~ Addiction ~

FallingBreathless

INFO: One-shot, Russia X Reader

Hey, it has been a while. I wrote this like in 3 hours of work. Eeesh. Anyways, I just got a Deviant Art account. The site is pretty amazing. I uploaded some stuff, BUT unfortunately I don't have a scanner...and having a drawing tablet sounds really great at this moment. Lol. Enough of my rambling. Enjoy your love affair with Russia :P

The sunflowers in the vase were wilted and should have been replaced a few days ago: you noted, absently before stabbing your fork at the remaining edibles of dinner on your plate. The taste was lost on you. Food had ceased providing flavor since Thursday. Two entire days that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Even chocolate, your favorite comfort food had become disturbingly unpalatable. Eating had become merely a necessity void of enjoyment: pass lips, chew, chew, swallow.

"We need to talk."

The familiar Russian voice asked without the intonation of a question, and you nearly choke on the orange juice. Half afraid, you glance up, meeting a pair of eyes of shocking violet irises framed by a fringe of silver blond lashes, and your heart guiltily skips a beat.

How long had it been since you had heard his voice?

Soft as a whisper, half sing-a-song with an undertone of darkness, a danger that sends shivers down your entire being. Hope unwittingly begins to take root in your heart. Perhaps, there would be a reprieve from the silence and cold, and perhaps, just maybe, he would listen to you. "I do not like the present situation between us," he continues as he gathers the plates and sets them down in the sink. Leaning against the counter, a distance of less than four steps separate you two. He studies you seriously, no trace of his mask of mirth left in his features.

"Word travels fast da. I have heard part of it from that American bastard," his voice roughens to almost a snarl at the mention of the other and you gulp, mouth going dry, "but I want to hear the truth. Nyet, I need to hear you say it."

There's a period of a silence that follows his words. All you can hear is the deafening screams of sentences, questions, and desperation that formulate in your mind but fall dead upon your tongue. What had he heard? What malicious or misguided lies had fed his ears? The uncertainly sours your mouth. Biting your lower lip, you begin to defend yourself. "I..I, um... It's, it's not what you think," you manage to stutter out.

He remains unmoved by your words, a statue of perfection, frozen. Internally, you berate yourself for being undeniably cliche. Scooting your chair away, with a sound unnaturally loud in the small kitchen, you get up and stand and face him. Taking a steadying breath while staring at the floor tiles, you take a step towards him. "I don't know what you might have heard, but nothing happen. I don't even like Alfred like that," you blurt out, suddenly finding the gift of oration.

"Plus, you know as well as everyone else that the only person that he thinks about recently is Yao. He only asked me to have lunch at McDonald's with him because he knew that if I was there, Yao would be more likely to agree. And when Yao didn't show up, I couldn't simply just leave him in the state he was in. He looked like he had died! Nothing happened! We went to arcade, and then I left him after he had started acting normal again. "I. Didn't. Cheat. On. You." You enunciate each word with emphasis. "I can't believe you even think that!"

When, he finally replied, he simply smiled. It was the small curve of the lips, that he often wore when humoring those who he deemed less intelligently advanced. It was anything other than a sincere expression of happiness. Anger rises from somewhere deep within you. You've had enough dealing with all this relationship drama. "Ivan," you all but grit out, as you advance on him. And for a split second those eyes flicker a hair breadths wider in surprise. "The one I love is YOU!" You shout out, gripping at his clothes.

You want to shake him, but you can't. Giving up, you simply let your hands fall uselessly at your sides in defeat. Tears of frustration leak from your eyes, blurring your vision. And to hide your tears you rest your forehead on Ivan's chest. He lets you cry it out for a minute, letting regain control over your emotions, before resting a large, warm hand lightly on your back. To your surprise he starts rubbing circles on your lower back, as if he were soothing a scared animal.

Unable to bear this inadequate form of kindness, you forcefully push yourself away from him, and out of his reach. Wiping angrily at your remaining tears with a shirt sleeve. Your face heats with shame. You hate the fact that he's so calm while you are so upset. Sniffling, you start turning to go find another place to cry and call your best friend for comfort, but, before you take more than a few steps. Arms stop you. Ivan.
You mumble a feeble protest to no avail. He embraces you closer, tighter, and you can smell the faint scent of sunflowers and vodka from him. Familiar, but now made foreign. You're too afraid to turn around, knowing with certainty that seeing him would be heartbreak. A thousand lashes of agony that will slowly bleed and spread through your soul, festering and scarring. Ivan's lack of response earlier had spoken volumes: the relationship was over, if not officially but in spirit, certainly. A new wave of tears threaten to drown you, but his hand finds your chin. A gloved thumb resting gently on your lower lip, guiding you to face him.

You know the misery you will feel later, the regret that will eat away at your edges, but with acceptance of fatality, you turn. No resistance. Recklessly you chance eternal hell for a brief ephemeral glimpse of heaven. And you seemingly are in a world all to your own, alone with Ivan. Somehow, in this dream of yours, this fantastical impossibility, Ivan's eyes are kind, crinkling slightly in the corners. He smiles, a genuine smile this time. It is slow like the steady rise of the moon, basking you in its glow -not blinding but in a tender intimacy. You blush this time not out of embarrassment but rather out of stimulation. Now, you stand once again in face to face. Deja vu. Wishing this moment could simply last forever, you remain in a daze as his strong arms encircles you, and you are once again pressed to the other's firm chest. Inhaling his scent. With a sudden weight, you realize Ivan has rested his head on your shoulder. It is awkward, but it still feels nice.

Ivan had always been tall, and you have never been given that adjective even as a joke. His light, corn-silk hair brushes against your neck. It tickles, but you are much too distracted by the sensation of his warm, moist breaths that dampen your skin by interval.

"I believe you, my love." His lips brush against your ear, as you gasp out loud into his jacket.

He chuckles in that particular way of his, and you feel the vibrations as they sweep from him to you. In shock, you push against him, and he lets you break away. With disbelief obvious in your expression, you study him as he continues to "kolkolkol" at your expense.

"Pinch me," you order.

He stops laughing and raises an inquisitive brow at you.

"And why would you want me to do that?"

"Cause I'm probably dreaming right now," you reply. A moment later you add, "It's either that or you're playing a cruel, sadistic joke on me."

He chuckles again as he approaches to embrace you yet again, but you instinctively recoil from his advances. "I need to know," you state sternly.
His rare smile turns into a small frown as he lets his arms drop down to his sides. Another fake smile is again plastered on his face, and you clench your teeth.

"What do you think da?" He replies with a childish tilt of the head.

"Damn it," you cuss in response.

You hate it when he plays mind games, which truth be told, he did quite frequently. He loved to toy a lot with the people around him as well as intimidate them. However, he usually didn't do it to you. He didn't when he had first approached you, pursued you, and wooed you. He had been a perfect gentleman. Now, dating and living with him, you have started seeing glimpses of the other side of his nature. The fact that he was messing with you ignites your anger, and the flames continue to grow as Ivan continues to simply beam at you, and your next words are singed with your bitterness.

"Why do you always do that?" You demand. When there is still no verbal response from Ivan, you have had enough. You've reached your limit for the day. "Never mind," you sigh, letting the fire flicker and die out. "Look, maybe we just need to take a break. I can't deal with this. Playing games with my emotions..."

"I love you da." He confesses again, abruptly.

"Why are you always saying that at the worst possible times?" You snap back, although both Ivan and you know perfectly why: your traitorous heart, your skin that flushes, and the way your breath catches. He smiles with understanding, and calls your name, his Russian accent giving your name a rough emphasis. You inhale a breath slowly.

This man still holds sway over your heart. He owns you. And he holds you precious love his hands, a fragile and much too breakable glass artwork. Sometimes you almost wish that he'd just crush it and leave you alone. Almost. It would never come to that. It was like an addiction. An addiction to a person, if that was even possible. But possible or not, there was no hope of you leaving Ivan. You had come to this conclusion months ago, but now it was really sinking in. You laugh at this revelation.

He questions you, but you shake your head, as you let him once again wrap an arm around your waist. You let him kiss you. And you allow him to return to acting like a gentlemen, a lover, a boyfriend. He leaves a trail of kisses on your jawline and down your neck, biting punishingly and then kissing away the pain, and you soon respond in turn. Fierce and fiercer still. His lips move against yours forcefully, hot and wet, as his hands glide and roam your skin. You feel like you're burning alive as each nerve in your body becomes hypersensitive to each touch and kiss. Passion washes over the both of you, as Ivan sweeps you off your feet and carries you up the stairs, reminding you once again of his superb physique that lay under the layers that he always wore. You hardly notice as the two of you fall on the bed together. The rustle of clothes and a scarf lay in a discarded pile. You gaze into those violet eyes and are irreparably lost to the world. He smiles as he studies your sprawled figure.

Night falls, and in this single room in the sea of billions, love and lust wage war.

In the morning, everything has gone back to normal and you and Ivan have made up. The sunlight streaming through from the kitchen window appears overly cheerful to you as you finish a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast that Ivan got up early and prepared just for you. Ivan has even replaced the wilted flowers with a fresh cutting of sunflowers from the backyard garden. You beam across the table at him, as you smile at the thought of him debating on which one to cut. He had an inexplicably strong fondness of them.

Afterwards, without a word, Ivan volunteers to do the dishes. You watch as he rolls up his sleeves and wraps the scarf he always wears tighter around his neck to keep it from getting wet, and you note that his prominent nose gave him a stunning profile to study. He is so sweet sometimes that it warms you to the core. In fact, you feel like your insides are melted caramel. You go over to the stainless steel sink that is now filled with soap suds and offer to help, but he won't let you even touch the dishes. Pouting at this development and feeling useless, you decided to go get the mail.

On your way back to the house, you peruse through the mail. You come to an abrupt to one letter with your name scrawled on in messy letters. It's from Alfred. Nervously, you glance around, and seeing the street deserted, you immediately stop and rip open the letter. You don't want Ivan to know about this just hours after making up. Inside was a handwritten letter, it was a bit hard to read and there were random doodles that decorated the borders. There was even some kind of a stain on the paper. You couldn't help but feel a little weary of touching the unidentifiable substance as well as feel a bit taxed by the other's lack of sanitation. However, that didn't stop you from pouring over the message:

Hey,
I just wanted to tell ya the news. Tonight I got a date with Yao.
Also, FYI. Thanks for last time. Even if Yao didn't show up, it was cool
of you to stick around to cheer me up. Anyways, if ya ever need a hero
you know where to find me.

Tell that Russian creep to stay home next time we hang,
Alfred F. (TheHero) Jones

Overall, the message was unremarkable. However, the last line right before Alfred's signature left you frozen in place, gripping the letter and reading the words again: "Tell that Russian creep to stay home next time we hang." There was no doubt who Alfred was referring to. Ivan was the only Russian in the area. But the implication was unsettling. Since the wording said "next time," then it was saying that the last time you had hung out with Alfred, Ivan had been there.

The last time you'd seen Alfred was at McDonald's.

That was what your argument with Ivan had been about.

Ivan had been there...at McDonald's.

A sinking sensation drops into your stomach as you crumple up Alfred's letter in your hand and start walking faster. By the end you're at a dead sprint, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You slam open the door in your haste to find Ivan.

He is drying the dishes, and turns to you with a smile.

"What has happened?" He asks, curiosity evident in his tone.

You march up to him, and gesture to him to put his hand out. Humoring you, he does that. You drop Alfred's crumpled letter into his open hand.

"Explain," you demand.

You watch as he peels open the letter and give it a quick once over.

"Ah," he says in understanding.

Ivan remains unfazed, and simply lights the stove and burns the letter. You continue to glare at him as the letter is converted to ash. He turns off the stove, and smiles at you. "I was wondering if you would find out."

This was confirmation of your suspicion: he had been playing with you the whole time. You cuss and move to slap him, but he catches your hand in midair and forces it down. Frustrated in your failed attempt, you try to hit him with your other hand, and fail once again. He now has both of your hands gripped by a single one of his. You stomp on his foot with all of your strength and finally manage to succeed. You instantly regret it, even though he didn't even flinch.

You watch with horror, as Ivan's face darkened and his dark, menacing side appeared. His grip on your wrists tightened into a band of metal. With a jolt, he slams you against the table. The vase teeters and then falls and crashes to the floor, sending a spray of water, glass, and sunflower petals all over the kitchen floor. The water pools and chills your bare feet. He is bending you backwards relentlessly. You topple onto the table to avoid being snapped in half, feet dangling off the floor.

Ivan's eyes have lost their sparkle and the enchanting quality that you so admire. They have flattened to harshly to a purple so dark that it was near black. You start shaking in fear, as he continues to stare down at you. Cold sweat begins to form, and your palms become clammy. Then, seeming to like what he saw, Ivan pulls out his metal pipe from his jacket, wielding it it deftly above you. Imminent death. Your blood congeals into ice as you hope he makes your end swift and relatively painful. You close your eyes, clamping your eyelids shut, not wanting to see it through to the end. You had always imagined facing death eye to eye, but now that the time came there was no way you could. You wait for the blow or blows to rain down on your body.

Nothing happens.

Your mind races. You're glad that your parents would still have your younger sibling to take care of and alleviate part of the pain of losing a child, glad that you at least had lived to enjoy some of those carnal pleasure, and even some sick part of you was secretly glad that it was Ivan who was going to kill you. It was better than some random mugger on the streets. Death would hold some value at Ivan's hand. It wouldn't be senseless. You manage to relax a bit thinking like this.

Abruptly, Ivan's hands let go of your wrists. He is going to use a two handed swing and kill you with one hit, you reason. You wait. Then, something unexpected happens, the sound of a heavy metal pipe being set down. You dare to open one eye and peek. Shocked by what you see, you bolt into a sitting position. Ivan had moved away from you, set his pipe on the counter, and was now peering down at you with a serene expression on his face.
"I'm sorry," you apologize as a first instinct, before seeing that his eyes were once again violet and sparkling.

He kolkolkoled in response.

Finally, you come out of your shocked state and start sobbing, bawling even. You are so freaking glad to be alive at the moment. You never realized how much you liked living at that point. Ivan cradles you and whispers soothing sounds, lulling you into silence. Eventually the tears do stop, and Ivan offers you a tissue to blow your nose. Tentatively, you take it. You are sitting in his lap. "I thought you were going to kill me. Why didn't you?" You ask ruefully.

"That's obvious da. I love you."

You scoff at the line, but once again emotion overcomes your senses. Attachment...even, maybe, love.

"Yeah right," you mumble. "Give me another reason."

"Because you are so fun to play with," he supplies, ruffling through your hair affectionately.

"You are so twisted and sick," you mutter.

"Da. I know," he consents amicably.

"You're psychotic, and you have fun at other people's expense," you whisper, turning around to face him.

"Da, you are correct in thinking so,"

This time his smile is an evil smirk. You unhesitatingly cup his face in your hands, your voice barely audible save for the close distance between you two.

"You're a cruel, manipulative, and violent monster, who won't hesitate in killing, maiming or torturing your enemies."

His smile falters for a second, as a rueful look enters his violet eyes. He places his hands over yours, holding your hands against his face.

"Da," he whispers. "I am."

Your hair cascades down creating a curtain, as you lean down towards Ivan.

"You're all that, but...I love you," you murmur as you gently press your lips to his. "And that makes me sick and twisted too, because I know you're bad for me, but I am simply and utterly addicted to you."

His lips lock with yours as his breaths into the kiss, "Da. I know. I am your addiction, and you are my only *liubov."

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*liubov = love