[50 Prompts] Empire
Title: Empire
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Uk/Prussia
Rating: R
Warnings: Slightly beta'd fic, completely pwp. And um, probable grammar fail as well as sort of not knowing who the hell is topping.
Summary: Prompt 002. Empire. Imperialism at it's best.
Words: 1949.
England drums his fingers on the desk, and looks straight at Prussia, who leans over the desk. Prussia’s appearance is a rare act nowadays, but, after all, he is the best Germanic brother to get drunk with. However, he was working. Filling in forms, trying to keep the threads of the commonwealth all tied tightly. Prussia is distracting him, and this important.
“Oh come on, you know you want to.” Prussia’s wheedling voice is combined with the gloved fingers that brush his face. Suddenly, the country is beside him, legs pressed against the chair arms. The stench of strong German beer is wafting his way, smells fresh rather than stale and Arthur finds his mouth watering and his resolve wavering. Instead he shuffles the papers in front of him and shaking his head.
The official documents begin to crumple under that black glove, and England’s resolve wavers, as he carefully places the papers down, already irrevocably lined. He turns his head to look at the man. The sight of the leering Prussian makes him pick the pen up quickly, and place his head down, pretending to write.
“I have a meeting with America at 7.30 tomorrow. AM, that is, not PM.” The green eyes dart up to see if Prussia has taken the hint. He hasn’t. “Unfortunately. Look, I haven’t got the time.”
That gets some form of reaction, a drunken ‘boo’. “When did you get so boring?” Arthur’s eyes snap up to frown at Prussia. Now is not the time. “You used to be so much fun when you were the Empire. So damn kinky too…” And England finds himself choking on a breath.
“Excuse me!” He manages through a cough, trying to glower at Gilbert through watering eyes. The Prussian grins. When his breathing normalises, Arthur looks back down. “Anyway, what do you mean not so much fun?” It’s muttered, barely loud enough for Gilbert to hear.
But he hears, and those red-violet eyes light. (For a moment, Arthur wonders if that’s even possible, knowing that there is ultraviolet and infra-red. It appears to be.) “Come on then, old man! Show me what you got!” There appears to be a swagger in Gilbert’s voice. Interesting. Then breath is falling hot on Arthur’s ear. “Show me you still like it rough.”
The reaction was probably what Prussia intended, when Arthur lands a fist on the pale skin. It was definitely the reaction intended when Arthur straddles him, not even two metres away from the chair that Arthur had been sitting in. His blood sings hot, and the sound of the rush in his ears is only equal in the war between his senses to the sight of the red eyes that burn bright ahead of him.
Prussia doesn’t give up fighting though, even when he is effectively pinned. Alfred gets his strength from somewhere, after all. England leans with a large portion of his weight on the hand that holds Prussia’s slim wrists down. Gilbert struggles and kicks, trying to buck Arthur off. No matter, Arthur just settles his knees on Gilbert’s thighs, entwining their legs so that Gilbert can only move his knees a little. The teeth snap as Arthur leans his last hand at the join between collar bone and neck, where the flesh is tender and the pressure makes Gilbert’s head woozy. He can’t fully comprehend how England did it so fast.
“Say it.” Arthur growls, low in his throat. Prussia won’t give in, no, he won’t say it. “Say. It.” It’s more insistent this time, with added pressure at Prussia’s throat. Vision starts to fade a little, even though Prussia isn’t struggling for breath. He knows why- Arthur’s thumb presses hard into the blood vessel in the side of his neck, and that’s the only place that will be bruised tomorrow.
Finally, resolve breaks. “Please, Great British Empire.”
The hand only lightens on his throat slightly, and Gilbert begins to panic. He said it right, he knows he did. He can’t struggle, not as he is, and- oh. Teeth graze his neck and words that sound a little like praises rasp past Arthur’s lips. There is somewhat of a haze going through Gilbert’s mind however. Too much cheap, strong beer before he arrived here has left him a little on the drunken side of tipsy. He has just reached the stage where his mind carries on, even when his body doesn’t, or vice versa. Right now his mind is still panicking, even though his body has relaxed in Arthur’s grasp. After all, Gilbert had been taunting Arthur. Prussia deserved this. Yes, yes, he deserved the spanking he was about to get…
Before he could object to this, realising what had just been said (it wasn’t fair, how lucid England was. He should be drunk too), Gilbert had been pulled across England’s knee, pants off and his half-erect penis rubbing none-too-gently on the harsh fabric of England’s uniform. It was, a strange thing to notice, pulled tight across the thighs as Arthur kneeled, sat back on his heels. Gilbert was just about to wriggle away, bite and kick and scream his way out of it when the hand came down hard onto the white expanse of skin, revealed by the lack of trousers or underwear, jerking him against those thighs that were beneath him and making him indecisive as to whether or not to moan out loud from the almost brutal stimulation or yell out in indignation (no, certainly not pain). The next sharp smack on the skin spread heat through Gilbert’s body and he rocked on Arthur’s thighs, letting out a thin moan.
Another stinging hit to his lower body, and Gilbert could hear the muttering strike up again. “Everyone knows you’re a whore for this Gilbert. You might as well let it out. Let me hear how much you like it. You can’t get any lower in my eyes at least.” Throughout this monologue, vicious, open palmed smacks rained down over the rounded cheeks of Gilbert’s arse. Prussia remembers this well, the verbal battle of words when they were pent up. The race to declare the other more disgusting and filthy, when they knew that they were as bad as each other. Prussia ruts harder against England’s thighs. “Dirty Prussian slut.” Gilbert objects, not verbally, but through his actions. The hand on his shoulder that restrains him is in easy reach, and he twists his head, pulling it up with one free hand and using the other to support the front of his body. He bites, hard, and the gasp that echoes through Arthur is nothing, nothing, in comparison to what’s happening in his pants. Gilbert can feel that erection against him, more prominent than when he was spanking the Prussian.
Arthur is quickly at Prussia’s mercy, unsure of what just happened, the hand no longer falling and is not restraining either, green eyes wide and vaguely horrified but giving away how damn horny he is. The red hues leer as Gilbert straddles him, and he can’t help but lift his hips to meet Gilbert’s. Gilbert is as he has always been. Desperately horny and brilliant at making everyone else feel the same way, that is.
Gilbert always had some form of uniform kink, Arthur thinks, realising that he found he knew during the civil war, when Gilbert had helped Alfred. Little Alfred and his golden charm, that captured everyone. Why else would the small boy have been taken in? Walking into a tent, somewhere that Arthur didn’t even know the name of, and meeting the red eyes of the horny male jacking off over the sheer thrills of war. The eyes ran up and down the uniform Arthur had been wearing (red, red like blood, whereas Alfred’s was blue as the sky), and the sounds Gilbert had been holding in had passed those pale lips. And Prussia had come, slight spasms passing through him.
It was always a race to the top, between them. They fought and bitched and scratched, unwilling to be the one on the bottom this time around. Well, they often just played this battle of wills. Who could make the other submit first? The number of times the other won simply balanced out, really, Arthur contemplated as he ran his fingers over the warm skin of Gilbert’s arse. He could trace the outline of warm to cool, where his hand had landed. Of course he noticed the shiver that ran through the albino’s body. Nails dug in at the edge of the outline, and there was a visible shudder this time.
England takes this moment to gather strength and surge upwards, toppling Prussia backwards, to the floor. They press against each other, Gilbert still valiantly struggling to be free. Arthur bites at Gilbert’s neck, sucking and licking, proud of his mark. Then another on the other side and Gilbert is nearly reduced to a shuddering mess by this. England can feel the tremors that pass through the Prussian, can feel the desperation.
Muttered curses pass under the breath of both parties- where Prussia’s are explicit though repetitive, the German rolling easily off his tongue, England’s are more inventive and unlikely to be found outside the North West (where Liverpool and Manchester both lie- they are constant rivals, a little like England and France). Occasionally one will choke on a breath, prompting a breathless laugh from the other and the grind their hips together. Prussia thinks his naked skin against the coarse fabric of England’s uniform feels so very good. He lifts his head to England’s shoulders and bites down, hard. Even with the thick bunch of cloth in his mouth, he can still feel where his teeth dig in. England hisses, shifting uncomfortably.
It doesn’t take much longer of this grinding and biting and (to the very last) fighting. When England feels stars begin to explode behind his eyes, all he can regret is the fact that he didn’t fuck Prussia. When Prussia sees only white, he grins like a feral wildcat. He regrets nothing, except perhaps not getting England out of his pants.
England collapses on top of Prussia, breathing hard. The huffs of cool air onto heated skin makes Prussia squirm uncomfortably, pushing England off. Arthur complies and spreads himself out of the floor.
“Well…”
There are pants still coming from Arthur, and his trousers feel uncomfortably wet and sticky with the evidence of what they have just been doing. “That was… interesting.” Arthur’s breathing has calmed considerably, so he can manage a few words without stopping for breath.
“That was awesome,” Prussia breathes, as if he too is struggling to catch air. “But it would have been more awesome if I’d got to fuck you.” There is a somewhat smarmy grin about him, and England is on him in seconds.
“Do you remember,” Gilbert is pressed harder into the floor by the neck, “who you are dealing with?” The pale skin is starting to turn red as Arthur leans more and more weight on the man.
Gilbert flails almost pathetically, and Arthur grins in satisfaction. “The Great British Empire! The Great British Empire!” The Prussian coughs pathetically as his throat is released, and England goes back to his desk, acting unaffected. He sits, and despite the cloying stickiness, he acts as if nothing has happened.
He shuffles papers for a moment, before looking Gilbert in the eye, quirking his lips. “Well, do I have to show you out?”
“I was hoping you’d forget about boring old work and take me out.” Prussia shoots back. And suddenly, they’re back where they started. However this time, England smiles and sets his work down.
“One night can’t hurt.”
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Uk/Prussia
Rating: R
Warnings: Slightly beta'd fic, completely pwp. And um, probable grammar fail as well as sort of not knowing who the hell is topping.
Summary: Prompt 002. Empire. Imperialism at it's best.
Words: 1949.
England drums his fingers on the desk, and looks straight at Prussia, who leans over the desk. Prussia’s appearance is a rare act nowadays, but, after all, he is the best Germanic brother to get drunk with. However, he was working. Filling in forms, trying to keep the threads of the commonwealth all tied tightly. Prussia is distracting him, and this important.
“Oh come on, you know you want to.” Prussia’s wheedling voice is combined with the gloved fingers that brush his face. Suddenly, the country is beside him, legs pressed against the chair arms. The stench of strong German beer is wafting his way, smells fresh rather than stale and Arthur finds his mouth watering and his resolve wavering. Instead he shuffles the papers in front of him and shaking his head.
The official documents begin to crumple under that black glove, and England’s resolve wavers, as he carefully places the papers down, already irrevocably lined. He turns his head to look at the man. The sight of the leering Prussian makes him pick the pen up quickly, and place his head down, pretending to write.
“I have a meeting with America at 7.30 tomorrow. AM, that is, not PM.” The green eyes dart up to see if Prussia has taken the hint. He hasn’t. “Unfortunately. Look, I haven’t got the time.”
That gets some form of reaction, a drunken ‘boo’. “When did you get so boring?” Arthur’s eyes snap up to frown at Prussia. Now is not the time. “You used to be so much fun when you were the Empire. So damn kinky too…” And England finds himself choking on a breath.
“Excuse me!” He manages through a cough, trying to glower at Gilbert through watering eyes. The Prussian grins. When his breathing normalises, Arthur looks back down. “Anyway, what do you mean not so much fun?” It’s muttered, barely loud enough for Gilbert to hear.
But he hears, and those red-violet eyes light. (For a moment, Arthur wonders if that’s even possible, knowing that there is ultraviolet and infra-red. It appears to be.) “Come on then, old man! Show me what you got!” There appears to be a swagger in Gilbert’s voice. Interesting. Then breath is falling hot on Arthur’s ear. “Show me you still like it rough.”
The reaction was probably what Prussia intended, when Arthur lands a fist on the pale skin. It was definitely the reaction intended when Arthur straddles him, not even two metres away from the chair that Arthur had been sitting in. His blood sings hot, and the sound of the rush in his ears is only equal in the war between his senses to the sight of the red eyes that burn bright ahead of him.
Prussia doesn’t give up fighting though, even when he is effectively pinned. Alfred gets his strength from somewhere, after all. England leans with a large portion of his weight on the hand that holds Prussia’s slim wrists down. Gilbert struggles and kicks, trying to buck Arthur off. No matter, Arthur just settles his knees on Gilbert’s thighs, entwining their legs so that Gilbert can only move his knees a little. The teeth snap as Arthur leans his last hand at the join between collar bone and neck, where the flesh is tender and the pressure makes Gilbert’s head woozy. He can’t fully comprehend how England did it so fast.
“Say it.” Arthur growls, low in his throat. Prussia won’t give in, no, he won’t say it. “Say. It.” It’s more insistent this time, with added pressure at Prussia’s throat. Vision starts to fade a little, even though Prussia isn’t struggling for breath. He knows why- Arthur’s thumb presses hard into the blood vessel in the side of his neck, and that’s the only place that will be bruised tomorrow.
Finally, resolve breaks. “Please, Great British Empire.”
The hand only lightens on his throat slightly, and Gilbert begins to panic. He said it right, he knows he did. He can’t struggle, not as he is, and- oh. Teeth graze his neck and words that sound a little like praises rasp past Arthur’s lips. There is somewhat of a haze going through Gilbert’s mind however. Too much cheap, strong beer before he arrived here has left him a little on the drunken side of tipsy. He has just reached the stage where his mind carries on, even when his body doesn’t, or vice versa. Right now his mind is still panicking, even though his body has relaxed in Arthur’s grasp. After all, Gilbert had been taunting Arthur. Prussia deserved this. Yes, yes, he deserved the spanking he was about to get…
Before he could object to this, realising what had just been said (it wasn’t fair, how lucid England was. He should be drunk too), Gilbert had been pulled across England’s knee, pants off and his half-erect penis rubbing none-too-gently on the harsh fabric of England’s uniform. It was, a strange thing to notice, pulled tight across the thighs as Arthur kneeled, sat back on his heels. Gilbert was just about to wriggle away, bite and kick and scream his way out of it when the hand came down hard onto the white expanse of skin, revealed by the lack of trousers or underwear, jerking him against those thighs that were beneath him and making him indecisive as to whether or not to moan out loud from the almost brutal stimulation or yell out in indignation (no, certainly not pain). The next sharp smack on the skin spread heat through Gilbert’s body and he rocked on Arthur’s thighs, letting out a thin moan.
Another stinging hit to his lower body, and Gilbert could hear the muttering strike up again. “Everyone knows you’re a whore for this Gilbert. You might as well let it out. Let me hear how much you like it. You can’t get any lower in my eyes at least.” Throughout this monologue, vicious, open palmed smacks rained down over the rounded cheeks of Gilbert’s arse. Prussia remembers this well, the verbal battle of words when they were pent up. The race to declare the other more disgusting and filthy, when they knew that they were as bad as each other. Prussia ruts harder against England’s thighs. “Dirty Prussian slut.” Gilbert objects, not verbally, but through his actions. The hand on his shoulder that restrains him is in easy reach, and he twists his head, pulling it up with one free hand and using the other to support the front of his body. He bites, hard, and the gasp that echoes through Arthur is nothing, nothing, in comparison to what’s happening in his pants. Gilbert can feel that erection against him, more prominent than when he was spanking the Prussian.
Arthur is quickly at Prussia’s mercy, unsure of what just happened, the hand no longer falling and is not restraining either, green eyes wide and vaguely horrified but giving away how damn horny he is. The red hues leer as Gilbert straddles him, and he can’t help but lift his hips to meet Gilbert’s. Gilbert is as he has always been. Desperately horny and brilliant at making everyone else feel the same way, that is.
Gilbert always had some form of uniform kink, Arthur thinks, realising that he found he knew during the civil war, when Gilbert had helped Alfred. Little Alfred and his golden charm, that captured everyone. Why else would the small boy have been taken in? Walking into a tent, somewhere that Arthur didn’t even know the name of, and meeting the red eyes of the horny male jacking off over the sheer thrills of war. The eyes ran up and down the uniform Arthur had been wearing (red, red like blood, whereas Alfred’s was blue as the sky), and the sounds Gilbert had been holding in had passed those pale lips. And Prussia had come, slight spasms passing through him.
It was always a race to the top, between them. They fought and bitched and scratched, unwilling to be the one on the bottom this time around. Well, they often just played this battle of wills. Who could make the other submit first? The number of times the other won simply balanced out, really, Arthur contemplated as he ran his fingers over the warm skin of Gilbert’s arse. He could trace the outline of warm to cool, where his hand had landed. Of course he noticed the shiver that ran through the albino’s body. Nails dug in at the edge of the outline, and there was a visible shudder this time.
England takes this moment to gather strength and surge upwards, toppling Prussia backwards, to the floor. They press against each other, Gilbert still valiantly struggling to be free. Arthur bites at Gilbert’s neck, sucking and licking, proud of his mark. Then another on the other side and Gilbert is nearly reduced to a shuddering mess by this. England can feel the tremors that pass through the Prussian, can feel the desperation.
Muttered curses pass under the breath of both parties- where Prussia’s are explicit though repetitive, the German rolling easily off his tongue, England’s are more inventive and unlikely to be found outside the North West (where Liverpool and Manchester both lie- they are constant rivals, a little like England and France). Occasionally one will choke on a breath, prompting a breathless laugh from the other and the grind their hips together. Prussia thinks his naked skin against the coarse fabric of England’s uniform feels so very good. He lifts his head to England’s shoulders and bites down, hard. Even with the thick bunch of cloth in his mouth, he can still feel where his teeth dig in. England hisses, shifting uncomfortably.
It doesn’t take much longer of this grinding and biting and (to the very last) fighting. When England feels stars begin to explode behind his eyes, all he can regret is the fact that he didn’t fuck Prussia. When Prussia sees only white, he grins like a feral wildcat. He regrets nothing, except perhaps not getting England out of his pants.
England collapses on top of Prussia, breathing hard. The huffs of cool air onto heated skin makes Prussia squirm uncomfortably, pushing England off. Arthur complies and spreads himself out of the floor.
“Well…”
There are pants still coming from Arthur, and his trousers feel uncomfortably wet and sticky with the evidence of what they have just been doing. “That was… interesting.” Arthur’s breathing has calmed considerably, so he can manage a few words without stopping for breath.
“That was awesome,” Prussia breathes, as if he too is struggling to catch air. “But it would have been more awesome if I’d got to fuck you.” There is a somewhat smarmy grin about him, and England is on him in seconds.
“Do you remember,” Gilbert is pressed harder into the floor by the neck, “who you are dealing with?” The pale skin is starting to turn red as Arthur leans more and more weight on the man.
Gilbert flails almost pathetically, and Arthur grins in satisfaction. “The Great British Empire! The Great British Empire!” The Prussian coughs pathetically as his throat is released, and England goes back to his desk, acting unaffected. He sits, and despite the cloying stickiness, he acts as if nothing has happened.
He shuffles papers for a moment, before looking Gilbert in the eye, quirking his lips. “Well, do I have to show you out?”
“I was hoping you’d forget about boring old work and take me out.” Prussia shoots back. And suddenly, they’re back where they started. However this time, England smiles and sets his work down.
“One night can’t hurt.”