A/N: I wanted to write a Flash Fiction. Probably going to do more.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I don't. Was listening to P.J. Harvey: To Bring You My Love. I don't own it either.
Within the walls of the cramped broom closet, the walls were closing in, tightly and silent. Pressed down onto the floor, Emil mumbled incoherent sentence; a fire grew steadily in his loins. On top him was a young woman, approximately the same age as he, and she pressed her voluptuous form against his chest. Her eyes were a glazed brown, sweetly starving, and the red ribbons in her hair danced across his collarbone.
"Wh-what are you doing," he stumbled out, red faced and sweating; his hands were stretched in odd directions, "why now?"
She seemed to hear him and looked up at his blindsided eyes, "I don't know." She mumbled into his white school blouse, breathing in the scent of his panic and confusion, "Please don't ask."
Like a shot her lips were clamped onto his, a moment of enlightenment occurred, and he felt the wicked tension in his body, the stress and terror, melt into desirable, haunting pleasure. Arms wrapped around her slim frame, possessively and instinctively, and he thought, thought as the primal, deranged thoughts blurred his logical and safe keeping ones into a stain on the window, "She smells like apricots."
A/N: Flash Fiction. I learned about it at a workshop. I'll probably expand on the idea during the summer. It was fun. Hm. I would like to know what you think. Leave a review! Thanks to those who read, review, and all that jazz. Now, I must return to my lair and study for Math. Boo.