30 - Quid Pro Quo
Title: Quid Pro Quo
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: NC-17. Warning: this post contains temperature play, wax play, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), bondage, bruising/biting/bloodplay, gun play, and possible elements of dubcon, depending on your personal definition of the word.
Summary: 1945 - Russia and America's relationship takes an unexpected turn after America's nuclear capabilities are revealed at Potsdam.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
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Potsdam, Germany. August 1st, 1945
"You knew about them, didn't you," America murmured against Russia's back. Candlelight, and city light through the far window, fell across the wide expanse of pale skin. He drew his tongue up Russia's spine.
Russia arched and moaned. "Of course we did. Despite what you may believe--" He tipped his head back, and his eyelashes fluttered. "--My government is not entirely incompetent. We had two men in your Manhattan Project for quite some time." Blankets shifted, and he reached back to graze his fingers over America's hip. America smiled.
He kissed Russia's left shoulder blade, touched his lips down in small intervals to the bottom of his ribcage. Russia was bare from head to heel. They both were; they'd finished having sex half an hour ago. Groceries and wrecked clothing littered the floor between the door of their hotel room and the bed. Somewhere else in Potsdam, some boring conference party was probably still going on. "So you knew about them even before I did."
The light caught in Russia's eyes as he craned his neck just far enough to get a good look at America. The side of his mouth twitched. "Yes. And so did my boss. Although he wasn't pleased about being 'officially' late to the party." He hitched gently under America's lips. "I saw his eyes when your boss let him have the news."
"He can just get the fuck over it," America dismissed. He nipped at Russia's side, and then gave a soft laugh. "Although I guess I wasn't too psyched about being the last to know, either." He nuzzled into the base of Russia's spine. "Whatever. We have them now, that's what matters."
"You have them now," Russia corrected. The tiniest sliver of ice glinted in his voice, but he remained soft and open under America's touch. His fingers searched, and then curled into America's hair.
America paused. He bussed the top of his head against Russia's hand. "Yeah," he admitted.
He rest his hands on the heavy promontories of Russia's hips, then pushed himself up to sit beside him. He swiped his drink from the dresser. Russia had taken them by an open market that hadn't been bombed, was still operating, albeit on Allied supplies, and it even had a place where they could buy cola, with big chunks of ice in it and everything. He figured that was maybe the most romantic thing Russia had ever done for him.
He sucked back the last of the soda, and the bit of melted slurry on the bottom. Russia's broad shoulders shifted, and he blew out a breath. America looked down at him; his hand dropped, and he caressed Russia's hair. It fell soft and thick between his fingers. He suppressed the urge to kiss it. He couldn't, without spilling his drink.
After a little pause, he fished out a half-melted piece of ice and pinned it between his first and second fingers. "Russia," he inquired--and ran it down the bed of his spine, leaving a shining trail in the candlelight. "Does this feel cold to you?"
Russia didn't even flinch. But when he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave. "Yes. …But not as cold as it would to you." The mattress groaned as he rolled to face America. He tucked an arm behind his head and stared at the dripping chunk of ice. He wet his lips.
Another drop melted and slipped over the heel of America's hand, raced down his forearm and dripped from his elbow to splash onto the sheet. America shivered. He quirked a smile, dropped the ice back into his cup, and set the cup back on the dresser. His fingers ached from cold. "Sorry."
A soft gust of wind sighed through the open window. Russia waited a long moment, then shifted up and reached to the foot of the bed, where his scarf was slung over the bed frame. His fingers tangled in the edge. He watched America's eyes as he used it to wipe up the thin, wet trail.
America tilted his head, watched him with a questioning smile. "Thanks." And then, a touch lower: "Do you like the cold?"
Russia set the scarf aside. "I'm used to the cold." He shifted closer, dropped a hand to America's thigh. "But I'm sure I could be made to like it."
America's smile broadened. "I don't want to make you do anything," he grinned. "...But I can think of something you'd probably like better."
He touched a kiss just to the right of Russia's mouth, then licked his forefinger and pinched out the closest candle. Russia's gaze followed the movement of his hand, and caught over the thread of smoke hovering above the blackened wick. His fingertips drifted into the join of America's hip and thigh. "Would you like to demonstrate?"
America kissed him.
Then he plucked the candle out of its holder and tilted it, so a heavy drop of wax slipped down the candlestick the same way the cold water had run down his arm. He turned the candlestick as the wax ran so it wouldn't burn his fingers; watched it cool, gather, right at the lip of the base. He kept his eyes on Russia's, still smiling, as he brought the candle between them, tilted it those last few degrees, and let the wax drip onto Russia's collarbone.
Russia's body jerked; his eyelids trembled. The wax splashed when it fell, and tiny flecks scattered over reddening skin. A soft sound fled out of him, caught over his lips, and he scrambled his fingers into America's shoulder. "Good," he whispered.
America felt a rush of--of self-satisfaction. Yes. He thought so. Russia liked the heat. He pressed the warm tip of the candle into the arch of Russia's ribs, and ducked in and kissed beside his eye. "Where's your lighter?"
"Right pocket..." Russia fell back against the pillows. "Right pocket of my suit jacket." The wick smeared dark soot over his skin.
America leaned over the edge of the bed and felt around for it; a nice lighter, hefty, made of steel. He must have seen Russia with it a hundred times. He tugged it out, flipped it open, and relit the candle with a pop of starter fluid and a hiss of rekindling wax.
He straddled Russia, held him back with three fingers on his shoulder, and kept the candle aloft over him. He watched the flame gutter, carefully turned the candle so that the wax took the length of the candlestick to cool and then tumbled off the lip to splash onto Russia's stomach, splash smaller over his ribs. Russia's muscles tightened, jumped beneath his skin. His hips stuttered upwards, but the rest of his body remained still--obedient. His eyes stayed fixed on the drops of wax as they spiraled down the side of the candle like rigid tears.
America rocked their hips together, kept the cycle up with steady hands: click, light, wait, guide, splash. Russia only had eyes for the candle flame, the miserly drops of wax, and so America allowed himself to look past the candle: at Russia's collar of scars. They glittered, flexed as he swallowed, an intricate web of white and pink cut into pale skin. Russia hated it when he looked, but America thought they were beautiful. His gaze flicked back to Russia's eyes; he hadn't been noticed.
All at once, he turned the candle over and let a fat drop of scalding wax right from the wick fall onto Russia's shoulder.
It hissed when it struck, and Russia snarled, flared up under America's hands, twisted beneath him. He shifted onto his shoulder blades, and examined the hardening pool of wax. His scars stretched. "Not bad," he murmured. A challenging smile tugged at his lips.
America held the lighter away from the candle. Dried wax pooled in beads around his fingers. "Want me to stop?"
Russia laughed deep in his chest. "No."
America put the candle back in its holder anyway, and wiped his hand in the sheet. "Shut your eyes, huh?"
A pause, and then Russia did as he was told. The streetlights fell through the open window and raised a gleam across his eyelashes. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to say something, but the words never came.
America smiled softly. "Sit up." He reached for the discarded scarf as Russia did so. He folded it over, once, and then again, then laid it over Russia's eyes and tied it off behind his head.
Russia tilted his face blindly towards the sound of America's voice. He reached up, caught at the other nation's forearm, and let the pads of his fingers slide down America's skin. "And here I thought you loved being looked at."
America caught his hand and raised it to his mouth, kissed his fingers. "Not all the time." He massaged Russia's palm, stretched the other nation's fingers out into open air. He said, "You can take it off whenever you want" in order to disguise the click of the lighter. Before Russia could register the smell of smoke, he passed the flame, slowly, underneath his fingers.
Russia's arm trembled. His hand dipped even closer to the light. He didn't stop trying to seek out the source of America's voice, and he tipped his chin up, just a little. His middle finger flicked into the flame itself.
America watched his face, his parted lips and quickening breath, and passed the flame back and forth under Russia's fingers, slower, slower every time. Hushhushhushhush, as the flame bobbed and guttered between his fingers, and then hush, hush, hush, hush...America kissed the swell of Russia's lower lip, caught some of that uneven breath. Hush...hush...hush...hush... He let go of his hand.
The second he was free, Russia pressed his hips up, up into America, and lowered his palm directly onto the flame. He groaned. America snapped the lighter shut and pressed the metal lid against his blistered skin. Russia twitched, from wrist to shoulder.
Something flashed, where their hands met. America pulled the lighter away and held it up in the candlelight. A soft, incredulous laugh hitched out of him. "This is a Zippo," he said. "This is an American lighter."
Russia cocked an eyebrow. The very edge of it peeked over the scarf. "And?"
America turned it over and over in his hand, hefted it. "Where did you get this?" He ran the smooth corner of it over Russia's lower lip. "How long have you been using it?"
"I took it off a dead man." Russia's tongue slid over the edge of the lighter. "At Minsk. I don't know where he got it."
America almost asked Does your boss know you're using this? But he already knew the answer. His eyes dropped half-veiled, and he flicked the lighter open and clicked it on again. "You know, they're making a better version now." He wrapped his arm around Russia and pressed the lighter against the base of his spine. Searing hot air flooded up the channel of Russia's back. America breathed against his ear, "Want me to get you one?"
Russia flinched away in surprise, but after a moment, he arched, panting, into the flame. His fingers hooked loosely around America's shoulder blades as he managed, "No...Don't like gifts..."
America leaned into him, forced him back in an arch over the flame, trapping the heat under his back. "But I want you to have it." He nipped at his earlobe and raised the flame up to between Russia's shoulder blades.
"Of course you do..." Russia tilted his head towards America, gently forcing the other nation's teeth off his ear. Away from his neck. The fire lapped against the scars--newer ones--crisscrossing his back. It made them glow.
America drew away and looked at him. "Suit yourself."
He clicked off the lighter and set it on the dresser. Something had gone...a little wrong, between them.
Russia still leaned back, not moving. America tugged off the blindfold. He smiled as Russia blinked at him. "Hi there."
And then, as he climbed off of him and dropped the scarf on the side of the bed: "Your turn, I guess."
Russia sat up, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, and stretched his arms over his head. He didn't look at America. He examined his fingers in the artificial glow of the city lights: taking stock of the damage. Then he shifted onto one hip and braced an arm on the mattress near America's side, effectively caging him in. He had an odd expression on his face.
America didn't pull away, but he--he had a weird urge to, all of a sudden. He kept smiling. "I mean, you let me try stuff on you."
"I did." Russia's mouth found America's neck. "And free exchange is one of your capitalist ideals, yes?" He didn't wait for an answer before sinking his teeth in.
"Do you really have to make it all political?" America groaned, and tipped his head back. His fingers curled a bit in the sheet.
"I don't have to do anything," Russia growled. He moved his attentions to the soft arch of America's windpipe as he snatched his scarf up. He sat up abruptly, and grabbed America's wrists hard enough to bruise. The scarf passed around them, once, twice, three times, and then Russia pulled his wrists over his head and tied them to the flimsy headboard.
America tugged gingerly. Well, Russia was good at knots, anyway. "You all right?" he tested.
Russia kissed him fiercely, his tongue hot and full in America's mouth. He bit his lip, hard. "I'm fine," he said shortly. His nails found the spaces between America's ribs and dug in. Bright red lines flared across America's skin, and a few drops of blood prickled to the surface.
Jesus. America's elbows jerked down to protect his sides, but there wasn't enough slack. He twisted his wrists together, pulled hard enough that the headboard rattled, but he couldn't get free without breaking the bed apart. His breath picked up. "Well, then help yourself, I guess," he growled.
"I will." Russia pushed down the line of America's body until his face was level with those scrapes. He blew across them (cold), licked them (even colder), and then dug his teeth into them, too deep. He caressed America's cock with idle fingertips.
"Shit," America whispered. He could feel his pulse starting to throb in his skin, all over. He arched, pulling his ribs away from Russia's teeth, nudging his hips up into his hand. He thought about the bruises he was going to have in the morning. Russia drew his thumb over the head of America's erection, circled it roughly, and then let go and pulled away entirely. He stood. His eyes had gone dark.
Their clothes were scattered across the floor, pants and belts and coats; Russia reached down when he came to America's shirt, and slid his blue tie from around the wilted collar. He folded it over in his hands. America glanced from it, up to Russia's eyes, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Russia cupped America's face in his hand as he straddled him, but there was something--off in the gesture. Too heavy, rough, his fingertip almost struck the corner of America's eye. He held the tie out, pulled it taut, and laid it over America's eyes, tied it off behind his head. A few strands of America's hair jerked in the knot.
"Hey." America tried to sit up. "Wait--"
There was silence.
America mustered a hitched, uneasy laugh. "I'm, uh. I'm not too crazy about blindfolds. I mean. Uh. Not being able to see."
Russia ignored him. His teeth closed on America's shoulder, and his thigh pressed up between America's legs, hard. And then his hands were everywhere, suddenly, scratching, scraping and grasping. America shuddered, and jerked, away from those hands, cold, heavy, everywhere, cutting, and into his leg and--and his teeth and, and--and it was dark, that was what America hated, it was dark, and everything was blending together, he didn't know where Russia was coming from. "Take it off," he managed. "Russia, I don't like it when I can't see--"
Nails tore down his arms in answer, and then Russia's full weight was bearing down on him, crushed him. A mouth on his throat, again, and he felt a kiss, a tender one, before Russia bit down on his windpipe so hard it ached to breathe. America rasped out an angry shout and wrenched against Russia's scarf. The headboard gave a groan and a crack, but didn't break; fuck, it was sturdier than it looked. He tried to get his legs outside of Russia's, but the bigger nation had him pinned. "Russia," he demanded, thready and hoarse, "Stop it--I said take it off!"
Heavy hands slammed into his shoulders, forced him back onto the bed, and then that weight was gone. The mattress lurched; Russia was up again. Clothing rustled.
A smooth, cool shape pressed into the soft hollow behind America's ear. "And I say it stays."
America froze. Now that he could breathe again, he suddenly didn't want to. "What..." he wet his lips. "Are you doing?"
He recognized the muzzle of a gun.
Russia's voice was soft. "Don't you like being threatened?" The backs of his fingers trailed over America's cheek. "Don't you enjoy being helpless at the hands of someone who just happens to have a gun?" A pause. "I've done nothing to deserve this kind of power, have I? I just got there first." He punctuated those last three words with three jabs into America's skin.
Cold slid down America's throat and pooled in the pit of his stomach. He eased his head away. "Are you blaming me for inventing the bomb before you did?" he breathed.
Russia didn't answer. He simply held the opposite side of America's head in his hand, and forced him hard against the gun. "What does it feel like? Helplessness. Tell me what it feels like."
America jerked against the headboard. "I'm not helpless," he bit out.
"You look helpless." Russia bit the side of his jaw.
America hissed, tried to recoil; couldn't. "Y-you wouldn't shoot me." Fuck that tremor in his voice.
Russia was silent for a moment. And then he forced the gun into his mouth.
America made a small, pained sound as the sight scraped across his soft palate. And he realized: Russia's pistol, his TT-33, didn't have an upthrust, angled sight like that.
He dragged his tongue along the underside of the barrel. It was round, not squared and blunted.
Russia was making him fellate his own gun.
The revolver shifted as Russia adjusted his hold on the grip and forced it deeper. "Is it loaded?" The edge of the cylinder must be close to America's lips, he could probably reach it with his tongue. "How much danger are you in right now?"
America still couldn't see. He hated that more than the taste of steel and blood in his mouth, or the way he was almost gagging on the muzzle of the gun, the way his throat seized and clenched against it. He couldn't see Russia's expression, he couldn't see if the safety was on. Of course his fucking gun was loaded. The back of his head was pushed against the headboard; he couldn't pull away any more than he had.
He coughed, once, and swallowed fast against any others. There was just room in his mouth for him to drag his tongue down the length of the barrel again.
Russia's teeth slid up the side of his neck as the gun pistoned slowly in his mouth. He was taking his time, driving America to vary the strokes of his tongue against the metal, to open his mouth wider. "I could fuck you with this," Russia purred. His breath was cool against America's ear. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
America coughed again. Fuck you, he thought, but couldn't say. That icy slate lining his stomach was melting, trickling into a reservoir of insistent heat. His hands clenched in Russia's scarf. He swallowed more spit, more blood, more taste of steel.
Russia ground their hips together and removed the gun bit by bit, forcing America to lean up after it. America dropped back against the mattress when he couldn't arch up anymore, sweat beading on his hairline and his breath coming ragged in his lungs. Russia pressed the muzzle against his chest, dragged it down over his sternum, his stomach, his abdomen. It came to rest on America's inner thigh.
"I'm obviously not the only one enjoying this." Russia traced America's cock with the muzzle of the gun as he spoke.
America froze again, flushed and his heart racing in panic, but Jesus, he wasn't getting any less hard. The muzzle of the Colt was warm from his mouth.
"You--you can't--not with the, the--" the sight, the fucking sight; if Russia fucked him with his revolver, America was going to need a hospital. He gasped, tried to scrape together the words he needed. Whatever the hell was going through Russia's head, he wouldn't--he wouldn't seriously--
Russia leaned over America and groped on the nightstand. America heard his fingers clatter closed around the little tin of Vaseline. A silence, and America imagined him slicking up the barrel of his own revolver, imagined Russia's fingertips caressing the sight--and then Russia slid the barrel of the gun up the inside of America's thigh--
"No!" but God, that's right, Russia wasn't fucking listening. It lunged out of him: "Use yours, please!"
A pleased sound hummed in Russia's chest. The bed shifted as he moved: up, off, a pause, and another rustle of clothing, and then on, back over America. "Good choice," he murmured, and there was a slick sound as he readied his pistol.
He moved forwards on his knees. His fingers curled into America's hair as he slid the muzzle into him. "By the way--" He urged it in deeper. "The TT-33 doesn't have a safety."
America inhaled sharply; his spine arched. God, it was cold, and unyielding and bruising--and not long enough. He pushed his hips down against Russia's hand, took the gun as deep as he could. "I know," he whispered.
Russia angled the barrel upwards and thrust it into him, and kissed him, biting and sucking at his lower lip. The thumb and index finger of his free hand trailed to the base of America's cock, and pinched.
"Ah--Jesus--!" America's hips bucked. He started fighting his restraints again, yanking and tugging and making the broken headboard rattle against the wall. No safety, no safety pounded through his head, sped up and up and up--and that hadn't seemed like as big a threat as a pronged iron sight when Russia had been slicking it up to wreck him with it, but now, Jesus, he must be--they both must be out of their fucking minds. He only became aware of the litany several seconds after it started: "--Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me--"
Russia stroked him roughly, thrust the gun in as deep as it would go, twisted it. He slid down America's body, until he was crouched at America's hips, one hand still working the gun into him. His mouth hovered over the head of America's erection. He breathed against it, once. "No."
America groaned. He was grateful for the blindfold, all of a sudden, because when he squeezed his eyes shut, he felt tears of frustration. He tried to arch up towards Russia's mouth, but Russia jammed the pistol into him and twisted, and America went rigid and aching.
"God, please!" He stretched his spine, writhed down into the TT-33 pistoning inside of him. He slammed his fists against the headboard.
"This is what it means to be helpless, America," Russia murmured. "To be entirely at someone else's mercy..." He shoved the gun in again; it scraped against something. "And you know you are, don't you?" A barely-there flick of his tongue over America's cock. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me how weak you are."
America sobbed in arousal. His fingers tangled into Russia's scarf, and he arched his hips, harder, harder, off the bed. When he spoke, it felt like something tearing in his chest, like a piece of paper getting ripped to shreds. He forced his way through it. "I-I-I'm weak," he stammered; he gave a harsh, tangled-up cry as Russia pulled the gun almost all the way out, then slammed it home again. "I'm...Jesus...f-fuck you...you could, you could do anything to me...y-you could kill me, and I, and I, c-couldn't stop you--"
"No, you couldn't." Another scraping sound from the canister of Vaseline, and a shuddering sigh from Russia. The pressure of the gun disappeared; the raked-up quilt twitched under the weight of the discarded TT-33. Russia skimmed his nails up the backs of America's thighs, and then, without a word, thrust into America until their hips touched.
"Oh, Jesus! Yes!" America had never shouted during sex in his life. But now he did, loud enough it left him hoarse--and bucked, and panted, and scrambled for purchase as his legs tangled around Russia, one over his shoulder, the other hooked around his waist. And he begged, he flat-out begged, and he didn't even give a shit. "Hard--harder, yes, Jesus, Russia--please, God, fuck me--"
Russia hooked an arm over America's thigh, and slammed into him, silent. He bent, and his mouth went to America's neck, as though it was drawn there, and he bit, tore, drew blood. He wrapped a hand around America's cock and squeezed, digging his nails in.
The headboard fucking snapped, and suddenly America's hands were free--tangled together, still, in Russia's scarf, but he had them back. He raked one hand into Russia's hair, clenched him in against his ravaged throat, and his other hand ripped free of Russia's scarf and gouged down his back, raised welts and bleeding lines. "You...yes... fucking... God, yes..." the words lunged out on harsh, short breaths. "Russia--please... I would...fuck... do anything...anything... Russia, please..."
Russia growled, braced up into America's nails, and licked up the blood trickling down America's neck. He pinned America's shoulder down against the bed, forced his body into an arch--and suddenly the angle had changed. The whole room was too dark, too small, too unsteady to contain the noise, the motion...
Russia crushed the heel of his hand against America's cock, and he jerked off the blindfold.
America gasped against the rush of cold air on his face, and his eyes found Russia's, their gazes locked. America was wide-eyed, and his face was smeared with tears, and there was the gun, oh God, there was the gun. He spasmed, from the back of his neck to his heels, groaned so loudly it bounced off the ceiling, and came harder than he ever had in his life.
His mind zipped shut and black and small and tight, and he pulsed, clenched, heaved for air. Russia watched him with wild eyes, and came a moment later. His back jackknifed, his hands shook, and he moaned something America couldn't catch, something Russian, over and over again. The TT-33 clattered to the ground. He kept grinding into America for nearly half a minute, never breaking eye contact. His fingers clenched shut in America's pillow. America clawed at the coverlet. Christ, fuck, just the look in Russia's eyes kept him jerking and twitching for a few agonizing seconds more.
He slumped back into the bed, slowly; his legs slipped off Russia and collapsed in a tangle around him, like fallen branches from a tree. His racing heartbeat finally made it back into his thoughts. He realized he was still whimpering, weak and needy on every breath, so he shut his lips and swallowed hard.
He--he didn't dare be the first one to look away.
A car horn blared from the street, and Russia's head snapped to the side, his gaze instinctively going to the window. America was released. A few silent seconds bathed in the light of the city, and then Russia pulled out and lay down gingerly on the bed. He was on his stomach; red burns wavered over the small of his back. He wrapped both arms around the pillow, kneaded it into a ball, and dropped his head against it with a soft sigh.
America sat up. It hurt. He propped his elbows on his knees and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Fuck."
Russia shifted the covers higher around his hips. He shot America an exhausted, bitter look.
"Yeah, well," America muttered in response. He swiped his hair out of his face and pushed himself back so he could lean on the shattered remains of the headboard. "I'll take your feelings about it under consideration."
He pulled his knees up against his chest to conceal himself. Russia watched him, stared at the bites and the blood and the bruises, and then fumbled one of the extra quilts off his back and held it out to America.
America blinked at it--at him--then took it, while something small and warm and sweet broke in his chest. He pushed the blanket to the side, slid his arms around Russia's shoulders, and crawled down next to him under the blankets, his head finding its way to the cradle of Russia's shoulder, his chest, under his chin. He trembled. His fingers curled against Russia's collarbone.
Russia's arms closed around him, and one of his hands urged America's head in gently, carding through his hair. Every inch of Russia's skin was cold, but somehow, the hollow between their bodies was warm. They both moved closer together. Russia dropped a kiss into his hair, and let his lips linger.
America captured Russia's face between his hands and kissed him, lingering and sweet. "Stay?" he pleaded.
They had already planned to spend the night together. Neither one of them were expected back until afternoon the next day.
America tucked a bit of Russia's hair back over his ear. "You'll stay, right?"
Russia didn't meet his eyes when he said he would. But he curled into America's chest, and let himself be held.
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-The Potsdam Conference was held at Cecilienhof, the home of Crown Prince Wilhelm Hohenzollern, in Potsdam, occupied Germany, from 16 July to 2 August 1945. Participants were the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and the United States. It was held to discuss the establishment of post-war order, peace treaties issues, and countering the effects of war.
-President Roosevelt had died earlier that year, and so Harry Truman assumed the office of President. He took a different tact with the Soviet Union than Roosevelt had, a much harder one. Truman and his advisers saw Soviet actions in Eastern Europe as aggressive expansionism which was incompatible with the agreements Stalin had committed to at Yalta the previous February.
-The Americans had tested the atomic bomb several days before the conference, but Truman didn't inform Stalin until July 25th, when he advised Stalin that America had 'a new weapon of unusually destructive force.' While Stalin seemed unaffected at hearing this news, he was later noted as being outraged at President Truman for not sharing this information earlier. Stalin was actually aware of the atomic bomb before Truman was as he had two spies that had infiltrated the Manhattan Project.
-This is a Colt revolver, America's gun.
-This is a TT-33, Russia's gun.
-"Quid pro quo" is Latin for "what for what," or "something for something."
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: NC-17. Warning: this post contains temperature play, wax play, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), bondage, bruising/biting/bloodplay, gun play, and possible elements of dubcon, depending on your personal definition of the word.
Summary: 1945 - Russia and America's relationship takes an unexpected turn after America's nuclear capabilities are revealed at Potsdam.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
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Potsdam, Germany. August 1st, 1945
"You knew about them, didn't you," America murmured against Russia's back. Candlelight, and city light through the far window, fell across the wide expanse of pale skin. He drew his tongue up Russia's spine.
Russia arched and moaned. "Of course we did. Despite what you may believe--" He tipped his head back, and his eyelashes fluttered. "--My government is not entirely incompetent. We had two men in your Manhattan Project for quite some time." Blankets shifted, and he reached back to graze his fingers over America's hip. America smiled.
He kissed Russia's left shoulder blade, touched his lips down in small intervals to the bottom of his ribcage. Russia was bare from head to heel. They both were; they'd finished having sex half an hour ago. Groceries and wrecked clothing littered the floor between the door of their hotel room and the bed. Somewhere else in Potsdam, some boring conference party was probably still going on. "So you knew about them even before I did."
The light caught in Russia's eyes as he craned his neck just far enough to get a good look at America. The side of his mouth twitched. "Yes. And so did my boss. Although he wasn't pleased about being 'officially' late to the party." He hitched gently under America's lips. "I saw his eyes when your boss let him have the news."
"He can just get the fuck over it," America dismissed. He nipped at Russia's side, and then gave a soft laugh. "Although I guess I wasn't too psyched about being the last to know, either." He nuzzled into the base of Russia's spine. "Whatever. We have them now, that's what matters."
"You have them now," Russia corrected. The tiniest sliver of ice glinted in his voice, but he remained soft and open under America's touch. His fingers searched, and then curled into America's hair.
America paused. He bussed the top of his head against Russia's hand. "Yeah," he admitted.
He rest his hands on the heavy promontories of Russia's hips, then pushed himself up to sit beside him. He swiped his drink from the dresser. Russia had taken them by an open market that hadn't been bombed, was still operating, albeit on Allied supplies, and it even had a place where they could buy cola, with big chunks of ice in it and everything. He figured that was maybe the most romantic thing Russia had ever done for him.
He sucked back the last of the soda, and the bit of melted slurry on the bottom. Russia's broad shoulders shifted, and he blew out a breath. America looked down at him; his hand dropped, and he caressed Russia's hair. It fell soft and thick between his fingers. He suppressed the urge to kiss it. He couldn't, without spilling his drink.
After a little pause, he fished out a half-melted piece of ice and pinned it between his first and second fingers. "Russia," he inquired--and ran it down the bed of his spine, leaving a shining trail in the candlelight. "Does this feel cold to you?"
Russia didn't even flinch. But when he spoke, his voice had dropped an octave. "Yes. …But not as cold as it would to you." The mattress groaned as he rolled to face America. He tucked an arm behind his head and stared at the dripping chunk of ice. He wet his lips.
Another drop melted and slipped over the heel of America's hand, raced down his forearm and dripped from his elbow to splash onto the sheet. America shivered. He quirked a smile, dropped the ice back into his cup, and set the cup back on the dresser. His fingers ached from cold. "Sorry."
A soft gust of wind sighed through the open window. Russia waited a long moment, then shifted up and reached to the foot of the bed, where his scarf was slung over the bed frame. His fingers tangled in the edge. He watched America's eyes as he used it to wipe up the thin, wet trail.
America tilted his head, watched him with a questioning smile. "Thanks." And then, a touch lower: "Do you like the cold?"
Russia set the scarf aside. "I'm used to the cold." He shifted closer, dropped a hand to America's thigh. "But I'm sure I could be made to like it."
America's smile broadened. "I don't want to make you do anything," he grinned. "...But I can think of something you'd probably like better."
He touched a kiss just to the right of Russia's mouth, then licked his forefinger and pinched out the closest candle. Russia's gaze followed the movement of his hand, and caught over the thread of smoke hovering above the blackened wick. His fingertips drifted into the join of America's hip and thigh. "Would you like to demonstrate?"
America kissed him.
Then he plucked the candle out of its holder and tilted it, so a heavy drop of wax slipped down the candlestick the same way the cold water had run down his arm. He turned the candlestick as the wax ran so it wouldn't burn his fingers; watched it cool, gather, right at the lip of the base. He kept his eyes on Russia's, still smiling, as he brought the candle between them, tilted it those last few degrees, and let the wax drip onto Russia's collarbone.
Russia's body jerked; his eyelids trembled. The wax splashed when it fell, and tiny flecks scattered over reddening skin. A soft sound fled out of him, caught over his lips, and he scrambled his fingers into America's shoulder. "Good," he whispered.
America felt a rush of--of self-satisfaction. Yes. He thought so. Russia liked the heat. He pressed the warm tip of the candle into the arch of Russia's ribs, and ducked in and kissed beside his eye. "Where's your lighter?"
"Right pocket..." Russia fell back against the pillows. "Right pocket of my suit jacket." The wick smeared dark soot over his skin.
America leaned over the edge of the bed and felt around for it; a nice lighter, hefty, made of steel. He must have seen Russia with it a hundred times. He tugged it out, flipped it open, and relit the candle with a pop of starter fluid and a hiss of rekindling wax.
He straddled Russia, held him back with three fingers on his shoulder, and kept the candle aloft over him. He watched the flame gutter, carefully turned the candle so that the wax took the length of the candlestick to cool and then tumbled off the lip to splash onto Russia's stomach, splash smaller over his ribs. Russia's muscles tightened, jumped beneath his skin. His hips stuttered upwards, but the rest of his body remained still--obedient. His eyes stayed fixed on the drops of wax as they spiraled down the side of the candle like rigid tears.
America rocked their hips together, kept the cycle up with steady hands: click, light, wait, guide, splash. Russia only had eyes for the candle flame, the miserly drops of wax, and so America allowed himself to look past the candle: at Russia's collar of scars. They glittered, flexed as he swallowed, an intricate web of white and pink cut into pale skin. Russia hated it when he looked, but America thought they were beautiful. His gaze flicked back to Russia's eyes; he hadn't been noticed.
All at once, he turned the candle over and let a fat drop of scalding wax right from the wick fall onto Russia's shoulder.
It hissed when it struck, and Russia snarled, flared up under America's hands, twisted beneath him. He shifted onto his shoulder blades, and examined the hardening pool of wax. His scars stretched. "Not bad," he murmured. A challenging smile tugged at his lips.
America held the lighter away from the candle. Dried wax pooled in beads around his fingers. "Want me to stop?"
Russia laughed deep in his chest. "No."
America put the candle back in its holder anyway, and wiped his hand in the sheet. "Shut your eyes, huh?"
A pause, and then Russia did as he was told. The streetlights fell through the open window and raised a gleam across his eyelashes. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to say something, but the words never came.
America smiled softly. "Sit up." He reached for the discarded scarf as Russia did so. He folded it over, once, and then again, then laid it over Russia's eyes and tied it off behind his head.
Russia tilted his face blindly towards the sound of America's voice. He reached up, caught at the other nation's forearm, and let the pads of his fingers slide down America's skin. "And here I thought you loved being looked at."
America caught his hand and raised it to his mouth, kissed his fingers. "Not all the time." He massaged Russia's palm, stretched the other nation's fingers out into open air. He said, "You can take it off whenever you want" in order to disguise the click of the lighter. Before Russia could register the smell of smoke, he passed the flame, slowly, underneath his fingers.
Russia's arm trembled. His hand dipped even closer to the light. He didn't stop trying to seek out the source of America's voice, and he tipped his chin up, just a little. His middle finger flicked into the flame itself.
America watched his face, his parted lips and quickening breath, and passed the flame back and forth under Russia's fingers, slower, slower every time. Hushhushhushhush, as the flame bobbed and guttered between his fingers, and then hush, hush, hush, hush...America kissed the swell of Russia's lower lip, caught some of that uneven breath. Hush...hush...hush...hush... He let go of his hand.
The second he was free, Russia pressed his hips up, up into America, and lowered his palm directly onto the flame. He groaned. America snapped the lighter shut and pressed the metal lid against his blistered skin. Russia twitched, from wrist to shoulder.
Something flashed, where their hands met. America pulled the lighter away and held it up in the candlelight. A soft, incredulous laugh hitched out of him. "This is a Zippo," he said. "This is an American lighter."
Russia cocked an eyebrow. The very edge of it peeked over the scarf. "And?"
America turned it over and over in his hand, hefted it. "Where did you get this?" He ran the smooth corner of it over Russia's lower lip. "How long have you been using it?"
"I took it off a dead man." Russia's tongue slid over the edge of the lighter. "At Minsk. I don't know where he got it."
America almost asked Does your boss know you're using this? But he already knew the answer. His eyes dropped half-veiled, and he flicked the lighter open and clicked it on again. "You know, they're making a better version now." He wrapped his arm around Russia and pressed the lighter against the base of his spine. Searing hot air flooded up the channel of Russia's back. America breathed against his ear, "Want me to get you one?"
Russia flinched away in surprise, but after a moment, he arched, panting, into the flame. His fingers hooked loosely around America's shoulder blades as he managed, "No...Don't like gifts..."
America leaned into him, forced him back in an arch over the flame, trapping the heat under his back. "But I want you to have it." He nipped at his earlobe and raised the flame up to between Russia's shoulder blades.
"Of course you do..." Russia tilted his head towards America, gently forcing the other nation's teeth off his ear. Away from his neck. The fire lapped against the scars--newer ones--crisscrossing his back. It made them glow.
America drew away and looked at him. "Suit yourself."
He clicked off the lighter and set it on the dresser. Something had gone...a little wrong, between them.
Russia still leaned back, not moving. America tugged off the blindfold. He smiled as Russia blinked at him. "Hi there."
And then, as he climbed off of him and dropped the scarf on the side of the bed: "Your turn, I guess."
Russia sat up, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, and stretched his arms over his head. He didn't look at America. He examined his fingers in the artificial glow of the city lights: taking stock of the damage. Then he shifted onto one hip and braced an arm on the mattress near America's side, effectively caging him in. He had an odd expression on his face.
America didn't pull away, but he--he had a weird urge to, all of a sudden. He kept smiling. "I mean, you let me try stuff on you."
"I did." Russia's mouth found America's neck. "And free exchange is one of your capitalist ideals, yes?" He didn't wait for an answer before sinking his teeth in.
"Do you really have to make it all political?" America groaned, and tipped his head back. His fingers curled a bit in the sheet.
"I don't have to do anything," Russia growled. He moved his attentions to the soft arch of America's windpipe as he snatched his scarf up. He sat up abruptly, and grabbed America's wrists hard enough to bruise. The scarf passed around them, once, twice, three times, and then Russia pulled his wrists over his head and tied them to the flimsy headboard.
America tugged gingerly. Well, Russia was good at knots, anyway. "You all right?" he tested.
Russia kissed him fiercely, his tongue hot and full in America's mouth. He bit his lip, hard. "I'm fine," he said shortly. His nails found the spaces between America's ribs and dug in. Bright red lines flared across America's skin, and a few drops of blood prickled to the surface.
Jesus. America's elbows jerked down to protect his sides, but there wasn't enough slack. He twisted his wrists together, pulled hard enough that the headboard rattled, but he couldn't get free without breaking the bed apart. His breath picked up. "Well, then help yourself, I guess," he growled.
"I will." Russia pushed down the line of America's body until his face was level with those scrapes. He blew across them (cold), licked them (even colder), and then dug his teeth into them, too deep. He caressed America's cock with idle fingertips.
"Shit," America whispered. He could feel his pulse starting to throb in his skin, all over. He arched, pulling his ribs away from Russia's teeth, nudging his hips up into his hand. He thought about the bruises he was going to have in the morning. Russia drew his thumb over the head of America's erection, circled it roughly, and then let go and pulled away entirely. He stood. His eyes had gone dark.
Their clothes were scattered across the floor, pants and belts and coats; Russia reached down when he came to America's shirt, and slid his blue tie from around the wilted collar. He folded it over in his hands. America glanced from it, up to Russia's eyes, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Russia cupped America's face in his hand as he straddled him, but there was something--off in the gesture. Too heavy, rough, his fingertip almost struck the corner of America's eye. He held the tie out, pulled it taut, and laid it over America's eyes, tied it off behind his head. A few strands of America's hair jerked in the knot.
"Hey." America tried to sit up. "Wait--"
There was silence.
America mustered a hitched, uneasy laugh. "I'm, uh. I'm not too crazy about blindfolds. I mean. Uh. Not being able to see."
Russia ignored him. His teeth closed on America's shoulder, and his thigh pressed up between America's legs, hard. And then his hands were everywhere, suddenly, scratching, scraping and grasping. America shuddered, and jerked, away from those hands, cold, heavy, everywhere, cutting, and into his leg and--and his teeth and, and--and it was dark, that was what America hated, it was dark, and everything was blending together, he didn't know where Russia was coming from. "Take it off," he managed. "Russia, I don't like it when I can't see--"
Nails tore down his arms in answer, and then Russia's full weight was bearing down on him, crushed him. A mouth on his throat, again, and he felt a kiss, a tender one, before Russia bit down on his windpipe so hard it ached to breathe. America rasped out an angry shout and wrenched against Russia's scarf. The headboard gave a groan and a crack, but didn't break; fuck, it was sturdier than it looked. He tried to get his legs outside of Russia's, but the bigger nation had him pinned. "Russia," he demanded, thready and hoarse, "Stop it--I said take it off!"
Heavy hands slammed into his shoulders, forced him back onto the bed, and then that weight was gone. The mattress lurched; Russia was up again. Clothing rustled.
A smooth, cool shape pressed into the soft hollow behind America's ear. "And I say it stays."
America froze. Now that he could breathe again, he suddenly didn't want to. "What..." he wet his lips. "Are you doing?"
He recognized the muzzle of a gun.
Russia's voice was soft. "Don't you like being threatened?" The backs of his fingers trailed over America's cheek. "Don't you enjoy being helpless at the hands of someone who just happens to have a gun?" A pause. "I've done nothing to deserve this kind of power, have I? I just got there first." He punctuated those last three words with three jabs into America's skin.
Cold slid down America's throat and pooled in the pit of his stomach. He eased his head away. "Are you blaming me for inventing the bomb before you did?" he breathed.
Russia didn't answer. He simply held the opposite side of America's head in his hand, and forced him hard against the gun. "What does it feel like? Helplessness. Tell me what it feels like."
America jerked against the headboard. "I'm not helpless," he bit out.
"You look helpless." Russia bit the side of his jaw.
America hissed, tried to recoil; couldn't. "Y-you wouldn't shoot me." Fuck that tremor in his voice.
Russia was silent for a moment. And then he forced the gun into his mouth.
America made a small, pained sound as the sight scraped across his soft palate. And he realized: Russia's pistol, his TT-33, didn't have an upthrust, angled sight like that.
He dragged his tongue along the underside of the barrel. It was round, not squared and blunted.
Russia was making him fellate his own gun.
The revolver shifted as Russia adjusted his hold on the grip and forced it deeper. "Is it loaded?" The edge of the cylinder must be close to America's lips, he could probably reach it with his tongue. "How much danger are you in right now?"
America still couldn't see. He hated that more than the taste of steel and blood in his mouth, or the way he was almost gagging on the muzzle of the gun, the way his throat seized and clenched against it. He couldn't see Russia's expression, he couldn't see if the safety was on. Of course his fucking gun was loaded. The back of his head was pushed against the headboard; he couldn't pull away any more than he had.
He coughed, once, and swallowed fast against any others. There was just room in his mouth for him to drag his tongue down the length of the barrel again.
Russia's teeth slid up the side of his neck as the gun pistoned slowly in his mouth. He was taking his time, driving America to vary the strokes of his tongue against the metal, to open his mouth wider. "I could fuck you with this," Russia purred. His breath was cool against America's ear. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
America coughed again. Fuck you, he thought, but couldn't say. That icy slate lining his stomach was melting, trickling into a reservoir of insistent heat. His hands clenched in Russia's scarf. He swallowed more spit, more blood, more taste of steel.
Russia ground their hips together and removed the gun bit by bit, forcing America to lean up after it. America dropped back against the mattress when he couldn't arch up anymore, sweat beading on his hairline and his breath coming ragged in his lungs. Russia pressed the muzzle against his chest, dragged it down over his sternum, his stomach, his abdomen. It came to rest on America's inner thigh.
"I'm obviously not the only one enjoying this." Russia traced America's cock with the muzzle of the gun as he spoke.
America froze again, flushed and his heart racing in panic, but Jesus, he wasn't getting any less hard. The muzzle of the Colt was warm from his mouth.
"You--you can't--not with the, the--" the sight, the fucking sight; if Russia fucked him with his revolver, America was going to need a hospital. He gasped, tried to scrape together the words he needed. Whatever the hell was going through Russia's head, he wouldn't--he wouldn't seriously--
Russia leaned over America and groped on the nightstand. America heard his fingers clatter closed around the little tin of Vaseline. A silence, and America imagined him slicking up the barrel of his own revolver, imagined Russia's fingertips caressing the sight--and then Russia slid the barrel of the gun up the inside of America's thigh--
"No!" but God, that's right, Russia wasn't fucking listening. It lunged out of him: "Use yours, please!"
A pleased sound hummed in Russia's chest. The bed shifted as he moved: up, off, a pause, and another rustle of clothing, and then on, back over America. "Good choice," he murmured, and there was a slick sound as he readied his pistol.
He moved forwards on his knees. His fingers curled into America's hair as he slid the muzzle into him. "By the way--" He urged it in deeper. "The TT-33 doesn't have a safety."
America inhaled sharply; his spine arched. God, it was cold, and unyielding and bruising--and not long enough. He pushed his hips down against Russia's hand, took the gun as deep as he could. "I know," he whispered.
Russia angled the barrel upwards and thrust it into him, and kissed him, biting and sucking at his lower lip. The thumb and index finger of his free hand trailed to the base of America's cock, and pinched.
"Ah--Jesus--!" America's hips bucked. He started fighting his restraints again, yanking and tugging and making the broken headboard rattle against the wall. No safety, no safety pounded through his head, sped up and up and up--and that hadn't seemed like as big a threat as a pronged iron sight when Russia had been slicking it up to wreck him with it, but now, Jesus, he must be--they both must be out of their fucking minds. He only became aware of the litany several seconds after it started: "--Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me--"
Russia stroked him roughly, thrust the gun in as deep as it would go, twisted it. He slid down America's body, until he was crouched at America's hips, one hand still working the gun into him. His mouth hovered over the head of America's erection. He breathed against it, once. "No."
America groaned. He was grateful for the blindfold, all of a sudden, because when he squeezed his eyes shut, he felt tears of frustration. He tried to arch up towards Russia's mouth, but Russia jammed the pistol into him and twisted, and America went rigid and aching.
"God, please!" He stretched his spine, writhed down into the TT-33 pistoning inside of him. He slammed his fists against the headboard.
"This is what it means to be helpless, America," Russia murmured. "To be entirely at someone else's mercy..." He shoved the gun in again; it scraped against something. "And you know you are, don't you?" A barely-there flick of his tongue over America's cock. "Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me how weak you are."
America sobbed in arousal. His fingers tangled into Russia's scarf, and he arched his hips, harder, harder, off the bed. When he spoke, it felt like something tearing in his chest, like a piece of paper getting ripped to shreds. He forced his way through it. "I-I-I'm weak," he stammered; he gave a harsh, tangled-up cry as Russia pulled the gun almost all the way out, then slammed it home again. "I'm...Jesus...f-fuck you...you could, you could do anything to me...y-you could kill me, and I, and I, c-couldn't stop you--"
"No, you couldn't." Another scraping sound from the canister of Vaseline, and a shuddering sigh from Russia. The pressure of the gun disappeared; the raked-up quilt twitched under the weight of the discarded TT-33. Russia skimmed his nails up the backs of America's thighs, and then, without a word, thrust into America until their hips touched.
"Oh, Jesus! Yes!" America had never shouted during sex in his life. But now he did, loud enough it left him hoarse--and bucked, and panted, and scrambled for purchase as his legs tangled around Russia, one over his shoulder, the other hooked around his waist. And he begged, he flat-out begged, and he didn't even give a shit. "Hard--harder, yes, Jesus, Russia--please, God, fuck me--"
Russia hooked an arm over America's thigh, and slammed into him, silent. He bent, and his mouth went to America's neck, as though it was drawn there, and he bit, tore, drew blood. He wrapped a hand around America's cock and squeezed, digging his nails in.
The headboard fucking snapped, and suddenly America's hands were free--tangled together, still, in Russia's scarf, but he had them back. He raked one hand into Russia's hair, clenched him in against his ravaged throat, and his other hand ripped free of Russia's scarf and gouged down his back, raised welts and bleeding lines. "You...yes... fucking... God, yes..." the words lunged out on harsh, short breaths. "Russia--please... I would...fuck... do anything...anything... Russia, please..."
Russia growled, braced up into America's nails, and licked up the blood trickling down America's neck. He pinned America's shoulder down against the bed, forced his body into an arch--and suddenly the angle had changed. The whole room was too dark, too small, too unsteady to contain the noise, the motion...
Russia crushed the heel of his hand against America's cock, and he jerked off the blindfold.
America gasped against the rush of cold air on his face, and his eyes found Russia's, their gazes locked. America was wide-eyed, and his face was smeared with tears, and there was the gun, oh God, there was the gun. He spasmed, from the back of his neck to his heels, groaned so loudly it bounced off the ceiling, and came harder than he ever had in his life.
His mind zipped shut and black and small and tight, and he pulsed, clenched, heaved for air. Russia watched him with wild eyes, and came a moment later. His back jackknifed, his hands shook, and he moaned something America couldn't catch, something Russian, over and over again. The TT-33 clattered to the ground. He kept grinding into America for nearly half a minute, never breaking eye contact. His fingers clenched shut in America's pillow. America clawed at the coverlet. Christ, fuck, just the look in Russia's eyes kept him jerking and twitching for a few agonizing seconds more.
He slumped back into the bed, slowly; his legs slipped off Russia and collapsed in a tangle around him, like fallen branches from a tree. His racing heartbeat finally made it back into his thoughts. He realized he was still whimpering, weak and needy on every breath, so he shut his lips and swallowed hard.
He--he didn't dare be the first one to look away.
A car horn blared from the street, and Russia's head snapped to the side, his gaze instinctively going to the window. America was released. A few silent seconds bathed in the light of the city, and then Russia pulled out and lay down gingerly on the bed. He was on his stomach; red burns wavered over the small of his back. He wrapped both arms around the pillow, kneaded it into a ball, and dropped his head against it with a soft sigh.
America sat up. It hurt. He propped his elbows on his knees and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Fuck."
Russia shifted the covers higher around his hips. He shot America an exhausted, bitter look.
"Yeah, well," America muttered in response. He swiped his hair out of his face and pushed himself back so he could lean on the shattered remains of the headboard. "I'll take your feelings about it under consideration."
He pulled his knees up against his chest to conceal himself. Russia watched him, stared at the bites and the blood and the bruises, and then fumbled one of the extra quilts off his back and held it out to America.
America blinked at it--at him--then took it, while something small and warm and sweet broke in his chest. He pushed the blanket to the side, slid his arms around Russia's shoulders, and crawled down next to him under the blankets, his head finding its way to the cradle of Russia's shoulder, his chest, under his chin. He trembled. His fingers curled against Russia's collarbone.
Russia's arms closed around him, and one of his hands urged America's head in gently, carding through his hair. Every inch of Russia's skin was cold, but somehow, the hollow between their bodies was warm. They both moved closer together. Russia dropped a kiss into his hair, and let his lips linger.
America captured Russia's face between his hands and kissed him, lingering and sweet. "Stay?" he pleaded.
They had already planned to spend the night together. Neither one of them were expected back until afternoon the next day.
America tucked a bit of Russia's hair back over his ear. "You'll stay, right?"
Russia didn't meet his eyes when he said he would. But he curled into America's chest, and let himself be held.
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-The Potsdam Conference was held at Cecilienhof, the home of Crown Prince Wilhelm Hohenzollern, in Potsdam, occupied Germany, from 16 July to 2 August 1945. Participants were the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and the United States. It was held to discuss the establishment of post-war order, peace treaties issues, and countering the effects of war.
-President Roosevelt had died earlier that year, and so Harry Truman assumed the office of President. He took a different tact with the Soviet Union than Roosevelt had, a much harder one. Truman and his advisers saw Soviet actions in Eastern Europe as aggressive expansionism which was incompatible with the agreements Stalin had committed to at Yalta the previous February.
-The Americans had tested the atomic bomb several days before the conference, but Truman didn't inform Stalin until July 25th, when he advised Stalin that America had 'a new weapon of unusually destructive force.' While Stalin seemed unaffected at hearing this news, he was later noted as being outraged at President Truman for not sharing this information earlier. Stalin was actually aware of the atomic bomb before Truman was as he had two spies that had infiltrated the Manhattan Project.
-This is a Colt revolver, America's gun.
-This is a TT-33, Russia's gun.
-"Quid pro quo" is Latin for "what for what," or "something for something."
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.