Credit: Thank you so much my great beta reader, LadySilverFang
Disclaimer: If Hetalia were mine, Prussia x Hungary would become a canon pairing
Warning: The following fanfic contains het rape scene; broken marriage; massive amount of sap; but, notwithstanding all those, happy ending
Author's Notes: Tulips and edelweiss are Hungarian and Austrian national flowers, respectively. Also, let me emphasize that Prussia is NEVER dead in this fic.
'Why the heck did I dream about that?!'
Hungary trashed her blanket aside, breathing hard. Waking up with Prussia's heat inside her most intimate part as the last vision in her mind was a nasty feeling. A very nasty feeling. There was no need to confirm; she could feel it—the shameful moisture in her lower region.
Glancing sideways, she perceived the vermillion glow of dawn peeping through her curtain window. The sequoia shelves next to the window, decked with cookery books, showed no sign of agitation despite the ruckus she had made with her blanket just now. The monthly calendar on the wall behind her headboard, displaying 'November 1967,' stared down silently at her. The bedroom was quiet, save for the sound of her ragged breath.
Elizabeta drew the curtain, allowing the sun to pour its gentle illumination into her room before proceeding to extinguish her night lamp. Next, she bent and opened the top drawer of her bedside cabinet, from which she pulled out a small velvet box. The wedding ring inside it still gleamed brilliantly even after the lapse of ninety-one years—a solid evidence of Austria's expertise in selecting gold.
Hungary brought the ring closer and sighed. World War I might have crumbled the Austro-Hungarian Empire—the second largest country in Europe after the Russian Empire—but it was she who severed their conjugal tie, and he did not question her why. She consoled herself that he had a lot to think about, as both Austria and Hungary underwent political evolutions that transformed their monarchs into republic in November 1918. No, it did not mean that he did not care for her—that was she told herself. After all, Austria had been a wonderful husband who had done so much to make her happy both as a nation and as a woman. The blame should belong to her and her alone.
When she had packed her belongings and was ready to leave his house, she thanked him for their memories together and apologized for terminating their marriage. His response was that there was she need not feel sorry for such a thing. They were nations; nations went into union or collaboration of any sort only and only if they shared a common goal. Now that their political paths diverted, it would be best for them to go their separate ways. They could, and did, remain good friends regardless of the absence of conjugal tie.
Political reason? That was not it. Hungary fisted her skirt. She could never tell Austria the truth: How could she share the same bed with one man when her mind thought about another?
Hungary used to love Austria, she really did. After the conquer by Mongols and the Ottoman Empire in her early years, poverty compelled her to seek employment as a servant in Holy Roman Empire's household, where Austria was kinder to her than other nations had been. He would, for instance, stand by the kitchen sink to help her wash the dishes. After they were married, his kindness to her did not wither. He treated her as an equal, rather than as a subordinate like the other nations assumed their relationship to be. It was also nice to spend the afternoon listening him playing the piano or read his impressive collection of books. When she was with him, life felt like a dream—one beautiful day after another—until war devastated the dream they had built together. The political turbulence in 1918 engulfed Hungary and Austria in their own country affairs, and, with the turn of each passing day, each gradually became "another person who lived in the house" rather than "a spouse."
And Prussia waltzed in.
Prussia had not been recognized as a country until half a millennium after Austria and Hungary had; hence, the same ancient pride that glorified their path of history was never his to possess. Moreover, he was such an arrogant, boisterous, brute, carefree, coarse, scruffy, vainglorious, and devil knew what else. Elizabeta's list about Gilbert's defects could go on for pages. The younger nation's natural appearance might be passable, but with such unkempt hair and awful sense of fashion, there was no doubt that he would pale in comparison to Roderich's sleek hair and prim attire. It was just that … there was a certain excitement tingling inside her whenever she thought about him. In his company, she could be her true self instead of a lady of manner Austria told her to be.
Even so, Prussia was gone. Disappeared from the world. Dissolved. No longer acknowledgeable as a nation. Besides, he had not contacted her since World War II, at any rate, so she had no clue on his wellbeing or whereabouts. Austria, contrarily, still existed. So why, why should her mind switch back to someone who had been reduced into an opprobrious existence without identity when there was a far superior nation around? True, she had learned much, much later after their divorce that Austria harbored an unrequited love for his childhood friend, the sister-complex Switzerland. She could, if she desired so, heal his wounded heart. Yet, she chose not to. Just as he refused to give up on the Swiss, she could not let a certain crimson-eyed Prussian slip away from her mind.
In her dream—her nonsensical dream—she wore her usual green Hungarian folk dress and … was being tied up onto a wooden pole in a cave guarded by a dragon. Soon, Prussia, draped in his old Teutonic knight attire, arrived at the mouth of the cave, proclaiming that it was not a waste that he had managed to lay his hands at an Asturian Cuélebre—a giant winged dragon with near impenetrable scales which he had improperly used to abduct her. Prussia then tossed a large chunk of meat outside to send his pet away, leaving him to enjoy his captive to the fullest.
Instead of undressing her, he squatted and poked his head underneath her gown. Thanks to the veiling of her gown and pinafore, she could not see what exactly he was doing, but the tingling sensation inside told her what he did with her body.
A moment later, he reemerged with a triumphant smirk. Closing the gap between them, he stepped forward, pressing his erection against the pinafore that covered her lower abdomen. If only he would get rid of that accursed dress! Instead, he lifted her voluminous skirt, just enough to allow himself to enter her.
In this dream, she offered no resistance; hence, it puzzled her why he tied her down at the first place. The dream, as any dream could be, was hazy and blurry, with her legs encircling his hips, her heels pushing his buttocks so that his front was engrafted deeper inside her. The last thing she remembered was that he gathered a fistful of her long hair and kissed her brown strands so tenderly, while uttering, "If I had to choose whether to breathe or to love you, I would use my last breath to tell you that … I love you."
As if the real Gilbert Weillschmidt would ever speak such a corny line!
Hungary shook her head. How could she stoop so low as to crave for Prussia? The root of her subconsciously recalling such a disgraceful occurrence must have derived from her encounter with Prussia in World War I.
She remembered it as clearly as day, when she had to drag herself out of the battlefield, full of dead soldiers. Those men had fought bravely in their countries' honor; and yet, in spite of her immeasurable sorrow for her fallen citizens, destiny decreed that the time was not ripe for her to perish along with those who had lost their lives.
Barely having the strength to carry on, Hungary collapsed behind the shrubberies. Fatigue took over, conspiring with the sore from her bruises and cuts. The sky looming above her silently offered a canopy for resting. Perhaps it was a good thing that God had placed the blue sky to be out of reach; otherwise, humans in their endless avarice would paint it carmine with their blood. For a while, she contemplated about how nice it would be for birds and clouds who needed not to worry about wars and lost territories. Then, she heard rustles of the leaves and grass. There were footsteps. Prussia's.
Although it was true that Prussia could be very vexing at times, especially with his endless teasing when he had been a young boy, he had also proven to be a reliable friend. In the sixteenth century, after the Ottoman wars, he had helped her. At first, upon finding her, Prussia had frolicked in the joke of bandaging her wounds with the part of his pants that had covered his midsection. He recoiled, however, once his eyes found the torn parts of her doublet—the part that pronounced the voluptuousness of her cleavage. Afterwards, he threw his own robe at her and left.
Presently, in World War I, Hungary's hussar jacket was torn quite severely; yet, unlike before, Prussia did not draw back from her. Something was wrong. She sensed it. Instead of dressing her wounds or helping her to stand up straightaway, he continued to behold her tattered military jacket. Discomfort found its way into Hungary's heart, for, at that moment, nothing in the world could be more heinous than the sultry look in Prussia's eyes.
"Hey, what are you doing?! Aren't you going to help me?"
In lieu of words, the female nation received an even more intense stare. Her adversary eyed her breasts once more and gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing pronouncedly. He pushed her down to the nearest tree, where he began tearing her uniform.
During her struggles, she tried to hit him with her fists, but all her endeavors came to naught the moment he seized her forearms. Hungary's eyes widened at the new pressure on her skin. There was no mistaking it: she could not overpower his masculine strength today, not when her body was heavy with wounds and most of her energy had been depleted in battle. Even so, it was within her nature not to yield without a fight.
As a nation who had acquainted himself with Hungary since their bedwetting days, Prussia anticipated this and quickly eluded her kicking range by pressing his lower half onto hers, legs against legs. Thanks to this, she could fully feel the object—the despicable hard object—hanging between his thighs, with the mere fabrics of their clothing as the sole barrier between his skin and hers.
His masculine scent spilled out into the air and took possession of her surroundings. It was a fusion of soil, sweat, soap, and gunpowder—nothing uncommon, especially in this ties of war—but unique in its own way. And it swathed her. She had been no stranger to the scent of male soldiers, but none of them had ever been this close.
Panic bade Hungary to abandon her pride. She began to scream for help even though no single soul could be seen in the vicinity, bar Prussia and herself. Among her desperate yelling was her husband's name. A grave mistake. The repeated mentions of Austria to Prussia's ears were as good as the pouring of gasoline into fire.
Heedless to her infuriated reproaches, he ripped the hussar in one long vertical cut and employed its long sleeves to tie her wrists to the tree trunk overhead. He yanked her pants unceremoniously, but left all parts of her body unrestrained, except for the wrists.
All her life, Hungary had never felt so vulnerable. She had been naked in front of her husband, of course, but that had taken place in their private bedroom, free from the possibility of any intruding eyes, since it had never escaped Austria's mind to lock the door. Not that her husband have any bondage fetish to boot. On the other hand, she had always regarded Prussia as an annoying childhood friend, but today, that childhood friend of hers turned into a man.
The sudden realization hit her hard. It hurt her in a way no bullet or blade could, for it ripped her not on the surface of her skin, but deep inside her soul. No matter how annoying Prussia had been, she had always considered him a friend. How could he betray her trust now, in her darkest hour?
Prussia wasted no time to strip his own garments. Once his uniform was gone, it became remotely possible for Hungary to avert her gaze from the sleeveless white vest that accentuated his finely sculpted torso. His body was, she noted, quite dissimilar with her husband's. The contour of Roderich's frame was slim and soft and nigh puerile, graceful as the baroque swirls of Prince Eugene's summer palace in Schloss Hof and enchanting as the golden laurel leaves that embellished the cupola of the Vienna Secession. Gilbert possessed different sorts of tantalizations. He was paler in complexion, but taller in stature and had a more athletic built with well-toned muscles that bore the mark of achievements of his outdoor pursuits. The narrowing from those broad shoulders to a trim waist was bridged by fawn-colored pectoral nubs and a flat abdomen. The pair of pin bones jutting slightly above the circle of his trousers rendered her breathless. Austria might be a living work of art, but Prussia was…
The clicking sound of Prussia's unfastening buckle snapped Hungary's mind back to reality, and a mishmash of panic and chagrin struck her. Without warning, a vision of how those strong abs of his crushed hers invaded her mind, sending goose pimples throughout her nape and arms.
The Hungarian girl gulped; his trousers were now lowered to ankle-high. Making bold of herself, she reprimanded the man before her, the man whose eyes were wild with lust. "How could you take an advantage of a wounded soldier, and a female one at that! Have you no shame?"
Discarding his underpants after the trousers, he gave her his trademark smirk and chuckled. "Shame?" he retorted huskily, "What can shame bring? Enough food to feed empty stomach? Enough medicine to heal the wounded? This is war. A man needs no shame; he needs release." Prussia had figured out that his declaration would save her from asking 'Why are you doing this to me?' later on.
Blood ran cold inside her as his words filled her ears. Her green eyes were gleaming like garnet, wide with fear, but not for the thousands of soldiers on the opposite side of the battlefield. It was a newfound fear, one of a kind, existing solely thanks to the presence of a single predator who had lurked in wait for the opportunity to strike and devour. And that predator had taken shape in the form of Gilbert Weillschmidt.
Hungary assumed that Prussia must be very sexually frustrated if he was still turned on by the sight of a female covered in dust and dirt and blood. It was beyond her ken that soil and grime could do very little to diminish her beauty in Prussia's eyes.
"Persistent, are you?" She let out a sarcastic remark. If no action of hers came to any avail, the least she could do was to stall time by means of words.
"I'm not going to be gentle with you," he said, cognizant of what she tried to achieve, "I won't let you compare me to that pansy bastard!"
Hungary glared at the nation before him. There was no truth in the accusation; Austria had always been charitable to her. "Austria is NOT a bastard!"
"He is," insisted the platinum-haired nation, "He had kept you in his house for fifty-one years now!"
"What kind of reasoning is that—wait, you actually counte—ah!"
Hungary writhed and clamped her lips as quick as she could to bit back her moan; Prussia's grip on each of her breasts was not to be taken lightly.
Too late. He smirked at her. "So, you like it when I do this?"
Why had she run out of bullets, sword, or any sort of weapon at times like this? Where was that damn frying pan when she needed it most?
"As if!" She replied through gritted teeth, but he continued to assault her twin mounds, squeezing and fondling them. Prussia's tongue teased the nubs, swirling from one rosy ring to the other.
Hungary could not suppress a low whimper when Prussia's teeth were fastened at her right nipple. It was not the sort of bite that would induce a scream. Neither was it the sort that would bring groan of frustrated anticipation and excitement upon one's lips. It was, much to Hungary's embarrassment, a contact that was customized to make her gasp.
The surprise … the delight … how could this juvenile nation know her so well? Not even her husband could guess her erogenous zones with such degree of precision.
No, she thought, it must be the exhaustion from the war that made her all flustered. Still, judging by the rush of heat that had found its way down her cheeks, there was no longer any way to prevent the crimson colorization from suffusing her countenance. How she loathed this nation, this abomination, this Gilbert Weillschmidt … this man…! How dare he besmirch her with deeper desire through a single occasion than what Austria had acquainted her for decades?
Raising her leg, Hungary kicked her captor on the rib.
Prussia released her body at once. In its stead, he held his own rib, at the place where Hungary had landed her kick, as he staggered backward. He bent, disallowing her from witnessing his pained expression.
Briefly, Hungary gloated in the moment of triumph, though she alerted herself that a grave revenge was imminent upon her tied up state. Nonetheless, after the seconds ticked by, and no sign of retaliation came from Prussia, Hungary sensed that something went wrong. He did not even move, just clutching to his bruise—or was it more serious than that? Surely, she had not kicked hard enough to break a rib, but what if she had miscalculated her own strength?
"Prussia," she called, a tinge of worry lacing her voice.
He gave her no answer and refused to look up, permitting her to see no more than the platinum-colored hair on top of his head.
"Prussia, hey, are you all right?" Hungary's intonation was laced with mounting concern, any previous anger forgotten. Her eyebrows bristled more strikingly as she perceived his body tremble, as though quivering from the harshest winter. He might have crossed the barrier of gallantry just now, but he had also stopped her bleeding and treated her wounds years before.
Before Hungary had the chance to expose more of her care, Prussia lifted his face. Instead of contorted with agony, it was convulsed with laughter.
"Just joking," he sneered, enjoying his power over her, "Did you seriously think I wasn't expecting this when I purposely keep your legs unrestrained?"
"Bazdmeg!" She swore in her native tongue before her brain could administer a more lady-like reaction.
"Heh, call it irony, but I'm going to fuck you." Prussia replied with such a smug grin that could only be interpreted as 'I know exactly how to wipe that infuriated look off your face.' whilst stepping closer to position himself immediately before her.
She was prepared to launch another kick, but this time, he caught her ankle. She did consider using her other leg; yet, he had brought himself down on the knees before she could execute her plan into action.
Elevating her leg, he ghosted his lips along the imaginary line of her calf, up to the back of her knee. "Too bad you're not in your usual dress; I've always wanted to try slipping my head underneath that skirt of yours."
"My traditional folk dress isn't made to fulfill your filthy fantasy, you dickhead!"
"Whatever, cunt. You look like a tamed housemaid in that outfit anyway."
She was about to respond that it was the apron's fault, and despite this, it was required to keep her attire clean while doing her chorus, but he had already grabbed her other knee, parting both thighs as far as they could spread.
He feasted at the sight of her bare flesh, her most intimate part which had become another man's privilege for the past five decades. He wanted her. He wanted this bucolic beauty with every bit of desire his soul possessed.
She struggled, trashing here and there, but her movements—naturally—only make her seemingly thrusting her hips back at him. The more fury smoldered inside Hungary's chest, the more Prussia's lips curved upward.
"Stop!" She warned him, her tone urgent with dire threat and whatnots.
He chose to deafen his ears against the objurgation of her tongue. Prussia might be no match to Austria in terms of genteel demeanor and musical aptitude, but he was by no means inferior when it came to things that were not supposed to be talked out loud. Things that would be too embarrassing to be brought into conversation. Things like sex.
Unlike Roderich, who would withdraw at any sign of reluctance, Gilbert was aware of the tiniest smidgeon of these whatnots—the tiny flicker of enjoyment that was well hidden among Elizabeta's rage—and he nurtured it well, until it grew large enough to burn into flaming passion. No longer did he tease her leg with the light touches of his lips. Instead, he kissed her thigh fervently, his moist tongue took delight in dancing upon her platform of smooth, pearly-white skin.
"Argh! What are you doing?" She cried, dismayed, as he bit her at the inner thigh, where the groin was, to mark her his with his teeth mark as a seal. Her delicate skin reddened, but his eyes bore no remorse. This was his spoil of war, his trophy, his childhood friend, a lover who loved him back only in dreams.
Prussia gazed at Hungary, answering her throe with the passion pooling in his eyes of ruby, and all the words she had to say were silenced, engulfed by the same eyes. He slung her leg over his shoulder and continued his exploration to the summit of her thigh. The juncture was moist, contradicting her reluctance, and he pelted it with rains of his torrid breath.
To her wonder, he avoided her opening, instead choosing to stroke his fingertips around the edge of her outer lips several times, causing her skin to become extremely sensitive. He sent her jerking against him in response to his touch. Brushing his fingers across her pubic mound, he sifted through her fine, soft hair. Only then did he slowly spread her folds open.
She tried her best to push him away, to wriggle, to stall time, to do anything except to let him had his way with her, but he had an iron grip on her thighs. He slid his tongue down onto her now moist folds of flesh. The lap of his tongue at the small protuberance above her intimate channel caused her to slam her rear onto the coarse tree bark behind her. There was no way out. When he nibbled it, she writhed.
"How does it feel to have a scoundrel you loathe chew your clit?"
Hungary scowled. Her legs strove for a closure in attempt to forbid Prussia's prying fingers from caressing the soft folds of skin between her thighs, but he would not have it. Rubbing, licking, and grazing, he took her most sensitive part until he felt it harden between his clamping lips. He heard her breathing become shallower and took delight in her defeat, unacknowledged as it was.
The moment Prussia's impudent tongue glided down her womanhood, Hungary arched her back. A sharp cry stormed out of her throat, piercing the air. The shade of crimson that had dusted her cheeks now deepened. She had been a married woman for the last half a century, but not even her husband had gone that far, for Austria was a man of elegance and delicacy, and those traits trod even as far as the realm of sexual intimacy. With Roderich, it was all caresses and gentle kisses among the tangled bed sheet; their union in flesh had been no less fascinating than the flow of Mozart and Mahler's melody. With Gilbert, it was a carnal operatic duet in which all rhythms fell into disarray; he allowed her no room to think of anything but his and her own existence, together in a form she dreaded and desired the most.
Fists clenched tight, Hungary shut her eyes. The last thing she wanted would be Prussia finding even the slightest hint of desire that was now awakening inside her. Whether or not she admitted it, the fervor of his touches solicited shivers down her spine.
Through gritted teeth, she admonished him, "You used to be my childhood friend, but now I declare you my lifelong foe."
She could feel him pulling back, the emptiness of her womanhood in the absence of his tongue unpleasant and unwanted. When she reopened her eyes, he was rising from his kneeling and said to her, "I'd rather be your enemy." '…than someone you ignore,' he kept the continuation of his sentence to himself. What else could he do to turn her toward his direction when her head was so full of her lawfully-wedded husband?
"Is this your declaration of war to the Austro-Hungarian Empire?" hissed Hungary with eyes narrowing in full suspicion. The empire had been hugely disadvantaged in the recent war; there was no better time to annihilate it than the present. But then, it was always easy to trigger a war between nations; there would have been no need for Prussia to go to such length if war had been the only thing he had aimed for.
"Deduce as you like it, Hungary, but I'll still take you today." To prove his point, he prodded his fingers into her most intimate orifice, earning Hungary's wince. The two digits were covered in slickness when he took them out. "Look at how wet you've become!"
Hungary's eyes of garnet glowered with a fresh ferocity. She missed Prussia's simper, however, because he chose to dive and nip the tender flesh of her throat.
This must be one of the rare occasions Hungary's abdominal muscles contracted so much when she was not engaged in heavy lifting or sports of any sort. It tortured her to hold her breath, with the additional battle wounds, exhaustion, and Prussia's taking his time to explore her skin leisurely. Nevertheless, she was determined that pleasure of watching her gasping and moaning in ecstasy would not be his.
Apparently, Prussia did not allot her with even the smallest victory. His manhood, clad with years of secret yearning, opened itself a path into her warmth. She clenched at his intrusion, making it the more agonizing for her body. Yet, her blatant resistance mattered little in this moment of penetration. She bit her own lip in frustration: her moment of disgrace must be his moment of glory.
Hungary felt something stinging in her eyes. Her body as a woman facilitated his entry, but her dignity as a nation was against it. Voice hoarse with unshed tears, but firm with resolution, she stated, "I'm Austria's wife."
To him, the timbre of her voice sounded cold, rejecting, and even commanding. It was the charisma she had acquired from being a nobleman's consort for over half a century—another thing Prussia couldn't possibly provide Hungary with. Unlike the case with Austria, aristocratic flair did not agree with his demeanor.
'That imprecated pianist lost some of his territories to me in 1866. Did you honestly think it was a coincidence that he married you the next year?' he asked in thought. He was dying to open her eyes to observe facts, but held his tongue; there was no need to infuriate her further by badmouthing the man she revered.
Thus, Prussia offered Hungary no word in return; only his hands, mercilessly and without doubt, slithered down her thighs. Even after hoisting her legs, he waited, giving her time to adapt to the circumference of his manhood. Not until her bodily muscles had stretched enough to accommodate him did he inch deeper inside.
When he moved, his mouth was shut tight, but the rest of his body told her how much he had longed for this moment all those years. How frequently he doused himself in alcohol just to survive from the grief of witnessing her inhabitance in another man's abode. How he had always donned the mask of frolic and the armor of insouciance to conceal the love sickness of his which she alone held the cure. How, no matter which path of life he had taken, he could not find a way to let her go. Nevertheless, it was futile, for she did not understand his unspoken conveyance. She refused to.
Hungary squirmed as Prussia pushed for all the depth he could get, his pin bones slamming against her pelvic arch. With each itinerary, her breasts bounced up and down. His thrusts were maddening, searing, intoxicating, and, in a way, almost controlling her. His passion was a tide that was ready to topple her over at any given moment. She threw her head back, shut her eyes, clenching her jaw, and gritting her teeth, willing with all her might not to give in. Nevertheless, she could not suppress a guttural whimper at one particular thrust in which he rammed himself too hard into her.
Prussia halted his movement in response, his eyes peering studiously at her agonized expression. It was a brief pause, but when he resumed, he made sure that he moved with more precision, even though this meant he had to sacrifice some of his speed to achieve it. Just a few thrusts delivered in this angle were enough to earn more swear word from Hungary. It sounded somewhat akin to "picsába"—which was the Hungarian term for "damn"—but it could be something else. He could not be so sure; not when her word was so incoherently mixed with her laborious panting.
He held her closer to himself, their body heat blending together. In his sturdy arms, she found a strange new drug that transformed her curses into moans. She had to repeat "I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you…" in a mantra-like chant to preserve her sanity.
Then, something covered her mouth. Hungary's pupils dilated. Prussia was kissing her.
Of course, under normal circumstances, it would certainly take more than a kiss to snuff out a fuming Hungarian woman, but Prussia—as she learned today—was apparently a master of timing. For one ephemeral moment, Elizabeta forgot about war, about Austria, about time, about her own name. There was only Prussia before her and this man was locking her in the cage of his embrace, seizing her by the lips. She closed her eyes, familiarizing herself with the taste that had remained a stranger to her until a minute ago.
Prussia kissed Hungary with the ferocity of a beast and the pertinacity of a gale. His kiss differed significantly from her husband's tender and affectionate ones when they had celebrated their golden anniversary last year, and it was this fact that reminded her that she was, undeniably and irrevocably, a married woman.
With a gasp, Hungary snapped out of the delirium she had been thrown into—for a fleeting moment, her lips did engage his in a frenzied symphony of lust. Eyes hardening in defiance, she clinched her parted lips and shook her head in order to stop Prussia's tongue from hunting for a way inside her mouth.
When he attempted to reclaim her, she spouted, "You despicable creature!"
She did not insult him further than that. She could not. The color of his eyes reminded her of the strawberry field where they used to play together as innocent children.
She cast her gaze sideways and continued, "What did you do that for? Haven't you humiliated me enough?"
He responded her not with words, but with another attempt to seal their lips together. This time, she bit him. The trickles of his blood streaked down her chin, but its coppery taste lingered in her mind even decades afterwards.
Prussia made no further endeavor to kiss her. He stayed true to his course. Pushing in. Pulling out. Pressing. Gyrating.
The more Hungary tried to think about her husband, or at least some sort of other diversion, the more unavailing the result was. The man before her kept monopolizing her mind as well as her body. Her stare was censorious toward him and, at the same time, ponderous with guilt. There was a small amount of satisfaction that at least he had forced himself upon her, but another part of her was mindful that she did not want him to stop. Not at this point. Not now.
Prussia's thrusts were vigorous, but never animalistic. To conquer? Yes. To destroy? No. The force of sheer lust might compel him to thrust deeper, twist longer, and move faster to satisfy his need, but nothing could prevent him from uttering her name as he came, his full girth sheathed in her heat and his seed filling her, claiming that the two entities had become one.
Perhaps it was the heat of the moment, perhaps it was a mere lascivious instinct, Hungary flung her legs around Prussia's back, wrapping him in an embrace as she savored his essence coursing through her depths. She reached her own peak while his flesh was still pulsating inside her. The tide that was his passion had drowned her at last. Austria was charming and kind, but Prussia … he was veritably…
In gossamer, she let her eyes roam to find his, and they found hers back. She saw reflections of herself in his red, red eyes. So bare. So wanton. There was no trace of reluctance, as though she had never been an unwilling victim. There they were, two figures wanting nothing else but each other. The world whirled around them, unleashing a cacophony of rapture and shame.
Nonetheless, she noticed something else in his eyes. At first, she thought that whatever she saw was a delusion, or else her sight deceived her. It was too uncharacteristic of him to do such a thing—little Gilbert did not even cry when he had seven bone ruptures from falling down a ravine, so why must the adult Gilbert's cheeks glisten with tears now?
The platinum-haired nation was too fascinated by her curled toes, stiffened diaphragm, and arched back, to think about anything else. At that moment, no earthly creature could be more beautiful than she was. This was the woman he loved, the one and only nation with whom he had wished to spend the rest of his life since prior to the establishment of the Duchy of Prussia.
When the heat of the day found Hungary and dragged her back to reality, her conscience reminded her that she ought to show some resistance when Prussia slumped onto her, his chin resting at the crook between her neck and shoulder, but her body rejected the notion. The sensation of his bare skin against her own felt like the most natural thing in this madness of war. Prussia's decrescendo breathing was unlike any music Austria had presented her with. This man was not the savage who had violated her. This was Gilbert Weillschmidt, one whom she had known since tender age. A nation who, as a young boy, had chased squirrels and butterflies, taken a nap on the riverbank, brawled, wrestled, hunted, and run around all day with her. A nation who, as a grown man, had quarreled with her husband, but attended her wedding nevertheless. This was the Prussia she knew.
'Leave him. Choose me.' The words were at the tip of Prussia's tongue, dying to bludgeon his lips open, but the nation's pride disallowed him to articulate them. Communication used to be so easy between them. Yet, now that she had become another man's wife, intangible barriers obstructed his course. Austria was a loving husband to Hungary, and their kingdom had thrived since 1867. Austria had helped Hungary's development in modernization impressively. Didn't Budapest's growth as a metropolitan of the country's administrative, political, economic, trade and cultural hub prove that? Could he—Prussia—have done better had she given him the chance?
And now, he had taken Hungary against her will. He had shamelessly and unforgivably forced the woman he loved.
Finally, as nothing disrupted the oppressive stillness of the air, it was her who broke the silence. "If you're going to regret it, why did you do it in the first place?"
"Regret it?" His voice was shaking. "Hell, yeah. I'm thinking why such an awesome nation like me didn't do it sooner."
"Is that why you're weeping now?"
"These are sweat, not some fucking tears."
"Then get your face off my shoulder and look at me!"
He did not answer; it took time to stifle one's tears.
When she spoke again, however, her voice was gentle.
When she spoke again, however, her voice was gentle. Supreme sympathy and intimate understanding resided within her tone, so was the hint of reproach. All the same, Prussia was too anxious to notice the absence of even a shred of hatred in Hungary's query. "How long has it been?"
"How long has it been?"
A jolt surged within Prussia. Something within her tone presaged a bad omen. She knew. She knew. And she was going to decline him. Therefore, he slowly removed himself from her, meeting her gaze while trying not to gulp, a fake ignorance lacing his tone. "How long has what been?"
Her persistence, however, overwhelmed him. "A man doesn't cry when he releases the tension of war through sex; and besides, you became gentler when you knew I was in pain."
He prayed that she did not know, or at least did not notice, how she drained his veins of all blood by a single statement.
"Gilbert," she looked straight at him, daring and caring at the same time, "You've been in love with me, haven't you?"
He considered another lie, but lost all wills to bend the truth further when his gaze met hers. He suspired and yielded. The only pause he made was to wish his word, pondering how much he should let her know. He had started to feel uneasy since he touched her breasts back in their adolescent days in the early 1500's. Nevertheless, he pushed the wearisome thought to the back of his mind … until he noticed the valley of her breasts through her ripped attire, amidst the bushes, after Turkey conquered Hungary in one of their battles. He was determined to forget all the uncomfortable feelings he had harbored for her, but came to realization that such feat was no longer possible the moment he saw her in white, walking down the aisle with Austria, and tossing a bouquet of tulips and edelweiss at him. By then, everything was too late. Even if he had killed Austria, he would have only broken her heart.
Prussia looked at Hungary's green eyes again. She was firm in resolution not to let him get away without any explanation. Hence, word upon word of confession began to spill from his mouth. "I guess I've liked you since we were kids, but kept telling myself not to fall for a violent hag like you. I tried, but still failed, to get rid of my feelings for you even after you married that mole scumbag."
Hungary fell silent, each and every of Prussia's words cut a swath through her, leaving a strange sense of loss in its trail. So this was the real reason why pestering Roderich had become Gilbert's favorite pastime. Had it been not for the war—the apocalyptic war in which every man was unsure if he could survive to see tomorrow—he might still keep his one-sided love sealed in the vault of his heart. She stayed motionless, even as he released the fabric that had bound her wrists.
Sensing not the smallest scrap of anger residing within her now, he took a deep breath and inquired, "Elizabeta Héderváry, would you accept me?"
Hungary could not believe his eyes. Hungary could not believe his ears. Who was this stranger hiding underneath Prussia's skin? Gilbert Weillschmidt—the megalomaniac Gilbert Weillschmidt—would never plead. Why now…?
She gathered her arms around his shoulders, the shoulders that were broader than her husband's, the shoulders that sustained her when she fell from a tree in her younger years, the shoulders that had offered her friendship through the bitter years, the shoulders that betrayed her trust just a moment ago.
'He has been infatuated with me since the 1500's.' "Gil, I'm sorry…"
The next time he came to her, in 1919, she barked, "Go away!"
"Let me help you." No vainglory resided in his voice. The offer could be a token of friendship, an endeavor to rebuild trust, a retribution of sin, or a declaration of love. Whatever it was, she'd rather lay in ruins than accept his assistance.
He turned to his heels without saying a word.
Rumor had it that Prussia was no longer at his prime after 1918, but Hungary had no pity to spare. Her marriage with Austria was broken the year before, and ever since, her Prime Minister was assassinated during the Aster Revolution of October 1918, her monarch surrendered his power as the King of Hungary in less than a month later, and her new Prime Minister ordered the full disarmament of Hungarian Army by a notion of Woodrow Wilson's pacifism which thus left Hungary without national defense. The Entente powers then distributed slices of Hungarian territory to Romania, Yugoslavia, and Czechoslovakia, while French and Serbian forces occupied the southern parts of Hungary. By February 1919, the Hungarian government had lost all popular support, having failed on domestic and military fronts.
In mid-1920, the Treaty of Trianon reduced Hungary's territory even further. The country now lost more than two-thirds of her pre-war lands, 84% of its timber resources and 83% of its iron ore, among myriads of other losses. Again, Prussia offered his help. Again, Hungary defied him.
From 1921, order was gradually restored to the Hungary and the country was brought out of international isolation. Things seemed to go well for a while, until The Great Depression that swept the world induced a drop in the standard of living and the political mood in Hungary.
In 1932, to save the country's economy, the new Prime Minister changed the course of Hungarian policy towards closer cooperation with Germany. It was this alliance that dragged Hungary to the stage of World War II. Prussia reminded her that the wheel of war was oiled with blood, but there was nothing she could do to keep her nation off the battlefield. She confronted the vestige of Prussia's existence no more after that.
Hungary's World War II casualties formed a number far higher than she had dreaded. Still, her nightmares were not about to end. The sway of Communism and Stalinism, which culminated with the slaughter of at least twenty thousand people during the Hungarian Uprising until 1956, rubbed salt to her wounds. Notwithstanding all these, she knew that Prussia suffered worse: his dissolution as a country was proclaimed on February 25, 1947.
When the news reached Hungary's ears, an unfamiliar forlornness occupied her heart. Never before had regret run so deep. Never before had wound felt so acute. Prussia had carved a deep cut into her, not by means of crime or humiliation, but by simply being absent. It came across her that this might be the sort of feeling that Italy experienced at the disappearance of the Holy Roman Empire. But no, he was very young back then, not to mention that Germany had no recollection of his childhood; the impact must have affected Italy far more severely.
But if, Hungary wondered, if she had accepted Prussia's proposal in marriage and formed the Prusso-Hungarian Empire, would they have stood strong enough against the blows of catastrophe? If only she had valued his feelings. If only she had not driven him away all those years. If only there could be another chance for her…
Silent tears streamed down her cheek as a single name left her lips. "Poroszország…"
The same name slipped away from Hungary's mouth again now. Tracing the contour of her lips, she savored its sound. Prussia was no longer here, on her side, but at least the echo of his name was forever hers to keep. The pitiless clasps of circumstances had compelled her to learn to find solace in solitude.
The year 1967 had entered its last season. The red and gold fluttering leaves had been replaced by the white drift of snow. In the old times, back in Holy Roman Empire's house, she used to play snowball fight with little Italy, while Austria had been more content watching them from his window than joining them. Prussia, on the contrary, would have undoubtedly engage himself in the merriment had he been invited. At this very thought, Hungary sighed.
Prussia had ravished her against the tree forty-nine years before; and yet, given what she had felt afterwards, what had happened between them had not been entirely non-consensual. She remembered vaguely that when he took her, her hips even thrust back at him.
The "rape" felt good. So fucking good. And it took no genius to figure out why: sex was not merely physical between them; something else took place without her noticing. Her facial expression might have been successful in concealing her true feelings, but her heart could not lie. It was lovemaking disguised into reluctance. Her damned pride wouldn't allow her to fall for her boisterous childhood friend. And to protect such pride, she had regarded him as a prankster rather than a prospective suitor. Even so, he had been the love of her life all along, regardless of her refusal to admit it.
When they had been younger, it had been only to him that she could entrust her back completely while facing the enemies. As the years passed by, Austria became the paragon that her ideals embraced. There had been times when she desired nothing else but to spend her life by the dark-haired nation's side. There had been times when she loathed her used-to-be best friend for disrupting her happiness with her husband. Then, those times dissipated into a longing for Prussia's presence. His arrogant smirk. His fervid embrace. His entire being.
A soft knock on the door demanded her attention. Her reveries dismissed, she questioned herself: 'Why doesn't the milkman ring the bell? Besides, he's earlier than usual.'
After draping a dressing gown over her pajama and grabbing her wallet, Hungary dashed through the hallway.
The figure on the other side of the door made her heart stop beating for a few seemingly endless seconds. But then her pulse raced faster, faster, and faster still, until the sound was deafening as she continued to stare with her mouth dry.
There he was, standing on her porch. No longer was he entitled the name that once had stood proud among the rank of nations. Simply a man seeking for love. He had lost his identity two decades before, but at least, his people lived. At least, he lived.
"Pru—no, German Democratic Republic."
The owner of the name beckoned to her. His lips were chapped and slightly bluish due to intemperate Hungarian winter. His usually pale cheeks turned rubicund in the frosty air. His snow-dusted coat waved to and fro at the mercy of the chilly breeze. From its left pocket, the head of a small bird poked out.
The man's left foot almost motioned forward, but he restrained himself mid-action. This could be his last chance. One wrong move and never again would his earthly joy allow his company in her presence.
He looked at her, straight in the eye. His name had changed. His life had changed. His feelings for her remained. A wisp of vapor slipped from his lips. "Elizabeta Héderváry, would you accept me?"
She blinked. One hundred years ago, Austria had gone through all sorts of political arrangements to ask her hand in marriage. Just now, another man had gone through thousands of miles in the cold just for her, a divorced woman. Surely, he had neither riches nor glory in his possession, but to her, his mere existence mattered more than all treasures in the world. She blinked again, tiny droplets of tears bejeweled the corners of her eyes. Slowly, her lips melded into a smile.
"You are impossible."
She did not fail to notice the sign of relief washing down his face, but when he spoke, his tone was back to his usual jauntiness, renowned half-smirk in place. "Did you think four rejections were all it took to make me give up my half a millennium of one-sided love for you?"
Tints of pink blossomed on her cheeks, and they both knew that this had very little to do with the wintry weather. At the sight of his smirk, she pinched his nose, expecting him to flinch and whine something along the line of "Hey, what are you doing to my awesome nose?"
But he didn't. He merely stood there, unblinkingly, even as her long hair, tossed by the morning breeze, swept past his cheek and the side of his neck. And the same wind also sent his scarf flying.
She caught the fluttering cashmere faster than he could. After draping it back over his nape, she yanked it by both ends. Thus, his head, just as a stallion pulled by the rein, was lowered to meet hers.
His eyes widened; he was too stunned to reciprocate as she claimed his mouth. The gentle brush on his frost-bitten lips felt fiery even in this cold. Then it deepened into a foray of ravenous exploration, with tongues colliding with each other, feasting upon what they had held back for so long. Slowly, gradually, he reached for her, embracing her with tremulous arms, half-believing that what was transpiring was indeed not a dream. All those decades of waiting felt like seconds compared to this. His secret longing was coming true.
"Come inside," invited the Hungarian woman at the end of their passionate kiss.
As he beamed and smiled back at her, a realization dawned on the older nation: the pieces of her life were finally falling into place. This was it. The end for her years of loneliness. Her one, inescapable love.
"Yesterday, November 9, 2009, was the celebration of the Twentieth Anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall. Dignitaries worldwide attended an evening celebration of the 'Festival of Freedom' around the Brandenburg Gate. A high point was when over a thousand colorfully designed foam domino tiles…"
The voice of the news presenter on the distant television was interrupted by the tweet of a small, yellow bird that perched on the neighboring coffee table. Nevertheless, Gilbird XLI's lively chirp went unnoticed, drowned by Elizabeta's groan.
"Stop that. I've got breakfast to make."
Her utterance was too soft, too half-hearted for a command; if any, it resembled a hum. The speaker was at the brink of sleep for the second time that morning, with sheen of sweat cooling on her sated body. In truth, she did not dislike in the slightest when the side of her leg was being brushed by this all-too-familiar toe.
The other occupant of her bed teased her with a poorly disguised innocent tone. "When you say 'that,' do you mean this?"
Beneath the single layer of blanket that concealed their nakedness, he slid his palm to Elizabeta's ribs and up, up, up… She quivered as his fingertips reached for her breast, lightly tracing its curve before cradling it in his hand. As Gilbert's hand kneaded her bosom more vigorously than before, Elizabeta rolled to the side, backing him and facing the window.
The window was one of the few things that had not changed during the last three decades. Her single bed, for a start, had been replaced by a king-sized one. Her wardrobe had been installed with an additional one, containing masculine apparel. Her fridge was stacked with a multitude of beer cans. Her buffet hosted a series of soccer player figurines as well as a jumble of bottle caps.
"Or this?" She heard him speak again.
The platinum-haired man moved forward and placed his lips on her shoulder, giving the heated skin a long feathery kiss. His partner let out a contented sigh. Until thirty-two years ago, she had not suspected that Gilbert could do such frustratingly tantalizing gentleness.
He caressed one of her rear mounds in a circular motion before squeezing it. It was so unfair of him to do this to her while her body was still libidinous and weak with tingles of orgasm.
"Jerk," she called him in a tone that ordinary women would use while cooing "darling."
"But you love me for that."
He probably was smirking behind her back—that self-important jerk. She could feel it, though not as much as she felt his length press against her thigh, searing and semi-hard, and indubitably ready for another round.
"Gil, are you really okay with this? The unification of Germany, I mean."
"We've talked about his before, Liz. I have no regret. My citizens are in Ludwig's good hands while I can sit back and relax next to a gorgeous babe worthy of my awesome self."
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at the mention of the word "gorgeous," Elizabeta replied, "But if you hadn't moved in with me, you could have taken care of East Germany more properly and it'd probably become a great nation now. Your name could probably even be restored."
At this, his voice lost all traces of jest within it. "That may be the case with what could be, but certainly not what I want."
She gave him no answer, so he ran a finger under her jawline and tilted her head to his. Lowering his mouth, he slid his tongue between her lips and brushed against them, coaxing her tongue into motion until murmurous moans started to surface from her throat. He was a hungry wolf, and her reaction served only to famish him further.
His hand roamed across her flank, drawing an imaginary line in its track. When it reached her thigh and reveled in the smoothness of her skin, she found herself pressing onto his questing palm. Fire had stirred within her once more; her feminine essence told him all he needed to know.
Complying with this unspoken permission, he reached for her womanhood. He explored her hidden folds, navigating the circumference before deliberately teasing her lips apart, from the bottom to their apex. He dipped a finger inside, moving in and out in a quick rhythm that induced a sweet friction in the body he knew so well. To the credit of his second finger a little later, she closed around his digits in a shuddering saccade, angling her hips to give him better access.
"What's the meaning of reliving 'Prussia' if I can't have you on my side?"
His voice sent heat throughout her body; he could sense Elizabeta—his dear Elizabeta—shiver in his arms.
The brown-haired woman gripped the bed sheet; it was covered in countless creases, owing to their unbridled passion the previous night—when she had ridden him until he had been reduced into no more than her helpless (but willing) stallion—as well as earlier this morning—when he had roused her from her slumber with a fervid kiss and engaged her in their usual "morning exercise" in bed.
Until now, she often questioned herself whether it was a curse or a blessing to have him as a housemate. The man formerly known as "Prussia" might be a clown in the music room and a nuisance in the kitchen who even refused to give her flowers on Valentine days, but he did know how to send her heart aflutter.
Gilbert sensuously teased her clitoral nub with the tip of his shaft, and then ran down the fold of skin to sink into her crevice. Slowly, gently, his length made its way up between Elizabeta's nether lips. One hand suspending the back of her knee, he entered the woman he loved from the side in one fluid motion. His teeth dug lightly into the tender skin of her shoulder as he began with a long, slow thrust. He heard the sound of his name mingling with her ardent breath as she spread her legs for him.
Elizabeta tilted her head backwards. Bracing her hand against the bedframe, she brought her hips back to meet him. She melted onto his manhood, bathing it with her nectar.
Although neither was no longer as needful as they had been, the pleasure levels were mounting steadily to another vertex. The movements of her body went from squirming to writhing to thrashing about. Her lover—the provider of the excruciating delight—continued whipping a part of him inside her and bringing the both of them closer to eruption. The room was reverberating with the sound of flesh meeting flesh and moan responded with moan. The touches, strokes, and kisses became perfervid, each movement heavy with need. Their entire beings were burning, their heartbeats smashing, their minds roaring the urge for completion as they continued to make each other gasp louder than the creaks of the bed underneath their heated bodies.
Elizabeta's muscles contracted as pleasure ripped through her. She knew her lover was also close; the hand on her hip marginally tightened its hold and he breathed a low, quavering groan against her neck.
His body went into spasms and he gave himself over to the sensation as he came in a shuddering ejaculation that seized his entire body. The change in his breathing heralded a renewed frenzy. He slammed into his beloved one last time, his hips rising to meet her. His breath caught and he felt his world collapsing into a sublime place.
Elizabeta held her breath. Gilbert grip her tight, grunted, and then held still. The brunette could feel the throb of his flesh pumping deep inside her and her own muscles contracting around it. Spurt after spurt of his masculinity gushed forth into her. The completion of the act sent her into one last shattering orgasm. When he pulled out, a little trickle of thick, viscous liquid followed.
Gilbert reached the valley of Elizabeta's palm and met damp, aquiver digits. In response, she curled her fingers, linking them together with her lover's. As she listened to the clamorous race of their heartbeats, a smile graced her lips. No matter what the years ahead might bring, he would never leave her side again.
…Or would he?
"Ever thought about creating a new nation? Your brother has turned the Holy Roman Empire into the present day Germany."
This was her way of ruining the mood, mainly driven by the post-coital embarrassment. However, he, who had familiarized himself with her nature for centuries, knew exactly how to handle the case.
Elizabeta felt Gilbert's hand squeezing hers tighter as he replied, "Kesesese. I'll think about it … on one condition."
One sweep of his slick tongue on the shell of her ear and she heard him whisper, "Marry me."