The nose, the kiss, they're good, but the feeling of Russia's breath working its way up his palm, that they can do this while he holds his hand down and Russia forces it up and through and that he allows it - and that they both know he's allowing it, they're good - that means more than anything.

Trust, yes - oh, there's trust that neither would like to address, just act it out here and now, and that's bigger - and there's also that small thrill that's a little more. Russia doesn't bow to anyone. Russia doesn't trust anyone, doesn't even trust himself. He'd be a liar if he said that the idea of controlling Russia didn't sing up his spine

but that's minor. So minor. It's there and after this long of them he can't even place the odd sensation, buried so deep he has to wonder where it's coming from, assigns it to that vast category of Too Many Feelings that they never talk about.

Instead, Russia huffs and he wants to make it better. Licks his lips and rocks back upright on his hips with his hand on (a beautiful, beautiful that he is not memorizing every single line of right now excuse you very much) throat, tight but not too tight, pauses there.

"You look... good."




Yeah that's romance, here.