Anyone who didn't like getting their ego fed was just not okay with America. Simple as that. He drank the attention in, reveled in it, basking. The feeling was entirely too intoxicating. After returning to the newly formed base in liberated Kiev, Ukraine had set right into thanking him help. The praise didn't last particularly long, considering the woman moved on to thank Canada shortly after, but it had been enough to inflate his ego. While Belarus hadn't offered up any thanks, at least the girl hadn't been toying with a knife and fixing him with the 'Oh, I am so going to shank you when your back is turned' look. That was enough for his narcissism.
Now was not the time for those thoughts. He had a Russian below him who was quite intent on dragging some sort of pleased keen from him and was giving it a damn good try. Persistent and sure hands were running along the plains of his back, spreading out and digging into the flesh, as Russia's mouth nip, bite, and sucked at the soft flesh of America's throat. Their hips were rocking, the friction feeling blissfully wonderful through the material of their military trousers.
There was still a nagging thought and his own stubbornness that kept him from releasing the breaths of enjoyment hanging on the tip of his tongue. In one fluid motion, America pulled himself up and away from a moment, hands braced beside Russia's head, though he was careful to put little weight on the still healing limb. There was a knowing and smug smirk plastered across his lips.
"So tell me, what happens when we win this war?"
He had guesses as to what would happen. Undoubtedly, North Korea would turn on him and they would engage in further war. What he wasn't terribly sure of, was whether Russia would take the same path. The relationship they shared was one of less than pleasant history and an uncertain future where only the barest of threads kept them twined together. At times, America liked to fancy that he could feel that thread, so thin and a vibrant red, laced around their arms and pulling tight, constricting. Moments like these, he could almost feel that thread creep up and loop around his throat and see it moving in a similar manner on Russia.
So, what would happen? When the war ended, would Russia declare war as well? It would be an opportune moment. Most of the once nations were now gone, leaving only the strongest in its wake: France, England, and them. With France and England gone, the number of those willing and able to fight diminished, leaving the world as a sort of hunting prize just waiting to be carved up and devoured. With the attacks on his shores and Mexico's constant and powerful presence at the southern border, America couldn't deny that he would at least be a little vulnerable from another attack on his own shores.
If North Korea and Russia banded, and Russia no doubt bringing along his sisters for the ride, America wasn't so sure he best both of them. There was something, an unnamable churning, in the pit of his stomach that kept him from accepting that possibility as entirely fact. After all, what of that thread? In his mind's eye, America closed his eyes and created the scenario. He could see the thread around both their throats and another loop dipping down into Russia's chest. There was unbearable pressure, pain, paralysis.
"We will rebuild what has been leveled."
America nodded at Russia's words. Opening his eyes and leaning down, he traced the dull throb of his bedmate's jugular with the tip of his tongue. In his mind, he could see the tread pressing down, threatening to cut off or cut into that all important vein. Somehow, the thought didn't fill him with as much satisfaction as it would have with any other. No doubt because he picture that power wielding thread doing the same thing to him.
Russia did not sound truthful nor did he sound untruthful. It was an odd and weary mix of maybe and perhaps despite the statements assuring contents. America couldn't help but snort as he lowered himself once more so bare chest pressed into bare chest and the heat between the ebbed and flowed like the perpetuating tide.
Those hands once playing across his back became more confident, curious, as they slipped down to his lower back and further yet to roughly grasp him bum. America bit his lip, unwilling to allow Russia the satisfaction of drawing any noise from him. It was always this way or almost always there. There were always those rare times when both parties would give themselves over, crying out and screaming with no care or second thought. Those times were very rare.
"You mean after you and North Korea own my ass?" he questioned breathlessly, letting his own hands worm between their bodies so he could better explore the contours of Russia's body.
"Da." Russia smiled softly.
Again, it did not sound like the truth or a lie, just a maybe, just a perhaps.
For a moment, any retort he would have liked to give was pushed from America's mind as a deft hand snaked around his waist to the front of his pants. The button snapped and zipper descended downward. America couldn't help but tip his head back as Russia's hand went beneath the hem of his pants and began to palm him through the thin cotton of his boxer shorts.
"I can just imagine how excited you'd be to be the one sleeping in the White House," America's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, "and me as your little maid bitch."
Russia chuckled and stilled his hand, pulling it free. America would have protested had it not been for the quick tug on both his remaining garments. The implications were not lost on him. He pulled back once more, sitting just above Russia's hips, as he took over and wriggled both his trousers and undergarments off. Being put on display and having a hungry, violet gaze roaming the troves of his body didn't bother America. He loved it.
The moment did not last horridly long, though. America's hands found their way to Russia's pants and his fingers clumsily worked on the buttons. Silently, he cursed the Russian military uniform and its lack of easier access. At least once the buttons were undone, Russia made it easier as he lifted his hips, need meeting need in a second of bliss, as America slide the garments down with hasty jerks.
There was no hesitation, no pause, when America settled just above Russia. With eyes half lidded and teeth revealed in a confident grin, America lowered himself down. There was pain; it burned. The look upon Russia's face as his head tipped against the cot and screwed his eyes shut, mouth slightly agap, was enough to quell the uprising protest in America's backside.
This had always been his favorite part. Foreplay be damned, America was too impatient for such teasing. He enjoyed the nitty gritty of it all, the raw turnover as the power shifted his way and it became his turn to attempt making Russia into a pile of mewling goo. All too well, he knew what Russia must have been feeling: intense heat, unrelenting tightness, unforgiving ecstasy at being buried inside down to the hilt.
Much like a cat, satisfied with cornering its prey, America gazed down at Russia as he moved his hips from side to side and watched as the other man's brows knit together, breathless gasp leaving pale lips. America continued rolling his hips at a lazy pace, willing his body to sink lower yet till their bodies were yet again flush. The teasing was not enough for Russia, America knew.
Hands that had once been lying idly at America's sides slide down to his hips, easily lifting the other nation up and bringing him down once more. The grip was bruising and another wave of pain shot through America as he looked away from Russia's face, head tipping back as he arched and sank down further. The small cue given was enough for him to get the message. He knew what Russia wanted: quick, brutal, hard. America wouldn't give the nation that satisfaction, that power. Instead, he beat out Russia's determined hold and set his own pace. It was horribly slow as he rose, nearly pulling away completely, before he rolled his hips downward and impaled himself once more.
"Such would not suit you, America."
America had to pause, wondering just what Russia was talking about. Their previous conversation clicked and he continued the pace easily, choosing to bury his face in the crook of Russia's shoulder.
"No shit."
Eventually, his own slow rhythm was not. He would be loathe to admit it, but Russia drove him insane. Always had. There was no question about it and, though he denied it to everyone and himself, the fact was plain to see. Somehow, they were tethered, constantly forced to dance about one another. It was sickening and enthralling. It was consuming.
His hips sped, moving at a more steady pace than before as he slowly lifted himself up. Russia responded by pushing his own hips up, meeting each of America's in time. When America sat up, back arched, and went faster yet, Russia followed suit. The hands upon his hips aided America by pulling him down roughly each time.
There was nothing gentle in this. The act was pure need. It was not love making. Never that. Always fucking. Plain, unadulterated fucking with emotions set at the wayside if ever there were any. America could think of the act they were committing in the abandoned medical tent as anything but. The idea of putting any other name to their bedroom romps made his stomach knot unpleasantly and lips curl into a sneer. This was fucking and nothing more. Animal instinct, unavoidable.
"America."
He almost didn't catch the whisper. His mind was fuzzy and thoughts utterly scrambled. He even thought he had imagined it, that some sick part of his mind was creating illusions that Russia would say his name during sex. They never said each other's names: ever. It was an unspoken rule. Names were too intimate, too real. America was fully intent on ignoring what he had heard till his name echoed out against the noise of flesh meeting flesh. He couldn't deny that Russia had said it that time.
America refused to acknowledge it. Instead, in retaliation, he quickened further till the pace was painfully fast and agonizingly hard. Again and again he drove Russia into his body with the other gladly helping as both lost themselves completely. America's toes curled with the oncoming release and he could deny the ache between his spread legs any further. Without skipping a beat, he reached out and grasped himself, stroking in time as he attempted to control his strength while still riding Russia into the mattress.
His efforts paid off as his body momentarily seized, spine curling outward as his head snapped backward and warmth flooded the palm of his hand. Russia soon followed suit, yanking America down and burying himself as deeply as possible before he released with a barely restrained groan.
The pair panted, chests heaving as they stilled and tried to recollect any sort of coherent thought. Such a task was difficult, but eventually America found enough wits about himself to heave himself up and off Russia. As he went to stand, his legs wobbled dangerously, but, stubborn as ever, he pressed on and went to the far side of the tent. The trek was entirely too long for America's spent body.
The nation carefully knelt down beside a stack of towels and with practiced ease; he began the process of wiping himself off.
"Are you not going to give me one as well?" Russia questioned from the bed.
He had pushed himself off, now reclining on his elbows as he pinned America with a smug little smile. America looked over his shoulder, grabbing another towel to wipe the sweat from his brow and shoulders. He snorted and looked away once more.
"Go fuck yourself."
Childlike laughter floated through the stilted air. Pure amusement rang out as Russia grabbed America's abandoned undershirt and wiped himself clean, "Why would I do that when I have you around, America?"
A/N: So, my brain is fried. Not from writing. That US vs. Slovenia match. Talk about bullshit, that ref needs to lay off the mary jane, js. Anyway, sex, whoo. Not much to really say. Same editor as before, so excuse over looked mistakes. She's just my friend and doing it willing to I'm not going to jump her balls about being extremely thorough. So, uhhh, read, review, be happy. Idk.
