do go on about this feral-like america/even more powerful russia. for. political educational reasons. yes that.

Sometimes, when Alfred is calm and Ivan is cuddly, they have the kind of sex that none of the other countries even think them capable of having; slow, sweet, all soft kisses and even some giggling while they just bask in being with each other. 

Then again, there are other times. Times when either of them have been having a rough time, too full of energy and the need to act like in the old days that they’re practically vibrating with the excess energy. Alfred’s always the one to start the fight, usually over some little thing that wouldn’t really bother him on the worst of days. He’s hissing and spitting over something like the way Ivan’s made the bed (sometimes literally, and Ivan can’t put into words what seeing Alfred’s innocent face curling into a feral snarl does to him) and that’s it. It’s the starting flag, and the game is on. 

Glasses break, plates chip, backs and heads slam into furniture and walls. It’s not a “dance;” it’s far, far too violent for that. By the time they’ve both stripped off each other’s clothing, they’re both littered with new bruises and bite marks, but Alfred is always, always pinned. Sometimes it’s on his back, a larger pair of hands squeezing his wrists till the bones threaten to grind together. Other times it’s on his stomach, both arms pinned behind his back by his own t-shirt. 

At this point Alfred’s still spitting insults, biting and snapping at Ivan’s fingers if they get too close to his mouth, coherent thought lost between the competing impulses to fight and fuck. Ivan can feel his own control fraying, but he’s gentle, cruelly gentle and slow until Alfred’s violent threats have melted into shameless moans for Ivan to hurry up and fuck him, won’t comply with his requests until Alfred’s completely forgotten about things like self-respect or shame, begging Ivan to get inside him, fuck him hard and own him with the unapologetic dominance they both know he’s capable of. 

It’s only then that Ivan complies, slides into him, and the rest is written in cracked headboards and sweaty, ruined sheets, moaned and badly-pronounced words of “more” and “please” and “love you” that Alfred’s slowly but surely been memorizing from his English-to-Russian dictionary.