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Serbia, much to the chagrin of practically every nation that had to associate with him regularly, had a tendency to do exactly the opposite of what he was told. What Turkey had once laughed off and shrugged aside as being a troublesome streak during his youth had carried over to his adulthood; but no longer was it just a rebellious nature.
Serbia did it on fucking purpose.
'Don't touch the window like that, your hands are dirty.' Bulgaria spent half an hour wiping the finger marks clean afterwards.
'Don't sit your naked ass on my kitchen counter.' Two bottles of disinfectant wasn't cheap. Even then he didn't feel like it was enough.
'For fuck's sake, drink milk out of a glass, not the carton!' A more aggressive approach didn't seem to work, either.
'Don't eat like a pig.' He scolded himself a second later – why hadn't he caught onto the way the idiot's mind ticked yet? With blatant sarcasm, he added quickly, 'I mean, who the hell raised you; Byzantium?'
One disgruntled smack over the head later, and Bulgaria decided to bite his tongue whenever Serbia was next going to act like an unruly child... For as long as he could, at least.
Today, Serbia is in a meeting with Belgium. Here, he will learn of the status of his EU accession bid... Whether it has made any progress or not is anyone's guess; it's still in Bulgaria's best interests to support him, whatever happens. This is why he's currently seated in the small lounge area outside of Belgium's office. He's there to vouch for Serbia, but there's only so much he can do. And since he isn't needed right now, he's left to play the waiting game as the meeting itself passes on.
He just hopes Serbia doesn't do or say anything stupid during the meeting. One foot wrong, and he'll be at square one again... Possibly further back than that, even.
Belgium's house is what he would define as 'nice'. Perhaps it's because she has to support the EU as well as herself, but the house itself is much larger than one a country her size would normally own. The lounge is kitsch; the walls are panelled with glossed mahogany – thick enough to act as soundproofing, he imagines, because the meeting has been going on for at least half an hour, and in that time, Bulgaria hasn't heard a single word that has been uttered inside the office. It's a tiring wait, with only the door, the clock on the wall, and the streets of Brussels below the window to watch... By now, the coffee Belgium gave him before she disappeared into the office has gone cold.
When eventually, the door handle does turn, it's quickly; a sudden snap that makes Bulgaria jump and look over his shoulder. Belgium steps past him, a frown on her face; she has a phone to her ear, and she's muttering into it – in Dutch, no less. She almost hurries straight by, but catches sight of him stood at the window and pauses mid-step, thinning her lips out into a line and cocking her head in the direction of the office. And then she's on her way again, her heels clicking and echoing on the hallway floor, and all he can gather is that she wants him to go in.
The office is less pretentious than the lounge – no leather couches, no overly-polished coffee tables or marble flooring, it's just a desk and a few seats, filing cabinets and a hell of a lot of disorganised stacks of papers. It's quiet, though; quieter than the lounge and the persistent tick-tick-tick of the clock. Bulgaria supposes the lounge is for outward appearances, and this office here is where Belgium herself operates. He steps inside, and towards the desk that Serbia is currently hunched over.
“What's goin' on?” He asks, though he somehow doubts Belgium's phone call has anything to do with the meeting.
“She has to run an errand.” Serbia replies off-hand, his attention taken by the file open on the desk in front of him. He flicks the page over abruptly. “She'll be back soon. Don't think there's anything else that needs to be said, though.”
Bulgaria leans against the arm of the empty chair next to Serbia's, frowning. The meeting hasn't gone positively, he can tell that already. “What did she say?”
“Same old shit. I'm trying but I'm not trying hard enough.” His gaze doesn't move away from the file. He's disgruntled – that much is obvious; his brow is furrowed, and he's talking quieter than usual.
“That all?”
Serbia slams the file shut and huffs, leaning back in his seat. “That's the gist of it.” He peers towards Bulgaria, an eyebrow raised. “Were you expecting anything better?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs lightly. Bulgaria was unable to listen into their conversation, so he has no idea what Serbia has said to Belgium, and really, that's the thing he's most interested – or, rather, concerned about... Given that there was no ruckus from the meeting, and that both Serbia and Belgium were in one piece by the end of it, he can safely assume it went somewhat smoothly, at the very least. He decides to change the subject, before Serbia has time to think this over and come to a realisation. “You look nice, by the way.”
Unfortunately, Serbia gives him a sceptical look because of that sudden topic change. “You told me that this morning.” He mumbles.
Bulgaria rubs at the back of his head. “I know I did. It's just weird to see you in a nice suit. Normally when you come to meetin's you look like you've been dragged backwards through a hedge.”
“You're acting like that Austrian snob. Cut it out, it's creepy. 'Sides, you don't exactly have room to talk, Mr. 'Poorest Member of the EU'.”
“At least I try to make an effort.”
“Some of us've got bigger things to worry about than what does and doesn't make our asses look fat.”
“Red's a good colour on you.”
The look Serbia gives him then is far from impressed. He's aware that he's gone from an abrupt change of topic to just messing with him, now; the smirk that forms on Bulgaria's face when he sees that expression is probably evident enough of that.
“Fuck's sake, Marko.” He shakes his head. “If this is s'posed to be some of your bullshit humour trying to make me feel better, s'not working.”
“Sorry.” Bulgaria shrugs again, knowing damn well he doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. Though, he does feel kind of bad about it, he supposes, and adds with a half-smile, “Anythin' I can do to make you feel better?”
Serbia mulls the question over for a moment. The lingering scowl eases off his features and he sits up. His eyes soften, even when the pensive expression disappears again – but at the same time, they glint with knavishness, and his lips twitch up at the corners. It only takes that look – specifically, that look – for Bulgaria to realise he shouldn't have asked that, because that look is Serbia's way of saying, silently, 'I'm going to do whatever the fuck I want, and you can't stop me'.
Before Bulgaria can open his mouth again to say anything more, Serbia grabs him by the front of his jacket and pulls him down onto him. He stumbles as he falls off balance, and he tries to form words of protest, but they're quickly silenced; their lips are locked together. Serbia's kissing him zealously, it's one of those open-mouthed kisses where he's not asking of something from Bulgaria, he's demanding it. Bulgaria goes rigid beneath it; he's knelt either side of Serbia's lap, practically hovering, because if Serbia were to release the iron grip he has on his jacket, he'd topple backwards into the desk... It isn't a comfortable position, by any means.
“A-Ah... Vu--” He attempts to pull back, but he's tugged back in again, another kiss attempting to silence his protest. He sighs through his nose, bringing his hands up to Serbia's face and pushing him away. He holds him there, barely inches away from his own face. “Later, Vuk.” It's rare for Serbia to ever be the one to initiate their kisses, rarer still for him to do it without the intention of getting sex from it. But they can't – not here, not now... There's still half of a meeting to get through when Belgium gets back from her errand, after all. “We'll go back to the hotel and--”
Serbia makes a dismissive snarling noise, and this time snakes his free arm around Bulgaria's back, so that he can't struggle away. He nudges his nose into the nape of his neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there, and Bulgaria finds himself groaning, partly in annoyance, and partly because God-fucking-dammit, that feels good.
He thins his eyes, his gaze travelling over to the office doorway and the section of the lounge he can see beyond the threshold. “The door's wide open...”
“Yeah?” Serbia breathes against his neck. “And Goldilocks is out running an errand.” He runs his tongue briefly over a spot Bulgaria's pretty sure will have a tell-tale mark on it in a couple of hours (he can't help but wonder if maybe Belgium'll let him stay in Brussels until it's gone – he's sick of coming up with excuses as to why those marks get there by now). “Said she'd be a while.”
“You can't be sure she will...”
Laughing huskily, Serbia gives him a hard shove, pushing Bulgaria backwards on to the desk, the edge of which digs into his back and makes him wince. “She's out of the house, so what's the problem with an open door?” He lets go of Bulgaria's jacket and raises from his seat, a shit-eating grin pasted across his face.
“That's not the point...” Bulgaria grumbles, shifting his weight back onto his feet so that the desk isn't jabbing into him any more. He doesn't have much time to recuperate, though, before the other man is pressed up against him again; Serbia's arms around his back, his tongue fighting its way between his lips. 'We can't', he wants to break the kiss and say, but he knows all too well that Serbia ignores things that he's told to do, even in situations like this. There's no point him wasting his breath; if Bulgaria really didn't want it, he could easily shove him away and refuse to comply – but hell, Serbia knows by now exactly how to push all his buttons, and the fact that his pants are currently constricting uncomfortably is proof enough of that.
“Got an idea.” Serbia mutters, when he draws away again. He tugs Bulgaria's jacket off, tossing it to the floor nearby. “You game?”
“Dunno.” Bulgaria raises an eyebrow. He's mumbling, still a little dumbfounded from being shoved up against the desk and kissed like that. “Your ideas're never exactly good ones.”
“Hah. Funny.” Serbia replies, sarcastically. He hooks his finger into the knot of Bulgaria's tie, loosening it. “Nah.” He watches him, eyes half-lidded. “I'm pretty sure you'll like this one.” He smirks. “And if ya don't, s'your loss.”
“That doesn't sound very convincin'.”
“Kinda like you when you're making up some stupid shit to lie about not getting taken up the ass by me, then?”
“You say that like you don't do the exact same thing.”
Serbia just chuckles lowly at that, shaking his head. He's unfastened Bulgaria's shirt by now, though he still has the tie in hand. “Turn 'round.”
Bulgaria eyes him with caution, taking a brief glance at the tie as well. He thinks he knows where this is going – they've done it before, after all... Just not in this kind of situation. He says nothing, but shuffles around to face the desk. As he expects, Serbia takes both of his arms and folds them behind his back, before binding his wrists with the tie. Bulgaria shivers a bit, but he chalks it up to the fact that he's half-shirtless in a fairly cool room, more than anything else. Before he can ask if that's it, Serbia leans against the desk, next to him.
“Sit in the seat.” Serbia tells him, discarding his own jacket in the same direction he'd thrown Bulgaria's before. Bulgaria looks over his shoulder at the chair Serbia was seated in just before. He backs up into it, which he finds is not a comfortable thing to do, with his arms tied as they are. “Y'know...” Serbia continues, whilst in the process of tugging his tie off. “I kinda like you better when you're being obedient like this.”
Bulgaria snorts. “I know by now that you'll just do whatever you want either way. I might as well save my energy not squirmin' and protestin'.”
Serbia lifts his shoulders in an apathetic shrug. “Wouldn't bother me if you were.”
“Heh, yeah. You get off to that shit, don't ya?”
The last thing Bulgaria sees is Serbia leaning forwards, smirking coldly again, before the strip of red – the tie he'd pointed out, ironically, looked good on the other man just before – is brought over his eyes and fastened behind the back of his head.
“We'll see how long you last.” Serbia snickers, and Bulgaria knows that from this point on, with his vision blocked, he has to be careful.
He hears the desk creak, and a shuffling of fabric. Bulgaria can only guess at what's happening from experience, but he's proved right, when Serbia then grabs him by the top of his hair, forcing him to bend in his direction. He pauses, waiting, saying nothing. He knows exactly what Serbia wants, and in turn, he's aware that Serbia knows that he knows.
With a hiss, Serbia tightens his fingers in his hair, pulling on his scalp. “It's not gonna suck itself.”
Bulgaria draws in a deep breath through his nose, and jerks his head forwards, opening his mouth to take it in. Serbia exhales, and loosens his fingers again – though he doesn't let go entirely. Beneath the tie, Bulgaria's eyelids close; he pushes the cock to the back of his mouth, running his tongue along the underside and feeling it twitch. He's only semi-hard, he notices, and so he expects he'll just want to be blown until that's rectified. Truth be told, he's both a little envious and a little annoyed at how Serbia needs this, whereas he himself is pretty damn aroused right now. He tries his best not to wriggle in the seat as he closes his mouth and begins to suck properly.
Serbia pushes him away again, after a short while, with an appeased grunt. As Bulgaria expected before, he hasn't come. The taste lingering in his mouth regardless, Bulgaria sits back in the chair, catching his breath; he doesn't have much time to relax, though, before his hair is tugged on again.
“Get up.” Serbia demands. Another shuffling, and the desk creaks again; he's slipped off it.
It's difficult to comply, with his arms bound, but Bulgaria manages to push his weight forwards and heave back to his feet. Serbia manages to aid him by letting go of his hair and giving him a shove on the back, though he knows it's not really aiding as much as him wanting to push him around. He finds himself with his hips (and, more annoyingly, his erection) pressed up against the desk again. A little relief comes, though, when Serbia reaches around and begins to unfasten his pants. They're slipped down soon after, along with his underwear.
Chuckling, Serbia begins to palm Bulgaria's length, pressing his chest against his back. He utters against his neck, his breath hot and pricking at his skin, “You want me to fuck you?”
Bulgaria grits his teeth. The hand rubbing his dick is warm and callous, and it's making his body shiver again. “Get on with it.”
The hand is gone again, and Serbia doesn't say anything in response. Bulgaria can't help but be apprehensive at this reaction; he has to wonder what he's going to do, if he's not going to backtalk him for the hissed answer he'd given. Without the tie still firmly in place across his eyes, all he can do is listen and speculate... He finds the sound of foil tearing moments later enough of a give-away. The lube is remarkably cold, and the contact on his entrance makes him jolt slightly.
“Ffft, relax. It's just my fingers.” Serbia drones. He presses them inside, wriggling and scissoring them until he's satisfied (he's never been one to spend particularly long on preparation).
When he pulls them out, Bulgaria exhales a long breath he didn't realise he was holding. He hears another packet tearing, and can't help but think aloud, “Ya gonna leave those in Belgium's trash?”
“No, I thought I'd just leave 'em out on the desk here for when she gets back.” Serbia answers, with obvious sarcasm. “You gonna ask any more stupid questions while I'm fucking your brains out?”
“Just reminding ya.”
“Yeah? Remind me later.” Serbia mutters, and he presses against Bulgaria's ass again, gripping onto his hips. He gives no other warning, and with a heavy grunt, pushes inside. Bulgaria bites his lips together, as Serbia draws out and back in again, picking up a pace; the desk squeaks each time, getting louder and louder as each thrust gets harder and faster.
Though the noise of the desk is a little distracting, Bulgaria's pretty sure it'll hold – what's bothering him is the fact that his cock is gingerly pressed between his stomach and the desk's surface, rubbing in a way that's almost painful, and hell, he's getting fucked so he shouldn't complain, but he wants – needs – to be jerked off now. He swallows, instinctively moving his arms... But they're still bound too tightly for him to get them free.
“Oh, God...” He groans, with a grimace.
In response, Serbia laughs a bit again, starting to kiss at his neck (purposefully at the other side to where he'd left the previous marks, just to be more of a pain in the ass than he is currently, of course). Both their bodies are hot and sweaty and anything Serbia does now is just going to make that fact worse. He slows for a moment, rolling his hips with as much force as he can, and he hits Bulgaria's prostate, making him hiss out again as his muscles tense up.
“Good?” Serbia asks. He bites Bulgaria's ear softly.
“Ye...ah.”
Serbia makes another of his amused snorting noises. He starts to thrust faster again, jabbing at that same spot inside Bulgaria, causing his cock to twinge and hurt even more; as much as Bulgaria tries to swallow or suppress the undignified noises emerging from his throat, he can't, now. But it's not long from then until Serbia slows considerably, emitting a long groan himself and shuddering... And then stops entirely, pulling out.
“A-Ah...” Bulgaria flinches. Next thing he knows, Serbia has moved back. “S-Shit... Please...” He manages to mutter.
Serbia seems to pause after having heard that. “Please, what?” He asks, amusement in his voice.
“Please... My... I didn't...” He shakes his head a bit.
Tugged backwards by the collar of his shirt, Bulgaria stumbles and finds himself falling back into the chair again. He grunts upon impact, not sure if having his dick pressed up against nothing now is better than having it rubbed in an antagonising way against the desk.
“Didn't what? Get off?” Serbia snickers, and Bulgaria can hear his footsteps around the chair. The scuffle of fabric tells him that he's collecting their clothes together. “Too bad.”
“Wh...What...?” Bulgaria writhes in the seat... The damned tie hasn't loosened around his arms at all.
“I said 'too bad'.” Serbia replies, nonchalant. He pauses again. “I mean, I could leave you here for Belgium to find, but you and I both know how that'll end. Not that I give a shit.”
A knot twists in Bulgaria's stomach... He's starting to seriously regret not pushing the idiot away in the first place, now... If Serbia was to leave now and Belgium was to come back... He shook his head briskly at the thought, scowling. “You fucker.”
There's silence for a moment, before Serbia cackles all of a sudden. “Oh, man, if you could see your face right now!”
Bulgaria's not sure he finds that funny in the slightest. He wriggles again, but that only seems to cause him more discomfort. “Vuk...” He mutters. “Vuk, it's not funny... It's hurting.”
Part of Bulgaria is glad for the blindfold, right about now, because he knows – just knows – that Serbia has a massive grin spread across his face. But he's still concerned, because despite being indirect he's asking for Serbia's help and... Serbia being Serbia, he knows he'll do the exact opposite of what he wants... He honestly did believe his joke about him leaving him there for Belgium to find, after all.
“Okay.” Serbia snorts. “Beg for it.”
“...What?”
“Beg for me to let you come.”
The thought is degrading, but that's what Serbia wants, clearly. Bulgaria genuinely can't say that he's surprised, though... And, hell, it's not like he has much of a choice. He licks over his lips, inhaling a breath... “Please, let me...”
“That's not begging.”
Bulgaria grimaces, but he tries to soften his tone of voice afterwards. “Please, Vuk, please let me come.”
“Heh. Much better.”
Though he finds it amazing that actually worked, Bulgaria doesn't have much time to dwell on it, because Serbia's hand is back around his cock all of a sudden, moving up and down slowly, his fingers squeezing. It takes very little of this contact for him to climax; seizing up for a moment, releasing a strained moan through his teeth. He swears through ragged breaths, his head beginning to hurt now that the pain from his dick has eased off; faint stars beginning to form behind his blinded vision.
“You're a good boy, when you wanna be.” Serbia says. Before Bulgaria can retort with 'yeah, I can say the same about you', he slides his fingers into his mouth to be licked clean. “You left precum on the desk, by the way, so unless we're really gonna be giving Goldilocks a fright when she comes back, you might wanna clean that up.” He retracts his hand.
“I... Can't do that if you don't untie me.” Bulgaria says, matter-of-factly, still trying to regain his breath.
Serbia lets out a light laugh, pulling the tie covering Bulgaria's eyes off his head. The light seeps back into his vision, though he has to blink a few times over for it to stop aching. Save for the tie, Serbia's already dressed again. He pulls the red strip of fabric free of its knot, and gives Bulgaria a sly smile.
“Think she'll notice if we switch ties?”
Bulgaria raises an eyebrow. “Probably.”
“That's a shame. I kinda like this one better on you.”
“Maybe next time.”
Grinning, Serbia ruffles Bulgaria's hair. “So there'll be a next time? Sounds good.” He moves around the chair to finally unfasten the tie on his arms.
Belgium, thankfully, still hasn't returned, when Bulgaria has dressed again and cleaned the desk. Serbia kicks back in the chair, taking the file in hand again.
“What's in that, anyway?” Bulgaria asks, taking the other seat when he's done.
“List of things I need to do for EU accession.” Serbia answers, giving him another smirk. “Got a lot to work on.”
“Is not drinking my milk from the carton one of 'em?”
“Nah, but neither's not taking you up the ass. Doesn't mean I won't do it.”
Bulgaria can't help but roll his eyes at that. “You never change, do ya?”