A Kiss Should Suffice

During the Cold War, things sometimes got a little out of hand between the two powerful nations.

Rated M.

Mentions of blood and injury.

~o~

"Fuck you!" America spat, panting from where he sat on the ground, nursing his wounded jaw. Russia was seated at the other end of the room, holding his bloodied nose.

They were like two wounded animals, extremely dangerous when cornered by an opponent. Eyes flashing electric blue and scorching violet, lips drawn back in snarled growls.

It had started just like any other meeting they had before, cold leers, sarcastic comments, grins that could easily be turned into grimaces by a single hissed word. This is how they had been for months, years almost. Not exactly enemies, but definitely no longer friends. Something more, something less, something…

"I hate you," America snapped, standing up from his crouching position. But not turning around, never turning around. Do not show your back to the enemy.

Russia scoffed. It was a filthy lie, and they both knew it. Despite wanting to use teeth and claws and kicks to hurt each other every way possible, make the other bleed a dirty red, they didn't hate one another, never could. They were too entwined for that.

Russia dragged a hand under his nose, leaving behind a smear of dark brown dried blood. "I hate your accent."

America let out a barking, humourless laugh. "Sure you do!" he giggled, after which he began spatting all kinds of slang Russia couldn't even hope to understand.

The Southern drawl was like an aphrodisiac, calling him, guiding him towards those venomous mocking eyes, that smug twitching up of lips as those perfect white teeth flashed between ever-moving lips.

Russia surged forward, catching America off guard. He slammed the smaller man against the wall, and once more to successfully cut off his string of curses.

"Liar," the Russian purred in a sing-song voice, eyes alight with joyless glee. Like a big cat trapping his prey. Only America was nothing like a mouse; if Russia were to be compared to a bear or a tiger, he would be the majestic eagle of his home, ready to claw and bite and screech its fearsome cry.

And suddenly those violet eyes were much too close, pale skin flashing in the corner of his eyes as a thumb caressed his cheekbone, Russia smirking yet challenging in a playfully excited manner.

And of course, who would America be if he didn't accept a challenge?

Russia gasped as a hand buried itself in his neck, nails digging into the flesh when America pulled him down into a rough kiss.

There was no gentleness, no hesitant nibbling or loving sliding of lips. It was an unabashed intruding of tongues and teeth, blood quickly mixing with saliva as both tried to gain dominance.

Russia roughly gripped America's hip and pulled his leg up, grinding into him with all the excess energy their previous eruption (and the ones before) had left him with. America moaned into his mouth before biting down on his lip, clawing and scratching across the taller man's clothed back, certain he could hear clothes rip.

It didn't last too long, but it felt like forever.

Somehow they ended up on the ground, biting and licking and grinding, seeming more in combat than making out. And that's exactly what it was, another contest, showing which one could outsmart the other, outlive, out-

"Oooooooooooh…"

"Heh."

Both panted as they bathed in the aftermath of their climax, sweaty, dishevelled and covered in even more injuries than before.

It didn't always go like this. Usually it remained a fight, showing off strength instead of youthful libido and dominance. But today, Russia was certainly the winner. America wasn't about to let him get away with it though.

Before the Slavic nation could catch his breath, America started making quick work of unravelling his scarf.

"What are you-" Russia said in an alarmed tone, eyes shooting open once he became aware of the other's movements. He was quickly shut up as America brought his mouth to the now bare neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh.

Russia remained completely still as America set on marking him as many times as he could, heart beating out an odd tango and limbs twitching every so often. How had America found out his neck was his one weak point?

After covering every last bit of skin in crimson bite marks, America sat up.

"I hate you," he once more whispered, smirking that arrogant little smile of his before getting up and leaving the room.

As Russia lay recovering on the floor, he clenched his fists.

"Ya tohze…" he murmured into the empty room.

~o~

Words:

Ya tohze: Me too