Notes: Yet again, a fill for the kink meme, which requested "Germany/Fem!Austria - anything smutty and angsty." Although this wound up leaning quite heavily towards the latter. And this is not shota, I'd like to specify; Germany is at last in his late teens, however there is still a substantial age difference so if that squicks you, this is your warning. Oh, don't worry about that bold; I'm just trying to make sure people notice it even if they skip through the author's notes (because let's face it, I'm boring). Also, there's some Fem!Austria/Male!Hungary thrown in, if that bothers you. Historical notes are down the bottom.
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.
"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."
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.
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."
-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.