This came from a prompt I saw somewhere on tumblr, which read: Person A's ways of sleeping tends to make their shirt ride up all the way. One night, Person B wakes up and sees Person's A chest. Person B wakes Person A softly to frick-frack.
Alfred rubbed his eyes, disoriented, as he shook off the grogginess that always came with insomnia and tried to make out the features of the room he was in. A few rays of faint light peeked out through the blinds, and from what he could perceive, it was very, very early in the morning. He turned to face his sleeping girlfriend of four years, the frigid ice queen known as Natalya Arlovskaya, and openly stared at the sight before him.
She was curled in on herself, gripping the sheets tightly as she slept. Her small frame was made even more apparent when next to one such as himself, and he couldn't help thinking that she looked so delicate, so vulnerable, even though she was anything but that. In fact, had she been awake to hear his thoughts, she certainly would have given him a piece of her mind. She was wearing one of his shirts, a large blue tee that had ridden down low enough for him to see right down her chest, and black panties. While she slept, she twisted and let out soft little sighs that sent all the blood in his body rushing downwards.
"Nat," he whispered, nudging her awake. "Natty. Sweetheart, baby, wake up."
She groaned and batted his hand away. "What the fuck do you want?" She mumbled sleepily, not deigning to open her eyes.
"Let's have sex."
"Right now?" She asked in disbelief, cracking open one eyelid to shoot him a look of incredulity.
"Yeah."
"But we had sex yesterday."
"That was yesterday. I want to have sex now."
She brought a hand to her forehead hard, shielding her eyes against the watery sunlight streaming through the window. "Alfred," she hissed, "what time is it?"
He checked the clock on the bedside table. "Five."
If it had been later in the day and she was fully functioning, she would have cut him to the bone with one of her stony glares, the one that he called 'oh-shit-that's-the-look-she-always-gives-me-when-she's-about-to-beat-up-my-ass-but-fuck-does-she-look-sexy-when-she's-mad.' Alas, it was too early for any decent, self-respecting human being to be up (read: not Alfred F. Jones), and she was only capable of managing a halfhearted frown.
He could sense her reluctance and pressed a flurry of kisses up and down her arm in an attempt to sway her. "Please," he whispered huskily.
She paused, seeming to consider the prospect, and Alfred's spirits soared. She would say yes, he could just see it!
"No." The answer was cold, cutting, and final. She closed her eyes again and turned away from him.
"Come on, babe, please? You just make me so hot and horny," he murmured into her ear, before biting it softly.
She turned around to face him and glared at him. "Alfred. Foster. Jones. Shut up and let me sleep before I decide to castrate you."
"Aw, baby, please?"
"For the last fucking time, no," she ground out, hoping that he would get the message through his thick skull. She was tired and burned out and just wanted a few more hours of sleep before she had to get up for work, damn it. When she heard the American quieten, she gave an inwardly sigh of relief. Thank the Lord, he had finally decided to shut up.
Just as she closed her eyes to get her rightfully deserved rest, she heard a small sniffle coming from the opposite side of the bed. Mentally kicking herself, she reopened her eyes reluctantly to find Alfred's shoulders shaking with what she assumed to be crocodile tears. She peered over his shoulder, and upon seeing the corners of his eyes leaking tears, she groaned. He usually pulled this sort of stunt with her when he wanted something badly, whether it was a hug or a kiss or, in this case, sex, and she found that when he did that, she could never refuse him for long.
"Ah, fuck me," she muttered as she rose from underneath the blankets and straddled him, still sleepily blinking away the fuzzy edges that ate at the corners of her eyes.
He brightened almost immediately, a dopey smile plastered onto his face. It only grew bigger as she yanked him up by the hair to connect their lips in a searing kiss, and he groaned as she grated against his erection.
An hour later, both bodies were tangled underneath the sheets, sweaty, exhausted, yet warm and sated. The American had a silly grin fixated, and the Belarusian's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. He turned to her, panting slightly from the post-coital euphoria that a few moments ago had brought. Hopefully, he asked, "Wanna go another round?"
She only smacked him in the chest, too tired to do otherwise.
A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the lack of smut (which is probably part of the reason why you clicked on this), but I am proud to announce that I am working on a project that involves these two and a frick-ton of smut. The first chapter will be up very soon, and depending on the response, I might choose to make it very, very long. So just keep your eyes and ears primed, and you'll hear from me soon. Chao!