Title: Sucker Love (Part 1)
Author: me!
Rating: R
Characters: Prussia, Canada
Summary: for prompt #47, "every you, every me" (64 damn prompts on LJ). Prussia thinks this can't be for real; Canada is scared it is.
Notes: loosely based on Placebo's, "Every You Every Me".

"Sucker love is known to swing,
Prone to cling and waste these things.
Pucker up for heaven's sake.
There's never been so much at stake."

Canada bites hard enough to draw blood, when one pushes him enough. Prussia, who is balls deep in the younger nation and pinning him by his throat to the coffee table, is certainly pushing. His neck aches - he's sure the bite will scab by morning, but Prussia merely lets a chuckle slide from his throat and presses down, earning himself a strangled sound from the body beneath him.

"Still angry?" he asks with a laugh. Canada pants, wriggles, claws at Prussia's forearm. Beneath the ex-nation's wiry frame, the blond has remained hard throughout everything - Prussia's telltale sign that the kid is still enjoying it. Prussia examines the way his fingers, pressed tightly against the soft underside of Canada's jaw, turn white with pressure.

"Well fuck, I still am." Prussia proclaims, and loosens his grip just enough so that Canada can surge upwards and kiss him again. Canada tastes like alcohol and blood - the kid bites at his lip, bucks his hips forward and Prussia turns his face away, grabs the squirming nation under him and slams him down flat on the coffee table.

Canada gasps, the wind knocked out of him - but that same fucking smile still curls up the edges of his mouth and Prussia, annoyed and maybe more than a little turned on, begins fucking him with abandon, shoving himself into the blond, hands tight on his forearms.

It was Canada, surprisingly, who had thought this whole arrangement up - originally it had been arranged as a few blows to let off steam ("you're angry, and I'm angry", the blond had told him as he tenderly prodded his broken nose. "We can help each other."), secretive meetings at an abandoned campground or Canada's wilderness. Prussia, stinging from the loss of his land and constantly wondering when Germany would grow annoyed of him and give him the axe (literally? Figurative? Prussia wasn't sure), was more than happy to oblige this self-righteous, goody-goody little nation.

"What the fuck could you possibly be angry about?" Prussia had demanded right after he had broken Canada's nose - it was only when the blond clocked him in the jaw with enough force to almost shatter it had he realized that the little thing was serious. That was fine by him.

He wasn't sure when it progressed further - maybe when he discovered Canada liked being held down, maybe the time he wrenched the blond's arms behind his back and discovered he was hard, maybe (definitely) the time they had fought until they were breathless and then Prussia had fucked Canada so hard the young nation was limping for days - but whenever Canada called him to "invite him over for a movie" this was what they did instead of tussle.

It was nice - Canada didn't bother with small talk or "how are you"s, and neither did Prussia. Why should he? This was therapeutic and fun and nothing else. After they were done, Canada didn't ask him to stay, or ask to cuddle, or make him breakfast. They fucked, that was all.

Says Prussia. He doesn't think about how good Canada feels, how he's probably the best Prussia's had in years - fuck, maybe centuries. He doesn't think about how Canada's face, red from lack of oxygen or twisted in pleasure or snarling with frustration, ignites in him something he isn't used to feeling. To make up for this rather annoying spectrum of thoughts, he smacks his hand sharply across Canada's abdomen, watches the skin ripple and the way the blond eyebrows draw angrily together.

Prussia just smirks at him, finding his rhythm again, and Canada's brows slowly become unknotted - he leans his head back on the coffee table, sighing and moaning in a way that tells Prussia he's close.

Prussia's hand is getting tired of clenching Canada's throat and so he instead slips it to brace himself by the younger nation's head - Canada grabs his wrist in a no-nonsense grip and moves it back towards his neck, warm fingers on Prussia's thumb, and presses the digit hard against his Adam's apple.

The young nation's cock twitches, trapped between their bodies - he swallows, throat bobbing against Prussia's fingernail, gives a strangled shout, and comes.

As Canada bonelessly flops his limbs back down, Prussia grabs his hair and twists his head up, snarling, "You're not done yet!"

Obligingly, Canada makes a weak effort to move, stomach muscles trembling. He hangs onto Prussia's shoulders, presses their bodies close, and squeezes his thighs together. Huffing a harsh sigh into the blond's hair, Prussia thrusts his way to much-needed completion.

Not one of their better attempts, he thinks wryly as he slides out of the kid, but that might be because Canada had threatened him quite colourfully prior to this about what would happen if the coffee table had been broken. Something about seeing Canada lie there, sprawled out on the coffee table, panting and trailing a shaking hand over his stomach, was making Prussia think about another round.

"What?" Canada asks with a little laugh, catching him staring - Prussia follows the path of the blond's fingers as they trail languidly across his belly button.

"Hn, nothing. I didn't break your fucking table, you happy?" he demands, rising to his feet and shaking out his cramping hand.

It's strange, he thinks, what a mood swing Canada goes through - a half hour ago he was clawing at Prussia's back and leaving teeth indentations on his neck; now Canada looks almost shy and sheepish, naked as the day he was born, lying on a coffee table (a coffee table he had used while entertaining guests, maybe even his own family!), the promises of bruises on his throat and the look of a freshly fucked man.

Canada gives a little half-smile, already getting up to look for his glasses (which Prussia had thrown over near the sofa, fuck all if he knew where they were). The coffee table creaked dangerously. Prussia rooted around one of the chairs for his boxers.

They don't speak any more than that - when Prussia is ready he gets up, half-heartedly clears his throat, and makes for the door. As usual, Canada follows him, and says, "Thank you" before closing the door.

And that should be enough. But somehow, today, Prussia does not feel sated, satisfied, at ease. The feeling in his gut has increased tenfold, and left him with something bitter in his mouth that he cannot place.

Note: This is just an idea I had...I'll have to see where it goes!