Cuban Cigars [1/?]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 01:19:13 UTC
This probably isn't quite what OP wanted, but the story kind of got away from me. Sorry! Also, I am lame at writing porn...but I tried. orz ------------------------
"Que carajo es esto?” Cuba growled through teeth clamped firmly around his favorite brand of cigar. It had been hand-rolled not even two miles away, by one of his citizens--a good man, with brown hands a face wrinkled to leather by the sun.
The Havana sun was unforgiving that afternoon, despite the breeze coming off the ocean. That was why Cuba had retreated to his house. When he’d opened the door to his private office and squinted through the dim light that barely filtered through the window blinds, filled by the hum of the ceiling fan, he hadn’t expected to see America.
America, sprawled on his back across Cuba’s desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth while he attempted to light it with a small, pistol-shaped lighter. The spark wouldn’t give over to flame no matter how many times the blond nation flicked the little fake trigger, and his curses were muffled by the cigar in his mouth. When Cuba opened the door, America nearly dropped the lighter as he struggled to a sitting position. Belatedly, he yanked the cigar out of his mouth and hid it guiltily behind his back.
“What are you doing here?” Cuba demanded in his heavily accented English. He yanked his own cigar out of his mouth and tapped it impatiently against the door frame, not caring where the ashes fell. “Get out!”
He took in the scene before him with more detail as his eyes adjusted to the low light. The heat had gotten to America as well. His usual bomber jacket had been abandoned and thrown haphazardly across Cuba’s desk chair. The wooden drawers that lined one wall of the office had been thrown open and searched, some of the contents dropped to the floor. Between a mess of papers on the desk, America had placed the fruits of his hunt: a little wooden box, holding only three high quality cigars where there should have been four.
Cuba realized it just as America looked away.
“You're a funny guy sometimes,” the darker nation chuckled without much mirth. “Idiota. Couldn’t get around your own embargo?”
America shot him a glare. If the bad lighting wasn’t playing tricks on him, Cuba could swear the blond was red in the face.
“I don’t need your commie crap,” he muttered, toying with the cigar in his lap. Cuba barked a laugh, and America thought of snapping the tobacco stick in half right then and there, but couldn’t quite bring himself to.
Cuba maneuvered around the desk, eying America warily if still with some amusement, and sat down heavily in his chair. “Que mierda. You were staring at that thing like you wanted to suck its cock, and you couldn’t even light it. Get the fuck out of here.”
America flushed red and tensed like he wanted to punch the other nation. Cuba almost wished he would; the sixties had almost brought them to blows but never quite, and though the tension between them had eased recently it was always there, simmering.
After a few taut seconds, America’s frame relaxed again. He was staring rather menacingly at Cuba’s shoulder. “You’re sitting on my jacket.”
Cuba barely glanced at the fur-trimmed leather caught between his back and the chair. Then he shrugged while returning a just-as-menacing frown. “I’m not moving.”
To his credit, Cuba did not flinch when America suddenly lunged forward, though it did give him a shock. America’s hands gripped the back of the chair on either side of Cuba’s head.
What he said surprised Cuba even more.
“Why do you even hate me so much?”
Cuba’s brow furrowed. The way those blue eyes were staring at him made him uneasy. He blew smoke into America’s face, and felt some relief when the other nation had to scrunch up his eyes and blink away the irritation.
“You’re arrogant, come mierda,” Cuba growled, leaning back further in his chair. “You think what’s good for you is good for me, when you don’t know a thing about me.”
“That’s not true,” America snapped. At this proximity Cuba could see sweat marking trails down the white, pink-stained neck. America smelled like must and cologne. It wasn’t unpleasant.
Cuban Cigars [2/?]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 01:23:40 UTC
“I know about you,” he continued. “Not everything maybe, but I’m not ignorant either. Not like everyone says.”
Cuba rolled his eyes. “Coño. Why don’t you just tell me what you want and leave, Americano?”
Without warning, America snatched the lighted cigar right out of Cuba’s mouth. When the island nation opened his mouth to yell, the blond crashed his own open lips into his.
Cuba struggled but found no way to wrench the blond off of him. His mind, in a storm of confusion, managed to register hate for this reminder of how much stronger America was. As vice-like as America’s hands on his shoulder were though, his kiss was oddly gentle, if invasive. His tongue slid across Cuba’s teeth, and when Cuba stopped struggling and hesitantly opened his mouth wider, America found the island’s tongue and sucked at it. Cuba groaned.
America pulled away, panting loudly. Almost in a daze, Cuba wondered if all he’d wanted was a taste of the cigar.
But now America’s hands, naked of their usual gloves, were pulling at Cuba’s belt. Cuba fought the sudden surge of lust that rose up in him.
“Que coño haces?!” he demanded, lost in his panic for an English equivalent (If he’d been calm he would have remembered that America understood and even spoke his form of Spanish, and if he wasn’t replying it was on purpose.). He repeated his query two more times before America was pulling his swelling member from his pants and he remembered, “What the hell are you doing?!”
America’s flush had spread from his cheeks and neck to his whole face and shoulders. Cuba barely heard his reply as the blond began pumping him with his hand. “Most Cuban immigrants in the U.S. live in Florida, you know, since you’re awfully close to it and all.” He had on a coy smirk and it sounded like he was trying to imply something.
But all Cuba heard was “Cuban immigrants,” and something tight and painful twisted in his stomach. His hips that had started thrusting helplessly into America’s hand stuttered to a stop.
America looked up at him, saw the way Cuba’s mouth grimaced. “They talk about you all the time. The exiles. That’s why I know stuff about you.”
“Don’t call them exiles,” the darker nation growled, willing his arms to push America away, but unable to release the armrests he had gripped like lifelines. “They left me.”
“Some of them want to go back to you, someday.” America said it quietly, like it hurt. His gaze dropped back to Cuba’s cock before leaning forward and flicking his tongue quickly across the head. Cuba yelled and jerked in his seat, restrained by only America’s hand at his waist--a hand that wielded ridiculous, frustrating strength.
“They like me,” America hissed, making sure his breath blew across Cuba’s leaking slit as he spoke. “Your kids like me. So why do you hate me?”
Cuba wanted to yell at him that no, not all of his children liked America. Some of his people were happy with Cuba, happy to stay with him. They weren’t all throwing themselves into the ocean to reach some goddamn imaginary paradise of consumerism and gluttony, in the white arms of some hegemonic nation. But now America was wrapping his lips around his member, and as Cuba threw his head back, all he managed to rasp was, “You stole them.”
Between his thighs, America stilled. He let Cuba slide out of his mouth, and the island nation had to bite back a grunt.
Cuba did not expect the wounded look in those blue eyes. “I give them everything you won’t. And some of them still smuggle in Cuban cigars, Cuban wines, and everything else I’ve outlawed. They come back to visit you. They start whole television channels and radio stations just to talk about you, they way you never let them. And some of them say, if things were different, they’d go back to you.”
And now Cuba really wanted to strike the other nation, just as badly as he wanted to kiss him again. Before he had the chance to do either, America had bent forward and was sucking him off.
Cuban Cigars [3/4]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 01:26:53 UTC
Cuba choked on his own protest. He reached a shaking hand, hesitated, then pressed down on the back of America’s head. He angled his hips has best as he could, and turned his face away, into the leather of the forgotten bomber jacket. He thrust mindlessly into the wet heat, every slurp and vulgar sound making his sweat-drenched skin break into goose bumps.
A stream of softly muttered words escaped him, curses and encouragements and he didn’t know what else, all in Spanish. He knew and hated and loved that the blond understood every one.
He should have hated this. He didn’t. When he came, he watched America swallow it all down, all except for a single stream of cum that escaped the corner of his mouth and snaked its way down his chin. Cuba excused the feeling of ecstasy radiating through his bones by reminded himself that fucking his hated neighbor’s mouth was as good a revenge, if not a better one, as getting to fire the missiles so many years ago would have been.
Cuba lay as if boneless as America licked him clean. His eyes wandered over America’s form, clothes sticky with sweat and cum still dotting the side of his mouth. He finally noticed that at some point America had let go of the base of Cuba’s cock, and had unbuckled his own pants, and was still fervently pumping himself.
Without much thought, Cuba leaned forward, pushing America back by the shoulders, and let his hand join and wrap around America’s slick member. The blond nation had already been close, and after a few more pumps of their interlocked hands, he came with a shudder.
Cuban Cigars [4/4]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 01:30:09 UTC
Cuba still didn’t know what to think as America finished cleaning himself up. He found the cigar America had snatched from him before, and felt some calm as it found its familiar place between his teeth. America stared at its growing red tip with a sort of longing as he came over to retrieve his jacket. Cuba leaned forward in his seat to accommodate, and America was able to pick it up without hassle.
“Even with the smuggling, it’s hard to find authentic Cuban cigars back home,” he admitted.
“Grab the other cigar,” Cuba commanded suddenly. “I’ll light it for you before you leave.”
America looked surprised, then pleased as he eagerly snatched up the cigar he’d abandoned on the desk earlier. Cuba took it and gave a look of disapproval as he muttered, “Come mierda, look at how you cut it. See if it doesn’t unravel.” He gave it back to the blond, who popped it in his mouth and leaned forward as Cuba struck a wooden match.
When it was lit, America blew the first puff of smoke into Cuba’s face.
“Pinga! Get the fuck out of me and back to your own home!” he coughed.
America grinned at the word choice, holding the cigar between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette. “I’ve been trying to get my people to cut back on tobacco products, you know. But the smokers are right, you make pretty awesome cigars. Not better than mine, though,” he added quickly.
“You make cigars?” Cuba wanted to laugh, but he was still not willing to be at ease with America, even if the blond gave great head.
America shrugged, was eying Cuba up and down thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked, “So, do you always give cigars as payment for sexual favors?”
Cuba almost choked on the smoke of his own cigar. America’s grin widened. “You’re a commie bastard, but you might be seeing more of me from now on,” he laughed. He slung his jacket over his arm and made for the door. “Loosen up, okay? My new boss is trying to be nicer to you than most of the other ones have been. It’d be nice if our kids could visit each other a little more frequently someday.”
Cuba didn’t like the way he said any of that, but held his tongue for once as America left. He was about to ring the maid to clean up the mess of drawers America had left (the maid who could be counted on to also discreetly wipe up the stain on the floor without asking questions), when the blond popped his head back in.
“By the way, whatever meeting we both happen to be at next, bring more cigars. As long as the meeting isn’t in my house, of course. I’ll pay you for them.”
He dodged the thrown paperweight with expert speed.
___________ Some random notes:
*I am not a smoker, and never have been. If I made some mistakes in my description of cigars/the smoking of cigars, I apologize. *That said, I read somewhere that cigars are supposed to be held between your index finger and thumb. I had Alfred hold his cigar like a cigarette intentionally, since I figure he’s more familiar with them, and/or never seems to bother learning the “right” way of doing things anyway. *I made Cuba a potty mouth. Sorry. T_T It just kind of happened. At least it’s mostly in Spanish..?
Re: Cuban Cigars [4/4]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 02:32:29 UTC
THIS ANON LOVES YOUUUU. AmxCuba (and vice versa) needs to be written more, like, pronto. The smut scene was fine, and potty mouth!Cuba is very in character (at least to me). 8D These years of studying Spanish helped a bit here.
Re: Cuban Cigars [4/4]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 04:38:38 UTC
I adore Cuba, and I was really glad to see him getting some attention, but this fill was great OTP aside. The emigration and Cold War references were well-played, and the dialogue was very nice. The bit about their kids visiting each other was probably my favorite snippit. You may think your porn is lame, but this line in particular was damn fine: "He thrust mindlessly into the wet heat, every slurp and vulgar sound making his sweat-drenched skin break into goose bumps.". Also, your America is completely and totally America. So, yeah, all in all, I loved it.
Re: Cuban Cigars [4/4]
anonymous
November 25 2009, 06:50:28 UTC
Oooh, I loved this! Have you ever heard "Guimello Tell" by Carlos Varela? The stuff America said about the immigrants and Cuba remind me of its lyrics!
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"Que carajo es esto?” Cuba growled through teeth clamped firmly around his favorite brand of cigar. It had been hand-rolled not even two miles away, by one of his citizens--a good man, with brown hands a face wrinkled to leather by the sun.
The Havana sun was unforgiving that afternoon, despite the breeze coming off the ocean. That was why Cuba had retreated to his house. When he’d opened the door to his private office and squinted through the dim light that barely filtered through the window blinds, filled by the hum of the ceiling fan, he hadn’t expected to see America.
America, sprawled on his back across Cuba’s desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth while he attempted to light it with a small, pistol-shaped lighter. The spark wouldn’t give over to flame no matter how many times the blond nation flicked the little fake trigger, and his curses were muffled by the cigar in his mouth. When Cuba opened the door, America nearly dropped the lighter as he struggled to a sitting position. Belatedly, he yanked the cigar out of his mouth and hid it guiltily behind his back.
“What are you doing here?” Cuba demanded in his heavily accented English. He yanked his own cigar out of his mouth and tapped it impatiently against the door frame, not caring where the ashes fell. “Get out!”
He took in the scene before him with more detail as his eyes adjusted to the low light. The heat had gotten to America as well. His usual bomber jacket had been abandoned and thrown haphazardly across Cuba’s desk chair. The wooden drawers that lined one wall of the office had been thrown open and searched, some of the contents dropped to the floor. Between a mess of papers on the desk, America had placed the fruits of his hunt: a little wooden box, holding only three high quality cigars where there should have been four.
Cuba realized it just as America looked away.
“You're a funny guy sometimes,” the darker nation chuckled without much mirth. “Idiota. Couldn’t get around your own embargo?”
America shot him a glare. If the bad lighting wasn’t playing tricks on him, Cuba could swear the blond was red in the face.
“I don’t need your commie crap,” he muttered, toying with the cigar in his lap. Cuba barked a laugh, and America thought of snapping the tobacco stick in half right then and there, but couldn’t quite bring himself to.
Cuba maneuvered around the desk, eying America warily if still with some amusement, and sat down heavily in his chair. “Que mierda. You were staring at that thing like you wanted to suck its cock, and you couldn’t even light it. Get the fuck out of here.”
America flushed red and tensed like he wanted to punch the other nation. Cuba almost wished he would; the sixties had almost brought them to blows but never quite, and though the tension between them had eased recently it was always there, simmering.
After a few taut seconds, America’s frame relaxed again. He was staring rather menacingly at Cuba’s shoulder. “You’re sitting on my jacket.”
Cuba barely glanced at the fur-trimmed leather caught between his back and the chair. Then he shrugged while returning a just-as-menacing frown. “I’m not moving.”
To his credit, Cuba did not flinch when America suddenly lunged forward, though it did give him a shock. America’s hands gripped the back of the chair on either side of Cuba’s head.
What he said surprised Cuba even more.
“Why do you even hate me so much?”
Cuba’s brow furrowed. The way those blue eyes were staring at him made him uneasy. He blew smoke into America’s face, and felt some relief when the other nation had to scrunch up his eyes and blink away the irritation.
“You’re arrogant, come mierda,” Cuba growled, leaning back further in his chair. “You think what’s good for you is good for me, when you don’t know a thing about me.”
“That’s not true,” America snapped. At this proximity Cuba could see sweat marking trails down the white, pink-stained neck. America smelled like must and cologne. It wasn’t unpleasant.
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Cuba rolled his eyes. “Coño. Why don’t you just tell me what you want and leave, Americano?”
Without warning, America snatched the lighted cigar right out of Cuba’s mouth. When the island nation opened his mouth to yell, the blond crashed his own open lips into his.
Cuba struggled but found no way to wrench the blond off of him. His mind, in a storm of confusion, managed to register hate for this reminder of how much stronger America was. As vice-like as America’s hands on his shoulder were though, his kiss was oddly gentle, if invasive. His tongue slid across Cuba’s teeth, and when Cuba stopped struggling and hesitantly opened his mouth wider, America found the island’s tongue and sucked at it. Cuba groaned.
America pulled away, panting loudly. Almost in a daze, Cuba wondered if all he’d wanted was a taste of the cigar.
But now America’s hands, naked of their usual gloves, were pulling at Cuba’s belt. Cuba fought the sudden surge of lust that rose up in him.
“Que coño haces?!” he demanded, lost in his panic for an English equivalent (If he’d been calm he would have remembered that America understood and even spoke his form of Spanish, and if he wasn’t replying it was on purpose.). He repeated his query two more times before America was pulling his swelling member from his pants and he remembered, “What the hell are you doing?!”
America’s flush had spread from his cheeks and neck to his whole face and shoulders. Cuba barely heard his reply as the blond began pumping him with his hand. “Most Cuban immigrants in the U.S. live in Florida, you know, since you’re awfully close to it and all.” He had on a coy smirk and it sounded like he was trying to imply something.
But all Cuba heard was “Cuban immigrants,” and something tight and painful twisted in his stomach. His hips that had started thrusting helplessly into America’s hand stuttered to a stop.
America looked up at him, saw the way Cuba’s mouth grimaced. “They talk about you all the time. The exiles. That’s why I know stuff about you.”
“Don’t call them exiles,” the darker nation growled, willing his arms to push America away, but unable to release the armrests he had gripped like lifelines. “They left me.”
“Some of them want to go back to you, someday.” America said it quietly, like it hurt. His gaze dropped back to Cuba’s cock before leaning forward and flicking his tongue quickly across the head. Cuba yelled and jerked in his seat, restrained by only America’s hand at his waist--a hand that wielded ridiculous, frustrating strength.
“They like me,” America hissed, making sure his breath blew across Cuba’s leaking slit as he spoke. “Your kids like me. So why do you hate me?”
Cuba wanted to yell at him that no, not all of his children liked America. Some of his people were happy with Cuba, happy to stay with him. They weren’t all throwing themselves into the ocean to reach some goddamn imaginary paradise of consumerism and gluttony, in the white arms of some hegemonic nation. But now America was wrapping his lips around his member, and as Cuba threw his head back, all he managed to rasp was, “You stole them.”
Between his thighs, America stilled. He let Cuba slide out of his mouth, and the island nation had to bite back a grunt.
Cuba did not expect the wounded look in those blue eyes. “I give them everything you won’t. And some of them still smuggle in Cuban cigars, Cuban wines, and everything else I’ve outlawed. They come back to visit you. They start whole television channels and radio stations just to talk about you, they way you never let them. And some of them say, if things were different, they’d go back to you.”
And now Cuba really wanted to strike the other nation, just as badly as he wanted to kiss him again. Before he had the chance to do either, America had bent forward and was sucking him off.
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A stream of softly muttered words escaped him, curses and encouragements and he didn’t know what else, all in Spanish. He knew and hated and loved that the blond understood every one.
He should have hated this. He didn’t. When he came, he watched America swallow it all down, all except for a single stream of cum that escaped the corner of his mouth and snaked its way down his chin. Cuba excused the feeling of ecstasy radiating through his bones by reminded himself that fucking his hated neighbor’s mouth was as good a revenge, if not a better one, as getting to fire the missiles so many years ago would have been.
Cuba lay as if boneless as America licked him clean. His eyes wandered over America’s form, clothes sticky with sweat and cum still dotting the side of his mouth. He finally noticed that at some point America had let go of the base of Cuba’s cock, and had unbuckled his own pants, and was still fervently pumping himself.
Without much thought, Cuba leaned forward, pushing America back by the shoulders, and let his hand join and wrap around America’s slick member. The blond nation had already been close, and after a few more pumps of their interlocked hands, he came with a shudder.
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“Even with the smuggling, it’s hard to find authentic Cuban cigars back home,” he admitted.
“Grab the other cigar,” Cuba commanded suddenly. “I’ll light it for you before you leave.”
America looked surprised, then pleased as he eagerly snatched up the cigar he’d abandoned on the desk earlier. Cuba took it and gave a look of disapproval as he muttered, “Come mierda, look at how you cut it. See if it doesn’t unravel.” He gave it back to the blond, who popped it in his mouth and leaned forward as Cuba struck a wooden match.
When it was lit, America blew the first puff of smoke into Cuba’s face.
“Pinga! Get the fuck out of me and back to your own home!” he coughed.
America grinned at the word choice, holding the cigar between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette. “I’ve been trying to get my people to cut back on tobacco products, you know. But the smokers are right, you make pretty awesome cigars. Not better than mine, though,” he added quickly.
“You make cigars?” Cuba wanted to laugh, but he was still not willing to be at ease with America, even if the blond gave great head.
America shrugged, was eying Cuba up and down thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked, “So, do you always give cigars as payment for sexual favors?”
Cuba almost choked on the smoke of his own cigar. America’s grin widened. “You’re a commie bastard, but you might be seeing more of me from now on,” he laughed. He slung his jacket over his arm and made for the door. “Loosen up, okay? My new boss is trying to be nicer to you than most of the other ones have been. It’d be nice if our kids could visit each other a little more frequently someday.”
Cuba didn’t like the way he said any of that, but held his tongue for once as America left. He was about to ring the maid to clean up the mess of drawers America had left (the maid who could be counted on to also discreetly wipe up the stain on the floor without asking questions), when the blond popped his head back in.
“By the way, whatever meeting we both happen to be at next, bring more cigars. As long as the meeting isn’t in my house, of course. I’ll pay you for them.”
He dodged the thrown paperweight with expert speed.
___________
Some random notes:
*I am not a smoker, and never have been. If I made some mistakes in my description of cigars/the smoking of cigars, I apologize.
*That said, I read somewhere that cigars are supposed to be held between your index finger and thumb. I had Alfred hold his cigar like a cigarette intentionally, since I figure he’s more familiar with them, and/or never seems to bother learning the “right” way of doing things anyway.
*I made Cuba a potty mouth. Sorry. T_T It just kind of happened. At least it’s mostly in Spanish..?
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That was smoking hot. I love how you wrote Cuba's dialogue, their mutual animosity, and that part about the immigrants. So perfect.
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The emigration and Cold War references were well-played, and the dialogue was very nice. The bit about their kids visiting each other was probably my favorite snippit.
You may think your porn is lame, but this line in particular was damn fine: "He thrust mindlessly into the wet heat, every slurp and vulgar sound making his sweat-drenched skin break into goose bumps.".
Also, your America is completely and totally America.
So, yeah, all in all, I loved it.
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