Zu Viel Einer Guten Sache.doc

If anyone knew, if they found out, Switzerland was ready to deny it vehemently. But in the confines of his apartment in Geneva, Switzerland laid himself out naked and wanting, writhing against the sheets and thinking terrible, sinful things.

This is how Liechtenstein had found him, some five or ten minutes earlier. When she’d arrived in Geneva, she had placed a call to his apartment, but to no answer, and had thought perhaps he was resting or out at one of the cabins. Still, she’d gone with her bag from the train station to the apartment, and had rung the bell until the super had come to the door and told her to go on up to see him.

The apartment had been quiet when she’d come in with her spare key. She had called for Switzerland a few times, but with no reaction she had gone about putting her bag in the spare bedroom he kept for her, and then had ventured to his door.

Really, she should have turned away when she heard the sounds beyond the door. She’d spent enough nights at Uncle Austria and Aunt Hungary’s to know that the proper course of action was to silently turn away and hum until it was over, and never ever to stare too long in the morning. But there was something about hearing those noises from Switzerland—and knowing that Switzerland was alone in there, because he so rarely spoke to anyone that wasn’t her—that compelled her to stay, and made her push the door open a crack.

Now, even after standing there so short a time, her cheeks and belly were flushed hot and tight, and her fingers were tingling as if she could feel Switzerland’s skin under them. Switzerland was so pale and young looking, and even if Liechtenstein knew of the scars on his body, she couldn’t see them now.

All she could see was the broad expanse of his chest, the long lines of his legs, his arm tucked under his body and the fingers crooked against his skin. Inside him.

She rested her head against the lintel, and the door groaned a little as she bumped it. Switzerland stopped immediately, flailed, and then fell off the bed entirely. Liechtenstein gasped and hurried to his side, apologizing quickly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I mean, I didn’t mean for you—I mean. I.”

“Were you watching?” Switzerland’s cheeks were even more red than they’d been a moment before, and he was scrambling for a sheet to cover his—quite sizable, not that Liechtenstein would ever look long enough to notice—erection.

“I—. You just. Were very.” She gestured vaguely. Her belly still felt tight and warm and tingly, and she finally sighed softly, whispering, “In depth. I didn’t think it was polite to interrupt.”

“But it was polite to stare?” She gestured vaguely again, but Switzerland didn’t give her time enough to formulate a real response, already barking, “Get out!”

“I could help,” she whispered, staring at his lap. The sheet wasn’t doing very much to hide his erection, she noticed, and he seemed to notice that after a moment too, because he grabbed a pillow from the bed and put that over his lap as well.

“No. You’re too young. Just go...make tea or something.” Switzerland’s voice was at once hysterically shrill and richly husky. Liechtenstein sighed shakily, reaching for Switzerland’s hands to move the pillow away from his lap. As he gave up the defense, he whined, “Liechtenstein...”

“I’ve been a country longer than you, you know,” Liechtenstein whispered, and then held out her hand to pull him to his feet. They stood close, and he kept up the barrier of the sheet between them, even as she balanced onto her toes and rested her forehead against his. “I just want to help you feel good, mein bruder.”

It was his breath, then, that shook out past his lips, and Liechtenstein could feel it on her lips, warm and moist and smelling slightly of chocolate. She smiled, thinking of when they were part of the Empire and Switzerland would make chocolates in the kitchen, getting a mess everywhere. Gently, she touched his jaw, and he was the one to lean in close and press their lips together, no sweet, chaste thing like she was used to from him, but nothing hard and brutal.

The sheet whispered away between them, and Liechtenstein didn’t think about stains on her dress, just pressed in close to him, still balancing on her toes so she could kiss him. He moaned, deep in his chest, and wrapped his arms around her waist to hold some of her weight. She sighed through the kisses as he pulled the buttons on the back of her dress loose, as he reached up and encouraged the dress off her shoulders and down to pool at her feet; she pushed her crinoline off with it, and stepped out of it gracefully to sit on the edge of Switzerland’s bed.

He sat beside her, suddenly bashful about the sight of her white cotton underclothes. She untied her corset and sighed as she dropped it off beside the bed, then leaned over Switzerland to kiss him again. Slowly, he lay back with her on top, hands combing through her hair—it was starting to grow in again, and he smiled through the kiss at that thought, wishing for her long, smooth hair again—and legs spreading to accommodate the width of her hips.

Switzerland startled when her hands trailed between his legs, behind his erection, and pressed where his hands had been. He pulled back from the kiss and stared at her, halfway to bristling and maybe snapping at her. But Liechtenstein smiled, kissed over his heart, and pushed inside of him.

He gasped, shutting his eyes and removing his hands from her hair to grip the fitted sheet of the bed instead. Her fingers were thinner than his, smoother, more delicate, but longer. Her nails bit against the skin slightly. She crooked the finger gently, and a cry broke from his lips with heavy breathing.

“Is that okay?”

He would forever deny, on pain of death—of whoever was claiming he’d done such a thing—that he most assuredly did not bite his lip and nod emphatically in agreement.

“What do you want?” Liechtenstein whispered against his skin. He gasped for breath, chest heaving, and she pressed her ear against his chest, listening to the thundering of his heart.

“More?”

She looks down at her finger inside of him, pulled it back and carefully folded her pointer finger against the middle one to press them inside of him. He lifted his knees to flatten his feet against the mattress, hips arching off the bed as she curled her fingers a little, a keening gasp leaving his lips. Liechtenstein watched his face for a moment, worried that she’d hurt him. But his face was blissful, his lips parted and his cheeks pink, and his chest was heaving with exertion, and his erection was standing proud from blond curls.

She ran her other hand down the length of his erection, pulling back the skin from the darkly flushed head. He groaned, a short laugh breaking from his lips as he lifted a hand to cover his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Liechtenstein asked, running her hand up and down the shaft. Switzerland shook all over, most of all in his stomach. She kissed his chest, the swell of his ribs, his stomach, each hip bone.

He grabbed her shoulders and stared down at her, frowning slightly. She moved her fingers inside him, and the look of consternation left him slowly to be replaced by that bliss as he fell back against the mattress and pillows.

“More,” he murmured. She moved her fingers experimentally, before fitting in her ring finger alongside the other two. Switzerland moaned, loud and long, as she moved her fingers in and out of his body.

She kissed his hip and asked, “What do you think of?”

“Don’t ask me that,” he grumbled. There were tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, slow and easy and unpained. He looked at her and whispered, “Don’t ask that.”

She pressed her face against his knee, and giggled to herself. Quietly, she whispered to him, “I think of you.”

“Liechtenstein.”

“At night,” she murmured, and noticed that her own breathing had become shallow and uneven. She took her hand off his erection and lifted her slip to her hips. Switzerland was staring at her, eyes wide and lips parted, as she let her hand go inside her undershorts and touch herself between the thighs.

“Liechtenstein.”

“I think about you, Switzerland,” she told him, smiling, kissing his knee. Slowly, she fitted her pinkie in with the other three.

Switzerland cried out sharply, back arching. She moved her fingers inside him, and he writhed, eyes shut. She moved her body to mold against his, feeling the firm length of his erection pressed against her hip. Slowly, she rotated her body, moved her hand from her undershorts so she could feel him against her.

“There,” she murmured against his chest. “I think about you there.”

Her thumb tucked in behind her fingers, and Switzerland roared when everything fit inside. She felt him close around her wrist, and she held her hand still, rubbing against his erection until his cry died to a soft keen and he whispered, “I can feel it.”

“Can you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

She moved her hand slowly, deeper inside him, and he groaned, back arching. His erection slipped against her, pressed, and she could feel it, so close through the cotton of her shorts; she gasped and buried her face against his chest, pulled her hand back until the largest part of it was outside of him, before pressing back in.

“Like that,” he gasped, hips rocking between her hand and her own hips. “Just like that.”

She held herself still and let him rut, enjoying the feel of him against against, almost pressing inside with his erection, the puff of his breath and the thundering sound of his heart as she kissed everything she could reach of him. She pressed down against him, moaning softly against his skin, and rotated her wrist just a fraction.

He finished with a sharp, sudden cry, and she felt the wetness against her undergarments, sticking them to him. He shook and panted, eyes shut. She swiped at a tear on his cheek, slowly removed her hand from him, and leaned up to kiss him gently.

For a moment, he laid sated. Then, peeking open one eye, he hoarsely warned, “We’re going to talk about this.”

“Later,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Later.”