RusAme WIP

Chapter 1: Moscow
A/N: Dominant!Soviet!Russia/Submissive!America because USASR is the best ship. Cold War Era. Also why isn’t “USASR” a canon term for Soviet Russia and America? Warning. This will contain heavy lemon smut, non-con, BDSM, very strong pro-communism/anti-capitalism, and history… simultaneously. Because communism hasn’t been Rule 34ed, so it shall be. But of course you all like SOME history, else you wouldn’t like Hetalia, amiryte, haha! Gulags involved because gulag. Also one of these days I’ll write a space-gays style ship. This fiction may contain subconscious projections of my own feelings and fantasies that I’m uncomfortable addressing directly so I address them via convenient fanfiction and using adult internet memes as my excuse for my embarrassing and strange fantasies. Just maybe.

Jump to chapter 2 for the steamy stuff. Also this is my first Hetalia fic, my first human yaoi fic, and my first human/human fic, so I’m sorry if I fuck up with the story part. But I promise you I’m pretty decent at writing smut, so if you don’t want to bother with the story, just jump to the smut.

PS: Communism has never truly existed. I’m not a Tankie. I’m a Marxist-Leninist-Futurist who would’ve supported the USSR over the US during the Cold War. They were never communist, but they were better than America. But true communism will rise with technological development. Long live the revolution! Communism will prevail!
America examined his surroundings. It was the plainest room he’d ever been in—it had nothing but the door that led into it, but he knew that the room was perhaps one of the most secure in his nation. His boss stood in front of him, ready to deliver a secret message to him. “So dude, bro. Bro dude. Bro sir. Sir dude.” He stuttered. “Shut up, America. I’m about to deliver to you a very dangerous mission. If you fuck this up, you could die.” Said his boss, who held up a briefcase for America to open. America opened the briefcase and picked up the single paper that lay inside. America held the paper in shock as he read it.

OPERATION EAGLEHAWK
You will be sent to Moscow in order to gather up as much information and as many different Soviet newspapers  as you can for intelligence purposes.
He looked up at his boss. “Understand? Good.” Said his boss, who grabbed the paper and proceeded to burn it. “NO WAY! I DON’T WANT TO GO TO RUSSIA’S PLACE!” he exclaimed. “He’s scary! Besides, I look nothing like a Russian!” he said. His boss glared at him. “This wasn’t something you could accept or deny, America. You MUST do it. Besides, you’re always blabbing about how you want to be the hero. Why don’t you grow some balls and actually do it for once?” America was taken aback, but didn’t say anything. His boss pressed a button. “As far as your looks… we have a solution for that.”

A woman stepped into the room with a large duffel bag and a chair. “Sit down.” She said. America did so. The woman ruffled through her bag and pulled out scissors and proceeded to cut America’s hair. America was about to resist, but he saw his boss’s eyes glare at him. He proceeded to sit quietly as the lady snipped off his signature cowlick and cut his hair short. She then dyed his hair brunette, and handed him contacts. The lady continued to work at America, before finally she handed him a mirror.
“Haha, I look nothing like an American anymore!” he said. His boss glared at him again. “It’s not enough to look Russian. You’ve got to act Russian, too.” He said. America laughed. “No problem! All I have to do is drink plenty of vodka and praise Stalin every five seconds, right?” His boss facepalmed, and then pressed another button. In came a young man. “Здравствуйте, America. You are going to learn how to speak basic Russian.” America sighed. “Oh, nyet…”
***
America had been wandering the streets of Moscow for two days. He’d been receiving strange looks, but nobody questioned his identity. He looked at his fake USSR passport which had allowed him to arrive in Moscow via train. “Sasha Volkov” he said to himself. This was his fake name. “I still prefer Alfred F. Jones…” he said. “Sasha sounds like a girl’s name.” Most of the time, America preferred to lay low and remain on the far outskirts of Moscow, where he temporarily resided as well. America decided he needed a drink. He walked into a nearby bar, ordered some vodka, and started reading a newspaper. He still could only barely read Cyrillic, despite being able to understand and speak Russian fairly decently. It was an article about Yuri Gagarin—he was talking about what it was like to be in space. He’d been the first person to go to space earlier in the spring of the year. Despite hating Russia’s guts, he was still impressed by Yuri’s personal bravery and the feat itself. He was so engrossed in the article that he didn’t notice the large mass that plopped right down in the seat next to him. “Pozalhuista!” came a voice, shattering America’s concentration. He recognized that voice. America brought the newspaper up to his face, trying to hide his nervousness. “Ya khochu vodka!” the voice spoke to the bartender. “Oh, privyet!”
America slowly lowered the newspaper and turned towards the voice. He stared directly into the deep purple eyes of none other than Russia himself. Russia noticed the article America was reading. “It’s amazing, da?” he said,in Russian. “We were able to put a man in space and bring him back. On top of that, we beat America to space!” America nervously chuckled, but managed to pull a poker face. “Yeah, it is. Imagine where we might go by the end of this decade!” he said. Russia looked up at the ceiling, as though he were looking up at the sky. “Comrade Yuri had stated that when he was up there, he didn’t see any borders. It’s funny how the Americans think it makes any sense to own a piece of land. The Earth belongs to everyone. We can only rent out a piece of it for a period of time, and we shouldn’t be allowed to do whatever we want with it.” He said. America’s knuckles went white. Deep down, America understood the logic behind communism. But he quite liked having the luxuries he did. Fuck the poor people.
“Imagine if the whole world worked together as one. There would be no more wars to fight. There would only be the desire for the growth of humanity. Such a world is possible. But other countries keep telling their citizens to continue to be greedy. Giving them false promises of prosperity to prevent them from rebelling. The American proletariat doesn’t realize they’re being exploited by the bourgeoisie. It’s so sad…” Russia said, looking down at his drink. “But one of these days they will. Because the Soviet Union will triumph! I hope our dear leaders will soon hand the means of production down to the proletariat. One of these days, we shall realize true, scientific communism!” he said, smiling. America forced a smile back. “Slavsa Sovyetski Soyuz!” continued Russia. “And the great Soviet Union will take us to space! Space communism! I say, if we’re ever going to be a successful space-faring civilization… if we ever want to colonize another world… the world’s got to embrace communism first.” America nodded, hoping Russia didn’t realize how nervous he was.

Russia offered to buy America a shot of vodka, which America politely declined. “I’ve already had a shot.” He said. “Suit yourself, comrade.” Russia smiled, as he held up his own shot. “To comrade Gagarin, paving the way to a future of space exploration!” he said, downing the shot. America looked at his watch, and pretended to be surprised. “It’s getting late. I should get going.” He said. “It was nice meeting you, though.” He waved to Russia and started to walk out the bar. He looked at Russia through the window, who appeared to order another shot. “Thank goodness. He didn’t suspect a thing.” America sighed with relief.
The cold December air started to numb America’s face. America liked the cold, but not when it was this cold. To make matters worse, it started to snow. Heavily. And because he was on the very outskirts of Moscow, there was very little light to see where he was going. America could hardly see twenty feet in front of him, his path weakly lit by the soft city glow of Moscow reflecting off of the clouds. To make matters even worse, because America decided to take a shortcut through the woods, there was no clear path for him to follow. The gravel road that would have directed him towards his apartment was covered up with snow, and America wasn’t familiar enough yet with his surroundings to know the path by heart.
America started to feel nervous again. Tall coniferous trees surrounded him. It was dead silent—serene and creepy at the same time. He only vaguely knew what direction to walk in—uphill. He knew that wolves lived in the woods. “I sure hope the wolves are as pissed off about the cold as I am…” he said to himself. As if on cue, he heard a rustle behind him. America stiffened. “It’s just the wind… it’s just the wind…” he told himself. He started softly humming the Soviet anthem—he absolutely hated what it stood for, but he couldn’t help but to admit it’s an insanely catchy tune, and he didn’t want to hum anything American in case there were bugs around him—to himself to keep his mind occupied.
The snow around him grew deeper, which didn’t help, especially since the gradation of the hill grew steeper. America started to struggle to walk. At most, he could only trudge through the snow. He had to grab onto nearby branches to help him through the snow. “How much further do I have to walk…” he said to himself. Snap. America stopped. Snap. America started to breathe heavily. “Fuck… it’s just the wind, it’s just the wind, it’s just the wind…” he said to himself. CRUNCH. America started to run. Or at least, he attempted to. At most he could just awkwardly plod forward. “FUCK!” he screamed, as he slipped and rammed his head against a branch. He fell face first into the snow in pain. “Well, this is the end… eaten by wolves… I didn’t think this is what my boss meant when he said I could die…” he said. He felt something sharp prick his ass. His consciousness started to fade as he was turned over, and he saw blurry figures lean over him. Then, blackness.

Chapter 2: Re-Education

A/N: Jump to paragraph 6 if you just want to get to the smut. I warn you though, it’s not for pigs who are brainw… I mean, anticommunist folks. Or people triggered by rape. Or people who love that dumb but hot bastard America and don’t want to see him be mistreated like the fucking sick, annoying pig he is. Yup, America shaming.  It’s not that I hate him. I hate the country itself. And since he’s the personification of this fucktarded country… he needs some serious re-education. Yes I know the term is for the Vietnamese analogue to gulags, but I think for the purpose of this story its term works better. Also anyway I think gulags were no longer a thing after Stalin’s death (sadly, lol… I approve of its concept, just not all of the types of people Stalin decided to gulag lol). But whatever. This is smut, not a history textbook :P
America woke up in the back of a van, handcuffed and chained to the wall. His legs were also bound tightly. At most, he could wriggle like a worm. He immediately knew what had happened. He tried screaming, but he was still feeling drugged from the sedative. All he could do was moan. America felt the van rumble underneath him—he was being moved somewhere. “But h… how did they figure me out? How did Russia know? He seemed so clueless at the time.”  he thought to himself. He felt the van stop. After about five minutes, the doors to the back of the van opened. Very cold air poured through the doors. America looked at the guards and tried screaming at them, but again, he could only moan. The guards unattached him from the van’s walls and started to carry him. America started to squirm, but he was bound too tightly to do anything much. They were big burly men who could crush his bones like a toothpick if they wanted. So he stopped squirming.
It wasn’t snowing, but it was overcast, and the ground was frozen. He was being carried towards some sort of gated, heavily guarded area. He noticed Russia standing under a large metal sign. “ГУЛАГ…” read America. He immediately knew where he was—Siberia. He heard Russia yell out to the guards. “Yes, bring me this fresh kulak…” he said. Russia walked up to America. “Just to let you know, in Russia, it’s considered extremely rude to turn down a drink.” The guards handed him to Russia, who started dragging him into the establishment. “But instead of sentencing you to death, I decide to re-educate you in gulag. Is better than death, da? I get to watch you suffer.” He said. America still couldn’t move properly, but the cold started to wake him up, and he regained the ability to speak. “How did you know it was me, you damn commie bastard?” he muttered in his normal voice, in English. Russia almost dropped him. “Wait, America?” he said in English, before he closed his eyes and smiled. “Uh oh…” said America, before being drugged again.
***
America woke up chained spread eagle to a bed in the back of some sort of jail cell. Russia was standing beside him. “I actually didn’t know it was you, America. I knew you were a spy, but I didn’t know it was you.” He said, smiling. “What are you planning on doing to me, you damn commie bastard?” screamed America. “Oh, I was originally planning on treating you like a normal kulak, but knowing you, hard labor won’t be much punishment. Instead, I’m going to focus on a special type of re-education. My boss told me to give you the Trotsky Treatment—an ice-pick to the face, but I had a better idea...” He said, grabbing onto America’s feet. Russia climbed on the bed and sat on his knees, placing his hands on America. He leaned in towards America.
“America, do you even know what communism entails? Or did they simply brainwash you to think we’re all evil bastards and that communism is something evil?” he said, pushing down on America. “It’s where one scary dude controls other people and makes them his slaves!” yelled America, trying to grab at Russia to no avail. “Tsk tsk, America. So naïve and uneducated. Communists work voluntarily, and they work hard, because it’s the right thing to do. We eventually plan on giving the power to the proletariat once things stabilize. ” Russia moved in closer.
“Now I don’t agree with everything my boss tells me to do. He isn’t quite a communist, see. He follows state-capitalism and a contorted form of Marxism a boss from earlier on was trying to implement. Oh, I quite enjoy seeing the bourgeois pigs learn what real labor is like. But my boss wasn’t truly about equality, especially not my boss from the World War era. More so than the pigs at your place are, but not what true communism entails.” Russia moved his hands up to America’s chest, pressing down to the point America could just barely breathe. “True communists are also pro-gay.” He said, with an even more contorted smile. America’s pupils contracted.
He felt Russia clench his shirt and pull it up and America started to scream. “Don’t bother screaming, America. Nobody will hear you.” He grabbed America’s pants and yanked them down. “On second thought, continue screaming. I like hearing you suffer, kolkolkol…” America looked at Russia in horror. “Just wait, any moment now my boss is going to burst in here and rescue me!” he said. “Please tell me how they would know you were captured in the first place…” he said, his hands on America’s boxers. America felt the cold hands of the Soviet Union incarnate press against his crotch through the thin boxers. America cringed at the idea.
But the hands didn’t pull the boxers down. Instead, Russia stripped himself to his own underwear (yet kept his scarf on, as usual) and pressed his own package against America’s. America tried not to gag, but he found himself strangely flustered. He examined Russia’s body. His body wasn’t carved, but it was toned. Very well-toned. Russia’s body made America’s look like a toothpick. He looked down at Russia’s package to see an enormous bulge. He now understood why twenty-five centimeters was considered “extra-small” in Russia. Russia put his fingers against America’s sides and slowly started to drag them upwards. “You see, America…” he said, rotating his fingers around America’s nipples. “…true communism starts with understanding that every person has basic human rights.” He pinched both of his nipples, and he felt America twitch. “Then why are you raping me?” said America. “I’m a sociopath towards sociopaths, America.” He said.
“We want to give every person a place to live, guaranteed food, healthcare, and education, for starters.” Russia lowered his face and rested it on America’s stomach, gently pressing his lips against his soft belly. “Of course, unfortunately my home is too cold to grow things most of the year. And we’re still suffering from the effects of World War II.” He said, dragging his lips up America’s torso. “And Stalin’s agricultural plan didn’t work out so well. If we had access to more warm and temperate climates, we’d have been able to cultivate enough food to feed the masses. And it’s only a matter of time before technology develops enough to make said process easier.” Russia could feel America squirm underneath him. “You sick bastard!” he yelled. “You sick commie bastard! There’s no such thing as basic human rights. You gotta work for your shit. How dare you even suggest such a heinous idea? Also why the fuck are you talking about this stuff while raping me?” Russia chuckled. “Psychological association is a powerful force, America. Unpleasant stimuli presented enough times in succession will eventually become pleasant, or at the very least, tolerable. And unpleasant stimuli presented with a pleasant one, such as sexual release, enough times can cause such a stimuli to become pleasant as well. Sometimes, the association itself becomes so strong, that one becomes tied to the other and lose mutual exclusiveness.”
America didn’t want to admit it, but he actually did enjoy what his enemy was doing. It already felt pleasant to him… but what did Russia mean by that science jargon? “Oh right…” Russia said. “In layman’s terms, it means I’m going to make you really like communism.” America laughed. “I’d like to see you try, commie bastard.” Russia simply smiled at America. “Oh don’t worry, you will. And never, ever, ever underestimate the power of psychological association.” He said. “Associations are also easier to form when you’re drunk.” He said, holding up a bottle of vodka. America clenched his mouth. Russia grabbed America’s nose. “You’ve got to breathe sometime, my little kulak.” He said. America could hold his breath for a fair amount of time. He could feel the carbon dioxide build up in his lungs. But he refused to open his mouth, despite his lungs starting to burn. He saw Russia shake the bottle in front of him. America could feel himself grow dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He had to take a breath. Maybe just one quick one. America opened his mouth a tiny bit and exhaled quickly. Just as he started to inhale, Russia stuck the bottle in his mouth, and continued to hold his nose. He held America’s lips to the bottle. “Drink, or I won’t let you breathe.” He said. America had no choice but to drink the burning liquid straight. Russia removed the bottle after delivering about six shots of vodka—enough to make America do Russia’s bidding, but not enough to make America forget the experience. Russia gave America good vodka—he didn’t want his little kulak bitch having a hangover the next day. America drooled a little. “You could have at least given me a chaser!” he complained.
“I’ll give you something to chase that with…” he said. Russia laid down on top of America and held his face right above America’s for a moment, before locking his lips with America’s. America felt Russia poke his tongue inside his mouth. America tried to move his head to the side, but Russia grabbed his hair and pulled it back. America could start to feel the alcohol enter his bloodstream, making him feel groggy and his lips tingly. Without really thinking about it, he stuck his tongue into Russia’s mouth and engaged in a tongue wrestling match. Russia moved down to America’s neck, and pressed his lips against it. “So you see, my little kulak…” he said, speaking softly towards America’s throat. “Eventually we aim to implement a dictatorship of the proletariat.” He licked his lips and kissed his little prisoner’s neck at the pulse point. America let out a little squeak. “Wha... but dictatorship…” he muttered. “Foolish America. This simply means that the workers are the ones who are in control.” Russia started to nibble at his neck, which America responded to well. Russia dragged his tongue slowly up and down America’s jugular vein, occasionally gently biting him and lapping the area he bit.
Russia felt something poking into his crotch. “You like this, it seems.” He said, smiling. Drunken America nodded. “Feels… good, but you’re still a commie bastard…” he said, struggling to speak clearly. Russia went up to America's ear and started to whisper. “Capitalism is an inherently unethical system...” he said, grabbing America's ear with his teeth.  He nibbled and sucked on his earlobe, and breathed into his ear. “It relies on people doing what is best for them, even at the expense of others.”