A damning grin was all that was needed to know that he was planning something destructive.
Deceit and corruption glittered on his kissed red lips like blood whilst his hooded eyes promised whatever you needed, offered your greatest temptation, and ensnared your soul before you even realized you had sold it away. His beauty made you writhe with desire, and though you were blinded to his lies, you loved what you saw. Bright blond hair and thrilling blue eyes led you down, down, down to the beat of the bass and the heat of a body pressed against your own, exciting you, deluding you, including you.
America the beautiful.
America the tragedy.
His hands are warm and his grip is tight, you can't see his eyes behind the light of your own pleasure, your own joy and pure rapture. He rocks into you and you lose yourself, your grip on him fails and you fall back into the silken sheets, gasping, moaning, laden with lust. Your hands twist the fabric beneath you as your heart hammers in your chest, because finally, finally, he's right above you and there is no tip-toeing around him anymore, no denying the flames of want. He is right there! You want him badly, want him immeasurably, want him so harshly it hurts. Wound up tight and about to burst, you surge upwards to meet your hips with his in a blessed collision.
He brings out the worst in you and twists it, uses it, and you don't notice until it's far, far, too late.
His teeth are sharp against your neck, animalistic in his intensity and the low, throaty voice he speaks to you with. You hear not a word he says, understand not a bit of the danger you're in, even as a bit of you is screaming, screaming, screaming. Terrified and exhilarated and so caught up in the moment, you fail to take the chance to escape.
And then you're snared.
In his bed you are alone, in his arms you are weak, in his eyes-
You are his prey.
He is the predator.
You are his game. His toy. His plaything. A friend on the side. He's tired of friends like you. He's tired of playing nice. He was a victim of deceit once upon a time, but he stood through it and took it better than you ever could have. He didn't do what he could've done, he kept his head through the agony, and now while you stand alone, he watches grinning so happily.
You're like a child beneath him, you know only what you want. His hands are like ecstasy, and you wonder just how he got to be so skilled in such ways. The thoughts a little bit sobering, you cringe to think of him with another. Your gaze drawn to his, you wonder how this is happening, how he's filled you with heat and you just laid there so passively.
This isn't the boy that you know, this is a man who knows who he is. And that isn't America, the cultural melting pot of complexes. America doesn't know how to pleasure someone like this, doesn't know how to fuck someone so engagingly. He can't. Impossible.
That's what you want to think.
Realization is imminent, but so is your agony, and both are held back by the climatic symphony of your cries into his lips, and your gasps and your groans because the way he's moving is damning. It's euphoria, bliss, and you melt in the exultation of climax. His own elation is drowned out by your voice- if he made a noise- and you wrap yourself around him as you fall from your high.
You feel yourself relaxing for once, spent and well satisfied, but there's movement above you and you look up in question. His skin is hardly damp with sweat, you envision that it must have been no challenge to screw you senseless like he has, and his blue eyes are darker than you can ever recall seeing them. Is this what satisfaction looks like on his face? You suddenly comprehend that, no, you've never seen him happy, not in over 200 years, at least. Not honestly.
But then he rolls away, leaving you confused.
"Where are you going?", you ask.
He turns to you once he's stood, pulling his boxers up, followed by his jeans. He watches you in thought as he does so, and you wonder what he's planning to say. His long sleeve button-up is thrown over his shoulder as he fishes out a packet of cigarettes from his pants, deftly pulling one out with a flick of his wrist. He's silent as he lights it and takes a drag.
"Leaving?", He drawls after he breathes out the smoke, ending the confused quiet with a tiny remark that sends you sputtering in outrage.
"What do you mean 'leaving', you git?", you sit up, the soiled sheets pooling down at your waist as your stomach curls with unease. Suddenly you're afraid.
His stare burns you venomously, accusing you of something you feel you should have known about long before this. His gaze is both enraged and pitying. You finally understand what you never understood before, to America, you're expendable. Unexpectedly, you realize that this is how he must have felt, that maybe this is part of the reason he was so eager to leave so long ago. He felt used.
Now you do too.
America's eyes seem to darken even more, fading into an eerie black that you also remember from the past; he used to have so many people with dark eyes and red skin. That you and a few other nations slaughtered them and taught his people to hate them fills you with guilt, because now you know better. That was murder, murder of his natives, something that in no way would have been tolerated in their modern world.
"A-America...".
He smirks, but you see something savage in his expression that terrifies you into silence.
"I'm leaving... But I'll be back, and I expect you to be waiting", he says, and his tone of voice is something you've never heard in a nation. He reaches forward to cup your cheek in a way you would have adored under other circumstances.
"Welcome to my World".