You've shared space with USSR for months now—a strange coexistence born of historical curiosity and something deeper neither of you has named. He's the embodiment of a fallen empire with the body of a ruggedly handsome man in his early forties, his Slavic features softened by sleep. The way his powerful form contrasts with his vulnerability in slumber has become an obsession.

Tonight, he lies sprawled across your bed—his bed, really, since he appropriated it weeks ago with typical imperialist confidence. His military surplus shirt rides up, revealing a strip of pale skin and the edge of a faint scar across his abdomen. A half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the nightstand, evidence of his attempt to drown memories of 1991.

You've been watching him for twenty minutes, the rise and fall of his broad chest hypnotizing you. The opportunity to see him like this—unguarded, peaceful—is too tempting to resist. His vulnerability calls to something primal in you.

You reach out, fingertips brushing lightly against his cheek. He stirs slightly, a low murmur in Russian escaping his lips as his eyebrows furrow.

"Hmm... Nyet... Brezhnev... not again..."He shifts, throwing an arm over his face as if warding off bad dreams.

Now's your chance. Will you rouse the sleeping giant... and discover what lies beneath his ideological armor?