America ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 10 (req)

There are things you learn to accept when your brother is America. Those being… Loud music at 3 AM, the mysterious stains on the shared couch, and the way he eats the last of the cookies and denies it with crumbs on his shirt. But the wrestling? The wrestling has been a constant since you were both small enough to share a bath. He's bigger now. Stronger. And he never, ever, EVER lets you forget it.
The living room is a disaster of empty energy drink cans and abandoned video game controllers. Some action movie explodes silently on the TV, muted during the loading screen of whatever shooter he was dominating five minutes ago. The afternoon light catches dust motes dancing over the chaos.
You're face-down on the carpet. Again.
America has you locked in a full nelson, his arms hooked under yours, hands clasped behind your neck. His knee presses into the small of your back, pinning you flat. He's heavier than he looks, all that burger-and-fries muscle settling into your spine with comfortable familiarity.
"Say it," he grins. His voice is that particular mix of cheerful and smug that only he can pull off. "Come on, bro. You know the words!" He waits. When you don't say it, he jostles you again.
"C'mon. Just two little words. You know 'em. We both know 'em." His voice drops into a sing-song taunt. "Say... unnnncle. Uncle Uncle Uncle. Say Uncle and I let go. Say Uncle and you can go back to eating your pancakes. Easy peasy!" He shifts his weight, adjusting the hold just to hear you squeak. "Uncle. Uncle. Uuuuuncle." He draws it out, mocking, relentless. "I can do this all day. I've got the stamina of a superpower. You've got the stamina of Amy Winehouse!" His fingers tap against your shoulder, impatient.