it isn't desperation! when you’re wearing a wig it’s called role-play, hurhur. So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
-------- The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”
It wouldn’t be overly theatrical to say his mouth waters at those words. Those words, as issued by… America. “I can be forceful,” he says at last, wetting his lips. He moves toward America so they touch, although he keeps his eyes lowered. “I can be quite a bastard, you know.”
“Show me.”
America watches him carefully, still unconvinced of the arrangement. The next few moments are critical, and Russia takes a deep breath. He molds his hands around America’s neck, tightening his hold just enough to feel the blood beat under his hands—he’s rewarded by America opening his mouth in a gasp, when he moves to remove the spectacles from behind. “You won’t be needing these. Release your shirt,” he says, with quiet authority, setting America’s glasses somewhere behind him.
America’s arms lower submissively to his sides and the shirt loosens. As though with a mind of their own, Russia’s hands reach for the back of the collar and pull it down the rest of the way, revealing the curve of a slender white back, delicate shoulders. America gasps again. “Russia—”
He pounces, holding America down by a wrist into the blankets. It thrills him to the core as, looking behind him, America’s eyes move from surprise to unadulterated happiness and desire. The scarf (just some old scarf) slides off his shoulder when he leans down, sucks a kiss from the back America’s neck. “Mine, you say,” he says.
The body beneath him shivers. “Yours.”
“Show me.”
Russia takes a moment to leisurely remove the coat (damned heavy thing), holding down the half-naked body with his knee and luxuriating in the needy mewling coming from it. With his hands free again, he continues mouthing the back of America’s spine, the exposed shoulders, and he works America’s pants loose. Every centimeter of skin he can reach quivers under his competent caresses. “Are you cold?” he says.
“N-no.” America breathes heavily, his mouth open, and arches back against the hand. His eyes pop when Russia’s kisses turn to nips, then bites. He really regrets not being able to move his hand between America’s legs—any other time it wouldn’t bother him, but now he’s afraid of being pulled out of this fragile head-space. But he compensates, moving over America so he can feel Russia’s body, the textures of the scarf and other clothing running over his skin.
“Oh, please.” America makes a sound and Russia almost doesn’t hear the plea, muffled into the blankets. “Touch me, please.”
The sound is like lightning in his blood, but he says, carefully holding back: “Are you ordering me?” Frighteningly enough, this Russia thing isn’t so hard to get into after all. If he’s doing it right, that is. His America seems convinced.
“I would never—I meant only—”
“No,” he growls in the sweetest way. He moves, sliding his erection against the cleft of America’s ass. Letting him feel the weight of it. “Just from this,” he says into America’s ear. “From me only.”
America moans. “God, yes, marry me—”
All his world is just the feeling of pressing against America. Eyes closed, he lowers his face against America’s back, tasting the sweat. “Yes,” he answers without thought.
Suddenly America stops. He looks around. “What?”
It makes Russia blink, the change in pace, like flipping on a light switch. And then he realizes what’s changed. America isn’t even trying to alter his voice now, and it’s gone all high. “Well, not really really, no,” he says, trying to understand the emotions he’s seeing in his partner’s face, trying to get a grip on the situation. His dick is still doing most of the thinking. “I thought it was just more pretending—bloody hell, what are you doing,” he says, throwing up the bed sheets to cover America’s upper torso as America unexpectedly sits up.
“Marry me,” America says, completely serious. “Now. We can do it now, we’ll find a priest and our bosses and we’ll do it right now.”
“I—no, I’m not going to marry you,” Russia says, looking between his fingers and delicately pulling up the sheet as it begins to slip. His cock adds, “And if at all possible could we get back to, ah, where we were just now?”
He has an uneasy feeling the not-really-America hasn’t heard him. “You said yes,” America says dazedly. “You said yes you would marry me!”
Russia laughs. Nervously. With a grimace he zips himself back in his pants and starts to climb off the bed. “It was in the moment, I thought we were still… you know. In-character. Look, I’m so sorry, but I’m out of the mind set, and I really don’t think I can continue—”
A hand lashes out and seizes his wrist, the nails digging in like teeth. America’s face is predatory. “No take-backs,” he says with a manic grin. “You said yes!”
“No, I didn’t. This isn’t funny, now, let go—”
“But we’re going to be married!”
Russia screams a little and wrenches his arm free. “No we’re not! Leave me alone!”
“Wait…!” America calls out, but Russia—fuck this Russia shit! he thinks to himself—is already running out of the room in nothing but his pants and a scarf, not bothering to grab his shoes or other clothes. He redoubles his speed when he hears America wrapping the sheets around himself to give chase.
In the hallway all the doors he tries are locked, and he can hear his America gaining on him by the time he finds one that will open. So, half naked and panting from the exertion, his zipper half down, he opens the double doors.
Unfortunately, he opens them to find himself in an office face-to-face with the actual America and Russia.
There is a pause.
“Oh, this is rich.” Slowly, the real America turns to glare at the real Russia. “Don’t worry, he says. I’ll cut back on the nuclear testing, he says. Yeah, right! Let’s see you explain this one!”
“I… I cannot explain it,” Russia answers, his eyes wide.
America smirks, generally not paying attention as the not-Russia runs around the room, locking doors. “Ha, see, if you were like me and didn’t do things like that behind everyone’s backs, little mutant mini yous running around wouldn’t be a problem—”
“I see,” the real Russia says solemnly. “I will have to amend this.”
They all stop when they hear the scratching at the door, and the doorknobs rattle. “These are new,” says the voice the not-Russia recognizes quite well.
To his surprise, the real Russia’s outline goes rigid as well. “What…?”
“Not to worry, I’ve found another way in!” the not-America says, popping out of what not-Russia thought was a closet. The real Russia and America stare as the shorter, noticeably curvier America steps out of the closet, barely concealed behind a trailing bed sheet.
The real Russia clears his throat. “America, you were saying something about nuclear testing?” But the real America can only stare as his double drops to his knees on the floor and yanks the not-Russia’s hand to his breast.
“I’ve found you at last, and now we shall be together until the end of time. Oh, touch me, fuck me, love me, only let me be yours!” he says, tears of happiness in his eyes. “Can you feel my heart? It beats only for you!”
“No, no, no! Go away, and leave me be! You, real Russia!” the not-Russia says suddenly. He grabs the real Russia’s coat and attempts to throttle him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you keep things like that just lying around?” Not-Russia flings himself away, grabbing the stunned real Russia’s shoulders and hiding behind him. “Look, here—here’s Russia, the real one. You like him, don’t you? Marry him, instead.”
The not-America stands, clasping the sheets over his chest, and looks at the new Russia, who is quick to shake his head and point around his waist to indicate the scapegoat. He gets out of the way before the not-America lunges.
“Why are you hiding from me? I thought we were past this.”
“Bloody hell, I said go hang yourself!”
The room spins in a flurry of half-off clothes and bed sheets before the not-Russia runs out the door, slamming it behind him. The not-America wrenches it open so forcefully the knob breaks off, and he throws it away before sprinting out into the hallway.
“Why are you running so fast, darling?” he sings in a curiously high-pitched voice--at least high-pitched for America. “Let’s get maaarrried!”
The real America and real Russia are frozen and quiet in shock. Neither of them move, not daring to until the sounds of screaming have faded completely into the depths of the house.
“Just to clarify, I would never ask you to marry me,” America says. “And I’m not nuclear testing.”
“Neither am I.”
“Well, good.”
“At least that’s settled.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
America says carefully, “You seemed… shorter than usual.” They stare out the window, at the wall, at the carpet, the sad broken doorknob, anything but directly into each other’s faces. America being America, he risks a sideways glance. “You’d really let your eyebrows go, too.”
Russia’s expression is serenely blank, his eyes drifting upwards as though scanning cloud patterns. “I personally was surprised by your exquisite breasts. If only I had known, America.”
“Oh, ha,” America sneers. Russia begins to laugh. “Ha fucking ha.”
-- Short last part. …Obvious anon-nations are obvious rofl. Thanks for reading!
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Roleplay
(Anonymous) 2009-03-10 02:38 pm (UTC)(link)No Need for Desperation! [1/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 06:12 am (UTC)(link)when you’re wearing a wig it’s called role-play, hurhur.So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
--------
The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”
No Need for Desperation! [2/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 06:20 am (UTC)(link)“Show me.”
America watches him carefully, still unconvinced of the arrangement. The next few moments are critical, and Russia takes a deep breath. He molds his hands around America’s neck, tightening his hold just enough to feel the blood beat under his hands—he’s rewarded by America opening his mouth in a gasp, when he moves to remove the spectacles from behind. “You won’t be needing these. Release your shirt,” he says, with quiet authority, setting America’s glasses somewhere behind him.
America’s arms lower submissively to his sides and the shirt loosens. As though with a mind of their own, Russia’s hands reach for the back of the collar and pull it down the rest of the way, revealing the curve of a slender white back, delicate shoulders. America gasps again. “Russia—”
He pounces, holding America down by a wrist into the blankets. It thrills him to the core as, looking behind him, America’s eyes move from surprise to unadulterated happiness and desire. The scarf (just some old scarf) slides off his shoulder when he leans down, sucks a kiss from the back America’s neck. “Mine, you say,” he says.
The body beneath him shivers. “Yours.”
“Show me.”
Russia takes a moment to leisurely remove the coat (damned heavy thing), holding down the half-naked body with his knee and luxuriating in the needy mewling coming from it. With his hands free again, he continues mouthing the back of America’s spine, the exposed shoulders, and he works America’s pants loose. Every centimeter of skin he can reach quivers under his competent caresses. “Are you cold?” he says.
“N-no.” America breathes heavily, his mouth open, and arches back against the hand. His eyes pop when Russia’s kisses turn to nips, then bites. He really regrets not being able to move his hand between America’s legs—any other time it wouldn’t bother him, but now he’s afraid of being pulled out of this fragile head-space. But he compensates, moving over America so he can feel Russia’s body, the textures of the scarf and other clothing running over his skin.
“Oh, please.” America makes a sound and Russia almost doesn’t hear the plea, muffled into the blankets. “Touch me, please.”
The sound is like lightning in his blood, but he says, carefully holding back: “Are you ordering me?” Frighteningly enough, this Russia thing isn’t so hard to get into after all. If he’s doing it right, that is. His America seems convinced.
“I would never—I meant only—”
“No,” he growls in the sweetest way. He moves, sliding his erection against the cleft of America’s ass. Letting him feel the weight of it. “Just from this,” he says into America’s ear. “From me only.”
America moans. “God, yes, marry me—”
All his world is just the feeling of pressing against America. Eyes closed, he lowers his face against America’s back, tasting the sweat. “Yes,” he answers without thought.
Suddenly America stops. He looks around. “What?”
It makes Russia blink, the change in pace, like flipping on a light switch. And then he realizes what’s changed. America isn’t even trying to alter his voice now, and it’s gone all high. “Well, not really really, no,” he says, trying to understand the emotions he’s seeing in his partner’s face, trying to get a grip on the situation. His dick is still doing most of the thinking. “I thought it was just more pretending—bloody hell, what are you doing,” he says, throwing up the bed sheets to cover America’s upper torso as America unexpectedly sits up.
“Marry me,” America says, completely serious. “Now. We can do it now, we’ll find a priest and our bosses and we’ll do it right now.”
“I—no, I’m not going to marry you,” Russia says, looking between his fingers and delicately pulling up the sheet as it begins to slip. His cock adds, “And if at all possible could we get back to, ah, where we were just now?”
He has an uneasy feeling the not-really-America hasn’t heard him. “You said yes,” America says dazedly. “You said yes you would marry me!”
No Need for Desperation! [3/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 06:30 am (UTC)(link)A hand lashes out and seizes his wrist, the nails digging in like teeth. America’s face is predatory. “No take-backs,” he says with a manic grin. “You said yes!”
“No, I didn’t. This isn’t funny, now, let go—”
“But we’re going to be married!”
Russia screams a little and wrenches his arm free. “No we’re not! Leave me alone!”
“Wait…!” America calls out, but Russia—fuck this Russia shit! he thinks to himself—is already running out of the room in nothing but his pants and a scarf, not bothering to grab his shoes or other clothes. He redoubles his speed when he hears America wrapping the sheets around himself to give chase.
In the hallway all the doors he tries are locked, and he can hear his America gaining on him by the time he finds one that will open. So, half naked and panting from the exertion, his zipper half down, he opens the double doors.
Unfortunately, he opens them to find himself in an office face-to-face with the actual America and Russia.
There is a pause.
“Oh, this is rich.” Slowly, the real America turns to glare at the real Russia. “Don’t worry, he says. I’ll cut back on the nuclear testing, he says. Yeah, right! Let’s see you explain this one!”
“I… I cannot explain it,” Russia answers, his eyes wide.
America smirks, generally not paying attention as the not-Russia runs around the room, locking doors. “Ha, see, if you were like me and didn’t do things like that behind everyone’s backs, little mutant mini yous running around wouldn’t be a problem—”
“I see,” the real Russia says solemnly. “I will have to amend this.”
They all stop when they hear the scratching at the door, and the doorknobs rattle. “These are new,” says the voice the not-Russia recognizes quite well.
To his surprise, the real Russia’s outline goes rigid as well. “What…?”
“Not to worry, I’ve found another way in!” the not-America says, popping out of what not-Russia thought was a closet. The real Russia and America stare as the shorter, noticeably curvier America steps out of the closet, barely concealed behind a trailing bed sheet.
The real Russia clears his throat. “America, you were saying something about nuclear testing?” But the real America can only stare as his double drops to his knees on the floor and yanks the not-Russia’s hand to his breast.
“I’ve found you at last, and now we shall be together until the end of time. Oh, touch me, fuck me, love me, only let me be yours!” he says, tears of happiness in his eyes. “Can you feel my heart? It beats only for you!”
“No, no, no! Go away, and leave me be! You, real Russia!” the not-Russia says suddenly. He grabs the real Russia’s coat and attempts to throttle him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you keep things like that just lying around?” Not-Russia flings himself away, grabbing the stunned real Russia’s shoulders and hiding behind him. “Look, here—here’s Russia, the real one. You like him, don’t you? Marry him, instead.”
The not-America stands, clasping the sheets over his chest, and looks at the new Russia, who is quick to shake his head and point around his waist to indicate the scapegoat. He gets out of the way before the not-America lunges.
“Why are you hiding from me? I thought we were past this.”
“Bloody hell, I said go hang yourself!”
The room spins in a flurry of half-off clothes and bed sheets before the not-Russia runs out the door, slamming it behind him. The not-America wrenches it open so forcefully the knob breaks off, and he throws it away before sprinting out into the hallway.
“Why are you running so fast, darling?” he sings in a curiously high-pitched voice--at least high-pitched for America. “Let’s get maaarrried!”
“NOOOO!”
No Need for Desperation! [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 06:36 am (UTC)(link)“Just to clarify, I would never ask you to marry me,” America says. “And I’m not nuclear testing.”
“Neither am I.”
“Well, good.”
“At least that’s settled.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
America says carefully, “You seemed… shorter than usual.” They stare out the window, at the wall, at the carpet, the sad broken doorknob, anything but directly into each other’s faces. America being America, he risks a sideways glance. “You’d really let your eyebrows go, too.”
Russia’s expression is serenely blank, his eyes drifting upwards as though scanning cloud patterns. “I personally was surprised by your exquisite breasts. If only I had known, America.”
“Oh, ha,” America sneers. Russia begins to laugh. “Ha fucking ha.”
--
Short last part. …Obvious anon-nations are obvious rofl. Thanks for reading!
Re: No Need for Desperation! [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 06:52 am (UTC)(link)I generally don't click on fic links which don't involve my OTPs (and Russia + US is, sadly, not one of them), but I am SO GLAD I DID for this one.
You win, anon ♥
Re: No Need for Desperation! [4/4]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-16 07:16 am (UTC)(link)