Disclaimer: Don't own APH.

A/N: Hi, it's 11/2016, and I'm putting the full fic back up here. The only change I made is Russia's career - congrats, he's now an athlete. This is the sequel to "Physicals, and Why They Suck." Thanks for reading.

Pairings: Main Russia/Prussia, Germany/Prussia. Background Germany/Belgium.

Warnings: Second-person POV. Cheating.

:::

Smile Like You Mean It.

Your hands ache from gripping the headboard so tightly, but Kaltherzig's got a large hand wrapped around your dick and he jacks you off in time with his thrusts and there's no way in hell you're letting go, because if you do you're totally gonna flop onto the mattress and the last time that happened, Kaltherzig went right on with his unadulterated fucking and you discovered a few new bruises on your noggin the next morning. Albeit, last time, he examined the bruises with one hand and fingered you with the other, so it wasn't too bad, but that isn't the point. You kind of want to get out of this relationship intact, and if your doctor maintains his breakneck pace and his bone-shattering strength, that's not gonna happen.

Today, he's a bit fiercer than normal, and you wince with each thrust as your knees scrape harshly against the sheets. You'll probably end up with sheet-burn (what do you call carpet-burn when you get it on a bed, anyway?) but that's not even the worst part - no, Kaltherzig's hands grip your waist so tightly that the scalding heat almost intervenes with the bliss of his cock stretching you wide.

The various pains and aches fade and blur with the overwhelming pleasure, and eventually all you can focus on his how you want him to hold you tighter. He chuckles, low and deep in your ear, and his grunts turn to vulgar German and you're such a whore, Gilbert, look at you. Of course, that only makes you impossibly harder, and you buck back, thighs trembling and jaw taut as you try to restrain your groans. Yeah, Kaltherzig loves them, but you think they make you sound like too much of a bitch, and understandably you avoid releasing them, but right now - god -

You whimper, and the coil in your stomach tightens unbearably, and -

Kaltherzig's phone rings right by your head, with an alarm that sounds like something out of Silent Hill. You throw him a disbelieving, watery-eyed glance when he muffles you with one hand and answers his phone with the other, holding it to his ear even as he continues with his thrusts.

"Hallo?" he says, sounding like he hadn't just been fucking you into a Best Western mattress, and you clench around him. His face tightens and he twists his hand, forcing three fingers slick with your precum into your mouth.

"Who is it?" you manage to whisper, pushing back against him. He ignores you, and slips into another language with whoever it is, and hangs up a few moments later. "Well?"

"Nothing important." Then his hand leaves your lips and returns to your cock and you come hard onto the bedsheets. He continues his rough pace and the overstimulation makes you tremble, but he soon withdraws and you feel hot squelchy-ness dripping onto your lower back. You collapse as he pushes his fingers back inside you, rubbing and tapping against your prostate until you come again with a muffled howl.

(God, you must sound like such a bitch. Kaltherzig watches you shudder with a slight smirk, and you open your mouth compliantly when he leans in to kiss you, and something warm bubbles in your stomach at the fond look he gives you when he pulls away.)

Without further ado, he climbs off the bed and strides over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Still in a vague trance, you listen to the telltale sounds of the shower, and after deciding that sitting and waiting with an absent smile on your face is totally unawesome, you stand and wince and wipe your sweaty body off with the bedsheets. Before Kaltherzig finishes showering, you've got your belt buckled and your hoodie zipped, and you leave your card key on the hotel room table before stalking out. In the lobby, you totally leave an obvious scent of sex and booze behind you, but seriously not caring because, hey, that kid tugging at her momma's skirt and asking what the smell is? She'll know before Momma wants her to.

:::

So for the past four months, you and Kaltherzig have gotten together every few days and fucked the day away in a hotel somewhere. Usually, you go to the Best Western outside town, because nobody asks questions, and Kaltherzig calls you when he's in the mood, and you kinda-sorta spend your time awaiting his phone calls.

Liz thinks it's hot, of course, and usually asks if she can watch. When a week passes without a call from Kaltherzig (unheard of, considering that the longest you two've gone without boning is three days), she suggests that you go see him at the clinic.

"No offense, dude," she shrugs, "but you get really cranky without a good dicking every other day."

Sure, you reply with a few choice swearwords, but it's not a bad idea to go see Kaltherzig.

The clinic is pretty empty when you enter thirty minutes later, and you stretch over the counter to yank Arthur's pink earbuds out so he'll pay attention to you.

"Good afternoon, arsewipe," he greets cheerfully.

"Fuck you too. Doc in?"

"Which one? We've got three, mate."

"You know which one."

"Ah, so the one you're boning. Let me think..." Arthur trails off with a concentrated frown, and then he shoots you a glare and continues, "No. Now go away, I've got more interesting things to do than listen to you. And you should really stop MyFacing your Kino records - I could kick your arse any day of the week and twice on Sunday."

"Wha - you hacked my MyFace? Are you shitting me?" you gape, grabbing the computer moniter and turning it so you can see the webpage, and damn, it is definitely your MyFace. "How did you even get my password?"

"I have my ways. Please let go of the monitor, it's worth more than you are."

You comply, and prop your elbow up on the countertop. "So Kaltherzig's seriously out?"

"Yep. Won't be back for a few weeks." Arthur's apathetic gaze returns to the computer, and he rests his chin in his palm as he scrolls through (presumably) your MyFace profile. Bitch. You make a mental note to change your password as soon as you get home.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably - he went out of town and didn't tell you? You're sure it's just your overactive libido complaining, but... "He's allowed to just leave like that?" you scoff, arching a brow.

Arthur watches your expression closely, and you open your mouth to make a gay joke, but he leans forward, and glances from side to side as if to check for eavesdroppers (you sincerely doubt that the elderly lady and her grandson sitting behind you would care for what Arthur has to say), and gestures with one long finger for you to come closer, and then he whispers, "But you know how women are. So demanding! Why, Camille practically dragged him out by the teeth! It's been ages since they went on vacation, though - if I was her, I'd have divorced his sorry arse years ago."

"What?" Your stomach plummets, and the dubious look on Arthur's face really doesn't help matters. In the same second the edge of his mouth quirks upward, and he continues with a relishing smile.

"I can't understand how she's put up with him for six years - ten, technically, but you only start counting after they tie the knot."

Your stomach plummets, and the self-satisfaction on the bastard's face incites a bitter taste at the back of your mouth. He isn't done, though, and he leans back, mock surprise all over his face. "Don't tell me you didn't know..."

"No," you grit out. "I didn't."

"Oh. Oh, my. Well, as long as you haven't gone and fallen in love with him or anything, it doesn't matter. Because something else that doesn't matter is how good of a lay you are - he's been with Camille for ten years, as I said, and he wouldn't leave her for anything."

Now you feel about to vomit, and you force a smile. "No, of course not," you manage, turning and walking out so you don't have to see the stupidly smug grin on Arthur's face when he notices how distraught you are.

:::

"I'm not in the mood," you groan to Liz later that evening. You lay on your stomach with your face buried in a pillow and the blanket yanked up over your head, trying to sleep or suffocate yourself or whichever comes first, because you feel so shitty and so fucking stupid right now that it doesn't matter anymore. The embarrassment of kinda-sorta-hoping that Kaltherzig wasn't just using you as a tight ass burns bright and hot in your stomach, and you really wanna punch someone but Liz is the only person in sight and if you punch her she'll tear your jaw off. And then you'll have to walk around like that chick from that one horror movie, and that would be so unawesome.

"I know what you are in the mood for," taunts Liz, who sits next to you in panties and a t-shirt (because you're currently interested in a very married German doctor and Liz is too much of a sister for you to get hard over), "and his name is Ludwig."

Your jaw works. "Nope. Nope, I am most definitely not in the mood for him."

Liz probably just rolled her eyes, because she sounds indignant when she replies, "Look, man, I know he's kinda hitched, but that doesn't matter - he's still good sex, right? You're always in the mood for him, and don't you deny it." Then her weight vanishes, and she adds, "Still, I think we should totally go clubbing. You'll be in the mood for it as soon as we get out."

"No, I won't." Your voice sounds muffled because of the pillow you're currently trying to inhale, but Liz understands just fine and flops onto your back. "Owwwww. Bitch."

"Gillie-willie, please? We haven't gone clubbing in ages - hell, not since you started banging Kaltherzig regularly, anyway. And, and, I went shopping yesterday and I bought you a pair of skinny jeans at Vans, and you'll love them."

She pulls the blanket down, and lies on her stomach next to you. "Seriously, though. Your moping is so uncharacteristic. Normally, nothing gets your egotastic ass down."

"Tell you what," you say, rolling onto your back and facing her, "you can go clubbing, and go home with the first hottie you see, and leave me alone for the next day or two. Sound good?"

"No. That sounds like every other weekend for me."

"Liz, can this wait? I'm kind of in the middle of a crisis here."

"Like hell you are. You need to get out, broseph, before you wind up all isolated and depressing."

Of course, ten minutes later, Liz has you up and dancing the skinny-jean-dance, trying to get the black-and-white monstrosity on. "Jesus, Liz," you gasp, and Liz lowers her eyeliner applicator with a groan before stalking over to you and hooking her fingers in the belt loops.

It takes a bit longer and a dual effort, but eventually the pants are on. You think they're a bit tight, but as you wait to enter the club, they garner you a fair number of hungry glances. Liz giggles and nudges you in the stomach with her elbow as soon as you pass inside, and suggests something about people getting the wrong idea. "Despite your obviously depressed expression and the practically-edible gayness radiating off your delectable ass, people will totally think we're together if I stick around."

Do you really look depressed? Damn. "Bullshit. You just found a hot guy."

Liz laughs, and snakes an arm around your waist, hugging you loosely. "Not yet. Actually, you know what, come with me to the bar - if I remember right, the bartender here is one hot piece of ass!" she shouts. You still just barely hear her over the blasting music.

"Nah. Aren't I designated driver?" you reply as she pulls you over to the bar, flashing flirty smiles at pretty much everyone you pass.

"I'm not planning on going home with you," she smirks, licking her lips as the bartender comes into view. Yeah, you gotta admit, he is pretty hot - dark curls, glimmering green eyes, and tanned skin, wearing a casual black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows - and he's definitely making eyes back at Liz.

You groan. "Dude, I am not in the mood to see you sucking face. You go, have fun, do whatever horny twenty-something coeds do as long as it doesn't get you killed, because I am not paying rent on my own."

"Sure thing, love," she giggles. "But come over with me and have a few first. Sorry to sound like the stupid bitch who gets everyone killed in a horror movie, but you seriously need to loosen up." She slinks over to the blacklight-illuminated bar, pulling you along by the hand, and when you stop in front of the gleaming white counter the bartender leans up with his eyes dancing between you and Liz.

"What can I get you two?" he shouts, traces of a Spanish accent evident in his sultry voice.

Liz's eyes flash hungrily, and she orders one of those strangely-titled drinks (a sex in the shower, if you heard right), and she's definitely gonna score with the bartender, because one does not simply reject Liz Hedervary. You roll your eyes and pat her ass before moving over, hoping to grab attention from the other bartender (a girl with dark hair parted around her neck) so you don't have to interrupt Lizzie and her soon-to-be boytoy with your request for a simple gin and tonic.

Now, you don't listen to techno if you can avoid it, so you've got no idea what the stereos are blasting. It sounds nice, though, and the pounding in your head feels nostalgic - Liz was right, you haven't been clubbing in months. God, it was like you'd gotten married or something. You shudder, because the idea of a not-quite-boyfriend holding you back is just so unawesome it burns.

And maybe because you aren't really convincing yourself. But maybe that's also why, when a large hand settles on your hip, you turn your head to shoot a sly grin at the perpetrator rather than push him away angrily, like you would've done if you didn't have this horrible self-pitying irritation bubbling in your stomach. The man behind you is tall - taller than Kaltherzig, maybe? You have to look up to see them both, anyway, so you're not sure - and distinctly Eastern European, with a prominent nose and curiously pale eyes. The scarf wrapped loosely around his throat looks neon purple in the ultraviolet lights, and his black shirt stretches taut over his muscular arms.

And he's pretty cute - not gorgeous, like Kaltherzig, but definitely charming. His face looks kind of babyish, mostly because of his full cheeks, but his jaw angles sharply and he's probably at least eight or nine years older than you. And he looks like he wants to ravish you right there. It's a club, so he very well might.

"Nice pants," he comments in a Russian accent, smiling lewdly and stroking his fingers down your thighs. "They leave so very little to the imagination."

You have half a mind to retort with something snappy about how they're also cutting off circulation to your balls, but instead you sidle back against his broad chest and grin, "Ooh, bust. Maybe I should let you see what you're missing."

His grin widens. "Can I buy you a drink?"

You regard him with a wry smirk tugging at your lips. "You married?"

He flashes a ringless hand at you, and pulls you closer with a strong arm around your waist. "Completely and totally unhitched."

"Then sure. I could use the buzz."

Liz shoots you a wink and a grin from another side of the square bar area when she sees you and the dude walk up together. You roll your eyes and widen your eyes, shaking your head and nonverbally asking where her hottie's gone, and in the time she takes to lean over and speak to her sexy bartender, your new partner ordered you something and you didn't even catch the name. "What is this?" you ask him, cradling the old-fashioned glass curiously.

"Kiss me slowly," he leers, reaching for his own rum and coke.

"And...this one?" You barely finish the one in your hand and the bartender slides a highball glass toward you.

"Guess."

Sipping at it, you pull a face. "Ew, I taste green apple."

"Oh, you don't like cock'n balls?"

You snort, and very barely avoid spraying alcohol all over the bar, because damn if that isn't the funniest drink title you've ever fucking heard.

He proceeds to order you a few more drinks, and your skin gets hotter with each whispered title - because, stupid names or not, screaming multiple orgasm on the beach and fucked on the floor both leave you biting your lip, if only because the words roll off the guy's accented tongue so sexily, and by sex on the pool table, your face burns and you're sure that your skin's flushed redder than the ties in the bartender's hair.

"You know what?" you slur, a shiteating grin spreading on your face. "You haven't had much to drink, huh? Lemme get you something."

When the drink arrives a few seconds later, his lips twist up and he downs it, gripping your hips just tightly enough for the bruises Kaltherzig left last week to throb dully as he presses his lips to your throat. Thinking about him triggers a painful lurch in your stomach, but you shake it off when the guy next to you speaks again.

"A fuck me like an animal? Classy."

You smirk and push him off. "Of-fucking-course, but you aren't wasted enough for this to be a mutual relationship. Have another drink, yeah?"

You take your time deciding what to get him, and he watches expectantly, fingers rubbing over your thigh. "Throw me down and fuck me," you breathe by way of explanation when he downs the contents of the shot glass and throws you a questioning look. "And tie me to the bedpost, while you're at it." You snicker and stand, tugging him over to the dance floor because both of you are so drunk (you don't doubt that your partner was drunk before he got here) that dancing actually sounds like a good idea. Even though he's a half-foot taller than you, which is sure to make conventional dirty dancing a bit of a bother.

He wraps and stands behind you, swaying to the beat and grinding smoothly against your ass. Thank god for that - you've dirty danced with other guys before, and for some reason they all think that the receivers like getting humped from behind even though it actually gets pretty goddamn annoying after thirty seconds. This guy focuses more on your hips and stomach, calloused hands flying over your clothed skin and breath hot on the back of your neck, and when he spins you your arms jump to his shoulders. The height difference makes conventional dirty dancing kind of impossible, you decide, but he peppers your throat and collarbone with light, open-mouthed kisses, and pulls you close with strong arms around your waist.

(Why, again, haven't you gone clubbing in four months?)

You notice as he gradually eases you through the smoke and crowd, and from there it's a stereotypical club-to-bathroom-while-totally-drunk transition, the kind you see in movies right before the partygirl gets stabbed to death or something. You don't really care as he shuts and locks the bathroom door behind you and grunts into your ear, pushing you against the bathroom wall door with a knee between your legs. You kiss and bite at his throat and collarbone, exposed after you yanked the scarf out of the way a few seconds ago, and squeeze your legs around the guy's hips, your fingers twisting in his hair and mussing the gel keeping his fringe off his forehead.

Vodka-laced breath hot in your mouth, he slips a hand between your thighs and palms you through the checkered jeans, and oh, god, it's good. It's really fucking good, and you groan wantonly when he sets you onto the bathroom counter, breaking the kiss and pushing your shirt up, so he can lick and lave at your chest. "Man - fuck, oh, fuck." Kneeling between your parted thighs, he focuses solely on your stomach. And your skinny jeans. It's just as hard to get them off as it was to get them on, and you do little other than lift your hips and knees when necessary, laughing as the dude struggles with them.

"I swear, if your ass - is as tight as these jeans," he hisses, kneeling with one of your legs up in the air, "I'm gonna lose my dick." You lean back on your elbows with a smug grin on your face, mentally noting to thank Liz for buying you jeans two sizes too small. "Fuck!"

"Just - just leave them there, you moron!"

He laughs. "Sounds good." He grips your calf and kisses your ankle wetly, and you smirk at him as he kisses down your toned stomach. Kaltherzig never did any crazy foreplay like this, and you really missed it from when you used to sleep around regularly. Plus, your guy's got a wicked tongue, and he puts it to good use. You gasp as his breath ghosts over your half-hard dick, tongue pressing up against the cotton cloth of your favorite red briefs, and he pins your wrists down to the cheap counter with a sly grin.

"O-oh - oh, fuck," you groan, pushing up against his mouth and raising your legs, setting them over his shoulders. "Hurry up, god -"

"So impatient," he declares in a drunken singsong, pulling down your briefs with his teeth just slowly enough for deliciously rough friction. He licks up the underside of your cock, and you yelp and buck involuntarily as he takes it into his mouth, bobbing his head and deepthroating you so brilliantly that you wonder whether he's actually drunk. Maybe he just has a lot of drunk sex? Either way, it's simply impossible that he could be this good without lots of practice or an alcohol-dimmed gag reflex.

He pulls away far too soon, and leaves you sweating. You arch your head to see his face, and - with his lips reddened from cocksucking and his cheeks flushed and his hair absolutely ruined - he looks like something out of a first-class porno. His puffy lips part and he asks, "Wh't flavor lube? They've got...watermelon and coconut here."

The fact that this club actually has lube in the bathroom skips over your head completely, and you frown - because for some reason this guy's sober enough to remember lube. If you're wasted, you use spit, and regret it in the morning when either your dick's rubbed raw or your partner can't move - and pick watermelon while worming off the last pant leg and your briefs completely. He probes through the basket on the other end of the counter and selects a packet, throwing it to you. You miss spectacularly and it lands in the sink.

"Shut up," you snap even though he didn't actually say anything, stretching and reaching out for the tube. Just as you wrap your hand around it, the guy presses back between your legs, hooking your ankles over his shoulders and extending a hand for you to drip lube onto his fingers. You tear open the packet and shiver when he presses cold fingers against the cleft of your ass and circles your entrance, barely dipping and delving one finger in. By the time he slips it past the first knuckle, you're tensing and untensing your thighs and squirming hungrily. "'m not made of glass, cunt. Hurry up," you hiss.

"Okay, okay." He smiles and leans in to kiss you as he adds another finger, scissoring and curling in a come-hither gesture to stroke over your prostate. Your vision flashes and you groan, licking at his lower lip, and you dig your nails into his shoulders when he suddenly retracts his fingers and grabs the lube. Undoing the button on his pants, he slicks his cock up with the rest of the watermelony lubricant aligning himself. When he pushes inside, you hiss into his mouth at the rough stretching and claw at his back. He whispers huskily into your ear, "Mm, you like that, don't you?" and your only response is a moan and an arch against his chest.

From the beginning, he sets a slow, deep pace that sets your nerves on edge and sends shudders racing through your body, and within a few minutes you whine for him to hurry up, go harder, anything, because that isn't enough you fucking - oh, god, more, more, more -

He silences you by lowering your legs from around his shoulders and flipping you over, thrusting his hips and grinning toothily at your dazed, flushed expression in the mirror. He kisses the back of your neck and your bare back, and you bury your head in your arms as he drills you into the counter. Sweat rolls down your throat and glues your shirt to your back; wrapping his spare hand around your cock, he glides his hand over the precum-slick shaft painfully slowly, smearing the precum beading at the top with a large thumb and squeezing the base gently. You gasp, and come into his hand far sooner than you would have liked.

Of course, then you remember in a half-drunken daze that the dude forgot a condom, and just as you realize that he comes inside you with a leg-crossingly-hot keen that almost makes you forget the nasty stickiness. You lull against him, and he slides out of you with a vague squelch, reaching for paper towels.

"I like you, kid," he says, pulling out his phone and squinting, hitting a few keys, and handing it to you. "Number. I'll give you mine, too."

You struggle with the pocket on your skinny jeans and hand Braginski your Android in exchange for his iPhone. You punch your cell number in and give it back, and when he reads your name it rolls right off his tongue. "Gilbert. Sexy. I'll see you around."

"Yeah. Happy fucking," you slur, flashing him a hazy grin as he unlocks the bathroom door and slips outside. You follow a few minutes later, and hail a cab to take you home once you realize that both the hot bartender and Liz have vanished from the vicinity. Hopefully they aren't fucking back at the apartment.

After you let yourself in (with a significantly emptier wallet, because the cab fare is something close to three billion dollars), your gaze falls to the phone in your hand. Your eyes bug when you read the name on your newest contact.

"Wha - the Ivan Braginski?" you gape. Even in your drunken state, you know who Ivan Braginski is. Hell, everyone knows who Ivan Braginski is. And now you get to tell Liz that, after she ditched you for a Spanish bartender, you drank with and grinded with and totally had sex with an internationally-ranked hockey player, talking Olympic gold medalist status, in a club bathroom while Deadmau5 blared in the background. Hell yes, you've still got it.

Of course, when you wake up in the morning with a throbbing head and a strange throbbing in your chest, you don't feel like you've got it, and you reply to Braginski's text asking you to meet him at a café downtown for lunch with a "hell yeah" even though you really just wanna stay in bed and try suffocating yourself with a pillow again.

Fucking Kaltherzig.