Russia/England (Posted for Tumblr)
England cannot remember the first time that he and America had kissed. America jokes, "probably sometime before the Revolution," and England agrees it was sometime during the Seven Years' War. They drop the subject later, and the only thing that touches England's lips that night is the wine glass. England is certain that their first kiss was sometime between the years 1756 and 1763, but he cannot remember the last time he'd kissed America.
Yet he can realizes as he swallows the last of his Merlot that he can vividly remember the last time he'd kissed Russia.
The only thing that touches Russia's lips that night is the metal prongs of a fork; the only thing that his tongue tastes is whatever France had made that night. It's sweet, salty, and accompanied by a name Russia cannot remember, and a burning candle between them. Russia cannot remember the first time he and France had slept together, but France assures him that it was during the reign of Catherine the Great. Russia agrees, though he cannot confirm that, but mostly for the sake of ending the discussion at a point where Russia does not have to twist his hands in his napkin to keep the blush to a minimum.
Russia knows he cannot keep secrets from France (France could tell something had been bothering the Slav); he tells the other nation that he'd slept with England. And as he registers the sound of France choking on his wine, he tells the Parisian that he wants to do it again.
He has to help France get wine stains out his carpet that night.
And England never tolerates tardiness. He's punctual. He arrives precisely when needed. If someone asks him to be there at eleven, he arrives at ten-fifty-nine and fifty-eight seconds.
Which was exactly why-
"You're late."
"I'm sorry. You know I had a meeting with my bosses at eleven, and I had to get something to eat."
England waved his hand at the other nation, and then presented it with a pointed knit to his eyebrows. The taller nation rolled his eyes and yanked the keys from his pocket and England felt the teeth of America's house key dig into his palm.
"Look, dude, I don't know why you can't just rent one of those Mini Coopers at the airport or something, or just take a bus, but just make sure that you get it back to me by like, uhh- tonight or something, and don't crash it- cause, you know, we drive on the normal- well, the right side of the road here." America caught a glimpse of the slightly unamused look England was giving him. "And I don't really need to tell you any of this, do I?"
"Not at all, America. I am perfectly capable of mirroring my driving habits to ensure the pristine condition of your... Range Rover."
"Yeah, I guess," America filled his cheeks with air and deflated, "I mean, it's not like I'm giving the keys to my car to Italy or something."
"Exactly. And I will have your car back to you by this this evening. Good day to you, America." The Englishman quickly stashed America's keys in his pocket, feeling the corners of membership cards prodding him in the thigh as he moved toward the door.
"Hey England."
As the Barnes & Noble Rewards card dug into England's skin, he found himself pausing at the half-opened door. "Yes?"
"I... it was nice to see you again, you know?" The American shuffled his feet, one shoulder slouching while his hand fought its way into his jeans' pocket. "The last time we talked, our conversation was really awkward and I just wanted to make sure that you still don't feel uncomfortable around me."
The Englishman considered America's expression for a minute. "I'll be back here after supper. Try not to be late this time."
England did not catch sight of America waving at him as he reversed out of the driveway.
-:- -:- -:-
What perturbed England the most about his trek along the highway that ran parallel to the beach was that his passenger had not once acknowledged him. Russia wasn't blameless, as he stared off at a sky robbed of the blues and yellows of a midday afternoon by the blanket of dark clouds.
It wasn't until the two of them had finally located a parking spot did Russia allow England to see more than just the profile of his face. England shut off the engine and turned away so Russia could only see the curve of his cheek. "I don't imagine we'll be staying here for very long with how ominous these clouds are looking, so don't get too comfortable. We might be packing up soon."
"Maybe the storm will pass over us," Russia countered as he threw a towel over his shoulder. "None of the other beach goers seem to be worried by the cloud cover, so why should we?"
The moment England felt sand lodge between his toes another less pleasant sensation graced his skin. He considered for only a moment that it had been the icy touch of Russia's fingertips that had sent the shiver down his spine, but a glance down at his arm confirmed his suspicions that the clouds contained rain. The women lying on their beach towels located their flip flops and keys in the sand and quickly made way to their powder blue cars. Men fought the awnings back on their convertibles. Children dipped their feet in the waves one last time before cocooning themselves in Disney-themed towels.
The entire beach packed up and left before the second raindrop landed on England's twitching brow. Only when his eyes met Russia's still-smiling face did a frown accompany it.
At least until he noticed the look in Russia's eyes. England blew up at his own bangs and stepped in front of the opposite headlight of the car to Russia's side. "The meeting lasts all week. We'll have other days to visit the beach, mate."
"Da," the taller nation's exhale was lost on a passing breeze. England patted Russia's mid-back to usher him back to the car before he slipped into the driver's seat, but just as the rain started beating erratically against the windshield England noted that Russia had not moved from the spot he'd left him.
England rolled his eyes and beat his fist against the door before opening it. Half-standing in rain he couldn't hear his own thoughts over, England found his voice over the call of thunder. "Russia! Get in the bloody car, you're going to catch a cold standing in this!"
In the distance the ocean waves towered and washed halfway up the beach front.
Seeing that Russia was not very keen on moving as fast as the capacity of England's patience, he climbed back into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Russia slipped into the seat beside him, his white shirt soaked and hair clinging to his forehead like swamp moss. The Englishman reached down for the button to set his chair in the furthest back position for leg room. "We'll have to wait this storm out; I'm not driving in this."
Beside him Russia had already pulled his knees to his chest in some form of surrender to England's statement. He barely noticed England reaching behind his seat to grab one of the towels they'd intended on flattening out on the sand.
"Here," England presented the towel with a stern tone. "You're soaking, and America would not appreciate us getting his leather seats wet."
Russia took the towel from England none-too-kindly, dabbing down his forehead to mop up the droplets clinging to the ends of his hair. "How kind of America to lend us his car!" he mumbled into the towel sarcastically. As a sign to just how much he appreciated America's gesture, Russia slipped his drenched scarf off of his neck and wrung it out on the floor by his feet.
"Look," the Londoner took the towel from Russia's hands and ran the material up his own arms, then brushed the cloth along Russia's now exposed neck. He caught a flash of different emotion in Russia's eyes before his eyelids covered it, noted how Russia's head quirked to compensate for the movements of England's hand (which was now peeking past the towel to draw a line along his jugular), and saw how Russia's jaw dropped a little just to "Ah~"
"Yes," England leaned in, letting the towel and his hand draw down Russia's sternum. He was careful to assure that his lips landed on Russia's jawline before the towel moved to dry his swim trunks. "It is very kind of America to lend us his car."
England wasted no time in catching Russia's lips the moment the other nation turned to face him. The moisture from the rain still slick on Russia's lips let their mouths glide together, let England's tongue slip out and taste the subtle hints of saltwater in their kiss. Russia wasn't intimately focused on the kiss, but rather the amount of increasing pressure that England was using on the towel to dry his swimming trunks. Fighting open the horrendous flower-patterned, button-down shirt he'd borrowed from America, England peeled the drenched T-shirt from Russia's skin and banished it by the car pedals.
Even through the little restraint of his thin swimwear fabric, the relief that came with the tugging down of his swim trunks was moan-inducing. Russia had become so lost in the momentary rush of bliss that he barely noticed that England had discarded the towel completely. The Englishman sneered, dragging his tongue along the shell of Russia's ear. "We're going to need a little more room than this," he purred, fingers barely brushing along the vein of Russia's cock, listening to the ah, ah, aaah's that came after every sharp inhale.
Through the sound of the rain beating against windshield, Russia's ears caught the electrical sound of their seat lowering their hard-pressed bodies to a degree almost parallel. Sooner than Russia's head hit the seat did the force of England's mouth press it there, teeth sinking in until he could clearly hear Russia's moans over the rain on the sunroof. "We can't stay like this," the Englishman crushed his words against the other nation's lips. "Here-"
He caught Russia by the roots of his hairs, dragging his open-mouthed kiss along the turn of Russia's jaw. Somewhere between half-vocalized mutterings of England's name, the two of them moved in a slow tango within the confines of the passenger seat, the end result being that England had pinned himself beneath the larger nation - his gaze caught between Russia's half-lidded eyes and the rainwater sliding along the sunroof. Once his eyes had fixated on a drop of rain cascading down the windowpane, he was shocked when a drop of moisture that had accumulated on the end of Russia's nose landed just shy of his eye. Russia was closing in.
And England hears the shuddering inhales of his companion before their lips meet. He catches the sound of his own voice hitching after Russia does away with his powder blue trunks. He feels the movement of Russia shifting on top of him before a rather large beach towel settled over their tangled bodies, and he watches the way the towel accents the Russian's curves near his hips - tears at his bottom lip when Russia grinds down, and then swallows around his own moan when he hears those ah, ah, aah's again.
But it's hard not to miss the look of muted disappointment on Russia's face when England reaches not for his skin, but to pull open the middle console and grope around the extremities - mostly empty chip bags, emergency granola bars, tissues, coupons, and if memory served-
England plucks several multicolored condoms, among crumpled bits of potato crisps and paperclips. The Englishman pretends not to notice the rather worried in his companion's expression as he watches England fish around the console further until his fingers form around a small bottle.
"Hand lotion?" it was difficult not to mask the note of discomfort in Russia's voice.
"Unless you want me leap out the car to fetch you some wet sand, this'll have to make do."
Russia looked somewhat dejected, his face contorting to the images triggered by England's threat, even while he watched England tear open the small package with his teeth. A cherry red condom tumbled out onto his chest, then England's teeth closed around something that made Russia's spine arch - and as his teeth and tongue tweaked the Muscovite's right nipple, the bottle of cheap hotel lotion Russia had been trying to pry open single-handily tumbled out from between his teeth to spill half its contents on England's abdomen. "You are making such a mess-"
But England doesn't say anything beyond that, and drags his finger pads over the trails of white left across his ribs. He caught Russia's eyes for a brief moment, then the flash of red on his cheeks, and the way those purple irises followed the movement of England's thumb while it slicked up his fingers with an even coating. Russia shifted, teeth sinking into his own lip when he felt the other nation's fingers work him open - and the way that the nail of his pinky finger would occasionally curl in to trace lines along the base of Russia's cock.
And the platinum-blonde nation caught a moan before it could escape, his eyes half-mast, as he shifted up to properly straddle the man beneath him. England gives him a look, then stares up at the hastening pace of the rain on the sunroof before Russia eclipses the light with his tensing form. And England can feel just how tense he when the Russian presses down on him.
Even under the cover of the cloud cover, the light of the sun behind it fills the vehicle. England can see the windows fogging with each moaning exhale, but the last he sees of the windows is an impression of a swaying pine tree before his eyes are overcome with the darkness of the towel Russia had thrown over their heads.
And in the midst of the satisfaction - the kisses, the bites, the bruises, the bliss, pleasure, screams, moans, movements, cries - nothing was more satisfactory than the knowledge that all of it was contained within the confines of America's prized property.
(And maybe he liked to think that Russia and England were his property, as he stares out his window at the California rainstorm and counts the hours until England said he would return. And he wonders if Russia will pull up with him, if he'll say anything when America walks up to the car and notices the fog on the windows and the stench that even his pine air freshener cannot mask.)
So when Russia comes, it's suppressed, drowned out in the action of England sucking on his tongue, as if he's worried some memory of America in here can hear them.
Yet he can realizes as he swallows the last of his Merlot that he can vividly remember the last time he'd kissed Russia.
The only thing that touches Russia's lips that night is the metal prongs of a fork; the only thing that his tongue tastes is whatever France had made that night. It's sweet, salty, and accompanied by a name Russia cannot remember, and a burning candle between them. Russia cannot remember the first time he and France had slept together, but France assures him that it was during the reign of Catherine the Great. Russia agrees, though he cannot confirm that, but mostly for the sake of ending the discussion at a point where Russia does not have to twist his hands in his napkin to keep the blush to a minimum.
Russia knows he cannot keep secrets from France (France could tell something had been bothering the Slav); he tells the other nation that he'd slept with England. And as he registers the sound of France choking on his wine, he tells the Parisian that he wants to do it again.
He has to help France get wine stains out his carpet that night.
And England never tolerates tardiness. He's punctual. He arrives precisely when needed. If someone asks him to be there at eleven, he arrives at ten-fifty-nine and fifty-eight seconds.
Which was exactly why-
"You're late."
"I'm sorry. You know I had a meeting with my bosses at eleven, and I had to get something to eat."
England waved his hand at the other nation, and then presented it with a pointed knit to his eyebrows. The taller nation rolled his eyes and yanked the keys from his pocket and England felt the teeth of America's house key dig into his palm.
"Look, dude, I don't know why you can't just rent one of those Mini Coopers at the airport or something, or just take a bus, but just make sure that you get it back to me by like, uhh- tonight or something, and don't crash it- cause, you know, we drive on the normal- well, the right side of the road here." America caught a glimpse of the slightly unamused look England was giving him. "And I don't really need to tell you any of this, do I?"
"Not at all, America. I am perfectly capable of mirroring my driving habits to ensure the pristine condition of your... Range Rover."
"Yeah, I guess," America filled his cheeks with air and deflated, "I mean, it's not like I'm giving the keys to my car to Italy or something."
"Exactly. And I will have your car back to you by this this evening. Good day to you, America." The Englishman quickly stashed America's keys in his pocket, feeling the corners of membership cards prodding him in the thigh as he moved toward the door.
"Hey England."
As the Barnes & Noble Rewards card dug into England's skin, he found himself pausing at the half-opened door. "Yes?"
"I... it was nice to see you again, you know?" The American shuffled his feet, one shoulder slouching while his hand fought its way into his jeans' pocket. "The last time we talked, our conversation was really awkward and I just wanted to make sure that you still don't feel uncomfortable around me."
The Englishman considered America's expression for a minute. "I'll be back here after supper. Try not to be late this time."
England did not catch sight of America waving at him as he reversed out of the driveway.
-:- -:- -:-
What perturbed England the most about his trek along the highway that ran parallel to the beach was that his passenger had not once acknowledged him. Russia wasn't blameless, as he stared off at a sky robbed of the blues and yellows of a midday afternoon by the blanket of dark clouds.
It wasn't until the two of them had finally located a parking spot did Russia allow England to see more than just the profile of his face. England shut off the engine and turned away so Russia could only see the curve of his cheek. "I don't imagine we'll be staying here for very long with how ominous these clouds are looking, so don't get too comfortable. We might be packing up soon."
"Maybe the storm will pass over us," Russia countered as he threw a towel over his shoulder. "None of the other beach goers seem to be worried by the cloud cover, so why should we?"
The moment England felt sand lodge between his toes another less pleasant sensation graced his skin. He considered for only a moment that it had been the icy touch of Russia's fingertips that had sent the shiver down his spine, but a glance down at his arm confirmed his suspicions that the clouds contained rain. The women lying on their beach towels located their flip flops and keys in the sand and quickly made way to their powder blue cars. Men fought the awnings back on their convertibles. Children dipped their feet in the waves one last time before cocooning themselves in Disney-themed towels.
The entire beach packed up and left before the second raindrop landed on England's twitching brow. Only when his eyes met Russia's still-smiling face did a frown accompany it.
At least until he noticed the look in Russia's eyes. England blew up at his own bangs and stepped in front of the opposite headlight of the car to Russia's side. "The meeting lasts all week. We'll have other days to visit the beach, mate."
"Da," the taller nation's exhale was lost on a passing breeze. England patted Russia's mid-back to usher him back to the car before he slipped into the driver's seat, but just as the rain started beating erratically against the windshield England noted that Russia had not moved from the spot he'd left him.
England rolled his eyes and beat his fist against the door before opening it. Half-standing in rain he couldn't hear his own thoughts over, England found his voice over the call of thunder. "Russia! Get in the bloody car, you're going to catch a cold standing in this!"
In the distance the ocean waves towered and washed halfway up the beach front.
Seeing that Russia was not very keen on moving as fast as the capacity of England's patience, he climbed back into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Russia slipped into the seat beside him, his white shirt soaked and hair clinging to his forehead like swamp moss. The Englishman reached down for the button to set his chair in the furthest back position for leg room. "We'll have to wait this storm out; I'm not driving in this."
Beside him Russia had already pulled his knees to his chest in some form of surrender to England's statement. He barely noticed England reaching behind his seat to grab one of the towels they'd intended on flattening out on the sand.
"Here," England presented the towel with a stern tone. "You're soaking, and America would not appreciate us getting his leather seats wet."
Russia took the towel from England none-too-kindly, dabbing down his forehead to mop up the droplets clinging to the ends of his hair. "How kind of America to lend us his car!" he mumbled into the towel sarcastically. As a sign to just how much he appreciated America's gesture, Russia slipped his drenched scarf off of his neck and wrung it out on the floor by his feet.
"Look," the Londoner took the towel from Russia's hands and ran the material up his own arms, then brushed the cloth along Russia's now exposed neck. He caught a flash of different emotion in Russia's eyes before his eyelids covered it, noted how Russia's head quirked to compensate for the movements of England's hand (which was now peeking past the towel to draw a line along his jugular), and saw how Russia's jaw dropped a little just to "Ah~"
"Yes," England leaned in, letting the towel and his hand draw down Russia's sternum. He was careful to assure that his lips landed on Russia's jawline before the towel moved to dry his swim trunks. "It is very kind of America to lend us his car."
England wasted no time in catching Russia's lips the moment the other nation turned to face him. The moisture from the rain still slick on Russia's lips let their mouths glide together, let England's tongue slip out and taste the subtle hints of saltwater in their kiss. Russia wasn't intimately focused on the kiss, but rather the amount of increasing pressure that England was using on the towel to dry his swimming trunks. Fighting open the horrendous flower-patterned, button-down shirt he'd borrowed from America, England peeled the drenched T-shirt from Russia's skin and banished it by the car pedals.
Even through the little restraint of his thin swimwear fabric, the relief that came with the tugging down of his swim trunks was moan-inducing. Russia had become so lost in the momentary rush of bliss that he barely noticed that England had discarded the towel completely. The Englishman sneered, dragging his tongue along the shell of Russia's ear. "We're going to need a little more room than this," he purred, fingers barely brushing along the vein of Russia's cock, listening to the ah, ah, aaah's that came after every sharp inhale.
Through the sound of the rain beating against windshield, Russia's ears caught the electrical sound of their seat lowering their hard-pressed bodies to a degree almost parallel. Sooner than Russia's head hit the seat did the force of England's mouth press it there, teeth sinking in until he could clearly hear Russia's moans over the rain on the sunroof. "We can't stay like this," the Englishman crushed his words against the other nation's lips. "Here-"
He caught Russia by the roots of his hairs, dragging his open-mouthed kiss along the turn of Russia's jaw. Somewhere between half-vocalized mutterings of England's name, the two of them moved in a slow tango within the confines of the passenger seat, the end result being that England had pinned himself beneath the larger nation - his gaze caught between Russia's half-lidded eyes and the rainwater sliding along the sunroof. Once his eyes had fixated on a drop of rain cascading down the windowpane, he was shocked when a drop of moisture that had accumulated on the end of Russia's nose landed just shy of his eye. Russia was closing in.
And England hears the shuddering inhales of his companion before their lips meet. He catches the sound of his own voice hitching after Russia does away with his powder blue trunks. He feels the movement of Russia shifting on top of him before a rather large beach towel settled over their tangled bodies, and he watches the way the towel accents the Russian's curves near his hips - tears at his bottom lip when Russia grinds down, and then swallows around his own moan when he hears those ah, ah, aah's again.
But it's hard not to miss the look of muted disappointment on Russia's face when England reaches not for his skin, but to pull open the middle console and grope around the extremities - mostly empty chip bags, emergency granola bars, tissues, coupons, and if memory served-
England plucks several multicolored condoms, among crumpled bits of potato crisps and paperclips. The Englishman pretends not to notice the rather worried in his companion's expression as he watches England fish around the console further until his fingers form around a small bottle.
"Hand lotion?" it was difficult not to mask the note of discomfort in Russia's voice.
"Unless you want me leap out the car to fetch you some wet sand, this'll have to make do."
Russia looked somewhat dejected, his face contorting to the images triggered by England's threat, even while he watched England tear open the small package with his teeth. A cherry red condom tumbled out onto his chest, then England's teeth closed around something that made Russia's spine arch - and as his teeth and tongue tweaked the Muscovite's right nipple, the bottle of cheap hotel lotion Russia had been trying to pry open single-handily tumbled out from between his teeth to spill half its contents on England's abdomen. "You are making such a mess-"
But England doesn't say anything beyond that, and drags his finger pads over the trails of white left across his ribs. He caught Russia's eyes for a brief moment, then the flash of red on his cheeks, and the way those purple irises followed the movement of England's thumb while it slicked up his fingers with an even coating. Russia shifted, teeth sinking into his own lip when he felt the other nation's fingers work him open - and the way that the nail of his pinky finger would occasionally curl in to trace lines along the base of Russia's cock.
And the platinum-blonde nation caught a moan before it could escape, his eyes half-mast, as he shifted up to properly straddle the man beneath him. England gives him a look, then stares up at the hastening pace of the rain on the sunroof before Russia eclipses the light with his tensing form. And England can feel just how tense he when the Russian presses down on him.
Even under the cover of the cloud cover, the light of the sun behind it fills the vehicle. England can see the windows fogging with each moaning exhale, but the last he sees of the windows is an impression of a swaying pine tree before his eyes are overcome with the darkness of the towel Russia had thrown over their heads.
And in the midst of the satisfaction - the kisses, the bites, the bruises, the bliss, pleasure, screams, moans, movements, cries - nothing was more satisfactory than the knowledge that all of it was contained within the confines of America's prized property.
(And maybe he liked to think that Russia and England were his property, as he stares out his window at the California rainstorm and counts the hours until England said he would return. And he wonders if Russia will pull up with him, if he'll say anything when America walks up to the car and notices the fog on the windows and the stench that even his pine air freshener cannot mask.)
So when Russia comes, it's suppressed, drowned out in the action of England sucking on his tongue, as if he's worried some memory of America in here can hear them.