Teeth and Nails (Belarus, Ireland)
Title: Teeth and Nails
Warnings: Girl-sex
Summary: “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Characters: Ireland, Belarus
Year: 2002
Teeth and Nails
Everyone knows that Ireland doesn't go for men. “Doesn't drive stick,” says Wales, with a wink. “Has a-- ah-- an alternate sexuality,” says England. Scotland doesn't say anything; he just watches her, and dreams.
In their world, you slept with who you could, whether to cement international ties, to prove your dominance, or just to find a bit of solace. Homosexuality as such was never much of an issue; what does gender mean, to someone who was never born, who will never have children? But still, Ireland was unique. There weren't many women who admitted to sleeping only with women.
As such, she had a reputation, and not an entirely positive one. And so the first time Belarus found herself alone with the other woman-- during those fevered months of negotiations about the travel ban-- she was uncomfortable. She thought she saw Ireland looking at her, in that way that men do; she looked away, hoping that the woman wouldn't start a conversation.
No such luck. “Belarus, isn't it?” The woman's English was lilting and melodic. Belarus felt a brief surge of irritation that she simply assumed that she'd know the language, but she let it slide; you can't get angry about everything.
“Yes,” she said, shortly.
“I thought so,” said Ireland, with a slow smile. Belarus, without knowing why, found her pulse quickening. She straightened.
“You're Ireland, of course. What are you doing here? I thought that England handled your international relations.”
Ireland's expression darkened. “Not in years and years, girl.”
Belarus' back straightened. Girl? “I see.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Ireland twirling a strand of hair-- brown, not red, like Belarus had vaguely expected-- around her finger. “So what brings you here? You're not a member of the Union.”
“Neither are you,” Belarus said.
Ireland raised her eyebrows. She'd been part of the group since 1973. “I tag along from time to time, when things are quiet at home.”
“And how do you know I don't do the same?”
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't.”
Belarus was quiet for a moment. “There's trouble,” she said.
“Oh?” said Ireland, face calm.
“It's Lukashenko. My Prime Minister,” she added, since there was no reason for Ireland to follow her politics. Ireland's expression stayed smooth, vaguely interested. “He... well. The Union isn't pleased with him.” She adjusted her ribbon fastidiously. “They've imposed a travel ban.”
Ireland's expression was softly sympathetic. “Is that it,” she said.
“Is what it?” asked Belarus, sharply.
“You seemed troubled.”
Belarus sat straighter. “Thank you for your concern,” she said.
Ireland stood. “Well, I'd best be off. But if you need anyone--” she met Belarus' eyes, calmly, “--you can find me here.” She handed her a card, with an address written on it in neat letters. Her mind immediately assigned all sorts of sinister lesbian motives to the gesture, and she resolved to throw the thing away as soon as she was out of eyeshot.
But she didn't. She kept it, in the bottom of her purse, without knowing quite why. She hadn't had many friends since her long isolation with her brother; maybe she was just lonely. Whatever the reason, one night after a particularly long day-- another frustrating talk with her brother-- she found herself walking towards the address, physical distance meaning little to a being like herself. The country was beautiful, and she couldn't quite bring herself to stop staring at the hills, the meadows. She felt herself growing warm in the face, like she did sometimes when she looked at Brother's tundra. She shook it off, and faced the house that she'd arrived it.
It was a pretty place, stone, with roses on a trellis over the door and an extensive garden. There was no doorbell, so she used the old iron knocker in the middle of the door. Waiting, she ran her finger over the rose bush, wincing as she pricked a finger and sucking away the dot of blood that appeared. She heard footsteps from inside the house. Soon the door opened, and she was staring at the face of the woman she'd talked to at the EU meeting.
“Ireland,” she said, in greeting.
“Belarus,” said the other woman. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“Neither was I,” she said, truthfully.
“Well, come in then,” she said, and padded away from the door, her bare feet swishing quietly against the dull wood.
Belarus followed her into a small living room, where a fire crackled and an oil lamp sat on a coffee table. She saw electrical outlets on the wall, but nothing had been plugged into them. Apparently Ireland liked more natural light.
“Cup of tea?” the woman asked.
“Thank you, no,” she answered before she thought about it.
Ireland frowned disapprovingly, and went to the kitchen to pour her one. She sat the mug down in front of Belarus, and said, “Drink. Whatever it is that's brought you here, the tea won't hurt.”
Belarus obediently took a sip-- she was a guest, after all-- and found that a weight settled out of her stomach. “It's good,” she said, shortly.
“Of course,” said Ireland. “Now tell me. How are you?”
Belarus blinked, a catch in her throat. She wasn't sure how long it had been since someone had asked her that question. Before she knew it, she was talking, telling the woman about her children, her problems with her boss, her brother--
“--and he's never so much as looked at me,” she wailed, crossing her arms over her chest, Ireland's calm face drawing the words out of her like a magnet. “No matter how hard I try to be good for him, to be what he wants...” she trailed off into silence, startled to discover that she was blinking back tears. Ireland was sitting next to her on the couch, closer than she'd started, and Belarus found she couldn't remember who had moved. “And all this time, I've never let a man touch me, I wanted it to be perfect, for him... but it's been so long now, and I feel so cold, and so, so alone--” she barely recognized her own voice. “Am I hideous, Ireland?” she asked, plaintively. “Is that why he doesn't want me?”
The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Belarus started at the intimate gesture. “You're lovely,” she said, meeting her eyes. “You're beautiful.”
“I'm beautiful?” she asked, voice small.
“You're beautiful,” Ireland repeated, and Belarus couldn't quite look away from her eyes, so green in the firelight. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost somewhere in her throat when Ireland leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Never doubt that.”
Belarus met her eyes, heart thumping. Her eyes traveled down to Ireland's lips. Maybe it was only because it had been so long since someone had been kind to her, or maybe it was because the woman really was beautiful-- she thought of endless fields, and the roses over the door. She wasn't quite sure why herself, when she leaned forward, and touched her lips to Ireland's.
Ireland drew back, and looked at her, considering. “You're a virgin, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” she answered, primly.
“We'll be slow,” said Ireland, and kissed her back. Slow, gentle. Belarus started when she felt a brush of tongue.
The woman slid closer on the couch, and all of a sudden, Belarus felt claustrophobic. She pulled away, breathing shallowly. “I don't want slow,” she said, deadly quiet.
The smile on Ireland's face could have melted rocks. “We'll take it fast then,” she said, and fisted a hand in Belarus' hair, tilting her head back, and kissing her hard.
Belarus grabbed Ireland's shirt; she wasn't sure if she wanted to pull her closer or push her away. Her mind was made up for her when Ireland bit her bottom lip, hard enough to sting. She gasped, and nearly snarled, grabbing the other woman's hair and biting her back. Ireland laughed, low. The sound made her inexplicably angry, and on impulse she dragged her fingernails down the other woman's throat. Ireland's eyes went hazy, and she took a deep breath. Experimentally, she did it again. Ireland shuddered. “You're a fast learner, girl,” she got out, voice husky and low.
Belarus smiled, almost cruel. She grabbed Ireland by the hair, and pulled her head back, exposing a long line of neck. “I've always learned fast. And if you call me that again, I'll leave.”
Ireland shook her head, as well as she could. “You and I would both regret that. Still, I'll not say it again.”
“Good,” she said, and scratched her again, leaving long red lines down her neck.
Ireland tilted her head forward enough to meet her eyes. “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Belarus almost smiled, and then she was sinking her teeth into the other woman's neck, and Ireland was gasping and making sounds low in her throat. On sudden inspiration, Belarus fastened her lips around the skin and sucked. The noise from Ireland was closer to a moan now, and Belarus felt heat beginning to pool between her legs. She could enjoy this, she realized, all of a sudden. She could maybe even orgasm, like she did during hot nights at home by herself. And she would still be clean for her brother, she thought, with sudden elation. No man would have touched her.
Belarus let go of the woman's hair, to drag her fingernails down her back. The cloth of her shirt was in the way, so she slid her hands underneath, and then her fingers were moving over hot, soft skin. She dug her nails in, and Ireland gasped, grabbing her shoulders. “Dear Lord,” she said, breathing quickly. Then she moved her hands to Belarus' neck, and slid slow, experimental fingernails up to her jawline, and back down. Belarus shivered. Ireland's smile grew predatory, and she scratched harder, hard enough to leave red lines like the ones on her own neck.
Belarus closed her eyes, and when Ireland's mouth found her throat, she was making small noises that she'd never made in front of another person. She felt hands at the bow tying her apron shut, and she didn't protest when the bow came undone and the zipper on her dress was pulled down. She pulled away, and shrugged out of the long, tight sleeves, leaving her bare to the waist except for a plain, neat bra. Ireland's mouth moved lower, ghosting over her breasts, and Belarus shuddered and arched her back into the touch. Then there were teeth again, and God, she didn't think she'd ever felt anything like it.
One of Ireland's hands left her, and she didn't even notice until she felt a sudden, stinging impact against her cheek. The bitch had slapped her! She straightened in fury, and aimed a hard swing back at her. Ireland caught her hand, and twisted it behind her back, leaning down again to kiss her collarbone, her neck, the tops of her breasts.
“If you want this to stop, say 'Enough,'” she instructed. Belarus sniffed haughtily, and started to struggle. Stop? Hardly.
She managed to work a knee up between them, and pushed the other woman away, following her down to pin her wrists above her head. Then she was kissing her savagely, all tongue and teeth and heavily breath. Ireland rolled her hips up towards her, making a sound low in her throat, and Belarus hissed as she felt the other woman's pelvic bone rub between her legs. Ireland maneuvered them to put a leg between Belarus', and she groaned at the pressure, realizing suddenly that she was wet. Really wet.
Ireland slipped her arms out of Belarus' grasp, and grabbed her hips, moving them up and down along the ridge of her hip. The friction was enough to make Belarus close her eyes tight and gasp. Then Ireland was rocking her hips up into Belarus, and Belarus was moving against her, grinding like a whore, her mind said, but it felt too good to matter. She shifted to get her balance, and pressed her leg between Ireland's. Ireland groaned, low and throaty, so Belarus did it again, working the movement into the rhythm she'd found. The women closed their eyes tight, breathing hard and moving against each other, hands in each other's hair, and then Belarus was coming, barely noticing the sounds coming out of her mouth, holding Ireland tight and nearly crying with the release. Ireland watched her, eyes hungry, and a moment later she was finishing too, eyes open and hips thrusting hard.
They lay there in silence for a moment, breath hot against each other's cheeks, hair curling against damp necks, slick against the inside of their skirts. Belarus spoke first. “No one will know of this.”
Ireland's eyes were closed. “No one,” she agreed, a small smile on her face.
“Then,” said Belarus, freeing her arms with a quickness her brother would never have guessed of her and choking off Ireland's air with a wrist to the throat. “I don't think we should stop here.” Her voice was low, dangerous.
Ireland lay very, very still, trembling with the effort it took to keep from fighting back. When Belarus drew away, she let out the breath she'd been holding, air cool and welcome in her lungs. Then, with reflexes earned through centuries of war and struggle, she flipped the two of them over so that Belarus was looking up at her. “No,” she said. “I don't think so either.”
Belarus grinned, savagely, an expression she didn't even know she could make outside of the battlefield. She lifted her head and arched her back, letting Ireland look at her. "Teach me," she said. The firelight was beautiful across the planes of Ireland's face, and there was plenty of night left.
Warnings: Girl-sex
Summary: “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Characters: Ireland, Belarus
Year: 2002
Teeth and Nails
Everyone knows that Ireland doesn't go for men. “Doesn't drive stick,” says Wales, with a wink. “Has a-- ah-- an alternate sexuality,” says England. Scotland doesn't say anything; he just watches her, and dreams.
In their world, you slept with who you could, whether to cement international ties, to prove your dominance, or just to find a bit of solace. Homosexuality as such was never much of an issue; what does gender mean, to someone who was never born, who will never have children? But still, Ireland was unique. There weren't many women who admitted to sleeping only with women.
As such, she had a reputation, and not an entirely positive one. And so the first time Belarus found herself alone with the other woman-- during those fevered months of negotiations about the travel ban-- she was uncomfortable. She thought she saw Ireland looking at her, in that way that men do; she looked away, hoping that the woman wouldn't start a conversation.
No such luck. “Belarus, isn't it?” The woman's English was lilting and melodic. Belarus felt a brief surge of irritation that she simply assumed that she'd know the language, but she let it slide; you can't get angry about everything.
“Yes,” she said, shortly.
“I thought so,” said Ireland, with a slow smile. Belarus, without knowing why, found her pulse quickening. She straightened.
“You're Ireland, of course. What are you doing here? I thought that England handled your international relations.”
Ireland's expression darkened. “Not in years and years, girl.”
Belarus' back straightened. Girl? “I see.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Ireland twirling a strand of hair-- brown, not red, like Belarus had vaguely expected-- around her finger. “So what brings you here? You're not a member of the Union.”
“Neither are you,” Belarus said.
Ireland raised her eyebrows. She'd been part of the group since 1973. “I tag along from time to time, when things are quiet at home.”
“And how do you know I don't do the same?”
“Perhaps you do, perhaps you don't.”
Belarus was quiet for a moment. “There's trouble,” she said.
“Oh?” said Ireland, face calm.
“It's Lukashenko. My Prime Minister,” she added, since there was no reason for Ireland to follow her politics. Ireland's expression stayed smooth, vaguely interested. “He... well. The Union isn't pleased with him.” She adjusted her ribbon fastidiously. “They've imposed a travel ban.”
Ireland's expression was softly sympathetic. “Is that it,” she said.
“Is what it?” asked Belarus, sharply.
“You seemed troubled.”
Belarus sat straighter. “Thank you for your concern,” she said.
Ireland stood. “Well, I'd best be off. But if you need anyone--” she met Belarus' eyes, calmly, “--you can find me here.” She handed her a card, with an address written on it in neat letters. Her mind immediately assigned all sorts of sinister lesbian motives to the gesture, and she resolved to throw the thing away as soon as she was out of eyeshot.
But she didn't. She kept it, in the bottom of her purse, without knowing quite why. She hadn't had many friends since her long isolation with her brother; maybe she was just lonely. Whatever the reason, one night after a particularly long day-- another frustrating talk with her brother-- she found herself walking towards the address, physical distance meaning little to a being like herself. The country was beautiful, and she couldn't quite bring herself to stop staring at the hills, the meadows. She felt herself growing warm in the face, like she did sometimes when she looked at Brother's tundra. She shook it off, and faced the house that she'd arrived it.
It was a pretty place, stone, with roses on a trellis over the door and an extensive garden. There was no doorbell, so she used the old iron knocker in the middle of the door. Waiting, she ran her finger over the rose bush, wincing as she pricked a finger and sucking away the dot of blood that appeared. She heard footsteps from inside the house. Soon the door opened, and she was staring at the face of the woman she'd talked to at the EU meeting.
“Ireland,” she said, in greeting.
“Belarus,” said the other woman. “I wasn't sure you'd come.”
“Neither was I,” she said, truthfully.
“Well, come in then,” she said, and padded away from the door, her bare feet swishing quietly against the dull wood.
Belarus followed her into a small living room, where a fire crackled and an oil lamp sat on a coffee table. She saw electrical outlets on the wall, but nothing had been plugged into them. Apparently Ireland liked more natural light.
“Cup of tea?” the woman asked.
“Thank you, no,” she answered before she thought about it.
Ireland frowned disapprovingly, and went to the kitchen to pour her one. She sat the mug down in front of Belarus, and said, “Drink. Whatever it is that's brought you here, the tea won't hurt.”
Belarus obediently took a sip-- she was a guest, after all-- and found that a weight settled out of her stomach. “It's good,” she said, shortly.
“Of course,” said Ireland. “Now tell me. How are you?”
Belarus blinked, a catch in her throat. She wasn't sure how long it had been since someone had asked her that question. Before she knew it, she was talking, telling the woman about her children, her problems with her boss, her brother--
“--and he's never so much as looked at me,” she wailed, crossing her arms over her chest, Ireland's calm face drawing the words out of her like a magnet. “No matter how hard I try to be good for him, to be what he wants...” she trailed off into silence, startled to discover that she was blinking back tears. Ireland was sitting next to her on the couch, closer than she'd started, and Belarus found she couldn't remember who had moved. “And all this time, I've never let a man touch me, I wanted it to be perfect, for him... but it's been so long now, and I feel so cold, and so, so alone--” she barely recognized her own voice. “Am I hideous, Ireland?” she asked, plaintively. “Is that why he doesn't want me?”
The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Belarus started at the intimate gesture. “You're lovely,” she said, meeting her eyes. “You're beautiful.”
“I'm beautiful?” she asked, voice small.
“You're beautiful,” Ireland repeated, and Belarus couldn't quite look away from her eyes, so green in the firelight. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were lost somewhere in her throat when Ireland leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Never doubt that.”
Belarus met her eyes, heart thumping. Her eyes traveled down to Ireland's lips. Maybe it was only because it had been so long since someone had been kind to her, or maybe it was because the woman really was beautiful-- she thought of endless fields, and the roses over the door. She wasn't quite sure why herself, when she leaned forward, and touched her lips to Ireland's.
Ireland drew back, and looked at her, considering. “You're a virgin, then?” she asked.
“Yes,” she answered, primly.
“We'll be slow,” said Ireland, and kissed her back. Slow, gentle. Belarus started when she felt a brush of tongue.
The woman slid closer on the couch, and all of a sudden, Belarus felt claustrophobic. She pulled away, breathing shallowly. “I don't want slow,” she said, deadly quiet.
The smile on Ireland's face could have melted rocks. “We'll take it fast then,” she said, and fisted a hand in Belarus' hair, tilting her head back, and kissing her hard.
Belarus grabbed Ireland's shirt; she wasn't sure if she wanted to pull her closer or push her away. Her mind was made up for her when Ireland bit her bottom lip, hard enough to sting. She gasped, and nearly snarled, grabbing the other woman's hair and biting her back. Ireland laughed, low. The sound made her inexplicably angry, and on impulse she dragged her fingernails down the other woman's throat. Ireland's eyes went hazy, and she took a deep breath. Experimentally, she did it again. Ireland shuddered. “You're a fast learner, girl,” she got out, voice husky and low.
Belarus smiled, almost cruel. She grabbed Ireland by the hair, and pulled her head back, exposing a long line of neck. “I've always learned fast. And if you call me that again, I'll leave.”
Ireland shook her head, as well as she could. “You and I would both regret that. Still, I'll not say it again.”
“Good,” she said, and scratched her again, leaving long red lines down her neck.
Ireland tilted her head forward enough to meet her eyes. “Bite,” she whispered, hot and quiet.
Belarus almost smiled, and then she was sinking her teeth into the other woman's neck, and Ireland was gasping and making sounds low in her throat. On sudden inspiration, Belarus fastened her lips around the skin and sucked. The noise from Ireland was closer to a moan now, and Belarus felt heat beginning to pool between her legs. She could enjoy this, she realized, all of a sudden. She could maybe even orgasm, like she did during hot nights at home by herself. And she would still be clean for her brother, she thought, with sudden elation. No man would have touched her.
Belarus let go of the woman's hair, to drag her fingernails down her back. The cloth of her shirt was in the way, so she slid her hands underneath, and then her fingers were moving over hot, soft skin. She dug her nails in, and Ireland gasped, grabbing her shoulders. “Dear Lord,” she said, breathing quickly. Then she moved her hands to Belarus' neck, and slid slow, experimental fingernails up to her jawline, and back down. Belarus shivered. Ireland's smile grew predatory, and she scratched harder, hard enough to leave red lines like the ones on her own neck.
Belarus closed her eyes, and when Ireland's mouth found her throat, she was making small noises that she'd never made in front of another person. She felt hands at the bow tying her apron shut, and she didn't protest when the bow came undone and the zipper on her dress was pulled down. She pulled away, and shrugged out of the long, tight sleeves, leaving her bare to the waist except for a plain, neat bra. Ireland's mouth moved lower, ghosting over her breasts, and Belarus shuddered and arched her back into the touch. Then there were teeth again, and God, she didn't think she'd ever felt anything like it.
One of Ireland's hands left her, and she didn't even notice until she felt a sudden, stinging impact against her cheek. The bitch had slapped her! She straightened in fury, and aimed a hard swing back at her. Ireland caught her hand, and twisted it behind her back, leaning down again to kiss her collarbone, her neck, the tops of her breasts.
“If you want this to stop, say 'Enough,'” she instructed. Belarus sniffed haughtily, and started to struggle. Stop? Hardly.
She managed to work a knee up between them, and pushed the other woman away, following her down to pin her wrists above her head. Then she was kissing her savagely, all tongue and teeth and heavily breath. Ireland rolled her hips up towards her, making a sound low in her throat, and Belarus hissed as she felt the other woman's pelvic bone rub between her legs. Ireland maneuvered them to put a leg between Belarus', and she groaned at the pressure, realizing suddenly that she was wet. Really wet.
Ireland slipped her arms out of Belarus' grasp, and grabbed her hips, moving them up and down along the ridge of her hip. The friction was enough to make Belarus close her eyes tight and gasp. Then Ireland was rocking her hips up into Belarus, and Belarus was moving against her, grinding like a whore, her mind said, but it felt too good to matter. She shifted to get her balance, and pressed her leg between Ireland's. Ireland groaned, low and throaty, so Belarus did it again, working the movement into the rhythm she'd found. The women closed their eyes tight, breathing hard and moving against each other, hands in each other's hair, and then Belarus was coming, barely noticing the sounds coming out of her mouth, holding Ireland tight and nearly crying with the release. Ireland watched her, eyes hungry, and a moment later she was finishing too, eyes open and hips thrusting hard.
They lay there in silence for a moment, breath hot against each other's cheeks, hair curling against damp necks, slick against the inside of their skirts. Belarus spoke first. “No one will know of this.”
Ireland's eyes were closed. “No one,” she agreed, a small smile on her face.
“Then,” said Belarus, freeing her arms with a quickness her brother would never have guessed of her and choking off Ireland's air with a wrist to the throat. “I don't think we should stop here.” Her voice was low, dangerous.
Ireland lay very, very still, trembling with the effort it took to keep from fighting back. When Belarus drew away, she let out the breath she'd been holding, air cool and welcome in her lungs. Then, with reflexes earned through centuries of war and struggle, she flipped the two of them over so that Belarus was looking up at her. “No,” she said. “I don't think so either.”
Belarus grinned, savagely, an expression she didn't even know she could make outside of the battlefield. She lifted her head and arched her back, letting Ireland look at her. "Teach me," she said. The firelight was beautiful across the planes of Ireland's face, and there was plenty of night left.