[Axis Powers Hetalia] Power Play
Feb. 9th, 2009 09:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gigantomachyNotes: Once, Finland was a Duchy of Russia. To strain relations between Sweden and Finland, Russia elevated the Finnish language to the same level of importance Swedish enjoyed. It was a smooth move; even today, there's a very obvious tension between the two countries.
This was a response written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hetalia_kink. It was a totally awesome prompt, and I'm glad I got the chance to jump on it. The actual porning in itself is kind of weak, but I haven't written anything remotely porny in pretty much forever, so. Bear with me, eh?
Also, writing sane, quietly evil Russia-kun is way too much fun.
Russia shows Sweden his place in the world, by leaving his mark on the one thing Sweden cannot protect -- his wife.
power play
(my head is aflame
my body is distant)
Sweden stands statue-still, long fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides as he tries to survey the situation with some semblance of dignity. Russia is ... is he doing this for Sweden's benefit? Drawing borders? Or is it --?
Oh, how his little wife has grown, willowy and lean and beautiful with sky-blue eyes that dance like a child's. His wife, the one he's protected and cherished since their break from Denmark. His wife, who now kneels near the great throne where Russia sits, those dancing eyes clouded by something entirely different, now. Power. Real importance, or something close enough to it to matter. His first true taste in who can say how long. Something Sweden has not, has never offered; and addictive, without a doubt.
Sweden thanks the seas that Russia is in one of his better moods. Though still dangerous, his mind seems clear enough this day. He almost seems ... affable, pleasant. And even if he isn't, Finland can deal with that type better than anyone, save for perhaps Lithuania.
So far, Russia seems to be completely ignoring (or has forgotten) Sweden, concentrating those luminous violet eyes on the smaller nation at his feet. For the hundredth time, Sweden wonders why he's decided to accompany Finland on this unexpected journey to give thanks for this unexpected honor; he is not unfamiliar with the way Russia works, and it is this knowledge that keeps him close by Finland's side, even as Russia sets aside the bottle and begins to work his magic.
Russia can be incredibly gentle and persuasive when it pleases him to do so. And Finland, eyes glazed and glittering, is accepting every note, every low rumble of a whisper that hints of a special intimacy, responding in soft, lyrical Finnish, his tone giddy. Russia, who is leaning in, an expression of benevolence painted across his features as he presses a feather-soft kiss against the smooth skin of Finland's forehead.
Sweden doesn't know whether to snort or turn away. Instead, he settles for continuing his vigilance, fighting the brutal sting of dismissal as Russia slowly undoes the dark ribbon at Finland's throat. There is no resistance, not even when those large, pale hands began working at delicate pearl buttons, loosening them slowly, one by one.
"You love me, yes?" Russia's words are husky, pushed through a throat that has been burned by far too much vodka, and far too many screams.
The smaller man nods.
"I will take good care of you, little one." Even the accent is soft, and Sweden knows Russia is at his most dangerous now, displaying a manner easily underestimated. Finland makes a soft noise of acceptance, and then Russia is upon him, all eager mouth and hands, claiming dominance over such an unspoiled prize. Sweden, a forgotten statue between suits of ancient armor in the shadows, cannot look away as his little wife is undressed.
Surprising, that Russia can still be gentle. Perhaps he cares for the smaller Finn as more than just a conquest; the thought does not sit well in Sweden's mind. And then there is little mind left for such thoughts; Russia is leading Finland closer, one large hand directing those slow, inexorable steps, the other curling against Finland's hip. A calculated gesture, to offer a place on this throne to Finland, and never mind the exact coordinates of that seat -- Finland, however, does not seem to notice (or perhaps he simply doesn't care, caught in the thrill of recognition), the first start of a tremble visible even from where Sweden stands. The many layers of symbolism certainly aren't lost on Sweden.
Russia, his first hand mirroring the hold of the second, lifts Finland as if he were made of paper and settles the smaller man in his lap, face to face. There's a soft gasp, and then a quiet sound of another kind: it's impossible to be ignorant of the fact that this arrangement pleases Russia in more ways than one, especially when Russia's hands are pressing Finland closer, violet eyes fluttering for a moment in indecision before falling closed. Those huge hands roam across Finland's back, calming with measured gestures before moving to the other side to inflame. From where he stands, Sweden cannot see what exactly Russia does, but from the sound of Finland's gasps and groans (so shy and hesitant at first, but steadily gaining volume and heat) and little whimpers of want, it's more than enough.
The big Russian pauses for a moment to retrieve the ribbon, to tie it once again around the smaller man's throat. It seems to amuse him somehow.
When he begins again, there is something far less gentle in his ministrations -- Sweden, caught between the deep desire to turn away and deny the scene, and another, less savory fragment of himself that is able to appreciate it in the way one might appreciate a tasteful erotic painting (one that hides more than it reveals, allowing the viewer's fertile imagination to fill the tableau on their own), barely stifles the quiet moan that threatens to escape his lips. As if he'd heard -- and perhaps he had -- Russia's eyes flicker open as he leans forward, focusing on the shadows Sweden inhabits. He smiles then, the look feral and wild. He bends his lips to Finland's ear and murmurs something inaudible; Finland shudders hard and nods once, tightly, before his small hands are caught in a motion of their own, teasing and exploring and finding and Sweden is certain this is no longer a one-sided game.
Their lips meet, crushing and tasting, and one of Russia's hands has found a focal point, moving rhythmically, a counterpoint to the steady shift of Finland's hips. The smaller man is shaking, fingers twisting into winter-blond hair as he moves against Russia, and Sweden finds his attention caught suddenly on the play of muscles beneath pale, pale skin, just as surely as his ears are straining to catch the muffled cadence of Finland's soft moans over the sound of sliding, sweat-slick flesh. The tension in Finland's body is growing visibly, building and expanding until Russia stops moving altogether and breaks away to allow the grateful cry of release to ring through the audience chamber.
It is then that Sweden realizes he is shaking like a leaf, hard as a rock and sick with shame and unfulfilled need.
The game will not conclude so easily. Russia is a practical man (when it pleases him), and it is only a few brief seconds from the time Finland's head falls against Russia's chest to the moment Russia is reaching a wet, sticky hand to Finland's rear, seeking a new target, the real target. Finland stiffens when one of those fingers presses against him, then pushes inside.
Sweden is clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, glaring daggers at Russia; Russia does not notice or care, and merely continues this new task, dismantling resistance, in this as in all things. Finland is stirring once again, gasping and squirming at what is most likely a painful invasion. In the end, Sweden cannot tell whether the sound Finland makes when Russia withdraws is one of gratitude or loss. Not that it matters for long; Russia is already coaxing Finland into motion, reversing Finland's direction, directing delicate hands to clutch the arms of his throne and lift as he withdraws his own hard cock from his trousers, engorged and dark with arousal. Sweden's eyes search Finland's face for some sign of recognition, a gesture, anything, but Finland's eyes are closed tightly, head lifted to the ceiling, giving Sweden a perfect view of that dark ribbon wrapped around his slender, milk-pale throat.
Whatever preparation Russia has performed, it is not enough; Russia is huge and impatience makes him lose that gentle demeanor as he impales Finland in one smooth stroke. Finland gasps, and Sweden mirrors the sound, a hand pressing against his mouth as soon as it escapes. Russia is still for a moment that seems to last forever, allowing Finland a moment to adjust to the intrusion, surprising Sweden once again. Russia, however, is not idle, not even now, arranging Finland's body just so, back arched, head against Russia's shoulder, Finland's thighs trembling with strain and perhaps something more -- oh yes, definitely something more because Russia's hands are roaming across Finland's boyish chest, tweaking and stroking and bringing to life once more the smaller man's once-spent arousal. And then he's moving, all of him, one hand moving to guide a skinny hip down and down and down and up again, a quickly-caught rhythm, old as time itself. The steady sound of flesh-on-flesh and Russia's quiet grunts fill the space with something more than uneasy silence, and Sweden thinks 's this show for my benefit?, and Sweden thinks th' chair must have gotten bigger since th' last time or maybe it's because Finland's just that much smaller, and Sweden thinks of Finland, sweating and writhing fifty paces before him, paying the price of his gratitude, tousled and shaking and lovely -- so lovely -- still.
Russia's eyes find Sweden over the curve of Finland's shoulder, and he smiles again, eyes half-lidded, an expression that's anything but friendly. An expression that says mine, that draws a half-growl from Sweden's throat, pulling him one step closer. The moment past, Russia finds greater entertainment in marking Finland's shoulder with his teeth. It takes a moment for Sweden to realize that Finland now is watching him, and a moment longer for Sweden to decipher the look he's being given -- a look that, had Russia caught it, would have surely caused him to raze Sweden to the ground. Blue eyes widen impossibly, but that moment passes as well, and Finland's eyes are closing once more.
"Come," Russia growls at last, his attention fixed on Sweden like a predator. Sweden jerks back a step, now there's a phrase with meaning, but Russia is beckoning with a sadistic half-smirk that brokers no room for argument. As soundlessly as possible, Sweden approaches, eyes wary, watching for that spark of insanity to arise once more. He wonders what, if anything, he can do -- he has always been removed, Finland eternally caught between the two of them, and it's never had so much meaning as it does now. Whatever desire he felt dies a quick, ugly death, shriveling in the face of the half-mad creature before him and his games.
"You want to touch him, don't you?" That rough voice rides up his spine, sends him shivering despite the warmth of his clothing, and Sweden cannot find the voice to answer, fighting hard to keep the fury from his eyes. Russia's lips caress the side of Finland's neck, continuing on as if for all the world he were just sharing a word of wisdom over tea rather than driving himself into the smaller man between them, harder and deeper with every stroke. "Do it, if you can." The last is little more than a challenging growl, and Sweden understands what he means. Russia's mark may in time fade from vision, but on Sweden's soul, it is indelible.
As much as he wants to reach out and pull Finland away, he interjects enough hesitant-seeming pause to satisfy Russia's sense of triumph -- as usual, Finland does not understand what is unspoken, and the expression he turns on Sweden is full of confusion, followed by resigned hurt. Later, Sweden tells himself. Time for that later. He reaches out to cradle Finland's face in his hands, averting his gaze as Russia gives one final, rough thrust, and Finland cries out softly in answer. It is a face he has wanted to see for years and years, and now he is not ready to face.
At last it is over, and despite the churning nausea Sweden holds Finland steady until he's sure he won't fall over, then bends to retrieve Finland's clothes, moving with deadly calm. Russia, unmoved since his release, simply watches with lazy curiosity, and Sweden wants nothing more than to wipe that smug smile from Russia's face with his fist. Finland does not resist when Sweden guides his arms into his sleeves, and only gasps softly when he's pulled away from Russia's lap. Sweden doesn't spare Russia so much as a sideways glance as he finishes dressing Finland, then gathers the smaller man into his arms, cradling him against his chest protectively.
Wordlessly, he stalks down the carpet, towards the door.
Behind him, Russia giggles softly, an eerie combination of innocence and madness that hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud. "Come again!"
Never again, Sweden swears silently, and prays that it is true.
This was a response written for
hetalia_kink. It was a totally awesome prompt, and I'm glad I got the chance to jump on it. The actual porning in itself is kind of weak, but I haven't written anything remotely porny in pretty much forever, so. Bear with me, eh?Also, writing sane, quietly evil Russia-kun is way too much fun.
Russia shows Sweden his place in the world, by leaving his mark on the one thing Sweden cannot protect -- his wife.
power play
(my head is aflame
my body is distant)
Sweden stands statue-still, long fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides as he tries to survey the situation with some semblance of dignity. Russia is ... is he doing this for Sweden's benefit? Drawing borders? Or is it --?
Oh, how his little wife has grown, willowy and lean and beautiful with sky-blue eyes that dance like a child's. His wife, the one he's protected and cherished since their break from Denmark. His wife, who now kneels near the great throne where Russia sits, those dancing eyes clouded by something entirely different, now. Power. Real importance, or something close enough to it to matter. His first true taste in who can say how long. Something Sweden has not, has never offered; and addictive, without a doubt.
Sweden thanks the seas that Russia is in one of his better moods. Though still dangerous, his mind seems clear enough this day. He almost seems ... affable, pleasant. And even if he isn't, Finland can deal with that type better than anyone, save for perhaps Lithuania.
So far, Russia seems to be completely ignoring (or has forgotten) Sweden, concentrating those luminous violet eyes on the smaller nation at his feet. For the hundredth time, Sweden wonders why he's decided to accompany Finland on this unexpected journey to give thanks for this unexpected honor; he is not unfamiliar with the way Russia works, and it is this knowledge that keeps him close by Finland's side, even as Russia sets aside the bottle and begins to work his magic.
Russia can be incredibly gentle and persuasive when it pleases him to do so. And Finland, eyes glazed and glittering, is accepting every note, every low rumble of a whisper that hints of a special intimacy, responding in soft, lyrical Finnish, his tone giddy. Russia, who is leaning in, an expression of benevolence painted across his features as he presses a feather-soft kiss against the smooth skin of Finland's forehead.
Sweden doesn't know whether to snort or turn away. Instead, he settles for continuing his vigilance, fighting the brutal sting of dismissal as Russia slowly undoes the dark ribbon at Finland's throat. There is no resistance, not even when those large, pale hands began working at delicate pearl buttons, loosening them slowly, one by one.
"You love me, yes?" Russia's words are husky, pushed through a throat that has been burned by far too much vodka, and far too many screams.
The smaller man nods.
"I will take good care of you, little one." Even the accent is soft, and Sweden knows Russia is at his most dangerous now, displaying a manner easily underestimated. Finland makes a soft noise of acceptance, and then Russia is upon him, all eager mouth and hands, claiming dominance over such an unspoiled prize. Sweden, a forgotten statue between suits of ancient armor in the shadows, cannot look away as his little wife is undressed.
Surprising, that Russia can still be gentle. Perhaps he cares for the smaller Finn as more than just a conquest; the thought does not sit well in Sweden's mind. And then there is little mind left for such thoughts; Russia is leading Finland closer, one large hand directing those slow, inexorable steps, the other curling against Finland's hip. A calculated gesture, to offer a place on this throne to Finland, and never mind the exact coordinates of that seat -- Finland, however, does not seem to notice (or perhaps he simply doesn't care, caught in the thrill of recognition), the first start of a tremble visible even from where Sweden stands. The many layers of symbolism certainly aren't lost on Sweden.
Russia, his first hand mirroring the hold of the second, lifts Finland as if he were made of paper and settles the smaller man in his lap, face to face. There's a soft gasp, and then a quiet sound of another kind: it's impossible to be ignorant of the fact that this arrangement pleases Russia in more ways than one, especially when Russia's hands are pressing Finland closer, violet eyes fluttering for a moment in indecision before falling closed. Those huge hands roam across Finland's back, calming with measured gestures before moving to the other side to inflame. From where he stands, Sweden cannot see what exactly Russia does, but from the sound of Finland's gasps and groans (so shy and hesitant at first, but steadily gaining volume and heat) and little whimpers of want, it's more than enough.
The big Russian pauses for a moment to retrieve the ribbon, to tie it once again around the smaller man's throat. It seems to amuse him somehow.
When he begins again, there is something far less gentle in his ministrations -- Sweden, caught between the deep desire to turn away and deny the scene, and another, less savory fragment of himself that is able to appreciate it in the way one might appreciate a tasteful erotic painting (one that hides more than it reveals, allowing the viewer's fertile imagination to fill the tableau on their own), barely stifles the quiet moan that threatens to escape his lips. As if he'd heard -- and perhaps he had -- Russia's eyes flicker open as he leans forward, focusing on the shadows Sweden inhabits. He smiles then, the look feral and wild. He bends his lips to Finland's ear and murmurs something inaudible; Finland shudders hard and nods once, tightly, before his small hands are caught in a motion of their own, teasing and exploring and finding and Sweden is certain this is no longer a one-sided game.
Their lips meet, crushing and tasting, and one of Russia's hands has found a focal point, moving rhythmically, a counterpoint to the steady shift of Finland's hips. The smaller man is shaking, fingers twisting into winter-blond hair as he moves against Russia, and Sweden finds his attention caught suddenly on the play of muscles beneath pale, pale skin, just as surely as his ears are straining to catch the muffled cadence of Finland's soft moans over the sound of sliding, sweat-slick flesh. The tension in Finland's body is growing visibly, building and expanding until Russia stops moving altogether and breaks away to allow the grateful cry of release to ring through the audience chamber.
It is then that Sweden realizes he is shaking like a leaf, hard as a rock and sick with shame and unfulfilled need.
The game will not conclude so easily. Russia is a practical man (when it pleases him), and it is only a few brief seconds from the time Finland's head falls against Russia's chest to the moment Russia is reaching a wet, sticky hand to Finland's rear, seeking a new target, the real target. Finland stiffens when one of those fingers presses against him, then pushes inside.
Sweden is clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, glaring daggers at Russia; Russia does not notice or care, and merely continues this new task, dismantling resistance, in this as in all things. Finland is stirring once again, gasping and squirming at what is most likely a painful invasion. In the end, Sweden cannot tell whether the sound Finland makes when Russia withdraws is one of gratitude or loss. Not that it matters for long; Russia is already coaxing Finland into motion, reversing Finland's direction, directing delicate hands to clutch the arms of his throne and lift as he withdraws his own hard cock from his trousers, engorged and dark with arousal. Sweden's eyes search Finland's face for some sign of recognition, a gesture, anything, but Finland's eyes are closed tightly, head lifted to the ceiling, giving Sweden a perfect view of that dark ribbon wrapped around his slender, milk-pale throat.
Whatever preparation Russia has performed, it is not enough; Russia is huge and impatience makes him lose that gentle demeanor as he impales Finland in one smooth stroke. Finland gasps, and Sweden mirrors the sound, a hand pressing against his mouth as soon as it escapes. Russia is still for a moment that seems to last forever, allowing Finland a moment to adjust to the intrusion, surprising Sweden once again. Russia, however, is not idle, not even now, arranging Finland's body just so, back arched, head against Russia's shoulder, Finland's thighs trembling with strain and perhaps something more -- oh yes, definitely something more because Russia's hands are roaming across Finland's boyish chest, tweaking and stroking and bringing to life once more the smaller man's once-spent arousal. And then he's moving, all of him, one hand moving to guide a skinny hip down and down and down and up again, a quickly-caught rhythm, old as time itself. The steady sound of flesh-on-flesh and Russia's quiet grunts fill the space with something more than uneasy silence, and Sweden thinks 's this show for my benefit?, and Sweden thinks th' chair must have gotten bigger since th' last time or maybe it's because Finland's just that much smaller, and Sweden thinks of Finland, sweating and writhing fifty paces before him, paying the price of his gratitude, tousled and shaking and lovely -- so lovely -- still.
Russia's eyes find Sweden over the curve of Finland's shoulder, and he smiles again, eyes half-lidded, an expression that's anything but friendly. An expression that says mine, that draws a half-growl from Sweden's throat, pulling him one step closer. The moment past, Russia finds greater entertainment in marking Finland's shoulder with his teeth. It takes a moment for Sweden to realize that Finland now is watching him, and a moment longer for Sweden to decipher the look he's being given -- a look that, had Russia caught it, would have surely caused him to raze Sweden to the ground. Blue eyes widen impossibly, but that moment passes as well, and Finland's eyes are closing once more.
"Come," Russia growls at last, his attention fixed on Sweden like a predator. Sweden jerks back a step, now there's a phrase with meaning, but Russia is beckoning with a sadistic half-smirk that brokers no room for argument. As soundlessly as possible, Sweden approaches, eyes wary, watching for that spark of insanity to arise once more. He wonders what, if anything, he can do -- he has always been removed, Finland eternally caught between the two of them, and it's never had so much meaning as it does now. Whatever desire he felt dies a quick, ugly death, shriveling in the face of the half-mad creature before him and his games.
"You want to touch him, don't you?" That rough voice rides up his spine, sends him shivering despite the warmth of his clothing, and Sweden cannot find the voice to answer, fighting hard to keep the fury from his eyes. Russia's lips caress the side of Finland's neck, continuing on as if for all the world he were just sharing a word of wisdom over tea rather than driving himself into the smaller man between them, harder and deeper with every stroke. "Do it, if you can." The last is little more than a challenging growl, and Sweden understands what he means. Russia's mark may in time fade from vision, but on Sweden's soul, it is indelible.
As much as he wants to reach out and pull Finland away, he interjects enough hesitant-seeming pause to satisfy Russia's sense of triumph -- as usual, Finland does not understand what is unspoken, and the expression he turns on Sweden is full of confusion, followed by resigned hurt. Later, Sweden tells himself. Time for that later. He reaches out to cradle Finland's face in his hands, averting his gaze as Russia gives one final, rough thrust, and Finland cries out softly in answer. It is a face he has wanted to see for years and years, and now he is not ready to face.
At last it is over, and despite the churning nausea Sweden holds Finland steady until he's sure he won't fall over, then bends to retrieve Finland's clothes, moving with deadly calm. Russia, unmoved since his release, simply watches with lazy curiosity, and Sweden wants nothing more than to wipe that smug smile from Russia's face with his fist. Finland does not resist when Sweden guides his arms into his sleeves, and only gasps softly when he's pulled away from Russia's lap. Sweden doesn't spare Russia so much as a sideways glance as he finishes dressing Finland, then gathers the smaller man into his arms, cradling him against his chest protectively.
Wordlessly, he stalks down the carpet, towards the door.
Behind him, Russia giggles softly, an eerie combination of innocence and madness that hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud. "Come again!"
Never again, Sweden swears silently, and prays that it is true.
