“I need to take a bath….”
Stop sniffing Ivan, Alfred. Let the poor man take a shower or a bath or whatever, look, he didn’t even have the chance to wax off his chest hair.
Maki, I love your RusAme :’)
“Is there a reason you’re in my house?” Ivan sounds far too calm for a man who has just found his former enemy for the better part of the twentieth century crouched under his kitchen table. The last decade or so has transitioned a bit more from thawing to a gentle cooling, albeit tentatively.
They’re not exactly friends, but whatever it is, it’s enough that Alfred has deemed it acceptable to break into his house and hide under his table. And apparently steal his clothing, the Russian notices at the enormous black t-shirt covering his knees.
Ivan raises a brow at the sight.
“I’m hiding, obviously,” Alfred says bluntly, “It’s not safe to come out yet, is it?”
Ivan knows what he’s talking about. Any other nation would too being that the US elections seem to be plastered over everyone’s form of media. So he shakes his head, partially amused. “No, I’m afraid not, comrade.”
Alfred sighs. He has the look of someone who hasn’t slept in days. His glasses are crooked and he seems to be bouncing slightly even in this crouched position. If anything, these elections are making him more jittery than ever. Exhaustion and nerves are really not the best combination when it comes to the younger nation.
Phew, sorry for the absence! RL was sorta demanding lately.
For Petrolsocken’s Sexy Blogger AU! Alfred’s comment for the post with the pics would be something like “Yo, check out that “empowering pose” ;P”. Also, he would want to please both the DC and Marvel fanboys/fangirls who follow his blog.
Ivan’s outfit was deliberately kept eyesore inducing :’3c
I’m very sorry for the sketchiness.
“To what extent was the Cold War inevitable.”
what do you mean RusAme fics aren’t credible sources
The American arched his back, the thin layer of sweat glistened against his tanned skin; smaller form decorated with a variety of markings left by the Slavic above him. Through the blinds moonlight crept into the room, revealing both of their ghostly, aged, scars in all of their ‘glory’. Deep pits of violet were fixated onto azures with pupils wide as saucers. Through gasps Alfred spoke the sandy blonde’s human name.
No other being in the world could deserve something so beautiful.
When dawn’s rosy finger tips lit the sky with an arrangement of various oranges and pinks the Russian male was the first to rise; joints popping and cracking as he sat up leaning against the cool, mahogany headboard. Ivan mused on the thought of maybe starting his day of with a smoke, after a moment he decided against the temptation, but instead he let his attention focus itself onto the other superpower who seemed to be wrapped in his covers like a cocoon of some sort, which was an amusing mental picture to say the least.
A soft, aged smile rested upon the former communist’s lips, letting his large digits carefully trail themselves through the visible golden locks which poked out from the top of the other’s cocoon.
“Little one, I will never understand why you associate yourself with such lesser nations,” Ivan’s accent was thick, words slow, which was just a result from not being fully coherent. “You are so much more—we are so much more.”
A twitch from beneath the thick covers.
That smile twisted itself into a lazy smirk, it seemed his sunflower was indeed awake, but maybe this silence was a blessing. It was much easier to discuss with Alfred the truths which he had learned over the seemingly endless years.
“Do you not tire from playing the role of the hero?” He cooed in the most gentle tone he could ever manage. “Do you ever wish to conquer? To be something more? Do you ever wish to play the role of the ‘bad guy’?”
With that Alfred broke out of his huddle of blankets, revealing in the morning light the lovely arrangement of hickeys which lined his neck and chest, giving a distasteful look. It did not last for very long, for it was much too early in the morning for the sun-kissed blonde to even try having a petty argument over such subjects, and not to mention his bottom half was a wee bit sore from last night’s events.
“You’re fucking queer sometimes, you know that?” The golden haired nation spoke, sapphires moving over to meet Ivan’s overly innocent smile.
“It was more than obvious you were awake, comrade, I was ‘horsing around’, as you call it.”
The American lofted a single brow, eying the former Soviet, rolling his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip releasing a simple, ‘uh-huh’.
Ivan felt his mouth salivate catching Alfred’s harsh gaze, it was intoxicating, and such a hassle to have to restrain himself from his beloved. Those eyes were one of the many things the Salvic did indeed love about the other nation, because within those deep pits of blue he did not just see the warm waters which Russia was deprived of—Ivan also saw himself; a monster. A monster which lusted for power; money; a monster which would consume everything. Growing, feeding, ready to be released—similar to how he, himself was towards the end of his imperial days.
It made the elder feel that much more human.
Plus, where would a king be without his queen?
You were really brave, Alfred.
(Attached version here: http://i48.tinypic.com/2ic1ous.png)
((Jules you know you want to tell me what it’s for. I’ll tempt you with porn. and then I’ll fail TOK but that’s okay))
Ivan loves it when Alfred is writhing under him, like some malleable, precious metal molding to his will but never losing shape. It’s beautiful, the way that his back arches when he struggles and his sapphire irises constrict into bright slivers. His limbs are spread out, arms drawn tight over his head and trapped under Ivan’s grip, while he presses his weight on top of the American so that he can only squirm.
Teasingly, he lowers his hips that were before hovering, just barely, and rolls them just so, offering the slightest bit of friction. It’s only static electricity, not even a spark and it elicits a small gasp despite that Alfred wants lightning. Ivan laughs softly, kissing the skin under his jaw and murmurs, “You can have this, dorogoy,” he says too sweetly, words that saccharine do not fit with the slur of his accent, “Just tell me what you’re planning. Simple, da?”
Alfred lets out a strangled noise, hips bucking up before Ivan uses his free hand to force them back down with a small tut. His jeans are tight—and so are Ivan’s, because the only thing more gorgeous than Alfred fighting like a cornered animal is a begging Alfred, and he hasn’t gotten there yet, and rarely does, but plans to now—and Alfred curses under his breath and seriously Ivan just take off his damn pants already.