Force (America, Russia)
Title: Force
Warnings: Rough sex, reference to 9/11
Summary: “It's cold at your house every time of year. Get lost.” But when he walked away from the door, he didn't close it behind him.
Characters: America, Russia
Year: 2002
“Get away from me, you creep,” was the first thing Al said to the other nation when he saw him on his doorstep.
“Ah, but Alfred, my little friend--” jerkoff, who cares about geographical size when your whole nation's made up of freezing fucking iceland that no one wants to visit “--it is so cold at home this time of year. Surely you won't mind if I visit?”
“It's cold at your house every time of year. Get lost.” But when he walked away from the door, he didn't close it behind him. Ivan took this for the invitation that it mostly was, followed him in, shutting the door quietly.
They stood in the entranceway, until Al felt he couldn't ignore his guest any longer without being as rude as a fucking commie bastard. “Drink?” he said.
“I brought my own. I know what passes for liquor around here.”
Al let it go. He was over three-hundred now, he knew when it wasn't worth it to pick a fight. Generally.
There was silence for a moment, while Al poured himself a Scotch, and then downed the whole thing in one.
“Lovely, lovely. Wonderful what you've done with the place.” Al, who knew that the nineties had been kind to him, swelled proudly. “Too bad about that incident with the planes...”
His face turned to stone. “'That incident with the planes?' Two thousand of my children dead, and--”
Ivan brushed the objection off like a bothersome fly. “Yes, as I said, very regrettable.” At the murderous look on the other man's face, he smiled one of his sweet smiles. “My condolences.”
“I'll show you condolences, you sick fuck,” said Al, slamming his hand against the door above Ivan's shoulder.
All he got was another smile. “Are you going to beat me up, Alfred?”
Oh, he wanted to. But with effort, he turned away, standing with his back resolutely to the other man. He should just make him leave now, he should--
“Calming down in our old age, are we?” He turned around, ready to punch the man in the face. But again, he held back. If Ivan were physically injured, it would turn into a diplomatic incident.
“No,” he said, shortly, breathing a little hard with the effort of staying his fist.
Another smile, wider this time. “Ah yes. You can't hurt me, can you.” Al almost shook with the need to wipe the smirk off that face. “...but you remember the old days, don't you?” He took a step closer, lowered his voice to a murmur. “We wanted to fight, we wanted it so-- badly--” he was almost whispering. “But we couldn't, could we? Not without our bosses' permission. So what did we do?” He leaned in, whispering into Al's ear. “We fucked.”
Al growled, the part of himself that he liked least-- the part that wasn't ideological, that didn't back down from Vietnam not because he wanted to bring democracy but because he wouldn't lose-- grabbing the reigns. All it took was the look in Ivan's eyes to remind him of the silent grappling, the hidden bruises and the hot mouths. He crashed into the other man hard enough to rock the door, all tongue and teeth, and savage grinding.
“Yes,” whispered Ivan against his lips. “You've missed this, haven't you?” Al wanted to kill him, but he wanted to fuck him more. He fumbled with his own belt, cock out and hard in his hand in the time it took him to take a breath and let it out.
“Why, have you?” he panted, planting his hands on Ivan's shoulders and pushing down. Ivan let himself sink, until he was on his knees in front of the door.
“Yes,” he hissed, eyes intense.
That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. Uncomfortable, Al grabbed white hair and used it to tilt the other man's head back. His other hand was feeding his cock into the open mouth. “God, you're fucked up,” he said. Ivan couldn't answer, which he figured was just as well.
He used his handful of hair to pull the other man's head forward, down, and slid in slowly but steadily (did the man have no gag reflex?). When Ivan's lips were touching the hand he had around himself, he let go. Both hands on the back of Ivan's head, he pushed him the rest of the way down, gasping, fighting not to come right there. It had been a long time-- since the last time they'd done this, right before the end of the Cold War. He thought he felt Ivan laugh.
Holding his head again by the hair, Al pulled him up, then shoved him down again, harder this time. Soon he was fucking himself with Ivan's face, and he'd never felt so good, or so filthy. Then it was too slow, and he was the one doing the fucking, hips snapping back and forth, holding Ivan's head still with white-knuckled hands. It was only his hands that kept Ivan's head from being slammed against the door as he shoved himself as far as he could down the fucker's throat, again and again.
All too quickly, his body was getting tight, the telltale tingle in the base of his stomach telling him he didn't have long. Then Ivan was swallowing around his cock, and it was the last thing he needed to push him over. His hips jerked sporadically, Ivan's throat working gently around him until he quieted. He pulled out, and met the other man's eyes for the first time since they'd begun this.
“I'll be going, then,” said Ivan, quietly.
“Stay,” said Al, abruptly. He didn't know why, except for the feeling that he'd hate himself less this way. Ivan tilted his head sideways, and Al knew that if he turned him down, they'd never do this again.
Then there was a smaller smile, different from the crazy one he was used to. He had a moment of panic. He could barely handle the man crazy, but sane? It would be ten times worse.
“No.”
“What?”
“No. I cannot stay, I wouldn't be able to sleep. It is too hot.”
“Who says you're invited to spend the night? Come in and have a beer.”
Ivan got to his feet slowly. His look was still quizzical, as if he were waiting for a trap. “I do not drink beer.”
“Come in anyway,” said Al. They'd done this long enough.