Invasion (Russia/America) - (55.2/56) Part 2
anonymous
February 9 2011, 08:32:45 UTC
“No way. I can’t do that!” America hissed, his voice barely audible. “I…I can’t.” His face burned crimson, his puritan roots rising up to consume him. “That’s my brother. And Francis.”
Russia only hummed and raised his eyebrows. America frowned, face still burning red, and turned around in his own sleeping back, willing his arousal away before he reached for his jeans. Threading his legs through, he scooted them up his hips and buttoned them. Russia stretched, groaning softly as his muscles stretched and joints popped.
Escaping the confines of the tent, America flung the canvas flap aside and stepped outside. Canada knelt before the circle of stones and blew on the glowing embers to rekindle the fire from the night before, his cheeks dusted with pink. France slowed in his rummaging of the cans of food to leer at America with a raised eyebrow, smile fixed on his face.
Fuck. I’m never going to live this down.
Face about to burst into flames, America stormed over to the fire and picked up his pack, sending an embarrassed glare at France before stalking away.
“Where are you going, monchou?” France called. “I must know, so I can locate you if anything happens.”
“I’m just going to the stream.” America continued walking, refusing to turn around to show his beet red face once more.
Damnit…why does this always happen? America cursed his shyness over showing affection in public. Being confident and outgoing was always so easy, and yet… his strict upbringing always reared its head at the worst moments. Fuck…and Tony wasn’t even there to break the atmosphere for me either… A pang of longing stabbed at his chest for his alien friend. Hopefully he can come back soon…
Large fields surrounded him, the grasses dull in color, due to the cold winter months. Crickets chirped and sang in the grasses, their song filling the air. Shrubs sprouted up ahead, followed by thorny bushes and large, bush-like trees. America pushed through them, being mindful of the thorns, and stepped into the stream. The water was cold, but not freezing. The temperature sent an electric jolt through him, shoving the shroud of sleep away. Not wanting his jeans or boxers to get wet, he peeled them off and draped them over the bushes and went back into the stream, crouching slightly. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a blue cloth and a wedge of soap. Dipping both into the stream, America scrubbed them together for a moment before scrubbing his face, neck, hair and chest. Repeating the scrubbing motion, he resumed on his arms, legs and other areas, sponging the grime from the road away. Dipping the cloth back into the stream, he dripped the cold water over his head over and over again, washing the thin layer of soap away.
America paused in his ministrations, eyes narrowing. The air was deadly silent. The insects in the fields, the birds in the trees, and animals along the river… their normal level of noise was gone.
Alarm rising, America lowered his hands from his hair and glanced around. Finding no one, he grabbed his belongings and retreated into the bushes, returning to a low crouch, and waited. Minutes passed, the silence stretched on and on until finally, the bushes rattled on the far side of the stream. A single alien stepped out from the bushes, a human rifle clutched in its tiny hands. It looked around, surveying the area for a moment before making a clucking noise. Dozens more exited the bushes, all carrying human weapons. Some have small hand guns, others clutched rifles, but two more carried a much larger gun. It’s barrel was large and very long.
Holy shit…they have a water cooled machine gun. America instantly recognized the Browning Machine gun, having used it in both World Wars in the past century. Where the hell did they find one??
The aliens knelt and filled jugs with water from the stream. Once full the slung them over their backs and croaked at the others. The group started moving across the river in the direction of their camp.
Russia only hummed and raised his eyebrows. America frowned, face still burning red, and turned around in his own sleeping back, willing his arousal away before he reached for his jeans. Threading his legs through, he scooted them up his hips and buttoned them. Russia stretched, groaning softly as his muscles stretched and joints popped.
Escaping the confines of the tent, America flung the canvas flap aside and stepped outside. Canada knelt before the circle of stones and blew on the glowing embers to rekindle the fire from the night before, his cheeks dusted with pink. France slowed in his rummaging of the cans of food to leer at America with a raised eyebrow, smile fixed on his face.
Fuck. I’m never going to live this down.
Face about to burst into flames, America stormed over to the fire and picked up his pack, sending an embarrassed glare at France before stalking away.
“Where are you going, monchou?” France called. “I must know, so I can locate you if anything happens.”
“I’m just going to the stream.” America continued walking, refusing to turn around to show his beet red face once more.
Damnit…why does this always happen? America cursed his shyness over showing affection in public. Being confident and outgoing was always so easy, and yet… his strict upbringing always reared its head at the worst moments. Fuck…and Tony wasn’t even there to break the atmosphere for me either… A pang of longing stabbed at his chest for his alien friend. Hopefully he can come back soon…
Large fields surrounded him, the grasses dull in color, due to the cold winter months. Crickets chirped and sang in the grasses, their song filling the air. Shrubs sprouted up ahead, followed by thorny bushes and large, bush-like trees. America pushed through them, being mindful of the thorns, and stepped into the stream. The water was cold, but not freezing. The temperature sent an electric jolt through him, shoving the shroud of sleep away. Not wanting his jeans or boxers to get wet, he peeled them off and draped them over the bushes and went back into the stream, crouching slightly. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a blue cloth and a wedge of soap. Dipping both into the stream, America scrubbed them together for a moment before scrubbing his face, neck, hair and chest. Repeating the scrubbing motion, he resumed on his arms, legs and other areas, sponging the grime from the road away. Dipping the cloth back into the stream, he dripped the cold water over his head over and over again, washing the thin layer of soap away.
America paused in his ministrations, eyes narrowing. The air was deadly silent. The insects in the fields, the birds in the trees, and animals along the river… their normal level of noise was gone.
Alarm rising, America lowered his hands from his hair and glanced around. Finding no one, he grabbed his belongings and retreated into the bushes, returning to a low crouch, and waited. Minutes passed, the silence stretched on and on until finally, the bushes rattled on the far side of the stream. A single alien stepped out from the bushes, a human rifle clutched in its tiny hands. It looked around, surveying the area for a moment before making a clucking noise. Dozens more exited the bushes, all carrying human weapons. Some have small hand guns, others clutched rifles, but two more carried a much larger gun. It’s barrel was large and very long.
Holy shit…they have a water cooled machine gun. America instantly recognized the Browning Machine gun, having used it in both World Wars in the past century. Where the hell did they find one??
The aliens knelt and filled jugs with water from the stream. Once full the slung them over their backs and croaked at the others. The group started moving across the river in the direction of their camp.
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