Re: Smile! (2/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:02:58 UTC
A sound at the door snapped his attention away from his papers. He blinked at Belarus, who stood panting in the doorway. She was flushed, as though she’d been running, and her sharp eyes scanned the room hungrily.
Finally, her slightly crazed gaze fell on America. Despite his natural calling as a Hero, he found it hard not to fidget nervously when confronted with a look like that.
“Have you seen my brother?” she asked, and her voice, deeper and more womanly than he’d expected, surprised him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her speak before.
“Uh, no,” he replied. “Not since he left with you and everyone else.”
She slumped slightly in what looked like defeat (The defeat of a wolf who’d lost its prey. America tried not wonder what that meant.). A frown tugged at her lips as her eyes slipped off America and to the floor, their previously terrifying aspect fading and becoming simply sad.
America felt something in him stir, something that reminded him You’re the Hero!, and he cleared his throat. “Uh. By the way. We haven’t really met, have we?”
She straightened and looked at him again. Her face showed a sort of quiet, dangerous dislike. “No. But I know you. You’re America. I’ve heard of you.”
The way she said it rubbed him the wrong way. “From Russia?”
“Yes.”
America scowled. “Yeah, we don’t usually see eye-to-eye. But,” he continued haltingly, as if unable to help himself from saying what he was going to say. “But, it’s not my fault. If he would just cooperate more--and, you know, it’s so much easier to deal with nations who are democratic, who know how to do things right...”
Belarus had gone stock-still, and her eyes were wide and dark (and one of them might have been twitching). America paid no mind and continued rambling.
And then he made a very big mistake.
“I think he’s just big and creepy--”
He didn’t even register that Belarus had pulled out a knife until she had actually tackled him out of his chair and attacked him with it.
Smile! (3/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:05:52 UTC
The next few minutes were a blur of furious motion and yells as the pair rolled and brawled across the floor. Belarus fought like an angry cat. A cat who was attempting to cut you open while hissing, “Don’t you dare speak of my beloved brother that way!” It was all America could do to keep some very crucial distance between himself and her knife-wielding hand as she tried to beat the crap out of him with her other limbs.
After much struggle, he eventually managed the wrench the knife away and throw it somewhere, after which Belarus simply pounded and kicked at him. And then he managed to grab her wrists and restrain her. And so their fight calmed down to a glaring contest, with him flat on his back and she straddling him, both panting and very angry.
Only America wasn’t that angry. Kind of peeved, but not really angry.
‘Cause, actually, that had been a pretty good fight.
Belarus hadn’t done much damage--America was known for his endurance and strength, and even her best wouldn’t leave more than a few bruises on him (unless she’d been able to actually land her knife in him--she wasn’t kidding with that thing). In fact, he thought that fight had been almost fun.
And Belarus. She was looming over him, flushed, her skirts bunched and hiked around her white thighs, the rest of her dress fairing little better, and the bow gone from her now wild hair. Her pink mouth hung open slightly, gasping for breath, and now and then her tongue darted out to wet dry lips. She looked a mess. A crazy, hot mess.
Belatedly, America realized he was hard.
She noticed at almost the same instant. It was impossible for her not to, considering how she was sitting on him. Stiffening in surprise, she stared at him with slightly widened eyes, but said nothing.
He attempted an apologetic laugh, and because he was not apologetic by nature, it came out sounding strange. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Sorry.” He let go of her wrists for good measure and prayed she wouldn’t dive for her knife again. “Really sorry.”
She didn’t dive for her knife. In fact, she barely moved. And instead of the disgust and rage America was expecting, her expression turned... curious.
For a few seconds, America didn’t dare even breath. Then Belarus reached down to her boot--
--and pulled out another knife. Why the hell did this crazy bitch carry so many knives to a meeting with allies?!
America brought up his arms, knew he was too late, and prepared for the cold bite of metal against his skin--
But that cold bite barely brushed him, barely kissed his skin with it’s blunt side. And a small ripping sound met his ears.
rip
He blinked.
Belarus was cutting his shirt open.
rip rip rip
“Do you know,” she asked, as idly as if she were discussing the weather, “how sexually frustrating it is, to be constantly rejected by the man you love?”
rip rip riiiiip
America blinked again, swallowed with his suddenly dry throat. “No.”
Done with the now shredded shirt, she reached for the hem of him pants as she replied, “Let me show you.”
And she did. By fucking his brains out.
---
No, that's not the end. More like the end of the prologue.
Smile! (4/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:09:43 UTC
The first time had been so good, that as soon as it was over America knew he wanted to be with Belarus again. He didn’t even mind that she topped. She was rough and demanding in sex in a way that none of his lovers had ever been. And since she wasn’t getting any action anywhere else--not from her brother or any other nation (they were all too terrified to get near her, either because they thought it might incur Russia’s wrath or because she herself scared the living daylights out of them)--she agreed that they might do it again sometime.
But--she explained, as she effortlessly redressed herself in layers of skirts and bow straps--this was a purely physical agreement. Russia was still her only true love. America meant nothing to her.
That was fine with America. He’d had fuck buddies before, and it was nothing new to him. Anyway, he couldn’t imagine taking Belarus on dates. Not when she kept that many weapons hidden about her person.
Then he imagined taking stony-faced Belarus to some romantic-comedy movie, and he had to bite back a laugh. He watched the smooth skin of her back disappear behind silk and frills, still too tired to move from his sprawled position on the floor, and dreamed of her milky white thighs.
Smile! (5/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:11:37 UTC
Over the years, they met when they could. Their sessions together, frequent during the World War, were much further in between afterwards.
America came to conclude that the rough passion of their first time had been mostly due to Belarus’s pent-up frustrations. While sex with her was always amazing (Seriously, how could she twist her hips like that?), it was never quite the same as that first time, when Belarus had put herself into the act completely.
When they screwed, Belarus had the distinct quality of attempting to distance herself from her partner. She’d shut her eyes, apparently focusing inwards, into herself, as she rode him. America would look up at her, watching and guessing at all the little private sensations and pleasure-thoughts that drifted across her lovely face. And he’d have the strange feeling that, although sex was something you undoubtedly did together, the two of them might as well have just sat together and masturbated.
He didn’t complain, though. She’d made it very clear that she only wanted to relieve some stress, and he’d agreed; he didn’t want to seem like a bad sport. Anyway, she felt so damn good.
They didn’t kiss or cuddle, not even in the afterglow. But sometimes, if they were at his house or in a hotel room, they’d talk. America did most of the talking, which didn’t bother him because he always did most of the talking no matter who he was with. It seemed more appropriate with Belarus though; she was naturally more reserved and endured America’s exuberant chatter with a patience to rival Japan. He learned early on, however, not to mention Russia, no matter how annoyed he was with him. Ever.
On one memorable night, they had lied in bed, staring at each other, and America had talked about his people. So many kinds of people, from so many countries. He was so proud of it, despite the tensions and fights it sometimes caused within his population. It was worth it to have so many different ideas and cultures coexisting. His eyes shined when he talked about it.
And Belarus, who was usually so unreadable and distant to him, might have shined back when she murmured, Yes, yes it was wonderful to have different kinds of people around you. Not realizing that, for once, her intense eyes were not looking through him, but were actually on him--America wondered if she was thinking about Russia’s house, clustered full of countries and republics and satellite states.
He didn’t know what to say or even think about that, so he switched the topic to coffee, and how she just had to have real American coffee one day. She countered that he might enjoy kvas.
It was pleasant conversation. And yet.
Belarus never smiled. Despite their purely physical agreement, America sometimes wished she would. He bet she looked damn sexy with a smile.
They fucked a second time that night, after their not-quite-mindless chatter. It was better the second time. The second time, when America looked up, he saw Belarus, rocking against him and looking right back.
Smile! (6/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:13:28 UTC
Another meeting. Ever since becoming a superpower, America’s life seemed to revolve around meetings.
Russia was giving him shit again, and America gave it right back. This whole Iron Curtain thing, which had originally seemed like a bit of an exaggeration on Churchill's part (“Geez, Iggy, you worry too much.”), was actually starting to really bug the hell out of America. It seemed like Russia enjoyed riling him up, and he took the bait every time.
They debated back and forth. America noticed, without much condemnation, how Belarus’s eyes swam with admiration every time her brother spoke.
The debating was slowly but surely escalating into a shouting match between America and Russia (the latter of whom would not stop smiling, which only pissed off America even more), and then other countries started yelling their opinions, and the familiar destination of Total Chaos began coming into view. Germany slammed his fist down on the table to call order.
“Enough, this isn’t even productive anymore! We’ll have an hour recess. Everyone leave, calm down, and be back in this room in sixty minutes.”
The militant attitude made everyone uneasy, which was how Germany preferred it. He punctuated the command with a room-sweeping glare, ruined only by a rather pathetic-looking North Italy hanging off his shoulder and whining. Germany’s efforts to look undeterred by this were, impressively, almost believable.
Despite small mumbles of protest, all the nations obeyed and began gathering up their things and leaving the meeting room. America slumped into his chair, and glared as Russia walked past. The larger country only smiled back, as though he was assured victory in some great game they were playing.
Then he noticed Belarus following behind him, and he hustled out of the room.
America sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing everyone would hurry up and leave so he could sulk by himself. He waited a few minutes for the last footsteps in the hallway to fade away, and he relaxed. Without any real reason, he glanced over his shoulder.
And nearly fell out of his chair in a start when he spotted Belarus standing almost directly behind him.
“Belarus!” he squeaked, trying frantically to recover his heroic cool. He swept his bangs away from his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and cocked a smile at her rather desperately. “Hi.”
She looked unimpressed, but mercifully replied with a polite, “Hello.”
She held two mugs in her hands. America peered at them curiously, recognizing the smell. “What’s that? Coffee?”
“That one’s mine,” she explained. “The other is the kvas I promised you. The kind with carbonated water.”
He looked up at her sharply, surprised. Cheeks slightly pink and frown deepening, she pushed the foreign drink into his hands. “You said you wanted to try it,” she insisted with unnecessary aggression.
“I did,” he agreed, taking the drink. He was smiling, no, beaming at her. Her blush and frown both deepened. “The one with carbonated water? That’s pretty awesome. Kind of like a coke.”
Her lips twitched. His hands around the mug tightened and his heart momentarily expanded.
Belarus sat down and they both drank. America felt his mood lifted, and chattered easily. Until he noticed the way she was staring at him.
Tilting his head so that his smile slanted cheekily, he laughed. “Right here?”
Head held high and voice devoid of shame, she commanded, “Close the door.”
He stood and did so, hands shaking slightly with anticipation. It had been a while since they’d last been together. He clicked the door shut, realized there was no lock, and decided he didn’t care.
Smile! (7/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:22:06 UTC
When he turned back, Belarus was standing on the table in just her boots and underwear, dress discarded on the floor. America sucked in his breath.
She knelt so that they were more or less level when he returned to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled. He planted a quick kiss there, which he immediately covered with a small bite and another kiss. A small hum of pleasure vibrated in her throat, and it intensified when he kneaded her breasts through her bra.
They finished undressing quickly. Expecting their usual quickie routine, America made a move to half-lean-against half-lie-on the table so that she could straddle him. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. His brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”
“No,” she replied, in her confounding, unreadable, sultry voice. Then she commanded: “Stay standing.”
She climbed off the table, and he for the life of him could not figure out what she was up to-- until she knelt down on the floor in front of him and wrapped a soft hand around his cock.
The wheels in his head stuttered. It was a struggle to breathe as he murmured, “You--you don’t have to do that.” She didn’t. She had never done this for him, ever.
Her hand pumped him slowly, almost languidly. She looked up at him, and again, he swore that the corners of her lips twitched upwards, for just a fraction of a second, before smoothing into the usual, quiet mask. “I know.” Then she leaned forward and planted a sucking kiss on his tip, and he nearly fell to his knees right then and there.
America was in heavenly agony, with Belarus’s wet, warm mouth around him, licking and sucking and rubbing. The hand that had been wrapped around his base moved to cup his sac instead, and he groaned. It took all his control not to buck into her mouth in search of more sensation.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his breathing under control. It didn’t help much; as soon as he looked down at her again, his lungs shuddered magnificently at the sight. She was using her free hand to finger herself, and staring right at him. Fuck. He thrust into her mouth helplessly.
This seemed to be the cue she’d been waiting on, and she let America’s member slide from her mouth, punctuated with a vulgar little pop! She was as flushed as he had ever seen her, and there was something very satisfying about that. He would have savored it more if his cock hadn’t been screaming at the loss of attention.
Belarus wasn’t yet so lust-clouded not to know what she was doing--unlike America, who was still hot and yearning and about ready to fall over. So he didn’t think to question her as she stood up, but only thought it was a damn disappointment. And then was seating herself on the edge of the table, then lying back and--the haze in America’s head cleared somewhat.
“Wha--” he cleared his dry throat and tried again, “What are we doing?”
Belarus, spread on the table like some beautiful, erotic cuisine, managed to sound matter-of-fact even through the want lacing her voice. “We’re going to fuck.”
“Like this?” Belarus had never bottomed. America had assumed it was just an unspoken part of their agreement--that they could screw around, so long as she was always in control.
She stared at him as she spread her legs, making him choke on air.
“I want you to fuck me, America.”
He stared for a moment longer, and this time he did savor the sight.
Smile! (8/?)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:23:39 UTC
Then he perceived that Belarus was beginning to glare impatiently, and he ran his hands along her thighs. A whispery sigh of satisfaction escaped her.
She jolted and hissed with surprise when he ducked his head down to plant a kiss on her clit. Then he explored her with his tongue, and he felt a wonderful thrill at the small, strangled sounds he was coaxing out of her.
He inserted a finger into her, found she was already plenty wet, and drew back. He positioned his cock at her entrance and pushed in.
“Mmnnaaah,” she cried, so, so quietly. Her eyes were squeezed shut in concentration, but her hand reached out blindly for contact. He leaned over her, supporting himself with one arm against the table and the other anchored at her hip. Her hand landed his shoulder and stayed there.
They established a rhythm quickly. America lost himself to sensation and motion--in, out, in--and soon had to rest his sweat-dampened forehead against the table, if only so he could spend more energy on thrusting faster, deeper. And now Belarus’s mouth was just beside his ear, and all her desperate, nearly silent little cries and moans blasted like song through his libido.
“Mmm, ah... nn... mmplease.... Alfred...”
He nearly faulted in his rhythm, and his head shot up again to stare at her.
Belarus was smiling. Not the malicious smirk she sometimes gave to enemies, or the manic marry-me grimace she saved for Russia--this was a real, blithe, lust-soaked smile. She was smiling and pumping her hips and squeezing her breast with her free hand and--oh god. And her eyes, hazy as they were with passion, were on America. She was staring at America and she was murmuring--
Some strangled sound--of yearning, or triumph, or joy, he didn’t know--escaped him, and he buried his face in her neck as he thrust into her just as hard and deep as he could. The answering sound she gave was somewhere between a cry of passion and a laugh of delight.
Then her muscles were contracting around him, pulling him in, and he came in a rush that left his vision swimming.
Smile! (9/10)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:25:20 UTC
America’s muscles seemed to breathe a sigh of exhaustion and promptly abandoned him. He slumped against Belarus with a shuddering sigh of his own, resting his head against her breast. In the far corners of his mind, a part of him that still possessed something resembling thoughts hoped she wouldn’t mind. The warm hand that came to rest in his hair was reply enough.
The first real thoughts that came into his mind demanded that he say something. They’d just had fantastic, meaningful sex. If this were one of his movies, now would be the time they stare at each other, admit their undying love for each other, engage in some post-coital kissing and then fade to black.
Well, America didn’t think they exactly had undying love for each other, and you couldn’t fade to black in real life (which was really such a shame; he’d asked Japan if he might do some research into rectifying this), but he was all for post-coital kissing. So he lifted his head to look at Belarus, who still had the tiniest hint of that smile, and--
--the door opened, hinges emitting a loud and unoiled squeeeeeak of alarm.
The pair on the table stiffened and snapped their gazes to the doorway.
America wondered if he were in some sort of parallel universe. First Belarus had smiled at him, and now Russia’s perpetually cheerful face had gone oddly gray and serious.
A prickling, cold feeling snaked down America’s spine as he realized--he was still inside Belarus. You know, still connected. And from Russia’s angle, it was kind of obvious.
Belarus was the first to snap out of whatever horrible spell it was that had frozen time around them. “Brother--”
But the door shut closed, quickly and quietly, and he was gone.
America opened his mouth to say something--but it was drowned out by the air rushing out of his lungs as Belarus kneed him in the gut in her haste to get off the table. He landed on his bum on the floor, and watched in a sort of daze as she disappeared in a whirlwind of clothing.
Ten seconds. It took her ten seconds to get dressed, boots and all. Even if the results looked a little messy and unlaced, it was still pretty impressive. America had always mentally dubbed Belarus a sort of Soviet Ninja.
She was about to rush out the door, when he called, “Wait, Natasha!”
She paused and snapped her glare towards him, hand poised to rip the doorknob from the door in haste. “What?”
He had thought about asking her to smile for him, one last time, so he’d have a good memory of Sex-Happy Belarus in rumpled clothing, to give him strength of spirit when Russia eventually murdered him. But he took one look at her peculiar brand of insanity creeping back into her eyes, and thought better of it.
“Never mind. The awesome sex will have to do.”
Not knowing what the hell he was talking about, she made a face of disgust before slamming the door open and disappearing down the hall, howling, “BROTHER...!”
Smile! (10/10)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:29:05 UTC
Aaand we round off to a nice ten chapters! I feel accomplished.
---
Lithuania’s eyes shifted nervously from Russia, seated and brooding at his personal desk, to his heavily padlocked and reinforced bedroom door. On the other side of that door, something very scary was pounding furiously against the wood and iron, screaming phrases that varied between It didn’t mean anything! I only love you, Brother! and I promise to spiritually purify myself for our marriage! I’ll be a virgin again!
Russia did not respond to any of these entreaties, only continued to stare ominously into some inner-space. Puzzled, Lithuania ventured the question:
“Russia? I don’t mean to pry, but... shouldn’t you be happy that Belarus might have found someone else?” Not that it’s stopped her from continuing to obsess over you, he added mentally.
The Soviet stirred in his seat, and cast a gloomy glare over his shoulder that made Lithuania go rigid. “Why would I be happy about rejection, Toris?”
Lithuania frowned and glanced pointedly at the straining door. He had been unaware that rejection looked like that. In any case, it seemed to him that Belarus was more than willing to un-reject Russia quite immediately. So what was the large country talking about...?
Russia turned back to his desk, and muttered in his rare, sincere voice. “Truly, I thought America knew how I felt about him.”
What?
...Oh.
Lithuania blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and slapped a palm to his forehead. Oh, to live in a world where things made sense.
Meanwhile, oblivious to Lithuania’s mental epiphany and subsequent disillusionment, Russia muttered darkly to himself. “Well, it’s just a minor setback, da? I will try harder now. America will see the strength and reach of Soviet Russia, and then he will not refuse becoming one with us. What do you think he will say to missiles in Cuba?”
Outside the room, Belarus continued to wage a righteous war against the fast-weakening door, and swear at the top of her lungs that her only goal in life was to marry her perfect brother.
But she was getting kind of tired. Maybe she’d take a break, grab a cup of strong American coffee, and come back. Why not?
Re: Smile! (10/10)
anonymous
August 13 2009, 21:32:13 UTC
Russia.
OH RUSSIA.
I've been frantically f5ing this since part1 popped out and oh god was it worth it. The buildup between America and Belarus seemed so ...plausible! The sex was hot!
AND RUSSIA!
oihfsoihfosihfsohfdsoih that line.
This could be the most epic and dysfunctional and disturbing love triangle ever.
Finally, her slightly crazed gaze fell on America. Despite his natural calling as a Hero, he found it hard not to fidget nervously when confronted with a look like that.
“Have you seen my brother?” she asked, and her voice, deeper and more womanly than he’d expected, surprised him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her speak before.
“Uh, no,” he replied. “Not since he left with you and everyone else.”
She slumped slightly in what looked like defeat (The defeat of a wolf who’d lost its prey. America tried not wonder what that meant.). A frown tugged at her lips as her eyes slipped off America and to the floor, their previously terrifying aspect fading and becoming simply sad.
America felt something in him stir, something that reminded him You’re the Hero!, and he cleared his throat. “Uh. By the way. We haven’t really met, have we?”
She straightened and looked at him again. Her face showed a sort of quiet, dangerous dislike. “No. But I know you. You’re America. I’ve heard of you.”
The way she said it rubbed him the wrong way. “From Russia?”
“Yes.”
America scowled. “Yeah, we don’t usually see eye-to-eye. But,” he continued haltingly, as if unable to help himself from saying what he was going to say. “But, it’s not my fault. If he would just cooperate more--and, you know, it’s so much easier to deal with nations who are democratic, who know how to do things right...”
Belarus had gone stock-still, and her eyes were wide and dark (and one of them might have been twitching). America paid no mind and continued rambling.
And then he made a very big mistake.
“I think he’s just big and creepy--”
He didn’t even register that Belarus had pulled out a knife until she had actually tackled him out of his chair and attacked him with it.
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After much struggle, he eventually managed the wrench the knife away and throw it somewhere, after which Belarus simply pounded and kicked at him. And then he managed to grab her wrists and restrain her. And so their fight calmed down to a glaring contest, with him flat on his back and she straddling him, both panting and very angry.
Only America wasn’t that angry. Kind of peeved, but not really angry.
‘Cause, actually, that had been a pretty good fight.
Belarus hadn’t done much damage--America was known for his endurance and strength, and even her best wouldn’t leave more than a few bruises on him (unless she’d been able to actually land her knife in him--she wasn’t kidding with that thing). In fact, he thought that fight had been almost fun.
And Belarus. She was looming over him, flushed, her skirts bunched and hiked around her white thighs, the rest of her dress fairing little better, and the bow gone from her now wild hair. Her pink mouth hung open slightly, gasping for breath, and now and then her tongue darted out to wet dry lips. She looked a mess. A crazy, hot mess.
Belatedly, America realized he was hard.
She noticed at almost the same instant. It was impossible for her not to, considering how she was sitting on him. Stiffening in surprise, she stared at him with slightly widened eyes, but said nothing.
He attempted an apologetic laugh, and because he was not apologetic by nature, it came out sounding strange. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Sorry.” He let go of her wrists for good measure and prayed she wouldn’t dive for her knife again. “Really sorry.”
She didn’t dive for her knife. In fact, she barely moved. And instead of the disgust and rage America was expecting, her expression turned... curious.
For a few seconds, America didn’t dare even breath. Then Belarus reached down to her boot--
--and pulled out another knife. Why the hell did this crazy bitch carry so many knives to a meeting with allies?!
America brought up his arms, knew he was too late, and prepared for the cold bite of metal against his skin--
But that cold bite barely brushed him, barely kissed his skin with it’s blunt side. And a small ripping sound met his ears.
rip
He blinked.
Belarus was cutting his shirt open.
rip rip rip
“Do you know,” she asked, as idly as if she were discussing the weather, “how sexually frustrating it is, to be constantly rejected by the man you love?”
rip rip riiiiip
America blinked again, swallowed with his suddenly dry throat. “No.”
Done with the now shredded shirt, she reached for the hem of him pants as she replied, “Let me show you.”
And she did. By fucking his brains out.
---
No, that's not the end. More like the end of the prologue.
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But--she explained, as she effortlessly redressed herself in layers of skirts and bow straps--this was a purely physical agreement. Russia was still her only true love. America meant nothing to her.
That was fine with America. He’d had fuck buddies before, and it was nothing new to him. Anyway, he couldn’t imagine taking Belarus on dates. Not when she kept that many weapons hidden about her person.
Then he imagined taking stony-faced Belarus to some romantic-comedy movie, and he had to bite back a laugh. He watched the smooth skin of her back disappear behind silk and frills, still too tired to move from his sprawled position on the floor, and dreamed of her milky white thighs.
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America came to conclude that the rough passion of their first time had been mostly due to Belarus’s pent-up frustrations. While sex with her was always amazing (Seriously, how could she twist her hips like that?), it was never quite the same as that first time, when Belarus had put herself into the act completely.
When they screwed, Belarus had the distinct quality of attempting to distance herself from her partner. She’d shut her eyes, apparently focusing inwards, into herself, as she rode him. America would look up at her, watching and guessing at all the little private sensations and pleasure-thoughts that drifted across her lovely face. And he’d have the strange feeling that, although sex was something you undoubtedly did together, the two of them might as well have just sat together and masturbated.
He didn’t complain, though. She’d made it very clear that she only wanted to relieve some stress, and he’d agreed; he didn’t want to seem like a bad sport. Anyway, she felt so damn good.
They didn’t kiss or cuddle, not even in the afterglow. But sometimes, if they were at his house or in a hotel room, they’d talk. America did most of the talking, which didn’t bother him because he always did most of the talking no matter who he was with. It seemed more appropriate with Belarus though; she was naturally more reserved and endured America’s exuberant chatter with a patience to rival Japan. He learned early on, however, not to mention Russia, no matter how annoyed he was with him. Ever.
On one memorable night, they had lied in bed, staring at each other, and America had talked about his people. So many kinds of people, from so many countries. He was so proud of it, despite the tensions and fights it sometimes caused within his population. It was worth it to have so many different ideas and cultures coexisting. His eyes shined when he talked about it.
And Belarus, who was usually so unreadable and distant to him, might have shined back when she murmured, Yes, yes it was wonderful to have different kinds of people around you. Not realizing that, for once, her intense eyes were not looking through him, but were actually on him--America wondered if she was thinking about Russia’s house, clustered full of countries and republics and satellite states.
He didn’t know what to say or even think about that, so he switched the topic to coffee, and how she just had to have real American coffee one day. She countered that he might enjoy kvas.
It was pleasant conversation. And yet.
Belarus never smiled. Despite their purely physical agreement, America sometimes wished she would. He bet she looked damn sexy with a smile.
They fucked a second time that night, after their not-quite-mindless chatter. It was better the second time. The second time, when America looked up, he saw Belarus, rocking against him and looking right back.
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Russia was giving him shit again, and America gave it right back. This whole Iron Curtain thing, which had originally seemed like a bit of an exaggeration on Churchill's part (“Geez, Iggy, you worry too much.”), was actually starting to really bug the hell out of America. It seemed like Russia enjoyed riling him up, and he took the bait every time.
They debated back and forth. America noticed, without much condemnation, how Belarus’s eyes swam with admiration every time her brother spoke.
The debating was slowly but surely escalating into a shouting match between America and Russia (the latter of whom would not stop smiling, which only pissed off America even more), and then other countries started yelling their opinions, and the familiar destination of Total Chaos began coming into view. Germany slammed his fist down on the table to call order.
“Enough, this isn’t even productive anymore! We’ll have an hour recess. Everyone leave, calm down, and be back in this room in sixty minutes.”
The militant attitude made everyone uneasy, which was how Germany preferred it. He punctuated the command with a room-sweeping glare, ruined only by a rather pathetic-looking North Italy hanging off his shoulder and whining. Germany’s efforts to look undeterred by this were, impressively, almost believable.
Despite small mumbles of protest, all the nations obeyed and began gathering up their things and leaving the meeting room. America slumped into his chair, and glared as Russia walked past. The larger country only smiled back, as though he was assured victory in some great game they were playing.
Then he noticed Belarus following behind him, and he hustled out of the room.
America sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing everyone would hurry up and leave so he could sulk by himself. He waited a few minutes for the last footsteps in the hallway to fade away, and he relaxed. Without any real reason, he glanced over his shoulder.
And nearly fell out of his chair in a start when he spotted Belarus standing almost directly behind him.
“Belarus!” he squeaked, trying frantically to recover his heroic cool. He swept his bangs away from his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and cocked a smile at her rather desperately. “Hi.”
She looked unimpressed, but mercifully replied with a polite, “Hello.”
She held two mugs in her hands. America peered at them curiously, recognizing the smell. “What’s that? Coffee?”
“That one’s mine,” she explained. “The other is the kvas I promised you. The kind with carbonated water.”
He looked up at her sharply, surprised. Cheeks slightly pink and frown deepening, she pushed the foreign drink into his hands. “You said you wanted to try it,” she insisted with unnecessary aggression.
“I did,” he agreed, taking the drink. He was smiling, no, beaming at her. Her blush and frown both deepened. “The one with carbonated water? That’s pretty awesome. Kind of like a coke.”
Her lips twitched. His hands around the mug tightened and his heart momentarily expanded.
Belarus sat down and they both drank. America felt his mood lifted, and chattered easily. Until he noticed the way she was staring at him.
Tilting his head so that his smile slanted cheekily, he laughed. “Right here?”
Head held high and voice devoid of shame, she commanded, “Close the door.”
He stood and did so, hands shaking slightly with anticipation. It had been a while since they’d last been together. He clicked the door shut, realized there was no lock, and decided he didn’t care.
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She knelt so that they were more or less level when he returned to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled. He planted a quick kiss there, which he immediately covered with a small bite and another kiss. A small hum of pleasure vibrated in her throat, and it intensified when he kneaded her breasts through her bra.
They finished undressing quickly. Expecting their usual quickie routine, America made a move to half-lean-against half-lie-on the table so that she could straddle him. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. His brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”
“No,” she replied, in her confounding, unreadable, sultry voice. Then she commanded: “Stay standing.”
She climbed off the table, and he for the life of him could not figure out what she was up to-- until she knelt down on the floor in front of him and wrapped a soft hand around his cock.
The wheels in his head stuttered. It was a struggle to breathe as he murmured, “You--you don’t have to do that.” She didn’t. She had never done this for him, ever.
Her hand pumped him slowly, almost languidly. She looked up at him, and again, he swore that the corners of her lips twitched upwards, for just a fraction of a second, before smoothing into the usual, quiet mask. “I know.” Then she leaned forward and planted a sucking kiss on his tip, and he nearly fell to his knees right then and there.
America was in heavenly agony, with Belarus’s wet, warm mouth around him, licking and sucking and rubbing. The hand that had been wrapped around his base moved to cup his sac instead, and he groaned. It took all his control not to buck into her mouth in search of more sensation.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his breathing under control. It didn’t help much; as soon as he looked down at her again, his lungs shuddered magnificently at the sight. She was using her free hand to finger herself, and staring right at him. Fuck. He thrust into her mouth helplessly.
This seemed to be the cue she’d been waiting on, and she let America’s member slide from her mouth, punctuated with a vulgar little pop! She was as flushed as he had ever seen her, and there was something very satisfying about that. He would have savored it more if his cock hadn’t been screaming at the loss of attention.
Belarus wasn’t yet so lust-clouded not to know what she was doing--unlike America, who was still hot and yearning and about ready to fall over. So he didn’t think to question her as she stood up, but only thought it was a damn disappointment. And then was seating herself on the edge of the table, then lying back and--the haze in America’s head cleared somewhat.
“Wha--” he cleared his dry throat and tried again, “What are we doing?”
Belarus, spread on the table like some beautiful, erotic cuisine, managed to sound matter-of-fact even through the want lacing her voice. “We’re going to fuck.”
“Like this?” Belarus had never bottomed. America had assumed it was just an unspoken part of their agreement--that they could screw around, so long as she was always in control.
She stared at him as she spread her legs, making him choke on air.
“I want you to fuck me, America.”
He stared for a moment longer, and this time he did savor the sight.
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She jolted and hissed with surprise when he ducked his head down to plant a kiss on her clit. Then he explored her with his tongue, and he felt a wonderful thrill at the small, strangled sounds he was coaxing out of her.
He inserted a finger into her, found she was already plenty wet, and drew back. He positioned his cock at her entrance and pushed in.
“Mmnnaaah,” she cried, so, so quietly. Her eyes were squeezed shut in concentration, but her hand reached out blindly for contact. He leaned over her, supporting himself with one arm against the table and the other anchored at her hip. Her hand landed his shoulder and stayed there.
They established a rhythm quickly. America lost himself to sensation and motion--in, out, in--and soon had to rest his sweat-dampened forehead against the table, if only so he could spend more energy on thrusting faster, deeper. And now Belarus’s mouth was just beside his ear, and all her desperate, nearly silent little cries and moans blasted like song through his libido.
“Mmm, ah... nn... mmplease.... Alfred...”
He nearly faulted in his rhythm, and his head shot up again to stare at her.
Belarus was smiling. Not the malicious smirk she sometimes gave to enemies, or the manic marry-me grimace she saved for Russia--this was a real, blithe, lust-soaked smile. She was smiling and pumping her hips and squeezing her breast with her free hand and--oh god. And her eyes, hazy as they were with passion, were on America. She was staring at America and she was murmuring--
“Please, ah, yes, fuck me, Alfred, Alfred, please...”
Some strangled sound--of yearning, or triumph, or joy, he didn’t know--escaped him, and he buried his face in her neck as he thrust into her just as hard and deep as he could. The answering sound she gave was somewhere between a cry of passion and a laugh of delight.
Then her muscles were contracting around him, pulling him in, and he came in a rush that left his vision swimming.
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The first real thoughts that came into his mind demanded that he say something. They’d just had fantastic, meaningful sex. If this were one of his movies, now would be the time they stare at each other, admit their undying love for each other, engage in some post-coital kissing and then fade to black.
Well, America didn’t think they exactly had undying love for each other, and you couldn’t fade to black in real life (which was really such a shame; he’d asked Japan if he might do some research into rectifying this), but he was all for post-coital kissing. So he lifted his head to look at Belarus, who still had the tiniest hint of that smile, and--
--the door opened, hinges emitting a loud and unoiled squeeeeeak of alarm.
The pair on the table stiffened and snapped their gazes to the doorway.
America wondered if he were in some sort of parallel universe. First Belarus had smiled at him, and now Russia’s perpetually cheerful face had gone oddly gray and serious.
A prickling, cold feeling snaked down America’s spine as he realized--he was still inside Belarus. You know, still connected. And from Russia’s angle, it was kind of obvious.
Belarus was the first to snap out of whatever horrible spell it was that had frozen time around them. “Brother--”
But the door shut closed, quickly and quietly, and he was gone.
America opened his mouth to say something--but it was drowned out by the air rushing out of his lungs as Belarus kneed him in the gut in her haste to get off the table. He landed on his bum on the floor, and watched in a sort of daze as she disappeared in a whirlwind of clothing.
Ten seconds. It took her ten seconds to get dressed, boots and all. Even if the results looked a little messy and unlaced, it was still pretty impressive. America had always mentally dubbed Belarus a sort of Soviet Ninja.
She was about to rush out the door, when he called, “Wait, Natasha!”
She paused and snapped her glare towards him, hand poised to rip the doorknob from the door in haste. “What?”
He had thought about asking her to smile for him, one last time, so he’d have a good memory of Sex-Happy Belarus in rumpled clothing, to give him strength of spirit when Russia eventually murdered him. But he took one look at her peculiar brand of insanity creeping back into her eyes, and thought better of it.
“Never mind. The awesome sex will have to do.”
Not knowing what the hell he was talking about, she made a face of disgust before slamming the door open and disappearing down the hall, howling, “BROTHER...!”
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---
Lithuania’s eyes shifted nervously from Russia, seated and brooding at his personal desk, to his heavily padlocked and reinforced bedroom door. On the other side of that door, something very scary was pounding furiously against the wood and iron, screaming phrases that varied between It didn’t mean anything! I only love you, Brother! and I promise to spiritually purify myself for our marriage! I’ll be a virgin again!
Russia did not respond to any of these entreaties, only continued to stare ominously into some inner-space. Puzzled, Lithuania ventured the question:
“Russia? I don’t mean to pry, but... shouldn’t you be happy that Belarus might have found someone else?” Not that it’s stopped her from continuing to obsess over you, he added mentally.
The Soviet stirred in his seat, and cast a gloomy glare over his shoulder that made Lithuania go rigid. “Why would I be happy about rejection, Toris?”
Lithuania frowned and glanced pointedly at the straining door. He had been unaware that rejection looked like that. In any case, it seemed to him that Belarus was more than willing to un-reject Russia quite immediately. So what was the large country talking about...?
Russia turned back to his desk, and muttered in his rare, sincere voice. “Truly, I thought America knew how I felt about him.”
What?
...Oh.
Lithuania blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and slapped a palm to his forehead. Oh, to live in a world where things made sense.
Meanwhile, oblivious to Lithuania’s mental epiphany and subsequent disillusionment, Russia muttered darkly to himself. “Well, it’s just a minor setback, da? I will try harder now. America will see the strength and reach of Soviet Russia, and then he will not refuse becoming one with us. What do you think he will say to missiles in Cuba?”
Outside the room, Belarus continued to wage a righteous war against the fast-weakening door, and swear at the top of her lungs that her only goal in life was to marry her perfect brother.
But she was getting kind of tired. Maybe she’d take a break, grab a cup of strong American coffee, and come back. Why not?
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OH RUSSIA.
I've been frantically f5ing this since part1 popped out and oh god was it worth it. The buildup between America and Belarus seemed so ...plausible! The sex was hot!
AND RUSSIA!
oihfsoihfosihfsohfdsoih that line.
This could be the most epic and dysfunctional and disturbing love triangle ever.
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This could be the most epic and dysfunctional and disturbing love triangle ever. --> LOL, yes, exactly. XD
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(or, as the good captcha would say: "pooling yokels")
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You can fuck me anytime you want like Belarus with a vibrating strap-on
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Glad you enjoyed!
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