They're certainly close to Canada's home--as far as Russia can tell. So thought he huffs and wants to chase after that slim hand, tangle their fingers together again, he just lets Canada do his thing and once more brings his hand up to tap at his jaw, thumb idly at the curve of his cheek as he regards the blushing nation besides him.
And they might have calmed down, settled into a slower pace but Russia's mind is certainly not as calm as he would like Canada to think. Like Canada thinks of that one time in his office, where they'd gotten impatient and rough, where he'd swept papers off the desk and pressed Canada down, bent him over and bit into his shoulder as they fucked rough against the hard surface of that desk. Surely Canada could never look at it the same way ever again, Russia couldn't, certainly would let his gaze linger knowingly whenever they met, alone or otherwise.
There's a blink, eyelids lowering half-mast and Russia's tongue traces the curve of his bottom lip as if to taste Canada upon it. There's a low sound and he thumbs at his lip, watches Canada drive with darkened eyes and waits ever more impatiently for them to arrive.
Once they do however, there's a pause. The car pulls into the driveway, parks, idles, turns off and he breathes in, out, leans over to kiss the shell of Canada's ear, nibble gently before letting his voice rumble low and husky.
"C'mon, Matvey." He pulls back, presses a kiss to the corner of Canada's mouth and withdraws slowly, tauntingly. He wants the younger nation to follow, to be entranced and needy. The smile that flickers at his lips speaks volumes of that.
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And they might have calmed down, settled into a slower pace but Russia's mind is certainly not as calm as he would like Canada to think. Like Canada thinks of that one time in his office, where they'd gotten impatient and rough, where he'd swept papers off the desk and pressed Canada down, bent him over and bit into his shoulder as they fucked rough against the hard surface of that desk. Surely Canada could never look at it the same way ever again, Russia couldn't, certainly would let his gaze linger knowingly whenever they met, alone or otherwise.
There's a blink, eyelids lowering half-mast and Russia's tongue traces the curve of his bottom lip as if to taste Canada upon it. There's a low sound and he thumbs at his lip, watches Canada drive with darkened eyes and waits ever more impatiently for them to arrive.
Once they do however, there's a pause. The car pulls into the driveway, parks, idles, turns off and he breathes in, out, leans over to kiss the shell of Canada's ear, nibble gently before letting his voice rumble low and husky.
"C'mon, Matvey." He pulls back, presses a kiss to the corner of Canada's mouth and withdraws slowly, tauntingly. He wants the younger nation to follow, to be entranced and needy. The smile that flickers at his lips speaks volumes of that.