I was inspired to write this because of (believe it or not) a fill on the kink meme. It was pretty brief but it kinda introduced this notion of America as Russia's "new wife" in comparison to China, the "old wife," which I thought was pretty fascinating. So I decided to run with it.
This is set somewhere in the late 80s, near the end of the Cold War in the real historical timeline. Of course, in this fic, America loses, and becomes "one with Russia," so to speak.
I don't like RoChu as a pairing, but I think China provides a fascinating corollary to RusAme, (with respect to the whole capitalist-communist thing) especially in the case of this fic.
It was over. Finally. After decades of struggle and paranoia and fear, it was finally over. And they had won.
China remembered when he had first heard that Russia had captured and subdued America. That the greatest enemy of himself and the world at large had been apprehended and rendered helpless at their feet. The Great Hero of Capitalism, the victor of the Space Race, the nation bloated with prosperity and promise had been deflated and dragged back to earth, and was now positioned under Ivan's heel.
China had rushed his way to Ivan's house, the place where Lithuania had informed him America had been brought to. Of course, China had known that. For years he has known what was to do with American once he was subdued.
He gave a brief greeting to Belarus, Ukraine, and the other Soviet nations who did not live in the Main House upon entering, and was quickly motioned upstairs, although he knew what room Ivan had brought Alfred to. He had watched Ivan prepare it, had watched the Soviet work diligently and lovingly upon it, as if it were a nursery for a child, or a wedding suite.
He was motioned by Toris into a door nearby the room. In it were the other two Baltics, gathered around a set of monitors being adjusted by Estonia. They looked up at China's presence, and indicated towards the screens.
Through the black and white static of the screen he could see two figures in the familiar thick concrete room. He recognizes the standing one as Russia, automatically making the one lying on the floor America.
America had been shackled, arms behind his back and legs bound together. He heard Alfred shouting through the crackling static, hurling slurs and insults at the Russian, violently struggling against his bonds and thrashing about. But Russia stayed calm, almost eerie in his stillness as he watched America helpless before him. He did not strike out with the heavy pipe held in his hand, he did not kick or punch or pull at Alfred, he did not hurt him.
Russia knew that the American could not be broken through even the most brutal application of violence and torture. Pain could not hurt his pride. Alfred laughed at pain, would sneer at anything Ivan could try to do to him. But Russia knew that above Alfred's stubbornness and ego lay his need for human contact, his fear of being alone and isolated. So, Russia deferred to a different approach. He made sure that America saw nobody else but him. Russia would leave Alfred alone in the room for hours, with no food or light, sometimes even days at a time, until the American began to look forward to the Russian's visit. Until he began to needs Ivan's companionship, to need him just for the sake of hearing the voice of another.
Russia bided his time. After about a month and a half of such treatment, Alfred's pride was gone. When Ivan wasn't present Alfred cried out, voice desperately searching for him, for human contact. Tears poured down his face as he begged for someone to be with him, his wrists and ankles bruised and weak against the restraints, his body tired and thinning. And Estonia, who had been monitoring Alfred's condition through the various cameras set up in the holding cell, finally informed Ivan.
America had been broken.
China watched through the monitor with Estonia as Ivan entered the room for the last time. China watched to see what Ivan would do, how he would deal with a broken and desperate American. They heard Alfred call out the Russian's name, begging him to release the shackles, to just touch him, to not leave him alone. Ivan shifted the pipe in his hand, and Alfred twitched, as did China, as he watched. Was it Ivan's intention to kill America after this drawn out humiliation?
But no, instead Ivan let the pipe fall to the concrete floor with a clang. He knelt down on one knee, taking Alfred's tearstained face in his hands. China felt his chest tighten as he heard snatches of the soft words Ivan was speaking to America. And then Ivan brought Alfred's face close and kissed him on the lips and Alfred in his desperation had kissed him back; and Ivan had then unshackled him and carried him out of the room and bathed him until his hair shone and his skin glowed, then dressed him in sweet smelling fabrics and taken him to bed and even allowed America to fall asleep, content in his embrace. And when Ivan slipped out of America's arms, pulled the blankets up over the sleeping nation and exited the room, China was waiting for him.
And China saw the glow of victory in the Russian's strange purple eyes.
Yao had stayed over that night, as he and Russia still had to discuss plans over the situation and opposition he was facing in Asia. But Ivan had seemed distracted, his purple eyes moving in and out of focus, as if he were daydreaming. After they concluded, Yao took his leave to the guest bedroom, while Ivan moved to his own room, where Alfred was sleeping soundly.
The morning saw Ivan leading a listless Alfred downstairs, who was clinging to the Russian's hand and sidling up close to him, still dressed in the scented red pajamas.
Gone was the headstrong and arrogant nation that they had known, who proclaimed cries of freedom and liberty and exalted the virtues of capitalism. The youthful country who exuded confidence and balked at being restrained or controlled by others had disappeared, had shrunk into this meek figure who clung to Ivan as if he were the only lifeline amidst a turbulent sea.
The current America was needy, clingy, and always begging to be touched and held. But Russia did not seemed to mind. In fact, China was sure that he encouraged and welcomed it. At meals, Alfred would sit in Ivan's lap and allow himself to be fed like a child, and every night the Russian would heft America into his arms and carry him to bed. China would feel twinges of disgust at such displays, especially when, at random intervals, Ivan would swoop upon the whiny American and thoroughly ravish him with tongue and hands, often in front of his allies and the rest of the Union.
There were worse occasions, too. Once China had arrived to Ivan's house to discuss plans of annexing Japan and Southern Korea only to find the Russian entangled with his American toy on the floor of the living room, pounding him into the wood and making him writhe and moan.
And China feels his anger grow towards Ivan. Though they had won, there were still those nations out there who would pose a challenge, who would resist: that was what should demand Ivan's attention now, not the aqueisence of this American Whore, as momentous as that had been.
In the weeks after he had captured America, Ivan had taken an active role in the Union's expansion. When the United States collapsed to his incursions, the rest of Europe folded like a house of cards, as if their foundations were held up by matchsticks. The Red Army had swept across Europe, claiming the remaining Eastern nations before eclipsing Germany— both halves. China recalled the day that West Berlin had finally fallen, remembered the images that had been plastered worldwide on newspapers and across the screens of televisions. China remembered seeing the look of pride on Ivan's face. But that had been before he had let Alfred out. Now, all the Russian did was stay in his house and play with his American toy.
For China, days once spent planning and discussing ideology with Ivan were now spent sewing flags of Red to fly over Berlin, DC, and the other capitols of the conquered nations with Russia's sisters, or in the building that housed the rest of the Union, or at his own home. Even when China did see Russia, Ivan always had America near him, often cradled in his lap, entangling his arms about Russia's frame. And Yao hardly ever got to discuss any plans with the Russian at all, as any conversation would be interrupted sporadically whenever Ivan decided to invade Alfred's mouth and turn him into a desperate, mewling mess.
China fervently hoped that one day Ivan would tired of the American, and then Alfred would be in the place he was, and China would feel the relief of vindication. But as time wore on, it seemed less and less likely. America was young, beautiful, with soft skin and gold flaxen hair and blue eyes. His lands were gorgeous, vigorous and fertile, terrain that Russia could now explore on a whim. And he radiated a warmth that rivaled even the most equatorial of nations. China knew that Russia craved that warmth.
China knew his own lands were also beautiful, rich with life and the cultures and traditions of thousands of years. But weathered and reverent beauty was not what Russia wanted.
Was never what Russia wanted, says the terribly right voice in his head.
But even Ivan's want of Alfred's warmth and beauty did not explain his constant need to periodically ravish the young nation.
Russia needed to show, China decided, his dominance over the American. These displays of affections and lust, as false as they were, served to the Russian's end. They were to show that he'd won. To show that America had become pliable and submissive in his hands. To show that his greatest enemy had been conquered, was finally his and his alone.
China should have been back at his house hours ago. But instead, he stayed behind, quietly waiting in the downstairs living room. Ivan had carried a flushed and mewling American up to his room what seemed like hours ago. China attempted to curb his disgust at the sound of shifting and creaking, and the pleasured cries coming from above.
He stayed in the dark, absolutely still, ears pricked as he heard the noises from up above stop abruptly. Getting up, he cautiously made his ways to the stairs, hyper aware of every single creak and movement coming from above. He wasn't sure what would happen if Russia caught him. He crept up the stairs, making his footfalls as light as he could. Once upstairs he carefully traced the familiar hallway towards Ivan's room. China wasn't sure why he was up here, why he had decided to stay even after Ukraine and the Baltics states had left the Main House. He certainly had no intention to burst into Ivan's room only to see Russia and his Whore curled up in the post-coital glow.
He saw the door to Russia's room creak open and pulled back, watching from a safe distance, invisible in the dark. He saw Ivan's pale body step out, a trailing sheet tied loosely about his waist. Tripping slightly over the folds of the fabric, Ivan moved across the hall to the bathroom, dragging himself inside and shutting the door with a click.
China made his move then, padding quietly down the hallway, chancing a quick glance to the orange glow under the bathroom door before slipping into Russia's room.
A few decades had past since Yao had set foot in the room, but, to the best of his memory, it appeared as if nothing had changed. Ivan had always been a sparse decorator, moreso since the collapse of his Imperial government. His darkened room was graced only with two plush red chairs, a rug, and a bed. China's chest tightened as his eyes fell on the bed.
Amidst the lumps of a definite excess of pillows and blankets he could see the peak of a gold head. China moved closer.
America's head, neck, and part of his shoulders sat uncovered by the blankets. He was asleep, sprawled about, clutching a pillow tightly, drooling slightly on the fabric. His golden hair was mussed and sticking out, his skin was bronzed and flawless, save for a fresh red bite mark on his neck. China bent down, his face hovering inches above the American's. Beneath the overwhelming smells of vanilla and roses of the perfumes emanating from Alfred skin, Yao could detect the overlying hint of sweat and sex.
It disgusted the Eastern nation to see that Ivan had even taken the time to tuck the blankets into America's body.
China studied Alfred's face further, his anger building at the peaceful face the American bore. The slightly tanned and freckled skin was stretched taunt across his face, but his cheeks retained that soft youthful roundness, and were slightly tinged red. His lashes were feathery and gold, his lips still full and pink and curved like a perfect bow.
This nation, who had just celebrated his bicentennial a decade ago and had retained his looks despite the tumultuous nature of the past few decades.
He remembered a time when the other countries would express their envy of his own ageless body. China had kept his youth for centuries: it had survived periods of constant civil wars, collapses of dynasty, invasions by the Mongols, partition and economic crippling by Europe, the painful burns and cuts inflicted by his own little brother— and yet, over the past few decades, more noticeably after the close of the 70s, he had himself found the lines under his eyes, the brown spots in his skin, and even the wayward gray hairs.
He peered closer at Alfred, close enough to hear the soft whistle of breath through his mouth and nose.
China wanted to see that youthful face crease with age, that golden hair turn dusky and limp, those plump lips deflate and those full cheeks grow gaunt. But China knew that, under Ivan's control and ministrations, that would never happen. The attention he has lavished upon America's body would preserve him like a moth caught in amber.
China let his eyes wander further from Alfred, noting with disgust the pieces of clothing heatedly thrown off onto the floor. Ivan's pipe, still partially encrusted in blood, sat resting up against the foot of the bed. How simply would it be to drive the end through the sleeping American's chest? How easy to burn those amber waves of grain, to devastate those fertile lands and turn them into scarred and barren wastelands—
Yao takes a tentative step to the side, slim fingers barely brushing against the cool pipe metal.
"What are you doing?"
China whipped around at the sound of the deep Russian tenor. Ivan stood in the doorway, sheet still tied about his pale and muscular waist, a slightly damp towel in one hand. His dark eyes narrowed slightly at the other man, and cautiously Yao straightened up and stepped away from America's bed.
"I am doing nothing."
Russia glanced from Yao to America— who shifted in his sleep— gauging the distance between them.
"It does not look like nothing, comrade."
Russia slung the wet towel over one of his arms and absentmindedly cracked a knuckle.
"Perhaps you were trying to steal my prize, дa? Or perhaps not." A dangerous glint shown in the Russian's eyes. Yao gulped. Had he seen him go for the pipe?
"Perhaps, you were trying to damage my sunflower? To do him harm?" Ivan treads forward, stepping over the folds of his sheet.
"Wouldn't dream of it." China can't keep the entirety of the sardonic tone out of his voice.
Ivan silently appraised China, taking in his body language, the look on his face.
"You are jealous." He stated.
China was not jealous, he just knew, knew that Ivan did not want the American for love. He knew that it wasn't affection nor pleasure that Russia wanted. He knew that the Russian craved the powerplay, the submission of his once powerful enemy into a weak creature that wanted and needed him, that bent to his every will.
"I am not jealous of the sham you have set up with this pig. I am ashamed for you, Ivan, to be so doting upon a man who you once hated."
"He is mine now. Thus I do no longer hate him. I cannot hate what now belongs to me. And I have claimed him."
"Yes, it is all about you trying to claim him, is it not? You and your American whore make me ill."
Ivan sighed, crossing his arms, looking down on China.
"You are envious of the affections that I place upon Alfred."
Alfred. Yao hissed internally at the use of the familiar, vulnerable name.
But never jealous. Never.
"As far as I am concerned, it is not affection. You are wasting your time lavishing upon this American, " Yao is in dangerous, dangerous territory, but he doesn't care, "Is this what you wanted all along? Was all of your— all of our work, all of the suffering we had for our ideology— was the fact that we finally, finally won all so that you could have your precious American whore?"
"Do not call him that." Ivan's voice had finally entered that lethal register. China stopped talking. He knew the Russian too well to challenge that tone.
Ivan stepped forward once more, trailing the sheet behind him, which, coupled with the pale muscled body and foreboding aura, made him seem like a vengeful specter.
"You will not lecture me on the pains and suffering that I have endured for the sake of my goals. I have endured it longer than you have. And I tell you that it was not all for this. Not all for this sake." Ivan curled a hand over his heart, lips turned in the slightest snarl.
"But he is mine, he is my prize. I have won him. And I will show the world that he is mine. "
The world. The world that they had won, the world that Ivan hid himself from now, slipping under sheets to tend to the Union's own courtesan—
"Ivan," China began, strained with the difficult of curtailing emotion, "I though that— "
Despite himself, he felt his voice heighten to that shrill tone that emerged through anger.
"— I thought that we, we would be the one's beside each other when victory finally came, that when America was finally brought to his knees you would have crushed him, not picked him up from the gutters and cared for him like a sick dog— "
"What's going on?"
China turned at the sound of the voice to see America sleepily raise himself from the mound of pillows and blankets, blinking away drowsiness and fumbling with his glasses on the nightstand, pulling up the spectacles and settling them on his face.
"C-china? What are you doing here?" Alfred flushed and fumbled with the blankets, pulling them up to cover his exposed skin.
Russia brushed past China with no amount of kindness, knocking him aside, and crouched by America's bed, one hand reaching out to stroke his hair.
"Nothing, Любимый. You must go back to sleep, дa?"
Alfred moved his head to look at China, eyes squinting.
"What does he want?"
"Hush," Ivan kissed America on the lips, instantly silencing all opposition. China's stomach burned at the sight, twisting as Ivan deepened the kiss. Alfred whined as the Russian pulled back, Ivan's purple iris observing the Eastern nation out of the corner of his eye.
Ivan got up, but remained close to America as he addressed China. Alfred's hand snaked out from between the blankets and grabbed onto Ivan's, entwining their fingers.
"You must leave now. I can't think of a reason why you are still here. Go home, China."
China remained rooted to the spot.
"Yao," Ivan growled, dangerously, "Leave. Now."
China stayed for only a moment longer, his face a mask of disgust, and something else, something deeper, something more pained.
"That you would do this to me," He hissed, "It is inexcusable, Ivan."
And he turned and bolted out of the room.
After the dark-haired nation had finally left, Ivan sighed and knelt back down by the bed, taking the damp towel from where he had slung it over his bare bicep. America obliging pulled down the blankets and wriggled out so Ivan could clean off the quickly drying cum on the American's stomach. Ivan smiled as he washed the release from Alfred's skin. He looked wonderfully attractive splattered with seed. Perhaps next time Ivan would pull out early and mark himself upon Alfred.
"You came so much, мой цветок." Ivan remarked as he set the soiled towel aside. He wipes a small dab of cum off Alfred's stomach and sucks on the finger. He chuckled and shook his head. "You are so young, little one. So young and vital."
He walked around to the other side of the bed and settled himself under the covers, turning to face Alfred.
Immediately, America scooted closer to him, cuddling into his chest. Ivan smiled and put his arms around him, nuzzling his hair.
"China seemed pissed." Alfred mumbled. Ivan laughed lightly and rubbed his back, intensely enjoying the heat that his American radiated.
"You do not have to worry about any of that, мой цветок."
Ivan let his hand run through Alfred's hair, lingering for a few second on the wayward strand, causing American to shiver and whimper and cuddle closer to Ivan, leaning in to try to prolong the touch. Ivan chuckled. If he could muster the strength, he was sure Alfred would be up for another romp. Ivan didn't want to admit that their last round had made him rather exhausted. Indeed, Alfred was an exuberant ball of energy, and always willing, so willing.
Still, he lets his hands travel over Alfred's body, splaying over his back, rubbing and squeezing his tender hips and stroking his belly and sides, still thinned from his time in the cell, moving until Alfred melted further into Ivan, mind incoherent and overwhelmed with his touch.
Deciding to cater to Alfred's and his own desire a little further, he dipped once hand to grab Alfred's backside, the other cupping his cheek as he pulled him into a deep, dominating kiss, sucking and biting until America could hardly breath. He tangled the hand on Alfred's face into his hair as he pulled back, leaving the American gasping for breath. Russia felt himself grin at the sight of Alfred's blushing face, and kissed his forehead.
"малыш likes when Ivan pays attention to him this way, дa?"
Still panting slightly, Alfred snuggled up further to the Russian. Ivan let his other arm coil about Alfred's waist as he pressed the boy's head to his chest, curled about him like one of England's dragons about a golden treasure hoard.
Ivan absentmindedly pulled and stroked at Alfred's hair, about to slip into a doze when he heard and felt Alfred speak against his skin.
"Did I do something wrong? Is that why China is mad?" Alfred's breath was hot on his chest.
Ivan tilted Alfred's head up, looking into those adoring blue eyes, slightly touched with fear that he had done something to upset the man who cared so deeply for him. Ivan let his thumb brush along Alfred's lip before tucking the downy head back into his pale chest and exhaling into the hair. Such questions. He would have to let Alfred know that he had no need to ask such things.
"нeт, my little one. You are like flower, and all flowers must do is provide their caretakers with beauty and warmth. And you are doing a wonderful job of that." He nuzzled his head further in Alfred's hair and took a deep, reverent breath.
"I'm like a flower?"
"дa. And I am the caretaker. In return for your warmth and beauty, it is my purpose to make sure that neither of those things fade. With me, you will be beautiful and perfect forever. Does that not sound good, my little sun?"
Alfred nodded, his nose and cheeks brushed up against Ivan's cool skin, a genuine smile spreading across his face. To his broken and needy mind, it did sound good. To have someone to always care for him and protect him, someone who would never leave his side. And all that Alfred had to do in return was exist.
The American does not speak after that, and Ivan felt him melt into sleep in his embrace. Ivan closed his eyes to follow, losing himself in the other's body's radiance. He would never tire of the warmth. And it comforted him to know that never, never would he have to be without that again.
Because his flower could no longer survive without its caretaker.
мой céрдцe: "My heart," according to my Russian dictionary. Please tell me if it's wrong.
мойцветок: "My flower."
малыш: "Little One."
I like possessive, caring almost to the point of being creepy Ivan. I think it's pretty well within his character. Despite the circumstances of the fic, I found myself awwing over the RusAme moments.
Okay, time for some random headcanon regarding China's aging. In this fic I said that China noticed himself aging approximately around 1976, which is when the Cultural Revolution ended. During this revolution, designed to instill socialism and eliminate inward and outward appearances of capitalism in Chinese society, many historical artifacts and relics were destroyed or sold (though this was never officially sanctioned by the Communist Party), and cultural and religious sites were ransacked and desecrated, as they were thought to be a part of the "old way of thinking" and thus impediments to change. Persecution of those following the age old Chinese religious practices also occurred.
This loss of historical artifacts and past traditions, including some of the more mystical practices such as feng shui and fortune telling is what, in my headcanon, caused China to age. Essentially, in addition to the stress of the era and the plight of his people, China's aging is caused by the loss of his culture and cultural tradition that had been ingrained in him for thousands of years. If that makes sense, at all.
The way I see it, the government/military of a nation provides its backbone, and the economy/trade gives it strength and staying power, but it is the culture that provides nations with vitality and longevity. Think about it: the government and the economic trade routes of the Roman Empire are long gone, but the cultural legacy (ie art, literature, architecture) remains. I feel, with the destruction of many Chinese traditions, historical buildings, and artifacts, part of that vitality was lost. Not that I'm saying Communist countries are without culture (far from it), just that the destruction of centuries old traditions weighed heavy on Yao physically and mentally.
Tl:dr, I know. But I hope you enjoyed the story anyway!