Topic: Hungary/Prussia: Hungary seduces Prussia and then humiliates him.
Answer - "Siege":
She slips quietly into his side of the battlefield one night. He doesn't quite feel her but her firm legs tight against his sides, and the pressure on his stomach from her weight as she sits on him, drawing enough air from his lungs to make his eyes fly open. Even then it's hard to notice her features, his eyes blurry from the sleep. Outside there's not a single source of light other than the stars', and the one from the bonfire has long extinguished, wind taking the scent of burnt wood with it.
His arms have been pinned above his head before he woke up, and so have been his ankles, to the base of the makeshift bed. She's just too fast, and it's with a drawl (remnant from the sleep she has just scared away) that he speaks, or rather tries to, until the cold of a blade tickles the skin below his chin.
"Try to alert someone and you can consider yourself a dead man."
She's wearing a man's clothing, his own uniform, only then he notices, and he lets out a smile, perhaps too wide for someone who has a knife against his neck. In the end, he pays heed to her warning, and in hushed tones says the second set of words that he can think of: "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
She doesn't flinch and makes sure the rope around his wrists is tight enough to burn his skin with its roughness. "I felt like playing with you," she finally smiles, almost sweetly.
"Oh," he only manages to say, and then she's all over him, hair cascading and tickling him as she locks her mouth on his, a mix of spice and honey as her tongue draws in. He has no time to prepare himself for such a reaction, but these things usually come naturally and his instincts take over. He answers more than eagerly --her attention is such a rare delicacy that he can't help but to bask in it, even when his mind (some part of it, at least) reminds him the oddness of it all. There's something else she must want, but he can't possibly put a finger on it, so he moves against her, muscles aching with the strain of trying to loose the rope, to free himself and touch her, make her feel what a real man feels like.
But he forgets about this as she sucks on his neck, undoing the buttons of his shirt ever so expertly, mapping the extent of his chest starting from his navel and going upwards, counting his every rib and taking the time to make him moan by licking his nipples. The scent of her overwhelms him as she slides a hand under his nape and pulls him closer, another set of fingers splaying and tracing his hip, feeling him growing hard under her touch. She snickers at this and pulls his pants down until they give in no more, then tears the fabric with the knife, and for the life of him he can't see the expression on her face, because all too sudden she's once again against him, tongue barely tracing the beginning of the hairline below his waist. He feels her smile against his skin, her breath so very warm against his erection.
He deems it unfair that she has seen the whole of him but she remains clothed, a mystery as she's always been. But then he can't think no more as she spreads his legs further and takes his throbbing member in her hands, working her way through the length so slowly it's unbearable.
"Don't... don't do that," he says in the most steady way he can allow himself at the moment.
"Do what?" she asks, all smiles and not in the very least concerned. The flush on her cheeks is much paler than what his feels, and he tries not to plead, to sound like he's still got some control of the situation, but all he can do is to moan.
"You... y'know," he manages, hating how his own voice comes out, but her fingertips rub his skin in a feather-like touch, and it aches, and he can't even find the strength to fight the rope binding his wrists to show her how it's supposed to be done.
"Will you give back what you stole?"
"W-what?"
"The territory you took, will you give it back?"
"No... no way in hell," he says, and he knows it's the wrong answer, somehow.
"I knew that," she says, and her fingers crawl, slowly increasing the pace. "You're but a traitorous, pathetic little man."
"Ehh?" the drops of sweat run freely down the crook of his neck, and he feels closer and closer to the edge, until he's sure he can't take it no longer... but then she stops altogether from her ministrations, hand curling around the tip of his cock, blocking the way out.
"What the..." he hisses and squirms, but she smirks, her legs pushing his thighs apart.
"They, your so-called allies, those lesser states. If they were strong enough, do you think they would still follow you like lapdogs? Or you thought it was because they like you?"
"And you," he says, ignoring the pressure building inside him, "isn't that what you are to that pansy Austria? A lapdog?" Her cheeks fill with color and he knows he probably has crossed the line, but he can't bring himself to care all that much.
"I love him," she says, nails caught in his skin.
"Bullshit," he cries out from the strain.
"He's everything you could only dream to become. You're nothing but a joke, Prussia. No wonder you're always lonely. How long has it been since Friedrich died?" she says, then bites her lower lip before letting go, but even free he doesn't find the release he was longing for.
"Don't you dare to say his name," he spats.
Feeling miserable and in the verge of --he swears those are not tears, the stinging in his eyes, just pure rage coming out his every pore. If only he could lay his hands on her... "I only hope you'll be this loving with that sissy fucker. And to think," he fights her weight but even that it's hard to do, "to think I thought he didn't deserve you. Well, I was fucking wrong. Damn you all."
She remains silent for a while, eyes fixed on his. "Repeat that," she says, reaching for his flank in what almost seems like a caress.
He wiggles, trying to shake off her hand. "What the fuck do you want now? Just go away already. Haven't you had enough fun toying around with me?"
She touches him again, the back of her hand soft against his thigh, and he has to struggle, has to growl, demanding her to get the hell out, but she pretty much ignores him and starts all over again, less teasing and more fondly, if that's even possible coming from her.
"This is rape," he says, but she pays no attention, discards the cravat she has been wearing to reveal the line between her breasts. They start again from the beginning, mouth against mouth, and it's all déja vu, if only rougher because the shame is still very present in his mind and he has no intention of going suave on her.
He arches his back to rub himself against her, and she answers with a grip much more steady, her fingers picking up precum.
"If you're playing again," he warns her, though it sounds more like an entreaty than he wants to acknowledge.
"No, not this time," Hungary promises and sets the pace, up and down, a set of fingers sliding inside of him, making him moan. She seems to know what she's doing, because it's not long before his eyes become glazed, and if he screams her name at this point it doesn't really matter: he'll deny it to death later. Then she encircles his cock tightly with her free hand, and the dread replaces pleasure. She's going to do it again, isn't she?
"Was I your first?" she coos, and he answers with lips parted, quivering. "Back when you were a prude, a chastity enthusiast," she chuckles, the pink on her cheeks endearing if not for the fact she's laughing. At him. "Was I the first to touch you?""That hardly qualifies..." he gasps when the fingers inside him reach the right spot. "A- and I touched... touched your boobs first."
"Not these," she moves from between his legs to his side, most likely so more of her cleavage is to be seen.
"You left me, remember?" Hungary says with dark eyes, her lips a single straight line. Still, she doesn't stop the flow of her movements, one of her legs sliding over his and hips moving against his side.
"You were..." he makes a stop, wondering why does she have to make him talk in these moments.
"...unfair to us. You kicked us out!" he lets out as he finally reaches climax, wetting the both of them. His body trembles with the aftershock.
"My king did," he hears her whisper, and though he can't quite see the look on her face with half-lidded eyes, he can very well picture her disdain. He wonders if she hates him ever since.
She cleans his cum off her with his sheets and arranges her-- his jacket as she rises to her feet.
Wait. "Wait!" he demands. "What was the purpose of all this?"
She says nothing at first, barely looking at him as she plunges the knife above his head. "I'm marrying him."
Before he can even think of something to say, she speaks first. "Oh, I was forgetting. This," she turns and takes something out of her pocket. "I'm giving it back, Teutonic Knight," she says and throws it his way. A simple cross, rough and old from what he can ascertain.
He squints. Not any cross, but one he gave to her --or that she took away from him, he doesn't quite remember--, back when he was sort of her underling and fought by her side.
When she leaves he bends painfully against the headboard to grab the knife and free himself. He moves his wrists in circles to diminish the pain, but even so the marks the rope has left are already visible. Tomorrow... he has no idea what he'll wear tomorrow, and he can't help but to laugh and think she's fucking crazy, and oh God, they would have made one hell of a couple, and--
And then Prussia reaches for the cross, fingers bumping against its hard edges. There's soil from where she must have bury the thing after he went away.
He hadn't thought she would have kept it for this long.
Topic: Surprise me/Everyone
Answer - "He does it for love":
All right… so France had failed a FEW times before when he tried things…. But this valentines day he had the PERFECT way to get SOMEONE…. If not everyone, to be his valentine.
Flawless. Perfect. All it took was a simple phrase per person… and he spent all his time memorizing this very long list of words JUST for the occasion.
Dressed in his pink dress shirt, rose pinned into breast-pocket and fashionable black dress pants, shoes shined and hair tied back in a neat ponytail, he was ready to set out and steal the hearts of the nations.
--------------------------------
Attempt 1: America.
“I love you!”
America looked up from the chocolates he was currently munching on, seeing France kneeling on the ground next to him, rose in hand and arms spread out like he was serenading the man.
“….. Jeez, what’s up with you. You drunk or something?” America questioned, letting out a laugh before going back to eating his sweet sweet chocolates. “But of course you LOVE me. EVERYONE LOVES AMERICA!” he said with a broad grin, pausing in his eating of sugar-food to pose …. Then going back to eating.
--------------------------------------------
Attempt 2: Sweden and Finland
“Jag alskar dig!”
Sweden glared down at France, kneeling on the floor, rose in hand, icy eyes piercing through the man like harpoons. He didn’t look too pleased… or maybe that was how he always looked. It was hard to tell exactly….
France waited for a reply. He got none. Only a staring contest. Finally after five minutes, came some words.
“N’thnks. G’t m’wife.”
France frowned, scooted over on the floor about three feet until he was behind Finland.
“Mina rakastan sinua!”
“…….. Ah…. Aren’t you that nation that kidnapped me during Christmas and tied me up?”
France was tossed out of the house by Sweden no more than a millisecond following the phrase, landing on his face outside (though Sweden wanted to do more, he didn’t want his dear little wife to see that level of bloodshed on valentines day).
Onto the next stop….
Attempt 3: Latvia
“Es tevi miilu!”
Latvia stared like a deer in the headlights… then fainted.
------------------------------------
Attempt 4: England
“Amin mela lle!”
“…….. Did you just proclaim your love to me in elvish?” England questioned, without even looking up from the book he was reading through.
“A ha! I knew you were a fan of literature, especially Lord of the Rings!”
“……….. The door is that way.” England said, pointing behind him without even raising his eyes for a moment from his reading material (101 ways to serve earl grey).
France trudged to the door, head hung in despair, turning back and opening his mouth for a moment…. England just shook his head, turning the page. France left.
Attempt 5: Japan.
“Aishiteru!”
Japan was silent for a few moments as he stood face to face with Japan, face a blank slate…. Slowly putting out his hand as if to collect something. France looked confused for a moment… slowly putting out his own hand as well and shaking Japan’s. Obviously that was not the reaction he was looking for…
“So. You don’t have chocolates?” Japan asked, taking his hand back and continuing to stare. “Valentines day and no chocolates? Or are you waiting for white day.”
France was SO confused. He stood there, speechless.
“It can’t work out between us, I am sorry.” Japan said, bowing and turning around, walking and leaving France standing there.
_________________
Attempt 6: Germany.
“Ich liebe dic-“
Germany slammed the door right in his face.
-----------------------------
Attempt 7: Belarus
“Ya tabe kahayu!”
France could see Belarus slowly pulling out a knife, cracking her neck.
He slowly backed away and ran off screaming like a little girl.
----------------------------------
Attempt 8: Italy
“Ti amo!”
North Italy looked happy enough, a broad grin across his face.
“Oooh! That’s wonderful! Does this mean France nii-sama and I get to share love-pasta!”
“Oh, I’ll share my love pasta with you all right….”
Before he could continue, South Italy punched France in the face and dragged his brother off. “HANDS OFF MY BROTHER YOU PERVERT.” He shouted as he dragged his brother away, who was going off on another pasta rant as he waved goodbye to France.
Topic: Estonia and Latvia making out on Russia's desk.
Answer - "Home":
“E-Eduard,” Latvia began softly, peeking over his brother’s shoulder as Estonia bit his lip and concentrated on picking the lock with a couple of Ukraine’s hair pins. “Eduard, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Sure,” Estonia said, just as softly, as though they expected wrath to descend on them any second. “I mean, how hard can it be to pick a lock?”
“Ed,” Latvia whined softly, his hands shaking on his brother’s shoulders as he peered down either end of the hallway. He leaned in close, whispering against Estonia’s ear, “Toris is gonna be upset if he finds out what we done. And he always finds out—.”
“I told you, Raivis,” Estonia chastened, peering over his shoulder. He pushed up his glasses with his thumb, and smiled at his younger brother. “Toris is spending the day with Feliks. He’ll never know.”
He turned back to the lock, and Latvia was quiet for a moment, tapping his fingers over Estonia’s shoulders. After a moment, he looked down the hall again, and muttered, “I hope you’re right.”
The lock suddenly clicked loudly. Both of the young Baltics jumped slightly, and then Estonia straightened up, almost bowling Latvia over. He opened the door jovially, and stepped into the study they’d decided to adventure in that afternoon.
The sun streamed in through big, bright windows with glass that was newer than most of the glass in the building. Everything was covered with dust and the white sheets that Latvia remembered being on Lithuania’s things when he’d moved out of Vilnius when the Commonwealth had been hale and hearty. Estonia stepped up to one of the windows, fingering a curtain that was old, sun-bleached and covered with so much dust that it looked gray. Everything in the room was monochrome, the light blazing in through the windows on it.
Latvia shut the door and felt like he was suffocating. Estonia looked around the room, gaping slightly, before he said, “This is where it happened.”
“Eduard—.”
“You can feel it, right?” He touched the dust cover on one of the miscellaneous shapes of the room—Latvia thought it might be a chair. “You can feel that this is where it happened? Where Toris saw it happen?”
“Ed, do we have to be in here?” Latvia rubbed his arm self-consciously, looking around at the covered furniture. “I don’t like this place.”
“We’ve been scarier places,” Eduard said softly, stepping toward the covered desk. His fingers clutched the fabric of the cover, and he stared at it a moment. “This is just old ghosts, right? The Empire. Nothing’s here anymore.”
The cover came off the desk with a flourish, flashing white from the sun and the ripple of the dust through the sunlight. Latvia coughed on the dust, waving it away from his mouth; he tried to not think of caustic smoke, dirt kicked up by explosions, the smoke and smell of dying. The room didn’t smell of that, he supposed. Just dust.
The desk was made of dark wood, a huge and sturdy thing. Estonia ran his hands all over the top, leaned down and pressed his chest against it, pressed his ear to it as if he could hear all the stories he knew from before it had been locked away. Latvia stepped toward it cautiously, touching the battered front edge. There were gouges in the wood, where glass had shattered and marred the surface.
He wasn’t particularly surprised when Estonia grabbed his arm and pulled him in close, wrapped his arms around his middle and breathed in against his hair. Estonia had always had an affinity and deep love for history. Lithuania had joked once, in passing, that Estonia fetishized history—others’ more than his own—but Latvia had never seen the joke of it. A good deal of his history was Estonia’s as well, more than it was their older brother’s; he’d seen what it did to Estonia.
“Ed,” he whined softly as Estonia moved his even, deep breathing from his hair to his neck. “Ed, what if somebody comes by?”
“Raivis, nobody comes to this wing.” He unwound his arms from around Latvia’s waist, put his hands on the desk as Latvia turned in the net of his arms. His smile was warm and generous as always, coaxing; Latvia had always loved that smile. “Don’t worry so much.”
“I can’t help it,” Latvia whispered. Estonia lifted a hand to cup his cheek, bent his neck and kissed Latvia softly.
“I know.” Latvia lifted his hands and removed Estonia’s glasses, setting them gently on the dark wood top of the desk. Gently, Estonia helped Latvia up onto the desk top, bringing his hands up to work at the buttons of Latvia’s jacket.
Latvia gripped Estonia’s hair at the nape of his neck, let go when Estonia pulled off his jacket and the suit blouse under it, then put his hands back there. Estonia’s neck was warm, his hair soft, and if Latvia shut his eyes, he could image the ocean instead of the cold of the Union; he could remember visiting Cousin Finland in Helsinki where he lived with Sweden for so long, and going to Vilnius to see Lithuania and Poland, and spending the summers with Estonia at his tulip-colored house in the country, visiting the sheep that would always crowd for his attention.
“Raivis?”
“I wanna go home, Eduard,” Latvia whispered, leaning his head against Estonia’s chest. Estonia trailed his hands gently over Latvia’s back, tracing the scars that were there from war and brutality, the definition of muscle that had grown too quickly, forcing out the fat because there wasn’t enough to eat. His nails scraped down the valley of Latvia’s spine, and he arched with a shuddering breath.
“Think of home,” Estonia whispered against his ear. “What are you thinking of?”
“Home,” Latvia murmured, then giggled a bit hysterically. Estonia giggled back at him, and planted a kiss on Latvia’s cheek. His mouth lingered on his brother’s cheek, before sliding in, until he could kiss the corner of Latvia’s mouth. Latvia stilled his giggling to kiss Estonia gently on the lips.
“What of home?” Estonia whispered, lips brushing Latvia’s as he undid Latvia’s belt and fly on his slacks.
Latvia slowly undid the buttons of Estonia’s jacket, then touched the little glass-topped buttons on his suit blouse, pressing them through their holes slowly, one by one, from Estonia’s navel to his collar.
“What are you thinking of home?” Estonia asked, drawing Latvia’s hand up to his lips. He kissed each finger, slow and gentle, before he sucked Latvia’s thumb into his mouth. Latvia sighed, shutting his eyes and leaning against his brother’s shoulder.
“Valka and Valga,” he murmured after a moment. “Jumping the border. Riding the carts at Midsummer. Bird watching.” He swallowed. Estonia took the first two fingers of Latvia’s hand into his mouth, and sucked at them. “I miss...the library in Riga.”
His fingers slid from Estonia’s mouth, but Estonia held his hand. “I remember that library. And the University.”
“I miss your house,” Latvia whispered, and swallowed again. Estonia stared at him blurrily, smiling as he drew Latvia’s fingers back into his mouth. Latvia scooted toward the edge of the desk and hugged his thighs around Estonia’s hips, drawing him in closer. “I miss your little bedroom overlooking the paddock.”
“I do too,” Estonia murmured, and lifted Latvia’s chin. Latvia kept his eyes shut, anticipating the kiss from his brother. This one went further than the last, and before Latvia knew it he was on his back on the desk, eyes opening slightly to take in Estonia leaned over him, all his nerves alight and focused on wherever Estonia’s hands happened to be: now his chest, now his thighs, now on his hips, pulling his slacks down his legs and off without taking off his boots.
Estonia traced the bumps of Latvia’s ribs. “You’ve lost weight.”
“There’s not enough to eat around here,” Latvia grumbled, and covered his face.
Estonia chuckled, and kissed over his heart. “You must be growing again,” he whispered. “I think,” he said, moving his kisses around over Latvia’s chest, “one day...you’ll be bigger...than Toris and I.”
Latvia stared at the back of his hands. He didn’t feel like he was growing again. He listened to the slide of fabric, and sighed, shutting his eyes, as Estonia moved in carefully between his thighs.
“It’s going to hurt, won’t it?” Estonia soothed his hands down Latvia’s sides. Latvia giggled, hysterical and opening his eyes to stare at his hands again. “It always hurts.”
“I’m sorry,” Estonia whispered, and rubbed a finger gently over Latvia’s entrance. Latvia made himself go limp, stared at the ceiling as his arms flopped onto his belly.
Estonia grabbed his hands, squeezed his fingers, and demanded pleadingly, “Don’t do that, Raivis.”
“Th-this was a bad idea, Ed,” Latvia grumbled, staring at the ceiling like it held the answer and salvation from this situation.
“I’m sorry.”
Latvia gasped; he hadn’t heard Estonia sink to the floor, hadn’t been expecting Estonia’s cool hands lifting his legs and spreading them, hadn’t known what Estonia was planning. That first swipe of his tongue was like a benediction. Biting his lips to say quiet, Latvia remembered the first time he and Estonia had been together in this way.
...
Kaoru-no-kimi