Something fell on her foot, and she remembered Russia, tall and looming, his smile creeping on his face as his boot crunched the bones of her toes reminding her of how her boot had kicked his shin earlier. Or she would hit the doorframe with her shoulder accidentally, and she could see Britain, twisting a burning knife into it and asking her how it felt as he showed her the scar she herself had left on his arm as she had done the same to him not a year past. Or her back would hit the bed a bit harder than she wanted, and briefly she would feel Czechoslovakia’s hands on her shoulder blades pushing her out of his house.
She deserved all of these wounds, and that made the pain much worse and vivid.
Everything was laced with guilt, and the sweet dreams the pills brought her felt undeserved and terrible.
One day, the index and middle finger of her right hand were caught in a drawer.
And she was brought back to a moment in time she had never wanted to remember.
There was a pain in her left hand from having punched Italy in the face.
Italy’s large amber eyes watched her, trembling, as she clutched her cheek, but she didn’t flinch or runaway, she just repeated herself, “Sorry!”
Luise couldn’t remember what she yelled, but it was loud and terrible and insulting and it hadn’t made her feel better at all.
Italy had abandoned her, had surrendered, and now had come to apologize.
Germany had wanted to kill her.
Both of them had been crying—Italy in fear and Germany in anger and betrayal and too many other emotions to think clearly.
She had kicked Italy. She had punched Italy. Italy had apologized and cried and whimpered, and when she had been just a snivelling, shaking bloodied mess on the floor, Germany had yanked her up by her hair and pushed her against the wall and her scared and sad and broken face had been too much and all the guilt in her exploded and the desire an love she had felt for Felicia for so long and her mind had wandered and.
And she had imagined her, in the hand of the allies. Her and her sister, naked, surrendering, offering themselves. She had imagined her, willingly and wantonly seducing them, letting that beautiful hair spill over her shoulders and begging for forgiveness with her body.
She had thought it was real. She had called Italy a whore.
Her hand had slid down to Italy’s breast, and when the other screamed, she hissed at her that she shouldn’t fool her, that she knew what a little bitch she really was. And when Italy had only cried as a reply, her hands had slid further down. And as Italy screamed “NO” and “GERMANY” and “PLEASE”, her fingers had slid up into her violently, and when she felt the pop and Italy cried out in pain, she knew that she could never look her in the eye again.
She had tensed and jerked away and said “out”. All of her strength had been gone in that same second. The war went on and more battles were fought and more people were killed, but Germany would only keep staring at her blood covered fingers and remember the sobs of Felicia leaving her room with a slight limp and no matter how much she had scrubbed, how much she ripped the nails off and shred the skin away her blood would never leave her fingers.
Back to the present, Germany clutched her hand and still saw the blood of Italy’s maidenhead on them, and she fought tears down again until she mustered enough strength to down more Valium and the sweet boy of her dreams was back, sleeping with a broom clutched in his tiny, thin arms, muttering something about pasta.
Then one day, Felicia was at her door.
It had been shocking, to say the least. Felicia, with flowers and a grin and a “Buon giorno!” on her lips, standing there in a light flowery dress and the same, friendly, dizzy expression as always.
And that bothered Luise. It bothered her and it nearly killed her with guilt, too, because she should have changed, at least towards her, she should be hating and cruel and angry, and flowers and smiles and greetings were not appropriate. For the last twenty years Felicia and her hadn’t even looked at each other in what Luise had wanted to assume was hatred, and if she had interacted with anyone it had been Lovina, who had told her that there weren’t words for how much Felicia hated her guts and that that was perfectly fine because “this is all your fucking fault anyway, potato bitch”.
Luise was tense and for a second could do nothing but stare. There was the feeling of her throat closing up and her eyes swelling and she repressed it, tried to fight it down as hard as she could—she had never cried in front of anyone and she was even reluctant to cry when she was alone—and she said absolutely nothing, just stood there with her feet taking root and her heart beating like it hadn’t since the war and stared at Felicia’s grinning form.
Slowly, Felicia opened her cheerfully closed eyes and looked at Luise with the warmest shade of brown, a shade of amber and honey with the slightest hint of earth, and in the colour and the size and in the way the long, unpainted lashes framed them as the crinkles at the corners decimated, Luise could see the change.
Felicia no longer looked apologetic, but forgiving.
Luise felt something wet spill onto her cheeks when she heard Felicia’s so annoying and stupid and deeply missed verbal tick.
“Ve~~”
She stepped aside, then, letting Felicia in, the tears running freely down her face. The Italian immediately frowned and looked panicked (“Veee! Germany! I’m sorry if you don’t like the flowers! I’ll make you pasta if you want to but please don’t cry!”) and when she hugged her, flowers falling to the floor behind her, Luise found herself sobbing and crying and literally bawling in Italy’s ponytail as she held her close.
A few more meetings and more pasta and hugs and Italy sleeping in her bed, and it was now.
Now, Italy’s eyes are wide as Germany falls to the floor in pain after burning the tips of her right index and heart fingers grabbing something hot. She immediately turns to her, worried, helps her up and runs cold water on her fingers, asking if it hurt so much that she fell, but Luise jerks her hand away and stares at her with shocked blue eyes.
She wonders what she’s doing.
Felicia and she are happily cooking pasta and Felicia sings and Luise feels happy but she knows that she doesn’t deserve this, that she doesn’t deserve happiness at all.
She stares at her reddening fingertips and feels the pop of Felicia’s hymen against them and is disgusted. She is disgusted at herself for acting normally around someone she raped, around someone she deprived of something as important as her first time, at that. She is disgusted of the way her cheeks still turn red whenever Felicia presses her breasts to her side as she sleeps, and at the way her eyes close with content when she tastes Italy’s pasta, because it has always tasted like this and the taste means home. She is disgusted because this shouldn’t be happening to someone as unworthy and evil as herself.
She runs to her room and sits on the bed, her head in her hands. Italy calls her, but she says “don’t” in a way that is louder and harsher and more heavily German-accented than she wants, and the other woman is rooted to the spot.
Luise just sits there and stares.
After turning all the pots down in the kitchen, Felicia heads upstairs. She knocks on Luise’s door and goes in anyway when the other woman just grunts.
She sits down next to her, and the new weight on the bed next to her makes Luise shift, but she still stares at her fingers with an agitated gaze.
Felicia slowly rubs circles into her back. She may be a bit slow and cowardly and naïve, but she isn’t stupid, and she knows that this isn’t about the burn in Germany’s fingertips. She tries to be as soothing as she can, and after a long, long while, Germany relaxes.
The words that she says next are bitter and her voice is too deep, like she is pushing it down so she doesn’t shriek in agony. “With these fingers” she starts, and she shows them to Felicia, “with these fingers I raped you. Do you remember?”
Felicia freezes on the spot.
When she doesn’t say anything, Luise looks up, and there’s fear in her eyes and pain and so much guilt. She looks like a stray child… like a child in a black coat and a black hat terrified of war but forced to go, like a little girl with grown up clothes and a sword who doesn’t want to leave her but has to and she just wants to soothe her so she can go and come back and have something to remind her of Italy while she’s away and she simply leans forward, her lips brushing against Luise’s, and stays there until the other pulls back.
She doesn’t let Luise talk. “Yes, I remember. I remember that with these fingers, you made me wurst when I was your captive. I remember that when I hit my finger while trying to make an immense sculpture that looked like a giant pizza slice you used them to put a band-aid on it. I remember that you tied my shoes with them and put my hair out of my face with them and that once, when you thought I was asleep, you drew little circles into my back with them.”
Felicia briefly wonders why she is suddenly so brave. She has had this crush on Luise for so long—sometimes she can’t help but feel that it’s longer than she even knows Luise, and that is just silly—and she has never felt like she could be stronger than Luise; yet here she is, soothing her and being all mature and valiant. She goes on, taking the fingers into her hand and softly kissing the fingertips. “I remember that you shot guns with them too, and that you put them in my collar to yell at me when I didn’t do my exercises. And I also remember what you just said. But I know that it was a long time ago.”
Luise keeps staring. Felicia looks at her with those huge amber-brown eyes and falls silent, slowly lowering her face to look at her lap and at the fidgeting hands there.
Then, after a few beats of silence, she beams up at Luise. “Vee, Germany! You know that pasta tastes really bad when it’s old, right? It goes all gummy and hard and dry!”
Germany finds her jaw dropping. She had been expecting anything, anything but this, and as she blinks she can feel the weight of her guilt slowly being brushed away by how random this woman can be. She stutters and eventually says nothing, but it isn’t required because Italy climbs fully onto the bed and throws her arms around her shoulders, making her fall back into the mattress. Then, as Italy’s ponytail falls into her eyes, the brunette softly whispers in her ear, her tone still cheerful, “I want us to make new pasta, Germany. I want us to forget all that old, weird tasting pasta and make new one that’s tasty and delicious, and then we can eat it together and laugh at how the other pasta doesn’t have to bother us again, okay?”
Her heart skips a beat when she finally figures out what the girl is talking about and she finds herself staring into Felicia’s eyes as she goes on, a softness to her voice now that she isn’t sure has ever heard before, “I love you, Luise. Let’s make new pasta”.
She isn’t really sure what happens then. All she knows is that suddenly, Felicia’s mouth is on hers and they are kissing, not the sweet little touch of lips the Italian gave her before, but a wet, needy kiss, lips parting and pressing onto each other with strength. At some point there’s a tongue against hers and she shudders at the sudden bolt of heat it sends down her body.
She pulls her legs onto the bed and the Italian straddles her, chests flush against each other—and oh god, she can feel Felicia’s breasts against hers and there’s another pang of heat in her very core—and never once stops kissing. There is barely air between them. Her eyes are closed and her face feels too hot but the lips and the tongue on hers are too warm to care.
When Felicia grinds her hips down and moans slightly, there is yet another bolt of heat and she can feel it pooling in her belly and down down down and she knows that she’s aroused. Something in the back of her mind tells her to stop, then, that she shouldn’t be doing this, and she vaguely agrees and thinks of ways to make it stop. She can’t break off the kiss without Felicia latching onto her immediately again. She can’t jerk her off because she doesn’t want to be violent. The only thing she thinks will work will be pulling at that strange curl Felicia has; that has always worked in the past.
So she does.
Well, Felicia does stop. She stops, but the moan that escapes her lips is deep and throaty and just flat out obscene. She strokes it again, just out of sheer confusion, and Felicia practically screams in what is very obviously pleasure, shuddering and grinding her hips against Luise’s again, opening her eyes to look at her with half lidded eyes clouded with lust.
Whatever was telling her to stop has completely disappeared.
She sits up, Italy on top or her, and she ravishes her mouth again. The Italian tugs on the hem of her tank top and she obediently puts her arms up to let her get it off, quickly yanking the other’s dress up in return. Then the brunette is sitting on her in just her underwear and she parts to watch her.
She instantly feels dirty. It’s shouldn’t be possible for anyone to look that good.
Felicia’s skin is darker than hers, smooth and devoid of freckles. She has seen it before, of course—the Italian was never all that careful with her nakedness, sometimes even forgetting her pants or skirt, which made dresses so incredibly practical—but never like this, flushed and hot beneath her touch and so inviting. She has also never stared at her breasts, but now she is, and they are so round and perfect behind her bra that her hands instantly jerk up to touch them.
Italy smiles, a little noise in the back of her throat finding a way out, and then her eyes close again when Luise tentatively squeezes. The small moans she lets out reduce Germany to a trembling, horny mess, her sex, under Felicia’s, wet and hot and throbbing.
The brunette kisses her with a ferocious grin on her lips as she squeezes and touches and brushes her thumbs over her hard nipples. She feels her lifting her sports bra and is instantly self conscious, but the aroused flush on Felicia’s face and the slightly pleading way her eyes shine is enough to make her close her eyes and take it off.
She doesn’t look at the other, red and embarrassed, but then her hand is on her cheek and it’s gentle and comforting and she opens her eyes.
Felicia has taken hers off, as well. Luise looks at the tear drop shaped breasts in front of her and moans as arousal stabs her again. They are perfect, the skin as smooth as everywhere else, smaller than Luise’s but perfectly round and perky, with small dark nipples in their centres just waiting to be kissed. She almost pats herself on the back for not immediately jumping them.
The Italian also stares at hers. Luise has always hated them—she has never felt particularly feminine or cared about gender at all, and they have always been in the way for training and were just additional weight—and she is afraid that Felicia will hate them too. They are riddled with scars, a particularly nasty one running right between them, another through her right nipple, making them look asymmetrical.
When Felicia brings a hand to it, Luise is surprised that the attached memory doesn’t come. Neither do the others. All there is right now is her, her hand, her gentle fingers working to caress and squeeze and make her feel good. Felicia’s smile is still there, soft, and she says “Germany is so beautiful!” before lowering her mouth to the other nipple and oh.
She can’t take it anymore; it is all too hot, too much, the way Felicia’s sex irradiates heat that she can feel even through her clothes and her own responds with throbbing, the way she is uncomfortably wet and feels it whenever she shifts, the way Felicia’s tongue lavishes her nipple and it tears sounds out of her throat she had no idea she could even make. Felicia’s hands are on her belt buckle and it’s unfastened and she’s naked before she can think about it, the Italian rearranging them side by side on the bed and tearing down her panties.
When they are both naked, she doesn’t know what to do.
She stares at Italy, flushed and exposed, her breasts spilling on her chest and her legs a bit spread, inviting. She looks down at her own body, sweating and trembling and needing.
Italy pulls her down for another kiss, and her knee finds a way between the other’s legs and Luise can feel the wetness. She wants this every bit as much as herself.
Yet when she moves her right hand to touch her, her eyes grow wide and she jerks her hand away.
She thrust these same fingers into her without consent and this is wrong—
“Germany” Italy says, her voice breathy with need and arousal, “Luise” , and the sound of her name from those lips can only make her shake more, “I know w-what Luise is thinking, but… this is my first time. I’m g-giving it to you, see? I w-want you to have it. I always did”.
Luise thinks about it, then, thinks about the flushed and hot and wanton Italian and her lips and laughs and her ve~ and her words of just now and for the first time, the thought comes to her that this is her first time, too.
Her own virginity had been robbed by someone who had thought that wounded women had nothing to do on the battlefield and who had taken her roughly and left to what he thought would be death. She is a Nation, though, and what some concupiscent human decided to do left her unfazed; she didn’t even cry then, just felt humiliated, and never considered it too important that she wasn’t a virgin anymore.
Now, though, here in Felicia’s arms and with her hands entwined in her blond short hair and her brown eyes focused on her own, she feels that it is special once again, that this is going to be the first time she gives herself willingly, and Felicia’s too, and she can still hear Felicia’s words in the back of her head wanting to make new memories (well, she had used the word “pasta”, but Luise thought she understood her after all these years), and she nods.
They kiss, and as their chests press together, nipples brushing skin, they both moan and know that they to start doing something about the heat and the wetness.
Felicia spreads her legs and let’s Luise put one of hers between them. She grabs Luise’s thigh and has it straddle her, while shifting her hips so that the leg that isn’t straddled hooks around Luise’s waist.
Luise catches what she wants to do and uses her fingers to spread her lower lips apart.
Then she presses down.
They both shudder.
Their clits rub frantically as they both thrust. They shift and move; Luise grabs Felicia’s leg and pulls on it to make the contact deeper.
Luise moans, not wanting to close her eyes and keep watching Felicia, but as she presses down harder, always harder, it turns more and more difficult.
While still rubbing against her, she bends down and claims her lover’s lips. The tenderness ads to the tearing force with which they are thrusting against each other; all is warm and wetness and searing hot pleasure now, no Nations and no terrible pasts and no war and just them, Germany and Italy long forgotten and now nothing but Luise and Felicia and their moans rasping the back of their throats as they scream the others name and confess love and say things that make no sense because talking becomes difficult.
Their fingers lace together. The thrusts turn erratic, too frantic, too harsh. They won’t last much longer.
Luise gently strokes Felicia’s curl again; her eyes fly open and she cries out, and her hips buck up harder and harder until she comes with another loud cry, which Luise muffles with her lips as she comes too, spilling more wetness between them and feeling her insides constrict without the need of even a hint of penetration.
She collapses on top of Felicia then, their bodies slick with sweat. They hold each other tight as they slowly start breathing again.
In the small hours of the night, Germany wakes up. There is still an uncomfortable wetness between her legs and she is a bit hungry—they went to bed without having dinner, after all—and somebody has snatched the covers.
But she doesn’t once think about reaching for the pills, because then Italy turns around, her naked breasts pressing against her back again, and as she turns around to face the other nation she smiles and thinks that maybe she will be able to sleep again, without pills and without scars.
Just with Italy.
The End.
Oh god, that was ridiculously long and SO not PWP, as I had originally intended. I am incredibly sorry! D:
Notes: -The “crazier plans” of America, Britain and Russia Germany refers to here are alternative plans to the actual plan decreed at Potsdam. A few ideas were to split Germany in three, in four, in a lot of tiny countries, or have it completely disappear. Some other ideas were to sterilize all the Germans and… worse things, still. But thankfully, they recognized soon enough that it wouldn’t be better than what the German’s had done and settled for what we know today. -Russia looming over her: the way the Soviet’s treated German prisoners of war, after the way the Germans had treated Soviet prisoners of war. No, they were not particularly nice to each other. -Britain and a burning knife: The (second) bombings of the Ruhr-Area. While the Americans focused on destroying factories and buildings of military value, the RAF pretty much went for the civilians. This (has been speculated to be) due to the bombings of the British coast the Germans had conducted shortly prior. -Czechoslovakia kicking her out: After the war, all occupied territories “kicked the Germans out”; however, in Czechoslovakia this was particularly harsh, as they went as far as actually killing the Germans, murdering them in the streets, attacking even the partners of someone of German descent. It soon turned from “going away” into “fleeing”. -Germany and Italy hated their guts after the war. Just sayin’. That’s mostly why I wanted this separation of human names vs. country names, to express that what they feel for each other does not always directly depend on what their countries feel. But German-Italian relations improved a lot (in present day, Italy is the favourite spot for German tourists again). -There’s… probably more, but since I’m too stupid to make footnotes, I can’t remember where and I’m dying to post this already so I will NOW. If you have questions, just ask them :D -Also, yes, that is the “Germany is the HRE”-theory right there. I’m sorry D:
This was really good! I especially loved Italy's "let's get rid of the old pasta and make new pasta!" analogy. It was so in-character that I could actually imagine Italy saying that in canon. Wonderful job, anon!
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Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:24 am (UTC)(link)She deserved all of these wounds, and that made the pain much worse and vivid.
Everything was laced with guilt, and the sweet dreams the pills brought her felt undeserved and terrible.
One day, the index and middle finger of her right hand were caught in a drawer.
And she was brought back to a moment in time she had never wanted to remember.
There was a pain in her left hand from having punched Italy in the face.
Italy’s large amber eyes watched her, trembling, as she clutched her cheek, but she didn’t flinch or runaway, she just repeated herself, “Sorry!”
Luise couldn’t remember what she yelled, but it was loud and terrible and insulting and it hadn’t made her feel better at all.
Italy had abandoned her, had surrendered, and now had come to apologize.
Germany had wanted to kill her.
Both of them had been crying—Italy in fear and Germany in anger and betrayal and too many other emotions to think clearly.
She had kicked Italy. She had punched Italy. Italy had apologized and cried and whimpered, and when she had been just a snivelling, shaking bloodied mess on the floor, Germany had yanked her up by her hair and pushed her against the wall and her scared and sad and broken face had been too much and all the guilt in her exploded and the desire an love she had felt for Felicia for so long and her mind had wandered and.
And she had imagined her, in the hand of the allies. Her and her sister, naked, surrendering, offering themselves. She had imagined her, willingly and wantonly seducing them, letting that beautiful hair spill over her shoulders and begging for forgiveness with her body.
She had thought it was real. She had called Italy a whore.
Her hand had slid down to Italy’s breast, and when the other screamed, she hissed at her that she shouldn’t fool her, that she knew what a little bitch she really was. And when Italy had only cried as a reply, her hands had slid further down. And as Italy screamed “NO” and “GERMANY” and “PLEASE”, her fingers had slid up into her violently, and when she felt the pop and Italy cried out in pain, she knew that she could never look her in the eye again.
She had tensed and jerked away and said “out”. All of her strength had been gone in that same second. The war went on and more battles were fought and more people were killed, but Germany would only keep staring at her blood covered fingers and remember the sobs of Felicia leaving her room with a slight limp and no matter how much she had scrubbed, how much she ripped the nails off and shred the skin away her blood would never leave her fingers.
Back to the present, Germany clutched her hand and still saw the blood of Italy’s maidenhead on them, and she fought tears down again until she mustered enough strength to down more Valium and the sweet boy of her dreams was back, sleeping with a broom clutched in his tiny, thin arms, muttering something about pasta.
Then one day, Felicia was at her door.
It had been shocking, to say the least. Felicia, with flowers and a grin and a “Buon giorno!” on her lips, standing there in a light flowery dress and the same, friendly, dizzy expression as always.
She looked like she hadn’t changed.
Re: Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:25 am (UTC)(link)Luise was tense and for a second could do nothing but stare. There was the feeling of her throat closing up and her eyes swelling and she repressed it, tried to fight it down as hard as she could—she had never cried in front of anyone and she was even reluctant to cry when she was alone—and she said absolutely nothing, just stood there with her feet taking root and her heart beating like it hadn’t since the war and stared at Felicia’s grinning form.
Slowly, Felicia opened her cheerfully closed eyes and looked at Luise with the warmest shade of brown, a shade of amber and honey with the slightest hint of earth, and in the colour and the size and in the way the long, unpainted lashes framed them as the crinkles at the corners decimated, Luise could see the change.
Felicia no longer looked apologetic, but forgiving.
Luise felt something wet spill onto her cheeks when she heard Felicia’s so annoying and stupid and deeply missed verbal tick.
“Ve~~”
She stepped aside, then, letting Felicia in, the tears running freely down her face. The Italian immediately frowned and looked panicked (“Veee! Germany! I’m sorry if you don’t like the flowers! I’ll make you pasta if you want to but please don’t cry!”) and when she hugged her, flowers falling to the floor behind her, Luise found herself sobbing and crying and literally bawling in Italy’s ponytail as she held her close.
A few more meetings and more pasta and hugs and Italy sleeping in her bed, and it was now.
Now, Italy’s eyes are wide as Germany falls to the floor in pain after burning the tips of her right index and heart fingers grabbing something hot. She immediately turns to her, worried, helps her up and runs cold water on her fingers, asking if it hurt so much that she fell, but Luise jerks her hand away and stares at her with shocked blue eyes.
She wonders what she’s doing.
Felicia and she are happily cooking pasta and Felicia sings and Luise feels happy but she knows that she doesn’t deserve this, that she doesn’t deserve happiness at all.
She stares at her reddening fingertips and feels the pop of Felicia’s hymen against them and is disgusted. She is disgusted at herself for acting normally around someone she raped, around someone she deprived of something as important as her first time, at that. She is disgusted of the way her cheeks still turn red whenever Felicia presses her breasts to her side as she sleeps, and at the way her eyes close with content when she tastes Italy’s pasta, because it has always tasted like this and the taste means home. She is disgusted because this shouldn’t be happening to someone as unworthy and evil as herself.
She runs to her room and sits on the bed, her head in her hands. Italy calls her, but she says “don’t” in a way that is louder and harsher and more heavily German-accented than she wants, and the other woman is rooted to the spot.
Luise just sits there and stares.
After turning all the pots down in the kitchen, Felicia heads upstairs. She knocks on Luise’s door and goes in anyway when the other woman just grunts.
She sits down next to her, and the new weight on the bed next to her makes Luise shift, but she still stares at her fingers with an agitated gaze.
Felicia slowly rubs circles into her back. She may be a bit slow and cowardly and naïve, but she isn’t stupid, and she knows that this isn’t about the burn in Germany’s fingertips. She tries to be as soothing as she can, and after a long, long while, Germany relaxes.
Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:28 am (UTC)(link)Felicia freezes on the spot.
When she doesn’t say anything, Luise looks up, and there’s fear in her eyes and pain and so much guilt. She looks like a stray child… like a child in a black coat and a black hat terrified of war but forced to go, like a little girl with grown up clothes and a sword who doesn’t want to leave her but has to and she just wants to soothe her so she can go and come back and have something to remind her of Italy while she’s away and she simply leans forward, her lips brushing against Luise’s, and stays there until the other pulls back.
She doesn’t let Luise talk. “Yes, I remember. I remember that with these fingers, you made me wurst when I was your captive. I remember that when I hit my finger while trying to make an immense sculpture that looked like a giant pizza slice you used them to put a band-aid on it. I remember that you tied my shoes with them and put my hair out of my face with them and that once, when you thought I was asleep, you drew little circles into my back with them.”
Felicia briefly wonders why she is suddenly so brave. She has had this crush on Luise for so long—sometimes she can’t help but feel that it’s longer than she even knows Luise, and that is just silly—and she has never felt like she could be stronger than Luise; yet here she is, soothing her and being all mature and valiant. She goes on, taking the fingers into her hand and softly kissing the fingertips. “I remember that you shot guns with them too, and that you put them in my collar to yell at me when I didn’t do my exercises. And I also remember what you just said. But I know that it was a long time ago.”
Luise keeps staring. Felicia looks at her with those huge amber-brown eyes and falls silent, slowly lowering her face to look at her lap and at the fidgeting hands there.
Then, after a few beats of silence, she beams up at Luise. “Vee, Germany! You know that pasta tastes really bad when it’s old, right? It goes all gummy and hard and dry!”
Germany finds her jaw dropping. She had been expecting anything, anything but this, and as she blinks she can feel the weight of her guilt slowly being brushed away by how random this woman can be. She stutters and eventually says nothing, but it isn’t required because Italy climbs fully onto the bed and throws her arms around her shoulders, making her fall back into the mattress. Then, as Italy’s ponytail falls into her eyes, the brunette softly whispers in her ear, her tone still cheerful, “I want us to make new pasta, Germany. I want us to forget all that old, weird tasting pasta and make new one that’s tasty and delicious, and then we can eat it together and laugh at how the other pasta doesn’t have to bother us again, okay?”
Her heart skips a beat when she finally figures out what the girl is talking about and she finds herself staring into Felicia’s eyes as she goes on, a softness to her voice now that she isn’t sure has ever heard before, “I love you, Luise. Let’s make new pasta”.
She isn’t really sure what happens then. All she knows is that suddenly, Felicia’s mouth is on hers and they are kissing, not the sweet little touch of lips the Italian gave her before, but a wet, needy kiss, lips parting and pressing onto each other with strength. At some point there’s a tongue against hers and she shudders at the sudden bolt of heat it sends down her body.
She pulls her legs onto the bed and the Italian straddles her, chests flush against each other—and oh god, she can feel Felicia’s breasts against hers and there’s another pang of heat in her very core—and never once stops kissing. There is barely air between them. Her eyes are closed and her face feels too hot but the lips and the tongue on hers are too warm to care.
Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:30 am (UTC)(link)So she does.
Well, Felicia does stop. She stops, but the moan that escapes her lips is deep and throaty and just flat out obscene. She strokes it again, just out of sheer confusion, and Felicia practically screams in what is very obviously pleasure, shuddering and grinding her hips against Luise’s again, opening her eyes to look at her with half lidded eyes clouded with lust.
Whatever was telling her to stop has completely disappeared.
She sits up, Italy on top or her, and she ravishes her mouth again. The Italian tugs on the hem of her tank top and she obediently puts her arms up to let her get it off, quickly yanking the other’s dress up in return. Then the brunette is sitting on her in just her underwear and she parts to watch her.
She instantly feels dirty. It’s shouldn’t be possible for anyone to look that good.
Felicia’s skin is darker than hers, smooth and devoid of freckles. She has seen it before, of course—the Italian was never all that careful with her nakedness, sometimes even forgetting her pants or skirt, which made dresses so incredibly practical—but never like this, flushed and hot beneath her touch and so inviting. She has also never stared at her breasts, but now she is, and they are so round and perfect behind her bra that her hands instantly jerk up to touch them.
Italy smiles, a little noise in the back of her throat finding a way out, and then her eyes close again when Luise tentatively squeezes. The small moans she lets out reduce Germany to a trembling, horny mess, her sex, under Felicia’s, wet and hot and throbbing.
The brunette kisses her with a ferocious grin on her lips as she squeezes and touches and brushes her thumbs over her hard nipples. She feels her lifting her sports bra and is instantly self conscious, but the aroused flush on Felicia’s face and the slightly pleading way her eyes shine is enough to make her close her eyes and take it off.
She doesn’t look at the other, red and embarrassed, but then her hand is on her cheek and it’s gentle and comforting and she opens her eyes.
Felicia has taken hers off, as well. Luise looks at the tear drop shaped breasts in front of her and moans as arousal stabs her again. They are perfect, the skin as smooth as everywhere else, smaller than Luise’s but perfectly round and perky, with small dark nipples in their centres just waiting to be kissed. She almost pats herself on the back for not immediately jumping them.
The Italian also stares at hers. Luise has always hated them—she has never felt particularly feminine or cared about gender at all, and they have always been in the way for training and were just additional weight—and she is afraid that Felicia will hate them too. They are riddled with scars, a particularly nasty one running right between them, another through her right nipple, making them look asymmetrical.
When Felicia brings a hand to it, Luise is surprised that the attached memory doesn’t come. Neither do the others. All there is right now is her, her hand, her gentle fingers working to caress and squeeze and make her feel good. Felicia’s smile is still there, soft, and she says “Germany is so beautiful!” before lowering her mouth to the other nipple and oh.
Oh.
Luise moans quite loudly.
Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [6/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:34 am (UTC)(link)When they are both naked, she doesn’t know what to do.
She stares at Italy, flushed and exposed, her breasts spilling on her chest and her legs a bit spread, inviting. She looks down at her own body, sweating and trembling and needing.
Italy pulls her down for another kiss, and her knee finds a way between the other’s legs and Luise can feel the wetness. She wants this every bit as much as herself.
Yet when she moves her right hand to touch her, her eyes grow wide and she jerks her hand away.
She thrust these same fingers into her without consent and this is wrong—
“Germany” Italy says, her voice breathy with need and arousal, “Luise” , and the sound of her name from those lips can only make her shake more, “I know w-what Luise is thinking, but… this is my first time. I’m g-giving it to you, see? I w-want you to have it. I always did”.
Luise thinks about it, then, thinks about the flushed and hot and wanton Italian and her lips and laughs and her ve~ and her words of just now and for the first time, the thought comes to her that this is her first time, too.
Her own virginity had been robbed by someone who had thought that wounded women had nothing to do on the battlefield and who had taken her roughly and left to what he thought would be death. She is a Nation, though, and what some concupiscent human decided to do left her unfazed; she didn’t even cry then, just felt humiliated, and never considered it too important that she wasn’t a virgin anymore.
Now, though, here in Felicia’s arms and with her hands entwined in her blond short hair and her brown eyes focused on her own, she feels that it is special once again, that this is going to be the first time she gives herself willingly, and Felicia’s too, and she can still hear Felicia’s words in the back of her head wanting to make new memories (well, she had used the word “pasta”, but Luise thought she understood her after all these years), and she nods.
They kiss, and as their chests press together, nipples brushing skin, they both moan and know that they to start doing something about the heat and the wetness.
Felicia spreads her legs and let’s Luise put one of hers between them. She grabs Luise’s thigh and has it straddle her, while shifting her hips so that the leg that isn’t straddled hooks around Luise’s waist.
Luise catches what she wants to do and uses her fingers to spread her lower lips apart.
Then she presses down.
They both shudder.
Their clits rub frantically as they both thrust. They shift and move; Luise grabs Felicia’s leg and pulls on it to make the contact deeper.
Luise moans, not wanting to close her eyes and keep watching Felicia, but as she presses down harder, always harder, it turns more and more difficult.
While still rubbing against her, she bends down and claims her lover’s lips. The tenderness ads to the tearing force with which they are thrusting against each other; all is warm and wetness and searing hot pleasure now, no Nations and no terrible pasts and no war and just them, Germany and Italy long forgotten and now nothing but Luise and Felicia and their moans rasping the back of their throats as they scream the others name and confess love and say things that make no sense because talking becomes difficult.
Their fingers lace together. The thrusts turn erratic, too frantic, too harsh. They won’t last much longer.
Luise gently strokes Felicia’s curl again; her eyes fly open and she cries out, and her hips buck up harder and harder until she comes with another loud cry, which Luise muffles with her lips as she comes too, spilling more wetness between them and feeling her insides constrict without the need of even a hint of penetration.
Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [7/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 12:36 am (UTC)(link)In the small hours of the night, Germany wakes up. There is still an uncomfortable wetness between her legs and she is a bit hungry—they went to bed without having dinner, after all—and somebody has snatched the covers.
But she doesn’t once think about reaching for the pills, because then Italy turns around, her naked breasts pressing against her back again, and as she turns around to face the other nation she smiles and thinks that maybe she will be able to sleep again, without pills and without scars.
Just with Italy.
The End.
Oh god, that was ridiculously long and SO not PWP, as I had originally intended. I am incredibly sorry! D:
Notes:
-The “crazier plans” of America, Britain and Russia Germany refers to here are alternative plans to the actual plan decreed at Potsdam. A few ideas were to split Germany in three, in four, in a lot of tiny countries, or have it completely disappear. Some other ideas were to sterilize all the Germans and… worse things, still. But thankfully, they recognized soon enough that it wouldn’t be better than what the German’s had done and settled for what we know today.
-Russia looming over her: the way the Soviet’s treated German prisoners of war, after the way the Germans had treated Soviet prisoners of war. No, they were not particularly nice to each other.
-Britain and a burning knife: The (second) bombings of the Ruhr-Area. While the Americans focused on destroying factories and buildings of military value, the RAF pretty much went for the civilians. This (has been speculated to be) due to the bombings of the British coast the Germans had conducted shortly prior.
-Czechoslovakia kicking her out: After the war, all occupied territories “kicked the Germans out”; however, in Czechoslovakia this was particularly harsh, as they went as far as actually killing the Germans, murdering them in the streets, attacking even the partners of someone of German descent. It soon turned from “going away” into “fleeing”.
-Germany and Italy hated their guts after the war. Just sayin’. That’s mostly why I wanted this separation of human names vs. country names, to express that what they feel for each other does not always directly depend on what their countries feel. But German-Italian relations improved a lot (in present day, Italy is the favourite spot for German tourists again).
-There’s… probably more, but since I’m too stupid to make footnotes, I can’t remember where and I’m dying to post this already so I will NOW. If you have questions, just ask them :D
-Also, yes, that is the “Germany is the HRE”-theory right there. I’m sorry D:
Re: Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [7/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 07:33 am (UTC)(link)Re: Beyond scars and pain there's pasta [7/7]
(Anonymous) 2013-02-10 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)