~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:73◀

The chapter:

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3rd person pov:

The room was dimly lit, with the soft, grey light of morning casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. America stood towering over Russia, his frustration palpable. Russia sat on the edge of the bed, his anxiety mounting with each passing second.

Without a word, America’s hand moved toward Russia’s shirt. His fingers curled around the bottom hem, and with a firm, deliberate yank, he began to tear the fabric. The sound of ripping material echoed in the otherwise quiet room. Russia’s heart pounded louder with each upward pull, his breaths quick and shallow as the shirt was slowly dismembered.

America's eyes were fixed on the shirt as it was shredded piece by piece. Russia tried to shield himself, but the cuffs around his wrists limited his movement. Each tear of the shirt seemed to peel away not just the fabric but also his sense of security. As the shirt finally came off completely, America’s gaze was drawn to what lay beneath.

Russia’s wings, large and elegant, were revealed for the first time for Ame. They were beautifully complex, with feathers of varying lengths and textures. The sight was both stunning and terrifying for Russia. The wings were a part of him that he usually kept hidden, a symbol of his vulnerability and strength intertwined.

America’s eyes widened with a mix of curiosity and something darker. “What are these?” he asked, his tone devoid of warmth. “Are these some kind of ability or power you’ve got?”

Russia shook his head, his voice trembling. “No, they’re just… a part of me.”

America’s gaze shifted to the wings, and he began to trace his fingers along the edges. His touch was both curious and rough, probing the delicate feathers with an insensitivity that made Russia flinch. Each contact was a jolt of discomfort, and Russia struggled to keep still. His breathing became erratic, and he could feel his body tense with each harsh probe.

“Do they have any special abilities?” America persisted, his tone now tinged with a mix of disdain and fascination. “Or are they just for show?”

Russia’s voice was barely a whisper. “No, they’re just… part of who I am.”

America’s hands were unrelenting. He examined the wings feather by feather, occasionally pulling on the feathers roughly, making Russia wince. The insensitivity of America’s touch contrasted starkly with the delicate nature of Russia’s wings, making the experience even more excruciating.

Seeing Russia’s discomfort, America decided to change his approach. “Alright, let’s see if you’re more comfortable like this,” he said as he lifted Russia up and seated him on his lap. The movement was awkward and clumsy, but America managed it with a forceful ease.

Russia’s heart raced as he felt the closeness, the physical proximity accentuating his feelings of exposure. He sat there, stiff and uneasy, his back pressed against America’s chest. The cuffs on their wrists made the position uncomfortable, but America seemed indifferent to Russia’s plight.

America’s hand began to stroke through Russia’s fluffy hair, an odd mix of tenderness and possessiveness. The touch was intended to be comforting, but for Russia, it only deepened his discomfort. The contrast between the previous roughness and the current gentle patting was stark and confusing.

America’s fingers moved through Russia’s hair with a calm rhythm, though his gaze remained cold and calculating. “You know,” America said softly, his breath warm against Russia’s neck, “you really should’ve kept these hidden. They’re quite… distracting.”