The King Is Mine
No matter what Alfred will have Ivan Braginski beneath him, and Ivan wants to top Alfred on more than just the scoreboard. College/ Swim Team AU.
Now was the hour that Alfred F. Jones forced Ivan Braginski to squirm underneath him and become his Queen.
Alfred had pictured, dreamed, prayed, and trained so long for this.
Alone in his dorm room, he sometimes jacked off to fantasies of the moment Ivan realized what Alfred had done to him, of those violet-grey eyes widening in disbelief; of that rounded face of carved features contorting into disbelief and agony.
Alfred wanted the man to scream from the pain, from knowing what it felt like to be on bottom. To know that Alfred had topped him, and his own helplessness to stop it.
This dark desire consumed Alfred.
All he could think about anymore was knocking off Ivan from the King ranking on the white scoreboard that dominated the ambitions of everyone on Hetalia University's swim team. Seeing his name and score written in black marker beneath Ivan's physically hurt his heart.
Alfred had been stuck as Queen for too long. He needed, no deserved, to be the King.
On the first Friday of every month was Race Day, the chance to win or lose your rank on the scoreboard for that month. The lowest ranked (usually Raivis or Feliciano) got the shittiest chores.
Not once had Ivan ever lost the King Rank. Only once had Alfred ever lost the Queen Rank.
Today is the day to be the King, Alfred told himself, settling into his crouch by the poolside. Ivan would sink beneath him.
Even through his nose plug he could smell the chlorine from the bright blue pool water. His heels pressed into the plastic lip of the starting block, what all swimmers pushed off to optimize the power their launch. The bottoms of his feet pressed into the front of the block's wedge.
The white plastic of the block was wet and cool in his grip. His fingers curled around the edge.
Like all swimmers, he had splashed water on himself before the race and slapped his chest red. Non-swimmers were confused by such things.
Although his goggles limited his vision, he could see clearly to the other side of the pool, his lane lined on either side by a rope of neon orange buoys. He did not need to look to feel Ivan's evil aura beside him, the man was evil incarnate.
As King and Queen they always got the lanes side-by-side to each other.
Ivan's muscular figure, flexing and exposed but for the navy-blue speedo of, each muscles glistening with dampness, his ash-blonde hair tucked under his swim cap with his goggles, the same as Alfred's wheat-blond.
Alfred could visualize every curve and muscle of Ivan's cut figure, and sometimes in other, less-hostile fantasies, he had visualized his lips exploring those curves.
Of course, Alfred would never admit to his lewd thoughts, not even to room mate, Toris.
"Get ready!" Their coach, Ludwig, shouted, no doubt raising his gun to fire the blank that signaled their start. "I want to see Olympiads in you! Feliciano, get back into position!"
"V-ve!" the man squeaked from further left of Ivan. Their coach was always hard on the younger Vargas brother. From what Alfred had heard, Ludwig greatly respected and admired Feliciano's grandfather, a legendary gold-medalist swimmer from Italy. Ludwig found Feliciano to be a disappointment by comparison.
Alfred did not move, holding his position, waiting for the sound of the gun.
"Ready to cry like a bitch again, Fredka?" Ivan whispered darkly beside him.
He forced back a frown.
Don't let him distract you. He likes to mind fuck his opponents, Alfred reminded himself.
Ivan was a shark both in the water and out.
"Writhing beneath me suits you."
Alfred dug his fingernails into the edge of the staring block, wanting to throttle the bastard. It would not be the first time they had thrown punches at each other.
"I'm gonna fuck you over hard," Alfred breathed.
Ivan chuckled. Just before the gun banged, Ivan added, "I can't wait to fuck you hard."
The distraction of those shocking words cost Alfred a second, a very crucial second.
"That dirty, scheming son of a bitch!" Alfred snarled, ripping open his locker.
He had thrown on his winter coat after toweling off and getting his time from the coach. They wore heavy coats to keep their muscles loose and relaxed.
After grabbing his duffel bag, he slammed his locker shut and stomped into the showers just as his team mates entered.
"Ah, Mon Dieu, King again?" Francis mused. "Always."
Ivan gave that eerie giggle.
That was all Alfred heard of Ivan as he left.
Rotten, cheating scumbag.
Finally, Alfred twisted the knob of his shower. The spray of hot water stopped.
Cocking his head right, he listened and when he was satisfied his team mates had all left, he opened his shower door and began slipping on his white and navy blue track suit, one that had Hetalia Swim Team written in print on the back and above the left breast.
He paused to pick up his I-phone — colored like the US flag on the back — out of the thread basket with his stuff.
One missed message, the screen said.
It was from Toris.
Are you King? Alfred grit his teeth at that. Want to celebrate or mourn at the Mint Bunny?
"I shouldn't," he muttered aloud, hardly noticed the echo in the hall of private showers.
Switching on "Born In The USA", he plugged in his ear buds, allowing Bruce Springsteen to drown out his worries.
After collecting his stuff, he headed out of the showers, gaze focused on his phone screen as he wrote Toris a message. Alfred didn't even realize he read his reply allowed, saying, "Mint Bunny sounds awesome, dude."
Nor did he notice the figure sitting alone one of the benches in the corner, one that raised a hand and tried to greet him.
All Alfred heard was Bruce Springteen as he walked out.
Note #1 — What do you think of this very short story? One more part to go and find out who comes out on top. ;)