Big Old Ficbit Roundup (Axis Powers Hetalia, various)
So for various reasons, I wrote little over the month of September. I complained about this -- often -- but didn't really have the impetus to write anything, for whatever reason. And there are many of them: school, theatre, anxiety about the future, my becoming overly dependent on research to the point where it cripples my ability to sit down and write because I feel like I need to factcheck every damn sentence.
On Thursday, I was doing the usual Writer Whinge to Mith when she got fed up and told me, "You have ten minutes. I want 100 words of America sucking Lithuania off. Go. In this window. Now."
Me: "I -- what -- but -- RESEARCH -- yesma'am."
These are the results. And you know what? I feel pretty good about them. Hopefully you guys like them, too. ♥
(all under 1000 words, all varying degrees of Not Worksafe, feel free to skip the ones for pairings you are less wild about, etc.)
Lithuania grips America's shoulder until his fingers feel like they're about to splinter; he wants to apologize, ought to apologize, but the words break in the back of his throat. And America's not giving him time to compose himself, or think, or do anything but press his back into the kitchen counter and thrust his hips forward, shuddering, needing the heat of America's mouth and the slick of his tongue. He digs his heels in -- cold, he realizes, half in a daze, the linoleum's cold, enough to send a jolt through his spine but not enough to quell the flush spreading everywhere, sinking into his skin and past it until even his bones ache.
Now there are words: "America," Lithuania gasps.
When America hums in acknowledgment Lithuania half-thinks he's going to come right then and there, but America's still got more to offer, more of his throat and cheeks and lips. Lips, America's lips look almost as swollen as Lithuania's shaft and they're curved up at the corners, smiling.
“Your hands," America says, as though from a place far away.
Russia does not know if it is a command to present them, which he thinks he would obey, or a request to see them, which he would grant for different reasons, or an inquiry about them; the last, that is perhaps most strange, but also the most like America. He flexes his fingers through their joints, circles his thumbs slowly. He can feel them bend, of course, and the skin stretch, but the sensations travel slow and thick, and by the time Russia has noticed them properly, they are not there anymore. "What about my hands?"
America jerks his head to the side; it reminds Russia of tapping a boot against the wall, to remove the snow from it. America might want to clear his thoughts in the same way, yes? "They're cold, that's all. Maybe I should build the fire up more..."
"I am comfortable," Russia says, and smiles. "It is much warmer here."
"Than at your place?" America looks up, though north is through the hotel's left wall. But the left wall has dark stains on the wood and beams that bulge in the middle, and perhaps America wishes to look at something nicer and pretend that is Russia's home, that is where he wishes to go, that is what he wants to see. It would be kind of him to do so.
"Most of the year, and in most places. Some parts of it are very warm," Russia adds, to be fair.
"Not warm like in the South -- " And America performs a bit of addition, too, for he says, "Of the state," very quickly.
Lithuania can't even remember why he woke up, only that it was important that he did in the dream. But the dream's gone now, and Lithuania's still breathing hard into his pillow, willing his stomach to uncurl, his chest to stop shuddering. There's nothing from the dream here now, he tells himself -- well, there might be, but even if there were he can't recognize any of it. There's only the dark, and Russia.
Russia's fingers are splayed over Lithuania's hip, but that's nothing new. He quiets his own breathing enough to listen to Russia's: steady, even. Good, he's really asleep. Lithuania picks up Russia's hand under the wrist, counts ten under his breath, eases it off, slowly, slowly, that's right, Lithuania chants to himself or to God (if He's listening), easy does it, stay like that...
Something shifts into the small of his back.
Lithuania freezes. He clenches Russia's hand and could almost curse himself for being so stupid except then Russia would wake up. Has Russia noticed? He's drawing Lithuania in the way America used to tug the covers over to his side of the bed, until Lithuania finds himself nestled under Russia's chin, his back to Russia's chest and his backside to what's almost certainly Russia's erection.
Breathe, he reminds himself, breathe, and he does, shallowly. If he can get out from under Russia's arm -- he tries lifting it again but Russia snorts and Lithuania holds as motionless as he can until the snort dissipates into a drawn-out sigh. Russia circles his hips in time with that, almost lazily, like he's stretching. Lithuania curls up as much as he dares, debates whether getting sick in Russia's bed is worth it or if it's better to climb out now and decides on the latter. He just needs to do this slowly, slowly but before Russia starts any of this in earnest.
Which he doesn't seem to be doing yet; his erection busses Lithuania's thigh, and Lithuania can feel a low throbbing heat through his pyjamas for once, not that the thought warms him at all. Russia's arm curls around Lithuania's chest, cradling him, pinning him. If Lithuania clenches his jaw any tighter, it'll shatter, but what else can he do?
"Lithuania?"
-- Lithuania can't tell if he doesn't bolt because of Russia's arm blocking his path or because his muscles have locked that tightly, but either way, he barely has enough air left to choke out, "Yes?"
"Did I wake you?" Russia asks.
He swallows. "No," he says, which is true enough. "No, I -- I had a bad dream."
"Oh," Russia says, and falls silent for a moment. He's not moving his hips anymore, but he's still close and hard and Lithuania's nails are gouging his palms. "May I make it better?"
Lithuania doesn't know whether to scream or laugh so he says nothing and does nothing and screws his eyes shut -
-- Russia kisses him on the back of the head, once. "I will hold you until you fall asleep," he says, and makes it sound like a command even though his voice cracks with fatigue.
He can't bring himself to say thank you, not to Russia, but he nods, and apparently Russia feels it because he kisses Lithuania's neck this time and says, "Good."
Lithuania nods again, closes his eyes, and pretends to sleep. Sometimes if he pretends enough, it’s almost like the real thing.
Russia’s lips are cooler than England expected. Not chapped, precisely; the skin there thins rather than cracks, and it’s easy, entirely too easy, for England to draw blood when he bites. Russia flinches, but towards England rather than away from him, settles his fist at the nape of England’s neck and rubs the jut of bone there. It’s strange, the way Russia kisses-interested, yes, committed, certainly, it isn’t hesitance so much as it’s, well, delicacy. The way his fingers circle and pet England’s neck, as though he’s looking for sore spots to soothe, the brush and caress of his lips and tongue against England’s, the soft pleased noises he makes when England pulls back to look at him.
It isn’t youth. England must remember that.
Russia smiles at him: broad, guileless. “You wish to continue, yes?”
In response, England jerks his head up and down. It could be called a nod. Russia takes it as such, and sweeps England into his arms; England would protest, but there’s such strength in the gesture, in the way Russia’s biceps ripple and flex against England’s shoulders. Contained, though, England notes with not inconsiderable dismay. He snarls his hands in Russia’s hair, pulls his mouth closer, kisses and sucks and takes and Russia permits him to, oh yes, that’s very much the word for it, still pets England’s hair as though he’s a damned child-
England seizes a fistful of Russia’s hair and yanks it, hard.
“Oh,” Russia says, and the hot sharp sound sinks into England’s mouth. It’s near enough to make him groan, but he bites instead, marks the man’s pale skin where he can and sees about returning some colour to it, there’s the trick.
Russia’s hand settles on the back of his neck, halts him where he is. “I think,” Russia says, “that there is something you want.”
“Yes,” England murmurs.
“I think you should tell me what it is.”
Heat flares in England’s face, chest, groin. He tries to speak, but his throat seizes and refuses to admit any sound past, anything other than choked breath. Be careful what you wish for, he recalls, lest you get it.
“England.” Russia catches him under the chin, tilts it up. England juts his chin out farther and deepens that strain, welcomes the pull. “Are you unhappy?”
Of course I’m unhappy, that isn’t the point, England’s almost inclined to spit. He refrains. “This is-” he begins, and again refrains, because he would have finished the sentence not enough and dear Christ who does he sound like now.
No. Fuck. No. He can’t think of that.
“I don’t want your kindness,” England says. “I want your strength.”
Russia makes a very soft, very low noise; England thinks it’s oh, or Russia’s way of expressing that. “I see,” he hears Russia say, and then Russia’s hand is about his throat again but tighter, tighter, constricting and closing and driving out air and thought and all else but one last mouthed yes.
The thing about Prussia’s dreams is that they aren’t usually like this. Oh, sure, there’s no shortage of hot chicks serving really good beer in them or scenes of Prussia’s horse rearing back and trampling Austria’s or France’s or Spain’s face, but mostly Prussia’s dreams aren’t about himself. Or they are, but there’s more to them than that. There’s the kid, who’s not a kid anymore but a young man, blond and broad-shouldered and serious, standing on a hill with his boot propped up on a rock and looking over the Danube and the Rhine both. (Which is how Prussia knows it’s a dream; there’s no hill actually like that, but hey, try telling that to a dream, right?)
Anyway, the point is that when Hungary grabs Prussia by the lapels and kisses him, well, hungrily and Austria embraces him from behind and drops his lips to Prussia’s neck, Prussia’s pretty sure it’s not a dream.
Which is. Yeah.
One of them snarls a hand in Prussia’s hair-Hungary, that would be Hungary, she’s pulling him forward and yanking him down and Prussia can tell she means business. Not that he’s complaining. Maybe a little surprised, maybe he should shut his mouth even if not doing that lets him slip his tongue past Hungary’s lips, but he’s not complaining. Definitely not when Austria starts shucking Prussia’s coat from his shoulders. Shucking’s the wrong word for it, probably, Austria’s fingers might be soft and flabby but he sure knows how to fine-tune with them, if you know what Prussia means. Right now, it means he’s popping the buttons of Prussia’s collar loose and slipping his other hand past Prussia’s waistband to-
--you know, that’s probably the most direct assault route Austria’s ever taken.
Again, not that Prussia’s complaining.
“We are not having sex in your brother’s basement.”
“Oh, come on, Ungarn,” Prussia says, spreading his hands wide, “it’s not like West hasn’t taken Italy down here for a good old romp in the park, if you know what I-”
“I know what you mean,” Austria cuts in, sighing; Hungary doesn’t blame him in the slightest. She nudges aside an old sock with her toe, wrinkles her nose. Honestly, if this place can’t quite be called a sty yet, it’s getting close. Beer bottles and cans litter the floor and pile up under the bed-well, the pull-out couch; Hungary thinks they’re called futons?-and the sheets straggle about halfway up the mattress before they give the effort up entirely and Hungary would rather not contemplate the contents of that laundry basket, thank you very much. Is this Prussian military discipline?
Austria did point out that men, once given liberty, are prone to taking too much of it, and she supposes he’s right, but it’s been twenty years. He could look for a job.
“I’m surprised Germany’s let the basement get like this,” Hungary says.
“The vein in his forehead’s been throbbing alarmingly lately,” Austria adds. “Perhaps that’s why.”
Hungary squeezes his hand.
“Yeah, well.” Prussia looks at his stocking feet. “West said this space was mine, so I’m making it mine. It’s a free country,” he says, shuffling. And slouching, even. It makes Hungary want to march over there and wrench his shoulders back; how can he think this is attractive?
“Austria,” she says, “take away his X-box.”
“What?” Prussia shouts, but Hungary twists him into a headlock before he can stop Austria from disconnecting the wretched thing. And Prussia should be fortunate that it’s Austria doing this and not her, because Austria’s far less likely to smash the X-box into the floor. (But Ungarn, the warranty won’t cover that kind of damage, he’d said, as though it mattered.)
“Hungary and I have been talking, and we’re in agreement,” Austria says.
“Yeah, big fuckin’ surprise there.”
“We think you’re becoming a drain on everyone’s resources: your brother’s, specifically, not to mention mine, as my supply of patience is not infinite. Now.”
Oh, Hungary loves it when he talks like this.
“Your position is-”
“-anything but missionary-”
Hungary tightens the headlock.
“OW!”
“Unusual,” Austria continues, as though he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “And both Hungary and I understand that. But if there were no longer a need for you, you wouldn’t exist now, and all three of us know that.”
Hungary would like to think that the squeeze she gives Prussia now is an encouraging one.
“As such, it’s time you abandoned this indolence, which has never suited you, and took up an activity more suited to your true interests.”
“Have you ever played Halo?” Prussia counters. “That’s suited to my true interests, all right.”
Austria glares. Hungary knees him. Prussia gets the message, she hopes.
“There are options, Prussia. The world doesn’t need a military state, true, or at any rate, not a Germanic one.” Austria rubs the bridge of his nose. “But there’s more to you than that-”
“Or things you can take from that that you can still use, without the invasions and conquests,” Hungary adds.
“Precisely. We both suggest you find it, because frankly, you’re trying our patience.”
Austria doesn’t have to tell Hungary to release Prussia after that; of course, if he actually told her to, she likely wouldn’t listen. She smiles at him a little. You learn how to work with people, even if it takes a while.
“That’s nine,” England breathes, and kisses the base of America’s neck; America squirms, and the beads shift inside him again, work their way in deeper and rub more of him open. It’s-it’s strange, still strange, it’s not the same kind of stretch and ache he gets from a cock but the beads can fill him in places England’s fingers and cock usually never reach, wake up muscles and nerves he never knew he had and wring shudders and heat and need out of him. He gathers the sheets in his fist and holds on, holds himself open and steady for the tenth. England pushes the last bead past and in and America groans, buries his face in the pillow and lifts his hips up to pull it all in deeper, give himself enough room to take everything in. He twists around, tries to get the beads to rub him where he wants them to, and the friction in his ass and on his cock from the sheets is so sweet that America could whimper if he did stuff like that.
“You want more?” England asks, and before America can say anything, England adds, “Of course you do, you always want more.”
America doesn’t deny it, just spreads his knees wider and pushes his ass out-“Shameless,” England says, half-laughing, but there’s this low growling heat in his voice that sends shivers shooting straight to America’s cock.
“But I have to wonder,” England continues, his slick fingers teasing America’s hole again, opening America up for-oh christ is that a second string? America can barely feel the first bead, not with the last one from the other string so thick and this one so small, but it’s just enough pressure, just enough to make the burn really start to set in.
“How much can you take, America?”
“More,” America gasps, “more, yeah, come on…”
That’s definitely a laugh coming from England, dark and low and rich. “I always do seem to give you what you want, don’t I.”
America doesn’t have time to respond before England plunges the next bead in; America swears he can feel the two strings clatter, even if he can’t hear it. He can’t tell if he’s clenching his jaw or his hands tighter-or his ass, that might be what’s clenching tightest even with everything coaxing him open, even with England’s knuckle kneading the ring around his hole and the beads spreading inside him, pressing. He’d almost say he could stay like this forever, but if he did he’d never get to feel the thirteenth, and oh, he wants to.
“So if I’m keeping count correctly,” England says, like he’s talking about the weather or tea or something else British, “this would be Rhode Island.”
“You-” The words symbolism-obsessed bastard come to mind but don’t come out because as horrible as that is, it’s not making America’s cock any less stiff and sore and forcing himself to breathe through all the heat and tightness is hard enough without adding talking to it. “You ass-” America finally manages.
England smacks America’s in response, and that time America thinks he hears the beads shudder and jolt. “Oh,” he groans, grinds against the mattress without any kind of restraint at all. Moving like this feels too good to think about stopping.
Except England grips his hips hard and steadies him. “Your arse,” he corrects. “Am I wrong? The thirteenth is Rhode Island, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” America says, “yeah, it’s Rhode Island-”
“All of the original thirteen,” England says, and how many different ways does he have of laughing while he talks? “I suppose you can still contain them all. What of the others, though?”
The thought of five strings inside him makes America’s cock swell hard enough that his skin hurts.
“Say-fourteen.”
Now they’re starting to get to a width America can feel in the way he stretches inside, chafes in the kind of way that still isn’t relief and definitely isn’t release. He mumbles into his pillow: sounds, just sounds, he can’t even tell what he’s saying or asking or god forbid pleading.
“What’s fourteen, America?”
“Vermont!” he shouts, slams his hips down and away from England’s grasp, just for now, just for this moment, just a little bit more relief-
-except England’s hauling him back up again, crap, and trapping America against his back. “You’d leave off with Vermont?” England asks. “But there are so many others left, aren’t there? Surely they deserve admission into you.”
“Then keep them coming,” America gasps.
.
On Thursday, I was doing the usual Writer Whinge to Mith when she got fed up and told me, "You have ten minutes. I want 100 words of America sucking Lithuania off. Go. In this window. Now."
Me: "I -- what -- but -- RESEARCH -- yesma'am."
These are the results. And you know what? I feel pretty good about them. Hopefully you guys like them, too. ♥
(all under 1000 words, all varying degrees of Not Worksafe, feel free to skip the ones for pairings you are less wild about, etc.)
Lithuania grips America's shoulder until his fingers feel like they're about to splinter; he wants to apologize, ought to apologize, but the words break in the back of his throat. And America's not giving him time to compose himself, or think, or do anything but press his back into the kitchen counter and thrust his hips forward, shuddering, needing the heat of America's mouth and the slick of his tongue. He digs his heels in -- cold, he realizes, half in a daze, the linoleum's cold, enough to send a jolt through his spine but not enough to quell the flush spreading everywhere, sinking into his skin and past it until even his bones ache.
Now there are words: "America," Lithuania gasps.
When America hums in acknowledgment Lithuania half-thinks he's going to come right then and there, but America's still got more to offer, more of his throat and cheeks and lips. Lips, America's lips look almost as swollen as Lithuania's shaft and they're curved up at the corners, smiling.
“Your hands," America says, as though from a place far away.
Russia does not know if it is a command to present them, which he thinks he would obey, or a request to see them, which he would grant for different reasons, or an inquiry about them; the last, that is perhaps most strange, but also the most like America. He flexes his fingers through their joints, circles his thumbs slowly. He can feel them bend, of course, and the skin stretch, but the sensations travel slow and thick, and by the time Russia has noticed them properly, they are not there anymore. "What about my hands?"
America jerks his head to the side; it reminds Russia of tapping a boot against the wall, to remove the snow from it. America might want to clear his thoughts in the same way, yes? "They're cold, that's all. Maybe I should build the fire up more..."
"I am comfortable," Russia says, and smiles. "It is much warmer here."
"Than at your place?" America looks up, though north is through the hotel's left wall. But the left wall has dark stains on the wood and beams that bulge in the middle, and perhaps America wishes to look at something nicer and pretend that is Russia's home, that is where he wishes to go, that is what he wants to see. It would be kind of him to do so.
"Most of the year, and in most places. Some parts of it are very warm," Russia adds, to be fair.
"Not warm like in the South -- " And America performs a bit of addition, too, for he says, "Of the state," very quickly.
Lithuania can't even remember why he woke up, only that it was important that he did in the dream. But the dream's gone now, and Lithuania's still breathing hard into his pillow, willing his stomach to uncurl, his chest to stop shuddering. There's nothing from the dream here now, he tells himself -- well, there might be, but even if there were he can't recognize any of it. There's only the dark, and Russia.
Russia's fingers are splayed over Lithuania's hip, but that's nothing new. He quiets his own breathing enough to listen to Russia's: steady, even. Good, he's really asleep. Lithuania picks up Russia's hand under the wrist, counts ten under his breath, eases it off, slowly, slowly, that's right, Lithuania chants to himself or to God (if He's listening), easy does it, stay like that...
Something shifts into the small of his back.
Lithuania freezes. He clenches Russia's hand and could almost curse himself for being so stupid except then Russia would wake up. Has Russia noticed? He's drawing Lithuania in the way America used to tug the covers over to his side of the bed, until Lithuania finds himself nestled under Russia's chin, his back to Russia's chest and his backside to what's almost certainly Russia's erection.
Breathe, he reminds himself, breathe, and he does, shallowly. If he can get out from under Russia's arm -- he tries lifting it again but Russia snorts and Lithuania holds as motionless as he can until the snort dissipates into a drawn-out sigh. Russia circles his hips in time with that, almost lazily, like he's stretching. Lithuania curls up as much as he dares, debates whether getting sick in Russia's bed is worth it or if it's better to climb out now and decides on the latter. He just needs to do this slowly, slowly but before Russia starts any of this in earnest.
Which he doesn't seem to be doing yet; his erection busses Lithuania's thigh, and Lithuania can feel a low throbbing heat through his pyjamas for once, not that the thought warms him at all. Russia's arm curls around Lithuania's chest, cradling him, pinning him. If Lithuania clenches his jaw any tighter, it'll shatter, but what else can he do?
"Lithuania?"
-- Lithuania can't tell if he doesn't bolt because of Russia's arm blocking his path or because his muscles have locked that tightly, but either way, he barely has enough air left to choke out, "Yes?"
"Did I wake you?" Russia asks.
He swallows. "No," he says, which is true enough. "No, I -- I had a bad dream."
"Oh," Russia says, and falls silent for a moment. He's not moving his hips anymore, but he's still close and hard and Lithuania's nails are gouging his palms. "May I make it better?"
Lithuania doesn't know whether to scream or laugh so he says nothing and does nothing and screws his eyes shut -
-- Russia kisses him on the back of the head, once. "I will hold you until you fall asleep," he says, and makes it sound like a command even though his voice cracks with fatigue.
He can't bring himself to say thank you, not to Russia, but he nods, and apparently Russia feels it because he kisses Lithuania's neck this time and says, "Good."
Lithuania nods again, closes his eyes, and pretends to sleep. Sometimes if he pretends enough, it’s almost like the real thing.
Russia’s lips are cooler than England expected. Not chapped, precisely; the skin there thins rather than cracks, and it’s easy, entirely too easy, for England to draw blood when he bites. Russia flinches, but towards England rather than away from him, settles his fist at the nape of England’s neck and rubs the jut of bone there. It’s strange, the way Russia kisses-interested, yes, committed, certainly, it isn’t hesitance so much as it’s, well, delicacy. The way his fingers circle and pet England’s neck, as though he’s looking for sore spots to soothe, the brush and caress of his lips and tongue against England’s, the soft pleased noises he makes when England pulls back to look at him.
It isn’t youth. England must remember that.
Russia smiles at him: broad, guileless. “You wish to continue, yes?”
In response, England jerks his head up and down. It could be called a nod. Russia takes it as such, and sweeps England into his arms; England would protest, but there’s such strength in the gesture, in the way Russia’s biceps ripple and flex against England’s shoulders. Contained, though, England notes with not inconsiderable dismay. He snarls his hands in Russia’s hair, pulls his mouth closer, kisses and sucks and takes and Russia permits him to, oh yes, that’s very much the word for it, still pets England’s hair as though he’s a damned child-
England seizes a fistful of Russia’s hair and yanks it, hard.
“Oh,” Russia says, and the hot sharp sound sinks into England’s mouth. It’s near enough to make him groan, but he bites instead, marks the man’s pale skin where he can and sees about returning some colour to it, there’s the trick.
Russia’s hand settles on the back of his neck, halts him where he is. “I think,” Russia says, “that there is something you want.”
“Yes,” England murmurs.
“I think you should tell me what it is.”
Heat flares in England’s face, chest, groin. He tries to speak, but his throat seizes and refuses to admit any sound past, anything other than choked breath. Be careful what you wish for, he recalls, lest you get it.
“England.” Russia catches him under the chin, tilts it up. England juts his chin out farther and deepens that strain, welcomes the pull. “Are you unhappy?”
Of course I’m unhappy, that isn’t the point, England’s almost inclined to spit. He refrains. “This is-” he begins, and again refrains, because he would have finished the sentence not enough and dear Christ who does he sound like now.
No. Fuck. No. He can’t think of that.
“I don’t want your kindness,” England says. “I want your strength.”
Russia makes a very soft, very low noise; England thinks it’s oh, or Russia’s way of expressing that. “I see,” he hears Russia say, and then Russia’s hand is about his throat again but tighter, tighter, constricting and closing and driving out air and thought and all else but one last mouthed yes.
The thing about Prussia’s dreams is that they aren’t usually like this. Oh, sure, there’s no shortage of hot chicks serving really good beer in them or scenes of Prussia’s horse rearing back and trampling Austria’s or France’s or Spain’s face, but mostly Prussia’s dreams aren’t about himself. Or they are, but there’s more to them than that. There’s the kid, who’s not a kid anymore but a young man, blond and broad-shouldered and serious, standing on a hill with his boot propped up on a rock and looking over the Danube and the Rhine both. (Which is how Prussia knows it’s a dream; there’s no hill actually like that, but hey, try telling that to a dream, right?)
Anyway, the point is that when Hungary grabs Prussia by the lapels and kisses him, well, hungrily and Austria embraces him from behind and drops his lips to Prussia’s neck, Prussia’s pretty sure it’s not a dream.
Which is. Yeah.
One of them snarls a hand in Prussia’s hair-Hungary, that would be Hungary, she’s pulling him forward and yanking him down and Prussia can tell she means business. Not that he’s complaining. Maybe a little surprised, maybe he should shut his mouth even if not doing that lets him slip his tongue past Hungary’s lips, but he’s not complaining. Definitely not when Austria starts shucking Prussia’s coat from his shoulders. Shucking’s the wrong word for it, probably, Austria’s fingers might be soft and flabby but he sure knows how to fine-tune with them, if you know what Prussia means. Right now, it means he’s popping the buttons of Prussia’s collar loose and slipping his other hand past Prussia’s waistband to-
--you know, that’s probably the most direct assault route Austria’s ever taken.
Again, not that Prussia’s complaining.
“We are not having sex in your brother’s basement.”
“Oh, come on, Ungarn,” Prussia says, spreading his hands wide, “it’s not like West hasn’t taken Italy down here for a good old romp in the park, if you know what I-”
“I know what you mean,” Austria cuts in, sighing; Hungary doesn’t blame him in the slightest. She nudges aside an old sock with her toe, wrinkles her nose. Honestly, if this place can’t quite be called a sty yet, it’s getting close. Beer bottles and cans litter the floor and pile up under the bed-well, the pull-out couch; Hungary thinks they’re called futons?-and the sheets straggle about halfway up the mattress before they give the effort up entirely and Hungary would rather not contemplate the contents of that laundry basket, thank you very much. Is this Prussian military discipline?
Austria did point out that men, once given liberty, are prone to taking too much of it, and she supposes he’s right, but it’s been twenty years. He could look for a job.
“I’m surprised Germany’s let the basement get like this,” Hungary says.
“The vein in his forehead’s been throbbing alarmingly lately,” Austria adds. “Perhaps that’s why.”
Hungary squeezes his hand.
“Yeah, well.” Prussia looks at his stocking feet. “West said this space was mine, so I’m making it mine. It’s a free country,” he says, shuffling. And slouching, even. It makes Hungary want to march over there and wrench his shoulders back; how can he think this is attractive?
“Austria,” she says, “take away his X-box.”
“What?” Prussia shouts, but Hungary twists him into a headlock before he can stop Austria from disconnecting the wretched thing. And Prussia should be fortunate that it’s Austria doing this and not her, because Austria’s far less likely to smash the X-box into the floor. (But Ungarn, the warranty won’t cover that kind of damage, he’d said, as though it mattered.)
“Hungary and I have been talking, and we’re in agreement,” Austria says.
“Yeah, big fuckin’ surprise there.”
“We think you’re becoming a drain on everyone’s resources: your brother’s, specifically, not to mention mine, as my supply of patience is not infinite. Now.”
Oh, Hungary loves it when he talks like this.
“Your position is-”
“-anything but missionary-”
Hungary tightens the headlock.
“OW!”
“Unusual,” Austria continues, as though he hadn’t been interrupted at all. “And both Hungary and I understand that. But if there were no longer a need for you, you wouldn’t exist now, and all three of us know that.”
Hungary would like to think that the squeeze she gives Prussia now is an encouraging one.
“As such, it’s time you abandoned this indolence, which has never suited you, and took up an activity more suited to your true interests.”
“Have you ever played Halo?” Prussia counters. “That’s suited to my true interests, all right.”
Austria glares. Hungary knees him. Prussia gets the message, she hopes.
“There are options, Prussia. The world doesn’t need a military state, true, or at any rate, not a Germanic one.” Austria rubs the bridge of his nose. “But there’s more to you than that-”
“Or things you can take from that that you can still use, without the invasions and conquests,” Hungary adds.
“Precisely. We both suggest you find it, because frankly, you’re trying our patience.”
Austria doesn’t have to tell Hungary to release Prussia after that; of course, if he actually told her to, she likely wouldn’t listen. She smiles at him a little. You learn how to work with people, even if it takes a while.
“That’s nine,” England breathes, and kisses the base of America’s neck; America squirms, and the beads shift inside him again, work their way in deeper and rub more of him open. It’s-it’s strange, still strange, it’s not the same kind of stretch and ache he gets from a cock but the beads can fill him in places England’s fingers and cock usually never reach, wake up muscles and nerves he never knew he had and wring shudders and heat and need out of him. He gathers the sheets in his fist and holds on, holds himself open and steady for the tenth. England pushes the last bead past and in and America groans, buries his face in the pillow and lifts his hips up to pull it all in deeper, give himself enough room to take everything in. He twists around, tries to get the beads to rub him where he wants them to, and the friction in his ass and on his cock from the sheets is so sweet that America could whimper if he did stuff like that.
“You want more?” England asks, and before America can say anything, England adds, “Of course you do, you always want more.”
America doesn’t deny it, just spreads his knees wider and pushes his ass out-“Shameless,” England says, half-laughing, but there’s this low growling heat in his voice that sends shivers shooting straight to America’s cock.
“But I have to wonder,” England continues, his slick fingers teasing America’s hole again, opening America up for-oh christ is that a second string? America can barely feel the first bead, not with the last one from the other string so thick and this one so small, but it’s just enough pressure, just enough to make the burn really start to set in.
“How much can you take, America?”
“More,” America gasps, “more, yeah, come on…”
That’s definitely a laugh coming from England, dark and low and rich. “I always do seem to give you what you want, don’t I.”
America doesn’t have time to respond before England plunges the next bead in; America swears he can feel the two strings clatter, even if he can’t hear it. He can’t tell if he’s clenching his jaw or his hands tighter-or his ass, that might be what’s clenching tightest even with everything coaxing him open, even with England’s knuckle kneading the ring around his hole and the beads spreading inside him, pressing. He’d almost say he could stay like this forever, but if he did he’d never get to feel the thirteenth, and oh, he wants to.
“So if I’m keeping count correctly,” England says, like he’s talking about the weather or tea or something else British, “this would be Rhode Island.”
“You-” The words symbolism-obsessed bastard come to mind but don’t come out because as horrible as that is, it’s not making America’s cock any less stiff and sore and forcing himself to breathe through all the heat and tightness is hard enough without adding talking to it. “You ass-” America finally manages.
England smacks America’s in response, and that time America thinks he hears the beads shudder and jolt. “Oh,” he groans, grinds against the mattress without any kind of restraint at all. Moving like this feels too good to think about stopping.
Except England grips his hips hard and steadies him. “Your arse,” he corrects. “Am I wrong? The thirteenth is Rhode Island, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” America says, “yeah, it’s Rhode Island-”
“All of the original thirteen,” England says, and how many different ways does he have of laughing while he talks? “I suppose you can still contain them all. What of the others, though?”
The thought of five strings inside him makes America’s cock swell hard enough that his skin hurts.
“Say-fourteen.”
Now they’re starting to get to a width America can feel in the way he stretches inside, chafes in the kind of way that still isn’t relief and definitely isn’t release. He mumbles into his pillow: sounds, just sounds, he can’t even tell what he’s saying or asking or god forbid pleading.
“What’s fourteen, America?”
“Vermont!” he shouts, slams his hips down and away from England’s grasp, just for now, just for this moment, just a little bit more relief-
-except England’s hauling him back up again, crap, and trapping America against his back. “You’d leave off with Vermont?” England asks. “But there are so many others left, aren’t there? Surely they deserve admission into you.”
“Then keep them coming,” America gasps.
.