Warnings: This tale is rated M due to issues of racism (tale is written from Nazi!Germany perspective). I neither support nor condone the views portrayed by the characters in this tale.
Disclaimer: Clearly this does not belong to me. Nor should this tale be regarded as historically accurate. This is Hetalia universe after all…
Author's Notes: This tale was written for Hoshira/Doitsu's Storyteller.
IV
The hunt never ceased to excite Germany. The more cunning and devious his prey was, the greater the thrill of his victory. Every nation he sought to claim as his own resisted, but in the end they all succumbed. What Germany wanted, Germany always got.
Ukraine was no different, yet she was nothing like her predecessors. She was many things; predictable was not one of them.
Her lips tasted of strawberries and the rich wine she had enjoyed during their dinner together. What Katyusha lacked in experience, she more than made up in desire. It was not the first time Germany was caught off guard by her inexplicable actions; he knew it would not be the last. Though experienced as he was, Ludwig had never been kissed.
Attraction had always been about the hunt, conquering and dominating his prey. Germany could not be bothered with petty gestures of affection. He always took what he wanted from his unwilling lovers and left little, if anything, in his wake.
Katyusha drew back suddenly apologetic and shy; her cheeks grew rosy. Stunned by her actions Ludwig could only at her in disbelief. He had always been the one who controlled the direction of his relationships, until now.
Swiftly collecting his thoughts and burying his wounded pride Ludwig reminded himself that he was Germany and she was merely a Slavic, a Bolshevik no less! Ukraine belonged to him, not the other way around and he would be damned if he fell prey to her wiles.
With a wolfish grin Germany grabbed Katyusha by the arms before kissing her mouth with all the desire and ferocity he bore for her. With a gasp of surprise, Ukraine readily returned his kiss as her hands caressed the cross he wore at his throat.
Blasphemy had never been more inviting.