it isn't desperation! when you’re wearing a wig it’s called role-play, hurhur. So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
-------- The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”
No Need for Desperation! [1/4]
when you’re wearing a wig it’s called role-play, hurhur.So you aren’t disappointed later, it does get very crack-ish towards the end…
--------
The hand presses against his chest, laying him back on the great bed. He tries to slow his breathing and his pulse—the real Russia’s heart wouldn’t pound so, he’s sure—but he can’t help it, especially when he looks up into those glasses, that smile filled with rich hunger. The hair is too light, the eyes are too dark blue as they look down on him, but he can see past them to what he wants to see.
“Ah. Maybe, maybe we should…” he says, and the fingers press against his mouth. “We should,” he says softly around them. The fingertips are replaced by lips, cold and chapped but so very there, unlike the real America. Both their mouths are open at once, and the kiss turns opulent and wet, tongues eager to become intimate, to dig in fast and deep. They both taste like desperation.
“My love, my only,” says—America, he thinks in his mind, self-correcting. It’s America— “We are together now, that’s all that matters. If I,” America’s eyes lower demurely, “if I could… I have always, always wanted…”
It’s America blushing and pleading with him, so the answer’s going to be yes, but he still wants to hear the question. He doesn’t have to wait long: America’s hands go to his lap and firmly cup him through his pants. With him kneeling like that, mouth open, it isn’t hard to figure. He nods, and America reaches under the heavy winter coat to unzip him, smiling.
The smile doesn’t wilt, but it certainly freezes. America’s feeling of meh is almost visible around him. “What?” Russia says (if he thinks of himself by the name perhaps the rest will follow). He’s already starting to pant as America takes his cock in hand.
America looks into his eyes before kissing the tip, almost apologetic. “You’re not as big.”
“W-what?” he gurgles. “I can’t believe you just said it! You don’t say hnngh—” The sentence ends less than gracefully as America takes him into the warm softness of his mouth. And America knows how to use his mouth. Very much so. “Oh fucking hell.”
He’s stone hard so fast it hurts, exquisite misery, and he’s quickly overheating in the coat and scarf. If it weren’t for the hands and tongue on him he’d surely have died by now from the want. America puts his entire body into it, moving his shoulders and rolling forward on his knees when he takes Russia to the hilt, his eyebrows knitted from the intensity. Russia’s careful when he puts his hands in America’s hair, so as to not dislodge the wig or however America’s keeping all the hair hidden away. He can’t help himself, and holds the head down for a few seconds—the vibrations from America’s moan add a maddening tingle on top of everything else. America comes up for breath, and Russia must admit to himself the swollen-lips look works well on him.
America’s hands go to his shirt and start undoing the buttons. Seeing what he’s about to do, Russia stops him. He can feel the softness underneath his knuckles, under America’s shirt, and as great as his imagination is he doesn’t think he’d be able to completely ignore those.
America stares at him for a moment before chuckling and turning on the bed so his back is to Russia. “You would rather take me like this anyway, right?”
“Yes, thank you,” he says, forced to clear his throat once between words. “Er. So, is that how we’re going to do this? I suppose it would be best if I were on top, obviously, unless you’ve brought some kind of specialized equipment or something along those lines that you’d like to use.”
America rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh, one hand still clasping his shirt closed. “I do not like the way you are going about this. Russia would not be such a girl.”
He sputters. “How in the world am I acting feminine?”
“You just are,” says America impatiently. “If you are him then I am yours completely, and if it is what you desire of course I will top, but I would rather die than know that you are not naturally taking what is yours, what you need to be happy.”