Guns And Nicotine
Guns and Nicotine - Russia/America.
Russia smokes. Smoking is hot. America agrees. Cue the UST.
Genre: Drama/Shipping.
1983. R.
Written for nym_aulth.
--
This fic has been translated into Russian by shiranutrixter and extensively illustrated by nym_aulth (warning: NSFW).
---
1983
Dusk, and America shot haystacks. The air smelled bitter-scorched and full of yellow pollen. The crickets had all been scared away.
There was a voice from behind him. "How good of you to visit."
America steadied the grip of his pistol and squeezed off three shots. The cracks kicked up small clouds of hay dust, golden in the fading light, then gone. "Russia." Flat and unfriendly. "What're you doing out here?"
Russia ambled into his peripheral vision, his boots crunching down the dry grass. America didn't turn his head. "It's rare that you visit this part of the world. I was only curious. --And Yugoslavia is my neighbor, after all."
"A neighbor who thinks you're a dick." America checked his grip, racked the slide. Hard and loud, in the autumn quiet. "I'm probably more welcome here than you are."
"Little misunderstandings," Russia smiled.
"Yeah? What, you only killed a few of his people?"
"So hurtful, America." Russia reached inside his coat and slid out a faded grey carton of cigarettes. America finally glanced his way. "And when I've made a trip just to see you."
America wet his lips. "I'm here on vacation. I'm shooting haystacks. You got a problem with that?"
"Most likely."
America looked down, to where his left hand braced against his right wrist. He wrenched a new magazine out of his coat pocket. "Fine." He ejected the empty clip; it fell nearly-silent into the high grass around his feet. He wished they were inside, at a shooting gallery or something, so it would bang against the hardwood floor. "Do what you want."
"I will." A golden flare as Russia struck his lighter.
"Asshole," America mouthed, slammed in the fresh cartridge, and fired three more rounds.
He liked shooting. America liked everything about shooting. The noise, the weight of the gun, the snap that went from the heel of his hand all the way to his shoulder…and he liked the way nothing could distract him when he had a gun in his hand. Not even Russia. Not even Russia, smoking, his cigarette hanging from his lower lip like a kiss about to drop off.
He clenched the back of his neck and refused to look.
"You just gonna stand there all night?"
Russia tapped a bit of ash into a spray of weeds. "I might."
"Good to know they're keeping you busy."
"Yes."
America was privately convinced that Russia wanted him most when he had his gun. He didn't know why. Maybe it had something to do with how America had fucked him with it after the Moscow Summit in '74. But then again, Russia was the one who had asked for that; America had needed convincing. So it was hard to say.
He worked his way through his ammunition, bullet casings disappearing in the grass around his feet. Russia leaned against a tree, and watched him, and chain-smoked, and every time America reloaded he had time to wonder if he was making Russia hard.
He stopped shooting when he had one clip left. He left it loaded. There was a new silence for a while, and the sky had sunk to indigo, and the headlights from his truck looked far away. He wondered how Russia had got here. He didn't see another car. He holstered his Colt and picked his way through the grass to the wide cypress and Russia's side.
Russia glanced him over. He smelled like smoke laced with nicotine, and America smelled like gunpowder.
"Gimme one of those." America held out a hand.
Russia cupped his hand around cigarette and took a short drag. His eyebrows drew together. "No."
America kept his hand extended, waiting. Russia blew a thin trail of smoke into the deep blue night and watched it dissipate. His tongue touched the very edge of the filter paper.
"No," he repeated at last.
"Please," America drawled.
He knew how to turn please into an insult.
A sharp look from Russia, not quite an eyeroll, and then a cheap cigarette was placed between his fingers. He rubbed the peeling edge of the rolling paper and watched Russia's next drag. Russia pouted when he smoked. It was the only time he ever did. America didn't think Russia knew he was doing it. His lower lip stuck out, pressed against the filter paper, soft and plump.
America waited until Russia breathed out with that haze of unfocused contentment before he prompted, "Light."
This was America's favorite part.
Russia waited a beat, then shrugged an eyebrow and took America's cigarette back. He touched the end to his own: inhaled. A flare passed between them. Then he handed it back.
"Thanks," America said, and he meant it. He raised the cigarette to his lips before that ember could fade out.
He could imagine that his next breath tasted like Russia. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs as deep and aching as he could.
This was even better than shooting. That was the problem. They hadn't kissed in years. Some nights he thought he'd kill for a pack of shitty Soviet cigarettes, just to get a hint of that taste. They stood about a foot apart and nursed their cigarettes in silence. America watched Russia's tongue, and lips, and the rise and fall of his chest as he smoked; Russia looked at nothing.
"You're gonna be the first nation to ever get lung cancer," he said, when it felt like he had to say something.
Russia cocked his head, his eyes still fixed on that same point in the middle distance--and then he looked at America and blew smoke in his face. America twitched. A shiver rattled down his spine. His whole body clenched against the urge to pin Russia against the tree.
He took a quick drag instead. Cheap paper, bad blend, smoke that tasted like asphalt…it was the closest thing he had to shoving his tongue down Russia's throat.
Bastard.
"Another?"
America ascended from his daze to see Russia holding out a fresh cigarette, face blank. America stopped himself before he could snap it out of Russia's fingers. "Generous of you," he said warily.
"It's my last one," Russia smiled.
America's eyes rested on Russia's mouth, and he throbbed on a pulse of golden heat. "No thanks," he said. A second later he brought his own, half-finished cigarette back to his lips. "Haven't even finished mine." Smoke it now. I know you're just asking if I want to watch you smoke it now.
Russia shrugged, lit up, took a drag. America breathed out. For a while, he kept them synchronized like that: when Russia exhaled, America filled his lungs with smoke; when Russia inhaled, America breathed out. His gut felt tight. Russia squinted off towards the horizon, so America's gaze could crawl across his profile without the risk of discovery; down the slope of his nose, over the plunges of his mouth, across those callused fingers. America remembered how those fingers felt everywhere.
He watched a curl of ash, an ember, tremble on the end of Russia's cigarette; he imagined it hitting his skin. It would blister. A little scabbed-up red mark, for two or three days. America would run his tongue across it every night until it healed.
Russia glanced at him.
"Nothing," America said. His cigarette had gone out. He dropped it in the grass.
Russia shrugged his eyebrows and crushed out what was left of his cigarette against the side of the tree. America nearly whimpered. Russia said, "Well, if you're not causing trouble, I'll leave you be."
"Yeah." America scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "You do that."
Russia flicked back his hair, patted his pockets. "Goodnight, America."
"Whatever."
He watched Russia walk back down the hill to--oh, he had brought a car; he'd just kept the headlights off. Now they winked on, and the little black car trundled back up to the road and sped off.
America thought about what might have happened if he'd slammed Russia's shoulders back against the cypress and ripped the cigarette off his lips; if he'd forced his tongue into his mouth, clawed his coat down his shoulders, and raked their bodies together. He could see it, so clear it almost could be happening: how they'd drag each other, hissing, clothes tearing, down into the grass, where they'd bare each other's skin and leave their marks. America could have pulled out his Colt and said How about you suck off my gun while I ride your cock until I scream, and what would Russia have said to him back--No thanks?
He blinked, and blinked again, and told himself to stop thinking about it.
(Clawing, groaning, God, he could have had fingernail bruises down his arms for days…)
Stop thinking about it.
It was too bad how that part never worked.
America staggered to his truck and wrapped his arms around the steering wheel, braced his forehead against it and shut his eyes tight. He thought about wrenching open his jeans and jerking off right here until he went tingling and light-headed--then decided against it. He'd go back to his hotel.
He'd stop somewhere to buy some cheap cigarettes, and then he'd go back to his hotel.
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!
Russia smokes. Smoking is hot. America agrees. Cue the UST.
Genre: Drama/Shipping.
1983. R.
Written for nym_aulth.
--
This fic has been translated into Russian by shiranutrixter and extensively illustrated by nym_aulth (warning: NSFW).
---
1983
Dusk, and America shot haystacks. The air smelled bitter-scorched and full of yellow pollen. The crickets had all been scared away.
There was a voice from behind him. "How good of you to visit."
America steadied the grip of his pistol and squeezed off three shots. The cracks kicked up small clouds of hay dust, golden in the fading light, then gone. "Russia." Flat and unfriendly. "What're you doing out here?"
Russia ambled into his peripheral vision, his boots crunching down the dry grass. America didn't turn his head. "It's rare that you visit this part of the world. I was only curious. --And Yugoslavia is my neighbor, after all."
"A neighbor who thinks you're a dick." America checked his grip, racked the slide. Hard and loud, in the autumn quiet. "I'm probably more welcome here than you are."
"Little misunderstandings," Russia smiled.
"Yeah? What, you only killed a few of his people?"
"So hurtful, America." Russia reached inside his coat and slid out a faded grey carton of cigarettes. America finally glanced his way. "And when I've made a trip just to see you."
America wet his lips. "I'm here on vacation. I'm shooting haystacks. You got a problem with that?"
"Most likely."
America looked down, to where his left hand braced against his right wrist. He wrenched a new magazine out of his coat pocket. "Fine." He ejected the empty clip; it fell nearly-silent into the high grass around his feet. He wished they were inside, at a shooting gallery or something, so it would bang against the hardwood floor. "Do what you want."
"I will." A golden flare as Russia struck his lighter.
"Asshole," America mouthed, slammed in the fresh cartridge, and fired three more rounds.
He liked shooting. America liked everything about shooting. The noise, the weight of the gun, the snap that went from the heel of his hand all the way to his shoulder…and he liked the way nothing could distract him when he had a gun in his hand. Not even Russia. Not even Russia, smoking, his cigarette hanging from his lower lip like a kiss about to drop off.
He clenched the back of his neck and refused to look.
"You just gonna stand there all night?"
Russia tapped a bit of ash into a spray of weeds. "I might."
"Good to know they're keeping you busy."
"Yes."
America was privately convinced that Russia wanted him most when he had his gun. He didn't know why. Maybe it had something to do with how America had fucked him with it after the Moscow Summit in '74. But then again, Russia was the one who had asked for that; America had needed convincing. So it was hard to say.
He worked his way through his ammunition, bullet casings disappearing in the grass around his feet. Russia leaned against a tree, and watched him, and chain-smoked, and every time America reloaded he had time to wonder if he was making Russia hard.
He stopped shooting when he had one clip left. He left it loaded. There was a new silence for a while, and the sky had sunk to indigo, and the headlights from his truck looked far away. He wondered how Russia had got here. He didn't see another car. He holstered his Colt and picked his way through the grass to the wide cypress and Russia's side.
Russia glanced him over. He smelled like smoke laced with nicotine, and America smelled like gunpowder.
"Gimme one of those." America held out a hand.
Russia cupped his hand around cigarette and took a short drag. His eyebrows drew together. "No."
America kept his hand extended, waiting. Russia blew a thin trail of smoke into the deep blue night and watched it dissipate. His tongue touched the very edge of the filter paper.
"No," he repeated at last.
"Please," America drawled.
He knew how to turn please into an insult.
A sharp look from Russia, not quite an eyeroll, and then a cheap cigarette was placed between his fingers. He rubbed the peeling edge of the rolling paper and watched Russia's next drag. Russia pouted when he smoked. It was the only time he ever did. America didn't think Russia knew he was doing it. His lower lip stuck out, pressed against the filter paper, soft and plump.
America waited until Russia breathed out with that haze of unfocused contentment before he prompted, "Light."
This was America's favorite part.
Russia waited a beat, then shrugged an eyebrow and took America's cigarette back. He touched the end to his own: inhaled. A flare passed between them. Then he handed it back.
"Thanks," America said, and he meant it. He raised the cigarette to his lips before that ember could fade out.
He could imagine that his next breath tasted like Russia. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs as deep and aching as he could.
This was even better than shooting. That was the problem. They hadn't kissed in years. Some nights he thought he'd kill for a pack of shitty Soviet cigarettes, just to get a hint of that taste. They stood about a foot apart and nursed their cigarettes in silence. America watched Russia's tongue, and lips, and the rise and fall of his chest as he smoked; Russia looked at nothing.
"You're gonna be the first nation to ever get lung cancer," he said, when it felt like he had to say something.
Russia cocked his head, his eyes still fixed on that same point in the middle distance--and then he looked at America and blew smoke in his face. America twitched. A shiver rattled down his spine. His whole body clenched against the urge to pin Russia against the tree.
He took a quick drag instead. Cheap paper, bad blend, smoke that tasted like asphalt…it was the closest thing he had to shoving his tongue down Russia's throat.
Bastard.
"Another?"
America ascended from his daze to see Russia holding out a fresh cigarette, face blank. America stopped himself before he could snap it out of Russia's fingers. "Generous of you," he said warily.
"It's my last one," Russia smiled.
America's eyes rested on Russia's mouth, and he throbbed on a pulse of golden heat. "No thanks," he said. A second later he brought his own, half-finished cigarette back to his lips. "Haven't even finished mine." Smoke it now. I know you're just asking if I want to watch you smoke it now.
Russia shrugged, lit up, took a drag. America breathed out. For a while, he kept them synchronized like that: when Russia exhaled, America filled his lungs with smoke; when Russia inhaled, America breathed out. His gut felt tight. Russia squinted off towards the horizon, so America's gaze could crawl across his profile without the risk of discovery; down the slope of his nose, over the plunges of his mouth, across those callused fingers. America remembered how those fingers felt everywhere.
He watched a curl of ash, an ember, tremble on the end of Russia's cigarette; he imagined it hitting his skin. It would blister. A little scabbed-up red mark, for two or three days. America would run his tongue across it every night until it healed.
Russia glanced at him.
"Nothing," America said. His cigarette had gone out. He dropped it in the grass.
Russia shrugged his eyebrows and crushed out what was left of his cigarette against the side of the tree. America nearly whimpered. Russia said, "Well, if you're not causing trouble, I'll leave you be."
"Yeah." America scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "You do that."
Russia flicked back his hair, patted his pockets. "Goodnight, America."
"Whatever."
He watched Russia walk back down the hill to--oh, he had brought a car; he'd just kept the headlights off. Now they winked on, and the little black car trundled back up to the road and sped off.
America thought about what might have happened if he'd slammed Russia's shoulders back against the cypress and ripped the cigarette off his lips; if he'd forced his tongue into his mouth, clawed his coat down his shoulders, and raked their bodies together. He could see it, so clear it almost could be happening: how they'd drag each other, hissing, clothes tearing, down into the grass, where they'd bare each other's skin and leave their marks. America could have pulled out his Colt and said How about you suck off my gun while I ride your cock until I scream, and what would Russia have said to him back--No thanks?
He blinked, and blinked again, and told himself to stop thinking about it.
(Clawing, groaning, God, he could have had fingernail bruises down his arms for days…)
Stop thinking about it.
It was too bad how that part never worked.
America staggered to his truck and wrapped his arms around the steering wheel, braced his forehead against it and shut his eyes tight. He thought about wrenching open his jeans and jerking off right here until he went tingling and light-headed--then decided against it. He'd go back to his hotel.
He'd stop somewhere to buy some cheap cigarettes, and then he'd go back to his hotel.
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!