A/N

Klei: And we're back! Again! This time with a hanging! And as you know, it's Russia's turn to die. Oh, and twice the porn, to make up for the wait, and the distinct lack of it in the last one.

Russia: Lovely. I'm thrilled. Really. /sarcasm

America: Whoo! Oh, please tell me it's as humiliating as my death in the last chapter. It doesn't get much worse than a bullet up the ass.

Klei: Better! I'm making Ivan sing!

Russia: Please be joking. You're joking, da?

Klei: Do you want to be humiliated, too?

Russia: Eugh.

Klei: Anyway, when it comes to the description of Russia's voice in this chapter (don't ask, it makes sense in context), I've got the original Japanese one in mind. I don't particularly care for Russia's English dub voice. I mean, it works, but it's just so different. A lot deeper, for one.

Russia: Does no one find it weird that neither of those people speak, well, Russian? You know, my language?

Klei: Haha, a Russian person speaking Russian? Don't be silly, Ivan. :D What a ridiculous idea.

Russia: -sigh-

"Once more, with feeling!"

Russia facepalmed yet again. His forehead was growing incredibly red, and he was truly beginning to worry that further slapping of it would leave a permanent handprint. "If I do this again, will you forgive me?"

"Mmmmaaaaaaaybe," answered America, leaning back into the soft embrace of the sofa and watching his companion standing in front of the flat panel television with eager eyes. Whatever was on wasn't NEARLY as good as the show he was getting right then. "Come on, man. I think you're getting off pretty freaking easy, all things considered."

Ivan pouted and crossed his arms. "I cleaned up the mess, did your paperwork, and took you out for McDonald's. I think I qualify as 'forgiven' now."

"You shot. Me. Up. The. Ass."

Well, he couldn't argue with that. Begrudgingly, Russia, cleared his throat and began singing once again. "Aaaaaaaah, yah yah yaaaaaaah, yah yah yaaaaaaaah yaaaaaaaaaaaaah yah yah! Ohohohohoooooooo, oh yah yah! Yah yah yaaaaaaaah, yaaaaaah, yah yah…" He would never understand why America loved what he'd so affectionately nicknamed the 'Trololo' song. It was a stream of gibberish that had resulted from Soviet censorship, and yet for whatever reason, Alfred had eaten it up like, well, a hamburger. It didn't even sound like a 'trololo,' for God's sake. "Yih yih yih yih yih yih yih yih yih yih yih…"

"Your voice isn't as deep and eargasmic as his," America complained. "I mean, you can sing alright, but it's just not the same. You sound like Ivan. Sound more like the Trololo man."

Oh, how he wanted to facepalm. "I can't exactly change my voice, Alfred. And what do you mean, 'not as deep?' " Come to think of it, he did use a soft, relatively high voice when he wasn't in 'Kolkolkol Mode' (another affectionate nickname of his oh-so 'brilliant' lover). Not that it wasn't masculine, of course.

"Try something higher. That Vitas guy from the opera thingy magiggy was cool!" America suggested all too eagerly.

"Why don't you remember any of my classics?" Russia huffed. "You couldn't care less until it becomes an internet meme. Then all of a sudden it's the best thing ever."

"I know Korbenky!"

"Korobeiniki. Da. Of course you do. It was the Tetris theme."

"What about Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy?"

"You're going to need to try harder than that."

"Russia is Gay, by Rucka Rucka Ali!"

"Now you're just asking to be strangled."

America quickly shook his head. "No, no, it's a real song! Check it out, I have it on my Android." Of course, it was far from a classic, or even a Russian song, buuuuuuuut…

"What happened to the iPhone?" asked Russia, torn between demanding America's heart for downloading something with such a title and wondering why his lover had a different phone for every season.

"Fuck the mainstream, yo!" was the only answer he received as America whipped out the suspiciously similar-looking phone and began scrolling through music. "Oh, here we go!" He hit 'play' with unmitigated zeal.

"R-r-r-r-russia is gaaaaaa-"

It took exactly two seconds for Ivan to snatch the phone out of Alfred's hands and hit the pause button. "I hope you're aware of how racist I find this."

America grabbed it back and began fast-forwarding through the song. "That's okay, it insults my people, too! So it's all good. Lots of uber offensive stuff-"

" 'Uber' isn't a word."

America scoffed. "Go talk to England if you care so much. ANYWAY, lots of uber offensive stuff about 'nam, and shit. But dude, it's sooooo catchy!" Once again, he hit the play button.

"-have never seen a real black man, I'm poo-oo-oo-oor! I sold my child for a sip of vodka, my-"

"Okay, I've heard enough. You've had your revenge. No more music," said Russia flatly. "Turn it off now."

"-them Russians ain't gonna take Vietnam, not without ME in charge…"

At last, America turned the phone off. "Come on, don't be such a spoil-sport! Stereotypes are all in good fun, right? All together, now! Don't wanna be an American idiot!"

"All in good fun until the murder starts," answered Russia, glaring down at America just before he sat beside him on the sofa. "You know that just as well as the rest of us, Mr. Freedom of Speech Minus the Politically Incorrect."

America swung his arm over Russia's shoulder and laughed. "What are you talking about? People can say whatever they want, so long as it isn't something insane like the 'FIRE' in a crowded theater example."

"Oh, really, then? I can say anything, and you won't be upset?"

"Yep!"

Russia exhaled. America just made it too easy. "Nigger."

Sure enough, Alfred hurriedly slid away from him. "OH MY GOD! You, you, you just…"

"Midget."

"Nonononono! Stop it! Stop it right now!"

"Faggot. Cracker. Kraut. Mentally retarded."

He'd succeeded in getting America to cover his ears. "Okay! I fold! You win! You fucking win! Just stop talking like that!"

"Handicapped."

"IT'S HANDI-CAPABLE! And it's African American, and vertically challenged, and person who prefers men, and Caucasian, and Germans who are no longer Nazis and therefore people who shouldn't be insulted like that because racism is wrong, and mentally challenged, and oh God…" America rambled on. Russia quickly took his shoulder before his miniature breakdown got any worse.

"Alfred, calm down. Freedom of speech, da? They're just words!"

"They're hate crimes!"

"Yet that song is okay?" He really didn't care as much as he was letting on. It was just too much fun to poke fun at all of Alfred's little inner contradictions. The fact that he was almost completely ignorant of Ivan's own inner workings and couldn't properly insult him back only made it funnier.

America, eye twitching, slowly edged back over to Russia. "Yeah, it is. You're a real bastard. I hope you know that."

"You've made me well aware! Now, what say you to a little romp?" suggested Ivan, wrapping his arms around the younger. "I'm sure you must be feeling so unfulfilled from the last time."

"Gee, I wonder why?" snapped Alfred, voice thick with sarcasm. Still, he didn't seem averse to the idea, instead pushing himself closer, leaning against Russia and slowly unbuttoning the shirt he'd been wearing with one hand. The other was quickly making its way to Ivan's chest. "Ya' know, I still don't quite forgive you for that lead dildo of yours."

"I don't suppose there's an easier way of making up for it than singing horrible songs?"

America pouted. "The Trololo song is awesome. You're just not hip. You're UN-hip. Which is ungood. And I'm the goodest. Doubleplusgood."

Russia raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you start reading real books? I wasn't aware you had a fondness for Orwellian society. Seeing as it goes against everything you claim to stand for, and all."

"One, I looked it up on Wikipedia to impress England," answered America with a wink. "Two, I may hate the system and its commie-ness, but I can totally dig Newspeak. It makes so much more sense! Why have so many words, man? So people who know a lot more than other people can sound intelligent with their 'vast vocabularies?' "

Russia was about to retort that languages were beautiful things, and the whole concept of Newspeak was absolutely painful for even he, someone whose native language wasn't English, to think about. Not to mention, America had apparently missed the whole point of taking away all the 'bad' words. However, he was in the middle of trying to initiate sex, and America had a habit of throwing a bit of a tantrum when people didn't agree with him. It was usually bearable, and their bickering certainly made the relationship more interesting, but he still hadn't gotten any since the gun incident, and he was horny. What else was there to say? If Alfred wanted to desecrate the English language (further than he already had, as far as England would be concerned), Ivan decided, it was none of his business.

"That's wonderful, sunflower. Now spread your legs for me." America was bad at catching on to subtlety, so he'd long since stopped bothering with trying to beat around the bush.

Alfred, however, was once again displeased by his words. "What gave you the idea that you were topping? You still owe me!"

"Excuse me? I think I've paid you back by now, thank you very much! Besides, it's my turn! You topped the last time!" He could have stopped there, but in a moment of sexual frustration, he added, "And you did a pretty lousy job of it! Honestly, you've got to be the worst roleplayer I've ever seen. Are you aware of how big a turn-off video game references are?"

"WHAT? You said you liked it!"

"To keep you from complaining!"

"You lying bastard!"

"You ignorant idiot!"

"You're unbelievable!"

"The feeling is mutual!"

"Good! Now fuck me, you son of a bitch."

"Gladly."

Though he would forever deny the suspiciously high amount of clothing he was constantly replacing was in any way his fault to his boss, Russia tore off his coat as though it were no more than a tissue. America, leaning back and parting his still-clothed legs, gave him a wink.

"I knew it. I'm too sexy to resist!" said Alfred with a grin capable of rivaling that of the Cheshire Cat. He lifted up one arm and flexed his muscles; though Russia would have loved to claim that it was all fat, Alfred's strength had to come from somewhere, and it showed. Still, the fact that neither of them were burly body-builders sure proved that there was far more to it than their physical forms. Possibly magic. Even if they couldn't channel it like England could (though Russia was pretty good at defending himself against and redirecting it) there was a passive aspect to it demonstrated in almost all representatives. Even Sealand had impressive strength and stamina. Which, actually, made some sense. He was an abandoned sea fort, after all.

"You just happen to be the only one loose enough to take all of me," Russia taunted. That was a bit of an exaggeration. Anyone could theoretically take him. It was a matter of who was actually willing, and who was able to tolerate (or, in their case, revel in) a certain amount of pain, at least the first few times. "Otherwise I'd choose someone with far more class."

America wrapped his arms around Russia's neck and pulled his head close to his chest. "You talk as if you have a choice. You're all mine, babe. Both your cock and ass."

"Laying claim to the Russian Federation?" scoffed Ivan, pulling America's arms off and twirling Nantucket around his finger. Almost at once, Alfred stiffened and moaned. "That's a bit much, even for you, don't you think? I thought I was 'final boss' material."

"Now who's making video game references…?" America muttered, only to cry out with pleasure and forget the hypocrisy. "A-and you're just a mook to me, man. I-I'm the h-h-haaaaah! Hero! The f-final boss is OH! Oh! F-fuck it, you can stay the final boss if you want, b-but I'm gonna start Sequence-Breaking." Hands had slipped themselves under his shirt, playing with his nipples. "Kiss me, motherfucker."

"We don't have mothers, silly," answered Russia, though he leaned over and pressed his lips against America's all the same. "We are the mothers. The motherlands to our people."

America shivered and reached down to start removing his pants. "You're not gonna start going all 'one with Mother Russia' again, are you?"

"Maybe. Do you want to become one with Mother Russia?"

"Only if Mother Russia wants to take care of me like a real mother. I warn ya', though," America added, laughing breathily, "I'm pretty high maintenance. Just ask Arthur."

"Mm, on second thought, Mother Russia is going through menopause. Probably best not to have any children at this point," joked Russia, aiding America in pulling off the remainder of the clothing on their bodies and tossing it to the side. "Although the authority to bend you over my lap and spank you whenever you got too obnoxious would be nice."

"You've had that authority all along, big guy. Now that you're aware, I might have to make my speeches at the World Conferences a little louder!" panted Alfred. He shoved Ivan off and sat up straight, taking his fellow representative's erection firmly in hand and giving it long, teasing strokes. "Ya' know, Arthur always threatened to drop my trousers and spank me in public. Never did anything worse than lock me in a stockade for an hour, though. Uncomfortable and humiliating, but not nearly enough to 'correct' my behavior."

"Is that so?" inquired Russia, an eager glint in his eyes. He'd always been curious as to how America had been raised. So he had been in a stockade before. At least England hadn't been an entirely permissive parent. Somehow it was just so difficult to picture the man in, say, his early teens, restrained by the wooden device in question. "Couldn't you break out of it?"

"I did! Well, once," answered America, looking away and blushing. "It, uh, it didn't end well. Let's just say, well, you know my fear of ghosts? The reason for that involves childhood trauma."

"I see." Awkward. Yet somehow, it piqued his curiosity even more. Still, it could wait. America squeezed his erection, speeding up the movement of his hand. With the other, he fondled Ivan's scrotum, gently prodding it with his nails and dragging them along the surface. "Nnghah, you're getting better at this sort of thing every day."

"I may be an ignorant S.O.B. sometimes, but I know how you like it," answered Alfred, playfully licking the tip of Russia's nose. "Although maybe you aren't as into pain as I am. Hm. I'll have to fix that."

"I assure you, I adore pain. Just not when I'm the one experiencing it," answered Russia. He briefly brought a hand down America's neck, which was devoid of hickeys. With death being, essentially, a reset button for them, even the ones that he bit into until they scarred would fade after resurrection. It was no matter, though. It just gave him an excuse to keep making them. Over, and over, and over again. "Well, maybe just a little when it's me," he added as Alfred bit into his scar-riddled shoulder.

"Take off the scarf, man," panted America, pulling it off and tossing it over the sofa. "Wouldn't want it to get damaged, right? It can't heal like us." He gently traced his fingers across some of the scars criss-crossing across Russia's neck. "You never did tell me what these are from…"

"Mongol invasion," answered Russia without hesitation. "Direct damage to our bodies may heal, but it seems the scars of history remain forever."

"There's probably something metaphorical about that," said America in an uninterested tone, "but I don't really give a shit right now."

Russia shot him a bit of a glare. "You're not going to so much as express some sort of emotion about the whole thing? No 'I'm sorry, it's okay?' "

"Dude," responded America, sitting back a little to stare him straight in the face. "It happened almost literally forever ago. I know it was horrible, and all, but you need to man up and get over it, or it's gonna keep eating away at you forever." He quickly blushed. "Maybe I'm being a bit hypocritical there, but at least I'm not mulling on stuff that nobody alive could possibly remember. Like my revolution! Iggy and I are best buds again, right? Well, sort of. You get the idea."

Never before had he met anyone who could look at him square in the eyes and feel such little pity. Yet, he found himself smiling, despite the whole 'America being a complete and utter hypocrite' thing. "Thank you."

"For the handjob?"

"For being stupid and ignorant and refusing to take pity on me. It's helpful. In a weird way."

America continued to stare at him, patiently waiting for the words he wanted before he continued. With a sigh, Russia obliged him.

"And da, the handjob is good, too."

"Awesome! Dude, all this sappiness is really taking away from the sexual atmosphere!" chirped America with a satisfied moan and a smug grin. After another moment, though, he added something, as well. "Oh, and, uh, thanks for, well, uh…"

"Da?" inquired Russia through shaky breaths.

"The constructive critiscisson."

"Criticism."

"Yeah, that. I mean, you poke fun, a lot of fun, but you don't stow my ego-"

"Stoke, Alfred, sto- oh, nnh…" Perhaps he couldn't blame the man entirely. After all, Ivan had begun learning English before Alfred had even been settled. Not so much out of genuine interest as a desire to get started on as many languages as possible, so as to help them communicate later on when he made them all become one with him. His boss had told him it was a ridiculous endeavor, but who was laughing in modern times?

"Whatever!" panted America. "You don't stoke my ego when I don't deserve it, but you aren't all 'blargh, you stupid fat idiot' without reason, either." He deadpanned for a moment. "But when there's a reason, you really go at it, dude. Mind toning it down a bit?"

"Noted."

"Good." Like it was some sort of a reward, America ducked down and took Russia's erection into his mouth, deep into the confines of his throat. "Mmm!"

Ivan did his best not to squeak, truly he did, but the action had been so sudden that a tiny little 'yip' escaped his throat. "D-do not do that so suddenly." America's tongue slid side to side, his mouth warm and wet as his head jerked ever so slightly up and down the thick sex organ.

"MMmmMMMMM!" was the ever so articulate response. "MmmMMmm!" Alfred lifted his mouth off the sex organ and grinned. "Can't help it. You're just so tasty. I might even bite it off."

"Try it, and I'll lock you in a room and starve you." He would just enjoy a beating, so Russia had to get a little more creative with his threats.

"Don't even say something so monstrous. Me minus food equals disaster. Remember our camping trip?"

Ivan shivered. "I'd almost had that wiped from my memory. Thank you, Alfred, for bringing such a trauma to mind once more." There were historic scars. There were unimaginable tortures. There were complete mental breakdowns, bringing one to the very edge of sanity and nearly throwing them off the cliff for good. And then there was the camping trip, in a category all by its lonesome. If there had been anything he'd ever gone through in the entirety of his life that was truly deserving of pity, if he had to choose one solitary thing, it wasn't his horrible past that had shattered him repeatedly. It was that fucking. Camping trip.

Were anyone to inquire as to what could have possibly been so bad about it, he would answer by explaining that there were some things in the world simply not meant for mortals to go through. Unfortunately, they had the misfortune of being immortal.

America leaned back on the sofa, legs spread invitingly. "Well, let's wipe it clean, shall we? Come on, big guy. If you're not inside me five minutes ago, we're through."

"If we were through every time you said we were through, Alfred, I think we would be the absolute throughest couple in all the world."

"Haha, now who's using the fake words?"

"Oh, shut up."

Within seconds, he was pressing himself into America's confines, a canyon of which he would happily admit to liking most in the world. Of course, it made it very difficult to look at travel magazines that displayed the place in question, spread open in all its beautiful glory, just waiting to be filled with a sizable, Russian land mass. One of the blessings and curses of being a nation was that pictures of another's land made great porn in a pinch, documentaries even more so. Recently, he'd been taken by a bit of a plow fetish. There was something incredibly sexy about seeing the vehicles rake so deeply into his lover's farmland. Perhaps a little weird to a human, but at least it didn't make him feel guilty when he masturbated to it. Not like the last one involving Floridian hurricanes.

"Ooooh, there!" moaned Alfred, wrapping his legs around Ivan and already beginning to pant. "Fuck, you're a cheater. Don't have to work at all to hit that spot, you're just so big that you keep rubbing against it."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration," answered Russia, blushing somewhat and leaning down to kiss America on the cheek. "I'm not nearly as huge as you make me out to be."

"Dude, you're bigger than the rest of us, and you still have, hah, so many self-confidence issues!" gasped America. "You don't need to invade anyone over land disputes, for crying out loud. Do you really need more?"

"At least I don't invade over the actions of a small, dwindling extremist group," answered Russia sharply, not appreciative of the blow. "Besides, there isn't much you can do with land so far up north. It isn't as useful for growing food, or even living. Haven't you noticed that most of Canada's population lives near the border, to the south?"

"Oh, whatever," gasped America, eyes closing and shoulders rolling back, his back arching into a Golden Gate Bridge. "Don't lecture me while we sex!"

"The word 'sex' in that context isn't a ver-"

"NO LECTURES."

Russia rolled his eyes and began to move his hips, only slightly regretting the use of saliva instead of an actual, proper lubricant. "A-alfred," he panted. "Good boy."

"Nottadog…" mumbled America, almost inaudibly, but he didn't appear to care to protest the point further, as he promptly began pinching his own nipples. "Come on, harder! I wanna hurt! I wanna hurt so fucking bad!"

"Very well. Hands off," scolded Russia, batting the shorter representative's hands away and pushing his legs up higher, so his behind was forced off the comfort of the sofa. "You want this to hurt? I can make it hurt."

America didn't fight it as he sped up, drilling into him with all his strength, creating an inhuman force that had Alfred crying out delightedly.

"More! Ivan! Fuck, I love it, just like that!" he gasped, opening his eyes just enough to get a look at the one drilling into him. It didn't do much good for long, however, because Texas proceeded to fall back over the top of his head as it tipped back over the armrest, landing with a clatter on the hardwood floor. Normally it would have been met with horror, but right then, he barely noticed their absence. "F-fuck, I can't see, come closer."

"Near-sighted?" guessed Russia. It was almost funny to realize that in all the time they'd been together, he'd never once thought to ask what America needed the glasses for. It was almost like his scarf; Alfred insisted on wearing them during sex, and was fiercely protective of the things. If it weren't for the fact that they could break, he'd probably have worn them in his sleep. One time Russia had made the mistake of removing them from his companion's face and teasingly held them out of reach. He hadn't expected to be smacked across the face, then shot in the knee for good measure. Upon questioning why he went for the knee, and not, well, the face, the man's only answer had been something to do with guards, arrows, and ex-adventurers.

"Great guess, now keep fucking moving."

He shrugged before continuing on, leaning down so as to appease his partner. "Better? It's not like you don't know what I look like. Or like you need to worry about me murdering you because you can't see."

"It's not that," answered America through breathy moans. "I just need to be able to see, ya' know? Not being able to almost feels like…" He attempted to disguise his obvious reluctance to finish the sentence with an exaggerated moan, but Russia had a feeling he knew what Alfred was referring to.

"A weakness?" he guessed.

"I wasn't gonna say that," huffed Alfred, closing his eyes as Ivan picked up the pace again.

"Then what were you going to say?" panted Russia.

"An inadequacy."

"I suppose you looked through a thesaurus specifically so that you could find that word?"

A blush blossomed outward from America's nose, reaching out in all directions across his face. "Did not. Now hurry up before I lose interest. This is sex, I shouldn't be able to talk like this. Clearly you're not doing your job very well."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really."

Ivan lifted the man's legs up and began driving his arousal into the blonde's heat at inhuman speeds, without so much as a word of warning. Before he could utter so much as a 'woops,' Alfred found himself reduced to a babbling mass of pleasure, eagerly spreading his legs to the fullest extent of his capabilities.

Nice as vanilla sex was, however, Ivan couldn't help but feel like it was missing just a little something. Perhaps it was a bad sign, how unused to the prospect of just repeatedly thrusting into his partner with nothing else to supplement it. Any reasonably sane relationship counselor would probably chew him out for wanting to see the man beaten and bloodied. Even when he bottomed, bad at the whole 'dirty talk' thing as Alfred was, there was always some element of orgasm denial, or biting, or, more recently, getting slapped across the face.

Or maybe the fact that they both adored such things was proof that they were destined for one another. Whatever it was, Russia found himself pulling out. As though America had read his mind, the blonde flipped over onto his stomach without hesitation.

"I was wondering just how long it'd take before you got bored of that…" mused Alfred, grinning wickedly. "Grab my hair, or something. Be a man." Whoever said gay people weren't masculine was clearly an idiot. What could possibly be more manly than fucking another man, or having the pain tolerance necessary for anal? Or being on the receiving end of BDSM, for that matter, but that was another story entirely.

He received a rough slap on the ass before Ivan grabbed a handful of his hair and brutally reentered, continuing on at a brisk pace. The elder of the two wasn't interested in conversation right then. All his concentration was on the moment, on pulling the man's head back until he had to rise up off his arms and onto his knees alone, back pulled against the Russian's chest and head eagerly tilting back and to the side to reveal a prime location for love-bites.

"Oh, fuck, babe," panted America as Russia's teeth sank into his neck. "Conquer me, you son of a bitch!" He closed his eyes and released a keen moan, reaching his hands back to grab the man's hips and pull himself closer.

"Gladly," whispered Ivan in response just before he began licking the mark, pink and bruising. "And when you're mine, I'll do this every day."

"Communist bastard…" groaned Alfred, finally letting loose a ribbon of seed that drizzled onto the sofa below like rainwater from a gutter. "R-russia!"

Russia wrapped an arm around America's waist to keep him from falling forward, thrusting only a few more times into the man's tightening hole before spilling himself within. As he withdrew himself, the fluids followed close behind, leaking out of the well-used hole and dripping down to the representative's inner thighs. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"More or less," America answered with a wry grin. "Fine, you're forgiven. I still wanna go out for some McD's, though."

"Will it make you happy if I go out and buy you a burger from the drive-through for dinner?"

"Very."

So in the end, they both got what they wanted. America his 'revenge,' and Russia, simply getting off at long last.

For a roleplay they'd come up with on a whim, it certainly wasn't very whimsical.

"Hey, dude. I have the best idea ever."

"I hesitate to ask, but what?"

"Well, you know how men jizz when they're hung?"

"Hanged."

"Hanged ain't a word."

"That's what it was called in the old days, was it not?"

"That's a lie. Lemme check the intern- oh, whattaya know, they're both good. Awesome."

"But anyway, you were saying?"

"Let's play Hangman. W-without the words, and the spelling, and shit."

So that was what had led to Ivan's current situation, curled up on the floor in the basement with his hands chained behind his back, and his angles bound tightly together while Alfred took care of the set-up. It wasn't a terrible idea. Even rather enticing. The prospect of being led to his 'execution' was arousing in a way that was incredibly difficult to explain. The problem being, of course, that he had absolutely no idea what the charges were. If there was one thing he could always count on America to do, it was ruin what was otherwise a perfectly sexy moment with something absurd. If it had anything to do with hamburger theft, he was going to be very disappointed.

It felt like he'd been waiting for hours on the cold cement floor, staring at the door and waiting for it to open, wondering just what Alfred would choose to wear for the 'occasion.' He himself had been stripped completely naked. Not that he minded, but it was chilly down there. Used to the cold as he was, it didn't mean he was in love with the idea of waiting around like that in what he was quickly beginning to realize was an extremely poorly insulated room. He drew on his own experience from years long since past to choose positions best for maintaining a fair body temperature, though it didn't stop his shivering, nor his boredom.

At long last, however, the doorknob turned. It swung open, revealing the blond he'd been waiting for all that time, in a surprisingly appropriate outfit. Even his slouching, care-free posture had changed tune to something more like the man that he'd had the most high-stakes staring contest in the world with. His shoulders were upright, and he entered the room as if he owned the place. Which, in all fairness, he did, given that it was his house. His attire spoke of earlier times, far too plain to be anything even remotely modern, but not nearly so worn that he looked the part of a poor farmboy. No, that was a roleplay for another day. Somehow, Alfred had managed to pull off the visible part of his role superbly. Were he a human, he wouldn't have doubted for a second that the man before him had arrived to send him to the gallows.

"Ivan Braginsky," he finally addressed after a moment of sizing each other up. A lesser man might have been fooled, but Russia immediately caught the slip-up. There was absolute delight behind his eyes, and it was clear that the man was taking immense pride in his work. Ah, well, he could ignore it in favor of pretending it was contempt. "It's time. One last chance to confess to your crime."

Had he even decided on what it was? "Never," spat Ivan, just as pleased with his own acting as Alfred obviously was with his own. How very much like a cornered animal, so defiant, yet shaken. It was movie-worthy, truly. At least, he very much liked to think so. "I'm innocent of all charges. You and your mock trial cannot change that." It did make him wonder, though. Was he guilty, or was he innocent? It didn't really matter, in the end, but it felt so odd not to establish it. Hopefully America would at least tell him what he'd been convicted of doing.

"Liar," answered his ordinarily shorter companion, though, given that Russia was sitting pressed against the wall, America managed to tower over him. For once. "The priest saw you. Your neighbors, too. They've all come forward, against you." Oh, for fuck's sake, what was it? "We know what you are. Witch," he hissed, giving Ivan a solid kick to the chest. "Chanting black magic in the night, and rendering John's crops unable to grow. Katherine's fallen ill, and Thomas' slave simply keeled over and died working the fields! Admit your sins, foul creature, before we send you straight to the depths of Hell!"

Admit his sins, right after the man before him had condoned slavery? He had to applaud the dedication to getting the historical mindset down, but it was just so, dare he say it, funny to be reminded of just what kinds of idiotic beliefs they and their people held so long ago. Of course, he'd probably say the same thing about the present in a hundred more years. Progress had a way of doing that. "Black magic? 'twas only the language of my homeland, a conversation with my sister." Never mind that it made little sense. He was making things up on the fly, damn it. "Those things were simply coincidences they chose to pin on me."

"You turned me into a newt!"

There was a moment of silence as Russia considered breaking free of the chains and throttling America for ruining the moment with a Monty Python reference while the aforementioned nation held in his laughter, broken only when his 'executioner' regained his composure and coughed into his hand.

"Anyway," he went on, snapping his fingers. "Up, witch."

Ivan grinned up at him, unmoving, not so much as bothering to cover himself up. He wanted to make it very clear that he wasn't the type to go down easy. "Don't think you can fool me. You're just waiting me to accept what you've addressed me as and get up, confessing by proxy. Save the trickery for someone who appreciates your efforts."

It would be a lie to say he didn't anticipate the foot that quickly slammed against the side of his jaw, knocking him to the ground with a loud crack. The attack dazed him, to say the least, and it was a moment or so before he was able to translate the American's words in his head.

"It wasn't a question. Now get up."

Russia was about to retort, but opening his jaw proved incredibly painful. As he sat back up, shoulders hunched over, he brought a hand up to examine the damage. It was completely dislocated on the side America had struck. Not that he'd really expected any different. An impressive display, if not somewhat over the top. Then again, Alfred was probably sick of hearing him talk back. Very well, he was tired of sitting there anyway. He took a deep breath and snapped his mandible back into place. Sloppy work that would shame the professionals, and he'd probably damaged something in the process, but fuck it, he was about to 'die.' That done, he stood up, opening and closing his jaw to make sure it was working properly.

"So I'm guilty until proven innocent, it would seem? And with no means of doing the latter. What a lovely system," he mused sarcastically, though perhaps it was a bit of hypocritical humor.

"Tell it to the judge," answered America flatly, withdrawing a blade from his pocket and pressing it to his back. "Who in this case is God. He's the only one who can judge your sins."

"In case you haven't noticed, you're judging me right now."

"You've been convicted of witchcraft, and you want me to be logical?"

"Fair enough."

It seemed neither of them could remain serious for very long. Hm, a bit of practice would be in order. As he stepped barefoot out into the hallway, slowly inching along as a result of his closely chained ankles, America stood just behind him at all times, making sure to keep a firm grip on the iron cuffs on his wrists. As though it would actually hold him, if he really wanted to escape. They both knew better, but, again, that wasn't the point.

He found it interesting, just how much had been cleared out of the way in order to make the place seem older. Electronics had been unplugged and hidden, the sockets covered or downplayed. The fluffy new rug in the living room had been replaced by something that looked like it had been in storage for a good hundred years, maybe more. Straw that looked suspiciously like the fake kind from the Halloween party last October was strewn about. Even the ceiling fan had been unscrewed, modern furniture replaced by wooden chairs and such. Thankfully, the ceiling was high, so the single noose hanging in the center of it all didn't look too silly, though an outdoor execution would have been preferable. Obviously, however, that was out of the question. Last thing they needed was a neighbor noticing the commotion and calling the police.

"Any last requests?" asked America dryly, failing in his effort to hide the grin on his face. "These are, after all, your soul's final moments on this plane."

"A shot of vodka would be nice."

If Alfred was disappointed, he didn't show it. He shoved Ivan up onto a table at knife-point, then wrapped the chains around his ankles through the furniture's legs, tightening it up to prevent any 'escape attempts.' "You're in luck. I just so happen to have a bottle imported aaaaaall the way from Russia. I don't suppose you want anything mixed into that?"

"Just straight vodka, thank you," answered Russia. He knew exactly which bottle America was talking about, too. He'd brought it over himself; his favorite kind. "Oh, and if you don't mind, there's this lovely French pastry I've acquired a taste for…"

"Don't push it," said America flatly on his way out. It was only a moment before he returned with the requested drink, making it rather obvious that he'd poured it in anticipation of that moment beforehand. So he wasn't completely unable to make predictions regarding the future. Or perhaps his favorite drink was just that predictable. "Open wide! Freaking alcoholic."

"I can quit anytime I want," he answered without much thought, taking the shot glass and downing it immediately. Just as he remembered it, the taste of almost unfiltered alcohol. It seemed like only a week ago he'd chugged two bottles and passed out in the shower. Oh, wait, no, that had been yesterday.

"Well, then, any other requests?" inquired America, leaning over the table so his nose was just under Russia's exposed manhood. "I can't imagine you want to leave the mortal plane with just a bit of vodka on your way out." He pressed his cheek lightly against the side of the organ, which had already begun to stir.

"I can think of a few, but I doubt an upstanding puritan such as you would indulge me," he answered, hands jerking apart only to be stopped by the chains keeping them behind his back. Tempting as it was to break them, he was determined to stay in character.

"I'll just blame it on your witchcraft later," said Alfred. He climbed up onto the table, reached out, and slipped the noose over Ivan's head and around his neck. "They'll take my word for it, just as they took the word of the so-called witnesses." He tightened the rope and held up a black execution hood, which he slipped over Russia's face, obscuring his vision. It was a nice touch, though he hesitated to ask just where he had gotten it from. A costume store of some sort, hopefully.

"I thought you were supposed to ask me if I wanted to be hooded," he commented, hands he could no longer keep track of with his eyes sliding around his body. He could hear Alfred circling him on the table like a vulture would a dying animal; he could feel the way the wooden furniture creaked under his boots. Fingers slid under the noose and hood to feel the jagged scars of his neck and chest, nails dragged down as if ready to re-open each one.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't object…" purred his executioner, stopping in front of him to slide his other hand over the hood and up under his covered chin. It remained for only a moment, however, before being lifted away and wrapped around Russia's half-erect penis in his hand. There was a light thud as he dropped to his knees, his tongue curling under its swollen head, slathering it with a generous amount of saliva.

Ivan jerked his hips forward, trembling and making a conscious effort not to let his knees buckle. It wouldn't be a sharp enough drop to spell his end, but it still have the potential to cause him enough pain to distract him from the blowjob. America might have liked it in any way, shape, or form, but he didn't particularly care for it unless it was being intentionally administered. It was the difference between getting sliced up, and accidentally cutting your finger chopping vegetables. One was sexy, and one was an aggravating accident.

It took what seemed to be minutes before America finally took him into his mouth, and even then it was only the tip. It was clear he was going to take his time and draw it out for as long as possible. He never showed patience or self-control unless he was the one doing the teasing. It was such a shame that he couldn't see or move, completely unable to so much as lift a bare foot up to feel just how hard his companion was getting from their little game. That said, he heard the rather distinct sound of shifting clothing before the soft rapping sound of a man stroking himself. He hoped it wasn't Alfred's intention to hide that he was pleasuring himself, because it was being made incredibly obvious.

The pleasure was almost hypnotizing, as Alfred took him deeper, tongue grazing along just hard and fast enough to provoke a response, yet just soft and slow enough to create a sensation that could almost be described as burning. Every pulse of his executioner's tongue became more and more arousing, as each time it swirled around gradually became rougher. There was simply no denying that America had sucked him off often enough to know just how he liked it. Sure enough, even his teeth started to get some use, dragged along the sensitive flesh without completely chomping down. Every time the younger representative pulled his head back, not only was their a feeling of loss, but the cold of the air on the saliva-coated skin created a discomfort, one that Alfred took his own sweet time in remedying.

It was more than a little surprising when America pulled back completely, leaving his dripping erection unattended, rather than taking it to the back of his throat, something that both of them so enjoyed. Instead, he stood up, rubbing what felt suspiciously like his own length against Russia's.

"I thought," panted Ivan through the hood, which had become so hot that beads of sweat had begun to pour down his cheeks, "that 'though shalt not lay with a man as one would a woman.' "

"And I wouldn't fuck a woman up the ass. Come on, I thought we already went over this!" answered America, and Russia could almost hear his grin. "Nor would I rub our cocks together. Besides, you don't seem to be complaining, witch."

Ah, yes, the charges, he'd almost forgotten. "I don't recall having admitted guilt."

"Like an ordinary mortal could possibly be this big without magic," scoffed America in retaliation. A loud moan spilled from his lips, and he rolled his hips forward to get more friction. Russia wasn't about to complain, feeling himself draw closer to the edge with every millimeter of movement, biting his own tongue to keep silent. "So thick and delicious. Enough to tempt any person of your choosing. I don't know what you call a male temptress, but that's what you are."

Ah, he'd gotten so used to the 'proper' language that he'd almost forgotten who he was dealing with. "Temptation that you seem to have given in to." He knew his mistake almost as soon as he made it.

"I do believe that qualifies as a confession, darling," said Alfred in a smug tone, releasing Ivan's cock to stick out on its own, hard and unattended, in favor of wrapping his arms around the back of his neck and pulling him forward for a quick kiss through the black hood, though it meant the rope would dig into his neck. "Vile male temptress, today your scourge on mankind ends. Not before a little humiliation, of course." The sounds of America's panting grew in intensity, as did the sounds of his own masturbation, until Russia could feel the man's seed splatter across his abdomen. "Aww, poor thing, did you want one last orgasm, too?"

He was going to make him beg, wasn't he? That whore would pay for that, damn it. Later, though, because he was going to go insane (again) if he didn't get off in a timely manner.

"Da," he answered softly, a chip of his pride falling to the table below him. "Pozhaluista." There went another chip.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand. Care to repeat that in a more civilized tongue?" asked America in a mockingly innocent tone of voice.

He was going to kill Alfred when he woke up again for that comment, but until then, he was, unfortunately, at the man's mercy. Russia felt himself sway forward as his executioner's thumb teased the slit of his erection. "I said yes, please." He did his best to keep the venomous tone to a minimum, difficult as it was to disguise his malice when he knew very well how desperate he sounded beneath it all.

"I don't like your tone. Try again."

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. He wasn't even getting off anymore, he just liked playing the tormenter. "Please," he tried again, in what he could only hope was an acceptable manner.

"Please what?" asked America, faking a yawn, as though he could go on all day. Russia did not appreciate the use of one of his favorite ploys against him, but he supposed it was just karmic punishment.

"Please put it in your mouth, sir," he added, though his voice was once again scathing. Alfred seemed placated, however, for he got down on his knees once again.

"Well, since you called me 'sir,' and all, I guess I've got no choice!" he said all too sweetly, and without so much as a moment more of hesitation, he took Russia's erection to the back of his throat, repeatedly swallowing around it for the entire twenty seconds or so that it took before the 'witch' finally came in his mouth, the pleasured noises poorly muffled by the hood over his head. Every last drop was swallowed, allowing him to rest assured that all those innocent sperm would meet an untimely death racing to the 'womb' that would very quickly turn out to be full of acid and partially digested hamburgers.

Once he was done, America removed himself from the quickly-softening organ and got to his feet once again, circling around behind Russia and pressing his cheek to his back.

"I could cut you loose," he murmured, hot breath meeting Ivan's back and warming his shivering form. "Or I could push you to your death. Decisions, decisions." His arms made there way around Russia's waist, hands playing with his limp penis. "But neither are mine to make. You've been found guilty, big guy, and that's the end of that." With speed Ivan hadn't been aware Alfred even possessed, he let go, pulled his arms back, and shoved him off the table. He felt himself falling over, the solid table slipping out from under his feet, the rope on his neck pulling back. In the course of that once second, he felt a snap.

After that, he felt nothing at all.

"Best Halloween decoration ever!" said America to himself, watching Russia's lifeless body sway from side to side. "And England wonders why I don't believe in magic. Never did anyone any good." It was true enough. He'd abandoned his childish belief in such things shortly after the witch trials in Salem. Still, it had seemed such a fitting excuse to hang his lover, conviction in those trials he regretted with a passion. He had a feeling it was a bit more interesting than his first idea, having to do with communism and spying. While that may have made more sense, even he was getting a little tired of that plot, and their sexual bedroom interrogations of one another. Hot as it was to feel fingers probing around inside of him, searching for 'illegal contraband.'

He lifted the hood up over Ivan's face, turning the swaying corpse around to face him. It was an eerie, yet familiar sight, one that reminded him that however bad he might feel about modern times, at the very least he wasn't still sending people to the gallows.

What did mortality feel like? It was a question he couldn't help but ask himself at times. What was it like, knowing that there was a definite end? That your life could not, theoretically, go on forever and ever? It was something he'd been giving more thought to than he cared to admit for fear of looking like an old man. Something he'd admittedly only started thinking about when he got the 'Dragonrend' shout in Skyrim, forcing the immortal creatures to comprehend finite life.

He could have gone on thinking about that sort of topic for hours, wondering what his reaction would be were he to be made to truly comprehend a permanent death, to understand what it really meant to be gone forever.

Or he could just play more Skyrim and show those pussy dragons who was boss. That sounded much more exciting.

When Russia woke, he was in the bedroom, once again beside his lover as he played a video game. "Fus ro DAH, motherfucker!"

"How long-" he began, rubbing his eyes, only to be interrupted mid-sentence.

"Past few hours. Now ssssssh, I'm on a quest with a lot of puzzles, I've gotta concentrate."

Ivan sat up, looked over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes. "Why are you a lizard, Alfred?"

"I'm not a lizard, I'm a freaking dinosaur. Argoni-whatever, or something. Now be quiet, dude, they're talking and I don't have subtitles on!" hissed America defensively while his 'dinosaur' chopped a cat-person's head off. "Fuck yeah, that's what you get for referring to yourselves in third person! America will kill you all!"

"…I'm going back to sleep."

"G'night."

He would strangle America for calling his language uncivilized in the morning. Alfred would be able to rest assured that he would. NOT. Forget.

A/N

Klei: Hoorah! Next chapter shall be cannibalism. Alfred gets baked, and then there will be cake. :D Well, he won't be baked INTO a cake. Who wants a meat-cake? Eww. He'll just be a delicious roast. Or maybe a fillet. Perhaps his organs removed and cooked in a nice gravy, and his body stuffed to be cooked up in the oven. Maybe sliced up and grilled? Oh, and what to do with the penis?

America: You're sick! How could you use the P-word?

Russia: …Did you pay attention to anything she said before 'penis,' or are you just that stupid?

America: What? What did I miss? She got my attention at 'roast.' Yum. :D

Russia: -facepalm-

Klei: But seriously, sometimes I wonder why so many fanfics shy away from the word 'penis,' opting instead for completely replacing the word with 'cock,' and 'dick.' It's understandable if you're trying to be a little poetic (I recall Lolita referring to it as the 'scepter of his affection,' or something, which made me seriously laugh out loud), but that's slang. :D Call it like it is, guys. .

Russia: We get the point, you can stop now.

America: MAKE IT STOOOOOP!

Russia: So this is karmic punishment for all the bad things I've done? I get to be surrounded by idiots? Why am I the only one suffering? America has done plenty of horrible things, too!

Klei: Oh, but he has been punished. –in a whisper- Il est très stupide et ignorant, in case you haven't noticed by now.

America: So seriously, when are we getting that roast, guys? I'm, like, totally starving. :L -derps-

Russia: …On second thought, I think I got the better end of the deal. I'm not even going to ask what the French was for, by the way.

Klei: Well, I'm glad you asked! See, I'm taking a French cla-

Russia: No one cares.

Klei: ;3; Anyway, here ends another obnoxiously long author's note. Au revoir, and see you guys, uh, whenever I next update. Which will hopefully be soon. :3