[Fanfiction] Farewell to None
Title: Farewell to None
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Angst/Romance
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Prussia/Hungary, mentions of Austria/Hungary
Rating/Warning(s): R-NC-17, explicit sexual content, foul language (Gilbert’s potty mouth)
Word Count: 3,182
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - In the days of the Iron Curtain, a desperately lonely Hungary seeks out Prussia in hopes of filling a void.
He was dizzy with hunger and exhaustion but he still had enough presence of mind to think that this wasn’t right.
Not in the immoral sense (because that’s never stopped him from doing things before). No, the whole damn situation was fucked up (in the bad way).
He never slept with Elizabetha. He never got a chance to even kiss her, no matter what he threatened, no matter how much he teased and taunted and insinuated. She’d moved to that pussy Roderich’s house and later she’d married him and they were one happy family and all that shit.
He’d watched from a distance and he had to be honest with himself: he was jealous and… pissed. Jealous of the two of them in the undeniable… bond they had with each other, of Roderich for somehow managing to get Elizabetha to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world. He was pissed at her for leaving him (not that she had ever been his to begin with), at the priss for taking her away from him, at himself because he’d never said anything-
But it was too late to think about that now. The lovebirds had divorced and now they were separated, truly, by a wall and by soldiers and by all those stupid fucking nations…
He turned his attention back to her. Life on this side of the Iron Curtain (he snorted at the term. Only that English bastard could come up with something like that) had not been kind to her at all, she who had lived during the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, in a world where they really could carve out kingdoms with steel and horses. She no longer had her luxurious hair, that rich red-brown hair that he secretly loved. It had been cut short, leaving her with a mess of ugly, crooked strands that had become faded and brittle from little food and endless work. Her eyes, once so alive, once full of fire and fight and courage, seemed like glass. The figure that had given him uncomfortable, desperate dreams (how the hell did she get it, when she’d been a skinny little stick of a thing?) was gone, or rendered nonexistent under her ugly baggy clothing.
He could only wonder what she saw in him. He barely acknowledged his own reflection in his grubby little shard of a mirror every morning when he shaved.
But still… this was Elizabetha. This was his childhood friend, his former brother at arms. This was the only woman who had infuriated him so much, frustrated him so much, and yet fascinated him utterly.
“Please,” she had whispered to him in passing two days ago. Her eyes had glowed again with fire but it was a desperate sort of light. That scared him shitless; desperation was not the sort of expression he had ever wanted to see on her face. She had gripped his arm tightly and pressed her body against his, just for a single moment. And he had nodded, stiffly.
He gave her the spare key yesterday. They knew that they had to be careful; Ivan was a possessive bastard who didn’t approve of those nations under his… guidance fraternizing “inappropriately.” But the thrill of plotting something illicit made him feel alive- just for a little. He felt like his old self again, even grinning that mad, mad grin that infuriated and frightened.
She came at around eight o’clock, just before curfew. It meant she was going to have to stay the night and Gilbert wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not. A shawl covered her head and shoulders as she shuffled into his apartment, looking furtively over her shoulder. She had a basket over one arm.
“Here,” she whispered, passing it over. He could smell something savory coming from it and almost dropped the basket; it was heavier than he’d expected.
Peeking inside immediately, he saw bread (black bread, the usual rations), wrapped paper packages, a pair of withered apples, a small pasteboard box, and of all things, a dark bottle of wine (a very small one). At least one of the packages had wurst (he could smell garlic and herbs and pork fat) and he tried very hard not to start laughing hysterically. He seemed to always be fighting that urge.
She undid the shawl from her head and shoulders, hanging it on a small rack by the door. Her eyes seemed way too big for her face and they were far paler in color.
“It’s- the least I can do,” she said in a low voice. She played with the fraying hem of her jacket.
“…Danke,” he finally said, awkwardly.
What do you do when the tomboy who made your life hell was standing in front of you, frightened and thin and desperate? What did you say to her, especially when you realized that you would let her beat you up into a bloody pulp, if it would only make her smile?
He reached out and tilted up her chin with his fingers. “Danke,” he repeated, slowly and steadily. She turned her head away from him quickly and seized the basket back, hurrying deeper into the apartment.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked shrilly, going to his bare kitchen. “Let me plate it out for you at least…”
He followed her as she rummaged through his filthy, mostly bare cupboards. “Share it with me,” he said.
She froze, in the middle of pulling down a chipped plate. “I already ate,” she said with a forced, false smile.
“Liar,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve always been a shitty liar.”
“I’m not that hungry,” she argued.
“Damn it, bitch, there’s only so much I can eat before it rots or the rats get to it,” he snapped at her. “So you might as well help yourself.”
Her lips thinned for a moment then an odd smile flickered in her eyes as she silently did so. They shared two links of wurst together, along with most of the cheese she had brought, a loaf of the bread spread thin with butter made with half-cream, as well as one of the apples. Somehow, they managed to eat civilly and somehow Gilbert found himself unexpectedly relaxing, even enjoying himself. Or maybe it was thanks to the wine, which he hadn’t had for far too long. After the first utterly stupid gulp sent his brain spinning, he restricted himself to smaller, even girlier sips. Elizbetha also seemed to relax as well though she still looked too much like a deer, big-eyed and ready to run.
The pasteboard box proved to contain chocolate.
“Black market?” he asked wryly and she nodded silently. But an unexpected lump rose in his throat as he noticed the moniker on the foil wrappings. Hildebrands. Neither of them could find the heart or initiative to take one, so they left the box alone.
Then they were left in a steadily uncomfortable silence. He did not precisely look at her, not knowing what to do at all.
She took the initiative (he’d always suspected that she proposed to Roderich rather than the other way around). Getting to her feet, she pulled him up from his chair, going to his bedroom (It took a complete and utter idiot to not be able to find it in this shithole and Elizabetha was hardly one). He followed her obediently and silently for once, fumbling with the electric switch that filled the dingy room with an equally dingy light from the two bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Then, methodically, she stripped off her clothing. The jacket, the far too baggy trousers, the shirt underneath the jacket, leaving her only in very thin panties and something that looked like a skimpy dress (a slip, his more educated side supplied). She turned around and gave him a look that was half-expectant, half-pleading. When he didn’t move, standing there like a lump, she came over and started to undo his clothing for him. She got pretty far before he had the presence of mind to bat her hands away and do it for himself, leaving him only in dingy gray undershirt and underwear. They were both too thin.
He reached out, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. His neck bent and he tried to kiss her. But she turned her head away and said, in a low, broken voice, “Don’t.”
Jealousy surged awake for a single moment before burning out in an instant; he was too tired for envy. So instead, he ran his hands along her body, memorizing every detail of her. As glad as he should have been to touch her at last, he felt only a numb emptiness, perhaps a thrill like startled panic. First her hands, now skeletal but once so strong, whether gripped around a sword hilt or a frying pan handle. Then her arms, wasted and weak, which had to be so strong once to be able to lift her weapon, hold a shield. Her shoulders seemed oddly small and delicate; he’d never noticed that before or maybe they just stood out to him.
He then kissed the slope of her shoulder, experimentally. Her skin tasted like sweat and dust and perhaps a little of garlic, with the memory of horses and endless steppes, old leather and hot steel. While she shivered, she didn’t hit him or pull away; he took this as a good thing. In the mean time, her hands ran all along his chest, his wasted body, going along ribs and collarbones that stuck out too sharply and too harshly. He was almost glad that it was night and the room only had the barest of light.
Gilbert never realized he would find a day in which he would want to lie so badly. Deception always struck him as wrong (well, unless it was for military purposes of course and then he’d lie like the fucking dog to get what he wanted), particularly self-deception. Only weak pussies lied to themselves; real men went out to actually get what they wanted. He didn’t want this, he thought. If he were going to sleep with Elizabetha, to fuck her- he wanted to do it properly. In her bed, preferably, the bed she shared with Roderich (just to piss off the Austrian priss). Or barring that… somewhere nice. Not a dingy, mildewed bedroom on a thin mattress with hole-covered sheets.
He wanted her to be the spitfire with long flowing hair, who would insult him as they fucked. And he wanted to be- He wanted to be himself again, the proud and powerful Gilbert Weillschmidt, Teutonic Knight, General-
Still, he responded to her touch, because it was still her underneath it all. She was still the girl he had unknowingly, unwillingly fallen in love with, the woman he had wanted to steal away so badly once she was out of reach. Underneath it all, she still touched him with knowledgeable sword-calloused fingers and he could still smell the ghost of her past self, and if he only closed his eyes…
Her eyes refused to meet his, in fact, she had closed them. Still, she touched him, flicking at his pale nipples with her nails, somehow intuiting that he liked to have them pulled and pinched a little harshly. With that, he let his hands travel to her breasts, cupping them in his roughened hands (no longer roughened from swords but from spades, from axes, from rope) as gently as he could. She didn’t hit him, didn’t aim a kick to his shins or to his vital regions. Instead, she sighed, leaning against him with her fingertips going to his stomach now. He continued to trail his lips along her shoulder blade, alternating kisses with little nips.
“Say my name,” she ordered him, her voice rough and a little choked.
“Elizabetha,” he whispered, softly.
“Again,” she demanded, her hands clenching harshly at his hips.
He winced. Damn she still had a good grip. “Elizabetha,” he said, obediently. How was he supposed to say her name? How would R- He refused to go down that train of thought.
She wasn’t crying or she was doing a damn good job holding back her tears. And he was glad about it. If she started crying… he didn’t know what he would do.
He pulled his hands out from the top of her slip and then placed them at the bottom, starting to pull it up. Almost angrily, her eyes still closed, she pulled off the top so violently that the thin cotton tore, throwing it aside. She remained standing, her eyes closed, her head bowed, her breasts fully exposed. He drank in the sight of her as best he could.
‘Damn it, you witch. I don’t want to love you. I never wanted to love you.’
His head bent and he caught a nipple in his mouth, kissing it, sucking it, licking it. Her breathing became harsh and labored, particularly as his hand rested on the other breast, stroking and cupping and pinching so lightly. She keened, softly, and he drew away, leaving her nipple glistening, before attacking the other one. His hand then traveled downwards, between her breasts, going down her sternum, her soft, flat stomach, ignoring the far too visible ribs, and paused at the top of her panties.
“Just do it,” she ordered, harshly.
His mouth otherwise occupied, he did so, his fingers clumsily going under the band, feeling the warm, dampening curls between her legs. Normally he didn’t have a problem with saying “pussy” or “cunt.” But he couldn’t do it in front of her and he choked back a hysterical laugh.
Despite his hand’s efforts to stop him, he stroked her, drawing on experience (albeit very distant and partially forgotten). She shuddered, her legs shaking and he could feel more stickiness against his fingers. Distantly, he was aware that he was hard, his erection more than easily tenting the front of his underwear. But he was lost in feeling her clench around his fingers tightly, the little hard clit he found way too easily.
She soon fell against him, gasping and panting, and she was warm in his arms. He drew his fingers from her panties and took her to the bed, laying her down as gently as he could with arms that trembled from weakness, from exertion, from lust. On the bed, on thin and ragged sheets, she could not have been more… beautiful.
He wanted to devour her, until nothing was left of her. She would be his then. Forever.
‘You will be one with me,’ a soft, high pitched voice declared and he froze.
Her eyes opened very slightly. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Nothing,” he said, gruffly. And he buried his face in her breasts to distract himself.
Soon her legs were parted and her eyes were closed again. She gasped and moaned and silently pleaded. Her hands clenched at the sheets and her toes curled.
‘If I could, I would never be in love with you.’
He then reached out and pulled down her panties down her legs, exposing her to him finally. She lay very still for him, her lips parted and whispering something in Hungarian. In the mean time, he pressed kisses to the insides of her thighs, to her legs. He inhaled her scent and swiped his tongue between her legs just to hear her moan.
“Stop teasing me!” she demanded, her voice breathless. “Just- just-”
“Do what?” he asked her, with a ghost of his favorite smirk. He blew softly along her thigh.
“Fuck me!” she whimpered. “Fuck me, damn you!” She finished with an impressive (and coherent) thread of Hungarian curses.
He took off his own underwear with far less care than he took off hers, tossing both aside. Licking his lips he settled between her legs, guiding his hard, demanding cock into her. The first contact almost made him die, the feeling of her wet and tight and hot around him. She sighed as he could not restrain himself and let his hips buck forward hard and fast for the last few inches. He remained there, never wanting to forget this for as long as he could.
“Don’t tease me!” she pleaded. “Please!”
And that reminded him to move, his hips moving slowly but gaining speed, like a dance, like a drill he had learned a long time ago and remembered once he started practicing again. He fucked her hard and she didn’t care; if anything, she demanded more, her legs wrapping around his hips and trying to take him deeper and deeper into herself. Her arms also wrapped around him, forcing him closer.
“See me now, Roderich. See me fuck her. See me give her what you can’t. She’s mine for now,” he would have shouted another time, another place.
His lips pressed kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her shoulders, her ears. He panted and growled and could barely breathe. Then she tilted her head back, smashed her lips, her mouth, her teeth against him in a brutal, desperate kiss, her tongue instantly probing his mouth. He kissed her back with everything he had, his skin on fire. Suddenly- he felt warm again.
But as they fucked each other more desperately, as they raced to their respective orgasms, she could only cry out one word: “Roderich!”
As he thrust one last time into her, before he got lost in the blinding flood and flash of ejaculation, he bit into her shoulder, before he could scream her name.
She opened her eyes and looked at him and that was when the tears started to come. Her body shook and she tried to smile even as she started to sob.
‘But I love you. And I will do anything for you.’
He stared at her, sticky with sweat and still panting. Then he reached for a corner of the sheets, bringing it over and gently depositing in her hand, even as he pulled out of her and let her be for a few moments. He fumbled in the clumsy bedside table for his half-finished box of cheap black market cigarettes and a box of matches, still sticky and sweaty. Behind him, Hungary rolled over and took a few deep, shuddering breaths.
“I’ll… I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, and his own voice sounded empty and stupid to his ears. He wiped himself off, put his underwear and trousers back on, and headed to the filthy kitchen, the cigarette dangling from between his fingers. No vodka; his ration was full out and besides- he wasn’t sure if he wanted any more reminders of Ivan fucking Braginsky.
He took a deep drag and exhaled the thick smoke. His hand ran through his hair and he started to laugh to himself, softly.
“Damn it,” he said, shakily, in between his laughs. “Damn it all to Hell.”
Elizabetha left at dawn. He made her take the chocolates with her.
-Hildebrands: a German chocolate company, or, more specifically, a factory. They’re most well-known for rather cute postcards, particularly one they released in 1900 imagining what Christmas in 2008 would be (it involved Santa in a zeppelin, I believe).
-Prussia’s thoughts in Italics are a paraphrase of my friend’s favorite quote about love. Nice and cheery, isn’t it?
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Angst/Romance
Character(s)|Pairing(s): Prussia/Hungary, mentions of Austria/Hungary
Rating/Warning(s): R-NC-17, explicit sexual content, foul language (Gilbert’s potty mouth)
Word Count: 3,182
Summary: Originally a kink meme fill - In the days of the Iron Curtain, a desperately lonely Hungary seeks out Prussia in hopes of filling a void.
He was dizzy with hunger and exhaustion but he still had enough presence of mind to think that this wasn’t right.
Not in the immoral sense (because that’s never stopped him from doing things before). No, the whole damn situation was fucked up (in the bad way).
He never slept with Elizabetha. He never got a chance to even kiss her, no matter what he threatened, no matter how much he teased and taunted and insinuated. She’d moved to that pussy Roderich’s house and later she’d married him and they were one happy family and all that shit.
He’d watched from a distance and he had to be honest with himself: he was jealous and… pissed. Jealous of the two of them in the undeniable… bond they had with each other, of Roderich for somehow managing to get Elizabetha to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world. He was pissed at her for leaving him (not that she had ever been his to begin with), at the priss for taking her away from him, at himself because he’d never said anything-
But it was too late to think about that now. The lovebirds had divorced and now they were separated, truly, by a wall and by soldiers and by all those stupid fucking nations…
He turned his attention back to her. Life on this side of the Iron Curtain (he snorted at the term. Only that English bastard could come up with something like that) had not been kind to her at all, she who had lived during the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, in a world where they really could carve out kingdoms with steel and horses. She no longer had her luxurious hair, that rich red-brown hair that he secretly loved. It had been cut short, leaving her with a mess of ugly, crooked strands that had become faded and brittle from little food and endless work. Her eyes, once so alive, once full of fire and fight and courage, seemed like glass. The figure that had given him uncomfortable, desperate dreams (how the hell did she get it, when she’d been a skinny little stick of a thing?) was gone, or rendered nonexistent under her ugly baggy clothing.
He could only wonder what she saw in him. He barely acknowledged his own reflection in his grubby little shard of a mirror every morning when he shaved.
But still… this was Elizabetha. This was his childhood friend, his former brother at arms. This was the only woman who had infuriated him so much, frustrated him so much, and yet fascinated him utterly.
“Please,” she had whispered to him in passing two days ago. Her eyes had glowed again with fire but it was a desperate sort of light. That scared him shitless; desperation was not the sort of expression he had ever wanted to see on her face. She had gripped his arm tightly and pressed her body against his, just for a single moment. And he had nodded, stiffly.
He gave her the spare key yesterday. They knew that they had to be careful; Ivan was a possessive bastard who didn’t approve of those nations under his… guidance fraternizing “inappropriately.” But the thrill of plotting something illicit made him feel alive- just for a little. He felt like his old self again, even grinning that mad, mad grin that infuriated and frightened.
She came at around eight o’clock, just before curfew. It meant she was going to have to stay the night and Gilbert wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not. A shawl covered her head and shoulders as she shuffled into his apartment, looking furtively over her shoulder. She had a basket over one arm.
“Here,” she whispered, passing it over. He could smell something savory coming from it and almost dropped the basket; it was heavier than he’d expected.
Peeking inside immediately, he saw bread (black bread, the usual rations), wrapped paper packages, a pair of withered apples, a small pasteboard box, and of all things, a dark bottle of wine (a very small one). At least one of the packages had wurst (he could smell garlic and herbs and pork fat) and he tried very hard not to start laughing hysterically. He seemed to always be fighting that urge.
She undid the shawl from her head and shoulders, hanging it on a small rack by the door. Her eyes seemed way too big for her face and they were far paler in color.
“It’s- the least I can do,” she said in a low voice. She played with the fraying hem of her jacket.
“…Danke,” he finally said, awkwardly.
What do you do when the tomboy who made your life hell was standing in front of you, frightened and thin and desperate? What did you say to her, especially when you realized that you would let her beat you up into a bloody pulp, if it would only make her smile?
He reached out and tilted up her chin with his fingers. “Danke,” he repeated, slowly and steadily. She turned her head away from him quickly and seized the basket back, hurrying deeper into the apartment.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked shrilly, going to his bare kitchen. “Let me plate it out for you at least…”
He followed her as she rummaged through his filthy, mostly bare cupboards. “Share it with me,” he said.
She froze, in the middle of pulling down a chipped plate. “I already ate,” she said with a forced, false smile.
“Liar,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve always been a shitty liar.”
“I’m not that hungry,” she argued.
“Damn it, bitch, there’s only so much I can eat before it rots or the rats get to it,” he snapped at her. “So you might as well help yourself.”
Her lips thinned for a moment then an odd smile flickered in her eyes as she silently did so. They shared two links of wurst together, along with most of the cheese she had brought, a loaf of the bread spread thin with butter made with half-cream, as well as one of the apples. Somehow, they managed to eat civilly and somehow Gilbert found himself unexpectedly relaxing, even enjoying himself. Or maybe it was thanks to the wine, which he hadn’t had for far too long. After the first utterly stupid gulp sent his brain spinning, he restricted himself to smaller, even girlier sips. Elizbetha also seemed to relax as well though she still looked too much like a deer, big-eyed and ready to run.
The pasteboard box proved to contain chocolate.
“Black market?” he asked wryly and she nodded silently. But an unexpected lump rose in his throat as he noticed the moniker on the foil wrappings. Hildebrands. Neither of them could find the heart or initiative to take one, so they left the box alone.
Then they were left in a steadily uncomfortable silence. He did not precisely look at her, not knowing what to do at all.
She took the initiative (he’d always suspected that she proposed to Roderich rather than the other way around). Getting to her feet, she pulled him up from his chair, going to his bedroom (It took a complete and utter idiot to not be able to find it in this shithole and Elizabetha was hardly one). He followed her obediently and silently for once, fumbling with the electric switch that filled the dingy room with an equally dingy light from the two bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Then, methodically, she stripped off her clothing. The jacket, the far too baggy trousers, the shirt underneath the jacket, leaving her only in very thin panties and something that looked like a skimpy dress (a slip, his more educated side supplied). She turned around and gave him a look that was half-expectant, half-pleading. When he didn’t move, standing there like a lump, she came over and started to undo his clothing for him. She got pretty far before he had the presence of mind to bat her hands away and do it for himself, leaving him only in dingy gray undershirt and underwear. They were both too thin.
He reached out, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. His neck bent and he tried to kiss her. But she turned her head away and said, in a low, broken voice, “Don’t.”
Jealousy surged awake for a single moment before burning out in an instant; he was too tired for envy. So instead, he ran his hands along her body, memorizing every detail of her. As glad as he should have been to touch her at last, he felt only a numb emptiness, perhaps a thrill like startled panic. First her hands, now skeletal but once so strong, whether gripped around a sword hilt or a frying pan handle. Then her arms, wasted and weak, which had to be so strong once to be able to lift her weapon, hold a shield. Her shoulders seemed oddly small and delicate; he’d never noticed that before or maybe they just stood out to him.
He then kissed the slope of her shoulder, experimentally. Her skin tasted like sweat and dust and perhaps a little of garlic, with the memory of horses and endless steppes, old leather and hot steel. While she shivered, she didn’t hit him or pull away; he took this as a good thing. In the mean time, her hands ran all along his chest, his wasted body, going along ribs and collarbones that stuck out too sharply and too harshly. He was almost glad that it was night and the room only had the barest of light.
Gilbert never realized he would find a day in which he would want to lie so badly. Deception always struck him as wrong (well, unless it was for military purposes of course and then he’d lie like the fucking dog to get what he wanted), particularly self-deception. Only weak pussies lied to themselves; real men went out to actually get what they wanted. He didn’t want this, he thought. If he were going to sleep with Elizabetha, to fuck her- he wanted to do it properly. In her bed, preferably, the bed she shared with Roderich (just to piss off the Austrian priss). Or barring that… somewhere nice. Not a dingy, mildewed bedroom on a thin mattress with hole-covered sheets.
He wanted her to be the spitfire with long flowing hair, who would insult him as they fucked. And he wanted to be- He wanted to be himself again, the proud and powerful Gilbert Weillschmidt, Teutonic Knight, General-
Still, he responded to her touch, because it was still her underneath it all. She was still the girl he had unknowingly, unwillingly fallen in love with, the woman he had wanted to steal away so badly once she was out of reach. Underneath it all, she still touched him with knowledgeable sword-calloused fingers and he could still smell the ghost of her past self, and if he only closed his eyes…
Her eyes refused to meet his, in fact, she had closed them. Still, she touched him, flicking at his pale nipples with her nails, somehow intuiting that he liked to have them pulled and pinched a little harshly. With that, he let his hands travel to her breasts, cupping them in his roughened hands (no longer roughened from swords but from spades, from axes, from rope) as gently as he could. She didn’t hit him, didn’t aim a kick to his shins or to his vital regions. Instead, she sighed, leaning against him with her fingertips going to his stomach now. He continued to trail his lips along her shoulder blade, alternating kisses with little nips.
“Say my name,” she ordered him, her voice rough and a little choked.
“Elizabetha,” he whispered, softly.
“Again,” she demanded, her hands clenching harshly at his hips.
He winced. Damn she still had a good grip. “Elizabetha,” he said, obediently. How was he supposed to say her name? How would R- He refused to go down that train of thought.
She wasn’t crying or she was doing a damn good job holding back her tears. And he was glad about it. If she started crying… he didn’t know what he would do.
He pulled his hands out from the top of her slip and then placed them at the bottom, starting to pull it up. Almost angrily, her eyes still closed, she pulled off the top so violently that the thin cotton tore, throwing it aside. She remained standing, her eyes closed, her head bowed, her breasts fully exposed. He drank in the sight of her as best he could.
‘Damn it, you witch. I don’t want to love you. I never wanted to love you.’
His head bent and he caught a nipple in his mouth, kissing it, sucking it, licking it. Her breathing became harsh and labored, particularly as his hand rested on the other breast, stroking and cupping and pinching so lightly. She keened, softly, and he drew away, leaving her nipple glistening, before attacking the other one. His hand then traveled downwards, between her breasts, going down her sternum, her soft, flat stomach, ignoring the far too visible ribs, and paused at the top of her panties.
“Just do it,” she ordered, harshly.
His mouth otherwise occupied, he did so, his fingers clumsily going under the band, feeling the warm, dampening curls between her legs. Normally he didn’t have a problem with saying “pussy” or “cunt.” But he couldn’t do it in front of her and he choked back a hysterical laugh.
Despite his hand’s efforts to stop him, he stroked her, drawing on experience (albeit very distant and partially forgotten). She shuddered, her legs shaking and he could feel more stickiness against his fingers. Distantly, he was aware that he was hard, his erection more than easily tenting the front of his underwear. But he was lost in feeling her clench around his fingers tightly, the little hard clit he found way too easily.
She soon fell against him, gasping and panting, and she was warm in his arms. He drew his fingers from her panties and took her to the bed, laying her down as gently as he could with arms that trembled from weakness, from exertion, from lust. On the bed, on thin and ragged sheets, she could not have been more… beautiful.
He wanted to devour her, until nothing was left of her. She would be his then. Forever.
‘You will be one with me,’ a soft, high pitched voice declared and he froze.
Her eyes opened very slightly. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Nothing,” he said, gruffly. And he buried his face in her breasts to distract himself.
Soon her legs were parted and her eyes were closed again. She gasped and moaned and silently pleaded. Her hands clenched at the sheets and her toes curled.
‘If I could, I would never be in love with you.’
He then reached out and pulled down her panties down her legs, exposing her to him finally. She lay very still for him, her lips parted and whispering something in Hungarian. In the mean time, he pressed kisses to the insides of her thighs, to her legs. He inhaled her scent and swiped his tongue between her legs just to hear her moan.
“Stop teasing me!” she demanded, her voice breathless. “Just- just-”
“Do what?” he asked her, with a ghost of his favorite smirk. He blew softly along her thigh.
“Fuck me!” she whimpered. “Fuck me, damn you!” She finished with an impressive (and coherent) thread of Hungarian curses.
He took off his own underwear with far less care than he took off hers, tossing both aside. Licking his lips he settled between her legs, guiding his hard, demanding cock into her. The first contact almost made him die, the feeling of her wet and tight and hot around him. She sighed as he could not restrain himself and let his hips buck forward hard and fast for the last few inches. He remained there, never wanting to forget this for as long as he could.
“Don’t tease me!” she pleaded. “Please!”
And that reminded him to move, his hips moving slowly but gaining speed, like a dance, like a drill he had learned a long time ago and remembered once he started practicing again. He fucked her hard and she didn’t care; if anything, she demanded more, her legs wrapping around his hips and trying to take him deeper and deeper into herself. Her arms also wrapped around him, forcing him closer.
“See me now, Roderich. See me fuck her. See me give her what you can’t. She’s mine for now,” he would have shouted another time, another place.
His lips pressed kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her shoulders, her ears. He panted and growled and could barely breathe. Then she tilted her head back, smashed her lips, her mouth, her teeth against him in a brutal, desperate kiss, her tongue instantly probing his mouth. He kissed her back with everything he had, his skin on fire. Suddenly- he felt warm again.
But as they fucked each other more desperately, as they raced to their respective orgasms, she could only cry out one word: “Roderich!”
As he thrust one last time into her, before he got lost in the blinding flood and flash of ejaculation, he bit into her shoulder, before he could scream her name.
She opened her eyes and looked at him and that was when the tears started to come. Her body shook and she tried to smile even as she started to sob.
‘But I love you. And I will do anything for you.’
He stared at her, sticky with sweat and still panting. Then he reached for a corner of the sheets, bringing it over and gently depositing in her hand, even as he pulled out of her and let her be for a few moments. He fumbled in the clumsy bedside table for his half-finished box of cheap black market cigarettes and a box of matches, still sticky and sweaty. Behind him, Hungary rolled over and took a few deep, shuddering breaths.
“I’ll… I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, and his own voice sounded empty and stupid to his ears. He wiped himself off, put his underwear and trousers back on, and headed to the filthy kitchen, the cigarette dangling from between his fingers. No vodka; his ration was full out and besides- he wasn’t sure if he wanted any more reminders of Ivan fucking Braginsky.
He took a deep drag and exhaled the thick smoke. His hand ran through his hair and he started to laugh to himself, softly.
“Damn it,” he said, shakily, in between his laughs. “Damn it all to Hell.”
Elizabetha left at dawn. He made her take the chocolates with her.
-Hildebrands: a German chocolate company, or, more specifically, a factory. They’re most well-known for rather cute postcards, particularly one they released in 1900 imagining what Christmas in 2008 would be (it involved Santa in a zeppelin, I believe).
-Prussia’s thoughts in Italics are a paraphrase of my friend’s favorite quote about love. Nice and cheery, isn’t it?