Phone Call.doc

They had decided to speak in German for the rest of the conversation. Any efforts to democratically elect a language for their conference had somehow ended in a tarantella, or in Feliciano making fun of Kiku's birth tongue ("like a chittering squirrel!" he'd described it.)

"And as for France..." Ludwig rumbled.

"Francis smells. Have you guys thought about that?" said Feliciano, with a prompt nasal laugh.

Kiku was quiet. His silence was elegant, refined, and betrayed a tacit agreement even though he would rather commit sepukku than say something so rude.

Harumph! "...yes, you already said that. Now, can we get back to the matter at hand?"

A mumble.

"I beg your pardon, Vargas-san?"

"cancncntr..."

"SPEAK OUT LOUD, MAN!" Ludwig roared.

"I said I can't concentrate! Ludwig is so scary when he talks in German!"

Over Ludwig's groan, Kiku pointed out: "Vargas-san, he almost always speaks in German..."

"Exactly...!"

A groan on one end, elegant silence on the other, up until Japan cleared his throat softly. "Perhaps we can have this meeting later, Ludwig-san, in private. When it might be more productive!"

"Oh, hoooh!" Feliciano hooted. He had an uncanny ability of being generally dumb, yet being amazingly sharp for making pubescent jabs at the slightest chance for an innuendo.

"...y, yes," Ludwig's words were choked by his deep-seated discomfort. As always, the greatest regret he had about speaking over the phone was that he couldn't choke the italian dunce as his instincts begged him to. Strangely, he never did even in person. "That would be best, Honda."

"Mm. I'll speak to you later, then." And, click...

"Whew! Have you noticed he chitters like a squirrel?"

Sigh. "Listen..."

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! Like a machine gun!" the Italian went on, blithely.

"Would you be quiet for a second and listen?!" Ludwig bellowed at long last.

Deep silence. "You know, la mia mamma used to say that you would get a sore throat from yelling so much," was the eventual, meek comeback. Italy was as quick to make an innuendo as he was to cower when anyone else shouted louder than he could ramble.

Clearing his throat and clearing his thoughts ("I'll give you a sore throat, one of these days..."), the German spent a while in silence, all while gathering his motivations. It wasn't that he lacked courage - if you could invade Poland, courage isn't something you lack. Moral integrity, perhaps, but not courage. It was more of him collecting the reasons he had listed for himself to do this. "...so," he eventually began, with a gruff voice, "what... are you doing right now?"

"Eh? Talking to you."

Snap. "I KNOW YOU'RE TALKING TO ME, MORON!" came the roar, and then, after a pause where you could imagine some composing self-grooming, a quieter reply, "I meant... are you, er, busy?"

"...well I'm talking to you--"

"...I meant occupied in any other way."

"What? Oh! Well, I'm about to get working on some pastitsio! If you hurry over I could have a bowl for you!"

"No, thank you..."

"That's why you're aaaaalways cranky! Anyone would be with a big, empty stomach."

Easy, stay calm. Stay calm. Just focus on the objectives... "...Right. So... what are you wearing right now?" he asked, tensely.

(PART TWO COMING UP IN A BIT. This anon has things to do, but he'll get back to it. I hope y'all like it so far! On the next bit: Ludwig gets adventurous, and North Italy continues to make Ludwig wonder why he bothers.)

Easy, stay calm. Stay calm. Just focus on the objectives... "...Right. So... what are you wearing right now?" he asked, tensely.

(On the back of his head, Ludwig found himself actively worried by the fact that it was plausible that the other man wasn't wearing pants. Not that it would be a problem for the rest of the conversation, but it would be... discomforting to imagine the pantless-ness had been going on for a while.)

"Wha--? Oh, just a shirt--"

Oh he KNEW it--

"--and the pants you gave me! Wow, they're BIG, you know that? I mean huge! Everything just dances around inside when I--"

You had to give Ludwig credit for it: he was good at ignoring the distractions. And the Italian provided with PLENTY. "...well... maybe they wouldn't fit so loosely if I was there to touch you..." he tried. He was impressed by his ability to maintain his dignity. Then again, Ludwig impressed himself a lot.

"...what?" went Feliciano, in the tone you use right before you ask someone 'are you on drugs?'

"...I meant if I touched you... you'd probably have something... harder there, wouldn't you? Something you'd like me to touch," Ludwig continued.

A pause, then a snort. "...Are we allowed to have booze again while talking strategy? Because I've got some wine here. If you'd just told me...!"

"NO, YOU IDIOT. AND NO, THE LIQUOR BAN HAS NOT BEEN LIFTED. THINK, FOR THE LIFE OF YOU!"

Silence. Silence. And then, after a light gasp: "...Ohhhh!"

"Good, you got it. Achem, now, are you going to play along or what...?"

"Well, I gueeeess. Can I just have ONE glass of--"

"No."

"Aw, well... Okay! Sure. I'm game!" came the cheerful reply.

There were concerns still bubbling in his mind that this was a bad idea, but he'd already gone this far, so, Ludwig pushed on. "So... I'm touching over your pants."

Immature giggling. "Okay... mm, I guess that'd feel good, huh?"

Oh Gott. "And now... I'm touching lower--"

"Mmm..." a more pleasurable sound.

"I'm unbuttoning your pants, and taking them down."

"Fwo-wo-wop."

A pause. "What was that?"

"The sound of floppy pants coming down!" Feliciano exclaimed. "I thought it would add realism to it."

"...I see. Mm. Remember when I said you should try thinking a bit more?"

"Yes?"

"I take it back. Just follow my lead." A gambit that had worked in the past, for sure. "Don't make any sound that wouldn't come from your body."

"Ohh. Okay..."

"Achem. Now... your pants are down... and my hands are coming to roam over your thighs a--"

"Yipe!!!"

"Wh-what happened?!"

"Your imaginary hands are cold!" came the nasal whimper.

"My imaginary hands are not cold! They are the most optimally warm, masculine hands that have ever touched you!" Ludwig corrected in a frustrated growl, grumbling under his breath. "The most masculine hands that would bother to touch you!"

"...really?" asked Feliciano, whose voice betrayed a sort of interest.

A notion struck Ludwig then: maybe, just maybe, the simple-minded Italian was a tell, don't show kind of guy. It marred his sense of dramatism, but Ludwig always did put efficiency over drama... and with that in mind, he coughed. "Yes..." he started, with his voice gaining a smug sound, "they are the biggest, largest hands you've ever felt. They're strong..."

A softer sound. A moan, even.

Ludwig finally tasted success, and whenever that happened, he would quickly develop an appetite for a larger bite... "Yes. You know they make you feel safe--" a pause, "and you know they can hold you so you cannot get away..."

"A... aa, are they holding me right now?"

"Yes," Ludwig purred. His tone was unmistakable: it belonged to someone who has at least one hand occupied in something indecent.

"Aa--OW."

A small downcast note. "Now what?"

"I thought you were pinching my butt with your imaginary hands but it was just the chair. Sorry-y-y! Um, go on."

With a deep breath, Ludwig went on... "Now I'm taking off your shirt... and running my hands across your chest. They'll make you shudder and tremble-- you know I'm rough, right?" he asked with an audible smirk.

The moaning became more pleasurable to listen to.

Ludwig wasn't sure what was more amazing: the sounds he was getting out of the other man - surprisingly pleasant for that nasal little nightmare of a "friend" - or the fact that this was actually working. (If someone came saying things like that to him, Ludwig would probably punch them in the face. And then invade their homeland, crush all hope there, before punching the dirt for good measure - just in case the smack down wasn't clear enough!) "...so... are you enjoying yourself?"

"Y, yes," he heard Feliciano's voice trembling over the phone.

Ludwig's smirk became easier to pick up across the line. "...Are you touching yourself thinking about me?"

"..."

"...hey, are you there?"

"Y, yeah. I'm here. I'm just trying to figure out how you can see things through the phone."

If he hadn't been busy stroking his large, thick cock, Ludwig would have spared that hand to slap his forehead.
 

Instead of surrendering the rather pleasurable endeavor of jerking off for the rather urgent need to slap his forehead, Ludwig summoned all of his willpower into going on. "...So... you're touching yourself right now?"

"Yeah..." came the small, nasal voice. Surprisingly demure for the often loud Italian. Maybe it was because the phone didn't let him add the usual layer of wild gesturing to his speech.

"I see," Ludwig purred, smugly. "I guess that'll do, since I can't be there right now, to give you what you need..." he went on, letting his words roll in a deep, leonine fashion. "Because you need me to really touch you, don't you?"

The next sound was something between a hiss and a helpless moan.

It made Ludwig's blood boil a bit. "I'm right, am I not? You need me... to touch you there, to show you what a real man's touch is like..."

"Y, yeah..."

"See... my hand wouldn't shake... my hand would grab onto it, nice and firm... and I would work it slowly-- as slow as I'd damn want, because that belongs to me, to play with it however I want... and I'd take my sweet time getting it wet..." a pause, and then a low, satisfied chuckle, "I bet you are a bit wet already, aren't you? Impatient little thing..."

There was a pause, and Ludwig almost worried that the italian had stopped what they were doing to look for peepholes in the room. But instead, there was a small, almost shameful confession. Almost, simply because Feliciano didn't seem to come equipped with shame.

"I... I kind of... came, just now," he said with a little gag to his voice.

Ludwig laughed then, and if the Italian hadn't already reached his climax, the sound - deep and powerful - most likely would've pushed him over the edge. "See? That's what you get for being so hasty!"

Hasty was too kind a word. Ludwig knew Feliciano, and maybe he'd never needed to jerk off when Ludwig was around (since Ludwig did all the work), but he knew him well enough to imagine he probably just grabbed on and did it at the speed of lightning, as adolescently unrefined as possible.

"Meanwhile," Ludwig purred, "I'm not even close..."

There was a squeak across the line. "Y... you're touching yourself too?!"

"Yes..."

"...with imaginary hands or real hands?"

A black hole would project less attraction than Ludwig's forehead did for his hand at the moment. "...with my real hands, of course." He said, in a much put-upon voice, though he swiftly returned to his sly, hungry tone. "Well, one of them, anyway."

"...Oh..."

"Would you like to know what I'm imagining myself doing, though...?"

"Would you like to know what I'm imagining myself doing, though...?"

There was a little panting across the line.

Ludwig ground his teeth, turning his smile into a forced grimace. "I can't see you nodding over the phone, you know..."

"Oh! Oh right... ah, I meant, yes..."

After clearing his throat (and his thoughts) a bit, Ludwig smiled. "Well, I shouldn't be taking care of myself, should I? I was imagining than, rather than my own hands, there would be something else here... wrapping around this big, hard thing that I'm holding..."

A sharp intake of breath, and expectant silence.

A pause. "...I'm talking about you."

A shiver. "O, oh great. For a moment there I was--"

"I'm just not sure though," Ludwig began, "which would be better... your," a pause for a low chuckle, "eager little hands, or maybe your mouth..."

It greatly pleased Ludwig to hear appetite on the other man's voice, across the phone.

"Mm. So your mouth it would be, then. Good," Ludwig said. He shifted on his seat to take a more relaxed, regal posture -- triumph always made him want to act the part. "Then that would leave my hand free to touch you back... I could be running it across your hair... down your back..."

An audible gulp of anticipation.

Move in for the kill. Ludwig grinned, giving a light hiss. "...Or maybe while your mouth is busy, my fingers would be busy with that tight butt of yours..." And while he heard the other man moaning, he began, "Why don't we imagine that? First... you'd be riding my leg..."

There was a groan of excitement, followed by: "Left one or right one?"

"Right one," he picked arbitrarily. "And while you're busy paying your--" a chuckle, "respects... I'd reach over and--"

"Wait, wait... Ger-ma-nyyy... how can I ride your leg AND reach down there with my mouth?" came the breathless, but curious question.

"...you just can."

Ludwig had a relatively good imagination. An incredibly good one. What he did lack, however, was limits for it. It would mean one small flaw on his little experiment:

"...I don't think so."

"Yes you can, because... uh, you're flexible!"

A little laugh. "Whaaaat? No! I can't reach my toes! Phew! I'm also a bit pudgy, you know? And you know, I always DID want to try reaching That with my mouth. I think I--"

"Fine!" Ludwig snapped testily. "You're not on my leg!"

"...did I fall down? Okay: OW--!"

"No, you did not fall down, because we're on, uh-- on a BED, and I'm stretching my leg, so you can be on my leg and reach THAT--"

"But how will your hand reach my fanny?"

"...okay you're not on my leg! You're between my legs, and I'm sitting!"

"Wow. You sure can do a lot of stuff when you're hard. Me, I just stand there and feel like my thoughts got all sticky...!"

"...okay, listen, do you want me to pretend-finger you or not?"

"O-oh! Sure, um, go ahead!"

A-CHEM. Gathering his dignity back in place, Ludwig shifted back to his comfort zone - thankfully, he was used to being high-strung, so it wasn't difficult to get back from rage to comfort. They were close to each other in his head as it were. "Well, I wouldn't just touch you there, would I? I would get my fingers wet first..."

A weak, eager moan. "H, hey... Germany...?"

"Yes?"

"Can it be with olive oil?"

At first, he thought about telling the Italian that'd he'd rather if he didn't reek like a kitchen during their playtime, but figuring that this was their imagination - and that Italy ALWAYS reeked like a kitchen anyway - he didn't bother. "...I suppose it could be... Now, after I'd get my fingers moist with it, I'd reach down... and give you a nice rub--"

"HEEE!"

"Now WHAT?"

"It's cold and it TICKLES."

"It's lewd and you're supposed to be howling in embarrassed excitement, you dunce!"

"...I am?" asked the Italian with a curious glint. "Okay, sure... like... howling how? Like a wolf? A-woo-woo?"

Rage and comfort were close together in Germany's mind. But not as close as rage and creativity, which were practically joint ventures. It always helped him to find an imaginative outlet for his anger.

"H, hey... Ger-ma-nyyy, are you there?"

"Yes I am," purred Ludwig. "Do you want to know how you're supposed to howl?"

Feliciano felt a pang of fear run through his body. He knew that voice. It went along with Ludwig's nastiest smile. "Eheh--Y, yeah?"

"Let me tell you then. Now, are you by your desk?"

"Yep--?"

"Bend over it," Ludwig commanded, with a low, imperious growl, and an audible smirk, "and reach down with your free hand to stick your finger in."

"W... wa--aa--?! Bu, but... my fingers are small and, and-- I don't have oil with me."

"Well, that's not my problem, is it?" Ludwig rumbled. "It's yours... but not as big as a problem as it will be if you don't start howling for me."

There was a pause, and then the sound of thumping, shuffling about on the other end of the line. Ludwig listened carefully... and took delight on a wet smacking sound close to the phone headset. A moment later came a little whimper, a hissed gasp, and then a weak, helpless squeak. "A, aa... Ah..."

"Mm... are they inside now...?" Ludwig purred.

"I'm, I'm trying, but... It's difficult... it's tight."

A low purr. "Well, that's never been a problem for me," Ludwig said. "You just do like I do for you... and keep pushing with them, pushing hard... until it gives in and--"

Little moans came, followed by a sharp, squeaking cry. "A... Aaaa--!"

"--and that's what I'm talking about..."
 

There were a million ways in which Italy could have ruined things at the time, but Ludwig had the certainty that, at this moment, at least, he was doing just fine. The absolute certainty that at the moment, the other man's body was writhing under his own touches while Feliciano thought about him.

Of course, Feliciano's helpless little moans didn't help. It was nice to hear that awful, nasal voice put to making sweeter sounds like that. A little, broken, over-excited moan. "A, aah, ah..." that got caught on his throat, that rapidly switched pitches only to be interrupted by a surprised, amazed sounding gasp, or a little whimper.

"L, Lud... Ludwiiig--" the other man tried sobbing over the phone. "It fe, feels funny... like... almost like it itches but--"

"--but you can't scratch where you need to, right?" Ludwig's husky voice was filled with smug satisfaction. "Of course it doesn't. Your fingers are small... and twitchy," a low, mocking chuckle that earned a helpless whimper from the other side of the phone, "and you need a real man to touch you. I would reach in... reach in deep--"

The words earned a gasp and a whimper from the other side. Ludwig thought he heard something slumping, probably a lamp or a paperweight being pushed over.

"And my hand wouldn't shake... as yours are shaking, right?"

"Aa, aa...!"

"No, mine... would be hard... and firm... just like you deserve them, so while you suck me up and show me what you think of me... I'd scratch that itch for you. I'd press hard, there--" a low growl to go with a sharp grin, "right there, on that tender, plump spot you've got there... and I wouldn't rub, I wouldn't brush, I wouldn't paw at it like you're trying with the tip of your fingers," he added, his voice melting into a laugh as he went, "no... I... would ram it--"

A soft yipe, "Aa, aa!"

"I would keep giving it to you like I would if I had you between my legs, the way you want it, the way you like it."

He shuddered with satisfaction at the thought alone. If there was one good thing about Italy (and he did count his blessings), it was that he was very... pliant... and let's face it, mister white flag knew how to make surrender sound GOOD.
 

"You know what I'm talking about... I'd hold you by your hips... and make you lift it, and then I'd put it in... and push hard--!" Yes, no mercy from him-- nothing like that. "Nice... and rough, like no one else could give it to you..."

"Aaaa...!"

"I would make you cry for me," Yes, just for me. "I'd take you, and stretch you, and juice you like an--"

"Orange, non?" Francis cut in.

"Right, an o--"

A deep, cold, gut-wrenching pause.

"I would have said a tomato, but ze sentence didn't end properly..."

Ludwig's voice tried to come up, "What...?"

"Really? Though I think a tomato would be AWESOME. I mean, I'm just imagining Ludge here, driving his finger RIGHT into the thing, like it's his worse enemy," Alfred added over the line.

"Swift attack! Run for the tomato planations!" Francis hooted.

"What...?"

Snickering. A lot of it, from more than one source.

"What do you think, old man? What fits the line better, there: orange or tomato?" Alfred asked.

"Don't get me into this stupid ch--" Arthur spat, only to give a low expletive when he realized he'd blown his cover. "Oh bloody hell."

"WHAT?"

"...what's wrong with both tomatoes and oranges?" Ivan whined, "I think both are nice. Tomatoes are red too. I like red... It's a nice color..."

"WHAT?!"

"Oh," Alfred cut in. "Don't mind us. We just wanted to see what you were up to, and we few soldiers hook us up. You know, you really shouldn't leave your lines open..."

"Or maybe you should, non?" Francis started. "Looks like you're much more amusing fellows when you're not invading someone's house, am I right? Le wink wink."

At the moment, Ludwig started sinking into his chair. Not only was his face impossibly red, but his tense, unsatisfied arousal as well.

On the other end of the line, Italy had a broad, stupid, satisfied grin on his face as his cheek rested on his desk. "Hey... Ludwiiig? I came again... aa.... hey, Ludwig? Are we going on?"

Maybe it would have been better if Ludwig didn't take thing so slowly, and was a little more adolescent, like Feliciano was...

Or so did Kiku Honda thought, as he carefully pulled the phone away from his face and hung up. "...whoops."