44 - All To Myself
Title: All To Myself
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: R for sex.
Summary: 1957 - The 6th World Festival of Youth and Students sweeps through Moscow with, jazz, dancing and, um, foreign relations with all the nice visiting foreign boys. America in Levis, playing jazz piano, and singing Nat King Cole, has pretty much the expected effect.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. July, 1957.
America was singing him love songs.
The crowd clustered up around the stage, young Soviet men and women, quiet, captivated, as America's fingers wandered down the keys. 'Jazz standards,' he had said, harmless jazz standards that his musicians had been handing off between each other since the 20s and 30s and 40s: that would be best. Then Russia's people could see him, and listen to him, and there wouldn't be any concerns about hidden political messages, which Russia appreciated--since it had, after all, been his idea to invite America to perform at the World Festival of Youth and Students.
America didn't seem to realize that he had seduced half the girls in Moscow in the process. His clear tenor and disarming smile and his happy banter between every song had won him a plume of young ladies which trailed out behind him whenever he showed his face on the streets.
But America only had eyes for Russia.
"Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?" America asked, his music held against his chest like a shield. "I don't want to get you in trouble or anything--"
"I invited you, didn't I?" Russia smiled. "The whole point of this is for my people to open their doors to foreigners. And you're the most foreign person I know."
America gave him a halfhearted grimace. His gaze flicked from face to face as the audience filed in past him; all of Russia's people eyed him like a curiosity. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm real excited about being here, I just--it's been such a long time, you know? I mean, since I came here as a--as a civilian."
"Decades." It felt longer. Russia popped up the collar of America's button-down dress shirt and smoothed the cornflower blue fabric beneath his thumbs. "Which means that you're overdue a visit, don't you think?" He raised his eyebrows at America and smiled. It had been ages since he had felt this--this light. A final wrinkle massaged out of America's collar, and Russia folded it back down, crisp. He let his fingers linger. America shivered; Russia could do that to him, whenever he wanted to.
A hesitant smile tugged up the corner of America's mouth. "Yeah," he rucked a hand through his hair, "Guess so." More exchanged glances with his audience, and then, "Russia...why is everybody staring at my pants?"
Russia laughed and squinted at America's legs in the dim lights of the club. "I don't think any of them would have seen jeans before." America always inhabited those Levi's as easily as a second skin. Russia suddenly wanted very much to reach around him and slide his hands into the other nation's back pockets, urge him in close.
America kept his head bowed as he played. There were hundreds of people spread out around the black piano, the front row a phalanx of misty-eyed girls with shorn pigtails, but America wasn't playing for any of them.
"Could there be eyes like yours?
Could there be lips like yours?
Could there be smiles like yours,
Honest and truly? ..."
There was a warmth under Russia's skin that was trying to become a blush. His eyes slid over America, the strong arch of his back over the piano. The streets of the Festival were bustling with pretty Soviet girls wearing only one pigtail; the other had been cut off to mark them for later, to reprimand them for their behavior. His boss wanted to promote cultural exchange; sex with the visiting foreign boys--Americans, Spaniards, Frenchmen--was not what Khrushchev had in mind. Of course, the clever girls simply snipped their hair short on both sides…
Russia just felt relieved that he had no long hair to cut.
"I want to take you away,
away from the crowd
And have you all to myself,
Alone and apart---"
America had a beautiful voice. And he had come all this way to sing for--for him; just for him.
"--Out of a dream,
Safe into my heart."
America said a few last words after the applause. Russia waited as the other nation bowed, retreated from the spotlight, disappeared behind the curtain--another act took his place. Russia barely heard them. Some minutes later, America emerged from backstage. He turned down a few drinks which were waved in his direction, swerved around the girls, and made his way straight for Russia.
He stopped less than a foot away. His voice buzzed, breathless, now, like it had never been while he was singing, and there was a sharp sweet light in his eyes. "Was that okay? How'd I do?"
Russia just stared at him for a few moments. He shivered down to his heart. "Y-Yes," he managed. His voice dropped, and he half-closed the space between them. "You were wonderful."
America looked over his shoulder, scanned the club, then nudged Russia into the alcove behind him and pressed their mouths together.
The niche was dim, the air trapped by the walls a little stale, but Russia had never been so grateful for anything in his life. He slid his tongue past America's lips and tasted that hot breath, sucked it down; his shoulder blades were crushed into the corner, and he could finally, finally-- His hands slipped into America's back pockets, cupped the other nation's ass through the denim. America's clothes were still hot from the spotlights.
America mumbled something against his lips, something about the show going well, it wasn't important. His hands carded into Russia's hair, slid up beneath his shirt, and jerked their hips in tight together. Then, soft and indistinct between their kisses, "We shouldn't, um, here--we should--"
Russia fastened his mouth to the soft trench just under America's jaw. "Don't be--don't be an idiot..."
"'M not--" A ragged breath, and America's hands scoured up Russia's back. "'S just--" Russia nipped again, and a quiet word slipped out of America, something he didn't catch, fuck or please-- "Your people are all over the place, a-and--"
"They won't see," Russia dragged his hands up, out of America's pockets; one tangled in the other nation's wilting collar, tugged his head back, and the other slipped past the waistline of his jeans. "Just--mmh--just be quiet..."
America whimpered and ran his hands around Russia's sides to his front, opened a spray of buttons, so he could get his hands on him better. His dissent faded.
Russia hadn't been able to take his eyes off America's hands since he first set them on the piano. He caught up the other nation's wrist, licked along the sweet indentation of his palm, nuzzled into those calluses. A hot breath, and he took two of America's fingers into his mouth. America stared at him, then drew his thumbnail down the shallow curve of Russia's lower lip, kissed him around his own fingers.
They fumbled open each other's pants, felt inside, gasping and hot against each other, keeping as quiet as they could in their secluded little corner of dark. America twisted them, so that it was Russia pushing him back against the wall. Their next kiss was deep, hot and aching, and Russia couldn't bring himself to break it as he pushed America's jeans down a few inches, over his hips. He couldn't look, wouldn't end this kiss, and so he mapped America with his fingers instead, caressing and teasing. He cradled the side of America's face; after more than a minute, when America was whimpering, nudging hot and uncontrollable against his hand, he slid his fingers into America's mouth.
America took his turn at sucking, licking, biting, while more jazz washed over them from the distant stage. He clipped off his glasses and hung them from a button of his shirt; smiled, slow as dripping honey, as Russia's hands withdrew, and twisted to face the wall. He braced an elbow against it and glanced back at Russia; there was a hot flicker around those eyelashes.
One final glance behind him (the house lights were low, and the quartet on stage held the room in thrall) and Russia moved up behind America, spooned their bodies together, bit down on his shoulder. Russia's heartbeat throbbed against America's back as he twisted his fingers up and into him, careful as he could, but--but America never minded when it hurt. Yes: that aching rigidity rippled through America: from his eyelids to his fists to his heels, and then he pressed back, a short breath skidding out of him.
Russia leaned up, bit the turn of America's jaw. "Is that good?" he breathed.
America gave a soft, shaking laugh. He raked his hand up through Russia's hair and pressed his nails in behind his ear. "Come on, already."
A gasp then, and a smile, unseen against America's neck. Russia pulsed his hips against the back of America's thigh. Half a minute later, he'd had as much as he could take; he drew his fingers out of him, kissed the back of his head, then stepped in close--
He pressed into America in short, heated little increments, gasping ragged over the bass line of the band.
America sank his teeth into the back of his own hand to stifle himself. They worked themselves together, flinching at their own shivering vocalizations, their breath bolting out of them for every inch. America grabbed Russia's arm and dragged it around his chest, locked it there. Russia could feel America's heart pelting under his hand. He curled his fingers around that pulse, dug his nails in. Tried to hold it.
His rocked into America on shifting thrusts, an inch in, an inch out, slipping deeper every time he dragged the other nation back against him. America's skin gleamed with sweat in the darkness, just under his collar, and Russia lapped it up, his tongue soothing up the tense muscles of America's neck as he fucked him.
"Russia--" America's voice was almost too soft to hear. He bore the heel of his hand against the wall and ground against Russia. "Bite--bite down. There." The back of his neck tensed.
Russia obeyed. He closed his teeth on that rigidity and dug in until he felt the muscle give. America's breath thinned, sharpened, Russia could feel him trying not to cry out, he could feel him clenching from his teeth to the backs of his thighs to keep silent. America's arm dropped from Russia's, and Russia felt him jolt as he began to work himself, fast and rough.
Russia shuddered, shoved into him harder. He had been ready to come since before he had even been inside him. It was just--just America, hot and hard and strong, with that smile and those gorgeous hands, and--God, Russia was allowed to fuck him. Another bite, harder, he could feel the imprints of his teeth overlapping on America's skin. America arched into the bruise with a hollow breath. Russia jerked his arm around America's hips, covered America's hand on his cock. He clutched America into him with both arms, crushed him close, so hard they both struggled to breathe, dug into him, and…and America whimpered yes, God, please, and it was--it was so--Russia gasped, because, h-his heart--
America laced their fingers together around himself, a sharp steeple of his knuckles and a long drag, down. He gave a brittle little cry that was lost inside the glissando onstage and clenched his hand into Russia's hair, pulled.
Russia's eyes went wide, and then he was coming, burning, buckled down against America, crushing him into the wall, it scraped against the backs of their knuckles. He buried his face in America's shoulder and gasped in time with his pulsing hips, and didn't give a damn if they were found as his voice crawled out of him: "America…"
Another trembling pause, and America sank slow back onto his heels, weak and shuddering. He braced his forehead against the wall. He let go of Russia's hair and covered Russia's arm across his chest again, squeezed his elbow: an embrace written small. A heavy, golden interlude followed, as they caught their breaths, as they felt each other's heartbeat through their clothes. Russia blinked his eyes open, kissed openmouthed into the curve of America's neck as he pulled out.
America turned to face Russia and draped back against the wall as he hiked up his pants and buttoned up his clothes. He let Russia almost get his trousers fastened again before he grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him down into a kiss. Russia felt himself melt into it.
They didn't part as America murmured,
"Couldn't live without you, beautiful."
Russia felt the words shaped against his skin. He looked into America's eyes, veiled and blue and fathoms deep. "Thank you," he whispered. "For...what you sang."
America only had to tip his chin up for another kiss.
+++
--The 6th World Festival of Youth and Students opened on July 28, 1957, in Moscow. The festival attracted 34,000 people from 130 countries. This became possible after the bold political changes initiated by Nikita Khrushchev. It was the first World Festival of Youth and Students held in the Soviet Russia, which was opening its doors for the first time to the world.
--Musicians from all over the world came to Russia for the festival, showcasing dozens of different genres of popular music. Jazz was a favorite of the crowds, and that particular musical scene drew many talented performers, including famous saxophonist Aleksey Kozlov.
--In a later interview, Kozlov recalled the steps taken by the government to discourage young Soviet women from having sex with foreigners: "They were unable to detain every violator, so they were just catching Soviet girls and shaving off part of their hair, so that later Komsomol could take care of those infringers. Of course, many of them caught on and began cutting their hair on both sides. Less than a year later one could notice more babies being born.”
-Edita Pyekha, a multilingual singer also present at the festival, had this to say at a later date: “Everybody danced and had a great time. The songs were sung in different languages. Young beautiful people from different countries immensely enjoyed each other’s company."
-The festival rocked the Soviet style of life and affected what young people were wearing at the time. And that's when many of the Soviet people first heard the word 'jeans'.
-Here is America's closing act, "You Stepped Out Of A Dream", popularized by the ever-awesome Nat King Cole.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: R for sex.
Summary: 1957 - The 6th World Festival of Youth and Students sweeps through Moscow with, jazz, dancing and, um, foreign relations with all the nice visiting foreign boys. America in Levis, playing jazz piano, and singing Nat King Cole, has pretty much the expected effect.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. July, 1957.
America was singing him love songs.
The crowd clustered up around the stage, young Soviet men and women, quiet, captivated, as America's fingers wandered down the keys. 'Jazz standards,' he had said, harmless jazz standards that his musicians had been handing off between each other since the 20s and 30s and 40s: that would be best. Then Russia's people could see him, and listen to him, and there wouldn't be any concerns about hidden political messages, which Russia appreciated--since it had, after all, been his idea to invite America to perform at the World Festival of Youth and Students.
America didn't seem to realize that he had seduced half the girls in Moscow in the process. His clear tenor and disarming smile and his happy banter between every song had won him a plume of young ladies which trailed out behind him whenever he showed his face on the streets.
But America only had eyes for Russia.
"Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?" America asked, his music held against his chest like a shield. "I don't want to get you in trouble or anything--"
"I invited you, didn't I?" Russia smiled. "The whole point of this is for my people to open their doors to foreigners. And you're the most foreign person I know."
America gave him a halfhearted grimace. His gaze flicked from face to face as the audience filed in past him; all of Russia's people eyed him like a curiosity. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm real excited about being here, I just--it's been such a long time, you know? I mean, since I came here as a--as a civilian."
"Decades." It felt longer. Russia popped up the collar of America's button-down dress shirt and smoothed the cornflower blue fabric beneath his thumbs. "Which means that you're overdue a visit, don't you think?" He raised his eyebrows at America and smiled. It had been ages since he had felt this--this light. A final wrinkle massaged out of America's collar, and Russia folded it back down, crisp. He let his fingers linger. America shivered; Russia could do that to him, whenever he wanted to.
A hesitant smile tugged up the corner of America's mouth. "Yeah," he rucked a hand through his hair, "Guess so." More exchanged glances with his audience, and then, "Russia...why is everybody staring at my pants?"
Russia laughed and squinted at America's legs in the dim lights of the club. "I don't think any of them would have seen jeans before." America always inhabited those Levi's as easily as a second skin. Russia suddenly wanted very much to reach around him and slide his hands into the other nation's back pockets, urge him in close.
America kept his head bowed as he played. There were hundreds of people spread out around the black piano, the front row a phalanx of misty-eyed girls with shorn pigtails, but America wasn't playing for any of them.
"Could there be eyes like yours?
Could there be lips like yours?
Could there be smiles like yours,
Honest and truly? ..."
There was a warmth under Russia's skin that was trying to become a blush. His eyes slid over America, the strong arch of his back over the piano. The streets of the Festival were bustling with pretty Soviet girls wearing only one pigtail; the other had been cut off to mark them for later, to reprimand them for their behavior. His boss wanted to promote cultural exchange; sex with the visiting foreign boys--Americans, Spaniards, Frenchmen--was not what Khrushchev had in mind. Of course, the clever girls simply snipped their hair short on both sides…
Russia just felt relieved that he had no long hair to cut.
"I want to take you away,
away from the crowd
And have you all to myself,
Alone and apart---"
America had a beautiful voice. And he had come all this way to sing for--for him; just for him.
"--Out of a dream,
Safe into my heart."
America said a few last words after the applause. Russia waited as the other nation bowed, retreated from the spotlight, disappeared behind the curtain--another act took his place. Russia barely heard them. Some minutes later, America emerged from backstage. He turned down a few drinks which were waved in his direction, swerved around the girls, and made his way straight for Russia.
He stopped less than a foot away. His voice buzzed, breathless, now, like it had never been while he was singing, and there was a sharp sweet light in his eyes. "Was that okay? How'd I do?"
Russia just stared at him for a few moments. He shivered down to his heart. "Y-Yes," he managed. His voice dropped, and he half-closed the space between them. "You were wonderful."
America looked over his shoulder, scanned the club, then nudged Russia into the alcove behind him and pressed their mouths together.
The niche was dim, the air trapped by the walls a little stale, but Russia had never been so grateful for anything in his life. He slid his tongue past America's lips and tasted that hot breath, sucked it down; his shoulder blades were crushed into the corner, and he could finally, finally-- His hands slipped into America's back pockets, cupped the other nation's ass through the denim. America's clothes were still hot from the spotlights.
America mumbled something against his lips, something about the show going well, it wasn't important. His hands carded into Russia's hair, slid up beneath his shirt, and jerked their hips in tight together. Then, soft and indistinct between their kisses, "We shouldn't, um, here--we should--"
Russia fastened his mouth to the soft trench just under America's jaw. "Don't be--don't be an idiot..."
"'M not--" A ragged breath, and America's hands scoured up Russia's back. "'S just--" Russia nipped again, and a quiet word slipped out of America, something he didn't catch, fuck or please-- "Your people are all over the place, a-and--"
"They won't see," Russia dragged his hands up, out of America's pockets; one tangled in the other nation's wilting collar, tugged his head back, and the other slipped past the waistline of his jeans. "Just--mmh--just be quiet..."
America whimpered and ran his hands around Russia's sides to his front, opened a spray of buttons, so he could get his hands on him better. His dissent faded.
Russia hadn't been able to take his eyes off America's hands since he first set them on the piano. He caught up the other nation's wrist, licked along the sweet indentation of his palm, nuzzled into those calluses. A hot breath, and he took two of America's fingers into his mouth. America stared at him, then drew his thumbnail down the shallow curve of Russia's lower lip, kissed him around his own fingers.
They fumbled open each other's pants, felt inside, gasping and hot against each other, keeping as quiet as they could in their secluded little corner of dark. America twisted them, so that it was Russia pushing him back against the wall. Their next kiss was deep, hot and aching, and Russia couldn't bring himself to break it as he pushed America's jeans down a few inches, over his hips. He couldn't look, wouldn't end this kiss, and so he mapped America with his fingers instead, caressing and teasing. He cradled the side of America's face; after more than a minute, when America was whimpering, nudging hot and uncontrollable against his hand, he slid his fingers into America's mouth.
America took his turn at sucking, licking, biting, while more jazz washed over them from the distant stage. He clipped off his glasses and hung them from a button of his shirt; smiled, slow as dripping honey, as Russia's hands withdrew, and twisted to face the wall. He braced an elbow against it and glanced back at Russia; there was a hot flicker around those eyelashes.
One final glance behind him (the house lights were low, and the quartet on stage held the room in thrall) and Russia moved up behind America, spooned their bodies together, bit down on his shoulder. Russia's heartbeat throbbed against America's back as he twisted his fingers up and into him, careful as he could, but--but America never minded when it hurt. Yes: that aching rigidity rippled through America: from his eyelids to his fists to his heels, and then he pressed back, a short breath skidding out of him.
Russia leaned up, bit the turn of America's jaw. "Is that good?" he breathed.
America gave a soft, shaking laugh. He raked his hand up through Russia's hair and pressed his nails in behind his ear. "Come on, already."
A gasp then, and a smile, unseen against America's neck. Russia pulsed his hips against the back of America's thigh. Half a minute later, he'd had as much as he could take; he drew his fingers out of him, kissed the back of his head, then stepped in close--
He pressed into America in short, heated little increments, gasping ragged over the bass line of the band.
America sank his teeth into the back of his own hand to stifle himself. They worked themselves together, flinching at their own shivering vocalizations, their breath bolting out of them for every inch. America grabbed Russia's arm and dragged it around his chest, locked it there. Russia could feel America's heart pelting under his hand. He curled his fingers around that pulse, dug his nails in. Tried to hold it.
His rocked into America on shifting thrusts, an inch in, an inch out, slipping deeper every time he dragged the other nation back against him. America's skin gleamed with sweat in the darkness, just under his collar, and Russia lapped it up, his tongue soothing up the tense muscles of America's neck as he fucked him.
"Russia--" America's voice was almost too soft to hear. He bore the heel of his hand against the wall and ground against Russia. "Bite--bite down. There." The back of his neck tensed.
Russia obeyed. He closed his teeth on that rigidity and dug in until he felt the muscle give. America's breath thinned, sharpened, Russia could feel him trying not to cry out, he could feel him clenching from his teeth to the backs of his thighs to keep silent. America's arm dropped from Russia's, and Russia felt him jolt as he began to work himself, fast and rough.
Russia shuddered, shoved into him harder. He had been ready to come since before he had even been inside him. It was just--just America, hot and hard and strong, with that smile and those gorgeous hands, and--God, Russia was allowed to fuck him. Another bite, harder, he could feel the imprints of his teeth overlapping on America's skin. America arched into the bruise with a hollow breath. Russia jerked his arm around America's hips, covered America's hand on his cock. He clutched America into him with both arms, crushed him close, so hard they both struggled to breathe, dug into him, and…and America whimpered yes, God, please, and it was--it was so--Russia gasped, because, h-his heart--
America laced their fingers together around himself, a sharp steeple of his knuckles and a long drag, down. He gave a brittle little cry that was lost inside the glissando onstage and clenched his hand into Russia's hair, pulled.
Russia's eyes went wide, and then he was coming, burning, buckled down against America, crushing him into the wall, it scraped against the backs of their knuckles. He buried his face in America's shoulder and gasped in time with his pulsing hips, and didn't give a damn if they were found as his voice crawled out of him: "America…"
Another trembling pause, and America sank slow back onto his heels, weak and shuddering. He braced his forehead against the wall. He let go of Russia's hair and covered Russia's arm across his chest again, squeezed his elbow: an embrace written small. A heavy, golden interlude followed, as they caught their breaths, as they felt each other's heartbeat through their clothes. Russia blinked his eyes open, kissed openmouthed into the curve of America's neck as he pulled out.
America turned to face Russia and draped back against the wall as he hiked up his pants and buttoned up his clothes. He let Russia almost get his trousers fastened again before he grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him down into a kiss. Russia felt himself melt into it.
They didn't part as America murmured,
"Couldn't live without you, beautiful."
Russia felt the words shaped against his skin. He looked into America's eyes, veiled and blue and fathoms deep. "Thank you," he whispered. "For...what you sang."
America only had to tip his chin up for another kiss.
+++
--The 6th World Festival of Youth and Students opened on July 28, 1957, in Moscow. The festival attracted 34,000 people from 130 countries. This became possible after the bold political changes initiated by Nikita Khrushchev. It was the first World Festival of Youth and Students held in the Soviet Russia, which was opening its doors for the first time to the world.
--Musicians from all over the world came to Russia for the festival, showcasing dozens of different genres of popular music. Jazz was a favorite of the crowds, and that particular musical scene drew many talented performers, including famous saxophonist Aleksey Kozlov.
--In a later interview, Kozlov recalled the steps taken by the government to discourage young Soviet women from having sex with foreigners: "They were unable to detain every violator, so they were just catching Soviet girls and shaving off part of their hair, so that later Komsomol could take care of those infringers. Of course, many of them caught on and began cutting their hair on both sides. Less than a year later one could notice more babies being born.”
-Edita Pyekha, a multilingual singer also present at the festival, had this to say at a later date: “Everybody danced and had a great time. The songs were sung in different languages. Young beautiful people from different countries immensely enjoyed each other’s company."
-The festival rocked the Soviet style of life and affected what young people were wearing at the time. And that's when many of the Soviet people first heard the word 'jeans'.
-Here is America's closing act, "You Stepped Out Of A Dream", popularized by the ever-awesome Nat King Cole.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.