He is so, so drunk.
He is so, so, willing.
He can't help himself.
Longish platinum blond hair hangs limply in dull, dilated violet eyes, but he kisses away the mindless tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. Mouth frantically working to reach his, to suck and bite and mark what isn't his but would just as quickly become that, Ivan clings drunkenly to Alfred and presses himself closer.
The feeling of skin on skin, sweet sad sin in the air, is almost as intoxicating as the vodka poisoning his breath, and he lets it corrupt him willingly. For one night only Ivan is his and he can pretend he loves no one else.
Hands pushing, pulling, dragging clothing over each other's heads now dart lower as if they were both of the same mind. Somehow they've managed to get to a bed, so Alfred lets Ivan push him down onto the soft mattress and kiss and suck at his feverish skin.
Pants are torn away clumsily and he kisses back, tongue delving into a mouth that still stings with the lingering taste of alcohol. There is brief pain but he ignores it and writhes encouragingly into the taller man's hips.
Ivan's eyes are still crazed with lust and confusion but he seems focused enough to still move of his own volition. Alfred pushes him back gently, leaning his head down to suck gently on his erection. A low gasp that rises in pitch as his mouth slides lower and lower escapes his lips shamelessly. More, he silently pleads. He is only more than happy to oblige.
Finally the Slavic nation grows impatient and pushes him back down, fingers thrusting in and out roughly and clumsily before being withdrawn and replaced by something much, much larger. A single gasp of pain is torn from his mouth, but Ivan smothers it with another burning kiss.
They rock back and forth in something that might resemble a rhythm of sorts, and Alfred just continues to lavish kisses down his neck and across his chest. Ivan sucks at his skin as if it was the same liquid staining his breath, mumbling out a name that most likely isn't Alfred's.
Finally, heat pooling lower and lower, they release with screams that feel like only one, warmth spurting across the bed and deep inside him. Ivan lets out a shaky moan and pulls out sloppily, and Alfred comes to wrap his arms around him like he usually does.
His hair is getting longer, he observes, but he shrugs unbalancedly and tells him Yao likes it better that way. He smiles politely, already feeling so very filthy and corrupt for this. The man in his arms whispers something in his mother tongue, and he can't quite make out what it all is. He catches a few words - they're obviously not about him.
As they start to drift into the comforting abyss of sleep, Alfred draws his arms away. His companion scowls in his almost-sleep at the sudden loss of contact and murmurs Yao's name again. He knows when morning comes a hungover Ivan will wake and shove him away in a blind panic, dashing out the door while he thinks Alfred is asleep and won't realize. So he just lies on the other side of the bed and straightens the blankets through a sleepy post-coital haze before trying to sleep.
When Ivan seeks him out like this, it's one of the best feelings of his long life.
When Ivan leaves him the next morning like that, it's one of the worst.
He's already changed him without meaning to, and he's already fallen in love. And he hates him for it.
But he will never get enough of this sweet corruption.
I so love this piece right now. I dunno. Wrote it because the word corruption was bouncing around my head as I read RusAme smut and I love unrequited AmeRus with RoChu on the side. Um. Yeah.