Notes: Um, okay. This wound up a lot more on the angsty side, but nevermind. Also, a brief disclaimer: this is not meant to be shota, and Germany is in his late teens at youngest. However, there's still a significant age difference, so if that squicks you, you might wanna give this one a miss. Also, some addition fem!Austria/male!Hungary snuck in there, so, uh, sorry.
---
He is young. So very young.
“Austria,” he moans, desperately trying to grab onto her hips as she rides him hard, rolling her hips back to let as much of his cock slide in as she can possibly take.
“Stop talking,” she says brusquely, running a hand through his hair. “You'll kill the mood.”
He nods, face red, avoiding her eye. His hands dig into the sheets.
“You can touch me if you want,” she tells him. “If you damage me, it'll cost less than if you damage those.”
He seems confused. He wears a common soldiers' uniform, all rough and sturdy fabrics; he's not used to her silks and velvets. She tried asking Prussia once, why Germany dressed like that, but he'd just shrugged and snorted. “That's West for ya. Always so fuckin' humble. If it was the awesome me representing this new thing...” and then it all degenerated into some drunken blather rather abusing the word 'awesome'. One day, she is going to buy that man a thesaurus.
Where was she again?
His hands glide gracefully by her sides, tracing patterns over her, and she shivers slightly before rolling her eyes. “Not like that,” she says, placing her hands over his and pressing them into her. “Harder. Leave bruises, my dear.”
He seems skeptical, but ever the good soldier he obeys, digs those strong fingers into her hips, red blooming around them. She winces. “Good boy.”
His nails come out, scratching at her, and she moans as she sinks onto his cock again.
“Very good,” she murmurs, half to herself. She runs her own hands down Germany's fine chest. The boy is barely undressed; his shirt buttoned, his pants unzipped and that is all. Her own silk robe is long since discarded; she is completely naked, as she should be. Germany's chest has all the evidence of someone who has been training since birth to fight; wicked, powerful muscles that could destroy any human in a heartbeat (who knows what they'll actually do for him, though). Scars run all over him; scars she's ashamed to say she doesn't fully know where they all came from, but she sure as hell knows more than he does.
“Wait,” he says, confused (again) by her gentle touches. “I thought we were meant to–?”
She smiles. “It's different for me, dear.” She won't give a further explanation. He doesn't ask her for one. For that, she could kiss him and so she does.
“Mn–!” It's adorable how surprised he is by it all, really. He is so young. She shivers a little.
“Shh,” she whispers against his lips, caressing his cheek. He does so, and he opens his mouth to let her kiss him further, and tries his best to return it. Always the obedient soldier...
But who is he fighting f–
Shut up. This isn't the time.
Germany looks her in the eye when she leaves his mouth. Despite everything – despite Prussia's demands, despite her own manipulations, despite the scars all over his body – he still has the eyes of a child, open and trusting. Innocent.
She pulls back.
“Austria–”
“Shh. What did I tell you about talking?” Her hands are still on his chest, and gently she flicks one of his nipples. It hardens. “Oh. Did you enjoy that?”
He blushes, avoids her eye. “Sorry.”
She wants to laugh. “Don't worry. It's perfectly normal. Hungary adores it, for one.”
He blushes further when she mentions her husband – oh, she hopes he won't become oh-so-preoccupied with the sexual politics here, as his brother always used to. She hopes he doesn't think he loves her or some such mad thing (he can do better, he deserves better).
“Austria,” he gasps again, and she leans down applying kisses and bites and bruises. With how red she makes him, you can hardly see the scars.
“Austria,” he sounds insistent now, and she hushes him again. There's a gasp, a buck and a pause before she realises what is happening.
He starts blushing again, obviously so embarrassed (like any man, really). “Sorry – I just – uh–”
“You're young, it's no surprise.” She really should at least try and be tactful here. Prussia has been a bad influence on her. Nonetheless, she pulls herself off him, watches as his body relaxes and softens. He seems peaceful.
And, irritatingly, he doesn't let it last. “I assume I am meant to return the favor now?”
Now it is her turn to stammer over words. She has no right to demand anything of him, and yet... “It is the general etiquette for these things.”
She lies down on her silk sheets, lets him slide his fingers into her. He is clumsy and overeager; his lack of experience is obvious, but she says nothing. She shakes and bucks and shivers; she aches to earn this, but she can't explain that to poor, young, awfully forgetful Germany.
“Should I–” she has no idea what he's asking her, so she makes a new question for him to answer. She takes his thumb, presses it above, where's she's most sensitive; where she's too sensitive – it's like pain, and that is good.
“Austria,” he whispers her name again; he is oh so obsessed with her name. She can't help but see significance in that. He has had so many names; he has been so many people. He is all those millions of tiny states, trying to own themselves, trying to own each other, owned by everyone outside them – she was but one more, really. And the war... it was just the tip of the iceburg.
“Germany.”
Her silk sheets are the work of silkworms; grimy, unloved creatures put to use and who die quickly. Then they are forgotten, and their life's work... it's a mark of luxury, for people like her to revel in, because they are better than others. The silkworms do not care.
-
Hungary doesn't mind. He never does. He comes in after Germany has left, as Austria wraps her robe around herself, as she composes herself again. Hungary pushes her towards the mirror, sits her down, brushes her hair.
They don't speak for awhile. She relaxes at his hands, and he sighs sadly. “What do you think you are doing, love?”
“I am strengthening an alliance with the rising new Central European power. Is that a bad thing?” she says quickly. Damn him, he knows her too well.
He says nothing. He runs his fingers through her hair, long and thick and luxurious. She sighs.
“He's not ours. He can't be.”
“I know that.” She doesn't want him to be. She doesn't trust herself.
“...He won't forgive you. He doesn't know what to forgive you for. Please, love, don't punish yourself.”
She looks away, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. “You wouldn't understand.”
“And you understand too well,” he tells her. She meets his eye again, confused. He smiles. “We all need to forget sometimes.”
“...I can't simply forget things,” she says. “I'm German.”
---
NO-ONE SAW THAT.
Some brief histories: -Fic is set during the pre-WWI era; basically, Germany is a pretty young country and it's power is rising. Prussia is still the major power behind Germany at this point. The line between Germany as a country and Germany as a geographic/cultural thing was also a lot hazier, hence why Austria calls herself German. -This whole fic kind of relies on HRE=Germany, even if I don't mention that explicitly, due to Austria having been the major power behind the Holy Roman Empire and the resulting issues. -The war Austria references is the Thirty Years War, in which religious differences led to many of the states of the HRE rebelling; everyone ever got involved, and basically it was depressing and complicated and the region was screwed. -...There's something I've forgotten to explain, isn't there?
„Nnno, I will not beat you.” Ludwig hissed through his teeth ( and German always sounds like a bark).
Sophie’s cabinet sank in the dark, but it was a good darkness. Quiet and warm. Graphite. Interspersed with scattered orange rays. It enfolded soft chair and furniture with rounded edges. As in the cozy house, not like in the border military camp.
BANG – and again, rusty red glow lit up the horizon outside the window. Bombing. Her eyes flashed purple from the glow. Sophie looked down and slowly let the air out. Her heart was pounding, painfully, constantly (“Did he hear it…?”. She thought and the body quivered almost convulsively.)
On the countertop in the colour of a cinnamon, on the desk among the silver plated fountain pens were scattered photographs of fair – haired, smooth combed man. They were, of course, black and white (we have 1942). Sometimes blurred. Sophie, when she found them in the archive, long looked before she understood.
Photos of the interrogations. Photos of the interrogations which were conducted by Ludwig.
Several pictures with a whip, a few with a dagger.
Ludwig is licking his fingers (and it had to be blood, red blood is seen even in black and white photographs.). Ludwig is smiling at least disturbing.
Sophie never seen him so much beautiful.
In several pictures she can see interrogated. They were once human beings. But when you are looking on it, you can have doubts.
Looking at Ludwig – no doubt.
“Űbermench” Thought Sophie.
Photo fall on the desk from her hand. After all they all fall. She stared at them and her eyes grew bigger, bigger, bigger and her mouth narrower, narrower, narrower. A skin began to burn.
Sophie did not like war, Sophie played the piano ( “Talented survive” Her grandmother repeated often.) And when she played Strauss’ waltz even Fűhrer listened. Wehrmacht soldiers grumbled, but never too loud, not to drown out the melody.
The waltz passed, moved by their lips, their ears and necks, banging in military orders which answered him with quiet knock.
“Sehr gut” Fuhrer said and he sent acknowledgment by trusted colleagues.
Exceptionally strong handshake – Sophie groaned softly.
Whispered “sorry” and blue but burning eyes. The face that was embarrassed by its own serious. Ludwig.
And then for many months, in a room full of people, in the operas, the theaters, the openings Sophie played for Ludwig. Because she did not know how to write other letters.
Her fingers glided over the keys and the word suddenly became like those keys, black and white.
The war.
“I must find him.” Heart pounded and lungs ran out of air. He quickly advanced. Fűhrer recommendation.
But that is not Sophie who found Ludwig, it was him who found her.
“Do you remember me?” He asked abruptly (perhaps to hide the tremble in his voice).
“Of course!” She said with smile (Ludwig should hug her tightly and oh…).
But Ludwigs’ eyes narrowed into blue crystals. Ludwig had responsibilities, obligations of a state! And it was nothing that Sophie’s gaze gravitated more. And Sophie was proud. To time.
Forgetfulness is a great art, especially when you do not forget, when you can’t forget.
First time – they pretending that it was by accident. Sophie pretended that she drank wine. Ludwig pretended that he drank wine. (“Das Rheingold” Bitter and bad)
First time was embarrassing and strange.
“We will determine terms.” Ludwig tossed casually. “Twice a week, something like that.”
And Sophie tried not to smile in a silly, naïve, sudden and unexpected happiness.
She did not know Ludwig. She knew about it. She knew about it, too well.
Sometimes Ludwig was violent, but for Sophie was good. He was awkward, warm and good. He had the rough soldiers’ hands and when he touched her, he tried not to leave bruises.
But Sophie felt Ludwigs’ hands. And she knew they were lying.
These photos, this was the missing piece in the puzzle.
“You are different than you are trying to be.” She whispered, almost mockingly, like naughty child. ( satisfaction ) She hopes that Ludwig hits her.
Ludwig predicted that.
[The war is all around us, you are so delicate, I have to protect you, you can’t deny it, I know it.]
(You do not know me, you are too afraid.)
[I have to protect you.
I must protect you.
I must protect you
From myself.]
( I love you, you don’t believe me.)
“Nnno, I will not beat you. Ludwig hissed through his teeth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Germany/Fem!Austria - anything smutty ang angsty.
(Anonymous) 2012-01-09 07:24 pm (UTC)(link)bonu - Germany tops.
Silkworms [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2012-01-18 03:50 am (UTC)(link)---
He is young. So very young.
“Austria,” he moans, desperately trying to grab onto her hips as she rides him hard, rolling her hips back to let as much of his cock slide in as she can possibly take.
“Stop talking,” she says brusquely, running a hand through his hair. “You'll kill the mood.”
He nods, face red, avoiding her eye. His hands dig into the sheets.
“You can touch me if you want,” she tells him. “If you damage me, it'll cost less than if you damage those.”
He seems confused. He wears a common soldiers' uniform, all rough and sturdy fabrics; he's not used to her silks and velvets. She tried asking Prussia once, why Germany dressed like that, but he'd just shrugged and snorted. “That's West for ya. Always so fuckin' humble. If it was the awesome me representing this new thing...” and then it all degenerated into some drunken blather rather abusing the word 'awesome'. One day, she is going to buy that man a thesaurus.
Where was she again?
His hands glide gracefully by her sides, tracing patterns over her, and she shivers slightly before rolling her eyes. “Not like that,” she says, placing her hands over his and pressing them into her. “Harder. Leave bruises, my dear.”
He seems skeptical, but ever the good soldier he obeys, digs those strong fingers into her hips, red blooming around them. She winces. “Good boy.”
His nails come out, scratching at her, and she moans as she sinks onto his cock again.
“Very good,” she murmurs, half to herself. She runs her own hands down Germany's fine chest. The boy is barely undressed; his shirt buttoned, his pants unzipped and that is all. Her own silk robe is long since discarded; she is completely naked, as she should be. Germany's chest has all the evidence of someone who has been training since birth to fight; wicked, powerful muscles that could destroy any human in a heartbeat (who knows what they'll actually do for him, though). Scars run all over him; scars she's ashamed to say she doesn't fully know where they all came from, but she sure as hell knows more than he does.
“Wait,” he says, confused (again) by her gentle touches. “I thought we were meant to–?”
She smiles. “It's different for me, dear.” She won't give a further explanation. He doesn't ask her for one. For that, she could kiss him and so she does.
“Mn–!” It's adorable how surprised he is by it all, really. He is so young. She shivers a little.
“Shh,” she whispers against his lips, caressing his cheek. He does so, and he opens his mouth to let her kiss him further, and tries his best to return it. Always the obedient soldier...
But who is he fighting f–
Shut up. This isn't the time.
Germany looks her in the eye when she leaves his mouth. Despite everything – despite Prussia's demands, despite her own manipulations, despite the scars all over his body – he still has the eyes of a child, open and trusting. Innocent.
She pulls back.
“Austria–”
“Shh. What did I tell you about talking?” Her hands are still on his chest, and gently she flicks one of his nipples. It hardens. “Oh. Did you enjoy that?”
He blushes, avoids her eye. “Sorry.”
She wants to laugh. “Don't worry. It's perfectly normal. Hungary adores it, for one.”
He blushes further when she mentions her husband – oh, she hopes he won't become oh-so-preoccupied with the sexual politics here, as his brother always used to. She hopes he doesn't think he loves her or some such mad thing (he can do better, he deserves better).
“Austria,” he gasps again, and she leans down applying kisses and bites and bruises. With how red she makes him, you can hardly see the scars.
“Austria,” he sounds insistent now, and she hushes him again. There's a gasp, a buck and a pause before she realises what is happening.
She blinks. “Oh.”
Re: Silkworms [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2012-01-18 04:08 am (UTC)(link)“You're young, it's no surprise.” She really should at least try and be tactful here. Prussia has been a bad influence on her. Nonetheless, she pulls herself off him, watches as his body relaxes and softens. He seems peaceful.
And, irritatingly, he doesn't let it last. “I assume I am meant to return the favor now?”
Now it is her turn to stammer over words. She has no right to demand anything of him, and yet... “It is the general etiquette for these things.”
She lies down on her silk sheets, lets him slide his fingers into her. He is clumsy and overeager; his lack of experience is obvious, but she says nothing. She shakes and bucks and shivers; she aches to earn this, but she can't explain that to poor, young, awfully forgetful Germany.
“Should I–” she has no idea what he's asking her, so she makes a new question for him to answer. She takes his thumb, presses it above, where's she's most sensitive; where she's too sensitive – it's like pain, and that is good.
“Austria,” he whispers her name again; he is oh so obsessed with her name. She can't help but see significance in that. He has had so many names; he has been so many people. He is all those millions of tiny states, trying to own themselves, trying to own each other, owned by everyone outside them – she was but one more, really. And the war... it was just the tip of the iceburg.
“Germany.”
Her silk sheets are the work of silkworms; grimy, unloved creatures put to use and who die quickly. Then they are forgotten, and their life's work... it's a mark of luxury, for people like her to revel in, because they are better than others. The silkworms do not care.
-
Hungary doesn't mind. He never does. He comes in after Germany has left, as Austria wraps her robe around herself, as she composes herself again. Hungary pushes her towards the mirror, sits her down, brushes her hair.
They don't speak for awhile. She relaxes at his hands, and he sighs sadly. “What do you think you are doing, love?”
“I am strengthening an alliance with the rising new Central European power. Is that a bad thing?” she says quickly. Damn him, he knows her too well.
He says nothing. He runs his fingers through her hair, long and thick and luxurious. She sighs.
“He's not ours. He can't be.”
“I know that.” She doesn't want him to be. She doesn't trust herself.
“...He won't forgive you. He doesn't know what to forgive you for. Please, love, don't punish yourself.”
She looks away, avoiding his eyes in the mirror. “You wouldn't understand.”
“And you understand too well,” he tells her. She meets his eye again, confused. He smiles. “We all need to forget sometimes.”
“...I can't simply forget things,” she says. “I'm German.”
---
NO-ONE SAW THAT.
Some brief histories:
-Fic is set during the pre-WWI era; basically, Germany is a pretty young country and it's power is rising. Prussia is still the major power behind Germany at this point. The line between Germany as a country and Germany as a geographic/cultural thing was also a lot hazier, hence why Austria calls herself German.
-This whole fic kind of relies on HRE=Germany, even if I don't mention that explicitly, due to Austria having been the major power behind the Holy Roman Empire and the resulting issues.
-The war Austria references is the Thirty Years War, in which religious differences led to many of the states of the HRE rebelling; everyone ever got involved, and basically it was depressing and complicated and the region was screwed.
-...There's something I've forgotten to explain, isn't there?
Re: Silkworms [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2012-01-19 07:35 pm (UTC)(link)I just love the dynamic between FemAustria and MaleHungary too! <3
Re: Silkworms [1/2] OP
(Anonymous) 2012-01-20 08:47 am (UTC)(link)Our small war 1/6 a
(Anonymous) 2012-01-24 08:04 pm (UTC)(link)Sophie’s cabinet sank in the dark, but it was a good darkness. Quiet and warm. Graphite. Interspersed with scattered orange rays. It enfolded soft chair and furniture with rounded edges. As in the cozy house, not like in the border military camp.
BANG – and again, rusty red glow lit up the horizon outside the window. Bombing. Her eyes flashed purple from the glow. Sophie looked down and slowly let the air out. Her heart was pounding, painfully, constantly (“Did he hear it…?”. She thought and the body quivered almost convulsively.)
On the countertop in the colour of a cinnamon, on the desk among the silver plated fountain pens were scattered photographs of fair – haired, smooth combed man. They were, of course, black and white (we have 1942). Sometimes blurred. Sophie, when she found them in the archive, long looked before she understood.
Photos of the interrogations. Photos of the interrogations which were conducted by Ludwig.
Several pictures with a whip, a few with a dagger.
Ludwig is licking his fingers (and it had to be blood, red blood is seen even in black and white photographs.). Ludwig is smiling at least disturbing.
Sophie never seen him so much beautiful.
In several pictures she can see interrogated. They were once human beings. But when you are looking on it, you can have doubts.
Looking at Ludwig – no doubt.
“Űbermench” Thought Sophie.
Photo fall on the desk from her hand. After all they all fall. She stared at them and her eyes grew bigger, bigger, bigger and her mouth narrower, narrower, narrower. A skin began to burn.
Sophie did not like war, Sophie played the piano ( “Talented survive” Her grandmother repeated often.) And when she played Strauss’ waltz even Fűhrer listened. Wehrmacht soldiers grumbled, but never too loud, not to drown out the melody.
The waltz passed, moved by their lips, their ears and necks, banging in military orders which answered him with quiet knock.
“Sehr gut” Fuhrer said and he sent acknowledgment by trusted colleagues.
Exceptionally strong handshake – Sophie groaned softly.
Whispered “sorry” and blue but burning eyes. The face that was embarrassed by its own serious. Ludwig.
And then for many months, in a room full of people, in the operas, the theaters, the openings Sophie played for Ludwig. Because she did not know how to write other letters.
Her fingers glided over the keys and the word suddenly became like those keys, black and white.
The war.
“I must find him.” Heart pounded and lungs ran out of air.
He quickly advanced. Fűhrer recommendation.
But that is not Sophie who found Ludwig, it was him who found her.
Our small war 1/6 b
(Anonymous) 2012-01-24 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)“Do you remember me?” He asked abruptly (perhaps to hide the tremble in his voice).
“Of course!” She said with smile (Ludwig should hug her tightly and oh…).
But Ludwigs’ eyes narrowed into blue crystals. Ludwig had responsibilities, obligations of a state! And it was nothing that Sophie’s gaze gravitated more. And Sophie was proud. To time.
Forgetfulness is a great art, especially when you do not forget, when you can’t forget.
First time – they pretending that it was by accident. Sophie pretended that she drank wine. Ludwig pretended that he drank wine. (“Das Rheingold” Bitter and bad)
First time was embarrassing and strange.
“We will determine terms.” Ludwig tossed casually. “Twice a week, something like that.”
And Sophie tried not to smile in a silly, naïve, sudden and unexpected happiness.
She did not know Ludwig. She knew about it. She knew about it, too well.
Sometimes Ludwig was violent, but for Sophie was good. He was awkward, warm and good. He had the rough soldiers’ hands and when he touched her, he tried not to leave bruises.
But Sophie felt Ludwigs’ hands. And she knew they were lying.
These photos, this was the missing piece in the puzzle.
“You are different than you are trying to be.” She whispered, almost mockingly, like naughty child. ( satisfaction ) She hopes that Ludwig hits her.
Ludwig predicted that.
[The war is all around us, you are so delicate, I have to protect you, you can’t deny it, I know it.]
(You do not know me, you are too afraid.)
[I have to protect you.
I must protect you.
I must protect you
From myself.]
( I love you, you don’t believe me.)
“Nnno, I will not beat you. Ludwig hissed through his teeth.
And he doesn’t know how much he is wrong.