She slips quietly into his side of the battlefield one night. He doesn't quite feel her but her firm legs tight against his sides, and the pressure on his stomach from her weight as she sits on him, drawing enough air from his lungs to make his eyes fly open. Even then it's hard to notice her features, his eyes blurry from the sleep. Outside there's not a single source of light other than the stars', and the one from the bonfire has long extinguished, wind taking the scent of burnt wood with it.

His arms have been pinned above his head before he woke up, and so have been his ankles, to the base of the makeshift bed. She's just too fast, and it's with a drawl (remnant from the sleep she has just scared away) that he speaks, or rather tries to, until the cold of a blade tickles the skin below his chin.

"Try to alert someone and you can consider yourself a dead man."

She's wearing a man's clothing, his own uniform, only then he notices, and he lets out a smile, perhaps too wide for someone who has a knife against his neck. In the end, he pays heed to her warning, and in hushed tones says the second set of words that he can think of: "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

She doesn't flinch and makes sure the rope around his wrists is tight enough to burn his skin with its roughness. "I felt like playing with you," she finally smiles, almost sweetly.

"Oh," he only manages to say, and then she's all over him, hair cascading and tickling him as she locks her mouth on his, a mix of spice and honey as her tongue draws in. He has no time to prepare himself for such a reaction, but these things usually come naturally and his instincts take over. He answers more than eagerly -her attention is such a rare delicacy that he can't help but to bask in it, even when his mind (some part of it, at least) reminds him the oddness of it all. There's something else she must want, but he can't possibly put a finger on it, so he moves against her, muscles aching with the strain of trying to loose the rope, to free himself and touch her, make her feel what a real man feels like.

But he forgets about this as she sucks on his neck, undoing the buttons of his shirt ever so expertly, mapping the extent of his chest starting from his navel and going upwards, counting his every rib and taking the time to make him moan by licking his nipples. The scent of her overwhelms him as she slides a hand under his nape and pulls him closer, another set of fingers splaying and tracing his hip, feeling him growing hard under her touch. She snickers at this and pulls his pants down until they give in no more, then tears the fabric with the knife, and for the life of him he can't see the expression on her face, because all too sudden she's once again against him, tongue barely tracing the beginning of the hairline below his waist. He feels her smile against his skin, her breath so very warm against his erection.

He deems it unfair that she has seen the whole of him but she remains clothed, a mystery as she's always been. But then he can't think no more as she spreads his legs further and takes his throbbing member in her hands, working her way through the length so slowly it's unbearable.

"Don't... don't do that," he says in the most steady way he can allow himself at the moment.

"Do what?" she asks, all smiles and not in the very least concerned. The flush on her cheeks is much paler than what his feels, and he tries not to plead, to sound like he's still got some control of the situation, but all he can do is to moan.

"You... y'know," he manages, hating how his own voice comes out, but her fingertips rub his skin in a feather-like touch, and it aches, and he can't even find the strength to fight the rope binding his wrists to show her how it's supposed to be done.

"Will you give back what you stole?"

"W-what?"

"The territory you took, will you give it back?"

"No... no way in hell," he says, and he knows it's the wrong answer, somehow.

"I knew that," she says, and her fingers crawl, slowly increasing the pace. "You're but a traitorous, pathetic little man."

"Ehh?" the drops of sweat run freely down the crook of his neck, and he feels closer and closer to the edge, until he's sure he can't take it no longer... but then she stops altogether from her ministrations, hand curling around the tip of his cock, blocking the way out.

"What the..." he hisses and squirms, but she smirks, her legs pushing his thighs apart.

"They, your so-called allies, those lesser states. If they were strong enough, do you think they would still follow you like lapdogs? Or you thought it was because they like you?"

"And you," he says, ignoring the pressure building inside him, "isn't that what you are to that pansy Austria? A lapdog?" Her cheeks fill with color and he knows he probably has crossed the line, but he can't bring himself to care all that much.

"I love him," she says, nails caught in his skin.

"Bullshit," he cries out from the strain.

"He's everything you could only dream to become. You're nothing but a joke, Prussia. No wonder you're always lonely. How long has it been since Friedrich died?" she says, then bites her lower lip before letting go, but even free he doesn't find the release he was longing for.

"Don't you dare to say his name," he spats.

Feeling miserable and in the verge of -he swears those are not tears, the stinging in his eyes, just pure rage coming out his every pore. If only he could lay his hands on her... "I only hope you'll be this loving with that sissy fucker. And to think," he fights her weight but even that it's hard to do, "to think I thought he didn't deserve you. Well, I was fucking wrong. Damn you all."

She remains silent for a while, eyes fixed on his. "Repeat that," she says, reaching for his flank in what almost seems like a caress.

He wiggles, trying to shake off her hand. "What the fuck do you want now? Just go away already. Haven't you had enough fun toying around with me?"

She touches him again, the back of her hand soft against his thigh, and he has to struggle, has to growl, demanding her to get the hell out, but she pretty much ignores him and starts all over again, less teasing and more fondly, if that's even possible coming from her.

"This is rape," he says, but she pays no attention, discards the cravat she has been wearing to reveal the line between her breasts. They start again from the beginning, mouth against mouth, and it's all déjà vu, if only rougher because the shame is still very present in his mind and he has no intention of going suave on her.

He arches his back to rub himself against her, and she answers with a grip much more steady, her fingers picking up precum.

"If you're playing again," he warns her, though it sounds more like an entreaty than he wants to acknowledge.

"No, not this time," Hungary promises and sets the pace, up and down, a set of fingers sliding inside of him, making him moan. She seems to know what she's doing, because it's not long before his eyes become glazed, and if he screams her name at this point it doesn't really matter: he'll deny it to death later. Then she encircles his cock tightly with her free hand, and the dread replaces pleasure. She's going to do it again, isn't she?

"Was I your first?" she coos, and he answers with lips parted, quivering. "Back when you were a prude, a chastity enthusiast," she chuckles, the pink on her cheeks endearing if not for the fact she's laughing. At him. "Was I the first to touch you?"

"That hardly qualifies..." he gasps when the fingers inside him reach the right spot. "A- and I touched... touched your boobs first."

"Not these," she moves from between his legs to his side, most likely so more of her cleavage is to be seen.

"You left me, remember?" Hungary says with dark eyes, her lips a single straight line. Still, she doesn't stop the flow of her movements, one of her legs sliding over his and hips moving against his side.

"You were..." he makes a stop, wondering why does she have to make him talk in these moments.

"...unfair to us. You kicked us out!" he lets out as he finally reaches climax, wetting the both of them. His body trembles with the aftershock.

"My king did," he hears her whisper, and though he can't quite see the look on her face with half-lidded eyes, he can very well picture her disdain. He wonders if she hates him ever since.

She cleans his cum off her with his sheets and arranges her- his jacket as she rises to her feet.

Wait. "Wait!" he demands. "What was the purpose of all this?"

She says nothing at first, barely looking at him as she plunges the knife above his head. "I'm marrying him."

Before he can even think of something to say, she speaks first. "Oh, I was forgetting. This," she turns and takes something out of her pocket. "I'm giving it back, Teutonic Knight," she says and throws it his way. A simple cross, rough and old from what he can ascertain.

He squints. Not any cross, but one he gave to her -or that she took away from him, he doesn't quite remember-, back when he was sort of her underling and fought by her side.

When she leaves he bends painfully against the headboard to grab the knife and free himself. He moves his wrists in circles to diminish the pain, but even so the marks the rope has left are already visible. Tomorrow... he has no idea what he'll wear tomorrow, and he can't help but to laugh and think she's fucking crazy, and oh God, they would have made one hell of a couple, and-

And then Prussia reaches for the cross, fingers bumping against its hard edges. There's soil from where she must have bury the thing after he went away.

He hadn't thought she would have kept it for this long.