[fic] Sexy Back [Prussia/France/Spain, ensemble]
Title: Sexy Back
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Prussia/France/Spain, implied France/everyone; in this part, Germany, Denmark, America, Turkey, England, Russia, Netherlands, Hungary, Canada
Warnings: threesome (oral, facial)
Wordcount: 3,419
Summary: for the prompt - France wakes up with butterfly tramp stamp that he isn't aware of. World meeting, everyone sees it and wants a piece of that. Bonus points if Francis is sick of all the advances at the end of the day (there's only so much raunchiness even he can take). Which somehow ended with Bad Friends trio smut, but hey, that's how I roll.
He should have suspected something when Prussia showed up last night at their hotel room - Prussia, who wasn’t even invited to the world meetings anymore and therefore had no reason to be in Belgium, smirking and sniggering. Then Spain had to mention how long it had been since the last time they hung out, so of course France was obliged to leave his dreadfully dull paperwork behind and accompany them for a night on the town. They started with drinks at the hotel lobby bar: an X-rated flirtini for France, a sangria cocktail for Spain, and for Prussia, a glass of Bockbier. But they had not even finished their third round of shots before they were asked to leave by some burly uniformed security guards, and were forced to relocate their celebration to the local nightclubs a few blocks away.
The rest of the night went by in a glorious alcoholic haze of techno beats, fluorescent lights and young women wearing glitter and fishnets and not much else. After an incident with a drag queen named Victoria, some public indecency at a park, followed by another exhilarating police chase through the streets, to say the least, they somehow managed to end up back in France’s hotel room without needing someone to bail them out of jail again. The three then passed out on the bed, still wearing what articles of clothing that had survived the escapade, satisfied with the mayhem they had gotten away with in the night.
By the time France woke the next morning, Prussia had already left, probably retrieved by his much more responsible brother, and Spain was sleeping peacefully. As quietly as he could, France peeled off his filthy designer shirt and slacks, resorting to a bath so as to not disturb the other nation. The hot water felt divine against his aching muscles and sore back, and reluctantly, before he could run out of time to primp and preen, France stepped out of bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist.
“Good morning.”
Spain opened one eye and smiled at him sleepily.
“Ah, why do we listen to Prussia again, France? You’d think we would have learned by now.”
Chuckling, France replied, “I am willing to bet he put ecstasy in our drinks. It would make sense, since he is always going on about how sleepy and boring we are getting.”
“But we sure had a lot of fun last night… just like the old days.”
“Unfortunately, we aren’t as young as we were in those old days,” France said, and the two of them shared a wince as their bodies reminded them of exactly how many decades had passed since their little trio went on a rampage.
With a sigh, France rummaged around for a change of clean clothes, only to find his overnight bag missing.
“Have you seen my luggage, Spain?”
Spain shook his head and got up to help him look for the bag, but a thorough search of the hotel room turned up only…
“This is Prussia’s bag, isn’t it?” Frowning, France pulled out a black t-shirt emblazoned with the name of some death punk German rock band and a pair of jeans with rips at the knees. That idiot Prussia must have taken his bag by mistake when he snuck out earlier. He made a tsking noise of annoyance and glanced at Spain mournfully, who laughed and patted him on the back.
“Don’t worry, France, you can borrow my shirt for the meeting today! We’ll head to Berlin and get your clothes back afterwards.”
To France’s horror, Spain’s shirt was just a little too tight around the stomach, a little too short in the back to reach the waistline of his tailored slacks. The only suit jacket he had to cover himself was itself covered in vomit. And today Germany was counting on him to give a very important presentation to the rest of the nations. Prussia’s timing could not have been any worse, and France felt certain he would not be able to refrain from hurting his friend in various unusual manners when they found him later. Not only that, the pain in his lower back simply would not go away. Glumly, France stared at the papers he was supposed to be reviewing, more preoccupied with sucking in his stomach than the impact of the latest economic data.
Finally, when it was time for him to present, France gracefully strode to the front of the room, where Germany handed control of the slideshow over to him. Unfortunately, he had no podium to hide behind, and France was positive the whispers he kept hearing were all about the borrowed shirt straining over his middle. But he was not getting fat, he was not! (At least, not as fat as England, who was careening towards American levels of obesity at frightening speed, even if he did not look so quite yet.) Spain just… shrank his shirts in the dryer, yes, that was it, how silly of him.
Already wound up, France promptly dropped the laser pointer he was holding that he did not need, and he carefully bent over to retrieve it. Someone definitely wolf-whistled, and glancing up, France noticed everyone staring at him. A few of the nations looked disgusted and resigned, their default facial expression whenever he was around, but several others looked very interested, which seemed rather unusual, considering the topic of the slideshow. France resumed his presentation as best as he could, trying to ignore the snickers and obvious texting of the more technologically advanced nations.
When the slideshow ended, Germany announced a fifteen minute break, to everyone’s relief, and France had to wonder how much clothes-shopping he could get done in fifteen minutes.
He bumped into Denmark, who was blocking the doorway and leering at him.
“Why don’t you show us your new ink again? Didn’t quite catch it the first time.”
“Excuse me, what are you talking about?”
“Your tattoo, France. Let’s take a closer look at it,” Turkey said, putting a hand on France’s lower back and making him nearly flinch from the sudden burning sensation.
“Ridiculous, I don’t remember getting a tattoo…” he protested as he felt the hem of the shirt being pulled up, and then trailed off uncertainly as America whistled… again.
“Really, France? A butterfly tramp stamp? Man, that is too perfect! You know, considering the fact that you sleep aro-” he exclaimed before Canada elbowed him in the gut to shut him up.
France tried to crane his neck to see what had been tattooed on his back, but another sharp pain shooting up his spine prevented him from making out anything more than a blur of curved black and blue lines. Prussia. It must be his fault, somehow.
“What do you expect from someone like him?” England commented, managing to make the word “him” sound like a synonym of slut. “I’m just surprised it didn’t have more explicit instructions.”
With Turkey insisting on pulling his pants down even further, France was finding it hard to think of a witty retort while remaining dignified.
“Well, for someone as inept as you in bed, you would need the explicit instructions, no?”
It seemed that a fistfight would break out as England growled and launched himself towards France, but Denmark quickly hauled France over his shoulder while America stuck a foot out to trip England.
Struggling fiercely, France shouted for Denmark to put him down, but by the time he was set on his own two feet, every nation still in the room that had not seen his tattoo before had seen it now. Liechtenstein’s eyes could not possibly get any bigger, and even Korea and Poland were gaping at him.
“Trashy,” England muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, and stalked out of the room.
France flashed everyone a dazzling smile, and then fled the other way.
He found an empty bathroom, and with his back facing the mirror, pulled his shirt up to get a look at his mark of shame. At least it was a tastefully inked butterfly, if still a little red and swollen around the edges. Sighing, France pulled his shirt back down and vowed to wring some answers out of Prussia and Spain. He turned on the tap, splashed some water on his face and looked up to see Russia’s reflection in the mirror.
“France! I like your butterfly. It looks very pretty.”
“Ah, umm, thank you.” France tried to sidle away, but Russia had him pressed up against the edge of the sink, a familiar glint in his purple eyes.
“Where are you going?” Russia asked quietly, bringing his hands to France’s waist.
“Darling, could this wait until after the second session?” France murmured as Russia inched even closer to him.
“We have ten minutes.” France almost laughed at that, but stopped when Russia leaned forward and breathed into his ear. “Besides, I want you first, before the others get to play with you.”
“Wh-what?” France stammered, hardly able to believe his ears.
“We used to be friends and allies, didn’t we?” Russia continued in that sing-song voice, fingers picking at the hem of France’s slacks. “Let’s be friends again.”
“Yes, but some other time,” and France scrambled out of his hold when the bathroom door opened to reveal Netherlands.
“Help!” he mouthed, ducking behind the taller nation, who needed only one glance to tell him what was going on.
“Forget it, Russia, he doesn’t want to be with you,” Netherlands said, while France nodded his agreement.
Russia scowled and stamped his foot in frustration, but thankfully did not follow after them.
“Merci, Netherlands, that was perfect timing.”
Netherlands shrugged and said, “Glad to be of help.”
They walked along the corridor for a while before France carefully removed Netherland’s hand from where it had been squeezing his left buttock.
“I shall see you later then?” he said, trying to walk as quickly as possible without seeming ungrateful.
“You have my number,” Netherlands called out.
He had not even walked forty paces when he heard footsteps behind him, coming up fast. Two slender arms wrapped around him, and France felt something pleasantly soft and bouncy push up against his shoulderblades.
“Hungary?” Not that he needed to guess, being so familiar with the unique qualities of each female nation’s breasts.
“That’s right!” She laughed and snuggled against his back, making him wince.
“How may I help you, ma chere?”
“I’m just passing a message along.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“Austria… and myself,” she whispered, her voice dropping to silky sweet tone as she stood on tip toe and ran her tongue over the curve of his ear.
“Ah… you said Austria?” France asked, unsure if he heard her correctly.
“Yes, I did.” She licked her lips, casting one last glance at his tattoo, and then handed him a small leather bound booklet.
“Your dance card, sir,” she announced, and bemused, France opened it to reveal a rather long list of names and the “dances” they requested of him. Russia was indeed first.
“How, err… thoughtful. I… I don’t know if I will have time, actually.”
“That is entirely up to you. Personally, Belgium and I can’t wait for our turns. Monaco is already wet thinking about it. My advice? Show up rested.”
France had a dream about this once. Or to be more honest, several times. In this dream, he had all of the nations over the age of consent at his beck and call, and no one refused him or tried to pepper spray his face or shoot at him, and every night, he and his selected partner would have hours of marvelous, mind-blowing sex. But now that it was apparently going to happen in real life, thanks to a well-placed depiction of a winged insect, France found it rather disappointing. And… cheap. And also a lot more frightening than how he had imagined it to be. For one thing, he was sure Sweden did not mean to put his name on the card. And what England requested, obviously a tasteless misprint of some sort… right?
Just down the next hall, America, Canada and Australia were talking, and so he lingered, out of sight. He heard the soft murmur of Canada’s voice, followed by America’s laugh.
“Bro, this is France we’re talking about! We all know he’s loose, now he’s got the advertisement!”
“I still don’t think he meant to get a tattoo like that. He has always tried to be classy before, in his own way…”
“I guess classy hasn’t been getting him any, so he’s trying the trashy look.”
“Well, if it works for him, then it must be all right.” And France moved on before he could hear anything else.
He found his way back to the meeting room, getting cat-calls and more than a few slaps on his ass by passing nations whose names figured prominently on the “dance card,” and finally, he sank into his chair, determined to not get up until Spain returned. Germany sat down beside him, saying nothing as he set down a glass of water and two aspirin within reach. France was about to say thank you, but he saw the look of disapproval in Germany’s eyes and took the aspirin in silence.
The afternoon session was blessedly short, and as soon as the latest objectives were reviewed, they were dismissed to back to their duties until the next world meeting.
“France?”
“Yes, Germany?”
“Take this.” Germany draped his heavy jacket over France’s shoulders, who almost cried in thanks. “It is raining in Berlin. Also…” He handed France a card with an address and phone number neatly printed on the front, and France grimaced.
“Won’t that hurt even more?”
“When you return, I want it gone,” Germany said sternly.
While Spain drove, France stared glumly out of the car window.
“I’m sorry, France, I totally forgot about that.”
“It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “We were on ecstasy, or some sort of drug, remember?”
“I… I’m sure Prussia has a good explanation?”
“He’d better. I am already going to kill him once.”
France let go of Prussia only because his hands were hurting from strangling him, and Prussia collapsed against the couch, gasping for air.
“I swear, France, you asked the tattoo artist for it! You wanted it!”
“But you drugged me, you irresponsible fool! You know I would have never sullied my flawless body with anything as permanent as a tattoo!”
“I know, but you looked so happy, we weren’t about to stop you!”
“Why would I be happy about getting a tramp stamp?!”
“…Is that what they call it? Hahahaha, mein Gott, are you serious!”
That was the worst possible thing for Prussia to say at that moment, for France immediately resumed choking him, and only Spain’s interference saved him from a permanently bruised windpipe.
“Calm down, France! Look, you were happy because… well, we got tattoos with you.”
“You did?” France stared at them both. “Matching tattoos?”
“Err… nooo…” They weren’t that good of friends.
Although France’s fingers twitched a little, all he said was, “Let me see them.”
Spain’s tattoo was on his right hip bone, a cobra ready to strike. Prussia’s was that of a lunging wolf, just above his shoulder blade. But more than that, France noticed that the artist lovingly emphasized certain lines to signify the numbers 1, 2, and 3.
“This is probably the stupidest and sweetest thing we ever did together while smashed out of our minds,” France said at last, torn between strangling them both and laughing. “But why did I get a butterfly when you two got a cobra and wolf? I should have gotten an… an eagle at least!”
“I dunno, Victoria suggested the butterfly,” Prussia said with a shrug.
“Who is this Victoria again?”
“Here, I think I got some pictures of last night.” They crowded around Prussia’s phone and after finding a group photo of themselves with the drag queen, their jaws collectively dropped.
“I should have guessed!” France screamed, infuriated. “He didn’t even bother to tweeze his eyebrows! We were so drunk we didn’t notice!”
They waited patiently for Spain to catch up and after a minute, he slapped his hands over his face. “England in disguise, of course! That punk!”
“My apologies, Prussia, this was not entirely your fault. I shall go murder England now.”
“Now wait a minute,” Spain interrupted, “You’re not in any condition to go murdering other former empires. You need to rest, you had a stressful day.”
“Just relax and breathe,” Prussia suggested. “And also get off of me, you’re sitting on my cock.”
Snorting, France squeezed his hips together, making Prussia yell out in pain. “I will sit on your cock all I want.”
“Well, at least do it naked. And on my bed, my shoulder’s killing me.”
“I agree with the naked part, you’re starting to strain the buttons of my shirt - ow!”
The three moved from the couch to Prussia’s bed, and although the atmosphere of Germany’s basement was not so romantic, by the time they stripped, they had only one thing in mind.
“I don’t know why you’re so mad about the tattoo,” Prussia said, watching intently as Spain kissed a slow, wet line down France’s spine. “It looks hot. Frames your ass just right.”
“I’m sure it does, but the message it sends is so… crass. Not my style at all.” France arched his back with a hissed intake of breath as Spain pressed his lips to the area below his tattoo.
“But you don’t regret getting the tattoo, do you?” Spain asked, taking the lube Prussia handed him.
Laughing, France shook his head no. “I guess not, if I got it with you guys.”
“Good,” Prussia muttered, kneeling in front of France and cradling his chin in his hands. “Open up, now.” He brushed the hair out of France’s face as France opened his mouth and made a helpless whine of pleasure after Spain inserted another finger into him. Not even waiting for Spain to finish his preparation, Prussia slid into France’s waiting mouth, eyes clenching shut at the wet heat engulfing his throbbing erection. Spain followed shortly after, plunging himself deep into France.
They fucked him at the same time, his pliant body rocking to their erratic rhythms, the room strangely hushed except for the sound of their pants and grunts. When France reached to touch himself with one hand, Prussia dragged his arm away, and he was forced to endure his growing arousal until the other two finished. Prussia pulled out suddenly, just in time to come all over France’s face, and soon afterward, France felt Spain pull back, drops of hot semen splashing over his back and buttocks and thighs.
They didn’t forget him though, and Prussia and Spain, somewhat clumsily, stroked him off, milking out every last drop as he shuddered soundlessly in their hands.
Lying on his stomach, France let himself catch his breath, basking in the afterglow.
“I’ll be right back,” Spain said, heading towards the bathroom with a handkerchief.
“I would rather he not,” France confessed to Prussia lying next to him. “I like it like this. The feeling of you two still on me…”
“But seeing our come on you makes us want to fuck you again.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
Prussia just snickered. “You feel better now, don’t you?”
“Yes, a lot better. Although I imagine Russia will not be too happy if he ever found out. He claimed me first, you know, after they all saw my tattoo.”
“Fuck Russia, and I don’t mean literally. He doesn’t have any claim on you. No one does. We’re just cooler than the rest of them, that’s why you hang out with us.”
“Ah, you’re worried about the others, France? Don’t worry, I put our names first in your book.”
“That’s good enough for me, ought to be good enough for them.”
Spain carefully dabbed away at France’s face, occasionally kissing him as well, and not wanting to be left out, Prussia wriggled to the foot of the bed to lick the mess on France’s back.
“You two spoil me…” France mumbled in sleepy contentment. “There still is the business of Victoria, drag queen of England. Do send me that photograph, Prussia. I think I might need it…” Just when they thought he was going to fall asleep, he frowned and said, “And I’ll need my clothes back, too.”
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Prussia/France/Spain, implied France/everyone; in this part, Germany, Denmark, America, Turkey, England, Russia, Netherlands, Hungary, Canada
Warnings: threesome (oral, facial)
Wordcount: 3,419
Summary: for the prompt - France wakes up with butterfly tramp stamp that he isn't aware of. World meeting, everyone sees it and wants a piece of that. Bonus points if Francis is sick of all the advances at the end of the day (there's only so much raunchiness even he can take). Which somehow ended with Bad Friends trio smut, but hey, that's how I roll.
He should have suspected something when Prussia showed up last night at their hotel room - Prussia, who wasn’t even invited to the world meetings anymore and therefore had no reason to be in Belgium, smirking and sniggering. Then Spain had to mention how long it had been since the last time they hung out, so of course France was obliged to leave his dreadfully dull paperwork behind and accompany them for a night on the town. They started with drinks at the hotel lobby bar: an X-rated flirtini for France, a sangria cocktail for Spain, and for Prussia, a glass of Bockbier. But they had not even finished their third round of shots before they were asked to leave by some burly uniformed security guards, and were forced to relocate their celebration to the local nightclubs a few blocks away.
The rest of the night went by in a glorious alcoholic haze of techno beats, fluorescent lights and young women wearing glitter and fishnets and not much else. After an incident with a drag queen named Victoria, some public indecency at a park, followed by another exhilarating police chase through the streets, to say the least, they somehow managed to end up back in France’s hotel room without needing someone to bail them out of jail again. The three then passed out on the bed, still wearing what articles of clothing that had survived the escapade, satisfied with the mayhem they had gotten away with in the night.
By the time France woke the next morning, Prussia had already left, probably retrieved by his much more responsible brother, and Spain was sleeping peacefully. As quietly as he could, France peeled off his filthy designer shirt and slacks, resorting to a bath so as to not disturb the other nation. The hot water felt divine against his aching muscles and sore back, and reluctantly, before he could run out of time to primp and preen, France stepped out of bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist.
“Good morning.”
Spain opened one eye and smiled at him sleepily.
“Ah, why do we listen to Prussia again, France? You’d think we would have learned by now.”
Chuckling, France replied, “I am willing to bet he put ecstasy in our drinks. It would make sense, since he is always going on about how sleepy and boring we are getting.”
“But we sure had a lot of fun last night… just like the old days.”
“Unfortunately, we aren’t as young as we were in those old days,” France said, and the two of them shared a wince as their bodies reminded them of exactly how many decades had passed since their little trio went on a rampage.
With a sigh, France rummaged around for a change of clean clothes, only to find his overnight bag missing.
“Have you seen my luggage, Spain?”
Spain shook his head and got up to help him look for the bag, but a thorough search of the hotel room turned up only…
“This is Prussia’s bag, isn’t it?” Frowning, France pulled out a black t-shirt emblazoned with the name of some death punk German rock band and a pair of jeans with rips at the knees. That idiot Prussia must have taken his bag by mistake when he snuck out earlier. He made a tsking noise of annoyance and glanced at Spain mournfully, who laughed and patted him on the back.
“Don’t worry, France, you can borrow my shirt for the meeting today! We’ll head to Berlin and get your clothes back afterwards.”
To France’s horror, Spain’s shirt was just a little too tight around the stomach, a little too short in the back to reach the waistline of his tailored slacks. The only suit jacket he had to cover himself was itself covered in vomit. And today Germany was counting on him to give a very important presentation to the rest of the nations. Prussia’s timing could not have been any worse, and France felt certain he would not be able to refrain from hurting his friend in various unusual manners when they found him later. Not only that, the pain in his lower back simply would not go away. Glumly, France stared at the papers he was supposed to be reviewing, more preoccupied with sucking in his stomach than the impact of the latest economic data.
Finally, when it was time for him to present, France gracefully strode to the front of the room, where Germany handed control of the slideshow over to him. Unfortunately, he had no podium to hide behind, and France was positive the whispers he kept hearing were all about the borrowed shirt straining over his middle. But he was not getting fat, he was not! (At least, not as fat as England, who was careening towards American levels of obesity at frightening speed, even if he did not look so quite yet.) Spain just… shrank his shirts in the dryer, yes, that was it, how silly of him.
Already wound up, France promptly dropped the laser pointer he was holding that he did not need, and he carefully bent over to retrieve it. Someone definitely wolf-whistled, and glancing up, France noticed everyone staring at him. A few of the nations looked disgusted and resigned, their default facial expression whenever he was around, but several others looked very interested, which seemed rather unusual, considering the topic of the slideshow. France resumed his presentation as best as he could, trying to ignore the snickers and obvious texting of the more technologically advanced nations.
When the slideshow ended, Germany announced a fifteen minute break, to everyone’s relief, and France had to wonder how much clothes-shopping he could get done in fifteen minutes.
He bumped into Denmark, who was blocking the doorway and leering at him.
“Why don’t you show us your new ink again? Didn’t quite catch it the first time.”
“Excuse me, what are you talking about?”
“Your tattoo, France. Let’s take a closer look at it,” Turkey said, putting a hand on France’s lower back and making him nearly flinch from the sudden burning sensation.
“Ridiculous, I don’t remember getting a tattoo…” he protested as he felt the hem of the shirt being pulled up, and then trailed off uncertainly as America whistled… again.
“Really, France? A butterfly tramp stamp? Man, that is too perfect! You know, considering the fact that you sleep aro-” he exclaimed before Canada elbowed him in the gut to shut him up.
France tried to crane his neck to see what had been tattooed on his back, but another sharp pain shooting up his spine prevented him from making out anything more than a blur of curved black and blue lines. Prussia. It must be his fault, somehow.
“What do you expect from someone like him?” England commented, managing to make the word “him” sound like a synonym of slut. “I’m just surprised it didn’t have more explicit instructions.”
With Turkey insisting on pulling his pants down even further, France was finding it hard to think of a witty retort while remaining dignified.
“Well, for someone as inept as you in bed, you would need the explicit instructions, no?”
It seemed that a fistfight would break out as England growled and launched himself towards France, but Denmark quickly hauled France over his shoulder while America stuck a foot out to trip England.
Struggling fiercely, France shouted for Denmark to put him down, but by the time he was set on his own two feet, every nation still in the room that had not seen his tattoo before had seen it now. Liechtenstein’s eyes could not possibly get any bigger, and even Korea and Poland were gaping at him.
“Trashy,” England muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, and stalked out of the room.
France flashed everyone a dazzling smile, and then fled the other way.
He found an empty bathroom, and with his back facing the mirror, pulled his shirt up to get a look at his mark of shame. At least it was a tastefully inked butterfly, if still a little red and swollen around the edges. Sighing, France pulled his shirt back down and vowed to wring some answers out of Prussia and Spain. He turned on the tap, splashed some water on his face and looked up to see Russia’s reflection in the mirror.
“France! I like your butterfly. It looks very pretty.”
“Ah, umm, thank you.” France tried to sidle away, but Russia had him pressed up against the edge of the sink, a familiar glint in his purple eyes.
“Where are you going?” Russia asked quietly, bringing his hands to France’s waist.
“Darling, could this wait until after the second session?” France murmured as Russia inched even closer to him.
“We have ten minutes.” France almost laughed at that, but stopped when Russia leaned forward and breathed into his ear. “Besides, I want you first, before the others get to play with you.”
“Wh-what?” France stammered, hardly able to believe his ears.
“We used to be friends and allies, didn’t we?” Russia continued in that sing-song voice, fingers picking at the hem of France’s slacks. “Let’s be friends again.”
“Yes, but some other time,” and France scrambled out of his hold when the bathroom door opened to reveal Netherlands.
“Help!” he mouthed, ducking behind the taller nation, who needed only one glance to tell him what was going on.
“Forget it, Russia, he doesn’t want to be with you,” Netherlands said, while France nodded his agreement.
Russia scowled and stamped his foot in frustration, but thankfully did not follow after them.
“Merci, Netherlands, that was perfect timing.”
Netherlands shrugged and said, “Glad to be of help.”
They walked along the corridor for a while before France carefully removed Netherland’s hand from where it had been squeezing his left buttock.
“I shall see you later then?” he said, trying to walk as quickly as possible without seeming ungrateful.
“You have my number,” Netherlands called out.
He had not even walked forty paces when he heard footsteps behind him, coming up fast. Two slender arms wrapped around him, and France felt something pleasantly soft and bouncy push up against his shoulderblades.
“Hungary?” Not that he needed to guess, being so familiar with the unique qualities of each female nation’s breasts.
“That’s right!” She laughed and snuggled against his back, making him wince.
“How may I help you, ma chere?”
“I’m just passing a message along.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“Austria… and myself,” she whispered, her voice dropping to silky sweet tone as she stood on tip toe and ran her tongue over the curve of his ear.
“Ah… you said Austria?” France asked, unsure if he heard her correctly.
“Yes, I did.” She licked her lips, casting one last glance at his tattoo, and then handed him a small leather bound booklet.
“Your dance card, sir,” she announced, and bemused, France opened it to reveal a rather long list of names and the “dances” they requested of him. Russia was indeed first.
“How, err… thoughtful. I… I don’t know if I will have time, actually.”
“That is entirely up to you. Personally, Belgium and I can’t wait for our turns. Monaco is already wet thinking about it. My advice? Show up rested.”
France had a dream about this once. Or to be more honest, several times. In this dream, he had all of the nations over the age of consent at his beck and call, and no one refused him or tried to pepper spray his face or shoot at him, and every night, he and his selected partner would have hours of marvelous, mind-blowing sex. But now that it was apparently going to happen in real life, thanks to a well-placed depiction of a winged insect, France found it rather disappointing. And… cheap. And also a lot more frightening than how he had imagined it to be. For one thing, he was sure Sweden did not mean to put his name on the card. And what England requested, obviously a tasteless misprint of some sort… right?
Just down the next hall, America, Canada and Australia were talking, and so he lingered, out of sight. He heard the soft murmur of Canada’s voice, followed by America’s laugh.
“Bro, this is France we’re talking about! We all know he’s loose, now he’s got the advertisement!”
“I still don’t think he meant to get a tattoo like that. He has always tried to be classy before, in his own way…”
“I guess classy hasn’t been getting him any, so he’s trying the trashy look.”
“Well, if it works for him, then it must be all right.” And France moved on before he could hear anything else.
He found his way back to the meeting room, getting cat-calls and more than a few slaps on his ass by passing nations whose names figured prominently on the “dance card,” and finally, he sank into his chair, determined to not get up until Spain returned. Germany sat down beside him, saying nothing as he set down a glass of water and two aspirin within reach. France was about to say thank you, but he saw the look of disapproval in Germany’s eyes and took the aspirin in silence.
The afternoon session was blessedly short, and as soon as the latest objectives were reviewed, they were dismissed to back to their duties until the next world meeting.
“France?”
“Yes, Germany?”
“Take this.” Germany draped his heavy jacket over France’s shoulders, who almost cried in thanks. “It is raining in Berlin. Also…” He handed France a card with an address and phone number neatly printed on the front, and France grimaced.
“Won’t that hurt even more?”
“When you return, I want it gone,” Germany said sternly.
While Spain drove, France stared glumly out of the car window.
“I’m sorry, France, I totally forgot about that.”
“It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “We were on ecstasy, or some sort of drug, remember?”
“I… I’m sure Prussia has a good explanation?”
“He’d better. I am already going to kill him once.”
France let go of Prussia only because his hands were hurting from strangling him, and Prussia collapsed against the couch, gasping for air.
“I swear, France, you asked the tattoo artist for it! You wanted it!”
“But you drugged me, you irresponsible fool! You know I would have never sullied my flawless body with anything as permanent as a tattoo!”
“I know, but you looked so happy, we weren’t about to stop you!”
“Why would I be happy about getting a tramp stamp?!”
“…Is that what they call it? Hahahaha, mein Gott, are you serious!”
That was the worst possible thing for Prussia to say at that moment, for France immediately resumed choking him, and only Spain’s interference saved him from a permanently bruised windpipe.
“Calm down, France! Look, you were happy because… well, we got tattoos with you.”
“You did?” France stared at them both. “Matching tattoos?”
“Err… nooo…” They weren’t that good of friends.
Although France’s fingers twitched a little, all he said was, “Let me see them.”
Spain’s tattoo was on his right hip bone, a cobra ready to strike. Prussia’s was that of a lunging wolf, just above his shoulder blade. But more than that, France noticed that the artist lovingly emphasized certain lines to signify the numbers 1, 2, and 3.
“This is probably the stupidest and sweetest thing we ever did together while smashed out of our minds,” France said at last, torn between strangling them both and laughing. “But why did I get a butterfly when you two got a cobra and wolf? I should have gotten an… an eagle at least!”
“I dunno, Victoria suggested the butterfly,” Prussia said with a shrug.
“Who is this Victoria again?”
“Here, I think I got some pictures of last night.” They crowded around Prussia’s phone and after finding a group photo of themselves with the drag queen, their jaws collectively dropped.
“I should have guessed!” France screamed, infuriated. “He didn’t even bother to tweeze his eyebrows! We were so drunk we didn’t notice!”
They waited patiently for Spain to catch up and after a minute, he slapped his hands over his face. “England in disguise, of course! That punk!”
“My apologies, Prussia, this was not entirely your fault. I shall go murder England now.”
“Now wait a minute,” Spain interrupted, “You’re not in any condition to go murdering other former empires. You need to rest, you had a stressful day.”
“Just relax and breathe,” Prussia suggested. “And also get off of me, you’re sitting on my cock.”
Snorting, France squeezed his hips together, making Prussia yell out in pain. “I will sit on your cock all I want.”
“Well, at least do it naked. And on my bed, my shoulder’s killing me.”
“I agree with the naked part, you’re starting to strain the buttons of my shirt - ow!”
The three moved from the couch to Prussia’s bed, and although the atmosphere of Germany’s basement was not so romantic, by the time they stripped, they had only one thing in mind.
“I don’t know why you’re so mad about the tattoo,” Prussia said, watching intently as Spain kissed a slow, wet line down France’s spine. “It looks hot. Frames your ass just right.”
“I’m sure it does, but the message it sends is so… crass. Not my style at all.” France arched his back with a hissed intake of breath as Spain pressed his lips to the area below his tattoo.
“But you don’t regret getting the tattoo, do you?” Spain asked, taking the lube Prussia handed him.
Laughing, France shook his head no. “I guess not, if I got it with you guys.”
“Good,” Prussia muttered, kneeling in front of France and cradling his chin in his hands. “Open up, now.” He brushed the hair out of France’s face as France opened his mouth and made a helpless whine of pleasure after Spain inserted another finger into him. Not even waiting for Spain to finish his preparation, Prussia slid into France’s waiting mouth, eyes clenching shut at the wet heat engulfing his throbbing erection. Spain followed shortly after, plunging himself deep into France.
They fucked him at the same time, his pliant body rocking to their erratic rhythms, the room strangely hushed except for the sound of their pants and grunts. When France reached to touch himself with one hand, Prussia dragged his arm away, and he was forced to endure his growing arousal until the other two finished. Prussia pulled out suddenly, just in time to come all over France’s face, and soon afterward, France felt Spain pull back, drops of hot semen splashing over his back and buttocks and thighs.
They didn’t forget him though, and Prussia and Spain, somewhat clumsily, stroked him off, milking out every last drop as he shuddered soundlessly in their hands.
Lying on his stomach, France let himself catch his breath, basking in the afterglow.
“I’ll be right back,” Spain said, heading towards the bathroom with a handkerchief.
“I would rather he not,” France confessed to Prussia lying next to him. “I like it like this. The feeling of you two still on me…”
“But seeing our come on you makes us want to fuck you again.”
“And that is a bad thing?”
Prussia just snickered. “You feel better now, don’t you?”
“Yes, a lot better. Although I imagine Russia will not be too happy if he ever found out. He claimed me first, you know, after they all saw my tattoo.”
“Fuck Russia, and I don’t mean literally. He doesn’t have any claim on you. No one does. We’re just cooler than the rest of them, that’s why you hang out with us.”
“Ah, you’re worried about the others, France? Don’t worry, I put our names first in your book.”
“That’s good enough for me, ought to be good enough for them.”
Spain carefully dabbed away at France’s face, occasionally kissing him as well, and not wanting to be left out, Prussia wriggled to the foot of the bed to lick the mess on France’s back.
“You two spoil me…” France mumbled in sleepy contentment. “There still is the business of Victoria, drag queen of England. Do send me that photograph, Prussia. I think I might need it…” Just when they thought he was going to fall asleep, he frowned and said, “And I’ll need my clothes back, too.”