hetalia_kink | Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED

In the middle of the night, the hour hand on their relationship's clock strikes.

His fingernails dig into Russia's back, and leave blood-spotted scratches up to his shoulder blades. Russia bites down hard on his lip in return. In the morning, it will be swollen twice its size, and tender to the touch, but right now that doesn't matter. Nothing matters, in fact, except the pleasure that rolls up in America's belly with every animalistic thrust of Russia's hips against his own.

His eyelashes flutter.

It's a momentary weakness, but when America's gaze refocuses Russia is staring down at him.

His smile says that he's seen everything.

Noise builds in America's throat, a flushed growl that solidifies into the words, "Put a sock in it, you commie son of a bitch." He punctuates this by squeezing Russia's ribs until he thinks he might break them, and Russia's chest shudders with involuntary spasms of pain.

"I didn't say anything." Russia laughs.

It's a sound that should be charming, but isn't. It's cold, creepy, and makes America swallow and loosen his grip without really thinking about it. Russia grins in the most annoyingly patronising way, and tells him, "Don't be such an asshole, America."

"Fuck off," America snarls.

He can tell that Russia's about to start laughing at him again. He can just tell, and so, before he has time to consider the consequences, America shoves Russia away from him, upsetting the delicate balance of their positions, and then twists so that when Russia falls (like the deadweight he is) he lands underneath America. His expression gives away just how stunned he is, traces of panic beginning to creep into those eerie near-violet eyes.

America grins.

He gets his fingers up under one of the folds of Russia's scarf, and yanks so that it stretches taut over his throat. His lips peel back from his teeth, the lower aching from Russia's earlier bite, and he growls, "That wasn't a suggestion."

"Bastard," Russia returns. His voice rises almost into a shriek as he adds, "Selfish pig."

He lunges up, and America's breath catches. He scrambles for purchase on the floor beneath them, tangling his fingers into the thick carpet and holding as tight as he can. He whips around to stare at his (for now) captive, his glasses askew and smudged with fingerprints, turning the world into a blurry thing filled with (even more) danger.

Russia lunges again, and this time gets his arm up to strike at America's face.

The impact of Russia's knuckles against his cheekbone catch him by surprise, and America bites down hard on his own tongue before he can stop himself. He yells, incoherent, and pulls harder on Russia's scarf. Russia shrieks.

"Let go," he cries, "Let go of me you selfish, selfish..."

His words trail off, becoming gibberish half in Russian half in something America cannot name. It makes him rock back onto his calves, and release his hold on the fabric around Russia's throat with shaking fingers.

He spits out the blood pooling in his mouth, and sighs. "Don't take it so seriously, cry baby. You're ruining my good time." His smile is stained, but genuine, and he reaches up to straighten his glasses so that he can see.

Russia swallows several times. The rise and fall of his chest evens out.

He closes his eyes, opens them, and then he laughs, the sound raw and grating, making gooseflesh spring up along America's spine, but he doesn't look away. He's seeing Russia at his most vulnerable, his most passionate, his most alive.

It doesn't matter how scary it is.

He refocuses, licks the metallic tang from his lips, and aligns his and Russia's hips once again.

Russia catches America by the wrist. His teeth flash, and his tongue is wet and warm when he begins to suck yet again on the inside of America's wrist, thus beginning the cycle anew, with the minute hand ticking over to a new day.

In the morning, the two of them sit the with others like themselves around a conference table.

In America's hand is a cup of coffee. Russia carries nothing but his smile.

England spends far too much time staring at America's swollen lip and bruised cheek. His expression hardens to look at it, and his fingers twitch whenever America winces at the heat of his beverage against the cuts inside his mouth. It charges the room, swelling it with energy, and it doesn't help that Southern Italy arrives late, and then cusses out Germany when he tries to reprimand him.

It's one of those meetings designed by the bosses to keep the nations out of their hair so that they can actually get some work done. It isn't really important what they end up talking about, and everyone knows it.

But they still have to at least pretend to work.

Northern Italy takes the floor first, after some frantic minutes spent calming his older brother down, and then trying to convince him to give at least part of the presentation, as it's supposed to be by both of them. It doesn't work, and Northern Italy takes the stage alone, with only a bit of a pout visible on his face. His presentation on earthquake damage starts well enough, but soon devolves into the perfect gelato shop in Venice, the pasta he's planning on making for lunch, and finally, the way his new Ferrari handles curvaceous Alpine roads.

It's a good choice for a topic change, as Germany, who had been ready to start shouting, shuts his mouth, and almost, maybe, smiles. It's always a near thing, with him.

It also means it's safe for the rest of them to stop paying attention.

"Did you have a pleasant night, America?" England turns to ask.

His lips are drawn into a fine line, and he is trying very hard not to let his eyebrows knit themselves together, though his face can't help looking a little stiff. It should be obvious the kind of answer he's expecting, but obvious has never been good enough for America. It would be endearing if it weren't so frustrating.

"Oh, yeah," he answers, his smile drawing out his purpled lip, "'Course."

England sits back in his chair, clearing his throat, and resisting the urge to smack the boy upside the head. "That's a rather interesting bruise, isn't it?"

"What bruise?" America parrots.

"This," England snaps, reaching out to glance his fingers across the thing.

America flinches away, and laughs. "Don't be such a stick in the mud, old man. I can take care of myself!"

"Mm," Russia cuts in, stepping into frame with the sort of subtly that should be impossible given his size, "Perhaps if America weren't so clumsy with his words, he wouldn't be getting hurt so often?"

England shivers, and glares up at Russia.

Russia smiles at them both, though it widens a little when it hits America.

"Yeah?" America laughs. "Well maybe if you weren't such a creepy fuck you'd actually have friends."

England swallows, drawing himself up. He folds his arms across his chest, and glares at both of them. "These meetings aren't supposed to encourage your petty arguments." He sighs. "Aren't the two of you supposed to be repairing your relations?"

He gets a series of bewildered blinks from America, and a wider, warmer smile from Russia that, oddly enough, frightens him more than the usual one.

"Um," America says intelligently, before chugging his coffee.

"He was asking for it," Russia elaborates, "He insulted me."

America tosses aside his empty cup.

"I insult you all the time, whore-face," he snaps good-naturedly, "Don't take it so seriously."

Russia's breath stills at this, and he shivers. England watches, puzzled, as his hand reaches up to tug his scarf a little more securely around his neck. He glances around the room, not bothering to be discreet, before smiling at England and saying, "I do not think anyone will mind if I have a smoke out in the lobby, yes?"

"What?"

He leaves.

England's grip tightens on the table, and he glares at America, as if daring him to move.

He does, completely ignorant, shooting up from his seat and charging after the departed nation, shouting, "Hey, you can't smoke in there, you godless commie!"

England stares at the door for several seconds, frustrated anger bubbling up in his chest. He's the only one that seems to have noticed this strange occurrence, what with both halves of Italy plus Germany plus Japan (what is this, a reunion party?) caught up in a fairly non-violent (if loud) discussion on luxury cars, and France doing a bang up job of molesting, ah, what's that boy's name? It can't be America, America just left –

Wait a minute.

"France!" England screeches, leaping out of his chair, "What the bloody fuck do you think you're doing?!"

Ha ha, poor Arthur... Very nice!

Oh, ho. They are SO going to end up in a convenient closet/office/hallway for a quickie, oh, yes I'm sure~

This was fan-fucking-mazing, anon! ♥

whore-face...touche America.

Nice work anon! Soooo violently sexy!!

Damn awesome anon....Ah..

oh god. I would kill for you to continue this with... ah... Russia and America sexy fun times outside of the conference room.

Seriously, I think the nasty insults they're throwing at each other is totally hot (given that they both know it's just part of the game).

"Whore face." favorite line.

YAY! My all time favorite kink! You pwn Anon, and I love how you write.

Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED

Russia/America - affectionate insults

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