[fic] Hetalia - "To Ride On"
Dec. 1st, 2011 12:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
konstantyaTitle: To Ride On
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Angst, drama,porn?
Characters/pairings: AustriaxBelarus. (Implied Belarus->Russia and past AustriaxHungary.)
Rating: Hard R
Word count: 5,100 (excluding notes)
Summary: In which sex turns into something more than sex, but distinctly less than love. (Sequel to White Horses.)
Period: Modern.
Warnings: Still kind of porny, still has those BDSM themes.DX
Austria, she had come to realize, was a very odd nation, and perhaps an even odder man.
From behind her, he clicked his tongue, his fingers snagging in her hair again. "This won't do," he remarked, voice light and mild. There was a shifting of sheets, the sound of his feet against the floor, and it was enough to pull her out of the drained, half-asleep state she'd been in. Tiredly, her muscles still a little unsteady, she raised herself up on her arms just in time to see him rummaging around on his dresser-top. The next moment, he'd apparently found what he was looking for, and returned to the bedside. He looked at her expectantly, a hair brush in hand.
"Turn," he said, and gestured with a little twirl of the brush. She didn't even think twice about complying, though she curiously raised a hand to the back of her head. Her hair was something of a tangled, matted mess.
'Sex hair,' was what America would have called it. She supposed that would have been fitting, since she'd just had an awful lot of that particular activity.
Austria settled behind her, sitting back on his feet, his knees to either side of her hips, and proceeded to nimbly go to work on the knots. He was gentle and thorough—reverent, even, the way he handled her locks, one hand on the brush and the other in her hair, lifting here and combing there, and it made her wonder if his hands were just naturally adept at these sorts of things, or if he'd maybe done this before. Her scalp tingled with the attention, finding it both relaxing and stimulating.
"Have dinner with me," he suddenly said, and she blinked, caught off guard by the conversational tone.
"Are you asking me?"
His hand paused then, and he quite honestly asked, "Would you like me to?"
She breathed, concentrating on the way her body was still exhausted, the way her cheeks were still flushed. "No," she whispered.
The brush went back in her hair. "Well, then. Have dinner with me."
"When?" she heard herself ask.
"Next Thursday?" She nodded. "Seven o'clock?" She nodded again. His hands in her hair were downright hypnotizing.
"What should I wear?"
"Oh…" he said thoughtfully. He set down the brush, ran his fingertips over her neck, gathered her hair, and twisted it into a loose knot on the top of her head. "Something nice."
She swallowed, wanting to test her boundaries. "What if I'm late?"
His hand tightened in her hair then, tipping her head forward, and his other hand pressed against her stomach, drawing her back against him. His teeth nipped warningly at the back of her neck, making her gasp, and he said, "You won't be."
---
She didn't have much from the past. With a history as tumultuous as hers, things were lost easily, innocence included. Still, there were a few relics she'd managed to save: some cathedrals, her folk arts—and a handful of personal effects, packed haphazardly into a couple trunks. Antique knives, faded hair ribbons, a rosary, an old flag, and even some clothes, an evening gown among them.
It was from before the First World War, short-sleeved and slim-skirted, pale blue with a black lace overlay. She'd once had long gloves that went with it, but those were gone now.
A lot of things from before the First World War were gone now.
---
It was Thursday afternoon that saw her knocking on her sister's door.
"I…I need help with my hair," she got out, haltingly, and more than a little curtly when Ukraine answered the door. "You always used to have your hair up in braids, and I need something like that."
She had tried to style it herself, all morning, and the only thing she'd been able to manage half-decently had been a pony-tail. Overcome with frustration and hating her hair for not cooperating, she'd considered just hacking it all off, but had stopped when she realized that that would have been even less elegant than a mere pony-tail. And elegant was what she needed tonight.
Her sister hesitated. "…Is this for Russia?" Ukraine asked, tentatively.
And she didn't answer, because she honestly didn't know.
At her silence, Ukraine gave her a look that was somewhere in between concerned and pitying. "Bela…"
"Are you going to help me or not?" she demanded, bristling with irritation all over again, because these were things she didn't want to think about, didn't want to think about and just wanted to do.
Ukraine sighed. "Yes," she said, placing her hands on her shoulders and giving her a light, resigned kiss on the forehead. "You're my sister; how could I not?"
---
It was strange, going to his door and ringing the bell, when she almost always slipped in a window, these days.
She'd worn a long coat and had even covered her hair with a scarf, tying it under her chin the way her grandmothers did. It was unlikely that anyone might have recognized her, but she hadn't wanted to risk it. Her relationship with Austria was a complicated one—one she didn't much care to think about, and wanted to explain even less. Whether he felt the same way about her, she didn't know, but some unspoken agreement had passed between them on the matter: No one else needed to know.
He was dressed in black and white, his tuxedo jacket short and tail-less, his bow tie black—a style most men now reserved for very formal occasions, though he obviously remembered it had originally been intended as mere dinner wear. He ushered her in and shut the door.
"Oh…" she heard him murmur when she removed her head scarf, and she turned to find him staring appreciatively at her hair.
"My sister did it," she said, a bit stiffly, because she honestly wasn't sure what else to say. She supposed this was what they called a date. America had taken her on a few of them, when she'd briefly stayed with him in the early 1990s, but America had been different. He was boyish and boisterous and had been far more interested in the special effects of the movie they'd just seen than he was with her hair.
"Your sister does impressive work," he said, keeping his eyes on her hair for one more second, before dragging them away and taking both her scarf and coat. He hung them in his front closet, and it occurred to her that he must have once had a butler to do these sorts of tasks.
The dining table was laid out simply—far more simply than how it had been when he'd hosted Christmas—but just as elegantly. The lighting was warm, not too low yet not bright enough to be overbearing. Music played in the background, and it made her stop.
"Rachmaninov," she said.
He looked at her then, apparently surprised she had placed the composer. "Yes," he confirmed, a pleased expression playing about his lips. "Piano Concerto No. 3." He seated her, uncovered her dinner, and then took his own seat at the other end of the table. Feeling a bit removed from herself, she placed her napkin in her lap.
She only knew it was Rachmaninov because her brother had been proud of him, her brother had loved him, and she'd thought that if she listened to his music, maybe he'd love her, too. It hadn't worked, but she had developed something of an appreciation for the man's compositions. The music swelled softly about the room, and she looked around, surprised to find a speaker installed in every corner of the ceiling.
"I wouldn't have thought you the type for a modern sound system," she admitted.
"It's a matter of sound quality," he explained, putting his own napkin in his lap. "I admit I do have a fondness for phonographs, if only because it was the first machine to record and play back music, which was terribly convenient, but nothing compared to a live performance. Modern electronics are advanced enough to be able to produce the sound almost perfectly. I still prefer live performances, of course, but one can't very easily have an orchestra at their disposal."
At least, not anymore, she thought, and she wondered if he thought the same thing.
Austria was looking at her. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to start. She blinked, not used to such treatment, and looked down at the dinner. Though she hadn't had to formally use them in years, decades, maybe more, she remembered the rules of etiquette when it came to eating, and reached for the soup spoon. It was a potato soup—different from her own cuisine, but still remarkably delicious. Veal for the main course. Greens on the side.
She'd gathered he was something of an aficionado when it came to pastries, if the hearsay was to be believed, and wondered if that extended to other areas of the kitchen, as well. Had he made all of this himself? It seemed difficult to imagine, but since he had no household staff, what other explanation was there? Thoughtfully, she took a sip of wine. It was white and semi-sweet, and slid down her throat like the winter sun.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
She nodded slightly, eyes still on her glass, because she did, and it was all so very surreal. The dinner, and him, and the wine, and the music, and she suddenly demanded, "Why do you keep doing this?"
Austria looked up, his face utterly polite and utterly unreadable. "Doing what?"
Being nice to me, she wanted to say, but that wasn't quite right, now was it? Not when she ended up with welts on her bottom and bruises around her wrists. Her cheeks flushed at the memories, and she flicked her head off to the side.
"…Pardon me for pointing it out," Austria said mildly, "but it's you who keeps breaking into my house."
She swallowed, suddenly feeling very exposed with her hair pulled back and pinned up, and suddenly, agreeing to dinner had been a very big mistake.
She jerked her chair back, the feet screeching against the floor, the napkin falling from her lap, and she bolted for the doorway—but before she was even halfway there, he had caught her wrist. And before she could grab for one of her knives with her other hand, he had caught that wrist, too, holding them behind her, because he knew her so well, he knew her so well and for some reason that was so very, very frightening.
"Let me go!" she snarled, because she was angry, so angry, at him, and Russia, and herself, and she tried to kick her leg back, to trip him, to hit his shin, anything, but her damned dress was too long, and too confining, and then he lifted one hand to her neck, and she froze.
"Do you really want me to?" he murmured, politely, or maybe he was just feigning politeness, because sometimes he could be cruel, so cruel, and she couldn't tell what was real and what was the act anymore. Still, his voice vibrated in her ear, and she could feel the heat of his body, and her heart was pounding, and she would have been lying if she said she didn't lean into his touch, just a little.
His thumb stroked the muscle that connected to her shoulder, his fingertips tracing her collarbone, and her head fell back against him. "Please," she whispered.
His fingers continued their idle exploration, and he asked, almost innocently, "Please what?"
"You know what," she said, her eyes looking helplessly ahead, her breaths shallow.
"One can never be too sure."
"You just like hearing me say it," she spat half-heartedly, growing tired of the way he was drawing the conversation out.
"That's always a possibility," he said, and he maybe sounded a little amused.
Accepting defeat, she closed her eyes, finally whispering, "Please, take me."
"But we've barely started dinner."
Her eyebrows drew together, silently entreating. "I'm not hungry."
"I suspect you don't eat enough, Miss Belarus."
"What do you care?"
He moved his hand to wrap around the front of her neck, fingers firmly tilting her chin up. "I don't recall giving you permission to question me."
Her pulse spiked, and she swallowed against his palm. Head dizzy and blood burning, she whispered, "I'm sorry, sir."
"And if 'sorry' isn't good enough?" he murmured against her ear, and she shuddered, letting out a small moan.
"Please," she said again.
He clicked his tongue disappointedly. "You've gone soft, Miss Belarus."
"I don't care," she whimpered—and it was true. She needed his hands on her, and his voice commanding her, and his body owning her, and everything else fell by the wayside.
"Selfish, too," he remarked.
"Please," she begged, arching back against him, because her head was too light and his voice was too much. "Punish me, fuck me, love me, just please."
There was a pause, and then Austria said, "Alright," and his tone had turned grave. His hands dropped from her, and she turned to see him walking back to the dining table. He shifted the candelabra, clearing a space, and then looked about the room, searching. A moment later, he rounded the table, going to the heavy drapes that covered the long windows, and after another moment of fiddling, turned back with a curtain tie. He pulled it experimentally between his hands, then moved next to the dining table, gesturing for her to do the same on the other side. Flushed and expectant, she did so.
"Your hands," he said, and obediently, she presented them, her wrists already pressed together, and her lips parted at that detail. When had this all become so natural, so necessary?
He wrapped the curtain tie around her wrists, and then pulled, until she was forced to lay flush against the table, her arms stretched out in front of her, and then he crouched down, lifting up the tablecloth and securing the cord to the leafing mechanism underneath. He stood, walked back around the table, out of her line of sight, and she waited, bated and breathless. And then she felt him take hold of the bottom hem of her dress.
"I didn't mention it before," he said, lifting the skirt, gently bunching it around her waist so that her legs and rear-end were exposed, "but this is a lovely dress." And then, without warning, his hand came down hard on her backside. She yelped, because it hurt, and it felt so good. And then he did it again, and again and again, until her skin was burning and her nerves were lightning.
When he was done, he craned over her, his lips near the back of her ear, one hand on her waist, and his hips pressed flush against her stinging rear. "That was for speaking out of turn," he said. She arched against him, throbbing, gasping, silently entreating. "And this…" His hand moved from her waist, trailed along her hip and dipped between her legs, a single fingertip touching, and brushing, and teasing, making her writhe and moan, because she was so ready, too ready, and just when she thought she'd die if he didn't go further—
"This is for being impatient," he said, and suddenly pulled away from her. The next moment saw him primly taking his seat again and replacing his napkin in his lap. All she could do was blink at him incredulously, her mind trying to catch up with what had just happened.
"What?" Austria said, completely unperturbed by the panting, half-exposed woman tied across his dining table. "Just because you aren't hungry doesn't mean I'm not."
She blinked again, catching her breath, and then the anger kicked in, and she tugged her arms, wishing she could reach her knives—to cut herself free, to cut that arrogant expression off his face—because they were so close, still tucked into her stockings, and she just bet he'd left them there on purpose, just so they could mock her with their proximity. It was all useless, and she let out a noise that was a half-whimper and a half-growl. "You are such a dick, you know that?" she demanded viciously, glaring so fiercely that anybody else would have turned tail and run. All Austria did was dryly look up from his veal.
"Would you like to stay there through dessert?" he asked pointedly, and though she continued glaring, her mouth snapped shut. Pouting, frustrated, humiliated, and terribly aroused, she turned her head back to her bound hands, propped her chin against the table, and petulantly resigned herself.
"Ah," Austria said, leaning back in his chair, taking a drink of wine, and surveying his new centerpiece, "now that's a good girl."
Afterward, in his bed, he rubbed her wrists and her arms, hung up her dress, and tucked the sheet around her shoulders. "Why do you keep coming here?" he murmured curiously, and she opened her eyes and fixed him with a tired, wondering gaze.
"Why do you keep letting me?" she asked in turn.
He smiled then, a little sadly, and gently pinned one of her braids back in place. "Touché."
---
"Sister," she once asked, "do you know much about Austria?"
"Austria?" Ukraine parroted, pausing in the middle of a braid. Playing with her hair, styling it, brushing it, had become something of a bonding experience. Her sister liked it, and despite their familial problems, she liked seeing Ukraine happy, so she tolerated the sessions. "Why do you care about him?"
"He was once married," she said.
Ukraine sighed wearily, turning back to her platinum locks. "Not this again, Bela."
---
Russia called, on a Tuesday, to cancel on her.
"Brother," she said, her voice turning into a keening growl, the all-too-familiar anger and disappointment kicking in. "We were supposed to meet. To discuss joining our bank accounts."
"I-It's my boss!" he nervously insisted. "He just thinks now is not a good time for it. I…I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't sound very upset by the turn of events. After a moment of awkward silence, she heard a click from his end of the line.
She stood there, receiver in hand, until the voice of the operator took pity on her, telling her that if she'd like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again.
---
He was expecting her that night.
"I heard the talks regarding the monetary union were pushed back," he explained. She blinked.
"Oh," she said.
And then he drew her across his lap, pulled her hair to the side, and sunk his mouth possessively into her neck.
Afterward, when she was a gasping, mewling, trembling mess, he released her arms from where they'd been stretched out above her, dangling from one of the canopy beams. He massaged her shoulders, worked the feeling back into her hands, kissed her wrists, and she watched him as he did all this. When he was done, when her body had cooled down and he'd pulled the covers over her, she licked her lips, pensive and wanting.
"Would—?" she started to ask, but stopped herself, feeling oddly embarrassed, or needy, or something. Something unfamiliar, and she didn't like it for that reason alone.
Austria placed a long finger under her chin, tilting her head up and making her look at him. He cocked his head, his voice and expression the very image of politeness. "Yes?"
She swallowed, finding it hard to deny him when he did such things. "Would you play something for me?"
He blinked, dropped his hand, and looked a little bemused by the request. "Play something," he repeated.
"On your piano. I've never heard you play."
Delicately, he arched an eyebrow. "Never?"
She shrugged slightly, his attention bringing a guilty tinge to her cheeks. "I never paid attention," she corrected, because they both knew he had played at Russia's house, two-hundred years ago now, when she'd seen him as nothing more than a thin, weak nation who probably owed all his success to dumb luck.
"Ah!" Austria said, apparently not bothered by the fact that she had ignored him in the past. On the contrary, he seemed rather pleased he had coaxed the truth out of her. He moved off the bed and padded to his closet, black dress socks gliding across the floor.
Despite how he fairly often stripped her down to nothing, never did he remove all of his own clothing. It was rare for him to remove his trousers all the way, even, though he'd done so this time. His legs were long and lean, sticking out from a pair of plain white under-shorts, the hem of his equally white shirt almost covering the other article up. Though he was as rumpled as she'd ever seen him, he was still remarkably well-kempt for anybody else, his cuffs still buttoned, his tie still on, though slightly loosened from activity.
He returned from the closet, a navy blue robe in his hands. "Please," he said, holding it out for her. She blinked, and then a moment later, slid out from under the covers, turning her back to him, slipping her arms into the sleeves, feeling self-conscious and unsure, because she was never quite able to reconcile the liberties he took with her body with the conservatism he displayed everywhere else.
He wasn't a large nation, by any means, but he was still a man, and a tall one at that. Not as tall as her brother, granted, but the robe was still big on her, trailing all the way down to her toes, the sleeves reaching the tips of her fingers. Once she'd secured it with the sash, he offered his hand, and she took it, and he led her to his music room.
Austria, as expected, took his seat at the piano. He provided a stool for her, set behind him and slightly off to the side.
"What would you like to hear?" he asked, and she blinked, caught off guard.
"I don't know." It was true. So rarely was she asked what she wanted—not by her government, not by her brother, and what few nations did dare to speak to her, well, it was never on a personal level.
He stared at her for a few, thoughtful moments, as if he could turn her inside out with just his gaze. She looked right back, expressionlessly, hands in her lap, knees together, sitting straight-backed and stiff as a board.
Eventually, his lips twitched, and he said, "I think I know just the thing." And with that, he turned back to the instrument. He stretched briefly, ran through a couple scales, and then—began.
It was a piece that was, surprisingly, familiar to her. From the ballet, Giselle. From the second act, specifically, where the Wilis, those fairies from Slavic mythology, were introduced. He played, his shoulders rolling, his fingers flying, and they were her fairies, and she wasn't Giselle, the poor girl who went mad because the man she loved didn't love her back, she was Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, beautiful and terrible and graceful and strong—
And suddenly she was on her feet, and her hand was pushed down on his, bringing the piece to an abrupt, discordant halt.
He looked up at her, perhaps startled, but she couldn't tell because her eyes were still fixed on the keys, her fingers still pressed on his, tense and taut, her heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed, not sure if she was frightened, or angry, or something else, not sure of what came next—but after a dreadfully long moment, he moved. He took her hand in one of his, easing the tension from her fingers, and the other went around her waist, gently encouraging her to sit down next to him. "Here," he murmured, shifting over, bringing her with him, until she sat in the middle of the bench.
"Have you ever played before?" he asked, and she simply shook her head, staring down at the ivories laid out before her.
Her hand still in his, he guided it to the keyboard. "This is middle C." He pressed her finger down, and the note resonated throughout the room. He removed his hand from hers, and she repeated the motion on her own. The note rang through the room again, sounding alien and foreign now that it was born from her hand.
Her hand looked foreign against the keys as well, almost as pale as the ivories. "You trust me with your piano," she realized, feeling that this was somehow important, though she couldn't pin down why.
Austria glanced sideways at her, and pointed out, "You have no knives on you."
"But I still have my nails," she breathed. She could scratch, and the lacquer would crack away, the wood would splinter and dig in to her cuticles, the way it did when her brother locked her out, leaving her to claw at the door.
Her fingers contracted, scraping against the keys. Austria wasted no time. Immediately he grabbed her hand, protecting his piano, and it hurt, because he loved it, and that was enough to make her hate it, enough to make her want to splinter it into a thousand pieces, because she wanted to be loved, too, wanted to be wanted. She struggled against him, and he tried to restrain her, and somehow she ended up in front of him, and he pinned her against the instrument, her rear hitting the keyboard, a terrible, dissonant blend of notes cutting through the room, and that was her, all harsh and shrill and unwanted.
"Please," she rasped, her body shaking, her legs trying to grind his hips against hers, the robe falling open, her hands clawing at his front. The keys muttered and screeched at the movement, and they were her voice, she was the piano, and she needed him to play her, needed him to play her because sometimes it felt like she had this gaping hole inside her, and the only thing that could ever seem to fill it were his hands—plucking and stroking and caressing and striking. "Please," she said again, more urgently, and she was dully aware of him reaching between them, dully aware of the rustling of fabric.
She moaned when he entered her, swift and deep, her legs wrapping desperately around him, as if afraid he would pull out and leave her empty and idle. He raked his fingers through her hair, his hand firm, and claimed her mouth, her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, each kiss branding and calming.
He held her like that, one hand tight in her hair, the other possessively pressing her hips to his, until her trembling subsided, until she was gasping in arousal instead of panic, until her body was pliant and begging him to continue.
He wasn't a very strong nation, but he was strong enough, and he lifted her off the keyboard, still nestled in her, her legs still hooked around him, her hands still clinging to his shoulders. He carried her out of the music room, back toward his bedchamber, his hands splayed across the backs of her thighs, the robe flapping below as he walked.
"Perhaps piano lessons can wait," he murmured when they arrived, and lowered her back to the bed, pinning her hands above her and pressing her into the mattress.
---
At the next world meeting, she sat next to Russia, as she usually did. At the end of the meeting, practically everyone rushed out, glad for it to be over—it was a bright, sunny day, and even Germany hadn't seemed to want to stay in the stuffy conference room all afternoon—and she lost her brother all in the commotion.
Standing outside the building, she peered at the quickly dispersing nations, eventually spying Russia's bulky frame moving surreptitiously toward his car. She was just about to break into a quick, stalking stride when she caught something out of the corner of her eye that gave her pause.
Austria stood under the shade of a tree, talking with Hungary. Judging by their body language, she wondered if it was perhaps state matters they were discussing—things that were relevant to the two of them, but not necessarily the entire world, hence why they hadn't been brought up during the meeting. It must have been, because Hungary reached into her pink folder, fished out a thin report of some sort, and handed it to him. Austria gave the first couple pages a glancing over, said something, then tucked it in his briefcase. Hungary checked her watch, gave him a quick, platonic peck on the cheek, and then dashed off, yelling and waving her good-bye.
Austria watched her, just for a moment, his expression the slightest bit wistful.
---
It wasn't jealousy that made her ask. More curiosity than anything. Because he'd loved once, and been loved back, and it was the reciprocation that fascinated her, that made her wonder if her desires were really so crazy after all.
"Do you miss her?"
She laid face-down on his bed, propped up on her elbows, his robe around her once more. Austria sat next to her, against the head-board, an over-stuffed pillow cushioning his back, a snifter of brandy in his hand. She'd drunk hers long ago, her tolerance for hard liquors higher, and the empty glass sat on his nightstand.
At the question, he looked down at her and blinked, the only indication that he might have been surprised by the words. For a moment, she wondered if she needed to specify a name, but then he sighed. "Sometimes," he admitted, his eyes distant. "I miss the way the world was when we were together… I miss what our union represented. The First World War brought about the end of a great many more things than just our marriage." He swirled his brandy, then took a drink of it. She looked down at the bed, slowly fingering the sheets—fine-woven cotton. She wondered if he'd once had silk or satin.
"…Maybe empires will one day come back," she said—her awkward, unskilled attempt at offering comfort. Austria lowered his glass from his lips and arched a dry eyebrow at her.
"Maybe your brother will one day return your affections," he retorted, as if he found both ideas foolish and unobtainable. Before she could glare in offense, though, he let out a soft breath and went on:
"Until then…" he said, gently tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "…I'll leave a window open."
-----
Notes:
-Giselle is a Romantic ballet, French in origin, though it borrows from Slavic mythology. The titular Giselle is a peasant girl who falls in love with Albrecht, a duke who poses as a peasant, just to get some last-minute bachelor action in before he marries. Upon finding out the truth about Albrecht, Giselle goes mad and dies. The Wilis (also known as Vila, Wila, and other variants, depending on the language) are, at least in the ballet, female spirits who were jilted before their wedding day and who rise from their graves at night to take vengeance upon living men. They want to dance Albrecht to his death for being such a callous dick, but Giselle, being the good Romantic heroine she is, forgives Albrecht and protects him. Giselle's "mad dance" is admittedly one of the more awesome things out of classical ballet, but it's Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, who has my heart. She's just so regal and badass. Here's a great video of where she and the Wilis dance Hilarion, another dude, to death. (2:20, man—she's all, "Bitch, get out of here; there's a lake with your name on it. I've got bigger fish to fry."ILU MYRTHA.)
A/N: Man, I don't know what it is with me and this pairing. It started off as crack inspired by a picture from Kuroshitsuji, and then it turned into an experiment in porn, and now it's like, "No, really, there's a lot of potential here!" I don't even know anymore. Suffice it to say, I think I'm officially fascinated by AustriaxBelarus, because it totally shouldn't work, yet it totally can. They're like my RenoxTifa of the Hetalia fandom. Except with less bartending and punches to the face, and more sex and fancy clothes.
Speaking of which, I didn't originally intend for this fic to end up as porny as it did, honest. When I started this, I was all :D, because I'd already gotten the sex out of the way in White Horses, and I foolishly thought this meant I wouldn't need it in this one. I mean, Austria was all, "Let's have dinner," which seemed all well and good, but then it turned out Belarus was all, "I'd rather have sex," and I was like, okay, that's cool, I can do a fade-to-black, no biggie. But then Austria had to go and be all, "Nein, I want to eat first," and, well, cue Belarus tied across the dining table. And it's just like, YOU GUYS. WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME. DX
(And as an aside, damn it, Austria—thanks for giving me a full-on hand fetish. It was never so bad until I started writing you.)
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Angst, drama,
Characters/pairings: AustriaxBelarus. (Implied Belarus->Russia and past AustriaxHungary.)
Rating: Hard R
Word count: 5,100 (excluding notes)
Summary: In which sex turns into something more than sex, but distinctly less than love. (Sequel to White Horses.)
Period: Modern.
Warnings: Still kind of porny, still has those BDSM themes.
- To Ride On -
Austria, she had come to realize, was a very odd nation, and perhaps an even odder man.
From behind her, he clicked his tongue, his fingers snagging in her hair again. "This won't do," he remarked, voice light and mild. There was a shifting of sheets, the sound of his feet against the floor, and it was enough to pull her out of the drained, half-asleep state she'd been in. Tiredly, her muscles still a little unsteady, she raised herself up on her arms just in time to see him rummaging around on his dresser-top. The next moment, he'd apparently found what he was looking for, and returned to the bedside. He looked at her expectantly, a hair brush in hand.
"Turn," he said, and gestured with a little twirl of the brush. She didn't even think twice about complying, though she curiously raised a hand to the back of her head. Her hair was something of a tangled, matted mess.
'Sex hair,' was what America would have called it. She supposed that would have been fitting, since she'd just had an awful lot of that particular activity.
Austria settled behind her, sitting back on his feet, his knees to either side of her hips, and proceeded to nimbly go to work on the knots. He was gentle and thorough—reverent, even, the way he handled her locks, one hand on the brush and the other in her hair, lifting here and combing there, and it made her wonder if his hands were just naturally adept at these sorts of things, or if he'd maybe done this before. Her scalp tingled with the attention, finding it both relaxing and stimulating.
"Have dinner with me," he suddenly said, and she blinked, caught off guard by the conversational tone.
"Are you asking me?"
His hand paused then, and he quite honestly asked, "Would you like me to?"
She breathed, concentrating on the way her body was still exhausted, the way her cheeks were still flushed. "No," she whispered.
The brush went back in her hair. "Well, then. Have dinner with me."
"When?" she heard herself ask.
"Next Thursday?" She nodded. "Seven o'clock?" She nodded again. His hands in her hair were downright hypnotizing.
"What should I wear?"
"Oh…" he said thoughtfully. He set down the brush, ran his fingertips over her neck, gathered her hair, and twisted it into a loose knot on the top of her head. "Something nice."
She swallowed, wanting to test her boundaries. "What if I'm late?"
His hand tightened in her hair then, tipping her head forward, and his other hand pressed against her stomach, drawing her back against him. His teeth nipped warningly at the back of her neck, making her gasp, and he said, "You won't be."
She didn't have much from the past. With a history as tumultuous as hers, things were lost easily, innocence included. Still, there were a few relics she'd managed to save: some cathedrals, her folk arts—and a handful of personal effects, packed haphazardly into a couple trunks. Antique knives, faded hair ribbons, a rosary, an old flag, and even some clothes, an evening gown among them.
It was from before the First World War, short-sleeved and slim-skirted, pale blue with a black lace overlay. She'd once had long gloves that went with it, but those were gone now.
A lot of things from before the First World War were gone now.
It was Thursday afternoon that saw her knocking on her sister's door.
"I…I need help with my hair," she got out, haltingly, and more than a little curtly when Ukraine answered the door. "You always used to have your hair up in braids, and I need something like that."
She had tried to style it herself, all morning, and the only thing she'd been able to manage half-decently had been a pony-tail. Overcome with frustration and hating her hair for not cooperating, she'd considered just hacking it all off, but had stopped when she realized that that would have been even less elegant than a mere pony-tail. And elegant was what she needed tonight.
Her sister hesitated. "…Is this for Russia?" Ukraine asked, tentatively.
And she didn't answer, because she honestly didn't know.
At her silence, Ukraine gave her a look that was somewhere in between concerned and pitying. "Bela…"
"Are you going to help me or not?" she demanded, bristling with irritation all over again, because these were things she didn't want to think about, didn't want to think about and just wanted to do.
Ukraine sighed. "Yes," she said, placing her hands on her shoulders and giving her a light, resigned kiss on the forehead. "You're my sister; how could I not?"
It was strange, going to his door and ringing the bell, when she almost always slipped in a window, these days.
She'd worn a long coat and had even covered her hair with a scarf, tying it under her chin the way her grandmothers did. It was unlikely that anyone might have recognized her, but she hadn't wanted to risk it. Her relationship with Austria was a complicated one—one she didn't much care to think about, and wanted to explain even less. Whether he felt the same way about her, she didn't know, but some unspoken agreement had passed between them on the matter: No one else needed to know.
He was dressed in black and white, his tuxedo jacket short and tail-less, his bow tie black—a style most men now reserved for very formal occasions, though he obviously remembered it had originally been intended as mere dinner wear. He ushered her in and shut the door.
"Oh…" she heard him murmur when she removed her head scarf, and she turned to find him staring appreciatively at her hair.
"My sister did it," she said, a bit stiffly, because she honestly wasn't sure what else to say. She supposed this was what they called a date. America had taken her on a few of them, when she'd briefly stayed with him in the early 1990s, but America had been different. He was boyish and boisterous and had been far more interested in the special effects of the movie they'd just seen than he was with her hair.
"Your sister does impressive work," he said, keeping his eyes on her hair for one more second, before dragging them away and taking both her scarf and coat. He hung them in his front closet, and it occurred to her that he must have once had a butler to do these sorts of tasks.
The dining table was laid out simply—far more simply than how it had been when he'd hosted Christmas—but just as elegantly. The lighting was warm, not too low yet not bright enough to be overbearing. Music played in the background, and it made her stop.
"Rachmaninov," she said.
He looked at her then, apparently surprised she had placed the composer. "Yes," he confirmed, a pleased expression playing about his lips. "Piano Concerto No. 3." He seated her, uncovered her dinner, and then took his own seat at the other end of the table. Feeling a bit removed from herself, she placed her napkin in her lap.
She only knew it was Rachmaninov because her brother had been proud of him, her brother had loved him, and she'd thought that if she listened to his music, maybe he'd love her, too. It hadn't worked, but she had developed something of an appreciation for the man's compositions. The music swelled softly about the room, and she looked around, surprised to find a speaker installed in every corner of the ceiling.
"I wouldn't have thought you the type for a modern sound system," she admitted.
"It's a matter of sound quality," he explained, putting his own napkin in his lap. "I admit I do have a fondness for phonographs, if only because it was the first machine to record and play back music, which was terribly convenient, but nothing compared to a live performance. Modern electronics are advanced enough to be able to produce the sound almost perfectly. I still prefer live performances, of course, but one can't very easily have an orchestra at their disposal."
At least, not anymore, she thought, and she wondered if he thought the same thing.
Austria was looking at her. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to start. She blinked, not used to such treatment, and looked down at the dinner. Though she hadn't had to formally use them in years, decades, maybe more, she remembered the rules of etiquette when it came to eating, and reached for the soup spoon. It was a potato soup—different from her own cuisine, but still remarkably delicious. Veal for the main course. Greens on the side.
She'd gathered he was something of an aficionado when it came to pastries, if the hearsay was to be believed, and wondered if that extended to other areas of the kitchen, as well. Had he made all of this himself? It seemed difficult to imagine, but since he had no household staff, what other explanation was there? Thoughtfully, she took a sip of wine. It was white and semi-sweet, and slid down her throat like the winter sun.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
She nodded slightly, eyes still on her glass, because she did, and it was all so very surreal. The dinner, and him, and the wine, and the music, and she suddenly demanded, "Why do you keep doing this?"
Austria looked up, his face utterly polite and utterly unreadable. "Doing what?"
Being nice to me, she wanted to say, but that wasn't quite right, now was it? Not when she ended up with welts on her bottom and bruises around her wrists. Her cheeks flushed at the memories, and she flicked her head off to the side.
"…Pardon me for pointing it out," Austria said mildly, "but it's you who keeps breaking into my house."
She swallowed, suddenly feeling very exposed with her hair pulled back and pinned up, and suddenly, agreeing to dinner had been a very big mistake.
She jerked her chair back, the feet screeching against the floor, the napkin falling from her lap, and she bolted for the doorway—but before she was even halfway there, he had caught her wrist. And before she could grab for one of her knives with her other hand, he had caught that wrist, too, holding them behind her, because he knew her so well, he knew her so well and for some reason that was so very, very frightening.
"Let me go!" she snarled, because she was angry, so angry, at him, and Russia, and herself, and she tried to kick her leg back, to trip him, to hit his shin, anything, but her damned dress was too long, and too confining, and then he lifted one hand to her neck, and she froze.
"Do you really want me to?" he murmured, politely, or maybe he was just feigning politeness, because sometimes he could be cruel, so cruel, and she couldn't tell what was real and what was the act anymore. Still, his voice vibrated in her ear, and she could feel the heat of his body, and her heart was pounding, and she would have been lying if she said she didn't lean into his touch, just a little.
His thumb stroked the muscle that connected to her shoulder, his fingertips tracing her collarbone, and her head fell back against him. "Please," she whispered.
His fingers continued their idle exploration, and he asked, almost innocently, "Please what?"
"You know what," she said, her eyes looking helplessly ahead, her breaths shallow.
"One can never be too sure."
"You just like hearing me say it," she spat half-heartedly, growing tired of the way he was drawing the conversation out.
"That's always a possibility," he said, and he maybe sounded a little amused.
Accepting defeat, she closed her eyes, finally whispering, "Please, take me."
"But we've barely started dinner."
Her eyebrows drew together, silently entreating. "I'm not hungry."
"I suspect you don't eat enough, Miss Belarus."
"What do you care?"
He moved his hand to wrap around the front of her neck, fingers firmly tilting her chin up. "I don't recall giving you permission to question me."
Her pulse spiked, and she swallowed against his palm. Head dizzy and blood burning, she whispered, "I'm sorry, sir."
"And if 'sorry' isn't good enough?" he murmured against her ear, and she shuddered, letting out a small moan.
"Please," she said again.
He clicked his tongue disappointedly. "You've gone soft, Miss Belarus."
"I don't care," she whimpered—and it was true. She needed his hands on her, and his voice commanding her, and his body owning her, and everything else fell by the wayside.
"Selfish, too," he remarked.
"Please," she begged, arching back against him, because her head was too light and his voice was too much. "Punish me, fuck me, love me, just please."
There was a pause, and then Austria said, "Alright," and his tone had turned grave. His hands dropped from her, and she turned to see him walking back to the dining table. He shifted the candelabra, clearing a space, and then looked about the room, searching. A moment later, he rounded the table, going to the heavy drapes that covered the long windows, and after another moment of fiddling, turned back with a curtain tie. He pulled it experimentally between his hands, then moved next to the dining table, gesturing for her to do the same on the other side. Flushed and expectant, she did so.
"Your hands," he said, and obediently, she presented them, her wrists already pressed together, and her lips parted at that detail. When had this all become so natural, so necessary?
He wrapped the curtain tie around her wrists, and then pulled, until she was forced to lay flush against the table, her arms stretched out in front of her, and then he crouched down, lifting up the tablecloth and securing the cord to the leafing mechanism underneath. He stood, walked back around the table, out of her line of sight, and she waited, bated and breathless. And then she felt him take hold of the bottom hem of her dress.
"I didn't mention it before," he said, lifting the skirt, gently bunching it around her waist so that her legs and rear-end were exposed, "but this is a lovely dress." And then, without warning, his hand came down hard on her backside. She yelped, because it hurt, and it felt so good. And then he did it again, and again and again, until her skin was burning and her nerves were lightning.
When he was done, he craned over her, his lips near the back of her ear, one hand on her waist, and his hips pressed flush against her stinging rear. "That was for speaking out of turn," he said. She arched against him, throbbing, gasping, silently entreating. "And this…" His hand moved from her waist, trailed along her hip and dipped between her legs, a single fingertip touching, and brushing, and teasing, making her writhe and moan, because she was so ready, too ready, and just when she thought she'd die if he didn't go further—
"This is for being impatient," he said, and suddenly pulled away from her. The next moment saw him primly taking his seat again and replacing his napkin in his lap. All she could do was blink at him incredulously, her mind trying to catch up with what had just happened.
"What?" Austria said, completely unperturbed by the panting, half-exposed woman tied across his dining table. "Just because you aren't hungry doesn't mean I'm not."
She blinked again, catching her breath, and then the anger kicked in, and she tugged her arms, wishing she could reach her knives—to cut herself free, to cut that arrogant expression off his face—because they were so close, still tucked into her stockings, and she just bet he'd left them there on purpose, just so they could mock her with their proximity. It was all useless, and she let out a noise that was a half-whimper and a half-growl. "You are such a dick, you know that?" she demanded viciously, glaring so fiercely that anybody else would have turned tail and run. All Austria did was dryly look up from his veal.
"Would you like to stay there through dessert?" he asked pointedly, and though she continued glaring, her mouth snapped shut. Pouting, frustrated, humiliated, and terribly aroused, she turned her head back to her bound hands, propped her chin against the table, and petulantly resigned herself.
"Ah," Austria said, leaning back in his chair, taking a drink of wine, and surveying his new centerpiece, "now that's a good girl."
Afterward, in his bed, he rubbed her wrists and her arms, hung up her dress, and tucked the sheet around her shoulders. "Why do you keep coming here?" he murmured curiously, and she opened her eyes and fixed him with a tired, wondering gaze.
"Why do you keep letting me?" she asked in turn.
He smiled then, a little sadly, and gently pinned one of her braids back in place. "Touché."
"Sister," she once asked, "do you know much about Austria?"
"Austria?" Ukraine parroted, pausing in the middle of a braid. Playing with her hair, styling it, brushing it, had become something of a bonding experience. Her sister liked it, and despite their familial problems, she liked seeing Ukraine happy, so she tolerated the sessions. "Why do you care about him?"
"He was once married," she said.
Ukraine sighed wearily, turning back to her platinum locks. "Not this again, Bela."
Russia called, on a Tuesday, to cancel on her.
"Brother," she said, her voice turning into a keening growl, the all-too-familiar anger and disappointment kicking in. "We were supposed to meet. To discuss joining our bank accounts."
"I-It's my boss!" he nervously insisted. "He just thinks now is not a good time for it. I…I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't sound very upset by the turn of events. After a moment of awkward silence, she heard a click from his end of the line.
She stood there, receiver in hand, until the voice of the operator took pity on her, telling her that if she'd like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again.
He was expecting her that night.
"I heard the talks regarding the monetary union were pushed back," he explained. She blinked.
"Oh," she said.
And then he drew her across his lap, pulled her hair to the side, and sunk his mouth possessively into her neck.
Afterward, when she was a gasping, mewling, trembling mess, he released her arms from where they'd been stretched out above her, dangling from one of the canopy beams. He massaged her shoulders, worked the feeling back into her hands, kissed her wrists, and she watched him as he did all this. When he was done, when her body had cooled down and he'd pulled the covers over her, she licked her lips, pensive and wanting.
"Would—?" she started to ask, but stopped herself, feeling oddly embarrassed, or needy, or something. Something unfamiliar, and she didn't like it for that reason alone.
Austria placed a long finger under her chin, tilting her head up and making her look at him. He cocked his head, his voice and expression the very image of politeness. "Yes?"
She swallowed, finding it hard to deny him when he did such things. "Would you play something for me?"
He blinked, dropped his hand, and looked a little bemused by the request. "Play something," he repeated.
"On your piano. I've never heard you play."
Delicately, he arched an eyebrow. "Never?"
She shrugged slightly, his attention bringing a guilty tinge to her cheeks. "I never paid attention," she corrected, because they both knew he had played at Russia's house, two-hundred years ago now, when she'd seen him as nothing more than a thin, weak nation who probably owed all his success to dumb luck.
"Ah!" Austria said, apparently not bothered by the fact that she had ignored him in the past. On the contrary, he seemed rather pleased he had coaxed the truth out of her. He moved off the bed and padded to his closet, black dress socks gliding across the floor.
Despite how he fairly often stripped her down to nothing, never did he remove all of his own clothing. It was rare for him to remove his trousers all the way, even, though he'd done so this time. His legs were long and lean, sticking out from a pair of plain white under-shorts, the hem of his equally white shirt almost covering the other article up. Though he was as rumpled as she'd ever seen him, he was still remarkably well-kempt for anybody else, his cuffs still buttoned, his tie still on, though slightly loosened from activity.
He returned from the closet, a navy blue robe in his hands. "Please," he said, holding it out for her. She blinked, and then a moment later, slid out from under the covers, turning her back to him, slipping her arms into the sleeves, feeling self-conscious and unsure, because she was never quite able to reconcile the liberties he took with her body with the conservatism he displayed everywhere else.
He wasn't a large nation, by any means, but he was still a man, and a tall one at that. Not as tall as her brother, granted, but the robe was still big on her, trailing all the way down to her toes, the sleeves reaching the tips of her fingers. Once she'd secured it with the sash, he offered his hand, and she took it, and he led her to his music room.
Austria, as expected, took his seat at the piano. He provided a stool for her, set behind him and slightly off to the side.
"What would you like to hear?" he asked, and she blinked, caught off guard.
"I don't know." It was true. So rarely was she asked what she wanted—not by her government, not by her brother, and what few nations did dare to speak to her, well, it was never on a personal level.
He stared at her for a few, thoughtful moments, as if he could turn her inside out with just his gaze. She looked right back, expressionlessly, hands in her lap, knees together, sitting straight-backed and stiff as a board.
Eventually, his lips twitched, and he said, "I think I know just the thing." And with that, he turned back to the instrument. He stretched briefly, ran through a couple scales, and then—began.
It was a piece that was, surprisingly, familiar to her. From the ballet, Giselle. From the second act, specifically, where the Wilis, those fairies from Slavic mythology, were introduced. He played, his shoulders rolling, his fingers flying, and they were her fairies, and she wasn't Giselle, the poor girl who went mad because the man she loved didn't love her back, she was Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, beautiful and terrible and graceful and strong—
And suddenly she was on her feet, and her hand was pushed down on his, bringing the piece to an abrupt, discordant halt.
He looked up at her, perhaps startled, but she couldn't tell because her eyes were still fixed on the keys, her fingers still pressed on his, tense and taut, her heart pounding in her chest. She swallowed, not sure if she was frightened, or angry, or something else, not sure of what came next—but after a dreadfully long moment, he moved. He took her hand in one of his, easing the tension from her fingers, and the other went around her waist, gently encouraging her to sit down next to him. "Here," he murmured, shifting over, bringing her with him, until she sat in the middle of the bench.
"Have you ever played before?" he asked, and she simply shook her head, staring down at the ivories laid out before her.
Her hand still in his, he guided it to the keyboard. "This is middle C." He pressed her finger down, and the note resonated throughout the room. He removed his hand from hers, and she repeated the motion on her own. The note rang through the room again, sounding alien and foreign now that it was born from her hand.
Her hand looked foreign against the keys as well, almost as pale as the ivories. "You trust me with your piano," she realized, feeling that this was somehow important, though she couldn't pin down why.
Austria glanced sideways at her, and pointed out, "You have no knives on you."
"But I still have my nails," she breathed. She could scratch, and the lacquer would crack away, the wood would splinter and dig in to her cuticles, the way it did when her brother locked her out, leaving her to claw at the door.
Her fingers contracted, scraping against the keys. Austria wasted no time. Immediately he grabbed her hand, protecting his piano, and it hurt, because he loved it, and that was enough to make her hate it, enough to make her want to splinter it into a thousand pieces, because she wanted to be loved, too, wanted to be wanted. She struggled against him, and he tried to restrain her, and somehow she ended up in front of him, and he pinned her against the instrument, her rear hitting the keyboard, a terrible, dissonant blend of notes cutting through the room, and that was her, all harsh and shrill and unwanted.
"Please," she rasped, her body shaking, her legs trying to grind his hips against hers, the robe falling open, her hands clawing at his front. The keys muttered and screeched at the movement, and they were her voice, she was the piano, and she needed him to play her, needed him to play her because sometimes it felt like she had this gaping hole inside her, and the only thing that could ever seem to fill it were his hands—plucking and stroking and caressing and striking. "Please," she said again, more urgently, and she was dully aware of him reaching between them, dully aware of the rustling of fabric.
She moaned when he entered her, swift and deep, her legs wrapping desperately around him, as if afraid he would pull out and leave her empty and idle. He raked his fingers through her hair, his hand firm, and claimed her mouth, her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, each kiss branding and calming.
He held her like that, one hand tight in her hair, the other possessively pressing her hips to his, until her trembling subsided, until she was gasping in arousal instead of panic, until her body was pliant and begging him to continue.
He wasn't a very strong nation, but he was strong enough, and he lifted her off the keyboard, still nestled in her, her legs still hooked around him, her hands still clinging to his shoulders. He carried her out of the music room, back toward his bedchamber, his hands splayed across the backs of her thighs, the robe flapping below as he walked.
"Perhaps piano lessons can wait," he murmured when they arrived, and lowered her back to the bed, pinning her hands above her and pressing her into the mattress.
At the next world meeting, she sat next to Russia, as she usually did. At the end of the meeting, practically everyone rushed out, glad for it to be over—it was a bright, sunny day, and even Germany hadn't seemed to want to stay in the stuffy conference room all afternoon—and she lost her brother all in the commotion.
Standing outside the building, she peered at the quickly dispersing nations, eventually spying Russia's bulky frame moving surreptitiously toward his car. She was just about to break into a quick, stalking stride when she caught something out of the corner of her eye that gave her pause.
Austria stood under the shade of a tree, talking with Hungary. Judging by their body language, she wondered if it was perhaps state matters they were discussing—things that were relevant to the two of them, but not necessarily the entire world, hence why they hadn't been brought up during the meeting. It must have been, because Hungary reached into her pink folder, fished out a thin report of some sort, and handed it to him. Austria gave the first couple pages a glancing over, said something, then tucked it in his briefcase. Hungary checked her watch, gave him a quick, platonic peck on the cheek, and then dashed off, yelling and waving her good-bye.
Austria watched her, just for a moment, his expression the slightest bit wistful.
It wasn't jealousy that made her ask. More curiosity than anything. Because he'd loved once, and been loved back, and it was the reciprocation that fascinated her, that made her wonder if her desires were really so crazy after all.
"Do you miss her?"
She laid face-down on his bed, propped up on her elbows, his robe around her once more. Austria sat next to her, against the head-board, an over-stuffed pillow cushioning his back, a snifter of brandy in his hand. She'd drunk hers long ago, her tolerance for hard liquors higher, and the empty glass sat on his nightstand.
At the question, he looked down at her and blinked, the only indication that he might have been surprised by the words. For a moment, she wondered if she needed to specify a name, but then he sighed. "Sometimes," he admitted, his eyes distant. "I miss the way the world was when we were together… I miss what our union represented. The First World War brought about the end of a great many more things than just our marriage." He swirled his brandy, then took a drink of it. She looked down at the bed, slowly fingering the sheets—fine-woven cotton. She wondered if he'd once had silk or satin.
"…Maybe empires will one day come back," she said—her awkward, unskilled attempt at offering comfort. Austria lowered his glass from his lips and arched a dry eyebrow at her.
"Maybe your brother will one day return your affections," he retorted, as if he found both ideas foolish and unobtainable. Before she could glare in offense, though, he let out a soft breath and went on:
"Until then…" he said, gently tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "…I'll leave a window open."
-----
Notes:
-Giselle is a Romantic ballet, French in origin, though it borrows from Slavic mythology. The titular Giselle is a peasant girl who falls in love with Albrecht, a duke who poses as a peasant, just to get some last-minute bachelor action in before he marries. Upon finding out the truth about Albrecht, Giselle goes mad and dies. The Wilis (also known as Vila, Wila, and other variants, depending on the language) are, at least in the ballet, female spirits who were jilted before their wedding day and who rise from their graves at night to take vengeance upon living men. They want to dance Albrecht to his death for being such a callous dick, but Giselle, being the good Romantic heroine she is, forgives Albrecht and protects him. Giselle's "mad dance" is admittedly one of the more awesome things out of classical ballet, but it's Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, who has my heart. She's just so regal and badass. Here's a great video of where she and the Wilis dance Hilarion, another dude, to death. (2:20, man—she's all, "Bitch, get out of here; there's a lake with your name on it. I've got bigger fish to fry."
A/N: Man, I don't know what it is with me and this pairing. It started off as crack inspired by a picture from Kuroshitsuji, and then it turned into an experiment in porn, and now it's like, "No, really, there's a lot of potential here!" I don't even know anymore. Suffice it to say, I think I'm officially fascinated by AustriaxBelarus, because it totally shouldn't work, yet it totally can. They're like my RenoxTifa of the Hetalia fandom. Except with less bartending and punches to the face, and more sex and fancy clothes.
Speaking of which, I didn't originally intend for this fic to end up as porny as it did, honest. When I started this, I was all :D, because I'd already gotten the sex out of the way in White Horses, and I foolishly thought this meant I wouldn't need it in this one. I mean, Austria was all, "Let's have dinner," which seemed all well and good, but then it turned out Belarus was all, "I'd rather have sex," and I was like, okay, that's cool, I can do a fade-to-black, no biggie. But then Austria had to go and be all, "Nein, I want to eat first," and, well, cue Belarus tied across the dining table. And it's just like, YOU GUYS. WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME. DX
(And as an aside, damn it, Austria—thanks for giving me a full-on hand fetish. It was never so bad until I started writing you.)
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
