In order to celebrate HETALIA'S anime adaptation. AXIS POWERS HETALIA KINK MEME
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Okay, let's make history and be more epic than these people, shall we?
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But then there was the noise of Russia’s breath, the feel of it, and hands on him, everywhere, sliding over his body. He tried to ignore it, tried to throw up his defenses and protect himself from the invasion, but Russia was strong. Years had passed, and Russia was stronger than he remembered him being, so strong that America could feel it-not just the power, but Russia himself, strong and tall and cool but warming to the touch.
Russia whispered in his ear in his language, and America knew enough of it that it made his hands shake. He gripped his pen until it creaked in his fist.
“Mister Jones,” the President was saying, but America was staring at his notes, and the single line of cyrillic he’d written. He couldn’t read it. He knew what it said anyway. He felt Russia nibble the shell of his ear and shut his eyes, but that was a mistake.
The room was dusky and cold, and he was folded against Russia like a child. Everything smelled of age and dust. He didn’t know why it all looked familiar.
“Do you remember learning of the Revolution, Alfred?” Russia asked him, in his mind and all around him. “Do you remember Nicholas and Alexandra?”
“Mister Jones,” the President said again, and America looked at him, could still feel the arms around him, the mouth on his neck, the words about death and downfall and change rushing over his ear.
“I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again, sir.”
“Are you feeling quite alright?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” But then Russia’s hands were roving, distracting, and America didn’t know how it was that his clothing was staying on, because he could feel his fly being undone, he could feel Russia drawing the shirt out of his trousers and running his hands over America’s belly. America bit his lip a moment, then excused, “I’m sorry, sir, I lied. I’m not feeling terribly well.”
“Quite alright, Mister Jones. Boys, we’ll meet tomorrow. Ten am sharp. I’ll see you then.”
America fled the board room, went to the office they’d given him when they’d rebuilt the capital all those years ago. He collapsed onto the couch on the west wall, and there was Russia, leaning over him, pressing him back. He went with the motions he felt, shut his eyes, and let everything wash over him.
Now, they were not in the dark room that smelled of age. He could hear birds. He could smell candle wax, and hear children playing in the house. There was a boy whining, and girls shrieking at each other. A man telling a girl to come down from a tree. Russia removed their clothing, and pressed his lips to America’s skin.
“You are liking my history, Alfred? It is far richer than yours.”
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“I am thinking I like you like this, Alfred,” Russia whispered against America’s chest, cold fingertips pressing until America was sure there would be bruises-would be, if these were real hands, not just the over-exaggeration of their shared thoughts-a tongue on his stomach and Russia’s mouth going down his body, down and down and.
There was a shift, like in a dream, and America was gripping Russia’s hair with one hand, touching himself with the other, beating off as Russia moved inside him. Russia’s voice was deep with lust, curdling over America’s mind, driving him mad, and the feel of him inside (“Are you liking me now, Alfred?” “Shut up and fuck me.”) is like nothing America can ever remember.
It is night, and then day, and then Spring, and the times are shifting around them, the threads of Russia’s fantasy world slipping away until it is just the two of them, America on his back in the void and on his couch, Russia wherever he is, doing this to him. His mind is in rapture long before his body goes tight and tense and he comes with a roar.
Russia moves slowly inside him, until America is whimpering from it. Then, Russia is blisteringly, bruisingly rough, terrible, the bastard America knows him to be, biting and scratching and it’s never felt this good before.
The images dissolve. First, America opens his eyes to look around his office. Then, the sensations-except for the real ones-melt away from his body. Finally, he can no longer feel the cold of Russia’s mind pressed against his own.
In the morning, the white noise returned.
Three days later, America stood in West Berlin, and wondered when the graffiti would go onto Russia’s wall.
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Anon just came.
Swirly, dreamlike psychic sex? YesPlz.
Russia/USA??? HNG. UNF. FAP.
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*aneurysm*
Russia dominating America already pushes all my buttons? But doing it via psychic sex? DED.
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I'm only sad because I'm almost afraid to go read anymore Russia/America because it's going to have quite a time meeting the excellence of this... mmm... to be in any way helpful, I really liked how the narration always referred to them by their country names, but their other names in dialogue... worked very well, made it more effective, somehow.
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Author!Anon, I do hope you realize that I will never forget this line. (I wish I was using the conventional reader!anon brand of hyperbole.)
Something about it makes it vibrate powerfully, over and over again in my head.
Not only that, but this entire fanfic in general. In its entirety, it captures the Cold War in an amazing new way--almost perfect; using its own experiments as a kind of metaphor for the whole "war" itself.
Th-Thank you. <33333
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Truly genius, authornon. You have my eternal love, and this fic will always be in my top three list for what may be my fandom life.
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