"Spank America Decent"
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Title: "Spank America Decent"
Author: wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America. Although technically you could make this an OT3. Russia/America/Crippling Humiliation
Rating: PG-13. For insinuations. And glitter.
Summary: In 2005, a nightclub in Moscow hosted an event entitled "Spank America Decent." It was exactly what it sounds like.
And I Care...Why? I'll let pyrrhiccomedy do the honors: A club event called "Spank America Decent": The go-go dancers in the pictures were all dressed up in red white and blue, stars and stripes, etc. Cowboy hats. And so forth. There was a stripper with a wooden pony in one photo, like the kind kids tuck between their legs and run around on when they're pretending to be John Wayne...Guys, I couldn't make up something this sublime if I tried.
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“Mmph?”
“America.”
“Ngk.”
“This is Russia.”
“Know that.”
“...Were you asleep?”
“‘S seven in the morning.”
“So yes?”
“No shit.”
“Oh. Well. I am sorry. I had forgotten how you like to sleep in.”
“Seven isn’t sleeping in.”
“But now that you are awake, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said what it is yet.”
“Guess you were too busy waking me up.”
“I apologized.”
“Dunno if you meant it, though. I can hear you smiling.”
“I am entirely straight-faced.”
“Bull.”
“My favor, America?’
“Yeah, yeah, okay. What’s up, gorgeous?”
“I wish you would stop calling me that.”
“Is that the favor?”
“You are being deliberately dense.”
“I haven’t had any coffee yet. Gonna get Starbucks soon as we hang up.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, I’m listening--Oh, wait, hang on, I think I just got a text.”
“What?”
“Nothing. ‘S from Poland.”
“If you open it, I will never speak to you again.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Just...don’t open it.”
“The text?”
“Yes.”
“...Is this the favor?”
“Possibly.”
“You wanna drag me out of the dark, here?”
“There are photos. Poland has them. They are...compromising.”
“Wait, photos of what?”
“Not ‘what’.”
“Okay, of who then?”
“It is not important.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You are familiar with the nightlife in Moscow, yes?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa... These are crazy club pictures, aren’t they? Oh man.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, you don’t have to now. C’mon Russia, who’s in them? I won’t even care. It’s you, isn’t it? Oh my God, it’s totally you.”
“I told you not to open them!”
“I didn’t! I guessed.”
“Just get rid of them, all right? Without looking.”
“No way. Look, Russia, you have to think about this from my point of view. You’re telling me that I’ve got photos of you at some swanky nightclub, probably wearing body glitter, just sitting on my Blackberry, and I’m supposed to delete them?”
“Yes, exactly. Except I am not wearing glitter.”
“Heh. Sure.”
“America, please. Let me keep a shred of my dignity.”
“...”
“America?”
“...”
“America?”
“...”
“You looked, didn’t you?”
“Is...Is that a stick horse?”
“I was...holding it for someone else.”
“Uh-huh. Nice ass in those chaps, though.”
“Please shut up.”
“And...wait...What does that--damn, it’s blurry...What does the banner say? Over the stage? Spank America...”
“I am going to hang up.”
“Spank me what, Russia?”
“Goodbye.”
“Nonono, wait! It’s not--not that bad, I mean...It’s kind of flattering.”
“This is...what is that phrase...‘rubbing it in’.”
“I mean it. It’s...um. It’s nice that you’re, uh, you’re...thinking about spanking me.”
“What?”
“Thinking of me! It’s nice that you’re thinking of me.”
“I would like not to talk about this anymore.”
“Yeah, okay. I-I don’t think it’s that big a deal, honestly. Except that, um.”
“Yes?”
“You are wearing glitter.”
“No. I am not.”
“It looks like Tinkerbell sneezed on you.”
“Goodbye, America.”
“Or maybe Ziggy Stardust.”
“I am pushing the ‘end’ button.”
“Or Glinda the Good. Or a My Little--waitwaitwait hang on I love you--”
*Beeeep*
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You guys, if photos of this existed online, you can bet that I'd have them here in a New York minute, complete with zoom-in technology. But they were in a magazine. One that only Pyrrhic has seen. She's like Sir Galahad, if the Holy Grail had been photos of drunk Russian kids.
If you don't know what a magazine is, you are too young to be reading nationporn. It was like an Internet with twenty pages, and papercuts. And fewer gratuitous pictures of boobs.
SUPER-COOL EDIT: THIS SHIT JUST GOT WAY BETTER.
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Title: "Spank America Decent"
Author: wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America. Although technically you could make this an OT3. Russia/America/Crippling Humiliation
Rating: PG-13. For insinuations. And glitter.
Summary: In 2005, a nightclub in Moscow hosted an event entitled "Spank America Decent." It was exactly what it sounds like.
And I Care...Why? I'll let pyrrhiccomedy do the honors: A club event called "Spank America Decent": The go-go dancers in the pictures were all dressed up in red white and blue, stars and stripes, etc. Cowboy hats. And so forth. There was a stripper with a wooden pony in one photo, like the kind kids tuck between their legs and run around on when they're pretending to be John Wayne...Guys, I couldn't make up something this sublime if I tried.
+++
“Mmph?”
“America.”
“Ngk.”
“This is Russia.”
“Know that.”
“...Were you asleep?”
“‘S seven in the morning.”
“So yes?”
“No shit.”
“Oh. Well. I am sorry. I had forgotten how you like to sleep in.”
“Seven isn’t sleeping in.”
“But now that you are awake, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said what it is yet.”
“Guess you were too busy waking me up.”
“I apologized.”
“Dunno if you meant it, though. I can hear you smiling.”
“I am entirely straight-faced.”
“Bull.”
“My favor, America?’
“Yeah, yeah, okay. What’s up, gorgeous?”
“I wish you would stop calling me that.”
“Is that the favor?”
“You are being deliberately dense.”
“I haven’t had any coffee yet. Gonna get Starbucks soon as we hang up.”
“Mm.”
“Anyway, I’m listening--Oh, wait, hang on, I think I just got a text.”
“What?”
“Nothing. ‘S from Poland.”
“If you open it, I will never speak to you again.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Just...don’t open it.”
“The text?”
“Yes.”
“...Is this the favor?”
“Possibly.”
“You wanna drag me out of the dark, here?”
“There are photos. Poland has them. They are...compromising.”
“Wait, photos of what?”
“Not ‘what’.”
“Okay, of who then?”
“It is not important.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You are familiar with the nightlife in Moscow, yes?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa... These are crazy club pictures, aren’t they? Oh man.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, you don’t have to now. C’mon Russia, who’s in them? I won’t even care. It’s you, isn’t it? Oh my God, it’s totally you.”
“I told you not to open them!”
“I didn’t! I guessed.”
“Just get rid of them, all right? Without looking.”
“No way. Look, Russia, you have to think about this from my point of view. You’re telling me that I’ve got photos of you at some swanky nightclub, probably wearing body glitter, just sitting on my Blackberry, and I’m supposed to delete them?”
“Yes, exactly. Except I am not wearing glitter.”
“Heh. Sure.”
“America, please. Let me keep a shred of my dignity.”
“...”
“America?”
“...”
“America?”
“...”
“You looked, didn’t you?”
“Is...Is that a stick horse?”
“I was...holding it for someone else.”
“Uh-huh. Nice ass in those chaps, though.”
“Please shut up.”
“And...wait...What does that--damn, it’s blurry...What does the banner say? Over the stage? Spank America...”
“I am going to hang up.”
“Spank me what, Russia?”
“Goodbye.”
“Nonono, wait! It’s not--not that bad, I mean...It’s kind of flattering.”
“This is...what is that phrase...‘rubbing it in’.”
“I mean it. It’s...um. It’s nice that you’re, uh, you’re...thinking about spanking me.”
“What?”
“Thinking of me! It’s nice that you’re thinking of me.”
“I would like not to talk about this anymore.”
“Yeah, okay. I-I don’t think it’s that big a deal, honestly. Except that, um.”
“Yes?”
“You are wearing glitter.”
“No. I am not.”
“It looks like Tinkerbell sneezed on you.”
“Goodbye, America.”
“Or maybe Ziggy Stardust.”
“I am pushing the ‘end’ button.”
“Or Glinda the Good. Or a My Little--waitwaitwait hang on I love you--”
*Beeeep*
+++
You guys, if photos of this existed online, you can bet that I'd have them here in a New York minute, complete with zoom-in technology. But they were in a magazine. One that only Pyrrhic has seen. She's like Sir Galahad, if the Holy Grail had been photos of drunk Russian kids.
If you don't know what a magazine is, you are too young to be reading nationporn. It was like an Internet with twenty pages, and papercuts. And fewer gratuitous pictures of boobs.
SUPER-COOL EDIT: THIS SHIT JUST GOT WAY BETTER.
+