Cuts
Wow I haven't posted any writing in ages OTL
So here, have something!
Title: Cut
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America/Belarus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Unbeta'd PWP, bloodplay, blowjobs
Summary: The warnings say it all.
Words: 1106
America traces the line on his face. It is pink and puckered but mostly healed now. Just around the edges of his lips, it is still reopening painfully, will do for a while, but he doesn’t really mind. Russia stares questioningly from across the room, and America just gives a dreamy smile in his general direction. Yet the smile is not for Russia, it is for someone else, with an ice blue stare and a stoic face.
The twitch of her lips indicates she has seen that smile, and the flush rising to her cheeks reminds America of the fact that she cannot stop thinking about his scar. That beautiful cut that she loves so much.
“Are you sure?”
Her voice is so quiet, yet so loud in this room where they are alone, together. Her hesitation makes America smile a little, and he reaches a hand towards her. Her cheek is so smooth, and the flush on it so delicate he almost wants to grasp the skin to see just how much it flushes.
“Absolutely, doll.” America breathes the words, digging his nails gently into the soft flesh of Belarus’ cheek. The half moons he leaves shine bright against that pale skin, against the gently pink shade of her cheeks.
“Remember. You said yes.” It is her turn to lean forward, shaking her head and his hand away from her, brilliant blonde hair half-shading her face.
America shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the meeting, where Germany is lecturing them all about something or another that America doesn’t really care about, if he is perfectly honest. Canada, to his left, fires a quick, curious glance at him, before scribbling down some more notes. A post-it note appears on America’s sheets- a question about the scar. America tries to remember the last time he saw Canada: well before he got the scar is the best he can come up with. In response he scribbles on the fluorescent paper, one word which makes Canada’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
“Really?” the man mouths to America, who nods slightly in response.
The moment she lays the knife against his skin is filled with tension and America is already half-hard from the anticipation. The sheer concentration and intensity in her eyes makes him blush, heat rising to his face as he tries to control himself. He needs to remain perfectly still.
At first she does not press hard, traces a line on his skin that the knife edge bites softly, blood beading in a straight line. America wants to goad her into pressing harder, doing more, but he knows that it will do him no good. Then a cold, almost furious look overtakes her eyes and she presses harder, enough to drag properly through the flesh. He would cry out with pain if he wasn’t required to be so still- instead he sits and groans when the pain is too much. But he doesn’t signal for her to stop.
She insisted on a safeword- and for this, she insisted on a signal for stop.
“I am not in control like some. England, perhaps, would not need this. I do,” she had said, spreading her fingers apart, palm up, and shrugging. When America had pushed, asked why she wanted, needed it so much- after all, his limits were far from close in their normal sex, and her voice had dropped low. Her eyes had gone cold again, and America started to regret asking. “Your limits- I cannot tell where they are. I will not know until it is too late. Some can see, I cannot. That is why a word, a sign, anything, is important.”
As America daydreams, he almost unconsciously practices the sign he chose to give. A palm down ‘ok’ sign. Her eyes are flashing alertly, and Russia looks curiously between the two. When he opens his mouth to ask, Belarus elbows him hard, and murmurs something. Later America finds out that it had everything to do with gas prices.
England seems to have picked up on something as well, to America’s right. Perhaps it is the solitary ‘Belarus’ written on the reverse of the post-it Canada used earlier, or maybe it’s the way that America traces his pen along the cut and doesn’t come out with ridiculous theories like usual.
Either way, to England, as he narrows his eyes in confusion and with the swell of protectiveness for the younger nation, the boy- not man in his eyes, not yet- seems to have been tamed. Brought to heel by a controlling stalker (oh Belarus has a reputation alright).
The blood spills onto the bed sheets. Belarus sits back, slowly bringing the blade close to her. She is admiring, before setting the blade down with a clatter on the side.
“Put pressure on this,” she tells him in a soft voice, pressing a pad of cotton or something to his face. America complies, keeping blue eyes fixed on blue. Hers are now filled with rare warmth, perhaps a touch of pride and affection mingling with arousal in her eyes.
She slides a hand to America’s erection, which though flagging slightly from pain, is still going strong. With a swift move, she has changed position and is swallowing down America’s cock, wrapping a slightly callused hand round what she can’t fit in her mouth. It doesn’t take long before his hips are wildly twitching and his head has snapped back as he orgasms.
Belarus sits up and looks for the trash can, prepared to spit the semen out, whilst America lays back, breathing hard and still pressing the bloody wad of cotton to his face. When she reappears in his line of vision, she has another pad of cotton and some medical tape.
“Allow me to look.” Her voice is low and gentle, if slightly rough around the edges. When she touches the cut, America flinches but remains still- he can barely move, boneless as he is right now. “It is not deep enough to require stitching.” She confirms more to herself than anyone. “You must not speak for a few days.” Belarus warns as she holds down the pad and starts smoothing the tape over it, sticking the pad to America’s face. America only nods in response.
America leaps out of his seat as soon as the meeting has finished, an eager puppy look on his face, which is marred by the scar. He is out of sight before either Canada or England can talk to him, which disappoints them greatly. Belarus gives them a small smile, uncharacteristic and vaguely chilling, as she slips from the room after him.
So here, have something!
Title: Cut
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America/Belarus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Unbeta'd PWP, bloodplay, blowjobs
Summary: The warnings say it all.
Words: 1106
America traces the line on his face. It is pink and puckered but mostly healed now. Just around the edges of his lips, it is still reopening painfully, will do for a while, but he doesn’t really mind. Russia stares questioningly from across the room, and America just gives a dreamy smile in his general direction. Yet the smile is not for Russia, it is for someone else, with an ice blue stare and a stoic face.
The twitch of her lips indicates she has seen that smile, and the flush rising to her cheeks reminds America of the fact that she cannot stop thinking about his scar. That beautiful cut that she loves so much.
“Are you sure?”
Her voice is so quiet, yet so loud in this room where they are alone, together. Her hesitation makes America smile a little, and he reaches a hand towards her. Her cheek is so smooth, and the flush on it so delicate he almost wants to grasp the skin to see just how much it flushes.
“Absolutely, doll.” America breathes the words, digging his nails gently into the soft flesh of Belarus’ cheek. The half moons he leaves shine bright against that pale skin, against the gently pink shade of her cheeks.
“Remember. You said yes.” It is her turn to lean forward, shaking her head and his hand away from her, brilliant blonde hair half-shading her face.
America shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the meeting, where Germany is lecturing them all about something or another that America doesn’t really care about, if he is perfectly honest. Canada, to his left, fires a quick, curious glance at him, before scribbling down some more notes. A post-it note appears on America’s sheets- a question about the scar. America tries to remember the last time he saw Canada: well before he got the scar is the best he can come up with. In response he scribbles on the fluorescent paper, one word which makes Canada’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
“Really?” the man mouths to America, who nods slightly in response.
The moment she lays the knife against his skin is filled with tension and America is already half-hard from the anticipation. The sheer concentration and intensity in her eyes makes him blush, heat rising to his face as he tries to control himself. He needs to remain perfectly still.
At first she does not press hard, traces a line on his skin that the knife edge bites softly, blood beading in a straight line. America wants to goad her into pressing harder, doing more, but he knows that it will do him no good. Then a cold, almost furious look overtakes her eyes and she presses harder, enough to drag properly through the flesh. He would cry out with pain if he wasn’t required to be so still- instead he sits and groans when the pain is too much. But he doesn’t signal for her to stop.
She insisted on a safeword- and for this, she insisted on a signal for stop.
“I am not in control like some. England, perhaps, would not need this. I do,” she had said, spreading her fingers apart, palm up, and shrugging. When America had pushed, asked why she wanted, needed it so much- after all, his limits were far from close in their normal sex, and her voice had dropped low. Her eyes had gone cold again, and America started to regret asking. “Your limits- I cannot tell where they are. I will not know until it is too late. Some can see, I cannot. That is why a word, a sign, anything, is important.”
As America daydreams, he almost unconsciously practices the sign he chose to give. A palm down ‘ok’ sign. Her eyes are flashing alertly, and Russia looks curiously between the two. When he opens his mouth to ask, Belarus elbows him hard, and murmurs something. Later America finds out that it had everything to do with gas prices.
England seems to have picked up on something as well, to America’s right. Perhaps it is the solitary ‘Belarus’ written on the reverse of the post-it Canada used earlier, or maybe it’s the way that America traces his pen along the cut and doesn’t come out with ridiculous theories like usual.
Either way, to England, as he narrows his eyes in confusion and with the swell of protectiveness for the younger nation, the boy- not man in his eyes, not yet- seems to have been tamed. Brought to heel by a controlling stalker (oh Belarus has a reputation alright).
The blood spills onto the bed sheets. Belarus sits back, slowly bringing the blade close to her. She is admiring, before setting the blade down with a clatter on the side.
“Put pressure on this,” she tells him in a soft voice, pressing a pad of cotton or something to his face. America complies, keeping blue eyes fixed on blue. Hers are now filled with rare warmth, perhaps a touch of pride and affection mingling with arousal in her eyes.
She slides a hand to America’s erection, which though flagging slightly from pain, is still going strong. With a swift move, she has changed position and is swallowing down America’s cock, wrapping a slightly callused hand round what she can’t fit in her mouth. It doesn’t take long before his hips are wildly twitching and his head has snapped back as he orgasms.
Belarus sits up and looks for the trash can, prepared to spit the semen out, whilst America lays back, breathing hard and still pressing the bloody wad of cotton to his face. When she reappears in his line of vision, she has another pad of cotton and some medical tape.
“Allow me to look.” Her voice is low and gentle, if slightly rough around the edges. When she touches the cut, America flinches but remains still- he can barely move, boneless as he is right now. “It is not deep enough to require stitching.” She confirms more to herself than anyone. “You must not speak for a few days.” Belarus warns as she holds down the pad and starts smoothing the tape over it, sticking the pad to America’s face. America only nods in response.
America leaps out of his seat as soon as the meeting has finished, an eager puppy look on his face, which is marred by the scar. He is out of sight before either Canada or England can talk to him, which disappoints them greatly. Belarus gives them a small smile, uncharacteristic and vaguely chilling, as she slips from the room after him.