[fic] the only way out is through (1/3)
TITLE: The Only Way Out is Through (1/3)
AUTHOR: Miaou Jones
FANDOM: Hetalia
CHARACTERS: This fic involves multiple pairings, past and present, real and fantasized. Major pairings: Kiku/Alfred, Arthur/Alfred, and Kiku/Alfred/Arthur. Minor but significant: Ivan/Alfred.
NOTES: Written for The Hetalia Kink Meme. Mature themes, sexual content. Hardcore, consensual BDSM. Request called for "pain, humiliation, fear, and degradation." Activities include role play, breath play, gun play, boot worship, bondage, flogging, catheterization, and more.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: My most sincere thanks to everyone who read and encouraged along the way, anonymously or not. I owe a special debt of gratitude to berseker--our conversations were critical in shaping this story.
DISCLAIMER: While the stories are mine, the characters are the creation of Himaruya Hidekazu. Hetalia: Axis Powers is the legal property of Himaruya, Gentosha Comics, and Studio Deen. No harm, financial or otherwise, is intended or should be inferred.
SUMMARY: Alfred begins a journey to discover his kinks—and along the way, maybe, himself.



The Only Way Out is Through – part one

Alfred is not in love with Kiku. What they have is better than love. Alfred doesn't have a name for it. There probably is a name, but Alfred likes it like this: nameless, freedom in the namelessness.

When it begins—no, before it begins, Alfred and Kiku are fuck buddies. Kiku probably has his own term for it, but that's what Alfred calls it. It's more than fucking even then, of course. There are things they can do and say with each other that they can't—or anyhow don't—with anyone else.

Like for example, this one time after they fuck, as they're lazing in bed, Alfred touches one of Kiku's radiation scars. Without flinching, Kiku looks at Alfred's fingertips resting on his skin there. As moments pass into moments, Kiku looks at Alfred's face and asks what he's thinking.

Still looking at the skin, ruined and healed, Alfred says, "I was wondering what would have happened if I hadn't dropped the Bomb." He rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. "You would've won, probably."

"Yes," Kiku agrees.

Alfred wishes there were a crack up there for him to study so his gaze wouldn't try to roll inside and into the past. He sighs at the flawless ceiling. "I wonder what that would have been like."

The mattress shifts beneath him as Kiku lies down beside him. "Would you like to find out?"

When Alfred turns his head on the pillow, he is met by a serene expression, the one many who don't know Kiku well usually mistake for blank, but that Alfred has come to know means—even now, even before it begins—Kiku has something exquisite in mind.

"I kept my uniform from the war," Kiku says. "I believe it still fits me."

Alfred's eyes glitter.

"Please think of a safeword for the next time we meet," Kiku says.

Propping up on his side, Alfred grins. "I don't need a safeword with you!"

"I think you will, Alfred." If possible, Kiku's expression smoothes into a deeper show of serenity.

It sets Alfred's glitter aflame. "Then you choose for me, if you think so."

Kiku smiles. "'Surrender.'"

Alfred smiles, too.

He wants to start that same afternoon, but Kiku insists that preparations must be made. Among them, he advises Alfred to acquire an American military uniform from WWII.

"Oh, I kept mine, too! And it definitely still fits," Alfred says proudly.

With a tilt of his head, Kiku considers Alfred. "You're very fond of your uniform, aren't you? And the memories it holds for you?"

"Yes!" Too late to catch himself, Alfred tones down his enthusiasm as he amends, "Some of the memories, yeah."

"Please wear one that has no sentimental value for you. Uniforms tend not to hold up well during interrogation, and I would feel very badly if I were to damage your fond memories."

Oh, how Alfred glitters.




It turns out not to be as easy to get ahold of an authentic WWII American military uniform as Alfred thought it would be. The Army surplus stores he goes to only have contemporary uniforms and most of the vintage stores don't have anything military, although he does find a pair of boots which he purchases. At the pawn shops, he mostly finds medals (which he doesn't buy; the commercial exchange of bronze stars and flying crosses and purple hearts makes him incredibly sad). In the end, he finds a uniform through auction that, though not a perfect fit, doesn't need much tailoring.




The next time Kiku comes to see him, Alfred greets him at the door in uniform. His grin starts to fade when he sees that Kiku has on regular, contemporary street clothes, but comes back up as he realizes Kiku probably brought his uniform to change into instead of wearing it. That makes sense. He notices the elegant box in Kiku's hands now, and the corners of his mouth exceed their earlier height. "Is that what I think it is?"

With the most minimal gesture, Kiku raises the box. "Tea."

"…Tea?"

"Yes." Kiku smiles. "It's a new blend I have discovered recently. I brought it especially to share with you. I hope you will enjoy it."

"Oh, I—" Alfred pauses uncertainly. "Are we—are we doing it today?"

"Doing it?" Kiku repeats.

Heat and color rise to Alfred's face, which is not at all where he wants them to be. "Um," he says. Then he wonders if maybe his flush is exactly where it's supposed to be, since he understands humiliation can sometimes be a component in the kind of playing they've agreed to.

Kiku looks down at his box of tea, or maybe he's bowing his head. "May I enter, Alfred?"

Then again, maybe his blushing is all wrong. "Yes." Alfred gives himself an internal shake as he steps aside. "Yeah, of course—please come in."

"I hope you will forgive me asking," Kiku says as Alfred is shutting the door behind them, "but are you all right?" Before Alfred has to answer, Kiku adds, "It is only that you failed to make a jest about the tea."

"Oh!" Alfred's laugh sounds forced to himself, but Kiku and his unfailing politeness pretend not to notice. "I think maybe I'm just not—maybe I should change my clothing."

"Please don't do that. You look very nice in that uniform. 'Dashing,' I believe, is the word."

Alfred is much more confident of his new blush. His hand smoothes down the front of his uniform, tugging just so at the hem of the jacket to make it sit to ultimate effect. "Thanks!" He grins. Even if Kiku hasn't brought his WWII uniform, even if they aren't going to play or fuck, even if they're just going to sit and drink tea of all things, Alfred does look good in his uniform. And since Kiku has asked him to, he'll keep it on for whatever is to come. Even if it's tea.

Speaking of which: "Do you want help?" Alfred asks as Kiku starts towards the kitchen.

Kiku pauses and turns to him. "Ah, no, please don't trouble yourself."

"No, it's no trouble!"

Alfred takes a step forward, but Kiku says, "I think it would be better if I were to prepare the tea myself." The slightest of smiles curves his mouth. "Though you excel at many things, Alfred, tea is not one of them." Alfred thinks he sees the corners of Kiku's mouth go up even a little more as he lowers his eyes and says, "Though I do hope I will see you in one of your fine, excelling moments later today."

That can only mean one thing. And if he's making jokes, Kiku must be in a great mood. Grin widening, Alfred sparkles with anticipation. "Okay then. You know where to find me if you need me!"

When Kiku comes in, Alfred is relieved to see he's settled for a simple serving tray which he sets down on the table, instead of trying for the full ceremony. It's not that Alfred doesn't enjoy ceremonies, even if they do involve tea; it's just that, now he knows they're going to play today, he doesn't think he can focus on anything else. He doesn't even have to try not to make a face as he sips the tea; he's so high on anticipation, he doesn't notice the taste at all. He knows he's drinking it a little more quickly than is polite and he tries to force himself to slow down, because he knows that tea is important to Kiku and he wants to respect that. He takes a few sips, slow and steady, letting the hot liquid run over his tongue and down his throat, settling warmly in his belly. Even if he's not crazy about the taste, the sensation is not entirely unpleasant. He takes a few more sips and smiles at Kiku.

"What is your opinion of the tea?" Kiku inquires.

"Oh, it's—" Alfred isn't sure Kiku will want to hear his new-found appreciation for the touch sensation of tea. As he takes another sip, he tries to think of something to say about the taste. "It's very expressive." He dredges up terms from memory. "Complex and harmonious. Nice earthy bouquet."

Kiku lifts his hand to his mouth, but is unable to hide his smile entirely. "Alfred…I believe those are standard wine tasting descriptions."

"Oh. Right." Alfred grins, too. Suddenly he doesn't care whether he and Kiku fuck today or if they just sit here drinking tea all afternoon, because he's actually having a really good time with this, he's feeling good, so relaxed, and Kiku's smile is infectious, Alfred can't stop grinning and grinning; even when the room starts to spin, Alfred can't stop grinning, and when the relaxation tugs him deeper down, he eases into unconsciousness without a fight.



Alfred blinks. Blinks again. On the third blink, his vision starts to focus. He starts forward—but instead of moving, he feels a pull in his shoulders. He looks at his arms and realizes two things: they are bare, and his hands are tied behind his back. He looks down and sees that he has been stripped to the waist, that he's barefoot, and that his ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. Uncertainty yields to excitement. He wonders how long he has been like this already, and how long Kiku will continue to leave him here.

Just as he's thinking he should probably call for Kiku, a voice comes from somewhere behind him: "You are a fool, Alfred F. Jones."

As Alfred turns his head, a flash of white appears in his peripheral gaze; he blinks and focuses, and the flash becomes a Japanese Imperial Navy uniform. Alfred's gaze follows as Kiku comes to stand in front of him.

Alfred smiles. "What—"

"You are a fool," Kiku cuts him off. His voice is as cool and calm as his unsmiling face. "To allow your enemy so close. To invite him. Did you forget who I am? Or did you, perhaps, believe I came here to concede your victory?"

Uncertainty returns, rising in his throat. Alfred swallows it down. There's a fuzziness in his head and he goes to rub it away, before the ropes digging into his wrists remind him of his current situation. Is it possible that the war is still on? That what he thinks are memories are, in fact, part of a dream? But no, this is his house; that's his hammock in the corner there, taken down and folded up but still recognizable.

"No, Alfred." Kiku's voice interrupts Alfred's musings and Alfred looks at him again. "I did not come here for that. It is you who will be—surrendering." Kiku's mouth twitches up the least little bit as he gives soft emphasis to that last word, and Alfred feels a visceral thrill roll through him, coming to rest in the upturned corners of his mouth.

Then Kiku says, "Do you know who I am?"

"You're Kiku!" When Kiku's hard stare seems to demand more, Alfred says, "Honda Kiku."

Kiku makes a sound of annoyance. His hand smoothes down his jacket. "Do you know what this is? What it signifies?"

"Your uniform? Well, it's Imperial Navy, right?"

"I am Tokkeitai."

Kiku didn't tell him to pick a name for this scene. Alfred guesses it's too late for this time, since Kiku has been calling him Alfred. He'll have to think up a good one for next time. "Hi, Tokkeitai!"

Alfred can't read the look Kiku is giving him. He wonders if maybe he didn't pronounce Kiku's pseudonym correctly.

Then Kiku says, "Secret Police of the Imperial Navy. Among other duties, the Tokkeitai handles intelligence. Do you understand your position now?"

Kiku is going all out for this. Grinning more, Alfred nods. "Yeah."

Kiku's open hand strikes him across the face. Alfred's eyes widen at the impact, lips parting though no sound comes out.

"You do not seem to understand."

"No, I get it!"

Heat from the second slap overlaps with the first; Alfred is sure his face is colored with his blush as much as the impact of Kiku's hand. "Then why are you smiling?"

The words come to Alfred's lips before he knows what they are, but as he hears them, he knows they're the right ones. "Heroes always smile."

Kiku regards him. "If that is true, then we will see if you really are a hero."

Alfred's grin widens. A challenge has been issued; the game has taken on a new dimension. So he continues to smile as Kiku strikes him again, and again; he smiles even as he feels his lip split, as he tastes his own blood; even as his smile splinters, as blood smears from his lip to his skin, Alfred gathers up the fragments and shapes his mouth into a new smile.

The rhythm breaks when Kiku pauses to look at his bloodied fingers. For a moment, Alfred thinks Kiku is going to lick them—but instead he takes a few steps to the side, picks up Alfred's uniform jacket, removes something from the pocket, and wipes his hand clean on the jacket before letting it drop again.

As he walks back, Kiku steps right on the jacket and Alfred feels his brow furrow, feels a "hey!" forming on his lips; but the blood there is a reminder. So instead he smiles.

As Kiku walks back to him, Alfred can see the object in his hand is a pack of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes, though Alfred hasn't seen that particular packaging in years. Alfred knows he didn't put the cigarettes there. Kiku sure is thorough; he even remembered Alfred's brand during the '40s. Kiku lights the cigarette, the cherry flaring to life as he inhales.

The heat in Alfred's face lingers, tingling. It's as if he can feel the blows better now that Kiku isn't actually hitting him anymore: phantom handprints sink beneath his skin to rest against his nerves. It's like the first time he got fucked, or really it was like the days after that, when he could still somehow feel the shape of that cock, even though it wasn't physically there, and how he had longed for it. He wonders if he'll miss Kiku's hand tomorrow.

Smoke drifts from between Kiku's lips as he looks at Alfred now. Alfred feels the split in the broken skin of his lip, but that doesn't stop him from stretching the curve up even more.

As Kiku approaches him, hands behind his back, Alfred steels himself for another blow, wondering if it will be Kiku's hand again or if he's brought something, a whip or a cane maybe.

But it's only the cigarette in Kiku's hand when he brings it forward. He puts the filter to Alfred's lips. "Hold this, Alfred." Alfred feels renewed heat in his face, his blood responding to Kiku's voice, Kiku's continuing and relentless use of his name, to the intimacy that is somehow both familiar and strange.

Leaving the cigarette there, Kiku walks out of Alfred's line of sight. Alfred can't guess what Kiku is up to and tries to shift in the chair, but the bonds hold him firmly in place.

The cigarette between his teeth doesn't impede the grin Alfred turns on Kiku when Kiku comes back into view a moment later. Kiku doesn't comment on Alfred's smile as he withdraws the cigarette from Alfred—and then instead of taking a toke, Kiku holds it out to Alfred again: but not to his mouth, lower: Alfred feels heat at the hollow of his throat.

It's not like the heat of his flushed face or rousing cock. It's external. It's uncomfortable. Dangerous. Instinct tells Alfred to move back.

He doesn't move at all, except to smile more.

"What did I tell you about that disgusting smile of yours, Alfred?" Soft, calm, quiet.

Alfred opens his mouth to ask if Kiku remembers, in turn, what Alfred told him about heroes—when the heat sharpens as it cuts into his skin, taking his words away, taking his breath away. It sears into him, not at the hollow where it had hovered, but just off that, at the knob of his collarbone.

It's just a flash of touch and then it's gone—and then the pain gets worse as the sharpness dulls and throbs and sinks in deeper.

Alfred smiles.

Kiku brings over a chair and sits in it facing Alfred. "Do you know what your capture means?"

"You already asked me that." Even though the cigarette is gone, the heat only intensifies, suffusion vibrating down into his bones. "I understand very well."

As if Alfred hasn't spoken, Kiku says, "It means that I have also captured your scientists. Your technology. Your Manhattan Project."

Alfred's breathing reverses, inhale and exhale colliding so he loses a breath. He feels foolish for not realizing it was going to go this way.

"Your claims have made me curious about it, so I have decided to see for myself how it works. Which beloved city of your Allies should I test it on? Paris? Shanghai? Moscow?" Alfred knows the last city before Kiku says it, but his mouth still goes dry as Kiku says, "London?"

"You don't—you can't—"

"I assure you, Alfred. I do, I can, I will. You should consider this a testament to the esteem I hold for you as an opponent that I am offering you this chance to choose."

The heat drains from Alfred's face, from his body. He shivers. "This isn't esteem. This is—I won't collaborate. I won't let you turn me into a traitor."

Kiku leans closer, closer; close. "You've lost your smile, Alfred. Shall I find it for you?" He sits back. "Ah, here it is." Kiku's lips curve up and up. "So does this make me the hero, Alfred?"

Alfred wants to tell Kiku that he, Alfred, is still the hero. But the words won't come.

So he spits in Kiku's face.

In the next moment, Kiku is up, overturning the chair with Alfred still bound to it, slamming Alfred to the floor. Before Alfred can try to right himself, before he can move at all, he feels Kiku's firm hand; he feels the flat of a cool, smooth blade against his skin, sliding between his wrists as Kiku cuts through the bonds. Alfred brings his freed hands up by his head, but just as he's pushing himself up, the chair digs into him and he's forced down. Feeling the blade again, he guesses Kiku is leaning against the chair as he reaches down to cut the bonds at Alfred's ankles.

Then the weight is gone. Alfred hears the chair thud against the floor as it's pushed off him. He starts to get his feet under himself, but Kiku kicks him in the side; it's the loss of balance more than the pain that knocks Alfred over. He feels the sole of Kiku's booted foot against his nape, forcing him all the way down. There's a shifting, but no lessening of pressure on the back of his neck, and Kiku's other boot appears before Alfred's face, occupying his gaze.

"Kiss it."

Kiku's voice is soft, calm, steady; the harsh, desperate breathing Alfred hears, then, must be entirely his own.

The toes of the boot nudge forward without touching him. "Kiss it, Alfred," Kiku repeats. "I will have your lips or I will take your teeth. I will not say it again."

Alfred is certain Kiku wouldn't really kick his teeth in—but he thrills to the words nevertheless. He replays them in his mind, sinks into them, and when the boot nudges closer, Alfred presses his lips to it; then he parts them and runs his tongue over well-worn and well cared-for leather.

The foot on his neck is replaced by a hand, sliding up to his head, fingers stroking through his hair. Alfred licks the boot again, letting his lips close as his tongue comes off leather to curl into his mouth, his lips shaping another kiss.

"Very nice." There's something in the softness of the voice, something pleased; something pleasured. With a sigh, Alfred closes his eyes and turns to rub his cheek along the boot—but the hand in his hair tightens, drags him up, and Alfred goes with the pull.

Once he's up, Alfred lifts a hand to straighten his glasses, knocked askew when he was down. Just as he gets the end of the temple behind his ear, Kiku's hand closes around his wrist. Looping a new rope around the wrist, Kiku brings it down to join Alfred's other hand, this time binding them in front of him and leaving a long length as he ties it off. Then Alfred understands as Kiku rights the chair and stands on it to pass the rope through one of the empty hammock hooks in the ceiling, forcing Alfred's arms to stretch up. "Feet together," Kiku says, and when Alfred complies, Kiku kneels to bind them together at the ankles.

Kiku turns in profile as he rises, not looking at Alfred but allowing Alfred to see him as he draws out a pair of gloves, white leather, and puts them on. Still without giving Alfred a glance, Kiku walks behind him.

Alfred shivers at the touch of leather on the back of his neck. The gloved fingertip traces down from Alfred's nape along his spine, withdrawing when it reaches his waistband. Another leather touch, this time full contact from the hand, fingers splayed out in the caress. Alfred arches into the touch.

The next touch is still leather—the thong of a whip licks across his back, making him arch back the other way, his breath a rough, choked cry. The next stroke is lower, across the back of his thighs; the next one strikes his ass. As the whipping continues, Alfred feels as though it's leaving his clothes in tatters, as ragged as his breathing.

And then his clothing does tear: the dagger point presses against Alfred's skin here and there but never punctures it as Kiku cuts the trousers off of him with characteristic precision, leaving nothing but the waistband and belt as the fabric falls away. What little freedom of breathing Alfred had is taken away when the buckle is pulled hard against his belly as Kiku tugs from behind, opening enough space to fit the dagger between leather and skin, cutting through the strip of leather and leaving Alfred, finally, naked.

Alfred concentrates on breathing as Kiku comes around to stand in front of him once more. He prepares himself for their eyes to meet—but instead of looking him in the face, Kiku angles his gaze lower. Alfred looks down, too, and wonders how he can possibly feel such a blush in his face when all of his blood seems to be in his cock.

The white leather glove obscures Alfred's view as Kiku lifts his hand; tucking the curl of his forefinger under Alfred's chin, snugging his thumb over it, Kiku brings Alfred's gaze to him. Their eyes meet; the gaze holds even when Kiku lets go.

Then Kiku slaps his cock.

As his eyes close, Alfred hears a moan escape him; any shame he might feel for that is engulfed by the next wave of pleasure as Kiku slaps him again; and again; even when Kiku slaps Alfred across the face, the sensation vibrates in his cock.

Heat radiates and spirals through him, coiling in his balls, tighter and tighter with each wallop and Alfred knows the next impact will push him over the edge—but instead of another slap, he feels something cold clamp down at the base of his cock. Looking down, he sees that's exactly what it is: Kiku has latched onto him with a spring clamp. Alfred watches Kiku's other hand slap him again, the striking contrast of white leather against Alfred's blood-darkened cock giving him as much of a pleasure jolt as the force of contact.

"Please~"

One hand still holding the clamp, the other slides with sharp impact and heavy friction across Alfred's face. Alfred moans inarticulately; the next moan shapes into words: "Please~ oh, Kiku," and then Alfred chokes on his next moan as Kiku slaps his face again. He closes his eyes and wordlessly opens his mouth wider for air; he would open his legs if he could as Kiku clamps down fractionally harder on his cock.

"Please," Alfred whimpers with the first breath he has back, "please, Kiku, please~"

"Please, what?"

please i—please, Sir, i want to come/suck your cock/feel you inside me/around me~please let me have your cock/your hands/your teeth/your tongue~please fuck me/hit me/do whatever you want with me/to me~please~please~

"Please. Please, please~"

"I did not come here for your begging," Kiku says. He stops slapping Alfred's cock to tilt Alfred's chin again so Alfred is looking into his eyes. "You know what I came for. What I want to hear. You know what you have to do, Alfred."

"…Surrender."

Kiku kisses him, tenderly and intensely. Then he releases Alfred from the hook, undoing the knot and letting him slip out of the rope. The pressure on Alfred's cock is gone, but as desperate as he is, he doesn't want to come just yet and replaces the clamp with his own tightly-closed hand as Kiku kneels to undo the bonds around Alfred's ankles. When Alfred steps free, Kiku tries to stay down, hands reaching for Alfred's hips—but before his mouth can touch Alfred's cock, Alfred urges him up and pushes him into the chair.

As Alfred kneels now, Kiku doesn't need to be asked to undo his trousers. The dark flush of his cock against the white of his uniform is so beautiful—but Alfred can't take even a fraction of a moment to memorize it because he needs Kiku's cock and there is nothing, no one to stop him from having it.

Moaning around the firm heat in his mouth, Alfred goes down, trying to swallow as much of Kiku as he can before moving back to lavish attention on Kiku's cockhead; then taking him in again, swallowing convulsively around him.

Kiku's foot, still booted, nudges against Alfred's sac and Alfred spreads his legs as he kneels and sucks. The sole of the boot drags up along Alfred's cock and by the time it's reached his tip, Alfred is shuddering, spurting out over the leather, his own hand, his belly.

He keeps sucking until he feels Kiku's hands tighten in his hair; when Kiku tugs this time, Alfred doesn't yield to it but keeps sucking and sucking until Kiku fills his mouth, until Kiku's come is sliding down his throat.

Alfred sits back. He looks at Kiku. They look at each other.

"That," Alfred says when he can find his voice. "Fuck, Kiku—that was awesome!"

The subtle sweetness Alfred didn't realize he was missing has returned to Kiku's eyes. "Yes, it was—awesome," Kiku agrees. His use of the word makes Alfred grin. Kneeling up, he touches his grin to Kiku's mouth, feels Kiku open to it, welcoming him into the kiss and returning the warmth.

"Come to bed with me." Kiku's voice is soft as ever, but there's a weight that makes the bow of Alfred's mouth deepen as he says yes.

They don't fuck. Kiku kneels behind Alfred on the bed, massaging his shoulders. Alfred kind of likes the ache from being stretched and held in unnatural positions, but finds himself sighing deeply as Kiku rubs and kneads.

After awhile, Kiku's hands slip down from Alfred's shoulders; closing first around Alfred's biceps, Kiku's hands slide with gentle pressure down the length of Alfred's arms to his hands, then withdraw—only to go back up and slide down again, and then again. It's strange to Alfred that he becomes more aware of his breathing as it eases; usually it's the quickening that he notices. He closes his eyes and breathes easy.

He keeps them closed as Kiku stops stroking his arms and turns his attention to Alfred's back, treating the welts with salve and bandaging the ones that bled, he explains, so they won't scar. When he finishes, he suggests that Alfred lie on his side, but Alfred lies on his back anyhow, and savors the heat that spreads out under his skin.

As Kiku begins tending to the rope marks on Alfred's wrists, Alfred feels on the verge of a kind of peace he doesn't think he's ever felt. There's just one thing nagging at him.

"Kiku…is my smile really disgusting to you?"

"No." Still holding Alfred's hand, Kiku touches Alfred's face, lets his fingertip rest at the corner of Alfred's mouth. He smiles himself. "I will do what I can to protect your smile, Alfred. Please do the same."

Alfred feels his smile flourish under Kiku's hand; under and with Kiku's lips.

As he watches Kiku's fingers tending to him, Alfred says, "Did you really think it was awesome?"

He hears the smile in Kiku's voice as Kiku says, "Yes. You did very well. You exceeded all my expectations."

This is quite possibly the highest praise Alfred has ever received from Kiku. His face warms, but the blush doesn't feel like embarrassment to him. He isn't really sure what his response feels like, exactly, except that it feels good.

Then as he replays their scene, embedding it in memory, feeling arousal begin to thread through the tranquility of his body, he comes to the moment he surrendered—and a sense of shame does come over him. "Kiku…" He waits for their eyes to meet before continuing. "I just want you to know that I know what the safeword is for. I know I shouldn't have used it just so I could come—"

"The safeword is yours," Kiku says before Alfred can get further. "It is for whatever you need it to be."

Kiku waits for Alfred to nod before he leans in to brush his lips to Alfred's, responding favorably when Alfred deepens the once-chaste kiss.

Sitting back again, Kiku resumes his ministrations. When his fingers move towards Alfred's collarbone to tend the cigarette burn, Alfred wraps a hand around Kiku's wrist.

"Leave it. I want it to scar."

Kiku's eyes drop. "It will be very visible there."

Alfred takes his point. When he touches his cock, thumbing the head, Kiku's eyes widen briefly before he turns away. The shock Alfred sees in that fractional moment is enough to make his blood thrum; but it is also enough—because Alfred has surrendered; because it is Kiku—to stop Alfred from asking for that.

After a moment, he touches himself along the ridge of his hipbone. "What about here?"

Their eyes meet; Kiku nods. Alfred lights a new cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and takes a few tokes. Their fingers touch as Alfred passes off the cigarette to Kiku and lies back on the bed again. He tries not to arch too hard when Kiku touches the lit end to him, tries to hold himself still as the heat and ash are ground into him, burning off layers of skin. Kiku pulls away before reaching the bone, then bends to soothe the ruination with his tongue; Alfred's fingers tangle in Kiku's hair, keeping him from moving to Alfred's cock, holding him there in that kiss as Alfred strokes himself to a quick and violent orgasm.

When he releases Kiku, Alfred's watches his own fingers trail through come and ash and blood. He doesn't look at Kiku; he can't. He's sure he's put Kiku off now.

"Alfred," Kiku says as he moves up to lie beside Alfred, "would you like to play like this again sometime?"

Alfred smiles and smiles.

And that is how it begins.




After that first time, Alfred forgoes absolute authenticity in favor of quantity and builds up a stash of replica WWII uniforms. As Kiku promised from the start, each one is ruined, cut away from Alfred's body or torn in the course of a flogging or burned through by cigarettes, by acetylene torches masquerading to blindfolded eyes as WWII flamethrowers.

It only takes that first time for Alfred to discover his attraction to pain, the intensity of the release he finds in it. He even tries self-infliction when Kiku isn't around. And yep, there's a name for that, too—"algolagnia," the scholars of perversion call it; Alfred's word for it is "unsatisfying." It's not just the pain for Alfred, he discovers: it's the relinquishing of control, the letting go, of himself, of responsibility, of everything. It's the surrender.

The safeword is not Kiku's only moment of brilliance. Alfred figures out his desire for pain himself, but it's Kiku who notices the shiver that runs through Alfred's body when Kiku calls him a pain slut one time; it's Kiku who realizes which of those words makes Alfred flush so hotly. They think up scenes together, but it's Kiku who comes up with the idea that will undo Alfred beyond his imagination.

There's no interrogation this time. This time, Kiku just strips Alfred down to the skin. And then he shows Alfred a pair of thigh-high, lace-up leather boots and a corset to match. "The victorious nations are working hard for peace," Kiku explains. "It is not just the Axis; many nations have joined us."

When Alfred starts to ask what that has to do with the corset, Kiku strikes him across the face, hard enough to make his lashes flutter, his face coloring with more than impact. "Whores do not speak out of turn," Kiku says softly, patiently, stroking Alfred's cheek, his hand so cool against Alfred's flushed skin.

Then Kiku directs him to put on the clothing, suggesting that he do the boots first as they will be difficult once he has the corset on. Between the humiliation of the clothing and not knowing what is to come, Alfred's hands are shaking as he does up the bootlaces, but he succeeds anyhow and heroically. The corset is another matter entirely; he would need Kiku's help with that, even if he weren't shaking.

After Kiku finishes lacing up the corset, he backhands Alfred. "For your incompetence in dressing," he explains. "Please do better with the gloves."

Alfred opens his mouth to point out that he doesn't have any gloves, but thinks better of it and shut his mouth again wordlessly as Kiku leads him to a full-length mirror where Alfred is put on display to himself. There, Kiku hands him a pair of black satin elbow gloves. "If you cannot put these on by touch, you will look in the mirror for visual reference."

Alfred doesn't need the visual reference, but as he draws the gloves up his arms, he lets his gaze linger over his reflection anyhow.

He shakes out of his reverie when Kiku asks softly, as if reading his mind, "Do you think you look pretty?" Alfred starts to turn to him, but Kiku's hand closes on his chin, forcing his gaze back to the mirror. "Do you think you look pretty enough to please the members of the Unified Nations?"

Even as a commingled wave of fear and desire surges through him at Kiku's words, Alfred dares to correct him. "United. United Nations."

"No, Alfred. If you had won, it might have been called the United Nations. But you did not win. You lost." Kiku shifts his inflections between you and lost, weighting each softly, causing the knot in Alfred's belly to unravel, the ends surging up and pulling the knot tight again. "And yet you are not entirely worthless. You have some good ideas, like that one which we have taken and made our own.

"You have other uses, too." Another shift: as soft and silken as the gloves encasing Alfred's arms; soft and silken and tight. "Your body is useful. There are stresses on the mind that may be relieved by the body. As I told you before, the members of the Unified Nations are working very hard for the world. We do not wish to burden the world we are working so hard for, but we are in need of succor. Relief and release from our stress. Comfort.

"You, Alfred F. Jones, will provide that. You will be the comfort woman to the nations of the world. Or, if you prefer, our whore."

Alfred feels his blush fade as his blood rushes down to his cock even as a shiver moves up his spine. It's as if Kiku has removed the bones from his legs; his desire to sink to the ground is almost overwhelming—but he digs down deep on instinct and holds himself up. He feels his lips move soundlessly and doesn't know what he's saying.

But Kiku does: there's a subtle curve to Kiku's lips as he says—or maybe repeats back to Alfred—"Yes."

Now all trace of a smile disappears as Kiku binds Alfred in his favorite position, hands secured overhead to the ceiling hook. Then Kiku nudges Alfred's feet farther apart, past the attachment points for the ankles cuffs they've taken to using. Instead of bringing out the cuffs, Kiku shows Alfred a long metal bar. "A necessary precaution," Kiku explains as he affixes each end to one of Alfred's ankles, "in the event that you forget how to spread your legs for our pleasure." If anything, the words make Alfred want to spread his legs wider, but the spreader bar completely curtails any such movement.

The cock ring is different this time, too: an arab strap of leather to match the corset and boots instead of the usual simple rubber ring. After Kiku fastens it on Alfred, he steps aside and directs Alfred's gaze to the mirror again.

Alfred looks at—looks at the whore in the mirror, the one looking back at him with his face, with his eyes. The whore is kind of beautiful; as if the whore can hear Alfred telepathically, he blushes. The coloring of his cheeks and the darker blush of his cock make the whore even more beautiful, Alfred thinks. He lets his gaze wander over the whore's body, the lines, the curves, the leather that fits like skin, the flashes of actual skin, thighs and cock and chest. He memorizes the way the whore looks; memorizes the way the whore aches.

When Alfred finally closes his eyes, he feels Kiku remove his glasses and then tie on a silk blindfold. Then Kiku orders him to his knees, "the appropriate place for whores." Alfred tries to lower himself, but even though the chain holding his arms stretched overhead slackens, he finds it difficult to maneuver himself down; in the end, he needs Kiku's boot against his backside to force him to buckle, to put him in place: blindfolded and spread and bound, and now kneeling.

There is a stretch of quiet, during which Alfred can hear only his own breathing. Then he hears unidentifiable rustling. He doesn't think Kiku would really invite anyone else to one of their scenes…but it is impossible to say for sure. He tries to imagine others there: there's a surge of emotions, too jumbled and bound up with each other for Alfred to name or separate. All he knows for sure is that it makes his pulse quicken; he feels the quickened pulse throb from the base of his cock to the head.

Then the question of what Kiku would do is answered as a cock—unmistakably silicone—brushes his lips. As Alfred opens his mouth for it, he identifies the pungency that accompanies it: sauerkraut. The swastika he imagines makes the arab strap dig into Alfred as his cock swells and he begins to suck off "Germany."

After a while, "Germany" withdraws; the next cockhead tastes of basil and olive oil, and as Alfred begins to fellate "Italy," he feels something—someone—"Germany" enter him from behind, both of them filling him now. Filling that beautiful whore from the mirror. Though he can't see the whore right now, Alfred can imagine what he looks like; oh, he can imagine it, and he does.

More of them come to him. As it goes on, as he is fucked in the mouth and the ass with different sized dildos, with different rhythms and techniques, with hints of taste and redolence, it becomes easy to yield to the "reality" that fantasy offers. It's easy for Alfred to believe he's being fucked by different cocks, by nations he knows. Some he can identify by the scents, like the tumeric and coconut milk of Thailand, the sachertorte chocolate and apricot of Austria, the emmentalar cheese of Switzerland, the baklavian honey of Greece; and some he isn't sure about. Some "nations" offer a word of praise afterwards, and if there is a Japanese intonation to their words, Alfred chooses not to notice. So too with the ones for whom he does not measure up, who spit in his face or laugh or offer an insulting critique of his skills. The bar makes sure he keeps his legs spread for all of them.

Then there is a hint of maple. Cold shock drips down inside him to mix with the hot, rising shame, and he's unable to stop himself from whispering Matthew's name.

"As you have been told," Kiku says with cool and deceptively infinite patience, "many nations have joined us since the capitulation of the Allied Forces."

Of course Alfred has recognized co-belligerents and neutral nations in addition to the Axis Powers; and yes, there even have been nations who fought on the same side as the Allies—but somehow he failed to anticipate this. Not Canada.

And not France, who comes after Canada; nor China who comes after him. As the Allies fuck him, the heat inside Alfred thickens, infusing his moans with a feverish breathlessness beyond that imposed by the restrictions of the corset.

Fabric brushes over his cock and he jerks, then strains for that touch again when he inhales vodka fumes with his next breath, his tongue darting out to lap at the fat cockhead held before his lips, curling around it as it fills his mouth. When that cockhead, slick with his own saliva, rubs along his asscrack, Alfred tries to lean forward to brace himself on his hands, to go down on all fours; tries to spread his legs wider; but his bindings hold him in place.

His lips part in a guttural moan—and a new cock pushes between them, past his teeth, the head caressing the roof of his mouth. Then it pulls out and Alfred catches the unmistakable aroma of crushed breakfast-tea leaves; his voice is broken by the breath he chokes on as he murmurs, "oh—oh~ oh yeah—", cutting off to gag himself with the cock before him as the other continues to take him from behind.

Alfred comes hard, despite the arab strap and before he can surrender.

He says it anyhow when both of them withdraw from him. He says it again as Kiku releases his hands and he slumps forward on hands and knees as far as the corset will allow. Leaving his feet as they are even when Kiku removes the spreader bar, Alfred says it again. The blindfold comes off; Alfred keeps his eyes closed.

He feels Kiku kneel with him, but Alfred doesn't look up; not even when Kiku touches his face.

Again Alfred says it: "Surrender."

Without a word, Kiku gets him to his feet, gets him out of the strap, the corset, the boots. Without a word, Kiku leads him to bed. Wordlessly, Kiku lies with him, stroking his hair, his face. Kiku bends to press a kiss to Alfred's brow.

When Kiku leans back, they look at each other.

"Surrender," Alfred says.

"Yes," Kiku says.

It's the first time this degree of humiliation has been part of their playing. As they lie in bed, Alfred is embarrassed by the unheroic intensity of his response to it, but when Kiku asks if he would want it again some time, Alfred nods.

Kiku falls quiet again and continues to pet Alfred as he always does in the aftercare, but this time it fails to soothe Alfred. If anything, he grows more restless, finding it difficult to transition out of sub space, unable to locate himself in space and time. He knows he should get up, he should go, even though this is his house; he should go, he shouldn't drag Kiku down with him in this. But he doesn't seem able to make himself move.

Then Kiku takes him out of bed and leads him to another room, not the dungeon but a room in real space and time, and sets him on all fours. Even though Kiku slipped Alfred's glasses onto his face before they left the bedroom, Alfred doesn't really see anything; he closes his eyes so he won't have to try to focus.

"Please wait here, Alfred," Kiku says, and then Alfred hears him leave the room.

Alfred wants to get up and leave, too; and he wants just to crumple up here, to pull himself tighter and tighter around himself, so tight around himself nothing can get in and nothing can get out. There are things, too many and too much coming to the surface and he can't push it back down, can't find the safeword in it; can't find himself. So he holds onto the only thing he has, which is Kiku's instructions to stay as he is.

He is still on hands and knees when Kiku returns. When Kiku presses a hand against the back of Alfred's thighs and pushes lightly between Alfred's shoulder blades, Alfred goes into the new position unquestioningly. Something is set down on his back, there is the soft clinking of porcelain, and then he hears Kiku sit; when he feels Kiku's feet come to rest on his ass, Alfred realizes he has been shaped into a footrest and tea table.

He gives himself over to being the best tea table and footrest he can be. He meditates on it. It's relaxing to have no other demands upon him, to be nothing but this.

Time stops. Or, really, he himself stops and lets time go on without him. He lets time take his body on ahead without him and he exists like this, or he thinks he does, or he would think so, if he had thoughts.

He becomes aware of himself again with a touch: Kiku's foot stroking along his spine. With a sigh, Alfred arches into the touch on instinct—then catches and holds his breath to steady the tray as it shifts and the service items rattle. Kiku's foot leaves him, the tray is lifted from him, and Alfred steels himself for the chastising blow.

But it doesn't come. Instead, there is another touch, a hand soothing over Alfred's skin as Kiku kneels beside him.

The world shifts back into place around him as Alfred takes up his own body again. When Kiku's hand stops moving and Kiku says his name, Alfred is able to look over and smile. Kiku's smile is mostly in his eyes, but there are also traces of it in his fingertips as they brush over Alfred's skin one more time before Kiku sits back.

Alfred folds himself into a sitting position next to Kiku. He opens his mouth a few times, but only sucks on air.

"You don't have to speak," Kiku says, touching Alfred's arm lightly.

Alfred covers Kiku's hand then, and Kiku lets him.

Even before Kiku said anything, Alfred knew Kiku wouldn't insist that he talk; but he also knew Kiku would let him, and Alfred finds he needs to. No matter how he pushes at them, the thoughts inside him won't retreat back into inarticulation. Those things, the ones he can barely admit to himself and then only in his darkest and most secret moments, now demand recognition and witness. And so Alfred confesses to Kiku his fears—of abandonment, of betrayal.

It all started with Arthur. This is so obvious that Alfred doesn't get beyond choking out his name.

Ivan is another matter.

Alfred doesn't think anyone knows how much he loved, loved Ivan. What it meant to him that Ivan stood by him when he was falling apart, that Ivan supported him and wanted him whole. Ivan was the only one. Not Arthur, who wanted Alfred to fall apart at first, even if he did come around in the end. Not Arthur and not any of them; only Ivan. Some of them have told him since then not to dwell on it, that he'd have survived no matter what, there'd have still been America. But Alfred isn't just America, he's the United States of America, and even if he'd survived being ripped apart, he'd never have been whole again, and that's why he says Ivan—the only one who supported the North—is the only one who supported him.

Oh, Alfred loved Ivan so much in those days! Ivan who was somehow familiar and somehow strange. Ivan who let Alfred take him to the redwoods, the Rockies; who stood with Alfred beneath cloudless skies, gazing out over amber waves of grain—until Alfred turned to him and saw Ivan's eyes closed and he realized that, though so much about it was different, those waves nevertheless reminded Ivan of the steppes of Mongolia. Alfred took Ivan's hand then, brought him out of the past and into the present, brought him into tall cornfields; remembering something else about Ivan then, Alfred took him to the sunflower fields.

In those sunflower fields, in those days, Ivan said things, he told Alfred things, and Alfred believed him. He told Ivan things, too: he told Ivan all the things he believed in, and Ivan laughed, bright and soft, and when Alfred looked at him in question, Ivan said, "You are so passionate about your ideals," and Alfred said, "Of course!", and Ivan said, "This is why I love you so." Alfred just looked and looked at him, and Ivan came to him, took Alfred's face in both his hands, gently turned Alfred's face up to him like a sunflower turning to the sun: "I love you," Ivan said, and Alfred didn't say anything. He stretched and curled and arched in sunflower fields with Ivan, but he never said anything, he didn't even whisper it when he was sure Ivan was asleep beside him.

Alfred doesn't know if anyone knows how much he loved Ivan, anyone besides himself and now Kiku. He doesn't know if Ivan even knows. He hopes Ivan doesn't know; he fears Ivan does.

It doesn't matter. That's what Alfred tells Kiku now. It doesn't matter, because Ivan turned socialist and then communist, and Alfred wanted to trust Ivan even if he didn't love him anymore; but then the second world war ended, and the world ripped in two in the aftermath. Most everyone calls it ideology and ideological differences, but Alfred's heart knows betrayal when he encounters it, like he did after the end of WWII.

Alfred hates the color red. He hates it in ideologies and he hates it in coats; he hates it so much that sometimes he wishes his own blood wasn't red but an alien color like green or purple.

When he pauses for breath, Alfred thinks Kiku's probably going to laugh at him. Or at least at the alien blood thing.

But Kiku only rubs a thumb along Alfred's arm.

Alfred thought he was done, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. Part of him doesn't even want to, and Alfred can't tell if it's the part that wants to be closer to Kiku or the part that wants to push Kiku away—but it doesn't really matter, because he can't stop anyhow.

He describes his fear of and yearning for isolation. Alfred doesn't know if it's the same for Kiku, but he thinks Kiku probably understands. He thinks Kiku understands that's why the persistence of Matthew's friendship with Ivan causes Alfred so much anxiety, he has to ignore Matthew sometimes.

The only reason Alfred doesn't have to shut Kiku out is because Alfred has already done the most terrible thing to Kiku, and Kiku is still here.

Alfred touches him. He touches the radiation scars. Kiku lets him.

When Alfred goes quiet, all Kiku says is, "I wondered which of them it would be."

Alfred is about to ask what Kiku means, then realizes he already knows, even if he doesn't want to. He says it anyhow: "You mean Ivan or Arthur?"

Kiku nods.

"Yeah," Alfred says, knowing that it isn't really an answer but unwilling to the point of unable, at last, to say more. If Kiku guesses that Alfred sometimes chokes himself with a scarf when he's jerking off, he doesn't say so; Kiku can be counted on like that.

Alfred doesn't want to talk anymore, and Kiku doesn't seem to require a response; yeah, Kiku can be counted on.

There are no more words, or if there are, Alfred doesn't have them. All he has is a dream and a memory, each one as terrible and impossible as the other. All he has is a dream and a memory, and Kiku. Kiku, who wants to protect Alfred's smile, and is willing to cut him open to do it. Kiku, who is better than love.




NOTE: For those who like Ivan, Fields of Sunflowers shows the period of Alfred's and Ivan's time together that Alfred tells Kiku about, this time from Ivan's POV.



-the only way out is through: part 2-