Author: The DayDreaming
Ratings/Warnings: Rated T…for TOMALES! For language and many, many sexual innuendos. Crack and bad humor abound. May be slightly offensive to old people. :\
Summary: Press conferences wherein the singular presences of Alfred F. Jones and Ivan Braginski came together could always be termed, ah…interesting. Or: why Russia needs remedial courses on sexual harassment.
A/N: Written for the Russiamerica community's CMC event. We were given prompts every day, and had only 24 hours to fill them. This is for the October 16th prompt, "Meet the Press." Uh. This is just so incredibly random. I swear, somewhere in there, there is something that fits the prompt. Somewhere. Over the rainbow.
If there was one thing that could be said about these press conferences, it was that they never failed to be the most boring activity on the planet; outreaching being the announcer of a 2K snail race and watching old people stagger out of their cars and cross the parking lot, and only barely falling even with watching paint dry in the rainforest.
As it was, Alfred had once again crossed the point where he began to wonder if he could pop out one of Texas' lenses, break it in half, and quickly slash his jugular, so as to never have to deal with this monotonous shit again. Or perhaps slit the speaker's throat.
Both could work.
Or he could have shot paper footballs at the President again (how great was it that the poor sod couldn't move without causing a national incident?). He'd accomplished stealing a notebook from a politician a few chairs down whom had managed to fall into the sweet oblivion of sleep in these fucking uncomfortable metal chairs. Well, he deserved it; the poor bastard looked like he was at least a hundred years old. Needed all the sleep he could get to make sure those puny, shrunken lungs of his kept filling with air and that he could dolly around his oxygen tank. Heaven forbid that this guy get to the front of the buffet line.
…was he even breathing?
Alfred shot forward in his seat, bumping his head against the back of the person sitting in front of him (it was okay; they were used to him being a spaz). He earned a displeased grumble, though he was sure that he'd only gotten the man to wake up from a self-induced haze. Peering five seats down, he could make out the small, still form of the politician (he could never remember their names; fuckers went in and out of office too fast, and they somehow always managed to be named 'Joe' or 'John' or 'Sally,' names so generic that they matched their nonexistent personalities).
He wasn't moving.
Oh god, Alfred thought. He'd dead. Dead! He's old and wrinkly and dead!
And then: Oh my god I stole from a dead guy.
Gasping in horror, he bent forward a bit more, now using the back in front of him as a leaning post (this they were used to, too) and threw the notepad back at the shriveled figure. He did not want a dead guy's notebook. (He only would have used a couple sheets! He would have given it back! The guy wasn't using it; he honestly looked like he couldn't even lift a pencil!) The little book sailed through the air and managed to reach its target, although instead of landing back in the guy's lap like he thought it would, the notepad slapped the man square on his balding, liver-spotted head.
"Fuck," he whispered, cringing as the slap of the paper alerted the entire row of people that an Oops-my-bad-but-you'll-love-me-anyways moment had just occurred courtesy of one Alfred Jones (needless to say, they were, once again, used to it). The good thing was, with the stimulation of the impact, the old fogey was roused enough to release a prominent snore, a resounding statement that he was not in fact dead.
With a relieved sigh, he leaned the weight of his head fully against the broad back of the politician in front of him, nuzzling his temple against the scratchy fabric of the black suit-jacket to find a comfortable spot to nap. Old guy had the right idea. The politician quietly muttered a 'Christ, Alfred, I'm not a pillow.' (If his ears didn't deceive him, Alfred was pretty sure most of the people in his row, and the one in front of him, were quietly snickering. How terrible.) Content with his position, he settled in for a long doze, ignoring the exasperated whisper of 'Don't drool on me. Again.'
That is, until a hand wrapped around his right ass cheek and gave it a solid squeeze.
With a manly shriek of such epic, manly proportions that it could even make manly-man Chuck Norris' metaphorical god-balls appear to be grapes, he shot forward and clung to his politician's/pillow's neck. ('Christ, Alfred. I'm not your horse, either! That was one time!') The hand followed, giving another squeeze before retracting back from whence it came. (The quiet snickering around him increased. Those smarmy bastards.)
He held on a little longer to the poor man's neck, breathing roughly through his nose, before coaxing fingers pulled lightly at his arms and he too withdrew back from whence he came. As he settled back in, scooting to as far left in his seat as he possibly can without sliding into the lap of the woman sitting next to him, he whipped his head around and mouthed 'What the fuck?' at his other neighbor.
Ivan's head remained steadfastly forward, eyes trained on the speaker, brow furrowed in concentration. The look of an innocent, concerned man, intent on getting every last morsel of information out of the current speaker's bland and uninspired speech.
Alfred reached over and flicked the other's ear, scowl in place. A firm warning by any standard.
He relaxed slightly when the Russian made no move to retaliate or alter his attention from the woman at the podium. With a sigh, he sagged down, hand feeling around for the notepad he had previously acquired—
With a tiny groan of disappointment, he leaned to his left and utilized the very nice politician lady's shoulder. Very kind of her, even if she did seem a little tense. Woman needed a massage or something.
He closed his eyes and attempted to zone out, a skill he had perfected after a near constant exposure to Arthur's many long and boring (and often rude and insulting; what a bastard, too) lectures and speeches. He was just about to drift off, counting a line of cows walking into a McDonald's and coming out as delicious hamburgers, when a very hot, very moist breath cloyed its way over his ear, and the light tap of a long nose alerted him to another's presence. He let out a squeak (manly manly manly, honestly Chuck Norris' god-balls would be microscopic if compared) and slid down from his claimed headrest to stare up at the petrified politician from her lap.
He imagined that he must have mirrored the woman, face red and horrified. He felt a defined flick at the button holding his nice dress pants closed and immediately aimed a wobbly kick at the suspected culprit, managing to clip what he assumed to be a shoulder. Knocked off balance, his head began to slip off the lap, but he was luckily saved when the woman panicked and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, hauling him up and giving him a stern look.
How—how unfair! It was all Ivan's f—
He glanced over to see Ivan staring intently ahead, watching as the speakers changed and a translator walked onto the stage.
He turned to the scowling woman, giving his best pleading look, jutting his lower lip out for good measure. Then, for full effect, tilted his head to the side slightly. Max combo!
The woman's frown wavered, lips pursing. Then, with an almost audible crack, her defenses crumbled completely; she smiled and ruffled Alfred's hair before turning and looking towards the podium.
Attack was super effective—!
He faced Ivan, upping the ante with a slight welling of tears.
Ivan remained steadfast though, appearing, for all intents and purposes, to be wholly engrossed in staring at the bare, graying roots of the woman in front of him. Sneaky bastard—!
He let a soft whine fall from his lips. Ah, was that a waver he saw?
Another chip, then. He casually placed his hands between his thighs, innocent as anything; truly it was merely a nervous habit to keep him from fidgeting. But oh, what evil this innocence could invoke.
He barely made out the intense violet of the other's eye, it having slid to the side to discreetly observe him. He released another tiny, almost imperceptible whimper, and was sure he saw a heavy exhalation from the other's nose.
He released the look, straightening out so he too could see what everyone was staring at, though it turned out to merely be another boring speaker. Ugh. How could Ivan even contemplate being horny? The monotony and abundance of wrinkly, decrepit flaps of skin and dead eyes was enough to kill off his libido, and would continue to repress the urge to be Ivan's humping post for weeks to come. (Sometimes he wondered how Ivan managed to have more of a sex drive than him. Honestly, visits from the older nation tended to be exhausting, and left him with a consistent ache. Overzealous fucker. Literally.)
He sighed and leaned back, contemplating the pros and cons of retrieving that notepad. The old guy was probably still asleep, right? But…well, now he really was tired. He slumped down a bit more in his seat and let his head fall back, stretching his neck. God, everything was all kinked up. Maybe he and the lady next to him could go to the chiropractor together.
He probably should have expected it. Really, it was rather obvious. But, well.
When a pair of warm, wet lips clamped onto his neck, firm bicuspids grazing smooth skin, Alfred really did flip. He shot backwards, metal chair tipping over like a domino.
And Ivan, (he knew it was that horny bastard, he knew it), bless his heart, actually tried to grab him to keep him from falling the rest of the way. God, there was a reason he loved this man. Alas, Alfred's weight and momentum proved to be too much, and he crashed to the floor with a loud bang, cracking his head and then being slapped in the face by errant hands as his supposed-to-be savior was dragged on top of him.
For his part, Ivan had the breath knocked out of him as his solar plexus connected heavily with Alfred's knees. He lay sprawled over the American, wheezing and gasping, while Alfred moaned about his head splitting open on the cheap carpeting. At least it was a nice view.
He also hoped America felt what he was 'feeling,' pressed against his legs as he was, so as to be prepared for a good bone-jumping later. He deserved it for making that face and those noises.
As it were, the commotion had caused most of the politicians around them to rise to their feet, general murmuring sweeping across the once-silent vigil. The volley of reporters and photographers waiting at the foot of the crowd of speakers were at the scene of the disturbance in a flash, snapping candid pictures of the incident.
"Ah, hello, America," Ivan gasped out, smiling. How dare that bastard try to look innocent—!
He wasn't sure what did it: the enormous amounts of blood rushing to his face, or the concussion clouding his vision, but, at last, Alfred fell into that longed-for sweet oblivion.
At least the old guy was awake.
"What were you thinking?" Alfred's boss reprimanded, eyes narrowed in anger. A similar sentence was uttered by Ivan's own boss.
Both nations had the decency to look shamefaced.
Alfred broke the ringing silence first, pointing at Ivan, "He did it."
His boss' eye twitched, looking to the giant standing in front of him, then back at the troublesome teen standing directly beside the tall nation. He sighed, tired, "…..sure, Alfred. Sure. I'm sure that Mr. Russia would purposely try to disrupt the extremely important talks about reducing nuclear arms."
Alfred grinned and gave the man a resounding thumbs-up.
"Just…just go. Take the rest of the afternoon off—and please, don't come back."
"Sure thing, boss-man!" Alfred exclaimed, grin growing ever wider. He moved to leave Ivan's side (bastard deserved to get chewed out by his boss), but a firm, hard pinch to his posterior had him yelping and tumbling to the floor.
Ivan wore a complacent smile, half-lidded eyes staring ahead.
The stunned silence that followed lasted for a good ten seconds, the two bosses warily eyeing the nations before them, until finally Alfred's boss bit out, "Both. Of. You."
Stunningly, Ivan also gave a resounding thumbs-up before hoisting the American from the floor, slinging him over his shoulder, and leaving the room.
America's boss let out a bone-weary sigh, "…that's one way to meet the press. God, the headlines tomorrow…"
Russia's boss only smiled kindly and patted the man on his shoulder, "I hear that they were like that during the Cold War, too."
There's a reason that some people think that one particular closet, in one particular building, is haunted.
Some believe that a ghost haunts that closet, after a man was murdered by another named Ivan. Others believed it was a woman (because honestly, sometimes that voice sounded so high-pitched and girlish), who committed suicide after her Russian lover died in a horrible accident.
Either way, many avoid the broom closet when it begins to act up with loud banging and haunting, almost sensual moans emitting from its dark abyss.
(A/N is the one posted on the comm, and hasn't been altered. Sorry for any weird language that may pop up, as I was addressing the LiveJournal audience.)
Truth be told, I honestly don't know how press conferences work. :| I avoid watching them at all costs because I believe if I did watch them, I wouldn't be able to combat the urge to dig my eyes out of my head with a spork, then stuff them in my ears so I don't have to hear the bullshit spewing from these peoples' mouths.
I wanted to try and flip the stereotypical 'America is always horny' to Ivan. Honestly, I too wouldn't be compelled to sexual intercourse when surrounded by crusty, droopy people, either. I understand you America. But ahahaha, I think this new attitude suits Ivan. Don't you?
Also. I have a sense of humor, believe it or not.
I are funny to the tenth degree!
Ahahahaha. FUNNY. :(
At least I sorta managed to fit the prompt in? :D