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“So, you have no idea how that snowman popped up in your front lawn?” Matthew asked him in disbelief, and Alfred shook his head, grinning.
“Nope,” he grinned, popping the ‘p’, “I think I’m gonna call ‘em Frosty the Snow Dude,” he added, analyzing the snowman – which was taller than him, if he was honest – critically, as if wondering whether the snow craft was worthy of the title. He tugged at the scarf that had settled on the snowy construction, wondering at the soft material that didn’t seem at all familiar, yet twigged something in his brain.
Matthew snorted, “Creative, Al,” he said, reluctantly amused at his brother’s antics, before he slung an arm over the younger’s shoulder and steered the other nation inside, “now we’ve got to finish paperwork.”
“But Maaaatttie,” he groaned, “the snow!” But his protests drew no quarter from his stronger, older twin brother.
“Your boss is going to come down on me,” he huffed pointedly at the other nation, “I promised I’d boss you into doing your paperwork so you can take the weekend off and we can go up to Ontario.”
Alfred lit up, “The cabin?”
Matthew grinned.
It was the night after a snowfall, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even Canada’s mous-er…bear. The two North American brothers had worked zealously through the chilly afternoon, letting the fireplace, central heating, and America’s expertly made hot chocolate warm them as they progressed through their paperwork. After dinner and a few movies, they’d retired early for the night, hoping to get in a few more hours of sleep to make up for the trip up to Ontario within the next few days. The drive alone was an all day affair. The temperatures dropped to below freezing early on in the morning, which kept pouting children inside and wary parents away. A couple of accidents with the ice on the road kept people snoozing inside in their warm, sleep inducing homes, rather than exploring the city at night.
The snow had fallen lightly after the brothers had ventured inside, and a light layer of fluffy, pristine snow settled atop the already prominent snow banks and the mysterious snowman that had appeared on young America’s lawn in the early pre-dawn hours of the morning. Nothing stirred in the picturesque scene that was created in America’s small neighborhood.
An arm shot out of the snowman’s middle section, off to the side, and was soon joined with its counterpart on the other side of the snowman. Together, with a surprising ease, they shoved, jostled, and propelled all the snow covering them off into a haphazard pile, revealing a figure who’d been encased in the enormous snowman, waiting the entire day for an opportunity like the one that had just presented itself.
Without the moon, it was impossible to tell what the figure was, only that its stride and bearing rendered itself undoubtedly human, although it was as tall, bulky and imposing as any bear ever encountered. The figure paced the property lines of the young nation’s home, studying the windows, the paneled and brick parts of the house walls, the drain pipes, and the rather convenient tree that was planted right in the front lawn.
And had a rather sturdy looking branch that went directly underneath the blond nation’s open bedroom window, facing the front lawn and street.
The figure smirked.
It was an easy enough affair to scale the tree; the figure had been in far more dangerous situations, and America had nurtured the tree for a very long time. It was, surprisingly, strong enough to bear the figure’s full weight, and the branch didn’t even creak as the figure crept across it carefully to the pretty nation’s bedroom. The figure slipped through the open window – and why the window was open in this temperature was something it wanted to know – and straightened, brushing itself down to clear it of any residual snow or frost, blocking the outside light for a split second.
That was enough.
“Whazzgoin?” the young blond nation slurred, blinking awake sleepily, staring into the darkness of his bedroom, lit only by the streetlights and holiday lights strung outside. His bedroom was dark, as it normally was. Shafts of light drifted in from the window side, curtains blowing gently in the chilled December breeze along with a flake or two from the brief flurries that had started up. He scanned the room lazily, tiredly; everything was in place, and there didn’t appear to have been any sort of disturbance. The open window was still in the same position he’d left it in. Everything looked fairly normal, so he almost dismissed his odd sense that something was off and his eyes slid shut as he resettled on his pillow. But even as he appeared – to the unwary – to sink into the depths of sleep, his ears were alert, his breathing clear and deep and he had to restrain an instinctive twitch when he heard a soft creak nearby.
The figure concealed behind stacks of comic books just out of the line of light knew better than to underestimate its target, and stayed completely still, ensuring no motion would give it away, angling away from the shadows that threatened to reveal it. Thanking its infinite patience, it watched silently as the young nation’s tension slip away as he gave into the call of sleep and secure in the knowledge that he must’ve been hearing things. The figure grinned, knife sharp and wicked in intent.
It stepped into a shaft of light, carefully avoiding casting a shadow that would lead the young nation to feel a change in the room, and it cast a soft, subtle glow on the creamy beige greatcoat, and the faint pink scarf that was wrapped around the figure. Strong boots made no sound as they traversed across the intentionally creaky floor, and a smirk curled on pale lips. Violet eyes gleamed in the new darkness of the room, the light glinting off of them slightly maliciously, topped by ashy white blond hair.
Ivan studied his young, sleeping rival with a grin that would send the Baltics fleeing in mass panic.
He’s out of practice.
Had this been 25 years ago, Alfred would have known the moment he’d entered his room. Now, though he’d been woken by his presence, the younger nation had eased into sleep while he’d still been there.
He made his way easily to the end of the bed, shucking his boots without a sound and undoing his coat to reveal the comfortable outfit he’d worn underneath to protect him from the freezing chill of the snow he’d encased himself in. He set the greatcoat to the side, and in one fluid, bracing moment, he straddled the superpower, pinning his wrists in one move while he sat on the younger’s legs.
America’s eyes snapped open, and widened when he realized who had pinned him down so completely. Before he could do more that gape, Russia was on him, lips crashing together, swallowing the shout aimed at him along with the summon for backup. Tongues twisted together, and the larger nation shifted his weight into his grip on the younger in order to dominate the mini-war they engaged in.
Russia took great pleasure in devouring the younger nation, stealing his breath and his voice in one move, refusing to allow the breathless superpower reprieve until he wanted to offer one. When he finally broke the kiss, America couldn’t do more than gasp in the air he’d been deprived of.
The moment he opened his mouth to swear, something was stuffed into it, muffling the yelp that slipped from his lips. He glanced down and blinked in shock when he recognized the wavy pattern and soft material from the scarf that had been on the snowman outside just this morning. The same scarf now stuffed in his mouth and wrapped around the base of his head, tied tightly, gagging him rather effectively.
Russia grinned, “Wouldn’t want you to wake your brother up, dorogoy,” he purred into the younger’s ear and watched as the flush crawled up his skin and spread into his cheeks, before returning his hands to pin the other’s wrists before he noticed. America had always looked fetching in red, whether it was draped over his skin, or clinging to his almost unnoticeable unless you were close freckles when he blushed. Absently, he recalled the one time he’d snatched America off the streets of St. Petersburg years ago – where he’d been sneaking and spying no doubt – and wrapped the teenager in the brilliant red of his old flag before he’d fucked him senseless. That had been one of the better memories of their war together. Well, for him at least.
He was sure the owner of those glaring blue eyes would disagree.
America growled, glaring at him, before he made an odd choking noise, comprehension lighting his eyes, “The damned snowman,” he said, voice stifled behind the gag but understandable enough, and Russia grinned, even as he put more force into the pin that his rival had thrown all his weight against in order to get out. Or, at least, get Russia knocked off.
But even as America had been startled by his presence, Russia could see the surprise had faded away as their encounter progressed. He knew, just as America knew, that this was par for course for the both of them; it was far from the first time they had snuck into each other’s territory and incited the basic, bare-faced need to fuck with each other, both metaphorically and literally. Though, more often than not, the bright-eyed nation preferred being the bottom.
And he’d never ever consider that someone couldn’t control the night from the bottom; America had…ah…educated him well enough on that one. England would have a heart attack if he ever knew how much France had actually influenced his precious former colony.
But this night was not about France or England, or even the enticing, arousing thoughts about a very dominating blond with grinning, vicious blue eyes…and he needed to stop thinking about that otherwise he’d loose the battle he was fighting right now.
Or rather, he’d let America escape the pin he’d been put into, and then he’d loose his leverage. And he’d come here tonight with the need to fuck the other into incoherence. He wasn’t going to let his memories overwhelm him now. Those were better saved for later at night, once he’d enjoyed himself.
He shifted his grip on America’s wrists to one hand carefully, flattening himself over the younger nation when the other had bucked violently enough to almost unseat him. He barely missed a knee to a very sensitive place when the pin weakened, but instead of letting it throw him off, he used his newly free hand to seize one tanned, slender leg and slung it over his shoulder, grabbing America by his hip and tugging him flush against him. The flush on his cheeks grew darker as their lower halves came into contact, and his eyes fell to half-mast when Russia rubbed against him, intentionally, deliberately slow. He shifted the teen’s wrists into his other hand, and caught America’s other flailing leg, fastening it tightly around his waist, pulling him ever closer, gripping his hips with a bruising force.
Blue eyes glared, and the struggle had all but stopped. But Russia wasn’t a novice at pinning his rival, and he knew very well that it was only when full concession was given that he could proceed.
He dipped down and tongues tangled, viciously battling for dominance, though Russia had a blatant advantage he could use, and did so. America bucked upwards, temptingly, distractingly, but he forced himself to ignore the sudden rush of pleasure and swallowed the breath, the moans, the words; anything the other nation would give him, until…
America went limp underneath him and he broke their kiss, catching sight of the reluctant concession and warning for next time gleaming in those eyes, before he grinned and reached down to strip his lover bare.
BREAK
“You know, if you wanted to have sex, you could’ve just said so,” Alfred grumbled, once they’d finished their activities and Ivan had reached around to curl the younger in his embrace. He shifted slightly against the larger nation, who’d wrapped around him tightly, as if he was afraid of Alfred slipping off into the night (which had, in fact, happened before), disregarding the fact that this was his room.
He could feel Ivan making a face above him, from where the other nation had settled his chin on golden locks. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and pressed his cheek against his lover’s collarbone, and let the warmth of the other’s body lull him back to sleep.
He made an absent mental note bury the older nation in a pile of snow come morning. The mess he’d have to clean up afterwards would be worth it
EXTRA: THE NEXT MORNING
Matthew stretched as he yawned, smiling as he woke from his much needed slumber. He carefully pushed his bear off to the side of the bed, so he lay undisturbed, while he moved over to the window to see what night had wrought on the neighborhood.
He blinked, slightly startled when he noticed the snowman had disappeared into a heap of casually disregarded snow; it was almost as if someone had pushed themselves out of within a snow pile. Then, he caught sight of the footprints, and alarm flooded his veins.
Someone had climbed out of inside that snowman.
He followed the pair of footprints that led away from the snowman and…towards the tree that hovered in front of his brother’s bedroom. The bedroom with an open window - !
He bolted for his brother’s room, yanking open the door, before he gaped in shock, then slamming it shut with an intensity that hadn’t existed before. He heard a yelp from inside – Alfred, most likely – that had probably been from the sudden sound, and a low grumble from his brother’s…companion.
And suddenly, he knew exactly how to deal with this.
“I’m getting breakfast ready, Al,” he called through the door, and heard a loud thump that sounded like someone getting pushed out of bed. It was heavier than Al, so it must’ve been…he grinned, teeth gleaming. “Tell Russia he’s welcome to come down to,” he added, and heard another thump, this time that sounded more like his brother when he’d gotten tangled in the sheets and couldn’t get them off. “I think we’ve got to talk.”
Dead silence from behind his brother’s door.
He smirked, making a mental note, as he walked downstairs to get breakfast started, to text Arthur about this new information so he could deal with it appropriately. It wouldn’t do to invite Arthur’s wrath down upon him for even knowing without telling him about something like this.
His brother could deal. He knew how to manage an overprotective Arthur. Who’d let himself be managed. Eventually.
Russia?
Welcome to hell, neighbor.