Stalemate 2 :APH RussiaxUS:

America's hand stood poised over the phone, his blue eyes fixated on it's off-white color. His eyes blurred and then focused, in and out, using his glasses as aid. In the end, he drew his hand back from the object and placed both of them in his lap, his bottom positioned on the end of his king-sized bed. He frowned, looking aimlessly among the carpeting in his bedroom, his mind wandering a thousand miles away from his head, into a less secure location.

It had been two days since he had seen Russia last. Negotiations weren't going well, and the White Houses eye was fixated on him, watching him carefully. He, too, watched. Every day he showed up to the briefing room was a battle inside of himself, fussing over every lead given to them, they treated every threat as if it were an invasion. He lost track of how many times the Anti-Aircraft Sirens blared during the week, but their low-pitched hums seemed to drive out any rational thought within him.

It was late and he had intended on calling Arthur to come over, because of how somber he had been feeling. Inside, he felt on edge and not like his usual self. During such times, he recalled how easy it was to smile around Arthur in particular. Joking with him came so naturally, he could do it in his sleep. Somewhere inside of him felt like England was the only one that could lighten the mood at this point. His fake smiles were hard to keep up during the daylight, so he made sure to allow his true colors spill out during the night.

Flopping backwards on the bed with a dull thud, he sighed as he drearily looked up at the ceiling. Nowadays he had been feeling so withdrawn. He didn't want to speak to anyone, or talk to anyone. Even if he did crave human comfort, he didn't have any motivation to seek it out. He didn't want to be anymore of a burden on anyone else, especially.

Maybe tomorrow, Alfred thought sleepily, I'll call England.

With that, he rolled onto his stomach and lazily felt for his lamp, flicking it off easily.

The room then was shrouded in darkness, and he drifted off to sleep in silence.

He was awakened by a warm, bare hand run it's course beneath his shirt, from the tip of his tailbone to the very top of his spine, leaving a ticklish, hot sensation where fingers had once been.  At first, he assumed it was his imagination or a bug, so he attempted to lift his hand to swat away the source. However, he found his wrists had been bound together by some sort of silk tie, securing him to his barred headboard. He was stuck on his stomach and unable to move when he lifted his hips up, which alarmed him.

It was pitch dark, except for the cascades of moonlight seeping in from between his blinds. Of course, it only allowed to see his own torso, with shrouded his backside in a thin layer of darkness. He could make out a figure, but nothing else.

Then he noticed those glowing, purple hues staring cruelly down at him. It was almost as if he had been blind, not noticing such a large man sitting at the side of his bed, peering down at him calmly, waiting for him to awake.

His plain white t-shirt had been pushed up, exposing his bare back. The rest of the garment was caught under his belly, which he had been sleeping on prior. Russia's hand moved downward, settling itself on the small of his back and pinching gently at whatever skin he could fit between his fingers.

In his shock America could only attempt to look over his shoulder, perhaps thinking this was but another one his strange, surrealistic dreams but… pain was never this prevalent, even in his wildest nightmares.

His first thought was how. How did he get inside of his home? Past his security officers? And they had been surveying him. He had been in Russia not more than 6 hours ago. Impossible… how was he? There was no way he could fly through his air space unnoticed. It was unheard of. It was practically paranormal.

Another pinch. Alfred understood the situation he was in and began to struggle against what he thought were simple fabric ties. However, his strength was somehow diminished and he found his body feeling sluggish and weak. The unnecessary strain it put on him simply to move was unheard of, let alone attempt to snap the tightly wound ribbon that was securing his hands.

"Shhh- America. I don't want to have to use more, da? It's very difficult to come by~"

Russia responded whimsically, drawing a syringe from his pocket, half emptied with some clear liquid inside of it. Alfred stared with wide eyes at it, realizing that such a long needle had been injected into his muscle. But where? But how? He surely would have woken up if such a  thing had been… but he didn't. The fact was he didn't and now he was not only bound, but drugged.

"I-I won't tell you anything. Kill me if you want."

Alfred hissed, strained through a hoarse, dry throat. The bruises from his last encounter still dotted his collar bone, causing it to swell and redden in some places. Alfred chose to turn away from him, choosing not to meet his empty eyes with his own. They would only depress him.

And yet, inside of his heart of all hearts, he was thrilled. The excitement, the rush, the idea of mortal danger… the adrenaline pumped through him faster than any medication Russia had injected him with. His mind was racing with thoughts of his heroic escape from this. The battle that would ensue, the struggle for his livelihood. All of it tore through his testosterone like a virus and caused him to feel more cocky and vigilant than ever.

In his mind, of course. His body was once again betraying his desires by laying limp, hardly able to lift itself, let alone wield the sword of truth.

"Kill you, Comrade? I'd much rather savor your dying liberty as it sputters it's last, dry breath before your throat can only utter please."

Russia cooed softly, almost matriarchal, as if he was comforting a frightened child. His hand moved down, away from his spine, and pressed against his opening, shielded by his boxer shorts. Alfred gaped, shocked and confused by such a comment but more so by it's blatant confirmation. A dry finger forced itself between his puckered layers of flesh, sinking slowly, pushing past resistance until the fabric would allow it no further entrance. There it wriggled, causing undo discomfort from the way the linen scraped up against the wall of his innards. Alfred felt his stomach jump and burst with ecstasy. His mouth fell open and he hissed a dry grunt, sucking in air harshly and gritting his teeth.

He was using all of his power to pucker himself and force the finger out, but he soon found the spasms within himself were making it unable to resist the gentle rubs against him, forcing him to loosen himself.

"S-Stop! S-stoppit…I-I won't g-give in…"

"It feels good, da? Enjoy all of it, what Russia is giving to you."

"N-no! Stop…! You communist son of a bitch…"

Despite his offending words, Alfred's tone of voice was low-pitched and ragged, his voice box vibrating in low purrs of satisfaction, deepening his throaty moans. He was already out of breath, just from such a simple touch. Alfred felt his hips twitch and his back arch inwards, his body attempting to pull away from overwhelming sensation. America stared intensely at the pillow beneath him when he lifted his neck up. He attempted to flush out any and all feelings in his body, holding back was taking everything he had.

Between grit teeth, he began to work at his restraints. A dull ringing in his ears made it easy to block out the sick, arid noise that it made when his finger shifted inside of him. The ringing grew so loud, for a split second, he numbed his entire body to the touch entirely. Just enough for him to break his restraints and in one quick movement, whip his hips around and thrust his fist towards his assaulters face.

He felt his knuckles hit flesh so hard it ran a shiver up his entire arm. The movement went so quick, he wasn't sure what he hit until his eyes focused again.

Russia had caught his fist, and quietly, calmly lowered it to reveal a sinister smile. Alfred could only stare up at him, in complete shock and awe. All that work and…

No. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't sluggish. His fists were much faster than Ivan's by far yet… here he was, looking at him with a look of disbelief and disappointment.

A thousand thoughts went through his mind, but one of them stuck out prevalently. He swallowed, and in the next moment, moved forward and pressed his lips against Ivan's sloppily. This surprised Ivan, who's own eyes grew larger in amazement. But he was on to him quickly, his eyes narrowing at the shallow attempt to distract him.

Russia's massive arms drew up and gripped America by the shoulders. Alfred winced at the pressure, the way fingers dug violently into his skin, in some places, breaking it. His torso was twisted and he was thrust back against the bed, his legs dangling off the side haphazardly. His arm was twisted behind his back, causing undo discomfort. He struggled to move his head to the side so he wouldn't suffocate in the blankets.

"No! Get off of me! Don't touch me you socialist pig!"

"Silence."

Ivan commanded in a low, throaty voice that boomed into every corner of the room. It demanded respect, obedience and submission. He felt his bottom being propped up harshly by a knee, raising it into the air. He grunted as Ivan's hand pressed against his back again, forcing it to arch like some humiliating porno film. His modest bottom was exposed to the open air, his knees digging into the carpeting next to his bed, creating rug-burns on his naked knees.
Just as he was getting ready to flop around like a fish until Ivan released his hold of him, he felt steel. Cold, cold steel press up against his backside. His eyebrows knitted and his heart jumped, his breathing quickening. The object traced lazy circles in his leg, not quite breaking flesh but leaving unsightly scratches in it's path of destruction. It trailed up to the leg of his boxer short and slipped up it, laying flat against one of his backside's cheeks.

Wincing, he felt a tremor go up his spine. How was he going to get out of this? He was a hero, right? But he had learned from combat situation after combat situation that you will always be wounded in a knife fight if the person is skilled. It just depended on where you allowed it to hit you.

He never was fond of gashes, choosing bullet wounds over them any day. And from the feel of it, Ivan had chosen a very sharp surgical scalpel, easily cutting through flesh like a hot knife through butter. He could already feel some droplets of blood drip down his thighs, stinging the light lacerations that Ivan had created.

"Da~ your blood is the same color as everyone else's. You aren't special after all."

Ivan chuckled childishly, seemingly quite thrilled at the prospect. Alfred felt an overwhelming sensation of anger grip his muscles, causing them to tighten throughout his body. He grit his teeth in defiance, but knew he made a sudden movement that Ivan's weapon could find itself in places he surely didn't want it to be.

"Oi, America-kun, bleeding from under your shorts like that makes you look like you've been deflowered. It's so cute."

Alfred had just about enough of his taunting. His cheeks were flushed red with embarrassment and rage. Maybe it was better to get a knife in his ass than it was to listen to him humiliate him like this anyways. He went to slowly lift his leg to kick him between his legs, but instead, found Ivan's shin blocking him from movement. It occurred to Alfred then that this wasn't the first time Ivan has done this, so was quick to cover all of his bases before doing so.

Could it be that he was meticulously planning these little rendezvous? Watching his own movements like he was monitoring his? Could it be, he was also being bugged and spied upon? But his military was so advanced, much further along than Ivan's, and he was able to tell immediately. But there was no way that Ivan could have done this off-handily, walking through his complicated security measures and into his airspace without his knowledge without use of some sort of new technology.

Even so, he wasn't in the position to be interrogating Ivan about how he ended up here, only to weasel his way out of the predicament before it ended in his undoing. Alfred had convinced himself that their last encounter only ended as it did because he fought so vigilantly. Now he was in a different situation, and he wasn't sure what he was going to do about it. Usually hero's had all the answers, but not when the questions didn't even make sense in the first place.

With Ivan's presence, his logic crumbled into ash. Every solution he came up with was countered by Ivan, and the more America began to ponder his presence here, the more things didn't add up. He over-estimated Ivan, because he had gotten passed his security. He underestimated his ability to handle the situation without getting shish-kabobbed.

In his train of thought, he forgot about Ivan, which was a grave mistake. A hand crept against his belly, rubbing his finger tips in. For some reason, this was undyingly sensual. How could Ivan know this? Ivan's thumb placed itself against the tip of his hardening member, sending shockwaves up and down his body, leaving a stinging tingle in his toes.

He bit his lip until he could feel iron soil his tongue, swallowing back feverish moans that burbled in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped, arching his back inward, writhing away from the pleasing yet sickening feeling he was having right now.

He didn't want to be dominated. Yet here he was enjoying it. If it had been any other time he would have reeled back and punched him square in the nose for doing this to him, but instead he was groaning underneath of him, the bed creaking with the weight of his restless body. The worst part was that Ivan hadn't even removed his boxers yet, and he was this excited already. The simple act of knowing what might come was enough to send his body into spasms of pleasure, which disappointed and disgusted his better judgment.

Tears welled in the corner of his eyes, his breathing growing quick and labored. He gaped, grunted and ground his teeth until he felt like the enamel would crack. His hips reluctantly twitched away from the pleasing hand, though he made sure not to make any sudden movements, lest his bottom get torn into ribbons. The strain of keeping still was maddening, but the threat of injury was too great for him to ignore, even in a fit of passion.

"A-ah… g-god d-damnit… g-get away… Get away from me you demented b-bastard…"

"Had enough fun, America-kun? Say something for me, then I will let you go, da."

"W-what is it-then…?"

God he was negotiating with a mad-man. This couldn't end well. Hadn't all logic told him not to negoiate with terrorists… like ever? He felt awful for preaching that slogan when he couldn't even follow it himself. He thought was stronger than this, giving into enemy demands.

"I want you to say I Am A Slut, da."

"Never."

Alfred's voice rang boomingly clear, without any hint of stuttering, despite his predicament. He made sure to pronounce his words as loud as he could, even through a bone-dry esophagus. Ivan only smiled, pressing the American's member tightly against his stomach and rolling his thumb over the head, sparking fire within the nerves. Alfred huffed, licking his top row of teeth in response to the sensation.

"But you are, America-kun. You are willing to give up your dignity to make this part of you happy, da?"

"N-no. Y-you're r-rubbing it. I-I… I don't have control ov-over it…"

"You do, America-kun. You could fight back. But here you are."

"I-I can't the-the drug is-"

Russia leaned his massive body forward, pressing his chest against Alfred's back, covering his back. He leant his mouth next to his ear and breathed hot breaths into the shell, causing the American's face to light up in bright red. Ivan snickered sweetly, twisting the fabric of his boxers that settled over his twitching member in a curl around his index finger.

Alfred was overwhelmed with the feeling of a body so large on top of him. The threat of the knife against him was still eminent. The blade, while flat, did sink into his flesh when Russia decided to press himself tightly against his backside.

"Sugar water, da."

The words ripped through his rationality and tore through his reason. He felt his entire body become paralyzed with pure terror. His heart was racing like a jack rabbit's, and his throat grew tight. Shame washed over his entire being, and his face dropped into a humiliated frown. He was confused, and his eyes darted in the opposite direction of Ivan's face. Never before in his life had he felt so embarrassed than as of right now. The complete destitute feeling of having been deceived, no, he had under-estimated himself. He stood for freedom, for liberty, for justice and here he was, bent over the side of a bed by his own will. He had automatically presumed that Russia was not lying to him, because Russia never lied. He always sounded completely honest. All of his assumptions about Ivan were being twisted into new, fresh half-truths. Ivan's unpredictable nature was bringing him to the brink of his reasoning skills.

Why didn't he fight harder, he wondered. Why wasn't he more adamant, ask more questions? He wasn't scared of Ivan, he was intimidated. No, he wasn't intimidated. No one intimidated him. Except Ivan… no, not Ivan.

Who was he kidding? This man had him scared shitless. He didn't make up lies about Ivan because he wasn't afraid of him, he didn't set up anti-air craft sirens because he wasn't afraid of Ivan, he didn't create bomb shelters and radiation sickness prevention and new planes because he wasn't afraid of Ivan. It was all because he was terrified of what Ivan was capable of doing to him.

But what if all of Ivan's childish implications were simply lies? Leading them around in circles? Making them insecure about their own defenses, and setting bread crumb trails for him to follow in a different direction. Ivan didn't need nuclear bombs or aircraft to fight this war like he did, Ivan only needed the power of suggestion.

Defeated, humiliated, America felt tears stream down his eyes. Tears of regret, regret for his failure and regret he was so weak and easily manipulated. He sobbed for his kingdom, which had been made fools of by his ignorance.

He sniffled, lifting his head from hiding in the blankets and with glossy eyes, looked forward and did what he could to resolve the situation at hand.

"I-I'm a slut. A slut."

Alfred sniffled pathetically, swallowing his low-pitching weeping to preserve what little dignity he had left for himself. With that, Russia withdrew, keeping true to at least one promise.

America didn't bother moving, instead he wallowed in his self-pity. There was no point chasing after him, though he watched clearly as he exited the room, giving a kind, sickening smile as he closed the door behind him, as if to bid him a good farewell.

Once he could hear the heavy clogging of boots go down his stairway, he lifted himself up from bed, his heart torn with rage and disgrace. He grabbed the alarm clock on the night stand next to his bed and hurled at his closed bedroom door, watching as the metal bent and the hands of the clock fell off of it's face, cracked and in pieces. The clock's face itself was wrinkled, distorting the numbers on it. The glass had shattered, almost like a car had crashed in that spot, leaving a dangerous mess for whomever chose to open the door again.

After panting heavily, observing the destruction he had caused. He took one last deep breath and sighed, wiping his eyes. Whimpering, he looked down at his hands, the hands that had all the power to move but did nothing in the wake of his darkest hour of dishonor. They were useless hands.

Clenching them into fists, he simply crawled back up onto his bed and curled into the sheets, murmuring a prayer and letting the night take his mind off of what had happened. He fell into sleep feeling raped, without ever having his clothes removed.