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the hotel door slams open, its hinges shuddering as it makes way for the two nations surging through. ivan shoves alfred into the same door, effectively shutting them inside, ignoring the sharp yelp of indignation.
his fingers clench the metal of his pipe, using a tight grip to overcompensate for the lack of friction from his gloves. his knuckles are surely white underneath the navy leather, the corded muscle of his forearms burning with the exertion of holding a nation like america back.
their eyes meet. the vibrant cerulean that greets him only makes his lips twitch downward, hands itching to punch away the sly glint in his eyes. alfred laughs once the cool metal presses against his throat - a noise that fizzles into a wheeze when the metal shifts to dig against his adam’s apple.
even then, he looks pleased - like this is what he expected - like anything about this situation was normal.
“you find it funny?” ivan hisses, voice barely louder than a whisper. the weight behind his words is enunciated when he presses the metal hard enough to make alfred gag. he tries not to acknowledge the fluttering in his stomach. “we are to act civil in meetings, not this mindless immaturity you flaunt. what could you possibly be proud of?”
alfred’s fingers claw at the wrists of ivan’s hands, his nails slipping beneath the cuffs of his sleeves and the edge of his gloves to contact skin. ivan’s flooded with a wave of emotion bordering on shame when he shudders. reluctantly, he lessens the pressure against alfred’s throat.
the blond coughs and sputters as he struggles to regain his breath. he gasps when the relief of oxygen hits him, but ivan’s brow only raises with an unimpressed twitch. he could go far, far longer without oxygen, being neither human nor a weak nation - but his dramatic reaction only serves to stroke ivan’s ego.
he waits as alfred inhales in, and out, in- and then he pushes the unyielding pipe against his throat again. momentarily, alfred’s arms flail out, a terrible choking noise coming from the back of his throat as his hands return to clutching at ivan’s wrists.
“be careful,” ivan tucks his head downwards, the brim of his hat concealing the majority of his face. still, he looks into alfred’s glazed over eyes, the flush that gradually creeps up his face. “these gloves are dear to me. careful not to damage them, yes?”
for a moment, alfred’s expression twists into anger. it dims the bright blue, and ivan delights in the scowl that darkens his youthful features. then, obediently, his hands fall to his sides, even as his arms tremble the longer and longer he goes without oxygen.
“good,” ivan lessens the pressure once again, listening to the desperate heaves that rattle from alfred’s mouth. his hands are tightly clenched into fists, but the rest of his body is limp; he’s practically holding his head upright by leaning his chin against the pipe, seemingly oblivious to the danger ivan still poses.
this ignorance only makes ivan smile. he decides to let him breathe, admiring the way his lips tremble as he inhales in, and out, in, and out. his eyes trace the movement of alfred’s tongue that flicks out to wet his bottom lip, leaving behind an appealing shine that-
his eyes snap back upwards to see his own reflection in alfred’s glasses. ivan tries to pretend he’s imagining the knowing look alfred is giving him, but can’t quite ignore the smirk that has carved its way onto alfred’s expression.
when he starts to speak, ivan’s secretly pleased to hear the rasp that overshadows the confident leer of his tone.
“hey, i mean, i’m sorry about the whole berlin wall thing that’s, well, in my opinion, bound to fall-” alfred wisely shuts up when ivan’s fist clenches so tightly around the metal that it begins to shake in his grip. “dude, it’s not my fault the meeting was scheduled at such an inconvenient time. i’m not the one hosting, remember?”
ivan stares blankly at alfred, who keeps his hands by his sides as ordered. a flicker of joy courses through him when he notices that the prideful nation has essentially blindly followed his command.
even when he’s (slightly) weakened, even at the state his country is in, he still holds power over america - and isn’t that all that matters?
“and about being immature-” alfred pauses, as if collecting his thoughts. ivan nearly scoffs at the idea of alfred hesitating. he was impatient, brash, arrogant - he never paused to think of what words to say. the brief lapse of silence is as unnerving as it is exhilarating.
“what, did you swallow your tongue?” ivan taps the metal pipe under alfred’s chin, forcing alfred to crane his neck up to meet his gaze. his attention is grabbed by the way alfred’s throat bobs when he swallows nervously. he lets his eyes linger on the skin his pipe had pushed against, mesmerized by the way it seems golden skin has already begun to bruise.
a single drop of sweat travels from the side of alfred’s face and down the side of his neck. it disappears under his collar, and ivan’s eyes begin to follow the line of his sternocleidomastoid muscle, tracing up until he’s ogling the sharp cut of his jaw, and then his grip is loosening -
one of alfred’s hands shoots up to grab the pipe right as his rigid control wavers. he’s dignified enough not to make a startled noise. he sucks in a sharp intake of air as he steps back. stupid, he curses inwardly, as he knows alfred is just slightly stronger than he is - at least physically - but with the positioning, it’s easier for him to push back against alfred’s strained attempts at freeing himself.
he gains the upper hand. alfred’s only managed to wedge one hand between the small gap of the metal pipe and his throat. he’s still shoved against the door. ivan has both arms to work with. alfred’s arm shakes with the exertion, and it takes all of his willpower not to grin.
click.
cold metal bites through the fabric of his uniform. the distinct shape of a pistol’s muzzle familiarizes itself with his abdomen, pressed right against where his spleen is.
startled, he laughs.
ivan tilts his head downwards to conceal his expression as he eyes the pistol. the M1911A1 shifts as its owner readjusts his grip. his index finger rests right above the trigger. when he raises his head, he’s met with the stony blue eyes of alfred, with an equally cold grin.
“couldn’t even let me finish my apology?” he taunts, tapping the gun against him. “come on, man. surely you can’t forget the four good years we had allied together.” ivan bites back a snarky response. while he didn’t mind ‘dying’, the thought of dying to alfred in a hotel room during this cold war - it was humiliating.
alfred’s finger squeezes tighter around the trigger. not quite enough to set it off, but it serves as an effective warning. for such a powerful nation, he was always so sensitive about being left without a response.
“drop your weapon,” he speaks in that same low timbre ivan had started this confrontation with. startlingly, the imitation is nearly perfect. it’d be more intimidating, perhaps, if the boy with wild blond hair and vivid blue eyes didn’t look so young.
distantly, he wonders if alfred’s aware that he’s taken a phrase from his police forces. amused and far too willing to ignore the hammering of his heart, he allows alfred to shift a hand behind his back and lock the door.
not once does his gaze waver from ivan’s face, and his grip on the gun remains steady. confident. he drops the metal pipe and lets it clatter, the echoing sound far too loud, overshadowing the two men’s breathing.
“personally,” ivan begins, ignoring how alfred tenses. surely america knew about how to handle a gun - keeping your finger off the trigger unless he intended to fire immediately - “i use the makarov pistol.”
the lingering enjoyment in alfred’s expression is wiped once he hears the slow drawl of russian. first, he sees the american’s lips twitch up into a wry smile.
then, a sharp, sudden pain. foolishly, he hadn’t expected it - he’d ended up biting down on the inside of his cheek. blood fills his mouth as he tries to swallow around the metallic taste.
he sways, following the arc of alfred’s punch as he tries to stabilize himself - under his breath, he curses. he hadn’t held back any of his strength at all.
he braces himself for another punch. this time, he shifts his feet so he’s balanced properly. the blood coats the back of his tongue. before he can counter with a jab of his own, ivan is repositioned - dazed, he blinks twice to reorient himself - this time, his back is against a wall - when he looks over, it’s clear he’s somehow been dragged away from the door.
he staggers as alfred manages to somehow push further into his personal space. like this, the bridge of his glasses nearly indents into his own nose. there’s nowhere else to look but into alfred’s eyes, blazing with some sort of fury as he presses the gun deeper into flesh. the place alfred punched throbs with pain.
like this, ivan thinks, only slightly delirious with adrenaline, we’re sharing breaths.
“you really think i won’t kill you!?” alfred’s voice has risen to match the temperamental man. it’s sharp and biting. the fire behind his voice is only matched by the warmth of every exhale when he speaks. a wide smile stretches across ivan’s face.
“will you?” he asks, and alfred falters again. it’s uncharacteristic of him. the way he shutters into himself, recessing as if to seek answers in a place ivan doesn’t know, contrasted by the firm and self-assured grip he has on the gun - “will you?”
the blood coats the back of his tongue whenever he speaks. he runs his bloodied tongue over his teeth, lingering at his canines. alfred wavers as ivan leans in, the tips of their noses touching. if he looks past the glare of his lenses, alfred’s eyes seems to soften. eye to eye, ivan lolls his head to the side.
he spits onto his shoe.
ivan barely has enough time to lift his head again. he catches just the slightest glimpse of america - golden skin flushed red with anger, embarrassment, some emotion he can’t see, because he can’t angle his head to look at his eyes - before he’s punched across the face again.
his head hits the wall from the sheer force of alfred’s fist alone. he can’t quite tell if he made a noise of pain or not. in hindsight, he’d appreciate that america avoided punching his nose.
suddenly, his head feels too heavy for his shoulders. he keeps his head leaned against the wall as he tries to catch his breath - but alfred tugs him forward, back into his orbit, using a single hand to grasp at both of his limp, ineffectual wrists.
he elevates them above his head, pinned to the wall, which ivan isn’t sure if he allowed or simply had no coherence to prevent. briefly, he twitches against his hold, which only makes alfred tighten his iron grip.
“commie bastard,” he spits, all anger and vitriol that clouds his usually clear eyes. ivan barely manages a smug grin, lopsided and crooked and all bloodied teeth, eyes curved into crescent moons as he languishes in alfred’s impulsive temper.
alfred pulls the gun up from where it had practically nestled into ivan’s body to push it against his throat. only the scarf and his collar serve as a barrier for his skin. “you asked me what makes me so proud? here’s my fucking answer.”
the muzzle of the gun has long since absorbed the minimal body heat of ivan by the time it lands right at his mouth. the temperature isn’t unwelcome. if anything, he’s slightly pleased that it’s an acceptable warmth.
“this?” ivan asks, teeth clacking uncomfortably against the metal as he opens his mouth to speak. “your guns? your inability to pull a trigger? america,” he coos, condescending and proud and phrased to be as infuriating as possible.
alfred immediately bristles at the mocking coddling. “i’m so proud because i’m going to win this war, jackass!” he rises to the bait comically easily. “you know i will. that’s why you’ve got a stick up your ass all the time!”
ivan tilts his head to the side. he hopes it seems intentional, and not like his attempts to nurse his head. “what was that american phrase again? ‘speak softly, carry a big stick?’” when alfred seems ready to strike him again, he tilts his head down and moves against the gun.
when he parts his mouth and swallows the tip of the muzzle, alfred’s steady grip shakes once. his teeth catch right at the metal notch of the front sight, and he can feel his face burning as he passes it. before he can get too self-conscious, he presses his tongue along the metal and looks up at alfred from his lashes.
he can barely discern the form of alfred with the brim of his hat obscuring the majority of his vision, but he strains his neck to seek some visual confirmation he’s enjoying it. ivan feels his heartbeat quicken when he realizes the blue of alfred’s iris is nearly completely eclipsed by his pupil.
encouraged, he smiles against the gun, watching as alfred’s trigger finger shakes. warily, his attention fixates on alfred’s unstable hand, absentmindedly tracing his tongue along the lines of the metal to distract himself.
slowly, alfred’s lips fall open in muted shock, breathing quickly through his mouth as if sucking air through his nose wasn’t enough.
ivan can hear his pulse in his ears when the silence stretches far beyond what he expected, his smile faltering when alfred remains nearly statuesque if not for the way his hand trembles. despite it all, alfred’s finger still hovers over the trigger.
if he were to die here, he’d have to wash the blood out of his scarf again. it was already beginning to stain pink - and then there was the fact that his leader would inevitably hear about his death.
worse, he thinks, is that alfred would leave knowing he’d been willing to pathetically drool over the muzzle of his gun. hesitantly, he withdraws from the metal, resisting the urge to clear his throat awkwardly when a trail of spit follows him from the muzzle’s tip.
before he can say anything, alfred grabs him by the scarf and collides against his mouth. he’s glad, for once, that the american can hardly respect any form of distance, because his gasp is completely swallowed by alfred’s lips.
he considers the humor in alfred insisting on dragging him by the scarf when he’s already gotten him pinned against the wall, but his priorities quickly shift as he begins fighting against the blond.
alfred kisses with the fervor of a man who’s sure he’ll win. he nips at ivan’s lips, prying his mouth open with insistence alone, their teeth clacking against each another as he does. when he forces his tongue into his mouth, ivan retaliates by biting it.
with a growl, alfred pushes a strong knee in between ivan’s thighs. when alfred pushes it upwards, ivan makes a choked noise and barely has the opportunity to reciprocate into the kiss before alfred practically sucks the blood out of his mouth.
in any other context, ivan would be disgusted. but when all blood in his banged up head travels south alarmingly quickly, and there’s a cute blond kissing him like he’s trying to eat him, he just sighs in satisfaction. he grinds against alfred’s offered knee, predictably seeking out the friction he knew alfred could provide, hands twitching restlessly where they’re held above his head.
after what feels like an hour of just making out against the wall, alfred pulls away so they both can catch their breath. alfred’s angered flush from before has tinged the tips of his ears as well, eyes unfocused with lips slick with spit.
panting, he lets go of ivan’s wrists, bringing the back of his glove to his mouth to wipe away the remaining moisture. it takes ivan a moment to realize he can finally let his arms drop, too busy eyeing alfred’s movements.
he hardly pays any attention to the gun that is held just next to his head. his focus is captured entirely by alfred’s knee, and how it’s the only form of support he has against the wall, thighs trembling as he struggles to support his own weight.
ivan knows his face must be a splotchy mess of pink, even disregarding the forming bruises that must be starting to paint spots of his pale face an even darker red than the blush.
ivan shudders as alfred’s gaze does a quick sweep of his body. when alfred shifts his wrist holding the gun, he can see the glimmer of his spittle on the tip of it, and he tries to conceal his embarrassment by tugging his hat down further.
the silence is spent like that, between the two nations trying to even their breathing quicker than the other, balancing the tensions so the gun doesn’t go off.
of course, the peace doesn’t last forever.
“you’re blushing down to your neck,” alfred comments conversationally, predictably being the one to break the silence. ivan’s hand flies up to grab at his rumpled scarf, mortified. before he can consider the humiliation, alfred shoves his knee up further, and a whine escapes him far sooner than he can bite his lip to silence himself.
the dazzling grin he gets in return nearly blinds him in its intensity. alfred’s hand moves up to divest him of his hat, leaving ivan no retreat from fully absorbing just how much alfred’s eyes twinkle with glee.
“is this what you wanted?” alfred tosses his hat off to the side. it lands haphazardly near the door, laying askew next to ivan’s pipe.
when ivan’s attention lingers at the glimmer of the metal, briefly indulging in the imagery of bashing one of alfred’s knees in, he shakes the pistol in his hand, as if to remind ivan to keep his eyes on him. “hey, big guy. already mindless from a little kiss?”
“might be concussion,” ivan mutters dryly, expression twisted into a grimace at alfred’s simultaneously cocky and hopeful voice. always chasing the affections of other nations, he thinks to himself, somewhat bitterly, but with a small flicker of endearment. he’s surprised that alfred deigns not to respond, instead bringing the pad of his thumb to ivan’s kiss-bitten bottom lip.
he fights against all instinct not to bite the finger. quietly, averting his eyes down to stare at alfred’s shoes (he’s delighted to see the stain), he opens his mouth and lets the leather press down onto the meat of his tongue. it swipes against the saliva, and ivan wonders if it’s still solely his, or if alfred has claimed that part of him too.
alfred’s thumb parts from his tongue, almost with regret, but wipes away some dried blood at the corner of ivan’s mouth. it’s not quite an apology for hitting him, but it’s still far too tender. he keeps his eyes glued to alfred’s feet, even as he shifts just enough to remind him exactly where his knee is.
“i didn’t hit you hard enough for that,” he muses out loud, bringing a hand to hover over ivan’s throat. immediately, ivan’s expression hardens, brows drawn tight as his lips purse into the beginnings of a frown. alfred doesn’t pay any attention to it, acting as if he wasn’t perceptive enough to notice the way his entire body drew taut. “but you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
he doesn’t dignify alfred with a denial, but the way alfred smiles at the silence, lopsided and boyish - he bristles. he’s about to say something, to hell with his pride, but alfred’s thumb - still wet with ivan’s (or his?) saliva - brushes over the border between his collar and skin.
his hand flies out to grab alfred by the wrist before he can stop himself. his face is aflame, the pulse running underneath his skin only accentuating the dull ache where alfred had hit him - the only thing on his mind is the shame. beneath his collar, above his skin, marring flesh -
then, a sudden, sharp pain.
he staggers into alfred, fully collapsing against his chest, gasping at the intensity of the sensation cutting through his head. the ringing in his head - although temporary - returns with a vengeance. he’s in such a haze that he’s unable to protest the fact that his head has fully relaxed against alfred’s shoulder.
it takes him a while to gain his bearings again. to blink past the pain and disorientation and confusion. when he glances up, he sees that alfred has his arm raised above his head. the arm that was holding his gun. he struggles momentarily to connect the dots, legs still trembling as he’s pushed his weight into alfred’s knee.
the distinction between the faded pleasure and the raw pain distracts him, but the origin of the pain originates from his scalp. his hand tightens where it clutches alfred’s wrist. the bones and tendons under the flesh twist in warning.
slowly, warmth trickles from the top of his head and down his forehead. it drips over his eyebrows and - when he blinks and flutters his lashes - it coats his eyelids. blood.
finally, he understands.
“you pistol whipped me?!” he surges forward, ignoring the way it throws his balance off-kilter, meeting alfred’s eyes as his hand threatens to snap the bone of his wrist.
it’s a dark, cloying satisfaction that occurs when he watches alfred’s face transform into a pained grimace, painting his features halfway between a half-assed, theatrically exaggerated guilt and unadulterated fury.
“it’ll heal!” he protests, “the bruises that would have formed from my punches are already fading, it’s-” he doesn’t quite hear the rest of his sentence. he can only watch as he moves, detached from his body in his rage.
the russian only lets go of america’s wrist in favor of using both his hands - so much bigger than america’s throat - to strangle him. it’s as if he forgets that he’s holding the gun. at that moment, it matters little.
the startled, wounded noise that america makes - it makes it easy to ignore the blood that is beginning to trickle down his chin, fall down over his throat, slip beneath his collar. his hand shakes as the anger threatens to consume him. for good measure, his thumbs bear down and squeeze.
the visceral gurgles from america’s throat are unpleasant, but seeing familiarly dazzling eyes dim once again, to see perfectly white teeth clench, to watch as sweat beads at his fringe and clings to his skin and hair, to see how alfred’s thrashing has toppled his hat off of his head -
russia grins.
the rest occurs in a blur. he’s not sure why the pistol falls. he can barely register that he’s leaving a gentle, fleeting kiss against america’s quivering lips. he doesn’t even realize that he’s moved them away from the wall, dislodging america’s knee from where it had made itself oh so comfortable between ivan’s legs.
he only really comes to when america weakly swats at his forearm, head resting in his lap, eyes beginning to roll back. ivan is briefly besotted by the whites of his eyes, but even a nation had to breathe eventually.
he lets go.
alfred immediately curls into himself, turning to the side as his hands clutch at the darkened imprints of ivan’s hands.
he sputters, he coughs, he shakes. somewhere between the heaving and animalistic gasps, he sobs with the absence of tears. he hacks against ivan’s pants, wheezing wetly as he tries to regain his composure.
his throat must burn. his lungs must be on fire. he must have been on the brink of passing out. these are all thoughts that occur to ivan, but he only regards them with a muted mimicry of sympathy. it may even be pity.
after a minute of alfred’s pathetic rasping, he shoots him a watery glare. ivan only smiles back, briefly admiring the way he clings onto his dignity even after letting his enemy choke him. he would have snapped his neck if he could. and alfred would have let it happen, his weapon of choice discarded on the carpet in the same way ivan had relinquished his.
“you sick fuck,” alfred croaks, voice ruined. briefly, he retches against the teal fabric. in his mind, ivan briefly chides him not to ruin his pants. it delights him to know that alfred would, most certainly, lift his head despite his vertigo if he verbalized this.
alfred lifts his head from his lap, still panting as his head lurches from oxygen deprivation. remarkably, alfred had been right - his own wound had already healed. the only thing left was the damp blood that clung to his skin.
“you should clean up after your messes,” ivan admonishes, voice low and disappointed. it’s how he would speak to a kid. or, perhaps, a dog.
the humiliating scolding is not lost on alfred, whose eyes shine with a strengthened hatred.
he lunges towards ivan. he laughs when alfred’s hands clench onto his shoulders and shove him into the bedsheet. admittedly, he’s impressed at his strength - he is, by no means, a small or light nation - he simply isn’t accustomed to such feats toppling him. the american straddles him, knees bracketing his waist as his hand digs its fingers into ivan’s hair and tugs.
the bite of pain from the newly healed, tender flesh of his scalp is a welcome reprieve to the dizzying jolt of arousal that stabs his gut when he realizes alfred is avoiding using the hand ivan had nearly broken. it must show on his face, because alfred’s fingers tighten further.
ivan hisses at the pressure, but he has no reprieve to linger on the sensation. alfred’s free hand has moved to caress his collar, the same area of his throat that made ivan choke him. he freezes against the mattress and tries to look into alfred’s eyes for some sort of hint that would reveal his intentions.
all that greets him is a carefully impassive face, wiped of the brutish resentment from before.
his thumb traces over his throat, unsure what he’s looking for. he’s sure that he has plenty of questions for him - why had he reacted so viscerally to the contact? would he ever see beneath that layer of fabric? the bandages? instead of asking, his hand drifts lower.
alfred’s stilted chuckle fills the silence, and he looks back up at ivan - the same man who can’t really look away when alfred insists on keeping platinum locks between his fingers - with mirth. “you’re hard? was that before, or after you choked me?”
ivan’s face must be a mess. he’s sure the blood only accentuates how dark his face flushes. “you had your knee between my thighs,” his throat feels dry when he admits it. vulgarity doesn’t suit his tongue. “what did you expect?”
he hisses when alfred cups his erection, fingers digging in cruelly, even as ivan thrashes his head to try to dislodge himself.
ivan’s breath catches on an exhale when alfred grinds his palm down against him, languid despite himself. alfred hums as he does, an overconfident casualty to his actions. ivan squeezes his eyes shut as his mouth can’t seem to close, panting wetly into the air.
“you’re practically begging for it,” alfred marvels, tone light even as he maintains that same provocative tone. ivan’s about to refute his egotistical statement, looking down at the man, but quickly notices he’s unconsciously been gyrating his hips downwards to meet alfred’s movements.
the blond laughs when realization strikes him, watching the horror dawn on his face and paint his face even redder. “come on, just say it. it’ll make it easier for the both of us.”
after a beat of silence, alfred leans down, withdrawing his hand. it’s embarrassing to admit that ivan groans in disappointment, but it’s worse to admit he has a full body shudder when he catches a glimpse of alfred’s devilish grin.
“always loved this outfit on you,” alfred never speaks with genuinity when he says anything slightly less than insulting. there’s a sharp edge to his tone, a precarious balance between the saccharine sweetness of his words and the cutting disgust that lies beneath it. “really rubs in what side you’re on.”
ivan deliberates for a moment, licking his lips where his blood has dried. it’s a pity that alfred doesn’t seem willing to clean it off for him. “would you rather i wore yours?”
the effect is immediate. alfred’s expression becomes stormy, insulted by the mere insinuation of an alliance between them. “no. god, it’d just be a communist pretending that he could even measure up to me.”
he pauses as his hand reaches his belt, the same wicked smile returning to his face. he has to admit that the contrast between his playful eyes and the near sadistic gleam of his teeth makes him smile a little as well.
“you’d like that though, right?” he leans down, barely straddling him anymore as he presses his body against ivan - chest to chest, their medals clink against one another, as if they needed the reminder - and alfred thrusts his own crotch against ivan, prompting both men to let out a punched out moan. “to look like you’re mine. to pretend you’re stronger than you are. you know that, right? that you don’t measure up to me?”
the inquiry at the end of his ridiculous monologue is as childish as it is infuriating. again, throughout his words, in trickles the strange desperation that alfred seems to always carry with him - that yearning, seeking out some form of validation in the very man he’d prefer dead - it’s unfathomable.
but he can’t afford to think of that right now, not when alfred is grinding against him, when he can feel - very faintly - his heart beating through the layers of fabric, in sync with his own. not when alfred’s puffs of hot air catch at his chin, or his throat, or his nose.
“i don’t have to,” ivan settles on that. a simple response for a simple man. his hands reach up to grab alfred’s hips, fingers digging in to leave a bruise - some temporary reminder for the blond, to remember who he had in his bed, a reminder that will fade before it even settles in his skin - alfred gasps at the force, retaliates by tugging the scarf away.
the brief pang of fear is squashed when alfred leans down and kisses him again. this time, ivan doesn’t reciprocate, but it does little to stop him.
alfred mouths against closed lips, biting and licking and laughing, both of his hands readjusting to hold his head - not with the intention to caress him, or to cherish him, but to keep him still. faintly, he mourns the loss of alfred’s fingers that dug into his scalp.
it should be disgraceful for alfred, to kiss a larger man, grinding against his clothed erection as he sits all pretty on his lap, body splayed out against a wider torso, the hands of a communist marking his hips, to kiss a man who isn’t kissing back. but he takes it in stride, in the same way he takes and takes and takes without remorse.
eventually, to his immense regret, ivan opens his mouth to him - just a sliver of an opening, to test the waters - but to put a finger in someone’s mouth, he has to expect them to bite off the whole hand - and alfred loses all of the childish vigor.
his nails dig into the sides of ivan’s cheeks, devouring the quiet noise of surprise. he could hardly breathe as alfred’s tongue maps out the inside of his mouth.
his eyes water when alfred pushes his hips backwards onto ivan at the same time he snakes a hand behind his head to push him just that much closer. he hardly has any space to distinguish where he ends and where alfred begins.
surely a man who had just been choked couldn’t have enough air in his lungs to kiss with such aggression. surely. but alfred refuses to concede, even as ivan slowly melts into alfred’s consumption.
even when ivan eventually stops fighting and simply lets him lick into his mouth; he stops biting back, instead moving his tongue together with alfred’s, unsure of who’s keening into the space shared between their mouths.
at some point, his hands end up on alfred’s biceps, pushing him back when he really can’t breathe. obediently, alfred detaches himself from him, watching as he sucks in air greedily, eyes wet with developing tears. but even in this perfunctory moment of peace, alfred insists on terrorizing him. he begins unbuckling his belt, pulling his pants and boxers down in one deft movement.
he shuts his eyes when his erection is freed from the cloth. alfred whistles, with very little genuine admiration, and grabs his cock by the base. dry. ivan jerks, unsure if he wants to feel more of alfred’s leather glove or if he wants to escape the sensation. alfred shushes him before he can even think of saying anything.
“well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes,” alfred pulls the rest of his pants off of him, stripping him of his boots with haste. those articles of clothing are completely abandoned to some random corner of the room.
with strange reverence, he traces his free hand up and down the milky pale skin of ivan’s thigh, and ivan sniffles at the affection.
his thumb dips to indent at the soft flesh of his inner thigh, lingering for a moment before it continues its mindless caressing.
when alfred’s hand moves up and down his cock, ivan nearly flinches up and off the bed, followed by an embarrassing ‘ah’. alfred’s grip only tightens at the noise, overconfidence oozing out of him as he thumbs the tip of ivan’s dick.
“lube,” ivan insists, voice hoarse already. “ugh - take your gloves off,” his voice absolutely does not taper off into a whine. alfred merely shrugs and moves his wrist up and down faster. his fist is almost painful when it drags along ivan’s cock, but he acquiesces by letting go in order to spit into his palm.
this time, ivan lets out a quiet moan of satisfaction at the movement of alfred’s hand. he bucks his hips into the texture of his glove, biting his tongue when a noise nearly bubbles from his throat. his eyes flutter shut whenever his dick catches against the seams of the glove, forgetting why he had complained in the first place. when he quickens the pace and leans back, finally detaching from his chest, he whimpers pathetically.
alfred inhales sharply. he pauses for a moment as russia opens his eyes. the intensity in alfred’s expression makes him shudder, unable to tear his eyes away from the hunger that radiates from his set jaw.
“make that noise again,” he breathes out, past the muted, wet noises of jerking the russian off. ivan tries to maintain that unwavering eye contact, but can hardly focus when alfred’s thumb presses at his glans. he tosses his head to the side, panting as his thighs twitch to close around alfred’s body.
he doesn’t expect it when it happens.
he jerks up, curling into his stomach as he cries out. his hand has latched onto the back of alfred’s head - where the tip of his cock is in his mouth. he licks at the beaded precome, the flash of pink from his tongue making ivan’s head spin. he dips his tongue into the slit, which nearly makes ivan kick his foot out.
“alfred,” he hisses, voice deeper and bordering on animalistic. “what are you-” his complaint becomes a moan when alfred bobs his head down. he covers his mouth with his other hand, hesitantly patting the top of golden hair - it earns him a pleased hum, and he thrashes against the vibrations.
alfred lifts his head up and away from his dick, face flushed as he rests his cheek against it. a mix of ivan’s precome and alfred’s saliva leaves a wet, glittering mark on the tan skin, contrasted brightly by the blush that’s overtaken the majority of his visage. the imagery alone has ivan’s stomach twisting.
“dude. just let it happen,” it’s barely any sort of comfort. let it happen? what kind of self-respecting nation gives head to a man he’s at war with? he feels insane. it is insane. he was degrading himself by -
all those thoughts disappear when alfred returns to mouthing at his cock. his hips twitch forward, sinking deeper into alfred’s mouth - he’s sure that if he could, he’d be smiling, that bastard - and he simply continues. taking him deeper, deeper, deeper - until he’s breathing noisily against his pelvis. the entirety of his length is sheathed in alfred’s throat.
it’s - he’s impossible. he laughs, a bit delirious, lips twitching into what he knows is an unbecoming smile.
overcome by emotion, ivan grips his hair and draws his hips back before thrusting into the tightness of alfred’s throat.
alfred gags, hands reaching up to ivan’s inner thighs - but he doesn’t push him away - coaxing them to relax and fall outwards as he continues. ivan is coerced into laying back again, instead of being awkwardly hunched over the boy sucking obscenely at his cock, resting his weight against his forearm.
he shuts his eyes, lips parted as he bucks into alfred in and out. his fingers are cruel where they grip at alfred’s hair, but the nation only doubles down on his efforts, slurping around him - messy, ivan scolds - as his glasses begin to slip down his face. he pays it no mind, his full, pink lips shiny as they stretch around his girth - it’s obscene. it’s horrifyingly lewd.
he keeps pushing his hips into alfred’s welcoming mouth, the full length of his dick meeting the back of his throat with each thrust. the pressure at the pit of his stomach keeps building, thighs tensing as he quivers from the pleasure.
now alfred was really gagging, harsh and sloppy noises that are muffled by the meat of ivan’s cock, copious spit covering it as drool slips down the side of alfred’s chin. but his hands slide up to his stomach, moving past his thighs with a faint shiver.
if alfred were any more aware of his surroundings, he surely would have noticed the way ivan jumps at his wandering hands.
when alfred’s hands - so clever and quick despite how he trembles for air, despite how ivan is mercilessly fucking his face - open his buttons and slips his damp glove onto the soft skin of his stomach, caressing the flesh with such admiration as his hands just venture further and further up -
ivan comes down alfred’s throat, ignoring the way he flails and starts scratching dull lines down his navel. he gurgles around ivan’s release, sobs around him and struggles and simpers until ivan lets go of his head and lets him pull free.
he hacks grossly for air, head falling limp right above ivan’s knee. his lip curls as he can’t seem to decide whether or not to breathe or keep his mouth open and let ivan’s come seep out. his body makes the choice for him, as his mouth refuses to close when he gasping for air.
there’s very little difference between the noises from when he was choked to now, when he’s trying valiantly to swallow the come that steadily streams from his lips. he retches and gags and whines freely, like ivan isn’t above him making similar desperate noises.
still, he spits beneath him, barely being able to stomach half of it. it lands messily on the surface of his thigh. even as he wheezes for breath, when dazed eyes, glassy with thoughtlessness and wet with unshed tears - when he makes bleary, unfocused eye-contact with the shininess on ivan’s bare thigh -
he leans down, brushing past ivan’s flaccid cock to lap it up. to clean his mess. he leaves a wet trail where he licks, letting out soft, pitchy noises as he continues to sputter around saliva and the remaining evidence that paints his throat white.
god.
alfred sticks out like a sore thumb against the fairness of ivan’s skin; it’s an obvious thing to point out. but when the american has his cheek pressed firmly against his leg, shuddering with swollen lips, right after ivan has orgasmed - it’s easier to wax poetics. he’s a healthy tan, resplendent despite the uneven flush that travels across the entirety of his face.
his hair, reminiscent of the wheat fields that litter his countryside (and if he felt especially sentimental, the same gold as sunflower petals), is messy and tousled where ivan’s fingertips had dragged through it.
those brilliant blue eyes are somehow more breathtaking when they’ve lost the majority of their luster. the only shine that remains comes from his tears, something that makes ivan smile.
gently, affectionately - he runs his hands through sore spots of alfred’s scalp where he’d wrenched alfred’s head back. maybe cumming down america’s throat had softened him, just a little. but with the rattling breaths that escape alfred, even after a minute devoted to simply filling his lungs with air, he can spare some kindness.
it takes a while for alfred’s head to resurface from ivan’s leg. his head bobs for a moment, but the first thing he does is grin at ivan. he looks proud of himself, unabashed egoism reflecting in his eyes even as he quickly blinks back tears and licks the last remains of semen off the corner of his lips.
“how was it?” he asks with a gravelly voice, peeling off his gloves, and then does the same for his glasses (they were practically already off of him anyways). he tosses the leather away as absentmindedly as he’s done for every other article of clothing he’s taken, then leans over ivan’s large frame to gently place down his spectacles on the nightstand.
he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the new expanse of calloused skin that is revealed to him, appreciates the way he can see the broad muscles of his shoulder through his army uniform as he stretches. he pauses before he remembers he was asked a question.
unfortunately, the first word that comes to mind is amazing. the flush that creeps up on his face is sudden and burns, almost as much as alfred’s fingers that have returned to massaging the surface of his stomach.
“i,” his throat is suddenly dry, alfred’s strong hands kneading into his abdomen with unflappable determination. it’s strangely arousing, the way his fingers linger appreciatively over where he can feel the strength beneath the fat of his stomach, thumbs pressing and pinching upwards with the intention to bruise. “i think you need more practice.”
alfred pauses, stunted by his answer. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting the snappiness of ivan’s tone after such a domestic display of intimacy, the warmth of ivan’s hand on his hair still heavy on his mind. it’s only a small lapse of silence, though, as his softened face immediately transforms into a scowl.
“you came down my throat barely 5 minutes in!” he sputters, forearms flexing as his nails indent into flesh. it raises goosebumps along ivan’s skin, the red indents jutting out from white fresh.
it’s almost comedic how frustrated he’s becoming, if not for the way his cock stirs back to life at the harsh treatment and the memories of where his dick just was.
“you had your knee against me for far longer,” ivan shifts uncomfortably as alfred moves to sit up on that same knee, looming over him with the intimidating power that had been threatening him for more than 40 years.
he wishes he could dismiss the way his lip twitches into a pleased smile. “and i have to admit, seeing you choking around my hands, not doing anything while you had that outdated gun-”
america raises his hand as if he’s about to slap him. when ivan only inclines his head towards the elevated palm, with the smug smile patented by alfred himself, he seems to think otherwise. slowly, he begins schooling the fury in his expression until it becomes unreadable.
“you were so cute just a moment ago,” ivan sighs, reminiscent. “gagging around me. your head in my lap, letting me do whatever i wanted.” alfred’s hand comes to rest heavy on his shoulder, tuning him out as his fingers - still at his stomach - move upwards to unbutton the rest of his uniform. his heart races despite himself.
when they were closer to being allies than enemies, alfred had heard snippets from himself just what lay underneath his clothes. he’d abstained from going too far into detail, afraid of the visual that alfred would conjure with that creative head of his.
but he knew there was scarring above his heart. he knew there must be a reason past his affections for ukraine why he wore that scarf, why he only wore high-collared shirts, why he had bandages around his throat. but still.
seeing it, feeling it with the pads of his fingers, looking into ivan’s trembling violet eyes, mapping out the vulnerabilities of his flesh that still remain despite creating the soviet union, despite becoming the world power he has painstakingly built - he shakes his head to bring himself out of his trance.
by then, alfred’s wrist has stopped right at the fold of fabric that hides his heart. ivan’s hand has unconsciously come up again to grip that same wrist he almost broke, still with that same firm grip, still with that threat that he’d snap the bone beneath the pulsing muscle.
they’d slept together a copious amount of times before, but ivan always had control - he’d never let any fabric slip from skin he didn’t want seen, even if alfred were fully bare. the realization is a strange feeling to be experiencing.
he meets ivan’s eyes. ivan’s afraid of what he sees, because alfred just wrenches his clothes open with that unstoppable, unfazed assurance, unaware (or maybe hyper aware) of ivan’s inner turmoil. he doesn’t hesitate to tear past the thin barrier of protection that separated russia from ivan.
there’s that glimmer in his eyes again, ivan thinks to himself, when alfred catches sight of the long, deep scar that mars his skin. his chest moves up and down as his body tries to catch up to his pulse, to capture the breath that seems insistent on escaping through his nose, his jaw tight.
he can’t look away from alfred; his face is carefully passive through it all, and he can’t decide whether or not it’s better than pity.
he expects alfred to begin speaking, that same deranged charm that flows so easily from his mouth, a leering chuckle or a derogatory remark that would only make him flush to his chest. the silence is worse.
ivan is so fixated on watching any changes in his expression that he doesn’t even realize alfred’s hands have both lowered to squeeze a handful his pecs. he jumps up in alarm, barely sucking in a breath through his mouth before alfred presses his thumbs roughly into the skin just above his nipples.
“wow,” alfred whistles, followed by a raunchy grin that cuts through his handsome features. “sweetheart, i mean - i already knew how impressive your chest was, but- wow.”
it’s sinful how his thumbs sink into the fat so easily, ivan’s mouth agape with horror as he simply plays with the malleable flesh. the sensation distracts him enough that he doesn’t linger on the idea that alfred had, apparently, been admiring his figure.
he opens his mouth to protest, but quickly snaps it shut when alfred shifts to grip him firmer by the nipples - not quite quick enough, because a breathy mewl escapes him despite his best efforts. alfred’s eyes flicker up towards him, perking up at the bitten-off noise.
“you’re so cute,” his voice almost becomes domineering, voice stressing the word ‘cute’ too much to come off as genuine. “and so sensitive.” ivan flinches when his fingers pinch the hardening buds, gnawing onto the side of his cheek when the skin pinkens further.
“okay, enough,” ivan tries to emphasize his own urgency by tucking into himself. but when alfred tugs, with not an ounce of sympathy, he cries out in alarm and shuts his eyes.
unaffected, alfred massages the surrounding meat of his pecs, and ivan ends up pushing his chest outwards to decrease their distance. the worst part of it isn’t even the humiliation, but the fact that it spreads a dull, warm pleasure through him.
“doesn’t seem like enough.” the teasing lilt in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed. “looks like you’re all ready to go again, aren’t you?” ivan snaps his eyes open to look down. the sheer embarrassment that floods him to see that he’s fully hard again - it’s nearly enough to make him simply accept his fate.
“sto-ah,” his complaint dwindles as it becomes a moan, hiding his mouth into his scarf as alfred’s hands won’t stop groping him. at least like this he can bite down onto the fabric. “alfred,” he doesn’t whine, but the way his tone shifts from pleading to desperate to irate - he might as well have.
finally, he concedes with a laugh, the pressure lessening as he opts to run his hands up and down his chest instead. he hardly senses when his fingers catch at raised scar tissue, the throbbing from alfred’s fondling taking up a majority of his concentration.
ivan doesn’t dwell on how alfred takes several moments longer than necessary to ogle him, to feel for himself how he’s been permanently marked. he knows what it looks like, and he’s long accepted how it’s disfigured him - he never looked fragile or beautiful to begin with, so a simple scar changed very little.
it doesn’t mean that the constricting feeling lessens any more by simply embracing it.
he would insist alfred move on, but there lay more scars beneath his scarf. a scarf that alfred is peeling away from his teeth, shushing him once ivan makes a protesting noise that borders on a growl. it’s with that same stuck-up air as always, which defines that he’s not comforting him, but is simply acknowledging his reaction.
alfred flies past the fabric of his collar with the same gusto he had when he practically tore the buttons from his chest. he undresses him, taking the gloves from his hands with a delicate touch (so he does have a decent memory) to fold them on the nightstand. he simply throws the uniform shirt away.
like this, almost fully naked except for his scarf, it’s degrading to be admiring the figure of a man who’s lost only his glasses and gloves. when the scarf is set aside (gentler than the rest of his clothes, which pleases him), alfred - predictably - takes a moment to leer at his scar.
this time, ivan is less willing to humor him.
“will you stop staring?” ivan tries not to hunch his shoulders to conceal his throat, but he tenses in preparation to. “just get on with it.” blue eyes meet his, inquisitive. he’s sharp when he needs to be, somehow managing to be perceptive despite the general indifference he carries towards ivan. he smiles, all sharp edges and a flash of teeth.
alfred leans over until he’s breathing over the juncture of ivan’s neck, pressing a soft kiss onto the goosebumps that rise from his exhales. “someone’s eager,” he says, the hot press of his tongue making ivan shudder.
he sinks his teeth into him. ivan’s hands fly up to clutch at his neck, thumbs resting automatically at his adam’s apple as the tips of his fingers meet at alfred’s scruff. his throat bobs nervously as alfred swallows despite the faint pressure. to see for himself just how little alfred fears him - it’s as exciting as it is embarrassing.
he gnaws into the slowly reddening flesh, licking around the deep indents when ivan’s fingers tighten too much. he doesn’t quite break skin, but he seems to consider it as he moves on, pressing a kiss against the bulk of the scarring around his throat.
he bites right above the scar. he lingers far less there, almost considerate, before he’s biting much harsher just below the curve of his jaw.
it’s good, the dull pleasure that persists from the insistent suckling of alfred’s mouth. his lips are soft, full, and his teeth are sharp and strong, and it feels - it feels nice, especially when accompanied by the wet glide of his tongue.
ivan pants into the air, head rolling to the side as he bares his throat for alfred. a pleased little noise from alfred makes him clasp his hands threateningly, but he can feel the smile at his throat before alfred snaps his jaw shut around skin.
he shouts, involuntarily clenching his hands around alfred’s neck. still, he doesn’t let go - ivan trembles at the flash of pain. surely he’s started to bleed. the pain that shoots up from his throat isn’t unbearable, but the constant shifting of alfred’s canines -
“st-stop fidgeting,” ivan tugs at the hair on the back of alfred’s neck. alfred only bites down harder. “that hurts,” he tries, when alfred doesn’t listen. he tries to ignore how pathetic he sounds, even to himself. he could withstand far more than this, but it feels too intimate to just sit there and let alfred shift the pressure of his jaw and lap at the blood that spills. the act is too close to trust.
when alfred comes back to kiss ivan with bloodied lips, the taste of copper distinctly his own, ivan merely lets him. he runs his tongue along alfred’s canines to feel the sharp points that had just been in him, treasures the way alfred’s breathing stutters into a staccato.
“you’re acting all cute again,” alfred comments, a thumb coming up to press into the forming bruise and the slowing blood flow. his fingers come up to his lips, tapping expectantly as he waits for ivan to open his mouth to let them in.
ivan does. he opens his mouth, lets his fingers in, and even lets his fingers press around his mouth. he breathes as he licks around the callouses and faint scar tissue, heart racing when alfred begins to smile that soft, sweet smile again. the real one.
that boyish curve of his lips occupies most of his mind, unprepared for when he forces his fingers deeper into the back of his throat, pressing down onto his tongue. ivan startles when he gags, biting down out of instinct.
alfred yelps and pulls his hand out, expression losing that softness. “motherfucker!” he spits, but a new grin is already forming on his face. it’s with a pang of sorrow that ivan notes it has none of the sweet boyishness from before, but he supposes it can’t be helped. “you did that on purpose!”
“you shoved your hand down my mouth,” he protests, face burning. his previous words flash through his mind - the critiques towards alfred’s deepthroating - and he almost feels a bit bashful.
alfred only reaches out to push him down the rest of the way into the bed, letting his head hit the pillows. when he reappears in his vision, golden and gleaming and bright, ivan has to remind himself to bite back a smile.
“well, you were sucking on my gun. i thought you had like, i don’t know, an oral fixation,” he pouts, bringing his bitten fingers into his own mouth - like a hypocrite - and licks obscenely around them. ivan turns away when the distant thrumming of arousal becomes a sharp sting, once again forced to recognize that he’s hard.
“we have lube,” he insists, even as alfred’s hand already has descended between his legs. he hardly has any time to argue against being fucked by alfred when he’d expected the opposite. next time, he automatically soothes himself, before burning at the fact that sex between them had become so casual he could expect a next time.
alfred makes a noise as if to signify, oh, really? but entertains him no further. he wedges himself between russia’s legs even further than before, somehow pressing himself just that much closer. “were you expecting me?” he asks, but knows the answer when ivan grimaces.
“in the - the drawers-” his hands clutch at the blanket when he presses experimentally at his perineum, then when he spreads saliva around his rim. it cools quickly, chilling his skin, making him twitch. ivan sucks in a breath as alfred begins to press the beginnings of his finger in, which transforms into a strangled wheeze when he pushes two in at once.
“too late,” alfred’s voice sounds far away, ivan’s head hazy as his concentration is sucked into simply feeling the way alfred’s fingers push deeper and deeper inside of him.
the stretch burns, and saliva was a subpar substitute for lubricant - but it’s not unpleasant. the pain makes it easier to think. the pleasure builds up slowly, the steady and relentless pace of alfred’s hand making him push his head back further into the pillows.
instinctively, his legs fall open, taking a stilted breath when alfred readjusts the leverage of his hips to hold him up just that little bit more. his fingers sink into him easier, deeper, pulling them out at the same time he curls them upwards.
alfred’s wrist rotates a bit as he hurriedly shoves his way back inside, this time with a third finger and a much clearer goal of finding his prostate. he makes strange, garbled noises, the distant pleasure still so all-consuming -
“ah!” he arches off the bed when alfred’s fingers press into his prostate, unrelenting even as ivan nearly bucks away from him. his knees almost knock together as he tries to shut his legs closed away from the intense, unending pressure.
even as ivan quivers, alfred only laughs and pries his legs open with an ease and strength that makes him clench down.
he doesn’t realize he’s crying out alfred’s name until alfred is leaning over to press their foreheads together. he shushes him again, for the second time, the kindness such a stark contrast to the heartless way his fingers only press harder against his prostate.
“you think you’re ready?” he asks, pulling those three fingers in and out, over and over, making a point to remind ivan his prostate exists with every damn movement of his hands. “i think you are. you can take me now, can’t you?”
ivan can barely swallow around the weight of his tongue, intoxicated by the way alfred watches his every reaction with similar lust. he responds by rolling his hips back in time to meet alfred’s hands, eyes fluttering each time he reaches the knuckles.
“okay. okay.” alfred’s voice is distinctively breathless and strained, but he slips his fingers out with a wet noise that makes ivan feel filthy.
for all the ways alfred is quick with his hands, he fumbles with his own clothes before stretching over ivan to swipe his hand blindly around the compartments of the nightstand’s drawer. ivan smiles at the bulge in his pants as he struggles, knowing how uncomfortable it must have been.
it takes much longer than ivan is willing to wait before alfred’s finally reveals more and more of his tanned skin. he takes off layer by layer with an urgency that shows his arousal, shucking his clothes off to the side as soon as he can.
when alfred looms above him again, one hand grasping the lube from before, he’s busy eyeing the hard cut muscles of alfred.
he’s lean, a sharp contrast to his softer build, but it’s clear he’s athletic and strong. his broad shoulders taper off into a narrow waist barely concealed by his uniform, a waist that his legs are wrapping around to drag alfred closer.
“like what you see?” alfred asks, squirting some lube out onto his palm to warm it up. he can’t even shame him for the corny line when he’s staring at the movements of alfred’s hand as he starts to slick his cock up. it’s less lube than what should be used, but ivan likes it that way, and it pleases him to know that alfred remembers - even if it makes him feel exposed.
he leans over then, swiping the excess off onto ivan’s rim (something ivan protests with a disgusted noise), before he practically brands ivan’s waist with his bruising grip.
he begins pressing the tip of his cockhead against his entrance, laughing when the contact alone makes ivan start to tense in anticipation.
“ready?” he asks that, but he’s already got the tip of his cock inside of ivan by the time he asks. ivan huffs, arms shaking with how hard he’s gripping the sheets. when they lock eyes and ivan only meets him with a glare, alfred seems to take it as approval.
it takes one hard, brutal thrust to completely sheathe himself inside of ivan - he doesn’t stop once at all. ivan yells, a loud and wild noise that strains his voice. his body goes rigid as alfred curses beneath his breath, before a sweet, soft sound escapes from behind alfred’s pursed lips.
“fuck,” he says, emphatically. “you’re tight. just- just relax,” alfred clearly fights to stay still, even as ivan subconsciously starts to rock backwards to get him deeper, to chase the burn where his body tries to adjust around alfred. alfred closes his eyes around the sensation of the tight, wet heat, nestled right against the sensitive parts of ivan without even moving.
he savors it for a moment as he tries to be a gentleman and let ivan get comfortable, but he hisses when ivan clenches rhythmically around him, inner walls twitching at the faintest jostle of alfred’s hips.
alfred snaps forward when ivan doesn’t stay still, earning him a noise of assent, pitchy and an octave higher than ivan would like. drunk with pleasure, brain fuzzy with arousal, he chases a better angle, seeking that unyielding pressure against his prostate again.
“more,” ivan demands, sighing happily when alfred listens to him and finally, finally, begins fucking him in earnest.
he draws his hips back until only his tip is inside of him, and ivan nearly thrashes in protest - when he jabs into ivan’s prostate, he cries out like he’d been punched.
“you should - ah - start asking nicely,” despite his scolding, alfred continues fucking into him, slamming into him over and over and over, unfaltering even as ivan’s thighs squeeze tightly around the small of his waist. “it’ll make - make me listen-ngh,” ivan uses his foot to kick him in the back.
“alright,” he smirks, tongue briefly flicking out to wet his lips, “alright,” alfred pumps into him harder, faster than before, now hitting the each delicate part of him each and every time he sinks back into him, deeper and deeper the more and more ivan shudders. it had just begun, and ivan already felt like he was being consumed by it.
wordless, needy sounds keep escaping him. it’s difficult to piece together the noises necessary to call out alfred’s name, but he tries. the raggled, disjointed calls for alfred are joined with “yes”, and a constant and unfiltered stream of desperate little “ah, ah, ah”s. fissures of pleasure keep sparking up his spine and vocalizing outwards, mouth slack as he can’t seem to close it.
he’d probably be more determined to cut off his voice if it weren’t for alfred. he’s bent over near his ear, raspy and pathetic mewls and groans coming from him with each thrust in and out.
he makes nearly the same amount of noise he does, loud enough to drown out his softer noises. he did that. ivan did.
“you like that?” alfred stares unblinkingly at his face, once again vying for that affection he was so desperate for. the thin sheen of sweat that coats him only makes his complexion even brighter.
“you’re- you’re blushing down to your chest. ah… aha… it’s really, really cute,” his fingers twitch where they clutch ivan desperately by the waist, thumbs pressing in harder. ivan grits his teeth.
“you ta- ah- talk so- oh- so much,” he whines, back arching into a bow as he keeps trying to convince alfred to somehow reach deeper inside of him, even as alfred pounds into him mercilessly. “i just - i-”
“i get it,” alfred drags him back onto his cock as he drives forward with his hips. the pleasure that coils in ivan’s gut at the manhandling and the sudden, incessant needling at his prostate - he was so close, he just - “you need more?”
“yes!” he shakes, unraveling as alfred continues with persistent, rough pushes, voice cracking. he makes an unseemly noise and his head snaps to the side when alfred pushes in and grinds, simply letting ivan sway his hips backwards to try to meet him, to chase that friction from before.
it’s a reprieve from the nearly animalistic way alfred had been fucking him. he languishes in the syrupy feeling of the constant pressure, clenching around him with a moan.
alfred’s heavy hands leave his waist in favor of pushing his knees apart and away from his own body, forcing ivan to completely bare himself. the imagery of his own cock, heavy against his stomach with arousal, makes him shudder.
alfred smiles as he begins slowly dragging out of him, even as ivan tightens around his retreating dick to try keep him inside. his blood burns beneath his skin, all-consuming and inescapable, painting his body in blotches of pink and red as he works himself up into a frenzy trying to breathe.
its on an inhale that alfred drives forward again, the impact of his pelvis and the meat of ivan’s ass making an audible noise. with a strangled shout, that ever-building coil in his stomach releases as white ropes against the swell of his abdomen, nails raking against the sheets.
he’s exhaling wetly and whimpering as alfred begins to chase his own orgasm, his thrusts becoming less coordinated and focused less on finding ivan’s prostate. still, the slick drag of his cock is pleasantly overwhelming, and ivan vocalizes his appreciation with a few stray whines and cries of alfred’s name.
alfred keeps moaning right above ivan’s ear, starting to murmur praises as he bucks into him again and again.
just as the pleasure edges on overstimulation, alfred comes inside of him, the sudden heat making him bite his lip to swallow an embarrassingly needy noise. alfred stays with his head hunched near his ear for a while, still panting and trying to catch his breath.
when alfred pulls out, the dribble of come that trails after him makes ivan shift uncomfortably, choking when he replaces the empty space left behind by his cock with his fingers. they dig into the malleable insides of ivan with certainty, probing until he’s pushing the leaking come back inside of him.
he rubs at ivan’s swollen prostate and smiles as ivan’s hips cant up to try escaping him, oversensitive and aching as his breath catches in his throat. he considers protesting, but he’s already moving weakly in time with alfred’s wrist again, swallowing around the pleasant and steady attention.
“so greedy,” alfred teases, but he delivers the insult with a seriousness that contrasts the light smile on his face. “made you cum twice. you’re still soft and you want more?” he punctuates his words by curling his fingers meanly, languid even as ivan twists and turns at the prickles of pain.
“you’re offering,” he slurs, breathing too quickly as his tongue rests heavy in his mouth. alfred’s free hand comes up to cup one of his pecs again, thumb rubbing against one of the fading bite marks that pulse red against white skin.
he slowly drifts into the mindlessness of just taking what alfred gives him, eyes shutting peacefully as he hums at alfred’s rhythmic movements.
he settles into the weird timing alfred sets, thrusting his fingers in for only a handful of pistoning motions before giving him a brief pause - likely to stave off his orgasm - until he starts that pattern all over again.
“you’re hard again,” alfred sings, voice lilting with a drawl that can’t quite be placed as an accent, but sounds as close to one as it can be. “and you’ve been saying please and more ever since i got my fingers in you. come on, sweetheart, you know how to beg me.”
ivan begrudgingly pries his eyes open to look down. past the mess of come that has started to slip down his side and fall along the bedsheets, his cock is erect, jutting out proudly against his otherwise boneless body. he groans in frustration and alfred has the audacity to laugh in his face.
“i’m tired,” ivan insists with a raspy voice, even as alfred readjusts him to hike his limp calf up on his shoulder. like this, he can feel alfred’s own erection pressing against him, and he preens at the idea that alfred got hard simply watching him receive pleasure. “it’s - it’s too soon.”
despite his protests, alfred sinks three fingers back into his softened flesh, thrusting them out as soon as ivan’s voice trails off into a mewl. the pinpricks of pleasure have become so heavy and sharp that he can hardly collect his thoughts beyond the feeling of alfred inside of him.
it’s almost embarrassing how alfred can see past him so easily. when alfred leans down to whisper, “well, you know how to get me to stop,” into his ear, their safeword rings in his mind as the syllables get caught in his brain like a cloth getting snagged on a nail.
a wanton sob is twisted from his throat when alfred keeps twisting his wrist into him, drilling deeper and deeper until all semblance of control is ripped from beneath him when alfred adds another finger.
three was more than enough to get him off, maybe even a little overkill, something alfred was aware of over their trysts. using four fingers to map out his ass - it’s - lord, save him, he thinks, making eye contact with the hotel room’s ceiling.
his head thrashes against the pillow as his feet kick against alfred, who only kisses the ankle that flies near his face when he flails. ivan fumbles erratically as alfred keeps massaging his sweet spot with relentless fervour for each inward stroke, grappling with the blankets for some respite.
alfred’s other hand migrates to his cock, gripping it by the base as he begins stroking it up and down, the glide made easy from the amount of precum that keeps coming from the tip of his cockhead.
he cries out as his hips can’t seem to decide whether to move forward or backward, intense pleasure gathering wherever alfred touches.
it’s too much. too much. he feels like a mess of nerves, his body no longer his own, more like a collection of live wires that spark each time alfred bends his fingers this way and that. the way his fingers keep touching the glans, the tight grip and the way he caresses the vein on the underside of his cock, they’re all maddening.
ivan’s going insane. he can hardly breathe with the way wanton, shrill moans keep being pushed out of him.
“and you said you were tired?” alfred taunts, jeering and mean and all star-spangled eyes. the overhead lighting makes the blonde of his hair look like a halo, and ivan’s eyes soften as he watches the errant strands of hair sway on his head.
“look at you. you’re so erotic. you don’t even realize you’re breaking your back arching to meet me, do you? do you even care it’s me fucking you?”
i’m not. i don’t. yes, only you, ivan wants to say, but all he answers with is an “ungh”. the kind words mixed with the objectifying glances over his body makes him feel woozy, reeling from alfred’s praise and his harsh, unstoppable hands. and the insufferable man just smiles, and he strains upwards after him, a long, sinewy line that inches towards his slack mouth.
he finds himself consumed by the summer sky of his eyes. alfred is undeniably captivating, charismatic to a fault, all soft lines and nostalgic joy - and in that same breath, his eyes harden, the same unbending will and pinched smiles and slicked hair he’d long learned to associate with america.
“is this what you let your people see?” alfred’s words are ridiculous, but he delivers them with the gravitas of a genuine question rooted in jealousy - or mockery. it’s hard to distinguish between alfred’s emotions when his fingers are up his ass. “is this what your government lets you show? for equality?”
the realization of alfred’s implication slaps him across the face hard enough to make him sober up.
“идиот,” he hisses in russian, so astounded by the american’s stupidity that he can’t even bring himself to insult him in english. “communism doesn’t- it - doesn’t work like tha- ah. that.”
his bitter anger would be a lot easier to communicate if alfred stopped fingering him. his face goes redder in both rage and embarrassment.
alfred shrugs, smiling as he tilts his head. “sure it does. no such thing as private property, right?” before he can respond, alfred is kissing him.
he kisses him without a care, a chaste and childish peck to his lips that is jarringly innocent. somehow, he begins pumping his wrist up and down ivan’s cock faster, which earns him a whorish, throaty noise. his ears burn a bright scarlet when he can feel the way alfred beams against his lips.
tears slip from his face as he shrieks, his orgasm sneaking up on him, a flash of an intense, wicked pleasure, come landing on top of the evidence of his prior orgasm.
alfred’s hands never stop moving throughout it, even as his reddened body keeps trying to throw him off of him with distressed and wild movements. enough, enough, his mind begs, but his body keeps meeting alfred halfway.
eventually, even alfred tires of fingering him, releasing the fist around his cock as he slips his fingers out. he sighs in relief without any shame. the mess of come that follows makes alfred’s smile become radiant as he watches it trickle from the pinkened, swollen rim. he scoops the excess out lovingly, even as ivan’s coherence slowly dissolves with each keen.
“there, there,” he placates with a kind, much too gentle tone, laying the russian’s leg down as he maneuvers him onto his stomach.
this earns him a confused noise, inquisitive despite being fucked half out of his mind. still, he remains pliant to alfred’s repositioning, not saying anything even when alfred grabs him by the hips to push his ass into the air.
like this, alfred places a hand and runs it down the length of ivan’s spine, admiring the nearly acrobatic arch of his back. when he presses down between ivan’s shoulder blades, ivan shifts uncomfortably, sensitive nipples catching against the blanket. alfred can feel the way his own cock twitches in interest. maybe now that ivan’s let him undress him fully, he can play with them more.
he takes his cock in his hand, taking the lube discarded by some empty space in the bed to spread some more along the length of his girth. ivan’s eyes have started drooping closed, not asleep, but relaxed in the afterglow.
the flush that remains high on his cheekbones is even at the back of his neck, which alfred expresses his endearment for by leaning over to bite him. ivan huffs, but doesn’t move to push him off; america drapes himself over his back like that, crowding into ivan’s space to bite hickeys gently across wherever he’s blushing. the back of his neck, his shoulder, the space between his shoulder blades .
“so beautiful,” alfred doesn’t try to mask his genuine adoration anymore. gone is the knife hidden beneath silk, the false lies, the need to behave hatefully. when ivan is pliant and his thoughts have already melted with him into the bedsheets, alfred can spare him a glance into how he wishes they could be.
it’s not like ivan will remember the tenderness in his voice, anyways; not when alfred’s far from finished.
he spears into ivan again, helpless as he’s only capable of careening forward from the force of it. the surprised yowl from beneath him only makes him grip tighter around ivan’s hips to make sure he doesn’t fling him off. surely, he didn’t forget that alfred was hard, had he? how selfish.
“alfred! i can’t… can’t, it’s too much,” ivan’s cheek is pressed into the pillow, too out of it to hide his face properly. alfred’s gut warms at the sight of an uneven blush, painting his face in a watercolor array of pinks and dark reds. “i’m not - i’m not even hard-”
“that’s fine,” alfred reaches a hand down to grab his flaccid cock. ivan almost screams, his voice reaching a volume just shy of it. finally, the tears that had been building up in his eyes fall, streaming down his face in constant rivulets.
they drop in small splotches against the pillowcase, wet spots that alfred hopes will be joined by more tears and maybe even some drool. “hey, when was the last time i gave you a dry orgasm?”
“i don’t care,” he moans, putting up a big fight for a man who hasn’t even uttered the first syllable of their safeword. it was that nonsensical, stubborn aspect about him that alfred loved so much, so he takes the hand from his cock and cards it into ivan’s platinum hair.
thankfully, ivan was too out of it to complain. “why - why do you even keep track?” he sputters, alfred’s words finally catching up to him.
alfred doesn’t let him worry too much about the answer. god knows he worried too much already to begin with. it was his duty to relieve some of that overthinking. afterall, those were the duties of a number one hero - even if the communist beneath him probably deserved to overthink.
nevertheless, he’s invigorated by the visual of ivan, bent over and arched beneath him, entire body becoming varying shades of pink, sweating and crying against the pillow - he plows into him with unabashed glee.
ivan mouths at the sheets, tears still following the soft curve of his cheek and the slope of his jaw. the room is becoming oversaturated with his wailing, his entire body screaming at him as his sensitivity skyrockets.
he can’t even twitch against alfred’s steel grip on him, forcing his head to remain upright even as his arms are slack and worthless in holding his weight.
the fact that he can’t hide his face or bite the pillow - even in a position where alfred can’t see his face easily - the sheer amount of control alfred has over him makes him sob even louder.
even when he thinks alfred has taken everything he has to give, he manages to dredge more and more and more from him. to take relentlessly, to leave nothing behind except for an empty husk that would only vaguely resemble who ivan was before meeting him - that was who alfred was. he feels his own worries and troubles slipping from his mind as alfred keeps pushing into him.
he can’t stop crying. he can’t stop sobbing and moaning and just laying there and taking it. he feels like a whore. with the slutty noises he keeps making, in voices he can’t even recognize as his own, he might as well be.
it burns. his entire body burns. that infernal pressure that refuses to leave his prostate, rubbing against his sore walls, the heavy impact of alfred’s hips against his ass, the back of his thighs, the shifting of alfred’s hands against his hip and his head -
impaled against alfred, he’s taking more than he thought he could. maybe he was rubbing off on him with that.
“you - ooh - capitalist pig,” he bawls, babbling nonsense as soon as it comes to his mind. his poor brain that feels like cotton, full of nothing but alfred, alfred, alfred, and feverish lustful thoughts of more, harder, faster. “always takinnngh more - more than- ah! ah, wait-!”
the taunting only makes alfred thrust harder, deeper. something shameful inside of him revels at the possessiveness. he feels like boasting that america wanted him so carnally. it’s uncharacteristic of him to feel desired - alfred must have shoved the logical part of him away when he made space for himself inside of his body.
“mmh, well, i’m doing a lot of giving right now, aren’t i?” alfred curls over his back, reaching into him so deeply that he swears alfred is pushing the air out of his lungs to skewer him on his cock. it’d be the only explanation to why he’s heaving so hard, gasping and desperate for air that never seems like enough, no matter how much he sucks into his mouth.
ivan is tensing in anticipation for each and every mind-shattering thrust, now. he’s laying there just letting alfred have his way with him, nothing more than a glorified sex toy, ears ringing as he can’t force himself to focus on anything.
alfred keeps stirring something inside of his gut, stomach tensing each time he’s fully inside of him. but suddenly - he stops, buried deep inside of him - and ivan, unaware of how much he’d been sobbing, snot and drool and tears smeared across the pillowcase - nearly passes out in relief.
he takes the moment to breathe and collect the forgotten parts of himself, to shake away the brainlessness that came as a result of ecstasy.
but alfred doesn’t move for a while. he can feel him pulsing inside of him, but he doesn’t move. eventually, the moment stretches far beyond a normal break to let ivan breathe. what he’d seen as a blessing becomes irritating, and ivan balls his hands into fists against the bed to force himself past the loss of face to speak in his wrecked voice.
“why’d you stop?” his voice trembles despite the accusatory and irritated tone, which only makes alfred let go of his waist in favor of pressing long-lasting, roaming touches along the soft curve of his stomach, the jut of his hip bones, the swell of his ass.
he’s startled by his own neediness. but alfred doesn’t seem taken aback at all. when he speaks, the happiness in his voice is easy to hear.
“wanted to make you beg. don’t you remember? i do things better if i’m asked nicely.”
…
was he serious?
“please! please, please - that’s - i’ve been begging.” ivan whips his head around to face alfred, even if the sudden shift makes him dizzy. he feels ridiculous, but remarkably, his voice remains even and punctual, even if the usually intimidating drawl has become a raspy, hoarse mess. “what do you think please means?”
“i meant with your body,” alfred pouts, the appealing jut of his bottom lip briefly stupefying ivan. god, just what was he doing to him? it’s like getting fucked made him forget all about the cold- “like, you know, how cute you were before. you were basically fucking yourself on m-”
ivan gives up on staring at alfred, laying his cheek back against the pillow. he forgets what he was even thinking about before. his face was infuriating, and the throbbing of alfred’s cock inside of him was making him desire the american more than he wanted to. he’d already admired him enough for today.
the pause draws out for longer, which frustrates ivan more and more. it could have been seconds.
it could have been minutes or hours - he can’t really inference anything past the realization that alfred really did mean it. eventually, he acquiesces, something he would have never done - if not for now.
“you always -” he pulls his hips away until he can feel alfred slip out of him, inch by meticulous inch, and he bites his lip as he pushes back. “get what… what you want.” ivan sniffles, humiliation prickling under his skin and bubbling beneath his blood. he could hardly rest his weight against his arms, having buckled beneath his and alfred’s weight long ago.
still, he tries his best, a pitiful and unsatisfactory attempt. somehow, it feels like alfred only swells inside of him more at his fumbling.
“sadist,” he spits out venomously, like a hypocrite. but the friction is still better than having alfred’s heavy cock just resting inside of him.
it’s just slow, with no real rhythm, as ivan’s body keeps flinching away from the random and intense bouts of pleasure when he manages to get alfred to brush past his prostate. by the time he’s about to collapse again in exhaustion, sweat resting on his brow, alfred’s warm hands return to his hips and head.
he moans, delighted when he’s pushed face first into the bed again. “okay, sweetheart,” alfred sounds breathless, desire clear in the tenor of his voice. ivan sinks deeper into the mattress as he lets alfred take him apart. “all you had to do was that.”
“come on,” alfred pants, faint and almost inaudible sounds of exertion coming from him. with reckless abandon, he returns to be curtained over ivan’s back, one hand coming up to his mouth to pry it open.
his fingers stroke his tongue downwards and upwards intermittently, reverent and as close to worship as it can be. “let it all out.” ivan nearly argues that he has been. but when alfred begins to fuck him again, he realizes what he meant was be louder.
alfred manages a superhuman pace, punching a squeal out of ivan with each jostle of his hips, helpless as he cants his hips back against him despite having him as close as possible. ivan’s voice teeters on the edge of contentment and desperation, reaching a new high each time alfred slams his hips back down. he feels like he’s losing more and more of himself with each passing moment.
swallowing around the fingers in his mouth, ivan moans louder on purpose, pornographic in quality; he’s long forgotten any reluctance or any modesty, attempts at preserving his dignity having been thrown away as soon as he resigned himself to alfred’s inescapable lull. alfred presses his lips to the space between his hunched shoulders, the vibrations of his moans seeping into ivan’s skin.
it feels so good. it’s so good it’s painful, the constant pleasure stressing his nerves into overdrive, too aware of everything that’s touching him; the cotton of the sheets, alfred’s hands that run too hot, the damp pillow, tears that won’t stop flowing, the stickiness of drying come, the hot press of alfred’s cock into his ass over and over and over and over. everything.
still, he begs mindlessly, contorting as alfred forces him to submit over and over and over and over. as soon as ivan screams into the empty space where alfred’s noises just won’t fill - a real scream - alfred doubles down.
“ca-aaah-an’t- ghh-” it’s too much. ivan babbles this much. but in the same breath, he sucks in and paws at the pillow, pleading wordlessly. “nnh- more, more, more, ooh- nnno, pleasee..” divided, his hips lift more, trying to escape, but as soon as he does, he pushes himself back down with a violent shake in his legs.
he doesn’t know how much he can take. alfred bullies at his abused prostate, zero regard for the way ivan really can’t handle how much alfred is giving him. he hammers into him, spurred on by his incoherent wailing and the way he tears into the sheets to try ground himself.
and soon, too soon, ivan’s entire body is seizing up, muscles contracting around alfred, sobbing and shouting as he reaches the precipice and plummets. unwillingly, his fourth and final orgasm is pulled from him, gurgling weakly. this time, he barely comes at all, pathetic dribbles of come oozing from his tip.
alfred comes with him, hands falling away from his mouth and hair as he takes bruising handfuls of ivan’s waist, crying out into the juncture of his shoulder.
he buries himself as deep as possible as he empties himself into ivan, whining as he keeps shifting his hips, seeking ivan’s heat despite already having it. greedy, ivan thinks to himself, but it’s like the thought disappears as soon as he has it.
alfred stays inside of him for as long as possible, but eventually, he pulls out of him with an intake of breath. ivan groggily lifts his head from the wet pillow to watch alfred’s enraptured gaze as he thumbs at the meat of ivan’s ass, watching as come trickles out of him.
with a grunt, ivan shifts to lay on his side, closing his legs as soon as alfred retreats from between them.
as he watches ivan move, he smiles, leaning over ivan’s body to caress his cheek. “you did so good,” and the stern glint in his eyes helps offset the softness of his voice. ivan’s not sure what his expression looks like, far too loose and loopy to control the way his muscles work; he tries to regain that control by smiling back at alfred, but he’s pretty sure it’s lopsided.
in the brief period of the afterglow, they can forget their hostilities towards one another.
when alfred presses a kiss to his cheek, he ignores how alfred’s hand tenses slightly with the instinct of digging his nails into his skin, ignores how he automatically begins to raise an arm just that much closer to punching him.
alfred’s hand lingers on his face. ivan hesitates and looks down into the pillow, teeth briefly worrying at the inside of his cheek before he speaks. “we should take a shower,” he murmurs, his voice hardly coming above the volume of a whisper. his heart races at the vulnerability of it, but he can’t stand the idea of being left alone again.
the silence that follows makes him curl up into himself, and finds that he doesn’t quite feel upset at the refusal. it’s a careful apathy that slips over his expression, just barely controlling the twitches of his mouth to calm down and become what he hopes is a neutral, unreadable face.
parading to be closer than they actually were would only lend itself to more opportunities of stepping over their relationship’s boundaries, more opportunities to take advantage of each other during these political tensions.
he tries not to be upset. he knows he would have denied him, too.
“...the hotel room service should be free,” america glances over at the wall as he begins to grab his stuff from the nightstand. it’s not a good change in topic, but ivan’s grateful that alfred doesn’t outright reject him - still, the reminder that america holds this level of sympathy towards his enemy - it makes his heart ache.
america doesn’t watch to see when ivan nods, simply wandering around like a lost dog to pick up his scattered uniform. he dresses with a soldier’s efficiency - although ivan doesn’t watch him, he can hear the quick rustles of fabric as he changes, and he’s started walking towards the corridor when he eyes the two weapons left on the floor.
he pauses there, leaning over to pick up his gun, disregarding ivan’s metal pipe. ivan sneaks a glance to see if his expression changes - he’s sort of pleased to see the way his face has pinched into a grimace. whether or not it’s in regret, guilt, anger - he’s still grasping at what remains of his brain - it makes ivan feel better that he’s not the only one feeling a mix of emotions.
he glances back to meet ivan’s eyes. they’re that dull blue again, and ivan can feel his heart start to race. he has his gun now, loaded - he’d just overstepped, asking for alfred to stay - and he was here, naked, without a weapon, laying there, still relaxed and slow.
but alfred looks away as he pockets his gun, opening the door to leave. it doesn’t shut quickly enough before he can conceal his weary, deep sigh - but once it does, all that’s left is the deafening silence of the hotel room.
ivan tries to savor the lingering warmth alfred left behind.
he lays there for a while, wondering what the bed would have felt like if alfred entertained him. he spends a while like that until the disgust that starts welling up in his stomach makes him sit up, to hell with the sores and pains that come as a result.
he curses, over and over and over, volume slowly rising until he has to refrain himself from punching the bedframe by running his hands up and down over his face, over and over and over.
by the third time he’s massaged his temples and repeated the mantra reminding himself what he was doing this all for, imagined alfred’s stupid face when bloodied and angry and humiliated and ashamed (which only makes him twitch with arousal, so he stops that immediately), he’s calmed down significantly.
it didn’t matter. hearing alfred sigh, with something reminiscent of longing and guilt - he tries to convince himself it was worth it.
it was worth the way he had to pathetically limp to the bathroom with the wall as support. it was worth the way he had to stare at himself in the mirror, marked with where he knows bruises were supposed to be, where angry and deep bites have become only slightly reddened marks, marked with the scars that run along his throat and across his chest and left with only the memory of how gently alfred had held him and none of the marks to prove it.
he thinks about bright cerulean eyes as he lets warm water run over tender skin, as he degrades himself by cleaning the traces of alfred that remain on and in his body, as he washes his hair and tries not to think about how alfred had carded his fingers through them just a moment prior.
ivan doesn’t stay in the hotel room after he showers. he dresses quickly, struggling to pick the clothes off of the floor, and waits an hour and a half sitting on the soiled sheets before he decides it’s safe enough to leave.
when he opens the door of the hotel room, he remembers slamming alfred into it. when he leaves, he remembers the despaired sigh that came from still-swollen lips. when the bright LED lights of the hotel’s hallways beam into his eyes, he tries not to think about the way those lights had made alfred glow.
he pauses. he closes his eyes, runs his hand along his face again to compose himself, and faces the world with an impassive smile.