[Axis Powers Hetalia] Glare (Russia/America)
Title: Glare
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America
Rating: M
Warnings: Blowjob, glasses fetish (kinda), antagonism, fluff/angst Cold War fun
Summary: "Discomfort glare results in an instinctive desire to look away from a bright light source or difficulty in seeing a task." Takes place towards the end of Russia’s war with Afghanistan, just before the fall of the Soviet Union.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Definition comes from Wikipedia.
Author’s Notes: For bloodbrainurism, written for the MadSpring 2010 Fic Exchange. Notes follow after the fic.
___
In the first meeting of the year in 1992, Ivan walks into what he thinks is an empty conference room and sees Alfred bent over his newspaper. He’s sipping coffee from a mug he presumably brought himself, and his eyes are half-open - from where he stands, Ivan can see just a hint of vibrant blue flicking over the page.
He brings a hand to his mouth, takes a small step back. But he’s louder than he thought; the small whimper that involuntarily escapes his throat makes Alfred glance up. Then double-take. He holds Ivan’s gaze behind the lenses of those glasses, and Ivan feels the pit in his stomach drop as he just stares, and when did those blue eyes get so big?
“Ivan,” Alfred says; it takes him a whole five seconds to move to his feet, his eyes never leaving Ivan’s. That’s fine. Ivan’s not going anywhere; he can’t move. He’s too tired to move.
He’s too tired to do anything but look this Nation in the eyes and remember a meeting, two years ago, when everything exploded.
Fuck.
Ivan tightens his hands on the armchair, the blood in his ears drowning out the drone of Ludwig’s voice. He doesn’t even look up. Can’t look away from the way Alfred doodles and scribbles on his notes, how his eyes fall to half-mast as his lips fasten around the wire to his glasses. First the teeth, he notices, then those full, soft lips.
Ivan forces himself to focus on the lips - wait, he shouldn’t be looking at Alfred at all. He hasn’t had much sleep lately. Maybe that’s why he has to tell himself not to look into Alfred’s -
Alfred stops scribbling for a moment, and his eyes flick upwards to meet Ivan’s. He does not smile as he watches with those electric blue irises, doesn’t change his expression at all. But even so, Ivan can feel the mutual aggression rolling off Alfred in warm, heavy waves, lapping over him and making the heat rise up his neck.
It’s just a moment. But it’s enough, as Alfred shakes his head with a smirk, looks back down at his notes, and flips his glasses back on.
And the light hits his face just so, makes it glint off the lenses and hit him square in the eye. But it’s better, Ivan thinks, swallowing thickly as he reaches down to put a hand in his lap. Better. So much prettier when he’s not staring at Ivan like that - so much nicer when he can’t see behind blue eyes.
Ivan blinks, his body jerking as the other Nations begin moving, collecting files and talking, trying to keep their hands to themselves. Alfred moves with what seems to be deliberate slowness, adding paper to his file piece by piece, closing it as though he’s moving through water.
Ivan only moves to stand when Alfred does; and though he may be big, he’s always traveled fast when he wants to, and grabs Alfred’s arm (his grip doesn’t feel as strong as it did once upon a time, and fuck, he can’t afford to show weakness to this capitalist pig). Alfred scowls, his gaze going from the hand around his arm to those purple eyes, and the light on those lenses still obscures that blue. “What do you want, Commie?” he asks, trying to sound bored and failing to mask the static shaking in his voice.
Ivan just smiles, an upturn of the lips that sends wiser Nations fleeing. “You owe me an apology,” he says.
“What the hell? Is this about me selling weapons to Afghanistan? Dammit, Ivan, I don’t want to hear it - you invaded first. Let me go.”
“No,” Ivan says, and tightens his grip as Alfred tries to pull away. “You deliberately positioned yourself so that the glare from your lenses hit me in the eyes,” he says, each word light and lilting on his tongue. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Alfred gapes at him a little at that, those pretty lips falling apart and his eyebrows arching. And then he just bows forward, laughter bubbling from his lips. “You liked it,” Alfred accuses, the edge of his lip curling up in a smirk (so damn cocky -). “I saw it - you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.” He attempts to pull away again, this time jerking his arm free with that famous strength. “Now, if you’ll excu -”
Alfred’s body makes a satisfying thud against the wall; Russia holds him there, his smile a sharpened knife’s edge, his fingers clenched tight enough to try and hide the shaking. Alfred blinks up at him, his sneer gone, his eyes wide. And the lenses, thank God for the lenses, obscure whatever’s going on in that empty little head of his.
“Let me make it clear,” Ivan says, sharpening each syllable as he brings his face closer, ever closer. “You annoyed me. That was rude. I want an apology, you -”
Alfred chuckles. “Why do you want an apology from me?” His eyes glint behind his glasses, inviting, tempting, unlike the washed-out blue he sees in the dyes of his own land. “Why don’t you just punish me?”
Alfred’s lips surge up, crash against his; a challenge, a fuck you filled with teeth and tongue and snarls. Ivan meets it head-on, fisting fingers in Alfred’s hair, pressing his growing erection against Alfred’s thigh.
Alfred doesn’t protest, doesn’t even yelp when Ivan grabs him and pulls him into the light. “On your knees,” he snarls, but Alfred’s already there, the sunlight glinting off Alfred's glasses and making little bright squares on Ivan’s trenchcoat. If Alfred sees how ratty and old these pants are, he doesn't say a word as he pops open the button, undoes the zipper, and takes all of Ivan into his mouth.
“Yes,” Ivan breathes, allowing himself a pleasure that would get him whipped were he back at home, under ever-watchful eyes. He grips Alfred’s hair, forces him to look up at Ivan’s face as he fucks Alfred’s throat, fucks himself to rock-hardness in Alfred’s wet, warm mouth.
When he feels himself hit the back of Alfred’s throat, he sighs and shuts his eyes, letting himself ride the waves of arousal and contact. He smells aftershave and feels cornsilk-soft hair under his fingers, luxuries he wants but cannot have. He imagines that Alfred’s smiling up at him, eyes glinting as mischievous behind those glasses, the hints of blue irises peeking over the frames in a tease.
Alfred gags; Ivan opens his eyes, and his gut clenches to find that Alfred’s glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose. And it’s Alfred in those eyes, it’s anger and lust and an indescribable want, something that bubbles over and reaches out to him -
Ivan chokes a little cry and pulls out, but it’s too late. He tries to come over Alfred’s face and glasses with a grunt. It sounds more like a sob.
It is quiet in the aftermath; the sun is right in the middle of the window, bathing them in light and subtle, uncomfortable warmth. That it is safer to see the sun through the window than it is in Alfred’s eyes disquiets Ivan a little, though he doesn’t know why. He tries to ignore Alfred’s own heavy breaths as he tucks himself back into his pants, zipping himself up and making himself presentable before he goes to dinner.
“Ivan -”
Ivan hesitates, his hand on the doorway; he fights himself for the temptation to turn back and look. He has no idea if it’s an invitation or a demand; his mind is still reeling, filled with blue, unwilling to admit anything.
Ivan bows his head and walks out of the meeting room before Alfred can call his name again.
“Hey.”
Ivan blinks, coming back into his own body. Alfred’s close, his hand reaching up to feather over Ivan’s cheek. Alfred crooks a smile, but this time his brow stays relaxed and loose - maybe even a little sad. “I - I saw the news. So I guess….”
“Yes. It’s over.”
Ivan looks at Alfred - looks through the lenses, beyond them, looks into Alfred’s eyes filled with complication and softness and something Ivan’s not sure he wants to acknowledge yet. (Did the glasses really keep it away?)
“You hanging in there?” Alfred asks, taking a step forward even as Ivan takes a step back.”
“I - I’m not sure.” How stupid, Ivan thinks, asking a question like that, to him of all people.”
Alfred nods. “You will be,” he says at last, with a conviction that Ivan finds naïve. “You will be. Someday.”
Alfred lifts his hands, pinching the wires to his glasses - but Ivan reaches up to stop him. “No,” he says. Not yet.
“Ivan?”
Ivan’s only response is to lean in and press his lips to Alfred’s. They taste like coffee, and are just as soft as Ivan remembers.
___
Endnotes: This semester has been a hell of a roller coaster ride for me, and, um, this fic reflects that, because holy God it went from glasses fetish to HOLY SHIT COLD WAR SEXUAL TENSION and angstiness and oh God I’m so sorry. D: No, I have no idea where this came from. Yes, I’m aware that I cannot write their dynamic. No, this will not stop me from writing anonymously about them on the Kink Meme. Yes, I just admitted that. No, they are not usually this angsty.
That out of the way, I hope you enjoyed this at least a little bit. Um…happy April?
....
/goes back to writing undergrad thesis like mad
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America
Rating: M
Warnings: Blowjob, glasses fetish (kinda), antagonism, fluff/angst Cold War fun
Summary: "Discomfort glare results in an instinctive desire to look away from a bright light source or difficulty in seeing a task." Takes place towards the end of Russia’s war with Afghanistan, just before the fall of the Soviet Union.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back. Definition comes from Wikipedia.
Author’s Notes: For bloodbrainurism, written for the MadSpring 2010 Fic Exchange. Notes follow after the fic.
___
In the first meeting of the year in 1992, Ivan walks into what he thinks is an empty conference room and sees Alfred bent over his newspaper. He’s sipping coffee from a mug he presumably brought himself, and his eyes are half-open - from where he stands, Ivan can see just a hint of vibrant blue flicking over the page.
He brings a hand to his mouth, takes a small step back. But he’s louder than he thought; the small whimper that involuntarily escapes his throat makes Alfred glance up. Then double-take. He holds Ivan’s gaze behind the lenses of those glasses, and Ivan feels the pit in his stomach drop as he just stares, and when did those blue eyes get so big?
“Ivan,” Alfred says; it takes him a whole five seconds to move to his feet, his eyes never leaving Ivan’s. That’s fine. Ivan’s not going anywhere; he can’t move. He’s too tired to move.
He’s too tired to do anything but look this Nation in the eyes and remember a meeting, two years ago, when everything exploded.
Fuck.
Ivan tightens his hands on the armchair, the blood in his ears drowning out the drone of Ludwig’s voice. He doesn’t even look up. Can’t look away from the way Alfred doodles and scribbles on his notes, how his eyes fall to half-mast as his lips fasten around the wire to his glasses. First the teeth, he notices, then those full, soft lips.
Ivan forces himself to focus on the lips - wait, he shouldn’t be looking at Alfred at all. He hasn’t had much sleep lately. Maybe that’s why he has to tell himself not to look into Alfred’s -
Alfred stops scribbling for a moment, and his eyes flick upwards to meet Ivan’s. He does not smile as he watches with those electric blue irises, doesn’t change his expression at all. But even so, Ivan can feel the mutual aggression rolling off Alfred in warm, heavy waves, lapping over him and making the heat rise up his neck.
It’s just a moment. But it’s enough, as Alfred shakes his head with a smirk, looks back down at his notes, and flips his glasses back on.
And the light hits his face just so, makes it glint off the lenses and hit him square in the eye. But it’s better, Ivan thinks, swallowing thickly as he reaches down to put a hand in his lap. Better. So much prettier when he’s not staring at Ivan like that - so much nicer when he can’t see behind blue eyes.
Ivan blinks, his body jerking as the other Nations begin moving, collecting files and talking, trying to keep their hands to themselves. Alfred moves with what seems to be deliberate slowness, adding paper to his file piece by piece, closing it as though he’s moving through water.
Ivan only moves to stand when Alfred does; and though he may be big, he’s always traveled fast when he wants to, and grabs Alfred’s arm (his grip doesn’t feel as strong as it did once upon a time, and fuck, he can’t afford to show weakness to this capitalist pig). Alfred scowls, his gaze going from the hand around his arm to those purple eyes, and the light on those lenses still obscures that blue. “What do you want, Commie?” he asks, trying to sound bored and failing to mask the static shaking in his voice.
Ivan just smiles, an upturn of the lips that sends wiser Nations fleeing. “You owe me an apology,” he says.
“What the hell? Is this about me selling weapons to Afghanistan? Dammit, Ivan, I don’t want to hear it - you invaded first. Let me go.”
“No,” Ivan says, and tightens his grip as Alfred tries to pull away. “You deliberately positioned yourself so that the glare from your lenses hit me in the eyes,” he says, each word light and lilting on his tongue. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Alfred gapes at him a little at that, those pretty lips falling apart and his eyebrows arching. And then he just bows forward, laughter bubbling from his lips. “You liked it,” Alfred accuses, the edge of his lip curling up in a smirk (so damn cocky -). “I saw it - you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.” He attempts to pull away again, this time jerking his arm free with that famous strength. “Now, if you’ll excu -”
Alfred’s body makes a satisfying thud against the wall; Russia holds him there, his smile a sharpened knife’s edge, his fingers clenched tight enough to try and hide the shaking. Alfred blinks up at him, his sneer gone, his eyes wide. And the lenses, thank God for the lenses, obscure whatever’s going on in that empty little head of his.
“Let me make it clear,” Ivan says, sharpening each syllable as he brings his face closer, ever closer. “You annoyed me. That was rude. I want an apology, you -”
Alfred chuckles. “Why do you want an apology from me?” His eyes glint behind his glasses, inviting, tempting, unlike the washed-out blue he sees in the dyes of his own land. “Why don’t you just punish me?”
Alfred’s lips surge up, crash against his; a challenge, a fuck you filled with teeth and tongue and snarls. Ivan meets it head-on, fisting fingers in Alfred’s hair, pressing his growing erection against Alfred’s thigh.
Alfred doesn’t protest, doesn’t even yelp when Ivan grabs him and pulls him into the light. “On your knees,” he snarls, but Alfred’s already there, the sunlight glinting off Alfred's glasses and making little bright squares on Ivan’s trenchcoat. If Alfred sees how ratty and old these pants are, he doesn't say a word as he pops open the button, undoes the zipper, and takes all of Ivan into his mouth.
“Yes,” Ivan breathes, allowing himself a pleasure that would get him whipped were he back at home, under ever-watchful eyes. He grips Alfred’s hair, forces him to look up at Ivan’s face as he fucks Alfred’s throat, fucks himself to rock-hardness in Alfred’s wet, warm mouth.
When he feels himself hit the back of Alfred’s throat, he sighs and shuts his eyes, letting himself ride the waves of arousal and contact. He smells aftershave and feels cornsilk-soft hair under his fingers, luxuries he wants but cannot have. He imagines that Alfred’s smiling up at him, eyes glinting as mischievous behind those glasses, the hints of blue irises peeking over the frames in a tease.
Alfred gags; Ivan opens his eyes, and his gut clenches to find that Alfred’s glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose. And it’s Alfred in those eyes, it’s anger and lust and an indescribable want, something that bubbles over and reaches out to him -
Ivan chokes a little cry and pulls out, but it’s too late. He tries to come over Alfred’s face and glasses with a grunt. It sounds more like a sob.
It is quiet in the aftermath; the sun is right in the middle of the window, bathing them in light and subtle, uncomfortable warmth. That it is safer to see the sun through the window than it is in Alfred’s eyes disquiets Ivan a little, though he doesn’t know why. He tries to ignore Alfred’s own heavy breaths as he tucks himself back into his pants, zipping himself up and making himself presentable before he goes to dinner.
“Ivan -”
Ivan hesitates, his hand on the doorway; he fights himself for the temptation to turn back and look. He has no idea if it’s an invitation or a demand; his mind is still reeling, filled with blue, unwilling to admit anything.
Ivan bows his head and walks out of the meeting room before Alfred can call his name again.
“Hey.”
Ivan blinks, coming back into his own body. Alfred’s close, his hand reaching up to feather over Ivan’s cheek. Alfred crooks a smile, but this time his brow stays relaxed and loose - maybe even a little sad. “I - I saw the news. So I guess….”
“Yes. It’s over.”
Ivan looks at Alfred - looks through the lenses, beyond them, looks into Alfred’s eyes filled with complication and softness and something Ivan’s not sure he wants to acknowledge yet. (Did the glasses really keep it away?)
“You hanging in there?” Alfred asks, taking a step forward even as Ivan takes a step back.”
“I - I’m not sure.” How stupid, Ivan thinks, asking a question like that, to him of all people.”
Alfred nods. “You will be,” he says at last, with a conviction that Ivan finds naïve. “You will be. Someday.”
Alfred lifts his hands, pinching the wires to his glasses - but Ivan reaches up to stop him. “No,” he says. Not yet.
“Ivan?”
Ivan’s only response is to lean in and press his lips to Alfred’s. They taste like coffee, and are just as soft as Ivan remembers.
___
Endnotes: This semester has been a hell of a roller coaster ride for me, and, um, this fic reflects that, because holy God it went from glasses fetish to HOLY SHIT COLD WAR SEXUAL TENSION and angstiness and oh God I’m so sorry. D: No, I have no idea where this came from. Yes, I’m aware that I cannot write their dynamic. No, this will not stop me from writing anonymously about them on the Kink Meme. Yes, I just admitted that. No, they are not usually this angsty.
That out of the way, I hope you enjoyed this at least a little bit. Um…happy April?
....
/goes back to writing undergrad thesis like mad