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dirty-paws-art · 5 years

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Wip rusame/amerus

Note: Asha, you asked for this. Here it is.

Tension. A string pulled taught. A branch near breaking. A leaf fallen onto the water, and clinging to the surface to keep from sinking into the depths below.

And with the click of a clock hand, the tension breaks. The string snaps, the branch breaks, and the leaf tumbles down into the stream.

It’s honestly impressive how a cold war could lead to personifications physically fighting this much. When America thinks of it, he can recall not even physically fighting Germany in World War Two as much as he has gotten into fights with Russia.

Speaking of; why was he in the snow, on his back, with a busted lip now? That’s right.

The war was over. A good few years after the joint Apollo Soyuz mission. A good few years after the night America and Russia had spent together that was unlike any night any two countries had ever shared before. An international space docking mission.

It was January, 1992.

And despite what had happened merely a month ago, he had to admit Russia still had a mean right hook.

“You know you are trespassing, da?” the deep voice rumbled from next to America’s head. Russia laid opposite of him in the snow, supporting his own bleeding nose that had by now stained that scarf he always wore.

“Yeah, I know big guy. Though I was half afraid you weren’t going to be alive," the American admitted in a way that made it sound as if he didn't quite care if Russia was dead or not. Though by now the taller man knew what was ignorance on America's part and what was a carefully constructed tone of conversation.

“Oh please, Amerika. I was alive long before The Union, and I will be alive long after. My people are strong. And the government does not make them russian, their blood does.”

America was silent for a moment. Being a country of immigrants doesn’t lend well to that “blood” born unity. He had always had to spark unity in other ways. Like landing a man on the moon.

“I guess it does. You still look like shit.”

The platinum blonde next to him snorted good naturedly.

“That I do. Though we all seem to have our turns like this; falling. Like the Nazis. And now me. Question is who is next, the great America or the wise China”

“Tch… almost wish Yao was the one in your place. You’re much more entertaining of a super villain. Yao is just financial schemes and manipulating the numbers. You can't punch math!"

“You know, when you speak like a little brat not having his way it is all the more worrying that you’re the one with the power," Russia complained, to which America laughed.

"Though at the same time, I believe that is the closest to a compliment I will ever get from you. And in turn… I suppose I am happy it is you, and not the old blood of Europe who outcasted both of us. The power that would turn around and build to enemies up instead of destroying them is the one to grow the greatest. Though whether or not that was out of charity or manipulation I still do not know. It is always hard to tell with you." Russia spoke, thinking of how Germany and Japan were both treated by America post WWII.

“You done sucking my cock, ruskie? I already got enough of that from Churchill.” America deadpanned, looking up to the soft and snowy sky, referring to the speech given by the British man shortly after wwii closed. A long time ago to humans, but moments to them.

Russia gave a hearty laugh that shook the thick coat over his chest, and the two fell into silence as they stared up at the sky, dusted with clouds but the stars were still visible through them, out here in the russian countryside. Fields of rough and dead brush bowed under the weight of the snow, and tall winding branches from trees held the powdery white substance up towards the sky like an offering to general winter.

“I guess part of what hurts the most about losing is the thought that I’ll lose relevance in what I care about," Russia finally speaks up.

“Like Germany did?” America asked, thinking of how himself and Russia had torn through the German countryside looking for any scrap of information on the V2.

Russia nodded silently, and the blonde American could hear the snow shift.

“... and space. That matters to you most?”

The russian shrugged this time, “I’m not sure if space is too large or too narrow of a description, but yes. Nothing has made me so passionate as fighting to explore the stars did.”

America smiled a tiny bit, “Made us both pretty damn passionate, huh?”

“Yes. Passionate is a good word for it.” Russia nodded, and they both fell quiet again, watching the sky full of stars.

…

"Well, it's no The Plaza but it's quaint," America announced, dumping his gun on the table Russia had set his coat and scarf on a moment before.

"'Quaint' is not a complement," Russia told him, lighting a fire in the fireplace of the small cabin.

America laughed and dropped his bomber jacket over an old chair, then he draped himself over the Russian's broad shoulders so he could hold his hands close as the fire ignited.

Russia blinked and glanced back as he tossed another log on top. The American pressing himself so close to the Russian seemed casual -almost everything about the American was- but it wasn't in the slightest. It was calculated. Just like the castles in his aforementioned empire city, with the ritzy Plaza Hotel.

The platinum blonde closed his eyes, feeling the warm chest against his back and the warm biceps over his shoulders. And for a moment he felt like melting ice in the summer sun before his eyes snapped open and he froze back up.

"I'm not having a repeat of the mission. I… for once in my life felt safe with it," the Russian said, America knowing exactly what 'it' was, "but I can't take that. Not right now. Not after what has happened."

"We could switch," the American calmly suggested, his warm palms from the fire finding the russian's neck and tracing over the tender scars there. Unlike most nation's scars, which always seemed to become inflamed on anniversaries or when around the cause, these scars always grew more sensitive when Russia was scared. It was just a little fact he had picked up on.

Russia turned around to look at him, purple eyes widened with surprise. "You just won," he said, "Why would you be alright with that?"

America frowned, remembering Europe's proclivity for dominating the losers of war. And they called themselves the civilized ones of the world...

"Why not? No one has ever been such an entertaining a fight as you for 'The Boy King'," America smiled, recalling the name England had given America after the gilded age, when his spine had been replaced by corporatized steel.

"But I've lost. I'll never be able to give you that fight again," Russia protested, though his voice was barely a whisper.

"Oh come on. Wasn't it you who said that the Russian people will always be their strong and sturdy selves? Even under a different government? I can see you still in space, still in technology; giving me a run for my money," America told him, voice soft for once to match the other's.

Russia blushed, cold and pale face heating up a rosy red.

"You'll always be a pain in my ass. I know it," America told him.

And that was one of the most reassuring things russia could ever hope to hear after falling, and he laughed bitterly at how ridiculous it was.

But soon America of course had to ruin the moment.

"Well I guess… tonight you could also make that literal," he joked.

And the russian's bitter laugh turned into a snort of genuine amusement.

He turns his head and teasingly presses his cold lips to the corner of America's own. The sunshine blonde went in to make it a full kiss, but Russia daringly turned away.

America pouted like a kicked puppy, and one could almost see dog ears hanging low, but it occurred to him that Russia had been feeling out of control for a few years now. He was likely dying for that control.

And for some reason as the winner, America was willing to release that control. Unlike Europe wanting to assert control to it's imperial ultimate, America weirdly had learned that he didn't need that. Well, if the philippines, Panama, and Cuba had taught him anything.

He was to be the world's police force, not its king.

And a psychotic part of him recognized that one couldn't rule the world like that. Obvious empires were obsolete. The next generation had to exert its control in other ways.

But exerting control by losing control? Was he going to let Russia dominate himself as some chess play? Or just in a bizarre act of… what's the word? Not in animosity but in an amicable sense.

He didn't want to answer that thought, so he buried it down under a thousand others as he leaned over. He tugged on Russia's scarf so the other could kiss down into him, and it felt like deja vu from their fist fight earlier that day. His busted lip even began to hurt again.

Russia closed his snowy violet eyes and pressed down into the kiss, gripping the American by his jaw.

It was like two spools of thread unwinding. And whoever became undone first lost. And despite their agreement, this race needed to be genuine. America genuinely needed to succumb to the arousal he could find in his uncharacteristic situation.

Russia pressed down more, more, and more. Until America's back was against the cold concrete floor and the wrists Russia had pinned above his head were inches from the roaring fireplace.

Something about the dichotomy of sensations was the last yank to his thread, and the spool spun before dropping, empty of string.

Any taught tension in his muscles evaporated, and he melted under the skilled lips of the Russian with an embarrassingly weak whine.

As if estimating the breaking of the American, Russia timed it perfectly with a knee between America's legs, and a muscular thigh rubbing against his cock.

America jerked his head back to gasp as the friction sent electricity through his body.

And maybe too hungrily, Russia took the opening to attack the inside of America's mouth.

America bit his lip and screwed his burning blue eyes shut, desperately clinging to a ledge above unbridled lust. But every cutting bite and burning hickey chipped away at the stone.

"I swear to God if anything is visible over my uniform collar," He snarled.

"Too late," Russia purred against his throat, taking full advantage of the v-neck collar.

"Fuck, Bush is going to have my throat," America grumbled.

"Bad choice of words," Russia gently chided him, lapping at a bleeding bite like a cat with cream.

"Shut tha fuck up," he grumbled, words slurring together slightly.

Russia simply chuckled and continued on. He removed his hands from the American's wrists and slid them up his chest instead, pulling off his shirt.

America, every the impatient one, put his freed hands to work and ripped off the russian's shirt.

"That… was a nice shirt," Russia complained.

"Just shut up and put your mouth to real use," America snapped, wanting more kisses but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask nicely.

Russia raised one thick eyebrow at that. He quickly decided he wasn't about to get pushed around. He needed a win. A distraction. SOMETHING good. Even if the short term glee always was drowned out by shame later on for what he participated in, he needed that cropped moment of carnal pride.

He gripped the American by his wheat blonde hair with one hand and yanked down his own pants with the other. In a moment the American's nose was shoved into a thick patch of platinum blonde hair.

"How about you put your mouth to use? Your bottom lip is still bleeding from my knuckles. It will probably sting as you try to manage my 'Big Ivan'."

And no, that wasn't the Russian naming his cock after himself. Rather he was recalling to the Tsar Bomba, or 'the king of bombs'.

And for a moment, America felt his blood go cold. Even having won, the name of that damn thing made him shudder. As much as he liked to think that every nation in the world felt him land on the moon, he knew that paled in comparison to the dropping of 'Big Ivan'.

Every fucking nation on the planet felt the earth shake of it's own axis as Russia tested that affront to God. John could barely believe it was real until he saw the reports from his own satellites.

He tried to recover by smirking up at the other blonde. "I don't suck cock, Rad."

"Then let this be the first time. Unless you are lying to me," the 'rad' said, chest rumbling as he chuckled. He took his cock and slapped its thick and meaty head over John's eye and the American curled his lip in disgust.

"Fuck off. I said I'm not doing it!" He snarled, yanking in his hand and hoping to be freed.

"Hm…" the Russian frowned, rolling his hips forward and feeling his skin press against the other's heated face.

"Well, if you're not using your mouth to prepare me, I won't use mine to prepare you. Though I think you would much rather we both help out each other. Like friends, yes?"

John stiffened for a moment, considering his options. This time when he pulls in Ivan's hand, the other's tight grip on his hair loosened. He was allowed to pull back and obediently part his lips and gracefully position ivan's cock so he could take it in his mouth.

And Ivan immediately grips his hair again and rams into his throat, forcing John to his base. Maybe part of him really is sadistic like they all say, or maybe he just thinks that the American's eyes widened in shock are pretty.

John's throat twitches as it's abused by Ivan's dick, but surprisingly the other doesn't choke.

A bitter smile curls over Ivan's lips.

"Not only did you lie, and you do suck dick, but the great and powerful America has been sucking dick often. I wonder who… France? England?"

Ivan can almost taste the disgust in the glare John shoots up at him.

"Not England? Okay… don't tell me it was Ludwig."

The warning graze of teeth is all ivan needs to know he's right, and something bitter twists in his chest.

He takes two fistfuls of the American's sunny locks and begins to roughly fuck himself into the other's mouth.

"So you can bottom to me once you won, and you've taken it from a damn nazi after you won that war too. What's next? Does Japan use your slut mouth too?"

John twists under him, starting to try and pull off.

Ivan isn't done though. "Did even little Italy get a turn? What about Spain and Mexico? Haven't you had wars with them? And hm… I recall that silly little revolution of yours. Did your whore behavior start then? Maybe you fucked England in return for your freedom."

America had no idea where this came from, but he had enough. He shoved ivan back so hard he smacked into the wall and cracked the wood.

Ivan grunted as he felt his back hit the wall. He slid down it and wiped at the back of his head, which was now bleeding.

Before he could do much, the American's muscular forearm was against his throat and he was pinned to the wall, blue eyes burning into his purple ones.

"Quick question. Who did you fuck when you won that civil war of yours? Because I quite remember a CSA running around."

"You just couldn't let us have this! You couldn't let us just have a good time!" Alfred snarled.

"On the contrary. Despite suggesting it, you're not going to bottom without making me the villain. Without forcing me to force you. You want me to dominate you, but you're embarrassed so instead you push me into this role of your enemy. Because that's what you want. You want a bad guy, America."

John paused, eyes widening.

"Why can't we just have a repeat of The Mission?" Ivan asked, this time much quieter as he looked down, past the American's forearm. "Except with you trusting me enough to submit, just like I trusted you."

Ivan didn't know why he was so emotional about this, it was honestly unlike him, but here they were.

The normally noisy American fell silent to think. But the more he thought the more he realized he didn't want to answer any of those questions in his head.

He pulled his forearm off of Ivan's now bruised throat, then slowly knelt down in front of ivan. He completely pulled loose Ivan's pants from his muscular hips then let them drop to the ground with a thunk. He parted his rosy lips again and pressed an ever so hesitant kiss to the head of Braginsky's dick.

His eyes then flicked up to Ivan, who looked a whole mixture of emotions. Relief, surprise, and a daring look of… compassion? Like he was scared to let his ice heart be melted by something other than lust again.

"If you pull my hair I'll bite your fucking cock off," Smith snarled.

Ivan nodded, "Noted."

John slowly started to bob up and down on the muscle, taking it at his own pace as he brought the Russian to a full erection.

Eventually, the shorter man slipped off Ivan's cock with a pop of lips. And strangely enough it seems he had forgotten just how big ivan is. Let's just say that naming it after the world's biggest thermo-nuclear bomb was by no means to compensate.

He looked back up to the other man and was surprised to see him somewhat a mess. Ivan had his knuckle in his mouth and was biting down as his hazy purple eyes stared down at alfred. And John could swear he hadn't been blushing that hard before then.

It was almost a tender moment as their eyes met. Then Ivan decided to get a grip and he knelt down on John's level and pushed the other down so he could get between his legs.

"Uh… ivan?" He asked as the other tugged on his jeans. Yeah, now it was his turn to go red.

"Mm?" The muscular man hummed, seeming hard at work pulling John's legs up over his shoulders.

"Ah… o-okay. I don't really have this done often. So I don't really know-," alfred started, only to get cut off as electricity shot through his nerves. "F-f-fuck!" He groaned, blue eyes rolling back as his body arched off the ground. Seems he wasn't the only experienced one here.

Smith shoved his arm against his mouth to try and keep his noises muted, but it was hard. The russian's muscle pushing this way and stretching that way made his body twist and turn like a doll being played with.

His other hand desperately clung to the floor and scraped across it, the concrete scraping up into dust. The scratches grew longer and longer as ivan pushed deeper and deeper.

And for a split second Ivan's tongue was on the edge of white hot bliss for John when suddenly it was gone and he felt his whole body deflate. He felt a need hit. A desperate want to be filled.

Ivan pulled back and trailed his tongue over the inside of Smith's muscular thigh and the American shuddered.

"This is much better. You let your guard down and let yourself be loved, and it feels good. Just like it did for me. So, tell me Amerika," was it just John or did his accent get stronger? "what do you want from me?"

"Sex," He supplied, but that wasn't enough for ivan.

He yanked john down by his hips, and he sat up so his own could roll against the blonde's. "What do you want?" He asked again, rolling down and into John.

"I want to fuck!" The American hissed, moving his own hips as his need grew stronger.

Ivan rolled his hips forward, the underbelly of his cock rubbing against alfred's own. "What do you want?!"

John wined but clamped his mouth shut.

Ivan half smirked and half winced. The battle was on then, and the prize was hearing the proud American beg.

He positioned his hips and teasingly pressed just a smidgeon against John's entrance, and John eagerly pushed back against him. That was all the confirmation ivan needed. He gripped the other's hips and slammed into him.

John tossed his head back and cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as his body arched off the cold floor.

But the moment of blindingly overwhelming sensation faded as Ivan sadistically just sat there in him.

The American felt his toes curl and un-curl as he waited for movement but it didn't come.

"Braginsky-," he snarled.

"Tell me what you want," Ivan ordered.

"I already fucking said I want sex!" John shouted.

"Wrong answer," Ivan told him, reaching forward to place a balancing hand on John's bruised collar.

"Nnngh!" The American whined, moving his hips to try and get some sort of friction. "Move, Damn it!"

"That's not what I need to here," Ivan purred, honestly finding this somewhat cute.

"Fuck me!" John finally shouted, "Fuck me now!"

Ivan laughed lightly to himself. America was always so eloquent with his words.

Slowly he started to roll his hips, and he saw John bite down on his bottom lip and stretch his head back, "Mmm~!"

Ivan couldn't help the slight flush that came to his cheeks. He didn't really expect it, but John enjoying this -enjoying him- was just so utterly arousing.

"Braginsky. Pick up the pace, would you?" The shorter man asked, tossing his arms up above his head and basking in the waves of pleasure.

Russia laughed at the almost flip in demeanor after the other had gotten over his reservations. Not that he didn't have his own masculinity issues when it came to bottoming. But it was almost cute to see America like this, and part of him wondered and hoped he was the only one to ever see this side of the blonde.

"Of course, Fredka," Ivan nearly sung like a happy song bird.

America cracked an eye open as the use of his admiral alias instead of his more common one with a captain's rank.

A moment later though, both eyes were forced closed as sweet pleasure shot through his body.

Here he was, the winner of their nearly 45 year long spitting match, and letting himself be taken by Russia.

It was bizarre, and honestly not something that had happened before. Despite Ivan's earlier musings… but there was an intimacy between them both that John shared with no one else.

It was in when they met on the border between their sides of Germany, Ivan with the plans to the V2 and John with Braun and even Germany himself. Despite Kenedy not even being elected yet, let alone having made his speech, it was like they both knew where they would take humanity next.

And in them passing data between themselves from space launches through the beginning of what would become the internet. Even despite the competitive nature of the space race, their scientists worked together to protect astronaut lives.

And even in the Cuban Missile Crisis. Himself and Ivan had been put on the phone, and what did they talk about for the most tense moment in all of human history? Ivan talked about ballet. He said he would miss his people's recitals, and alfred agreed. He would miss sitting on the lake with a dog and casting a line and watching his people play in the water.

So often John didn't want to think. He buried buzzing memories and pushy questions under war, sex, and alcohol. But being with Russia forced him to think; forced him to face things and come to realizations.

And he was thinking now that it must have taken a genuine challenge for him to ever have this intimacy with anyone.

It took the ability to not only kill each other, but everyone they cared about too, to force these two personifications to find kinship in their humanity.

John was drawn out of his thoughts when soft lips met his own.

It always caught him off guard what a gentle kisser Ivan could be when he wanted to.

"Mm Vanya-," John groaned out in the split second between their kisses, and even in the dim light of the fireplace and the setting sun he could see Ivan turn a bright red.

Ivan ran his calloused fingers through the other's short hair and pulled back to look over his work.

"You're so different right now, when you're allowing yourself to relax. It's like you've circled from the hard side you show your enemies, back to the carefree side you show your friends. Does that make me a friend?"

#wip

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