at the base of the organ.
"Fucking pig!" Alfred curses. "Take it off!" Both hands shoot down but Ivan is quicker and grabs the wrists, yanking them above Alfred's head. He gathers them in one palm and holds them there, overpowering Alfred with an ease that shouldn't be there. He shakes his head, smirking still and he knows how much it infuriates the other. White teeth are bared in a snarl as if daring Ivan to take his lips in a kiss again.
Cold fingers stroke and tease hot skin and Alfred bucks up, desperate for more touch. "Please Ivan," he whispers. "Please, god. Fuck, just do it! Fucking tease!"
"Language sunflower," Ivan chides. Alfred snarls and fights the grip, pushing for control, but he doesn't actually want it. He gave it to Ivan, allowed Ivan to rip it apart and scatter it to the wind. He breaks so very easily, so pliantly, like the stem of the very flower Ivan calls him by.
One day, Ivan may very well shatter him irreparably, until nothing is left of him, not his blinding smiles or his emotions that flare and burn as hotly and as quickly as a forest fire. Ivan years for that day, cannot wait to revel in it. The day when Russia destroys the great United States of America, and ruin him of everything that he is.