Ugh. Is anyone else really pissed off at the error message? It's been like a week...but I finally decided to use the workaround to post this, even though I can't put it under America&Russia ): But yeah, I've been wanting to post this ever since like, last saturday.
This is officially my longest oneshot ever. Also, it's my first attempt at writing smut so like…if it's really bad, I'm sorry. D; Why is it that the first remotely sexy thing I've written involves heroin fueled dubcon in a not so private place? I dunno. It's sooo PWP-ish.
This is inspired by a Velvet Underground song called "Heroin" which (pun intended) is seriously addictive. Everyone must listen to it. (http:/www. youtube. com/ wa tch?v=6 xcwt9 mSbYE) Velvet Underground was essentially a band who was "made" by American culture icon Andy Warhol. As it stands, this fic is partially set in his old studio, The Factory, where he created many of his works of art and film in the late 60s. It was also known for its parties (as well as copious amounts of free love and drugged up orgies) and was frequented by icons of the time, including Mick Jagger, Truman Capote, and Jim Morrison.
Heroin
"'Cause when the smack begins to flow,
Then I really don't care anymore,
Ah, when the heroin is in my blood,
And that blood is in my head,
Then thank God that I'm as good as dead,
Then thank your God that I'm not aware,
And thank God that I just don't care."
It had been Ivan's intention to merely spy upon America.
Earlier in the evening he had slipped into the American's New York loft through a deft scaling of the nearby fire escape, but had found the spacious apartment completely deserted, leaving the Russian scowling over the fact that the informant he had paid had apparently given him false information. However, once he had mere moments later tracked down said individual and "coerced" him out of spinning falsehoods, the man admitted to having seen Alfred leave only an hour before, apparently headed towards a building not far from his apartment, the address of which the man was only too willing to his the ominous Russian.
So Ivan soon found himself in front of a studio building addressed as 231 East 47th, just as his informant had told him. Tightening his scarf against the annoying cold of a New York permafrost, the Russian entered the building, intimidating aura dispelling the desires of anyone to interfere as he forced his way through the door and strode into the ground floor lobby.
The man had mentioned to go to the fifth floor, da?
Ivan could hear the rumblings of music as he waited for the elevator to descend to his level, wondering what he would find on the fifth floor, and whether his American prize, who had given all this inconvenience in the first place, would be there.
It is a strange site that greets the Russian upon his arrival on the expansive, fifth floor studio.
Upon once again forcing himself through a loosely enforced security at the door, Ivan finds himself in a bizarre room, inhabited entirely by dazed, half clothed Americans, some draped around each other or gathered in groups, inaudible under the loud sounds of America's particular brand of earsplitting, screechy music. Strange paintings, images, and shards of broken mirror hang on the walls, which appeared to be covered in what looked like aluminum foil, which glint in the sparse light. Balloons the color of lead bump sporadically against the tin ceilings, reflecting a dull shine. The entire sight is rather alien, akin to the environment that Ivan had experienced was up in the confines of space, drifting aimlessly. That's what people seemed to be doing here—drifting, as if their feet do not touch the ground. They all appear unattached and independent from the world around here, in this dangerously glamourous environment.
He looks around amidst the heads of people, searching for the sight of the blonde haired boy—perhaps Alfred was not here, the boy had his vices, surely, but Alfred was still aware of his responsibilities, and was always trying to paint himself as a hero, maybe—
Not finding any sign of the American amidst the sea of heads, Ivan begins to turn, perhaps wondering if the informant had betrayed him again, perhaps he had returned with Alfred to his loft, perhaps they were having a laugh at the Russian's expense at this very moment, oh, Ivan couldn't wait to beat America's brains from his head if that was the case—
And then—
"Ivan!"
He is tackled around the waist from behind, arms instantly wrapping around him in a viselike grip, almost squeezing the air out of the Russian. He feels hot breath on the base of his neck as a pair of lips attacks the soft skin, laughing and lightly licking against the flesh. He twists around awkwardly in the tight grip and is not surprised at all to see the sought after American, his mouth still positioned close to the Russian's neck as he looked up at him.
"Hey, hey, dude, you're here—" Alfred's speech was obviously slurred, and despite the dazed and foggy look in his eyes he appeared unusually alert, greeting the Russian with a bright smile that was still off, Ivan couldn't put his finger on it; the American did not seem to be drunk on alcohol—
Ivan suddenly becomes hyper aware of the movements of America's fingers, tracing and sliding up and down his sides. America cocks his head dazedly, licking his lips.
"I'm really—really—"
A young man with his pants open and cock half hanging out approaches Alfred and grabs him on the shoulder, giggling, only to be shoved away by a grim faced Ivan. He was somewhat surprised at the American being in a place like this. It did not seem to fit the clean cut, fresh faced and heroic image that he always portrayed. Seeing America like this, in such a place and in such a state felt entirely foreign to Ivan.
"I just—I just—," Alfred's grip started to falter, as if he was losing control of his strength, " I just—" Alfred trailed off into silence, looking up at the confused Russian momentarily before brutally attacking his mouth with the full force of lips and tongue. Ivan felt weak fingers grasp sporadically into his hair as he was pulled down to the American's level, further into the invasive kiss.
After a moment of losing himself to the American's aggressive advances, Ivan's strength finds him again as he grabs Alfred sharply by the shoulders and pulls him away. Ivan's breath comes in quick pants as Alfred slowly takes in shallow air, pausing only a mere moments before pushing up and against Ivan's hands, trying to find the other's mouth again.
"A-Amerika—,"
"Y'wanna know what?" Alfred slurs, interrupting Ivan with a prod to the nose, "You're really—really—"
He attacks the area of Ivan's neck visible above his scarf and begins to suck, lazily, lapping at the skin and biting with his teeth.
"—you're really fucking hot Vanya." He moans against the other's pulsing neck, drawing on the last syllable of Ivan's name.
"Alfred," Ivan hisses, perhaps hoping the use of America's human name would bring him to his sense. He also hoped that he would fail to notice the touch of blush on his cheeks.
But Alfred pulled away slightly, looked at him, and then giggled, actually giggled. Then he reached up and pinched one of Russia's reddened cheeks.
"You're—really—hot, aren't you Vanya?" He rubs up against Ivan's jaw.
"Alfred." Ivan bit at his lip. "Stop."
"C'mon, C'moooonnnnn." Alfred whines and drapes his arms about the other's shoulders, tracing his fingers lightly up the back of Ivan's neck and teasing the short strands of white blonde hair.
Ivan feels strangely self conscious, looking around to determine whether anyone around them is looking at this shameful display. Even though no one is paying them any mind, Ivan still growls and tries to pry America's fingers from his neck.
"Amerika," he says sternly, "You are not in an appropriate state of mind for such things. You are leaving with me."
Suddenly, Alfred reaches down, wrist skimming over the fabric of Ivan's pants as he gropes the Russian's vital regions, causing him to flinch in a mix of discomfort and pleasure.
"Mmmm. I—I like—I totally forgot how like—big you were, man. Hey, hey, y'wanna put that in my Velvet Underground?" He lets his head back and cackles in laughter. Ivan doesn't understand, his mind too engrossed in the feeling of America's shaky fingers on his cock.
"A-Alfred," he begins, stuttering, "This is not—this is very much not like—we are enemies, now, t-this is quite strange—"
America leans up and takes Ivan's lower lip between his teeth, scraping his canines against the wet skin and pulling back with a slight smirk.
"Oh yeah. You've met me at a very strange part of my life."
He pushes his mouth and body up closer to Ivan this time, arms reaching as he rubs his hips against the other's body. Alfred's kisses are sloppy and uncoordinated, lavishing the area around the Russian's mouth with his tongue as he pushes the other down onto a nearby red plush couch. Alfred places his palms on Ivan's shoulders as he straddles his hips, leaning down to keep contact with the Russian's mouth. As Alfred began to move his hips in grinding motions upon the Russian's now painfully obvious arousal, Ivan finally began to give into the temptation, finding his arms reach up to rub up and down the American's sides, holding firmly onto his hips and pressing them further down.
He couldn't help it any longer—Alfred made his mind buzz with pleasure, his head throbb with euphoria. As he gives in to decadency he begins to kiss the American back, pushing against the other's tongue and gradually dominating the slick muscle. His hands travel downwards from the American's waist and slip beneath his jeans and underwear, harshly beginning to grope his ass, enjoying the whimpered sounds of want that America begins to make.
Finally Ivan forces himself up from where the American had him pinned, as the substances coursing through his veins have begun to slacken his muscles and cripple that monstrous strength. With ease he pushes Alfred up until he's sitting in the Russian's lap, and then forces him back down against the cushions, situating himself between the American's spread thighs.
But Alfred, even in his drug induced state, wouldn't give in without a semblance of a fight, as he wriggles and thrashes around underneath the Russian's bulk until Ivan grip his forearms with no measure of gentility, digging his nails into the skin above Alfred's pulsing and frantic veins. Russia notices thin, angry red lines crisscrossing over America's arms, fresh scars from a decade of violence and turmoil and paranoia, due in no small part to the very Russian prepared to fuck him into a couch in front of his own citizens. Russia leans in and begins to tease the red marks with the tip of tongue, sucking above the pulsating veins, as if to himself become intoxicated on what is running through Alfred's blood. If Alfred finds the actions strange or humiliating in any way, he doesn't show it. His eyes half closed, the unusual brightness now gone, Alfred turns his head to the side, his fogged vision vainly searching as he squints around the room.
"G-God—I hope Andy isn't filming this shit—" Russia shuts him up with his mouth. The kiss he gives Alfred is forceful and punishing, as if the Russian is trying to drive the other's head into the couch's cushions. Alfred's mouth has suddenly become uncharacteristically dry, so Ivan allows his wet tongue to invade every inch of it until it feels like he's practically spitting into it. He releases Alfred's wrists so his hands can travel under America's shirt and up the terrain of his body, pinching and squeezing his sides before rolling up his chest to play with his nipples, enjoy the sensation of Alfred's shivering body as he teases them between his fingers.
A rush coursed through his veins as he sucks on the American's lower lip and wantonly thrusts his still clothed body up against the other, as if trying to consume all of Alfred from the inside and out.
He can hear and feel Alfred's heart beating furiously and erratically up against him as the boy gasps, but he ignores it, pressing deeper with his mouth and his body, viciously tearing a hand through the other's blonde hair. All inhibition gone, Alfred continued to howl in pleasure into Ivan's mouth, the Russian refusing to give him even a moment to breath.
Soon the trembling in Alfred's weakened limbs prevents him from doing anything more than meekly hold onto the larger man, eyes slid shut. Ivan doubts that America is entirely aware of what is happening at this point, as evidence by the look on his face, and the fact that the experience is devoid of their former banter and back and forth. Ivan almost prefers it this way; Alfred as a submissive, nigh unresponsive being designed only to fulfill Ivan's needs and wants. However, this illusion is somewhat shattered when Alfred opens his eyes, his pupils mere pinpricks constricted in a sea of blue, and looks straight at Ivan, a whisper of his name on those pink, bitten lips in that abnormally flushed face. Alfred feels both euphoria from within and without, and Ivan suddenly finds himself strangely jealous of the substance providing Alfred with such internal pleasure and heat, while he remains outside of the American's body. Ivan would soon replace that synthetic, internal euphoria with his own.
He practically tears the other's zipper open before thrusting the jeans and underwear down around the boy's ankles. He pushes the black shirt the American is wearing and up off a single shoulder, so he could better attack the pink, toned muscle of Alfred's chest. For some reason Ivan wants to fuck the boy with some of his clothing on—it feels more brutal, more visceral. He pulls America's legs apart further and settles them around his waist as he leans down. He barely registers that America is whispering something, almost humming a tune through the slurred speech on his lips.
"'Cause when the blood begins to flow, when it shoots up the dropper's neck, and I'm closing in on death—"
He descends on the American's nipples, cutting off his voice, and bites and sucks until each is red and swollen, eliciting sharp gasps and pants from between slack lips. The skin of his chest is entirely pink, beads of sweat coursing down the sides. America is hot hot hot hot, hotter than Ivan remembered him last, as if he is burning from an internal fever. The fire of the internal euphoria brought on by the drug: an ecstatic feeling that Ivan will temper with his own in just a moment.
He temporarily leans up from his parallel position above America and, pulling off his glove with his teeth, shoves the naked fingers into America's mouth.
Alfred's tongue laps lazily around the digits, and impatiently Ivan thrusts and swirls the fingers around in his mouth, now wet from Ivan's own saliva. Pulling the fingers out and swiping an attractive trail of saliva on Alfred's cheek, he replaces them with his mouth, tongue in time with fingers as he penetrates the American from top to bottom. Alfred whines into Ivan's mouth and shifts at the uncomfortable feeling, but immediately quiets as Ivan presses the thumb of his free hand in the crook of America's neck, in a stifling gesture as he chews further on Alfred's lips.
It felt good. It felt incredibly good. Ivan had not had the American so willing and wanton in such a very long time: Alfred, as of late, had vehemently denied any interaction he had had with the Russian prior to the Cold War, as if implying that the hate and anger and paranoia had always been the nature of their relationship, their nations and ideologies and people and personalities always diametrically opposite, never had been compatible, never would be—
He licks down the curve of Alfred's stomach, tracing his tongue over the softly toned abs and teasing the sensitive flesh right above the groin. He gives a cruel, tentative flick of tongue to the tip of Alfred's cock before his impatience and desire to consume Alfred completely overwhelms any desire to prepare America for what is to come.
Ivan roughly pulls his slicked fingers out and wipes them on the couch's red fabric before finally undoing the bottom few buttons of his coat to reach his pants, pulling them down and groaning as his strained dick is finally released. Hardly anyone ever made him so hard that it physically hurt. But the sight of his own ally-lover-turned-enemy flushed and submissive and wanton beneath was apparently more than enough to do so.
He grabs the American's hips tightly enough to leave thick red marks, nails digging into the soft flesh as he dragged along the protruding hipbones. As he gets into a rushed position, pressing into Alfred, he's fixed with a sudden desire to make America cry, to pierce the veil of his drowsy euphoria with his own terrifying passion.
Alfred's dazed expression flashes slightly with discomfort as the large Russian suddenly enters him, clawing weakly at Ivan's back and scrambling to wrap his legs around his waist. Liking the way Alfred's face had been screwed up in pain, Ivan leans down and gives him a kiss heavy on invasive tongue, biting at Alfred's own and gnawing at his lips, leaving a thick trail of saliva that runs down America's slack mouth and pools into the plush fabric.
Ivan grabs a handful of Alfred's hair and plants his mouth at his jawline as he begins to harshly thrust in, delighting in the audible whimpers of pain and pleasure that begin to emit from the mouth right next to his ear.
America makes indistinct, disjointed sounds as he's fucked, moaning unintelligible fragments of words and phrases that only add to the atmosphere of Ivan's bliss. After only a few minutes, his overstimulated body comes quickly, far too soon for Ivan, who continues to pound into the body still lingering on the verge of unconsciousness.
Alfred's body heat seems to pulse through the veins in his groin, traveling throughout his body and settling its euphoric feeling in his already overloaded brain, but still he wants more so he seizes Alfred's thighs and pushes them back until they are almost pressed into his heaving chest, his lower back completely lifted off of the couch, drawing a breathy moan from the American. It's probably quite a sight and spectacle for the others in the room not already busy with similar actions, but Ivan can't force a single part of his pleasure consumed brain to care.
When he comes, he comes not with a cry of a grunt but with a snarl, muffled as he bites as hard as he can on the side of the American's neck, the bitter taste of Alfred's blood seeping in as pleasure washes throughout his body.
He shudders and almost collapses on top of Alfred, instead gradually easing himself down on the couch beside him, hand on the American's chest, feeling the thump of the lethargic heart beneath.
By the time Ivan begins to come down from his high, Alfred seems to be in a complete state of stupor. His open eyes flick lazily around, his mouth half open and a string of drool trickling down the side. He could feel himself heat up again at the sight of the American's submissiveness, but decided that if he wanted to go for it again Alfred's body might break. Besides, Ivan had suddenly become hyper aware of the other people in the room, even though many were already in a state similar to Alfred, paying only sporadic attention to the two men on the couch, still locked into each other. Still, as Ivan's mind begins to come into focus again, he suddenly feels a rush of embarrassment overcome him, pulling out of America with a measured, uncharacteristic gentleness. Grunting, he pulls his pants back up and zips them, tugging his discarded gloves back on. As best as he can he tries to reclothe Alfred's body, occasionally having to look up and glare at the possessor of a stray hand that attempts to grab at him.
He rises up from his prone position next to Alfred's body and pulls his dazed form up close to him, hooking an arm underneath his thighs and holding him pressed into his shoulder like a mother would hold her child, Alfred's chin nestled on his shoulder, his legs dangling on both sides of Ivan's hips. Ivan suddenly feels a certain shame wash over him as he glances at the people around him: all engrossed in their own bouts of deviancy or fucked up out of their minds, and yet, Ivan feels the shame and frustration of an addict who knows his substance of choice is killing him, and yet cannot stop imagining the ecstasy and heat of that next fix.
Ivan has no idea what time it is as he ventures out into the cold of the New York air. Never had he expected his simple spy mission to turn into a drug fueled, public romp with Alfred.
He imagines walking alone with a unconscious man in his arms might make him a appear vulnerable, in such a city and at such a late hour, but he pays it no mind. He has no doubt that he would be able to take care of any low lives choosing to cross him, even while minding America.
Still struggling with the dizzying and whirlwind aftermath of the night's activities, Ivan nevertheless is able to trace his steps with faint recognition of a street sign or a familiar building, and finally finds himself in front of the prime New York real estate that contains the American's loft.
Once inside, up the stairs and in front of the door numbered America's, he realizes that the door is most likely still locked. He shifts America up against one of his arms as he fumbles in the boy's pocket, hoping by some stroke of luck that he still has his keys on him, or else the Russian would have to either break the door down or climb again through the loft's window; which, while holding Alfred, would be rather impossible. Luckily, however, his fingers find the hard metal of the key in Alfred's back pocket and eventually negotiates the lock open and clicks the door behind him as enters the dark of the loft.
He settles Alfred onto the bed, frowning at his appearance. His body is listless, limbs limp against the sheets and head lolling to the sides, eyes closed. His arms and legs are still trembling, chapped lips quivering.
For a moment Ivan is torn. Alfred is a strong nation, to be sure, but Ivan had no idea of the amount of substance he had taken. If it was enough to lay America out like this, to the point where he was floating in this submissive and semi-conscious state—
But him and Ivan were enemies, violently different in ideology.
Of course, mortal enemies aren't known to madly fuck each other on a whim.
Ivan gently turns over the American's wrists and frowns. The marks are there, crisscrossed over Alfred's veins, even redder now from Ivan's previous ministrations. The decade had been hard on him. Hard on Ivan, as well, but America had not been used to such fear; had tasted the bitter sting of chaos and defeat only sporadically. A decade such as this must have been a huge blow to the young boy's heroic complex and cheerful idealism.
But what troubles Ivan even more than the cut marks were the small red holes, almost like puncture wound, that dotted up America's arm starting at the elbow, standing out clearly in the boy's taunt skin. A fresh welt, crusted slightly with blood, stood among all the other faded marks, already surrounded by a yellowed tinge. Ivan frowns, hoping that Alfred had not come across an infected or contaminated needle. It was dangerous to be playing with such things, gambling with his life.
Had the decade made Alfred so sick that this was the only way that he could cope? To gain a mere few hours of mindless bliss, even at the eventual sacrifice of his body? Ivan had no idea whether abuse of substances affected nations as direly as they did humans, but as he remembered early days of the Revolution drowned in bottles of vodka, he decided that the results were still not beneficial.
So it's no great surprise to him when a sick shudder runs throughs Alfred's body and his face turns queazy. Quickly grabbing onto America, he turns him over so he vomits away from himself or Ivan, over the side of the bed. Ivan grimaces as he holds Alfred's quaking body tightly as he empties his stomach onto the dark blue carpet. By the time Alfred stops and falls back in the stuporous state, albeit with the occasional whimper, Ivan's chest feels exceptionally tight; his own stomach churning at the sight.
There's no way he can leave Alfred in this state.
He draws Alfred back onto the bed with him, making sure the American is laying on his side as not to accidentally asphyxiate himself. Ivan sighs to himself as he settles beside Alfred's quivering body. He surely was troublesome, Ivan muses, always seeming to indadvertedly heap his own troubles upon others, somehow forcing the people around him even a hated and stigmatized former ally—
Alfred was a paradox. Ivan found himself absolutely detesting the boy and his nation, even as he cared for him with the utmost gentility and affection.
After he was sure Alfred would be alright, perhaps once his breathing normalized or his skin became less feverish, Ivan would take his leave back out the window. Alfred would have questions, naturally—but not nearly as many as he would have if he woke up in the arms of this enemy, body aching. Despite himself, Ivan sincerely hopes America would have no recollection of the night's activities. Although Ivan doubts the American would make the revelation public, the Russian was beginning to feel shame and guilt in the aftermath of his actions.
In another oddly tender motion Russia removes Alfred's glasses, remaining bent over the American's face to place a kiss on his forehead, golden strands tickling his nose. God, he smelled wonderful. Under the overwhelming smell of sweat and salt was that lovely earthy scent, beautifully accented with the wide open plains and blue mountains and the lingering taste of a thousands different kinds of food—
After a moment he breathes out into Alfred's hair and leans away, pushing up off of the bed and taking a moment to clean up the vomit in the carpet to the best of his ability, using a roll of paper towels found in Alfred's kitchen.
He disposes of the soiled towels in a nearby wastebasket, taking a moment to thumb away a crust of vomit still lingering in the corner of Alfred's mouth. Hopefully, all the boy would wake up in the morning with would be confusion over what he had done and bad taste in his mouth.
Ivan is almost positive he will wake up the same way.
Admittedly? I've never been a drug addict. Obviously. I have no idea how drug use goes, how addicts feel, or whatever. I just based the effects of the heroin on what I gathered from research, so more or less what happened to Alfred is what happens when one is on heroin…yeah
Hmm. So heroin isn't exactly one of those drugs that increased libido like amphetamines or xtc, but…I figured it still decreases inhibitions, so, what the hey, just pretend alfred was extra horny to begin with. and perhaps there was something else mixed in with it, who knows.
Also, the couch I used is actual the one you can see in many of the pictures of the Factory. Turns out it was a major focal point in many films/photos during the time Warhol worked there. Which is why Al was worried about him filming his and Russia's antics:Warhol would use footage of sex between people he knew in his films. Ah, fun times.
Please read&review!